HIGHER UP THE MOUNTAIN
About three weeks after Vinzi had come to his uncle’s house a good
friend of his father, who had business in Domo, came to see him. He
brought him and the Lesa family greetings from Vinzi’s parents. On his
way home he expected to stop as he had promised to bring Vinzenz Lesa
news of the boy. His parents wanted to hear how he took to the life
on the mountain and how he got along with his relatives. They also
wondered if he annoyed his relatives by his silent dreamy ways. The
uncle and aunt were to decide when the boy was to come home. As soon as
they were ready to let him go, they could entrust him to some companion
or send word to Leuk where they could find one. The man was to return
in five or six days, of which the fifth day had just passed by.
Lorenz entered the room. His wife had set the supper table and was
quietly awaiting the return of the boys, when she could place their
welcome meal before them.
“The man from Leuk won’t come today,” said Lorenz. “I suppose he’ll be
here tomorrow early. We must let them know down there how much we like
Vinzi.”
“Indeed we will,” agreed the wife. “I was just wondering to myself why
they sent him here. I would keep such a lad at home. One usually sends
a boy away when he isn’t quite as he ought to be, or if he has queer
ideas in his head that he might lose among strangers. But there are
very few boys like Vinzi. Since he has come here I hardly recognize our
own. Take Russli, for instance. Every morning he had to be dragged by
violence to the fountain, and while he got washed, he usually shrieked
like mad. Now he runs over to the stream behind the hay-rick as soon
as he is out of bed. He loves to wash himself there, he says, because
Vinzi does it, too, and likes it. Russli rubs and scrubs himself
cleaner than he would ever have let me do. He wants to look like Vinzi,
whom every one likes to look at. Russli never comes home in tears the
way he used to, either. One might have supposed that they had nearly
killed him the way he carried on. When I ask him what has made the
change in him, he answers that Faz is not allowed to beat him, because
Vinzi takes his part. If I ask Faz how it is that he leaves Russli in
peace he answers that Vinzi keeps him in order and he needs no beating.
‘I like it better that way,’ he says sensibly. ‘I wish Vinzi would stay
with us always.’ Faz would never have said such a thing before, for he
used to enjoy giving blows. Jos was the only one who never gave us much
trouble.”
“Oh, I suppose the eldest sons are always considered models by their
mothers.”
“Oh, well, Jos can show himself anywhere,” the woman continued. “I
never saw a better-mannered boy than Vinzi, though. Jos has noticed
that and has begun to imitate him, which suits him very well. He would
only need a hat on his head and the kind of cloak around his shoulders
that strangers on the stage-coach wear, to look like a gentleman’s son.”
“That’s not necessary,” interrupted the husband.
“And we never should have found out that Jos has such a beautiful voice
if Vinzi had not started him with his music,” continued the wife. “And
just think of our peaceful evenings with the lovely singing every day.
We are not disturbed any more by one boy throwing the other under the
table, while the third one is breaking his chair by riding on it. I
think that the music has somehow tamed them. They are hardly the same
boys! I just want to say one more thing. Why did your cousin Vinzenz
send the boy up here instead of keeping him at home? I am sure his wife
did not wish him to go--I guess that much. Tell me, what do you think?”
“You can be sure that Vinzenz had a good reason,” replied the husband.
“I have asked myself the same question and have not been able to answer
it. I remember his mentioning something to me about the boy. When the
man from Leuk asked us if Vinzi did not annoy us with his long fits
of silence, I recollect that he thought our boys were more merry at
their work. As he wished his boy to be the same he thought the totally
different surroundings here might help him. He was in the right, too.
Vinzi is as gay as a lark, nowadays, and makes the others gayer than
they ever were.”
The cheerful cries of the home-coming boys could now be heard. In order
to assist them the father went outside while the mother turned towards
the kitchen. The time had come to put everything on the table in order
to avoid impatience on their part and burnt throats.
The next day the man from Leuk returned. After putting a glass of wine
before him Lorenz Lesa sat down at his side.
“What shall I tell them?” asked the man.
“Tell my cousin Vinzenz that everything here is going well,” began
Lorenz, “and that his boy is very happy. He sings and whistles like a
bird in seed time, and we with him.”
“And that we love him as if he were one of us,” added the wife. “We
want to keep him here till the very last day of autumn.”
