Year in, year out, there stood by the grey clay-plastered wall of the
stove in our living-room an oaken footstool. It was always smooth and
clean, for, like the other furniture, it was rubbed every Saturday with
fine river sand and a wisp of straw. In spring, summer, and autumn-time
this stool stood empty and lonely in its corner, save when of an
evening my grandmother pulled it a little forward to kneel on it and
say her evening prayer. On Saturdays, too, while my father said the
prayers for the end of the week, grandmother knelt upon the stool.
But when during the long evenings in late autumn the farm-hands were
cutting small household torches from the resinous logs, and the maids,
along with my mother and grandmother, spinning wool and flax, and all
during Advent time, when old fairy tales were told and hymns were
sung--then I always sat on the stool by the stove.
From out my corner I listened to the stories and songs, and if they
became creepy and my little soul began to be moved with terror, I
shoved the stool nearer to my mother and covertly held on by her dress;
and could not possibly understand how the others still dared to laugh
at me, or at the terrible stories. At last when bedtime came, and my
mother pulled my little box-bed out for me, I simply could not go to
bed alone, and my grandmother must lie beside me until the frightful
visions had faded and I fell asleep.
But with us the long Advent nights were always short. Soon after two
o'clock, the house began to grow restless. In the attics above one
could hear the farm-lads dressing and moving about, and in the kitchen
the maids broke up kindling wood and poked the fire. Then they all went
out to the threshing floor to thresh.
My mother was also up and about, and had kindled a light in the
living-room; soon after that my father rose, and they both put on
somewhat better clothes than they wore on working-days and yet not
their Sunday best. Then mother said a few words to grandmother, who
still lay a-bed, and when I, wakened by the stir, made some sort of
remark, she only answered, "You lie nice and quiet and go to sleep
again!" Then my parents lighted a lantern, extinguished the light in
the room, and left the house. I heard the outer door close, and saw the
gleam of light go glimmering past the window, and I heard the crunching
of footsteps in the snow and the rattling of the house-dog's chain.
Then, save for the regular throb of the threshers at work, all was once
more quiet and I fell asleep again.
My father and mother were going to the Rorate[3] at the parish church,
nearly three hours away. I followed them in my dream. I could hear the
church bell, and the sound of the organ and the Advent song, "Hail
Mary, thou bright morning star!" I saw, too, the lights on the high
altar; and the little angels that stood above it spread out their
golden wings and flew about the church, and the one with the trumpet,
standing over the pulpit, passed out over the heath and into the
forests and blew throughout the whole world that the coming of the
Saviour was near at hand.
When I awoke the sun had long been shining into the windows; outside
the snow glittered and shimmered, and indoors my mother went about
again in workaday clothes and did her household tasks. Grandmother's
bed, next mine, was already made, and she herself now came in from the
kitchen and helped me to put on my breeches, and washed my face with
cold water, that stung me so that I was ready to laugh and cry at the
same moment. That over I knelt on my stool and prayed with grandmother
the morning prayer:
In Gottes Namen aufstehen
Gegen Gott gehen,
Gegen Gott treten,
Zum Himmlischen Vater beten,
Dass er uns verleih
Lieb Engelein drei:
Der erste, der uns weist,
Der Zweite, der uns speist,
Der dritt' der uns behüt' und bewahrt,
Dass uns an Leib und Seel' nichts widerfahrt.[4]
After these devotions I received my morning soup, and then came
grandmother with a tub full of turnips which we were to peel together.
I sat close beside it on my stool. But in the matter of peeling turnips
I could never quite satisfy grandmother: I constantly cut the rind too
thick, or here and there even left it whole upon the turnip. When,
moreover, I cut my finger and instantly began to cry, my grandmother
said, very crossly, "You're a regular nuisance, it would be a good
thing to pitch you right out into the snow!" All the while she was
binding up my wound with unspeakable love and care.
