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

Suggested To Winston That Our Bivouac Would Form A Fit Subject For A

Picture Labelled, In The Manner Of Some Dutch Masters, "Automobilists

Reposing."

By The Time Gotteland Had Packed Up Everything, And We Were Seated

Once More In The Car, It Was Nearly Eleven O'clock At Night. Coming

Out From The Shelter Of Our Rock, So Fierce A Blast Of Wind Smote Us

That Molly Would, I Think, Have Been Carried Off Her Feet Had I Not

Given Her A Steadying Arm. We Had To Cram Our Caps On Our Heads, Or

The Wind Would Have Torn Them From Us, And The Voice Of The Motor Was

Swallowed Up In The Shrieking Of The Tempest. Molly Was Evidently

Destined To Have Her Wish.

The Car Ran Swiftly Up The Road To Wasen, And Some Twinkling Lights

And A Huge Crimson Eye At The Entrance To The Great Tunnel Told Us

That We Had Done The Ten Miles To Göschenen. No One Stirred In The

Streets Of The Village, And, Gliding Cat-Like Past The Station, Jack

Put The Car At The Beginning Of The Real Ascent Of The Famous St.

Gothard Road. The Higher We Went, The More Wildly Roared The Storm.

There Was Something Appalling In The Fierce Volleyings Of The Wind

Along The Stark And Broken Faces Of The Precipice: It Was Like The

Rattle Of Thunder. In The Sombre Defile Of The Schöllenen The Air

Rushed As Through A Funnel. We Could See Nothing Save The Thread-Like

Road Illuminated By Our Steadfast Lanterns--The Sole Beacon Of Safety

In This Welter. We Had A Ghostly Impression Of Winding Through A

Narrow Gorge, The River Roaring In Its Depths; Then, Dashing Through

An Avalanche Gallery (Where The Lights Played Strange Tricks With The

Vaulted Roof), We Came Out Upon The Devil's Bridge. The Spray From The

Reuss, Which Here Drops A Full Hundred Feet Into The Abyss, Lashed Our

Faces As With Whips; The Storm Leaped At Us Out Of The Blackness Like

A Wolf; The Car Quivered, And For An Instant It Seemed That We Should

Be Hurled Against The Parapet Of The Bridge. But We Passed Unharmed,

And A Quarter Of A Mile Further On Winston Stopped In The Welcome

Shelter Of The Urner Loch, A Tunnelled Passage In The Rock.

We Gasped Out Broken Expressions Of A Fearful Joy; Then, Seeing That

Molly Was Well, And That The Wind-Wolf's Teeth Had Torn Nothing From

The Car, Jack Went Full Speed Ahead Again, Steering Along The Open

Urseren Valley, Where We Had Fleeting Glimpses Of Green Fields Instead

Of Granite Rocks. Thus We Came To Andermatt, Where Not The Eye Of A

Mouse Seemed Open To Mark Our Quick And Stealthy Passage. We Were Now

On That Great Mountain Highroad That Slants In A Straight Line Across

Almost All Switzerland From Coire To Martigny; But We Kept On It Only

For A Little While, To Steal Through Hospenthal--As Dead Asleep As The

Other Villages (For Labour Had Not Yet Begun To Waken In Its Hard

Bed), And Take The Southern Road That Leads To Italy.

Thus Far, Audacity Had Been Laurelled By Success. It Was Near One In

The Morning, And We Were Spinning Fast Up A Valley Which Showed

Bleakly In The Flying Lights Of Our Car. Soon Jack Called To Us That

We Had Crossed The Border Line Of The Canton Ticino, And Presently

Through The Blackness Twinkled The Little Lakes Which Mark The Summit

Of The Pass. We Were Nearly Seven Thousand Feet Above The Sea, And

Suddenly, As We Crossed The Ridge And Began To Sail Down The Dismal

Val Tremolo Towards Airolo, The Great Wind That Had Made Majestic

Music All Day And Night Ceased To Blow. We Ran Into A Zone Of

Motionless, Ice-Cold Air, And What Seemed An Unnatural Silence, Only

The Hum Of The Motor Breaking The Frozen Stillness Of These High

Alpine Solitudes.

The Road Plunged To Lower Levels In Interminable Windings, The Car

Swooping In A Series Of Bird-Like Flights, Exhilarating To The Nerves,

Thrilling To The Imagination; For In The Blackness That Held Us We

Could But Guess At Abysses Which Dropped Away Almost From Under The

Tyres Of Our Wheels. Sometimes We Dashed Over Foaming Rivers, And Soon

We Sped Through Airolo, Where Yet No One Moved. Now The Loud-Voiced

Ticino Was Our Companion, And We Swept Down Through An Open Valley To

Faido, Where We Met The First Human Being We Had Seen Since We Left

Gurtnellen. It Was A Very Old Man, With A Red Cap, Like A Stocking,

Pulled Close Upon His Head. He Had A Rake On His Shoulder, And We Were

Close On Him Before He Knew; For The Car Was Coasting, And Ran With

Hardly Any Noise Save The Whir Of The Chains. For A Flashing Instant

That Old Face Shone Out Of The Circle Of Our Lights, Concave With

Astonishment; Then We Lost It Forever.

"No Fear That _He_ Will Telephone To Have Us Stopped Lower Down," Said

Molly. "He Thinks We Are Supernatural, And Will Go Home And Tell His

Grandchildren That He Has Seen Witches Tearing Home After A Revel Up

Among The Glaciers."

