The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol Page 6

  IV

  A Last Will and Testament

  When of a Saturday evening my father sat at his shaving I had to creepunder the table because it was dangerous above.

  When my father sat shaving himself, and when he had lathered his cheekand lips to such a snowy whiteness that he looked like the herd-boyafter he has been lapping cream behind the milkmaid's back; when,further, he sharpened his gleaming razor on his brown-leather bracesand then passed it slowly over his cheek, he would straightway begin totwist mouth, cheeks, and nose--indeed, his whole countenance--in such afashion as made his dear kind face quite unrecognisable. He drew bothlips deep into his mouth, till he was like nothing so much as oldneighbour Veit who had lost all his teeth; or he stretched his mouthcrosswise, from left to right, like K?hler-Sani scolding his hens; andhe screwed one eye up tight and blew out a cheek, for all the worldlike poor Tinili the tailor, after his virago wife had been caressinghim. All the funniest faces in the whole neighbourhood came to my mindin turn when my father sat at his shaving. And that set me off.

  At this point my father, still friendly, would say, "Do be quiet,laddie." But scarcely had he spoken when again there came such awonderful face that I simply couldn't help laughing outright. He peeredinto the little looking-glass, and I fully expected to see hisdistorted features relax into a smile. Then he suddenly called out,"If you're not quiet, boy, I'll break the shaving-brush over yourpate!"

  It was now high time to creep under the table, where my smotheredgiggles kept me shaking like a wet poodle. After that he could shavepeacefully and without danger of breaking out into untimely mirth overhis own or my grimaces.

  And so it came to pass one winter evening that my father was sittingbefore the soap-bowl and I under the table when I heard someone in theentrance stamping the snow from his boots. A moment later the dooropened and in came a big man whose thick red beard had icicles hangingfrom it just like our shingle roof outside. He at once sat down on abench, drew a big tobacco-pipe from under his homespun cloak, grippedit between his front teeth, and, while striking a light, remarked,"Having a shave, Farmer?"

  "Yes, I'm having a bit of a shave," answered my father, and went onscraping with the razor, and cut a really God-forsaken grimace.

  "That's all right," said the stranger.

  And later, when he was quite hidden in tobacco smoke and the icicleswere dripping from his beard, he uttered himself thus:

  "I don't know if so be you know me or not, Farmer. Five year agone Ipassed your place and took a drink of water at your spring. I come fromStanz; I'm Frau Drachenbinder's farm-hand, and I've come about thematter of that big lad of yours."

  Under the table, I went hot to the tips of my toes at these words. Myfather had but one big lad at the time, and that was myself. I drewback into the darkest corner.

  "Come about my boy?" returned my father. "You can have him if you wanthim--we can easily spare him; he's just too bad for anything!"

  (Peasant folk are very fond of talking like that for the sake ofteasing and overaweing their forward children.)

  "Come, come, Farmer! Not so bad as all that! Frau Drachenbinder wantsto get something written down--a will or some such matter--and shedon't know anybody, far and wide, that's a good writing scholar. Butnow she's heard tell that the farmer at Vorderalpel has got an uncommonkind of boy that can do such things as that with his little fingeralone! And so she's sent me off here, and I was to beg of you, Farmer,if you'd be so kind as to lend her the loan of the boy over there for aday. She'll soon pack him off back again, and give him something forhis trouble as well."

  When I heard him say that I rattled my shoe-tips against the tablelegs: that wouldn't come at all amiss, I thought.

  "Go along with you!" said my father when he had scratched one cheekquite smooth. "However is my small boy to go to Stanz in the dead ofwinter? It must be at least a four hours' walk!"

  "Just so," answered the big man, "and that's why I'm here. He's onlygot to climb up on my back and open his legs and shove 'em along pastmy ribs, both sides of me, towards the front, where I'll lay hold ofthem; and then he must hug me round the neck with his hands, like as ifhe was my sweetheart, so that he don't go falling off backwards."

  "I see," replied my father; "you needn't make such a talk about apig-a-back ride!"

  "Well, after that I'll manage all right, and when Sunday comes I'llbring him back home again."

  "I'm not afraid of your not bringing him back safe and sound," said myfather; "and if Frau Drachenbinder really wants to have somethingwritten down, and seeing that you're her man, and if the lad will gowith you--there's no objection so far as I'm concerned."

  He uttered these words with a smooth, ordinary countenance.

  A little later I was rigged out in my Sunday clothes. Elated with myso suddenly acquired importance I strutted up and down the room.

  "You wandering Jew, you!" exclaimed my father. "Haven't you gotanything to sit upon?"

  But there was no more peace for me. Better than anything I should haveliked to settle myself there and then on the big man's broad back, andride straight away. But just then my mother came in bringing a steamingsavoury dish, saying, "Eat that, you two, before you start off!"

  Not in vain did she say it. I had never yet seen our biggest woodenspoon piled up so high as then when the strange big man plied itbetween the meat-platter and his bearded mouth. But I walked up anddown all the while and thought about how I was going to become FrauDrachenbinder's scrivener.

  Presently, when matters had gone so far that my mother could turn thedish upside-down on the hearth without a crumb falling out, I hopped upon to the man's back, held on hard by his beard, and rode away in thename of God.

  The sun was already setting; the valleys were full of blue shadow; thefar snow-heights of the Alps were a dull rose-colour.

  So long as my nag was trotting uphill over the bare pastures the snowbore his weight well, but when he came in among the young larch andpine-woods the surface became treacherous and broke under him. He wasprepared for that, however. When he came up to an old hollow larch withwild arms stretching out into the air, he pulled up, thrust his righthand into the dark cavity, and fished out a pair of snow-shoes of wovenwillow which he bound under his shoe-soles. Upon these wide things hebegan the pilgrimage anew. Progress was slow, for in order to managethe shoes he must keep them far apart; but with such duck's feet therewas no more breaking through.

  Suddenly--it was already dark and the stars shining clear--my mountbegan to undo my shoes, pulled them clean off my feet and put them awayin his turned-up apron. Then he said, "Now, laddie, stick your littlehoofs in my breeches pocket, so that your toes don't freeze off." Hetook my hands in his own and breathed warm breath upon them--and thatwas instead of gloves.

  The cold bit my cheeks, the snow creaked under the snow-shoes; I rodeon lonely through the forest and over the heights. I rode all along theridge of the Hochb?rstling, where even in summer I had never yet been.Now and again, when progress was too deliberate, I pressed my kneesinto the yielding flesh, and my horse took it all in good part, goingon as well as ever he could--there was no doubt about his knowing theway! I rode past a post whereon, summer and winter, that holy patron ofcattle, St. Erhardi, stood. I knew St. Erhardi at home, he and Ibetween us had charge of my father's herd. He was always muchcarefuller than I: if a cow came to grief, I the herdboy was blamed; ifthe others throve, St. Erhardi got the credit for it.--It did my heartgood he should see that I had become a horseman while he stood therenailed to his post for ever and ever.

  At last our path took a turn and I began riding downwards over stumpsand stones, making towards a little light that glimmered in the valleybelow. And just when all the trees and places had passed me by and Ihad nothing but the dark mass with the one little pane of shining lightbefore me, my good Christopher came to a halt and said, "Now look here,my dear boy--seeing as how I'm a stranger to you and you've come withme like this without taking thought what you were doing--how d'you knowthat
I mayn't have got a life-long grudge against your father and amjust now going to carry you into a robbers' den?"

  I listened a moment. Then, as he added nothing to these words, Ianswered in the same tone:

  "Considering my father trusted me to Frau Drachenbinder's man and thatI've come with him like this, it's not likely Drachenbinder's man hasgot a grudge against us, and he won't carry me into a robbers' den."

