"Will you walk into my parlor?" said every innkeeper from Chur to St.
Moritz, and our minds were half absorbed in contemplation of the scenery
and half in resisting the allurements of these Swiss spiders, all of
whom declared with many grimaces and shrugs that we could not accomplish
the distance between the two places in one day.
"Does not the regular post go through in one day?" we inquire. "Then why
not we by extra post?"
"You are too late, madame."
"We are not so heavy as the _diligence_. We can go faster."
"Impossible, madame."
"_Why_ impossible?"
"Not precisely impossible; but it would be better, ah, yes, madame, far
better, to remain here,"--with the sweetest of smiles,--"and go on to
St. Moritz to-morrow."
They knew this was nonsense. We knew it was nonsense. They knew that we
knew that it was nonsense. We had borne all that it was fitting we
should bear.
"But _why_?" we sternly demand.
"You will be more comfortable, madame."
"We do not wish to be comfortable."
"You will arrive at midnight."
"We like to arrive at midnight."
What then could the spiders do with flies who retorted in this
unheard-of-way, who resisted advice, would telegraph for horses, cheer
the postilions with absurdly frequent _Trink Geld_, and push steadily on
to St. Moritz high in the upper Engadine?
The truly remarkable feature of the expedition was, that when we left
Chur in the morning it was only with a lazy consciousness that up among
the mountains somewhere was a St. Moritz, which we at some indefinite
time would reach.
Innkeeper No. 1 made us think we would like to go through in one day.
Innkeeper No. 2 strengthened the wish.
No. 3, by his efforts at discouragement, gave us, in place of the wish,
a determination to go on.
No. 4 created in us a frantic resolve to reach St. Moritz that night, or
perish in the attempt.
No banner with a strange device did we bear, yet as the shades of night
were falling fast, and we stopped to change horses at a little inn in an
Alpine village, and queer-looking men with lanterns walked about the
wild place speaking in an unknown tongue (it was Romanisch, but then we
did not know), and the road was steep before us, we gloried in
resembling the immortal "youth" of the poem. We always have admired him
from the time we learned him by heart, and repeated him in our first
infant sing-song; but never before did we have the remotest idea _why_
his brow was sad, why his eye flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
why he persisted in his eccentric career. Now it is clear as light
before us. He was goaded on, as we were, by the Swiss innkeepers.
"O, stay!" said they.
"Excelsior!" cried we. And on we went, feeling that a mighty fate was
impelling us, alluding grandly to "Sheridan's Ride," "How they brought
the Good News," and all similar subjects that we could remember where
people pushed on with high resolve, and being in the end grateful to the
petty souls who had roused our obstinacy, ignorant that even the Alps
are no obstacle to woman's will; for the latter part of the journey was
by perfect moonlight, and therefore do we bless the innkeepers. Our
obstinacy, do I say? Let the sneering world use that unpleasant term. We
will say heroism, for who shall always tell where the line between the
two is to be drawn?
Never shall we forget that wonderful white night, the gleams and glooms
on the mountains, the silver radiance of the lakes, the vast glaciers
outstretched before us, the mighty peaks towering to the skies, the
impressive stillness broken only by the bells on our horses' necks, the
sound of their hoofs on the hard road, the rumbling of our carriage, and
the cracking of the whip. We, with our miserable jarring noises, were
the only discordant element, and we well knew we ought to be suppressed.
It seemed profane to intrude upon such grandeur, such majestic
stillness.
In the full sunlight since, all is quite different; yet we close our
eyes, and that glorious white, still night comes vividly before us, and
always there will be to us a glamour about the Engadine on account of
it.
The village of St. Moritz lies picturesquely on the hillside above a
pretty lake of the same name. The St. Moritz baths are a mile farther
on, where numerous hotels and _pensions_ stand on a grassy plateau
between high mountains, whose sharp contour is wonderfully defined in
this clear atmosphere against the peculiar deep-blue of the sky.
In a very interesting article about the Upper Engadine in the
Fortnightly Review for March, the writer speaks with undisguised
contempt of "the Germanized Kurhaus," "the damp Kurhaus," "the huge and
hideous Kurhaus," even telling people to beware of it. Now, if it were
not a shockingly audacious thing to dare to have any opinion at all in
the presence of the Fortnightly Review, I would venture most humbly to
state that I am at present staying at that object of British scorn, the
Kurhaus, and like it.
It is ugly. It is immensely long and awkward. If your room is in one end
and you have a friend in the other, you feel, walking through the
interminable corridors, that the introduction of horse-cars and
carriages would promote economy of time and strength. The Kurhaus
certainly has its unamiable qualities. It is tyrannical. It puts out its
lights at ten o'clock "sharp," leaving you in Egyptian darkness and not
saying so much as "by your leave." [I have observed that men, whom I
have believed to be faultlessly amiable, under these circumstances lose
their composure and utter improper ejaculations, as they find
themselves, in the midst of an interesting game of whist, unable to see
the color of a card.] But after all, unless you are in the village
proper, where we--again differing from the awful Fortnightly--would not
prefer to be, it seems to be the best abiding-place, because everything
centres in it. The people from the other hotels must all come here to
drink the mineral waters and take the baths, to dance twice a week if
they wish, to hear the music three times a day, to attend various
entertainments given by marvellous prestidigitateurs from Paris and
singers from Vienna; and though these things are very ignoble to talk
about when one is among the grand mountains, yet there come nights and
days when it rains in torrents, and when the most enthusiastic
mountain-climber must condescend to be amused or bored under a
sheltering roof. Then, the Kurhaus, being the largest hotel, the place
where things of interest most do congregate, seems to us the most
desirable abode. The Victoria, which the English frequent, has fresher
paint and newer carpets and finer rooms. But we are true to the Kurhaus,
notwithstanding. We are grateful to it for a few charming weeks, and in
some way we don't like to see Albion's proud foot crushing it.
