Lucerne
From the Recollections of Prince Nekhliudof
By Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
First published in 1857
From the Complete Works Lyof N. Tolstoi, Emancipation Edition
E. R. DuMont, Publisher, 1899
Distributed by the Tolstoy Library
July 20, 1857.
Yesterday evening I arrived at Lucerne, and put up at the best inn
there, the Schweitzerhof. "Lucerne, the chief city of the canton, situated on
the shore of the Vierwaldstatter See," says Murray, "is one of the most
romantic places of Switzerland: here cross three important highways, and it
is only an hour's distance by steamboat to Mount Righi, from which is
obtained one of the most magnificent views in the world."
Whether that be true or no, other guides say the same thing, and
consequently at Lucerne there are throngs of travelers of all nationalities,
especially the English.
The magnificent five-storied building of the Hotel Schweitzerhof is
situated on the quay, at the very edge of the lake, where in olden times there
used to be the crooked covered wooden bridge [Footnote: Hofbruck, torn
down in 1852.] with chapels on the corners and pictures on the roof. Now,
thanks to the tremendous inroad of Englishmen, with their necessities, their
tastes, and their money, they have torn down the old bridge, and in its place
erected a granite quay, straight as a stick. On the quay they have built
straight, quadrangular five-storied houses; in front of the houses they have
set out two rows of lindens and provided them with supports, and between
the lindens is the usual supply of green benches.
This is the promenade; and here back and forth stroll the
Englishwomen in their Swiss straw hats, and the Englishmen in simple and
comfortable attire, and rejoice in their work. Possibly these quays and
houses and lindens and Englishmen would be excellent in their way
anywhere else, but here they seem discordant amid this strangely
magnificent, and at the same time indescribably harmonious and smiling
nature.
As soon as I went up to my room, and opened the window facing the
lake, the beauty of the sheet of water, of the mountains, and of the sky, at the
first moment literally dazzled and overwhelmed me. I experienced an
inward unrest, and the necessity of expressing in some manner the feelings
that suddenly filled my soul to overflowing. I felt a desire to embrace,
powerfully to embrace, some one, to tickle him, or to pinch him; in short to
do to him and to myself something extraordinary.
It was seven o'clock in the evening. The rain had been falling all day,
but now it had cleared.
The lake, iridescent as melted sulphur, and dotted with boats, which
left behind them vanishing trails, spread out before my windows smooth,
motionless as it were, between the variegated green shores. Farther away it
was contracted between two monstrous headlands, and, darkling, set itself
against and disappeared behind a confused pile of mountains, clouds, and
glaciers. In the foreground stretched a panorama of moist, fresh green
shores, with reeds, meadows, gardens, and villas. Farther away, the dark
green wooded heights, crowned with the ruins of feudal castles; in the
background, the rolling, pale lilac-colored vista of mountains, with fantastic
peaks built up of crags and pallid snow-capped summits. And everything
was bathed in a fresh, transparent azure atmosphere, and kindled by the
warm rays of the setting sun, bursting forth through the riven skies.
Not on the lake or on the mountains or in the skies was there a single
completed line, a single unmixed color, a single moment of repose;
everywhere motion, irregularity, fantasy, endless conglomeration and variety
of shades and lines; and above all, a calm, a softness, a unity, and the
inevitability of beauty.
And here amid this indeterminate, kaleidoscopic, unfettered
loveliness, before my very window, stretched stupidly, compelling the gaze,
the white line of the quay, the lindens with their supports, and the green
seats, - miserable, tasteless creations of human ingenuity, not subordinated,
like the distant villas and ruins, to the general harmony of the beautiful
scene, but on the contrary brutally opposed to it. ....
Constantly, though against my will, my eyes were attracted to that
horribly straight line of the quay; and mentally I should have liked to get rid
of it, to demolish it like a black spot which should disfigure the nose beneath
one's eye.
But the quay with the sauntering Englishmen remained where it was,
and I involuntarily tried to find a point of view where it would be out of my
sight. I succeeded in finding such a view; and till dinner was ready I took
delight, alone by myself in this incomplete and therefore the more enjoyable
feeling of oppression that one experiences in the solitary contemplation of
natural beauty.
About half-past seven I was called to dinner. Two long tables,
accommodating at least a hundred persons, were spread in the great,
magnificently decorated dining-room on the first floor. The silent gathering
of the guests lasted three minutes, - the rustle of women's gowns, the soft
steps, the softly spoken words addressed to the courtly and elegant waiters.
And all the places were occupied by ladies and gentlemen dressed elegantly,
even richly, and for the most part in perfect taste.
As is apt to be the case in Switzerland, the majority of the guests were
English, and this gave the ruling characteristics of the common table: that is,
a strict decorum regarded as an obligation, a reserve founded not in pride but
in the absence of any necessity for social relationship, and finally a uniform
sense of satisfaction felt by each in the comfortable and agreeable
gratification of his wants.
On all sides gleamed the whitest laces, the whitest collars, the whitest
teeth, - natural and artificial, - the whitest complexions and hands. But the
faces, many of which were very handsome, bore the expression merely of
individual prosperity, and absolute absence of interest in all that surrounded
them unless it bore directly on their own individual selves; and the white
hands, glittering with rings or protected by mitts, moved only for the
purpose of straightening collars, cutting meat, or filling wine-glasses; no
soul-felt emotion was betrayed in these actions.
Occasionally members of some one family would exchange remarks
in subdued voices, about the excellence of such and such a dish or wine, or
about the beauty of the view from Mount Righi.
Individual tourists, whether men or women, sat beside one another in
silence, and did not even seem to see one another. If it happened
occasionally that, out of this five-score human beings, two spoke to each
other, the topic of their conversation was certain to be the weather, or the
ascent of the Righi.
Knives and forks scarcely rattled on the plates, so perfect was the
observance of propriety; and no one dared to convey peas and vegetables to
the mouth otherwise than on the fork. The waiters, involuntarily subdued by
the universal silence, asked in a whisper what wine you would be pleased to
order.
