Above the Clouds at Metequi

“I DID not know such beauty existed in the world! ”

“Be careful,Made moiselle, do not look back— the path is very narrow, the rolling stones may make you slip,” warned Reine, who was acting as guide and porter.

We had been climbing steadily since dawn through an enchanted forest whose fairy flowers were bathed in the green reflected light of the pines; giant sentinels that raised their stately heads and shook their glistening golden cones in the very depths of the azure heavens. All sight and sound of the world about us had been shut away. Now, as we emerged upon the first plateau, there rose before us range after range of the Oberland Mountains, enveloped in hazy mists of pink and purple, blue and green. Thousands of feet below, the houses in our little village gleamed and sparkled in the noonday light, and from the valley beyond, fleecy clouds of rose and white drifted lazily toward us.

“Is that Metéqui perched high against those rocks ?” we asked in dismay. “And must we climb up the face of that mountain ? ”

“Oh, that is not so bad as it looks,” responded our cheerful guide. “Just put a little stone in your mouths to keep you from feeling thirsty, and also from talking; you will need all your breath for the last steep pull. Take my hand and shut, your eyes, Mademoiselle Margaret. It is looking down that gives you vertige; you will be all right as soon as we are over this ledge; there is really no danger.”

Suddenly the giddy ascent ended. We could open our eyes and enjoy the beauty of the undulating grassy slope on which stood the picturesque chalet of Metéqui. In the doorway, smiling and rosy, the mother of Reine was waiting to welcome us.

“ How good of you to want to stay with me, mes chères demoiselles! My only fear is that I cannot make you comfortable. But come right in and have some hot coffee, that will rest you after your long climb.”

We followed her into the smoke-darkened kitchen, or fireplace, for the entire room converged into one huge chimney with a square opening at the top. Through thisopening a pole extended into the outer air, and to it was attached a board which could be drawn over the aperture when it rained or snowed. If the smoke became too dense, the board was removed for a few moments. The crane hung higher than our heads, and a man might easily have hidden in the suspended cheese kettle, under which the blazing logs now roared and crackled. Although the walls were blackened with smoke, the utensils for butter and cheese making were white as snow, and in the adjoining living-room the broad, low window-seat, table, and benches, were clean as scrubbing could make them. This was to be our diningroom when driven indoors by rain or snow. Felix had partitioned off the beds, making a tiny bedroom for us; a luxury seldom indulged in by the peasants.

“But what will you and your son do, Rosalie, if we occupy your room ?”

“Oh, we are to sleep in the loft on the hay.”

“Why not put us in the loft? we have never slept on hay; it would be too lovely!”

“But you are to sleep on hay, Mademoiselle,” laughed Rosalie. “Voilà! ” and stooping down, she pulled from under the bed an immense drawer¹ filled with sweet-smelling hay.

Never were beds more comfortable, more sleep-compelling. We did not open our eyes until the pale white dawn shone in our windows. The cattle were already astir. We heard their bells clinking dreamily as they moved to and fro. When, some hours later, we really awakened, we found that Felix, assisted by the small shepherd boy, had driven them into the forest, Rosalie, her crimson kerchief knotted round her head, her peasant dress discarded for the more practical trousers and jacket worn by the mountain women, was singing gaily as she worked.

“It is so hard to look after the cows in a dress,” she apologized, “and you know that is the woman’s work in our valley. Felix is very good to his old mother; he always does the hardest part. But you won’t find many like my Felix. As a rule, the men leave the cattle to their women folks, and besides that, they make a deal of work about the house, having meals cooked at all hours, and hot coffee every afternoon! I tell Reine that a man is all well enough in his way, but that I hope she won’t marry one!”

While Rosalie trotted busily to and fro preparing breakfast, we sat on the little porch and watched the sun creep over the Dent du Midi, whose snowy summits rose clear and sharp against the blue sky. The air was like a strong tonic, and we were most unpoetically hungry.

“Can we have some eggs for breakfast, Rosalie?”

“Indeed you can, Mademoiselle; all the hens are laying. You shall have them right out of the nest.” And she scrambled over the wood stacked against the house, and disappeared under the rafters.

We could hear her talking to the chickens under the eaves. “I know I spoil my hens,” she said, as she climbed carefully down, four fresh eggs in each hand, “but they do love to make their nests up there, and I enjoy seeing them so happy. And now, if you have all you need, my dears, I ’ll go back to my churning.”

