The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol
X
The Corpus Christi Altar
When the triumphant Saviour passes through the village in the shape ofbread, they greet Him with palms. The palm of the alps is the birch.Even as the little fir-trees are doomed to lose their lives atChristmas-time, so do the birches at Corpus Christi. They are draggedto the village by the hundred, on great drays, and planted in rows onboth sides of the streets through which the procession is intended togo. And, as they stand there in the fresh-turned earth, with theirgraceful branches rustling in the soft wind, it is as though they werestill leading the young and happy lives of their brothers and sistersin the woods. And no one notices that the trunk stands in the earthwithout its roots, chopped off by the axe, that the sap no longercourses through its veins, that, in a few days, the pretty littlenotched and heart-shaped leaves will turn yellow; nor does thecaterpillar on a yielding branch, as it dreams of its coming butterflyexistence, suspect that it is rocking upon a corpse.
Life is fulfilled: lo, the Lord cometh.
At the Corpus Christi procession, the gospels are read in the open airat four different spots. For this purpose, the people set up fouraltars, so that "the Lord God may rest on His journey." By ancientcustom, it falls to him upon whose ground the altar is to stand toerect this altar. Its several parts, all nicely carved and painted,have rested during the year in a dark corner of the loft and are nowbrought forth, cleansed of their dust and cobwebs and put together inthe open. The result is often a noble building of the chapel order,with altar-table, tabernacle, worshipping angels, candlesticks and all.Farm-labourers, who but yesterday were digging manure, to-day provethemselves accomplished architects, building the altar before thesun-down and surrounding it with a little wood of birch or larch. Thehead of the house places all the images of the saints which hepossesses on the altar, or fastens them high up on the pillars. Thefarmer's wife brings gaudy pots of crimson peonies to adorn the altar;and the little girls strew flowers and rose-leaves as a carpet for thesteps.
The bells begin to ring, the mortars boom, music swells far and wideover the roofs, lights burn in every window; and the time has come forthe farmer to light the candles on his altar too. Soon the firstpennants come in sight, the hum is heard of the men's prayers and theecho of the women's singing; and the long lines of children approach,the girls in white, carrying gaily-coloured banners above their heads.Finally, the band, with shrill trumpets and rumbling drums, and thenthe _baldachino_, the red canopy upheld by four men, and, under it,surrounded by ministrants and acolytes, the priest, carrying thegleaming monstrance high before his face.
The monstrance, as we all know, is the house in which the Host residessurrounded by a wreath of golden rays, resting on a crescent-shapedholder and protected by a crystal glass.
The most important factor in this procession is faith; and that ispresent in abundance. They worship not the bread, but the symbolicmystery in whose lap rests our eternal destiny. It is really incorrectto speak of the worship of images, or of the idolatry of the heathen:they all mean one and the same thing, the symbolic divine mystery whicheach represents to himself after his own fashion and feels according tohis nature. And the power to transfer the intangible, endless mysteryto a substance which our senses can apprehend and thus to enter intomore intimate relations with it: that power is the gift of faith.
The files of people reach the open-air altar and the foremost have topass along until the priest arrives at the spot. When there, he placesthe Sacrament in the tabernacle and reads some verses from one of thefour gospels. Then, to the booming of the cannon, he lifts themonstrance, turns with it to the four points of the compass and blessesthe meadows, the fields and the air, that the summer may be fruitfuland no storm destroy the husbandman's labour. And the procession moveson.
This is in the larger villages. In the small mountain districts, thefeast is celebrated more simply, but no less solemnly. As, in suchplaces, all the lanes and streets are formed of live trees and shrubs,there is no need to set up birches, except at the wayside crucifixes,where they keep holy guard, one on the right and one on the left. Asthe people of small places have not four altars to erect, there is asmall, portable altar, a little four-legged table with a white cloth tocover it and a tabernacle with angels painted on a blue ground kneelingbefore the "Holy Name." Above this is a little canopy with goldtassels. Behind are straps by means of which a boy can take the altaron his back and carry it, during the procession, from one gospel-placeto the other.
