The Princess Passes by Alice Muriel Williamson and Charles Norris Williamson

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I snatched the weapon, pulled the trigger, and--a mild, mellifluous
trickle which would have disgraced a toilet vaporiser sprayed forth.
Jack, Molly, and the peasants in the approaching cart burst into
shouts of laughter. The Spitz, undismayed by the gentle shower, which
had spattered his nose with a drop or two, leaped at the weapon, and,
irritated, I flung it at his head. It fell innocuously in the road and
our last sight of the Spitz was when, rejoined by his lizard friend,
he industriously gnawed at the pistol, mistaking it for a bone, while
the Dachs gratefully lapped up the water I had provided. My surprise
was a popular success, but not the kind of success which I had
planned. Jack said that he could have "told me so" if I had asked him,
and I vowed in future to let dogs delight to bark and bite without
interference from me.

The one inept remark which Shelley seems ever to have made was that
"there is nothing to see in France." My opinion, as we spun along the
road which would lead us to Lucerne and my waiting mule, was that
there was almost too much to see, too much charm, too much beauty for
the peace of mind of an imaginative traveller; there were so many
valleys which one longed to explore, in which one felt one could be
content without going farther, so many blue glimpses of mysterious
mountains, veiled by the haze of dreamland, that one suffered a
constant succession of acute pangs in thinking that one would
probably never see them again, that one would need at least nine long
lives if one were to spend, say, even a month in each place.

Molly advised me not to be a spendthrift of my emotions, at this stage
of the journey, lest I should be a worn-out wreck before the grandest
part came, but the idea of husbanding enthusiasm did not commend
itself to me. Why not enjoy this moment, instead of waiting until the
moment after next? It was too much like saving up one's good clothes
for "best," a lower-middle-class habit which I have detested since the
days when I howled for my smartest Lord Fauntleroy frills in the
morning.

There were sweet villages where they made cheese, and where I could
have been happy making it with Helen Blantock; there were chateaux
with turret rooms where my book shelves would have fitted excellently;
but always we fled on, on, until at last, after two bewildering,
cinematographic days, we drove into the streets of that dignified and
delightful city, Bern.

It had not been necessary for us to pass through Bern; it was, in
fact, a few yards more or less out of the most direct path. We chose
this route simply and solely with the view of paying a visit to the
Bears. Molly had never met them; I had neglected them since childhood;
Jack looked forward to the pleasure of introducing them to his wife.

It was on our way to call upon the Bears, that destiny seduced me to
turn my head at a certain moment, and look into a shop window.
Suddenly the flame of my desire for the walking solo with a mule
accompaniment (somewhat diminished lately, I confess) leaped up anew.
There were things in that window which made a man long to be a
hermit.

"Mrs. Winston." I cried (Molly was driving), "for goodness' sake stop."

In an instant the car slowed down. "What is the matter?" she implored.
"Are you ill? Have we run over anything?"

"No, but look there," I said eagerly. "What an outfit for a camping
tour! My mouth waters only at sight of it."

"Greedy fellow," commented Jack from the tonneau. "Drive on, Molly.
Get him past the shop. He doesn't really want any of those things, and
wouldn't use them if he had them. The sooner he forgets the better."

"Never shall I forget that Instantaneous Breakfast for an Alpiniste,"
I fiercely protested, "and I will have it at any cost. I know there's
no other shop on the Continent like this, and I shall buy an outfit
for myself and mule, here, if I have to come back from Lucerne by
train for it."

"Hang your mule!" exclaimed Jack. "I was hoping you'd forgotten all
about him by this time, and had made up your mind to go on with us
indefinitely."

I saw reproach blaze through the talc triangle in Molly's mushroom.
(Yet I thought she liked me, and had not, thus far, found "three a
crowd.")

"Lord Lane isn't a _chameleon_, Jack," said she, "that he should
change his mind every few minutes. _Of course_ he's going to have his
mule trip. And as for this shop, all those dear little pots and
kettles and things in the window are too cute for words. He _shall_
have them."

Was I to be a bone of contention between husband and wife?

"Please, both of you come in and help me choose," I meekly pleaded, in
haste to restore the peace which I had broken.

We got out, and a small crowd collected round the car, Gotteland
standing by with his chin raised and the exact expression of the frog
footman in "Alice in Wonderland." One would have said that he saw,
afar off, the graves of his ancestors, on the summit of some lonely
mountain.

