Czytaj książkę: «On the Heights: A Novel», strona 57

CHAPTER XV

"How the wind blows!" exclaimed Gundel, quite of out breath. It had required all her strength to close the door. "What a storm! There never was such a gust before. Why, the wind's just as hot as if it were blown out of an oven."

She got up quickly and, filling a cup with water, emptied it on the fire that burned on the hearth.

"What are you doing?" cried Irma.

"We mustn't have a fire now," replied Gundel, and, after that, they sat there in the dark room, almost stifled by the smoke, for the storm raged so wildly that they dared not open a window.

"If father were only home," said Gundel; "I hope, for God's sake, he'll get home safe!"

Her last words were drowned by a sudden peal of thunder that reverberated from the mountains, with a crash as if the whole world were being destroyed. And now the wind raged and stormed more violently than before. The firmly built hut seemed to totter, the roof trembled, and one of the great boulders with which it had been secured fell to the ground.

"Give me your hand!" cried Gundel, in the dark. "If we must die-let's pray." She prayed aloud, but the crashing thunder drowned her voice. Suddenly the noise changed, and it sounded as if countless iron hammers were descending on the roof; the rattling, pounding and rumbling created a furious din.

"That's hail!" shrieked Gundel, putting her mouth to Irma's ear.

The thunder and hail continued, and, ever and anon, the lightning would flash through the smoke and darkness, causing the two girls to appear, in each other's eyes, as if transported to the infernal regions. The hailstones seemed to impel each other forward. Now they would descend with mighty force; then the fury of the storm would abate and they would fall more gently and steadily than before, as if the raging mountain demon had stopped to take breath, before again venting his ire on the mortals who had ventured to build a cottage on his lofty domain.

The lowing of the cows and the ringing of their bells were heard above the rattling hail.

"I opened the stable door, but the wind must have blown it shut," exclaimed Gundel; and, forgetting her own trouble, she hurried out. She came back in a hurry, and, placing an inverted pail on her head, went out again. Irma followed her example, and the two of them ducked their heads while the great hailstones rattled against the pails. Gundel tried to open the stable door, but the cows crowded about her so that she was thrown to the ground. In the midst of the noise, Irma heard Gundel's piercing cry. The bellowing, trembling leader cow was standing near Irma.

"Come along!" said Irma, seizing the cow by one of its horns. It obeyed her, and the other cows made way. Irma found Gundel, and, having helped her up, the two opened the stable door, but were almost crushed to death, for the cows all tried to get in at once. They each had but one hand free, as the other was needed to hold the pail. They succeeded in getting to the wall and, at last, when all the cows were in the stable, the two girls waded through the hail with which the ground was thickly covered, and regained the cottage. They groped about until they found the hearth and sat down by it. And the two lonely, forlorn children sat there in the dark, while the storm raged without.

"I feel sure," cried Gundel, "that father must have found shelter somewhere. He knows every overhanging rock and-O God!" she suddenly cried, "just think of the poor blind man, out in such weather! Has the hail cut your hand and back, the way it did mine?" said she, crying, and nestling close to Irma.

"No, I feel nothing," replied Irma, and it really seemed as if physical pain could not affect her. She, too, had thought of the blind man, and also of the king whom filial ingratitude had turned out into the stormy night. But hail or wind were not half so violent as her regret that, yielding to pity, she had allowed a man to pass his hand across her face.

Is all lost again? Is all that has cost so great a struggle, sacrificed? wofully asked an inner voice-and yet she felt conscious of her purity.

"Thank God! it's only raining now," said Gundel at last. She struck a light, and the two looked at each other, as if they had just emerged from depths of darkness. The floor was wet with the water that had dripped from their clothes.

"Are you at home?" exclaimed a voice from without. The door opened and the little pitchman entered, carrying a young kid in his arms.

