Part 7

"Don't grieve, wife," he muttered, "I 'm better now. I 'll expose the whole crowd yet with my last words. But this I can say, upon the broad, open field I have never been so savage as I was at that time. I longed to go home; heavy, golden chains drew me thither. And once, in the middle of a stormy winter night, I ran away. In Rainhausel I stopped with an old aunt. And now my own people betrayed me. Soon the officers were there to hunt for me. In an instant I was out of the house and, slipping into the woods, I thought, 'If they have played a trick on me, I will do the same by them.' Two huge hunting dogs were scenting around, but I ran for quite a distance through the brook, until the hounds lost track. And the officers rummaged through everything in the hut; they thrust their knives into the straw bedding and hay, turning the whole house quite upside down. But as they did n't find me, one of them, placing the muzzle of his gun against the breast of my old aunt, said: 'Tell me this instant where he is, or I 'll shoot you down like a dog!' 'Yes, yes, he 's been here,' she answered, 'but where he is now I don't know.' They dragged the woman out before the door, three muskets were pointed at her breast, and threateningly they whispered to her: 'Call out quickly, as loud as you can: "Come here, Hiesel; the officers have been gone a long time!" If you don't do it you will be buried to-morrow.' Of course I knew nothing of all this; being concealed in the thicket, and hearing no sound, I thought I was safe. Then I heard my aunt call, 'Come here, Hiesel; the officers have been gone a long time!' I sprang up and, running towards the hut, I saw the woman strike her hands over her head, and I already heard laughing, and I was seized by the officers. _Allmaechtiger Gott_! I tried to pull out my pocket dagger; but one of the men hit my arm with a club, so that to this day I cannot turn my left hand properly. They were much cleverer and stronger than I, the poor, starved devil, Mathes. And a few days later they fell upon me. _Mein Gott!_ if each whip-lash had been a stroke of lightning which did not kill, I should have liked it a thousand times better than to be beaten and treated like a dog by a man. The two hundred lashes knocked the very devil into me. Since then, whenever my blood was up, I have repaid them ten-fold, even to my comrades in the woods. But it was meant for the others, meant for the rascals who gave me the whipping. In those days I should have liked to be the Lord God Himself just for once, by my soul!--I would have crushed the cursed earth into a thousand million pieces! My wounded back was seasoned with vinegar and salt to make it heal. Oh, there was great haste. The foreigner had descended upon the country like the fiend incarnate. Then of course I became excited and fired away like the evil one himself. When the enemy was driven back I had just one charge of powder left; for this I might have found some other victim, in our own regiment mounted on a high horse. But not that, not that! I thought to myself. Face to face, to tear him down from his white steed with my hands,--that might do,--but from ambush, no, never! But I did something cleverer yet, I ran away from the battle-field and gave my cloak to a peasant for taking me in his hay waggon across country. My home I reached in safety."

"And if you loved your home so much, why did you not wish to fight for it?" I interrupted him. "Why did you run away?"

"It may be that it was rascality," said Mathes, "it may be. Or perhaps--maybe it was n't either."

"I know a man," I answered, "who not only did not fight for his country, but against the same."

"I did not stay at home," continued Mathes, "I left everything behind me and hid myself in this farthermost wilderness, so that they might never find me. Hunted, hunted, good Lord! And it was not until I reached here that I became a wild beast. My wife, thou knowest that."

The voice was shrill, but the words were the faltering utterances of the dying. He then became silent and closed his eyes. It was as the last flare of a flame before extinction.

"The people took him for a poor abandoned wretch, when he came back," continued the woman; "they threw groschen and pfennige into a hat and tried to present him with hat and all. For that Mathes would have killed a few of them; he wanted no alms. As the people were following him by the dozen, he climbed up a large tree, and swung himself like a wild-cat from one branch to another, until his pursuers finally saw that they were mistaken. But in mockery they called him Hieselein. Later on--yes, of course--he hunted up a wife for himself--"

"The most beautiful one in the forest!" the sick man interrupted her again, "and there was such an insolent devil in him, that he--the half-cripple--plighted his troth to this same maiden only on condition that he should not find one still more beautiful. By the holy cross, what a struggle there was over it! Others wanted the girl, too. But I led my Adelheid right under the noses of the most aristocratic and the finest of them to my home, and I would not wish to have a better girl than she is."