Faster Still The Car Flew Down The Road. The Air That Streamed Past Us

Held The Faint, Elusive Perfume Of Italy, Which Softly Hints The

Presence Of The Walnut, The Chestnut, And The Grape. Through Village

After Village We Swept At Speed, Our Lamps Shining Now On Mulberry And

Fig Trees, And On Vines Trained Over Trellises Held Up By Splintered

Granite Slabs. Next We Came Suddenly Upon An Italian-Looking Town With

Bad _Pavé_ And Dimly Lighted Streets, Where Three Or Four Workmen,

Early Astir, Stared At Us In Bewilderment. It Was Bellinzona; But

Passing Through, We Came Out Presently On The Margin Of An Immense

Sheet Of Water, And It Was Only In Locarno On The Edge Of Lago

Maggiore, When Dawn Was Paling The Eastern Sky, That Jack At Last Drew

Rein.

No One Was Tired; No One Wanted To Rest. On The Contrary, Our Rapid

Flight Over The Alps Had Intoxicated Us With The Sense Of Speed; And

We Were All Excitedly For Going On Until We Should Reach The Frontier.

As Pink Dawn Blossomed In The Sky, Like A Heavenly Orchard, And The

Mountain Tops Were Beaten Into Copper, We Glided Along The Edge Of The

Lake, Past Picturesque Villages And _Campanili_, And Cypress Trees. At

The Italian Frontier There Were The Usual Tedious Formalities Of

Payment And Sealing The Car With A Leaden Seal; But When All This Was

Done By Sleepy Officials, Surly At Our Early Passage, Though Little

Recking Of Our Crimes, We Sailed On Again, Molly Driving Now, Through

A Landscape Magically Clear In The Young Morning Light.

Suddenly We All Started In Joyous Astonishment, And Molly Brought The

Car To A Stop. Each Had Seen The Same Thing, Each Had Been Struck With

The Same Thought. Here, At Last, We Had Found What We Had Come So Far

To Seek; What Switzerland Denied Us, Italy Offered. Standing Alone In

A Field By The Roadside Was A Small, Dark Grey Donkey, Tethered To A

Stone; And No Other Living Being Was In Sight. The Creature Was Not

Eating; It Was Only Thinking; And It Looked At Us With An Eye That

Seemed To Speak Of Loneliness And The Desire For Human Fellowship.

"The Very Thing For You!" Cried Molly; And The Long-Sought-For

Treasure, Finding Itself Observed, Flicked One Of Its Heavy Ears.

Gotteland And I Dismounted And Went Nearer. As We Approached, The

Donkey Nickered; And As Its Family Is Famed For Reticence, Such Proof

Of Friendliness Made Me Yearn To Possess The Deserted Little Beast.

But Its Legs Were Very Thin, Its Hoofs Exceedingly Small, And The

Thought Of Loading So Frail A Structure With The Great Packs That Held

My Camping Kit Seemed A Barbarity. Meanwhile Gotteland, Who Knows

Something Of Everything, Had Carefully Examined The Tiny Animal, And

Just As I Was Growing Sentimental Over Its Perfections, He Broke The

Charm By Pronouncing It To Be Incredibly Old, And Unfit For Work. He

Also Drew My Attention To A Disagreeable Sore Upon Its Shoulder. It

Was Sad; But Indisputably The Man Was Right; In Any Case There Was No

One With Whom A Bargain Could Have Been Arranged, And With Poignant

Regret I Was Forced To Leave My Treasure-Trove To Its Solitary

Thoughts. After This We Did Not Stop Again Until Molly Steered The Car

To The Door Of A Beautiful Hotel In Pallanza, Where The Shirt-Sleeved

Concierge Hurried Into His Gold-Laced Coat, To Receive In Fitting

Style The Unusually Early Guests.

My First Care, After Coffee And A Bath, Was To Examine The Landlord

Of The Hotel On Momentous Question Of Mules And Donkeys. At Lucerne, I

Told Him, They Had Assured Me That The Animals "Flourished" In Canton

Ticino And The Neighbourhood Of The Italian Lakes. But I Met With No

Encouragement. Mules And Donkeys Were Rarely Seen In These Parts, The

Host Declared. True, A Few Peasants Employed Them In The Fields; But

Those Were Poor Things, Unfit For An Excursion Such As Monsieur

Purposed. At Piedimulera, Perhaps, Monsieur Would Find What He Wanted;

Yes, At Piedimulera, Or If Not, At Domodossola; Or--His Face

Brightened--In The Valais, Preferably At Brig. Yes, He Was Certain

That Mules And Asses In Abundance Could Be Found At Brig In The Rhone

Valley. Brig! My Heart Sank. It Was The Old Story. Counterfeiting

Patience, I Explained That I Had An Antipathy To The Rhone Valley, And

Had Actually Crossed The Alps To Find Animals In Italy Rather Than Be

Driven To Seek Them In Brig.

Crushed By A Hopeless, Answering Gesture, I Made My Report To Molly

And Jack. "It Will End," I Said, "In My Traversing The World, And

Eventually Arriving In Japan, Still Searching The _Rara Avis_. By That

Time I Shall Have Become A Harmless Lunatic, And People Will Treat My

Babblings With Indulgent Forbearance, When I Go From House To House

Begging To Be Supplied With A Pack-Mule Or A Pack-Donkey."

At _Déjeuner_, In A Garden Which Was A Successful Imitation Of Eden,

The Situation Did Not, However, Look So Dark. The Perfume Of Flowers,

Distilled By The Hot Sun, Was Of Araby The Blest; The Borromean

Islands Spread Their Enchantments Before Us, Across A Glittering Blue

Expanse Of Lake, And