Leading the Blind

CHAPTER FIVE SWITZERLAND

The first problem our traveller must consider on entering Switzerland is the complication of money. In his Murray of 1838 he will perhaps already have noted that: ‘There is hardly a country in Europe which has so complicated a currency as Switzerland; almost every canton has a Coinage of its own, and those coins that are current in one canton will not pass in the next. Let the traveller, therefore, be cautious how he overloads himself with more small change than he is sure of requiring.’

One English sovereign could be exchanged for 17 Swiss francs, 4 batzen and 6 rappen. If any French cash remains in his pocket he will get 7 batzen and 8 rapps for each franc. In the German-speaking provinces a Swiss guilden will net 60 kreutzers, and a ducat 30. The Zurich florin is divided into 16 (good) batzen and 40 rapps, and again into 40 schillings of 4 rapps each. At Geneva a French 5-franc piece will fetch 3 livres, 1 sol and 9 deniers. In the Grisons canton a florin contains 15 (light) batzen and 60 kreutzers, or 70 blutgers, which is the equivalent of 1 French franc 76 centimes, or 16 English pence. In the southern or Ticino part of the country the lira contains 20 solidi, each of 4 quatrini. Perhaps the Norfolk jacket of those days had more pockets than it does today. By 1850, however, the Swiss currency was brought into conformity with that of France.

Having sorted out the above problem, if he ever did, our traveller will take out his map of the country at the first good inn he comes to, though the remarks in his Murray concerning the complexity and variation in measuring distance will not be reassuring, for they are ‘reckoned not by miles, but by stunden (hours’ walking) or leagues. The measures of length given in the following routes have been taken from the most perfect tables that could be procured; but the Editor is aware that there must be many errors, and that an approach to accuracy is all that can be expected from them. The length of the stunde has been calculated at 5278 metres, or 2708 toises or 1800 Bernese feet; 21,137 of such stunden go to a degree of the Equator. To make their measurement agree with the actual pace of walking, it is necessary to advance 271 Paris feet in a minute … Since the correction of weights and measures in 1833–34, 3/10 of a metre, or 3 decimetres, or 132,988 Paris lines has been constituted the legal Swiss foot, and 16,000 Swiss feet 1 stunde.’

Folding his map with a sigh, if not in a fit of absolute vexation, our traveller will notice that on the Italian side of the Alps things are even worse. Regarding distances in Piedmont, ‘it is nowhere more strangely felt than in this route to the Val d’Aosta from Turin. With maps, post-books, descriptions of the valley, and the latest authority of the government before us, neither distances nor measures can be reconciled. Whether the miles are geographical, 60 to a degree, or of Piedmont, 40 to a degree, is not mentioned; and no measure from the scales of three of the best maps will agree with either of the quantities described in the three best works, which ought to be of authority since they are sanctioned by the government; so that the distances named can only be approximations.’

Before taking to the road it will be learned that travelling by diligence in Switzerland has greatly improved in the last twenty years but, even so: ‘On some routes, particularly in going from one canton into another, passengers are sometimes transferred into another coach, and run the chance of waiting several hours for it, being set down in a remote spot to pass the interval as they may, and this not unfrequently in the middle of the night.’

Those who wish to hire a carriage and driver will observe that: ‘Before making an engagement, it is prudent to consult the landlord of the inn or some other respectable inhabitant — (N.B. not the waiter) — to recommend a person of approved character to be employed. As there are many very roguish voituriers, ready to take advantage of the traveller on all occasions, such a recommendation will be a guarantee, to a certain extent, for good behaviour. The landlord should be referred to apart, not in the presence of the coachman, nor, indeed, with his cognizance. It is a bad plan to intrust a waiter or inferior person with the negotiation; he will most probably sell the traveller to the voiturier, and make a job for his own advantage.’

The rate of travelling was about forty miles a day, at a speed of five miles an hour, and Murray suggests that the traveller hire one set of horses for the whole tour, since it would not be easy to change them at every town he came to. He would then be free from the ‘manoeuvres of petty inn-keepers, who will often pretend that none are to be had, and will throw every impediment in the way of his departure’.

