XIX
About my Mother
I
It was high carnival in Gratz city. In the evenings, a mad thronging inthe streets, a well-nigh deafening rattling of carriages, a yelling andshouting, a flaring and glaring from the shops and stalls and from thehundreds of lamps and numberless transparencies in the windows. Goldand silver, silks and damasks gleamed in the shop-fronts. Masks ofevery hue and shape grinned beside them. Ha, what a mad thing life canbe!
I hurried through the crowd. The clock on the castle hill struck six:six strokes so clear that they outrang all the din and re-echoed fromthe tall, light-pierced walls of the houses. The summons of the clockis a stern admonisher: let man play as childishly as he will withtinsel pleasures and light dalliance, it counts the hours out to himand gives him not a minute's grace.
I went home to my quiet room and was soon in bed.
Next morning, the winter sun lay shining on the snow-clad roofs; and Iwas jotting down the fairy-tale of the Lost Child, when someone knockedat my door. A man entered and handed me a telegram:
"Dear son, yesterday evening, at six o'clock, our dear mother passed away. Come home, we are expecting you in the greatest affliction. Your father."
Last evening it had happened, in the poor cottage, while I wasstriding through the worldly turmoil. And at six o'clock!
Early next morning, I was in the parish village. I entered on the roadalone, over hills glittering with snow and through long woods, far intothe lonely mountain valley. I had walked that road endless timesbefore, had always delighted in the glistening snow, in the sparklingicicles, in the snowy mantles of the boughs, or, if it was summer, inthe green leaves and the blossoms and the fragrance, in the song of thebirds, in the drops of light that trickled through the branches, in theprofound peace and loneliness. How often had I gone that way withmother, when she was still well and in her prime, and, later, when,crippled through illness, she tottered along on my arm! And, on thisforest road, I thought of my parents' life.
He had come to the forest farm a young man.
People called him Lenz, not because he was young and blooming andjoyful as the _Lenz_, or spring, but because his name was Lorenz.
His father had been severely wounded in a brawl, lain ill for but alittle while and died an early death.
So now Lenz was the owner of the forest farm. To recover in a measurefrom his sadness for his father's sake, he did a capital thing: helooked about him for a wife. He took almost the poorest and the mostdisregarded that the forest valley contained: a girl who wasfrightfully black all through the week, but had quite a nice littlewhite face on Sundays. She was the daughter of a charcoal-burning womanand worked for her aged mother, but had never seen her father.
One year after the wedding, in the summer, the young woodman's wifepresented her Lenz with a first-born. He received the name of Peter andnow runs all over the world with it, an everlasting child.
Her life was so peculiar, her life was so good, her life had a crown ofthorns.
Our farm was no small one and its days were well-ordered; but my motherdid not play the grand farmer's wife: she was housewife andservant-maid in one.
My mother was an educated woman: she could "read print"; she had learntthat from a charcoal-burner. She knew the story of the Bible by heart;and she had no end of legends, fairy-tales and songs from her mother.Moreover, she was always ready with help in word and deed and neverlost her head in any mishap and always knew the right thing to do.
"That's how my mother used to do, that's what my mother used to say,"she was constantly remarking; and this continued her rule and precept,long after her mother was laid to rest in the churchyard.
No doubt, there was at times a little bigotry, what we call"charcoal-burner's faith," mixed up with it, yet in such a way that itdid no harm, but rather spread a gentle poetry over the poor life inthe houses in the wood.
The poor knew my mother from far and wide: none knocked at her door invain; none was sent hungry away. To him whom she considered really poorand who asked her for a piece of bread she gave half a loaf; and, if hebegged for a gill of flour, she handed him a lump of lard with it. And"God bless you!" she said, in addition: that she always said.
"What will be the end of us, if you give everything away wholesale?" myfather often said to her, almost angrily.
"Heaven, perhaps," she answered. "My mother often used to say that theangels register every 'God reward you' of the poor before God's holythrone. How glad we shall be one day, when we have the poor tointercede for us with Our Lord!"
My father believed in fasting on Saturdays and often did not take amorsel of food before the shadows began to lengthen. He did this inhonour of the Blessed Virgin.[20]
"I tell you, Lenz, that sort of fasting serves no useful purpose!" mymother would sometimes say, in protest. "What you go without to-day,you simply eat to-morrow. My mother always used to say, 'What you havethrough fasting left, give to the poor so sore bereft.' I somehow thinkit does no good otherwise."
My father used to pray in the evenings, especially at "rosary-time,"and on Saturdays prayed long and loud, but often did odd jobs at thesame time, such as nailing his shoes, patching his trousers or evenshaving himself. In so doing, he not seldom lost the thread of hisprayers, until my mother would snatch the things from his hands andcry:
"Heavens alive, what manner of praying is this! Kneeling beside thetable and saying three Our Fathers with application is better thanthree rosaries during which the evil one steals away your good thoughtswhile you're playing about!"
At times of hard work, my mother was fond of a good table:
"Who works with a will may eat with a will," she said. "My mother usedalways to say, 'Who dares not risk to lose a tittle, dares not eitherwin a little.'"
My father was content with scanty fare; he was always fearing that thehome would be ruined.
These were the only differences in their married life; and even thosedid not go deep. They uttered them only to each other: when fathertalked to strangers, he praised mother; when mother talked tostrangers, she praised father.
They were of one mind as regarded the bringing-up of children. Work andprayer, thrift and honesty, were our main precepts.
I only once received a proper thrashing. In front of the house was ayoung copse of larch--and fir-trees, which gradually grew up so highthat it shut out the view of the mountains on that side. Now I lovedthis view and I thought that father would be sure to thank me ifI--who was an enterprising lad in those days--cut down the littletrees. And, true enough, one afternoon, when everyone was in thefields, I stole into the little wood with an axe and began to cut downyoung trees. Before long, my father appeared upon the scene; but thethanks which he gave me had a very queer look.
"Lend me the hatchet, boy!" he said, quietly.
I thought, "Now he'll tackle to himself: so much the better"; and Ipassed him the axe.
