IN SWITZERLAND.
The scenery from Chamonix to Geneva, by the way of Sallanches, St.
Martin, Cluses and Bonneville is magnificent. Leaving Chamonix the road
winds down the beautiful valley with the Glacier des Bossons,
overshadowed by Mont Blanc, on the right, while on the left are the
pretty hamlets and fruitful farms that relieve the barren, rugged
mountains on either side.
The road, which is a marvel of smoothness, as are all the roads in
Switzerland, crosses and recrosses the river Arve, until, after passing
through a long tunnel, hewn through a massive rock, it strikes another
valley and makes a wide sweep around the horseshoe-shaped mountain,
giving a splendid view up and down the valley. Far across this valley is
a long high range of mountains down which at different places great
cataracts of water come tumbling, dashing the spray high in air.
Here we pass through the pretty village of St. Gervais, with its
celebrated baths. Then a long straight drive for an hour or more, and
with an extra crack of the whip the carriage whirls into Sallanches,
where the horses are changed, while the weary, hot and dusty travelers
rest and refresh themselves.
At St. Gervais is one celebrated bathing establishment conducted by an
Englishman and patronized almost entirely by English and Americans, the
principal treatment being for rheumatism and kindred diseases, and
especially for the alcoholic habit. It is claimed that the most
inveterate drunkard can be cured by the use of these waters, and
therefore it is continually full of men who have burned life's candle at
both ends, and who need rest from their vices, and moral, as well as
physical recuperation.
[Sidenote: MR. TIBBITTS' LETTER.]
Tibbitts determined to stay a week and test the efficacy of the waters.
"I shouldn't need it if I could have the regular Oshkosh sod-corn, but a
foundation of vile English brandy, and the edifice built up and topped
off with French cognac is too much for me. I will test the waters."
The fact that a half-dozen very wild Americans of his own age and tastes
were at the establishment was really what induced him to stay, but he
repeated over and again, that what he wanted was to stay a while in a
place where rum was impossible. He wanted to get away from it.
We left him, and the next week I received a letter, the following being
an extract therefrom:--
"I did not go over to the Cure at once, for the day you left I met
a young American, troubled as I was, who decided to go with me.
Slosson (he is from St. Louis) and I, having met the proprietor of
the Cure and taken a fancy to him, determined to do him a good
turn, and to that end we would not go to his establishment till we
had got ourselves into a condition that would make a cure
creditable. I am always ready to make sacrifices for those I love.
"We then went over to the establishment to get out of the way of
rum.
"We had been in the house perhaps five minutes, when the proprietor
took us one side and remarked, casually, that while he would not
advise any one in the establishment to drink, if one must, he could
furnish much better liquor than could be had in the village. And it
was injurious to those taking the baths to walk much either before
or after.
"It is a good thing to get out of the way of rum.
"The bar man was an American who could mix a cocktail, and so we
drank to the old flag and went to our dinner. The wine at the place
is excellent.
"After dinner we walked up to the village with an American to whom
I was introduced, and he took us to a very comfortable place where
the cognac was good, very good, and we sampled it several times.
"If there is a place on earth where the alcohol appetite can be
cured it is here.
"On the way down the main street of the village we stopped in
another place like the first one, for the purpose of seeing whether
there was any difference in cognac.
"There are superior facilities for getting away from rum at this
place.
"There is a museum in the village which has a smoking room
attached, which we visited that evening. The cognac was better than
at the first place.
"To have the vile stuff out of reach is a great help to the
struggling victim of strong drink.
"What we would call a drug store in America was the next place we
visited, to have some prescriptions filled, and the proprietor, an
Englishman, insisted upon our tasting some very old brandy he kept
for medicinal purposes.
[Illustration: THE PATH TO THE VILLAGE.]
"There is no place in the world where you are so safe from the
destroyer as here.
[Sidenote: REFORM AT ST. GERVAIS.]
"Returning to the Cure we thought it unfair not to patronize it. We
did--twice.
"St. Gervais offers inducements for those really trying to reform.
"We went to our room and sat down to a quiet game of poker. It was
suggested that it would be dry work, and a bottle of cognac was
ordered, and if I remember, there wasn't enough left to make a
cocktail for a flea. The very smell was gone.
"For absolute absence of temptation to drink, St. Gervais is the
place. I will write you concerning the water when I have tasted
some.
"P. S.--I forgot to mention that another thing you come here for is
to get regular sleep, and plenty of it, in the early part of the
night. Having resolved upon this, we played poker till three in the
morning.
"If you have a friend who desires to reform, by all means advise
him to come to St. Gervais. There is no such place on the continent
for reform. A man in the next room, with acute inflammatory
rheumatism, actually complained of us this morning. He said he
couldn't sleep with us near him. We sent word to him that there
were other hotels, but that we couldn't peril our chances of reform
by moving. We were determined to persevere till we had made new men
of ourselves. We were very positive, and would not move.