Such dinners always depress me: I dislike them, and before they are
over I become blue. It always seems to me as if I had done something
wrong; just as when I was a boy I was set upon a chair in consequence of
some naughtiness and bidden ironically, "Now rest a little while, my dear
young fellow." And all the time my young blood was pulsing through my
veins, and in the other room I could hear the merry shouts of my brothers.
I used to try to rebel against this feeling of being choked down, which
I experienced at such dinners, but in vain. All these dead-and-alive faces
have an irresistible influence over me, and I myself become also as one
dead. I have no desires, I have no thoughts; I do not even observe.
At first I attempted to enter into conversation with my neighbors; but I
got no response beyond the phrases which had probably been repeated in
that place a hundred thousand times, a hundred thousand times by the same
persons.
And yet these people were by no means all stupid and feelingless; but
evidently many of them, though they seemed so dead, led self-centered lives,
just as I did, and in many cases far more complicated and interesting ones
than my own. Why, then, should they deprive themselves of one of the
greatest enjoyments of life, -- the enjoyment that comes from the intercourse
of man with man?
How different it used to be in our pension at Paris, where twenty of
us, belonging to as many different nationalities, professions, and
individualities, met together at a common table, and, under the influence of
the Gallic sociability, found the keenest zest!
There, immediately, from one end of the table to the other, the
conversation, sandwiched with witticisms and puns, though often in a
broken speech, became general. There every one, without being solicitous
for the proprieties, said whatever came into his head. There we had our own
philosopher, our own disputant, our own bel esprit, our own butt, -- all
common property.
There, immediately after dinner, we would move the table to one side,
and, without paying too much attention to rhythm, take to dancing the polka
on the dusty carpet, and often keep it up till evening. There, though we were
rather flirtatious, and not overwise or dignified, still we were human beings.
And the Spanish countess with romantic proclivities, and the Italian
abbate, who insisted on declaiming from the "Divine Comedy" after dinner,
and the American doctor who had the entrée into the Tuileries, and the
young dramatic author with his long hair, and the pianist who, according to
her own account, had composed the best polka in existence, and the unhappy
widow who was a beauty, and wore three rings on every finger, -- all of us
enjoyed this society, which, though somewhat superficial, was human and
pleasant. And we each carried away from it hearty recollections of the
others, superficial or serious, as the case might be.
But at these English table-d'hote dinners, as I look at all these laces,
ribbons, jewels, pomaded locks, and silken gowns, I often think how many
living women would be happy, and would make others happy, with these
adornments.
Strange to think how many friends and lovers - most fortunate friends
and lovers - are, perhaps, sitting side by side without knowing it! And God
knows why they never come to this knowledge, and never give each other
this happiness, which they might so easily give, and which they so long for.
I began to feel depressed, as usual, after such a dinner; and, without
waiting for dessert, I sallied out in the most gloomy frame of mind for a
constitutional through the city. My melancholy frame of mind was not
relieved, but was rather confirmed, by the narrow, muddy streets without
lanterns, the shuttered shops, the encounters with drunken workmen, and
with women hastening after water, or in bonnets, glancing around them as
they glided down the alleys or along the walls.
It was perfectly dark in the streets when I returned to the hotel without
casting a glance about me, or having an idea in my head. I hoped that sleep
would put an end to my melancholy. I experienced that horrible spiritual
chill, loneliness, and heaviness, which sometimes, without any reason, beset
those who are just arrived in any new place.
Looking down at my feet, I walked along the quay to the
Schweitzerhof, when suddenly my ear was struck by the strains of a peculiar
but thoroughly agreeable and sweet music.
These strains had an immediately enlivening effect on me. It was as if
a bright, cheerful light had poured into my soul. I felt contented, gay. My
slumbering attention was awakened again to all surrounding objects; and the
beauty of the night and the lake, to which, till then, I had been indifferent,
suddenly came over me with quickening force like something new.
I involuntarily took in at a glance the dark sky with gray clouds
flecking its deep blue, now lighted by the rising moon, the glassy, dark green
lake, with its surface reflecting the lighted windows, and far away the snowy
mountains; and I heard the croaking of the frogs over on the Froschenburg
shore, and the dewy fresh call of the quail.
Directly in front of me, in the spot whence the sounds of music had
first come, and which still especially attracted my attention, I saw, amid the
semi-darkness on the street, a throng of people standing in a semicircle, and
in front of the crowd, at a little distance, a small man in dark clothes.
Behind the throng and the man, there stood out harmouniously against
the blue, ragged sky, gray and blue, the black tops of a few Lombardy
poplars in some garden, and, rising majestically on high, the two stern spires
that stand on the towers of the ancient cathedral.
I drew nearer, and the strains became more distinct. At some distance
I could clearly distinguish the full accords of a guitar, sweetly swelling in
the evening air, and several voices, which, while taking turns with one
another, did not sing any definite theme, but gave suggestions of one in
places wherever the melody was most pronounced.
The theme was in somewhat the nature of a mazurka, sweet and
graceful. The voices sounded now near at hand, now far distant; now a bass
was heard, now a tenor, now a falsetto such as the Tyrolese warblers are
wont to sing.
It was not a song, but the graceful, masterly sketch of a song. I could
not comprehend what it was, but it was beautiful.
Those voluptuous, soft chords of the guitar, that sweet, gentle melody,
that solitary figure of the man in black, amid the fantastic environment of the
dark lake, the gleaming moon, and the twin spires of the cathedral rising in
majestic silence, and the black tops of the poplars, -- all was strange and
perfectly beautiful, or at least seemed so to me.
All the confused, arbitrary impressions of life suddenly became full of
meaning and beauty. It seemed to me as if a fresh fragrant flower had
sprung up in my soul. In place of the weariness, dullness, and indifference
toward everything in the world, which I had been feeling the moment before,
I experienced a necessity for love, a fullness of hope, and an unbounded
enjoyment of life.
"What does thou desire, what doest thou long for?" an inner voice
seemed to say. "Here it is. Thou art surrounded on all sides by beauty and
poetry. Breathe it in, in full, deep draughts, as long as thou hast strength.
Enjoy it to the full extent of thy capacity 'T is all thine, all blessed!" ....
I drew nearer. The little man was, as it seemed, a traveling Tyrolese.
He stood before the windows of the hotel, one leg advanced, his head thrown
back; and, as he thrummed on the guitar, he sang his graceful song in all
those different voices.
