THE MOUNTAIN FIRESIDE
Honor will never forget as long as she lives the next evening at
the _Châlet des Rochers_. Indeed, every hour she spent there was a
life-long treasure of memory, but that evening was perhaps the most
wonderful.
To begin with, Atli came. At five o’clock the farmyard dog, a huge
St. Bernard, began to bark; deep, regular barks, like the booming of
distant cannon. Zitli looked up from his carving, Gretli turned from
her frying-pan; both faces were bright with a look which, Honor was to
find out, meant always one thing.
“Atli comes!” said the boy.
“Is that why the dog barks?” asked Honor. “Can he see him?”
Gretli laughed. “Not so, mademoiselle! Probably Atli has set his foot
on a stone at the bottom of the Alp; possibly there has been no sound
at all, and Tell knows because he knows, all simply. Soon you will hear
the goats; they have less intelligence, you understand.”
Sure enough, a few minutes later came bleatings, at first faint
and scattered, then gathering in strength and volume, till at last
the whole herd, Bimbo leading, Moufflon bringing up the rear, came
scampering over the rocks and formed in an eager huddle on the
greensward, facing the climbing path. Again a few minutes, and an
object appeared, at sight of which a perfect chorus of bleats broke
out, while the barking of Tell grew louder and more eager. First the
top, then the whole, of a green pointed hat; then a brown, ruddy,
smiling face; then a pair of massive shoulders; finally the whole
(which means a great deal) of Atli.
“Atli comes!” repeated the brother and sister in happy duet, and both
hastened out, with a glance of smiling apology at the young guest who
could not follow, could only gaze with all her eyes from her window,
could only thrill through all her being at the really splendid vision
of the young giant. It was as if one of her mountains had taken human
shape and come a-visiting; only, no mountain could look so friendly or
smile so kindly. She could hear the eager questions, the gay laughing
answers. Had all gone well? Was the clover sufficient? Were the
children content with the pasture?
“My faith, yes! they might well be. The clover is thick as--as thy
hair, my Gretli! Not one of them but desired two mouths that she might
eat the faster.”
“La Dumaine led the way well? But why do I ask? Surely she did!”
Atli nodded emphatically.
“She is a queen indeed! There is no such leader in these Alps. Once
only that one--” a jerk of the head conveyed, somehow, one could not
tell how, that “that one” was the Duchess of Montbazon--“tried to push
ahead, and got a thrust in the side from our Queen’s horn that sent
her back roaring, I promise you. _Saperli poppette!_ in the home yard
La Dumaine is the _gentille demoiselle_, see you; on the Alp she is
General as well as Queen.”
“And thou hast left Jean and François in charge? Didst sleep in the
hut? All was well?”
“All well, my sister! except--I have brought the appetite of a wolf!
But who is that at the window? _Tiens!_ the little mademoiselle with
golden hair! How then, my sister?”
“Zitli will tell you!” cried Gretli. “I must prepare supper on the
instant. Hast had nothing, I’ll warrant, for a day and a half, but
bread and cheese, and I stand here chattering!”
She hurried in. Zitli told in eager detail, with many gestures, the
story of Bimbo’s assault and its consequences, and Atli hastened to
greet Honor and to express his sympathy and regret.
“That nefarious beast! he should be sewed in his own skin turned inside
out. But what would you, mademoiselle? A goat, that has no moral sense.
The good God, in making this beast, omitted it, for reasons known
only to Himself. I am desolated; yet I trust mademoiselle is not too
uncomfortable? What honor for the _Châlet des Rochers_ to receive such
a guest! Be still, creatures! I come!” This to the goats, who were
bleating and leaping about him, making soft runs and butts against his
columnar legs. “A moment, my sister, while I feed the creatures and
greet our Tell, who barks his head off in calling me; then I come, a
wolf indeed!”
The table was drawn up beside Honor’s window-seat, that she might
join the family party. Gretli laid the plates of heavy dark green
crockery, and the carved wooden cups, Zitli’s handiwork, as she proudly
explained. There were sausages for supper, and ham, black bread and
cheese, with honey and cream and _biscuits des Rochers_ for dessert. No
great variety is to be looked for in a Swiss châlet, but everything was
so good, Honor thought she would never ask for anything different.
They supped by daylight; but by-and-by, when the sunset glory faded and
the air grew cold and thin, doors and windows were shut, the big lamp
lighted, and the evening began in earnest. First, Honor must be moved
nearer the fire, Atli and Gretli declared. The reclining chair that
Atli had made when Zitli was so ill, and had to lie extended like a
piece of wood; was it not so, Zitli? Let Atli bring it from the shed;
like that! Now carefully--ah, but carefully! in manner not to disturb a
bird upon the nest.
