behind a door which is constantly being opened from the other side;
and implores you, if you ever revisit that place, now do go and
look at that statue and fountain!
Our bore, in a similar manner, being in Italy, made a discovery of
a dreadful picture, which has been the terror of a large portion of
the civilized world ever since. We have seen the liveliest men
paralysed by it, across a broad dining-table. He was lounging
among the mountains, sir, basking in the mellow influences of the
climate, when he came to UNA PICCOLA CHIESA – a little church – or
perhaps it would be more correct to say UNA PICCOLISSIMA CAPPELLA –
the smallest chapel you can possibly imagine – and walked in.
There was nobody inside but a CIECO – a blind man – saying his
prayers, and a VECCHIO PADRE – old friar-rattling a money-box.
But, above the head of that friar, and immediately to the right of
the altar as you enter – to the right of the altar? No. To the
left of the altar as you enter – or say near the centre – there
hung a painting (subject, Virgin and Child) so divine in its
expression, so pure and yet so warm and rich in its tone, so fresh
in its touch, at once so glowing in its colour and so statuesque in
its repose, that our bore cried out in ecstasy, ‘That’s the finest
picture in Italy!’ And so it is, sir. There is no doubt of it.
It is astonishing that that picture is so little known. Even the
painter is uncertain. He afterwards took Blumb, of the Royal
Academy (it is to be observed that our bore takes none but eminent
people to see sights, and that none but eminent people take our
bore), and you never saw a man so affected in your life as Blumb
was. He cried like a child! And then our bore begins his
description in detail – for all this is introductory – and
strangles his hearers with the folds of the purple drapery.
By an equally fortunate conjunction of accidental circumstances, it
happened that when our bore was in Switzerland, he discovered a
Valley, of that superb character, that Chamouni is not to be
mentioned in the same breath with it. This is how it was, sir. He
was travelling on a mule – had been in the saddle some days – when,
as he and the guide, Pierre Blanquo: whom you may know, perhaps? –
our bore is sorry you don’t, because he’s the only guide deserving
of the name – as he and Pierre were descending, towards evening,
among those everlasting snows, to the little village of La Croix,
our bore observed a mountain track turning off sharply to the
right. At first he was uncertain whether it WAS a track at all,
and in fact, he said to Pierre, ‘QU’EST QUE C’EST DONC, MON AMI? –
What is that, my friend? ‘Ou, MONSIEUR!’ said Pierre – ‘Where,
sir?’ ‘ La! – there!’ said our bore. ‘MONSIEUR, CE N’EST RIEN DE
TOUT – sir, it’s nothing at all,’ said Pierre. ‘ALLONS! – Make
haste. IL VA NEIGET – it’s going to snow!’ But, our bore was not
to be done in that way, and he firmly replied, ‘I wish to go in
that direction – JE VEUX Y ALLER. I am bent upon it – JE SUIS
DETERMINE. EN AVANT! – go ahead!’ In consequence of which
firmness on our bore’s part, they proceeded, sir, during two hours
of evening, and three of moonlight (they waited in a cavern till
the moon was up), along the slenderest track, overhanging
perpendicularly the most awful gulfs, until they arrived, by a
winding descent, in a valley that possibly, and he may say
probably, was never visited by any stranger before. What a valley!
Mountains piled on mountains, avalanches stemmed by pine forests;
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Dickens, Charles – Reprinted Pieces
waterfalls, chalets, mountain-torrents, wooden bridges, every
conceivable picture of Swiss scenery! The whole village turned out
to receive our bore. The peasant girls kissed him, the men shook
hands with him, one old lady of benevolent appearance wept upon his