she pauses for a moment to look down from this first bend and shake the moisture out of her hair: forest, white streets ruled straight amid the dense green, the river, curved and gleaming like a scimitar, and above it all the sun suddenly pouring through the notch. Wonderful, but her momentum won’t let her stop. The insistent drumming of her heart and the rhythm of the muscles and tendons keep urging her forward,and she presses on, spurred and intoxicated by her own excitement , with no idea how far or how high or where she’s going. After an hour, perhaps, she comes to a vantage point where the slope of the mountain is cambered like a ramp, and throws herself down on the grass: enough. Enough for today. Her head is swimming, but she’s strangely happy. Her blood is pulsing under her eyelids, her skin feels raw where it was exposed to the wind, but the almost painful sensations are a new kind of pleasure. She never knew the blood could flow so strongly, the pulse could pound so eagerly, was never as aware of her own physicality, her light-footedness and energy, as in this extravagant, narcotic exhaustion. Clouds float overhead in an undreamed-of blue and the panorama down below opens up as she lets her hands dig pleasantly into cold fragrant Alpine moss. Washed by the sun and scoured by gusty mountain winds, she lies in a pleasant daze, awake and dreaming at once, savoring the tumult within her and the driving, tempestuous movement of nature for an hour or two, until the sun begins to burn her lips. She jumps to her feet and quickly gathers a few flowers—juniper, gentian, sage—still so cold that there are ice crystals among the petals. Then she hurries down, at first maintaining the measured stride of a tourist, straight and tall, before she yields to the pull of gravity, leaping from one stone to the next with increasing speed and daring. She feels self-confident and happy as never before, could almost sing as she whirls down the hairpin turns into the valley as though carried by the wind, skirt and hair fluttering behind her.
At nine, the appointed hour, the young German engineer is in front of the hotel in his tennis whites, waiting for his trainer to arrive for the morning match. It’s still too cold to sit on the damp bench and the wind keeps probing with deft icy fingers under his thin, open-collared linen shirt, so he paces vigorouslyup and down on frozen feet, spinning his racket to warm his hands. Hang it, has the trainer overslept? The engineer looks about impatiently and happens to glance up at the mountain path. There’s something strange off in the distance, something bright and colorful and in turbulent motion, bounding curiously down the path. Wait, what’s that? Wish I had my field glasses. But the hurtling brightly colored object is coming on fast: it will be clearer in a moment. The engineer shades his eyes with his hand and can make out someone speeding down the mountain path. It must be a woman or a young girl with hair blowing and arms swinging, seemingly carried by the wind. Good grief, not a good idea to take the curves at full tilt. She’s crazy, but great to look at, coming down at a speed like that. Automatically he takes a step forward for a better view. The girl looks like a goddess of dawn, a maenad, all energy and fearlessness. He can’t make out her face yet, her speed and the glare of the rising sun are making her features indistinct. But to get to the hotel she’ll have to pass the tennis court—this is where the path ends. She’s getting closer, bits of gravel are rolling into view, he can hear her steps on the curve above, and suddenly she charges up. He’s stepped in her way on purpose and she stops short to keep from running into him; her hair flies back and the damp hem of her dress is pushed against her legs. She’s an arm’s length away from him, breathing hard. She laughs with surprise, suddenly recognizing her dance partner. “Oh, it’s you,” she exclaims in
At nine, the appointed hour, the young German engineer is in front of the hotel in his tennis whites, waiting for his trainer to arrive for the morning match. It’s still too cold to sit on the damp bench and the wind keeps probing with deft icy fingers under his thin, open-collared linen shirt, so he paces vigorouslyup and down on frozen feet, spinning his racket to warm his hands. Hang it, has the trainer overslept? The engineer looks about impatiently and happens to glance up at the mountain path. There’s something strange off in the distance, something bright and colorful and in turbulent motion, bounding curiously down the path. Wait, what’s that? Wish I had my field glasses. But the hurtling brightly colored object is coming on fast: it will be clearer in a moment. The engineer shades his eyes with his hand and can make out someone speeding down the mountain path. It must be a woman or a young girl with hair blowing and arms swinging, seemingly carried by the wind. Good grief, not a good idea to take the curves at full tilt. She’s crazy, but great to look at, coming down at a speed like that. Automatically he takes a step forward for a better view. The girl looks like a goddess of dawn, a maenad, all energy and fearlessness. He can’t make out her face yet, her speed and the glare of the rising sun are making her features indistinct. But to get to the hotel she’ll have to pass the tennis court—this is where the path ends. She’s getting closer, bits of gravel are rolling into view, he can hear her steps on the curve above, and suddenly she charges up. He’s stepped in her way on purpose and she stops short to keep from running into him; her hair flies back and the damp hem of her dress is pushed against her legs. She’s an arm’s length away from him, breathing hard. She laughs with surprise, suddenly recognizing her dance partner. “Oh, it’s you,” she exclaims in
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