CHILLON AND OTHER POINTS.
On a clear bright day, the hot air tempered by a gentle breeze wafted
down from the ice-covered mountains, with others we left Geneva, to
cross the mountains and visit Mont Blanc, that patriarch of the Alps.
The blue waters of Lake Geneva danced and sparkled in the sunlight as
our steamer sped along towards Nyon.
At last we were skimming over the surface of that wonderful body of
water whose peans have for hundreds of years been sung by the poets, in
prose and verse, of all countries. Rosseau, Voltaire, Byron, Goethe have
revelled in the delights of its tranquil beauty and celebrated its
charms in immortal words. And it is indeed a fitting theme for a poet's
song. To-day its deep blue surface is broken into a myriad of ripples.
Here and there, sailing slowly along, are large barges with the graceful
lateen sails that are seldom seen except upon the Mediterranean. The
shores are lined with rich foliage, the cedar of Lebanon mingling its
sweet odor with that of the chestnut, the walnut and the magnolia, the
whole enlivened with pretty villas and picturesque hamlets.
Though more beautiful, Lake Geneva has a peculiarity that is enjoyed by
Lake Constance. It is subject to a change of level. At places, where the
bed of the lake is narrow, the water occasionally rises several feet
above the ordinary level, and remains so for half an hour or more, this
too without any previous warning of what was about to occur. Another
peculiarity is that hidden springs oftentimes break forth from the bed
of the lake and form a current so swift that it is impossible, almost,
to stem the tide. These springs are very dangerous to oarsmen and are
nearly as badly feared by the fishermen as the waterspouts that
frequently occur.
[Sidenote: THE INOPPORTUNE YOUNG MAN.]
Here, as everywhere, we had all sorts of people with us. We had a
widower, and a widow with a daughter, and the widower had been making
love to the widow all the way from London, which the widow accepted more
than kindly. Indeed, the attentions of the ancient beau had become so
marked, that to the mind of any widow of experience, it was only a
question of time as to a proposal direct, which she was waiting for
impatiently.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG MAN WITH HIS INOPPORTUNE REMARKS.]
Among others on the boat was the Young Man who Knows Everything, who has
studied everything, and who has that rasping memory that enables him to
retain everything he ever read, as well as every thought that ever
passed through his mind, and the self-sufficiency that impels him to
thrust his own talk at you, at no matter how inopportune a time, and no
matter how inapplicable it may be to whatever is being discussed. He
will discuss a question with you to-day, and when in his bed at night he
will remember something that he should have said at the time, and break
in upon you a week after with the omitted remark, with no preface, no
explanation, taking it for granted that any discussion you ever had with
him was of sufficient importance to take full possession of your mind
and occupy it forever and forever. He had had an argument with the
widower the night before at the hotel in Geneva, upon the authority of
the Old Testament, which the widower, as was natural, forgot in an hour.
Our widow and widower were sitting near the stern, in loving proximity,
discussing quietly the loneliness of their situation. The young man was
waiting very close, entirely oblivious of what they were saying, and
only anxious to fire off his charge.
"Ah, Mrs. Redding," said the widower, "when one has once tasted the
sweets of congenial companionship--"
In broke the young man:
"It was the old dispensation, and is not binding on us to-day at all.
Therefore you needn't do everything that Moses put upon the Jews; but,
Mr. Thompson, you can just bet your sweet life that you are perfectly
safe in not doing anything that he said the Jews should not do."
The widower looked daggers, and the widow broadswords. As handsome a
proposal as was ever to be made was nipped in the bud--an opportunity
for the widow was lost which might never be regained. Who could tell?
Possibly his passion might cool off. The fish was hooked but not landed,
and this insufferable argument-monger was the cause of it.
"Blast your Moses," uttered the irate widower. "Madam, if there is any
part of this boat safe from the intrusion of young men who dabble in
Moses, let us find it."
And they went off, leaving the young man not at all abashed. He merely
turned to an amused spectator, with the remark:
"That man's face proves the correctness of the Darwinian theory. In time
his descendants may become men. I was about to enlighten him on an
important subject, but he would not."
[Sidenote: THE IMPECUNIOUS TOURIST.]
There never was a boat loaded with tourists which did not have on its
deck the man who was doing Europe on insufficient capital. He spent
money freely in London, Paris nearly finished him, and he commenced
traveling on credit in Switzerland. His method was very simple: he
borrowed a hundred francs of every man he thought simple enough to lend
it to him. It was always the same story, he had drawn on his people at
home and would have the money at the next stopping place _but one_. Then
he always slipped away from his victim at the _next_ stopping place and
was seen no more. We had him, but he did not succeed. There were too
many old travelers in the party.
