"May God bless them to you, and another time do not find them, but go to
the Winkel-warden's wife when you are hungry; she will give you some."
"Those which are given don't taste good," is the answer; "those that are
found are better, the salt is already on them."
Yonder stands a bush, which has decorated itself in the night with a
chain of dew pearls; to-day the dew is congealed and is destroying the
very heart of the plant.
On such a late autumn day I saw at one time an old woman sitting in the
woods. This woman once had a child. He went out to the world, to hot
Brazil, seeking for gold. The horizon is so perfectly clear, that the
mother is able to gaze into the distant past, where the beloved boy is
standing. She looks at him, smiles at him, and falls asleep. The next
morning she is still sitting upon the stone, and now she has a white
mantle about her. The snow has come, the autumn is over. And across
the sea a ship is bearing a letter bound for the hot zones of South
America. It carries news to a sun-burnt man from his distant
home,--"Mother died in the woods." A tiny tear laboriously winds its
way from under his lashes, the sun quickly dries it, and afterwards as
before the watchword is: Gold! Gold! If a single letter might come
back to the old motherland, its message would be,--"The son crushed with
gold."
What am I dreaming here? It is the way of the world, and is no concern
of mine. I long for peace in the midst of the quiet autumn of this
forest.
Up there in the top of the beech-tree, a weary leaf loosens itself,
falls from branch to branch and dangles by an infinitesimally tender,
shining spider's web, down to me upon the cool, shadowy earth. The
people far away with whom I used to live, what may they be doing? That
wonderful maiden is always blooming--always--even in the autumn; and in
Saxonland the dry leaves are wafted over the graves.
Loneliness cannot banish the sorrow of loneliness. I must look for
something to distract and elevate me that I may not become one-sided in
my surroundings.
I have commenced the study of botany; I have read from books how the
erica grows, and the heath-rose, and other flowers; and I have watched
the same plants hours and hours at a time. And I have found no
connection between the dead leaf in the book and the living one in the
woods. The book says of the gentian: "This plant belongs to the fifth
class, among those of the first order, is found in the Alps, has a
bluish juice, and serves as medicine." It speaks of a number of
anthers, pistils, embryos, etc. And that is the family and baptismal
certificate of the poor gentian. Oh, if such a plant could read, it
would freeze on the spot! That is indeed more chilling than the
hoar-frost of autumn.
The forest people know better. The flower lives and loves and speaks a
wonderful language. But the gentian trembles with foreboding, when man
approaches; and it is more afraid of his passionately glowing breath
than of the deathly cold kiss of the first snow.
So I am one who does not understand and is not understood. Without aim
or plan I am whirling in the monstrous, living wheel of nature.
Ah, if I but only understood myself! Scarcely at rest, after the fever
of the world and enjoying the peace of the woods, I already long again
to cast one glance into the distance, as far as the eye of man can
reach.
Yonder upon the blue forest's edge, I would I might stand and look far
out into the land over at other men. They are no better than the
foresters, and know scarcely more; yet they are striving after, hoping
for, and seeking Thee, O God!
*ON JACOB'S LADDER*
One beautiful autumn morning I felt inclined to climb the high mountain,
whose loftiest peak is called the Graue Zahn. With us down here in the
Winkel, there is altogether too much shade, and up there one stands in
the bright circle of the wide world. There is no path thither; one must
go straight on, through underbrush, thickets, stones, and tangled
mosses.
After some hours I arrived at the Miesenbach hut. The gay young pair
have already departed. The living summer-time is over; the hut stands
in autumn abandonment. The windows from which Aga used to peep at the
lad are fastened with bars; the spring in front is neglected and has
become nearly dry; and the icicle on the end of the gutter grows
downwards--toward the earth. The bell of a colchicum swings near it,
and rings to the last gasp of the dying fountain.
I seated myself upon the top of a watering-trough and ate my breakfast.
It consisted of a piece of bread made of rye- and oat-flour, such as is
eaten everywhere in this forest-land. That is a meal which, literally,
tickles the palate, very coarse-grained and full of bits of bran. In
the country outside, where wheat grows, such food would not be to our
taste; here it is all we ask for when we pray, "Give us this day our
daily bread!" But there are also times in this region when the Lord is
sparing even with the oat-bread; then dried straw and moss come under
the grindstone. God bless to me the piece of bread and the swallow of
water with it! Prepared with God's blessing, ye master cooks,
everything becomes palatable.
I then begin to climb farther. First I cross the Kar, from whose bed
project stones washed smooth by the waves. Between the stones stand
tufts of pale feather-grass and lichens. Some tender, snow-white
flowers are also swaying to and fro, looking anxiously about, as if they
had lost their way up here on the rocky waste and longed to return
whence they came. From the once so beautiful red sea of Alpine roses,
the sharp bristles of the bush alone remain. I climb higher, wending my
way around the walls of rock and the peak of the Kleinzahn; I then
stride along a ridge which extends toward the main mountain range.
There I have before me the blinding fields of the glaciers, smooth,
softly gleaming like ivory, lying there in broad, gentle slopes and
hollows, or in creviced multiform precipices of ice reaching from height
to height. Between, tower battlements of rock, and yonder, in the airy
distance, above the gleaming glaciers, rises many a dark-grey,
sharp-toothed cone, soaring far above the highest peak of the mountains.
That is my goal, the Graue Zahn.
Towards the east the ground descends to the waving depths of the dusky
forest. And the undulating meadows of the Alm lie deep as in a gulf.
Here and there is the grey dot of an Alm hut, of which the shining roof
alone is visible. On the northern side yawns the awful abyss, beneath
whose shadow is the dim, black lake.
I walked a few hours over the difficult and dangerous path, along the
edge to the glaciers. Here I bound on my climbing-irons, strapped on my
knapsack tighter, and held my stick more firmly in my hand. The
alpenstock is an inheritance from Black Mathes. It is covered with
innumerable little notches, which do not show, however, how often its
former possessor may have climbed the Zahn or any other mountain, but
how many people he has knocked to the ground in a fight. A dismal
companion! yet this has helped me up over the smooth, white snow-slopes,
on over the wild ice crevasses, and finally up the last steep precipice
to the summit of the Zahn. It has done it faithfully. And how gladly
from this high mountain would I have called out to Mathes in eternity,
"Friend, this is a good stick; had you climbed high with it, you would
have understood it!"
Now I stand on the summit.
Would that I were a being that might spin itself by the threads of
sunlight up to the Kingdom of God.
Under a jutting stone I seat myself upon the weather-beaten ground and
look about me. Near by are the fine, broken spires of immovable,
perpendicular slabs of slate. Above me a sharp breeze may be gently
stirring; I do not hear it; I do not feel it; the jutting rock, the
highest peak of the Zahn, protects me. The friendly warmth of the sun
touches my limbs. The quiet and the nearness to heaven bring peace to
my soul. I wonder how it would be in the everlasting rest. To be happy
in heaven, to live always in joy, always contented and without pain; to
wish for nothing, to long for nothing, to hope for nothing, and to fear
nothing, on through all time. Would it not after all be a little
wearisome? Should I not perhaps wish to take a leave of absence
sometimes, to look down here at the world once more? My possessions here
would easily go into a nutshell. But I think were I once up there I
should long to be down here again. How strange are earthly joy and
sorrow!
But if I came back, a good angel would have to lend me his wings that I
might fly across the white mountains and sunny peaks and ridges, on into
the distance yonder, where the edge of the mountain chain cuts through
the airy heaven; and upon that last white peak I would rest and look
over into the expanse of plain and to the towers of the city. Perhaps I
might see the gable of the house, or even the gleam of the window where
she is standing.
And if I saw the gleam of that window, then would I willingly turn about
and enter heaven again.
Is it then really true that one can behold the sea from this peak? My
eyes are not clear, and yonder, in the south, the grey of the earth
blends with the grey of the sky. I already know the firm ground, the
mould which they call the fruitful earth. Couldst thou, mine eye, only
once reach the wide sea!
When the sun changed, so that a deep shadow appeared upon my stony
resting-place, I arose and climbed to the very highest point. I took in
the whole picture of the mighty, battlemented kingdom of the Alps.
And then I descended by the precipices, the crevasses of the glaciers
and the snow-fields; I crossed the long ridge, finally reaching the
soft, yielding meadows, where the wooded hills were before me once more.
Twilight was settling over the valleys, which was most comforting to my
overstrained eyes. For a while I covered them with my hand, and when at
last I was able to look once more, the gold of the setting sun was
illuminating the heights.
As I come to the Miesenbach hut before which I sat in the morning, a
curious incident occurs.
While passing the hut, I think how friendly and homelike an inhabited
human dwelling looks to the wanderer, but how forbidding and dreary the
same place appears, when it stands, like an upright coffin, empty and
deserted! Suddenly I hear groaning from within.
My feet, already very tired, at once become as light as a feather, and
would run away, but my reason forbids, and, straining my ears to listen,
I stand and gaze. From under one corner of the jutting roof proceed a
pounding and snorting, and I then behold a strange spectacle. From out
the rough, brown wooden wall, project a man's head and breast, two
shoulders and one hand, a living, wriggling mass, and from within I hear
the noise of the knees and feet.
