RAGATZ.

Over the Albula Pass we came from St. Moritz to Chur, and when we went,

it was by the Julia. How grand we feel going over these great

mountain-passes, where Roman and German emperors, with all their vast

armies, their high hopes and ambitions, have trod, it is quite

impossible to express. The emperors are dead and gone, and we, an

insignificant but merry little party, ride demurely over the selfsame

route. Blessed thought that the mountains are meant for us as much as

they were for the emperors; that the beauty and grandeur and loveliness

of nature, everywhere, is our own to enjoy; that it has been waiting

through the ages, even for us, to this day! It is our own. No king or

conqueror has a larger claim.

This was one of the tranquil, joyous days that have so much in them,--a

day of clear thoughts, unwearying feet, unspeakable appreciation of

nature, and good-will towards humanity. There was a long, bright flood

of sunshine, with beautiful flakes of clouds floating before a fresh

mountain wind. The great mountains looked solemnly at us, and the happy

laugh of a little child-friend echoed through the sombre ravines.

We passed queer old villages; small dun cattle with antelope eyes and

fragrant breath; wise-looking goats; pastures that stretched out their

vivid green carpets on the mountain-side; and, above all, the great

snow-slopes.

We got some supper in a very grave little village. The woman who waited

upon us looked as if she had never smiled. This made us want somebody to

be funny. The other travellers were matter-of-fact Englishmen, some

heavy Jews, and particularly _eagle_-looking Americans. The little woman

gave us good coffee, sweet black-bread and sweeter butter, and eggs so

rich and fresh we felt that they would instantly transform our famishing

selves into Samsons. These eggs had chocolate-colored shells. The

Englishmen, the Eagles, and the Jews ate solemnly, as if they had eaten

brown eggs from their cradles. But we, with that curiosity which,

whatever it may be to others, is in our opinion our most invaluable

travelling companion,--of more profit and importance than all the

guide-books and maps, often more really helpful than friends who have

made what they call "the tour of Europe" three times,--inquired:--

"_Why_, do Swiss hens lay brown eggs?"

To this innocent inquiry the little woman with sombre mien replied that

she had boiled the eggs in our coffee. "Water was scarce, and she always

did it."

Not discouraged, we remarked we would like to buy the hen that could lay

such rich, delicate eggs, and take her away in our travelling-bag. The

fire and the coffee-pot we might be able to establish elsewhere, but

that hen was a _rara avis_. This small pleasantry caused a little cold

ghost of a smile to flit over her lips, but it was gone in an instant,

and she was counting francs in her coffee-colored palm.

A night in Chur, then the next morning a short ride by rail, and we are

in Ragatz. Do you know what Ragatz is? It is, in the first place, to us

at least, a surprise; its name is so harsh and ugly, and the place is so

soft, pretty, and alluring. And coming from that wonderful, electrifying

St. Moritz air directly here, is like dropping from the North Pole to

the heart of the tropics. It is said the change should not be made too

suddenly, that one should stay a day or two on the route, which seems

reasonable. Happily our strength is not impaired by the new atmosphere,

but we feel very much amazed. We cannot at once recover ourselves.

There, it was, as somebody says, "always early morning." Here, it is

"always afternoon." There, we had broad outlooks, stern, rough lines,

and vast snow-fields. Here, we are in a lovely garden, luxuriant with

flowers. Grapes hang, rich and heavy, on the trellises. Shade-trees

droop over enticing walks and rustic seats. Oleanders and

pomegranate-trees, with their flame-colored tropical blossoms, stand in

long rows by the lawns. Children paddle about in tiny boats on little

lakes. Rustic bridges cross the stream here and there. A young English

girl, with golden hair so long and luxuriant that it rather unpleasantly

suggests Magdalen as it falls in great waves to the ground, sits

sketching, and wears a thin blue jaconet gown,--wonderful sight is that

blue jaconet! Only yesterday we left the region of sealskin sacques,

breakfast-shawls, and shivers.

The hotel is most charmingly situated. Did I ever recommend a hotel in

my life? It is a rash thing to do, but I feel impelled to advise people

to come here to the Quellenhof. _We_ live, not in the hotel proper, but

in one of the "dependencies," the Hermitage, a kind of chalet. It is

delightful to live in a Hermitage, let me tell you. Fuchsias and asters

and scarlet geraniums make a glory about our door. Our windows and

balconies look on the lake just below. Great trees bend over us, and

green mountain slopes come down to meet us on the other side. Our

Hermitage is a quiet, restful nest. The people occupying the different

rooms go softly in and out. We never meet them. Marie, with her white

cap and white apron, opens the door for us as we stand under the

fuchsia-covered porch. We hear no hurrying steps, no waiters and bells,

or any hotel noises. Every moment we like our Hermitage better, and we

really think we own it. It is all very sweet and soft and lotus-eating

here, with balmy odors, and drowsy hum of bees, and mellow, golden

lights on the mountains. We feel as if a magician had touched us with

his wand, and whirled us off into another planet. No one can say that we

as a party have not a goodly share of the wisdom that takes things as

they come,--but Ragatz after St. Moritz!

That which drew us here is what draws everybody to Ragatz,--that is,

everybody who is not sent by a physician to drink the water and take the

baths,--the celebrated Pfaffer's Gorge. It is well worth a long journey

and much fatigue and trouble. From Ragatz you walk through the little

village, then along a narrow road between immense limestone cliffs,

where the Tamina, that most audacious of mountain streams, hurls itself

angrily by you. The cliffs are in some places eight hundred feet high,

and the Gorge is often extremely narrow. You pass beneath the vast

overhanging rocks, the two sides leaning so far towards each other that

they almost meet in a natural bridge. It is cold, damp, and in gloom

where you are. You look up and see the trees and sunlight far, far above

you,--the rocks, at times, shut out the sky,--and the Tamina acts like a

mad thing that has broken loose, as it sweeps through the sombre Gorge.

After the walk,--I had no ideas of time or distance in regard to it;

everything else was so impressive these trifles were banished from my

mind,--we reached the hot springs, did what other people did, and were

greatly astonished.

A man had insisted upon putting shawls upon all the ladies of the party.

Another man now insists upon removing them. There is a cavern before you

which looks very black and Mephistophelian. Everybody slowly walks

in,--you too. It is dark where your feet tread. There are one or two men

with uncertain, wavering lights that seem designed to deceive the very

elect. You begin to dread snares and pitfalls. The atmosphere grows

hotter, more oppressive, and more suggestive every instant. You are

certain that you smell brimstone, and expect to see cloven hoofs. You go

but two or three steps, and remain but a few seconds, the temperature of

the cavern is so high, but you feel as if you were in the bowels of the

earth. A man with a light passes you a glass, and you fancy you are

going to drink molten lead or lava, or something appropriate to the

scene, and are rather disappointed to find it tastes uncommonly like hot

water, pure and simple.

Then you turn and go into the light of day, and everybody has a boiled

look, every face is covered with moisture; and the outer air sends such

a chill to your very soul, you bless the man whom a few moments before

you had scorned when he hung the ugly brown shawl on your shoulders. You

seize it with thankfulness, and back again you go between the massive

rocky walls with the Tamina shouting boisterously in your ears.

There is a bath-house near the Gorge for people who wish to take the

waters near their source. The sunlight touches it in the height of

summer only between ten and four. People go there and stay, why, I

cannot imagine, unless they have lost, or wish to lose, their senses.

The guide-books speak respectfully of its accommodations, but it is the

dreariest house I ever saw, with a monastic, or rather, prison look,

that is appalling; and the girl who brings you bread-and-butter and wine

looks at you with a reproving gloom in her eyes, as if all days _must_

be "dark and dreary." We felt quite frivolous and out of place, lost our

appetite, grew somewhat frightened, and ran away as soon as possible.

The baths at the Quellenhof are pleasant, and the water, though conveyed

through a conduit two miles and a half long, loses very little of its

heat. It is perfectly clear, free from taste or smell, and resembles,

they say, the waters of Wildbad and Gastein. An eminent German physician

told us something the other day in regard to the efficacy of these

crowded baths here, there, and elsewhere in this part of the

world,--something that was both funny and unpleasant to believe.

Although it is not my theory but his plainly expressed opinion, I shall

only venture to whisper it for fear of offending somebody. He says it is

not by the peculiar efficacy of any particular kind of water that the

bathers in general are benefited, but by the simple virtue of pure water

freely used; that many people at home do not bathe habitually; and when

a daily bath for five or six weeks, in a place where they live simply

and breathe pure air, has invigorated them, they gratefully ascribe

their improvement to sulphur or iron or carbonic acid or some other

agent, which is really quite innocent of special interposition in their

case.

Beside the baths and the Gorge and its ways of pleasantness in general,

Ragatz has many pretty walks along the hills between houses and gardens,

and up steep, zigzag forest-paths to the ruins of Freudenberg and

Wartenstein. A broad, sunny landscape lies before you,--the valley of

the Rhine, Falknis in the background, green pastures and still waters.

Blessed are the eyes that see what we see.