*The Forest Schoolmaster*
*INTRODUCTORY*
"ROAD TO WINKELSTEG."
These words are on the sign-post. But the rain has nearly washed out
the old-fashioned letters, and the post itself totters in the wind.
Round about stretches a rugged pine-forest; on the heights above are a
few ancient larches, their bare branches reaching out to the sky. In
the depths of a defile is a roaring torrent which the old mountain road
frequently crosses by means of half-sunken wooden bridges, leading to an
opening where the wanderer from peopled regions catches the first
glimpse of the glaciers.
Here the Wildbach comes rushing down, and the road, after having
traversed wastes and wildernesses, turns toward more peaceful woodlands,
at last leading to the habitations of man. Along the river-bed extends
a dry rocky ravine, across which storms have thrown pine-trunks,
bleached from long exposure to the sun.
At the parting of the ways, upon a high rock stands a tall wooden cross,
with triple cross-bars, upon which are carved the instruments of
martyrdom of the holy passion: spear, sponge, reed, pincers, hammer, and
the three nails. The wood is weather-beaten and overgrown with moss.
Close by is the post with the arm and the inscription: "Road to
Winkelsteg."
This sign points to the neglected stony path leading toward the narrow
valley, beyond which lie the snow-fields. On the farthest heights,
above the gently rising, snow-covered peaks, towers a grey cone, about
whose summit cloud flakes love to gather.
I seated myself upon a block of stone near the cross and gazed up at the
grey peak. While sitting there, my soul was possessed with that vague
feeling, the source and meaning of which no one can tell, nor why it so
oppresses the heart; clothes it, as it were, with the armour of
resignation, preparing it against a something which must come. We call
this strange experience of the soul, foreboding.
I might have rested for some time on the stone, listening to the roar of
the wild waters, had it not seemed to me that the wooden arm was
stretching itself out longer and longer, while the words grew into a
pressing reminder: "Road to Winkelsteg."
On rising I perceived that my shadow was already lengthening, and it was
uncertain how great a distance still lay between me and that remotest
and smallest of all villages, Winkelsteg.
I walked rapidly, taking little heed of my surroundings. I only noticed
that the wilderness became more and more imposing. I heard deer belling
in the forest, I heard vultures whistling through the air. The sky
darkened, although too early for nightfall. A storm was gathering over
the rocky peaks. First a half smothered rumbling was heard, then a
thundering and rolling, as if all the rocks and masses of ice in the
high mountains were crashing a thousand times against each other. The
great trees swayed, and in the broad leaves of a maple already rattled
the big icy drops.
With these few drops the storm passed. Farther in it must have been
more severe, for suddenly through the gorge a wild torrent, bringing
with it earth, stones, ice, and bits of wood, rushed toward me. I saved
myself from falling by clambering up the slope, and with great
difficulty made my way forward. The whole country was now wrapped in
fog, which descended from the branches of the pines to the damp heather
on the ground.
As twilight approached and the defile widened a little, I reached a
narrow valley, the length of which I could not measure on account of the
fog. The grass was covered with hailstones. The brook had overflowed
its banks and torn away the bridge which led to the opposite shore,
where through the grey mist shone the wooden roofs of a few houses and a
little white church. The air was frosty and cold. I called across to
the men who were trying to catch the blocks of wood and regulate the
current. They shouted back that they could not help me, and that I must
wait until the water had lowered again.
One might wait the whole night for such a torrent to subside; so, taking
the risk, I attempted to wade through the stream. But those on the
other side motioned to me warningly. Soon a tall, black-bearded man
appeared with a long pole, by means of which he swung himself across to
me. Close to the bank he piled a few stones, and upon these laid a
board which the others had shoved to him. Then taking me by the hand,
he cautiously led me over the tottering bridge to the opposite shore.
While we were swaying over the water, the sound of the Ave-bells reached
our ears, and the men reverently removed their hats.
The tall, dark man walked with me over the crackling hailstones up to
the village. "So it goes," he grumbled on the way. "If God lets
anything grow, the devil strikes it down into the ground again. The
cabbage plants are gone to the last stump, and the last stump is gone
also. The oats are lying on their backs now with their knees raised
toward heaven."
"Has the storm done so much harm?" I asked.
"You see that," he replied.
"And farther out there it hardly sprinkled."
"I can well believe it. It is always meant only for us Winkelstegers.
From to-day on not one of us will dare eat his fill all summer, unless
we wish to hang our stomachs up in the chimney flue for the winter."
Such was his answer.
The village consisted of three or four wooden houses, a few huts, some
smoking charcoal-pits, and the little church.
In front of one of the larger houses, before the door of which lay a
broad stepping-stone, worn by many feet, my companion paused and said:
"Will you stop here, sir? I am the Winkel innkeeper." With these words
he pointed to the house, as if that were his real self.
