Buried in the Snow Read online

  2nd of January, 18—.

  “Louis Lopraz.”

  Jacques wept as he wrote, and at the close fell sobbing at the side of the old man.

  “Be calm, my dear child, be calm,” whispered he in gentle tones. “What our God sends must be borne without murmuring, in quiet submission. If I am separated from you, my love will remain the same.”

  Jacques endeavored to repress his grief, and in some degree recovered his composure. For several days longer the old man lived, comforting the poor lad with his presence, until he hoped with all confidence of youth that the evil day would not come, that his grandfather would recover, and regain his lost strength. The kind God would not cause him such grief and pain. He, in his infinite love and compassion, would suffer him to live until spring—would let him look once more upon the dear home in the valley.

  With such hopes the boy sustained himself, and buoyed up his sinking heart, while he prayed fervently that God, for the dear Saviour’s sake, might fulfill his ardent desires.

  The days passed away slowly: it had now been a long time since any noise from without had penetrated their seclusion: their chalet appeared to be completely buried under the snow that had fallen lately in great quantities. The iron pipe which Jacques had placed in the chimney still answered the purpose, and was the sole link that connected them with the outer world—a few flakes of snow occasionally falling through it into their chalet. These white messengers of winter were the only indications of life that reached the captives in their dark grave.

  Should the clock have stopped, they would not have known had it been morning, midday, or evening. It was solely by means of the faint glimmer of light which they saw from the top of the small iron pipe that they could distinguish day from night. On the other hand, they suffered very little from cold in their silent cave; and were able daily to renew the fresh air without risking their safety. Jacques thought if only his grandfather’s life was spared, and their provisions held out, all might yet be well.

  But God, in his inscrutable wisdom, did not so will it, and days of heavy trial awaited the poor lad in the future.

  It was now the 3rd of January: the day had almost passed away, and although the old man had but little appetite, he had not complained of pain, remaining calm and comparatively cheerful until evening. After supper, as he sat by the chimney corner to talk, as was his wont, to the lad, he suddenly turned pale as death, trembled, sank down, and would have fallen, had not Jacques quickly ran to his assistance.

  The startled boy shrieked aloud, and with a strength far beyond his years, bore him to his bed, and laid him gently down. His head and feet were cold. The blood appeared to have rushed to the heart. Jacques rubbed his hands and feet, and after a time the blood began to circulate, and consciousness returned.

  “Where am I?” he asked, opening his eyes. “On my bed?”

  “Yes, grandfather,” replied the boy. “You fainted, and I carried you here.”

  “You carried me here!” said the old man, in astonishment. “God be thanked, that, as I grow weaker, you, my child, grow stronger.”

  Jacques poured out a little wine, and insisted upon his grandfather drinking it, after which the old man felt somewhat refreshed. Soon after, he fell into a quiet sleep, while the boy kneeled beside his bed, and watched for a long time his slumber: then lying down, quiet sleep soon closed the weary eyelids of the poor child, and the night passed peacefully away.

  The following day and night brought no change. Upon the next morning the grandfather was unusually quiet. After some hours spent in deep thought, he called Jacques to him, and speaking unreservedly about the state of his health, he prayed him to await his death with composure and Christian resignation.

  “Come here, my child,” the old man said, “and sit by my side. I can no longer conceal from you that the close of my life is not very far off, and that my poor frail body will turn to dust before the hour of your rescue comes. My weakness increases so rapidly as to leave me no room for hope. I trust, and doubt not, that you will be more troubled at our separation than alarmed at your loneliness. But I have confidence in your faith in God, your strength of mind, and your love for your father, to whose arms, I feel assured, Providence will restore you. After my death, my child, you will have fewer hardships to contend with. I have been only a burden to you. And should the time come when you can leave the chalet, I will be no longer an obstacle in your way. But do not run any risk; wait patiently. A few days earlier or later will make but little difference after so long an imprisonment, and by not awaiting the right time, you may risk all. Reflect a moment, my son; your health has not suffered much. The monotony and loneliness will, perhaps, be oppressive. I know you will miss my companionship; but you must think how many prisoners are condemned to months, yes, long years of silence, who have not as you, my child, the consciousness that they suffer innocently. Pray for patient endurance, Jacques. Only one thought troubles me. I fear the effect of my death upon your nerves. When you look upon my poor body deprived of life, horror and fear, as well as grief and sorrow, will, perhaps, take hold upon your spirit. This feeling you must at once struggle to overcome. Pray earnestly against it, and it will pass away.

