Originally published in Harper's New Monthly Magazine (Harper and Brothers) vol.19 #110 (Jul 1859).
Late one afternoon in January, a winter or two ago, I received a letter announcing to me the dangerous illness of a dear friend and relative. I was at Geneva and my friend at Turin. I must leave instantly if I hoped to see her alive. The quickest route was over Mount Cenis, for the new road had just been opened by which travelers could reach Turin by passing only two nights and a day on the journey, giving time for rest at Chambery. I was, however, most uncomfortably placed in regard to the journey. I had two young children, and my Swiss bonne had left me that day to pay a visit of two weeks to her relatives in the Bas Valais. I had thought it quite an undertaking to have the charge of the children during her absence; here was a greater one, surely. They could not be left behind me, and I had not time to engage another maid; indeed I had only just enough time to hurry down to the bureau of the Messagerie Fédérale to see what seats I could get.
Of course I found the coupé engaged; for when one is in a disagreeable position the difficulties that spring up on all sides can be named Legion, they are so numerous. The polite clerk told me it was engaged only so far as Chambery, and gave me a hope of obtaining it there, as the weather was so cold that the coupé was not likely to have through passengers. There were only two seats disengaged in the whole diligence, and they were in the interieure. I could not help hesitating, it was so unpleasant for a woman to travel alone in such a disagreeable place. But what could I do? "Go, of course," said Courage, "and trust to the children for protection." The diligence was being arranged while I stood hesitating at the window of the bureau, talking about the seats with the courteous employé, who very good-naturedly sympathized with my distress; in fifteen minutes they would be off. My hesitation was put an end to by the arrival of the commissionaire I had employed to have my passport viséd for me at the Sardinian consul's. I lost no more time, paid for my seats, lifted my children into the interieure and followed them. It was soon crowded with men. All nations seemed to be there represented, and until midnight their conversation was very animated—a perfect Babel of tongues.
I had, on entering, put my little girl in the corner, and I took my seat next to her, holding my little boy, who was the youngest, on my lap. My next neighbor was a German, and soon after taking his seat he showed a disposition to be friendly. At the Sardinian frontier he handed out my passport, officiously, as if I belonged to him; offered repeatedly to relieve me of my child, and evidently desired to make himself agreeable, but in such a manner as to cause all the hedgehog in my nature to put out its thorns. I am no longer in my first youth, nor can I be called pretty, but I found that I was more attractive to my German neighbor than was pleasant to me. He sat very close to me, saying once in a while,
"Nahe zusammen sitzen macht gute Gesellschaft"—(Close sitting makes good company).
Such a night as I passed! But the interieure being crowded was some little protection from the disagreeable attentions of my neighbor. I hugged my little boy close to my breast, while my little girl slept soundly on my shoulder, and turned a deaf ear to the remarks of the German. At last he slept, and attempted to rest his head on my other shoulder. I had anticipated from his manner some such proceeding, and had taken the precaution to put there some pins, points outward. He quickly raised his head, muttering angrily:
"Vermaledeites Weib!"—(Confound the woman!)
I was too alarmed to feel any disposition to laugh; and, moreover, my heart was full of apprehensions for my friend M—. She might at that moment be dead. Memories of our youth swept up before me. Hours of joy and hours of sorrow we had had together. Gay weddings that had ended in tears; solemn deathbeds over which we had mourned. So many darlings had passed away; and she, saving my two children, was now my last earthly possession.
"Be merciful, O God!" I inwardly groaned, and rested my burning, dry, aching eyes on the soft curly head of my boy, who, with his sister, slept soundly that blessed child-sleep "that the thunder can not break." I looked at them, and envied their unconsciousness of danger, their freedom from apprehensions, their sweet faith and trust in the living, present providence of their mother, which is the "heaven that hangs
around a child. M— and I had once been young and happy, and more cared for in the way of luxury than they, but not more loved, God knows! And now, what were we? Solitary wrecks on life's sandy shore. If God's Angel of Death had come then, and shielded us all three with his dark wing, very sweet would have been
the sleep to me; but still I ejaculated, "Be merciful, O God!" and the prayer for M—'s life went on.
Toward morning the diligence rumbled into Chambery. The first thing that struck my eyes when I looked from the window in the dim morning light, as the weary horses toiled up the slippery mountain-street, was a large fountain, ornamented with huge elephants, standing in the middle of the street. General de Boigne—and the charming account given of him in that pleasant book, "A Ride on Horseback to Florence"—flashed across my memory. This was his monument, I remembered, and we were in Rue de Boigne.
The diligence stopped at the bureau. I roused the sleeping children, and pushed hastily aside my offensive German neighbor, who was profuse in leering smiles and disgusting attentions. Two or three of the men and himself talked of me as I handed out my children to the guard. I took occasion to address the children in English, although we always spoke French together; but the best protection to a woman on the European continent is our good, brave Anglo-Saxon tongue. A woman who speaks it as if born to it is supposed to know how to do, to be, and to suffer; and also not to suffer any impertinence.
