Christmas in the Forest

Translated from the original version

“Die Heilige und ihr Narr”

 Introductory chapter of

“The Saint and her Fool”

Introduction

On a magical Christmas Eve, deep in the forest, the impoverished Count Harro von Thorstein sees the young Princess Rosemarie for the first time. She has fled from her golden cage in Castle Brauneck, where the delicate child was raised since the death of her mother without love. 

Sensing a lost soul, much as himself, Harro gains the trust of this angelic child. He is spellbound by her strong emotions and fatalistic mind, which seem much too vivid for such a young girl.

Harro is a lonely man, who lives as an artist with his faithful servant in the dark ruins of his castle, but light comes into his world as he finds his little “Saint Rose”.

Prologue

"A unique book" - this is how the 1913 published novel Die Heilige und ihr Narr by Agnes Günther (1863-1911) has been described. Still being in print today with the 144th edition and translated into eleven languages, indeed proves the exceptional success of this book.

Only the first chapter had been printed during the author’s lifetime, as a separate Christmas edition on Dec 24th in 1908 in "The Christian World ", and was thereafter repeatedly brought out as a special edition.

Resuming this tradition, Adelheid Cihlar and Sabine Holschuh , now present the first chapter in English – a task that has been long overdue.

Agnes Günther has aptly described our beautiful homeland Hohenlohe with all its benefits.

I wish the readers of this booklet much enjoyment – in pleasant anticipation of the completion, “The Saint and her Fool”.

Bibliographic information published by the National Library: The German National Library lists this publication in the detailed national bibliographic data, available online at http://dnb.d-nb.de.

This book is also available in the German language:

“Waldweihnacht”, ISBN 978-3-8442-3436-7

Agnes Günther: Die Heilige und ihr Narr (Chapter 1)

Original Edition (Erstausgabe) 1913,

English Translation:

Adelheid Cihlar, Sabine Holschuh

Imprint:

Translation copyright © 2012:

Adelheid Cihlar, Sabine Holschuh

Lector: Hamida Aziz

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part, in any form.

Print and publisher: epubli GmbH, Berlin

Also available in printed version with

ISBN 978-3-8442-3634-7

For more information:

www.maeuslegeschichten.de

www.4ma-holschuh.de

Acknowledgement

We would like to express our deepest thanks to Heide Ruopp, who lives in Langenburg, Germany - the original site of the story. Her passion for the book “Die Heilige und ihr Narr”, written by Agnes Günther, has inspired us to the heights and depths necessary to not only translate, yet feel and be part of the story. She was indeed the soul, eyes and the voice of the author, bringing her back to life for us.

We also thank the artist, Susanne Rudolph, for the magnificent drawing of this introductory chapter. She was able to capture not only the dramatic atmosphere of the surroundings, but has also brought our little “Saint Rose” to visible life.

Our utmost dedication belongs to our beloved families for supporting us in thoughts and actions; giving us the insight needed to accomplish this dream.

Christmas in the Forest

For days a dense fog lingered among the trees in the forest. Now a sudden drop in temperature, a bitter chill, has transformed the thick dampness and embellished the trees, attiring each in a rigid, yet glittering, festive Christmas gown. The old stone pines, standing high on a vast hill, seem to be decorated for the holiday season with their icy pine cones hanging down like jewellery. Their branches are low, bent to the ground by their heavy burden, forming a secret nest in which, one could imagine, a freezing little rabbit or fawn might find shelter.

The birch trees are covered with countless crystal beads and white frost clings to their feathered branches, in particular where a leaf bud awaits the oncoming spring. It is as if the trees are longing to have their May in the midst of winter although the bloom, now, is silver.

Each mossy spot along the path, the thorn bush there with its red berries still shining out from under its crystal branches, each one of them has put on festive attire. How dainty and delicate is the thistle with its silver crown, and the blackthorn has become the masterpiece of an elf silversmith. All is quiet; only here and there a fine tinkling can be heard, or a sigh, as a branch shakes off a portion of the load that has become too heavy to bear. The beech trees seem to have resumed their canopy over the path, as in summer, only now creating the fine white, silver and crystal dome of a forest cathedral above. A wonderful soft light glitters through the misty grey sky, the mere hint of a frosted golden sun.

The hazel bush has been decorated with silver ribbons, their peculiar coils and curves connecting the branches. These are the silky cobwebs of a spider which now hangs lifeless as a withered leaf over her still sleeping child. And how amazed would the diligent spinner be to see the wondrous result of her cocoon. A bird flutters up and a cloud of tiny silver stars whisk up into the air, only to settle down onto the ground, trimming the path that had been so bare and brown.

High on the hill upon which the old stone pines stand a tall man appears and strides towards the cathedral of beech trees. He is dressed in an olive green waistcoat and has a shabby felt hat on his curly brown hair. From under the old hat his grey-blue eyes shine out in admiration of the splendor surrounding him. The first impression of this man might only take in his remarkable tall and muscular appearance, but a mere glimpse into his eyes would reveal his most striking feature; for these are eyes that not only see but, rather, behold, as if absorbing the reflections of the forest: the fine silver-clad rows of beech trees, distantly illuminated by the frosted light of the sky.

“Eyes, my window to the world … take it all in. Oh, eyes, behold as much as you can of the world’s golden abundance,” he sighed, it making no difference him that the abundance before him was silver right now.

He leans against the mighty beech tree, allowing the silence and serenity to embrace him, and it is as if the trees and bushes are holding their breath; as if something wonderful, something mystical is happening, something that could change the course of life. The only sound that can be heard is the fine tinkling and sighing of the branches from near and afar: the heartbeat of the forest.