“Yes, and tell my cousin,” the uncle continued, “that we should like to
keep him for the winter if he has no objection. He has not annoyed a
soul up here, on the contrary he has made every one happy.”
“Vinzenz Lesa will be glad to hear that. I’ll carefully give him your
message,” said the man. “Mrs. Lesa also wants to know how the boy is
looking. She wants me to tell her exactly, but I suppose he is not to
be seen.”
“No, for the boys are all on the pasture from six in the morning till
six at night. They sing and whistle and could not have a better time,”
said Lorenz. “My cousin will approve of that, I am sure, for he would
certainly not like him to stay at home.”
“And tell Mrs. Lesa that she need not worry,” the woman went on. “Her
boy looks as well and sprightly as a cricket. If he should be ill I’ll
see to him as if he were my own.”
“Well, that’s splendid,” said the messenger from Leuk. He was satisfied
with the news he could bring to Mrs. Lesa, for she had pressed him to
inquire into the smallest details, many of which he had quite forgotten.
Vinzi had kept his promise in carving Faz and Jos each a beautiful
pipe, and both were hard at work practicing. Pipe-playing had grown to
be their sole amusement, for it was their dearest wish to imitate Vinzi
as much as possible.
Both realized that Vinzi’s playing was vastly superior to theirs, but
they did not give up and tried to learn whatever they could. As soon
as they reached the pasture in the morning, the piping began, and
while the cows were grazing peacefully they would devote themselves
to music. Jos and Faz were usually leaders of the other boys in their
sports. When these did not appear they were very much missed by their
comrades. So the other boys came over to them, and soon this enthusiasm
about music proved catching. Each boy wanted to try his talent for
piping and thought he could imitate Vinzi’s playing better than any
other. But they all agreed in pronouncing him their master, for each
pipe took on a different quality when Vinzi blew it.
After the pipes had continuously been whining, howling and squeaking
the boys always begged Vinzi to play. They wanted to see how he did it,
and Vinzi was only too glad to do so. He played as long as they liked
to hear him, while they actually crowded around him and eagerly watched
his fingers. The melodies seemed to come somehow of themselves. All he
did was to let his fingers leap lightly over the holes, and it looked
childishly simple. After watching him each thought that he could now do
it, too, and it made every boy eager to try afresh. If one seemingly
succeeded fairly well, another boy would say that he could do it as
well if only he had his own pipe and took time to practice. This was
impossible now, because one could not keep the precious instrument more
than a few minutes at a time. There were already ten more who clamored
for it.
Therefore one boy after another would come to Vinzi saying, “I wish you
would cut me a nice pipe, Vinzi; I’ll give you something for it.”
Vinzi answered always most obligingly, “I’ll make you a pipe and you
needn’t give me anything. But you’ll have to wait for it, because I
have promised to make others first.”
Vinzi was kept very busy, because every day brought him new requests
for pipes. Some of his time was taken up by playing, and Russli did
not give up his demands upon him, either. But Vinzi felt happy and
satisfied. Whatever he could do he did gladly, and it gave him great
satisfaction to be able to spread such joy about him.
The uncle was delighted to hear about the daily gatherings on his
pasture. He liked this pursuit of music and it pleased him that
boys who lived as far up as the hospice should come down to learn
the art of piping. By cutting several pipes every day Vinzi finally
supplied nearly every pasture ground with two or three. But this did
not suffice. As soon as a boy had succeeded in giving forth a few
satisfactory sounds another immediately wanted to try his talent, too.
It took considerable practice and patience before they could attempt
to play a tune, for it was even hard to make smooth, pleasant sounds.
The supreme wish of each boy had become to own a pipe which Vinzi had
carved himself, for no one else could do it so well.
Among the boys who met daily there were about ten or twelve who were
called the Tower Boys. Vinzi never knew exactly how many of them there
were, because only some of them could come down to the Lesa pasture at
a time, the others staying behind to mind the cows. Vinzi had first
believed them all to be brothers. But he found out that they were
cousins and came from three different households. He had given two of
them pipes already, for they had been very eager for them. One of them
who was called Black Vereli, on account of his black, curly hair and
dark complexion, had teased and begged him for a pipe so insistently
that Vinzi could not resist his pleading. He gave him one which was
already finished despite the fact that the other boys cried jealously,
“The Tower Boys have two already.”
