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

Myself From A Lash Of Red Tape, With The Adage That "A Cat May Look At

A King," I Saw A Man I Had Known Years Ago Smiling At Me.

[Illustration: "I Was Suddenly Clapped Upon The Shoulder".]

I Have A Worldly-Minded Cousin Who Says That She Is Always Nice To

Girls, Because "You Never Know Whom They May Marry." It Might Be

Equally Diplomatic To Be Nice To Foreigners Who Are At Oxford With

You, Because You Don't Know That They May Not Become Famous Engineers,

Able To Show You Interesting Things When You Visit Their Country.

Giovanni Bolzano Had Been At Balliol With Me, Studying English, And

Now It Turned Out That He Was Second Engineer To The Works For The New

Tunnel. I Recalled With Poignant Regret That Jack Winston And I Had

Once Made Hay Of His Room; But Evidently He Bore No Malice, For After

Saying That He Was Not Surprised To See Me, As Everybody Came This Way

Sooner Or Later, He Offered To Show Me His Tunnel, Of Which This Was

The Italian Mouth. It Had Another At Brig, Twelve Miles Away, And

Boasted The Longest Throat In The World, But As It Was Marvellously

Ventilated, It Would Never Choke In Its Own Smoke, And Bolzano Was

Very Proud Of The Engineering Achievement. Having Discharged My

Carriage, I Went With Him Into A Workshop, Heard The Humming Of

Dynamos, And The Buzzing Of Tremendous Turbines, Actuated By The Fall

Of The River Diveria, And Gazed With The Fascination Of A Mouse For A

Cat At A Huge And Diabolical Fan, Driving Air Into The Tunnel. This

Fearful Beast Had A House To Itself, With A Passage Down Which You

Could Venture Like Theseus Entering The Labyrinth Of The Minotaur; But

Such Was The Volume Of Breath Which It Drew Into Its Mighty Lungs That

You Must Use All Your Strength Not To Be Sucked In And Hurled Against

The Shafting; All Your Self-Control Not To Be Confused By Its Loud,

Unceasing Roar.

Hardly Had We Come Out From This Weird Place, Which Would Have Given

Edgar Allan Poe An Inspiration For A Creepy Tale, When Bolzano Showed

Me A Relief Gang Of Men Getting Ready To Enter The Tunnel, In A Train

Consisting Of Wooden Boxes Drawn By A Miniature Locomotive. This Was

My Chance. I Was Hurried Off To His Quarters, Helped Into Rough,

Miner's Clothing, With Great Boots Up To My Knees, And Given A Miner's

Lamp. Then, Joining The Eight Hundred Italians,--A Battalion Of The

Soldiers Of Labour,--We Got Into A Box, And Set Off To Relieve Eight

Hundred Other Such Soldiers Who For Eight Hours Had Toiled In The

Schisty Heart Of The Mountain.

I Felt As If Suddenly, Between Sleeping And Waking, I Had Plunged Deep

Into The Dusk Of Dreamland. We Rumbled Through A Lofty Egg-Shaped

Vault, Lined With Masonry, Lighted Waveringly, With Strange Play Of

Shadow, By Our Many Lamps. This Phase Of The Dream Seemed To Last A

Long Time; And Then The Train Of Boxes Slowed Down, For We Had Reached

The Danger-Point, A Part Of The Tunnel Where The Hidden Genii Of The

Mountain Had Planned A Trap To Upset All Geological Expectations.

Having Allowed The Engineers To Penetrate Thus Far, They Had Suddenly

Flooded The Tunnel With Cataracts Of Water From Fissures In The Rock,

And Had Laughed Wild, Echoing Laughter Because They Had Contrived To

Delay The Work For A Year, And Cause The Spending Of Much Extra Money.

The Dream Showed Me Now A Long Iron Cage, Shoring Up The Crumbling

Walls Of The Excavation; And Through This Cage We Crept Like A

Procession Of Wary Mice, Suddenly Putting On Speed At The End, Till We

Reached The Tunnel-Head, And Found Another Train Preparing To Go Out.

Here The Dream Flung Me Into A Teeming Inferno Of Darkness And Lost

Spirits Who (Spent With Eight Hours' Monotonous Toil In This Circle)

Had Dropped Asleep, Sitting Half-Naked In The Line Of Boxes Which

Would Bear Them Away To A Spell Of Rest. They Had Fallen Into Pathetic

Attitudes Of Collapse, Some Lying Back With Their Mouths Open, Some

Resting Their Heads On Folded Arms, Some Drooping On Comrades'

Shoulders.

As Our Train-Load Of Activity Came To A Stand, This Other Train-Load

Of Exhaustion Rumbled Slowly Away, The Smoky Lamps Glinting On

Polished, Olive-Coloured Flesh, On Hairy Arms, And Swarthy Faces Shut

To Consciousness.

Close To The Tunnel-Head We Alighted, And Went On Into The Dream On

Foot, The Gallery Contracting To A Few Feet In Height, Where A Group

Of Black Figures Bent Over Rock-Drills Which Creaked And Groaned. I

Saw The Drill-Holes Filled With Dynamite, And Retired With The Others

While The Fuse Was Lighted. I Heard From Afar Off The Thunderous

Detonations As The Rock-Face Was Shattered. I Saw The Débris Being

Cleared Away, Before The Drills Should Begin To Grind Again; And The

Remembrance That, In Another Rathole On The Swiss Side, Another Party

Of Workers Was Patiently Advancing Towards Us, In Precisely The Same

Way, Sent A Mysterious Thrill Through My Blood.

