ROUNDABOUT READINGS.
I am at Davos. Be careful about the pronunciation: put the accent broadly on the second syllable, and you have it. With me, if I may say so, it is a case of Davos non vobis, for I have come here not for my own health, but to act as travelling-companion to one of the best fellows in the world, who seeks health and strength in this quiet and beautiful valley. God be with him, and with all his fellow-sufferers here. Here are some notes taken on the way.
Hall of the Grosvenor Hotel, 10.30 A.M.—A mixed crowd of anxious French and English people: a sprinkling of Americans. Desperate inquiries from an elderly French lady for her box. A moment ago the box was visible, a monumental box peacefully reposing near the door. Now it has vanished. Is the box to be added to the questions pending between France and England? No; it is found—on a truck. The French Ambassador may rest in peace. On a sofa reclines a magnificent Arab, tall, stately, bronzed, aquiline, robed in a waving burnous and a turban of dazzling white. How he casts our puny, ditto-suited, cloth-capped civilisation into the shade. An almost irresistible impulse comes over me to change my ticket, break every tie and make a dash with him for his native desert, to live a free and untrammelled life, to head a successful insurrection against the French oppressor, to be laid after death in a splendid tomb with a cupola amidst the lamentations of thousands of lithe and dusky warriors.
11 A.M.—We are off; handshakings, wavings of handkerchiefs. Still dreaming of Algeria, I am recalled to actuality by a stoppage at Herne Hill.
Calais.—The home of the demi-poulet, not forgetting the flageolet. Perpetual entrances of imperturbable officials with chorus "Les voyageurs pour...." Consequent series of shocks inimical to quiet eating. At last our turn comes. Each of us has bagged a demi-poulet in record time. Why all this hurry? At any rate we are off.
Laon, 7 P.M.—Dinner. English traveller wants whisky. "Avez vous doo visky?" Lady of restaurant shakes her head. "Visky Ecossais. Eau de vie Ecossais." A brilliant inspiration, but the landlady, protesting she can supply eau de vie, denies all knowledge of the Scotch variety. "Perhaps," says a helpful old lady, an English fellow-traveller, looking at the tariff-board on which the word "rhum" figures, "perhaps they call it 'room.'" Suggestion received with enthusiasm: "Avez vous doo room?" Enter guard: "Les voyageurs pour Bâle." Only just time to pay. Off we go again.
Bâle, 5.30 A.M.—Train stops: consultation of watches. Can't be Bâle: not due till 6.30. Another hour for sleep; turn over, when door opens suddenly and an alarmed Swiss porter ejaculates "Mais deshendez donc, Monsieur, le drain fa bartir." Out we go: the sky becomes dark with hats, sticks, wraps, handbags. Have we got everything? Yes—no—where is my waistcoat? Quite forgot I had discarded it at night: it contains watch, money, everything. Approach of beaming porter carrying waistcoat like a banner. Transference of silver from self to porter. He beams more and more. Unduly early arrival explained by fact that we are now under Central European time. Breakfast.
At Bâle I purchase the Paris Temps of to-day's date. An article on the Swiss Referendum. At last I am at close quarters with the Referendum. Question for decision was, is the sale of matches to be a State monopoly? The Swiss voter has said no by an overwhelming majority. The Temps, analysing results, sees in this "a victory of the individualist spirit, and of French tradition over the German spirit instilled in the universities of Zurich, Berne, and Bâle, or brought home by Swiss writers and politicians who have studied in Germany itself." Sédan is avenged. It appears, too, that the Swiss voter is getting bored with Referendums. He has had too many of them, and on this occasion barely half of him recorded his vote. Merry Swiss voter, awaking on a Sunday morning, inquires of his merry Swiss wife, "Any voting to-day, my dear?" "Only those silly matches," replies M. S. W. "Oh, drat they matches," says merry Swiss voter (or words to that effect). "I'm not going to trouble about that," and turns over to sleep again. Anyhow, matches are not to be a State monopoly. Long live the Referendum!
On the way to Landquart.—Sudden alarm of my companion. He clutches my arm, and points to the roof of railway carriage, saying, in an awe-struck voice, "What does that mean; why do they put that word there?" Following with my eyes the direction of his finger, I notice white dial, with moveable hand, let into roof. Plainly painted in bold letters on one side of the dial is the word "hell." On the other side, however, I see the German word "dunkel," which, of course, makes things clear. Quite natural, though, that apparatus for turning light up and down should, at first sight, be mistaken for a Salvation Army warning.
