Buried in the Snow
Buried in the Snow.
1879
BY
FRANZ HOFFMAN.
Lamplighter Publishing
Waverly, PA 18471
Buried in the Snow.
Copyright
©
2002 by Mark Hamby
All rights reserved.
First Printing, May 2003
Second Printing, September 2005
Published by Lamplighter Publishing; a division of Cornerstone Family Ministries, Inc.
No part of this edited publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior permission of the copyright owner.
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Author: Franz Hoffman
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ISBN: 1-58474-047-7
PREFACE.
Have you ever felt buried under the weight of life’s burdens?
Buried in the Snow
, full of twists and turns and unsuspecting dangers, will cause you to see life from a different perspective. You will be blessed by the gentle wisdom of an old grandfather and the unconditional love of his grandson as they come face to face with one of the most difficult decisions of their lives. From the depths of despair to the pinnacle of blessing, this dramatic encounter will surely elicit a full spectrum of emotional responses.
Because of the King’s Love,
Mark Hamby
We owe a debt of gratitude to Linda Garthaffner for sharing her copy of this precious book.
CHAPTER I.
THE JURA.
T
O many of my readers the following narrative may perhaps appear improbable, if not altogether impossible; and yet the incidents I shall relate in these pages, in their main points actually occurred. Those who have visited the Jura Mountains, who from experience know the wild and inhospitable aspect its heights assume during the winter, and have encountered one of its terrific storms of snow, will not for a moment doubt the truth of my story, remarkable though it may be. These storms are, at times, of such fearful and appalling fierceness as the dwellers in plain and valley cannot appreciate. In Alpine language they are called
tourmentes
, and truly they deserve the name.
The Jura is a range of mountains of a peculiar limestone formation, extending from the angle formed by the Rhone and the Ain in a north-easterly direction, for more than four hundred and fifty miles, to the upper part of the source of the Main. The Rhone, breaking through it between Schaffhausen and Basle, divides it into two parts, the Swiss or French, and the German Jura: its loftiest peaks are the Pré des Marmers, the Reculet, and the Grand-Colombier, all of which are between five and six thousand feet in height. Between these and other mighty summits lie rocky ravines, and countless valleys, varying in their degree of richness and fertility. The higher the summits of these mountains the more sterile and desolate is the region, the more bitter and severe the cold, and the shorter the summer.
Upon some of the highest peaks the snow remains the entire year. The Jura, during the warm season, possesses a rapid and vigorous vegetation, which preserves its freshness and beauty until the snow spreads its white pall over meadow and glen. The valleys and mountain-sides are clothed with forests of oak, beech, and pine, while above lie green meadows, where the “slopes of short grass, interspersed with wild thyme and delicate, small flowers,” afford grazing for large herds of cattle. This beautiful season lasts only about five months in the year, beginning with the last of May, and ending with the first days of October; when Winter, with stern, savage grandeur, and rough, unrelenting hand, commences his cheerless reign.
It is truly a delightful time for the poor mountaineer, when, after the long, dreary season, the gentle southern breezes again move over the mountains, melting with soft, mild breath the snow upon the summits and declivities, causing thousands of brooks and streams to rush swiftly and rejoicingly down the rocky walls into the valley below. Gradually the fresh verdure of spring sprouts from the bosom of the earth, then does the herdsman, with joy, open his stall, and release his long-prisoned cows and goats, which appear to inhale with delight the fresh, fragrant air; and he leads them cheerfully lowing and bleating out of the valleys, upon the broad upland pastures, where in luxuriant fullness grows the rich, sweet food. The wise creatures patiently mount the steep, rough mountain-path, well knowing the pleasure in reserve for them after the toil.
The day of the departure is a holiday for all the dwellers of the valleys, even though to the herdsman it is a period of banishment from the comforts of home, and a separation from his wife and children. Upon the alma await him no leisure hours; the summer is not for him a time of recreation and indolence; he must labor hard, and endure many and severe privations: his nourishment consists almost entirely of a milk diet, varied occasionally with potatoes; his occupation, of tending his herd, and the making of those famous Gruyère cheeses, and others of an inferior kind: these are prepared with exceeding labor and care, and with the most scrupulous cleanliness. Every herdsman has up in the mountain his chalet, which serves him at the same time for a dwelling and a dairy. These chalets are constructed firmly and substantially of stone, roofed with small planks of pine: heavy stones are laid in rows upon them, to protect them from being torn away by the violent storms to which these regions are subject. The interior of these chalets are divided into three apartments: the well-enclosed stable, where the cattle are lodged at night; a dairy, furnished with its clean, broad, wooden bowls; and a kitchen, which serves the poor herdsman at the same time as a sleeping apartment, his couch generally being a bed of straw. In the kitchen is an enormous chimney, in which hangs a great caldron, used for heating the milk and converting it into cheese.
The period of their sojourn is generally the entire summer, during which time they seldom see any one except an occasional traveler, to whom they extend heartily such hospitality as it is in their power to bestow, refreshing him with a drink of their cool, sweet milk, or providing a resting-place after his arduous ascent. Notwithstanding all the deprivations to which this life is subject, the laborious work, and isolation from human companionship, the herdsmen not only submit patiently to their lot, but they love, and cling almost with veneration to this ancient custom of their fathers: no toil, and no privation could induce them to forego this solitary mountain sojourn.
The season ends with the end of summer: then the herdsman descends from the mountain, and the day of his return to his family is celebrated as a holiday—a more joyous one than the day of his departure. And now a new life commences with the early autumn: the poor villagers are unable to lead an idle life, but industriously use every moment when not otherwise employed, in carving all kinds of household utensils and fancy articles out of wood, which they dispose of, not only in the large towns in their immediate neighborhood, and to tourists, but which are also exported in large quantities to all parts of the world: some of these carvings are of exquisite workmanship, and form the chief winter occupation of the villagers, and sometimes almost their sole resource.
While the adults are thus industriously employed, the children are not suffered to pass their days in idleness. Among these simple mountaineers, there is considerable intelligence; in some of the cantons reading is universal; “it is penal for a father to allow his child to grow up without education, and inspectors go round from time to time to ascertain if the children can read and write.” Schools abound, but sometimes the cottages of the villagers are so widely separated, that during the heavy snow-storms it is impossible for the children to go to school, and at such times they are obliged to study their lessons at home. It is rare to find a child twelve years old who cannot both read and write. Their long winter evenings are shortened and cheered by the reading aloud of some pleasant, instructive book by one of the elder children, while the rest of the family carry on their various employments. These books are obtained, generally, from the pastor, or from the school-master of the village; and never, perhaps, is reading listened to more intently, or does it excite such a deep interest, as in these lowly chalets, when the little family surrounds the great rough oaken table, and, by the glimmer of the solitary lamp, ply their busy fingers. After the reading, follows, generally, a pleasant talk over the contents of the book just read, the parents embracing this opportunity for conveying counsel and instruction: many a godly and beautiful lecture, full of deep and vital piety, is delivered by the father of the household. Then, also, amusements of various kinds are devised by the parents, and entered into with great zest by the children, bringing merriment and enjoyment, and but seldom rudeness or disturbance. The habits and customs of these secluded villagers are innocent and healthful; their life of deprivation and hardship gives them power of endurance in the hardest situations of life, while their purity and unswerving devotion to their faith is now, as it has ever been, their most marked characteristic.
The fastnesses of these mountains “have served as a retreat for the truth, when nearly the whole world was shrouded in darkness; the blood of many martyrs has bedewed its rocks,” and its deep caverns have resounded with songs of praise: these memories tend still to elevate the souls of these simple mountaineers, and inspire them with continually renewed zeal in the maintenance and preservation of their most holy faith.
Free as the chamois on their mountain’s side,
Firm as the rocks which hem their valley in,
They keep the faith for which their fathers fought:
They fear their God, nor fear they aught beside.”
CHAPTER II.
JACQUES.
O
N the most secluded and inaccessible valley of the Jura Mountains, there lay a quaint, straggling village, in one of whose lowly chalets lived the hero of this true story. The family was not large, consisting only of the father and grandfather of Jacques Lopraz, a lad of some thirteen years, himself, and his two younger sisters. Their life did not vary from that of the rest of the dwellers in the valley: in the summer the father ascended with his little herd to the upland pastures, with their swelling mounds of verdure, tending his cattle throughout the long, lonely days, and preparing the great cheeses, with which treasures he returned to his sheltered home early in the autumn, when the rough wind made known that stern Winter, with his fearful storms, and masses of snow, drew nigh.
For many years, until God called her to himself, did the mother of this little household, which the father tended his herd upon the mountain height; labor industriously in the little chalet and garden, and bring up her children in the fear of God; but now, these duties devolved upon the aged, white-haired sire of François Lopraz: in his spare moments the old man labored to increase the scanty store of the household by carving plates and spoons, or such articles as required but little delicacy of sight or touch. In his youth he had been one of the most skillful wood-carvers in all the valley.
During the winter, the little family would gather in the neat, cozy room, and as father and grandfather carved patiently and diligently with knife and chisel, the mother industriously plied the humming spinning-wheel, while the little ones sat with book and slate. Jacques meanwhile rendering them assistance, until, their tasks being ended, they read aloud, in turn, from some entertaining or instructive book, to which the serious parents listened attentively, as well as the merry children; and many a good and pious lesson did the venerable grandsire weave into the quiet, pleasant evenings, which influenced in after days the lives of these little ones. In such employments and pleasures, the long winter evenings would pass away so quickly that all would look up in astonishment when the cuckoo in the old house-clock called, with clear, shrill notes, the hour of rest.
