LETTER VIII.
Lucerne, July 18th, 1888.
In going to the breakfast-room this morning I saw, in a pantry we passed, some real cucumbers, green and fresh looking, as if they had just been picked in a garden I am thinking of, not a hundred miles from Boston. My mouth fairly watered for a few crisp slices. I had a conversation with my table waiter about them, who thought it might be possible to get some for me. I waited patiently with refreshing anticipations, but when they came their crispness had departed: they were soaked in oil. I longed to go into that kitchen and teach the cook how to serve cucumbers. But making the most of the hard bread, which I very much dislike, and it is the same all over the Continent—crust an inch thick, and the passable beefsteak and poor coffee, we got through our morning meal. We soon forgot our disappointment at breakfast in the delight of getting letters. Oh how glad to read them, and no bad news. Now we can go out sight-seeing, stronger and happier than ever.
Lucerne is beautifully situated on both banks of the river Reuss, with the lake in front, and has many attractions, I think. The lake, this clear morning, looked so luring that the first thing we enjoyed was a sail to Fluellen, where we took carriage for Altorf, the village made classic forever by the heroic deeds of William Tell. The spots of ground where his son was placed and where Tell stood when he shot the apple from the boy’s head were shown us. In our school days, Tell was ever one of our favorite patriots, and we fear we always felt glad of that hidden second arrow, which was to have shot the tyrant Gessler if the first had killed his boy. On our return to Lucerne we saw the old castle of Hapsburg, once the summer home of Wagner. The king of the sights of the town is, however, the Lion of Lucerne. This piece of sculpture is, as everybody knows, a monument to the brave Swiss guards of whom we thought so much about at Versailles. The beast is twenty-eight feet long, magnificent in proportions, and cut out in relief on the face of the natural rock. He is wounded by a spear, and dying, but making a desperate struggle, even in death, to protect the shield of France. There is a pathetic expression in the expiring creature’s face that is almost human. Ivy and running vines cover the sides of much of the huge rock about him, and at its foot is a pond of clear water in which the whole is reflected. The lion was designed by Thorwaldsen, the noted Danish sculptor, who was born in Copenhagen, and whose Reliefs of the Seasons, and his Day and Night, are familiar to you from the photographs. ‘We cannot let our eagle scream here, F.,’ said I; ‘Cogswell fountains do not equal this.’
We went into the Glacier Garden and saw the bas-relief of Central Switzerland, modelled from nature by General Pfyffer one hundred and forty years ago; and were then driven to the old cathedral, where there is a fine organ handled by a noted organist every evening. It is quite the fashion for visitors in the place to flock there to hear the music after dinner; but we, not liking the rooms given us at our hotel, ‘The Swan,’ although undoubtedly they did for us the best they could, and as we could not get into the Schweizerhof at all, the best hotel in the place, have decided to leave this afternoon. Our last act of sight-seeing was the old covered bridge, in which there are over a hundred pictures, scenes of Switzerland’s history and pictures of saints, although some of them did not look very saintly. There are four bridges across the river,—two modern, and the other two very ancient and curious.
Went to Vitzman by boat, then took front seats on a platform car to ascend the Rigi. Only one car is sent up at a time, and that is driven by steam power. The railway seems to be the same as any narrow-gauge road, but between the outside rails are two other rails quite near each other, in which a cogwheel, which is under the engine, runs or works. We ascend slowly, leaving the lake and the towns far below us, and beyond and above us are the mountain peaks. We go through a tunnel and across a deep yawning ravine on an iron bridge; and the scenery is beautiful all around us, which we can fully enjoy at our ease, as there are no dangerous places and no frisky mules to distract one’s attention. We pass many tourists, but the path must appear almost endless to them, for it seems to us, even at our speed, that the top of the mountain grows farther away. But at last we reach our hotel, the Rigi Kulm, above the clouds. Would we could always rise above them so delightfully! It was very cold, so we put on all the wraps we had, and started out for views from the Rigi. Just imagine yourself on the very top of this high mountain, which juts up towards the heavens like a ‘popover’ in a hot oven. In the valley below we can count eight lakes, and the many towns so far below us look like the little wooden villages made of blocks for children to play with. Looking beyond in all directions, we see mountains towering up to the sky—Rocky Pilatus, the snow-clad range of the Bernese Alps, and the green Rigi group close about us. We see the rugged heights of the Silberhorn, the three peaks of the Wetterhorn, and, grandest of all, the Finsteraarhorn. What a personal interest we have in these peaks of Switzerland as soon as we know them.
