The highway over the Simplon Pass was built by Napoleon in 1805. It is still, in spite of the railways built since, a well traveled route, though not by foot travelers. The good people of Brig cried out against it when I told them I was going to cross on foot.
With a lunch in my knapsack, I left Brig at dawn. Before the sun rose the morning stage-coach rattled by, and the jeering of its drivers cheered me on. With every turn of the route up the mountain the picture below me grew. Three hours up, Brig still peeped out through the slender pine trees far below, yet almost directly beneath. Across the pit sturdy mountain boys scrambled from rock to boulder with their sheep and goats. Far above the last shrub, ragged peaks of stone stood against the blue sky like figures of curious shapes, peaks aglow with nature’s richest coloring, here one deep purple in the morning shade, there another of ruddy pink, changing like watered silk in the sunshine that gilded its top. Beyond the spot where Brig was lost to view began the roadside cottages in which the traveler, tired out or overcome by the raging storms of winter, may seek shelter. In this summer season, however, they had been changed into wine-shops, where children and stray goats wandered among the tables.
Higher up I found scant footing on the narrow ledges. In several places the road burrowed its way through tunnels. High above one of these, a glacier sent down a roaring torrent right over the tunnel. Through an opening in the outer wall I could reach out and touch the foaming stream as it plunged into the abyss below.
Light clouds, that had hidden the peaks during the last hours of the climb, almost caused me to pass by without seeing the hospice of St. Bernard that marks the summit. It is here that those wonderful St. Bernard dogs are trained to hunt for and give aid to travelers lost in the snow. I stepped inside to write a postal card to the world below, and turned out again into a drizzling rain that soon became a steady downpour. But the miles that had seemed so long in the morning fairly raced by on the downward trip, and a few hours later I reached the boundary line between France and Italy.
CHAPTER VII
IN SUNNY ITALY
The next morning I continued my tramp into sunny Italy. The highway was covered with deep mud, and my garments were still wet when I drew them on. But the day was bright with sunshine. The vine-covered hillside and rolling plains below, the lizards basking on every shelf of rock, peasant women plodding barefoot along the route, made it hard to realize that the weather of the day before had been dismal and chilling.
As I walked on I met countless poor people. Ragged children quarreled for the possession of an apple-core thrown by the wayside; the rolling fields were alive with barefooted women toiling like slaves. A sparrow could not have found a living behind them. In wayside orchards men armed with grain-sacks stripped even the trees of their leaves—for what purpose I did not know until the bed I was assigned to in the village below offered a possible explanation. All along the highway were what looked from a distance like walking hay-stacks. But when I came nearer I saw beneath them the tired faces of women or half grown girls.
Nightfall found me looking for lodging in a lake-side village half way between Como and Lecco. I found an inn after a long and careful search; but, as it had no door opening on to the street, I was puzzled as to where to enter it. There was a dark passageway and a darker stairway before me, leading downward into a pit. I plunged down the passage with my hands out in front of me—which was fortunate, for I brought up against a stone wall. Then I stealthily approached the stairway, stumbled up the stone steps over a stray cat and a tin pan, and into the common room of the village inn—common because it served as kitchen, dining-room, parlor, and office.
I asked for supper and lodging. The proprietor half rose to his feet, sat down again, and motioned me to a seat. I took a place opposite him on one of the two benches near the fireplace, partly because it had been raining outside, but chiefly because there were no chairs. A long silence followed. The keeper sat on his bench, staring long and hard at me without saying a word. His wife wandered in and placed several pots and kettles around the fire that toasted our heels.
“Not nice weather,” grinned the landlord at last, and after that we were soon engaged in lively conversation. Too lively, in fact, for my host at one time became so earnest about something he was telling that he kicked over a kettle of macaroni, and was banished from the chimney-corner by his angry wife. Not being in the habit of making gestures with my feet, I kept my place and tried to answer the questions that the exile fired at me from across the room.