The day did not clear. At noon, the mist changed into heavy rain.
"I wonder if it rains as hard up there, too; she'll be terribly wet,"
thought Walpurga to herself, and, indeed, it was raining just as
heavily up the mountain. Wild, rapid little streams ran across the road
and bubbled and splashed down the mountain side.
With the aid of a mountain staff which Hansei had given her, Irma
walked on courageously. To protect her against the rain, the little
pitchman had given her his great woolen rug, in which there was only a
hole to slip the head through. He managed to cover himself with empty
corn sacks. He walked at her side, and often said:
"Shall I carry you?"
Irma walked on. The staff was of little use during the ascent; but, now
and then, they had to go down a sharp declivity--a sink, as the uncle
called it--when she was obliged to plant it firmly and swing herself by
it. The little pitchman was always at hand, ready to catch Irma, in
case she should slip; but she had a firm step.
As the herd were not yet used to each other, it was quite difficult to
keep them together; but the little pitchman knew how to manage the
animals, and the bells, ringing merrily together, seemed like a
constantly ascending melody.
"The cattle are well off," said the little pitchman, "they can find
their fodder along the wayside. But the mistress has given me something
for ourselves. We'll soon reach the 'Witch's Table,' and there we can
sit under shelter, while we take a bite."
They soon came upon a broad, projecting rock, resembling a semicircular
table. Here there was dry and sandy soil, where only the lion-ant
dwelt, in his funnel-shaped cell. Gundel, Franz, the little pitchman
and Irma sat down under shelter of the "Witch's Table" and ate
heartily, while the cows, that grazed outside, were left in charge of
one of the cowboys.
"The rain will last a long time," said Franz. The little pitchman
called him to account, and said that no one could tell how long the
rain would last. He wanted to encourage Irma.
He caught a lion-ant and showed how clever the little creature was; how
it made a pitfall in the fine sand and hid itself at the point of its
funnel-shaped cell, and how the common ant, unconscious of danger,
would come along and tumble into the pit, from which it could not get
out again, for the fine sand rolls away from under its feet, while the
rogue who is hiding blinds the captive by throwing sand in its eyes,
and then catches and eats it. "And strangest of all," said he, "next
year that gray worm will be a brown dragon-fly on the lake."
He well knew that such a glimpse of nature was more pleasing to her
than food or inspiriting words.
With renewed vigor, they went still further up the mountain. As if
invigorated by the herbage of the higher regions, the cattle became
livelier. At last they drew near the clearing where the new meadow lay.
The little pitchman instructed Franz to go on in advance and open the
stable door. Franz obeyed at once; soon after that his call was heard,
and the cows that had just reached the open meadow bellowed and rushed
forward. The rain and mist were now so thick that the hut could not be
distinguished until they were within a few steps of it. "That's lucky,"
cried the little pitchman, "the swallows have already built their nests
on our cottage; now all is safe."
He stepped forward, knocked at the door three times, opened it, and
offered his hand to Irma with the words: "Let joy enter and sorrow
depart!" And thus they were home at last.
Oh, what a comfort to have a sheltering roof over one's head! Irma
often looked up, and, her eyes seemed to express the gratitude she felt
because of her being at last protected against the angry storm. Now
that she was snugly housed in the cottage, it seemed far more gloomy
out of doors than while they were trudging through the rain. There was
soon a cheerful fire on the large hearth, and the little pitchman,
muttering to himself, took something out of his pocket and threw it
into the flames.
"Since the world began," said he, "no fire has ever been lighted here,
and no smoke has arisen to heaven. We're the first inhabitants. But the
swallows--yes, the swallows--that's lucky."
He might have said much more, if he hadn't been called away by Franz,
who came to tell him that a cow out in the stable had just calved.
Irma was alone with Gundel. She quickly undressed herself and dried and
warmed herself by the fire. But Gundel was called away, too, so that
she might know what to do on a like occasion in the future. And now
Irma, divested of her outer clothing, sat by the fire. She felt chilled
at first, but the sense of cold and of fear quickly left her. She gazed
calmly at the cheerful fire--a solitary child of man, alone on the
heights. She had completely forgotten where she was, until she heard
voices approaching. She quickly covered herself with the dried clothes.
The little pitchman entered and offered his congratulations on the fact
that they had been blessed with a splendid steer-calf on the very first
day.
Night came on. Franz took his departure. Gundel went with him part of
the way and, until she returned, they could be heard calling to each
other through the drizzling rain. The inmates of the cottage soon
repaired to rest. The little pitchman and the cowboy slept in the
hay-loft over the stable. Irma and Gundel slept in the house.
