THE SAXON VILLAGE PASTOR.
The contrast between the domestic lives of Roumanian and Saxon peasants
is all the more surprising as their respective clergies set totally
different examples; for while many Roumanian priests are drunken,
dissolute men, open to every sort of bribery, the Saxon pastor is
almost invariably a model of steadiness and morality, and leads a
quiet, industrious, and contented life.
On the other hand, however, it may be remarked that if the Saxon pastor
be steady and well-behaved, he has very good and solid reasons for so
being. Certainly he is most comfortably indemnified for the virtues he
is expected to practise.
When a pastor dies the villagers themselves elect his successor
by votes. Usually it is a man whom they know already by sight or
reputation, or from having heard him preach on stray occasions in their
church. Every Saxon pastor, in order to be qualified for the position,
must have practised for several years as professor at a public
gymnasium—a very wise regulation, as it insures the places being
filled by men of education.
The part which a village pastor is called upon to play requires both
head and heart, for the relation between shepherd and flock is here
very different from the conventional footing on which clergy and laity
stand with regard to each other in town life. Whereas in the city
no congregation cares to see its spiritual head outside the church
walls, and would resent as unpardonable intrusion any attempt of his
to penetrate the privacy of the domestic circle, the villager not only
expects but insists on his pastor taking intimate part in his family
life, and being ready to assist him with advice and admonition in every
possible contingency.
The peasants are therefore very circumspect about the choice of a
pastor, well aware that the weal or woe of a community may depend
upon the selection. They have often seen how some neighboring village
has awakened to new life and prosperity since the advent of a worthy
clergyman; while such another parish, from a rash selection, has
saddled itself with a man it would fain cart away as so much useless
straw, were it only possible to get rid of him. For although the power
of choice lies entirely with the peasants, they cannot likewise undo
their work at will, and only the bishop has power to depose a pastor
when he has investigated the complaints brought against him and found
them to be justified.
Not only the pastor _in spe_, but also his wife, is carefully
scrutinized, and her qualifications for the patriarchal position
she has to occupy critically examined into; for if the clergyman is
termed by his flock the “honorable father,” so is she designated as
the “virtuous mother.” The candidate who happens to have a thrifty and
benevolent consort finds his chances of election considerably enhanced;
while such another, married to a vain and frivolous woman, will most
likely be found awanting when weighed in the balance.
The funeral of a village pastor has been touchingly described by a
native author,[9] whose words I take the liberty of quoting:
“The old father had gone to his long rest: more than once during the
last few years he had felt that the time had come for him to lay down
the shepherd’s crook; for the world had become too stirring, and he
no longer had the strength and activity of spirit to do all that was
expected of him. There were serious repairs to be undertaken about the
church, and the question of building a new school-house was becoming
urgent. Likewise many of the new church regulations were harassing and
distasteful exceedingly; most especially was he troubled by inward
quakings at the idea that at the bishop’s next official visit he would
be expected to submit to him the manuscripts of all the sermons he had
preached within the year, and which, neatly tied up together with black
worsted, were lying on the lowest shelf of the bookcase.
[Illustration: SAXON PASTOR IN FULL DRESS.]
“All these thoughts had reconciled him to the prospect of death; and
when sitting before his door on fine summer evenings he would sometimes
remark to the neighbors who had lingered near for a passing chat, ‘It
cannot last over-long with me now: one or two pair of soles at most I
shall wear out, and I should be glad to remain in the village, and to
sleep there under the big lime-tree, in the midst of those with whom
my life has been spent. Therefore kindly bear with me a little longer,
good people, for the few remaining days the Lord is pleased to spare
me.’ And these words never failed to conciliate even the more turbulent
spirits, who were apt to think that the Herr Vater was over-long in
going, and that the parish stood in need of a younger head.
“Now at last the coffin has been lowered into the earth, and the fresh
mound covered with dewy garlands of flowers. All the villagers have
turned out to render the last honors to the father they have lost.
The eldest son of the defunct, standing near the grave, addresses the
congregation. In a few simple words he thanks them for the good they
have done to his father and to his whole family, and, in name of the
dead man, he begs their forgiveness for whatever wrongs the pastor may
unwittingly have done; and when he then lays down the keys of both
church and parsonage into the hand of the church-warden, scarcely an
eye will remain dry among the spectators. For forty years is a long
time in which a good man, even though he often errs and be at fault,
can yet have done much, very much, good indeed, and resentment is a
plant which strikes no root in the upturned clods of a new-made grave.”
But the orphaned congregation must have a new pastor; the flock
cannot be suffered to remain long without a shepherd; and this is
the topic which is being discussed with much warmth at an assemblage
of village elders. On the white-decked table are standing dishes of
bread-and-cheese, flanked by large tankards of wine. The first glass
has just been emptied to the memory of the dead pastor, and now the
second glass will be drunk to the health of his yet unknown successor.
These meetings preceding the election of a new shepherd are often
long and stormy; for when the wine has taken effect and loosened the
tongues, the different candidates who might be taken into consideration
are passed in review, and extolled with much heat, or abused with broad
sarcasm. One man is rejected on account of an impediment in his speech,
and another because he is known to be unmarried; a third one, who might
do well enough for any other parish, cannot be chosen here because
his old parents are natives of the village; for it is a true though a
hard word which says that no one can be a prophet in his own country.