Again he became silent and dropped into a half-slumber.

"He received terrible blows sometimes," said the woman, "but because he never lost his footing or was thrown upon the ground, they called him _Stehmandel_. We have both of us got on right well together," she continued in a low tone, "but he never would give up his savage ways. Every Saturday evening he used to sharpen his knife for cutting wood; but I often begged him: '_Um Gotteswillen_, let the sharpening of the knife be!' On Sundays he would go to Kranabethannes's and late at night he would come home with a bleeding head. I always knew that some day they would bring him home on a litter. But, when he was calm and sober, there was n't a better, more industrious, or more helpful man in the whole forest than Mathes. Then he could be gay and laugh and weep like a child. Of course, as he was a deserter, he forfeited his farm outside in the country; but he supported the children with his own hands, and some other people as well, who could no longer earn anything. He visited the sick and comforted them, just as a priest would do. On account of his honesty and reliability, he was made master wood-cutter. However, the innkeeper was always in despair on Sundays, when Hieselein arrived, whom they had already begun to call Black Hieselein. No matter how good-naturedly he may have stumbled in at the door, they swore that he would not go away without a terrible fight. He would n't give it up. He tried to drown his sorrow in brandy; but the brandy brought the two hundred whip-lashes to life again. He would start quarrels until the blood ran. They would throw him down, screaming, 'So, Hieselein, now perhaps you won't begin any more disturbance!' He would soon be on his feet. But it is a fact that when he became sober, he would beg pardon of everyone. But at last, thou holy Mother of God, the begging pardon did not work any more. All the wood-cutters came one night to Kranabethannes's, to show the fighter that even though he was their master at work, they were for once masters in the tavern. At first, as they see that he is drinking brandy, one glass after another, they begin to tease and mock him, until he becomes wild and attacks them. They are all over him, throw him down, tearing his hair and beard. And in this same hour his guardian angel deserts him; one hand free, he seizes his knife and plunges it into the breast of Bastian, the charcoal-burner. They then beat Mathes until he is thrown upon the ground. Two root-diggers brought him home. Perhaps to-morrow I 'll be a widow, and the poor children----"

The woman burst into sobs. Then Mathes raised himself once more: "The Lord God has done well by thee. Perhaps I might have beaten thee in a fit of anger. But I say this, I don't want to die so. I will get up and go to court and confess that I have stabbed Bastian. From the deceitful recruiting officers who took me from my peaceful youth and delivered me over to the bloody world, where I was disgraced with whip-lashes and hunted like a dog, and condemned for murder--to the charcoal-burner Bastian, who with scorn and mockery himself enticed the knife from its sheath--all of them I will call before the tribunal; they must all be there when I am condemned to death."

The woman shrieked; the man sank choking, back on the moss.

Just then the children came skipping and shouting in at the door. They were dragging by the ears a white rabbit which they let loose in the room, the boy pursuing it. The little besieged animal hopped upon the bed of moss and over the limbs of the sick man. It remained sitting in the corner, sniffing and looking anxiously about with its great eyes. The boy slipped up to it and seized it by its legs. The poor tormented creature whined piteously and bit the finger of its pursuer.--"Stop! stop! you rascal!" cried the enraged boy, becoming very red in the face, while tears filled his eyes, his lips were drawn, and his fingers convulsively clutched the throat of the animal and--before either his mother or sister could interfere--the rabbit was dead.

Mathes beat his face with his hands, crying out so that my very heart quaked: "Oh, horrible! Now the angry devil lives on in my children! Must I endure that also?"

