 | CHAPTER VIII. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons |  |
8. CHAPTER VIII.
Let no presuming railer tax
Creative wisdom, as if aught was form'd
In vain, or not for admirable ends.
Thomson.
So long as we possess the power to struggle,
hope is the last feeling to desert the human mind.
Men are endowed with every gradation of courage,
from the calm energy of reflection, which is
rendered still more effective by physical firmness,
to the headlong precipitation of reckless spirit;
from the resolution that grows more imposing and
more respectable as there is greater occasion for
its exercise, to the fearful and ill-directed energies
of despair. But no description with the pen can
give the reader a just idea of the chill that comes
over the heart when accidental causes rob us, suddenly
and without notice, of those resources on
rely. The mariner without his course or compass
loses his audacity and coolness, though the momentary
danger be the same; the soldier will fly,
if you deprive him of his arms; and the hunter of
our own forests who has lost his landmarks, is
transformed from the bold and determined foe of
its tenants, into an anxious and dependent fugitive,
timidly seeking the means of retreat. In short,
the customary associations of the mind being
rudely and suddenly destroyed, we are made
to feel that reason, while it elevates us so far above
the brutes as to make man their lord and governor,
becomes a quality less valuable than instinct,
when the connecting link in its train of causes and
effects is severed.
It was no more than a natural consequence of
his greater experience, that Pierre Dumont understood
the horrors of their present situation far better
than any with him. It is true, there yet remained
enough light to enable him to pick his way
over the rocks and stones, but he had sufficient
experience to understand that there was less risk
in remaining stationary than in moving; for, while
there was only one direction that led towards the
Refuge, all the rest would conduct them to a
greater distance from the shelter, which was now
the only hope. On the other hand, a very few
minutes of the intense cold, and of the searching
wind to which they were exposed, would most
probably freeze the currents of life in the feebler
of those intrusted to his care.
“Hast thou aught to advise?” asked Melchior
de Willading, folding Adelheid to his bosom, beneath
his ample cloak, and communicating, with a
father's love, a small portion of the meagre warmth
that still remained in his own aged frame to that
of his drooping daughter—“canst thou bethink
strait?”
“If the good monks have been active—” returned
the wavering Pierre. “I fear me that the
dogs have not yet been exercised, on the paths,
this season!”
“Has it then come to this! Are our lives indeed
dependent on the uncertain sagacity of brutes!”
“Mein Herr, I would bless the Virgin, and her
holy Son, if it were so! But I fear this storm has
been so sudden and unexpected, that we may not
even hope for their succor.”
Melchior groaned. He folded his child still
nearer to his heart, while the athletic Sigismund
shielded his drooping sister, as the fowl shelters its
young beneath the wing.
“Delay is death,” rejoined the Signor Grimaldi.
“I have heard of muleteers that have been driven
to kill their beasts, that shelter and warmth might
be found in their entrails.”
“The alternative is horrible!” interrupted Sigismund.
“Is return impossible? By always descending,
we must, in time, reach the village below.”
“That time would be fatal,” answered Pierre.
“I know of only one resource that remains. If
the party will keep together, and answer my shouts,
I will make another effort to find the path.”
“This proposal was gladly accepted, for energy
and hope go hand-in-hand, and the guide was about
to quit the group, when he felt the strong grasp of
Sigismund on his arm.
“I will be thy companion,” said the soldier
firmly.
“Thou hast not done me justice, young man,”
answered Pierre, with severe reproach in his manner.
“Had I been base enough to desert my trust,
these limbs and this strength are yet sufficient to
a guide of the Alps may freeze like another man,
the last throb of his heart will be in behalf of those
he serves!”
“A thousand pardons brave old man—a thousand
pardons; still, will I be thy companion; the
search that is conducted by two will be more
likely to succeed, than that on which thou goest
alone.”
