This article appeared in Outing magazine September, 1887
AT HOME IN GENEVA
BY CHARLOTTE REEVE CONOVER
To the ordinary summer tourist, with a four months’ leave of absence from the office or the schoolroom, Geneva is merely a stopping-place to get home letters, do some shopping, and keep the Sabbath-day holy. The latter is especially necessary to the itinerant, orthodox conscience, by this time secretly, uncomfortable with the recollection of a Sunday excursion in the Tyrol, an unintentional view of a military parade in the Bois de Boulogne, and other small breaches of the fourth commandment, that would have been undreamed of at home. In the city of Calvin, with three English churches, the manifestly proper thing is to settle up spiritual affairs and begin again where one left off in London at Spurgeon’s Tabernacle. For there is nothing to “see” in Geneva. That is–in a Baedeckerian sense. There is no museum. At least, while the untraveled bourgeois of the Rue Des Granges thinks there is, the Oberlin graduate, after walking past miles of mummies and Trojan antiquities at Kensington, and through salon after salon at the Lourvre, is not apt to regard the Musee Rath as worth a visit. There are no historical palaces in Geneva; no royal gallery, with three hundred and fifty Madonnas in the catalogue; no park, with the aristocracy on view daily; no Romish church, with holy relics; no races, no gayety. It is essentially Bostonian in its solidity, its staidness, and its intellectuality.
How does it happen, then, that I, with all the zeal for crypts, Holy Families, and antiquities, common to the”personally conducted,” look back with my mind’s eye to Geneva as the Mecca to which my wandering steps would return? It is natural that a long sojourn in any land should create a strong attachment for it, and possibly that rule might hold good in regard even to Greenland. Still I always felt indignant at the prevailing opinion among tourists, that Geneva was available only as a place to buy a music-box and engage places in the diligence for Chamounix. To me there is more in her old, narrow streets, the rushing blue river, the graceful, clean bridges, and the far-off outline of the Alps, than I could ever put on paper.
The modern portion of the city lies on a level with the lake and skirts the banks of the river. As first seen from the approach by boat, Geneva creates much the same impression as other prosperous continental cities. The numerous hotels and blocks of houses, white and many-storied, rise above the trees in the English Gardens. The windows have stone balconies and striped awnings, and the upper stories are draped with hanging–vines.
We miss the ubiquitous fiction in regard to Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite, that wearies the eye in Paris, and instead, the gas-lamps bear the motto, “Post Tenebras Lux,” and the cross of the Swiss confederation. There are the same smooth, asphalt streets, with gayly-painted edifices for the sale of periodicals, at every corner, the same familiar signs in the windows relative to Appartementes a louer, tres bon marche, and, of course, with une belle vue des Alpes. It is immaterial toward which point of the compass the windows of Swiss apartments look; there is always a fine view of the Alps, and you are courteously requested to sonnez la cloche, S. V. P., when you may see for yourself.
What give to Geneva most particularly an air of picturesque distinction are her bridges. The Rhone, when it gathers its scattered globules from the depths of “Lake Leman,” and takes anew the course it lost when it entered the lake fifty miles above, rushes under the arches of the Pont du Mont Blanc and swirls around the stone piers in quivering eddies and small whirlpools, that do not hide the white pebbles on the bottom, full fifteen feet below. Then it divides its current for l’Ile Rousseau, a small interruption affording enough room for a clump of poplars and a statue of its namesake.
One again the current is spanned by the Pont des Bergues, bent like an elbow, with a narrow foot-bridge connecting with the island. Below this are other small bridges and a larger island known as the Quartier de l’Ile, a fragment of old Geneva, as is evident from the ancient houses crowded together, some of them built on piles over the brink of the river, and all in a state of picturesque disrepair.
At intervals along the stone quays are the floating wash-houses, where the women pound the linen, slap the boards, sing, laugh and quarrel from daybreak to sundown; and the bath-houses, where you can take a plunge and turn as blue as the river—both privileges for half-a-franc! The quays are lined with shops which display the most bewildering temptations in the shape of watches and jewelry, wood-carvings, and Mont Blanc crystals.
But the tourist in search of the picturesque finds the old market most alluring to sketch-book and purse. Old women, with fluted caps and complexions like a well-worn castor love, sit under huge umbrellas and call your attention to the freshness of their lettuce or the maturity of their cheeses. They speak a rapid and unintelligible patois, smoke black pipes, and almost without exception, have pronounced cases of goitre. What strikes the American mind most powerfully is the disregard of the sanctity of eatables. Very often the vegetables and fruit are piled up on the very stones of the streets. It happens occasionally that one of the little stunted donkeys, with a load behind him that would not disgrace a pair of steers, stumbles against some of the merchandise, and away roils a cheese over the cobble-stones. With torrents of abusive patois and much indignant gesticulation, the wandering cheese is placed once more in the society of its contemporaries, and its selling qualities are not impaired by the adventure. A cheese, to be really acceptable to a Swiss, must have both age and experience. Bread is treated with the same liberality and breadth of idea. An ouvreuse, doing her errands and her marketing at one time, fills her little hand-cart with potatoes and cauliflower, upon which is piled a quantity of soiled linen, not too carefully wrapped up. Then several long loaves of bread, laid lengthwise, keep the load firm and serve as a support to her baby, who rides like a king in a triumphal chariot, and hangs his fat legs over either side in prime content.
The market is held in the Rues Basses, a series of shabby, meandering streets, which may be considered the dividing-line between new and old Geneva. Beyond this the streets—scarcely more than passage-ways—rise in intricate abruptness toward the cathedral which occupies the highest portion of the old town. Here the buildings are black with age and greasy from contact with the inhabitants. The cobble-stones are rough and slippery, and where the ascent is unusually steep a hand-rail offers its assistance. One almost doubts the existence of dwellers in these somber homes, such is the silent lonesomeness that fills the air. A few of the streets, however, are devoted to commerce of the rag and bottle order, where the wares are displayed in the open air and trade carried on with the usual Gallic tumult. The women knit, smoke, cook, quarrel, nurse their babies, and perform every other domestic duty under the public eye; and ragged children swarm in every doorway.
In the midst of such an entourage, and circumscribed by a pretentious thoroughfare, the Rue du Paradis, scarcely wide enough for the passage of an umbrella, stands the church of La Madeleine. This aged, black edifice was built in the eleventh century and is remarkable only for having been the first church where Calvin preached.
Another cobble-paved corridor, the Rue d’Enfer, comes to a sudden end at the foot of a tunnel-like stairway burrowing under a group of old houses. It leads upwards in the darkness and comes to light again in the Cathedral Square. Here is the aristocratic quarter of old Geneva. Hoary chestnut-trees, with massive trunks, cast the shadow of their branches over mansions that grew up, stone by stone, when these same trees were saplings. Guardian lions keep their stony watch over doorways which saw the incoming and outgoing of footsteps that have marked the pages of history. Calvin trod the pavement of this square; so alas I did Servetus and Rousseau and Voltaire! Incongruous fraternity! Calvin's house stands in the next street, but his last resting-place is within the area of the Plain Palais, formerly a cemetery, now a broad, grassy common, bordered with chestnut-trees. The exact spot is unknown, for his will expressly forbade the erection of a monument; so the boys play ball, the nurse-maids push baby-carriages, and the birds sing, over the hidden grave of the great reformer.
From the Cathedral Square the streets wander in unexpected directions. One leads us past the Arsenal and the Hotel de Ville, with its inclined plane reaching to the roof, up which, in times past, the councilmen were wont to ride when exhausted by their municipal labors. Another street opens upon La Treille, a beautiful, shady promenade, descending into the Place Neuve, upon which fronts the new Theater, the Musee Rath, the Conservatory of Music, and the Batiment Electoral. Once more we find ourselves in modern Geneva.
Those of us who spent a winter there remember, with enjoyment, the pleasant society and the educational advantages of a home in Geneva. The English appreciate this better than we, and send their daughters to board in some quiet family in a city where they can go to and from their lessons without causing remark, which is certainly not the case in most continental cities. The private schools are excellent and opportunities for study with private teachers unlimited. Courses of special study at the Casino, or in music at the Conservatory, are moderate in price. Lectures at the Academy, with practical illustrations by such men as Raoul Pictet, Georges Renard, Henri di Saussure, M..Jonsserandot, and Pere Hyacinth, one may have for absolutely no price but the trouble of leaving a pleasant parlor on a cold winter evening.
We went, I am afraid, not so much for the scientific and literary benefits to be obtained, as for the French and the fun. As the lectures were free they were very popular, and it was necessary to go an hour before the stated time to secure seats. During this time the hall gradually filled up with all sorts of interesting character studies—old ladies, with foot-stoves; elderly gentlemen, who took snuff and were a raid of a draught; students, with eye-glasses and note-books, and young ladies from boarding-schools, in charge of their chaperone.
I have said that Genevese are conservative, and in no respect are they more so than in the matter of dress. The mediaeval character of the bonnets and wraps is amusing to American eyes which are accustomed to seeing new styles adopted and abandoned from season to season. We might be rebuked, however, by the constant attendance of people whom we should call commonplace, at lectures that certainly would attract small patronage from the same class in America.
The society in Geneva is pleasant. The American element that comes abroad for display, is wanting here. Those who rent vast and gorgeous apartments and drive startling equipages, are not appreciated in this austere little city; consequently, they remain in Paris or Baden.
There can be no impropriety in alluding to the pleasant Thursday evenings, ten years ago, at Petit Saconnex, the home of the American pastor and editor. Here, in the large parlor with wood floor and open fire, we met all the pleasant people whom his hospitality had brought together, and enjoyed the conversation of those who had learned the divine art of talking well. Sometimes—rather always—we had music; a flute, violins, and a Chickering Piano; this last so much more like home than the spindle-legged little uprights in the Conservatory class-rooms,--infirm instruments, with crooked candlesticks and chronic string trouble.! On warm spring evenings we sat on the lawn and watched the lake growing a deeper blue in the twilight and showing up in high relief the white sails of the lateen boats, slowly skimming the surface of the water.
Far in the east the snow-capped mountains, touched by the last glance of the sun, looked as if moulded out of pink wax, and the nearer peaks shrouded themselves for the night in a robe of violet-colored haze. This Alpine glow was always looked for with some anxiety by our host; it being considered in the light of a failure to provide for our enjoyment if the mountains did not take on each tint in the proper order. In fact, a cloudy evening was quite a discredit to the family, who claimed a sort of proprietorship in the Alps visible from Petit Saconnex. If anything was needed to complete the poetry of the scene it was supplied by the nightingale, who contributed his share of the entertainment from the bush near the cricket ground. There was also the faint odor of lilies of the valley in the soft spring air, and a May moon that showed us the way home between the hedges.
As to our French friends in Geneva—there lies now on my desk a letter in a cramped, foreign hand, which tells me I am not forgotten in that foreign home. It recalls, first, a cap with an imposing façade of lace and violet ribbons, then a pleasant face under it, and a voice which has said to me many times, with a good-night kiss on either cheek, “Bonne nuit, cher enfant; dormes bien.” It recalls a buxom figure, a constant clicking of knitting-needles, a vitality of body and mind that, in spite of sixty-five years, allowed the fortunate possessor to waltz, to play charades, manage a house full of guests, take a long walk in the country, and guess every rebus in the Saturday Journal de Paris. She sat at the head of the long dining-table, around which there was such a mingling of continental tourists that it seemed a prostrate tower of Babel. At one end was a small box for the purpose of receiving the fines that were rigorously exacted for every lapse into English. The fund was to be used in defraying the expenses of a mountain excursion for the whole household, but at times we became so proficient in French, that the deposit remained alarmingly low. Then Madame, after remarking that if no one else would speak English she must, or we would never get up another picnit, indulged in a frequent and time-honored joke. Setting her cap firmly on her head and her hands on her hips, as if to brace herself for a desperate encounter, she slowly delivered her one English sentence, “Meestare—Smeethe—weel—yeou ave—some—scheeken?” Then, with a long breath of satisfaction at the achievement, she would put her fifty centimes in the box and receive our applause. This was always the same, whether or not there was any “Meestare—Smeethe,” or any “Scheeken” at the table.
There was a legend afloat in the Pension R. that the deceased pere de famille had not been in all respects just what he should be. This was, in a measure, confirmed by a candid tribute to his memory from the Madame. We were expressing our disapproval of the way young gentlemen in Europe smoked anywhere and everywhere, without regard to the presence of ladies. In this case she took sides against us.
“A man may do worse things that smoke, mon Dieu. Mon mari, il ne fumail pas, il ne buvaits pas, il ne prisait pas, mais il mentait comme le diable!”