He used it to chop off a birch-switch and flattened it across my back.
"Wait a bit!" he cried. "Do you want to do for the young wood? It hasmore rods for you, where this came from!"
I had a thrashing just once from my mother too. I liked sitting by thehearth when mother was cooking; and, one day, I knocked over thestock-pot full of soup, half putting out the fire and nearly burning mylittle bare feet. My mother was not there at the moment; and, when shecame running in at the sound of the mighty hissing, I cried out,crimson in the face:
"The cat, the cat has upset the stock-pot!"
"Yes, that same cat has two legs and tells lies!" mother retorted.
And she took me and thrashed me for a long time with the rod.
"If ever you tell me a lie again," she cried, when she had done, "I'llcut you to pieces with the flue-rake!"
A serious threat! Thank goodness, it never had to be fulfilled.
On the other hand, when I was good and obedient, I was rewarded. Myreward took the form of songs which she sang to me, tales which shetold me, when we walked throug
h the forest together or when she sat bymy bedside in the evening. All that is best in me I have from her. Shehad a worldful of poetry within her.
When my brothers and sisters came one after the other, mother loved usall alike and favoured none. Afterwards, when two died in theirchildhood, I saw mother for the first time crying. We others cried withher and thenceforth always cried whenever we saw mother shedding tears.
And this was quite often, from that time onwards. Father lay sick fortwo years on end. We had ill-luck in the farm and in the fields; hailand murrain came; our corn-mill was burnt down.
Then mother wept in secret, lest we children should see her. And sheworked without ceasing, fretted, and ended by falling ill. The doctorsof the whole neighbourhood around were called in to advise: they coulddo nothing but charge fat fees; only one of them said:
"I won't take payment from such poor people."
Yes, in spite of all our jollity, we had become poor people. The goodsand chattels were all gone; of the once big property nothing remainedto us but the taxes. My father now resolved to sell the encumbered farmas well as he could. But mother would not have it: she worked on, illas she was, with trouble and zeal, and never gave up hope. She couldnot bear to think of giving up her home, the house where her childrenwere born. She denied her illness, said that she had never felt betterin her life and that she would work for three.
My brothers and sisters also considered that they could not leave thehomestead; besides, none of them had one good pair of shoes left to puton. And mother, when, once in a way, she wished to go to the parishchurch, had to borrow a jacket free from patches from somejourneyman-woodman's wife or other. And the greatest pain of all waspeople's arrogance and their scorn if ever they did lend anyassistance. They had forgotten the kindnesses which my mother had onceshown to one and all according to her power. At that time, she was themost honoured farmer's wife in all the houses in the forest.But--misfortune destroys friendship! As, indeed, her mother, thecharcoal-burner, had often said.
I will relate an experience of that sad time, when my mother wasailing. It begins with a bright and sunny Whitsuntide.
That bright and sunny Whit Monday was her thirty-ninth birthday. It wasa gladsome day. The crops were green in the fields; and the herdsgrazed in the high meadow: true, they did not belong to us, but to ourneighbour; and yet we delighted in them, because they were fat andjolly. My father had already paid last year's taxes; the financialposition, which had been disturbed during father's long illness, seemedgradually coming to rights; and consequently we were once more risingin people's opinions. On this day, we walked through the meadowstogether; and the little ones picked flowers and the grown-ups praisedGod's works with a cheerful word or a song. Then mother sat down on astone and was like to die.
We dragged her home, we put her to bed, where she lay for long: weekslong, months long. All the neighbours came and brought their well-meantsympathy; all the doctors from near and far came and brought theirwell-meant medicine. The patient, as they admitted behind her back, hadhad a stroke; she was languishing. But, when the cool autumn came, shegrew better: she now no longer lay in bed by day, but sat on the benchby the fire or at the table, where the children played, or by thehearth, where she instructed clumsy father in the art of cooking. Shewas not cheerful, nor was she cast down; she took things as they cameand did not complain: only, between whiles, when she was alone, sheheaved a deep sigh. Thus winter passed. The delightful Whitsuntide cameagain and mother was ill.
At this festival, the old woman from the Riegelberg came to see andbrought a few rolls with her. She suggested all sorts of householdremedies and reckoned up a number of hale and hearty people who hadbecome hale and hearty through taking the aforesaid remedies. And atlast she asked, hadn't we been to Stegthomerl--Tom of theFootpath--yet?
No, we confessed, we had not been to him as yet.
Then how could we have been so remiss and however could we haveneglected to go to Tom of the Footpath? He was the very first to whomone ought to send in that sort of illness!
But it was such a distance to get there, father objected. "And, if itwas a three days' journey, it is not too far for health's sake."
"That's very true, I grant you: it would not be too far for health,"said father. "And think you, Riegelbergerin, that he could cure her?"
"Curing, my dear woodman, is in God's hands," answered the woman fromthe Riegelberg, with her wonted superiority. "Even the best doctorscannot work miracles. But he knows, does Tom of the Footpath, and he'lltell you whether a cure is still possible or not." The very next day, amessenger was sent over the mountains to the valley where Tom of theFootpath lived. He went off early and he came home late and he broughtthe answer that Tom of the Footpath had said he could say nothing atall as long as he did not see the invalid for himself.
The next day, another messenger went off (for the first had gone lameon the long road) to fetch Tom of the Footpath. He came back late atnight alone and brought the news that Tom of the Footpath didn't visitpatients: Thomas himself was not as young as he had been; also he didnot wish to be locked up again because the qualified doctors sufferedfrom an infernal professional jealousy and wanted to bury everybodythemselves. If the sick woodman's wife cared to come to him, theremight be something to be done. But he did not go running after sickpeople.
This was manfully spoken, after all, and we all of us understood that aman who knows his own value does not exactly care to make himselfcheap. But now came a great embarrassment. The weather, to be sure, wasfine and warm; the days were long, and mother was quite ready to go.But how were we to carry her on that many-hours' road to Tom of theFootpath? It was impossible. Drive? We had no cart; and the last pairof draught-oxen had been taken from us by the creditors to whom we hadhad to apply once more during mother's illness. The neighbours wereusing their oxen just now for ploughing the fields. The jobbing farmerhad two horses: he was willing to let them out to us, but his chargefor the day--father struck his hands together at the thought--was fiveflorins and their oats.