"We could hear the rheumatic gentleman swear, through the wall, but
we sat there reforming all the same, and smiling at his
irascibility. Why will such men come to places intended as
reformatories? What is a man with rheumatism, inflammatory or
otherwise, to five men trying to mend their ways? I think we played
an hour longer than we would, for the pleasure of hearing him
profane.
"St. Gervais is a good place to come to to get away from rum, but
it is of no account for rheumatism. This man thought so, for he
left the house in the morning. I will write you about the baths
to-morrow. I have no doubt they are good. It is said they do away
with the rum appetite."
From Sallanches the road is through a most beautiful country. As we
approach St. Martin the carriage is stopped, so that we can have one
last look at the dazzling peaks of Mt. Blanc. They are at the very head
of the valley, and although twelve miles away, in a straight line, they
loom up so magnificently that they seem only a short distance from where
we stand. It is a sight never to be forgotten.
The valley now assumes a more barren appearance, with but little to
interest one. An occasional waterfall, a handsome hedge or two, relieves
the dull monotony of the ride, till Bonneville, a picturesque town, the
capital of the province, is reached. There we have dinner, and then on
towards Geneva, passing the two ruined towers of the ancient castle of
Fancingny, after which the province was named. Crossing the long
substantial bridge of the Foron river, we come to Annemasse, and then
rush through a number of pretty little villages, reaching the suburbs of
Geneva, and, after having been on the road since seven o'clock, finally
draw up at the hotel on the lake, a thoroughly tired, hot and dusty
party.
[Illustration: MONT BLANC AND THE VALLEY OF CHAMONIX FROM SALLANCHES.]
[Sidenote: THE SWISS SYSTEM OF BEGGING.]
This is the especial part of Switzerland where beggary is reduced to a
science. Your carriage is going at a very rapid rate, but in advance you
notice one of those ugly Swiss cottages. The mother is in the door,
holding well in hand four children, ranging in age from five to ten,
boys and girls. As you get opposite the door, she looses her hold upon
them, and then commences the chase. These children, trained as they are,
can keep up with a carriage at a seven-mile an-hour pace, and,
bare-headed and bare-footed, they do it, two on each side. They make no
appeal; they say nothing, either by word or look; they simply run by the
side of the carriage, as though it were a race intended as a test of the
endurance of Swiss children against Swiss horses. After ten minutes of
this, you begin to feel some concern for the children, and you ask the
courier what they want.
"Vat dey vant? Oof you vants to kit rid mit dem, fling 'em some sous.
Dey vill run into Zhenave oof you ton't."
And so, merely to get them out of your sight, knowing that they dare not
go home to their mother without something, a shower of sous fall in the
dust, which the children gather, and return to the cottage to wait for
the next coach. Sometimes they catch one on the return trip, which is
good luck.
It is the most systematic begging I have yet encountered. The strong
point in it is the not asking. There is no professional whine, no story;
nothing but a sturdy assault upon your sympathies. They make the legs
take the place of the tongue. It is very well done, and, as carriages
loaded with tourists pass every half hour, it must pay well. I presume
the rent of these cottages is fixed with reference to their facilities
for begging. An advertisement of one of them reads as follows, I
suppose:
FOR RENT--An eligible begging station, on the route from Chamonix
to Geneva. Regular diligence route, and the favorite route for
carriages of rich English and Americans. There are no hills near,
the course in each direction is level for miles, permitting
children to run a long distance without exhaustion. Especially
recommended for very young children. Half hour after dining
station, which ensures good nature on the part of passengers. The
most certain and profitable location on the route. Owner will take
a percentage of the collections for rent, or will rent for a
certainty.
The journey by cars from Geneva to Interlaken is delightful. The road
follows the left bank of Lake Geneva until Lausanne is reached. Now and
then a break in the woods gives a glimpse of the blue waters of the
lake, with the mountains beyond, then a long, dark tunnel shuts off
every view, but only for a few minutes. Then we enter a country that is
magnificent in its quiet beauty. The hillsides are cultivated to the
summit. Rich vineyards with their luscious grapes fast ripening in the
sun, fine farms with the variegated fields hide from sight the cold gray
stone that makes the Chamonix valley so desolate.
After passing Lausanne, Lake Leman is left behind and we go nearly due
north to Friburg, a beautiful town situated on a rocky eminence and
nearly surrounded by the River Sarine.
Friburg, like every Swiss city, has its organ and legend. The organ is
one of the finest of Europe, and is played every afternoon and evening,
provided the admissions amount to twenty francs. If there is not the
vast amount of four dollars in the house the curtain does not go up, or
rather, there is no performance. However, there are generally enough
tourists present to justify the performance, and the listener is well
rewarded for the expenditure of time.
In front of the council house is an immense lime tree, partly supported
by stone pillars. It has its legend. It is said that a young man of
Friburg--a participant in the great victory of Morat, in the year 1476,
was sent after the battle to convey the glad news to his townsmen. He
arrived, breathless and exhausted, so much so that he had just strength
left to gasp the word "Victory!" and expired. There was in his lifeless
hand a lime twig which the citizens planted, and it grew to be the
patriarch of trees it now is, and it is guarded with as much care as
though the legend were actually true.