Ah! I think, a thief, who has filled his pockets too full and is
unfortunately caught fast on coming out. It is a young head, with curly
hair, waxed moustache, white shirt collar and red silk neckerchief, such
as one seldom meets with in these forests.
Perceiving me, he cries loudly: "Holy cross, how lucky that someone has
come at last! Could n't you help me a little?--it needs only a jerk.
Curse this window."
"Yes, my friend," I say; "but first, I must ask you a few questions.
The man who could get you out the easiest would be the hangman, who
would gently put a rope about your neck, pull a little, and all at once
you would be in the free air."
"Stupid!" he replies; "just as if an honest Christian could n't get
caught if the hole is too small. I am the son of the master wood-cutter
from Lautergraeben and on my way across the Alm, down to the Winkelegg
forest. As I pass the hut, I see that the door stands wide open.
'There is nothing in there,' I said,--'nothing at all that would be
worth while to carry away, but 't is a bad thing to leave an open door
in an empty house; the snow will fly in all winter long. The herdswoman
must have been in a hurry when she moved back to the valley--she must be
a nice sort of a person to go and leave everything open.' Well, I
enter, close the door and from within place a few blocks of wood against
it, afterwards climb upon the bench, and as I try to get out by this
smoke-window, here I stick like the devil."
But I do not yet trust the lad, and look at him awhile as he dangles.
"And you think you don't want to remain fastened there under the roof
until someone comes to-morrow and recognises you." At this he grinds
his teeth and struggles violently to escape from his ugly situation.
"I must be in Holdenschlag early to-morrow," he mutters.
"What do you want in Holdenschlag?" I say.
"_Mein Gott_, because there is to be a wedding!" he growls, already
quite indignant.
"And why must you be present?"
At first he refuses to answer, but finally bursts out,--"By Jessas and
Anna, because I 'm needed there!"
"Oh, then of course, we must try to help you," I say, and climbing a
little way up the wall I begin pulling at the lad, until at last we have
the second hand out; then it is easier. He is soon standing on the
ground, where he hunts up his pointed hat which has rolled away,
stretches his stiffened limbs, and with flushed face looks up once more
at the little smoke-window, exclaiming, "The devil take you, that was a
trap, sure enough!"
In the twilight we went down together towards the Winkelegg forest. The
lad showed no disposition to talk with me. I tried to make amends for
my apparent unfriendliness, assuring him that I recognised at once that
he was no thief. "And to-morrow then, you will be in Holdenschlag at
the wedding? Are you the groomsman?" I asked.
"The groomsman, no, I am not that."
"Perhaps then the ceremony could have been performed without you."
He pulled his hat over his eyes, which were fixed on the ground.
"Without me," he said at last; "no, I don't think it could. For you
see, this is the way of it, it could n't be done without me,
because--because, it looks very much as if I were the bridegroom."
On hearing these words, I stopped and stared a moment at the lad,
thinking how dreadful it would have been if the bride and the whole
wedding should have waited and waited below, while the bridegroom was
struggling up there in the smoke-window of the herdsman's hut. The
young man then politely invited me to his wedding. He guided me
faithfully as we walked down through the dark forest to the narrow
valley of the Winkelegg.
Here we passed a huge pile of bare logs, which had been sent down
through a long shoot from the Winkelegg forest. Near the pile of wood
were three large charcoal-kilns, from which, slowly and silently, the
milk-white smoke rose to the tops of the trees and into the dark autumn
sky.
The wood-cutter's son from Lautergraeben urged me to accompany him into
the hut which stands under the spreading pine.
In the cabin are three people, two hens, one cat, and the fire on the
hearth. No other living creature is visible.
A young woman is standing by the hearth, laying larch-branches crosswise
on the fire. My companion informs me that she is his betrothed.
Behind the broad tile stove, which reaches to the sooty ceiling, sits a
little woman. She glares at me, the strange intruder, with her large
green eyes, while with unsteady fingers she is drawing the strings
through a new pair of shoes. At the same time she continually wipes her
eyes, which are already dimmed like an old window-pane that for many
years has been exposed to the smoke of the charcoal-burner's hut. My
companion tells me that this is the mother of his betrothed, who is
everywhere called by the people, Russkathel.
Beyond, in the darkest corner, I see a rough, manly figure, his body
bared to the waist, washing and scrubbing himself over a massive wooden
basin with such force that he snorts like a beast of burden.