It was what Molly would have called a "lovely" shop, and it did
business under the strange device: "Magasin Suisse d'Equipment
Sportif." The name alone was worth the money one would spend.
Everything to cover the outer, and nourish the inner sportsman, was to
be had. I felt that I could scarcely be lonely or sad if I possessed a
stock of these friendly articles. Jack's ribald advice to buy a
pelerine, and a green-loden Gemsjaeger hat with a feather, stirred me
neither to smiles nor anger, for Molly and I were already deep in
exploration.

The first thing I bought was a mule-pack. Being a merciful man, I
chose one of medium size, for already I could fancy myself becoming
fond of the animal which was to be my companion in many wild and
solitary places, and I did not wish to overburden him. I then, aided
and abetted by Molly, began to choose the pack's contents.

An "_Appareil de cuisson alpin, Ideal_" went without saying, like the
air one breathes. It composed itself, according to the voluble
attendant who displayed it, of six parts, each part far better than
the others. There was a _gamelle_, with a "_crochet pour l'enlever_"
and a _couvercle_, which, not to show itself proud, would lend its
services also as an _assiette_ or a _poele a frire_. There was the
burner of alcohol; there was "_le couvercle de celui-ci_," which
served equally to measure the spirit, and there was a charming
_appareil brise vent_ which had the air of defying tornadoes. When I
had secured this treasure, Molly drew my attention to a series of
aluminium boxes made to fit eggs and sandwiches. I bought these also,
and, pleased with the clean white metal, invested in plates, goblets,
and water bottles of the same. Next came a _couvert pliant_,
containing knife, fork, and spoon; and, lest I should be guilty of
selfishness, I ordered a duplicate for the man who would look after
the mule. Best of all, however, were the tinned soups, meats,
vegetables, puddings, and cocoas, which you simply set on the fire in
their bright little cans, and heated till they sent forth a steamy
fragrance. Then you ate or drank them, and were happy as a king.

Molly and I selected a number of these, and completed the list with a
sleeping bag and a _tente de touriste_, which she persuaded me would
be indispensable when lost in the mountains, as I was sure to be,
often.

When my goods and chattels came to be collected, we were shocked to
find that the mule-pack would not contain them. The question remained,
then, whether I should sacrifice these new possessions, already dear,
or whether I should doom my mule to carry a greater burden. The
attendant intimated that Swiss mules preferred heavy loads, and had
they the vocal gifts of Balaam's ass, would demand them. Swayed by my
desires and his arguments, I changed my pack for a larger one. After
more than an hour in the shop, we tore ourselves away, leaving word
that the things should be sent by post to Lucerne. We then repaired to
the Bear Pit, by way of the Clock, and having supplied ourselves with
plenty of carrots, had no cause to complain of our reception.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER V

In Search of a Mule

"Yes, we await it, but it still delays, and then we suffer."
--MATTHEW ARNOLD.

"When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee . . .
Come, long-sought!"
--PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Jack no longer attempted to dissuade me from my walking tour. Whether
Molly had talked to him, or whether he had, unprompted, seen the error
of his ways, I cannot tell, but the fact remains that, during the rest
of our run to Lucerne, he showed a lively interest in the forthcoming
trip.

"I suppose," said he, when we had caught our first sight of Pilatus
(seen, as one might say, on his back premises), "I suppose that
anywhere in Switzerland, there ought to be no trouble about finding a
good pack-mule. Somehow one thinks of Switzerland and mules together,
just as one does of bacon and eggs, or nuts and raisins, and yet, I
can't recall ever having come across any mules in Lucerne, can you,
Monty?"

"No," I admitted, "but there were probably so many that one didn't
notice them--like flies, you know."

"Of course, the air of Switzerland is dark with mules and donkeys,"
said Molly, who always seemed quick to resent any obstacles thrown
between me and my mule. "One sees them in picture books. All that
Lord Lane will have to say is, 'Let there be mules,' and there will be
mules--strings of them. He will only have to pick and choose. The
thing will be to get a good one, and a nice, handsome, troubadour-sort
of man who can cook, and jodel, and sew, and put up tents, and keep
off murderers in mountain passes at night. It may take a day or two to
find exactly what is wanted."

"The best person in Switzerland to give Monty all the information he
needs," said Jack, evidently not wholly convinced, "is Herr Widmer,
who has an hotel high above Lucerne, on the Sonnenberg. He has another
in Mentone, and I've heard him tell how he has often come up from the
Riviera to Switzerland on horseback. He would be able to advise Monty
exactly how to go."

"Let's stop at his place on the Sonnenberg, then," said Molly, who
never took more than sixty seconds to make the most momentous
decisions, less important ones getting themselves arranged while
slow-minded English people drew breath.

