IX
How Meisensepp Died
At home we had a book called _The Lives of Jesus Christ, Our Lady, andof many of God's Saints: a spiritual treasure by Peter Cochem_. It wasan old book, the leaves were grey, and each chapter began withwonderful big letters in black and red. The wooden cover was worm-eatenin many places, and a mouse had nibbled away one of the leathern flaps.Since my grandfather's death there was nobody in our house who couldhave read it; no wonder, then, that these creatures had takenpossession of it, and thus gained their bodily sustenance from thespiritual treasure. Then came I, the little book-worm, chasing thelittle beasts out of the book and devouring it myself instead. I readout of it daily to the members of our household. The younger farm-ladsand girls did not care much for this new custom, for they dared notjoke and yodel during the reading; the older people, however, beingrather more God-fearing, listened devoutly and said, "It's just as ifthe parson were preaching; so solemnly done and with such a loudvoice!"
I got quite a reputation as an able reader, and was much sought after.Whenever anybody in the neighbourhood lay ill or dying, or was evendead already, and there was watch being kept by the corpse during thenight, my father was asked to let me go and read. On such occasions Itook the weighty book under my arm and set off. It was hard workcarrying it, for at that time I was but a little shrimp of a fellow.
Once, late at night, when I was already asleep in the sweet-scentedhay-loft where I sometimes had my bed in summer-time, I was awakened byone of our men tugging at my coverlet. "You must get up quickly, Peter,get up! Meisensepp has sent his daughter, and begs that you'll come andread to him--he's dying. Get up!"
Of course, I got up, dressed myself hastily, took the book, and wentwith the girl from our house up across the heath and through theforest. Meisensepp's hut stood quite alone in the midst of the forest.
Meisensepp had been gamekeeper and woodward in his younger years;latterly he occupied himself mostly with sharpening saws for thewood-cutters. Then suddenly this severe illness overtook him.
While the girl and I were going through the wilderness in the still,starlit night neither of us spoke a word. Silently we went on together.Only once she whispered, "Let me have the book, Peter; I'll carry itfor you."
"You couldn't do it," I answered; "you're even smaller than me."
After a two hours' tramp the girl said, "There's the light."
We saw a faint gleam coming from the window of Meisensepp's house.Going nearer, we met the priest who had administered the Last Sacramentto the dying man.
"Father, is he going to get well?" asked the girl, fearfully.
"He is not so very old," said the priest. "God's will be done,children; God's will be done."
And he went on, while we went into the house.
It was small, and, after the manner of forest huts, living-room andbedroom were all one with the kitchen. On the hearth in an iron holdera pine-torch was burning which veiled the ceiling in a cloud of smoke.Near by, on a bundle of straw, two little boys lay sleeping. I knewthem well, for we had often gathered mushrooms and berries together inthe woods and lost our herds while doing it: they were a few yearsyounger than I. By the wall of the stove sat Sepp's wife, giving thebreast to the baby and looking with wide-open eyes into the flame ofthe pine-torch; and behind the stove, on the only bed in the house, laythe sick man. He was sleeping; his face was wasted, the greyish hairand the beard round the chin had been cut short, which made the wholehead appear smaller to me than formerly when I had seen Sepp on the wayto church. Through his pale, half-open lips fluttered the brokenbreathing.
On our entrance his wife got up gently, made some apology for havinghad me disturbed in my sleep, and invited me to sit down and eat whatthe priest had left of a dish of eggs which still stood on the table.
And so, seated on the chair that was still warm from the holy man'ssitting, I was soon actually eating with the same fork which he hadcarried to his mouth!
"Now he's sleeping fairly well," whispered the woman, indicating thesick man. "A little while ago he was constantly pulling threads fromthe coverlet."
I knew it was looked upon as a bad omen when a sick person pulled atand dug into the coverlet: "He's digging his grave," they say with us.I therefore answered, "Yes, that's what my father did, too, when he hadtyphoid fever; still, he got well again."
"I think so, too," she said; "and the priest was saying the same thing.I am so glad my Sepp has always gone to confession so regular, and Ifeel quite hopeful about his getting well again. Only," she added verylow, "the light keeps flickering to and fro the whole time."
According to popular belief, when the light flickers, it is an omenthat someone's candle is burning low in the socket. I believed in thissign myself, but to reassure the poor woman I said, "There's such adraught coming through the window, I can feel it too." She laid thesleeping baby upon the straw--the girl who had fetched me had alreadygone to rest there--and we stopped the cracks of the window with tow.
Then the woman said, "You'll stay with me overnight, won't you, Peter?I shouldn't know how to get along otherwise; and when he awakes youwill read to us? I am sure you'll do us this kindness, won't you?"
I opened the book and looked for a suitable piece, but Father Cochemhas not written much that would be of consolation to poor sufferingmankind. Father Cochem's opinion is that God is infinitely just andthat men are unutterably bad, and nine-tenths of them are boundstraight for hell.
Maybe it is so, I used to think to myself; but even if it is one oughtnot to say so, because people would only worry, and for the rest wouldmost likely remain as bad as ever. If they had wanted to mend, theywould have done so long ago.
Terrifying thoughts went like a hissing adder through Cochem's book.Whenever I had to do with indifferent people, who only listened to meon account of my fine loud preaching voice, I thundered forth all thehorrors and the eternal damnation of mankind with real pleasure; butwhen by a sick-bed I used to exert my imagination to the utmost whilereading out of the book, in order to soften the hard sayings, tomoderate the hideous representations of the Four Last Things, and togive a friendlier tone to the whole thought of the zealous Father.
And now again I planned how, while apparently reading from the book, Iwould speak to Meisensepp words from another Book about poverty,patience, and love towards our fellows, and how the true imitation ofChrist consisted in the practice of these, and how--when the last hourshould strike--this would lead us by way of a gentle death right intoheaven.
At last Sepp awoke. He turned his head, looked at his wife andsleeping children, then, seeing me, he said in a loud, clear voice, "Soyou've come, Peter? God reward you for it! But we shall hardly havetime for reading to-day. Anne, please wake the children up."
The woman shuddered, her hand went to her heart, but she said quietly,"Are you worse again, Seppel? You've been sleeping so nicely."
He saw at once that her calmness was not genuine.
"Don't you fret, wife," he said, "it must be so in this world. Wake thechildren up now, but gently, so that you don't scare them."
The poor woman went to the bed of straw, and with trembling hand shookthe bundle, and the little ones started up only half awake.
"Anne, I beg you don't pull the children about so," the sick manreproached her, with a weaker voice, "and let little Martha sleep, shedoesn't understand things yet."
I remained seated by the table, and my heart burned within me. Thelittle family gathered round the bed, sobbing aloud.
"Quietly now," said Sepp to the children; "mother will let you sleepall the longer to-morrow morning. Josefa, draw the shirt together overyour breast or you will get cold.--Now then, children, you must alwaysbe brave and good and obedient to your mother, and when you are grownup you must stand by her and don't leave her. All my days I've toiledand moiled, but for all that I've nothing else to leave you beyond thishouse, with the little garden and the ridge-acre with the stacks. Ifyou want to divide it up, do so in a brotherly way; but it i
s better tokeep the little property together, and keep the home going, somehow,and till the ground. Beyond that I make no will. I love you all alike.Don't forget me, and now and then say an Our Father for me. And youfour boys, I beg from my very heart, don't start poaching--it leads tono good. Give me your hand on it. There, that's right! If one of youwould like to learn saw-sharpening--I have earned many a penny withit and the tools are all there. And then, as you know already, if youplant potatoes on the ridge-acre, you must do so in May. It's quitetrue, what my father always used to say, 'Of potatoes it is said:"Plant me in April, I come when I will; plant me in May, I'm there in aday."' Bear that saying in mind! There, now go to bed again, or youwill catch cold; always take care of your health; health is everything.Go to sleep, children."
The sick man became silent and fell to plucking at his covering again.
Turning to me the woman whispered, "I don't like it, he's talking toomuch." When a very sick person becomes suddenly talkative that too islooked upon as a bad omen with us.
Then he lay quite exhausted. The woman lit a death-taper.
"Not yet, Anne, not yet," he murmured, "a little later; but give me adrop of water, will you?"
