The Clock Carrier (Der Uhrenträger)
Many years ago, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the farmers of the Black Forest area of Germany used the harsh winter months, when normal farming came to a standstill, as a time to create the most exquisite carved clocks. The clock dealers would send ‘clock carriers’ out to collect these clocks. Too delicate for carriage by horse and cart on the steep, rough, roads, the clocks would be carried in a wooden frame worn on the clock carrier’s back.
Here is a simple short story about a clock carrier’s surprise discovery. It’s a bit of a shaggy dog story, but stick with it…..
The road up to the Mohr farmhouse was steep and, at this time of year, treacherous, but Gerhard Vragg didn’t mind. This was his last call on his trip around the farms collecting clocks to take back to his master’s shop in Triberg, and he smiled at the prospect of visiting it. He’d saved the best to last.
For Herr Mohr’s clocks were the finest of all the clocks that he carried. They were perfect in every way; the mechanisms kept perfect time, the cuckoo had a perfect tone, and Herr Mohr was one of those clockmakers who designed his clocks to play a tune and display a moving scene every hour, on the hour.
Some said that one of the most important materials in Herr Mohr’s workshop was a bottle of pure magic.
Vragg couldn’t wait to see what he’d come up with this time. Not only that, but the farm had other attractions. Frau Mohr was unequalled in the excellence of her cooking, and, best of all, Fraulein Barbara Mohr was the most unbelievably beautiful woman that Vragg had ever encountered. Raven haired, doe-eyed, full-breasted and wasp waisted, she looked stunning, and this was backed up by a translucently charming personality that left an indelible mark on any man’s soul. Incredibly enough, she was still unmarried at twenty-three, and Vragg still harboured hope. But so did every other man within a radius of fifty miles.
With gladness in his heart, Vragg stepped up to the door and knocked.
The door opened, and there was Barbara. The sight of her, after many months, was almost like a physical shock, and Vragg’s knees almost gave way beneath the weight of the clocks on his back pack.
Barb’s eyes opened wide with concern, and she reached out and caught his arm. “Herr Vragg! You poor man! Schnell! Come in to the warm! Take off your pack and come and sit by the fire. Mama! Papa! The Uhrenträger is here!”
Frau Mohr came bustling along. It was easy to see how she’d produced such a beauty as Barbara; even many hard years of labouring as a farmer’s wife had not left too much of a mark, and she was a very striking woman. Vragg could understand how Herr Mohr could make such beautiful clocks, surround as he was by such inspiration!
Vragg found himself divested of his clock-frame, and he was hurried through to the kitchen, where he was sat in a carved chair next to the roaring stove. A bowl of hot vegetable soup was placed into his hands, into which she sliced some smoked sausage, and a hunk of freshly baked bread was also provided, as was a tankard of beer.
Along with their clocks, the clock carriers also collected gossip, and Frau Mohr and her daughter were anxious to catch up on the latest.
If Vragg exaggerated his stories slightly in order to dish the dirt on his rivals for Barbara’s heart, could he be blamed? Under the unblinking gaze of those deep brown eyes he told how young Schmidt had been caught in the barn with the milking-maid; how Jurgen Hoffmann had failed his medical for the army (poor eyesight, and everyone knew what caused that), and how Georg the Miller’s son had utterly broken the heart of Erika the baker’s daughter.
Frau Mohr tut-tutted, and interjected phrases like ‘schrecklich’ (terrible) and ‘unglaublich’, (unbelievable), while casting meaningful glances at her daughter, lest she fall into the hands of these wastrels, but Barbara gave no sign of these tales having the slightest impact upon her.
As he mopped out the remaining soup with the last piece of bread, the delicious smell from the oven was revealed to be caused by freshly baked cakes. Sitting there, in that comfortable farmhouse with such food and in such company, Vragg was truly content. And the cake was really good.
“Herr Vragg! Good to see you!” Farmer Mohr burst into the kitchen, grinning with delight. Vragg leaped to his feet and indulged in the vigorous shaking of hands so beloved of all Germans.
Mohr poured himself a beer and sat down opposite the clock carrier, and for a while they discussed the various clocks on the frame, as Mohr cast his expert eye over the efforts of his neighbours. Though he praised the clocks, especially the Jäger-Uhr, the hunter's clock, Vragg knew he was far too modest to say that they were by no means up to his own standards.
Then he clapped his hands together, making Vragg jump. “Herr Vragg, I can wait no longer! I have made a clock!”
“Excellent, Herr Mohr. May I see it?”
