about the mysterious Lindenspeur; where he came from, and what induced
him to settle in these outlandish regions and there to live to the day
of his death. I have heard of no one else doing such a thing in the
seventeenth century. He may well have been a refugee of some kind; a
recluse, an original, in any case, and a wealthy one. So Jordan has been
a ruin only for the last eighty years. One would never think so; for it
already wears a hopelessly decayed look, as if it had been abandoned
for a couple of centuries at least. That is because it lacks the solid
masonry of our feudal remains. It crumbles away all the time, and I
suspect that the farmhouse near at hand has been built with its stones.
We had a good look at Jordan yesterday afternoon, and agreed that it was
an uncommonly transparent fabric. “The old gentleman must have been fond
of windows,” observed Mr. R. True! There are more open spaces than
stones in its ostentatious front; a row of eleven windows, all exactly
alike, and young trees are sprouting out of them. This is what made Mr.
R. christen the place “Château aux fenêtres.” And this name, in its
turn, gave occasion for a simple question on my part, a question that
led to a prolonged and painful discussion, in the course of which some
little light was thrown on Mr. R.’s progress in the English language. I
enquired as I should have done:
* * * * *
_D._ Now what is the English for “Le château aux fenêtres”?
_R._ The castle to the windows.
_D._ Castle to the windows? Try again. I am the most patient teacher in
the world. And we have the whole afternoon before us. So don’t hurry and
don’t disappoint me. Think!
_R._ Let me see.... “Château” may sometimes be rendered by
“country-house.” The country-house to the windows. I know my _vocables_.
_D._ Your stock of words will pass; and such praise as is due to you for
having gotten them by heart should not be withheld. But you will never
learn English. “Castle to the windows” is treating our language in your
usual brigandish fashion; _de haut en bas_. How often have I told you
that a language must be courted, like a lover!
_R._ Never learn English? Are you serious? If so, allow me to say that I
have already learnt more than enough to pass my examination. I know my
_vocables_, as you yourself admit. I am also acquiring a little more
polish, which I confess may still be needful. And latterly--how I have
learnt to converse!
_D._ Yes; how! This is most discouraging, after all my efforts. Castle
to the windows--good God! It might drive a less optimistic tutor crazy.
Let us sit down on this stone for a moment, and I will tell you
something that has just occurred to me. There was once a Greek poet and
grammarian called Palladas, who was favored, like myself, with promising
pupils of your style; who was a teacher, I mean, and nearly committed
suicide in consequence----
_R._ They never do it, those fellows, although one wishes they would. It
is the pupils who sometimes kill themselves. Your Pylades is probably
alive to this day. Well?
_D._ Well, during one of his fits of depression at their extraordinary
intelligence, he wrote a little couplet which still exists to prove the
depth of his despair. Believe me, I can sympathize just now with the
unhappy Palladas. The castle to the windows.... Would you like to
translate his two short lines? They are very easy. And then you will
understand the state of my feelings.
_R._ Not if you write in Greek. Put them into French, and I will
translate anything you please. Here is a scrap of paper.
_D._ ...There now! Go ahead. No, no, no. I must have it in writing. You
are too slippery, _viva voce_. And please try to do it carefully, for a
change.
_R._ Voilà!... _I was ramble nude to the earth, and I will ramble nude
underneath her. And why I dredge in vain, viewing the nude finish?_ So
that is the state of your feelings. You seem to have forgotten to put
your clothes on.
_D._ I was ramble nude----
_R._ You may say “stroll” instead of “ramble”; I am not particular! Or
“saunter.” All these are better words than “walk” or “promenade”; they
are more adapted for poetic uses. That is why I chose “dredge” instead
of “labor”; it sounds less common. You see what come of knowing one’s
_vocables_.
_D._ Drudge; not dredge. I was ramble nude. This is appalling. I mean to
preserve that document as a _pièce justificative_. There may be some
trouble, you know, about the way you have spent your time out here.
Ramble nude--God Almighty! Why, the poet means to say that he walked,
that he was born, naked into this world; don’t you see?
