PART SECOND1815.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 andHaus Altarewith 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, theVierzehn Nothelfer[#] would be right for us."[#]Vierzehn Nolhelfer, fourteen saints to whom the Catholics prayed in times of great need."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.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!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.AUTUMN, 1816.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 calledwooding. 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 BertholdElend! (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.MAY, 1817.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 afrenzy. 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?SUMMER SOLSTICE, 1817.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.THE FEAST OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL, 1817.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.DOG-DAYS, 1817.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.THE FEAST OF ST. JAMES, 1817.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 alittlestone, but a large one lies upon my heart. He could never have thrown a greater one at me than by running away."THE FEAST OF ST. PETER IN CHAINS, 1817.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:"My mother and my sister! Bear me no ill-will and do not worry. I am in the school of the Cross."LAZARUS."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.THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1817.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 theeverlastinglight 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:"I am well. I think of my mother and sister and father. "LAZARUS."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.THE FEAST OF ST. CATHARINE, 1817.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.CHRISTMAS, 1817.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.MARCH, 1818.
PART SECOND
1815.
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 andHaus Altarewith 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, theVierzehn Nothelfer[#] would be right for us."
[#]Vierzehn Nolhelfer, fourteen saints to whom the Catholics prayed in times of great need.
"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.
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!
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.
AUTUMN, 1816.
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 calledwooding. 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 BertholdElend! (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.
MAY, 1817.
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 afrenzy. 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?
SUMMER SOLSTICE, 1817.
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.
THE FEAST OF ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL, 1817.
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.
DOG-DAYS, 1817.
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.
THE FEAST OF ST. JAMES, 1817.
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 alittlestone, but a large one lies upon my heart. He could never have thrown a greater one at me than by running away."
THE FEAST OF ST. PETER IN CHAINS, 1817.
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:
"My mother and my sister! Bear me no ill-will and do not worry. I am in the school of the Cross.
"LAZARUS."
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.
THE FEAST OF ALL SOULS, 1817.
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 theeverlastinglight 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:
"I am well. I think of my mother and sister and father. "LAZARUS."
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.
THE FEAST OF ST. CATHARINE, 1817.
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.
CHRISTMAS, 1817.
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.
MARCH, 1818.