When of a Saturday evening my father sat at his shaving I had to creep
under the table because it was dangerous above.
When my father sat shaving himself, and when he had lathered his cheek
and lips to such a snowy whiteness that he looked like the herd-boy
after he has been lapping cream behind the milkmaid's back; when,
further, he sharpened his gleaming razor on his brown-leather braces
and then passed it slowly over his cheek, he would straightway begin to
twist mouth, cheeks, and nose--indeed, his whole countenance--in such a
fashion as made his dear kind face quite unrecognisable. He drew both
lips deep into his mouth, till he was like nothing so much as old
neighbour Veit who had lost all his teeth; or he stretched his mouth
crosswise, from left to right, like Köhler-Sani scolding his hens; and
he screwed one eye up tight and blew out a cheek, for all the world
like poor Tinili the tailor, after his virago wife had been caressing
him. All the funniest faces in the whole neighbourhood came to my mind
in turn when my father sat at his shaving. And that set me off.
At this point my father, still friendly, would say, "Do be quiet,
laddie." But scarcely had he spoken when again there came such a
wonderful face that I simply couldn't help laughing outright. He peered
into the little looking-glass, and I fully expected to see his
distorted features relax into a smile. Then he suddenly called out,
"If you're not quiet, boy, I'll break the shaving-brush over your
pate!"
It was now high time to creep under the table, where my smothered
giggles kept me shaking like a wet poodle. After that he could shave
peacefully and without danger of breaking out into untimely mirth over
his own or my grimaces.
And so it came to pass one winter evening that my father was sitting
before the soap-bowl and I under the table when I heard someone in the
entrance stamping the snow from his boots. A moment later the door
opened and in came a big man whose thick red beard had icicles hanging
from it just like our shingle roof outside. He at once sat down on a
bench, drew a big tobacco-pipe from under his homespun cloak, gripped
it between his front teeth, and, while striking a light, remarked,
"Having a shave, Farmer?"
"Yes, I'm having a bit of a shave," answered my father, and went on
scraping with the razor, and cut a really God-forsaken grimace.
"That's all right," said the stranger.
And later, when he was quite hidden in tobacco smoke and the icicles
were dripping from his beard, he uttered himself thus:
"I don't know if so be you know me or not, Farmer. Five year agone I
passed your place and took a drink of water at your spring. I come from
Stanz; I'm Frau Drachenbinder's farm-hand, and I've come about the
matter of that big lad of yours."
Under the table, I went hot to the tips of my toes at these words. My
father had but one big lad at the time, and that was myself. I drew
back into the darkest corner.
"Come about my boy?" returned my father. "You can have him if you want
him--we can easily spare him; he's just too bad for anything!"
(Peasant folk are very fond of talking like that for the sake of
teasing and overaweing their forward children.)
"Come, come, Farmer! Not so bad as all that! Frau Drachenbinder wants
to get something written down--a will or some such matter--and she
don't know anybody, far and wide, that's a good writing scholar. But
now she's heard tell that the farmer at Vorderalpel has got an uncommon
kind of boy that can do such things as that with his little finger
alone! And so she's sent me off here, and I was to beg of you, Farmer,
if you'd be so kind as to lend her the loan of the boy over there for a
day. She'll soon pack him off back again, and give him something for
his trouble as well."
When I heard him say that I rattled my shoe-tips against the table
legs: that wouldn't come at all amiss, I thought.
"Go along with you!" said my father when he had scratched one cheek
quite smooth. "However is my small boy to go to Stanz in the dead of
winter? It must be at least a four hours' walk!"
"Just so," answered the big man, "and that's why I'm here. He's only
got to climb up on my back and open his legs and shove 'em along past
my ribs, both sides of me, towards the front, where I'll lay hold of
them; and then he must hug me round the neck with his hands, like as if
he was my sweetheart, so that he don't go falling off backwards."
"I see," replied my father; "you needn't make such a talk about a
pig-a-back ride!"
"Well, after that I'll manage all right, and when Sunday comes I'll
bring him back home again."
"I'm not afraid of your not bringing him back safe and sound," said my
father; "and if Frau Drachenbinder really wants to have something
written down, and seeing that you're her man, and if the lad will go
with you--there's no objection so far as I'm concerned."
He uttered these words with a smooth, ordinary countenance.
A little later I was rigged out in my Sunday clothes. Elated with my
so suddenly acquired importance I strutted up and down the room.
"You wandering Jew, you!" exclaimed my father. "Haven't you got
anything to sit upon?"
But there was no more peace for me. Better than anything I should have
liked to settle myself there and then on the big man's broad back, and
ride straight away. But just then my mother came in bringing a steaming
savoury dish, saying, "Eat that, you two, before you start off!"
Not in vain did she say it. I had never yet seen our biggest wooden
spoon piled up so high as then when the strange big man plied it
between the meat-platter and his bearded mouth. But I walked up and
down all the while and thought about how I was going to become Frau
Drachenbinder's scrivener.
Presently, when matters had gone so far that my mother could turn the
dish upside-down on the hearth without a crumb falling out, I hopped up
on to the man's back, held on hard by his beard, and rode away in the
name of God.
The sun was already setting; the valleys were full of blue shadow; the
far snow-heights of the Alps were a dull rose-colour.
So long as my nag was trotting uphill over the bare pastures the snow
bore his weight well, but when he came in among the young larch and
pine-woods the surface became treacherous and broke under him. He was
prepared for that, however. When he came up to an old hollow larch with
wild arms stretching out into the air, he pulled up, thrust his right
hand into the dark cavity, and fished out a pair of snow-shoes of woven
willow which he bound under his shoe-soles. Upon these wide things he
began the pilgrimage anew. Progress was slow, for in order to manage
the shoes he must keep them far apart; but with such duck's feet there
was no more breaking through.
Suddenly--it was already dark and the stars shining clear--my mount
began to undo my shoes, pulled them clean off my feet and put them away
in his turned-up apron. Then he said, "Now, laddie, stick your little
hoofs in my breeches pocket, so that your toes don't freeze off." He
took my hands in his own and breathed warm breath upon them--and that
was instead of gloves.
The cold bit my cheeks, the snow creaked under the snow-shoes; I rode
on lonely through the forest and over the heights. I rode all along the
ridge of the Hochbürstling, where even in summer I had never yet been.
Now and again, when progress was too deliberate, I pressed my knees
into the yielding flesh, and my horse took it all in good part, going
on as well as ever he could--there was no doubt about his knowing the
way! I rode past a post whereon, summer and winter, that holy patron of
cattle, St. Erhardi, stood. I knew St. Erhardi at home, he and I
between us had charge of my father's herd. He was always much
carefuller than I: if a cow came to grief, I the herdboy was blamed; if
the others throve, St. Erhardi got the credit for it.--It did my heart
good he should see that I had become a horseman while he stood there
nailed to his post for ever and ever.
At last our path took a turn and I began riding downwards over stumps
and stones, making towards a little light that glimmered in the valley
below. And just when all the trees and places had passed me by and I
had nothing but the dark mass with the one little pane of shining light
before me, my good Christopher came to a halt and said, "Now look here,
my dear boy--seeing as how I'm a stranger to you and you've come with
me like this without taking thought what you were doing--how d'you know
that I mayn't have got a life-long grudge against your father and am
just now going to carry you into a robbers' den?"
I listened a moment. Then, as he added nothing to these words, I
answered in the same tone:
"Considering my father trusted me to Frau Drachenbinder's man and that
I've come with him like this, it's not likely Drachenbinder's man has
got a grudge against us, and he won't carry me into a robbers' den."
At these words of mine the man snorted into his beard, and soon after
he lowered me on to the stump of a tree, saying, "And now here we are
at Frau Drachenbinder's house."
He opened a door in the dark mass and went in.
The small living-room had a stove with glowing embers on it, a burning
pine-splinter,[6] and a straw bed with a child asleep on it. Near it
stood a woman, very old and bent and with a face as pallid and creased
as the coarse nightgown she was wearing. As we entered, this person
uttered a strange cry, a sort of crowing, began to laugh violently, and
then hid herself behind the stove.
"That's Frau Drachenbinder," remarked my guide. "She'll soon come and
speak to you, and meantime you sit down there on the stool near the bed
and put on your shoes again."
I did what he bade me, and he seated himself on a block of wood near
by.
When the woman became composed, she moved lightly about the stove and
soon brought us a steaming grey meal-soup in an earthenware pot, and
two bone spoons with it. My man ate solemnly and steadily, but I
couldn't quite fancy it. Then he got up and said softly to me, "Sleep
well, boy!" and went away. And when I found myself alone in the close
room with the sleeping child and the old woman I began to feel
downright creepy.
Frau Drachenbinder came up to me, laid her light, lean hand on my
cheek, and said, "I thank the dear Lord God that you've come!--It's
barely six months since my daughter died. That there"--she pointed to
the child--"is my young branch--such a dear mite--he's my heir. And
now I hear Death knocking at the door again. I'm very old. I've saved
all my life--I'm going to beg my coffin from kind folks' charity. My
husband died long ago and left this little house to me. My illnesses
have cost me the house--but they weren't worth it. Whatever I leave
behind me is for my grandchild's very own. As yet he's too young to
take it into his heart, and I can't give it into any man's hand, and so
I want to have it written down so that it's kept. I won't do it through
the schoolmaster in Stanz, and the doctor can't do it without the
stamp-duty. And then people told me about the son of the farmer at
Vorderalpel, and how he was such a scholar that he could write out
people's last wills without the stamp! That's why I've had you brought
all this long way. Do this favour for me to-morrow, and to-night go and
get a good rest."
She ushered me, by the light of the burning splinter, into the little
room adjoining. It was made only of boards. A bed of hay, with a
covering in the shape of the woman's thick, best Sunday dress, was
there, and in a corner stood a little brown church with two small
towers in which little bells were set a-tinkling whenever one trod the
shaky floor. Frau Drachenbinder stuck the burning pine-wood in the
window of one of the towers, made the sign of the cross on me with her
thumb, and then I was alone in the room. It was cold: I was shivering
with the bitter winter, and with a fear of my hostess too, but, before
ever I crept into my nest, curiosity impelled me to open the door of
the little church. Out sprang a mouse who had just made her supper off
the gold-paper altar and St. Joseph's cardboard hand. Saints and angels
were there within, and gay banners and wreaths--it was a lovely toy. I
thought to myself that this must be Frau Drachenbinder's parish church,
for the little body was far too feeble to walk to Stanz for mass. I
said my evening prayer before it, asking Our Lord to protect me during
that night; then I extinguished the splinter so that it should not burn
right down to the window-frame, and after that laid myself down on the
hay, in God's name.
It seemed to me as if I had been torn away from myself and were some
learned clerk in a far-away cold house, while the real boy of the
forest farm was sleeping at home in his own warm little nest. Just as I
was falling asleep I heard the short, sharp cries of joy again in the
living-room, and soon after that the loud laughter. Whatever was it
that delighted her so much, and at whom was she laughing? I was
terrified, and thought of running away. One of the boards could be
easily shifted, but then--the snow!
Only towards morning did I fall asleep, and I dreamed and dreamed about
a red mouse that had bitten off the right hand of all the saints in the
church. And my father was looking out of the window of the tower with
his lathered, distorted cheeks and holding a lighted pine-splinter in
his mouth: and I sobbed and giggled together, and was hot with fear.
When at last I awoke I thought I was in a cage with silver bars, for so
the white daylight looked through the vertical cracks in the woodwork.
And when I went outside the house door I was astonished to see how
narrow the ravine was, and how high and wintry the mountains.
Within doors the child was screaming, and then Frau Drachenbinder broke
out into her jubilant cries again.
At breakfast there was my horse again, but he hardly spoke at all,
giving all his attention to his food; and when that was finished he got
up, put on his huge hat, and went off to church at Stanz.
