HEIDI by JOHANNA SPYRI

HEIDI
by JOHANNA SPYRI
CONTENTS
I Up the Mountain to Alm-Uncle II At Home with Grandfather III Out
with the Goats IV The Visit to Grandmother V Two Visits and What
Came of Them VI A New Chapter about New Things VII Fraulein
Rottenmeier Spends an Uncomfortable Day VIII There is Great
Commotion in the Large House IX Herr Sesemann Hears of Things
that are New to Him X Another Grandmother XI Heidi Gains in One
Way and Loses in Another XII A Ghost in the House XIII A Summer
Evening on the Mountain XIV Sunday Bells XV Preparations for a
Journey XVI A Visitor XVII A Compensation XVIII Winter in Dorfli XIX
The Winter Continues XX News from Distant Friends XXI How Life
went on at Grandfather's XXII Something Unexpected Happens XXIII
"Good-bye Till We Meet Again"
INTRODUCTION
"Heidi" is a delightful story for children of life in the Alps,
one of many tales written by the Swiss authoress, Johanna Spyri,
who died in her home at Zurich in 1891. She had been well known
to the younger readers of her own country since 1880, when she
published her story, Heimathlos, which ran into three or more
editions, and which, like her other books, as she states on the
title page, was written for those who love children, as well as
for the youngsters themselves. Her own sympathy with the
instincts and longings of the child's heart is shown in her
picture of Heidi. The record of the early life of this Swiss
child amid the beauties of her passionately loved mountain-home
and during her exile in the great town has been for many years a
favorite book of younger readers in Germany and America.
Madame Spyri, like Hans Andersen, had by temperament a peculiar
skill in writing the simple histories of an innocent world. In
all her stories she shows an underlying desire to preserve
children alike from misunderstanding and the mistaken kindness
that frequently hinder the happiness and natural development of
their lives and characters. The authoress, as we feel in reading
her tales, lived among the scenes and people she describes, and
the setting of her stories has the charm of the mountain scenery
amid which she places her small actors.
Her chief works, besides Heidi, were:-- Am Sonntag; Arthur und
Squirrel; Aus dem Leben; Aus den Schweizer Bergen; Aus Nah und
Fern; Aus unserem, Lande; Cornelli wird erzogen; Einer vom Hause
Lesa; 10 Geschichten fur Yung und Alt; Kurze Geschichten, 2
vols.; Gritli's Kinder, 2 vols.; Heimathlos; Im Tilonethal; In
Leuchtensa; Keiner zu Klein Helfer zu sein; Onkel Titus; Schloss
Wildenstein; Sina; Ein Goldener Spruch; Die Hauffer Muhle;
Verschollen, nicht vergessen; Was soll deim aus ihr werden; Was
aus ihr Geworden ist. M.E.
HEIDI
CHAPTER I. UP THE MOUNTAIN TO ALM-UNCLE
From the old and pleasantly situated village of Mayenfeld, a
footpath winds through green and shady meadows to the foot of
the mountains, which on this side look down from their stern and
lofty heights upon the valley below. The land grows gradually
wilder as the path ascends, and the climber has not gone far
before he begins to inhale the fragrance of the short grass and
sturdy mountain-plants, for the way is steep and leads directly
up to the summits above.
On a clear sunny morning in June two figures might be seen
climbing the narrow mountain path; one, a tall strong-looking
girl, the other a child whom she was leading by the hand, and
whose little checks were so aglow with heat that the crimson
color could be seen even through the dark, sunburnt skin. And
this was hardly to be wondered at, for in spite of the hot June
sun the child was clothed as if to keep off the bitterest frost.
She did not look more than five years old, if as much, but what
her natural figure was like, it would have been hard to say, for
she had apparently two, if not three dresses, one above the
other, and over these a thick red woollen shawl wound round
about her, so that the little body presented a shapeless
appearance, as, with its small feet shod in thick, nailed
mountain-shoes, it slowly and laboriously plodded its way up in
the heat. The two must have left the valley a good hour's walk
behind them, when they came to the hamlet known as Dorfli, which
is situated half-way up the mountain. Here the wayfarers met with
greetings from all sides, some calling to them from windows, some
from open doors, others from outside, for the elder girl was now
in her old home. She did not, however, pause in her walk to
respond to her friends' welcoming cries and questions, but passed
on without stopping for a moment until she reached the last of
the scattered houses of the hamlet. Here a voice called to her
from the door: "Wait a moment, Dete; if you are going up higher,
I will come with you."
The girl thus addressed stood still, and the child immediately
let go her hand and seated herself on the ground.
"Are you tired, Heidi?" asked her companion.
"No, I am hot," answered the child.
"We shall soon get to the top now. - You must walk bravely on a
little longer, and take good long steps, and in another hour we
shall be there," said Dete in an encouraging voice.
They were now joined by a stout, good-natured-looking woman, who
walked on ahead with her old acquaintance, the two breaking
forth at once into lively conversation about everybody and
everything in Dorfli and its surroundings, while the child
wandered behind them.
"And where are you off to with the child?" asked the one who had
just joined the party. "I suppose it is the child your sister
left?"
"Yes," answered Dete. "I am taking her up to Uncle, where she
must stay."
"The child stay up there with Alm-Uncle! You must be out of your
senses, Dete! How can you think of such a thing! The old man,
however, will soon send you and your proposal packing off home
again!"
"He cannot very well do that, seeing that he is her grandfather.
He must do something for her. I have had the charge of the child
till now, and I can tell you, Barbel, I am not going to give up
the chance which has just fallen to me of getting a good place,
for her sake. It is for the grandfather now to do his duty by
her."
"That would be all very well if he were like other people,"
asseverated stout Barbel warmly, "but you know what he is. And
what can he do with a child, especially with one so young! The
child cannot possibly live with him. But where are you thinking
of going yourself?"
"To Frankfurt, where an extra good place awaits me," answered
Dete. "The people I am going to were down at the Baths last
summer, and it was part of my duty to attend upon their rooms.
They would have liked then to take me away with them, but I
could not leave. Now they are there again and have repeated their
offer, and I intend to go with them, you may make up your mind
to that!"
"I am glad I am not the child!" exclaimed Barbel, with a gesture
of horrified pity. "Not a creature knows anything about the old
man up there! He will have nothing to do with anybody, and never
sets his foot inside a church from one year's end to another.
When he does come down once in a while, everybody clears out of
the way of him and his big stick. The mere sight of him, with
his bushy grey eyebrows and his immense beard, is alarming
enough. He looks like any old heathen or Indian, and few would
care to meet him alone."
"Well, and what of that?" said Dete, in a defiant voice, "he is
the grandfather all the same, and must look after the child. He
is not likely to do her any harm, and if he does, he will be
answerable for it, not I."
"I should very much like to know," continued Barbel, in an
inquiring tone of voice, "what the old man has on his conscience
that he looks as he does, and lives up there on the mountain
like a hermit, hardly ever allowing himself to be seen. All kinds
of things are said about him. You, Dete, however, must certainly
have learnt a good deal concerning him from your sister--am I
not right?"
"You are right, I did, but I am not going to repeat what I
heard; if it should come to his ears I should get into trouble
about it."
Now Barbel had for long past been most anxious to ascertain
particulars about Alm-Uncle, as she could not understand why he
seemed to feel such hatred towards his fellow-creatures, and
insisted on living all alone, or why people spoke about him half
in whispers, as if afraid to say anything against him, and yet
unwilling to take his Part. Moreover, Barbel was in ignorance as
to why all the people in Dorfli called him Alm-Uncle, for he
could not possibly be uncle to everybody living there. As,
however, it was the custom, she did like the rest and called the
old man Uncle. Barbel had only lived in Dorfli since her
marriage, which had taken place not long before. Previous to
that her home had been below in Prattigau, so that she was not
well acquainted with all the events that had ever taken place,
and with all the people who had ever lived in Dorfli and its
neighborhood. Dete, on the contrary, had been born in Dorfli,
and had lived there with her mother until the death of the latter
the year before, and had then gone over to the Baths at Ragatz
and taken service in the large hotel there as chambermaid. On the
morning of this day she had come all the way from Ragatz with
the child, a friend having given them a lift in a hay-cart as far
as Mayenfeld. Barbel was therefore determined not to lose this
good opportunity of satisfying her curiosity. She put her arm
through Dete's in a confidential sort of way, and said: "I know I
can find out the real truth from you, and the meaning of all
these tales that are afloat about him. I believe you know the
whole story. Now do just tell me what is wrong with the old man,
and if he was always shunned as he is now, and was always such a
misanthrope."
"How can I possibly tell you whether he was always the same,
seeing I am only six-and-twenty and he at least seventy years of
age; so you can hardly expect me to know much about his youth.
If I was sure, however, that what I tell you would not go the
whole round of Prattigau, I could relate all kinds of things
about him; my mother came from Domleschg, and so did he."
"Nonsense, Dete, what do you mean?" replied Barbel, somewhat
offended, "gossip has not reached such a dreadful pitch in
Prattigau as all that, and I am also quite capable of holding my
tongue when it is necessary."
"Very well then, I will tell you--but just wait a moment," said
Dete in a warning voice, and she looked back to make sure that
the child was not near enough to hear all she was going to
relate; but the child was nowhere to be seen, and must have
turned aside from following her companions some time before,
while these were too eagerly occupied with their conversation to
notice it. Dete stood still and looked around her in all
directions. The footpath wound a little here and there, but
could nevertheless be seen along its whole length nearly to
Dorfli; no one, however, was visible upon it at this moment.
"I see where she is," exclaimed Barbel, "look over there!" and
she pointed to a spot far away from the footpath. "She is
climbing up the slope yonder with the goatherd and his goats. I
wonder why he is so late to-day bringing them up. It happens
well, however, for us, for he can now see after the child, and
you can the better tell me your tale."
"Oh, as to the looking after," remarked Dete, "the boy need not
put himself out about that; she is not by any means stupid for
her five years, and knows how to use her eyes. She notices all
that is going on, as I have often had occasion to remark, and
this will stand her in good stead some day, for the old man has
nothing beyond his two goats and his hut."
"Did he ever have more?" asked Barbel.
"He? I should think so indeed," replied Dete with animation; "he
was owner once of one of the largest farms in Domleschg. He was
the elder of two brothers; the younger was a quiet, orderly man,
but nothing would please the other but to play the grand
gentleman and go driving about the country and mixing with bad
company, strangers that nobody knew. He drank and gambled away
the whole of his property, and when this became known to his
mother and father they died, one shortly after the other, of
sorrow. The younger brother, who was also reduced to beggary,
went off in his anger, no one knew whither, while Uncle himself,
having nothing now left to him but his bad name, also
disappeared. For some time his whereabouts were unknown, then
some one found out that he had gone to Naples as a soldier;
after that nothing more was heard of him for twelve or fifteen
years. At the end of that time he reappeared in Domleschg,
bringing with him a young child, whom he tried to place with some
of his kinspeople. Every door, however, was shut in his face, for
no one wished to have any more to do with him. Embittered by this
treatment, he vowed never to set foot in Domleschg again, and he
then came to Dorfli, where he continued to live with his little
boy. His wife was probably a native of the Grisons, whom he had
met down there, and who died soon after their marriage. He could
not have been entirely without money, for he apprenticed his
son, Tobias, to a carpenter. He was a steady lad, and kindly
received by every one in Dorfli. The old man was, however, still
looked upon with suspicion, and it was even rumoured that he had
been forced to make his escape from Naples, or it might have gone
badly with him, for that he had killed a man, not in fair fight,
you understand, but in some brawl. We, however, did not refuse
to acknowledge our relationship with him, my great-grandmother on
my mother's side having been sister to his grandmother. So we
called him Uncle, and as through my father we are also related to
nearly every family in Dorfli, he became known all over the place
as Uncle, and since he went to live on the mountain side he has
gone everywhere by the name of Alm-Uncle."
"And what happened to Tobias?" asked Barbel, who was listening
with deep interest.
"Wait a moment, I am coming to that, but I cannot tell you
everything at once," replied Dete. "Tobias was taught his trade
in Mels, and when he had served his apprenticeship he came back
to Dorfli and married my sister Adelaide. They had always been
fond of one another, and they got on very well together after
they were married. But their happiness did not last long. Her
husband met with his death only two years after their marriage,
a beam falling upon him as he was working, and killing him on the
spot. They carried him home, and when Adelaide saw the poor
disfigured body of her husband she was so overcome with horror
and grief that she fell into a fever from which she never
recovered. She had always been rather delicate and subject to
curious attacks, during which no one knew whether she was awake
or sleeping. And so two months after Tobias had been carried to
the grave, his wife followed him. Their sad fate was the talk of
everybody far and near, and both in private and public the
general opinion was expressed that it was a punishment which
Uncle had deserved for the godless life he had led. Some went so
far even as to tell him so to his face. Our minister endeavored
to awaken his conscience and exhorted him to repentance, but the
old man grew only more wrathful and obdurate and would not speak
to a soul, and every one did their best to keep out of his way.
All at once we heard that he had gone to live up the Alm and did
not intend ever to come down again, and since then he has led
his solitary life on the mountain side at enmity with God and
man. Mother and I took Adelaide's little one, then only a year
old, into our care. When mother died last year, and I went down
to the Baths to earn some money, I paid old Ursel, who lives in
the village just above, to keep and look after the child. I
stayed on at the Baths through the winter, for as I could sew and
knit I had no difficulty in finding plenty of work, and early in
the spring the same family I had waited on before returned from
Frankfurt, and again asked me to go back with them. And so we
leave the day after to-morrow, and I can assure you, it is an
excellent place for me."
"And you are going to give the child over to the old man up
there? It surprises me beyond words that you can think of doing
such a thing, Dete," said Barbel, in a voice full of reproach.
"What do you mean?" retorted Dete. "I have done my duty by the
child, and what would you have me do with it now? I cannot
certainly take a child of five years old with me to Frankfurt.
But where are you going to yourself, Barbel; we are now half way
up the Alm?"
"We have just reached the place I wanted," answered Barbel. "I
had something to say to the goatherd's wife, who does some
spinning for me in the winter. So good-bye, Dete, and good luck
to you!"
Dete shook hands with her friend and remained standing while
Barbel went towards a small, dark brown hut, which stood a few
steps away from the path in a hollow that afforded it some
protection from the mountain wind. The hut was situated half way
up the Alm, reckoning from Dorfli, and it was well that it was
provided with some shelter, for it was so broken-down and
dilapidated that even then it must have been very unsafe as a
habitation, for when the stormy south wind came sweeping over
the mountain, everything inside it, doors and windows, shook and
rattled, and all the rotten old beams creaked and trembled. On
such days as this, had the goatherd's dwelling been standing
above on the exposed mountain side, it could not have escaped
being blown straight down into the valley without a moment's
warning.
Here lived Peter, the eleven-year-old boy, who every morning
went down to Dorfli to fetch his goats and drive them up on to
the mountain, where they were free to browse till evening on the
delicious mountain plants.
Then Peter, with his light-footed animals, would go running and
leaping down the mountain again till he reached Dorfli, and
there he would give a shrill whistle through his fingers,
whereupon all the owners of the goats would come out to fetch
home the animals that belonged to them. It was generally the
small boys and girls who ran in answer to Peter's whistle, for
they were none of them afraid of the gentle goats, and this was
the only hour of the day through all the summer months that Peter
had any opportunity of seeing his young friends, since the rest
of his time was spent alone with the goats. He had a mother and a
blind grandmother at home, it is true, but he was always obliged
to start off very early in the morning, and only got home late in
the evening from Dorfli, for he always stayed as long as he could
talking and playing with the other children; and so he had just
time enough at home, and that was all, to swallow down his bread
and milk in the morning, and again in the evening to get through
a similar meal, lie down in bed and go to sleep. His father, who
had been known also as the goatherd, having earned his living as
such when younger, had been accidentally killed while cutting
wood some years before. His mother, whose real name was Brigitta,
was always called the goatherd's wife, for the sake of old
association, while the blind grandmother was just "grandmother"
to all the old and young in the neighborhood.
Dete had been standing for a good ten minutes looking about her
in every direction for some sign of the children and the goats.
Not a glimpse of them, however, was to be seen, so she climbed
to a higher spot, whence she could get a fuller view of the
mountain as it sloped beneath her to the valley, while, with everincreasing
anxiety on her face and in her movements, she
continued to scan the surrounding slopes. Meanwhile the children
were climbing up by a far and roundabout way, for Peter knew
many spots where all kinds of good food, in the shape of shrubs
and plants, grew for his goats, and he was in the habit of
leading his flock aside from the beaten track. The child,
exhausted with the heat and weight of her thick armor of clothes,
panted and struggled after him at first with some difficulty. She
said nothing, but her little eyes kept watching first Peter, as
he sprang nimbly hither and thither on his bare feet, clad only
in his short light breeches, and then the slim-legged goats that
went leaping over rocks and shrubs and up the steep ascents with
even greater ease. All at once she sat herself down on the
ground, and as fast as her little fingers could move, began
pulling off her shoes and stockings. This done she rose, unwound
the hot red shawl and threw it away, and then proceeded to undo
her frock. It was off in a second, but there was still another
to unfasten, for Dete had put the Sunday frock on over the
everyday one, to save the trouble of carrying it. Quick as
lightning the everyday frock followed the other, and now the
child stood up, clad only in her light short-sleeved under
garment, stretching out her little bare arms with glee. She put
all her clothes together in a tidy little heap, and then went
jumping and climbing up after Peter and the goats as nimbly as
any one of the party. Peter had taken no heed of what the child
was about when she stayed behind, but when she ran up to him in
her new attire, his face broke into a grin, which grew broader
still as he looked back and saw the small heap of clothes lying
on the ground, until his mouth stretched almost from ear to ear;
he said nothing, however. The child, able now to move at her
ease, began to enter into conversation with Peter, who had many
questions to answer, for his companion wanted to know how many
goats he had, where he was going to with them, and what he had to
do when he arrived there. At last, after some time, they and the
goats approached the hut and came within view of Cousin Dete.
Hardly had the latter caught sight of the little company climbing
up towards her when she shrieked out: "Heidi, what have you been
doing! What a sight you have made of yourself! And where are your
two frocks and the red wrapper? And the new shoes I bought, and
the new stockings I knitted for you--everything gone! not a thing
left! What can you have been thinking of, Heidi; where are all
your clothes?"
The child quietly pointed to a spot below on the mountain side
and answered, "Down there." Dete followed the direction of her
finger; she could just distinguish something lying on the
ground, with a spot of red on the top of it which she had no
doubt was the woollen wrapper.
"You good-for-nothing little thing!" exclaimed Dete angrily,
"what could have put it into your head to do like that? What
made you undress yourself? What do you mean by it?"
"I don't want any clothes," said the child, not showing any sign
of repentance for her past deed.
"You wretched, thoughtless child! have you no sense in you at
all?" continued Dete, scolding and lamenting. "Who is going all
that way down to fetch them; it's a good half-hour's walk!
Peter, you go off and fetch them for me as quickly as you can,
and don't stand there gaping at me, as if you were rooted to the
ground!"
"I am already past my time," answered Peter slowly, without
moving from the spot where he had been standing with his hands
in his pockets, listening to Dete's outburst of dismay and anger.
"Well, you won't get far if you only keep on standing there with
your eyes staring out of your head," was Dete's cross reply;
"but see, you shall have something nice," and she held out a
bright new piece of money to him that sparkled in the sun. Peter
was immediately up and off down the steep mountain side, taking
the shortest cut, and in an incredibly short space of time had
reached the little heap of clothes, which he gathered up under
his arm, and was back again so quickly that even Dete was
obliged to give him a word of praise as she handed him the
promised money. Peter promptly thrust it into his pocket and his
face beamed with delight, for it was not often that he was the
happy possessor of such riches.
You can carry the things up for me as far as Uncle's, as you are
going the same way," went on Dete, who was preparing to continue
her climb up the mountain side, which rose in a steep ascent
immediately behind the goatherd's hut. Peter willingly undertook
to do this, and followed after her on his bare feet, with his
left arm round the bundle and the right swinging his goatherd's
stick, while Heidi and the goats went skipping and jumping
joyfully beside him. After a climb of more than three-quarters
of an hour they reached the top of the Alm mountain. Uncle's hut
stood on a projection of the rock, exposed indeed to the winds,
but where every ray of sun could rest upon it, and a full view
could be had of the valley beneath. Behind the hut stood three
old fir trees, with long, thick, unlopped branches. Beyond these
rose a further wall of mountain, the lower heights still
overgrown with beautiful grass and plants, above which were
stonier slopes, covered only with scrub, that led gradually up
to the steep, bare rocky summits.
Against the hut, on the side looking towards the valley, Uncle
had put up a seat. Here he was sitting, his pipe in his mouth
and his hands on his knees, quietly looking out, when the
children, the goats and Cousin Dete suddenly clambered into view.
Heidi was at the top first. She went straight up to the old man,
put out her hand, and said, "Good-evening, Grandfather."
"So, so, what is the meaning of this?" he asked gruffly, as he
gave the child an abrupt shake of the hand, and gazed long and
scrutinisingly at her from under his bushy eyebrows. Heidi
stared steadily back at him in return with unflinching gaze, for
the grandfather, with his long beard and thick grey eyebrows that
grew together over his nose and looked just like a bush, was
such a remarkable appearance, that Heidi was unable to take her
eyes off him. Meanwhile Dete had come up, with Peter after her,
and the latter now stood still a while to watch what was going
on.
"I wish you good-day, Uncle," said Dete, as she walked towards
him, "and I have brought you Tobias and Adelaide's child. You
will hardly recognise her, as you have never seen her since she
was a year old."
"And what has the child to do with me up here?" asked the old
man curtly. "You there," he then called out to Peter, "be off
with your goats, you are none too early as it is, and take mine
with you."
Peter obeyed on the instant and quickly disappeared, for the old
man had given him a look that made him feel that he did not want
to stay any longer.
"The child is here to remain with you," Dete made answer. "I
have, I think, done my duty by her for these four years, and now
it is time for you to do yours."
"That's it, is it?" said the old man, as he looked at her with a
flash in his eye. "And when the child begins to fret and whine
after you, as is the way with these unreasonable little beings,
what am I to do with her then?"
"That's your affair," retorted Dete. "I know I had to put up
with her without complaint when she was left on my hands as an
infant, and with enough to do as it was for my mother and self.
Now I have to go and look after my own earnings, and you are the
next of kin to the child. If you cannot arrange to keep her, do
with her as you like. You will be answerable for the result if
harm happens to her, though you have hardly need, I should think,
to add to the burden already on your conscience."
Now Dete was not quite easy in her own conscience about what she
was doing, and consequently was feeling hot and irritable, and
said more than she had intended. As she uttered her last words,
Uncle rose from his seat. He looked at her in a way that made
her draw back a step or two, then flinging out his arm, he said
to her in a commanding voice: "Be off with you this instant, and
get back as quickly as you can to the place whence you came, and
do not let me see your face again in a hurry."
Dete did not wait to be told twice. "Good-bye to you then, and
to you too, Heidi," she called, as she turned quickly away and
started to descend the mountain at a running pace, which she did
not slacken till she found herself safely again at Dorfli, for
some inward agitation drove her forwards as if a steam-engine
was at work inside her. Again questions came raining down upon
her from all sides, for every one knew Dete, as well as all
particulars of the birth and former history of the child, and
all wondered what she had done with it. From every door and
window came voices calling: "Where is the child?" "Where have you
left the child, Dete?" and more and more reluctantly Dete made
answer, "Up there with Alm-Uncle!" "With Alm-Uncle, have I not
told you so already?"
Then the women began to hurl reproaches at her; first one cried
out, "How could you do such a thing!" then another, "To think of
leaving a helpless little thing up there,"--while again and
again came the words, "The poor mite! the poor mite!" pursuing
her as she went along. Unable at last to bear it any longer Dete
ran forward as fast as she could until she was beyond reach of
their voices. She was far from happy at the thought of what she
had done, for the child had been left in her care by her dying
mother. She quieted herself, however, with the idea that she
would be better able to do something for the child if she was
earning plenty of money, and it was a relief to her to think
that she would soon be far away from all these people who were
making such a fuss about the matter, and she rejoiced further
still that she was at liberty now to take such a good place.
CHAPTER II. AT HOME WITH GRANDFATHER
As soon as Dete had disappeared the old man went back to his
bench, and there he remained seated, staring on the ground
without uttering a sound, while thick curls of smoke floated
upward from his pipe. Heidi, meanwhile, was enjoying herself in
her new surroundings; she looked about till she found a shed,
built against the hut, where the goats were kept; she peeped in,
and saw it was empty. She continued her search and presently
came to the fir trees behind the hut. A strong breeze was blowing
through them, and there was a rushing and roaring in their
topmost branches, Heidi stood still and listened. The sound
growing fainter, she went on again, to the farther corner of the
hut, and so round to where her grandfather was sitting. Seeing
that he was in exactly the same position as when she left him,
she went and placed herself in front of the old man, and putting
her hands behind her back, stood and gazed at him. Her
grandfather looked up, and as she continued standing there
without moving, "What is it you want?" he asked.
"I want to see what you have inside the house," said Heidi.
"Come then!" and the grandfather rose and went before her
towards the hut.
"Bring your bundle of clothes in with you," he bid her as she
was following.
"I shan't want them any more," was her prompt answer.
The old man turned and looked searchingly at the child, whose
dark eyes were sparkling in delighted anticipation of what she
was going to see inside. "She is certainly not wanting in
intelligence," he murmured to himself. "And why shall you not
want them any more?" he asked aloud.
"Because I want to go about like the goats with their thin light
legs."
"Well, you can do so if you like," said her grandfather, "but
bring the things in, we must put them in the cupboard."
Heidi did as she was told. The old man now opened the door and
Heidi stepped inside after him; she found herself in a goodsized
room, which covered the whole ground floor of the hut. A
table and a chair were the only furniture; in one corner stood
the grandfather's bed, in another was the hearth with a large
kettle hanging above it; and on the further side was a large door
in the wall--this was the cupboard. The grandfather opened it;
inside were his clothes, some hanging up, others, a couple of
shirts, and some socks and handkerchiefs, lying on a shelf; on a
second shelf were some plates and cups and glasses, and on a
higher one still, a round loaf, smoked meat, and cheese, for
everything that Alm-Uncle needed for his food and clothing was
kept in this cupboard. Heidi, as soon as it was opened, ran
quickly forward and thrust in her bundle of clothes, as far back
behind her grandfather's things as possible, so that they might
not easily be found again. She then looked carefully round the
room, and asked, "Where am I to sleep, grandfather?"
"Wherever you like," he answered.
Heidi was delighted, and began at once to examine all the nooks
and corners to find out where it would be pleasantest to sleep.
In the corner near her grandfather's bed she saw a short ladder
against the wall; up she climbed and found herself in the
hayloft. There lay a large heap of fresh sweet-smelling hay,
while through a round window in the wall she could see right
down the valley.
"I shall sleep up here, grandfather," she called down to him,
"It's lovely, up here. Come up and see how lovely it is!"
"Oh, I know all about it," he called up in answer.
"I am getting the bed ready now," she called down again, as she
went busily to and fro at her work, "but I shall want you to
bring me up a sheet; you can't have a bed without a sheet, you
want it to lie upon."
"All right," said the grandfather, and presently he went to the
cupboard, and after rummaging about inside for a few minutes he
drew out a long, coarse piece of stuff, which was all he had to
do duty for a sheet. He carried it up to the loft, where he
found Heidi had already made quite a nice bed. She had put an
extra heap of hay at one end for a pillow, and had so arranged it
that, when in bed, she would be able to see comfortably out
through the round window.
"That is capital," said her grandfather; "now we must put on the
sheet, but wait a moment first," and he went and fetched another
large bundle of hay to make the bed thicker, so that the child
should not feel the hard floor under her--"there, now bring it
here." Heidi had got hold of the sheet, but it was almost too
heavy for her to carry; this was a good thing, however, as the
close thick stuff would prevent the sharp stalks of the hay
running through and pricking her. The two together now spread
the sheet over the bed, and where it was too long or too broad,
Heidi quickly tucked it in under the hay. It looked now as tidy
and comfortable a bed as you could wish for, and Heidi stood
gazing thoughtfully at her handiwork.
"We have forgotten something now, grandfather," she said after a
short silence.
"What's that?" he asked.
"A coverlid; when you get into bed, you have to creep in between
the sheets and the coverlid."
"Oh, that's the way, is it? But suppose I have not got a
coverlid?" said the old man.
"Well, never mind, grandfather," said Heidi in a consoling tone
of voice, "I can take some more hay to put over me," and she was
turning quickly to fetch another armful from the heap, when her
grandfather stopped her. "Wait a moment," he said, and he
climbed down the ladder again and went towards his bed. He
returned to the loft with a large, thick sack, made of flax,
which he threw down, exclaiming, "There, that is better than hay,
is it not?"
Heidi began tugging away at the sack with all her little might,
in her efforts to get it smooth and straight, but her small
hands were not fitted for so heavy a job. Her grandfather came to
her assistance, and when they had got it tidily spread over the
bed, it all looked so nice and warm and comfortable that Heidi
stood gazing at it in delight. "That is a splendid coverlid," she
said, "and the bed looks lovely altogether! I wish it was night,
so that I might get inside it at once."
"I think we might have something to eat first," said the
grandfather, "what do you think?"
Heidi in the excitement of bed-making had forgotten everything
else; but now when she began to think about food she felt
terribly hungry, for she had had nothing to eat since the piece
of bread and little cup of thin coffee that had been her
breakfast early that morning before starting on her long, hot
journey. So she answered without hesitation, "Yes, I think so
too."
"Let us go down then, as we both think alike," said the old man,
and he followed the child down the ladder. Then he went up to
the hearth, pushed the big kettle aside, and drew forward the
little one that was hanging on the chain, and seating himself on
the round-topped, three-legged stool before the fire, blew it up
into a clear bright flame. The kettle soon began to boil, and
meanwhile the old man held a large piece of cheese on a long
iron fork over the fire, turning it round and round till it was
toasted a nice golden yellow color on each side. Heidi watched
all that was going on with eager curiosity. Suddenly some new
idea seemed to come into her head, for she turned and ran to the
cupboard, and then began going busily backwards and forwards.
Presently the grandfather got up and came to the table with a
jug and the cheese, and there he saw it already tidily laid with
the round loaf and two plates and two knives each in its right
place; for Heidi had taken exact note that morning of all that
there was in the cupboard, and she knew which things would be
wanted for their meal.
"Ah, that's right," said the grandfather, "I am glad to see that
you have some ideas of your own," and as he spoke he laid the
toasted cheese on a layer of bread, "but there is still
something missing."
Heidi looked at the jug that was steaming away invitingly, and
ran quickly back to the cupboard. At first she could only see a
small bowl left on the shelf, but she was not long in
perplexity, for a moment later she caught sight of two glasses
further back, and without an instant's loss of time she returned
with these and the bowl and put them down on the table.
"Good, I see you know how to set about things; but what will you
do for a seat?" The grandfather himself was sitting on the only
chair in the room. Heidi flew to the hearth, and dragging the
three-legged stool up to the table, sat herself down upon it.
"Well, you have managed to find a seat for yourself, I see, only
rather a low one I am afraid," said the grandfather, "but you
would not be tall enough to reach the table even if you sat in
my chair; the first thing now, however, is to have something to
eat, so come along."
With that he stood up, filled the bowl with milk, and placing it
on the chair, pushed it in front of Heidi on her little threelegged
stool, so that she now had a table to herself. Then he
brought her a large slice of bread and a piece of the golden
cheese, and told her to eat. After which he went and sat down on
the corner of the table and began his own meal. Heidi lifted the
bowl with both hands and drank without pause till it was empty,
for the thirst of all her long hot journey had returned upon
her. Then she drew a deep breath--in the eagerness of her thirst
she had not stopped to breathe--and put down the bowl.
"Was the milk nice?" asked her grandfather.
"I never drank any so good before," answered Heidi.
"Then you must have some more," and the old man filled her bowl
again to the brim and set it before the child, who was now
hungrily beginning her bread having first spread it with the
cheese, which after being toasted was soft as butter; the two
together tasted deliciously, and the child looked the picture of
content as she sat eating, and at intervals taking further
draughts of milk. The meal being over, the grandfather went
outside to put the goat-shed in order, and Heidi watched with
interest while he first swept it out, and then put fresh straw
for the goats to sleep upon. Then he went to the little wellshed,
and there he cut some long round sticks, and a small round
board; in this he bored some holes and stuck the sticks into
them, and there, as if made by magic, was a three-legged stool
just like her grandfather's, only higher. Heidi stood and looked
at it, speechless with astonishment.
"What do you think that is?" asked her grandfather.
"It's my stool, I know, because it is such a high one; and it
was made all of a minute," said the child, still lost in wonder
and admiration.
"She understands what she sees, her eyes are in the right
place," remarked the grandfather to himself, as he continued his
way round the hut, knocking in a nail here and there, or making
fast some part of the door, and so with hammer and nails and
pieces of wood going from spot to spot, mending or clearing away
wherever work of the kind was needed. Heidi followed him step by
step, her eyes attentively taking in all that he did, and
everything that she saw was a fresh source of pleasure to her.
And so the time passed happily on till evening. Then the wind
began to roar louder than ever through the old fir trees; Heidi
listened with delight to the sound, and it filled her heart so
full of gladness that she skipped and danced round the old
trees, as if some unheard of joy had come to her. The grandfather
stood and watched her from the shed.
Suddenly a shrill whistle was heard. Heidi paused in her
dancing, and the grandfather came out. Down from the heights
above the goats came springing one after another, with Peter in
their midst. Heidi sprang forward with a cry of joy and rushed
among the flock, greeting first one and then another of her old
friends of the morning. As they neared the hut the goats stood
still, and then two of their number, two beautiful slender
animals, one white and one brown, ran forward to where the
grandfather was standing and began licking his hands, for he was
holding a little salt which he always had ready for his goats on
their return home. Peter disappeared with the remainder of his
flock. Heidi tenderly stroked the two goats in turn, running
first to one side of them and then the other, and jumping about
in her glee at the pretty little animals. "Are they ours,
grandfather? Are they both ours? Are you going to put them in the
shed? Will they always stay with us?"
Heidi's questions came tumbling out one after the other, so that
her grandfather had only time to answer each of them with "Yes,
yes." When the goats had finished licking up the salt her
grandfather told her to go and fetch her bowl and the bread.
Heidi obeyed and was soon back again. The grandfather milked the
white goat and filled her basin, and then breaking off a piece
of bread, "Now eat your supper," he said, "and then go up to bed.
Cousin Dete left another little bundle for you with a nightgown
and other small things in it, which you will find at the bottom
of the cupboard if you want them. I must go and shut up the
goats, so be off and sleep well."
"Good-night, grandfather! good-night. What are their names,
grandfather, what are their names?" she called out as she ran
after his retreating figure and the goats.
"The white one is named Little Swan, and the brown one Little
Bear," he answered.
"Good-night, Little Swan, good-night, Little Bear!" she called
again at the top of her voice, for they were already inside the
shed. Then she sat down on the seat and began to eat and drink,
but the wind was so strong that it almost blew her away; so she
made haste and finished her supper and then went indoors and
climbed up to her bed, where she was soon lying as sweetly and
soundly asleep as any young princess on her couch of silk.
Not long after, and while it was still twilight, the grandfather
also went to bed, for he was up every morning at sunrise, and
the sun came climbing up over the mountains at a very early hour
during these summer months. The wind grew so tempestuous during
the night, and blew in such gusts against the walls, that the
hut trembled and the old beams groaned and creaked. It came
howling and wailing down the chimney like voices of those in
pain, and it raged with such fury among the old fir trees that
here and there a branch was snapped and fell. In the middle of
the night the old man got up. "The child will be frightened," he
murmured half aloud. He mounted the ladder and went and stood by
the child's bed.
Outside the moon was struggling with the dark, fast-driving
clouds, which at one moment left it clear and shining, and the
next swept over it, and all again was dark. Just now the
moonlight was falling through the round window straight on to
Heidi's bed. She lay under the heavy coverlid, her cheeks rosy
with sleep, her head peacefully resting on her little round arm,
and with a happy expression on her baby face as if dreaming of
something pleasant. The old man stood looking down on the
sleeping child until the moon again disappeared behind the
clouds and he could see no more, then he went back to bed.
CHAPTER III. OUT WITH THE GOATS
Heidi was awakened early the next morning by a loud whistle; the
sun was shining through the round window and falling in golden
rays on her bed and on the large heap of hay, and as she opened
her eyes everything in the loft seemed gleaming with gold. She
looked around her in astonishment and could not imagine for a
while where she was. But her grandfather's deep voice was now
heard outside, and then Heidi began to recall all that had
happened: how she had come away from her former home and was now
on the mountain with her grandfather instead of with old Ursula.
The latter was nearly stone deaf and always felt cold, so that
she sat all day either by the hearth in the kitchen or by the
sitting-room stove, and Heidi had been obliged to stay close to
her, for the old woman was so deaf that she could not tell where
the child was if out of her sight. And Heidi, shut up within the
four walls, had often longed to be out of doors. So she felt
very happy this morning as she woke up in her new home and
remembered all the many new things that she had seen the day
before and which she would see again that day, and above all she
thought with delight of the two dear goats. Heidi jumped quickly
out of bed and a very few minutes sufficed her to put on the
clothes which she had taken off the night before, for there were
not many of them. Then she climbed down the ladder and ran
outside the hut. There stood Peter already with his flock of
goats, and the grandfather was just bringing his two out of the
shed to join the others. Heidi ran forward to wish good-morning
to him and the goats.
"Do you want to go with them on to the mountain?" asked her
grandfather. Nothing could have pleased Heidi better, and she
jumped for joy in answer.
"But you must first wash and make yourself tidy. The sun that
shines so brightly overhead will else laugh at you for being
dirty; see, I have put everything ready for you," and her
grandfather pointed as he spoke to a large tub full of water,
which stood in the sun before the door. Heidi ran to it and
began splashing and rubbing, till she quite glistened with
cleanliness. The grandfather meanwhile went inside the hut,
calling to Peter to follow him and bring in his wallet. Peter
obeyed with astonishment, and laid down the little bag which held
his meagre dinner.
"Open it," said the old man, and inside it he put a large piece
of bread and an equally large piece of cheese, which made Peter
open his eyes, for each was twice the size of the two portions
which he had for his own dinner.
"There, now there is only the little bowl to add," continued the
grandfather, "for the child cannot drink her milk as you do from
the goat; she is not accustomed to that. You must milk two
bowlfuls for her when she has her dinner, for she is going with
you and will remain with you till you return this evening; but
take care she does not fall over any of the rocks, do you hear?"
Heidi now came running in. "Will the sun laugh at me now,
grandfather?" she asked anxiously. Her grandfather had left a
coarse towel hanging up for her near the tub, and with this she
had so thoroughly scrubbed her face, arms, and neck, for fear of
the sun, that as she stood there she was as red all over as a
lobster. He gave a little laugh.
"No, there is nothing for him to laugh at now," he assured her.
"But I tell you what--when you come home this evening, you will
have to get right into the tub, like a fish, for if you run
about like the goats you will get your feet dirty. Now you can be
off."
She started joyfully for the mountain. During the night the wind
had blown away all the clouds; the dark blue sky was spreading
overhead, and in its midst was the bright sun shining down on
the green slopes of the mountain, where the flowers opened their
little blue and yellow cups, and looked up to him smiling. Heidi
went running hither and thither and shouting with delight, for
here were whole patches of delicate red primroses, and there the
blue gleam of the lovely gentian, while above them all laughed
and nodded the tender-leaved golden cistus. Enchanted with all
this waving field of brightly-colored flowers, Heidi forgot even
Peter and the goats. She ran on in front and then off to the
side, tempted first one way and then the other, as she caught
sight of some bright spot of glowing red or yellow. And all the
while she was plucking whole handfuls of the flowers which she
put into her little apron, for she wanted to take them all home
and stick them in the hay, so that she might make her bedroom
look just like the meadows outside. Peter had therefore to be on
the alert, and his round eyes, which did not move very quickly,
had more work than they could well manage, for the goats were as
lively as Heidi; they ran in all directions, and Peter had to
follow whistling and calling and swinging his stick to get all
the runaways together again.
"Where have you got to now, Heidi?" he called out somewhat
crossly.
"Here," called back a voice from somewhere. Peter could see no
one, for Heidi was seated on the ground at the foot of a small
hill thickly overgrown with sweet smelling prunella; the whole
air seemed filled with its fragrance, and Heidi thought she had
never smelt anything so delicious. She sat surrounded by the
flowers, drawing in deep breaths of the scented air.
"Come along here!" called Peter again. "You are not to fall over
the rocks, your grandfather gave orders that you were not to do
so."
"Where are the rocks?" asked Heidi, answering him back. But she
did not move from her seat, for the scent of the flowers seemed
sweeter to her with every breath of wind that wafted it towards
her.
"Up above, right up above. We have a long way to go yet, so come
along! And on the topmost peak of all the old bird of prey sits
and croaks."
That did it. Heidi immediately sprang to her feet and ran up to
Peter with her apron full of flowers.
"You have got enough now," said the boy as they began climbing
up again together. "You will stay here forever if you go on
picking, and if you gather all the flowers now there will be none
for to-morrow."
This last argument seemed a convincing one to Heidi, and
moreover her apron was already so full that there was hardly room
for another flower, and it would never do to leave nothing to
pick for another day. So she now kept with Peter, and the goats
also became more orderly in their behavior, for they were
beginning to smell the plants they loved that grew on the higher
slopes and clambered up now without pause in their anxiety to
reach them. The spot where Peter generally halted for his goats
to pasture and where he took up his quarters for the day lay at
the foot of the high rocks, which were covered for some distance
up by bushes and fir trees, beyond which rose their bare and
rugged summits. On one side of the mountain the rock was split
into deep clefts, and the grandfather had reason to warn Peter of
danger. Having climbed as far as the halting-place, Peter unslung
his wallet and put it carefully in a little hollow of the ground,
for he knew what the wind was like up there and did not want to
see his precious belongings sent rolling down the mountain by a
sudden gust. Then be threw himself at full length on the warm
ground, for he was tired after all his exertions.
Heidi meanwhile had unfastened her apron and rolling it
carefully round the flowers laid it beside Peter's wallet inside
the hollow; she then sat down beside his outstretched figure and
looked about her. The valley lay far below bathed in the morning
sun. In front of her rose a broad snow-field, high against the
dark-blue sky, while to the left was a huge pile of rocks on
either side of which a bare lofty peak, that seemed to pierce
the blue, looked frowningly down upon, her. The child sat without
moving, her eyes taking in the whole scene, and all around was a
great stillness, only broken by soft, light puffs of wind that
swayed the light bells of the blue flowers, and the shining gold
heads of the cistus, and set them nodding merrily on their
slender stems. Peter had fallen asleep after his fatigue and the
goats were climbing about among the bushes overhead. Heidi had
never felt so happy in her life before. She drank in the golden
sunlight, the fresh air, the sweet smell of the flowers, and
wished for nothing better than to remain there forever. So the
time went on, while to Heidi, who had so often looked up from
the valley at the mountains above, these seemed now to have
faces, and to be looking down at her like old friends. Suddenly
she heard a loud harsh cry overhead and lifting her eyes she saw
a bird, larger than any she had ever seen before, with great,
spreading wings, wheeling round and round in wide circles, and
uttering a piercing, croaking kind of sound above her.
"Peter, Peter, wake up!" called out Heidi. "See, the great bird
is there--look, look!"
Peter got up on hearing her call, and together they sat and
watched the bird, which rose higher and higher in the blue air
till it disappeared behind the grey mountain-tops.
"Where has it gone to?" asked Heidi, who had followed the bird's
movements with intense interest.
"Home to its nest," said Peter.
"Is his home right up there? Oh, how nice to be up so high! why
does he make that noise?"
"Because he can't help it," explained Peter.
"Let us climb up there and see where his nest is," proposed
Heidi.
"Oh! oh! oh!" exclaimed Peter, his disapproval of Heidi's
suggestion becoming more marked with each ejaculation, "why even
the goats cannot climb as high as that, besides didn't Uncle say
that you were not to fall over the rocks?"
Peter now began suddenly whistling and calling in such a loud
manner that Heidi could not think what was happening; but the
goats evidently understood his voice, for one after the other
they came springing down the rocks until they were all assembled
on the green plateau, some continuing to nibble at the juicy
stems, others skipping about here and there or pushing at each
other with their horns for pastime.
Heidi jumped up and ran in and out among them, for it was new to
her to see the goats playing together like this and her delight
was beyond words as she joined in their frolics; she made
personal acquaintance with them all in turn, for they were like
separate individuals to her, each single goat having a
particular way of behavior of its own. Meanwhile Peter had taken
the wallet out of the hollow and placed the pieces of bread and
cheese on the ground in the shape of a square, the larger two on
Heidi's side and the smaller on his own, for he knew exactly
which were hers and which his. Then he took the little bowl and
milked some delicious fresh milk into it from the white goat, and
afterwards set the bowl in the middle of the square. Now he
called Heidi to come, but she wanted more calling than the goats,
for the child was so excited and amused at the capers and lively
games of her new playfellows that she saw and heard nothing else.
But Peter knew how to make himself heard, for he shouted till the
very rocks above echoed his voice, and at last Heidi appeared,
and when she saw the inviting repast spread out upon the ground
she went skipping round it for joy.
"Leave off jumping about, it is time for dinner," said Peter;
"sit down now and begin."
Heidi sat down. "Is the milk for me?" she asked, giving another
look of delight at the beautifully arranged square with the bowl
as a chief ornament in the centre.
"Yes," replied Peter, "and the two large pieces of bread and
cheese are yours also, and when you have drunk up that milk, you
are to have another bowlful from the white goat, and then it
will be my turn."
"And which do you get your milk from?" inquired Heidi.
"From my own goat, the piebald one. But go on now with your
dinner," said Peter, again reminding her it was time to eat.
Heidi now took up the bowl and drank her milk, and as soon as
she had put it down empty Peter rose and filled it again for her.
Then she broke off a piece of her bread and held out the
remainder, which was still larger than Peter's own piece,
together with the whole big slice of cheese to her companion,
saying, "You can have that, I have plenty."
Peter looked at Heidi, unable to speak for astonishment, for
never in all his life could he have said and done like that with
anything he had. He hesitated a moment, for he could not believe
that Heidi was in earnest; but the latter kept on holding out
the bread and cheese, and as Peter still did not take it, she
laid it down on his knees. He saw then that she really meant it;
he seized the food, nodded his thanks and acceptance of her
present, and then made a more splendid meal than he had known
ever since he was a goat-herd. Heidi the while still continued to
watch the goats. "Tell me all their names," she said.
Peter knew these by heart, for having very little else to carry
in his head he had no difficulty in remembering them. So he
began, telling Heidi the name of each goat in turn as he pointed
it out to her. Heidi listened with great attention, and it was
not long before she could herself distinguish the goats from one
another and could call each by name, for every goat had its own
peculiarities which could not easily be mistaken; only one had
to watch them closely, and this Heidi did. There was the great
Turk with his big horns, who was always wanting to butt the
others, so that most of them ran away when they saw him coming
and would have nothing to do with their rough companion. Only
Greenfinch, the slender nimble little goat, was brave enough to
face him, and would make a rush at him, three or four times in
succession, with such agility and dexterity, that the great Turk
often stood still quite astounded not venturing to attack her
again, for Greenfinch was fronting him, prepared for more warlike
action, and her horns were sharp. Then there was little White
Snowflake, who bleated in such a plaintive and beseeching manner
that Heidi already had several times run to it and taken its head
in her hands to comfort it. Just at this moment the pleading
young cry was heard again, and Heidi jumped up running and,
putting her arms round the little creature's neck, asked in a
sympathetic voice, "What is it, little Snowflake? Why do you call
like that as if in trouble?" The goat pressed closer to Heidi in
a confiding way and left off bleating. Peter called out from
where he was sitting--for he had not yet got to the end of his
bread and cheese, "She cries like that because the old goat is
not with her; she was sold at Mayenfeld the day before yesterday,
and so will not come up the mountain any more."
"Who is the old goat?" called Heidi back.
"Why, her mother, of course," was the answer.
"Where is the grandmother?" called Heidi again.
"She has none."
"And the grandfather?"
"She has none."
"Oh, you poor little Snowflake!" exclaimed Heidi, clasping the
animal gently to her, "but do not cry like that any more; see
now, I shall come up here with you every day, so that you will
not be alone any more, and if you want anything you have only to
come to me."
The young animal rubbed its head contentedly against Heidi's
shoulder, and no longer gave such plaintive bleats. Peter now
having finished his meal joined Heidi and the goats, Heidi
having by this time found out a great many things about these.
She had decided that by far the handsomest and best-behaved of
the goats were undoubtedly the two belonging to her grandfather;
they carried themselves with a certain air of distinction and
generally went their own way, and as to the great Turk they
treated him with indifference and contempt.
The goats were now beginning to climb the rocks again, each
seeking for the plants it liked in its own fashion, some jumping
over everything they met till they found what they wanted,
others going more carefully and cropping all the nice leaves by
the way, the Turk still now and then giving the others a poke
with his horns. Little Swan and Little Bear clambered lightly up
and never failed to find the best bushes, and then they would
stand gracefully poised on their pretty legs, delicately nibbling
at the leaves. Heidi stood with her hands behind her back,
carefully noting all they did.