Entering the guest-room, I was met by the landlady who took my
travelling-bag and damp overcoat and, bringing me a pair of straw shoes,
said: "Off with the wet leather and on with the slippers; be quick; a
wet shoe on the foot runs for the doctor." Very soon I was sitting dry
and comfortable by the large table under the _Haus Altar_ and some
shelves, upon which stood a row of gaily painted earthen- and
china-ware. Upon a rack were a number of bottles, and I was asked at
once if I would take some brandy.
On requesting some wine mine host replied: "There has n't been a drop in
the cellar since the house was built, but I can give you some excellent
cider."
As I accepted his offer, he started for the cellar, but his wife stepped
hastily up to him and, taking the key out of his hand, said: "Go,
Lazarus, and snuff the candle for the gentleman; and be quick about it,
Lazarus; you'll get your little drop soon enough."
He came back to the table grumbling, snuffed the wick of the tallow
candle, looked at me for awhile, and finally asked: "The gentleman is
possibly our new schoolmaster?--No? Then your way leads up the Graue
Zahn? That you will hardly do to-morrow. No one has climbed it this
summer. That must be done in the early autumn; at other times there's no
depending on the weather. Indeed, how one does speculate about things;
now I thought you might be the new schoolmaster. Hardly anyone finds
his way up here who does n't belong to the place, and we are expecting
him every day. The old one has run away from us;--have you heard nothing
about it?"
"So, Lazarus, you 're having a fine chat with the gentleman," said the
landlady in a coaxing tone to her husband, as she set the cider and at
the same time the evening soup before me.
The woman was no longer young, but was what the foresters call "round as
a ball." She had a double chin, from under which about the full throat,
a silver chain peeped out. Her little eyes had a shrewd and gentle
expression as she spoke or moved about, cheerfully presiding in the
house, each corner and nail of which was familiar to her and had almost
grown to be a part of herself. In a merry mood she directed everything,
joked with the guests, and laughed with the servants in the kitchen.
That the storm had ruined the crops was indeed no joke, she said; but it
was far better that ice should fall from heaven upon the earth than that
it should fall into heaven and break everything to pieces there. Then
indeed one would have nothing more to hope for. And as she talked she
fairly bubbled over with fun, and the whole circle about her was
cheered, each one seeming simply to follow his own bent in whatever he
did, felt, and said; yet all went on in perfect order.
"You have an excellent little wife," I said to my landlord.
"Yes, indeed, yes, indeed," he answered with animation; "she is good, my
Juliana, yet--yet----" the word seemed to choke him, or rather he ground
it between his teeth and forced it down; springing up, with his hands
clinched behind him, he strode across the room and back again, finally
draining a glass of water at one draught.
Then he seated himself upon the bench and was quiet. But he was by no
means himself. He had doubled his fists and was staring hard at the
table.... I once saw at a fair an Arab, a tall, powerful figure,
haggard, rough, brown as leather, with a full black beard, gleaming
eyes, a long hooked nose, snow-white teeth, thick eye-brows, and soft
woolly hair.... Thus appeared the man now brooding so gloomily before
me.
"There is n't another little wife so good-hearted and faithful," he
murmured suddenly; he finished the sentence with a sullen growl.
Observing his painful mood, I tried to help him out of it.
"So you say the old schoolmaster has run away?" At this the landlord
raised his head: "One can't exactly say he has run away; he had nothing
to complain of here. I should think one who had been school-teacher,
and I-don't-know-what-all, in Winkelsteg for fifty years, would n't run
away like a horse-thief in the fifty-first."
"School-teacher here fifty years!" I exclaimed.
"He was school-teacher, doctor, bailiff, and awhile even our pastor."
"And half a fool in the bargain!" called a man from a neighbouring
table, where a number of swarthy fellows, mostly wood-cutters and
charcoal-burners, were sitting before their brandy-glasses. "Aye! aye!"
cried the same voice; "he would sit outside there by the juniper bush
muttering to himself, hours at a time; he must have been trying to teach
the bullfinches to sing by note. Whenever he spied a gay butterfly, he
would flounder after it the livelong day;--a baby in arms could n't have
been more childish. Maybe some such creature has enticed him away now,
so that the old man can never find his way home again, but is lost out
in the woods somewhere."
"There are no butterflies about at Christmas-time, Josel," said the
landlord, half correctingly, half reprovingly; "and that he was lost on
Christmas eve, you know very well."
"The devil has taken him, the old sinner!" growled another voice from
the darkest corner of the room, by the big stove.
As I looked in that direction, I saw in the darkness sparks from a
tinder-box.
"You mustn't, you mustn't talk so!" said one of the charcoal men. "You
should remember that the old man had snow-white hair!"
