We were called in the gray dawn, and I remember the chill of the
bathing water. This proved to be the most economical lodging any of us
had ever had, for the charge was a franc and a half for each _bed_, so
each individual share was fifteen cents!
We took breakfast at the hotel and had them put up a lunch for us,
but nearly broke their hearts by declining to take a guide or even
a porter. The faithful Baedeker had said “guide unnecessary in fine
weather” (which it was), and we had no notion of putting ourselves in
bondage to an attendant unless it was absolutely unavoidable.
After we turned aside from the Rhone valley, laid out like a patchwork
quilt in cultivated fields, we saw no human being or habitation or
trace of man’s labor, save an empty cow-hut or so and the path we were
following, till late in the afternoon. The Eginenbach, whose course
we were following, drained as wild and desolate a valley as could be
imagined. It seemed to have been a great place for landslides, and
every once in a while we had to pick our way over masses of fallen rock
and débris. We felt like discoverers and rejoiced accordingly.
After some hours’ walking we found ourselves at the end of the valley
and simultaneously lost every trace of our path. Now this was too much
of a good thing, and our rejoicing was suspended.
The end of the valley was closed by a wall of rock about fifteen
hundred feet high, which it was our business to surmount. On top of
it was the Gries Glacier, which we were to cross, and which spilled
over into our valley in an ice-fall from the base of which issued the
Eginenbach. Somewhere there was a path, which at need a pack-horse
could follow. But where on earth did it start from?
The land between us and the foot of the rock wall was a steep meadow
covered with bowlders and broken cliff-fragments. It had been subjected
to some sort of seismic disturbance, leaving fissures here and there,
some of them of great depth and quite too wide to jump. We lost a
lot of time retracing our steps and hunting for a way around, when
we found one of these things in front of us. We understood now why
Baedeker considered a guide advisable in foggy weather.
At last we all agreed that we had located the path about half-way up
the wall where it crossed some snow. But how to get to it? Antonio
announced his intention of making a bee-line scramble for that point,
and, if necessary, following the path down to show us the beginning of
it. The rest of us made a detour to the left (having already pretty
well canvassed the possibilities to the right as far as the ice-fall),
and were rewarded by finding the end of a really, truly, unmistakable
bridle-path, hacked out of the rock in ledges and built up with
masonry, which we followed steeply upward. Belle Soeur got a touch of
the mountain sickness and had to lie down for a while. And I nearly
slid into perdition when we crossed the hard-frozen snow gully, because
I had trodden my heels over and the nails had worn smooth and my
alpenstock had no iron point! Antonio was waiting for us on the other
bank, and we continued upward together.
Finally we reached the top and saw before us the flat Eis-Meer which we
were to cross. We beheld it with interest not untinged with emotion.
For although we had been living in daily association with glaciers at
Grindelwald, we had never set foot on one, and this was not only to be
our maiden glacier-crossing, but we were to do it quite, quite alone!
In the meantime we sat down in a row on the path, our backs against the
rock and our feet protruding out into space and ate the hard-boiled
eggs and sandwiches that had been put up for us at Ulrichen. We were
not as hardened to precipices then as we later became, and I remember
the shiver with which I tossed egg-shells over the edge and felt as if
I needed to hold on to keep from going with them.
Some rising clouds warned us to finish our meal and start on, for we
could not afford to risk being caught by a fog on the Eis-Meer. The
route was indicated by poles stuck up in the ice, but some were fallen,
and even when standing they were not near enough together to be visible
in thick weather.
It was very thrilling when we had clambered over the pile of débris at
the edge and found ourselves on the flat, frozen slush of the Eis-Meer.
We did not know what unfamiliar dangers might be lying in wait for us,
but if they were there, we did not encounter them. There was no special
beauty or grandeur in this view of a glacier. The ice had a yellowish,
muddy look, and was perfectly flat. The midday sun was melting its
surface, and countless little streamlets of water were running in all
directions among the corrugations left by last night’s freeze. Here and
there a stream would disappear suddenly into a fissure or an air-hole.
These seemed to be of indefinite depth, but none which we saw that day
were large enough to be a menace to life.
The threat of the clouds was not fulfilled, and we reached the other
side of the glacier in half an hour or less without accident. Just
beyond was the boundary between Switzerland and Italy, but there was
not even a stone to mark it. Strange to say, we encountered no custom
house on this route either here or later.
Presently we began to descend a path so steep that it was hard to keep
one’s balance. Vegetation gradually reappeared, then some signs of
humanity, an empty cow-hut or so, and finally, on a slope below us, we
saw a group of men and women cutting and binding grass. And oh, the
joyful Italianness of it! All the women had bright-colored kerchiefs on
their heads and one wore a brilliant red skirt.