How many in our late war ran from battle-fields, who might have had lime
twigs in their hands if they had waited long enough to get them. But
they did not. They were in too great a hurry to reach Canada, from which
they will all (1882) return to claim pensions under the arrearages of
pensions act.
[Sidenote: BERNE AND BEARS.]
It would have been well for the country if all of this class had
imitated the example of the young man of Friburg, and expired. The
citizens could well have afforded the time to plant the twigs in their
hands.
Only a short stop is made here, and then to Berne, one of the most
interesting cities in Switzerland.
Berne is the city of bears, and were it located in Wisconsin would be
called Bearville. A bear was its origin. Berthold DeZahringen, some
centuries ago, killed a tremendous bear on the ground now occupied by
the pretty city, and founded a town in commemoration of the event, and
so the bear became as common in Berne as the lion is in England, or the
eagle in America. There is bear everywhere. The public decorations are
in the form of bears, the flags have bears on them, the bread is stamped
with bears, the pot you drink your beer out of is in form a bear; the
children's toys are all bears, and the city keeps two bear-pits, in
which a dozen, more or less, fine specimens are kept. Not many years ago
an English officer, who, with his lately wedded bride, were doing
Switzerland, fell into one of these pits, and after a desperate struggle
with the ferocious brutes, was literally torn to pieces in the sight of
his agonized wife. I could not learn who it was the heart-broken wife
married the next year, or whether she married well or not.
It is a quaint and curious old city, and well worth a day or two. The
situation is particularly beautiful, and as it has preserved the
peculiar characteristics of the long ago, it is an instructive place.
In the older section the streets have no sidewalks, the ground floors
being made into arcades, with the houses above supported upon arches,
under which you walk. It is always well for an American to visit the
older portions of these cities, that he may more fervently thank heaven
that his lot was cast in a new country, where there is no ancient and
inconvenient rubbish to worry him. There is more of convenience in any
one modern American house than there is in all of the old part Berne,
or, for that matter, of any ancient city. They do well to look at, but
that is all the use they should be put to. I have a profound sympathy
for the people condemned to live in them.
Berne is the capital of the little Republic, and here its Congress
meets. Its sessions last a month, as a rule, and then Congress
adjourns, and the members go home. The country is too poor to have much
to steal, and consequently a short session is sufficient.
I was shaved in Berne, and, speaking of shaving and barbers generally, I
want to say all I have to say on that subject at once.
There is no barber like the American barber, and no such comfort
anywhere in barbers as we enjoy at home. Tourists have complained of the
straight chairs, the dull razors, and all that sort of thing, and with
some reason, though it is not as bad as represented. I have never known
of any one being absolutely killed by an European barber, either at
sight or sixty days.
It is true that you do not have the luxurious reclining chair, nor the
soothing manipulations of a deft artist, nor the delightful hair
dressing, and all that. In England you are seated in a common,
straight-backed chair, a napkin is adjusted closely about your neck, a
dab of soap, three strokes of a bad razor, and you are permitted to
staunch the blood and wash off the soap yourself. If you desire your
hair dressed, as a very clumsy brushing is called, it is "tuppence
extra."
In France the operation is the same, only the barber, being always a
statesman, talks you to the verge of madness. He knows that you do not
understand a word of his language, but he talks on cheerfully just the
same, till he is through, and really believes he has entertained you.
The German barber does not talk you to death, for he is by nature
phlegmatic. He stays by you longer, however, and leaves less of your
face to carry away than either the English or French torturer. He wants
to earn his money, and he does.
The Swiss is less airy than the Frenchman, and more active than the
German, for, very likely, he is of both nationalities. He is more
careful, likewise. When his razor enters the flesh, he does not slice
the whole side of the face off, for his time is not occupied with talk,
as is the Frenchman, nor is he so heavy as the German. No, indeed! When
he sees that his razor has cut through the skin, and is entering the
flesh, he stops right there, and calls your attention to the fact that
he has stopped, and claims some credit for not carving off a half pound
or more.
[Sidenote: BARBERS.]
French, German, and Swiss allow you to wash your own face, and comb your
own hair, and otherwise fix yourself, but the Swiss is the best of the
three.
But even in Switzerland, it is better for the tourist if he has his own
shaving material, and does it himself. He may cut and scar himself, but
he will have some skin left, and may console himself that the cutting
was the result of his own lack of skill, and not that of another.
[Illustration: THE CONSCIENTIOUS BARBER.]
The continental barber has much to learn in the matter of shaving. The
English barbers say they would like to adopt the American system, but
their English customers will not. I understand it. Their fathers were
scarified, and why should they not be? It would be un-English to change.
And so they go on with the same straight-backed chairs, the same clumsy
contrivances, and they will so go on, till the end of time. The last
Englishman will be so shaved, when he might have had comfort and luxury
all his life.