They have one of these little altars at Kathrein am Hauenstein. Shouldyou care to see it, it stands, in summer, in the church, in front ofthe great picture of the Fourteen Helpers.[10] It has stood there aslong as I can remember; and, in my young days, it was the duty and theprivilege of Kaunigl, him with the hare-lip, to carry it fromgospel-place to gospel-place. As soon as one gospel was read and theprocession starting on its way again, he strapped the altar to hisback, took the candlesticks and the hassock in his hands and hurriedover the hill by the short cut through the woods, so as to obtain alead and set up the altar in the next place. He would fix a stone ortwo under the feet of the little table to prevent any rocking, put thehassock in position and light the candles; and, by that time, the firstbanner was once more in sight.
Now it happened, one day, that this was the occasion of my being mixedup in a business that threatened the destruction of my immortal soul. Ihad just reached the age when nobody knows how a young scamp is goingto turn out. He may develop into a more or less decent fellow, or elseinto a lout of the first water: who can tell? None but God really; andeven He leaves the choice to the lanky, pale-faced lad himself. On theday in question, I had either overslept myself in my forest home or hadmore trouble than usual in getting my lace-boots on; or perhapsbreakfast was not ready in time. Anyhow, by the time I reached Kathreinchurch, everything was in full swing, with the red banners waving andthe candles twinkling between the trees. I stole round to the back, forI was mortally ashamed to do the right thing and simply go straight upto the procession and mix with the people. Here again God left thechoice to me, to join the worshippers or slink away through the busheslike a gaol-bird. I slunk like a gaol-bird through the bushes and theremet Kaunigl with the altar. He at once asked me to help him carry it.This suited me perfectly, for it justified the roundabout road which Ihad taken. I relieved Kaunigl of the hassock and candlesticks; and wehurried through the young trees up to the F?hrenriegel, behind thechurch, where the last gospel was to be read. We worked togetherloyally; and soon the little altar was fixed against the rock, with thecandles burning upon it. The procession was not yet in sight, for ithad taken a longer road through the green fields; but this Kaunigl boywas not the fellow to let time slip by and be wasted. He thrust hishand in his trousers-pocket, produced a pack of cards and flung it onthe altar so that the candles flickered before the fluttering bits ofpasteboard. Silently, as though what he was doing were a matter ofcourse, he dealt himself and me a hand at _Brandel_. It was not thefirst time that he and I had "taken each other on"; so I picked up thecards and we played a strict game on the Corpus Christi altar, by thelight of the wax candles burning solemnly. There was time for a second"bout"; and then, while Kaunigl was dealing the cards again, the men atthe head of the procession appeared round the corner, praying aloudwith heads uncovered. No cat could have pounced upon nimble mousequicker than Kaunigl gathered up those cards and shoved them in hispocket. Then we took up our positions on either side, in all innocence,and pulled off our caps.
Soon the musicians hove in sight: Eggbauer with the bugle-horn, his sonwith the first trumpet, Naz the tailor (who afterwards became mymaster) with the second, Erhard's boy with the clarionet, Zenz thesmith with the kettle-drum, while long-nosed Franz carried the big drumon his back, to be pounded with might and main by the Hausteininnkeeper. Ferdl the huntsman handled the "tinklers."
Behind this loud music came the _baldachino_. The old white-hairedparish priest carried the Most Holy high in front of him and held hishead bowed low, part
ly in veneration and partly because age had alreadygreatly bent his neck. He walked up to the little altar to place themonstrance on it. He was on the point of doing so when suddenly hestopped and stood for a moment with a stare upon his face. He hadcaught sight of the ten of clubs peeping from between the folds of thewhite altar-cloth! The confounded card had remained there hidden andunperceived! To decorate the Corpus Christi altar with "green" of thiskind[11] could hardly seem correct in the eyes of his reverence.Without a word, without a sign of displeasure, he turned to the rockand placed the monstrance on a projecting stone.
