VAL MEDELS--THE UOMO PASS--VAL PIORA--RITOM--ALTANCA.
With the imagination be content,
Not wishing more; repining not to tread
The little sinuous path of earthly care,
By flowers embellished, and by springs refreshed.
WORDSWORTH.
_August 24._--Last night I had proposed that we should start this
morning at 5--my usual hour for getting under weigh. But as my proposal
appeared to be objectionable to the communist I withdrew it, and told
him that we would breakfast at 5.45, and be off at 6. At 5.45, as I
left my room, I saw that he was still asleep in his crib in the upper
passage. While sitting down to breakfast I requested the landlord to
make him get up. After breakfast I asked for the bill. The landlord
left the room to make it out with the aid of his wife. As the room was
very small, and they were only just beyond the open door, I could not
but hear what passed. They agreed between them that the charge should
be 4 francs. I then found that my man had descended the ladder, for
I heard him suggest that they should write 5 francs. A little after 6
we got under weigh. Having crossed the stream of the Val Cristallina,
and rounded the foot of M. Garviel, over large blocks of gneiss, we
entered the long upper stage of the Val Medels. It is a grand valley
about 6 miles in length. The only buildings it contains are the three
small refuges of St. Gion, St. Gall, and Santa Maria. The ascent is
gradual, for in the 6 miles you only rise about 1,000 feet--from 5,036
at Perdatsch to 6,243 at Santa Maria. There is no bottom land in it
capable of being mown for hay. This results from the rocks, with which
it is thickly strewn, being so large that they could not be removed for
levelling the ground. Its lofty ranges stand some way back from each
other. The concavity of the valley is grandly simple. The long lines of
descent sweep down from the summits of the two ridges to meet in the
stream of the Mittel Rhein. At first, and high up, the descent of these
lines is steep, but all the way down the steepness is lessening, at an
even rate of diminution, till they almost come to a level in the bottom
at their point of contact. In this long open valley there are no trees,
though we are told that the name Lukmanier (_Lucus magnus_) implies
that there were once many. If ever it were so, their place has now been
taken by tufts of dwarf alder, and of dwarf juniper, which rise only
a foot or two from the ground, and at the lower part of the valley
thickly stud the hillsides. The alder dies out after a time, but the
juniper continues, though in ever lessening amount, to the further
end. As this long valley is throughout pretty well turfed, it must be
capable of maintaining during the few months it is free from snow, a
great amount of stock. I saw in it some large flocks and herds.
My companion appeared to take no interest in the scene, or in the
people; and this morning I was not disposed to take much interest
in him, and so I left him very much to himself. At last he began of
his own suggestion to talk about our fellow-traveller of last night,
his thoughts still running on Paris. He wished to know whether I had
discovered who our fellow-traveller was, or whether he had himself
told me. Yes, I replied, he had told me that he was a Frenchman. ‘A
Frenchman!’ he exclaimed; ‘he was an accursed Prussian spy. You could
see it in his face. You could see it in his maps. You could see it
in his being alone. He had been sent from Berlin to map the country,
that the Prussians might know beforehand to what account the Lukmanier
might be turned, should the Pass ever in any way be needed in any
coming war. A Frenchman! What Frenchman ever could speak both German
and English? But many Germans could speak both English and French. He
was an accursed Prussian spy. The French it was who had gained all the
glory of the late war. They had shown that they were the braver of
the two people. They had not employed spies, nor had they trusted to
gold.’ This was meant for England. ‘In the next war they would crush
the accursed Prussians.’
And so we reached Santa Maria--a hospice which is much cleaner and more
commodious inside than you would expect from the outside. I should not
have entered it had not my miso-Prussian companion thought that his
two hours’ walk had earned him a half hour’s halt and a _chopine_ of
wine. It was as fine a morning as nature could put together at this
elevation. No ingredient required for the composition had been stinted.
