Suddenly a foreboding arises within me. What if it should be the man to
whom I so lately refused the comfort of absolution, whose despairing
soul, struggling for forgiveness, I repulsed? What if he should have
gone away and taken his life? Who is his murderer, O God in heaven!--In
that hour, my good friend, I endured torments.--In my feverish condition
I hear the rattling of dead men's bones; I see the suicide swinging by
the churchyard wall, and how he stares at me with his fixed eyes! From
the depths of the pond rises a woman with her child, and her damp locks
become serpents which wind themselves about my limbs. And all the lost
souls appear to whom I have preached damnation. In the midst stands the
high cross, and I hear a voice calling: "Thou hast crucified the Saviour
in the hearts of men; thou hast burdened them with a heavy cross--the
cross without a Saviour, thou murderer of God."
With a sigh the man sank upon the branch of the tree. I was scarcely
able to raise him again. I picked fern leaves wet with mist and laid
them upon his burning forehead.
"Tell me the rest another time," I said, "and to-day we will return to
our homes; night is now really approaching."
He straightened himself, and with the edge of his mantle he wiped his
eyes.
"To-day I am at peace," he said, calmly, "but whenever I think of that
hour, my blood is hot like the flames of hell. There, I feel better
now." After a little he continued:
When I opened my eyes again, the glow of dawn was shining in at the
church windows. Like a gentle smile it rested upon the altar and the
image of the Mother of God. I arose and made a vow, whereupon a feeling
awoke within me, that everything, everything must end well.
Soon afterwards the keys rattled in the church door; the schoolmaster
entered with one of the Brothers of the Order, and others. They uttered
a cry of joy when they saw me, and, taking me by the hand, they led me
out. They related how they had sought for me, how they had heard a
scream in the church, but in their confusion had imagined it to be the
voice of a spirit. They led me away from the graveyard, for yonder the
suicide was hanging from an iron cross.
Afterwards I locked myself in my room, where I remained the whole day.
I was to have preached a sermon that morning on repentance and the mercy
of God. One of my companions did it for me. There was a report among
the people that I had purposely remained all night in the church and had
received revelations, for I was considered the most pious of the four
priests.
Late in the evening, when all were asleep, I wrote these words on a
sheet of paper: "Farewell, my Brothers. Do not search for me. My new
mission is self-redemption." And then I took what was mine, and left
the house and village, and walked the entire night.
My wandering was without plan. I gave myself up to chance. I had
nothing to lose. Endeavouring to escape from the more crowded regions,
I turned in the direction of the mountains.
As morning approached I found myself among wooded hills; a brook gurgled
towards me. I drank from the water and rested upon a stone. I observed
a woodsman coming down the path, who doffed his hat to me in honour of
my priestly dress. I arose and asked him to show me the way, for I
wished to go far in among the mountains, to the dwelling-place of the
very last man.
"The very last man, that must indeed be the charcoal-burner,
Russ-Bartelmei," he answered.
"Then show me the way to Russ-Bartelmei and put on your hat."
"Have you business with the charcoal-burner?" he asked me more boldly,
when we were already on our way. "The charcoal-burner is most likely
black, both body and soul; you can never wash him white. But then he 's
no worse than others. What do you want with him?"
I believe I said something to my questioner about a distant
relationship. He then stopped and looked at me:
"Relationship! I should be very glad! For I 'm Russ-Bartelmei myself."
I walked with the man over hills and through ravines. By noon we had
reached his house.
I remained three days with his family. Black they were, indeed. Among
the people of the Orient black is the colour of virtue and of departed
spirits; and, on the contrary, they paint the devil white. With the idea
of telling him something agreeable, I said this to the charcoal-burner.
But he gazed at me in a peculiar way from under the brim of his hat and
replied, "Then the priest would be a devil in the church and an angel on
the street."
On the third day, after Bartelmei and I had discussed many things and
both of us had related parts of our life history (his was coal-black and
mine blacker yet), I asked him if he would be my friend. It was my
intention to live in the wilderness and to work for my soul. My earnest
desire was to strive to do good in solitude, since among men, even with
the best intentions, one does not always advance the cause of
righteousness. As a friend, he was, for a remuneration, to provide me
with a few necessary articles, but for the rest to keep my secret.
The man considered a long time; then he said: "So you wish to become a
hermit? And I am to be the raven that brings you the bread from
heaven?"
I explained that I would seek for my own bread, but one needed also
clothing and other little things; however, I would not fail to repay him
from my small possessions.
He was ready to serve me. Only I had to promise to do a favour for him
sometime, and perhaps a very peculiar one. He had his desires as well.