So passed the Advent season, and grandmother and I talked more and more
often about Christmas Eve and of the Christchild who would so soon be
coming among men.
The nearer we came to the festival the greater the stir in the house.
The men turned the cattle out of the stall and put fresh straw there
and set the mangers and barriers in good order; the cowman rubbed the
oxen till they looked quite smooth; the stockman mixed more hay than
usual in the straw and prepared a great heap of it in the hayloft. The
milkmaid did the same. Threshing had already ceased some days ago,
because, according to our belief, the noise would have profaned the
approaching Holy Day.
Through all the house there was washing and scrubbing; even into the
living-room itself came the maids with their water-pails and straw
wisps and brooms. I always looked forward to the cleaning, because I
loved the turning topsy-turvy of everything, and because the glazed
pictures in the corner where the table was, the brown clock from the
Black Forest with its metal bell, and the various things which, at
other times, I saw only at a distance high above me, were taken down
and brought nearer to me, and I could observe them all much more
closely and from all sides. To be sure, I was not allowed to handle
such things, because I was still too clumsy and careless for that and
might easily damage them. But there were moments in that eager
scrubbing and rubbing when people did not notice me.
In one such moment I climbed from the stool to the bench, and from the
bench to the table, which was pushed out of its place and on which lay
the Black Forest clock. I made for the clock, whose weights hung over
the edge of the table, looked through an open side-door into the very
dusty brass works, tapped several times on the little cogs of the
winding-wheel, and at last even laid my finger on the wheel itself to
see if it would go; but it didn't. Eventually I gently pushed a small
stick of wood, and as I did so the works began to rattle frightfully.
Some of the wheels went slowly, others quicker, and the winding-wheel
flew round so fast that one could hardly see it at all. I was
indescribably frightened, and rolled from the table over bench and
stool down on to the wet, dirty floor; then my mother gripped me by my
little coat--and there, sure enough, was the birch-rod![5] The whirring
inside the clock would not leave off, and finally my mother laid hold
of me with both hands, carried me into the entrance, pushed me through
the door and out into the snow, and shut the door behind me. There I
stood like one undone; I could hear my mother--whom I must have
offended badly--still scolding within doors, and the laughing and
scrubbing of the maids, and through it all the whirring of the clock.
When I had stood there sobbing for a while and still nobody came to
call me back into the house, I set off for the path that was trodden in
the snow, and I went through the home meadow and across the open land
towards the forest. I did not know whither I would go, I only conceived
that a great wrong had been done me and that I could never go home
again.
But I had not reached the forest when I heard a shrill whistle behind
me. That was the whistle my grandmother made when she put two fingers
in her mouth, pointed her tongue, and blew. "Where are you going, you
stupid child?" she cried. "Take care; if you run about in the forest
like that, Moss-Maggie will catch you! Look out!"
At this word I instantly turned round, for I feared Moss-Maggie
unspeakably. But I did not go home yet. I hung about in the farmyard,
where my father and two of our men had just killed a pig. Watching them
I forgot what had happened to myself, and when my father set about
skinning it in the outhouse I stood by holding the ends of the skin,
which with his big knife he gradually detached from the carcase. When
later on the intestines had been taken out and my mother was pouring
water into the basin, she said to me, "Run away or you'll get
splashed."
From the way in which she spoke I could tell that my mother was once
more reconciled with me and all was right again; and when I went into
the dwelling-room to warm myself a bit, everything was back in its own
place. Floor and walls were still moist, but scrubbed clean, and the
Black Forest clock was once more hanging on the wall and ticking. And
it ticked much louder and clearer than before through the freshly
ordered room.
At last the washing and scrubbing and polishing came to an end, the
house grew peacefuller, almost silent, and the Sacred Vigil was upon
us. On Christmas Eve we used not to have our dinner in the living-room,
but in the kitchen, where we made the large pastry-board our table, and
sat round it and ate the simple fasting fare silently, but with
uplifted hearts.