"Yes, and horns under it," was called from the corner by the stove;
"perhaps no one knew him so well, the old sneak, as Schorschl! Do you
think he did n't connive with the great men so that none of us could win
in the lottery? How then did Kranabetsepp make a _tern_ the second week
after the schoolmaster went away? To be sure, the hunch-backed
hypocrite had money enough, but he buried it, so that if he did n't need
it himself the poor could n't use it either. Oh--perhaps one might tell
other stories, too, if certain people were not in the room."
The voice was silent; nothing could be heard but the sound of lips
puffing smoke, and the shutting of a pipe-lid.
The landlord arose, threw aside his fustian jacket, and, with flowing
shirt-sleeves, walked a few steps toward the stove. In the middle of
the room he paused.
"So there are certain people in the room, are there," he said under his
breath. "Schorschl, I thought so myself; but they don't sit at an
honest table before everybody's eyes; they cower in the pitch-dark
corner, like good-for-nothing rascals, like--like----"
He stopped, and it could be seen how he forced himself to be calm; he
pulled himself together with a jerk, but remained standing in the middle
of the room.
"Oh, of course the brandy-distillers could n't endure the old man," said
one of the charcoal-burners. Then turning to me: "My dear sir, he meant
well! God comfort his poor soul! He played the organ Christmas eve, but
Christmas morning there were no bells rung for prayers. In the night he
had told Reiter-Peter--he is our musician, you know--to take charge of
the music on Christmas day;--that was his last word, and the
schoolmaster was seen no more. By St. Anthony, how we hunted for the
man! It was impossible to trace him; the snow was as hard as stone
everywhere, even in the forest. All Winkelsteg was up searching the
woods far and near, and even the roads in the country outside."
The man was silent; a shrug of the shoulders and a motion of the hand
indicated that they had not found him.
"And so we Winkelstegers have no schoolmaster," said the landlord.
"As for myself, I don't need one; I never have learned anything, and
never shall now. I manage anyway. But I see very well that there must
be a schoolmaster. Therefore, we peasants of the parish and the
wood-cutters have agreed that we must have a new----"
At this moment I raised the cider glass to my lips, to swallow the rest
of the excellent drink, and the action seemed to check the man's power
of speech. Staring at the empty glass, he tried to go on with his story,
which apparently was entirely driven from his mind.
"I know what I think," answered one of the charcoal-burners, "and I say
the same, just exactly the same, as Wurzentoni. The old schoolmaster,
says he, knew a bit more than other people; a good bit more.
Wurzentoni--not only once, ten, nay a hundred times,--has seen the
schoolmaster praying out of a little book in which were all sorts of
sayings, magic and witchcraft signs. If the schoolmaster had died
anywhere in the woods, says Wurzentoni, then someone would have found
the body; if the devil had taken him, then his cloak would have been
left behind; for the cloak, says Wurzentoni, is innocent; the devil has
no power over that, not the least! Something altogether different has
happened, my friends! The schoolmaster has bewitched himself, and so,
invisible, he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg--day and night
at every hour. That's because he 's curious to see what the people are
doing, and to hear what stories they are telling about him, and
because----. I 'm not saying anything bad about the schoolmaster, not
I; I should n't know what to say, indeed I should n't!"
"Oh, if the devil was n't any wiser than the black charcoal-burner!"
coughed the voice behind the stove. "The old scoundrel still leads the
Winkelstegers around by the nose!"
An enraged lion could not have started up more angrily than did the
rough and sullen landlord. Fairly groaning with impatience, he plunged
behind the stove, from whence issued alarming cries.
Hastening forward, the landlady cried: "Come, Lazarus, don't mind that
stupid rascal there! It is n't worth while that you should lift a
finger on his account. Come, be sensible, Lazarus; see, here I have
poured out your drink of cider for you."
He yielded at last, and Schorschl sneaked out through the door like a
dog, leaving Lazarus with bits of hair in his fist. Grumbling, he
walked towards the chest upon which his wife had placed a mug of cider.
Almost choking, he tremblingly seized it and, carrying it to his lips,
took a long draught. With staring eyes he stopped a moment, then,
beginning again, he drained the mug to the last drop! That must have
been a terrible thirst! The hand holding the empty mug sank slowly;
with a deep breath the landlord glowered straight before him.
So the time passed, until the landlady came to me and said: "We can give
you a good bed up in the attic; but I will tell you at once, sir, that
the wind has carried away a few shingles from the roof to-day, and so it
drips through a little. In the schoolhouse above here, is a very nice,
comfortable room, which has already been arranged for the new teacher;
it heats well, too, and we have the key; for my old man is Winkel
Magistrate, and has charge of it. Now, if you would n't mind sleeping
in the schoolhouse, I would advise you to do it. Indeed it's not in the
least gloomy, and it 's very quiet and clean. I think I should like to
live there the year round."
So I chose the schoolhouse instead of the attic. Not long afterwards, a
maid with a lantern accompanied me out into the dark, rainy night,
through the village to the church beyond the graveyard, on the edge of
which stood the schoolhouse. The hall was bare, and the shadows from
the lantern chased each other up and down the walls.
Then we entered a little room, where, in the tile stove, a bright fire
was crackling. My companion placed a candle on the table, threw back
the brown cover of the bed, and opened a drawer of the bureau, that I
might put away my things. All at once she exclaimed: "No, really, we
should all of us be ashamed of ourselves; here are these scraps still
scattered about!" She hastily seized an armful of sheets of paper,
which were lying in confusion in the drawer. "I 'll take care of you
soon enough, you bits of trash; the stove is the place for you!"
"Stop, stop," I interrupted, "perhaps there are things there that the
new teacher can use."
She threw the papers back into the drawer with an impatient gesture. In
her frenzy for cleaning up, it would doubtless have given her great
pleasure to burn them; just as indeed many ignorant people are possessed
with a desire to destroy everything which seems to them useless.
"The gentleman can put on the old schoolmaster's night-cap," said the
girl roguishly, laying a blue striped night-cap on the pillow. She then
gave me some advice in regard to the door-key, and said: "So, _in
Gottesnamen_, now I will go!" and with this she left me.
She closed the outside door, and, turning the key of the inner, I was
alone in the room of the missing schoolmaster.
How strange had been the fortunes of this man, and how curious the
reports of the people! And how contradictory these reports! A good,
excellent man, a fool; and what's more, one whom at last the devil
claims for his own!
I looked around me in the room. There was a worm-eaten table and a
brown chest. On the wall hung an old clock; the figures were entirely
effaced from the dial under which the short pendulum swung busily
backward and forward, as if trying to hasten faster and faster out of a
sad past into a better future. And, curiously enough, I could also hear
the ticking of the church-tower clock outside!
Near this time-piece hung a few pipes, carved out of juniper wood, with
disproportionately long stems; then a violin, and an old zither with
three strings. There were besides the usual furnishings in the room,
from the boot-jack under the bedstead to the calendar on the wall. The
calendar was last year's. The windows were much larger than is usual in
wooden houses, and were provided with lattices, through which dried
birch-twigs were twined.
Pushing aside one of the blue curtains, I looked out into the darkness.
From one corner of the churchyard, something shone like a stray
moonbeam. It was probably the phosphorous light from a mouldering
wooden cross, or from the remains of a coffin. The rain pattered, the
wind blew in chilly gusts, as is usual after hailstorms.
I had given up the mountain trip for the next day. I decided either to
wait in Winkelsteg for fine weather, or, by means of one of the coal
waggons, to go away again. Sometimes, even in summer, the damp fogs
last for weeks in the mountains, while in the outlying districts the sun
is still shining.
Before I retired, I rummaged a little among the old papers in the
drawer. There were sheets of music, writing exercises, notes, and all
kinds of scribbling on rough grey paper, written partly with pencil,
partly with pale, yellowish ink, some hastily, and some with great care.
And between the leaves lay pressed plants, butterflies, which had long
lost the dust from their wings, and a lot of animal and landscape
drawings, mostly rather clumsily done. But one picture struck me
particularly, a curious picture, painted in bright colours. It
represented the bent figure of an old man, sitting upon the trunk of a
tree, smoking a long-stemmed pipe. He wore a flat, black cap, with a
broad, projecting brim, under which his hair was combed straight back.
Whoever had drawn the picture must have been an artist; one could see
that from the expression of the face. Out of one eye, which was wide
open, gazed an earnest, though gentle soul; the other, which was half
closed, twinkled roguishly. When such guests look forth from the
windows of a house, it surely cannot be poor and barren within. Above
the cheeks, made perhaps too rosy by the well-meaning artist, were deep
furrows, as if storms and torrents had swept over them. On the other
hand, the long white beard gave a very droll appearance to the otherwise
smoothly-shaven face; it was for all the world like an icicle hanging
from under the chin. About the throat a bright red kerchief was twisted
a number of times and tied in several knots in front. Then came the
high wall of coat-collar and the blue cloth tail-coat itself, with its
loosely-hanging pockets, from one of which the humorous artist had made
a bun peep out. The coat was loosely buttoned up to the icicle. The
trousers were grey, very tight and short; the boots, also grey, were
broad and long. So the little man sat there, holding the pipe-stem with
both hands, smoking contentedly. The smoke rose in delicate rings and
hearts.
The artist must have been an odd genius, and the subject still more odd.
One or the other was surely the old schoolmaster, who had disappeared in
such an inexplicable manner, after having taught for fifty years in this
place. "And invisible he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg, at
every hour!"
I went to bed, and lay there thinking, not in the least realising what
manner of man had built this house, and rested in this place before me.
The fire in the stove crackled fainter and fainter and was dying out.
