But one must not be altogether unreasonable. When we first came in sight
of the lake the rain lifted, and the afternoon sun gushed out upon a
world of vineyards. In other words, the vines clothe all the little
levels and vast slopes of the mountain-sides as far up as the cold will
let the grapes grow. There is literally almost no other cultivation, and
it is a very pretty sight. On top of the mountains are the chalets with
their kine, and at a certain elevation the milk and the wine meet, while
below is the water of the lake, so good to mix with both. I do not know
that the Swiss use it for that purpose, but there are countries where
something of the sort would be done.
When the train put us down at Villeneuve, among railway people as
indifferent as our own at country stations, and much crosser and more
snubbing, the demand for grapes began with the party who remained with
the baggage, while a party of the second part went off to find the
_pension_ where we were to pass the next three months. The grape-seekers
strolled up the stony, steaming streets of the little town, asking for
grapes right and left, at all the shops, in their imperfect French, and
returned to the station with a paper of gingerbread which they had
bought at a jeweller's. I do not know why this artist should have had it
for sale, but he must have had it a long time, for it was densely
inhabited. Afterwards we found two shops in Villeneuve where they had
the most delicious _petits gâteaux_, fresh every day, and nothing but
the mania for unattainable grapes prevented the first explorers from
seeing them.
In the mean time the party of the second part had found the pension--a
pretty stone villa overlooking the lake, under the boughs of tall
walnut-trees, on the level of a high terrace. Laurel and holly hemmed it
in on one side, and southward spread a pleasant garden full of roses and
imperfectly ripening fig-trees. In the rear the vineyards climbed the
mountains in irregular breadths to the belt of walnuts, beyond which
were only forests and pastures. I heard the roar of the torrent that
foamed down the steep; the fountain plashed under the group of laurels
at the kitchen door; the roses dripped all round the house; and the lake
lapped its shores below. Decidedly there was a sense of wet.
The house, which had an Italian outside covered with jasmine and
wistarias, confessed the North within. There was a huge hall stove, not
yet heated, but on the hearth of the pleasant salon an acceptable fire
of little logs was purring. Beside it sat a lady reading, and at a table
her daughter was painting flowers. A little Italian, a very little
English, a good deal of French, helped me to understand that
mademoiselle the landlady was momentarily absent, that the season was
exceptionally bad, and that these ladies were glad of the sunshine which
we were apparently bringing with us. They spoke with those Suissesse
voices, which are the sweetest and most softly modulated voices in the
world, whether they come from the throat of peasant or of lady, and can
make a transaction in eggs and butter in the market-place as musical as
chanted verse. To the last these voices remained a delight, and the
memory of them made most Italian women's voices a pang when we heard
them afterwards.
V
At first we were the only people in the house besides these Swiss ladies
and their son and brother, but later there came two ladies from
Strasburg, and with them our circle was complete at the table and around
the evening lamp in the drawing-room. I am bound to say for the circle,
outside of ourselves, that it was a cultivated and even intellectual
company, with traits that provoked unusual sympathy and interest. But
those friendly people are quite their own property, and I have no
intention of compelling them to an involuntary celebrity in these pages,
much as I should like to impart their quality to my narrative. In the
Strasbourgeoises we encountered again that pathos of an insulted and
down-trodden nationality which had cast its melancholy over our Venice
of Austrian days. German by name and by origin, these ladies were
intensely French in everything else. They felt themselves doomed to
exile in their own country, they abhorred their Prussian masters, and
they had no name for Bismarck that was bad enough. Our Swiss, indeed,
hated him almost as bitterly. Their sympathies had been wholly with the
French, and they could not repress a half-conscious dread of his
principle of race nationality, which would be fatal to Switzerland, one
neither in race nor religion, but hitherto indivisible in her ancient
freedom. While he lives this fear can never die in Swiss hearts, for
they know that if he will, he can, in a Europe where he is the only real
power.
Mademoiselle sat at the chief place of the table, and led the talk,
imparting to it a flavor of humorous good sense very characteristic. The
villa had been her father's country-house, and it abounded in a
scholar's accumulations of old books in divers languages. She herself
knew literature widely in the better way that it was once read. The
memories of many years spent in Florence made common Italian ground for
us, and she spoke English perfectly.
As I wish to give a complete notion of our household, so far as it may
be honestly set down, I will add that the domestics were three. Two of
them, the cook and the housemaid, were German Swiss, of middle class,
who had taken service to earn what money they could, but mainly to learn
French, after the custom of their country, where the young people of a
French or Italian canton would in like manner resort to a German
province. The third was Louis, a native, who spoke his own _patois_, and
found it sufficient for the expression of his ideas. He was chiefly
employed about the grounds; in-doors his use was mostly to mount the
peculiar clogs used for the purpose, and rub the waxed floors till they
shone. These floors were very handsome, of hard woods prettily inlaid;
and Louis produced an effect upon them that it seemed a pity to mar with
muddy shoes.
I do not speak of Alexis, the farmer, who appeared in domestic
exigencies; but my picture would be incomplete without the portrait of
Poppi. Poppi was the large house-dog, who in early life had intended to
call himself Puppy, but he naturally pronounced it with a French accent.
He was now far from young, but he was still Poppi. I believe he was the
more strictly domestic in his habits because an infirmity of temper had
betrayed him into an attack upon a neighbor, or a neighbor's dog, and it
was no longer safe for him to live much out-of-doors. The confinement
had softened his temper, but it had rendered him effeminate and
self-indulgent. He had, in fact, been spoiled by the boarders, and he
now expected to be present at meals, and to be fed with choice morsels
from their plates. As the cold weather came on he developed rheumatism,
and demanded our sympathy as well as our hospitality. If Elise in
waiting on table brushed him with her skirts, he set up a lamentable
cry, and rushed up to the nearest guest, and put his chin on the table
for his greater convenience in being comforted. At a dance which we had
one evening Poppi insisted upon being present, and in his efforts to
keep out of the way and in the apprehensions he suffered he abandoned
himself to moans and howls that sometimes drowned the piano.
Yet Poppi was an amiable invalid, and he was on terms of
perfect friendship with the cats, of which there were three
generations--Boulette, Boulette's mother, and Boulette's grandmother.
They were not readily distinguishable from one another, and I really
forget which it was that used to mount to the dining-room window
without, and paw the glass till we let her in; but we all felt that it
was a great accomplishment, and reflected credit upon us.