A Narrow, Dazzling Line Of
Snow Crowned The Summit.
You see before you three distinct regions - of pasture, of pine, of
bare, eternal sterility.
On inquiring the name of the mountain, I was
told that it was the "Aiguille" something, I forget what; but I
discovered that almost all the peaks in this region of the Alps are
called Aiguille, (needle,) I suppose from the straight, sharp points
that rise at their summits.
There is a bridge here in Sallenches, from which, in clear weather,
one of the best views of Mont Blanc can be obtained - so they tell us.
To-day it is as much behind the veil, and as absolutely a matter of
faith as heaven itself. Looking in that direction you could not
believe that there ever had been, or could be, a mountain there. The
concealing clouds look as gray, as cool, and as absolutely unconscious
of any world of glory behind them as our dull, cold, every-day life
does of a heaven, which is, perhaps, equally near us. As we were
passing the bridge, however, a gust of icy wind swept down the course
of the river, whose chilly breath spoke of glaciers and avalanches.
Our driver was one of those merry souls, to be found the world over,
whose hearts yearn after talk; and when I volunteered to share the
outside seat with him, that I might see better, he inquired anxiously
if "mademoiselle understood French," that he might have the pleasure
of enlightening her on the localities. Of course mademoiselle could do
no less than be exceedingly grateful, since a peasant on his own
ground is generally better informed than a philosopher from elsewhere.
Our path lay along the banks of the Arve, a raving, brawling,
turbulent stream of muddy water. A wide belt of drifted, pebbly land,
on either side of it, showed that at times the torrent had a much
wider sweep than at present.
In fact, my guide informed me that the Arve, like most other mountain
streams, had many troublesome and inconvenient personal habits, such
as rising up all of a sudden, some night, and whisking off houses,
cattle, pine trees; in short, getting up sailing parties in such a
promiscuous manner that it is neither safe nor agreeable to live in
his neighborhood. He showed me, from time to time, the traces of such
Kuhleborn pranks.
We were now descending rapidly through the valley of Chamouni, by a
winding road, the scenery becoming every moment more and more
impressive. The path was so steep and so stony that our guide was well
enough contented to have us walk. I was glad to walk on alone; for the
scenery was so wonderful that human sympathy and communion seemed to
be out of the question. The effect of such scenery to our generally
sleeping and drowsy souls, bound with the double chain of earthliness
and sin, is like the electric touch of the angel on Peter, bound and
sleeping.
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