The mountain was covered with travellers, like ourselves, enjoying the views and anticipating a gorgeous sunset, as there was scarcely a cloud to be seen. I sat on the grass near the edge of the mountain wondering at the extent of this magnificent panorama, when I felt a weight on my shoulder; turning quickly a cow raised her head from the resting place she had chosen and looked at me in a way that said, ‘Why did you move?’ A little later we met Mr. W., of New York, and his handsome German doctor, who added greatly to our pleasure during the rest of our stay here. Seeing a boy with some freshly picked wild flowers, and an edelweiss among them, I asked where he found it, and wandered off in the direction indicated, anxious to pick for myself one of these blossoms. We had bought them fresh, we had bought them dried, and the semblance of them in all sorts of ornaments, but not one had I seen growing. I clambered down the steep and rocky path, and was rewarded after a long search by finding two of these flowers which the Swiss love so well, and I victoriously exhibited them to my friends as I met them coming in search of me. We grouped ourselves on a high platform, built on the summit, which was already well crowded, to see the sun go down. But why do we get up here? we were high enough before. Because it is the thing to do, and here is glass of every color to look through. But I only wish to see it all in its natural colors. How the wind blows, and how cold it is! There goes the Doctor’s hat. No use to try to recover it; it is dashing on to see where the sun goes to. Put this wrap over your head, Doctor.
Look, look! The great ball of fire was sinking to the edge of the horizon, which was streaked gorgeously with crimson and gold. Golden tints fell far and near, upon valley, lakes, and mountains, and the white robes of the snow-clad peaks, were changed to rose. All voices were hushed, for a spectacle so sublime awakened in every one emotions too deep for words. Lower and lower, until only a great gold shield remained, and soon all light was gone, and the shadows covered us. ‘These are Thy works also, O God, for Thou didst make the heavens and the earth.’
Stiff with cold, we hurried to our hotel, whose lights twinkled cheerfully for us in the distance, and a good dinner, with warm drinks, soon thawed us into a comfortable condition. After dinner we tried to find a room heated sufficiently for us to remain in and not freeze, but there was none. Large, handsome parlors and corridors, but all as cold as ice-caves. The proprietors of this house make a great mistake in not providing fires for the comfort of their guests; and for the very lack of this necessity to one’s health, we decided to leave as early as possible in the morning. After a brisk promenade through the hall with our friends, we bade them good-night, promising to rise at the sound of the alpine horn and meet them in the parlor, to go out and see the rising of the sun, which they assured us would be far more wonderful than its setting. ‘Now you will be sure to be on hand,’ said Mr. W. ‘I would not have you miss it for anything. I have a fur coat here which I will unpack to put about you; you will have to rise at three o’clock, you know.’ ‘O yes, I will surely be ready. We have come far to see the sun rise on the Rigi, and I must not miss it. Good-night,’ and off we go to our room at the very top of the house. Just hear the wind roar.
Our chamber was cold, our chambermaid colder, and upon our asking her for more bed covering she undoubtedly reached the freezing-point somewhere, for she disappeared and we saw her not again. After prolonged and vigorous ringings of our bell, a petrified-looking boy appeared, but he manifested some signs of life as our money touched his palm, and we succeeded in coaxing him to bring us an extra feather bed. That bed was warm, and as our own was cold and clammy, I felt pretty sure the boy gave us his own bed. But I was grateful, and he was satisfied with the bargain.
‘Get up, and dress as soon as you can,’ said F., holding a ghostly candle in front of my face. ‘Up! why I had just got to sleep.’ ‘The alpine horn has sounded, and you must see the sun rise.’ ‘No, I am just beginning to get warm; what does it rise at this unheard-of time for?’ ‘There, Mr. W. is calling us outside our door; do come, hurry.’ ‘No!’ The horn tooted most unmusically. I was too tired and sleepy, with a bad cold thrown in, to care whether the sun ever rose or not. I had had too hard work to get a comfortable resting place, to have no benefit from it, so off F. went, and I knew no more until seven o’clock, when she exasperatingly informed me of what a delightful time they had, that the sun setting was not to be compared in glory to its rising, that it was a wonderful revelation, and that I had persistently refused to enjoy it. O dear! why will people always tell you that the sights you do not see are those the best worth seeing.