Geneva, on a plateau above the level of the lake, with its picturesque
background of rugged mountains, gradually melts into a solid mass of
buildings, bridges and parks as we go up the lake, past the mammoth
hotels, with their beautifully arranged lawns and gardens. On the left,
in an immense pleasure park, is the Rothschild villa, a country seat as
beautiful as the surroundings. For miles the left bank of the lake is
lined with summer residences, nestling among the lovely groves of
fragrant trees.
[Illustration: "WOULD YOU OBLIGE ME WITH A HUNDRED FRANCS TILL
SATURDAY?"]
On the right bank, a range of hills, starting way up the lake, rises
gradually higher and higher until it culminates, apparently, in Mt.
Blanc, fifty-six miles away. These mountains, rugged and severe, slope
gradually down to the bank of the lake, which is lined with well
cultivated farms.
The lake is a study. Its bright blue waters are as clear as crystal, the
small white pebbles on the bottom being plainly discernable. As the
sharp prow cleaves the water and throws it off on either side, the hue
is changed into a dark green, making a charming contrast with the
unruffled water beyond, which retains its peculiar blue.
Long before Nyon is reached, the white buildings of Geneva have faded
away in a mild rose colored haze, through which the dim outlines of the
mountains can just be seen.
After an hour's run, full of beauty, Nyon, a favorite resting place for
tourists, is reached, and the steamer stops long enough to take on three
or four mountain climbers, who, with Alpenstocks in hand and knapsacks
on back, are going on a pedestrian expedition on the other side of the
lake.
The sharp pointed roofs of Nyon's houses, its quaint streets,
pretentious hotels and historic buildings make it a favorite resort all
Summer long.
The faro bankeress was of the party, she and her husband. The husband
looked listlessly into the blue water, and enjoyed the succession of
beautiful views, and studied nature in all its aspects, with a party of
kindred spirits, in the hot cabin below, over a game of euchre, with a
rapid succession of orders for cognac and water. That's all he saw of
Lake Leman. He played moodily, as though the time taken from his
magnificent game at home was so much wasted. Green cloth was more to him
than emerald water, and he never desired to see an elevation greater
than a roulette ball.
His wife made the acquaintance of, and fastened herself to, a party of
actual tourists, and to them she discoursed volubly of the prices of
silk stockings in Paris, and of dress making and millinery and kindred
topics. There was one young girl who really had the eye of a hawk for
the actually beautiful, who would go into raptures as some wonderfully
beautiful view dawned upon us, and who felt an enthusiasm which she must
share with somebody. And so she would pull the faro bankeress by the
sleeve, and interrupt her flow of talk.
"And then you see these stockings are--"
"Oh, Mrs. ----, do look at that mountain with the cataract rushing down
its side!"
A hasty glance at the wonderful work of nature.
"Oh, yes, my dear--it's _nice_. But them stockings. Why, in New York, at
any first-class store--"
And so forth, and so on.
[Sidenote: TIBBITS AND THE JEW.]
Tibbitts was gorgeously arrayed in a Parisian suit, with trowsers very
wide at the bottom, and cuffs of preposterous length and width. He
discussed all sorts of abstruse questions with grave German professors,
neither understanding a word of what the other was saying, and so he
passed for a very wise young man. More men would be so esteemed if they
would always talk in language which nobody can understand. I remember of
being wonderfully impressed with the profundity of a New England
metaphysical talker, but alas! when his six syllabled words were
translated into common English, I wondered at the stupidity of his
commonplaces.
[Illustration: "SEE ME UNMASK THIS JEW."]
But poor Tibbitts was finally conquered. There was a Jew on board who
was selling the "art work" of the country. He spoke all languages, as
the Continental Jews all can. Tibbitts admired a little ivory carving.
"What is the price of it?"
"My tear sir ze work of art vill be given avay for ze redeecoolus sum
oof two huntret francs. It gost me dwice dot."
Then Tibbitts winked a wink of intelligence to the rest of us, as if he
should say, "See me unmask this Jew."
"I will give you five francs for it."
"Fife francs? Fadder Abraham, but you laugh at me! I vill dake--but no,
mine friend, dis ees a bat season--you dake him."
Then the laugh was not with Tibbitts. The "ivory carving" was the basest
kind of an imitation, and would be dear at a half franc. And Tibbitts
retired sullenly to the cabin below, and all the way up his American
friends amused themselves by asking to see his rare ivory carving.
There is so much that is beautiful on this side that time slips away
without notice, so that when Thonon is reached it scarcely seems
possible that it has taken an hour to make the run across the lake from
Nyon.
At the entrance to Thonon, the channel is very tortuous, and once, near
the landing, you may seek in vain for the entrance or the way out. There
is a little lake all by itself, hemmed in on every side, apparently, by
mountain and forest.