And, as we were all sitting in deep distress around our sick mother,seeking for a way out of the difficulty and finding none, the dooropened and the lad from the road-side tavern walked in.
"What do you want, my boy?" asked my father.
The boy stood dangling his arms.
"Ay," he said, "it's this way: Samersteffel sends word to say that, ifthe woodman likes to have his horse and cart, he can have them."
Samersteffel was what Stephen, the local carrier, was called.
"Where is Carrier Steve?"
"He's with us and he's put up his horse and cart at our place."
My father thought over what he had better say; then he said:
"Steve is sure to want a good price; tell him from me, no, but I'mobliged to him."
The boy went away; and, in an hour's time, Carrier Steve came round inperson. He was a little fat man, who, in the old days, before the roadwas made, used to carry all sorts of things over the mountain-path witha pack-horse. Now that the road was there, he had set up a littlelight cart, in which he conveyed corn, salt, cider and so on, but allfor money, of course, as that was what he lived by; and not only that,but he wanted to get rich, so as to build a big inn on the new road. Tobe an innkeeper was the dream of his life; and he had the making of onein him, for he was always in a good temper and would certainly know howto entertain his visitors.
But to-day, when he walked into our parlour, he was in anything but agood temper.
"You're making a lot of useless trouble for one of us," he said, andsat down puffing and panting on the bench against the wall. "Have youever heard, woodman, that I have pressed myself on anyone for the sakeof gain? You can't have heard such a thing said about me, for, thankGod, I don't need it. Once I myself propose to carry anything, I carryit gratis. I heard that your wife wanted to go to Tom of the Footpathand that she had no trap of any kind. My mother, God rest her soul, wasalso ill for a long time; I know what it means: it's a misery. If yo
ulike, woodman, I'll drive your wife over to Tom of the Footpathto-morrow."
Then we all felt really glad. We did not give a further thought to thequestion whether the long drive would do good or harm, or whether thenew physic would take effect, or how the illness would turn outafterwards. To Tom of the Footpath, just to Tom of the Footpath: thatwould put everything right.
I was awakened early next day, when the morning star peeped through thegreat black ash-trees. Father had to stay behind to look after thefarm; and I, the thirteen-year-old lad, must go with mother to see thatnothing happened to her. Mother was already at her breakfast and did asif she thoroughly relished the milk-porridge. Carrier Steve and I ate abowl of curds and whey and then we drove off. Steve sat on the littledriver's seat and talked out loud to his nag, telling it to be a goodhorse and trot over the mountains briskly "so that we can bringwoodman's wife home again before the day is out." My mother sat,wrapped up in all her clothes, and my father's storm-cloak into thebargain, on a leather cushion, with straw at her feet and a heavyblanket over all, allowing only a part of her head to show above it. Isat beside this sick-bed and was heavy at heart.
It was still chilly night; the sky began to turn a little pale over theWechselberg. The road led across the meadows. Now the birds woke; nowthe glory of the dawn commenced; now the great sun rose in the heavens.My mother drew back the blanket a little and gazed up at the sun:
"I feel full of hope," she whispered and felt for my hand, "if only thesummer helps a bit and Tom of the Footpath too. After all, I'm not soold yet. What do you think, my child? Shall I be able to look at theworld again a hale woman?"
I was as confident as she; I felt quite relieved. The morning sun! Thedear warm morning sun!
Mother became chatty.
"It's silly, when you come to think of it," she said, suddenly, andlaughed almost aloud, "how fond a body is of being in the world. Ofcourse, I should be sorry to leave my folk. And it would be a pity formy Lenzel, your father, to be left all alone; the children are so smallyet."
"But I'm getting pretty big now," I protested.
Then mother turned her face right round to me and said:
"It's just you, my Peter, it's just you about whom I'm most anxious.You see, you appear to me quite different from other boys of your age.You've no real mind for work, that is to say, you have the mind,perhaps, but you take no honest pleasure in it. Yes, yes, deny it asyou may, I know you, you don't care about farming, you hang around andyou want something else, you yourself don't know what. You see, that'sreally the worst of it. And so I should like to pray to God and ask Himto leave me with you, so that I can keep a hold on you until I knowwhat's to become of you."
"Will you be a carrier? How would that suit you, boy?" cried Steve,over his shoulder, to us in the cart.
"A good carrier, who takes poor people driving: I wouldn't mind that,"remarked my mother, whereupon Steve gave a little smirk.
The road led straight up and became stony; Steve and I got down andwalked beside the creaking cart. The sun had become hot. It was atiring drive and we only got on slowly.
When we were up at the top and driving along through the almost level,but dark woods of the Fischbacheralpe, we no longer heard thecart-wheels, for the ground was thickly strewn with pine-needles, savethat, every now and again, the wheels struck against a root. The birdshad become silent, for the hot day lay over the tree-tops. My motherhad fallen asleep. I looked at her pale face and thought:
"Tom of the Footpath is sure to know of something that will do hergood; it's a lucky thing that we were able to drive to Tom of theFootpath."
"Like a bit of bread, Peter?" asked Steve.
"I should be glad of a bit."
And, when I got my piece of bread, there was a piece of bacon on it;and now my distress began. I held the thing in my hand for ever so longand looked at it and looked up at my mother: she was asleep. I did notwant to offend Steve, who meant so well by us. As, however, I could notleave the thing as it was, lying in my hand, I at last began, firstquite softly, but gradually louder, to call out:
"Steve!"
"What do you want?" he asked, at last.
"I should only like to beg as a favour," I said, quite despondently,"just as a favour, that I need not eat the bacon. For indeed I don'tlike bacon."
"You don't know what's good," said the driver, laughing, and relievedme of my difficulty.
