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.
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