A few moments later the man fell into a terrible death struggle. He died that same evening.

They buried Black Mathes in the forest, because he had stabbed Bastian. The woman wept bitterly upon the mound, and when at last she was led away from it, the Einspanig came and planted a little pine-tree upon the grave.

THE FEAST OF THE VIRGIN MARY, 1814.

And thus I have wandered about the Winkel forests. I have been in the Hinter Winkel and in the ravines of the Miesenbach, in the forests of the Kar, in Lautergraeben, and in the Wolfsgrube, in the Felsenthal and on the pastures of the Alm, and yonder in the glen where lies the beautiful lake. I have introduced myself to the old and made myself known to the young. It costs trouble and there are misunderstandings. With a few exceptions, the best of these people are not so good or the worst so bad as I formerly believed.

I am even obliged to be a little deceptive; they must not know why I am here. Many take me for a deserter and for that reason are friendly toward me. To please these foresters a man must be despised and exiled from the world, must indeed be as savage and happy-go-lucky as themselves. Then I have been obliged to look about me for some work. I weave baskets out of straw, I gather and prepare tinder and carve toys for the children out of beech wood. I have already so fully gained the confidence of the people, that they have taught me how to whet the tools, and now I understand sharpening the axes and saws of the wood-cutters. This brings me in many a groschen and I accept it--I must, indeed, depend upon the work of my hands, like everyone here. My room presents a somewhat confused appearance. And here I sit and work, when the weather is bad outside or on long autumn evenings, among the willow branches, the bits of wood, and the various tools. I am seldom alone; either my housekeeper is chatting with me, or a pitch-maker, root-digger, or charcoal-burner sits by me and smokes his pipe, watching with a grin while I begin and finish the different things, and finally going to work himself. Or there are children about me, listening to the fairy-tales which I relate, or playing with the chips, until I have finished the toy in my hands. On Sundays the forester sits with me for hours together, hearing the story of my experiences and my plans for the people of the Winkel woods. We talk over everything and I occasionally write a long letter to the owner of the forest.

The wood-cutters from Lautergraeben are approaching nearer and nearer the Winkel, and already through the silent forest I have heard the crashing of many a falling tree. Upon the summit of the Lauter, a pale reddish plain is spreading from day to day and in the morning sunlight shines down in a friendly way through the dark green of the forest.

In the ravines of the Winkel, stone-breakers and ditchers are working; a waggon road is to be built for the transportation of coal and wood.

I like to go about with the workmen, watching them and talking with them, desirous of learning something of their life.

But occasionally the people are a little mistrustful of me and approach me with prejudice. I often carry a little volume of Goethe with me, and seat myself in some attractive nook to read. Many a time I have been secretly watched while so occupied. And then the report circulates through the forest that I am a wizard and have a book containing magic signs. I have wondered if this peculiar reputation may not at first have given me some advantage in carrying out my plans. The children would surely be allowed by their parents to learn to read, if I told them that by first understanding the magic signs, one could exorcise devils, dig for treasure, and control the weather. I think that the grown people themselves and even the grey-beards would drop their tools and come to school to me. But that would be dishonourable and I should only produce the opposite result from that which I desire. The chief thing is, not that the people learn to read and write, but that they may be freed from harmful prejudices and have pure hearts. Of course I might later substitute books of morals and say,--"Here are the true magic signs"; but those whom I had deceived would have no further confidence in me, and the evil would be greater rather than less.

We will not sneak through a roundabout way; we will hew a straight path through the midst of the old trees.

A few times I have read songs to the people; to the girls _Heideroeslein_, and have taught _Christel_ to the boys. They learn the verses quickly, and they are already much sung in the forest.

