I
provided a reading of the expository background in “Part 1,” here. Now I’ll go through the story proper and how
it all relates to the themes and instabilities brought out in the exposition.
The
narrative begins in my edition (Mayer and Moore translation, New York Review
Books Classics) thirty pages into a 75 page story, nearly 40% in:
One winter, the day
before Christmas, when in the valley of Gschaid early dawn had broadened into
day, a faint clear-weather haze overspread the sky, so that the sun creeping up
in the south-east could be seen only as an indistinct reddish ball;
furthermore, the air was mild, almost warm in the valley and even in the upper
reaches of the sky as indicated by the unchanging forms of the motionless
clouds. So the shoemaker’s wife said to the children: “Since it is such a fine
day and since it has not rained for a long time and the roads are hard, and
since yesterday your father gave you permission, provided it was the right kind
of day, you may go over to Millsdorf to see your grandmother; but first you
must ask your father again.”
Perhaps
one should say something about waiting so long for the narrative to begin. This was much more prevalent in the 19th
century, and actually opposed to the classical notion of storytelling by in medias res, which
means to begin in the middle of things.
That means to start the story at a critical point in the narrative, or
at least at the beginning of the action, and backfill the exposition. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, and others
do it regularly, but for some reason the 19th century authors weren’t
fond f it. As great a story teller as
Dickens was, I don’t recall a work of his where he starts in the middle. Certainly narrative thrusted at the beginning
grabs the reader’s attention, and I would say most times that not it is the
best approach to storytelling. However,
here because the themes are more of a hook than the story itself, I think
Stifter does well with this extended opening exposition.
There are two elements to the story that I
want to highlight. After getting their
father’s permission to go off to their grandparents, the last thing the mother
does is give them a blessing:
The lad slung a calfskin
pouch over his shoulder by a strap—a perquisite deftly sewn by his father—and
the children went into the next room to bid him farewell. They were soon back,
and after their mother had made the sign of the cross over them in blessing,
they skipped merrily off down the street.
(p.32)
Secularists
might think of the blessing as superstitious, but Stifter doesn’t, as we see
with so many of the providential events that lead to the children’s
survival. In a Catholic worldview a
blessing endows a physical, spiritual, or supernatural gift upon a person, and while
it does not guarantee an outcome (that would be superstition) it links the
giver of the blessing and the receiver with the divine. A blessing is also a sacramental, a
sacramental being a sacred sign either abstract like a blessing or physical
like holy water that brings us in contact with God. (Don’t confuse a sacramental with a
sacrament, which is a sacred sign implemented by Christ that confers a physical
change to the soul.) Sacramentals are not just holy items, but things that are
done with God’s love. That calfskin
pouch that Conrad uses is a sacramental since it was put together and given in
love. The mother bundling the children
to protect them against the cold is another, and of course the blessing. The Catholic worldview holds that there is a
continuum between the spiritual and the physical, and so we see it in the story. Notice the sacramentals later when the
grandmother provides all sorts of gifts to the children.
Then she [the grandmother]
bustled about here and there, packing to overflowing the lad’s calfskin pouch,
besides stuffing things into his pockets. She also put divers things into
Sanna’s little pockets, gave them each a piece of bread to eat on the way, and
in the bag, she told them, were two rolls in case they became very hungry.
“For your mother,” she
said, “I am giving you some well-roasted coffee-beans, and in the very tightly
wrapped bottle with the stopper is some black coffee extract better than your
mother herself usually makes; she can taste some just as it is; it is a
veritable tonic, so strong the merest sip warms the stomach so that you cannot
feel chilled even on the coldest of winter days. The other things in the bag,
in the cardboard box wrapped with paper, you are to take home without opening.” (p.36)
All
these things aid the children in their survival. All that food was not needed for a normal
three hour hike, but it came in handy when they were lost. Nor would they have received all that food if
Conrad didn’t have the bag. And that
coffee allowed them to stay awake and not freeze to death during the overnight
rest. Providence uses the sacramentals to
ensure survival. And let’s not forget
the father is a shoemaker who specialized in mountain shoes. I don’t remember if it was mentioned in the
story, but those mountain shoes the children were wearing had to be critical on
the climbs and descent on the glacier. By
coordinating the sacramentals for a fortunate outcome, Stifter is presenting a
world integrated with the divine. When
the children eat that bread the grandmother puts into Conrad’s bag, it’s most
certainly suggestive of the Eucharist, and therefore God’s presence. In town the priest had postponed high Mass
(p. 72) because of the missing children, but the children eat the bread (p. 54)
in a thanksgiving, and this happens just when children back in town are
supposed to be receiving Christmas gifts (p. 56).
Another
part of the story we need to consider is the landscape and environment. We see the harshness of nature; we see the spot
the baker died and realize the danger is real.
One should begin to think, is this story an allegory? And if so, what does it mean for the children
to pass through a snowstorm unable to cognitively process the signs that would
lead home, and all on Christmas Eve, for that matter? Here is the moment they begin to realize they
are lost.
“Will we be at the post
soon?” asked Sanna. “I don’t know,” answered her brother. “This time, I can’t
make out the trees, or the road because it is so white. We may not see the post
at all, because there is so much snow it will be covered up, and hardly a
grass-blade or arm of the cross will stick out. But that’s nothing. We’ll just
keep straight on; the road leads through the trees and when it gets to the place
where the post is, then it will start downhill and we keep right on it and when
it comes out of the woods we are in Gschaid meadows; then comes the footbridge,
and we’re not far from home.” (p.41)
But
obviously they have drifted and are not on the way home.
