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Honor Bright
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!”
CHAPTER IX
STORY-TELLING
The next day was so beautiful, and Honor’s ankle was so much better, that Gretli declared she must not stay in the house. The reclining chair was brought out on the green plot, and there Honor was established, an improvised awning (two sticks and a counterpane) over her head, a table beside her, a piece of knitting to occupy her hands. Here she was spending the happiest of mornings, Zitli on one side, with his table and tools, on the other William Tell, who had been introduced to her only that morning, but who was already her faithful friend and – I was going to say “slave,” but there was nothing servile about Tell. He happened to have four legs and a tail, and he had not learned articulate speech; otherwise, he was a gentleman and a scholar – in various lines neglected in most schools.
Gretli came out from the châlet, with her inevitable tray; it was time for goûter, she announced; a glass of buttermilk, a fresh roll, a bit of cheese. Like that, mademoiselle would not grow thin, was it not so?
“Indeed, Gretli, I shall grow fat!” cried Honor. “So fat that I can’t move, and shall have to stay here always. Wouldn’t that be lovely? How I wish I could!”
Gretli, arms akimbo, watching with satisfaction every mouthful Honor took, glowed responsive. For example! that would be a pleasure indeed for them; the honored Ladies, it was to be feared, would regard the matter differently. Ah! pardon! mademoiselle must not do that! unless the cheese was not to her taste?
Honor looked up wondering. “It is delicious!” she said. “I was only taking out these green spots, Gretli.”
“But – a thousand pardons, Mademoiselle Honor! The green spots, that is the best part of the cheese. He is an old one, you understand; ripe, but of a ripeness! I chose him with peculiar care, that mademoiselle might note the rich flavor that comes with age. With cheese as with man, my sainted mother used to say, the time of ripeness should be the best of life. Taste, then! but taste the green spot, mademoiselle! n’est-ce pas? Am I not right?”
Honor tasted the green cheese; gingerly at first, then with confidence, finally with eagerness.
“And I have always cut it out!” she lamented. “Why did no one ever tell me before? It is the best part, of course!”
“Mademoiselle resembles the good Emperor!” said Zitli, looking up with a smile.
“For example! of a surety!” exclaimed Gretli. “Tell her that, Zitli. I have to prepare the soupe.” She vanished into the house.
“What do you mean, Zitli?” asked Honor. “Why am I like an emperor, and how? And what emperor?”
“The Emperor Charlemagne; who else? That great and good prince was fond of cheese, as was natural in a person of taste. There is an old story that traveling once through our beloved country, he came to the dwelling of a certain bishop and there took shelter for the night. The day was Friday; the good bishop was poor, the sea far off. Briefly, he had no fish. He served for the emperor’s supper some poor fry of vegetables, and a piece of old cheese, with bread of the country, and good whey. The emperor, being in royal appetite, hurled himself, as one might say, upon the cheese, but seeing green spots in it, began even as mademoiselle just now, to pick them out with his knife. Thereupon the bishop, like our Gretli, made respectful protest, telling his sovereign that he was discarding the best part; like mademoiselle again, Charlemagne tasted and found this to be the case. Thereupon he commanded the bishop to send him yearly, at his palace of Aix-la-Chapelle, two cases of cheese of that same kind. ‘And be sure that all have green spots!’ said the emperor.
“‘But, Majesty,’ the bishop protested, ‘how can I do that? It is only when a cheese is cut open that one can tell whether it has green spots or not!’
“‘Nothing is easier,’ replied the emperor, who saw an obstacle only to overcome it. ‘Cut every cheese in two! When one has green spots, lay the two halves together, pack them up, and send them to me!’
“The amiable sovereign! a good cheese was to him the finest of all feasts.”
“Oh, splendid!” cried Honor. “Do you know any more stories about Charlemagne? He is one of my favorite heroes.”
The boy’s face kindled, his eyes flashed.
“Of mine also!” he cried. “So great a king, mademoiselle! so brave, so wise!”
“So kind and generous!”
“And so —tenez! ready always to laugh. He could conquer with a sword or a smile, as he would, is it not so? Mademoiselle knows the story of the mouse? No? Ah! that is a good one. There was a certain bishop, very different from that good poor prelate of the cheese. This one was vain and greedy, loving fine things, and caring more to feed his own stomach than the souls of his people. The good emperor marked this, and laid his plans accordingly. He called to him a certain Jewish merchant, who traded in rare and costly objects. ‘Take,’ he said, ‘a mouse alive in a trap; paint it all over with lively colors; then go to that bishop and offer it for sale, saying you have brought it from far Judea.’
“The Jew obeyed the royal command. The bishop at sight of the painted mouse was filled with joy, and offered three silver pounds for it; but the Jew replied he would rather throw it into the sea than sell it for such a price. The bishop then offered ten pounds, but no! then twenty; all in vain. The merchant made no further answer, but wrapping his mouse tenderly in a precious silk, turned his back to depart.