It is "Germanized." That is enough, to be sure, in the opinion of many
English and Americans, to condemn it; they often like a hotel
exclusively for themselves, and dislike the foreign element even in a
foreign land. But to many of us it is infinitely more amusing to live in
exactly such a place, where we meet Italians and Spaniards, French,
Germans, Swiss, Dutch, Russians, people from South America and islands
in the far seas,--in fact, from every land and nation,--than to
establish a little English or American corner somewhere, wrap ourselves
in our national prejudices, and neither for love nor money abandon one
or the other.
To the Paracelsus Spring at the Kurhaus come all the people every
morning to drink the mineral water, and walk up and down while the band
plays in the pavilion, but very few have an invalid air. Some drink
because the water is prescribed by their physicians; some, because it is
the fashion; some, because it is not unpleasant, and drinking gives them
an opportunity to inspect the other drinkers. The mighty names written
over the glasses fill us with amazement. You may be plain Miss Smith
from Jonesville, U. S. A., and beside your humble name is written that
of the Countess Alfieri di Sostegno, and the name of a marquis, and even
that of a princess; but when they all come to the spring and glance at
you over their glasses, just as you glance at them over yours, and you
see them face to face, you don't much care if you are only Miss Smith.
It is astonishing what an ordinary appearance people often have whose
great-great-grandfathers were doges of Venice.
It seems positive stupidity here not to speak at least five languages
fluently. To hear small children talking with ease in a variety of
tongues is something that, after the first astonishment, can be borne;
but it never ceases to be exasperating and humiliating when common
servants pass without the least difficulty from one language to another
and another. Yet we Americans should perhaps have patience with
ourselves in this respect, and remember that the ability to speak half a
dozen languages well, which at first seems like pure genius, is often
more a matter of opportunity or necessity than actual talent, though it
certainly is a great convenience, and gives its possessor a superior
air. "It's nonsense to learn languages, or to try to speak anything but
good, honest English," says a young gentleman here,--an American
recently graduated from one of the colleges. "You can make your way
round with it, and everything that's worth two straws is translated." So
he brandishes his mother-tongue proudly in people's faces, and is always
immensely disgusted and incensed at their stupidity when he is not
understood.
An Englishwoman the other day bought a picture of Alpine flowers, and
tried to make a man understand that she also wished a stick upon which
the cardboard could be rolled and safely carried in her trunk. He knew
no English; she, no German. First she spoke very loud, with emphatic
distinctness, as if he were deaf. Whereupon he made a remark in German,
which, though an excellent remark, in itself a highly reasonable
statement, had not the least relation to her request. She then spoke
slowly, gently, in an endearing manner, as if coaxing a child, or
endeavoring to influence a person whose understanding was feeble and who
must not be frightened. He responded in German,--again sensible, but
widely inappropriate. So they went on, each continuing his own line of
thought, as much at cross-purposes as if they were insane, until a
bystander, taking pity on them, came to the rescue. The lady was,
however, not indignant that her "good, honest English" was not
understood; she was simply despairing. It is singular that it never
occurs to some minds that other languages, and even the people who speak
them, may also be good and honest.
Here in the Engadine the dialect is Romanisch, but the people also speak
German, French, Italian, and often tolerable English. The houses are
solidly built, with very thick walls, curious iron knockers, deep-sunken
windows, with massive iron gratings over them. The object of the
gratings is doubtful. Some say they are to guard against robbers; some
say they are an invention of jealous husbands; some, that they are so
constructed in order to allow a maiden and her lover to converse without
danger of an elopement. Arched, wide doors on the ground-floor, directly
in the front of the house, are large enough to admit carts and horses
into the basements, which serve as carriage-houses and stables.
Is it really summer? Is it possible that in our beloved America people
are suffering from heat, that Philadelphia is suffocating? Here ladies
wear furs and velvet mornings and nights, and men wrap themselves in
ulsters and shawls. The air is the most bracing,--the coolest, dryest,
purest imaginable. It is considered admirable for nervous disorders, and
this one can readily believe. But though it is the fashion to order
consumptives here, many eminent physicians say more invalids with lung
complaints are sent to the Engadine than should properly come. It
certainly seems as if this immensely bracing air would speedily kill if
it did not cure. "Nine months winter and three months cold" is the
popular saying here about the climate. Delicate persons are often so
enervated at first by the peculiar atmosphere that they cannot eat or
sleep or rest in any way.--Indeed, with certain constitutions this air
never agrees.--This condition, however, usually passes off in a few
days; they feel able to move mountains, and accomplish wonders in the
way of climbing; while people who are well in ordinary climates come
here and forget that they are mortal. There is something in the air that
gives one giant strength and endurance,--something inexpressibly
delightful, buoyant, and inspiring,--something that clears away all
cobwebs from the brain.