Thursday, July 19th, 1888.—Although we ordered our breakfast last night, it was not ready for us when we went to the dining-room. ‘Very sorry, some mistake,’ said the waiter; but that did not give us our breakfast, and it was nearly time for the car to leave. We choked down some cold bread and half-made coffee, and rushed, meeting a waiter just bringing our hot rolls and chops, which we had paid for when we settled our bill the night before. I took out a clean napkin from my bag, and took from him our breakfast, wrapped it in my napkin, and said good-morning to the half-dazed man, who ejaculated just one word, which sounded like ‘whew.’ Our friends were at the car to see us off, and tried to exchange their tickets for some that would take them our route, but could not, so good-bys were said, and off we pushed to descend the Rigi. We have been unusually fortunate in having such perfect weather for this mountain trip. This morning is lovely. We move cautiously down a road, on the opposite side from the one we went up, so all views are new to us. We soon reached Lake Zug. Our car conductor gracefully saluted us as we left his care to take the boat. These Swiss conductors have a pretty custom of always saluting each other when they meet, also.
We crossed the lake to the city of Zug. Had two hours to wait there, so walked about the queer little town. Wandered into a church where were several good pictures. On our way back to the station we stepped into a neat-looking wayside inn and called for a bottle of wine to go with our Rigi spoils for a luncheon. The proprietress and her fair daughter seemed much interested in us. We spread out our luncheon on a clean tablecloth, were served with delicious butter and honey, and enjoyed it at our leisure. With the curiosity of the sex, these women wondered who and what we were. Our dress was strange to them, and our language stranger. We told them we were from America, and were travelling to see their country. ‘Wo ist der Herr,’ asked the woman. ‘We have none,’ we answered. ‘Mein Gott!’ said she. We hear no more French spoken now; all German.
Our next stopping place was Zurich, where we had a good table d’hôte dinner, and then pushed on to Schaffhausen, where we alight for the Falls of the Rhine, and ride in a carriage about two miles to our hotel, ‘The Schweizerhoff.’ This house, with all its appointments, is the best we have yet seen in all Europe. It is situated in the midst of beautiful grounds, on the bank of the Rhine, with the falls in full sight. Our room was not only comfortable, but approached elegance, and the long windows opened on to a veranda where stood two large, soft easy-chairs, as if waiting to welcome us, and give us the best pictures of the country about. Making a hasty toilette, we went down stairs and out on to the piazza, where sat at their ease a distinguished-appearing company to see the falls, which our guidebook had told us were the largest in Europe.
In front of us, at the foot of the garden, ran the river, and a little to the right was a small rapid, apparently about as high as the fall of water that I used to see running a saw-mill on the East Taunton road, but not for an instant did we suppose that those were ‘the falls.’ ‘Will you please tell me where the Falls of the Rhine are?’ I asked a lady near me. The woman looked dazed, and turned toward me to see if I was blind, but politely answered, ‘Why, there they are!’ Impulsively, with a disgusted tone, I exclaimed, so disappointed was I, ‘Those the Rhine Falls! Well, just think of Niagara.’ ‘Sh—sh,’ said F., ‘you are forever waving the stars and stripes.’ If the house and place had not given us so much pleasure we should have felt our time wasted in coming here, but these exceed our expectations. The cuisine was simply perfect, and at table we were served by pretty, rosy-cheeked Swiss maids, dressed in white skirts, full-sleeved white waists and black velvet bodices, and looking as fresh and sweet as pinks. They moved, as if one person, to the sound of a bell, doing entirely away with long waits between courses, and every dish brought to us was most delicious.
Friday, July 20th.—We had our breakfast served on the broad piazza, fronting the Rhine, by our pleasant Swiss girl this morning, and the fragrance from the sweet flowers about us brought memories of the orange groves in Florida where we stood only a few months ago. Time and steam do wonders. Hoping to consider the falls a less disappointment on a closer approach to them, we decided to go to their very centre in a boat. About in the middle of them stands a rock, on which has been erected a pavilion, and to which boatmen are ready to take passengers at all times. We reached the landing safely, through currents and whirlpools, and the rapids themselves did appear of much greater magnitude on closer proximity, but I doubt their being the largest in Europe. The town of Schaffhausen is very ancient, with its queer old houses, gateways, and walls. On the old bell of the cathedral is an inscription, which translated means, ‘I call the living: I mourn the dead: I break the thunder;’ which it is said, prompted Schiller to write the exquisite verses of ‘The Song of the Bell.’
Saturday, July 21st.—Yes, the Schweizerhoff is a haven of rest, and had we time, we should like to tarry longer. We are close to Germany now, and must see something of it, but I fear the majestic scenery of Switzerland has spoiled us for any scenery of less beauty. The proprietors of these Swiss hotels have a custom of giving to each departing lady guest a bouquet. Mine this morning was unusually beautiful, and when I said to the giver, ‘We have really been charmed with your house,’ a pretty picture of the place was added to the first offering. To the omnibus in which we rode to the station from the hotel, was harnessed, as our leader, an immense cream-colored bull, a handsome creature, truly huge in his proportions. I doubt if I shall admire Paul Potter’s as much.