Surrounded by mountains, Thonon nestles at the foot of a
vineyard-covered hill, up the sides of which low houses, with their
queer, overhanging roofs, line narrow, angular streets that seem to be
too steep for any practical use.
High up the side of the hill is a picturesque terrace, with pretty,
vine-clad houses on the site of the old ducal palaces destroyed by the
Bernese in 1536, from which a beautiful view of the lake and surrounding
country is obtained.
At one time this little place was the residence of the Counts and Dukes
of Savoy, it still being the capital of the Savoyard Province of
Chamblais. The vineyards in this neighborhood produce the fine white
wines that are celebrated the world over.
[Sidenote: ON THE LAKE.]
Touching for a few minutes at Evian, a favorite resort for wealthy
people from the south of France, with its pretty hotels, charming oak
shaded promenades, the boat sped rapidly on toward Auchy, crossing the
lake again. Looking up the lake the mountain ranges, towering high
above, change their form and color with every revolution of the wheel.
Just ahead of us on the right, a great peak, starting abruptly from the
water's edge, shoots straight up into the air for a thousand or two
feet. All about us are the green covered hills, forming a rare frame for
the picture of the sun-lit lake, dotted here and there with a lateen
sail, and the slowly drifting smoke of a pleasure steamer that skirts
along the shores. At this point a long detour is made around a huge hill
that juts out into the water, completely shutting out the view on the
right. As we passed round it, an exclamation of surprise and wonder
involuntarily burst forth at the sight of the Tête Noire, which lay
before us, with its lofty peaks crowned with eternal snow.
On we go, past pretty little villages, any one of which would be a most
delightful place to spend the Summer; past vineyards, with their
luscious fruit ripening in the sun, until, just above Chillon, we come
to the Castle of Chillon, made famous by Byron.
"Chillon, thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod--
Until his very steps have left a trace,
Worn, as if the cold pavement were a sod--
By Bonivard! May none those marks efface,
For they appeal from tyranny to God."
This ancient castle, built as far back as A.D. 830, stands in a
picturesque position on a barren rock some twenty yards from the shore,
with which it is connected by a wooden bridge. Its history is full of
romance, from the time Louis le Debonnaire incarcerated within its
gloomy walls--from which but the sky, the Alps, and Lake Leman, could be
seen--the Abbot Wala of Corvey, for instigating his sons to rebellion,
down to the reigns of the Counts of Savoy, who used it as a military
prison. The walls of its dingy dungeons are literally covered with names
of persons who have visited them, among others being those of Byron,
Victor Hugo, George Sands, and Eugene Sue.
Here in Republican Switzerland the traces only of monarchy remain, for
which the Swiss should perpetually thank heaven. Everywhere else in
Europe the monster actually lives--here only its ghost survives. It is
here a remembrance to be shuddered at, not a living reality. But they
had it here once. There was a time, and the Castle of Chillon is a
silent testimony to it, when a duke or a king, who claimed to be of
better clay than ordinary mortals, could seize a man and immure him
within its gloomy walls, just as Victoria, by the accident of birth,
Mistress of Britain, may order the arrest of an Irishman who opens his
mouth the wrong way. Kilmainham is the Irish Chillon, and there are
within its walls men whose hair is turning gray, not in a single night,
but turning gray just as surely.
The ancient tyrants who lorded it over Switzerland were not one whit
worse than the tyrants who now lord it over Europe. Royalty is royalty,
the same in all ages, because based upon the same infernal heresy. It is
the absolute rule of a class, backed by organized force.
Switzerland, America and France have repudiated it, and the rest of the
civilized world will. But what oceans of blood must flow before all this
is accomplished.
In order to be a complete and very radical Republican one needs to visit
a few just such places as the Castle of Chillon, that the true
inwardness of monarchy may be realized.
As the castle, so full of historical interest, fades away, the boat
rounds the head of the lake, where the river Rhone pours its gray
glacial waters into the brilliant blue of the lake, making a clearly
defined mark of gray and blue at least a quarter of a mile from the
shore. Then Vernayaz is reached and we disembark for our trip across the
Alps.
As the boat glides up to the dock, the ancient castle, built in the
twelfth century, is pointed out. Its walls and towers are very massive,
and bid fair to stand as long as the city endures. Near the castle is a
chateau, where, at one time, Joseph Bonaparte lived. It is now the
property of the Moravians, and all its former grandeur is sunk in the
abysses of a boys' school.
Just opposite the town the Jura mountains have entirely changed in
appearance, and are full of strange, fantastic peaks and crags, while
Mt. Blanc, always visible, presents different faces as the boat changes
its course, always, however, grand and fascinating.
[Sidenote: RURAL SWITZERLAND.]
[Illustration: SWISS TIMBER VILLAGE.]