EARLY ALPINE FLOWERS--A WEDDING-FEAST--THE RHÔNE VALLEY AND
GLACIER--FURCA PASS.
What do you say to meadows so thickly set with forget-me-nots that they
are unbroken stretches of blue? If pieces of the sky had dropped on the
grass, the effect would have been about the same as that which we saw
often repeated in the valley of the Rhône. The shade was the faintest
of the many blue tints that one sees in Alpine fields. The corn-flower
grows rank in June, but is not coupled with the flaming poppy as often
as in some other countries of Europe. In the upper pastures are two
species of flowers--each as blue as a perfect sapphire. Both grow close
to the ground. One is small and star-like. The other is bell-shaped and
slender. I have picked it at a height of 7,000 feet. The yellows are in
great force. Dandelions and buttercups everywhere remind the American
tourist of home. There is a large, graceful anemone of a yellow so
delicate as to be almost white. If it does not thrust its exquisite
head through the snow, it follows hard upon the disappearance of the
icy mantle. A flower of the kind we call “ladies’ delight”--of a pure
lemon-color--is profusely distributed. In some parts of Switzerland one
comes upon fields all ablaze with buttons of gold. I give the English
equivalent of the French and German names by which this showy flower
is commonly known here. And the reds of various depths are only less
abundant than the yellows. Of these the Alpine rose--as it is just
breaking into blossom this month--is most captivating. The bud, as
it begins to open, looks like a cutting of coral. Daisies supply the
white to this wonderful enameling of Nature. Or, shall I say that it
is a carpet so deftly woven as to defy the imitation of its combined
hues in any piece of mortal handiwork? “You could not see the grass
for flowers.” This extravagance of the poet does not overstate the
floral wealth of some of the fields that border the Rhône between
Brieg and Viesch. Stay! I must not omit to mention some wild violets
of extraordinary size and beauty. These I found in only one place--far
above the Rhône glacier--and earned their possession by a hot scramble
up a very steep hill while the carriage was taking its long and zigzag
way round.
At Viesch we came upon a scene that is interesting everywhere--a
wedding-feast. As the carriage rolled through the narrow street of the
little village, the driver fired a volley of shots from the end of
his whip. He was a fine fellow, and wore, as a badge of his calling,
a dashing green hat with a blackcock’s feather stuck in the band.
There were three spirited horses, their necks encircled with bells
which jingled musically. We were conscious of producing an effect as
we rattled up to the door of the only inn, but were hardly prepared
for the reception which seemed to await us. There stood not only the
landlord and his staff of attendants, but a large number of men and
women, evidently dressed in “their best.” They all stepped forward
as if to welcome us, and at the same time a brass band inside of the
house struck up a joyous air. The situation was really embarrassing;
and we were relieved when we discovered that this effusive reception
was intended not for ourselves, but for some other people who were
very much expected. The faces of the bystanders lengthened when they
saw that we were not the persons so anxiously looked for. All but the
landlord and his immediate aids went back into the house, and our
reception became not more marked than that of all other travelers
alighting at these hospitable shelters for man and beast.
Then we learned that we had innocently interrupted the tranquil flow of
a wedding-breakfast--having been mistaken for some belated guests of
great importance. The bridegroom was the landlord himself. He looked
radiant with happiness. The bride, whom we saw later on, was a buxom
lass, attired not in the high-colored and fanciful Swiss costume of
which one reads in books. Her dress, if not a creation of the great
Worth himself, was irreproachable in its Frenchiness. And there was
not a single sign of Swiss nationality in the garb of any man or
woman present. This was disappointing. But then the wedding-party
was composed of the richer and “upper” classes of Viesch and the
neighborhood--of twenty miles round.
The landlord, in the fullness of his heart, had spared no expense. In
the dining-room were two long tables, from which a hundred guests were
just rising as I peeped into it. Long rows of bottles, conscientiously
drained to the last drop, were the principal objects in sight, save
some Cupids in sugar which the knives of the banqueters had spared. As
fast as the guests vacated the room they began dancing in couples. Up
and down the hallways they went, waltzing furiously, while the band of
twelve brass pieces played selections from Strauss. Every player had
before him a bottle, which was replenished by an attentive waiter as
fast as emptied. I never before realized the enormous cubic capacity of
a brass band! While we were gazing on this mirthful scene, loud cracks
of a whip were heard, and up came the delayed guests for whom we had
been mistaken. There was another rush to the door, followed by a storm
of shouts and kisses. The new-comers entered the house in a whirlwind
of excitement. Without even stopping to doff their overcoats and
cloaks, they plunged into the mazes of the waltz. A few minutes later
the dining-room had been cleared of all obstructions, and the dancing
then set in with an earnestness that would shame the languid beaux and
belles of a New York ball. We reluctantly left the festivities at their
height, and resumed the journey to Münster, where we purposed spending
the night.