For many years the little family had led this life, each summer and each winter bringing similar occupations and pleasures, no change ever varying its monotony, until the event which I shall now record in these pages took place.
The mild summer had taken leave of the valleys of the Jura, the herds with their keepers had come down from the mountain, and yet Jacques’s father had not made his appearance. Day after day passed, and they listened in vain for the cheerful bleating of the goats and lowing of the cows, with which they always greeted the well-remembered stall—many times had Jacques and his sisters sought the hill from whose summit they could see far in the distance, but never did their anxious gaze discover aught of the stalwart form of their father, the brown cows, or the sportive goats.
“What could possibly detain him?” This question was asked again and again, until, at length, their troubled, anxious hearts suggested: “Perchance, some misfortune has befallen him!”
And now, Jacques, in alarm, inquired among the neighboring herdsmen, but could receive no satisfactory information, although none saw cause for uneasiness; comforting him with the suggestion that perhaps he had remained a little later upon the mountain, so as to gather more hay for the winter. “Nothing can happen to him upon the heights,” said they, kindly; “wait a few days longer, and he will certainly return!”
Patiently they waited, and yet he came not; at length, the old grandfather, who, until now, had been the most tranquil, and had exhorted the rest to composure, began to feel no little solicitude.
“This suspense has lasted too long,” said he, one morning, as Jacques returned from the hill, after another vain search for herd and herdsman. “I will myself ascend to the alma, and find out what is the matter with François. To be sure, I have not attempted the ascent for two years, but it will not be impossible for me to accomplish it. Yes, I will go, my son, and be glad to refresh my old eyes with a glimpse of the dear chalet once more: who knows whether I will feel able to visit it next summer? Would you not like to go with me, Jacques, and surprise your father?”
“Indeed I would, grandfather,” answered the boy, without hesitation, and with sparkling eyes. “I have longed to mention it, and only refrained from asking, for fear of a refusal. But, to go together, that will be pleasant indeed.”
The preparations for the journey were soon made; the sky was beautifully clear, the air pure and calm, as they left their sheltered, peaceful valley, and, with slow and labored step, mounted the steep, rough path—now along a narrow gorge, anon skirting the brink of some yawning gulf, ever surrounded by danger, which required their utmost caution and circumspection to avoid. Unfortunately, the lad for a moment forgot his prudence, and thoughtlessly advanced to the very brink of a steep precipice: it was about a quarter of a league’s distance from the chalet: his grandfather, alarmed at his daring, sprang forward to pull him back; in his anxiety and haste, he stumbled upon a large, loose stone, and falling, sprained his foot so severely, that it was some time before he recovered sufficiently to proceed. Jacques, full of fright at the accident, hastened to his grandfather, and assisted him to rise: while tenderly supporting him, the repentant lad begged forgiveness for his thoughtlessness. Hoping that no bad consequences would ensue, they again set out, and the old man was enabled, by the help of his stout alpenstock, and by leaning upon the shoulder of his grandson, to reach the chalet.
They were no little rejoiced when they saw Jacques’s father, in good health, and, even at the moment they drew near, engaged in preparations for his departure: had they waited one day longer, his arrival would have ended their suspense, and spared them the trouble of the steep, arduous ascent.
François was no less astonished at the unexpected visit. “Father! Jacques!” cried he, as he saw them approach, “you surely must have feared that some accident had happened me upon the mountain.”
“We certainly did,” replied the old man; “and not without some foundation, François, for summer is long past, and all the rest of our herdsmen have returned to the valley. What has detained you so long, my son?”
“One of the cows was sick, father, and I could not leave the poor creature suffering,” answered François. “But now she is recovered, and today Pierre is set off with the cheeses, and I will take the herd down tomorrow.”
“Then our visit was quite unnecessary,” said the old man; “however, that is of no consequence, if only falling weather come not tonight: the wind has changed during the last half-hour, and the look of the sky does not reassure me. Are you very tired, Jacques?”
The lad hesitated, for he perceived a peculiar significance in the question.
“I was thinking,” continued he, as Jacques confusedly bent his eyes to the ground—“I was thinking it would be the most prudent course to send the boy on with Pierre, in case it should rain or snow tomorrow. What think you, François?”
The herdsman cast a scrutinizing glance toward the remote mountain tops and with some solicitude expressed the same fear.
