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

In A Moment I Was Laughing At Myself. Ridiculous To Have Such A

Thought In Connection With A Slip Of A Boy, Seventeen At Most! I

Lingered Over My Breakfast, So That The Brat Have Finished His

Sightseeing And Got Away, Before My Tour Of The Hospice Began.

He And I Had Had The Table To Ourselves At First, But I Sat So Long

That Others Came In, Evidently Persons Who Had Spent The Night At The

Monastery. There Was A Russian Family, Of So Many Daughters That I

Wondered Their Parents Had Found Names For Them All; A Couple Of

German Women In Plaid Blouses So Terrible That They Set Me

Speculating. Had The Material Been Chosen By Their Husbands, With The

View Of Alienating All Masculine Admiration, As A Japanese Girl, When

Married, Blackens Her Teeth? Or Had The Ladies Inflicted The Frightful

Things Upon Themselves, By Way Of Penance For Some Grievous Sin? I

Should Have Liked To Ask, Especially As One Of The Wearers Was Very

Pretty, With A Large, Madonna Loveliness. But Under My Dreaming Eyes,

She Began Eating Honey With Her Knife, And I Sprang From The Table

Hastily. As I Paused, I Heard Two Stolid Cockneys Asking Each Other

Why The--Dickens They Had Come To This "Beastly, Cold, God-Forsaken

Hole, With Nothing But A Lot Of Ugly Mountains To See. There Was

Better Sport In Oxford Street." I Should Not Have Considered It Murder

If I Had Killed Them Where They Sat, But I Refrained, Rather Than Soil

My Hands. And After All, If A Primrose On A River's Brim, But A Yellow

Primrose Was To Them, What Did It Matter To Me?

I Visited The _Bibliothèque_, Which Was Haunted By A Fragrance

Intoxicating To Booklovers, Of Dead Centuries, Leather Bindings, And

Parchment. I Saw The Piano Given By The King When He Was Prince Of

Wales; The Fine Collection Of Coins And Early Roman Remains Found In

The Neighbourhood Of The Monastery; I Dropped A Louis Into The Box Of

Offerings In The Chapel, And Then Was Taken By A Mild-Eyed,

Frail-Looking Monk To See Some Of The Rooms Allotted To Guests At The

Hospice. Seeing Them, I Was Inclined To Wish That I Had Pushed On

Through The Darkness Last Night, And Reached This Mountain-Top To

Sleep. I Liked The Wainscoted Walls, The White, Canopied Beds, But

Most Of All, I Liked The Deep-Set Windows With Their View Of The

Silent Lake, Asleep In The Bosom Of The Mountains, And Dreaming Of The

Sky. On Most Of The Walls Were Votive Offerings In The Shape Of

Pictures, Sent To The Monks By Grateful Visitors In Far-Off Countries.

One Was An Engraving Which Had Adorned The Nursery In My Youth, And

Had Been A Never-Failing Source Of Curiosity To Me. It Was Gustave

Doré's "Christian Martyrs," And I Had Once Been Deprived Of Pudding At

The Nursery Dinner, Because I Had Remarked (With Irreverence Wholly

Unintentional) That One Of The Lions Seemed Ill, And Anxious To "Climb

Up The Wall And Get Away From The Nasty Martyrs." Thus It Is That

Children Are Misunderstood By Their Elders! And Now, As I Gazed At The

Same Picture On The Monastery Wall, I Felt Again All The Old, Impotent

Rebellion Against Injustice And Misplaced Power.

Later, I Wandered Through The Pathetically Interesting Alpine Garden,

Carefully Kept By The Monks; And Then, Sure That By This Time The Brat

And His Cavalcade Must Be Far On Their Way, I Started, With Joseph And

Finois, To Stroll Down The Pass Towards Aosta.

I Had Promised Jack And Molly To Tell Them In My Letters, Whether It

Would Be Possible For Them, With A Motor, To Go By Some Of The Routes

Which I Chose. Over The St. Bernard From Martigny To The Hospice They

Could Not Have Ventured, Even In The Stealthy, Fly-By-Night Manner In

Which They Had "Done" The St. Gothard And The Simplon; For On The St.

Bernard The Road Was Always Narrow, Often Stony And Dangerous. Beyond,

On The Other Side, Even Carriages Cannot Yet Pass, Descending To

Aosta, Though In Another Year The New Road Will Be Finished. As It Is,

For Many A Generation Pilgrims From The Hospice To Italy Have Been

Obliged To Go Down As Far As The Mountain Village Of St. Rhémy Either

On Foot Or Mule-Back; Thus There Was No Hope For Mercédès There.

I Went Swinging Down The Steep And Winding Path, My Heart Chanting A

Psalm To The Mountains. Mountains Like Cathedrals, With Carved,

Graceful Spires; Mountains Like Frozen Waves Left By Some Great Sea

When The World Was Chaos; Mountains Like Leaning Towers Of Pisa;

Mountains Like Sentinel Titans; Mountains Silver-Grey; Mountains

Dark-Red. The "Pain De Sucre" Was Strangest Of All In Form, Perhaps,

And Joseph Distressed Me Much By Remarking Guilelessly That It, And

Other White Shapes At Which He Pointed, Looked Exactly Like Frosted

Wedding-Cakes. It Was True; They Did; But They Looked Like Nobler

Things Also, And I Resented Having So Cheap A Simile Put Into My Head.