Outside the rain pattered, yet such a silence lay over all that I seemed
to hear the breathing of the night. I was just falling asleep, when all
at once, quite close above me, began a cheerful sound, and several times
in succession the call of the quail rang out loud and merrily. It was
deceptively like the beautiful voice of the bird in the cornfield. It
was the old clock, which in such a strange way had announced to me the
eleventh hour.
And the sweet tones led my thoughts and dreams out into the sunny
cornfields, to the waving stalks, to the bright blue flowers, to the
dazzling butterflies, and thus I fell asleep that night in the
mysterious schoolhouse in Winkelsteg.
As the call of the quail had lulled me to sleep, so it awakened me
again. It was the sixth hour of the morning.
The mild warmth from the stove filled the room; the walls and ceiling
were as though bathed in moonlight. It was the month of July, and the
sun must have already risen. I arose and drew back one of the blue
window-curtains. The large panes were wet and grey; here and there a
pearly drop, freeing itself, rolled down through the countless bubbles,
leaving behind a narrow path, through which the dark-brown church roof
could be seen.
I opened the window; a chilly air penetrated the room. The rain had
ceased; upon the graveyard wall lay icicles, lodged there by the storm,
together with broken bark and tops of branches. By the church were bits
of shingle from the roof; the windows were protected with boards. Some
ash trees stood near by, and the water dripped from the few leaves which
the hail had spared. Yonder rose the vanishing image of a chimney;
everything beyond that was hidden by the fog.
I had abandoned all thought of the Alpine climb for that day. While
dressing, I looked at the mechanism of the old Black Forest clock,
which, by means of two flat bits of wood beating against each other, so
strikingly reproduced the warbling notes of the quail. Afterwards I
rummaged awhile among the papers in the drawer, as it was still too
early for breakfast. I noticed that, excepting the drawings,
calculations, and those papers which served as an album for the plants,
all the written sheets were of the same size, and numbered with red ink.
I tried to arrange the leaves, and occasionally cast a glance at their
contents. It seemed to be a kind of diary, bearing reference to
Winkelsteg. But the writings were so full of peculiar expressions and
irregularly-formed sentences that study and some translation would be
necessary to make them intelligible.
This task, however, did not discourage me; for here I hoped to find an
account of the isolated Alpine village, and perhaps even facts
concerning the life of the lost schoolmaster. While busily arranging
the papers and thoroughly absorbed in my work, I suddenly discovered a
thick grey sheet upon which was written in large red letters: "THE
SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY."
So, in a way, I had put a book together, and the leaf with the red
letters I had laid by chance on top as a title.
In the meanwhile, my quail had announced the eighth hour, and from the
church tower two clear little bells rang out for mass. The priest, a
slender man with a pale face, walked from his house up the stone steps
to the church. A few men and women followed him, and, while still far
from the door, bared their heads, or, taking out their rosaries at the
entrance, sprinkled themselves reverently with holy water.
Leaving the schoolhouse, I crossed the rough, sandy ground, and,
attracted by the friendly sound of the organ, entered the place of
worship. Upon the first glance, the interior seemed much the same as in
any village church--yet in reality it was quite different.
Usually the poorer such a church, the more silver and gold is seen
sparkling within--all the candlesticks and vessels, of silver, all the
decorations, the robes of the saints, the angels' wings, and even the
clouds in the sky, of gold. But it is only make-believe. I cannot
blame that peasant for exclaiming, the first time he arranged the
service for mass, thus making nearer acquaintance with the images and
altars: "Our saints seem so fine and sparkle so from a distance, one
would suppose heaven to be filled with very grand people; but when one
looks closer, they are nothing but trash."
In the church at Winkelsteg I found it otherwise. Although here
everything was made of wood, mostly of the commonest pine, it was not
decorated with gaudy colors, glittering tinsel and such ornaments; it
was simply itself, not attempting to be anything more.
The walls were grey, and almost bare. In one corner of the nave clung a
few swallows' nests, the occupants of which had remained for the
service, and in their own way were joining in the Sanctus. It was
evident that the floor of the choir above, the confessional, chancel,
and praying-benches, had been made by common home carpenters. The
baptismal font had never seen a stone-cutter, nor the high altar a
sculptor. But there were taste and design in everything. The altar was
a high, dignified table, reached by three broad steps. It was covered
with simple white linen, and under a canopy of white silk were the holy
relics, surrounded by six slender candle-sticks, carved from
linden-wood. But that which impressed me the most, which touched and
almost overpowered me, was a high, bare wooden cross towering above the
canopy.
It could not always have stood there; it was grey and weather-beaten,
the fibre washed by the rain, and with deep fissures formed by the sun.
That was the Winkelsteg altar-piece. I have never heard a preacher
speak more earnestly or impressively of love and patience, of sacrifice
and renunciation, than did this silent cross upon the altar.
