In Austrian literature the "story in dialect" is a modern
development. Its founder and most distinguished exponent is
Peter Kettenfeier Rosegger, who was born at Alpel, near
Krieglach, on July 31, 1843, and who has spent his lifetime
among the people of the Styrian Alps. Mr. Rosegger first
attracted attention in 1875 with a volume of short stories,
bearing the general title of "Schriften des
Waldschulmeisters," or "Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster,"
and since then he has written a large number of similar tales,
all more or less sentimental in tone, and all dealing with
certain aspects of peasant life. "The Papers of the Forest
Schoolmaster," which takes the form of a diary, is not only
one of the most winsome idylls that has come from Herr
Rosegger's pen, but it exhibits a delicacy of touch, a keen
penetration into the mysteries of human life, and a deep
insight into nature in her various moods; and under all there
is a strong current of romance and a great sense of the poetry
of things--qualities that have made its author one of the
foremost prose poets in recent German literature.
Mist and rain made it impossible for me to ascend the "Grey Tooth" for
some days after I had arrived at Winkelsteg, the highest village in the
remotest valley, and I was temporarily lodged in the schoolhouse, which
had been deserted since the schoolmaster, who--so I was told--had lived
in this out-of-the-way corner for fifty years, had disappeared last
Christmas. The whole next day the rain continued to beat against the
window. There was nothing to be done, and I spent my time in arranging
the scattered but numbered sheets of the vanished schoolmaster's
manuscript, which I found littered in the drawer allotted to me for my
scant belongings. And then I began to read that strange man's diary, the
first page of which only bore the words:
_The Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster_
So I am at last settled in this wilderness. And I will write it all
down, although I know not for whom. My father died when I was seven, and
I was taken charge of by an itinerant umbrella-maker who taught me his
trade, and on his death left me his stock of some two dozen umbrellas,
which I took to the market. A heavy shower just at midday helped me to
sell them rapidly, and I only retained one for my own protection and for
that of an elegant gentleman who, unable to secure a carriage, made me
accompany him to town to save him from getting drenched. He made me tell
him all about myself, and offered to take me as apprentice in his
bookshop. He was a kind master. When he discovered' that I was more
interested in the contents of his books than in my work he secured me
admission in a college. I studied hard, and obtained my meals at the
houses of private pupils whom I undertook to coach. My friend Henry, a
clothmaker's son, had procured me a post as teacher to Hermann, the son
of the Baron von Schrankenheim. I was treated with every consideration
in his house, and became deeply attached to my pupil's sister. Of
course, the case was hopeless then; but in a few years, when I should
have passed my examinations and taken my degrees--who knows?
An indiscreet speech, which offended my teachers, made an end to all my
dreams. I was ploughed, and I resolved at once to leave the town, and to
seek my fortune in the world. I first enlisted with Andreas Hofer to
fight the French invaders, and was carried off a prisoner into France.
Then only I learnt that the Tyrolese were rebels against their own
emperor, that I had fought for a bad cause; and to atone for it I took
service with the great Napoleon's army. I was among those who escaped
from the Russian disaster, and, in my enthusiasm for Napoleon, whom I
regarded as the liberator of the peoples, fought for him against my own
country. At Leipzig I shot Henry, my best friend, whom I only recognised
when in his agony he called me by my name. Then only my eyes were
opened. Failure had dogged my every step. A hermit's life in the
wilderness was all that was left for me. This resolve I communicated to
the Baron von Schrankenheim, who, after vain attempts to dissuade me
from my purpose, spoke to me of this wilderness, his property, where I
could do real good among the rough wood-cutters, poachers, shepherds and
charcoal-burners, who, cut off from the rest of the world, eked out
their existence without priest or doctor or schoolmaster. Winkelsteg was
to be my hermitage; and now I am here, a schoolmaster without a school.
I shall have to study these rough folk and gain their confidence before
I can set to work.
