Laura Richards
Honor Bright
“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!”
“Oh, how beautiful they are!” cried Honor. “And – oh, how sweet! they perfume the whole air. I wish I had something to bring to the festa!”
“Mademoiselle brings herself!” said Atli, with a quaint bend of his broad shoulders. “That in itself makes a festa for the Châlet des Rochers!”
How gracefully he said it! How wonderful, Honor thought, that these simple shepherd people should speak and move with such grace and dignity. No prince, surely, could surpass Atli!
Here was another picture for memory to treasure. The simple feast spread in the open, on the little space of gold-green turf: the Twins in their massive beauty, beaming friendliness; the lame boy, his plain, keen face no less radiant; the goats nibbling and frisking, the great dog watching all with calm benignity.
It was a pity Honor’s picture could not include herself, softly glowing with happiness, the faint wild-rose color in her cheeks, the lovely light in her dark blue eyes, the glory of red gold rippling on her shoulders; she might possibly have ceased for the moment to sigh for night-black tresses (lying in piles on the velvet carpet!) and eyes that were starry pools of night. Dear little Honor!
And from the friendly, smiling spot of brightness one had but to look up, and all around stood the mountains in their majesty; height upon height, peak upon peak, soaring into the intense blue of the sky.
“Oh!” sighed Honor, drawing a long breath of delight. “How wonderful it is! How can anyone ever live anywhere else?”
Zitli’s eyes twinkled. “Nevertheless, mademoiselle,” he said, “other places are perhaps necessary. Our country is without doubt the fairest country in the world, but to place here all the various nations, it would be perhaps a little crowded.”
“Other countries are doubtless necessary, since they exist!” Atli spoke with grave conviction. “But Mademoiselle Honor is also right; no one – no Swiss, at least, – would ever wish to live elsewhere. Without mountains, it is to make life flat, not so? Like a pancake!”
“Speak no ill of pancakes!” cried Gretli merrily. “We are going to have them for supper to-night.”
Atli’s face fell, like that of a disappointed child.
“To-night?” he repeated. “When I shall be away? Gretli, that is ill done!”
“Take courage, dear one!” Gretli replied. “Shalt have them the next night, thou! And who knows,” she added slyly, “what Madelon may have for thee to-night?”
Atli smiled, a little sheepishly; then lifted his glass of whey.
“Let us drink a toast!” he cried; “to our mountains! the home and the heart of the Switzer; the good God’s guard and rampart around the fairest country of the world!”
All drank the toast: as they did so, Honor looked across the plateau at the Dent du Midi, towering in noonday splendor so bright that it dazzled her eyes, and she shaded them with her hand. As she looked, a gleam of still brighter whiteness sprang from the mountain side, flashed downward, and was lost among the dark pines at its foot; a moment after, a sound came to their ears as of distant thunder, or the sea breaking on a rocky shore.
“Ah!” cried Zitli, whose eyes had followed Honor’s. “Our father Mountain replies, he pledges us! To thee again, thou great Beloved!” He waved his glass and tilted it to get the last drop.
“An avalanche!” said Gretli, in reply to Honor’s eager question. “Often they seem to answer us, our beloved mountains. It may be chance, as brother Atli thinks; Zitli, on the other hand – ”
“Zitli knows what he knows!” The boy nodded soberly. “It would be strange indeed if so great a lord as our father yonder had not the courtesy to respond to a toast. He has not to learn manners, that one; on the contrary, he teaches them.”
After dinner, and when he had carried in table and dishes (as if they were toys!) Atli disappeared for a while. When he came out again, he was resplendent in a huge green coat with tails and brass buttons, a brand new hat, and shoes polished like mirrors. In his snowy shirt-front was stuck a curious nosegay of brightly dyed edelweiss, tied with a scarlet ribbon. His hair was shining with pomatum, and brushed as nearly smooth as its nature allowed. Honor felt a pang of disappointment; he was not nearly so handsome, dressed up in what was evidently his best, as in the loose shirt and breeches of every day. But Gretli gazed at him with fond delight.
“Magnificent! Superb!” she cried. “What heart could resist thee, my Atli? Surely none that thou wilt meet to-day! A happy time, a safe return, and God be with thee!”
“God be with thee!” cried Zitli, waving his crutch, and Honor, blushing crimson, murmured the wish under her breath as she watched the shepherd striding off down the path.
“Where is he going, Gretli?” she asked timidly.
“Where but to see his maiden?” cried Gretli, laughing. “Does one dress like that for any other thing? Our Atli goes a-wooing, Mademoiselle Honor! Seest thou that brown roof yonder, where the sun shines on something red? That is Madelon’s red scarf; she hangs it from her window every Thursday afternoon if all is well with her and the mother can spare her from the cheese-making. Then – zip! like a chamois goes our Atli leaping – as you see!”
Lying in her little white bed, that night, the moon a gleaming crescent over the Dent du Midi, the whole world turned to black and silver, Honor began another chapter of her story.
“Years passed. Silver threads shone in the raven mantle of my tresses. The stars in my eyes were drowned in tears; time and sorrow had chiseled lines in the smooth ivory of my brow. My heart alone was ever young, ever young, ever faithful; with every throb it pledged its troth anew to the one who – ”
Here, I regret to say, Honor fell asleep.
