The first celebration of the new church. Not inside however, but in
front of it. Yesterday the cross was placed on the tower. It is made
of steel and gilded--a present from the Baron.
A great crowd of people assembled; there are many inhabitants in the
forest after all.
From Holdenschlag there was no one present, not even the priest. Can it
be that they begrudge us the new church? But the Einspanig has been
seen on the other side of the Winkel brook, lurking about listening. He
draws his grey mantle over his disordered hair, and hastens along by the
brook, finally disappearing in the thicket. He is a strange creature;
he avoids the people more and more, and is only seen on special days.
No one knows who he is or whence he comes, and what he is weaving no
weaver can tell.
The master wood-cutter also takes part in the celebration; he has
arrayed himself in gala attire and has even combed his red beard. He
carries a knotted stick, and I notice at once that something unusual is
about to take place. I am not mistaken, for he proceeds to make a
speech in which he says that in the name of the master of the forest he
to-day delivers over the new church to the new parish.
A stalwart man carries up the cross, bound to his left arm. It is Paul,
the young head journeyman from Lautergraeben. From the tower window,
through which he climbs, a very simple staging is placed upon the almost
perpendicular shingle roof, reaching to the summit. Calmly the bearer
of the cross climbs along the beam. Having reached the top, he stands
upright, loosening the cross from his arm. The crowd below is silent,
and round about there is not a sound; it is as if it were still a
wilderness on the banks of the Winkel. Each one holds his breath, as if
fearing to disturb the equilibrium of the man on the dizzy height.
Paul avoids looking about him, and his movements are slow and regular.
I am seized with terror as I fancy that he makes an unnecessary start
and turn--then the cross sinks into its resting-place and stands firmly.
In the same moment the man stumbles--a cry resounds in my vicinity. But
Paul is still standing on the summit.
The cry proceeds from Anna Maria. She is deathly pale, and without
uttering another sound she seats herself upon a stone.
And now the merry-making begins. Paul takes out a glass and, raising it
to his lips, drains it, then hurls it upon the ground. It breaks into a
thousand pieces, and the people struggle with one another for the bits,
that they may preserve them for their descendants and be able to say:
"See, this is a part of the glass which was used at the raising of the
cross on the church tower."
Paul still stands upon the pinnacle, arm in arm with the cross; in the
tower window the grey head of our rhymster Ruepel now appears.
Contracting his white eyebrows so violently that it can be seen even
from below, the man begins thus to speak: "As the dizzy spire I cannot
reach, so from this window I 'll make my speech. On the highest point a
youth doth stand, with handsome looks and glass in hand. But aged ones
like me should teach, yet sermons I will never preach. For that below a
chancel's given, to honest priests, who guide to heaven. And the font
baptismal stands near by--of no more use to such as I--but some folks in
the parish here, need this wash-trough every year. The font should be
both wide and long--in forest lands it must be strong; near by the
confessional stands for all, where sins are left both great and small,
which God forgives; though the priest his ears may close, the sins from
his own heart he knows. Then there 's the altar, where one leaves one's
woes, refreshed and young one homeward goes. And God twelve angels here
will send, to guard this parish from end to end. Methinks I hear our
bells ring clear: I see our sunlit cross in place, a sacred sign that by
God's grace we all together at last may wend our way to heaven when life
shall end. But I must be the bell to-day, to tell abroad what you fain
would say, and send it forth o'er mountain and wood to the town where
dwells our master good--a message of thanks from this parish new, for
the house of God which he builds for you. May angels guide us to
heaven's door,--this is my greeting, and still more--before above we
have a happy birth, may we rejoice a little while on earth."
These words warmed the hearts of the people, and I would gladly have
sent my own guardian angel to the Baron in the city with a most loving
message of thanks.
As Paul has now safely descended from the tower to firm ground, his wife
receives him with open arms: "God gives thee back to me from His own
hands!"
They then approach the house which to-day has become a noisy tavern.
Behold the fatality, here is Paul, now standing with less security upon
the smooth, firm floor of the inn than he did a few hours ago above on
the tower.
But the lofty cross is graciously stretching out its arm above the
church and the tavern.