As the weather in April stayed reasonably fine I decided to spread dung on the potato-field. The dungheap had grown, and I filled two sacks and lugged them to the field on birch-branches. I spread the dung in the furrows and distributed the earth on top. I put dung on the little bean-garden as well; then there was hay to be fetched from the gorge again, and then wood was in short supply and I spent a week sawing and chopping. I was tired, but pleased that the work had started again, and that it already stayed light for a long time in the evenings. The question of moving to the Alm occupied my mind more with every passing day. The task struck me as terribly arduous, even if I were to take only necessities with me and live quite primitively in the pasture. I was also worried about the cats. It’s always been true that they’re more attached to a house than a human being. I was hellbent on taking them with me, but that too could end unhappily. The longer I thought about it, the more the difficulties seemed insuperable. After all, I couldn’t neglect the meadow by the stream and the potato-field. The hay-harvest had to be brought in, and that meant a seven-hour journey every day, and the work on top of that. I had to put off cutting logs for the winter until the autumn, and there wouldn’t be any trout for the whole summer. While I turned it around in my head and found it impracticable, I was already aware that I’d already decided long before to go up to the pasture. It was a good idea for Bella and the bull, and I simply had to be able to do the work. We were all too dependent on the survival of those two for me to be able to consider myself. The forest meadow probably wasn’t enough for two cattle, and I would have to save the hay from the meadow by the stream for the winter. Once I realized that I’d decided to move long before, when I’d first seen the green pastures, I grew calmer, but also a little depressed. I wanted to stay until I’d planted the potatoes, and also try to lay in a supply of wood by then. So I set about cutting wood. I worked slowly, but every day, and piled up the logs around the hut. And finally there came a Sunday when I only worked in the byre and spent the rest of the time asleep. I was so tired that I imagined I wouldn’t be able to get up again. On the Monday, however, I did go back to the logpile and dragged wood to the house.
Spring was blossoming around me, and all I could see was wood. The yellow pile of sawdust grew daily. Resin stuck to my hands. Splinters pierced my skin, my shoulders hurt, but I was as if possessed by the wish to cut as much wood as possible. It gave me a feeling of security. I was much too tired to be hungry, and looked after my animals like a robot. I was actually living on milk alone, I’d never drunk so much milk before. And then, quite suddenly, I knew I had to stop. I had no strength left. I emerged from my working frenzy and went around in my nightshirt and slippers and took care of myself. I also slowly began eating again, nettle-spinach and potatoes.
In the meantime the cat had entirely ceased to care for her wild son. If he clumsily approached her she gave him a clout and let him know in no uncertain terms that his childhood was at an end. Tiger had assumed the manners of a proper little rogue. He didn’t dare go near his mother, but he tormented poor Lynx throughout the day. And that dog was so patient! With one bite he could have killed the little tom-cat, and yet how carefully he treated him. One day, however, the moment seemed to have arrived, even for Lynx, when Tiger had to be taught a lesson. He took the little one by the ear, dragged him struggling and squawking through the room and hurled him under my bed. Then he walked evenly to the stove, where he was finally able to go to sleep in peace. Even Tiger understood. But as it was impossible for him to be nice and quiet, he chose me as his next victim to pounce on.
I was very tired from cutting wood, but he wouldn’t leave me in peace. I had always to be throwing him little balls, or running after him. He particularly enjoyed hiding and, when I walked innocently past, biting my legs. All he lacked was little hands to clap with when I jumped aside with a start. His mother watched all this with visible disapproval. I think she despised me for not retaliating. And really, Tiger often was a pest. But when I thought about his sister’s fate I couldn’t spurn him. He thanked me in his own way, by settling to sleep on my lap, rubbing his head against my forehead, or standing on the table, propping his front paws against my chest and looking at me attentively with honey-coloured eyes. His eyes were darker and warmer than his mother’s, and his nose was speckled with a fine, brownish rime, as if he’d just been drinking coffee. I grew very fond of him, and he returned my affection with something akin to passion. No human being had ever hurt him, after all, and he hadn’t shared his mother’s unhappy experiences. He was always wanting to go with me to the byre. There he sat on the stove and watched, attentively and with his whiskers sticking out, as I looked after Bella and the bull. It didn’t take him long to understand that Bella was the source of the sweet milk, and immediately after milking I had to fill his little dish. He only ever approached the two big animals cautiously, ready to dash away.
Since Tiger had become so attached to me, Lynx had become a little jealous. One day I took him aside, stroked first him and then the little tom-cat, and explained to him that nothing in our friendship had changed. I don’t know what he really understood, but from then on he put up with the little tom-cat, and as he could see that Tiger mattered to me he became his protector. The minute Tiger went into the bushes Lynx fetched him back by the scruff of the neck. The old cat paid no attention to these matters. She had returned to her own way of life, slept during the day and went hunting at night. Towards morning she would come back and go to sleep purring, pressed up against my legs. Tiger had retained a childlike affection for the cupboard and slept in his old bed. He still hadn’t worked out that he was actually a nocturnal animal, and much preferred playing in the sunshine. I was happy about this, for during the day it was possible to keep an eye on him, and when I went off with Lynx I would shut him up in one of the rooms.
