CHAPTER V
THE ALPS AND ARTIFICIALITY
Territet, Dec. 1906.
I wonder if you know what life is like in a big caravanserai on the shores of Lake Leman in December. This hotel is filled from the ground to the sixth floor, and from east to west with people of all ages, who have a horror of being where they ought to be—that is to say, in their own homes—and who have come to the Swiss mountains with but one idea—that of enjoying themselves. What can be the matter with their homes, that they are all so anxious to get away?
I have been more than a month in this place, and cannot get used to it. After the calm of the Forest of Fontainebleau and the quiet little house where, for the first time, we tasted the joys of real rest, this existence seems to me strange and even unpleasant. Indeed, it makes me tired even to think of the life these people lead and their expense of muscular force to no purpose.
But the doctor wished me to come here, and I, who long above everything else to be strong, am hoping the pure air will cure me.
On the terrace which overlooks the lake I usually take my walks, but when I have taken about a hundred steps I have to sit down and rest. Certainly I would be no Alpinist.