The offended Pierre, who liked the spirit of the
youth as much as he disliked his previous suspicions,
met the apology frankly. He extended his
hand and forgot the feelings, that, even amid the
tempests of those wild mountains, were excited by
a distrust of his honesty. After this short concession
to the ever-burning, though smothered volcano,
of human passion, they left the group together,
in order to make a last search for their
course.
The snow by this time was many inches deep,
and as the road was at best but a faint bridle-path
that could scarcely be distinguished by day-light
from the débris which strewed the ravines, the
undertaking would have been utterly hopeless, had
not Pierre known that there was the chance of
still meeting with some signs of the many mules
that daily went up and down the mountain. The
guide called to the muleteers, who answered his
cries every minute, for so long as they kept within
the sound of each other's voices, there was no
danger of their becoming entirely separated. But,
amid the hollow roaring of the wind, and the incessant
pelting of the storm, it was neither safe
nor practicable to venture far asunder. Several
little stony knolls were ascended and descended,
and a rippling rill was found, but without bringing
with it any traces of the path. The heart of Pierre
began to chill with the decreasing warmth of his
responsibility while his truant thoughts would unbidden
recur to those whom he had left in his cottage
at the foot of the mountain, gave way at last
to his emotions in a paroxysm of grief, wringing
his hands, weeping and calling loudly on God for
succor. This fearful evidence of their extremity
worked upon the feelings of Sigismund until they
were wrought up nearly to frenzy. His great
physical force still sustained him, and in an access
of energy that was fearfully allied to madness, he
rushed forward into the vortex of snow and hail,
as if determined to leave all to the Providence of
God, disappearing from the eyes of his companion.
This incident recalled the guide to his senses.
He called earnestly on the thoughtless youth to
return. No answer was given, and Pierre hastened
back to the motionless and shivering party,
in order to unite all their voices in a last effort to
be heard. Cry upon cry was raised, but each shout
was answered merely by the hoarse rushing of the
winds.
“Sigismund! Sigismund!” called one after another,
in hurried and alarmed succession.
“The noble boy will be irretrievably lost!” exclaimed
the Signor Grimaldi, in despair, the services
already rendered by the youth, together with
his manly qualities, having insensibly and closely
wound themselves around his heart. “He will
die a miserable death, and without the consolation
of meeting his fate in communion with his fellow-sufferers!”
A shout from Sigismund came whirling past, as
if the sound were embodied in the gale.
“Blessed ruler of the earth, this is alone thy
mercy!” exclaimed Melchior de Willading,—“he
has found the path!”
“And honor to thee, Maria—thou mother of
God!” murmured the Italian.
At that moment, a dog came leaping and barking
through the snow. It immediately was scenting
and whining among the frozen travellers. The
exclamations of joy and surprise were scarcely uttered
before Sigismund, accompanied by another,
joined the party.
“Honor and thanks to the good Augustines!”
cried the delighted guide; “this is the third good
office of the kind, for which I am their debtor!”
“I would it were true, honest Pierre,” answered
the stranger. “But Maso and Nettuno are poor
substitutes, in a tempest like this, for the servants
and beasts of St. Bernard. I am a wanderer, and
lost like yourselves, and my presence brings little
other relief than that which is known to be the
fruit of companionship in misery. The saints have
brought me a second time into your company when
matters were hanging between life and death!”
Maso made this last remark when, by drawing
nearer the group, he had been able to ascertain,
by the remains of the light, of whom the party
was composed.
“If it is to be as useful now as thou hast already
been,” answered the Genoese, “it will be happier
for us all, thyself included: bethink thee quickly
of thy expedients, and I will make thee an equal
sharer of all that a generous Providence hath bestowed.”
Il Maledetto rarely listened to the voice of the
Signor Grimaldi, without a manner of interest and
curiosity which, as already mentioned, had more
than once struck the latter himself, but which he
quite naturally attributed to the circumstance of
his person being known to one who had declared
himself to be a native of Genoa. Even at this
terrible moment, the same manner was evident;
renewed the already neglected offer of fortune,
with a view to quicken a zeal which he reasonably
enough supposed would be most likely to be awakened
by the hopes of a substantial reward.
