At last all was ready; all but the English family; and then they came, attended to their carriage-door by host and hostess, man and maid, all the grinning, good-humoured staff of the Silver Pelican.
“Paterfamilias!” said I to myself, recognising the fellow-countryman I had shown where to post his letter, “no mistaking him anywhere, and he might have sat to Leech for his portrait, so true is the resemblance. Mrs. P. next, portly, pleasant-looking woman; then a pale daughter, looks like an invalid, poor thing, and, by Jove, what a pretty girl is the other!”
I caught but a brief glimpse of the beautiful dark face and glossy braids of raven hair, and then the door closed, and the post-boys, having finished fumbling with the harness, swung themselves into their saddles. Four grey horses, squealing and capering, two pair of greasy jack-boots, two blue jackets, gay with crimson worsted, and a dark green carriage, went surging past. Then, amid cracking of whips and clangour of bells, laughter, and cries of farewell, half ironical, half kindly, went off the whole procession, foot and horse, mule and man, up the steep windings of the road.
For the first three-quarters of a mile, or thereabouts, there was no snow left, for the southern face of the mountain had been for several days exposed to the hot sunbeams; with what effect the swollen torrent could show. But at length the caravan reached the white drifts, and its component parts looked dark and clearly picked out against the gleaming background, as it slowly disappeared among the windings of the corkscrew road. The street was full of merry groups, laughing and gossipping in the light-hearted Southern way. Not one of them but seemed to predict the safest and most agreeable journey for the recently-departed strangers. The snow, some of them said, might be a little heavy and soft, until the crest was reached, but from the Hospice down to Hospenthal and Andermatt, and thence by way of the grand valley of the Reuss to the head of the lake, the footing would be superb. Crisp, thin snow, hard as a pavement, and smooth as Maggiore in summer.
But one tall, grim old man, whose long hair of grizzled red hung down from under his broad-brimmed hat, and whom I guessed to be a cowherd from Uri, come down from the hills on some bucolic business, eyed the disappearing voyagers in a very different manner. He stood a little apart from the red-sashed villagers, leaning against a tree, and shading his eyes with his gaunt brown hand as he peered at the cavalcade, then looked sharply at the sky, and lastly, growled out in his harsh German dialect:
“Ah! ah! a good journey, forsooth! Soon said! soon said! Every stupidhead can say that. We shall see, by and by.”
Moved partly by curiosity, partly by a sort of vague fear—for I had heard much of the remarkable keenness of observation, where changes of weather were concerned, of the Alpine herdsmen—I sauntered closer to the old man.
“A fine day!” said I; “but you don’t seem as confident of its lasting as these worthy folks of the Valtellina?”
I spoke in German, for I remembered the old contempt of the Teutonic foresters for the softer and livelier race on the sunnier side of the Alps, over whom they had long ruled with stern sway, and I felt by no means sure of a civil answer if I addressed the rough old fellow in Italian. Indifferent as my German was, he understood it, and slightly touched his felt hat as he replied, with a friendly growl like that of an affable bear:
“Any dolt or child can see when the sun shines, Herr Englander. We mountain farmers arc used to distrust outward signs. I sniff a storm, somehow.”
“Not now, surely? Not for the present, at any rate?” said I incredulously, as I swept the horizon with my eyes, and saw nothing but blue sky, dazzling light, and a fleecy flake or two of white cloud above the sharp and clear-cut peaks of the vividly defined mountains.
The old man muttered something, what I could not catch, but the tone was a scornful one, and shrugged up his shoulders as he turned away.
I should have asked if he really suspected any sudden change of weather to be imminent, although the smiling face of nature seemed to refute any sinister prophecy, but for two circumstances. The first of these was the arrival of the diligence from Bellinzona, rattling and clashing up to the Poste, and well stored with passengers. The second, was the fact that a good looking stalwart young peasant—the old man’s son, no doubt—came hurrying up with some samples of seed corn in a sieve, and called his father to join a knot of buyers, sellers, and speculators, whose garrulous Corn Exchange was being held beside the public fountain.
The arrival of the diligence caused fresh excitement in the place. For some days, owing to the inaccessibility of the high plateau above the pass, none had passed; and this vehicle was, as usual, to be put on sledge-runners to enable it to cross the deeper drifts without sticking fast. In the middle of the turmoil without which nothing can be done in Continental Europe, I found myself suddenly accosted with,
“Why, Bolton! George, old fellow, who on earth would have dreamed of finding you here?”
I turned sharply round, and saw the handsome, friendly face of Maurice Tindal, an artist, like myself, but one who, young as he was, already ranked high in his profession, and bade fair to be, with thought and study, one of the props of British art. I had a sincere liking for Tindal, and a thorough admiration for his talents; indeed, almost every one liked the youngster, though it is sometimes provoking to be outstripped by a junior. I knew that he had spent the winter somewhere in Italy, but not at Rome, for we had not met since our last sojourn in London.
In very few words, Maurice told me that he was fresh from Florence, where he had been working and studying throughout the winter, and that he was now bound for England. So far all was clear and commonplace, but I was puzzled at first by the nervous anxiety which Maurice manifested as to whether some friends who had started from