“Are we in the mountains yet?”
“Not yet,” she would answer, still remembering the Alps vividly1. “Not yet, dear. Those are only high hills.”
The August day was warm and radiantly bright. We were in an express train going south, on our way to visit those cousins whom we had never seen.
“Oh! but that one! See! See!” I exclaimed triumphantly2, as my eyes spied an elevation3 towering above others; it was one whose blue height pierced the clear horizon.
She leaned forward.
“Ah!” she said, “that is a little more like a mountain, I must confess,—but it isn't a very high one, only wait!”
At the hotel, where we were obliged to remain until the following day, everything interested us. I remember that night came suddenly, a night of splendor4, as we leaned upon the railing of the balcony leading from our rooms, watching the shadows gather about the blue mountains and listening to the chirping5 of the crickets.
The next day, the third of our frequently interrupted journey, we hired a funny little carriage to take us to the town, one much out of the line of travel at that time, where our cousins lived.
For five hours we rode through passes and defiles—for me they were enchanted6 hours. Not only was there the novelty of the mountains, but everything here was unlike our home surroundings. The soil and the rocks were a bright red instead of, as in our village, a dazzling white because of the underlying7 chalk beds. And at home everything was flat and low, it seemed as if nothing there dared lift itself above the dead level and break the uniformity of the plains. Here the dwellings8, of reddish hue9 like the rocks, and built with old gabled ends and ancient turrets10, were perched high up on the hill; the peasants were very tanned, and they spoke11 a language I did not understand; I noticed particularly that the women walked with a free movement of the hips12, unknown to the peasants of our country, as they strode along carrying upon their heads sheaves of grain and great shining copper13 vessels14. My whole being vibrated to the charm of the unfamiliar15 beauty about me, and I was fascinated by the strange aspect of nature.
Toward evening we reached the little town that marked the end of our journey. It was situated16 on the bank of one of those southern rivers that rush noisily over their shallow beds of white pebbles17. The place still retained its ancient arched gateway18 and high, pierced ramparts; the prevailing19 color of the gothic houses lining20 its streets was bright red.
A little perplexed21 and
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading