The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (book recommendations .TXT) 📖

And The Entrance To That

Great Rift Between Mountains Which Leads To The Monastery Of The

Grande Chartreuse.

 

As We Plunged Into The Narrow Jaws Of The Superb Ravine, A Wave Of

Regret For The Boy Swept Over Me. He And I Had Talked Of This Day--The

Day We Should See The Deserted Monastery Hidden Among Its Mountains;

Now It Had Come, And We Were Parted.

 

The Society Of Jack And Molly And The Motor Car Could Make Up For Many

Things, But It Could Not Stifle Longings For The Little Pal. Besides,

Magnificent As Was Mercédès (The Dragon, Not The Mushroom) I Felt That

Finois And Fanny-Anny Would Have Been More In Keeping With The Place.

I Was Too Dispirited To Care Whether Or No My Eyes Were Filled With

Dust; Therefore I Had Not Goggled Myself, And I Think That Jack Must

Have Gathered Something Of My Thoughts From My Long Face.

 

"How Would You Like To Get Out And Walk Here, Like Pilgrims Of Old?"

He Asked. "It Will Be Too Much For The Girls, But Gotteland Will Drive

Them Up Slowly, Not To Be Too Far In Advance. American Girls, You'll

Find, If You Ever Make A Study Of One Or More Of Them, Can Do

Everything In The World Except--Walk. There They Have To Bow To

English Girls."

 

"That's Because We've Got Smaller Feet," Retorted Molly. "Where An

English Girl Can Walk Ten Miles We Can Do Only Five, But It's Quite

Enough. And We Have Such Imaginations That We Can Sit In This

Automobile And Fancy Ourselves Princesses On Ambling Palfreys."

 

It Was Close To The Deserted Distillery Of The Famous Liqueur That We

Parted Company, The Car, Piled With Our Discarded Great-Coats, Forging

Ahead Up The Historic Path. The Little Tramway That Used To Carry The

Cases Of Liqueur To The Station At Fourvoirie Was Nearly Obliterated

Chapter 28 (The World Without The Boy) Pg 215

By New-Grown Grass; The Vast Buildings Stood Empty. Never Again Would

The Mellow Chartreuse Verte And Chartreuse Jaune He Fragrantly

Distilled Behind The High Grey Walls, For The Makers Were Banished And

Scattered Far Abroad.

 

We Lingered For A Moment At The Narrow Entrance To Le Désert, Where

The Rushing River Guiers Foams Through The Throttled Gorge, Giving

Barely Room For The Road Scored Along The Lace Of The Cliff. It Was

Like A Doorway To The Lost Domain Of The Monks, And Jack And I Agreed

That St. Bruno Was A Man Of Genius To Find Such A Retreat. A Retreat

It Was Literally. St. Bernard Had Taken His Followers To A Place

Where, Suffering Great Hardships, They Could Best Devote Their Lives

To Succouring Others; But St. Bruno's Theory Had Evidently Been That

Holy Men Can Do More Good To Their Kind By Prayer In Peaceful

Sanctuaries Than By Offering More Material Aid.

 

Here,--At The Doorway Of St. Bruno's Long Corridor,--The Ravine, The

Old Forge, The Single-Arched Bridge Flung High Across The Deep Bed Of

The Roaring Torrent, Had All Grouped Themselves As If After A

Consultation Upon Artistic Effect. Once, There Had Been An Actual

Gate, Built Alike For Defence And For Limitation, But There Were No

Traces Of It Left For The Eye Of The Amateur.

 

We Passed Into The Defile, And The Motor Car Was Out Of Sight Long

Ago. Higher And Higher The Brown Road Climbed. The Mountains Towered

Close And Tall. Great Pillared Palaces Of Rock Loomed Against The Sky

Like Castles In The Air, Incalculably Far Above The Green Heads And

Sloping Shoulders Of The Nearer Mountain Slopes.

 

I Had Thought That Green Was Never So Green As In The Valley Of Aosta,

But Here In St. Bruno's Corridor There Was A New Richness Of Emerald

In The Green Carpet And Wall Hangings, Such As I Had Not Yet Known. It

Was Green Stamped With Living Gold, In Delicate Fleur-De-Lis Patterns

Where The Sun Wove Bright Threads; And High Above Was The Ceiling Of

Lapis Lazuli, In Pure Unclouded Blue.

 

We Heard No Sound Save The Voices Of Unseen Woodcutters Crying To Each

Other From Mountain Slope To Mountain Slope, The Resonant Ring Of

Their Axes, Striking Out Wild, Echoing Notes With A Fleeting Clang Of

Steel On Pine, And Now And Again The Sudden Thunder-Crash Of A Falling

Tree, Like The Roar Of A Distant Avalanche.

 

By-And-Bye We Came To The Aërial Bridge Which Spans The Guiers Mort,

Slender And Graceful As The Arch Of A Rainbow, And As We Gazed Down At

The Far, White Water Hurling Itself In Sheets Of Foam Past The

Detaining Rocks, The Sharp Toot Of A Horn Broke Discordantly Into The

Deep-Toned Music. A Motor Car Sprang Round An Abrupt Curve And Flashed

By, But Not So Quickly That I Did Not Recognise Among The Six

Occupants The Two Young Americans Of Mont Revard. They Passed Me As

Unseeingly As They Did The Scenery: For They Were Talking As Fast To

Two Pretty Girls Opposite Them In The Tonneau, As If The Girls Had Not

Been Talking Equally Fast To Them At The Same Time. I Bore The Pair A

Grudge, And The Sight Of Them Brought Back The Consciousness Of My

Chapter 28 (The World Without The Boy) Pg 216

Injury.