After drinking he said, "Ah, fresh water is a good thing after all!Take good care of the well. Yes, and don't let me forget, the blackbreeches and the blue jacket--you know--and outside behind the door,where the saws hang, there leans the planing board; lay it across thegrindstone and the bench--it will serve for the three days. To-morrowearly, when Woodman Josel comes, he'll help to lay me out. But mindthat the cat isn't about; cats are attracted and know at once whenthere is a corpse anywhere. It's all arranged what they'll do with medown at the Parish Church.--My brown coat and the big hat, give them tothe poor. And to Peter you must give something because of his coming uphere. Perhaps he will be good enough to read to-morrow. It will be afine day to-morrow, but don't go far from home, for fear an accidentmight happen, when there's candles left burning in the entrance. Lateron, Anne, look in the bedstraw and you will find an old stocking with afew gold pieces in it."
"Seppel, don't exert yourself with talking so much," sobbed the wife.
"Well, well, Anne--but I must tell you everything. We'll not be muchlonger together now. We have had twenty years, Anne. You have beeneverything to me; no one can repay you for what you have been to me. Ishall never forget it, not in death, nor in heaven neither. I am onlyglad that in my last hour I am still able to talk to you, and that I amclear in my head to the last."
"Don't fret yourself, Seppel," murmured the wife, bending over him.
"No," he answered quietly, "with me it's just as it was with my father:content in life, content in death. You be the same, and don't take ittoo much to heart. Even though each of us must go as we came, alone,still we belong to each other and I shall keep you a place in heaven,Anne, close by my side. Only, for God's sake, bring the children upwell."
The children lay quiet. It was very still, and it seemed to me as if,somewhere in the room, I could hear a slight whirring and humming.
Suddenly, Seppel called out, "Now, Anne, light the candle, quick!"
The woman ran about the room looking for matches, and yet the torch wasstill burning. "Now he is going to die!" she moaned.
When at last the red wax-taper was alight, and she had given it him andhe held it clasped with both his hands, and she had taken the vessel ofholy water from the shelf, she became apparently quite calm and prayedaloud: "Jesus, Mary, help him! Oh, Saints of God, stand by him in hisdirest need, do not let his soul be lost! Jesus, I pray by Thy holiestsuffering! Mary, I call upon Thy seven Sacred Dolours! And Thou, hisguardian angel, when the soul must quit the body, lead it at last toheavenly joy!"
And she prayed long. She neither sobbed nor cried now; not a singletear stood in her eye, she was wholly the devout petitioner andintercessor.
At length she became silent, bent over her husband's face, watched hisweak breathing and whispered, "God be with you, Seppel; greet myparents for me and all our kinsfolk there in Eternity. God bless andkeep you, my dearest man! May the holy angels attend you, and the LordJesus in His mercy await you at the heavenly door."
Perhaps he no longer heard her. His pale, half-open lips gave noanswer. His eyes stared at the ceiling. The wax candle, held upright inthe folded hands, was burning; it did not flicker. The flame was stilland bright as a snow-white bud, his breath moved it no more.
"Now it's over--he's dead and gone from me!" cried his wife in ashrill, heartrending voice; then sank down upon a stool and began toweep bitterly. The children, now again wakened, wept with her, allexcept the baby, who was smiling.
The hour weighed upon us heavy as a stone. At last the poor woman--thewidow--rose, dried her tears and laid two fingers on the eyes of thedead. The wax candle burned until the morning dawned.
A messenger had passed through the forest. Then came the Woodman Josel.He sprinkled the dead with holy water, murmuring, "So they go, oneafter the other."
Then they dressed Meisensepp out in his best clothes, carried him intothe porch, and laid him on the board.
I left the book on the table for the vigil of the following nights atwhich I had promised the poor woman to read. When I was ready to go,she brought a green hat on which was fastened a spreading"Gemsbart."[9]
"Will you take the hat with you for your father?" she asked; "my Seppelhas always been so fond of your father. The Gemsbart you may keepyourself as a remembrance. Say an Our Father for him now and then."
I uttered my thanks and cast one more timid look at the bier. There laySepp stretched at full length, and his hands folded across his breast.And I went away down through the forest. How bright and fresh with dew,how full of the song of birds, full of the scent of flowers--how fullof life the forest was! And in the hut, stretched on the bier, lay adead man.
I can never forget that night and that morning--that death amidst theforest's infinite source of life.
To this day I keep the Gemsbart in memory of Meisensepp. And whenever adesire for the pleasures of this world gets hold of me, or when doubtsof God's grace to man, or fear of my own possibly far-off, possiblyquite near end assail me, I just stick Sepp's Gemsbart in my hat.
FOOTNOTE:
[9] Gemsbart: a little tuft of hair on the chamois' breast.
The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol Page 11