There is nothing particularly joyous about the process of starting a
new house running anywhere at any time. _Experta crede._ But when you
are a stranger in a strange land, whose language you are imperfectly
acquainted with and whose inhabitants are as uncommunicative as oysters
and inclined to regard the foreigner as an enemy till he has proved the
contrary, the difficulties are considerably aggravated.
Among the rank and file of the people in the German cantons of
Switzerland, there seem to be three classes:—those who have come
in contact overmuch with tourists and have been spoiled by it;
the low-browed, stupid type, surly and hostile; and the honest,
intelligent, fresh-cheeked, unspoiled, who are never effusive, but
frank always and friendly to those who seem to deserve it, staunch,
reliable, independent, self-respecting, in every way admirable,—the
bone and sinew and hope of Switzerland. The first class are nearly
as extortionate and conscienceless as their confrères in France and
Italy without the charming Latin manners that make one forgive their
iniquity. At their worst, this type is insufferable. But one can
escape. Two miles off the tourist tracks, one never finds them.
The second class one can only be sorry for. It is not their fault that
their brains and bodies are stunted by cretinism or intermarriage of
relatives or insufficient nourishment or too much carrying of heavy
burdens. Their skin is sallow, eyes dull, features heavy. One usually
finds them tending cattle, whom they closely resemble, or inhabiting
isolated châlets. If you speak to them, they either stare open-mouthed
and answer nothing, or in the most unsatisfactory manner. I do not
know whether they are capable of affection for their own people. They
certainly waste none of it on outsiders.
There was a man of this type who lived in a châlet on the hill above
us, who came out and hit the Elder Babe a resounding cuff on the
head, ejaculating some wrathful Swiss German, which the poor Babe did
not in the least understand. The Babe was doing nothing more sinful
than looking in the grass for a pen-knife he had lost, but doubtless
this man, with his poor cramped crooked wits, suspected him of some
deep-dyed villainy.
There was also a boy in the neighborhood about twelve years old, who
used to lie in wait for the Elder Babe with a large stick and attack
him viciously. I would have let the Babe (who was seven) fight it out
with him, trusting to the triumph of mind over matter, if the lad had
not been so absolutely unintelligent and brute-like in appearance that
I thought he might crush the Babe’s skull with a rock or push him off a
precipice if he was angered.
Every once in a while one hears of some queer stupid outrage in
Switzerland—the tires of an automobile chopped up or obstructions
put at a dangerous turn in the road to upset a traveling carriage. I
imagine it is always one of these quasi-deficients who is responsible
for it.
In the whole world I do not know a finer people, nor one more
charming to deal with, than the healthy, intelligent class of Swiss,
God-fearing, law-abiding, domestic, industrious, self-respecting,
clean in mind and body. When I had once beaten my way through their
uncommunicativeness and learned where I could get the necessities of
life, I found it indescribably restful, after the perpetual battle
over trifles of my eight months’ housekeeping on the Riviera, to throw
myself on the mercy of these good people, secure in the consciousness
that they would take no advantage of my ignorance, and that the price
of an article would be the same whether I asked before buying it or
after.
One of the brothers of the family that kept the meat shop was a guide
in his leisure moments and was building up a fine reputation for skill
and daring. While we were in Grindelwald he covered himself with glory
by successfully doing some things that had never been done before.
With an Alpinist from Berne, he crawled along the knife-blade edge
of the Eiger, Heaven knows how many hours without sleep or rest or
proper food, without standing up or sitting down, just clinging and
creeping,—a feat which had been accomplished only once many years ago.
It was pretty to see how proud his family were of him. A younger
brother especially, once his shy reserve was overcome by sympathetic
questions, talked about him as though he had won the Victoria Cross at
the very least. I do really think they were the only firm of butchers I
ever met who did not need to be watched while weighing the meat!
The bakery people were admirable, too, especially the young,
rosy-cheeked wife, who usually tended shop, and the bright-faced little
girl who brought the bread each morning. They had a small grocery
attachment to the bakery, but I found it was not etiquette for me to
buy there anything which I could get from the Frau Secundärlehrer in
our basement. In the bakery one day I saw some packages of tapioca
stacked up on a shelf, and, with the Babes in mind, ordered some sent
next morning. It did not come and, supposing it had been overlooked,
I stopped in later to get it. “My little girl took it up this morning
with the bread,” said the baker’s wife, smiling sweetly, “but she found
the Frau Secundärlehrer kept it in stock, so of course she brought it
back.” I must have looked a little blank, for she added, “The Frau
Secundärlehrer might think it strange if you got it from us instead of
her.”
Having learned this local canon, I struggled dutifully to conform
to it, though it was by no means always convenient. The Frau
Secundärlehrer’s store was open only at odd times when the Frau was at
leisure. It was always closed during the morning hours when one usually
makes purchases for the day. After sending the cook to the village in
the morning for marketing and piously leaving some grocery article to
be purchased from the Frau in the afternoon, it was hardly soothing to
find that she was just out of it or had never had it—and the nearest
other grocery a mile and a half away!
There may have been other local rules of procedure equally sacred that
I never did find out, and so unwittingly offended against to the end.
I do not believe the Schweizer would be forgiving toward shortcomings
of this sort. He is beautifully confident that the _Herr Gott_ approves
of Swiss ways and dislikes foreigners, and this gives him a virtuous
rigidity in resisting innovations. There may have been some such
all-unconscious sin on my part to account for the strange behavior of
the Herr Secundärlehrer at the end of the season. But we won’t worry
about that till the time comes.
The way we got our milk is worth describing. The cattle went up to the
high pastures a few days after our arrival. They went by our house,
and all day long we heard the tinkle of the cow-bells, the tramping of
their patient feet, and the pushing and rubbing of their heavy swaying
bodies, and the air was full of their breath as though we were in a
dairy-yard. All the cattle in the valley go up about the middle of
June (as soon as the snow is off the ground) and come down the latter
part of September. The pasture lands are owned by the commune, and
each burgher of the valley has the right to keep a certain number of
cows there. There is a head-man in charge of each commune’s cattle,
who, with a corps of assistants, lives up on the heights all summer.
Their chief occupation is cheese-making. They are allowed such milk
and cheese as they need for themselves during the summer (which, with
coarse black bread, practically forms the whole of their diet), and
at the end of the season receive a share of the cheese made in lieu of
wages, the rest going per capita to the cattle-owners. Meat and eggs
are scarce and dear, and this cheese forms the staple of the valley’s
food through the winter.
In the more distant pastures, all the milk not drunk by the cattle men
is made into cheese, but from these Alps near Grindelwald a certain
amount of fresh milk is sold, being brought down six or eight miles
each morning strapped to the back of a man, in a cylinder of white
unpainted wood that must hold from ten to fifteen gallons.
Do not imagine that we learned all this at once. It represents the
wisdom of the summer, gathered and pieced together, bit by bit. All we
knew just then was that more cows than we had ever seen in our lives
were going past, and it was a good thing that they were not nervous
animals, or their bells would surely drive them crazy. Most of them
were small affairs hung around the neck from a narrow leather collar.
But sometimes the collar was as much as four inches wide and the bell
a great jangling piece of metal seven or eight inches long and about
the same width. It must have been a real burden for the cow to carry
and the stiff collar a severe infliction. We never _did_ learn the
philosophy of these vagaries in cow adornment.
The Herr Secundärlehrer told us, on inquiry, during those first days,
that the Alpine milk was the best to be had, although it cost more,
and that perhaps he could secure it for us during the summer (it was a
favor, you understand) if we would say definitely what amount we would
take. It could neither be increased nor decreased afterwards and it
must be paid for all together at the end of the season. “But I prefer
paying my bills each month,” I said. “Can’t be done,” he replied.
It was very mysterious, but we let it go at that, and the milk was
delicious.