I next observed something which seemed almost out of keeping with the
poverty and simplicity, otherwise reigning in this house of God, but
which in reality added to its peace and harmony. On either side of the
altar were two high, narrow, painted windows, casting a soft, roseate
half light over the chancel.
The priest was celebrating mass; the few present knelt in their chairs,
praying quietly; the soft, trembling notes of the organ seemed to join
reverently with them, like a weeping intercessor before God,
supplicating for the poor parish which, through the storm of yesterday,
had a new burden to bear in the loss of its harvest.
When the mass was over, and the people had risen, crossed themselves and
left the church, a handsome young man descended from the choir. At the
door I asked him if he were not the organist. He nodded and walked away
toward the village; accompanying him, I endeavoured to enter into
conversation. Several times he looked sadly and confidingly into my
face, but uttered not a word; his fresh red lips almost trembled, and he
soon turned and wandered off towards the brook. He was dumb.
Not long afterwards, I was sitting at my breakfast in the inn. It
consisted of a bowl of milk, flavoured with roasted rye-meal, which is
the Winkelsteg coffee.
And now--what were my plans?
I told the cheerful landlady of my intention to wait for favourable
weather in Winkelsteg, to live in the little room at the schoolhouse,
and to read the records of the schoolmaster--"If I may have permission."
"Oh dear, yes; of course you may!" she exclaimed; "whom could you
disturb up there, sir? And no one else would look at those old
papers--no one that I know of! So you may select those that you want.
The new schoolmaster will bring all such things with him. But I hardly
think one will come now. Certainly you may stay, and I will see that
the room is kept nice and warm."
So I went up to the schoolhouse again. This time I examined the
exterior. It was built for convenience and comfort; there was a wide
projecting shingle roof, which, with its bright windows, seemed in some
way related to the good-natured roguish face in the picture, of the old
man wearing the visor cap.
Then I entered the little room. It was already in order, with a fresh
fire crackling in the stove. Through the shining windows I could see the
gloomy day and the heavy fog hanging over the forest; but that only made
the room seem the more cosy and homelike.
The papers, which I had arranged in the morning, rough, grey and closely
written, I now took from the drawer, and seated myself before the
well-scoured table at the window, that the daylight might fall on them
in a friendly way.
And what the strange man had written, I now began to read. Yet I found
portions which needed to be smoothed and changed from the original form.
In some places I was obliged to omit, or even insert, entire sentences,
at least enough to make the whole intelligible. For only thus was I
able to make clear the unusual expressions, and to order and connect the
irregular, carelessly formed sentences. However, let it be noticed,
that in a few cases many of the quaint, old forms and terms of speech
are left, in order to preserve, as far as possible, the peculiar
character of these writings.
The first sheet tells nothing and everything; it contains three words:
"The Schoolmaster's Story."
*THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY*
*PART FIRST*
"DEAR GOD!
"I greet Thee, and write Thee a piece of news. My father died to-day.
He has been ill two years. Everybody says it is most fortunate. My aunt
Lies says so too. They have carried father away now. The body goes to
the mortuary, the soul through purgatory, then up to heaven. And now,
dear God, I have a great favour to ask. Please send an angel to meet my
father and show him the way. I will enclose my christening-money for
the angel; there are three groschen. I am sure my father will be happy
in heaven, and please take him directly to my mother. Many greetings to
Thee, dear God, and to my father and mother.
"ANDREAS ERDMANN.
"SALZBURG. In the year of our Lord 1797.
Apostle Simon's Day."
This letter has been preserved by chance, so I will begin with it. I
remember the day still. In my great innocence, I was about to wrap the
three groschen in the paper, when my Aunt Lies came in, read the letter
with her glassy eyes, and clapping her hands together, cried: "What a
stupid boy!" Hastily taking my christening-money, she ran away, telling
my story all over the house, from the porter's room up to the third
floor, where lived an old umbrella-maker. Our room was soon filled with
neighbours, curious to see the stupid boy.
They laughed at me until I began to cry. Then they laughed still more
provokingly. The old umbrella-maker, with his sky-blue apron, was also
there. Raising his hand, he said: "My friends, this is foolish laughter;
perhaps the child is wiser than any of you. Come to me, little one; thy
good father died to-day; thy aunt is far too clever, and her house too
small for thee, my wee lad. Come with me, and I will teach thee to make
umbrellas."
Oh, how my aunt scolded at that! But I believe that in her heart of
hearts she was glad; for I went up the two flights of stairs with the
old man.
At the time of my father's death, I must have been in my seventh year.
I only know that, up to my fifth year, my parents lived in the forest,
by the side of a lake. Rocky mountains, woods, and water enclosed the
place, and here my father held an official position in the salt-works.