Certainly, as we drove through the streets of Lucerne, we saw neither
mules nor donkeys, but Molly accounted for this by saying that no
doubt they were all at dinner. In any case, with the blue lake
a-glitter with silver sequins dropped from the gowns of those
sparkling White Ladies, the mountains; the shops gay and bright in the
sunshine, on one side the way, shadows lying cool and soft under the
long line of green trees on the other, who could take thought of
absent mules? Let them dine or die; it mattered not. Lucerne was
beautiful, the day divine.

When we were lunching on the balcony of the Winstons' private
sitting-room at the Sonnenberg, with mountains billowing round and
below us, I saw that there was something on Molly's mind for she was
_distraite_. Suddenly she said, "Before you talk to Herr Widmer about
your mule, don't you think that you had better decide absolutely upon
your route?"

"But, darling," objected Jack, "that is largely what he wants advice
about."

"He can't do better than take mine, then," said Molly. "Lord Lane,
_promise_ me you'll take mine and _no_ one's else."

"Of course I'll promise," I answered recklessly, for her eyes were
irresistible, and any man would have been enraptured that so exquisite
a creature should interest herself in his fate. "It doesn't much
matter to me where I go, so long as I can moon about in the mountains,
and eventually, before I'm old and grey, bring up on the Riviera."

"Well, then," said Molly, "since you are so accommodating, I not only
advise but _order_ you to go over the Great St. Bernard Pass, down to
Aosta."

"Might a humble mortal ask, 'Why Aosta?'" I ventured.

"Because it's beautiful, and beneficent, and a great many other things
which begin with B."

"You've never seen it, though," said Jack.

"But I've always wanted to see it, and as you and I have another
programme to carry out at present, it would be nice if Lord Lane would
go, and tell us all about it. He's promised me to keep a sort of
diary, for our benefit later."

"I saw the Duchess of Aosta married at Kingston-on-Thames," I
reflected aloud. "She was a very pretty girl. What am I to do after
I've made my pilgrimage to her country--about which, by the way, I
know practically nothing except that there's a poster in railway
stations which represents it as having bright pink mountains and a
purply-yellow sky?"

"Oh, after Aosta, I've no instructions," replied Molly, as if she
washed her hands of me and of my affairs. "For the rest, let Fate
decide." As she spoke, she looked mystic, sibylline, and I could
almost fancy that before her dreamy eyes arose a vision of my future
as if floating in a magic crystal. For an instant I was inclined to
beg that she would prophesy, but the mood passed. All that I asked or
expected to get from the future was a mule, a man, some mountains, and
forgetfulness.

It was decided, then, that the only questions to be put to Herr Widmer
should concern the mule. I had a vague dream of presently standing on
the balcony, while various muleteers and their well-groomed animals
passed in review under my eyes, but the landlord's first words struck
at my hopes and left them maimed.

"There are no mules to be had in Lucerne," he said.

"In the country near by, then?"

"Nor in the country near by. The nearest place where you could get one
would be in the Valais--best at Brig."

"But I don't want to go to Brig," I said forlornly. "If I went to
Brig, that would mean that I should have to do a lot of walking
afterwards, to reach the parts I wish to reach, through the hot Rhone
Valley, where I should be eaten up by gnats and other disagreeable
wild beasts. I know the Rhone Valley between Brig and Martigny
already, by railway travelling, and that is more than enough."

"The Rhone Valley is a misunderstood valley. Even between Martigny
and Brig, it is far more beautiful than anyone who has seen it only
from the railway can possibly judge," pleaded Herr Widmer. "It well
repays a riding or walking tour."

But my soul girded against the Rhone Valley, and I would not be driven
into it by persuasion. "I'd rather put up with a donkey to carry my
luggage," said I, with visions of discarding half my Instantaneous
Breakfasts, "than begin my walk in the Rhone Valley. Surely, Lucerne
can be counted on to yield me up at least a donkey?"

"You must go into Italy to find an _ane_," replied the landlord,
inexorable as Destiny.

I suddenly understood how a woman feels when she stamps her foot and
bursts into tears. (There are advantages in being a woman.) To be
thwarted for the sake of a mere, wretched animal, which I had always
looked upon with indifference as the least of beasts! It was too much.
My features hardened. Inwardly, I swore a great oath that, if I went
to the world's end to obtain it, I would have a pack-mule, or, if
worse came to worst, a pack-donkey.

