The region is changing rapidly. The mountains are becoming grey and
bare; the forest is being burned over and there are smoking
charcoal-pits in all the valleys.
With a great effort I have induced them to leave a little plot of ground
up there on the knoll.
This is the last bit of the primeval forest, and in its shade the dead
Winkelstegers shall rest.
The parsonage is finished. The parish has advertised for a priest.
When this notice is read it will cause amusement: "That will be a fine
sort of a curacy in this Winkelsteg: the communion wine is cider, the
bread is made of oat-flour. Well, if the priest starves in Winkelsteg,
it is his own fault, for he can at least eat the bark of trees! Even
the wild-cats manage to keep alive on that."
Winkelsteg is terribly maligned; but it is not so bad here after all.
For caring for the church and occasionally mounting the pulpit to read
something for the edification of the people, I receive a plentiful
supply of meal and game. They say it is a pity that I am not a priest.
From the owner of the forest money has been sent as a thank-offering to
establish a service in the church at Winkelsteg and to celebrate mass.
The daughter of the house is married.
Thank God that my body and my brain find such an abundance of occupation
here. This Einspanig is the cause of much speculation.
More and more often he is seen in this place; bent like a living
interrogation point, bent and crooked he goes about. But he still
avoids the people; and yet when one has the courage to ask him a
question he gives an answer that would suffice for three. He has also
been seen in the church, in the farthermost corner, where the
confessional is to stand.
Old Ruepel is quite sure that he is the Wandering Jew. That the
Einspanig is so in part I can well believe. According to my theory,
there are many million Wandering Jews.