It was almost sunset when we reached the first village, Morasco, where,
to our surprise, we found the inhabitants still speaking German. We
asked for milk, and a statuesque girl brought us big bowls of it,
warm from the cows, which we drank with great gusto, sitting flat on
the little grass-plot around which were grouped the dirty stone huts
which formed the village. In the next village they spoke Italian only.
My question as to the road, put first in German, was not understood
until turned into Italian. Think of the isolation of that handful of
villagers in Morasco, shut off by the mountains from the people of
Valais, whose descendants they doubtless are, and by the even more
impassable language barrier from their neighbors in the valley!
We quickened our steps and reached the hotel at the Tosa Falls just
before dark. Baedeker allows six and a half hours’ walk from Ulrichen
to the Falls, but we had consumed nearly double the time. Of course he
allows for no stops, and we had stopped for luncheon and for milk, for
Belle Soeur’s mountain sickness, and for a number of photographs and
five-minute rests, and we had lost about an hour hunting for our path
at the head of the Eginen valley; but these things or others like them
have always to be counted on, and we found it well, as a general rule,
to allow from one and a half to twice the time given by Baedeker.
The Tosa Falls were disappointing. Baedeker’s double star and phrase
“perhaps the grandest among the Alps” had raised our hopes too high.
I doubt if any European waterfalls can look really impressive to an
American who has seen his own country. They were at their best that
evening after dinner when we wandered down the path a little way below
the hotel and looked across and partly up at them, magnified in the dim
light. There is a drop of four hundred and seventy feet, over a broad,
bare, unpicturesque rock ledge.
The volume of water is respectable, but nothing more. I imagine we must
have seen the river unusually full, for the upper valley was flooded to
the extent of making walking difficult when we passed down.
We had our little growl about the hotel here, too, which charged more
than its tariff given in Baedeker and showed a disposition, encountered
for the first time on our trip, to run in extras on the bill. This
might be considered a necessary accompaniment, however, of being in
Italy. It was part of the “local color.”
The extent to which we had grown young through the simplicity of our
life may be inferred from the character of our amusements. I can
hardly realize now that I was one of four who found entertainment
in the infantile game of mystifying our fellow-boarders across the
dinner-table that evening by linguistic gymnastics! They were a row
of unprepossessing Italians of the small-commercial-traveler type. We
spoke French mostly, German a good deal, Spanish some and English a
very little, while Antonio occasionally burst into Portuguese. Italian
was the one thing we kept clear of, so they discussed us freely in it.
They placed all our languages except the Portuguese, but what _we_ were
they could not make out. It especially worried the nervous little old
man who subsequently created some excitement by squeezing the waitress’
hand as she passed him. Finally the silent fat man, who had taken no
part in the discussion, stopped guzzling his food long enough to emit,
above his tucked-in napkin, the following oracular statement, “They are
North Americans.” Evidently the others accepted this as settling the
matter, and we could not but admire his perspicacity, although he had
missed on Antonio.
X
The following day, during which we progressed down the Val Formazza
to its juncture with the Simplon road at Crevola and up that road as
far as Iselle, has a color in my memory all its own. Italy went to
our heads. Antonio reverted to type. All the Latin in him came to the
surface. Up to now, under the influence of our society and his English
grandfather, he had been the most quiet and reserved of us all. Now he
suddenly warmed up and blossomed out in shrugs and gesticulations, in
song and laughter. We all caught the contagion more or less. Our feet
had wings down that lovely wooded valley, and we laughed at nothing for
the pure joy of living. We exchanged greetings with all the cheerful,
friendly peasants whom we met, so different from the unexpansive
Swiss variety. If we did not actually see Pan and the mænads, I am
sure they were not far away. The sky above us was different from the
Swiss sky—warmer and brighter somehow. The vegetation was richer and
more luxuriant. Our northern blood bubbled and effervesced under the
enchanted touch of Italy. And in Antonio the South claimed her own
again.
Even the discomfort of my shoes could not seriously dampen my
enjoyment. Those trodden-over heels had become nearly unbearable; but
when I caught one between two rocks and tore it off, the resulting limp
was worse. It was not till the next morning that Frater evolved the
brilliant thought of prying off the other heel to match, which was a
great relief.
Feet and shoes are always a problem on a long pedestrian trip. A shoe
too tight is misery, but one too large, which allows the foot to rub
and chafe, is almost as bad. Any unhardened foot is sure to develop
blisters after two or three days’ walking. These rub and break and
leave the flesh raw. It isn’t pleasant, but in the high altitudes,
where there are no bacteria, everything heals rapidly, and if one
resolutely says nothing about it and keeps on walking, it isn’t so bad
as it sounds. We were all in the same fix by this time. I know now
that I bestowed more sympathy than was absolutely necessary on the
“blistered and bleeding feet” of Washington’s army, over which I used
to shed shuddering tears as a little girl.