*UNREST*

And now the autumn has come. The clouds are dispersed with the morning mists, leaving the sky bright and clear. The brilliant foliage of the maples stands out in relief against the dark brown of the pine-forest, while in the valley, the meadow has become green anew or glistens with the silvery hoar-frost. In these woods the autumn is more brilliant and almost lovelier than the spring. In the spring there is a capricious brightness and splendour, song and exultation everywhere. The autumn, on the contrary, is like a quiet, solemn Sabbath. No longer mindful of the earth, Nature is then expectantly listening to heaven, and the breath of the Almighty stirs harmonious melodies upon the golden strings of mellow sunshine.

The sky has become so trustworthy, that it more than fulfils through the day that which it promises in the morning with its sad and misty eyes. One gazes into its still, blue depths.

Yonder beside the forest fire sits the shepherd-boy. He is taking some little round things from a bag and shoving them into the fire.

"Tell me, boy, where did you get the potatoes?"

Turning red, he replies, "The potatoes, I--I found them."

"May God bless them to you, and another time do not find them, but go to the Winkel-warden's wife when you are hungry; she will give you some."

"Those which are given don't taste good," is the answer; "those that are found are better, the salt is already on them."

Yonder stands a bush, which has decorated itself in the night with a chain of dew pearls; to-day the dew is congealed and is destroying the very heart of the plant.

On such a late autumn day I saw at one time an old woman sitting in the woods. This woman once had a child. He went out to the world, to hot Brazil, seeking for gold. The horizon is so perfectly clear, that the mother is able to gaze into the distant past, where the beloved boy is standing. She looks at him, smiles at him, and falls asleep. The next morning she is still sitting upon the stone, and now she has a white mantle about her. The snow has come, the autumn is over. And across the sea a ship is bearing a letter bound for the hot zones of South America. It carries news to a sun-burnt man from his distant home,--"Mother died in the woods." A tiny tear laboriously winds its way from under his lashes, the sun quickly dries it, and afterwards as before the watchword is: Gold! Gold! If a single letter might come back to the old motherland, its message would be,--"The son crushed with gold."

What am I dreaming here? It is the way of the world, and is no concern of mine. I long for peace in the midst of the quiet autumn of this forest.

Up there in the top of the beech-tree, a weary leaf loosens itself, falls from branch to branch and dangles by an infinitesimally tender, shining spider's web, down to me upon the cool, shadowy earth. The people far away with whom I used to live, what may they be doing? That wonderful maiden is always blooming--always--even in the autumn; and in Saxonland the dry leaves are wafted over the graves.

Loneliness cannot banish the sorrow of loneliness. I must look for something to distract and elevate me that I may not become one-sided in my surroundings.

I have commenced the study of botany; I have read from books how the erica grows, and the heath-rose, and other flowers; and I have watched the same plants hours and hours at a time. And I have found no connection between the dead leaf in the book and the living one in the woods. The book says of the gentian: "This plant belongs to the fifth class, among those of the first order, is found in the Alps, has a bluish juice, and serves as medicine." It speaks of a number of anthers, pistils, embryos, etc. And that is the family and baptismal certificate of the poor gentian. Oh, if such a plant could read, it would freeze on the spot! That is indeed more chilling than the hoar-frost of autumn.

The forest people know better. The flower lives and loves and speaks a wonderful language. But the gentian trembles with foreboding, when man approaches; and it is more afraid of his passionately glowing breath than of the deathly cold kiss of the first snow.

So I am one who does not understand and is not understood. Without aim or plan I am whirling in the monstrous, living wheel of nature.

Ah, if I but only understood myself! Scarcely at rest, after the fever of the world and enjoying the peace of the woods, I already long again to cast one glance into the distance, as far as the eye of man can reach.

Yonder upon the blue forest's edge, I would I might stand and look far out into the land over at other men. They are no better than the foresters, and know scarcely more; yet they are striving after, hoping for, and seeking Thee, O God!

*ON JACOB'S LADDER*

One beautiful autumn morning I felt inclined to climb the high mountain, whose loftiest peak is called the Graue Zahn. With us down here in the Winkel, there is altogether too much shade, and up there one stands in the bright circle of the wide world. There is no path thither; one must go straight on, through underbrush, thickets, stones, and tangled mosses.