"Thank God you're safe and sound," he exclaimed, laying the kid down by the empty fireplace. With his sleeve, which was far wetter that either, he wiped the water from his eyes and forehead. Then he took a bottle of gentian brandy from the upper shelf and, after taking a drink, and forcing Gundel and Irma to do likewise, he went on to say: "I've gone through a good deal in my time, but never anything like this. I know every tree and every rock for miles, but I seemed to have lost my way. While I stood there in the midst of the storm, I heard a chamois doe bleating pitifully, and I went up to her and there she stood, with the young kid that had just been born. It had hardly come into the world, before the hail tried to beat it to death. When the mother saw me, she ran away, but came back again and placed herself over the young kid, so that the hail shouldn't strike it, but her instead. I went near her, but the mother ran away again. I picked up the young one and, just as we were going on to look for shelter, I heard human voices. Two people were calling to a third one, who was roaring and screaming. When the lightning flashed, I saw that he was lying on the ground, unable to move.

"'Honored master, just lean on us; we'll soon find shelter,' I heard them saying, and when the lightning flashed again, I saw that we were near the Witches' Table. So I called out to them: 'The Witches' Table is over yonder.' Then there was another flash, and I saw that the two men who had been standing had also fallen down. They told me, afterward, that they had been afraid of me, and I couldn't think hard of them. In such a storm, and on such a night, one would almost believe in anything. I went up to them, told them who I was, and offered to lead them. It was hard work, though, to get along, for the blind man went on as if crazed, and kept talking about a lost child. At last, safe and sound, but dripping with water, we got under the Witches' Table, and there we lay. And whenever it lightened we could see the hailstones dancing on the rocks and beating against the trees. We waited until it stopped hailing, and the blind man told me that the next time I came down to the apothecary's, in the town, he would give me a gold piece. The king's there and so is the queen. He promised to see to it that I should get the medal for saving a life, and a pension, in the bargain, for the rest of my days. And now, children, get to bed, for you're soaking wet. What ails you, Irmgard? Why do you shiver so?"

The little pitchman scolded Gundel for having let cousin Irmgard sit about in her wet clothes. Now and then the little kid would cry piteously and shiver all over, so that the little pitchman brought down his bed-cover from the hay-loft and wrapped the kid in it. Then, with three fingers, he cleverly fed it with milk from a dish.

The little kid was soon asleep, and, in the room within, Irma was sleeping too.

"Thank God, you've had a good sleep," said Gundel, who was standing at Irma's bedside, late on the following morning. "How strange it seems! The hail didn't hurt you a bit and just see how I look." She showed the marks, but quickly added: "That's no matter; it'll soon be over. Just look at the sky! Don't it look as if it never could do any harm. Over by the stream, the lightning struck a tree and split it in two, and places where it used to be dry are covered with water. If I didn't feel it in every bone of my body, and couldn't see it, I'd hardly believe there had ever been a storm. But we were lucky, after all. None of the cattle were hurt, and the cowboy is here, too. He crept away, down the valley, where there was no storm at all."

It was a clear, bracing morning. Here and there, there were still some large hailstones lying in the crevices of the rocks. The cows were grazing on the meadow, and the cowboy was singing merrily. He was proud that the goats were the best judges of the weather; while grazing, they had moved down toward the valley, and that was the surest sign that a storm was brewing.

At noon, Franz came up from the farm. The torrents of water that had rushed down into the valley, had led them to suppose that something had happened, and Walpurga had sent Franz to find out all about it. The hot, midday sun soon dried up everything, and the waters did not long remain on the heights. Irma went out to her favorite resting-place and, spreading her blue rug on the ground, lay down.

Suddenly, she heard the sounds of a bugle horn. What was it? Was it royalty, or a dream?

The sounds were repeated. Irma's heart beat violently. Something drew near. She could hear it panting, as it forced its way through the crackling brush. She looked up and saw a stag rushing through the clearing near by, and the huntsmen pursuing and gaining upon it. Irma passed her hand over her eyes-she looked once more- It was the king and his suite.

Springing from his horse, the chief piqueur exclaimed: "The stag broke through here. Your Majesty. Here is the trail." He dipped his finger in the blood and showed it to the king. The king looked around-did he feel the glance directed upon him from the thicket? The glance that had once made him so happy, but that had, for him, been so long extinguished? He missed his stirrup; the horse reared wildly. Irma bent down, with her face against the mossy turf. She felt as if the whole hunt, as if all the horses' hoofs, were passing over her. She bit the grass on which she lay. She dug her hands into the earth. She feared to shriek aloud.

When she got up, all was quiet. She stared about her. Had it been a dream? In the distance, she heard the report of a gun and the sound of the bugle. The stag had fallen.