One man who ventures to suggest the vicar of a neighboring village is
informed that no blacker traitor exists on the face of the earth; and
another, who describes his pet candidate as an ideal clergyman, with
the figure of a Hercules and the voice of a Stentor, is ironically
asked whether he wishes to choose a pastor by weight and measure. If
only his head and heart be in the right place the clergyman’s legs are
welcome to be an inch or two shorter.
After a longer or shorter interval a decision is finally arrived at.
From a list of six candidates one has been elected by the secret
votes of the community, each married land-owner having a voice in the
matter, and the name of the successful aspirant is publicly made known
in church. Meanwhile a group of young men on horseback are waiting at
the church door, and hardly has the all-important name been pronounced
when they set spurs to their steeds and gallop to bear the news to the
successful candidate. A hot race ensues, for the foremost one can hope
to get a shining piece of silver—perhaps even gold—in exchange for
the good tidings he brings. In a carriage, at a more leisurely pace,
follow the elders who have been deputed to hand over the official
document containing the nomination.
An early day is fixed for the presentation of the new shepherd to his
flock, and at a still earlier date the new Frau Pastorin precedes
him thither, where she is soon deep in the mysteries of cake-baking,
fowl-killing, etc., in view of the many official banquets which are to
accompany the presentation. In this employment she has ample assistance
from the village matrons, as well as contributions of eggs, cream,
butter, and bacon. The day before the presentation the pastor has been
fetched in a carriage drawn by six white horses. The first step to his
installation is the making out and signing of the agreement or treaty
between pastor and people—all the said pastor’s duties, obligations,
and privileges being therein distinctly specified and enumerated, from
the exact quantity and quality of Holy Gospel he is bound to administer
yearly to the congregation down to his share of wild crab-apples for
brewing the household vinegar, and the precise amount of acorns his
pigs are at liberty to consume.
After this treaty has been duly signed and read aloud, the keys of the
church are solemnly given over and accepted with appropriate speeches.
The banquet which succeeds this ceremony is called the “key-drinking.”
Then follows the solemn installation in the church, where the new
pastor, for the first time, pronounces aloud the blessing over his
congregation, who strain their ears with critical attention to catch
the sound and pass sentence thereon. The Saxon peasant thinks much of a
full sonorous voice; therefore woe to the man who is cursed with a thin
squeaky organ, for he will assuredly fall at least fifty per cent. in
the estimation of his audience.
Then follows another banquet, at which each of the church officials
has his place at table marked by a silver thaler piece (about 3_s._)
lying at the bottom of his large tankard, and visible through the clear
golden wine with which the bumper is filled. Etiquette demands that the
drinker should taste of the wine but sparingly at first, merely wetting
the lips and affecting not to perceive the silver coin; but when the
health of the new pastor is drunk, each man must empty his tankard at
one draught, skilfully catching the thaler between the teeth as he
drains it dry. This coin is then supposed to be treasured up in memory
of the event.
This has been but a flying visit to his new parish, and only some
weeks later does the new pastor hold his solemn entry into the parish,
the preparations for the flitting naturally occupying some few weeks.
The village is bound to convey the new pastor, his family, as well as
all their goods and chattels, to the new home, and it is considered a
distinction when many carts are required for the purpose, even though
the distance be great and the roads bad, for the people would have no
opinion at all of a pastor who arrived in light marching order, but
seem rather to value him in proportion to the trouble he gives them. As
many as eighteen to twenty carts are sometimes pressed into service for
this patriarchal procession.
The six white horses which are to be harnessed to the carriage for the
clergyman and his wife have been carefully fattened up during the last
few weeks, their manes plaited with bright ribbons, and the carriage
itself decorated with flower garlands. At the parish boundary all the
young men of the village have come out on horseback to meet them, and
with flying banners they ride alongside of the carriage. In this way
the village is reached, where sometimes a straw rope is stretched
across the road to bar his entrance. This is removed on the pastor
paying a ransom, and, entering the village, the driver is expected to
conduct his horses at full gallop thrice round the fortified walls of
the church before entering the parsonage court-yard.
The village pastor, who lives among his people, must adopt their habits
and their hours. It would not do for him to lie abed till seven or
eight o’clock, like a town gentleman: five o’clock, and even sooner,
must find him dressed and ready to attend to the hundred and one
requirements of his parishioners, who, even at that early hour, come
pouring in upon him from all sides.
Perhaps it is a petition for some particularly fine sort of turnip-seed
which only the Herr Vater has got; or else he is requested to look into
his wise book to see if he can find a remedy for the stubborn cough of
a favorite horse, or the distressing state of the calf’s digestion.
Another will bring him a dish of golden honey-comb, with some question
regarding the smoking of the hives; while a fourth has come to request
the pastor to transform his new-born son from a pagan into a Christian
infant.
