HEIDI: Chapter 1

The little old town of Mayenfeld is charmingly situated. From it, a footpath leads through green, well-wooded stretches to the foot of the heights which look down imposingly upon the valley. 

Where the footpath begins to go steeply and abruptly up the Alp, the heath, with its short grass and pungent herbage, at once sends out its soft perfume to meet the wayfarer.

One bright sunny morning in June, a tall, vigorous maiden of the mountain region climbed up the narrow path, leading a little girl by the hand. 

The youngster’s cheeks were in such a glow that it showed even through her sun-browned skin. Small wonder though! For despite the heat, the little one, who was scarcely five years old, was bundled up as if she had to brave a bitter frost. 

Her shape was difficult to distinguish, for she wore two dresses if not three, and around her shoulders a large red cotton shawl. With her feet encased in heavy hob-nailed boots, this humid and shapeless little person toiled up the mountain.

The pair had been climbing for about an hour when they reached a hamlet halfway up the great mountain named the Alm. 

This hamlet was called “Im Dörfli” or “The Little Village.” It was the elder girl’s hometown, and, therefore, she was greeted from nearly every house; people called to her from windows and doors, and very often from the road. 

But, answering questions and calls as she went by, the girl did not loiter on her way and only stood still when she reached the end of the hamlet. 

There a few cottages lay scattered about, from the furthest of which a voice called out to her through an open door: “Deta, please wait one moment! I am coming with you if you are going further up.”

When the girl stood still to wait, the child instantly let go of her hand and promptly sat down on the ground.

“Are you tired, Heidi?” Deta asked the child.

“No, but hot,” she replied.

“We shall be up in an hour if you take big steps and climb with all your little might!” Thus the elder girl tried to encourage her small companion.

A stout, pleasant-looking woman stepped out of the house and joined the two. The child had risen and wandered behind the old acquaintances who immediately started gossiping about their friends in the neighborhood and the people of the hamlet generally.

“Where are you taking the child, Deta?” asked the newcomer. “Is she the child your sister left?”

“Yes,” Deta assured her. “I am taking her up to the Alm-Uncle and there I want her to remain.”

“You can’t really mean to take her there Deta. You must have lost your senses, to go to him. I am sure the old man will show you the door and won’t even listen to what you say.”

“Why not? As he’s her grandfather, it is high time he should do something for the child. I have taken care of her until this summer and now a good place has been offered to me. The child shall not hinder me from accepting it, I tell you that!”

“It would not be so hard, if he were like other mortals. But you know him yourself. How could he look after a child, especially such a little one? She’ll never get along with him, I am sure of that!—But tell me of your prospects.”

“I am going to a splendid house in Frankfurt. Last summer some people went off to the baths and I took care of their rooms. As they got to like me, they wanted to take me along, but I could not leave. They have come back now and have persuaded me to go with them.”

“I am glad I am not the child!” exclaimed Barbara with a shudder. “Nobody knows anything about the old man’s life up there. He doesn’t speak to a living soul and from one year’s end to the other he keeps away from church. People get out of his way when he appears once in a twelve-month down here among us. We all fear him and he is really just like a heathen with those thick grey eyebrows and that huge uncanny beard. When he wanders along the road with his twisted stick we are all afraid to meet him alone.”

“That is not my fault,” said Deta stubbornly. “He won’t do her any harm; and if he should, he is responsible, not I.”

“I wish I knew what weighs on the old man’s conscience. Why are his eyes so fierce and why does he live up there all alone? Nobody ever sees him and we hear many strange things about him. Didn’t your sister tell you anything, Deta?”

“Of course she did, but I shall hold my tongue. He would make me pay for it if I didn’t.”

Barbara had long been anxious to know something about the old uncle and why he lived apart from everybody. Nobody had a good word for him, and when people talked about him, they did not speak openly but as if they were afraid. 

She could not even explain to herself why he was called the Alm-Uncle. He could not possibly be the uncle of all the people in the village, but since everybody spoke of him so, she did the same. 

Barbara, who had only lived in the village since her marriage, was glad to get some information from her friend. Deta had been bred there, but since her mother’s death had gone away to earn her livelihood.

She confidentially seized Deta’s arm and said: “I wish you would tell me the truth about him, Deta; you know it all—people only gossip. Tell me, what has happened to the old man to turn everybody against him so? Did he always hate his fellow creatures?”

“I cannot tell you whether he always did, and that for a very good reason. He being sixty years old, and I only twenty-six, you can’t expect me to give you an account of his early youth. But if you’ll promise to keep it to yourself and not set all the people in Prätiggan talking, I can tell you a good deal. My mother and he both came from Domleschg.”

“How can you talk like that, Deta?” replied Barbara in an offended tone. “People do not gossip much in Prätiggan, and I always can keep things to myself, if I have to. You won’t repent of having told me, I assure you!”

“All right, but keep your word!” said Deta warningly. Then she looked around to see that the child was not so close to them as to overhear what might be said. 

But the little girl was nowhere to be seen. While the two young women had talked at such a rate, they had not noticed her absence. 

Quite a while must have elapsed since the little girl had given up following her companions. Deta, standing still, looked about her everywhere, but no one was on the path, which—except for a few curves—was visible as far down as the village.

