Little Rivers [48]
and just a single white glimpse of the highest peak of the Ortler
by the Engadine; nearer still we saw the vast fortress of the Sella
group and the red combs of the Rosengarten; Monte Marmolata, the
Queen of the Dolomites, stood before us revealed from base to peak
in a bridal dress of snow; and southward we looked into the dark
rugged face of La Civetta, rising sheer out of the vale of Agordo,
where the Lake of Alleghe slept unseen. It was a sea of mountains,
tossed around us into a myriad of motionless waves, and with a
rainbow of colours spread among their hollows and across their
crests. The cliffs of rose and orange and silver gray, the valleys
of deepest green, the distant shadows of purple and melting blue,
and the dazzling white of the scattered snow-fields seemed to shift
and vary like the hues on the inside of a shell. And over all,
from peak to peak, the light, feathery clouds went drifting lazily
and slowly, as if they could not leave a scene so fair.
There is barely room on the top of Nuvolau for the stone shelter-
hut which a grateful Saxon baron has built there as a sort of
votive offering for the recovery of his health among the mountains.
As we sat within and ate our frugal lunch, we were glad that he had
recovered his health, and glad that he had built the hut, and glad
that we had come to it. In fact, we could almost sympathise in our
cold, matter-of-fact American way with the sentimental German
inscription which we read on the wall:--
Von Nuvolau's hohen Wolkenstufen
Lass mich, Natur, durch deine Himmel rufen--
An deiner Brust gesunde, wer da krank!
So wird zum Volkerdank mein Sachsendank.
We refrained, however, from shouting anything through Nature's
heaven, but went lightly down, in about three hours, to supper in
the Star of Gold.
IV.
When a stern necessity forces one to leave Cortina, there are
several ways of departure. We selected the main highway for our
trunks, but for ourselves the Pass of the Three Crosses; the Deacon
and the Deaconess in a mountain waggon, and I on foot. It should
be written as an axiom in the philosophy of travel that the easiest
way is best for your luggage, and the hardest way is best for
yourself.
All along the rough road up to the Pass, we had a glorious outlook
backward over the Val d' Ampezzo, and when we came to the top, we
looked deep down into the narrow Val Buona behind Sorapis. I do
not know just when we passed the Austrian border, but when we came
to Lake Misurina we found ourselves in Italy again. My friends
went on down the valley to Landro, but I in my weakness, having
eaten of the trout of the lake for dinner, could not resist the
temptation of staying over-night to catch one for breakfast.
It was a pleasant failure. The lake was beautiful, lying on top of
the mountain like a bit of blue sky, surrounded by the peaks of
Cristallo, Cadino, and the Drei Zinnen. It was a happiness to
float on such celestial waters and cast the hopeful fly. The trout
were there; they were large; I saw them; they also saw me; but,
alas! I could not raise them. Misurina is, in fact, what the
Scotch call "a dour loch," one of those places which are outwardly
beautiful, but inwardly so demoralised that the trout will not
rise.
When we came ashore in the evening, the boatman consoled me with
the story of a French count who had spent two weeks there fishing,
and only caught one fish. I had some thoughts of staying thirteen
days longer, to rival the count, but concluded to go on the next
morning, over Monte Pian and the Cat's Ladder to Landro.
The view from Monte Pian is far less extensive than that from
Nuvolau; but it has the advantage of being very near the wild
jumble of the Sexten Dolomites. The Three Shoemakers and a lot
more of sharp and ragged fellows are close by, on the east; on the
west, Cristallo shows