Her drum-shaped churn swung on a pivot close by the outside door, and in no way interfered with conversation as she sent it flying round and round. “It is so exciting watching for the butter to arrive, and then gathering up the golden pats and washing them in the clear, cold water that le Bon Dieu sends us, straight from his mountains of snow. He is very good to us poor peasants. He makes us so strong and well, and then gives us plenty of work to keep us happy. The days would seem very long without our work — when I am busy they fly like the wind! Sometimes I don’t even have time to look down on my children, and that is what I love most to do. When they first left home to work in the valley, I was very lonely. It seemed as though I could not live without them. One day I was in the village, and a gentleman loaned me his fieldglass. I could see Metéqui! Felix was on the hill with the cows. I recognized each one! That night I could n’t sleep. I kept thinking about that glass, and how if I had one it would be like having my children with me, for I could see them every day. Before dawm I had started down the mountain. I could n’t afford to buy a new glass, so Emile Théodmir sold me his. It was never quite perfect, but if you are patient and keep your hand very steady as it turns around, there comes a place where you can see nicely.”

Dear old Rosalie, how many hours I have spent perched beside her on the steep hillside, gazing down into the valley!

“Look, look, Mademoiselle! I see Camille — he’s leading a cow across his field — ah — the glass dropped just as I was about to discover whether he had Violet or Bouquet;” or, “There, Mademoiselle, those are my grandchildren on the road. They are going to church; I know each one by the color of the kerchief which she wears about her neck. Over in the open field beyond Adeline’s I can see my other son making hay. Take the glass, Mademoiselle, be careful, hold it so that little piece won’t. drop. Now you can watch them while I get dinner.” And she would trot contentedly away, followed by her faithful eat.

Meanwhile I would sit and dream, gazing idly at the feathery clouds of pink and gold and misty white that floated up from the valley. Oh, the ecstatic delight of those first few weeks, when we seemed to have discovered a new world, a new life! — Or was it a very old one, that had not changed since the patriarchs fed their flocks on the mountain slopes of Hebron ? Even the long rainy spell which followed could not dampen our enthusiasm, though thick mists obscured the mountains, and the water fell in torrents. We would lie on our beds of sweetsmelling hay and read by the feeble light that penetrated our tiny windows, or sit around the blazing fire in the dark kitchen while Rosalie whirled her spinning wheel and told us tales of the good old times when she was a girl.

“The strangers are changing our valley — the young people are no longer the same. Of course I believe in progress, we must move with the times. I am not one of those who wish to keep to the old ways — there are some who will not speak French. Patois is all well enough for us old folks, but when our children go to school and know not one word of French, they are laughed at by those who have been there and learned it but a few months earlier. When one has children, one must progress with the times.”

“Then you believe in adopting the European dress ?”

“No, no, we must keep our own costume,” and her voice vibrated with pride. “Monsieur le Curé says that it is much better for us to wear our own clothes than to try and copy those of strangers, which do not suit our occupations. My little granddaughter is only nine, but I had her hat made last year. She cannot wear it until she makes her first communion, but two years soon pass, and I was afraid Agathe would die. She’s very old, — she made my mother’s hats.”

“But has no one else learned to make them ?”

“There’s a young woman who says she can make them, but they’ll never be the same as Agathe’s. I wanted Mélaine to have the prettiest I could buy. Thirteen francs was a good deal of money to lay out at one time, but a well-made hat lasts your lifetime. Of course you must have it cleaned once in two years — that’s some expense.”

“ Why, I thought Mariettane charged only twenty-five centimes (five cents).”

“And Mademoiselle thinks that is nothing? But to us it seems dear, — we mountain women have but little ready money. Then there’s the ribbon, which must be renewed every few years, and only the best quality can be used on our Sunday hats. My mother gave me mine when I was married forty years ago — it’s as good as new. I keep it in the village with my Sunday clothes.”

Then she explained that the peasants who live in the high mountains build tiny houses in the village solely for the purpose of holding their good clothes. These houses are partitioned off into two small rooms, one for the men, one for the women. There are no windows, they are lighted only from the open doorways,— cravats are tied and hats adjusted on the piazzas which surround even these miniature chalets. Sunday morning the peasants descend the mountains in their working clothes, changing them before going to church. Those who come fasting to receive holy communion return and eat their breakfasts in these small quarters, that they may assist at the late service. Few care to remain all day in the village.

“I cannot breathe down there, Mademoiselle,” she said, “there’s no air, and it is so hot! I don’t understand why so many strangers come there for the summer.”

“Oh, they think that they are in the high mountains, and that the air is delicious! We did, too, before we came to Metéqui.”

No superfluous clothes or furniture are carried up the steep mountains. When we first learned that these peasants moved five times each year, visions of furniture carts, cheerless rooms, and an army of upholsterers, rose before us.

“How terrible to spend so much of one’s life in such confusion, Rosalie.”

