Heidi (1899)/Part 1/Chapter 1

From the pleasantly situated old town of Mayenfeld a footpath leads up through shady green meadows to the foot of the mountains, which, as they gaze down on the valley, present a solemn and majestic aspect. Any one who follows it will soon catch the pungent fragrance of grassy pasture lands, for the footpath goes up straight and steep to the Alps.

One bright, sunny June morning, a tall, sturdy looking girl, evidently a native of the mountains, might have been seen climbing this narrow path. She led by the hand a little maid, whose cheeks glowed as if a ruddy flame were under her dark brown skin. And what wonder? In spite of the hot June sun, the child was bundled up as if for protection against the keenest cold. She could not have been five years old, but it was impossible to tell anything about her natural figure, for she wore two or three dresses, one over the other, and a big red cotton handkerchief around her neck; her feet were lost in heavy hobnailed shoes, and ​the little thing was quite formless as she made her hot and laborious way up the mountain.

At the end of an hour of steady climbing the two girls came to the hamlet that lies halfway up the Alm, and is called Im Dörfli, or the Little Village. Here they were greeted from almost every cottage, and by every one in the street, for the older of the two girls had reached her home. Nevertheless, she made no pause but hurried on, answering all questions and greetings as she went. At the very end of the hamlet, as she was passing the last of the scattered cottages, a voice from the doorway cried:

"Wait a moment, Dete, I'll go with you, if you are bound up the mountain."

The girl addressed stopped; immediately the child withdrew her hand and sat down on the ground.

"Are you tired, Heidi?" asked her companion.

"No, I am hot," replied the little girl.

"We are almost up there," said her companion, encouragingly. "You must put out all the strength ​you have for a little while longer; it won't take us more than an hour."

Just then a large, pleasant-looking woman came out of the cottage and joined them. The little girl jumped to her feet and followed the two women, who had instantly fallen into a lively conversation regarding all the inhabitants of the hamlet and of the neighborhood.

"But really, Dete, where are you taking the child?" asked the newcomer. "It is your sister's little girl, is n't it,—the orphan?"

"Yes, it is," replied the other, "I am taking her up to her grandfather; she will have to stay there."

"What! the little girl is going to live with the Alm-Uncle? You must have lost your senses, Dete! How can you think of doing such a thing? The old man will send you back with such a scheme as that."

"He can't do it; he's her grandfather, and it is time for him to look out for her; I have had her till now, and I must tell you, Barbel, that I could not think of letting her hinder me from taking such a place as I have just had offered me. Her grandfather must do his part now."

"That's very well, if he were like other men," urged the portly Barbel with some indignation. "But you know what he is. What will he do with a child—especially with such a young one? He won't hear to such a thing—But where are you going?"

"To Frankfurt," said Dete. "I have an extra good place there. The family was down at the Baths last ​summer; I had charge of their rooms, and they wanted then to take me back with them. I could n't manage it; but they are here again this year, and still want me to go with them, and I am going; you may be sure of that."

"I'm glad I'm not in the child's place!" cried Barbel with a gesture of repulsion. "Nobody knows what ails the old man up there. He will have nothing to do with a living soul; from one end of the year to the other he never sets foot in a church; and if once in a twelve-month he comes down with his thick staff, every one keeps out of his way and is afraid of him. With his heavy gray eyebrows and his tremendous beard he looks like a heathen and a savage, and people are glad enough not to meet him alone."

"Nevertheless," said Dete stubbornly, "he's her grandfather, and it 's his business to look after the child; he won't do her any harm; if he does, he will have to answer for it, not I."

"I should like to know," said Barbel insinuatingly, "I should really like to know what the old man has on his conscience that makes him look so fierce and live all alone up there on the Alm and keep almost hidden from sight. People tell all sorts of stories about him; of course you must know something about it, Dete; your sister must have told you; hasn't she?"

"Of course she has, but I hold my tongue; if he should hear of it, I should suffer!"

But Barbel had long desired to know the real cause of the Alm-Uncle's peculiarities, and why it was that ​he looked so gloomy and lived alone by himself on the mountain, and why people always spoke of him with bated breath, as if they were afraid to be against him and yet would not say anything in his favor.

Barbel also was ignorant of the reason that all the people in the village called him the Alm-Uncle, for of course he could not be the actual uncle of all the inhabitants; but as every one called him so, she did the same and never spoke of the old man as anything else than "Ohi," which in the dialect of that region means uncle.

Barbel had only recently married into the village; before that her home had been down in the valley at Prattigau, and she was not familiar with all the happenings and all the curious characters of the village and the surrounding region through a long series of years.

