The passage of the Gemmi was another bona fide mule ride. I had heard so much about the precipitousness and the danger of the climb, my heart had been in my mouth whenever I thought of it for days before. Nothing but moral cowardice prevented the physical cowardice of—backing out. Were you to taunt me with “You couldn’t do it again,” a la Tom Sawyer, to the comrade who had just licked him (by the skin of his teeth), I’d follow his example and not try. Imagine, as far as in you lies, a mule-ride up a tree or a steep spiral staircase; above, sheer precipices; below, to such frightful depths, the same—two and one-half hours of that. Do you wonder I went “into retreat” at the top, if not to give thanks, surely for the precious privilege of once more drawing some long breaths? It was a five and one-half hours’ mule-ride to Kandersteg at the foot on the other side. We got to our hotel at 9 p. m., and slept the sleep of the elect. Open carriage next morning to Thun; the sunshine so glorious I didn’t believe it could ever “do it again,” and every roll of the wheels bearing onward to fresh charms of earth, air and sky. From Thun to Interlaken for a week; Staubbach, drives and walks in honor of the Jungfrau, Mönch and Eiger. You know that part of the story well. All the world does it. But to no one did it ever happen what unto me there befell one wonder afternoon. At the Belvedere, atop of a pretty height which commands the best view of that trio of snow-covered beauties, a party of English ladies came in. I caught the eye of one lovely-faced, silver-haired, soft-voiced, sweet-mannered old lady; an instant exchange of bow and smile, and then much pleasant talk. At parting, she fixed her eyes on me with such a blessing-beaming look in them, and said with the clearest distinctness of those low, silver tones, “May all your walks be pleasant.” I shall carry that benediction with me in every walk my feet shall tread in the future. From Interlaken to Berne, striking a fest, a peasant’s wrestling match, set for Sunday! Fine opportunity for seeing men, women and peasants’ costumes. Heard its great organ; saw the bear-clock; paid my visit of courtesy to the bears; had all its exquisite views; went to its really fine museum to see those marvelous specimens of white and black quartz-crystals, one weighing over 290 pounds and several over 200; and also “Barry,” the noble St. Bernard that saved fifteen lives; and ever so much else. Then Fribourg and its lime-tree dating from 1476, its organ, and a walk that might belong to a tale of necromancy.
On to Lucerne and the “Lake Leman,” where I went and sat in the garden in which Gibbon “wrote the conclusion of his great work.” And next, Chillon! I loitered away hours there. It is the loveliest, most romantic, picturesque spot. I wish I owned it! I stayed till the sun set fire to it, the lake and the snow peaks in the background, and then saw the full moon swing into space right over it; then a long, long sigh, and the train through several stages to Vernayaz, to make another “passage” to Chamouny. Another gorge, the Gorge de Trient at V. equals that at Pfäffers. A funny little two-wheeled vehicle and a guide, and we attacked the ascent. It wasn’t so perilous as that of the Gemmi, but it wasn’t easy. We crossed a waterfall tearing down the mountain side forty-nine times over as many bridges. It was beautiful beyond the reach of words. As to giving even an idea of the innumerable beauties of that route, it would take a long summer’s day to do it. There was another gorge, different, but as interesting: lovely vales, glaciers, torrents, mountains, snow peaks, cascades, almost as numerous as the hairs on your head, especially if you are inclining to baldness, and so on. At Chamouni the monarch “crowned long ago.” I was a most willing worshiper at his feet. Like Mark Twain, the only ascent of him I cared to make was by telescope. But I made that of the Brerent, the next best thing. The mule ride again, with a guide at the bit; but even that didn’t seem so good part of the time as my own feet, and the last half hour had to be done that way. It was all “of a piece” climbing up rocks and plunging over stretches of snow, while my “little hand lay lightly”—not a bit of it—with the tightest kind of a grip, as well as “confidingly,” in that of my guide. He was as tender of me as a lover—more so—as for the time being we were bound to each other “for better and for worse.” The Mer-de-glace came in too; not the conventional walk across; for one who had walked across the Ohio, what was that, pray? Bah! From Chamouni by diligence, in an ecstasy all the way to Geneva. There for some days, with excursions on the lake into its realms of inexplicable blue, where everything was so unreal and ethereal. I felt as if I too were a phantom, a dream, a spirit, just as little of a reality as all I was surrounded by. From Geneva here.
About that book, and your need of the aid of “good taste, judgment and scholarship,” it strikes me any one who had to help that much would feel, like you, “certainly very glad when the creature was fledged.” Thankee, sir; I never can bear to know what I am to have for dinner, or any other meal. That for sauce. This for earnest. Call on Miss B——. I don’t know the woman who is so equal to such demand. She knows everything and has it at command. She is a long distance beyond me in such matters. This is no affectation; I mean it.
Many thanks for your charges in behalf of proper caretaking. I don’t mean to break down if I can help it. Am now taking a good rest. This pension is a kind of a home—Paris home. I could tell some things of its kindness—yes, even petting—would show how much I have to be thankful for. The dear, good madame takes me in her arms, kisses me “from ear to ear,” and, what is better, smuggles “goodies” in to me unbeknown to the others! It is too funny to see her coming with one hand covered with a napkin and the forefinger of the other on her lips! My room adjoins the salon. I take the hint. Wouldn’t you? Answer.
L. G. C.
Paris, September 1, 1883.
PARIS.
You wrote the last day of the year and did not give me a wish for the New! Did you forget? Or do you think the custom puerile? I think I like it most heartily, even with its limitations, as are set forth in some simple lines I came across, and which you must read to make your conscience tender: