Yesterday evening I arrived at Lucerne, and put up at the best inn there,
the Schweitzerhof.
"Lucerne, the chief city of the canton, situated on the shore of the
Vierwaldstätter See," says Murray, "is one of the most romantic places of
Switzerland: here cross three important highways, and it is only an hour's
distance by steamboat to Mount Righi, from which is obtained one of the
most magnificent views in the world."
Whether that be true or no, other Guides say the same thing, and
consequently at Lucerne there are throngs of travellers of all
nationalities, especially the English.
The magnificent five-storied building of the Hotel Schweitzerhof is
situated on the quay, at the very edge of the lake, where in olden times
there used to be the crooked covered wooden bridge[49] with chapels on the
corners and pictures on the roof. Now, thanks to the tremendous inroad of
Englishmen, with their necessities, their tastes, and their money, the old
bridge has been torn down, and in its place has been erected a granite
quay, straight as a stick. On the quay are built the long, quadrangular
five-storied houses; in front of the houses two rows of lindens have been
set out and provided with supports, and between the lindens are the usual
supply of green benches.
[Footnote 49: Hofbrücke, torn down in 1852.]
This is the promenade; and here back and forth stroll the Englishwomen in
their Swiss straw hats, and the Englishmen in simple and comfortable
attire, and rejoice in that which they have caused to be created. Possibly
these quays and houses and lindens and Englishmen would be excellent in
their way anywhere else, but here they seem discordant amid this strangely
grandiose and at the same time indescribably harmonious and smiling nature.
As soon as I went up to my room, and opened the window facing the lake, the
beauty of the sheet of water, of these mountains, and of this sky, at the
first moment literally dazzled and overwhelmed me. I experienced an inward
unrest, and the necessity of expressing in some manner the feelings that
suddenly filled my soul to overflowing. I felt a desire to embrace,
powerfully to embrace, some one, to tickle him, or to pinch him; in short,
to do to him and to myself something extraordinary.
It was seven o'clock in the evening. The rain had been falling all day, but
now it had cleared off.
The lake, blue as heated sulphur, spread out before my windows smooth and
motionless, like a concave mirror between the variegated green shores; its
surface was dotted with boats, which left behind them vanishing trails.
Farther away it was contracted between two monstrous headlands, and,
darkling, set itself against and disappeared behind a confused pile of
mountains, clouds, and glaciers. In the foreground stretched a panorama of
moist, fresh green shores, with reeds, meadows, gardens, and villas.
Farther away, the dark-green wooded heights, crowned with the ruins of
feudal castles; in the background, the rolling, pale-lilac-colored vista of
mountains, with fantastic peaks built up of crags and dead white mounds of
snow. And every thing was bathed in a fresh, transparent atmosphere of
azure blue, and kindled by the warm rays of the setting sun, bursting forth
through the riven skies.
Not on the lake nor on the mountains nor in the skies was there a single
completed line, a single unmixed color, a single moment of repose;
everywhere motion, irregularity, fantasy, endless conglomeration and
variety of shades and lines; and above all, a calm, a softness, a unity,
and a striving for the beautiful.
And here amid this indefinable, confused, unfettered beauty, before my very
window, stretched in stupid kaleidoscopic confusion the white line of the
quay, the lindens with their supports, and the green seats,--miserable,
tasteless creations of human ingenuity, not subordinated, like the distant
villas and ruins, to the general harmony of the beautiful scene, but on the
contrary brutally contradicting it.... Constantly, though against my will,
my eyes were attracted to that horribly straight line of the quay; and
mentally I should have liked to spurn it, to demolish it like a black spot
disfiguring the nose beneath one's eye.
But the quay with the sauntering Englishmen remained where it was, and I
involuntarily tried to find a point of view where it would be out of my
sight. I succeeded in finding such a view; and till dinner was ready I took
delight, alone by myself, in this incomplete and therefore the more
enjoyable feeling of oppression that one experiences in the solitary
contemplation of natural beauty.
About half-past seven I was called to dinner. Two long tables,
accommodating at least a hundred persons, were spread in the great,
magnificently decorated dining-room on the first floor.... The silent
gathering of the guests lasted three minutes,--the _frou-frou_ of women's
dresses, the soft steps, the softly-spoken words addressed to the courtly
and elegant waiters. And all the places were occupied by ladies and
gentlemen dressed elegantly, even richly, and for the most part in perfect
taste.