Only a very few people had realised why this was done. The gospel wasread and the benediction given without further incident, but I peepedthrough the hazel-bushes and saw that the old priest was white to thelips. Had he shown anger at his discovery on the altar, had he stormedand ordered the culprit to be taken by the ears, I should have thoughtit no more than just; but his humble silence, his look of sorrow, andthe fact that he had to place the Saviour, rendered homeless by thatsacrilegious game at cards, upon the bare rock: these were things thatcut into me as with a knife. He cannot have known who the accomplicewas, but he could easily have found out by my conscience-stricken face,however much it might try to hide itself behind the hazel-bushes.
Afterwards, when high mass began in church, Kaunigl pulled me by theskirt of my jacket and invited me to climb into the tower with him,where we could toll the bell at the Sanctus and the elevation and playcards in between. He had recovered possession of the ten of clubs.True, I did not accept; but I remained lost, for all that. From thatday forward I no longer ventured into the confessional. Kaunigl didventure in; but it was not quite so simple as he imagined, as hehimself told me afterwards.
"I have played cards," he confessed. "Once."
"Well," said the priest, "card-playing is no sin in itself, as long asyou do not play for money."
"No, I didn't play for money."
"Where did it happen?"
"On a table."
"What sort of a table?"
"A wooden one."
"Was it on the Corpus Christi table, by any chance?" asked the priest.
"Oh, no!" said Kaunigl.
And then he received absolution.
"Then you lied in your confession!" I said to Kaunigl, reproachfully.
"That doesn't matter," Kaunigl replied, promptly. "I can easily mentionthe lie next time: I'll get that through the grating right enough. Thething is to have the card-playing off my chest. Hang it all, though, Iwas nearly caught: Old Nick might have grabbed me finely!"
I based my own inferences upon this experience. If card-playing was nosin in itself--and we did not play for money--then there was no need toconfess the story. Nor is it stated in either the Lesser or the GreaterCatechism that man shall not play cards on altars. However, this subtleinterpretation helped me not at all. When I thought of that CorpusChristi sacrilege, in which I had so foolishly taken part, I often feltquite ill. I dreamt of it at nights, in the most uncomfortable way,and, sitting in church on Sundays, I dared not look at that littlealtar-table, which stood there so oddly, as though at any moment itmight burst into speech and betray me. Moreover, about this time, Iread in an old devotional book the story of a blasphemous shoemaker'sassistant who had mimicked the elevation of the Host in a public-houseand how his upraised arms had stiffened in the act, so that he couldnot bend them back again and had to go about with his arms sticking upin the air, until he was released by receiving absolution from a piousfather. It was much as though I were doomed to go about with armuplifted, holding the best trump in my hand, while the people laughedat me: "Now then, Peter, play! Why don't you play?" and as though Iplayed the card, at last, and, in so doing, played my poor soul toperdition. That was the sort of thing; and a nice thing too!
I could never manage to settle it by myself: that was quite clear. So,one evening, after working-hours, I went to see the parish-priest atSt. Catherine's. He was standing just outside the house, beside hisfish-pond, which was covered over with a rusty wire netting, while afine spring bubbled away in the middle. The priest no doubt thoughtthat I was merely passing by accident, for he beckoned to me with hisblack straw hat to come to him.
"What do you say, Peter?" he cried to me, in his soft voice. "Nine andfive and seven: doesn't that make twenty-one?"
I was never much good at mental arithmetic; however, this time, Ihazarded, on the off-chance:
"Yes, that should be about right. Twenty-one."
"Now then," he said, "just look here." And he pointed to the fish-pond."A fortnight ago, the Blasler boy sold me nine live trout and I putthem in the pond. A week ago, he sold me five more and I put them intoo; and, to-day, he sold me seven and I put them in as well. And howmany are there now, all told? Eight, eight; and not one more! And Iknow all about it: they are the same which he brought me a fortnightago; and it must be so: the scoundrel, I was almost saying, stole thefish each time out of the pond and sold them to me over again. It's a... a ..."