  “And why should you fear the remains of one so dear? Let us reason about it, Jacques. Do you fear me when I sleep? Were you afraid of me the other day when I fainted? Why, then, feel alarm when death comes? You know your dear old friend would never harm you!

  “When I am dead, Jacques, give my body to the earth. There, in the dairy, which we now never enter, dig a grave deep enough to receive it, and there lay it down, and let it rest until the spring opens and you return to the valley. Your father will then provide a coffin, and lay me in the pleasant churchyard of our village, where my father and grandfather rest in the soft slumber of death.

  “After the fulfillment of all these sorrowful duties, you will, without doubt, feel very lonely in the little chalet. You will shed many a tear; you will call, but I will not hear your voice. But, Jacques, my child, be not overcome with grief; rouse yourself from depression; struggle against it. Turn your thoughts to God—the omnipresent God. Put your trust and confidence in Him; He will be your refuge, your defense, and strength. The Lord will be thy shepherd. ‘If thou look to thyself, thou shalt be able of thyself to accomplish nothing: but if thou trust in the Lord, strength shall be given thee from heaven. Drink of the Lord’s cup with submission.’ Promise me, my son, that you will do this.’”

  The poor boy tearfully listened to these words, but the pressure of his hand assured his grandfather that he would strive to follow his instructions.

  Some days passed away in the alternations of hope and fear. The darkness appeared to oppress the old man, although he would not suffer the lamp to be burned during the day. Jacques contrived, however, a mode of economizing the oil. He made a night-light by pouring a little oil upon water, and placing upon its surface a piece of cork, through which a small wick was inserted. This substitute furnished for them a light, and at the same time consumed but little oil. It cheered his grandfather, and was a source of comfort to the boy.

  Upon the 9th of January, that which the boy had long dreaded came upon him. His grandfather, the dear companion of his trials, was, by God’s will, taken from him.

  How he bore this sorrow, as the thought of his utter loneliness pressed upon him, we can best see from extracts copied from his diary.

  “January 10th.—My God, it is thy will. I am alone with Thee; far away from all the rest of the world! Yesterday it happened….It is impossible for me to write down yet the full account of his death. My heart bleeds with anguish, and my paper is wet with my tears.

  “January 12th.—Yes, this is the 12th. Two days have elapsed since I wrote the preceding lines. My reason has returned, and God of his mercy grant that it may not again give way. Oh! if I knew not that the Lord was with me, around and about me, I would die of grief and terror.

  “January 15th.—On the evening of the 8th I was full of h
ope, for my grandfather seemed better than usual, but scarcely had I lain down beside him when I heard him sigh heavily. I sprang up, and, without delay, dressed myself, and lighted the lamp, asking him if he felt worse.

  “‘I feel faint,’ he replied; ‘as I did some days ago; or it may be…’ Here he paused.

  “‘Will you take a little milk, dear grandfather,’ I asked.

  “‘No, my child,’ he answered. ‘Get the “Imitation of Christ,” and find the passage I marked with reference to this hour.’

  “I obeyed; and, I threw myself down upon my knees, and read, with trembling voice, ‘Thine, O Lord, are all things that are in heaven and that are in earth. I offer up unto Thee all whatsoever is good in me, although it be very small and imperfect, that Thou mayest amend and sanctify it. Make it grateful and acceptable unto Thee, and bring me also, who am a slothful and unprofitable creature, to a good and blessed end….’