_R._ _Ça se peut bien._ In that case, he was perhaps not the first.
There is nothing very original in baby-poets being born naked. Now if he
had worn a felt hat on that occasion----
_D._ This is hardly the moment, is it? Your English, I must insist on
telling you, leaves a great deal to be desired. And I should like to
ask: what are we going to do about it?
_R._ If the baby-poet had suddenly come to light, wearing that London
hat of yours ... ah, the doctor’s explanations----!
_D._ Laugh away. There will be a nude finish. You will never pass the
test.
_R._ And why not? Only a camel would bother to learn all those useless
idioms. I was always first in our English class at college. I knew more
than the _profs_, and they were high-class people.
_D._ Was you ramble nude there?
_R._ _Allons_; just a little more polish ... ah, ah! The horrified
_sage-femme_ ... her face ... ah, ah, ah!...
From this transparent “castle to the windows” we “rambled” yesterday,
always to the westwards, always along the brow of the hill; crossed the
Tiefis-Bludesch road and, about a quarter of a mile further on, turned
to the right and followed a field path that goes first uphill and then
down. It leads to the village of Schlins.[27]
The meadow region ends in a dank spot, almost a swamp, surrounded by
forest on three sides. We were amazed at the multitude of butterflies
crowded into this narrow space: I have never seen so many swallowtails
gathered together. The mead is henceforward to be known as “pré des
papillons,” and it was here that Mr. R. propounded a puzzling question.
What happens to all the butterflies, he asked, when the grass is cut and
the flowers gone? Where do they go? What do they find to eat? I have no
idea. There are butterflies everywhere just now. In a fortnight or so,
there will be none left, save a few peacocks and red admirals moping
about the fallen fruit in orchards. Have they migrated upwards into
Alpine quarters, where the fields are mown at a later season? Do they
perish?
Here, at the end of the “pré des papillons,” you enter a noble forest
which continues as far as Schlins. We used to call it the wood of
the----. No; I refuse to open up that chapter of infantile
nature-worship. Suffice to say, that the forest was properly dedicated
to this potent but capricious deity, both by reason of its immeasurable
distance from home (nearly an hour’s walk) and consequent unfamiliarity
to us, and of the deep gloom which pervaded it in those days. It has
since been thinned out; even to-day it remains one of the finest in the
district and many of the firs reach a height of forty meters. Lower down
and to the south there runs through the same wood another path, also to
Schlins. It follows the base of one of those waterless east-west vales
which are so contrarious, because, instead of at right angles, they lie
parallel to our main valley. This used to be a terrifying track in those
days; so narrow and deep was the dell, so tall and thick the trees on
either side, that twilight reigned here in bluest noonday; and its
length was interminable! The whole glen has now been reafforested and
sunshine penetrates into all its recesses; but you can still discover
the decaying stumps of those old giants, encrusted, many of them, with
_Elfenbecher_ (fairy goblets)--minute mossy growths, shaped and tinted
like chalices of frosted silver.
As we traversed this lovely wood of the----, we were startled by a
disquieting din on our right. It was only a frolicsome shower, pattering
deliciously among the beeches yonder. Soon it reached us and drove us
under a fir. Here, as the drops were trickling through the branches, my
companion drew from his pocket that talisman, that _vade mecum_ and
_sine qua non_, and performed a selection of pieces grave and gay; I
went to inspect a small cross that stood close at hand--one of four
which are erected in this forest to the memory of woodcutters who have
perished at their trade. It is dated 1867 and records that the victim
was 63 years old. There is another, bearing a naturalistic
representation of the accident; a wife on her knees, the husband lying
dead beside her, with a massive log of timber stretched across his
middle.