"Peter," she said to the boy who had again thrown himself down
on the ground, "the prettiest of all the goats are Little Swan
and Little Bear."
"Yes, I know they are," was the answer. "Alm-Uncle brushes them
down and washes them and gives them salt, and he has the nicest
shed for them."
All of a sudden Peter leaped to his feet and ran hastily after
the goats. Heidi followed him as fast as she could, for she was
too eager to know what had happened to stay behind. Peter dashed
through the middle of the flock towards that side of the
mountain where the rocks fell perpendicularly to a great depth
below, and where any thoughtless goat, if it went too near, might
fall over and break all its legs. He had caught sight of the
inquisitive Greenfinch taking leaps in that direction, and he was
only just in time, for the animal had already sprung to the edge
of the abyss. All Peter could do was to throw himself down and
seize one of her hind legs. Greenfinch, thus taken by surprise,
began bleating furiously, angry at being held so fast and
prevented from continuing her voyage of discovery. She struggled
to get loose, and endeavored so obstinately to leap forward that
Peter shouted to Heidi to come and help him, for he could not get
up and was afraid of pulling out the goat's leg altogether.
Heidi had already run up and she saw at once the danger both
Peter and the animal were in. She quickly gathered a bunch of
sweet-smelling leaves, and then, holding them under Greenfinch's
nose, said coaxingly, "Come, come, Greenfinch, you must not be
naughty! Look, you might fall down there and break your leg, and
that would give you dreadful pain!"
The young animal turned quickly, and began contentedly eating
the leaves out of Heidi's hand. Meanwhile Peter got on to his
feet again and took hold of Greenfinch by the band round her neck
from which her bell was hung, and Heidi taking hold of her in the
same way on the other side, they led the wanderer back to the
rest of the flock that had remained peacefully feeding. Peter,
now he had his goat in safety, lifted his stick in order to give
her a good beating as punishment, and Greenfinch seeing what was
coming shrank back in fear. But Heidi cried out, "No, no, Peter,
you must not strike her; see how frightened she is!"
"She deserves it," growled Peter, and again lifted his stick.
Then Heidi flung herself against him and cried indignantly, "You
have no right to touch her, it will hurt her, let her alone!"
Peter looked with surprise at the commanding little figure,
whose dark eyes were flashing, and reluctantly he let his stick
drop. "Well I will let her off if you will give me some more of
your cheese to-morrow," he said, for he was determined to have
something to make up to him for his fright.
"You shall have it all, to-morrow and every day, I do not want
it," replied Heidi, giving ready consent to his demand. "And I
will give you bread as well, a large piece like you had to-day;
but then you must promise never to beat Greenfinch, or
Snowflake, or any of the goats."
"All right," said Peter, "I don't care," which meant that he
would agree to the bargain. He now let go of Greenfinch, who
joyfully sprang to join her companions.
And thus imperceptibly the day had crept on to its close, and
now the sun was on the point of sinking out of sight behind the
high mountains. Heidi was again sitting on the ground, silently
gazing at the blue bell-shaped flowers, as they glistened in the
evening sun, for a golden light lay on the grass and flowers, and
the rocks above were beginning to shine and glow. All at once she
sprang to her feet, "Peter! Peter! everything is on fire! All
the rocks are burning, and the great snow mountain and the sky! O
look, look! the high rock up there is red with flame! O the
beautiful, fiery snow! Stand up, Peter! See, the fire has
reached the great bird's nest! look at the rocks! look at the fir
trees! Everything, everything is on fire!"
"It is always like that," said Peter composedly, continuing to
peel his stick; "but it is not really fire."
"What is it then?" cried Heidi, as she ran backwards and
forwards to look first one side and then the other, for she felt
she could not have enough of such a beautiful sight. "What is it,
Peter, what is it?" she repeated.
"It gets like that of itself," explained Peter.
"Look, look!" cried Heidi in fresh excitement, "now they have
turned all rose color! Look at that one covered with snow, and
that with the high, pointed rocks! What do you call them?"
"Mountains have not any names," he answered.
"O how beautiful, look at the crimson snow! And up there on the
rocks there are ever so many roses! Oh! now they are turning
grey! Oh! oh! now all the color has died away! it's all gone,
Peter." And Heidi sat down on the ground looking as full of
distress as if everything had really come to an end.
"It will come again to-morrow," said Peter. "Get up, we must go
home now." He whistled to his goats and together they all
started on their homeward way.
"Is it like that every day, shall we see it every day when we
bring the goats up here?" asked Heidi, as she clambered down the
mountain at Peter's side; she waited eagerly for his answer,
hoping that he would tell her it was so.
"It is like that most days," he replied.
"But will it be like that to-morrow for certain?" Heidi
persisted.
"Yes, yes, to-morrow for certain," Peter assured her in answer.
Heidi now felt quite happy again, and her little brain was so
full of new impressions and new thoughts that she did not speak
any more until they had reached the hut. The grandfather was
sitting under the fir trees, where he had also put up a seat,
waiting as usual for his goats which returned down the mountain
on this side.
Heidi ran up to him followed by the white and brown goats, for
they knew their own master and stall. Peter called out after
her, "Come with me again to-morrow! Good-night!" For he was
anxious for more than one reason that Heidi should go with him
the next day.
Heidi ran back quickly and gave Peter her hand, promising to go
with him, and then making her way through the goats she once
more clasped Snowflake round the neck, saying in a gentle
soothing voice, "Sleep well, Snowflake, and remember that I shall
be with you again to-morrow, so you must not bleat so sadly any
more." Snowflake gave her a friendly and grateful look, and then
went leaping joyfully after the other goats.
Heidi returned to the fir-trees. "O grandfather," she cried,
even before she had come up to him, "it was so beautiful. The
fire, and the roses on the rocks, and the blue and yellow
flowers, and look what I have brought you!" And opening the apron
that held her flowers she shook them all out at her grandfather's
feet. But the poor flowers, how changed they were! Heidi hardly
knew them again. They looked like dry bits of hay, not a single
little flower cup stood open. "O grandfather, what is the matter
with them?" exclaimed Heidi in shocked surprise, "they were not
like that this morning, why do they look so now?"
"They like to stand out there in the sun and not to be shut up
in an apron," said her grandfather.
"Then I will never gather any more. But, grandfather, why did
the great bird go on croaking so?" she continued in an eager tone
of inquiry.
"Go along now and get into your bath while I go and get some
milk; when we are together at supper I will tell you all about
it."
Heidi obeyed, and when later she was sitting on her high stool
before her milk bowl with her grandfather beside her, she
repeated her question, "Why does the great bird go on croaking
and screaming down at us, grandfather?"
"He is mocking at the people who live down below in the
villages, because they all go huddling and gossiping together,
and encourage one another in evil talking and deeds. He calls
out, 'If you would separate and each go your own way and come up
here and live on a height as I do, it would be better for you!'"
There was almost a wildness in the old man's voice as he spoke,
so that Heidi seemed to hear the croaking of the bird again even
more distinctly.
"Why haven't the mountains any names?" Heidi went on.
"They have names," answered her grandfather, "and if you can
describe one of them to me that I know I will tell you what it
is called."
Heidi then described to him the rocky mountain with the two high
peaks so exactly that the grandfather was delighted. "Just so, I
know it," and he told her its name. "Did you see any other?"
Then Heidi told him of the mountain with the great snow-field,
and how it had been on fire, and had turned rosy-red and then all
of a sudden had grown quite pale again and all the color had
disappeared.
"I know that one too," he said, giving her its name. "So you
enjoyed being out with the goats?"
Then Heidi went on to give him an account of the whole day, and
of how delightful it had all been, and particularly described
the fire that had burst out everywhere in the evening. And then
nothing would do but her grandfather must tell how it came, for
Peter knew nothing about it.
The grandfather explained to her that it was the sun that did
it. "When he says good-night to the mountains he throws his most
beautiful colors over them, so that they may not forget him
before he comes again the next day."
Heidi was delighted with this explanation, and could hardly bear
to wait for another day to come that she might once more climb
up with the goats and see how the sun bid good-night to the
mountains. But she had to go to bed first, and all night she
slept soundly on her bed of hay, dreaming of nothing but of
shining mountains with red roses all over them, among which
happy little Snowflake went leaping in and out.
CHAPTER IV. THE VISIT TO GRANDMOTHER
The next morning the sun came out early as bright as ever, and
then Peter appeared with the goats, and again the two children
climbed up together to the high meadows, and so it went on day
after day till Heidi, passing her life thus among the grass and
flowers, was burnt brown with the sun, and grew so strong and
healthy that nothing ever ailed her. She was happy too, and
lived from day to day as free and lighthearted as the little
birds that make their home among the green forest trees. Then the
autumn came, and the wind blew louder and stronger, and the
grandfather would say sometimes, "To-day you must stay at home,
Heidi; a sudden gust of the wind would blow a little thing like
you over the rocks into the valley below in a moment."
Whenever Peter heard that he must go alone he looked very
unhappy, for he saw nothing but mishaps of all kinds ahead, and
did not know how he should bear the long dull day without Heidi.
Then, too, there was the good meal he would miss, and besides
that the goats on these days were so naughty and obstinate that
he had twice the usual trouble with them, for they had grown so
accustomed to Heidi's presence that they would run in every
direction and refuse to go on unless she was with them. Heidi
was never unhappy, for wherever she was she found something to
interest or amuse her. She liked best, it is true, to go out
with Peter up to the flowers and the great bird, where there was
so much to be seen, and so many experiences to go through among
the goats with their different characters; but she also found her
grandfather's hammering and sawing and carpentering very
entertaining, and if it should chance to be the day when the
large round goat's-milk cheese was made she enjoyed beyond
measure looking on at this wonderful performance, and watching
her grandfather, as with sleeves rolled back, he stirred the
great cauldron with his bare arms. The thing which attracted her
most, however, was the waving and roaring of the three old fir
trees on these windy days. She would run away repeatedly from
whatever she might be doing, to listen to them, for nothing
seemed so strange and wonderful to her as the deep mysterious
sound in the tops of the trees. She would stand underneath them
and look up, unable to tear herself away, looking and listening
while they bowed and swayed and roared as the mighty wind rushed
through them. There was no longer now the warm bright sun that
had shone all through the summer, so Heidi went to the cupboard
and got out her shoes and stockings and dress, for it was
growing colder every day, and when Heidi stood under the fir
trees the wind blew through her as if she was a thin little leaf,
but still she felt she could not stay indoors when she heard the
branches waving outside.
Then it grew very cold, and Peter would come up early in the
morning blowing on his fingers to keep them warm. But he soon
left off coming, for one night there was a heavy fall of snow
and the next morning the whole mountain was covered with it, and
not a single little green leaf was to be seen anywhere upon it.
There was no Peter that day, and Heidi stood at the little window
looking out in wonderment, for the snow was beginning again, and
the thick flakes kept falling till the snow was up to the
window, and still they continued to fall, and the snow grew
higher, so that at last the window could not be opened, and she
and her grandfather were shut up fast within the hut. Heidi
thought this was great fun and ran from one window to the other
to see what would happen next, and whether the snow was going to
cover up the whole hut, so that they would have to light a lamp
although it was broad daylight. But things did not get as bad as
that, and the next day, the snow having ceased, the grandfather
went out and shovelled away the snow round the house, and threw
it into such great heaps that they looked like mountains standing
at intervals on either side the hut. And now the windows and door
could be opened, and it was well it was so, for as Heidi and her
grandfather were sitting one afternoon on their three-legged
stools before the fire there came a great thump at the door
followed by several others, and then the door opened. It was
Peter, who had made all that noise knocking the snow off his
shoes; he was still white all over with it, for he had had to
fight his way through deep snowdrifts, and large lumps of snow
that had frozen upon him still clung to his clothes. He had been
determined, however, not to be beaten and to climb up to the
hut, for it was a week now since he had seen Heidi.
"Good-evening," he said as he came in; then he went and placed
himself as near the fire as he could without saying another
word, but his whole face was beaming with pleasure at finding
himself there. Heidi looked on in astonishment, for Peter was
beginning to thaw all over with the warmth, so that he had the
appearance of a trickling waterfall.
"Well, General, and how goes it with you?" said the grandfather,
"now that you have lost your army you will have to turn to your
pen and pencil."
"Why must he turn to his pen and pencil?" asked Heidi
immediately, full of curiosity.
"During the winter he must go to school," explained her
grandfather, "and learn how to read and write; it's a bit hard,
although useful sometimes afterwards. Am I not right, General?"
"Yes, indeed," assented Peter.
Heidi's interest was now thoroughly awakened, and she had so
many questions to put to Peter about all that was to be done and
seen and heard at school, and the conversation took so long that
Peter had time to get thoroughly dry. Peter had always great
difficulty in putting his thoughts into words, and he found his
share of the talk doubly difficult to-day, for by the time he had
an answer ready to one of Heidi's questions she had already put
two or three more to him, and generally such as required a whole
long sentence in reply.
The grandfather sat without speaking during this conversation,
only now and then a twitch of amusement at the corners of his
mouth showed that he was listening.
"Well, now, General, you have been under fire for some time and
must want some refreshment, come and join us," he said at last,
and as he spoke he rose and went to fetch the supper out of the
cupboard, and Heidi pushed the stools to the table. There was
also now a bench fastened against the wall, for as he was no
longer alone the grandfather had put up seats of various kinds
here and there, long enough to hold two persons, for Heidi had a
way of always keeping close to her grandfather whether he was
walking, sitting or standing. So there was comfortable place for
them all three, and Peter opened his round eyes very wide when
he saw what a large piece of meat Alm-Uncle gave him on his thick
slice of bread. It was a long time since Peter had had anything
so nice to eat. As soon as the pleasant meal was over Peter
began to get ready for returning home, for it was already growing
dark. He had said his "good-night" and his thanks, and was just
going out, when he turned again and said, "I shall come again
next Sunday, this day week, and grandmother sent word that she
would like you to come and see her one day."
It was quite a new idea to Heidi that she should go and pay
anybody a visit, and she could not get it out of her head; so
the first thing she said to her grandfather the next day was, "I
must go down to see the grandmother to-day; she will be expecting
me."
"The snow is too deep," answered the grandfather, trying to put
her off. But Heidi had made up her mind to go, since the
grandmother had sent her that message. She stuck to her
intention and not a day passed but what in the course of it she
said five or six times to her grandfather, "I must certainly go
to-day, the grandmother will be waiting for me."
On the fourth day, when with every step one took the ground
crackled with frost and the whole vast field of snow was hard as
ice, Heidi was sitting on her high stool at dinner with the
bright sun shining in upon her through the window, and again
repeated her little speech, "I must certainly go down to see the
grandmother to-day, or else I shall keep her waiting too long."
The grandfather rose from table, climbed up to the hay-loft and
brought down the thick sack that was Heidi's coverlid, and said,
"Come along then!" The child skipped out gleefully after him
into the glittering world of snow.
The old fir trees were standing now quite silent, their branches
covered with the white snow, and they looked so lovely as they
glittered and sparkled in the sunlight that Heidi jumped for joy
at the sight and kept on calling out, "Come here, come here,
grandfather! The fir trees are all silver and gold!" The
grandfather had gone into the shed and he now came out dragging
a large hand-sleigh along with him; inside it was a low seat, and
the sleigh could be pushed forward and guided by the feet of the
one who sat upon it with the help of a pole that was fastened to
the side. After he had been taken round the fir trees by Heidi
that he might see their beauty from all sides, he got into the
sleigh and lifted the child on to his lap; then he wrapped her
up in the sack, that she might keep nice and warm, and put his
left arm closely round her, for it was necessary to hold her
tight during the coming journey. He now grasped the pole with his
right hand and gave the sleigh a push forward with his two feet.
The sleigh shot down the mountain side with such rapidity that
Heidi thought they were flying through the air like a bird, and
shouted aloud with delight. Suddenly they came to a standstill,
and there they were at Peter's hut. Her grandfather lifted her
out and unwrapped her. "There you are, now go in, and when it
begins to grow dark you must start on your way home again." Then
he left her and went up the mountain, pulling his sleigh after
him.
Heidi opened the door of the hut and stepped into a tiny room
that looked very dark, with a fireplace and a few dishes on a
wooden shelf; this was the little kitchen. She opened another
door, and now found herself in another small room, for the place
was not a herdsman's hut like her grandfather's, with one large
room on the ground floor and a hay-loft above, but a very old
cottage, where everything was narrow and poor and shabby. A
table was close to the door, and as Heidi stepped in she saw a
woman sitting at it, putting a patch on a waistcoat which Heidi
recognised at once as Peter's. In the corner sat an old woman,
bent with age, spinning. Heidi was quite sure this was the
grandmother, so she went up to the spinning-wheel and said, "Goodday,
grandmother, I have come at last; did you think I was a long
time coming?"
The woman raised her head and felt for the hand that the child
held out to her, and when she found it, she passed her own over
it thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then said, "Are you the
child who lives up with Alm-Uncle, are you Heidi?"
"Yes, yes," answered Heidi, "I have just come down in the sleigh
with grandfather."
"Is it possible! Why your hands are quite warm! Brigitta, did Alm-
Uncle come himself with the child?"
Peter's mother had left her work and risen from the table and
now stood looking at Heidi with curiosity, scanning her from head
to foot. "I do not know, mother, whether Uncle came himself; it
is hardly likely, the child probably makes a mistake."
But Heidi looked steadily at the woman, not at all as if in any
uncertainty, and said, "I know quite well who wrapped me in my
bedcover and brought me down in the sleigh: it was grandfather."
"There was some truth then perhaps in what Peter used to tell us
of Alm-Uncle during the summer, when we thought he must be
wrong," said grandmother; "but who would ever have believed that
such a thing was possible? I did not think the child would live
three weeks up there. What is she like, Brigitta?"
The latter had so thoroughly examined Heidi on all sides that
she was well able to describe her to her mother.
"She has Adelaide's slenderness of figure, but her eyes are dark
and her hair curly like her father's and the old man's up there:
she takes after both of them, I think."
Heidi meanwhile had not been idle; she had made the round of the
room and looked carefully at everything there was to be seen.
All of a sudden she exclaimed, "Grandmother, one of your shutters
is flapping backwards and forwards; grandfather would put a nail
in and make it all right in a minute, or else it will break one
of the panes some day; look, look, how it keeps on banging!"
"Ah, dear child," said the old woman, "I am not able to see it,
but I can hear that and many other things besides the shutter.
Everything about the place rattles and creaks when the wind is
blowing, and it gets inside through all the cracks and holes.
The house is going to pieces, and in the night, when the two
others are asleep, I often lie awake in fear and trembling,
thinking that the whole place will give way and fall and kill us.
And there is not a creature to mend anything for us, for Peter
does not understand such work."
"But why cannot you see, grandmother, that the shutter is loose.
Look, there it goes again, see, that one there!" And Heidi
pointed to the particular shutter.
"Alas, child, it is not only that I cannot see--I can see,
nothing, nothing," said the grandmother in a voice of
lamentation.
"But if I were to go outside and put back the shutter so that
you had more light, then you could see, grandmother?"
"No, no, not even then, no one can make it light for me again."
"But if you were to go outside among all the white snow, then
surely you would find it light; just come with me, grandmother,
and I will show you." Heidi took hold of the old woman's hand to
lead her along, for she was beginning to feel quite distressed
at the thought of her being without light.
"Let me be, dear child; it is always dark for me now; whether in
snow or sun, no light can penetrate my eyes."
"But surely it does in summer, grandmother," said Heidi, more
and more anxious to find some way out of the trouble, "when the
hot sun is shining down again, and he says good-night to the
mountains, and they all turn on fire, and the yellow flowers
shine like gold, then, you will see, it will be bright and
beautiful for you again."
"Ah, child, I shall see the mountains on fire or the yellow
flowers no more; it will never be light for me again on earth,
never."
At these words Heidi broke into loud crying. In her distress she
kept on sobbing out, "Who can make it light for you again? Can
no one do it? Isn't there any one who can do it?"
The grandmother now tried to comfort the child, but it was not
easy to quiet her. Heidi did not often weep, but when she did
she could not get over her trouble for a long while. The
grandmother had tried all means in her power to allay the child's
grief, for it went to her heart to hear her sobbing so bitterly.
At last she said, "Come here, dear Heidi, come and let me tell
you something. You cannot think how glad one is to hear a kind
word when one can no longer see, and it is such a pleasure to me
to listen to you while you talk. So come and sit beside me and
tell me something; tell me what you do up there, and how
grandfather occupies himself. I knew him very well in old days;
but for many years now I have heard nothing of him, except
through Peter, who never says much."
This was a new and happy idea to Heidi; she quickly dried her
tears and said in a comforting voice, "Wait, grandmother, till I
have told grandfather everything, he will make it light for you
again, I am sure, and will do something so that the house will
not fall; he will put everything right for you."
The grandmother was silent, and Heidi now began to give her a
lively description of her life with the grandfather, and of the
days she spent on the mountain with the goats, and then went on
to tell her of what she did now during the winter, and how her
grandfather was able to make all sorts of things, seats and
stools, and mangers where the hay was put for Little Swan and
Little Bear, besides a new large water-tub for her to bathe in
when the summer came, and a new milk-bowl and spoon, and Heidi
grew more and more animated as she enumerated all the beautiful
things which were made so magically out of pieces of wood; she
then told the grandmother how she stood by him and watched all
he did, and how she hoped some day to be able to make the same
herself.
The grandmother listened with the greatest attention, only from
time to time addressing her daughter, "Do you hear that,
Brigitta? Do you hear what she is saying about Uncle?"
The conversation was all at once interrupted by a heavy thump on
the door, and in marched Peter, who stood stock-still, opening
his eyes with astonishment, when he caught sight of Heidi; then
his face beamed with smiles as she called out, "Good-evening,
Peter."
"What, is the boy back from school already?" exclaimed the
grandmother in surprise. "I have not known an afternoon pass so
quickly as this one for years. How is the reading getting on,
Peter?"
"Just the same," was Peter's answer.
The old woman gave a little sigh. "Ah, well," she said, "I hoped
you would have something different to tell me by this time, as
you are going to be twelve years old this February."
"What was it that you hoped he would have to tell you?" asked
Heidi, interested in all the grandmother said.
"I mean that he ought to have learnt to read a bit by now,"
continued the grandmother. "Up there on the shelf is an old
prayer-book, with beautiful songs in it which I have not heard
for a long time and cannot now remember to repeat to myself, and
I hoped that Peter would soon learn enough to be able to read
one of them to me sometimes; but he finds it too difficult."
"I must get a light, it is getting too dark to see," said
Peter's mother, who was still busy mending his waistcoat. "I feel
too as if the afternoon had gone I hardly know how."
Heidi now jumped up from her low chair, and holding out her hand
hastily to the grandmother said, "Good-night, grandmother, if it
is getting dark I must go home at once," and bidding good-bye to
Peter and his mother she went towards the door. But the
grandmother called out in an anxious voice, "Wait, wait, Heidi;
you must not go alone like that, Peter must go with you; and
take care of the child, Peter, that she does not fall, and don't
let her stand still for fear she should get frozen, do you hear?
Has she got anything warm to put around her throat?"
"I have not anything to put on," called back Heidi, "but I am
sure I shall not be cold," and with that she ran outside and
went off at such a pace that Peter had difficulty in overtaking
her. The grandmother, still in distress, called out to her
daughter, "Run after her, Brigitta; the child will be frozen to
death on such a night as this; take my shawl, run quickly!"
Brigitta ran out. But the children had taken but a few steps
before they saw the grandfather coming down to meet them, and in
another minute his long strides had brought him to their side.
"That's right, Heidi; you have kept your word," said the
grandfather, and then wrapping the sack firmly round her he
lifted her in his arms and strode off with her up the mountain.
Brigitta was just in time to see him do all this, and on her
return to the hut with Peter expressed her astonishment to the
grandmother. The latter was equally surprised, and kept on
saying, "God be thanked that he is good to the child, God be
thanked! Will he let her come to me again, I wonder! the child
has done me so much good. What a loving little heart it is, and
how merrily she tells her tale!" And she continued to dwell with
delight on the thought of the child until she went to bed, still
saying now and again, "If only she will come again! Now I have
really something left in the world to take pleasure in." And
Brigitta agreed with all her mother said, and Peter nodded his
head in approval each time his grandmother spoke, saying, with a
broad smile of satisfaction, "I told you so!"
Meanwhile Heidi was chattering away to her grandfather from
inside her sack; her voice, however, could not reach him through
the many thick folds of her wrap, and as therefore it was
impossible to understand a word she was saying, he called to
her, "Wait till we get home, and then you can tell me all about
it." They had no sooner got inside the hut than Heidi, having
been released from her covering, at once began what she had to
say, "Grandfather, to-morrow we must take the hammer and the long
nails and fasten grandmother's shutter, and drive in a lot more
nails in other places, for her house shakes and rattles all
over."
"We must, must we? who told you that?" asked her grandfather.
"Nobody told me, but I know it for all that," replied Heidi,
"for everything is giving way, and when the grandmother cannot
sleep, she lies trembling for fear at the noise, for she thinks
that every minute the house will fall down on their heads; and
everything now is dark for grandmother, and she does not think
any one can make it light for her again, but you will be able
to, I am sure, grandfather. Think how dreadful it is for her to
be always in the dark, and then to be frightened at what may
happen, and nobody can help her but you. To-morrow we must go and
help her; we will, won't we, grandfather?"
The child was clinging to the old man and looking up at him in
trustful confidence. The grandfather looked down at Heidi for a
while without speaking, and then said, "Yes, Heidi, we will do
something to stop the rattling, at least we can do that; we will
go down about it to-morrow!"
The child went skipping round the room for joy, crying out, "We
shall go to-morrow! we shall go to-morrow!"
The grandfather kept his promise. On the following afternoon he
brought the sleigh out again, and as on the previous day, he set
Heidi down at the door of the grandmother's hut and said, "Go in
now, and when it grows dark, come out again." Then he put the
sack in the sleigh and went round the house.
Heidi had hardly opened the door and sprung into the room when
the grandmother called out from her corner, "It's the child
again! here she comes!" and in her delight she let the thread
drop from her fingers, and the wheel stood still as she
stretched out both her hands in welcome. Heidi ran to her, and
then quickly drew the little stool close up to the old woman, and
seating herself upon it, began to tell and ask her all kinds of
things. All at once came the sound of heavy blows against the
wall of the hut and the grandmother gave such a start of alarm
that she nearly upset the spinning-wheel, and cried in a
trembling voice, "Ah, my God, now it is coming, the house is
going to fall upon us!" But Heidi caught her by the arm, and said
soothingly, "No, no, grandmother, do not be frightened, it is
only grandfather with his hammer; he is mending up everything, so
that you shan't have such fear and trouble."
"Is it possible! is it really possible! so the dear God has not
forgotten us!" exclaimed the grandmother. "Do you hear,
Brigitta, what that noise is? Did you hear what the child says?
Now, as I listen, I can tell it is a hammer; go outside,
Brigitta, and if it is Alm-Uncle, tell him he must come inside a
moment that I may thank him."
Brigitta went outside and found Alm-Uncle in the act of
fastening some heavy pieces of new wood along the wall. She
stepped up to him and said, "Good-evening, Uncle, mother and I
have to thank you for doing us such a kind service, and she would
like to tell you herself how grateful she is; I do not know who
else would have done it for us; we shall not forget your
kindness, for I am sure--"
"That will do," said the old man, interrupting her.
"I know what you think of Alm-Uncle without your telling me. Go
indoors again, I can find out for myself where the mending is
wanted."
Brigitta obeyed on the spot, for Uncle had a way with him that
made few people care to oppose his will. He went on knocking
with his hammer all round the house, and then mounted the narrow
steps to the roof, and hammered away there, until he had used up
all the nails he had brought with him. Meanwhile it had been
growing dark, and he had hardly come down from the roof and
dragged the sleigh out from behind the goat-shed when Heidi
appeared outside. The grandfather wrapped her up and took her in
his arms as he had done the day before, for although he had to
drag the sleigh up the mountain after him, he feared that if the
child sat in it alone her wrappings would fall off and that she
would be nearly if not quite frozen, so he carried her warm and
safe in his arms.
So the winter went by. After many years of joyless life, the
blind grandmother had at last found something to make her happy;
her days were no longer passed in weariness and darkness, one
like the other without pleasure or change, for now she had
always something to which she could look forward. She listened
for the little tripping footstep as soon as day had come, and
when she heard the door open and knew the child was really there,
she would call out, "God be thanked, she has come again!" And
Heidi would sit by her and talk and tell her everything she knew
in so lively a manner that the grandmother never noticed how the
time went by, and never now as formerly asked Brigitta, "Isn't
the day done yet?" but as the child shut the door behind her on
leaving, would exclaim, "How short the afternoon has seemed;
don't you think so, Brigitta?" And this one would answer, "I do
indeed; it seems as if I had only just cleared away the mid-day
meal." And the grandmother would continue, "Pray God the child is
not taken from me, and that Alm-Uncle continues to let her come!
Does she look well and strong, Brigitta?" And the latter would
answer, "She looks as bright and rosy as an apple."
And Heidi had also grown very fond of the old grandmother, and
when at last she knew for certain that no one could make it
light for her again, she was overcome with sorrow; but the
grandmother told her again that she felt the darkness much less
when Heidi was with her, and so every fine winter's day the child
came travelling down in her sleigh. The grandfather always took
her, never raising any objection, indeed he always carried the
hammer and sundry other things down in the sleigh with him, and
many an afternoon was spent by him in making the goatherd's
cottage sound and tight. It no longer groaned and rattled the
whole night through, and the grandmother, who for many winters
had not been able to sleep in peace as she did now, said she
should never forget what the Uncle had done for her.
CHAPTER V. TWO VISITS AND WHAT CAME OF THEM
Quickly the winter passed, and still more quickly the bright
glad summer, and now another winter was drawing to its close.
Heidi was still as light-hearted and happy as the birds, and
looked forward with more delight each day to the coming spring,
when the warm south wind would roar through the fir trees and
blow away the snow, and the warm sun would entice the blue and
yellow flowers to show their heads, and the long days out on the
mountain would come again, which seemed to Heidi the greatest
joy that the earth could give. Heidi was now in her eighth year;
she had learnt all kinds of useful things from her grandfather;
she knew how to look after the goats as well as any one, and
Little Swan and Bear would follow her like two faithful dogs, and
give a loud bleat of pleasure when they heard her voice. Twice
during the course of this last winter Peter had brought up a
message from the schoolmaster at Dorfli, who sent word to Alm-
Uncle that he ought to send Heidi to school, as she was over the
usual age, and ought indeed to have gone the winter before. Uncle
had sent word back each time that the schoolmaster would find him
at home if he had anything he wished to say to him, but that he
did not intend to send Heidi to school, and Peter had faithfully
delivered his message.
When the March sun had melted the snow on the mountain side and
the snowdrops were peeping out all over the valley, and the fir
trees had shaken off their burden of snow and were again merrily
waving their branches in the air, Heidi ran backwards and
forwards with delight first to the goat-shed then to the firtrees,
and then to the hut-door, in order to let her grandfather
know how much larger a piece of green there was under the trees,
and then would run off to look again, for she could hardly wait
till everything was green and the full beautiful summer had
clothed the mountain with grass and flowers. As Heidi was thus
running about one sunny March morning, and had just jumped over
the water-trough for the tenth time at least, she nearly fell
backwards into it with fright, for there in front of her, looking
gravely at her, stood an old gentleman dressed in black. When he
saw how startled she was, he said in a kind voice, "Don't be
afraid of me, for I am very fond of children. Shake hands! You
must be the Heidi I have heard of; where is your grandfather?"
"He is sitting by the table, making round wooden spoons," Heidi
informed him, as she opened the door.
He was the old village pastor from Dorfli who had been a
neighbor of Uncle's when he lived down there, and had known him
well. He stepped inside the hut, and going up to the old man, who
was bending over his work, said, "Good-morning, neighbor."
The grandfather looked up in surprise, and then rising said,
"Good-morning" in return. He pushed his chair towards the
visitor as he continued, "If you do not mind a wooden seat there
is one for you."
The pastor sat down. "It is a long time since I have seen you,
neighbor," he said.
"Or I you," was the answer.
"I have come to-day to talk over something with you," continued
the pastor. "I think you know already what it is that has
brought me here," and as he spoke he looked towards the child who
was standing at the door, gazing with interest and surprise at
the stranger.
"Heidi, go off to the goats," said her grandfather. "You take
them a little salt and stay with them till I come."
Heidi vanished on the spot.
"The child ought to have been at school a year ago, and most
certainly this last winter," said the pastor. "The schoolmaster
sent you word about it, but you gave him no answer. What are you
thinking of doing with the child, neighbor?"
"I am thinking of not sending her to school," was the answer.
The visitor, surprised, looked across at the old man, who was
sitting on his bench with his arms crossed and a determined
expression about his whole person.
"How are you going to let her grow up then?" he asked.
"I am going to let her grow up and be happy among the goats and
birds; with them she is safe, and will learn nothing evil."
"But the child is not a goat or a bird, she is a human being. If
she learns no evil from these comrades of hers, she will at the
same time learn nothing; but she ought not to grow up in
ignorance, and it is time she began her lessons. I have come now
that you may have leisure to think over it, and to arrange about
it during the summer. This is the last winter that she must be
allowed to run wild; next winter she must come regularly to
school every day."
"She will do no such thing," said the old man with calm
determination.
"Do you mean that by no persuasion can you be brought to see
reason, and that you intend to stick obstinately to your
decision?" said the pastor, growing somewhat angry. "You have
been about the world, and must have seen and learnt much, and I
should have given you credit for more sense, neighbor."
"Indeed," replied the old man, and there was a tone in his voice
that betrayed a growing irritation on his part too, "and does
the worthy pastor really mean that he would wish me next winter
to send a young child like that some miles down the mountain on
ice-cold mornings through storm and snow, and let her return at
night when the wind is raging, when even one like ourselves
would run a risk of being blown down by it and buried in the
snow? And perhaps he may not have forgotten the child's mother,
Adelaide? She was a sleep-walker, and had fits. Might not the
child be attacked in the same way if obliged to over-exert
herself? And some one thinks they can come and force me to send
her? I will go before all the courts of justice in the country,
and then we shall see who will force me to do it!"
"You are quite right, neighbor," said the pastor in a friendly
tone of voice. "I see it would have been impossible to send the
child to school from here. But I perceive that the child is dear
to you; for her sake do what you ought to have done long ago:
come down into Dorfli and live again among your fellowmen. What
sort of a life is this you lead, alone, and with bitter thoughts
towards God and man! If anything were to happen to you up here
who would there be to help you? I cannot think but what you must
be half-frozen to death in this hut in the winter, and I do not
know how the child lives through it!"
"The child has young blood in her veins and a good roof over her
head, and let me further tell the pastor, that I know where wood
is to be found, and when is the proper time to fetch it; the
pastor can go and look inside my wood-shed; the fire is never
out in my hut the whole winter through. As to going to live below
that is far from my thoughts; the people despise me and I them;
it is therefore best for all of us that we live apart."
"No, no, it is not best for you; I know what it is you lack,"
said the pastor in an earnest voice. "As to the people down
there looking on you with dislike, it is not as bad as you think.
Believe me, neighbor; seek to make your peace with God, pray for
forgiveness where you need it, and then come and see how
differently people will look upon you, and how happy you may yet
be."
The pastor had risen and stood holding out his hand to the old
man as he added with renewed earnestness, "I will wager,
neighbor, that next winter you will be down among us again, and
we shall be good neighbors as of old. I should be very grieved
if any pressure had to be put upon you; give me your hand and
promise me that you will come and live with us again and become
reconciled to God and man."
Alm-Uncle gave the pastor his hand and answered him calmly and
firmly, "You mean well by me I know, but as to that which you
wish me to do, I say now what I shall continue to say, that I
will not send the child to school nor come and live among you."
"Then God help you!" said the pastor, and he turned sadly away
and left the hut and went down the mountain.
Alm-Uncle was out of humor. When Heidi said as usual that
afternoon, "Can we go down to grandmother now?" he answered,
"Not to-day." He did not speak again the whole of that day, and
the following morning when Heidi again asked the same question,
he replied, "We will see." But before the dinner bowls had been
cleared away another visitor arrived, and this time it was
Cousin Dete. She had a fine feathered hat on her head, and a long
trailing skirt to her dress which swept the floor, and on the
floor of a goatherd's hut there are all sorts of things that do
not belong to a dress.
The grandfather looked her up and down without uttering a word.
But Dete was prepared with an exceedingly amiable speech and
began at once to praise the looks of the child. She was looking
so well she should hardly have known her again, and it was
evident that she had been happy and well-cared for with her
grandfather; but she had never lost sight of the idea of taking
the child back again, for she well understood that the little
one must be much in his way, but she had not been able to do it
at first. Day and night, however, she had thought over the means
of placing the child somewhere, and that was why she had come today,
for she had just heard of something that would be a lucky
chance for Heidi beyond her most ambitious hopes. Some immensely
wealthy relatives of the people she was serving, who had the
most splendid house almost in Frankfurt, had an only daughter,
young and an invalid, who was always obliged to go about in a
wheeled chair; she was therefore very much alone and had no one
to share her lessons, and so the little girl felt dull. Her
father had spoken to Dete's mistress about finding a companion
for her, and her mistress was anxious to help in the matter, as
she felt so sympathetic about it. The lady-housekeeper had
described the sort of child they wanted, simple-minded and
unspoilt, and not like most of the children that one saw now-adays.
Dete had thought at once of Heidi and had gone off without
delay to see the lady-housekeeper, and after Dete had given her a
description of Heidi, she had immediately agreed to take her. And
no one could tell what good fortune there might not be in store
for Heidi, for if she was once with these people and they took a
fancy to her, and anything happened to their own daughter--one
could never tell, the child was so weakly--and they did not feel
they could live without a child, why then the most unheard of
luck--
"Have you nearly finished what you had to say?" broke in Alm-
Uncle, who had allowed her to talk on uninterruptedly so far.
"Ugh!" exclaimed Dete, throwing up her head in disgust, "one
would think I had been talking to you about the most ordinary
matter; why there is not one person in all Prattigau who would
not thank God if I were to bring them such a piece of news as I
am bringing you."
"You may take your news to anybody you like, I will have nothing
to do with it."
But now Dete leaped up from her seat like a rocket and cried,
"If that is all you have to say about it, why then I will give
you a bit of my mind. The child is now eight years old and knows
nothing, and you will not let her learn. You will not send her
to church or school, as I was told down in Dorfli, and she is my
own sister's child. I am responsible for what happens to her, and
when there is such a good opening for a child, as this which
offers for Heidi, only a person who cares for nobody and never
wishes good to any one would think of not jumping at it. But I
am not going to give in, and that I tell you; I have everybody in
Dorfli on my side; there is not one person there who will not
take my part against you; and I advise you to think well before
bringing it into court, if that is your intention; there are
certain things which might be brought up against you which you
would not care to hear, for when one has to do with law-courts
there is a great deal raked up that had been forgotten."
"Be silent!" thundered the Uncle, and his eyes flashed with
anger. "Go and be done with you! and never let me see you again
with your hat and feather, and such words on your tongue as you
come with today!" And with that he strode out of the hut.
"You have made grandfather angry," said Heidi, and her dark eyes
had anything but a friendly expression in them as she looked at
Dete.
"He will soon be all right again; come now," said Dete
hurriedly, "and show me where your clothes are."
"I am not coming," said Heidi.
"Nonsense," continued Dete; then altering her tone to one halfcoaxing,
half-cross, "Come, come, you do not understand any
better than your grandfather; you will have all sorts of good
things that you never dreamed of." Then she went to the cupboard
and taking out Heidi's things rolled them up in a bundle. "Come
along now, there's your hat; it is very shabby but will do for
the present; put it on and let us make haste off."
"I am not coming," repeated Heidi.
"Don't be so stupid and obstinate, like a goat; I suppose it's
from the goats you have learnt to be so. Listen to me: you saw
your grandfather was angry and heard what he said, that he did
not wish to see us ever again; he wants you now to go away with
me and you must not make him angrier still. You can't think how
nice it is at Frankfurt, and what a lot of things you will see,
and if you do not like it you can come back again; your
grandfather will be in a good temper again by that time."
"Can I return at once and be back home again here this evening?"
asked Heidi.
"What are you talking about, come along now! I tell you that you
can come back here when you like. To-day we shall go as far as
Mayenfeld, and early to-morrow we shall start in the train, and
that will bring you home again in no time when you wish it, for
it goes as fast as the wind."
Dete had now got the bundle under her arm and the child by the
hand, and so they went down the mountain together.
As it was still too early in the year to take his goats out,
Peter continued to go to school at Dorfli, but now and again he
stole a holiday, for he could see no use in learning to read,
while to wander about a bit and look for stout sticks which
might be wanted some day he thought a far better employment. As
Dete and Heidi neared the grandmother's hut they met Peter coming
round the corner; he had evidently been well rewarded that day
for his labors, for he was carrying an immense bundle of long
thick hazel sticks on his shoulders. He stood still and stared
at the two approaching figures; as they came up to him, he
exclaimed, "Where are you going, Heidi?"
"I am only just going over to Frankfurt for a little visit with
Dete," she replied; "but I must first run in to grandmother, she
will be expecting me."
"No, no, you must not stop to talk; it is already too late,"
said Dete, holding Heidi, who was struggling to get away, fast by
the hand. "You can go in when you come back, you must come along
now," and she pulled the child on with her, fearing that if she
let her go in Heidi might take it into her head again that she
did not wish to come, and that the grandmother might stand by
her. Peter ran into the hut and banged against the table with
his bundle of sticks with such violence that everything in the
room shook, and his grandmother leaped up with a cry of alarm
from her spinning-wheel. Peter had felt that he must give vent to
his feelings somehow.
"What is the matter? What is the matter?" cried the frightened
old woman, while his mother, who had also started up from her
seat at the shock, said in her usual patient manner, "What is
it, Peter? why do you behave so roughly?"
"Because she is taking Heidi away," explained Peter.
"Who? who? where to, Peter, where to?" asked the grandmother,
growing still more agitated; but even as she spoke she guessed
what had happened, for Brigitta had told her shortly before that
she had seen Dete going up to Alm-Uncle. The old woman rose
hastily and with trembling hands opened the window and called
out beseechingly, "Dete, Dete, do not take the child away from
us! do not take her away!"
The two who were hastening down the mountain heard her voice,
and Dete evidently caught the words, for she grasped Heidi's hand
more firmly. Heidi struggled to get free, crying, "Grandmother
is calling, I must go to her."
But Dete had no intention of letting the child go, and quieted
her as best she could; they must make haste now, she said, or
they would be too late and not able to go on the next day to
Frankfurt, and there the child would see how delightful it was,
and Dete was sure would not wish to go back when she was once
there. But if Heidi wanted to return home she could do so at
once, and then she could take something she liked back to
grandmother. This was a new idea to Heidi, and it pleased her so
much that Dete had no longer any difficulty in getting her
along.
After a few minutes' silence, Heidi asked, "What could I take
back to her?"
"We must think of something nice," answered Dete; "a soft roll
of white bread; she would enjoy that, for now she is old she can
hardly eat the hard, black bread."
"No, she always gives it back to Peter, telling him it is too
hard, for I have seen her do it myself," affirmed Heidi. "Do let
us make haste, for then perhaps we can get back soon from
Frankfurt, and I shall be able to give her the white bread today."
And Heidi started off running so fast that Dete with the
bundle under her arm could scarcely keep up with her. But she
was glad, nevertheless, to get along so quickly, for they were
nearing Dorfli, where her friends would probably talk and
question in a way that might put other ideas into Heidi's head.
So she went on straight ahead through the village, holding Heidi
tightly by the hand, so that they might all see that it was on
the child's account she was hurrying along at such a rate. To
all their questions and remarks she made answer as she passed "I
can't stop now, as you see, I must make haste with the child as
we have yet some way to go."
"Are you taking her away?" "Is she running away from Alm-Uncle?"
"It's a wonder she is still alive!" "But what rosy cheeks she
has!" Such were the words which rang out on all sides, and Dete
was thankful that she had not to stop and give any distinct
answers to them, while Heidi hurried eagerly forward without
saying a word.
From that day forward Alm-Uncle looked fiercer and more
forbidding than ever when he came down and passed through
Dorfli. He spoke to no one, and looked such an ogre as he came
along with his pack of cheeses on his back, his immense stick in
his hand, and his thick, frowning eyebrows, that the women would
call to their little ones, "Take care! get out of Alm-Uncle's way
or he may hurt you!"
The old man took no notice of anybody as he strode through the
village on his way to the valley below, where he sold his
cheeses and bought what bread and meat he wanted for himself.
After he had passed the villagers all crowded together looking
after him, and each had something to say about him; how much
wilder he looked than usual, how now he would not even respond to
anybody's greeting, while they all agreed that it was a great
mercy the child had got away from him, and had they not all
noticed how the child had hurried along as if afraid that her
grandfather might be following to take her back? Only the blind
grandmother would have nothing to say against him, and told those
who came to her to bring her work, or take away what she had
spun, how kind and thoughtful he had been with the child, how
good to her and her daughter, and how many afternoons he had
spent mending the house which, but for his help, would certainly
by this time have fallen down over their heads. And all this was
repeated down in Dorfli; but most of the people who heard it said
that grandmother was too old to understand, and very likely had
not heard rightly what was said; as she was blind she was
probably also deaf.
Alm-Uncle went no more now to the grandmother's house, and it
was well that he had made it so safe, for it was not touched
again for a long time. The days were sad again now for the old
blind woman, and not one passed but what she would murmur
complainingly, "Alas! all our happiness and pleasure have gone
with the child, and now the days are so long and dreary! Pray
God, I see Heidi again once more before I die!"
CHAPTER VI. A NEW CHAPTER ABOUT NEW THINGS
In her home at Frankfurt, Clara, the little daughter of Herr
Sesemann, was lying on the invalid couch on which she spent her
whole day, being wheeled in it from room to room. Just now she
was in what was known as the study, where, to judge by the
various things standing and lying about, which added to the cosy
appearance of the room, the family was fond of sitting. A
handsome bookcase with glass doors explained why it was called
the study, and here evidently the little girl was accustomed to
have her lessons.
Clara's little face was thin and pale, and at this moment her
two soft blue eyes were fixed on the clock, which seemed to her
to go very slowly this day, and with a slight accent of
impatience, which was very rare with her, she asked, "Isn't it
time yet, Fraulein Rottenmeier?"
This lady was sitting very upright at a small work-table, busy
with her embroidery. She had on a mysterious-looking loose
garment, a large collar or shoulder-cape that gave a certain
solemnity to her appearance, which was enhanced by a very lofty
dome-shaped head dress. For many years past, since the mistress
of the house had died, the housekeeping and the superintendence
of the servants had been entrusted by Herr Sesemann to Fraulein
Rottenmeier. He himself was often away from home, and he left
her in sole charge, with the condition only that his little
daughter should have a voice in all matters, and that nothing
should be done against her wish.
As Clara was putting her impatient question for the second time,
Dete and Heidi arrived at the front door, and the former
inquired of the coachman, who had just got down from his box, if
it was too late to see Fraulein Rottenmeier.
"That's not my business," grumbled the coachman; "ring the bell
in the hall for Sebastian."
Dete did so, and Sebastian came downstairs; he looked astonished
when he saw her, opening his eyes till they were nearly as big
as the large round buttons on his coat.
"Is it too late for me to see Fraulein Rottenmeier?" Dete asked
again.
"That's not my business," answered the man; "ring that other
bell for the maid Tinette," and without troubling himself any
farther Sebastian disappeared.
Dete rang again. This time Tinette appeared with a spotless
white cap perched on the top of her head and a mocking expression
of face.
"What is it?" she called from the top of the stairs. Dete
repeated her question. Tinette disappeared, but soon came back
and called down again to Dete, "Come up, she is expecting you."
Dete and Heidi went upstairs and into the study, Tinette
following. Dete remained standing politely near the door, still
holding Heidi tightly by the hand, for she did not know what the
child might take it into her head to do amid these new
surroundings.
Fraulein Rottenmeier rose slowly and went up to the little new
companion for the daughter of the house, to see what she was
like. She did not seem very pleased with her appearance. Heidi
was dressed in her plain little woollen frock, and her hat was
an old straw one bent out of shape. The child looked innocently
out from beneath it, gazing with unconcealed astonishment at the
lady's towering head dress.
"What is your name?" asked Fraulen Rottenmeier, after
scrutinisingly examining the child for some minutes, while Heidi
in return kept her eyes steadily fixed upon the lady.
"Heidi," she answered in a clear, ringing voice.
"What? what? that's no Christian name for a child; you were not
christened that. What name did they give you when you were
baptized?" continued Frauleln Rottenmeier.
"I do not remember," replied Heidi.
"What a way to answer!" said the lady, shaking her head. "Dete,
is the child a simpleton or only saucy?"
"If the lady will allow me, I will speak for the child, for she
is very unaccustomed to strangers," said Dete, who had given
Heidi a silent poke for making such an unsuitable answer. "She
is certainly not stupid nor yet saucy, she does not know what it
means even; she speaks exactly as she thinks. To-day she is for
the first time in a gentleman's house and she does not know good
manners; but she is docile and very willing to learn, if the
lady will kindly make excuses for her. She was christened
Adelaide, after her mother, my sister, who is now dead."
"Well, that's a name that one can pronounce," remarked Fraulein
Rottenmeier. "But I must tell you, Dete, that I am astonished to
see so young a child. I told you that I wanted a companion of
the same age as the young lady of the house, one who could share
her lessons, and all her other occupations. Fraulein Clara is now
over twelve; what age is this child?"
"If the lady will allow me," began Dete again, in her usual
fluent manner, "I myself had lost count of her exact age; she is
certainly a little younger, but not much; I cannot say
precisely, but I think she is ten, or thereabouts."
"Grandfather told me I was eight," put in Heidi. Dete gave her
another poke, but as the child had not the least idea why she
did so she was not at all confused.
"What--only eight!" cried Fraulein Rottenmeier angrily. "Four
years too young! Of what use is such a child! And what have you
learnt? What books did you have to learn from?"
"None," said Heidi.
"How? what? How then did you learn to read?" continued the lady.
"I have never learnt to read, or Peter either," Heidi informed
her.
"Mercy upon us! you do not know how to read! Is it really so?"
exclaimed Fraulein Rottenmeier, greatly horrified. "Is it
possible--not able to read? What have you learnt then?"
"Nothing," said Heidi with unflinching truthfulness.
"Young woman," said the lady to Dete, after having paused for a
minute or two to recover from her shock, "this is not at all the
sort of companion you led me to suppose; how could you think of
bringing me a child like this?"
But Dete was not to be put down so easily, and answered warmly,
"If the lady will allow me, the child is exactly what I thought
she required; the lady described what she wished for, a child
unlike all other children, and I could find no other to suit,
for the greater number I know are not peculiar, but one very much
the same as the other, and I thought this child seemed as if made
for the place. But I must go now, for my mistress will be waiting
for me; if the lady will permit I will come again soon and see
how she is getting on." And with a bow Dete quickly left the room
and ran downstairs. Fraulein Rottenmeier stood for a moment taken
aback and then ran after Dete. If the child was to stop she had
many things yet to say and ask about her, and there the child
was, and what was more, Dete, as she plainly saw, meant to leave
her there.
Heidi remained by the door where she had been standing since she
first came in. Clara had looked on during the interview without
speaking; now she beckoned to Heidi and said, "Come here!"
Heidi went up to her.
"Would you rather be called Heidi or Adelaide?" asked Clara.
"I am never called anything but Heidi," was the child's prompt
answer.
"Then I shall always call you by that name," said Clara, "it
suits you. I have never heard it before, but neither have I ever
seen a child like you before. Have you always had that short
curly hair?"
"Yes, I think so," said Heidi.
"Are you pleased to come to Frankfurt?" went on Clara.
"No, but I shall go home to-morrow and take grandmother a white
loaf," explained Heidi.
"Well, you are a funny child!" exclaimed Clara. "You were
expressly sent for to come here and to remain with me and share
my lessons; there will be some fun about them now as you cannot
read, something new to do, for often they are dreadfully dull,
and I think the morning will never pass away. You know my tutor
comes every morning at about ten o'clock, and then we go on with
lessons till two, and it does seem such a long time. Sometimes
he takes up the book and holds it close up to his face, as if he
was very short-sighted, but I know it's only because he wants so
dreadfully to gape, and Fraulein Rottenmeier takes her large
handkerchief out also now and then and covers her face with it,
as if she was moved by what we had been reading, but that is
only because she is longing to gape too. And I myself often want
to gape, but I am obliged to stop myself, for if Fraulein
Rottenmeier sees me gaping she runs off at once and fetches the
cod-liver oil and says I must have a dose, as I am getting weak
again, and the cod-liver oil is horrible, so I do my best not to
gape. But now it will be much more amusing, for I shall be able
to lie and listen while you learn to read."
Heidi shook her head doubtfully when she heard of learning to
read.
"Oh, nonsense, Heidi, of course you must learn to read,
everybody must, and my tutor is very kind, and never cross, and
he will explain everything to you. But mind, when he explains
anything to you, you won't be able to understand; but don't ask
any questions, or else he will go on explaining and you will
understand less than ever. Later when you have learnt more and
know about things yourself, then you will begin to understand
what he meant."
Fraulein Rottenmeier now came back into the room; she had not
been able to overtake Dete, and was evidently very much put out;
for she had wanted to go into more details concerning the child,
and to convince Dete how misleading she had been, and how unfit
Heidi was as a companion for Clara; she really did not know what
to be about, or how to undo the mischief, and it made her all
the more angry that she herself was responsible for it, having
consented to Heidi being fetched. She ran backwards and forwards
in a state of agitation between the study and the dining-room,
and then began scolding Sebastian, who was standing looking at
the table he had just finished laying to see that nothing was
missing.
"You can finish your thoughts to-morrow morning; make haste, or
we shall get no dinner to-day at all."
Then hurrying out she called Tinette, but in such an illtempered
voice that the maid came tripping forward with even more
mincing steps than usual, but she looked so pert that even
Fraulein Rottenmeier did not venture to scold her, which only
made her suppressed anger the greater.
"See that the room is prepared for the little girl who has just
arrived," said the lady, with a violent effort at self-control.
"Everything is ready; it only wants dusting."
"It's worth my troubling about," said Tinette mockingly as she
turned away.
Meanwhile Sebastian had flung open the folding doors leading
into the dining-room with rather more noise than he need, for he
was feeling furious, although he did not dare answer back when
Fraulein Rottenmeier spoke to him; he then went up to Clara's
chair to wheel her into the next room. As he was arranging the
handle at the back preparatory to doing so, Heidi went near and
stood staring at him. Seeing her eyes fixed upon him, he
suddenly growled out, "Well, what is there in me to stare at like
that?" which he would certainly not have done if he had been
aware that Fraulein Rottenmeier was just then entering the room.
"You look so like Peter," answered Heidi. The lady-housekeeper
clasped her hands in horror. "Is it possible!" she stammered halfaloud,
"she is now addressing the servant as if he were a friend!
I never could have imagined such a child!"
Sebastian wheeled the couch into the dining-room and helped
Clara on to her chair. Fraulein Rottenmeier took the seat beside
her and made a sign to Heidi to take the one opposite. They were
the only three at table, and as they sat far apart there was
plenty of room for Sebastian to hand his dishes. Beside Heidi's
plate lay a nice white roll, and her eyes lighted up with
pleasure as she saw it. The resemblance which Heidi had noticed
had evidently awakened in her a feeling of confidence towards
Sebastian, for she sat as still as a mouse and without moving
until he came up to her side and handed her the dish of fish;
then she looked at the roll and asked, "Can I have it?" Sebastian
nodded, throwing a side glance at Fraulein Rottenmeier to see
what effect this request would have upon her. Heidi immediately
seized the roll and put it in her pocket. Sebastian's face became
convulsed, he was overcome with inward laughter but knew his
place too well to laugh aloud. Mute and motionless he still
remained standing beside Heidi; it was not his duty to speak, nor
to move away until she had helped herself. Heidi looked
wonderingly at him for a minute or two, and then said, "Am I to
eat some of that too?" Sebastian nodded again. "Give me some
then," she said, looking calmly at her plate. At this Sebastian's
command of his countenance became doubtful, and the dish began to
tremble suspiciously in his hands.
"You can put the dish on the table and come back presently,"
said Fraulein Rottenmeier with a severe expression of face.
Sebastian disappeared on the spot. "As for you, Adelaide, I see I
shall have to teach you the first rules of behavior," continued
the lady-housekeeper with a sigh. "I will begin by explaining to
you how you are to conduct yourself at table," and she went on to
give Heidi minute instructions as to all she was to do. "And
now," she continued, "I must make you particularly understand
that you are not to speak to Sebastian at table, or at any other
time, unless you have an order to give him, or a necessary
question to put to him; and then you are not to address him as
if he was some one belonging to you. Never let me hear you speak
to him in that way again! It is the same with Tinette, and for
myself you are to address me as you hear others doing. Clara
must herself decide what you are to call her."
"Why, Clara, of course," put the latter. Then followed a long
list of rules as to general behavior, getting up and going to
bed, going in and out of the room, shutting the doors, keeping
everything tidy, during the course of which Heidi's eyes
gradually closed, for she had been up before five o'clock that
morning and had had a long journey. She leant back in her chair
and fell fast asleep. Fraulein Rottenmeier having at last come
to the end of her sermonizing said, "Now remember what I have
said, Adelaide! Have you understood it all?"
"Heidi has been asleep for ever so long," said Clara, her face
rippling all over with amusement, for she had not had such an
entertaining dinner for a long time.
"It is really insupportable what one has to go through with this
child," exclaimed Fraulein Rottenmeier, in great indignation,
and she rang the bell so violently that Tinette and Sebastian
both came running in and nearly tumbling over one another; but no
noise was sufficient to wake Heidi, and it was with difficulty
they could rouse her sufficiently to get her along to her
bedroom, to reach which she had to pass first through the study,
then through Clara's bedroom, then through Fraulein
Rottenmeier's sitting-room, till she came to the corner room that
had been set apart for her.
CHAPTER VII. FRAULEIN ROTTENMEIER SPENDS AN UNCOMFORTABLE DAY
When Heidi opened her eyes on her first morning in Frankfurt she
could not think where she was. Then she rubbed them and looked
about her. She was sitting up in a high white bed, on one side
of a large, wide room, into which the light was falling through
very, very long white curtains; near the window stood two chairs
covered with large flowers, and then came a sofa with the same
flowers, in front of which was a round table; in the corner was
a washstand, with things upon it that Heidi had never seen in her
life before. But now all at once she remembered that she was in
Frankfurt; everything that had happened the day before came back
to her, and finally she recalled clearly the instructions that
had been given her by the lady-housekeeper, as far as she had
heard them. Heidi jumped out of bed and dressed herself; then
she ran first to one window and then another; she wanted to see
the sky and country outside; she felt like a bird in a cage
behind those great curtains. But they were too heavy for her to
put aside, so she crept underneath them to get to the window. But
these again were so high that she could only just get her head
above the sill to peer out. Even then she could not see what she
longed for. In vain she went first to one and then the other of
the windows--she could see nothing but walls and windows and
again walls and windows. Heidi felt quite frightened. It was
still early, for Heidi was accustomed to get up early and run
out at once to see how everything was looking, if the sky was
blue and if the sun was already above the mountains, or if the
fir trees were waving and the flowers had opened their eyes. As a
bird, when it first finds itself in its bright new cage, darts
hither and thither, trying the bars in turn to see if it cannot
get through them and fly again into the open, so Heidi continued
to run backwards and forwards, trying to open first one and then
the other of the windows, for she felt she could not bear to see
nothing but walls and windows, and somewhere outside there must
be the green grass, and the last unmelted snows on the mountain
slopes, which Heidi so longed to see. But the windows remained
immovable, try what Heidi would to open them, even endeavoring
to push her little fingers under them to lift them up; but it was
all no use. When after a while Heidi saw that her efforts were
fruitless, she gave up trying, and began to think whether she
would not go out and round the house till she came to the grass,
but then she remembered that the night before she had only seen
stones in front of the house. At that moment a knock came to the
door, and immediately after Tinette put her head inside and
said, "Breakfast is ready." Heidi had no idea what an invitation
so worded meant, and Tinette's face did not encourage any
questioning on Heidi's part, but rather the reverse. Heidi was
sharp enough to read its expression, and acted accordingly. So
she drew the little stool out from under the table, put it in
the corner and sat down upon it, and there silently awaited what
would happen next. Shortly after, with a good deal of rustling
and bustling Fraulein Rottenmeier appeared, who again seemed
very much put out and called to Heidi, "What is the matter with
you, Adelheid? Don't you understand what breakfast is? Come along
at once!"
Heidi had no difficulty in understanding now and followed at
once. Clara had been some time at the breakfast table and she
gave Heidi a kindly greeting, her face looking considerably more
cheerful than usual, for she looked forward to all kinds of new
things happening again that day. Breakfast passed off quietly;
Heidi ate her bread and butter in a perfectly correct manner,
and when the meal was over and Clara wheeled back into the study,
Fraulein Rottenmeier told her to follow and remain with Clara
until the tutor should arrive and lessons begin.
As soon as the children were alone again, Heidi asked, "How can
one see out from here, and look right down on to the ground?"
"You must open the window and look out," replied Clara amused.
"But the windows won't open," responded Heidi sadly.
"Yes, they will," Clara assured her. "You cannot open them, nor
I either, but when you see Sebastian you can ask him to open
one."
It was a great relief to Heidi to know that the windows could be
opened and that one could look out, for she still felt as if she
was shut up in prison. Clara now began to ask her questions
about her home, and Heidi was delighted to tell her all about the
mountain and the goats, and the flowery meadows which were so
dear to her.
Meanwhile her tutor had arrived; Fraulein Rottenmeier, however,
did not bring him straight into the study but drew him first
aside into the dining-room, where she poured forth her troubles
and explained to him the awkward position in which she was
placed, and how it had all come about. It appeared that she had
written some time back to Herr Sesemann to tell him that his
daughter very much wished to have a companion, and had added how
desirable she thought it herself, as it would be a spur to Clara
at her lessons and an amusement for her in her playtime.
Fraulein Rottenmeier had privately wished for this arrangement on
her own behalf, as it would relieve her from having always to
entertain the sick girl herself, which she felt at times was too
much for her. The father had answered that he was quite willing
to let his daughter have a companion, provided she was treated in
every way like his own child, as he would not have any child
tormented or put upon which was a very unnecessary remark," put
in Fraulein Rottenmeier, "for who wants to torment children!" But
now she went on to explain how dreadfully she had been taken in
about the child, and related all the unimaginable things of which
she had already been guilty, so that not only would he have to
begin with teaching her the A B C, but would have to start with
the most rudimentary instruction as regarded everything to do
with daily life. She could see only one way out of this
disastrous state of affairs, and that was for the tutor to
declare that it was impossible for the two to learn together
without detriment to Clara, who was so far ahead of the other;
that would be a valid excuse for getting rid of the child, and
Herr Sesemann would be sure to agree to the child being sent home
again, but she dared not do this without his order, since he was
aware that by this time the companion had arrived. But the tutor
was a cautious man and not inclined to take a partial view of
matters. He tried to calm Fraulein Rottenmeier, and gave it as
his opinion that if the little girl was backward in some things
she was probably advanced in others, and a little regular
teaching would soon set the balance right. When Fraulein
Rottenmeier saw that he was not ready to support her, and
evidently quite ready to undertake teaching the alphabet, she
opened the study door, which she quickly shut again as soon as he
had gone through, remaining on the other side herself, for she
had a perfect horror of the A B C. She walked up and down the
dining-room, thinking over in her own mind how the servants were
to be told to address Adelaide. The father had written that she
was to be treated exactly like his own daughter, and this would
especially refer, she imagined, to the servants. She was not
allowed, however, a very long interval of time for consideration,
for suddenly the sound of a frightful crash was heard in the
study, followed by frantic cries for Sebastian. She rushed into
the room. There on the floor lay in a confused heap, books,
exercise-books, inkstand, and other articles with the table-cloth
on the top, while from beneath them a dark stream of ink was
flowing all across the floor. Heidi had disappeared.
"Here's a state of things!" exclaimed Fraulein Rottenmeier,
wringing her hands. "Table-cloth, books, work-basket, everything
lying in the ink! It was that unfortunate child, I suppose!"
The tutor was standing looking down at the havoc in distress;
there was certainly only one view to be taken of such a matter
as this and that an unfavorable one. Clara meanwhile appeared to
find pleasure in such an unusual event and in watching the
results. "Yes, Heidi did it," she explained, "but quite by
accident; she must on no account be punished; she jumped up in
such violent haste to get away that she dragged the tablecloth
along with her, and so everything went over. There were a number
of vehicles passing, that is why she rushed off like that;
perhaps she has never seen a carriage."
"Is it not as I said? She has not the smallest notion about
anything! not the slightest idea that she ought to sit still and
listen while her lessons are going on. But where is the child
who has caused all this trouble? Surely she has not run away!
What would Herr Sesemann say to me?" She ran out of the room and
down the stairs. There, at the bottom, standing in the open doorway,
was Heidi, looking in amazement up and down the street.
"What are you doing? What are you thinking of to run away like
that?" called Fraulein Rottenmeier.
"I heard the sound of the fir trees, but I cannot see where they
are, and now I cannot hear them any more," answered Heidi,
looking disappointedly in the direction whence the noise of the
passing carriages had reached her, and which to Heidi had seemed
like the blowing of the south wind in the trees, so that in
great joy of heart she had rushed out to look at them.
"Fir trees! do you suppose we are in a wood? What ridiculous
ideas are these? Come upstairs and see the mischief you have
done!"
Heidi turned and followed Fraulein Rottenmeier upstairs; she was
quite astonished to see the disaster she had caused, for in her
joy and haste to get to the fir trees she had been unaware of
having dragged everything after her.
"I excuse you doing this as it is the first time, but do not let
me know you doing it a second time," said Fraulein Rottenmeier,
pointing to the floor. "During your lesson time you are to sit
still and attend. If you cannot do this I shall have to tie you
to your chair. Do you understand?"
"Yes," replied Heidi, "but I will certainly not move again," for
now she understood that it was a rule to sit still while she was
being taught.
Sebastian and Tinette were now sent for to clear up the broken
articles and put things in order again; the tutor said goodmorning
and left, as it was impossible to do any more lessons
that day; there had been certainly no time for gaping this
morning.
Clara had to rest for a certain time during the afternoon, and
during this interval, as Fraulein Rottenmeier informed Heidi,
the latter might amuse herself as she liked. When Clara had been
placed on her couch after dinner, and the lady-housekeeper had
retired to her room, Heidi knew that her time had come to choose
her own occupation. It was just what she was longing for, as
there was something she had made up her mind to do; but she
would require some help for its accomplishment, and in view of
this she took her stand in the hall in front of the dining-room
door in order to intercept the person she wanted. In a few
minutes up came Sebastian from the kitchen with a tray of silver
tea-things, which he had to put away in the dining-room cupboard.
As he reached the top stairs Heidi went up to him and addressed
him in the formal manner she had been ordered to use by Fraulein
Rottenmeier.
Sebastian looked surprised and said somewhat curtly, "What is it
you want, miss?"
"I only wished to ask you something, but it is nothing bad like
this morning," said Heidi, anxious to conciliate him, for she
saw that Sebastian was rather in a cross temper, and quite
thought that it was on account of the ink she had spilt on the
floor.
"Indeed, and why, I should first like to know, do you address me
like that?" replied Sebastian, evidently still put out.
"Fraulein Rottenmeier told me always to speak to you like that,"
said Heidi.
Then Sebastian laughed, which very much astonished Heidi, who
had seen nothing amusing in the conversation, but Sebastian, now
he understood that the child was only obeying orders, added in a
friendly voice, "What is it then that miss wants?"
It was now Heidi's turn to be a little put out, and she said,
"My name is not miss, it is Heidi."
"Quite so, but the same lady has ordered me to call you miss,"
explained Sebastian.
"Has she? oh, then I must be called so," said Heidi
submissively, for she had already noticed that whatever Fraulein
Rottenmeier said was law. "Then now I have three names," she
added with a sigh.
"What was it little miss wished to ask?" said Sebastian as he
went on into the dining-room to put away his silver.
"How can a window be opened?"
"Why, like that!" and Sebastian flung up one of the large
windows.
Heidi ran to it, but she was not tall enough to see out, for her
head only reached the sill.
"There, now miss can look out and see what is going on below,"
said Sebastian as he brought her a high wooden stool to stand
on.
Heidi climbed up, and at last, as she thought, was going to see
what she had been longing for. But she drew back her head with a
look of great disappointment on her face.
"Why, there is nothing outside but the stony streets," she said
mournfully; "but if I went right round to the other side of the
house what should I see there, Sebastian?"
"Nothing but what you see here," he told her.
"Then where can I go to see right away over the whole valley?"
"You would have to climb to the top of a high tower, a church
tower, like that one over there with the gold ball above it.
From there you can see right away ever so far."
Heidi climbed down quickly from her stool, ran to the door, down
the steps and out into the street. Things were not, however,
quite so easy as she thought. Looking from the window the tower
had appeared so close that she imagined she had only to run over
the road to reach it. But now, although she ran along the whole
length of the street, she still did not get any nearer to it,
and indeed soon lost sight of it altogether; she turned down
another street, and went on and on, but still no tower. She
passed a great many people, but they all seemed in such a hurry
that Heidi thought they had not time to tell her which way to go.
Then suddenly at one of the street corners she saw a boy
standing, carrying a hand-organ on his back and a funny-looking
animal on his arm. Heidi ran up to him and said, "Where is the
tower with the gold ball on the top?"
"I don't know," was the answer.
"Who can I ask to show me?" she asked again.
"I don't know."
"Do you know any other church with a high tower?"
"Yes, I know one."
"Come then and show it me."
"Show me first what you will give me for it," and the boy held
out his hand as he spoke. Heidi searched about in her pockets
and presently drew out a card on which was painted a garland of
beautiful red roses; she looked at it first for a moment or two,
for she felt rather sorry to part with it; Clara had only that
morning made her a present of it--but then, to look down into
the valley and see all the lovely green slopes! "There," said
Heidi, holding out the card, "would you like to have that?"
The boy drew back his hand and shook his head.
"What would you like then?" asked Heidi, not sorry to put the
card back in her pocket.
"Money."
"I have none, but Clara has; I am sure she will give me some;
how much do you want?"
"Twopence."
"Come along then."
They started off together along the street, and on the way Heidi
asked her companion what he was carrying on his back; it was a
hand-organ, he told her, which played beautiful music when he
turned the handle. All at once they found themselves in front of
an old church with a high tower; the boy stood still, and said,
"There it is."
"But how shall I get inside?" asked Heidi, looking at the fast
closed doors.
"I don't know," was the answer.
"Do you think that I can ring as they do for Sebastian?"
"I don't know."
Heidi had by this time caught sight of a bell in the wall which
she now pulled with all her might. "If I go up you must stay
down here, for I do not know the way back, and you will have to
show me."
"What will you give me then for that?"
"What do you want me to give you?"
"Another twopence."
They heard the key turning inside, and then some one pulled open
the heavy creaking door; an old man came out and at first looked
with surprise and then in anger at the children, as he began
scolding them: "What do you mean by ringing me down like this?
Can't you read what is written over the bell, 'For those who
wish to go up the tower'?"
The boy said nothing but pointed his finger at Heidi. The latter
answered, "But I do want to go up the tower."
"What do you want up there?" said the old man. "Has somebody
sent you?"
"No," replied Heidi, "I only wanted to go up that I might look
down."
"Get along home with you and don't try this trick on me again,
or you may not come off so easily a second time," and with that
he turned and was about to shut the door. But Heidi took hold of
his coat and said beseechingly, "Let me go up, just once."
He looked around, and his mood changed as he saw her pleading
eyes; he took hold of her hand and said kindly, "Well, if you
really wish it so much, I will take you."
The boy sat down on the church steps to show that he was content
to wait where he was.
Hand in hand with the old man Heidi went up the many steps of
the tower; they became smaller and smaller as they neared the
top, and at last came one very narrow one, and there they were at
the end of their climb. The old man lifted Heidi up that she
might look out of the open window.
"There, now you can look down," he said.
Heidi saw beneath her a sea of roofs, towers, and chimney-pots;
she quickly drew back her head and said in a sad, disappointed
voice, "It is not at all what I thought."
"You see now, a child like you does not understand anything
about a view! Come along down and don't go ringing at my bell
again!"
He lifted her down and went on before her down the narrow
stairway. To the left of the turn where it grew wider stood the
door of the tower-keeper's room, and the landing ran out beside
it to the edge of the steep slanting roof. At the far end of
this was a large basket, in front of which sat a big grey cat,
that snarled as it saw them, for she wished to warn the passersby
that they were not to meddle with her family. Heidi stood
still and looked at her in astonishment, for she had never seen
such a monster cat before; there were whole armies of mice,
however, in the old tower, so the cat had no difficulty in
catching half a dozen for her dinner every day. The old man
seeing Heidi so struck with admiration said, "She will not hurt
you while I am near; come, you can have a peep at the kittens."
Heidi went up to the basket and broke out into expressions of
delight.
"Oh, the sweet little things! the darling kittens," she kept on
saying, as she jumped from side to side of the basket so as, not
to lose any of the droll gambols of the seven or eight little
kittens that were scrambling and rolling and falling over one
another.
"Would you like to have one?" said the old man, who enjoyed
watching the child's pleasure.
"For myself to keep?" said Heidi excitedly, who could hardly
believe such happiness was to be hers.
"Yes, of course, more than one if you like--in short, you can
take away the whole lot if you have room for them," for the old
man was only too glad to think he could get rid of his kittens
without more trouble.
Heidi could hardly contain herself for joy. There would be
plenty of room for them in the large house, and then how
astonished and delighted Clara would be when she saw the sweet
little kittens.
"But how can I take them with me?" asked Heidi, and was going
quickly to see how many she could carry away in her hands, when
the old cat sprang at her so fiercely that she shrank back in
fear.
"I will take them for you if you will tell me where," said the
old man, stroking the cat to quiet her, for she was an old
friend of his that had lived with him in the tower for many
years.
"To Herr Sesemann's, the big house where there is a gold dog's
head on the door, with a ring in its mouth," explained Heidi.
Such full directions as these were not really needed by the old
man, who had had charge of the tower for many a long year and
knew every house far and near, and moreover Sebastian was an
acquaintance of his.
"I know the house," he said, "but when shall I bring them, and
who shall I ask for?--you are not one of the family, I am sure."
"No, but Clara will be so delighted when I take her the
kittens."
The old man wished now to go downstairs, but Heidi did not know
how to tear herself away from the amusing spectacle.
"If I could just take one or two away with me! one for myself
and one for Clara, may I?"
"Well, wait a moment," said the man, and he drew the cat
cautiously away into his room, and leaving her by a bowl of food
came out again and shut the door. "Now take two of them."
Heidi's eyes shone with delight. She picked up a white kitten
and another striped white and yellow, and put one in the right,
the other in the left pocket. Then she went downstairs. The boy
was still sitting outside on the steps, and as the old man shut
the door of the church behind them, she said, "Which is our way
to Herr Sesemann's house?"
"I don't know," was the answer.
Heidi began a description of the front door and the steps and
the windows, but the boy only shook his head, and was not any the
wiser.
"Well, look here," continued Heidi, "from one window you can see
a very, very large grey house, and the roof runs like this--"
and Heidi drew a zigzag line in the air with her forefinger.
With this the boy jumped up, he was evidently in the habit of
guiding himself by similar landmarks. He ran straight off with
Heidi after him, and in a very short time they had reached the
door with the large dog's head for the knocker. Heidi rang the
bell. Sebastian opened it quickly, and when he saw it was Heidi,
"Make haste! make haste," he cried in a hurried voice.
Heidi sprang hastily in and Sebastian shut the door after her,
leaving the boy, whom he had not noticed, standing in wonder on
the steps.
"Make haste, little miss," said Sebastian again; "go straight
into the dining-room, they are already at table; Fraulein
Rottenmeier looks like a loaded cannon. What could make the
little miss run off like that?"
Heidi walked into the room. The lady housekeeper did not look
up, Clara did not speak; there was an uncomfortable silence.
Sebastian pushed her chair up for her, and when she was seated
Fraulein Rottenmeier, with a severe countenance, sternly and
solemnly addressed her: "I will speak with you afterwards,
Adelheid, only this much will I now say, that you behaved in a
most unmannerly and reprehensible way by running out of the
house as you did, without asking permission, without any one
knowing a word about it; and then to go wandering about till this
hour; I never heard of such behavior before."
"Miau!" came the answer back.
This was too much for the lady's temper; with raised voice she
exclaimed, "You dare, Adelheid, after your bad behavior, to
answer me as if it were a joke?"
"I did not--" began Heidi--"Miau! miau!"
Sebastian almost dropped his dish and rushed out of the room.
"That will do," Fraulein Rottenmeier tried to say, but her voice
was almost stifled with anger. "Get up and leave the room."
Heidi stood up frightened, and again made an attempt to explain.
"I really did not--" "Miau! miau! miau!"
"But, Heidi," now put in Clara, "when you see that it makes
Fraulein Rottenmeier angry, why do you keep on saying miau?"
"It isn't I, it's the kittens," Heidi was at last given time to
say.
"How! what! kittens!" shrieked Fraulein Rottenmeier. "Sebastian!
Tinette! Find the horrid little things! take them away!" And she
rose and fled into the study and locked the door, so as to make
sure that she was safe from the kittens, which to her were the
most horrible things in creation.
Sebastian was obliged to wait a few minutes outside the door to
get over his laughter before he went into the room again. He
had, while serving Heidi, caught sight of a little kitten's head
peeping out of her pocket, and guessing the scene that would
follow, had been so overcome with amusement at the first miaus
that he had hardly been able to finish handing the dishes. The
lady's distressed cries for help had ceased before he had
sufficiently regained his composure to go back into the diningroom.
It was all peace and quietness there now, Clara had the
kittens on her lap, and Heidi was kneeling beside her, both
laughing and playing with the tiny, graceful little animals.
"Sebastian," exclaimed Clara as he came in, "you must help us;
you must find a bed for the kittens where Fraulein Rottenmeier
will not spy them out, for she is so afraid of them that she
will send them away at once; but we want to keep them, and have
them out whenever we are alone. Where can you put them?"
"I will see to that," answered Sebastian willingly. "I will make
a bed in a basket and put it in some place where the lady is not
likely to go; you leave it to me." He set about the work at
once, sniggling to himself the while, for he guessed there would
be a further rumpus about this some day, and Sebastian was not
without a certain pleasure in the thought of Fraulein Rottenmeier
being a little disturbed.
Not until some time had elapsed, and it was nearing the hour for
going to bed, did Fraulein Rottenmeier venture to open the door
a crack and call through, "Have you taken those dreadful little
animals away, Sebastian?"
He assured her twice that he had done so; he had been hanging
about the room in anticipation of this question, and now quickly
and quietly caught up the kittens from Clara's lap and
disappeared with them.
The castigatory sermon which Fraulein Rottenmeier had held in
reserve for Heidi was put off till the following day, as she
felt too exhausted now after all the emotions she had gone
through of irritation, anger, and fright, of which Heidi had
unconsciously been the cause. She retired without speaking, Clara
and Heidi following, happy in their minds at knowing that the
kittens were lying in a comfortable bed.
CHAPTER VIII. THERE IS GREAT COMMOTION IN THE LARGE HOUSE
Sebastian had just shown the tutor into the study on the
following morning when there came another and very loud ring at
the bell, which Sebastian ran quickly to answer. "Only Herr
Sesemann rings like that," he said to himself; "he must have
returned home unexpectedly." He pulled open the door, and there
in front of him he saw a ragged little boy carrying a hand-organ
on his back.
"What's the meaning of this?" said Sebastian angrily. "I'll
teach you to ring bells like that! What do you want here?"
"I want to see Clara," the boy answered.
"You dirty, good-for-nothing little rascal, can't you be polite
enough to say 'Miss Clara'? What do you want with her?"
continued Sebastian roughly. "She owes me fourpence," explained
the boy.
"You must be out of your mind! And how do you know that any
young lady of that name lives here?"
"She owes me twopence for showing her the way there, and
twopence for showing her the way back."
"See what a pack of lies you are telling! The young lady never
goes out, cannot even walk; be off and get back to where you
came from, before I have to help you along."
But the boy was not to be frightened away; he remained standing,
and said in a determined voice, "But I saw her in the street,
and can describe her to you; she has short, curly black hair, and
black eyes, and wears a brown dress, and does not talk quite
like we do."
"Oho!" thought Sebastian, laughing to himself, "the little miss
has evidently been up to more mischief." Then, drawing the boy
inside he said aloud, "I understand now, come with me and wait
outside the door till I tell you to go in. Be sure you begin
playing your organ the instant you get inside the room; the lady
is very fond of music."
Sebastian knocked at the study door, and a voice said, "Come
in."
"There is a boy outside who says he must speak to Miss Clara
herself," Sebastian announced.
Clara was delighted at such an extraordinary and unexpected
message.
"Let him come in at once," replied Clara; "he must come in, must
he not," she added, turning to her tutor, "if he wishes so
particularly to see me?"
The boy was already inside the room, and according to
Sebastian's directions immediately began to play his organ.
Fraulein Rottenmeier, wishing to escape the A B C, had retired
with her work to the dining-room. All at once she stopped and
listened. Did those sounds come up from the street? And yet they
seemed so near! But how could there be an organ playing in the
study? And yet--it surely was so. She rushed to the other end of
the long dining-room and tore open the door. She could hardly
believe her eyes. There, in the middle of the study, stood a
ragged boy turning away at his organ in the most energetic
manner. The tutor appeared to be making efforts to speak, but his
voice could not be heard. Both children were listening
delightedly to the music.
"Leave off! leave off at once!" screamed Fraulein Rottenmeier.
But her voice was drowned by the music. She was making a dash
for the boy, when she saw something on the ground crawling
towards her feet--a dreadful dark object--a tortoise. At this
sight she jumped higher than she had for many long years before,
shrieking with all her might, "Sebastian! Sebastian!"
The organ-player suddenly stopped, for this time her voice had
risen louder than the music. Sebastian was standing outside bent
double with laughter, for he had been peeping to see what was
going on. By the time he entered the room Fraulein Rottenmeier
had sunk into a chair.
"Take them all out, boy and animal! Get them away at once!" she
commanded him.
Sebastian pulled the boy away, the latter having quickly caught
up the tortoise, and when he had got him outside he put
something into his hand. "There is the fourpence from Miss Clara,
and another fourpence for the music. You did it all quite right!"
and with that he shut the front door upon him.
Quietness reigned again in the study, and lessons began once
more; Fraulein Rottenmeier now took up her station in the study
in order by her presence to prevent any further dreadful goingson.
But soon another knock came to the door, and Sebastian again
stepped in, this time to say that some one had brought a large
basket with orders that it was to be given at once to Miss
Clara.
"For me?" said Clara in astonishment, her curiosity very much
excited, "bring it in at once that I may see what it is like."
Sebastian carried in a large covered basket and retired.
"I think the lessons had better be finished first before the
basket is unpacked," said Fraulein Rottenmeier.
Clara could not conceive what was in it, and cast longing
glances towards it. In the middle of one of her declensions she
suddenly broke off and said to the tutor, "Mayn't I just give one
peep inside to see what is in it before I go on?"
"On some considerations I am for it, on others against it," he
began in answer; "for it, on the ground that if your whole
attention is directed to the basket--" but the speech remained
unfinished. The cover of the basket was loose, and at this
moment one, two, three, and then two more, and again more kittens
came suddenly tumbling on to the floor and racing about the room
in every direction, and with such indescribable rapidity that it
seemed as if the whole room was full of them. They jumped over
the tutor's boots, bit at his trousers, climbed up Fraulein
Rottenmeier's dress, rolled about her feet, sprang up on to
Clara's couch, scratching, scrambling, and mewing: it was a sad
scene of confusion. Clara, meanwhile, pleased with their
gambols, kept on exclaiming, "Oh, the dear little things! how
pretty they are! Look, Heidi, at this one; look, look, at that
one over there!" And Heidi in her delight kept running after them
first into one corner and then into the other. The tutor stood up
by the table not knowing what to do, lifting first his right foot
and then his left to get it away from the scrambling, scratching
kittens. Fraulein Rottenmeier was unable at first to speak at
all, so overcome was she with horror, and she did not dare rise
from her chair for fear that all the dreadful little animals
should jump upon her at once. At last she found voice to call
loudly, "Tinette! Tinette! Sebastian! Sebastian!"
They came in answer to her summons and gathered up the kittens,
by degrees they got them all inside the basket again and then
carried them off to put with the other two.
To-day again there had been no opportunity for gaping. Late that
evening, when Fraulein Rottenmeier had somewhat recovered from
the excitement of the morning, she sent for the two servants,
and examined them closely concerning the events of the morning.
And then it came out that Heidi was at the bottom of them,
everything being the result of her excursion of the day before.
Fraulein Rottenmeier sat pale with indignation and did not know
at first how to express her anger. Then she made a sign to
Tinette and Sebastian to withdraw, and turning to Heidi, who was
standing by Clara's couch, quite unable to understand of what sin
she had been guilty, began in a severe voice,--
"Adelaide, I know of only one punishment which will perhaps make
you alive to your ill conduct, for you are an utter little
barbarian, but we will see if we cannot tame you so that you
shall not be guilty of such deeds again, by putting you in a
dark cellar with the rats and black beetles."
Heidi listened in silence and surprise to her sentence, for she
had never seen a cellar such as was now described; the place
known at her grandfather's as the cellar, where the fresh made
cheeses and the new milk were kept, was a pleasant and inviting
place; neither did she know at all what rats and black beetles
were like.
But now Clara interrupted in great distress. "No, no, Fraulein
Rottenmeier, you must wait till papa comes; he has written to
say that he will soon be home, and then I will tell him
everything, and he will say what is to be done with Heidi."
Fraulein Rottenmeier could not do anything against this superior
authority, especially as the father was really expected very
shortly. She rose and said with some displeasure, "As you will,
Clara, but I too shall have something to say to Herr Sesemann."
And with that she left the room.
Two days now went by without further disturbance. Fraulein
Rottenmeier, however, could not recover her equanimity; she was
perpetually reminded by Heidi's presence of the deception that
had been played upon her, and it seemed to her that ever since
the child had come into the house everything had been topsyturvy,
and she could not bring things into proper order again.
Clara had grown much more cheerful; she no longer found time hang
heavy during the lesson hours, for Heidi was continually making a
diversion of some kind or other. She jumbled all her letters up
together and seemed quite unable to learn them, and when the
tutor tried to draw her attention to their different shapes, and
to help her by showing her that this was like a little horn, or
that like a bird's bill, she would suddenly exclaim in a joyful
voice, "That is a goat!" "That is a bird of prey!" For the
tutor's descriptions suggested all kinds of pictures to her mind,
but left her still incapable of the alphabet. In the later
afternoons Heidi always sat with Clara, and then she would give
the latter many and long descriptions of the mountain and of her
life upon it, and the burning longing to return would become so
overpowering that she always finished with the words, "Now I must
go home! to-morrow I must really go!" But Clara would try to
quiet her, and tell Heidi that she must wait till her father
returned, and then they would see what was to be done. And if
Heidi gave in each time and seemed quickly to regain her good
spirits, it was because of a secret delight she had in the
thought that every day added two more white rolls to the number
she was collecting for grandmother; for she always pocketed the
roll placed beside her plate at dinner and supper, feeling that
she could not bear to eat them, knowing that grandmother had no
white bread and could hardly eat the black bread which was so
hard. After dinner Heidi had to sit alone in her room for a
couple of hours, for she understood now that she might not run
about outside at Frankfurt as she did on the mountain, and so she
did not attempt it. Any conversation with Sebastian in the diningroom
was also forbidden her, and as to Tinette, she kept out of
her way, and never thought of speaking to her, for Heidi was
quite aware that the maid looked scornfully at her and always
spoke to her in a mocking voice. So Heidi had plenty of time from
day to day to sit and picture how everything at home was now
turning green, and how the yellow flowers were shining in the
sun, and how all around lay bright in the warm sunshine, the snow
and the rocks, and the whole wide valley, and Heidi at times
could hardly contain herself for the longing to be back home
again. And Dete had told her that she could go home whenever she
liked. So it came about one day that Heidi felt she could not
bear it any longer, and in haste she tied all the rolls up in her
red shawl, put on her straw hat, and went downstairs. But just as
she reached the hall-door she met Fraulein Rottenmeier herself,
just returning from a walk, which put a stop to Heidi's journey.
Fraulein Rottenmeier stood still a moment, looking at her from
top to toe in blank astonishment, her eye resting particularly
on the red bundle. Then she broke out,--
"What have you dressed yourself like that for? What do you mean
by this? Have I not strictly forbidden you to go running about
in the streets? And here you are ready to start off again, and
going out looking like a beggar."
"I was not going to run about, I was going home," said Heidi,
frightened.
"What are you talking about! Going home! You want to go home?"
exclaimed Fraulein Rottenmeier, her anger rising. "To run away
like that! What would Herr Sesemann say if he knew! Take care
that he never hears of this! And what is the matter with his
house, I should like to know! Have you not been better treated
than you deserved? Have you wanted for a thing? Have you ever in
your life before had such a house to live in, such a table, or
so many to wait upon you? Have you?"
"No," replied Heidi.
"I should think not indeed!" continued the exasperated lady.
"You have everything you can possibly want here, and you are an
ungrateful little thing; it's because you are too well off and
comfortable that you have nothing to do but think what naughty
thing you can do next!"
Then Heidi's feelings got the better of her, and she poured
forth her trouble. "Indeed I only want to go home, for if I stay
so long away Snowflake will begin crying again, and grandmother
is waiting for me, and Greenfinch will get beaten, because I am
not there to give Peter any cheese, and I can never see how the
sun says good-night to the mountains; and if the great bird were
to fly over Frankfurt he would croak louder than ever about
people huddling all together and teaching each other bad things,
and not going to live up on the rocks, where it is so much
better."
"Heaven have mercy on us, the child is out of her mind!" cried
Fraulein Rottenmeier, and she turned in terror and went quickly
up the steps, running violently against Sebastian in her hurry.
"Go and bring that unhappy little creature in at once," she
ordered him, putting her hand to her forehead which she had
bumped against his.
Sebastian did as he was told, rubbing his own head as he went,
for he had received a still harder blow.
Heidi had not moved, she stood with her eyes aflame and
trembling all over with inward agitation.
"What, got into trouble again?" said Sebastian in a cheerful
voice; but when he looked more closely at Heidi and saw that she
did not move, he put his hand kindly on her shoulder, and said,
trying to comfort her, "There, there, don't take it to heart so
much; keep up your spirits, that is the great thing! She has
nearly made a hole in my head, but don't you let her bully you."
Then seeing that Heidi still did not stir, "We must go; she
ordered me to take you in."
Heidi now began mounting the stairs, but with a slow, crawling
step, very unlike her usual manner. Sebastian felt quite sad as
he watched her, and as he followed her up he kept trying to
encourage her. "Don't you give in! don't let her make you
unhappy! You keep up your courage! Why we've got such a sensible
little miss that she has never cried once since she was here;
many at that age cry a good dozen times a day. The kittens are
enjoying themselves very much up in their home; they jump about
all over the place and behave as if they were little mad things.
Later we will go up and see them, when Fraulein is out of the
way, shall we?"
Heidi gave a little nod of assent, but in such a joyless manner
that it went to Sebastian's heart, and he followed her with
sympathetic eyes as she crept away to her room.
At supper that evening Fraulein Rottenmeier did not speak, but
she cast watchful looks towards Heidi as if expecting her at any
minute to break out in some extraordinary way; but Heidi sat
without moving or eating; all that she did was to hastily hide
her roll in her pocket.
When the tutor arrived next morning, Fraulein Rottenmeier drew
him privately aside, and confided her fear to him that the
change of air and the new mode of life and unaccustomed
surroundings had turned Heidi's head; then she told him of the
incident of the day before, and of Heidi's strange speech. But
the tutor assured her she need not be in alarm; he had already
become aware that the child was somewhat eccentric, but otherwise
quite right in her mind, and he was sure that, with careful
treatment and education, the right balance would be restored, and
it was this he was striving after. He was the more convinced of
this by what he now heard, and by the fact that he had so far
failed to teach her the alphabet, Heidi seeming unable to
understand the letters.
Fraulein Rottenmeier was considerably relieved by his words, and
released the tutor to his work. In the course of the afternoon
the remembrance of Heidi's appearance the day before, as she was
starting out on her travels, suddenly returned to the lady, and
she made up her mind that she would supplement the child's
clothing with various garments from Clara's wardrobe, so as to
give her a decent appearance when Herr Sesemann returned. She
confided her intention to Clara, who was quite willing to make
over any number of dresses and hats to Heidi; so the lady went
upstairs to overhaul the child's belongings and see what was to
be kept and what thrown away. She returned, however, in the
course of a few minutes with an expression of horror upon her
face.
"What is this, Adelaide, that I find in your wardrobe!" she
exclaimed. "I never heard of any one doing such a thing before!
In a cupboard meant for clothes, Adelaide, what do I see at the
bottom but a heap of rolls! Will you believe it, Clara, bread in
a wardrobe! a whole pile of bread! Tinette," she called to that
young woman, who was in the dining-room," go upstairs and take
away all those rolls out of Adelaide's cupboard and the old
straw hat on the table."
"No! no!" screamed Heidi. "I must keep the hat, and the rolls
are for grandmother," and she was rushing to stop Tinette when
Fraulein Rottenmeier took hold of her. "You will stop here, and
all that bread and rubbish shall be taken to the place they
belong to," she said in a determined tone as she kept her hand
on the child to prevent her running forward.
Then Heidi in despair flung herself down on Clara's couch and
broke into a wild fit of weeping, her crying becoming louder and
more full of distress, every minute, while she kept on sobbing
out at intervals, "Now grandmother's' bread is all gone! They
were all for grandmother, and now they are taken away, and
grandmother won't have one," and she wept as if her heart would
break. Fraulein Rottenmeier ran out of the room. Clara was
distressed and alarmed at the child's crying. "Heidi, Heidi,"
she said imploringly, "pray do not cry so! listen to me; don't be
so unhappy; look now, I promise you that you shall have just as
many rolls, or more, all fresh and new to take to grandmother
when you go home; yours would have been hard and stale by then.
Come, Heidi, do not cry any more!"
Heidi could not get over her sobs for a long time; she would
never have been able to leave off crying at all if it had not
been for Clara's promise, which comforted her. But to make sure
that she could depend upon it she kept on saying to Clara, her
voice broken with her gradually subsiding sobs, "Will you give
me as many, quite as many, as I had, for grandmother?" And Clara
assured her each time that she would give her as many, "or
more," she added, "only be happy again."
Heidi appeared at supper with her eyes red with weeping, and
when she saw her roll she could not suppress a sob. But she made
an effort to control herself, for she knew she must sit quietly
at table. Whenever Sebastian could catch her eye this evening he
made all sorts of strange signs, pointing to his own head and
then to hers, and giving little nods as much as to say, "Don't
you be unhappy! I have got it all safe for you."
When Heidi was going to get into bed that night she found her
old straw hat lying under the counterpane. She snatched it up
with delight, made it more out of shape still in her joy, and
then, after wrapping a handkerchief round it, she stuck it in a
corner of the cupboard as far back as she could.
It was Sebastian who had hidden it there for her; he had been in
the dining-room when Tinette was called, and had heard all that
went on with the child and the latter's loud weeping. So he
followed Tinette, and when she came out of Heidi's room carrying
the rolls and the hat, he caught up the hat and said, "I will
see to this old thing." He was genuinely glad to have been able
to save it for Heidi, and that was the meaning of his encouraging
signs to her at supper.
CHAPTER IX. HERR SESEMANN HEARS OF THINGS WHICH ARE NEW TO HIM
A few days after these events there was great commotion and much
running up and down stairs in Herr Sesemann's house. The master
had just returned, and Sebastian and Tinette were busy carrying
up one package after another from the carriage, for Herr
Sesemann always brought back a lot of pretty things for his home.
He himself had not waited to do anything before going in to see
his daughter. Heidi was sitting beside her, for it was late
afternoon, when the two were always together. Father and
daughter greeted each other with warm affection, for they were
deeply attached to one another. Then he held out his hand to
Heidi, who had stolen away into the corner, and said kindly to
her, "And this is our little Swiss girl; come and shake hands
with me! That's right! Now, tell me, are Clara and you good
friends with one another, or do you get angry and quarrel, and
then cry and make it up, and then start quarreling again on the
next occasion?"
"No, Clara is always kind to me," answered Heidi.
"And Heidi," put in Clara quickly, "has not once tried to
quarrel."
"That's all right, I am glad to hear it," said her father, as he
rose from his chair. "But you must excuse me, Clara, for I want
my dinner; I have had nothing to eat all day. Afterwards I will
show you all the things I have brought home with me."
He found Fraulein Rottenmeier in the dining-room superintending
the preparation for his meal, and when he had taken his place
she sat down opposite to him, looking the every embodiment of bad
news, so that he turned to her and said, "What am I to expect,
Fraulein Rottenmeier? You greet me with an expression of
countenance that quite frightens me. What is the matter? Clara
seems cheerful enough."
"Herr Sesemann," began the lady in a solemn voice, "it is a
matter which concerns Clara; we have been frightfully imposed
upon."
"Indeed, in what way?" asked Herr Sesemann as he went on calmly
drinking his wine.
"We had decided, as you remember, to get a companion for Clara,
and as I knew how anxious you were to have only those who were
well-behaved and nicely brought up about her, I thought I would
look for a little Swiss girl, as I hoped to find such a one as I
have often read about, who, born as it were of the mountain air,
lives and moves without touching the earth."
"Still I think even a Swiss child would have to touch the earth
if she wanted to go anywhere," remarked Herr Sesemann,
"otherwise they would have been given wings instead of feet."
"Ah, Herr Sesemann, you know what I mean," continued Fraulein
Rottenmeier. "I mean one so at home among the living creatures
of the high, pure mountain regions, that she would be like some
idealistic being from another world among us."
"And what could Clara do with such an idealistic being as you
describe, Fraulein Rottenmeier."
