Sketches and Studies in Italy and Greece | Page 7

of the
Cramont, and then sinks quietly away, once more to reappear among
the pines, then finally to leave the valley dark beneath the shadow of
the mountain's bulk. Meanwhile the heights of snow still glitter in the
steady light: they, too, will soon be dark, until the dawn breaks, tinging
them with rose.
But it is not fair to dwell exclusively upon the more sombre aspect of
Swiss beauty when there are so many lively scenes of which to speak.
The sunlight and the freshness and the flowers of Alpine meadows
form more than half the charm of Switzerland. The other day we
walked to a pasture called the Col de Checruit, high up the valley of
Courmayeur, where the spring was still in its first freshness. Gradually
we climbed, by dusty roads and through hot fields where the grass had

just been mown, beneath the fierce light of the morning sun. Not a
breath of air was stirring, and the heavy pines hung overhead upon their
crags, as if to fence the gorge from every wandering breeze. There is
nothing more oppressive than these scorching sides of narrow rifts, shut
in by woods and precipices. But suddenly the valley broadened, the
pines and larches disappeared, and we found ourselves upon a wide
green semicircle of the softest meadows. Little rills of water went
rushing through them, rippling over pebbles, rustling under dock leaves,
and eddying against their wooden barriers. Far and wide 'you scarce
could see the grass for flowers,' while on every side the tinkling of
cow-bells, and the voices of shepherds calling to one another from the
Alps, or singing at their work, were borne across the fields. As we
climbed we came into still fresher pastures, where the snow had
scarcely melted. There the goats and cattle were collected, and the
shepherds sat among them, fondling the kids and calling them by name.
When they called, the creatures came, expecting salt and bread. It was
pretty to see them lying near their masters, playing and butting at them
with their horns, or bleating for the sweet rye-bread. The women
knitted stockings, laughing among themselves, and singing all the
while. As soon as we reached them, they gathered round to talk. An old
herdsman, who was clearly the patriarch of this Arcadia, asked us many
questions in a slow deliberate voice. We told him who we were, and
tried to interest him in the cattle-plague, which he appeared to regard as
an evil very unreal and far away--like the murrain upon Pharaoh's herds
which one reads about in Exodus. But he was courteous and polite,
doing the honours of his pasture with simplicity and ease. He took us to
his châlet and gave us bowls of pure cold milk. It was a funny little
wooden house, clean and dark. The sky peeped through its tiles, and if
shepherds were not in the habit of sleeping soundly all night long, they
might count the setting and rising stars without lifting their heads from
the pillow. He told us how far pleasanter they found the summer season
than the long cold winter which they have to spend in gloomy houses in
Courmayeur. This, indeed, is the true pastoral life which poets have
described--a happy summer holiday among the flowers, well occupied
with simple cares, and harassed by 'no enemy but winter and rough
weather.'

Very much of the charm of Switzerland belongs to simple things--to
greetings from the herdsmen, the 'Guten Morgen,' and 'Guten Abend,'
that are invariably given and taken upon mountain paths; to the tame
creatures, with their large dark eyes, who raise their heads one moment
from the pasture while you pass; and to the plants that grow beneath
your feet. The latter end of May is the time when spring begins in the
high Alps. Wherever sunlight smiles away a patch of snow, the brown
turf soon becomes green velvet, and the velvet stars itself with red and
white and gold and blue. You almost see the grass and lilies grow. First
come pale crocuses and lilac soldanellas. These break the last
dissolving clods of snow, and stand upon an island, with the cold wall
they have thawed all round them. It is the fate of these poor flowers to
spring and flourish on the very skirts of retreating winter; they soon
wither--the frilled chalice of the soldanella shrivels up and the crocus
fades away before the grass has grown; the sun, which is bringing all
the other plants to life, scorches their tender petals. Often when summer
has fairly come, you still may see their pearly cups and lilac bells by
the side of avalanches, between the chill snow and the fiery sun,
blooming and fading hour by hour. They have as it were but