However, as they went,
they could not tell whether they were going down the mountain or not. They had
soon turned downhill to the right but then came to elevations leading up. Often
they encountered sheer rises they had to avoid; and a hollow in which they were
walking led them around in a curve. They climbed hummocks that became steeper
under their feet than they expected; and what they had deemed a descent was
level ground or a depression, or went on as an even stretch.
“But where are we,
Conrad?” asked the child.
“I don’t know,” he
answered. “If only my eyes could make out something and I could get my
bearings.”
But on every side was
nothing but a blinding whiteness, white everywhere that none the less drew its
ever narrowing circle about them, paling beyond into fog that came down in
waves, devouring and shrouding everything till there was nothing but the
voracious snow. (p.44)
As
the children step through the strange rocks, as they climb up an unfamiliar
ascent, as they enter a cave for shelter, the children have entered a new
world, a different world. Physically
they are wandering lost in a snowstorm, but allegorically they have entered a
world beyond. Snow is sometimes taken as
a symbol for death (winter, frozen, burial, universality as it falls covers
everything), and death brings one into a new world. And the children try to learn about this
unfamiliar world.
It was a blessing the
snow was dry as sand, so it shook off easily and slid from their feet and
little mountain shoes without caking and soaking them.
At last they again came
to something with form, immense shapes heaped in gigantic confusion, covered with
snow that was sifting everywhere into the crevices; the children had, moreover,
almost stumbled on them before they had seen them. They went close to look.
Ice—nothing but ice.
There were great slabs
lying, covered with snow but on the edges glassy green ice showed; there were
mounds of what looked like pushed-up foam, the sides dull but with inward
glimmers as if crystals and splinters of precious stones had been jumbled
together; there were, besides, great rounded bosses engulfed in snow, slabs and
other shapes slanting or upright,--as high as the church steeple or houses in
Gschaid. (p. 48)
Despite
the harshness of the weather, the children still get a blessing from the snow. And it’s no coincidence that the simile for
the height of the slabs is the church steeple, for the children have entered a
divine world. And the ice upon the rock
slabs glimmers like crystals and precious stones, from which the story gets its
title. When Sanna suggests the ice was
made by “a great deal of water,” Conrad disagrees, “No, it wasn’t made by
water, it’s ice of the mountain, and always here since God made it so” (p.
48). It is an amazing world, a world
filled with God’s wonder. Conrad
continues,
“And down where the snow
ends, you see all manner of colors if you look hard,—green, blue, and a whitish
color—that is the ice that looks so small from down below because you are so
far away, and that, as Father said, is going to be there as long as the world
lasts. And then I’ve often noticed that
the blue color keeps on below the ice,—probably stones, I’ve thought, or maybe
ploughed ground and pastures, and then come the pine woods that go down and
down, and all kinds of rocks in between, then the green meadows, then the woods
with leaves....” (p.48-49)
Finally
the children enter a cavern with a canopy of ice above them and a most intense
color of blue: “But the whole cavern was blue, bluer than anything on earth, a
blue deeper and finer than the vault of heaven itself, blue as azure grass with
a faint light inside” (p. 50). Why
blue? Blue, the color of the Virgin
Mary, the color of heaven, here I believe is supposed to suggest harmony and
order and the unity with the divine. Providence
led the children to a safe spot with no ice and enclosed from the elements just
as it got dark. Stifter is I think
reaching for the theology of creation, where God’s handiwork of nature blesses
humanity with goodness.
The
children spend that holy night of Christmas safe and fed with the sacramentals
from their parents and grandparents under an “arch of heaven [that] was an even
blue, so dark it was almost black, spangled with stars blazing in countless
array” (p. 57). That arch of heaven,
which gets elaborated several pages later (p. 61), suggests the rainbow as a
sign from God in Genesis.
And
so when the children on Christmas Day see a flame (representing Christ) coming
toward them, it turns out to be the flag of a rescue team, and the first words
from Philip the herdsman is “Praise be to God!” (p. 68). When the children are led back to town to
their anxious parents, the mother sees them first,
“Sebastian, they are
here,” cried his wife.
Speechless and trembling,
he ran toward them. His lips moved as if
to say something but no words came, he pressed the children to his heart, holding
them close and long. Then he turned to
his wife and locked her in his arms, crying “Sanna, Sanna.” (p.70-71)
And
then the father turns to the rescuers and says, “Neighbors, friends, I thank
you” (p. 71). So because of the children’s
safe passage through the dangerous, divine world, we see then the resolution of
the discords set out in the exposition. The
father does love his children, and the wife is now convinced of it; the
grandparents are brought over and become unified with their daughter’s family;
the wife is now embraced and become part of her new home town of Gschaid. We see a unity of family, a unity of town, and
a unity of the universe under God’s arch of heaven. Having rescued the children, the town turns
to go to church where the postponed Mass can now resume.
What
a beautiful story. This is how life
should be!
Has this been made into a film?
ReplyDeleteGod bless.
Yes, several times but I believe in German. It's there in the Wikipedia link I provided.
ReplyDelete