They say that Auerbach has thought and written much in the beautiful
Engadine,--that many of his mountain descriptions are from this grand
country. Somewhere here a seat is shown where he sits and plans and
dreams. Whether it is due to "ozone," or whatever it may be, the heart
and lungs do unusual work here, and the brain too. It would seem that
here, if anywhere, would come inspiration. And yet, when we remember
that Schiller wrote his "Wilhelm Tell" without ever seeing Switzerland,
it teaches us that wide, free genius can soar in a narrow room, and only
petty, mediocre talent is really dependent upon its surroundings.
They who view the Alps with a critic's eye say that the contours in the
Engadine are too sharply defined, the rocks too bold and rugged, the
snow too glaring white, the air too clear, the whole effect too hard and
unmanageable,--all lacking the slight haze that is necessary to a
perfect mountain view. This makes me feel very ignorant and small, for I
have not yet learned to speak with condescending approval of one
landscape, and with dignified, discriminating censure of another. And
yet I don't believe these lofty critics could have made a grander,
nobler Engadine if they had had the fashioning of it; and if Nature is
lovely in her soft, smiling scenes, in her hazes and mists and tender
lights, so is she also magnificent in her strength and rugged grandeur,
sublime in her stillness, her frozen heights, as in the Engadine. Most
unutterably impressive is she here.
And who shall say that here she does not also show us loveliness? The
Maloja Pass, for instance, that leads, in its remarkable steep, zigzag
down, down through fragrant woods, where vines and moss droop over the
rocks, till it reaches a milder temperature, and the warm breath of
Italy seems to touch your cheek. You stand high on the cliff and look
down into the valley, following every curious winding of the road till
it meets the plain, and goes off towards Chiavenna far away. When we saw
the Maloja, a group of men who looked like bandits were gathered round a
fire and a kettle where _polenta_ was cooking. The people here live on
_polenta_. It isn't at all bad. We know, because we've tasted it. We
taste everything. There is a pretty lake and a pretty waterfall here,
concealed, and well worth finding; but the particular "sight," the
especial thing you must do, is to stand on the cliff opposite the inn,
and watch the _diligence_ as it descends a thousand feet in twenty
minutes.
Behind the Kurhaus is a hill with shady seats among the trees, where you
can sit by one of those impatient, impetuous little mountain brooks that
come rushing down from the glaciers, and that act so young and excited
about everything; and while it talks to you and tells you its wild
stories and eager hopes, you say to it, "Wait till you've seen a little
more of the world, my dear, and you'll take things more quietly." And
the water tumbles and foams over the rocks, and sings strange things in
your ears, and you look off upon three peaks with their heads close
together like Michael Angelo's "Three Fates." You learn to love them
very much, and to watch their different expressions. One is greener,
softer, milder than the others. One is sharp, cruel, inflexible rock. On
one, great snow-masses forever lie in stillness, solemnity, and peace.
A little winding path by the water's edge leads to Crestalta. Here
surely it is not grand, but lovely, every inch of the way. The Inn,
which seems like an old friend now, so often has it met us in the Tyrol
days, we visit here at its birthplace, and hear its baby name, the
_Sela_, for it is not the Inn till it leaves the Lake of St. Moritz. A
coquettish, wayward, merry stream it is in its youth,--bubbling and
laughing in little falls,--stopping to rest in clear enchanted lakes,
whose depths reflect the skies and clouds and soft green banks and
Alpine cedars, then rushing on, frolicking and singing boldly as it
goes.
These are small things to do. They are for the first day, before one is
accustomed to the air here. They are for invalids who must not work for
their enjoyment. But for the strong, for the blessed ones with clear
heads and tireless feet, what is there _not_ to see that is grand and
inspiring!
O, these mountains, these magical, giant mountains! How their silence,
their vastness, their terrible beauty, speak to our restless hearts! I
can well believe that mountain races are, as it is said, deeply
superstitious, for there are times when the effect of the mighty, stern
heights is simply crushing. Old heathenish fancies, without comfort,
without hope, come to us in spite of ourselves. What are we, our poor
little life-stories, our hopes, and our heart-breakings, our wild
storms, and short, sweet, sunny days, before these cold, eternal hills?
Above their purple sublimity are cruel pagan gods, who do not hear
though we cry to them in agony. Our feet bleed. Our hearts are faint.
The chasms swallow us. Rocks crush us. Nature is a cruel, mighty tyrant,
and our enemy.
