.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 47168
   :PG.Title: The Forest Schoolmaster
   :PG.Released: 2014-10-22
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Peter Rosegger
   :MARCREL.trl: Frances \E. Skinner
   :DC.Title: The Forest Schoolmaster
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1900
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE FOREST SCHOOLMASTER
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      The Forest
      Schoolmaster

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      By Peter Rosegger

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      Authorized Translation
      by
      Frances \E. Skinner

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      \G. \P. Putnam's Sons
      New York and London
      The Knickerbocker Press
      1901

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      COPYRIGHT, 1900
      BY
      FRANCES \E. SKINNER

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      The Knickerbocker Press, New York

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      For the use of the following autobiographical sketch,
      I am indebted to the courtesy of Herr Staackmann, the
      author's publisher in Leipzig.

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      THE TRANSLATOR.

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   PREFACE

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The author of the following work is a man well
on in the fifties and lives—as he should—on
his native soil.  Born in Steiermark, Austria, in a
lonely mountain region, he led the life of a forest
peasant until he reached the age of eighteen, when
he became apprenticed to a travelling peasant tailor.
On the expiration of this apprenticeship, which
covered a period of four years, he spent other four
years as charity scholar in the commercial school at
Graz.

After these experiences, and after having mastered
such a variety of subjects, he began to work at
something which he not only had not mastered but
with which he was wholly unfamiliar—literature.
He had always had a passion for books, but having
no money with which to buy them, he had made
them for himself.

In the peasant hut and in the workshop had been
brought forth no less than twenty-four magnificent
volumes, closely written with ink made from soot,
illustrated with lead-pencil, and painted in
water-colours with a brush made from his own
hair—*édition de luxe*!  But worthy to be printed!—not a
single line.

Thus this youth had worked for ten long years,
every Sunday, every holiday, and often late into the
night, by the light of a pine torch and in the midst
of the noise of his house companions, who occupied
the same room.  The intellectual and spiritual life
of the poor lad was a very lonely one.

He did not write for print; the innocent boy
scarcely knew that books were already being printed
in this age, for the most of those which he had seen
were old folios.  He simply wrote to make two
out of one, to place himself before himself, in his
thoughts, in poems, in all kinds of yarns and tales,
that in his great loneliness he might at least have a
comrade.  Beyond this he did not think or strive,
was happy rather than unhappy, cherishing a vague
hope that his life would at some time change.
Whenever he asked himself what this change might
be, he would calmly answer:—"Probably death."

But at this point things took a strange turn.  The
young man was completely transformed; not only
from boy to youth, from youth to man; he changed
not his coat alone, but in his fustian jacket, in his
workman's blouse or student's garb, there appeared
each time another being, which during all these
transformations had not once died.

It finally seemed to him as though three or four
different natures were dwelling in him, and as the
original one had formerly tried to express itself, so
now, in great confusion, they all struggled with one
another to do the same.  He was twenty-six years
old, he had seen something of life, had read many
books and had seen how they were made.  Thus he
was inspired to write afresh, and this time—*for
print*.

I should envy him his good fortune were I not
the man myself.  So nothing remains for me but to
thank Heaven for the pleasant paths over which I
have been led.  I have not deserved it, for I was
not conscious of any definite aim, being satisfied to
fill my days with work which appealed to me.  I
could now write to my heart's content.  That which
was written with the least effort was always the
most successful, but if I attempted anything great,
which it seemed to me might even prove itself
immortal, it was usually a failure.

It was finally decided by one of my friends that
for the future I should neither do tailoring nor
handle the plough or the yard-stick, but instead
become an author.  My youth had not spoiled me,
far from it, but such an aim as this seemed beyond
my reach.

I married and had children.  I wrote, and my
books found friends.  And now the time had come
when one might truly say, "*Augenblick verweile!*"  But
the moment did not stay, it flew and with it
took from me my dearest, my all,—my wife.  In
the *Waldheimath* and in *Mein Weltleben* those
events have been depicted.

But my work was my salvation, and another
transformation took place.  In the neighbourhood of my
forest home I built myself a little house and after a
number of years I married a second time.  More
children came, and as my hair whitened, I was
surrounded by a lively circle of gay young people.

In the meantime I had seen something of the
world, wandering from the north to the south,
visiting friends over in the dear German Empire, being
invited to various cities to give readings from my
works in *steierisch* dialect.

For twenty-three years I edited a monthly
magazine in Graz, called "*Der Heimgarten*," where my
various writings were placed on trial.  Those which
were worthy to endure but a day died with the
day, those which struck a deeper chord appeared in
books.  During the last thirty years forty volumes
have gone out into the world.  Their merits must
be judged by the reader.  They are not so
impassioned as formerly; but the little forest springs
are clearer than the greater ones.  I shall be proud
if my critics will only call them: "*Frisch Wasser*."

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PETER ROSEGGER.

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KRIEGLACH, Autumn, 1899

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   CONTENTS

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`INTRODUCTORY`_

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THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY:

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   `PART FIRST`_

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   `PART SECOND`_

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   `PART THIRD`_

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   `THE LAST PAGE`_

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.. _`INTRODUCTORY`:

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   The Forest Schoolmaster

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   INTRODUCTORY

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"ROAD TO WINKELSTEG."

These words are on the sign-post.  But the
rain has nearly washed out the old-fashioned
letters, and the post itself totters in the wind.

Round about stretches a rugged pine-forest; on
the heights above are a few ancient larches, their
bare branches reaching out to the sky.  In the
depths of a defile is a roaring torrent which the old
mountain road frequently crosses by means of
half-sunken wooden bridges, leading to an opening where
the wanderer from peopled regions catches the first
glimpse of the glaciers.

Here the Wildbach comes rushing down, and the
road, after having traversed wastes and wildernesses,
turns toward more peaceful woodlands, at last
leading to the habitations of man.  Along the river-bed
extends a dry rocky ravine, across which storms have
thrown pine-trunks, bleached from long exposure to
the sun.

At the parting of the ways, upon a high rock
stands a tall wooden cross, with triple cross-bars,
upon which are carved the instruments of martyrdom
of the holy passion: spear, sponge, reed, pincers,
hammer, and the three nails.  The wood is weather-beaten
and overgrown with moss.  Close by is the
post with the arm and the inscription: "Road to
Winkelsteg."

This sign points to the neglected stony path
leading toward the narrow valley, beyond which lie
the snow-fields.  On the farthest heights, above the
gently rising, snow-covered peaks, towers a grey
cone, about whose summit cloud flakes love to gather.

I seated myself upon a block of stone near the
cross and gazed up at the grey peak.  While sitting
there, my soul was possessed with that vague
feeling, the source and meaning of which no one can
tell, nor why it so oppresses the heart; clothes it, as
it were, with the armour of resignation, preparing it
against a something which must come.  We call
this strange experience of the soul, foreboding.

I might have rested for some time on the stone,
listening to the roar of the wild waters, had it not
seemed to me that the wooden arm was stretching
itself out longer and longer, while the words grew
into a pressing reminder: "Road to Winkelsteg."

On rising I perceived that my shadow was already
lengthening, and it was uncertain how great a
distance still lay between me and that remotest and
smallest of all villages, Winkelsteg.

I walked rapidly, taking little heed of my surroundings.
I only noticed that the wilderness became
more and more imposing.  I heard deer belling in
the forest, I heard vultures whistling through the
air.  The sky darkened, although too early for
nightfall.  A storm was gathering over the rocky peaks.
First a half smothered rumbling was heard, then a
thundering and rolling, as if all the rocks and masses
of ice in the high mountains were crashing a
thousand times against each other.  The great trees
swayed, and in the broad leaves of a maple already
rattled the big icy drops.

With these few drops the storm passed.  Farther
in it must have been more severe, for suddenly
through the gorge a wild torrent, bringing with it
earth, stones, ice, and bits of wood, rushed toward
me.  I saved myself from falling by clambering up the
slope, and with great difficulty made my way forward.
The whole country was now wrapped in fog,
which descended from the branches of the pines to
the damp heather on the ground.

As twilight approached and the defile widened a
little, I reached a narrow valley, the length of which
I could not measure on account of the fog.  The
grass was covered with hailstones.  The brook had
overflowed its banks and torn away the bridge which
led to the opposite shore, where through the grey
mist shone the wooden roofs of a few houses and a
little white church.  The air was frosty and cold.  I
called across to the men who were trying to catch
the blocks of wood and regulate the current.  They
shouted back that they could not help me, and that
I must wait until the water had lowered again.

One might wait the whole night for such a torrent
to subside; so, taking the risk, I attempted to wade
through the stream.  But those on the other side
motioned to me warningly.  Soon a tall, black-bearded
man appeared with a long pole, by means of which
he swung himself across to me.  Close to the bank
he piled a few stones, and upon these laid a board
which the others had shoved to him.  Then taking
me by the hand, he cautiously led me over the
tottering bridge to the opposite shore.

While we were swaying over the water, the sound
of the Ave-bells reached our ears, and the men
reverently removed their hats.

The tall, dark man walked with me over the crackling
hailstones up to the village.  "So it goes," he
grumbled on the way.  "If God lets anything grow,
the devil strikes it down into the ground again.  The
cabbage plants are gone to the last stump, and the
last stump is gone also.  The oats are lying on their
backs now with their knees raised toward heaven."

"Has the storm done so much harm?" I asked.

"You see that," he replied.

"And farther out there it hardly sprinkled."

"I can well believe it.  It is always meant only
for us Winkelstegers.  From to-day on not one of
us will dare eat his fill all summer, unless we wish to
hang our stomachs up in the chimney flue for the
winter."  Such was his answer.

The village consisted of three or four wooden
houses, a few huts, some smoking charcoal-pits, and
the little church.

In front of one of the larger houses, before the
door of which lay a broad stepping-stone, worn by
many feet, my companion paused and said: "Will
you stop here, sir?  I am the Winkel innkeeper."  With
these words he pointed to the house, as if that
were his real self.

Entering the guest-room, I was met by the
landlady who took my travelling-bag and damp
overcoat and, bringing me a pair of straw shoes, said:
"Off with the wet leather and on with the
slippers; be quick; a wet shoe on the foot runs for the
doctor."  Very soon I was sitting dry and comfortable
by the large table under the *Haus Altar* and
some shelves, upon which stood a row of gaily
painted earthen- and china-ware.  Upon a rack were
a number of bottles, and I was asked at once if I
would take some brandy.

On requesting some wine mine host replied:
"There has n't been a drop in the cellar since the
house was built, but I can give you some excellent
cider."

As I accepted his offer, he started for the cellar,
but his wife stepped hastily up to him and, taking
the key out of his hand, said: "Go, Lazarus, and
snuff the candle for the gentleman; and be quick
about it, Lazarus; you'll get your little drop soon
enough."

He came back to the table grumbling, snuffed
the wick of the tallow candle, looked at me for
awhile, and finally asked: "The gentleman is possibly
our new schoolmaster?—No?  Then your way leads
up the Graue Zahn?  That you will hardly do
to-morrow.  No one has climbed it this summer.
That must be done in the early autumn; at other
times there's no depending on the weather.
Indeed, how one does speculate about things; now I
thought you might be the new schoolmaster.  Hardly
anyone finds his way up here who does n't belong
to the place, and we are expecting him every day.
The old one has run away from us;—have you
heard nothing about it?"

"So, Lazarus, you 're having a fine chat with the
gentleman," said the landlady in a coaxing tone to
her husband, as she set the cider and at the same
time the evening soup before me.

The woman was no longer young, but was what
the foresters call "round as a ball."  She had a
double chin, from under which about the full throat,
a silver chain peeped out.  Her little eyes had a
shrewd and gentle expression as she spoke or moved
about, cheerfully presiding in the house, each corner
and nail of which was familiar to her and had almost
grown to be a part of herself.  In a merry mood she
directed everything, joked with the guests, and laughed
with the servants in the kitchen.  That the storm
had ruined the crops was indeed no joke, she said;
but it was far better that ice should fall from heaven
upon the earth than that it should fall into heaven
and break everything to pieces there.  Then indeed
one would have nothing more to hope for.  And as
she talked she fairly bubbled over with fun, and
the whole circle about her was cheered, each one
seeming simply to follow his own bent in whatever
he did, felt, and said; yet all went on in perfect
order.

"You have an excellent little wife," I said to my
landlord.

"Yes, indeed, yes, indeed," he answered with
animation; "she is good, my Juliana, yet—yet——"
the word seemed to choke him, or rather he ground
it between his teeth and forced it down; springing
up, with his hands clinched behind him, he strode
across the room and back again, finally draining a
glass of water at one draught.

Then he seated himself upon the bench and was
quiet.  But he was by no means himself.  He had
doubled his fists and was staring hard at the table....
I once saw at a fair an Arab, a tall, powerful
figure, haggard, rough, brown as leather, with a full
black beard, gleaming eyes, a long hooked nose,
snow-white teeth, thick eye-brows, and soft woolly
hair....  Thus appeared the man now brooding
so gloomily before me.

"There is n't another little wife so good-hearted
and faithful," he murmured suddenly; he finished
the sentence with a sullen growl.

Observing his painful mood, I tried to help him
out of it.

"So you say the old schoolmaster has run away?"  At
this the landlord raised his head: "One can't
exactly say he has run away; he had nothing to
complain of here.  I should think one who had
been school-teacher, and I-don't-know-what-all, in
Winkelsteg for fifty years, would n't run away like
a horse-thief in the fifty-first."

"School-teacher here fifty years!" I exclaimed.

"He was school-teacher, doctor, bailiff, and awhile
even our pastor."

"And half a fool in the bargain!" called a man
from a neighbouring table, where a number of swarthy
fellows, mostly wood-cutters and charcoal-burners,
were sitting before their brandy-glasses.  "Aye! aye!"
cried the same voice; "he would sit outside there
by the juniper bush muttering to himself, hours at a
time; he must have been trying to teach the
bullfinches to sing by note.  Whenever he spied a gay
butterfly, he would flounder after it the livelong
day;—a baby in arms could n't have been more
childish.  Maybe some such creature has enticed
him away now, so that the old man can never find
his way home again, but is lost out in the woods
somewhere."

"There are no butterflies about at Christmas-time,
Josel," said the landlord, half correctingly, half
reprovingly; "and that he was lost on Christmas eve,
you know very well."

"The devil has taken him, the old sinner!"
growled another voice from the darkest corner of
the room, by the big stove.

As I looked in that direction, I saw in the
darkness sparks from a tinder-box.

"You mustn't, you mustn't talk so!" said one
of the charcoal men.  "You should remember that
the old man had snow-white hair!"

"Yes, and horns under it," was called from the
corner by the stove; "perhaps no one knew him so
well, the old sneak, as Schorschl!  Do you think he
did n't connive with the great men so that none of
us could win in the lottery?  How then did
Kranabetsepp make a *tern* the second week after the
schoolmaster went away?  To be sure, the
hunch-backed hypocrite had money enough, but he buried
it, so that if he did n't need it himself the poor
could n't use it either.  Oh—perhaps one might
tell other stories, too, if certain people were not in
the room."

The voice was silent; nothing could be heard but
the sound of lips puffing smoke, and the shutting of
a pipe-lid.

The landlord arose, threw aside his fustian jacket,
and, with flowing shirt-sleeves, walked a few steps
toward the stove.  In the middle of the room he
paused.

"So there are certain people in the room, are
there," he said under his breath.  "Schorschl, I
thought so myself; but they don't sit at an honest
table before everybody's eyes; they cower in the
pitch-dark corner, like good-for-nothing rascals,
like—like——"

He stopped, and it could be seen how he forced
himself to be calm; he pulled himself together with
a jerk, but remained standing in the middle of the
room.

"Oh, of course the brandy-distillers could n't
endure the old man," said one of the charcoal-burners.
Then turning to me: "My dear sir, he meant well!
God comfort his poor soul!  He played the organ
Christmas eve, but Christmas morning there were no
bells rung for prayers.  In the night he had told
Reiter-Peter—he is our musician, you know—to
take charge of the music on Christmas day;—that
was his last word, and the schoolmaster was seen no
more.  By St. Anthony, how we hunted for the man!
It was impossible to trace him; the snow was as hard
as stone everywhere, even in the forest.  All
Winkelsteg was up searching the woods far and near, and
even the roads in the country outside."

The man was silent; a shrug of the shoulders and
a motion of the hand indicated that they had not
found him.

"And so we Winkelstegers have no schoolmaster,"
said the landlord.

"As for myself, I don't need one; I never have
learned anything, and never shall now.  I manage
anyway.  But I see very well that there must be a
schoolmaster.  Therefore, we peasants of the parish
and the wood-cutters have agreed that we must have
a new——"

At this moment I raised the cider glass to my lips,
to swallow the rest of the excellent drink, and the
action seemed to check the man's power of speech.
Staring at the empty glass, he tried to go on with his
story, which apparently was entirely driven from his
mind.

"I know what I think," answered one of the
charcoal-burners, "and I say the same, just exactly the
same, as Wurzentoni.  The old schoolmaster, says
he, knew a bit more than other people; a good bit
more.  Wurzentoni—not only once, ten, nay a
hundred times,—has seen the schoolmaster praying out of
a little book in which were all sorts of sayings, magic
and witchcraft signs.  If the schoolmaster had died
anywhere in the woods, says Wurzentoni, then
someone would have found the body; if the devil had
taken him, then his cloak would have been left
behind; for the cloak, says Wurzentoni, is innocent;
the devil has no power over that, not the least!
Something altogether different has happened, my
friends!  The schoolmaster has bewitched himself,
and so, invisible, he wanders around day and night in
Winkelsteg—day and night at every hour.  That's
because he 's curious to see what the people are
doing, and to hear what stories they are telling
about him, and because——.  I 'm not saying
anything bad about the schoolmaster, not I; I should n't
know what to say, indeed I should n't!"

"Oh, if the devil was n't any wiser than the black
charcoal-burner!" coughed the voice behind the
stove.  "The old scoundrel still leads the
Winkelstegers around by the nose!"

An enraged lion could not have started up more
angrily than did the rough and sullen landlord.
Fairly groaning with impatience, he plunged behind
the stove, from whence issued alarming cries.

Hastening forward, the landlady cried: "Come,
Lazarus, don't mind that stupid rascal there!  It
is n't worth while that you should lift a finger on his
account.  Come, be sensible, Lazarus; see, here I
have poured out your drink of cider for you."

He yielded at last, and Schorschl sneaked out
through the door like a dog, leaving Lazarus with
bits of hair in his fist.  Grumbling, he walked
towards the chest upon which his wife had placed a
mug of cider.  Almost choking, he tremblingly
seized it and, carrying it to his lips, took a long
draught.  With staring eyes he stopped a moment,
then, beginning again, he drained the mug to the last
drop!  That must have been a terrible thirst!  The
hand holding the empty mug sank slowly; with a
deep breath the landlord glowered straight before him.

So the time passed, until the landlady came to me
and said: "We can give you a good bed up in the
attic; but I will tell you at once, sir, that the wind
has carried away a few shingles from the roof to-day,
and so it drips through a little.  In the schoolhouse
above here, is a very nice, comfortable room, which
has already been arranged for the new teacher; it
heats well, too, and we have the key; for my old man
is Winkel Magistrate, and has charge of it.  Now, if
you would n't mind sleeping in the schoolhouse, I
would advise you to do it.  Indeed it's not in the
least gloomy, and it 's very quiet and clean.  I think
I should like to live there the year round."

So I chose the schoolhouse instead of the attic.
Not long afterwards, a maid with a lantern
accompanied me out into the dark, rainy night, through
the village to the church beyond the graveyard, on
the edge of which stood the schoolhouse.  The hall
was bare, and the shadows from the lantern chased
each other up and down the walls.

Then we entered a little room, where, in the tile
stove, a bright fire was crackling.  My companion
placed a candle on the table, threw back the brown
cover of the bed, and opened a drawer of the bureau,
that I might put away my things.  All at once she
exclaimed: "No, really, we should all of us be
ashamed of ourselves; here are these scraps still
scattered about!"  She hastily seized an armful of
sheets of paper, which were lying in confusion in
the drawer.  "I 'll take care of you soon enough,
you bits of trash; the stove is the place for you!"

"Stop, stop," I interrupted, "perhaps there are
things there that the new teacher can use."

She threw the papers back into the drawer with
an impatient gesture.  In her frenzy for cleaning up,
it would doubtless have given her great pleasure to
burn them; just as indeed many ignorant people are
possessed with a desire to destroy everything which
seems to them useless.

"The gentleman can put on the old schoolmaster's
night-cap," said the girl roguishly, laying a blue
striped night-cap on the pillow.  She then gave me
some advice in regard to the door-key, and said:
"So, *in Gottesnamen*, now I will go!" and with this
she left me.

She closed the outside door, and, turning the key
of the inner, I was alone in the room of the missing
schoolmaster.

How strange had been the fortunes of this man,
and how curious the reports of the people!  And
how contradictory these reports!  A good, excellent
man, a fool; and what's more, one whom at last the
devil claims for his own!

I looked around me in the room.  There was a
worm-eaten table and a brown chest.  On the wall
hung an old clock; the figures were entirely effaced
from the dial under which the short pendulum
swung busily backward and forward, as if trying to
hasten faster and faster out of a sad past into a
better future.  And, curiously enough, I could also hear
the ticking of the church-tower clock outside!

Near this time-piece hung a few pipes, carved
out of juniper wood, with disproportionately long
stems; then a violin, and an old zither with three
strings.  There were besides the usual furnishings
in the room, from the boot-jack under the bedstead
to the calendar on the wall.  The calendar was last
year's.  The windows were much larger than is
usual in wooden houses, and were provided with
lattices, through which dried birch-twigs were twined.

Pushing aside one of the blue curtains, I looked
out into the darkness.  From one corner of the
churchyard, something shone like a stray
moonbeam.  It was probably the phosphorous light from
a mouldering wooden cross, or from the remains of
a coffin.  The rain pattered, the wind blew in chilly
gusts, as is usual after hailstorms.

I had given up the mountain trip for the next
day.  I decided either to wait in Winkelsteg for fine
weather, or, by means of one of the coal waggons, to
go away again.  Sometimes, even in summer, the
damp fogs last for weeks in the mountains, while in
the outlying districts the sun is still shining.

Before I retired, I rummaged a little among the
old papers in the drawer.  There were sheets of
music, writing exercises, notes, and all kinds of
scribbling on rough grey paper, written partly with
pencil, partly with pale, yellowish ink, some hastily, and
some with great care.  And between the leaves lay
pressed plants, butterflies, which had long lost the
dust from their wings, and a lot of animal and
landscape drawings, mostly rather clumsily done.  But
one picture struck me particularly, a curious picture,
painted in bright colours.  It represented the bent
figure of an old man, sitting upon the trunk of a
tree, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.  He wore a flat,
black cap, with a broad, projecting brim, under which
his hair was combed straight back.  Whoever had
drawn the picture must have been an artist; one
could see that from the expression of the face.  Out
of one eye, which was wide open, gazed an earnest,
though gentle soul; the other, which was half closed,
twinkled roguishly.  When such guests look forth
from the windows of a house, it surely cannot be
poor and barren within.  Above the cheeks, made
perhaps too rosy by the well-meaning artist, were
deep furrows, as if storms and torrents had swept
over them.  On the other hand, the long white beard
gave a very droll appearance to the otherwise
smoothly-shaven face; it was for all the world like
an icicle hanging from under the chin.  About the
throat a bright red kerchief was twisted a number
of times and tied in several knots in front.  Then
came the high wall of coat-collar and the blue cloth
tail-coat itself, with its loosely-hanging pockets, from
one of which the humorous artist had made a bun
peep out.  The coat was loosely buttoned up to the
icicle.  The trousers were grey, very tight and
short; the boots, also grey, were broad and long.
So the little man sat there, holding the pipe-stem
with both hands, smoking contentedly.  The smoke
rose in delicate rings and hearts.

The artist must have been an odd genius, and the
subject still more odd.  One or the other was surely
the old schoolmaster, who had disappeared in such
an inexplicable manner, after having taught for fifty
years in this place.  "And invisible he wanders
around day and night in Winkelsteg, at every hour!"

I went to bed, and lay there thinking, not in the
least realising what manner of man had built this
house, and rested in this place before me.

The fire in the stove crackled fainter and fainter
and was dying out.  Outside the rain pattered, yet
such a silence lay over all that I seemed to hear
the breathing of the night.  I was just falling asleep,
when all at once, quite close above me, began a
cheerful sound, and several times in succession the
call of the quail rang out loud and merrily.  It was
deceptively like the beautiful voice of the bird in
the cornfield.  It was the old clock, which in such a
strange way had announced to me the eleventh hour.

And the sweet tones led my thoughts and dreams
out into the sunny cornfields, to the waving stalks,
to the bright blue flowers, to the dazzling butterflies,
and thus I fell asleep that night in the mysterious
schoolhouse in Winkelsteg.

.. vspace:: 2

As the call of the quail had lulled me to sleep, so
it awakened me again.  It was the sixth hour of the
morning.

The mild warmth from the stove filled the room;
the walls and ceiling were as though bathed in
moonlight.  It was the month of July, and the sun must
have already risen.  I arose and drew back one of
the blue window-curtains.  The large panes were
wet and grey; here and there a pearly drop, freeing
itself, rolled down through the countless bubbles,
leaving behind a narrow path, through which the
dark-brown church roof could be seen.

I opened the window; a chilly air penetrated the
room.  The rain had ceased; upon the graveyard
wall lay icicles, lodged there by the storm, together
with broken bark and tops of branches.  By the
church were bits of shingle from the roof; the
windows were protected with boards.  Some ash trees
stood near by, and the water dripped from the few
leaves which the hail had spared.  Yonder rose the
vanishing image of a chimney; everything beyond
that was hidden by the fog.

I had abandoned all thought of the Alpine climb
for that day.  While dressing, I looked at the
mechanism of the old Black Forest clock, which, by
means of two flat bits of wood beating against each
other, so strikingly reproduced the warbling notes
of the quail.  Afterwards I rummaged awhile among
the papers in the drawer, as it was still too early for
breakfast.  I noticed that, excepting the drawings,
calculations, and those papers which served as an
album for the plants, all the written sheets were of
the same size, and numbered with red ink.  I tried
to arrange the leaves, and occasionally cast a glance
at their contents.  It seemed to be a kind of diary,
bearing reference to Winkelsteg.  But the writings
were so full of peculiar expressions and irregularly-formed
sentences that study and some translation
would be necessary to make them intelligible.

This task, however, did not discourage me; for
here I hoped to find an account of the isolated
Alpine village, and perhaps even facts concerning the
life of the lost schoolmaster.  While busily arranging
the papers and thoroughly absorbed in my work,
I suddenly discovered a thick grey sheet upon which
was written in large red letters: "THE SCHOOLMASTER'S
STORY."

So, in a way, I had put a book together, and the
leaf with the red letters I had laid by chance on top
as a title.

In the meanwhile, my quail had announced the
eighth hour, and from the church tower two clear
little bells rang out for mass.  The priest, a slender
man with a pale face, walked from his house up the
stone steps to the church.  A few men and women
followed him, and, while still far from the door,
bared their heads, or, taking out their rosaries at the
entrance, sprinkled themselves reverently with holy
water.

Leaving the schoolhouse, I crossed the rough,
sandy ground, and, attracted by the friendly sound
of the organ, entered the place of worship.  Upon
the first glance, the interior seemed much the same
as in any village church—yet in reality it was quite
different.

Usually the poorer such a church, the more silver
and gold is seen sparkling within—all the candlesticks
and vessels, of silver, all the decorations, the
robes of the saints, the angels' wings, and even the
clouds in the sky, of gold.  But it is only
make-believe.  I cannot blame that peasant for exclaiming,
the first time he arranged the service for mass, thus
making nearer acquaintance with the images and
altars: "Our saints seem so fine and sparkle so from
a distance, one would suppose heaven to be filled
with very grand people; but when one looks closer,
they are nothing but trash."

In the church at Winkelsteg I found it otherwise.
Although here everything was made of wood,
mostly of the commonest pine, it was not decorated
with gaudy colors, glittering tinsel and such
ornaments; it was simply itself, not attempting to be
anything more.

The walls were grey, and almost bare.  In one
corner of the nave clung a few swallows' nests, the
occupants of which had remained for the service, and
in their own way were joining in the Sanctus.  It
was evident that the floor of the choir above, the
confessional, chancel, and praying-benches, had been
made by common home carpenters.  The baptismal
font had never seen a stone-cutter, nor the high altar
a sculptor.  But there were taste and design in
everything.  The altar was a high, dignified table, reached
by three broad steps.  It was covered with simple
white linen, and under a canopy of white silk were
the holy relics, surrounded by six slender
candle-sticks, carved from linden-wood.  But that which
impressed me the most, which touched and almost
overpowered me, was a high, bare wooden cross
towering above the canopy.

It could not always have stood there; it was grey
and weather-beaten, the fibre washed by the rain,
and with deep fissures formed by the sun.  That was
the Winkelsteg altar-piece.  I have never heard a
preacher speak more earnestly or impressively of love
and patience, of sacrifice and renunciation, than did
this silent cross upon the altar.

I next observed something which seemed almost
out of keeping with the poverty and simplicity,
otherwise reigning in this house of God, but which
in reality added to its peace and harmony.  On
either side of the altar were two high, narrow, painted
windows, casting a soft, roseate half light over the
chancel.

The priest was celebrating mass; the few present
knelt in their chairs, praying quietly; the soft,
trembling notes of the organ seemed to join
reverently with them, like a weeping intercessor before
God, supplicating for the poor parish which, through
the storm of yesterday, had a new burden to bear in
the loss of its harvest.

When the mass was over, and the people had
risen, crossed themselves and left the church, a
handsome young man descended from the choir.  At the
door I asked him if he were not the organist.  He
nodded and walked away toward the village;
accompanying him, I endeavoured to enter into
conversation.  Several times he looked sadly and confidingly
into my face, but uttered not a word; his fresh red
lips almost trembled, and he soon turned and
wandered off towards the brook.  He was dumb.

Not long afterwards, I was sitting at my breakfast
in the inn.  It consisted of a bowl of milk,
flavoured with roasted rye-meal, which is the
Winkelsteg coffee.

And now—what were my plans?

I told the cheerful landlady of my intention to wait
for favourable weather in Winkelsteg, to live in the
little room at the schoolhouse, and to read the records
of the schoolmaster—"If I may have permission."

"Oh dear, yes; of course you may!" she
exclaimed; "whom could you disturb up there, sir?
And no one else would look at those old papers—no
one that I know of!  So you may select those
that you want.  The new schoolmaster will bring
all such things with him.  But I hardly think one
will come now.  Certainly you may stay, and I will
see that the room is kept nice and warm."

So I went up to the schoolhouse again.  This
time I examined the exterior.  It was built for
convenience and comfort; there was a wide projecting
shingle roof, which, with its bright windows, seemed
in some way related to the good-natured roguish face
in the picture, of the old man wearing the visor cap.

Then I entered the little room.  It was already in
order, with a fresh fire crackling in the stove.
Through the shining windows I could see the
gloomy day and the heavy fog hanging over the
forest; but that only made the room seem the more
cosy and homelike.

The papers, which I had arranged in the morning,
rough, grey and closely written, I now took from the
drawer, and seated myself before the well-scoured
table at the window, that the daylight might fall on
them in a friendly way.

And what the strange man had written, I now
began to read.  Yet I found portions which needed
to be smoothed and changed from the original form.
In some places I was obliged to omit, or even insert,
entire sentences, at least enough to make the whole
intelligible.  For only thus was I able to make clear
the unusual expressions, and to order and connect
the irregular, carelessly formed sentences.  However,
let it be noticed, that in a few cases many of the
quaint, old forms and terms of speech are left, in
order to preserve, as far as possible, the peculiar
character of these writings.

The first sheet tells nothing and everything; it
contains three words: "The Schoolmaster's Story."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PART FIRST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   PART FIRST

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR GOD!

"I greet Thee, and write Thee a piece of news.  My
father died to-day.  He has been ill two years.
Everybody says it is most fortunate.  My aunt Lies says so
too.  They have carried father away now.  The body
goes to the mortuary, the soul through purgatory, then
up to heaven.  And now, dear God, I have a great favour
to ask.  Please send an angel to meet my father and
show him the way.  I will enclose my christening-money
for the angel; there are three groschen.  I am sure my
father will be happy in heaven, and please take him
directly to my mother.  Many greetings to Thee, dear
God, and to my father and mother.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"ANDREAS ERDMANN.

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"SALZBURG.  In the year of our Lord 1797.
     Apostle Simon's Day."

.. vspace:: 2

This letter has been preserved by chance, so I will
begin with it.  I remember the day still.  In my
great innocence, I was about to wrap the three
groschen in the paper, when my Aunt Lies came in,
read the letter with her glassy eyes, and clapping
her hands together, cried: "What a stupid boy!"
Hastily taking my christening-money, she ran away,
telling my story all over the house, from the porter's
room up to the third floor, where lived an old
umbrella-maker.  Our room was soon filled with
neighbours, curious to see the stupid boy.

They laughed at me until I began to cry.  Then
they laughed still more provokingly.  The old
umbrella-maker, with his sky-blue apron, was also there.
Raising his hand, he said: "My friends, this is
foolish laughter; perhaps the child is wiser than any of
you.  Come to me, little one; thy good father died
to-day; thy aunt is far too clever, and her house too
small for thee, my wee lad.  Come with me, and I
will teach thee to make umbrellas."

Oh, how my aunt scolded at that!  But I believe
that in her heart of hearts she was glad; for I went
up the two flights of stairs with the old man.

At the time of my father's death, I must have
been in my seventh year.  I only know that, up to
my fifth year, my parents lived in the forest, by the
side of a lake.  Rocky mountains, woods, and water
enclosed the place, and here my father held an
official position in the salt-works.  When my mother
died, his health began to fail, and since he was
obliged to give up his work, we moved to his
well-to-do sister's in town.  He wished to take an easier
situation there, that he might compensate his sister,
who was the very pattern of economy, for food and
lodging.  But he was ill a long time, and, besides
teaching me to read and write, he did nothing.  And
so it came about as I have already written.

I remained with the old man in the third story a
number of years.  Like him, I too, wore a sky-blue
apron.  In that way one saves clothes.  We made
nothing but blue and red umbrellas, which we carried
in big bundles to the fairs and sold.  Opening one large
umbrella over our wares, our booth was ready.  If
business flourished, so that we could sell the booth itself,
we went to the inn for a good dinner; otherwise we
made the wares up in bundles, and carried them home
again, there satisfying our hunger with a warm soup.

When my master was over seventy years old, he
suddenly became weary of the blue and red canvas;
he was forced to seek another tent—he died—died
and left me, as my father had done.

I was his heir.  Two dozen and a half umbrellas
were my inheritance.  These I packed up one day
and carried to the fair, where we had previously
been successful in selling our goods.

Suddenly at noon, a storm comes up; the people
are as though swept from the market-place, and with
them my umbrellas; a single one being left with
which to cover myself and my hard-earned money.
Just then a gentleman, splashing through the
puddles, hurries across the square to buy my umbrella.

"Then I should have none for myself," I say.

"I have seen many a shoemaker going barefoot,"
laughs the man; "but, see here, youngster, we will
find some way to arrange it.  Are you from town?"

"Yes," I answer, but no "shoemaker."  "That
does not matter.  There is no carriage to be had;
so we will walk together, boy, and use the same
umbrella; afterwards you may either keep it or
have the money for it."

Thinking to myself, it were a thousand pities to
spoil his fine coat, I assented to his proposal.

So I, the poor umbrella-maker's boy, walked into
town arm-in-arm with the grand gentleman.  On
the way we chatted with one another.  He
understood drawing me out, and after awhile I had told
him my whole history, with all its circumstances.

The rain ceased, and as we approached the town
I tried to fall behind, as I thought it unseemly to
walk through the streets with such a finely dressed
man.  But, in a very friendly way, he invited me to
keep beside him, at last taking me into his house,
offering me food and drink, and finally asking me to
remain with him altogether; he was a bookseller,
and in need of an assistant.

Unskilled even in umbrella-making, and not knowing
what occupation to take up next, I accepted the
situation.

Fortune smiled upon me in those days.  I was
pleased with my master; he had fully recompensed
me for the shelter of my umbrella; but as an assistant
I was not a success.  I was filled with curiosity;
I wished to examine the contents of every book
which I took into my hand.  The placing and
putting the volumes in order was entirely forgotten.

My master surprised me one day by saying:
"Boy, you are useless for the outside of books; you
must devote yourself to the inside.  I think it would
be wise to send you to school."

"Oh, if you only could!  That is just what I have
been secretly longing for."

"We shall probably succeed in placing you in the
Academy, where, if honest and industrious, you will
advance rapidly, and before you know it—hear
yourself called: Doctor Erdmann!"

On hearing this, I became greatly excited, and still
more so when my master had accomplished his
purpose.  I entered the Academy and plunged straight
into the inside of books.  But in school one has only
the dullest kind; the interesting ones are all
forbidden, and I was forced to crowd my brain with
subjects which appealed to me neither from without nor
from within.

My bills of fare through the week were varied.
My dinners I took: Mondays with a teacher;
Tuesdays with a baron; Wednesdays with a merchant;
Thursdays with a schoolmate, the son of a rich
manufacturer; Fridays with an old lieutenant;
Saturdays with some very poor people in an attic,
and in payment I gave the children lessons in
arithmetic; and Sundays I was with my protector, the
bookseller.  And I have also worn clothing given
me by all these people.

So it went on for a number of years.  Then my
Tuesday's host engaged me as tutor to his little son.
My prospects now seemed brighter.  I gave up
dining with my attic friends, but continued the
instruction of their children.  One day, I donned my
dress-coat—very fine and respectable, but not made
for me—and visited my aunt.  Making me a most
elegant bow, she called me her dear, her very dear
Sir Nephew.

Although I entered into my studies with great
eagerness at first, they soon become distasteful to
me.  I had always supposed that in an Academy
one could grasp both heaven and earth, and learn to
know the beautiful harmony of everything therein.

Fine subjects were on the prospectus.  Even in
the lower classes, we had geography, history,
geometry and languages.  But it was a world turned
upside down.  In geography, in place of countries and
nations, we merely studied principalities and their
cities.  In history, instead of searching after the
natural development of mankind, we were learning
about statecraft; the teacher was constantly
discussing the high royal families and their genealogies,
intrigues, and battles; the fool knew nothing else to
talk about.  In geometry, we puzzled our heads
with problems, which neither the teacher nor the
pupils understood, and which would be useless to us
in after life.  The study of languages was a perfect
misery.  Alas!  Our beautiful German is dressed up
in a way to break one's heart.  For many years it
has been laden by foreign words, yes, even sentenced
to death by their high jurisdiction.  If a German
lad wishes to do honour to his pure mother-tongue,
then dozens of highly learned men rush in with
their Greek and Latin, the dead letters of the dead
language destroying even the German sounds.  I
very well know what great blessings the literature
of Homer and Virgil contain for the badly-abused
German tongue; our Klopstock and Schiller bear
witness to that.  But the Pharisees of whom I speak
insist on the letter, and not on the spirit.  We are
obliged to learn by heart the most absurd theories,
evolved by blundering men centuries ago.  And
whoever does not like, or cannot comprehend the
dry stuff, will be abused by the teachers.  We are
defenceless; they have us in their power.  We must
laugh at their jokes; if they have the toothache, we
are made to suffer for it.  Alas! what a wretched
competition and strife; for penniless boys, utter
misery!

While I was in the institution, two scholars
committed suicide.  "Very well," said the Director of
the school, "he who does not bend must break."  And
that was the funeral sermon.

On the day following one of these sad occurrences,
it happened to be my turn to deliver a Latin
oration, before my teachers and fellow-students, on the
character of the Roman kings.  I came directly
from the bier of my unfortunate comrade and with
excited brain mounted the platform.  "I will
compare the Romans with the Germans," I cried; "the
old tyrants enslaved the body, the new ones enslave
the intellect.  Outside there in the dark chamber,
deserted and dishonoured, lies one hunted to death,
not the only victim who has sought refuge in the
grave...."

I may have said a few words more; but they then
approached, and smiling led me down from the
platform.  "Erdmann is out his mind," said one of the
masters; "he should not speak in German but in
Latin.  The next time he will do better."

Nearly crazed, I staggered home.  Heinrich, the
cloth-maker's son, my table and school companion,
hurried after me.  "What hast thou done, Andreas?
What hast thou said?"

"Too little, too little," I replied.

"That will be thy ruin, Andreas; return at once
and ask pardon for thy offence."

I laughed in my friend's face.  Moved, he grasped
me by the hand saying: "By Heaven, thou hast
spoken the truth, and for that very reason they will
never forgive thee for those words!"

"Nor do I care."  I replied defiantly.

Heinrich walked beside me in silence.  Finally he
said: "Thou must learn wisdom, Andreas; but now
go and compose thyself."

My hand trembles as I write this; yet it was all
over long ago.

One year previous to this occurrence, I had through
my friend Heinrich obtained the position of tutor in
the aristocratic family of Baron von Schrankenheim.

My task was not heavy.  I had one boy to teach
and prepare for the *Hochschule*.  Here I fared well
and I was no longer obliged to beg my dinners at
different tables.  My pupil, Hermann, a fine,
studious boy, was fond of me, as was also his sister, an
extraordinarily beautiful girl,—and I was her
devoted friend.

But, as the time passed, it became oppressive and
uncomfortable for me in the wealthy household.
Always somewhat timid and self-conscious, I now
felt my position more keenly than ever, for they
were all aware of my poverty, and even the servants
often slipped little presents into my hand.

But my pupil possessed delicacy of feeling, and
was happy and confidential with me; and the girl—oh,
what a beautiful child she was!

Evenings, when strolling outside of the city, or
over distant flowery meadows and wooded slopes,
I would often find myself thinking: What a blissful
thing to be beautiful and rich!  My heart was hot;
I dreamed of "flowers and stars and her eyes."—Whose
eyes?  Then springing up in alarm—*Mein
Gott*, what am I doing?  Andreas, Andreas, what
will come of it?

I was eighteen years old at that time.  In my
perplexity I one day confided in my friend
Heinrich, who had always understood me better than
anyone, and he counselled me to conquer myself, telling
me that nearly all young people were afflicted with
the same malady, which would soon pass.  Hardly
five years older than I, and this was his advice.

Left alone in my trouble, I decided that, although
young in years, I would consider the matter
calmly—notwithstanding the advice of clever people.  Of my
poverty I was well aware; my ordinary ancestry
impelled me to make something of myself.  He was
right; in the presence of my teachers I should control
myself, tame my obstinate will, and with perseverance
and industry submit to the institution.
Notwithstanding the injustice that must be endured, in
a few years I should become Doctor, or a most
learned Master of Arts.

And a Master of Arts may surely ask the hand of
a baron's daughter.  Like a man, I will then go and
woo her.

However, keeping my intentions secret, I devoted
myself earnestly to my studies, becoming one of the
first among my fellow-students.  I progressed rapidly
and drew nearer and nearer to my goal.  I already
saw the day when as a man of dignity and
standing I might pay court to the maiden.  The family
seemed fond of me and the Baron, not over-proud
of his aristocracy, would not object to a learned man
for son-in-law.  I was indeed most fortunate and
happy.  Then the final examinations were taken,
and my professors—rejected me.

I went directly home, and appeared before the
father of my pupil: "Sir, I thank you for all your
kindness to me.  I cannot remain longer in your
house."

Looking at me in great astonishment, he asked,
"Where are you going?"

"I do not know, but I must leave this town at once."

The good man told me that I was over excited
and ill.  What had happened to me, might happen
to others as well; he would see that I was cared for,
and in the quiet of his home I would soon recover,
and in a year pass the examination successfully.

But I persisted in my determination to go away;
I was well aware that the cause of my failure was
the German speech on the Latin kings, and for this
reason I should never be allowed to pass the
examination.  Heinrich was right.

"Very well, my obstinate sir," concluded the
nobleman, "then I release you."

Of whom should I take leave?  Of my young
pupil?  Of the young lady?  *Mein Gott*, lead me
not into temptation!  She was still so young.  She
dismissed me pleasantly, and in a friendly manner.
A poor wretch was leaving to return a made man.
I was more defiant than courageous.

I paid one more visit to my aged aunt.  And, as
I this time appeared in a coarse cotton jacket,
instead of a fine coat, and announced my intention of
going away, I knew not where,—I all but received
my expressive appellation again.  "No," she cried,
"no, but thou art a—a—most extraordinary man!
To think, after having been so good and upright,
and now,—oh, dear, be off with thee!"

She was the only relative I had in the world.

Last of all I went to Heinrich: "I thank thee a
thousand times for thy love, my faithful friend.
Would that I could reward thee for it.  Thou
knowest what has happened.  There is nothing left for
me but to go away.  When I have accomplished
something worthy I will come back and repay thee."

I was very young when I set my foot into the
wide world.  Heinrich accompanied me a long
distance.  At parting he forced me to accept his ready
money.  Heart to heart we swore one another
eternal faithfulness, then we separated.

O Heinrich!  Thou good heart, true as gold,
thou hast kept thy word with me.  And I have
repaid thee badly—yes, *infernally*, Heinrich!

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   TO THE WARS

.. vspace:: 2

The sun moves from east to west; it pointed out
my way.  "Farewell, old world," I said, "I am
going to the Tyrol!"  There the people are now
uniting against the enemy.  The demon Bonaparte
is leading in the French, and our fatherland will be
entirely crushed.

A few days later I am at Innsbruck.  Mounting
the citadel steps, I ask the gatekeeper if I may
speak with Andreas Hofer.

"Who will hinder you, then?" he replies, striking
his sword against the marble with a resounding
clash.  Entering, I pass through a series of
apartments, gorgeous with large mirrors, sparkling
chandeliers, and floors which shine like glass and precious
wood.  Noisy peasant lads, dressed in Alpine
costumes, are walking to and fro, singing, whistling,
and smoking.  At last I find myself in a large room
filled with men, apparently peasants.  Asking if I
may speak with Andreas Hofer, I am informed that
I must wait my turn, as he is occupied with affairs
of state.  I place myself in line, and watch the
various people going in and out, until at last I am
summoned into his presence.

A man in shirt-sleeves, with a full, heavy beard,
rises and asks, "What do you want, then?"

"I want to join the army!" I reply.

The bearded man—he is Hofer all over—observing
me closely, remarks in a low voice: "And so
young!  Have you father and mother?"

"No, sir."

"Are you from the Tyrol?"

"No, but from the immediate neighbourhood."