I hadn’t been mistaken in my dark apprehensions. May started out cold and wet. There was even snow and hail, and I was pleased that the apple blossom had already faded. I had only three wrinkled apples left, and once when I was very hungry I ate all three in one go. The nettles were snowed under again, and all the spring flowers along with them. I didn’t have much time to worry about flowers.
Once in the spring, when I was fetching hay from the barn, I saw three or four violets. I absently reached out my hand and leaned against the wall. I’d imagined I could smell their scent, but when my hand touched the wall the scent had gone as well. The violets held their little purple faces to me, but I couldn’t touch them. Slight though this experience was, it had a profoundly disturbing effect on me. In the evening I sat by the lamp for a long time with Tiger in my lap, trying to calm down. While I slowly stroked Tiger to sleep I gradually forgot the violets and started to feel at home again. That’s all that’s left me of the first spring’s flowers, the memory of those violets and the cool smoothness of the wall against my palms.
Around the tenth of May I started drawing up a list of the things I wanted to take up to the Alm. There wasn’t a lot, but there was still much too much, bearing in mind that I would have to carry everything up there on my back. I weeded things out, weeded yet more things out, but there was still too much. Finally I divided everything, for making separate trips. I would have to spend several days on the move, as I couldn’t lug too much uphill at once. That day I considered how I could get everything done in the best, most rational way. On the fourteenth of May the weather finally turned clement and mild again, and I had to plant the potatoes. I was late already, and couldn’t put it off any longer. I’d enlarged the field in the autumn; while I was working on it, however, I noticed that it was still too small, and dug over another patch of land. I stuck branches into the ground there, because I wanted to know whether the dung would have any effect on the harvest. I’d had to remove one side of the fence, and fixed it up again with branches and vines. I didn’t have many potatoes left now, but I was pleased not to have touched the seedstock.
On the twentieth of May I began the m
ove. I packed Hugo’s big rucksack and my own, and set off with Lynx. The meadow at the Alm was free of snow, and the young grass was green and glistened moistly beneath the blue sky. Lynx charged impetuously off across the soft grass. For some reason he kept rolling over, and looked very gauche and funny. At the hut I unpacked the rucksacks, drank tea from the flask and then lay down in bed on the pallet to rest a little. There was a kitchen with a bed and a small bedroom. I couldn’t bear to stay on the pallet for long; I had to have a look at the byre. It was, of course, much bigger than my byre, and had been kept much cleaner than the hut, and it seemed to be in working order, even if the wooden pipes had already rotted a bit. There was a little pile of wood in the stable, which was perhaps enough for two weeks. I wanted to get by with sticks throughout the summer. There was an axe as well, and that was all I needed. The important thing was the dairy implements, a few pails and barrels in which cheese had probably been made in the past. I didn’t need to bring any pots and pans either, as there were enough there for one person. I was struck by the fact that the dairy things, in contrast to the pots and pans, had been kept scrupulously clean, just as the byre had been kept so much cleaner than the hut. The dairyman seemed to have made a clear distinction between private and business matters.
I decided to leave the lamp in the hunting-lodge as well, and make do with candles and a torch. But I did want to bring the little spirit stove so that I wouldn’t have to heat the oven on warm days. The move was certainly worthwhile as far as Bella and the bull were concerned. It was light and sunny up here, and there was enough fodder for a few months. Also, summer would soon be at an end, and perhaps the sun and the dry air would cure my rheumatism completely. Lynx sniffed inquisitively at each object, and seemed thoroughly to concur with all my intentions. It was one of his most lovable aspects, the fact that he approved of everything I did, but it was dangerous for me too, and often encouraged me to do things that were stupid or foolhardy.
In the days that followed I gradually brought to the pasture everything I considered to be absolutely necessary, and on the twenty-fifth of May came the day of departure from the hunting-lodge. For the previous few days I had grazed Bella and the bull in the clearing, so that the little one could get used to walking out in the open a bit. The change had made the bull cheerfully excited. After all, the only thing he had ever known was the constant gloom of the stable. The first day in the meadow was perhaps the happiest day in his life. I left a note on the table: ‘Gone to the Alm’, and then locked up the hunting-lodge. While I was writing the note, I was surprised at the absurd hope that it expressed, but I simply couldn’t help it. I carried the rucksack, the shotgun, the binoculars and the alpenstock. I led Bella beside me on the rope. The little bull stayed close to his mother, and I wasn’t afraid that he might run away. In any case I had ordered Lynx to keep an eye on him.
I had put the two cats in a box with air-holes, which I tied on to the rucksack. I didn’t know how else I could have transported them. They took terrible umbrage at this treatment, and cried furiously in their prison. At first Bella was a little unsettled by their caterwauling, then she got used to it and walked peacefully along by my side. I was very nervous, and afraid that either she or the bull might fall or break a leg. But the journey went better than I had imagined. After an hour the old cat acquiesced in her fate, and only Tiger’s pitiful cries echoed in my ears. Sometimes I would stop to allow the little bull to have a break, as he wasn’t used to walking. He and Bella used these respites to pull the young leaves peacefully from the trees. They were much less nervous than I was, and seemed quite happy with this expedition. I gave the persistent Tiger a good talking-to, with the sole result that the old cat started vociferating furiously again as well. So in the end I let them both go on screeching, and tried not to listen.