The table in the dwelling-room was covered with a snow-white cloth, and
beside it stood my stool, upon which, when the twilight fell, my
grandmother knelt and prayed silently.
The maids went quietly about the house and got their holiday clothes
ready, and mother put pieces of meat in a big pot and poured water on
them and set it on the open fire. I stole softly about the room on
tiptoe and heard only the jolly crackling of the kitchen fire. I gazed
at my Sunday breeches and coat and the little black felt hat which were
ready hanging on a nail in the wall, and then I looked through the
window out at the oncoming dusk. If no rough weather set in I was to be
allowed to go with the head farm-servant, Sepp, to the midnight Mass.
And the weather was quiet, and moreover, according to my father, it was
not going to be very cold, because the mist lay upon the hills.
Just before the "censing," in which, following ancient custom, house
and farm were blessed with holy water and incense, my father and my
mother fell out a little. Maggie the Moss-gatherer had been there to
wish us all a blessed Christmastide, and my mother had presented her
with a piece of meat for the feast-day. My father was somewhat vexed at
this; in other ways, he was a good friend to the poor, and not seldom
gave them more than we could well spare; but in his opinion one ought
not to give Moss-Maggie any alms whatever. The Moss-gatherer was a
woman not belonging to our neighbourhood, who went wandering around in
the forests without permission, collecting moss and roots, making fires
and sleeping in the half-ruined huts of charcoal-burners. Besides that,
she went begging to the farmhouses, offering moss for sale, and if she
did but poor business there she wept and railed at her life. Children
at whom she looked were sore terrified, and many even became ill; and
she could make cows give red milk. Whoever showed her kindness, she
would follow for several minutes, saying, "May God reward you a
thousand and a thousandfold right up into heaven!" But to anyone who
mocked, or in any other way whatsoever offended her, she said, "I pray
you down into the nethermost hell!"
Moss-Maggie often came to us, and she loved to sit before
the house on the grass, or on the stile over the hedge, in
spite of the loud barking and chain-clanking of our house-dog,
who showed singular violence towards this woman. She would remain
there until my mother took her out a cup of milk or a bit of
bread. My mother was glad when Moss-Maggie thereupon gave her a
thousandfold-right-up-to-heaven-may-God-reward-you; but my father
considered the wish of this person worthless, whether as curse or
blessing.
Some years earlier, when they were building the school-house in the
village, this woman had come to the place with her husband and helped
at the work, until one day the man was killed at stone-blasting. Since
then she had worked no more, nor did she go away; but she just idled
about, nobody knowing what she did nor what she wanted. She could never
again be persuaded to do any work--she seemed to be crazed.
The magistrate had several times sent Moss-Maggie out of the district,
but she always returned. "She wouldn't always be coming back," said my
father, "if she got nothing by begging in the neighbourhood. As it is
she'll just stay about here, and when she's old and ill, we shall have
to nurse her as well: it's a cross that we ourselves have tied round
our necks."
My mother said nothing in reply to such words, but when Moss-Maggie
came she still gave the usual alms, and to-day in honour of the great
feast a little more.
Hence then arose the little dispute between my father and mother, which
however was at once silenced when two farm-hands bearing the incense
and holy water entered the house. After the censing my father placed a
lighted candle on the table; to-day pine-splinters might only be burned
in the kitchen. Supper was once again eaten in the living-room. During
supper the head farm-servant told us all manner of wonderful stories.
When we had finished my mother sang a shepherd's song. Rapturously as I
listened to these songs at other times, to-day I could think of nothing
but the churchgoing, and longed above everything to get at once into my
Sunday clothes. They assured me there would be time enough for that
later on; but at last my grandmother yielded to my urgent appeal and
dressed me. The cowman dressed himself very carefully in his festal
finery, because he was not going home after the midnight mass, but
would stay in the village till morning. About nine o'clock the other
farm-servants and the maids were also ready, and they kindled a torch
at the candle flame. I held on to Sepp, the head servant; and my
parents and grandmother, who stayed at home to take care of the house,
sprinkled me with holy water that I might neither fall nor freeze to
death. Then we started off.