I left the charcoal-burner's house and Bartelmei led me still farther
into the wilderness. I came up as far as the Felsenthal; here no man
dwelt, here was only the primeval forest and the solid walls of rock.
And here I was content; in a hidden cave, by which flows a gurgling
stream, I took up my abode. In the Felsenthal stood a wooden cross,
which a lost woodsman may have erected in his day. This was my altar of
reconciliation. A cross without a Saviour, like the one I had formerly
held up before the needy souls, had finally come to be my own.
And so, young friend, I have lived in solitude, have worked with
root-diggers and pitch-makers. And thus year after year has passed. I
will say nothing of renunciation; harder for me has been the feeling of
abandonment, and the longing for human society has often tormented me
unspeakably. Only the thought that renunciation is my expiation has
comforted me. I have often gone out into the valleys, where people live
in pleasant companionship. I have refreshed myself with the knowledge of
their peace of conscience and of their contentment, and I have then
returned to my cave in the ever-lonely Felsenthal and to the silent
cross upon the stony ground.
But the struggle within me, instead of growing less, has become greater,
and sometimes the thought comes to me: What kind of a life is this, led
in unprofitable idleness, in which one is of use to no man, and which
consumes itself? Can that be the will of God?
To return to the Order would be impossible. To live in the open world
as an apostate priest would be too great a reproach to the holy calling
itself. What else remains to me but to work with all my power for the
good of this little people in the forest? But I know not where to
begin. With dry sermons one does not always establish truth. I have
called on the devil so long, that he comes of himself. Teach God and
Christian love? I had poor success at that in India. So I have no
longer any inclination to serve mankind with words.
When I see children I approach them that I may show them a friendliness;
but they are afraid of me. I am avoided, and the sight of me nowhere
causes pleasure, not even in Bartelmei's hut. Besides, I am so strange,
so weird; at last I begin to fear myself. An exile I live in the
Felsenthal, thirsting to do good deeds. Then once more I wander out
towards the streams.
I have taken the load of wood from the back of the old and feeble woman,
to carry it for her into her hut. I have led the flocks away from the
dangerous cliffs for the shepherd. And in winter, when there is no man
far or near, I have fed the birds and deer with dried seeds and wild
fruit. I have wept over this, my pitiable sphere of activity, and
before the cross I have prayed,--"Lord, forgive! grant that I may yet
perform one good deed!"
And so, with the intention of achieving something worthy, I took the boy
from the Upper Winkel to live with me. I had heard that he had
inherited his father's fiery temper, and I reflected that, since this
had led Mathes to his ruin, Lazarus would probably meet with the same
fate, if the evil could not be averted by discipline correspondingly
severe. I also reflected that a weak, tender-hearted woman would never
be fitted to give the imperilled boy the strict guidance that was
necessary. One day in the woods I met the lad by the grave of his
father. He was weeping bitterly and did not flee from me like the other
children. When I asked the cause of his trouble he replied that he had
thrown a stone at his mother and now he wished to die.
I tried to comfort him; I also had once thrown a stone at mankind, but I
had now come into the wilderness to do penance and to make of myself a
better man, and I asked him if he would like to do the same. The boy
looked beseechingly at me and said--Yes.
So I took him with me up to the Felsenthal and into my hut. I kept him
with me over a year, endeavouring to hold him to strict rules, that he
might overcome his fiery temper. Together we daily performed our
devotions before the cross. I told him the story of the Crucified One;
with all the warmth of my soul I depicted the love, patience, and
gentleness of the Saviour, and I noticed how the heart of the boy was
touched by it all. He is indeed a good lad.
We worked together, gathered wild fruits, herbs, and mushrooms for our
nourishment. We did not shoot the deer, as Lazarus once proposed. We
wove chairs and mats for our rocky dwelling and for the
brandy-distiller, who knows how to dispose of them. We collected a pile
of fire-wood before our entrance. If I went to Lautergraeben or out
into the Winkel forests, the boy willingly remained in the stone hut and
worked alone. He liked to tell me about his little sister, but never a
word of his mother, although he spoke of her often enough in his dreams.
I noticed how his conscience tormented him for the deed which he had
done.
That the boy might practise patience and gentleness, I discovered a
means, which, curious and absurd as it may seem, still yielded valuable
results. I made a rosary from grey beads, and every evening Lazarus was
obliged to pray through the whole chaplet before he went to bed. He did
not tell them with his lips, however, but with his fingers and eyes. He
first stripped off all the beads from the string, so that they rolled
away on the floor; and then his task was carefully to search for and
pick up the pebbles which were scattered in all the corners. At first,
his temper would indeed overcome him; but as he thereby hindered rather
than hastened his work, he gradually accomplished it with more and more
self-control, even though the search often lasted for many hours, until
he found the last bead. And finally he acquired a calmness and
self-mastery which were admirable. "Child," I once said, "that is the
most beautiful prayer that thou canst make to show thy love for God and
for thy mother, and thereby dost thou save thy father." Then the boy
looked at me with ecstasy in his great eyes.
We did not talk much with one another, but so much the more important
and well considered was each word spoken. He seemed to love me, he
tried to fulfil my every wish. According to my direction he called me
Brother Paulus.
The manner in which I had taken and instructed the boy was indeed
daring; but I hope that he has been happily led into a better way. O my
friend, how often have I said to myself: "Of all the spiritual gifts
which are at the disposal of a priest, if I succeed in bestowing that of
self-control upon one being only, then am I saved."
In the course of the year I often looked after the mother of the boy;
and no matter how much I had become accustomed to him, I still longed
for the day when I might return the lost child to the poor woman like a
piece of pure gold after its refining.
One evening we found the cross no longer on the rock. It had been our
altar and the symbol of resignation and self-mastery. And now the
mouldy hole from which it had soared aloft stared us in the face.
Who has taken this, my one comfort, away from me? Is it to be used for
charcoal or for a hearth-fire in the cabin? Does the great forest then
no longer suffice, that they must lay a hand on the cross? What has it
done to them? Or is someone carving a Saviour for it? Or has some sick
or dying man sent for it that he might pray before it?
So I asked and wondered about it. Later in the evening I was still
hastening through the stony valley, thinking that my symbol of God must
surely be lying somewhere. I ran down into the woods, to the footpath,
and there I saw two men carrying the cross on their shoulders.
Then it occurred to me that it was to go to the new church _Am Steg_;
the foresters wished to place it on the altar. They honour it, as I do;
they also wish to learn of resignation and sacrifice; they are also
beings who, like myself, are striving and struggling for the right.
Then a joy was awakened within me and my heart was full almost to
bursting. I longed to embrace you,--you and the whole parish. For,
indeed, I belonged to you--a child of the parish.
And now there was no longer any time for idle thoughts, the hermit
continued. Soon after that I sent Lazarus away from this Felsenthal,
out to the new church, that he might pray before the cross. I gave him
my heartfelt blessing, for I well knew that he would not return to me in
my rocky abode.
I lived on alone, more abandoned than ever, but calmer, and my heart was
lightened as though the ban were about to be removed. More and more
often I went out to the new church where my cross stood. And the people
avoided me no longer; they gave me alms that I might pray to God for the
healing of their souls. Thereby I perceived with shame that they
considered me better than themselves.
I went again to Bartelmei's house, where they know more about me than in
the other huts. The charcoal-burner's mother, Kath, who has been ill
now for years, begged me for God's sake to read a mass for her, that she
might die a happy death. This I promised the old woman gladly, and thus
I came to read mass before my cross in the church _Am Steg_.
With this the man ended his story.
We were both silent for a while. Finally I said: "As things sometimes
happen strangely in this life, that may not have been your last mass in
our church."
"I have given you the answer that was due you," replied the Einspanig.
"What the result of it for you, for me may be, cannot be discussed
to-day."
With these words he arose from the tree-trunk. And as he stood upright
before me, he seemed taller and younger than usual. He drew a long
breath, and suddenly seized my hands eagerly, and with a trembling voice
cried, "I thank you, I thank you."
He then hastily took his departure.
He walked up the slope towards the Felsenthal; I, down to Lautergraeben
towards Winkelsteg.
I often stumbled against stones and fallen trees. A dark misty night
enveloped the forests.
So my misgivings concerning the hermit were happily dispelled.
When a man renounces the world, let it be to him what it may, and lives
for years in the wilderness, enduring unspeakable privations, and with
an iron will subdues the longings of his heart--he is supremely in
earnest. For what other reason would he have come into the forests,
long before even a stone had been laid for the church _Am Steg_; for
what other reason would he have caused himself to be avoided by the
people or have sought to satisfy in solitude his impulse to do good?
And before me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of his
heart, that I might look into the depths of his innermost soul, as it
stands there in its sin.
I have often thought to myself, the first priest in Winkelsteg should
not be a righteous, but a penitent man. Let him not be one who has
never fallen, but one who has risen from his fall. In the depths and
darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and find his way, that
he may lead these people to the shining heights.