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

Only Means Of Communication With The Outer World Of The Monastery

(Save For Midnight Prayers In The Dim Chapel) A Little _Grille_. There

Was My Workshop, Where I Carved Wood; There The Narrow Staircase

Leading Steeply Up To My Wainscoted Bedroom, My Study, And My Oratory,

With Windows Looking Down Into The Leafy Square Of Garden, Planted By

My Own Hands. Standing At One Of Those Windows, I Knew The Anguish Of

Parting And Loss Which Had Torn The Heart Of The Last Occupant, Before

He Walked Out Of The Monastery Between Double Lines Of Chasseurs

Alpins.

    "Rub The Ring, And The Genius Will Appear."

                             --_Arabian Nights_.

Down, Down A Winding And Beautiful Road We Plunged, On Leaving The

Grande Chartreuse, While The Afternoon Sunlight Was Still Golden. The

Monastery Sank Out Of Our Sight As We Went, As The Moon Sinks Into The

Sea, And Was Gone For Us As If It Were On The Other Side Of The World.

Ah, But A Sweet, Warm World, And I Was Glad After All That I Was Not A

Monk In Carved Oak Cells And Walled Gardens, But A Free Young Man Who

Could Vibrate Between The South Pole And The Albany.

Molly Said That The Monastery Of The Grande Chartreuse Was Like A Body

Without A Soul; And In Another Breath She Was Asking Jack, Quite

Seriously, Whether She Could Buy One Of The Cells From The French

Government, All Complete, To "Express" As A Present To Her Father In

New York.

We Flew, Our Motor Humming Like A Bee, Through Exquisite Forests

Clothing The Sides Of A Narrow Ravine, Where Hidden Streams Made

Music. Then In A Twinkling We Slipped Out From The Secret Recesses Of

Scented Woods, Into A Village Almost Too Beautiful To Accept As

Reality, In A Practical Mood. There It Lay, Like A Little Heap Of

Pearls Tossed Down From The Lap Of One Mountain At The Feet Of

Another--And We Were At St. Pierre De Chartreuse.

The Tiny Gem Of Beauty Had Caught The Glory Of Switzerland, And The

Soft, Fairy Charm Of Dauphiné. Its Guardian Mountain Was A Miniature

Matterhorn Of Indescribable Grace And Airy Stateliness; Its Lesser

Attendants Formed A Group Of Peaks, Grey And Green And Rose. As If

Enough Gifts Had Not Yet Been Bestowed Upon The Little Place At Its

Christening, A Playground Of Forest Land, Rolling Up Over Grassy

Slopes, Had Been Given, With A Neighbouring River, Swift And Clear, To

Sing It A Lullaby.

I Had The Impulse To Clap My Hands At St. Pierre De Chartreuse, As At

Some "Setting" Excellently Designed And Carried Out By The Most

Celebrated Of Scene Painters. It Was A Place In Which To Stop A Month,

Finding A New Walk For Each New Day; But One Does Not Discover Walks

In A Motor Car. One Sweeps Over The Country, Sounding Notes Of

Triumph. We Glanced At St. Pierre De Chartreuse And Sped On Towards

Grenoble, Through A Landscape Markedly Different From That Of Savoie.

In Savoie Everything Is Done Lavishly, On A Large Scale. The Eye Roams

Over Spaces Of Noble Amplitude, Expressing Strength In Repose.

Dauphiné Is Livelier And Daintier; More Lovable, Too. Fairies Or

Brownies (Since No Mortals Do It) Keep The Whole Country Like A Vast

Private Park. In Crossing From Savoie Into Dauphiné One Seemed To Hear

The Allegro Movement After Listening To The Andante.

With Each Twist Of Our Road The Prospect Changed. The Mountains Grew,

Soared More Abruptly, And The Youthful-Looking Landscape Smiled At

Their Strange Shapes. As For The Cham Chaude, Which Had Been The

Matterhorn At St. Pierre De Chartreuse, It Now Disguised Itself For

Some New Part At Every Turn. Such Lightning Changes Must Have Been

Fatiguing, Even For So Extraordinarily Versatile And Clever A

Mountain, For Within Fifteen Minutes After Playing It Was The

Matterhorn, It Was A Giant, Tonsured Monk; A Greek Soldier In A

Helmet; A Dutch Cheese; A Hen, And A Camel.

When Dragon Mercédès Had Rushed Us Up The Great Col, And Whirled Round

A Corner, Suddenly A Battalion Of Magnificent White Warrior-Mountains

Sprang At Us From An Ambush Of Invisibility. Then, No Sooner Had They

Struck Awe To Our Hearts With Their Warlike Majesty, Than, Repentant,

They Turned Into Lovely White Ladies, Bidding Us Welcome To The Rich,

Ripe Figs And Purple Grapes Which They Held In Their Generous Laps. I

Thought Of Saint Elizabeth Of Hungary With Her Fair Face, Her Candid

Sky-Blue Eyes, Her High, Noble Bearing, And Her White Dress Caught Up,

Heaped With The Roses Into Which Her Loaves Had Been Transformed. The

Tallest, Purest White Mountain Of All I Chose For Sweet Elizabeth, And

That Was None Other Than Far Mont Blanc, Floating Magically In Pure

Blue Ether, Like A Gleaming Pearl.