As is apt to be the case in Switzerland, the majority of the guests were
English, and this gave the ruling characteristics of the common table: that
is, a strict decorum regarded as an obligation, a reserve founded not in
pride but in the absence of any necessity for social relationship, and
finally a uniform sense of satisfaction felt by each in the comfortable and
agreeable gratification of his wants.
On all sides gleamed the whitest laces, the whitest collars, the whitest
teeth,--natural and artificial,--the whitest complexions and hands. But the
faces, many of which were very handsome, bore the expression merely of
individual prosperity, and absolute absence of interest in all that
surrounded them unless it bore directly on their own individual selves; and
the white hands glittering with rings, or protected by mitts, moved only
for the purpose of straightening collars, cutting meat, or filling
wine-glasses; no soul-felt emotion was betrayed in these actions.
Occasionally members of some one family would exchange remarks in subdued
voices, about the excellence of such and such a dish or wine, or about the
beauty of the view from Mount Righi.
Individual tourists, whether men or women, sat alongside of each other in
silence, and did not even seem to see each other. If it happened
occasionally, that, out of this five-score human beings, two spoke to each
other, the topic of their conversation consisted uniformly in the weather,
or the ascent of the Righi.
Knives and forks scarcely rattled on the plates, so perfect was the
observance of propriety; and no one dared to convey pease and vegetables to
the mouth otherwise than on the fork. The waiters, involuntarily subdued by
the universal silence, asked in a whisper what wine you would be pleased to
order.
Such dinners invariably depress me: I dislike them, and before they are
over I become blue.... It always seems to me as if I were in some way to
blame; just as when I was a boy I was set upon a chair in consequence of
some naughtiness, and bidden ironically, "Now rest a little while, my dear
young fellow." And all the time my young blood was pulsing through my
veins, and in the other room I could hear the merry shouts of my brothers.
I used to try to rebel against this feeling of being choked down, which I
experienced at such dinners, but in vain. All these dead-and-alive faces
have an irresistible ascendency over me, and I myself become also as one
dead. I have no desires, I have no thoughts: I do not even observe.
At first I attempted to enter into conversation with my neighbors; but I
got no response beyond the phrases which had been repeated in that place a
hundred times, a thousand times, with absolutely no variation of
countenance.
And yet these people were by no means all stupid and feelingless; but
evidently many of them, though they seemed so dead, had got into the habit
of leading self-centred lives, which in reality were far more complicated
and interesting than my own. Why, then, should they deprive themselves of
one of the greatest enjoyments of life,--the enjoyment that comes from the
intercourse of man with man?
How different it used to be in our _pension_ at Paris, where twenty of us,
belonging to as many different nationalities, professions, and
individualities, met together at a common table, and, under the influence
of the Gallic sociability, found the keenest zest!
There, from the very moment that we sat down, from one end of the table to
the other, was general conversation, sandwiched with witticisms and puns,
though often in a broken speech. There every one, without being solicitous
for the proprieties, said whatever came into his head. There we had our own
philosopher, our own disputant, our own _bel esprit_, our own butt,--all
common property.
There, immediately after dinner, we would move the table to one side, and,
without paying too much attention to rhythm, take to dancing the polka on
the dusty carpet, and often keep it up till evening. There, though we were
rather flirtatious, and not over-wise, but perfectly respectable, still we
were human beings.
And the Spanish countess with romantic proclivities, and the Italian
_abbate_ who insisted on declaiming from the Divine Comedy after dinner,
and the American doctor who had the _entrée_ into the Tuileries, and the
young dramatic author with long hair, and the pianist who, according to her
own account, had composed the best polka in existence, and the unhappy
widow who was a beauty, and wore three rings on every finger,--all of us
enjoyed this society, which, though somewhat superficial, was human and
pleasant. And we each carried away from it hearty recollections of each
other, perhaps lighter in some cases, and more serious in others.
But at these English _table-d'hôte_ dinners, as I look at all these laces,
ribbons, jewels, pomaded locks, and silken dresses, I often think how many
living women would be happy, and would make others happy, with these
adornments.
Strange to think how many friends and lovers--most fortunate friends and
lovers--are sitting here side by side, without, perhaps, knowing it! And
God knows why they never come to this knowledge, and never give each other
this happiness, which they might so easily give, and which they so long
for.