“Were there question here, illustrious Signore,”
answered Maso, “of steering a barge, of shortenning
sail, or of handling a craft of any rig or
construction, in gale, squall, hurricane, or a calm
among breakers, my skill and experience might
be turned to good account; but setting aside the
difference in our strength and hardihood, even that
lily which is in so much danger of being nipped
by the frosts, is not more helpless than I am myself
at this moment. I am no better than yourselves,
Signori, and, though a better mountaineer perhaps,
I rely on the favor of the saints to be succored,
or my time must finish among the snows instead
of in the surf of a sea-shore, as, until now, I had
always believed would be my fate.”
“But the dog—thy admirable dog!”
“Ah, eccellenza, Nettuno is but a useless beast,
here! God has given him a thicker mantle, and a
warmer dress than to us Christians, but even this
advantage will soon prove a curse to my poor
friend. The long hair he carries will quickly be
covered with icicles, and, as the snow deepens, it
will retard his movements. The dogs of St. Bernard
are smoother, have longer limbs, a truer scent,
and possess the advantage of being trained to the
paths.”
A tremendous shout of Sigismund's interrupted
Maso,—the youth, on finding that the accidental
meeting with the mariner was not likely to lead to
any immediate advantages, having instantly, accompanied
by Pierre and one of his assistants,
renewed the search. The cry was echoed from
the guide and the muleteer, and then all three were
mastiff. Nettuno, who had been crouching
with his bushy tail between his legs, barked, seemed
to arouse with renewed courage, and then leaped
with evident joy and good-will upon the back of
his old antagonist Uberto.
The dog of St. Bernard was alone. But his air
and all his actions were those of an animal whose
consciousness was wrought up to the highest pitch
permitted by the limits nature had set to the intelligence
of a brute. He ran from one to another,
rubbed his glossy and solid side against the limbs
of all, wagged his tail, and betrayed the usual signs
that creatures of his species manifest, when their
instinct is most alive. Luckily he had a good interpreter
of his meaning in the guide, who, knowing
the habits, and, if it may be so expressed, the intentions
of the mastiff, feeling there was not a
moment to lose if they would still preserve the
feebler members of their party, begged the others
to hasten the necessary dispositions to profit by this
happy meeting. The females were supported as
before, the mules fastened together, and Pierre,
placing himself in front, called cheerfully to the
dog, encouraging him to lead the way.
“Is it quite prudent to confide so implicitly to
the guidance of this brute?” asked the Signor Grimaldi
a little doubtingly, when he saw the arrangement
on which, by the increasing gloom and the
growing intensity of the cold, it was but too apparent,
even to one as little accustomed to the mountains
as himself, that the lives of the whole party
depended.
“Fear not to trust to old Uberto, Signore,” answered
Pierre, moving onward as he spoke, for to
think of further delay was out of the question; “fear
nothing for the faith or the knowledge of the dog.
These animals are trained by the servants of the
the snows lie on them fathoms deep. God has
given them stout hearts, long limbs, and short hair,
expressly, as it has often seemed to me, for this
end; and nobly do they use the gifts! I am ac
quainted with all their ways, for we guides commonly
learn the ravines of St. Bernard by first
serving the claviers of the convent, and many a
day have I gone up and down these rocks with a
couple of these animals in training for this very
purpose. The father and mother of Uberto were
my favorite companions, and their son will hardly
play an old friend of the family false.”
The travellers followed their leader with more
confidence, though blindly. Uberto appeared to
perform his duty with the sobriety and steadiness
that became his years, and which, indeed, were
very necessary for the circumstances in which
they were placed. Instead of bounding ahead and
becoming lost to view, as most probably would
have happened with a younger animal, the noble
and half-reasoning brute maintained a pace that
was suited to the slow march of those who supported
the females, occasionally stopping to look back, as
if to make sure that none were left.
