ON THE SHORES OF LAKE LUCERNE
My classmate, Ned Allen, was always a dilettante; if he had been
obliged to work, he might have accomplished great things; but, though
he may have had ambitions, the days of his young manhood slipped away
while he travelled all over the world. Then he became disgusted with
what he considered unjust taxation, and, converting all his property
into income-bearing bonds, so that he had no care or worry, he came to
Europe and lived part of the time in his villa on the Lake of the Four
Cantons and part of the time in a lovely palazzo near Palermo in
Sicily.
He had everything to make him happy, and, yet, like most of the rich
men whom I have ever known, he was not happy. Happiness comes only in
forgetting one’s self, and that he had no time to do, because he had
all the time there was.
It did him good, I think, to be obliged to exert himself a little to
show me the sights. Like myself, he was very fond of music, and he
followed the example of a good many wealthy men in Switzerland--he had
a string quartet play every Sunday afternoon and also two or three
evenings a week. One day he took me to the house of a friend of his
who supported a large orchestra and gave concerts to a few invited
guests or to himself alone according to circumstances. He had been to
Paderewski’s villa on the Lake of Constance and to the Count von
Hesse-Wartegg’s, where his wife, Madame Minnie Hauk, after retiring
from the stage, has lived for a number of years. As I knew them all, I
wished that I might pay my respects, but I had no chance--there were
so many other things to do.
One of my first objects of pilgrimage at Lucerne was the Peace and War
Museum, founded by that remarkable Austrian Jew, Von Bloch. My
classmate was inclined to scoff at the notion of Universal Peace. I
found he had not read or even thought very deeply on the subject, and
I really think that my enthusiasm communicated itself somewhat to him.
He had never thought, before I suggested it to him, that the small
stature of the present-day French and Italians was probably due to
the fact that the best and strongest of the youth of those two
nations were killed off in the Napoleonic and subsequent wars. War
does not ensure the survival of the fittest. The old and weaklings are
left to perpetuate the race.
One would hardly believe it, but Ned had never been to the top of
Pilatus; I found he was not especially interested in scenery, he who
lived in the midst of the most splendid scenery in Switzerland. But he
went with me to Pilatus. As we started I quoted the rhymed proverb:--
“Hat der Pilatus einen Hut
Dann wird das Wetter gut;
Hat er einen Degen
So giebt es sicher Regen.”
He had heard that and said it was quite true; if the mountain was
adorned with a little cloudy cap it meant that there would be fair
weather; fortunately the peak wore his hat and not his dagger, so we
had bright sunshine and not rain.
But Ned did not know the legend which connects Pilate with the
mountain. Of course it should be _Mons Pileatus_--the capt mountain;
but the story became widespread that after Christ was put to death,
Pilate was recalled to Rome. He wore Christ’s robe. He was found
guilty of malfeasance and was put to death. His body was thrown into
the Tiber which refused it and angry storms arose. It was sent to
Vienna: the Danube refused it; it was brought to the Rhône; again
storms; the lake refused it; new disasters came upon Lausanne. Then it
was brought to the Frankmünt--that is what the rough upper part of the
mountain is called; the _mons fractus_--where Pilate’s ghost fought
with the spectre of King Herod--the red of the conflict was seen then
and afterwards at sunset on the mountain-top. Up came a necromancer
and laid a terrible spell. In the days that followed nothing would
grow there, and on Good Friday the disgraced procurator was doomed to
appear on a black mule with a white spot--like a Roman knight--and
show himself.
So great was the fear of Pilatus that until comparatively modern times
no one dared to go up to it. Now there is a railway, and the ghost of
Pilate is laid. Sir Edwin Arnold speaks of the legend in his lilting
poem:--
“He riseth alone,--alone and proud
From the shore of an emerald sea;
His crest hath a shroud of the crimson cloud,
For a king of the Alps is he;
Standing alone as a king should stand,
With his foot on the fields of his own broad lands.
“And never a storm from the stores of the North
Comes sweeping along the sky
But it emptieth forth the first of its wrath
On the crags on that mountain high;
And the voice of those crags has a tale to tell
That the heart of the hearer shall treasure well.