I began to feel blue, as invariably happens after such a dinner; and,
without waiting for dessert, I sallied out in the same frame of mind for a
constitutional through the city. My melancholy frame of mind was not
relieved, but rather confirmed by the narrow, muddy streets without
lanterns, the shuttered shops, the encounters with drunken workmen, and
with women hastening after water, or in bonnets, glancing around them as
they turned the corners.
It was perfectly dark in the streets, when I returned to the hotel without
casting a glance about me, or having an idea in my head. I hoped that sleep
would put an end to my melancholy. I experienced that peculiar spiritual
chill and loneliness and heaviness, which, without any reason, beset those
who are just arrived in any new place.
Looking steadfastly down, I walked along the quay to the Schweitzerhof,
when suddenly my ear was struck by the strains of a peculiar but thoroughly
agreeable and sweet music.
These strains had an immediately enlivening effect upon me. It was as
though a bright, cheerful light had poured into my soul. I felt contented,
gay. My slumbering attention was awakened again to all surrounding objects;
and the beauty of the night and the lake, to which till then I had been
indifferent, suddenly came over me with quickening force like a novelty.
I involuntarily took in at a glance the dark sky with gray clouds flecking
its deep blue, now lighted by the rising moon, the glassy dark-green lake
with its surface reflecting the lighted windows, and far away the snowy
mountains; and I heard the croaking of the frogs over on the Freshenburg
shore, and the dewy fresh call of the quail.
Directly in front of me, in the spot whence the sounds of music had first
come, and which still especially attracted my attention, I saw, amid the
semi-darkness on the street, a throng of people standing in a semi-circle,
and in front of the crowd, at a little distance, a small man in dark
clothes.
Behind the throng and the man, there stood out harmoniously against the
dark, ragged sky, gray and blue, the black tops of a few Lombardy poplars
in some garden, and, rising majestically on high, the two stern spires that
stand on the towers of the ancient cathedral.
I drew nearer, and the strains became more distinct. At some distance I
could clearly distinguish the full accords of a guitar, sweetly swelling in
the evening air, and several voices, which, while taking turns with each
other, did not sing any definite theme, but gave suggestions of one in
places wherever the melody was most pronounced.
The theme was in somewhat the nature of a mazurka, sweet and graceful. The
voices sounded now near at hand, now far distant; now a bass was heard, now
a tenor, now a falsetto such as the Tyrolese warblers are wont to sing.
It was not a song, but the graceful masterly sketch of a song. I could not
comprehend what it was, but it was beautiful.
Those voluptuous, soft chords of the guitar, that sweet, gentle melody, and
that solitary figure of the man in black, amid the fantastic environment of
the lake, the gleaming moon, and the twin spires of the cathedral rising in
majestic silence, and the black tops of the poplars,--all was strange and
perfectly beautiful, or at least seemed so to me.
All the confused, arbitrary impressions of life suddenly became full of
meaning and beauty. It seemed to me as though a fresh fragrant flower had
sprung up in my soul. In place of the weariness, dulness, and indifference
toward every thing in the world, which I had been feeling the moment
before, I experienced a necessity for love, a fulness of hope, and an
unbounded enjoyment of life.
"What dost thou desire, what dost thou long for?" an inner voice seemed to
say. "Here it is. Thou art surrounded on all sides by beauty and poetry.
Breathe it in, in full, deep draughts, as long as thou hast strength. Enjoy
it to the full extent of thy capacity. 'Tis all thine, all blessed!"
I drew nearer. The little man was, as it seemed, a travelling Tyrolese. He
stood before the windows of the hotel, one leg a little advanced, his head
thrown back; and, as he thrummed on the guitar, he sang his graceful song
in all those different voices.
I immediately felt an affection for this man, and a gratefulness for the
change which he had brought about in me.
The singer, so far as I was able to judge, was dressed in an old black
coat. He had short black hair, and he wore a civilian's hat that was no
longer new. There was nothing artistic in his attire, but his clever and
youthfully gay motions and pose, together with his diminutive stature,
formed a pleasing and at the same time pathetic spectacle.
On the steps, in the windows, and on the balconies of the brilliantly
lighted hotel, stood ladies handsomely decorated and attired, gentlemen
with polished collars, porters and lackeys in gold-embroidered liveries; in
the street, in the semi-circle of the crowd, and farther along on the
sidewalk, among the lindens, were gathered groups of well-dressed waiters,
cooks in white caps and aprons, and young girls wandering about with arms
about each other's waists.