After some hours I arrived at the Miesenbach hut. The gay young pair have already departed. The living summer-time is over; the hut stands in autumn abandonment. The windows from which Aga used to peep at the lad are fastened with bars; the spring in front is neglected and has become nearly dry; and the icicle on the end of the gutter grows downwards--toward the earth. The bell of a colchicum swings near it, and rings to the last gasp of the dying fountain.

I seated myself upon the top of a watering-trough and ate my breakfast. It consisted of a piece of bread made of rye- and oat-flour, such as is eaten everywhere in this forest-land. That is a meal which, literally, tickles the palate, very coarse-grained and full of bits of bran. In the country outside, where wheat grows, such food would not be to our taste; here it is all we ask for when we pray, "Give us this day our daily bread!" But there are also times in this region when the Lord is sparing even with the oat-bread; then dried straw and moss come under the grindstone. God bless to me the piece of bread and the swallow of water with it! Prepared with God's blessing, ye master cooks, everything becomes palatable.

I then begin to climb farther. First I cross the Kar, from whose bed project stones washed smooth by the waves. Between the stones stand tufts of pale feather-grass and lichens. Some tender, snow-white flowers are also swaying to and fro, looking anxiously about, as if they had lost their way up here on the rocky waste and longed to return whence they came. From the once so beautiful red sea of Alpine roses, the sharp bristles of the bush alone remain. I climb higher, wending my way around the walls of rock and the peak of the Kleinzahn; I then stride along a ridge which extends toward the main mountain range.

There I have before me the blinding fields of the glaciers, smooth, softly gleaming like ivory, lying there in broad, gentle slopes and hollows, or in creviced multiform precipices of ice reaching from height to height. Between, tower battlements of rock, and yonder, in the airy distance, above the gleaming glaciers, rises many a dark-grey, sharp-toothed cone, soaring far above the highest peak of the mountains. That is my goal, the Graue Zahn.

Towards the east the ground descends to the waving depths of the dusky forest. And the undulating meadows of the Alm lie deep as in a gulf. Here and there is the grey dot of an Alm hut, of which the shining roof alone is visible. On the northern side yawns the awful abyss, beneath whose shadow is the dim, black lake.

I walked a few hours over the difficult and dangerous path, along the edge to the glaciers. Here I bound on my climbing-irons, strapped on my knapsack tighter, and held my stick more firmly in my hand. The alpenstock is an inheritance from Black Mathes. It is covered with innumerable little notches, which do not show, however, how often its former possessor may have climbed the Zahn or any other mountain, but how many people he has knocked to the ground in a fight. A dismal companion! yet this has helped me up over the smooth, white snow-slopes, on over the wild ice crevasses, and finally up the last steep precipice to the summit of the Zahn. It has done it faithfully. And how gladly from this high mountain would I have called out to Mathes in eternity, "Friend, this is a good stick; had you climbed high with it, you would have understood it!"

Now I stand on the summit.

Would that I were a being that might spin itself by the threads of sunlight up to the Kingdom of God.

Under a jutting stone I seat myself upon the weather-beaten ground and look about me. Near by are the fine, broken spires of immovable, perpendicular slabs of slate. Above me a sharp breeze may be gently stirring; I do not hear it; I do not feel it; the jutting rock, the highest peak of the Zahn, protects me. The friendly warmth of the sun touches my limbs. The quiet and the nearness to heaven bring peace to my soul. I wonder how it would be in the everlasting rest. To be happy in heaven, to live always in joy, always contented and without pain; to wish for nothing, to long for nothing, to hope for nothing, and to fear nothing, on through all time. Would it not after all be a little wearisome? Should I not perhaps wish to take a leave of absence sometimes, to look down here at the world once more? My possessions here would easily go into a nutshell. But I think were I once up there I should long to be down here again. How strange are earthly joy and sorrow!