Her good friend Dete, on the contrary, was a native of the village and had lived there till within a year. Then her mother had died and she had gone down to Ragatz, where the Baths are, and had found a fine position as chambermaid in a great hotel. She had come from Ragatz that very morning with the little girl, having had the chance to ride as far as Mayenfeld on a hay wagon which an acquaintance of hers was driving home.

Barbel thought that this was a good chance to find out something, and she was bound not to let it slip. She seized Dete's arm confidentially and said:—

"But one can learn the real truth from you instead of the gossip which is talked; I am sure you know the whole story. Come now, just tell me what is ​the matter with the old man; has he always been so feared? Has he always been such a hermit?"

"I can't tell whether he has always been so or not; I am twenty-six now, and he is certainly seventy, and of course I never saw him when he was young; you might know that. If I were certain that he would never again be seen in all Prattigau, I might tell you all sorts of things about him; my mother was from Domleschg, and so was he."

"There now, Dete, what do you mean?" exclaimed Barbel, a little offended. "You need not be so severe on our gossip in Prattigau; and, besides, I can keep a secret or two if need be. Now tell me; you shan't regret it."

"Well then, I will; but mind, you hold your tongue," said Dete warningly. Before she began she glanced round to see if the little girl were not too close at their heels to hear every word that was said. The child was not to be seen; she must have ceased following them some distance back, but in their lively conversation they had not noticed it. Dete stood still and gazed all around. There were several turns in the footpath; nevertheless they could see almost all the way down to the village. Not a soul was in sight.

"I see her!" exclaimed Barbel. "There she is! Don't you see her?" and she pointed with her finger to a place quite distant from the path. "She is climbing up the cliffs with the goatherd Peter and his goats. Why is he so late to-day with his animals? But it is just as well, for he can look after the child, and you will be all the better able to talk with me."

​"Peter need n't trouble himself to look after her," remarked Dete; "she is not dull for a child of five years; she keeps her eyes open and sees what is going on. I have already noticed that, and it's a good thing for her that she does. The old man has nothing to leave her but his two goats and his mountain hut."

"And did he once have more?" asked Barbel.

"He? Well, I should say that he did once have more," replied Dete warmly; "he used to have the finest farm in Domleschg. He was the eldest son and had only one brother, who was quiet and well behaved. But the elder would do nothing but play the fine gentleman and travel about the country, mixing with bad people that nobody knew about. He drank and gambled away the whole property; and so it happened that his father and mother died, one first and then the other, from sheer grief; and his brother, who was also reduced to a beggar, went away out of mortification, nobody knew where; and the uncle himself, as he had nothing left but a bad name, also disappeared—at first no one knew whither, then it was reported that he had gone with the soldiers to Naples, and after that nothing more was heard of him for twelve or fifteen years. Then he suddenly appeared again in Domleschg with a half-grown boy and tried to find a home for him among his relations. But every door was closed to him, and no one wanted to know anything more about him. This made him very bitter; he said he would never set foot in Domleschg again, and he came here to Dörfli and lived with the boy. His wife was probably a Grison woman whom ​he had come across down below and soon after lost. He must have had some money still, for he let the boy Tobias learn the carpenter's trade; and he was a steady fellow and well thought of by all the people in Dörfli. But nobody had confidence in the old man, and it was said that he had deserted from Naples, that he had got into trouble, that he had killed somebody, not in war of course, but in some quarrel. But we recognize the relationship, for my mother's grandmother was his grandmother's first cousin. So we called him Uncle, and as we are related to almost all the people in Dörfli, on father's side, they all call him Uncle, and since he went up on the Alm he has been known as the Alm-Uncle."

"But what became of Tobias?" asked Barbel eagerly.

"Wait and I'll tell you. I can't tell all things in one breath!" exclaimed Dete. "Tobias was serving his time in Mels, and as soon as he finished he came home to Dörfli and married my sister Adelheid, for they had always been fond of each other, and after their marriage they lived very happily together. But it didn't last long. Two years after, while Tobias was working on a new house, a beam fell on him and killed him. Adelheid's fright and grief when her husband was brought home so disfigured threw her into a violent fever, from which she did not recover. She never was very strong, and was often in such a condition that it was almost impossible to tell whether she was asleep or awake. Only two weeks after Tobias's death Adelheid too was buried. Then the sad fate of the two was in ​everybody's mouth far and wide, and it was hinted and openly declared that it was a judgment the uncle deserved for his godless life. It was said so to his face; even the priest admonished him seriously to do penance, but he only grew more and more surly and obdurate and no longer spoke to any one, and every one avoided him.

"Suddenly it was reported that the uncle had gone up on the Alm and no longer came down at all; since then he has staid there and lives at enmity with God and man.

