The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (great book club books .txt) 📕

Bodies," Remarked Molly Coldly.

"It Would Be Rather Sport To Rush The Pass At Night," Said Jack.

"Oh, You Darling!" Cried Molly, "I've Never Loved You So Much."

This Naturally Settled It.

We Walked Down To The Town By An Exquisite Path Leading Through Dark,

Mysterious Pine Forests; Where The Slim, Straight Trunks Of The Tall

Trees Seemed Tightly Stretched, Like The Strings Of A Great Harp, And

Where Melancholy, Elusive Music Was Played Always By The Wind Spirits.

In Lucerne We Did Not, As Molly Had Suggested, Ask Everybody To Stand

And Deliver Information, But We Compromised By Visiting Tourists'

Bureaux. At These Places The Verdict Was An Echo Of Our Landlord's,

And I Saw That Molly And Jack Were Glad. Having Scented Powder, They

Would Have Been Disappointed If The Midnight Battle Need Not Be

Fought.

Molly Had Never Seen Lucerne, Which Was Too Beautiful For A Fleeting

Glance. It Was Arranged That, After Driving Me Over The Pass, For Weal

Or Woe, They Should Return. They Would Leave Most Of Their Luggage At

The Sonnenberg, And Come Back To Spend Some Days, Before Continuing

Their Tour As Originally Mapped Out.

We Slept That Night In Peace (It Is Wonderful How Well You Do Sleep,

Even With A "Mind Diseased," After Hours Of Racing Through Pure, Fresh

Air On A Motor Car); And Next Day We Began Stealthy Preparations For

Our Adventure.

    "Oh, Still Solitude, Only Matched In The Skies;

       Perilous In Steep Places,

       Soft In The Level Races,

     Where Sweeping In Phantom Silence The Cloudland

         Flies."

                                        --R. Bridges.

The Wind Howled A Menace To Mercédès, As She Glided Down The Winding

Road Towards The Comfortable, Domestic-Looking Suburbs Of Lucerne.

Banks Of Cloud Raced Each Other Across The Sky, And, Crossing The

Bridge Over The Reuss, We Saw That The Waters Of The Lake, Turquoise

Yesterday, Were To-Day A Sullen Indigo. The Big Steamers Rolled At

Their Moorings; White-Crested Waves Were Leaping Against The Quays,

And Thick Mists Clung Like Rolls Of Wool To The Lower Slopes Of

Pilatus.

Molly's Spirits Rose As The Mercury In The Barometer Fell. "Would You

Care For People If They Were Always Good-Tempered, Or Weather If It

Were Always Fair?" She Asked Me (We Were Sitting Together In The

Tonneau, Jack Driving). "I Revel In Storms, And If We Have One

To-Night, When We Are On The Pass, One Of The Dearest Wishes Of My

Life Will Be Gratified. 'A Storm On The St. Gothard!' Haven't The

Words A Thunder-Roll? Sunlight And Mountain Passes Don't Belong

Together. I Like To Think Of Great Alpine Roads As The Fastnesses Of

Giants, Who Threaten Death To Puny Man When He Ventures Into Their

Power."

It Had Been Arranged That We Should "Potter" (As Winston Called It)

Round The Arms Of The Star-Fish Lake, Until We Reached Flüelen; That

From There We Should Steal As Far As We Dared Up The Reussthal While

Daylight Lasted, Dine At Some Village Inn, And Then, Instead Of

Returning To The Lowlands Of Lucerne, Make A Dash Across The Mighty

Barrier That Shut Us Away From Italy. Under A Lowering Sky, And

Buffeted By Short, Sharp Gusts Of Wind, Which Seemed The Heralds Of

Fiercer Blasts, We Swung Along The Reedy Shores Of The Narrowing Lake,

The Broken Sides Of The Rigi Standing Finely Up On Our Right Hand.

Winston Was Satirical About The Poor Rigi And Its Railway, Calling It

The Primrose Hill And The Devil's Dyke Of Switzerland, The Paradise Of

Trippers, A Mountain Whose Sides Are Hidden Under Cataracts Of

Beer-Bottles; But From Our Point Of View, The Vulgarities Of The

Maligned Mountain Were Mellowed By Distance, And I Neither Could Nor

Would Look Upon It As Contemptible.

Leaving The Lake Of The Forest Cantons, We Spun Along The Margin Of

The Tamer Sheet Of Zug, To Pass, Beyond Arth, Into The Great

Wilderness Caused By The Fearful Landslide Of A Century Ago, When A

Mighty Mass Of Rock And Earth Split Off From The Main Bulk Of The

Rossberg And Thundered Down Into The Valley. The Slow Processes Of

Nature Had Done Much To Cover Up Decently All Traces Of The Titan's

Rage, But The Huge, Bare Scar On The Side Of The Rossberg Still Told

Its Tale Of Tragedy. By The Peaceful Lowerzer See The Road Undulated

Pleasantly, And At Schwyz (The Hub Of Swiss History) We Had Tea, The

Torn And Imposing Pyramids Of The Two Myten Bravely Rearing Their

Heads Above The Mists That Encumbered The Valleys.

