Ludmila by Paul Gallico. Part 2.
Watch on KineScope.
The peasants come from miles around to gather at Gnalp, below the Kulm at the mouth of the tunnel. From Triesen, Vaduz, Balzers, and Schaan, in the Rheintal below, the citizens climb the mountain, lining the winding roads, to cheer and wave to the returning wanderers, crowding as close as possible to see which and whose cow will be the first to emerge from the tunnel, leading all the rest as signal of her championship.
The Abfahrt or descent takes place in the early morning with the sun shining over the Rheintal, warming the first nip in the clear mountain air. At first there is only the eager chatter of the citizens as they wait, the cries of children at play, and the distant rush of mountain torrents. But then as a deep, hollow booming is heard from the dark recesses of the tunnel, an expectant hush falls upon the waiting throng. It is the sound of the giant bell of black metal, cast especially for this occasion, and hung around the neck of the leading animal.
Louder and louder grows the clanging as the herd approaches, stiller and stiller the people, until with all the drama of a star actor suddenly bursting upon the stage, the champion of champions emerges into the light and stands for a moment, framed by the dark mouth of the tunnel.
She presents a strange and beautiful sight. Around her soft, fawn-colored neck suspended from a shining dark leather collar hangs the huge copper bell decorated on all sides with silver hearts and stars and fitted with a silver clapper. This with her position as leader of the procession confirms her as best cow of the high pastures, best cow of the summer, best beast in the land.
On her forehead she wears a crimson heart or cross to indicate her milk or cream has passed the average. But most striking of all, revealing her as first in her herd in yield of milk, butter, and cheese, her one-legged milking stool has been affixed to the broad and noble head between the graceful sweep of the horns.
It is tied there upside down like the gay hat of a maid in spring, beribboned with streamers of the red and blue of Liechtenstein, crimson and white, silver and gold. A wreath fashioned of laurel leaves is woven about her head; cockades of red, white, and blue are at her ears, bunches of meadow flowers make gay the leather of her collar.
One can only gaze at her with astonishment and admiration, for her simple, unobtrusive, natural beauty has been enhanced a hundredfold.
The procession winds out of the long tunnel and down the mountainside, the champions, the next best, the winners in minor classes, each with heart or cross, or milking stool bound upside down between her horns, then the horses garlanded and bedecked, drawing the family carts, the herdsmen and dairymen wearing rosettes of colored ribbon on their shirts and crimson and azure cockades in their hats, bearing signs “All of us are returning.” The signs too are cheered. No accidents, no illnesses, no deaths. God has been good. Saint Rocchus and Saint Ludmila, the holy Notburga, have watched over them and kept them from harm. Another year has passed. In the flower-garlanded carts the fat tubs of butter and the cheeses piled high like red and yellow cannon balls denote prosperity and the wealth that the Creator, through nature, has seen fit to bestow upon his children.
And last of all, seemingly shamefaced, sad-eyed as though they knew that they had failed, without insignia, or touch of color at horns or flank, unattended except for the work dogs yapping at their heels and the herdsman’s apprentice bringing up the rear, come those animals of more common breed or less energy, who have failed to distinguish themselves in the production of milk, or the percentage of butter fat in their cream, or good solid proteins in the cannon-ball cheeses.
From their unhappy expressions you would almost swear they knew they were inferior.
By the time they emerge from the tunnel there is no one left to greet them, or even notice them; the crowds have gone off down the mountain, accompanying the colorful cavalcade of the successful beasts, leaving the others to bring up the rear as best they may.
It is a day of excitement, rejoicing, and felicitation, with the owners of the winners crowding the cafés and opening bottles of red Vaduzer wine to the herdsmen and dairymen. It is a great occasion for the winners.
No longer in the general rejoicing and carousing incident to this harvest ceremony is much thought directed toward the holy Notburga, that fourteenth-century milkmaid and simple serving girl who because of her piety, faith, and devotion to the Virgin Mary, became a saint under her given name of Ludmila, devoted to the care of Alpine cattle and their herdsmen.
The skiers returning in the winter at dusk from the slopes of Malbun throw her hardly a glance, and the Ave that once used to be sung to her nightly by the herdsmen is now locked between the covers of a book instead of in the hearts of the people.It was different in the old days, before belief in miracles, magic, and all the magical creatures that once inhabited the glens, ravines, and dark forests went from the mountains.
Nature spoke more vividly to the people than it does today.
In those times there were still witches, elves, kobolds, and little hairy wild men, good and evil fairies and saints that took on human guise and came down from Heaven to assist the pious or punish the wicked. Werewolves roamed the slopes and the scaly dragon with poisonous breath and deadly sting inhabited the rocky caverns. Even the great eagles perched on lofty crags, peering down in search of the whistling marmots, were regarded with superstition.
It was just at the end of this period and the beginning of modern times, so say the old men who remember this bit as told by their mothers, or that version handed down in an old mountain song, along with some yellowed sheets of notes left by Father Polda in the tiny chapel at
Steg, that the strange affair of the little weakling cow who was deemed good for nothing took place.
Perhaps it was not exactly as I am about to recount, for more than a century has gone by since these events happened, and the skull of the Weakling, as she was known, has weathered snow white at the feet of Saint Ludmila, where she stands benignly smiling in her niche. But the last time I visited her shrine I made my peace with her and asked in advance to be forgiven if I err. The expression carved on her countenance seemed to me tender and reassuring as though she knew that I too love these gentle and generous animals and have tried to do my best by one of them.