All, it seemed, were under the influence of the same feeling that I myself
experienced. All stood in silence around the singer, and listened
attentively. Silence reigned, except in the pauses of the song, when there
came from far away across the waters the regular click of a hammer, and
from the Freshenburg shore rang in fascinating monotone the voices of the
frogs, interrupted by the mellow, monotonous call of the quail.
The little man in the darkness, in the midst of the street, poured out his
heart like a nightingale, in couplet after couplet, song after song. Though
I had come close to him, his singing continued to give me greater and
greater gratification.
His voice, which was not of great power, was extremely pleasant and tender;
the taste and feeling for rhythm which he displayed in the control of it
were extraordinary, and proved that he had great natural gifts.
After he sung each couplet, he invariably repeated the theme in variation,
and it was evident that all his graceful variations came to him at the
instant, spontaneously.
Among the crowd, and above on the Schweitzerhof, and near by on the
boulevard, were heard frequent murmurs of approval, though generally the
most respectful silence reigned.
The balconies and the windows kept filling more and more with handsomely
dressed men and women leaning on their elbows, and picturesquely
illuminated by the lights in the house.
Promenaders came to a halt, and in the darkness on the quay stood men and
women in little groups. Near me, at some distance from the common crowd,
stood an aristocratic cook and lackey, smoking their cigars. The cook was
forcibly impressed by the music, and at every high falsetto note
enthusiastically nodded his head to the lackey, and nudged him with his
elbow with an expression of astonishment that seemed to say, "How he sings!
hey?"
The lackey, whose careless smile betrayed the depth of feeling that he
experienced, replied to the cook's nudges by shrugging his shoulders, as if
to show that it was hard enough for him to be made enthusiastic, and that
he had heard much better music.
In one of the pauses of his song, while the minstrel was clearing his
throat, I asked the lackey who he was, and if he often came there.
"Twice this summer he has been here," replied the lackey. "He is from
Aargau; he goes round begging."
"Well, do many like him come round here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," replied the lackey, not comprehending the full force of what I
asked; but, immediately after, recollecting himself, he added, "Oh, no.
This one is the only one I ever heard here. No one else."
At this moment the little man had finished his first song, briskly twanged
his guitar, and said something in his German patois, which I could not
understand, but which brought forth a hearty round of laughter from the
surrounding throng.
"What was that he said?" I asked.
"He says that his throat is dried up, he would like some wine," replied the
lackey who was standing near me.
"What? is he rather fond of the glass?"
"Yes, all that sort of people are," replied the lackey, smiling and
pointing at the minstrel.
The minstrel took off his cap, and swinging his guitar went toward the
hotel. Raising his head, he addressed the ladies and gentlemen standing by
the windows and on the balconies, saying in a half-Italian, half-German
accent, and with the same intonation that jugglers use in speaking to their
audiences,--
"_Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chose, vous
vous trompez: je ne suis qu'un pauvre tiaple._"
He stood in silence a moment, but as no one gave him any thing, he once
more took up his guitar and said,--
"_À présent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l'air du Righi._"
His hotel audience made no response, but stood in expectation of the coming
song. Below on the street a laugh went round, probably in part because he
had expressed himself so strangely, and in part because no one had given
him any thing.
I gave him a few centimes, which he deftly changed from one hand to the
other, and bestowed them in his vest-pocket; and then, replacing his cap,
began once more to sing the graceful, sweet Tyrolese melody which he had
called _l'air du Righi_.
This song, which formed the last on his programme, was even better than the
preceding, and from all sides in the wondering throng were heard sounds of
approbation.
He finished. Again he swung his guitar, took off his cap, held it out in
front of him, went two or three steps nearer to the windows, and again
repeated his stock phrase,--
"_Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chose_," which
he evidently considered to be very shrewd and witty; but in his voice and
motions I perceived a certain irresolution and childish timidity which were
especially touching in a person of such diminutive stature.
The elegant public, still picturesquely grouped in the lighted windows and
on the balconies, were shining in their rich attire; a few conversed in
soberly discreet tones, apparently about their singer who was standing
there below them with outstretched hand; others gazed down with attentive
curiosity on the little black figure; on one balcony could be heard the
merry, ringing laughter of some young girl.
