Leading the Blind (7 page)

On one of the main routes between northern and southern Europe lay the Great St Bernard Hospice, a massive stone building at the highest point of the pass, ‘where it is exposed to tremendous storms from the north-east and south-west. The chief building is capable of accommodating 70 or 80 travellers with beds: 300 may be sheltered; and between 500 and 600 have received assistance in one day. The Drawing Room, appropriated to the reception of strangers, especially ladies,' is where ‘the brethren do the honours to their visitors. The room … is hung with many drawings and prints, presents sent by travellers in acknowledgement of the kind attentions which they had received from the brethren. A piano was among the presents thus sent, by a lady.'

A somewhat sour note is sounded by Murray's comments on the chapel services, which were attended on Sundays, in favourable weather, by peasants from the neighbouring valleys: ‘The tawdry ornaments of Catholic ceremony and worship in the chapel weakens the impressive character of the establishment and its devotees, for whom the most unfeigned respect must exist; but as their religious peculiarities are never obtruded upon strangers, and as their most valuable duties are performed in obedience to the dictates of their religion, no man has a right to make them a ground of offence.'

Sojourners were expected to put a donation into a box in the chapel, of not less than they would have paid had they stayed at a hotel. As Murray reminds them: ‘The resources of the brethren are small, and in aid of them, collections are regularly made in the Swiss cantons; but this has been sometimes abused by imposters, who have collected as the agents of the hospice.'

It was while crossing the Alps in 1873, thirty-five years later, that the young Joseph Conrad, who put up at a boarding house, heard English for the first time, spoken by English engineers building the St Gotthard tunnel. On the same trip he recalled an ‘unforgettable Englishman wearing a knickerbocker suit, with short socks and laced boots, whose calves, which were exposed to the public gaze and to the tonic air of high altitudes, dazzled the beholder by the splendour of their marble-like condition and their rich tone of young ivory'.

Some of the remote inns were so bad that one wonders why travellers ventured into such regions, but a guidebook left no viable route undescribed. At Brussone the inn was said to be the most detestable in Piedmont. ‘Filth and its accompanying goitre, disgust in every direction, and the Cheval Blanc with its dirty hostess cannot be forgotten.' Two inns there are named in a later edition without comment, the Cheval Blanc not being specifically mentioned.

The inn at Macugnaga, ‘which may be endured by an Alpine traveller, and which may subdue an alpine appetite, offers all its bad accommodations with so much civility, as almost to reconcile the traveller to disgust, starvation, and want of rest. Myriads of fleas, and nondescript food do not promise well for rest and refreshment; but the little host who keeps the inn – of whom Aesop was the prototype – boasts of his having studied the
cuisine
at Lyons; he seems to have fitted himself for the service of Harpagon. Still the inn may be endured, for the sake of the palace of nature in which it is placed.' By 1874 this judgement had changed to ‘fair quarters with good cuisine'.

Winding our way up the valley of the Germanasca, the house of Mr Tron is passed, ‘a singularly handsome structure in such a situation. He is a man remarkable for his hospitality; but this virtue does not extend to his wife and family, and the stranger who expects to receive it will fare ill in his absence.'

In the neighbourhood of Muotta the ‘ancient and primitive' convent of St Joseph will provide accommodation for the night: ‘The sisters are poor, and their mode of living homely; they make their own clothes and their own hay; the superior is called Frau Mutter. They receive visits from strangers without the intervention of a grating, and will even give lodging to a respectable traveller. Whoever avails himself of this must remember that the convent is too poor to afford gratuitous hospitality.'

A more interesting experience could be had at the baths of Leuk, where: ‘The accommodation is as good as can be expected, considering that the houses (except the Hôtel Maison Blanche) are made of wood, not very well built, shut up and abandoned from October to May. From the dreariness of the situation, the coldness of the climate, and the defects of the lodging, few English would desire to prolong their stay here, after satisfying their curiosity by a sight of the place. The baths and adjacent buildings have been three times swept away by avalanches …'

The notion of risk may stimulate the jaded traveller, but the concupiscent voyeur would surely be tempted to linger at Leuk due to the following: ‘Four hours of subaqueous penance are, by the doctor's decree, succeeded by one hour in bed; and many a fair nymph in extreme negligé, with stockingless feet, and uncoifed hair, may be encountered crossing the open space between the bath and the hotels. From their condition one might suppose they had been driven out of doors by an alarm of fire, or some such threatening calamity.'