When my mother died, his health began to fail, and since he was obliged
to give up his work, we moved to his well-to-do sister's in town. He
wished to take an easier situation there, that he might compensate his
sister, who was the very pattern of economy, for food and lodging. But
he was ill a long time, and, besides teaching me to read and write, he
did nothing. And so it came about as I have already written.
I remained with the old man in the third story a number of years. Like
him, I too, wore a sky-blue apron. In that way one saves clothes. We
made nothing but blue and red umbrellas, which we carried in big bundles
to the fairs and sold. Opening one large umbrella over our wares, our
booth was ready. If business flourished, so that we could sell the
booth itself, we went to the inn for a good dinner; otherwise we made
the wares up in bundles, and carried them home again, there satisfying
our hunger with a warm soup.
When my master was over seventy years old, he suddenly became weary of
the blue and red canvas; he was forced to seek another tent--he
died--died and left me, as my father had done.
I was his heir. Two dozen and a half umbrellas were my inheritance.
These I packed up one day and carried to the fair, where we had
previously been successful in selling our goods.
Suddenly at noon, a storm comes up; the people are as though swept from
the market-place, and with them my umbrellas; a single one being left
with which to cover myself and my hard-earned money. Just then a
gentleman, splashing through the puddles, hurries across the square to
buy my umbrella.
"Then I should have none for myself," I say.
"I have seen many a shoemaker going barefoot," laughs the man; "but, see
here, youngster, we will find some way to arrange it. Are you from
town?"
"Yes," I answer, but no "shoemaker." "That does not matter. There is
no carriage to be had; so we will walk together, boy, and use the same
umbrella; afterwards you may either keep it or have the money for it."
Thinking to myself, it were a thousand pities to spoil his fine coat, I
assented to his proposal.
So I, the poor umbrella-maker's boy, walked into town arm-in-arm with
the grand gentleman. On the way we chatted with one another. He
understood drawing me out, and after awhile I had told him my whole
history, with all its circumstances.
The rain ceased, and as we approached the town I tried to fall behind,
as I thought it unseemly to walk through the streets with such a finely
dressed man. But, in a very friendly way, he invited me to keep beside
him, at last taking me into his house, offering me food and drink, and
finally asking me to remain with him altogether; he was a bookseller,
and in need of an assistant.
Unskilled even in umbrella-making, and not knowing what occupation to
take up next, I accepted the situation.
Fortune smiled upon me in those days. I was pleased with my master; he
had fully recompensed me for the shelter of my umbrella; but as an
assistant I was not a success. I was filled with curiosity; I wished to
examine the contents of every book which I took into my hand. The
placing and putting the volumes in order was entirely forgotten.
My master surprised me one day by saying: "Boy, you are useless for the
outside of books; you must devote yourself to the inside. I think it
would be wise to send you to school."
"Oh, if you only could! That is just what I have been secretly longing
for."
"We shall probably succeed in placing you in the Academy, where, if
honest and industrious, you will advance rapidly, and before you know
it--hear yourself called: Doctor Erdmann!"
On hearing this, I became greatly excited, and still more so when my
master had accomplished his purpose. I entered the Academy and plunged
straight into the inside of books. But in school one has only the
dullest kind; the interesting ones are all forbidden, and I was forced
to crowd my brain with subjects which appealed to me neither from
without nor from within.
My bills of fare through the week were varied. My dinners I took:
Mondays with a teacher; Tuesdays with a baron; Wednesdays with a
merchant; Thursdays with a schoolmate, the son of a rich manufacturer;
Fridays with an old lieutenant; Saturdays with some very poor people in
an attic, and in payment I gave the children lessons in arithmetic; and
Sundays I was with my protector, the bookseller. And I have also worn
clothing given me by all these people.
So it went on for a number of years. Then my Tuesday's host engaged me
as tutor to his little son. My prospects now seemed brighter. I gave up
dining with my attic friends, but continued the instruction of their
children. One day, I donned my dress-coat--very fine and respectable,
but not made for me--and visited my aunt. Making me a most elegant bow,
she called me her dear, her very dear Sir Nephew.
Although I entered into my studies with great eagerness at first, they
soon become distasteful to me. I had always supposed that in an Academy
one could grasp both heaven and earth, and learn to know the beautiful
harmony of everything therein.