At last, we began to go downhill; and now the cart jolted over theburning stones and shook the invalid out of her sleep; and the sunburnt into her marrow; and she felt chilled all the same.
Steve muttered:
"Tom of the Footpath must be the devil of a good doctor to make a drivelike this worth while. Hold up, Sorrel: we've not much further to go."
It was late in the afternoon when we reached the valley and stopped atthe little house where Tom of the Footpath lived.
We carried mother into the musty, stuffy parlour, in which all thelittle windows were tight shut. There we let her down on the bench andasked for Tom.
A grumpy old woman answered that Tom was not there.
"We can see that," said Steve, "but might we ask where he is?"
"Can't say."
"When's he coming in?"
"Maybe he won't stay out long, maybe he won't be back till night, maybehe's gone to the ale-house."
The old woman left the room; and there we sat. My mother drew a deepbreath.
Steve went after the old woman and asked her for a spoonful of hot soupfor the invalid.
"Where should I get hot soup from at this time of day? The fire's beenout on the hearth this long since."
That was the answer. Thereupon the driver himself set to and lit thefire, looked for milk and boiled it.
Mother ate only a little of the soup and pushed the bowl to us, so thatwe should have some warm food too.
When that was done, Steve gave the woman a silver ten-kreuzer for themilk and for the hay which the sorrel ate.
After a time, during which it turned quite dark in the parlour, once ortwice, because clouds were passing in front of the sun outside, Tom ofthe Footpath walked into the room. He was a short, spindle-shanked man,but had a big head, broad shoulders, a very high chest and a great humpon his back. And his head was sunk into his shoulders, so that themannikin had to turn right round, with his whole body, whenever hewanted to turn his head. I can see him plainly to this day, as hestepped in through the door and looked at us, first sharply and thensmilingly, with his wandering, vacant face.
My mother at once became fidgety and tried to rise from her seat, inorder to put her request to him in a respectful fashion.
Tom made a sign with his hand that she need not trouble and presentlysaid, in a rather sing-song voice:
"I know, I know, you're the woodman's wife from the Alpel; you had astroke a year ago."
"I had a stroke?" asked the invalid, in dismay.
"You've been doctoring all round the place, far and wide; and now,because no one else can do you any good, you come to me. They're allalike: they come to me when they're dying; and if, after that, Tom ofthe Footpath's physic doesn't work a miracle and the patient goes theway of all flesh, then they say that Tom of the Footpath has been thecause of his death."
These words were terrible to listen to, in themselves, but still theywere bearable because they were spoken with a smiling face and becauseTom went on to add:
"Hope it'll prove an exception in your case, woodman's wife. I'll justexamine you now."
First of all, of course, he felt her pulse:
"It hops," he muttered, "it hops."
Then, with his broad fingers, he pushed her eyebrows apart and lookedinto the whites--and said nothing. Next, she had to bare her neck andhe put his ear to it--and said nothing. Furthermore, he attentivelystudied the lines of her hand, then asked after the sick woman's actualstate of health and went on to examine the arteries and therespiration, so that I at once conceived a high opinion of the man'sconscientiousness.
&nb
sp; And, when he had finished his examination, he sat down on a chairopposite my mother, who was slowly wrapping herself up again in herclothes, spread out his legs, sank his chin into his body and, with hisarms crossed over his chest, said:
"Yes, my dear woodman's wife, you've got to die."
My mother gave a light start, I sprang to my feet. Steve, however,remained sitting quite calmly in his seat, looked hard at Tom of theFootpath for a while and then said, suddenly:
"And you haven't, I suppose? No, you old camel, your day's coming too,God damn it all!"
It was now high time to go. We hurriedly packed up and drove offhomeward.
It was sultry and shady; the sky was covered with clouds; there was nota living thing in sight; not a tree-top stirred; our cart rattledheavily along. My mother lay silently in her corner and gazed at thedarkling world with her great, black eyes.
Steve sat fuming on his box, but gradually became quieter; and he nowgrunted:
"To think of a man being as drunk as all that!"
"Who?" I asked.
"Such a drunken bout is really worth making a day's journey to go andhave a look at," Steve continued. "True enough, I'd heard tell that theold camel was seldom sober; and he'd come straight from the ale-houseto-day."
"I dare say it was just as well," my mother said. "If he had beensober, perhaps he would not have told me the truth."
And so we drove away in great sadness. The thunder rolled over themountains, quite hoarse and dull; the Fischbach storm-bell rang in thedistance. Then my mother sat upright and said:
"You must do something to please me, Peter; and I'll ask Steve as well:it's no use telling father, my husband, what Tom of the Footpath said."
"Indeed, it would never do to repeat such fool's talk," cried thedriver, very loudly, "but I'm going to the magistrate! I shall informagainst him! That's what I shall do!"
"I beg of you, Steve, let it be," my mother asked. "You mustn't thinkthat I take it so much to heart. I myself have often thought that thething will end with me as it ends with all ailing people. What can Tomof the Footpath do against that! We did not go to him to get him totell us lies. I'm only sorry that we never once asked what we owed himfor his straightforwardness."
Now Steve burst out laughing and sent the whip whizzing once or twicethrough the air, notwithstanding that the horse was doing its best.
When we drove along over the heights, the threatening storm haddispersed entirely; the setting sun shone with a faint golden gleamover the wide landscape, over wood and meadows; and a cool breeze blewin our faces.
A bright tear lay on my mother's pale cheeks.
As, silent and tired, we drove through our home meadows, the starsappeared in the sky. On every side, the song of the crickets purled andchirped in the grass. By the fence, where our hillside began, stood ablack figure that accosted us and asked if it was we.
It was my father, who had come to meet us. My mother called him byname; her voice was weak and trembling.
Father took us indoors, without asking a question.
Not until we were in the parlour and the rushlight was burning did heask how we had fared.
"Not badly," said Steve, "not at all badly: we have been verycheerful."
"And Tom of the Footpath: what did he say?"
"He said that, like other people, woodman's wife wouldn't live forever, but that she has plenty of time before her, oh, plenty of time.Only you're to take care: give her lots of good air in the summer, nottoo much work and no excitement, good food and drink and no physic, nophysic at all, he said. And then she'll get all right again."
