XX

When we arrived at Lucerne nobody shanghaied us in the pleasant Geneva

way, and as it was not even lunch-time, we resolved to walk about and

explore the town before deciding where to lodge. We fed the ducks and

swans, wandered over the covered wooden bridge inspecting the quaint

old paintings of the Dance of Death, beat around through the older

part of the town, and all at once coming back to the river, beheld the

Gasthaus zu Pfistern.

We had no sooner seen it than we recognized our fate. The wall toward

us was covered with frescoes representing a great tree spreading from

cellar to garret, from whose branches, instead of fruit, hung coats of

arms. Away up near the top in very big figures was the date 1579. Down

below stood a gigantic warrior in coat of mail with curling plumes. He

was a very satisfying warrior. The hotel was built directly upon the

river’s brink and its lowest story was hollowed out in lovely arcades,

where a fruit market was held.

Let no one suppose it was a stylish hotel. It had been chosen as the

headquarters of the noncommissioned officers of the artillery regiment

stationed at Lucerne. The dining-room was full of cartridges and flags

belonging to them and trophies of the Schützenfest societies which

also met there. Otherwise I imagine the patronage was chiefly from the

smaller class of commercial travelers. Of tourists, there was never a

hint.

How we reveled in it! The clean little bedrooms looked out pleasantly

over the river and city. But it was the dining-room that charmed us

most, with its great blackened old sideboard twenty feet broad and the

red wine poured from huge stoneware flagons. They had a genius of a

cook at that place and another genius presiding over the dining-room.

I know not whether she was an employee or the proprietor’s wife or

daughter, but she was a most cheerful, capable, tactful young woman who

put everyone in a good humor on the spot. She told us something of the

history of the house. It had been built in 1579 as a guildhall for the

bakers, whose ancient name, now obsolete, was Pfistern. The original

frescoing had been preserved outside, with only the necessary touching

up from time to time. This great dining-room, with its huge rafters and

lofty ceiling, had been the original meeting-place of the craftsmen.

Except that she was evidently a very busy person, I think we should

have lingered to talk to her half the afternoon instead of going out to

see the city.

Once outside we did, perforce, _faute de mieux_, what everybody

does, visited the ghastly War and Peace Museum, the curio shops and

Thorwaldsen’s Lion.

The next morning was scheduled for the ascent of Rigi, but the weather

continued too thick. We spent the forenoon about Lucerne, shopping,

having a look at the old city ramparts and the two-spired church. We

still had a lingering hope that it might clear off in time for us to go

up Rigi by rail. But it did not, and we took an afternoon steamer for

Tell’s Chapel, which marks the spot where he is supposed to have jumped

ashore that day of the storm, pushing away the boat with his foot as

he did so, and thus escaping Gesler’s vengeance and getting the chance

to arouse the slumbering revolt against Austrian tyranny.

The Tell Chapel, with its paintings of incidents in Tell’s life, is

a sort of national pilgrimage spot whose sacredness is not greatly

reduced by the fact that all educated Swiss now admit that Tell himself

was a myth. It is only sentimental foreigners who know nothing about

him but his name and the apple story and perhaps Schiller’s play, who

insist on believing in his reality.

From the chapel we walked along the very beautiful Axenstrasse that

skirts the lake to its terminus at Flüelen, regretting the clouds

which shut out all but the nearest mountains. Thence we continued by

ordinary highroad to Altdorf, where the hat and apple incidents are

supposed to have taken place. They have a rather fine but aggressively

modern statue of Tell and his little son (erected in 1895) in the

village square. During the summer the villagers play Schiller’s Tell,

once a week, I think. We had intended to time our visit to Altdorf for

one of these representations. But the week devoted to influenza had

delayed us just too long, and the dramatic season was over. The place

is so accessible to tourist routes that the play has probably become

sophisticated anyhow.

We dined that evening at an inn near the station and played cards

to keep awake till the St. Gotthard train came along. It was a slow

and crowded train, and we were very glad to arrive about 11 P. M. at

Goschenen and follow the porter of the Lion to that very excellent

hotel.

Next morning we were up betimes and starting afoot over the St.

Gotthard carriage road. It is a very fine piece of engineering,

zigzagging back and forth in long loops to keep the grade easy. The

scenery is, like that of the Simplon, Tête Noire and other carriage

roads, picturesque rather than magnificent. One of the chief scenic

elements is furnished by the Reuss, a foamy mountain stream whose

course the road follows, the interest culminating at the famous Devil’s

Bridge.

Everybody knows the story which has been attached, with local

modifications, to numerous other bridges and buildings, about the

engineer who, finding his task too great for human skill, invoked the

aid of the Prince of Darkness. This potentate gave his assistance

in return for the soul of the first passenger who should cross the

bridge. Whereupon the engineer, taking a mean advantage of the Devil’s

confiding nature, drove over a dog.

On the face of the rock above the bridge there is a very crude painting

much reproduced on local postal cards of his Satanic Majesty, very

black, with horns and tail and breathing fire from his nostrils,

jumping back in surprised disgust before the polka-dotted animal of

uncertain species who is trotting across the bridge.

What interested us more than the hackneyed devil legends was the

armored gate with loop-holes for musketry, whereby the Swiss government

can, when it chooses, effectually close this road. In connection with

the mountain batteries known to exist on surrounding heights, this gate

would seem to make it practically impossible for an invading army to

get by.