At San Rocco, where we lunched, we found there was still more than
fifteen miles between us and Crevola. So, as we had now struck the
carriage road and the daily diligence was just about due, we decided to
treat ourselves to a ride.
It was a sort of uncovered omnibus, and proved to have one vacant
place too few for us, so Antonio sat on the steps. The driver must
surely have been exercising his calling for the first time, for he did
strange and fearful things all the way. The worst was when he evolved
the wonderful thought of improvising a brake by putting a piece of
stout cord-wood through the spokes of the two rear wheels. Of course
_something_ had to give way. The spokes cracked ominously and the wood,
catching in one of the carriage springs as the wheel revolved, promptly
broke it and tilted that side of the ’bus down most unpleasantly. All
the passengers, except the priest and ourselves, objurgated the driver
in fluent Italian, and the priest gave him some serious advice. So
did Frater and Antonio, but I think theirs was in English. After this
the driver became very sulky and took out his bad temper in language
addressed to the poor horses, who really were not to blame. We were
in momentary expectation of our vehicle’s falling to pieces, but it
providentially held together while we were in it. I am sure, though,
that the catastrophe must have occurred soon after we dismounted.
We sang most of the way (heaven save the mark!) partly to distract our
minds from the supposed impending disaster, and partly because the
priest enjoyed it so much. He kept his breviary open and his eyes fixed
on it, but seldom turned a page and smiled broadly when the choruses
grew joyous. He had a good face, that priest, and it was nice to see
the way everybody greeted him with “_Buon’ giorno, Riverenza_” and
“_Addio, Riverenza_,” on entering and leaving the stage.
Having reached Crevola, where the roads join, about four o’clock,
perfectly fresh after our long drive, we decided to walk seven miles
up the Simplon to Iselle before stopping for the night. The first part
of the road was extremely pretty. There was a deep rocky gorge with a
river at the bottom, feathery-leafed trees, and pale blue mountains,
just like a landscape by Salvator Rosa. But when we came near Iselle,
where the Italian entrance to the tunnel is located, the two sides of
the road began to close up with shanties and rookeries. We met some
thousands of workmen returning home after their day’s labor in the
tunnel. Everything swarmed, reeked and crawled, and we began to wonder
if we could possibly find a place to sleep in. We purchased a large
watermelon, and ate it sitting on a pile of stones in a wilderness of
cranes and derricks, comforting ourselves with the reflection that at
least the inside of it must be uncontaminated!
We kept looking for the one hostelry mentioned by Baedeker, which
proved to be at the extreme end of the long-drawn-out town. Our hearts
sank as we saw it, for it was of an unspeakable griminess. Evidently it
had become a workman’s boarding-house, pure and simple. We entered,
with the faint hope of finding it better inside than out, but it
wasn’t, and we were really relieved to learn that they had no room
for us. We retraced our steps to the other hotel they told us about.
It was a blaze of light. A promiscuous crowd of men were drinking and
smoking on the front balcony, and a woman was banging concert-hall airs
out of an atrocious piano inside. The air of dirt and slovenliness
was inexpressible, and we were by no means sure the place was even
technically respectable. The proprietor, who looked like a brigand, if
ever I saw one, offered us one double room in the hotel and another
across the street. Belle Soeur and I were not particularly timid, but
we agreed that nothing conceivable would tempt us to spend the night
in that hole, with our natural protectors in another building. A
young German tourist, a pedestrian like ourselves, understanding our
predicament, offered to share his room with Frater and Antonio, so as
to keep the party under one roof. We thanked him and held his offer
in reserve, but resolved to try first the one other inn which we had
noticed in passing.
It proved to be kept by a gruff old German-speaking Swiss, and was,
though plain, quite reasonably clean inside and of a reassuring
respectability. The price—four francs apiece for lodging—struck us
as high in view of the accommodations, and we said so. The reply was
surprising. “If you had come to me first, it would have been less. But
you visited every hotel in town and came to me as a last resort. I
saw you when you passed.” The joyous shout of laughter with which we
greeted this explanation seemed rather to nonplus the old man. But we
made no further protest. His frankness was worth the money.
The balcony in front of our rooms overhung the noisiest river I ever
heard, while our windows looked out on the main street, which was
filled till midnight with an equally noisy stream of people; but it
would have taken more than noise to keep us awake, now that we had
clean sheets and felt safe.
