But I say again, in
theory, when one considers the exact relation of their height to the
distances one views from them, they ought to claim no such effect, and
that they can produce that effect is related to another thing - the way
in which they exaggerate their own steepness.
For instance, those noble hills, my downs in Sussex, when you are upon
them overlooking the weald, from Chanctonbury say, feel like this - or
even lower. Indeed, it is impossible to give them truly, so
insignificant are they; if the stretch of the Weald were made nearly a
yard long, Chanctonbury would not, in proportion, be more than a fifth
of an inch high! And yet, from the top of Chanctonbury, how one seems
to overlook it and possess it all!
Well, so it was here from the Grimsel when I overlooked the springs of
the Rhone. In true proportion the valley I gazed into and over must
have been somewhat like this -
It felt for all the world as deep and utterly below me as this other -
Moreover, where there was no mist, the air was so surprisingly clear
that I could see everything clean and sharp wherever I turned my eyes.
The mountains forbade any very far horizons to the view, and all that
I could see was as neat and vivid as those coloured photographs they
sell with bright green grass and bright white snow, and blue glaciers
like precious stones.
I scrambled down the mountain, for here, on the south side of the
pass, there was no snow or ice, and it was quite easy to leave the
road and take the old path cutting off the zig-zags. As the air got
heavier, I became hungry, and at the very end of my descent, two
hundred feet or so above the young Rhone, I saw a great hotel. I went
round to their front door and asked them whether I could eat, and at
what price. 'Four francs,' they said.
'What!' said I, 'four francs for a meal! Come, let me eat in the
kitchen, and charge me one.' But they became rude and obstinate, being
used only to deal with rich people, so I cursed them, and went down
the road. But I was very hungry.
The road falls quite steeply, and the Rhone, which it accompanies in
that valley, leaps in little falls. On a bridge I passed a sad
Englishman reading a book, and a little lower down, two American women
in a carriage, and after that a priest (it was lucky I did not see him
first. Anyhow, I touched iron at once, to wit, a key in my pocket),
and after that a child minding a goat.