"I am not joking, Herr Sesemann, the matter is a more serious
one than you think; I have been shockingly, disgracefully imposed
upon."
"But how? what is there shocking and disgraceful? I see nothing
shocking in the child," remarked Herr Sesemann quietly.
"If you only knew of one thing she has done, if you only knew of
the kind of people and animals she has brought into the house
during your absence! The tutor can tell you more about that."
"Animals? what am I to understand by animals, Fraulein
Rottenmeier?"
"It is past understanding; the whole behavior of the child would
be past understanding, if it were not that at times she is
evidently not in her right mind."
Herr Sesemann had attached very little importance to what was
told him up till now--but not in her right mind! that was more
serious and might be prejudicial to his own child. Herr Sesemann
looked very narrowly at the lady opposite to assure himself that
the mental aberration was not on her side. At that moment the
door opened and the tutor was announced.
"Ah! here is some one," exclaimed Herr Sesemann, "who will help
to clear up matters for me. Take a seat," he continued, as he
held out his hand to the tutor. "You will drink a cup of coffee
with me--no ceremony, I pray! And now tell me, what is the
matter with this child that has come to be a companion to my
daughter? What is this strange thing I hear about her bringing
animals into the house, and is she in her right senses?"
The tutor felt he must begin with expressing his pleasure at
Herr Sesemann's return, and with explaining that he had come in
on purpose to give him welcome, but Herr Sesemann begged him to
explain without delay the meaning of all he had heard about
Heidi. The tutor started in his usual style. "If I must give my
opinion about this little girl, I should like first to state
that, if on one side, there is a lack of development which has
been caused by the more or less careless way in which she has
been brought up, or rather, by the neglect of her education,
when young, and by the solitary life she has led on the mountain,
which is not wholly to be condemned; on the contrary, such a
life has undoubtedly some advantages in it, if not allowed to
overstep a certain limit of time--"
"My good friend," interrupted Herr Sesemann, "you are giving
yourself more trouble than you need. I only want to know if the
child has caused you alarm by any animals she has brought into
the house, and what your opinion is altogether as to her being a
fit companion or not for my daughter?"
"I should not like in any way to prejudice you against her,"
began the tutor once more; "for if on the one hand there is a
certain inexperience of the ways of society, owing to the
uncivilised life she led up to the time of her removal to
Frankfurt, on the other hand she is endowed with certain good
qualities, and, taken on the whole--"
"Excuse me, my dear sir, do not disturb yourself, but I must--I
think my daughter will be wanting me," and with that Herr
Sesemann quickly left the room and took care not to return. He
sat himself down beside his daughter in the study, and then
turning to Heidi, who had risen, "Little one, will you fetch
me," he began, and then paused, for he could not think what to
ask for, but he wanted to get the child out of the room for a
little while, "fetch me a glass of water."
"Fresh water?" asked Heidi.
"Yes--Yes--as fresh as you can get it," he answered. Heidi
disappeared on the spot.
"And now, my dear little Clara," he said, drawing his chair
nearer and laying her hand in his, "answer my questions clearly
and intelligibly: what kind of animals has your little companion
brought into the house, and why does Fraulein Rottenmeier think
that she is not always in her right mind?"
Clara had no difficulty in answering. The alarmed lady had
spoken to her also about Heidi's wild manner of talking, but
Clara had not been able to put a meaning to it. She told her
father everything about the tortoise and the kittens, and
explained to him what Heidi had said the day Fraulein Rottenmeier
had been put in such a fright. Herr Sesemann laughed heartily at
her recital. "So you do not want me to send the child home
again," he asked, "you are not tired of having her here?"
"Oh, no, no," Clara exclaimed, "please do not send her away.
Time has passed much more quickly since Heidi was here, for
something fresh happens every day, and it used to be so dull, and
she has always so much to tell me."
"That's all right then--and here comes your little friend. Have
you brought me some nice fresh water?" he asked as Heidi handed
him a glass.
"Yes, fresh from the pump," answered Heidi.
"You did not go yourself to the pump?" said Clara.
"Yes I did; it is quite fresh. I had to go a long way, for there
were such a lot of people at the first pump; so I went further
down the street, but there were just as many at the second pump,
but I was able to get some water at the one in the next street,
and the gentleman with the white hair asked me to give his kind
regards to Herr Sesemann."
"You have had quite a successful expedition," said Herr Sesemann
laughing, "and who was the gentleman?"
"He was passing, and when he saw me he stood still and said, 'As
you have a glass will you give me a drink; to whom are you
taking the water?' and when I said, 'To Herr Sesemann,' he
laughed very much, and then he gave me that message for you, and
also said he hoped you would enjoy the water."
"Oh, and who was it, I wonder, who sent me such good wishes--
tell me what he was like," said Herr Sesemann.
"He was kind and laughed, and he had a thick gold chain and a
gold thing hanging from it with a large red stone, and a horse's
head at the top of his stick."
"It's the doctor--my old friend the doctor," exclaimed Clara and
her father at the same moment, and Herr Sesemann smiled to
himself at the thought of what his friend's opinion must have
been of this new way of satisfying his thirst for water.
That evening when Herr Sesemann and Fraulein Rottenmeier were
alone, settling the household affairs, he informed her that he
intended to keep Heidi; he found the child in a perfectly right
state of mind, and his daughter liked her as a companion. "I
desire, therefore," he continued, laying stress upon his words,
"that the child shall be in every way kindly treated, and that
her peculiarities shall not be looked upon as crimes. If you
find her too much for you alone, I can hold out a prospect of
help, for I am shortly expecting my mother here on a long visit,
and she, as you know, can get on with anybody, whatever they may
be like."
"O yes, I know," replied Fraulein Rottenmeier, but there was no
tone of relief in her voice as she thought of the coming help.
Herr Sesemann was only home for a short time; he left for Paris
again before the fortnight was over, comforting Clara, who could
not bear that he should go from her again so soon, with the
prospect of her grandmother's arrival, which was to take place
in a few days' time. Herr Sesemann had indeed only just gone when
a letter came from Frau Sesemann, announcing her arrival on the
following day, and stating the hour when she might be expected,
in order that a carriage should be sent to meet her at the
station. Clara was overjoyed, and talked so much about her
grandmother that evening, that Heidi began also to call her
"grandmamma," which brought down on her a look of displeasure
from Fraulein Rottenmeier; this, however, had no particular
effect on Heidi, for she was accustomed now to being continually
in that lady's black books. But as she was going to her room
that night, Fraulein Rottenmeier waylaid her, and drawing her
into her own, gave her strict injunctions as to how she was to
address Frau Sesemann when she arrived; on no account was she to
call her "grandmamma," but always to say "madam" to her. "Do you
understand?" said the lady, as she saw a perplexed expression on
Heidi's face. The latter had not understood, but seeing the
severe expression of the lady's face she did not ask for more
explanation.
CHAPTER X. ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER
There was much expectation and preparation about the house on
the following evening, and it was easy to see that the lady who
was coming was one whose opinion was highly thought of, and for
whom everybody had a great respect. Tinette had a new white cap
on her head, and Sebastian collected all the footstools he could
find and placed them in convenient spots, so that the lady might
find one ready to her feet whenever she chose to sit. Fraulein
Rottenmeier went about surveying everything, very upright and
dignified, as if to show that though a rival power was expected,
her own authority was not going to be extinguished.
And now the carriage came driving up to the door, and Tinette
and Sebastian ran down the steps, followed with a slower and more
stately step by the lady, who advanced to greet the guest. Heidi
had been sent up to her room and ordered to remain there until
called down, as the grandmother would certainly like to see
Clara alone first. Heidi sat herself down in a corner and
repeated her instructions over to herself. She had not to wait
long before Tinette put her head in and said abruptly, "Go
downstairs into the study."
Heidi had not dared to ask Fraulein Rottenmeier again how she
was to address the grandmother: she thought the lady had perhaps
made a mistake, for she had never heard any one called by other
than their right name. As she opened the study door she heard a
kind voice say, "Ah, here comes the child! Come along in and let
me have a good look at you."
Heidi walked up to her and said very distinctly in her clear
voice, "Good-evening," and then wishing to follow her
instructions called her what would be in English "Mrs. Madam."
"Well!" said the grandmother, laughing, "is that how they
address people in your home on the mountain?"
"No," replied Heidi gravely, "I never knew any one with that
name before."
"Nor I either," laughed the grandmother again as she patted
Heidi's cheek. "Never mind! when I am with the children I am
always grandmamma; you won't forget that name, will you?"
"No, no," Heidi assured her, "I often used to say it at home."
"I understand," said the grandmother, with a cheerful little nod
of the head. Then she looked more closely at Heidi, giving
another nod from time to time, and the child looked back at her
with steady, serious eyes, for there was something kind and warmhearted
about this new-comer that pleased Heidi, and indeed
everything to do with the grandmother attracted her, so that she
could not turn her eyes away. She had such beautiful white hair,
and two long lace ends hung down from the cap on her head and
waved gently about her face every time she moved, as if a soft
breeze were blowing round her, which gave Heidi a peculiar
feeling of pleasure.
"And what is your name, child?" the grandmother now asked.
"I am always called Heidi; but as I am now to be called
Adelaide, I will try and take care--" Heidi stopped short, for
she felt a little guilty; she had not yet grown accustomed to
this name; she continued not to respond when Fraulein Rottenmeier
suddenly addressed her by it, and the lady was at this moment
entering the room.
"Frau Sesemann will no doubt agree with me," she interrupted,
"that it was necessary to choose a name that could be pronounced
easily, if only for the sake of the servants."
"My worthy Rottenmeier," replied Frau Sesemann, "if a person is
called 'Heidi' and has grown accustomed to that name, I call her
by the same, and so let it be."
Fraulein Rottenmeier was always very much annoyed that the old
lady continually addressed her by her surname only; but it was
no use minding, for the grandmother always went her own way, and
so there was no help for it. Moreover the grandmother was a keen
old lady, and had all her five wits about her, and she knew what
was going on in the house as soon as she entered it.
When on the following day Clara lay down as usual on her couch
after dinner, the grandmother sat down beside her for a few
minutes and closed her eyes, then she got up again as lively as
ever, and trotted off into the dining-room. No one was there.
"She is asleep, I suppose," she said to herself, and then going
up to Fraulein Rottenmeier's room she gave a loud knock at the
door. She waited a few minutes and then Fraulein Rottenmeier
opened the door and drew back in surprise at this unexpected
visit.
"Where is the child, and what is she doing all this time? That
is what I came to ask," said Frau Sesemann.
"She is sitting in her room, where she could well employ herself
if she had the least idea of making herself useful; but you have
no idea, Frau Sesemann, of the out-of-the-way things this child
imagines and does, things which I could hardly repeat in good
society."
"I should do the same if I had to sit in there like that child,
I can tell you; I doubt if you would then like to repeat what I
did, in good society! Go and fetch the child and bring her to my
room; I have some pretty books with me that I should like to
give her."
"That is just the misfortune," said Fraulein Rottenmeier with a
despairing gesture, "what use are books to her? She has not been
able to learn her A B C even, all the long time she has been
here; it is quite impossible to get the least idea of it into
her head, and that the tutor himself will tell you; if he had not
the patience of an angel he would have given up teaching her long
ago."
"That is very strange," said Frau Sesemann, "she does not look
to me like a child who would be unable to learn her alphabet.
However, bring her now to me, she can at least amuse herself
with the pictures in the books."
Fraulein Rottenmeier was prepared with some further remarks, but
the grandmother had turned away and gone quickly towards her own
room. She was surprised at what she had been told about Heidi's
incapacity for learning, and determined to find out more
concerning this matter, not by inquiries from the tutor,
however, although she esteemed him highly for his uprightness of
character; she had always a friendly greeting for him, but
always avoided being drawn into conversation with him, for she
found his style of talk somewhat wearisome.
Heidi now appeared and gazed with open-eyed delight and wonder
at the beautiful colored pictures in the books which the
grandmother gave her to look at. All of a sudden, as the latter
turned over one of the pages to a fresh picture, the child gave a
cry. For a moment or two she looked at it with brightening eyes,
then the tears began to fall, and at last she burst into sobs.
The grandmother looked at the picture--it represented a green
pasture, full of young animals, some grazing and others nibbling
at the shrubs. In the middle was a shepherd leaning upon his
staff and looking on at his happy flock. The whole scene was
bathed in golden light, for the sun was just sinking below the
horizon.
The grandmother laid her hand kindly On Heidi's.
"Don't cry, dear child, don't cry," she said, "the picture has
reminded you perhaps of something. But see, there is a beautiful
tale to the picture which I will tell you this evening. And
there are other nice tales of all kinds to read and to tell
again. But now we must have a little talk together, so dry your
tears and come and stand in front of me, so that I may see you
well--there, now we are happy again."
But it was some little time before Heidi could overcome her
sobs. The grandmother gave her time to recover herself, saying
cheering words to her now and then, "There, it's all right now,
and we are quite happy again."
When at last she saw that Heidi was growing calmer, she said,
"Now I want you to tell me something. How are you getting on in
your school-time; do you like your lessons, and have you learnt
a great deal?"
"O no!" replied Heidi, sighing, "but I knew beforehand that it
was not possible to learn."
"What is it you think impossible to learn?"
"Why, to read, it is too difficult."
"You don't say so! and who told you that?"
"Peter told me, and he knew all about it, for he had tried and
tried and could not learn it."
"Peter must be a very odd boy then! But listen, Heidi, we must
not always go by what Peter says, we must try for ourselves. I
am certain that you did not give all your attention to the tutor
when he was trying to teach you your letters."
"It's of no use," said Heidi in the tone of one who was ready to
endure what could not be cured.
"Listen to what I have to say," continued the grandmother. "You
have not been able to learn your alphabet because you believed
what Peter said; but now you must believe what I tell you--and I
tell you that you can learn to read in a very little while, as
many other children do, who are made like you and not like
Peter. And now hear what comes after--you see that picture with
the shepherd and the animals--well, as soon as you are able to
read you shall have that book for your own, and then you will
know all about the sheep and the goats, and what the shepherd
did, and the wonderful things that happened to him, just as if
some one were telling you the whole tale. You will like to hear
about all that, won't you?"
Heidi had listened with eager attention to the grandmother's
words and now with a sigh exclaimed, "Oh, if only I could read
now!"
"It won't take you long now to learn, that I can see; and now we
must go down to Clara; bring the books with you." And hand in
hand the two returned to the study.
Since the day when Heidi had so longed to go home, and Fraulein
Rottenmeier had met her and scolded her on the steps, and told
her how wicked and ungrateful she was to try and run away, and
what a good thing it was that Herr Sesemann knew nothing about
it, a change had come over the child. She had at last understood
that day that she could not go home when she wished as Dete had
told her, but that she would have to stay on in Frankfurt for a
long, long time, perhaps for ever. She had also understood that
Herr Sesemann would think it ungrateful of her if she wished to
leave, and she believed that the grandmother and Clara would
think the same. So there was nobody to whom she dared confide
her longing to go home, for she would not for the world have
given the grandmother, who was so kind to her, any reason for
being as angry with her as Fraulein Rottenmeier had been. But the
weight of trouble on the little heart grew heavier and heavier;
she could no longer eat her food, and every day she grew a little
paler. She lay awake for long hours at night, for as soon as she
was alone and everything was still around her, the picture of
the mountain with its sunshine and flowers rose vividly before
her eyes; and when at last she fell asleep it was to dream of the
rocks and the snow-field turning crimson in the evening light,
and waking in the morning she would think herself back at the
hut and prepare to run joyfully out into--the sun--and then--
there was her large bed, and here she was in Frankfurt far, far
away from home. And Heidi would often lay her face down on the
pillow and weep long and quietly so that no one might hear her.
Heidi's unhappiness did not escape the grandmother's notice. She
let some days go by to see if the child grew brighter and lost
her down-cast appearance. But as matters did not mend, and she
saw that many mornings Heidi had evidently been crying before
she came downstairs, she took her again into her room one day,
and drawing the child to her said, "Now tell me, Heidi, what is
the matter; are you in trouble?"
But Heidi, afraid if she told the truth that the grandmother
would think her ungrateful, and would then leave off being so
kind to her, answered, "can't tell you."
"Well, could you tell Clara about it?"
"Oh, no, I cannot tell any one," said Heidi in so positive a
tone, and with a look of such trouble on her face, that the
grandmother felt full of pity for the child.
"Then, dear child, let me tell you what to do: you know that
when we are in great trouble, and cannot speak about it to
anybody, we must turn to God and pray Him to help, for He can
deliver us from every care, that oppresses us. You understand
that, do you not? You say your prayers every evening to the dear
God in Heaven, and thank Him for all He has done for you, and
pray Him to keep you from all evil, do you not?"
"No, I never say any prayers," answered Heidi.
"Have you never been taught to pray, Heidi; do you not know even
what it means?"
"I used to say prayers with the first grandmother, but that is a
long time ago, and I have forgotten them."
"That is the reason, Heidi, that you are so unhappy, because you
know no one who can help you. Think what a comfort it is when
the heart is heavy with grief to be able at any moment to go and
tell everything to God, and pray Him for the help that no one
else can give us. And He can help us and give us everything that
will make us happy again."
A sudden gleam of joy came into Heidi's eyes. "May I tell Him
everything, everything?"
"Yes, everything, Heidi, everything."
Heidi drew her hand away, which the grandmother was holding
affectionately between her own, and said quickly, "May I go?"
"Yes, of course," was the answer, and Heidi ran out of the room
into her own, and sitting herself on a stool, folded her hands
together and told God about everything that was making her so
sad and unhappy, and begged Him earnestly to help her and to let
her go home to her grandfather.
It was about a week after this that the tutor asked Frau
Sesemann's permission for an interview with her, as he wished to
inform her of a remarkable thing that had come to pass. So she
invited him to her room, and as he entered she held out her hand
in greeting, and pushing a chair towards him, "I am pleased to
see you," she said, "pray sit down and tell me what brings you
here; nothing bad, no complaints, I hope?"
"Quite the reverse," began the tutor. "Something has happened
that I had given up hoping for, and which no one, knowing what
has gone before, could have guessed, for, according to all
expectations, that which has taken place could only be looked
upon as a miracle, and yet it really has come to pass and in the
most extraordinary manner, quite contrary to all that one could
anticipate--"
"Has the child Heidi really learnt to read at last?" put in Frau
Sesemann.
The tutor looked at the lady in speechless astonishment. At last
he spoke again. "It is indeed truly marvellous, not only because
she never seemed able to learn her A B C even after all my full
explanations, and after spending unusual pains upon her, but
because now she has learnt it so rapidly, just after I had made
up my mind to make no further attempts at the impossible but to
put the letters as they were before her without any dissertation
on their origin and meaning, and now she has as you might say
learnt her letters over night, and started at once to read
correctly, quite unlike most beginners. And it is almost as
astonishing to me that you should have guessed such an unlikely
thing."
"Many unlikely things happen in life," said Frau Sesemann with a
pleased smile. "Two things coming together may produce a happy
result, as for instance, a fresh zeal for learning and a new
method of teaching, and neither does any harm. We can but
rejoice that the child has made such a good start and hope for
her future progress."
After parting with the tutor she went down to the study to make
sure of the good news. There sure enough was Heidi, sitting
beside Clara and reading aloud to her, evidently herself very
much surprised, and growing more and more delighted with the new
world that was now open to her as the black letters grew alive
and turned into men and things and exciting stories. That same
evening Heidi found the large book with the beautiful pictures
lying on her plate when she took her place at table, and when
she looked questioningly at the grandmother, the latter nodded
kindly to her and said, "Yes, it's yours now."
"Mine, to keep always? even when I go home?" said, Heidi,
blushing with pleasure.
"Yes, of course, yours for ever," the grandmother assured her.
"To-morrow we will begin to read it."
"But you are not going home yet, Heidi, not for years," put in
Clara. "When grandmother goes away, I shall want you to stay on
with me."
When, Heidi went to her room that night she had another look at
her book before going to bed, and from that day forth her chief
pleasure was to read the tales which belonged to the beautiful
pictures over and over again. If the grandmother said, as they
were sitting together in the evening, "Now Heidi will read aloud
to us," Heidi was delighted, for reading was no trouble to her
now, and when she read the tales aloud the scenes seemed to grow
more beautiful and distinct, and then grandmother would explain
and tell her more about them still.
Still the picture she liked best was the one of the shepherd
leaning on his staff with his flock around him in the midst of
the green pasture, for he was now at home and happy, following
his father's sheep and goats. Then came the picture where he was
seen far away from his father's house, obliged to look after the
swine, and he had grown pale and thin from the husks which were
all he had to eat. Even the sun seemed here to be less bright
and everything looked grey and misty. But there was the third
picture still to this tale: here was the old father with
outstretched arms running to meet and embrace his returning and
repentant son, who was advancing timidly, worn out and emaciated
and clad in a ragged coat. That was Heidi's favorite tale, which
she read over and over again, aloud and to herself, and she was
never tired of hearing the grandmother explain it to her and
Clara. But there were other tales in the book besides, and what
with reading and looking at the pictures the days passed quickly
away, and the time drew near for the grandmother to return home.
CHAPTER XI. HEIDI GAINS IN ONE WAY AND LOSES IN ANOTHER
Every afternoon during her visit the grandmother went and sat
down for a few minutes beside Clara after dinner, when the
latter was resting, and Fraulein Rottenmeier, probably for the
same reason, had disappeared inside her room; but five minutes
sufficed her, and then she was up again, and Heidi was sent for
to her room, and there she would talk to the child and employ
and amuse her in all sorts of ways. The grandmother had a lot of
pretty dolls, and she showed Heidi how to make dresses and
pinafores for them, so that Heidi learnt how to sew and to make
all sorts of beautiful clothes for the little people out of a
wonderful collection of pieces that grandmother had by her of
every describable and lovely color. And then grandmother liked
to hear her read aloud, and the oftener Heidi read her tales the
fonder she grew of them. She entered into the lives of all the
people she read about so that they became like dear friends to
her, and it delighted her more and more to be with them. But
still Heidi never looked really happy, and her bright eyes were
no longer to be seen. It was the last week of the grandmother's
visit. She called Heidi into her room as usual one day after
dinner, and the child came with her book under her arm. The
grandmother called her to come close, and then laying the book
aside, said, "Now, child, tell me why you are not happy? Have
you still the same trouble at heart?"
Heidi nodded in reply.
"Have you told God about it?"
"Yes."
"And do you pray every day that He will make things right and
that you may be happy again?"
"No, I have left off praying."
"Do not tell me that, Heidi! Why have you left off praying?"
"It is of no use, God does not listen," Heidi went on in an
agitated voice, "and I can understand that when there are so
many, many people in Frankfurt praying to Him every evening that
He cannot attend to them all, and He certainly has not heard
what I said to Him."
"And why are you so sure of that, Heidi?"
"Because I have prayed for the same thing every day for weeks,
and yet God has not done what I asked."
"You are wrong, Heidi; you must not think of Him like that. God
is a good father to us all, and knows better than we do what is
good for us. If we ask Him for something that is not good for
us, He does not give it, but something better still, if only we
will continue to pray earnestly and do not run away and lose our
trust in Him. God did not think what you have been praying for
was good for you just now; but be sure He heard you, for He can
hear and see every one at the same time, because He is a God and
not a human being like you and me. And because He thought it was
better for you not to have at once what you wanted, He said to
Himself: Yes, Heidi shall have what she asks for, but not until
the right time comes, so that she may be quite happy. If I do
what she wants now, and then one day she sees that it would have
been better for her not to have had her own way, she will cry and
say, 'If only God had not given me what I asked for! it is not so
good as I expected!' And while God is watching over you, and
looking to see if you will trust Him and go on praying to Him
every day, and turn to Him for everything you want, you run away
and leave off saying your prayers, and forget all about Him. And
when God no longer hears the voice of one He knew among those who
pray to Him, He lets that person go his own way, that he may
learn how foolish he is. And then this one gets into trouble, and
cries, 'Save me, God, for there is none other to help me,' and
God says, 'Why did you go from Me; I could not help you when you
ran away.' And you would not like to grieve God, would you Heidi,
when He only wants to be kind to you? So will you not go and ask
Him to forgive you, and continue to pray and to trust Him, for
you may be sure that He will make everything right and happy for
you, and then you will be glad and lighthearted again."
Heidi had perfect confidence in the grandmother, and every word
she said sunk into her heart.
"I will go at once and ask God to forgive me, and I will never
forget Him again," she replied repentantly.
"That is right, dear child," and anxious to cheer her, added,
"Don't be unhappy, for He will do everything you wish in good
time."
And Heidi ran away and prayed that she might always remember
God, and that He would go on thinking about her.
The day came for grandmother's departure--a sad one for Clara
and Heidi. But the grandmother was determined to make it as much
like a holiday as possible and not to let them mope, and she kept
them so lively and amused that they had no time to think about
their sorrow at her going until she really drove away. Then the
house seemed so silent and empty that Heidi and Clara did not
know what to do with themselves, and sat during the remainder of
the day like two lost children.
The next day, when the hour came for Clara and Heidi to be
together, the latter walked in with her book and proposed that
she should go on reading aloud every afternoon to Clara, if the
latter liked it. Clara agreed, and thought anyhow it would be
nice for that day, so Heidi began with her usual enthusiasm. But
the reading did not last long, for Heidi had hardly begun a tale
about a dying grandmother before she cried out, "O! then
grandmother is dead!" and burst into tears; for everything she
read was so real to her that she quite thought it was the
grandmother at home who had died, and she kept on exclaiming as
her sobs increased, "She is dead, and I shall never see her
again, and she never had one of the white rolls!"
Clara did all she could to explain to Heidi that the story was
about quite a different grandmother; but even when at last she
had been able to convince Heidi of this, the latter continued to
weep inconsolably, for now she had awakened to the thought that
perhaps the grandmother, and even the grandfather also, might
die while she was so far away, and that if she did not go home
for a long time she would find everything there all silent and
dead, and there she would be all alone, and would never be able
to see the dear ones she loved any more.
Fraulein Rottenmeier had meanwhile come into the room, and Clara
explained to her what had happened. As Heidi continued her
weeping, the lady, who was evidently getting impatient with her,
went up to Heidi and said with decision, "Now, Adelaide, that is
enough of all this causeless lamentation. I will tell you once
for all, if there are any more scenes like this while you are
reading, I shall take the book away from you and shall not let
you have it again."
Her words had immediate effect on Heidi, who turned pale with
fear. The book was her one great treasure. She quickly dried her
tears and swallowed her sobs as best she could, so that no
further sound of them should be heard. The threat did its work,
for Heidi never cried aloud again whatever she might be reading,
but she had often to struggle hard to keep back her tears, so
that Clara would look at her and say,
"What faces you are making, Heidi, I never saw anything like
it!" But the faces made no noise and did not offend Fraulein
Rottenmeier, and Heidi, having overcome her fit of despairing
misery, would go quietly on for a while, and no one perceived
her sorrow. But she lost all her appetite, and looked so pale and
thin that Sebastian was quite unhappy when he looked at her, and
could not bear to see her refusing all the nice dishes he handed
her. He would whisper to her sometimes, in quite a kind,
fatherly manner, "Take a little; you don't know how nice it is!
There, a good spoonful, now another." But it was of no use, Heidi
hardly ate anything at all, and as soon as she laid her head down
at night the picture of home would rise before her eyes, and she
would weep, burying her face in the pillow that her crying might
not be heard.
And so many weeks passed away. Heidi did not know it is was
winter or summer, for the walls and windows she looked out upon
showed no change, and she never went beyond the house except on
rare occasions when Clara was well enough to drive out, and then
they only went a very little way, as Clara could not bear the
movement for long. So that on these occasions they generally
only saw more fine streets and large houses and crowds of people;
they seldom got anywhere beyond them, and grass and flowers, fir
trees and mountains, were still far away. Heidi's longing for the
old familiar and beautiful things grew daily stronger, so that
now only to read a word that recalled them to her remembrance
brought her to the verge of tears, which with difficulty she
suppressed. So the autumn and winter passed, and again the sun
came shining down on the white walls of the opposite houses, and
Heidi would think to herself that now the time had come for Peter
to go out again with the goats, to where the golden flowers of
the cistus were glowing in the sunlight, and all the rocks around
turned to fire at sunset. Heidi would go and sit in a corner of
her lonely room and put her hands up to her eyes that she might
not see the sun shining on the opposite wall; and then she would
remain without moving, battling silently with her terrible
homesickness until Clara sent for her again.
CHAPTER XII. A GHOST IN THE HOUSE
For some days past Fraulein Rottenmeier had gone about rather
silently and as if lost in thought. As twilight fell, and she
passed from room to room, or along the long corridors, she was
seen to look cautiously behind her, and into the dark corners,
as if she thought some one was coming silently behind her and
might unexpectedly give her dress a pull. Nor would she now go
alone into some parts of the house. If she visited the upper
floor where the grand guest-chambers were, or had to go down into
the large mysterious council-chamber, where every footstep
echoed, and the old senators with their big white collars looked
down so solemnly and immovably from their frames, she regularly
called Tinette to accompany her, in case, as she said, there
might be something to carry up or down. Tinette on her side did
exactly the same; if she had business upstairs or down, she
called Sebastian to accompany her, and there was always something
he must help her with which she could not carry alone. More
curious still, Sebastian, also, if sent into one of the more
distant rooms, always called John to go with him in case he
should want his assistance in bringing what was required. And
John readily obeyed, although there was never anything to carry,
and either might well have gone alone; but he did not know how
soon he might want to ask Sebastian to do the same service for
him. And while these things were going on upstairs, the cook, who
had been in the house for years, would stand shaking her head
over her pots and kettles, and sighing, "That ever I should live
to know such a thing."
For something very strange and mysterious was going on in Herr
Sesemann's house. Every morning, when the servants went
downstairs, they found the front door wide open, although nobody
could be seen far or near to account for it. During the first
few days that this happened every room and corner was searched in
great alarm, to see if anything had been stolen, for the general
idea was that a thief had been hiding in the house and had gone
off in the night with the stolen goods; but not a thing in the
house had been touched, everything was safe in its place. The
door was doubly locked at night, and for further security the
wooden bar was fastened across it; but it was no good--next
morning the door again stood open. The servants in their fear
and excitement got up extra early, but not so early but what the
door had been opened before they got downstairs, although
everything and everybody around were still wrapped in slumber,
and the doors and windows of the adjoining houses all fast shut.
At last, after a great deal of persuasion from Fraulein
Rottenmeier, Sebastian and John plucked up courage and agreed to
sit up one night in the room next to the large council-chamber
and to watch and see what would happen. Fraulein Rottenmeier
looked up several weapons belonging to the master, and gave these
and a bottle of spirits to Sebastian, so that their courage might
not faint if it came to a fight.
On the appointed night the two sat down and began at once to
take some of the strengthening cordial, which at first made them
very talkative and then very sleepy, so that they leant back in
their seats and became silent. As midnight struck, Sebastian
roused himself and called to his companion, who, however, was not
easy to wake, and kept rolling his head first to one side and
then the other and continuing to sleep. Sebastian began to listen
more attentively, for he was wide awake now. Everything was still
as a mouse, all sound had died away from the streets even. He did
not feel inclined to go to sleep again, for the stillness was
ghostly to him, and he was afraid now to raise his voice to rouse
John, so he shook him gently to make him stir. At last, as one
struck, John work up, and came back to the consciousness of why
he was sitting in a chair instead of lying in his bed. He now got
up with a great show of courage and said, "Come, Sebastian, we
must go outside and see what is going on; you need not be afraid,
just follow me."
Whereupon he opened the door wide and stepped into the hall.
Just as he did so a sudden gust of air blew through the open
front door and put out the light which John held in his hand. He
started back, almost overturning Sebastian, whom he clutched and
pulled back into the room, and then shutting the door quickly he
turned the key as far as he could make it go. Then he pulled out
his matches and lighted his candle again. Sebastian, in the
suddenness of the affair, did not know exactly what had
happened, for he had not seen the open door or felt the breeze
behind John's broad figure. But now, as he saw the latter in the
light, he gave a cry of alarm, for John was trembling all over
and as white as a ghost. "What's the matter? What did you see,
outside?" asked Sebastian sympathetically.
"The door partly open," gasped John, "and a white figure
standing at the top of the steps--there it stood, and then all in
a minute it disappeared."
Sebastian felt his blood run cold. The two sat down close to one
another and did not dare move again till the morning broke and
the streets began to be alive again. Then they left the room
together, shut the front door, and went upstairs to tell
Fraulein Rottenmeier of their experience. She was quite ready to
receive them, for she had not been able to sleep at all in the
anxiety of waiting to hear their report. They had no sooner given
her details of the night's experience than she sat down and wrote
straight off to Herr Sesemann, who had never received such a
letter before in his life. She could hardly write, she told him,
for her fingers were stiff with fear, and Herr Sesemann must
please arrange to come back at once, for dreadful and
unaccountable things were taking place at home. Then she entered
into particulars of all that had happened, of how the door was
found standing open every morning, and how nobody in the house
now felt sure of their life in this unprotected state of things,
and how it was impossible to tell what terrible results might
follow on these mysterious doings.
Herr Sesemann answered that it was quite impossible for him to
arrange to leave his business and return home at once. He was
very much astonished at this ghost tale, but hoped by this time
the ghost had disappeared. If, however, it still continued to
disturb the household, would Fraulein Rottenmeier write to the
grandmother and ask her if she could come and do something; she,
he was sure, would soon find out a way to deal with the ghost so
that it would not venture again to haunt his house. Fraulein
Rottenmeier was not pleased with the tone of this letter; she
did not think the matter was treated seriously enough. She wrote
off without delay to Frau Sesemann, but got no more satisfactory
reply from that quarter, and some remarks in the letter she
considered were quite offensive. Frau Sesemann wrote that she
did not feel inclined to take the journey again from Holstein to
Frankfurt because Rottenmeier fancied she saw ghosts. There had
never been a ghost in the house since she had known it, and if
there was one now it must be a live one, with which Rottenmeier
ought to be able to deal; if not she had better send for the
watchman to help her.
Fraulein Rottenmeier, however, was determined not to pass any
more days in a state of fear, and she knew the right course to
pursue. She had as yet said nothing to the children of the
ghostly apparitions, for she knew if she did that the children
would not remain alone for a single moment, and that might
entail discomfort for herself. But now she walked straight off
into the study, and there in a low mysterious voice told the two
children everything that had taken place. Clara immediately
screamed out that she could not remain another minute alone, her
father must come home, and Fraulein Rottenmeier must sleep in her
room at night, and Heidi too must not be left by herself, for the
ghost might do something to her. She insisted that they should
all sleep together in one room and keep a light burning all
night, and Tinette had better be in the next room, and Sebastian
and John come upstairs and spend the night in the hall, so that
they might call out and frighten the ghost the instant they saw
it appear on the steps. Clara, in short, grew very excited, and
Fraulein Rottenmeier had great difficulty in quieting her. She
promised to write at once to her father, and to have her bed put
in her room and not to be left alone for a moment. They could
not all sleep in the same room, but if Heidi was frightened, why
Tinette must go into her room. But Heidi was far more frightened
of Tinette than of ghosts, of which the child had never before
heard, so she assured the others she did not mind the ghost, and
would rather be alone at night.
Fraulein Rottenmeier now sat down to write another letter to
Herr Sesemann, stating that these unaccountable things that were
going on in the house had so affected his daughter's delicate
constitution that the worst consequences might be expected.
Epileptic fits and St. Vitus's dance often came on suddenly in
cases like this, and Clara was liable to be attacked by either
if the cause of the general alarm was not removed.
The letter was successful, and two days later Herr Sesemann
stood at his front door and rang the bell in such a manner that
everybody came rushing from all parts of the house and stood
looking affrighted at everybody else, convinced that the ghost
was impudently beginning its evil tricks in daylight. Sebastian
peeped cautiously through a half-closed shutter; as he did so
there came another violent ring at the bell, which it was
impossible to mistake for anything but a very hard pull from a
non-ghostly hand. And Sebastian recognised whose hand it was,
and rushing pell-mell out of the room, fell heels over head
downstairs, but picked himself up at the bottom and flung open
the street door. Herr Sesemann greeted him abruptly and went up
without a moment's delay into his daughter's room. Clara greeted
him with a cry of joy, and seeing her so lively and apparently
as well as ever, his face cleared, and the frown of anxiety
passed gradually away from it as he heard from his daughter's own
lips that she had nothing the matter with her, and moreover was
so delighted to see him that she was quite glad about the ghost,
as it was the cause of bringing him home again.
"And how is the ghost getting on?" he asked, turning to Fraulein
Rottenmeier, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye.
"It is no joke, I assure you," replied that lady. "You will not
laugh yourself to-morrow morning, Herr Sesemann; what is going
on in the house points to some terrible thing that has taken
place in the past and been concealed."
"Well, I know nothing about that," said the master of the house,
"but I must beg you not to bring suspicion on my worthy
ancestors. And now will you kindly call Sebastian into the diningroom,
as I wish to speak to him alone."
Herr Sesemann had been quite aware that Sebastian and Fraulein
Rottenmeier were not on the best of terms, and he had his ideas
about this scare.
"Come here, lad," he said as Sebastian appeared, "and tell me
frankly--have you been playing at ghosts to amuse yourself at
Fraulein Rottenmeier's expense?"
"No, on my honor, sir; pray, do not think it; I am very
uncomfortable about the matter myself," answered Sebastian with
unmistakable truthfulness.
"Well, if that is so, I will show you and John to-morrow morning
how ghosts look in the daylight. You ought to be ashamed of
yourself, Sebastian, a great strong lad like you, to run away
from a ghost! But now go and take a message to my old friend the
doctor; give him my kind regards, and ask him if he will come to
me to-night at nine o'clock without fail; I have come by express
from Paris to consult him. I shall want him to spend the night
here, so bad a case is it; so he will arrange accordingly. You
understand?"
"Yes, sir," replied Sebastian, "I will see to the matter as you
wish." Then Herr Sesemann returned to Clara, and begged her to
have no more fear, as he would soon find out all about the ghost
and put an end to it.
Punctually at nine o'clock, after the children had gone to bed
and Fraulein Rottenmeier had retired, the doctor arrived. He was
a grey-haired man with a fresh face, and two bright, kindly
eyes. He looked anxious as he walked in, but, on catching sight
of his patient, burst out laughing and clapped him on the
shoulder. "Well," he said, "you look pretty bad for a person that
I am to sit up with all night."
"Patience, friend," answered Herr Sesemann, "the one you have to
sit up for will look a good deal worse when we have once caught
him."
"So there is a sick person in the house, and one that has first
to be caught?"
"Much worse than that, doctor! a ghost in the house! My house is
haunted!"
The doctor laughed aloud.
"That's a nice way of showing sympathy, doctor!" continued Herr,
Sesemann. "It's a pity my friend Rottenmeier cannot hear you.
She is firmly convinced that some old member of the family is
wandering about the house doing penance for some awful crime he
committed."
"How did she become acquainted with him?" asked the doctor,
still very much amused.
So Herr Sesemann recounted to him how the front door was nightly
opened by somebody, according to the testimony of the combined
household, and he had therefore provided two loaded revolvers,
so as to be prepared for anything that happened; for either the
whole thing was a joke got up by some friend of the servants,
just to alarm the household while he was away--and in that case
a pistol fired into the air would procure him a wholesome fright--
or else it was a thief, who, by leading everybody at first to
think there was a ghost, made it safe for himself when he came
later to steal, as no one would venture to run out if they heard
him, and in that case too a good weapon would not be amiss.
The two took up their quarters for the night in the same room in
which Sebastian and John had kept watch. A bottle of wine was
placed on the table, for a little refreshment would be welcome
from time to time if the night was to be passed sitting up.
Beside it lay the two revolvers, and two good-sized candles had
also been lighted, for Herr Sesemann was determined not to wait
for ghosts in any half light.
The door was shut close to prevent the light being seen in the
hall outside, which might frighten away the ghost. And now the
two gentlemen sat comfortably back in the arm-chairs and began
talking of all sorts of things, now and then pausing to take a
good draught of wine, and so twelve o'clock struck before they
were aware.
"The ghost has got scent of us and is keeping away to-night,"
said the doctor.
"Wait a bit, it does not generally appear before one o'clock,"
answered his friend.
They started talking again. One o'clock struck. There was not a
sound about the house, nor in the street outside. Suddenly the
doctor lifted his finger.
"Hush! Sesemann, don't you hear something?"
They both listened, and they distinctly heard the bar softly
pushed aside and then the key turned in the lock and the door
opened. Herr Sesemann put out his hand for his revolver.
"You are not afraid, are you?" said the doctor as he stood up.
"It is better to take precautions," whispered Herr Sesemann, and
seizing one of the lights in his other hand, he followed the
doctor, who, armed in like manner with a light and a revolver,
went softly on in front. They stepped into the hall. The
moonlight was shining in through the open door and fell on a
white figure standing motionless in the doorway.
"Who is there?" thundered the doctor in a voice that echoed
through the hall, as the two men advanced with lights and
weapons towards the figure.
It turned and gave a low cry. There in her little white
nightgown stood Heidi, with bare feet, staring with wild eyes at
the lights and the revolvers, and trembling from head to foot
like a leaf in the wind. The two men looked as one another in
surprise.
"Why, I believe it is your little water-carrier, Sesemann," said
the doctor.
"Child, what does this mean?" said Herr Sesemann. "What did you
want? why did you come down here?"
White with terror, and hardly able to make her voice heard,
Heidi answered, "I don't know."
But now the doctor stepped forward. "This is a matter for me to
see to, Sesemann; go back to your chair. I must take the child
upstairs to her bed."
And with that he put down his revolver and gently taking the
child by the hand led her upstairs. "Don't be frightened," he
said as they went up side by side, "it's nothing to be
frightened about; it's all right, only just go quietly."
On reaching Heidi's room the doctor put the candle down on the
table, and taking Heidi up in his arms laid her on the bed and
carefully covered her over. Then he sat down beside her and
waited until Heidi had grown quieter and no longer trembled so
violently. He took her hand and said in a kind, soothing voice,
"There, now you feel better, and now tell me where you were
wanting to go to?"
"I did not want to go anywhere," said Heidi. "I did not know I
went downstairs, but all at once I was there."
"I see, and had you been dreaming, so that you seemed to see and
hear something very distinctly?"
"Yes, I dream every night, and always about the same things. I
think I am back with the grandfather and I hear the sound in the
fir trees outside, and I see the stars shining so brightly, and
then I open the door quickly and run out, and it is all so
beautiful! But when I wake I am still in Frankfurt." And Heidi
struggled as she spoke to keep back the sobs which seemed to
choke her.
"And have you no pain anywhere? no pain in your head or back?"
"No, only a feeling as if there were a great stone weighing on
me here."
"As if you had eaten something that would not go down."
"No, not like that; something heavy as if I wanted to cry very
much."
"I see, and then do you have a good cry?"
"Oh, no, I mustn't; Fraulein Rottenmeier forbade me to cry."
"So you swallow it all down, I suppose? Are you happy here in
Frankfurt?"
"Yes," was the low answer; but it sounded more like "No."
"And where did you live with your grandfather?"
"Up on the mountain."
"That wasn't very amusing; rather dull at times, eh?"
"No, no, it was beautiful, beautiful!" Heidi could go no
further; the remembrance of the past, the excitement she had just
gone through, the long suppressed weeping, were too much for the
child's strength; the tears began to fall fast, and she broke
into violent weeping.
The doctor stood up and laid her head kindly down on the pillow.
"There, there, go on crying, it will do you good, and then go to
sleep; it will be all right to-morrow."
Then he left the room and went downstairs to Herr Sesemann; when
he was once more sitting in the armchair opposite his friend,
"Sesemann," he said, "let me first tell you that your little
charge is a sleep-walker; she is the ghost who has nightly
opened the front door and put your household into this fever of
alarm. Secondly, the child is consumed with homesickness, to such
an extent that she is nearly a skeleton already, and soon will be
quite one; something must be done at once. For the first
trouble, due to her over-excited nerves, there is but one remedy,
to send her back to her native mountain air; and for the second
trouble there is also but one cure, and that the same. So tomorrow
the child must start for home; there you have my
prescription."
Herr Sesemann had arisen and now paced up and down the room in
the greatest state of concern.
"What!" he exclaimed, "the child a sleep-walker and ill! Homesick,
and grown emaciated in my house! All this has taken place
in my house and no one seen or known anything about it! And you
mean, doctor, that the child who came here happy and healthy, I
am to send back to her grandfather a miserable little skeleton? I
can't do it; you cannot dream of my doing such a thing! Take the
child in hand, do with her what you will, and make her whole and
sound, and then she shall go home; but you must do something
first."
"Sesemann," replied the doctor, "consider what you are doing!
This illness of the child's is not one to be cured with pills
and powders. The child has not a tough constitution, but if you
send her back at once she may recover in the mountain air, if not -
-you would rather she went back ill than not at all?"
Herr Sesemann stood still; the doctor's words were a shock to
him.
"If you put it so, doctor, there is assuredly only one way--and
the thing must be seen to at once." And then he and the doctor
walked up and down for a while arranging what to do, after which
the doctor said good-bye, for some time had passed since they
first sat down together, and as the master himself opened the
hall door this time the morning light shone down through it into
the house.
CHAPTER XIII. A SUMMER EVENING ON THE MOUNTAIN
Herr Sesemann, a good deal irritated and excited, went quickly
upstairs and along the passage to Fraulein Rottenmeier's room,
and there gave such an unusually loud knock at the door that the
lady awoke from sleep with a cry of alarm. She heard the master
of the house calling to her from the other side of the door,
"Please make haste and come down to me in the dining-room; we
must make ready for a journey at once." Fraulein Rottenmeier
looked at her clock: it was just half-past four; she had never
got up so early before in her life. What could have happened?
What with her curiosity and excitement she took hold of
everything the wrong way, and it was a case with her of more
haste less speed, for she kept on searching everywhere for
garments which she had already put on.
Meanwhile Herr Sesemann had gone on farther and rung the bells
in turn which communicated with the several servants' rooms,
causing frightened figures to leap out of bed, convinced that the
ghost had attacked the master and that he was calling for help.
One by one they made their appearance in the dining-room, each
with a more terrified face than the last, and were astonished to
see their master walking up and down, looking well and cheerful,
and with no appearance of having had an encounter with a ghost.
John was sent off without delay to get the horses and carriage
ready; Tinette was ordered to wake Heidi and get her dressed for
a journey; Sebastian was hurried off to the house where Dete was
in service to bring the latter round. Then Fraulein Rottenmeier,
having at last accomplished her toilet, came down, with
everything well adjusted about her except her cap, which was put
on hind side before. Herr Sesemann put down her flurried
appearance to the early awakening he had caused her, and began
without delay to give her directions. She was to get out a trunk
at once and pack up all the things belonging to the Swiss child--
for so he usually spoke of Heidi, being unaccustomed to her name--
and a good part of Clara's clothes as well, so that the child
might take home proper apparel; but everything was to be done
immediately, as there was no time for consideration.
Fraulein Rottenmeier stood as if rooted to the spot and stared
in astonishment at Herr Sesemann. She had quite expected a long
and private account of some terrible ghostly experience of his
during the night, which she would have enjoyed hearing about in
the broad daylight. Instead of this there were these prosaic and
troublesome directions, which were so unexpected that she took
some time to get over her surprise and disappointment, and
continued standing awaiting further explanation.
But Herr Sesemann had no thought or time for explanations and
left her standing there while he went to speak to Clara. As he
anticipated, the unusual commotion in the house had disturbed
her, and she was lying and listening and wondering what had
happened. So he sat down and told her everything that had
occurred during the past night, and explained that the doctor
had given his verdict and pronounced Heidi to be in a very highly
strung state, so that her nightly wanderings might gradually
lead her farther and farther, perhaps even on to the roof, which
of course would be very dangerous for her. And so they had
decided to send her home at once, as he did not like to take the
responsibility of her remaining, and Clara would see for herself
that it was the only thing to do. Clara was very much
distressed, and at first made all kinds of suggestions for
keeping Heidi with her; but her father was firm, and promised
her, if she would be reasonable and make no further fuss, that he
would take her to Switzerland next summer. So Clara gave in to
the inevitable, only stipulating that the box might be brought
into her room to be packed, so that she might add whatever she
liked, and her father was only too pleased to let her provide a
nice outfit for the child. Meanwhile Dete had arrived and was
waiting in the hall, wondering what extraordinary event had come
to pass for her to be sent for at such an unusual hour. Herr
Sesemann informed her of the state Heidi was in, and that he
wished her that very day to take her home. Dete was greatly
disappointed, for she had not expected such a piece of news. She
remembered Uncle's last words, that he never wished to set eyes
on her again, and it seemed to her that to take back the child to
him, after having left it with him once and then taken it away
again, was not a safe or wise thing for her to do. So she excused
herself to Herr Sesemann with her usual flow of words; to-day and
to-morrow it would be quite impossible for her to take the
journey, and there was so much to do that she doubted if she
could get off on any of the following days. Herr Sesemann
understood that she was unwilling to go at all, and so dismissed
her. Then he sent for Sebastian and told him to make ready to
start: he was to travel with the child as far as Basle that day,
and the next day take her home. He would give him a letter to
carry to the grandfather, which would explain everything, and he
himself could come back by return.