When the old woman had comforted the child, fed the fowls, and done
other household work, she pushed the wooden bolt of the house door,
went into the inner room, and began ringing the bells of the little
church. She lighted two candles that stood on the altar, and then she
made a prayer, and one more moving have I never heard. She knelt
before the church, held out her hands, and murmured: "By the most
sacred wound of Thy right hand, O my crucified Saviour, save my parents
if they be still in torment. Though they have lain for half a century
in the earth I can still hear my father in the dead of night crying out
for help.--By the most sacred wound of Thy left hand I commend to Thee
the soul of my daughter. She had hardly looked round upon the world and
she was just going to lay her little one in her husband's arms, when up
comes cruel Death and takes and buries her out of our sight!--By the
most sacred wound of Thy right foot, I pray Thee from my very heart for
my husband, and for my kindred and benefactors, and that Thou wilt not
forget this little lad from the forest farm.--By the most sacred wound
of Thy left foot, O crucified Saviour, in love and mercy remember also
all my enemies, who have smitten me with their hands and trodden me
with their feet. Blinded men crucified Thee to death, and yet Thou hast
forgiven them.--By the most holy wound of Thy sacred side, I invoke
Thee a thousand and a thousand times.--O crucified God, take up my
grandchild to Thy Divine Heart. His father is far away with the
soldiers, and perhaps I have not long to live. Be Thou a guardian to
the child, I beseech Thee."
That was how she prayed. The little red candles burned devoutly. At
that moment it seemed to me that if I were Our Lord I would come down
from Heaven and take the child in my arms, and say, "See for yourself,
Frau Drachenbinder, I am holding him close to My heart, and I will be
his guardian." I would let him grow white wings, so that he could fly
away to the Better Land.
But then, I wasn't Our Lord.
Presently Frau Drachenbinder said, "Now let's get to the writing." But
when we wanted to begin there was no ink and no pen and no paper. We
had forgotten every one of these things.
The old woman leant her head on her palm, murmuring, "What a
misfortune!"
I had heard somewhere the story of the doctor who in default of the
necessary things wrote his prescription on the door of the room with
chalk. His example was worth following now; but there was no chalk to
be found in the house. I didn't know what else to suggest, and was
unspeakably ashamed of being a scribe without a pen.
"My boy," said the woman suddenly, "maybe you learned to write with
charcoal too?"
Yes, yes--with the charcoal--just like that on the hearth there; that
would do!
"And this, in God's name, must be my writing-paper," she went on, and
lifted the lid of an old coffer standing near the stove. Inside the
coffer I could see cuttings of cloth, a piece of linen, and a rusty
spade. When she saw me looking at the spade, she looked sadly confused,
covered her old face with her brown apron, muttering, "It's a real
disgrace!"
I was stricken, for I took this to be a reproach for my having no
writing things about me.
"I expect you'll be making fun of me," she said. "But don't you go and
think badly of me--I can't do more than I do, I really couldn't do a
thing more--I'm a fairly worn-out old body!"
Then I thought I understood: the poor old woman felt herself disgraced
because she could no longer handle the spade, and it had therefore gone
rusty. I looked about on the hearth for a bit of soft charcoal. The
pine-tree was obliging, and lent me the pen wherewith to write out Frau
Drachenbinder's will, or whatever it might prove to be.
Just when the grey coffer was opened and I standing there ready to take
down her words, that they might deliver their message to her grandchild
in the years to come, the old woman beside me uttered a loud cry. She
turned away quickly, crowed again, and then broke into hoarse laughter.
In terror I broke the charcoal in my fingers and glanced askance at the
door.
When she had done laughing, she grew quiet, drew a deep breath, wiped
the sweat from her face, and turning again to me, said, "Write this--it
won't come to much altogether--still, you'd best begin up in the top
corner, there."
I placed my hand on the topmost corner of the lid. Then the woman spoke
as follows:
"One and one is God alone.--That, child of my child, is thy very own."