The Spell of Switzerland

by Nathan Haskell Dole

“The castle in this respect also rose considerably above the neighboring ground, but the elevation of the site, which towards the torrent was an abrupt rock, was on this side a steep eminence which had been scarped like a modern glacis to render the building more secure. It was now covered with young trees and bushes, out of which the tower itself seemed to rise in ruined dignity.”

Then he goes on to describe the ample grounds which “seemed scooped out of the rocks and mountains.”

Scott’s imagination was probably aided by various pictures; but it is remarkably correct. It is amazing to think how many such castles, almost always situated on inaccessible peaks or islands, must have been built since the world began, when mighty stones had to be brought and fitted and lifted and there was no help from steam or electricity. The colossal fortifications of prehistoric Greece, the edifices of the stone age, the dizzy escarpments raised by the Incas in their mountain fastnesses, and all the marvels of barbaric architecture in the depths of the Caucasus, to say nothing of the hundreds of castles vanished or still left more or less ruined throughout Europe, are a proof of the industry and the faithfulness of millions of human beings whose names, if they had any designation, are gone for ever.

There was not any special reason for spending the night at Evian: we might almost as well have run straight across to Lausanne and slept in our own beds; but we were out for a special purpose—to circle the lake—and it seemed rather good fun to have a glimpse of the French life which gathers in this typical Savoyard village, turned into a resort of fashion. We got a berth for our swift Hirondelle near the Quai Baron Blonay and left Emile to make himself comfortable in it, and we ourselves, having satisfied the customs authorities that we were not smugglers even of Vevey cigars, took lodgings at the Hôtel Royal above the lake. Then we sallied out to see the town, not failing to ride over to the curious spring of Amphion where we admired the fine old chestnut-trees. In the evening we attended the Casino Theatre where a fairly good company was playing “Les Affaires sont les Affaires.”

The next morning we intended to start early but had to wait until the fog cleared away. Anything more beautiful than its final disappearance could hardly be imagined. When I first arose and looked out of my window, I seemed to be gazing across a tumbling sea which must just about have reached the old level of the lake when it emptied out into the Aar and the Rhine, and therefore was a contributary to the German Ocean and not to the Mediterranean.

Some of the Swiss rivers seem to be like the Swiss themselves and divide their allegiance. Thus the Venoge, which rises between Rolle and Mont Tendre, at first determined apparently to give itself up to the Lake of Neuchâtel; but it pauses at La Sarraz and quarrels with itself; some of the stream is faithful to its old purpose and joins the Mozon, which falls into the Lake of Neuchâtel at Yverdon; while the main river turns to the south and falls into the Lake of Geneva east of Morges.

It was not long before the glories of the Jura began to appear above the mist. Stretching along in a wall-like perspective, with their summits glittering white in the morning sun, it was a sight never to be forgotten. I dressed and went down to the veranda and there fell into conversation with a most courteous English lady who knew the lay of the land. She pointed out to me Le Crêt de la Neige, Mont Tendre, Dôle and other elevations. I found that we had mutual friends and we were soon on a footing of very charming acquaintance. This is worth mentioning because the English perhaps cherish the reputation of pursuing their selfish way aloof from other human beings unfortunate enough not to have first seen the light of day on their tight little Island.

There is a beautiful chance here to introduce the golden thread of romance and let it begin to weave a glowing design. My niece, whom I have not mentioned for a long time, when I told her of my chance rencontre, immediately jumped at the conclusion that the spider had caught the fly, that my heart was already in a net. She actually began to lay her plans for inviting Lady Q. to come and make her a visit. I assured her that there was not the slightest danger. I potentially prevaricated and boldly declared that Lady Q. was neither a maid nor a widow.

“And why,” said I, “are you so anxious to marry me off? You must be getting tired of me.”