In the Pragerhut I found mountain comfort. There were bunks along the
wall of the guest-room, with plenty of blankets. There was good store of
eggs, canned meats, and nourishing black bread. The friendly goats came
bleating up to the door at nightfall to be milked. And in charge of
all this luxury there was a cheerful peasant-wife with her brown-eyed
daughter, to entertain travellers. It was a pleasant sight to see them,
as they sat down to their supper with my guide; all three bowed their
heads and said their "grace before meat," the guide repeating the longer
prayer and the mother and daughter coming in with the responses. I went
to bed with a warm and comfortable feeling about my heart. It was a good
ending for the day. In the morning, if the weather remained clear, the
alarm-clock was to wake us at three for the ascent to the summit.
But can it be three o'clock already. The gibbous moon still hangs in the
sky and casts a feeble light over the scene. Then up and away for the
final climb. How rough the path is among the black rocks along the
ridge! Now we strike out on the gently rising glacier, across the crust
of snow, picking our way among the crevasses, with the rope tied about
our waists for fear of a fall. How cold it is! But now the gray light
of morning dawns, and now the beams of sunrise shoot up behind the
Glockner, and now the sun itself glitters into sight. The snow grows
softer as we toil up the steep, narrow comb between the Gross-Venediger
and his neighbour the Klein-Venediger. At last we have reached our
journey's end. See, the whole of the Tyrol is spread out before us in
wondrous splendour, as we stand on this snowy ridge; and at our feet the
Schlatten glacier, like a long, white snake, curls down into the valley.
There is still a little peak above us; an overhanging horn of snow
which the wind has built against the mountain-top. I would like to stand
there, just for a moment. The guide protests it would be dangerous, for
if the snow should break it would be a fall of a thousand feet to the
glacier on the northern side. But let us dare the few steps upward.
How our feet sink! Is the snow slipping? Look at the glacier! What is
happening? It is wrinkling and curling backward on us, serpent-like. Its
head rises far above us. All its icy crests are clashing together like
the ringing of a thousand bells. We are falling! I fling out my arm
to grasp the guide--and awake to find myself clutching a pillow in the
bunk. The alarm-clock is ringing fiercely for three o'clock. A driving
snow-storm is beating against the window. The ground is white. Peer
through the clouds as I may, I cannot even catch a glimpse of the
vanished Gross-Venediger.
1892.