"That is the brother of my betrothed," explains the young man; "he is
the charcoal-burner here and they call him Russ-Bartelmei."
Then the wood-cutter's son approaches his sweetheart to tell her that he
has come at last, and has brought with him the highly learned man who
wanders over the whole forest, and who will give them the honour of his
presence on their wedding-day.
The young woman, turning toward me, says, "Find a seat somewhere if you
can; everything is so dilapidated with us, we have n't even a decent
chair."
Then the young man speaks to her in a low voice, apparently telling her
the story of the herdsman's hut, for all at once she cries out: "Oh,
what a stupid fellow! Thou must needs pry into everything, or has it
come to be a habit of thine, up there with the herdswoman?"
The lad turns to his mother-in-law: "Give me the shoe,--thou art leaving
out half of the eyelets; such work is much too fine for thy weak eyes,
_Muetterchen_!"
"Yes, Paul, that's true," mumbles the old woman good-naturedly from her
toothless mouth, "but, listen, Paul; my grandmother laced my mother's
shoes, and my mother did it for me; and I, why should such an old,
crooked creature as I be in the world, if I could n't lace my Annamirl's
shoes?"
"Perhaps you 'll soon have other work, _Muetterchen_; by the cradle you
'll not need to see," answers Paul mischievously.
At this, Annamirl shakes her finger at him, saying, "Thou
good-for-nothing!"
In the dark corner the splashing and snorting continue. It is not so
easy a matter for a man who has once become so blackened as
Russ-Bartelmei to wash himself white enough to appear before the world,
even though his sister should marry the master wood-cutter's son from
Lautergraeben.
And my wood-cutter's son draws the lacing through the shoes of his
betrothed. The old woman, having once found her tongue, begins to
prattle: "And don't forget, Annamirl," says she, "thou must try it also.
It will succeed yet."
"Dost thou mean that I should plant the christening-money,
_Muetterchen_?"
"Yes, that 's it. Under a branching pine-tree thou must bury a groschen
on thy wedding-night. That is the money-seed, and thou shalt see, in
three days it will bloom, and in three months it may indeed be ripe.
Our ancestors did it, but they were not all successful. It was this
way: my grandmother missed the time, my mother never found the spreading
pine-tree again, and I planted a false groschen. On that account, my
daughter, take careful note of the hour as well as of the tree, then the
groschen will grow, and thou shalt have money enough all thy days."
Annamirl opens an old chest and begins to rummage among the clothes and
other contents. I believe she was seeking the christening-money.
The charcoal-burner washes and rubs himself. He changes the water many
times, but it is always as black as ink. But finally it remains only
grey; then Russ-Bartelmei stops and dries himself; he dresses, sits down
on the door-sill, and, taking a long breath, says, "Yes, folks, I 've
got rid of one skin now, and the other is beginning to show a little."
The new one, however, has grown very red, although in places it is still
somewhat dingy; but it is Russ-Bartelmei all the same, who is going to
his sister's wedding on the morrow.
I am invited to spend the night in the hut, and the bride hospitably
sets a dish of eggs before me, because I am the "learned man," who might
sometime be of use, should the occasion offer itself and the children
prove to be intelligent.
The smoke has driven the hens from their evening rest; so now they come
to me upon the little table, and stretch their long necks over the edge
of the dish into my food. Do they wish to have their eggs back again?
The old woman, too, is all the time coming closer to me; twice she opens
her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again, murmuring into her blue
neckerchief: "I won't say it after all; 'twill be more sensible."
Seeing her timidity, I come to her aid: "Well, what is it,
_Muetterchen_?"
"God bless you for the question," she replies, drawing still nearer to
me. "People like us can't see into the future. To speak out
plainly,--you are a learned man, they say, so you will surely understand
fortune-telling?--No, not at all?--But I should think a man like you
ought to learn that. And now that we have become so well acquainted, do
you know no numbers for the lottery?"
"Jesstl and Joseph," suddenly screams the young woman, "hurry, hurry,
_Muetterchen_! I think the kitten has tumbled into the water-pail!"
The old woman stumbles toward the corner, from which Bartelmei has just
come; but the kitten has already disappeared, was perhaps never in the
water. Annamirl, ashamed of her mother's childish questions, has stopped
them by this trick.
