The people come and go in silence.
A little drop collects on the high branch of a tree, travels along out
to the farthest needle, trembles, glistens, and sparkles, now grey like
lead, now red like a carbuncle. It has hardly reflected the glorious
colour of the woods and sky, when a breath of wind stirs and the little
drop frees itself from the swaying pine-branch and falls upon the
ground. The earth sucks it in, and there is no longer a trace of the
tiny, sparkling star.
Thus lives the child of the forest and thus it dies.
Outside it is otherwise. There the drops congeal in the frosty breath
of conventionality, and the icicles tinkle against each other, tinkling
even as they fall and rest upon the ground, reflecting for a while the
glory of the world until they dissolve and melt, like our thoughts of a
dear departed one.
Outside, the churchyards are not for the dead, but for the living.
There we pay honour to the memory of our forefathers and to our own
future resting-place. The flowers and the inscriptions are for us, and
we feel peace in our hearts as we think of the sleeper who is freed from
trial. We realise the dissolution of the departed but hope for him the
resurrection. No one walks upon burial-ground unrewarded; these clods
cool the passions and warm the heart, and not only is the peace of death
written on the flowery mounds, but also the worth of life.
The forest brings rest to whom rest belongs. There the dead sleeper has
no candle, nor has the living one had one. May the _everlasting_ light
give them light! is our only petition. The faint autumn sun smiles
gently, promising eternal brightness, and the coming spring will care
for the flowers and wreaths.
In the forest our thoughts are not for the bodies of the dead, but for
the agony of the living souls of those who, having died in sin, are
languishing in purgatory!
When the starving Hans stole the piece of bread from his starving
neighbour in the field and then died, the primeval forest was not yet
standing. The body has decayed. Hans is forgotten, the soul lies in
purgatory. The meadow has become a forest, the forest a wilderness; the
wolves howl and there is no man far or near. On the mountain sides blow
summer breezes and winter storms, and with each moment a grain of sand;
and with each century a mass of mountain plunges into the depths of the
ravines. And the poor soul lies in the fire. Again man comes into the
wilderness, the high forests fall, huts and houses appear and a parish
is founded--the soul belonging to olden times and to days long past lies
in the flames of purgatory, is abandoned and forgotten.
But there is one day in the year for the consolation of such forgotten
souls.
When Christ, the Lord, died upon the cross and but one drop of blood was
left in His heart, His Heavenly Father asked Him: "My dear Son, mankind
is saved; to whom wilt thou give the last drop of thy red blood?" Then
Christ, the Lord, answered: "To my beloved mother, who stands at the
cross; that her pain may be soothed." "Oh no, my child Jesus," the
Mother Mary replied, "if thou wilt suffer the bitter death for the souls
of men, then can I also bear the pain of a mother's heart, e'en though
the agony were so great that the sea could not quench it, and the whole
earth a grave which could not bury it. I give the last drop of thy
blood to the forgotten souls in purgatory, that they may have one day in
the year, when they are freed from the fire."
And thus--according to the legend--originated All Souls' Day. On this
day even the most abandoned and forgotten souls are delivered from their
pain and they stand in the outer courts of heaven, until the stroke of
the last hour in the day summons them back into the flames.
Such is the idea and meaning of the feast of All Souls in the forest,
and many a good deed is performed with the thought of soothing the fiery
anguish of departed souls.
But over the lonely graves the late autumn mists are gathering, and the
remainder of the hill is concealed by newly fallen snow, upon which the
claws of a jay may have traced a little chain--the only sign of life
which still reigns here above--symbol of the indissoluble band: About
life and death an eternal chain is wound.
To-day I am reminded of Lucas, a charcoal-burner, who lies buried in
Lautergraeben. One night a goat was stolen from the wood-cutter Luger,
and afterwards, not far from Lucas's hut, they found the animal's skin
and entrails. Thus it was clear Lucas was the thief, and as
slothfulness rules everywhere in the forest, they did not prosecute the
charcoal-burner, and so he could not clear himself. He noticed,
however, how he was suspected, and once he called out: "Had you cut off
my hands, or put out my eyes, I should be content. But you have robbed
me of my honour--now my life is ruined." Still the people said: "Let
him turn and twist as he will, he stole the goat all the same." And
this nearly crazed the poor man. "Thieves must be hanged," he
said,--and afterwards he was found suspended from the branch of a
fir-tree. From time immemorial suicides have chosen their own graves;
so they buried the man among the roots of the fir.
It was not until a few weeks ago, that an unemployed wood-cutter made
the confession on his death-bed, that it was he who had taken the goat
from Luger. I shall go to-day to Lucas's grave in Lautergraeben.
There is still another grave in the Winkel forests, known and despised
by the people. On this anniversary day, however, it was not deserted.
For here, upon her father's grave, the little daughter of Black Mathes
again discovered a bit of paper with the words:
"I am well. I think of my mother and sister and father. "LAZARUS."
That is the message, the only news from the vanished boy for many days.
The handwriting is the same as before.
No footsteps excepting those of the girl lead to the grave, none away
from it. Paths for foxes, and deer, and other animals wind zig-zag
through the wintry woods.