  “Interrupting me, he took my hands in his and prayed: ‘O Lord, my God, forgive me that I think not in this awful moment alone upon myself, but also upon this poor boy. Thou callest me to Thyself, and he will be alone. I tremble at the thought of his bitter sorrow and trial. I tremble lest his confidence in Thee should give way. O Lord, strengthen and comfort him; enable him to resign himself calmly to Thy will, and, whatever comes upon him, to endure it, for the glory of Jesus Christ: for after winter followeth summer; after night the day returneth, and after a tempest a great calm. O Lord, grant that he may be restored to his friends. I gladly submit to Thy will, and doubt not that this trial, bitter though it be, will work out for him a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. I implore Thee, dear Lord, for the salvation of his precious soul. Grant that he may be Thy child, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Amen.’

  “These were the words, as nearly as I can remember, of my poor grandfather. He spoke slowly, and in a feeble voice. At times he repeated sentences from the Bible, particularly words of our Saviour, with so much fervor and Christian resignation as almost to break my heart. A circumstance, trifling in itself, moved me greatly. Blanchette, awakened by the unaccustomed light, set up a plaintive bleat.

  “‘Poor Blanchette!’ said the old man, ‘I must caress her once more; let her loose, my child, and lead her to my bed.’

  “I did as he wished, and Blanchette, confiding and tame as she was, put her two fore feet on the edge of the bed, and begged for something to eat. I thought it would please my grandfather, so I laid a little salt in his hand, and Blanchette licked it up with delight.

  “‘Give plenty of milk, you dear, faithful creature,’ said the old man, while he continued to stroke her caressingly. Then he turned aside his head, and I led Blanchette to her manger.

  “After that he spoke but little. He whispered that I should remain at his side, with his hand in mine. I said a few affectionate words, and they appeared to give him pleasure; I therefore leaned down, and said, with all the composure I could: ‘Farewell, grandfather! Farewell—until we meet in heaven. I will not forget your injunctions, but will strive to follow them. “I believe in God the Father; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord.” Do not be troubled about me, grandfather: God will be my support; I will lean upon his strong arm!’

  “Here my poor grandfather pressed my hand, and made an effort to answer, but he could only express his joy by a sigh.

  “‘I will remember all the advice you gave me,’ I continued, ‘and neglect nothing that will tend to preserve my life, or help to deliver me from this imprisonment. Farewell, dear grandfather! In heaven you will see my dear mother, perhaps my father; tell them both I will meet you all there someday. Farewell! Farewell!’

  “I felt a tremor, a gentle tremor as I held his hand, it was the last: his dear, cold hand fell from mine. “God . . with thee, . . my child,’ he whispered—and he died, without pain, without one struggle, without one groan.

  “My most painful moments were not those first experienced. When I recovered from the stupor which his death produced, and found myself in my sad dwelling, alone with the dead body, I involuntarily shuddered, for night with her mysterious shadow had come.

  “The next morning I had so far regained composure as to wind up the clock and milk Blanchette; the cold too, reminded me that I must make the fire; then I sank into dark, gloomy thought, that lasted until evening, when a storm arose, and the wailing and roaring of its angry blasts aroused me from my stupor.

  “I was sitting in the chimney corner by the feeble glimmer of the night-light with my back turned toward the bed. I felt a sort of horror gradually creeping over me; I could no longer collect my thoughts; chill after chill ran through my frame; and I would perhaps have lost my reason through my mental anguish and terror, if God had not brought to my remembrance the words of my grandfather. I rose up and approached the bed: I looked upon his poor body; I laid my hand upon it—it was a painful moment; I repeated my look, my touch, and I felt my terror gradually subside.

  “Since that time, I have returned at intervals to the remains of the dear old man, and fulfilled for him, tranquilly and calmly, all those little services which the occasion required. His expression was so sweet and peaceful, that my tears broke forth afresh.

  “ ‘No,’ sobbed I to myself, ‘the earthly remains of my beloved grandfather shall cause me no further alarm.’