At this bitter moment I chanced to meet Molly's eyes and read in them
a sympathy well-nigh extravagant. But I knew why it had been called
out. If there is one thing which causes unbearable anguish to a true
American girl it is to find herself wanting something "right away"
which she cannot have. But luckily for her country's peace, her
lovers' happiness, this occurs seldom.

"What is the nearest place in Italy where Lord Lane could get a
donkey?" she asked.

"It is possible that he might be able to buy or hire one at Airolo,"
said our landlord. "At one time they had them there, for the railway
works, and mules also. But now I do not----"

"We can go there and see," said Molly.

"Airolo's on the other side of the St. Gothard, and automobiles aren't
allowed on the Swiss passes," remarked Jack.

This, to me, sounded final, so far as Airolo was concerned, but not so
with the Honourable Mrs. Winston!

"What do they do to you if you _do_ go?" she asked, turning slightly
pale.

"They fined an American gentleman who crossed the Simplon in his
automobile last year, five thousand francs," answered Herr Widmer.

"Oh!" said she. "So an American did go over one of the passes? Well,
thank you _so_ much; we must decide what to do, and talk it over with
you again later. Meanwhile, we're very happy, for it's lovely here."

Hardly had the door of the sitting-room closed on our host, when
Molly, with the air of having a gun-powder plot to unfold, beckoned us
both to come near. "I'll tell you what we'll do," said she, in a
half-whisper, when surrounded by her body-guard of two. "First, we'll
ask _everybody_ in Lucerne whether there are any mules or donkeys on
the spot, just in case Herr Widmer might be mistaken; if there aren't
any, let's go over the St. Gothard _in the middle of the night_."

"Good heavens, what a desperate character I've married!" exclaimed
Jack.

"Not at all. Don't you see, at night there would be nobody on their
silly old Pass that they make such a fuss about. Even in daylight
diligences don't go over the St. Gothard in our times, and at night
there'd be _nothing_, so we couldn't expose man or beast to danger.
We'd rush the _douanes_, or whatever they call them on passes, and if
we _were_ caught, what are five thousand francs?"

"I wouldn't dream of letting you do such a thing for me," I broke in
hurriedly. "If Airolo or the neighbourhood turns out to be the happy
hunting ground of the sedate mule or pensive _ane_, I will simply take
train----"

"You will take the train, if you take it, over Jack's and my dead
bodies," remarked Molly coldly.

"It would be rather sport to rush the Pass at night," said Jack.

"Oh, you darling!" cried Molly, "I've never loved you so much."

This naturally settled it.

We walked down to the town by an exquisite path leading through dark,
mysterious pine forests; where the slim, straight trunks of the tall
trees seemed tightly stretched, like the strings of a great harp, and
where melancholy, elusive music was played always by the wind spirits.
In Lucerne we did not, as Molly had suggested, ask everybody to stand
and deliver information, but we compromised by visiting tourists'
bureaux. At these places the verdict was an echo of our landlord's,
and I saw that Molly and Jack were glad. Having scented powder, they
would have been disappointed if the midnight battle need not be
fought.

Molly had never seen Lucerne, which was too beautiful for a fleeting
glance. It was arranged that, after driving me over the Pass, for weal
or woe, they should return. They would leave most of their luggage at
the Sonnenberg, and come back to spend some days, before continuing
their tour as originally mapped out.

We slept that night in peace (it is wonderful how well you do sleep,
even with a "mind diseased," after hours of racing through pure, fresh
air on a motor car); and next day we began stealthy preparations for
our adventure.

CHAPTER VI

The Wings of the Wind

"Oh, still solitude, only matched in the skies;
Perilous in steep places,
Soft in the level races,
Where sweeping in phantom silence the cloudland
flies."
--R. BRIDGES.

The wind howled a menace to Mercedes, as she glided down the winding
road towards the comfortable, domestic-looking suburbs of Lucerne.
Banks of cloud raced each other across the sky, and, crossing the
bridge over the Reuss, we saw that the waters of the Lake, turquoise
yesterday, were to-day a sullen indigo. The big steamers rolled at
their moorings; white-crested waves were leaping against the quays,
and thick mists clung like rolls of wool to the lower slopes of
Pilatus.

Molly's spirits rose as the mercury in the barometer fell. "Would you
care for people if they were always good-tempered, or weather if it
were always fair?" she asked me (we were sitting together in the
tonneau, Jack driving). "I revel in storms, and if we have one
to-night, when we are on the Pass, one of the dearest wishes of my
life will be gratified. 'A storm on the St. Gothard!' Haven't the
words a thunder-roll? Sunlight and mountain passes don't belong
together. I like to think of great Alpine roads as the fastnesses of
giants, who threaten death to puny man when he ventures into their
power."