I immediately felt an affection for this man, and a gratefulness for the
change which he had brought about in me.
The singer, as far as I was able to judge, was dressed in an old black
coat. He had short black hair, and he wore a civilian's hat which was no
longer new. There was nothing artistic in his attire, but his clever and
youthfully gay motions and pose, together with his diminutive stature,
formed a pleasing and at the same time pathetic spectacle.
On the steps, in the windows, and on the balconies of the brilliantly
lighted hotel, stood ladies handsomely decorated and attired, gentlemen with
polished collars, porters and lackeys in gold-embroidered liveries; in the
street, in the semicircle of the crowd, and farther along on the sidewalk,
among the lindens, were gathered groups of well-dressed waiters, cooks in
white caps and aprons, and young girls wandering about with arms about
each others' waists.
All, it seemed, were under the influence of the same feeling as I
myself experienced. All stood in silence around the singer, and listened
attentively. Silence reigned, except in the pauses of the song, when there
came from far away across the waters the regular click of a hammer, and
from the Froschenburg shore rang in fascinating, monotone the voices of the
frogs, interrupted by the mellow, monotonous call of the quail.
The little man in the darkness, in the midst of the street, poured out his
heart like a nighingale, in couplet after couplet, song after song. Though I
had come close to him, his singing continued to give me greater and greater
gratification.
His voice, which was of great power, was extremely pleasant and
tender; the taste and feeling for rhythm which he displayed in the control of
it were extraordinary, and proved that he had great natural gifts.
After he sung each couplet, he invariably repeated the theme in
variation, and it was evident that all his graceful variations came to him at
the instant, spontaneously.
Among the crowd, and above on the Schweitzerhof, and near by on
the boulevard, were heard frequent murmurs of approval, though generally
the most respectful silence reigned.
The balconies and the windows kept filling more and more with
handsomely dressed men and women leaning on their elbows, and
picturesquely illuminated by the lights in the house.
Promenaders came to a halt, and in the darkness on the quay stood
men and women in little groups. Near me, at some distance from the
common crowd, stood an aristocratic cook and lackey, smoking their cigars.
The cook was forcibly impressed by the music, and at every high falsetto
note enthusiastically nodded his head to the lackey, and nudged him with his
elbow with an expression of astonishment which seemed to say, "How he
sings! hey?"
The lackey, by whose undissimulated smile I could mark the depth of
feeling he experienced, replied to the cook's nudges by shrugging his
shoulders, as if to show that it was hard enough for him to be made
enthusiastic, and that he had heard much better music.
In one of the pauses of his song, while the minstrel was clearing his
throat, I asked the lackey who he was, and if he often came there.
"Twice in the summer he comes here," replied the lackey. "He is
from Aargau; he gets his livelihood by begging."
"Tell me, do many like him come round here?" I asked.
"Oh, yes," replied the lackey, not comprehending the full force of
what I asked; but immediately after, recollecting himself, he added, "Oh, no.
This one is the only one I ever heard here. No one else."
At this moment the little man had finished his first song, was briskly
twanging his guitar, and said something in his German patois, which I could
not understand, but which brought forth a hearty round of laughter from the
surrounding throng.
"What was that he said?" I asked.
"He said his throat is dried up, he would like some wine," replied the
lackey, who was standing near me.
"What? is he rather fond of the glass?"
"Yes, all that sort of people are," replied the lackey, smiling and
pointing at the minstrel.
The minstrel took off his cap, and swinging his guitar went toward the
hotel. Raising his head, he addressed the ladies and gentlemen standing by
the windows and on the balconies, saying in a half-Italian, half-German
accent, and with the same intonation as jugglers use in speaking to their
audiences: --
"Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je gagne quelque chose,
vous vous trompez: je ne suis qu'un pauvre tiaple."
He stood in silence a moment, but as no one gave him anything, he
once more took up his guitar, and said: --
"A présent, messieurs et mesdames, je vous chanterai l'air du Righi."
His hotel audience made no response, but stood in expectation of the
coming song. Below on the street a laugh went round, probably in part
because he had expressed himself so strangely, and in part because no one
had given him anything.
I gave him a few centimes, which he deftly changed from one hand to
the other, and bestowed them in his vest-pocket; and then, replacing his cap,
began once more to sing; it was the graceful, sweet Tyrolese melody which
he had called *l'air du Righi*.
This song, which formed the last on his programme, was even better
than the preceding, and from all sides in the wondering throng were heard
sounds of approbation.
He finished. Again he swung his guitar, took off his cap, held it out in
front of him, went two or three steps nearer to the windows, and again
repeated his stock phrase: "Messieurs et mesdames, si vous croyez que je
gagne quelque chose," which he evidently considered to be very shrewd and
witty; but in his voice and motions I perceived now a certain irresolution and
childish timidity which were especially touching in a person of such
diminutive stature.
This elegant public, still picturesquely grouped in the lighted windows
and on the balconies, were shining in their rich attire; a few conversed in
soberly discreet tones, apparently about the singer who was standing there
below them with outstretched hand; others gazed down with attentive
curiosity on the little black figure; on one balcony could be heard a young
girl's merry, ringing laughter.
In the crowd below the talk and laughter kept growing louder and
louder.
The singer for the third time repeated his phrase, but in a still weaker
voice, and did not even end the sentence; and again he stretched his hand
with his cap, but instantly drew it back. Again, not one of those brilliantly
dressed scores of people standing to listen to him threw him a penny.
The crowd laughed heartlessly.
The little singer, so it seemed to me, shrunk more into himself, took
his guitar into his other hand, lifted his cap, and said: --
"Messieurs et mesdames, je vous remercie, et je vous souhais une
bonne nuit."
Then he put on his hat.
The crowd cackled with laughter and satisfaction. The handsome
ladies and gentlemen, clamly exchanging remarks, withdrew gradually from
the balconies. On the boulevard the promenading began once more. The
street, which had been still during the singing, assumed its wonted liveliness;
a few men, however, stood at some distance, and, without approaching the
singer, looked at him and laughed.
