The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

  II

  How I Gave God My Sunday Jacket

  The church of the Alpine village of Ratten contains a nearly life-sizeequestrian statue, standing to the left of the high altar. The horsemanis a splendid warrior; he wears a crested helmet and moustaches blackas ebony. He has drawn his broad and gleaming sword and is using it tocut his cloak in half. At the foot of the prancing steed cowers thefigure of a ragged beggar-man.

  My mother used to take me to this church when I was still a littlewhipper-snapper, hardly up to the height of an ordinary person'strousers. Near the church stands a lady-chapel, famed for its manygraces; and here my mother loved to pray. Often, when there was notanother soul remaining in the chapel and twelve o'clock struck and thesteeple sent the midday Angelus clanging out across the summer Sunday,mother would still be kneeling on one of the chairs and sending up herplaint to Mary. The Blessed Virgin sat on the altar, with her hand inher lap, and moved not head, nor eyes, nor hands; and so, little bylittle, my mother was able to say what she wanted.

  I preferred to stop in the church and gaze at the fine rider on hishorse.

  And once, when we were on our way home and mother leading me by thehand (and I had always to take three steps for every one of hers), Iraised my little head to her kind face and asked:

  "Why does the man on horseback keep on standing against the wall upthere? Why does he not ride out through the window into the street?"

  Then mother answered:

  "Because you put such childish questions and because it is only astatue, the statue of St. Martin, who was a soldier and a verycharitable and pious man and is now in Heaven."

  "And is the horse in Heaven too?" I asked.

  "I will tell you all about St. Martin," said mother, "when we come to anice place where we can sit down and rest."

  And she led me on and I skipped along beside her. But I was veryanxious for the resting-place and constantly cried out:

  "Mother, here's a nice place!"

  But she was not content until we came to the shady wood, where a flat,mossy stone stood; and then we sat down. Mother fastened her kerchieftighter round her head and was silent, as though she had forgotten herpromise. I stared and stared at her lips and then peeped through thetrees; and once or twice it appeared to me as though I had seen thegrand horseman riding through the wood.

  "Yes, true enough, laddie," mother began, suddenly, "we must alwayshelp the poor, for the love of God. But you won't find many finegentlemen like St. Martin nowadays, trotting about on their tallhorses. You know how the icy blast rushes over our sheep-walk, whenwinter is nigh--your own little paws were nearly frozen there lastyear! Well, it was just such a stretch of heath that St. Martin cameriding over one evening late in autumn. The earth is frozen hard asstone; and it makes a fine noise each time the horse puts hoof toground. The snowflakes dance all round about; not one of them meltsaway. Night is just beginning to fall; and the horse clatters over theheath and the rider draws his white cloak round him as close as ever hecan. Well, as he rides on like that, suddenly he sees a littlebeggar-man squatting on a stone, with nothing to cover him but a tornjacket; and he shivering with cold and lifting his sad eyes to the tallhorse. Whoa! When the horseman sees that, he pulls up his steed andbends over and says to the beggar, 'Oh, my dear, poor man, what almscan I give you? Gold and silver I have none; and my sword you couldnever use. How can I help you?' Then the beggar lets his white headfall on his half-naked breast and heaves a sigh. But the horseman drawshis sword, takes his cloak from his shoulders and cuts it across themiddle. One half of the garment he hands down to the poor shiveringgrey-beard: 'Take this, my needy brother!' he says. The other half ofthe cloak he flings round his own body, as best he can, and ridesaway."

  This was the story my mother told me; and, with those cold autumnevenings of hers, she made that lovely midsummer day feel so chillythat I shivered.

  "But it's not quite finished yet, my child," mother continued. "Youknow now what the horseman with the beggar in the church means; but youhave not heard what happened afterwards. When the rider, later on atnight, lies sleeping peacefully on his hard bolster at home, the samebeggar whom he met on the heath comes to his bedside, smiles and showshim the half cloak, shows him the marks of the nails in His hands andshows him His face, which is no longer old and sorrowful, but radiantas the sun. This same beggar from the heath was Our LordHimself.--There, laddie, and now we must be getting on."

