Part 10

The hunters sang with special delight one song which frequently asserted that "_Auf der Alm_ there is no sin." This impressed us as a delightful idea, though somewhat at variance with the theological doctrines in vogue in a less rarefied atmosphere. We did not presume to doubt anything they told us, however. We are rapidly becoming as credulous, as simple, as bucolic, as they. But, reclining one evening at sunset on a soft slope above the village, with the breath of the pines around us, and listening, in a lotus-eating mood, to the "drowsy tinklings" of the bells of the herds on the opposite heights, this problem occurred to us: How long will it be, at our present rapid rate of assimilation with things pastoral, and with the slight line of demarcation that exists in Schattwald between man and bird and beast, before we also contentedly eat grass, and go about with bells on our necks?

UP THE AIRY MOUNTAIN.

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said every innkeeper from Chur to St. Moritz, and our minds were half absorbed in contemplation of the scenery and half in resisting the allurements of these Swiss spiders, all of whom declared with many grimaces and shrugs that we could not accomplish the distance between the two places in one day.

"Does not the regular post go through in one day?" we inquire. "Then why not we by extra post?"

"You are too late, madame."

"We are not so heavy as the _diligence_. We can go faster."

"Impossible, madame."

"_Why_ impossible?"

"Not precisely impossible; but it would be better, ah, yes, madame, far better, to remain here,"--with the sweetest of smiles,--"and go on to St. Moritz to-morrow."

They knew this was nonsense. We knew it was nonsense. They knew that we knew that it was nonsense. We had borne all that it was fitting we should bear.

"But _why_?" we sternly demand.

"You will be more comfortable, madame."

"We do not wish to be comfortable."

"You will arrive at midnight."

"We like to arrive at midnight."

What then could the spiders do with flies who retorted in this unheard-of-way, who resisted advice, would telegraph for horses, cheer the postilions with absurdly frequent _Trink Geld_, and push steadily on to St. Moritz high in the upper Engadine?

The truly remarkable feature of the expedition was, that when we left Chur in the morning it was only with a lazy consciousness that up among the mountains somewhere was a St. Moritz, which we at some indefinite time would reach.

Innkeeper No. 1 made us think we would like to go through in one day.

Innkeeper No. 2 strengthened the wish.

No. 3, by his efforts at discouragement, gave us, in place of the wish, a determination to go on.

No. 4 created in us a frantic resolve to reach St. Moritz that night, or perish in the attempt.

No banner with a strange device did we bear, yet as the shades of night were falling fast, and we stopped to change horses at a little inn in an Alpine village, and queer-looking men with lanterns walked about the wild place speaking in an unknown tongue (it was Romanisch, but then we did not know), and the road was steep before us, we gloried in resembling the immortal "youth" of the poem. We always have admired him from the time we learned him by heart, and repeated him in our first infant sing-song; but never before did we have the remotest idea _why_ his brow was sad, why his eye flashed like a falchion from its sheath, why he persisted in his eccentric career. Now it is clear as light before us. He was goaded on, as we were, by the Swiss innkeepers.

"O, stay!" said they.

"Excelsior!" cried we. And on we went, feeling that a mighty fate was impelling us, alluding grandly to "Sheridan's Ride," "How they brought the Good News," and all similar subjects that we could remember where people pushed on with high resolve, and being in the end grateful to the petty souls who had roused our obstinacy, ignorant that even the Alps are no obstacle to woman's will; for the latter part of the journey was by perfect moonlight, and therefore do we bless the innkeepers. Our obstinacy, do I say? Let the sneering world use that unpleasant term. We will say heroism, for who shall always tell where the line between the two is to be drawn?

Never shall we forget that wonderful white night, the gleams and glooms on the mountains, the silver radiance of the lakes, the vast glaciers outstretched before us, the mighty peaks towering to the skies, the impressive stillness broken only by the bells on our horses' necks, the sound of their hoofs on the hard road, the rumbling of our carriage, and the cracking of the whip. We, with our miserable jarring noises, were the only discordant element, and we well knew we ought to be suppressed. It seemed profane to intrude upon such grandeur, such majestic stillness.

In the full sunlight since, all is quite different; yet we close our eyes, and that glorious white, still night comes vividly before us, and always there will be to us a glamour about the Engadine on account of it.

The village of St. Moritz lies picturesquely on the hillside above a pretty lake of the same name. The St. Moritz baths are a mile farther on, where numerous hotels and _pensions_ stand on a grassy plateau between high mountains, whose sharp contour is wonderfully defined in this clear atmosphere against the peculiar deep-blue of the sky.

In a very interesting article about the Upper Engadine in the Fortnightly Review for March, the writer speaks with undisguised contempt of "the Germanized Kurhaus," "the damp Kurhaus," "the huge and hideous Kurhaus," even telling people to beware of it. Now, if it were not a shockingly audacious thing to dare to have any opinion at all in the presence of the Fortnightly Review, I would venture most humbly to state that I am at present staying at that object of British scorn, the Kurhaus, and like it.