_The Forest Folk_
Strange trades are carried on in this wilderness. These people literally
dig their bread out of earth and stone and ant-heaps, scrape it off the
trees, distill it out of uneatable fruit. There is the root-digger,
whose booty of mountain ovens is said to go to far Turkey to be turned
into scent. He would long have given up digging, to live entirely on
poaching, but for his hope to unearth some day treasure of gold and
jewels. One of these "forest-devils" has just died. He never worked at
all. His profession was eating. He went from village to village and from
fair to fair, eating cloth and leather, nails, glass, stones, to the
amazement of his audience. He died from eating a poisonous root given
him by some unknown digger--they say it was the devil himself. His
funeral oration was delivered by a pale, bent, quiet man, known as the
Solitary, of whose life nobody can give one any information.
Then there is the pitch-boiler. You can smell him from afar, and see him
glitter through the thicket. His pitch-oil is bought by the wood-cutter
for his wounds, by the charcoal-burner for his burns, by the carter for
his horse, by the brandy-distiller for his casks. It is a remedy for all
ailments. The most dangerous of all the forest-devils is the
brandy-distiller. He is better dressed than the others, has a kind word
for everybody, and plays the tempter with but too great success.
Black Matthias is dying in his miserable hut. His little boy and girl
are playing around him, and his wife bids them be silent. "Let them
shout," says Matthias; "but try and keep down Lazarus' temper." On his
death-bed Matthias told me the story of his life--how he, a jolly, happy
fellow, fell into the recruiting-officers' trap, escaped from their
clutches, was betrayed by his own village people, and flogged through
the line, and how they rubbed vinegar and salt into his wounded back;
how he escaped from the battlefield and found refuge in this
wilderness--a changed man, quarrelsome, with an uncontrollable temper,
which led him into many a brawl; and how, under great provocation, he
had stabbed a wood-burner at the inn, and had been beaten within an inch
of his life by the wood-cutters. His life was now ebbing away fast, and
he had good reason to fear that his uncontrollable temper would live in
his son. Hence his exhortation to his wife. Black Matthias died a few
hours after he had told me of his sad life.
And so I get to know them all, and make friends with them all,
especially with the children, and with the shepherd lad Berthold and the
poor milkmaid Aga. There was a wedding down at Heldenichlag, where they
have a parish church, and dancing and merrymaking at the inn all night.
Next morning Berthold went to the priest. He wanted to marry Aga, but
the priest told him he was too young, too poor; he could come back again
in ten years! The poor lad is left speechless and does not know how to
explain _why_ he wants to be united for ever with his Aga. Sadly he
leaves the room, but out in the open air his spirit returns to him. On
the second day of the wedding feast there was no holding him. He was the
wildest and merriest of the lot. In the afternoon we all returned to
Winkelsteg in the forest.
1815.
I know I must begin with a church. And at last I have obtained the
baron's consent. I have designed the plan myself--it must be large
enough to hold all who are in need of comfort here, and bright and
cheerful, for there is darkness enough in the forest. And the steeple
must be slender like a finger pointing heavenwards. Three bells there
must be to announce the Trinity of God in one Person, and to sing the
song of faith, hope, and love. And an organ there must be, but no
pictures and gilding and show.
_Autumn_, 1816.
I have been taking a census. How very limited is their range of names.
They have no family names, and only some half dozen Christian names!
This must be altered. I must invent names for them, according to their
occupation or dwelling or character: Sepp Woodcutter, Hiesel
Springhutter, and so forth. They like their new names; only Berthold
gets angry and refuses to take a name. "A name for me? I want no name; I
am nobody. The priest won't let me marry. Call me Berthold Misery, or
call me Satan!"
_May_, 1817.
I have been ill--the result of being snowed up on the way home from a
visit to a forester who had been wounded by a poacher. The danger is
over now, but my eyes continue to suffer. The forest folk have been very
good to me, and much concerned about my progress. And now I am able to
go out again. To-day I was watching a spider in the thicket, when I saw
Aga rushing towards me. "Ah, it's you!" she cried. "You must help us. We
want to live in honour and decency. The priest won't marry us. You can
ask for our blessing." The next moment Berthold had joined her and they
were kneeling before me. And I pronounced the words which I had no right
to pronounce. I married them in the heart of the green forest.
_St. James's Day_, 1817.
