The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian TyrolRosegger, Peter
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The Forest Farm: Tales of the Austrian Tyrol
Rosegger, Peter
Domestic fiction; Historical fiction; Short stories, Austrian -- Translations into English; Tyrol (Austria) -- Fiction
When, at last, after walking for hours through the woods along the
mountain-path, I saw the thatched cottage on the hill-side, then it was
as though a misty shadow covered woods and plains and all; and yet the
sunlight hung over it. A puff of grey smoke rose from the little
chimney. Does she suspect my coming? thought I. Is she cooking my
favourite dish? No, strangers are preparing a funeral feast.
You stood long, Peterl, outside the half-open door; and your hand
trembled when at last it touched the latch. The door opened, you walked
in, it was dark in the narrow passage, with only a dim little oil-lamp
flickering in a glass, and yet you saw it clearly: against the wall,
under the smoky stairs, on a plank lay the bier, covered entirely with
a big white cloth. At the head stood a crucifix and the holy-water
stoup, with a sprig of fir in it....
You fell upon your knees.... And the tears came at last. The tears
which the mother's heart once gave us to take with us into this world
for our relief in sorrow and for our only consolation in the hour when
no other comfort reaches the soul, when strangers cannot understand us
and when the mother's heart has ceased to beat. Hail, O rich and
eternal legacy!
Now the door of the parlour opened softly and Maria, the younger
sister, stepped out. The girl at once began to cry when she saw the
brother of whom they had all spoken so often, for whom mother's last
glance had asked and who was far away when she closed her eyes. Now he
lay there on his knees and cried over the memory of her life.
Even her children here at home had slept through the night of the
death. Not till the glow of early morning lit up the little windows did
father go to the girls in the bedroom and say:
"Open your eyes and look out. The sun is already rising over the
Wechsel; and the Blessed Virgin is sitting on the mountain-top, with
the Child Jesus on her knee; and your mother is sitting on the stool
at her feet, with a spinning-wheel before her, weaving her heavenly
garment."
Then they knew at once that mother was dead.
"Would you like to look at her?" my sister now asked.
And she went to the head of the bier and slowly raised the shroud.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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