It is Sunday--the first Sunday in the Winkel forests. The bells
announced it at dawn, and the people have come from the Upper Winkel,
from Miesenbach, from Lautergraeben, from Karwaesser, and from every
hermitage and cave of the wide woods. To-day they are no longer
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners as ordinarily, to-day for the first
time they fuse into one, into one body, and are called the parish.
The church is finished. Above the altar towers the cross from the
Felsenthal; it stands here as unpretentiously and almost as harmoniously
as yonder in its loneliness. Among the people remarks are heard to the
effect that this is the true cross of the Saviour. If they find comfort
and exaltation in this thought, then it is as they say.
The canopy for the altar is a present from the Baron; the candlesticks
and the credence were carved by Ehremvald. But who has given the two
beautiful altar windows with the painted glass? I am asked. It is well
that the windows are so high, otherwise it must be seen that only
coloured paper is pasted over the panes. The two windows represent the
Commandments of Moses, within a green crown of thorns mingled with red
and white roses. Over the altar and the cross is a round window
representing the eye of God, with the words: "I am the Lord thy God, who
frees thee from bondage. Make thyself no graven image, to worship it."
The priest from Holdenschlag, who was here to perform the service of
consecration, informed me that the above words were not suitable. "Thou
shalt believe in one God!" it should say. I replied that the words here
employed, I had read in a very old Bible.
The schoolmaster from Holdenschlag played the organ, which has a pure,
sympathetic tone. "The gladness and woe, which the lips cannot tell,
from music they flow, as rivulets run in the light of the sun," says the
old forest singer.
In the same way that I have hitherto practised on the zither, I now
practise on the organ. Each sweet sound sinks into the heart of the
worshipper to lift his soul to the altar of God.
The priest from Holdenschlag preached a sermon on the significance of
the consecration and the parish church, and on the life of man from the
baptismal font to the grave. It then occurred to me that we had no
graveyard. No one has thought of it or wishes to think of it, even
though the font has been spoken of so often. I can no longer worship,
and afterwards, during the mass while the veil of incense is rising, I
cannot help wondering where we shall locate the burial-ground. After
the high mass, when they all come out upon the square and approach the
pedlars' booths to look at the treasures and works of art which the
world is now beginning to send in to the new parish in the Winkel, I
climb up the slope to the first gentle rise over which the dark high
forest extends toward the cliffs. There I lay myself upon the
pine-needles with which the ground is strewn. I am nearly exhausted
from the unusual excitement of recent events, and with the graveyard
still on my mind, I try this couch to see how one would rest up here.
I hear the cries of the market people and the humming of the crowd
below.
Many are dissatisfied with the church because no well-regulated inn
stands near it. However, Brandy Hannes is there; he has set up a little
table under the ash-trees and placed upon it some large bottles and
small glasses. "What a dry consecration that would be with nothing to
drink!" the people say, and the young men like to treat their
sweethearts to a tiny glass as well. The devil is a pious fellow, he
counterfeits each new church, but a tavern is always the result. The
bar is his high altar, the gay hostess his priest, the tinkling of the
glasses his bells and organ music, the purse of the host the offering,
the playing-cards his prayer-book; and if a man is overcome with
drunkenness and fighting, he is then his sacrificial lamb.
The tavern is the shadow of the church. And after the heat of the week,
the workman is only too willing to rest within this shadow.
At the midday meal, which we ate together in the Winkel-warden's house,
the master wood-cutter told us that Grassteiger wished permission
granted to erect a tavern for dispensing brandy.
"We already have the tavern-keeper, but where is our priest?
"One would not care to come to this corner of the world, fastened in
with boards," says the priest from Holdenschlag.
"That 's true, your highness!" interrupts the Winkel-warden's wife in a
loud voice. "Indeed, I 'll say it a hundred times over, I should like
to leave this wilderness myself, and the sooner the better. There 's
nothing to do in this Winkel. What a good thing it would have been for
us now, if we could have sold a little brandy of a Sunday, and I
consider Grassteiger a lucky fellow!"
"Ha," laughs the priest, "taverns! It will yet become a lively place,
this Winkel--Winkel--ah, the parish has no name!"
The name of the parish has already been decided upon. The settlement of
this question would have been a welcome occasion for the people to
assemble at the new tavern to christen the parish with _Schnapps_. But
we baptise with water. Our water is called the Winkel; since time
immemorial a bridge has led across this stream. The square about the
Winkel-warden's house is briefly called _Am Steg_ (by the bridge). Here
stands the new church, and Winkelsteg shall it and the parish be called.
Our master, Baron von Schrankenheim, has endorsed it.
As the bells were rung at the beginning of our church consecration, so
they rang again at its close. On this day another very exciting
occurrence has taken place. The gentlemen from Holdenschlag and the
forester had left; it was quiet once more in Winkelsteg. Twilight comes
on early now and the mist lay over the high mountains. It was already
dark when I went to my bells. To-day for the first time the little red
lamp was burning before the altar, which from now on shall be called the
everlasting light, and which shall never be extinguished as long as the
house of God remains standing. It is the watch before the Lord.
As I entered the church I beheld a figure in the shadow by the credence.
A man still knelt there praying. If one must live so long in the misery
of the day, the Sunday which follows, when one is communing with the
dear God or with one's self, is much too short. These were my thoughts,
and I remained silent for a while, but finally advanced to remind the
worshipper that the church was being closed. But as the figure became
aware of my presence, it rose and sought to escape. After all it is no
worshipper, I thought, seizing the fugitive and looking him in the face.