Later, after the young men and the Mother had joined us, I found we
needed more milk. I lay in wait for the man who brought the milk, after
the cook had tried her hand on him in vain, and asked him if there was
not some way by which we could get an extra liter or so per day. He
was one of the stupid variety and his “_Nein_” was like the speech of a
stone statue (if stone statues spoke), without a flicker of expression.
Wouldn’t it be possible if we paid a higher price for it? _Nein._
Wasn’t there a head-man who would have the authority to sell me more
if I went to see him? _Nein._ I think he regarded me as the Scarlet
Woman referred to in the Scriptures and felt that his soul would be
endangered by further parley. So he walked off without any nonsense in
the way of apology or farewell.
The only milk then to be bought was what came up from Interlaken, and
even that we could not buy direct, since the man who sold it did not go
on his rounds so far as our house. The baker took in a liter for us and
we sent for it in the afternoon, and it was often sour and always pale
and watery.
The admixture of water was not entirely unknown in our Alpine milk,
for Frater one day came upon a milk-bearer cheerfully filling up his
vessel from a mountain brook. Perhaps he had stumbled and spilt some,
or perhaps he had been thirsty and drunk some, and of course he had
a precise and definite quantity to deliver. I will not believe he
had sold any on the side. It would not be in character. And I do not
believe it could have happened often, or the milk would not have been
so good.
For the benefit of intending housekeepers in the Oberland, I would say
that marketing, when one has learned the ropes, is an easy matter,
if the family is blessed with good appetites and is contented with
simple fare and small variety. In meat there was always veal and pork
to be had, beef and mutton only occasionally. When we wanted poultry
we had to send to Interlaken for it, and the price was appalling,
thirteen francs for a pair of small chickens hardly enough for a meal.
Nearly everybody owned a few chickens, but they would not sell them,
and eggs were often hard to get. As for fresh vegetables and fruit,
we were wholly dependent on a rascally Italian who kept a fruit shop
for tourists near the station and charged tourist prices for inferior
articles. The only time he ever gave us good value was toward the
end of the season when Antonio happened to address him in Italian,
and he and his wife glowed all over and heaped up the grapes in the
bag. But that did not prevent them from palming off a collection of
absolutely rotten pears on my poor unsuspecting cook the next day!
No fruit is grown in the valley except a few late apples on the road
down to Interlaken, and the little wild strawberries that come up for
themselves in June, no vegetables except cabbages and carrots and the
like, which each family toilfully raises for its own use and cannot be
induced to sell. The Frau Secundärlehrer had some lettuce which she
generously invited us to help ourselves to as long as it lasted, but
she would not _sell_ it. One hardly realizes that it is summer, for one
has to depend so much on canned things. One learns to eat a lot of the
local cheese, which is always good. And I must not forget the honey. It
is the invariable accompaniment of the Swiss breakfast, which consists
for the rest of rolls and butter, coffee and milk. When the bees have
gathered their honey from the wild flowers on the Alpine meadows, the
flavor is complexly delicious. One soon learns to despise the insipid
lowland product.
I must not forget the salt, nor the long morning spent in hunting
for that useful staple. I ordered it the first day from our basement
grocery. It didn’t come, and I repeated the order. I was told the Frau
had none. I supposed she was just out of it and asked Belle Soeur,
who was going into the village, to get some at any grocer’s. She went
dutifully to every grocer in the village and grew more and more puzzled
at being everywhere told they didn’t keep it. She knew the Swiss used
the condiment, for she had been eating it. She inquired and was told
to go to the post-office. This sounded so perfectly foolish that she
paid no attention to it and inquired elsewhere. She received the same
answer. After she had been told three times to go the post-office, she
went there, feeling distinctly idiotic as she asked the old man behind
the stamp window if he sold salt. To her astonishment, the reply was
affirmative. Salt, it appears, is a government monopoly in Switzerland,
and, in Grindelwald at least, the postmaster had the exclusive right
to sell it. In time it became perfectly natural to say, “Give me five
postage stamps and a kilo of salt,” but it required practice.