I bore the pair a
grudge, and the sight of them brought back the consciousness of my
injury.
St. Bruno, fortunate in many ways, was a lucky saint to have so
beautiful a bridge named after him. And as we climbed the brown
road--moist with tears wept by the mountains for the banished
monks--it seemed to us that the scenery was always leading up to him,
as a preface leads up to the first chapter of a book. We went through
tunnels as a thread goes through the eye of a needle; we wound round
intricate turns of the road; we came upon pinnacle rocks; and then, at
last, when we least expected the climax of our journey, we dropped
into a great green basin, rimmed with soaring crags. In the midst
stood an enormous building, a vast conglomeration of pointed,
dove-grey roofs and dun-coloured walls, a city of slate and stone
spread over acres of ground and seeming a part of the impressive yet
strangely peaceful wilderness.
Looking at the vast structure, I was ready to believe that St. Bruno
had waved his staff in the shadow of a rough-hewn mountain, saying:
"Let there be a monastery," and suddenly, there was a monastery; but
our motor, quivering with nervous energy before a door in the high
wall, snatched me back to practicalities.
Molly, leaning quietly back in the tonneau beside the Perpetual
Mushroom, saw us coming from afar off, and waved a hand of absurd
American smallness.
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