  Then we stood up and climbed into the woods on the mountain-side.

  On the way home, we met two beggar-men; I peered very closely intotheir faces; for I thought:

  "Our Lord may be concealed behind one of them."

  On the evening of the same day, I was told to take off my Sundaysuit--for father was a thrifty man--and was playing and skipping aboutin my shabby workaday breeches, with only the brand-new grey jacket,which I did not want to take off and had begged to be allowed to wearfor the rest of the day. Mother was attending to her household dutiesand I ran out to the sheep-walk, for it was my business to bring thesheep home to the fold, including a little white lamb that was my ownproperty.

  As I hopped along, throwing stones into the air and trying to hit thegolden evening clouds, suddenly I saw an old, white-headed and verypoorly dressed man squatting on a rock a little way off. I stopped,greatly startled; dared not take another step; and thought to myself:

  "Now this is most certainly Our Lord."

  I trembled with fear and joy and simply had no notion what to do.

  "If it _is_ Our Lord," I said to myself, "then surely I must give Himsomething. If I go home now, so that mother comes and looks out andsees me and tells me how the matter stands, He might be gone in themeantime; and that would be disgraceful and ridiculous. I think it isHe beyond a doubt: the one whom the horseman met looked just likethat."

  I went a few steps back and began to tear at my grey jacket. It was noeasy work: the coat fitted so tightly over my coarse linen shirt; and Idid not want to be puffing and panting, lest the beggar-man shouldnotice me too soon. I had a yellow-handled pocket-knife, brand-new andjust lately sharpened. I took it out of my pocket, put the little coatunder my knee and began to divide it down the middle.

  It was soon done and I stole up to the beggar-man, who seemed to behalf asleep, and put his part of my coat on his head:

  "Take this, my needy brother!" I said, silently, in my thoughts.

  Then I put my half of the coat under my arm, gazed at Our Lord a littlelonger and then drove the sheep from the walk.

  "He is sure to come in the night," I thought, "and then father andmother will see Him and, if He wishes to stop with us, we can fit upthe back room and the little altar for Him."

  I lay in the cupboard-bedstead, beside father and mother, and I couldnot sleep. The night passed and He Whom I was expecting did not come.

  But, early in the morning, when the barn-door cock crowed the men andmaids out of their beds and when the noisy working-day began in theyard outside, an old man--he was nicknamed Mushroom Moses--came to myfather, brought him the piece of my jacket which I had given away andtold how I had wantonly cut it the evening before and flung one half athis head as he was taking a rest on the sheep-walk after hunting formushrooms.

  Thereupon my father came up softly to my bed, with one hand hiddenbehind his back.

  "Look here, lad, just you tell me what you've done with your new Sundayjacket!"

  That soft slinking with his hand behind his back at once struck me assuspicious; and my face fell; and, bursting into tears, I cried:

  "Oh, father, I thought I was giving it to God!"

  "Lord, lad, what a duffer--what an idiot you are!" cried my father."You're much too good for this world and yet quite too silly to die!What you want is to have your soul thrashed out of your skin with astout besom."

  And then, when the hand with the twisted birch-rod came in view, Iraised a great hullabaloo.

  Mother came rushing up at once. As a rule, she seldom interfered whenfather was cor
recting me; but, this time, she caught hold of his handand said:

  "I dare say I can sew the jacket together again, father. Come with me:I have something to tell you."

  They both went out into the kitchen; I think they must have discussedthe story of St. Martin. Presently, they came back to the room.

  Father said:

  "All right now, be quiet; there's nothing going to be done to you."

  And mother whispered in my ear:

  "It's all right, your wanting to give your jacket to Our Lord; butit'll be better still if we give it to the poor boy down in the valley.Our Lord lies hidden in every poor man. St. Martin knew that too, yousee. So there. And now, lad, jump out of bed and get your breeches on;father's not so very far off yet with that birch of his!"