With Every Step The Way Grew More Glorious. This Was An Enchanted

Land. I Could Hardly Believe That Thousands Of Travellers Had Seen It

Before, And Would Again. I Felt As If I Had Fallen Sindbad-Like, Into

A Valley Undiscovered By Man; And, Like Sindbad's Valley, This

Sparkled To My Dazzled Eyes With Countless Gems. Not All Cold, White

Diamonds, Like His, But Gems Of Every Colour. The Rocks Through Which

Our Path Was Cut, Glowed With Rainbow Hues, Like Different Precious

Metals Blended. This Effect Struck Me At First (In The Brilliant

Sunshine Which Alone Kept Me From Being Nipped With Cold) As Puzzling,

But In A Moment I Had Solved The "Jewel Mystery" Of The Mountains. The

Rocks Were Of Porphyry, And Marble, And Granite, Spangled With Mica;

And Over All Spread In Patches A Lichen Of Rose, And Green, And

Yellow, Like Chipped Rubies And Emeralds Among Gold-Filings.

So Wild And Splendid Was The Scene, Composed And Painted By A Peerless

Master, That I Slackened My Pace, Reluctant To Leave So Much Splendour

Behind; But Despite All Delaying, We Came After A Time Down To

Tree-Level. The Landscape Changed; The Diamond Spray Of Miniature

Cataracts Dashed Over High Cliffs, Among Balsamic Pine Forests; The

Sunshine Brought Out The Intense Green Of Moss And Fern. We Met

Porters Struggling Up The Height With Luggage On Their Backs, And Fat

Women Riding Depressed Mules. It Was Very Mediæval, And I Had The

Sensation Of Having Walked Into A Picture--Round The Corner Of It,

Into The Best Part Which You Know Must Be There, Though It Can't Be

Seen By Outsiders.

It Took Us An Hour And A Half To Walk The Eleven Kilometres Down To

St. Rhémy, Where We Lunched Well, And Drank A Sparkling Wine Of The

Country Which May Have Been Meretricious, But Tasted Good. There Was A

_Douane_, For We Had Now Passed Out Of Switzerland Into Italy, And My

Mule-Pack Was Examined With Curiosity; But Why I Should Have Been

Questioned With Insistence As To Whether I Were Concealing Sausages, I

Could Not Guess, Unless A Swashbuckling German Princeling Who Married

Into Our Family Eight Generations Ago, Was Using My Eyes For Windows

At The Time.

I Need Not Have Feared That The Best Of The Journey Would Be Over At

St. Rhémy, For The Road (Which Broadened There, And Became "Navigable"

For Motor Cars As Well As Horse-Drawn Vehicles), Wound Down Still

Among Stupendous Mountains Capped With Snow, Jagged Peaks Of Dark

Granite, And Purple Porphyry Which Glowed Crimson In Contrast With The

Dazzling Snow.

We Did Not Leave St. Rhémy Till Long Past One, And As We Descended

Upon Lower Levels The Sun Grew Hot. More Than Once I Called A Halt,

And We Had A Delicious Rest Under A Tree In Some Exquisite Glade A

Little Removed From The Roadside. It Was During One Of These, While

Finois Cropped An Indigestible Branch, That Joseph Opened His Heart,

And Told Me His Life's History. It Had Been More Or Less Adventurous,

And It Had Held A Tragedy, For Joseph Had Loved, And The Fair Had

Jilted Him On The Eve Of Their Marriage, For A Prosperous Baker. This

Fellow-Feeling (For Had We Not Both Been Thrown Over For Tradesmen?)

Made Me Wondrous Kind Towards Joseph; And When I Had Drawn From Him

The Fact That His Great Ambition Was To Own Three Donkeys, And Start

In Business For Himself, I Secretly Determined To See What Could Be

Done Towards Forwarding This End.

We Did Not Hurry, And While We Were Still Far Above Aosta, The Shadows

Lengthened And Thinned, Like Children Who Have Grown Too Fast. We

Exchanged Chestnuts For Pines, And The Pure Ethereal Blue Of Italy

Burned In The Sky. Everywhere Was Rich Abundance Of Colour. The Green

Of Trees And Grass Was Luscious; Even The Shadows Were Of A

Translucent Purple. Below Us The Valley Of Aosta Lay, So Dreamily

Lovely, So Peaceful, That One Could Imagine There Only Happiness And

Prosperity.

I Remarked This To Joseph, And He Smiled His Melancholy Smile. "It Is

Beautiful," He Said, "And When You Are Down At The Bottom, You Will

Not Be Disappointed In The Country. But For Happiness? It Is No Better

Than Elsewhere. Wait Till You See The _Crétins_; There Is A _Crétin_

In Almost Every Family. And Not Long Ago There Was A Dreadful Murder

In The Neighbourhood Of Aosta. The Criminal Has Not Yet Been Caught.

He Is Supposed To Be Hiding Somewhere In The Mountains, And The Police

Cannot Find Him. There Is A Printed Notice Out, Warning People To

Beware Of The Murderer--So I Read In A Newspaper Not Long Ago And I

Have Heard That The Inhabitants Of All These Little Hamlets We See

Here And There, Dare Not Go From Village To Village After Dark, For

Fear Of Being Attacked."

"Then, If We Should Happen To Be Belated, We Might Have An Adventure?"

I Said.

"Indeed, It Is Not At All Unlikely, Monsieur. No Doubt The Man Is

Desperate, And If He Saw A Chance To