THE SOUTHERN SHORE
By a strange coincidence I found in the room where I slept that night
a tattered copy of “Anne of Geierstein,” and almost the first thing I
turned to the description of an Alpine castle. Now, Sir Walter Scott
had never been in the Alps, but his picture of the ruin of Geierstein
is quite typical and worth rereading:--
“The ancient tower of Geierstein, though neither extensive nor
distinguished by architectural ornament, possessed an air of terrible
dignity by its position on the very verge of the opposite bank of the
torrent, which, just at the angle of the rock on which the ruins are
situated, falls sheer over a cascade of nearly a hundred feet in
height, and then rushes down the defile, through a channel of living
rock, which perhaps its waves have been deepening since time itself
had a commencement. Facing and at the same time looking down upon this
eternal roar of waters, stood the old tower, built so close to the
verge of the precipice that the buttresses with which the architect
had strengthened the foundation seemed a part of the solid rock
itself, and a continuation of its perpendicular ascent. As usual
throughout Europe in the feudal times the principal part of the
building was a massive square pile, the decayed summit of which was
rendered picturesque by flanking turrets of different sizes and
heights, some round, some angular, some ruinous, some tolerably
entire, varying the outline of the building as seen against the stormy
sky.
“A projecting sallyport, descending by a flight of steps from the
tower, had in former times given access to a bridge connecting the
castle with that side of the stream on which Arthur Philipson and his
fair guide now stood. A single arch or rather one rib of an arch,
consisting of single stones, still remained and spanned the river
immediately in front of the waterfall. In former times this arch had
served for the support of a wooden drawbridge, of more convenient
breadth and of such length and weight as must have been rather
unmanageable, had it not been lowered on some solid resting-place. It
is true, the device was attended with this inconvenience that even
when the drawbridge was up, there remained the possibility of
approaching the castle-gate by means of this narrow rib of stone. But
as it was not above eighteen inches broad and could only admit the
daring foe who should traverse it to a doorway regularly defended by
gate and portcullis and having flanking turrets and projections from
which stones, darts, melted lead and scalding water might be poured
down on the soldiery who should venture to approach Geierstein by this
precarious access, the possibility of such an attempt was not
considered as diminishing the security of the garrison.
“The gateway admitted them into a mass of ruins, formerly a sort of
courtyard to the donjon, which rose in gloomy dignity above the wreck
of what had been destined for external defence or buildings for
internal accommodation. They quickly passed through these ruins, over
which vegetation had thrown a wild mantle of ivy and other creeping
shrubs and issued from them through the main gate of the castle into
one of those spots in which nature often embosoms her sweetest charms,
in the midst of districts chiefly characterized by waste and
desolation.
“The castle in this respect also rose considerably above the
neighboring ground, but the elevation of the site, which towards the
torrent was an abrupt rock, was on this side a steep eminence which
had been scarped like a modern glacis to render the building more
secure. It was now covered with young trees and bushes, out of which
the tower itself seemed to rise in ruined dignity.”
Then he goes on to describe the ample grounds which “seemed scooped
out of the rocks and mountains.”
Scott’s imagination was probably aided by various pictures; but it is
remarkably correct. It is amazing to think how many such castles,
almost always situated on inaccessible peaks or islands, must have
been built since the world began, when mighty stones had to be brought
and fitted and lifted and there was no help from steam or electricity.
The colossal fortifications of prehistoric Greece, the edifices of the
stone age, the dizzy escarpments raised by the Incas in their mountain
fastnesses, and all the marvels of barbaric architecture in the depths
of the Caucasus, to say nothing of the hundreds of castles vanished or
still left more or less ruined throughout Europe, are a proof of the
industry and the faithfulness of millions of human beings whose names,
if they had any designation, are gone for ever.
