THE FOREST SCHOOLMASTER

PREFACE

The author of the following work is a man well on in the fifties and lives—as he should—on his native soil. Born in Steiermark, Austria, in a lonely mountain region, he led the life of a forest peasant until he reached the age of eighteen, when he became apprenticed to a travelling peasant tailor. On the expiration of this apprenticeship, which covered a period of four years, he spent other four years as charity scholar in the commercial school at Graz.

After these experiences, and after having mastered such a variety of subjects, he began to work at something which he not only had not mastered but with which he was wholly unfamiliar—literature. He had always had a passion for books, but having no money with which to buy them, he had made them for himself.

In the peasant hut and in the workshop had been brought forth no less than twenty-four magnificent volumes, closely written with ink made from soot, illustrated with lead-pencil, and painted in water-colours with a brush made from his own hair—édition de luxe! But worthy to be printed!—not a single line.

Thus this youth had worked for ten long years, every Sunday, every holiday, and often late into the night, by the light of a pine torch and in the midst of the noise of his house companions, who occupied the same room. The intellectual and spiritual life of the poor lad was a very lonely one.

He did not write for print; the innocent boy scarcely knew that books were already being printed in this age, for the most of those which he had seen were old folios. He simply wrote to make two out of one, to place himself before himself, in his thoughts, in poems, in all kinds of yarns and tales, that in his great loneliness he might at least have a comrade. Beyond this he did not think or strive, was happy rather than unhappy, cherishing a vague hope that his life would at some time change. Whenever he asked himself what this change might be, he would calmly answer:—"Probably death."

But at this point things took a strange turn. The young man was completely transformed; not only from boy to youth, from youth to man; he changed not his coat alone, but in his fustian jacket, in his workman's blouse or student's garb, there appeared each time another being, which during all these transformations had not once died.

It finally seemed to him as though three or four different natures were dwelling in him, and as the original one had formerly tried to express itself, so now, in great confusion, they all struggled with one another to do the same. He was twenty-six years old, he had seen something of life, had read many books and had seen how they were made. Thus he was inspired to write afresh, and this time—for print.

I should envy him his good fortune were I not the man myself. So nothing remains for me but to thank Heaven for the pleasant paths over which I have been led. I have not deserved it, for I was not conscious of any definite aim, being satisfied to fill my days with work which appealed to me. I could now write to my heart's content. That which was written with the least effort was always the most successful, but if I attempted anything great, which it seemed to me might even prove itself immortal, it was usually a failure.

It was finally decided by one of my friends that for the future I should neither do tailoring nor handle the plough or the yard-stick, but instead become an author. My youth had not spoiled me, far from it, but such an aim as this seemed beyond my reach.

I married and had children. I wrote, and my books found friends. And now the time had come when one might truly say, "Augenblick verweile!" But the moment did not stay, it flew and with it took from me my dearest, my all,—my wife. In the Waldheimath and in Mein Weltleben those events have been depicted.

But my work was my salvation, and another transformation took place. In the neighbourhood of my forest home I built myself a little house and after a number of years I married a second time. More children came, and as my hair whitened, I was surrounded by a lively circle of gay young people.

In the meantime I had seen something of the world, wandering from the north to the south, visiting friends over in the dear German Empire, being invited to various cities to give readings from my works in steierisch dialect.

For twenty-three years I edited a monthly magazine in Graz, called "Der Heimgarten," where my various writings were placed on trial. Those which were worthy to endure but a day died with the day, those which struck a deeper chord appeared in books. During the last thirty years forty volumes have gone out into the world. Their merits must be judged by the reader. They are not so impassioned as formerly; but the little forest springs are clearer than the greater ones. I shall be proud if my critics will only call them: "Frisch Wasser."

PETER ROSEGGER.

KRIEGLACH, Autumn, 1899

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY:

PART FIRST