Features
Autrian features
Our first Christmas Tree, By Peter Rosegger and freely translated by Peter Gieler
These were the first Christmas celebrations of my student days. For weeks I had counted the days and finally the hours to the morning of my departure from Graz to Alpel.
On the actual day there was such a snowstorm and wind that the steam train got stuck. I was forced to get out and strolled onwards fresh and happy for a hike of about six hours through the valley.
It was so cold that I soon lost all sensation in my ears and nose. As I climbed up through the woods I warmed up to such an extent that my ears began to burn hotter than on any summer’s day. So just as dusk was setting I reached the old house that swayed in and out of focus in the gathering mist. A lonely blurred building in a desert of snow.
I entered and the living room appeared so much smaller, the ceiling lower, darker yet warmer than I remembered. Staying in a city house makes you lose any sense of size. I was soon brought down to earth when my mother without a glance in my direction said ‘ Well if you are here’ and reached for a candle. ‘Mother, don’t. Just use a spill, it is so much prettier’ She didn’t. A pinewood spill was for workdays. Today, my return home after a lengthy absence was a special holiday for my mother.
Thus the candle. As my eyes became accustomed to the half-light I saw Nick, my little eight year old brother, peering from a corner of the room. He was the youngest of us all. ‘You look good.’ Said mother as she examined my wind beaten face. Nick was very pale. ‘ You look as if you have been in the city instead of me.’ I said laughingly.
Actually the boy was sick. He had been coughing for most of the winter so far. The old housemaid mumbled and grumbled at least three times a day that ‘for those with a cough’ there was nothing worse than ‘cold air’. She had not allowed Nick to step outside the hut and this was why he was so pale, - not because of the cough. During this night before Christmas I slept little, which was very rare in those days. My mother had made a bed above the stove warning me not to stretch my legs too far otherwise they would finish up in the fire basket and on the live coals.
The glowing coals made the room warm and comfortable, crackling and hissing in the still pitch dark night, occasionally the embers glowed throwing a faint light and shadow onto the walls. There was something that had concerned me for some time and I had to make a decision during the night before mother got up to make the morning soup. I had heard a great deal in Graz how town folk celebrated Christmas.
They got a small pine tree from the woods, put it on the table and fixed small candles to its branches. Below the tree they even put presents for the children and said that they were a gift from the Christkind. It was my intention to obtain such a tree for my little brother Nick. But secretly, -the surprise factor was very important.
As soon as it grew light I went out in the freezing mist and indeed this mist protected me from the prying eyes of the workers as I approached the house with the little pine tree. It was evening and the farm workers were finishing their tasks in the stables and in the house so that, as was the annual custom on Christmas Eve, they could wash themselves and put on their best clothes. In the kitchen mother baked the traditional carp and father and Nick blessed the house and farm buildings.
With a receptacle containing burning coals that were then sprinkled with incense they wandered from room to room. In each room they stopped, gently swung the incense in all directions whilst silently praying. This act was supposed to banish evil spirits and bless all those who lived within. Whilst everyone else was at work busy doing this or that, I prepared the Christmas tree in the living room.
I fixed the little tree into a log and stood it on the table. From the wax taper I cut ten or twelve candles and bound them to the branches. Below the tree I laid a small fruit loaf. I soon heard footsteps approaching above and beside the living room. They would soon be here to bless and impregnate this room with incense last of all.
I lit the candles and hid behind the stove. The door opened and they entered with their swaying basket of incense and coals and stood still. ‘What’s this?’ whispered my father slowly. The little boy stared speechless. His large round eyes open wide reflecting the lights on the Christmas tree. They sparkled as stars.
Father slowly went to the kitchen door and softly called out ‘ Mother, mother! Come here a moment.’ And when she arrived asked ‘Mother is this your doing?’ ‘Mary and Joseph!’ breathed Mother ‘ what have they done to the table?’ Soon the labourers and maids arrived astonished and a little afraid of the curious happening.
A youngster who originated from the valley ventured that it could be a Christmas Tree. Was it really true that the angels brought such trees from heaven? They stared and stared. From Father’s casket the incense rose and filled the room with a gentle veil that settled over the tree. Mother glanced around the room. ‘Where is Peter?’ It was time to make an appearance and I stepped out from behind the stove.
I took Nick who still stood there with his mouth wide open to the table. He tried to pull away. ‘There’s nothing to worry about.’ I said soothingly’ ‘Look the Christkind has brought you a Christmas Tree. It is all yours.’ Tears of joy and wonder ran down the little boy’s cheeks as he folded his hands as if in prayer.
Since that time, I have dressed the Christmas tree more than forty times, and surrounded it with gifts to bring joy to young and old, but I have never again encountered such joy as that of my little brother - the sheer wonderment in his eyes seemed to me to be a sign from heaven.
Peter Rosegger freely translated by Peter Gieler
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