There was not any special reason for spending the night at Evian: we
might almost as well have run straight across to Lausanne and slept in
our own beds; but we were out for a special purpose--to circle the
lake--and it seemed rather good fun to have a glimpse of the French
life which gathers in this typical Savoyard village, turned into a
resort of fashion. We got a berth for our swift _Hirondelle_ near the
Quai Baron Blonay and left Emile to make himself comfortable in it,
and we ourselves, having satisfied the customs authorities that we
were not smugglers even of Vevey cigars, took lodgings at the Hôtel
Royal above the lake. Then we sallied out to see the town, not failing
to ride over to the curious spring of Amphion where we admired the
fine old chestnut-trees. In the evening we attended the Casino Theatre
where a fairly good company was playing “Les Affaires sont les
Affaires.”
The next morning we intended to start early but had to wait until the
fog cleared away. Anything more beautiful than its final disappearance
could hardly be imagined. When I first arose and looked out of my
window, I seemed to be gazing across a tumbling sea which must just
about have reached the old level of the lake when it emptied out into
the Aar and the Rhine, and therefore was a contributary to the German
Ocean and not to the Mediterranean.
Some of the Swiss rivers seem to be like the Swiss themselves and
divide their allegiance. Thus the Venoge, which rises between Rolle
and Mont Tendre, at first determined apparently to give itself up to
the Lake of Neuchâtel; but it pauses at La Sarraz and quarrels with
itself; some of the stream is faithful to its old purpose and joins
the Mozon, which falls into the Lake of Neuchâtel at Yverdon; while
the main river turns to the south and falls into the Lake of Geneva
east of Morges.
It was not long before the glories of the Jura began to appear above
the mist. Stretching along in a wall-like perspective, with their
summits glittering white in the morning sun, it was a sight never to
be forgotten. I dressed and went down to the veranda and there fell
into conversation with a most courteous English lady who knew the lay
of the land. She pointed out to me Le Crêt de la Neige, Mont Tendre,
Dôle and other elevations. I found that we had mutual friends and we
were soon on a footing of very charming acquaintance. This is worth
mentioning because the English perhaps cherish the reputation of
pursuing their selfish way aloof from other human beings unfortunate
enough not to have first seen the light of day on their tight little
Island.
There is a beautiful chance here to introduce the golden thread of
romance and let it begin to weave a glowing design. My niece, whom I
have not mentioned for a long time, when I told her of my chance
rencontre, immediately jumped at the conclusion that the spider had
caught the fly, that my heart was already in a net. She actually began
to lay her plans for inviting Lady Q. to come and make her a visit. I
assured her that there was not the slightest danger. I potentially
prevaricated and boldly declared that Lady Q. was neither a maid nor a
widow.
“And why,” said I, “are you so anxious to marry me off? You must be
getting tired of me.”
That suggestion brought on a pretty little quarrel, especially when I
added that I should be perfectly content to stay right where I was,
even if I never saw my trunk again. At any rate, I got in the last
word, which was a triumph, though at the expense of my reputation for
delicacy of feeling. For my niece pretended to be shocked too much to
let fly a Parthian arrow. I declared--and I am sure I looked as if I
meant it--that Lady Q. was too old for me anyway.
I afterwards showed my niece the copy of “Anne of Geierstein” and she
outdid my memory by calling my attention to Scott’s description of
Mount Pilatus. I had forgotten all about it, but wishing still to be
disagreeable--for I could not possibly forget her unworthy attempt to
marry me forthwith to a lady whom I had never seen but once in my
life--I said: “We will keep it till we get there.”
“You may not get there,” she retorted.
I tore out the pages and put them into my pocket. Maybe I shall
produce them when I arrive at Lucerne.
We had an excellent cup of coffee and by ten o’clock we were doubling
the “cone” of the Dranse. This promontory offers one of the best
illustrations of the generosity of a river in forming village sites.
It is the generosity of a fluvial Robin Hood, who steals from the
wealthy to confer benefactions on the poor. There is a closer likeness
here than one sees at first. The Robin Hood type of robber, erratic,
generous, picturesque, romantic, sympathetic, humourous, belongs to a
medieval epoch; he would be unthinkable when civilization has
levelled all differences. So the wild, fierce, brawling, unscrupulous
river, taking from one region and handing its loot to another or
throwing it away, is uncivilized compared to the river that has
reached its plain, and has become slow and dignified.