  “Notwithstanding, my fear, in some degree, returned as I prepared for sleep. At last I laid myself down by Blanchette, nestling close to her side. The warmth and her regular breathing gradually composed me, and I fell into a sound sleep. Wakening before morning, I found the light had gone out: again my heart beat with terror. Foolish child that I was! What security was this weak flame? Could it protect me, and guard me from evil? One breath could extinguish it; why did I let my calmness and self-control rest upon it? Praying to God that he would give me that peace he has promised to all that call upon him in spirit and in truth, my agitated nerves were soothed, and I slept—slept peacefully.

  “The following morning, after I had milked the goat, and finished the usual work, I calmly approached the body, and even held the dear, venerable head for several minutes. My fear vanished, but my sorrow increased. This change, however, was more natural and reasonable.

  “My thoughts were directed to the burial, and I tried to recall to my memory what my grandfather had said about it. The rest of the day I passed in sorrowful meditation, and another night I laid down beside Blanchette, and slept soundly.

  “The next morning I tried to write in my diary, but I was obliged to give it up until today, when my spirit is somewhat more peaceful and composed. My agitation and fear were gradually allayed[3] until I felt only sorrow and grief.

  “How many tears I have poured out over your body, my dear old companion! I cannot bear to think of the interment[4]. But the words of holy Scripture reprove and comfort me: ‘Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die.’

  “Taking my tools, I opened the door of the dairy. ‘Diverse callings have you to fulfill,’ said I to myself, as I stepped over the threshold. ‘First nurse, then doctor, and now grave-digger.’

  “The first strokes caused me such pain that I was obliged to cease. Not that my arms refused their service, but my spirit was faint and troubled. Anguish took hold upon me. At every blow a hollow noise reverberated, for the dairy was vaulted like a cellar. I was obliged to accustom myself to this sound, and the whole day was consumed in a work which, at other times, would scarcely have occupied me two hours. Indeed, the ground was so light and sandy that I was able to throw it out with the shovel. I made the grave very deep, for I thought, should I leave the chalet, whether to escape from its imprisonment, or to die, in either case I must, as far as lay in me, secure his dear remains from ravenous beasts. I proceeded with my work until the grave was so deep that it reached over my head.

  “The clock struck ten: the night had come, and with it dark gloomy thoughts. I had not courage to proceed with the interment, although I knew that I dared not dela
y much longer; so, cowering down near Blanchette, I put off the sorrowful duty until the following morning.

  “Strengthening myself for the painful work which lay before me, I partook of some of the bread and wine instead of my usual breakfast. Everything had been prepared the day before. Laying the body of my poor grandfather upon a plank, and binding it on with care, I cast one tender, sorrowful look upon the dear remains. The poor head inclined to one side, the hands were folded peacefully over the breast. My heart almost burst with grief, and I wept them my bitterest tears.

  “ ‘Grandfather!’ cried I, ‘you have left me all alone! You no longer hear me when I speak. Forever, ah! Eternally are your white lips sealed.’

  “I was obliged to wait some time before I was able to proceed with my work. But it must be done. Why delay it longer?

  “The body was soon beside the grave. Gently and reverently as possible I suffered to glide it down, and, seating myself near, I gave way freely to my grief. It was a long time before I could resolve to cast the first shovelful of earth into the grave. At last, seeking strength in prayer, and imploring, from a full heart, my Heavenly Father for comfort, and entire submission to his will, I rose, and covered a large linen cloth over the dear face. Soon was the sorrowful work ended. I spent the rest of the day in carving a short inscription with my knife upon a board:

  “ ‘Here rest the mortal remains of Pierre Louis Lopraz, who died in the night of the 8th-9th of January, in the arms of his grandson, Jacques Lopraz, who buried him with his own hands.’

  “I nailed the board to a stake, and planted it upon the mound, after which I closed the door and returned to the kitchen, where I now had no companion but my poor Blanchette.

  “Although I felt more composed, now that the body lay no longer upon the bed, I felt that I had not yet wholly overcome my weakness. I resolved to make daily visits to the dairy, and always without a light, praying morning or evening beside the grave. For two days I have done so, and my composure is gradually returning. But the sad thought that I am now alone, all, all alone, I cannot drive away. It pursues me all the day long.”