"A student, I presume!  Do you wish to become
a clergyman?"

"I should like to join the army, and fight for the
fatherland."

Putting his hand into his leather girdle, he takes
out some silver pieces.  "There my boy, God bless
you! you had better go to Vienna and enlist with
Carl.  You are only an inexperienced youth.  And
besides, you are no countryman of ours."

I make my salutation and start to go.

"Halloa, there!" he calls after me, holding the
money towards me.

"Thank you, I do not want the money."

At this his eye brightens.  "Bravo!  Bravo!" he
cries.  "Stay and become my secretary; I need
one possessing both a good penmanship and a good
conscience."

"My conscience is also good enough for a soldier,"
I answer gloomily.

"Here, Seppli!" cries Hofer at this, "bring this
man rifle and knife!  Oh, that 's brave!" and he
presses my hand, adding, "We shall soon have
work enough."

So I become a warrior, a Tyrolese guardsman.
And soon I have work.

The French and the Bavarians and even the Austrians
would not suffer a peasant king in the citadel
at Innsbruck.  The enemy, three times overthrown
by the Tyrolese, had invaded the country in hordes.
The rifle worked better in my hands than I had
supposed possible.  Everything in the past was forgotten,
but I longed for my friend Heinrich at my side
while fighting the enemy.  I captured one French
flag, and in trying for the second I was taken.
Three bearded Frenchmen laughingly disarmed me,
enraged boy that I was....  They made me
prisoner and dragged me away, through Bavaria and
Suabia on into France.

It is painful for me to describe that time.  It was
a very dog's life,—a dog's life, not because I lay for
three years in prison in a foreign land, but because
I was a rebel against my own country.  In defiance
of the Emperor—so it was reported—the Tyrolese
had risen against Bavaria to which he had
apportioned them.  My German fellow-countrymen
acknowledged it themselves, and so my unhappiness
was complete.  Instead of performing an heroic act,
thou hast aided in an evil deed, Andreas; not as
brave warrior but as deserter thou liest in chains.

A long march to Russia and to the Orient is
talked of.  Among many others of my countrymen
I am liberated.  Several try to reach their homes.  I
know nothing of any home and may know nothing.
Poor fools like myself are worse off at home than
elsewhere.  And as a rebel, which I now am, I shall
never return to my own land.  I will do penance for
my sad mistake of illegally bearing arms against the
great conqueror.  I will go with his troops and help
to free the people of the Orient, and place them in
subjection to the leader of the Occident.  A great
aim, Andreas, but a long journey.  The Germans
make the way very hard for us, but our commander
marches with lightning-like rapidity in among the
disorganised and scattered people, who can neither
think great thoughts nor do great deeds.  And for
many weeks we drive the Russian army before us,
over the wild steppes and endless snow-fields.  But
in Moscow the Russians throw firebrands between
themselves and us, in the midst of their own capital.
And we find ourselves buried in the land of
unending winter, without support, resting-place, or
means of subsistence.  Man and nature are alike
our enemy.  Our chief, seeing that everything is
lost, turns us back.  Oh, the many desert storms,
the hundreds of ice streams, the thousands and
thousands of snowy graves, between us and the
fatherland!  Whoever can march with benumbed
limbs bruised to the knees; whoever can tear the
last tatters from the body of his dying comrade to
cover himself; whoever is able to suck the warm
blood from his own veins and eat the flesh of fallen
horses and dead wolves; whoever understands
warming himself with the snow for a cover and
wrestling with the waves and flakes of ice; and,
besides all this, knows how to conquer the fright, the
terror, and the despair—he, perhaps, may see his
home again.

Benumbed like my body are my soul and my
brain; in a wilderness, under the snow-laden branches
of a pine tree, I am left lying.

A smoky cabin, a bright fire, a long-bearded man
and a dark-skinned maiden meet my gaze as I awake
upon a couch of mats.  A fur skin has been thrown
over me.  Outside is a roaring sound, like the
raging of waters or like a storm.  Those are good,
friendly eyes which look at me from the two
people.  The man is tending the fire; the girl
feeding me with milk.  They are talking in their
rough language, of which I cannot understand a
word.  I think of Heinrich and long for the
pleasant sound of his voice.  I am suffering terrible
pains all over my body, which the man has wrapped
in a wet cloth.  The maiden holds a little cross
before my eyes, murmuring something like a prayer.
She is praying a dying blessing for thee, Andreas!

Thou dear, friendly house in the enemy's land!
What afterwards occurred there, I can no longer
recall.  The swarthy maiden often laid her hand on
my brow.  Had it only come then, it would have
been a beautiful death; but it happened otherwise.
Even now I can hear the blow that shattered the
door.  Soldiers forced their way in, maltreated the
old man, and pushed the dark-skinned girl from my
bedside.  They carried me away from there, away
through the storm and the wilderness—back to the army.

I felt as though I were being dragged from my
home;—but it is God's world everywhere.  However
my comrades had not deserted me; and that
rejoiced my heart.  Constant and true I resolved to
stay by them and serve my great general.

On the Rhine I recovered.  And in the young
springtime I felt a new life stirring within me.  A
lad, counting but three-and twenty-years, I was
inflamed with desire for all that was noble and just,
for the common weal, for the brotherhood of man;
in my enthusiasm I cried out with my comrades,
"One God in heaven and one Lord on earth!"  He
is the deliverer, the quarrel of princes must now end.
The nations must become one great, united people!
Such thoughts inspired me.  The dark eye of the
general, like lightning in the night, inflamed us all.
Against Saxony we marched, there to fight the
battle for our leader, and to place the beautiful German
country under his protection.

At Lützen I defended the life of a French general;
at Dresden I killed Blücher's horse from under him;
at Leipzig I shot my Heinrich....

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   A NEW MISSION

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"Andreas!" is his death-cry.  Thus I know
him.  The blood bursts forth from his breast.  I now
come to myself.  I throw my gun against a rock,
shattering it in pieces; disarmed, I rush into battle;
with his own sword I split the skull of a French
officer.

What good has it done?  I have fought against
my fatherland, against the brothers who speak my
language, while that of my French comrades I have
scarcely understood.  And I have shot my Heinrich.
Alas, how late my eyes are opened!

"Thou art an inexperienced fellow; go to Vienna,
to Carl!"  Thou faithful Hofer, had I but followed
thy advice!  Thy flag was good, more glorious than
all others in the wide land.  From that hour when
my faith in it was torn from my heart, my
misfortunes began.  Love for freedom in the world has
made me captive; the expiation of my own mistake
has led me into danger and torment; loyalty to my
general and longing for a great, united whole has
made me traitor to my fatherland, the murderer of
my friend.  Andreas, if virtue leads thee to crime,
to what depths would evil intention have plunged
thee?  Thou hast proudly repelled the true leader,
experience and guidance failed thee there.  Andreas,
thou hast given thyself to trade, to science, and to a
soldier's life; poverty, confusion, and repentance
hast thou reaped.  Foreigners have cared for and
nursed thee like a son and a brother, and they have
been maltreated for it.  Thou bringest nothing good
to the world or to mankind.  Andreas, thou must go
to the depths of the wilderness and become a hermit!

In Saxony, under the arms of a windmill, I repeated
these truths to myself.  And thereupon I departed,
fled through Bohemia and Austria, and after many
days arrived in the town of Salzburg.  That
anyone in this town should recognise me, a poor, sick,
ruined fellow, I did not fear.  In *Peters-Friedhof* my
father lay buried.  I wished to see the mound before
seeking a cave for myself in some deserted ravine of
the forest.  And as I lay upon the cold, frozen earth,
once more able to weep my heart out over my life,
so young and so unfortunate, a gentleman appeared
walking among the graves; he asked what troubled
me, then with a gesture of astonishment exclaimed:
"Erdmann, you here?  And how changed you are!
Gone scarcely four years and hardly to be recognised!"

Herr von Schrankenheim, the father of my former
pupil was standing before me.

Walking up and down with him among the graves,
I told him all.  With wet eyes he pressed money
into my hand: "There, get yourself some new
clothes and then come to my house.  Become a
hermit!—that is no career for a brave young lad.
You must overcome your despondency and begin
life anew."

I went to his house with great dread, for there was
one folly which I had not yet conquered.

Herr von Schrankenheim presented his son to me.
He had already become a tall, elegant gentleman.
With his hands behind his back, he made me a silent
bow, and after a little left us.  Then his father,
conducting me into his study, bade me take a seat in the
softest easy-chair.

"Erdmann," he began after awhile, "are you really
in earnest in your desire to live a life of seclusion in
the wilderness?"

"That is the best thing for me," I answered.  "I
am worthless among people who live in joy and
pleasure; in wandering and confusion, the few years
of my youth have tossed me about from one land to
another and amongst the misery of nations.  Sir, I
know the world and have enough of it."

"You are hardly in your twenty-fourth year, and
not yet at the height of your powers, and you wish
to give up the service you might render your fellow-men?"

At that I listened attentively; the words impressed me.

"If you think that up to the present time you
have only been the author of evil, why do you wish
to escape from the dust without also giving the
world and the community the good which surely
slumbers in rich measure within you?"

I rose from my chair.  "Sir, show me, then, the
way to do it!

"Very well," said Herr von Schrankenheim,
"possibly I can, if you will sit down again and
listen to me.  Erdmann, I know of a distant and
real hermitage, in which one could serve humanity
and perhaps do something great for the community.
Far from here, deep in among the Alps, stretches a
large forest between rocky hills, where shepherds,
herdsmen, wood-cutters, and charcoal-burners are
working, and where others are also living who have
perhaps honestly secluded themselves or dishonestly
taken refuge there, and who drag out an existence
by means of lawful or unlawful business.  It is true
churlish men are among them, whose hearts are
gnawed by misfortune or something worse.  They
have neither priest nor doctor and also no
school-teacher in their vicinity; they are quite deserted
and isolated and have only their own incompetency
and misguided natures upon which to depend.
I am the owner of the forest.  For a long time I
have had the intention of sending someone to this
region who should guide the inhabitants a little,
assist them with good advice, and teach the children
to read and write.  The man might make himself
very useful.  And, indeed, it is not so easy to find
one for the place; for it should be someone who,
weary of the world, would like to live in seclusion,
yet work for mankind.  Erdmann, what do you
think of that?"

At these words I felt impelled to seize his hand
and say: "I am the man for it; dissatisfied with the
condition of things in this old world, I will found a
new one in the wilderness.  A new school, a new
parish,—a new life.  Let me go to-day!"  So the fire
was not quite extinguished; sparks sometimes fly
from ashes.

"Cold weather is at hand," continued the Baron.
"For the winter remain in my house and give the
matter due consideration and when summer comes,
if my offer still pleases you, then go to the forest."

The rustling of a dress in the adjoining room filled
me with alarm, and I finally took my leave, begging
permission to go away for the winter, with the
promise to return with the swallows and accept his
proposal.

He would not be dissuaded from giving me the
"means" for the coming season, but then I fled.
In the front hall I caught a glimpse of a woman's
figure, past which I glided like a spectre.

One day I wandered as far as the woodland by
the lake where my childhood and my mother lie
buried.  And here in this place I rented a small
room for the winter.  I often climbed the snowy
slopes and, standing under moss-covered trees, was
impressed with the feeling of having once stood
there with my mother and father.  I often walked
over the frozen lake thinking of the days when I
had crossed the gentle waves in a boat at my parents'
side, watching the sunset glow on the mountains and
listening to the song echoes of a yellow-hammer
resounding on the cliffs.  My father and mother
also sang.  That was long ago; long ago.

I have lain in prison in France; I have wandered
ill and dying over the deserts of Russia; and now I
am living here in this dear, precious little room by
the lake.  All would have been well, the time of
poverty forgotten like the image in a dream,—only
it should never have dawned, that unhappy day in
Saxonland—that will haunt me forever.  Heinrich, I
do not fear thy ghost; only come to me once, that
I may say to thee: "It happened in blindness; I
cannot alter it now; I will wipe it out with my own
life." ...



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   RESOLVED

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Now it is well.  I have searched myself for many
days; I have reviewed my former life and written
it out here in a few words, that I may always keep it
the more clearly before my eyes when new perplexities
and troubles overwhelm me.  In fact I think I
have endured and am still able to endure the school of
life better than the school of books and dead
precepts.  I have acquired understanding and have
become calm.  Having carefully considered my
experiences and circumstances, my talents and
inclinations, I think it no presumption to accept the
proposal of Herr von Schrankenheim.  Although
outwardly still quite young, inwardly I am very
old.  The advice of an old man will surely be
welcome to the dwellers in the forest.



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   THE FEAST OF ST. ANTHONY OF PADUA, SALZBURG, 1814.

.. vspace:: 2

It is right that I should go to the woods.  I am
equipped and all is ready.  The Baron has promised
me his assistance in everything.  His son Hermann
greeted me again with a friendly bow.  The young
gentleman is a little pale; he is probably very
studious.  His sister ... (In the original two lines
were here crossed out so many times that they had
become entirely illegible.)

They say that my aunt is well.  Not wishing to
cause her the pain which she would have experienced
at my appearance and my undertaking, I did not
visit her again.  Now they are blowing the
post-horn.  Farewell, beautiful town.

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Already three days on the journey.  However,
this is a pleasanter expedition than the one over
the winter steppes.  Day before yesterday the green
uplands changed into picturesque mountain regions.
Yesterday we entered a broad, pleasant valley.
To-day we are going up and down hills, through woods
and ravines and by rocky cliffs.  Now the road is
becoming narrower and rougher; sometimes it is
necessary to alight from the waggon and shove aside
the broken blocks of stone.  We see more chamois
and deer than people.  I was obliged to remain in
debt for my night's lodging to-day.  The bank-note
which I have with me the people in this region
cannot change.  I would have given my host
something as security, but he assured me if I were to
remain in the forests of the Winkel, I could easily
send him the money by a messenger who came
occasionally from that region.  I must return the
bank-note and ask for small coin.

.. vspace:: 2

On this the fourth day I have been set down.
The post-chaise has gone on its way; for a while I
still hear the clear horn resounding through the
woods, and then all is silent and I sit here beside
my bundle in the midst of the wilderness.

Through the ravine flows a stream which they
call the Winkel, along which is a footpath.  It leads
over stones and roots and is sown with hard
pine-needles of last year.  By this road I must travel.

Through the branches yonder I see the gleam of a
white plateau; that is a snow-field.  And do people
live in there?



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   IN THE WINKEL

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So I will write it all out.  For whom I do not
know.  Perhaps for the dear God to whom in my
innocence I wrote the letter when my father
died.  My heart would break could I not talk over
all that is unusual and sorrowful in my life.  I will
tell it to the sheet of paper.  Perchance in the
future it may be found by someone whom I can
trust, though he but half understands me.  You,
pure, white leaves, shall now be my friends and share
the years which may come to me.  To-day my
hair is still dark, while you are somewhat grey, but
you may yet outlive me and become my future
generation.

   |  A little leaf of paper may live longer
   |  Than the freshest spring-leaf upon God's earth,
   |  Than the fleetest chamois on the rocky cliff,
   |  Than the curly-haired child in the peaceful dale.
   |  A little sheet of paper, pale and fragile,
   |  Is oft the one image, faithful and true,
   |  That man leaves behind him for future time,
   |  When o'er his dust his descendants tread.
   |  His bones are scattered, the grave-stone gone,
   |  The house destroyed, the works have vanished.
   |  Who will then our footsteps trace
   |  In the eternal Nature where we once held sway?
   |  New men wrestle with fortunes new,
   |  And think no more of those who are gone;
   |  Then a leaf, with its pale ink tracings,
   |  Is often the only enduring sign
   |  Of the being who once lived and suffered,
   |  Laughed and wept, enjoyed and struggled,
   |  And the thought that from the heart was born
   |  In pain or joy, or in mad jest,
   |  Remains, and the eternal kiss
   |  Casts it in an everlasting mould.
   |  Oh, may it in future times,
   |  Purified, touch the hearts of men!
   |

I arrived here on a Saturday.  As I stumbled
along by the Winkel Water, I met here and there
wood satyrs, brown and hairy, covered with moss
and pitch, going about in their fustian smocks.
They looked like exiled, withered tree-trunks,
seeking for new ground where they might grow and
flourish again.

Stopping in front of me, they stared in astonishment
or glanced at me threateningly, while they
struck fire with tinder and flint for their pipes.
Some of them had flashing eyes which sent forth
sparks like those from the fire-stones; others very
good-naturedly showed me the way.  One rough,
sturdy fellow, carrying a pack on his back with saws,
axe, meal buckets, etc., stepped to one side, as he
saw me coming, and murmured, "*Gelobt sei Jesu
Christ!*"

"Forever and ever, amen!" was my answer, which
seemed to give him confidence, for he accompanied
me a short distance.

At last the valley widens a little.  It is a small
basin into which flow a number of streams from the
different ravines, as well as from the cliffs that rise
at my left hand.  These form the Winkel.  Here a
thick log, hewn flat on the upper side, is laid across
the brook, forming the path to a frame house standing
on the edge of the woods.

This is the forestry, the only house of any size in
the vicinity.  Farther away in the defiles and valleys
are the cabins of the shepherds and wood-cutters,
and beyond, on the wooded hillsides, where large
clearings have been made and charcoal-pits started,
are villages of huts for the charcoal-burners.

They call this little valley *Im Winkel*.  It still
remains almost entirely in its primeval state, excepting
the one large house, with its domestic surroundings
and the footpath leading up to it.

The forestry is also called the Winkel-warden's
house.  Here I entered and, placing my bundle upon
a chest in the hall, seated myself beside it.

The forester was busy with workmen who were
settling their accounts and receiving their monthly
wages.  He was a domineering, red-bearded man,
and he dismissed the people somewhat roughly and
curtly; but the men bore it good-naturedly and
pocketed their money in silence.

The business finished, he rose and stretched his
strong limbs, which were clothed in genuine and
correct hunter's costume.  I now approached,
handing him the credentials which I had brought from
the owner of the forest.

This document contained everything essential.
A nicely furnished room was assigned to me.  A
sturdy woman who was there to look after and
arrange it, according to her own ideas, stopped
suddenly before my open door, and with arms akimbo
called out loud and shrilly, "*Du lieber Himmel*, is
that how a schoolmaster looks?"  She had never
seen one in her life.

I was soon settled and had all my possessions in
order.  Politely knocking at my door, the forester
then entered my room.  Looking at my apartment,
he asked, "Does it answer your purpose?"

"Oh, yes, very well," I replied.

"Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, and I hope to be quite contented here."

"Then I trust everything will be all right."

He walked many times up and down over the
plank floor, his hands thrust into his trousers'
pockets, and finally stopping in front of me he said:

"Now look about you and see what method you
would like to adopt for your work.  I leave here
to-morrow and only come every Saturday into the
Winkel.  The remainder of the time I am busy in
other localities, and my home is in Holdenschlag,
four hours from here by the road.  The idea of
beginning a school immediately dismiss from your
mind, my dear man.  First we must do away with
the old one.  They are blockheads, I tell you!  And
you may as well know at once that we have all
kinds of people in our woods.  Nothing very bad
can be charged against any one of them, but they
have come here from the east and west—for what
reason God only knows.  They are mostly peasants
from the outlying regions, who have fled into the
forest to escape military service.  There are also
fellows among them whom one would hardly like
to meet on a dark night.  Poachers are they all.
So long as they only shoot the game of the forest,
we let them go about free; that cannot be helped,
and the labour of their hands is needed.  But if they
shoot down a hunter, then of course we are obliged
to arrest them.  The most of them are married, but
they did not all bring their brides from the altar.
You will run across men and women who, even in
this century, have never heard a church bell or
seen a vestment.  You will soon observe what an
effect that has upon the people.  Do it in whatever
way you think best; but first you must become
acquainted with them.  And if you find that you
can exert an influence over them, we will support
you in it.  You are still quite young, my friend;
take care and be prudent!  If you think best, take
a boy for the first part of the time to show you
your way about.  And if you need anything, apply
to me.  I wish you well!"

With these words he departed.  He, it seems, is
now my master; may he also be my protector!

Although it was my first night in the Winkel, I
slept soundly on the straw bed.  The murmuring of
the brook cheered my heart.  It was the month of
June, but the sun rose late over the forest and looked
into my room in a friendly way.

In the morning I wander out of doors.  All is
fresh and green and sparkling with dew-drops, while
on the wooded heights, as far as the eye can reach in
the narrow valley, the bluish sun-web spins itself
over the shadowy tree-trunks.  Toward the west
towers the battlement of rocks above which lie the
meadows of the Alm, then rocky cliffs again, and
over all stretch the wide, inhospitable fields of snow
and ice, glittering like a white plateau.

If I am successful in my task here below, then
sometime I will climb up to the glaciers.  And
above the glaciers towers at last the Graue Zahn,
from whose summit, I am told, in the farthest
distance can be seen the great water.  Am I successful
here, then sometime from the high mountain I shall
behold the sea.

In war and storm I have rushed over half the
world and have seen nothing but dust and stone;
now, in the peace of solitude my eyes are opened to
nature.

But—poachers, deserters, wild fellows whom one
would not like to meet at night!  Andreas, that
will be no easy task.



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   PEACE OF THE PRIMEVAL FOREST

.. vspace:: 2

I already feel contented in the woods.  The few
people who see me going about in the forest gaze
after me, unable to understand why I, a young
fellow, should be roaming here in the wilderness.
Ah yes, it is true, from day to day I am growing
younger and am beginning to take a new lease of
life.  I am recovering.  That comes from the fresh,
primitive nature which surrounds me.

Romantic fancies I do not indulge in.  As it is
absorbed through the eye and the ear and all the senses,
the much loved, the beautiful forest, so I like to
enjoy it.  The solitary one alone finds the forest;
where many seek, it flees and only the trees remain.
The woods are lost to them on account of the trees.
Nay, still more, or, indeed, still less, they do not even
see the trees, but only the wood which serves for
timber or fuel and the twigs which may be used for
brooms.  Or they open the grey eyes of wisdom and
say,—"That belongs to this class, or to that"—as if
the pines and oaks, centuries old, were nothing but
schoolboys.

I already feel contented in the woods.  As long as
I enjoy it, I do not wish to hear a single word of the
purpose it serves, as man's love of gain understands
this purpose; I wish to be as childishly ignorant as
if I had to-day just fallen from heaven upon the
soft, cool moss in the shade.

A network of roots surrounds me, partly sucking
the mother's milk from the earth for its trees, partly
seeking to entwine itself about the mossy bank and
Andreas Erdmann sitting upon it.  Softly I rest
upon the arms of the network—upon mother-arms.

The brown trunk of the fir towers straight
upward, stretching a rich garland of rugged branches
in all directions.  They have long grey beards,
hairy, twisted mosses hanging from bough to bough.
Well polished and dripping with balsam is the
silvery, shimmering pine.  But in the rough,
furrowed, knotted bark of the larch-tree, with the
mysterious signs and innumerable scars, is engraved
the whole world's legend, from that day when the
exiled murderer Cain rested for the first time under
the wild interwoven branches of the larch, up to
the hour when another, also homeless, inhales the
perfume of the tender, light-green needles.

It is dark, as in a Gothic temple; the pine-forest
builds the pointed arch.  Above rise the thousand
little turrets of branches, between which the deep
blue sky lights up the shady ground beneath,
forming tiny mosaics.  Or white clouds are sailing high
above, trying to espy me,—me, a little worm in the
woods,—and they waft a greeting to me—from—No,
she is hidden by the hand of man under a baronial
roof.  Clouds, ye have not seen her—or have ye?
Alas, no, they are drifted hither from distant deserts
and seas.

There is a whispering, a rustling.  The trees are
speaking with one another.  The forest dreams.

In all my life I have never seen such a remarkable
woven mat as this variegated, wonderful network of
mossy earth.  It is a miniature forest, and in the
bosom of its shade perhaps other beings rest, who
like myself are watching the endless web of nature.
Ah, how the ants hasten and run, embracing the
smallest of small things with their slender arms,
while endeavouring to poison everything hostile with
their corroding fluid!  A brilliant beetle has been
contemptuously regarding the tiny, painstaking
creatures, for it is endowed with wings.  It now flutters
haughtily upward, and glittering, circles away;
suddenly it is ensnared and captured in a net.  The
spider, quiet and industrious, has been toiling long
on this net; a veil, softer than any made on earth,
has become the beetle's shroud.

The little birds in the branches are also planning
their works of art; where the boughs are thickest,
they weave a cradle-basket from straws and twigs for
their beloved young.

Can it then be true that a red thread spins itself
on through all races of the human and animal
kingdoms, down to the very smallest creature?  Does
everything then follow one and the same law, the
acts of King Solomon on his throne of gold and
those of the lazy, writhing worm under the stone?
I should like very much to know.

Hush! yonder darts a rabbit; the crowned stag is
making his way through the underbrush.  Each
shrub acts as mysteriously as if concealing a
hundred beings and wood-spirits within itself.  Sharply
defined shadow-forms lie upon the ground, over
which strings of light spin themselves.  And the
breath of the forest plays upon these strings.

I step out into the clearing.  A trembling breeze
ripples towards me, plays with my curls, and kisses
my cheeks.  Here are light-green furze bushes, with
their clusters of little red berries, dark, gleaming
bilberry, and the evergreen laurel of our Alps, for the
worthy poet of the forest.  The wood-bee is buzzing
about among the bushes, and each leaf is a table
spread for her.

And above this dim, perfumed field rises the
charred trunk of a tree, its one bare branch lifted in
defiance, threatening heaven for having once
shattered its head with a lightning-stroke.  And yonder
towers a grey, cloven rock, in whose fissures the
nimble lizard and the shimmering adder hide, and
at whose feet flourish the serrated leaves of the fern,
and the blue gentians, constantly waving greetings
with their little caps.

Where there is no path, there is mine—where it is
steepest, where the tangle of the alder-bushes and
briars is thickest, where the dogberry grows, where
the adder rustles in the yellow foliage of last year's
beech.  The partridges are afraid of me and I of
them, and my feet are the greatest misfortune of the
ants, my advancing body the scourge of God to
the spiders, whose house falls in ruins on this
summer day.

It is a delight to penetrate thus into the wilderness,
into the dim and uncertain; that which I anticipate
attracts me more than that which I know; that
which I hope for is dearer to me than that which I
have.  I stand on the edge of a green meadow,
enclosed by young fir-woods.  Close to me a deer
springs from the thicket, bounds over the meadow,
stopping on the other side, where it now stands in a
listening attitude with head thrown high.  Following
an inborn instinct of man, I raise my juniper
stick, lay it beside my cheek like a gun, aiming
towards the breast of the deer.  It looks over at
me, well aware that a juniper stick does not go off.
Finally it begins to graze.  Laying the stick on the
ground again, I walk farther out on the meadow.
The deer raises its head quickly and I now expect it
to dart away.  But it does not hasten, it licks its
back and scratches itself behind the ear, and again
begins to eat.

"Little deer," I say, "thou forgettest the
respect due to mankind!  Dost thou think me
incapable of injuring thee?  I wonder at that;
here in the forest wander poachers and hunters.
Thou dost not seem to be a novice, yet thou
pretendest to be very inexperienced.  Among us men,
such behaviour would be called stupidity."

The creature, gradually grazing in my direction,
stops often to look at me, but tosses its head in
fright, preparing for a spring, whenever hearing a
noise from any other side.  With ears constantly
pricked up, its whole being is a picture of anxious
watchfulness and readiness for flight.

"Thou knowest then," I say, "that thou art in
the land of the enemy?  Not a moment safe from
the shot?  That is indeed cause for fear."

I draw gradually nearer, the deer taking no heed.

"I am glad," I say, "that I do not repel thee.  It
cannot be denied that I belong to those monsters
who walk on two legs.  But all bipeds are not
dangerous.  I, not at all.  A short time ago I composed
a few verses, which I should like to recite to thee."

At this the creature, startled, leaps to one side.

"They would not have been long," I say, sorry to
have frightened the deer.

"It is not crafty of thee to hurt my feelings.  The
poem is written for my sweetheart.  Somewhere
lives one whom I love from the depths of my soul,
but no one suspects it, nor does she herself.  So I
have composed these verses for her.  But they must
be forgotten again.  How dost thou manage in such
affairs?"

The animal, stepping two paces nearer to me, again
begins to sniff.  I now become quite bold.

"Beloved deer!" I continue, holding out my
arms, "I cannot say how interesting thou art to me.
If I had a rifle, I might shoot thee down.  No, fear
nothing from me, for thou breathest the same air as
I, thy little eye beholds the same sunshine as
mine—thy blood is as warm and as red as my own—why
should I kill thee?  But if I were hungry and had a
rifle, then I should shoot thee after all, then nothing
would help thee."

In spite of all this, the little deer is coming nearer.
I stand there motionless, and ten paces away is the
creature looking at me.  My sensations are most
uncomfortable.  There must be something wrong with
a man with whom wild game associates.

"Thou art curious," I say, "to see how I look
near by.  Well, observe me closely.  These rags of
linen and woollen stuff do not belong to me.  This
is only the outer covering.  And if thou shouldst
see us bare and naked as thyself, then all anxiety
and fear of us would disappear.  In the beginning
we cannot shoot, cannot run as thou dost, cannot
nourish ourselves from weeds, cannot dwell in the
thicket.  So pitiable are we.  We—so it is
said—would have been able to do it once, but in the same
degree in which our reason has grown, have our bodies
degenerated, become tender and sensitive, effeminate
and weak.  And if it continues in this way, all
mankind will dissolve in spirit, which must also
perish, as the flame dies when wick and oil are
gone,—and you will take our place.

"I do not know," I say, "whether thou art
unconsciously searching for something which, when
acquired, still does not satisfy.  I do not know if it
be hatred which animates thee, ambition which hunts
and urges thee on, love which makes thee unhappy,
pleasure which kills thee.  With us it is so.  Do I
pity thee or dost thou pity me?  Whatever thou
hast, thou art able to enjoy in full measure, while
with us the sweet pleasures of the heart become
embittered by the hardness and pitilessness of reason
and prejudice.  Our feeling degenerates into thought,
and that is our misfortune.  But after all, thou wouldst
willingly exchange places?  No, thou art not
advanced enough to be discontented.  Thy fear is the
hunter, as ours is man.  Our own kind threaten
us with the greatest dangers.  Hast thou already
seen the latest weekly journal?  Ah, thou dost not
read leaves, thou eatest them, which is far more
wholesome, only beware of newspaper leaves, they
are poisonous.  They should not be so, but they suck
the venom from the ground upon which they stand,
from the air that blows around them, from the
times which they serve.  Thank God, they do not
grow in the Winkel forest.  There grows the sorrel,
and that is something for thee, and the mushroom,
which is something for me.  For the rest, my little
deer, how long shall we stand here?  How goes
eating from the hand?"

I pull some grass from the ground, an occupation
which the deer follows with the eye of a connoisseur.

A shot is fired.  A short whizzing through the air,
the deer makes one high bound—and with the utmost
display of its speed, runs across the meadow
straight into the thicket.

In the near branches the sulphurous smoke slowly
disappears.  I hasten to look for the poacher, to
deliver him up to justice because he has fired, and to
beg mercy for him because he has not hit.  Seeing
neither the poacher nor the deer, I am furious with
the thought that the creature might take me for the
guilty one, for the betrayer, or even for the assassin,
and in his eyes I wish to be neither a bad friend nor
a bad protector.

But what does it all amount to?  Such enthusiasm
is not enduring; in the late autumn, when, as I hope,
the roast venison will appear upon my table, the
friendly feelings will surely reawaken, however they
will not come from the heart, but from the stomach.

The triumphant roaring of a bull or the bells and
bleating of a goat is now heard.  The shepherd-boy
comes skipping by.  He will have nothing to do
with the juniper-bushes; the thorns prick, the
blueberries are bitter.  He picks strawberries into his
cap, or, what he likes better, into his mouth.  Then,
plucking the narrow pointed leaf of the goat-majoram
he carries it to his lips, and through it brings
forth a whistle which re-echoes far away on the
slopes and which other shepherd-lads in the distance
give back to him.  To the little folks of the woods
this is the sign of brotherhood.  Through the
raspberry-bushes wriggles the ant-grubber, searching for
the resinous kernels in the ant-hills from which to
prepare the incense, that wonderful grain whose
smoky veil enchants the eye of mortals, so that they
fall before the sacrificial bread and see the Lord.

On the ridge beside the purple erica, under the
blackberry leaves, flourishes the sweet-root; that is a
toothsome spice for the shepherd-boy, and the
herdswoman also likes to nibble it, that she may have a
ringing voice for yodling on the Alm.  The
herdswoman, I notice, is often affected in a singular
manner; surely she has many, yes, a great many words
upon her tongue, but the right one for her heart's
desire is not among them; she therefore expresses it
in another way and sings a song *without* words which
in this region, as far as it is heard, is called the
*Jodel*.

I proceed down through a defile torn away by the
wild torrents of the Kar.  Trees and bushes arch
over it, forming an arbour.  A cool breeze fans me as
I stand upon the shady bank of a forest lake,
enclosed by dark walls and slender brown trunks of the
primeval forest.  A perfect stillness rests upon the
water.  The stray leaf of a beech or an oak rustles
toward me.  I hear that eternal murmuring of deepest
silence.  A little bell somewhere in space, we
know not if on the earth below or in the starry
heaven above, is constantly calling us.  And in a
quiet hour our soul catches the familiar sound and
longs,—and longs.

Peace of the primeval forest, thou still, thou holy
refuge of the orphaned, the deserted, the pursued and
world-weary; thou only Eden which remains for the
unhappy!

Listen, Andreas!  Dost thou hear the sound and
echo of the song without words?  That is the
shepherd's hymn.  Dost thou also hear the distant
hammering and reverberating?  That is the woodsman
with the axe—the angel with the sword.



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   WITH THE HERDSMEN

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The earliest people were the herdsmen.  They are
the most harmless that one meets in these wooded
hills.  So I have begun with them.

And I have already learned something of pastoral
life.  With the exception of the couple up in the
Miesenbach hut, none of them live at home; the
herdsmen really have no homes, they are wanderers.
They spend the winter in the lower, outlying
districts, dwelling in the farmyards to which the herds
belong.  They eat with the people and sleep with
the cows and goats.  In the spring-time, when the
freshets are over and the maple blossoms are peeping
forth from their green sheaves toward heaven to see
if the swallows are not already there, the cattle are
taken from the stalls and led by the herdsman to the
Alm.  The cows are bedecked with tinkling bells,
the calves and steers with green wreaths, such as the
people wear at the feast of Corpus Christi.  In the
procession to the Alm, when the young people and
cattle walk together, the ceremony of crowning with
wreaths is conducted with great propriety; but when,
after many honeymoons upon the airy heights, the
cattle return to the valley in the late autumn with
fresh wreaths, the garland of the herdswoman does
not always remain green in her hair.  On the Alm
there is much sun and little shade, and the Alm-boy
must bring the fresh water a long distance—then
nothing withers more easily than such a tender
nosegay in the curly locks.

In the lovely summer-time these people lead a
good and happy life upon the hills and I—truly and
by my faith, I am good and happy with them.  Sorrow
and woe are like hot-house plants, they will not
flourish in the fresh Alpine air.  Even the old keeper
of oxen, usually so surly, is constantly heard singing
and piping his flute.

Within the herdsman's hut everything is well
arranged and conveniently near at hand.  By the
hearth sits Domesticity in front of the fire and the
brown jugs, and before the shaky table kneels
Religion at the crudely ornamented *Hausaltar*.  And
where the bedstead stands, the Lord Himself would
have been unable to put anything better.  The bed
is made from rough boards, upholstered with moss
and rushes—it must be like that if the young woman
of the Alm is to dream happily therein.  In the
next room are the buckets and pitchers, and here the
milk and butter business is carried on, the profits of
which are honestly delivered to the owner of the
herd.

The whole household is shut in by four wooden
walls, on which the Alm woman hears at night the
little gold man knocking; this is the token of the
fulfilment of her most secret heart's desire.  I did
not like to tell the credulous Aga that I thought the
little gold man might be an industrious wood-worm.
What in heaven's name would a wood-worm have to
do with her heart's desires?  But these will be
fulfilled all the same: the simple folk about here wish
for nothing which cannot be attained.  And the
maid in the hut, as well as the shepherd-boy and
the herd in the stall, sleep with an easy conscience.

In the morning the bright sun peeps through the
window, calling, "Time to be up!"  Now the
herdswoman goes with the bucket into the stall,
where between four legs flow the little white
fountains of milk and butter.  The fire on the hearth is
ready for the milk and the herdsman is waiting for
the soup.  He yodles and shouts, and so the time
passes.  But Berthold manages in the simplest way;
he lays himself under the belly of the cow and drinks
his breakfast directly from the udder.

It was with Berthold and Aga in the Miesenbach
hut that I made my observations.  After the
morning soup Aga takes the basket on her back and
descends toward the grazing meadows of the Thalmulde,
that like a careful mistress she may prepare the
table for her four-footed menials.  The herd's meal
lasts the whole day; for in the early morning
Berthold has already led them down to the pastures wet
with dew.

Once in such an hour I listened to Aga.  She was
trilling and singing, and these are the things I like to
record.

   |  "If the Winkel brook were milk,
   |    And the Winkel vale were beef as well,
   |  And the hills were all of butter,
   |    That were a feast, my lad, to tell."
   |

Berthold hearing it does not reflect long; a song
so grossly material calls for one still more material.
Standing upon the wall, he sings to the maid:

   |  "If thy red hair were gold,
   |    Of thalers full thy throat,
   |  Thy bodice stuffed with diamonds,
   |    Upon thee I would dote."

And then she:

   |  "Thy fingers would burn for the thalers,
   |    The jewels thou wouldst embrace,
   |  But the golden hair were much too fine
   |    For thy rough and bearded face."
   |

Oh, they do not remain in one another's debt;
they know how to tease.  But how does it happen
that in the forest-land grow fewer and less appropriate
expressions for love and tenderness than for
jesting and fun?  If love down in the valleys is not
exactly communicative, up here with the firs and
little cabbage-roses it is as dumb as fish in water.
The kiss is not as customary here as in other places.
It is, I should say, as if the warm blood did not take
the time to mount to the lips, when there is so much
to do elsewhere.  Everything expresses itself in the
arms, and when a love-sick lad knows no other way
of showing his feelings, he seizes his maiden, as the
miller does a sack of grain, and swings her high in
the air, at the same time giving a shout that verily
tears the clouds asunder.

Berthold does it not a whit differently.  They are
two poor young people, left to themselves on the
lonely Alpine heights.  What is there to do?
Alas! alas! nothing, I think, for me as yet.



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   WITH THE WOOD-DEVILS

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In this wilderness there are trades of which I had
no idea.  The people literally dig their bread out of
the earth and stones.  They scrape it from the
trees, and by the many-sided resources of their wit
force it out of inedible fruits.  How strange that
man should know so well how to utilise everything!
But has he already done so?  And was the necessity
there before the means were discovered, or was
it the result of the things obtained?  If the latter
were the case, I should consider the thousand
acquisitions as no gain.

The starved or daring wood-devils hold closer
communication with the mass of mankind outside
than one would suppose, and than they themselves
perhaps imagine.  Yet after all they know it well
enough.  For example, there is the root-digger.  His
fustian jacket reaches to the calves of his legs; his
hat is a veritable family roof, but in places it is
already breaking and full of holes.  One knows him
at once from afar.  He climbs around among the
rocks and digs out the aromatic roots with his crooked
iron puncheon.  He then sometimes sings the little
song:

   |  "When I uproot the spikenard here,
   |  That grows upon the Alm,
   |  I like to think of the women-folk.—
   |  Canst thou guess where the spices go?
   |  To Turkey land, that the women-folk,
   |  A sweeter perfume may receive.
   |  In Turkey land, the women-folk."
   |

I do not yet know if it be true that spikenard
travels from here over to Turkey.  But these people
believe it and so it is truth to them.  The proud
assertion of the root-digger, that he is sending a sweeter
perfume to the woman's world in the Orient, is
contested.

Yonder upon the cliff stands an old comrade, who,
hearing the song, unfastens the brass clasp of his
jacket, and retorts:

   |  "That thou 'rt always thinking
   |  Of the Turkish women-folk,
   |  O Lota, is well-known!
   |  Go rather and perfume thyself
   |  With spikenard on the Alm,
   |  It might not do thee any harm."
   |

Thus they tease one another, and that is their
harmless side.  But the wood-devil has his cloven
foot.  The genuine man of the woods has a
double-barrelled shot-gun; one barrel is called *Gemsennoth*
(Danger to the chamois), the other *Jägertod* (Death
to the hunter).  If he could write, he would
engrave these names upon the steel with his crooked
knife; but he keeps it in his mind, that about
*Gemsennoth* and *Jägertod*.

He would have given up the digging long ago, to
lead solely a poacher's life, but he imagines that
sometime he is going to find a buried treasure under the
stones.  Digging for treasures, gold and diamonds
under the ground, that he has heard in fairy-tales
and can never forget.

Gold and diamonds under the ground!  Treasure-digging!
The fairy-tale is right; the root-digger is
right; the ploughman is right; the miner is right.
But the treasure-digger is not right.

Of one thing I am careful, that is, not to offend
the root-digger, the pitch-scraper, or the ant-grubber.
These are the people who are said to cause the bad
weather, which is all devils' work, and since they live
in the forests, thence the many hard storms in the
wooded and Alpine regions.  But how they manage
that the atoms of dew condense into water, that the
drops freeze into bits of ice, that the bits of ice
become heavy hail-stones, that flaming darts of lightning
hiss through the night, and that the mighty thunder
rolls, until at last it all bursts upon the trembling
men and beasts of the earth—how they manage
that, must be a profound secret of these wild fellows
which I have not been able to discover.

It is a fearful delusion of these people, when they
think themselves able to perform deeds which are
beyond human power, while neglecting that by
which they might accomplish something great.—However,
in the world outside, other mistakes
occur, still more harmful because made by men of
superior wisdom and with greater resources than
here.  Glorious, O mankind, is thy progress, but
with thy monstrous prejudices art thou still very
incomplete!

Up among the hills is a glen called the Wolfsgrube.
I recently visited this place, arriving there
just in time to witness the burial of a man, who had
been neither root-digger, ant-grubber, pitch-scraper,
brandy-distiller, nor poacher, but the most
extraordinary wood-devil.

He had never worked, but had earned his bread
by eating.  He was called "the Gormand"; I think he
had no other name.  He was a human wreck, although
physically very strong.  His hair had become a
hopelessly tangled mat with sweat and resin; so he had
no need of a hat.  His beard resembled dried
pine-needles.  His broad and powerful chest was as
though spun over with a tenfold spider's web, thus
saving a doublet.  An entire horny skin had formed
itself upon his bulky feet, making shoes superfluous.
Almost a terrible sight!  I met him a few days ago
in the Winkel.  Seeing me, he snatched a handful of
sand from the ground, offering to swallow it for a
small remuneration.  He often went to the surrounding
villages on church-festival days to exhibit his
tricks before the people.  He did not consume tow
and ribbons and that sort of thing, as jugglers
usually do, but cloth, leather, and bits of glass.  He has
even been known to swallow rusty shoe-nails.  His
favourite repast was an old boot or felt hat, torn into
bits and prepared with oil and vinegar.  That paid
him well, and his purse, like his stomach, had a good
digestion.  "For us such food would not be good,"
said Rhyme-Rüpel, "though a little drink of
*Schnapps* or wine might cut the pebbles very fine."  Day
in, day out, he performed this feat; but everything
has an end, Easter Sunday as well as Good
Friday.  He was sitting before his glass of toddy in
Kranabethannes' hut, saying in his arrogant way,
"Eat your black bread yourself, Hannes; I 'll drink
the brandy and take a bite of the glass with it."  Just
then an old root-digger crawled out from a dark
corner of the hearth: "Despise the black bread, do
you?  You!"  At which the Gormand retorted:
"Get out, root-digger; I 'll eat you and the yoke on
your back!"  The old man then drew forth a small
root, saying, "Here 's something, you rascal, that's
a little stronger than you are."  "Bring it on!"
screamed the Gormand, seizing the root and thrusting
it down his throat.  "You 're done for!" chuckled
the old man, and he disappeared into the forest.
Suddenly springing up, the Gormand staggered out
of the house and fell upon the grass, stone-dead.
The meaning of it all was now plain.  No one knew
the old root-digger—he was the devil.

Half-fact, half-legend, so the superstitious people
interpreted and related it to me.  And they would
not bury the man in the Holdenschlag churchyard.
In the marshy ground of the Wolfsgrube, where
only the rushes grow and wave their little woolly
flags, they made the grave.  Winding the body in
thick fir-boughs, they shoved it with a pole, until
it rolled into its final resting-place.

At the same time a little troop of worshippers
came over the heath through the Wolfsgrube.  They
had been in a defile in the high mountains where a
cross is said to be standing among the rocks.  The
little company paused before the grave, repeating the
Lord's prayer for the dead man.  Then suddenly
a swarthy woman, a charcoal-burner, cried out:
"You miserable wretches, your pious prayers will
be as useful to that man as dry clothes to a fish
in water.  He 's already yonder in torment, for he 's
the eater of broken glass!"

"The holy Lord's prayer will serve afterwards
for our live-stock at home!" murmured the
worshippers as they walked away.

A pale, black-haired man, with a melancholy face
though restless bearing, still remained standing
beside the grave.  Gazing into it, with a trembling
hand he threw a clump of earth upon the form
wrapped in the green travelling-dress and, looking
about him, said: "We will cover him with earth
nevertheless.  The devil has not taken him because
of his good appetite; and his heart may have been
no worse than his stomach."

This was the funeral sermon.  And then a few
men came and shovelled earth into the grave.

Later I again met the sad, pale man, whom they
call the *Einspanig*.  "Can you tell me something,"
I asked, "about the eater of broken glass?  It is
really a strange, weird tale."

"Strange and weird is the whole woodland," he
answered; "a better digestion than ours, such a son
of the wilderness may have.  And superstition is
the intellectual life of these people."  With these
words he turned and quickly stumbled away.

What, old man, art thou not thyself a son of the
wilderness?  Thou art truly strange and weird enough.
The *Einspanig*, "The Lone One," they call him; of
his history they know nothing.