It was very dark, and the torch, borne before us by the cowman, threw
its red light in a great disk on the snow, and the hedge, the
stone-heaps and the trees past which we went. This red illumination,
which was broken too by the great shadows of our bodies, seemed very
awful to me, and I clung fearfully to Sepp, until he remarked, "Look
here, leave me my coat; what should I do if you tore it off my back?"
For a time the path was very narrow, so that we had to go one behind
the other, and I was only thankful that I was not the last, for I
imagined that he for certain must be exposed to endless dangers from
ghosts.
There was a cutting wind and the glowing splinters of the torch flew
far afield, and even when they fell on the hard snow-crust they still
glowed for a while.
So far we had gone across open ground and down through thickets and
forest; now we came to a brook which I knew well--it flowed through the
meadow where we made hay in summer. Then the brook had been noisy
enough; to-day one could only hear it murmur and gurgle, for it was
frozen over. We passed along by a mill where I was badly scared because
some sparks flew on to the roof; but there was snow lying upon it and
the sparks were quenched. When we had gone some way along the valley,
we left the brook and the way led upwards through a dark wood where the
snow lay very shallow but had no such firm surface as out in the open.
At last we came to a wide road, where we could walk side by side, and
now and again we heard sleigh-bells. The torch had already burned right
down to the cowman's hand, and he kindled another that he had with him.
On the road were visible several other lights--great red torches that
came flaring towards us as if they were swimming in the black air,
behind which first one and then several more faces of the churchgoers
gradually emerged, who now joined company with us. And we saw lights on
other hills and heights, that were still so far off we could not be
sure whether they were still or moving.
So we went on. The snow crunched under our feet, and wherever the wind
had carried it away, there the black patch of bare ground was so hard
that our shoes rang upon it. The people talked and laughed a great
deal, but this seemed not a bit right to me in the holy night of
Christmas. I could only think all the while about the church and what
it must be like when there is music and High Mass in the dead of night.
When we had been going for a long time along the road and past isolated
trees and houses, then again over fields and through a wood, I suddenly
heard a faint ringing in the tree-tops. When I wanted to listen, I
couldn't hear it; but soon after I heard it again, and clearer than the
first time. It was the sound of the little bell in the church steeple.
The lights which we saw on the hills and in the valley became more and
more frequent, and we could now see that they were all hastening
churchwards.
The little calm stars of the lanterns floated towards us, and the road
was growing livelier all the time. The small bell was relieved by a
greater, and this one went on ringing until we had almost reached the
church. So it was true, what grandmother had said: at midnight the
bells begin to ring, and they ring until the very last dweller in the
farthest valleys has come to church.
The church stands on a hill covered with birches and firs, and round it
lies the little God's-acre encircled by a low wall. The few houses of
the village are down in the valley.
When the people came close to the church, they extinguished their
torches by sticking them head downwards in the snow. Only one was
fixed between two stones in the churchyard wall, and left burning.
And now from the steeple in slow, rhythmical swing, rang out the great
bell. A clear light shone through the high, narrow windows. I longed to
go into the church; but Sepp said there was still plenty of time, and
stayed where he was, laughing and talking with other young fellows and
filling himself a pipe.
At last all the bells pealed out together; the organ began to play
inside the church, and then we all went in. There it looked quite
different from what it did on Sundays. The candles burning on the altar
were clear, white, beaming stars, and the gilded tabernacle reflected
them most gloriously. The lamp of the sanctuary light was red. The
upper part of the church was so dark that one could not see the
beautiful painting of the nave. Mysterious shapes of men were seated in
the chairs, or standing beside them; the women were much wrapped up in
shawls and were coughing. Many had candles burning in front of them,
and they sang out of their books when the _Te Deum_ rang out from the
chancel.