The path was quite well maintained, but laid in serpentine curves, and it was still four hours before our curious procession reached the pasture. It was already approaching midday. I let Bella and the bull graze beside the hut, and ordered Lynx to keep an eye on them. I was completely exhausted, less from physical effort than from nervous tension. The screeching of the cats finally became unbearable. In the hut I closed the door and the window and let out the two squallers. The old cat ran hissing under the bed, and after a last plaintive cry Tiger fled for the stove door. I tried to comfort them, but they would have nothing to do with me so I let them stay where they were. I lay down on the pallet and closed my eyes. Only after a half-hour did I feel capable of getting up and going outside. Lynx stood drinking at the stream, without taking his eyes off his charges. I praised and stroked him, and he was visibly pleased to be released from his guard duty. Bella had lain down, and the bull lay close by her side, looking so exhausted that I started to get worried again. I offered both of them a bowl of water. In future they could drink from the stream. There was no danger of their daring to wander too far away in their weary state. We had all earned a little peace. I lay down on the bed again. I had to close the hut door for the sake of the cats. Lynx had lain down under a shady bush beside the hut for a little snooze. In a few minutes I had gone to sleep too, and I slept until evening and awoke still tired and irritable. The hut was thick with dirt, and that disturbed me a great deal. It was by now too late to start spring-cleaning. So I only washed the necessary pots with the wire brush and sand, and put a little pot of potatoes on the spirit stove. Then I dismantled the bed and carted the musty pallet to the meadow and beat it with a stick. A cloud of dust arose. I couldn’t do anything more for the time being, but resolved to lay the pallet outside to air on every fine day.
The sun sank behind the spruce-trees behind the gentle grassy slopes, and it grew cool. Bella and the bull had revived, and were grazing peacefully in their new meadow. I would have liked to leave them outside overnight, but then I didn’t dare and drove them into the stable. I had no straw, and they had to sleep on the wood floor. I poured more water into the trough and then left the two of them on their own. Meanwhile the potatoes had cooked long enough, and I ate them with butter and milk. Lynx was given the same supper, and while I was eating, Tiger crept from his hiding place too, enticed by the sweet smell of milk. He drank a bit of warm milk and then, seized with curiosity, investigated everything in the hut. Just as I was opening the wardrobe he crept straight in. I think it was a stroke of luck that, in the Alm hut as well as in the hunting-lodge, there was a wardrobe in the kitchen. From that moment on Tiger came to terms with the move. He had his cupboard, and he was reconciled to life once more. He slept in it all summer long. His mother wouldn’t be enticed out from under the bed, so I put down some milk for her, washed myself in cold water at the stream and went to bed. I left the window open, and the cool air wafted over my face. I had brought only a little pillow and two woollen blankets with me, and missed my warm, soft quilt. The straw rustled beneath me, but I was still tired enough to be able to go to sleep quickly.
In the night I was woken by the moonlight falling on my face. It was all very strange, and to my astonishment I realized I was homesick for the hunting-lodge. Only when I heard Lynx snoring quietly in the stove door did my heart lighten a little, and I tried to go back to sleep, but didn’t manage to for a long time. I got up and looked under the bed. The cat wasn’t there. I looked for her all through the hut, but without success. She must have jumped out of the window while I was asleep. There was no point in calling her, she never came. I lay down again, staring at the sky, waiting for the little grey shape appear again. That made me so tired that I went back to sleep.
I was woken by Tiger taking a stroll on me and brushing my cheek with his cold nose. It wasn’t yet light, and for a few moments I was confused and couldn’t work out why my bed was the wrong way around. But Tiger was fully rested, and in the mood for a little game. Then I realized where I was, and that the old cat had run off in the night. I tried to escape back into sleep from all the unpleasantnesses of the new day. This infuriated Tiger, and he stuck his claws into the bl
anket and screeched so loudly that sleep became unthinkable. I sat up resignedly and lit the candle. It was half-past four, and the first cold glimmer of dawn mingled with the yellow candle-light. Tiger’s morning euphoria was one of his most tiresome qualities. I got up with a sigh and looked for the old cat. She hadn’t come back. Depressed, I heated up a little milk on the cooker and tried to bribe Tiger. He drank the milk, but then got into a state of cheerful frenzy and pretended he thought my ankles were big white mice that he wanted to put out of their misery. Of course it was all show; he bit and scratched, purring wildly, but without scratching my skin. But it was enough to drive the last hint of sleepiness from my mind. Lynx too had been woken by the scuffle, crept out from the stove door and barked encouragingly in accompaniment to Tiger’s mock battles. Regular sleeping-hours were unknown to Lynx; the minute I attended to him he was wide awake; if I failed to pay him attention and he couldn’t make me do so, he simply went to sleep. I couldn’t share the high spirits of the other two because I was thinking about the old cat. So I opened the door, and Lynx dashed outside while Tiger went on with his wild dancing-exercises.
The Wall Page 14