“You are right, father,” said he; “the sky looks threatening, and all signs indicate a sudden change of the weather. I have been so busy with my preparations that I have not observed it until now. You had much better return with Pierre, Jacques.”
“I will accompany them,” added the grandfather; “it will require considerable exertion for me to do so, but I think it will be best; it will be necessary for me to rest a short time, however, before I start.”
But the weak old man had already over-tasked his strength: in an hour’s time, the pain in his foot had increased considerably, and he was obliged, not without a painful struggle, to acknowledge that he was unable to make the attempt. He insisted, however, that Jacques should go without him; but the boy was unwilling to leave his grandfather, and it was at last resolved that they would remain during that night in the chalet, and all go down together, the next morning, into the valley.
Small as the chalet was, there was room for all. François prepared a frugal evening meal, of maize, flour and milk, in the boiler which hung in the enormous chimney: this, together with butter and cheese, they partook of, with appetites sharpened by their tiresome ascent. Supper over, the wearied boy, after a short but earnest thanksgiving to God for the care and protection of the past day, threw himself down upon the straw bed, in a corner of the chalet, and was soon fast asleep; while his father and grandfather conversed in an undertone for a long time, relating to each other all that had occurred of interest during the past summer, down in the valley, and above upon the mountain-top. At length, they too laid themselves down in peace, and slept until the eye of morning peeped in at the window of the little chalet.
Upon looking out, they were disappointed and alarmed, although not altogether surprised, to see the mountain covered with snow, and the white flakes still falling fast, which violent gusts of wind whirled in thick eddies past the chalet.
“Should this storm not soon abate, François,” said the old man, with much solicitude, “it will be impossible to reach our home in the valley: every path will be choked up by the snow.”
“It may not last, father,” replied his son; “it is yet early in the season; at all events we will be obliged to wait, for in this storm of wind and snow, you, at least, must not leave the chalet.”
“Do not trouble yourself about me, my son, but you and Jacques leave before the snow is deeper. My lame foot has swollen so much more, and pains me to such an extent, that I fear I shall be obliged to remain here several days longer. You go, my children, go while there is still time. The herd must be placed in safety; today, François, you may take them down without danger, while tomorrow may prove too late. Do not give yourself any uneasiness about me.”
“No! oh, no, father, I could not leave you alone, sick, and helpless,” replied his son. “Why can we not all go together? My shoulders are strong enough to carry you, father, and Jacques can drive the herd: in this way, with the help of the dear God, we will reach the valley without accident.”
But the old man persisted in his resolution. “You know not what you promise, my son,” said he. “In such weather it will be almost impossible to hold the cattle together; how then, if you should be burdened with one so helpless as I. Think of your boy, François. Delay not, but place the herd and Jacques in security, while it lies within your power; and then, tomorrow, you and some of our neighbors can return and care for me.”
François was still irresolute: the storm without, howled and raved furiously, driving before it fresh clouds of snow, which shortly would render the descent impracticable. Upon the preservation of his herd depended the maintenance of his family: a speedy abatement of the storm could not be counted upon. It was truly a sad and painful position: on one side, the loss of his sole possessions; on the other, the desertion, if only for a day, of his helpless father, upon this rough, inhospitable height: he could not leave him. Again he insisted that the old man should trust himself to his strong shoulders; but no persuasions could tempt him to expose his son and grandson to danger, by becoming a burden to them.
In these friendly altercations passed several hours of the day, when Jacques made a proposal which brought them to a decision.
“Let me remain with grandfather, in the chalet, and you, father, take the herd down the mountain; you will reach home much sooner than with either of us, and then you can come back with our neighbors for us; grandfather will not be so lonely, and I can wait upon him: it was through my thoughtlessness that this misfortune has come upon us, and now I have an opportunity of showing him that I am truly sorry, and can thus prove my love for him. Go, father, go: why do you hesitate? ‘God, even our own God, will be with us.’”
“The child is right, François; his plan is the wisest and best: the snow is already so deep, and the wind so fearful, that I fear the danger would be greater, did he accompany you, than were he to remain with me in the chalet. Go, my son, delay no longer: take with you my stick; it is strong, and the iron point is new and firm; it will help you down, as it has helped me up; leave with us one goat and the provisions which remain. I feel more anxiety about you, than about Jacques and myself.”
For some moments François stood silent and undecided, until at length, feeling convinced that further opposition would only increase the evil, he determined, hard though it was, to leave his dear ones in the lonely, yet at least sheltered chalet.
“So be it, then,” said he, while he tearfully embraced the brave old man. “We have lost one opportunity, by not going down with Pierre, and I must endeavor to remedy the neglect if possible. I will at once, upon my descent, summon the neighbors, and with their aid, and the blessing of the good God, will rescue you right speedily from your perilous situation.”