Perhaps our traveller, for reasons of economy, decides to go where he will by charabanc, the national carriage of Switzerland, which Murray describes as having the body of a gig, or being like a bench which is ‘placed sideways upon four wheels, at a very little distance from the ground. It is surrounded by leather curtains made to draw, whence it has been compared to a four-post bedstead on wheels. There is a larger kind of char, in which the benches are suspended by thongs, not springs, across a kind of long waggon, and are arranged one behind the other. The char-à-bang is a very strong and light vehicle, capable of carrying two persons, or three at a pinch, and will go on roads where no other species of carriage could venture. It is convenient, from being so low that one can jump in, or alight without stopping the horse, while it is going on; but it is a very jolting conveyance.’ Many lines of railway were opened in Switzerland during the ensuing decades, though the diligence continued in use until motor buses took its place after the turn of the century.

In 1838 the country was already well provided with hotels, though Murray has much to say about them. The approach to a high-class city establishment in summer ‘exhibits rather a characteristic spectacle. The street before it is usually filled with several rows of vehicles of all sorts, from the dirty and rickety calèche of the German voiturier, to the neat chariot of the English peer, and the less elegant, but equally imposing, equipage of the Russian prince. Before the doorway is invariably grouped a crowd of loitering servants and couriers, of all nations and languages, and two or three knots of postilions and coachmen on the look-out for employment. During the height of the season, should the traveller arrive late in the evening, the chances are against his being admitted, unless he had sent or written beforehand to secure rooms.’

An already familiar system of graft is now outlined: ‘Couriers, voituriers, guides, and boatmen, are apt sometimes to sell their employers to the innkeepers for a gratuity, so that travellers should not always implicitly follow the recommendations of such persons … The innkeepers hitherto have been very much at the mercy of this class of persons, who invariably fare sumptuously, and certainly not at their own expense. It not unfrequently happens that the attendance which ought to be bestowed on the master is lavished upon his menials. Whenever a new inn is started, it is almost invariably by the lavish distribution of high gratuities to coachmen, couriers, and the like, and by pampering them with the best fare, that the landlord endeavours to fill his house, to the prejudice both of the comfort and the purse of their masters.’

However: ‘It may be laid down as a general rule, that the wants, tastes, and habits of the English are more carefully and successfully studied at the Swiss inns than even in those of Germany. Thus, at most of the large inns, there is a late table-d’hôte dinner at 4 or 5 o’clock, expressly for the English; and the luxury of tea may always be had in perfection.’

We are told that there were generally two sets of charges, one for the Swiss, or Germans, and another for the English, ‘on the principle, that the latter have both longer purses, and also more numerous wants, and are more difficult to serve. It is often remarked by the English that the Germans pay very little to the servants at inns; but they should bear in mind how much less trouble the Germans give, and how slight the attendance which they require generally speaking.’

Baedeker’s Switzerland, 1873, expands on this theme, and he clearly has the English in mind when stating that some guests are more demanding than others, and ‘give orders totally at variance with the customs of the country, and express great dissatisfaction if their wishes are not immediately complied with; others travel with a superabundance of luggage, which is often apt to embitter their enjoyment; and there is also a numerous class whose ignorance of foreign languages causes them frequent embarrassment and discomfort.’

Murray, occasionally endeavouring to be fair, tells his readers that: ‘Swiss inns have the reputation of being expensive, and the innkeepers of being extortionate. A recent journey through the greater part of the country had scarcely afforded an instance of either; but, where such cases have occurred, notice will be taken of them’, a very real threat indeed.

Later in the century the traveller was reminded that the hotel-keeper, in some parts of the country, was often the only wealthy inhabitant, and might also be a local magistrate. ‘Consequently, it is sometimes difficult to obtain redress against them for an injury or act of insolence, owing either to the interest they possess with the courts, or to their being themselves the justices. As a rule, however, they are respectable men, and difficulties seldom arise.’

Perhaps it was a complaint to Murray which caused him, a few years later, to insert the following: ‘The drainage in some of the larger houses had been badly reported of within the last few years. Any cases where such complaints continue, will be noted in future editions’ — another entry which, if hotelkeepers read the book (maybe a copy which some traveller had accidentally left behind), would remind them that their living could be in jeopardy if they failed to call in the plumber. Murray goes on to say, however, that cleanliness was to be met with everywhere, until one reached the Italian side of the Alps, and went into Savoy and Piedmont.