I heard the little man muttering something between his teeth, as he
turned away; and I saw him, apparently growing more and more diminutive,
start toward the city with brisk steps. The promenaders, who had been
looking at him, followed him at some distance, still making merry at his
expense. ....
My mind was in a whirl; I could not comprehend what it all meant;
and still standing in the same place, I gazed abstractedly into the darkness
after the little man, who was fast disappearing, as he went with ever
increasing swiftness with long strides into the city, followed by the
merrymaking promenaders.
I was overmastered by a feeling of pain, of bitterness, and, above all,
of shame for the little man, for the crowd, for myself, as if it were I who had
asked for money and received none; as if it were I who had been turned to
ridicule.
Without looking any longer, feeling my heart oppressed, I also hurried
with long strides toward the entrance of the Schweitzerhof. I could not
explain the feeling that overmastered me; only there was something like a
stone, from which I could not free myself, weighing down my soul and
oppressing me.
At the stately, well-lighted entrance I met the Swiss, who politely
made way for me. An English family was also at the door. A portly,
handsome, tall gentleman, with black side-whiskers, in a black hat, and with
a plaid on one arm, while in his hand he carried a costly cane, came out
slowly, and full of importance. Leaning on his arm was a lady, who wore a
raw silk gown and a bonnet with bright ribbons and the most charming laces.
With them was a pretty, fresh-looking young lady, in a graceful Swiss hat,
with a feather, *à la mousquetaire*; from under it escaped long, light yellow
curls, softly encircling her fair face. In front of them skipped a buxom girl
of ten, with round, white knees which showed from under her thin
embroideries. "What a lovely night!" the lady was saying in a sweet, happy
voice, as I passed them.
"Oh, yes," growled the Englishman, lazily; and it was evident that he
found it so enjoyable to be alive in the world, that it was too much trouble
even to speak.
And it seemed as if all of them alike found it so comfortable and easy,
so light and free, to be alive in the world, their faces and motions expressed
such perfect indifference to the lives of every one else, and such absolute
confidence, that it was to them that the Swiss made way, and bowed so
profoundly, and that when they returned they would find clean, comfortable
beds and rooms, and that all this was bound to be, and was their indefeasible
right, that I could not help contrasting them with the wandering minstrel,
who, weary, perhaps hungry, full of shame, was retreating before the
laughing crowd. Tnd then, suddenly, I comprehended what it was that
oppressed my heart with such a load of heaviness, and I felt an indescribable
anger against these people.
Twice I walked up and down past the Englishman, and each time,
without turning out for him, my elbow punched him, which gave me a
feeling of indescribable satisfaction; and then, darting down the steps, I
hastened through the darkness in the direction taken by the little man on his
way to the city.
Overtaking three men, walking together, I asked them where the
singer was; they laughed, and pointed straight ahead. There he was, walking
alone with brisk steps; no one was with him; all the time, as it seemed to me,
he was indulging in bitter monologue.
I caught up with him, and proposed to him to go somewhere with me
and drink a bottle of wine. He kept on with his rapid walk, and looked at me
indignantly; but when it dawned on him what I meant, he halted.
"Well, I will not refuse, if you are so kind," said he; "here is a little
*café*, we can go in there. It's very ordinary," he added, pointing to a
drinking-salon that was still open.
His expression "very ordinary" involuntarily suggested to my mind
the idea of not going to a very ordinary *café*, but to go to the
Schweitzerhof, where those who had been listening to him were.
Notwithstanding the fact that several times he showed a sort of timid
disquietude at the idea of going to the Schweitzerhof, declaring that it was
too fashionable for him there, still I insisted on carrying out my purpose;
andhe, already pretending the he was not in the least abashed, and gayly
swinging his guitar, went back with me across the quay.
A few loiterers who had happened along as I was talking with the
minstrel, and had stopped to hear what I had to say, now, after arguing
among themselves, followed us to the very entrance of the hotel, evidently
expecting from the Tyrolese some further demonstration.
I ordered a bottle of wine of a waiter whom I met in the hall. The
waiter smiled and looked at us, and went by without answering. The head
waiter, to whom I addressed myself with the same order, listened to me and,
measuring the minstrel's modest little figure from head to foot, sternly
ordered the waiter to take us to the room at the left.
The room at the left was a bar-room for simple people. In the corner
of this room a hunchbacked maid was washing dishes. The whole furniture
consisted of bare wooden tables and benches.
The waiter who came to serve us looked at us with a supercilious
smile, thrust his hands in his pockets, and exchanged some remarks with the
humpbacked dishwasher. He evidently tried to give us to understand that he
felt himself immeasurably higher than the minstrel, both in dignity and
social position, so that he considered it not only an indignity, but actually
ridiculous, that he was called on to serve us.
"Do you wish *vin ordinaire*?" he asked, with a knowing look,
winking toward my companion and switching his napkin from one hand to
the other.
"Champagne, and your very best," said I, endeavoring to assume my
haughtiest and most imposing appearance.
But neither my champagne, nor my endeavor to look haughty and
imposing, had the least effect on the servant; he smiled incredulously,
loitered a moment or two gazing at us, took time enough to glance at his
gold watch, and with leisurely steps, as if going out for a walk, left the room.
Soon he returned with the wine, bringing two other waiters with him.
These two sat down near the dishwasher, and gazed at us with amused
attention and a bland smile, just as parents gaze at their children when they
are gently playing. Only the humpbacked dishwasher, it seemed to me, did
not look at us scornfully but sympathetically.
Though it was trying and awkward to lunch with the minstrel, and to
play the entertainer, under thefire of all these waiters' eyes, I tried to do my
duty with as little constraint as possible. In the lighted room I could see him
better. He was a small but symmetrically built and muscular man, though
almost a dwarf in stature; he had bristly black hair, teary big black eyes,
bushy eyebrows, and a thoroughly pleasant, attractively shaped mouth. He
had little side-whiskers, his hair was short, his attire was very simple and
mean. He was not over-clean, was ragged and sunburnt, and in general had
the look of a laboring-man. He was far more like a poor tradesman than an
artist.
Only in his ever humid and brilliant eyes, and in his firm mouth, was
there any sign of originality or genius. By his face it might be conjectured
that his age was between twenty-five and forty; in reality, he was thirty-
seven.