Honor felt “like a small bit of thistledown,” she told Stephanie
afterward, in those powerful arms. Atli took her gently by the
shoulders, Gretli by the feet; she was wafted across the room, and
deposited in the cushioned chair beside the glowing hearth. Ah! for
example! that was as it should be, said Gretli, beaming broadly. Atli
nodded approval, and hoped mademoiselle found herself not too badly off.
“Oh, but it is delightful,” cried Honor. “So comfortable! and really,
I feel perfectly well--_oh_!” She had moved her foot, and was promptly
reminded that however the rest of her might feel, her ankle had its
own sensations. Then what sympathy was showered upon her! Mademoiselle
was of a delicacy! Gretli explained. Like that, the nerves were
sensitive, one understood. Let her, Gretli, but rub the ankle a little,
_n’est-ce-pas_? Honor protesting it was all right again, truly,
_truly_, Gretli announced that in that case a little diversion was what
was needed.
“A little music, is not so? Zitli, bring thy zither! I have some yarn
to wind, and Atli and I will sing to thy playing.”
“Oh, let me hold the yarn!” cried Honor. “Mayn’t I, Gretli?”
So Honor held the blue yarn, and Gretli wound mightily, her strong
brown arms moving with machine-like regularity. Atli brought his own
work-bench, and fell to shaping wooden shoes; while Zitli tuned his
zither. Presently he struck a chord, nodding to his brother. The
shepherd threw back his head, opened his mouth wide, and poured forth
in a rich and mellow tenor a ditty which, roughly translated, might run
thus:
“On the Alp the grass is sweetest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!
Thou whose beauty is completest,
Li-u-o, my Queen!
Crop thy fill of honey clover,
Crop and crop it o’er and over,
On the Alp thou fairest rover,
Li-u-o, my Queen!”
Atli closed his powerful jaws with a snap on the last word, and Gretli
took up the song, her rich, deep contralto ringing out nobly.
“I will follow at thy calling,
O my master dear!
Where the mountain streams are falling,
O my master dear!
Follow past the rushing torrent,
Past the precipice abhorrent,
Trusting in thy faithful warrant,
O my master dear!”
In the third verse the two voices blended, Zitli adding, in a sweet
clear treble, a _yodel_ with no articulate words, only a melodious
combination of vowels.
“Follow Queen and follow Master,
Cows and heifers all!
Fear no trouble nor disaster,
Cows and heifers all!
On the Alp is richest feeding,
Thither then with cautious heeding,
Follow where the Queen is leading,
Cows and heifers all!”
The words were mere doggerel, the air simple and primitive, but
somehow the effect was magical. Honor felt the very spirit of the place
enter into her. It was good to be here! If she might only stay always!
Why not? She was a poor orphan, with no kin that she had ever seen; she
could not stay in school all her life. What more delightful than to
become a sennerin of the Alps? To live here, with the Twins and Zitli:
to learn to spin and weave, to make butter and cheese. She would be
their little sister; it would be heavenly!
Honor glanced up shyly under her long eyelashes at Atli where he sat
opposite her. How splendid he was! Just so, and no otherwise, must
Hercules have looked; or Roland, or Lancelot--no, Lancelot’s hair was
black! Siegfried, then! or Baldur the Beautiful! Yes, that was best; if
only Baldur were a prettier name--it made one think of baldness, and
his hair was so wonderful. She glanced again: Atli was intent on his
shoemaking. The firelight played on his crisp yellow curls, turning
them to threads of gold; on his broad white forehead, his brown cheeks,
his massive yet shapely arms and hands. Truly, a splendid figure of a
man. Honor’s heart fluttered a little, as fourteen-year-old hearts will
flutter. If--if only she had dark hair! if some day--
Half consciously she dropped into her story, neglected now these many
days; began “telling” to herself, while the yarn flew over her hands,
and the fire glowed and crackled.
“While yet little more than a child I met him who was thenceforth to
dominate my life. It was among the Alps, in a simple châlet, humble,
yet more delightful than many a turreted castle I have seen. Around
were all the glories of Nature (and then I can put in a description of
the sunset last night, you know), and he was like his own mountains,
rugged and grand and glorious. He was my opposite in every way, though
our souls were alike. (Here followed an accurate description of Atli.)
Something in me--it may have been my night-black tresses and starry
eyes--attracted him. He turned his flashing glance upon me--”
At this moment Atli looked up and his eyes met Honor’s. They did not
flash, but they were very pleasant and friendly.
“Perhaps mademoiselle will sing for us!” he said; “a song of her great
country, is it not so? Last summer I guided an American Monsieur
over the Weisshorn, and he sang a song of America. How was it, then?
