The twilight deepened, though there was still the strange, glassy
translucency of the snow-lit air. A fragment of moon was in the sky. A
carriage-load of French tourists passed me. There was the loud noise of
water, as ever, something eternal and maddening in its sound, like the
sound of Time itself, rustling and rushing and wavering, but never for a
second ceasing. The rushing of Time that continues throughout eternity,
this is the sound of the icy streams of Switzerland, something that
mocks and destroys our warm being.
So I came, in the early darkness, to the little village with the broken
castle that stands for ever frozen at the point where the track parts,
one way continuing along the ridge, to the Furka Pass, the other
swerving over the hill to the left, over the Gotthardt.
In this village I must stay. I saw a woman looking hastily, furtively
from a doorway. I knew she was looking for visitors. I went on up the
hilly street. There were only a few wooden houses and a gaily lighted
wooden inn, where men were laughing, and strangers, men, standing
talking loudly in the doorway.
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