By 1873, according to Baedeker, the system had changed: ‘… the patients, clothed in long flannel dresses, sit up to their necks in water in a common bath, where they remain for several hours together. Each bather has a small floating table before him, from which his book, newspaper, or coffee is enjoyed. The utmost order and decorum is preserved. Travellers are invited to view this singular and somewhat uninviting spectacle.'

The early Murray's rarely failed to point the traveller's eye, supposing he should need it, in the direction of good-looking women. Those of the Grindelwald were said to enjoy the reputation of ‘being prettier, or rather, less plain than those of most other Swiss valleys'. The Val Anzasca seems even better endowed: ‘I rarely saw a plain woman: their beautiful faces and fine forms, their look of cheerfulness and independence, and their extreme cleanliness, continually arrested attention.'

The hotel at the Baths of Monastier is welcome because ‘the filth and privations of those passed
en route
reconciles the traveller, and almost persuades him that it is tolerable. The mineral waters here are both drunk and employed in baths, and are so abundant that they are employed to turn a mill.'

Many of the strictures against hotels in the early guidebooks tend to disappear or become modified in later editions, the crusading spirit of Murray and Baedeker in favour of their readers having taken effect. Hotels were by now a speciality of Switzerland, and ‘the modern establishments are models of organisation on a most extensive scale. The smaller inns are often equally well conducted, and indeed in French and German Switzerland a really bad hotel is rarely met with.'

Baedeker, however, could still remark that: ‘Wine is often a source of much vexation. The ordinary table wines are sometimes so bad that the traveller is compelled to drink those of a more expensive class, which indeed is the very aim and object of the landlord. The wisest course is to select a wine which is the growth of the country.'

Vandalism of various kinds was frequently attributed to the English, as in the village church of Hindelbank, where there was a monument to Madame Langhans, who died in childbirth. ‘It is by a sculptor, named Nahl, and represents her with her child in her arms, bursting through the tomb at the sound of the last trumpet. Its merit, as a work of art, has been much exaggerated. The chief figure is injured by the loss of the nose, which Glütz Blotzheim asserts (it is to be hoped unfoundedly) was the wanton act of an Englishman.'

Perhaps the famous scratching by Byron of his name on a pillar of the Castle of Chillon could also be classed as vandalism but, when I visited the place, a frame had been put around it. Baedeker lessens the heinousness of this act by telling us that Victor Hugo and Eugène Sue also scored their names there.

The orderliness of Switzerland has become proverbial, but the criminal statistics of the district around Locarno, Murray writes, ‘show a large amount of crime in proportion to the number of inhabitants'. On the other hand certain villages in Piedmont ‘encourage a pride of birth and birthplace … their characters are distinguished for honesty and industry, and few communities have a higher moral tone. Crime is almost unknown among them, and if disputes arise the magistrate elected by themselves hears the complaint, and effects an amicable settlement. Their educational attainments are of a higher order than is usually found in such a class, especially in such a place.'

In Switzerland proper, according to Baedeker, the traveller in the Bernese Oberland ‘should possess a considerable fund of patience and of the smallest coin of the realm. Vendors of strawberries, flowers, and crystals first assail him, and he has no sooner escaped their importunities than he becomes a victim to the questionable attractions of a chamois or marmot. His admiration must not be engrossed by a cascade, be it ever so beautiful, or by a glacier, be it ever so imposing and magnificent; the urchin who persists in standing on his head, or turning somersaults for the tourist's amusement, must have his share of attention. Again, if the route happens to pass an echo, a pistol shot is made to reverberate in one's ears, and payment is of course expected for the unpleasant shock. Swiss damsels next make their appearance on the scene, and the ebbing patience of the traveller is again sorely tried by the national melodies of these ruthless songsters. Then there is the Alpine horn which, although musical when heard at a distance, is excruciating when performed close to the ear. The fact is, the simplicity and morality of the aboriginal character in these once sequestered regions has been sadly corrupted by modern invasion. These abuses had become so crying, that the attention of Government was directed to them, and commissioners were sent to inquire into the matter. Their advice is, “Give to nobody”; the remedy therefore lies principally with travellers themselves.'