The sun was shining brightly. The air was fresh, and crisp; for its
current, as is the rule on quiet mornings till about 9 o’clock, was
down from the snowy tops around. When the valley after 9 A.M. begins to
get heated, the current is reversed, and continues upward till about 4
or 5 P.M. In the sunshine the warmth felt like a kind of subtle ether,
which permeated one’s whole system, for the moment you were out of it,
you felt the want of it; and the moment you returned to it, you felt
again, throughout your whole frame, the influence of the all-pervading
fluid. I sat on a rock on the sunny side of the cheese-house, in front
of the hospice. Immediately behind the hospice was the long flank of a
greenish brown, and the snowy summit, of the Scopi, nearly 1,450 feet
above me. Straight before me, twenty minutes off, was the summit of
the Lukmanier Pass, only 250 feet higher than my seat. To the right,
at the distance of an hour and a half, and 1,200 feet higher, was
the Uomo Pass. It was a grand and impressive mountain scene. There
was at the time in sight a party of Italians bringing bags of salt on
their asses down the Lukmanier, and showing in the distance no bigger
than mice. The salt was for distribution among the cheese-makers of
this, and of the contiguous valleys. For how many centuries had salt
travelled that way! What a large part had its traffic played in the
early communications of mankind! How surely does what is wanted wear
for itself a way. This commodity is bulky, and but little is to be
gained by bringing it, and yet the supply has never failed. But here
the days of the traffic in its present form are now numbered, for the
new road is all staked out; and when it shall be made, these asses
laden with salt will no longer come down the Lukmanier, accompanied by
their shaggy owners. Salt, however, will be cheaper in V. Medels, and
V. Cristallina, and the other valleys of this group of mountains. Some
figures that now add a suggestion to the scene, will have disappeared
from it; but human life will have become a little easier and better
supplied, and that not in salt only, but in many other things besides.
Half an hour having passed with some discontent, though on the balance
of the whole without much reason for it, we began the ascent of the
Uomo. It would be worth walking up it were it only to see in some of
the little rock basins of its stream, when you are about two-thirds
of the way up, how wonderfully transparent water can become, or rather
is before it has become charged in one way or another with extraneous
matters. On reaching the summit you there find that the water cannot
readily get away on account of the number of little depressions
spread over the surface. Here, therefore, it is rather swampy. These
depressions have, perhaps, been caused by the concussion of falling
avalanches. Where the momentum of such masses in motion is arrested,
some soil must be thrown out, and a depression formed, which same soil
perhaps is again thrown back by the subsequent fall of other avalanches
to the right or left. By action of this kind the whole surface may be
kept in a swampy state. This swampy summit is a common watershed both
for the Rhine and for the Po, so that you are uncertain whether the
little pool before you will send its overflow to the North sea, or to
the Adriatic, or divide it between the two.
On leaving the summit you turn to the right, your path at first being
on the mid flank of the mountain which forms the northern range of the
Val Piora, on which you now enter. Hitherto Piora has been known only
for its cheese; but I am disposed to think that the day is coming,
when it will have a place in the memories of the eye as well as of
the palate. As you take your first glance down the valley, you see
beyond it the grand group of the St. Gothard, standing up well before
you, gray-sided, many-peaked, precipitous, and snowy, looking down
on the lesser heights of the Val Canaria. As you descend the valley,
you ask why its cheese should have become so famous? You find the
answer beneath your feet. Its wholesome-looking turf is rooted in
disintegrated limestone. If, then, it be true that good horses cannot
be bred except on limestone pastures, and that even the human organism
is the better for having, as we may say, been bred at second, or third
hand upon them, through its vegetable and animal food, then we can
understand how it comes about that the cheese of Piora takes high rank
in the order of merit. I recollect having heard more than thirty years
ago the Sir George Crewe of those days affirm, that when he left home
he generally missed in the vegetables served at his dinner the flavour,
which a dressing of lime imparted to the same sorts, when grown in
his own garden at Calke Abbey. People then thought this fanciful; it
was, however, an anticipation of what we are now told is demonstrable.
He at all events would not have overlooked its limestone pastures in
endeavouring to account for the merits of Piora cheese.
At what, till you reach it, appears to be the lower end of the valley,
you find a small lake, with a village on its further shore. To the left
of the lake, and somewhat above it, is one of the chief cheese-stores
of Piora. It is a roomy stone structure, partially sunk in the ground,
with the view of keeping its temperature equable. I cannot say how many
cheeses I saw in it; but there were a great many, and they weighed
about fifty pounds each, and their wholesale price was eighty cents a
pound. From this point, bearing to the left, and descending to a lower
level, you reach a second lake of a blue-green colour, about a mile in
length. Its name is Ritom. You pass along its right-hand shore, at the
bottom of a steep range, from which you see that rocks must frequently
be detached in spring. At about the middle of the path along the lake
is a second store for Piora cheese. The cheeses are made on the Alps,
and are brought to these storehouses to mature. Here we again stopped.
At both of these storehouses we found two men in charge. Our object now
was to make inquiries about Altanca, a village on the northern ridge
of the Val Leventina, where I proposed to spend the afternoon, and to
stop for the night. I had been told at Dissentis, by a horse-dealer who
frequented these valleys in the way of his business, that at Altanca
the only person who undertook to provide accommodation for travellers
was the Curé. As we were now drawing near to the place I thought that
I might here get some definite information on this point. The head
cheese-maker, to whom I addressed myself, might have sat for the model
of a Hercules. I never saw a man who, I could have supposed, would in
the days of clubs and spears have had a better chance in encounters
with hundred-headed hydras, gigantic boars, and man-eating lions. His
features, which were garnished by a thick, curly, black beard, though
large, were not at all coarse, but only in fair proportion to his
massive frame. To my inquiries about the capabilities of the Curé’s
establishment, he replied that the Curé himself was old, and deaf,
and that he had three sisters of about his own age residing with him.