I have also made the acquaintance of the pitch-maker.
He is a very peculiar fellow.  One can scent
him from afar and see him glistening through the
thicket.  The hatchet glistens with which he scrapes
the resin from the trees, and the grappling-iron
glistens, by means of which he climbs like a wild-cat
up the smooth trunks to reap a harvest from their
tops, or to make an incision for the resin to flow out
later on.  And the leather trousers glisten, and the
fustian jacket, covered with pitch, and the blade of
the long knife at his side—and finally one sees his
black, glistening eye.  If a blossom or a falling
pine-needle grazes him, it sticks to his arm, to his hair, to
his beard.  If a fly or a butterfly is flitting about, or
a spider, swinging from its web, the little insect
remains clinging to him; and his dress is gaily
decorated with tiny creatures from the plant and animal
kingdom when in the darkness of the forest or at
evening he returns home to his hermitage.  The
pitch-maker wounds the trees seriously, at last
killing them, and the primeval forest has succumbed to
the destruction.  He has crippled the old pines and
firs, and they now stretch out their long arms after
him, as if desiring to strike down their deadly enemy.

By a process of evaporation, the pitch-maker
prepares turpentine and other oils such as are used in
the forest regions for every conceivable malady.  I
often visit these distilleries, watching the black mass
boil and bubble, until it is put into closed earthen
receptacles, from which the valuable contents are
drawn through slender tubes into kegs and bottles.
Packing these in a large basket, the man peddles
them from house to house.  The wood-cutter buys
pitch-oil for every injury which he may receive in
his battle with the forest.  The charcoal-burner buys
it for burns; the brandy-distiller for his casks.  The
root-digger buys for sprains and colic, the last of
which he contracts from so much uncooked food.
The small peasant farther out buys pitch-oil for his
whole household and cattle, as a remedy against
every ill.

O thou pitch-oil man!  A tiny worm has been
gnawing long at my heart—might it not be destroyed
with thy gall-bitter oil?

In the pitch-maker's hut it is unsafe to sit down,
for one would stick fast.  And then the little
unwashed, tousled children would come and clamber
upon one's neck until there would be no escape.

The pitch-maker's dwelling is simple enough.
Underneath is the bare earth; above, the bark-shingled
roof; while the walls are of rough logs, stopped up
with moss.  The uneven hearth serves at the same
time as a table.  Under the bedstead is the
storehouse for potatoes, mushrooms, and wild pears.  The
worm-eaten wardrobe is the revered object in the
house; it guards the sacred souvenirs of the
forefathers, the baptismal gifts of the children, and the
rain-coat of the pitch-maker when not in use.  The
windows have hardly enough glass to have satisfied
the appetite of the Gormand.  "Besides," as the
pitch-maker says, "rags and straw paper are as good
as glass panes, if one cannot show a clean face through
them."  Behind the wardrobe hangs the gun.  If my
lord, the hunter, on one of his visits, should happen
to discover it, it is all right—a gun is a necessity, for
there are wolves in the woods.  If he does not see it,
so much the better.  It is the same with the
pitch-maker's housekeeper; seeing her, one is compelled to
acknowledge that the spring-time of life will return
no more to one in the fortieth year; that, as the
proverb says, a wen on the throat is better than a
hole; that one-eyed is not blind, and that a little
crookedness in the legs is neither to be ashamed
nor boasted of.  If one does not see her, so much
the better.

But as I have often noticed, to many a pitch-maker
clings a young wife.  Country wenches are sometimes
very different from city maids.  The latter are usually
well pleased when their lovers are white and delicate,
slender, docile, and amorous as doves.  The country
lass on the contrary prefers one who is hard, rough,
and bristly, angular and wild.  If a girl has a choice
between one who cheerfully darns stockings for her
and one who thunders at her with every word—then
she takes the thunderer.  For after all she has him
in her power.  How does the song go which the
pitch-maker likes so well to sing?

   |  "For the pitch I have my axe,
   |    For the hare I 've gun and ball,
   |  For the hunter two stout fists,
   |    For the wench I 've nothing at all.
   |  'That,' she says, 'is far too little.'
   |    So she drives me out the door;
   |  Then I go and flog the hunter
   |    Till he troubles me no more."
   |

It may not be poetical,—however, the man who
occasionally sings such a song does not harm the
hunter.  He who goes about with gloomy thoughts
sings no merry song.

Among the wood-devils, the most cordial and,
according to my judgment, the most dangerous, is the
brandy-distiller.  He wears finer cloth than the
others and shaves his beard every week.  He always
carries about with him a little flask, affably treating
each person who comes in his way.  Whoever drinks
is ruined, and follows him to the tavern.

The brandy-distiller reaps a double harvest; first
the red berries from the mountain-ash, from the hop,
from the sweet-broom, from everything that here
produces fruit.  He believes in the Spirit of Nature,
that lives in all created things, and conjures it out of
the fruits of the forest and, like the magician in the
fairy-tale, into the bottle and, putting the stopple in
quickly, imprisons it there.  His distillery is a magic
circle under a high, gloomy pine, a circle like that
which the spider draws and weaves.  Soon a few
flies are there, wriggling in the net.  The
woods-people, as they go about, or to and from their work,
are at last enticed into the tavern—these are the flies
of the two-legged spider, and from them the
brandy-distiller now reaps his second harvest.

Each man is advised by his wife to avoid the road
by "the Pine," it is so dark and rough, as well as
being longer than any other.  The man appears to
be convinced, and besides he has nothing to call him
there,—but health is such an uncertain thing, and as
he walks along he is suddenly attacked by a
pressure in the throat, followed by a most distressing
colic.  Having no pitch-oil with him, he knows but
one remedy and—he takes the road by "the Pine."  "The
first little glass," says Rüpel, "soothes the
smart; the second glass makes warm the heart; the
third glass makes it still more warm; one's purse by
the fourth will receive no harm; at the fifth, the
man wishes to stretch his limbs; at the sixth, the
pines sway and his poor head swims; at the seventh,
his body is all aglow; at the eighth, to his wife he
longs to go."

But stumbling homewards, the good man swears at
the "bad" wife who is coming to meet him without a
light through this ghastly fog; and when finally, his
hat awry and jammed low on his forehead, he tumbles
into the hut, the woman knows what beatings she
has already borne and may receive again, if she
does not hasten and escape into the garret or some
safe place.

My voyages of discovery have cheered me more
than I should have thought possible.  A sad fate
hangs over this little people, but this fate sometimes
makes an unspeakably droll face.  Besides I do not
consider these foresters so utterly depraved and
wretched.  They are neglected and uncouth.
Perhaps something might be made of them; but first
the leaven must be added.

The race will not die out so easily.  Right here in
the damp, dark forest-land the little ones flourish like
mushrooms.  The youngsters follow the path of
their elders and carry the grappling-iron for roots,
or the herdsman's staff, or the hatchet for pitch, or
the axe for wood.

But, according to the reports made to the priest in
Holdenschlag, the forest children are all girls.  The
boys are mostly christened with the water of the
woods; they are recorded in no parish-register, that
they may remain unnoticed outside by the bailiffs
and omitted from the military list.  The men here
say that the government and whatever belongs to
it costs them more than it would be worth to them,
and they will renounce it.  That may be all true,
but the government does not renounce the healthy
Winkelstegers.

The girls also, when they are somewhat fledged,
soon take up ant- and root-digging, gathering herbs,
and they know of a market for everything; they pick
strawberries and hops and the fruit of the juniper for
the brandy-distillers.  And the little boys, still too
young to look after themselves, already help with the
brandy-drinking.

A short time ago I watched a troop of children.
They are playing under a larch-tree.  The fallen
larch-cones are their stags and roes, which they are
pretending to feed with green brushwood.  Others
run about playing "Hide and Seek" behind the
bushes, "Holding Salt," "Driving out Hawks,"
"Going to Heaven and Hell," and whatever all the
tricks and games are called.  It is pleasant to watch
them; to be sure they are all half naked, but they
have well-formed and healthy limbs, and their games
are more childishly gay than any which I have ever
seen other children play.  This is the vulnerable
spot of the horny Siegfried, who is here called
*Waldteufel*.

Smiling at the little ones under the larch-tree, I
try after a while to mingle with them in their games,
but they draw back shyly, only a few keeping near
me; but when I attempt to get the better of them in
a race or game of tag, then they all join in.  And
soon I am a good and welcome friend in the mad,
whirling circle of these young people.  I prattle
many things to them, but more often I let them
talk to me.  I go to school to the children to learn
the schoolmaster's art.

The forest people do not allow themselves to be
drawn up by force; he who would win them for higher
things must descend quite to them, must lead them
up arm in arm and indeed by a long, circuitous
route.



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   IN THE FELSENTHAL

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Below the slopes of the fore-alps and the cliffs of
the Hochzahn with its chain of glaciers, the wooded
hills extend on and on toward the west.  Seen from
above they lie there like a dark-blue sea, concealing
in their depths the everlasting shadows and the
strange people.

A day's journey from the valley of the Winkel
toward the west, far below the last hut, is a place
where, according to the legend, the world is fastened
in with boards.

It were better said, walled in with stones; deep
fissured precipices shut off the forest-land and here
begin the Alps, where the rocky boulders no longer
lie or lean, but soar straight up into the sky.  A
sea of snow and ice with crags, about which hover
everlasting mists, extends endlessly, it is said, over
the giant strongholds above, which in olden times
guarded an Eden now turned to stone.  Thus the
legend.  Strange that this wonderful dream of a
lost paradise yet to be regained should dawn in the
hearts of *all* people and nations!

These foresters will not believe that on the other
side of the Alps there are again regions inhabited by
man.  Only one old, shy, blinking charcoal-burner
repeats the story told him by his grandfather, that
over there were human beings, who wore such high
pointed hats that they could not walk about on the
mountains in the evening without knocking down
the stars.  So the Lord God was obliged to carefully
draw down the clouds every night in order to
keep a single star in heaven.  The rogue meant the
pointed hats of the Tyrolese.

In this mountain glen are a number of places held
in ill repute.  Here many a dead chamois-hunter has
been found, shot through the breast by a ball of
lead.  There is also a legend that a monster, which
keeps watch over an inexhaustible treasure of
diamonds in the mountains, sometimes bursts forth
from one of the numerous rocky caverns.  If the
forest-land endures a while longer, then a hero is
expected to come and slay the beast and recover the
treasure.  Up to the present such a one has not
appeared.  Ah, if I could give this monster its true
name!

The region is adapted to the gloomy myths.  It is
a dead valley in which no little finch will sing, no
wild pigeon coo, no woodpecker chatter, in which
loneliness itself has fallen asleep.  Upon the grey
moss-covered ground piles of rock lie about, just as
they have been broken from the high cliff.  Here
and there a bold little fir-tree has climbed up on one
of these grey, weather-beaten boulders and proudly
looks about, thinking itself now more fortunate than
the other half-dead trees on the sandy soil below.
It will not be long before it too will perish from
hunger and thirst, and will fall from the barren rock.
Here the forest cannot flourish, and if a straight and
slender fir shoots up anywhere, its days are
numbered.  A storm-wind suddenly comes rushing down
from the rocky defile and almost gently lays the
young tree, together with its broken roots, upon the
ground.

The Scotch fir alone is still courageous; it climbs
the steep sides between the precipices to discover
how it looks up there with the *Edelweiss*, with the
Alpine roses, with the chamois, and how far it is yet
to the snow.  But the good Scotch fir is no daughter
of the Alps; soon a dizziness seizes it, and,
frightened, it crouches down and crawls painfully upon its
knees, with its twisted, crippled arms always reaching
out and clutching something, the little heads of
the cones stretching themselves upward in curiosity,
until finally it comes out into the damp veil of mist
and aimlessly wanders about among the stones.

Upon one of the fallen rocks of this remotest valley
in the forest stands a cross.  It is very clumsily
made out of two rough pieces of wood; in places the
bark is still clinging to it.  Silent it stands there
in the barren waste; it is like the first message
concerning the Redeemer of the world, which in
olden times the holy Boniface made from the trees
of the forest and set up in the German wilderness.

I have often asked the meaning of this cross.
Since time immemorial it has stood upon the rock,
and no man can say who placed it there.  According
to the legend it was never placed there.  Every
thousand years a little bird flew into the forest,
bringing a seed of grain from unknown lands.  Previously
it was not known what had become of the seeds,
whether they had been lost, or whether the poisonous
plant with the blue berries, or the thorn-bush
with the white rose, or something else, evil or good,
had sprung from them.  But when the bird last
appeared it laid the seed upon the rock in the
Felsenthal, and from it sprang the cross.  Sometimes one
goes there to pray before it; the prayer has often
brought a blessing at once, but often a misfortune
has followed it.  So it is uncertain whether the cross
is for weal or woe.  The Einspanig is the most
frequently seen in the Felsenthal, and here he performs
his devotions before the symbol; but it is also
uncertain whether the Einspanig is good or evil.

After many days of wandering I returned once
more to my house in the Winkel, much puzzled in
my mind about the cross in the Felsenthal and the
Einspanig.  I learned a little concerning the latter
on reaching home.

I was surprised to find my housekeeper, usually so
good-natured, quite irritable to-day.  It appears that
seeing the Einspanig passing, the woman, who
happened to look out at that moment, thought to
herself, "Oh, how I should like to gossip a little with
this queer man, and find out something about him."  And
as he accidentally turned his face toward the
door, she cordially invited him to enter and rest a
little on the bench.  On his accepting her invitation,
she hastily brought him bread and milk, and in her
own peculiar way asked, "Good man of God, where
do you then come from?"

"Down from the Felsenthal," was the answer.

"*Ihr Närrchen!*" cried the woman, "you don't
mean that horrible place!  Up there in the
Felsenthal the world is fastened in with boards."

The Einspanig then replied quietly: "Nowhere
is the world fastened in with boards.  The mountains
stretch far, far back behind the Hochzahn, then
comes the hilly country, then the plains, then the
water which extends many thousand miles, then land
again with mountains and valleys and little hills, and
again water, and again land and water and land and
land——"

Interrupting him here, the woman cried, "*Mein
Gott*, Einspanig, how much farther then?"

"As far as home, into our country, into our
forest, into the Winkel, into the Felsenthal.  Worthy
woman, if God should give you wings and you should
fly away toward the setting sun and on and always
on, following your nose and the sun, then one day
you would come flying from where the sun rises
toward your peaceful house."

"Oh, you humbug!" cried the woman, "go tell
your tales to someone else; I am the Winkel-warden's
wife.  I 'll give you the milk and with it the
honest opinion of old people: Somewhere there is
a place where the world is fastened in with boards.
That is the old faith, and therein will I live and die."

"Woman, all honour to your old faith!" replied
the Einspanig, "but I have already travelled the
road toward the setting sun and back here from the
rising sun."

These words seemed to have thoroughly embittered
her.  "*O Du Fabelhans!*" she screamed, "the
devil has set his mark upon you."  And then
shaking his head the man walked away.

The good woman must have found it hard waiting
for me to give further vent to her feelings.  As I
approached the house she called to me over the
fence: "By my troth!  By my troth!  What kind
of people there are upon God's dear earth, to be
sure!  Now they do not even believe in the end of
the world!  But I say: Our Lord God has made
it all right, and I 'll stick to my old faith, and the
world is fastened in with boards!"

"Of course, of course," I acknowledged, as I
climbed over the board fence.  "Quite right—fastened
in with boards!"

And so we will cling to the old faith.



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   WITH THE WOOD-CUTTERS

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Alas, that the forest also should have its enemies—the
silent, unending forest, as it stretches over hill
and vale—lying there, boundless, green and dark, and
farther on, dimly blue in the sunny horizon.

What a beautiful rustling, murmuring, echoing,
living wall, protecting all within it from the wild
discord without!  But—the peace of the woods is
dead.

In the forest the wind roars, striking off the
joyfully waving arm of many a young pine, breaking the
neck of many a daring giant.  And in the depths,
rushing and foaming in white frothy flakes—like a
gathering storm—is the Wildbach, which washes,
digs, and gnaws the earth away from the roots, ever
deeper and deeper, until at last the mighty tree is
almost standing in the air, only supporting itself above
by resting its strong arms upon its neighbours, and
finally plunging into the grave, which the water has
mischievously been digging for it,—that water which
the tree has fed with its falling dew, protected with
its thick branches from the thirst of the wind and
guarded with its shade from the consuming kiss of the
sun.  And the woodpecker pecks the bark in the airy
tree-top, while the sharp-toothed wheel of time
revolves constantly, and the chips fly—in the spring
as blossoms, in the autumn as withered needles and
leaves.

It is eternally ending and in the end are always the
germs of beginning.

Then man comes for the first time with his rage for
destruction.  The blows and strokes resound, the
saw buzzes, the axe is heard upon the iron wedge in
the dark valley,—if you look from above over the
silent sea of trees, you do not dream which one it
concerns.

But the axe and the wedge pierce deeper and
deeper; then the tree, a century old, shakes its lofty
head, not in the least comprehending what the little
man below there wants, the droll, tiny creature—it
cannot understand and again shakes its head.  Then
comes the thrust through its heart; it cracks, snaps,
and now the giant totters and bends; whizzing
and whistling in an immense circle, it falls with a
wild crash to the earth.  There is an empty space in
the air, the forest has a gap.  A hundred spring-times
have borne it up with their love and gentleness; now
it is dead, and the world exists and also remains
intact without it—the living tree.

Silent stand the two or three men, supporting
themselves upon the handles of their axes, and gaze
upon their sacrifice.  They do not mourn, they do
not exult, a cruel indifference rests upon their rough,
sunburnt features; their very faces and hands
resemble the fir bark.  Filling their pipes, they sharpen
the hatchets and return to work.  They chop the
branches from the fallen trunk, they shave off the
bark with a broad knife, cutting it perhaps into
cord-lengths, and now the proud tree lies there transformed
into bare logs.

These are converted into charcoal, which is
forwarded to the foundries in the outlying regions.
The beeches and maples and other deciduous trees
are usually left standing until they inwardly decay
and fall to the ground.  Upon the mouldering trunks
appear fungous growths, and from these the pitch-maker
or the root-digger prepares the tinder, by
hammering them flat and steeping them in saltpetre.

The wood-cutter has no thought for the beauty of
the wilderness.  To him the forest is nothing more
than a hostile shelter from which he must wrest
bread and existence with the gleaming axe.  And
what a long day's work it is from early morning
until twilight, with but a single hour's rest at noon!
While the wood-devil is his own master, the woodcutter
is the slave of others.  As for his food, the
wood-cutter is a being who nourishes himself from
plants, unless he be a genuine poacher, who is
shrewd enough to avoid being captured.  However,
he luxuriates in imagination and likes to name his
flour-dumplings after the animals of the forest.  So
for breakfast, dinner, and supper he always eats
venison, foxes, sparrows, or whatever he christens
his meal-cakes.  One Friday a young man invited
me to a "Venison."  Ah, I think, he does not keep
Fast Day,—he is certainly one of the Evangelicals
who was left in the Alps after the peasant wars.  But
the "Venison" proved to be harmless little meal-cakes.

Eighteen groschen wages for a day's work,—that is
indeed prosperity; from it many a woodsman has
bought himself a little house and goat, and
supported a wife and troop of children.  So at last he
has his own hearth, and in addition to the meal-cakes
a rich soup of goat's milk.

However, the expenses of the forest cabin are not
very great.  Fortunately not much is required of the
good fathers of families.

   |  "Man can live as he likes,
   |    If lucky he be,—
   |  For the children some bread,
   |    Tobacco for me"

is the song of the forest householder.

But others, and indeed the most of them, drown
their earnings in brandy, thus forfeiting the few
comforts which their unambitious natures demand.
Such spendthrifts live together by the dozen in a
single hut, cooking their dinner at a common hearth
which is in the middle of the cabin.  Along the walls
are spread the straw beds.

In each hut they have a *Goggen* and a *Thomerl*;
the first is a wooden frame on the hearth, which
holds the frying-pan over the fire—there are often
half a dozen set up around the flames.  The second is
a man, who, however, may be called *Hansl* or *Lippl*,
or whatever he likes, but who usually has a massive
head, high shoulders, and short feet, hands hanging
down to his knees, and a vacant smile continually
upon his face.  He is chambermaid, kitchen-boy,
wood- and water-carrier, at the same time goatherd,
butt for empty jokes and—the honour of the house.

Furthermore, in each woodman's hut, in some one
of the corners, or under some board, rifles are always
concealed.

The working-day garb of the wood-cutter has no
striking characteristics; it consists of a combination
of tattered fustian, dull-coloured knitted wool, and a
horny leather hide, everything more or less sticky
with resin and almost entirely hiding the form
beneath.  But the badge is the high, yellowish-green
hat with the tuft of feathers.  The feather tuft is
most important, for that is the mark of some
poaching adventure, love affair, or savage broil.
Occasionally these people go outside to the more distant
places to celebrate the *Kirmess*—and this is a
necessity to them, as here there are no Sundays, indeed
the very heart of Sunday—the church itself—is
missing.

At these feasts the rough woods-people wear
dress-coats and tall hats,—one would hardly believe it.
But the coat is of coarse fustian edged with green;
miniature trees, cut out of the same green material,
decorate the sleeves and back above the coat-tails;
large brass buttons glisten in the distance, and a high
standing collar reaches to the head, which is covered
by the tall hat, broad brimmed and with flaring
crown.  This is made from rough hair, with a wide
green band and shining brass buckle.

Even into the wilderness of the Alps the foreign
fashions have penetrated!

For the most part they are good-hearted people;
but if irritated they can become savage past all
belief.  Their eyes, although deep-set, are bright
and sparkling.  Kindness is clearly read there as
well as quickness of temper.

But they are pious, suspiciously pious.  Each one
has his flask of holy water and tells his beads, with
the parenthesis, "Bless all poor souls in purgatory,
and help us to find the money and goods so uselessly
buried in the ground."  And each has seen at least
one ghost in his life.

According to my observation a bloody fight seems
to be quite an ordinary occurrence with these
people, and a death-blow no rarity.  On the other hand,
thefts are never committed.

The wood-cutter is born under the tree; his father
places, one might almost say, the axe-handle in his
hand before the spoon, and instead of the nursing-bottle
the little one grasps after the tobacco-pouch.
He who is unable to buy tobacco makes it for
himself from beech leaves.

A remarkable amiability is not a native trait of
these people.  They scarcely know peaceful joy;
they strive for noisy pleasure.  They are not even
sensitive to pain.  If one of them drives the sharp
axe into his leg he merely says it *tickles* him a
little.  But in a few days all is healed again.  And if
a man loses a finger, it is a misfortune only because
of the inconvenience in lighting his pipe.

An old setter of broken bones and an extractor of
teeth form the entire medical faculty, while pine-resin
and pitch-oil are the only drugs used in this shadowy
wood-world.

When these people go away homesickness is their
greatest woe.  The homeless ones homesick?  Their
real trouble is a longing for the forest hills where
they have once passed a portion of their lives.



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   BLACK MATHES

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In the Hinter Winkel stands the haunted hut.  A
short time ago I was there to see Mathes the fighter,
a hard, rough-appearing man, although small and
thin.  He was lying stretched upon a bed of moss,
his arm and head being bound in rags.  He was
badly hurt.

The windows of the hut were covered with bits of
cloth; the sufferer could not bear the light.  His
wife, young and amiable, but grieving piteously, was
kneeling beside him, moistening his forehead with
apple vinegar.  His eyes stared at her almost
lifelessly, but about his mouth played a smile, showing
the snow-white teeth.  A strong odour of pitch-oil
filled the room.

As I entered, a pale, black-haired boy and a bright-eyed
little maid were cowering at his feet, playing
with bits of moss.

"That is to be a garden," said the girl, "and there
I am going to plant roses!"

The boy was carving a cross out of a small piece of
wood, and he cried: "Father, now I know what I am
making; it 's the Holdenschlag graveyard!"

The mother in alarm reproved the children for
their noise; but Mathes said: "Oh, never mind; I 'll
soon be in the graveyard myself.  But, one thing,
wife, don't let Lazarus's temper pass unheeded.  For
God's sake, don't do that!  Thou hast nothing to
say?  Thou wilt not follow my advice?  Dost thou
perhaps know better than I?  Oh, I tell thee,
wife!——"

Tearing the rags from his arm, he endeavoured to
rise.  The woman, repeating loving words to him,
pushed him gently back.  Yielding to weakness even
more than to her efforts, he sank upon his bed.  The
children were sent from the room and on the sunny
grass-plot I stayed with them awhile, entertaining
them with games and fairy-tales.

A few days later I visited the family again.  The
sick man was feeling much worse.  He could no
longer sit up, even when in a fit of rage.

"He is so exhausted," the sorrowing wife said to me.

First I was introduced by the children, and now I
enjoy in Mathes's house a certain amount of
confidence.  I go up there often; it is my special desire
to become acquainted with the misery of the forest.

Once, while Mathes was lying in a profound,
peaceful sleep and I was sitting beside the bed, the
woman drew a long, hard breath, as if she were
carrying a burden.  Then she spoke: "I can truly
say that there is no better soul in the world than
Mathes.  But when a man has once been so tormented
and oppressed by the people and painted so
black, he would indeed become a savage, if he had a
single drop of blood left in his veins."

And a little later she continued, "I ought to
know; I have known him from childhood."

"Speak then," I replied; "in me you see a man
who never mistakes the sorrow of the heart for
something evil."

"He used to be as gay as a bird in the air; it was
a joy to him simply to be alive.  And at that time
he did n't know that he was to inherit two large
farms; nor would he have cared, for best of all he
loved God's earth, as it lies there in the bright
sunshine.  But you shall see, it did not always go on in
that way."

And after a long pause the woman continued:
"It may have been in his twentieth year, when one
day he drove into the capital of the province, with a
load of corn.  The team was brought back by a
mounted patrol; Mathes never came home again."

"O ho!  I 'm already home!" interrupted the sick
man, endeavouring to rise.  "There is nothing wrong
about thy story, wife, but thou canst not know it
exactly; thou wast not there, Adelheid, when they
caught me.  I 'll tell it myself.  When I had finished
my business in town, I went into the tavern to
moisten my tongue a little.  In the corn-market, you
must know, one's talking apparatus becomes very
dry before the last sack is shouted off from the
waggon.  As I entered the tavern, I found three or
four gentlemen sitting at a table, and they invited
me to drink a glass of wine with them.  They were
friendly and treated me."

The man stopped a moment to catch his breath;
his wife begged him to spare himself.  He did not
heed her and continued: "They were telling stories
about the French, who would never give us any rest,
about the war times and the gay soldier's life; and
immediately afterwards they asked me how the sale of
corn had succeeded and what was the price of sheep.
I grew very lively, and was pleased to find that one
could chat so well on all sorts of subjects with
perfect strangers.  Then one of them raised his glass,
saying, 'Long live our King!'  We touched glasses
until they almost broke; I cried out three times as
loud as the others, 'Long live the King!'"  The
sick man stopped and his lips trembled.  After
a while he murmured: "With this cry my misfortune
began.  As I was about to leave, they sprang
up and held me fast.  'O ho, boy, you are ours!'  I
had fallen among the recruiting officers.  They led
me away,—-me, a mere boy; they concealed me
among the soldiers and I was sold."

Mathes rolled up bits of moss with his bony fingers.

"Don't grieve, wife," he muttered, "I 'm better now.
I 'll expose the whole crowd yet with my last words.
But this I can say, upon the broad, open field I have
never been so savage as I was at that time.  I longed
to go home; heavy, golden chains drew me thither.
And once, in the middle of a stormy winter night, I
ran away.  In Rainhausel I stopped with an old
aunt.  And now my own people betrayed me.  Soon
the officers were there to hunt for me.  In an instant
I was out of the house and, slipping into the woods,
I thought, 'If they have played a trick on me, I will
do the same by them.'  Two huge hunting dogs were
scenting around, but I ran for quite a distance
through the brook, until the hounds lost track.  And
the officers rummaged through everything in the hut;
they thrust their knives into the straw bedding and
hay, turning the whole house quite upside down.
But as they did n't find me, one of them, placing the
muzzle of his gun against the breast of my old aunt,
said: 'Tell me this instant where he is, or I 'll shoot
you down like a dog!'  'Yes, yes, he 's been here,'
she answered, 'but where he is now I don't know.'  They
dragged the woman out before the door, three
muskets were pointed at her breast, and threateningly
they whispered to her: 'Call out quickly, as loud
as you can: "Come here, Hiesel; the officers have
been gone a long time!"  If you don't do it you will
be buried to-morrow.' Of course I knew nothing
of all this; being concealed in the thicket, and
hearing no sound, I thought I was safe.  Then I heard
my aunt call, 'Come here, Hiesel; the officers have
been gone a long time!'  I sprang up and, running
towards the hut, I saw the woman strike her hands
over her head, and I already heard laughing, and I
was seized by the officers.  *Allmächtiger Gott*!  I
tried to pull out my pocket dagger; but one of the
men hit my arm with a club, so that to this day I
cannot turn my left hand properly.  They were
much cleverer and stronger than I, the poor, starved
devil, Mathes.  And a few days later they fell upon
me.  *Mein Gott!*  if each whip-lash had been a stroke
of lightning which did not kill, I should have liked
it a thousand times better than to be beaten and
treated like a dog by a man.  The two hundred
lashes knocked the very devil into me.  Since then,
whenever my blood was up, I have repaid them
ten-fold, even to my comrades in the woods.  But it
was meant for the others, meant for the rascals who
gave me the whipping.  In those days I should have
liked to be the Lord God Himself just for once, by
my soul!—I would have crushed the cursed earth
into a thousand million pieces!  My wounded
back was seasoned with vinegar and salt to make it
heal.  Oh, there was great haste.  The foreigner
had descended upon the country like the fiend
incarnate.  Then of course I became excited and fired
away like the evil one himself.  When the enemy
was driven back I had just one charge of powder
left; for this I might have found some other victim,
in our own regiment mounted on a high horse.  But
not that, not that!  I thought to myself.  Face to face,
to tear him down from his white steed with my
hands,—that might do,—but from ambush, no, never!  But
I did something cleverer yet, I ran away from the
battle-field and gave my cloak to a peasant for taking
me in his hay waggon across country.  My home I
reached in safety."

"And if you loved your home so much, why did
you not wish to fight for it?" I interrupted him.
"Why did you run away?"

"It may be that it was rascality," said Mathes, "it
may be.  Or perhaps—maybe it was n't either."

"I know a man," I answered, "who not only did
not fight for his country, but against the same."

"I did not stay at home," continued Mathes, "I
left everything behind me and hid myself in this
farthermost wilderness, so that they might never find
me.  Hunted, hunted, good Lord!  And it was not
until I reached here that I became a wild beast.  My
wife, thou knowest that."

The voice was shrill, but the words were the faltering
utterances of the dying.  He then became silent
and closed his eyes.  It was as the last flare of a flame
before extinction.

"The people took him for a poor abandoned
wretch, when he came back," continued the woman;
"they threw groschen and pfennige into a hat and
tried to present him with hat and all.  For that
Mathes would have killed a few of them; he wanted
no alms.  As the people were following him by the
dozen, he climbed up a large tree, and swung himself
like a wild-cat from one branch to another, until his
pursuers finally saw that they were mistaken.  But
in mockery they called him Hieselein.  Later on—yes,
of course—he hunted up a wife for himself—"

"The most beautiful one in the forest!" the sick
man interrupted her again, "and there was such an
insolent devil in him, that he—the half-cripple—plighted
his troth to this same maiden only on condition
that he should not find one still more beautiful.
By the holy cross, what a struggle there was
over it!  Others wanted the girl, too.  But I led my
Adelheid right under the noses of the most
aristocratic and the finest of them to my home, and I
would not wish to have a better girl than she is."

Again he became silent and dropped into a half-slumber.

"He received terrible blows sometimes," said the
woman, "but because he never lost his footing or
was thrown upon the ground, they called him
*Stehmandel*.  We have both of us got on right well
together," she continued in a low tone, "but he never
would give up his savage ways.  Every Saturday
evening he used to sharpen his knife for cutting
wood; but I often begged him: '*Um Gotteswillen*,
let the sharpening of the knife be!'  On Sundays he
would go to Kranabethannes's and late at night
he would come home with a bleeding head.  I
always knew that some day they would bring him
home on a litter.  But, when he was calm and sober,
there was n't a better, more industrious, or more
helpful man in the whole forest than Mathes.  Then
he could be gay and laugh and weep like a child.
Of course, as he was a deserter, he forfeited his farm
outside in the country; but he supported the
children with his own hands, and some other people as
well, who could no longer earn anything.  He visited
the sick and comforted them, just as a priest would
do.  On account of his honesty and reliability, he
was made master wood-cutter.  However, the
innkeeper was always in despair on Sundays, when
Hieselein arrived, whom they had already begun to
call Black Hieselein.  No matter how good-naturedly
he may have stumbled in at the door, they swore
that he would not go away without a terrible fight.
He would n't give it up.  He tried to drown his
sorrow in brandy; but the brandy brought the two
hundred whip-lashes to life again.  He would start
quarrels until the blood ran.  They would throw him
down, screaming, 'So, Hieselein, now perhaps you
won't begin any more disturbance!'  He would
soon be on his feet.  But it is a fact that when he
became sober, he would beg pardon of everyone.
But at last, thou holy Mother of God, the begging
pardon did not work any more.  All the wood-cutters
came one night to Kranabethannes's, to show
the fighter that even though he was their master at
work, they were for once masters in the tavern.  At
first, as they see that he is drinking brandy, one
glass after another, they begin to tease and mock
him, until he becomes wild and attacks them.  They
are all over him, throw him down, tearing his hair
and beard.  And in this same hour his guardian
angel deserts him; one hand free, he seizes his knife
and plunges it into the breast of Bastian, the
charcoal-burner.  They then beat Mathes until he is
thrown upon the ground.  Two root-diggers brought
him home.  Perhaps to-morrow I 'll be a widow, and
the poor children——"

The woman burst into sobs.  Then Mathes raised
himself once more: "The Lord God has done well
by thee.  Perhaps I might have beaten thee in a fit of
anger.  But I say this, I don't want to die so.  I
will get up and go to court and confess that I have
stabbed Bastian.  From the deceitful recruiting
officers who took me from my peaceful youth and
delivered me over to the bloody world, where I was
disgraced with whip-lashes and hunted like a dog,
and condemned for murder—to the charcoal-burner
Bastian, who with scorn and mockery himself
enticed the knife from its sheath—all of them I will
call before the tribunal; they must all be there
when I am condemned to death."

The woman shrieked; the man sank choking, back
on the moss.

Just then the children came skipping and shouting
in at the door.  They were dragging by the ears a
white rabbit which they let loose in the room, the boy
pursuing it.  The little besieged animal hopped upon
the bed of moss and over the limbs of the sick man.
It remained sitting in the corner, sniffing and
looking anxiously about with its great eyes.  The boy
slipped up to it and seized it by its legs.  The poor
tormented creature whined piteously and bit the
finger of its pursuer.—"Stop! stop! you rascal!"
cried the enraged boy, becoming very red in the
face, while tears filled his eyes, his lips were drawn,
and his fingers convulsively clutched the throat of the
animal and—before either his mother or sister could
interfere—the rabbit was dead.

Mathes beat his face with his hands, crying out so
that my very heart quaked: "Oh, horrible!  Now
the angry devil lives on in my children!  Must I
endure that also?"

A few moments later the man fell into a terrible
death struggle.  He died that same evening.

They buried Black Mathes in the forest, because
he had stabbed Bastian.  The woman wept bitterly
upon the mound, and when at last she was led away
from it, the Einspanig came and planted a little
pine-tree upon the grave.



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   THE FEAST OF THE VIRGIN MARY, 1814.

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And thus I have wandered about the Winkel
forests.  I have been in the Hinter Winkel and in
the ravines of the Miesenbach, in the forests of the
Kar, in Lautergräben, and in the Wolfsgrube, in the
Felsenthal and on the pastures of the Alm, and
yonder in the glen where lies the beautiful lake.  I
have introduced myself to the old and made myself
known to the young.  It costs trouble and there are
misunderstandings.  With a few exceptions, the
best of these people are not so good or the worst
so bad as I formerly believed.

I am even obliged to be a little deceptive; they
must not know why I am here.  Many take me for a
deserter and for that reason are friendly toward me.
To please these foresters a man must be despised and
exiled from the world, must indeed be as savage
and happy-go-lucky as themselves.  Then I have
been obliged to look about me for some work.  I
weave baskets out of straw, I gather and prepare
tinder and carve toys for the children out of beech
wood.  I have already so fully gained the confidence
of the people, that they have taught me how to whet
the tools, and now I understand sharpening the axes
and saws of the wood-cutters.  This brings me in many
a groschen and I accept it—I must, indeed, depend
upon the work of my hands, like everyone here.
My room presents a somewhat confused appearance.
And here I sit and work, when the weather is bad
outside or on long autumn evenings, among the
willow branches, the bits of wood, and the various
tools.  I am seldom alone; either my housekeeper
is chatting with me, or a pitch-maker, root-digger, or
charcoal-burner sits by me and smokes his pipe,
watching with a grin while I begin and finish the
different things, and finally going to work himself.
Or there are children about me, listening to the
fairy-tales which I relate, or playing with the chips, until
I have finished the toy in my hands.  On Sundays
the forester sits with me for hours together, hearing
the story of my experiences and my plans for the
people of the Winkel woods.  We talk over everything
and I occasionally write a long letter to the
owner of the forest.

The wood-cutters from Lautergräben are approaching
nearer and nearer the Winkel, and already
through the silent forest I have heard the crashing
of many a falling tree.  Upon the summit of the
Lauter, a pale reddish plain is spreading from day to
day and in the morning sunlight shines down in a
friendly way through the dark green of the forest.

In the ravines of the Winkel, stone-breakers and
ditchers are working; a waggon road is to be built for
the transportation of coal and wood.

I like to go about with the workmen, watching
them and talking with them, desirous of learning
something of their life.

But occasionally the people are a little mistrustful
of me and approach me with prejudice.  I often
carry a little volume of Goethe with me, and seat
myself in some attractive nook to read.  Many a
time I have been secretly watched while so occupied.
And then the report circulates through the forest
that I am a wizard and have a book containing
magic signs.  I have wondered if this peculiar
reputation may not at first have given me some
advantage in carrying out my plans.  The children would
surely be allowed by their parents to learn to read, if I
told them that by first understanding the magic signs,
one could exorcise devils, dig for treasure, and
control the weather.  I think that the grown people
themselves and even the grey-beards would drop
their tools and come to school to me.  But that
would be dishonourable and I should only produce
the opposite result from that which I desire.  The
chief thing is, not that the people learn to read and
write, but that they may be freed from harmful
prejudices and have pure hearts.  Of course I might
later substitute books of morals and say,—"Here
are the true magic signs"; but those whom I had
deceived would have no further confidence in me,
and the evil would be greater rather than less.

We will not sneak through a roundabout way; we
will hew a straight path through the midst of the old
trees.

A few times I have read songs to the people; to the
girls *Heideröslein*, and have taught *Christel* to the
boys.  They learn the verses quickly, and they are
already much sung in the forest.



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   UNREST

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And now the autumn has come.  The clouds are
dispersed with the morning mists, leaving the sky
bright and clear.  The brilliant foliage of the maples
stands out in relief against the dark brown of the
pine-forest, while in the valley, the meadow has
become green anew or glistens with the silvery
hoar-frost.  In these woods the autumn is more brilliant
and almost lovelier than the spring.  In the spring
there is a capricious brightness and splendour, song
and exultation everywhere.  The autumn, on the
contrary, is like a quiet, solemn Sabbath.  No longer
mindful of the earth, Nature is then expectantly
listening to heaven, and the breath of the Almighty
stirs harmonious melodies upon the golden strings
of mellow sunshine.

The sky has become so trustworthy, that it more
than fulfils through the day that which it promises in
the morning with its sad and misty eyes.  One gazes
into its still, blue depths.

Yonder beside the forest fire sits the shepherd-boy.
He is taking some little round things from a bag and
shoving them into the fire.

"Tell me, boy, where did you get the potatoes?"

Turning red, he replies, "The potatoes, I—I
found them."

"May God bless them to you, and another time
do not find them, but go to the Winkel-warden's
wife when you are hungry; she will give you some."

"Those which are given don't taste good," is the
answer; "those that are found are better, the salt is
already on them."

Yonder stands a bush, which has decorated itself
in the night with a chain of dew pearls; to-day the
dew is congealed and is destroying the very heart of
the plant.

On such a late autumn day I saw at one time an
old woman sitting in the woods.  This woman once
had a child.  He went out to the world, to hot
Brazil, seeking for gold.  The horizon is so perfectly
clear, that the mother is able to gaze into the distant
past, where the beloved boy is standing.  She looks
at him, smiles at him, and falls asleep.  The next
morning she is still sitting upon the stone, and now
she has a white mantle about her.  The snow has come,
the autumn is over.  And across the sea a ship is
bearing a letter bound for the hot zones of South
America.  It carries news to a sun-burnt man from
his distant home,—"Mother died in the woods."  A
tiny tear laboriously winds its way from under his
lashes, the sun quickly dries it, and afterwards as
before the watchword is: Gold!  Gold!  If a single
letter might come back to the old motherland, its
message would be,—"The son crushed with gold."

What am I dreaming here?  It is the way of the
world, and is no concern of mine.  I long for peace
in the midst of the quiet autumn of this forest.

Up there in the top of the beech-tree, a weary leaf
loosens itself, falls from branch to branch and
dangles by an infinitesimally tender, shining spider's
web, down to me upon the cool, shadowy earth.
The people far away with whom I used to live, what
may they be doing?  That wonderful maiden is
always blooming—always—even in the autumn; and
in Saxonland the dry leaves are wafted over the
graves.

Loneliness cannot banish the sorrow of loneliness.
I must look for something to distract and elevate me
that I may not become one-sided in my surroundings.

I have commenced the study of botany; I have
read from books how the erica grows, and the heath-rose,
and other flowers; and I have watched the same
plants hours and hours at a time.  And I have
found no connection between the dead leaf in the
book and the living one in the woods.  The book
says of the gentian: "This plant belongs to the
fifth class, among those of the first order, is found in
the Alps, has a bluish juice, and serves as medicine."  It
speaks of a number of anthers, pistils, embryos,
etc.  And that is the family and baptismal certificate
of the poor gentian.  Oh, if such a plant could read,
it would freeze on the spot!  That is indeed more
chilling than the hoar-frost of autumn.

The forest people know better.  The flower lives
and loves and speaks a wonderful language.  But
the gentian trembles with foreboding, when man
approaches; and it is more afraid of his passionately
glowing breath than of the deathly cold kiss of the
first snow.

So I am one who does not understand and is not
understood.  Without aim or plan I am whirling in
the monstrous, living wheel of nature.

Ah, if I but only understood myself!  Scarcely at
rest, after the fever of the world and enjoying the
peace of the woods, I already long again to cast one
glance into the distance, as far as the eye of man can
reach.

Yonder upon the blue forest's edge, I would I
might stand and look far out into the land over at
other men.  They are no better than the foresters,
and know scarcely more; yet they are striving after,
hoping for, and seeking Thee, O God!



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   ON JACOB'S LADDER

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One beautiful autumn morning I felt inclined to
climb the high mountain, whose loftiest peak is
called the Graue Zahn.  With us down here in the
Winkel, there is altogether too much shade, and up
there one stands in the bright circle of the wide
world.  There is no path thither; one must go
straight on, through underbrush, thickets, stones, and
tangled mosses.

After some hours I arrived at the Miesenbach hut.
The gay young pair have already departed.  The
living summer-time is over; the hut stands in
autumn abandonment.  The windows from which
Aga used to peep at the lad are fastened with bars;
the spring in front is neglected and has become
nearly dry; and the icicle on the end of the gutter
grows downwards—toward the earth.  The bell of a
colchicum swings near it, and rings to the last gasp
of the dying fountain.

I seated myself upon the top of a watering-trough
and ate my breakfast.  It consisted of a piece of
bread made of rye- and oat-flour, such as is eaten
everywhere in this forest-land.  That is a meal which,
literally, tickles the palate, very coarse-grained and
full of bits of bran.  In the country outside, where
wheat grows, such food would not be to our taste;
here it is all we ask for when we pray, "Give us
this day our daily bread!"  But there are also times
in this region when the Lord is sparing even with
the oat-bread; then dried straw and moss come
under the grindstone.  God bless to me the piece of
bread and the swallow of water with it!  Prepared
with God's blessing, ye master cooks, everything
becomes palatable.

I then begin to climb farther.  First I cross the
Kar, from whose bed project stones washed smooth
by the waves.  Between the stones stand tufts of
pale feather-grass and lichens.  Some tender,
snow-white flowers are also swaying to and fro, looking
anxiously about, as if they had lost their way up
here on the rocky waste and longed to return whence
they came.  From the once so beautiful red sea of
Alpine roses, the sharp bristles of the bush alone
remain.  I climb higher, wending my way around the
walls of rock and the peak of the Kleinzahn; I then
stride along a ridge which extends toward the main
mountain range.

There I have before me the blinding fields of the
glaciers, smooth, softly gleaming like ivory, lying
there in broad, gentle slopes and hollows, or in
creviced multiform precipices of ice reaching from height
to height.  Between, tower battlements of rock, and
yonder, in the airy distance, above the gleaming
glaciers, rises many a dark-grey, sharp-toothed cone,
soaring far above the highest peak of the mountains.
That is my goal, the Graue Zahn.

Towards the east the ground descends to the waving
depths of the dusky forest.  And the undulating
meadows of the Alm lie deep as in a gulf.  Here
and there is the grey dot of an Alm hut, of which
the shining roof alone is visible.  On the northern
side yawns the awful abyss, beneath whose shadow
is the dim, black lake.

I walked a few hours over the difficult and
dangerous path, along the edge to the glaciers.  Here I
bound on my climbing-irons, strapped on my
knapsack tighter, and held my stick more firmly in my
hand.  The alpenstock is an inheritance from Black
Mathes.  It is covered with innumerable little
notches, which do not show, however, how often its
former possessor may have climbed the Zahn or any
other mountain, but how many people he has knocked
to the ground in a fight.  A dismal companion! yet
this has helped me up over the smooth, white snow-slopes,
on over the wild ice crevasses, and finally up
the last steep precipice to the summit of the Zahn.
It has done it faithfully.  And how gladly from this
high mountain would I have called out to Mathes
in eternity, "Friend, this is a good stick; had you
climbed high with it, you would have understood it!"

Now I stand on the summit.

Would that I were a being that might spin itself
by the threads of sunlight up to the Kingdom of God.