Flying Down The Perfect Road Towards The Plain Where Two Rivers Met,

Loved, And Wedded, The Valley Which Was The White Mountain's Lap

Blended Vague, Soft Greens And Blues And Purples, Hinting Of Grapes

And Figs Clustering Under Leaves. Here And There A Vine Had Been

Nipped By Early Frosts And Flung Its Crimson Wreaths, Like Diadems Of

Rubies, In A Red Arch Across Distant Billows Of Mountain Snows.

Autumn Was In The Air, And Though The Grass And Most Of The Trees Kept

All Their Richness Of Summer Greenery, A Faint, Pungent Fragrance Of

Dying Leaves And The Smoke Of Bonfires Came To One's Nostrils With

The Breeze. Mingled With The Exciting Scent Of Petrol, It Was

Delicious.

At The Confluence Of The Newly Married Drac And Isère Rose The Domes

And Towers Of Stately Old Grenoble, Hoary With History; And Never A

Town Had A Nobler Setting. Swooping Down In Half-Circles, As If Our

Car Had Been A Great Bird Of Prey, We Saw The Valley Veiled With A

Silver Haze, Which Wrapped The City In Mystery, While Through This

Gleaming Gauze The Two Rivers Threaded Like Strings Of Turquoise

Beads.

"How The Boy Would Have Loved This!" I Found Myself Exclaiming Over My

Shoulder To Molly. "He Used Often To Talk Of The Great Charm Of

Descending From Heights Upon Places, Especially New-Old Places, Which

One Has Never Seen Before."

"Used He?" Echoed Molly. "Why, That Is Rather Odd. It Is Exactly What

Mercédès Has Just Been Saying."

The Perpetual Mushroom Moved Impatiently. I Fancied By The Movement Of

Her Shoulder That She Resented Having Her Thoughts Passed On To Me. I

Hastened To Turn Away, Sorry That I Had Reminded Her Inadvertently Of

My Cumbersome Existence; But I Could Not Help Wondering What She Had

Been Thinking Of In The Monastery When We Had Walked For Full Five

Moments Side By Side.

There Was No Disappointment When We Had Plunged Into The Silver Haze,

Torn It Apart, And Entered The Town Over A Dignified Bridge. All

Around Us Spread The City Old And New; Above, On The Hills, Were

Numerous Châteaux, A Strange Fort, And The Queerest Of Ancient

Convents, Like The Cork Castles I Had Seen In Shop Windows And Coveted

As A Child. In The Town There Were Statues, Many Statues--Statues

Everywhere And In Honour Of Everybody. Bayard Was There, Dying; And

There Was A Delightfully Human Old Fellow (Humorous Even In Marble)

Who Cleverly "Lay Low" Till His Worst Enemy Had Finished An

Elaborately Fortified Castle, Then Promptly Took It. Not A Spacious

Modern Street That Had Not At Least One Magnificent Old Palace, A

Façade Of Joyous Renaissance Invention, Or At Least A Crumbling

Mediæval Doorway Of Divine Beauty; And Nothing Of Romance Was Lost

Because Grenoble Makes Gloves For All The World.

We Sailed Out Of The Town Along The Straight Five-Mile Road To The

Pont De Claix, And Now It Was Ho! For The Basses Alpes, Over A Road

Which Might Have Been Engineered For An Emperor's Motoring; Past The

Quaint Twin Bridges Spanning The Stream Side By Side, Which Our

Guide-Book Taught Us To Recognise As One Of The Seven Wonders (With

Capitals) Of Dauphiné. Then Came A Valley, Almost Theatrical In Its

Romantic Grace. One Would Not Have Believed In It For A Moment If One

Had Seen It First In A Sketch. Even The Railway, On Which We Soon

Looked Down, Was Inspired To Gymnastic Feats, Leaping Across Chasms On

Giddy Viaducts, And Twisting Back Upon Itself In Corkscrew Tunnels.

There Were Thrilling Retrospective Views Away To The Giant Alps We

Were Leaving Behind, But Soon, Nearer Mountains Crowded Them Out Of

Sight. The Country Grew Wild, With A Strange Grimness, Like The Face

Of A Blind Fate; Cultivation Ceased In Despair Of Success; And Alike

On The Bare Uplands And In The Deep-Scored Valleys There Were Few

Signs Of Human Life. Then, Suddenly, In Such A Setting, We Came Upon

The Grandest Of The Seven Marvels, The Most Wonderful Lone Rock In

Europe, Mont Aiguille, More Like An Obelisk Of Incalculable Immensity

Than A Mountain. Once, It Had Been Considered Unscalable, And Might

Have Remained Virgin Until This Century Of Hardy Climbers, Had Not

Charles The Eighth Had A Fancy To Hear (Not To See!) What Was On Top.

Up Went A Few Of His Bravest Satellites, Hoisting Themselves On To The

Aërial Plateau By Means Of Ropes And Ladders, And Bringing Down

Wondrous Tales Of Impossible Chamois, Savage, Brilliant-Coloured

Birds, And Singular Vegetation, Which Stories Promptly Went Into All

The Geographies Of The Day And Were Believed Until A More Practical

Explorer Named Jean Liotard Climbed Up, To Please Himself, In 1834.

We Lost Sight Of This Second Dauphiné Marvel (The Last One We Were To

See) Just Before Running Up The Steep Hill Which Led Down Again Into

The Dark Jaws Of Another Mountain Pass. It Was The Col De La Croix