"To-day, _mein Herr_," said the hostess, "to-day it will indeed be fine
on the mountain, if you do not lose your way in the snow. He who has
patience may hope for everything in this world, even beautiful weather
in Winkelsteg. But you must take someone with you." Then turning to
her husband she said: "Dost thou not think that Reiter-Peter would like
to earn a nice little fee for acting as guide?"
"Reiter-Peter," I said, "yes, he will suit me; for I do not care to talk
on the way."
"Ah, you already know that Peter cannot talk; yes, he is quiet enough,
when he has n't his violin with him."
Peter was the same dumb lad who two days before had met me by the church
door after mass. So, provided with the necessary equipment, I climbed
the mountain with the schoolmaster's godchild.
The snow was soft and glistened in the morning sunlight. Soon the
prostrate plants and flowers were again standing erect, and the birds
sang and hopped from branch to branch, shaking the flakes from the
trees. The grass showed itself fresh and green through the rose-tinted
whiteness of the ground, and the mountains stood out in bold relief
against the sky. Summer and winter were blended in a most wonderful
manner.
We walked by the burial-ground. Peter removed his hat, carrying it in
his hand until we had passed the sacred spot. The old trees interwove
their tops and branches over the few mounds, forming an arch like that
of a Gothic temple. A veil of snow covered it, but beneath its shadow
upon the graves flourished fresh grass and a tangle of moss, which
climbed over and clung to the trunks, or lay in confusion upon the grey,
bare, nameless wooden crosses.
I wished to see the resting-places of Father Paul and Rhyme-Ruepel.
Peter looked at me inquiringly; the young man knew nothing of them.
A little later we came out upon a mountain ridge.
"Are we on the Lauterhoehe?" I asked my silent companion. He nodded
assent. I thought of the cow that ate the Alpine nosegay, of the
pine-trees in the background, and of old Schirmtanner, then I suddenly
turned and asked Peter: "You know little Rose Schirmtanner, do you not?"
He grew as red as the Alpine flower of the same name.
From this elevation quite a new region disclosed itself toward the
north; valleys and wooded hills were clearly outlined before me; to the
left rose the cliffs, forming a rough, broken wall far over the forest.
In this direction I fancied were the regions of Lautergraeben,
Karwaesser, Wolfsgrube, and the Felsenthal.
The path led down toward the valley; but we turned to the left and
climbed through forests of fir-trees and underbrush, higher and higher
until we reached the clearing, which extended upwards toward the
towering masses of rock.
The snow here was somewhat harder and more crusty, but it did not
especially interfere with our walking. A few huts stood on this spot,
the smoke issuing from their chimneys, while in the stalls the tinkling
of cow-bells was heard. The cattle must eat hay to-day, but after the
snow has gone there will be warm pleasant weather again. I should like
to know from which of these windows the master workman Paul was found
suspended!
We proceeded on our way; I soon noticed that my companion was not
familiar with the path.
Approaching the rocks, we climbed through the defile, as I remembered
the schoolmaster had done, and at last we reached the summit.
The picture was beyond comparison. The schoolmaster has described it.
We walked along the ridge, rested a little to refresh ourselves with
bread and meat and bind on our climbing-irons, then, slowly crossing the
glacier, we advanced toward the cone.
The air was remarkably clear, still, and frosty; and so invigorating
that I felt like shouting for the very joy of living. The nearer we
approached the summit, the more we hastened our footsteps; Peter, too,
became jubilant.
And now we were above, standing on the summit of the Zahn. It seemed to
me as if I had already been a number of times on these heights.
Surrounding us in an endless circle--as the schoolmaster has said--was
the kingdom of the Alps.
Even beyond the great forests, in the sunlit south, towered, clear and
distinct, the spires and peaks of another mountain range, and farther
on, stretched straight before me a shimmering band--the sea!
I felt almost impelled to hasten down from rock to rock and on over hill
and valley to seek the schoolmaster and say to him: "Come, look upon the
sea!"
Deeply thrilled and absorbed, I gazed a long time. Then we descended a
few steps under the jutting rocks where the man had sat and dreamed
fifty years ago.
