And Alpine inclemency possesses an æsthetic value which is as important as it is alluring. Whether “in the smiles or anger of the high air,” these flower-fields are invariably things of beauty; even as the diamond glitters in the gloom, so do these pastures shine throughout the storm. What could be more æsthetically beautiful than the rosy expanses of Mealy Primrose bathed in dense, driving mists, or (as in the picture facing page 16) the regiments of Globe-Flower, standing pale but fascinating, in weather which, were we down on the plains, we should consider “not fit for a dog to be abroad in”? Or what more winsome than the widespread colonies of Bartsia, Micheli’s Daisy, Pedicularis, Biscutella, and Bell-Gentian (Gentiana verna, unfortunately, is closed when the sun hides itself), lying subdued but colour-full beside the steaming waters of the lake?
Field of CAMPANULA RHOMBOIDALIS on the Col de la Forclaz, about the beginning of July.
Ah! where one of these Alpine lakes is in the landscape, what wonders of Nature’s artistry we may watch when rough winds howl and toss the seething cloud into ever-changing combinations of tint, form, and texture!
“With how ceaseless motion, with how strange
Flowing and fading, do the high Mists range
The gloomy gorges of the Mountains bare”!
A hundred hues of grey fill the vapour-laden air and are mirrored in receptive waters—hues with which the fresh rose of the Primula and the rich, full yellow of the Marsh-Marigold blend with perfect felicity, lending that touch of human appeal which makes the scene ideal.
The forests, too, are never so picturesque as when clouds cling to the pine and larch, softening the tone and carriage of these somewhat formal trees, and breaking up every suggestion of monotony in their reiterated masses. A soft, weird, intimately mysterious beauty reigns over everything. What matter the winds and the rains if they bring us such expression? By what is regret justified in all this witchery? Regret that the sun no longer shines, inducing the Vernal Gentian to open wide its bright blue eyes? Nay; here, in Alp-land, if nowhere else, does an ultimate philosophy speak possibly of what is actual; here, if nowhere else, bad weather is but a delightful foil to bright and sunny days. Regret! There is no right room for such repining: no sound and balanced reason to moan, as moans, for instance, the Chinese poet: