As I walked down the Septimer, constructing in my mind this chain of inferences, I saw by my side the large-boned, sturdy Etruscan trader, overlooking his party of barbarian porters, loaded with tin and copper, and perhaps with some amber, which he had been twelve months, or more, in collecting, and which he had paid for with the gold jewelry, in the workmanship of which those Dodecapoleis were so skilful, and in later times perhaps with iron knives, and daggers, and spear and arrow-heads. Again this trade must have had established routes, and for the eastern Dodecapolis the most likely route must have been the Julier and the Septimer; and it must have had some organisers and managers, and it is in these cities that we must look for them.
Commerce, then, first traced this road. Of course it must have had some halting stations, and depôts, and these could only have been at such places as Casaccia, Stalla, Molins, and Tiefenkasten. Some of these, doubtless, were fortified, and made capable of maintaining a small garrison against sudden attacks of barbarians, just like the forts of our Hudson’s Bay Company. Then came its imperial days, when it connected the capital and heart of the world with a threatened frontier. But commerce has now taken other channels, and empire has established itself in other seats, and the barbarians have become the foremost nations of the world; and this road is only traversed occasionally by a few northern travellers, descended from the barbarians, or from the kindred of the barbarians, it was constructed to keep back, but who now have no other object in traversing it than to see deep valleys and lofty mountains. For many centuries change has everywhere else been actively at work, but the poor herdsmen who dwelt round about the Septimer remained in much the same condition as their predecessors of the old imperial and commercial periods of its history. Hitherto there had been little change for them. It was only yesterday that they were as hard-pressed and as poor as their remote forefathers had been. Their only resource was still their cows, and what little their cows enabled them to get of the products of sunnier valleys, and of the plains below. Human societies, however, are now entering on a new phase of their long progress, the distinguishing features of which are that culture is becoming accessible to all, even to the children of these herdsmen; that mind can now find a station, and a market anywhere; and that new avenues to obtaining the means of living are being opened on all sides to all men, who have the capacity and the will to enter upon them. And what is changing the rest of the world has not been unfelt up here. Many now go out from these valleys into the world, and after a time return with the proceeds of their labour and thrift. And, too, the outside world having advanced to a point which enables it to take an interest in the aspects which nature wears up here, sends hither, yearly, many visitors. This also supplies means of living to some. Life has, in consequence, become easy to many, and less hard and narrow to all. And these advantages, which are far from being altogether of a material kind, at all events they both rest on and lead on to, what is moral and intellectual, are year by year being extended to greater numbers.
As I walked down the single street of Casaccia the contrast it presented in externals to Cresta and Juf was felt to be great indeed; but when I entered the hotel the contrast between its interior and those with which I had yesterday and this morning become acquainted was felt to be greater still. To one coming from the mountains—it seemed as if one had been sojourning among them for a long time—its single reception room had an air even of amplitude and loftiness. One noticed, as one might something that is not seen every day, that chairs and sofas had taken the place of benches against the wall. Table linen, too, had reappeared, for the table was ready spread as far as the usual condiments and appliances go. This indicated the possibility of such a supper as would require such aid. In this house—it is often so with small inns in Italy, and Italian influences begin to be felt at Casaccia—there was no attempt to shunt the kitchen out of sight. Here it had to be passed through to reach the stone staircase that led up to the bedrooms. The landings and passages were spacious for the size of the house; and so in a still greater degree was the bedroom into which I was shown. It had two windows; but, as they were small and deep-recessed, they did not admit a sufficiency of light; and the ceiling and panelling being of a dark coloured pine-wood, this scanty allowance of light was not made the most of. There was about the room, and its contents, a look of newness from disuse, or rather of oldness kept new by disuse. It had three beds. These it was evident were not frequently required, for the bed-clothes had been put away beneath the mattresses; and the washing apparatus for the possible occupants of the three beds was all arranged on one of the deep-recessed window-sills, as if it was regarded rather as something to be looked at than used. This also led me to infer that the windows were seldom opened: an inference which was not contradicted by a kind of solidity and ancientness in the atmosphere of the room. The lock on the door was very un-Swiss, and very Italian. Everybody knows that every lock on every door of every bedroom in every hotel in Switzerland is a little plain black iron box applied to the surface of the door. Here it was a highly elaborated specimen of the locksmith’s art: all open iron-work, with a marvellously large and complicated key, and an equally marvellous arrangement of bolts. For some little time I despaired of being able to discover how the key was to be inserted, or used; and feared that, if I should succeed in turning it, I might not be able to turn it back again. Such a lock would not have been out of place on the door of some floridly decorated old Chapter House, or of the banqueting hall of some mediæval castle. The good man of the house assured me that the room should be arranged for me immediately. It was then five o’clock. It was, however, not till night had come down on Casaccia that this immediate arrangement was taken in hand. On that day, at all events, he was the only person who was in the house, and so he had to obtain from outside the female hands that were needed for the immediate arrangement. At last he impressed for this little service two of his neighbours—I suppose to atone for the delay by showing that he was ready to do all that was in his power, even more than was really needed.
As to the good man himself; in his making, as in that of the lock, there was nothing Swiss. He was altogether unlike the hardy sturdy people I had been among lately. The loss of a few thousand feet of altitude had made a great difference in the elements of the human composition. His figure was tall, but not erect. His muscular tissue was soft. His features were large without being coarse. His hair and eyes were of a jet black, though in the latter there was none of that twinkling rapidity of motion, which is characteristic of the children of the south. His face was quite smooth. His complexion was the bloodless and untinted, but not unhealthy, white of many Italian women, and of some Italian men. He had none of the volubility of utterance, or quickness of manner of the Italian. On the contrary; his voice and manner were as smooth as his face. Smoothness, indeed, was his pervading characteristic. His smile was smooth, but it was the smile of manner, not of the heart, and indicated not pleasure, but the wish to please, or rather to make, and keep, things smooth. His dress even was smooth, and studiedly so. To him would have been intolerable anything so rough as Swiss homespun. His step was inaudible as he glided in and out of the room. What he did for you in placing things on the table, or removing them, was done as it were by the shadow of a man. He would have deemed it barbarous to have disturbed, he would have shrunk from disturbing, you even with a sound. His business was to assist, and to please. I had asked him what I could have for supper? He had replied with the gentlest tone, with a forward inclination of his body, and with a half smile, ‘Whatever I pleased.’ ‘Could I have mutton cutlets?’ ‘Certainly.’ ‘In half an hour?’ ‘Certainly.’ In an hour and a half the supper was placed noiselessly on the table. It was announced in the form that the cutlets were served. They proved, however, to be of veal, as doubtless he had foreknown that they would be; but it had seemed to him harsh to tell a man that he could not have what he wanted. In like manner it was now deemed unnecessary to call attention to any deviation from what had been promised and expected; or to say a word that might imply that anything could possibly be otherwise than as you had wished. Did not his manner give you to understand that he had done all, and would continue to do all, in his power to supply your wants, and to contribute to your comfort? Everything was said and done so smoothly, that it was impossible for you by an exhibition of surprise, or of dissatisfaction to break the spell of smoothness that had been cast over you. We affect bluntness, and even roughness, under the supposition that they indicate honesty and independence of character. The Italian—and this Casaccian was Italian in mind and manner—does not value the exhibition of these qualities. He affects gentleness, mildness, blandness both for their own sake, and because they are means to his ends. This is his idea of civilization; and it is what we, perhaps, may come to when our civilization shall have become as old as his. Our manners may, then, have become more soft, more pliant, more politic. The time may arrive when we too shall consider it uncivilized to say or do what will produce needless mental jars. Our present ideas may indicate that we are nearer than the Italians to the woods and caves.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE MALOJA—THE UPPER ENGADIN—PONTRESINA.
There’s place and means for every man alive.—Shakespeare.
August 10.—As I had undertaken to present myself to-day at Pontresina in time for an early dinner, I engaged a char at Casaccia to take me as far as St. Moritz; and having walked to the top of the Maloja, was there overtaken by it. The Maloja has an altitude of only 5,941 feet, which makes it the lowest of all the passes by which Italy may be entered from Switzerland. Its ascent from Casaccia is over an excellent road, with a rise of 1,150 feet, the latter part of which is through well-grown pine woods. I reached the summit so much in advance of my carriage as to have plenty of time for contemplating the backward view of the upper reach of the Bregaglia over the head of the forest—a view which was well worth the time.
The books tell us so much of the peculiarities, interest, and beauties of the Upper Engadin, that every one who goes to see it expects much; and I cannot think that there will be many of those who see it, who will feel any disappointment. In respect of length, and of capability for supporting human life, it may be equalled, or exceeded, by other Swiss Valleys, as for instance by those of the Rhine, of the Rhone, and of the Ticino, but there are other particulars of interest in which it leaves them all far behind. The great point is that it combines an elevation above the sea, which is elsewhere found to be but ill suited for supporting human life with an amount of population which would in any other valley be regarded as considerable; and that this large amount of population is evidently maintained in circumstances of comparative comfort. Beginning at the height just mentioned, it descends at first so gradually that at St. Moritz, twelve miles down the valley, the stream is only 150 feet below the summit of the Pass; while the town of St. Moritz itself, which is 300 feet above the stream, is actually 150 feet higher than the summit of the Pass. And in the sixty miles of its course from the Maloja to Martinsbruck it only loses 2,598 feet. The effect, too, of its actual elevation upon vegetable, and therefore, upon human life, must be somewhat aggravated by its direction, which being to the north-east exposes it to cold winds, and renders it, moreover, somewhat unfavourable for the reception of sunshine. And, then, its temperature is still further lowered by the contiguity on either side of many snowy summits. These conditions make in its upper parts all kinds of cultivation, except that of grass, almost impossible. I saw this day at St. Moritz, and a little above it, some few potato patches, but as in every instance the haulm of these had been killed back by recent midsummer frosts, nothing this year would be got from them but disappointment. Still I found this part of the valley surprisingly populous, for it contains what almost may be called a chain of little towns, in every one of which are several good houses, and in not one of which is there the slightest indication of any approach to pauperism. The absence, however, of this form of wretchedness might almost have been expected, because where the winter is eight or nine months long no family can exist which has not some assured means of living. But this does not explain the well-to-do condition you must infer is the lot of many, whose substantial and neatly kept houses you see in every one of these little towns. Nature you conclude at a glance is too niggard here to maintain so many well-to-do families; you begin then to inquire how they are maintained? Whence come their means? What are they living upon?
The answer to these questions is worth obtaining not only for the sake of what it will tell us of the history of these people’s lives, but also because it will remind us of a change that is now coming over the whole world. These good people are living mainly upon capital, either upon the interest of capital invested in good securities, or upon the dividends of capital employed in such ventures as are open to them. This is a fact of Grison life to which reference has already been made, and to which we shall have to recur again. The reader is already aware that my companion, the circumnavigator, who was now seated by my side, was one of those who had failed in the Grison method of wooing fortune; but the owners of almost all these good houses had been successful wooers, for the good houses that belong to old Grison families are comparatively few. You pass a house which appears to be a goodly mansion. It covers a great deal of ground, is solidly built, and of two, or possibly of three, stories. It may not, however, be quite so large a dwelling-house as it looks, for the ground floor, or part of it, is perhaps a stable for half-a-dozen, or more, cows, and a couple of horses—these are seldom kept in outhouses. And this house may also contain a haystack sufficiently large to maintain these cows and horses for seven or eight months. Still after these deductions have been made it is a goodly house, and much ornamented, for its owner is proud of it; and the question arises, Whence came the money to purchase the land on which it stands, then to build it, then to buy the land which supplies the hay, and last, but not least, of all to support the family in comfort according to Engadin ideas? The money required for all this must have been a considerable sum, and the valley of the Inn has hitherto offered no opportunities for making such sums. In the particular case now before us it was all made by selling little cups of coffee, and still smaller glasses of liqueurs, at Paris. And before its owner could begin this small trade on his own account, he had to serve some years as waiter in an hotel; for he took no capital with him to Paris except the determination to get on. That was then all his stock in trade, but it was of such a kind as to be enough for the purpose. It was ultimately upon that foundation that the big house was built. His pecuniary savings began in the hotel. By the time he had learnt the ways and the language of the place, he had saved enough to commence the sale on his own account of the little cups of coffee, and smaller glasses of liqueurs. With what care must the cent or two that was made by each cup, or glass, have been guarded! How rarely were any of them spent in self-indulgence! It was self-indulgence enough to look forward to the house in the Engadin, with the thought that its owner would become one of the aristocracy of the valley; and to find at the end of the week that the life-supporting prospect—the ambition of a life, was so many francs nearer to realization. The next house was built by one who had rolled up his francs by vending little cakes, and small confectionery at Vienna. The process had been throughout the same. You inquire about a third with a coat of arms over the door, and gilt lattice at the window. Its owner climbed the ladder by becoming a bon-bon maker at Brussels. After half a life spent in unswerving fidelity to their single purpose these keen accumulators of small gains had made enough to enable them to take their ease for the rest of their days in Paris, Vienna, or Brussels; but that was not what they had been slaving and saving for. Of the 100,000 francs each of them had made, each invested the greater part in some good security, and the rest he expended in buying a piece of land, and in building a house, in that valley that has the climate of Iceland; and this house and land together with the money invested, which enables him to live in the house, is his unquestioned patent of nobility. In right of his manifestly achieved success he assumes his place in the aristocracy of the valley.
This is a spontaneously formed, and self-acting system. The distinction is real and substantial, and the way to it is open to all, and must be travelled by all who attain to the distinction, and none who travel it successfully can miss the distinction. With us it is different. Here there are many ways of making money, and but few only of those who have trodden successfully some one or other of the many ways attain to the splendid summits of society. It is not so in the Grisons. There the man who makes the money in the hard and humble way open to him, and builds the big house, and lives in it, becomes ipso facto a Grison grandee. He climbed up to his Herrship by a ladder that was very difficult to mount, but was equally accessible to all; and every one that climbs it enters the charmed circle. Enterprise, self-denial, and patience; great enterprise, for it is that in a penniless peasant to go out into the unknown world to compete with the natives of some great foreign city, unflinching self-denial, and heroical patience are the only course open to them. If the same mental stuff is needed for the making of the Cæsar of the village as of the Cæsar of the world, then we may suppose that under different circumstances, these men would have risen to eminence through higher paths. They were made of good stuff. We see in them men, who had their lot been cast here, would have become Lord Chancellors, Admirals, Generals, Statesmen, Scholars, merchant Princes, perhaps even Bishops.