Swiss hotelkeepers were even more highly thought of by Murray when he saw them as willing caterers to the Bible-backed English travellers of the Victorian Age. Several hotelkeepers went so far as to ‘build English chapels as an inducement to our travellers to pass the Sunday with them; in many mountain inns an English clergyman is offered free lodging with the same object, and the guests of other nations are ejected from the public sitting-room while English service is performed’.

By the beginning of the Great War there were fifty-two English churches in the country, as well as 124 hotels where, in the season, services were held.

Joining the zig-zag peregrinations of our traveller around Switzerland and Piedmont, we can look at the merits (and sometimes demerits) of a few hotels mentioned in Murray’s first edition. If our traveller is an Alpine enthusiast he will find that the hostelry on the summit of the Faulhorn (8140 feet) is ‘… totally abandoned to the wind and rain in October, but affords 3 very tolerable apartments, and one or two lofts; still it is but sorry sleeping accommodation, the désagréments of which are hardly compensated to ladies by the uncertain beauty of the early view of the glaciers: for gentlemen the quarters are good enough.’ Baedeker tells us, about the same inn thirty-five years later, that: ‘A single traveller is often required to share his room with another.’

The posthouse of the Mont Cenis, on the other hand, is a tolerable place to put up, ‘where travellers may regale on the excellent trout of the lake, and sometimes on ptarmigan, for which they will, however, pay handsomely’.

The isolated six-thousand-foot peak of the Rigi drew many travellers, but Murray describes the scene and possible disappointments in such a way as to make the potential pilgrim wonder whether the ascent would be worthwhile. During summer nights, the hotel near the top was ‘crammed to overflowing every evening; numbers are turned away from the doors, and it is difficult to procure beds, food, or even attention. The house presents a scene of the utmost confusion, servant maids hurrying in one direction, couriers and guides in another, while gentlemen with poles and knapsacks block up the passages. Most of the languages of Europe, muttered usually in terms of abuse or complaint, and the all-pervading fumes of tobacco enter largely as ingredients into this Babel of sounds and smells, and add to the discomfort of the fatigued traveller. In the evening the guests are collected at a table-d’hôte supper; after which most persons are glad to repair to rest. It takes some time, however, before the hubbub of voices and the trampling of feet subside; and, not unfrequently, a few roystering German students prolong their potations and noise far into the night.’

Let Baedeker continue the account, which in this case easily matches the style of Murray: ‘Half an hour before sunrise, the Alpine horn sounds the reveille. All is again noise, bustle, and confusion. As the sun will wait for no man, eager expectants often indulge in impromptu toilettes of the most startling description. A red Indian in his blanket would on these occasions be most appropriately dressed, and would doubtless find many imitators but for the penalty imposed on visitors borrowing so tempting a covering from the hotel. The sleepy eye soon brightens, the limb stiffened by the exertions of the preceeding day is lithe again in that exciting moment; the huge hotel is for the nonce without a tenant; and if the eager crowd are not, like the disciples of Zoroaster, ready with one accord to prostrate themselves before the great source of light and life, there are probably few whose thoughts do not turn in silent adoration towards that mighty hand which created “the great light which rules the day.”’

Murray ends with a ray-by-ray description, in the best romantic tradition, of the stunning sunrise which the guests would see, if they were lucky.

In a more remote part of the country our traveller’s way leads him along the ‘savage’ valley of the Romanche to the ‘miserable village of La Grave where there is a wretched inn. The author was once detained there in a storm, and the filth and misery of such a gîte cannot be imagined. It is rare to find bread there. Eggs, however, may be had, and good wine.’ The same accommodation was still, ‘wretched, bad, and dear’ more than thirty years later.

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.’

In the historical note on Geneva Baedeker tells us that Jean Jacques Rousseau, the son of a watchmaker, was born there in 1712, and lived in the town during his early youth. ‘His writings, which exhibited ability of the highest order, exercised a great influence over the opinions of his age, but their tendency was highly injurious to society, and he passed a troubled and agitated life. At the instigation of Voltaire and the university of Paris, and by order of the magistrates of Geneva, his “Emile” and “Contrat Social” were burnt in 1763 by the hangman.’

