  Produced by Al Haines. The Forest By Peter Rosegger Authorized Translation G. P. Putnam's Sons COPYRIGHT, 1900 The Knickerbocker Press, New York For the use of the following autobiographical sketch, THE TRANSLATOR. PREFACE 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." PETER ROSEGGER. KRIEGLACH, Autumn, 1899 CONTENTS THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY: The Forest Schoolmaster INTRODUCTORY "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. 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." |
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