‘I-an-kidoodel?’ Mademoiselle is acquainted with that song?”
Honor laughed outright; dreams and story--for she was really a sensible
child when not dreaming--flew up the chimney.
“‘Yankee Doodle!’ oh, yes!” she cried. “I know that; Papa taught me,
and some others too.”
She sang “Yankee Doodle” in a very sweet, fresh voice, and the Twins--I
was going to say “cooed,” but “mooed” would be more like it--with
pleasure, and demanded more. So she gave them the “Suwanee River” and
“America,” to their great delight. The first, Gretli declared, melted
the heart to softness, while the latter--
“That elevates the soul, _hein_? The blood stirs, as at the sound
of a trumpet. But mademoiselle must not fatigue herself. A glass of
buttermilk, is it not so? Behold that I bring it, on the instant, cool,
cool, from the stream!”
She brought it, and stood over Honor with smiling authority.
“Every drop!” she commanded. “It is stomachic, mademoiselle
understands, and nourishing as well. Now mademoiselle shall rest,
and Zitli shall tell us a story, since it is not yet bed time. Or is
mademoiselle weary? On the instant I transport her--”
“Oh, no, no!” cried Honor. “A story, please! I am not one scrap sleepy.”
“At the good hour! Attend, Zitli, till I bring my knitting! Behold,
thy table! Thou talkest always best with thy tools in hand, not so?
_Voilà!_ proceed then, my son!”
Zitli, with frowning brow, pondered, taking up one tool and then
another, examining them minutely and laying them aside. Finally, he
found one to his mind; selected a bit of wood with like care, and fell
to work.
“Shall it be of Pilatus?” he asked; and went on without waiting for
reply. “Pilatus, as mademoiselle knows well, is far over yonder!” He
nodded toward the northeast. “We cannot see it from here, but from the
_Dent du Midi_ it sees itself plainly. That mountain is always wrapped
in clouds, and these clouds are sent, some say, by the other mountains
round about, because they do not wish to see a place of such shame and
sorrow; but others claim that the mountain himself grieves for the
curse put upon him, and veils his face because of it. Which of these
sayings, if either, is true, is not known to me. There--_plâit-il,
mademoiselle_?”
Honor had looked up with such evident inquiry in her eyes that the boy
stopped.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, “I only wondered--what is the
curse, Zitli?”
Atli and Gretli were too polite to look their astonishment, but Zitli
was younger; besides, he was a story-teller.
“Mademoiselle does not know?” he cried. “In America, one is ignorant
of that? _Tenez_, that is something of the remarkable. That mountain,
mademoiselle, is accursed and has ever been so. After the death of the
Saviour of Mankind--” the three crossed themselves devoutly--“Pontius
Pilatus, the wicked Governor of Jerusalem, found himself so ill at ease
because of the sin and remorse that was in him that he took flight from
the Holy Land, and tried to hide himself, now here, now there. But
everywhere he was driven out with maledictions, until he came to our
beloved country, where, do you see, there were not many people in those
days, and all honest Christians attending to their own affairs and
minding their flocks and herds as Christians should. So no one saw that
accursed one, and he took refuge on that mountain and there he has been
ever since. He cannot die, because neither Heaven nor Hell will receive
him. He wanders about the mountain, and wherever he goes the green herb
withers and the leaves of the trees shrivel and drop off. The mountain
groans and would fain be rid of him. Now it lets fall an avalanche,
hoping to bury him fathoms deep and so make an end; but the snow falls
away from him on either side and leaves him bare. Now it gathers a
thunderstorm and tries to strike him dead with lightning bolts, but all
in vain; he opens his breast, inviting death; the bolt turns aside and
will not touch him. Often has he tried to drown himself in the gloomy
lake on the top of the mountain, but the waves rise and cast him on
shore. So he lives, accursed of God and man.”
“It is an ancient legend!” said Atli quietly. “What would you? In the
course of centuries, many things come to be believed. It is certain
that Pilatus is a stormy mountain, but that may come from many causes.”
“But when people have seen him!” cried Zitli, his blue eyes flashing.
“When he is seen by mortal men, my brother!”
“Ah! if he is seen, that is another matter. Hast thou seen him, for
example, my little one?”
The giant spoke kindly, but there was evident amusement in his tone.
Zitli blushed deeply.
“Not I myself,” he admitted; “but when I was over there--thou knowest,
at the hospital in Lucerne--I heard of those who had seen him. The
uncle of one of the nurses--look! one of his goats strayed from the
flock and wandered on to the lower slope of that mountain, to the
westward. The shepherd went in search of the creature, greatly fearing,
but what would you? It was his duty! As he searched, suddenly from
the wood stepped out a man, old, old, wearing a red robe of strange
fashion, and with a terrible look spoke to the shepherd.”
