On the Heights: A Novel

CHAPTER VI

It was a mild spring night.

Irma was sitting by the spring and looking up at the starry heavens. She felt strangely at the thought of again wandering forth, for on the following morning she was to start for the shepherd's hut, there to spend the summer. How would it be with her when she again sat here in the night, listening to the stream rushing by?

At that moment she heard whispering. It seemed to come from the dark stable, the door of which was open.

"Yes, Gundel; our mistress is just as changeable as April weather. On the way from home, she was as jolly as she could be, and on the way back, she was just as glum as if she'd been beaten. She went to see the great doctor. Something must have happened to her. But what does she matter to us, after all? She bought pots and pans, but I got something better. Let's have your hand. There! I put this little silver ring on your finger and make you fast to me, in soul and body, for life. Now you may go wherever you choose; you're mine, all the same."

Hearty kisses were heard, and Gundel at last said:

"But you'll come up to the meadow to see us, once in a while, won't you?"

"Of course I will!" And then there was more soft and unintelligible whispering.

"Why, just look!" said Franz, suddenly; "there's cousin Irmgard, and she's heard every word of what we've said."

"That's no harm; she knows all about it, and so I'll have something to talk with her about, all summer. Come, let's go to her. You'll see how kind she is."

They went to Irma.

She took them both by the hand and said:

"Let your love be as pure, as fresh, as inexhaustible as this spring." She dipped her hand into the spring, which glittered in the moonlight, and sprinkled the two lovers with water.

"That's as good as if it came out of a holy water pot," cried Franz. "Now everything will be all right. I've no fear. You, spring, and you, elder-tree, are witnesses that we both belong together, and will never leave each other. Good-night."

Franz went back into the stable and closed the door. Gundel accompanied Irma to her room and slept on the bench, for her father, the little pitchman, had already gone before them to the shepherd's hut and had taken her bed and various household articles with him.

It was long before Irma fell asleep. She felt as if she could not help living over, in anticipation, the many days and nights she was to spend upon the mountain. She was restless, and lay there thinking, until at last her thoughts became confused and bewildered.

At last, she asked in a soft voice:

"Gundel, are you still awake?"

"Oh yes, and I'm sure Franz is awake, too. He isn't as well off as I am, and has no one to talk to as I have. Oh, how thankful I am to you! I'll make things as pleasant and as comfortable for you as I can. Oh, what a good, honest soul Franz is! Do you hear the cows lowing? They can't rest, either. I feel as if I could already hear the bells that they're going to wear to-morrow, and I think they must know all about it, too. Oh Irmgard, if you only had a sweetheart, too. I know how it will be with you. It'll be just as it says in the story-and you deserve it, too. There was once upon a time a king who rode through the forest and found a beautiful girl tending the flocks; and he put her on his horse, took her home with him, gave her clothes of gold, and put a diamond crown upon her head. And then the queen-Oh, the bells, the queen-come, White-spot, the bells-come, come, come-and so-"

Gundel slept, but Irma lay awake and looked out into the moonlight. The whole world seemed a marvel, and vague fairy pictures filled her mind. She smiled, and her eyes sparkled until they were at last closed in sleep. But the smile rested on her features, although there was none to see it, save the moon, calmly looking down from on high.

CHAPTER VII

We often experience sadness and hesitancy in carrying out projects which have been wisely conceived and hopefully determined on. And thus it proved when the time came to set out for the shepherd's hut.

It was before daybreak. Irma stood at the open hearth in Walpurga's room, and shivered with the cold.

Although Irma had overcome all longings since her return from her short visit to the world, a new and deep feeling of homelessness had come over her, just as if this was the first day of her solitude. She often looked about her, as if she saw a figure approaching with a light bundle under its arm-and that figure was herself, but oh! how changed. She scarcely felt a desire for food or drink; nor did she care to speak. She lived entirely in and from herself. But, although silent, she was cheerful and kind toward every one.

The little pitchman was the first to note this change, and he was of the opinion that a summer spent on the mountain meadows would prove of great benefit to Irma, for he maintained that she was ill, although she always seemed well and was ever at work.

If everything had been specially arranged, Walpurga's purpose could not have been better served. Irma's wishes and the uncle's advice were in accord. Besides this, there was danger of discovery, on account of the king's visit to the neighboring village, and whatever danger lay in this, Walpurga meant to avert from Irma.

The morning found Walpurga gay and cheerful, as if after a hardly won victory. Her eyes often rested on Irma, who was looking fixedly at the open hearth-fire.

"You'll see," said she to her, "you'll be quite a different being up there. I can hear you singing already, and then we'll sing together again."

She went on humming to herself the air,

But Irma did not join in the song.

"I shall support life as long as it supports me," said Irma, as if speaking to herself, and holding her hands before the fire.