"But there is one thing in particular which I wish you to look
after," said Herr Sesemann in conclusion, "and be sure you
attend to what I say. I know the people of this hotel in Basle,
the name of which I give you on this card. They will see to
providing rooms for the child and you. When there, go at once
into the child's room and see that the windows are all firmly
fastened so that they cannot be easily opened. After the child is
in bed, lock the door of her room on the outside, for the child
walks in her sleep and might run into danger in a strange house
if she went wandering downstairs and tried to open the front
door; so you understand?"
"Oh! then that was it?" exclaimed Sebastian, for now a light was
thrown on the ghostly visitations.
"Yes, that was it! and you are a coward, and you may tell John
he is the same, and the whole household a pack of idiots." And
with this Herr Sesemann went off to his study to write a letter
to Alm-Uncle. Sebastian remained standing, feeling rather
foolish.
"If only I had not let that fool of a John drag me back into the
room, and had gone after the little white figure, which I should
do certainly if I saw it now!" he kept on saying to himself; but
just now every corner of the room was clearly visible in the
daylight.
Meanwhile Heidi was standing expectantly dressed in her Sunday
frock waiting to see what would happen next, for Tinette had
only woke her up with a shake and put on her clothes without a
word of explanation. The little uneducated child was far too much
beneath her for Tinette to speak to.
Herr Sesemann went back to the dining-room with the letter;
breakfast was now ready, and he asked, "Where is the child?"
Heidi was fetched, and as she walked up to him to say "Goodmorning,"
he looked inquiringly into her face and said, "Well,
what do you say to this, little one?"
Heidi looked at him in perplexity.
"Why, you don't know anything about it, I see," laughed Herr
Sesemann. "You are going home today, going at once."
"Home," murmured Heidi in a low voice, turning pale; she was so
overcome that for a moment or two she could hardly breathe.
"Don't you want to hear more about it?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Heidi, her face now rosy with delight.
"All right, then," said Herr Sesemann as he sat down and made
her a sign to do the same, "but now make a good breakfast, and
then off you go in the carriage."
But Heidi could not swallow a morsel though she tried to do what
she was told; she was in such a state of excitement that she
hardly knew if she was awake or dreaming, or if she would again
open her eyes to find herself in her nightgown at the front
door.
"Tell Sebastian to take plenty of provisions with him," Herr
Sesemann called out to Fraulein Rottenmeier, who just then came
into the room; "the child can't eat anything now, which is quite
natural. Now run up to Clara and stay with her till the carriage
comes round," he added kindly, turning to Heidi.
Heidi had been longing for this, and ran quickly upstairs. An
immense trunk was standing open in the middle of the room.
"Come along, Heidi," cried Clara, as she entered; "see all the
things I have had put in for you--aren't you pleased?"
And she ran over a list of things, dresses and aprons and
handkerchiefs, and all kinds of working materials. "And look
here," she added, as she triumphantly held up a basket. Heidi
peeped in and jumped for joy, for inside it were twelve
beautiful round white rolls, all for grandmother. In their
delight the children forgot that the time had come for them to
separate, and when some one called out, "The carriage is here,"
there was no time for grieving.
Heidi ran to her room to fetch her darling book; she knew no one
could have packed that, as it lay under her pillow, for Heidi
had kept it by her night and day. This was put in the basket with
the rolls. Then she opened her wardrobe to look for another
treasure, which perhaps no one would have thought of packing--and
she was right--the old red shawl had been left behind, Fraulein
Rottenmeier not considering it worth putting in with the other
things. Heidi wrapped it round something else which she laid on
the top of the basket, so that the red package was quite
conspicuous. Then she put on her pretty hat and left the room.
The children could not spend much time over their farewells, for
Herr Sesemann was waiting to put Heidi in the carriage. Fraulein
Rottenmeier was waiting at the top of the stairs to say good-bye
to her. When she caught sight of the strange little red bundle,
she took it out of the basket and threw it on the ground. "No,
no, Adelaide," she exclaimed, "you cannot leave the house with
that thing. What can you possibly want with it!" And then she
said good-bye to the child. Heidi did not dare take up her
little bundle, but she gave the master of the house an imploring
look, as if her greatest treasure had been taken from her.
"No, no," said Herr Sesemann in a very decided voice, "the child
shall take home with her whatever she likes, kittens and
tortoises, if it pleases her; we need not put ourselves out
about that, Fraulein Rottenmeier."
Heidi quickly picked up her bundle, with a look of joy and
gratitude. As she stood by the carriage door, Herr Sesemann gave
her his hand and said he hoped she would remember him and Clara.
He wished her a happy journey, and Heidi thanked him for all his
kindness, and added, "And please say good-bye to the doctor for
me and give him many, many thanks." For she had not forgotten
that he had said to her the night before, 'It will be all right
to-morrow,' and she rightly divined that he had helped to make
it so for her. Heidi was now lifted into the carriage, and then
the basket and the provisions were put in, and finally Sebastian
took his place. Then Herr Sesemann called out once more, "A
pleasant journey to you," and the carriage rolled away.
Heidi was soon sitting in the railway carriage, holding her
basket tightly on her lap; she would not let it out of her hands
for a moment, for it contained the delicious rolls for
grandmother; so she must keep it carefully, and even peep inside
it from time to time to enjoy the sight of them. For many hours
she sat as still as a mouse; only now was she beginning to
realize that she was going home to the grandfather, the
mountain, the grandmother, and Peter, and pictures of all she was
going to see again rose one by one before her eyes; she thought
of how everything would look at home, but this brought other
thoughts to her mind, and all of a sudden she said anxiously,
"Sebastian, are you sure that grandmother on the mountain is not
dead?"
"No, no," said Sebastian, wishing to soothe her, "we will hope
not; she is sure to be alive still."
Then Heidi fell back on her own thoughts again. Now and then she
looked inside the basket, for the thing she looked forward to
most was laying all the rolls out on grandmother's table. After
a long silence she spoke again, "If only we could know for
certain that grandmother is alive!"
"Yes, yes," said Sebastian, half asleep; "she is sure to be
alive, there is no reason why she should be dead."
After a while sleep fell on Heidi too, and after her disturbed
night and early rising she slept so soundly that she did not
wake till Sebastian shook her by the arm and called to her, "Wake
up, wake up! we shall have to get out directly; we are just in
Basle!"
There was a further railway journey of many hours the next day.
Heidi again sat with her basket on her knee, for she would not
have given it up to Sebastian on any consideration; to-day she
never even opened her mouth, for her excitement, which increased
with every mile of the journey, kept her speechless. All of a
sudden, before Heidi expected it, a voice called out,
"Mayenfeld." She and Sebastian both jumped up, the latter also
taken by surprise. In another minute they were both standing on
the platform with Heidi's trunk, and the train was steaming away
down the valley. Sebastian looked after it regretfully, for he
preferred the easier mode of travelling to a wearisome climb on
foot, especially as there was danger no doubt as well as fatigue
in a country like this, where, according to Sebastian's idea,
everything and everybody were half savage. He therefore looked
cautiously to either side to see who was a likely person to ask
the safest way to Dorfli.
Just outside the station he saw a shabby-looking little cart and
horse which a broad-shouldered man was loading with heavy sacks
that had been brought by the train, so he went up to him and
asked which was the safest way to get to Dorfli.
"All the roads about here are safe," was the curt reply.
So Sebastian altered his question and asked which was the best
way to avoid falling over the precipice, and also how a box
could be conveyed to Dorfli. The man looked at the box, weighing
it with his eye, and then volunteered if it was not too heavy to
take it on his own cart, as he was driving to Dorfli. After some
little interchange of words it was finally agreed that the man
should take both the child and the box to Dorfli, and there find
some one who could be sent on with Heidi up the mountain.
"I can go by myself, I know the way well from Dorfli," put in
Heidi, who had been listening attentively to the conversation.
Sebastian was greatly relieved at not having to do any mountain
climbing. He drew Heidi aside and gave her a thick rolled
parcel, and a letter for her grandfather; the parcel, he told
her, was a present from Herr Sesemann, and she must put it at the
bottom of her basket under the rolls and be very careful not to
lose it, as Herr Sesemann would be very vexed if she did, and
never be the same to her again; so little miss was to think well
of what he said.
"I shall be sure not to lose it," said Heidi confidently, and
she at once put the roll and the letter at the bottom of her
basket. The trunk meanwhile had been hoisted into the cart, and
now Sebastian lifted Heidi and her basket on to the high seat and
shook hands with her; he then made signs to her to keep her eye
on the basket, for the driver was standing near and Sebastian
thought it better to be careful, especially as he knew that he
ought himself to have seen the child safely to her journey's
end. The driver now swung himself up beside Heidi, and the cart
rolled away in the direction of the mountains, while Sebastian,
glad of having no tiring and dangerous journey on foot before
him, sat down in the station and awaited the return train.
The driver of the car was the miller at Dorfli and was taking
home his sacks of flour. He had never seen Heidi, but like
everybody in Dorfli knew all about her. He had known her
parents, and felt sure at once that this was the child of whom he
had heard so much. He began to wonder why she had come back, and
as they drove along he entered into conversation with her. "You
are the child who lived with your grandfather, Alm-Uncle, are you
not?"
"Yes."
"Didn't they treat you well down there that you have come back
so soon?"
"Yes, it was not that; everything in Frankfurt is as nice as it
could be."
"Then why are you running home again?"
"Only because Herr Sesemann gave me leave, or else I should not
have come."
"If they were willing to let you stay, why did you not remain
where you were better off than at home?"
"Because I would a thousand times rather be with grandfather on
the mountain than anywhere else in the world."
"You will think differently perhaps when you get back there,"
grumbled the miller; and then to himself, "It's strange of her,
for she must know what it's like."
He began whistling and said no more, while Heidi looked around
her and began to tremble with excitement, for she knew every
tree along the way, and there overhead were the high jagged peaks
of the mountain looking down on her like old friends. And Heidi
nodded back to them, and grew every moment more wild with her
joy and longing, feeling as if she must jump down from the cart
and run with all her might till she reached the top. But she sat
quite still and did not move, although inwardly in such
agitation. The clock was striking five as they drove into
Dorfli. A crowd of women and children immediately surrounded the
cart, for the box and the child arriving with the miller had
excited the curiosity of everybody in the neighborhood,
inquisitive to know whence they came and whither they were going
and to whom they belonged. As the miller lifted Heidi down, she
said hastily, "Thank you, grandfather will send for the trunk,"
and was just going to run off, when first one and then another of
the bystanders caught hold of her, each one having a different
question to put to her. But Heidi pushed her way through them
with such an expression of distress on her face that they were
forced to let her go. "You see," they said to one another, "how
frightened she is, and no wonder," and then they went on to talk
of Alm-Uncle, how much worse he had grown that last year, never
speaking a word and looking as if he would like to kill
everybody he met, and if the child had anywhere else to go to she
certainly would not run back to the old dragon's den. But here
the miller interrupted them, saying he knew more about it than
they did, and began telling them how a kind gentleman had brought
her to Mayenfeld and seen her off, and had given him his fare
without any bargaining, and extra money for himself; what was
more, the child had assured him that she had had everything she
wanted where she had been, and that it was her own wish to return
to her grandfather. This information caused great surprise and
was soon repeated all over Dorfli, and that evening there was not
a house in the place in which the astounding news was not
discussed, of how Heidi had of her own accord given up a
luxurious home to return to her grandfather.
Heidi climbed up the steep path from Dorfli as quickly as she
could; she was obliged, however, to pause now and again to take
breath, for the basket she carried was rather heavy, and the way
got steeper as she drew nearer the top. One thought alone filled
Heidi's mind, "Would she find the grandmother sitting in her
usual corner by the spinning-wheel, was she still alive?" At
last Heidi caught sight of the grandmother's house in the hollow
of the mountain and her heart began to beat; she ran faster and
faster and her heart beat louder and louder--and now she had
reached the house, but she trembled so she could hardly open the
door--and then she was standing inside, unable in her
breathlessness to utter a sound.
"Ah, my God!" cried a voice from the corner, "that was how Heidi
used to run in; if only I could have her with me once again! Who
is there?"
"It's I, I, grandmother," cried Heidi as she ran and flung
herself on her knees beside the old woman, and seizing her
hands, clung to her, unable to speak for joy. And the grandmother
herself could not say a word for some time, so unexpected was
this happiness; but at last she put out her hand and stroked
Heidi's curly hair, and said, "Yes, yes, that is her hair, and
her voice; thank God that He has granted my prayer!" And tears
of joy fell from the blind eyes on to Heidi's hand. "Is it really
you, Heidi; have you really come back to me?"
"Yes, grandmother, I am really here," answered Heidi in a
reassuring voice. "Do not cry, for I have really come back and I
am never going away again, and I shall come every day to see
you, and you won't have any more hard bread to eat for some days,
for look, look!"
And Heidi took the rolls from the basket and piled the whole
twelve up on grandmother's lap.
"Ah, child! child! what a blessing you bring with you!" the old
woman exclaimed, as she felt and seemed never to come to the end
of the rolls. "But you yourself are the greatest blessing,
Heidi," and again she touched the child's hair and passed her
hand over her hot cheeks, and said, "Say something, child, that
I may hear your voice."
Then Heidi told her how unhappy she had been, thinking that the
grandmother might die while she was away and would never have
her white rolls, and that then she would never, never see her
again.
Peter's mother now came in and stood for a moment overcome with
astonishment. "Why, it's Heidi," she exclaimed, "and yet can it
be?"
Heidi stood up, and Brigitta now could not say enough in her
admiration of the child's dress and appearance; she walked round
her, exclaiming all the while, "Grandmother, if you could only
see her, and see what a pretty frock she has on; you would
hardly know her again. And the hat with the feather in it is
yours too, I suppose? Put it on that I may see how you look in
it?"
"No, I would rather not," replied Heidi firmly. "You can have it
if you like; I do not want it; I have my own still." And Heidi
so saying undid her red bundle and took out her own old hat,
which had become a little more battered still during the journey.
But this was no trouble to Heidi; she had not forgotten how her
grandfather had called out to Dete that he never wished to see
her and her hat and feathers again, and this was the reason she
had so anxiously preserved her old hat, for she had never ceased
to think about going home to her grandfather. But Brigitta told
her not to be so foolish as to give it away; she would not think
of taking such a beautiful hat; if Heidi did not want to wear it
she might sell it to the schoolmaster's daughter in Dorfli and
get a good deal of money for it. But Heidi stuck to her
intention and hid the hat quietly in a corner behind the
grandmother's chair. Then she took off her pretty dress and put
her red shawl on over her under-petticoat, which left her arms
bare; and now she clasped the old woman's hand. "I must go home
to grandfather," she said, "but to-morrow I shall come again. Goodnight,
grandmother."
"Yes, come again, be sure you come again tomorrow," begged the
grandmother, as she pressed Heidi's hands in hers, unwilling to
let her go.
"Why have you taken off that pretty dress?" asked Brigitta.
"Because I would rather go home to grandfather as I am or else
perhaps he would not know me; you hardly did at first."
Brigitta went with her to the door, and there said in rather a
mysterious voice, "You might have kept on your dress, he would
have known you all right; but you must be careful, for Peter
tells me that Alm-Uncle is always now in a bad temper and never
speaks."
Heidi bid her good-night and continued her way up the mountain,
her basket on her arm. All around her the steep green slopes
shone bright in the evening sun, and soon the great gleaming snowfield
up above came in sight. Heidi was obliged to keep on
pausing to look behind her, for the higher peaks were behind her
as she climbed. Suddenly a warm red glow fell on the grass at
her feet; she looked back again--she had not remembered how
splendid it was, nor seen anything to compare to it in her dreams-
-for there the two high mountain peeks rose into the air like two
great flames, the whole snow-field had turned crimson, and rosycolored
clouds floated in the sky above. The grass upon the
mountain sides had turned to gold, the rocks were all aglow, and
the whole valley was bathed in golden mist. And as Heidi stood
gazing around her at all this splendor the tears ran down her
cheeks for very delight and happiness, and impulsively she put
her hands together, and lifting her eyes to heaven, thanked God
aloud for having brought her home, thanked Him that everything
was as beautiful as ever, more beautiful even than she had
thought, and that it was all hers again once more. And she was so
overflowing with joy and thankfulness that she could not find
words to thank Him enough. Not until the glory began to fade
could she tear herself away. Then she ran on so quickly that in
a very little while she caught sight of the tops of the fir trees
above the hut roof, then the roof itself, and at last the whole
hut, and there was grandfather sitting as in old days smoking
his pipe, and she could see the fir trees waving in the wind.
Quicker and quicker went her little feet, and before Alm-Uncle
had time to see who was coming, Heidi had rushed up to him,
thrown down her basket and flung her arms round his neck, unable
in the excitement of seeing him again to say more than
"Grandfather! grandfather! grandfather!" over and over again.
And the old man himself said nothing. For the first time for
many years his eyes were wet, and he had to pass his hand across
them. Then he unloosed Heidi's arms, put her on his knee, and
after looking at her for a moment, "So you have come back to me,
Heidi," he said, "how is that? You don't look much of a grand
lady. Did they send you away?"
"Oh, no, grandfather," said Heidi eagerly, "you must not think
that; they were all so kind--Clara, and grandmamma, and Herr
Sesemann. But you see, grandfather, I did not know how to bear
myself till I got home again to you. I used to think I should
die, for I felt as if I could not breathe; but I never said
anything because it would have been ungrateful. And then
suddenly one morning quite early Herr Sesemann said to me--but I
think it was partly the doctor's doing--but perhaps it's all in
the letter--" and Heidi jumped down and fetched the roll and the
letter and handed them both to her grandfather.
"That belongs to you," said the latter, laying the roll down on
the bench beside him. Then he opened the letter, read it through
and without a word put it in his pocket.
"Do you think you can still drink milk with me, Heidi?" he
asked, taking the child by the hand to go into the hut. "But
bring your money with you; you can buy a bed and bedclothes and
dresses for a couple of years with it."
"I am sure I do not want it," replied Heidi. "I have got a bed
already, and Clara has put such a lot of clothes in my box that
I shall never want any more."
"Take it and put it in the cupboard; you will want it some day I
have no doubt."
Heidi obeyed and skipped happily after her grandfather into the
house; she ran into all the corners, delighted to see everything
again, and then went up the ladder--but there she came to a
pause and called down in a tone of surprise and distress, "Oh,
grandfather, my bed's gone."
"We can soon make it up again," he answered her from below. "I
did not know that you were coming back; come along now and have
your milk."
Heidi came down, sat herself on her high stool in the old place,
and then taking up her bowl drank her milk eagerly, as if she
had never come across anything so delicious, and as she put down
her bowl, she exclaimed, "Our milk tastes nicer than anything
else in the world, grandfather."
A shrill whistle was heard outside. Heidi darted out like a
flash of lightning. There were the goats leaping and springing
among the rocks, with Peter in their midst. When he caught sight
of Heidi he stood still with astonishment and gazed speechlessly
at her. Heidi called out, "Good-evening, Peter," and then ran in
among the goats. "Little Swan! Little Bear! do you know me
again?" And the animals evidently recognized her voice at once,
for they began rubbing their heads against her and bleating
loudly as if for joy, and as she called the other goats by name
one after the other, they all came scampering towards her helterskelter
and crowding round her. The impatient Greenfinch sprang
into the air and over two of her companions in order to get
nearer, and even the shy little Snowflake butted the Great Turk
out of her way in quite a determined manner, which left him
standing taken aback by her boldness, and lifting his beard in
the air as much as to say, You see who I am.
Heidi was out of her mind with delight at being among all her
old friends again; she flung her arms round the pretty little
Snowflake, stroked the obstreperous Greenfinch, while she
herself was thrust at from all sides by the affectionate and
confiding goats; and so at last she got near to where Peter was
still standing, not having yet got over his surprise.
"Come down, Peter," cried Heidi, "and say good-evening to me."
"So you are back again?" he found words to say at last, and now
ran down and took Heidi's hand which she was holding out in
greeting, and immediately put the same question to her which he
had been in the habit of doing in the old days when they
returned home in the evening, "Will you come out with me again tomorrow?"
"Not to-morrow, but the day after perhaps, for to-morrow I must
go down to grandmother."
"I am glad you are back," said Peter, while his whole face
beamed with pleasure, and then he prepared to go on with his
goats; but he never had had so much trouble with them before, for
when at last, by coaxing and threats, he had got them all
together, and Heidi had gone off with an arm over either head of
her grandfather's two, the whole flock suddenly turned and ran
after her. Heidi had to go inside the stall with her two and shut
the door, or Peter would never have got home that night. When
Heidi went indoors after this she found her bed already made up
for her; the hay had been piled high for it and smelt
deliciously, for it had only just been got in, and the
grandfather had carefully spread and tucked in the clean sheets.
It was with a happy heart that Heidi lay down in it that night,
and her sleep was sounder than it had been for a whole year past.
The grandfather got up at least ten times during the night and
mounted the ladder to see if Heidi was all right and showing no
signs of restlessness, and to feel that the hay he had stuffed
into the round window was keeping the moon from shining too
brightly upon her. But Heidi did not stir; she had no need now
to wander about, for the great burning longing of her heart was
satisfied; she had seen the high mountains and rocks alight in
the evening glow, she had heard the wind in the fir trees, she
was at home again on the mountain.
CHAPTER XIV. SUNDAY BELLS
Heidi was standing under the waving fir trees waiting for her
grandfather, who was going down with her to grandmother's, and
then on to Dorfli to fetch her box. She was longing to know how
grandmother had enjoyed her white bread and impatient to see and
hear her again; but no time seemed weary to her now, for she
could not listen long enough to the familiar voice of the trees,
or drink in too much of the fragrance wafted to her from the
green pastures where the golden-headed flowers were glowing in
the sun, a very feast to her eyes. The grandfather came out,
gave a look round, and then called to her in a cheerful voice,
"Well, now we can be off."
It was Saturday, a day when Alm-Uncle made everything clean and
tidy inside and outside the house; he had devoted his morning to
this work so as to be able to accompany Heidi in the afternoon,
and the whole place was now as spick and span as he liked to see
it. They parted at the grandmother's cottage and Heidi ran in.
The grandmother had heard her steps approaching and greeted her
as she crossed the threshold, "Is it you, child? Have you come
again?"
Then she took hold of Heidi's hand and held it fast in her own,
for she still seemed to fear that the child might be torn from
her again. And now she had to tell Heidi how much she had
enjoyed the white bread, and how much stronger she felt already
for having been able to eat it, and then Peter's mother went on
and said she was sure that if her mother could eat like that for
a week she would get back some of her strength, but she was so
afraid of coming to the end of the rolls, that she had only
eaten one as yet. Heidi listened to all Brigitta said, and sat
thinking for a while. Then she suddenly thought of a way.
"I know, grandmother, what I will do," she said eagerly, "I will
write to Clara, and she will send me as many rolls again, if not
twice as many as you have already, for I had ever such a large
heap in the wardrobe, and when they were all taken away she
promised to give me as many back, and she would do so I am
sure."
"That is a good idea," said Brigitta; "but then, they would get
hard and stale. The baker in Dorfli makes the white rolls, and
if we could get some of those he has over now and then--but I can
only just manage to pay for the black bread."
A further bright thought came to Heidi, and with a look of joy,
"Oh, I have lots of money, grandmother," she cried gleefully,
skipping about the room in her delight, "and I know now what I
will do with it. You must have a fresh white roll every day, and
two on Sunday, and Peter can bring them up from Dorfli."
"No, no, child!" answered the grandmother, "I cannot let you do
that; the money was not given to you for that purpose; you must
give it to your grandfather, and he will tell you how you are to
spend it."
But Heidi was not to be hindered in her kind intentions, and she
continued to jump about, saying over and over again in a tone of
exultation, "Now, grandmother can have a roll every day and will
grow quite strong again--and, Oh, grandmother," she suddenly
exclaimed with an increase of jubilation in her voice, "if you
get strong everything will grow light again for you; perhaps
it's only because you are weak that it is dark." The grandmother
said nothing, she did not wish to spoil the child's pleasure. As
she went jumping about Heidi suddenly caught sight of the
grandmother's song book, and another happy idea struck her,
"Grandmother, I can also read now, would you like me to read you
one of your hymns from your old book?"
"Oh, yes," said the grandmother, surprised and delighted; "but
can you really read, child, really?"
Heidi had climbed on to a chair and had already lifted down the
book, bringing a cloud of dust with it, for it had lain
untouched on the shelf for a long time. Heidi wiped it, sat
herself down on a stool beside the old woman, and asked her which
hymn she should read.
"What you like, child, what you like," and the grandmother
pushed her spinning-wheel aside and sat in eager expectation
waiting for Heidi to begin. Heidi turned over the leaves and read
a line out softly to herself here and there. At last she said,
"Here is one about the sun, grandmother, I will read you that."
And Heidi began, reading with more and more warmth of expression
as she went on,--
The morning breaks, And warm and bright The earth lies still
In the golden light-- For Dawn has scattered the clouds of
night.
God's handiwork Is seen around, Things great and small To His
praise abound-- Where are the signs of His love not found?
All things must pass, But God shall still With steadfast
power His will fulfil-- Sure and unshaken is His will.
His saving grace Will never fail, Though grief and fear The
heart assail-- O'er life's wild seas He will prevail.
Joy shall be ours In that garden blest, Where after storm We
find our rest-- I wait in peace--God's time is best.
The grandmother sat with folded hands and a look of
indescribable joy on her face, such as Heidi had never seen there
before, although at the same time the tears were running down her
cheeks. As Heidi finished, she implored her, saying, "Read it
once again, child, just once again."
And the child began again, with as much pleasure in the verses
as the grandmother,--
Joy shall be ours In that garden blest, Where after storm We
find our rest-- I wait in peace--God's time is best.
"Ah, Heidi, that brings light to the heart! What comfort you
have brought me!"
And the old woman kept on repeating the glad words, while Heidi
beamed with happiness, and she could not take her eyes away from
the grandmother's face, which had never looked like that before.
It had no longer the old troubled expression, but was alight
with peace and joy as if she were already looking with clear new
eyes into the garden or Paradise.
Some one now knocked at the window and Heidi looked up and saw
her grandfather beckoning her to come home with him. She
promised the grandmother before leaving her that she would be
with her the next day, and even if she went out with Peter she
would only spend half the day with him, for the thought that she
might make it light and happy again for the grandmother gave her
the greatest pleasure, greater even than being out on the sunny
mountain with the flowers and goats. As she was going out
Brigitta ran to her with the frock and hat she had left. Heidi
put the dress over her arm, for, as she thought to herself, the
grandfather had seen that before, but she obstinately refused to
take back the hat; Brigitta could keep it, for she should never
put it on her head again. Heidi was so full of her morning's
doings that she began at once to tell her grandfather all about
them: how the white bread could be fetched every day from Dorfli
if there was money for it, and how the grandmother had all at
once grown stronger and happier, and light had come to her. Then
she returned to the subject of the rolls. "If the grandmother
won't take the money, grandfather, will you give it all to me,
and I can then give Peter enough every day to buy a roll and two
on Sunday?"
"But how about the bed?" said her grandfather. "It would be nice
for you to have a proper bed, and there would then be plenty for
the bread."
But Heidi gave her grandfather no peace till he consented to do
what she wanted; she slept a great deal better, she said, on her
bed of hay than on her fine pillowed bed in Frankfurt. So at
last he said, "The money is yours, do what you like with it; you
can buy bread for grandmother for years to come with it."
Heidi shouted for joy at the thought that grandmother would
never need any more to eat hard black bread, and "Oh,
grandfather!" she said, "everything is happier now than it has
ever been in our lives before!" and she sang and skipped along,
holding her grandfather's hand as light-hearted as a bird. But
all at once she grew quiet and said, "If God had let me come at
once, as I prayed, then everything would have been different, I
should only have had a little bread to bring to grandmother, and
I should not have been able to read, which is such a comfort to
her; but God has arranged it all so much better than I knew how
to; everything has happened just as the other grandmother said it
would. Oh, how glad I am that God did not let me have at once all
I prayed and wept for! And now I shall always pray to God as she
told me, and always thank Him, and when He does not do anything I
ask for I shall think to myself, It's just like it was in
Frankfurt: God, I am sure, is going to do something better still.
So we will pray every day, won't we, grandfather, and never
forget Him again, or else He may forget us."
"And supposing one does forget Him?" said the grandfather in a
low voice.
"Then everything goes wrong, for God lets us then go where we
like, and when we get poor and miserable and begin to cry about
it no one pities us, but they say, You ran away from God, and so
God, who could have helped you, left you to yourself."
"That is true, Heidi; where did you learn that?"
"From grandmamma; she explained it all to me."
The grandfather walked on for a little while without speaking,
then he said, as if following his own train of thought: "And if
it once is so, it is so always; no one can go back, and he whom
God has forgotten, is forgotten for ever."
"Oh, no, grandfather, we can go back, for grandmamma told me so,
and so it was in the beautiful tale in my book--but you have not
heard that yet; but we shall be home directly now, and then I
will read it you, and you will see how beautiful it is." And in
her eagerness Heidi struggled faster and faster up the steep
ascent, and they were no sooner at the top than she let go her
grandfather's hand and ran into the hut. The grandfather slung
the basket off his shoulders in which he had brought up a part
of the contents of the trunk which was too heavy to carry up as
it was. Then he sat down on his seat and began thinking.
Heidi soon came running out with her book under her arm. "That's
right, grandfather," she exclaimed as she saw he had already
taken his seat, and in a second she was beside him and had her
book open at the particular tale, for she had read it so often
that the leaves fell open at it of their own accord. And now in
a sympathetic voice Heidi began to read of the son when he was
happily at home, and went out into the fields with his father's
flocks, and was dressed in a fine cloak, and stood leaning on
his shepherd's staff watching as the sun went down, just as he
was to be seen in the picture. But then all at once he wanted to
have his own goods and money and to be his own master, and so he
asked his father to give him his portion, and he left his home
and went and wasted all his substance. And when he had nothing
left he hired himself out to a master who had no flocks and
fields like his father, but only swine to keep; and so he was
obliged to watch these, and he only had rags to wear and a few
husks to eat such as the swine fed upon. And then he thought of
his old happy life at home and of how kindly his father had
treated him and how ungrateful he had been, and he wept for
sorrow and longing. And he thought to himself, "I will arise and
go to my father, and will say to him, 'Father, I am not worthy to
be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants.'" And
when he was yet a great way off his father saw him . . . Here
Heidi paused in her reading. "What do you think happens now,
grandfather?" she said. "Do you think the father is still angry
and will say to him, 'I told you so!' Well, listen now to what
comes next." His father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and
fell on his neck and kissed him. And the son said to him,
"Father, I have sinned against heaven and in thy sight, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son." But the father said to his
servants, "Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put
a ring on his hand and shoes on his feet: and bring hither the
fatted calf and kill it; and let us eat and be merry, for this my
son was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." And
they began to be merry.
"Isn't that a beautiful tale, grandfather," said Heidi, as the
latter continued to sit without speaking, for she had expected
him to express pleasure and astonishment.
"You are right, Heidi; it is a beautiful tale," he replied, but
he looked so grave as he said it that Heidi grew silent herself
and sat looking quietly at her pictures. Presently she pushed
her book gently in front of him and said, "See how happy he is
there," and she pointed with her finger to the figure of the
returned prodigal, who was standing by his father clad in fresh
raiment as one of his own sons again.
A few hours later, as Heidi lay fast asleep in her bed, the
grandfather went up the ladder and put his lamp down near her
bed so that the light fell on the sleeping child. Her hands were
still folded as if she had fallen asleep saying her prayers, an
expression of peace and trust lay on the little face, and
something in it seemed to appeal to the grandfather, for he
stood a long time gazing down at her without speaking. At last he
too folded his hands, and with bowed head said in a low voice,
"Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee and am not
worthy to be called thy son." And two large tears rolled down
the old man's cheeks.
Early the next morning he stood in front of his hut and gazed
quietly around him. The fresh bright morning sun lay on mountain
and valley. The sound of a few early bells rang up from the
valley, and the birds were singing their morning song in the fir
trees. He stepped back into the hut and called up, "Come along,
Heidi! the sun is up! Put on your best frock, for we are going
to church together!"
Heidi was not long getting ready; it was such an unusual summons
from her grandfather that she must make haste. She put on her
smart Frankfurt dress and soon went down, but when she saw her
grandfather she stood still, gazing at him in astonishment.
"Why, grandfather!" she exclaimed, "I never saw you look like
that before! and the coat with the silver buttons! Oh, you do
look nice in your Sunday coat!"
The old man smiled and replied, "And you too; now come along!"
He took Heidi's hand in his and together they walked down the
mountain side. The bells were ringing in every direction now,
sounding louder and fuller as they neared the valley, and Heidi
listened to them with delight. "Hark at them, grandfather! it's
like a great festival!"
The congregation had already assembled and the singing had begun
when Heidi and her grandfather entered the church at Dorfli and
sat down at the back. But before the hymn was over every one was
nudging his neighbor and whispering, "Do you see? Alm-Uncle is
in church!"
Soon everybody in the church knew of Alm-Uncle's presence, and
the women kept on turning round to look and quite lost their
place in the singing. But everybody became more attentive when
the sermon began, for the preacher spoke with such warmth and
thankfulness that those present felt the effect of his words, as
if some great joy had come to them all. At the close of the
service Alm-Uncle took Heidi by the hand, and on leaving the
church made his way towards the pastor's house; the rest of the
congregation looked curiously after him, some even following to
see whether he went inside the pastor's house, which he did.
Then they collected in groups and talked over this strange event,
keeping their eyes on the pastor's door, watching to see whether
Alm-Uncle came out looking angry and quarrelsome, or as if the
interview had been a peaceful one, for they could not imagine
what had brought the old man down, and what it all meant. Some,
however, adopted a new tone and expressed their opinion that Alm-
Uncle was not so bad after all as they thought, "for see how
carefully he took the little one by the hand." And others
responded and said they had always thought people had
exaggerated about him, that if he was so downright bad he would
be afraid to go inside the pastor's house. Then the miller put in
his word, "Did I not tell you so from the first? What child is
there who would run away from where she had plenty to eat and
drink and everything of the best, home to a grandfather who was
cruel and unkind, and of whom she was afraid?"
And so everybody began to feel quite friendly towards Alm-Uncle,
and the women now came up and related all they had been told by
Peter and his grandmother, and finally they all stood there like
people waiting for an old friend whom they had long missed from
among their number.
Meanwhile Alm-Uncle had gone into the pastor's house and knocked
at the study door. The latter came out and greeted him, not as
if he was surprised to see him, but as if he had quite expected
to see him there; he probably had caught sight of the old man in
church. He shook hands warmly with him, and Alm-Uncle was unable
at first to speak, for he had not expected such a friendly
reception. At last he collected himself and said, "I have come
to ask you, pastor, to forget the words I spoke to you when you
called on me, and to beg you not to owe me ill-will for having
been so obstinately set against your well-meant advice. You were
right, and I was wrong, but I have now made up my mind to follow
your advice and to find a place for myself at Dorfli for the
winter, for the child is not strong enough to stand the bitter
cold up on the mountain. And if the people down here look
askance at me, as at a person not to be trusted, I know it is my
own fault, and you will, I am sure, not do so."
The pastor's kindly eyes shone with pleasure. He pressed the old
man's hand in his, and said with emotion, "Neighbor, you went
into the right church before you came to mine; I am greatly
rejoiced. You will not repent coming to live with us again; as
for myself you will always be welcome as a dear friend and
neighbor, and I look forward to our spending many a pleasant
winter evening together, for I shall prize your companionship,
and we will find some nice friends too for the little one." And
the pastor laid his hand kindly on the child's curly head and
took her by the hand as he walked to the door with the old man.
He did not say good-bye to him till they were standing outside,
so that all the people standing about saw him shake hands as if
parting reluctantly from his best friend. The door had hardly
shut behind him before the whole congregation now came forward
to greet Alm-Uncle, every one striving to be the first to shake
hands with him, and so many were held out that Alm-Uncle did not
know with which to begin; and some said, "We are so pleased to
see you among us again," and another, "I have long been wishing
we could have a talk together again," and greetings of all kinds
echoed from every side, and when Alm-Uncle told them he was
thinking of returning to his old quarters in Dorfli for the
winter, there was such a general chorus of pleasure that any one
would have thought he was the most beloved person in all Dorfli,
and that they had hardly known how to live without him. Most of
his friends accompanied him and Heidi some way up the mountain,
and each as they bid him good-bye made him promise that when he
next came down he would without fail come and call. As the old
man at last stood alone with the child, watching their
retreating figures, there was a light upon his face as if
reflected from some inner sunshine of heart. Heidi, looking up at
him with her clear steady eyes, said, "Grandfather, you look
nicer and nicer to-day, I never saw you quite like that before."
"Do you think so?" he answered with a smile. "Well, yes, Heidi,
I am happier to-day than I deserve, happier than I had thought
possible; it is good to be at peace with God and man! God was
good to me when He sent you to my hut."
When they reached Peter's home the grandfather opened the door
and walked straight in. "Good-morning, grandmother," he said. "I
think we shall have to do some more patching, up before the
autumn winds come."
"Dear God, if it is not Uncle!" cried the grandmother in pleased
surprise. "That I should live to see such a thing! and now I can
thank you for all that you have done for me. May God reward you!
may God reward you!" She stretched out a trembling hand to him,
and when the grandfather shook it warmly, she went on, still
holding his, "And I have something on my heart I want to say, a
prayer to make to you! If I have injured you in any way, do not
punish me by sending the child away again before I lie under the
grass. Oh, you do not know what that child is to me!" and she
clasped the child to her, for Heidi had already taken her usual
stand close to the grandmother.
"Have no fear, grandmother," said Uncle in a reassuring voice,
"I shall not punish either you or myself by doing so. We are all
together now, and pray God we may continue so for long."
Brigitta now drew the Uncle aside towards a corner of the room
and showed him the hat with the feathers, explaining to him how
it came there, and adding that of course she could not take such
a thing from a child.
But the grandfather looked towards Heidi without any displeasure
of countenance and said, "The hat is hers, and if she does not
wish to wear it any more she has a right to say so and to give
it to you, so take it, pray."
Brigitta was highly delighted at this. "It is well worth more
than ten shillings!" she said as she held it up for further
admiration. "And what a blessing Heidi has brought home with her
from Frankfurt! I have thought sometimes that it might be good
to send Peter there for a little while; what do you think,
Uncle?"
A merry look came into the grandfather's eye. He thought it
would do Peter no harm, but he had better wait for a good
opportunity before starting. At this moment the subject of their
conversation himself rushed in, evidently in a great hurry,
knocking his head violently against the door in his haste, so
that everything in the room rattled. Gasping and breathless he
stood still after this and held out a letter. This was another
great event, for such a thing had never happened before; the
letter was addressed to Heidi and had been delivered at the postoffice
in Dorfli. They all sat down round the table to hear what
was in it, for Heidi opened it at once and read it without
hesitation. The letter was from Clara. The latter wrote that the
house had been so dull since Heidi left that she did not know how
to bear herself, and she had at last persuaded her father to take
her to the baths at Ragatz in the coming autumn; grandmamma had
arranged to join them there, and they both were looking forward
to paying her and her grandfather a visit. And grandmamma sent a
further message to Heidi which was that the latter had done quite
right to take the rolls to the grandmother, and so that she might
not have to eat them dry, she was sending some coffee, which was
already on its way, and grandmamma hoped when she came to the
Alm in the autumn that Heidi would take her to see her old
friend.
There were exclamations of pleasure and astonishment on hearing
all this news, and so much to talk and ask about that even the
grandfather did not notice how the time was passing; there was
general delight at the thought of the coming days, and even more
at the meeting which had taken place on this one, and the
grandmother spoke and said, "The happiest of all things is when
an old friend comes and greets us as in former times; the heart
is comforted with the assurance that some day everything that we
have loved will be given back to us.--You will come soon again,
uncle, and you child, to-morrow?"
The old man and Heidi promised her faithfully to do so; then it
was time to break up the party, and these two went back up the
mountain. As they had been greeted with bells when they made
their journey down in the morning, so now they were accompanied
by the peaceful evening chimes as they climbed to the hut, which
had quite a Sunday-like appearance as it stood bathed in the
light of the low evening sun.
But when grandmamma comes next autumn there will be many fresh
joys and surprises both for Heidi and grandmother; without doubt
a proper bed will be put up in the hay-loft, for wherever
grandmamma steps in, there everything is soon in right order,
outside and in.
CHAPTER XV. PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY
The kind doctor who had given the order that Heidi was to be
sent home was walking along one of the broad streets towards Herr
Sesemann's house. It was a sunny September morning, so full of
light and sweetness that it seemed as if everybody must rejoice.
But the doctor walked with his eyes fastened to the ground and
did not once lift them to the blue sky above him. There was an
expression of sadness on his face, formerly so cheerful, and his
hair had grown greyer since the spring. The doctor had had an
only daughter, who, after his wife's death, had been his sole
and constant companion, but only a few months previously death
had deprived him of his dear child, and he had never been the
same bright and cheery man since.
Sebastian opened the door to him, greeting him with every mark
of respectful civility, for the doctor was not only the most
cherished friend of the master and his daughter, but had by his
kindness won the hearts of the whole household.
"Everything as usual, Sebastian?" asked the doctor in his
pleasant voice as he preceded Sebastian up the stairs.
"I am glad you have come, doctor," exclaimed Herr Sesemann as
the latter entered. "We must really have another talk over this
Swiss journey; do you still adhere to your decision, even though
Clara is decidedly improving in health?"
"My dear Sesemann, I never knew such a man as you!" said the
doctor as he sat down beside his friend. "I really wish your
mother was here; everything would be clear and straightforward
then and she would soon put things in right train. You sent for
me three times yesterday only to ask me the same question,
though you know what I think."
"Yes, I know, it's enough to make you out of patience with me;
but you must understand, dear friend"--and Herr Sesemann laid
his hand imploringly on the doctor's shoulder--"that I feel I
have not the courage to refuse the child what I have been
promising her all along, and for months now she has been living
on the thought of it day and night. She bore this last bad attack
so patiently because she was buoyed up with the hope that she
should soon start on her Swiss journey, and see her friend Heidi
again; and now must I tell the poor child, who has to give up so
many pleasures, that this visit she has so long looked forward to
must also be cancelled? I really have not the courage to do it."
"You must make up your mind to it, Sesemann," said the doctor
with authority, and as his friend continued silent and dejected
he went on after a pause, "Consider yourself how the matter
stands. Clara has not had such a bad summer as this last one for
years. Only the worst results would follow from the fatigue of
such a journey, and it is out of the question for her. And then
we are already in September, and although it may still be warm
and fine up there, it may just as likely be already very cold.
The days too are growing short, and as Clara cannot spend the
night up there she would only have a two hours' visit at the
outside. The journey from Ragatz would take hours, for she would
have to be carried up the mountain in a chair. In short,
Sesemann, it is impossible. But I will go in with you and talk
to Clara; she is a reasonable child, and I will tell her what my
plans are. Next May she shall be taken to the baths and stay
there for the cure until it is quite hot weather. Then she can
be carried up the mountain from time to time, and when she is
stronger she will enjoy these excursions far more than she would
now. Understand, Sesemann, that if we want to give the child a
chance of recovery we must use the utmost care and
watchfulness."
Herr Sesemann, who had listened to the doctor in sad and
submissive silence, now suddenly jumped up. "Doctor," he said,
"tell me truly: have you really any hope of her final recovery?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Very little," he replied
quietly. "But, friend, think of my trouble. You have still a
beloved child to look for you and greet you on your return home.
You do not come back to an empty house and sit down to a
solitary meal. And the child is happy and comfortable at home
too. If there is much that she has to give up, she has on the
other hand many advantages. No, Sesemann, you are not so greatly
to be pitied--you have still the happiness of being together.
Think of my lonely house!"
Herr Sesemann was now striding up and down the room as was his
habit when deeply engaged in thought. Suddenly he came to a
pause beside his friend and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Doctor, I have an idea; I cannot bear to see you look as you do;
you are no longer the same man. You must be taken out of yourself
for a while, and what do you think I propose? That you shall take
the journey and go and pay Heidi a visit in our name."
The doctor was taken aback at this sudden proposal and wanted to
make objections, but his friend gave him no time to say
anything. He was so delighted with his idea, that he seized the
doctor by the arm and drew him into Clara's room. The kind doctor
was always a welcome visitor to Clara, for he generally had
something amusing to tell her. Lately, it is true, he had been
graver, but Clara knew the reason why and would have given much
to see him his old lively self again. She held out her hand to
him as he came up to her; he took a seat beside her, and her
father also drew up his chair, and taking Clara's hand in his
began to talk to her of the Swiss journey and how he himself had
looked forward to it. He passed as quickly as he could over the
main point that it was now impossible for her to undertake it,
for he dreaded the tears that would follow; but he went on
without pause to tell her of his new plan, and dwelt on the great
benefit it would be to his friend if he could be persuaded to
take this holiday.
The tears were indeed swimming in the blue eyes, although Clara
struggled to keep them down for her father's sake, but it was a
bitter disappointment to give up the journey, the thought of
which had been her only joy and solace during the lonely hours
of her long illness. She knew, however, that her father would
never refuse her a thing unless he was certain that it would be
harmful for her. So she swallowed her tears as well as she could
and turned her thoughts to the one hope still left her. Taking
the doctor's hand and stroking it, she said pleadingly,--
"Dear doctor, you will go and see Heidi, won't you? and then you
can come and tell me all about it, what it is like up there, and
what Heidi and the grandfather, and Peter and the goats do all
day. I know them all so well! And then you can take what I want
to send to Heidi; I have thought about it all, and also
something for the grandmother. Do pray go, dear doctor, and I
will take as much cod liver oil as you like."
Whether this promise finally decided the doctor it is impossible
to say, but it is certain that he smiled and said,--
"Then I must certainly go, Clara, for you will then get as plump
and strong as your father and I wish to see you. And have you
decided when I am to start?"
"To-morrow morning--early if possible," replied Clara.
"Yes, she is right," put in Herr Sesemann; "the sun is shining
and the sky is blue, and there is no time to be lost; it is a
pity to miss a single one of these days on the mountain."
The doctor could not help laughing. "You will be reproaching me
next for not being there already; well, I must go and make
arrangements for getting off."
But Clara would not let him go until she had given him endless
messages for Heidi, and had explained all he was to look at so
as to give her an exact description on his return. Her presents
she would send round later, as Fraulein Rottenmeier must first
help her to pack them up; at that moment she was out on one of
her excursions into the town which always kept her engaged for
some time. The doctor promised to obey Clara's directions in
every particular; he would start some time during the following
day if not the first thing in the morning, and would bring back a
faithful account of his experiences and of all he saw and heard.
The servants of a household have a curious faculty of divining
what is going on before they are actually told about anything.
Sebastian and Tinette must have possessed this faculty in a high
degree, for even as the doctor was going downstairs, Tinette,
who had been rung for, entered Clara's room.
"Take that box and bring it back filled with the soft cakes
which we have with coffee," said Clara, pointing to a box which
had been brought long before in preparation for this. Tinette
took it up, and carried it out, dangling it contemptuously in her
hand.
"Hardly worth the trouble I should have thought," she said
pertly as she left the room.
As Sebastian opened the door for the doctor he said with a bow,
"Will the Herr Doctor be so kind as to give the little miss my
greetings?"
"I see," said the doctor, "you know then already that I am off
on a journey."
Sebastian hesitated and gave an awkward little cough. "I am--I
have--I hardly know myself. O yes, I remember; I happened to
pass through the dining-room and caught little miss's name, and I
put two and two together--and so I thought--"
"I see, I see," smiled the doctor, "one can find out a great
many thinks by thinking. Good-bye till I see you again,
Sebastian, I will be sure and give your message."
The doctor was hastening off when he met with a sudden obstacle;
the violent wind had prevented Fraulein Rottenmeier prosecuting
her walk any farther, and she was just returning and had reached
the door as he was coming out. The white shawl she wore was so
blown out by the wind that she looked like a ship in full sail.
The doctor drew back, but Fraulein Rottenmeier had always
evinced peculiar appreciation and respect for this man, and she
also drew back with exaggerated politeness to let him pass. The
two stood for a few seconds, each anxious to make way for the
other, but a sudden gust of wind sent Fraulein Rottenmeier flying
with all her sails almost into the doctor's arms, and she had to
pause and recover herself before she could shake hands with the
doctor with becoming decorum. She was put out at having been
forced to enter in so undignified a manner, but the doctor had a
way of smoothing people's ruffled feathers, and she was soon
listening with her usual composure while he informed her of his
intended journey, begging her in his most conciliatory voice to
pack up the parcels for Heidi as she alone knew how to pack. And
then he took his leave.