The next day, when the morning red is glowing through the white smoke,
the people come from all parts of the forest. They are dressed and
decked out as I have never seen them before. They bring
wedding-presents with them. The pitch-maker comes with a black,
glistening jug of pitch-oil. "For the health of the bridal couple," he
announces, and then adds: "What is the message of the pitch-oil? If in
life you have trouble to bear, you must apply at once the oil of
patience. That says the pitch-oil." Root-diggers come with seeds and
bunches of fragrant herbs, and the ant-grubbers, with incense; children
bring wild fruit in little baskets of fir-bark; wood-cutters come
bearing household utensils. Schwamelfuchs, an old hunchbacked, rough
little man, is dragging a huge earthenware bowl, a veritable family
kettle, large enough to feed a dozen mouths. Others bring wooden spoons
for it; again others unpack meal- and lard-buckets, and a
charcoal-burner's wife comes staggering in quite embarrassed and hands
the bride a carefully wrapped package. As with awkward words of thanks
she opens it, two fat stuffed capons come to light. These are spied by
Russkathel, who, already in gala dress, and full of eager expectation,
is creeping along the walls, and she whispers to her daughter: "Dost
thou know, Annamirl, where the best wedding-gift should be put? Ah,
yes, it should be buried in the cool earth. Later a beautiful woman
will come in a golden waggon, drawn by two little kittens; these will
dig out the wedding-gift with their claws, and the woman, taking it in
her snow-white hand, will drive three times around the hut; afterwards
no sorrow can come to your holy wedlock." So the tale of Freya is still
told in the German forest.
Annamirl is silent for a moment, and, turning the heavy, neatly picked
and stuffed fowls around and around in her hands, as if they were
already on the spit, she finally remarks: "I think, mother, they would
spoil in the earth, or the cats would eat them, and for that reason, I
say, let us eat them ourselves."
At last even the elegant brandy-distiller arrives with his huge earthen
jug, which immediately spreads an odour of spirits throughout the house.
Scenting it, Russ-Bartelmei, curious to see how such a jug is made and
corked up, hurries forward at once.
But here Annamirl interferes: "May God bless you a thousand times,
Brandyhannes; that is altogether too much, we could never repay you for
it. Perhaps this is the most valuable wedding-gift, so with it I will
carry out the old custom."
Quickly drawing the stopper, she pours the sparkling, smoking brandy
upon the ground, to the last drop. The old woman giggles and grumbles,
"Thou fool, thou! now both thy kittens will be drunk; and then what a
row we shall have!"
By the time all are assembled, the sun is already shining in at the
door. During the night a meal has been cooked, which the people now
devour with good appetites and gay conversation. I also take part in
it, afterwards joining the children who are present, giving them some of
the food in their wooden dishes, that they too may have their share of
the feast.
Then we all depart. With the charcoal-burners a single old man remains
behind. He stands a long time before the door, resting upon his iron
hook and smoking a short-stemmed pipe, while with a grin he gazes after
us, until we have disappeared in the shady defile. Then only the
silent, friendly morning sun still rests upon the pine-trees.
A number of men in the wedding-procession have even brought rifles with
them; but to-day they do not shoot at the creatures of the forest, they
fire into the air, considering that they are thus adding greatly to the
festive occasion.
There is singing and shouting, until the summer day fairly trembles.
Many a gay song is sung, tricks are played, old-fashioned games are
tried on the way, and it is already noon when we reach the church at
Holdenschlag. Five men come to meet us with trumpets, fifes, and a huge
drum which the drummer beats with true festive fury; and what an
excitement and roar of laughter there is, when suddenly the drum-stick
breaks through the much martyred skin and, shooting into the inside,
catches its tact upon the other end. A young man is stealing around the
procession, and according to the old custom trying to take the bride
away from us; but the groomsman is on guard, although in reality
watching more closely over his purse than over the bride; for should he
lose the former, the robber would drag him to some distant tavern, where
he would have to pay for the drinks.
The bridegroom accompanies the first bridesmaid; not until after the
ceremony does he approach his wife, and then the groomsman walks with
the bridesmaid, so that the seed is sown again for a new wedding. The
groomsman is well known to me; his name is Berthold; the bridesmaid is
called Aga.
In the church wine is drunk and the priest gives a very edifying talk
upon the sacrament of marriage and its divine purpose. The good old man
speaks most beautifully, but the people from the woods do not fully
understand his high German. Not until we are in the tavern, and have
all eaten, drunken, and played tricks, is the real sermon for the people
delivered. Then the old, bearded Ruepel raises his wine-glass and
begins to speak:
"I am not learned, I wear no doctor's cap, or monkish cowl, and if my
glass were not at hand, alas! no clever word from me, my friends, would
here be heard. As once did Moses, so do I, you see, with cheering wine
my tongue now free. As aged Bible-reader am I known, but if a knight I
were, I own, upon a snowy steed I 'd ride across the land. Once close
at hand a proverb I did spy: the Lord, the Crucified, did cry,--'Is man
alone, then is he naught, but are there many,' then he taught their
worthlessness; 'so will I try and shut a pair within a hut,--alas! too
little; now a house, and later even heaven 's too small to cover and
protect them all, but through the world to forests strange they go, to
suffer, wandering to and fro,--to part again.' But for His sheep the
Son of God will care, though they go straying everywhere. I hear the
hammer-stroke upon the cross, at foot, at left, at right; my heart is
breaking at the sight. The red blood flows, which wins your heaven and
mine. To Thee, O Lamb, I offer wine, for Thou didst suffer--die!"