"Engländerin" (an Englishwoman), said one.
"Nein," replied my impertinent neighbor; "nein, sie sprecht nicht wie eine Engländerin" (No; she doesn't speak like an English woman).
Another suggested "Russian;" for cultivated Russians speak, as Berlioz funnily says, "all known and unknown tongues" with the greatest facility, and almost without accent. I followed my children; went into the bureau to secure the coupé, if possible, for the rest of the journey; and, to my dismay, found it engaged all the way through to Turin. The morning sun shot in a little bright ray through the window of the bureau, and seemed to give me fresh courage. One never feels timid in daylight. After inquiring the hour of starting, and finding I had seven or eight hours for rest, I hired a commissionaire to carry my sac de nuit and extra wrappings, and guide us to the Hôtel de l'Europe.
A pleasant femme de chambre gave me a nice room, and brought us some breakfast. I undressed the children, bathed them, and put them to bed. They were soon sound asleep. I did the same for myself, and tried also to sleep, but in vain. My anxiety for M— tortured me; and the painful tension of my nerves during the night caused them to throb fiercely. I crept quietly out of bed and dressed myself. Thekla's full brown eyes opened on me as I stooped down by the bedside to get my walking boots.
"Dear child," I said, as the little creature held up her arms to clasp around my neck, "maman is fevered, and needs air. Will Thekla take care of brother Ernst?"
The self-sacrificing child assented with a bright smile, and whispered, "Oui, chère petite maman;" and I hurried out of the hotel into the streets. I wanted to see something of this town, in which Le Maistre was born, and ramble through the streets and up the mountain roads where he had roamed in his youth, and dreamed visions more than realized in his eventful life. Military renown, successful authorship, and a long married love were his; a soldier and a philosopher, studying all things and knowing nothing, as he said in the light, graceful epitaph he wrote for himself a few years before his death:
"Ci-git, sous cette pierre grise,
Xavier, qui de tout étonnait,
Demandant d'où venait la bizc,
Et pourquoi Jupiter tonnait
Il étudia maint grimoire,
Il lut du matin jusqu'au soir,
Et but à la fin l'onde noire,
Tout surpris de ne rien savoir."
I went out of the Faubourg de Montmeillan, and followed the left bank of the Lysse for some distance. First I came to a village; then, seeing the ruins of a castle on the other side of the stream, I crossed it, and soon after entered a beautiful mountain gorge completely shut in. High steep rocks swept up, seeming like the pedestal of the dentated mountain in the distance. A paysanne guided me around a papermill to see a cascade which came tumbling down the cliffs, and spouted out in jets through fissures in the rock; and all around the rocks were hung with brilliant icicles that glittered and sparkled in the sunlight superbly.
"C'est le Bout du Monde," said the peasant woman, naïvely. I gave the woman some sous and dismissed her. On looking at my watch I found it was only nine o'clock. The diligence would not leave until two. I had only been an hour and three quarters walking there, so I gave myself up to the luxury of dreaming in this beautifal spot for an hour or so. I returned to the gorge, and paced rapidly up and down the path covered with snow. The shadows of the fir-trees lay long on the ground, and the glittering snow flashed in the morning sunlight, as if cut into a million of facets, a perfect sheet of diamonds. The peaks of the dentated mountain lay white and icy against the palpitating blue sky. My fancy, being under the influence of sorrow, was morbid, and it drew many contrasts between the ice peaks and throbbing heavens and my own broken life. I thought of M—'s lot and my own. I could not be rebellious with that strong, fresh mountain air, washing like waves over my hot brow and cheeks. Nor could I, when I thought
"—o'er loss of days no more to be
Of actions dropp'd to dreams—and dreams to death,
And then—Eternity!"
feel what is called resignation. I have no such grace given me. I may meet with a hundred rebuffs and disappointments, and be desperate; but still I stand, with armor buckled on, ready for fresh action. I am enduring and submissive, but not resigned. How strongly and firmly I planted my feet on that rocky, snowy road, as I paced rapidly to and fro, looking up at the cliffs and the shut-in gorge, which, doubtless, was "le Bout du Monde" to the innocent peasants of the place! It was a solemn, sublime spot, well fitted to dream in, and fancy might readily weave woofs and webs, of sombre but grand contrasts, filling memory's store-house with material for the use of the imagination at more healthy seasons. I seemed surrounded with
"Fragments of a crystal world
Long shattered from its skyey course."
Noonday approaching warned me of the necessity of returning toward the town, and I retraced the road on the border of the Lysse, which had led me to this beautiful spot in the morning. I found my children up, dressed, and the maid spreading a nice dinner for us in the little ante-room.
"Comme tu es fraiche chère petite maman," cried the two children, leaping into my arms, and smothering me with kisses.
My walk had sharpened my appetite, as well as brightened my cheeks and eyes, and I hastened to our dinner. That through, we hurried down to the diligence, in order to be seated before the other passengers arrived. As I stepped in after Ernst, the boy made a lament, and my foot pressed something hard.