Could it not be that the veil has torn for an instant; the veil that separates us humans from the world around us which we sense is there when we are able to be silent? The veil that keeps us from the silence that descends from the stars at night or settles on us in the stillness of a forest, a place which had been sacred to our fathers. Had they been so foolish as to treasure these surroundings?

Oh, why have you become so shy, you delicate, brown roe? How far apart from each other, how secluded are the children of the world, how lonely is the heart that beats within. Neither animal nor plant really know you, they shy away from you, yet the same stream of red liquid life flows through your heart as does through that of the animal there. You love that four hundred-year-old oak tree, battered and blown from many a wild and stormy night, its lightning-scorched branches now winding like giant snakes up towards the sky. This giant is like a friend to you; you have known him since childhood when on dark autumn evenings, following your father through the forest, you used to gaze up in timid amazement. If one morning you were to find the ancient tree broken and dead on the ground, you would mourn for it as for a good, old friend. But the tree knows nothing about you. The human being wanders in loneliness between all that is life and death, living for the moment, enjoying the blossoming in May and dreaming his silver dreams in winter.

The man stares down to the very end of the path, to where it vanishes in a fragrant veil of mist, as if something were about to come out of it. A longing rises in him, a burning desire that springs from loneliness. Suddenly he sees a small maiden scurrying through the mist, wrapped in an old, brown shawl, the ends trailing along the ground, gathering all sorts of flora, thorns and scraps of frozen moss. She seems to be in a great hurry and she disappears behind the hazel bushes. He knows that beyond these bushes there is a tremendous drop and only a small, icy path leading down. He takes long strides toward the bushes.

“Wait! You cannot go down there!”

A snap, then a child’s faint scream pierces the eerie stillness.

“Hold on! Hold on to a branch. I shall come and get you.”

Half dragging himself, half sliding he descends and finds her in a hollow, blown together with a pile of leaves, lying there in a small, brown heap. Getting hold of a sturdy branch, he reaches for her with his other hand as she stares at him, fright in her chalky white face.

“Here, take my hand, I shall not harm you. Don’t be frightened. Have you hurt yourself?”

 “No.” Her voice sounds timid and quite startled.

“Well, then, give me your hand.”

She shakes her head.

 “Where in the world are you going?”

She turns, indicating with her covered head the mountain slope on the other side where the forest rises again in icy magnificence.

 “This is not the way to get there. Where do you come from?”

No answer.

“Are you from Berklingen?”

A timid answer: “No.”

“No? Your dialect is not as spoken here, otherwise you would have said na.”

She must be a foreign child. She seems to be lost. There are no lumbermen in the forest at this time of day for they have finished their work and gone to their little houses with the pointed gables, to where the children are eagerly waiting for their fathers to set up the Christmas tree.

“Are you looking for your father?”

Now she shakes her head in vigorous denial.

“So definitely for not him,” he mutters.

He lets go of the branch and, stumbling and sliding down, reaches the small nest where the child is crouching and glancing swiftly from side to side as if seeking a means of escape. But she soon realises there is none because she is caught up in the icy, thorny blackberry bushes behind her. Then, with a sudden jerk, she attempts to flee and the trail of her shawl with all its gatherings gets torn off. Nonetheless he is able to grasp her and as much as she resists and flails about like a small bird held in a hand, he manages to pull her up. Now she is standing with him on the path, trembling, and her face is as white as snow. He smiles at her and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a large, rosy apple which he holds out to her as an offering of peace.

“Here, take it and tell me where it is you are planning to go. Then I shall show you the way, wondrous little lady in your ragged dress.”

Her brown shawl has been quite badly torn by the thorns. She doesn’t want the apple and he puts it back into his pocket though it seems his gesture, or maybe her glancing into his blue eyes, has built a bridge between them.

“Oh, what fine features your face has! And what has happened to your left leg? It looks quite cold, having no boot on it as your right leg does.”

“I couldn’t get it on and I was in a hurry. It isn’t cold at all.”

These are the first words she speaks and, again, he notices that it is not the language commonly spoken here.

“And where are you going?”

“Nowhere.”

“I see. Nowhere. Well, that is where I am planning to go, too; so we are both going the same way.”

He nods encouragingly, puts his hands in his pockets and strolls along beside her, still keeping an eye on her so that she cannot slip away. Reluctantly, as if it might be good to have a companion on the way to Nowhere Land, she follows him, this strange little person in tattered cloth. Her legs are stained with traces of ice and thawed dirt; on her right leg she is wearing a boot buttoned down wrongly, on the left, only a stocking with a big hole exposing the white skin of her knee. As he walks with her, he picks up the scent of her shawl. It is the odour of poverty, the odour of seldom-aired, stuffy rooms, pickled cabbage and numerous other common things. The bridge of her nose is very finely, almost proudly shaped, her eyes are large and bright and when she closes her delicate eyelids, it seems as if her eyes shimmer through like tiny stars.

“So you have run away.”

She seems startled and a big yes is written across her face. His laughter is filled with warmth.

“When people go to Nowhere Land, they mostly come from somewhere they didn’t like.”

“And I am not going back.”

“Were you treated so badly?”

“No, not badly. I couldn’t say that.”

She seems to trust him more with each minute. For a while they walk together through this enchanted forest and he waits with the sensitivity for the soul of a child which some people have, knowing that a child’s mind may stray by being asked too many questions and that trust is more likely to be gained though friendly patience. But her steps have become hesitant and slower, and as she passes a pile of brushwood covered with a layer of ice, she sits down on it and says very politely, as would a well-bred maiden, “I thank you very much, I shall stay