There is silence throughout the large room, and the old man drains his
glass.
But soon he fills it again and continues:
"To Him be praise! As at the feast in Galilee, so with us may our
Master be, to change the water into wine, the whole of Winkel brook
to-day, the whole of Winkel brook for aye! The wine is clear and pure,
the white and red together flow, as sure as youthful hearts that onward
go, in honour bound and love. From light of sun and moon, the wine has
caught its fire, between the earth and sky--as grow our souls and bodies
from on high, and from below. To bridegroom and to bride to-day, may
this sweet wine bring health, I pray."
What a merry-making and shouting now follows, and the fifes and fiddles
resound as the wine is poured upon the green wreath of the bride.
Each one now raises his glass and extemporaneously delivers his
wedding-speech or bridal-poem. Finally old Russ-Kath staggers to her
feet and with an incredibly clear voice sings:
"Cut down the pear-tree,
Cut down the box-tree,
Cut both the pear- and box-tree down,
Sweetheart, to make thee
Out of the box-tree
Bedstead, the finest in all the town."
As things are now going, it seems to me that the noise and clamour must
burst through all four walls, out into the quiet evening.
Gradually, however, it grows quieter and the people turn their eyes
towards me, to see if I, the learned man, have no toast for the bride.
So I then arise and say: "Joy and blessing to the bridal pair! And
when, after five-and-twenty years, their descendants enter the marriage
state, may it be in the parish church by the Winkel bridge! I drink to
your health!" This is my bridal toast.
Thereupon follow a murmuring and whispering, and one of the oldest of
the company approaches and politely asks me the meaning of my speech.
All night the inn at Holdenschlag resounds with the music, dancing, and
singing of the wedding-guests.
The next morning we escort the bridal couple from their room. Then for
a long time there is a search for the groomsman, who is nowhere to be
found. We wish him to join us in the old-fashioned wedding-game,
"Carrying the wood for the Cradle."
Who would have thought that the excited boy was at this moment standing
in a room in the priest's house, wearing on his cheek a veritable Alpine
glow, while with both hands he was crushing the brim of his hat!
The priest at Holdenschlag--he must be a shrewd man--walks with
dignified steps up and down the room and with a fatherly voice repeats
the words: "Control thyself, my son, and pray; lengthen thy evening
prayer three times or seven times, if need be. The temptation will
leave you at last. Marry! A penniless fellow! What for then? Hast
thou house and land, hast thou servants, children, that thou needest a
wife? Now, then! To marry with a beggar's staff, such a folly is not
to be thought of. How old art thou?"
At this question the lad blushes more deeply than ever. It is so
unpardonably stupid not to know one's age. And he does not know it, but
he would be right within ten years if he should straightway say twenty.
"Wait until thou art thirty; earn house and land for thyself, and then
come again!" is the priest's decision. He now goes into the next room,
but Berthold remains standing where he is, feeling as though he must say
something more,--some weighty word which would overthrow all objections,
so that the priest would answer; "Ah, that is quite another thing; then
marry, in God's name!" But the lad knows no such word, to explain and
make clear why he wishes to be united, forever united, with Aga, the Alm
maiden.
As the priest does not return from the neighbouring room, where he is
taking his breakfast, the lad finally turns sadly towards the door and
descends the steps, the Jacob's Ladder of his love's happiness, which a
short time before he climbed with joyous confidence.
But having reached the green earth, he is another being. And the wild,
overbearing way in which the boy conducts himself on this second
wedding-day, makes one suspicious.
In the afternoon, man and wife, boy and maiden, depart in couples;
Andreas Erdmann joins the old, bearded Ruepel and we all return to the
forests of the Winkel.
*PART SECOND*
1815.