Well might Dostoevsky, in a letter to his sister, complain that ‘Geneva is a dull, gloomy, Protestant, stupid town with a frightful climate, but very well suited for work.’

If our traveller came towards Mont Blanc from the Valley of Aosta he would find that it was ‘more perhaps than any other in Piedmont afflicted in a horrid degree with cretinism and goitre. Nowhere are they more prevalent than in this beautiful valley. The peasantry appear squalid and filthy a race of beings generally stunted and diseased. Of the whole population in the neighbourhood of Aosta, one in fifty is a cretin; and above half are more or less goitred. Some of these are horrid objects. Tumours as large as their heads are appended to their throats, varying in number, size, and colour. The dirt, deformity, and imbecility of the inhabitants presented a scene so wretched, that it harrowed our feelings. Not a well-dressed or decent-looking person is to be met with; all bear the marks of poverty, disease, and wretchedness; and this too amidst scenes for which nature has done so much. Something weighs upon the people like a curse. Many conjectures have been offered upon the cause of goitres and cretinism. Labour, food, water, air, have all been offered in explanation; but none of these account for it satisfactorily. The opinion of our guide was, that it was chiefly owing to the villainously dirty habits of the people most afflicted with it. He said that among the mountaineers this was the general opinion; and though it sometimes descended in families, and often was observed in infancy, yet it might be traced to the filthy habits of preceding generations.’ Similar views were expressed in later editions but, by the end of the century, guidebooks had ceased referring to the disease, which suggested that it had more or less died out.

To reach Chamonix and Mont Blanc from Geneva Baedeker recommends taking the diligence as far as St Gervais, then walking the rest of the way in six or seven hours over a five-thousand-foot col — no great feat for a pedestrian, then or now. The highway is, however, ‘beset by all sorts of vagabonds, who plant themselves in the way openly as beggars, or covertly as dealers in mineral specimens, guides to things which do not require their aid, dealers in echoes, by firing small cannon where its reverberation may be heard two or three times. Such idle nuisances should be discountenanced.’

All guidebooks gave advice on walking, suggesting that inexperienced Alpine travellers should accustom themselves, for some time before they set out, to look down from heights and over precipices, ‘so that, when they really enter upon a dangerous path, the eye may be familiarized with the depths of the abyss, and the aspect of danger, and the head relieved from vertigo which the sudden sight of a precipice is otherwise apt to produce’.

No one should attempt to cross a glacier without a guide, who must always be allowed to take the lead. Only double-soled boots should be worn, Murray says, ‘with iron heels and hob-nails; the weight of a shoe of this kind is counter balanced by the effectual protection afforded to the feet against sharp rocks and loose stones, which cause contusions.’

Blistered feet should be rubbed with spirits before going to bed, ‘mixed with tallow dropped from a candle into the palm of the hand; on the following morning no blister will exist. The spirits seem to possess the healing power, the tallow serving only to keep the skin soft and pliant. To prevent the feet blistering, it is a good plan to soap the inside of the stocking before setting out.’

Baedeker says that, in spite of possible discomforts: ‘The pedestrian is of all travellers the most capable, both physically and morally, of enjoying a tour in Switzerland. The first golden rule is to start on his way betimes in the morning. If strength permits, and a suitable halting-place is to be met with, a two hours’ walk may be accomplished before breakfast. At noon a moderate luncheon is preferable to the regular table-d’hôte dinner. Repose should be taken during the hottest hours, and the journey then continued till 5 or 6 p.m., when a substantial meal may be partaken of.’

