THE SAXONS: DEATH AND BURIAL.
In olden times, when the Almighty used still to show himself on earth,
the people say that every one knew beforehand exactly the day and hour
of his death.
Thus one day the Creator in the course of his wanderings came across
a peasant who was mending his garden paling in a careless, slovenly
manner.
“Why workest thou so carelessly?” asked the Lord, and received this
answer:
“Why should I make it any better? I have got only one year left to
live, and it will last till then.”
Hearing which God grew angry, and said,
“Henceforward no man shall know the day or hour of his death; thou art
the last one who has known it.” And since that time we are all kept in
ignorance of our death-hour; therefore should every man live as though
he were to die in the next hour, and work as if he were to live forever.
Death to the Saxon peasant appears in the light of a treacherous enemy
who must be met with open resistance, and may either be conquered by
courageous opposition or conciliated with a bribe. “He has put off
death with a slice of bread” is said of a man who has survived some
great danger.
When the first signs of an approaching illness declare themselves in a
man, all his friends are strenuous in advising him to hold out against
it—not to let himself go, but to grapple with this foe which has
seized him unawares. Even though all the symptoms of typhus-fever be
already upon him, though his head be burning like fire and his limbs
heavy as lead, he is yet exhorted to bear up against it, and on no
account to lie down, for that would be a concession to the enemy.
In this way many a man goes about with death upon his face, determined
not to give in, till at last he drops down senseless in the field or
yard where he has been working. Even then his family are not disposed
to let him rest. With well-meant but mistaken kindness they endeavor
to rouse him by shouting in his ear. He must be made to wake up and
walk about, or it will be all over with him; and not for the world
would they send for a doctor, who can only be regarded as an omen of
approaching death.[19]
Some old woman, versed in magic formulas and learned in the decoction
of herbs and potions, is hastily summoned to the bedside, and the
unfortunate man would probably be left to perish without intelligent
advice, unless the pastor, hearing of his illness, takes upon himself
to send for the nearest physician.
By the time the doctor arrives the illness has made rapid strides, and
most likely the assistance comes too late. The first care of the doctor
on entering the room will be to remove the warm fur cap and the heavy
blankets, which are wellnigh stifling the patient, and order him to
be undressed and comfortably laid in his bed. He prescribes cooling
compresses and a medicine to be taken at regular intervals, but shakes
his head and gives little hope of recovery.
Already this death is regarded as a settled thing in the village; for
many of the gossips now remember to have heard the owl shriek in the
preceding night, or there has been an unusual howling of dogs just
about midnight. Some remember how a flight of crows flew cawing over
the village but yesterday, which means a death, for it is meat that the
crows are crying for; or else the cock has been heard to crow after
six in the evening; or the loaves were cracked in the oven on last
baking-day. Others call to mind how over-merry the old man had been
four weeks ago, when his youngest grandchild was christened, and that
is ever a sign of approaching decease. “And only a week ago,” says
another village authority, “when we buried old N—— N——, there was
an amazing power of dust round the grave, and the Herr Vater sneezed
twice during his sermon; and that, as every one knows, infallibly means
another funeral before long. Mark my words, ere eight days have passed
he will be lying under the nettles!”
“So it is,” chimes in another gossip. “He will hear the cuckoo cry no
more.”
The village carpenter, who has long been out of work, now hangs about
the street in hopes of a job. “How is the old man?” he anxiously
inquires of a neighbor.
“The preacher has just gone in to knock off the old sinner’s irons,” is
the irreverent reply, at which the carpenter brightens up, hoping that
he may soon be called in to make the “fir-wood coat,” for he has a heap
of damaged boards lying by which he fain would get rid of.
Sometimes, however, it is the thrifty peasant himself, who, knowing the
ways of village carpenters, and foreseeing this inevitable contingency,
has taken care to provide himself with a well-made solid coffin years
before there was any probability of its coming into use. He has
himself chosen out the boards, tested their soundness, and driven a
hard bargain for his purchase, laying himself down in the coffin to
assure himself of the length being sufficient. For many years this
useless piece of furniture has been standing in the loft covered with
dust and cobwebs, and serving, perhaps, as a receptacle for old iron
or discarded boots; and now it is the dying man himself who, during a
passing interval of consciousness, directs that his coffin should be
brought down and cleaned out; his glassy eye recovering a momentary
brightness as he congratulates himself on his wise forethought.
