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PETER ROSEGGER

The Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster

In Austrian literature the “story in dialect” is a modern development.  Its founder and most distinguished exponent is Peter Kettenfeier Rosegger, who was born at Alpel, near Krieglach, on July 31, 1843, and who has spent his lifetime among the people of the Styrian Alps.  Mr. Rosegger first attracted attention in 1875 with a volume of short stories, bearing the general title of “Schriften des Waldschulmeisters,” or “Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster,” and since then he has written a large number of similar tales, all more or less sentimental in tone, and all dealing with certain aspects of peasant life.  “The Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster,” which takes the form of a diary, is not only one of the most winsome idylls that has come from Herr Rosegger’s pen, but it exhibits a delicacy of touch, a keen penetration into the mysteries of human life, and a deep insight into nature in her various moods; and under all there is a strong current of romance and a great sense of the poetry of things—­qualities that have made its author one of the foremost prose poets in recent German literature.

Mist and rain made it impossible for me to ascend the “Grey Tooth” for some days after I had arrived at Winkelsteg, the highest village in the remotest valley, and I was temporarily lodged in the schoolhouse, which had been deserted since the schoolmaster, who—­so I was told—­had lived in this out-of-the-way corner for fifty years, had disappeared last Christmas.  The whole next day the rain continued to beat against the window.  There was nothing to be done, and I spent my time in arranging the scattered but numbered sheets of the vanished schoolmaster’s manuscript, which I found littered in the drawer allotted to me for my scant belongings.  And then I began to read that strange man’s diary, the first page of which only bore the words: 

The Papers of the Forest Schoolmaster

So I am at last settled in this wilderness.  And I will write it all down, although I know not for whom.  My father died when I was seven, and I was taken charge of by an itinerant umbrella-maker who taught me his trade, and on his death left me his stock of some two dozen umbrellas, which I took to the market.  A heavy shower just at midday helped me to sell them rapidly, and I only retained one for my own protection and for that of an elegant gentleman who, unable to secure a carriage, made me accompany him to town to save him from getting drenched.  He made me tell him all about myself, and offered to take me as apprentice in his bookshop.  He was a kind master.  When he discovered’ that I was more interested in the contents of his books than in my work he secured me admission in a college.  I studied hard, and obtained my meals at the houses of private pupils whom I undertook to coach.  My friend Henry, a clothmaker’s son, had procured me a post as teacher to Hermann, the son of the Baron von Schrankenheim.  I was treated with every consideration in his house, and became deeply attached to my pupil’s sister.  Of course, the case was hopeless then; but in a few years, when I should have passed my examinations and taken my degrees—­who knows?