Under a jutting stone I seat myself upon the
weather-beaten ground and look about me.  Near by
are the fine, broken spires of immovable, perpendicular
slabs of slate.  Above me a sharp breeze may
be gently stirring; I do not hear it; I do not feel it;
the jutting rock, the highest peak of the Zahn,
protects me.  The friendly warmth of the sun touches
my limbs.  The quiet and the nearness to heaven
bring peace to my soul.  I wonder how it would be
in the everlasting rest.  To be happy in heaven, to
live always in joy, always contented and without pain;
to wish for nothing, to long for nothing, to hope for
nothing, and to fear nothing, on through all time.
Would it not after all be a little wearisome?  Should
I not perhaps wish to take a leave of absence
sometimes, to look down here at the world once more?
My possessions here would easily go into a nutshell.
But I think were I once up there I should long to
be down here again.  How strange are earthly joy
and sorrow!

But if I came back, a good angel would have to
lend me his wings that I might fly across the white
mountains and sunny peaks and ridges, on into the
distance yonder, where the edge of the mountain
chain cuts through the airy heaven; and upon that
last white peak I would rest and look over into the
expanse of plain and to the towers of the city.
Perhaps I might see the gable of the house, or even
the gleam of the window where she is standing.

And if I saw the gleam of that window, then would
I willingly turn about and enter heaven again.

Is it then really true that one can behold the sea
from this peak?  My eyes are not clear, and yonder,
in the south, the grey of the earth blends with the
grey of the sky.  I already know the firm ground,
the mould which they call the fruitful earth.  Couldst
thou, mine eye, only once reach the wide sea!

When the sun changed, so that a deep shadow
appeared upon my stony resting-place, I arose and
climbed to the very highest point.  I took in the
whole picture of the mighty, battlemented kingdom
of the Alps.

And then I descended by the precipices, the crevasses
of the glaciers and the snow-fields; I crossed
the long ridge, finally reaching the soft, yielding
meadows, where the wooded hills were before me
once more.  Twilight was settling over the valleys,
which was most comforting to my overstrained eyes.
For a while I covered them with my hand, and when
at last I was able to look once more, the gold of the
setting sun was illuminating the heights.

As I come to the Miesenbach hut before which I
sat in the morning, a curious incident occurs.

While passing the hut, I think how friendly and
homelike an inhabited human dwelling looks to the
wanderer, but how forbidding and dreary the same
place appears, when it stands, like an upright coffin,
empty and deserted!  Suddenly I hear groaning
from within.

My feet, already very tired, at once become as
light as a feather, and would run away, but my reason
forbids, and, straining my ears to listen, I stand
and gaze.  From under one corner of the jutting
roof proceed a pounding and snorting, and I then
behold a strange spectacle.  From out the rough,
brown wooden wall, project a man's head and
breast, two shoulders and one hand, a living,
wriggling mass, and from within I hear the noise of the
knees and feet.

Ah!  I think, a thief, who has filled his pockets too
full and is unfortunately caught fast on coming out.
It is a young head, with curly hair, waxed moustache,
white shirt collar and red silk neckerchief, such as
one seldom meets with in these forests.

Perceiving me, he cries loudly: "Holy cross,
how lucky that someone has come at last!  Could n't
you help me a little?—it needs only a jerk.  Curse
this window."

"Yes, my friend," I say; "but first, I must ask
you a few questions.  The man who could get you
out the easiest would be the hangman, who would
gently put a rope about your neck, pull a little, and
all at once you would be in the free air."

"Stupid!" he replies; "just as if an honest Christian
could n't get caught if the hole is too small.  I
am the son of the master wood-cutter from Lautergräben
and on my way across the Alm, down to the
Winkelegg forest.  As I pass the hut, I see that
the door stands wide open.  'There is nothing in
there,' I said,—'nothing at all that would be worth
while to carry away, but 't is a bad thing to leave an
open door in an empty house; the snow will fly in
all winter long.  The herdswoman must have been
in a hurry when she moved back to the valley—she
must be a nice sort of a person to go and leave
everything open.'  Well, I enter, close the door and
from within place a few blocks of wood against it,
afterwards climb upon the bench, and as I try to get
out by this smoke-window, here I stick like the
devil."

But I do not yet trust the lad, and look at him
awhile as he dangles.

"And you think you don't want to remain
fastened there under the roof until someone comes
to-morrow and recognises you."  At this he grinds his
teeth and struggles violently to escape from his ugly
situation.

"I must be in Holdenschlag early to-morrow," he
mutters.

"What do you want in Holdenschlag?" I say.

"*Mein Gott*, because there is to be a wedding!"
he growls, already quite indignant.

"And why must you be present?"

At first he refuses to answer, but finally bursts
out,—"By Jessas and Anna, because I 'm needed
there!"

"Oh, then of course, we must try to help you," I
say, and climbing a little way up the wall I begin
pulling at the lad, until at last we have the second
hand out; then it is easier.  He is soon standing on
the ground, where he hunts up his pointed hat
which has rolled away, stretches his stiffened limbs,
and with flushed face looks up once more at the
little smoke-window, exclaiming, "The devil take
you, that was a trap, sure enough!"

In the twilight we went down together towards
the Winkelegg forest.  The lad showed no disposition
to talk with me.  I tried to make amends for
my apparent unfriendliness, assuring him that I
recognised at once that he was no thief.  "And
to-morrow then, you will be in Holdenschlag at the
wedding?  Are you the groomsman?" I asked.

"The groomsman, no, I am not that."

"Perhaps then the ceremony could have been
performed without you."

He pulled his hat over his eyes, which were fixed
on the ground.

"Without me," he said at last; "no, I don't think
it could.  For you see, this is the way of it, it
could n't be done without me, because—because, it
looks very much as if I were the bridegroom."

On hearing these words, I stopped and stared a
moment at the lad, thinking how dreadful it would
have been if the bride and the whole wedding
should have waited and waited below, while the
bridegroom was struggling up there in the
smoke-window of the herdsman's hut.  The young man
then politely invited me to his wedding.  He
guided me faithfully as we walked down through
the dark forest to the narrow valley of the
Winkelegg.

Here we passed a huge pile of bare logs, which
had been sent down through a long shoot from the
Winkelegg forest.  Near the pile of wood were
three large charcoal-kilns, from which, slowly and
silently, the milk-white smoke rose to the tops of
the trees and into the dark autumn sky.

The wood-cutter's son from Lautergräben urged
me to accompany him into the hut which stands
under the spreading pine.

In the cabin are three people, two hens, one cat,
and the fire on the hearth.  No other living creature
is visible.

A young woman is standing by the hearth, laying
larch-branches crosswise on the fire.  My companion
informs me that she is his betrothed.

Behind the broad tile stove, which reaches to the
sooty ceiling, sits a little woman.  She glares at me,
the strange intruder, with her large green eyes,
while with unsteady fingers she is drawing the
strings through a new pair of shoes.  At the same
time she continually wipes her eyes, which are
already dimmed like an old window-pane that for
many years has been exposed to the smoke of the
charcoal-burner's hut.  My companion tells me that
this is the mother of his betrothed, who is
everywhere called by the people, Russkathel.

Beyond, in the darkest corner, I see a rough,
manly figure, his body bared to the waist, washing
and scrubbing himself over a massive wooden basin
with such force that he snorts like a beast of burden.

"That is the brother of my betrothed," explains
the young man; "he is the charcoal-burner here and
they call him Russ-Bartelmei."

Then the wood-cutter's son approaches his sweetheart
to tell her that he has come at last, and has
brought with him the highly learned man who
wanders over the whole forest, and who will give them
the honour of his presence on their wedding-day.

The young woman, turning toward me, says,
"Find a seat somewhere if you can; everything is so
dilapidated with us, we have n't even a decent chair."

Then the young man speaks to her in a low voice,
apparently telling her the story of the herdsman's
hut, for all at once she cries out: "Oh, what a
stupid fellow!  Thou must needs pry into everything,
or has it come to be a habit of thine, up there
with the herdswoman?"

The lad turns to his mother-in-law: "Give me
the shoe,—thou art leaving out half of the eyelets;
such work is much too fine for thy weak eyes,
*Mütterchen*!"

"Yes, Paul, that's true," mumbles the old woman
good-naturedly from her toothless mouth, "but,
listen, Paul; my grandmother laced my mother's shoes,
and my mother did it for me; and I, why should
such an old, crooked creature as I be in the world,
if I could n't lace my Annamirl's shoes?"

"Perhaps you 'll soon have other work, *Mütterchen*;
by the cradle you 'll not need to see," answers
Paul mischievously.

At this, Annamirl shakes her finger at him, saying,
"Thou good-for-nothing!"

In the dark corner the splashing and snorting
continue.  It is not so easy a matter for a man who
has once become so blackened as Russ-Bartelmei to
wash himself white enough to appear before the
world, even though his sister should marry the
master wood-cutter's son from Lautergräben.

And my wood-cutter's son draws the lacing
through the shoes of his betrothed.  The old woman,
having once found her tongue, begins to prattle:
"And don't forget, Annamirl," says she, "thou must
try it also.  It will succeed yet."

"Dost thou mean that I should plant the
christening-money, *Mütterchen*?"

"Yes, that 's it.  Under a branching pine-tree thou
must bury a groschen on thy wedding-night.  That
is the money-seed, and thou shalt see, in three days
it will bloom, and in three months it may indeed be
ripe.  Our ancestors did it, but they were not all
successful.  It was this way: my grandmother
missed the time, my mother never found the spreading
pine-tree again, and I planted a false groschen.
On that account, my daughter, take careful note of
the hour as well as of the tree, then the groschen
will grow, and thou shalt have money enough all
thy days."

Annamirl opens an old chest and begins to rummage
among the clothes and other contents.  I
believe she was seeking the christening-money.

The charcoal-burner washes and rubs himself.  He
changes the water many times, but it is always as
black as ink.  But finally it remains only grey; then
Russ-Bartelmei stops and dries himself; he dresses,
sits down on the door-sill, and, taking a long breath,
says, "Yes, folks, I 've got rid of one skin now, and
the other is beginning to show a little."  The
new one, however, has grown very red, although in
places it is still somewhat dingy; but it is Russ-Bartelmei
all the same, who is going to his sister's wedding
on the morrow.

I am invited to spend the night in the hut, and
the bride hospitably sets a dish of eggs before me,
because I am the "learned man," who might sometime
be of use, should the occasion offer itself and
the children prove to be intelligent.

The smoke has driven the hens from their evening
rest; so now they come to me upon the little
table, and stretch their long necks over the edge of
the dish into my food.  Do they wish to have their
eggs back again?

The old woman, too, is all the time coming closer
to me; twice she opens her mouth as if to speak,
then closes it again, murmuring into her blue
neckerchief: "I won't say it after all; 'twill be more
sensible."  Seeing her timidity, I come to her aid:
"Well, what is it, *Mütterchen*?"

"God bless you for the question," she replies,
drawing still nearer to me.  "People like us can't
see into the future.  To speak out plainly,—you
are a learned man, they say, so you will surely
understand fortune-telling?—No, not at all?—But
I should think a man like you ought to learn that.
And now that we have become so well acquainted,
do you know no numbers for the lottery?"

"Jesstl and Joseph," suddenly screams the young
woman, "hurry, hurry, *Mütterchen*!  I think the
kitten has tumbled into the water-pail!"

The old woman stumbles toward the corner, from
which Bartelmei has just come; but the kitten has
already disappeared, was perhaps never in the water.
Annamirl, ashamed of her mother's childish
questions, has stopped them by this trick.

The next day, when the morning red is glowing
through the white smoke, the people come from all
parts of the forest.  They are dressed and decked
out as I have never seen them before.  They bring
wedding-presents with them.  The pitch-maker
comes with a black, glistening jug of pitch-oil.  "For
the health of the bridal couple," he announces, and
then adds: "What is the message of the pitch-oil?
If in life you have trouble to bear, you must
apply at once the oil of patience.  That says
the pitch-oil."  Root-diggers come with seeds and
bunches of fragrant herbs, and the ant-grubbers,
with incense; children bring wild fruit in little
baskets of fir-bark; wood-cutters come bearing
household utensils.  Schwamelfuchs, an old hunchbacked,
rough little man, is dragging a huge earthenware
bowl, a veritable family kettle, large enough to feed
a dozen mouths.  Others bring wooden spoons for
it; again others unpack meal- and lard-buckets, and a
charcoal-burner's wife comes staggering in quite
embarrassed and hands the bride a carefully wrapped
package.  As with awkward words of thanks she
opens it, two fat stuffed capons come to light.
These are spied by Russkathel, who, already in gala
dress, and full of eager expectation, is creeping
along the walls, and she whispers to her daughter:
"Dost thou know, Annamirl, where the best wedding-gift
should be put?  Ah, yes, it should be buried in
the cool earth.  Later a beautiful woman will come
in a golden waggon, drawn by two little kittens;
these will dig out the wedding-gift with their claws,
and the woman, taking it in her snow-white hand,
will drive three times around the hut; afterwards no
sorrow can come to your holy wedlock."  So the
tale of Freya is still told in the German forest.

Annamirl is silent for a moment, and, turning the
heavy, neatly picked and stuffed fowls around and
around in her hands, as if they were already on the
spit, she finally remarks: "I think, mother, they
would spoil in the earth, or the cats would eat them,
and for that reason, I say, let us eat them ourselves."

At last even the elegant brandy-distiller arrives
with his huge earthen jug, which immediately
spreads an odour of spirits throughout the house.
Scenting it, Russ-Bartelmei, curious to see how
such a jug is made and corked up, hurries forward
at once.

But here Annamirl interferes: "May God bless
you a thousand times, Brandyhannes; that is
altogether too much, we could never repay you for it.
Perhaps this is the most valuable wedding-gift, so
with it I will carry out the old custom."

Quickly drawing the stopper, she pours the
sparkling, smoking brandy upon the ground, to the last
drop.  The old woman giggles and grumbles,
"Thou fool, thou! now both thy kittens will be
drunk; and then what a row we shall have!"

By the time all are assembled, the sun is already
shining in at the door.  During the night a meal
has been cooked, which the people now devour with
good appetites and gay conversation.  I also take
part in it, afterwards joining the children who are
present, giving them some of the food in their
wooden dishes, that they too may have their share
of the feast.

Then we all depart.  With the charcoal-burners a
single old man remains behind.  He stands a long
time before the door, resting upon his iron hook and
smoking a short-stemmed pipe, while with a grin he
gazes after us, until we have disappeared in the
shady defile.  Then only the silent, friendly
morning sun still rests upon the pine-trees.

A number of men in the wedding-procession have
even brought rifles with them; but to-day they do
not shoot at the creatures of the forest, they fire
into the air, considering that they are thus adding
greatly to the festive occasion.

There is singing and shouting, until the summer
day fairly trembles.  Many a gay song is sung,
tricks are played, old-fashioned games are tried on
the way, and it is already noon when we reach the
church at Holdenschlag.  Five men come to meet
us with trumpets, fifes, and a huge drum which the
drummer beats with true festive fury; and what an
excitement and roar of laughter there is, when
suddenly the drum-stick breaks through the much
martyred skin and, shooting into the inside, catches
its tact upon the other end.  A young man is stealing
around the procession, and according to the old
custom trying to take the bride away from us; but
the groomsman is on guard, although in reality
watching more closely over his purse than over the
bride; for should he lose the former, the robber
would drag him to some distant tavern, where he
would have to pay for the drinks.

The bridegroom accompanies the first bridesmaid;
not until after the ceremony does he approach his
wife, and then the groomsman walks with the
bridesmaid, so that the seed is sown again for a new
wedding.  The groomsman is well known to me;
his name is Berthold; the bridesmaid is called Aga.

In the church wine is drunk and the priest gives a
very edifying talk upon the sacrament of marriage
and its divine purpose.  The good old man speaks
most beautifully, but the people from the woods do
not fully understand his high German.  Not until
we are in the tavern, and have all eaten, drunken,
and played tricks, is the real sermon for the people
delivered.  Then the old, bearded Rüpel raises his
wine-glass and begins to speak:

"I am not learned, I wear no doctor's cap, or
monkish cowl, and if my glass were not at hand,
alas! no clever word from me, my friends, would here be
heard.  As once did Moses, so do I, you see, with
cheering wine my tongue now free.  As aged
Bible-reader am I known, but if a knight I were, I own,
upon a snowy steed I 'd ride across the land.  Once
close at hand a proverb I did spy: the Lord, the
Crucified, did cry,—'Is man alone, then is he naught,
but are there many,' then he taught their
worthlessness; 'so will I try and shut a pair within a
hut,—alas! too little; now a house, and later even
heaven 's too small to cover and protect them all,
but through the world to forests strange they go, to
suffer, wandering to and fro,—to part again.'  But
for His sheep the Son of God will care, though they
go straying everywhere.  I hear the hammer-stroke
upon the cross, at foot, at left, at right; my heart
is breaking at the sight.  The red blood flows,
which wins your heaven and mine.  To Thee, O
Lamb, I offer wine, for Thou didst suffer—die!"

There is silence throughout the large room, and
the old man drains his glass.

But soon he fills it again and continues:

"To Him be praise!  As at the feast in Galilee,
so with us may our Master be, to change the water
into wine, the whole of Winkel brook to-day, the
whole of Winkel brook for aye!  The wine is clear
and pure, the white and red together flow, as sure
as youthful hearts that onward go, in honour bound
and love.  From light of sun and moon, the wine
has caught its fire, between the earth and sky—as
grow our souls and bodies from on high, and from
below.  To bridegroom and to bride to-day, may
this sweet wine bring health, I pray."

What a merry-making and shouting now follows,
and the fifes and fiddles resound as the wine is
poured upon the green wreath of the bride.

Each one now raises his glass and extemporaneously
delivers his wedding-speech or bridal-poem.
Finally old Russ-Kath staggers to her feet and with
an incredibly clear voice sings:

   |    "Cut down the pear-tree,
   |    Cut down the box-tree,
   |  Cut both the pear- and box-tree down,
   |    Sweetheart, to make thee
   |    Out of the box-tree
   |  Bedstead, the finest in all the town."
   |

As things are now going, it seems to me that the
noise and clamour must burst through all four walls,
out into the quiet evening.

Gradually, however, it grows quieter and the
people turn their eyes towards me, to see if I, the
learned man, have no toast for the bride.

So I then arise and say: "Joy and blessing to the
bridal pair!  And when, after five-and-twenty years,
their descendants enter the marriage state, may it
be in the parish church by the Winkel bridge!  I
drink to your health!"  This is my bridal toast.

Thereupon follow a murmuring and whispering,
and one of the oldest of the company approaches
and politely asks me the meaning of my speech.

All night the inn at Holdenschlag resounds with the
music, dancing, and singing of the wedding-guests.

The next morning we escort the bridal couple
from their room.  Then for a long time there is a
search for the groomsman, who is nowhere to be
found.  We wish him to join us in the old-fashioned
wedding-game, "Carrying the wood for the Cradle."

Who would have thought that the excited boy
was at this moment standing in a room in the priest's
house, wearing on his cheek a veritable Alpine glow,
while with both hands he was crushing the brim of
his hat!

The priest at Holdenschlag—he must be a shrewd
man—walks with dignified steps up and down the
room and with a fatherly voice repeats the words:
"Control thyself, my son, and pray; lengthen thy
evening prayer three times or seven times, if need
be.  The temptation will leave you at last.  Marry!  A
penniless fellow!  What for then?  Hast thou house
and land, hast thou servants, children, that thou
needest a wife?  Now, then!  To marry with a
beggar's staff, such a folly is not to be thought of.
How old art thou?"

At this question the lad blushes more deeply than
ever.  It is so unpardonably stupid not to know
one's age.  And he does not know it, but he would
be right within ten years if he should straightway
say twenty.

"Wait until thou art thirty; earn house and land
for thyself, and then come again!" is the priest's
decision.  He now goes into the next room, but
Berthold remains standing where he is, feeling as though
he must say something more,—some weighty word
which would overthrow all objections, so that the
priest would answer; "Ah, that is quite another
thing; then marry, in God's name!"  But the lad
knows no such word, to explain and make clear why
he wishes to be united, forever united, with Aga, the
Alm maiden.

As the priest does not return from the neighbouring
room, where he is taking his breakfast, the lad
finally turns sadly towards the door and descends
the steps, the Jacob's Ladder of his love's happiness,
which a short time before he climbed with joyous
confidence.

But having reached the green earth, he is another
being.  And the wild, overbearing way in which the
boy conducts himself on this second wedding-day,
makes one suspicious.

In the afternoon, man and wife, boy and maiden,
depart in couples; Andreas Erdmann joins the old,
bearded Rüpel and we all return to the forests of the
Winkel.





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.. _`PART SECOND`:

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   PART SECOND

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   \1\8\1\5.

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Many centuries ago according to tradition, a
people dwelt in this region who supported themselves
by farming and hunting.  They had shown much
forethought in damming up the Winkel, while along
its banks were carefully tended green meadows and
a waggon road led to the adjoining country.  Not far
from the place where the master wood-cutter's
house now stands the remains of a wall show the
spot upon which it is supposed a church once stood.
Indeed, the opinion is advanced that it was no
church, but the temple of an idol, where it was still
the custom to drink mead to Wotan and to sacrifice
animals whenever the full moonbeams shimmered
through the leaves of the linden.  In the same olden
time, a snow-white raven would fly down each year
from the wastes of the Alps, pick up the corn which
had been strewn upon a stone for it, and fly away
again.  Once, however, no corn was scattered for the
bird, because the year had been a sterile one, and
someone had declared the whole thing to be a foolish
superstition.  Then the white raven was seen no
more.  But the winter was scarcely over when from
the East savage hordes came streaming hither, with
ugly brown faces, wearing blood-red caps and horses'
tails, riding strange beasts, and carrying unusual
weapons,—and they invaded even the Winkel woods.
These bands plundered and carried off the inhabitants
by hundreds, and thus the region became deserted.

Then the houses and the temple fell into ruins, the
water destroyed the dams and roads and covered the
fields with pebbles and stones.  The fruit-trees grew
wild; larch-woods sprang up in the meadows.  But
the larches were afterwards supplanted by firs and
pines.  And thus the dark, high forests, now
centuries old, came into existence.

It is not certain whether the present race of
foresters are descendants of those ancient people.  I
rather think that, as the old inhabitants were washed
away by a surging flood over the Alps in savage
ages, so after many years in the storms of time,
fragments of other races have been driven into these
forests.  Indeed, one can tell by observing the present
inhabitants that this is not their native soil, but
notwithstanding, they have been impelled to take root
here and to prepare a safe and orderly dwelling-place
for their descendants.

However, the old German legends of the wood-gods
live on in these people.  In the autumn they
leave the last wild fruit upon the trees, or decorate
their crosses and *Haus Altare* with the same, in order
to secure fruitfulness for the coming year.  They
throw bread into the water, when a flood is impending;
they scatter meal to the wind, to appease
threatening storms—even as the ancients sacrificed
to the gods.  At the sacred hour of twelve they hear
the wild hunt, even as the ancients heard with terror
the thundering of Father Wotan.  Instead of Freya
of the olden time, they call to mind the beautiful
woman who presides at the wedding-feasts, with her
two kittens harnessed to a golden waggon.  And
when the Winkel foresters bury one of their
comrades outside in Holdenschlag, they empty the cup
of mead to his memory.  Everywhere still linger the
old Germanic superstitions and customs, but above
them all is heard the lofty song of the Cross.

To a certain extent the Winkel foresters appreciate
what is needed here, but only the few are able to
give it a name.  However, that root-digger was
right when, a year ago at the charcoal-burner's
wedding, he said these words: "Neither God nor priest
troubles himself about us.  We are made over to
sorrow and the devil.  A dog's life is good enough
for us; we are only Winkel people!"

But the root-digger may yet live to see my toast
fulfilled.  Since the wedding I have become a year
younger.  The foresters of the Winkel are to have
a church.

If a nation desires to rise from its barbarism to a
perfect, harmonious height, God's temple must form
the foundation.  Therefore I will begin with the
church in the Winkel woods.

I have been obliged to urge and press the matter.
Herr von Schrankenheim dwells in his palace in the
city, where from every window church bells are
heard, while upon dainty shelves are displayed
hundreds of books for the mind and heart.  Who
there imagines what a pulpit and a sound of bells
would mean in the distant forest?  But at last the
proprietor of these lands has comprehended, and
to-day the men are already here to examine the site.

Yonder, near the house of the Winkel-warden,
straight up from the path which leads across the
Winkel, is a piece of high, rocky ground, secure
from caving, slides, and torrents.  It lies between the
Upper and Lower Winkel, and is equally distant
from Lautergräben, the Miesenbach valley and the
banks of the Kar.  That is the right place for God's
house.  I have presented plans which I think are
suitable for such a forest church.

It should be large enough for all to find room
therein who have sad and hungry hearts, of which
there are many and always will be in the forest
country.  It should not be too low, for the high
woods and rocky walls have changed and broadened
our conceptions; and then again the human dwellings
are small, so it will be doubly comforting to the
eye if it can look upward in the house of God.  In
city churches a solemn half-light should always reign,
that it may offer a contrast to the gay and joyous
lives of the rich and great; but in God's house of the
woods must smile a bright and gentle friendliness,
for gloomy and solemn are the forest and the forester's
house and heart.  So the worship of God should
balance and even life; and that which the working-day
and home deny, Sunday and the church should
offer.  The temple should be a refuge from the storms
of this world, and the entrance to eternity.

The tower of the little forest church should be
slender and airy, like an upward-pointing finger,
warning, threatening, or promising.  Three bells
should proclaim the Trinity in the Unity of God, and
the three-toned melody sing of faith, love, and hope.
The organ should be well placed, for its music must
be the word of God to the souls of the poor ones who
do not understand the sermon.

Gilded pictures and dazzling decorations are
objectionable; the worship of God should not coquette
with the treasures of this earth.  Simplicity and
unity most eloquently and worthily render
comprehensible the thoughts of God and eternity.

But other things must be considered as well.  In
order to secure dryness I have proposed bricks for
the walls.  The benches and chairs must be arranged
as resting-places, since Sunday is a day of rest.  If
during the sound of the organ one should fall asleep,
what then?  One would only dream one's self into
heaven.  For the floor, flagstones are too damp and
cold; thick fir planks are more suitable.  For the
roof, on account of hail-storms, neither tiles nor large
flat boards are practicable; small larch shingles are
the best.

My plans have been accepted.  Already roads are
being cut through and building material brought
here.  In the Bins valley, where clay is found, a
brick-kiln has been constructed and by the
Breitwand a stone-quarry opened.

The foresters stand and watch the strange workmen.
They too have their thoughts about it.

"They want to build us a church, do they?" says
one; "'t would be more sensible to divide the money
among the poor.  The Lord God should build
Himself a house only when He is unwilling to remain
under the open sky or dwell in the Winkel forest."

"I wonder what saint they will set up for us!"

"Hubertus, I think."

"Hubertus,—ah, he carries a rifle and could stop
the poachers too easily.  The hunters would never
endure him.  I say, the *Vierzehn Nothelfer*\[#] would
be right for us."

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.. class:: noindent small

[#] *Vierzehn Nolhelfer*, fourteen saints to whom
the Catholics prayed
in times of great need.

.. vspace:: 2

"Not to be thought of; they would cost too much,
and besides, the great Christopher is among them,
and no church door would be large enough for him."

"To him who wishes to find lost things, Saint
Anthony many a wonder brings!" says Rüpel, the
old bristly-beard, whose words seem to rhyme, let
him twist his tongue as he will.

One little old woman very sagely remarks that, as
there is no one in the whole Winkel forest who can
play the organ, Saint Cecilia should be chosen as
parish saint.

Others wish to dedicate the church to Florian, who
protects against fire; but those living by the water
prefer Sebastian.

Thereupon an old shepherd responds: "That's
no way to talk.  The people can help each other;
but you mustn't forget the poor cattle!  The holy
Erhart (patron saint of cattle) should be the one for
us in the Winkel."

Another speaks: "I care nothing for the cattle.
We need the church for the people.  And as long
as we have to pay for the saint, we may as well
have something fine.  I am no heathen; I go to
church, and I like a pretty woman.  What do you
say to the Magdalen?"

"Thou wretch," cries his wife, "thou wouldst
place that wicked person upon the altar!"

"Thou art right, old woman; for such as thou, we
must have one who will set a good example."

So the people argue, half in fun, half in earnest.
They have rummaged through the whole heaven
and have found no saint satisfactory to everyone.

And we must have one who will suit them all.  I
have already my own idea about it.

.. vspace:: 2

The wooded hills are growing lighter and lighter,
as if the day were dawning.  The jagged clefts in
the mountains and a greater expanse of sky are
visible.  Many a marten is deprived of his hollow tree,
many a fox of his hole.  Innocent little birds and
greedy vultures are made homeless, for branch after
branch falls upon the damp, mossy earth, upon which
at last the sun shines again.  Through the winter
the wood-cutters have been busy.  In the country
outside coal and wood have been in great demand.

This summer I have no longer much leisure.

Outside there is war, which will end God only
knows when.  In Holdenschlag the foundries are
closed again and no coal-waggon enters the forest.
The wood-cutter's work is suspended; the stalwart
men wander idly about.

I have advised them to join the defenders of the
fatherland.  They will listen to nothing of the kind.
They have no home, they know no fatherland.  The
foreigners are welcome if they bring money and
better times.

God grant the better times, and keep the foreigners
at a distance!

.. vspace:: 2

It is fortunate for me that I am cool-blooded.
That one wild year killed the germs of my passion.
Now I can bend my whole energy toward this end:
out of a scattered, divided people, to form one,
united and whole.  Am I successful, we shall have
something upon which to build.  I will found a home
for them and myself.  But we must first gain the
co-operation of the Baron, after which we must
influence the woodspeople.

Extraordinary strength does not seem to me necessary,
but certainly persistent effort.  These people
are like balls of clay—a push, and they roll along
for a while.  They will go on of themselves, but
they must be guided in order to reach one and the
same goal.  There are enough members, but they
are self-willed and perverse.  When the church is
once finished, so that the parish has a heart, we will
attend to the head and build the schoolhouse.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUTUMN, 1816.

.. vspace:: 2

A few weeks ago I visited all the huts, carrying
with me a note-book.  I questioned the fathers
about their households, the number in their families,
the year of birth and the names of the little people.
The birthdays can usually be remembered only by
events and circumstances.  This boy was born in
the summer when the great flood occurred; this
girl, the same winter that straw bread had to be
eaten.  Such incidents are striking landmarks.

Designation by name is not of frequent occurrence.
The male inhabitants are called Hannes or
Sepp, Berthold, Toni, or Mathes; those of the
female sex are named Kathrein, or Maria, the last of
which is converted into Mini, Mirzel, Mirl, Mili,
Mirz, or Marz.  It is much the same with other
names; and a stranger coming here must submit at
once to such a change, according to the custom of
the people.  For a while they called me Andredl;
but that they found too long a name for such a small
man, and to-day I am only Redl.

Very few know anything of a surname.  Some
have either lost or forgotten theirs, others have never
had any.  These people need a special form by
which to designate their ancestry and relationship.
Hansel-Toni-Sepp!  That is a household name and
by it is meant, that the owner of the house is called
Sepp, whose father was named Toni, and grandfather
Hansel.  Kathi-Hani-Waba-Mirz-Margareth!  Here
Kathi was the great-great-grandmother of Margareth.
So the race may have existed a long time in the
solitude of the forest.

And thus a person is often known by half a dozen
names, and each one drags the rusty chain of his
ancestors after him.  It is the only heritage and
monument.

But this confusion must not continue.  The names
must be prepared for the parish-book.  New
surnames will have to be invented and it will not be
difficult to choose those which are fitting.  We will
call the people after their characteristics or
occupations; that is easily remembered and preserved for
the future.  The wood-cutter Paul, who married
Annamirl, is no longer Hiesel-Franzel-Paul, but
briefly Paul Holzer (woodman), because he transports
the tree-trunks upon a slide to the coal-pit, which
work is called *wooding*.  The tinder-maker and his
descendants, do what they will, shall remain
Schwammschlager.  A hut in Lautergräben I call
Brünnhütte (spring hut), because a large spring
flows before it.  Why then should the owner of the
hut be named Hiesel-Michel-Hiesel-Hannes?  He is
a Brünnhütter, as well as his wife, and if his son
goes out into the world, whatever his occupation, he
shall always remain a Brünnhütter.

An old thick-necked dwarf, the coal-driver Sepp,
has for a long time been called Kropfjodel.  I
recently asked the little man whether he would be
satisfied to be registered in my book under the name
of Joseph Kropfjodel.  He assented quite willingly.
I then explained to him that his children and
grandchildren would also be called Kropfjodel.  At
that he grinned and gurgled, "Let him be called
Kropfjodel ten times over, that boy of mine!"  And
a little later he added mischievously: "The name,
thank God, we have that at least!  Oh, if we but
had the boy as well!"

The new names meet with approval, and each
person bearing one carries his head higher and is
more independent and self-sufficient than formerly.
Now he knows who he is.  But everything depends
upon keeping the name in good repute and doing it
honour.

When I came to the Alm boy, Berthold, he
shocked me greatly.  "A name," he screamed, "for
me?  I need no name, I am nobody.  God did not
make me a woman, and the priest does not allow me
to be a man.  Marriage is denied me because I am
as poor as a beggar.  Call me Berthold *Elend*!
(misery).  Call me Satan!  I know I break the law,
but I will not betray my flesh and blood!"

After these words he hastened away like one mad.
The lad, once so merry, is hardly to be recognised.
I have written the name Berthold in the book and
added a cross to it.

Another man wanders about in the Winkel forests,
whose name I do not know, or if any he bears;
it may be evil.  The man avoids us all, and buries
himself often for a long time, one knows not where,
then appears again at unusual hours, one knows not
why.  It is the Einspanig.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MAY, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

This winter I have suffered from a severe illness,
caused by frequently visiting Marcus Jager, who had
been shot by a gamekeeper in Lautergräben.  As
fever threatened to appear in the wound and as there
was no one else who would or could nurse the sick
man, I often went over to see him.  The people
here, instead of cleansing a wound with tepid water
and lint, apply all kinds of salves and ointments.
It must indeed be a powerful constitution which
can recover in spite of such hindrances, and I had a
hard struggle keeping Jager alive.

The last time I was with him was a stormy March
day.  On the way back the paths were blocked with
snow.  In places it reached to my shoulders.  For
a number of hours I struggled along, but as night
approached I was still far from the Winkel valley.
An indescribable weariness came over me, which I
resisted a long time, but at last could not conquer.
My only thought was that I must perish there in the
midst of the snow, and that I should be found in
the spring and be carried past the new church in
the Winkel to Holdenschlag.  Here in the forest I
should like to lie, but I would far rather be walking
about within it.

Not until weeks afterwards did I know that I was
not frozen, that on the same evening two wood-cutters
came to meet me on snow-shoes, found me
unconscious and carried me into the house of the
Winkel-warden; and as I lay for many days seriously
ill, it seems that once they even called the doctor
from Holdenschlag.  The messenger who brought
him was also commissioned, as he himself has since
told me, to speak at once with the grave-digger.
The latter said, "If the man would only do me
the favour not to die now; one can't dig a hole in
this hard, frozen ground."

I am glad that I was able to spare the good man
his labour.

After the danger of the illness had passed I was
attacked by a serious trouble with my eyes, which
has not yet quite left me.  For a long time I shall
be obliged to remain in my room, indeed until the
warm weather comes and the freshets are over.  I
am not at all lonely, for I busy myself with
wood-carving.  I intend to make a zither or something of
the kind for myself, so that I may practise music
until the organ is ready in the church.

The people come often and, sitting down beside
me on the bench, inquire after my health.
Russ-Annamirl, who has moved with her family into the
master wood-cutter's house in Lautergräben and
according to the new order of things is called Anna
Maria Russ, sent me three big doughnuts last week.
They are some of those which have been baked in
great quantities to celebrate the arrival of a wee Russ.
They have christened the little one with doughnuts.

The widow of Black Mathes has also been to see
me once.  She asked me in great sorrow what was
to be done with her boy Lazarus.  She then told
me how he was often attacked by a *frenzy*.  A
frenzy, she explained, was when one broke out into
a passion at the slightest provocation, threatening
everything.  Lazarus had this malady in a much
worse degree than his father; sister and mother
would be in danger when he became a little stronger.
Did, then, no remedy exist for such a trouble?

What can I advise the distressed woman?  A continuous,
regular employment, and a loving but earnest
treatment should be given to the lad; that is my
proposition.

Of all the people in the Winkel forests, I have the
greatest sympathy for this woman.  Her husband,
after an unfortunate life, died a violent death and
was dishonourably buried.  Nothing better is in store
for the child.  And his mother, formerly accustomed
to better days, is so soft-hearted and gentle.

Day before yesterday a boy came to me dragging
a bird-cage with him.  The lad was so small that he
could not even reach the door-handle, so he timidly
knocked for a while until I opened the door.  Still
standing on the steps, he said, "I am the son of
Marcus Jager, and my father sends me here—father
sends me here——"

The little fellow had learned the speech by heart,
but he stopped short, blushed, and would have
liked to make his escape.  I had some trouble in
discovering that his father's message was, that he was
entirely well and wished me the same; that soon he
would come to thank me, and that he presented me
with a pair of fine crested titmice, for, being aware
that I could not yet go out of doors, he would be
glad to send the whole spring to me in my room.

What shall I do with the little creatures?  If one
approaches them, they flutter confusedly about in
the cage and beat their heads against the wires in
their fright.  I let them fly out into our Father's
bird-cage, out into the May.

And when the time is finally fulfilled, I myself
walk out early one morning into the open May.
The cock crows, the morning star is peeping brightly
over the dark forest hill.  The morning star is a good
companion; it shines faithfully as long as it is night,
and modestly retires when the sun appears.

Softly I steal through the front door, so that I
may not awaken the people who have not rested for
weeks, as I have; the weariness of yesterday still
weighs upon the eyelids, which the dawning day is
already forcing open.

In the forest there is a trembling, rustling
awakening from deep rest.  How strange is the first walk
of a convalescent!  One feels as if the whole earth
were rocking one—rocking her newly born child in
her arms.  O thou holy May morning, bathed in
dew and sweet perfumes, trembling and reverberating
with eternal thoughts of God!  How I think of
thee and thy fairy magic, which at this hour hath
sunk into my soul from the dome of heaven and the
crown of the forest!

And now I experience a strange sorrow.  Youth
has been given to me in vain.  What is my aim?
What do I signify?  A short time ago and from
eternity I was nothing; a short time hence and
through all eternity I shall be nothing.  What shall
I do?  Why am I in this small place, and conscious
of myself for this brief period?  Why have I
awakened?  What must I do?

Then I vow to myself anew to work with all my
might, and also to pray that such difficult,
heart-burning thoughts may not return to me.

As the sun appears, I am still standing on the
edge of the woods.  Below splashes the water of the
Winkel, from the chimney of the house rises a
silvery wreath of smoke, and in the church building
the masons are hammering.

My housekeeper, having noticed that I was not in
my room, reproved me for my carelessness.  As soon
as she discovered that I had been lying on the damp
moss in the cool early morning, she asked me quite
seriously if I then found it so uncomfortable in her
house, or if I had something on my mind, that I
risked my life in such a way; yes, and did I not
know that he who lies down on the dewy ground in
the spring is giving his measure to the grave-digger?



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER SOLSTICE, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

This has been a strange walk in the woods, and
for what has happened I feel that I shall not be held
responsible either in heaven or on earth.  Where
the little stream splashes in the shadowy denies of
the Winkelegger forest, there I remain standing.

Here upon these ripples let thy thoughts drift
without aim or purpose.  Thou knowest the Greek
legend of the river Lethe.  That was a strange
water.  Whoever drank of it, forgot the past.  Still
stranger are the waters of the little forest brook.
He whose soul floats upon the same, e'en though
his locks be wintry, finds again the long past time
of his childhood and youth.

I penetrate deeper into the wilderness and rest in
the moss, listening to the ever present murmuring
silence.  Many a little flower, just opened, is cradled
close to my breast, endeavouring to knock softly at
the gate of my heart.  And many a beetle crawls
anxiously up, who has lost his way to his sweetheart
in the thicket of grasses and moss.  Now he lifts
his head and asks for the right path.  Do I know
the right path myself?  O tell us where is the
longing satisfied which follows us everywhere?  A spider
lets itself down from the branches; it has worked its
way to the top, and now that it is there, it wishes to
be upon the ground again.  It spins threads, I spin
thoughts.  Who is the weaver who knows how to
weave a beautiful garment from loose threads of
thought?

While thus dreaming, I hear a rustling in the
thicket.  It is no deer, it is no doe; it is a human
being; a young, blooming woman, excited and frightened,
like a hunted creature.  It is Aga, the Alm
maiden.  She hastens up to me, seizes my hands
and cries: "Oh, I am so glad it is you!"

Then she looks at me and stops for breath, unable
to overcome her excitement.  "It is a horrible fate!"
she cries again; "but I know no other way.  The
evil one follows us both, and now we fear the
people; but I 'm not afraid of you, for you are good
and learned!  I 'm sure you will help us out of our
trouble, Berthold and me!  We should so like to
live a decent life; pray give us the marriage blessing!"

At first I do not understand, but, comprehending
her at last, I say: "If you are honest in your
purpose, the church will not withhold its blessing."

"*Mein Gott im Himmel!*" cries the girl; "with
the church we will have nothing more to do; it
refuses us marriage because we have no money.
But if God should be angry with us, that would be
terrible indeed.  My conscience gives me no peace,
and I beg you a thousand times, give us the
blessing which every man may bestow.  You are still
young yourself, and if you have a sweetheart, then
you must know there is no parting or leaving one
another.  And so we live together in the wilderness;
we have n't a single soul to be our friend and wish
us happiness.  We should so like to hear one good
word, and if someone would only come and say:
'By God's will and with His blessing remain
together until death!'  Just a single word, and we
should be freed from the sin, and a wedded pair
before God in heaven!"

This longing for deliverance from their sin, this
struggling for the right, for human sympathy, for
peace of heart—who would not be moved by that!

"You true-hearted people!" I cry.  "May the
Lord God be with you."

The lad has already knelt beside the maiden.
And so, with my words I have done something for
which I am not responsible in heaven or on earth.
I have consummated a marriage in the midst of
the green woods.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

Strange,—what is the matter with this lad, Black
Mathes's son!  He has his mother's heart and his
father's blood.  No, he has a still larger heart than
his mother's, and blood three times as savage as his
father's.  This boy will become either a saint or a
terrible murderer.

Old Russ-Kath has been ill for months.  The
people say she lacks young blood.  Little Lazarus,
hearing of it, came to me yesterday with a small
wooden bowl and his father's huge pocket-knife, and
asked me to draw some blood from his hand to send
to Russ-Kath.

His face was flushed, otherwise he was quiet.  I
remonstrated with him for making such a request.
He darted away, and soon afterwards in the Winkelwarden's
yard he was wringing a pigeon's neck: for
anger, for love—I cannot tell which.

I went out to the dead creature.  "Lazarus," I
said; "now thou hast deprived a mother of her life.
Seest thou the poor, helpless young yonder?  Dost
thou hear how they cry?"

The boy stood there trembling, pale as marble,
struggling for breath, and biting his underlip until
the blood trickled down his chin.  Loosening his
clenched fist, I poured water on his forehead and led
him back into his hut.  There he fell exhausted
upon the moss, and sank into a deep sleep.

Something must be done to save the child.  How
would it be if I should take him, be father and
brother to him, curb and guide him according to my
strength, teach him and keep him at work, seeking
in every way to kill his passion?

But perhaps the boy has too much blood ... the
people say.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   DOG-DAYS, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

Like Sturmhanns's little dog, friendly one moment
and the next snapping at one's calf, are these
uncertain dog-days.  In the morning all promises well, and
the skies are bright and clear.  And the sun caresses
and kisses thee, embracing the world with passionate
love—who would not then stroll out into the
comforting shade of the woods?  Thou wanderest freely
about and gazest on the green earth thinking:
Beloved, beautiful day!  Then, all at once, the dark
clouds are over thee, and the storm tears thy hat
from thy head, and the rain madly beats thee in
the face; find a shelter for thyself quickly—the hail
comes rushing down.

The dog-days.  Can Nature be unfaithful also?
It is man who accuses her of evil, because his
thoughts are unreasonable and his wisdom is lacking.
There is nothing evil and nothing good, excepting
in the heart of man, the one being to whom is given
free-will.

If we could lay aside our free-will, we should then
have no conscience.  In the forest there are many
to whom that would be very agreeable.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ST. JAMES, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day I was in the Hinter Winkel again, in
Mathes's house.  The woman is inconsolable.  Two
days ago the boy Lazarus disappeared.

Something horrible has happened.  In his rage he
hurled a stone at his mother.  Then, with a wild cry,
he ran away.  Upon Mathes's grave the fresh
imprints of two knees were discovered yesterday.

We have summoned people to hunt for the boy.
He is not in any of the huts.  They will also search
along the ravines and streams.

"He did n't mean to hit me!" sobs the mother;
"and it was only a *little* stone, but a large one lies
upon my heart.  He could never have thrown a
greater one at me than by running away."



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ST. PETER IN CHAINS, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

The following story has spread like wild-fire
through the forest.  Early this morning as the little
daughter of Mathes was on her way to plant wild-rose
trees upon her father's grave, she saw the gleam
of something white.  Upon the mound had been
placed a staff from which a piece of paper was
fluttering.  The girl ran home to her mother, and the
latter hastened to me, begging me to come and
explain it to her.

It is most remarkable.  It is news from the boy.
On the paper in strange handwriting were the words:

.. vspace:: 2

"My mother and my sister!  Bear me no ill-will and
do not worry.  I am in the school of the Cross.

.. vspace:: 1

"LAZARUS."

.. vspace:: 2

They all looked to me for an explanation.  The
boy could neither read nor write, as can hardly
anyone in the forest.  They think that I, being learned,
ought to know everything.

I know nothing.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1817.

.. vspace:: 2

The people come and go in silence.

A little drop collects on the high branch of a tree,
travels along out to the farthest needle, trembles,
glistens, and sparkles, now grey like lead, now red
like a carbuncle.  It has hardly reflected the glorious
colour of the woods and sky, when a breath of wind
stirs and the little drop frees itself from the swaying
pine-branch and falls upon the ground.  The earth
sucks it in, and there is no longer a trace of the tiny,
sparkling star.

Thus lives the child of the forest and thus it dies.

Outside it is otherwise.  There the drops congeal
in the frosty breath of conventionality, and the
icicles tinkle against each other, tinkling even as
they fall and rest upon the ground, reflecting for
a while the glory of the world until they dissolve and
melt, like our thoughts of a dear departed one.