It is ugly. It is immensely long and awkward. If your room is in one end and you have a friend in the other, you feel, walking through the interminable corridors, that the introduction of horse-cars and carriages would promote economy of time and strength. The Kurhaus certainly has its unamiable qualities. It is tyrannical. It puts out its lights at ten o'clock "sharp," leaving you in Egyptian darkness and not saying so much as "by your leave." [I have observed that men, whom I have believed to be faultlessly amiable, under these circumstances lose their composure and utter improper ejaculations, as they find themselves, in the midst of an interesting game of whist, unable to see the color of a card.] But after all, unless you are in the village proper, where we--again differing from the awful Fortnightly--would not prefer to be, it seems to be the best abiding-place, because everything centres in it. The people from the other hotels must all come here to drink the mineral waters and take the baths, to dance twice a week if they wish, to hear the music three times a day, to attend various entertainments given by marvellous prestidigitateurs from Paris and singers from Vienna; and though these things are very ignoble to talk about when one is among the grand mountains, yet there come nights and days when it rains in torrents, and when the most enthusiastic mountain-climber must condescend to be amused or bored under a sheltering roof. Then, the Kurhaus, being the largest hotel, the place where things of interest most do congregate, seems to us the most desirable abode. The Victoria, which the English frequent, has fresher paint and newer carpets and finer rooms. But we are true to the Kurhaus, notwithstanding. We are grateful to it for a few charming weeks, and in some way we don't like to see Albion's proud foot crushing it.

It is "Germanized." That is enough, to be sure, in the opinion of many English and Americans, to condemn it; they often like a hotel exclusively for themselves, and dislike the foreign element even in a foreign land. But to many of us it is infinitely more amusing to live in exactly such a place, where we meet Italians and Spaniards, French, Germans, Swiss, Dutch, Russians, people from South America and islands in the far seas,--in fact, from every land and nation,--than to establish a little English or American corner somewhere, wrap ourselves in our national prejudices, and neither for love nor money abandon one or the other.

To the Paracelsus Spring at the Kurhaus come all the people every morning to drink the mineral water, and walk up and down while the band plays in the pavilion, but very few have an invalid air. Some drink because the water is prescribed by their physicians; some, because it is the fashion; some, because it is not unpleasant, and drinking gives them an opportunity to inspect the other drinkers. The mighty names written over the glasses fill us with amazement. You may be plain Miss Smith from Jonesville, U. S. A., and beside your humble name is written that of the Countess Alfieri di Sostegno, and the name of a marquis, and even that of a princess; but when they all come to the spring and glance at you over their glasses, just as you glance at them over yours, and you see them face to face, you don't much care if you are only Miss Smith. It is astonishing what an ordinary appearance people often have whose great-great-grandfathers were doges of Venice.

It seems positive stupidity here not to speak at least five languages fluently. To hear small children talking with ease in a variety of tongues is something that, after the first astonishment, can be borne; but it never ceases to be exasperating and humiliating when common servants pass without the least difficulty from one language to another and another. Yet we Americans should perhaps have patience with ourselves in this respect, and remember that the ability to speak half a dozen languages well, which at first seems like pure genius, is often more a matter of opportunity or necessity than actual talent, though it certainly is a great convenience, and gives its possessor a superior air. "It's nonsense to learn languages, or to try to speak anything but good, honest English," says a young gentleman here,--an American recently graduated from one of the colleges. "You can make your way round with it, and everything that's worth two straws is translated." So he brandishes his mother-tongue proudly in people's faces, and is always immensely disgusted and incensed at their stupidity when he is not understood.

An Englishwoman the other day bought a picture of Alpine flowers, and tried to make a man understand that she also wished a stick upon which the cardboard could be rolled and safely carried in her trunk. He knew no English; she, no German. First she spoke very loud, with emphatic distinctness, as if he were deaf. Whereupon he made a remark in German, which, though an excellent remark, in itself a highly reasonable statement, had not the least relation to her request. She then spoke slowly, gently, in an endearing manner, as if coaxing a child, or endeavoring to influence a person whose understanding was feeble and who must not be frightened. He responded in German,--again sensible, but widely inappropriate. So they went on, each continuing his own line of thought, as much at cross-purposes as if they were insane, until a bystander, taking pity on them, came to the rescue. The lady was, however, not indignant that her "good, honest English" was not understood; she was simply despairing. It is singular that it never occurs to some minds that other languages, and even the people who speak them, may also be good and honest.

Here in the Engadine the dialect is Romanisch, but the people also speak German, French, Italian, and often tolerable English. The houses are solidly built, with very thick walls, curious iron knockers, deep-sunken windows, with massive iron gratings over them. The object of the gratings is doubtful. Some say they are to guard against robbers; some say they are an invention of jealous husbands; some, that they are so constructed in order to allow a maiden and her lover to converse without danger of an elopement. Arched, wide doors on the ground-floor, directly in the front of the house, are large enough to admit carts and horses into the basements, which serve as carriage-houses and stables.

Is it really summer? Is it possible that in our beloved America people are suffering from heat, that Philadelphia is suffocating? Here ladies wear furs and velvet mornings and nights, and men wrap themselves in ulsters and shawls. The air is the most bracing,--the coolest, dryest, purest imaginable. It is considered admirable for nervous disorders, and this one can readily believe. But though it is the fashion to order consumptives here, many eminent physicians say more invalids with lung complaints are sent to the Engadine than should properly come. It certainly seems as if this immensely bracing air would speedily kill if it did not cure. "Nine months winter and three months cold" is the popular saying here about the climate. Delicate persons are often so enervated at first by the peculiar atmosphere that they cannot eat or sleep or rest in any way.--Indeed, with certain constitutions this air never agrees.--This condition, however, usually passes off in a few days; they feel able to move mountains, and accomplish wonders in the way of climbing; while people who are well in ordinary climates come here and forget that they are mortal. There is something in the air that gives one giant strength and endurance,--something inexpressibly delightful, buoyant, and inspiring,--something that clears away all cobwebs from the brain.

THE ENGADINE.

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.