The dogs of St. Bernard are, or it might perhaps
be better to say were,—for it is affirmed that the
ancient race is lost,—chosen for their size, their
limbs, and the shortness of their coats, as has just
been stated by Pierre; the former being necessary
to convey the succor with which they were often
charged, as well as to overcome the difficulties of
the mountains, and the two latter that they might
the better wade through, and resist the influence
of, the snows. Their training consisted in rendering
them familiar with, and attached to, the human
race; in teaching them to know and to keep the
paths on all occasions, except such as called for a
the position of those who had been overwhelmed
by the avalanches, and to assist in disinterring
their bodies. In all these duties Uberto had been
so long exercised, that he was universally known
to be the most sagacious and the most trusty animal
on the mountain. Pierre followed his steps
with so much greater reliance on his intelligence,
from being perfectly acquainted with the character
of the dog. When, therefore, he saw the mastiff
turn at right angles to the course he had just
been taking, the guide, on reaching the spot, imitated
his example, and, first removing the snow to
make sure of the fact, he joyfully proclaimed to
those who came after him that the lost path was
found. This intelligence sounded like a reprieve
from death, though the mountaineers well knew
that more than an hour of painful and increasing
toil was still necessary to reach the hospice. The
chilled blood of the tender beings who were fast
dropping into the terrible sleep which is the forerunner
of death, was quickened in their veins, however,
when they heard the shout of delight that
spontaneously broke from all their male companions,
on learning the glad tidings.
The movement was now faster, though embarrassed
and difficult on account of the incessant
pelting of the storm and the influence of the biting
cold, which were difficult to be withstood by even
the strongest of the party. Sigismund groaned
inwardly, as he thought of Adelheid and his sister's
being exposed to a tempest which shook the stoutest
frame and the most manly heart among them.
He encircled the latter with an arm, rather carrying
than leading her along, for the young soldier
had sufficient knowledge of the localities of the
mountain to understand that they were still at a
fearful distance from the Col, and that the strength
reaching it unsupported.
Occasionally Pierre spoke to the dogs, Nettuno
keeping close to the side of Uberto in order to
prevent separation, since the path was no longer
discernible without constant examination, the darkness
having so far increased as to reduce the sight
to very narrow limits. Each time the name of
the latter was pronounced, the animal would stop,
wag his tail, or give some other sign of recognition,
as if to reassure his followers of his intelligence
and fidelity. After one of these short halts,
old Uberto and his companion unexpectedly refused
to proceed. The guide, the two old nobles, and
at length the whole party, were around them, and
no cry or encouragement of the mountaineers
could induce the dogs to quit their tracks.
“Are we again lost?” asked the Baron de Willading,
pressing Adelheid closer to his beating
heart, nearly ready to submit to their common
fate in despair. “Has God at length forsaken us?
—my daughter—my beloved child!”
This touching appeal was answered by a howl
from Uberto, who leaped madly away and disappeared.
Nettuno followed, barking wildly and
with a deep throat. Pierre did not hesitate about
following, and Sigismund, believing that the movement
of the guide was to arrest the flight of the
dogs, was quickly on his heels. Maso moved with
greater deliberation.
“Nettuno is not apt to raise that bark with nothing
but hail, and snow, and wind in his nostrils,”
said the calculating Italian. “We are either near
another party of travellers, for such are on the
mountains as I know—”
“God forbid! Art sure of this?” demanded the
Signor Grimaldi, observing that the other had suddenly
checked himself.
“Sure that others were, Signore,” returned the
mariner deliberately, as if he measured well the
meaning of each word. “Ah, here comes the trusty
beast, and Pierre, and the Captain, with their
tidings, be they good or be they evil.”
The two just named rejoined their friends a
Maso ceased speaking. They hurriedly informed
the shivering travellers that the much desired
Refuge was near, and that nothing but the darkness
and the driving snow prevented it from being
seen.