Matthias's widow is in despair. Lazarus has disappeared. In a fit of
temper he threw a stone at her, then gave a wild yell and rushed away.
"It was a _small_ stone, but there is a heavy stone upon my heart,"
laments the mother; "his running away is the biggest stone he could have
thrown."
_St. Catherine's Day_, 1817.
Lazarus' sister found a letter pinned on to a stick on her father's
grave, which she often visits. It was from her brother, and told them
not to worry--he is "in the school of the Cross." And then there was
another letter to say that he was well, and thinking of them all. They
answered, imploring him to return, and fixed the note and a little cross
on the tomb. It is still there, and has never been opened.
_March_, 1818.
Berthold is gone among the wood-cutters, and has got his hut. A little
girl was born to Aga yesterday, and I was sent for to baptise it. I am
no priest, and must not steal a name from the calendar. So I called her
Forest Lily, and baptised her with the water of the priest.
_Summer_, 1818.
The first Sunday in these forests! The church is finished, and the bells
have summoned the people from the whole neighbourhood. The priest has
come from Heldenichlag to dedicate the church, and the schoolmaster to
play the organ. But some of the folk grumble because there is no inn by
the church; and I hear that the _grassteiger_ has applied for a spirit
license. This is the shadow of the church!
In the evening, as I went back to the church, I saw a youth, apparently
at prayer, who took to his heels the moment he found he was discovered.
I caught him up and recognised. Lazarus! But I could not get a word out
of him. I rang the church bells, and soon the lad was surrounded by the
astonished villagers. He only murmured, "Paulus, Paulus!" and refused to
take the proffered food, though he looked half starved. I took him back
to his mother the same evening.
_December_, 1818.
Lazarus must have been through a miraculous school. He has completely
lost his evil temper, but he refuses to speak clearly of his life during
the past year, though he mumbles of a rock-cave, a good dark man, of
penance, and of a crucifix. We have no priest. I have to look after the
church, ring the bells, play the organ, sing and conduct prayer on
Sundays. I hear bad news of Hermann, my old pupil. He is said to be
leading a wild life in the capital. I cannot believe it.
_Summer_, 1819.
And now we have a priest--as strange and mysterious as the altar
crucifix which I had taken to the church from the rock valley. On the
last day of the hay-month, when I entered the church to ring the bells,
I found "the Solitary" reading mass on the highest step of the altar. I
asked for an explanation, and he answered with a rusty voice that he
would tell me all next Saturday at a desolate place he appointed in the
forest.
The Solitary has told me the whole sad story of his life. He was born in
a palace, and had been rocked in a golden cradle. He had drained the cup
of pleasure to the very dregs, and then, prompted by his tutor, had
joined a religious order, taken the binding vow, and renounced his
fortune to the order. A girl, whom he had known before, implored him not
to leave her and her child in distress. It was too late--he was now
penniless and irrevocably bound. She drowned herself and haunted his
dreams, even after he had become a priest under the name of Paulus.
Blind obedience was exacted from him by his order, and when he refused
to betray a king's confession he was sent as missionary to India. After
his return he became a zealot, exacting severe penance from sinners, and
through his severity driving a man to suicide. In his remorse he, too,
had sought refuge in this wilderness, where no one knew him, and where
one day he found Lazarus, took him to his cave, and taught him to tame
his quick temper. I had always thought the first pastor at Winkelsteg
should be a repentant sinner, and not a just man. We have now our
priest.
_Winter_, 1830.
For more than ten years I have neglected my diary, partly because I was
no longer alone, but had a friend and companion in "the Solitary,"
partly because I was busy with the building of the schoolhouse. I have
my own ideas on education. The child is a book in which we read, and
into which we ought to write. They ought to hear of nought but the
beautiful, the good, the great. They ought to learn patriotism--not the
patriotism which makes them die, but that which makes them live for
their country.
Berthold has become a poacher. I have already had to intercede for him
with the gamekeeper. Then, one winter's night, Forest Lily, his
daughter, was sent out to beg some milk for the babies. Snow fell
heavily, and she did not return. For three days they searched, and
finally found her huddled up with a whole herd of deer in a snow-covered
thicket of dry branches--kept alive by the animals' warmth and the pot
of milk she was taking home. When Berthold heard that the forest animals
had saved his child, he smashed his gun against a rock, and shouted,
"Never again! never again!"
_Carnival Time_, 1832.
In the parsonage lies a farm-hand with a broken jaw. Drink and quarrel
and fight--it is ever the same. The priest has warned them often enough.
He has called the brandy-distiller a poison-brewer, and a few days ago
the distiller came to the parsonage, armed with a heavy stick. He poured
out his complaints. The priest was spoiling his honest business. What
was he to do? He took up a threatening attitude. "So you have come at
last," said Father Paulus; "I was going to come to you. So you won't
give them any more spirits--you are a benefactor of the community! I
quite agree with you. You will prepare medicines and oils and ointments
from the roots and resin? I'll help you, and in a few years you will be
a well-to-do man."
The distiller was speechless. He had said nothing of the sort, but it
all seemed so reasonable to him. He grumbled a few words, stumbled
across the threshold, and threw his stick away as far as it would fly.
_March 22_, 1832.
Our priest died to-day.
I can scarcely believe it. But there is no knocking at the window as I
pass the parsonage--no friendly face smiling at me. And I can scarcely
believe that he has gone.
_Ascension Day_, 1835.
A few days ago I had a letter from my former pupil, our present master.
He was ill, tired of the world, and wanted to find peace and rest in the
mountains. He remembered his old teacher, and asked me to be his guide.
I went to meet him, and he behaved so strangely that I thought I was
walking with a madman. On the second day he seemed better. He wanted to
ascend at once the highest peak, known as the "Grey Tooth." And as we
passed the dark mountain lake, we saw a beautiful young woman bathing.
She looked like a water-nymph. But when she saw us she disappeared under
the water, and did not show herself again. Was she drowning herself from
very modesty? I pulled her out of the water, we dressed her; then fear
gave her strength, she jumped up and ran away. It was my "Forest Lily."
Hermann no longer insisted on climbing the mountain. He came with me to
Winkelsteg, remained three days, made Berthold gamekeeper, and arranged
that he should forthwith marry Aga in our church. Before he left he said
to me: "She thought more of her maidenhood than of her life. I never
knew there were such women. This is a new world for me--I, too, belong
to the forest. I entrust her to you--teach her if she wants to learn,
and take care of her. And keep the secret If I can be cured, I shall
return."
_Summer_, 1837.
It has come to pass. Schrankenheim has broken through class prejudice.
Two days ago he was married to Forest Lily in our church. They have left
us, and have gone to the beautiful city of Salzburg.
The years pass in loneliness and monotony. Yet they have brought a great
change. A prosperous village now surrounds the church, and orchards
surround the village. And the folk are no longer savages. How smartly
they are now dressed on Sundays! The young people have more knowledge
than the old, but too little reverence for the old. But they still smoke
tobacco and drink spirits. What can an old schoolmaster do quite by
himself?
_Spring_, 1848.
Hermann's beautiful sister, she who turned my head so many years ago, is
coming here to seek refuge from the troubles in town, where they are
building barricades. I must see that everything is made pleasant and
comfortable for her.
_June_, 1848.
To-day she gave a dinner party, and invited the parson and the
innkeeper. And I was sent a piece of meat and a glass of wine. I gave it
to a beggar. So two beggars have received alms to-day. I hear they spoke
of me during dinner. She said I received charity from her father when I
was a poor student; then I ran away from school and returned as a
vagabond. So you know it now, Andreas Erdmann!
_Christmas Eve_, 1864.
I have not left the forest for fifty years. If I could only see the sea.
They say on a clear day you can see it from the "Grey Tooth."
To-morrow----
Here the diary broke off abruptly. The next day being bright and sunny,
I engaged a lad to guide me on the deferred ascent. It was glorious. And
whilst my eyes were searching the far distance, my companion gave a
sudden scream, and pointed--at a human head protruding from the snow. He
recognised the schoolmaster. We dug him out of the hard snow and found
in his pocket a paper on which a shaky hand had written in pencil:
"Christmas Day. At sunset I beheld the sea and lost my eyesight"
* * * * *