Winter Sports in Switzerland

by E. F. Benson

Now this piece of information, which I have thus baldly set down (for I do not believe in the gradual breaking of bad news), will, I am aware, strike a species of terror into many middle-aged and austere breasts. There are large quantities of folk who would sooner die than dance, and who would feel themselves affronted if, at the end of an active day out of doors, they were expected to sit in rows and be sung to or amused, or even worse, were expected to sing or amuse. At the most, they think they would desire merely to sit quietly and read or converse, or perhaps occupy a morose corner in a card-room, and the thought of being kept awake after they have retired to their early beds by the sound of bands or dancers would rouse them to a state of frenzied rage. As for dancing themselves——

Now, I hasten to add words of consolation for all sedate folk. There is not the slightest need for them to be apprehensive, for they will find their quiet corners and card-rooms provided for them, unraided by the frivolous, and nobody wants them to dance and sing unless they feel inclined to. They have an erroneous notion, from hearing enthusiastic young friends on their return from Switzerland say that they had a dance every night, often fancy-dress, except when there was an ice-carnival or a concert, that they are expected to appear as Pierrots or Columbines, or otherwise cover themselves with shame and glory by public performances of some such kind, or, after dinner, sally forth again with a false nose and tights and proceed to dash about the skating-rink among squibs and fireworks. But there is no kind of reason why they should harbour any such fears; they can be as quiet and sedentary as they like.

But the probability is that they will not, when they have become altitudinists, feel quite so sedentary as they do in, let us say, Cromwell Road, after the day’s work in town. Without doubt there is something slightly intoxicating to the mind, some sort of juvenile effervescence in the air and the sun of these high places, which seems to affect the steadiest head, and it is not uncommon to see sober persons of middle-age capering about in a manner altogether surprising. They get a sudden access of youth and high spirits, and make themselves ridiculous (this would be their judgment on themselves while still in Cromwell Road) with immense enjoyment and élan. Probably in Cromwell Road they would never dream, for instance, if there was a fall of snow, of making a snow-man in the back-garden, even if the snow was not covered with smuts, but out here if by chance a heavy fall renders rink and toboggan-run impracticable for the moment, they are perfectly likely (they will not believe me, but it is quite true) to build up a sumptuous piece of statuary. Similarly, unaccustomed as they are to go out of doors on a winter’s night after dinner, except to be taken in a taxi to the theatre, it is quite probable that they will don coats and gouties and see what is going on at this absurd ice-carnival, which they have been told is to take place on the rink. And really it is almost worth seeing, even if you take no part in it.

A circle of light from hundreds of electric lamps, or a less potent but more variously-coloured illumination from lines of Chinese lanterns, surrounds the rink, so that in that blaze of light the great frosty-burning stars are invisible in the vault overhead, and even the full moon seems no more luminous than a circle of pale yellow paper. These are reflected, wherever there is room for reflection, on the ice they enclose, but there is not very much room for anything, as the whole surface of the rink is covered with brilliant, gaily-dressed figures gliding about in some interval of the dancing. Each carries a Chinese lantern on a stick, and the whole place is an intricate pattern of interweaving lights and colours. Then the band rings out again (“ringing” is the only word that the least describes the sound of violins and horns in this resonant frosty air), and instantly this sheet of weaving light and figures begins to be permeated by rhythm. Couple by couple are swept into this rhythm, circling, oscillating with long gliding steps, their lanterns making a series of luminous loops as they swing to the measure of the dance. What was but a company of mysterious, huge fire-flies, all darting about on separate businesses, is turned into a rhythmical and living pattern of flame, controlled by the lilt and measure of the band. Eye and ear alike are dazzled by this musical and moving and illuminated rhythm. Faster grows the tune as it approaches its end, faster is formed this living and luminous pattern. Then it stops, and the pattern dissolves itself again into streaks of darting lights; the dance of the uncontrolled fire-flies again. And it is far from unlikely that the middle-aged and sedate will hurry back to the hotel to get some skates and a lantern, and some sort of preposterous headgear.

Or, while still the fireworks and Bengal lights are unlit, you can walk to the end of the rink, and, turning your back on its brightness, look out over the lower valley below and the hills beyond. Away from the glare of the festooned lights, your eye gets accustomed to the gloom, and presently it ceases to be gloom at all. Ivory white shine the untrodden snows beneath the full moon and the glory of innumerable stars: far below, perhaps, a level sea of cloud extends like a marble floor over the valley, and across it the aiguilles of Mont Blanc, and nearer the summits of the Dent du Midi stand sparkling like crystals. Then from behind you sounds the swish of an aspiring rocket, and across the firmament streams a line of light. Slower and slower it mounts, then from the end of it bursts a huge constellation of coloured

THE ICE CARNIVAL

From the Drawing by Fleming Williams

globes of flame. Then suddenly the whole hillside, the village, the pine-trees, and the snow-slopes begin to shine with a red glow as if the whole world was on fire. Then stars are quenched, the moon resigns altogether, even the lights on and around the rink grow dim in the glow that turns everything into molten fire. But it is only a Bengal light behind the châlet. “Only” indeed! As if there was anything more magical than these blood-red snows and red-hot pines beneath the cold of the winter night! For it requires a hideously-sensible person to outlive the joys of fireworks.