第9章 An Alpine Idyll(1)

It was hot coming down into the valley even in the early morning. The sun melted the snow from the skis we were carrying and dried the wood. It was spring in the valley but the sun was very hot. We came along the road into Galtur carrying our skis and rucksacks. As we passed the churchyard a burial was just over. I said， "Grüss Gott，" to the priest as he walked past us coming out of the churchyard. The priest bowed.

"It's funny a priest never speaks to you，" John said.

"You'd think they'd like to say 'Grüss Gott.'"

"They never answer，" John said.

We stopped in the road and watched the sexton shovelling in the new earth. A peasant with a black beard and high leather boots stood beside the grave. The sexton stopped shovelling and straightened his back. The peasant in the high boots took the spade from the sexton and went on filling in the grave—spreading the earth evenly as a man spreading manure in a garden. In the bright May morning the grave-filling looked unreal. I could not imagine any one being dead.

"Imagine being buried on a day like this，" I said to John.

"I wouldn't like it."

"Well，" I said， "we don't have to do it."

We went on up the road past the houses of the town to the inn. We had been skiing in the Silvretta for a month， and it was good to be down in the valley. In the Silvretta the skiing had been all right， but it was spring skiing， the snow was good only in the early morning and again in the evening. The rest of the time it was spoiled by the sun. We were both tired of the sun. You could not get away from the sun. The only shadows were made by rocks or by the hut that was built under the protection of a rock beside a glacier， and in the shade the sweat froze in your underclothing. You could not sit outside the hut without dark glasses. It was pleasant to be burned black but the sun had been very tiring. You could not rest in it. I was glad to be down away from snow. It was too late in the spring to be up in the Silvretta. I was a little tired of skiing. We had stayed too long. I could taste the snow water we had been drinking melted off the tin roof of the hut. The taste was a part of the way I felt about skiing. I was glad there were other things beside skiing， and I was glad to be down， away from the unnatural high mountain spring， into this May morning in the valley.

The innkeeper sat on the porch of the inn， his chair tipped back against the wall. Beside him sat the cook.

"Ski-heil！" said the innkeeper.

"Heil！" we said and leaned the skis against the wall and took off our packs.

"How was it up above？" asked the innkeeper.

"Schön. A little too much sun."

"Yes. There's too much sun this time of year."

The cook sat on in his chair. The innkeeper went in with us and unlocked his office and brought out our mail. There was a bundle of letters and some papers.

"Let's get some beer，" John said.

"Good. We'll drink it inside."

The proprietor brought two bottles and we drank them while we read the letters.

"We better have some more beer，" John said. A girl brought it this time. She smiled as she opened the bottles.

"Many letters，" she said.

"Yes. Many."

"Prosit，" she said and went out， taking the empty bottles.

"I'd forgotten what beer tasted like."

"I hadn't，" John said. "Up in the hut I used to think about it a lot."

"Well，" I said， "we've got it now."

"You oughtn't to ever do anything too long."

"No. We were up there too long."

"Too damn long，" John said. "It's no good doing a thing too long."

The sun came through the open window and shone through the beer bottles on the table. The bottles were half full. There was a little froth on the beer in the bottles， not much because it was very cold. It collared up when you poured it into the tall glasses. I looked out of the open window at the white road. The trees beside the road were dusty. Beyond was a green field and a stream. There were trees along the stream and a mill with a water wheel. Through the open side of the mill I saw a long log and a saw in it rising and falling. No one seemed to be tending it. There were four crows walking in the green field. One crow sat in a tree watching. Outside on the porch the cook got off his chair and passed into the hall that led back into the kitchen. Inside， the sunlight shone through the empty glasses on the table. John was leaning forward with his head on his arms.

Through the window I saw two men come up the front steps. They came into the drinking room. One was the bearded peasant in the high boots. The other was the sexton. They sat down at the table under the window. The girl came in and stood by their table. The peasant did not seem to see her. He sat with his hands on the table. He wore his old army clothes. There were patches on the elbows.

"What will it be？" asked the sexton. The peasant did not pay any attention.

"What will you drink？"

"Schnapps，" the peasant said.

"And a quarter litre of red wine，" the sexton told the girl.