A time elapsed after that. My father tried to nurse mother according toSteve's dictum, which he believed to be Tom of the Footpath's dictum;and, when winter came, she sat at the spinning-wheel and span. Themouse had not bitten the thread in two.
That same winter brought the news that Tom of the Footpath had beenfound frozen to death in the snow, not far from the ale-house on theFischbacheralpe. We said an Our Father for his soul.
Carrier Steve, who came to see us now and then and always remained thegood, cheerful man he was, had also forgiven Thomas: true, it waswholly and solely because he had proved wrong that time.
II
I failed--to return to our other circumstances--to take any pleasure inthe peasant's life and also I really lacked the strength for it. I thentook up a trade, but was not able to help my parents; I wanted to paymy father for my Sunday board, which I had at home, but he would takenothing from me, said that I was just as much his child as before, onlyI must not burn so many rushes when I was home on Saturday nights.
"Oh, goodness me, let him have that pleasure: he hasn't so many!" mymother would say and intercede for me.
Then things altered with me. I went into the world. It was hard partingwith my mother; but, in a short time, she was able to see that my lifehad become happier.
And, now that happiness had come, envy soon came hobbling along--or wasit stupidity? A rumour passed through the forest hills:
"So far, it's all right with Peter; but, as always happens in town, heis sure to fall away from the Christian faith."
And soon the talk grew:
"A nice story that! All of a sudden, he finds honest work too hard forhim and righteous fare not good enough, goes to town and eatsflesh-meat on Our Lady's day and falls away from the faith."
My mother laughed at first, when she heard that, for she knew herchild. But then the thought came to her: suppose it were true afterall! Suppose her dear child were forgetting God and going astray!
She knew no peace. She went and borrowed clothes from blind Julia andborrowed three florins from a good-natured huckstress andtravelled--sick and infirm as she was, leaning with either hand on astick--to the capital. She wanted to see for herself what was true inpeople's talk. She found her child a poor student in a black coat,which he had had given him, and with his hair combed off his forehead.None of this pleased her greatly, it is true; it succeeded, however, inappeasing her. But, in the two days of her stay in town, she saw themad, frivolous doings on every side, saw the neglect of old customswhich she revered and the mocking of things that were sacred to her,and she said to me:
"You will never be able to stay among people like those, child; theywould drag you down with them and ruin your soul."
"No, mother," I answered, "a man can think as he wishes; and peoplecan't take away good thoughts."
She said no more. But, when she returned to the forest hills and heardthe talk again, she was more dejected than ever.
It was all up now with the homestead. House and farm were sold, madeover to the creditors; my brothers and sisters engaged as servants withstrange farmers. The destitute parents were given a cottage that, untilthen, had belonged to the property. My youngest brother, who was notyet able to earn his bread, and one sister remained with them andnursed poor mother. Father kept on going over the mountains to thedoctors', and all but promised them his own life, if they could savethe life of his wife.
In the cottage, things looked very wretched. The ailing woman sufferedin silence. The light of her eyes threatened to fail her, her mentalfaculties appeared to fade. Death knocked at her heart with repeatedstrokes. She often seemed to endure severe pain, but said nothing; sheno longer took any interest in the world, asked only after her husband,after her children. And she lay years a-dying.
I often came to see her during that time. She hardly knew me, when Istood by her bedside; but then again she would say, as in a dream:
"Is that you, Peterl? Praise and thanks be to God that you are hereagain!"
During midsummer, we would carry her, once in a way, with bed and all,out of the stuffy room into the air, so that she might see the sunshineonce more. I do not know if she saw it: she kept her eyes open andlooked up at the sun; her optic nerves seemed dead.
Then, suddenly, days came when she was different. She was cheerful andlonged to go out into the open.
"Do get quite well again, Maria," said her husban
d, "and we shallremain together a long while yet."
"Yes," she answered.
I thought of all this on my way through the forest--and now it was allover with this poor rich life.
When, at last, after walking for hours through the woods along themountain-path, I saw the thatched cottage on the hill-side, then it wasas though a misty shadow covered woods and plains and all; and yet thesunlight hung over it. A puff of grey smoke rose from the littlechimney. Does she suspect my coming? thought I. Is she cooking myfavourite dish? No, strangers are preparing a funeral feast.
You stood long, Peterl, outside the half-open door; and your handtrembled when at last it touched the latch. The door opened, you walkedin, it was dark in the narrow passage, with only a dim little oil-lampflickering in a glass, and yet you saw it clearly: against the wall,under the smoky stairs, on a plank lay the bier, covered entirely witha big white cloth. At the head stood a crucifix and the holy-waterstoup, with a sprig of fir in it....
You fell upon your knees.... And the tears came at last. The tearswhich the mother's heart once gave us to take with us into this worldfor our relief in sorrow and for our only consolation in the hour whenno other comfort reaches the soul, when strangers cannot understand usand when the mother's heart has ceased to beat. Hail, O rich andeternal legacy!
Now the door of the parlour opened softly and Maria, the youngersister, stepped out. The girl at once began to cry when she saw thebrother of whom they had all spoken so often, for whom mother's lastglance had asked and who was far away when she closed her eyes. Now helay there on his knees and cried over the memory of her life.
Even her children here at home had slept through the night of thedeath. Not till the glow of early morning lit up the little windows didfather go to the girls in the bedroom and say:
"Open your eyes and look out. The sun is already rising over theWechsel; and the Blessed Virgin is sitting on the mountain-top, withthe Child Jesus on her knee; and your mother is sitting on the stoolat her feet, with a spinning-wheel before her, weaving her heavenlygarment."
Then they knew at once that mother was dead.
"Would you like to look at her?" my sister now asked.
And she went to the head of the bier and slowly raised the shroud.