Full of gratitude and enthusiasm, Vereli ran away with his precious
gift.
The next day he appeared again and quickly ran to Vinzi. “I have to
mind the cows today, but the others can stay,” he said breathlessly.
“But I have a message for you. I showed grandfather the pipe and he
made me play on it. When he said I didn’t know how to play, I told him
that you could do it better than anybody else. So he wants you to come
and play for him sometimes. Won’t you come some day when I have to stay
up there? Please come tomorrow, if you can,” Vereli called back as he
ran away.
“I must ask uncle first. Where shall I go if he lets me?” Vinzi called
after the boy.
But he got no answer from Vereli, who was already far away.
“You go up to the Tower Boys,” replied Russli. He was as usual close to
Vinzi’s side and so had heard his question.
“But I don’t know where they live,” replied Vinzi.
“In the tower, of course,” said Russli.
“Is that the reason why you call them the Tower Boys?”
“Of course,” Russli calmly informed him.
The old gray tower that had filled him with such grave misgivings rose
before Vinzi’s eyes now. In his wild state of fear it had seemed to
him no less than a prison in which his uncle might be living and where
he might be obliged to live, too. But besides the tower he had a vague
recollection of a bright meadow with shining flowers surrounding the
building. His glance had hardly rested on these things in his foolish
terror. Now he felt suddenly seized by an intense desire to wander up
along the highway to see how all the things looked that had grown so
dim in his recollection.
That evening he repeated Vereli’s words to his uncle, asking at the
same time what he was to do.
“Go up to the tower tomorrow, boy,” answered the uncle. The grandfather
was the oldest man on the whole mountain-side and one had to do his
bidding.
“Whose grandfather is he?” asked Vinzi.
“Oh, the grandfather of all the so-called Tower Boys,” replied the
uncle, “and of a huge family besides who stay at home. Only the boys
who attend to the cattle go up there. He is in fact their great, or
even great-great grandfather. But as that is much too complicated to
say all his relatives on the mountain call him grandfather. He has an
enormous number of grand and great-grandchildren.”
“Yes, Black Vereli is decidedly the worst of the whole bunch,” added
Faz.
“How so?” asked the father, who saw not the slightest connection
between his own statement and the words which had followed.
“Oh, I mean that the Tower Boys always start the worst mischief and
Black Vereli invents most of their tricks,” Faz explained. “Jos always
takes his part because he can jodel so well.”
“Yes he can do it like no one else and I love to hear him,” affirmed
Jos. “I think that the invention of naughty tricks is beginning to die
down a bit. Vereli is needed for that, and he has something else in his
head now. Vinzi has made him a pipe, which he has wanted for ages, and
he is so determined to learn how to play that nothing will stop him.
You know that if he wants a thing he never gives up till he has it.”
“Those pipes are a real blessing for the whole mountain, it seems
to me. They are toning down even the worst boys,” said the mother,
comfortably leaning back in her chair. She knew what peace it had
brought to her own evenings and was already waiting for the tones of
the pipe which so quieted them.
When the boys were ready to set out to the pasture with their cattle
next morning, the uncle said to Vinzi. “Go right up to the tower, for
the grandfather is sure to be up by now. He sits from early morning
till evening on the bench before his house sunning himself. You will
have to judge when it will be time to leave. Be sure to stay as long as
he wants you to.”
They set out, Russli, as usual, staying a little behind Vinzi. He had
attentively listened to his father’s words.
“You must come back soon,” he said. “You must come down as soon as you
have played something for the grandfather.”
“Didn’t you hear what your father said, Russli?” retorted Vinzi. “I
have to do what the grandfather wants me to. I’ll have to stay all
morning if he wishes me to.”
“Then I’ll tickle the cows again,” Russli asserted grimly.
“That is wicked of you, Russli,” cried out Vinzi full of indignation.
“I always thought that you were a nice boy. Didn’t I stay with you all
the time and tell you all sorts of stories? Didn’t I play for you as
much as ever you wanted me to? I never believed Faz when he told me
naughty things about you and now I find that what I thought untrue was
true after all. Do you know what I am going to do? I’ll stay with Jos
and Faz from now on and you can stay by yourself and I’ll never come
near you any more.”
“Then I won’t do it,” said Russli, half obstinately and half
repentantly.