In the surrounding crowd the talk and laughter grew constantly louder and
louder.
The singer for the third time repeated his phrase, but in a still weaker
voice, and did not even end the sentence; and again he stretched his hand
with his cap, but instantly drew it back. Again not one of those
brilliantly dressed scores of people standing to listen to him threw him a
penny.
The crowd laughed heartlessly.
The little singer, so it seemed to me, shrunk more into himself, took his
guitar into his other hand, lifted his cap, and said,--
"_Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie, et je vous souhais une bonne
nuit._" Then he put on his hat.
The crowd cackled with laughter and satisfaction. The handsome ladies and
gentlemen, calmly exchanging remarks, withdrew gradually from the
balconies. On the boulevard the promenading began once more. The street,
which had been still during the singing, assumed its wonted liveliness; a
few men, however, stood at some distance, and, without approaching the
singer, looked at him and laughed.
I heard the little man muttering something between his teeth as he turned
away; and I saw him, apparently growing more and more diminutive, hurry
toward the city with brisk steps. The promenaders who had been looking at
him followed him at some distance, still making merry at his expense. My
mind was in a whirl; I could not comprehend what it all meant; and still
standing in the same place, I gazed abstractedly into the darkness after
the little man, who was fast disappearing, as he went with ever-increasing
swiftness with long strides into the city, followed by the merry-making
promenaders.
I was overmastered by a feeling of pain, of bitterness, and above all, of
shame for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as though it were I
who had asked for money and received none; as though it were I who had been
turned to ridicule.
Without looking any longer, feeling my heart oppressed, I also hurried with
long strides toward the entrance of the Schweitzerhof. I could not explain
the feeling that overmastered me; only there was something like a stone,
from which I could not free myself, weighing down my soul and oppressing
me.
At the ample, well-lighted entrance, I met the porter, who politely made
way for me. An English family was also at the door. A portly, handsome, and
tall gentleman, with black side-whiskers, in a black hat, and with a plaid
on one arm, while in his hand he carried a costly cane, came out slowly and
full of importance. Leaning on his arm was a lady, who wore a raw silk
dress and bonnet with bright ribbons and the most costly laces. Together
with them was a pretty, fresh-looking young lady, in a graceful Swiss hat
with a feather _à la mousquetaire_; from under it escaped long light-yellow
curls softly encircling her fair face. In front of them skipped a buxom
girl of ten, with round white knees which showed from under her thin
embroideries. "Magnificent night!" the lady was saying in a sweet, happy
voice, as I passed them.
"Oh, yes," growled the Englishman lazily; and it was evident that he found
it so enjoyable to be alive in the world, that it was too much trouble even
to speak.
And it seemed as though all of them alike found it so comfortable and easy,
so light and free, to be alive in the world, their faces and motions
expressed such perfect indifference to the lives of every one else, and
such absolute confidence that it was to them that the porter made way and
bowed so profoundly, and that when they returned they would find clean,
comfortable beds and rooms, and that all this was bound to be, and was
their indefeasible right, that I involuntarily contrasted them with the
wandering minstrel who weary, perhaps hungry, full of shame, was retreating
before the laughing crowd. And then suddenly I comprehended what it was
that oppressed my heart with such a load of heaviness, and I felt an
indescribable anger against these people.
Twice I walked up and down past the Englishman, and each time, without
turning out for him, my elbow punched him, which gave me a feeling of
indescribable satisfaction; and then, darting down the steps, I hastened
through the darkness in the direction toward the city taken by the little
man.
Overtaking the three men who had been walking together, I asked them where
the singer was; they laughed, and pointed straight ahead. There he was,
walking alone with brisk steps; no one was with him; all the time, as it
seemed to me, he was indulging in bitter monologue.
I caught up with him, and proposed to him to go somewhere with me and drink
a bottle of wine. He kept on with his rapid walk, and scarcely deigned to
look at me; but when he perceived what I was saying, he halted.
"Well, I would not refuse, if you would be so kind," said he; "here is a
little café, we can go in there. It's not fashionable," he added, pointing
to a drinking-saloon that was still open.