If one could die in that way, thought Irma to herself, sinking back on the moss, and weeping.

She arose. A storm-laden cloud had once more arisen within her soul, but it was for the last time. About her, all was clear and sunny. Hail and storm and lightning were forgotten. She went back to the hut, and often turned to look at the sun sinking in the west. And now, for the first time, she repaired to rest before nightfall. She was shivering with a fever-chill, and soon her cheeks were hot and red. She called the little pitchman to her bedside and asked him to give her a sheet of paper. Her hand trembled, while she wrote in pencil:

"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."

She told the little pitchman to hurry to town, to give this paper to the great doctor in person, and to conduct him to her at once. Then she turned away and was calm again.

"I'll give you something good," said the little pitchman, while, with broad-brimmed hat on his head, and mountain-staff in his hand, he stood before her. "You'll see, It'll do you good. I'll lay the kid down here at your feet; that'll do both o' you good. Shall I?"

Irma nodded assent.

The little pitchman did as he said he would. The kid looked up sleepily at Irma, and she smiled on it in return. Both soon closed their eyes.

Wandering in the dark, the little pitchman descended into the valley.

CHAPTER XVI

Down in the valley, it had been raining all day long. What had been hail and thunder up among the mountains, had turned to rain, and occasional gleams of blue sky served to show that there was fair weather above.

Toward evening, the storm cleared away. The queen, accompanied by the ladies of her court, among whom Madame Gunther and Paula were now included, was sitting in the large music-room, the doors of which were open. Paula had been singing to the queen, for the first time, and, on account of her embarrassment, Madame Gunther begged that she might not be asked to sing again that day.

The relation between the queen and Madame Gunther was a peculiar one. The queen was charmed with her sincerity and thoroughness, but she found it difficult to accustom herself to the presence of one who was so independent of her. She was, at one time, tempted to regard this as pettiness, for, on the very day that Madame Gunther had accepted the breastpin, she had said to the queen: "Your Majesty, it will never do, unless you accept a present from me in return," saying which, she gave the queen a handsomely bound book, which a brother of hers, a physician residing in America, had written, on the subject of slavery. The queen accepted it with thanks, and Madame Gunther felt quite relieved, although it frequently cost her an effort to translate, as it were, all that she wished to say, in order to clothe it in the proper court costume, for she took a pride in rejecting prescribed forms.

The queen inquired why they saw so little of the elder daughter, the professor's widow. Madame Gunther replied that, as Bronnen and their nephew were visiting them, and as there was much to look after in the house, Cornelia had gladly assumed these duties. It always seemed like a new truth to the queen, or like tidings from some strange world, to find that the daily wants of life required special attention and did not provide for themselves.

The weather exerted a depressing influence on the spirits of all. Here in the country, and especially in this little dairy-farm, where they missed many comforts, and where, on account of the small amount of room, they were prevented from scattering and seeking various diversions, the effects of the weather were all the more noticeable and unpleasant.

Their delight in anticipation of the morrow was all the greater, as it promised to be a bright day.

It was agreed that they should all meet, at dinner, near the second waterfall, and that the king would join them there.

The king was in his cabinet, engaged with Bronnen. The new telegraph was carrying many messages to and fro. Gunther, the intendant, Sixtus and several other gentlemen were smoking their cigars and walking under the drooping trees of the avenue, which the evening sun was now lighting up with a thousand brilliant hues.

The ladies in the music-room maintained that the Alpine glow (Alpenglühen) could be seen that day. They naturally expected to see it daily, although it is an exceedingly rare phenomenon.

The night had come on, and the king was sitting at the card-table, with Gunther and two of the gentlemen-in-waiting.

A servant came in and informed Gunther that there was a man outside who wished to speak with him at once. Gunther gave his cards to the ever-obliging intendant, and went out where, leaning on his great Alpine staff, his broad-brimmed, crumpled hat in his hand, and his rug thrown over him, stood the little pitchman. He kept his left hand in his pocket, and when Gunther came up to him, he said:

"Here's a paper for you."

Gunther read the note, and then rubbed his eyes and passed his hand across his face, as if to awaken himself.

"Who sent you?" he asked.

"I guess that'll tell you-our Irmgard."