I saw my mother. Heaven's bliss still lay on the stiff, stark visage.The load was gone from my heart, relieved and comforted; I looked uponthe dear features as though I were contemplating a white flower. It wasno longer the poor, sick, weary woman that lay before me: it was theface lit up with a ray from the youthful days long past. She lay thereslumbering and was strong and well. She was young again and white andgentle; she wore a little smile, as she often did when she looked atthe merry little fellow playing about with his toys at her feet. Thedark and glossy hair (she had no grey hairs yet) was carefully braidedand peeped out a little at the temples from under the brown kerchief,the one which she loved best to wear upon her head when she went tochurch on holidays. She held her hands folded over her breast, with therosary and the wax candle between them. She lay there just as thoughshe had fallen asleep in church on Whit Sunday, during the solemn HighMass; and thus, even in death, she comforted her child. But the roughhands clearly showed that the slumberer had led a hard and toilfullife.
And so you stood before this sacred image, nearly as still andmotionless as the sleeper.
At last, you whispered to your little sister, who stood softly weepingby your side:
"Who closed her eyes?"
A sound of hammering came from the parlour. The carpenter was knockingtogether the last dwelling-house.
After a while, Maria drew the shroud over the head again, as softlyand carefully as when she used to cover up our little mother, hundredsand hundreds of times, in the long period of sickness.
Then I went into the small, warm parlour. Father, my elder sister, mytwo brothers, of whom the younger was still a boy, came up to me withmournful looks. They hardly spoke a word, they gave me their hands, allbut the little fellow, who hid himself in the chimney-corner, where wecould hear his sobbing.
Joseph the carpenter was calmly planing away at the coffin, which hehad now finished joining, and smoked his pipe as he did so.
Later, when the afternoon shadows had lengthened outside, far over theglittering snow-clad meadow-land, when, in the parlour, Joseph waspainting the black cross on the coffin-lid, father sat down beside itand said, softly:
"Please God, after all, she has a house of her own again."
On the first day after mother's death, no fire had been lit on thecottage-hearth. One and all had forgotten that a mortal man wants abasin of hot soup in the morning and at mid-day. On the other hand, ablazing fire had been kindled on the field behind the little house, toburn the straw bedding on which she had died, even as, long ago, theforefathers had fanned their Odin fires, commending the beloved dead tothe Goddess Hella, the great concealer.[21]
I had sat down on the bench and lifted my little brother up to me. Thelittle man glanced at me quite fearsomely: I had a black coat on and awhite scarf round my neck and I looked very grand in his eyes. I heldhis little hand, which already had horny blisters on it, in mine. ThenI asked father to tell us something of mother's life.
"Wait a little," answered father and looked on at the drawing of thecross, as in a dream.
At last, he heaved a deep sigh and said:
"So it's finished now. Her cross and suffering lasted long, that'strue; but her life was short. Children, I tell you, not everyone has amother like yours. For you, Peter, she nearly gave up her life, whenyou came into the world. And so they followed one after the other: joysand sorrows, care and want, poverty and wretchedness! And, when I wassick unto death and the doctors agreed that I must go the way of allflesh, that there was no remedy for it, my wife never gave up hope,never abandoned me. Day and night she stayed by my side, forgetting tosleep, forgetting to eat a bit of bread. She almost poured life backinto me with her own breath--my dear, good wife."
His voice seemed about to break; he wiped the moisture from his eyeswith his coat-sleeve.
"No one would believe what good nursing can do," he continued. "Ibecame quite hale again. We lived on, faithfully and fondly; and thatyou, Peter, found success and happiness away from home, that was yourmother's greatest joy. You yourselves know how she lay sick and dyingfor seven years and more, how they turned us out of house and home, howspitefully people talked and how, nevertheless, we had the greatesttrust in you children. For fully thirty years, we lived together inwedlock. I always prayed that God might take _me_ first; now He haschosen rather to take _her_. You mustn't cry like that, children: youwere always a help and a comfort to your mother."
He said no more.
When the carpentering of the coffin was done, father put shavingsinside it as a pillow. He had always had the habit, when he had donehis work, of going to his wife and saying:
"I've finished now."
And so, when he had put the shavings straight and made the otherpreparations, he went out to the bier in the passage and said:
"I've finished now."
Late in the evening, when the crescent moon stood in the dark, clearsky and shed its twilight over the woods and gleaming, snow-cladmeadows and over the little house in the forest on the hill-side, thesnow creaked continually on the roads and people came up fromfarmsteads and distant cottages. Even though they had carried on loudand cheerful conversations with one another on the paths by which theyhad come, they became silent now that they were nearing the cottage andwe heard only the crackling of their footsteps on the snow.
In the small front passage, which was dimly lit by the little lamp,everyone knelt on the cold clay floor and prayed silently before thebier and then sprinkled it with holy water. After that, he went intothe parlour to the others, who sat round the table and the fireplace,singing hymns and uttering pious reflections. They were all there toaccompany the poor woman of the house to her last resting-place.
I would have kept on standing by th
e bier, if the people had not beenthere, so that I might look at my mother. I read my childhood and myyouth in her features. I thought that the bright eyes must open oncemore and smile to me, that the word must once more come from those lipswhich, in her loving-kindness, had been so soft and tender. But, thoughI was her dear son and however long I might stand beside her--she nowslept the eternal sleep.
I went into the low-ceilinged kitchen, where the neighbours' wives werecooking the funeral meal; I looked round in the smoke for my brothersand sisters, that I might comfort them.