And he shook his fist in the air.
The fact was that the Blasler boy must have stolen the trout to beginwith, before he sold them for the first time, for Blasler had nofishing licence. This, I dare say, hardly occurred to the good priest'smind: he was thinking only of his fast-days. The commandments of theChurch allow fish on Fridays and Saturdays,[12] but do not say whetherthe fish may be stolen or not.
It was not a favourable opportunity to confess one's sins. So I forborefor the present, kissed the sleeve of his coat, because the clenchedfist did not look inviting for a kiss of the hand, and passed on. Onthe way, I pondered the question at length, which was the greater sin,the Blasler boy's or mine. His appeared to me in the light of a pieceof roguery, whereas mine might easily be a sin against the Holy Ghost;and those sins are not remitted.
A few days later, Cap Casimir, of Kressbachgraben, was driving a greynanny-goat with two kids along the road. The old goat had a full udder;and the young ones skipped around her and wanted to have a drink. ButCap Casimir hissed, in his sloppy brogue:
"Sshh, shtop that now! We musht bring the full udder to hishreverensh!"
I was at once curious to know what it meant; and Casimir, who was animmigrant Tyrolese and still wore his pointed "star-pricker,"[13] said:
"It'sh like thish, you shee, my wife'sh dead. 'The goat,' said she,'and the kidsh,' said she, 'I leave to the parish-priesht of Kathrein.For prayers and masshes.' That was her will; and then she died. Sho nowI'm driving the animalsh to the reverend gentleman'sh."
"All right," thought I to myself. "And I'll follow in an hour's time.He'll be in a good humour to-day; and I shall never find a betteropportunity."
So far, the thing was well thought out. I went off that same afternoon.The old gentleman was quite jolly and invited me to have a cup ofcoffee with him, telling me that there was fresh milk in it fromKressbachgraben.
And it was in the midst of the coffee that I suddenly said:
"I've had something on my mind for ever so long, your reverence!"
"You, something on your mind?" he laughed. "Well, that's a nice stateof affairs, when even little boys have things on their minds!"
I stirred my cup of coffee vigorously with my spoon, so as not to haveto look his reverence in the face, and told him the story of the gameof cards on the altar.
Contrary to all my expectations, the priest remained quite calm. Thenhe asked:
"Did you do it wilfully? Did you intend to mock the holy altar?"
"Good God, no, your reverence!" I replied, thoroughly shocked at themere thought.
"Very well," said the old man.
Then he was silent for a little while and finished his coffee, afterwhich he spoke as follows:
"It was not a proper thing to do; let me tell you that at once. And Iwill let Kaunigl know also that what people take to church isprayer-books and not playing-cards! But, if you had no bad intention indoing this silly trick, we will say no more about it this time. At anyrate, you did quite right to tell
me. Would you like a drop more?"
As the Corpus Christi incident was now closed in the best possible way,the second cup of coffee tasted twice as good as the first. When,presently, I got up to go, the old man laid his hand on my shoulder andsaid, kindly:
"I feel easier now that I know exactly what happened on that CorpusChristi Day. But you must never do it again, Peterkin. Just think,--ourdear Lord!..."
FOOTNOTES:
[10] _Die vierzehn Nothelfer_, often mentioned in the Germanhagiology. "Emergency saints" has been suggested as an equivalentrendering.--[_Translator's Note._]
[11] The clubs are printed in green, in the cheap packs of cards usedin the Tyrol, and the ten of this suit is called _der Gr?hnzehner_: theten of greens.--[_Translator's Note._]
[12] In some parts of Southern Austria, the practice prevails ofabstaining from flesh-meat on Saturdays, as well as on Fridays, inhonour of the Blessed Virgin Mary.--[_Translator's Note._]
[13] The popular nickname for the pointed Tyrolese, "sugar-loaf"hat.--[_Translator's Note._]