Johanna Spyri - Heidi

‘No, not any more.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Why have you stopped?’

‘It’s no use,’ Heidi told her. ‘God didn’t hear me and I daresay that if all the people in Frankfurt pray for things at the same time, He can’t notice everybody and I’m sure He didn’t hear me.’

‘Why are you so sure?’

‘I prayed the same prayer every day for a long time and nothing happened.’

‘It isn’t quite like that, Heidi. God is a loving Father to us all and knows what is good for us. If we ask for something it isn’t right for us to have, He won’t give it to us, but in His own good time, if we go on praying and trust in Him, He’ll find us something better. You can be sure it’s not that He didn’t hear your prayer, for He can listen to everybody at once. That’s part of the wonder of it. You must have asked for something He thought you ought not to have at present and probably said to himself, “Heidi’s prayer shall be answered but only at the right moment so that she will really be happy. If I answer it now perhaps later on she’ll wish she hadn’t asked for it, because things may not turn out as she expects.” He has been watching over you all this time — never doubt that — but you have stopped praying, and that showed you did not really believe in Him. If you go on like that, God will let you go your own way. Then if things go wrong and you complain that there’s no one to help you, you will really have only yourself to blame, because you will have turned your back on the one Person who could really help you. Do you want that to happen, Heidi, or will you go now at once and ask God to forgive you and help you to find more faith, to help you to go on praying every day, and to trust Him to make things come right for you in the end?’

Heidi had listened very carefully to all this. She had great confidence in Grandmamma and wanted to remember everything she said, and at the end she cried, penitently:

‘I will go at once and ask God to forgive me and I’ll never forget Him again.’

‘That’s a good girl.’

Heidi went to her own room then, much encouraged, and begged God not to forget her but to give her His blessing.

The day of Grandmamma’s departure was a sad one for Clara and Heidi, but she managed to keep them happy right up to the moment when she drove off in the carriage. It was only when the sounds of the wheels died away, and the house was so quiet and empty, that the children felt quite forlorn and did not know what to do with themselves.

Next evening Heidi came into the study carrying her book and said to Clara, ‘I’ll read to you a lot now, if you’d like me to.’ Clara thanked her, and Heidi began the little task she had taken on herself with enthusiasm. But all did not go smoothly, for the story she had chosen proved to be about a dying grandmother. It was too much for Heidi who burst into tears and sobbed, ‘Grannie is dead.’ Everything she read was so real to her that she was firmly convinced that it was Peter’s Grannie in the story.

‘Now I shall never see her again,’ she wept, ‘and she never had one of the nice white rolls.’

Clara had great difficulty in persuading her that the story was about quite another grandmother, and even when she began to understand that, she was not comforted for it had made her realize that Peter’s Grannie might really die, and her grandfather too, while she was so far away, and that if she did not go home for a long time, she might arrive to find everything changed and her loved ones gone for ever.

Miss Rottenmeier came into the room during this scene, and as Heidi went on crying, she looked at her very impatiently and said, ‘Adelheid, stop howling like that and listen to me. If I ever hear you making such a to‐do again while you’re reading to Clara, I’ll take the book away from you and you shan’t have it again.’

This threat had an immediate effect, for the book was Heidi’s greatest treasure. She turned quite pale, quickly dried her eyes, and stifled her sobs. She never wept again after that, no matter what she read, but the effort it cost her sometimes produced such queer grimaces that Clara was quite astonished. ‘I’ve never seen anything like the faces you’re making,’ she used to say. But at least Miss Rottenmeier did not notice anything, and once Heidi had got over one of her spells of sadness, everything would go smoothly for a time.

Her appetite did not improve, however, and she looked very thin and peaky. It quite upset Sebastian at mealtimes to see her refuse even the most delicious things. As he handed them to her, he would sometimes whisper, ‘Just try some of this, Miss, it’s so good. That’s not enough. Here, take another spoonful.’ But all in vain. She ate hardly anything. And when she was in bed and all the well‐loved scenes of home came before her eyes, she cried and cried, until her pillows were quite wet.

Time went by, but in the town Heidi scarcely knew whether it was winter or summer. The walls and houses, which were all she could see from the windows, always looked the same, and now she only went out‐of‐doors when Clara was feeling well enough for a drive. Even then they saw nothing but bricks and mortar, for Clara could not stand a long excursion and they only drove round the neighbouring streets, where they saw plenty of people and beautiful houses, but not a blade of grass or a flower or a tree, and no mountains. Heidi’s homesickness grew on her from day to day, till just reading the name of some well‐loved object was enough to bring tears to her eyes, though she would not let them fall.

Autumn and winter passed and the bright sunlight shining again on the white walls of the house opposite set Heidi guessing that soon Peter would be taking the goats up to pasture again, and that all the flowers would be in bloom and the mountains ablaze with light each evening. When she was in her own room, she used to sit with her hands over her eyes to shut out the town sunshine, and would stay like that, forcing back her overwhelming homesickness until Clara wanted her again.

Strange things began to happen in that house in Frankfurt. Miss Rottenmeier had taken to wandering silently about it, deep in thought; and if she had to go from one room to another or along the passages after dark, she often looked over her shoulder or peered into corners, as if afraid that someone might creep out of the shadow, and pluck at her skirt. If she had to go upstairs to the richly furnished guest‐rooms or down to the great drawing‐room, in which footsteps echoed at the best of times and where old councillors in stiff white collars stared out from the portraits on the walls, she always made Tinette go with her — in case there should be anything to carry up or down. Strange to say, Tinette behaved in much the same way. If she had to go to those rooms, she got Sebastian to go with her, on the same pretext of helping to carry something. And Sebastian seemed also to feel the same way. If he was sent into any of the unused rooms, he called John the coachman and asked him to go too — in case he could not manage the job alone. And everyone did as they were asked and went along too, without any fuss, though their help was never really needed. It looked as if they all thought that they might want assistance themselves some time. Down in the kitchen things were no better. The old cook, who had been there a long time, stood by her saucepans, shaking her head and muttering, ‘That I should live to see such goings on.’

The reason for all this uneasiness was that for some time past the servants had been finding the front door wide open every morning when they came down, but there was never anything to show who had opened it. For the first day or two the house had been thoroughly searched to see whether anything had been stolen, for it was thought a burglar might have hidden himself during the day and made off with his booty during the night. However, nothing was missing. Then they double‐locked the front door and bolted it every night, but still they found it wide open in the morning, no matter how early the servants came down.