GRUYÈRES.

You may make your way through the high-hung valley of
La Gruyère, where the winding Sarine flows broadening towards
the fairest pasture-land of Fribourg; you may follow her course
when spring, sweeping over the land, has released the silent
crumpled torrents to bound, singing, from the mountain-sides.
You may wander, mile after mile, along the flower-filled meadows
carpeting her margins, and you may feel in the sudden vision -
as the valley opens - of the little white citadel fastened
jewel-like upon the shoulder of the hill, gazing across the plain
to the mountains beyond, that your cup is full, and charm can no
further go. But to know Gruyères at her utmost personality you
must make your pilgrimage through the winter silence, coming at
the height of the snow-time towards January's end, tramping
through the clogging softness of the fresh fall along the ice-
hard track.

Towering mountains marshal the winding way. The dazzling
snow, sloping from where peak and summit stand sharp against the
rich sky, follows the chiselled outlines, down and down, clothes
the mighty massif and billows, diamond-sprent, over the valley
floor.

Here and there, high up, a break of drift or avalanche
shows the warm gleam of naked sunlit rock. Pine-woods huddle

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in the clefts, dense and dark. Along narrow ridges the trees
stand single file in gracious individuality. Wedge-wise they
spread, crowding after their leaders, over the broad breasts
of the mountains, and stand along their shoulders, rows of fine
spindles, soft deep emerald, one above the other, along the sky-
line, up and up towards the serene heights.

Into the frozen silence the slight muffled thud of your
footstep falls like a challenge. A momentary halt sends you
into the deepest of the solitude. The strong impinging crystal
air enfolds you as you stand. The feeling of the mountains grows
and grows - goes forth until, one with them, you can hear the
living voices of the stillness.

Away at the end of the vista, shifting as you go, the blue
tones to a soft purple. The gentle Sarine lies asleep, motion-
less, a winding black strip along the bed of the valley. The
deep snow bulges over her margins. Carrying you here and there
along the river bank, your pathway gives a near view of the dark
mirror. You may see the strange masses - clear, deep bottle-
green - where snow waters were arrested and heaped as they made
their way into the stream. You may mark, grey and blistered,
the reaches where rushes stand embedded. On and no along the
mighty corridor the silent river leads you until the enchantment
broadens, the mountains march away on either hand, and there
ahead, mile beyond level mile, lies the jewelled snow, twinkling

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and glittering under unbroken sunlight. The surprise of a soft
grey haze veiling the far-distance brings to the lowland eye a
momentary sense of kinship. Obliterating for an instant the
winter-long bewitchment, it weaves a picture of broad fair meadows,
of brimming irregular hedgerows, of elm and poplar, and a gently
interlacing river. But mountains hem the snow-spread plain on
either margin, and to the left the Moléson, king of the Fribourg
Alps, rending the sky, quells the willing pilgrim back.

To the right, a little behind and sheer above you, perched
upon the hill forming the angle of the range and gazing across
the plain, stands Gruyères. Stern, cold, grey are her white
stone walls against the sunny snow. Stern, cold, grey is the
rampart, close-built along them, of stone houses festooned with
hanging balconies. High-peering dormers break the outline of
the snow-burdened roofs. Chill and frowning, the frugal castle
stands distinct from the houses only by its mass, its bare un-
balconied front, and its flanking of blunt round tower.

In the background, a mighty bow, the saddle of the mountain
rears sharp-peaked horns into the sky, drawing the eye, reducing
the little township to a strip of grey stone network against the
splendid sweep of snow.

The narrow roadway, steep towards the end as a scaling
ladder, leads you up the hillside. Your nailed boot-soles bite
and fasten on the icy surface. As you approach the grey walls,

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frowning now just above you, the stillness of your moving passes
to a hush - a haunting lack of sound. It seems at every moment
that there must rise in your pathway a dim shape, forbidding curious
eyes. It is well you should give heed, lest you forget the doffing
of the shoes, and your picture vanish.

The summit of the winding path brings you to face an arched
gateway eloquent with rough blazonry, and flanked with slender
turrets. Ahead is a little ice-coated stairway. Braving it, how
far away, in an instant, is the outer vastness. The straggling
street is warm with homely detail, rich with scattered human shapes
moving along the muffled tracks.

They greet you, these sturdy, sweet-voiced mountain people -
the smiling wrinkled woman at work with her steaming washboard at
the ice-draped fountain; the smocked wood-cutter - slouch-hatted,
wild-haired picture of a desperado, gentlest of mortals - with his
laden luge; a red-faced, blue-bloused youth driving a little troop
of goats; three tiny children, huddled and swaying on a small to-
boggan, flashing into sight round the bend with gay shouting, pull-
ing up at your feet and surveying you with bold laughing eyes.

Making your way past the cheery saffron-faced inn, with its
gay green toy-house shutters and jaunty muslin window-blinds, past
the close-set plaster-fronted houses, bright in the sun, their
sloping eaves snow-piled and fringed with icicles, you reach the
heart of the hamlet, where stands the little whitewashed shrine
with its figures of painted wood.

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Here is sanctuary in the wilderness, hard-won day by day
upon the scene of ancient glories. Across the way, as you stand
beside the shrine, is the old house of Chalamala, the well-loved
jester, built by Italian masons in the great "Fifteenth". Gar-
goyles of serpents' jaws gape, pendulous, from above. Clowns'
heads weave around the upper windows a network of pitiful laughter.
Suns, rams' heads, and storied emblems fill the angles and outer
spaces, and descend to meet the graven arabesque hanging lace-
like above the arch of the doorway.

The friendly rearward aspect of the castle beckons you on,
draws you across its courtyard and far into the story of Grugère
and Savoy. Gruerius and his magic crane, crusaders, priests and
soldiers, counts and ladies, a whole gay court pass before you -
hovering pictures - and you see again the brave women and their
army of torch-horned goats routing the night attack of the men of
Berne. Worn stone stairways and echoing corridors lead to cham-
bers richly decked with oak and tapestry, to the nest of the beau-
tiful shepherdess for whose sake the young count turned drover.

And over all, the grateful memory of Daniel Bovy, saviour
of the garnered treasures, and his little band of friends, Corot,
Français, and their brethren making pilgrimage from Paris to lend
him reverent aid and leave their mark in the gracious salon.

Weary with your riches, you emerge at last upon the terrace

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to look down on the great black shadow of the Moléson lying now
across the level. In the distance, where earlier hung the veil-
ing mist, rises an oberland of clustering giants, peak beyond peak,
rose-washed snow against a deepening sky.