On holy Christmas eve the people come hither from all directions. The
sparks from the lighted torches glide over the crust like shooting
stars.
Many of the woodsmen, in their anxiety to see the midnight celebration,
have arrived much too early. As the church is not yet open and it is
cold out-of-doors, they come to me in the schoolhouse. I strike a light
and the room is soon filled with people. The women have tied white
shawls, folded like sashes, about their chins and over their ears. They
huddle around the stove, blowing their fingers to soothe the pain caused
by chilblains.
The men stand closely wrapped in their fustian jackets. Without
removing their hats they sit upon the tables or benches and observe with
an air of important deliberation the school apparatus, which the
children explain to their elders. Some of them walk up and down,
knocking their frozen boots against each other at every step, with a
clattering sound. Nearly all are smoking their pipes. The primeval
forest may be exterminated, but the smoking of tobacco--never.
I hastily put on my coat, for it is my duty to be the first one in the
church.
Suddenly there is a loud knocking at the door. An old wrinkled face
crowned with snowy locks, covered by a white sheep's wool cap peers in,
and I recognise the forest singer. He wears a long coat reaching below
the knees and fastened with brass hooks. Over it hangs a knapsack and a
flute, and the old man leans upon a shepherd's staff, holding in his
hand his capacious brown hat. This is his house and his home and his
whole world. A good hat, he thinks, is the best thing in life, and he
adds, "the earth's hat is the sky."
"Why do you idle your time away?" cries Ruepel in a loud, exultant tone;
"long have the stars been shining without. Praised be the Lord, for
upon this day, wonderful news I bring you about that which in Bethlehem
happened of late. Hear ye no music, no joyful sound? Look from the
windows, haste, do not wait, bright rays of light the houses surround."
And the people hasten to the windows; but there is nothing to be seen
except the dark forest and the starry heaven. Why should there be
anything else?
The old man gazes smilingly about him, counting his listeners, then
taking his place in the middle of the room, he knocks several times on
the floor with his stick and thus begins to speak:
"Alone and heavy-eyed with sleep, out on the heath I stood and gazed
about, while gathering in my sheep; and watched the flock, among which
grazed a sacrificial lamb. Then heard I echoing in the heavens high, a
sound, while tones of music stirred the air. I heard, but knew not why
these strains, nor who such joy expressed. The whole flock leaped about
and when it heard the wonder, with the rest, the lamb most sweetly
bleated. Then saw I--it must a vision be, I thought--child angels fly
about high in the air. Straight down to me one cherub came, whom I, in
doubt, asked, 'What is happening to-day?' Then cried he, joyous,
'Gloria in Excelsis Deo!' by my fay, to say I understood, were sin.
'Come, lad, thou must to German keep; an unlearned parish shepherd, I,
nor aught of Latin know the sheep.' He answered, 'Quickly rise and hie
to Bethlehem, and thou shalt find a new-born infant lying there among
the cattle and their kind, a child most beautiful and fair. Not in a
kingly palace high, but in an ox-stall mean and poor, in
swaddling-clothes our Lord doth lie, whose help is in our need most
sure.'"
This is the old singer's "message" which he proclaims in all the houses
during the Christmas season.
We give him a small remuneration, whereupon he repeats a few more
cheering words and hobbles out at the door again.
The people have become quite silent and reverent; and not until the
church bells begin to ring, do they regain their merry mood and with
awkward words and gestures leave the room.
I extinguish the candles, close the house and enter the church. This is
the night, when from the Orient to the Occident is heard the ringing of
bells, and a cry of joy re-echoes throughout the world, while lights are
shining like a diamond girdle around the terrestrial globe. In our
church, also, it is as bright as day, and only through the windows
stares the black night. Each person has brought a bit of candle, or
even a whole taper, for on Christmas eve everyone must be armed with his
faith and his light. The people crowd about the little manger, which
to-day has been erected in place of the confessional. A number of years
ago I carved the numerous tiny figures out of linden- and oak-wood, and
set them up as a representation of the birth of Christ. Here are the
stall and the manger with the Child, Mary and Joseph, the ox and the
ass, the shepherds with the lambs, the wise men with the camels; there
are a few other droll figures and groups which are designed to express
joy, goodness, and love for the Christ child according to the conception
of the people, and in the background are the stars and the town of
Bethlehem.
That which Ruepel understands putting into words, I will suggest by
means of these images. And the people are really edified by this
representation. But they take it, thank God, merely as a symbol, and
they know that, save as a reminder, it is both meaningless and useless.
It would be otherwise with the image of a saint upon the altar; that
would be before their eyes daily and on every occasion, until they came
to look upon it as God Himself.
In the choir there was an unfortunate occurrence to-night. The priest
had already begun the _Te Deum_, while I at the organ, in celebration of
the joyous festival, turned on all six stops--when suddenly the bellows
burst, the organ creaked and groaned, and ceased to give forth a single
resounding tone. In my whole life I have never been in a more
embarrassing situation. I was the schoolmaster, the leader of the
choir, and as such was expected to provide the music, for this is really
the essential part of the celebration, and without it there can be no
Christmas eve in the church. Just as all hearts were palpitating, all
ears awaiting the melodious tones, the devil took it upon himself to
render the bellows useless. I covered my face with my hands and felt
like hiding my head in mortification. In vain my fingers wandered over
the keys; the instrument was dumb and lifeless.
Paul Holzer, his wife, and Adelheid from the black hut, were sitting
with me in the choir and, noticing my annoyance, they moved about in
their seats, coughed, cleared their throats and with loud voices began
to sing "We praise Thee, oh, God!"
That was like balm to my spirit.
The chant was soon over and the high mass was to follow, where music,
choral music, was absolutely necessary.
Old Ruepel came stumbling up the stairs, saying: "Schoolmaster! if the
organ be silent to-day, then why not on the fiddle play?"
"_Mein Gott_, Ruepel, it is in Holdenschlag being repaired!"
"And if then the fiddle be away, the hymns on the zither would I play."
For this suggestion I embraced the old man so violently that he was
completely overwhelmed. I hastened to my room, fetched the zither, and
during high mass, tones from a stringed instrument filled the church,
the like of which were never before heard in this or in any other house
of God. The people listened, and even the priest turned a little,
casting a quiet glance up in my direction.
So the Christmas festival was celebrated during the long winter night in
Winkelsteg. The music trembled and vibrated softly; it sang the cradle
song for the newly born child Jesus and proclaimed peace to mankind. It
called and awakened the sleeping child, warning it against the coming of
the false Herod; and it trilled a _Wanderlied_ for the flight into
Egypt.
I played the music for the mass, played the songs which my mother and my
foster-father, the good umbrella-maker, used to sing to me, and which in
the Baron's house the daughter----
And at last I scarcely knew what, in my excited mood, I was playing for
the Holy Child and for the parish on that Christmas eve.
The Winkelstegers will think me as insane as Rhyme-Ruepel.
After the midnight mass the priest asked me to invite the old, the
deserted, the poorest and most unfortunate people of the parish to the
parsonage.
Here it is even brighter than in the church! In the middle of the room
stands a tree, gleaming in all its twigs and branches with points of
light.
The old men and women gaze at it in amazement; giggle and rub their
eyes, thinking it only a foolish dream. That real tapers should be
growing on a tree from the forest, is something which in all their days
they have never seen before.
"That wonder-bird, which appears every thousand years," says the priest,
"has flown through the forest again, and planted a seed in the ground,
whence this tree with its flaming blossoms has sprung. This is the
third tree of life. The first was the tree of knowledge in paradise;
the second, the tree of sacrifice on Golgotha; and this, the third, is
the tree of human love, which has transformed the Golgotha of this earth
into paradise once more. In the burning bush God once proclaimed the
law, and He repeats it in _this_ burning bush to-day: 'Thou shalt love
thy neighbour as thyself!'"
The priest now distributes the food and clothing to those for whom it is
intended, saying: "Do not thank me; the _Christkind_ brought it."
"How wonderful!" the people exclaim. "Now the Christ child even comes
down to us in the woods! That is because we have a church and such a
good priest!"
Ruepel, also one of the recipients, is more childish than all the rest.
He runs around the tree as though searching for the Christ child among
the branches. "Ah!" he finally cries, "e'en though the sun be wroth
with me, I could not name, I do not know, a light upon the earth below,
that shines so brightly as this tree. Be quiet, list, do you not hear
the rustling branches, and on high, how like the birds the cherubs fly;
they 're building for the Christ child dear a nest, in which to
celebrate the holy feast. And yonder, see that cherub white; no wings
has he, he nearly fell. Child, do not wait, but hasten for thy feet to
find some climbing-irons, for which I'll pay, for see, I have received
to-day, a jacket warm and thalers line each pocket. Angels haste to all
the other trees within our wood and let your light so pure and good,
upon their myriad branches fall."
Old Ruepel does not eat a mouthful while the others are enjoying a warm
soup provided by Grassteiger. And when straw is brought into the room
and a resting-place prepared, that the people may not be obliged to
return in the night to their distant huts, old Ruepel goes out under the
open sky, and counts the stars, giving to each one a name. And the
rising morning star he calls "Father Paul."
The priest has several times, applied to the owner of the forest, asking
that the peasants here--who, with much exertion have made the poor soil
productive--might without payment receive this land as their own
property. But no decisive answer has come. It is said that the old
Baron is travelling and the son is in the capital, and the world is so
wide and the city so noisy that such a message from the forest could not
be heard there.
So we Winkelstegers remain vassals.