Sepp led me between two rows of chairs towards a side altar, where
several people were standing. There he lifted me up on to a stool
before a glass case, which, lighted by two candles, was placed between
two branches of fir trees, and which I had never seen before when I
went to church with my parents. When Sepp had set me on the stool, he
said softly in my ear, "There, now you can have a look at the crib."
Then he left me standing, and I gazed in through the glass. Thereupon
came a friendly little woman and whispered, "Look here, child, if you
want to see that, somebody ought to explain it to you." And she told me
who the little figures were. I looked at them. Save for the Mother
Mary, who had a blue wrapped garment round her head which fell down to
her very feet, all the figures represented mere human beings: the men
were dressed just like our farm-servants or the elder peasants. Even
St. Joseph wore green stockings and short chamois-leather breeches.
When the _Te Deum_ was over, Sepp came back, lifted me from the stool,
and we sat down on a bench. Then the sacristan went round lighting all
the candles that were in the church, and every man, including Sepp,
pulled a little candle out of his pouch, lighted it, and fastened it on
to the desk in front of him. Now it was so bright in the church that
one could see the paintings on the roof clearly enough.
Up in the choir they were tuning fiddles and trumpets and drums, and,
just as the little bell on the door of the sacristy rang, and the
priest in his glittering vestments, accompanied by acolytes and tall
lantern-bearers, passed over the crimson carpet to the altar, the organ
burst forth in all its strength, joined by a blast of trumpets and roll
of drums.
The incense smoke was rising, and shrouding the shining high altar in a
veil. Thus the High Mass began, and thus it shone and sounded and rang
in the middle of the night. Throughout the offertory all the
instruments were silent, only two clear voices sang a lovely
shepherd-song; and during the Benedictus a clarionet and two horns slow
and softly crooned the cradle-song. During the Gospel and the Elevation
we heard the cuckoo and nightingale in the choir, just as in the midst
of the sunny spring-time.
Deep down in my soul I understood it, the wonder and splendour of
Christmas. But I did not exclaim with delight; I remained grave and
silent, I felt the solemn glory of it all. But while the music was
playing I could not help thinking about father and mother and
grandmother at home. They are kneeling by the table now in the light of
the single candle, and praying; or they are even asleep, and the room
is all dark--only the clock ticking--while a deep peace lies upon the
forest-clad mountains, and the Eve of Christmas is spread abroad over
all the earth.
The little candles in the seats were burning themselves out, one after
another, as the service neared its close at last; and the sacristan
went round again and extinguished the lights on the walls and altars
and before the pictures with the little tin cap. Those on the high
altar were still burning when a joyous march music sounded from the
choir and the folk went crowding out of the incense-laden church.
When we came outside, in spite of the thick mist which had descended
from the hills, it was no longer quite so dark as before midnight. The
moon must have risen; no more torches were lighted. It struck one
o'clock, but the schoolmaster was already ringing the prayer bell for
Christmas morning.
I glanced once more at the church windows. All the festal shine was
quenched, I saw only the dull red glimmer of the sanctuary lamp.
And now, when I wanted to renew my hold on Sepp's coat, he was no
longer there: I found myself among strangers, who talked together for a
little, and then immediately set out for their several homes. My guide
must be already on ahead. I hurried after him, running quickly past
several people, hoping soon to overtake him. I ran as hard as my little
feet were able, going through a dark wood and across fields over which
such a keen wind was blowing, that warm as I otherwise was I scarcely
felt my nose and ears at all. I passed houses and clumps of trees; the
people who were still on the road a short time before had dropped off
little by little; I was all alone, and still I hadn't overtaken Sepp. I
thought he might just as well be still behind me, but I determined to
hurry straight home. Here and there I saw black spots on the road, the
charcoal that folk had shaken down from their torches on their way to
church. I made up my mind not to look at the bushes and little trees
which stood beside the way and loomed eerily out of the mist, for they
scared me. I was specially frightened whenever a path cut straight
across the road, because that was a cross-road, where on Christmas Eve
the Evil One loves to stand, and has chinking treasure with him with
which he entices the hapless children of men to himself. It is true the
cowman had said he did not believe it, but such things must be or
people would not talk so much about them. I was very agitated; I turned
my eyes in all directions, lest a ghost should be somewhere making for
me. Then I determined to think no more of such nonsense; but the harder
I made up my mind, the more I thought about it.