At the little inn of Münster we were received by a woman who had a
handkerchief tied about her face, and looked tired out. She did not
seem to care whether we stopped there or not. The house was in a state
of fresh paint and repair, and the prospect for the night was not
inviting. We were shown into a chamber which had neither carpet nor
rug upon the floor. But that floor was scrupulously clean. The sheets
on the beds were coarse, but they smelled of lavender. Everything was
cheap but reassuringly neat. When the dinner was served--at the exact
minute ordered--we could easily have criticised the crockery. But the
plates were hot, as well as the soup, the fillet of beef and chicken
tender and cooked to a turn, the pudding and cake nice, and the Swiss
Muscat as delicate of flavor as it should be. After dinner a roaring
fire in a wide-throated chimney and an Argand lamp burning on the table
of this same room made the place far more comfortable and home-like
than are many of the “Grand Hotels” of which Europe is full. A good
night’s rest and a capital breakfast completed the recommendations
of this humble inn to the traveler’s confidence and patronage. Its
substance is in inverse ratio to its show. Besides all else, its
windows on the west command in clear weather perfect views of the
Weisshorn. This is about 14,800 feet high, and is the greatest object
of interest in the Rhône Valley. As one toils up the ascent, he keeps
the splendid white peak in sight mile after mile. He admires it from
several view-points, but it never shows up to better advantage than
when seen on a fine day from the elevation of Münster.
When you have been following up a river for two days, and seen it
dwindle as you rise above the junction of one tributary brook after
another, it is a great satisfaction to trace that river to its source.
In its narrowest part the Rhône is a powerful stream. Its turbid
waters rush along with a noise of thunder. They have cut in places a
deep gorge, the bottom of which is far out of sight of the road. They
have polished all the stones in their path into a general condition
of smoothness. Nowhere is the erosive action of water more strikingly
shown. When you stand at the foot of a stupendous glacier and see
the beginning of this boisterous river, you no longer wonder at its
youthful vigor. There is a great, dark cavern in the side of the
glacier. It is now of a triangular shape. From this opening the Rhône
issues with a fierce bound, as if straining to be free. Looking into
the hole, you can see nothing beyond a distance of twenty feet. But you
can hear the young torrent, as it tears its way down to the light, far
back in the bowels of the ice-mountains.
Scientific observers have placed rows of stones painted black, in
the valley just below the glacier, to show how much it is receding
year by year. It is also shrinking in breadth, as you find out for
yourself when you notice the old lateral moraines, or deposits of
earth and stones, on the two sides of the slowly moving mass. These
are many feet higher on the flanks of the channel than the mounds of
the same kind which are now accumulating. Nevertheless, as you look
up at an angle of about 45° and see this glacier rise for a mile or
so until its tooth-like _seracs_ stand out against the blue sky, you
feel that the Rhône will not dry up at its fountain-head for many a
year to come. This conviction is deepened as your horses struggle up
the scientifically perfect road which takes you across the Furca. You
keep the glacier under observation for more than an hour as you rise
to the height where it bends and is lost in the recesses of the parent
snow-field. You understand how frightful a thing is a crevasse, when
you look down into one and discover that what seemed from below only
a little rift, is a yawning gulf in which your coach and horses might
sink to perdition without touching its sides. Individual _seracs_ loom
up from thirty to fifty feet high. And behind this awful fringe of ice
you see a snow-slope (_névé_) of thousands of acres stretching far back
to the base of a mountain which is itself crowned with a hoary burden.
And then, if not before, you discover that the mighty Rhône glacier is
but the protruding tongue (which it resembles in outline) of a body of
snow and ice whose duration will outlast the arithmetic of puny men.
On the Furca Pass the snow is not deeper than on the Simplon, but
there is more of it. Snow-banks higher than the driver’s head line
one side of the road at intervals for distances of a thousand feet.
On the other side they had been in part pitched down the slope by
the laborers who are always on hand. The summit is nearly 8,000 feet
above the sea. As we climbed to it the horizon widened to the west
and opened up a glorious view of Monte Rosa. As seen from the Furca
Pass, this nearest rival of Mont Blanc looks like a pyramid--showing
but a single peak in place of the two or three crests which I had made
out as I looked across the long level of untrodden snow on the Gorner
Grat. Thus it is that mountains, like everything else, look differently
when viewed from different standpoints. The Matterhorn could barely be
distinguished by reason of a haze in its vicinity. The Weisshorn and
other nearer mountains had been so long in sight that we were glutted
with them. It was the unseen which we longed to see. And when, as our
team pulled up at the door of the Furca Inn, and we found that the
great Finsteraarhorn of the Bernese group was not visible from that
point, nothing we had seen before made up for the disappointment. I
fear that this is only base ingratitude; for the day was an uncommonly
good one for June 15th, and unmixed thankfulness should have been the
only sentiment.
The Furca Inn enjoys the distinction of having been the home of Queen
Victoria for three days in August, 1868. As Americans would say, she
“ran the concern.” The house was hired for her exclusive use. The
royal bed, cooking-utensils, and all the domestic belongings were
brought on from England. So were the doctor, the cook, the gillie, and
even the humblest but still useful members of the Queen’s household. In
the dining-room hangs a framed list of the names of the whole party,
save the Queen, whose photograph surmounts it. Among the autographs
is that of John Brown. The proprietor exhibits with pride the little
room in which Her Majesty slept. Whether the charges are higher in
consequence, the present writer can not say, as he came and went with a
rapidity quite unpleasing to the landlord.
From the summit of the Furca Pass down to Andermatt the ride would be
prodigiously interesting if one were not satiated with the sights on
the western ascent.
After a night at Andermatt the journey was resumed by carriage to
Fluelen and then by boat to Lucerne. Of the scenery along that part
of the route--savage and tame, gloomy and bright, by turns--one could
write more enthusiastically if his impressions of the Furca were not
still fresh.