Little Rivers [46]
pretty much the same, and equally ugly, all over the world. Now
and then you may see a short jacket with silver buttons, or a pair
of knee-breeches; and almost all the youths wear a bunch of
feathers or a tuft of chamois' hair in their soft green hats. But
the women of the Ampezzo--strong, comely, with golden brown
complexions, and often noble faces--are not ashamed to dress as
their grandmothers did. They wear a little round black felt hat
with rolled rim and two long ribbons hanging down at the back.
Their hair is carefully braided and coiled, and stuck through and
through with great silver pins. A black bodice, fastened with
silver clasps, is covered in front with the ends of a brilliant
silk kerchief, laid in many folds around the shoulders. The white
shirt-sleeves are very full and fastened up above the elbow with
coloured ribbon. If the weather is cool, the women wear a short
black jacket, with satin yoke and high puffed sleeves. But,
whatever the weather may be, they make no change in the large, full
dark skirts, almost completely covered with immense silk aprons, by
preference light blue. It is not a remarkably brilliant dress,
compared with that which one may still see in some districts of
Norway or Sweden, but upon the whole it suits the women of the
Ampezzo wonderfully.
For my part, I think that when a woman has found a dress that
becomes her, it is a waste of time to send to Paris for a fashion-
plate.
III.
When the excitement of the Festa had subsided, we were free to
abandon ourselves to the excursions in which the neighbourhood of
Cortina abounds, and to which the guide-book earnestly calls every
right-minded traveller. A walk through the light-green shadows of
the larch-woods to the tiny lake of Ghedina, where we could see all
the four dozen trout swimming about in the clear water and catching
flies; a drive to the Belvedere, where there are superficial
refreshments above and profound grottos below; these were trifles,
though we enjoyed them. But the great mountains encircling us on
every side, standing out in clear view with that distinctness and
completeness of vision which is one charm of the Dolomites, seemed
to summon us to more arduous enterprises. Accordingly, the Deacon
and I selected the easiest one, engaged a guide, and prepared for
the ascent.
Monte Nuvolau is not a perilous mountain. I am quite sure that at
my present time of life I should be unwilling to ascend a perilous
mountain unless there were something extraordinarily desirable at
the top, or remarkably disagreeable at the bottom. Mere risk has
lost the attractions which it once had. As the father of a family
I felt bound to abstain from going for amusement into any place
which a Christian lady might not visit with propriety and safety.
Our preparation for Nuvolau, therefore, did not consist of ropes,
ice-irons, and axes, but simply of a lunch and two long sticks.
Our way led us, in the early morning, through the clustering houses
of Lacedel, up the broad, green slope that faces Cortina on the
west, to the beautiful Alp Pocol. Nothing could exceed the
pleasure of such a walk in the cool of the day, while the dew still
lies on the short, rich grass, and the myriads of flowers are at
their brightest and sweetest. The infinite variety and abundance
of the blossoms is a continual wonder. They are sown more thickly
than the stars in heaven, and the rainbow itself does not show so
many tints. Here they are mingled like the threads of some strange
embroidery; and there again nature has massed her colours; so that
one spot will be all pale blue with innumerable forget-me-nots, or
dark blue with gentians; another will blush with the delicate pink
of the Santa Lucia or the deeper red of the clover; and another
will shine yellow as cloth of gold. Over all this opulence of
bloom the larks were soaring and singing. I