Ludmila by Paul Gallico. Part 3.
Watch on KineScope.
It was in the late summer of the year 1823; the herds were still pasturing in the Malbun and Saminatals, but the nights were already growing cool so that their days amidst the rich Alpine grass were numbered and the time of their annual descent into the Rheintal was not far off.
The setting sun had turned the blue sky a brilliant orange, then soft pink merging to pearl; the plum velvet of night had come out of the east, spangled with stars. The cattle were stamping and lowing softly in the stables nearby. The milking done, the herdsmen and dairymen gathered about the fire which the crisp air made weleome.
Father Polda had walked up from his little chapel in Steg, as was his nightly custom, to sit and talk with the men and their families, for it was mostly under the sun and the stars that he preached, or sought the God that he served.
Alois, the chief herdsman, wrapping his cloak around him, arose and awakened the echoes with the mournful cry of the ancient Ave he sent aloft each night:
“O-ho! O-ho! A-ve! Ave Maria!”
From the shadowed figures of the herders and dairymen around the fire arose the words and simple melody of the evensong of the herdsmen:
God, the Father, Creator of Heaven and earth,
Give us your blessing, Watch o’er our hearth,
Dearly beloved Mary and your dearly beloved Son,
Let your protecting mantle spread o’er every one,
St. Peter, Thou watchman at Heaven’s gate,
Shield us from savage beasts; in Thy hands our fate.
The song swelled louder to include all the saints, Theodul, Rocchus, Wendelin and Veit, Sebastian and St. Cyprian, each of whom had particular duties to protect them from the manifold dangers of the mountains, beasts of prey, witches, evil spirits, avalanches of rock and snow, the claws of the bear, the fangs of the wolf, the pounce of the lynx, the poisonous breath and the stinging tail of the dragon.
And of course there was Ludmila, die heilige Notburga, to whom they sang:
Sainted Ludmila, milkmaid without blame,
Make flow rich milk in Holy Maria’s name,
Fill every udder; speak thy word,
To grace our beasts and bless our herd…
Father Polda smiled in the darkness. None of the saints had been left out. A big, generous man, he was meticulous with regard to the catalogue of the holy, and even though those whose duty it was to deal with witches and dragons might be thought to have been outmoded by the modernity that was coming to the mountains, he was glad they were still included for politeness’ sake and memory of past favors, if nothing else.
Father Polda was a man of great and simple faith who believed in intercession, the force of prayer, and miracles, as opposed to chief herdsman Alois, who though professing belief, was hardheaded and as might be expected of one who lived out in the open and dealt with kine, practical and unsentimental.
Father Polda said: “It has been a good summer—the holy Notburga has done her work well—“
Alois grunted in the dark and lit his long curved pipe until the sparks flew. “There has been plenty of rain, which has made the pasturage rich and the yield good,” he said. “It will be better than last year.”
“Thanks be to God and Saint Ludmila who has interceded for us.”
Alois grunted again. “Saint Ludmila has not been of much help to Johann Vospelt’s weakling. Her yield is far below average. He was cheated when he bought that one.”
“Ah,” said Father Polda. “The little one with the white muzzle and the ribs showing. It is a pity. Johann needs the money. He has not been well. He has a wife and small child. They spent all their savings to buy the cow.”
“She is hardly worth taking to pasture,” Alois declared. “She costs more than she can repay. Vospelt would be better off to butcher and sell her. She could not even feed her calf properly. But how about Schädler’s Luzerner champion, who has enough over for a dozen such? There is a beast for you. Butter fat 12 per cent, second yield of cream after the first is skimmed, and cheeses that weigh like stones.” He puffed at his pipe a moment and added:
“There is no animal in the herd that can touch her. She is practically certain to lead the procession for the second year for there is hardly more than a week left.”
Father Polda did not reply at once, but sat hugging his knees under the black cassock, a huge lump of a man crouched by the fireside looking up into the starry sky behind which were all his friends, and reflecting. Finally he said in a voice that was singularly soft and gentle to emerge from such a giant:
“How unhappy the little Weakling must be. How miserable and wretched. I shall say a prayer for her.”
Alois turned and stared at the priest over his pipe. “An animal has no feelings. Pray that Johann Vospelt gets rid of her before she costs him more than she has already.”
But Father Polda was right, and Alois was wrong.