[Illustration: _The Banks of the Reuss, Saint Gotthard Pass_]

While discussing the thoroughness of the Swiss defenses, we recalled

the death of an Italian staff-officer a few weeks before who had

“accidentally fallen off of a precipice” while taking notes in the

forbidden Swiss zone, and we decided we did not care to explore the

near-by heights.

Not far from here was the scene of a fight during the Napoleonic wars,

and a monument with an inscription in exotic characters is dedicated to

the Russians who fell there.

At Andermatt quite a large detachment of troops is stationed, and

indeed we met members of the Swiss citizen soldiery all along this road.

It was our intention to go to the summit of the pass and then return to

Hospenthal for the night, but a thick snow-storm shut in around us, and

at the fork, which we afterwards learned was only about a mile from the

Hospice at the summit, we evidently took the wrong branch, and arriving

nowhere, grew discouraged and turned back. We lost nothing in the way

of scenery, as it was impossible to see ten feet in any direction.

At a considerably lower level we came upon a little road-house and

entered to get thawed out. Frater and I called for hot milk, but Belle

Soeur rashly ordered coffee. I do not know of what strange herb this

drink was brewed. Certainly not the coffee bean. We suspected catnip

mixed with a decoction of hay. The color was green and the flavor

incredibly unattractive. Belle Soeur decided that she also preferred

milk.

We put up that night at the Hotel de la Poste in Hospenthal, than

which I never saw a cleaner nor more severely plain little inn. The

postmaster’s wife ran it, and we found her a most admirable Hausfrau.

The postmaster was, I don’t doubt, a most worthy character also, but

he and I had a battle royal over my mail because I had no passport

to claim it with. I told him a visiting card was enough at Geneva

or Lucerne, and he said the postal authorities there must be very

lax. I showed him Frater’s passport, which he said was all right for

_him_, but no good for _me_. However, he handed me out my letters

after a while, but declined to turn over a package which Anna, in

a characteristic spasm of caution, had had the unhappy thought of

registering. I knew just what articles it contained and told him in

detail, even to the darns, requesting him to open the package if he

wished to verify my statement. This suggestion seemed to alarm the old

man, and he turned it over to me intact, fortifying himself only by

taking my signature and address in a dozen or so different places. But

he regarded me with strong disapproval, and frowned when we met, and

I suspect his kind old wife put an extra egg or so into the omelet to

make up!

Hospenthal is a rather quaint little village dominated by a robber

baron’s castle—at least, I think he was a robber baron. Anyhow it makes

a good photograph, and we took several next morning as we started out,

rejoicing in sunshine and blue sky.

We bought some black bread and cheese to carry along for luncheon (all

we could get, but it turned out delicious—no hardship at all), had the

village shoemaker drive some new nails into our soles, and swung off

gayly to the right on the Furka Pass road. This, with the Grimsel, is

one of the most interesting of the carriage-road passes, the scenery

toward the end being quite wild and Alpine. The sparklingly clear and

bracing atmosphere added much of course to our enjoyment.

At a road-house where we stopped to get something liquid after the

dryness of our admirable bread and cheese, we found the wall adorned

by a charcoal cartoon of slightly bibulous aspect, left probably by

some traveling artist in lieu of paying his bill, and the following

ingenious poem:

“Das Wasser ist von jeder Zeit

Die Best von aller Menschengaben.

Mir aber lehrt Bescheidenheit

Man muss nicht stets vom Besten haben.”

Which may be translated: Water is at all times the best of all the

gifts to man. Modesty, however, teaches us that we should not always

take the best.

We had intended stopping for the night at the hotel on the summit of

the pass, but were so unfavorably impressed by the financial shiftiness

of the polyglot clerk who airily told us that he spoke equally well

“_französisch_, _englisch_, _italienisch_—_Was Sie wollen_,” and tried

to double the Baedeker prices on us, that we turned him down and

walked on. Truth to tell, we felt grave doubt as to whether we should

find any other accommodation short of the Rhone Glacier Hotel, which it

would have been highly inconvenient for us to go down to. But principle

is a great thing, and we were prepared to sacrifice ourselves for it.

Luck was with us, though, and we found the Bellevue, a first-class

hotel on the upper brink of the Rhone Glacier, still open, though

preparing to close on the morrow. We enjoyed an excellent dinner and

night’s rest after watching the lovely views of glacier, valley and

snow mountains pass through the various phases of sunset, twilight and

full moon.

In the morning we started out with a guide across the glacier and over

the Nägelis Grätli, a stony height on the far side, from which the

views are very fine, and the path descends directly to the Grimsel

Hospice.

To our surprise we found ourselves making far better time than the

Baedeker schedule. We mentioned this to the guide, who said that

the path across the glacier had been shortened several years ago,

but Baedeker hadn’t found it out yet. “Everything in this world

changes, except Baedeker,” he said, and was so much flattered by

our appreciation of his _bon mot_ that he repeated it at ten-minute

intervals during the rest of the trip.

As soon as we saw our way clear ahead, we sent back our guide, who

was a little unduly addicted to his cognac bottle as well as to his

Baedeker anecdote, and continued alone.

The Grimsel Hospice and the two turquoise lakes lay right below us. A

yodel came floating up through the clear air, and standing out in front

of the hotel we soon identified the stocky form of Fritz Biner waiting

for us.