Many centuries ago according to tradition, a people dwelt in this region
who supported themselves by farming and hunting. They had shown much
forethought in damming up the Winkel, while along its banks were
carefully tended green meadows and a waggon road led to the adjoining
country. Not far from the place where the master wood-cutter's house
now stands the remains of a wall show the spot upon which it is supposed
a church once stood. Indeed, the opinion is advanced that it was no
church, but the temple of an idol, where it was still the custom to
drink mead to Wotan and to sacrifice animals whenever the full moonbeams
shimmered through the leaves of the linden. In the same olden time, a
snow-white raven would fly down each year from the wastes of the Alps,
pick up the corn which had been strewn upon a stone for it, and fly away
again. Once, however, no corn was scattered for the bird, because the
year had been a sterile one, and someone had declared the whole thing to
be a foolish superstition. Then the white raven was seen no more. But
the winter was scarcely over when from the East savage hordes came
streaming hither, with ugly brown faces, wearing blood-red caps and
horses' tails, riding strange beasts, and carrying unusual weapons,--and
they invaded even the Winkel woods. These bands plundered and carried
off the inhabitants by hundreds, and thus the region became deserted.
Then the houses and the temple fell into ruins, the water destroyed the
dams and roads and covered the fields with pebbles and stones. The
fruit-trees grew wild; larch-woods sprang up in the meadows. But the
larches were afterwards supplanted by firs and pines. And thus the
dark, high forests, now centuries old, came into existence.
It is not certain whether the present race of foresters are descendants
of those ancient people. I rather think that, as the old inhabitants
were washed away by a surging flood over the Alps in savage ages, so
after many years in the storms of time, fragments of other races have
been driven into these forests. Indeed, one can tell by observing the
present inhabitants that this is not their native soil, but
notwithstanding, they have been impelled to take root here and to
prepare a safe and orderly dwelling-place for their descendants.
However, the old German legends of the wood-gods live on in these
people. In the autumn they leave the last wild fruit upon the trees, or
decorate their crosses and _Haus Altare_ with the same, in order to
secure fruitfulness for the coming year. They throw bread into the
water, when a flood is impending; they scatter meal to the wind, to
appease threatening storms--even as the ancients sacrificed to the gods.
At the sacred hour of twelve they hear the wild hunt, even as the
ancients heard with terror the thundering of Father Wotan. Instead of
Freya of the olden time, they call to mind the beautiful woman who
presides at the wedding-feasts, with her two kittens harnessed to a
golden waggon. And when the Winkel foresters bury one of their comrades
outside in Holdenschlag, they empty the cup of mead to his memory.
Everywhere still linger the old Germanic superstitions and customs, but
above them all is heard the lofty song of the Cross.
To a certain extent the Winkel foresters appreciate what is needed here,
but only the few are able to give it a name. However, that root-digger
was right when, a year ago at the charcoal-burner's wedding, he said
these words: "Neither God nor priest troubles himself about us. We are
made over to sorrow and the devil. A dog's life is good enough for us;
we are only Winkel people!"
But the root-digger may yet live to see my toast fulfilled. Since the
wedding I have become a year younger. The foresters of the Winkel are
to have a church.
If a nation desires to rise from its barbarism to a perfect, harmonious
height, God's temple must form the foundation. Therefore I will begin
with the church in the Winkel woods.
I have been obliged to urge and press the matter. Herr von Schrankenheim
dwells in his palace in the city, where from every window church bells
are heard, while upon dainty shelves are displayed hundreds of books for
the mind and heart. Who there imagines what a pulpit and a sound of
bells would mean in the distant forest? But at last the proprietor of
these lands has comprehended, and to-day the men are already here to
examine the site.
Yonder, near the house of the Winkel-warden, straight up from the path
which leads across the Winkel, is a piece of high, rocky ground, secure
from caving, slides, and torrents. It lies between the Upper and Lower
Winkel, and is equally distant from Lautergraeben, the Miesenbach valley
and the banks of the Kar. That is the right place for God's house. I
have presented plans which I think are suitable for such a forest
church.
It should be large enough for all to find room therein who have sad and
hungry hearts, of which there are many and always will be in the forest
country. It should not be too low, for the high woods and rocky walls
have changed and broadened our conceptions; and then again the human
dwellings are small, so it will be doubly comforting to the eye if it
can look upward in the house of God. In city churches a solemn
half-light should always reign, that it may offer a contrast to the gay
and joyous lives of the rich and great; but in God's house of the woods
must smile a bright and gentle friendliness, for gloomy and solemn are
the forest and the forester's house and heart. So the worship of God
should balance and even life; and that which the working-day and home
deny, Sunday and the church should offer. The temple should be a refuge
from the storms of this world, and the entrance to eternity.
The tower of the little forest church should be slender and airy, like
an upward-pointing finger, warning, threatening, or promising. Three
bells should proclaim the Trinity in the Unity of God, and the
three-toned melody sing of faith, love, and hope. The organ should be
well placed, for its music must be the word of God to the souls of the
poor ones who do not understand the sermon.
Gilded pictures and dazzling decorations are objectionable; the worship
of God should not coquette with the treasures of this earth. Simplicity
and unity most eloquently and worthily render comprehensible the
thoughts of God and eternity.
But other things must be considered as well. In order to secure dryness
I have proposed bricks for the walls. The benches and chairs must be
arranged as resting-places, since Sunday is a day of rest. If during
the sound of the organ one should fall asleep, what then? One would
only dream one's self into heaven. For the floor, flagstones are too
damp and cold; thick fir planks are more suitable. For the roof, on
account of hail-storms, neither tiles nor large flat boards are
practicable; small larch shingles are the best.
My plans have been accepted. Already roads are being cut through and
building material brought here. In the Bins valley, where clay is
found, a brick-kiln has been constructed and by the Breitwand a
stone-quarry opened.
The foresters stand and watch the strange workmen. They too have their
thoughts about it.
"They want to build us a church, do they?" says one; "'t would be more
sensible to divide the money among the poor. The Lord God should build
Himself a house only when He is unwilling to remain under the open sky
or dwell in the Winkel forest."
"I wonder what saint they will set up for us!"
"Hubertus, I think."
"Hubertus,--ah, he carries a rifle and could stop the poachers too
easily. The hunters would never endure him. I say, the _Vierzehn
Nothelfer_[#] would be right for us."
[#] _Vierzehn Nolhelfer_, fourteen saints to whom the Catholics prayed
in times of great need.
"Not to be thought of; they would cost too much, and besides, the great
Christopher is among them, and no church door would be large enough for
him."
"To him who wishes to find lost things, Saint Anthony many a wonder
brings!" says Ruepel, the old bristly-beard, whose words seem to rhyme,
let him twist his tongue as he will.
One little old woman very sagely remarks that, as there is no one in the
whole Winkel forest who can play the organ, Saint Cecilia should be
chosen as parish saint.
Others wish to dedicate the church to Florian, who protects against
fire; but those living by the water prefer Sebastian.
Thereupon an old shepherd responds: "That's no way to talk. The people
can help each other; but you mustn't forget the poor cattle! The holy
Erhart (patron saint of cattle) should be the one for us in the Winkel."
Another speaks: "I care nothing for the cattle. We need the church for
the people. And as long as we have to pay for the saint, we may as well
have something fine. I am no heathen; I go to church, and I like a
pretty woman. What do you say to the Magdalen?"
"Thou wretch," cries his wife, "thou wouldst place that wicked person
upon the altar!"
"Thou art right, old woman; for such as thou, we must have one who will
set a good example."
So the people argue, half in fun, half in earnest. They have rummaged
through the whole heaven and have found no saint satisfactory to
everyone.
And we must have one who will suit them all. I have already my own idea
about it.
The wooded hills are growing lighter and lighter, as if the day were
dawning. The jagged clefts in the mountains and a greater expanse of
sky are visible. Many a marten is deprived of his hollow tree, many a
fox of his hole. Innocent little birds and greedy vultures are made
homeless, for branch after branch falls upon the damp, mossy earth, upon
which at last the sun shines again. Through the winter the wood-cutters
have been busy. In the country outside coal and wood have been in great
demand.
This summer I have no longer much leisure.
Outside there is war, which will end God only knows when. In
Holdenschlag the foundries are closed again and no coal-waggon enters
the forest. The wood-cutter's work is suspended; the stalwart men wander
idly about.
I have advised them to join the defenders of the fatherland. They will
listen to nothing of the kind. They have no home, they know no
fatherland. The foreigners are welcome if they bring money and better
times.
God grant the better times, and keep the foreigners at a distance!
It is fortunate for me that I am cool-blooded. That one wild year killed
the germs of my passion. Now I can bend my whole energy toward this end:
out of a scattered, divided people, to form one, united and whole. Am I
successful, we shall have something upon which to build. I will found a
home for them and myself. But we must first gain the co-operation of
the Baron, after which we must influence the woodspeople.
Extraordinary strength does not seem to me necessary, but certainly
persistent effort. These people are like balls of clay--a push, and
they roll along for a while. They will go on of themselves, but they
must be guided in order to reach one and the same goal. There are
enough members, but they are self-willed and perverse. When the church
is once finished, so that the parish has a heart, we will attend to the
head and build the schoolhouse.