He has much to say on the drawback of having too much luggage, which renders the travellers a prey to porters at every stop. ‘Who has not experienced the exultation which attends the shouldering of the knapsack or wielding of the carpet-bag, on quitting a steamboat or railway station? Who in his turn has not felt the misery of that moment when, surrounded by his “impedimenta”, the luckless tourist is almost distracted by the rival claims of porters, touters, and commissionaires? A light game-bag amply suffices to contain all that is necessary for a fortnight’s excursion. A change of flannel shirts and worsted stockings, a few pocket-handkerchiefs, a pair of slippers, and the necessary “objets de toilette” may be carried with hardly a perceptible increase of fatigue. A piece of green crepe or coloured spectacles to protect the eyes from the glare of the snow, and a leather drinking-cup will also be found useful …’

The foremost ‘Rule’ for the enthusiast is that he should curb his ardour at the beginning of the tour, and rarely exceed ten hours a day. In the tone of the fatherly schoolmaster Baedeker tells him: ‘Animal spirits are too often in excess of powers of endurance; overtaxing the strength on a single occasion sometimes incapacitates altogether for several days. When a mountain has to be breasted, the prudent pedestrian will pursue the “even tenor of his way” with regular and steady steps; the novice alone indulges in “spurts”. If the traveller will have a third golden maxim for his guidance it may be, “When fatigue begins, enjoyment ceases.”’

We are forewarned about the chilling reality of actual experience. ‘The first night in a Chalet dispels many illusions. Whatever poetry there may be theoretically in a bed of hay, the usual concomitants of the cold night-air piercing abundant apertures, the ringing of the cow-bells, the sonorous grunting of the swine, and the undiscarded garments, hardly contribute to that refreshing slumber of which the wearied traveller stands in need.’

Baedeker’s edition of 1911 frowns heavily on: ‘The senseless habit of breaking empty bottles and scattering the fragments (which) has led to inconvenience and even danger near some of the more frequented of these club huts. Bottles when done with should be deposited in some suitable spot where they will be out of the way.’

As for experiencing the rarefied effects of air in the mountains, Francis Galton in The Art of Travel suggests a cruel and bizarre method of gauging it: ‘On the high plateaux newcomers must expect to suffer. The symptoms are described by many South American travellers; the attack of them is there, among other names, called the puna. The disorder is sometimes fatal to stout plethoric people; oddly enough, cats are unable to endure it. Numerous trials have been made with these unhappy feline barometers, and the creatures have been found to die in frightful convulsions.’

The first view of Mont Blanc from the northwest is obtained at Sallenches, where the traveller enters the bustling courtyard of the hotel of that name and, during the season, ‘never fails to meet numerous travellers going to or from Chamonix; the latter imparting their impressions of the wonders of Mont Blanc, and their adventurous scrambles in the presence of the “monarch” to the listening expectants of such enjoyment; — all is excitement.’

A few miles beyond Sallenches is St Gervais, ‘a little fairy spot, in a beautiful valley, where excellent accommodation may be had en pension; hot mineral baths for the sick, and delightful walks around this little paradise for the convalescent … One of the pleasures of this place is its solitude, amidst scenes so beautiful and wild, that it would be difficult to find it, without a guide.’

This difficulty might have been a positive advantage on 11 July 1892 for, to quote from Edward Whymper’s guidebook to the area, ‘the whole of the central (and oldest) portion of these buildings, and the farther ends of the two wings, were erased by the sudden bursting of a sub-glacial reservoir … The flood first coursed down the valley, and at its mouth half obliterated the village of Bionnay. It then joined the Bon Nant Torrent, and did little further mischief until it was compressed between the walls of the Gorge of Crepin; from the lower extremity of which it issued with tremendous violence, and in a few minutes battered the Baths to ruin, and swept away and drowned the greater part of the visitors. Those who were in the building on the left escaped; but, with few exceptions, all who were in the central and in the farthest blocks perished. How many were lost is unknown. It is supposed that at the Baths alone the number exceeded one hundred and twenty.’

Whymper’s guide, one of the most thorough, tells us in the introduction, under practical matters: ‘Soap. — There is a great opening for soap in Alpine regions, and at the present time it pays to carry a cake.’ As for those who travel light, meaning pedestrians, ‘… inkeepers look with suspicion upon travellers with little or no baggage, and are apt to thrust them into the very worst rooms’.

Chamonix, while not in Switzerland, is dealt with in Murray because of its nearness to Mont Blanc. Out of several good inns he recommends the Hôtel de Londres et d’Angleterre, since this is ‘the oldest establishment, and has never forfeited the reputation of being one of the best held and appointed inns to be found in the Alps; where Victor Tairrez and his excellent wife are so practised in their acquaintance with, and their provision for, the wants of travellers, especially English, that more confort will be found there than in almost any other inn out of England’.