“But it’s not so very bad, Mademoiselle. When I go down to Emos in the fall, I leave everything exactly as you see it, pots and pans and bedclothes, ready for next season. When Felix and I arrive, all that we have to do is to make our beds and wind up the clock, et voilà! We are settled for the summer! It is the same when we leave Emos for Plançon. Our only trouble is with the chickens. We have to tie them up in big bags and haul them down on sleds.”

“But why do you move so often ?”

“And how could the cattle be fed if we did not, Mademoiselle? As soon as the hay is exhausted here we must go down to Emos, and when the hay loft there is empty we change to Plançn.”

“Why not move the hay ? ”

“Does Mademoiselle think that so very easy ? Besides, if we lived always at Plançon or Emos, how could we fertilize this soil ? It is the cattle that keep our land so rich, that give us such fine crops of grass. We neither sow nor dig — all that is required of us is to gather in the harvest that the good God sends.”

“Monsieur le Curé has come to bless our fields and cattle; would Mademoiselle care to be present ?”

The sun was sinking behind the western mountains, the snowy heights of the Dent du Midi flamed crimson in its glowing light, as I crossed the field where Rosalie had hastily prepared a little altar. Before it stood a priest in white vestments. The rude table, the queer little candlesticks and artificial flowers, were transfigured for me, as God’s minister implored Him to bless the earth, to bring forth its fruits for his children, to hold all living creatures within his care. Felix knelt on the ground beside his mother; their faces shone with the light of a perfect faith. Living close to the most stupendous mysteries of nature, these peasants realize their absolute dependence on Him who created it. When winter snows shut them away from the world, and they have for companionship only the vast mountains, from whose rocky heights the glacial torrents thunder, the avalanches crush down upon them, their sublime faith lifts their souls to the heavens above, where dwells their all-loving Father. They do not fear death; it but opens the door of his kingdom.

“Why should we be afraid of death, Mademoiselle, when it leads us to God ?” asked a pretty young peasant. “We all die young because of our hard lives, especially we women. That is the reason that so many of us remain unmarried. You know in Le Valais it has never been the custom for girls to marry before twenty, — it is considered too young,— they must work awhile for their parents, in return for all they have received, before they marry. After one is twenty time flies — one is soon twenty-four, twentyeight, and when once that old, it does not seem worth while to make a change for such a short time, — il ne vaut pas la peine de changer.”

“Are you not afraid of falling ill so far from a physician, of dying all alone in this great forest?” we asked old Madeleine, who lived still further up the mountain.

“But one is so seldom sick, Mademoiselle. I have had fourteen children, all born in this room,² and we never needed a physician. The good God took five unto Himself when they were babies, the others are married and living in the valley. I know that I am old, that I must soon die. When I feel that the end has come, I shall walk down to the village. I would not want to trouble my good neighbors to carry me in a chair, as must be done when one is dying. After death it is still more difficult, yet we must all be buried in the churchyard.”

“Then why not live now with your grandchildren in the village?”

“Ah, Mademoiselle, we mountain people love solitude. We can think more of God. He seems nearer to us when we are alone.”

There was one dear old man whose smiling face always welcomed us to his little home. A born collector, he reveled in the costumes, linens, and embroideries bequeathed him by his ancestors.

“My father.” he said, “was ninetyfour when he died; he, too, loved the ancient costumes. I have one which he often wore. I put it on in his honor for our greatest fête days. But look at this headdress — you never saw anything quite so old, now did you, Mademoiselle? My great-great-grandmother wore it when she was married.”

His face fairly beamed with joy as he took from his carved chests these treasures of the past. In many of the linens were woven the dates 1557 and 1622.

“This set is for the dying; I love it most of all. See, Mademoiselle, the whole room is hung in white for the coming of the Lord in the Blessed Sacrament;” and he held up piece after piece of exquisitely embroidered linens and laces that were to cover the walls, to be thrown over the bed, and held in the trembling hands of the dying communicant.

“When my mother and father died, it was I who made the room all white and beautiful; when my turn comes, my sister has promised to do this for me.”

“And when you see this white room, and know that it is prepared for death, will it not frighten you ?”

“Oh, no, that will be a happy day, a time of great joy.”

Dear old Isidore. I love to think of him in that still, white room, his white soul waiting to pass into a higher life. Meanwhile he was not unhappy. There is nothing of melancholy in the religious character of these peasants. They have a keen sense of humor and a very practical turn of mind that makes them provide for this world as well as the next!