"Mother and I took Adelheid's little child; she was a year old. Last summer mother died, and as I wanted to work down at the Baths, I took her to board with old Ursel up in Pfäfferserdorf. I was able to stay at the Baths all winter. I found plenty of work, because I could sew and mend; and early in the spring the lady I served last year came back from Frankfurt, and she is going to take me home with her. Day after to-morrow morning we start. It is a good place, I can tell you."

"And now are you going to give the child to the old man up there? I'm surprised that you should think of such a thing, Dete," said Barbel reproachfully.

"What do you mean?" retorted Dete. "I have done my duty by the child. What else could I do with her now? I don't think I could take a child scarcely five years old to Frankfurt. But where are you going, anyway, Barbel? We are halfway up the Alm now."

​"I have already reached the place where I was going. I want to speak to the goatherd Peter's wife. She does spinning for me in winter. So good-bye, Dete; good luck to you!"

Dete shook her companion's hand and stood still while Barbel went into the little, dark brown mountain hut standing a few steps from the path in a hollow, where it was somewhat sheltered from the winds. It was a good thing that it was in a little hollow, for it looked so dilapidated and decayed that it would have been a dangerous dwelling when the mighty south wind swept across the mountain, making everything in the hut, doors and windows, rattle, and all the worm-eaten rafters tremble and creak. On such days, if the hut had been up on the Alm, it would certainly have been blown down into the valley.

Here dwelt the goatherd Peter, the eleven-year-old boy who every morning went down to Dörfli to get the goats and drive them up on the Alm, to feed till evening on the short, nourishing herbs. Then Peter would hurry down again with the light-footed animals, give a shrill whistle through his fingers as soon as he reached Dörfli, and every owner would immediately come and get his goat. Little boys and girls came for the most part, for the creatures were peaceful and harmless. All through the summer it was the only time in the day when Peter associated with his fellow-beings; the rest of the time he lived alone with his goats.

To be sure, he had his mother and blind grandmother at home; but he had to go away very early in the morn​ing, and come back from Dörfli late in the evening; so in order to play with the children as long as possible, he spent only enough time at home to swallow his bread and milk.

His father, who was also called Peter the goatherd, because he had followed the same calling in his earlier days, had met with an accident some years before while felling trees. His mother, whose real name was Brigitta, was called by every one, for consistency's sake, "goatherd Peter's wife," and the blind grandmother was known by old and young, far and wide, simply by the name of Grandmother.

Dete waited full ten minutes, looking around in every direction for a glimpse of the children with the goats; but as they were nowhere in sight, she climbed a little higher, where she could have a better view of the Alm down to the foot. Here she peered first this way and then that, showing signs of increasing impatience both in her face and in her movements.

Meanwhile the children were coming along by a roundabout way. Peter knew many spots where there were all sorts of good shrubs and bushes for his goats to nibble; so he frequently wandered from the path with his flock. At first the child in her heavy garb climbed after them with great difficulty, panting with heat and discomfort and straining every nerve. She said not a word, but gazed first at Peter, who jumped about without any difficulty in his bare feet and light trousers, then at the goats with their small, slender legs climbing still more easily over bushes and stones and steep crags. ​Suddenly the child sat down on the ground and in great haste pulled off her shoes and stockings; then she stood up again, took off her thick, red neckerchief, unfastened her Sunday frock, quickly took that off, and began to unhook her everyday dress. This she wore under the other, to save her Aunt Dete the trouble of carrying it. Quick as lightning came off also the every-day frock, and there the child stood in her light under-clothes with delight, stretching her bare arms out of her short chemise sleeves. Then she laid them all in a neat little pile, and jumped and climbed after the goats by Peter's side, as easily as any in the whole company.

Peter had not noticed what the child was doing while she remained behind. But when she came running after him in this new costume a grin began to spread over his face, and when he looked back and saw the little pile of clothes lying on the ground the grin grew still broader and his mouth reached almost from ear to ear; but he said nothing.

The child, feeling so free and light, began to talk with Peter, and he had all sorts of questions to answer, tor she wanted to know how many goats he had, where he was going with them, and what he would do when he reached there.

Finally the children with the goats approached the hut and came in sight of Aunt Dete. She had hardly caught a glimpse of the group climbing up the mountain side when she screamed out:—

"Heidi, what have you been doing? What is the ​matter with you? Where is your dress and the other one and your neckerchief? I bought you brand-new shoes on the mountain, and I made you new stockings, and they are all gone! all gone! Heidi, what have you done with them? Where have you put them all?"

The child calmly pointed down the mountain and said: "There!"

The aunt followed the direction of her finger. To be sure, there lay something, and on the top of it was a red speck; that was surely the neckerchief.

"You careless girl!" cried the aunt in great excitement. "What were you thinking about? Why did you take everything off? What did you mean?"

"I did n't need them," said the child, without looking in the least sorry for what she had done.

