The Man and the Mountain Page #4

"The Man and the Mountain" by Bret Harte is a short story that explores themes of solitude, nature, and the human spirit. Set against the backdrop of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the narrative follows a solitary miner who embodies the rugged individualism of the American West. Through encounters with nature and other characters, Harte delves into the complexities of loneliness, aspiration, and the search for meaning in an untamed landscape. The story captures the stark beauty of the wilderness while highlighting the inner struggles of its protagonist, ultimately reflecting on the relationship between humanity and the natural world.

• Short story

								

to have it in a lump sum that he might astonish his family on his
return. His eyes were still weak, his memory feeble; only his great
physical strength remained through his long illness. A few sympathizing
travelers furnished him the means to reach his native village, many
miles away. He found his family had heard of the loss of the Englishman
and the guides, and had believed he was one of them. Already he was
forgotten.

"Ven you vos once peliefed to be det," said Rutli, after a philosophic
pause and puff, "it vos not goot to ondeceif beoples. You oopset
somedings, soomdimes always. Der hole dot you hef made in der grount,
among your frients and your family, vos covered up alretty. You are
loocky if you vill not fint some vellars shtanding upon id! My frent,
ven you vos DINK det, SHTAY det, BE det, and you vill lif happy!"

"But your sweetheart?" I said eagerly.

A slight gleam of satire stole into Rutli's light eyes. "My sweetheart,
ven I vos dinks det, is der miller engaged do bromply! It is mooch
better dan to a man dot vos boor and plint and grazy! So! Vell, der next
day I pids dem goot-py, und from der door I say, 'I am det now; but ven
I next comes pack alife, I shall dis village py! der lants, der houses
all togedders. And den for yourselluffs look oudt!'"

"Then that's your revenge? That is what you really intend to do?" I
said, half laughing, yet with an uneasy recollection of his illness and
enfeebled mind.

"Yes. Look here! I show you somedings." He opened a drawer of his desk
and took out what appeared to be some diagrams, plans, and a small
water-colored map, like a surveyor's tracing. "Look," he said, laying
his finger on the latter, "dat is a map from my fillage. I hef myselluff
made it out from my memory. Dot," pointing to a blank space, "is der
mountain side high up, so far. It is no goot until I vill a tunnel make
or der grade lefel. Dere vas mine fader's house, dere vos der church,
der schoolhouse, dot vos de burgomaster's house," he went on, pointing
to the respective plots in this old curving parallelogram of the
mountain shelf. "So was the fillage when I leave him on the 5th of
March, eighteen hundred and feefty. Now you shall see him shoost as I
vill make him ven I go back." He took up another plan, beautifully
drawn and colored, and evidently done by a professional hand. It was
a practical, yet almost fairylike transformation of the same spot!
The narrow mountain shelf was widened by excavation, and a boulevard
stretched on either side. A great hotel, not unlike the one in which we
sat, stood in an open terrace, with gardens and fountains--the site of
his father's house. Blocks of pretty dwellings, shops, and cafes filled
the intermediate space. I laid down the paper.

"How long have you had this idea?"

"Efer since I left dere, fifteen years ago."

"But your father and mother may be dead by this time?"

"So, but dere vill be odders. Und der blace--it vill remain."

"But all this will cost a fortune, and you are not sure"--

"I know shoost vot id vill gost, to a cend."

"And you think you can ever afford to carry out your idea?"

"I VILL affort id. Ven you shall make yet some moneys and go to Europe,
you shall see. I VILL infite you dere first. Now coom and look der house
around."

*****

I did NOT make "some moneys," but I DID go to Europe. Three years after
this last interview with Rutli I was coming from Interlaken to Berne
by rail. I had not heard from him, and I had forgotten the name of his
village, but as I looked up from the paper I was reading, I suddenly
recognized him in the further end of the same compartment I occupied.
His recognition of me was evidently as sudden and unexpected. After our
first hand-grasp and greeting, I said:--

"And how about our new village?"

"Dere is no fillage."

"What! You have given up the idea?"

"Yes. There is no fillage, olt or new."

"I don't understand."

He looked at me a moment. "You have not heard?"

"No."

He gently picked up a little local guidebook that lay in my lap, and
turning its leaves, pointed to a page, and read as follows:--

"5 M. beyond, the train passes a curve R., where a fine view of the lake
may be seen. A little to the R. rises the steep slopes of the ----, the
scene of a terrible disaster. At three o'clock on March 5, 1850, the
little village of ----, lying midway of the slope, with its population
of 950 souls, was completely destroyed by a landslip from the top of
the mountain. So sudden was the catastrophe that not a single escape
is recorded. A large portion of the mountain crest, as will be observed
when it is seen in profile, descended to the valley, burying the
unfortunate village to a depth variously estimated at from 1000 ft.
to 1800 ft. The geological causes which produced this extraordinary
displacement have been fully discussed, but the greater evidence points
to the theory of subterranean glaciers. 5 M. beyond ---- the train
crosses the R. bridge."

I laid down the guide-book in breathless astonishment.

"And you never heard of this in all these years?"

"Nefer! I asked no questions, I read no pooks. I have no ledders from
home."

"And yet you"--I stopped, I could not call him a fool; neither could
I, in the face of his perfect composure and undisturbed eyes, exhibit
a concern greater than his own. An uneasy recollection of what he
confessed had been his mental condition immediately after his accident
came over me. Had he been the victim of a strange hallucination
regarding his house and family all these years? Were these dreams of
revenge, this fancy of creating a new village, only an outcome of
some shock arising out of the disaster itself, which he had long since
forgotten?

He was looking from the window. "Coom," he said, "ve are near der blace.
I vill show id to you." He rose and passed out to the rear platform.
We were in the rear car, and a new panorama of the lake and mountains
flashed upon us at every curve of the line. I followed him. Presently
he pointed to what appeared to be a sheer wall of rock and stunted
vegetation towering two or three thousand feet above us, which started
out of a gorge we were passing. "Dere it vos!" he said. I saw the vast
stretch of rock face rising upward and onward, but nothing else. No
debris, no ruins, nor even a swelling or rounding of the mountain flank
over that awful tomb. Yet, stay! as we dashed across the gorge, and the
face of the mountain shifted, high up, the sky-line was slightly broken
as if a few inches, a mere handful, of the crest was crumbled away. And
then--both gorge and mountain vanished.

I was still embarrassed and uneasy, and knew not what to say to this man
at my side, whose hopes and ambition had been as quickly overthrown and
buried, and whose life-dream had as quickly vanished. But he himself,
taking his pipe from his lips, broke the silence.

"It vos a narrow esgabe!"

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