I relate these things only to the patient leaves of my journal; they
will remember the events longer than I, or than all Winkelsteg. I have
come to look upon it as a duty to record our fortunes. Other
generations will follow who should know our history.
We are sometimes visited by hail-storms and inundations which destroy
the harvests, interrupting for years the struggling peasants in the
development of their prosperity.
It has happened again this year. The people are now drying straw and
bringing it to the mills--there are a half dozen of them in the
valley--and this will be the bread for the winter.
In _my_ life there are no storms and there is no sunshine. But at all
events I intend to have my spring and my summer, for I have now added a
contrivance to my clock. I have taken out the metal bells from the
striking-apparatus and made instead, out of a spring and two bits of
wood, something which every hour imitates the call of a quail. In this
region the bird is rarely heard, but in my room it is now summer at all
seasons. The children and I are enjoying it greatly.
Over in the Holdenschlag defile through which a road has been recently
constructed, on the borderline of the Winkelsteg parish, the peasants
have set up a _weather-cross_. It has triple cross-bars, with carvings
representing the instruments of our Lord's martyrdom, and is reverently
regarded as a protection against inclement weather. The aged
Schwamelfuchs says, however, that it is more harmful than useful; it
prevents the storms, which all have their origin on the Zahn, from
proceeding farther, consequently they descend upon Winkelsteg.
As a result of this remark, the peasants have torn down the cross. To
offset this the Holdenschlagers have built a similar one near the same
place, that the storms may be confined here and not reach their fields.
Now the Winkelstegers are doubly embarrassed, and I, their schoolmaster,
with them.
Notwithstanding all my teaching, I have been unable to destroy the
superstitions bred under these felt hats. Teaching school is a hard
enough life, although I seem to spend much of my time in idleness. What
a change from those first years when we founded the parish! There
remains enough to be done, but the old priest is dead, and the new one
ignores me.
I am not yet so advanced in years and I am still at work. I teach a few
hours, rule the writing-books, cut the pens, split a little
kindling-wood, and perform a number of small duties in the church; this
fills neither my time nor my thoughts.
I spend many sleepless nights, and while lying idly in my bed, I am
haunted by maddening memories--old times, delicate blooming faces and
deathly pale ones. And then I hear a voice saying: "Thou hast mistaken
thy way; thou mightest have lived in splendour and happiness." ... I
spring from my couch, tear the violin from the wall and scrape the
strings that the ghosts may disappear.
And the strings whisper comforting words, telling me that I may be
content, I have had the happiness to work profitably for the common
weal, to strive constantly for the perfection of my own character. I am
surrounded by the glory of nature, and I have learned to know the minds
of great men through my books, and I shall still achieve much, according
to my strength, and then, content, close my eyes.
*WALDLILIE IN THE LAKE*