“That’s right, Russli,” said Vinzi, already reconciled, “and I’ll
promise to cut you something on the way every time I leave you. What do
you want? A walking stick?”
“No,” came the decided answer.
“Do you want a flag-pole?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
“A pipe.”
“But I gave you one ages ago,” suggested Vinzi.
“I don’t care. I want a pipe and then another and still another every
time you want to make me something,” Russli said stubbornly.
“All right, you shall have a pipe,” Vinzi promised.
When the boys came to the pasture they turned their herd to the
right of the road towards the larch trees. But Vinzi continued on his
way. Every time his three cousins called to him, “Come back soon,” he
answered by waving his cap to them. He felt so well and strong now that
he threw his cap high into the air and caught it again with a loud
shout. Vinzi had never been so wonderfully happy before. The sun was
shining from a cloudless sky over the green fields, pastures and rugged
mountains, against which the dark spruces were sharply outlined. He
remembered having come that way, but how different it all looked now!
The scene constantly grew more entrancing. The high snow-mountain stood
out completely behind the wooded heights, and its great and mighty
summit shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Suddenly a miracle seemed
to happen. A broad stream, gleaming like silver in the early morning
light, spread right across the whole mountain, but it made not a sound
or motion. It was not rushing water, but a glorious, broad glacier.
Vinzi had to stand still as he watched a strange blue fire flash across
the expanse. He lingered a while, unable to go further. How strange
that he should not have taken in all this beauty before!
Going on again he was repaid by hearing sounds as of a rustling wood in
the distance. He wondered what it might be, because he knew that there
was no forest here. Foaming white and roaring loudly, there suddenly
appeared before him a waterfall which leaped down over steep rocks and
right across the way he saw a second. Here and there gurgling mountain
streams rushed down from the rocky walls, and the air that blew into
his face was so deliciously fresh that he had to pause again and take
deep breaths. But what was the glowing red field which stretched a
short distance from him down the slope? Eagerly Vinzi ran along as if
he had wings and the bracing air made him forget how steep was the
slope he was climbing.
Sometimes, as the road made a curve, the red field would vanish for a
while only to reappear again much nearer and still more brilliant in
the sunlight. Now a well-known sound of cow-bells greeted his ears, and
he wondered where the cattle were.
He had to stop again in order to look about him. At his left, below the
road he could see the herd peacefully grazing in a fresh green meadow.
He saw cows of different colors and quite a number of boys. Some lay
flat on the ground while others stood together in little groups. In the
middle of the valley rose a gray stone tower. That was the old tower
he had seen on his trip and his cousins had described to him. Also the
grandfather sat leaning his back against the ancient walls exactly as
his uncle Lorenz had told him he would do. The old man with the bright
sun shining down upon him was gazing up at the blue sky. He wore no hat
on his snow-white head and a heavy white beard fell down to his chest.
The old man sitting in the sun with the cows quietly grazing about him
made the most peaceful scene. Even the old tower which had frightened
him so seemed to be quite a cosy abode, and Vinzi could picture all the
Tower Boys leading a very happy existence there with the grandfather.
He was anxious to inspect it from near, but first he had to see the red
mountain-side. It could not be far from here now.
Vinzi hurried along. After a curve of the road the red, sparkling field
lay before him.
Climbing over the rocky edge of the road, he went deep into the green
leaves which were covered with bright red alpine roses. They spread
over the whole slope as far as he could see, and he could not help
saying, “How beautiful!” to himself, over and over again.
Carefully going on, he discovered a little spot free of plants. Here he
could sit down in the middle of the flowers without hurting them. In
silent rapture he gazed at the glory about him.
The sun was beating down from a cloudless sky but the fresh mountain
breeze fanned his cheek and made him bless the hot rays. The dark blue
sky stretched close over the gleaming field of roses, the gray ranges
and green, sunny slopes. The mighty snow peak opposite rose high into
the air and thundering streams flung their snow-white foam sunwards, so
that they sparkled in a thousand colors.
Vinzi must have been sitting there dreaming a long while. Suddenly he
became conscious of the sun being nearly above his head, which meant
that it was practically noon. Starting up at once, he ran in big
leaps over the flowery field, putting his feet down so that he did
not crush a single rose. Then he crossed the road and still kept on
running across the other meadow to the old tower. Vinzi planted himself
immediately in front of the grandfather, who was still sitting on his
wind-sheltered bench in the sunshine. But he had to take a deep breath
before he could attempt to speak.