“‘Come back!’ cried the bishop. ‘I must have this rare creature! Leave him with me and you shall have a full bushel of silver!’
“To that the merchant agreed, and leaving the bishop enchanted with his mouse, took the money to the emperor, who rewarded him suitably for his service. Then Charlemagne sent for all the bishops and priests of the province, among them the vain and greedy one, and laid the matter open before them. ‘My bishops and pastors,’ said the emperor, ‘you are supposed to minister to the poor, not to expend the revenues of your office upon vain and foolish things; yet there is one among you who has paid to a Jew more silver than would feed many worthy families, and that for no precious object, but for a common mouse painted divers colors.’
“Upon that, the guilty bishop fell at his feet, confessing his sin and praying for pardon, which the gentle emperor gave him, suffering him to depart without further punishment.”
Honor laughed heartily. “I think perhaps he had enough!” she said. “He must have been laughed at all the rest of his life. Do you suppose they called him the mouse-bishop? Oh no! that was Bishop Hatto, the dreadful one, you know, in the Mouse Tower on the Rhine. That story always frightens me, doesn’t it you, Zitli?”
But Zitli, who knew so many stories and legends, had never heard that one. So then Honor must tell the fearful tale of Hatto, archbishop of Mentz; how when the grain harvest was blighted and the starving people cried to him for food, knowing his granaries to be well-filled, he summoned them to his great barn to receive a dole, and then shut them up and burned them to death.
“And then – ” Honor’s eyes deepened till they were almost the black she sighed for, “the wicked bishop laughed, and said it was a good bonfire; he went laughing to bed, and slept as if nothing had happened. But – Zitli, next morning, when he came to where his own portrait hung, he turned pale, for the rats had eaten it out of its frame!”
“My faith!” cried Zitli. “For example! that was well done of them. And what happened then, mademoiselle?”
“Oh, his people came running, one by one, and told him dreadful things: first, that the rats had broken into his granaries and eaten all the corn; then that a great army of rats was coming, coming, nearer and nearer. When Bishop Hatto heard that, he fled away, to a strong tower he had, on a little island in the Rhine. It is there still, Zitli, think of it! Madame Madeleine has seen it. Of course it is ruined, but – well, the tower was very strong and he shut himself up in it, and barred all the doors and windows, and there he stayed, trembling and saying his prayers.”
“Saperli poppette! fine prayers those must have been!” said Zitli. “As if the good God had no knowledge, hein? Proceed, Mademoiselle, I beg of you!”
“They swam across the Rhine; they climbed up to the tower; he heard their sharp teeth gnawing, gnawing at the woodwork; they seemed even to gnaw at the stones; and nothing could stop them! They gnawed their way through, and they swarmed up the stairs, and there was the wicked bishop, and they ate him all up! Did you ever hear of anything so dreadful?”
“For example!” said Zitli in a tone of great satisfaction. “Bravo, Brother Rats! That was well done indeed. Good appetite to you!”
“But, Zitli!” Honor was shuddering even while she told the ancient tale that has existed in many forms, in many lands, for hundreds of years. “It is terrible! How can you laugh?”
“Saperli! I can laugh well. He was rightly served, that one. To burn up people like straw, did he deserve better? No, my faith! I am all for Brother Rats, mademoiselle. And in these ancient things,” added the boy with sudden gravity, “we see the finger of God, is it not so? If we would trust more in Him, it would be better for us, as my sister says. He for the great things, we for the little ones. As my grandfather in Botzen – Ste. Gêneviève have him in her holy keeping – inscribed over the door of his shop:
“‘I trust in God, and let Him reign;I make new files, and mend the old again.’”“Is Ste. Gêneviève your patron, Zitli?”
“Assuredly, mademoiselle! that holy saint was a shepherdess, you understand. It is true that we have chiefly cattle and goats, and only a few sheep, which besides are stupid creatures. A goat is at least amusing, if he has no conscience, as my brother says. But since there is no sainted goatherd in our knowledge, we commend ourselves to the protection of the holy Gêneviève.”
“I thought she became a nun before she was seven!” said Honor, thoughtfully. “Could she have been a shepherdess before that, do you think, Zitli?”
“With the blessed saints,” replied Zitli gravely, “many things are possible which would be difficult for ordinary persons. Is it not so, mademoiselle?”
Atli came home to dinner that day; they must make a festa, Gretli declared, for he seldom appeared at the noon meal. Accordingly, the table was brought out on the green; Zitli, who was extraordinarily active on his crutches, brought green boughs from somewhere to adorn the table; from her precious, carefully tended little flower bed, Gretli produced a bright blossom to lay by each plate.
Atli, when he came up the mountain path, had held his hands carefully behind him, and had vanished into the cellar without coming to greet Honor; now he appeared smiling broadly, carrying a basket of Alpine strawberries, crimson and fragrant.
“My contribution to the festa!” he announced. “They are the first of the season, mademoiselle! May you enjoy our mountain fruits, the gift of the Father of all fruits!”