Gunther started at the mention of the name, here before the very door, when within sat the king and the queen-

He went up to the lamp in the corridor, and read the note again. There it stood:

"Eberhard's daughter sends for Gunther."

This man, who had a right to boast that he was always calm and composed, was obliged to support himself by the balusters, and it was some time before he could utter a word. When he looked up, his glance met that of the little pitchman.

"Who are you?" he asked, at last.

"I'm from the freehold farm. Walpurga's my niece-"

"Very well; go outside and wait for me. I'll be there directly."

The little pitchman went out, and Gunther summoned all his self-command, in order to return to the card-room to excuse himself, and say that he had been summoned to the bedside of one who was dangerously ill. He scarcely knew how he could, without betraying his emotion, mention this to those who were so directly concerned, but he hoped to do so, nevertheless.

At that moment, he fortunately met Paula and Bronnen, who had been walking in the garden and were just about to enter the house.

"The very thing!" exclaimed Gunther, addressing them. "Paula, send me my hat; and you, dear Bronnen, present my excuses to their majesties, and tell them I am required instantly, by one who is dangerously ill. Pray do this without exciting attention; and, Paula, don't mention it to your mother until you're on the way home. I shall be gone all night."

"Can't Dr. Sixtus go?" asked Bronnen.

"No. Pray ask me no more. I shall be home early to-morrow morning; but if I don't come, I will meet you by the waterfall, at dinner-time."

Bronnen and Paula went into the house, and, a few moments later, a lackey brought Gunther his hat.

Gunther hurried off with the little pitchman. Only once did he turn back to look at the brilliantly lighted windows, and to think of those who were sitting within, void of care and foreboding naught. How startled they would be if they had heard the tidings that affected him so powerfully. On the way to his house, he had but little to say to the little pitchman. He did not care to question him more closely, for he feared lest some answer might be overheard, and thus prematurely betray the secret. He was still, in his own mind, endeavoring to devise some plan by which all could be arranged and adjusted.

It was not until they drew near the house, that Gunther asked:

"What ails the patient? What does she complain of?"

"She don't complain of anything. She's got a hot fever, and she has been coughing for a long time."

"Has she her perfect senses?"

"Just the same as ever; but Gundel, my daughter, says she sometimes calls out in her sleep: 'Victory!'"

"Just wait here," said Gunther, when they reached the house. "I'll send you something to eat and drink; but tell no one who sent you here."

Cornelia was sitting near the lamp and reading to her blind cousin. He had only told her of the terrors of the hailstorm; his heart-sufferings he had kept to himself. He had been sleeping nearly all day, and now felt refreshed. Cornelia was alarmed when she saw her father, but he soon quieted her. His medicine-chest and some well-sealed packages of refreshing and strengthening food, were soon in readiness, and were packed upon the mule. Gunther rode off, the little pitchman walking by his side. The face of the latter was scarcely visible, for his broad-brimmed hat had not yet recovered from the effects of yesterday's storm. It was not until they had left the town behind them, that Gunther asked:

"How far have we to go?"

"It takes three hours on foot, but on horseback it's a full hour more."

When they entered the forest, Gunther halted and said:

"Come near. So you are Walpurga's uncle?"

"To be sure. I'm her mother's own and only brother, for the two others died young."

"What do you call the sick girl?"

"Irmgard; that's her name."

"And how long has she been with you?"

"Ever since Hansei bought the farm. She came with us then from the lake. She was sick, and they say she's a little bit out of her mind; but I don't believe a word of it. She's got her right senses; rather too much than too little."

"And don't you know her family name?" asked Gunther.

"I never asked," and the little pitchman, with great volubility, went on to tell all he knew of Irmgard's life and how, for years, she had worn a bandage on her forehead, and had never taken it off until she had gone up to the mountain meadow. He described her life so touchingly that Gunther stopped and, taking the old man by the hand, said:

"You're a good man."

Uncle Peter did not dispute this, but maintained that, in all the world, there was no one so good as Irmgard.

Rapid rivulets crossed their path in many places, and the little pitchman told Gunther of the storm of the previous night; how terrible it is when, all of a sudden, the air seems filled with stones that pound away at one, and how he had helped the blind man, and also what had been promised him. He would often take hold of the mule's bridle and guide it down some steep descent, through a brook and then up the hill again.