But not only thus do the mountains speak. So many voices have they! So
many songs and poems and mysteries and tragedies and glories do they
tell you! So many strong, sweet chords do they strike in your soul! Did
they crush you yesterday? Ah, how they lift you up to-day, and heal the
wounds they themselves have made, and comfort you with a sweet and noble
comfort! They tell you how little you are, but they give you a great
patience with your own littleness. They bid you look up, as they do, to
the heavens above; to stand firm, as they stand firm; to take to
yourself the beauty and the grace of passing sunshine, of bird and
flower and tree, and song of brook; to take it and rejoice and be glad
in it, though the gray, sad cliffs are not concealed, and the sorrowful
wind moans in the pines. They whisper unutterable things to you of this
mystery we call life,--things which you never, never felt before. They
fill you with infinite patience and tenderness, and send you forth to
meet your fate with the heart of a hero. Ah, what a pity it is that we
must ever leave the mountains; and what a pity it is that, if we should
remain, the mountains might leave us,--might speak less to us, sustain
and elevate us less! And yet it does not seem as if a heart that had a
spark of reverence in it could ever grow too familiar with such majesty.
From St. Moritz it is not easy to say what excursion or mountain tramp
is the most enjoyable, but, if I were positively obliged to give my
opinion, I think it would be in favor of the Bernina Pass and Palue
Glacier. You go first to Pontresina,--a place, by the way, especially
liked and frequented by the English. With the mountains crowding round
it, and its glimpse of the Roseg Glacier, it is certainly very
beautiful. Samaden, Pontresina, and St. Moritz have rival claims and
rival champions. St. Moritz is, however, to us indisputably superior.
Not that we love Pontresina less, but that we love St. Moritz more.
On this road the superb Morteratsch Glacier greets you, imbedded between
Piz Chalchang and Mont Pers, and you see the whole Bernina group. The
Morteratsch Glacier has beautiful blue ice-caves, real ones, not
artificial as in Interlaken.
From Pontresina you go higher and higher to the Bernina hospice, two
thousand feet above St. Moritz. Here, side by side, are two small lakes,
the Lago Nero and the Lago Bianco. The "white" lake, coming from the
glaciers, is the lightest possible grayish-green, and the dark one is
spring water, and looks purplish-blue beside it. It is strange to think
how far apart the waters of the sister lakes flow,--the Lago Nero into
the Inn, so to the Danube and Black Sea, while the Lago Bianco, through
the Adda, finds its way to the Adriatic.
To the hospice you can ride, but after that you must walk over rough
rocks and snow, and past pools where feathery white flowers stand up
straight on tall, slight, stiff stalks, like proud, shy girls, and at
last you are at the Alp Gruem, where wonderful things lie before your
eyes. The magnificent Palue Glacier is separated from you only by a
narrow valley. You stand before it as the sun pours down on its vast
whiteness, and on the mountain range in which it lies. Far below in the
ravine the road goes winding away to Italy, past the villages of
Poschiavo and Le Prese: above, the eternal snows; below, the soft,
blooming valley, lovely as a smile of Spring, and in the distance even a
hint of sunny Italy, for you gaze afar off upon its mountains wistfully,
and feel like Moses looking into the Promised Land.
Everywhere are the brave little Alpine flowers. They are very dear, and
one learns to feel a peculiar tenderness towards them, as well as to be
astonished at their variety and abundance. There are many tiny ones
whose names I do not know, but their little star-faces smile at you from
amazingly rough, high places.
About the Edelweiss much fiction has been written. It is true that it
often grows in rather inaccessible spots, but it is not at all necessary
to peril one's life in order to pluck it; and we must regretfully
abandon the pretty, old legend that the bold mountaineer, when he brings
the flower to his sweetheart, gives her also the proof of his valor and
devotion, and his willingness to risk all for her dear sake. It is
interesting and exciting to find these flowers,--they do grow at a noble
height,--and here in the Engadine, at this season, and in this vicinity,
they are rare. But, sweethearts, of all ages, sexes, and conditions, who
will shortly receive from me Edelweiss in letters, do not be
disappointed to hear that, though my hands were full to overflowing, I
plucked them in gay security, with my feet on firm ground; and there was
only one single place where it wasn't pleasant to look down, or, to be
more impressive, where a yawning abyss threatened to ingulf me.
The Edelweiss is certainly very good to find and send home in a letter,
it is so suggestive of dangerous cliffs, horrible ravines, and immense
daring, as well as telling very sweetly its little story of blooming in
lonely beauty on the high Alps; but that any especial valor is required
to obtain it, is, if the truth be told, a mere fable.
And the last grain of romance vanishes when we hear that shrewd guides
bring the flowers down from their own heights, and set them in the path
of enthusiastic but not high-climbing ladies, who in their delight are
wildly lavish of fees. The Devil can quote Scripture for his purpose,
and the pure, precious little flower can be used as a trap by mercenary
man.