Death is indeed approaching with rapid strides. Only two spoonfuls of
the prescribed medicine has the patient swallowed. “Take it away,” he
says, when he has realized his situation—“take it away, and keep it
carefully for the next person who falls ill. It can do me no good, and
it is a pity to waste it on me, for I feel that my time has come. Send
for the preacher, that I may make my peace with the Almighty.”
The last dispositions as to house and property have been made in the
presence of the pastor or preacher. The house and yard are to belong to
the youngest son, as is the general custom among the Saxons; the eldest
son or daughter is to be otherwise provided for. The small back room
belongs to the widow, as jointure lodging for the rest of her life;
likewise a certain proportion of grain and fruit is assured to her. The
exact spot of the grave is indicated, and two ducats are to be given
to the Herr Vater if he will undertake to preach a handsome funeral
oration, and to compose a suitable epitaph for the tombstone.
When it becomes evident that the last death-struggle is approaching,
the mattress is withdrawn from under the dying man, for, as every one
knows, he will expire more gently if laid upon straw.
Scarcely has the breath left his body than all the last clothes he has
worn are taken off and given to a gypsy. The corpse, after being washed
and shaved, is dressed in bridal attire—the self-same clothes once
donned on the wedding-morning long ago, and which ever since have been
lying by, carefully folded and strewn with sprigs of lavender, in the
large painted _truhe_ (bunker), waiting for the day when their turn
must come round again. Possibly they now prove a somewhat tight fit;
for the man of sixty has considerably developed his proportions since
he wore these same clothes forty years ago, and no doubt it will be
necessary to make various slits in the garments in order to enable them
to fulfil their office.
The coffin is prepared to receive the body by a sheet being spread over
a layer of wood-shavings; for the head a little pillow, stuffed with
dried flowers and aromatic herbs, which in most houses are kept ready
prepared for such contingencies. In sewing this pillow great care must
be taken not to make any knot upon the thread, which would hinder the
dead man from resting in his grave, and likewise prevent his widow
from marrying again; also, no one should be suffered to smell at the
funeral wreaths, or else they will irretrievably lose their sense of
smell.
A new-dug grave should not if possible stand open overnight, but only
be dug on the day of the funeral itself.
An hour before the funeral, the ringer begins to toll the _seelenpuls_
(soul’s pulse), as it is called; but the sexton is careful to pause in
the ringing when the clock is about to strike, for “if the hour should
strike into the bell” another death will be the consequence.
Standing before the open grave, the mourners give vent to their grief,
which, even when true and heartfelt, is often expressed with such
quaint realism as to provoke a smile:
“My dearest husband,” wails a disconsolate widow, “why hast thou gone
away? I had need of thee to look after the farm, and there was plenty
room for thee at our fireside. My God, is it right of thee to take my
support away? On whom shall I now lean?”
_The children near their dead mother._—“Mother, mother, who will care
for us now? Shall we live within strange doors?”
_A mother bewailing her only son._—“O God, thou hast had no pity! Even
the Emperor did not take my son away to be a soldier. Thou art less
merciful than the Emperor!”
_Another mother weeping over two dead children._—“What a misfortune is
mine, O God! If I had lost two young foals, at least their hides would
have been left to me!” And the children, standing by the open grave of
their father, cry out, “Oh, father, we shall never forget thee! Take
our thanks for all the good thou hast done to us during thy lifetime,
as well as for the earthly goods thou hast left behind!”
The banquet succeeding the obsequies is in some places still called the
_tor_—perhaps in reference to the old god Thor, who with his hammer
presides alike over marriages and funerals.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] On the rare occasions when the Saxon peasant consults a physician,
he is determined to reap the utmost advantage from the situation.
An amusing instance of this was related to me by a doctor to whom
a peasant had come for the purpose of being bled. Deeming that the
patient had lost sufficient blood, the doctor was about to close the
wound, when the Saxon interposed. “Since I have come this long way to
be bled, doctor,” he remonstrated, “you might as well let ten kreuzers’
worth more blood flow!”