We went near enough to the shore to see the castle of Ripaille, where
Duke Victor Amédée of Savoy had his hermitage. No wonder he did not
want to leave it for the burdens of a contested papal tiara. I would
not object to settle down in such a retreat--provided I had a few
friends to share it. In his day probably the Jura was much more
beautiful, because their slopes were clad in splendid forests. It is a
nature-tragedy that when mountains are once deforested either by the
axe of man or by fire, the flesh of the range melts away and can never
form again; only the uncompromising rock is left like mighty bones.
The lake must have been even more beautiful when the great forests of
chestnuts and birches and beeches still existed, before there had come
the endless monotonies of terraced vineyards; before the valleys with
their native châlets were sophisticated into summer resorts with smug
villas and huge hotels filled with staring strangers.
I liked the look of the old town of Thonon, and the name of the
department in which it is situated and of which it used to be the
capital suggested the delicate wines. One complains of monotonous
vine-terraces, and they certainly are not effective when seen at a
distance, but at close range, especially when the trellises are loaded
with ripe grapes, they have a double charm. The grape cure attracts
thousands of people to all the shores of the lake and to dozens of
charming little towns of which one only hears by accident.
If I were certain of several incarnations I should like to spend one
whole life on the borders of Lake Leman. Perhaps in the next
reincarnation one may be able to be in two places at once. We have two
eyes that blend impressions into one resultant. Why not be in two
places at once, and after that in four, in sixteen, and so on, till
one would be coterminous with the universe and know everything: if we
have two eyes, some other insects have a thousand. The gracious lady,
Madame Sévery, whose letters, written a century and more ago, filled
me with the rather melancholy yearning--for it can never be
fulfilled--for that delightful life which she led: a winter in
Lausanne or Geneva; the spring in one of her country châteaux; the
summer in another, the autumn in still another. The houses, full of
luxurious furniture, always ready for occupancy; friends happening
around to spend a week or a month or only a night. But when one family
had so much thousands had not much of anything, though probably the
peasants then were as happy as the working-people now who have tasted
of the intoxicating “Fraternité” cup, perhaps poisonous when the third
ingredient is left out--the cup, invented by Rousseau, and drunk to
the full in the French Revolution.
Thonon looked exceedingly tempting as it rose above the lake. My
nephew declared that it was built even more Chablais than it looked--a
pun which would have resulted in a scene of decapitation had we been
under Alice’s Duchess. He atoned for it however by promising to take
me on an excursion up the valley of the Dranse, which is one of the
most fascinating rivers in Savoy.
As usual he fulfilled his promise. We equipped ourselves for walking,
and, taking it leisurely, climbed along the river to the little hamlet
of Saint Jean d’Aulph, where we admired the taste of the
eleventh-century Cistercians who built their monastery in such a nook
of the mountains. We finally arrived at Champéry, and, of course,
admired the primitive _calvaire_ and the stunning view. There, I
remember, my worthy Will quoted that charming passage from
Henri-Frédéric Amiel, which indeed might be applied to dozens of other
horizon-aspects. He says--but it is much more effective in French:--
“The profile of the horizon takes on all forms: needles, pinnacles,
battlements, pyramids, obelisks, teeth, hooks, claws, horns, cupolas;
the denticulation is bent, is turned back on itself, is twisted, is
accentuated in a thousand ways, but in the angular style of sierras.
Only the lower and secondary ranges present rounded tops, fleeting and
curving lines. The Alps are more than an upheaval, they are a tearing
asunder of the surface of the earth.”
These _calvaires_, or rustic shrines, frequently met with in the
Catholic cantons, are picturesque in their setting and though not in
themselves beautiful, add much to the charm of a prospect, giving the
human element, at its most humble expression, that of devotion, in
contradistinction to the awful and inhuman wildness of Nature in her
most tremendous and imposing aspect. Even common names here take a
religious colour, as for instance the Crêt d’eau, which becomes the
Credo.