It was not long before the two women, who were thus standing quietly by the hearth, were called away to the stable outside. Everything was in readiness. The little pitchman, who was conversant with all such mysteries, had, on the previous day, arranged everything so that the cattle might be well and hearty in their new abode. He had brought a clod of earth and three ants from the meadow, and had mixed the earth with some sweet-scented clover, St. Johnswort, lavender and salt, into which mixture he dropped some oil of tar, and this was the last food given the cattle. The little pitchman had returned from the meadow during the night and, although he had not been asked to do so, had prepared the mysterious fodder in order to oblige Hansei, who was not yet quite familiar with the ways of this section of the country.

Now that the cattle had swallowed the magic potion, they were protected against all witchcraft and sickness, and would be as much at home on the meadows as if they had been born there. And now that day began to dawn, the cows became unmanageable. Peter sprinkled every one of them with holy water; but in spite of charms and holy water, these tame, domestic creatures seemed to have been converted into wild beasts. All was confusion within the enclosure that confined them, the cows were bellowing and running about wildly, and, in the midst of the din, was heard the shouting of the cowboys. The little pitchman bade them let the cows have their own way and at last they were quiet. Gundel put the wreath on the horns of the large brown bell-cow, and fastened the leader's bell around her neck. The other cows were also provided with bells. And now the leader was surrounded by the rest of the herd, who glared at her furiously; but she seemed so proud and scornful that none ventured to challenge her.

"And now let's be off, for God's sake!" cried the little pitchman, opening the gate. The procession started. Franz came last of all, holding the powerful red bull by its strong short horns and dragged by, rather than leading it. As soon as the bull was out of the stable, he stood still and looked about him with quite a dangerous air, and then, tossing up his head, stepped off alone, in quite a dignified manner. But as soon as he was outside of the gate, he bellowed loudly.

Although everything had been quietly arranged, there was yet hurrying at the end. Walpurga and Hansei accompanied Irma for a part of the way.

Irma was silent. Her step was firm, and yet it seemed to her as if her will had nothing to do with this, and as if she were urged onward by another.

"You look more cheerful already," said Hansei to Irma.

A nod was her only reply.

They soon overtook the herd which had gone ahead. The herdsman had waited for them, for it would not do to drive the cattle through the villages unless the sennerin5 were with them.

They might have taken the other road. It lay back of the village, and was somewhat shorter; but why should they not for once show themselves and their herds before they went into solitude? And so the cattle with their beautiful bells were driven through the village, while cheers and hurrahs resounded from all sides.

When they ascended the mountain on the other side of the village, and struck the forest road which Hansei had cut, he could not refrain from calling Irma's attention to what he had accomplished.

In the heart of the forest, where the royal arms were carved on the boundary-stone-for it was here that the royal preserves began-Hansei took leave of Irma. Walpurga, who had also said "good-by," still accompanied her for a short distance. There was so much that she wanted to tell Irma, and yet all she could say was: "Don't be afraid; I'll come to see you next Sunday. If you find it lonesome, come back to us again. Nobody forces you to stay up here; but if you can stay, you'll find it'll do you good."

Walpurga, whose heart was oppressed with her secret, bade Irma a hurried farewell and left her.

Hansei was sitting on the boundary-stone, waiting for his wife. After she had joined him, they walked on for some time in silence.

"It often seems to me as if it were all a dream," said he, at last. "We've been here four years this coming autumn, and she's been with us all the time. I can't tell you how much I like her, and still I don't know her; that is, I do know her, so to say, but I don't know her after all."

"Stop a minute, Hansei," said Walpurga.

He stood still. All was silent in the woods. A thick mist had veiled the mountains and the birds were mute. The only sound that broke upon the ear was that of the bells of the distant herd ascending the mountain. Walpurga drew a long breath.

"Hansei," said she at last, "you've stood a hard test. I never would have believed that any man could have done what you have. And now I think I must open the door to you, at last."

"Stop!" said Hansei, interrupting her, "not so fast. Did she tell you to do so, of her own accord? Say 'yes' or 'no'."

"No."

"Then I don't want to know anything about her. You hold her secret in trust, and no one has a right to touch it. Of course, to be honest with you, it has often puzzled me terribly. There's only one thing I want to know; I'm sure she hasn't injured any one and she hasn't stolen, has she? But no matter what she may have done, she's atoned for it all. Tell me only this: Has she any such trouble on her conscience?"

"God forbid! She's harmed no one on earth but herself."

"All right then; we'll say no more about it. Did you see how the deaf and dumb man in the village fell on his knees before her?"

"No."

"But I did; and I heard Babi, the root girl, say that the crazy woman from the farm would never come back again. Now Babi's crazy and Irmgard isn't, but still it frightened me. I don't know-but it seems to me that our home will seem empty, if we don't have Irmgard with us. She's become one of us."

When they had returned to the house and were sitting together in the front room, Hansei said:

"Don't you remember how she advised me to place the table differently, and how she helped to arrange everything, and told uncle to shorten the legs of the chairs, so that they might fit better to the table? I've never seen a farmer's room that looked so beautiful as ours; and she was a great help to you in everything."

Hansei had much to arrange about the house, and Walpurga would often come to him, with one of the children, and exchange a few words with him, while at work. She did not care to be alone. She missed Irma, and yet was happy to know that she was safe in her lonely retreat.

CHAPTER VIII

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!"