"Oh, you careless, senseless Heidi! don't you know anything?" the aunt went on, lamenting and scolding. "It will take half an hour for any one to go down there again! Come, Peter, run back for me and get the things! Come, be quick, and don't stand there staring at me as if you were nailed to the ground."

"I am late already," said Peter slowly, and with both hands in his pockets stood still just where he was when he heard the aunt's angry reproaches.

"If you stand there staring like that, you will not get far, I'm thinking," called out Aunt Dete. "Come here! you must have something nice. Do you see this?"

She held up a new five-kreutzer piece, which glistened in his eyes. Suddenly he started, and with tre​mendous leaps went the shortest way down the Alm, and soon reached the little pile of clothes. He picked them up and brought them back so quickly that the aunt could not help praising him, and gave him his money without delay. Peter put it deep down in his pocket, and his face lighted up with a broad grin, for such a treasure did not very often fall to his share.

"You may carry the things on up to the uncle's, as long as you're going that way," continued Aunt Dete, while she set about climbing the steep cliff, which rose high behind Peter's hut. The boy willingly undertook the task and followed the others with his bundle in his left hand, and swinging his stick in his right. Heidi and the goats skipped and jumped along merrily by his side. Thus in about three-quarters of an hour the procession reached the height where on a jutting cliff stood the old uncle's hut, exposed to every wind, but also accessible to every ​ray of sunlight and with a wide view of the valley below. Behind the hut stood three ancient fir trees with long, thick, untrimmed branches. Farther back the mountain with its old gray crags rose higher still, now displaying lovely, fertile pastures, now a tangle of boulders and bushes, and finally surmounted with bare, steep cliffs.

The uncle had made himself a seat by the side of the hut looking down into the valley. Here he sat with his pipe in his mouth, his hands resting on his knees, calmly watching the children, Aunt Dete, and the goats as they came climbing up the mountain. Aunt Dete had been gradually left behind, and Heidi was the first to reach the hut. She went straight to the old man, held out her hand to him, and said:—

"How do you do, grandfather?"

"Well, well, what does this mean?" asked the old man roughly, barely touching the child's hand and giving her a long, penetrating look from under his bushy eyebrows. Heidi gazed back at him in return without once winking her eyes, for she had never seen any one like her grandfather, with his long beard and heavy gray eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead like a thicket. In the meanwhile Aunt Dete arrived with Peter, who stood still for a time looking on to see what would happen.

"I wish you good morning, uncle," said Dete, stepping up to him. "I have brought Tobias and Adelheid's child to you. You will hardly know her, for you have n't seen her since she was a year old."

​"Well, what can the child do here with me?" asked the old man curtly; "and you there," he called out to Peter, "you can go along with your goats. You are none too early. Take mine too!"

Peter obeyed without delay and disappeared, for the uncle had made it plain that he was not wanted.

"She must stay with you, uncle," said Dete in reply to his question. "I am sure I have done my duty by her these four years, and now it is your turn to do what you can for her."

"Indeed?" said the old man; and his eyes flashed at Dete. "Suppose the child begins to fret and whine for you, as is usually the case with the unreasonable little things, what shall I do with her?"

"That is your business," retorted Dete; "I am sure no one told me what to do with the little one when it was given into my hands, only a year old, and I already had enough to do to take care of myself and mother. Now I must look out for myself, and you are next of kin to the child. If you can't have her, do what you please with her; you will have to answer for her, if she comes to any harm. You don't want to have anything more laid to your charge."

Dete's conscience was not quite easy; she became excited and said more than she had intended. The uncle rose at her last words; he gave her such a look that she took several steps backward; then he stretched out his arm and said imperatively:—

"Get you gone down where you came from, and don't show yourself here again very soon!"

​Dete did not need to be told twice.

"Good-bye, then; and good-bye to you too, Heidi," she said quickly and hurried down the mountain to Dörfli, as fast as she could go, for her anxiety impelled her onward, as if she were a powerful steam engine. In Dörfli many more asked her about Heidi; they all knew Dete well and whose child she was, and all that had taken place. When from every door and window came the question, "Where is the child? Dete, where have you left the child?" she called back with more and more irritation:—

"Up with the Alm-Uncle! Up with the Alm-Uncle, I tell you!"

She was disgusted because the women everywhere exclaimed: "How could you do so!" and "The poor little soul!" and "Such a little helpless thing left up there!" and then again and again: "The poor little soul!"

Dete pushed on as fast as she could, and was glad when she was out of their hearing; she did not feel quite easy about the matter, for the dying mother had given the child to her. But she quieted her misgivings by saying to herself that it would not be long before she could do something again for her, since she would be earning a good deal of money; so she felt very glad that she would soon be in a fine situation, and far away from all the people who would speak to her about the matter.