“Of course you may see it! It is such a wonderful clock! You will love it! It is dedicated to Sankt Eulalie!”
Vragg was only just as religious as he had to be, and he did not really keep tabs on the multiples of saints worshipped in these parts. But he, like most men, was quite familiar with St Eulalie, a young woman martyred by crucifixion, whose death was marked by doves flying out of her mouth as a miraculous blanket of snow covered her nakedness.
“St Eulalie?” he asked, hopefully. His adolescence had been filled with dreams of the martyrdom of St Eulalie.
“You will see, my son, you will see!”
He followed Mohr through to the workshop. All the usual clockmaker’s clutter was there, cogs, weights, chisels; but there, on the wall, was a truly stunning clock. Mohr had truly excelled himself, and the clock was decorated with magnificent carvings of animals, trees, and birds - especially two doves, crowning the very top of the clock.
Vragg gazed at it. Every feather of the birds was there, every petal of the flowers, there were hundreds and hundreds of hours of painstaking work here.
The minute hand was just coming up to the hour. Four o’clock. Vragg could see a circular track, and he knew that this clock would have moving figures. He held his breath and waited for the masterpiece to unfold.
The doors at the top opened. Out came the little bird. “Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo!”
Then the clock began to play ‘Nun Danket’ and the performance began.
First out of the doors was a naked woman, stretched out on a cross, dark hair spread along her shoulders, while two men pounded nails into her wrists. Vragg gawped as the woman writhed helplessly under the agony of those terrible spikes. Not only that – but Mohr had clearly modelled the crucified saint upon his daughter! Vragg was gazing upon a nude, crucified Barbara! He could have died of pleasure!
As that scene came to the front, a second appeared, showing the same woman, as her cross was erected. Somehow Mohr had captured the moment as the cross came up to the vertical and dropped into its socket, and Vragg watched in fascination as the poor woman struggled against the nails holding her fast to her cross.
And then came the final scene, as she hung dead from her cross, doves circled her head, and this time her nakedness was covered by a mantle of snow. She looked like a crucified bride.
Wragg stared as that snow covered cross receded behind the right hand door. He was lost for words.
“There you are!” declared Mohr, smiling broadly. “What do you think of that? I call it the Eulalie-Uhr!”
Many years ago, in the 19th and early 20th centuries, the farmers of the Black Forest area of Germany used the harsh winter months, when normal farming came to a standstill, as a time to create the most exquisite carved clocks. The clock dealers would send ‘clock carriers’ out to collect these clocks. Too delicate for carriage by horse and cart on the steep, rough, roads, the clocks would be carried in a wooden frame worn on the clock carrier’s back.
Here is a simple short story about a clock carrier’s surprise discovery. It’s a bit of a shaggy dog story, but stick with it…..
The road up to the Mohr farmhouse was steep and, at this time of year, treacherous, but Gerhard Vragg didn’t mind. This was his last call on his trip around the farms collecting clocks to take back to his master’s shop in Triberg, and he smiled at the prospect of visiting it. He’d saved the best to last.
For Herr Mohr’s clocks were the finest of all the clocks that he carried. They were perfect in every way; the mechanisms kept perfect time, the cuckoo had a perfect tone, and Herr Mohr was one of those clockmakers who designed his clocks to play a tune and display a moving scene every hour, on the hour.
Some said that one of the most important materials in Herr Mohr’s workshop was a bottle of pure magic.
Vragg couldn’t wait to see what he’d come up with this time. Not only that, but the farm had other attractions. Frau Mohr was unequalled in the excellence of her cooking, and, best of all, Fraulein Barbara Mohr was the most unbelievably beautiful woman that Vragg had ever encountered. Raven haired, doe-eyed, full-breasted and wasp waisted, she looked stunning, and this was backed up by a translucently charming personality that left an indelible mark on any man’s soul. Incredibly enough, she was still unmarried at twenty-three, and Vragg still harboured hope. But so did every other man within a radius of fifty miles.
With gladness in his heart, Vragg stepped up to the door and knocked.
The door opened, and there was Barbara. The sight of her, after many months, was almost like a physical shock, and Vragg’s knees almost gave way beneath the weight of the clocks on his back pack.
Barb’s eyes opened wide with concern, and she reached out and caught his arm. “Herr Vragg! You poor man! Schnell! Come in to the warm! Take off your pack and come and sit by the fire. Mama! Papa! The Uhrenträger is here!”
