The Rhine is a natural frontier, not shutting off anything, but
dividing Basle into two parts, which does not prevent both sides from
being inexpressibly dull. Everything here is oppressed by a threefold
dullness: German, commercial and Swiss. It is no wonder that the only
artistic work that originated in Basle took the form of a dance of the
dying with Death[47]; none but the dead rejoice here, though the German
inhabitants are extremely fond of music—of a very grave and elevated
character, however. The town is a place of transit; every one passes
through it, but nobody stays here except commissioners and carriers of
the higher order.
No one could live in Basle apart from a passion for money. Though,
indeed, life is dull in Swiss towns as a rule, and not only in Swiss
towns, but in all little towns. ‘Florence is a wonderful town,’ said
Bakunin, ‘like a delicious sweetmeat ... you are delighted while you
eat it, but in a week you are deadly sick of everything sweet.’ That is
perfectly true, and nothing need be said about Swiss towns after that. In
old days it was quiet and pleasant on the shores of Lake Leman; but since
villas have been built all the way from Vevey and whole families of the
Russian nobility, impoverished by the calamities of the 19th of February
1861, have taken up their abode in them, it is no place for such as us.