in olden times, when the almighty used still to show himself on earth, the people say that every one knew beforehand exactly the day and hour of his death.
thus one day the creator in the course of his wanderings came across a peasant who was mending his garden paling in a careless, slovenly manner.
“why workest thou so carelessly?” asked the lord, and received this answer:
“why should i make it any better? i have got only one year left to live, and it will last till then.”
hearing which god grew angry, and said,
“henceforward no man shall know the day or hour of his death;{118} thou art the last one who has known it.” and since that time we are all kept in ignorance of our death-hour; therefore should every man live as though he were to die in the next hour, and work as if he were to live forever.
death to the saxon peasant appears in the light of a treacherous enemy who must be met with open resistance, and may either be conquered by courageous opposition or conciliated with a bribe. “he has put off death with a slice of bread” is said of a man who has survived some great danger.
when the first signs of an approaching illness declare themselves in a man, all his friends are strenuous in advising him to hold out against it—not to let himself go, but to grapple with this foe which has seized him unawares. even though all the symptoms of typhus-fever be already upon him, though his head be burning like fire and his limbs heavy as lead, he is yet exhorted to bear up against it, and on no account to lie down, for that would be a concession to the enemy.
in this way many a man goes about with death upon his face, determined not to give in, till at last he drops down senseless in the field or yard where he has been working. even then his family are not disposed to let him rest. with well-meant but mistaken kindness they endeavor to rouse him by shouting in his ear. he must be made to wake up and walk about, or it will be all over with him; and not for the world would they send for a doctor, who can only be regarded as an omen of approaching death.[19]
some old woman, versed in magic formulas and learned in the decoction of herbs and potions, is hastily summoned to the bedside, and the unfortunate man would probably be left to perish without intelligent advice, unless the pastor, hearing of his illness, takes upon himself to send for the nearest physician.
by the time the doctor arrives the illness has made rapid strides, and most likely the assistance comes too late. the first care of the doctor on entering the room will be to remove the warm fur cap and{119} the heavy blankets, which are wellnigh stifling the patient, and order him to be undressed and comfortably laid in his bed. he prescribes cooling compresses and a medicine to be taken at regular intervals, but shakes his head and gives little hope of recovery.
already this death is regarded as a settled thing in the village; for many of the gossips now remember to have heard the owl shriek in the preceding night, or there has been an unusual howling of dogs just about midnight. some remember how a flight of crows flew cawing over the village but yesterday, which means a death, for it is meat that the crows are crying for; or else the cock has been heard to crow after six in the evening; or the loaves were cracked in the oven on last baking-day. others call to mind how over-merry the old man had been four weeks ago, when his youngest grandchild was christened, and that is ever a sign of approaching decease. “and only a week ago,” says another village authority, “when we buried old n—— n——, there was an amazing power of dust round the grave, and the herr vater sneezed twice during his sermon; and that, as every one knows, infallibly means another funeral before long. mark my words, ere eight days have passed he will be lying under the nettles!”
“so it is,” chimes in another gossip. “he will hear the cuckoo cry no more.”
the village carpenter, who has long been out of work, now hangs about the street in hopes of a job. “how is the old man?” he anxiously inquires of a neighbor.
“the preacher has just gone in to knock off the old sinner’s irons,” is the irreverent reply, at which the carpenter brightens up, hoping that he may soon be called in to make the “fir-wood coat,” for he has a heap of damaged boards lying by which he fain would get rid of.
sometimes, however, it is the thrifty peasant himself, who, knowing the ways of village carpenters, and foreseeing this inevitable contingency, has taken care to provide himself with a well-made solid coffin years before there was any probability of its coming into use. he has himself chosen out the boards, tested their soundness, and driven a hard bargain for his purchase, laying himself down in the coffin to assure himself of the length being sufficient. for many years this useless piece of furniture has been standing in the loft covered with dust and cobwebs, and serving, perhaps, as a receptacle for old iron or discarded boots; and now it is the dying man himself who, during a passing interval of consciousness, directs that his coffin should be{120} brought down and cleaned out; his glassy eye recovering a momentary brightness as he congratulates himself on his wise forethought.
death is indeed approaching with rapid strides. only two spoonfuls of the prescribed medicine has the patient swallowed. “take it away,” he says, when he has realized his situation—“take it away, and keep it carefully for the next person who falls ill. it can do me no good, and it is a pity to waste it on me, for i feel that my time has come. send for the preacher, that i may make my peace with the almighty.”
the last dispositions as to house and property have been made in the presence of the pastor or preacher. the house and yard are to belong to the youngest son, as is the general custom among the saxons; the eldest son or daughter is to be otherwise provided for. the small back room belongs to the widow, as jointure lodging for the rest of her life; likewise a certain proportion of grain and fruit is assured to her. the exact spot of the grave is indicated, and two ducats are to be given to the herr vater if he will undertake to preach a handsome funeral oration, and to compose a suitable epitaph for the tombstone.
when it becomes evident that the last death-struggle is approaching, the mattress is withdrawn from under the dying man, for, as every one knows, he will expire more gently if laid upon straw.
scarcely has the breath left his body than all the last clothes he has worn are taken off and given to a gypsy. the corpse, after being washed and shaved, is dressed in bridal attire—the self-same clothes once donned on the wedding-morning long ago, and which ever since have been lying by, carefully folded and strewn with sprigs of lavender, in the large painted truhe (bunker), waiting for the day when their turn must come round again. possibly they now prove a somewhat tight fit; for the man of sixty has considerably developed his proportions since he wore these same clothes forty years ago, and no doubt it will be necessary to make various slits in the garments in order to enable them to fulfil their office.
the coffin is prepared to receive the body by a sheet being spread over a layer of wood-shavings; for the head a little pillow, stuffed with dried flowers and aromatic herbs, which in most houses are kept ready prepared for such contingencies. in sewing this pillow great care must be taken not to make any knot upon the thread, which would hinder the dead man from resting in his grave, and likewise{121} prevent his widow from marrying again; also, no one should be suffered to smell at the funeral wreaths, or else they will irretrievably lose their sense of smell.
a new-dug grave should not if possible stand open overnight, but only be dug on the day of the funeral itself.
an hour before the funeral, the ringer begins to toll the seelenpuls (soul’s pulse), as it is called; but the sexton is careful to pause in the ringing when the clock is about to strike, for “if the hour should strike into the bell” another death will be the consequence.
standing before the open grave, the mourners give vent to their grief, which, even when true and heartfelt, is often expressed with such quaint realism as to provoke a smile:
“my dearest husband,” wails a disconsolate widow, “why hast thou gone away? i had need of thee to look after the farm, and there was plenty room for thee at our fireside. my god, is it right of thee to take my support away? on whom shall i now lean?”
the children near their dead mother.—“mother, mother, who will care for us now? shall we live within strange doors?”
a mother bewailing her only son.—“o god, thou hast had no pity! even the emperor did not take my son away to be a soldier. thou art less merciful than the emperor!”
another mother weeping over two dead children.—“what a misfortune is mine, o god! if i had lost two young foals, at least their hides would have been left to me!” and the children, standing by the open grave of their father, cry out, “oh, father, we shall never forget thee! take our thanks for all the good thou hast done to us during thy lifetime, as well as for the earthly goods thou hast left behind!”
the banquet succeeding the obsequies is in some places still called the tor—perhaps in reference to the old god thor, who with his hammer presides alike over marriages and funerals.
