Little Rivers [52]
in their quaint German. Some of them
are as humourous as the epitaphs in New England graveyards. I
remember one which ran like this:
Here lies Elias Queer,
Killed in his sixtieth year;
Scarce had he seen the light of day
When a waggon-wheel crushed his life away.
And there is another famous one which says:
Here perished the honoured and virtuous maiden,
G.V.
This tablet was erected by her only son.
But for the most part a glance at these Marterl und Taferl, which
are so frequent on all the mountain-roads of the Tyrol, will give
you a strange sense of the real pathos of human life. If you are a
Catholic, you will not refuse their request to say a prayer for the
departed; if you are a Protestant, at least it will not hurt you to
say one for those who still live and suffer and toil among such
dangers.
After we had walked for four hours up the Tauernthal, we came to
the Matreier-Tauernhaus, an inn which is kept open all the year for
the shelter of travellers over the high pass that crosses the
mountain-range at this point, from north to south. There we dined.
It was a bare, rude place, but the dish of juicy trout was
garnished with flowers, each fish holding a big pansy in its mouth,
and as the maid set them down before me she wished me "a good
appetite," with the hearty old-fashioned Tyrolese courtesy which
still survives in these remote valleys. It is pleasant to travel
in a land where the manners are plain and good. If you meet a
peasant on the road he says, "God greet you!" if you give a child a
couple of kreuzers he folds his hands and says, "God reward you!"
and the maid who lights you to bed says, "Goodnight, I hope you
will sleep well!"
Two hours more of walking brought us through Ausser-gschloss and
Inner-gschloss, two groups of herdsmen's huts, tenanted only in
summer, at the head of the Tauernthal. Midway between them lies a
little chapel, cut into the solid rock for shelter from the
avalanches. This lofty vale is indeed rightly named; for it is
shut off from the rest of the world. The portal is a cliff down
which the stream rushes in foam and thunder. On either hand rises
a mountain wall. Within, the pasture is fresh and green, sprinkled
with Alpine roses, and the pale river flows swiftly down between
the rows of dark wooden houses. At the head of the vale towers the
Gross-Venediger, with its glaciers and snow-fields dazzling white
against the deep blue heaven. The murmur of the stream and the
tinkle of the cow-bells and the jodelling of the herdsmen far up
the slopes, make the music for the scene.
The path from Gschloss leads straight up to the foot of the dark
pyramid of the Kesselkopf, and then in steep endless zig-zags along
the edge of the great glacier. I saw, at first, the pinnacles of
ice far above me, breaking over the face of the rock; then, after
an hour's breathless climbing, I could look right into the blue
crevasses; and at last, after another hour over soft snow-fields
and broken rocks, I was at the Pragerhut, perched on the shoulder
of the mountain, looking down upon the huge river of ice.
It was a magnificent view under the clear light of evening. Here
in front of us, the Venediger with all his brother-mountains
clustered about him; behind us, across the Tauern, the mighty chain
of the Glockner against the eastern sky.
This is the frozen world. Here the Winter, driven back into his
stronghold, makes his last stand against the Summer, in perpetual
conflict, retreating by day to the mountain-peak, but creeping back
at night in frost and snow to regain a little of his lost
territory, until at last the Summer is wearied out, and the Winter
sweeps down again to claim the whole valley for his own.
VI.
In the Pragerhut I found mountain comfort. There were bunks along
the wall of the guest-room,
are as humourous as the epitaphs in New England graveyards. I
remember one which ran like this:
Here lies Elias Queer,
Killed in his sixtieth year;
Scarce had he seen the light of day
When a waggon-wheel crushed his life away.
And there is another famous one which says:
Here perished the honoured and virtuous maiden,
G.V.
This tablet was erected by her only son.
But for the most part a glance at these Marterl und Taferl, which
are so frequent on all the mountain-roads of the Tyrol, will give
you a strange sense of the real pathos of human life. If you are a
Catholic, you will not refuse their request to say a prayer for the
departed; if you are a Protestant, at least it will not hurt you to
say one for those who still live and suffer and toil among such
dangers.
After we had walked for four hours up the Tauernthal, we came to
the Matreier-Tauernhaus, an inn which is kept open all the year for
the shelter of travellers over the high pass that crosses the
mountain-range at this point, from north to south. There we dined.
It was a bare, rude place, but the dish of juicy trout was
garnished with flowers, each fish holding a big pansy in its mouth,
and as the maid set them down before me she wished me "a good
appetite," with the hearty old-fashioned Tyrolese courtesy which
still survives in these remote valleys. It is pleasant to travel
in a land where the manners are plain and good. If you meet a
peasant on the road he says, "God greet you!" if you give a child a
couple of kreuzers he folds his hands and says, "God reward you!"
and the maid who lights you to bed says, "Goodnight, I hope you
will sleep well!"
Two hours more of walking brought us through Ausser-gschloss and
Inner-gschloss, two groups of herdsmen's huts, tenanted only in
summer, at the head of the Tauernthal. Midway between them lies a
little chapel, cut into the solid rock for shelter from the
avalanches. This lofty vale is indeed rightly named; for it is
shut off from the rest of the world. The portal is a cliff down
which the stream rushes in foam and thunder. On either hand rises
a mountain wall. Within, the pasture is fresh and green, sprinkled
with Alpine roses, and the pale river flows swiftly down between
the rows of dark wooden houses. At the head of the vale towers the
Gross-Venediger, with its glaciers and snow-fields dazzling white
against the deep blue heaven. The murmur of the stream and the
tinkle of the cow-bells and the jodelling of the herdsmen far up
the slopes, make the music for the scene.
The path from Gschloss leads straight up to the foot of the dark
pyramid of the Kesselkopf, and then in steep endless zig-zags along
the edge of the great glacier. I saw, at first, the pinnacles of
ice far above me, breaking over the face of the rock; then, after
an hour's breathless climbing, I could look right into the blue
crevasses; and at last, after another hour over soft snow-fields
and broken rocks, I was at the Pragerhut, perched on the shoulder
of the mountain, looking down upon the huge river of ice.
It was a magnificent view under the clear light of evening. Here
in front of us, the Venediger with all his brother-mountains
clustered about him; behind us, across the Tauern, the mighty chain
of the Glockner against the eastern sky.
This is the frozen world. Here the Winter, driven back into his
stronghold, makes his last stand against the Summer, in perpetual
conflict, retreating by day to the mountain-peak, but creeping back
at night in frost and snow to regain a little of his lost
territory, until at last the Summer is wearied out, and the Winter
sweeps down again to claim the whole valley for his own.
VI.
In the Pragerhut I found mountain comfort. There were bunks along
the wall of the guest-room,