Fine subjects were on the prospectus. Even in the lower classes, we had
geography, history, geometry and languages. But it was a world turned
upside down. In geography, in place of countries and nations, we merely
studied principalities and their cities. In history, instead of
searching after the natural development of mankind, we were learning
about statecraft; the teacher was constantly discussing the high royal
families and their genealogies, intrigues, and battles; the fool knew
nothing else to talk about. In geometry, we puzzled our heads with
problems, which neither the teacher nor the pupils understood, and which
would be useless to us in after life. The study of languages was a
perfect misery. Alas! Our beautiful German is dressed up in a way to
break one's heart. For many years it has been laden by foreign words,
yes, even sentenced to death by their high jurisdiction. If a German
lad wishes to do honour to his pure mother-tongue, then dozens of highly
learned men rush in with their Greek and Latin, the dead letters of the
dead language destroying even the German sounds. I very well know what
great blessings the literature of Homer and Virgil contain for the
badly-abused German tongue; our Klopstock and Schiller bear witness to
that. But the Pharisees of whom I speak insist on the letter, and not
on the spirit. We are obliged to learn by heart the most absurd
theories, evolved by blundering men centuries ago. And whoever does not
like, or cannot comprehend the dry stuff, will be abused by the
teachers. We are defenceless; they have us in their power. We must
laugh at their jokes; if they have the toothache, we are made to suffer
for it. Alas! what a wretched competition and strife; for penniless
boys, utter misery!
While I was in the institution, two scholars committed suicide. "Very
well," said the Director of the school, "he who does not bend must
break." And that was the funeral sermon.
On the day following one of these sad occurrences, it happened to be my
turn to deliver a Latin oration, before my teachers and fellow-students,
on the character of the Roman kings. I came directly from the bier of
my unfortunate comrade and with excited brain mounted the platform. "I
will compare the Romans with the Germans," I cried; "the old tyrants
enslaved the body, the new ones enslave the intellect. Outside there in
the dark chamber, deserted and dishonoured, lies one hunted to death,
not the only victim who has sought refuge in the grave...."
I may have said a few words more; but they then approached, and smiling
led me down from the platform. "Erdmann is out his mind," said one of
the masters; "he should not speak in German but in Latin. The next time
he will do better."
Nearly crazed, I staggered home. Heinrich, the cloth-maker's son, my
table and school companion, hurried after me. "What hast thou done,
Andreas? What hast thou said?"
"Too little, too little," I replied.
"That will be thy ruin, Andreas; return at once and ask pardon for thy
offence."
I laughed in my friend's face. Moved, he grasped me by the hand saying:
"By Heaven, thou hast spoken the truth, and for that very reason they
will never forgive thee for those words!"
"Nor do I care." I replied defiantly.
Heinrich walked beside me in silence. Finally he said: "Thou must learn
wisdom, Andreas; but now go and compose thyself."
My hand trembles as I write this; yet it was all over long ago.
One year previous to this occurrence, I had through my friend Heinrich
obtained the position of tutor in the aristocratic family of Baron von
Schrankenheim.
My task was not heavy. I had one boy to teach and prepare for the
_Hochschule_. Here I fared well and I was no longer obliged to beg my
dinners at different tables. My pupil, Hermann, a fine, studious boy,
was fond of me, as was also his sister, an extraordinarily beautiful
girl,--and I was her devoted friend.
But, as the time passed, it became oppressive and uncomfortable for me
in the wealthy household. Always somewhat timid and self-conscious, I
now felt my position more keenly than ever, for they were all aware of
my poverty, and even the servants often slipped little presents into my
hand.
But my pupil possessed delicacy of feeling, and was happy and
confidential with me; and the girl--oh, what a beautiful child she was!
Evenings, when strolling outside of the city, or over distant flowery
meadows and wooded slopes, I would often find myself thinking: What a
blissful thing to be beautiful and rich! My heart was hot; I dreamed of
"flowers and stars and her eyes."--Whose eyes? Then springing up in
alarm--_Mein Gott_, what am I doing? Andreas, Andreas, what will come
of it?
I was eighteen years old at that time. In my perplexity I one day
confided in my friend Heinrich, who had always understood me better than
anyone, and he counselled me to conquer myself, telling me that nearly
all young people were afflicted with the same malady, which would soon
pass. Hardly five years older than I, and this was his advice.
Left alone in my trouble, I decided that, although young in years, I
would consider the matter calmly--notwithstanding the advice of clever
people. Of my poverty I was well aware; my ordinary ancestry impelled
me to make something of myself. He was right; in the presence of my
teachers I should control myself, tame my obstinate will, and with
perseverance and industry submit to the institution. Notwithstanding the
injustice that must be endured, in a few years I should become Doctor,
or a most learned Master of Arts.
And a Master of Arts may surely ask the hand of a baron's daughter.
Like a man, I will then go and woo her.
However, keeping my intentions secret, I devoted myself earnestly to my
studies, becoming one of the first among my fellow-students. I
progressed rapidly and drew nearer and nearer to my goal. I already saw
the day when as a man of dignity and standing I might pay court to the
maiden. The family seemed fond of me and the Baron, not over-proud of
his aristocracy, would not object to a learned man for son-in-law. I
was indeed most fortunate and happy. Then the final examinations were
taken, and my professors--rejected me.
I went directly home, and appeared before the father of my pupil: "Sir,
I thank you for all your kindness to me. I cannot remain longer in your
house."