  At these words of mine the man snorted into his beard, and soon afterhe lowered me on to the stump of a tree, saying, "And now here we areat Frau Drachenbinder's house."

  He opened a door in the dark mass and went in.

  The small living-room had a stove with glowing embers on it, a burningpine-splinter,[6] and a straw bed with a child asleep on it. Near itstood a woman, very old and bent and with a face as pallid and creasedas the coarse nightgown she was wearing. As we entered, this personuttered a strange cry, a sort of crowing, began to laugh violently, andthen hid herself behind the stove.

  "That's Frau Drachenbinder," remarked my guide. "She'll soon come andspeak to you, and meantime you sit down there on the stool near the bedand put on your shoes again."

  I did what he bade me, and he seated himself on a block of wood nearby.

  When the woman became composed, she moved lightly about the stove andsoon brought us a steaming grey meal-soup in an earthenware pot, andtwo bone spoons with it. My man ate solemnly and steadily, but Icouldn't quite fancy it. Then he got up and said softly to me, "Sleepwell, boy!" and went away. And when I found myself alone in the closeroom with the sleeping child and the old woman I began to feeldownright creepy.

  Frau Drachenbinder came up to me, laid her light, lean hand on mycheek, and said, "I thank the dear Lord God that you've come!--It'sbarely six months since my daughter died. That there"--she pointed tothe child--"is my young branch--such a dear mite--he's my heir. Andnow I hear Death knocking at the door again. I'm very old. I've savedall my life--I'm going to beg my coffin from kind folks' charity. Myhusband died long ago and left this little house to me. My illnesseshave cost me the house--but they weren't worth it. Whatever I leavebehind me is for my grandchild's very own. As yet he's too young totake it into his heart, and I can't give it into any man's hand, and soI want to have it written down so that it's kept. I won't do it throughthe schoolmaster in Stanz, and the doctor can't do it without thestamp-duty. And then people told me about the son of the farmer atVorderalpel, and how he was such a scholar that he could write outpeople's last wills without the stamp! That's why I've had you broughtall this long way. Do this favour for me to-morrow, and to-night go andget a good rest."

  She ushered me, by the light of the burning splinter, into the littleroom adjoining. It was made only of boards. A bed of hay, with acovering in the shape of the woman's thick, best Sunday dress, wasthere, and in a corner stood a little brown church with two smalltowers in which little bells were set a-tinkling whenever one trod theshaky floor. Frau Drachenbinder stuck the burning pine-wood in thewindow of one of the towers, made the sign of the cross on me with herthumb, and then I was alone in the room. It was cold: I was shiveringwith the bitter winter, and with a fear of my hostess too, but, beforeever I crept into my nest, curiosity impelled me to open the door ofthe little church. Out sprang a mouse who had just made her supper offthe gold-paper altar and St. Joseph's cardboard hand. Saints and angelswere there within, and gay banners and wreaths--it was a lovely toy. Ithought to myself that this must be Frau Drachenbinder's parish church,for the little body was far too feeble to walk to Stanz for mass. Isaid my evening prayer before it, asking Our Lord to protect me duringthat night; then I extinguished the splinter so that it should not burnright down to the window-frame, and after that laid myself down on thehay, in God's name.

  It seemed to me as if I had been torn away from myself and were somelearned clerk in a far-away cold house, while the real boy of theforest farm was sleeping at home in his own warm little nest. Just as Iwas falling asleep I heard the short, sharp cries of joy again in theliving-room, and soon after that the loud laughter. Whatever was itthat delighted her so much, and at whom was she laughing? I wasterrified, and thought of running away. One of the boards could beeasily shifted, but then--the snow!