Those that climb the Haute Cime of the Dent du Midi find Champéry a
convenient starting-point. I, who had once in one day climbed over all
the peaks of the Presidential Range, felt an ambitious stirring to
repeat the feat on a higher and grander scale--taking all the six
peaks in succession--La Dent Noire, La Forteresse, La Cathédrale, La
Dent Jaune, and Le Doigt up to the Haute Cime.
Such an exploit would be too fatiguing for one of my venerable years,
but I have seen photographs of the view from the top of the Dent du
Midi, and when one has been on one mountain, even though it be not
quite thirty-three hundred meters high, the views are only variants,
even when one has Mont Blanc piled up across a marvellous valley
filled with glaciers and azure lakes.
It is wonderful how quickly in her slow way this same cruel Mother
Nature repairs the damage she does--damage as seen by human eyes. Down
the side of the Dent du Midi in 1835 swept a rock-fall. Two years
later, on the road between Geneva and Chamonix, a pretty little lake
which was the delight of travellers was filled by a similar avalanche
of rocks.
Etienne Javelle gives a vivid description of some of these
catastrophes:--
“If one would take a keen pleasure in climbing the Col de Jorat,” he
says, “one must be interested in something more than simple
picturesque effects; especially must the climber, facing the contorted
and tottering condition of these immense rocks, seek to realize the
cataclysms of which these places have been the scene and those that
still threaten them. When this sympathetic attitude has been attained,
nothing can be more impressive than the glen and torrent of
Saint-Barthelémy.
“These mountains could add many pages to the chapter of Alpine
catastrophes; they have more than once terribly alarmed the
inhabitants, and each generation can relate to the succeeding one the
convulsions which it has witnessed.
“But the events that happened when life had not as yet appeared in the
primeval chaos of these mountains cannot be retold by posterity. Who
knows by what terrific throes the breach, to-day so vast and complete,
was opened at the place where the Rhône flows and where now stand the
houses and meadows of Evionnaz?
“Unquestionably it was narrow at first and the furious waters
gradually forced a passage for themselves by unceasing assaults;
unquestionably also during the glacial epoch, the tremendous glacier
of the Rhône, compelled to be shut in within this gorge, exerted an
enormous pressure on the sides of its channel. From La Dent de Morcles
to La Dent du Midi what peaks have one after the other been worn down
and disappeared! The great glaciers have carried far away all this
early détritus, an enormous bulk the secret of which the waters of
Lake Leman possibly know more than we do.
“What has taken place since then, from the time when men first
appeared in these localities cannot compare with those primal
convulsions; still there is enough to overwhelm the imagination of
man; it is too much for their feeble dwellings to endure. Terrible
events of days long gone by are recorded in the local annals. The
catastrophe which swallowed up the little town of Epaune when Mont
Taurus fell on it. One of the most ancient of these falls was the
catastrophe in which the hot spring was lost, though it has since been
rediscovered at Lavey.
“On October 9, 1635, in the middle of the night, a strange and
terrific noise alarmed the inhabitants of Evionnaz and the neighboring
hamlets; suddenly awakened from sleep they sprang out of their beds in
alarm. A rumbling noise, growing ever louder, was heard. The
Noviorroz, a mountain near by, fell into the valley with a monstrous
crash. The curé of Saint-Maurice was hastily informed of the
catastrophe and he had the tocsin rung. As soon as daylight came a
band of rescuers went to the scene of the disaster but hardly had it
got there, when an even more tremendous downfall compelled a retreat
to a neighboring height.
“The noise of it resounded throughout the valley. For more than a
quarter of an hour the sun was hidden by a cloud of dust from the Bois
Noir down to the lake. The current of the Rhône was blocked; the
torrent of the Marre--now Saint-Barthélemy--formed at the foot of the
Jorat a lake the overflow of which was a new danger to the valley.
“As popular superstition attributed this catastrophe to demons which
haunted the mountain, the Bishop of Sion, Hildebrandt Jost, spent nine
days in exorcising the place. His trouble was wasted; the waters went
on with their work and at intervals of every few years the same
threats were repeated with minor falls and great deposits of mud.