“A tale of a brow that was bound with gold,
And a heart that was bowed with sin;
Of a fierce deed told of the days of old
That might never sweet mercy win,
Of legions in steel that were waiting by
For the death of the God that could never die.
“Of a dear kind face that its kindness kept
Dabbled with blood of its own;
Of a lady who leapt from the sleep she slept
To plead at a judgment-throne.
Of a cross and a cry and a night at noon
And the sun and the earth at a sickly swoon.
“But climb the crags when the storm has rule
And the spirit that rides the blast,
And hark to his howl as he sweeps the pool
Where the Roman groaned his last;
And to thee shall the tongue of the tempest tell
A record too sad for the poet’s shell.”
[Illustration: LUCERNE AND MOUNT PILATUS.]
Whatever may have been the bareness of its sides in consequence of
necromancer’s spells it is now filled with beautiful plant
life--hundreds of varieties. If I had been as much of a botanist as I
am a collector for my mental picture-gallery I might fill a page with
the names and descriptions of the Alpine flowers, which I noticed as
merely blue or pink or yellow and cared little for distinguishing them
apart. Once during one of my trips I did see the edelweiss growing,
but it is not very pretty; but the fields of gentians and the
forget-me-nots--those acres of blue sky fallen to earth and growing up
again--those would or might inspire and extract a poem from the most
prosaic.
We went together also to the top of the Rigi, which is easily
attainable by railway.
Töpfer, in his story entitled “Les Deux Scheidegg,” gives a most
enthusiastic description of an avalanche. I think I like the view from
Pilatus better than from Rigi; but from both the mountains look like a
colossal ocean in a storm and suddenly stricken by the sight of
Medusa’s face!
Ned took me in his motor-boat on several trips around the lake which
has so many names. I was not really so much interested in the
William Tell region as I suppose I should have been. Suppose it
were proved as decisively as Tell, as Eindridi with King Olaf, as
Hemingr with King Harald, or as Geyti, son of Alask, have been proved
to be mere sun myths, that Napoleon and Apollo were really the same,
and that George Washington was only a sun myth! His axe corresponds to
the bow and arrow; it cuts down the cherry-tree of darkness with its
glittering edge and brings liberty to his fellow-man. Who would then
care, for any sentimental reasons, to go to Mount Vernon? Why,
Schiller, himself, never saw the Lake of the Four Forest Cantons any
more than Coleridge ever saw Chamonix; he got all his local colour
from Goethe’s descriptions. To go to the Tell Chapel is to participate
in a fraud! Yet the natives each year take part in a sort of
folk-play, which has all the solemnity of a semi-religious
celebration. I did not care to stop as we passed by; still less when
we took passage in a big Zeppelin dirigible and looked down upon the
big sprawling lake winding among its mountains!
[Illustration: ON THE LAKE OF LUCERNE.]
Ned actually waked up enough to walk with me about Lucerne; like one
who always has the opportunity, he had never before been through the
two covered bridges past the imposing water tower or scrutinized the
quaint wall paintings. He went with me to see the famous Lion of
Lucerne--one of the few memorial monsters that do not pall on
acquaintance. The little pool in front adds immensely to the effect.
I had to tear myself away from the pleasant and luxurious home of my
friend. I went back to Lausanne by a somewhat different route, taking
in Sarnen, Meyringen and Brienz, and then going by steamboat from end
to end of the Brienzersee, not failing to spend a few hours at the
Giessbach. They illuminate it at night, but there is something
immodest about such an exhibition; it is like catching sight of a
wood-nymph or a water-fairy. I remember once seeing a great fire at
Niagara Falls and the river actually turned red with shame. But, by
moonlight, without artificial streams of light, it must be enchanting.
I made a little stay at Interlaken, and from there I ran over to
Lauterbrunnen, where the Staubbach falls over its frowning suicidal
cliffs and dies before it reaches the valley. It is weird and
ghostlike--the _spirit_ of a waterfall. I walked far up into the
valley, and, coming back to the hotel once more, saw that delicate
blush on the Jungfrau. I don’t wonder Thomas Gray declares that “the
mountains are ecstatic and ought to be visited in pilgrimage once a
year.” I would go farther and say that as one grew older, one should
live among them or in sight of them.