I noticed the indirectness of his reply, which left it to me to draw
for myself from the particulars he had given whatever inferences I
pleased, and thought that there was rather more of diplomacy in this
than I should have expected in a mountain cow-herd. Taking it, however,
to imply that an evening spent with the deaf old Curé and his three
equæval sisters would not be a lively one, I asked him if he could put
me in the way of finding something more promising. ‘I can commend to
you,’ he replied, ‘a _Parisienne_.’ It was clear from his look, as well
as from his confining himself to that single word, that he knew very
well what were the ideas it called up in people’s minds--vivacity, as
much as could be maintained at Altanca, good cookery, as far as the
materials of Altanca admitted, and some mementos of a more embellished
mode of life than was native to Altanca. Of course I was obliged to
him, and would entrust myself to the _Parisienne_. On my offering him
a glass of Scotch whisky, of which I had a flask with me, he saw that
I was a Britisher, and replied in English. His story was that he had
gone out to California as a digger, and there it was that he had picked
up his modicum of French and English, and his knowledge of the world.
After some years of digging, he had found that gold was no compensation
for absence from his native mountains. Hercules in the garden of the
Hesperides was pining for houseless and treeless Piora; and so he had
returned, and become a cowherd once more on the borders of the blue
lake, and at the foot of the craggy mountain. As I left him, I thought
how much more tender his heart was than his hand, which I felt could
have crushed mine almost as easily as it could an egg-shell.
At the foot of the lake I came upon an hotel in construction. It was
nearly completed. There were at work upon it forty-six Italian masons
and carpenters. The architect, and the future landlord, were present
superintending and expediting the work. The old Curé, too, who had come
up from Altanca, was seated on a rock close by, alone, watching its
progress. Perhaps he was thinking that a new order of things was about
to commence; that Altanca was about to be introduced to the world, and
the world to Altanca; that the quietude of centuries was about to end;
that troublous times might be coming: but if so that it would be his
successor that would have to deal with them. Perhaps also the Curé of
Altanca may have wondered where the fifty guests, who it is hoped will
fill the fifty beds of this hotel, are to come from. Those, however,
who are aware that there will be no difficulty in finding many fifties
who are ready to come, will be rather disposed to ask how they are to
get to the hotel? People hereabouts say, that when the road over the
Lukmanier shall be completed, there will be taken in hand a branch from
it over the Uomo, down the Piora, and by Altanca to Val Leventina. This
is probable enough, for one improvement generally suggests, and leads
on to others, which in fact it renders possible. The road, however,
from this hotel by Altanca to Val Leventina will be a very difficult
piece of engineering, for it will be down an unusually steep descent of
2,500 feet.
The existing horse-track from the hotel at the foot of the lake down
to Altanca covers about half of these 2,500 feet. Though steep it is
for the most part paved, and must have been a great undertaking for
so small a community, for it comprises only twenty-five families; and
all this was done to enable these poor villagers to send their cows
up to the mountain pastures, and to bring down their produce. It was
one more instance, and, though you have instances of it everywhere in
Switzerland, a very striking one, of how much people will do, when
they are working for themselves. The road was to be made, if it ever
could be made, to enable them to send their own cows to their own
pastures, and therefore it was that the arduous work was taken in hand,
and carried through. In places the road is along the edge of a grand
ravine, at the bottom of which is the stream that drains the lake into
the Ticino. It has two very fine cascades. One of the mountains that
rises above it is Hadrian’s tomb expanded into a mountain.
