Seite - 91 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

for he beckoned to me with his black straw hat to come to him. “What do you say, Peter?” he cried to me, in his soft voice. “Nine and five and seven: doesn’t that make twenty-one?” I was never much good at mental arithmetic; however, this time, I hazarded, on the off-chance: “Yes, that should be about right. Twenty-one.” “Now then,” he said, “just look here.” And he pointed to the fish-pond. “A fortnight ago, the Blasler boy sold me nine live trout and I put them in the pond. A week ago, he sold me five more and I put them in too; and, to-day, he sold me seven and I put them in as well. And how many are there now, all told? Eight, eight; and not one more! And I know all about it: they are the same which he brought me a fortnight ago; and it must be so: the scoundrel, I was almost saying, stole the fish each time out of the pond and sold them to me over again. It’s a … a …” And he shook his fist in the air. The fact was that the Blasler boy must have stolen the trout to begin with, before he sold them for the first time, for Blasler had no fishing licence. This, I dare say, hardly occurred to the good priest’s mind: he was thinking only of his fast-days. The commandments of the Church allow fish on Fridays and Saturdays,[12] but do not say whether the fish may be stolen or not. It was not a favourable opportunity to confess one’s sins. So I forbore for the present, kissed the sleeve of his coat, because the clenched fist did not look inviting for a kiss of the hand, and passed on. On the way, I pondered the question at length, which was the greater sin, the Blasler boy’s or mine. His appeared to me in the light of a piece of roguery, whereas mine might easily be a sin against the Holy Ghost; and those sins are not remitted. A few days later, Cap Casimir, of Kressbachgraben, was driving a grey nanny-goat with two kids along the road. The old goat had a full udder; and the young ones skipped around her and wanted to have a drink. But Cap Casimir hissed, in his sloppy brogue: “Sshh, shtop that now! We musht bring the full udder to hish reverensh!” I was at once curious to know what it meant; and Casimir, who was an immigrant Tyrolese and still wore his pointed “star-pricker,”[13] said: “It’sh like thish, you shee, my wife’sh dead. ‘The goat,’ said she, ‘and the kidsh,’ said she, ‘I leave to the parish-priesht of Kathrein. For prayers and masshes.’ That was her will; and then she died. Sho now I’m driving the animalsh to the reverend gentleman’sh.”