“At last, on August 26, 1835, about eleven o’clock in the morning,
there was a sudden noise, like that of many discharges of artillery
uninterruptedly following one another. All eyes were turned to the
mountain. The eastern peak was surrounded by mist. Thence came the
fall. A thick fog filled the glen of Saint-Barthélemy; violent gusts
of wind shook the houses of Mex and uprooted whole rows of forest
trees.
“An enormous mass of rock detached itself from the Eastern Peak,
striking and smashing the front part of the glacier. Ice and boulders
rolled with a frightful fracas down two thousand meters of precipice
and filled the valley and the gorge with their _débris_.
“The ice, disintegrated and in a state of thaw, mingling with this
_débris_, formed a barrier of mud thickly strewn with enormous
boulders, which overflowed the high banks of the torrent, crossing the
Bois Noir, and plunged into the valley of the Rhône. A part of the
stream swept over on the right bank and covered the hamlet of La Rasse
with mud.
“To reëstablish the communications which had been interrupted on the
road the people made a bridge of long ladders, planks and trunks of
fir-trees. Ropes attached to these ladders stretched over the top of
the bank. At each fresh onslaught--and there were three or four a
day--a man stationed in the gorge blew a whistle to announce it and
the ropes were immediately pulled to prevent the bridge from being
carried away.
“M. de Bons, an eye-witness, described one of these _coulées_. ‘A
whitish vapor rose into the air as it left the gorge. At the same
instant a dull noise and a violent gust of wind apprised us of the
approach of the _coulée_. The moving mass came down upon us with
irresistible force but so slowly that a man at his ordinary walking
pace could have gone on his way without being overtaken by it.
Enormous blocks of stone seemed literally to float on the stream; at
times they stood out of the liquid mass as if they were as light as a
feather; then again they would tip and sink into the mud till nothing
could be seen of them. A little farther down they could be seen again
coming gradually to the surface, to float for a while until finally
swallowed up, repeating at various stages of their progress the same
scenes and the same accidents.
“‘The bed of the torrent was remarkably narrow at one point. Huge
boulders were stopped there and formed a barrier against which the
fragments carried along by the river were collected. For some minutes
a strange conflict was waged here, the rushing _débâcle_ of ice and
water endeavoring to flow back for a long distance; the river rose
till it almost caused a freshet. At last by carrying the _débris_
along, it succeeded in effecting an outlet and overthrew all the
obstacles impeding its course. Rocks, trees, lumps of ice, _débris_ of
every kind all went whirling round and round with a long, savage roar,
then disappeared in the current and were borne downwards across the
slopes of the Bois Noir.’
“Since 1835 there has been scarcely any disturbance in the mountain.
The waters, however, are at work, and who can predict that a still
more terrible catastrophe will not some day desolate the valley of the
Rhône?
“The people no longer see the hand of demons in these devastations nor
do they exorcize the mountain; but a pious custom has it that each
year a procession makes its way to a hill above La Rasse with a cross
standing on it and there invokes the Creator’s protection by their
prayers.”
To the eye that sees, the solid rock is just as much liquid and in
commotion as the flowing river; it is all in a state of flux. The
mountain-tops are plunging down into the valleys and then the rains
and the rivers grasp them and roll them and reduce them, until the
porphyry and the granite and the limestone become almost microscopic
sand, which, as every one knows, blows and flows like water. These
beautiful little lakes, which one sees everywhere in Switzerland, if
they should be able to write their autobiographies--indeed they are
able to write their autobiographies and in hieroglyphics which Science
can read--would tell us and do tell us of many a rock-fall which has
stopped the descent of rivers.
I remember some weeks later, as we were riding in the “Moto,” as I
call the touring-car, up to Flims--a most absurd and flimsy squashing
up of the Latin name flumina, the streams--my attention was called to
the enormous glacial rock-fall which ages ago blocked up the whole
valley of the Rhine to a depth of between two and three thousand feet.
