Prisojnik’s kingdom (1915 & 1929)

Prisojnik’s kingdom (1915 & 1929)

On Vršič, 18 October 1915

“Whether northward or southward,
Every road leads to the goal.
Whether to battle or to peace,
That is decided by God’s will.”

(page 17-20)

They say that a tourist can never grow tired of the same mountain: he may crawl over it for months and years, yet he still does not know it to the very top. Why is this so? A mountain would be just a mountain were it not for the sun, the sky, and the mists; sun, sky, mist, and clouds possess a magical power in the alpine world, transforming mountains into the most varied shapes. With fresh colors—sometimes friendly, sometimes threatening—they paint walls and ridges so that every moment they take on a different form: today they smile at you, proudly upright; tomorrow they weep, so that you can almost see the tears sliding down smooth cliffs; at other times they glare stubbornly at you, breathing a dreadful wrath that threatens you with doom if you begin to climb upon their bare, cold breasts… Thus are they transformed by sky, sun, and mist. The mountaineer knows all these mountain shades; the mountain is new to him each time, because each time he sees it in a different colour, a different light, a different attire—and therefore he never grows weary of it.

Mojstrovka, gentle, pleasant little lady, adorns herself each year with the most beautiful colours; in mornings and evenings she dresses in crimson, beckons golden clouds to crown her with gleaming diadems; on sunny days she shines in pure silver, washed at night by heavenly dew. She beckons—with a snowy diadem upon her head, with swelling breasts. Yet no one came from anywhere. For the puny border guard on the other side hardly counts, panting and cursing over her rocks. Only two or three times does a grey buzzard rise from the Mala Pišnica, circle her head dully, and shriek with a piercing, harsh cry—then silence again, ringing in one’s ears and getting on one’s nerves. Far below, the lonely Erjavčeva Hut crouches like a bird hiding from an enemy in some sheltered nook. For long hours, there is no human presence, and even if the hut is full, no singing is heard like in those times that seem long, long past, when thousands came to visit the kindly lady Mojstrovka…

Perhaps it was the tenth time, perhaps the hundredth, perhaps even more, that I climbed up from behind the saddle between Robičje and Mojstrovka. The sun was still “silvering” Prisojnik’s walls, and Mojstrovka too was still full of it. But the stony slope, scattered only here and there with low dwarf pine and plunging steeply toward Vršič, was already dark, and smoke rose straight up from Erjavčeva Hut’s chimney. The silence—unbroken by even the faintest breath of a mountain breeze—was oppressive and did not invite one into the hut. So I turned away and began walking over the gravel spread beneath Mojstrovka’s entire base. I reached the path leading to the first and only chimney, right beneath walls that rise vertically high into the clear sky. Down below on the road, just under the barricaded Vršič, the first person appeared; his footsteps and the clatter of his long iron-shod staff were clearly audible. It was a shepherd returning from his round around Prisojnik; soon he disappeared beneath Sovina Glava. For a brief moment, there came the drawn-out lowing of cattle lying somewhere among the dwarf pines, waiting for night. And again deathly silence—only a pebble slides down a vertical chute in the middle of the mute wall and comes to rest with a muffled clink among the scree.

I do not stop beneath the chimney, but climb upward blindly. In my soul, a hidden joy awakens, and a kind of spitefulness—I myself do not know why. Because the silence is unpleasant, I begin whistling at the top of my voice; I care nothing for the border guards, supposedly somewhere down there beyond Sovina Glava. The chimney climb is easy, as if made for our ladies. Soon, you are on the ridge and walking up a gentle stony slope straight upward over giant shoulders. The sun is already shining beyond Prisojnik’s Window, which opens unfriendly above the narrow gorge sinking into dusk; beyond Sovina Glava, pressed shamefacedly against the steep slope, lies the poor Dom na Vršiču. The narrow Soča Valley is already black; only here and there a white ribbon of the wide road glimmers on the steep hillside, winding from the valley high up to Vršič itself, to the stone barrier by Sovina Glava.

The path runs for a long—too long—time along the very edge of an abyss, until one grows tired of it; at last it turns aside toward Travnik, gleaming there beside Jalovec. But suddenly it twists straight upward; you begin to climb low steps toward the summit. The silvery rays of the sun fade within moments; in astonishment, you search the sky for a cloud that might have hidden the sun, but there is none. The clear blue sky arches above you, and only from behind the neighbouring Prisojnik do gauzy mists creep. The sun has slipped behind the ridges; an indistinct gloom rises from the gorge, driving from rock to rock, until it is all around you and high above you. And now the last step: you climb, climb over it—and you are on Mojstrovka’s summit.