  Only towards morning did I fall asleep, and I dreamed and dreamed abouta red mouse that had bitten off the right hand of all the saints in thechurch. And my father was looking out of the window of the tower withhis lathered, distorted cheeks and holding a lighted pine-splinter inhis mouth: and I sobbed and giggled together, and was hot with fear.When at last I awoke I thought I was in a cage with silver bars, for sothe white daylight looked through the vertical cracks in the woodwork.And when I went outside the house door I was astonished to see hownarrow the ravine was, and how high and wintry the mountains.

  Within doors the child was screaming, and then Frau Drachenbinder brokeout into her jubilant cries again.

  At breakfast there was my horse again, but he hardly spoke at all,giving all his attention to his food; and when that was finished he gotup, put on his huge hat, and went off to church at Stanz.

  When the old woman had comforted the child, fed the fowls, and doneother household work, she pushed the wooden bolt of the house door,went into the inner room, and began ringing the bells of the littlechurch. She lighted two candles that stood on the altar, and then shemade a prayer, and one more moving have I never heard. She kneltbefore the church, held out her hands, and murmured: "By the mostsacred wound of Thy right hand, O my crucified Saviour, save my parentsif they be still in torment. Though they have lain for half a centuryin the earth I can still hear my father in the dead of night crying outfor help.--By the most sacred wound of Thy left hand I commend to Theethe soul of my daughter. She had hardly looked round upon the world andshe was just going to lay her little one in her husband's arms, when upcomes cruel Death and takes and buries her out of our sight!--By themost sacred wound of Thy right foot, I pray Thee from my very heart formy husband, and for my kindred and benefactors, and that Thou wilt notforget this little lad from the forest farm.--By the most sacred woundof Thy left foot, O crucified Saviour, in love and mercy remember alsoall my enemies, who have smitten me with their hands and trodden mewith their feet. Blinded men crucified Thee to death, and yet Thou hastforgiven them.--By the most holy wound of Thy sacred side, I invokeThee a thousand and a thousand times.--O crucified God, take up mygrandchild to Thy Divine Heart. His father is far away with thesoldiers, and perhaps I have not long to live. Be Thou a guardian tothe child, I beseech Thee."

  That was how she prayed. The little red candles burned devoutly. Atthat moment it seemed to me that if I were Our Lord I would come downfrom Heaven and take the child in my arms, and say, "See for yourself,Frau Drachenbinder, I am holding him close to My heart, and I will behis guardian." I would let him grow white wings, so that he could flyaway to the Better Land.

  But then, I wasn't Our Lord.

  Presently Frau Drachenbinder said, "Now let's get to the writing." Butwhen we wanted to begin there was no ink and no pen and no paper. Wehad forgotten every one of these things.

  The old woman leant her head on her palm, murmuring, "What amisfortune!"

  I had heard somewhere the story of the doctor who in default of thenecessary things wrote his prescription on the door of the room withchalk. His example was worth following now; but there was no chalk tobe found in the house. I didn't know what else to suggest, and wasunspeakably ashamed of being a scribe without a pen.

  "My boy," said the woman suddenly, "maybe you learned to write withcharcoal too?"

  Yes, yes--with the charcoal--just like that on the hearth there; thatwould do!

  "And this, in God's name, must be my writing-paper," she went on, andlifted the lid of an old coffer standing near the stove. Inside thecoffer I could see cuttings of cloth, a piece of linen, and a rustyspade. When she saw me looking at the spade, she looked sadly confused,covered her old face with her brown apron, muttering, "It's a realdisgrace!"

  I
was stricken, for I took this to be a reproach for my having nowriting things about me.

  "I expect you'll be making fun of me," she said. "But don't you go andthink badly of me--I can't do more than I do, I really couldn't do athing more--I'm a fairly worn-out old body!"

  Then I thought I understood: the poor old woman felt herself disgracedbecause she could no longer handle the spade, and it had therefore gonerusty. I looked about on the hearth for a bit of soft charcoal. Thepine-tree was obliging, and lent me the pen wherewith to write out FrauDrachenbinder's will, or whatever it might prove to be.

