AMONG THE EVERLASTING HILLS.
The quaint inn.--The Falls of the Sallenches, and
the Gorge de Trient.--Shopping in a Swiss
village.--A mule ride to Chamouni.--Peculiarities
of the animals.--Entrance to the
village.--Egyptian mummies lifted from the
mules.--Rainy days.--Chamois.--The Mer de
Glace.--"Look out of your window."--Mont
Blanc.--Sallenches.--A diligence ride to
Geneva.--Our little old woman.--The clownish
peasant.--The fork in the road.--"Adieu."
OUR hotel here at Martigny, was even more suggestive of romance than the
one at Brieg. It had been a monastery, and was an old, yellow-washed
structure facing the street, with a rambling garden surrounded by high
walls, clinging to it in the rear. Low, dark rooms, with bare, unpainted
floors, like the waves of the sea in smoothness, were given to some of
our party, while Mrs. K. and I were consigned again, with singular
appropriateness, to what had been the chapel. Its windows overlooked the
straggling, half-dead trees, and bare, hard-baked earth of the open
space before the door, which was always being crossed by strings of
mules ornamented with bright saddle-cloths, and still further with the
ubiquitous tourist arrayed in every known costume of the period.
Village girls, too, passed under the trees, knitting as they went, and
horrible creatures afflicted with the _goitre_--that curse of this
region--which we met at every turn now.
To gain the long, low refectory where we dined, or to pass from one room
to another, necessitated crossing the brick-paved cloisters, upon which
all the doors of the second story opened. Here a row of columns
encircled a narrow, inner court-yard--so narrow as to be nothing more
than a slit in the walls, yet wide enough to allow the shimmering
sunlight to drop down upon the vines twined around the columns, and
light the whole dingy interior into a weird, strange beauty.
We rode out to the Falls of the Sallenches,--one of the mist veils left
hanging from many of these Swiss mountains by the water-sprites,--and
penetrated the Gorge de Trient upon the shaky gallery that follows its
windings; wandered about and beyond the town; stole into an old church,
and brought away the memory of a lovely virgin face; and haunted the
dingy shops in the vain hope of making a few necessary purchases. These
shops were not unlike our New England country stores in their combined
odors and confused incapabilities. Behind the counters, or more likely
sitting in the doorway with the inevitable blue knitting in hand, were
old women, of hard, baked-apple faces, whose ideas of the luxuries of a
woman's wardrobe were so far below what we considered its necessaries,
that we parted in mutual surprise, to say the least, and without gain on
either side.
Sabbath morning, English church service was held in the parlor of one of
the hotels; after which a clergyman in gown and bands discoursed from
the text, "And there shall be no more sea,"--a peculiarly comforting
hope to some of us.
Monday morning, we mounted the horses and mules waiting in dejected
impatience before the door, and started upon the long ride of twenty-two
miles to Chamouni by the Tete Noir Pass. A wide, pleasant avenue, shaded
by walnut trees, led out of the town; after which we began to ascend the
gently-sloping mountain-sides, passing occasional villages, and besieged
by beggars and venders of fruit, as usual. Indeed, these beggars are so
constant in their attendance and importunity that one forgets to mention
them, unless recalling flies and similar swarming annoyances.
The scenery, as we went on, was often grand, always interesting; the sky
overcast, but at times the clouds, drifting apart, disclosed peaks or
"needles" so far above the mountains about us as to seem a revelation of
heaven. The path was treacherous and rough--skirting precipices,
descending in rocky steps or slippery mire, and crossing mountain
streams by narrow, insecure bridges. Single file is the invariable rule
in all these mountain excursions, and after a time the isolations of
this mode of travelling adds to its wearisomeness. Solitude is
delightful; but as some one has said, "How pleasant it is to have a
friend near by to whom you may remark, 'How delightful is solitude!'"
As you follow the windings of the narrow, steep path, you have a choice
between addressing the back of the one who precedes you, and throwing a
remark over your shoulder to those who come after. Involuntarily you
fall to studying the curves of the former, and are utterly indifferent
to the fact that the latter are probably meditating upon the intricacies
of your back hair. Mule-riding is conducive to grace of neither soul nor
body; still you know you are not making such a spectacle of yourself as
did the woman just passed--who twisted about in the saddle as though
worked along by rotary motion. Perhaps not.
As you leave the villages to plunge into the woods, the flies swarm like
beggars; and it is only when the guides have cut boughs from the trees,
which you wave before you, wickedly suggesting palm branches, that you
can proceed with tolerable comfort, and without the fear of an
unexpected toss in the air, as one kick after another runs down the
line.
Each horse or mule has his own slight peculiarities of habit and
disposition. I recall one whose inordinate curiosity led him to walk
always upon the verge of the precipices, so that the rider's feet
overhung the frightful depths. Murray says it is best to allow these
animals to choose their own paths. But to hang suspended between heaven
and earth at the mercy of a strap and a mule, will shake one's faith,
even in Murray.
My horse this day was possessed of the dreamy, melancholy nature of a
poet, with the attendant lack of ambition. Every time we wound
funereally through a village, he would walk deliberately to the
mounting-steps, and wait most suggestively. Indeed, an air of
abstraction characterized all his movements; even when, as we approached
these villages, raising his head, he would seem to sniff the odors of
Araby the Blest; which was a mistake, a delusion of his fancy shared by
none of the others of the party. That he was without pride I must
confess. No stable did we pass so poor, none so mean, that he was
ashamed to pause and offer to enter with meek obdurateness.
Poetic as was his temperament, his appetites were developed in a
remarkable degree. Once upon a narrow bridge we met two walking
haystacks, out from which peered great, blue eyes. If the size of his
mouth had corresponded at all to his desires, they would have vanished
from sight in a twinkling; as it was, they barely escaped. Whether or
not insatiable thirst is an attribute of a poet, I do not know; but each
stream which crossed the path,--and the whole country seemed
liquidizing,--each drinking-trough beside the way,--and to my excited
imagination they seemed to form an unbroken line,--was an irresistible
temptation. It was only by shouting, "Yeep! Yeep!" in staccato chorus,
and vigorously applying the palm branches, thus engaging his attention
and diverting his thoughts into less watery channels, that we succeeded
in making any progress whatever. Under this disciplinary process his
nature was at last so far subdued that he would have passed the ocean
itself without a sigh, I am sure.
There was a rest of an hour at the Tete Noir inn at noon, shut in by the
firs, and rocks, and mountains, then we went on to Argentiere, where we
gladly exchanged the horses and mules for some low, open carts with a
couple of villagers in blue blouses for drivers. In these we
accomplished the remaining three or four miles, and made a triumphal
entry into Chamouni.
It was late in the afternoon when we crawled up the narrow, thronged
street to the Hotel Royal, from which the English, French, and American
flags were flying. The clouds had dropped lower and lower, until a fine
mist was beginning to deepen into rain, and the guides and tourists
detained in the village fairly jostled each other at the intersection of
the two principal streets, which seemed to form the village Exchange.
The mire of the streets was thickly stamped with hoof-prints and the
marks from the nails that stud the shoe-soles of the mountain climbers.
Line after line of doleful looking objects, which might prove Egyptian
mummies when unwrapped, were being lifted from still more sorry looking
beasts before the door of the hotel, and assaying to mount the steps,
with a stiffness and angularity of movement in which we all sympathized.
Indeed, after dinner, when a bright fire was lighted in the long _salon_
where the various parties gathered to read, write, look over
stereoscopic views, or chat among themselves, it was amusing, as well as
pitiable to observe the abortive attempts at ease and flexibility as
these individuals crossed the polished floor, to hear the groans
smothered to sighs as they resumed their seats. "Mules!" whispered the
girls, nudging each other, and mindful of the delight which misery is
said to find in company.