Here the sun was shining warmly and the snow had already melted from
some of the stones. Seating ourselves upon one of them, we ate our
dinner. Peter played in the snow with his stick, tracing letters; I
thought perhaps he was trying to express to me his thoughts and
sensations. But he erased the characters and it proved to be only play.
My eyes wandered from one mountain to another, on to the most distant
Italian heights; they gazed out over the sunny waters, they drank in the
sea, where upon the waves I could catch the gleaming rays of the midday
sun. A blue shadow suddenly passed before my eyes, which had become
dazzled by the brilliant light.
All at once a cry resounded near me. The lad had sprung to his feet and
was pointing with both hands toward the rough snow-covered ground.
Starting up in alarm, I first noticed where the snow had been displaced
by the letters traced in it, and then to my horror I saw--the white
covering having been partially removed--the head of a man which was thus
exposed to view.
The lad, rigid with terror, stood motionless but for a few seconds,
then, hastening to the spot, he worked with feverish haste to free the
buried form from its snowy shroud. When the whole body was lying
stretched before him, he covered his face with his hands and sank
sobbing into my arms.
There lay an old man, wrapped in a brown cloak his features withered and
sunburnt, his deep-set eyes closed, his scanty locks disordered and
white as the snow.
My sensations at that hour were beyond description.
"Do you know him?" I asked the lad.
He sorrowfully nodded,
"Is it the schoolmaster?" I cried.
Peter bowed his head.
At last, when we had somewhat regained our composure, we began to
examine the dead man more closely. He was carefully wrapped in the
cloak, climbing-irons were bound to his feet and near by lay an
alpenstock.
In the half-opened leather bag I discovered some dried bread-crumbs and
a bit of paper rolled together. Seizing this I opened it, and found a
few words, written with a pencil in crooked irregular lines and by a
trembling uncertain hand.
The writing, which was legible, was as follows:
"Christmas day. At the setting of the sun I beheld the sea and lost my
eyesight" ---- ----
So he had reached his goal. As a blind man he had written the page, the
last page of his story. Then laying himself down on the hard ground, he
had awaited death in the freezing winter night.
We built a wall of stones about the dead man and covered it over as best
we could. Then we descended to the meadows, taking the shorter path by
the way of Miesenbach to Winkelsteg.
The next morning, at an early hour, a number of people began the ascent
of the Graue Zahn, I accompanying them. Old Schirmtanner was also with
us, and he had much to tell us about the schoolmaster, his story
entirely corresponding with the records.
And so we bore the aged Andreas Erdmann, who in the dry cold Alpine air
had become almost a mummy, down to the valley of the Winkel to the
parish church, which had been built through his efforts; we carried him
to the burial-ground which he himself had planned in the shadow of the
forest.
The news that the old schoolmaster had been found had already spread
through the Winkel woods, and everyone came to the funeral and praised
the good, brave man. The Winkel landlord wept like a child. "He
blessed my poor abandoned father upon his death-bed!" he cried.
Schirmtanner was obliged to lead Peter away from the bier.
The forester from the manor-house was there. Close by the grave grew a
wood-lily.
The brandy-distiller Schorschl, speaking to a few people who were
standing by the entrance to the burial-ground, said that he had had
nothing at all against the schoolmaster, but all the same the latter was
an obstinate man. And there was one thing to be remembered, if the
schoolmaster had only had a little flask of gin with him, he would not
have been frozen.
In the evening by the light of torches the good old man was laid in the
ground.
The old manuscript which had fallen into my hands in such a peculiar
way, I begged from the parish of Winkelsteg, so that I might give it to
the world as a legacy--as the witness of a poor, yet rich and fruitful
and unselfish life lived in the solitude of the forest. With deep
emotion have I added the last few pencilled words to "The Schoolmaster's
Story." Ponder it, Reader, and a rare experience shall be thine. The
first page is addressed by a child to Heaven; and from this same child,
after the fulfilment of time, the last page is sent down from Heaven to
the struggling ones of earth--a seal of the legacy--bearing this
inscription: