Swiss allmends, and a walk to see them

by F. Barham Zincke

The morning had been bright and cheery; but in the afternoon a cold, wet, leaden mist, sometimes worsening into a shower, rolled over the mountains from the direction of the Devil’s Bridge, and settled down doggedly on the broad deep depression of our valley of Urseren. There was no breeze to sweep it away, even to give it the slightest movement. On the side of the mountain to the south of the village, just about the height of the little wood, which partially shelters it from avalanches, that is to say a few hundred feet above our heads, patches of dense cloud hung for hours together in the somewhat less dense mist, without moving, without even any alteration of shape. The mist was in the Hotel. It was everywhere. It penetrated to one’s bones. In the reading-room men buttoned their coats, and lighted their cigars, wishing that the stove, too, were lighted. Last week, when passing through Andermatt, on my way to St. Gothard, I had sat for half an hour in the shade of the Hotel, on the bench in front of it; and had thought that nothing in the way of climate could be more freshening and delightful than the shade, on an August day, at such an altitude, with the flood of pure sunlight poured on every object around. But, now, the difference was cruel to those whose bodies, as well as minds, respond with too sensitive a readiness to the skyey influences of such altitudes. A fine, bright day quickens them into unwonted life; they feel as if they had been bathed in, and were breathing an exhalation of, champagne. And even mortals whose fibres are of the ordinary callousness, find it hard to be jolly, when for the exhalation of champagne has been substituted a cold vapour bath.

When Andermatt is in the clouds, the only local resources are the streams of carriages, and the arrival and departure of the diligences. The rolling rattle of the carriages, the jingling of the horses’ bells, and the clatter of their feet on the granite pavement, are incessant. The new monster Hotel, the Belle Vue, being a little to the north of the new road from the Rhone valley to the Grisons, sees and knows nothing of the up and down traffic on this line. The Old Hotel, however, the St. Gothard, in the main street of the village, is in the way both of this traffic, and of that which passes, to and fro, over the St. Gothard Pass, wherewith, in such weather, to divert the thoughts of its prisoners from themselves. It all passes in front of the reading-room, within arm’s length of the window. This advantage was not, this afternoon, thrown away; for some found, or endeavoured to find, a grain of comfort in the remark that the occupants of the carriages, at all events the gentleman who is generally seen seated on the box, by the side of the driver, must be very wet and cold. One, however, of the party, who appeared to have a scientific turn of mind, refused to be comforted by a comparison which might soon be to our disadvantage; and therefore remarked, unfeelingly, that such weather was generally very local, and that the occupants of the carriage would, probably, soon be in sunshine, in the Rhone valley. The majority at once saw the advantage of adopting his view; as it would give an additional justification for their discontent, and so aggravate their discomfort.

The well of conversation appeared to have been pumped dry. Fortunately, however, an opposite neighbour, some few paces lower down the road, who had a little piece of grass a few square yards in extent, kept geese. And these sagacious birds, having found that the road was no longer dusty, had sallied out in quest of a puddle, in which they might wade at least foot-deep. Their advent was hailed by those at the window as an event worthy of notice. This opened a new fountain for conversation; and it turned out to be one that for a time appeared inexhaustible. The first observation made was the most obvious one, that these Andermatt specimens were not much more than half the size of our English geese. The gentleman with scientific proclivities immediately suggested the effects of a cold climate in stunting animals, with a reference to Shetland ponies, as an illustrative instance. He was met with the remark that the Arctic bear is larger than the Westphalian. The last speaker for a moment appeared to have received a check by the observation that they do not belong to the same species. From this momentary check, however, he recovered by requesting his interlocutor to define species. The interlocutor being unwilling to lose his supposed advantage, retorted by the announcement that to ask for a definition of what all the world had always understood very well, implied belief in Darwinism, which was the demonstration of the absurdity that there was no difference between a man and a monkey. This, having been delivered with a show of denunciatory earnestness, was followed, as might have been expected, by a pause. But in the now ascertained dearth of subjects for conversation, one in which many were looking forward to taking a part, was not to be put aside in this way; and so there now commenced a recital, by several of the party in turn, of what each had observed, or heard, or read of geese. One prefaced what he was about to narrate by announcing that it was extremely curious. This was injudicious, for it excited more expectation than what he had to tell could satisfy. He thought it a proof of the justice of common opinion in regarding the goose as a stolid bird, that it always, as it crosses the sill of a barn door, cranes out its neck, and lowers its head, for fear of striking the lintel, generally some 10 or 12 feet above. There was nothing curious in this but the speaker’s mistake; for the goose cranes out its neck, and lowers its head, because it very sagaciously supposes that it is not improbable that the barn, it is entering, may contain some enemy; and this is its attitude of cautious observation, and of defiance. A second, who appeared to have had some experience of the fallibility of testimony, or of the incredulity of mankind, acknowledged that what he was about to narrate had in it something marvellous. It was a story of a goose having contracted so devoted a friendship for a horse, that fed in the same paddock as itself, that it was never easy except in the society of the horse. There was, however, nothing very marvellous in a highly gregarious animal attaching itself to the only other animal with which it could associate, notwithstanding that that other animal belonged to a different natural order. Talking of geese reminded a third—it must have been on the principle of the game of dominoes—that he had once bought his Michaelmas goose at a poulterer’s, four of whose children, he afterwards heard, were laid up at the time with small pox. This was evidence that the subject of geese was worn out. And, as no successor for it could be found, the party dispersed; some to their rooms to attend to any small matters they were so fortunate as to think required attention, and some to the post office, to see the arrival and departure of the afternoon diligences.

The number of diligences, that pass through Andermatt, surprises one, who does not consider that they not only carry the letters between northern Germany and Italy, and between southern Germany and France, but also a large proportion of those who travel in Switzerland, and no small amount of goods; for both the latter fall within the purview of the Swiss Post Office. You may twice a day, at the hours in the forenoon and afternoon when the diligences are timed to meet here, from north, south, east, and west, see as many as half-a-dozen together in front of the post office; which, by the way, is kept by a woman, and, in her absence, by a boy. As to the diligences, the driver is the servant of the conductor, who is the responsible official, and wears a kind of uniform. The conductors are, generally, very civil and obliging. They are well paid by ascending salaries, which at last reach 3,000 francs, besides the bonne-main they get from travellers.

At dinner I was placed next to a party of five young men. At a glance I inferred that they were Americans. I was sure, however, that they were not Yankees, for they had neither the features, nor the bearing of the men of the hub of the world, nor of anywhere in that neighbourhood. Judging in the same way I concluded that they were not western men. I was not, therefore, surprised—it was only what I had expected to hear—when they told me that they were from Baltimore; the city of the United States in which I had found the American most like the European in manner, and tone of thought. They were of varying ages between the limits of twenty and thirty; and had formed a party, as they informed me, to complete their professional education—they were all aspirants for the faculty—by visiting, and studying for two years in, and acquainting themselves with the practice of, the chief medical schools of Germany, France, and England. This reminded me of an observation I had made while travelling in the United States, that, there, in some matters, especially practical ones, larger and more complete views are taken than with us: at all events, it would be well if a like desire for study and culture were common among the medical students of the old country.

August 12.—On the following morning the fortunes of the weather-battle were evidently inclining to the side of the Sun. It had broken the ranks of the clouds, which yesterday were in complete possession of the field. They were now retreating in scattered detachments. As each trailed over the scene of their late victory, it discharged a parting volley, in the form of a smart shower. The Sun, having been forced back for a few minutes, then returned, and re-occupied the ground. By the exercise of his evaporating powers, he effaced, with marvellous rapidity, the traces of his enemy’s recent work. A few moments after his rays struck the wooden roofs of the village, steam was curling up from every part of them—as much as if the interior of each house had been on fire, and the smoke was pouring up through the joints of the shingles. This was repeated several times, at lengthening intervals. At last the valley was completely cleared of the enemy, of whom nothing remained in sight, with the exception of a few small outposts high up on the mountain sides.

Ammer was now summoned, and we started for the inspection of the alpe of Oberalp. A line or two will suffice for the statistical account of this alpe, as it is given in the Economie Alpestre de la Suisse, which was issued in 1868 by the Bureau de Statistique du Département fédéral de l’Intérieur. The alpe of Oberalp is situated in the Commune of Andermatt. It is the property of the Commune. Its acreage is not ascertained. It was assessed formerly at 350 Kuh-essen (the extent of pasture required for the keep of a cow), now at 290. At present there are summered on the alpe 175 cows in milk, 140 young neat stock, 250 goats, and 40 pigs: in all equal to the keep of 328⅓ cows. It is 4,400 feet above the sea. (It must be 1,000 feet higher). It is grazed for 97 days, between June 24, and September 28. For each cow 3fr. 50 cents. are paid. Each cow gives 144 livres of cheese (a Swiss livre is equal to nearly 17 oz. English), worth 50 cents. a livre; and 64 pots of whey worth 20 cents. each. The return for each cow is 85·20. The outgoings for each 5fr. The net return for each 79fr. 20 cents. The total net income from the alpe is 17,885fr. Of this 13,860fr. is from cows; 4,025 from other stock. This will give a general idea of the nature, uses, and value of Swiss mountain pastures, which are not cut for hay (if they are cut for hay they are prairies and not alpes) but depastured during the late summer and early autumn; being for the rest of the year either too cold and wet for stock, or actually buried beneath the snow.

To reach this alpe you leave the village either by the old mule-path, or by the new carriage-road, and are immediately on the skirts of the mountain, which is here quite devoid of trees, and all in grass. You do not ascend the zigzags, by which the road climbs the mountain, but cut them all off by going over the grass, straight up the mountain side. As long as you are cutting off the zigzags, and till you come out on the straight road, you will be going up, and through, about a mile and a half of prairie, where the grass is cut for hay. This is kept clean, all noxious weeds being eradicated, and, as I saw, is pretty well manured. Upon this you will see no stock in August. They will take whatever parts of it are ever fed, in their way down from the upper pastures. When you get to the road, it has become straight and level, and remains so, with only a very gradual ascent, till it gets beyond the Oberalpsee, that is to say, for something more than two miles further. It then rises, and turns to the right. But if you go straight up the mountain that is before you, facing you as you walk up to the lake, you will come, on the summit, to the end of the Oberalp alpe, and will be on the Tiarms Pass, by which you may leave Uri, and enter the Grisons.

As soon as we had reached the road, we were upon the unmown alpe, and among the stock. At its near, or lower, end were the pigs and calves. The pigs are never very far from the châlet, in which the cheese is made, for they get a good part of the whey. The châlet, of course, is placed in as low and sheltered a spot as it can be conveniently. But, wherever it is placed, you will see smoke issuing from its chimney, for at these altitudes it is too cold to make cheese without some artificial heat. We next came up with the goats. For, as they must be brought twice a day to the châlet to be milked, it is as well to have them pretty handy. After the goats, in the broadest grassy bottom of the alpe—for they are entitled to, and have, the best pasture—a herd of cows—I counted somewhat over 100 of them—put in their appearance. They were below the road, beside the stream which discharges the Oberalpsee, and which was, just where they were, fringed with patches of the rose of the Alps, then in flower. Last of all, on the flank of the ascent to the Tiarms Pass, at the greatest distance of all from the châlet, were the sheep; for they have not to be brought home to be milked. As to the pasture itself we will put it at three miles in length, and we will call the road its axis, though I do not know how far it extends laterally, beyond the two ranges of mountains that bound the view. The sward is generally clean and good. The road is on the flank of the mountain on the left to one going from Andermatt. There is a good breadth of grass above the road in most places, bounded by a ridge of rocky summits. On the right there is the descent to the stream in the valley, and the rise, beyond, of the opposite mountains. The sward here, too, is good till it begins to get threadbare as it approaches, and at last becomes quite out at elbows on, the summits.

While I was counting the cows, I saw Ammer among them, picking his way across the stream from rock to rock. On his return he had in his hand a bouquet—by no means a small one—of the rose of the Alps. This he informed me was for Madame on her arrival.