As opposed to this solid praise Murray takes hotel guests to task, sternly reminding them that: ‘At Chamonix and elsewhere, the travellers’ books at the inns are great sources of amusement; often containing, in remarks of preceding travellers, useful information. A most disgraceful practice has too often prevailed, of removing leaves for the sake of autographs; it is difficult to imagine any act more unworthy, for this selfish gratification they destroy what would be pleasure to hundreds.’

Whymper, a great Alpinist himself, discusses with the reader the advisability or otherwise of employing guides, concluding that: ‘Everyone must decide for himself. Some persons are competent to carry out all the excursions that are mentioned. A larger number, however, are not equal to this.’

Baedeker says that the services of a guide are unnecessary in good weather on well-trodden routes, and that: ‘The traveller may engage the first urchin he meets to carry his bag or knapsack for a trifling gratuity.’ Guides were said to be indispensable, however, for expeditions among, ‘the higher mountains, especially on those which involve the passage of glaciers. Only novices undervalue their services and forget that snowstorms or mist may at any moment change security to danger. As a class, the Swiss guides will be found to be intelligent and respectable men, well versed in their duties, and acquainted with the people and resources of the country.’

He tells us in his preface that: ‘The achievements of the English and Swiss Alpine Clubs have dimmed the memory of the pioneers of these icy regions, whilst latterly the fair sex have vied in deeds of daring with those by whom the dangers of adventure are more appropriately encountered.’

A chapter in Whymper’s guidebook is devoted to accidents in the Mont Blanc area, one of which, in 1909, ‘did not present any great novelty. In September a tourist named Eugène Ribaud, who was said to be an architect of Lyons, leant against a balustrade in the Gorge of Trient, which gave way, and he fell to the bottom of a cliff, where his corpse was found.’

Sixty-two climbers and guides were killed from 1820 to 1909, and details are given of each accident. One that did not end fatally is a good example of stiff-upper-lip reporting:

On the 11th of July, 1861, a large party of tourists was assembled on the top of the Col de Miage, with the object of discovering whether an ascent of Mont Blanc could be made from this direction. Whilst the rest were stopping for breakfast, one of the party, Mr. Birkbeck, went aside, and the others did not at first remark his absence. When it was noticed, his track was followed, and it was found that he had fallen down precipitous slopes of snow and ice, and was descried nearly half a mile away, at the foot of the slope, at the head of the French Glacier de Miage. His friends went to his assistance as quickly as possible, but nearly 2½ hs. elapsed before they could reach him.

Between the place where Mr. Birkbeck commenced to slide or fall and the place where he stopped there was a difference of level of about 1700 feet! The slope was gentle where he first lost his footing, and he tried to stop himself with his fingers and nails, but the snow was too hard. Sometimes he descended feet first, sometimes head first, then he went sideways, and once or twice he had the sensation of shooting through the air. He came to a stop at the edge of a large crevasse. When reached, it was found that he was almost half-skinned by abrasion and friction. By his passage over the snow, the skin was removed from the outside of the legs and thighs, the knees, the whole of the lower part of the back and part of the ribs, together with some from the nose and forehead. He had not lost much blood, but he presented a most ghastly spectacle of bloody raw flesh. He was transported to St. Gervais, and remained there in a critical condition for some weeks, but ultimately recovered better than might have been expected.

The worst accident took place near the summit, in 1870, when eleven persons perished. Three Americans who led the expedition did not have any mountain experience, but set out with three guides and five porters. ‘The next day several persons in the Valley of Chamonix endeavoured to watch their progress through telescopes. The weather aloft was bad. The wind is said to have been frightful. Even from below the snow was seen whirling about, and it was noticed from time to time that they had to throw themselves down to escape being carried away by the wind.

