42 
Frau Grizzel
Even in the midst of her own melancholy, Amanda had noticed that Frau Grizzel was noticeably absent from the chalet Christmas party. For several days following, her thoughts continued to turn toward the grumpy old woman she had met in the village. Maybe, she thought, she could try to cheer her up. No one ought to be miserable at Christmastime.
The day after Sister Gretchen—the last of the chalet’s departing sisters—was gone, Amanda set off for the village with a parcel of fresh cookies, bread, and some Christmas candy.
Her own spirits brightened considerably as she walked. The mere resolution to try to do something for someone else took her mind off her own troubles. But the closer she got to Frau Grizzel’s run-down cottage, the weaker her knees began to feel and the slower her step.
But there was no turning back, she told herself as she made her way up the walkway. She must not lose heart now. Amanda stopped, drew in a last breath of courage, then timidly knocked on the door.
Inside she heard nothing. She waited for what must have been a whole long minute in silence. Suddenly the door slowly creaked open to a distance of about six inches. Out of the black void peered a wrinkled old face, out of the middle of which glared two mean-looking eyes. The mouth displayed no sign of intended movement. The eyes, however, roved up and down skeptically over the unwelcome visitor who had interrupted their solitary misery.
“Hello,” said Amanda, “I don’t know if you remember me. I saw you just down the street there several weeks ago. My name is Amanda. I live up at the chalet. I brought you a loaf of stollen and some other sweets. I wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.”
“Christmas, bah!” retorted the old woman, her lips springing into action and her eyes narrowing as they stared out of the opening, which did not widen a millimeter. “What happiness does Christmas have for one like me whose family has left her?”
“I . . . I’m sorry . . .” stammered Amanda. “I didn’t—”
“Go away, girl,” interrupted the woman.
“I just thought you might like—”
“Take someone else your alms. I don’t need them.”
“But, please—”
“Wait till you’re my age, little girl! You’ll see what old age brings them as has no family, whose loved ones are gone and care for them no more.”
The words sent a pang into Amanda’s heart. The next sound she heard was of the door slamming in her face.
Saddened, she turned to walk away. She paused at the street still holding her parcel, then turned in the direction of Herr Buchmann’s cottage. How very different was the answer to the knock she gave upon his door a minute or two later.
“Amanda, my dear!” exclaimed the bookman, the very whiskers of his beard seeming to come alive from the smile radiating out from the center of it. “How delightful to see you again. Please come in!”
“Would you like some Christmas bread and sweets?” said Amanda as she followed him inside.
“What a thoughtful thing—why, thank you!”
This time Herr Buchmann closed the door behind them and offered Amanda a chair in his front sitting room rather than proceeding straight to the library.
“Actually,” said Amanda shyly, setting the parcel down on a low table in front of her host, “I came to the village intending these things for Frau Grizzel. But she shut her door in my face. So I didn’t really bake them just for you.”
“You are a straightforward young woman as well as thoughtful!” laughed Herr Buchmann. “Believe me, I am not insulted in the least. I shall appreciate the goodies no less for being secondhand gifts. You may recall, I am fond of secondhand things!”
“I think I remember!” laughed Amanda. “Books at the top of the list.”
“Right you are, my dear!”
“I had hoped that Frau Grizzel would see my gift as a gesture of friendship,” said Amanda. “She seems so sad and lonely.”
“Many have tried,” said Herr Buchmann sadly, “including myself and all the dear sisters of the chalet. But the poor woman is so consumed by her bitter and unforgiving spirit, she will let nothing in—not gifts, not flowers, not smiles, not a kind word.”
“Was she always like this?” asked Amanda.
“Actually no,” answered the former schoolmaster. “It is the most curious thing. She used to be one of the most highly thought of ladies in all Wengen, with a happy family and children the entire village enjoyed. They were all pupils of mine.”
“What happened?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Her husband died some years ago. But she seemed to handle his passing with the special strength given to women for such occasions. At least I saw no immediate change. One by one her children all left. I don’t know when the sourness of her present disposition began, or why. I suspect creeping resentments gradually got the best of her—although concerning what I haven’t an idea. They are like that, you know—unseen resentments that prowl around in the hidden places and dark shadows within us. They can take us over if we do not conquer them. Obviously poor Frau Grizzel did not root them out, so they grew and grew in her mind, and gradually conquered her.”
“It is so sad. Why would anyone want to be so miserable?”
“There is a certain pleasure the soul takes in self-centered misery,” answered Herr Buchmann. “Wallowing in such gloom is easier for some people than swallowing their pride over some assumed offense they have been dealt by another, or by life’s circumstances, or by God himself. Many sad souls find it a better thing to remain angry and unforgiving than to lay down the offense and let forgiveness wash their soul with the sweet-smelling water of God’s roses and violets and hyacinths. I don’t understand it myself, but I see many who are the sad victims of their own pride. It seems to be a disease especially lethal among the aged.”
“Do you really think so?” said Amanda. “It seems to me that young people are more foolish and prone to—”
Suddenly she stopped. Where had such a thought come from! She had been about to land the implication of her own observation straight down on her own head.
If Herr Buchmann suspected the truth about her sudden silence, he gave nothing away by his expression.
“I admit,” he said, “that there is a foolishness in the heart of the youth that later years do tend to cure. However, the foolishness of old age is sadly one for which there seems no cure but death. My own theory is that old age brings to the surface what has been invisibly growing from thousands of hidden seeds one has been planting in the garden of his or her own heart all their lives, either seeds of sweetness and graciousness, or seeds of irritability and grumpiness. As life slows down, those seeds sprout for all the world to see.”
“It is a fascinating theory,” said Amanda.
“It answers the curiosity,” Herr Buchmann went on, “that old age seems to make some people sweeter and others more crotchety. The sad truth is, Amanda, my dear, many people are not able to see the character traits they are building within themselves day after day, year after year. Then they grow old. Some of the natural defenses and barriers of personality fall away, the second childhood of life comes, and suddenly blossoms a lifetime’s character patch of ugly weeds, or a nicely trimmed garden of sweet-smelling flowers. You are young, Amanda, so take care what you plant, because you will reap your own harvest in the end. But come,” he added, rising, “enough of all this serious talk. I want to show you a book that came into my hands just a few days ago, an absolute treasure. I think you might like to read it.”
Only too glad to avoid any further conversation in the direction this one had been going, Amanda jumped up and followed him through the cottage toward the Buchmann library.