“What is it, boy? Why are you in such a hurry?” calmly asked the
grandfather.
“I am a bit late. I meant to be here much sooner,” replied the boy,
having at last gained his breath. “Black Vereli sent me here because
you wanted to hear me play the pipe.”
“Oh, I see, you are the boy who carves the pipes and who is supposed to
play so well,” said the old man. “It is nice of you to come here. Sit
down beside me on the bench and tell me where you come from and to whom
you belong.”
Vinzi, after sitting down, told the old man about his family and that
he was staying for a while with his uncle Lorenz Lesa.
“I know him,” said the grandfather. “He is a splendid man. Did he
object to your coming up here?”
Vinzi answered that his uncle had bidden him to go and stay as long as
the grandfather wished.
“Oh, I am glad; then you can play something for me. But I think we had
better have some food first.” With these words the old man rose, but
changing his mind suddenly, he resumed his seat again.
“I don’t think it would be unseemly if the young one brought the lunch
while the old one remained seated,” he said, kindly patting Vinzi’s
shoulder. “Go around the corner here, open the door and go to the
shelf. You’ll find a jug of milk and everything else ready. Go and
bring it.”
Vinzi was gone in a minute and quickly returned with the required
articles. The food was placed between them on the bench and the
grandfather cut pieces of bread and cheese, inviting Vinzi to do the
same.
But the boy slightly hesitated. All morning he had done only what
he had felt like doing, instead of coming early and playing to the
grandfather. Therefore he could not begin with a clear conscience.
“Eat, eat, boy! What’s the matter? There is more than enough for us
both. Why don’t you begin?” asked the old man after a while with such
a kindly glance from his eyes that Vinzi would have felt like doing a
more difficult bidding.
“How do you like it here on our mountain?” asked the old man after a
little while.
Vinzi’s eyes fairly flashed. “Oh, it is wonderful here. I never saw
anything more beautiful in my life!” he exclaimed, still filled with
his recent impressions.
At this the grandfather patted him on the back again. “Neither did I,
neither did I,” he said full of satisfaction. “You think just what I
think. I’d like to know where it could be finer. Where do they have
such golden sunshine as we have up here and pure air like that which
simply fills one with health? Every one can breathe as much of it, too,
as he can hold. And what strength this air and sunshine give one! I
tell you I know something about it. Of course my strength is beginning
to give out a bit. I am still well but not young any more. How old do
you think I am, boy?”
“Maybe seventy,” said Vinzi.
“Oho, is that what you think! I was seventy twenty and a few odd years
ago and I was young still at that time. I thought nothing of going with
heavy loads on my back down into the valley and coming up again with
more. But I can’t do such things now, and no more do they want me to.
All the young people ask of me is to keep peace among the boys while
they stay in the tower during summer. They are on the pasture during
the day, but when they come home in the evening they need some one
to keep them in order; otherwise things go amiss. I sit here in the
sunshine all day and that gives me ample time to think over all the
blessings I have to thank our Lord in Heaven for during my long life.
Since I passed my ninetieth year I do not count any more. I take every
fine day as a splendid gift and looking up to Heaven in the evening,
I say from the bottom of my heart, ‘Thanks for it, good Father in
Heaven, thanks!’ And when the time comes for me to go, I won’t have far
to go. Look what a short distance I will have to fly. That’s one of
the reasons I love it here on the mountain. It’s very close to Heaven
and so open that one can look about in all directions. One’s thoughts
easily strive upwards and make one happy, either living or dying.”
Vinzi had followed the grandfather’s words with keen attention. The boy
was sorry when the speaker was silent at last, for he would have liked
to know much more about the grandfather’s solitary existence.
“What are you thinking about so earnestly?” asked the grandfather after
a considerable silence between them.
“I was longing for you to tell me about your life in winter when the
boys have gone home. I wonder if you stay in the tower all alone or if
you have to leave despite your being so happy here,” replied Vinzi.
“I have not gone to the valley for at least ten years and I do not care
to,” said the grandfather, inhaling a deep breath of the sunny mountain
air. “I could neither stand the heavy air nor the crowds of people
who get in each other’s way. I don’t have to live alone in the tower
because the monks in the hospice up there are my good friends. You know
where it is, don’t you?”