Clara quite expected to have a long tussle with Fraulein
Rottenmeier before she would get the latter to consent to
sending all the things that she had collected as presents for
Heidi. But this time she was mistaken, for Fraulein Rottenmeier
was in a more than usually good temper. She cleared the large
table so that all the things for Heidi could be spread out upon
it and packed under Clara's own eyes. It was no light job, for
the presents were of all shapes and sizes. First there was the
little warm cloak with a hood, which had been designed by Clara
herself, in order that Heidi during the coming winter might be
able to go and see grandmother when she liked, and not have to
wait till her grandfather could take her wrapped up in a sack to
keep her from freezing. Then came a thick warm shawl for the
grandmother, in which she could wrap herself well up and not feel
the cold when the wind came sweeping in such terrible gusts round
the house. The next object was the large box full of cakes; these
were also for the grandmother, that she might have something to
eat with her coffee besides bread. An immense sausage was the
next article; this had been originally intended for Peter, who
never had anything but bread and cheese, but Clara had altered
her mind, fearing that in his delight he might eat it all up at
once and make himself ill. So she arranged to send it to
Brigitta, who could take some for herself and the grandmother and
give Peter his portion out by degrees. A packet of tobacco was a
present for grandfather, who was fond of his pipe as he sat
resting in the evening. Finally there was a whole lot of
mysterious little bags, and parcels, and boxes, which Clara had
had especial pleasure in collecting, as each was to be a joyful
surprise for Heidi as she opened it. The work came to an end at
last, and an imposing-looking package lay on the floor ready for
transport. Fraulein Rottenmeier looked at it with satisfaction,
lost in the consideration of the art of packing. Clara eyed it
too with pleasure, picturing Heidi's exclamations and jumps of
joy and surprise when the huge parcel arrived at the hut.
And now Sebastian came in, and lifting the package on to his
shoulder, carried it off to be forwarded at once to the doctor's
house.
CHAPTER XVI. A VISITOR
The early light of morning lay rosy red upon the mountains, and
a fresh breeze rustled through the fir trees and set their
ancient branches waving to and fro. The sound awoke Heidi and she
opened her eyes. The roaring in the trees always stirred a strong
emotion within her and seemed to drew her irresistibly to them.
So she jumped out of bed and dressed herself as quickly as she
could, but it took her some time even then, for she was careful
now to be always clean and tidy.
When she went down her ladder she found her grandfather had
already left the hut. He was standing outside looking at the sky
and examining the landscape as he did every morning, to see what
sort of weather it was going to be.
Little pink clouds were floating over the sky, that was growing
brighter and bluer with every minute, while the heights and the
meadow lands were turning gold under the rising sun, which was
just appearing above the topmost peaks.
"O how beautiful! how beautiful! Good-morning, grandfather!"
cried Heidi, running out.
"What, you are awake already, are you?" he answered, giving her
a morning greeting.
Then Heidi ran round to the fir trees to enjoy the sound she
loved so well, and with every fresh gust of wind which came
roaring through their branches she gave a fresh jump and cry of
delight.
Meanwhile the grandfather had gone to milk the goats; this done
he brushed and washed them, ready for their mountain excursion,
and brought them out of their shed. As soon as Heidi caught
sight of her two friends she ran and embraced them, and they
bleated in return, while they vied with each other in showing
their affection by poking their heads against her and trying
which could get nearest her, so that she was almost crushed
between them. But Heidi was not afraid of them, and when the
lively Little Bear gave rather too violent a thrust, she only
said, "No, Little Bear, you are pushing like the Great Turk," and
Little Bear immediately drew back his head and left off his rough
attentions, while Little Swan lifted her head and put on an
expression as much as to say, "No one shall ever accuse me of
behaving like the Great Turk." For White Swan was a rather more
distinguished person than Brown Bear.
And now Peter's whistle was heard and all the goats came along,
leaping and springing, and Heidi soon found herself surrounded
by the whole flock, pushed this way and that by their
obstreperous greetings, but at last she managed to get through
them to where Snowflake was standing, for the young goat had in
vain striven to reach her.
Peter now gave a last tremendous whistle, in order to startle
the goats and drive them off, for he wanted to get near himself
to say something to Heidi. The goats sprang aside and he came up
to her.
"Can you come out with me to-day?" he asked, evidently unwilling
to hear her refuse.
"I am afraid I cannot, Peter," she answered. "I am expecting
them every minute from Frankfurt, and I must be at home when they
come."
"You have said the same thing for days now," grumbled Peter.
"I must continue to say it till they come," replied Heidi. "How
can you think, Peter, that I would be away when they came? As if
I could do such a thing?"
"They would find Uncle at home," he answered with a snarling
voice.
But at this moment the grandfather's stentorian voice was heard.
"Why is the army not marching forward? Is it the field-marshal
who is missing or some of the troops?"
Whereupon Peter turned and went off, swinging his stick round so
that it whistled through the air, and the goats, who understood
the signal, started at full trot for their mountain pasture,
Peter following in their wake.
Since Heidi had been back with her grandfather things came now
and then into her mind of which she had never thought in former
days. So now, with great exertion, she put her bed in order
every morning, patting and stroking it till she had got it
perfectly smooth and flat. Then she went about the room
downstairs, put each chair back in its place, and if she found
anything lying about she put it in the cupboard. After that she
fetched a duster, climbed on a chair, and rubbed the table till
it shone again. When the grandfather came in later he would look
round well pleased and say to himself, "We look like Sunday every
day now; Heidi did not go abroad for nothing."
After Peter had departed and she and her grandfather had
breakfasted, Heidi began her daily work as usual, but she did
not get on with it very fast. It was so lovely out of doors today,
and every minute something happened to interrupt her in her
work. Now it was a bright beam of sun shining cheerfully through
the open window, and seeming to say, "Come out, Heidi, come out!"
Heidi felt she could not stay indoors, and she ran out in answer
to the call. The sunlight lay sparkling on everything around the
hut and on all the mountains and far away along the valley, and
the grass slope looked so golden and inviting that she was
obliged to sit down for a few minutes and look about her. Then
she suddenly remembered that her stool was left standing in the
middle of the floor and that the table had not been rubbed, and
she jumped up and ran inside again. But it was not long before
the fir trees began their old song; Heidi felt it in all her
limbs, and again the desire to run outside was irresistible, and
she was off to play and leap to the tune of the waving branches.
The grandfather, who was busy in his work-shed, stepped out from
time to time smiling to watch her at her gambols. He had just
gone back to his work on one of these occasions when Heidi
called out, "Grandfather! grandfather! Come, come!"
He stepped quickly out, almost afraid something had happened to
the child, but he saw her running towards where the mountain
path descended, crying, "They are coming! they are coming! and
the doctor is in front of them!"
Heidi rushed forward to welcome her old friend, who held out his
hands in greeting to her. When she came up to him she clung to
his outstretched arm, and exclaimed in the joy of her heart,
"Good-morning, doctor, and thank you ever so many times."
"God bless you, child! what have you got to thank me for?" asked
the doctor, smiling.
"For being at home again with grandfather," the child explained.
The doctor's face brightened as if a sudden ray of sunshine had
passed across it; he had not expected such a reception as this.
Lost in the sense of his loneliness he had climbed the mountain
without heeding how beautiful it was on every side, and how more
and more beautiful it became the higher he got. He had quite
thought that Heidi would have forgotten him; she had seen so
little of him, and he had felt rather like one bearing a message
of disappointment, anticipating no great show of favor, coming
as he did without the expected friends. But instead, here was
Heidi, her eyes dancing for joy, and full of gratitude and
affection, clinging to the arm of her kind friend.
He took her by the hand with fatherly tenderness.
"Take me now to your grandfather, Heidi, and show me where you
live."
But Heidi still remained standing, looking down the path with a
questioning gaze. "Where are Clara and grandmother?" she asked.
"Ah, now I have to tell you something which you will be as sorry
about as I am," answered the doctor. "You see, Heidi, I have
come alone. Clara was very ill and could not travel, and so the
grandmother stayed behind too. But next spring, when the days
grow warm and long again, they are coming here for certain."
Heidi was greatly concerned; she could not at first bring
herself to believe that what she had for so long been picturing
to herself was not going to happen after all. She stood
motionless for a second or two, overcome by the unexpected
disappointment. The doctor said nothing further; all around lay
the silence, only the sighing of the fir trees could be heard
from where they stood. Then Heidi suddenly remembered why she had
run down there, and that the doctor had really come. She lifted
her eyes and saw the sad expression in his as he looked down at
her; she had never seen him with that look on his face when she
was in Frankfurt. It went to Heidi's heart; she could not bear to
see anybody unhappy, especially her dear doctor. No doubt it was
because Clara and grandmother could not come, and so she began to
think how best she might console him.
"Oh, it won't be very long to wait for spring, and then they
will be sure to come," she said in a reassuring voice. "Time
passes very quickly with us, and then they will be able to stay
longer when they are here, and Clara will be pleased at that. Now
let us go and find grandfather."
Hand in hand with her friend she climbed up to the hut. She was
so anxious to make the doctor happy again that she began once
more assuring him that the winter passed so quickly on the
mountain that it was hardly to be taken account of, and that
summer would be back again before they knew it, and she became
so convinced of the truth of her own words that she called out
quite cheerfully to her grandfather as they approached, "They
have not come to-day, but they will be here in a very short
time."
The doctor was no stranger to the grandfather, for the child had
talked to him so much about her friend. The old man held out his
hand to his guest in friendly greeting. Then the two men sat
down in front of the hut, and Heidi had her little place too, for
the doctor beckoned her to come and sit beside him. The doctor
told Uncle how Herr Sesemann had insisted on his taking this
journey, and he felt himself it would do him good as he had not
been quite the thing for a long time. Then he whispered to Heidi
that there was something being brought up the mountain which had
travelled with him from Frankfurt, and which would give her even
more pleasure than seeing the old doctor. Heidi got into a great
state of excitement on hearing this, wondering what it could be,
The old man urged the doctor to spend as many of the beautiful
autumn days on the mountain as he could, and at least to come up
whenever it was fine; he could not offer him a lodging, as he had
no place to put him; he advised the doctor, however, not to go
back to Ragatz, but to stay at Dorfli, where there was a clean
tidy little inn. Then the doctor could come up every morning,
which would do him no end of good, and if he liked, he, the
grandfather, would act as his guide to any part of the mountains
he would like to see. The doctor was delighted with this
proposal, and it was settled that it should be as the
grandfather suggested.
Meanwhile the sun had been climbing up the sky, and it was now
noon. The wind had sunk and the fir trees stood motionless. The
air was still wonderfully warm and mild for that height, while a
delicious freshness was mingled with the warmth of the sun.
Alm-Uncle now rose and went indoors, returning in a few minutes
with a table which he placed in front of the seat.
"There, Heidi, now run in and bring us what we want for the
table," he said. "The doctor must take us as he finds us; if the
food is plain, he will acknowledge that the dining-room is
pleasant."
"I should think so indeed," replied the doctor as he looked down
over the sun-lit valley, "and I accept the kind invitation;
everything must taste good up here."
Heidi ran backwards and forwards as busy as a bee and brought
out everything she could find in the cupboard, for she did not
know how to be pleased enough that she could help to entertain
the doctor. The grandfather meanwhile had been preparing the
meal, and now appeared with a steaming jug of milk and goldenbrown
toasted cheese. Then he cut some thin slices from the meat
he had cured himself in the pure air, and the doctor enjoyed his
dinner better than he had for a whole year past.
"Our Clara must certainly come up here," he said, "it would make
her quite a different person, and if she ate for any length of
time as I have to-day, she would grow plumper than any one has
ever known her before."
As he spoke a man was seen coming up the path carrying a large
package on his back. When he reached the hut he threw it on the
ground and drew in two or three good breaths of the mountain
air.
"Ah, here's what travelled with me from Frankfurt," said the
doctor, rising, and he went up to the package and began undoing
it, Heidi looking on in great expectation. After he had released
it from its heavy outer covering, "There, child," he said, "now
you can go on unpacking your treasures yourself."
Heidi undid her presents one by one until they were all
displayed; she could not speak the while for wonder and delight.
Not till the doctor went up to her again and opened the large
box to show Heidi the cakes that were for the grandmother to eat
with her coffee, did she at last give a cry of joy, exclaiming,
"Now grandmother will have nice things to eat," and she wanted to
pack everything up again and start at once to give them to her.
But the grandfather said he should walk down with the doctor that
evening and she could go with them and take the things. Heidi
now found the packet of tobacco which she ran and gave to her
grandfather; he was so pleased with it that he immediately
filled his pipe with some, and the two men then sat down together
again, the smoke curling up from their pipes as they talked of
all kinds of things, while Heidi continued to examine first one
and then another of her presents. Suddenly she ran up to them,
and standing in front of the doctor waited till there was a pause
in the conversation, and then said, "No, the other thing has not
given me more pleasure than seeing you, doctor."
The two men could not help laughing, and the doctor answered
that he should never have thought it.
As the sun began to sink behind the mountains the doctor rose,
thinking it was time to return to Dorfli and seek for quarters.
The grandfather carried the cakes and the shawl and the large
sausage, and the doctor took Heidi's hand, so they all three
started down the mountain. Arrived at Peter's home Heidi bid the
others good-bye; she was to wait at grandmother's till her
grandfather, who was going on to Dorfli with his guest, returned
to fetch her. As the doctor shook hands with her she asked,
"Would you like to come out with the goats to-morrow morning?"
for she could think of no greater treat to offer him.
"Agreed!" answered the doctor, "we will go together,"
Heidi now ran in to the grandmother; she first, with some
effort, managed to carry in the box of cakes; then she ran out
again and brought in the sausage--for her grandfather had put the
presents down by the door--and then a third time for the shawl.
She had placed them as close as she could to the grandmother, so
that the latter might be able to feel them and understand what
was there. The shawl she laid over the old woman's knees.
"They are all from Frankfurt, from Clara and grandmamma," she
explained to the astonished grandmother and Brigitta, the latter
having watched her dragging in all the heavy things, unable to
imagine what was happening.
"And you are very pleased with the cakes, aren't you,
grandmother? taste how soft they are!" said Heidi over and over
again, to which the grandmother continued to answer, "Yes, yes,
Heidi, I should think so! what kind people they must be!" And
then she would pass her hand over the warm thick shawl and add,
"This will be beautiful for the cold winter! I never thought I
should ever have such a splendid thing as this to put on."
Heidi could not help feeling some surprise at the grandmother
seeming to take more pleasure in the shawl than the cakes.
Meanwhile Brigitta stood gazing at the sausage with almost an
expression of awe. She had hardly in her life seen such a
monster sausage, much less owned one, and she could scarcely
believe her eyes. She shook her head and said doubtfully, "I must
ask Uncle what it is meant for,"
But Heidi answered without hesitation, "It is meant for eating,
not for anything else."
Peter came tumbling in at this minute. "Uncle is just behind me,
he is coming--" he began, and then stopped short, for his eye
had caught sight of the sausage, and he was too much taken aback
to say more. But Heidi understood that her grandfather was near
and so said good-bye to grandmother. The old man now never passed
the door without going in to wish the old woman good-day, and she
liked to hear his footstep approaching, for he always had a
cheery word for her. But to-day it was growing late for Heidi,
who was always up with the lark, and the grandfather would never
let her go to bed after hours; so this evening he only called
good-night through the open door and started home at once with
the child, and the two climbed under the starlit sky back to
their peaceful dwelling.
CHAPTER XVII. A COMPENSATION
The next morning the doctor climbed up from Dorfli with Peter
and the goats. The kindly gentleman tried now and then to enter
into conversation with the boy, but his attempts failed, for he
could hardly get a word out of Peter in answer to his questions.
Peter was not easily persuaded to talk. So the party silently
made their way up to the hut, where they found Heidi awaiting
them with her two goats, all three as fresh and lively as the
morning sun among the mountains.
"Are you coming to-day?" said Peter, repeating the words with
which he daily greeted her, either in question or in summons.
"Of course I am, if the doctor is coming too," replied Heidi.
Peter cast a sidelong glance at the doctor. The grandfather now
came out with the dinner bag, and after bidding good-day to the
doctor he went up to Peter and slung it over his neck. It was
heavier than usual, for Alm-Uncle had added some meat to-day, as
he thought the doctor might like to have his lunch out and eat
it when the children did. Peter gave a grin, for he felt sure
there was something more than ordinary in it.
And so the ascent began. The goats as usual came thronging
around Heidi, each trying to be nearest her, until at last she
stood still and said, "Now you must go on in front and behave
properly, and not keep on turning back and pushing and poking me,
for I want to talk to the doctor," and she gave Snowflake a
little pat on the back and told her to be good and obedient. By
degrees she managed to make her way out from among them and
joined the doctor, who took her by the hand. He had no difficulty
now in conversing with his companion, for Heidi had a great deal
to say about the goats and their peculiarities, and about the
flowers and the rocks and the birds, and so they clambered on and
reached their resting-place before they were aware. Peter had
sent a good many unfriendly glances towards the doctor on the way
up, which might have quite alarmed the latter if he had happened
to notice them, which, fortunately, he did not.
Heidi now led her friend to her favorite spot where she was
accustomed to sit and enjoy the beauty around her; the doctor
followed her example and took his seat beside her on the warm
grass. Over the heights and over the far green valley hung the
golden glory of the autumn day. The great snow-field sparkled in
the bright sunlight, and the two grey rocky peaks rose in their
ancient majesty against the dark blue sky. A soft, light morning
breeze blew deliciously across the mountain, gently stirring the
bluebells that still remained of the summer's wealth of flowers,
their slender heads nodding cheerfully in the sunshine. Overhead
the great bird was flying round and round in wide circles, but today
he made no sound; poised on his large wings he floated
contentedly in the blue ether. Heidi looked about her first at
one thing and then at another. The waving flowers, the blue sky,
the bright sunshine, the happy bird--everything was so
beautiful! so beautiful! Her eyes were alight with joy. And now
she turned to her friend to see if he too were enjoying the
beauty. The doctor had been sitting thoughtfully gazing around
him. As he met her glad bright eyes, "Yes, Heidi," he responded,
"I see how lovely it all is, but tell me--if one brings a sad
heart up here, how may it be healed so that it can rejoice in all
this beauty?"
"Oh, but," exclaimed Heidi, "no one is sad up here, only in
Frankfurt."
The doctor smiled and then growing serious again he continued,
"But supposing one is not able to leave all the sadness behind
at Frankfurt; can you tell me anything that will help then?"
"When you do not know what more to do you must go and tell
everything to God," answered Heidi with decision.
"Ah, that is a good thought of yours, Heidi," said the doctor.
"But if it is God Himself who has sent the trouble, what can we
say to Him then?"
Heidi sat pondering for a while; she was sure in her heart that
God could help out of every trouble. She thought over her own
experiences and then found her answer.
"Then you must wait," she said, "and keep on saying to yourself:
God certainly knows of some happiness for us which He is going
to bring out of the trouble, only we must have patience and not
run away. And then all at once something happens and we see
clearly ourselves that God has had some good thought in His mind
all along; but because we cannot see things beforehand, and only
know how dreadfully miserable we are, we think it is always going
to be so."
"That is a beautiful faith, child, and be sure you hold it
fast," replied the doctor. Then he sat on a while in silence,
looking at the great overshadowing mountains and the green,
sunlit valley below before he spoke again,--
"Can you understand, Heidi, that a man may sit here with such a
shadow over his eyes that he cannot feel and enjoy the beauty
around him, while the heart grows doubly sad knowing how
beautiful it could be? Can you understand that?"
A pain shot through the child's young happy heart. The shadow
over the eyes brought to her remembrance the grandmother, who
would never again be able to see the sunlight and the beauty up
here. This was Heidi's great sorrow, which re-awoke each time
she thought about the darkness. She did not speak for a few
minutes, for her happiness was interrupted by this sudden pang.
Then in a grave voice she said,--
"Yes, I can understand it. And I know this, that then one must
say one of grandmother's hymns, which bring the light back a
little, and often make it so bright for her that she is quite
happy again. Grandmother herself told me this."
"Which hymns are they, Heidi?" asked the doctor.
"I only know the one about the sun and the beautiful garden, and
some of the verses of the long one, which are favorites with
her, and she always likes me to read them to her two or three
times over," replied Heidi.
"Well, say the verses to me then, I should like to hear them
too," and the doctor sat up in order to listen better.
Heidi put her hands together and sat collecting her thoughts for
a second or two: "Shall I begin at the verse that grandmother
says gives her a feeling of hope and confidence?"
The doctor nodded his assent, and Heidi began,--
Let not your heart be troubled Nor fear your soul dismay,
There is a wise Defender And He will be your stay. Where you
have failed, He conquers, See, how the foeman flies! And all
your tribulation Is turned to glad surprise.
If for a while it seemeth His mercy is withdrawn, That He no
longer careth For His wandering child forlorn, Doubt not His
great compassion, His love can never tire, To those who wait
in patience He gives their heart's desire.
Heidi suddenly paused; she was not sure if the doctor was still
listening. He was sitting motionless with his hand before his
eyes. She thought he had fallen asleep; when he awoke, if he
wanted to hear more verses, she would go on. There was no sound
anywhere. The doctor sat in silence, but he was certainly not
asleep. His thoughts had carried him back to a long past time:
he saw himself as a little boy standing by his dear mother's
chair; she had her arm round his neck and was saying the very
verses to him that Heidi had just recited--words which he had not
heard now for years. He could hear his mother's voice and see her
loving eyes resting upon him, and as Heidi ceased the old dear
voice seemed to be saying other things to him; and the words he
heard again must have carried him far, far away, for it was a
long time before he stirred or took his hand from his eyes. When
at last he roused himself he met Heidi's eyes looking wonderingly
at him.
"Heidi," he said, taking the child's hand in his, "that was a
beautiful hymn of yours," and there was a happier ring in his
voice as he spoke. "We will come out here together another day,
and you will let me hear it again."
Peter meanwhile had had enough to do in giving vent to his
anger. It was now some days since Heidi had been out with him,
and when at last she did come, there she sat the whole time
beside the old gentleman, and Peter could not get a word with
her. He got into a terrible temper, and at last went and stood
some way back behind the doctor, where the latter could not see
him, and doubling his fist made imaginary hits at the enemy.
Presently he doubled both fists, and the longer Heidi stayed
beside the gentleman, the more fiercely did he threaten with
them.
Meanwhile the sun had risen to the height which Peter knew
pointed to the dinner hour. All of a sudden he called at the top
of his voice, "It's dinner time."
Heidi was rising to fetch the dinner bag so that the doctor
might eat his where he sat. But he stopped her, telling her he
was not hungry at all, and only cared for a glass of milk, as he
wanted to climb up a little higher. Then Heidi found that she
also was not hungry and only wanted milk, and she should like,
she said, to take the doctor up to the large moss-covered rock
where Greenfinch had nearly jumped down and killed herself. So
she ran and explained matters to Peter, telling him to go and get
milk for the two. Peter seemed hardly to understand. "Who is
going to eat what is in the bag then?" he asked.
"You can have it," she answered, "only first make haste and get
the milk."
Peter had seldom performed any task more promptly, for he
thought of the bag and its contents, which now belonged to him.
As soon as the other two were sitting quietly drinking their
milk, he opened it, and quite trembled for joy at the sight of
the meat, and he was just putting his hand in to draw it out when
something seemed to hold him back. His conscience smote him at
the remembrance of how he had stood with his doubled fists behind
the doctor, who was now giving up to him his whole good dinner.
He felt as if he could not now enjoy it. But all at once he
jumped up and ran back to the spot where he had stood before, and
there held up his open hands as a sign that he had no longer any
wish to use them as fists, and kept them up until he felt he had
made amends for his past conduct. Then he rushed back and sat
down to the double enjoyment of a clear conscience and an
unusually satisfying meal.
Heidi and the doctor climbed and talked for a long while, until
the latter said it was time for him to be going back, and no
doubt Heidi would like to go and be with her goats. But Heidi
would not hear of this, as then the doctor would have to go the
whole way down the mountain alone. She insisted on accompanying
him as far as the grandfather's hut, or even a little further.
She kept hold of her friend's hand all the time, and the whole
way she entertained him with accounts of this thing and that,
showing him the spots where the goats loved best to feed, and
others where in summer the flowers of all colors grew in
greatest abundance. She could give them all their right names,
for her grandfather had taught her these during the summer
months. But at last the doctor insisted on her going back; so
they bid each other good-night and the doctor continued his
descent, turning now and again to look back, and each time he saw
Heidi standing on the same spot and waving her hand to him. Even
so in the old days had his own dear little daughter watched him
when he went from home.
It was a bright sunny autumn month. The doctor came up to the
hut every morning, and thence made excursions over the mountain.
Alm-Uncle accompanied him on some of his higher ascents, when
they climbed up to the ancient storm-beaten fir trees and often
disturbed the great bird which rose startled from its nest, with
the whirl of wings and croakings, very near their heads. The
doctor found great pleasure in his companion's conversation, and
was astonished at his knowledge of the plants that grew on the
mountain: he knew the uses of them all, from the aromatic fir
trees and the dark pines with their scented needles, to the
curly moss that sprang up everywhere about the roots of the trees
and the smallest plant and tiniest flower. He was as well versed
also in the ways of the animals, great and small, and had many
amusing anecdotes to tell of these dwellers in caves and holes
and in the tops of the fir trees. And so the time passed
pleasantly and quickly for the doctor, who seldom said good-bye
to the old man at the end of the day without adding, "I never
leave you, friend, without having learnt something new from you."
On some of the very finest days, however, the doctor would
wander out again with Heidi, and then the two would sit together
as on the first day, and the child would repeat her hymns and
tell the doctor things which she alone knew. Peter sat at a
little distance from them, but he was now quite reconciled in
spirit and gave vent to no angry pantomime.
September had drawn to its close, and now one morning the doctor
appeared looking less cheerful than usual. It was his last day,
he said, as he must return to Frankfurt, but he was grieved at
having to say good-bye to the mountain, which he had begun to
feel quite like home. Alm-Uncle, on his side, greatly regretted
the departure of his guest, and Heidi had been now accustomed
for so long to see her good friend every day that she could
hardly believe the time had suddenly come to separate. She looked
up at him in doubt, taken by surprise, but there was no help, he
must go. So he bid farewell to the old man and asked that Heidi
might go with him part of the return way, and Heidi took his hand
and went down the mountain with him, still unable to grasp the
idea that he was going for good. After some distance the doctor
stood still, and passing his hand over the child's curly head
said, "Now, Heidi, you must go back, and I must say good-bye! If
only I could take you with me to Frankfurt and keep you there!"
The picture of Frankfurt rose before the child's eyes, its rows
of endless houses, its hard streets, and even the vision of
Fraulein Rottenmeier and Tinette, and she answered hesitatingly,
"I would rather that you came back to us."
"Yes, you are right, that would be better. But now good-bye,
Heidi." The child put her hand in his and looked up at him; the
kind eyes looking down on her had tears in them. Then the doctor
tore himself away and quickly continued his descent.
Heidi remained standing without moving. The friendly eyes with
the tears in them had gone to her heart. All at once she burst
into tears and started running as fast as she could after the
departing figure, calling out in broken tones: "Doctor! doctor!"
He turned round and waited till the child reached him. The tears
were streaming down her face and she sobbed out: "I will come to
Frankfurt with you, now at once, and I will stay with you as
long as you like, only I must just run back and tell
grandfather."
The doctor laid his hand on her and tried to calm her
excitement. "No, no, dear child," he said kindly, "not now; you
must stay for the present under the fir trees, or I should have
you ill again. But hear now what I have to ask you. If I am ever
ill and alone, will you come then and stay with me? May I know
that there would then be some one to look after me and care for
me?"
"Yes, yes, I will come the very day you send for me, and I love
you nearly as much as grandfather," replied Heidi, who had not
yet got over her distress.
And so the doctor again bid her good-bye and started on his way,
while Heidi remained looking after him and waving her hand as
long as a speck of him could be seen. As the doctor turned for
the last time and looked back at the waving Heidi and the sunny
mountain, he said to himself, "It is good to be up there, good
for body and soul, and a man might learn how to be happy once
more."
CHAPTER XVIII. WINTER IN DORFLI
The snow was lying so high around the hut that the windows
looked level with the ground, and the door had entirely
disappeared from view. If Alm-Uncle had been up there he would
have had to do what Peter did daily, for fresh snow fell every
night. Peter had to get out of the window of the sitting-room
every morning, and if the frost had not been very hard during the
night, he immediately sank up to his shoulders almost in the snow
and had to struggle with hands, feet, and head to extricate
himself. Then his mother handed him the large broom, and with
this he worked hard to make a way to the door. He had to be
careful to dig the snow well away, or else as soon as the door
was opened the whole soft mass would fall inside, or, if the
frost was severe enough, it would have made such a wall of ice in
front of the house that no one could have gone in or out, for the
window was only big enough for Peter to creep through. The fresh
snow froze like this in the night sometimes, and this was an
enjoyable time for Peter, for he would get through the window on
to the hard, smooth, frozen ground, and his mother would hand him
out the little sleigh, and he could then make his descent to
Dorfli along any route he chose, for the whole mountain was
nothing but one wide, unbroken sleigh road.
Alm-Uncle had kept his word and was not spending the winter in
his old home. As soon as the first snow began to fall, he had
shut up the hut and the outside buildings and gone down to
Dorfli with Heidi and the goats. Near the church was a straggling
half-ruined building, which had once been the house of a person
of consequence. A distinguished soldier had lived there at one
time; he had taken service in Spain and had there performed many
brave deeds and gathered much treasure. When he returned home to
Dorfli he spent part of his booty in building a fine house, with
the intention of living in it. But he had been too long
accustomed to the noise and bustle of arms and the world to care
for a quiet country life, and he soon went off again, and this
time did not return. When after many long years it seemed
certain that he was dead, a distant relative took possession of
the house, but it had already fallen into disrepair, and he had
no wish to rebuild it. So it was let to poor people, who paid but
a small rent, and when any part of the building fell it was
allowed to remain. This had now gone on for many years. As long
ago as when his son Tobias was a child Alm-Uncle had rented the
tumble- down old place. Since then it had stood empty, for no one
could stay in it who had not some idea of how to stop up the
holes and gaps and make it habitable. Otherwise the wind and rain
and snow blew into the rooms, so that it was impossible even to
keep a candle alight, and the indwellers would have been frozen
to death during the long cold winters. Alm-Uncle, however, knew
how to mend matters. As soon as he made up his mind to spend the
winter in Dorfli, he rented the old place and worked during the
autumn to get it sound and tight. In the middle of October he and
Heidi took up their residence there.
On approaching the house from the back one came first into an
open space with a wall on either side, of which one was half in
ruins. Above this rose the arch of an old window thickly
overgrown with ivy, which spread over the remains of a domed
roof that had evidently been part of a chapel. A large hall came
next, which lay open, without doors, to the square outside. Here
also walls and roof only partially remained, and indeed what was
left of the roof looked as if it might fall at any minute had it
not been for two stout pillars that supported it. Alm-Uncle had
here put up a wooden partition and covered the floor with straw,
for this was to be the goats' house. Endless passages led from
this, through the rents of which the sky as well as the fields
and the road outside could be seen at intervals; but at last one
came to a stout oak door that led into a room that still stood
intact. Here the walls and the dark wainscoting remained as good
as ever, and in the corner was an immense stove reaching nearly
to the ceiling, on the white tiles of which were painted large
pictures in blue. These represented old castles surrounded with
trees, and huntsmen riding out with their hounds; or else a quiet
lake scene, with broad oak trees and a man fishing. A seat ran
all round the stove so that one could sit at one's ease and study
the pictures. These attracted Heidi's attention at once, and she
had no sooner arrived with her grandfather than she ran and
seated herself and began to examine them. But when she had
gradually worked herself round to the back, something else
diverted her attention. In the large space between the stove and
the wall four planks had been put together as if to make a large
receptacle for apples; there were no apples, however, inside, but
something Heidi had no difficulty in recognising, for it was her
very own bed, with its hay mattress and sheets, and sack for a
coverlid, just as she had it up at the hut. Heidi clapped her
hands for joy and exclaimed, "O grandfather, this is my room, how
nice! But where are you going to sleep?"
"Your room must be near the stove or you will freeze," he
replied, "but you can come and see mine too."
Heidi got down and skipped across the large room after her
grandfather, who opened a door at the farther end leading into a
smaller one which was to be his bedroom. Then came another door.
Heidi pushed it open and stood amazed, for here was an immense
room like a kitchen, larger than anything of the kind that Heidi
had seen before. There was still plenty of work for the
grandfather before this room could be finished, for there were
holes and cracks in the walls through which the wind whistled,
and yet he had already nailed up so many new planks that it
looked as if a lot of small cupboards had been set up round the
room. He had, however, made the large old door safe with many
screws and nails, as a protection against the outside air, and
this was very necessary, for just beyond was a mass of ruined
buildings overgrown with tall weeds, which made a dwelling-place
for endless beetles and lizards.
Heidi was very delighted with her new home, and by the morning
after their arrival she knew every nook and corner so thoroughly
that she could take Peter over it and show him all that was to
be seen; indeed she would not let him go till he had examined
every single wonderful thing contained in it.
Heidi slept soundly in her corner by the stove; but every
morning when she first awoke she still thought she was on the
mountain, and that she must run outside at once to see if the fir
trees were so quiet because their branches were weighed down with
the thick snow. She had to look about her for some minutes before
she felt quite sure where she was, and a certain sensation of
trouble and oppression would come over her as she grew aware that
she was not at home in the hut. But then she would hear her
grandfather's voice outside, attending to the goats, and these
would give one or two loud bleats, as if calling to her to make
haste and go to them, and then Heidi was happy again, for she
knew she was still at home, and she would jump gladly out of bed
and run out to the animals as quickly as she could. On the fourth
morning, as soon as she saw her grandfather, she said, "I must go
up to see grandmother to-day; she ought not to be alone so long."
But the grandfather would not agree to this. "Neither to-day nor
to-morrow can you go," he said; "the mountain is covered fathomdeep
in snow, and the snow is still falling; the sturdy Peter can
hardly get along. A little creature like you would soon be
smothered by it, and we should not be able to find you again.
Wait a bit till it freezes, then you will be able to walk over
the hard snow."
Heidi did not like the thought of having to wait, but the days
were so busy that she hardly knew how they went by.
Heidi now went to school in Dorfli every morning and afternoon,
and eagerly set to work to learn all that was taught her. She
hardly ever saw Peter there, for as a rule he was absent. The
teacher was an easy-going man who merely remarked now and then,
"Peter is not turning up to-day again, it seems, but there is a
lot of snow up on the mountain and I daresay he cannot get
along." Peter, however, always seemed able to make his way
through the snow in the evening when school was over, and he
then generally paid Heidi a visit.
At last, after some days, the sun again appeared and shone
brightly over the white ground, but he went to bed again behind
the mountains at a very early hour, as if he did not find such
pleasure in looking down on the earth as when everything was
green and flowery. But then the moon came out clear and large
and lit up the great white snowfield all through the night, and
the next morning the whole mountain glistened and sparkled like a
huge crystal. When Peter got out of his window as usual, he was
taken by surprise, for instead of sinking into the soft snow he
fell on the hard ground and went sliding some way down the
mountain side like a sleigh before he could stop himself. He
picked himself up and tested the hardness of the ground by
stamping on it and trying with all his might to dig his heels
into it, but even then he could not break off a single little
splinter of ice; the Alm was frozen hard as iron. This was just
what Peter had been hoping for, as he knew now that Heidi would
be able to come up to them. He quickly got back into the house,
swallowed the milk which his mother had put ready for him,
thrust a piece of bread in his pocket, and said, "I must be off
to school." "That's right, go and learn all you can," said the
grandmother encouragingly. Peter crept through the window again--
the door was quite blocked by the frozen snow outside--pulling
his little sleigh after him, and in another minute was shooting
down the mountain.
He went like lightning, and when he reached Dorfli, which stood
on the direct road to Mayenfeld, he made up his mind to go on
further, for he was sure he could not stop his rapid descent
without hurting himself and the sleigh too. So down he still
went till he reached the level ground, where the sleigh came to a
pause of its own accord. Then he got out and looked round. The
impetus with which he had made his journey down had carried him
some little way beyond Mayenfeld. He bethought himself that it
was too late to get to school now, as lessons would already have
begun, and it would take him a good hour to walk back to Dorfli.
So he might take his time about returning, which he did, and
reached Dorfli just as Heidi had got home from school and was
sitting at dinner with her grandfather. Peter walked in, and as
on this occasion he had something particular to communicate, he
began without a pause, exclaiming as he stood still in the
middle of the room, "She's got it now."
"Got it? what?" asked the Uncle. "Your words sound quite
warlike, general."
"The frost," explained Peter.
"Oh! then now I can go and see grandmother!" said Heidi
joyfully, for she had understood Peter's words at once. "But why
were you not at school then? You could have come down in the
sleigh," she added reproachfully, for it did not agree with
Heidi's ideas of good behavior to stay away when it was possible
to be there.
"It carried me on too far and I was too late," Peter replied.
"I call that being a deserter," said the Uncle, "and deserters
get their ears pulled, as you know."
Peter gave a tug to his cap in alarm, for there was no one of
whom he stood in so much awe as Alm-Uncle.
"And an army leader like yourself ought to be doubly ashamed of
running away," continued Alm-Uncle. "What would you think of
your goats if one went off this way and another that, and refused
to follow and do what was good for them? What would you do then?"
"I should beat them," said Peter promptly.
"And if a boy behaved like these unruly goats, and he got a
beating for it, what would you say then?"
"Serve him right," was the answer.
"Good, then understand this: next time you let your sleigh carry
you past the school when you ought to be inside at your lessons,
come on to me afterwards and receive what you deserve."
Peter now understood the drift of the old man's questions and
that he was the boy who behaved like the unruly goats, and he
looked somewhat fearfully towards the corner to see if anything
happened to be there such as he used himself on such occasions
for the punishment of his animals.
But now the grandfather suddenly said in a cheerful voice, "Come
and sit down and have something, and afterwards Heidi shall go
with you. Bring her back this evening and you will find supper
waiting for you here."
This unexpected turn of conversation set Peter grinning all over
with delight. He obeyed without hesitation and took his seat
beside Heidi. But the child could not eat any more in her
excitement at the thought of going to see grandmother. She
pushed the potatoes and toasted cheese which still stood on her
plate towards him while Uncle was filling his plate from the
other side, so that he had quite a pile of food in front of him,
but he attacked it without any lack of courage. Heidi ran to the
cupboard and brought out the warm cloak Clara had sent her; with
this on and the hood drawn over her head, she was all ready for
her journey. She stood waiting beside Peter, and as soon as his
last mouthful had disappeared she said, "Come along now." As the
two walked together Heidi had much to tell Peter of her two
goats that had been so unhappy the first day in their new stall
that they would not eat anything, but stood hanging their heads,
not even rousing themselves to bleat. And when she asked her
grandfather the reason of this, he told her it was with them as
with her in Frankfurt, for it was the first time in their lives
they had come down from the mountain. "And you don't know what
that is, Peter, unless you have felt it yourself," added Heidi.
The children had nearly reached their destination before Peter
opened his mouth; he appeared to be so sunk in thought that he
hardly heard what was said to him. As they neared home, however,
he stood still and said in a somewhat sullen voice, "I had
rather go to school even than get what Uncle threatened."
Heidi was of the same mind, and encouraged him in his good
intention. They found Brigitta sitting alone knitting, for the
grandmother was not very well and had to stay the day in bed on
account of the cold. Heidi had never before missed the old
figure in her place in the corner, and she ran quickly into the
next room. There lay grandmother on her little poorly covered
bed, wrapped up in her warm grey shawl.
"Thank God," she exclaimed as Heidi came running in; the poor
old woman had had a secret fear at heart all through the autumn,
especially if Heidi was absent for any length of time, for Peter
had told her of a strange gentleman who had come from Frankfurt,
and who had gone out with them and always talked to Heidi, and
she had felt sure he had come to take her away again. Even when
she heard he had gone off alone, she still had an idea that a
messenger would be sent over from Frankfurt to fetch the child.
Heidi went up to the side of the bed and said, "Are you very
ill, grandmother?"
"No, no, child," answered the old woman reassuringly, passing
her hand lovingly over the child's head, "It's only the frost
that has got into my bones a bit."
"Shall you be quite well then directly it turns warm again?"
"Yes, God willing, or even before that, for I want to get back
to my spinning; I thought perhaps I should do a little to-day,
but to-morrow I am sure to be all right again." The old woman had
detected that Heidi was frightened and was anxious to set her
mind at ease.
Her words comforted Heidi, who had in truth been greatly
distressed, for she had never before seen the grandmother ill in
bed. She now looked at the old woman seriously for a minute or
two, and then said, "In Frankfurt everybody puts on a shawl to
go out walking; did you think it was to be worn in bed,
grandmother?"
"I put it on, dear child, to keep myself from freezing, and I am
so pleased with it, for my bedclothes are not very thick," she
answered.
"But, grandmother," continued Heidi, "your bed is not right,
because it goes downhill at your head instead of uphill."
"I know it, child, I can feel it," and the grandmother put up
her hand to the thin flat pillow, which was little more than a
board under her head, to make herself more comfortable; "the
pillow was never very thick, and I have lain on it now for so
many years that it has grown quite flat."
"Oh, if only I had asked Clara to let me take away my Frankfurt
bed," said Heidi. "I had three large pillows, one above the
other, so that I could hardly sleep, and I used to slip down to
try and find a flat place, and then I had to pull myself up
again, because it was proper to sleep there like that. Could you
sleep like that, grandmother?"
"Oh, yes! the pillows keep one warm, and it is easier to breathe
when the head is high," answered the grandmother, wearily
raising her head as she spoke as if trying to find a higher
resting-place. "But we will not talk about that, for I have so
much that other old sick people are without for which I thank
God; there is the nice bread I get every day, and this warm
wrap, and your visits, Heidi. Will you read me something to-day?"
Heidi ran into the next room to fetch the hymn book. Then she
picked out the favorite hymns one after another, for she knew
them all by heart now, as pleased as the grandmother to hear
them again after so many days. The grandmother lay with folded
hands, while a smile of peace stole over the worn, troubled face,
like one to whom good news has been brought.
Suddenly Heidi paused. "Grandmother, are you feeling quite well
again already?"
"Yes, child, I have grown better while listening to you; read it
to the end."
The child read on, and when she came to the last words:--
As the eyes grow dim, and darkness Closes round, the soul grows
clearer, Sees the goal to which it travels, Gladly feels its
home is nearer."
the grandmother repeated them once or twice to herself, with a
look of happy expectation on her face. And Heidi took equal
pleasure in them, for the picture of the beautiful sunny day of
her return home rose before her eyes, and she exclaimed
joyfully, "Grandmother, I know exactly what it is like to go
home." The old woman did not answer, but she had heard Heidi's
words, and the expression that had made the child think she was
better remained on her face.
A little later Heidi said, "It is growing dark and I must go
home; I am glad to think, that you are quite well again."
The grandmother took the child's hand in hers and held it
closely. "Yes," she said, "I feel quite happy again; even if I
have to go on lying here, I am content. No one knows what it is
to lie here alone day after day, in silence and darkness,
without hearing a voice or seeing a ray of light. Sad thoughts
come over me, and I do not feel sometimes as if I could bear it
any longer or as if it could ever be light again. But when you
come and read those words to me, then I am comforted and my heart
rejoices once more."
Then she let the child go, and Heidi ran into the next room, and
bid Peter come quickly, for it had now grown quite dark. But
when they got outside they found the moon shining down on the
white snow and everything as clear as in the daylight. Peter got
his sleigh, put Heidi at the back, he himself sitting in front to
guide, and down the mountain they shot like two birds darting
through the air.
When Heidi was lying that night on her high bed of hay she
thought of the grandmother on her low pillow, and of all she had
said about the light and comfort that awoke in her when she
heard the hymns, and she thought: if I could read to her every
day, then I should go on making her better. But she knew that it
would be a week, if not two, before she would be able to go up
the mountain again. This was a thought of great trouble to Heidi,
and she tried hard to think of some way which would enable the
grandmother to hear the words she loved every day. Suddenly an
idea struck her, and she was so delighted with it that she could
hardly bear to wait for morning, so eager was she to begin
carrying out her plan. All at once she sat upright in her bed,
for she had been so busy with her thoughts that she had
forgotten to say her prayers, and she never now finished her day
without saying them.
When she had prayed with all her heart for herself, her
grandfather and grandmother, she lay back again on the warm soft
hay and slept soundly and peacefully till morning broke.
CHAPTER XIX. THE WINTER CONTINUES
Peter arrived punctually at school the following day. He had
brought his dinner with him, for all the children who lived at a
distance regularly seated themselves at mid-day on the tables,
and resting their feet firmly on the benches, spread out their
meal on their knees and so ate their dinner, while those living
in Dorfli went home for theirs. Till one o'clock they might all
do as they liked, and then school began again. When Peter had
finished his lessons on the days he attended school, he went
over to Uncle's to see Heidi.
When he walked into the large room at Uncle's to-day, Heidi
immediately rushed forward and took hold of him, for it was for
Peter she had been waiting. "I've thought of something, Peter,"
she said hastily.
"What is it?" he asked.
"You must learn to read," she informed him.
"I have learnt," was the answer.
"Yes, yes, but I mean so that you can really make use of it,"
continued Heidi eagerly.
"I never shall," was the prompt reply.
"Nobody believes that you cannot learn, nor I either now," said
Heidi in a very decided tone of voice. "Grandmamma in Frankfurt
said long ago that it was not true, and she told me not to
believe you."
Peter looked rather taken aback at this piece of intelligence.
"I will soon teach you to read, for I know how," continued
Heidi. "You must learn at once, and then you can read one or two
hymns every day to grandmother."
"Oh, I don't care about that," he grumbled in reply.
This hard-hearted way of refusing to agree to what was right and
kind, and to what Heidi had so much at heart, aroused her anger.
With flashing eyes she stood facing the boy and said
threateningly, "If you won't learn as I want you to, I will tell
you what will happen; you know your mother has often spoken of
sending you to Frankfurt, that you may learn a lot of things,
and I know where the boys there have to go to school; Clara
pointed out the great house to me when we were driving together.
And they don't only go when they are boys, but have more lessons
still when they are grown men. I have seen them myself, and you
mustn't think they have only one kind teacher like we have. There
are ever so many of them, all in the school at the same time, and
they are all dressed in black, as if they were going to church,
and have black hats on their heads as high as that--" and Heidi
held out her hand to show their height from the floor.
Peter felt a cold shudder run down his back.
"And you will have to go in among all those gentlemen,"
continued Heidi with increasing animation, "and when it comes to
your turn you won't be able to read and will make mistakes in
your spelling. Then you'll see how they'll make fun of you; even
worse than Tinette, and you ought to have seen what she was like
when she was scornful."
"Well, I'll learn then," said Peter, half sorrowfully and half
angrily.
Heidi was instantly mollified. "That's right, then we'll begin
at once," she said cheerfully, and went busily to work on the
spot, dragging Peter to the table and fetching her books.
Among other presents Clara had sent Heidi a book which the
latter had decided, in bed the night before, would serve
capitally for teaching Peter, for it was an A B C book with
rhyming lines. And now the two sat together at the table with
their heads bent over the book, for the lesson had begun.
Peter was made to spell out the first sentence two or three
times over, for Heidi wished him to get it correct and fluent. At
last she said, "You don't seem able to get it right, but I will
read it aloud to you once; when you know what it ought to be you
will find it easier." And she read out:--
A B C must be learnt to-day Or the judge will call you
up to pay.
"I shan't go," said Peter obstinately.
"Go where?" asked Heidi.
"Before the judge," he answered.
"Well then make haste and learn these three letters, then you
won't have to go."
Peter went at his task again and repeated the three letters so
many times and with such determination that she said at last,--
"You must know those three now."
Seeing what an effect the first two lines of verse had had upon
him, she thought she would prepare the ground a little for the
following lessons.
"Wait, and I will read you some of the next sentences," she
continued, "then you will see what else there is to expect."
And she began in a clear slow voice:--
D E F G must run with ease Or something will follow
that does not please.
Should H I J K be now forgot Disgrace is yours upon the
spot.
And then L M must follow at once Or punished you'll be
for a sorry dunce.
If you knew what next awaited you You'd haste to learn
N O P Q.
Now R S T be quick about Or worse will follow there's
little doubt.
Heidi paused, for Peter was so quiet that she looked to see what
he was doing. These many secret threats and hints of dreadful
punishments had so affected him that he sat as if petrified and
stared at Heidi with horror-stricken eyes. Her kind heart was
moved at once, and she said, wishing to reassure him, "You need
not be afraid, Peter; come here to me every evening, and if you
learn as you have to-day you will at last know all your letters,
and the other things won't come. But you must come regularly,
not now and then as you do to school; even if it snows it won't
hurt you."
Peter promised, for the trepidation he had been in had made him
quite tame and docile. Lessons being finished for this day he
now went home.
Peter obeyed Heidi's instructions punctually, and every evening
went diligently to work to learn the following letters, taking
the sentences thoroughly to heart. The grandfather was
frequently in the room smoking his pipe comfortably while the
lesson was going on, and his face twitched occasionally as if he
was overtaken with a sudden fit of merriment. Peter was often
invited to stay to supper after the great exertion he had gone
through, which richly compensated him for the anguish of mind he
had suffered with the sentence for the day.
So the winter went by, and Peter really made progress with his
letters; but he went through a terrible fight each day with the
sentences.
He had got at last to U. Heidi read out:--
And if you put the U for V, You'll go where you would
not like to be.
Peter growled, "Yes, but I shan't go!" But he was very diligent
that day, as if under the impression that some one would seize
him suddenly by the collar and drag him where he would rather
not go. The next evening Heidi read:--
If you falter at W, worst of all, Look at the stick
against the wall.
Peter looked at the wall and said scornfully, "There isn't one."
"Yes, but do you know what grandfather has in his box?" asked
Heidi. "A stick as thick almost as your arm, and if he took that
out, you might well say, look at the stick on the wall."