The river, much surprised, had to go to work to cut through the mass
of _débris_. There are still several of the lakes which came from the
same catastrophe--if that can be called a catastrophe--which probably
affected no human being for the worse. Many of these rock-falls,
however, have ruined whole populations; churches and houses have been
swept away. Sometimes, after a long-continued rain, the whole side of
a mountain-slope will begin to sweep down. One sees the same thing in
a smaller scale on the side of a gulley where a road has been lowered.
The laws of gravitation, the erosive powers of water, the effects of
frost, are just the same at wholesale as they are at retail.
The bay sweeping in between the cone of the Dranse and the Pointe
d’Yvoire is called La Grande Conche. We lengthened our course by
following the shore, though we kept well out beyond the mouths of the
two torrents which Emile told us were Le Redon and Le Foron. Yvoire is
different from the other promontories of the lake: the huge blocks of
stone which are scattered about make it evident that it is the remains
of a terminal moraine. This and huge boulders which have been
discovered in the bottom of the lake prove that the hollow valley in
which the lake lies was scooped out by a glacier which as it melted
left its freight of stone brought down from distant mountain-sides.
Just off Yvoire, which looks very attractive with its glistening
beaches and its fine old castle, between a kilometer and a half and
two kilometers away, and at a depth of about sixty meters, is a
fishing-bank called L’Omblière. There the much esteemed fish “l’omble
chevalier,” or in German _der Ritter_, comes to breed and be caught.
There will generally be seen clustered together the fishermen’s boats
with their lateen sails cock-billed. Occasionally a storm comes up
suddenly and works havoc. They still talk of the tornado of 1879, when
eleven Savoy fishermen were drowned.
There are about twenty-two different kinds of fish inhabiting the
lake, several of them good eating. I should think it might be possible
to introduce the whitefish of our Great Lakes: the Leman salmon is not
superior to that noble ranger of the depths.
We saw a good many wild birds. Emile gave us their names in French:
_les besolets_ or sea-swallows--the kind that Rousseau went out to
shoot, _les gros-sifflets_ with their sharp whistle, _les crênets_ as
Rousseau calls the curlews, _les sifflasons_ which we could see
running along the beach just beyond Yvoire, and the _grèbe_ which he
said was mighty good eating. Most of the Mediterranean sea-gulls
which, like human beings, like a change of scenery, and which in
winter add greatly to the life of the lake, had returned to the south.
Beyond Nernier the shores contract and we enter “the Little Lake,”
which it is supposed occupies the valley excavated by the Arve. We
were fortunate to round the point in good time, for our weather had
been too good to last; the hard greenish coloured clouds streaking
toward the southeast after a reddish sunrise had betokened a change;
it had been clouding up all the forenoon, and before we got out into
the open off La Pointe d’Yvoire, _Le Sudois_ was blowing “great guns”
and a heavy sea was running. It seemed best to take the swallow’s
swiftest flight for Geneva, not pausing as we intended to do at
Beauregard or the Port de Tougües or indulging in historic
reminiscences suggested by the valley of Hermance where the
torrent of that name serves to separate the canton from the
département--Switzerland from France. Afterwards, when we passed
through it in our Moto, we had a chance to see its quaint streets, its
houses with vines clambering over them, its red-tiled roofs. Once we
had to turn out carefully to avoid a yoke of oxen which seemed to
think they owned the whole place.
The glimpse of La Belotte (to mention only one of the dozen places
that charmed us as we approached the great city) would have inspired a
painter. Boats were drawn up along the gently shelving shore; there
were several picturesque brown houses which looked from the distance
like fish-houses, only neater than most of those we see along our New
England coast. A _naue_ with two butterfly sails was just coming in
from up the lake. Men were evidently hurrying to make the boats safe
from the gale, if it should develop into a real storm.
The lake approach to Geneva even under a grey and threatening sky
gives as it were the key-note to its extraordinary charm. Its noble
waterfront, its lofty buildings, its background of escarped rocks and
its general air of prosperity, beckon a friendly welcome. We darted in
between the two phares or lighthouses which decorate the long jetties,
and turning aside from the surf current, we came alongside the
pleasant Quai du Mont Blanc.
[Illustration: THE WATERFRONT AND THE ILE ROUSSEAU, GENEVA]