And now we are at Altanca. Just above it are some little prairies
and small pine woods. Wherever there was a chance that a tree might
be able to hold on, one had been persuaded to make the attempt; and
wherever there was a chance that a little soil might be able to hold
on, an attempt had been made to form a prairie. The village itself
is on a ledge of rock. About fifty feet below it is a little area of
some dozen acres, sufficiently level for spade husbandry. Here the
twenty-five families grow their little patches of rye, cabbages, and
potatoes. It was now towards the end of August, and so their busiest
time. The rye harvest, and the hay harvest, were both being brought
home; and this glorious day would perhaps be the busiest of their
brief summer. We found all the houses closed. In the village no one
was to be seen. Everyone was in the field. Almost the first house we
passed was the Curé’s: surely one of the three sisters would be at
home, though, indeed, I had some disinclination to tapping at the door,
for conscience told me that I was deserting the recognised host of
the place for selfish reasons, that it would hurt the feelings of the
sisterhood to find that I was in search of entertainment elsewhere, and
that there would be something cruel in selecting them of all people
for such inquiries. It was, therefore, a relief to find that they,
too, were in the field. On such a day to have remained within doors
at Altanca would have been a reproach. I might have guessed that they
were not at home, for a large bundle of hay in a hempen sheet had been
deposited on the door-step. Some fifty yards below this house was a
row of twenty-barred _kraschners_, the kind of gigantic clothes-horses
on which at these altitudes corn is stacked and dried in sheaf. About
a dozen of the dames and maidens of Altanca were clambering up the
bars of these _kraschners_, with loads of sheaves on their shoulders,
and packing them away between the bars. They do not work from top to
bottom, but from end to end, beginning at the bottom. A few sheaves are
put in over the bottom bar. Of these only the heads are passed through
the opening between the two bars. The sheaves are then bent on the bar
so that their long butt-ends hang down. In each row all the head ends
are on one side, and all the butt-ends on the other. The heads and
butt-ends of the alternate rows being reversed, the long butt-ends of
each row, as you ascend from bottom to top, completely protect from wet
the short head ends of the row below it. Of course when the whole is
full, no head ends are seen on either side, all being covered, as it
were thatched, by the rows of butt-ends. The topmost row is protected
either by a wooden ridge, or by a little straw. Our appearance on the
scene, as might have been expected, caused an instantaneous suspension
of work. Those who were going aloft with loads on their backs, and
those who were thrusting into their places the sheaves that had
been brought to them, came to a standstill as they were made aware
from below of the unwonted intrusion. Everyone seemed to know the
_Parisienne_, and so the interruption did not last many moments.
This busy quarter of Altanca was at its extreme east. The
_Parisienne’s_ mansion was at the west end. We soon reached it, for
here distances are not great. The front door opened on the kitchen and
store-room. You passed through this and entered the ‘keeping’ room, a
large and tidy room for a _châlet_. It did, however, also contain a bed
in an obscure corner. No one was at home. But the master of the house
was soon summoned. He had spent his days of foreign sojourn at Paris,
where he had made the money which he had spent on his house, and where
he had also found his wife, and learnt to speak French. He immediately
produced a bottle of wholesome wine, some mummy beef, and petrified
white bread. I asked for fresh rye-bread and Piora cheese. He assured
us that his wife would be at home early in the evening, and would do
all she could for us. He had a new bedroom which he would place at
my disposal. Fortunately it had but one bed. He would, therefore,
procure a bed for the communist in a neighbouring _châlet_. He was a
tall handsome man, as almost all the men are in these valleys. He
despatched a messenger for his nephew to spend the evening with me, for
he was one who had seen much of the world; he could, too, speak English.
At last evening came, and with it the nephew, and the long expected
_Parisienne_. Her first thought was to offer me a pair of slippers,
and to ask me to take off my boots. As is the case with so many of her
countrywomen in middle-age she had lost her figure, but had retained
her vivacity. She was full of lively talk, and, to be Irish, equally so
of good nature. She would do all she could, but, as an aside, Altanca
was not Paris. During my stay in this house I had this aside in many
forms, and _à propos_ to many matters. But though, as she impressed
on me, Altanca was not Paris, she did what she could to show that
it had not extinguished her recollections of Paris. It was pleasant
in such a place, and under such circumstances, to hear what in some
degree reminded one of French _esprit_, and of the neatness of French
expression. As was natural, too, in a Frenchwoman, she was proud of her
_potage_. I thought it rather salt. The stock probably had been made of
dried salt beef. ‘Excuse me, monsieur, the French kitchen is even more
_salée_ than the Swiss.’
‘Madame, you are right. The _potage_ is excellent; and to-morrow at
All’ Acqua, and often in the future elsewhere, I shall have reason
to recall its merits, which will ever be accompanied with pleasing
recollections of its maker.’
If the cheesemaker of Ritom might have sat for a model of Hercules,
the nephew of our host might have sat for a model of Apollo. He was
tall, clean-built, and strong-limbed, without showing much muscular
development. His features were regular, and finely-chiselled, and full
of thought. His voice was clear and musical. And yet he was only a
carpenter of Altanca, who had just returned to see his family, after
having followed his trade for nine years in California. Below the
window at which we were sitting were the few acres of the corn and
garden ground of the twenty-five families of Altanca. As we looked
out upon it, watching the people at work in the gloaming, I knew what
thoughts were passing through his mind, and so, addressing myself to
them, I said, ‘That little bit of land would be but a neglected corner
in a Californian farm.’
‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘things are on a very small scale here. But that is
not all. There is no liberty here.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘The people here manage their own affairs as completely
as they do in California. Both are equally republican.’
‘Yes,’ he again replied, ‘but it is so only in form. There is no
liberty here.’
He meant liberty of opinion, and scope for action.