There, the tall pines are under our
feet. A little more - and now above us rise the stern, naked rocks,
where only the chamois and the wild goat live. But still, fair as the
moon, clear as the sun, looks forth the Jungfrau.
We turn to look down. That Staubbach, which in the valley seemed to
fall from an immense precipice, higher than we could gaze, is now a
silver thread, far below our feet; and the valley of Lauterbrunn seems
as nothing. Only bleak, purplish crags, rising all around us, and
silent, silver mountains looking over them.
"That one directly before you is the Monk," says C., calling to me
from behind, and pointing to a great snow peak.
Our guide, with animation, introduced us by name to every one of these
snow-white genii - the Falhorn, the Schreckhorn, the Wetterhorn, the
great Eiger, and I cannot remember what besides. The guides seem to
consider them all as old friends.
Certainly nothing could be so singular, so peculiar as this ascension.
We have now passed the limit of all but grass and Alpine flowers,
which still, with their infinite variety, embroider the way; and now
the _auberge_ is gained. Good night, now, and farewell.
That is to say, there we stopped - on the summit, in fair view of the
Jungfrau, a wall of rock crowned with fields of eternal snow, whose
dazzling brightness almost put my eyes out.
