GENEVA
We put up at the “Hôtel des Bergues.” From the great bay windows of our
sitting-room we could see far out over Lake Leman and the distant chain
of mountains cut sharply against the deep blue sky. After having taken
off the dust of the road, we went for a drive through the town, though I
was awfully tired and felt the jolting of the omnibus still. Our driver
having guessed our nationality, drove us straight to the Russian church.
A party of English tourists were doing it with red Baedeckers in their
hands. A guide, who was giving explanations to them, found it necessary
to explain to us, pointing out the image of Alexander Nevski, one of
our most venerated saints, that he had been “Un grand personnage de la
Russie” (a notable Russian personage).
In passing the Public Gardens, we saw a coloured placard glued to
the wall, announcing that a tribe of “Samoyedes,” brought out from
Russia, from the government of Archangel, were exhibited in the
gardens-enclosure. As it was a little corner of our Fatherland we went in
and were greatly disgusted to see these Samoyedes devouring huge chops
of raw meat, dipped in warm blood. Ugh!... the horror!... The Esquimos,
after having ended their nasty meal, rode all around the gardens in small
cars, driven by reindeers. There are only four of these animals left now,
the rest have been devoured by the savages!
It is time for us to leave the land of William Tell, and to push on to
the Italian lakes and to Milan. I am glad to leave this country, for the
rarified mountain air does not suit me at all.
From Lucerne to Goeshenen the road is very wild and hilly. Our train
plunged in and out through numerous tunnels and rushed round curves in
deep cuttings. After having crossed a bridge thrown over a bottomless
abyss, we arrived at Goeshenen, where we stopped to pass the night in a
homely little inn, pompously called Hotel, with green shutters to the
windows and a bit of flower garden in front. The inn looked very cosy
and inviting. After having lunched upon a cup of tea, we took a carriage
with a pair of horses, with brass harness and bells, to make the ascent
of the famous St. Gothard road. The driver cracked his whip and off
we went. The road mounted up and up, all over rocks and precipices and
the wheels were perilously near the edge all the time. We wound through
a narrow gorge, the river Reuss roared in the depths. Long lines of
mountains were sharply defined against the profound blue sky, their
summits veiled in clouds. Snow lay in dark hollows which the sun could
never reach, and water-falls poured down the hills. The higher the
carriage rose, the more thrilling was the savage landscape. We approached
now the famous _Pont du Diable_ (Devil’s Bridge) and saw on the polished
surface of a rock an enormous coloured reproduction of Beelzebub, with a
long tail and a red tongue hanging out of his huge mouth, holding in one
hand a trident and a flaming torch in the other. Nothing remains now of
the ancient “Devil’s Bridge,” which our field-marshal Prince Souvoroff
had crossed with his army, going to fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.
We passed over a modern bridge leading to the other side of the gorge.
The spray from the Reuss; which here drops a full hundred feet into the
abyss, lashed our faces as whips. The foam of the river was splashing
over it. We dashed now through a vaulted gallery where we found ourselves
out of the reach of falling stones. It was very damp inside, the ceiling
and walls are always dripping; stalactites dangled heavy diamond fringes
low over the roof. We drove against the wind and great clouds of dust
swept across the road. We ran now into a zone of ice-cold air, there
is no vegetation at all in these high altitudes, only the sides of the
mountains are covered with thickets and bushes, where flocks of sheep and
goats were grazing, under the guardianship of wild-looking shepherd boys.
The great silence is only interrupted by a far-off ringing of bells from
an Alpine village belfry, far below us. As we got higher up, the road
was deep in snow, which continued to fall heavily. We ascended further
and further and finally emerged upon a plain with a mountain lake formed
by the melting of the snows, and came to the top of the ascent, having
reached the height of over 23,000 feet. Suddenly after a steep ascent,
we saw before us a tall lonely mass of grey stones, built upon a rock.
It was the “Hospice” a sort of hotel, which used to be a monastery. Two
big dogs of the St. Bernard breed welcomed us with joyous barkings. We
ordered a dish of macaroni and a flask of _chianti_, and started back to
Goeshenen. The atmosphere was chilly and the harsh, bleak wind made me
shiver. Our driver taking pity on me, put his rug around my shoulders,
but, alas, it appeared that it had many holes.
Our train left early in the morning, and we had to be up before six. We
hastened to the railway station and took seats in the last car, in order
to see the entrance of the great St. Gothard tunnel. The guide cried out
“_Partenza!_” the train moved, and we went with a rush into the black
unknown for more than twenty minutes. A wavering light glowed here and
there at long intervals. When the train flashed out of the tunnel, we
entered the Canton of Tessino. Our train slid down zigzags through narrow
passes, from valley to valley. After Chiosso—the Italian frontier—the
railway line ran through comparatively flat country. At about nine in the
evening we arrived at Milan.