Now the loud rain dropped suddenly to a whisper and we went forth again
towards Schlins, inhaling the aromatic odors of those essential oils
which it had wakened out of the damp ground. The way is marked by
colored signs against the trees; they have not been renewed since the
war, and are fast fading away. This is a relic of the activities of the
Blumenegg “beautification-society” which was started in emulation of
that of Bludenz and, like it, expired in consequence of the war. The
society did a good deal in its short life in thus marking tracks and
even building benches here and there, that now molder pleasantly away;
the whole wood from St. Anne church to Nenzing, for instance, is
provided with marks, and whoever does not know the country might well be
grateful for them. They also built the road down to Blumenegg waterfall,
a delightful spot; that along our big waterfall was made by my brother
and inaugurated, amid much speechifying and beer-drinking, on the 31
July, 1898.
Schlins lies prettily tucked away on a green level between the hills and
the projecting woodland ridge of Jadgberg. We soon found ourselves at
the Krone inn, where I have been an habitué for more years than I care
to remember and where Mr. R. devoured his customary two eggs and cider,
while I indulged in a long chat with the proprietress, who is a
particular friend of mine. It does one good to be with such people, so
blithe and natural and intelligent; I could go on talking to her for
ever and ever; and I nearly did.
Then up, at last, through the firs to the venerable ruin of Jagdberg.
Hard by the castle they have erected the so-called “Josefinum”--a kind
of refuge and school for poor children of both sexes, waifs and strays,
the scum of the province. It contains about fifteen girls and fifty
boys, many of questionable parentage or none at all, ailing in body and
mind--squint-eyed and one-legged and tuberculous and mangy and
feeble-minded and depraved. They are sometimes spoken of as the
“Verbrecherle,” the little criminals, and a few may perhaps deserve that
name. One of these, not long ago, certainly displayed a rare tenacity of
purpose. It was a boy-orphan who, at the age of fourteen, left the
establishment where (according to his own account) he had been grossly
and systematically ill-treated. When he was eighteen he considered
himself strong enough to carry out a long-meditated project of revenge,
and stole into the place one night with the intention of setting fire to
it and of murdering the director with a dagger or revolver, both of
which he carried on his person. They caught him before much damage could
be done, and he was sentenced to eight years’ imprisonment. The son of a
gypsy, it was said; which may be an _ex post facto_ explanation of his
original conduct. In every case, he cannot but have suffered under an
oppressive sense of injustice to be able to nurse his rage through four
long years. Perhaps, after serving his sentence, he will have another
try at the director....
As at Blumenegg, there is nothing left of Jagdberg save its outer wall,
its shell; and on entering this hoary shell we were amazed to find
therein a modern swimming-bath of cement, surely the most unexpected use
to which a feudal ruin can be put. A handful of boys were splashing
about here, together with some school-children from Schlins, every one
of whom is obliged to learn to swim. This bath and the Josefinum and its
plantations have impaired the charm of Jagdberg, as I knew it long ago;
it was then a slumberous, world-forgotten place. I am glad they have at
least not troubled to tear down its magnificent growth of ivy. True, it
always lacked the seclusion and dreaminess of Blumenegg; on the other
hand, it is more spacious, more solid, more grandiose. Like that ruin,
it dates from about the twelfth century, was destroyed by the
Appenzellers in 1405, and afterwards rebuilt; within its walls stood a
famous chapel dedicated to St. Michael. It must now have lain abandoned
for many long centuries. One would like to know why Herr Georg Ludwig
von Lindenspeur, who seems to have had more money than was good for
him--why he did not settle down in this wonderful place, instead of
erecting his flimsy and pompous barrack at Jordan? Who would not live at
Jagdberg, if he could? Such thoughts occur involuntarily, on visiting
any of these old sites. Who would not live at Jagdberg, especially in
that earlier period? Then down with that warren of rickety and vicious
bastards, and up with the gallows!
Charitable projects....