Peter knew that thick hazel stick, and immediately bent his head
over the W and struggled to master it. Another day the lines ran:-
-
Then comes the X for you to say Or be sure you'll get
no food to-day.
Peter looked towards the cupboard where the bread and cheese
were kept and said crossly, "I never said that I should forget
the X."
"That's all right; if you don't forget it we can go on to learn
the next, and then you will only have one more," replied Heidi,
anxious to encourage him.
Peter did not quite understand, but when Heidi went on and read:--
And should you make a stop at Y, They'll point at you
and cry, Fie, fie.
All the gentlemen in Frankfurt with tall black hats on their
heads, and scorn and mockery in their faces rose up before his
mind's eye, and he threw himself with energy on the Y, not
letting it go till at last he knew it so thoroughly that he
could see what it was like even when he shut his eyes.
He arrived on the following day in a somewhat lofty frame of
mind, for there was now only one letter to struggle over, and
when Heidi began the lesson with reading aloud:--
Make haste with Z, if you're too slow Off to the
Hottentots you'll go.
Peter remarked scornfully, "I dare say, when no one knows even
where such people live."
"I assure you, Peter," replied Heidi, "grandfather knows all
about them. Wait a second and I will run and ask him, for he is
only over the way with the pastor." And she rose and ran to the
door to put her words into action, but Peter cried out in a
voice of agony,--
"Stop!" for he already saw himself being carried off by Alm-
Uncle and the pastor and sent straight away to the Hottentots,
since as yet he did not know his last letter. His cry of fear
brought Heidi back.
"What is the matter?" she asked in astonishment.
"Nothing! come back! I am going to learn my letter," he said,
stammering with fear. Heidi, however, herself wished to know
where the Hottentots lived and persisted that she should ask her
grandfather, but she gave in at last to Peter's despairing
entreaties. She insisted on his doing something in return, and
so not only had he to repeat his Z until it was so fixed in his
memory that he could never forget it again, but she began
teaching him to spell, and Peter really made a good start that
evening. So it went on from day to day.
The frost had gone and the snow was soft again, and moreover
fresh snow continually fell, so that it was quite three weeks
before Heidi could go to the grandmother again. So much the more
eagerly did she pursue her teaching so that Peter might
compensate for her absence by reading hymns to the old woman.
One evening he walked in home after leaving Heidi, and as he
entered he said, "I can do it now."
"Do what, Peter?" asked his mother.
"Read," he answered.
"Do you really mean it? Did you hear that, grandmother?" she
called out.
The grandmother had heard, and was already wondering how such a
thing could have come to pass.
"I must read one of the hymns now; Heidi told me to," he went on
to inform them. His mother hastily fetched the book, and the
grandmother lay in joyful expectation, for it was so long since
she had heard the good words. Peter sat down to the table and
began to read. His mother sat beside him listening with surprise
and exclaiming at the close of each verse, "Who would have
thought it possible!"
The grandmother did not speak though she followed the words he
read with strained attention.
It happened on the day following this that there was a reading
lesson in Peter's class. When it came to his turn, the teacher
said,--
"We must pass over Peter as usual, or will you try again once
more--I will not say to read, but to stammer through a
sentence."
Peter took the book and read off three lines without the
slightest hesitation.
The teacher put down his book and stared at Peter as at some outof-
the-way and marvellous thing unseen before. At last he spoke,--
"Peter, some miracle has been performed upon you! Here have I
been striving with unheard-of patience to teach you and you have
not hitherto been able to say your letters even. And now, just
as I had made up my mind not to waste any more trouble upon you,
you suddenly are able to read a consecutive sentence properly and
distinctly. How has such a miracle come to pass in our days?"
"It was Heidi," answered Peter.
The teacher looked in astonishment towards Heidi, who was
sitting innocently on her bench with no appearance of anything
supernatural about her. He continued, "I have noticed a change
in you altogether, Peter. Whereas formerly you often missed
coming to school for a week, or even weeks at a time, you have
lately not stayed away a single day. Who has wrought this change
for good in you?"
"It was Uncle," answered Peter.
With increasing surprise the teacher looked from Peter to Heidi
and back again at Peter.
"We will try once more," he said cautiously, and Peter had again
to show off his accomplishment by reading another three lines.
There was no mistake about it--Peter could read. As soon as
school was over the teacher went over to the pastor to tell him
this piece of news, and to inform him of the happy result of
Heidi's and the grandfather's combined efforts.
Every evening Peter read one hymn aloud; so far he obeyed Heidi.
Nothing would induce him to read a second, and indeed the
grandmother never asked for it. His mother Brigitta could not
get over her surprise at her son's attainment, and when the
reader was in bed would often express her pleasure at it. "Now he
has learnt to read there is no knowing what may be made of him
yet."
On one of these occasions the grandmother answered, "Yes, it is
good for him to have learnt something, but I shall indeed be
thankful when spring is here again and Heidi can come; they are
not like the same hymns when Peter reads them. So many words
seem missing, and I try to think what they ought to be and then I
lose the sense, and so the hymns do not come home to my heart as
when Heidi reads them."
The truth was that Peter arranged to make his reading as little
troublesome for himself as possible. When he came upon a word
that he thought was too long or difficult in any other way, he
left it out, for he decided that a word or two less in a verse,
where there were so many of them, could make no difference to
his grandmother. And so it came about that most of the principal
words were missing in the hymns that Peter read aloud.
CHAPTER XX. NEWS FROM DISTANT FRIENDS
It was the month of May. From every height the full fresh
streams of spring were flowing down into the valley. The clear
warm sunshine lay upon the mountain, which had turned green
again. The last snows had disappeared and the sun had already
coaxed many of the flowers to show their bright heads above the
grass. Up above the gay young wind of spring was singing through
the fir trees, and shaking down the old dark needles to make room
for the new bright green ones that were soon to deck out the
trees in their spring finery. Higher up still the great bird went
circling round in the blue ether as of old, while the golden
sunshine lit up the grandfather's hut, and all the ground about
it was warm and dry again so that one might sit out where one
liked. Heidi was at home again on the mountain, running backwards
and forwards in her accustomed way, not knowing which spot was
most delightful. Now she stood still to listen to the deep,
mysterious voice of the wind, as it blew down to her from the
mountain summits, coming nearer and nearer and gathering strength
as it came, till it broke with force against the fir trees,
bending and shaking them, and seeming to shout for joy, so that
she too, though blown about like a feather, felt she must join in
the chorus of exulting sounds. Then she would run round again to
the sunny space in front of the hut, and seating herself on the
ground would peer closely into the short grass to see how many
little flower cups were open or thinking of opening. She rejoiced
with all the myriad little beetles and winged insects that jumped
and crawled and danced in the sun, and drew in deep draughts of
the spring scents that rose from the newly-awakened earth, and
thought the mountain was more beautiful than ever. All the tiny
living creatures must be as happy as she, for it seemed to her
there were little voices all round her singing and humming in
joyful tones, "On the mountain! on the mountain!"
From the shed at the back came the sound of sawing and chopping,
and Heidi listened to it with pleasure, for it was the old
familiar sound she had known from the beginning of her life up
here. Suddenly she jumped up and ran round, for she must know
what her grandfather was doing. In front of the shed door
already stood a finished new chair, and a second was in course of
construction under the grandfather's skilful hand.
"Oh, I know what these are for," exclaimed Heidi in great glee.
"We shall want them when they all come from Frankfurt. This one
is for Grandmamma, and the one you are now making is for Clara,
and then--then, there will, I suppose, have to be another,"
continued Heidi with more hesitation in her voice, "or do you
think, grandfather, that perhaps Fraulein Rottenmeier will not
come with them?"
"Well, I cannot say just yet," replied her grandfather, "but it
will be safer to make one so that we can offer her a seat if she
does."
Heidi looked thoughtfully at the plain wooden chair without arms
as if trying to imagine how Fraulein Rottenmeier and a chair of
this sort would suit one another. After a few minutes'
contemplation, "Grandfather," she said, shaking her head
doubtfully, "I don't think she would be able to sit on that."
"Then we will invite her on the couch with the beautiful green
turf feather-bed," was her grandfather's quiet rejoinder.
While Heidi was pausing to consider what this might be there
approached from above a whistling, calling, and other sounds
which Heidi immediately recognised. She ran out and found
herself surrounded by her four-footed friends. They were
apparently as pleased as she was to be among the heights again,
for they leaped about and bleated for joy, pushing Heidi this way
and that, each anxious to express his delight with some sign of
affection. But Peter sent them flying to right and left, for he
had something to give to Heidi. When he at last got up to her he
handed her a letter.
"There!" he exclaimed, leaving the further explanation of the
matter to Heidi herself.
"Did some one give you this while you were out with the goats,"
she asked, in her surprise.
"No," was the answer.
"Where did you get it from then?
"I found it in the dinner bag."
Which was true to a certain extent. The letter to Heidi had been
given him the evening before by the postman at Dorfli, and Peter
had put it into his empty bag. That morning he had stuffed his
bread and cheese on the top of it, and had forgotten it when he
fetched Alm-Uncle's two goats; only when he had finished his
bread and cheese at mid-day and was searching in the bag for any
last crumbs did he remember the letter which lay at the bottom.
Heidi read the address carefully; then she ran back to the shed
holding out her letter to her grandfather in high glee. "From
Frankfurt! from Clara! Would you like to hear it?"
The grandfather was ready and pleased to do so, as also Peter,
who had followed Heidi into the shed. He leant his back against
the door post, as he felt he could follow Heidi's reading better
if firmly supported from behind, and so stood prepared to
listen.
"Dearest Heidi,-- Everything is packed and we shall start now in
two or three days, as soon as papa himself is ready to leave; he
is not coming with us as he has first to go to Paris. The doctor
comes every day, and as soon as he is inside the door, he cries,
'Off now as quickly as you can, off to the mountain.' He is most
impatient about our going. You cannot think how much he enjoyed
himself when he was with you! He has called nearly every day
this winter, and each time he has come in to my room and said he
must tell me about everything again. And then he sits down and
describes all he did with you and the grandfather, and talks of
the mountains and the flowers and of the great silence up there
far above all towns and the villages, and of the fresh delicious
air, and often adds, 'No one can help getting well up there.' He
himself is quite a different man since his visit, and looks
quite young again and happy, which he had not been for a long
time before. Oh, how I am looking forward to seeing everything
and to being with you on the mountain, and to making the
acquaintance of Peter and the goats.
"I shall have first to go through a six weeks' cure at Ragatz;
this the doctor has ordered, and then we shall move up to
Dorfli, and every fine day I shall be carried up the mountain in
my chair and spend the day with you. Grandmamma is travelling
with me and will remain with me; she also is delighted at the
thought of paying you a visit. But just imagine, Fraulein
Rottenmeier refuses to come with us. Almost every day grandmamma
says to her, 'Well, how about this Swiss journey, my worthy
Rottenmeier? Pray say if you really would like to come with us.'
But she always thanks grandmamma very politely and says she has
quite made up her mind. I think I know what has done it:
Sebastian gave such a frightful description of the mountain, of
how the rocks were so overhanging and dangerous that at any
minute you might fall into a crevasse, and how it was such steep
climbing that you feared at every step to go slipping to the
bottom, and that goats alone could make their way up without fear
of being killed. She shuddered when she heard him tell of all
this, and since then she has not been so enthusiastic about
Switzerland as she was before. Fear has also taken possession of
Tinette, and she also refuses to come. So grandmamma and I will
be alone; Sebastian will go with us as far as Ragatz and then
return here.
"I can hardly bear waiting till I see you again. Good-bye,
dearest Heidi; grandmamma sends you her best love and all good
wishes.--Your affectionate friend,
"Clara."
Peter, as soon as the conclusion of the letter had been reached,
left his reclining position and rushed out, twirling his stick
in the air in such a reckless fashion that the frightened goats
fled down the mountain before him with higher and wider leaps
than usual. Peter followed at full speed, his stick still raised
in air in a menacing manner as if he was longing to vent his fury
on some invisible foe. This foe was indeed the prospect of the
arrival of the Frankfurt visitors, the thought of whom filled
him with exasperation.
Heidi was so full of joyful anticipation that she determined to
seize the first possible moment next day to go down and tell
grandmother who was coming, and also particularly who was not
coming. These details would be of great interest to her, for
grandmother knew well all the persons named from Heidi's
description, and had entered with deep sympathy into all that
the child had told her of her life and surroundings in Frankfurt.
Heidi paid her visit in the early afternoon, for she could now go
alone again; the sun was bright in the heavens and the days were
growing longer, and it was delightful to go racing down the
mountain over the dry ground, with the brisk May wind blowing
from behind, and speeding Heidi on her way a little more quickly
than her legs alone would have carried her.
The grandmother was no longer confined to her bed. She was back
in her corner at her spinning-wheel, but there was an expression
on her face of mournful anxiety. Peter had come in the evening
before brimful of anger and had told about the large party who
were coming up from Frankfurt, and he did not know what other
things might happen after that; and the old woman had not slept
all night, pursued by the old thought of Heidi being taken from
her. Heidi ran in, and taking her little stool immediately sat
down by grandmother and began eagerly pouring out all her news,
growing more excited with her pleasure as she went on. But all
of a sudden she stopped short and said anxiously, "What is the
matter, grandmother, aren't you a bit pleased with what I am
telling you?"
"Yes, yes, of course, child, since it gives you so much
pleasure," she answered, trying to look more cheerful.
"But I can see all the same that something troubles you. Is it
because you think after all that Fraulein Rottenmeier may come?"
asked Heidi, beginning to feel anxious herself.
"No, no! it is nothing, child," said the grandmother, wishing to
reassure her. "just give me your hand that I may feel sure you
are there. No doubt it would be the best thing for you, although
I feel I could scarcely survive it."
"I do not want anything of the best if you could scarcely
survive it," said Heidi, in such a determined tone of voice that
the grandmother's fears increased as she felt sure the people
from Frankfurt were coming to take Heidi back with them, since
now she was well again they naturally wished to have her with
them once more. But she was anxious to hide her trouble from
Heidi if possible, as the latter was so sympathetic that she
might refuse perhaps to go away, and that would not be right. She
sought for help, but not for long, for she knew of only one.
"Heidi," she said, "there is something that would comfort me and
calm my thoughts; read me the hymn beginning: 'All things will
work for good.'"
Heidi found the place at once and read out in her clear young
voice:--
All things will work for good To those who trust in Me;
I come with healing on my wings, To save and set thee
free.
"Yes, yes, that is just what I wanted to hear," said the
grandmother, and the deep expression of trouble passed from her
face. Heidi looked at her thoughtfully for a minute or two and
then said, "Healing means that which cures everything and makes
everybody well, doesn't it, grandmother?"
"Yes, that is it," replied the old woman with a nod of assent,
"and we may be sure everything will come to pass according to
God's good purpose. Read the verse again, that we may remember
it well and not forget it again."
And Heidi read the words over two or three times, for she also
found pleasure in this assurance of all things being arranged
for the best.
When the evening came, Heidi returned home up the mountain. The
stars came out overhead one by one, so bright and sparkling that
each seemed to send a fresh ray of joy into her heart; she was
obliged to pause continually to look up, and as the whole sky at
last grew spangled with them she spoke aloud, "Yes, I understand
now why we feel so happy, and are not afraid about anything,
because God knows what is good and beautiful for us." And the
stars with their glistening eyes continued to nod to her till
she reached home, where she found her grandfather also standing
and looking up at them, for they had seldom been more glorious
than they were this night.
Not only were the nights of this month of May so clear and
bright, but the days as well; the sun rose every morning into
the cloudless sky, as undimmed in its splendor as when it sank
the evening before, and the grandfather would look out early and
exclaim with astonishment, "This is indeed a wonderful year of
sun; it will make all the shrubs and plants grow apace; you will
have to see, general, that your army does not get out of hand
from overfeeding." And Peter would swing his stick with an air
of assurance and an expression on his face as much as to say,
"see to that."
So May passed, everything growing greener and greener, and then
came the month of June, with a hotter sun and long light days,
that brought the flowers out all over the mountain, so that
every spot was bright with them and the air full of their sweet
scents. This month too was drawing to its close when one day
Heidi, having finished her domestic duties, ran out with the
intention of paying first a visit to the fir trees, and then
going up higher to see if the bush of rock roses was yet in
bloom, for its flowers were so lovely when standing open in the
sun. But just as she was turning the corner of the hut, she gave
such a loud cry that her grandfather came running out of the shed
to see what had happened.
"Grandfather, grandfather!" she cried, beside herself with
excitement. "Come here! look! look!"
The old man was by her side by this time and looked in the
direction of her outstretched hand.
A strange looking procession was making its way up the mountain;
in front were two men carrying a sedan chair, in which sat a
girl well wrapped up in shawls; then followed a horse, mounted by
a stately-looking lady who was looking about her with great
interest and talking to the guide who walked beside her; then a
reclining chair, which was being pushed up by another man, it
having evidently been thought safer to send the invalid to whom
it belonged up the steep path in a sedan chair. The procession
wound up with a porter, with such a bundle of cloaks, shawls,
and furs on his back that it rose well above his head.
"Here they come! here they come!" shouted Heidi, jumping with
joy. And sure enough it was the party from Frankfurt; the
figures came nearer and nearer, and at last they had actually
arrived. The men in front put down their burden, Heidi rushed
forward and the two children embraced each other with mutual
delight. Grandmamma having also reached the top, dismounted, and
gave Heidi an affectionate greeting, before turning to the
grandfather, who had meanwhile come up to welcome his guests.
There was no constraint about the meeting, for they both knew
each other perfectly well from hearsay and felt like old
acquaintances.
After the first words of greeting had been exchanged grandmamma
broke out into lively expressions of admiration. "What a
magnificent residence you have, Uncle! I could hardly have
believed it was so beautiful! A king might well envy you! And
how well my little Heidi looks--like a wild rose!" she continued,
drawing the child towards her and stroking her fresh pink
cheeks. "I don't know which way to look first, it is all so
lovely! What do you say to it, Clara, what do you say?"
Clara was gazing round entranced; she had never imagined, much
less seen, anything so beautiful. She gave vent to her delight
in cries of joy. "O grandmamma," she said, "I should like to
remain here for ever."
The grandfather had meanwhile drawn up the invalid chair and
spread some of the wraps over it; he now went up to Clara.
"Supposing we carry the little daughter now to her accustomed
chair; I think she will be more comfortable, the travelling
sedan is rather hard," he said, and without waiting for any one
to help him he lifted the child in his strong arms and laid her
gently down on her own couch. He then covered her over carefully
and arranged her feet on the soft cushion, as if he had never
done anything all his life but attend on cripples. The grandmamma
looked on with surprise.
"My dear Uncle," she exclaimed, "if I knew where you had learned
to nurse I would at once send all the nurses I know to the same
place that they might handle their patients in like manner. How
do you come to know so much?"
Uncle smiled. "I know more from experience than training," he
answered, but as he spoke the smile died away and a look of
sadness passed over his face. The vision rose before him of a
face of suffering that he had known long years before, the face
of a man lying crippled on his couch of pain, and unable to move
a limb. The man had been his Captain during the fierce fighting
in Sicily; he had found him lying wounded and had carried him
away, and after that the captain would suffer no one else near
him, and Uncle had stayed and nursed him till his sufferings
ended in death. It all came back to Uncle now, and it seemed
natural to him to attend on the sick Clara and to show her all
those kindly attentions with which he had been once so familiar.
The sky spread blue and cloudless over the hut and the fir trees
and far above over the high rocks, the grey summits of which
glistened in the sun. Clara could not feast her eyes enough on
all the beauty around her.
"O Heidi, if only I could walk about with you," she said
longingly, "if I could but go and look at the fir trees and at
everything I know so well from your description, although I have
never been here before."
Heidi in response put out all her strength, and after a slight
effort, managed to wheel Clara's chair quite easily round the
hut to the fir trees. There they paused. Clara had never seen
such trees before, with their tall, straight stems, and long
thick branches growing thicker and thicker till they touched the
ground. Even the grandmamma, who had followed the children, was
astonished at the sight of them. She hardly knew what to admire
most in these ancient trees: the lofty tops rising in their full
green splendor towards the sky, or the pillar-like stems, with
their straight and gigantic boughs, that spoke of such antiquity
of age, of such long years during which they had looked down
upon the valley below, where men came and went, and all things
were continually changing, while they stood undisturbed and
changeless.
Heidi had now wheeled Clara on to the goat shed, and had flung
open the door, so that Clara might have a full view of all that
was inside. There was not much to see just now as its indwellers
were absent. Clara lamented to her grandmother that they would
have to leave early before the goats came home. "I should so
like to have seen Peter and his whole flock."
"Dear child, let us enjoy all the beautiful things that we can
see, and not think about those that we cannot," grandmamma
replied as she followed the chair which Heidi was pushing
further on.
"Oh, the flowers!" exclaimed Clara. "Look at the bushes of red
flowers, and all the nodding blue bells! Oh, if I could but get
but and pick some!"
Heidi ran off at once and picked her a large nosegay of them.
"But these are nothing, Clara," she said, laying the flowers on
her lap. "If you could come up higher to where the goats are
feeding, then you would indeed see something! Bushes on bushes
of the red centaury, and ever so many more of the blue bellflowers;
and then the bright yellow rock roses, that gleam like
pure gold, and all crowding together in the one spot. And then
there are others with the large leaves that grandfather calls
Bright Eyes, and the brown ones with little round heads that
smell so delicious. Oh, it is beautiful up there, and if you sit
down among them you never want to get up again, everything looks
and smells so lovely!"
Heidi's eyes sparkled with the remembrance of what she was
describing; she was longing herself to see it all again, and
Clara caught her enthusiasm and looked back at her with equal
longing in her soft blue eyes.
"Grandmamma, do you think I could get up there? Is it possible
for me to go?" she asked eagerly. "If only I could walk, climb
about everywhere with you, Heidi!"
"I am sure I could push you up, the chair goes so easily," said
Heidi, and in proof of her words, she sent the chair at such a
pace round the corner that it nearly went flying down the
mountain-side. Grandmamma being at hand, however, stopped it in
time.
The grandfather, meantime, had not been idle. He had by this
time put the table and extra chairs in front of the seat, so that
they might all sit out here and eat the dinner that was preparing
inside. The milk and the cheese were soon ready, and then the
company sat down in high spirits to their mid-day meal.
Grandmamma was enchanted, as the doctor had been, with their
dining-room, whence one could see far along the valley, and far
over the mountains to the farthest stretch of blue sky. A light
wind blew refreshingly over them as they sat at table, and the
rustling of the fir trees made a festive accompaniment to the
repast.
"I never enjoyed anything as much as this. It is really superb!"
cried grandmamma two or three times over; and then suddenly in a
tone of surprise,
"Do I really see you taking a second piece of toasted cheese,
Clara!"
There, sure enough, was a second golden-colored slice of cheese
on Clara's plate.
"Oh, it does taste so nice, grandmamma--better than all the
dishes we have at Ragatz," replied Clara, as she continued
eating with appetite.
"That's right, eat what you can!" exclaimed Uncle. "It's the
mountain air which makes up for the deficiencies of the
kitchen."
And so the meal went on. Grandmamma and Alm-Uncle got on very
well together, and their conversation became more and more
lively. They were so thoroughly agreed in their opinions of men
and things and the world in general that they might have been
taken for old cronies. The time passed merrily, and then
grandmamma looked towards the west and said,--
"We must soon get ready to go, Clara, the sun is a good way
down; the men will be here directly with the horse and sedan."
Clara's face fell and she said beseechingly, "Oh, just another
hour, grandmamma, or two hours. We haven't seen inside the hut
yet, or Heidi's bed, or any of the other things. If only the day
was ten hours long!"
"Well, that is not possible," said grandmamma, but she herself
was anxious to see inside the hut, so they all rose from the
table and Uncle wheeled Clara's chair to the door. But there
they came to a standstill, for the chair was much too broad to
pass through the door. Uncle, however, soon settled the
difficulty by lifting Clara in his strong arms and carrying her
inside.
Grandmamma went all round and examined the household
arrangements, and was very much amused and pleased at their
orderliness and the cozy appearance of everything. "And this is
your bedroom up here, Heidi, is it not?" she asked, as without
trepidation she mounted the ladder to the hay loft. "Oh, it does
smell sweet, what a healthy place to sleep in." She went up to
the round window and looked out, and grandfather followed up
with Clara in his arms, Heidi springing up after them. Then they
all stood and examined Heidi's wonderful hay-bed, and grandmamma
looked thoughtfully at it and drew in from time to time fragrant
draughts of the hay-perfumed air, while Clara was charmed beyond
words with Heidi's sleeping apartment.
"It is delightful for you up here, Heidi! You can look from your
bed straight into the sky, and then such a delicious smell all
round you! and outside the fir trees waving and rustling! I have
never seen such a pleasant, cheerful bedroom before.
Uncle looked across at the grandmamma. "I have been thinking,"
he said to her, "that if you were willing to agree to it, your
little granddaughter might remain up here, and I am sure she
would grow stronger. You have brought up all kinds of shawls and
covers with you, and we could make up a soft bed out of them,
and as to the general looking after the child, you need have no
fear, for I will see to that." Clara and Heidi were as overjoyed
at these words as if they were two birds let out of their cages,
and grandmamma's face beamed with satisfaction.
"You are indeed kind, my dear Uncle," she exclaimed; "you give
words to the thought that was in my own mind. I was only asking
myself whether a stay up here might not be the very thing she
wanted. But then the trouble, the inconvenience to yourself! And
you speak of nursing and looking after her as if it was a mere
nothing! I thank you sincerely, I thank you from my whole heart,
Uncle." And she took his hand and gave it a long and grateful
shake, which he returned with a pleased expression of
countenance.
Uncle immediately set to work to get things ready. He carried
Clara back to her chair outside, Heidi following, not knowing
how to jump high enough into the air to express her contentment.
Then he gathered up a whole pile of shawls and furs and said,
smiling, "It is a good thing that grandmamma came up well
provided for a winter's campaign; we shall be able to make good
use of these."
"Foresight is a virtue," responded the lady, amused, "and
prevents many misfortunes. If we have made the journey over your
mountains without meeting with storms, winds and cloud-bursts,
we can only be thankful, which we are, and my provision against
these disasters now comes in usefully, as you say."
The two had meanwhile ascended to the hay-loft and begun to
prepare a bed; there were so many articles piled one over the
other that when finished it looked like a regular little
fortress. Grandmamma passed her hand carefully over it to make
sure there were no bits of hay sticking out. "If there's a bit
that can come through it will," she said. The soft mattress,
however, was so smooth and thick that nothing could penetrate
it. Then they went down again, well satisfied, and found the
children laughing and talking together and arranging all they
were going to do from morning till evening as long as Clara
stayed. The next question was how long she was to remain, and
first grandmamma was asked, but she referred them to the
grandfather, who gave it as his opinion that she ought to make
the trial of the mountain air for at least a month. The children
clapped their hands for joy, for they had not expected to be
together for so long a time.
The bearers and the horse and guide were now seen approaching;
the former were sent back at once, and grandmamma prepared to
mount for her return journey.
"It's not saying good-bye, grandmamma," Clara called out, "for
you will come up now and then and see how we are getting on, and
we shall so look forward to your visits, shan't we, Heidi?"
Heidi, who felt that life this day had been crowded with
pleasures, could only respond to Clara with another jump of joy.
Grandmamma being now seated on her sturdy animal, Uncle took the
bridle to lead her down the steep mountain path; she begged him
not to come far with her, but he insisted on seeing her safely
as far as Dorfli, for the way was precipitous and not without
danger for the rider, he said.
Grandmamma did not care to stay alone in Dorfli, and therefore
decided to return to Ragatz, and thence to make excursions up
the mountain from time to time.
Peter came down with his goats before Uncle had returned. As
soon as the animals caught sight of Heidi they all came flocking
towards her, and she, as well as Clara on her couch, were soon
surrounded by the goats, pushing and poking their heads one over
the other, while Heidi introduced each in turn by its name to
her friend Clara.
It was not long before the latter had made the long-wished-for
acquaintance of little Snowflake, the lively Greenfinch, and the
well-behaved goats belonging to grandfather, as well as of the
many others, including the Grand Turk. Peter meanwhile stood
apart looking on, and casting somewhat unfriendly glances
towards Clara.
When the two children called out, "Good-evening, Peter," he made
no answer, but swung up his stick angrily, as if wanting to cut
the air in two, and then ran off with his goats after him.
The climax to all the beautiful things that Clara had already
seen upon the mountain came at the close of the day.
As she lay on the large soft bed in the hay loft, with Heidi
near her, she looked out through the round open window right into
the middle of the shining clusters of stars, and she exclaimed in
delight,--
"Heidi, it's just as if we were in a high carriage and were
going to drive straight into heaven."
"Yes, and do you know why the stars are so happy and look down
and nod to us like that?" asked Heidi.
"No, why is it?" Clara asked in return.
"Because they live up in heaven, and know how well God arranges
everything for us, so that we need have no more fear or trouble
and may be quite sure that all things will come right in the
end. That's why they are so happy, and they nod to us because
they want us to be happy too. But then we must never forget to
pray, and to ask God to remember us when He is arranging things,
so that we too may feel safe and have no anxiety about what is
going to happen."
The two children now sat up and said their prayers, and then
Heidi put her head down on her little round arm and fell off to
sleep at once, but Clara lay awake some time, for she could not
get over the wonder of this new experience of being in bed up
here among the stars. She had indeed seldom seen a star, for she
never went outside the house at night, and the curtains at home
were always drawn before the stars came out. Each time she
closed her eyes she felt she must open them again to see if the
two very large stars were still looking in, and nodding to her as
Heidi said they did. There they were, always in the same place,
and Clara felt she could not look long enough into their bright
sparkling faces, until at last her eyes closed of their own
accord, and it was only in her dreams that she still saw the two
large friendly stars shining down upon her.
CHAPTER XXI. HOW LIFE WENT ON AT GRANDFATHER'S
The sun had just risen above the mountains and was shedding its
first golden rays over the hut and the valley below. Alm-Uncle,
as was his custom, had been standing in a quiet and, devout
attitude for some little while, watching the light mists
gradually lifting, and the heights and valley emerging from
their twilight shadows and awakening to another day.
The light morning clouds overhead grew brighter and brighter,
till at last the sun shone out in its full glory, and rock and
wood and hill lay bathed in golden light.
Uncle now stepped back into the hut and went softly up the
ladder. Clara had just opened her eyes and was looking with
wonder at the bright sunlight that shone through the round
window and danced and sparkled about her bed. She could not at
first think what she was looking at or where she was. Then she
caught sight of Heidi sleeping beside her, and now she heard the
grandfather's cheery voice asking her if she had slept well and
was feeling rested. She assured him she was not tired, and that
when she had once fallen asleep she had not opened her eyes
again all night. The grandfather was satisfied at this and
immediately began to attend upon her with so much gentleness and
understanding that it seemed as if his chief calling had been to
look after sick children.
Heidi now awoke and was surprised to see Clara dressed, and
already in the grandfather's arms ready to be carried down. She
must be up too, and she went through her toilette with lightninglike
speed. She ran down the ladder and out of the hut, and there
further astonishment awaited her, for grandfather had been busy
the night before after they were in bed. Seeing that it was
impossible to get Clara's chair through the hut-door, he had
taken down two of the boards at the side of the shed and made an
opening large enough to admit the chair; these he left loose so
that they could be taken away and put up at pleasure. He was at
this moment wheeling Clara out into the sun; he left her in
front of the hut while he went to look after the goats, and Heidi
ran up to her friend.
The fresh morning breeze blew round the children's faces, and
every fresh puff brought a waft of fragrance from the fir trees.
Clara drew it in with delight and lay back in her chair with an
unaccustomed feeling of health and comfort.
It was the first time in her life that she had been out in the
open country at this early hour and felt the fresh morning
breeze, and the pure mountain air was so cool and refreshing
that every breath she drew was a pleasure. And then the bright
sweet sun, which was not hot and sultry up here, but lay soft and
warm on her hands and on the grass at her feet. Clara had not
imagined that it would be like this on the mountain.
"O Heidi, if only I could stay up here for ever with you," she
exclaimed happily, turning in her chair from side to side that
she might drink in the air and sun from all quarters.
"Now you see that it is just what I told you," replied Heidi
delighted; "that it is the most beautiful thing in the world to
be up here with grandfather."
The latter at that moment appeared coming from the goat shed and
bringing two small foaming bowls of snow-white milk--one for
Clara and one for Heidi.
"That will do the little daughter good," he said, nodding to
Clara; "it is from Little Swan and will make her strong. To your
health, child! drink it up."
Clara had never tasted goat's milk before; she hesitated and
smelt it before putting it to her lips, but seeing how Heidi
drank hers up without hesitating, and how much she seemed to like
it, Clara did the same, and drank till there was not a drop left,
for she too found it delicious, tasting just as if sugar and
cinnamon had been mixed with it.
"To-morrow we will drink two," said the grandfather, who had
looked on with satisfaction at seeing her follow Heidi's
example.
Peter now arrived with the goats, and while Heidi was receiving
her usual crowded morning greetings, Uncle drew Peter aside to
speak to him, for the goats, bleated so loudly and continuously
in their wish to express their joy and affection that no one
could be heard near them.
"Attend to what I have to say," he said. "From to-day be sure you
let Little Swan go where she likes. She has an instinct where to
find the best food for herself, and so if she wants to climb
higher, you follow her, and it will do the others no harm if they
go too; on no account bring her back. A little more climbing
won't hurt you, and in this matter she probably knows better than
you what is good for her; I want her to give as fine milk as
possible. Why are you looking over there as if you wanted to eat
somebody? Nobody will interfere with you. So now be off and
remember what I say."
Peter was accustomed to give immediate obedience to Uncle, and
he marched off with his goats, but with a turn of the head and
roll of the eye that showed he had some thought in reserve. The
goats carried Heidi along with them a little way, which was what
Peter wanted. "You will have to come with them," he called to
her, "for I shall be obliged to follow Little Swan."
"I cannot," Heidi called back from the midst of her friends,
"and I shall not be able to come for a long, long time--not as
long as Clara is with me. Grandfather, however, has promised to
go up the mountain with both of us one day."
Heidi had now extricated herself from the goats and she ran back
to Clara. Peter doubled his fists and made threatening gestures
towards the invalid on her couch, and then climbed up some
distance without pause until he was out of sight, for he was
afraid Uncle might have seen him, and he did not care to know
what Uncle might have thought of the fists.
Clara and Heidi had made so many plans for themselves that they
hardly knew where to begin. Heidi suggested that they should
first write to grandmamma, to whom they had promised to send word
every day, for grandmamma had not felt sure whether it would in
the long run suit Clara's health to remain up the mountain, or if
she would continue to enjoy herself there. With daily news of her
granddaughter she could stay on without anxiety at Ragatz, and be
ready to go to Clara at a moment's notice.
"Must we go indoors to write?" asked Clara, who agreed to Heidi's
proposal but did not want to move from where she was, as it was
so much nicer outside. Heidi was prepared to arrange everything.
She ran in and brought out her school-book and writing things and
her own little stool. She put her reading book and copy book on
Clara's knees, to make a desk for her to write upon, and she
herself took her seat on the stool and sat to the bench, and then
they both began writing to grandmamma. But Clara paused after
every sentence to look about her; it was too beautiful for much
letter writing. The breeze had sunk a little, and now only gently
fanned her face and whispered lightly through the fir trees.
Little winged insects hummed and danced around her in the clear
air, and a great stillness lay over the far, wide, sunny pasture
lands. Lofty and silent rose the high mountain peaks above her,
and below lay the whole broad valley full of quiet peace. Only
now and again the call of some shepherd-boy rang out through the
air, and echo answered softly from the rocks. The morning passed,
the children hardly knew how, and now grandfather came with the
mid-day bowls of steaming milk, for the little daughter, he said,
was to remain out as long as there was a gleam of sun in the sky.
The mid-day meal was set out and eaten as yesterday in the open
air. Then Heidi pushed Clara's chair under the fir trees, for
they had agreed to spend the afternoon under their shade and
there tell each other all that had happened since Heidi left
Frankfurt. If everything had gone on there as usual in a general
way, there were still all kinds of particular things to tell
Heidi about the various people who composed the Sesemann
household, and who were all so well known to Heidi.
So they sat and chatted under the trees, and the more lively
grew their conversation, the more loudly sang the birds overhead,
as if wishing to take part in the children's gossip, which
evidently pleased them. So the hours flew by and all at once, as
it seemed, the evening had come with the returning Peter, who
still scowled and looked angry.
"Good-night, Peter," called out Heidi, as she saw he had no
intention of stopping to speak.
"Good-night, Peter," called out Clara in a friendly voice. Peter
took no notice and went surlily on with his goats.
As Clara saw the grandfather leading away Little Swan to milk
her, she was suddenly taken with a longing for another bowlful
of the fragrant milk, and waited impatiently for it.
"Isn't it curious, Heidi," she said, astonished at herself, "as
long as I can remember I have only eaten because I was obliged
to, and everything used to seem to taste of cod liver oil, and I
was always wishing there was no need to eat or drink; and now I
am longing for grandfather to bring me the milk."
"Yes, I know what it feels like," replied Heidi, who remembered
the many days in Frankfurt when all her food used to seem to
stick in her throat. Clara, however, could not understand it;
the fact was that she had never in her life before spent a whole
day in the open air, much less in such high, life-giving mountain
air. When grandfather at last brought her the evening milk, she
drank it up so quickly that she had emptied her bowl before
Heidi, and then she asked for a little more. The grandfather
went inside with both the children's bowls, and when he brought
them out again full he had something else to add to their supper.
He had walked over that afternoon to a herdsman's house where the
sweetly-tasting butter was made, and had brought home a large
pat, some of which he had now spread thickly on two good slices
of bread. He stood and watched with pleasure while Clara and
Heidi ate their appetising meal with childish hunger and
enjoyment.
That night, when Clara lay down in her bed and prepared to watch
the stars, her eyes would not keep open, and she fell asleep as
soon as Heidi and slept soundly all night--a thing she never
remembered having done before. The following day and the day
after passed in the same pleasant fashion, and the third day
there came a surprise for the children. Two stout porters came
up the mountain, each carrying a bed on his shoulders with
bedding of all kinds and two beautiful new white coverlids. The
men also had a letter with them from grandmamma, in which she
said that these were for Clara and Heidi, and that Heidi in
future was always to sleep in a proper bed, and when she went
down to Dorfli in the winter she was to take one with her and
leave the other at the hut, so that Clara might always know there
was a bed ready for her when she paid a visit to the mountain.
She went on to thank the children for their long letters and
encouraged them to continue writing daily, so that she might be
able to picture all they were doing.
So the grandfather went up and threw back the hay from Heidi's
bed on to the great heap, and then with his help the beds were
transported to the loft. He put them close to one another so
that the children might still be able to see out of the window,
for he knew what pleasure they had in the light from the sun and
stars.
Meanwhile grandmamma down at Ragatz was rejoicing at the
excellent news of the invalid which reached her daily from the
mountain. Clara found the life more charming each day and could
not say enough of the kindness and care which the grandfather
lavished upon her, nor of Heidi's lively and amusing
companionship, for the latter was more entertaining even than
when in Frankfurt with her, and Clara's first thought when she
woke each morning was, "Oh, how glad I am to be here still."
Having such fresh assurances each day that all was going well
with Clara, grandmamma thought she might put off her visit to
the children a little longer, for the steep ride up and down was
somewhat of a fatigue to her.
The grandfather seemed to feel an especial sympathy for this
little invalid charge, for he tried to think of something fresh
every day to help forward her recovery. He climbed up the
mountain every afternoon, higher and higher each day, and came
home in the evening with a large bunch of leaves which scented
the air with a mingled fragrance as of carnations and thyme,
even from afar. He hung it up in the goat shed, and the goats on
their return were wild to get at it, for they recognised the
smell. But Uncle did not go climbing after rare plants to give
the goats the pleasure of eating them without any trouble of
finding them; what he gathered was for Little Swan alone, that
she might give extra fine milk, and the effect of the extra
feeding was shown in the way she flung her head in the air with
ever-increasing frolicsomeness, and in the bright glow of her
eye.
Clara had now been on the mountain for three weeks. For some
days past the grandfather, each morning after carrying her down,
had said, "Won't the little daughter try if she can stand for a
minute or two?" And Clara had made the effort in order to please
him, but had clung to him as soon as her feet touched the
ground, exclaiming that it hurt her so. He let her try a little
longer, however, each day.
It was many years since they had had such a splendid summer
among the mountains. Day after day there were the same cloudless
sky and brilliant sun; the flowers opened wide their fragrant
blossoms, and everywhere the eye was greeted with a glow of
color; and when the evening came the crimson light fell on
mountain peaks and on the great snow-field, till at last the sun
sank in a sea of golden flame.
And Heidi never tired of telling Clara of all this, for only
higher up could the full glory of the colors be rightly seen;
and more particularly did she dwell on the beauty of the spot on
the higher slope of the mountain, where the bright golden rockroses
grew in masses, and the blue flowers were in such numbers
that the very grass seemed to have turned blue, while near these
were whole bushes of the brown blossoms, with their delicious
scent, so that you never wanted to move again when you once sat
down among them.
She had just been expatiating on the flowers as she sat with
Clara under the fir trees one evening, and had been telling her
again of the wonderful light from the evening sun, when such an
irrepressible longing came over her to see it all once more that
she jumped up and ran to her grandfather, who was in the shed,
calling out almost before she was inside,--
"Grandfather, will you take us out with the goats to-morrow? Oh,
it is so lovely up there now!"
"Very well," he answered, "but if I do, the little daughter must
do something to please me: she must try her best again this
evening to stand on her feet."
Heidi ran back with the good news to Clara, and the latter
promised to try her very best as the grandfather wished, for she
looked forward immensely to the next day's excursion. Heidi was
so pleased and excited that she called out to Peter as soon as
she caught sight of him that evening,--
"Peter, Peter, we are all coming out with you to-morrow and are
going to stay up there the whole day."
Peter, cross as a bear, grumbled some reply, and lifted his
stick to give Greenfinch a blow for no reason in particular, but
Greenfinch saw the movement, and with a leap over Snowflake's
back she got out of the way, and the stick only hit the air.
Clara and Heidi got into their two fine beds that night full of
delightful anticipation of the morrow; they were so full of
their plans that they agreed to keep awake all night and talk
over them until they might venture to get up. But their heads had
no sooner touched their soft pillows than the conversation
suddenly ceased, and Clara fell into a dream of an immense field,
which looked the color of the sky, so thickly inlaid was it with
blue bell-shaped flowers; and Heidi heard the great bird of prey
calling to her from the heights above, "Come! come! come!"
CHAPTER XXII. SOMETHING UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
Uncle went out early the next morning to see what kind of a day
it was going to be. There was a reddish gold light over the
higher peaks; a light breeze springing up and the branches of the
fir trees moved gently to and fro the sun was on its way.
The old man stood and watched the green slopes under the higher
peaks gradually growing brighter with the coming day and the dark
shadows lifting from the valley, until at first a rosy light
filled its hollows, and then the morning gold flooded every
height and depth--the sun had risen.
Uncle wheeled the chair out of the shed ready for the coming
journey, and then went in to call the children and tell them what
a lovely sunrise it was.
Peter came up at this moment. The goats did not gather round him
so trustfully as usual, but seemed to avoid him timidly, for
Peter had reached a high pitch of anger and bitterness, and was
laying about him with his stick very unnecessarily, and where it
fell the blow was no light one. For weeks now he had not had
Heidi all to himself as formerly. When he came up in the morning
the invalid child was always already in her chair and Heidi fully
occupied with her. And it was the same thing over again when he
came down in the evening. She had not come out with the goats
once this summer, and now to-day she was only coming in company
with her friend and the chair, and would stick by the latter's
side the whole time. It was the thought of this which was making
him particularly cross this morning. There stood the chair on its
high wheels; Peter seemed to see something proud and disdainful
about it, and he glared at it as at an enemy that had done him
harm and was likely to do him more still to-day. He glanced round-
-there was no sound anywhere, no one to see him. He sprang
forward like a wild creature, caught hold of it, and gave it a
violent and angry push in the direction of the slope. The chair
rolled swiftly forward and in another minute had disappeared.
Peter now sped up the mountain as if on wings, not pausing till
he was well in shelter of a large blackberry bush, for he had no
wish to be seen by Uncle. But he was anxious to see what had
become of the chair, and his bush was well placed for that.
Himself hidden, he could watch what happened below and see what
Uncle did without being discovered himself. So he looked, and
there he saw his enemy running faster and faster down hill, then
it turned head over heels several times, and finally, after one
great bound, rolled over and over to its complete destruction.
The pieces flew in every direction--feet, arms, and torn
fragments of the padded seat and bolster--and Peter experienced a
feeling of such unbounded delight at the sight that he leapt in
the air, laughing aloud and stamping for joy; then he took a run
round, jumping over bushes on the way, only to return to the same
spot and fall into fresh fits of laughter. He was beside himself
with satisfaction, for he could see only good results for himself
in this disaster to his enemy. Now Heidi's friend would be
obliged to go away, for she would have no means of going about,
and when Heidi was alone again she would come out with him as in
the old days, and everything would go on in the proper way again.
But Peter did not consider, or did not know, that when we do a
wrong thing trouble is sure to follow.
Heidi now came running out of the hut and round to the shed.
Grandfather was behind with Clara in his arms. The shed stood
wide open, the two loose planks having been taken down, and it
was quite light inside. Heidi looked into every corner and ran
from one end to the other, and then stood still wondering what
could have happened to the chair. Grandfather now came up.
"How is this, have you wheeled the chair away, Heidi?"
"I have been looking everywhere for it, grandfather; you said it
was standing ready outside," and she again searched each corner
of the shed with her eyes.
At that moment the wind, which had risen suddenly, blew open the
shed door and sent it banging back against the wall.
"It must have been the wind, grandfather," exclaimed Heidi, and
her eyes grew anxious at this sudden discovery. "Oh! if it has
blown the chair all the way down to Dorfli we shall not get it
back in time, and shall not be able to go."
"If it has rolled as far as that it will never come back, for it
is in a hundred pieces by now," said the grandfather, going
round the corner and looking down. "But it's a curious thing to
have happened!" he added as he thought over the matter, for the
chair would have had to turn a corner before starting down hill.
"Oh, I am sorry," lamented Clara, "for we shall not be able to
go to-day, or perhaps any other day. I shall have to go home, I
suppose, if I have no chair. Oh, I am so sorry, I am so sorry!"
But Heidi looked towards her grandfather with her usual
expression of confidence.
"Grandfather, you will be able to do something, won't you, so
that it need not be as Clara says, and so that she is not
obliged to go home?"
"Well, for the present we will go up the mountain as we had
arranged, and then later on we will see what can be done," he
answered, much to the children's delight.
He went indoors, fetched out a pile of shawls, and laying them
on the sunniest spot he could find set Clara down upon them. Then
he fetched the children's morning milk and had out his two goats.
"Why is Peter not here yet?" thought Uncle to himself, for
Peter's whistle had not been sounded that morning. The
grandfather now took Clara up on one arm, and the shawls on the
other.
"Now then we will start," he said; "the goats can come with us."
Heidi was pleased at this and walked on after her grandfather
with an arm over either of the goats' necks, and the animals were
so overjoyed to have her again that they nearly squeezed her flat
between them out of sheer affection. When they reached the spot
where the goats usually pastured they were surprised to find them
already feeding there, climbing about the rocks, and Peter with
them, lying his full length on the ground.
"I'll teach you another time to go by like that, you lazy
rascal! What do you mean by it?" Uncle called to him.
Peter, recognising the voice, jumped up like a shot. "No one was
up," he answered.
"Have you seen anything of the chair?" asked the grandfather.
"Of what chair?" called Peter back in answer in a morose tone of
voice.
Uncle said no more. He spread the shawls on the sunny slope, and
setting Clara upon them asked if she was comfortable.
"As comfortable as in my chair," she said, thanking him, "and
this seems the most beautiful spot. O Heidi, it is lovely, it is
lovely!" she cried, looking round her with delight.
The grandfather prepared to leave them. They would now be safe
and happy together, he said, and when it was time for dinner
Heidi was to go and fetch the bag from the shady hollow where he
had put it; Peter was to bring them as much milk as they wanted,
but Heidi was to see that it was Little Swan's milk. He would
come and fetch them towards evening; he must now be off to see
after the chair and ascertain what had become of it.
The sky was dark blue, and not a single cloud was to be seen
from one horizon to the other. The great snow-field overhead
sparkled as if set with thousands and thousands of gold and
silver stars. The two grey mountains peaks lifted their lofty
heads against the sky and looked solemnly down upon the valley as
of old; the great bird was poised aloft in the clear blue air,
and the mountain wind came over the heights and blew refreshingly
around the children as they sat on the sunlit slope. It was all
indescribably enjoyable to Clara and Heidi. Now and again a
young goat came and lay down beside them; Snowflake came
oftenest, putting her little head down near Heidi, and only
moving because another goat came and drove her away. Clara had
learned to know them all so well that she never mistook one for
the other now, for each had an expression and ways of its own.
And the goats had also grown familiar with Clara and would rub
their heads against her shoulder, which was always a sign of
acquaintanceship and goodwill.