Landquart, 1.16 P.M.—Lunch. Here the toy railway to Davos begins. We have still more than 3000 feet to climb before reaching our destination. Obtain beautifully-coloured little pamphlet with map. Learn that we are about to travel on "highest adhesion railway in Europe." Prepare ourselves to be as adhesive as possible by taking in immense amount of ballast in the shape of lunch. On consulting map, presumably drawn to scale, find that Davos is at least five times the size of London, which figures minutely in upper left-hand corner. This is delightful. Delight, however, dashed by observing that the distance from Landquart to Davos is nearly three times as great as from London to Bâle. Still, after the shock of finding ourselves under Central European time, we are prepared for most things. At last the little toy engine puffs violently, metaphorically takes off its coat, and, like Mr. Snodgrass, announces in a very loud tone that it is going to begin. We start! Hurrah, we adhere!!
Up, up, and still up we climb, hanging on here and there by our eyebrows to mountain precipices, and peering down into chasms on the other side. Still we adhere and the gallant little engine puffs away like mad. Amiable Swiss guard takes a paternal pride in it, in the train, in the scenery, and (after usual transference of silver) in us. Have we ever been at Davos before? No? In that case, it appears, we must prepare for pleasures before which the overrated amusements of Paris and Vienna pale and dwindle. Davos at last.
Davos.—Wonderfully hearty reception at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Mr. Demmer smiles, Mrs. Demmer smiles, the boots, the waitress, the housemaid all smile. We smile, too, and find everything prepared in rooms of the most brilliant cleanness: dinner, and so to bed.
Conversation in Davos is of great simplicity. We are all either invalids or the friends of invalids. At first hearing it would appear as if a gigantic ball, at which nobody danced, was perpetually taking place. "Have you been sitting out much to-day?" "Yes, I sat out nine hours." "Ah, I only managed to get in seven," &c., &c. For the pure and perfect air is the main element of the cure at Davos, and in nearly all weathers the invalids are on the verandahs drawing in these draughts of new life and vigour.
On the following morning I stroll. Remember that, curiously enough, I haven't seen a single soldier since I arrived in Switzerland. Here, however, is a photographic group of non-commissioned officers of the Davos section of some infantry regiment. All their implements of warfare are drawn, a martial defiance gleams from every eye. In the centre of the group two of the most warlike cross their protecting swords in front of a tall lady, allegorically attired in cloak and scale-armour to represent Helvetia. I immediately abandon contemplated invasion and annexation of Switzerland.
A band is playing under an arcade of glass in front of the Kurhaus. They play really admirably—as good a band, as I have heard for a long time. But they are all, to a flute, dressed in black frock-coats, tightly buttoned, and black top-hats, for all the world like a provincial British municipality out for a holiday. Everything, save for the band, is wonderfully peaceful. A few cows browse in the valley, their pleasant bells drowsily tinkling. The surrounding mountains have donned their white crowns in our honour: the snowy, silent peaks glitter in the brilliant sun. In front of our hotel a retriever puppy, with an imperfect control over his paws, engages in a romp with a little white dog. He bowls over the little white dog, and, before he has quite recovered from the shock, bowls him over again. This is too much for the white dog's dignity: he bites the retriever violently in a tender part of the back. Woe, woe, the game is over, and the puppy flies homeward. In the afternoon the colony sits out again; it sits out finally after dinner. And so the quiet days proceed, for the time of toboggans and skates is not yet. It is a peaceful, a delightful spot, and on every hand are to be met hale and hearty folk who drifted hither, derelict wrecks, to be towed into haven and made sound for many a voyage. The tales of complete cures vary the conversational record of hours of sitting out. St. Luke, the good physician, is the patron saint of the little English Church here, and might well be the patron saint of Davos itself.
A Council of War.—The pugnacity which tradition tells us was the chief characteristic of the Kilkenny Cat Conferences finds a parallel in a recent meeting of Aberdare District Councillors, at which, among other compliments, such as members bluntly accusing each other of falsehood, the chairman advised a counsellor to go to the —— gentleman whose name is usually omitted in polite converse. The seconder of a motion proposed by a Justice of the Peace, had the following remarkable and withering invective hurled at him from the chair: "You know nothing about it, Mr. George knows but little, and you know less," while another counsellor observed, "I should show at least that I had a little brains." This gentleman is to be congratulated upon his consciousness of superior cerebral strength, and if the council possesses but "little brains" this deficiency is amply supplied by a corresponding wealth of choler and a copious flow of wrathful language.