Here is what he related to me, with good-natured readiness and
evident sincerity, of his life. He was a native of Aargau. In early childhood
he had lost father and mother; other relatives he had none. He had never
owned any property. He had been apprenticed to a carpenter; but twenty-
two years previously one of his arms had been attacked by caries, which had
prevented him from ever working again.
From childhood he had been fond of singing, and he began to be a
singer. Occasionally strangers had given him money. With this he had
learned his profession, bought his guitar, and now for eighteen years he had
been wandering about through Switzerland and Italy, singing before hotels.
His whole luggage consisted of his guitar, and a little purse in which, at the
present time, there was only a franc and a half. That would have to suffice
for supper and lodgings this night.
Every year now for eighteen years he had made the round of the best
and most popular resorts of Switzerland, -- Zurich, Lucerne, Interlaken,
Chamounix, etc.; by the way of the St. Bernard he would go down into Italy,
and return over the St. Gotthard, or through Savoy. Just at present it was
rather hard for him to walk, as he had caught a cold, causing him to suffer
from some trouble in his legs, -- he called it *Gliederzucht*, or rheumatism,
-- which grew more severe from year to yyear; and, moreover, his voice and
eyes had grown weaker. Nevertheless, he was on his way to Interlaken, Aix-
les-Bains, and thence over the little St. Bernard to Italy, which he was very
fond of. It was evident that on the whole he was well content with his life.
When I asked him why he returned home, if he had any relatives
there, or a house and land, his mouth parted in a gay smile, and he replied,
"*Oui, le sucre est bon, il est doux pour les enfants*!" and he winked at the
servants.
I did not catch his meaning, but the group of servants burst out
laughing.
"No, I have nothing of the sort, but still I should always want to go
back," he explained to me. "I go home because there is always a something
that draws one to one's native place."
And once more he repeated with a shrewd, self-satisfied smile, his
phrase, "*Oui, le sucre est bon*," and then laughed good-naturedly.
The servants were very much amused, and laughed heartily; only the
hunchbacked dish-washer looked earnestly from her big kindly eyes at the
little man, and picked up his cap for him, when, as we talked, he once
knocked it off the bench. I have noticed that wandering minstrels, acrobats,
even jugglers, delight in calling themselves artists, and several times I hinted
to my comrade that he was an artist; but he did not at all accept this
designation, but with perfect simplicity looked on his work as a means of
existence.
When I asked him if he had not himself written the songs which he
sang, he showed great surprise at such a strange question, and replied that
the words of whatever he sang were all of old Tyrolese origin.
"But how about that song of the Righi? I think that cannot be very
ancient," I suggested.
"Oh, that was composed about fifteen years ago. There was a German
in Basle; he was a clever man; it was he who composed it. A splendid song.
You see he composed it especially for travelers."
And he began to repeat the words of the Righi song, which he liked so
well, translated them into French as he went along.
"If you wish to go to Righi,
You will not need shoes to Wegis
(For you go that far by steamboat),
But from Wegis take a stout staff,
Also on your arm a maiden;
Drink a glass of wine on starting,
Only do not drink too freely,
For if you desire to drink here,
You must earn the right to, first."
"Oh! a splendid song!" he exclaimed, as he finished. The servants,
evidently, also found the song much to their mind, because they came up
closer to us.
"Yes, but who was it composed the music?" I asked.
"Oh, no one at all; you know you must have something new when you
are going to sing for strangers."
When the ice was brought, and I had given my comrade a glass of
champagne, he seemed somewhat ill at ease, and, glancing at the servants,
he turned and twisted on the bench.
We touched our glasses to the health of all artists; he drank half a
glass, then he seemed to be collecting his ideas, and knit his brows in deep
thought.
"It is long since I have tasted such wine, *je ne vous dis que ça.* In
Italy the *vino d'Asti* is excellent, but this is still better. Ah! Italy; it is
splendid to be there!" he added.
"Yes, there they know how to appreciate music and artists," said I,
trying to bring him round to the evening's mischance before the
Schweitzerhof.
"No," he replied. "There, as far as music is concerned, I cannot give
anybody satisfaction. The Italians are themselves musicians, -- none like
them in the world; but I know only Tyrolese songs. They are something of a
novelty to them, though."
"Well, you find rather more generous gentlemen there, don't you?" I
went on to say, anxious to make him share in my resentment against the
guests of the Schweitzerhof. "There it would not be possible to find a big
hotel frequented by rich people, where, out of a hundred listening to an
artist's singing, not one would give him anything."
My question utterly failed of the effect that I expected. It did not
enter his head to be indignant with them; on the contrary, he saw in my
remark an implied slur on his talent which had failed of its reward, and he
hastened to set himself right before me. "It is not every time that you get
anything," he remarked; "sometimes one isn't in good voice, or you are tired;
now today I have been walking ten hours, and singing almost all the time.
That is hard. And these important aristocrats do not always care to listen to
Tyrolese songs."
"But still, how can they help giving?" I insisted. He did not
comprehend my remark.
"That's nothing," he said; "but here the principal thing is, *on est tres
serré pour la police* that's what's the trouble. Here, according to these
republican laws, you are not allowed to sing; but in Italy you can go
wherever you please, no one says a word. Here, if they want to let you, they
let you; but if they don't want to, then they can throw you into jail."
"What? That's incredible!"
"Yes, it is true. If you have been wanred once, and are found singing
again, they may put you in jail. I was kept there three months once," he said,
smiling as if that were one of his pleasantest recollections.
"Oh! that is terrible!" I exclaimed. "What was the reason?"
"That was in consequence of one of the new laws of the republic," he
went on to explain, growing animated. "They cannot comprehend here that
a poor fellow must earn his living somehow. If I were not a cripple, I would
work. But what harm do I do to any one in the world by my singing? What
does it mean? The rich can live as they wish, but *un pauvre tiaple* like
myself can't live at all. What does it mean by laws of the republic? If that is
the way they run, then we don't want a republic. Isn't that so, my dear sir?
We don't want a republic, but we want ... we simply want ... we want" ...
he hesitated a little, ... "we want natural laws."
I filled up his glass.
"You are not drinking," I said.