Frau Mohr came bustling along. It was easy to see how she’d produced such a beauty as Barbara; even many hard years of labouring as a farmer’s wife had not left too much of a mark, and she was a very striking woman. Vragg could understand how Herr Mohr could make such beautiful clocks, surround as he was by such inspiration!
Vragg found himself divested of his clock-frame, and he was hurried through to the kitchen, where he was sat in a carved chair next to the roaring stove. A bowl of hot vegetable soup was placed into his hands, into which she sliced some smoked sausage, and a hunk of freshly baked bread was also provided, as was a tankard of beer.
Along with their clocks, the clock carriers also collected gossip, and Frau Mohr and her daughter were anxious to catch up on the latest.
If Vragg exaggerated his stories slightly in order to dish the dirt on his rivals for Barbara’s heart, could he be blamed? Under the unblinking gaze of those deep brown eyes he told how young Schmidt had been caught in the barn with the milking-maid; how Jurgen Hoffmann had failed his medical for the army (poor eyesight, and everyone knew what caused that), and how Georg the Miller’s son had utterly broken the heart of Erika the baker’s daughter.
Frau Mohr tut-tutted, and interjected phrases like ‘schrecklich’ (terrible) and ‘unglaublich’, (unbelievable), while casting meaningful glances at her daughter, lest she fall into the hands of these wastrels, but Barbara gave no sign of these tales having the slightest impact upon her.
As he mopped out the remaining soup with the last piece of bread, the delicious smell from the oven was revealed to be caused by freshly baked cakes. Sitting there, in that comfortable farmhouse with such food and in such company, Vragg was truly content. And the cake was really good.
“Herr Vragg! Good to see you!” Farmer Mohr burst into the kitchen, grinning with delight. Vragg leaped to his feet and indulged in the vigorous shaking of hands so beloved of all Germans.
Mohr poured himself a beer and sat down opposite the clock carrier, and for a while they discussed the various clocks on the frame, as Mohr cast his expert eye over the efforts of his neighbours. Though he praised the clocks, especially the Jäger-Uhr, the hunter's clock, Vragg knew he was far too modest to say that they were by no means up to his own standards.
Then he clapped his hands together, making Vragg jump. “Herr Vragg, I can wait no longer! I have made a clock!”
“Excellent, Herr Mohr. May I see it?”
“Of course you may see it! It is such a wonderful clock! You will love it! It is dedicated to Sankt Eulalie!”
Vragg was only just as religious as he had to be, and he did not really keep tabs on the multiples of saints worshipped in these parts. But he, like most men, was quite familiar with St Eulalie, a young woman martyred by crucifixion, whose death was marked by doves flying out of her mouth as a miraculous blanket of snow covered her nakedness.
“St Eulalie?” he asked, hopefully. His adolescence had been filled with dreams of the martyrdom of St Eulalie.
“You will see, my son, you will see!”
He followed Mohr through to the workshop. All the usual clockmaker’s clutter was there, cogs, weights, chisels; but there, on the wall, was a truly stunning clock. Mohr had truly excelled himself, and the clock was decorated with magnificent carvings of animals, trees, and birds - especially two doves, crowning the very top of the clock.
Vragg gazed at it. Every feather of the birds was there, every petal of the flowers, there were hundreds and hundreds of hours of painstaking work here.
The minute hand was just coming up to the hour. Four o’clock. Vragg could see a circular track, and he knew that this clock would have moving figures. He held his breath and waited for the masterpiece to unfold.
The doors at the top opened. Out came the little bird. “Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo! Cuck…oo!”
Then the clock began to play ‘Nun Danket’ and the performance began.
First out of the doors was a naked woman, stretched out on a cross, dark hair spread along her shoulders, while two men pounded nails into her wrists. Vragg gawped as the woman writhed helplessly under the agony of those terrible spikes. Not only that – but Mohr had clearly modelled the crucified saint upon his daughter! Vragg was gazing upon a nude, crucified Barbara! He could have died of pleasure!
As that scene came to the front, a second appeared, showing the same woman, as her cross was erected. Somehow Mohr had captured the moment as the cross came up to the vertical and dropped into its socket, and Vragg watched in fascination as the poor woman struggled against the nails holding her fast to her cross.
And then came the final scene, as she hung dead from her cross, doves circled her head, and this time her nakedness was covered by a mantle of snow. She looked like a crucified bride.
Wragg stared as that snow covered cross receded behind the right hand door. He was lost for words.
“There you are!” declared Mohr, smiling broadly. “What do you think of that? I call it the Eulalie-Uhr!”
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