‘No one returned, and fourteen Chamonards started, to try to learn something, but snow was falling heavily and drove them back.’ Among those eventually discovered was Mr Bean, ‘sitting down, with his head leaning on one hand and the elbow on a knapsack still containing some meat and bread and cheese’. In his notebook was a letter to his wife: ‘My dear Hessie, — We have been on Mont Blanc for two days in a terrible snowstorm. We have lost our way and are in a hole scooped out of the snow at a height of 15,000 feet. I have no hope of descending. Perhaps this book may be found and forwarded. We have no food; my feet are already frozen, and I am exhausted; I have only strength to write a few words. I die in the faith of Jesus Christ, with affectionate thoughts of my family; my remembrance to all. My effects are in part at the Hotel Mont Blanc, and partly with me in two portmanteaux. Send them to the Hotel Schweitzerhof at Geneva; pay my bills at the hotel, and heaven will reward your kindness.’

The first woman to be killed during this period was when a Mr and Mrs Marke set out with Miss Wilkinson and two guides to climb Mont Blanc. Their porter was a youth called Oliver Gay. ‘At the top of the Corridor the ladies were fatigued, and remained behind with the porter, while Mr. Marke and the guide continued the ascent. The latter were half way up the Mur de la Côte when they heard piercing shrieks, and returning with all haste found that Mrs. Marke and Oliver Gay had disappeared in a crevasse. The ladies had been unable to bear the cold, and wished to move about. The porter offered his arm to Mrs. Marke, and very shortly afterwards both broke through a snow-bridge. The bodies were not recovered.’

Another female casualty occurred on 4 August 1902: ‘A French lady, while crossing the place called the Mauvais Pas by the side of the Mer de Glace, met a party coming in the contrary direction. She attempted to pass outside, and falling about a hundred feet, was killed on the spot.’

Then there was Mr Nettleship, tutor of Balliol College, Oxford, who left Chamonix to climb Mont Blanc on 23 August 1892. He took two guides, but ‘Though the morning was fine, clouds gathered, and there were indications of bad weather, before mid-day. The party, however, continued upwards, intending to stop for the night at the Refuge Vallot. An hour after leaving the Aiguille a storm broke upon them, they became bewildered, wandered about for several hours, and at last stopped, dug a hole in the snow, and remained in it all night. According to the statement of the guides, Mr. Nettleship was in good spirits, assisted in digging the hole, and even sang during the night. They had sufficient food and wine, but no extra clothing.

‘The storm continued the whole of the night. On the morning of the 25th it was still snowing hard, and all tracks were obliterated. The guides advised Mr. Nettleship to remain where he was, on the chance of a change in the weather, but Mr. Nettleship urged that it was idle to remain there and die like cowards, and that they must make an effort to get away. He therefore started, the guides following him. They proceeded some little distance when Mr. Nettleship stumbled and became unsteady. The guides offered him wine and brandy, which he refused. He then cried out and fell forward, uttering some words in English, after which he took each guide by the hand, bade them goodbye, closed his eyes and expired.’

The most curious death occurred during a thunderstorm: ‘Simond, who was leading, was killed instantly by a flash of lightning, which also severed the rope leading from him to Monsieur Fontaine, and caused the corpse of the unfortunate man to fall a great distance on to the glacier below. It is stated that Simond was the only member of the party carrying an ice-axe.’

If our gentleman-traveller made an attempt to climb Mont Blanc, we must assume that he survived, whether or not he reached the summit, for we have many more tribulations, and occasional pleasures, to keep him going. After a few weeks among ice and snow he would crave the man-made artefacts and artistic productions — not to mention the mellower climate — of Italy. But if in those early days before the railway he chose to go into that country via the coast from Nice, he could do so in a couple of days by hiring a light calèche. ‘Few travellers, however, will be willing to pass over its interesting scenes in so hurried a manner. It is a country to be dwelt upon: the artist may enrich his sketch-book at every step, and the architect or antiquary will find ample field for the most interesting researches. Persons travelling in a heavy carriage, which requires four horses, should be cautioned that in some places the road is steep and narrow, and runs along the verges of precipices, whose bases, 200 or 300 feet below, are washed by the Mediterranean: parapets are not always provided in such spots; and, unless the horses are very quiet, and accustomed to the road, there is some danger.’

After Albenga we are told that: ‘The streets of many of the old towns through which the road is carried are so narrow, that the walls of the houses on both sides are grooved by the marks of the axletree.’