All the next day the rain dripped down upon the village from the heavy
clouds that hid the mountains. Everybody improved the opportunity to
write letters, or yawned over the books scattered about the _salon_.
Among them was a well-thumbed copy of "Artemus Ward, His Book." At the
foot of each page the local allusions of the jokes were explained, I
remember. Out in the street, umbrellas were dodging about from one shop
to another. These rainy days, though a loss to the guides, are harvest
times for the shopkeepers. Photographs and stereoscopic views of the
mountains, the glaciers, and daring climbers hanging on by their
eyelids, abound here, with any amount of wood and chamois (?) horn
carving and crystal ornaments. Speaking of chamois-horn, if you expect
to see in Switzerland--as you do in geographies--chamois perched upon
every crag, preparatory to bounding from peak to peak, you will be
grievously disappointed. Not a chamois will greet your eyes. We
passed--I have forgotten where--a pen in which, by paying a certain sum,
we might look upon a veritable live chamois; but we had no desire to see
the incarnation of liberty thus degraded.
We waited two days for the uplifting of the clouds, making, in the mean
time, an excursion up the Montanvert to overlook the Mer de Glace--which
is not a sea, but a river of ice, like all the glaciers that have worked
themselves down into these valleys. We retired one night with the cloud
curtains spread low over our heads; the next morning a voice from
outside of our door called, "Look out of your window." We sprang up,
seized the cord of the shutters, and behold! a new heaven and new earth!
Every vestige of cloud was gone. The mountains were bathed in sunlight,
vivid green were the peaks before us, which had never met our gaze until
now, while behind the nearest, against the deep blue of the summer sky,
rose the three vast white steps which lead heavenward, the highest of
which men call Mont Blanc. All that morning, as we descended from the
valley of Chamouni to Sallenches, we turned continually to look back;
and still, white and beautiful, but growing less in the distance, rose
the triple domes.
We had taken a carriage to Sallenches: here we find places in the open
diligence for Geneva. We pause in the first village through which we
pass, where a knot of people gathers about a round little old woman. She
wears a wide-rimmed hat over her neat frilled cap, and carries another
upon her arm. Her waist is dimly defined by the strings of a voluminous
apron, and her mind entirely distracted by the cares attendant upon the
disposal of a cotton bag, a wicker basket, an old umbrella, and a box,
which half a dozen men seize upon with clumsy hands, in good-natured
officiousness, and thrust into the baggage compartment, while the women
and children press about her, kissing the rough, ruddy cheeks, and
uttering what we are sure must be blessings--odds and ends of which
float up to us. Evidently the little, old woman is going a journey.
Aided by a dozen rough, helpful hands, she climbs the ladder to her
place beside us, with a deprecatory though cheerful "_Bon jour_" to us
all, subsiding into a corner, where she is immediately submerged as her
belongings are showered down upon her; last of all a crumpled letter is
tossed into her lap.
The driver mounts to his place; she leans over; a perfect gust of
blessings, and kisses, and adieus follow us, as with a crack of the whip
the horses spring away, and we leave the village far behind.
Suddenly--for we have turned away our faces--the little old woman's hand
is plunged into the cotton bag under our feet. We venture to look
around. The tears have gone; her face beams like the sun, as she brings
out of the depths a couple of eggs. Another dive, and she emerges with a
piece of bread. A pinch of salt is added from the basket, and her
breakfast is complete. She hospitably offers a share to each of us. We
decline; and as a shadow dims the brightness of her face, Katie adds
quickly,--
"We have had two breakfasts already."
The little old woman rolls her round, blue eyes to heaven, with a pious
ejaculation. Such lavish extravagance is beyond her comprehension.
"That is like you rich people," she says. "We are only too happy if the
good God sends us _one_." And she relapses into a wondering silence.
"Does madame travel far?" we venture presently.
"Ah, yes." And she shakes her head slowly. Words cannot express the
distance, it is so great.
"But she has been this way before?" we go on.
"No, never before." And again the round, blue eyes seek heaven, and
again a deep sigh follows the words. She has finished her lunch, and,
diving under our feet, emerges after a time with a box, which, opened,
discloses a small store of peppermints. This she offers with some
hesitation, and we each hasten to accept one, her countenance beaming
more and more as they disappear. "Given to hospitality," the little old
woman has been, we know.
When the box is with difficulty replaced, the string of the bag drawn,
the basket arranged to her satisfaction, the umbrella placed at a
pleasing angle, she balances herself upon the edge of the seat, and
glances fearfully from side to side as we swing along the smooth road.
Once, when the wheel passes over a stone, she seems to murmur a prayer.
"Madame is not afraid?" we say.
"O, very much. These diligences are most dangerous." And now she is
glancing over her shoulder at a rocky wall of mountains which follows
the road at a distance. "They might fall." And she shudders with the
thought. We assure her that it is impossible; but she has heard of a
rock falling upon a diligence, and thinks it was upon this road. And all
the horror of the fearful catastrophe is depicted upon her face.
Gradually we learn that the little old woman has never travelled in a
diligence before; that she has never before made any journey, in fact.
For forty years she has kept the house of the _cure_ in her native
village. Now, she tells us with a sigh, and uplifted eyes, he has
"become dead," and she is obliged to seek a home elsewhere among
strangers. Here she turns away her eyes, which grow dim as her smile,
and for a moment forgets her fears.
We are approaching a village. She hastily searches her basket and brings
out the crumpled letter which had been thrown into her lap. As we dart
through the narrow street and across an open square, she leans out,
utters a word in a sharp, excited tone, and, to our surprise, throws the
letter far out into the dust of the street. An idle lounger in the
square starts at her voice, runs heavily across the street, and picks it
up. She sinks back, all cheerful smiles again. She has chanced upon the
very man to whom the letter was addressed.
The dust rolls up from the great wheels. She exchanges the hat upon her
head for the one over her arm, covering the former carefully with a
corner of her apron. This, she tells us, as she arranges the second
upon her head, she was accustomed to wear when she picked vegetables of
a morning in the garden of the good _cure_. And the sighs return with
the recollection of her master.
The day wears on with heat and sifting dust. By and by, at another
village, a filthy, dull-faced peasant clambers up the ladder and
stumbles into a vacant place. We shrink away from him in disgust. Our
little old woman only furtively draws aside her neat petticoats. Soon
she engages him in conversation. We see her lean far forward with
intense, questioning gaze upon the distance where he points with
dirt-begrimed finger. Then with a sigh which seems to come from the
baggage compartment beneath us, so very deep and long-drawn it is, she
turns to us. She, too, points to a range of hills, very dark and gloomy
now, for they are covered with woods, and the shadow of a cloud lies
upon them.
"It is there, beyond the mountains, I am going;" and the shadow of the
cloud has fallen upon her face. All the sunshine has faded out of it.
Then, with something warmer, brighter than any sunshine gleaming in her
eyes, she adds, "But the good God takes care of us wherever we go."
We have reached a fork in the road. There is no village, no house even,
in sight. Why, then, do we pause? The ladder is raised.
[Illustration: "Evidently the little old woman is going a journey." Page
195.]
"It must be for me!" gasps the little old woman, casting one bewildered
glance over to where the shadows are creeping, and then calmly gathering
together her possessions. We grasp the hands she extends, we pour out
confused, unintelligible blessings. Is it the dust which blinds our
eyes? Even the clownish peasant stumbles down the ladder, and lifts out
her box. The driver remounts. The whip cracks. We lean far out. We wave
our hands. Again the dust fills our eyes so that our sight for a moment
is dim, as we dash away, leaving her sitting there alone upon her box,
where the two roads meet. But beyond the hills where the shadows rested,
we know that the sun still shines for our little old woman whose master
"became dead."