This has been a strange walk in the woods, and for what has happened I
feel that I shall not be held responsible either in heaven or on earth.
Where the little stream splashes in the shadowy denies of the
Winkelegger forest, there I remain standing.
Here upon these ripples let thy thoughts drift without aim or purpose.
Thou knowest the Greek legend of the river Lethe. That was a strange
water. Whoever drank of it, forgot the past. Still stranger are the
waters of the little forest brook. He whose soul floats upon the same,
e'en though his locks be wintry, finds again the long past time of his
childhood and youth.
I penetrate deeper into the wilderness and rest in the moss, listening
to the ever present murmuring silence. Many a little flower, just
opened, is cradled close to my breast, endeavouring to knock softly at
the gate of my heart. And many a beetle crawls anxiously up, who has
lost his way to his sweetheart in the thicket of grasses and moss. Now
he lifts his head and asks for the right path. Do I know the right path
myself? O tell us where is the longing satisfied which follows us
everywhere? A spider lets itself down from the branches; it has worked
its way to the top, and now that it is there, it wishes to be upon the
ground again. It spins threads, I spin thoughts. Who is the weaver who
knows how to weave a beautiful garment from loose threads of thought?
While thus dreaming, I hear a rustling in the thicket. It is no deer,
it is no doe; it is a human being; a young, blooming woman, excited and
frightened, like a hunted creature. It is Aga, the Alm maiden. She
hastens up to me, seizes my hands and cries: "Oh, I am so glad it is
you!"
Then she looks at me and stops for breath, unable to overcome her
excitement. "It is a horrible fate!" she cries again; "but I know no
other way. The evil one follows us both, and now we fear the people;
but I 'm not afraid of you, for you are good and learned! I 'm sure you
will help us out of our trouble, Berthold and me! We should so like to
live a decent life; pray give us the marriage blessing!"
At first I do not understand, but, comprehending her at last, I say: "If
you are honest in your purpose, the church will not withhold its
blessing."
"_Mein Gott im Himmel!_" cries the girl; "with the church we will have
nothing more to do; it refuses us marriage because we have no money. But
if God should be angry with us, that would be terrible indeed. My
conscience gives me no peace, and I beg you a thousand times, give us
the blessing which every man may bestow. You are still young yourself,
and if you have a sweetheart, then you must know there is no parting or
leaving one another. And so we live together in the wilderness; we have
n't a single soul to be our friend and wish us happiness. We should so
like to hear one good word, and if someone would only come and say: 'By
God's will and with His blessing remain together until death!' Just a
single word, and we should be freed from the sin, and a wedded pair
before God in heaven!"
This longing for deliverance from their sin, this struggling for the
right, for human sympathy, for peace of heart--who would not be moved by
that!
"You true-hearted people!" I cry. "May the Lord God be with you."
The lad has already knelt beside the maiden. And so, with my words I
have done something for which I am not responsible in heaven or on
earth. I have consummated a marriage in the midst of the green woods.