"You must have gone through a good deal yourself, Doctor," said the little pitchman. He would have liked his companion to entertain him by the way. He thought that one sitting on the mule could talk far more comfortably than he who was walking by his side. He could feel it in his chest that to talk while going up hill, was no easy matter. As if divining this, Gunther alighted when they reached a level place, and made the little pitchman mount. After much persuasion, Uncle Peter at last consented and got up; but as soon as they began to ascend again, he dismounted, and insisted on Gunther's riding.

"If our Irmgard wants to leave us now," said the little pitchman, "I'd willingly give her up to you, Doctor. She can play the zither splendidly, and when she's well again, you can teach her anything. Everything comes easy to her. But I hope she'll stay with us. She's shy and doesn't like to go among people."

It seemed as if he had divined Gunther's very thoughts, for the doctor had been asking himself how he could take Irma to his house, and yet keep the court ignorant of her existence. In his mind's eye, he already saw her sitting beside his wife and Cornelia, and he felt that he had gained a daughter who would fill Paula's place.

It was dark in the forest and the stars were gleaming overhead. "It's past midnight," said the little pitchman, when they reached the crest of a projecting hill. "The moon's coming up over there."

Gunther looked back and saw the half-moon rising and looking like a ruin suspended in the vast firmament.

"There's some of our cows already," said the little pitchman, and his voice grew brighter. "That's Blackbird, with the ding-dong bell. She always strays furthest of all; but we'll be home in less than half an hour, at any rate."

They went on in silence, and at last reached the hut. A ray of light shone through the opening in the closed window-shutter.

Gunther entered.

"I'll go in first and tell her the gentleman's here," said the little pitchman, softly.

Gunther assented.

He soon came out again and said:

"She's asleep, but her cheeks are as red as fire, and Gundel says that she often called out, in her sleep: 'Father!' and sometimes, 'Victory.' She must be having pleasant dreams."

Gunther entered the cottage.

At the sight of Irma he seemed as if paralyzed. "What's that?" he asked the little pitchman, when the kid at Irma's feet raised its head and stared at him.

"It's a little chamois kid that I found yesterday. She's very fond of it," answered the little pitchman in a whisper.

Gunther requested the little pitchman and Gundel to leave the room, and then sat down silently at Irma's bedside. He felt her pulse and touched her forehead, and the little pitchman, who had lingered in the room, asked: "How is she?"

Gunther shrugged his shoulders and beckoned him to go out.

The little pitchman hurried up to the hay-loft, awakened Franz, and ordered him to hurry down to his master and mistress and tell them to come up directly, for Irmgard was very sick.

He lay down on the hay, feeling as if every bone in his body were broken. He had never before been so tired, but he could neither rest nor sleep, and was soon standing in front of the cottage, listening at the window.

Meanwhile, Gunther remained with the patient. She moved now and then, but did not open her eyes. The kid at her feet was also sleeping again.

Gunther had removed the light from the room, and now sat in the dark.

"The day is coming, let me see the daylight!" cried Irma, suddenly starting up.

A gray streak of light fell through the opening in the shutter.

"Let me see the daylight," said Irma again, and the little pitchman outside opened the shutters. A flood of light poured into the chamber. A radiant glow passed over Irma's countenance. She stretched out both hands to Gunther. He clasped them, and she kissed his hands with her feverish lips.

"You have achieved great results," said Gunther. "You have shown a power that I cannot but admire. Hold fast to it."

"I thank you! Through you, my father returns to me. Lay your hand upon my forehead."

"I place my hand upon your forehead, and in your father's spirit I bless you, and with this kiss I kiss away all your burdens. You are free!"

Irma lay there quietly, and Gunther's hand lay on her brow, while, out of doors, the rosy tint of morn ascended higher and higher, and at last the light flooded the room with its golden glow.

Gunther went out and brought a tonic draught for Irma. It revived and refreshed her.

"I know that I am about to die," she said in a clear voice, "and I am happy that I have lived in consciousness and can die in consciousness."

She gave her journal to Gunther and told him that the wish she had there expressed, in relation to her place of burial, need not be regarded; that the uncle knew which had been her favorite spot, and that she wished to be buried there, with nothing to mark her grave.

Gunther had, before this, said that he had held many a dying hand in his-he had never sat by a death-bed like that of Irma's.