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RICO AND WISELI
RICO AND STINELI
and
HOW WISELI WAS PROVIDED FOR
BY
JOHANNA SPYRI
Translated By Louise Brooks
CONTENTS
RICO AND STINELI
CHAPTER
I. IN THE QUIET HOUSE
II. IN THE SCHOOL
III. THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER'S FIDDLE
IV. THE BEAUTIFUL, DISTANT LAKE WITHOUT A NAME
V. A SAD HOUSE, BUT THE LAKE GETS A NAME
VI. RICO'S MOTHER
VII. A PRECIOUS LEGACY, AND A PRECIOUS PRAYER
VIII. ON THE LAKE OF SILS
IX. A PERPLEXING AFFAIR
X. A LITTLE LIGHT
XI. A LONG JOURNEY
XII. IT STILLS GOES ON
XIII. ON THE DISTANT, BEAUTIFUL LAKE
XIV. NEW FRIENDSHIPS FORMED, WHILE THE OLD ONES ARE NOT FORGOTTEN
XV. SILVIO'S WISHES PRODUCE RESULTS
XVI. COUNSEL THAT BRINGS JOY TO MANY
XVII. BACK AGAIN OVER THE MOUNTAINS
XVIII. TWO HAPPY TRAVELLERS
XIX. CLOUDS ON THE BEAUTIFUL LAKE OF GARDA
XX. AT HOME
XXI. SUNSHINE ON THE LAKE OF GARDA
HOW WISELI WAS PROVIDED FOR
I. COASTING
II. AT HOME WHERE ALL ARE HAPPY
III. ALSO AT HOME
IV. AT COUSIN GOTTI'S
V. HOW TIME WENT ONE, AND SUMMER CAME
VI. OLD AND NEW
VII. ANDREW IS BETTER, AND SOMEBODY ELSE, ALSO
VIII. SOMETHING VERY STRANGE HAPPENS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"So the lad seated himself, and placed his fiddle in position."
"Rico played correctly, and with enthusiasm."
"Wiseli hastened into the room, and went to her mother's side."
"Andrew raised himself in his bed to see who was there."
RICO AND STINELI.
CHAPTER I.
IN THE QUIET HOUSE.
In the Ober Engadin, on the highway up to Maloja, stands the lonely
village of Sils; and back towards the mountains, across the fields,
nestles a little cluster of huts known as Sils Maria. Here, in an open
field, two cottages stand, facing each other.
Noticeable in both are the old wooden house-doors, and the tiny windows
quite imbedded in the thick walls. A bit of a garden-plot belongs to one
of these poor dwellings, where the pot-herbs and the cabbages look only
a trifle better than their spindling companions the flowers.
The other house has nothing but a little shed, where two or three hens
may be seen running in and out. This cottage is smaller than its
neighbor, and its wooden door is quite black from age.
Out of this door every morning, at the same hour, came a large man. In
order to pass out he was obliged to stoop, so tall was he. His hair was
black and glossy, and his eyes were also black; and under his
finely-shaped nose grew a thick black beard, completely hiding the lower
part of his face; so that, except the glistening of his white teeth when
he spoke, nothing was visible. But he rarely spoke.
Everybody in Sils knew the man, but he was never called by his name,--it
was always "the Italian." He went by the foot-path across to Sils every
day regularly, and thence up to Maloja. They were working on the highway
in that place, and there he found employment.
When, however, he did not have work up there, he went down to the Baths
of St. Moritz. Houses were being built down there, and he found work in
plenty; and there passed the day, only returning to his cottage at
nightfall.
When he came out of his house in the morning, he was usually followed by
a little boy, who lingered on the threshold after his father had gone on
his way, and looked with his big black eyes for a long time in the
direction his father had taken; but where he was looking that no one
could have told, for his eyes had a faraway look, as if they saw nothing
that lay before them and near, but were searching for something
invisible to everybody.
On Sunday mornings, when the sun shone brightly, father and son would
saunter up the road together; and the close resemblance between them was
most striking, for the child was the man in miniature, only his face was
small and pale,--with his father's well-formed nose, to be sure; but his
mouth had an expression of great sadness, as if he could not laugh. In
his father's face this could not be detected, on account of the beard.
When they walked along together, side by side, they did not talk; but
the father usually hummed a tune softly,--sometimes quite aloud,--and
the lad listened attentively. On rainy Sundays they sat at the window
together in the cottage, and seldom talked then; but the man drew his
harmonica from his pocket, and played one tune after another to the lad,
who listened most earnestly. Sometimes he would take a comb, or even a
leaf, and coax forth music; or he would shape a bit of wood with his
knife, and whistle a tune upon that. It really seemed as if there were
no object from which he could not draw forth sweet sounds. Once,
however, he brought a fiddle home with him, and the boy was so delighted
with the instrument, that he never forgot it. The man played one tune
after another, while the child listened and looked with all his might;
and when the fiddle was laid aside, the little fellow took it up, and
tried to find out for himself how the music was made. And it could not
have sounded so very badly, for his father had smiled, saying, "Come,
now!" and placed the big fingers of his left hand over his son's, and
held the little hand and the bow together in his right; and thus they
played for a long time, and produced a great many sweet tunes.
On the following day, after his father's departure, the boy tried again
and again to play, until at last he did succeed in producing a tune
quite correctly. Soon after, however, the fiddle disappeared, and never
made its appearance again.
Often, when they were together, the man would begin to sing
softly,--softly at first, then more and more distinctly as he became
more interested, and the boy know the words, he could at least follow
the tune. The father sang Italian always; and the child understood a
great deal, but not well enough to sing. One tune, however, he knew
better than any other, for his father had repeated it many hundred
times. It was part of a long song, and began in this wise:--
"One evening In Peschiera."
It was a sad melody that some one had arranged to a pretty ballad, and
it particularly pleased the lad, so that he always sang it with pleasure
and with a feeling of awe; and it sounded very sweetly, for the lad had
a clear, bell-like voice, that harmonized beautifully with his father's
strong basso. And each time after they had sung this song from beginning
to end, his father clapped the boy kindly on the shoulder, saying, "Well
done, Henrico! well done!" This was the way his father called him, but
he was called "Rico" only by everybody else.
There was a cousin who lived in the cottage with them, and who mended
and cooked and kept the house in order. In the winter she sat by the
stove and spun, and Rico had to consider how he could enter the room,
very carefully; for as soon as he had opened the door, his cousin called
out, "Do let that door alone, or we shall have it cold enough in the
room here."
In winter he was very often alone with his cousin; for when his father
had work to do in the valley, he would be away for long weeks at a time.