Who in former times would have thought that the hermit from the
Felsenthal could have become what he now is? The inactivity after such
a stirring life, the isolation from people might well have made him
insane.
It has come about in a wonderful way. Only the great cares and petty
troubles of a forest priest, only the monotonous, yet many-sided and
significant life of a forest parish in its infancy and loneliness could
have saved him.
He has now adapted himself to the place, is intimately acquainted with
each one of his parish children, and leads them by his example.
A terrible epidemic is raging in the Winkel woods; our graveyard is
becoming too small and we are unable to secure the services of the
grave-diggers; the powerful men are themselves ill.
The priest is away from home night and day, sitting with the sick people
in the most distant huts, caring for their bodies as well as for their
souls, even though the Baron has advised him not to trouble himself with
worldly cares.
At last, as he is sleeping one night in his own warm bed, there comes a
sudden knock on the window.
"It 's too bad, sir!" calls a voice from the darkness without. "There
's trouble over in Lautergraeben. We don't know what to do. Will you
help us? My brother Bartelmei is dying."
"Who is it out there?" asks the priest.
"I am Anna Maria Holzer; Bartelmei is going to leave us."
"I am coming," says the priest. "But wake up the schoolmaster that he
may make ready the lanterns and the sacrament. He need not toll the
bells, for everyone is asleep."
However, the woman begs me to ring the bells, so that others may pray
for the dying man. And as the priest now comes out and walks away among
the houses, preceded by the woman with her lantern and little bell, men,
heavy with sleep, are kneeling before their doors praying.
It is a stormy winter night; the wind blows in gusts across the cliffs
and whistles through the bare, frozen branches of the trees. A fine
snow whirls about us, blocking the path and drifting into all the folds
of our clothing.
The woman hastens on ahead, and the reflection from the red glass of the
lantern dances up and down upon the snowy ground, while the little bell
which she carries rings incessantly, although the tones are lost in the
storm, and the people in the village have gone to their rest once more.
I, too, after watching the pair for a while, return to my room.
But I will write down that which happened to the priest on this night;
for the story which was told him was not under the seal of the
confessional.
As our Father Paul stands by the bed of the sick man, the latter says:
"Does the Priest remember still how he came into Karwaesser? Does he
remember? It 's long ago; we both have experienced much since then,
and, by my faith, we have both grown grey!"
The priest warns the old charcoal-burner not to excite himself by
exhausting conversation.
"And can he remember what I said to him then: that I had my own desires
and that sometime a priest could do me a great service? That time has
now come. I am lying on my death-bed. I have already arranged with
Ehrenwald-Franz to make a coffin for me. My body will be properly cared
for;--but my soul! Priest, God pardon me, but that is as black as the
devil."
The priest seeks to soothe and comfort the man.
"Why do you do that?" asks Bartelmei, "I'm not at all discouraged. I 'm
sure that everything will come out all right.---Why is the Priest
putting on his white robe? No, I don't want that; let us finish up the
affair as quickly as possible. When a man is nearing his end, he does
n't want to do anything unnecessary. I beg you to sit down, sir.--I 'll
say at once, that all is not well with my religious faith; to tell the
truth, I believe in nothing any longer. God Himself is to blame for my
having been brought so low. He denied me something, which, by my soul,
in His almighty power He might have done so easily! I should like to
tell you about it. When Marian Sepp, who in a way belonged to me, was
dying, I said to her at her death-bed, 'Marian,' I said, 'if thou must
die now, thou poor young thing, and I have to remain alone all my days,
then God in heaven is doing a most cruel thing. But I should like to
know, Marian, and I should like to know it before my death, how it is
with eternity, which, they say everywhere, has no end, and in which the
soul of man lives on forever. Nothing definite can be learned about it,
and even though we may believe what other people say, it is not at all
sure that they know anything about it either. And now, Marian,' said I,
'when thou hast to leave us and if thou shouldst enter the everlasting
life as soon as we have buried thee, then do me the favour and, if thou
canst, come back to me sometime, if only for a few moments, and tell me
about it, that I may know what to believe; Marian promised, and if she
could have come I know she would have done so. After she died, I could
not sleep for many nights and I was always--always thinking, now, now
the door will open and Marian will appear and say: 'Yes, Bartelmei, you
may indeed believe it, it is all right, there is an eternity over yonder
and you have an immortal soul!'
"What does the Priest think? did she come?--She did _not_ come, she was
dead and gone. And since then--I cannot help it--I believe in nothing
any more."