“There she is! Can’t you see her there?” exclaimed Barbara, pointing to a spot a good distance from the path. “She is climbing up with the goatherd Peter and his goats. I wonder why he is so late today. I must say, it suits us well enough; he can look after the child while you tell me everything without being interrupted.”

“It will be very easy for Peter to watch her,” remarked Deta, “she is bright for her five years and keeps her eyes wide open. I have often noticed that and I am glad for her, for it will be useful with the uncle. He has nothing left in the whole wide world, but his cottage and two goats!”

“Did he once have more?” asked Barbara.

“I should say so. He was heir to a large farm in Domleschg. But setting up to play the fine gentleman, he soon lost everything with drink and play,” explained Deta. 

“His parents died with grief and he himself disappeared from these parts. After many years he came back with a half-grown boy, his son, Tobias that was his name,” Deta continued. 

“He became a carpenter and turned out to be a quiet, steady fellow. Many strange rumors went around about the uncle and I think that was why he left Domleschg for Dörfli. We acknowledged relationship, my mother’s grandmother being a cousin of his. We called him uncle, and because we are related on my father’s side to nearly all the people in the hamlet they also called him uncle. He was named ‘Alm-Uncle’ when he moved up to the Alm.”

“But what happened to Tobias?” asked Barbara eagerly.

“Just wait. How can I tell you everything at once?” exclaimed Deta. 

“Tobias was an apprentice in Mels, and when he was made master, he came home to the village and married my sister Adelheid,” Deta continued. 

“They always had been fond of each other and they lived very happily as man and wife. But their joy was short. Two years afterward, when Tobias was helping to build a house, a beam fell on him and killed him. Adelheid was thrown into a violent fever with grief and fright, and never recovered from it. She had never been strong and had often suffered from queer spells, when we did not know whether she was awake or asleep. Only a few weeks after Tobias’s death they buried poor Adelheid.

“People said that heaven had punished the uncle for his misdeeds. After the death of his son, he never spoke to a living soul. Suddenly he moved up to the Alp, to live there at enmity with God and man.

“My mother and I took Adelheid’s little year-old baby, Heidi, to live with us. When I went to Ragatz I took her with me, but in the spring the family whose work I had done last year came from Frankfurt and resolved to take me to their townhouse. I am very glad to get such a good position.”

“And now you want to hand over the child to this terrible old man. I really wonder how you can do it, Deta!” said Barbara with reproach in her voice.

“It seems to me I have really done enough for the child. I do not know where else to take her, as she is too young to come with me to Frankfurt. By the way, Barbara, where are you going? We are halfway up the Alm already.”

Deta shook hands with her companion and stood still while Barbara approached the tiny, dark-brown mountain hut, which lay in a hollow a few steps away from the path.

Situated halfway up the Alm, the cottage was luckily protected from the mighty winds. Had it been exposed to the tempests, it would have been a doubtful habitation in the state of decay it was in. 

Even as it was, the doors and windows rattled and the old rafters shook when the south wind swept the mountainside. If the hut had stood on the Alm top, the wind would have blown it down the valley without much ado when the storm season came.

Here lived Peter the goatherd, a boy eleven years old, who daily fetched the goats from the village and drove them up the mountain to the short and luscious grasses of the pastures. Peter raced down in the evening with the light-footed little goats. 

When he whistled sharply through his fingers, every owner would come and get his or her goat. These owners were mostly small boys and girls and, as the goats were friendly, they did not fear them. 

That was the only time Peter spent with other children; the rest of the day the animals were his sole companions. At home lived his mother and an old blind grandmother, but he only spent enough time in the hut to swallow his bread and milk for breakfast and the same repast for supper. 

After that, he sought his bed to sleep. He always left early in the morning and at night, he came home late so that he could not be with his friends for long. 

His father had met with an accident some years ago; he also had been called Peter the goatherd. His mother, whose name was Brigida, was called “Goatherd Peter’s wife” and his blind grandmother was called by young and old from many miles about just “grandmother.”

Deta waited about ten minutes to see if the children were coming up behind with the goats. As she could not find them anywhere, she climbed up a little higher to get a better view down the valley from there and peered from side to side with marks of great impatience on her countenance.

The children in the meantime were ascending slowly in a zigzag way, Peter always knowing where to find all sorts of good grazing places for his goats where they could nibble. 

Thus they strayed from side to side. The poor little girl had followed the boy only with the greatest effort and she was panting in her heavy clothes. 

She was so hot and uncomfortable that she only climbed by exerting all her strength. She said nothing but looked enviously at Peter, who jumped about so easily in his light trousers and bare feet. 

She envied even more the goats that climbed over bushes, stones, and steep inclines with their slender legs. Suddenly sitting down on the ground the child swiftly took off her shoes and stockings. 

Getting up she undid the heavy shawl and the two little dresses. Out she slipped without more ado and stood up in only a light petticoat. 

In sheer delight at the relief, she threw up her dimpled arms that were bare up to her short sleeves. To save the trouble of carrying them, her aunt had dressed her in her Sunday clothes over her workday garments. 

Heidi arranged her dresses neatly in a heap and joined Peter and the goats. She was now as light-footed as any of them. When Peter, who had not paid much attention, saw her suddenly in her light attire, he grinned.