In our car we had as our only travelling companions two priests, with their long, flowing gowns and big hats. They continually prayed and crossed themselves for a while, and we feared that they did not realize that we were also two human beings and Christians, so entirely did they ignore us. But after a time they looked up, and we found an occasion to make a remark to them, which opened the way for a conversation, although a limited one, as they could not understand one word of English, and we stumbled much in German, but they were very bright, and looked over with us our German conversation book, and we made quite a merry party. Our route was through and over the Black Forest mountains, said to be the most picturesque of all mountains. We passed through numerous tunnels, some very long ones, and in utter darkness, as they did not light the cars at all, giving one a good chance to think of all the terrible accidents one ever heard of, and making one feel all the time as if something dreadful might happen. I never did like to be in the dark, unless as a tired child with my mother’s arms close about me. When not underground, which seemed but little of the time, the scenery we saw was bold and memorable. The whole region of this Black Forest is full of traditional stories, and we stretched our necks as we turned precipitous corners, hoping to get a glimpse of the ‘Black Huntsman’ dashing down the dizzy heights back of us or in the green valleys below. We saw two castles, and a huge monastery, ‘built on a rock’ on a high elevation. And now, being in the mood, I think I will tell you of something we saw later,—a cavern which is called ‘The Noble Lady’s Grave,’ and this is the story which shows why so named, as told to us, or at least the main points: ‘The husband of the lady left her alone in their home in the Black Forest, with only her attendants for society, and, of course, she being of noble birth, could not ‘chum’ much with her servants. He left her thus to join the Crusades. She pleaded with all a loving wife’s earnestness for him to remain with her, but without avail. It looks as if the knight cared more for glory than for his better half, but may be, let us be charitable, ‘he had business she could not understand,’ or perhaps ‘he had to meet a man,’ as many of the self-sacrificing husbands of our own time are obliged to do, greatly to their own discomfort, but ‘duty is duty, you know.’ At any rate he tore himself away from her clinging arms, in spite of tears and entreaties, undoubtedly hoping to cover himself with glory in the holy city. Perhaps he had wearied of the gloom, dismalness, and monotony of life in the Black Forest, and ‘needed a change.’ His wife, of course, had more resources for pleasure; she could do the mending of the family, tell the cook what to have for dinner, and go to church and give thanks for so brave a husband, and offer prayers for his welfare. The lonely, noble lady did all of these things most faithfully for a while, but they soon ceased to be entertaining, and life itself grew wearisome. There was no mail to be expected in those days, no letters to answer, no progressive euchre parties, no Browning clubs, no sewing circles, no amateur theatricals, and not even a neighbor to talk about, and no one to talk about the neighbors with. Poor forlorn woman! Worn and weary with the watching and the waiting, ‘He cometh not,’ she said. Her crusader most selfishly tarried too long. But one fine day somebody’s else crusader came along, and just as the noble lady was packing her ‘Saratoga’ to fly with him to the lands where loneliness and the ‘blues’ were unknown, her own lawful crusader appeared, killed her would-be rescuer, and shut the poor, out-of-patience wife up in this cave in the hillside, which was her prison living and her grave when dead.
After the descent of the Black Forest range was made, we struck into pretty, green valleys, where women, young girls, and children were making hay,—Gretchens and Maud Müllers. Oxen and cows were used instead of horses, and I saw two women harnessed into a hay-cart, which was loaded with hay, and a man riding comfortably on top, smoking his pipe. I would have liked to have seen him fall off, but I was told that men at home, in this part of the world, are so few, that the women give them the easy places, and work for them, and coddle and pet them to their hearts’ content. The large majority of the men are away at the barracks. The homes of the working people, just here, look as if intended to illustrate a revised edition of ‘the happy family.’ Human beings, both sexes, of several generations, judging from the very old looking women and the few old men, and the little babies we see, with horses, cattle, sheep, pigs, and hens, all live under one outside upper roof, having perhaps the choice of apartments inside. The door-yards look neat, but without exception, every house has somewhere near the never-to-be-missed fertilizer pile, often higher than the house, and generally the bigger the house the bigger the pile. Stocks up, they sell; stocks down, they buy. Financial excitements, you see, are necessary even here. The houses are never painted, and the roofs are covered with straw. At one station where we changed cars we saw a group of Alsatian women with the genuine Alsatian bows on their heads instead of bonnets. The bows were made of some black material, and I think must have measured fully one yard from one end to the other.