“No,” replied Vinzi, “and I don’t even know what kind of place it is.”
“It is a good place,” said the old man. “They receive there in
winter poor travellers who cannot go on for the cold and the masses
of snow, and whom they often find lying outside half frozen. The good
monks who live in the hospice fetch them in to a warm fire, then give
them strengthening food and drink till they are able to travel on their
way. They are my very best friends, and when the boys drive the cattle
home in the autumn, I go up to live with them. You may have seen the
hospice, for it is just a little way up in that direction.”
[Illustration: VINZI, TAKING UP HIS PIPE, HAD BEGUN TO PLAY A MELODY]
“Oh, yes, I remember it now,” exclaimed Vinzi, for the picture of a big
stone house on the road rose before him. He remembered having seen it
on his walk and he recalled how still and dead everything about it had
seemed, exactly as if no one lived there.
“A warm chimney corner is always ready for me there,” continued the
old man. “I sit there all winter long and hear many a good word from
the monks. Once in a while I see a poor wretch who would have perished
miserably but for their help. After being cared for he is able to take
up his load again with fresh courage. I hear things about the world
once in a while that make me glad that I am so far away.”
“I can well believe it,” replied Vinzi understandingly.
“How would it be if we made a little music now?” asked the grandfather
after a pause. Then he set the empty pitcher, the plate and knife under
the bench in order to make more room. “What would you like best to
play?”
Vinzi, taking up his pipe, had begun to play a melody.
It pleased his listener so much that he had to repeat it straightway.
As soon as he had finished it the second time the grandfather said,
“That was a beautiful thing. Was it a hymn?”
“Yes,” said Vinzi.
“How did you learn that? Boys usually whistle quite different tunes.
Where did you find it?” the old man wanted to know.
“I didn’t find it. I play the tune as I hear it sung. Mother sings such
a song with us at home every night,” Vinzi declared.
“Do you know more like that?” the grandfather inquired.
“Oh yes, lots more,” Vinzi assured him.
“I’d love to know if you could play me a song I heard only once in
my life. I would give a great deal if I could hear it again. But all
I know about it is the refrain at the end of each verse; perhaps you
could recognize it from that.”
“It would be better if you could sing me parts of it,” said Vinzi.
“No, no, boy, I can’t sing any more,” the grandfather remonstrated,
“but I can tell you what the song was about and how the ending went.
You see I was not always as happy as I am now. Of course when I was
young like you I was happy, for I had a mother who watched over me
as yours apparently does who teaches you such nice songs. My father
was dead and I had comrades who wanted me to go out with them into the
world to seek adventures. As I wanted to go so much, I had to do it
against her will. We went and travelled far, sometimes as soldiers,
sometimes as workmen. It was a wild life, but you couldn’t understand
that yet. Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I begged them to
turn back and start a new existence. But they would not hear of it, so
I returned alone. It had been a long time since I had written to my
mother or heard from her. When I came home I found that she was dead.
‘She wouldn’t have gotten sick if you had stayed at home,’ our neighbor
said to me. These words were deeply burnt into my soul. I wanted
to begin a new life and redeem myself. But I could find no joy in
anything. My conscience constantly reproached me and troubled me, and I
realized I could never atone for her death. One night when I couldn’t
sleep for remorse I cried aloud to Heaven: ‘Oh, mother, you were always
ready to help me before! Please help me now, or don’t I deserve it?’
On awakening in the morning I clearly heard my mother’s voice saying,
‘Go to church, Klaus, the bells are ringing.’ She had always said
this to me every Sunday morning during her life-time. I jumped out of
bed and found that it was really Sunday. I hadn’t been to church for
a long while, but that day I went again. At first I could not follow
the pastor’s words. But suddenly I heard, ‘And our Lord came down from
Heaven to bring us mercy and forgiveness and keep us from perishing in
our misery. And He gave us back our joy!’ That was clearly meant for
me and it went through me like a ray of sunshine. Then came the song I
spoke of. I could understand every word of it because it told exactly
how I felt at that moment. At the end of every verse came the following
refrain:
‘For the blessed song of mercy
Thrills our hearts forevermore.’