Various deputations of villagers, inviting the pastor to two different
funerals and to six weddings, have successively been disposed of: then
will come a peasant with some Hungarian legal document which he would
like to have deciphered. Has he won the lawsuit which has been pending
these two years and more? or has he lost it, and will he be obliged to
pay the damages as well? This is a riddle which only the Herr Vater can
read him aright by consulting the big Hungarian dictionary on the shelf.
The next visitor is perchance an old white-bearded man, bent double
with the weight of years, and carrying a well-worn Bible under his
arm. He wants to know his age, which used to be entered somewhere here
in the book; but he cannot find the place, or else the bookbinder,
in mending the volume last year, has pasted paper over it. Perhaps
the Herr Vater can make it out for him; and further to facilitate the
search, he mentions that there was corn in the upper fields, and maize
in the low meadows, the year he was born, and that since then the corn
has been sown twenty-four times on the same spot, and will be sown
there again next year if God pleases to spare him. The pastor, who
must of course be well versed in this sort of rural arithmetic, has no
difficulty in pronouncing the man to be exactly seventy-three years and
three months old, and sends him away well pleased to discover that he
is a whole year younger than he had believed himself to be.
Often, too, a couple appear on the scene for the purpose of being
reconciled. The man has beaten his wife, and she has come to
complain—not of the beating in the abstract, but of the manner in
which this particular castigation has been administered. It was really
too bad this time, as, sobbing, she explains to the Herr Vater that
he has belabored her with a thick leather thong in a truly heathenish
fashion, instead of taking the broomstick, as does every respectable
man, to beat his wife.
The virtuous Frau Mutter has likewise her full share of the day’s
work. An old hen to be made into broth for a sick grandchild, a piece
of cloth to be cut out in the shape of a jacket, or a handkerchief
to be hemmed on the big sewing-machine, all pass successively into
her busy hands; and if she goes for a day’s shopping to the nearest
market-town she is positively besieged by commissions of all sorts.
Six china plates of some particular pattern, a coffee-cup to replace
the one thrown down by the cat last week, a pound of loaf-sugar, the
whitest, finest, sweetest, and cheapest that can be got, or a packet of
composition candles. Even weightier matters are sometimes intrusted to
her judgment, and she may have to accept the awful responsibility of
selecting a new mirror or a petroleum lamp.
Letter-writing is also another important branch of the duties of both
pastor and wife. It may be an epistle to some daughter who is in
service, or to a soldier son away with his regiment, a threatening
letter to an unconscientious debtor, or a business transaction with the
farmer of another village. In fact, all the raw material of epistolary
affection, remonstrance, counsel, or threat is brought wholesale to the
parsonage, there to be fashioned into shape, and set forth clearly in
black upon white.
Altogether the day of a Saxon pastor is a busy and well-filled one, for
his doors, from sunrise to sunset, must be open to his parishioners, so
that after having “risen with the lark” he is well content further to
carry out the proverb by “going to bed with the lamb.”
A great deal of patience and natural tact is requisite to enable a
clergyman to deal intelligently with his folk. His time must always
be at their disposal, and he must never appear to be hurried or busy
when expected to listen to some long-winded story or complaint. Nothing
must be too trifling to arouse his interest, and no hour of the day too
unreasonable to receive a visit; yet, on the whole, the lot of such a
village pastor who rightly understands his duties seems to me a very
peaceful and enviable one. He is most comfortably situated as regards
material welfare, and stands sufficiently aside from the bustling outer
world to be spared the annoyances and irritations of more ambitious
careers. The fates of his parishioners, so closely interwoven with his
own, are a constant source of interest, and the almost unlimited power
he enjoys within the confines of his parish makes him feel himself to
be indeed the monarch of this little kingdom.
One parsonage in particular is engraved on my mind as a perfect frame
for such Arcadian happiness. An old-fashioned roomy house, with
high-pitched roof, it stands within the ring of fortified walls which
encircle the church as well. A few wide-spreading lime-trees are
picturesquely dotted about the turf between the two buildings; and
some old moss-grown stones, half sunk in the velvet grass where the
violets cluster so thick in spring, betray this to be the site of a
long-disused burying-place. Up a few steps there is a raised platform
with seats arranged against the wall, from which, as from an opera-box,
one may overlook the village street and mark the comings and goings
of the inhabitants; and a large kitchen-garden, opening through the
wall in another direction, contains every fruit and vegetable which a
country heart can desire. But the greatest attraction, to my thinking,
was a long arcade of lilac-bushes, so thickly grown that the branches
closed together overhead, only admitting a soft, tremulous, green
half-light, and scented with every variety of the dear old-fashioned
shrub, from the exquisite dwarf Persian and snowy white to each
possible gradation of lilac pink and pinky lilac. Along this fragrant
gallery old carved stone benches are placed at intervals; and hither,
as the venerable pastor informed me, he always comes on Saturday
evenings in summer to compose his sermon for the morrow. “It is so
much easier to think out here,” he said, “among the birds and flowers
and the old graves all around. When the air is scented with the breath
of violets, and from the open church window comes the sound of the
organ, ah, then I feel myself another man, and God teaches me quite
other words to say to my people than those I find for myself inside the
house!”
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Dr. Fronius.