  Just when the grey coffer was opened and I standing there ready to takedown her words, that they might deliver their message to her grandchildin the years to come, the old woman beside me uttered a loud cry. Sheturned away quickly, crowed again, and then broke into hoarse laughter.

  In terror I broke the charcoal in my fingers and glanced askance at thedoor.

  When she had done laughing, she grew quiet, drew a deep breath, wipedthe sweat from her face, and turning again to me, said, "Write this--itwon't come to much altogether--still, you'd best begin up in the topcorner, there."

  I placed my hand on the topmost corner of the lid. Then the woman spokeas follows:

  "One and one is God alone.--That, child of my child, is thy very own."

  I wrote this on the wood.

  "Two and two," she went on, "Two and two is man and wife. Three and three the child of their life. Four and five to eight and nine-- For griefs are countless, darling mine. Pray as if thou hadst no hand, Work as if thou knewest no God, Carry fuel, and think the while, God will cook the broth for me."

  When I had written these things, Frau Drachenbinder let down the cofferlid, bolted it carefully, and said, "You've done me a greatservice--and there's a great stone lifted off my heart. That cofferthere is my legacy to my grandchild.--And now you must tell me what Iowe you for this."

  I shook my head. I wouldn't ask for anything, not anything at all.

  "What--learn to write so finely and then come all this long way andsuffer cold the long night through and then in the end take nothing forit--that would be fine indeed!" she cried. "Why, my boy, I couldn'tallow it!"

  I glanced through the open door into the next room where the littlechurch stood. It certainly would be heavenly company for my little bedat home. She guessed at once. "You're thinking of my littlehouse-altar!" she said. "Then, in God's name, you shall have it. Ican't shut it up in the chest--my dear little church--and the peoplewould only steal it from me when I'm gone. With you it will berespected, I know, and you'll think of old Frau Drachenbinder in sacredmoments, when you're saying your prayers."

  And she gave me the little church as it stood. And that was thegreatest bliss of all my childhood.

  I dearly wanted to take it on my shoulders at once and carry it awayover the hills to my home. But she said, "You dear little goose, that'simpossible. When the man's back, he'll contrive something for you."

  And sure enough, when the man was back again and had eaten the middaymeal with us, he knew what to do. He bound the little church on to myback with a string, then stooped down in front of the wood block, andsaid, "Now, boy, mount again!" So for the second time I got up on hisback, thrust my feet in his breeches pockets, and clung with my handsround his neck. The old woman held the waking child so that it mightput out its little hand to me, uttered more thanks, and then divedbehind the stove and crowed as before.

  I rode away from the place, and with every movement the saints in thechurch kept tapping behind my back and the bells in the towers kepttinkling.

  When the man had climbed with me as far as the heights of theB?rstling, and there again bound the snow-shoes fast to his feet, Iasked him why Frau Drachenbinder was continually screaming for joy andlaughing.

  "That's not screaming nor yet laughing neither," said my horse; "FrauDrachenbinder has a lot of suffering to bear. For some years she usedto have a sort of catch in the breath--such as you may get through achill or the like: she didn't take any notice of it, let it just go itsown way, and so, little by little, the barber says, that cramp-crowingand cramp-laughing came on. Her inside just twists itself up together,and when she gets excited the fits come on strong. She can hardly touchany food, and she's face to face with death all the time."

  I said nothing. I looked up at the snow-white heights, at the twilightforests, and saw we were gradually climbing down towards my home in theclear Sunday afternoon. I was thinking about the little church I hadgot as a legacy--how I would set it up in the living-room and hold aservice in it, and how my father and mother would now no longer have totrudge all that long way to the parish church.

  My good horse trotted patiently on, and behind me all the way thelittle bells in the towers kept on chiming. What were they saying?...

  Old Frau Drachenbinder died soon after that.

  FOOTNOTE:

  [6] With these small torches the peasants light their rooms.