“I have never forgotten it. From then on I went to church whenever the
bells called me and I heard many comforting words there that made me
glad again. Do you think you could play me the song now?”
Vinzi would gladly have done the grandfather’s bidding, but he did not
know the song.
“Then play me one of your own, I love to hear them, too,” said the
grandfather comfortingly, for he realized the boy was not able to
fulfil his wish.
Vinzi did so willingly and kept playing one piece after the other until
loud calls and cries from the distance showed him that the boys were
starting to come home.
Quickly rising, Vinzi asked the grandfather’s leave to go. The latter
agreed that it was high time. He could not comprehend, however, how
quickly the afternoon had flown. “Can you come soon again?” he asked,
and added, “Please tell your uncle Lorenz that I shall expect you soon
again. Just let me say one more word. I wish you could teach our boys
to play, too. That would give me something worth hearing when you are
gone.”
Vinzi told the old man that he was already teaching them. Unfortunately
they always failed to play the melodies smoothly. They were much better
at singing and quickly learned to sing new songs.
“All right, teach them some of your songs then. I suppose that you know
others beside the hymns?”
“Yes, I have heard some from uncle Lorenz. If I only had words to one I
know, I could teach them that,” answered Vinzi.
“Then you are like me. I forget the words, too, but you are still too
young to do that,” was the old man’s opinion.
“I haven’t forgotten them. I never knew them,” said Vinzi seriously.
The old man measured him with a penetrating glance, trying to see if
this was meant to be a joke. But Vinzi looked far too earnest. “How can
you know a song if it has no words?” he asked.
“I know a few words of it and the way it should sound, but it is so
hard to make up enough words for a whole song, and I can’t do it. When
I was sitting among the roses this morning, I heard the song and I
could sing it, except for the words. If only some one could write me a
song.”
Vinzi looked longingly up to the grandfather.
“Maybe I know a person who could do it,” replied the latter, very
pleased at the possibility of helping Vinzi. “What would your song be
about?”
“About the alp-roses and the sunshine on them. The sunshine on the
mountains and the foaming water and all the beautiful things I saw
there.”
Vinzi’s eyes sparkled as he eagerly described this. The melody he had
heard kept going in his head and he could barely keep himself from
singing it aloud.
“I’ll let Pater Silvanus know about this and we’ll see what he can do.”
With this the grandfather shook Vinzi’s hand once more. Then the boy
ran down the mountain without stopping once till he had reached his
uncle’s house. Loud cries came from the pump where his three cousins
were just going through their daily ablution. All rushed towards him
and wanted to know what he had done all day, at the same time telling
him about their own happenings. In the middle of it all Russli pulled
his jacket confidentially, for he had an important communication to
make. Finally, he was able to make himself heard. “I did not pinch any
all day, not even one.”
For reward Vinzi drew a beautiful new pipe from his pocket.
Vinzi had acquired such skill in carving pipes that he had rapidly made
it that morning while sitting among the roses.
Uncle Lorenz and his aunt greeted him as heartily as if they had not
seen him for a long while. After he had given the grandfather’s message
to his uncle, the latter replied, “Yes, yes, go up there as often as
you please, only be sure to come home to us in the evening.”
The aunt joined in, too, adding, “It would suit me best if things
should never change and Vinzi could stay with us always.”
When Vinzi soon after sat on his threshold he had a great many things
to think over. His thoughts kept him so busy that he would have liked
to dispense with sleeping altogether and sit there all night.
He was still filled with the grandfather’s story, which had made a
tremendous impression upon him. While listening to it he had had an
idea, which since then had grown more vivid. Now the time seemed to
have come to carry it out.
Raising the pipe to his lips he quietly began to play to himself.
Sometimes he paused, silently listening to what he heard. Then he
hummed again as the melodies were slowly taking shape. Vinzi looked
about him. All the houses round about were dark, but all the stars
sparkled down on him so radiantly that he finally grew silent and
looked in pious awe at the joyfully gleaming sky above.
“Oh, now I know it!” he cried suddenly. Raising his pipe again he lured
from it the most tripping, happy tunes. Quite satisfied he at last
closed his little door and lay happily down on his fragrant couch of
hay.
The music seemed really to begin now, for he felt that whole choruses
of angels were singing down to him from the shining stars. But Vinzi
only heard this in his slumbers, for as soon as he had touched his
pillow he was fast asleep.