He is silent and listens to the roaring of the winter storm. For a
while the priest gazes into the flickering flames and finally says:
"Time and eternity, my dear Bartelmei, are not divided by a hedge, which
we may cross at will. The entrance into eternity is death; in death we
lay aside all that is temporal, for eternity is so long, that nothing
temporal can exist there. Therefore thy importunate request to the
dying girl was forgotten and all memory of this earthly life
extinguished. Freed from the dust of this earth she went to God."
"Never mind, Priest," interrupts the sick man, "it does n't trouble me
any more. Be that as it may, it will all be right. But there is
another difficulty; I 'm not at peace with myself. I 've not been what
I should have been; however, I should like to arrange my affairs
properly, even as other people do. I 've not much more time, that I
well know, and so I had you frightened out of your warm bed, and now,
Priest, I earnestly beg you to intercede for me. Well--it has been a
secret, but I will out with it: I have been a wicked poacher; I have
stolen many deer from the master of the forest."
Here the charcoal-burner stops.
"Anything else?" asks the priest.
"What! Is n't that enough!" cries the old man; "truly, Priest, I know
of nothing else. I was going to ask you to beg the Baron's forgiveness.
I should have done it myself, long ago, but I always kept thinking I
would wait a little while; I might perhaps need something more from the
forest, and to ask pardon twice, would be unpleasant. Better wait and
do it all at once. But I have waited much too long; I can never do it
now. The Baron is, who knows how far away. But no matter, the Priest
will be so good and make everything all right, telling him in a
Christian speech that I have indeed repented, but not until too late to
alter matters.
"Now, this is the way it was: to be sure the charcoal business yields a
bit of bread, but when on a feast day a man wants a bite of meat with
it, then he has to go straight out into the woods with his gun. He
can't leave it alone, no matter how long he may resist the temptation,
't is a great pity, but he can't leave it alone. If the hunters had
once arrested me, then this conversation would not have been necessary
and I should not be obliged to ask such a painful favour of the
Priest.--Ah! but I 'm tired now. I already feel the death pangs."
They revive him with cold water. The priest takes his hand and promises
him, in a few kind words, to obtain pardon from the Baron. He then
pronounces absolution to the sick man.
"Thank you, thank you very much," says Bartelmei with a weak voice;
"soon I shall be done for, and--Priest, now, by my soul, I should be
glad myself, if it were true, that about eternity, and if, after my
restless life and bitter death, I might quietly slip into heaven. 'T
would be such a pleasant thing to do!"
Thus does the deep need and the longing for faith and hope express
itself in the poor, sick man. Our priest now asks him if he wishes to
receive the holy sacrament.
"It's no use," is the answer.
"But thou must, brother, thou must," says Anna Maria; "a priest who
returns home with the sacrament untouched will be followed by devils as
far as the church door!"
"Thou foolish woman, thou!" cries Bartelmei; "now thou art telling
child's fables fit to make the priest laugh at thee. After all it 's
the same to me, and to keep the priest from being molested on his way
home, I would gladly swallow the wafer, but I don't care about it, and
then, I have often heard it was a terrible sin to partake of the
sacrament unworthily."
Hereupon the priest fervently presses the hand of the sick man, saying:
"You must not be proud in your old age, Bartelmei, but this I say to
you, you have the right idea. You are virtuous, you believe in God and
in the immortality of the soul, whether you acknowledge it to yourself
or not. Your heart is pure and the happiness of heaven shall be yours!"
The old man now raises himself, stretches out his hands, and with moist
eyes he smiles, saying: "At last I have heard the right words. Will the
Priest be so good as to administer the sacrament to me? Then the King of
Terrors may come--_Mein Gott_! What is that? Marian!" suddenly cries
Bartelmei. He turns his eyes toward the light, and whispers: "Yes, girl,
why art thou wandering about here in the dark night? Marian! Dost thou
bring me the message?--the message?"
He raises himself still higher, always repeating the word: "Message!"
until he finally sinks back upon his bed and falls asleep.
After a while he opens his eyes, and with a weak voice says: "Was I
childish, sister? I had such a strange dream! My head is so hot! I
know that I can't last long; I feel such a burning in my heart.--I must
say, God bless you, all of you. Take care of thy children, sister, and
see that they do not run into the woods with the gun.--I 've already
paid Ehrenwald for the coffin.--And be sure and wash me thoroughly; as
coal-black Russ-Bartelmei I should not like to enter heaven."
When the morning glow shimmered through the little window, the man was
dead. They dressed him in his Sunday garments, and laid him in the
coffin. His sister's children sprinkled him with water from the woods.
Yesterday we buried him.