LUCERNE
Here are the Alps towering in all their glory, their immense contours
sharp and clear. A few minutes more and our train stops at Lucerne. We
were warned that the principal hotels at Lucerne were always full during
the season, and that we had better order rooms beforehand by telegram,
so we wired for an apartment at the “Hôtel Schweizerhof,” but it led to
nothing, and when the omnibus pulled up at this hotel we learned, to our
disgust, it was quite full. A superior-looking gentleman at the desk
announced that he had no single room disengaged at present. We were told
to come next morning and there might then be an apartment free in the
meanwhile. Thanks to our telegram a room had been provided for us in a
private house just opposite. We followed a waiter who showed us the way
there, and mounted to our room in anything but a sweet temper. It proved
to be small but bright and perfectly neat and had nice beds disappearing
completely under huge eider-downs, with linen smelling of lavender.
The furniture was simple, the walls hung all over with framed portrait
groups of antiquated photography; amateur pictures of our landlady’s
parents stared down at us over the mantlepiece; on one side of them hung
a flaming heart made of red paper and on the other a small crooked mirror
in which we could see only half of our faces reflected in it; I have seen
nature insulted but never to such an extent. On the mantlepiece enclosed
in a glass case stood a clock which didn’t mark the hour. Our landlady, a
stout, comely-looking woman, proposed coffee and was altogether nice to
us.
The next day we went for the promised room at the “Schweizerhof,” but the
manager, with his hands in both his pockets, announced curtly that there
was no room free until evening. There remained nothing else to do but
to walk away in quest of another apartment. After a pretty hot chase we
succeeded in finding a comfortable room at the “Hôtel National,” on the
second floor, with a good view on the lake, looking big as a sea, and the
majestic Mount Pilatus, from where Pontius Pilatus is said to have thrown
himself into the lake after the crucifixion. The legend goes that he fled
from Jerusalem and wandered about the earth with a troubled conscience,
and put an end to his misery on the heights of Mount Pilatus by drowning
himself. From our windows we could also see the port where the steamers,
black with people, were coming and going all the time, carrying away
crowds of passengers in different directions of the beautiful lake.
We are going to be here a week and make trips round about. I am prepared
to be delighted with everybody and everything.
Next morning we took our luncheon on our little railed balcony in cool
comfort. The weather was clear and we had a very good view of the distant
ranges of mountains and the snow-hooded Alpine peaks.
There are charming drives round about. After breakfast we took a carriage
and drove out of town along a well kept road. We were out in the lovely
undulating countryland amid vineyards and orchards. I feasted my eyes on
the beautiful country-scene, and inhaled with delight the sweet smell of
the perfumed meadows and fields, where the grain was tall and golden.
We saw a tourist camping in the fields under an improvised tent made by
means of his cloak suspended on his stick, making water-colour sketches
of the lovely landscape. Our driver wanting to give a rest to his horse,
stopped before the “Jardin des Glaciers,” where an old guardian was
explaining the museum belonging to this garden, to a little group of
anxious sight-seers, in monotonous tones. An immense plan worked in
relief of all the Swiss cantons especially attracted our attention. Close
by the “Jardin des Glaciers,” the “Lion de Lucerne,” is carved out of the
rock of the cliff. His size is colossal; the great beast’s protecting
paw rests upon the “Lilies of France.” This gigantic thing serves as a
monument to the memory of the Monarchists killed in France during the
horrors of the Terror. (A singular mausoleum for a Republican country!)
On our way back to the hotel, we crossed a long covered wooden bridge
which contains about three hundred pictures by old Swiss masters. We got
back to the hotel just in time for lunch. I generally avoid being on show
at tables-d’hôtes and was very displeased with Sergy for insisting on
my going down. My eyes wandered rapidly about the table and it did not
improve my appetite, for everybody was so unattractive! Just opposite
me sat a fat bejewelled matron, who had made her appearance on this
planet some seventy years ago at least, and who at a prehistorical period
could have been rather nice; but she did look such a guy now, dressed
ridiculously for her age and outrageously painted, with black circles
about her eyes which made them look like goggles, and a permanent blush
palpably not due to nature. Her old face and youthful clothes presented
an alarming contrast, but she considered herself still irresistible
and affected little moues and attitudes that sat incongruously upon her
elderly looks. She rolled her eyes like a love-smitten cat, showing off
her rings and bracelets, and coquetted with her neighbours showing her
false teeth in a hideous grimace. This old crony was a laughing-stock to
everybody; she saw these mocking glances, but being completely satisfied
with herself, she evidently attributed them to envy. She stared about
her with a long-handled lorgnette and turned it rudely on me, eyeing
me disagreeably. I returned her stare with a look of defiance. Already
put into a nervous state by the cross-fire of masculine and feminine
glances, I could not eat my lunch, and as soon as the horrid table-d’hôte
was at an end, I hurried up into my room and indulged in a good cry. By
dinner-time I was still in the same mood and would not go down, declaring
that I had no appetite. I was much too disfigured by weeping to dine even
at a separate table.
Next morning when Sergy went to take his bath in the Réus river, his
bather, an old retired Swiss soldier, asked him if it was true that our
Russian soldiers served under arms the whole year. In Switzerland, as
it appears, the soldiers are only assembled during eight weeks; every
two years they assemble again for the grand manœuvres, and this is all
the service the Swiss warriors go through. It is true that they have
not at all a martial air, arrayed in long coats that touch the ground
and tangle about their legs. After lunch we went for a sail on the
“Lac des Quatre Cantons,” and had a delightful trip to Fluelen; with a
gentle breeze we steamed off on the smooth waters. All the passengers,
English for the most part, wearing leather gaiters and green Tyrolese
felt hats with a feather in them, were laden with Alpenstocks with a
bunch of Edelweiss on the top, and with cameras and knapsacks strapped
upon their backs. We had dinner on board, whilst a troop of Tyrolese
singers danced on the deck. On the blue and limpid lake fishermen were
spreading their nets and preparing their tackle for the day’s labour.
Here is a steamer coming towards us; the waiters on it are waving their
napkins, instead of handkerchiefs, saluting their comrades on our boat.
We are passing now the tiny chalet of “Wilhelm Tell,” situated on the
shore of the lake. A little further on we saw a large monument erected
on the rock to the memory of Schiller. We glided for some time side by
side with a railway train which made off in the direction of St. Gothard,
appearing and disappearing in numerous tunnels. Roaring water-falls and
picturesque cascades leap from the heights of high and steep hills. We
are now approaching the village of Fluelen, the nearest spot to the snow
mountains, whose white peaks were dazzling on the blue sky.
On approaching the small town of Viznau, from where one mounts by a
funicular line on the summit of the Rigi-Kulm, a vast hill mounting
to the sky, we saw an engine inclined almost perpendicularly, pushing
one car up the steep mountain. From the peak, tumultuous torrents
formed by the melting of the snow fell down. The road up the Rigi is an
extraordinary piece of engineering, and how the funicular manages to
climb it, is a matter of surprise. The weather was so clear that we could
actually see the people walking about on the top of the mountain, and it
gave us the desire to follow their example the next day.
We were back at Lucerne towards evening, and after taking tea, we sat for
a short time in wicker-chairs under the chestnuts on the quay and went
to end our evening to the theatre to see a new play. I felt thoroughly
fatigued and dozed off during the performance. The play appeared awfully
dull and I thought the acting was atrocious, so did everyone, for the
curtain dropped and nobody applauded.
The next morning we started from Lucerne to make the ascent of the
Rigi-Kulm. We went down the lake on a steamboat and got ashore at Viznau.