“It was a blessed thought, and one that came
from St. Augustine himself, which led the holy
monks to raise this shelter!” exclaimed the delighted
Pierre, no longer considering it necessary
to conceal the extent of the danger they had run.
“I would not answer even for my own power to
reach the hospice in a time like this. You are of
mother church, Signore, being of Italy?”
“I am one of her unworthy children,” returned
the Genoese.
“This unmerited favor must have come from
the prayers of St. Augustine, and a vow I made
to send a fair offering to our Lady of Einsiedeln;
for never before have I known a dog of St. Bernard
lead the traveller to the Refuge! Their business
is to find the frozen, and to guide the traveller
along the paths to the hospice. Even Uberto had
his doubts, as you saw, but the vow prevailed;
or, I know not—it might, indeed, have been the
prayer.”
The Signor Grimaldi was too eager to get Adelheid
under cover, and, in good sooth, to be there
himself, to waste the time in discussing the knotty
point of which of two means that were equally
orthodox, had been the most efficacious in bringing
about their rescue. In common with the others,
he followed the pious and confiding Pierre in silence,
guide. The latter had not yet seen the Refuge
himself, for so these places are well termed on the
Alpine passes, but the formation of the ground had
satisfied him of its proximity. Once reassured as
to his precise position, all the surrounding localities
presented themselves to his mind with the familiarity
the seaman manifests with every cord in
the intricate maze of his rigging, in the darkest
night, or, to produce a parallel of more common
use, with the readiness which all manifest in the
intricacies of their own habitations. The broken
chain of association being repaired and joined,
every thing became clear again to his apprehension,
and, in diverging from the path on this occasion,
the old man held his way as directly toward
the spot he sought, as if he were journeying under
a bright sun. There was a rough but short descent,
a similar rise, and the long-desired goal was
reached.
We shall not stop to dwell upon the emotions
with which the travellers first touched this place
of comparative security. Humility, and dependence
on the providence of God, were the predominant
sensations even with the rude muleteers,
while the nearly exhausted females were just able
to express in murmurs their fervent gratitude to
the omnipotent power that had permitted its agents
so unexpectedly to interpose between them and
death. The Refuge was not seen until Pierre laid
his hand on the roof, now white with snow, and
proclaimed its character with a loud, warm, and
devout thanksgiving.
“Enter and thank God!” he said. “Another
hopeless half-hour would have brought down from
his pride the stoutest among us—enter, and thank
God!”
As is the fact with all the edifices of that region,
having the form of those vaulted cellars which
in this country are used for the preservation of
vegetables. It was quite free from humidity, however,
the clearness of the atmosphere and the entire
absence of soil preventing the accumulation
of moisture, and it offered no more than the naked
protection of its walls to those who sought its
cover. But shelter on such a night was everything,
and this it effectually afforded. The place
had only one outlet, being simply formed of four
walls and the roof; but it was sufficiently large to
shelter a party twice as numerous as that which
had now reached it.
The transition from the biting cold and piercing
winds of the mountain to the shelter of this inartificial
building, was so great as to produce something
like a general sensation of warmth. The
advantage gained in this change of feeling was
judiciously improved by the application of friction
and of restoratives under the direction of Pierre.
Uberto carried a small supply of the latter attached
to his collar, and before half an hour had passed,
Adelheid and Christine were sleeping sweetly, side
by side, muffled in plenty of the spare garments,
and pillowed on the saddles and housings of the
mules. The brutes were brought within the Refuge,
and as no party mounted the St. Bernard
without carrying the provender necessary for its
beasts of burthen, that sterile region affording
none of its own, the very fuel being transported
leagues on the backs of mules, the patient and
hardy animals, too, found their solace, after the
fatigues and exposure of the day. The presence
of so many living bodies in lodgings so confined
aided in producing warmth, and, after all had
eaten of the scanty fare furnished by the fore-sight
of the guide, drowsiness came over the whole
party.
| CHAPTER VIII. The headsman, or, The Abbaye des Vignerons | |