He took the glass in his hand, and bowed to me.
"I know what you wish," he said, blinking his eyes at me, and
threatening me with his finger. "You wish to make me drunk, so as to see
what you can get out of me; but no, you shan't have that gratification."
"Why should I make you drunk?" I inquired. "All I wished was to
give you a pleasure."
He seemed really sorry that he had offended me by interpreting my
insistence so harshly. He grew confused, stood up, and touched my elbow.
"No, no," said he, looking at me with a beseeching expression in his
moist eyes. "I was only joking."
And immediately after he made use of some horribly uncultivated
slang expression, intended to signify that I was, nevertheless, a fine young
man.
"*Je ne vous dis que ça,*" he said in conclusion.
In this fashion the minstrel and I continued to drink and converse; and
the waiters continued to stare at us unceremoniously, and, as it seemed, to
ridicule us.
In spite of the interest which our conversation aroused in me, I could
not avoid taking notice of their behavior; and I confess I began to grow more
and more angry.
One of the waiters arose, came up to the little man, and, looking at the
top of his head, began to smile. I was already full of wrath against the
inmates of the hotel, and had not yet had a chance to pour it out on any one;
and now I confess I was in the highest degree irritated by this audience of
waiters.
The Swiss, not removing his hat, came into the room, and sat down
near me, leaning his elbows on the table. This last circumstance, which was
so insulting to my dignity or my vainglory, completely enraged me, and
gave an outlet for all the wrath which the whole evening long had been
boiling within me. Why had he so humbly bowed when he had met me
before, and now, because I was sitting with the traveling minstrel, did he
come and take his place near me so rudely? I was entirely overmastered by
that boiling, angry indignation which I enjoy in myself, which I sometimes
endeavor to stimulate when it comes over me, because it has an exhilarating
effect on me, and gives me, if only for a short time, a certain extraordinary
flexibility, energy, and strength in all my physical and moral faculties.
I leaped to my feet.
"Whom are you laughing at?" I screamed at the waiter; and I felt my
face turn pale, and my lips involuntarily set together.
"I am not laughing, I only ... " replied the waiter, moving away from
me.
"Yes, you are; you are laughing at this gentleman. And what right
have you to come, and to take a seat here, when there are guests? Don't you
dare to sit down!" The Swiss, muttering something, got up and turned to the
door.
"What right have you to make sport of this gentleman, and to sit down
by him, when he is a guest, and you are a waiter? Why didn't you laugh at
me this evening at dinner, and come and sit down beside me? Because he is
meanly dressed, and sings in the streets? Is that the reason? and because I
have better clothes? He is poor, but he is a thousand times better than you
are; that I am sure of, because he has never insulted any one, but you have
insulted him."
"I didn't mean anything," replied my enemy, the waiter. "Did I disturb
him by sitting doen?"
The waiter did not understand me, and my German was wasted on
him. The rude Swiss was about to take the waiter's part; but I fell upon him
so impetuously that the Swiss pretended not to understand me, and waved
his hand.
The hunchbacked dish-washer, either because she perceived my
wrathful state, and feared a scandal, or possibly because she shared my
views, took my part, and, trying to force her way between me and the porter,
told him to hold his tongue, saying that I was right, but at the same time
urging me to calm myself.
"*Der Herr hat Recht; Sie haben Recht,*" she said over and over
again. The minstrel's face presented a most pitiable, terrified expression;
and evidently he did not understand why I was angry, and what I wanted;
and he urged me to let him go away as soon as possible.
But the eloquence of wrath burned within me more and more. I
understood it all, -- the throng that had made merry at his expense, andhis
auditors who had not given him anything; and not for all the world would I
have held my peace.
I believe that, if the waiters and the Swiss had not been so submissive,
I should have taken delight in having a brush with them, or striking the
defenseless English girl on the head with a stick. If at that moment I had
been at Sevastopol, I should have taken delight in devoting myself to
slaughtering and killing in the English trench.
"And why did you take this gentleman and me into this room, and not
into the other? What?" I thundered at the swiss, seizing him by the arm so
that he could not escape from me. "What right had you to judge by his
appearance that this gentleman must be served in this room, and not in that?
Have not all guests who pay equal rights in hotels? Not only in a republic,
but in all the world! Your scurvy republic! ... Equality, indeed! You
would not dare to take an Englishman into this room, not even those
Englishmen who have heard this gentleman free of cost; that is, who have
stolen from him, each one of them, the few centimes which ought to have
been given to him. How did you dare to take us to this room?"
"That room is closed," said the porter.
"No," I cried, "that isn't true; it isn't closed."
"Then you know best."
"I know ... I know that you are lying."
The Swiss turned his back on me.
"Eh! What is to be said?" he muttered.
"What is to be said?" I cried. "Now conduct us instantly into that
room!"
In spite of the dish-washer's warning, and the entreaties of the
minstrel, who would have preferred to go home, I insisted on seeing the head
waiter, and went with my guest into the big dining-room. The head waiter,
hearing my angry voice, and seeing my menacing face, avoided a quarrel,
and, with contemptuous servility, said that I might go wherever I pleased. I
could not prove to the Swiss that he had lied, because he had hastened out of
sight before I went into the hall.
The dining-room was, in fact, open and lighted; and at one of the
tables sat an Englishman and a lady, eating their supper. Although we were
shown to a special table, I took the dirty minstrel to the very one where the
Englishman was, and bade the waiter bring to us there the unfinished bottle.
The two guests at first looked with surprised, then with angry, eyes at
the little man, who, more dead than alive, was sitting near me. They talked
together in a low tone; then the lady pushed back her plate, her silk dress
rustled, and both of them left the room. Through the glass doors I saw the
Englishman saying something in an angry voice to the waiter, and pointing
with his hand in our direction. The waiter put his head through the door, and
looked at us. I waited with pleasurable anticipation for some one to come
and order us out, for then I could have found a full outlet for all my
indignation. But fortunately, thought at the time I felt injured, we were left
in peace. The minstrel, who before had fought shy of the wine, now eagerly
drank all that was left in the bottle, so that he might make his escape as
quickly as possible.
He, however, expressed his gratitude with deep feeling, as it seemed
to me, for his entertainment. His teary eyes grew still more humid and
brilliant, and he made use of a most strange and complicated phrase of
gratitude. But still very pleasant to me was the sentence in which he said
that if everygocy treated artists as I had been doing, it would be very good,
and ended by wishing me all manner of happiness. We went out into the
hall together. There stood the servants, and my enemy the Swiss apparently
airing his grievances against me before them. All of them, I thought, looked
at me as if I were a man who had lost his wits. I treated the little man
exactly like an equal, before all that audience of servants; and then, with all
the respect that I was able to express in my behavior, I took off my hat, and
pressed his hand with its dry and hardened fingers.
The servants pretended not to pay the slightest attention to me. Only
one of them indulged in a sarcastic laugh. As soon as the minstrel had
bowed himself out, and disappeared in the darkness, I went up-stairs to my
room, intending to sleep off all these impressions and the foolish, childish
anger which had come upon me so unexpectedly. But, finding that I was too
much excited to sleep, I once more went down into the street with the
intention of walking until I should have recovered my equanimity, and, I
must confess, with the secret hope that I might accidentally come across the
porter or the waiter or the Englishman, and show them all their rudeness,
and, most of all, their unfairness. But beyond the Swiss, who when he saw
me turned his back, I met no one; and I began to promenade in absolute
solitude back and forth along the quay.
"This is an example of the strange fate of poetry," said I to myself,
having grown a little calmer. "All love it, all are in search of it; it is the only
thing in life that men love and seek, and yet no one recognizes its power, no
one prizes this best treasure of the world, and those who give it to men are
not rewarded. Ask any one you please, ask all these guests of the
schweitzerhof, what is the most precious treasure in the world, and all, or
ninety-nine out of a hundred, putting on a sardonic expression, will say that
the best thing in the world is money.
"'Maybe, though, this does not please you, or coincide with your
elevated ideas,' it will be urged; 'but what is to be done if human life is so
constituted that money alone is capable of giving a man happiness? I cannot
force my mind not to see the world as it is,' it will be added, 'that is, to see
the truth.'
"Pitiable is your intellect, pitiable the happiness which you desire!
And you yourselves, unhappy creatures, not knowing what you desire, ...
why have you all left your fatherland, your relatives, your money-making
trades and occupations, and come to this little Swiss city of Lucerne? Why
did you all this evening gather on the balconies, and in respectful silence
listen to the little beggar's song? And if he had been willing to sing longer,
you would have been silent and listened longer. What! could money, even
millions of it, have driven you all from your country, and brought you all
together in this little nook of Lucerne? Could money have gathered you all
on the balconies to stand for half an hour silent and motionless? No! One
thing compels you to do it, and will forever have a stronger influence than
all the other impulses of life: the longing for poetry which you know, which
you do not realize, but feel, always will feel as long as you have any human
sensibilities. The word 'poetry' is a mockery to you; you make use of it as a
sort of ridiculous reproach; you regard the love for poetry as something
meant for children and silly girls, and you make sport of them for it. For
yourselves you must have something more definite.
"But children look upon life in a healthy way; they recognize and love
what man ought to love, and what gives happiness. But life has so deceived
and perverted you, that you ridicule the only thing that you really love, and
you seek for what you hate and for what gives you unhappiness.
"You are so perverted that you did not perceive what obligations you
were under to the poor Tyrolese who rendered you a pure delight; but at the
same time you feel needlessly obliged to humiliate yourselves before some
lord, which gives you neither pleasure nor profit, but rather causes you to
sacrifice your comfort and convenience. What absurdity! what
incomprehensible lack of reason!
"But it was not this that made the most powerful impression on me
this evening. This blindness to all that gives happiness, this
unconsciousness of poetic enjoyment, I can almost comprehend, or at least I
have become wonted to it, since I have almost everywhere met with it in the
course of my life; the harsh, unconscious churlishness of the crowd was no
novelty to me; whatever those who argue in favor of popular sentiment may
say, the throng is a conglomeration of very possibly good people, but of
people who touch each other only on their coarse animal sides, and express
only the seakness and harshness of human nature. But how was it that you,
children of a free, humane people, you christians, you simply as human
beings, repaid with coldness and ridicule the poor beggar who gave you a
pure enjoyment? But no, in your country there are asylums for beggars.
There are no beggars, there must be none; and there must be no feelings of
sympathy, since that would be a confession that beggary existed.
"But he labored, he gave you enjoyment, he besought you to give him
something of your superfluity in payment for his labor of which you took
advantage. But you looked on him with a cool smile as on one of the
curiosities in your lofty brilliant palaces; and though there were a hundred of
you, favored with happiness and wealth, not one man or one woman among
you gave him a *sou*. Abashed he went away from you, and the
thoughtless throng, laughing, followed and ridiculed not you, but him,
because you were cold, harsh, and dishonorable; because you robbed him in
receiving the entertainment which he have you; for this you jeered *him*.
"'*On the 19th of July, 1857, in Lucerne, before the Schweitzerhof
Hotel, in which were lodging very opulent people, a wandering beggar
minstrel sang for half an hour his songs, and played his guitar. About a
hundred people listened to him. The minstrel thrice asked all to give him
something. No one person gave him a thing, and many made sport of him.*'
"This is not an invention, but an actual fact, as those who desire can
find out for themselves by consulting the papers for the list of those who
were at the schweitzerhof on the 19th of July.
"This is an event which the historians of our time ought to describe in
letters of inextinguishable flame. This even is more significant and more
serious, and fraught with far deeper meaning, than the facts that are printed
in newspapers and histories. That the English have killed several thousand
Chinese because the Chinese would not sell them anything for money while
their land is overflowing with ringing coins; that the French have killed
several thousand Kabyles because the wheat grows well in Africa, and
because constant war is essential for the drill of an army; that the Turkish
ambassador in Naples must not be a Jew; and that the Emperor Napoleon
walks about in Plombières, and gives his people the express assurance that
he rules only in direct accordance with the will of the people, -- all these are
words which darken or reveal something long known. But the episode that
took place in Lucerne on the 19th of July seems to me something entirely
novel and strange, and it is connected not with the everlastingly ugly side of
human nature, but with a well-known epoch in the development of society.