I was eyeing the ascent above me with great awe. It was not an easy
affair. We had to climb a road leading skyward, like an interminable
staircase, by the funicular railway. It was incredible that the
locomotive, standing on his hind legs so to speak, should creep up the
mountain; I thought no one but a goat could surmount it. The funicular
contains two cars, roofed but open from the sides, the seats are tilted
back, which enables the passengers to sit level while going up the steep
incline. Whether going up or down, the engine is always at the lower end
of the train. The passengers sit backwards going up, and face forward
going down. Our engine began to climb laboriously the steep mountain
which is 6,000 feet high, grappling slowly step by step to the toothed
rails, having on each side gigantic precipices clothed with pines. Loud
cataracts roared below unseen. The road lay between high granite walls.
Through a gap in the rocks unfathomable depths disclosed themselves
below us, chilling my blood and making me dizzy. I gripped Sergy’s arm
pinching him very hard, but Sergy, whose nerves were stronger than mine
and who didn’t see any danger at all, said laughingly to me that it was
quite unnecessary to give him the blues, but I only grabbed his arm the
tighter. The view grew fairer and fairer as we mounted. From here one
could see the four lakes in the shape of a cross, on which the water
appeared a smooth sapphire floor sparkling with sails no bigger than
pin-heads, and the far stretching large and fertile valley. Now we began
to climb up a narrow bridge thrown over a precipice at the bottom of
which a rapid torrent rolled. I will not pretend I was not frightened,
I was very. Footpaths are traced for pedestrians here and there. We
saw a tourist resting against a huge stone in the crevice of a rock.
We crawled higher and higher till we met the clouds that rested on the
mountain sides. We are in the clouds now. The sun is shining above us and
underneath the whole space is covered with thick clouds forming a milky
ocean, and screening our way completely.
When the clouds dispersed, we discovered wonders in the immense Alpine
landscape, and made out in the distance a group of cows with huge bells
on their necks, lying phlegmatically amongst the clouds. All at once
there was a full stop, it happened to be a drowsy black cow, immovable
and contemplative, lying placidly on the rails, which we had nearly
run over. The air grew quite chilly; though warmly wrapped up I was
shivering with cold and Sergy drew his cloak close round me. Our fellow
travellers had their collars turned up to their ears, I could only see
the tops of their glowing noses; my neighbour, a thin, poorly looking
individual wearing a chauffeur’s cap, had tied his handkerchief over it.
The wind was very strong and I was nearly thrown off my seat and clung
terror-struck to the sides of the car, wishing that I had never consented
to this aerial drive. We had left below us every vestige of vegetation.
A flight of rooks are screaming overhead. At every stoppage our ears
begin to tingle. At last we have reached the final bit of ascent to the
summit of the “Rigi,” and have to quit our car. We can hardly see two
steps before us. Suddenly out of the fog came the sound of a bell: it was
a sign given from the “Rigi Hotel” in order to aid us to find our way to
it in the thick mist which enclosed us. We walked slowly one behind the
other, following the direction the sound came from, and shivering with
cold.
On reaching the Hotel, perched on the top of the mountain, we entered a
large dining-room filled with a cosmopolitan crowd of tourists, sitting
at a long table-d’hôte, who have assembled here to survey the sunset
from the mountain top. It was delightful to get into the hall with
the thick fragrant warmth of a fire of monster logs burning in a huge
chimney-piece, reaching half way to the ceiling, which could easily
contain a whole tree. We sat down at table and were soon thoroughly
warmed by the steaming soup. There was a loud animated talk, in a curious
mixture of languages; you might hear every tongue of Europe: there were
Americans, Germans, Englishmen and a large number of countrymen of
ours. Directly after dinner, the whole company climbed up the last bit
of rough land which led to the top of the summit of the “Rigi-Kulm.”
