‘Is there a seat free for Andermatt?’
‘Most likely there will be.’
‘In the _cabriolet_?’
‘Perhaps; you must come at half-past ten....’
I look at my watch, it is a quarter to three ... and with a feeling of
fury I sit down on a seat in front of the café. Noise, shouting, trunks
dragged about, horses led, horses needlessly stamping on the stones,
waiters from the restaurants fighting over travellers, ladies rummaging
among the portmanteaus.... Clack, clack, our diligence has galloped
off; clack, clack, another has galloped after it.... The square grows
empty, everything has gone away.... The heat is deadly, the sunlight is
hideously bright, the stones grow whiter; a dog lies down in the middle
of the square, but suddenly leaps up with indignation and runs into
the shade. The fat landlord sits in his shirt-sleeves before the café,
continually dropping asleep. A peasant-woman comes along with fish. ‘How
much are the fish?’ the landlord asks with an expression of intense
anger. The woman tells the price. ‘_Carrogna!_’ shouts the landlord.
‘_Ladro!_’ shouts the woman. ‘Go along with you, old she-devil.’ ‘Will
you take it, you robber?’ ‘Well, let me have it for _tre venti_ the
pound.’ ‘May you die unshriven!’ The landlord takes the fish, the woman
takes the money, and their parting is friendly. All their abusive
epithets are just an accepted etiquette, like the forms of politeness
employed by us.
The dog goes on sleeping, the landlord has taken in the fish and is
dozing again, the sun is baking. I can’t sit there any longer. I go
into the café, take up a sheet of paper and begin writing, not knowing
in the least what I am going to write: a description of the mountains
and precipices, of the flowering meadows and bare granite rocks—all
that is in the guide ... better talk gossip.... Gossip is the repose of
conversation, its dessert, its sauce; only idealists and theoretical
people do not like gossip.... But about whom? Why, of course about the
subject nearest to our patriotic heart, our charming fellow-countrymen.
There are plenty of them everywhere, especially in good hotels.
It is still just as easy to recognise Russians as it always has been.
The zoological features noted long ago have not been effaced, though
the number of travellers has been so greatly increased. Russians speak
in a loud voice where others speak in a low voice, and do not speak at
all where others speak loud. They laugh aloud and tell funny stories in
a whisper, they quickly make friends with the waiters and slowly with
their neighbours. They eat with their knives. The military people look
like Germans, but are distinguished from them by the peculiar insolence
of the back of their heads and their original bristling hair; the ladies
attract attention by their dress in railway trains and steamers, just as
Englishwomen do at _table d’hôte_, and so on.
The lake of Thun has become a tank about which our tourists of the
higher sort have settled. The _Fremden List_ might have been copied out
of a reference book; ministers and grandees, generals of every branch
of the service, even of the secret police, are recorded in it. In the
hotel-gardens the great _mit Weib und Kind_ enjoy nature, and in the
hotel dining-room her gifts.
‘Did you come by Gemmi or Grimsel?’ an Englishwoman will ask her
fellow-countrywoman.
‘Are you staying at the Jungfraublick or at the Victoria?’ a Russian
woman will ask her fellow-countrywoman.
‘There is the Jungfrau!’ says an Englishwoman.
‘There is Reytern, the Minister of Finance!’ says a Russian.
* * * * *
‘_Intcinq minutes d’arrêt_....’
‘_Intcinq minutes d’arrêt_....’
And every one in the railway carriages hurries into the restaurant and
rushes to a table in haste to devour dinner in some twenty minutes, from
which the railway authorities will inevitably steal five or six, besides
scaring away the appetite with a terrifying bell and shout of ‘_En
voiture!_’
A tall lady in black walked in, together with her husband in
light-coloured clothes, and with them two children.... A poorly dressed
girl with her arms full of bags and parcels walked in with a shy awkward
air. She stood a little, then went into a corner and sat down almost
beside me. The sharp eye of the waiter detected her; after flying past
her with a plate on which lay a slice of roast beef he pounced like a
hawk on the poor girl and asked her what she wished to order. ‘Nothing,’
she answered, and the waiter, summoned by an English clergyman, ran off
to him ... but a minute later he flew down upon her again, and waving his
napkin asked her: ‘What was it you ordered?’
The girl muttered something, flushed crimson and stood up. It sent a pang
to my heart. I longed to offer her something, but I did not dare.
Before I had made up my mind what to do, the lady in black turned her
dark eyes about the room, and seeing the girl, beckoned to her with her
finger. She went up, the lady pointed her to the soup that the children
had not finished, and she, standing among rows of sitting and astonished
travellers, confused and helpless, ate two spoonfuls and put down the
plate.
‘_Essieurs les voyageurs pour Ucinnungen onction, et tontuyx-en voiture!_’
All rushed with unnecessary haste to their carriages.
I could not refrain from saying to the waiter (not the hawk, another
one): ‘Did you see?’
‘To be sure I did—they are Russians.’
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