"Suppose The Two Galleries Don't Meet End To End?" I Spoke Out My

Thought.

"But They Will," Said Bolzano. "Our Calculations Are Precise, And We

Have Allowed For An Error Of Two Inches: I Do Not Think There Will Be

More. There Is A Great System Of Triangulation Across The Mountains,

And Every Few Months Our Reckonings Are Verified. By-And-Bye, We Shall

Hear The Sound Of Each Other's Drills; Then, Down Will Come The Last

Dividing Wall Of Rock, And Swiss And Italians Will Be Shaking Hands."

I Think, In Coming Out Of The Dark Tunnels And Windy Galleries, I Felt

Somewhat As Jonah Must Have Felt After He Had Been Discarded In

Distaste By The Whale. The Light Dazzled My Eyes. I Could Have Shouted

Aloud With Joy At Sight Of The Sun. I Made Bolzano Breakfast With Me

In The Little Inn At Iselle, And Got Upon My Way Again, At Something

Past Noon. The Vast Turmoil Of The Growing Railway Was Left Behind. It

Was Like Putting Down A Volume Of Walt Whitman, And Taking Up

Tennyson.

The Pass Had The Extraordinary Individuality Of One Face As Compared

With Another. It Had Not Even A Family Resemblance To The St. Gothard.

The Air Was Sweet With The Good Smell Of Newly Cut Wood And Resinous

Pines. There Were Sudden Glimpses Of Icy Peaks, Cut Diamonds In The

Sun, Seen For A Moment, Then Swallowed Up By Stealthily Creeping White

Clouds, Or Caressed By Them With A Benediction In Passing. Thin

Streaks Of Cascades On Precipitous Rocks Made Silver Veinings In

Ebony. Side Valleys Opened Unexpectedly, And One Knew From Hearsay

That Gold Mines Were Hidden There. Treading The Road Built By

Napoleon, I Was Enveloped In The Gloom Of The Wondrous Gondo Schlucht,

To Come Out Into A Broad Valley,--A Green Amphitheatre, Above Which A

Company Of White, Mountain Gods Sat Grouped To Watch A Cloud-Fight.

If I Had Not Been Heart-Broken By The Cruelty Of Helen Blantock, I

Should Have Been Almost Minded To Thank Her For Sending Me Here. But

Then,--I Reminded Myself Hastily When This Thought Winked At Me Over

My Shoulder,--I Was Stunned Still, By My Heavy Disappointment. I Was

Not Conscious To The Full Of My Suffering Now, But I Should Wake Up To

It By-And-Bye, And Then It Would Be Awful--As Awful As The Desolation

Left By A Recent Great Avalanche Whose Appalling Traces I Had Just

Seen.

[Illustration: "Treading The Road Built By Napoléon".]

I Refused To Be Interested In The Old Hospice Of St. Bernard, Or The

Newer Hospice, Built By Order Of Napoleon, Because Neither Seemed To

Me The Real Thing. If I Could Not See The Hospice Of St. Bernard On

The Pass Of Great St. Bernard, I Would Not See Any Other Hospices

Called By His Name. If Possible, I Would Have Gone By Them With My

Eyes Shut; But At The New Hospice The Yapping Of A Dozen Adorable

Puppies In A Kennel Opposite Lured Me, And I Paused To Talk To Them.

They Did Not Understand My Language, And This Was Disappointing; But

If I Had Not Stopped I Should Have Missed A Short Cut Which I Half

Saw, Half Suspected, Dimly Zigzagging Down The Mountain Into An

Extraordinarily Deep Valley, And Tending In The Direction Of Brig. It

Would Have Been A Pity To Pass It By, For Though I Often Thought

Myself Lost, I Eventually Caught Sight Of A Town, Lying Far Below,

Which Could Be No Other Than The One For Which I Was Bound. After

Three Hours Of Fast Walking Down From The Hospice, I Plunged Through

An Old Archway Into The Main Street Of Brig.

Coming Into It, I Stopped To Gaze Up In Astonishment At An Enormous

House Which Looked To Me As Big As Windsor Castle. Indeed, To Call It

A House Does Not Express Its Personality At All; Yet It Was Hardly

Magnificent Enough For A Castle. At Each Corner Was An Immense Tower,

Ornamented With A Big Bulb Of Copper, Like A Gigantic And Glorified

Spanish Onion. A Beautiful Renaissance Gallery, Flung Across From One

Tall Building To Another, Lent Grace To The Otherwise Too Solid Pile,

And I Guessed That I Must Have Come Upon The Ancient Stronghold And

Mansion Of The Famous Stockalper Family, Still Existing And Still One

Of The Most Important In Switzerland. In The Pass I Had Seen The

Towers Built By The First Stockalper--That Gaspar Who In Mediæval Days

Was Called "King Of The Simplon"; Who Protected Travellers And

Controlled The Caravan Traffic Between Italy And Switzerland; Now, To

See The House Which He Had Founded Still Occupied By His Descendants,

Fixed More Pictorially In My Mind The Stirring Legends Connected With

The Man.

The Little Town Of Brig Seemed Noisy And Gay After The Great Silence

Of The Pass. Church Bells Were Ringing, Whips Were Cracking; In