 

St. Bruno, Fortunate In Many Ways, Was A Lucky Saint To Have So

Beautiful A Bridge Named After Him. And As We Climbed The Brown

Road--Moist With Tears Wept By The Mountains For The Banished

Monks--It Seemed To Us That The Scenery Was Always Leading Up To Him,

As A Preface Leads Up To The First Chapter Of A Book. We Went Through

Tunnels As A Thread Goes Through The Eye Of A Needle; We Wound Round

Intricate Turns Of The Road; We Came Upon Pinnacle Rocks; And Then, At

Last, When We Least Expected The Climax Of Our Journey, We Dropped

Into A Great Green Basin, Rimmed With Soaring Crags. In The Midst

Stood An Enormous Building, A Vast Conglomeration Of Pointed,

Dove-Grey Roofs And Dun-Coloured Walls, A City Of Slate And Stone

Spread Over Acres Of Ground And Seeming A Part Of The Impressive Yet

Strangely Peaceful Wilderness.

 

Looking At The Vast Structure, I Was Ready To Believe That St. Bruno

Had Waved His Staff In The Shadow Of A Rough-Hewn Mountain, Saying:

"Let There Be A Monastery," And Suddenly, There Was A Monastery; But

Our Motor, Quivering With Nervous Energy Before A Door In The High

Wall, Snatched Me Back To Practicalities.

 

Molly, Leaning Quietly Back In The Tonneau Beside The Perpetual

Mushroom, Saw Us Coming From Afar Off, And Waved A Hand Of Absurd

American Smallness. By The Time We Were Within Speaking Distance, She

Was Out Of The Car And Coming Toward Us.

 

"We Were So Hungry, That We Lunched While We Waited," She Explained,

"So Now You And Jack Can Go To The Hôtellerie And Have Something

Quickly. We'll Walk In The Woods Until You Come Back, And Then, As

Mercédès Doesn't Seem To Mind, We'll All Go Into The Monastery

Together."

 

It Was Not Until The Door Of The Grande Chartreuse Had Opened To

Receive Us, And Closed Again Behind Our Backs, Shutting Us Into A

Large Empty Quadrangle, That The Spirit Of The Place Took Us By The

Hand.

 

Over The Steep Grey Roofs (Pointed Like Monkish Hands With Finger-Tips

Joined In Prayer) We Gazed Up At Mountain Peaks, Grey And Green, And

Pointing Also To A Heaven Which Seemed Strangely Near.

 

The Spell Of The Vast, The Stupendous Silence Fell Upon Us. Somehow,

Molly Drifted From Me To Jack As We Walked Noiselessly On, Led By A

Silent Guide, As If She Craved The Warm Comfort Of A Loved Presence,

And For A Few Brief Moments The Veiled Mercédès Paced Step For Step

Beside Me. But We Did Not Speak To Each Other.

 

What A Tragic, Tremendous Silence It Was! Yes, I Wanted The Boy. I

Should Have Been Glad Of The Touch Of His Little Shoulder. Thinking Of

Him Thus, By Some Accident The Sleeve Of Mercédès's Coat Brushed

Against Mine. Still, Not A Word From Either Of Us. I Did Not Even Say,

"I Beg Your Pardon," For That Would Have Been To Obtrude My Voice Upon

Chapter 28 (The World Without The Boy) Pg 217

The Thousand Voices Of The Silence; Dead Voices, Living Voices; Voices

Of Passionate Protest, Voices Of Heartbreaking Homesickness, Of Aching

Grief And Longing, Never To Be Assuaged. Poor Monks--Poor Banished Men

Who Had Loved Their Home, And Belonged To It, As The Clasping Tendrils

Of Old, Old Ivy Belong To The Oak.

 

How Dared We Come Here Into This Place From Which They Had Been

Driven, We Aliens? I Had Not Known It Would Grip Me So By The Throat.

How Full The Emptiness Was!--As Full To My Mind As The Air Is Of

Motes When A Bar Of Sunshine Reveals Them.

 

It Was The Palace Of Sleep, Lost In The Mountain Forests, But Here

There Was No Hope Coming With The Springing Footsteps Of A Blithe

Young Prince. The Sleepers In This Palace Could Not Be Waked By A

Wish, Or A Magic Kiss, For They Were Ghosts, Ghosts Everywhere--In The

Great Kitchen, With All Its Huge Polished Utensils Ready For The Meal

Which Would Never Be Cooked, And Its Neat Plain Dishes On Shelved

Trays, Waiting To Be Carried To The _Grilles_ Of The _Solitaires_; In

The Brothers' Refectory Where The Egg-Cups Were Ranged On Long, Narrow

Tables, For The Meal Never To Be Eaten, Where The Chair Of The Reader

Was Waiting To Receive Him; In The Fathers' Refectory Next Door; In

The Dusky Corridors, Their Ends Lost In Shadow, Where Only The Sad

Echoes And The Running Water Of The Unseen Spring Were Awake; In The

Chapels; In The Cemetery With Its Old Carved Stones And Humbler Wooden

Crosses; And Most Of All In The Wonderful Cells (Which Were Not Cells,

But Mansions), And In Their High-Walled Gardens, The Most Private Of

All Imaginable Spots On Earth.

 

Wandering On And On, Alone Now, I Felt Myself The Saddest Man In A

Twilight World. Why, I Could Not Have Put Into Words. Had The

Brotherhood Still Peopled The Monastery, I Should Have Yearned To Join

Them, Partly Because I Was Sad, And Partly Because The So-Called Cells

Were The Most Charming Dwelling-Places I Had Seen. Each Comprised A

Two-Storied House In Miniature, And Each Had Its Garden, Shut

Irrevocably Away From Sight Or Sound Of Any Other. Into One Of These

Solitary Abodes I Went Alone, And Closed The Door Upon Myself And The

Ghosts. In Fancy I Was One Of