"Oh, mon couteau, mon couteau!" he cried.
"Here it is," I said; and I stooped down and picked up the knife from the straw, where he had dropped it. I slipped it into my pocket in the hurry of arrangement, intending to put it in the sac de nuit after getting seated, for it was a heavy thing and quite in the way. It was one he had just received from America as a present; it was a regular Western bowie-knife, and he wanted to take it on to show to his little cousins at Turin. We had just got seated when in trooped the other passengers. There were not so many as the night before, and some were new ones. An old peasant woman was among them, and I made room for her beside Ernst. My German neighbor, I observed with great satisfaction, had left also.
Toward sunset we reached St. Jean, where the pass of Mount Cenis commences. The children looked out of the window, and Ernst left his seat to see something on the roadside which had attracted his sister's attention. When the diligence was ready to start, as Ernst returned to his seat, we found it occupied, and, to my surprise and dissatisfaction, I recognized in the new-comer the German who had annoyed me so much the preceding night. He had evidently been traveling from Chambery in some other part of the diligence. I noticed, also, that every one had left the interieure except the old woman, who was asleep in the farthest corner. My heart seemed to stand still for an instant. He said nothing, but, as my eye met his, I noticed in his expression that he observed my annoyance, and exulted in it. I changed my seat to the opposite bench, and arranged my children there on each side of me. The German took no other notice of the change than stretching himself out on the unoccupied seats. I began to think that I had been foolishly alarming myself, and I gradually dismissed my fears of present danger, and became absorbed in the thought of M-- and the life-desolation her death would cause me. Night darkened, the air was filled with the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and the dull, hoarse snoring of the old woman showed how leaden and heavy was her sleep. The diligence wheels groaned along through the hard, stony snow, grinding it with sharp, harsh creaks into powder. The night was very dark, and the wind blew high, moaning in soughs and gusts around the desolate place. The voice of the driver and cries of the postillion to the horses sounded as if coming from a great distance. While I was noticing this the helplessness and loneliness of my position again presented itself tome. No cry of mine could possibly be heard, thrown out from this shut-up box of a place, on that surging, roaring wind, or, if heard, probably no attention would be paid to it, for I knew, according to European notions, I had no business to be traveling in such a place unprotected.
Ernst had crept down on the large tin chaufferette at our feet, and lay with his head in my lap, one little soft cheek buried in the palm of my hand. I listened to the sweet rise and fall of the sleeping breath of my children, and so loud did my heart throb that I could plainly hear the difference of its anxious troubled beat contrasted with the peaceful measure of those childish slumbers. I heard a slight rustling in the corner occupied by the German, and I thought I saw in the dim light a figure moving.
"My anxiety is making a baby of me," I said to myself, but I strained my eyes forward, watching closely. I was not mistaken, the man arose and came stealing over to my side of the interieure.
"Wir sind besonders glücklich, so allein zu sein in dunkler Nacht, und um eine solche gute Gelegenheit zu benutzen setze man beiseide äuszerliche Besheidenheit" (We are very lucky to be all alone in this dark night; we ought to use such a good opportunity, and not be too modest), he said, as he stealthily approached me. He took his seat beside me, and put his arm up to rest it on my neck.
I sprang to my feet, snatched the knife out of my pocket, the recollection of which came to me as if by inspiration, touched its spring, and flashed the broad, bright blade in his face—there was just light enough to show the glimmer of the steel. I am sure if he had touched me I should have killed him. I never saw a human being so alarmed in my life. He was struck dumb, he cowered down and gradually crept off and off, farther and farther, until he reached the far end of the interieure. I did not speak one word, nor cease looking at him; I was afraid of breaking the fascination. I resumed my seat with assumed calmness, and snapped the blade with leisurely beats to and fro. I do not know how long I sat in that way—the time seemed interminable. About midnight we were half-way over the pass, and the diligence stopped at one of the relay-houses or houses of refuge. There my German admirer stepped out, and I saw him no more.
In the morning we reached Susa, and the diligence was placed on the railway. Before starting again I heard the voice of the German talking outside to one of the guards, who was bantering him, and evidently urging him to return to the interieure.
"Verdammit, nein," he muttered sullenly, "da drinnen ist eine Bärin." (Curse it, no! there's a she-bear in there!)
"Sie ist eine Americanerin" (She's an American), said the guard, laughing.
The German's teeth fairly chattered with fright as he cried, "Americanerin! was Sie nicht sagen! Mein Gott! lieber ginge ich in die Höhle einer Bärin als Einer solchen Americanerin zu nahe zu kommen!"—(An American! You don't say so! Good God! I'd rather go into a she-bear's den than come too near such a she-American!)
The other men laughed heartily, the shriek of the locomotive sounded, and soon we were in motion again, and in a few hours were in Turin. My night's anxiety was over in every way, for on my arrival at the house where M. had her apartments I found her out of danger, and in a profound slumber. In a fortnight she was well enough to enjoy my description of my journey, and laugh with me over the fright of my German admirer and the good use made of Ernst's bowie-knife.