No one has ever redeemed himself as this man has done--this strange man,
who has ruled at the court of a prince, preached in India, and done
penance in the cave of the Felsenthal.
He traversed all the crooked paths of priesthood until he discovered the
true one: to be friend and helper to the poor in spirit.
He contracted his last illness while ministering to the sick. He had
pronounced the betrothal blessing of Lazarus Schwarzhuetter and Juliana
Grassteiger. A slight indisposition called him from the festivities to
his room, which he never left again. And as a good, faithful shepherd,
he taught us in his last hours the most important of all things--how to
die. Like a smiling child he fell asleep. Not one of us who saw it has
any further fear of death; and we have vowed to ourselves to strictly
fulfil our duty in accordance with his example.
I cannot believe it. Restlessly I gaze out of the window to see if he
is not coming down the road in his brown cloak. He was already obliged
to lean upon a staff; he was bent with age and his hair was white.
Restlessly I walk by the parsonage; there is no more rapping on the
window-panes, no friendly face smiles out at me. I pause a moment, and
feel that I must call his name aloud. And I cannot believe that he is
gone.
The priest from Holdenschlag was here for the funeral. He was greatly
astonished at the general mourning that prevails in the Winkel forests.
Even the brandy-distiller Hannes came up to the grave and shovelled in a
clod of earth. Only old Ruepel was nowhere to be seen. He was probably
singing the funeral hymn in the peace of the primeval forest. In
Winkelsteg the bells spoke most eloquently. And when at last these were
also silent, the people quietly returned to their poor, scattered
dwellings.
I alone remain and gaze down at the yellow pine coffin. Eighteen years
ago I saw this man for the first time. He was standing by the grave in
the Wolfsgrube, where the "eater of broken glass" had just been buried.
He has been priest in Winkelsteg for twelve years. The people do not
know or realise how much they are indebted to him. To-day I look down
upon his coffin; yes, that is the end of the Einspanig's "answer."
While I am still reflecting thus, the old housekeeper from the
Winkel-warden's, my former hostess, comes limping up to me. She also
gazes into the grave, passes her hand over her face, nudges my arm and
says: "God give him everlasting peace! He was a good man, although a
story-teller. His thoughts flew like a bird over the wide world, which
he said was nowhere fastened in with boards. And now--just look down
there, Schoolmaster! Down there it is---God give him everlasting
peace--_down there it is fastened in with boards_."
Having pronounced these words she hastily hobbles away again on her
crutches.
The old woman is right. However limitless may be the flight of the
human spirit in space, man's final resting-place is within the boards of
the coffin. Happy sleeper, to thee thy coffin is now boundless space,
and but lately the infinite universe was too small for thee![#] Great
poet, forgive, that I transform your cradle song into an epitaph.
[#] Schiller's _Cradle Song_.