This fact is not for the history of human activities, but for the history of
progress and civilization.
"Why is it that this inhuman fact, impossible in any German, French,
or Italian country, is quite possible here where civilization, freedom, and
equality are carried to the highest degree of development, where there are
gathered together the most civilized travelers from the most civilized
nations? Why is it that these people who, in their palaces, their meetings,
and their societies, labor warmly for the condition of the celibate Chinese in
India, about the spread of Christianity and culture in Africa, about the
formation of societies for attaining all perfection, -- why is it that they
should not find in their souls the simple, primitive feeling of human
sympathy? Has such a feeling entirely disappeared, and has its place been
taken by vainglory, ambition, and cupidity, governing these men in their
palaces, meetings, and societie4s? Has the spreading of that reasonable,
egotistical association of people, which we call civilization, destroyed and
rendered nugatory the desire for instinctive and loving association? And is
this that boasted equality for which so much innocent blood has been shed,
and so many crimes have been perpetrated? Is it possible that nations, like
children, can be made happy by the mere sound of the word 'equality'?
"Equality before the law? Does the whole life of a people revolve
within the sphere of law? Only the thousandth part of it is subject to the
law; the rest lies outside of it, in the sphere of the customs and intuitions of
society.
"But in society the lackey is better dressed than the minstrel, and
insults him with impunity. I am better dressed than the lackey, and insult
him with impunity. The Swiss considers me higher, but the minstrel lower,
than himself; when I made the minstrel my companion, he felt that he was
on an equality with us both, and behaved rudely. I was impudent to the
Swiss, and the Swiss acknowledged that he was inferior to me. The waiter
was impudent to the minstrel, and the minstrel accepted the fact that he was
inferior to the waiter.
"And is that government free, even though men seriously call it free,
where a single citizen can be thrown into prison, because, without harming
any one, without interfering with any one, he does the only thing he can to
prevent himself from dying of starvation?
"A wretched, pitiable creature is man with his craving for positive
solutions, thrown into this everlastingly tossing, limitless ocean of *good*
and *evil*, of facts, of combinations and contradictions. For centuries men
have been struggling and laboring to put the *good* on one side, the *evil*
on the other. Centuries will pass, and no matter how much the unprejudiced
mind may strive to decide where the balance lies between the *good* and
the *evil*, the scales will refuse to tip the beam, and there will always be
equal quantities of the *good* and the *evil* on each scale.
"If only man would learn to form judgments, and not indulge in rash
and arbitrary thoughts, and not to make reply to questions that are
propounded merely to remain forever unanswered! If only he would learn
that; every thought is both a lie and a truth! - a lie from the one-sidedness
and inability of man to recognize all truth; and true because it expresses one
side of mortal endeavor. There are divisions in this everlastingly
tumultuous, endless, endlessly confused chaos of the *good* and the *evil*.
They have drawn imaginary lines over this ocean, and they contend that the
ocean is really thus divided.
"But are there not millions of other possible subdivisions from
absolutely different standpoints, in other planes? Certainly these novel
subdivisions will be made in centuries to come, just as millions of different
ones have been made in centuries past.
"Civilization is *good*, barbarism is *evil*; freedom, *good*,
slavery, *evil*. Now this imaginary knowledge annihilates the instinctive,
beatific, primitive craving for the *good* which is in human nature. And
who will explain to me what is freedom, what is despotism, what is
civilization, what is barbarism?
"Where are the boundaries that separate them? And whose soul
possesses so absolute a standard of good and evil as to measure these
fleeting, complicated facts? Whose intellect is so great as to comprehend
and weigh all the facts in the irretrievable past? And who can find any
circumstance in which *good* and *evil* do not exist together? And
because I know that I see more of one than of the other, is it not because my
standpoint is wrong? And who has the ability to separate himself so
absolutely from life, even for a moment, as to look upon it independently
from above?
"One, only one infallible Guide we have, -- the universal Spirit which
penetrates all collectively and as units, which has endowed each of us with
the craving for the right; the Spirit which commands the tree to grow toward
the sun, which commands the flower in autumn-tide to scatter its seed, and
which commands each one of us unconsciously to draw closer together.
And this one unerring, inspiring voice rings out louder than the noisy, hasty
development of civilization.
"Who is the greater man, and who the greater barbarian, -- that lord,
who, seeing the minstrel's well-worn clothes, angrily left the table, who gave
him not the millionth part of his possessions in payment of his labor, and
now lazily sitting in his brilliant, comfortable room, calmly expresses his
opinion about the events that are happening in China, and justifies the
massacres that have been done there; or the little minstrel, who, risking
imprisonment, with a franc in his pocket, and doint no harm to any one, has
been going about for a score of years, up hill and down dale, rejoicing men's
hearts with his songs, though they have jeered at him, and almost cast him
out of the pale of humanity; and who, in weariness and cold and shame, has
gone off to sleep, no one knows where, on his filthy straw?"
At this moment, from the city, through the dead silence of the night,
far, far away, I caught the sound of the little man's guitar and his voice.
"No," something involuntarily said to me, "you have no right to
commiserate the little man, or to blame the lord for his well-being. Who can
weigh the inner happiness which is found in the soul of each of these men?
There he stands somewhere in the muddy road, and gazes at the brilliant
moonlit sky, and gayly sings amid the smiling, fragrant night; in his soul
there is no reproach, no anger, no regret. And who knows what is
transpiring now in the hearts of all these men within those opulent, brilliant
rooms? Who knows if they all have as much unencumbered, sweet delight
in life, and as much satisfaction with the world, as dwells in the soul of that
little man?
"Endless are the mercy and wisdom of Him who has permitted and
formed all these contradictions. Only to thee, miserable little worm of the
dust, audaciously, lawlessly attempting to fathom His laws, His designs, --
only to thee do they seem like contradictions.
"Full of love He looks down from His bright, immeasurable height,
and rejoices in the endless harmony in which you all move in endless
contradictions. In thy pride thou hast thought thyself able to separate thyself
from the laws of the universe. No, thou also, with thy petty, ridiculous anger
against the waiters, -- thou also hast disturbed the harmonious craving for
the eternal and the infinite." ....
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