XVIII
The Sacred Cornfield
(_The translation of a chapter from "Jakob der Letzte," in which tragicstory Rosegger tells how a rich man comes to a poor upland community,and gradually bribes and tricks all the peasants except Jacob--whoafter a dignified and then desperate effort to save the place, breakshis heart and goes mad--to part with their homes and holdings to himfor deer-forest._)
Again and again Jacob sought refuge in his work. It was a good thingfor him that it was pressing, and left little time for his heartache.The field must be tilled, the garden manured, and the meadows watered.In the early part of the year the melted snow rushes wildly down, oftentearing up the earth as it goes; then comes the hot sunshine on theslopes: so that to-day there is too much moisture and to-morrow toolittle. Hardly had the first blades sprouted when the cattle weredriven to the higher pastures, for the winter's supply of fodder wasnearly all devoured before the spring gave its new green. Livingthrough the winter on moss and brushwood, the beasts were in such poorcondition when at last they came out into the open that they couldhardly climb the slopes, and many a one would slip and break a leg.
And yet there was a new motto in Altenmoos: up with cattle-breeding anddown with agriculture! Jacob could not make up his mind to alter hismethod of farming: he loved his fields, all his heart was in them, andtheir tending was a ritual to him.
When, as sower, he trod the long furrows, casting the seed abroad inthe earth, it was in an earnest, almost solemn manner, as if he wereabout some sacred business; and then before his eyes the miracle of thedivine love began to fulfil itself. This man, with all his anxiety, hishope, his silent grief, knew nothing better than to watch theresurrection of the buried grain. In the peaceful time, after hisworking day was over and he sat alone, utterly alone on his stone-heap,he would give himself up to blessed contemplation. Before him the brownfields stretch away, the larks blow trumpets, and in tender, reddishblades the dead arise and look up to heaven. Then gradually everythingbegins to grow green, the tiny leaves curl and bend earthwards again asif they are listening for any good counsels about life that the Mothermay have to give them. Then they aspire upwards, rolling themselvesinto sheaths, out of which, little by little, emerges the stalk and theinmost being of the corn. By the time Ascension Day is there the cornis looking skywards even in the mountain districts, as if gazing inloving gratitude after Him who called it to life, and who will comeagain to waken the human seeds that are sown in all the churchyards. Inthe young summer breeze the cornfield ripples like a blue-green lake,with the cloud-shadows gliding graciously over it. And the single bladeis now in its full glory. The four-sided ear, in which the still tendergrains lie scale-like over each other, hangs its blossom out like tinyflags wherever a grainlet lies in its cradle, which flutter and tremblewithout ceasing, while the high stalk rocks thoughtfully to and fro.
God keep us from storms in this blessed season! From rain, too, withthe sun shining through it, for that breeds mildew. Wet seasons cause agrowth upon the ears, for which the local name of Mother-grain is fartoo pretty for truth. The sky-climbing youth of the corn soon comes toan end, the hot summer whitens its hair; then, still conscious of itsstrength and its virtue, it yet bows its head in humility before Himwho has given it virtue and strength.
Deeper within this forest of grain, thistles and the parasitical couchgrass, the fair-seeming darnel, and every sort of tangled rubble andlawless company thrive rankly enough in the shadow of the corn and arenourished upon its roots. There, also, the wanton corn-cockle is to befound, whose seed later makes the flour--if not already red withshame--such a dirty bluish colour; there the will-o'-the-wisp poppy,and the kindly, patriarchal cornflower, whose crown is made of manylittle crowns.
Many a time, while a thunderstorm was raging over Altenmoos, Jacobwould stand under the heavy eaves over his door, looking out quiet andresigned. Man cannot alter things, God is almighty; what is the good,then, of trembling or complaining? When it grows light, he sees hiswhole cornfield, now nearly ripe, beaten down. Jacob says, "Thanks andpraise be to God that there was no ice in it--all the stalks lie inorder and flat on the ground, not one lifts so much as a knee! Theheavy rain has laid the corn low, the wind will dry it--lift it upagain." But there are years when it does not get up, when the rainbeats it down again and again; then it is that the alien, lawlessrabble get the upper hand--they rise up from between the prone stalks,and weave a trellis overhead, and begin a godless blooming and braggingabove the poor imprisoned corn.
When, however, God does give rain and sunshine in due season (just asthe folks who go pilgrimages pray to have it), the fields are glorious.Strong and slender the stalks grow up from joint to joint. Thelance-shaped, dark green leaves that lorded it at first, have nearlyvanished, the stalks droop their heavy heads, which give back the sowngrain thirty or forty-fold, one stalk laying its golden head on theshoulder of another. In the sun's heat by day, at night in the light ofthe moon and the stars and the glimmer of glow-worms, they are ripeningtowards harvest.
At last come the reapers. Every grain is armed with a sharp spear fordefence or offence, but the reaper does not flinch before thefine-toothed saws that allow no hand to glide downwards, but onlyupwards from below,--only from lowly to lofty.
When Jacob, always first and last in the heat and burden of the day,rests in late evening beneath a corn-stook in the harvest-field, hisdreaming begins again. The breath of grass and flowers makes himdrowsy: he watches the antics of a jolly grasshopper, hears the chirpof a cricket--then it all fades away. He is looking out over a countrywhere there is no blue forest, no green meadows, no mountain crags, andno clear streams. So far as ever the eye can reach is one great goldensea, an immeasurable field of corn. Above it, a cloudless sky presseshot and heavy on his heart. Then it comes to his mind: "Say thy grace,Jacob, for this place is the table of a mighty people. Those who livein the mountains must tend their poultry and their cattle, and fetchthe bread of corn from this table."
Then Jacob awakes, pulls himself up by the stook, and says into thenight, "It'll have to come to that. And yet the cornfield isbeautiful--more beautiful than anyhow else--when it lies between theforest and meadow! And a home, if it's a real home, should yield itschildren everything that they need."
Besides, the soil in Altenmoos is not less rich than elsewhere! Whenthe last wagon-load of sheaves has gone swaying home to the barn,there's always something for the poor woman who comes gleaning thescattered ears among the stubble. Then the cattle are pastured there,and a fine grass springs up; only the beasts must not mind astubble-prick in the nose for every mouthful they get. At last, it maybe, the plough comes again, still unwilling as ever to grant the fieldsa rest; but then comes Winter, and says, "Enough!" and covers the tiredearth with its white mantle.
Even under that cover there is no peace. A little grain fell out of thesheaf at harvest-time; the earth takes it to herself, lets it silentlydecay, and gives it back again, all new-made, in the sunshine of thefollowing spring.
With such dreams, whereby, as on Jacob's ladder, he climbed up and downbetween earth and heaven, this lonely man pleased and edified himself;and when the shadow came over his spirit, he would say to himself, "InGod's name, Jacob, if it must be, thou mayst well entrust thyselfwillingly to the faithful and undying earth. Perhaps thou wilt rise upagain, and find better days in Altenmoos."