Outside, the churchyards are not for the dead,
but for the living.  There we pay honour to the
memory of our forefathers and to our own future
resting-place.  The flowers and the inscriptions are
for us, and we feel peace in our hearts as we think
of the sleeper who is freed from trial.  We realise
the dissolution of the departed but hope for him the
resurrection.  No one walks upon burial-ground
unrewarded; these clods cool the passions and warm
the heart, and not only is the peace of death written
on the flowery mounds, but also the worth of life.

The forest brings rest to whom rest belongs.
There the dead sleeper has no candle, nor has the
living one had one.  May the *everlasting* light give
them light! is our only petition.  The faint autumn
sun smiles gently, promising eternal brightness, and
the coming spring will care for the flowers and
wreaths.

In the forest our thoughts are not for the bodies
of the dead, but for the agony of the living souls
of those who, having died in sin, are languishing in
purgatory!

When the starving Hans stole the piece of bread
from his starving neighbour in the field and then died,
the primeval forest was not yet standing.  The body
has decayed.  Hans is forgotten, the soul lies in
purgatory.  The meadow has become a forest, the
forest a wilderness; the wolves howl and there is no
man far or near.  On the mountain sides blow
summer breezes and winter storms, and with each
moment a grain of sand; and with each century a mass
of mountain plunges into the depths of the ravines.
And the poor soul lies in the fire.  Again man comes
into the wilderness, the high forests fall, huts and
houses appear and a parish is founded—the soul
belonging to olden times and to days long past lies in
the flames of purgatory, is abandoned and forgotten.

But there is one day in the year for the consolation
of such forgotten souls.

When Christ, the Lord, died upon the cross and
but one drop of blood was left in His heart, His
Heavenly Father asked Him: "My dear Son,
mankind is saved; to whom wilt thou give the last
drop of thy red blood?"  Then Christ, the Lord,
answered: "To my beloved mother, who stands at
the cross; that her pain may be soothed."  "Oh
no, my child Jesus," the Mother Mary replied, "if
thou wilt suffer the bitter death for the souls of men,
then can I also bear the pain of a mother's heart,
e'en though the agony were so great that the sea
could not quench it, and the whole earth a grave
which could not bury it.  I give the last drop of thy
blood to the forgotten souls in purgatory, that they
may have one day in the year, when they are freed
from the fire."

And thus—according to the legend—originated
All Souls' Day.  On this day even the most
abandoned and forgotten souls are delivered from their
pain and they stand in the outer courts of heaven,
until the stroke of the last hour in the day summons
them back into the flames.

Such is the idea and meaning of the feast of All
Souls in the forest, and many a good deed is
performed with the thought of soothing the fiery anguish
of departed souls.

But over the lonely graves the late autumn mists
are gathering, and the remainder of the hill is
concealed by newly fallen snow, upon which the claws
of a jay may have traced a little chain—the only
sign of life which still reigns here above—symbol of
the indissoluble band: About life and death an
eternal chain is wound.

To-day I am reminded of Lucas, a charcoal-burner,
who lies buried in Lautergräben.  One night a goat
was stolen from the wood-cutter Luger, and
afterwards, not far from Lucas's hut, they found the
animal's skin and entrails.  Thus it was clear Lucas
was the thief, and as slothfulness rules everywhere
in the forest, they did not prosecute the
charcoal-burner, and so he could not clear himself.  He
noticed, however, how he was suspected, and once
he called out: "Had you cut off my hands, or put
out my eyes, I should be content.  But you have
robbed me of my honour—now my life is ruined."  Still
the people said: "Let him turn and twist as
he will, he stole the goat all the same."  And this
nearly crazed the poor man.  "Thieves must be
hanged," he said,—and afterwards he was found
suspended from the branch of a fir-tree.  From time
immemorial suicides have chosen their own graves;
so they buried the man among the roots of the fir.

It was not until a few weeks ago, that an
unemployed wood-cutter made the confession on his
death-bed, that it was he who had taken the goat
from Luger.  I shall go to-day to Lucas's grave in
Lautergräben.

There is still another grave in the Winkel forests,
known and despised by the people.  On this
anniversary day, however, it was not deserted.  For
here, upon her father's grave, the little daughter of
Black Mathes again discovered a bit of paper with
the words:


.. vspace:: 2

"I am well.  I think of my mother and sister and
father.  "LAZARUS."

.. vspace:: 2

That is the message, the only news from the
vanished boy for many days.  The handwriting is
the same as before.

No footsteps excepting those of the girl lead to
the grave, none away from it.  Paths for foxes, and
deer, and other animals wind zig-zag through the
wintry woods.



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   THE FEAST OF ST. CATHARINE, 1817.

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A letter has been written begging the lad to return
home for his mother's sake.  It has been carefully
fastened upon the little cross above the grave.  It is
still there; no one has opened it.



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   CHRISTMAS, 1817.

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To-day I am homesick for the sound of bells, for
the sad, melting tones of an organ.  I sit in my room
and play manger songs on the zither.  My zither
has but three strings; a more perfect one I did not
know how to make.

The three strings are enough for me; one is my
mother, the other my wife, the third my child.  One
always spends Christmas with one's family.

Only a few of the forest people go with pine-torches
to the midnight service in Holdenschlag.
The distance is too great.  The rest remain in their
huts, yet, having no desire to sleep, they sit
together and tell stories, for to-day they have a peculiar
impulse to leave their commonplace life and create
a world of their own.  Many a one carries out old
pagan customs, hoping thereby to satisfy an unspeakable
longing of the heart.  Many a one strains his
eyes and gazes over the dark forests, confidently
expecting to see the heavens illumined.  He listens
for the ringing of festival bells and soft angel voices.
But only the stars gleam above the forest hills,
to-day as yesterday and always.  A cold breeze stirs
among the tree-tops; there is a glitter of ice, and
now and then a branch shakes off its burden of snow.

But on this night the glistening and falling of the
snow affect one in an unusual way, and the hearts
of men tremble in longing expectation of the Redeemer.

I have trimmed a simple little Christmas-tree, such
as they have in northern countries, and have sent
the same to Anna Maria Russ in Lautergräben.  I
think the light of the candles will be reflected in a
friendly way in the eyes of the little one.  Perhaps
a bit of the brightness will sink into the young heart
never to be extinguished.

In the widow's hut, there can be no Christmas-tree.
Mathes's grave is buried deep in snow; the branch
which served as letter-box wears a tall cap.  The
pleading letter from the mother to the child will be
destroyed without having been opened or read.



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   MARCH, 1818.

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Over in one corner of Karwässer Berthold has
earned himself a hut.  He has joined the wood-cutters.

Yesterday a child was born to Aga.  It is a girl.
They did not carry her to Holdenschlag, but sent
for me to christen the little one.  I am no priest and
may not steal a name from the church calendar.  I
have called the girl *Waldlilie* and have baptised her
with the water of the woods.



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   EASTER, 1818.

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When will the angel come to roll away the stone?

"Alas, alas, our Lord is dead!  But as I have
already said, one hardly knows anything in this back
country.  Well, well, He cannot have been very
young, for I have heard of Him all my life.  But all
the same His time has come at last.  Ah, who can
escape!..."  Thus spoke old Schwammelfuchs,
when he learned that on Good Friday it had been
proclaimed from the chancel in Holdenschlag that
our Lord had died for the sins of the world.

The old man meant it seriously and in the greatest
reverence, although every evening at his prayers he
repeats the words: "Suffered under Pontius Pilate,
crucified, dead."

It is a prayer of the lips.  True prayer, the heart
offers only in its need, in its joy, but these people are
not conscious of this.  Deeply buried is that which
we call true worship or religious feeling.

The people hasten Easter eve or in the morning
out into the open woods, where they kindle fires,
discharge their guns, and gaze into the air for the
papal blessing, which from the pinnacle of St. Peter's
at Rome is scattered to the four winds on Easter
morning.

There is always present the unconscious longing
and struggle.  One sees that something lies hidden
in the heart which is not dead.  But when will the
angel come to roll away the stone?



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   THE FEAST OF ST. MARK, 1818.

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The snow is melted.  Yonder in the gorge the
avalanches still thunder.  A year ago we planted a
few fruit-trees; these are now becoming quite green
and the cherry-tree bears five snow-white blossoms.

The building of the church has commenced again.
The masons have also gone to work on the parsonage.
That is to be a stately house, built after plans
from the owner of the forest.  Why then must the
parsonage be larger than the schoolhouse?  The
latter is for an entire family and a troop of young
guests; the parsonage harbours one or a few single
people, whose world does not extend outwards, but
is absorbed within.

But the parsonage is the home and refuge for all
those needing help or advice; an asylum for the
persecuted and defenceless—the centre of the parish.

As in the changing seasons the old is constantly
reappearing in the new, so these people continue the
occupations, and in their ignorance and poverty
repeat the lives of their ancestors.

I no longer have time to wander about in the
forest, watching the people and studying nature.  I
must oversee the building constantly; the workmen
and foremen depend upon my advice.  It requires
much thought, and I am obliged to call to my aid
books and the experiences of others, so that nothing
may go wrong.

But I enjoy this active life and I am becoming
younger and stronger.

Yesterday the roof of the church was raised.
Many people were present, each one wishing to
contribute his mite to the church.  The widow of
Mathes and her daughter were also working on the
building.  Not long ago the woman brought a little
stone from her hut, saying: "I should like to have
this pebble lie under the altar."

It is the stone which the lad threw at his mother.



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   PENTECOST, 1818.

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The first celebration of the new church.  Not
inside however, but in front of it.  Yesterday the
cross was placed on the tower.  It is made of steel
and gilded—a present from the Baron.

A great crowd of people assembled; there are
many inhabitants in the forest after all.

From Holdenschlag there was no one present, not
even the priest.  Can it be that they begrudge us
the new church?  But the Einspanig has been seen
on the other side of the Winkel brook, lurking about
listening.  He draws his grey mantle over his
disordered hair, and hastens along by the brook, finally
disappearing in the thicket.  He is a strange
creature; he avoids the people more and more, and is
only seen on special days.  No one knows who he is
or whence he comes, and what he is weaving no
weaver can tell.

The master wood-cutter also takes part in the
celebration; he has arrayed himself in gala attire
and has even combed his red beard.  He carries a
knotted stick, and I notice at once that something
unusual is about to take place.  I am not mistaken,
for he proceeds to make a speech in which he
says that in the name of the master of the forest he
to-day delivers over the new church to the new
parish.

A stalwart man carries up the cross, bound to his
left arm.  It is Paul, the young head journeyman
from Lautergräben.  From the tower window,
through which he climbs, a very simple staging is
placed upon the almost perpendicular shingle roof,
reaching to the summit.  Calmly the bearer of the
cross climbs along the beam.  Having reached the
top, he stands upright, loosening the cross from his
arm.  The crowd below is silent, and round about
there is not a sound; it is as if it were still a
wilderness on the banks of the Winkel.  Each one holds
his breath, as if fearing to disturb the equilibrium of
the man on the dizzy height.

Paul avoids looking about him, and his
movements are slow and regular.  I am seized with
terror as I fancy that he makes an unnecessary start
and turn—then the cross sinks into its resting-place
and stands firmly.  In the same moment the man
stumbles—a cry resounds in my vicinity.  But
Paul is still standing on the summit.

The cry proceeds from Anna Maria.  She is
deathly pale, and without uttering another sound
she seats herself upon a stone.

And now the merry-making begins.  Paul takes
out a glass and, raising it to his lips, drains it, then
hurls it upon the ground.  It breaks into a thousand
pieces, and the people struggle with one another for
the bits, that they may preserve them for their
descendants and be able to say: "See, this is a
part of the glass which was used at the raising of the
cross on the church tower."

Paul still stands upon the pinnacle, arm in arm
with the cross; in the tower window the grey head
of our rhymster Rüpel now appears.  Contracting
his white eyebrows so violently that it can be seen
even from below, the man begins thus to speak:
"As the dizzy spire I cannot reach, so from this
window I 'll make my speech.  On the highest point
a youth doth stand, with handsome looks and glass
in hand.  But aged ones like me should teach, yet
sermons I will never preach.  For that below a
chancel's given, to honest priests, who guide to
heaven.  And the font baptismal stands near by—of
no more use to such as I—but some folks in the
parish here, need this wash-trough every year.  The
font should be both wide and long—in forest lands
it must be strong; near by the confessional stands
for all, where sins are left both great and small,
which God forgives; though the priest his ears may
close, the sins from his own heart he knows.  Then
there 's the altar, where one leaves one's woes,
refreshed and young one homeward goes.  And God
twelve angels here will send, to guard this parish
from end to end.  Methinks I hear our bells ring
clear: I see our sunlit cross in place, a sacred sign
that by God's grace we all together at last may
wend our way to heaven when life shall end.  But I
must be the bell to-day, to tell abroad what you fain
would say, and send it forth o'er mountain and
wood to the town where dwells our master good—a
message of thanks from this parish new, for the
house of God which he builds for you.  May angels
guide us to heaven's door,—this is my greeting,
and still more—before above we have a happy
birth, may we rejoice a little while on earth."

These words warmed the hearts of the people, and
I would gladly have sent my own guardian angel to
the Baron in the city with a most loving message of
thanks.

As Paul has now safely descended from the tower
to firm ground, his wife receives him with open
arms: "God gives thee back to me from His own hands!"

They then approach the house which to-day has
become a noisy tavern.  Behold the fatality, here is
Paul, now standing with less security upon the
smooth, firm floor of the inn than he did a few hours
ago above on the tower.

But the lofty cross is graciously stretching out its
arm above the church and the tavern.



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   A FEW DAYS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

That must be a false report which is circulating
about the Baron's son.  He is said to have become
dissipated.  Too much wealth was awaiting him
when he came into this world.  But with an
illustrious name and an abundance of money, no wonder
life is full of attractions!

I used to tell my good Hermann what it meant
to work for one's daily bread.  But there was one
thing about him which did not please me: he never
noticed the labourer in the field, or the flowers of
spring, or the leaves of autumn.

Still, Hermann, thou canst not go very far astray.
By thy side stands the holiest, truest guardian angel
ever born in heaven or on earth.

Ah, if thou wouldst only come into our beautiful,
silent forest!



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   MORGENROTH AND EDELWEISS, SUMMER, 1818.

.. vspace:: 2

It is sometimes very lonely for me here in the
Winkel.  But I know one remedy for this; at such
times I go to still lonelier parts of the forest; I have
been there even at night, have watched sleeping
nature, and have found rest.

Night lies over the woodland.  The last breath of
the day that has passed has died away.  The birds
are resting and dreaming, at the same time
composing songs for the future.  The screech-owl hoots,
and the branches sigh.  The world has closed her
eyes, yet her ear she opens to the eternal laments of
mankind.  To what purpose?  Her heart is of stone
and impossible to warm.  Ah, but she warms us
with her peaceful aspect.  Above, constellation
presses against constellation, dances its measure and
rejoices in the everlasting day.  The morning
returns to the forest also, the branches are already
beckoning to it.

The young king approaches from the east upon
his steeds of cloud and with his flaming lance
pierces the heart of night; with faint sobs she falls,
and from the rocky height streams the blood.

Alpine glow the people call it, and if I were a
poet I would celebrate it in song.

At this season it would be beautiful on the Graue
Zahn.  At night, while below in the dark valley man
rests from misery, dreams of misery, and strengthens
himself for new misery—the eternal spires tower
aloft, silently glowing, and at midnight one day
reaches its hand to the next across the Zahn.

"Oh, what a beautiful light is that!" old Rüpel
once exclaimed.  "To distant lands it sends its ray,
its rosy splendour fills my heart, to God above it
lights my way."

A strange yearning sometimes fills my soul; it is
not a longing for space, for infinity; thirst for light
would better express it.  My poor eyes can never
satisfy the thirsting soul; they will yet perish in
the sea of light and the thirst will still be unquenched.

A short time since I was on the Graue Zahn again.
Soon I shall be tied to the bell-rope when other
people are taking a holiday.  The bell-rope may be
compared to a long-drawn breath, always praising
God and proclaiming good-will to man.

From the high mountain I gazed below, but I did
not behold the sea.  I looked toward the north
to the farthest horizon, whence one might perhaps
see the plain and the city, the turret of the house,
and the gleam of the windows....  And how
far my gaze must wander to find the grave in
Saxon-land!...

A sharp wind interrupted my thoughts.  Then I
once more made my descent.

Beside an overhanging cliff I found something
very beautiful.

On the banks of the distant lake I had already
heard from the lips of my parents, and I have
repeatedly been informed by the people of these
woodlands, that in the midst of the sun the holy
Virgin Mary sits at the spinning-wheel.  She
spins wool from a snow-white lamb, like those
pastured in paradise.  Once while spinning, she fell
asleep and dreamed of the human race, and a bit of
the wool falling to the earth remained clinging to a
high cliff.  The people found it and called it *Edelweiss*.

I picked two of the little stars and placed them
on my breast.  One of them, which has a slightly
reddish tinge, shall be called *Heinrich-roth*, the
other, snow-white, that ... I will leave its old name.

As towards evening I descend to the forest and
the wood-cutting, I chance upon something
unspeakably lovely.  There, not far from my path, I
see a bed of fresh green grass; its perfume is so
inviting, that I think I will rest my weary limbs upon
it for a little.  And as I approach the grassy couch,
I behold a child sleeping thereon.  A flower-like,
tender child wrapped in linen.  I remain standing
and hold my breath, that I may not cry out in
astonishment and thus waken the little creature.  I
can scarcely imagine how it happens that this helpless,
extremely young child should be in this isolated
place at such an hour.  Then it is explained.  Up
from the Thalmulde a load of grass comes swaying
towards me, and under it Aga is panting.  She is
gathering fodder for her goats, and the child is her
little daughter—my Waldlilie.

The woman now loads the grass on her back and
the child on her arm, and together we proceed down
the valley.

The same evening I entered her hut and drank
goat's milk.  Berthold came home late from his
wood-cutting.  The people lead a hard life; but
they are of good courage, and the young Waldlilie
is their happiness.

As Berthold sees the *Edelweiss* on my breast he
says, with a warning gesture: "Take care, that is
a dangerous weed!"  As I fail to understand, he
adds: "*Edelweiss* nearly killed my father and
*Edelweiss* poisons my love for my dead mother."

"How so, how so, Berthold?" I ask.

He then related the following story to me: On
the other side of the Zahn, beyond the abyss, lived
a young forester, who loved a herdsmaid.  She was
a proud lass and one day she said to the young man;
"I love thee and wish to be thine, but one proof of
thy true love thou must give to me.  Thou art a
nimble climber, wilt thou refuse, if I ask for an
*Edelweiss* from the high cliff?"

"My life, an *Edelweiss* thou shalt have!"
exclaimed the lad, but he forgot that the high cliff was
called the Devil's Mountain, because it was impossible
to climb, and that at its foot stood tablets, telling
of root-diggers and chamois-hunters who had
fallen there.  And the herdsmaid did not realise that
she was demanding a new tablet.

But it is very true that love drives one mad.  The
young forester started on the same day.

He climbs the lower cliff, over which the woodcutter
is still obliged to walk with his axe; he ascends
crags where the root-digger digs his spikenard;
he swings himself over ravines and rocks where the
chamois-hunter scarcely dares to venture.  And
finally he reaches that horrible place on the Devil's
Mountain, with the yawning abyss below and the
perpendicular rocks above.

Upon a neighbouring crag a chamois is standing,
which spiritedly raises its head and looks mockingly
across at the lad.  It does not flee, up here the game
becomes the hunter and man the helpless game.
The chamois scrapes the ground with its fore-foot,
and flaky bits fly into the air ... *Edelweiss*.

The lad well knows that he must shade his eyes
to keep from becoming dizzy.  He well knows that
if he looks up the rocky wall above, it will be
farewell to the light of heaven; and if his eye glances
downwards it will gaze into his grave.

Not the chamois, but the ground upon which it
stands, is the object of his quest to-day.  He thrusts
his alpenstock into the earth and turns and swings
himself.  A blue mist rises before his eyes.  Sparks
appear, circle, and fade away.  He no longer sees
aught but the smile of the herdswoman.  Now he
throws his stick away, now he jumps and makes
long leaps.  With a start the chamois springs wildly
over his head and the young man sinks upon the
white bed of *Edelweiss*.

On the second day after this, the head forester
sent to ask the people if the lad had been seen.
On the third day they saw the herdsmaid running in
the woods with flowing hair.  And on the evening of
the same day the young forester walked through the
valley leaning upon a staff.

How he came down from the Devil's Mountain,
he told no one, perhaps he could not tell.  He had
*Edelweiss* with him—a bunch on his breast—a wreath
on his head; his hair had become snow-white—*Edelweiss*.

And the herdswoman, who in her arrogance had
caused this to happen to the brown curly head, now
loved and cherished the white locks until years later
her own had become white as well.

Berthold told the story almost beautifully and
finally he added that he was the child of the young
forester and the herdswoman.



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   AUTUMN, 1818.

.. vspace:: 2

After wandering through other parts of the forest
among the people both old and young, learning
from the former, teaching the latter, I am always
glad to return to the Winkel.  Here in these last
years, the people have been labouring with axe and
hammer about the Winkel-warden's house and I have
sometimes even lent a hand to the work myself.
And now as I look around me I realise that we
have a village.

Near the house a few huts have been erected
originally intended for the builders but now being
converted into permanent dwellings.  Martin
Grassteiger, a charcoal-burner, from Lautergräben, has
recently bought two such little huts for a considerable
sum, and to the astonishment of the people he
paid at once for them in cash.  From pitch-black
coal, shining thalers are made, old Russ-Kath once
said.  And with gleaming thalers Grassteiger has
paid for the huts and has become a man of influence.

The parsonage is approaching completion, likewise
the church and next must come the schoolhouse;—*Mein
Gott*, what a great joy I am experiencing in
these forests!

Yesterday evening we locked the church for the
first time.  The architect, the carpenter from
Holdenschlag, and the master wood-cutter were present,
but I do not know how it came about that as we
separated the key remained in my hand.  I am
hardly aware of it myself, yet the Baron has recently
written that he was quite satisfied with my work as
schoolmaster in the forest.  But what am I
accomplishing?  I tell the children stories and show them
many little things in the woods, which no person
here has ever before noticed, but which fascinate
these young people.

The windows in the church, on either side of the
altar, do not quite satisfy me.  The dazzling panes
weary my eyes, and the wooded slopes and the
wood-cutting stare in upon one.  But, alas, the
Sunday worshipper might be quite content with that,
for then, instead of offering his poor soul humbly
before the dear God, he would be constantly chopping
wood, counting the felled trunks, the sticks, the piles
of brushwood, which on a week-day would not
otherwise trouble him.  Prayer would stream from the
heart like a fountain of blood, if one's thoughts did
not wander, but since they cannot always be
controlled, we must guard the church like a fortress, so
that the Sabbath may not leave it nor the work-day
enter.

The two windows must be provided with paintings;
so I have sent for red, yellow, blue, and green
paper, and for a number of days I have been working
as designer behind closed doors.

About the saint for the church the people are not
yet united.  But I have my ideas in regard to it.  "My
friends," I said, "we will not set up any saint.  Let
each one think of his own as he will.  The saints are
invisible in heaven, and ours could only be made
from ordinary wood, which might simply arouse
their anger."

"Perhaps you're right," answered a few of the
people to this proposal, "and it would surely cost us
less."

A wood-chopper from Karwasserschlag made the
altar table.  He is a poor man, blessed with many
children; but for the work in the church he took no
pay.  "For a good reason I do it," said he; "I do
it for my family, that none of its members may die,
or any more be added to it."

The dear God cannot have rightly understood;
scarcely is the altar table finished, when the
wood-chopper's ninth boy comes into the world.

In order to show that it is an honour to the forest
when such a poor man renders a public service we
call the wood-chopper, as he is also one who does
not know his name, Franz Ehrenwald (honour to the
forest).  The name will suffice for his nine boys and
more.

Franz Ehrenwald has a clever, ambitious head.
Having succeeded with the altar table, he now
decides to change his business entirely to that of
carpenter and cabinet-maker.  He has already collected
a number of tools, and furnished himself with two
baskets full of planes, draw-knives, augers, saws,
axes, chisels, and other things, which he does not in
the least know how to handle, and which he will not
use as long as he lives.  But the tools are his pride;
and his boys cause him no greater annoyance than
when, in their own attempts at carpentry, they take
possession of one of the augers or nick a knife.  He
is quite willing to have them learn to work correctly,
the two baskets will indeed be their legacy some time.

I have drawn a number of plans for dwelling-houses,
showing how they should be built, so that
they may be durable, light, airy, easily heated,
tasteful, and suited to the people's mode of life.

According to such plans, Franz Ehrenwald has
already commenced a number of houses.  One of
them belongs to the master workman Paul in
Lautergräben.  The buildings are not expensive, since the
owner of the forest gives the timber free; besides, it
is said that they are to remain exempt from taxes.

So Master Ehrenwald's business is beginning well;
he is obliged to have assistants in addition to his
sons.  He has also made plans for his own house.
As I was recently standing down by the brook
fishing for trout, he suddenly came up to me, I have no
idea from where, and whispered mysteriously into
my ear: "Believe me, my new house will be devilish
fine, devilish fine!"  No one else was near us, and
the fish in the Winkel were deaf.  "But devilish
fine," he whispered softly; "magnificent will be my
house!"  The man is really childish in his happiness;
he is in his element; formerly it did not occur
to anyone that fine houses could ever be built in the
Winkel forests.



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   UPON THE ROAD TO THE CROSS, AUTUMN, 1818.

.. vspace:: 2

Above, in the wastes of the Felsenthal, stands a
wooden cross.  It is the same which is said to have
grown from the seed of the little bird that flies into
the valley every thousand years.

I consulted with the forester and a few of the
older men, and I afterwards asked the old bearded
story-teller Rüpel, who had no other important
business, if he would go with me to Karwässer and into
the Felsenthal to help bring down the moss-covered
cross into the Winkel.

And so we start one bright autumn morning.
We are both unspeakably happy.  We thank the
shady Winkel brook for its splashing and gurgling.
We thank the green meadow for its verdure; we
thank the dew, the birds, the deer, and the whole
forest.  We ascend the slippery floor of the woods,
we clamber over mouldering trunks and mossy stones.
The trees are old and wear long beards, and our
story-teller stands on a brotherly footing with each
one.  Among the webs of moss we find beetles,
ants, and lizards; we greet them all, and we invite
airy, glittering butterflies to accompany us to the
cross.  The gay little world cares nothing about it.

My companion is a queer fellow.  One has to know
him to appreciate him.  But among the woodspeople
there are sometimes the strangest characters.
Outside in the cultured and polished world, such men
are called geniuses; here they are fools or imbeciles.

Rüpel is an imbecile of this sort.  They also call
him Story-teller, because he always has some kind
of a tale to tell, and Rhyme-Rüpel, because—and
that is the peculiarity—he cannot say ten words
without rhyming.  It is an absurd habit.  On the
way he told me the whole story of his life in rhyme.
To be sure the rhymes stumble disgracefully, but
who could avoid stumbling on such stony forest
ground?  "A chorus boy was I, as none who read
in Holdenschlag the record will deny.  I pulled the
rope and made the bells ring out, and as they rung,
I sang, and keeping time, I mocked the clapper with
my tongue.  Into the chalice for the priest at
service I poured wine, but the sight of water made him
shrink, one drop, in fine, and he would haste away
displeased.  The water and the wine together, even
as flesh and blood, our highest good combine, but
too much water in the cup, Christ's rosy blood
profanes, so I left the church and the blacksmith's trade
I plied for honest gains.  I heard the bellows'
rhythmic sound, the merry anvil's ring; the hammer
joined it, keeping time, the sparks flew, everything
combined in perfect harmony, the whole world
seemed to sing.  But this my master did not please,
so still in rhythmic tide, he seized me by the
hair—and lo! through ringing, singing, side by side, the
forge brought forth an endless rhyme, and though
't was born in peaceful eve, I still am keeping,
keeping time.  The forge produces only rhymes, there
are no spades or horseshoes there, the blacksmith
chased the rhymster out, to forest glades and open
air.  Within the woods I plucked the moss, I bounded
with the deer, and pulled up tangled roots and herbs,
the birds my voice could hear—light as a plume,
and, joyous, gay, I singing passed the time away.
A cousin forester of mine feared, with such idle
life, I could but starve, so he transformed my
pleasure into strife.  A hunter, shouldering my first gun,
the forest was aglee, I shot the game and hit the
air, the deer he looked at me.  Then after him in
rhythm I ran, he paused, had I desired, I might have
leaped upon his back, but ever I aspired to keep my
life in rhythmic tune, and such uneven gait my
progress would impede I knew, so I preferred to wait.
This made my master sad, the hunter's craft for
man like me, he looks upon as bad.  Then for a while
I wandered round, attempting more or less, with
various gentlemen I lived, but never won success.
Sometimes to leave their service, they kindly gave
me word, sometimes they chased me out of doors,
nor was a protest heard.  And so it goes, behold me
now, my story I have told, back to the woods I 've
come again, my home is here—I 'm old.  I sing for
merry folks and kind, where happy words are said,
at holy service, wedding-feasts, I sing for crumbs of
bread.  God bless it unto me!  Though it be dry
and black, if I am well and my tongue still moves,
for nothing do I lack.  And when at last Sir Death
doth come, I 'll go, for ripe the time, and learn, when
I have travelled home, the sweetest of all rhyme.
And when the singing I do hear, and trumpet, sounding
long, I 'll rise again—and that's the life of Rüpel
and his song."

I should like to name the man the wild harpist or
forest singer, or the sparrow of the New Testament;
he sows not, he reaps not, and he does not beg, yet
the good Winkel foresters nourish him, while without
in the wide land singers starve.

After many hours we finally arrive in the Felsenthal.
As we walk along the jagged walls, where in
the clefts fear slumbers, and as we see the cross
towering in the midst of the mouldering trunks, my
companion imagines that he sees a human figure
disappearing among the stones.  But with the
exception of our two selves I notice no one.

Before the cross we pause.  It towers upon the
boulder as it towered years ago, as according to the
legend of the people, it has stood since time
immemorial.  Storms have passed over it and have
loosened the bark from the wood, though they have
done it no further injury.  But the warm sunny days
have made fissures in the beam.  The blue sky arches
even over this remote corner of the world.  The
sinking sun shines aslant from behind the rocks,
touches the bare, ancient runes, lighting up the right
arm of the cross.  A little brown worm crawls over
the beam towards the sunny arm, but has scarcely
reached it when the glow disappears.  A beetle runs
along the upright beam and hastens under the
remaining bit of bark, perhaps to snatch away the
pupa of an ant.  To the one the gleaming cross is a
paradise; to the other the battle-ground of his
struggles and pleasures.

For our parish may it be the former!

It is well that no one knows who made and
erected the cross, for the hands that have carved
a symbol of divinity may never be folded in
worship before it.  From Mount Sinai, Moses brought
the tables of the law down to the people as true
image of God.  The idol was not created until the
Israelites formed one from their own ornaments and
with their own hands.

As we climb upon the rock to remove the cross,
Rüpel covers his face with both hands.  "We are
destroying the altar in Felsenkar," he cries excitedly.
"Where shall the tree in the storm now pray, and
the hunted deer that roams astray, on the forest's
edge, with the cross away?"

My own hand trembles as we take up our burden.  I
place it so that the horizontal beam rests upon my neck
like a yoke, Rüpel carrying the upright beam behind.

And so we go on amid the boulders and the
ancient trees.  As we come to the precipice, the
shadows of evening are closing in.

The whole night we walk through the forest.  In
the ravines and narrow defiles the darkness is
appalling, and our cross crashes against many an old
tree-trunk.  When our path leads over rising ground,
the moonlight shimmers through the branches,
revealing the white mosaics and hearts which lie upon
the earth.

Many times we lay down our burden and wipe the
sweat from our brows; we speak very little with one
another.  Only once Rüpel breaks the silence with
the words: "The cross is heavy—hard, I 'll bear it till
I die, and o'er my grave a tree shall rise, when they
bury me by and by; and green it shall grow to
greet the sun, nor o'er my bones decay, but
heavenward ever soar, increasing day by day."

Once, while we are thus resting, a dark figure glides
by us across the way.  It stretches out one hand,
pointing to a broad stone, and then disappears.  We
both notice this apparition, but do not speak until
on the meadow of the Karwässer we place the cross
upright on the ground, its dark shadow peacefully
resting upon the dewy grass, and then the old man
utters these words: "He bore the cross unto the
mount—our Lord—in bitter grief, and stopped to
rest upon a stone, and, resting, found relief.  A Jew
stepped out and said: 'This stone belongs to me.'  The
Saviour staggered on in pain, the Jew must
ever flee; he cannot die, but e'en to-day, there is no
rest at hand—from age to age, in fiery shoes, he
roams from land to land."  After a little Rüpel
continues: "Because we 've borne the cross to-night,
we 've seen the Wandering Jew—he begged us rest
upon the stone, 't were peace for him, but not for me
and you."

At the coal-pit in upper Lautergräben, four men
await us.  Taking the cross, they lay it upon a bier
of green branches and proceed with it towards the
Winkel.

As we approach our valley the day is breaking.  And
a tone resounds and trembles through the air, which
is not to be compared with song of man, lute, or any
earthly music.  It is many years since I have heard
a sound like that, and I scarcely recognise it.  We
all stop and listen; it is the bell of our new church.
While we were in the Felsenthal, the bells arrived
and were hung.

As I hear them this morning, I cannot refrain
from calling out: "My friends, now we shall never
be alone!  The parishes outside ring their bells at
this hour; we have the same morning greeting as
they, the same thoughts.  We are no longer dumb,
we have our united voice in the tower, which, in joy
and in trouble, will proclaim what we feel but are
unable to convey in words.  And the eternal thought
of God, which everywhere exists, but which is
nowhere truly comprehended, and which no image or
word can ever quite express, assumes form for our
senses and becomes intelligible to our hearts only
in the resounding circle of the bell.  And so thou
bringest to us, thou sweet music of bells, a
comforting message from without and from within and from
above!"  The men gaze at me, wondering at my
words and surprised that it is possible to say so
much about the ringing of church bells, which one
may hear every day over in Holdenschlag.  Only
the good Rüpel hastens away behind the
alder-bushes so that, undisturbed by my hoarse voice he
may listen to the pure tones.

Before the church many people are assembled to
hear the bells and see the cross,—that cross, which
sprang from the seed brought by the little bird,
which once in every thousand years flies through
the forest.



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   CONSECRATION OF THE CHURCH, 1818.

.. vspace:: 2

It is Sunday—the first Sunday in the Winkel
forests.  The bells announced it at dawn, and the
people have come from the Upper Winkel, from
Miesenbach, from Lautergräben, from Karwässer,
and from every hermitage and cave of the wide
woods.  To-day they are no longer wood-cutters
and charcoal-burners as ordinarily, to-day for the
first time they fuse into one, into one body, and are
called the parish.

The church is finished.  Above the altar towers
the cross from the Felsenthal; it stands here as
unpretentiously and almost as harmoniously as yonder
in its loneliness.  Among the people remarks are
heard to the effect that this is the true cross of the
Saviour.  If they find comfort and exaltation in this
thought, then it is as they say.

The canopy for the altar is a present from the
Baron; the candlesticks and the credence were
carved by Ehremvald.  But who has given the two
beautiful altar windows with the painted glass? I
am asked.  It is well that the windows are so high,
otherwise it must be seen that only coloured paper is
pasted over the panes.  The two windows represent
the Commandments of Moses, within a green crown
of thorns mingled with red and white roses.  Over
the altar and the cross is a round window
representing the eye of God, with the words: "I am the
Lord thy God, who frees thee from bondage.  Make
thyself no graven image, to worship it."

The priest from Holdenschlag, who was here to
perform the service of consecration, informed me
that the above words were not suitable.  "Thou
shalt believe in one God!" it should say.  I replied
that the words here employed, I had read in a very
old Bible.

The schoolmaster from Holdenschlag played
the organ, which has a pure, sympathetic tone.
"The gladness and woe, which the lips cannot tell,
from music they flow, as rivulets run in the light of
the sun," says the old forest singer.

In the same way that I have hitherto practised on
the zither, I now practise on the organ.  Each sweet
sound sinks into the heart of the worshipper to lift his
soul to the altar of God.

The priest from Holdenschlag preached a sermon
on the significance of the consecration and the parish
church, and on the life of man from the baptismal
font to the grave.  It then occurred to me that we
had no graveyard.  No one has thought of it or
wishes to think of it, even though the font has been
spoken of so often.  I can no longer worship, and
afterwards, during the mass while the veil of incense
is rising, I cannot help wondering where we shall
locate the burial-ground.  After the high mass, when
they all come out upon the square and approach the
pedlars' booths to look at the treasures and works of
art which the world is now beginning to send in to
the new parish in the Winkel, I climb up the slope
to the first gentle rise over which the dark high
forest extends toward the cliffs.  There I lay myself
upon the pine-needles with which the ground is
strewn.  I am nearly exhausted from the unusual
excitement of recent events, and with the graveyard
still on my mind, I try this couch to see how one
would rest up here.

I hear the cries of the market people and the
humming of the crowd below.

Many are dissatisfied with the church because no
well-regulated inn stands near it.  However, Brandy
Hannes is there; he has set up a little table under
the ash-trees and placed upon it some large bottles
and small glasses.  "What a dry consecration that
would be with nothing to drink!" the people say,
and the young men like to treat their sweethearts to
a tiny glass as well.  The devil is a pious fellow, he
counterfeits each new church, but a tavern is always
the result.  The bar is his high altar, the gay hostess
his priest, the tinkling of the glasses his bells and
organ music, the purse of the host the offering, the
playing-cards his prayer-book; and if a man is
overcome with drunkenness and fighting, he is then his
sacrificial lamb.

The tavern is the shadow of the church.  And
after the heat of the week, the workman is only too
willing to rest within this shadow.

At the midday meal, which we ate together in the
Winkel-warden's house, the master wood-cutter told
us that Grassteiger wished permission granted to
erect a tavern for dispensing brandy.

"We already have the tavern-keeper, but where is
our priest?

"One would not care to come to this corner of the
world, fastened in with boards," says the priest from
Holdenschlag.

"That 's true, your highness!" interrupts the
Winkel-warden's wife in a loud voice.  "Indeed, I 'll
say it a hundred times over, I should like to leave
this wilderness myself, and the sooner the better.
There 's nothing to do in this Winkel.  What a good
thing it would have been for us now, if we could
have sold a little brandy of a Sunday, and I consider
Grassteiger a lucky fellow!"

"Ha," laughs the priest, "taverns!  It will yet
become a lively place, this Winkel—Winkel—ah, the
parish has no name!"

The name of the parish has already been decided
upon.  The settlement of this question would have
been a welcome occasion for the people to assemble
at the new tavern to christen the parish with
*Schnapps*.  But we baptise with water.  Our water
is called the Winkel; since time immemorial a
bridge has led across this stream.  The square
about the Winkel-warden's house is briefly called
*Am Steg* (by the bridge).  Here stands the new
church, and Winkelsteg shall it and the parish be
called.  Our master, Baron von Schrankenheim, has
endorsed it.

As the bells were rung at the beginning of our
church consecration, so they rang again at its close.
On this day another very exciting occurrence has
taken place.  The gentlemen from Holdenschlag
and the forester had left; it was quiet once more in
Winkelsteg.  Twilight comes on early now and the
mist lay over the high mountains.  It was already
dark when I went to my bells.  To-day for the first
time the little red lamp was burning before the altar,
which from now on shall be called the everlasting
light, and which shall never be extinguished as long
as the house of God remains standing.  It is the
watch before the Lord.

As I entered the church I beheld a figure in the
shadow by the credence.  A man still knelt there
praying.  If one must live so long in the misery of
the day, the Sunday which follows, when one is
communing with the dear God or with one's self, is
much too short.  These were my thoughts, and I
remained silent for a while, but finally advanced to
remind the worshipper that the church was being
closed.  But as the figure became aware of my presence,
it rose and sought to escape.  After all it is no
worshipper, I thought, seizing the fugitive and
looking him in the face.  It was a young lad.

"You rascal, you may well blush!" I cried.

"I am no rascal," he replied, "and you are blushing
too; that comes from the lamp."  Then I looked
at him closely.  Who should it prove to be but
Lazarus, Adelheid's lost son.

Striking my hands together, I uttered a cry, as I
stood there in the church.

"Boy, for God's sake tell me where thou hast
been!  We have hunted for thee, thy mother would
even have overturned the Alps to find thee.  And
how dost thou come here to-day, Lazarus?  Indeed
this is beyond all belief!"

The boy stood there and to my questions he
answered nothing—not one word.

Then I rang the bells.  Lazarus was standing near
me; his garment was composed of a woollen blanket,
his hair fell over his shoulders, and his countenance
was very pale.  He watched me, for he had never
seen bells rung before.  And what a glad heart was
mine!  Now, with a clear ringing tongue, I could
proclaim the event even as far as the mountains.

Finally my housekeeper came asking what was
then the meaning of the ringing of the bells; a half
dozen times she had already repeated the Ave Maria
and still I did not stop.

I let go of the bell-rope and pointed to the boy.
"See, he has finally come back.  Did you not
understand the ringing?  Lazarus is found."

A woman is better than any bell to spread such
news.  Scarcely had the Winkel-warden's wife gone
out screaming, when Lazarus was already surrounded
by people.  I hardly knew how to tell the story, and
the lad murmured now and then, "Paulus," besides
which he uttered not a word.

We asked him who Paulus might be?  Instead of
answering the question, he said with a peculiarly shy
look: "He led me here to the cross."  Then loudly
and anxiously he called out, "Paulus!"  His speech
was awkward, his voice strange.

We led him into the house; the housekeeper
placed something to eat before him.  Sadly he gazed
at the omelet, turned his head in all directions, and
always back again to the food which he did not touch.

We all of us urged him to eat.  He stretched his
thin hands out from his rough mantle towards his
plate but drew them back again.  The boy trembled
and began to sob.  Later he asked for a piece of
bread, which he swallowed with ravenous appetite.
His black locks fell over his eyes and he did not
brush them aside.  Finally he dipped the bread into
the water-jug and ate with increasing greed and
drained the water to the last drop.

We stood around watching him, and we shook our
wise heads, asking many questions; the lad heard
nothing and stared at the pine-torch which gleamed
on the wall, or out of the window into the darkness.
The same night Grassteiger and I took the boy to
his mother in the upper woods.  A few times he
sought to escape from us and to climb up the slopes
of the dark forest.  He was as dumb as a mole and
as shy as a deer.

We reach Mathes's house, which is called the Black
Hut.  Profound peace reigns everywhere.  The
little stream is murmuring before the door; the
branches of the pine-trees groan above the roof.  In
the night one listens to such things; in the daytime
there is, if one might so express it, the continuous
noise of the light, so these other sounds are seldom
noticed.

Grassteiger holds the boy by the hand.  I place
myself at a little window and call in through the
paper pane: "Adelheid, wake up a bit!"

Then follows a slight noise and a timorous request
to know who is without.

"Andreas Erdmann from Winkelsteg is here and
two others!" I say.  "But do not be frightened.
In the new church a miracle has been performed.
The Lord has awakened Lazarus!"

In the hut a red gleam dances up and down the
walls, like a feeble flash of lightning.  The woman
has blown a bit of wood into a blaze at the fire on
the hearth.

She lights us in at the door, but as she sees the
boy, the torch falls to the floor and is extinguished.

When I finally procure a light, the woman is leaning
against the door-post and Lazarus is lying on his
face.  He is crying.  Grassteiger lifts him to his feet
and brushes the hair from his brow.  Adelheid stands
almost motionless in her worn night-dress; but in her
breast there is a great commotion.  Pressing both
hands against her heart, she turns towards the wall
struggling for breath, until I fear she is about to faint.
At last she looks at the boy and says: "Art thou
really here, Lazarus?"  And to us: "Sit down on
the bench yonder, I will make some soup directly!"  And
again to the boy: "Take off thy wet shoes, my
lad!"

But he has no shoes; instead he wears nothing
but soles made from the bark of trees.

The woman goes to the bed, wakes the little girl,
telling her to rise quickly for Lazarus has come.
The child begins to weep.

The soup stands ready; the boy stares with his
large eyes at the table and at his mother.  Now at
last her maternal love bursts forth: "My child, thou
dost not know me!  Yes, I have grown old, more
than a hundred years!  Where hast thou been this
endless time!  *Jesu Maria!*"  Seizing the child,
she presses him to her breast.

Lazarus gazes downwards; I notice how his lips
quiver, but he does not weep and he utters not a
word.  He must have had some strange experience;
his soul lies under a ban.

As he now removes his coarse blanket, to climb
upon the freshly made bed, he takes out from under
this rough mantle a handful of grey pebbles and with
one movement strews them all over the floor.  Hardly
has he done this before he stoops and begins to
collect them again.  He counts them in his hand, then
seeking in all the cracks and corners, he carefully
picks up each pebble, counts them once more and
hunts further, looking with great calmness a long
time at the floor of the hut, until he finds the last
one and has the full number in his hand.  And now
we see the lad smile for the first time.  Then
replacing the little stones in the pocket of his cloak he
goes to bed, where he soon falls asleep.

We stand a long time by the hearth near the torch
discussing the miraculous change which has taken
place in this boy.



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.. class:: right medium

   CHRISTMAS MONTH, 1818.

.. vspace:: 2

The boy Lazarus must have been in a very strict
school.  There is scarcely a trace left of his fiery
temper; only, when he is excited, a quiver, short and
quick as lightning, passes over him.  He is also
becoming cheerful and happy.  Concerning his life
during his year of absence he will tell but little.
Paulus had forbidden him to repeat more than was
necessary.  Still occasionally he says something
about it, but his words are vague and confused,
almost like those of one talking in a dream.  He tells
of a stone hut, of a kind, grave man, of penances
and of a crucifix.

His words become excited and definite only when
he is placed in a position where he is obliged in any
way to defend his own and the grave man's honour.

In the parish much is said about the *Wonder-boy*.
Some believe that Lazarus has been apprenticed to
a magician and will yet perform great things.

The old forest singer is of the opinion that the
Messiah must soon appear; and that Lazarus is the
forerunner, a new John the Baptist, who has nourished
himself in the wilderness with locusts and snails.

May God grant it!  An active, warm-hearted
priest would be the Messiah for Winkelsteg.  But it
is as the priest from Holdenschlag has said.  No one
will come into this remote forest valley.

I am the only one to take charge of the church,
ring the bells, play the organ, sing, and read the
prayers on Sunday.  The christenings and funerals
must go to Holdenschlag now as before.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   FEBRUARY, 1819.