When they awoke, on the following morning, the day was still veiled in
a thick mist. "We're in a cloud," said the little pitchman.
The cows were grazing. The bells seemed scattered about, and, in the
distance, had a dreamlike sound as of the humming of bees.
Irma had hoped to be alone, and here she was shut up in this little hut
with its few inmates. The little pitchman had said that they were the
first dwellers on this bit of earth, and it seemed as if nature
resented their advances. The wind howled and drove the clouds before
it, but always brought fresh ones to replace them, and, now and then,
were heard the crash and roar of falling avalanches.
Irma endeavored to work, but to no purpose.
The second night and the second day found them still enveloped in
impenetrable clouds. Even the cattle seemed to complain of it, their
lowing sounded so sorrowful.
It was early on the third morning, when Irma awoke, feeling as if
something had touched her. She arose. A soft gleam of light shone
through the crevice in the window-shutter. "The sun has awakened me,"
said she to herself. She hurriedly dressed and went out of doors.
The fresh and dewy air of morning revived her spirits. A cow, grazing
near by, raised its head and looked at her, and then went on eating
again.
A silver-gray light gradually dawned in the east, and that wonderful
passage from Haydn's "Creation" flashed through Irma's mind. She
fancied that the tones assumed tangible, corporeal shapes, arising out
of the early-gray of dawn. By degrees, the gray changed into a golden
hue, and then faint streaks of red would flash through it, gradually
heightening in color, while down below, stretching into the distance,
like a dark and immeasurable stream, lay the darkness of night. At
last, rugged cliffs, peaks, and broad mountain ridges raised their
heads into the light, while their bases still lay veiled in night which
was gradually changing into dark gray. The rosy tint gradually extended
and gained in intensity until it covered the heavens. Meanwhile, the
giant forms of the mountains stood forth more clearly and at last,
dazzling the eyes, the sun appeared, bathing every height in purple and
golden hues, while the rolling clouds below appeared like mighty waves.
Bright day, warming and illumining the earth, had arisen. Millions of
odors arose from every tree, every blade of grass, and every flower.
The singing of birds was heard, and Irma opened her arms as if to
embrace infinity. She did not sink on her knees, but remained standing
upright. Involuntarily, her foot left the ground, as if she could not
help soaring away into infinite space. She pressed both hands to her
forehead, and when she touched the bandage, it seemed loosened of
itself and fell to the ground.
A sunbeam shone upon her brow and she felt that it was now pure. She
stood there for a long while, gazing at the sunlight. Her eye was not
dazzled by its refulgence. Calm and peaceful harmonies filled her soul.
A child of man had witnessed the symbol of creation and had herself
been created anew.
Now come, ye days that are still left me, be ye long or short!--Where
and with whom I may have to spend them, it matters not; for I am free!
I am saved!
All that I now do is only preparation for the journey. The hour draws
near and, be it early or late, I am prepared for it. I have lived!
"Why, Irmgard, how strange you look!" exclaimed Gundel, coming out of
the hut, and carrying the milk-pail on her head. "Dear me, what a
forehead you've got, so white and so beautiful! Oh, how beautiful you
are! I never saw so smooth and beautiful a forehead before!"
Irma accepted a glass of milk from Gundel, and then tucked up her dress
and went out into the woods. It was not until high noon that she
returned to the cottage. During the whole day, she had scarcely uttered
a word.
In the cottage, she found the little pitchman standing before her
table, and arranging a great heap of aromatic herbs and roots.
"Just look," he cried, "I've found something already. Yes, I know a
thing or two. I've been gathering clover and mountain parsley for the
apothecary. I know everything growing hereabouts that they can use, and
many a time has my sister said: 'In the spring everything's sweet and
good; and wherever the poison lies, it takes the summer heat to bring
it out.' Oh, she was a clever one! Many a time she's said: 'The best
things grow up among the clouds.'"
After a short pause, he began again:
"Gundel's right; I must say, I didn't think you were so handsome. But,
somehow, you don't look healthy; you must eat more; why, you hardly eat
anything."
A grateful smile was Irma only reply.
"Do you know what I'd like to have been?"
"What?"
"Your father."
Irma answered him with a silent inclination of the head. Her father's
spirit had been invoked, and it seemed as if he were speaking to her
through the lips of this poor, simple-minded man, who continued:
"God forgive me, but I can't help feeling, once in a while, as if you
had dropped down from heaven, and had neither father nor mother; and
to-day you look so weak that my eyes fill with tears whenever I look at
you. Now, do eat a bit!"
He went on chattering as confusedly as if he had been drinking too
much, but the refrain was always the same: "Now do eat something!"
To please the good old man, Irma forced herself to do so.