* * * * *
And yet----
And yet these lords of Jagdberg and other men of the past may not have
been altogether the simpletons one used to think them. When they risked
their lives, they did it in their own interests and on their own
responsibility; not, like our warriors of to-day, for the sake of
enriching people of whom they had never even heard. When they robbed,
they robbed to some purpose that was at least seemingly sane and
seemingly profitable. They had not much use for the brotherhood of all
men: “God save us from such brothers!” we can hear them saying. And so
much one may observe without bitterness, that if one dream can be called
more absurd than another, this of universal brotherhood is surely the
absurdest that ever sat in our poor deluded brain, and the present state
of the world a luminous commentary on it. I imagine it would have
puzzled those old feudals--our Oriental preoccupation with other folk,
our craving to lean up against each other for mutual support and
betterment. Flabbiness, they might have called it. We call it
“solidarity.”... A little trick of ours.... We invent such words to
shadow forth a desire more or less vague, more or less reasonable; and
forthwith flatter ourselves that we have succeeded in creating a thing.
Solidarity! Mankind is a jellyfish. How comes a jellyfish to want a
backbone?
Such individualistic ideals may come into fashion again. Meanwhile, they
are out of date. The castles lie in ruins and their occupants, the human
wolves, have been hunted out of the land. Let us be sheep. The loves and
hatreds of these wolfish creatures must have been narrow and limited in
their range. On the other hand, they were doubtless personal, fervent.
They were kept clean. Our loves and hatreds are no longer kept clean.
They have ceased to be personal; we love and hate in the herd, the mass.
Endeavoring to identify our most intimate aspirations with those of
other men, we produce that incongruity of feeling and outlook, that
haziness of moral contour, which is a feature of modern life--to what
end? Solidarity! By all means adopt a fellow-creature’s greatcoat, or
lend him your own. Why adopt his character? Is a bundle of
self-contradictory inhibitions worth adopting? Love your neighbor as
yourself. Now what has that gentleman done, to deserve our love?
Philanthropic musings, engendered by the spectacle of Jagdberg and its
Josefinum....[28]
ROSENEGG
_Rosenegg_
Another of these castle-ruins is the massive old tower of Rosenegg near
Bürs (Rhæto-Roman _Puire_), opposite Bludenz. It also dates from the
twelfth century; like the others, it was sacked by the Appenzellers in
1405; unlike them, it was never rebuilt--not till the other day. For six
long centuries it stood desolate and forlorn. Then, quite lately,
somebody bought the place and converted it into a residence; with good
taste, so far as one can judge from the outside. All the same, it is
annoying to see that he has planted a few exotic conifers in the
grounds; they will doubtless prosper there, but they are out of harmony
with their Alpine surroundings. I must come and pull them out, one of
these nights.
The Rosenegg I knew was a truly “somber pile,” decaying alone up there,
far from the habitations of men, on its sunless hillock under the shadow
of those mighty Rhætian peaks. Nobody ever seemed to go near the place.
There was a shattered window at a good height on the eastern flank, and
you could get in here by climbing a wild cherry tree and then jumping
on to its ledge. The interior was a moldering chaos of stones. Round
about we used to find certain favorite plants: the rose-and-white
immortelles with silvery leaves, and “fox-tail” moss, and the globular
amber-hued ranunculus of spring, deliciously fragrant. Then flowers were
dropped in favor of butterflies; after that, the stone-period began and
Rosenegg was again frequented, for the whole neighborhood happened to be
strewn with crystalline erratics great and small, and in some of them
you might find brown garnets, but not in all; far from it! You had to
look for them pretty closely.
That was long ago.
And now, at the other end of life, one returns anew to Rosenegg on a
sunny afternoon, purged of the mists of middle years and, delving into
memories of that clear dawn and seeking to recapture its spirit, marvels
at the feverish joy which greeted discoveries such as these degenerate
little garnets, not a single one of which had the right color, nor made
the faintest pretense at being the rhombic dodecahedron it should have
been. How one changes!