We got away from unprepossessing Iselle as soon as possible the next
morning. Although we had enjoyed our detour into Italy, I think all
of us experienced a sense of relief when we passed the custom house
a couple of miles up the road and found ourselves once more in clean,
honest Switzerland.
This was an easy day for us, walking somewhat lazily up the easy grade
of the excellent post-road which Napoleon was good enough to build for
us. It was rather warm and we spent the entire day covering fifteen
miles lengthwise and forty-four hundred feet of ascent.
The Simplon road has a great reputation for scenery, and doubtless it
would be imposing if one came to it from the plains. But to us who
had been living in the heart of the Oberland and who were fresh from
that wild climb over the Gries Pass, it was disappointingly tame and
sophisticated.
A road-house which we passed had a stone tablet cut into the wall,
announcing that at this spot Napoleon stopped and drank a glass of
milk. So we did the same (being probably thirstier than he) and paid
several prices for the association’s sake.
We ate our luncheon under the shade of a big tree on a velvety meadow
running down to a brook, where we refreshed ourselves by washing
faces, hands and arms in the cold clear water.
By the way, do people generally realize that glacier water is _not_
clear? It is always thick and muddy, a regular _café-au-lait_ color.
Some of the mountain streams which do not come from glaciers are almost
as cold and are crystal clear.
We made it a general rule to drink no water on our tramps. Sometimes it
was a great temptation, for we would get very thirsty walking, and we
were always crossing cool little streams that looked the incarnation of
innocence. Doubtless some of them were, but we had no means of knowing
which was which.
Antonio was the thirstiest of our party and the most inclined to waive
prudence and drink, but a graphic description of his shapely throat
adorned with a large goiter usually had the desired restraining effect.
He didn’t care a rap about typhoid, of which the danger was much
greater. But we all draw the line _somewhere_, and _he_ drew it at
goiter!
This reminds me that goiter must be dying out in Switzerland. I don’t
think we saw half a dozen cases all summer, but I remember it as one
of the horrors of my childhood when I visited Switzerland before. It
seems to me nearly every other old person had one then.
There is a hotel on top of the Simplon Pass, and there was no reason
in the world why we should not patronize it; but we decided it would
be much more interesting to lodge at the Hospice built and endowed by
Napoleon and served by the monks of Saint Bernard.
It is a big, barracks-like stone building approached by an imposing
flight of steps. At the top is a rope which it is the business of the
visitor to pull. It sets a huge bell vibrating in the stone hallway and
one feels that one has created an undue disturbance for a mendicant. A
member of the brotherhood responds, one asks for hospitality for the
night, he leads one to an immaculate bedroom and tells one the dinner
hour.
We had taken a provisional farewell of each other on the doorstep
before pulling the bell-rope, for we knew nothing of the customs of the
place and had an idea that we feminine members of the quartette would
probably be herded in some wing apart and not allowed to communicate
with our escorts till we left. Nothing of the kind occurred. It was
just as though we had been in a hotel, without the necessity of asking
prices. They did not even expect us to attend chapel. The bare stone
walls and floor lent an air of conventual austerity, and the presence
of the monks reminded us where we were.
When the dinner-bell rang, we assembled, along with twenty or thirty
other chance guests, at two long tables, and, to our surprise, the
brotherhood ate with us. The meal, though plain, was generous in
quantity, and they kept pressing us to eat more with true hospitality.
We found our hosts very interesting to talk to. One old man took a
profound interest in America, especially in the St. Louis exposition,
and plied us with questions about it. Naturally _we_ were more
interested in asking about _their_ life and mission, which seemed to
us a delightful but highly incongruous survival of medievalism. They
admitted that the Hospice served no very useful purpose in summer, but
it did a big charity work spring and fall when thousands of Italian
laborers were tramping into Switzerland and back, who could not afford
to stop at the hotel, and during winter, when the hotel was closed,
though travelers were few, the Hospice became a life-saving necessity
to those who did go over the pass. After dinner they showed us the
portrait of himself that Napoleon had given the Hospice and a few other
treasured relics.
There is no charge whatever made for meals and lodging at the Hospice,
and the offering one puts into the almsbox is entirely voluntary. We
had to ask where this box was, and I do not think it would have been
brought to our attention in any way had we failed to do so. I imagine
many fail, or unduly consult economy in their offerings, for we noticed
that our hosts, who had been most kind throughout, became positively
effusive after we had deposited in the box—no princely sum at all, but
just about what we calculated we would have expended at the hotel. I
must say most of our fellow guests looked as if they deserved Frater’s
characterization of “dead beats,” and yet the brothers told us that
travelers often found fault with their accommodations! Probably the
less they paid, the more fault they found. But even this sordid company
could not spoil the sentiment of the place for us, and the memory of
our night at the Hospice remains one of the jewels in our casket.