And behold, a marvel! As if I had suddenly stepped from a black dungeon into white day! Yet this is not day, not daylight—fire seems to have burst forth from the sky itself, so fierce that rocky peaks and mountains blaze in a cold flame. The fiery light is spread everywhere; it seems to you that you yourself are burning in this fire that has seized the entire vast expanse. Your eyes sting so that you can no longer look. I cover them with my hand and wait, wait. A cold wind suddenly rises from unknown depths, blowing evenly, as if to extinguish the mighty mountain blaze. I open my eyes—the fiery glow has gone out; only a violet sheen still clings to the cold rocks and fades more and more. Far away beyond Korotane, somewhere behind the unseen world, the sun is sinking; it winks once more from behind blood-red mists—and then it is gone. Only the sky remains red, red too the highest snowfields, but the entire world beneath the mountains is already wrapped in the darkness of alpine night. And the mountains themselves vanish into dusk; violet colours flicker in their last shades, fade, and die away. In the distance, a red finger appears once more and beckons into the cosmos—and then darkness and night lie upon all the summits. Not far away, above Mala Pišnica, almost beside the summit of Ponca, a pearl flashes—the evening star…

I wrap myself tightly in my cape and huddle behind a rock where the wind cannot reach. I see nothing anymore except the stars, igniting one after another across the vast sky. Grave-like silence is poured over everything; not even the wind is heard as it presses evenly against the dark peak. Nothing can be distinguished beneath or around you; only restless stars shimmer in the sky, as if you were sitting upon the grave of the universal world that God destroyed for its sins, now guarded by silent stars to keep it from awakening to new life. A strange feeling grips your heart; you would like to pray, but find no words; you would like to sing, but no voice comes from your throat. And so you sit there in silence, thinking God knows what, reaching for your flask as the cold creeps more and more along your spine. You wait and do not know why you wait; it seems to you that you have been sitting there for long hours—or perhaps only three moments… You are not afraid, and terror is not near you.

But already, a milky, transparent light streaks across the sky on the side where the Proklete Police jut into the night. The light grows, spreads, and draws nearer. The peaks of neighbouring mountains step out of the darkness, shining silver, asleep beneath heavenly stars. The ridges of the Proklete Police glow in the quiet light, as if gold coins were clashing around their jagged summits. And suddenly they appear upon a golden plate: from behind the mountain the red moon rises, its rays leap like a thought into the black night, and soon the entire broad Mojstrovka is full of them, trembling strangely for an instant, then calm again. In the white light, the night now shines, so quiet that you can clearly hear the beating of your own heart. You can distinguish the path at least ten steps below you and need not fear treacherous walls or deceptive abysses.

I descend from step to step and soon reach the ridge above a deep chasm, at whose bottom Vršič dreams in white rays, and the lonely Erjavčeva Hut. Carefully, foot shields foot; I slide above the abyss for three, four minutes—perhaps more; the rock creaks beneath iron-shod boots, but then the abyss is gone. I have slid down to the chimney, yawning black beneath me where the moon cannot reach. But what of it! My legs know every little ledge, my hands every crack, and my back is accustomed to the caress of merciful rocks. Downward in a rush, the staff slips from my hand, scrapes loudly along the cliffs, and comes to rest beneath the chimney. My body resists; hands and feet calmly feel along both walls. One squints, for it makes no difference whether the eyes are open or closed; one whistles softly and does not even count the invisible steps. The foot feels—ah!—and already touches soft sand beneath. Good cheer seizes you; you wave your hat and shout, the echo strangely reverberating from all sides. I picked up the staff, leaned on it, and rushed down the slope through springy sand. And now I am safely below on the path, walking toward the lit Erjavčeva Hut.

You lie quietly in the loft, wrapping yourself in a warm blanket, thinking—and thinking nothing. Down in the room, over wine, a lively company still lingers; now and then a woman’s laugh rings out… Your eyes droop, yet your heart still keeps watch; your eyes have already closed, your thoughts long since entered the kingdom of dreams, but your heart still listens and does not rest all night.

In the morning, you bask alone on the veranda in the early sun. The nocturnal company has gone. From high down on Prisojnik’s wall, you hear a playful shout; a mischievous woman’s laugh, barely audible—then all is quiet again…