His expression "not fashionable" involuntarily suggested the idea of not
going to an unfashionable café, but to go to the Schweitzerhof, where those
who had been listening to him were. Notwithstanding the fact that several
times he showed a sort of timid disquietude at the idea of going to the
Schweitzerhof, declaring that it was too fine for him there, still I
insisted in carrying out my purpose; and he, putting the best face on the
matter, gayly swinging his guitar, went back with me across the quay.
A few loiterers who had happened along as I was talking with the minstrel,
and had stopped to hear what I had to say, now, after arguing among
themselves, followed us to the very entrance of the hotel, evidently
expecting from the Tyrolese some further demonstration.
I ordered a bottle of wine of a waiter whom I met in the hall. The waiter
smiled and looked at us, and went by without answering. The head waiter, to
whom I addressed myself with the same order, listened to me solemnly, and,
measuring the minstrel's modest little figure from head to foot, sternly
ordered the waiter to take us to the room at the left.
The room at the left was a bar-room for simple people. In the corner of
this room a hunch-backed maid was washing dishes. The whole furniture
consisted of bare wooden tables and benches.
The waiter who came to serve us looked at us with a supercilious smile,
thrust his hands in his pockets, and exchanged some remarks with the
humpbacked dish-washer. He evidently tried to give us to understand that he
felt himself immeasurably higher than the minstrel, both in dignity and
social position, so that he considered it not only an indignity, but even
an actual joke, that he was called upon to serve us.
"Do you wish _vin ordinaire_?" he asked with a knowing look, winking toward
my companion, and switching his napkin from one hand to the other.
"Champagne, and your very best," said I, endeavoring to assume my
haughtiest and most imposing appearance.
But neither my champagne, nor my endeavor to look haughty and imposing, had
the least effect on the servant: he smiled incredulously, loitered a moment
or two gazing at us, took time enough to glance at his gold watch, and with
leisurely steps, as though going out for a walk, left the room.
Soon he returned with the wine, bringing two other waiters with him. These
two sat down near the dish-washer, and gazed at us with amused attention
and a bland smile, just as parents gaze at their children when they are
gently playing. Only the dish-washer, it seemed to me, did not look at us
scornfully but sympathetically.
Though it was trying and awkward to lunch with the minstrel, and to play
the entertainer, under the fire of all these waiters' eyes, I tried to do
my duty with as little constraint as possible. In the lighted room I could
see him better. He was a small but symmetrically built and muscular man,
though almost a dwarf in stature; he had bristly black hair, teary big
black eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a thoroughly pleasant, attractively shaped
mouth. He had little side-whiskers, his hair was short, his attire was very
simple and mean. He was not over-clean, was ragged and sunburnt, and in
general had the look of a laboring-man. He was far more like a poor
tradesman than an artist.
Only in his ever humid and brilliant eyes, and in his firm mouth, was there
any sign of originality or genius. By his face it might be conjectured that
his age was between twenty-five and forty; in reality, he was
thirty-seven.
Here is what he related to me, with good-natured readiness and evident
sincerity, of his life. He was a native of Aargau. In early childhood he
had lost father and mother; other relatives he had none. He had never owned
any property. He had been apprenticed to a carpenter; but twenty-two years
previously one of his hands had been attacked by caries, which had
prevented him from ever working again.
From childhood he had been fond of singing, and he began to be a singer.
Occasionally strangers had given him money. With this he had learned his
profession, bought his guitar, and now for eighteen years he had been
wandering about through Switzerland and Italy, singing before hotels. His
whole luggage consisted of his guitar, and a little purse in which, at the
present time, there was only half a franc. That would have to suffice for
supper and lodgings this night.
Every year now for eighteen years he had made the round of the best and
most popular resorts of Switzerland,--Zurich, Lucerne, Interlaken,
Chamounix, etc.; by the way of the St. Bernard he would go down into Italy,
and return over the St. Gothard, or through Savoy. Just at present it was
rather hard for him to walk, as he had caught a cold, causing him to suffer
from some trouble in his legs,--he called it rheumatism,--which grew more
severe from year to year; and, moreover, his voice and eyes had grown
weaker. Nevertheless, he was on his way to Interlaken, Aix-les-Bains, and
thence over the Little St. Bernard to Italy, which he was very fond of. It
was evident that on the whole he was well content with his life.
When I asked him why he returned home, if he had any relatives there, or a
house and land, his mouth parted in a gay smile, and he replied, "_Oui, le
sucre est bon, il est doux pour les enfants!_" and he winked at the
servants.