This was always, alas, a bad country for “stones.”... Silver ore near
Dalaas of questionable worth, and rock crystals in several quarries, and
gypsum beyond St. Anton, and a poor kind of amethyst at the Hanging
Stone; the fossils were likewise meager--corals in the limestone of
Lorüns, univalves under certain rocks at Hohenems, those oysters in the
ruddy Nagelfluh (Middle Miocene) at Bregenz; last, not least, the
fucoids of the Flysch (Eocene) which you could find nearly everywhere,
pretty to look at, but terribly fragile. That was all. There were
legends, mere legends, of ammonites being seen in the local red marble;
we never saw them![29] Ah, if our father had still been alive, he might
have told us where to find this or that; his stone-collection was our
delight, our despair. Not everybody had his luck, we often said, to
stumble in the Scesa-torrent upon a huge writhing mammoth tusk that
required two or three men to carry--how had he done it, and why couldn’t
we do it too?[30]
Stones were dropped when birds and beasts began, and during that
slaughter-epoch Rosenegg became once more famous for producing the first
stoat that ever fell to my gun, and a falcon as well. There was a pair
of them here, and once, resting on that green terrace with my mother, I
saw the male bird dash off the ruin overhead, and swiftly took aim at
him (I refused to be parted from my gun, even during family walks).
Down he fluttered and fell, stone dead, at our feet. I recall that
afternoon as if it were yesterday. My mother said nothing; she suffered
more intensely than did the falcon, but had long since abandoned all
hope of curing my murderous instincts. I remember, too, passing alone
once through the woods below this tower and becoming aware of an unusual
sound at my side. Who could have guessed its origin? It was a putrid
fragment of a stag, so alive with worms as to make itself heard.
At the back of Rosenegg a little path descends through the wood; here,
one morning before sunrise, I came face to face with a fox who was
returning from some nocturnal visit to the poultry yards of Bürs; it was
a question of who should step aside to let the other pass. The fox was
not to be outdone in politeness; he vanished ere I had time to slip the
gun from my shoulder. This is the path we followed yesterday, proceeding
thence always eastwards at the foot of the Rhætikon mountains; at their
roots, one might say, for they rise up straight from the level, as does
a tree. Walking along, Mr. R. encountered a tiny creature that scared
him considerably; indeed, he was transfixed with astonishment and
stepped a pace or two backwards; he had never yet seen anything of the
kind, either on land or in water.
“A crocodile?”
“Not quite; a Quadertatsch. Pick him up and make friends with him.”
“His hands are cold.”
Cold they are, like those of a Hindu; and he himself is blacker than any
Hindu, or any nigger; black as the devil, with a luster as of
patent-leather boots; black but comely. It looks as if his first shape
had been remodeled by some thoughtful craftsman who added a row of
decorative bosses along sides and back, and pinched his tail till it
became slightly quadrangular in form; creating, with these few masterly
touches, something heraldic and distinguished out of quite a commonplace
original. A vast improvement! And his manners are in keeping. He nods
his head sagely on making your acquaintance, and at once begins climbing
up your arm with a comical precision of movement, a deliberate
jauntiness, that reminds one of some retired _maître de ballet_ whose
limbs have grown a little creaky with age and rheumatism, but who is
determined to show off his faded graces to the best advantage.
Perhaps I ought to explain that the Quadertatsch is what the Tyrolese
call a Tattermandl. The last syllable of this word proves that they have
also noticed certain human traits in his demeanor. The Tattermandl is a
universal favorite among Alpine folk. In his home up there, you seldom
see one of them alone; they are social beings, often to be found in
companies of a dozen or more. And what was this one doing here, all by
himself? Like several others I have met, he has been the victim of an
accident; always the same accident! He was swept off his legs in the
recent torrential rains and whirled two or three thousand feet down,
into our tropical regions, along one of the gullies that seam these
mountains. He will have a long walk home again; and all uphill.[31]
Two hours later we had crossed the Ill at Lorüns and found ourselves,
after a good while, walking up the picturesque village of Rungalin; it
leans against the hillside near Bludenz in the shape of the letter Y,
and should be viewed in spring, when its brown houses are all smothered
in creamy apple blossoms. Thence, always uphill, past the little spring
called “Halde Wässerle” and along the summit of those fine cliffs at
whose foot lies the Bährenloch cavern, turning sharp to the right and
emerging finally at Obdorf, beside the upper bridge that spans the
Galgen-tobel.