I found it tiresome work ploughing our way slowly towards it, but the
view from there was more than a compensation; we seemed to look into
fairy-land, and though I was by no means a sentimental person, I uttered
a cry of delight in looking forth on the wide expanse of hill, forest and
plain that lay beneath us. Suddenly a cloud rolled by beneath our feet,
completely obliterating the landscape. Sometimes the mists would part
and disclose glorious views, then again they would form an impenetrable
curtain. The keen mountain air was very fresh on the windy summit, and
everyone was shivering and jumping about to keep warm. After having
admired this spectacle, we returned back to the station in order to make
the ascent of another peak of the “Rigi,” the “Schneideck.” We plunged
again into an ocean of clouds, nearly at hand’s reach.
When the clouds cleared away, we mistook forests for patches of green
grass, and mighty trees for thorn shrubs. It was as if we gazed down from
a balloon. An odd sensation, I had never experienced it before! When we
reached the _Kaltbad_ station, a group of yellow-haired children brought
us bunches of Edelweiss, a small white flower which grows on the top of
high mountains. _Kaltbad_ is famous by its splendid and spacious hotel,
full of bustle and movement. The vestibule was filled with English and
American tourists, walking about and talking. They all seemed to know
one another. The hotel has a splendid situation about two thousand feet
above the sea-level, and offers every possible comfort to its guests.
Notwithstanding its great altitude, it has every modern improvement,
even gas-works. We were far above the clouds, whilst we took our coffee
on the verandah. A storm broke out beneath us suddenly, peals of thunder
resounded and the rain began to fall in torrents, whilst above us the sky
was perfectly blue and the sun shone brightly.
On our way back to Lucerne, at the sight of the descent we had to make,
terror seized me. It looked the most break-neck thing in the world, and
it made me quite giddy to look down into the valley which is about nine
hundred feet below. The hill was so steep that you felt as if you were
going to pitch head first down it when you began to descend.
We got back to our hotel just in time for our well-earned dinner. The
next day, having put our heavy luggage in deposit at the warehouse, we
proceeded on our journey, and went to rove about Switzerland. In the
first place we are going to Interlaken. We have reached Alpnacht by
steamboat, and had great difficulties in getting seats in the brakes that
run to Interlaken, the passengers had to take them by assault. We waited
for our turn with a surprisingly long delay; the huge conveyances, with
six powerful horses put to them, were filling fast, and there were still
no places assigned to us. At last we were provided with a supplement in
the shape of a landau. There was room for four in our carriage, two
seats were already occupied by a very cross German lady and her daughter,
who looked at us as if they wished to order our instant execution. They
were most peevish companions and grumbled all the way that _der Papa_
had been placed into another supplementary conveyance. We made sustained
efforts at conversation, but only received rebuffs. Really, I quite
expected them to bite us.
We proceeded at a brisk pace, changing horses only once. At twelve
o’clock we stopped half-way in a little hamlet where luncheon had been
prepared for us in an inn named _Au Lion d’Or_, whilst our horses were
being changed. The table-d’hôte was served by pretty apple-cheeked
waitresses dressed in the quaint costume of the Swiss peasant. They
wore red skirts and black velvet bodices edged with little buttons
of sparkling steel, with a flowered silk kerchief crossed over their
breasts, and a golden cross on their necks.
It was time for us to move on. When we returned to our carriage we found
it had another occupant, the cross lady’s husband, _der Papa_, a little
man with a big red moustache, who declared in a very rough tone that the
seat belonged to him. It appears that it really was his place, and that
his wife had exchanged seats of her own free will with two other German
travellers. One of them immediately on starting, leisurely took off his
coat, putting himself at his ease, and sat all the rest of the journey in
his shirt-sleeves. The carriage went slowly winding up a long ascent. The
road crept on between mountain slopes; close at hand the great form of
the Jungfrau rose white to the sky. The ascent was difficult enough and
when a specially steep bit was coming, the coachmen descended from their
boxes to ease the horses up the rough track, walking by them and pulling
vigorously at their long clay pipes.