The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

by Peter Rosegger

  I

  My Father and I

  On the whole I had not a bad bringing up, rather I had none at all.When I was a good, devout, obedient, apt child, my parents praised me;when I was the reverse they gave me a downright scolding. Praise almostalways did me good and made me feel inches taller; for some childrenlike plants shoot up only in sunshine.

  But my father was of opinion that I ought not to grow in height only,but also in breadth, and that to this end reserve and austerity weregood.

  My mother was love itself. My father may have been the same by nature,but he did not know how to express his warm and loving heart. With allhis gentleness this care and labour-laden man had a taciturn, seriousbearing: only later, when he judged me man enough to appreciate it, didhe ever give his rich humour free play before me.

  During those years when I was tearing my first dozen pairs of breeches,he concerned himself with me but little except when I had donesomething naughty; then he allowed his severity full play. Hisharshness and my punishment generally consisted in his standing overme, and in loud angry tones, holding up my sin before me and pointingout the punishment I deserved.

  When such an outburst occurred, it was my habit to plant myself infront of my father and remain standing before him as if petrified, withmy arms hanging down, and looking steadily in his angry facethroughout the vehement rebuke. In my inmost heart I always repented mywrongdoing and had the clearest sense of guilt; but I also rememberanother feeling that used to come over me during those homilies: astrange trembling, a sense of charm and ecstasy when the storm burstover my head. Tears came to my eyes and trickled down my cheeks; but Istood rooted there like a little tree, gazing up at my father, and wasfilled with an inexplicable sense of wellbeing, that increased mightilythe longer and louder he thundered.

  When after such a scene weeks went by without my concocting mischief,and my father, kind and silent as ever, went about his business withouttaking notice of me, the longing to devise something to put him in arage gradually began and ripened in me again. This was not for the sakeof vexing him, for I loved him passionately; nor yet from malice; butfrom another cause which I did not understand at the time.

  Thus it once happened on the sacred eve of Christmas. In the previoussummer in Maria Zell[2] my father had bought a little black cross onwhich hung a Christus in cast lead, and all the instruments of thePassion in the same material. This treasure had been put safely awayuntil Christmas Eve, when my father brought it out of his press and setit on the little house-altar. I profited by the time when my parentsand the rest of our people were still busy on the farm outside and inthe kitchen making ready for the great festival, and, not withoutendangering my sound limbs, I reached the crucifix down from the wall,and crouched down behind the stove with it, and began taking it topieces. It was a rare joy to me when with the aid of my littlepocket-knife I loosened first the ladder, then the pincers and hammer,then Peter's cock, and at last the dear Christ Himself from the cross.The separated parts seemed to me much more interesting now than beforeas a whole; but when I had finished and wanted to put the thingstogether again and could not, I began to grow hot inside and thought Iwas choking. Would it stop at a mere scolding this time? To be sure, Itold myself: the black cross is now much finer than before; there is ablack cross with nothing on it in the chapel in Hohenwang too, andpeople go there to pray. Besides, who wants a crucified Lord atChristmas time? At that time He ought to be lying in the manger--thePriest said so; and I must see about that now.

  I bent the legs of the leaden Christus back and the arms over thebreast, then laid Him reverently in my mother's work-basket, and so setmy crib upon the house-altar; while I hid the cross in the straw of myparents' bed--forgetting that the basket would betray the taking downfrom the cross.

  Fate swiftly overtook me. My mother was first to observe how absurdlythe work-basket had got up among the Saints to-day!

  "Who can have found the crucifix in his way up there?" asked my fatherat the very same moment.

  I was standing a little apart, and I felt like a creature thirsting forstrong wine to drink. But at the same time a strange fear warned me toget still farther into the background if possible.

  My father approached me, asking almost humbly if I did not know wherethe crucifix had got to? I stood bolt upright before him and looked himin the face. He repeated his question. I pointed towards the bed-straw;tears came, but I believe there was no quiver of my lips.

  My father searched for and found it, and was not angry, only surprisedwhen he saw the mishandling of the sacred relic. My craving for thestrong bitter wine grew apace. My father put the bare cross on thetable.

  "I can see," he said, speaking with perfect calmness, and he took hishat down from the nail, "I can see he'll have to be thoroughly punishedat last. When even the Lord Christ Himself is not safe----! Mind youstay in the room, boy!" he bade me darkly, and then went out to thedoor.

  "Run after him and beg for pardon!" cried my mother to me. "He's goneto cut a birch-rod."

  I was as if welded to the floor. With horrible clearness I saw whatwould befall me, but was quite incapable of taking a single step inself-defence. My mother went about her work; I stood alone in thedarkening room, the mutilated crucifix on the table before me. Theleast sound scared me. Inside the old case of the Black Forest clockstanding there on the floor against the wall, the weights rattled asthe clock struck five. At last I heard someone outside knocking thesnow off his shoes; that was my father's step. When he entered the roomwith the birch-rod I had vanished.

  He went into the kitchen and demanded in abrupt and angry tones wherethe rascal was? Then began a search throughout the whole house; in theliving-room the bed and the corner by the stove and the great cofferwere rummaged through. I heard them moving about in the next room, inthe loft overhead. I heard orders given to search through the verymangers in the byres and the hay and straw in the barns; they were togo out to the shed, too, and bring the fellow straight to hisfather--he should remember this Christmas Eve all the rest of his life!But they came back empty-handed. Two farm-hands were to be sent aboutamong the neighbours; but my mother called out that if I had gone overthe open and through the forest to a neighbour I should certainly befrozen to death, for my little coat and hat were still in the room.What grief and vexation children were!

  They went away, the house was nearly empty and in the dark room therewas nothing visible but the grey squares of the windows. I was hiddenin the clock-case and could peep through the chinks. I had squeezed inthrough the little door meant for winding up the works and let myselfdown inside the panelling, so that I was now standing upright in theclock-case.

  What anguish I suffered in my hiding-place! That no good could come ofit all, and that the hourly increasing commotion was certainly workingtowards an hourly more dangerous conclusion, I clearly perceived. Ibitterly blamed the work-basket which had betrayed me from the verybeginning, and I blamed the little crucifix; but I quite forgot toblame my own folly. Hours passed, I was still in my up-on-end coffin,already the icicles of the clock-weights touched the crown of my head,and I had to duck myself down as well as I could lest the stopping ofthe clock should lead to its winding up and thereby the discovery ofmyself. For my parents had at last come back into the room again andkindled a light and were beginning to quarrel about me.

  "I don't know anywhere else to look for him," said my father, and hesank exhausted on a chair.

  "Just think, if he's gone astray in the forest, or if he's lying underthe snow!" cried my mother, and broke into audible weeping.

  "Don't say such things!" said my father, "I can't bear to hear it."

  "You can't bear to hear it, and yet you yourself have driven him awaywith your harshness!"

  "I shouldn't have broken any bones with these twigs," he replied, andbrought the birch-rod swishing down upon the table: "but if I catch himnow, I'll break a hedge-pole across his back!"

  "Do it, do it!--perhaps it will never hurt him any more!" said mymother, and
wept again. "Do you think that children were given youonly to vent your anger on? In that case our dear Lord is quite rightwhen He takes them again betimes to Himself. One must love littlechildren if they're to come to any good!"

  Thereupon he said, "Who says that I don't love the boy? I love him withmy whole heart, God knows, but I don't care to tell him so: I don'tcare to, and what's more I can't. It doesn't hurt him half as much asme when I have to punish him, that I _know_!"

  "Well, I'm going out for another look!" sighed my mother.

  "I can't rest here, neither!" he said.

  "You must just swallow a spoonful of warm soup, to please me--it'ssupper-time," she said.

  "I couldn't eat now, I'm fairly at my wits' end," said my father, andknelt down by the table and began to pray silently.

  My mother went into the kitchen to get together my warm clothes for thefresh search in case they should find me anywhere, half frozen. Theroom was silent again, and I, in the clock-case, felt as if my heartmust burst for sorrow and anguish. Suddenly, in the midst of hisprayer, my father began to sob convulsively. His head fell on his armand his whole body shook.

  I gave a piercing cry.

  A few seconds later I was lifted out of my shell by my parents, and Ifell at my father's feet and clung whimpering to his knee.

  "Father, father!" were the only words I could stammer out. He reacheddown to me with both his arms, lifted me up to his breast, and my hairwas wet with his tears.

  In that moment the eyes of my understanding were opened.

  I saw how dreadful it was to anger and offend such a father. But I saw,too, why I had done so--from sheer longing to see my father's facebefore me, to be able to look into his eyes and hear his voice speakingto _me_. If he could not be cheery as others were with me, and as he,at that time so care-laden, seldom was, then I would at least look intohis angry eyes, hear his harsh words. They went tingling deliciouslyall through me, and drew me to him with irresistible might. At leastthey were my father's eyes and words.

  No further jar unhallowed our Christmas Eve, and from that day onthings were very different. My father had become deeply aware of hislove for me and my devotion to him; and, in many an hour of play, work,and rest, bestowed upon me his dear face and kindly conversation, sothat I never again needed to get them by guile.

  FOOTNOTE:

  [2] A place of pilgrimage in Styria.