It had been arranged that we should "potter" (as Winston called it)
round the arms of the star-fish lake, until we reached Flueelen; that
from there we should steal as far as we dared up the Reussthal while
daylight lasted, dine at some village inn, and then, instead of
returning to the lowlands of Lucerne, make a dash across the mighty
barrier that shut us away from Italy. Under a lowering sky, and
buffeted by short, sharp gusts of wind, which seemed the heralds of
fiercer blasts, we swung along the reedy shores of the narrowing lake,
the broken sides of the Rigi standing finely up on our right hand.
Winston was satirical about the poor Rigi and its railway, calling it
the Primrose Hill and the Devil's Dyke of Switzerland, the paradise of
trippers, a mountain whose sides are hidden under cataracts of
beer-bottles; but from our point of view, the vulgarities of the
maligned mountain were mellowed by distance, and I neither could nor
would look upon it as contemptible.

Leaving the Lake of the Forest Cantons, we spun along the margin of
the tamer sheet of Zug, to pass, beyond Arth, into the great
wilderness caused by the fearful landslide of a century ago, when a
mighty mass of rock and earth split off from the main bulk of the
Rossberg and thundered down into the valley. The slow processes of
nature had done much to cover up decently all traces of the Titan's
rage, but the huge, bare scar on the side of the Rossberg still told
its tale of tragedy. By the peaceful Lowerzer See the road undulated
pleasantly, and at Schwyz (the hub of Swiss history) we had tea, the
torn and imposing pyramids of the two Myten bravely rearing their
heads above the mists that encumbered the valleys.

There was no need to hurry, for we had the night before us, so we
passed slowly, halting often, along the marvellous Axenstrasse, while
Jack distilled into Molly's willing ears legends from the old heroic
days of Switzerland, before it became the happy haven of
hotel-keepers. From the car we could note the characteristics of the
Cantons which had entered into the famous bond; pastoral and leafy
Unterwalden, with green fields and orchards; Schwyz, also green and
fertile; but Uri (the cold, highland partner in this great alliance),
a country of towering mountains and savage rocks. Molly wanted to get
a boat, and row across to the Ruetli to stand on that spot where, in
1307, Walter Fuerst, Arnold of Melchthal, and Werner Stauffacher took
the famous oath, and very reluctantly she gave up the wish when Jack
pointed to the rising waves, painting in lurid colours the sudden and
dangerous storms that sweep the Lake of Uri. When he went on, however,
to insinuate doubts as to the historic accuracy of these old stories,
and to hint that even William Tell might himself he an incorporeal
legend, Molly clapped a little hand over his mouth, crying out that
even if he had tried to destroy the Maid of Orleans he must spare
William Tell. Further on, she made us confide the car to Gotteland on
the Axenstrasse, while we descended the path to Tell's chapel and did
reverence to the hero's memory. On such a day as this must it have
been that Tell leaped ashore from the boat, leaving Gessler to look
after himself; for the blasts were shrieking down the lake, and the
waves dashed their foam over the ledge where stands the chapel.

Jack stopped several times in the rock galleries of the Axenstrasse
before we reached Flueelen; consequently it was evening when we
slipped into little Altdorf, where Molly insisted on making a curtsey
to the statue of Tell and his agreeable little boy. Winston predicted
that we should probably not be challenged until we got to Goeschenen,
as up to that point the road does not take on a true Alpine character.
The storm (which seemed rising to a point of fury) was in our favour,
too, for no one would choose to be out on such a night, save mad
English automobilists and wilful American girls.

Dusk was beginning to shadow the Reussthal, as we ran past the railway
station at Erstfeld, and began at length the ascent of the St. Gothard
Road. The great railway (of which we had caught glimpses as we came
along the lake) was now our companion, while on the other hand roared
the tumbling Reuss. So hoarse and insistent was the voice of the
stream that Molly suggested it should be "had up for brawling." It did
us the service, however, of drowning the noise of our motor, at all
times a discreetly silent machine; and as Jack had given orders that
the big Bleriots should not be lighted (two good oil lamps showing us
the way), we had high hopes that we might fly by unnoticed, on the
wings of the storm. In Amsteg no one seemed to look upon us with
surprise, and here the road turned, to worm itself into the heart of
the mountains, while the railway, often disappearing into tunnels, ran
far above our heads.

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