.. vspace:: 2

How does it concern me?  It does not concern
me in the least, yet I cannot cease thinking of what
the forester has told about our young Baron.

The trouble began with a weakening of his
constitution and was aggravated by loose and careless
play, extravagance, drinking bouts, and sprees.  Bah!
I am a baron, a millionaire, a handsome young
man, so, go ahead!  Thus the forester explained
it.  Ah, but he cannot be so sure that the story
is true.

Hermann is said to be in the capital, far from
home and his sister.  Yes, under such circumstances
anything might indeed be possible.  God protect
thee, Hermann!  It would be a reproach to me, the
schoolmaster, if my first pupil should be a——

Away, ugly word!  Hermann is a good young
man.  What does the forester know about it?



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SPRING, 1819.

.. vspace:: 2

The region is changing rapidly.  The mountains
are becoming grey and bare; the forest is being
burned over and there are smoking charcoal-pits in
all the valleys.

With a great effort I have induced them to leave
a little plot of ground up there on the knoll.

This is the last bit of the primeval forest, and in
its shade the dead Winkelstegers shall rest.

The parsonage is finished.  The parish has
advertised for a priest.  When this notice is read
it will cause amusement: "That will be a fine
sort of a curacy in this Winkelsteg: the
communion wine is cider, the bread is made of
oat-flour.  Well, if the priest starves in Winkelsteg, it
is his own fault, for he can at least eat the bark
of trees!  Even the wild-cats manage to keep alive
on that."

Winkelsteg is terribly maligned; but it is not so
bad here after all.  For caring for the church and
occasionally mounting the pulpit to read something
for the edification of the people, I receive a
plentiful supply of meal and game.  They say it is a pity
that I am not a priest.

.. vspace:: 2

From the owner of the forest money has been
sent as a thank-offering to establish a service in the
church at Winkelsteg and to celebrate mass.  The
daughter of the house is married.

.. vspace:: 2

Thank God that my body and my brain find such
an abundance of occupation here.  This Einspanig
is the cause of much speculation.

More and more often he is seen in this place;
bent like a living interrogation point, bent and
crooked he goes about.  But he still avoids the
people; and yet when one has the courage to ask him a
question he gives an answer that would suffice for
three.  He has also been seen in the church, in
the farthermost corner, where the confessional is to
stand.

Old Rüpel is quite sure that he is the Wandering
Jew.  That the Einspanig is so in part I can well
believe.  According to my theory, there are many
million Wandering Jews.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER, 1819.

.. vspace:: 2

Now, all at once, we have a priest, and such a
strange one, one as mysterious as our altar-piece the
cross from the Felsenthal.

At noontide the last day of July, I entered the
church to ring the bells.  There, on the upper step
of the altar, stood the Einspanig, reading mass.

I watched him for a while.  Even the priest from
Holdenschlag could have done it no better.  But
when he finished, solemnly descended the steps, and
with downcast eyes walked towards the door, I
then felt it my duty to intercept him and call him
to account.  "Sir," I said, "you enter this house of
God, as anyone with an upright heart may do; but
you ascend to the holiest place and do those things
which are not fitting for everyone.  I am the keeper
of this church, and must ask you what your action
means."

He stood there looking at me with great calmness.

"Good friend," he then replied, with a voice
which rattled and grated as if rusty; "the question
is short and easy, the answer long and difficult.  But
since you have the right to demand it, it is my duty
to give it.  Name the day when you will go up to
the three pines in the Wolfsgrube."

"For what purpose?" I asked.

"The answer is not to be found on the way.
Under the pine-trees you may learn it."

"Very well," I said; "then next Saturday at three
o'clock I will appear at the pines in the Wolfsgrube."

He bowed and walked away.

For the present I will not mention this incident to
the people.  He is a madman! would be the
universal cry.

That may be.  I shall go to the pines and perhaps
learn something more definite about him.  If I find
in him a lunacy as singular and charming as in old
Rüpel, I shall be satisfied.  Even though nothing
should come of the parsonage and schoolhouse in
Winkelsteg, I shall be able at least to found a lunatic
asylum.

And that would also be a good deed.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center bold medium

   THE EINSPANIG'S ANSWER

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MORNING.

.. vspace:: 2

Despair broods o'er the forest pines—death's cry,
or terrors of the tomb—it pierces through the wall
of trees, and all about is grief and gloom.  Stretched
on the ground at the forest's edge—a mossy, soft
death-bed—behold the oldest of the trees, a giant
fallen, dead.  O see! the slayer madly flees o'er the
heath, in wild despair; pursued by the avenging
horde, he raves, with flying hair.  Poor murderer!
Ah! let him go—destruction he must spread—but
new and brightest life shall spring from ashes of the
dead.

It is not old Rüpel who infects me, causing me,
even in the early morning, to write such lines as
these, but rather an inward emotion, which fills
me on hearing of the storm, and which finds its
escape in words.

A storm has been raging during the night.  We
have not noticed it in Winkelsteg; we have heard
only a loud crashing in the north.  Within the
graveyard not a twig has been injured.



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   EVENING.

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But as I now go over the Lauterhöhe, having
business in the new clearing on the other side, my
path is barricaded by fallen trees, lying about in wild
confusion, split and criss-crossed in every direction.

Many a desolate gap has been made in the forest,
and when, in the afternoon, I approach the pines in
the Wolfsgrube, I see that the middle tree has fallen.
Of the three this is the largest and probably the
oldest.

Upon the trunk, which has buried its branches
deep in the earth, sits the Einspanig.

He has wrapped a woollen cloak about his shoulders,
over which fall his black locks with their many
silvery threads.  The man sits with his knees crossed,
resting his elbows upon them, while with his hands
he supports his head with its pale face.

As I approach he rises.

"You have come after all," he says, "and I was
almost prevented from coming.  The storm barred
my dwelling-place in the night; it hurled a rock
against the entrance."  And after a deep breath,
which reminds me of the sighing of the wind, he
pronounces these gloomy words: "Perhaps it would
have been better if last night had buried me for all
time in the rocky cave, than that I should give you
the answer to-day.  But since I give it, I would
rather give it to you than to anyone.  I have heard
good things of you and am glad of the opportunity
to know you better.  My answer, young man, is a
heavy burden; help me to bear it, just as you have
laden yourself with the sorrows of the other dwellers
in the forest.  I well know that you understand
filling the office of priest; so be my father confessor,
and free me from a secret, concerning which I do
not know if it be a black dove or a white raven.
But what if you should be incapable of comprehending——"

He stops; in his glance is something like suspicion.

I answer that I wish to ask him about nothing
excepting the cause of his action at the altar of our
church.

"In that one question you ask me about everything!"
he replies, laughing painfully; "you ask me
about my life's history, about the torment of my
soul, about my devil and about my God.  Well,
well, come here and sit down beside me on this fallen
tree.  No place could be better suited to my answer
than a wreck like this.  So, sit down with me on
this ruin!"

A nervous dread almost overcomes me.  It is so
quiet among the pines, that one can hear the
monotonous sighing of the branches; overhead clouds are
flying from crag to crag.

I seat myself near the man, whose eyes and words
express much more force than one would have
imagined possible in the bent and weary Einspanig.

Yes, he is called *Einspanig*—single—because he
has never been seen in the company of another.
Now the *Zweispan*—the pair—sit upon the
tree-trunk: the question and the answer.

Turning upon me suddenly, the man begins his
story: Do you know what it is to be a child of the
nobility?  Born in a palace, rocked in a golden
cradle; the rough floor covered with soft rugs; the
burning sunbeams and threatening clouds concealed
from view by heavy silken curtains; for the slightest
wish a troop of servants; the present full of peace
and tenderly guarded happiness; the future full of
pleasure and high dignities; this is the childhood of
the nobility.  Such a child was I, yet poorer than a
beggar-boy.  But at that time I did not know it, and
not until I was twelve or fourteen years of age did the
sorrowful question arise within me: Boy, where is
thy mother?—My mother gave me life and the light
of the sun—the life which she gave me was her
own—she died at my birth.

My father I seldom saw; he was either hunting or
travelling, or in the great city of Paris or at the Baths.
The love in my heart designed for father and mother,
I lavished upon my tutor, who was always with me
as teacher and companion and who was deeply
attached to me.  He was a priest belonging to the
Order of Jesus, a kindly, cheerful man, of great
piety.  I still remember how, when reading mass in
our chapel, his countenance would often become
glorified like that of Saint Francis Xavier in the
picture above the altar; and how he confided to me that
sometimes during the service he was filled with
ecstasy, being continually inspired with the idea that
I, his dear young friend, had been chosen for great
and sacred things.  By this I became aware of his
extraordinary love for me.

And now the day arrives when I must lose him,
my only friend.  At this time an unjust law is made
and the Order of Jesus is driven from the country.
My good tutor must leave me, he weeps bitterly as
he bids me farewell.  But in a moment of inspiration
he expresses the assurance that after trials overcome,
we shall meet again.

And lo, the priestly word is, beyond all expectation,
quickly fulfilled.  After a few months my tutor
is again in our house.  He has left the Order of
Jesus and now belongs to the "Fathers of the Faith,"
and thus he receives protection once more in our
country.

I have grown to young manhood.  I love my
tutor as I would an elder brother.  In secret I have
often envied him his cheerful peace and the serene
happiness of his soul.  At the same time I begin to
be tormented by a spirit of restlessness.  It is too
narrow for me within the house, nor is there space
enough without; if it is quiet, I wish for noise, and
if there is noise, I long for silence.  My impulse is
like that of a blind, hungry man who has lost his way
on the heath.

Then my tutor says to me; "That, dear young
friend, is the curse of the children of the world.  It is
the wild longing which, in spite of all the possessions
and pleasures of the earth, can find nothing to
satisfy it, unless one takes refuge in the fortress which
Christ has founded upon earth, in God's Kingdom of
the Holy Church."

"If you are speaking to me, you well know that I
am a Catholic," I answer.

"You are that only in your intellectual life"—he
replies—"but it is your body, your heart that so
thirsts to be satisfied.  Your body, your heart you
must lead into God's Kingdom on earth.  My dear
friend, each day I pray God that He may make you
as happy as I am, that you may become a brother of
Jesus Christ, like myself, for the healing of your soul
and for the good of the holy Faith."

From that day when my priestly tutor spoke thus
to me, the burden and the unrest grew to be doubly
tormenting; but, on examining myself seriously, I
perceived that it would be impossible for me to
renounce the world.

"You have not understood me," said my tutor,
"and I am astonished, that after the many years of
instruction, you can so misunderstand your friend.
Who tells you that you should renounce the joys of
the world?  The pleasures of the world are a gift of
God; to enjoy them, not for their own sake, but for the
glory of God, that is what brings us true satisfaction."

Thus a new life begins for me; my moral feeling,
which has hitherto restrained me, now urges me on
to satisfy all the cravings of my nature.  In pleasure
and enjoyment I shall serve the Lord—so there no
longer exists any conflict in this life.

My friend smiles and does not interfere.  The
world is *beautiful* when one is young, and it is also
*good* when one is rich.  I make it very good for
myself; and I drain its sweetest cups before drinking
the sacred sacrificial-blood at the altar.

And after a few years I have emptied the cup of
pleasure to its dregs.  I am disgusted.  I am sated,
more than sated.  And the world bores me.

Now, as I have become of age, my friend again
speaks to me, and upon his advice I decide to devote
my life to the service of God and the salvation of
man.  I enter the Order of the "Fathers of the
Faith," and willingly I now take the oath of
patience, chastity, and poverty.  My entire property
passes into the hands of the Order and I swear to
absolute obedience.

And then—one day a young woman comes to
me with whom I have had much to do in my former
life.  Now I dare not know her.  She implores me
not to abandon her with her child; she implores me
for God's sake.  But I am as poor as a beggar, and
cannot apply to anyone else in her behalf; I have
to live exclusively for my Order—and it enjoins
obedience.

A few days later the girl is taken from a pond—a
corpse.  Bitterly I weep on the breast of my priestly
friend, but he pushes me gently away, saying, "God
has done all things well!"

After speaking thus, the man whom they called
the Einspanig started as if in fear.  A jay was flying
over our heads.

He then quickly seized my hand and cried:

Even to-day I am married to her.  That night
she stood with the child before my bed.  My Order
has one beautiful gleaming star, but only one—that
is the worship of Mary.

Many a youth, forced into the Order by external
circumstances, thus renouncing everything,
gazes eagerly and passionately up to the Virgin and
the child Jesus.  I always saw in it the betrayed girl.

I am consecrated as priest, and in exchange for
my worldly title and honours receive simply the name
of Paulus.  But my rank enables me to skip one
degree, and from novice I am advanced at once to holy
orders.

I have sacrificed nature and property and my
own will; only one thing do I still possess—the
fatherland, and of that I am also deprived.  Our
Order is accused of being, by whatever name it may
be called, nothing but masked Jesuitism, whose aims
it serves in everything.  And, as such, according to
the existing law, it is deprived of a foothold in the
land.  My courage almost fails me at the thought of
leaving my home and aged father; but here there is
no rest for the soul.  We are martyrs for the greater
glory of God; and I am so much of an enthusiast
that this thought sustains me, and I resolve to tear
myself from everything.

We move to Italy.  In Rome lives Pius the Seventh,
the friend of our Order.  I visit the graves
of apostles and martyrs; I hope to lead a quiet,
contemplative life in this blessed land.  But prayer
and edifying meditation are not always the affairs of
the Society of Jesus.  We are soon sent out to hard
work in the Vineyard of the Lord.  I scarcely know
by what means, but, with the name of the Order
changed, I find myself all at once transferred to the
court of the king, in the western part of the
country.  It may be my ancestry or the good training
which I have received, or perhaps even my scholarly
attainments and a certain cleverness which by
degrees I have acquired, or it may be my physique,
which has been called fine—whether it is this or
something else which advances me I do not know.
I am soon appointed to an influential position in
the State chancery.  And my motto is: Be a secret
wheel in the great workshop of the State and lead
the people according to the will of God,—the will
of God, that is indeed only known to His vicegerent
at Rome.

Tact, gentleness, cheerfulness, and patience are
the virtues which I have to adopt.  Thus I become
the friend at court, the desired companion, the
counsellor much sought after; and when I read mass in
the royal chapel, the whole world of aristocratic
women are on their knees before the altar.  Finally
I become father confessor to the king.

About this time a commendatory written acknowledgment
comes to me from Rome, charging me to
persevere in my subtle policy—Subtle?  Surely I do
nothing secretly, but act as my head and heart
dictate.  It is a beautiful life for me.  The world smiles,
and her smiles please me.  Easily I bear the oath of
poverty, for I dwell in the king's palace.  I remain
true to my oath of renunciation, for that which I
enjoy I do not enjoy for myself but for the love of
God.  Even the image of Mary and the Child in the
royal chapel, I am able once more to worship
devoutly.

Then we enter upon stirring times.  The revolution
is raging in the world; in our land an insurrection
is also spreading.  More frequently than usual
the king assembles the great and rich about him,
and his monthly confession increases in importance.
One day an order comes to me from Rome, fastened
with a great seal.  After reading and considering
it, something rebels within me and asks aloud:
How have I the right to force myself between the
king and the people and to tear down the law from
the altar of the fatherland?  I then suddenly
perceive what a power is given into my hands, and
for the first time I understand why I have been
urged to persevere in my subtle policy.  My conscience
warns me; at first I listen to its voice irresolutely,
then I become bold and stifle it.

I might have taken the step and history would
perhaps tell to-day of a second St. Bartholomew's
Eve;—just at this time I receive news of my
father's death.  This arouses me.  Filial love,
sorrow, longing, homesickness, guilt, and remorse cut
me to the heart and prey upon my mind.  I write
to Rome that I am incapable of that which they
require of me.

What is the answer to this?  It is an order to
ask for my dismissal at court, as I must sail at once
for India.

This commission crushes me completely.  Instead
of going to my fatherland, whither my heart
leads me, I must travel to a distant part of the
world.  Why?  For what purpose?  Who asks?
The first law of the Order is blind obedience!

Here the man made a pause in his story.  He
passed his fingers over his pale, thin cheeks down to
the coal-black beard.  His eyes, which had a
restless, weary look, gazed sadly upwards.  Above, the
dark clouds were no longer flying, but had begun to
settle upon the rocky cliffs.  Deep silence and
twilight reigned in the wooded ravine of the Wolfsgrube.

Finally the Einspanig continued: Four endless
summers I lived with a few companions in hot India.
The hardships were great, but still greater was the
inward trouble, the awakened consciousness of an
unsuccessful life.  Only in the strict fulfilment of
the priestly calling did I find some comfort, for now
my service had become pure and unselfish.  We no
longer worked for the special advantage of an
alliance, but for the great, common, and divine good of
mankind, for civilisation.  We preached to the
Hindoos European customs, thought, and worship.  We
gave them the plough for their fields, upon the
mountains we planted the cross.  We preached the
teachings of God, self-sacrifice and love.  At first
they regarded us with disfavour and suspicion, but
finally they opened their hearts.  As messengers
from heaven they honoured us, and they had great
respect for the people of the West, whose God had
become man, in order to teach love by His life and
sacrifice by His death.

We had already organised a Christian parish in
the Deccan, when troops of Westerners, English
and French, arrived, made war upon a part of the
land and subjugated the people.  Now it was no
longer a question of Christian love, but of rice and
spices.  And that put an end to the Hindoos' faith
in our teachings.  They would have murdered us.
We fled to a French ship and returned to Europe.

At last I see my fatherland once more.  The
times have changed and our Order has a foothold
and protection in the land.  But the people have
been greatly influenced by the trend of thought in
recent years, and some have even threatened to
leave the Catholic Church.  Thus a new and difficult
task begins for us.  According to a systematic
arrangement, we are sent to the towns and country
places, and I receive the commission of missionary
to the people.  With three companions I wander
from region to region, to hold the services in certain
churches.  Our priesthood is now compelled to
reveal a new phase of character.  With the great and
powerful we have been suave and indulgent; among
savage nations, apostles of civilisation, the strict but
loving teachers of the Christian faith.  But here,
before the hardened, lazy, frivolous country folk,
already influenced by the new ideas, we are obliged
to appear as earnest remonstrators, as powerful
judges of crime.  With God, heaven, and love one
accomplishes nothing amongst such people.  The
local curate has already exhausted himself with the
effort.  We preach a devil and everlasting punishment.

At first they come to the church full of arrogance
and curiosity, to see the wandering priest; but when
they hear our solemn words on life, death, and the
judgment, they are soon prostrate; crushed and
trembling before the black draped altar, they soon
force their way to our confessional.  They deny
themselves bread until the setting of the sun, they
put sand into their shoes and go on pilgrimages to
distant churches and isolated chapels to pray for
pardon.

Before each church we erect a high, bare cross.
Christ has been crucified for you, now crucify
yourselves in mortification and expiation.

I am filled with a new zeal which inspires me for
my work.  Like a flaming revelation from God it
stands before my soul: Penance alone can save us.

However gay the life of the village we enter, the
streets are soon silent and the fields and meadows
deserted.  God's house has become the refuge.  The
inhabitants show their readiness to exchange the
earthly for the heavenly, for the fruits of the earth
spoil through neglect, while the people pray in the
churches.

And even the government perceives the necessity
of a general conversion in the land.  Should a man be
found idling in the village square on a Sunday, he
would be driven into the church at the point of the
bayonet.

That was a time of rejoicing for our Order, which
became powerful and established in the land to a
degree never before known.

But for myself, I was not happy.  When the hours
of inspiration were over, I felt within me a void and
a demon, constantly seeking to turn me away from
my holy calling, which imposes the great task of
taming rebellious human nature and leading it into
the unity and universality of our church.  I fought
against this demon with work and prayer, for I
considered it the devil.  But I must have been mistaken.

"Night is now nearing, is it not?"

The man looked at me in an almost confused way,
as if he expected me to answer his question.

"It cannot yet be night," I answered; "it is the
dark mist hanging over the forest.'

"Yes, yes," continued the strange narrator, as if
dreaming.  "The night is nearing, young friend;
you shall see, the dark night will come."

It was now so silent for a time, that one seemed to
hear the mist weaving itself among the branches of
the pines.  Then the man proceeded with his story:

We were in a large village.  Late one evening
I am still sitting in the confessional.  The church is
empty at last and the lamp on the altar already casts
its soft, rosy light on the walls.  A single man
remains standing near the confessional and seems
undecided whether to approach or leave the church.

I beckon to him; he starts in terror, draws near
and falls upon his knees before the window of the
confessional.  He crosses himself merely with a
nervous movement of his right hand over his face.  He
does not repeat the customary prayer; in confused
and hasty words he makes his confession.  With
tightly clasped and trembling hands, he stammers
his request for pardon.  My heart rises to my lips
and I long to console the terrified one.  But
indignantly I banish my own feelings; for the law, in this
case, requires unrelenting severity.  The crime is no
uncommon one.  We will say, for example, the man
has stolen property from his neighbour.

And as he kneels there, silent, I answer calmly
that he may not be pardoned for the wrong until it
is wholly redressed.

"Redress it, I cannot do that," he replies; "my
neighbour has gone away; I do not know where to
find him."

"Then wander over the world and seek him;
better wear out your feet than allow your own
precious soul to be everlastingly lost."

"But my wife, my young children!" he cries,
passing his hand over his brow.

"Just so many souls you plunge with yourself
into destruction, if you do not atone for the
sin."

"For God's sake, yes, I will fast, I will pray!  I
will give alms, ten times more than that which I
have stolen."

"All in vain.  You must make atonement to the
one whom you have deceived; if he forgives, then
God will strike it out."

"And I must go away now and seek, seek through
the whole world?" he screams excitedly.  "Did not
the Lord die upon the cross that He might take upon
Himself the sins of the world?  Murder and death
are pardoned, and my error may not be forgiven for
the sake of Christ's blood?"

"Do not find fault with a just God in heaven!" I
cry, indignant that one should rebel against the
Highest.  "Each drop of Christ's red blood becomes a
flaming tongue of hell-fire to the criminal.  Heaven
is thrice as high, since it has been bought by the
sacrifice on the cross; and hell is nine times as deep,
since the men drove three nails through Christ's
hands and feet."

At these words of mine I hear a groan, a curse,
and the echo of hastily retreating footsteps.  I am
now alone in the dark church.

I leave the confessional, kneel before the high,
towering altar and pray long for the hardened one.  And
as I gaze up at the image of the Queen of Confessors,
she seems to step suddenly out of the niche—she
and the Child—into the ruddy glow.  I hasten
toward the door, that I may reach the refreshing night
air outside.  But lo, the entrance is locked!

I had not noticed the hour of closing.  The church
is some distance from the town; close by is the
charnel-house, but no one there will hear, call I ever
so loudly.

So I am locked in the gloomy building where I
have so often preached a personal devil and the
everlasting pains of hell.  Yonder under the holy
canopy the eternal God is throned in reality and
truth; now am I alone with Him; now shall I give
account to Him, how, as His substitute, I have taught
His holy doctrines among the people.

I dare not gaze upon the altar; the terrifying
image stands there as if suspended in the air; the
red light sways towards me.  Hastening on tiptoe
from one corner to the other, I finally steal into the
confessional again and draw the curtain.

And there I sit in the greatest excitement.  Now,
now I fancy the curtain is moving and a cold hand
is reaching in after my faithless heart.  But all is
quiet, only the clock on the tower from time to time
strikes the quarter-hour—and before the high window,
through which the moon is now shining, a bat
occasionally flies.  I lean back against the wall and
close my eyes; sleep does not come to me,—but
thoughts.

Yes, usually they kneel outside there at the
confessional, the poor sinners, and search their
consciences; and to-day the confessor searches his own.
I look back over my whole life.  How agitated it
has been, how poor and lonely I myself have been!
I left my father, even as he left me; my tutor was
estranged from me when he thrust me out among
the snares of the world; and in the pond a heart
ceased to beat.  I no longer possess a single friend
in the wide, wide world.  Like a toy I have been
tossed over land and sea.  What has been the
meaning of my empty deeds?  For what have I
been striving?  Have I done well?  I am a priest;
have I honoured God with my heart?  I am a
mediator; have I reconciled God with man and man
with himself?  When I stand before God's
judgment seat, when the scales are weighed down with
my evil deeds, is there one soul who will cry, "He
has saved me"?

And while this struggle is going on within me, I
suddenly hear a pitiful groan before the window of
the confessional, as if that man were still kneeling
there with his sin.  I start, but I am deceived;
all is quiet and the bright moonlight is streaming
through the window.

And so my years—the golden years—have run to
waste in the sand.  Good friend, such a misfortune
you could never comprehend.  At last I begin
to weep painfully.

In my influential position I surely could have
loved and served mankind.  But I was led astray;
and my only friend was not my friend.  How
many years will still be given to me to misuse?  O
God, lead me away from Thy altar, where I have
been an unworthy servant; lead me forth from Thy
temple, wherein I have taken Thy name in vain.
And lead me away from men, to whom I have so
wickedly misinterpreted Thee.  Lead me to a still,
lonely place where I can work out my own
salvation!

This longing is like dew to my spirit; I become
calmer and close my eyes.

But now I suddenly hear a voice without, calling:
"Pater Paulus!" and a second voice: "What if
something should have happened to him!"  "Pater
Paulus!" it calls again.  Released at last!—I think;
and I am about to rise that I may answer.  At the
same moment I hear a terrible screaming: "*Jesu
Maria!* there he is; he is hanging there by a rope!"

I utter one cry, which terrifies me as it resounds
through the nave of the church.  Then, without, I
hear another wail and the people hastily making
their escape.  The cry in the church, my call for
help, has frightened them.  I am alone and so
agitated that I almost cease to breathe.  It strikes
midnight.  What?  Outside someone is hanging by
a rope.  That is what they called out.  Were they
not seeking me and then did they not cry: "There
he is; he is hanging there by a rope"?

I fall upon my face,—Holy God, preserve me from
suicide!

Suddenly a foreboding arises within me.  What if
it should be the man to whom I so lately refused
the comfort of absolution, whose despairing soul,
struggling for forgiveness, I repulsed?  What if he
should have gone away and taken his life?  Who is
his murderer, O God in heaven!—In that hour, my
good friend, I endured torments.—In my feverish
condition I hear the rattling of dead men's bones; I
see the suicide swinging by the churchyard wall, and
how he stares at me with his fixed eyes!  From the
depths of the pond rises a woman with her child,
and her damp locks become serpents which wind
themselves about my limbs.  And all the lost souls
appear to whom I have preached damnation.  In
the midst stands the high cross, and I hear a voice
calling: "Thou hast crucified the Saviour in the
hearts of men; thou hast burdened them with a
heavy cross—the cross without a Saviour, thou
murderer of God."

With a sigh the man sank upon the branch of the
tree.  I was scarcely able to raise him again.  I
picked fern leaves wet with mist and laid them upon
his burning forehead.

"Tell me the rest another time," I said, "and
to-day we will return to our homes; night is now really
approaching."

He straightened himself, and with the edge of his
mantle he wiped his eyes.

"To-day I am at peace," he said, calmly, "but
whenever I think of that hour, my blood is hot like
the flames of hell.  There, I feel better now."  After
a little he continued:

When I opened my eyes again, the glow of dawn
was shining in at the church windows.  Like a gentle
smile it rested upon the altar and the image of the
Mother of God.  I arose and made a vow, whereupon
a feeling awoke within me, that everything,
everything must end well.

Soon afterwards the keys rattled in the church
door; the schoolmaster entered with one of the
Brothers of the Order, and others.  They uttered a
cry of joy when they saw me, and, taking me by the
hand, they led me out.  They related how they had
sought for me, how they had heard a scream in the
church, but in their confusion had imagined it to be
the voice of a spirit.  They led me away from the
graveyard, for yonder the suicide was hanging from
an iron cross.

Afterwards I locked myself in my room, where I
remained the whole day.  I was to have preached a
sermon that morning on repentance and the mercy
of God.  One of my companions did it for me.
There was a report among the people that I had
purposely remained all night in the church and had
received revelations, for I was considered the most
pious of the four priests.

Late in the evening, when all were asleep, I wrote
these words on a sheet of paper: "Farewell, my
Brothers.  Do not search for me.  My new mission
is self-redemption."  And then I took what was mine,
and left the house and village, and walked the entire
night.

My wandering was without plan.  I gave myself
up to chance.  I had nothing to lose.  Endeavouring
to escape from the more crowded regions, I turned
in the direction of the mountains.

As morning approached I found myself among
wooded hills; a brook gurgled towards me.  I drank
from the water and rested upon a stone.  I observed
a woodsman coming down the path, who doffed his
hat to me in honour of my priestly dress.  I arose
and asked him to show me the way, for I wished to
go far in among the mountains, to the dwelling-place
of the very last man.

"The very last man, that must indeed be the
charcoal-burner, Russ-Bartelmei," he answered.

"Then show me the way to Russ-Bartelmei and
put on your hat."

"Have you business with the charcoal-burner?"
he asked me more boldly, when we were already on
our way.  "The charcoal-burner is most likely black,
both body and soul; you can never wash him white.
But then he 's no worse than others.  What do you
want with him?"

I believe I said something to my questioner about
a distant relationship.  He then stopped and looked
at me:

"Relationship!  I should be very glad!  For I 'm
Russ-Bartelmei myself."

I walked with the man over hills and through
ravines.  By noon we had reached his house.

I remained three days with his family.  Black
they were, indeed.  Among the people of the Orient
black is the colour of virtue and of departed spirits;
and, on the contrary, they paint the devil white.
With the idea of telling him something agreeable, I
said this to the charcoal-burner.  But he gazed at
me in a peculiar way from under the brim of his hat
and replied, "Then the priest would be a devil in
the church and an angel on the street."

On the third day, after Bartelmei and I had
discussed many things and both of us had related parts
of our life history (his was coal-black and mine
blacker yet), I asked him if he would be my friend.
It was my intention to live in the wilderness and to
work for my soul.  My earnest desire was to strive
to do good in solitude, since among men, even with
the best intentions, one does not always advance
the cause of righteousness.  As a friend, he was, for
a remuneration, to provide me with a few necessary
articles, but for the rest to keep my secret.

The man considered a long time; then he said:
"So you wish to become a hermit?  And I am to
be the raven that brings you the bread from
heaven?"

I explained that I would seek for my own bread,
but one needed also clothing and other little things;
however, I would not fail to repay him from my small
possessions.

He was ready to serve me.  Only I had to promise
to do a favour for him sometime, and perhaps
a very peculiar one.  He had his desires as well.

I left the charcoal-burner's house and Bartelmei
led me still farther into the wilderness.  I came up
as far as the Felsenthal; here no man dwelt, here
was only the primeval forest and the solid walls of
rock.  And here I was content; in a hidden cave,
by which flows a gurgling stream, I took up my
abode.  In the Felsenthal stood a wooden cross,
which a lost woodsman may have erected in his day.
This was my altar of reconciliation.  A cross
without a Saviour, like the one I had formerly held up
before the needy souls, had finally come to be my own.

And so, young friend, I have lived in solitude,
have worked with root-diggers and pitch-makers.
And thus year after year has passed.  I will say
nothing of renunciation; harder for me has been the
feeling of abandonment, and the longing for human
society has often tormented me unspeakably.  Only
the thought that renunciation is my expiation has
comforted me.  I have often gone out into the
valleys, where people live in pleasant companionship.
I have refreshed myself with the knowledge of their
peace of conscience and of their contentment, and
I have then returned to my cave in the ever-lonely
Felsenthal and to the silent cross upon the stony
ground.

But the struggle within me, instead of growing
less, has become greater, and sometimes the thought
comes to me: What kind of a life is this, led in
unprofitable idleness, in which one is of use to no man,
and which consumes itself?  Can that be the will of
God?

To return to the Order would be impossible.  To
live in the open world as an apostate priest would be
too great a reproach to the holy calling itself.  What
else remains to me but to work with all my power
for the good of this little people in the forest?  But
I know not where to begin.  With dry sermons one
does not always establish truth.  I have called on
the devil so long, that he comes of himself.  Teach
God and Christian love?  I had poor success at that
in India.  So I have no longer any inclination to
serve mankind with words.

When I see children I approach them that I may
show them a friendliness; but they are afraid of me.
I am avoided, and the sight of me nowhere causes
pleasure, not even in Bartelmei's hut.  Besides, I am
so strange, so weird; at last I begin to fear myself.
An exile I live in the Felsenthal, thirsting to do
good deeds.  Then once more I wander out towards the streams.

I have taken the load of wood from the back of
the old and feeble woman, to carry it for her into
her hut.  I have led the flocks away from the
dangerous cliffs for the shepherd.  And in winter, when
there is no man far or near, I have fed the birds and
deer with dried seeds and wild fruit.  I have wept
over this, my pitiable sphere of activity, and before
the cross I have prayed,—"Lord, forgive! grant that
I may yet perform one good deed!"

And so, with the intention of achieving something
worthy, I took the boy from the Upper Winkel to
live with me.  I had heard that he had inherited his
father's fiery temper, and I reflected that, since this
had led Mathes to his ruin, Lazarus would probably
meet with the same fate, if the evil could not be
averted by discipline correspondingly severe.  I also
reflected that a weak, tender-hearted woman would
never be fitted to give the imperilled boy the strict
guidance that was necessary.  One day in the woods
I met the lad by the grave of his father.  He was
weeping bitterly and did not flee from me like the
other children.  When I asked the cause of his
trouble he replied that he had thrown a stone at his
mother and now he wished to die.

I tried to comfort him; I also had once thrown a
stone at mankind, but I had now come into the
wilderness to do penance and to make of myself a
better man, and I asked him if he would like to do the
same.  The boy looked beseechingly at me and said—Yes.

So I took him with me up to the Felsenthal and
into my hut.  I kept him with me over a year,
endeavouring to hold him to strict rules, that he might
overcome his fiery temper.  Together we daily
performed our devotions before the cross.  I told him
the story of the Crucified One; with all the warmth
of my soul I depicted the love, patience, and
gentleness of the Saviour, and I noticed how the heart of
the boy was touched by it all.  He is indeed a good lad.

We worked together, gathered wild fruits, herbs,
and mushrooms for our nourishment.  We did not
shoot the deer, as Lazarus once proposed.  We
wove chairs and mats for our rocky dwelling and for
the brandy-distiller, who knows how to dispose of
them.  We collected a pile of fire-wood before our
entrance.  If I went to Lautergräben or out into the
Winkel forests, the boy willingly remained in the
stone hut and worked alone.  He liked to tell me
about his little sister, but never a word of his mother,
although he spoke of her often enough in his dreams.
I noticed how his conscience tormented him for the
deed which he had done.

That the boy might practise patience and gentleness,
I discovered a means, which, curious and absurd
as it may seem, still yielded valuable results.  I
made a rosary from grey beads, and every evening
Lazarus was obliged to pray through the whole
chaplet before he went to bed.  He did not tell
them with his lips, however, but with his fingers and
eyes.  He first stripped off all the beads from the
string, so that they rolled away on the floor; and
then his task was carefully to search for and pick up
the pebbles which were scattered in all the corners.
At first, his temper would indeed overcome him;
but as he thereby hindered rather than hastened his
work, he gradually accomplished it with more and
more self-control, even though the search often
lasted for many hours, until he found the last bead.
And finally he acquired a calmness and self-mastery
which were admirable.  "Child," I once said, "that
is the most beautiful prayer that thou canst make
to show thy love for God and for thy mother, and
thereby dost thou save thy father."  Then the boy
looked at me with ecstasy in his great eyes.

We did not talk much with one another, but so
much the more important and well considered was
each word spoken.  He seemed to love me, he tried
to fulfil my every wish.  According to my direction
he called me Brother Paulus.

The manner in which I had taken and instructed
the boy was indeed daring; but I hope that he has
been happily led into a better way.  O my friend,
how often have I said to myself: "Of all the spiritual
gifts which are at the disposal of a priest, if I
succeed in bestowing that of self-control upon one
being only, then am I saved."

In the course of the year I often looked after the
mother of the boy; and no matter how much I had
become accustomed to him, I still longed for the
day when I might return the lost child to the poor
woman like a piece of pure gold after its refining.

One evening we found the cross no longer on the
rock.  It had been our altar and the symbol of
resignation and self-mastery.  And now the mouldy hole
from which it had soared aloft stared us in the face.

Who has taken this, my one comfort, away from
me?  Is it to be used for charcoal or for a hearth-fire
in the cabin?  Does the great forest then no longer
suffice, that they must lay a hand on the cross?
What has it done to them?  Or is someone carving
a Saviour for it?  Or has some sick or dying man
sent for it that he might pray before it?

So I asked and wondered about it.  Later in the
evening I was still hastening through the stony
valley, thinking that my symbol of God must surely
be lying somewhere.  I ran down into the woods, to
the footpath, and there I saw two men carrying the
cross on their shoulders.

Then it occurred to me that it was to go to the new
church *Am Steg*; the foresters wished to place it on
the altar.  They honour it, as I do; they also wish to
learn of resignation and sacrifice; they are also
beings who, like myself, are striving and struggling for
the right.  Then a joy was awakened within me and
my heart was full almost to bursting.  I longed to
embrace you,—you and the whole parish.  For,
indeed, I belonged to you—a child of the parish.

And now there was no longer any time for idle
thoughts, the hermit continued.  Soon after that I
sent Lazarus away from this Felsenthal, out to the
new church, that he might pray before the cross.  I
gave him my heartfelt blessing, for I well knew that
he would not return to me in my rocky abode.

I lived on alone, more abandoned than ever, but
calmer, and my heart was lightened as though the
ban were about to be removed.  More and more
often I went out to the new church where my cross
stood.  And the people avoided me no longer;
they gave me alms that I might pray to God for
the healing of their souls.  Thereby I perceived
with shame that they considered me better than
themselves.

I went again to Bartelmei's house, where they
know more about me than in the other huts.  The
charcoal-burner's mother, Kath, who has been ill
now for years, begged me for God's sake to read a
mass for her, that she might die a happy death.
This I promised the old woman gladly, and thus I
came to read mass before my cross in the church
*Am Steg*.

With this the man ended his story.

We were both silent for a while.  Finally I said:
"As things sometimes happen strangely in this life,
that may not have been your last mass in our
church."

"I have given you the answer that was due you,"
replied the Einspanig.  "What the result of it for
you, for me may be, cannot be discussed to-day."

With these words he arose from the tree-trunk.
And as he stood upright before me, he seemed taller
and younger than usual.  He drew a long breath,
and suddenly seized my hands eagerly, and with a
trembling voice cried, "I thank you, I thank you."

He then hastily took his departure.

He walked up the slope towards the Felsenthal; I,
down to Lautergräben towards Winkelsteg.

I often stumbled against stones and fallen trees.
A dark misty night enveloped the forests.

.. vspace:: 2

So my misgivings concerning the hermit were
happily dispelled.

When a man renounces the world, let it be to him
what it may, and lives for years in the wilderness,
enduring unspeakable privations, and with an iron
will subdues the longings of his heart—he is
supremely in earnest.  For what other reason would
he have come into the forests, long before even a
stone had been laid for the church *Am Steg*; for
what other reason would he have caused himself to
be avoided by the people or have sought to satisfy
in solitude his impulse to do good?  And before
me, a poor man, he has torn away the very fibres of
his heart, that I might look into the depths of his
innermost soul, as it stands there in its sin.

I have often thought to myself, the first priest in
Winkelsteg should not be a righteous, but a penitent
man.  Let him not be one who has never fallen, but
one who has risen from his fall.  In the depths and
darkness of the forests he must be able to stand and
find his way, that he may lead these people to the
shining heights.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER, 1819.

.. vspace:: 2

How strange!  How absurd!  I have laughed and
cried the whole day.

It can be nothing but a humorous report, but it
is told seriously everywhere.  And combined with
what we have already heard, it may indeed be
possible.

The wicked man is said to have gambled us all
away,—the whole Winkel forest, with every stick and
stone, every man and mouse, together with Andreas
Erdmann,—gambled us away at the green table in
one single night.  And he lost us to a Jew.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   A FEW DAYS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

Be that as it may, we will proceed with our daily
work.  To-day I was in the Miesenbach woods to
look at the trees which are destined for the
school-building.

As I passed by the black hut, the Einspanig came
out.  He had been to visit Lazarus, but the boy was
not at home.  He is now goatherd with the
wood-cutters in the Upper Winkel.  Adelheid reproached
the Einspanig bitterly at first; but then she hid her
face in her apron and sobbing, said: "I know it well,
you deserve the Kingdom of Heaven for what you
have done for my child!"

The Einspanig and I walked together toward
Winkelsteg.  The people whom we met were laughing
over the story that we had been gambled away.
Old Rüpel said: "In honour of Moses my beard I 'll
retain, and as long as I live, I 'll not cut it again."

"Yes, yes," I said to my companion.  "So now
we are Jewish, and we shall have a Polish Rabbi in
our temple.  Our young master, Judas Schrankenheim,
has betrayed us so neatly!"

The Einspanig stopped and stared at me in
astonishment, finally saying: "I did not think you so
stupid, Erdmann."  And after a little he added: "A
respectable man should not believe such foolish
reports.  How then could young Schrankenheim have
gambled us away?  He is not yet master of his
father's possessions, and has not even reached his
majority."

I looked at him quickly.

My heart was freed from a great burden; but the
next moment I was troubled.  Only yesterday,
within the hearing of everyone, I had called the young
Baron a wicked man.

But as I am a man of honour I will make amends.
Of course he may be a wild fellow; still thou art
honest and kind-hearted, Hermann, and the people
must know it.  For three Sundays in succession I
will proclaim it from the chancel: "Our young
future master, Hermann von Schrankenheim, is
honest and good.  May God preserve him!"  And
until death will I beg his pardon for my slanderous
words.

The Einspanig entered my house with me.  One
of my windows opens towards the church and
the parsonage.  Sitting down by it, we fell into a
conversation which lasted two hours.

We are now able, when the weather is fine, to
measure the time by the hour; Franz Ehrenwald has
painted a sun-dial on the southern side of the tower.

When the Einspanig had gone my housekeeper
cried: "*Wie närrisch*, now the *Kukuk* has brought
*him* into the house again!"

"The *Kukuk*?" I answered gaily.  "Yes, indeed,
this man is himself like the cuckoo; he has no nest
and must restlessly flutter from tree to tree, is
avoided everywhere, and is at home nowhere.  But
all the same we are glad to see him in the spring, for
he brings it with him; he is a soothsayer who can
count our years for us."

"Yes," screamed the woman, "and tell us all
sorts of extravagant tales, as he did me once; and if
for him perhaps the world is not fastened in with
boards, his own head surely is.  Get away with your
Einspanig!"

If the good Winkel-warden's wife could only have
known what kind of a letter I wrote to the Baron an
hour later!



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MAY, 1820.

.. vspace:: 2

Here in the woods are day and night, winter and
summer, peace and suffering, care and sometimes a
little comfort in resting from our toil.  And so it drags
along.  Our Chariot of Time has lost its fourth wheel,
and it often goes badly and unevenly, but it goes.

Outside, they say, they are trying to overturn the
world again.  There are rumours of war.  No one
troubles himself any longer about us Winkelstegers.
But I am pleased with one thing.  Many of our
young men wish to enlist and become soldiers.
That is a sign of their awakened consciousness that
they have a home and a fatherland which they must
defend.  It is the first good fruit of the young parish.

For a time the destruction of the forest has ceased;
the foundries outside are closed.  Many are now
beginning to remove the stumps from the cleared land
and to convert it into fields for planting.  The
wood-cutters and charcoal-burners are becoming tillers of
the soil.  That is right; the wood-cutter disappears,
but the peasant arises in his place.

In reply to an appeal from me, a letter has come
from the Baron.  Now is no time for churches and
priests; we must help ourselves.

That is very wise advice.  But the people will no
longer go to church.  "When there is no mass and
no sermon," they say, "one can pray for one's self
under the green trees."  However, they do not
remain under the green trees, but in the tavern.  The
flock is scattered when there is no shepherd.

The forester is also away, for he has other regions
to look after.  So I am alone with my Winkelstegers,
as Moses was alone with the Israelites in the
wilderness.

The commandments have been proclaimed, but
the people are again working at the golden calf.
And manna falls no longer from heaven.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   PENTECOST, 1820.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day the hermit from the Felsenthal stood
before the altar of our church and read mass.

The church vestments and sacred utensils we had
from Holdenschlag, as they were lying there in the
vestry unused.  The mice had eaten holes in the
robe, but the spiders had woven them together
again.

I played the organ.  The church is not so large
but that from the choir one can see if tears are
standing in the eyes of the priest at the altar.

The people prayed little and whispered, much.
This Einspanig,—he must indeed be a second St. Jerome.

After the service the forest singer said these
words to me: "Have you seen the Wandering
Jew?  For the suffering Christ he has borne to-day
the heavy cross to Golgotha's heights.  Hosanna,
he thus casts his sins away!"

I repeated the words to the hermit, adding:
"May they make you happy; the man is filled with
the Holy Ghost!"



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1820.

.. vspace:: 2

I have urged the people to choose a chief officer
from among themselves, that there may be someone
to issue orders, settle disputes, and keep the
parish united.

They have chosen Martin Grassteiger, and he is
now called Judge.

At this same meeting the new Judge introduced
the future schoolmaster of the Winkelsteg parish,
who had been acknowledged as such by the master
of the forest.

I then am this schoolmaster.  The people declare
that I might have known it for a long time, but
Grassteiger says that everything must be done
according to legal form.

A few days after the above occurrence the Judge
ordered me to call a parish meeting to elect a priest.
Everyone laughed over this.  "Shall we choose him
from among the pitch-makers and charcoal-burners?
But there is n't one that would be fit for it.  There
is just one man who is learned enough for us
Winklers, but our men have such foolish notions, that
they would be scandalised at the idea of a priest
being his own housekeeper."

So they make their jokes, knowing very well for
whom they are meant.

And they have chosen him, too.

We must help ourselves, the owner of the forest
has said; and that we have done.

The hermit from the Felsenthal is the priest of
Winkelsteg.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF ST. MARTIN, 1820.

.. vspace:: 2

Russ-Kath is dead.  She was ninety years old.
Her last wish was that after her death strong, nailed
shoes should be put on her feet; she would be
obliged to traverse the road back to earth many
times, to see how her children and grandchildren
were faring.  And the road was full of sharp thorns.

Russ-Kath is the first one who will rest in our new
forest burying-ground.

.. vspace:: 2

Two men brought her over from Lautergräben on
a bier consisting of two poles.  The white pine-board
coffin, still fragrant with resin, was fastened upon
the bier with strips of alder-boughs.  Russ-Bartelmei
and his brother-in-law, Paul Holzer, accompanied by
a little boy, walked behind the bearers.  They
prayed aloud, at the same time looking out for the
roots of the trees which lay across their pathway.
The bearers were also obliged to walk cautiously,
for the ground was already slippery with the late
autumn hoar-frost.

There is a story that years ago as some men were
carrying a shepherd to the Holdenschlag cemetery,
one of the bearers stumbled on the narrow path and
the coffin rolled over the precipice, plunging into the
abyss, so that no splinter of it was ever seen again.
This was exceedingly trying for the people, they say,
for the grave-digger had to be paid all the same.

We Winkelstegers have no grave-digger.  We
could not maintain one, and besides no one dies here
until his last groschen is spent.  So a few wood-cutters
are obliged to come and do this work.  They
charge nothing for it.  They are glad if they can
crawl out of the grave again, well and hearty.

During the mass for the dead the coffin stood quite
alone upon the hard ground before the church.  A
little bird flew hither, hopped upon the coffin-lid and
pecked and pecked and then fluttered away again.

When Rüpel saw it he was almost sure that it was
the bird that flies into the forest once in every
thousand years.

After the mass we carried Russ-Kath up to the
grave which had been prepared for her.  The family
stood about gazing fixedly into it.

When the burial service was over, the priest spoke
briefly.  The words which impressed me the most were
these: "By the death of our dear ones we gain fortitude
to bear the adversities of this life, and a calm,
perhaps even a joyous, anticipation of our own death.
Each hour is one step towards our meeting again;
and until that gate of reunion is opened for us, our
departed ones live on in the sacred peace of our
hearts."

He is well able to expound it.  Indeed, we all feel
it also, but do not know the words by which to
express it.  He has not forgotten his vocation, although
he has lived for years up in the Felsenthal.

But now another man appears.  Rüpel comes
quietly forward, and the people make way for him:
"Let us see what Rüpel knows to-day."

And as the forest singer stands upon the mound,
supporting himself by the handle of the spade, so as
not to make a misstep upon the loose earth, and as
he looks down upon the coffin, he begins to speak:
"Born ninety years ago; on her own feet o'er vales
and mountains she has walked to meet those who in
sorrow and in troublous ways might need her succour;
for in all her days a horse she never rode, and
thus outwore a hundred pair of shoes.  And yet a
hundred more in earning children's bread she wore,
and other hundreds still, alas, she rent upon the paths
of pain o'er which she went.  But ne'er for dancing
and like mirth, forsooth, was used a single pair, e'en in
her youth.  Then, when her whole long, weary life
was o'er, she put her last shoes on her feet once
more, and went away into eternal rest.  The holy
angels, at the Lord's behest, will lead her soul
through purgatory straight, then on and up unto the
heavenly gate.  Beneath the ground shall the poor
body rest within its wooden coffin, calm and blest.
Sleep well, Kathrin, within thy cradle new; soon by
thy side shall we be sleeping, too.  Till to His
heavenly hosts we hear God's call, and we may enter
heaven, soul, body, all."

"Rüpel would be the right priest for the Winkelstegers!"
said the man whom they have called the
Einspanig.

Yes, if he had not grown up among them!

When we, the priest and I, had thrown a few clods
of earth upon the coffin, Russ-Bartelmei, very sad,
came to us and asked what then had his mother done,
that we should fling dirt after her.  We then
explained to him that it signified a last act of love, and
that the earth was the only offering which one could
bestow upon the dead.

Thereupon Bartelmei began to shovel in the earth
until not a trace of the white coffin could be seen,
and the people took the spade from him to fill the
grave.

After the funeral they retired to Grassteiger's inn,
where they refreshed themselves with brandy, just
as the ancients offered libations after laying their
dead to rest.

God counts His people, even in Winkelsteg, and
not one escapes Him.

The little grave in the burying-ground was
scarcely closed when the baptismal font in the
church was opened.  The first death and the first
baptism in one day—in one family.

Over the same forest path where a few hours
before the coffin was carried, two women brought a
newly born babe from Lautergräben.

The child is a granddaughter of Russ-Kath and
belongs to Anna Maria.

Someone knocks at the church door, requesting
baptism, and the name of the child is to be Katharina.
Her grandmother's name shall not be denied her,
although we have the choice of all the saints in
heaven.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PART THIRD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   PART THIRD

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   WINTER, 1830.

.. vspace:: 2

During all the sixteen years since I have been
in the Winkel forests, I have seen no such snow
as we have this winter.  For days not a single child
has come to school.  The windows of my room
resemble targets.  Should this state of things last
much longer, we shall all be snowed in together.
From here to the parsonage a path is shoveled twice
a day, passing by Grassteiger's house, where we, the
priest and I, take our midday meal.  Each prepares
his own breakfast at home.  In the evening we always
meet either at the parsonage or at the schoolhouse.
I wonder how the people are faring over at
Karwässer and Graben!  There the snow-storms are
much more furious than in the Winkel.  Just now
many poor souls are lying sick in their huts, and it
is impossible to keep the paths open, so that the
people may help one another.  And crossing the
Lauterhöhe is quite out of the question.  The
signposts which stand by the cliffs are nearly buried in
the snow; the branches and trunks of trees are torn
off and broken by the heavy burden.  There is no
end to the snow.  It falls no longer in flakes; it is
like a heavy, dense whirlwind of dust.  The caps
upon the branches and sign-posts and upon the gables
of the roofs are growing higher every moment.

If the wind should rise, it might perhaps save the
forest, but it would be our destruction.  One hour
of wind over the loose banks of snow, and we should
be buried.

The priest has engaged all the workmen that are
accessible to make paths in Lautergräben, Karwässer,
and even from one hut to another.  They succeeded
in breaking the path in one direction, but were
obliged to perform their labour a second time on
their return.  However, the snow-bound people over
there will not suffer; their world is within their huts.
In a cabin in Karwässer the corpse of an old man
is said to have been lying for five days.

To-day the priest bound snow-shoes on his feet in
order to make visits among the sick.  But the snow
was too soft, and he was obliged to turn back.  Now
he is making up little bundles from our landlord's
pantry, and some sturdy wood-cutters are to carry
them to the sick people in Lautergräben.

These are short days and yet so long.  I have my
zither, I have the new violin given to me by the
priest on my last birthday, I have other things with
which to distract myself.  But now nothing interests
me.  For hours at a time I walk up and down the
room and wonder what the result of this winter will
be.  There are many huts in Graben where the men
have not been with their shovels.  We are anxious
about the condition of things over there.

In order to relieve myself from the oppressive
inactivity, I opened to-day the chest which is under
the bench by the stove, and took out the leaves of
my old journal, to see what had been the fortunes of
this parish since its beginning.

And I find that nothing has been written for ten
years.  There may have been two reasons for this
interruption in my records.  In the first place, I no
longer felt the need of writing out my thoughts and
feelings, for in our priest I have found a friend in
whom I can confide unreservedly, as he has confided
in me, telling me the strange story of his life before
we were even acquainted.  He is one of the few
who, refined by suffering, have emerged from the
entanglements and mistakes of the world pure and
noble.  The woodspeople love him devotedly; he
leads them not by words alone but by his deeds.
His Sunday sermons he puts into practice during the
week.  He sacrifices himself, he is everything to the
people.  His hair is no longer black, as at that time
in the Felsenthal; his face is earnest, and bright as
the gleam of a rainbow.  Those who are sorrowful
gaze into his eyes and find comfort there.

When we are all sitting together, he likes to tell
us of the distant, beautiful world—of strange foreign
countries, of the wonders of nature.  Pipes grow cold
while he talks, for everyone listens with the greatest
eagerness.  Only the old woman from the Winkelwarden's
house declares that the priest's stories are
silly fables; a proper priest, she thinks, should talk
of heaven and purgatory, and not always of the
world.  Nevertheless she listens and smiles.

A number of years ago the church authorities
brought up the question of our parish, and refused to
recognise our Father Paulus, wishing to install a
new priest in his place.  Oh! but the Winkelstegers
rebelled against such a change and the attempt was
finally abandoned.  To offset this, however,
Winkelsteg is not acknowledged outside as parish and
curacy, but simply as a settlement of half-savage,
ruined men, such as it was in former times.

At first this was a great trial to me, we would so
gladly have united with the main body; but since
they repulse us, I am finally reconciled and say: All
the better; then they will leave us in peace.

The second cause of neglecting my journal is the
great amount of work which my calling imposes
upon me.

At first it was the building of the schoolhouse,
which gave me no rest.  For everything has been
built exactly as I considered most suitable for an
important project like this.  The house is made of
wood, for that retains heat better than stone, and
allows of freer ventilation.  It was important that I
should erect an appropriate and tasteful wooden
building as a model for the people.  To my joy, the
light, graceful, and yet solid design of my schoolhouse,
with its convenient arrangement, has already been
copied many times.  My windows, doors, masonry,
and locksmith's work are considered as models by
the entire population.

About the schoolhouse is an extensive playground
fitted out with implements for physical exercise.
The building is provided with a broad, projecting
roof to guard against injury from storms, but in
such a way that the interior is in no way darkened.
In the schoolroom, before everything else, thought
has been taken for the health of the children.

As to my apartment in the schoolhouse, it is not
large but cosey.  And it is made a thousand times
cosier by the memory of that winter march through
Russia, which comes back to me sometimes like a
wild dream.  Since that dream, however, I have
grown many years younger; even as the storms of
the world crushed me to the earth, have I risen again
in the primeval freshness of the forest.

A far more difficult office than that of keeping the
school, and a much greater duty, is the supervision
of the spiritual health of those confided to my
care.  Easily enough they learn prudence, and how
to think and act to their own advantage; but it is
far more difficult for them to learn to adjust
themselves to the whole, and to make their existence
harmonious with that of their fellows and with the
outside world in general.  It is a fact, that self-love
is the first sign of life which is revealed in the
budding soul of the young child.  Whether love
for humanity or selfishness be the result, the
education decides.

I have my special ideas in regard to dealing with
children and the conception of the world which
should be presented to them.  I am not thinking of
the little ones in the Winkel parish alone, but of the
children who are obliged to dwell in cities, where the
happiness of their childhood and the pure pleasures
of this world are often embittered.



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   REFLECTIONS[#]

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[#] Under this title an essay was found in the manuscript, the pages
of which were neither dated nor numbered.  It had probably been
written in the winter of 1830, and since it bears upon the subject in
hand I insert it here.

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THE EDITOR.

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The child is a book from which we read, and in
which we should write.

Once upon a time a magician wandered about in
these woods creating no little excitement among
the peasants.  He carried a book containing
blank pages, which upon being held to his lips
were immediately covered with legible script, as
though his breath had been a pen.  I then discovered
that the words had previously been written with a
colourless liquid which left no trace and became
visible only when he had breathed upon it.

Children are like this book.  Indifferent eyes
discern nothing worthy of notice in them, and not until
they are touched by the warm breath of love do the
traits appear which frequently surprise, delight, or
alarm us.  And it rests largely with us which traits
shall be called forth.

That is to say, the personal peculiarities must be
taken into account.  In children this individuality is
perhaps not great, but it nevertheless exists.  Up to a
certain point we enjoy the pliant natures which appeal
to our own, but when the real character once discloses
itself, we must give it due regard.  It may be
absurd, yet I must say that I have a certain dislike
for many of the educational institutions which now
exist in the world outside, where all the pupils are
cast in the same mould and then polished off, in the
end producing but ordinary men.  These, to be sure,
constitute the best building material for society and
the state, even as houses are most conveniently
constructed with bricks.  But characters, sturdy types
which develop under unusual circumstances,
sometimes seem to me preferable.  A grindstone does not
suit all knives; many scholars learn more in life than
in school.

We should first test that which we intend to
employ with the child, the physical care, games, moral
and mental instruction, in order to be sure that they
harmonise with his nature and with the conditions
and demands of his future life.  Cherish childhood
tenderly; it is quite different from our riper age;
thoughtlessly forgetting our own childish happiness,
we regard as unreasonable and foolish much of that
which is in reality of great benefit to the little ones,
and which they lose all too soon, never to find again.

I do not share the opinion of that philosopher
who maintains that parents should allow themselves
to be brought up by their children, although
I acknowledge that we might learn much from them
that is to be found in no book of worldly wisdom.
Children seem to be born for a heaven, their young
minds being constituted solely for happiness.  We
have to educate them for this earth, to which they
must now adapt themselves, but not prematurely.
Let the little hearts strengthen themselves with
childish pleasure, warm themselves with faith in God
and the world, for they may need this warmth and
strength when, in later years, many things turn cold
and fall in ruins about them.  Their faith in God
will change and become more spiritual, but if you—oh,
teacher of a new school—do not instil this faith
into the growing mind, then in the matured intellect
there will be no room for belief in the divine, the
ideal.  Whoever has once prayed with all his heart
before the cross, will never forget the image of love
and self-sacrifice.  Whoever has once been thrilled
by the sweet worship of the Mother of God, whoever
has been awed by the resurrection of the dead
and the eternal glory of heaven, he, I think, must be
armed for all time against the demon of unbelief and
have unshaken faith in the final victory of the good
and beautiful.

Each fortunate man upon whom nature has bestowed
in his children the prospect of an earthly
future, will wish that they may be as happy as he
himself now is, or happier.

Human content and discontent depend greatly
upon our view of the world.  As the world enters
our souls through our minds, such it is to us.  It is
not a question of truth for truth's sake, but of
happiness, or rather of contentment.  Only those
pursue the truth for itself who either find or fancy
they find in the search or in its results *contentment*.

We cannot greatly alter our own view of the
world; our eyes are accustomed to their spectacles,
be they dark or rosy.  But the child who calls us
father, although he does not yet know why we are
responsible to him, with clear eyes gazes questioningly
into the bright world and questioningly looks
at us.  Which glasses shall we give him—rosy,
dark, magnifying, or diminishing?

Children wear no spectacles!  In regard to this,
the schoolmaster from Holdenschlag recently said to
me that one should allow children to gaze upon the
world with their natural eyes.

Here again I think differently.  The gypsy boy on
the heath looks at the world with his natural eye.
Is he hungry, he takes what lies nearest him; he
knows nothing of mine or thine.  Our children must
have instruction and education, the former to show
them what the world is according to our experience,
the latter to teach them how to bear themselves
towards it and how far they are to yield to its
influence.  The objection might be urged that the nature
of the world itself determines one's conception of it,
and a thing cannot be taken for other than it is.  I
answer: The contemplation of an object depends
entirely upon the observer's point of view.  It is not
to be expected of man that, forgetting self, he
should rise above himself and the world at large, for
the eye with which he sees and the brain with which
he thinks is far too human.

Our point of view is optional; the colour through
which we look at the world is for the most part also
optional; but the choice must be made sufficiently
early.  Children, as soon as they are conscious of
their existence and their surroundings, consider their
parents and teachers faultless beings; as a matter of
course everything is good and perfect to them.
They joyously gravitate towards all things as the
flowers of the field turn towards the sun.  Their first
look into the world is full of trust.

Thinking over the numerous books of the modern
school, which I occasionally receive from the owner
of the forest, I often ask myself: What conception
of the world should we teach children?

Should we say to them: The plan of the world
is by no means good; mankind is imperfect, miserable;
existence is aimless; life is a misfortune?

Should we show them the bad and good sides, and
soberly explain everything to them, just as it seems
to us?

Or should we acquiesce in their belief and
strengthen them in their view, that everything is
desirable and for the best?

A teacher who had neither sense nor heart would
do the first; one who had sense alone, the second;
one who had both sense and heart, the third.

The youngsters in ragged clothing, who run about
under our feet in the streets, carrying their bags of
books to school, are often a very saucy brood.  They
banter, chaff, sneer, and think themselves far wiser
than their elders.  We meet with this principally in
cities.  In their homes they are accustomed to
bitter words.  Many methods of education aim to
transform the little ones rapidly into cool-headed,
sensible men.  The children must know and think,
only this; all warm feeling is stifled, and then one
wonders why there is so little ability and creative
power!  When such a youth has sated himself with the
works of art and nature, which have become for him
merely toys and objects of derision, he grows
disheartened, fretful, and young men and maidens of
twenty are weary of the world.  They have soon
convinced themselves that their own abilities and
ambitions are no higher than those which they have so
often scorned—nor scarcely so high; they become
impotent and lose faith in themselves; and now
they are fully convinced of that which they have so
often heard, and in their inexperience have so often
maintained: The world is thoroughly bad—and
they are *unhappy*.  This element of pessimism, to
which they have accustomed themselves, so disturbs
their power of action that they have not even
sufficient courage to take that step which seems to them
the most desirable: suicide.

The second method is not inexpedient, indeed for
progress in life it is often really necessary.  We
might show the children the world as it appears to
us; relate to them our own experiences, that they
may profit by them.  Still this way, although
perhaps necessary, is not the best; it too soon disturbs
the ideals of youth which warm the child-heart like
a breath of God and can never be replaced in later
years.  Therefore we must not initiate children into
the hardships of life prematurely.  Then again, this
method is not always as useful as one would think;
indeed, every day we see children who give no heed
to the precepts which are the results of their parents'
experiences and who pay for their carelessness and
learn wisdom only by their own failures.  Even were
they able to profit by the trials of their parents, how
shall they instruct *their* children, if not forced to
undergo any experiences of their own?  Such things
cannot be handed down; only where they originate
and grow, do they bear fruit.

My opinion is, that we should guard the fresh
rosebud called "child-heart" as long as we are able.
Let us interfere as late as possible with the intellectual
life and vocation of the child.  For indeed, even
three-year-old children have often already chosen
their life work.  They hunt up and make toys for
themselves, they hammer, they dig, they draw, plane,
and build and are as much in earnest as we elders in
our efforts.  It is a great disadvantage to the
children of the rich to receive their playthings ready
made, the result of which is, that they simply
destroy them; and this often happens even in the case
of well-disposed children.  How can the little ones
become inventive and ingenious, how can they practise
the art of acquiring and saving, of patience and
perseverance, when everything which their hearts
desire and which they often do not really desire,
comes to them as if by the aid of a wishing-rod?  It
may partly account for the fact—and this is within
my own knowledge—that children of the poor, who
from their earliest youth must seek and make
everything that they wish to have, are often intellectually
superior to the children of the rich.  But we
should encourage and guide the little ones in their
occupations and small creations.

It is wiser to check speech than action in children.
And if they have done something wrong, or
produced something faulty, then give them the
opportunity to do it again and better.

Many parents and teachers have the custom of
speaking disparagingly and critically of their children
before strangers; that is almost more dangerous
than pushing them forward and praising them in the
presence of others.  An embittered disposition is
apt to follow wounded ambition.

Instead of analysing the excellences and defects
in the works and standards of mankind, I consider it
better to recognise their worth unconditionally, that
the children may learn to honour and admire them.
Critical knowledge of one's ideal has never been
sufficient to inspire a man to strive to imitate it,
although it may have caused respect and enthusiasm.
The critical, fault-finding element means only too
often repudiation—it is the chief characteristic of
incapable natures and never imparts strength, but
rather impedes the creative power.  Whatever works
upon the reason, chills; that which works upon the
heart, warms; especially with children.

Children should hear only of the beautiful, the
good, and the great.  Our own ideals, the bright
visions of our youth and our guiding star, even
though they be now extinct, let us rekindle them in
the children's hearts; or if Nature has herself
performed this work, then let us feed and fan the flame;
at such a fire we shall warm ourselves again.  Human
history is exceedingly rich in great deeds—I do not
mean the campaigns and destruction wrought by
victorious generals, nor the intrigues of land-greedy
princes, with which one ordinarily seeks to *improve*
our youth—I mean the blessed, beautiful deeds of
noble men.  Let us surround the child with these,
and with them we shall plant in him a garden full of
roses and glorious fruits!

And when the high and noble things in the
earthly kingdom are exhausted, then let us with
confidence open the gates to those eternal regions whence
mankind for a thousand years has drawn courage
and inspiration.  The true man of culture, familiar
with all the successes and failures of the human
intellect, the man acquainted with the world, who
knows that tolerance is a chief characteristic of noble
minds, will not hesitate to portray to the child the
great ideals of poetic souls.

But there are certain people in the world outside
against whom I would make the charge that they
are as lenient toward the weaknesses and sins of
mankind as they are intolerant of religious opinions.
These people are adherents to a doctrine asserting
the animal supremacy in man, and make freedom
of will and action wholly dependent on natural
or accidental outward circumstances—modern fatalists,
who are still more dangerous than those of the
romantic school.  They believe that they are
satisfying their love for mankind, if they excuse the
criminals and fallen ones according to prescribed
precepts, thus justifying the crime to their children.
That means making the criminal interesting to the
children.  However, we should instil into their minds
neither hatred nor pharisaical pride, although the
mistakes and crimes themselves cannot be too severely
censured before the little ones.  Even as nobility
should be represented to them as worthy of their
entire respect, so should evil be unconditionally
condemned.  One only confuses children with such
subtle reasoning and philosophical explanations—everything
must be distinct, clear, and tangible.

One more word in regard to the love of fatherland.

Child and home—how natural!  We well know
that the little ones long to go forth into the world,
but still stronger is their desire to return home.  So
we might add, teach them love of home.  A hearth
of one's own, a family; here man is guarded from the
greatest evils; here industry, self-sacrifice,
self-confidence, and contentment are developed; here love for
the parish and fidelity to the fatherland thrive.  The
attitude which many people in the outside world are
now assuming toward the fatherland is said to be
becoming somewhat revolutionary.  This must be
followed by results which I do not like to mention
to the children here!  I am consequently obliged to
counteract these reports by telling them that it is
difficult to remain on friendly terms with people
who are always discontented and unthankful.  How
shall one demand of a citizen of the state that he
shall work for the perfection, the strengthening, and
freedom of his native land, when he is perfectly
indifferent towards it!  And the continual denunciations
of the conditions of the country, of its rulers
and laws, all combine to undermine gradually the
love for the fatherland.  I do not care for that
patriotism which sends our sons upon the battle-field,
chosen for them by leaders of the state, but rather
for that which teaches how to *live* for the fatherland.
Resist hostile invasions, for that is manly and right.
But patriotism often springs from prejudice; the
children should therefore be taught where it ceases
to be a virtue.

Besides the love of one's native land, there is
fortunately in mankind room for love of the whole
world.  Instead of inspiring children with admiration
for the warrior heroes of history, it were better
to instil into them the greatest horror for the
profession of war.  The idea that, for any reason whatever,
we may kill innocent people must gradually be
eradicated from the human race.

The school alone cannot of course do everything;
it teaches youth but is unable to educate it.  With
which organs does the young tree absorb the more
nourishment and life, with its branches and leaves
from the free air, or with its roots from the ground,
whence it springs?  What the child acquires at
school must be carefully digested, but the example
and guidance of the parents are involuntarily
absorbed into the flesh and blood.  It remains then
with the parents to lay in the child the foundation
for a sound conception of the world.

I was once acquainted with the father of a family,
who so strictly carried out the principle of presenting
to his children a bright conception of the world,
that he kept them away from all existing evil.
That I do not consider necessary.  It is not so much
what they see as *how* they see it.  Children seldom
tremble in the presence of danger.  One should call
their attention to it, not in a startling manner, which
only disheartens, but rather in a tone of calm
self-reliance which rests on the consciousness of its own
power.  And after unfortunate accidents, where
man is powerless, one should never show despair or
apathetic discouragement before children, but
always the open countenance full of resignation and
hope; everything will be well again!  These are
magic words for us as well.  There is a constant
interchange of light and shadow everywhere in life,
and each misfortune brings us new expectation of
good; he who lives in this hope already enjoys the
interest of a capital not yet due.

The five-year-old daughter of the stone-cutter,
when her only brother was buried, whom she loved
so dearly that it was thought she could not live an
hour without him, gazed down into the deep little
grave surrounded by the mourning bystanders and
said: "God keep thee, Hans, we will meet in
heaven," and hastened away over the flowery
meadow.  Yes, thus should it be and thus should it
continue among us men.

And that boy from Schirmtanner's house, who
built a little hut, a mill, and a variety of things on
the hillside, working at it one whole summer, when
an avalanche destroyed his playthings, cried: "It's
gone!  It did not please God that I should build on
the hill, now I will go and build my house down by
the barn fence."  He might just as well have
clenched his fist and snarled: "Why did it not
please God?"  But it has been said to him: "God
is far stronger and wiser; against Him thou canst do
nothing, but He does not mean ill by thee."  And
sometime in later years of life, when the heart is
broken and faith is dead, that which is best and most
enduring in such a conception of life shall still
remain by us,—resignation.

I have nothing against knowledge, but I like
wisdom better.  Wisdom does not come so much from
the head as from the heart.  Let childishness and
confidence in the world be fostered as long as
possible; childishness is fruitful soil for the beautiful,
confidence in the world for the good.  I do not
mean that a generation of idealists should be
developed, who cannot think and work practically.  But
they should have confidence in the world and in
themselves, for that is the most fruitful ground for
right thinking and practical deeds.  A simpler and
happier race must arise than could ever be imagined
by the crabbed philosophers, who are so vain of their
lofty reasoning and so hopeless in their human
mission.

However, the heart of man is good; from
generation to generation he approaches perfection.  There
are indeed periods which are not favourable to him;
often the blossoms grow too luxuriant, the fruit
becomes too large.  In the midst of the most auspicious
May, frosts, blights, insects, and plagues of all
kinds arrive—-but gradually—gradually the day
shall dawn of which all nations have dreamed and
which all prophets have foretold.



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   WALDLILIE IN THE SNOW

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   WINTER, 1830.

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We are relieved of a great anxiety.  The storm
has subsided.  A light wind has arisen and gently
released the trees from their burden.  There have
been a few mild days, during which the snow has
settled and with snow-shoes we can now walk where
we please.

But during this time a curious incident has taken
place over in Karwässer.  Berthold, whose family
increases from year to year, while their supply of
food grows less, has become a poacher.  The
Holdenschlag priest, although a weak-hearted hypocrite,
pretends to understand life better than we, and
says, poor people should not marry.  According to
conventional ideas and customs, Berthold and Aga
are not married, but they have knelt before me in
the woods ... and—now the whole family
are starving.  Am I responsible?  Alas, the blessing
which I gave them is of no avail!  Oh, my God,
Thine is the power; as in my youth I have already
committed one crime, grant that *this* may not prove
to be one as well.

So Berthold has become a poacher.  The profits
of wood-cutting do not reach far in a house full of
children.  I have sent him what I can in the way of
food.  Whenever he wishes a nourishing broth for
his sick wife and a bit of meat for the children, he
shoots the deer that come in his way.  And as
misfortune often changes one's character, Berthold, who
as shepherd was such a good and happy lad, has,
through poverty, spite, and love for his family, grown
to be a lawbreaker.

I have already begged the forester, for God's sake,
to look after the poor man a little, assuring the
former that Berthold would certainly improve and
that I would stand bail for him.  But up to the
present time there has been no change for the better;
and that which has happened during these wild
winter days has made him weep aloud, for he loves his
Waldlilie above everything.

It is a dark winter evening.  The windows are
covered with moss; outside, the fresh flakes fall
upon the old snow.  Berthold is staying with the
children and the sick Aga, until the eldest daughter,
Lili, shall return with the milk, which she has gone
to beg from a hermit near by in Hinterkar; for
the goats in the house have been killed and eaten;
and as soon as Lili arrives, it is Berthold's intention
to go up into the forest with his gun.  In such
weather one need not seek far to find the deer.

But it grows dark and Lili has not yet returned.
The fall of snow becomes heavier and denser; night
approaches, and still no Lili.  The children are
already crying for the milk; the father is eager for the
game; the mother raises herself in bed.  "Lili!"
she cries.  "Child, where art thou straying in this
pitch-dark forest?  Come home!"

How can the weak voice of the invalid reach the
ear of the wanderer through the wild snow-storm?

The darker and stormier the night becomes, the
stronger is Berthold's longing for the game and the
deeper his anxiety for his Waldlilie.  She is a
delicate twelve-year-old girl; to be sure she knows the
paths and the ravines, but the former are covered
with snow, the latter concealed by the darkness.

Finally, the man leaves the house to seek for his
child.  For hours he wanders about calling through
the storm-swept wilderness; the wind blows the
snow into his eyes and mouth; he is obliged to use
his entire strength to regain the hut.

And now two days pass; the storm abates and
Berthold's hut is nearly snow-bound.  They comfort
themselves with the thought that Lili is surely with
the hermit.  This hope is destroyed on the third
day, when, after a long struggle through the drifts,
Berthold at last succeeds in reaching the hermitage.

Lili had indeed been there three days ago and had
started in good time on her homeward way with her
jug of milk.

"So my Waldlilie lies buried in the snow!" Berthold
cries.  He then goes to the other wood-cutters
and begs, as no one has ever heard this man beg
before, that they will come and help him seek for his
dead child.

On the evening of the same day they find Waldlilie.

In a wooded ravine, in a dark tangled thicket of
young firs and pines, through which no flake of snow
can force itself and above which the mass of snow
has piled and drifted, so that the young trees groan
with the weight, upon the hard pine-needles on the
ground, surrounded by a family group of six deer,
sits the sweet, pale Waldlilie.

It was a most remarkable circumstance.  The child
had lost herself in the ravine on her way home, and,
as she could no longer resist the drifting snow, she
crept into the dry thicket to rest.  But she was not
long alone.  Her eyes had scarcely begun to close,
before a herd of deer, old and young, joined her;
they sniffed about the girl and gazed at her with
their mild eyes full of intelligence and sympathy, for
of this human being they were not afraid.  They
remained with her, laid themselves upon the ground,
nibbled the trees, licked one another, apparently
undisturbed by her presence; the thicket was their
winter home.

The next day the snow had enveloped them all.
Waldlilie sat in the dim light and drank the milk
which she was to have carried to her family, nestling
against the good creatures to keep from freezing in
the chilling air.

Thus the terrible hours passed by.  And just as
Waldlilie was about to lay herself down to die and
in her simplicity was begging the deer to remain
faithfully by her side in the last hour, they suddenly
began sniffing in a most curious manner, raising
their heads and pricking up their ears, then with
wild leaps and startled cries they burst through the
thicket, scattering in all directions.

The men forced their way through the snow and
underbrush and with a shout of joy discovered the
child, while old Rüpel, who was also there, called
out: "Did I not say, come here, come here, for we
may find her with the deer!"

Thus it happened; and when Berthold heard how
the creatures of the forest had saved his little
daughter and had kept her from freezing, he cried out
wildly: "I will never do it again as long as I
live!"  And his gun with which he had been shooting the
game for many years he dashed in pieces against a
stone.

I saw it myself, for the priest and I were in
Karwässer, assisting in the search for the child.

This Waldlilie is very gentle and as white as snow,
and her eyes are like those of the deer.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   WINTER, 1830.

.. vspace:: 2

The reports about our master's son do not cease.
If only the half were true which is told concerning
him, then he is indeed a bad man.  No sensible
being would act thus.

I will make a note of it and write to his father
soon.  Hermann should visit our forest and see how
poor people live.

Such a journey into the mountains is sometimes
very beneficial.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE WINTER SEASON.

.. vspace:: 2

Lazarus Schwarzhütter is often seen casting loving
glances at Grassteiger's little daughter, and the girl
is growing fond of the lad; so they coquette with
one another although the priest has forbidden the
young people to do this.  Certainly it is his privilege
to preach, but they continue in their gazing all
the same and think they have the right, a right
which Lazarus declares they will never relinquish.

"Very good," says the priest, "they shall be
united even though they afterwards regret it."



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   CHRISTMAS, 1830.

.. vspace:: 2

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 Rüpel
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 Rüpel 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 Rüpel came stumbling up the stairs, saying:
"Schoolmaster! if the organ be silent to-day, then
why not on the fiddle play?"

"*Mein Gott*, Rüpel, 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-Rüpel.

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!"

Rüpel, 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 Rüpel 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 Rüpel 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."

.. vspace:: 2

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.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   JANUARY 14, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day I have received news of the death of my
relative, Aunt Lies.  She has made me her heir.
Old acquaintances, who have not troubled
themselves about me for twenty years, congratulate me
upon my inheritance.  But I have heard no further
particulars.  How much can the old lady have had?
I know she was rich, but she wasted everything in
games of chance.

And should it be only one groschen, or, indeed,
nothing at all—by my soul, I am pleased that she
thought of me.  She always meant well by me.  Now
my last relative is dead.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   EASTER, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

In the Winkel forest the church festivals must take
the place of that which in the outside world they
call art.

As, according to my poor ability, I set up a
manger for the Christmas celebration, so Ehrenwald and
his sons have now made a sepulchre for Easter.

In the side aisles of the church stand, as entrance
gates, four high wooden arches, covered with pictures
from the story of the Passion.  The innermost arches
are narrower than the outer ones, and in a niche
in the shadowy background is the grave of Jesus.
Above it is the table for the sacred utensils,
surrounded by a circle of bright-coloured lamps.  On
either side of the grave stand two Roman slaves as
sentinels.  During the celebration of the
Resurrection, the dead Christ disappears, and within the
circle of lamps rises the scarred body of the risen
Saviour with the palm of victory in His hand.

There is a great charm in the whole celebration.
It is preceded by the period of fasting which, day
by day, increases in solemnity; for weeks there is
no music, the pictures are veiled.  Good Friday
approaches.  First the imposing Palm Sunday, then
the mysterious Maundy Thursday, the gloomy, sad
Good Friday, and the quiet Saturday.  In this calm
one feels a foreboding and longing and the word of
the Prophet gently reminds us: His grave shall be
glorious!

Once more the house of God is obscured like
Golgotha in the darkness; then the red and green lamps
gleam, and the festival tapers sparkle—and
suddenly the joyful cry is heard: "He is risen!"  Now
the bells are rung, guns are fired and the air is filled
with joyous melodies, the flaming red banners are
waved, and the people go forth into the open air,
their lanterns glowing in the twilight as they
disappear in the woods.

In the cities the celebration is much greater and
far more imposing.  But where is the feeling, the
true, hopeful joy in the Resurrection, which inspires
the believing poor!  Seeking for inward peace, the
dwellers in the city turn away from the churchyard,
murmuring: "In truth we *hear* the message."



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SPRING, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

I am already beginning to design houses which
are to be built from the proceeds of my inheritance.
In Winkelsteg I shall erect a large, beautiful
mansion, larger than the parsonage.  I have the plans all
completed.  But as long as I remain schoolmaster, I
have no desire to live in it myself.  Sometime I
shall give a little room in this house to the invalid
Reutmann from Karwasserschlag; and I shall ask
the old, childless Frau Brünnhütter, and the sick
Aga from Karwässer, and Markus Jager, who is
blind, and Joseph Ehrenwald, who has been injured
by a falling tree.  And I shall welcome many others,
until, by degrees, the great house is filled.  There
are a number of wretched creatures wandering about
in the Winkel woods.

I shall place a doctor and medicine at the disposal
of these people, that is, if the money goes far enough.
Then I will invite in jesters and musicians who
understand providing all kinds of entertainment.  An
almshouse is dreary enough, without sad and
lonesome surroundings in addition; the merry world
should look in at all the windows and say: "You
still belong to me, and I will not let you go!"

I do not need to pay for the land now, as at
present I am merely building my castle in the air.  The
inheritance has not yet arrived.  But the report is
that my aunt won large sums of money at play.

.. vspace:: 2

I shall give the pleasantest room in the new
alms-house to old Rüpel.  The poor man is really quite
deserted.  For his rhymes the people pay him now
with scarcely a bit of bread.  They have forgotten
how, in former times, they have been edified by his
cheering and uplifting songs on festive occasions,
how they have laughed and wept, often saying to
one another: "It is as though the Holy Ghost were
speaking through him."

To be sure the old man has not much to offer
now, and he has already become quite childish.  He
has bent a piece of wood, across which he has
stretched straws for strings, and this is his harp.
He rests it against his breast, and his fingers wander
over the strings as he murmurs his songs.

He is a strange old figure, as he sits upon a stone
in the dark forest, wrapped in his wide, faded cloak,
with his long, luxuriant, snow-white beard and
shimmering hair, which falls unkempt about his shoulders.
He raises his tearful eyes toward the tree-tops and
sings to the birds, from whom he once learned his
songs.

The creatures of the forest do not fear him; a
squirrel often hops down upon his shoulder from the
branches and, standing on its hind-legs, whispers
something into the old man's ear.

His words, like his songs, are becoming more and
more incomprehensible.  They are no longer in
keeping with the people or with the circumstances.  He
sings foolish love songs and children's ditties, as
though dreaming of his youth.  When in summer
the white-bearded man is sitting motionless upon
some hill-top, he looks from the distance like a
bunch of *Edelweiss*.

The beetles and ants run over his coat and
scramble up his beard; the bees fly about his head as
though seeking wild honey there.

.. vspace:: 2

The priest has confided something to me which
seems to cause him anxiety.

He says it is possible that I may become a rich
man, and as such I would probably go forth into the
world, to fulfil all the wishes which I have formed
and nourished in the wilderness.  No one is entirely
unselfish.

This communication has cost me a restless night.
I have searched my heart and in truth I have found
there one desire, which is far away from the Winkel
forest.  But it could not be fulfilled with money.
She is married.

Why should I demur?  My wish is fulfilled.  She
is happy.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MARCH 24, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day Sturmhanns from Wolfsgrubenhohe was
found dead in Lautergräben.  His beard was badly
singed.  The people say that a blue flame which
issued from his mouth was the cause of his death.
They explain it thus: Sturmhanns had been drinking
a great quantity of gin, then, as he was lighting his
pipe, his breath had taken fire instead of the tobacco,
and thus the man's soul was burned out of him.
There is probably some truth in the story.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   APRIL 1, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day my inheritance has been officially
forwarded to me.  It consists of three groschen and a
letter from my Aunt Lies, which is as follows:

.. vspace:: 2

"DEAR ANDREAS:

"I am old, sick, and helpless.  Thou art in the
mountains, God only knows where.  During my illness I have
been thinking over everything.  I have undoubtedly
done thee a wrong and I beg thy pardon.  This money
weighs upon my mind more than all else; it is thy
christening-money, which thou wouldst have sent to thy
father in heaven.  I took it from thee, but now I beg
thee to take it back and to forgive me; for I wish to
die in peace.  God bless thee, and I must say one more
word: if thou art in the mountains, then do not come
away from there.  All is vanity.  In prosperous days my
friends remained true to me; now they leave me to die
in poverty.

"Many thousand kisses for thee, my dear, my only
kinsman.  When God takes me to Himself in heaven,
I will greet thy parents for thee.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Until death
   "Thy loving aunt
      "ELISE."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THE FEAST OF CORPUS CHRISTI, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

For three years we have been collecting money
for a baldachin.  But we Winkelstegers have not
yet been able to buy one; we must make it ourselves.

Old Schwamelfuchs has made a portable canopy
from green birch-boughs, that in celebrating this
festival, we may carry the sacred relics out of the
church in a fitting manner.

The procession in the bright sunshine is a festive
one.  And the people, finally freed from the hard
winter, sing joyful hymns.  We rest in the woods
and the priest pronounces the benediction, sending
the holy blessing to all parts of the world.

It is unusual that in the midst of the service a
layman should raise his voice, but old Rüpel is an
exception, and this is his Corpus Christi song:

"Let all the bells ring, let all the birds sing, the
Lord cometh forth from His heavenly gates.  In
green woods He walks, and upon the fresh grass,
where the young deer doth graze, sweet rest He
awaits.  His first mighty word He speaks, and when
heard, all the flowers spring up from the earth where
they lie.  Again He doth speak with re-echoing
sound, each seed in the valley is wakened thereby.
And when the third word He utters is heard, the
thunder is silent, the lightning obeys; with the
touch of His breath deadly hail doth He melt.  To
Thee, mighty Lord, be both honour and praise.
And with Thy last word all nature is stirred; the
mountains shall tremble, the rocks shall be hurled,
the heavens shall crash and waken the dead, and fire
shall descend to destroy all the world."

The strange old man understands reaching the
heart with his words.  Impressed and exalted we
return to the church.  And the green birch baldachin
with its white poles shall stand over the altar until
its thousand tender leaves are withered.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUTUMN, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

The answer in reference to the granting of land in
our parish has finally arrived.

The Baron has given the priest to understand that
such a conscientious pastor as he should not, in
addition to his other anxieties, burden himself with
worldly cares.

Further particulars we do not know.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   A DYING SON OF THE FOREST

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   WINTER, 1831.

.. vspace:: 2

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
Lautergräben.  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 Karwässer?  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.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   CARNIVAL, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

There is a great commotion.  The people are turning
Grassteiger's house upside down; then they race
across the church square, perpetrating all sorts of
mischief.

In the parsonage lies a peasant lad whose chin
they have shattered.

It is Carnival Sunday.  The people think no
longer of the epidemic.  They assemble in the
tavern and drink brandy; they are hilarious, laugh,
and tease one another.  Their faces redden, and
each one is ready to taunt and joke the others, but
none are willing to be teased themselves.  An
untimely word, a sidelong glance, or a dispute about
some pretty girl is enough to raise a quarrel.  They
strike at each other's cheeks with the palms of their
hands—that does not suffice; they hit one another
with their fists—nor does that satisfy them; they
break the legs of chairs, and, swinging them with
both arms in their fury, hurl them down upon the
heads of their comrades.  That is enough.  One of
them lies stretched upon the floor.  The fight is over.

"Be careful, people," I say to those assembled at
Grassteiger's; "if you are so hilarious on the days of
rest, your work will yield no blessing, and bad times
will come to Winkelsteg again."

Here a master workman from Schneethal speaks:
"It 's just because we are such savage people that
we remain nothing but poor devils!  I verily
believe it, and the schoolmaster is right; there should
be no more fighting, and I tell you, landlord
Grassteiger, if another quarrel takes place in your house,
then I will come with a fence-bar and split open all
your skulls!"

This spirit is in the people.  But the fact that
Lazarus never takes part in such broils is a comfort
to me.  They try hard to urge him on, but he makes
his escape.  Sometimes his blood rises, but he
bravely calms himself.  He is a man through and
through.  And Juliana is his guardian angel,
faithfully helping him to control his fiery temper.

The forester has tried to persuade Lazarus to go
out to the plains; when one has shown so much
ability as this young man, he thinks something
extraordinary might be made of him.  But Lazarus will not
leave the forest.  He is becoming a good man, and
better than that he could not do outside, though the
emperor should place him upon his throne.

It is a favourable sign that he drinks no brandy.
Brandy is like oil in the fire, and thus the
unfortunate fights arise.

We heads of the parish never touch a drop of it.
But, if we do not, there remains so much the more
for the others.

The priest has many times sternly warned the
people against this habit of drinking.  Finally in his
indignation he has with a loud voice denounced the
brandy as a fountain of hell, a poison for body and
soul, and the brandy-distiller as a poisoner.

Old Grassteiger looks at the priest askance and
not long afterwards lets it be known that some fresh
cider has arrived at the tavern.

But Kranabethannes does not allow the matter to
drop so easily.  With a much larger stick than he
ordinarily carries, he appears before the door of the
parsonage.

He raps, and even after the priest has twice
distinctly called, "Come in," he raps still a third time.
He is not hard of hearing, but he wishes to show
that, although a "wood-devil," he knows how to
behave in the proper manner with a gentleman, and
even with his enemy, whom he to-day intends to
annihilate.

Having finally entered the room, he remains
standing close by the door, crushing his hat brim in
his fist and murmuring through his rough, yellow
beard: "I have a word to say to the priest."

The latter politely offers him a seat.

"I have a little affair," says the man, not stirring
from the spot where he is standing; "I am the
brandy-distiller from Miesenbach forest, a poor
devil, who must earn my bread with the sweat of my
brow.  I am willing to work as long as God gives
life to a poor old man like me, no matter how much
the people may oppress me and deprive me of my
customers."

"Sit down," says the priest.  "You are warm;
have you been walking fast?"

"Not at all, but I have come a good distance, and
on the way I thought to myself that there was no
more justice in the world, or in any man—no
matter how saintly he may look.  What kind of a
priest is he who deprives a poor father of a family
in his parish of the last bit of bread?  When honest
work yields no profit, then one must steal and rob;
and this, I suppose, is better than that a poor,
worn-out man should taste a drop of brandy;—for it is
the 'fountain of hell!'"

The man breathes hard; the priest is silent; he
knows that he must allow the storm to pass if he
wishes to sow in peaceful weather.

"And he who brews this 'fountain of hell' must
indeed be the devil's friend.  The people look at me
as if I were such a one.  They are right perhaps.
But if I am bad, it is not I who made myself so.
And he who has destroyed my business had better
look out for me.  Priest, I am not here for nothing!"

The brandy-distiller entirely forgets his customary
suavity and assumes a threatening attitude.

"If you are the brandy-distiller from Miesenbach
forest," says the priest composedly, "then I am
glad to see you.  As you so seldom come over to
Winkelsteg, I have wanted to go to you.  We must
talk with one another.  You are giving the
Winkelstegers brandy no longer, and you are a man
of honour, a great benefactor to the parish.  I
thank you, friend!  And your forethought is very
praiseworthy.  It is true, is it not, that you are now
going into the business of herbs and resin?  I hope
so, and I am entirely of your opinion, that you will
earn more if you prepare medicines, oils, and costly
balsams from them and then seek a market in the
outside country.  I will give you all the assistance
in my power.  Yes indeed, that is a good turn which
you have made, and in a few years you will be a
well-to-do man."

The brandy-distiller has no idea what is befalling
him.  He has made *no* turn, has never thought of
producing oil and balsam; but it now seems so
sensible and feasible that he does not contradict the
priest, and with a smirk the prospective producer of
oil bows his head.

"And should you temporarily need something for
wife and child—*mein Gott*, at first one manages as
best one can—then I should be pleased to assist
with a trifle.  I beg of you to regard me as entirely
your friend!"

Hannes grunts some incomprehensible reply and,
stumbling out of the house, throws his cudgel over
the hedge.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   LENT, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

The church authorities are beginning to trouble
us again.  Our priest is not sufficiently orthodox;
they wish to close his church.

The church which we have built with the sweat of
our brows!

It is quiet enough there now; Father Paul
conducts the service in the sick-rooms and in the
cemetery.  The people are coming to the parish church
in coffins.  The epidemic is now called "the death."  The
school has been closed for months.

The report is going about that the priest is to
blame for the sickness, on account of having
forbidden the brandy, for that is the surest means of
preventing contagion.

Hannes is on the alert, and now his pride is
aroused against the priest, whose cunning and
gentleness so entirely vanquished him a few weeks ago.

It is an everlasting combat with fate and evil.  He
who perseveres in the struggle and satisfies his inner
conviction, shall reach the goal.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MARCH 22, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

Our priest died to-day.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   THREE DAYS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

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 Schwarzhütter 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.


.. vspace:: 2

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.


.. vspace:: 2

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
Rüpel 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.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] Schiller's *Cradle Song*.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   EASTER, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

The epidemic is over.  There are many people
going about with pale, haggard countenances.

Since we are not to commemorate the resurrection
in the church, the parish is eager to celebrate the
Easter festival in some other manner.

The Saturday preceding Easter is over; the cross
on the church tower shimmers in the evening glow
more brightly than usual.  This night is to be
transformed into day.  A new life is beginning.  The
people emerge from their homes in gala attire, and
the glare of innumerable bonfires is seen on the hills.
Are any of the dwellers of the forest aware that at
this season the old Germans also lighted festal fires to
the Goddess of Spring?

Who could have conceived the idea?  Up there
on the height stands a solitary, ancient fir-tree,
which has been wound to the top with dry branches,
moss, and straw.

A short distance away the people have gathered
around a little fire, where they are singing songs.
The women are there with baskets, and the children
are playing with gaily coloured eggs.

It is already late in the night; Lazarus is about to
light the Easter torch, when old Rüpel glides
through the dark forest and, tearing his rush cap
from his head, cries: "May Jesus Christ be praised,
Who on the cross was raised!"

We are all surprised to see the old man among us
once more, and I urge him to sit down with us and
drink a mug of cider.

"Thanks for the honour!" says Rüpel, taking his
straw harp from under his coat; and gazing into
the fire, he thus begins to speak: "I come from far
Jerusalem.  On Calvary stand the crosses three, but
they are empty now, I see; and in a tomb, just
newly made, Christ's body they have gently laid—His
soul has entered into hell.  Our ancient sires
have waited long, amid the flames so fierce and
strong, till singed is Abram's hoary hair.  And here
in this fiery flue is where Moses has sat for many
years, his laws forgotten, through burning fears.
Adam, the curious, and lovely Eve, who wore no
clothes, by your good leave, to horrible torments
were exposed.  To these has Paradise long been
closed.  But through Christ's death, 't is opened
now.  The thief on the right told this to me; as for
him on the left, I 'd not allow the truth of whatever
his words might be."

"Oh, Rüpel!" the people cry, "if you have
nothing else to say, your words are not inspired
to-day."  Undisturbed by this sneer the old man
continues: "To view the sepulchre at early dawn, our
well-beloved women forth have gone.  A young
man sitting by the door they find, and Magdalen,
filled with wonder in her mind, while gently toying
with her golden tresses, his name and age and
country idly guesses.  He spake: 'If you 'll allow,
fair dames, I 'll say, the dear Lord Jesus rose at
break of day.'  Then would they, for the honour of
their Lord, a *Trinkgeld* give him for this gladsome
word.  But he has hastened back to heaven's door;
I 'd follow him had I my strength of yore."

Again Rüpel is silent.  But since no one has
understood his reference to the *Trinkgeld*, he
continues: "In the woods does Jesus walk to rest from
sorrow and pain most deep.  On the quiet heath a
shepherd-lad is watching by his white sheep.  He
weeps as he watches, bitterly, and seeing his deep
despair, 'My child, why weepest thou' Jesus asks,
'while the sun shines bright and fair?'  Ah, yes,
it shines upon the green sod that covers my father's
grave, and yesterday did the Saviour die on the
cross, and there 's none to save.  For who will bid
my father arise?'  'See the rocks tremble,' Jesus
said; 'the Lord has ascended, my child, to wake to
eternal life the dead.'"

The old man is silent and he gazes into the flames.
His hair and beard are red, like the Alpine glow, in
the reflection of the fire.  And this light falls in
bands through the trees upon the fresh graves in the
neighbouring churchyard.

A deep silence rests upon the assembled people
as if on this Easter eve they already awaited the
resurrection of the dead.  Suddenly the old man
raises his head again and his fingers glide gently
over his harp-strings of straw; something like mischief
lurks in his face, and as if desiring to complete
his speech, he says with almost a bold voice: "The
simple shepherd shook his head, incredulous was he.
The Lord stretched forth to him His hand, within
which he could see the sacred scar—'t was just the
size a groschen piece would be."

Persuasively enough the old man stretches out his
empty hand and many a one lays a *scar* therein—a
pfennig or a groschen piece.

He thanks the people politely for the little
presents which they bestow upon him, and then
disappears in the forest.

Grassteiger sends a messenger to seek for the poor
singer, that he may invite him to his table for
Easter.  But Rüpel is not to be found.

So the night wears on; fortunately it is mild and
warm, for no one, not even the convalescents, can be
persuaded to return home.

The position of a constellation shows that it is
midnight, the beginning of Easter day.  A flame
shoots up from the straw-bound tree and the towering
Easter torch sends its light over the forest valley
up to the starry heavens.

Now the men, women, and children shout for
joy; but still farther than the sound can reach
may be seen the glare of the pillar of fire,
proclaiming the glorious day to the surrounding forest
land.

And at the same time the women uncover their
baskets, that the blessed breath of Easter may fan
the gifts of God therein: bread, eggs, and meat.
Thus our festival bread receives the consecration
which Father Paul cannot administer to it on this
day.

Not until nearly morning does the burning tree,
with its soaring flame, which might have been seen
in Miesenbachgraben, crumble and fall.

We now return to our huts from this celebration
on Easter eve.


.. vspace:: 2

From this time on, Andreas, thou art not
growing younger.  Younger?  Who has taught thee
to prate thus foolishly?  Count the silver threads
in thy hair, count them if thou canst, thou old man!

I feel as though the priest had taken me with him.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   MAY, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

Strange reports are being again circulated about
our young master.  And this time they are officially
confirmed.  Hermann has taken possession of his
father's estates and thus he has come to be our
chief.

As a present he has given the Winkelstegers a
respite of ten years for all outstanding liabilities for
work and land.  This is a good beginning.  The
Winkelstegers know no other way to express their thanks
than by holding a twelve-hour service in the church
to pray for the health of the young gentleman.

Hermann is said to be an invalid.

Yesterday Berthold came to see me.  Since that
time when he found his lost child with the creatures
of the forest he poaches no longer, but works
industriously at wood-cutting, while his children earn
their bread by picking wild berries.

He brought me a bundle of dried leaves, which
grow only over in the defile and possess a wonderful
healing power, which has restored Aga's health, who
for so many years has been an invalid.  Lili had
gathered and dried the leaves, and then it occurred
to the family to send them to the young Herr von
Schrankenheim; there was no doubt that by using
the herbs he would regain his health.  He requested
me to forward the medicine, which I gladly agreed
to do.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   ALPINE GLOW

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   CORPUS CHRISTI, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

And now the old forest singer also is silent.  His
life and death have been like a beautiful wild-rose in
the wilderness.

It has given me much pleasure to write out his
strange sayings, and I will here record his end.

Up on the Breitsteinalm Kropfjodel owns a
herdsman's hut.  And here during the summer live two
of his irrepressible sons, who look after the cattle
and, to pass away the time, perpetrate all sorts of
mischief.  Rüpel had been staying with the lads of
late, and had entertained them greatly with his songs
and his straw harp.  The old man had now become
entirely demented and, with his failing sight, was
pitiable indeed.

This was just what amused the lads, who made
him the butt of all their jests; and he did not
dislike it, being glad to make himself serviceable in any
way, realising that he was no longer of use to other
people.

In the evening he always returned to the hut,
where he was given food and allowed to sleep upon
the hay-mow.

Early one morning old Rüpel was sitting before
the door upon a stone, damp with dew, playing upon
his straw harp, at the same time turning his weary
eyes up toward the morning glow on the rocks.
Suddenly a wild yell resounded in his ears.  He
started in terror, and saw the two boys standing
beside him, laughing.  The old man looked at them
with a good-natured smile.

"Have you been threshing straw, Rüpel?" Veit
asks, pointing to the strange harp-strings.

"And so early!" adds Klaus.

The old man turns, and holding his hand to his
lips, he whispers confidentially: "Don't you know
the proverb old?  The morning's mouth is filled
with gold."

"You don't mean it!" Klaus replies sneeringly.
"Then its teeth will not last long!"  The shepherd-lads
shout with laughter at this foolish joke.

"Up there is gold, up there!" And the old man
tremblingly points to the glowing cliffs.

"Yes, Rüpel, you are right!" Veit answers seriously;
"that is really gold; why don't you climb up
and scrape it off?"

Rüpel looks at them in surprise.

"You might get a whole basketful, and perhaps
more!" Klaus urges; "then you would be able to
build yourself a golden castle, and buy a golden
table, and golden wine, a golden harp, and a golden
wife!"

"A golden harp!" murmurs Rüpel, his eyes
glittering.  He passes his hand over his brow.  He
himself had first spoken of the golden morning, but
only in the figurative sense of the proverb—and
now, could it really be true?

"And this straw you can put in the manger
for Grassteiger's donkey!" cries the impudent Veit.

This contempt for his harp causes a shadow to fall
upon the countenance of the old man.

"My harp, leave that alone, I say; do not make
fun of it, I pray."

These words only irritated the youthful tormentors.
"I 'll show you how to play upon this harp!"
Veit answered, passing his hand over the strings,
and breaking them in pieces with a rattling noise.
The lads then darted away.

The old man sat a while motionless.  He stared at
the broken harp, wiped his eyes with both hands,
and endeavoured to arouse himself from his dream;
he could not believe that it was true.  His only
possession, his all, they had ruined—his harp.

Not until the sun was shining brightly on the rocks
above did he raise his white head.  He hung the
bent branch with the broken straw over his shoulder,
gazed up at the cliffs, all radiant with light, and with
faltering steps tottered away toward the precipice,
over which the water fell and rippled, looking in the
sunshine like liquid gold.

On the evening of the same day the two shepherd-lads
were once more merrily performing their household
tasks before the hearth of their hut.  They
made themselves flour dumplings, which they called
*foxes*, because they fried them until they were
brown.  The herd had been gathered in from the
fields, and was now safe in the stalls.

The lads were always gay, but particularly so on
holiday nights.  When the old harpist was at home,
they teased him; if he was not there, they teased
each other.  On this day Rüpel was still absent, so
Klaus sprang like a monkey upon Veit's shoulders,
rode upon his neck, his legs hanging down in front,
and cried: "Donkey, who is riding?" and Veit
retorted: "One donkey rides another."

Thus the lads amused themselves.  Then they ate
their dumplings, and with the soot from the pan
painted mustaches on their faces.  They already
aspired to whiskers, and if they only could kiss some
young girl, that, according to the proverb, would
encourage the growth.  Rüpel, they think, might spin
silver strings for the harp from his long beard.

The old man had not yet arrived; could the
joking in the morning have offended him?—The boys
did not like to talk about it.  They felt a slight
remorse, and so, putting a piece of dumpling into a
wooden bowl, they placed it upon Rüpel's bed in
the hay-mow.  In doing this, they were again seized
with a mischievous idea; they barricaded the place
with rakes and pitchforks.  Now, when the old man
returned, he would bump his nose and grumble until
at last he came upon the dumpling, which would
requite him for all the rest.

On this night the boys slept particularly well.
And when they awoke the bright sunbeams were
already peeping through the cracks in the wall.

But the old man's bed was still barricaded with
rakes and pitchforks, and the food remained untouched.

Klaus went to the herd in the stall; Veit left the
house.  And what a glorious day it was!  The fields
and the woods were fresh, bright, and laden with dew,
and the morning air had kissed the clouds from the
sky.  A bird was warbling gaily upon the gable of the
hut, and the brook splashed merrily into the trough.

Veit went to the spring.  The mountaineers like
so well to bathe their hands and faces in the cold
water, which causes all drowsiness to disappear and
the eyes and heart to become bright—bright as the
young day.  Veit industriously combed his
dishevelled locks with his fingers, and held both hands
under the spout.—How comforting is the cool,
trickling water, Veit!—But in the stream a
blood-red thread was spinning itself, which swam and
curled, forming little rings in the hollow of his
hand.  Frightened, the lad withdrew his hands and
gazed into the water, until more threads and
filaments appeared, twined and merged into one another,
then separated and scattered.

Veit hastened into the stall: "Klaus, come quick;
there is something strange in the water to-day!"

Klaus ran to the spot, looked, and said in an
undertone: "'T is blood!"

"A chamois must have fallen into the stream
above," added Veit.

"But Rüpel hasn't come home yet!" Klaus declared,
and a little later he continued: "It will be
easy enough to find out if it is chamois' blood."

Veit was as pale as death.  "Klaus," he said,
"come up the ravine with me!"

They walked along the little stream; the water
had now become clear again.

Lower and lower the sunbeams penetrated among
the silent rocks; higher and higher, and hurrying
more with every step, the two lads climbed, forcing
themselves through narrow, gloomy defiles, which
had been torn asunder by the water in violent storms,
or hollowed out in peaceful seasons.  The lads spoke
not a word to one another; they struggled through
raspberry-bushes and underbrush, wet with dew;
they clambered up the steep precipice; they heard a
roaring sound, for they were approaching the spot
where the water fell like a golden band over the
sunny cliff.

"Here is something; look!" Klaus cried suddenly.
They discovered two straws fastened together, and
near them the bow made from the pine-bough.  On
the bushes of the cliff hung a number of torn and
broken straws, and below, in the depths of the
abyss—in the depths of the abyss lay the old man.

His head was crushed; in his left hand he rigidly
held the branch of an Alpine rose-bush.  Over his
right hand the water was trickling.

So they found him.  Who could tell how he came
to his death?  Perhaps he was searching up there for
the gold of the Alpine glow, with which to make
himself a new harp, and while doing this, the poor
old man had plunged over the cliff into the defile
below.  While falling, he had evidently tried to hold
himself by the rose-bush, and the branch, with its
one brilliant blossom, had remained in his hand.—Thus
ended the life of the forest singer.

On this Corpus Christi festival we laid him in the
ground.  There were not many people present.  But
the birds in the tree-tops sang a melodious slumber
song to their brother.

No one in the Winkel forests seemed so poor as
this man, and yet no one was so rich.  The all-powerful,
mysterious, sacred gift of folk-song found
its embodiment in this strange being.

Upon Father Paul's grave stands a cross, made
from the wood of an ancient pine.  Upon the
singer's mound I plant a young, living tree.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   JULY, 1832.

.. vspace:: 2

We are having trouble with Kropfjodel's two boys.
They refuse to remain in the Alm hut, insisting that
in the night they hear a ceaseless rapping and
gnawing upon the hay-mow.  Even though it is
mid-summer, Kropfjodel is obliged to close the hut and
drive down the herd.  Veit will no longer wash
himself at a spring.  He sees in every brook drops of
blood, which cling reproachfully to his hands—the
same hands which destroyed the old man's harp.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUTUMN, 1834.

.. vspace:: 2

The school has been closed for a few weeks.  The
children are assisting at the harvest; this has ripened
late and must now be garnered before the frosts.
The rocky heights are already covered with snow.

I should like once more to climb the Graue Zahn
that I might look out over the world.  I am living a
very retired and solitary life.  The old people have
died; the younger ones I have educated, but not to
be my companions.  I am their instructor, but now
they desert me, and when, old and grey, I shall sit
upon my lonely bench, they will consider my solitude
the natural lot of a schoolmaster.

The new priest is a young man, who is better
suited to the people; he enters into the sports in the
tavern and the bowling-alley.  When ordering the
new prayer-book from the capital, a short time ago,
he also sent for some playing-cards.

Lazarus and his wife Juliana have become owners
of the Grassteiger inn; they carry on the business, and
sell tobacco and all kinds of trifles.  They also keep
cloths of foreign manufacture, for there are those in
the parish who, no longer content with fustian and
ticking jackets, wish to have something especially
fine to wear; just for the novelty of it, they say.
But I notice this desire soon receives another name.

As in former times, bailiffs occasionally roam
about in our woods looking for smugglers and
deserters.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER, 1835.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

.. vspace:: 2

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.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   WALDLILIE IN THE LAKE

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   FEAST OF THE ASSUMPTION, 1835.

.. vspace:: 2

An unexpected event has recently occurred.

A few days ago I received a letter from my former
pupil, our present master.

Hermann wrote that he had used the herbs, which
I had sent him from the wood-cutter, and since then
the condition of his health was somewhat improved.
This had suggested to him the advisability of
visiting the mountains, with which he was not yet
acquainted, and of spending a few days here in the
mild early autumn.  His intention would be to
travel alone, for people, especially those of the city,
were unspeakably repulsive to him, that being
probably a peculiarity of his nervous state, which he was
unable to overcome.  Weary of the world, he wished
to seek restoration in the wilderness and in the
primeval freshness of the Alps.  He still remembered
me, his former tutor, as well as my services in
the Winkel forests, and he begged me to be his
guide in the mountains and on a certain day to meet
him in the village of Grabenegg.

Grabenegg, a good day's journey from here, is not
a village, but consists only of a few stone-cutters'
huts which stand near the Ziller road and receive
their name from the mountain defile which begins at
this point.

On the day mentioned I arrived at the appointed
place and there awaited the master of the forest, who
also came as agreed, having driven over in a hired
carriage.  I then proceeded with him toward the
high mountains.  Hermann's appearance thoroughly
alarmed me; I should not have recognised him, but
he, on the contrary, at the first glance addressed me
as Andreas.  His greeting was polite, although the
poor man showed plainly that he was surfeited with
life.

The road extended as far as the rocky mountain-pass.
Here Herr von Schrankenheim sent back
the carriage and over the rough paths, trodden by the
deer, we entered the wilderness, where, upon the
heights, gleaming glaciers were lodged.  My
companion walked ahead, sometimes gloomily and
defiantly, sometimes with the eagerness of the hunter
on the track of the deer.  I did not know where the
man wished to go, or what he desired; he himself
did not know.  I was seized with anxiety lest we
should not find shelter for the night, but on my
communicating my fears to him, he burst into a laugh
and strode onward.

Suddenly the idea occurred to me, what if I should
be wandering with a lunatic!  Had the Graue Zahn
fallen at my feet, my heart could not have beaten
more quickly than at this thought.

I begged and warned the Baron, but I was unable
to stop him; he would pause only for a moment at
the edge of the precipices, cast one glance into the
abyss below and then hasten forward.  His limbs
trembled and great drops stood upon his forehead,
as at last in the gathering twilight he fell exhausted
beside a mountain spring.

In that hour I promised the dear God everything,
everything if He would but lead us to a shelter.  He
heard my prayer.  Not far from the spring, between
the two walls of the defile, I discovered a hut, such
as are erected by the chamois-hunters.

And under this roof, in the midst of the terrors of
the wilderness, I made a fire and from moss and
shrubs prepared a bed for the Baron.

We ate the food which we had brought with us
and drank the water from the spring.  When the
meal was over, my companion leaned back against
the mossy wall murmuring: "How refreshing!
How refreshing!"

And after a while he looked at me and said:
"Friend, I thank you for being with me.  I am ill.
But here I shall be healed.  This is the water which
the hunted deer drinks, is it not?  I have led a
wild life—very wild!  I have found that man is not
a toy!  And now at last I have fortunately escaped
the doctors.  I have no desire to lie in a metallic
coffin; it savours of pomp, of gold and silk, of artificial
tears—*pfui*!"

To my relief he soon fell asleep.  I watched the
whole night, endeavouring to devise a means of taking
the poor, sick man to some human habitation.  We
were in a remote place and, to reach Winkelsteg, we
should be obliged to cross the mountains.

The next morning, after I had made a new fire
and the sun was already shining through the
chinks in the wall, the man awoke, and looking
about him in astonishment, said: "Good-morning,
Andreas!"

He then began to prepare for the journey.

"I wish to climb the high mountain which they
call the Graue Zahn," he said; "I should like once
to look down upon this world from a high place.
Can you not accompany me and arrange to take one
or two men with us?  Have no anxiety on my
account.  Yesterday was a bad day.  I wandered,
restless and forlorn and without aim, through the
wilderness, endeavouring to escape from myself as I
had escaped from men in the world without.  I was
overcome with all the pain of my misery.  But this
air is healing me—oh, this pure, blessed air!"

On leaving the hut, we were obliged to shade our
eyes with our hands, the light was so dazzling.  The
branches of the pines were a golden red and in the
shadow of the thicket trembled dew-drops, which
already reflected the sunlight through the trees.  The
birds were holding a jubilee and squirrels were frisking
about looking for their mates and their breakfast.
The dry leaves of a young beech were gently
swaying in the mild morning air.

Hermann smiled and we proceeded on our way.
A thin mist shimmered through the branches, and a
cool breeze fanned our cheeks.  Suddenly a flood of
light filled the forest, and each tree stretched out its
arms—silently and reverently pointing to a wonderful
picture.

A peaceful lake lies at our feet, stretching far into
the distance, blue, green, black—who can tell the
colour?  On the banks of the eastern side, the dark
mountain forest, softly veiled in bright sunbeams,
slopes upward from the grey, pebbly beach.  On the
opposite shore towers a massive wall of rock, behind
which are piled crag upon crag, precipice upon
precipice up to the highest peaks and cones and spires
which pierce the blue sky above.  The mountains,
ever varying in form, stretch away in a great half
circle, glorious beyond all description.  Here below
are grassy slopes dotted with tufts of juniper-bushes,
green as velvet.  In the distance are waterfalls,
milk-white and slender as a thread, their roaring heard by
no human ear, for the sound is lost in space; beyond
on the mountain sides are rocky wastes and dry
river-beds, each little stone clearly outlined in the
crystalline air; farther on deep gorges, their dark
recesses filled with snow; and above all tower the
massive weather-beaten rocks, silent and sinister in
their eternal repose.

An eagle soars into the blue ether: now like a
black spot, now like a silvery leaf the bird circles
about the rocky peaks.  And on the distant heights,
shining glaciers softly lean against the red gleaming
sides of precipices, on which the chisel of Time is
constantly cutting, engraving thereon the never-ending
history and the inflexible laws of nature.

I see it still, see everything clear and distinct
before my eyes,—the lake in the valley, above which
towers the Graue Zahn.

I had already beheld similar scenes, nevertheless
the glory of this one quite overcame me.  But the
Baron stood there like a statue.  He gazed, absorbed
in the endless picture; his trembling lips inhaled the
air of the lake.

We then descended to the shady banks, where the
water was splashing over the worn stones.

"This lake so smooth to-day, must be very wild
at times," my companion remarked.  "Just see how
far up the precipice the stones have been washed
smooth by the waves."

By these words I perceived that Hermann had an
intelligent eye for nature.  "Yes indeed, this lake
can become a boisterous companion, although now
it looks so mild and peaceful."

A remarkable incident then suddenly occurred.
Below, where the bushes dipped into the lake, a
human head emerged.  The water dripped from the
long, brown curls and blooming face.  The neck and
throat were somewhat sunburnt, but the softly
moulded, undulating shoulders were like snow-white
marble.  A young, beautiful woman, a mermaid!
*Mein Gott*, it was enough to make one a poet!

The Baron, being shorter-sighted than I,
approached the apparition, and in the same moment
the figure sank out of sight and the alders, swayed
over the water as before.

Hermann gazed at me.  I gazed into the lake,
the surface of which moved in soft rings and bubbles
and dark lines, here smooth as a mirror, yonder
trembling and rippling.  But the head of the maiden
did not appear again.  Several minutes elapsed
while with a beating heart I looked for the bather,
for who knew if she were able to swim, and the
thought suddenly flashed through my mind: What
if the girl out of modesty had sought a grave for
herself beneath the waves!

After much anxiety and alarm I at last drew
the unconscious child from the water.  With our
small experience, we finally restored her to life—to
her life of seventeen years.  And thereupon the shy
creature, scarcely revived and having been clothed
by our assistance, sprang to her feet and darted
away through the forest, her fright giving her
strength.

The Baron, holding his head with both hands,
cried: "Andreas!  my malady is returning; I have
visions, I have seen a fairy!"

"That is no fairy," I answered; "it is the daughter
of the wood-cutter who sent you the herbs."

It was Waldlilie.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   A FEW DAYS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day the Baron rode away from Winkelsteg on
Grassteiger's white horse.

Nothing came of the proposed ascent of the Zahn.
After Waldlilie had escaped from us there by the
lake, Hermann said to me: "My fate is sealed; I
shall not climb the mountain.  Take me to your
Winkelsteg, Andreas."

And here he remained three days, inspecting our
arrangements and drinking a great deal of our water.
The people could hardly believe that he was the
owner of the forest, and one old woman said that
she expected the owner of the forest to wear a coat
of gold, while this man's coat was only plain brown
cloth.  His face was an ashen grey, but under the
pallor I discovered signs of vitality.  I recently
remarked that he was surfeited with life; now I
believe he is hungry for life.  He is in a very strange
condition.  Yesterday he sent for Berthold, that he
might pay him for the herbs.

Old Rothbart died some time ago, so Berthold has
now become forester and lives with his family in the
Winkel-warden's house.  In a few days the marriage
ceremony of Berthold and Aga will be quietly
celebrated in the church.  The Baron has arranged it.
This has made me very happy.  Hermann has a
thoroughly sound heart; a sick man could not act
so promptly and with so much assurance.  But he is
a peculiar man notwithstanding.  Before he left, he
came to me in the schoolhouse and, drawing me
down beside him on a bench, said: "Schoolmaster!
She prized her maidenhood more than her life;
could I have believed that such a woman existed on
earth?  The shameless coquettes who dwell in
palaces, how recklessly have they played with me!
You, Erdmann, have had the experience of looking
up at the world from a lower station in life, have
become acquainted with it and had your fill.  I have
viewed it from above, which is quite a different side,
full of splendour and beauty, but as contemptible as
the other.  Nothing extraordinary has befallen me,
Erdmann, I have merely lived and have been
unhappy.  I, too, belong to this forest—Andreas—I,
too, belong here!  But I must now return to my old
father....  God forbid that I should take
her with me!  Happily she does not know the
world.  I leave her in your care, Schoolmaster.
Should she feel the want of learning, then teach her;
if not, then cherish and guard her as a wild-lily
of the woods.  And keep my secret, Schoolmaster.
When I have recovered, I will come again."

By these significant words, having shown that a
great change had taken place in his feelings, he rode
away towards Holdenschlag on Grassteiger's horse,
a workman from this place accompanying him.

.. vspace:: 2

Others would have been ruined by the kind of
life our young master has led; it has made him a
peculiar man.  His deep nature has indeed been
shaken, but not destroyed.

On the day of his departure, three search-warrants
arrived, saying that the young Herr von Schrankenheim,
who had long been suffering from melancholia,
had strayed away and disappeared.  He had
probably gone to the mountains, for he had dressed
himself like a mountain traveller.  And then the
clothing, as well as every detail concerning my dear
pupil Hermann, was as minutely described as that
of an escaped convict.  It is all right, he will return.
He has merely visited his forest possessions.  Must
he then travel in the exact manner of the rich?
May a Schrankenheim never step beyond his barriers?

Thank God, he is the master for Winkelsteg!

And how relieved I am, for now Berthold and his
family are saved.  They have weighed so heavily
upon my conscience.

The obscure words of the Baron, which he said to
me at parting, are partially explained.  Waldlilie
now comes to school and we practise reading,
writing, and everything connected therewith as far as I
understand these subjects myself.  She is very
industrious and apt, can think independently and is
becoming lovelier every day.

Her name is more and more suited to her, for
there is something lily-like about the girl; she is so
slender, white, and gentle, and yet there are traces of
the sun's kiss upon her round cheeks and fresh lips.
There is also something still clinging to her which
she caught from the deer on that long winter night,
the graceful alertness and the eyes.

Oh, Andreas!  Dost thou look at all thy pupils so
closely?

But then she pleases everyone.

She is beloved by the poor, for she knows how to
help them.  She has comforted many a sad heart by
her warm friendly words; she has cheered many a
discouraged one by her tender singing.  And it is
beautiful how all the children in Winkelsteg know
Waldlilie and cling to her.  If the priest were only
living, what great pleasure he would take in such a
nature!

And the girl is courageous; regardless of wild
animals and vicious people, she climbs the mountains
to gather fruit and plants.  But then it is written
on her forehead: "All evil is powerless before thee!"

She recently brought me a blue gentian with
bright red stripes, such as grow only over in the
glen.

"Have you been by the lake again, Lili?" I asked.
Turning as red as the stripes on the flower, she
hastened away.

Perhaps she never knew that I was one of the
men who had surprised her at her bath in the lake,
and had so alarmed her that she would have gone to
her destruction had not one of us brought her to dry
land.

The occurrence must be like a dream to her; let
it never be mentioned again.

But of the fine young master of the forest, who
has rescued her family from distress and poverty,
she speaks with pleasure and enthusiasm.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER, 1837.

.. vspace:: 2

It is fulfilled at last.  The signs of it have been in
the air since one day in the spring, when Hermann, as
though newly awakened to powerful manhood,
arrived again in Winkelsteg and at once asked me
concerning Waldlilie.

He no longer takes pleasure in the noisy, rioting
circle called by many the *world*, although the term
is entirely misapplied.  Hermann has fortunately
passed the dangerous crisis.  He has now entered
mature life, where one longs for the glories of nature
and the inner worth of man.  Waldlilie has become
a wonderfully beautiful young woman, and the pains
which I have taken in the development of her
intellectual powers have been richly rewarded.

And thus it is fulfilled.  A Schrankenheim has
burst his barriers.  Two days ago, on the festival of
our Lord's Ascension, the master of the forest and
Waldlilie were united in the church.

.. vspace:: 2

Over in the glen by the lake, Hermann wished to
erect a summer villa, where he and his wife might
spend a few weeks every year in the early autumn.
But Waldlilie begged him to abandon the idea.  She
was very fond of that region, but she could not visit
the lake.

.. vspace:: 2

They have left us and gone to the beautiful town
of Salzburg.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   WINTER, 1842.

.. vspace:: 2

The years pass by in monotony and solitude; why
does no one call me the Einspanig?

The young wife afterwards changed her mind and
the summer villa now stands in the glen by the lake.
It is very lively there for a few weeks in the early
autumn, and the happy home of our master's family
is watched over by the grim mountains.

The forester, now a grandfather, lives with his
wife the entire year in this house, and the brothers
and sisters of Frau von Schrankenheim may hope for
a better lot than was prophesied at their cradle.

The old Herr von Schrankenheim was blessed
with two grandchildren before he died in Salzburg
in the winter of 1840.

Winkelsteg has gained nothing by the house in
the glen.  A good road has been built to it, and it
has now become the headquarters for superintending
the forest.  Strangers visit the place, and there the
great hunting-parties are organised.  In the glen,
formerly so lonely and neglected, now stands the
*manor-house*; but Winkelsteg remains the same poor
parish for peasants and wood-cutters, and the
condition of things here is not improving, and the
schoolmaster—let us not think about that, Andreas.

.. vspace:: 2

I recently sewed a number of sheets of paper
together for a writing-book, the cover of which I have
made from white linden-wood.  In this book I now
lead a secret life, unknown to anyone.[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small
   
[#] This *writing-book* was not discovered among the
records.—The Editor.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUGUST 1, 1843.

.. vspace:: 2

To-night a little boy was born to Reitbauer in
Karwässer.  They brought him here to be baptised,
but, as the priest had gone away for a few days and
the child was feeble, I administered a private
baptism.  At the father's request I also stood godfather.
The three beloved groschen inherited from my aunt
and formerly my christening present, shall now go to
the little Peter.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SUMMER, 1847.

.. vspace:: 2

When I came into these forests, I found the
people scattered, starving, and uncounted.  To-day I
see before me a new generation.

A village surrounds the church.  And about the
village stand apple- and pear-trees bearing fruit; an
endeavour has been made throughout Winkelsteg
to cultivate the wild fruit-trees, and for the most
part it has succeeded.

On Sundays people dressed in gala attire come
from all directions, the men, wearing black leather
knee-breeches, the women, padded velvet spencers
and droll-looking wired caps, decorated with gilt and
ribbons.  Their clothing is no longer of home-made
material.  Formerly they wore the linen from their
own flax, the wool from their sheep, the shoe leather
from their cattle, the skins and furs from the game
which they shot.  To-day peddlers go about in the
Winkel forests, exchanging garments and frippery
for the valuable raw material.

The young people have wider views than the older
ones, but they are far more pretentious; besides,
they show too little respect for the past from which
they themselves have sprung.  But they still smoke
tobacco and drink brandy, as their ancestors have
done before them.

What can the old schoolmaster do alone?  Ah, if
my priest were only living!

.. vspace:: 2

The little Reiter-Peter, my godchild, is a sweet
lad; but a great misfortune has overtaken him—by
a fall from his bed he has lost his voice.

How gladly would I give him mine, for it is no
longer of use to me!  It has become quite hoarse,
and no one listens to it now.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   SPRING, 1848.

.. vspace:: 2

How this is going to affect me I do not know.
Perhaps it would be best to take a few weeks'
vacation and go away from here.

Outside in the cities the troops are playing havoc;
they are breaking into palaces and barricading
streets.  For that reason she is coming.  The
general's wife, Hermann's beautiful sister, whom I have
so foolishly adored, is coming.

In the house by the lake there is no more room,
so she flees with her children to us.  Thank God
that our Winkelsteg is able to offer her a refuge in
these times!

And I will not go away after all.  I will remain
and be strong and not betray myself.  I will look
straight into her eyes once before I die.

I feel that God means well by me.  The light of
her eyes will illumine the dark wooded hills, her
breath will soften and consecrate the Alpine air.
And even though she goes away again, Winkelsteg,
where she has dwelt, will be my home.

We have built a beautiful high arch of pine-boughs
before the house and decorated the altar in the
church with wreaths.

Everything is ready, but no one has thought to
have the stones removed from the road.  Such
women have tenderer feet than those dwelling in
the mountains.

.. vspace:: 2

For a day and two nights I have been digging
the stones out of the road.  The people may laugh,
but I am only thankful that the moon was shining.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   A FEW DAYS LATER.

.. vspace:: 2

Now they are here.  She, the two children, and
the servants.  I need not have removed the stones,
for they drove in carriages.  Nearly all Winkelsteg
was assembled on the square when they arrived.
The priest made an address of welcome; I crept
into the schoolhouse.  But I was thoroughly
alarmed, for they alighted directly in front of my
window, and I thought they were about to enter.

I saw her very plainly; she has grown younger.
She was hardly out of her carriage before she was
chasing a butterfly.  But that was her youngest
daughter.  She herself——

By my faith, I should not have recognised her.

Of all her old mirrors with golden frames, not
one is so true or has so faithfully retained her
glorious image to the present day as my heart has
done.

Now the image has disappeared and my youth has
vanished like a mist.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   JUNE, 1848.

.. vspace:: 2

Yesterday I wandered the whole day among the
mountains, and even ascended the Zahn.  On the
way I asked myself a dozen times: Why art thou
climbing up here, thou old child?  Upon the summit
I shall find the answer, I thought.  I saw the
kingdom of the Alps.  I gazed into the blue depths of
the glen below where by the black sheet of water
stands the manor-house.  I strained my eyes toward
the south, my eyes already weak, but—it was all in
vain.  As often as I have climbed up there, I have
never, never yet beheld the sea.

They say it is visible on a clear winter day.
Besides this sight, I have nothing more to wish for
now; but that one thing I still desire.

In descending I gathered a bunch of Alpine roses,
*Edelweiss*, spikenard, arnica, and other flowers and
plants and pinned them on the front of my hat, like
a love-sick lad.  For whom art thou taking home the
nosegay?  For wife and child?  Ah, thou stupid
old man!

But when I am away from her, as I was up there
on the Alm, I see that she is still lovely.  She will
surely accept a bouquet of Alpine roses from
me.  I will be polite and not force it upon her.  Had
I but a single drop of old Rüpel's blood in my veins,
I would recite a poem appropriate to the flowers!
These were my thoughts; it is astonishing that I am
still so daring!

When I reached Lauterhöhe, I seated myself
under a tree to rest.  My meditations were suddenly
interrupted by something pulling at my hat; I
turned to see what had disturbed me.  A brown
cow stood there chewing my mountain nosegay.

I started up, about to strike the stupid animal
with my stick, when it occurred to me: Good
creature, perhaps my flowers have given you more
pleasure than they would afford her, so God bless
them to you!  She will drink your nourishing milk
as a recompense.

As, late in the evening, I came down to the
village, her windows were brightly lighted.

.. vspace:: 2

One of the lady's servants, Jacob, is a jack-at-all-trades.
He is exceedingly clever, can play on musical
instruments, do tailoring, make shoes and draw,
and finally he has even made a drawing of me.  I
did not wish to sit for it, but he contrived, until at
last, dressed in all my finery, I took my seat on the
block of wood yonder.  After having made the
sketch, he then painted it in colours, the result being
most remarkable.  The red neckerchief was
particularly well done.

He has given me the picture, which I look at in
the privacy of my room; but the school children
must not see it!

I think I will hide it.

.. vspace:: 2

I thought I should make the acquaintance of her
children, but they speak a foreign tongue which I do
not understand.  The young gentleman is off with
the horses and dogs; the girl would like to spend
her time in the meadows with the flowers and
beetles, but she is forbidden to do this.  She is
already too old to be allowed childish pleasures.

.. vspace:: 2

A day or two ago Hermann—God forgive me for
still calling him by this name—came over from the
glen to visit his sister.  She excused herself on the
plea of illness.  Jacob told me that the two were not
on very friendly terms, for she would recognise no
sister-in-law who carried about with her the odour of
pitch.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day the lady gave a dinner to which the priest
and Grassteiger were invited.  A slice from the roast
and a glass of wine were sent to me.  Fortunately a
beggar was just passing the house, and the food was
not wasted.  So to-day two beggars have been fed.

At the dinner, Jacob said, they spoke of me.  The
lady then related to them how, as a poor student, I
had once lived on charity for a time in her father's
house, how I had then left the school and returned
a vagabond, whereupon her father, out of pity, had
sent me to the forest, where he had since supported me.

Now thou knowest all, Andreas Erdmann; but
not a grey hair on that account, for it would only
contaminate the white ones.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUGUST, 1848.

.. vspace:: 2

They have gone away.  Jacob has left here for
me a pair of black trousers and a white glove.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   JULY, 1852.

.. vspace:: 2

The title-deeds to the land have at last been
conferred, and now most of the peasants in Winkelsteg
are their own masters.  They are to be heartily
congratulated.  But their eyesight seems to have become
very dim, for none of them recognise me when I
pass them on the road.

.. vspace:: 2

This summer I was once more on the mountain.  I
thought I could almost catch a glimpse of the sea
towards the south.  But it was only mist.

By this excursion, either from the dazzling light
in the distance or the extreme change from heat to
cold, I have again brought on the serious trouble
with my eyes, which has lasted for many weeks and
hindered me in my work.

.. vspace:: 2

I think the dumb Reiter-Peter should be taught a
little music.  He must have some way of expressing
his feelings.  It is hard to realise the suffering
caused by keeping everything to one's self.

.. vspace:: 2

Peter is clever; he already plays on the zither and
the violin.  Later I must teach him the organ.  The
Winkelstegers will need music for their mass in the
future as well as now.  I shall not always be here.

.. vspace:: 2

Lazarus, or, as they now call him, the Winkel
landlord, is kind to me and to everyone; all
Winkelsteg have a friend in him.  But his old trouble
recurs now and then.  If, for example, something
excites him, he has a hard struggle to control
himself.  I have suggested that he should try picking
up the beads from the rosary again; but perhaps
that would no longer avail; then there is great
danger that he will fall to drinking.  He would be
ruined if he had not such a good wife, and Juliana
knows how to manage him; for her sake he will
endure the keenest thirst.

.. vspace:: 2

The brandy-distiller Schorschl—Hannes is no
longer living—occasionally breaks my windows.  He
considers me his greatest enemy, because I warn the
children against brandy.

I mend the windows by pasting paper over them.
But as long as I live I shall teach the young people
to shun this evil.


.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   1855.

.. vspace:: 2

Our priest has been changed for a very young
one.  The latter says that the curacy has been sadly
neglected, but he will now endeavour to improve
matters.  He has ordered prayers, penances, and
pilgrimages.  His sermons are as cutting as lye; and
there are so many sore hearts.

Since the new priest arrived I am quite superfluous
in the school.  He fills the hours with teaching
religion.

The children are capable of more than they
thought—they know the whole catechism by heart.

The emperor and the pope are said to have issued
a special edict for the salvation of souls, and in
Winkelsteg the devil has never been so much talked
about as at present.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   AUGUST 24, 1856.

.. vspace:: 2

To-day a public examination took place in the
school.  The dean from the capital was here.  He
seemed well satisfied with the religious teaching; as
to the rest, he shook his head.  On arriving, he
greeted me politely; on leaving, he did not see me.

.. vspace:: 2

I often sit a long time up in the burial-ground
under the old trees.  This grove has been preserved
from the great forest, and here the parish is being
gathered, thus making another link in the chain of
human history.  I may sit here as long as I please,
no one will call me.  Would that the dead did not
sleep so soundly!

I am an old spy.  My eyes are weak and weary, yet
I sometimes see what is taking place.  Through the
board fence I have just been observing Reiter-Peter
seize the hand of Schirmtanner's daughter and refuse
to let it go.  By a thousand gestures he was telling
her something; the blood mounted to his cheeks,
but the girl continually said: "No, Peter, no!"

Then the lad suddenly took his violin and played
for Rosa, something which I had never taught him.
It was wonderful, and I did not suppose that he
could play like that.

He continued until Rosa finally threw herself into
his arms, crying: "Stop, it pains me so!  Peter, I
do like you!"

Young people are exceedingly demonstrative.  If
a lad has no voice with which to speak, he declares his
love on the violin.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   WINTER, 1857.

.. vspace:: 2

A diary is a faithful friend.  No matter what one
confides to it, it forgets nothing and discloses
nothing.  When I look through these records, I cannot
realise that I have experienced and written all this.
It is a strange history.

And who have I been!  From the old man that I
felt myself to be when I entered these forests, I
became a younger one, from a young man I have grown
to be a poor old creature, before whose half-blind
eyes the notes dance up and down on the page, when
I play the organ for mass in the church.  The people
have pushed me aside.

*Mein Gott*, others fare no better, and I desire
nothing; I have done my part and am content.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   1864.

.. vspace:: 2

For fifty years I have not been out of these
forests.

The woodspeople come into existence, live and die
and not once in their lives do they climb the
mountain, from where one can behold the glorious picture
and, on clear winter days, the sea.

The *sea*!  How my heart swells at the thought!
Yonder moves a boat, and within stands a youth
beckoning—

Heinrich!  What is it?

.. vspace:: 2

How foolish of me to have spent my whole life in
the Winkel, when I should have been a sailor!



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right medium

   CHRISTMAS EVE, 1864.

.. vspace:: 2

The track is a short one, but the young people are
sliding upon their sleds and boards over the frozen
snow, from the Winkel-warden's house down to the
churchyard wall.  And how eager they are, as with
glowing eyes and cheeks they shout at their sport!—I
am waiting for Reiter-Peter; he is coming with his
violin to try the new manger song with me.  In the
meantime I am looking at the happy children and
writing.

The little ones wear fur caps, and they stumble
and puff before they reach the top with their
sleds—and they are down in ten seconds.  Much exertion
and a short pleasure!  I only hope none of them
will bump their heads against the wall!—Would that
I might glide down to it on my sled—and never
return!

Peter is coming.  "Sleep sweetly, sleep in holy
peace!"  The song is so lovely, and to-morrow——





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE LAST PAGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   THE LAST PAGE

.. vspace:: 2

.... and to-morrow ....

With these words the story closes.

I had read two long rainy days.  I had read the
experiences of a strange life, covering a period from
the last century up to the preceding Christmas festival.

.... and to-morrow ....

My head was heavy and hot.  I gazed towards the
door, fully expecting the man would enter and go
on with his writing and tell us what happened the
next morning, as well as what afterwards occurred.
For this is no ending and no leave-taking; it is a
hopeful look into the future, a long breath of relief,
a morning star.

I felt almost convinced that the schoolmaster was
still living.  He was surely wandering somewhere in
unknown parts, this poor man with his great, nameless
longing, such as all feel more or less, the longing
for the whole, the infinite, the true—incomprehensible
though it be—wherein our striving, weary
souls hope to find repose and deliverance.

A feeling possessed me that I must hasten forth
and seek everywhere for the good, old, childlike
man.—And what a terrible struggle and effort he
had made!  A vain endeavour after the pursuits of
society, a painful crushing of his rising youthful
passion, a despairing plunge into the entanglements
of life, an adventurous journey over the world, a
fearful awakening and disappointment, a flight into
the barren wilderness, a quiet continuous toiling in
humility and sacrifice, a great success, a deep
contentment.  Old age approaches, a young generation
and new conditions no longer offer opportunity for
work; a sad withdrawal into himself, desertion and
loneliness, vague doubts and dreams and a quiet
resignation and peace.  In his old age, in his
helplessness and simplicity he becomes a child; a
smiling, happy, visionary child.  But the longing and
imagination of his youth still remain.  And he has
received a great reward, a compensation which
reconciles us to his fate, and which the world can
never give, for it only comes to one after the true
fulfilment of life; it is the peace of the soul.

The quail's call on the clock sounded eight.  I
carefully locked the sheets of paper in the drawer
and went down towards the tavern.  It was already
growing dark; a chilling melancholy brooded over
everything, and through the fine dripping rain a
sharp breeze was blowing.

Lazarus was standing before the door.  He turned
his face skyward, saying: "There is going to be a
change."  He was speaking to himself.  He certainly
had no idea that the young stranger now approaching
him knew his whole history.

On this same evening the host was very sociable,
but I was silent and soon retired to my schoolhouse
to rest.

How changed was my view of everything here
from that of two days before.  I felt almost at home
in this Alpine village where I, like the schoolmaster,
had grown old.

And the man who had founded and developed the
parish with his life's blood was now to be cast aside
and forgotten?

No, there were traces of him everywhere.  "Invisible
he wanders around day and night in Winkelsteg,
at every hour!"—the charcoal-burner had said.

The next morning was so dazzling that the light
penetrated through my closed eyelids.  On opening
the window I saw that it was a bright, clear winter
day.

I sprang to my feet.  It had snowed, and the white
covering lay over the whole valley and upon all the
roofs and trees.

I was soon ready for my Alpine climb.

"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-Rüpel.  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 Lauterhöhe?" 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
Lautergräben, Karwässer, 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:

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.. class:: center medium

   RESIGNATION AND RENUNCIATION!

.. vspace:: 6

..

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