It was a young lad.
"You rascal, you may well blush!" I cried.
"I am no rascal," he replied, "and you are blushing too; that comes from
the lamp." Then I looked at him closely. Who should it prove to be but
Lazarus, Adelheid's lost son.
Striking my hands together, I uttered a cry, as I stood there in the
church.
"Boy, for God's sake tell me where thou hast been! We have hunted for
thee, thy mother would even have overturned the Alps to find thee. And
how dost thou come here to-day, Lazarus? Indeed this is beyond all
belief!"
The boy stood there and to my questions he answered nothing--not one
word.
Then I rang the bells. Lazarus was standing near me; his garment was
composed of a woollen blanket, his hair fell over his shoulders, and his
countenance was very pale. He watched me, for he had never seen bells
rung before. And what a glad heart was mine! Now, with a clear ringing
tongue, I could proclaim the event even as far as the mountains.
Finally my housekeeper came asking what was then the meaning of the
ringing of the bells; a half dozen times she had already repeated the
Ave Maria and still I did not stop.
I let go of the bell-rope and pointed to the boy. "See, he has finally
come back. Did you not understand the ringing? Lazarus is found."
A woman is better than any bell to spread such news. Scarcely had the
Winkel-warden's wife gone out screaming, when Lazarus was already
surrounded by people. I hardly knew how to tell the story, and the lad
murmured now and then, "Paulus," besides which he uttered not a word.
We asked him who Paulus might be? Instead of answering the question, he
said with a peculiarly shy look: "He led me here to the cross." Then
loudly and anxiously he called out, "Paulus!" His speech was awkward,
his voice strange.
We led him into the house; the housekeeper placed something to eat
before him. Sadly he gazed at the omelet, turned his head in all
directions, and always back again to the food which he did not touch.
We all of us urged him to eat. He stretched his thin hands out from his
rough mantle towards his plate but drew them back again. The boy
trembled and began to sob. Later he asked for a piece of bread, which
he swallowed with ravenous appetite. His black locks fell over his eyes
and he did not brush them aside. Finally he dipped the bread into the
water-jug and ate with increasing greed and drained the water to the
last drop.
We stood around watching him, and we shook our wise heads, asking many
questions; the lad heard nothing and stared at the pine-torch which
gleamed on the wall, or out of the window into the darkness. The same
night Grassteiger and I took the boy to his mother in the upper woods.
A few times he sought to escape from us and to climb up the slopes of
the dark forest. He was as dumb as a mole and as shy as a deer.
We reach Mathes's house, which is called the Black Hut. Profound peace
reigns everywhere. The little stream is murmuring before the door; the
branches of the pine-trees groan above the roof. In the night one
listens to such things; in the daytime there is, if one might so express
it, the continuous noise of the light, so these other sounds are seldom
noticed.
Grassteiger holds the boy by the hand. I place myself at a little
window and call in through the paper pane: "Adelheid, wake up a bit!"
Then follows a slight noise and a timorous request to know who is
without.
"Andreas Erdmann from Winkelsteg is here and two others!" I say. "But
do not be frightened. In the new church a miracle has been performed.
The Lord has awakened Lazarus!"
In the hut a red gleam dances up and down the walls, like a feeble flash
of lightning. The woman has blown a bit of wood into a blaze at the
fire on the hearth.
She lights us in at the door, but as she sees the boy, the torch falls
to the floor and is extinguished.
When I finally procure a light, the woman is leaning against the
door-post and Lazarus is lying on his face. He is crying. Grassteiger
lifts him to his feet and brushes the hair from his brow. Adelheid
stands almost motionless in her worn night-dress; but in her breast
there is a great commotion. Pressing both hands against her heart, she
turns towards the wall struggling for breath, until I fear she is about
to faint. At last she looks at the boy and says: "Art thou really here,
Lazarus?" And to us: "Sit down on the bench yonder, I will make some
soup directly!" And again to the boy: "Take off thy wet shoes, my lad!"
But he has no shoes; instead he wears nothing but soles made from the
bark of trees.
The woman goes to the bed, wakes the little girl, telling her to rise
quickly for Lazarus has come. The child begins to weep.
The soup stands ready; the boy stares with his large eyes at the table
and at his mother. Now at last her maternal love bursts forth: "My
child, thou dost not know me! Yes, I have grown old, more than a
hundred years! Where hast thou been this endless time! _Jesu Maria!_"
Seizing the child, she presses him to her breast.
Lazarus gazes downwards; I notice how his lips quiver, but he does not
weep and he utters not a word. He must have had some strange
experience; his soul lies under a ban.
As he now removes his coarse blanket, to climb upon the freshly made
bed, he takes out from under this rough mantle a handful of grey pebbles
and with one movement strews them all over the floor. Hardly has he
done this before he stoops and begins to collect them again. He counts
them in his hand, then seeking in all the cracks and corners, he
carefully picks up each pebble, counts them once more and hunts further,
looking with great calmness a long time at the floor of the hut, until
he finds the last one and has the full number in his hand. And now we
see the lad smile for the first time. Then replacing the little stones
in the pocket of his cloak he goes to bed, where he soon falls asleep.
We stand a long time by the hearth near the torch discussing the
miraculous change which has taken place in this boy.