Inside, in the parlour, all were now as still as mice and in greattension. Mathias, the old chamois-hunter, who wore a brown shirt and awhite beard, sat at the table and told a story:
"There was once a farmer," he began, "who had a wife, just a poor sickwife. And, one day, one holy Easter morning, the wife died. The souldeparted from her body and stood there all alone in dark Eternity. Noangel was willing to come and lead her and show her in to the heavenlyParadise. 'They are celebrating Christ's resurrection in Heaven'--sothe story ran--'and, at such times, no saint or angel has time to showa poor soul the way.' But the poor soul was in inexpressible fear andterror, for she reflected that, because of her illness, it was longsince she had been to church. And she already heard the devil whiningand whimpering and whistling and she thought that she was lost. 'O myholy guardian angel and patron saint!' she cried. 'Come to my help inthis my need, or I must depart into hell-fire!' But they were all inHeaven together, celebrating Our Lord's resurrection. Thereupon thepoor woman was nigh to fainting away, without comfort or support; butsuddenly Our Lady stood by her side, draped in a snow-white garmentwith a wreath of roses as a beautiful ornament in her hand. 'Hail tothee and comfort, thou poor woman!' she said, gently, to the departedsoul. 'Thou hast been a pious sufferer all thy life long and everySaturday thou hast fasted, for my sake, and what thou hadst left overthrough the fasting thou hast given to the poor, for my sake. This Iwill never forget to thee; and, though my dear Son is commemorating Hisglorious resurrection this day, yet will I think of thee and carry theeto His golden throne and to thy joyful place in the rose-garden by theangels, which I have prepared for thy sake and where thou canst waitfor thy husband and thy children.' And then Our Lady took the poorwoman by the hand and carried her up to Heaven. That is why I say thatfasting and alms-giving in honour of Our Lady are a right good work."
So spake Mathias in his brown shirt.
"Our dear woodman's wife, whom we are burying to-morrow, was also fondof fasting," said one little woman, "and very fond of giving."
Father sobbed for emotion. The thought that his wife was now in Heavenlit a very welcome light in his sad heart.
The hands of the old soot-browned clock upon the wall--the same whichhad faithfully told the hours, the joyful hours and the sorrowful,since the woodman's glad wedding-day; which pointed to the hour of one,early on Sunday morning, when the little boy was born; which, aftermany years, showed the hour of six, when the delivering angel passedthrough the room and pressed his kiss on the sufferer's forehead--thehands now met at twelve o'clock.
And, when that departed life was thus measured, like a single day, fromsunrise to sunset, my father said:
"Boy, go outside to the cow-shed and lie down for a while in the strawand rest a bit. I will wake you when the time comes."
I went outside, took a last look at the bier in the passage and thenstepped out into the free, cold, starry night. The sickle of the moonhad sunk behind the woods; it had sent its last beam gliding throughthe crevice of the door on the shroud that covered the bier: to-morrow,when it rose again, the poor creature would be lying in the dark earth.
So now I lay in the shed on the straw, where my two brothers generallyslept. The three chained oxen stood or lay beside me, grinding theirteeth as they chewed the cud. It was warm and damp in the stable; andthe moisture trickled from the half-rotten ceiling down on my strawcouch.
There was once a time--ay, the drops came quivering down as now--thedew-drops from the trees, when mother was taking you to make your firstcommunion. I see you now, Peterl. You have a new jacket on, with asprig of rosemary in your hat. Your little snow-white shirt shows roundyour neck above the waistcoat; and your cheeks are rosy red withscrubbing. Mother is wearing a bright-coloured dress, a brown apron anda black, tight-fitting jacket. Her broad neckerchief is of red silk andshines like fire and flame. A white-and-green spray of flowers sticksout of her bosom. On her head, she wears a high and costly golden cap,as was the fashion thenadays throughout the country; and the curls peepout on either side of the forehead, gleaming black like the two greatpupils of her eyes and soft and dainty like the lashes on her lids. Hercheeks are tinged with the pink of the dawn; her chin is white anddaintily curved. Her red lips wear a little smile and, at the sametime, scold you, my little man, because you are skipping so pertly overthe stones and roots and knocking the nails out of your shoes. No childalive has ever seen his mother in the full flower of her beauty; andyet how splendid it is, boy, even now! All's aglow in the wood andalight in the young larches; and the blooms are fragrant and the birdssinging in every tree-top.
Ah, child-time is May-time!
A dull, heavy knocking roused me from my dream; I started up. Now theyare laying my mother in the coffin; now they are nailing down the lid.
I rushed out of the shed and into the house. There, in the passage,stood the narrow, white, closed coffin; and the dimly-flickeringoil-lamp now lit up only the empty, desolate plank on which the bierhad stood.
I should have liked to see her once more....
The people were preparing the litter. Father knelt behind the door andprayed; the sisters wept in their pinafores; and my little brothersobbed terribly. The poor little fellow tried to keep in his tears, forhe had heard that all was for the best with mother and that she was nowenjoying peace in Heaven: he had smiled a little at that; but now,when the people were making ready to carry mother away for good andall, there was no comfort left in his sorely-afflicted little heart.
I took little brother by the hand and we went into the furthermost darkcorner of the room, where no one else was and where only our sickmother had cared to sit. There we sat down on the bench. And there wesat while everything was being prepared outside, while the people satdown to table and shared the funeral repast.
They had come to show us sympathy; now they were eating, now they werelaughing and then again they acted as was customary; and they actuallyrejoiced that one more person had died and, in so doing, broughtvariety into their everyday lives.
Suddenly, loud words were heard outside:
"Where is the _?berthan_? We can't find the _?berthan_."
The _?berthan_ is a thin linen pall which is wrapped round the coffinlike a veil and, in the popular belief, serves him or her who has risenfrom the dead as a garment on the Day of Judgment.
Father was roused from his prayers by the shouting; he now staggeredaround and looked for the linen sheet in his press, on the shelves andin every nook and corner. Why, he had brought it home only yesterday;and now it was nowhere to be found! He had really lost his head: he hadto see that all got something to eat; he had to change into his Sundayclothes to go to church; he had to comfort his children; he had tofetch a new candle, because the old one was burnt down to its socketand the people were like to find themselves in the dark; he had to goto the shed and give the cattle fodder enough to last them all day, forthere would be no one at home; and now he was expected to say where hehad put the pall yesterday, in his confusion. And, in the next fewminutes, they would be carrying his wife out of the house!
It was one great excitement.
"So the old man has no pall!" they grumbled. "Such a thing has neverbeen known: carrying out a dead person all naked and bare. But it mustbe true with the poor woodman's wife: a pauper she lived and a paupershe died!"