There Was No Need To Hurry, For We Had The Night Before Us, So We

Passed Slowly, Halting Often, Along The Marvellous Axenstrasse, While

Jack Distilled Into Molly's Willing Ears Legends From The Old Heroic

Days Of Switzerland, Before It Became The Happy Haven Of

Hotel-Keepers. From The Car We Could Note The Characteristics Of The

Cantons Which Had Entered Into The Famous Bond; Pastoral And Leafy

Unterwalden, With Green Fields And Orchards; Schwyz, Also Green And

Fertile; But Uri (The Cold, Highland Partner In This Great Alliance),

A Country Of Towering Mountains And Savage Rocks. Molly Wanted To Get

A Boat, And Row Across To The Rütli To Stand On That Spot Where, In

1307, Walter Fürst, Arnold Of Melchthal, And Werner Stauffacher Took

The Famous Oath, And Very Reluctantly She Gave Up The Wish When Jack

Pointed To The Rising Waves, Painting In Lurid Colours The Sudden And

Dangerous Storms That Sweep The Lake Of Uri. When He Went On, However,

To Insinuate Doubts As To The Historic Accuracy Of These Old Stories,

And To Hint That Even William Tell Might Himself He An Incorporeal

Legend, Molly Clapped A Little Hand Over His Mouth, Crying Out That

Even If He Had Tried To Destroy The Maid Of Orleans He Must Spare

William Tell. Further On, She Made Us Confide The Car To Gotteland On

The Axenstrasse, While We Descended The Path To Tell's Chapel And Did

Reverence To The Hero's Memory. On Such A Day As This Must It Have

Been That Tell Leaped Ashore From The Boat, Leaving Gessler To Look

After Himself; For The Blasts Were Shrieking Down The Lake, And The

Waves Dashed Their Foam Over The Ledge Where Stands The Chapel.

Jack Stopped Several Times In The Rock Galleries Of The Axenstrasse

Before We Reached Flüelen; Consequently It Was Evening When We

Slipped Into Little Altdorf, Where Molly Insisted On Making A Curtsey

To The Statue Of Tell And His Agreeable Little Boy. Winston Predicted

That We Should Probably Not Be Challenged Until We Got To Göschenen,

As Up To That Point The Road Does Not Take On A True Alpine Character.

The Storm (Which Seemed Rising To A Point Of Fury) Was In Our Favour,

Too, For No One Would Choose To Be Out On Such A Night, Save Mad

English Automobilists And Wilful American Girls.

Dusk Was Beginning To Shadow The Reussthal, As We Ran Past The Railway

Station At Erstfeld, And Began At Length The Ascent Of The St. Gothard

Road. The Great Railway (Of Which We Had Caught Glimpses As We Came

Along The Lake) Was Now Our Companion, While On The Other Hand Roared

The Tumbling Reuss. So Hoarse And Insistent Was The Voice Of The

Stream That Molly Suggested It Should Be "Had Up For Brawling." It Did

Us The Service, However, Of Drowning The Noise Of Our Motor, At All

Times A Discreetly Silent Machine; And As Jack Had Given Orders That

The Big Bleriots Should Not Be Lighted (Two Good Oil Lamps Showing Us

The Way), We Had High Hopes That We Might Fly By Unnoticed, On The

Wings Of The Storm. In Amsteg No One Seemed To Look Upon Us With

Surprise, And Here The Road Turned, To Worm Itself Into The Heart Of

The Mountains, While The Railway, Often Disappearing Into Tunnels, Ran

Far Above Our Heads.

By The Time We Had Reached Gurtnellen Night Had Fallen Black And

Close, And Molly Issued An Edict That We Should Dine In The Open Air,

Instead Of Seeking The Doubtful Comforts Of A Village Inn, Where, Too,

We Might Suffer From The Solicitude Of Some Officious Policeman. The

Car Accordingly Was Run Under The Lee Of A Great Rock, The

Ever-Inspired Gotteland Extemporised A Shelter With The Waterproof

Rugs, And The Blue Flame Of The Chafing-Dish Presently Cheered Us With

Its Glow. The Wind Bellowed Along The Precipices, The Reuss Shouted In

Its Rocky Bed, And Once An Express From Italy To The North Passed High

Above Us, Streaming Its Lights Through The Darkness Like Sparks From A

Boy's Squib. Yet Those Plutocratic Travellers Up In The _Wagons Lits_

Were Not Having Anything Like The "Good Time" We Enjoyed, Warm In Our

Motor Coats, Sitting Snug Behind Our Rock, A Lamp From The Car

Illuminating Our Little Party And Shining On Molly's Piquant Profile

As She Brewed Savoury Messes In Her Magic Cauldron. This Was Testing

Thoroughly The Resources Of The Automobile, Which Was Playing The Part

Of Travelling Kitchen And Larder As Well As Travelling Chariot, And

Could No Doubt Be Made, With A Little Ingenuity, To Play The Parts

Also Of Travelling Bed And Tent. Yet, As I Said All This Aloud To

Jack, My Mind Leaped Forward To Other Nights Which I Should Soon Be

Spending Alone Tinder The Stars, And I Thought Tenderly Of My

Aluminium Stove And Tent, My Sleeping-Sack, And The Other Camping

Tools I Had Bought In Bern.

From Where We Lay Hid Behind Our Rock To Airolo Was Only Some

Thirty-Two Miles, And The Car Ate Up Distance With So Voracious An

Appetite, That It Was Clear We Should Arrive In The Little Italian

Town In The Dead Waste And Middle Of The Night. To Travel A Forbidden

Road On An Automobile, And Then To Knock Up A Snoring Innkeeper At One

In The Morning, To Ask Him Where We Could Find A Donkey, Seemed To Be

Straining Unduly The Sense Of Humour; So After Consultation We Decided

That We Should Leave Airolo To Its Slumbers And Speed Down The Pass

Into Italy Until We Ran To Earth The Object Of Our Quest.

Molly Had Produced Excellent Coffee; The Smoke Of Our Cigarettes

Mingled Its Perfume With The Night Air. Our Position Had In It

Something Unique, For While We Were "In The Heart Of One Of Nature's

Most Savage Retreats" (As Said A Guide-Book Of My Boyhood), We Were At

The Same Time