There came a wonderful, never-to-beforgotten morning at Metéqui, when we opened our eyes on a white, cold, glistening world. The snow had come! As far as the eye could reach, all was buried beneath its spotless mantle. In the valley the giant pines bent and swayed under their burden. Suddenly the sun burst forth, and our white world was changed to pink and blue and gold and amethyst. Every branch and bough beneath us gleamed with myriad lights, while above us the still, white mountains raised their majestic heights, austere, impenetrable. We were startled by a stranger’s voice.

“I wanted to see what was happening to thee, little mother. I feared thou wert buried in the snow. Here are some supplies;” and Pierre dropped the heavy bags from his shoulders.

“But thou art good to thy old mother, Pierre. However didst thou climb the mountain through all that snow ? The Lord must reward thee, my son, thy mother never can. Come, warm thyself by the fire; ” and with shining eyes and a happy smile Rosalie bustled about, making him a cup of coffee, the peasant’s panacea for every ill.

When Pierre left us, we settled down for a quiet day, but moans and groans, and a constant knocking against our wall, made us realize for the first time the unpleasant proximity of the cattle, who rebelled against their unwonted captivity. We heard Rosalie’s soft, caressing voice striving to calm them.

“There, there, Miroflé, good old cow, — dost thou not know that the snow covers the ground, and that all the grass is buried beneath it? Bouquet, I am ashamed of thee! Canst thou not wait patiently for le Bon Dieu to send the good weather ? And my young ladies — what will they think of thee, knocking thy horns against their wall! Very well, Friko, since thou wilt not believe me, come and see for thyself that the snow is here.”

We heard her open the door, and saw the cows file out, one by one. “That’s right, Sourit, stick thy horns in the snow and see how deep it is, now thou wilt believe me. The snow is cold to thy feet, Friko, thou dost not like it ? Next time thou wilt trust thy old Rosalie. Come, now, back to thy warm stable.”

Strange to say, after that there was no more trouble, the cows seeming quite content to remain indoors.

“Felix says that you must start for Evoléne as soon as this snow melts. It is only a flurry, compared with what we may have in a few weeks. The diligence will not run much longer.”

“ Did we really think the peasants of Metéqui primitive?” asked Margaret, after our first day at Evolène. That was before we had seen Lana! A group of tiny black houses like mushrooms, clustered about a little white church. In one of them lived Monsieur le Cur^#233;. When we called we sat on high benches, as he had no chairs. He said he did not care for luxuries (!) — he was happy to work among his own people:— “They are all so good, they love le Bon Dieu, and are content in spite of their hard lives.”

Here the peasants depend absolutely on their own resources, having little communication with the great world that lies beyond their snowy Alps. The women shear the sheep, spin and weave the soft brown cloth from which their picturesque dresses are made. They wear no petticoats, but a white linen chemise with a high neck and long, full sleeves. Over this a very short-waisted dress with no sleeves, the skirt falling to the ankle, just showing the white stockings and pretty, low shoes. On Sunday a quaint bolero jacket is worn. Once in three months each family has the right to bake bread in the public oven. It is then placed in the loft to dry, — fresh bread being eaten too quickly! If it becomes too hard, it can be soaked in milk, though this is not encouraged, as the milk must be saved for making cheese, which, with bread and potatoes, constitutes their daily food. There are no dishes in Lana. When a new baby appears, he is presented with a wooden bowl and spoon, which lasts his lifetime. After each meal you are expected to wash your bowl and spoon, hanging the latter in a little rack on the wall. The women have no time for cooking or dish-washing, they must be off to the fields, which return but a poor harvest from their rocky soil.

We met a pretty young mother carrying on her shoulder a cradle in which lay her new-born baby. By her side toddled a wee bit of a man who had left the cradle just in time for the newcomer. In the middle of his back, well out of reach of his mischievous fingers, was tied a tinkling bell, by which he could be traced, should he wander off in the mountains while his mother was absorbed with her mowing.

When we returned to our village we found the peasants overwhelmed with grief. Rosalie was dead! The day before, she had gone out with the cows. Felix was in the village. On his return he found her lying asleep in the open field, a smile of perfect peace upon her upturned face.

Once more we climbed through the solemn forest of pines that led to Metéqui. When halfway up, we saw the men descending with their burden. A rude bier had been covered with fragrant pine boughs. It was borne on the shoulders of Rosalie’s four sons. On the heights of Metéqui the sunlight still lay in a golden glory, but here in the forest the shadows of evening were falling as the little procession wound in and out the crooked pathway. We knelt as it passed, then silently followed to the village. From their open doorways the peasants joined us, men, women, little children. They laid her to rest in the old churchyard under the shadow of God’s altar. Early next morning we left the village, carrying with us a memory, not of loss, but of eternal gain: of a faith that lifts those mountain people above the sorrows of earth into the peace and joy of everlasting life.