Some hours went by, and Heidi began to think that she might just
go over to the spot where all the flowers grew to see if they
were fully blown and looking as lovely as the year before. Clara
could not go until grandfather came back that evening, when the
flowers probably would be already closed. The longing to go
became stronger and stronger, till she felt she could not resist
it.
"Would you think me unkind, Clara," she said rather
hesitatingly, "if I left you for a few minutes? I should run
there and back very quickly. I want so to see how the flowers are
looking--but wait--" for an idea had come into Heidi's head. She
ran and picked a bunch or two of green leaves, and then took hold
of Snowflake and led her up to Clara.
"There, now you will not be alone," said Heidi, giving the goat
a little push to show her she was to lie down near Clara, which
the animal quite understood. Heidi threw the leaves into Clara's
lap, and the latter told her friend to go at once to look at the
flowers as she was quite happy to be left with the goat; she
liked this new experience. Heidi ran off, and Clara began to
hold out the leaves one by one to Snowflake, who snoozled up to
her new friend in a confiding manner and slowly ate the leaves
from her hand. It was easy to see that Snowflake enjoyed this
peaceful and sheltered way of feeding, for when with the other
goats she had much persecution to endure from the larger and
stronger ones of the flock. And Clara found a strange new
pleasure in sitting all alone like this on the mountain side, her
only companion a little goat that looked to her for protection.
She suddenly felt a great desire to be her own mistress and to be
able to help others, instead of herself being always dependent as
she was now. Many thoughts, unknown to her before, came crowding
into her mind, and a longing to go on living in the sunshine, and
to be doing something that would bring happiness to another, as
now she was helping to make the goat happy. An unaccustomed
feeling of joy took possession of her, as if everything she had
ever known or felt became all at once more beautiful, and she
seemed to see all things in a new light, and so strong was the
sense of this new beauty and happiness that she threw her arms
round the little goat's neck, and exclaimed, "O Snowflake, how
delightful it is up here! if only I could stay on for ever with
you beside me!"
Heidi had meanwhile reached her field of flowers, and as she
caught sight of it she uttered a cry of joy. The whole ground in
front of her was a mass of shimmering gold, where the cistus
flowers spread their yellow blossoms. Above them waved whole
bushes of the deep blue bell-flowers; while the fragrance that
arose from the whole sunlit expanse was as if the rarest balsam
had been flung over it. The scent, however, came from the small
brown flowers, the little round heads of which rose modestly
here and there among the yellow blossoms. Heidi stood and gazed
and drew in the delicious air. Suddenly she turned round and
reached Clara's side out of breath with running and excitement.
"Oh, you must come," she called out as soon as she came in sight,
"it is more beautiful than you can imagine, and perhaps this
evening it may not be so lovely. I believe I could carry you,
don't you think I could?" Clara looked at her and shook her head.
"Why, Heidi, what can you be thinking of! you are smaller than I
am. Oh, if only I could walk!"
Heidi looked round as if in search of something, some new idea
had evidently come into her head. Peter was sitting up above
looking down on the two children. He had been sitting and
staring before him in the same way for hours, as if he could not
make out what he saw. He had destroyed the chair so that the
friend might not be able to move anywhere and that her visit
might come to an end, and then a little while after she had
appeared right up here under his very nose with Heidi beside her.
He thought his eyes must deceive him, and yet there she was and
no mistake about it.
Heidi now looked up to where he was sitting and called out in a
peremptory voice, "Peter, come down here!"
"I don't wish to come," he called in reply.
"But you are to, you must; I cannot do it alone, and you must
come here and help me; make haste and come down," she called
again in an urgent voice.
"I shall do nothing of the kind," was the answer.
Heidi ran some way up the slope towards him, and then pausing
called again, her eyes ablaze with anger, "If you don't come at
once, Peter, I will do something to you that you won't like; I
mean what I say."
Peter felt an inward throe at these words, and a great fear
seized him. He had done something wicked which he wanted no one
to know about, and so far he had thought himself safe. But now
Heidi spoke exactly as if she knew everything, and whatever she
did know she would tell her grandfather, and there was no one he
feared so much as this latter person. Supposing he were to
suspect what had happened about the chair! Peter's anguish of
mind grew more acute. He stood up and went down to where Heidi
was awaiting him.
"I am coming and you won't do what you said."
Peter appeared now so submissive with fear that Heidi felt quite
sorry for him and answered assuringly, "No, no, of course not;
come along with me, there is nothing to be afraid of in what I
want you to do."
As soon as they got to Clara, Heidi gave her orders: Peter was
to take hold of her under the arms on one side and she on the
other, and together they were to lift her up. This first movement
was successfully carried through, but then came the difficulty.
As Clara could not even stand, how were they to support her and
get her along? Heidi was too small for her arm to serve Clara to
lean upon.
"You must put one arm well around my neck so, and put the other
through Peter's and lean firmly upon it, then we shall be able
to carry you."
Peter, however, had never given his arm to any one in his life.
Clara put hers in his, but he kept his own hanging down straight
beside him like a stick.
"That's not the way, Peter," said Heidi in an authoritative
voice. "You must put your arm out in the shape of a ring, and
Clara must put hers through it and lean her weight upon you, and
whatever you do, don't let your arm give way; like that. I am
sure we shall be able to manage."
Peter did as he was told, but still they did not get on very
well. Clara was not such a light weight, and the team did not
match very well in size; it was up one side and down the other,
so that the supports were rather wobbly.
Clara tried to use her own feet a little, but each time drew
them quickly back.
"Put your foot down firmly once," suggested Heidi, "I am sure it
will hurt you less after that."
"Do you think so?" said Clara hesitatingly, but she followed
Heidi's advice and ventured one firm step on the ground and then
another; she called out a little as she did it; then she lifted
her foot again and went on, "Oh, that was less painful already,"
she exclaimed joyfully.
"Try again," said Heidi encouragingly.
And Clara went on putting one foot out after another until all
at once she called out, "I can do it, Heidi! look! look! I can
make proper steps!" And Heidi cried out with even greater
delight, "Can you really make steps, can you really walk? really
walk by yourself? Oh, if only grandfather were here!" and she
continued gleefully to exclaim, "You can walk now, Clara, you can
walk!"
Clara still held on firmly to her supports, but with every step
she felt safer on her feet, as all three became aware, and Heidi
was beside herself with joy.
"Now we shall be able to come up here together every day, and go
just where we like; and you will be able all your life to walk
about as I do, and not have to be pushed in a chair, and you
will get quite strong and well. It is the greatest happiness we
could have had!"
And Clara heartily agreed, for she could think of no greater joy
in the world than to be strong and able to go about like other
people, and no longer to have to lie from day to day in her
invalid chair.
They had not far to go to reach the field of flowers, and could
already catch sight of the cistus flowers glowing gold in the
sun. As they came to the bushes of the blue bell flowers, with
sunny, inviting patches of warm ground between them, Clara said,
"Mightn't we sit down here for a while?"
This was just what Heidi enjoyed, and so the children sat down
in the midst of the flowers, Clara for the first time on the dry,
warm mountain grass, and she found it indescribably delightful.
Around her were the blue flowers softly waving to and fro, and
beyond the gleaming patches of the cistus flowers and the red
centaury, while the sweet scent of the brown blossoms and of the
fragrant prunella enveloped her as she sat. Everything was so
lovely! so lovely! And Heidi, who was beside her, thought she
had never seen it so perfectly beautiful up here before, and she
did not know herself why she felt so glad at heart that she
longed to shout for joy. Then she suddenly remembered that Clara
was cured; that was the crowning delight of all that made life so
delightful in the midst of all this surrounding beauty. Clara sat
silent, overcome with the enchantment of all that her eye rested
upon, and with the anticipation of all the happiness that was now
before her. There seemed hardly room in her heart for all her
joyful emotions, and these and the ecstasy aroused by the
sunlight and the scent of the flowers, held her dumb.
Peter also lay among the flowers without moving or speaking, for
he was fast asleep. The breeze came blowing softly and
caressingly from behind the sheltering rocks, and passed
whisperingly through the bushes overhead. Heidi got up now and
then to run about, for the flowers waving in the warm wind
seemed to smell sweeter and to grow more thickly whichever way
she went, and she felt she must sit down at each fresh spot to
enjoy the sight and scent. So the hours went by.
It was long past noon when a small troop of goats advanced
solemnly towards the plain of flowers. It was not a feeding
place of theirs, for they did not care to graze on flowers. They
looked like an embassy arriving, with Greenfinch as their leader.
They had evidently come in search of their companions who had
left them in the lurch, and who had, contrary to all custom,
remained away so long, for the goats could tell the time without
mistake. As soon as Greenfinch caught sight of the three missing
friends amid the flowers she set up an extra loud bleat,
whereupon all the others joined in a chorus of bleats, and the
whole company came trotting towards the children. Peter woke up,
rubbing his eyes, for he had been dreaming that he saw the chair
again with its beautiful red padding standing whole and uninjured
before the grandfather's door, and indeed just as he awoke he
thought he was looking at the brass-headed nails that studded it
all round, but it was only the bright yellow flowers beside him.
He experienced again a dreadful fear of mind that he had lost in
this dream of the uninjured chair. Even though Heidi had promised
not to do anything, there still remained the lively dread that
his deed might be found out in some other way. He allowed Heidi
to do what she liked with him, for he was reduced to such a state
of low spirits and meekness that he was ready to give his help to
Clara without murmur or resistance.
When all three had got back to their old quarters Heidi ran and
brought forward the bag, and proceeded to fulfil her promise,
for her threat of the morning had been concerned with Peter's
dinner. She had seen her grandfather putting in all sorts of good
things, and had been pleased to think of Peter having a large
share of them, and she had meant him to understand when he
refused at first to help her that he would get nothing for his
dinner, but Peter's conscience had put another interpretation
upon her words. Heidi took the food out of the bag and divided it
into three portions, and each was of such a goodly size that she
thought to herself, "There will be plenty of ours left for him to
have more still."
She gave the other two their dinners and sat down with her own
beside Clara, and they all three ate with a good appetite after
their great exertions.
It ended as Heidi had expected, and Peter got as much food again
as his own share with what Clara and Heidi had over from theirs
after they had both eaten as much as they wanted. Peter ate up
every bit of food to the last crumb, but there was something
wanting to his usual enjoyment of a good dinner, for every
mouthful he swallowed seemed to choke him, and he felt something
gnawing inside him.
They were so late at their dinner that they had not long to wait
after they had finished before grandfather came up to fetch them.
Heidi rushed forward to meet him as soon as he appeared, as she
wanted to be the first to tell him the good news. She was so
excited that she could hardly get her words out when she did get
up to him, but he soon understood, and a look of extreme pleasure
came into his face. He hastened up to where Clara was sitting and
said with a cheerful smile, "So we've made the effort, have we,
and won the day!"
Then he lifted her up, and putting his left arm behind her and
giving her his right to lean upon, made her walk a little way,
which she did with less trembling and hesitation than before now
that she had such a strong arm round her.
Heidi skipped along beside her in triumphant glee, and the
grandfather looked too as if some happiness had befallen him.
But now he took Clara up in his arms. "We must not overdo it,"
he said, "and it is high time we went home," and he started off
down the mountain path, for he was anxious to get her indoors
that she might rest after her unusual fatigue.
When Peter got to Dorfli that evening he found a large group of
people collected round a certain spot, pushing one another and
looking over each other's shoulders in their eagerness to catch
sight of something lying on the ground. Peter thought he should
like to see too, and poked and elbowed till he made his way
through.
There it lay, the thing he had wanted to see. Scattered about
the grass were the remains of Clara's chair; part of the back and
the middle bit, and enough of the red padding and the bright
nails to show how magnificent the chair had been when it was
entire.
"I was here when the men passed carrying it up," said the baker
who was standing near Peter. "I'll bet any one that it was worth
twenty-five pounds at least. I cannot think how such an accident
could have happened."
"Uncle said the wind might perhaps have done it," remarked one
of the women, who could not sufficiently admire the red
upholstery.
"It's a good job that no one but the wind did it," said the
baker again, "or he might smart for it! No doubt the gentleman in
Frankfurt when he hears what has happened will make all
inquiries about it. I am glad for myself that I have not been
seen up the mountain for a good two years, as suspicion is likely
to fall on any one who was about up there at the time."
Many more opinions were passed on the matter, but Peter had
heard enough. He crept quietly away out of the crowd and then
took to his heels and ran up home as fast as he could, as if he
thought some one was after him. The baker's words had filled him
with fear and trembling. He was sure now that any day a constable
might come over from Frankfurt and inquire about the destruction
of the chair, and then everything would come out, and he would
be seized and carried off to Frankfurt and there put in prison.
The whole picture of what was coming was clear before him, and
his hair stood on end with terror.
He reached home in this disturbed state of mind. He would not
open his mouth in reply to anything that was said to him; he
would not eat his potatoes; all he did was to creep off to bed
as quickly as possible and hide under the bedclothes and groan.
"Peter has been eating sorrel again, and is evidently in pain by
the way he is groaning," said Brigitta.
"You must give him a little more bread to take with him; give
him a bit of mine to-morrow," said the grandmother
sympathisingly.
As the children lay that night in bed looking out at the stars
Heidi said, "I have been thinking all day what a happy thing it
is that God does not give us what we ask for, even when we pray
and pray and pray, if He knows there is something better for us;
have you felt like that?"
"Why do you ask me that to-night all of a sudden?" asked Clara.
"Because I prayed so hard when I was in Frankfurt that I might
go home at once, and because I was not allowed to I thought God
had forgotten me. And now you see, if I had come away at first
when I wanted to, you would never have come here, and would never
have got well."
Clara had in her turn become thoughtful. "But, Heidi," she began
again, "in that case we ought never to pray for anything, as God
always intends something better for us than we know or wish
for."
"You must not think it is like that, Clara," replied Heidi
eagerly. "We must go on praying for everything, for everything,
so that God may know we do not forget that it all comes from
Him. If we forget God, then He lets us go our own way and we get
into trouble; grandmamma told me so. And if He does not give us
what we ask for we must not think that He has not heard us and
leave off praying, but we must still pray and say, I am sure,
dear God, that Thou art keeping something better for me, and I
will not be unhappy, for I know that Thou wilt make everything
right in the end."
"How did you learn all that?" asked Clara.
"Grandmamma explained it to me first of all, and then when it
all happened just as she said, I knew it myself, and I think,
Clara," she went on, as she sat up in bed, "we ought certainly to
thank God to-night that you can walk now, and that He has made us
so happy."
"Yes, Heidi, I am sure you are right, and I am glad you reminded
me; I almost forgot my prayers for very joy."
Both children said their prayers, and each thanked God in her
own way for the blessing He had bestowed on Clara, who had for so
long lain weak and ill.
The next morning the grandfather suggested that they should now
write to the grandmamma and ask her if she would not come and
pay them a visit, as they had something new to show her. But the
children had another plan in their heads, for they wanted to
prepare a great surprise for grandmamma. Clara was first to have
more practice in walking so that she might be able to go a
little way by herself; above all things grandmamma was not to
have a hint of it. They asked the grandfather how long he thought
this would take, and when he told them about a week or less, they
immediately sat down and wrote a pressing invitation to
grandmamma, asking her to come soon, but no word was said about
there being anything new to see.
The following days were some of the most joyous that Clara had
spent on the mountain. She awoke each morning with a happy voice
within her crying, "I am well now! I am well now! I shan't have
to go about in a chair, I can walk by myself like other people."
Then came the walking, and every day she found it easier and was
able to go a longer distance. The movement gave her such an
appetite that the grandfather cut his bread and butter a little
thicker each day, and was well pleased to see it disappear. He
now brought out with it a large jugful of the foaming milk and
filled her little bowl over and over again. And so another week
went by and the day came which was to bring grandmamma up the
mountain for her second visit.
CHAPTER XXIII. "GOOD-BYE TILL WE MEET AGAIN"
Grandmamma wrote the day before her arrival to let the children
know that they might expect her without fail. Peter brought up
the letter early the following morning. Grandfather and the
children were already outside and the goats were awaiting him,
shaking their heads frolicsomely in the fresh morning air, while
the children stroked them and wished them a pleasant journey up
the mountain. Uncle stood near, looking now at the fresh faces
of the children, now at his well-kept goats, with a smile on his
face, evidently well pleased with the sight of both.
As Peter neared the group his steps slackened, and the instant
he had handed the letter to Uncle he turned quickly away as if
frightened, and as he went he gave a hasty glance behind him, as
if the thing he feared was pursuing him, and then he gave a leap
and ran off up the mountain.
"Grandfather," said Heidi, who had been watching him with
astonished eyes, "why does Peter always behave now like the
Great Turk when he thinks somebody is after him with a stick; he
turns and shakes his head and goes off with a bound just like
that?"
"Perhaps Peter fancies he sees the stick which he so well
deserves coming after him," answered grandfather.
Peter ran up the first slope without a pause; when he was well
out of sight, however, he stood still and looked suspiciously
about him. Suddenly he gave a jump and looked behind him with a
terrified expression, as if some one had caught hold of him by
the nape of the neck; for Peter expected every minute that the
police-constable from Frankfurt would leap out upon him from
behind some bush or hedge. The longer his suspense lasted, the
more frightened and miserable he became; he did not know a
moment's peace.
Heidi now set about tidying the hut, as grandmamma must find
everything clean and in good order when she arrived.
Clara looked on amused and interested to watch the busy Heidi at
her work.
So the morning soon went by, and grandmamma might now be
expected at any minute. The children dressed themselves and went
and sat together outside on the seat ready to receive her.
Grandfather joined them, that they might see the splendid bunch
of blue gentians which he had been up the mountain to gather,
and the children exclaimed with delight at the beauty of the
flowers as they shone in the morning sun. The grandfather then
carried them indoors. Heidi jumped up from time to time to see if
there was any sign of grandmamma's approach.
At last she saw the procession winding up the mountain just in
the order she had expected. First there was the guide, then the
white horse with grandmamma mounted upon it, and last of all the
porter with a heavy bundle on his back, for grandmamma would not
think of going up the mountain without a full supply of wraps
and rugs.
Nearer and nearer wound the procession; at last it reached the
top and grandmamma was there looking down on the children from
her horse. She no sooner saw them, however, sitting side by
side, than she began quickly dismounting, as she cried out in a
shocked tone of voice, "Why is this? why are you not lying in
your chair, Clara? What are you all thinking about?" But even
before she had got close to them she threw up her hands in
astonishment, exclaiming further, "Is it really you, dear child?
Why, your cheeks have grown quite round and rosy! I should hardly
have known you again!" And she was hastening forward to embrace
her, when Heidi slipped down from the seat, and Clara leaning on
her shoulder, the two children began walking along quite coolly
and naturally. Then indeed grandmamma was surprised, or rather
alarmed, for she thought at first that it must be some unheardof
proceeding of Heidi's devising.
But no--Clara was actually walking steadily and uprightly beside
Heidi--and now the two children turned and came towards her with
beaming faces and rosy cheeks. Laughing and crying she ran to
them and embraced first Clara and then Heidi, and then Clara
again, unable to speak for joy. All at once she caught sight of
Uncle standing by the seat and looking on smiling at the
meeting. She took Clara's arm in hers, and with continual
expressions of delight at the fact that the child could now
really walk about with her, she went up to the old man, and then
letting go Clara's arm she seized his hands.
"My dear Uncle! my dear Uncle! how much we have to thank you
for! It is all your doing! it is your caring and nursing----"
"And God's good sun and mountain air," he interrupted her,
smiling.
"Yes, and don't forget the beautiful milk I have," put in Clara.
"Grandmamma, you can't think what a quantity of goat's milk I
drink, and how nice it is!"
"I can see that by your cheeks, child," answered grandmamma. "I
really should not have known you; you have grown quite strong
and plump, and taller too; I never hoped or expected to see you
look like that. I cannot take my eyes off you, for I can hardly
yet believe it. But now I must telegraph without delay to my son
in Paris, and tell him he must come here at once. I shall not say
why; it will be the greatest happiness he has ever known. My
dear Uncle, how can I send a telegram; have you dismissed the men
yet?"
"They have gone," he answered, "but if you are in a hurry I will
fetch Peter, and he can take it for you."
Grandmamma thanked him, for she was anxious that the good news
should not be kept from her son a day longer than was possible.
So Uncle went aside a little way and blew such a resounding
whistle through his fingers that he awoke a responsive echo
among the rocks far overhead. He had not to wait many minutes
before Peter came running down in answer, for he knew the sound
of Uncle's whistle. Peter arrived, looking as white as a ghost,
for he quite thought Uncle was sending for him to give him up.
But as it was he only had a written paper given him with
instructions to take it down at once to the post-office at
Dorfli; Uncle would settle for the payment later, as it was not
safe to give Peter too much to look after.
Peter went off with the paper in his hand, feeling some relief
of mind for the present, for as Uncle had not whistled for him in
order to give him up it was evident that no policeman had yet
arrived.
So now they could all sit down in peace to their dinner round
the table in front of the hut, and grandmamma was given a
detailed account of all that had taken place. How grandfather had
made Clara try first to stand and then to move her feet a little
every day, and how they had settled for the day's excursion up
the mountain and the chair had been blown away. How Clara's
desire to see the flowers had induced her to take the first walk,
and so by degrees one thing had led to another. The recital took
some time, for grandmamma continually interrupted it with fresh
exclamations of surprise and thankfulness: "It hardly seems
possible! I can scarcely believe it is not all a dream! Are we
really awake, and are all sitting here by the mountain hut, and
is that round-faced, healthy-looking child my poor little, white,
sickly Clara?"
And Clara and Heidi could not get over their delight at the
success of the surprise they had so carefully arranged for
grandmamma and at the latter's continued astonishment.
Meanwhile Herr Sesemann, who had finished his business in Paris,
had also been preparing a surprise. Without saying a word to his
mother he got into the train one sunny morning and travelled
that day to Basle; the next morning he continued his journey, for
a great longing had seized him to see his little daughter from
whom he had been separated the whole summer. He arrived at Ragatz
a few hours after his mother had left. When he heard that she had
that very day started for the mountain, he immediately hired a
carriage and drove off to Mayenfeld; here he found that he could
if he liked drive on as far as Dorfli, which he did, as he
thought the walk up from that place would be as long as he cared
for.
Herr Sesemann found he was right, for the climb up the mountain,
as it was, proved long and fatiguing to him. He went on and on,
but still no hut came in sight, and yet he knew there was one
where Peter lived half way up, for the path had been described
to him over and over again.
There were traces of climbers to be seen on all sides; the
narrow footpaths seemed to run in every direction, and Herr
Sesemann began to wonder if he was on the right one, and whether
the hut lay perhaps on the other side of the mountain. He looked
round to see if any one was in sight of whom he could ask the
way; but far and wide there was not a soul to be seen or a sound
to be heard. Only at moments the mountain wind whistled through
the air, and the insects hummed in the sunshine or a happy bird
sang out from the branches of a solitary larch tree. Herr
Sesemann stood still for a while to let the cool Alpine wind blow
on his hot face. But now some one came running down the mountainside--
it was Peter with the telegram in his hand. He ran straight
down the steep slope, not following the path on which Herr
Sesemann was standing. As soon as the latter caught sight of him
he beckoned to him to come. Peter advanced towards him slowly and
timidly, with a sort of sidelong movement, as if he could only
move one leg properly and had to drag the other after him. "Hurry
up, lad," called Herr Sesemann, and when Peter was near enough,
"Tell me," he said, "is this the way to the hut where the old man
and the child Heidi live, and where the visitors from Frankfurt
are staying?"
A low sound of fear was the only answer he received, as Peter
turned to run away in such precipitous haste that he fell head
over heels several times, and went rolling and bumping down the
slope in involuntary bounds, just in the same way as the chair,
only that Peter fortunately did not fall to pieces as that had
done. Only the telegram came to grief, and that was torn into
fragments and flew away.
"How extraordinarily timid these mountain dwellers are!" thought
Herr Sesemann to himself, for he quite believed that it was the
sight of a stranger that had made such an impression on this
unsophisticated child of the mountains.
After watching Peter's violent descent towards the valley for a
few minutes he continued his journey.
Peter, meanwhile, with all his efforts, could not stop himself,
but went rolling on, and still tumbling head over heels at
intervals in a most remarkable manner.
But this was not the most terrible part of his sufferings at the
moment, for far worse was the fear and horror that possessed
him, feeling sure, as he did now, that the policeman had really
come over for him from Frankfurt. He had no doubt at all that the
stranger who had asked him the way was the very man himself.
Just as he had rolled to the edge of that last high slope above
Dorfli he was caught in a bush, and at last able to keep himself
from falling any farther. He lay still for a second or two to
recover himself, and to think over matters.
"Well done! another of you come bumping along like this!" said a
voice close to Peter, "and which of you to-morrow is the wind
going to send rolling down like a badly-sewn sack of potatoes?"
It was the baker, who stood there laughing. He had been
strolling out to refresh himself after his hot day's work, and
had watched with amusement as he saw Peter come rolling over and
over in much the same way as the chair.
Peter was on his feet in a moment. He had received a fresh
shock. Without once looking behind him he began hurrying up the
slope again. He would have liked best to go home and creep into
bed, so as to hide himself, for he felt safest when there. But he
had left the goats up above, and Uncle had given him strict
injunctions to make haste back so that they might not be left
too long alone. And he stood more in awe of Uncle than any one,
and would not have dared to disobey him on any account. There was
no help for it, he had to go back, and Peter went on groaning and
limping. He could run no more, for the anguish of mind he had
been through, and the bumping and shaking he had received, were
beginning to tell upon him. And so with lagging steps and groans
he slowly made his way up the mountain.
Shortly after meeting Peter, Herr Sesemann passed the first hut,
and so was satisfied that he was on the right path. He continued
his climb with renewed courage, and at last, after a long and
exhausting walk, he came in sight of his goal. There, only a
little distance farther up, stood the grandfather's home, with
the dark tops of the fir trees waving above its roof.
Herr Sesemann was delighted to have come to the last steep bit
of his journey, in another minute or two he would be with his
little daughter, and he pleased himself with the thought of her
surprise. But the company above had seen his approaching figure
and recognized who it was, and they were preparing something he
little expected as a surprise on their part.
As he stepped on to the space in front of the hut two figures
came towards him. One a tall girl with fair hair and pink cheeks,
leaning on Heidi, whose dark eyes were dancing with joy. Herr
Sesemann suddenly stopped, staring at the two children, and all
at once the tears started to his eyes. What memories arose in his
heart! Just so had Clara's mother looked, the fair-haired girl
with the delicate pink- and-white complexion. Herr Sesemann did
not know if he was awake or dreaming.
"Don't you know me, papa?" called Clara to him, her face beaming
with happiness. "Am I so altered since you saw me?"
Then Herr Sesemann ran to his child and clasped her in his arms.
"Yes, you are indeed altered! How is it possible? Is it true
what I see?" And the delighted father stepped back to look full
at her again, and to make sure that the picture would not vanish
before his eyes.
"Are you my little Clara, really my little Clara?" he kept on
saying, then he clasped her in his arms again, and again put her
away from him that he might look and make sure it was she who
stood before him.
And now grandmamma came up, anxious for a sight of her son's
happy face.
"Well, what do you say now, dear son?" she exclaimed. "You have
given us a pleasant surprise, but it is nothing in comparison to
what we have prepared for you, you must confess," and she gave
her son an affectionate kiss as she spoke. "But now," she went
on, "you must come and pay your respects to Uncle, who is our
chief benefactor."
"Yes, indeed, and with the little inmate of our own house, our
little Heidi, too," said Herr Sesemann, shaking Heidi by the
hand. "Well? are you still well and happy in your mountain home?
but I need not ask, no Alpine rose could look more blooming. I
am glad, child, it is a pleasure to me to see you so."
And Heidi looked up with equal pleasure into Herr Sesemann's
kind face. How good he had always been to her! And that he should
find such happiness awaiting him up here on the mountain made her
heart beat with gladness.
Grandmamma now led her son to introduce him to Uncle, and while
the two men were shaking hands and Herr Sesemann was expressing
his heartfelt thanks and boundless astonishment to the old man,
grandmamma wandered round to the back to see the old fir trees
again.
Here another unexpected sight met her gaze, for there, under the
trees where the long branches had left a clear space on the
ground, stood a great bush of the most wonderful dark blue
gentians, as fresh and shining as if they were growing on the
spot. She clasped her hands, enraptured with their beauty.
"How exquisite! what a lovely sight!" she exclaimed. "Heidi,
dearest child, come here! Is it you who have prepared this
pleasure for me? It is perfectly wonderful!"
The children ran up.
"No, no, I did not put them there," said Heidi, "but I know who
did."
"They grow just like that on the mountain, grandmamma, only if
anything they look more beautiful still," Clara put in; "but
guess who brought those down to-day," and as she spoke she gave
such a pleased smile that the grandmother thought for a moment
the child herself must have gathered them. But that was hardly
possible.
At this moment a slight rustling was heard behind the fir trees.
It was Peter, who had just arrived. He had made a long round,
having seen from the distance who it was standing beside Uncle
in front of the hut, and he was trying to slip by unobserved. But
grandmamma had seen and recognized him, and suddenly the thought
struck her that it might be Peter who had brought the flowers
and that he was now trying to get away unseen, feeling shy about
it; but she could not let him go off like that, he must have some
little reward.
"Come along, boy; come here, do not be afraid," she called to
him.
Peter stood still, petrified with fear. After all he had gone
through that day he felt he had no longer any power of
resistance left. All he could think was, "It's all up with me
now." Every hair of his head stood on end, and he stepped forth
from behind the fir trees, his face pale and distorted with
terror.
"Courage, boy," said grandmamma in her effort to dispel his
shyness, "tell me now straight out without hesitation, was it
you who did it?"
Peter did not lift his eyes and therefore did not see at what
grandmamma was pointing. But he knew that Uncle was standing at
the corner of the hut, fixing him with his grey eyes, while
beside him stood the most terrible person that Peter could
conceive --the police-constable from Frankfurt. Quaking in every
limb, and with trembling lips he muttered a low, "Yes."
"Well, and what is there dreadful about that? said grandmamma.
"Because--because--it is all broken to pieces and no one can put
it together again." Peter brought out his words with difficulty,
and his knees knocked together so that he could hardly stand.
Grandmamma went up to Uncle. "Is that poor boy a little out of
his mind?" she asked sympathisingly.
"Not in, the least," Uncle assured her, "it is only that he was
the wind that sent the chair rolling down the slope, and he is
expecting his well-deserved punishment."
Grandmamma found this hard to believe, for in her opinion Peter
did not look an entirely bad boy, nor could he have any reason
for destroying such a necessary thing as the chair. But Uncle
had only given expression to the suspicion that he had from the
moment the accident happened. The angry looks which Peter had
from the beginning cast at Clara, and the other signs of his
dislike to what had been taking place on the mountain, had not
escaped Uncle's eye. Putting two and two together he had come to
the right conclusion as to the cause of the disaster, and he
therefore spoke without hesitation when he accused Peter. The
lady broke into lively expostulations on hearing this.
"No, no, dear Uncle, we will not punish the poor boy any
further. One must be fair to him. Here are all these strangers
from Frankfurt who come and carry away Heidi, his one sole
possession, and a possession well worth having too, and he is
left to sit alone day after day for weeks, with nothing to do but
brood over his wrongs. No, no, let us be fair to him; his anger
got the upper hand and drove him an act of revenge--a foolish
one, I own, but then we all behave foolishly when we are angry."
And saying this she went back to Peter, who still stood
frightened and trembling. She sat down on the seat under the fir
trees and called him to her kindly,--
"Come here, boy, and stand in front of me, for I have something
to say to you. Leave off shaking and trembling, for I want you
to listen to me. You sent the chair rolling down the mountain so
that it was broken to pieces. That was a very wrong thing to do,
as you yourself knew very well at the time, and you also knew
that you deserved to be punished for it, and in order to escape
this you have been doing all you can to hide the truth from
everybody. But be sure of this, Peter: that those who do wrong
make a mistake when they think no one knows anything about it.
For God sees and hears everything, and when the wicked doer
tries to hide what he has done, then God wakes up a little
watchman that He places inside us all when we are born and who
sleeps on quietly till we do something wrong. And the little
watchman has a small goad in his hand, And when he wakes up he
keeps on pricking us with it, so that we have not a moment's
peace. And the watchman torments us still further, for he keeps
on calling out, 'Now you will be found out! Now they will drag
you off to punishment!' And so we pass our life in fear and
trouble, and never know a moment's happiness or peace. Have you
not felt something like that lately, Peter?"
Peter gave a contrite nod of the head, as one who knew all about
it, for grandmamma had described his own feelings exactly.
"And you calculated wrongly also in another way," continued
grandmamma, "for you see the harm you intended has turned out
for the best for those you wished to hurt. As Clara had no chair
to go in and yet wanted so much to see the flowers, she made the
effort to walk, and every day since she has been walking better
and better, and if she remains up here she will in time be able
to go up the mountain every day, much oftener than she would
have done in her chair. So you see, Peter, God is able to bring
good out of evil for those whom you meant to injure, and you who
did the evil were left to suffer the unhappy consequences of it.
Do you thoroughly understand all I have said to you, Peter? If
so, do not forget my words, and whenever you feel inclined to do
anything wrong, think of the little watchman inside you with his
goad and his disagreeable voice. Will you remember all this?"
"Yes, I will," answered Peter, still very subdued, for he did
not yet know how the matter was going to end, as the police
constable was still standing with the Uncle.
"That's right, and now the thing is over and done for," said
grandmamma. "But I should like you to have something for a
pleasant reminder of the visitors from Frankfurt. Can you tell
me anything that you have wished very much to have? What would
you like best as a present?"
Peter lifted his head at this, and stared open-eyed at
grandmamma. Up to the last minute he had been expecting
something dreadful to happen, and now he might have anything that
he wanted. His mind seemed all of a whirl.
"I mean what I say," went on grandmamma. "You shall choose what
you would like to have as a remembrance from the Frankfurt
visitors, and as a token that they will not think any more of
the wrong thing you did. Now do you understand me, boy?"
The fact began at last to dawn upon Peter's mind that he had no
further punishment to fear, and that the kind lady sitting in
front of him had delivered him from the police constable. He
suddenly felt as if the weight of a mountain had fallen off him.
He had also by this time awakened to the further conviction that
it was better to make a full confession at once of anything he
had done wrong or had left undone, and so he said, "And I lost
the paper, too."
Grandmamma had to consider a moment what he meant, but soon
recalled his connection with her telegram, and answered kindly,--
"You are a good boy to tell me! Never conceal anything you have
done wrong, and then all will come right again. And now what
would you like me to give you?"
Peter grew almost giddy with the thought that he could have
anything in the world that he wished for. He had a vision of the
yearly fair at Mayenfeld with the glittering stalls and all the
lovely things that he had stood gazing at for hours, without a
hope of ever possessing one of them, for Peter's purse never
held more than a halfpenny, and all these fascinating objects
cost double that amount. There were the pretty little red
whistles that he could use to call his goats, and the splendid
knives with rounded handles, known as toad-strikers, with which
one could do such famous work among the hazel bushes.
Peter remained pondering; he was trying to think which of these
two desirable objects he should best like to have, and he found
it difficult to decide. Then a bright thought occurred to him;
he would then be able to think over the matter between now and
next year's fair.
"A penny," answered Peter, who was no longer in doubt.
Grandmamma could not help laughing. "That is not an extravagant
request. Come here then!" and she pulled out her purse and put
four bright round shillings in his hand and, then laid some
pennies on top of it. "We will settle our accounts at once," she
continued, "and I will explain them to you. I have given you as
many pennies as there are weeks in the year, and so every Sunday
throughout the year you can take out a penny to spend."
"As long as I live?" said Peter quite innocently.
Grandmamma laughed more still at this, and the men hearing her,
paused in their talk to listen to what was going on.
"Yes, boy, you shall have it all your life--I will put it down
in my will. Do you hear, my son? and you are to put it down in
yours as well: a penny a week to Peter as long as he lives."
Herr Sesemann nodded his assent and joined in the laughter.
Peter looked again at the present in his hand to make sure he
was not dreaming, and then said, "Thank God!"
And he went off running and leaping with more even than his
usual agility, and this time managed to keep his feet, for it was
not fear, but joy such as he had never known before in his life,
that now sent him flying up the mountain. All trouble and
trembling had disappeared, and he was to have a penny every week
for life.
As later, after dinner, the party were sitting together
chatting, Clara drew her father a little aside, and said with an
eagerness that had been unknown to the little tired invalid,--
"O papa, if you only knew all that grandfather has done for me
from day to day! I cannot reckon his kindnesses, but I shall
never forget them as long as I live! And I keep on thinking what
I could do for him, or what present I could make him that would
give him half as much pleasure as he has given me."
"That is just what I wish most myself, Clara," replied her
father, whose face grew happier each time he looked at his
little daughter. "I have been also thinking how we can best show
our gratitude to our good benefactor."
Herr Sesemann now went over to where Uncle and grandmamma were
engaged in lively conversation. Uncle stood up as he approached,
and Herr Sesemann, taking him by the hand said,--
"Dear friend, let us exchange a few words with one another. You
will believe me when I tell you that I have known no real
happiness for years past. What worth to me were money and
property when they were unable to make my poor child well and
happy? With the help of God you have made her whole and strong,
and you have given new life not only to her but to me. Tell me
now, in what way can I show my gratitude to you? I can never
repay all you have done, but whatever is in my power to do is at
your service. Speak, friend, and tell me what I can do?"
Uncle had listened to him quietly, with a smile of pleasure on
his face as he looked at the happy father.
"Herr Sesemann," he replied in his dignified way, "believe me
that I too have my share in the joy of your daughter's recovery,
and my trouble is well repaid by it. I thank you heartily for
all you have said, but I have need of nothing; I have enough for
myself and the child as long as I live. One wish alone I have,
and if that could be satisfied I should have no further care in
life."
"Speak, dear friend, and tell me what it is," said Herr Sesemann
entreatingly.
"I am growing old," Uncle went on, "and shall not be here much
longer. I have nothing to leave the child when I die, and she
has no relations, except one person who will always like to make
what profit out of her she can. If you could promise me that
Heidi shall never have to go and earn her living among strangers,
then you would richly reward me for all I have done for your
child."
"There could never be any question of such a thing as that, my
dear friend," said Herr Sesemann quickly. "I look upon the child
as our own. Ask my mother, my daughter; you may be sure that
they will never allow the child to be left in any one else's
care! But if it will make you happier I give you here my hand
upon it. I promise you: Heidi shall never have to go and earn her
living among strangers; I will make provision against this both
during my life and after. But now I have something else to say.
Independent of her circumstances, the child is totally unfitted
to live a life away from home; we found out that when she was
with us. But she has made friends, and among them I know one who
is at this moment in Frankfurt; he is winding up his affairs
there, that he may be free to go where he likes and take his
rest. I am speaking of my friend, the doctor, who came over here
in the autumn and who, having well considered your advice,
intends to settle in this neighborhood, for he has never felt so
well and happy anywhere as in the company of you and Heidi. So
you see the child will henceforth have two protectors near her--
and may they both live long to share the task!"
"God grant it indeed may be so!" added grandmamma, shaking
Uncle's hand warmly as she spoke, to show how sincerely she
echoed her son's wish. Then putting her arm round Heidi, who was
standing near, she drew the child to her.
"And I have a question to ask you too, dear Heidi. Tell me if
there is anything you particularly wish for."
"Yes, there is," answered Heidi promptly, looking up delightedly
at grandmamma.
"Then tell me at once, dear, what it is."
"I want to have the bed I slept in at Frankfurt with the high
pillows and the thick coverlid, and then grandmother will not
have to lie with her head down hill and hardly able to breathe,
and she will be warm enough under the coverlid not to have to
wear her shawl in bed to prevent her freezing to death."
In her eagerness to obtain what she had set her heart upon Heidi
hardly gave herself time to get out all she had to say, and did
not pause for breath till she reached the end of her sentence.
"Dearest child," answered grandmamma, moved by Heidi's speech,
"what is this you tell me of grandmother! You are right to
remind me. In the midst of our own happiness we forget too often
that which we ought to remember before all things. When God has
shown us some special mercy we should think at once of those who
are denied so many things. I will telegraph to Frankfurt at once!
Fraulein Rottenmeier shall pack up the bed this very day, and it
will be here in two days' time. God willing, grandmother shall
soon be sleeping comfortably upon it."
Heidi skipped round grandmamma in her glee, and then stopping
all of a sudden, said quickly, "I must make haste down and tell
grandmother, and she will be in trouble too at my not having
been to see her for such a long time." For she felt she could not
wait another moment before carrying the good news down to
grandmother, and, moreover, the recollection came to her of the
distress the old woman was in when she last saw her.
"No, no, Heidi, what can you be thinking of," said her
grandfather reprovingly. "You can't be running backwards and
forwards like that when you have visitors."
But grandmamma interfered on Heidi's behalf. "The child is not
so far wrong, Uncle," she said, "and poor grandmother has too
long been deprived of Heidi for our sakes. Let us all go down to
her together. I believe my horse is waiting for me and I can ride
down from there, and as soon as I get to Dorfli the message
shall be sent off. What do you think of my plan, son?"
Herr Sesemann had not yet had time to speak of his travelling
plans, so he begged his mother to wait a few moments that he
might tell her what he proposed doing.
Herr Sesemann had been arranging that he and his mother should
make a little tour in Switzerland, first ascertaining if Clara
was in a fit state to go some part of the way with them. But now
he would have the full enjoyment of his daughter's company, and
that being so he did not want to miss any of these beautiful
days of later summer, but to start at once on the journey that he
now looked forward to with such additional pleasure. And so he
proposed that they should spend the night in Dorfli and that
next day he should come and fetch Clara, then they would all
three go down to Ragatz and make that their starting point.
Clara was rather upset at first at the thought of saying goodbye
like this to the mountain; she could not help being pleased,
however, at the prospect of the journey, and no time was allowed
her to give way to lamentation.
Grandmamma had already taken Heidi by the hand, preparatory to
leading the way, when she suddenly turned. "But what is to
become of Clara?" she asked, remembering all at once that the
child could not yet take so long a walk. She gave a nod of
satisfaction as she saw that Uncle had already taken Clara up in
his arms and was following her with sturdy strides. Herr Sesemann
brought up the rear, and so they all started down the mountain.
Heidi kept jumping for joy as she and grandmamma walked along
side by side, and grandmamma asked all about grandmother, how
she lived, and what she did, especially in the winter when it was
so cold. And Heidi gave her a minute account of everything, for
she knew all that went on at grandmother's, and told her how
grandmother sat crouching in her corner and trembling with cold.
She was able to give her exact particulars of what grandmother
had and had not to eat. Grandmamma listened with interest and
sympathy until they came to Grandmother's. Brigitta was just
hanging out Peter's second shirt in the sun, so that he might
have it ready to put on when he had worn the other long enough.
As soon as she saw the company approaching she rushed indoors.
"The whole party of them are just going past, mother, evidently
all returning home again," she informed the old woman. "Uncle is
with them, carrying the sick child."
"Alas, is it really to be so then?" sighed the grandmother. "And
you saw Heidi with them? Then they are taking her away. If only
she could come and put her hand in mine again! If I could but
hear her voice once more!"
At this moment the door flew open and Heidi sprang across to the
corner and threw her arms round grandmother.
"Grandmother! grandmother! my bed is to be sent from Frankfurt
with all the three pillows and the thick coverlid; grandmamma
says it will be here in two days." Heidi could not get out her
words quickly enough, for she was impatient to see grandmother's
great joy at the news. The latter smiled, but said a little
sadly,--
"She must indeed be a good kind lady, and I ought to be glad to
think she is taking you with her, but I shall not outlive it
long."
"What is this I hear? Who has been telling my good grandmother
such tales?" exclaimed a kindly voice, and grandmother felt her
hand taken and warmly pressed, for grandmamma had followed Heidi
in and heard all that was said. "No, no, there is no thought of
such a thing! Heidi is going to stay with you and make you
happy. We want to see her again, but we shall come to her. We
hope to pay a visit to the Alm every year, for we have good cause
to offer up especial thanks to God upon this spot where so great
a miracle has been wrought upon our child."
And now grandmother's face was lighted up with genuine
happiness, and she pressed Frau Sesemann's hand over and over
again, unable to speak her thanks, while two large tears of joy
rolled down her aged cheeks. And Heidi saw the glad change come
over grandmother's face, and she too now was entirely happy.
She clung to the old woman, saying, "Hasn't it all come about,
grandmother, just like the hymn I read to you last time? Isn't
the bed from Frankfurt sent to make you well?"
"Yes, Heidi, and many, many other good things too, which God has
sent me," said the grandmother, deeply moved. "I did not think
it possible that there were so many kind people, ready to trouble
themselves about a poor old woman and to do so much for her.
Nothing strengthens our belief in a kind heavenly Father who
never forgets even the least of His creatures so much as to know
that there are such people, full of goodness and pity for a poor
useless creature such as I am."
"My good grandmother," said Frau Sesemann, interrupting her, "we
are all equally poor and helpless in the eyes of God, and all
have equal need that He should not forget us. But now we must
say good-bye, but only till we meet again, for when we pay our
next year's visit to the Alm you will be the first person we
shall come and see; meanwhile we shall not forget you." And Frau
Sesemann took grandmother's hand again and shook it in farewell.
But grandmother would not let her off even then without more
words of gratitude, and without calling down on her benefactress
and all belonging to her every blessing that God had to bestow.
At last Herr Sesemann and his mother were able to continue their
journey downwards, while Uncle carried Clara back home, with
Heidi beside him, so full of joy of what was coming for
grandmother that every step was a jump.
But there were many tears shed the following morning by the
departing Clara, who wept to say good-bye to the beautiful
mountain home where she had been happier than ever in her life
before. Heidi did her best to comfort her. "Summer will be here
again in no time," she said, "and then you will come again, and
it will be nicer still, for you will be able to walk about from
the beginning. We can then go out every day with the goats up to
where the flowers grow, and enjoy ourselves from the moment you
arrive."
Herr Sesemann had come as arranged to fetch his little daughter
away, and was just now standing and talking with Uncle, for they
had much to say to one another. Clara felt somewhat consoled by
Heidi's words, and wiped away her tears.
"Be sure you say good-bye for me to Peter and the goats, and
especially to Little Swan. I wish I could give Little Swan a
present, for she has helped so much to make me strong."
"Well, you can if you like," replied Heidi, "send her a little
salt; you know how she likes to lick some out of grandfather's
hand when she comes home at night."
Clara was delighted at this idea. "Oh, then I shall send a
hundred pounds of salt from Frankfurt, for I want her to have
something as a remembrance of me."
Herr Sesemann now beckoned to the children as it was time to be
off. Grandmamma's white horse had been brought up for Clara, as
she was no longer obliged to be carried in a chair.
Heidi ran to the far edge of the slope and continued to wave her
hand to Clara until the last glimpse of horse and rider had
disappeared.
And now the bed has arrived, and grandmother is sleeping so
soundly all night that she is sure to grow stronger.
Grandmamma, moreover, has not forgotten how cold the winter is
on the mountain. She has sent a large parcel of warm clothing of
every description, so that grandmother can wrap herself round
and round, and will certainly not tremble with cold now as she
sits in her corner.
There is a great deal of building going on at Dorfli. The doctor
has arrived, and, for the present, is occupying his old
quarters. His friends have advised him to buy the old house that
Uncle and Heidi live in during the winter, which had evidently,
judging from the height of the rooms and the magnificent stove
with its artistically-painted tiles, been a fine gentleman's
place at one time. The doctor is having this part of the old
house rebuilt for himself, the other part being repaired for
Uncle and Heidi, for the doctor is aware that Uncle is a man of
independent spirit, who likes to have a house to himself. Quite
at the back a warm and well-walled stall is being put up for the
two goats, and there they will pass their winter in comfort.
The doctor and Uncle are becoming better friends every day, and
as they walk about the new buildings to see how they are getting
on, their thoughts continually turn to Heidi, for the chief
pleasure to each in connection with the house is that they will
have the light-hearted little child with them there.
"Dear friend," said the doctor on one of these occasions as they
were standing together, "you will see this matter in the same
light as I do, I am sure. I share your happiness in the child as
if, next to you, I was the one to whom she most closely
belonged, but I wish also to share all responsibilities,
concerning her and to do my best for the child. I shall then feel
I have my rights in her, and shall look forward to her being with
me and caring for me in my old age, which is the one great wish
of my heart. She will have the same claims upon me as if she were
my own child, and I shall provide for her as such, and so we
shall be able to leave her without anxiety when the day comes
that you and I must go."
Uncle did not speak, but he clasped the doctor's hand in his,
and his good friend could read in the old man's eyes how greatly
moved he was and how glad and grateful he felt.
Heidi and Peter were at this moment sitting with grandmother,
and the one had so much to relate, and the others to listen to,
that they all three got closer and closer to one another, hardly
able to breathe in their eagerness not to miss a word.
And how much there was to tell of all the events that had taken
place that last summer, for they had not had many opportunities
of meeting since then.
And it was difficult to say which of the three looked the
happiest at being together again, and at the recollection of all
the wonderful things that had happened. Mother Brigitta's face
was perhaps the happiest of all, as now, with the help of
explanation she was able to understand for the first time the
history of Peter's weekly penny for life.
Then at last the grandmother spoke, "Heidi, read me one of the
hymns! I can feel I can do nothing for the remainder of my life
but thank the Father in Heaven for all the mercies he has shown
us!"