My two sisters began to hunt in their turn; and Maria exclaimed,plaintively:
"Dear Jesus, my mother mustn't be buried without
a pall; she would dobetter than that to stay at home here; and I will give mychristening-money and buy her her last dress. Who was it put away thelinen sheet? O God, they want to deny her the last thing of all, aswell as all the rest!"
I tried to calm the girl and said we should be sure to get a linensheet out in the village and, if not, then she must rest in peace underthe bare deal boards.
"How can you speak like that!" she cried. "Didn't mother in her timebuy your clothes for you out of her hard-saved kreuzers? And now youwant her to rise on the Day of Judgment in her shabby clothes, when allthe others are wearing a white garment!"
She burst into loud crying and leant her glowing forehead against thewall.
But, soon after, the people breathed again: they had found the pall.
And, when they had eaten--we others did not take a bite--and everythingwas ready, they opened the door of the front passage and knelt downbefore the coffin and prayed aloud, saying Our Lord's Five Wounds.
Then four men placed the coffin on the litter and lifted it up andcarried it out of the poor dwelling into the wood and thence over thecommons and fields and through mountain forests.
And round about was the winter night and over all hung the starry sky.
One more look at the empty bier-plank and then I quickly drew mylittle brother out with me; and father and sisters also hurried after;and the elder brother locked the door; and then the cottage in the woodlay there in the dark and in the deepest stillness. Life had leftit--and death had left it: there is no greater loneliness possible.
We heard the hum of the praying funeral procession, we saw the flickerof the two or three lanterns among the trunks of the trees. The bearerswalked at a quick pace; those who followed and prayed could hardly keepup with them on the rough, snow-covered paths. I was a long way behindwith my little brother: the boy could not walk so fast. Mother wouldnever have left us behind like that, when living: she would havewaited, laughing a little and chiding a little, and led the child bythe hand. Now, however, she only longed for rest.
Outside the parish village stands a tall cross, with a life-size figureof the Saviour. Here, after a many-hours' progress up and down hill,they set the coffin on the ground and waited for the doctor, who camefrom the village to view the corpse and give the death-certificate.But, by the time that we two, who had lagged behind, came up, thecoffin-lid was hammered down again. And so I was never able to see youagain on earth, my mother!
They entered the parish church in the morning twilight.
The clear bells rang out together. A great catafalque was set up in themiddle of the dark church; many candles gleamed; and a solemn funeralservice began. The parish priest, an old, blind man, with snow-whitehair, a venerable figure, intoned the requiem, surrounded by priests inrich vestments. His voice was clear and solemn; a choir chanted theresponses; and trumpets and sackbuts echoed through the church.
I looked at father and he at me; we knew not who had ordered all thisso. To-day I know that it was my friends at Krieglach who gave us thisbeautiful token of their love.
When the funeral service was over, the catafalque was removed, all thefestal candles on the high-altar were lit and three priests, no longerclad in the hue of mourning, but in red, gold-stitched chasubles,climbed the steps of the altar and a grand High Mass was celebrated,with gay bell-ringing and joyous music.
"That is because she is released from her suffering," said I to theboy.
At last, the coffin, richly decked with flowers, swayed out of theparish church, where, in the old days, the woodman's wife had beenbaptised and married, on its way to the cemetery. The priests and thechoir sang the loud, clear requiem, the bells tolled over the villagefar out into the woods and the candles flickered in the sunlight. Along train of men and women passed through the broad village street. Wewalked behind the coffin, carrying lighted candles in our hands andpraying as we went.
The cemetery lies outside the village, on a gentle eminence, betweenfields and meadows. It is far from small, for the parish stretches to agreat distance over hill and dale. It is enclosed with a plank fenceand contains many crosses of wood and rusty iron; and in the middlerises the image of Christ crucified.
Before this image, on the right, was the deep grave, at the exact spotwhere, years ago, they had buried our mother's two children who haddied. A mound of freshly-dug earth lay on either side of the grave.
Here the bearers let the coffin down to the ground and stripped it ofall its finery; and it slid down into the pit as poor as it had leftthe cottage in the wood.
"Thou to-day, I to-morrow; and so I am content," murmured father.
And the priest said:
"May she rest in the Lord!"
Then they cast clods of earth into the grave and went away, went to theinn, tasted bread and wine and talked of everyday things. When it wastwelve o'clock and, according to custom, the bells began to toll oncemore, as a last farewell to the departed, the men and women of theforest set out to return to their mountain valley.
We who belonged to one another sat together for a while longer andspoke sadly of the time that must now come and how to arrange for it.Then we took leave of one another: my father and brothers and sisterswent home to the cottage in the wood, to live and die where mother hadlived and died.
FOOTNOTES:
[20] Fasting or abstaining from flesh-meat on Saturdays, in honour ofOur Lady, is a custom, an act of voluntary discipline, prevailingalmost exclusively in the German and Austrian Highlands.--_Translator'sNote._
[21] Hella, daughter of Laki and goddess of the dead, is the Persephoneof Norse mythology.--_Translator's Note._
THE END
Transcriber's note:
In the text version italics are represented with _underscore_ and smallcaps with ALL CAPS.
In the caption to the Frontispiece, the artist is named as MilicentNorris, elsewhere Melicent is used.
Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained. The followingcorrections have been made:
Table of Contents: who went to prison -> period added after prison
p. 16: in the Murztal; -> Murztal changed to M?rztal
p. 18: bellettristic newspapers -> bellettristic changed to belletristic
p. 27: S?nders was printed with a breve mark above the u instead of ?
p. 76: something about him. -> added closing quotation mark after him.
p. 129: diff erently -> differently
p. 154: liked carved -> liked changed to like
p. 171: It can't be possible---- Why -> added exclamation mark afterpossible----
p. 172: as Grossh?fen -> as changed to at
p. 174: schoo teacher -> schoo changed to school
p. 195: a telegram -> added colon after telegram
p. 201: came to us see -> came to see us
Everything else has been retained as printed, including archaic,uncommon and inconsistent spelling and inconsistent hyphenation.
The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol Page 21