And now I had reached the path which should take me down through the
forest and into the valley. I turned aside and ran along under the
long-branched trees. Their tops rustled loudly, and now and again a
great lump of snow fell down beside me. Sometimes it was so dark that I
did not see the trunks until I ran up against them; and then I lost the
path. This I did not mind very much, for the snow was shallow and the
ground nice and level. But gradually it began to grow steep and
steeper, and there were a lot of brambles and heather under the snow.
The tree-stems were no longer spaced so regularly, but were scattered
about, many leaning all awry, many with torn-up roots resting against
others, and many, in a wild confusion of up-reaching branches, lying
prone upon the ground. I did not remember seeing all this on our
outward journey. Sometimes I could hardly get on at all, but had to
wriggle in and out through the bushes and branches. Often the
snow-crust gave way under me, and then the stiff heather reached right
up to my chest. I realised I had lost the right path, but told myself
that when I was once in the valley and beside the brook I should follow
that along and so was bound to come at last to the mill and our own
meadows.
Lumps of snow fell into the pockets of my coat, snow clung to my little
breeches and stockings, and the water ran down into my shoes. At first
all that clambering over fallen trees and creeping through undergrowth
had tired me, but now the weariness had vanished; I didn't heed the
snow, and I didn't heed the heather, nor the boughs that so often
scratched me roughly about the face, but I just hurried on. I was
constantly falling, but as quickly picking myself up again. Then, too,
all fear of ghosts was gone; I thought of nothing but the valley and
our house. I had no notion how long I had been astray in the
wilderness, but felt strong and nimble, terror spurring me on.
Suddenly I found myself standing on the brink of a precipice. Down in
the abyss a grey fog lay, with here and there a tree-top rising out of
it. The forest was sparser about me, it was bright overhead and the
half-moon stood in the sky. Before me, and away beyond that, there was
nothing but strange cone-shaped, forest-clad mountains.
Down there in the depths must be the valley and the mill. It seemed to
me as if I heard the murmur of the brook; but it was only the soughing
of the wind in the forest on the farther side.
I went to right and to left, searching for a footpath that might take
me down, and I found a place where I thought I should be able to lower
myself by the help of the loose rocks which lay about, and of the
juniper bushes. In this I succeeded for a little, but only just in time
I clutched hold of a root--I had nearly pitched over a perpendicular
cliff. After that I could go no farther, but sank in sheer exhaustion
to the ground. In the depths below lay the fog with the black
tree-tops. Save for the soughing of the wind in the forest, I heard
nothing. I did not know where I was. If only a deer would come I would
ask my way of it; quite probably it would be able to direct me, for
everyone knows that on Christmas Eve the beasts can talk like men.
I got up to climb back again, but only loosened the rocks and made no
progress. Hands and feet were aching. I stood still and called for
Sepp as loud as ever I could. Lingering and faint, my voice fell back
from the forests and cliffs. Then again I heard nothing but the
soughing of the wind.
The frost was cutting right into my limbs. "Sepp! Sepp!" I shouted once
more with all my might. Again nothing but the long-drawn-out echo. Then
a fearful anguish took possession of me. I called quickly, one after
another, my parents, my grandmother, all the farm-hands and maids of
our household by name. It was all in vain.