Locomotion for the traveller on certain routes was far from easy. The hotelkeepers between Andermatt and Como ‘generally provide good carriages with trustworthy drivers. Extortionate demands, however, are occasionally made, especially on the Italian side, a spurious printed tariff being sometimes exhibited. Though the government has curbed the importunities of guides, drivers, and landlords, the boatmen and carriage-drivers of Brunnen are still noted for the exhorbitance of their charges.'

The romance of travel, and its possible dangers, is highlighted in Murray when he comes to Novasca: ‘… this spot offers to the traveller some of the most sublime horrors encountered in the Alps. Here a grand cataract bursts out from a rift in a mountainous mass of granite, where all is denuded to absolute sterility. Below it, a thousand enormous masses of granite are bouldered by the materials brought down and thrown upon them by the fall.'

More chilling matter is to come. Murray tells us that, a mile above Novasca,

there is a terrific gorge where enormous precipices overhang the course of the Orca, which rumbles through a succession of cataracts between these herbless precipices. The path which leads to the summit is cut out of the rocks, and a flight of steps, practicable for mules, is carried up through the gorge; sometimes on the actual brink of the precipice which overhangs the foaming torrent; in others, cut so deep into its side, that the rocky canopy overhangs the precipice. In some places there is not room enough for the mounted traveller, and there is danger of his head striking the rocks above him. This extraordinary path extends half a mile. In its course, crosses are observed, fixed against the rock to mark the spots of fatal accidents: but as three such accidents happened in company with an old miscreant who lived at the foot of the Scalare, suspicions were entertained of these having been murders which he had committed there. He underwent severe examinations; yet, though no doubt existed of his guilt, there was not evidence enough to convict him. It is believed that, at the spot where the crosses are placed, he pushed his victims over in an unguarded moment, where a child, unheeded, might have destroyed a giant.

Our traveller would sooner or later bring Geneva into his itinerary, and put up at the Hôtel des Bergues, ‘a grand establishment, recently built, facing the lake – expensive'. Reading the page of history in his Murray he would learn that: ‘The feuds arising between the high and low town were not few, nor void of interest; indeed, they would fill a long and amusing historical chapter: they often led to bloodshed, but the democrats below generally brought their exalted neighbours to reason by the simple expedient of cutting off the water-pipes, taking especial care to guard the hydraulic machine which furnished the supply to the upper town, and which is situated in their quarter.'

Thirty thousand people were said to visit the town every year, and one object of interest was the Natural History Museum. ‘There is the skin of an elephant, which lived a long time in a menagerie in the town, but at length becoming unruly, was shot.'

Some of the inhabitants remembered the horrors of the French Revolution, associated with the Botanic Gardens. ‘On this spot took place fusillades and butcheries, too horrible to be detailed, in which the blood of the most respectable citizens of the town was shed, condemned to execution by a band of wretches, most of whom where their fellow-citizens. Here, as in other places, subjected to the madness of the reign of terror, the atrocities were committed by a mere handful of assassins, while thousands looked on, disapproving, but yet not raising a voice to condemn, nor an arm to resist.'

On the nearby lake, the village of Clarens, sentimentally described by Rousseau in
La Nouvelle Héloïse
, was a poor and dirty place, says Murray, ‘far less attractive than many of its neighbours, and it probably owes its celebrity to a well-sounding name, which fitted it for the pages of a romance. The spot on which the beautifully ‘bosquet de Julie' is sought for is now a potato field.'