“Oh!” cried Honor. “Oh, Zitli, how thrilling! What did he say?”
“He spoke in a strange tongue! No word of it was to be understood.”
“And--did he look like a Roman?”
Zitli shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands abroad with a quaint
gesture. “Can I tell, mademoiselle? I never saw a Roman, nor, we may
suppose, did the shepherd. He looked, that one said, like Uncle Kissel.”
Gretli gave a little murmur of deprecation; Honor pressed on, all
eagerness.
“Who is Uncle Kissel?”
“He is an old miser, mean and hateful, and ugly as sin--”
Zitli stopped short. Atli had laid down his tools, Gretli her knitting;
both were looking at him very gravely. The blood rushed into the boy’s
face, and his eyes dropped.
“I--I ask your pardon, brother and sister!” he said. “I forgot!”
Atli spoke, more sternly than Honor had thought he could speak.
“Uncle Kissel is a man of honesty and probity. He has never robbed or
cheated any man.”
“He wastes nothing upon luxuries!” Gretli added; her tone, though
gentler, was still one of distinct rebuke. “His fare is that of a
hermit, and hermits are holy men.”
A silence followed. The Twins continued to look at Zitli, but their
look was now one of expectation. It was evident that they waited for
him to speak. But Zitli’s brow was clouded, and a dogged look crept
over his thin, intelligent face. Honor looked from one to the other in
wonder, but dared not break the silence.
“Come, my little one!” said Gretli, presently, in an encouraging tone.
“A word, is it not so? We wait, thy brother and I. Thou art not wont to
make us wait, Zitli.”
“There is nothing more to say!” muttered Zitli sullenly. “You have said
all there was.”
The silence fell again: Honor began to be frightened. What was going
to happen? The Twins sat like two mighty statues, grave, austere,
expectant. Zitli sat looking at his tools, the picture of mute
obstinacy. The clock ticked on the wall. There was no other sound.
Suddenly, from nowhere, as it seemed, a cat appeared, leaped lightly up
on Zitli’s table, proceeded to turn round and round, purring loudly,
finally curled herself up in a gray ball among the tools and went to
sleep. At first sight of the creature, the boy’s face relaxed. He bent
over her, caressing, murmuring words of affection, then suddenly he
looked up, and his own sunny smile broke out.
“He has a cat!” he announced. “Uncle Kissel has a cat, and he feeds
her; I saw him one day. Will that do, Brother and Sister?”
Gretli was her own beaming self again; she threw an appealing glance at
Atli, and met one equally benign.
“Kindness to animals!” she cried. “That is a virtue, if you will. All
is now well, little one beloved; thy word is the best of the three.
And now,” she added, rising, “it is thy bed-time, Zitli, and also
Mademoiselle Honor must seek rest. Let us thank the all-merciful Father
for another day!”
The three knelt down, while Honor, forbidden by a gesture to move,
bowed her head; Atli gave thanks as simply and heartily as if the
Father he adored were present in mortal guise; in the silence that
followed, Honor felt her heart lifted higher than it had ever been
before.
A little later, while rubbing her ankle, Gretli explained to Honor.
Mademoiselle did not wholly understand, was it not so? That was but
natural; it was a matter of family, did she see? It was a rule of their
beloved mother, now with the saints, that if any ill were spoken of a
person, it must be followed by some good.
“As is but just!” Gretli nodded emphatically, rubbing away
methodically. “‘We are compact of good and evil,’ the mother would say,
‘no human creature but has something of both. Since the good God made
us, there must be more of good than of evil, yet it often chances that
we see the evil first, because it thrusts itself forth, like a loose
stone on a slippery Alp, hoping to do mischief; thus, it is our duty
at once to look for the good.’ Thus said our sainted mother; and thus
it is our custom to allow no evil to be spoken of any person without a
good word being added by each one of the family.”
“It is a beautiful custom!” said Honor. “I shall try to remember that,
Gretli, all my life.”
Gretli’s smile was radiant as she tucked the blankets in around Honor’s
shoulders.
“Mademoiselle Honor would never speak evil of any one, it is most
probable!” she said. “Yet to any of us--since we are mortal,--that may
arrive. Our Zitli, for example; it is rarely--oh, but very rarely--that
he has any such trouble as to-night. He is not strong, do you see,
mademoiselle, and--at Lucerne--there are things that--that it is better
to forget!” she concluded cheerfully. “Since now he is so well, and
suffers seldom and little by comparison, all that is gone. ‘Look not
mournfully into the past, it returns not!’--that is well said, not so?
Good-night, my little _demoiselle_! Sleep well, and all saints have you
in their holy keeping!”