She was full of anecdotes, riddles; and good suggestions for charades; and nothing delighted her (and us) so much as to deck herself out in a powdered wig, a long train of flowered chintz a la marquise, and recite a scene from some comedy. When the whole room was in a roar of laughter from a performance of this kind, Madame would sink into her armchair, straighten her cap ribbons and say, “Que voules vous? Il faut s’amuser quelqfois.”
I shall never forget some of her table mannerisms. Always at the first spoonful of soup she laid her hand on her heart and said, with great satisfaction, “Ah! ca fait bon a l’estomac.” And when there was a question of the excellency of any national dish, she invariably remarked, “J’aime tout ce que se mange et tout ce que se boit.” One exception to this assertion she found in escalloped oysters. Her table was an excellent one, and with a view to securing American patronage, she invited any of our country-women to go into her kitchen and teach her cook to prepare American dishes.
In this way we imported griddle cakes, hot biscuit, jelly cake and other western delicacies. But the oysters were a dismal failure. She got us three dozen oysters of the small, metallic variety common to the continent and we spent a couple of hours in seclusion in the kitchen. The result was a large bread pudding with a familiar flavor, which on deep investigation yielded up an oyster apiece around the table. We were very much humiliated; and when Madame said she could not understand why we Americans liked scalloped oysters, we had nothing to say in defense of the national weakness for that delicacy. She had done her share, for she had paid five francs a dozen for the oysters.
While speaking of her table, I must not forget the “souper froid.” This ceremonial was always held on the accession of any new members of the household, but it was equally enjoyed by the initiated. We were invited to partake of a “bon petit souper froid” in the dining-room at eight o’clock, and there was enough mystery connected with the invitation to show us that something was meant beyond an ordinary cold supper. At that hour we all appeared and seated ourselves around the dining-table upon which was nothing but the long white cloth. We were then instructed in the rules of the game, which were, to keep our hands under the table, take what was given us and pass it on quickly without looking at it and without dropping it. This seems not difficult to do, but when some horrible, cold clammy object is put into your hand, which you cannot see but can only feel; when you find it has fingers and a thumb, and you become convinced that you are holding the hand of a corpse: no wonder you shriek and shudder, and thrust it at your neighbor. And she, already excited to a lively apprehension by your conduct, screams still louder, and so the dreadful unknown goes from hand to hand under the table with growing excitement until the last person throws it on the floor with a wild yell, and it proves to be an old kid-glove stuffed with wet sand, and kept in the refrigerator in readiness for the souper froid.
The next course is a mass of pate such as confectioners use; not so mysterious, but very disagreeable and sticky; next a dead mouse, then a small poker heated just enough to be not at all pleasant to hold. A crab, with enough life in it to wriggle feebly, makes rapid progress around the table, and an old set of false curls dipped in water sends a thrill of horror, almost equal to the kid-glove. One realized for the first time the extreme repugnance we have for touching what cannot be seen. The absurdity of it cannot be described, but you may imagine a room full of grown-up people, their arms hidden under the table, and their features undergoing contortions of laughter, terror and surprise, and an uproar to correspond. The Madame herself did not join the festive meal, but sat in her arm-chair, weak with laughter, her knitting dropped from her limp hands and a tear rolling down either cheek. I may add that under the ordeal of a souper froid the masculine nerves showed to quite as little advantage as the feminine.
The Genevese have one holiday sacred to the fire-cracker and the small boy. It is the 16th day of December. On that day, sixteen hundred and something (this is not a history), the Savoyards planned a night attack on Geneva. The soldiers were silently scaling the walls to surprise the garrison when they were discovered by an old woman, who was cooking the food for the camp. As she gave the alarm, she emptied the pot of hot soup and vegetables on the heads of the foremost soldiers, who, naturally disconcerted at the unusual mode of attack, retreated from the shower of grease, and the city was saved.
The memory of Mere Galtine is kept green on each anniversary by much music and fireworks, a carnival in the streets and masquerade parties at home. A fountain in the Rue des Allemands commemorates this event. On the night to this anniversary in 187--, our house was full of excitement, and Madame in her happiest vein. As we entered the supper-room we saw in the middle of the table a large pot, such as the peasants use for their pot-au-feu, only this was made of chocolate instead of iron. Leaning against either side were ladders cunningly wrought in candy, and the lid bore the historic date in colored sugar. Then we sang the song of the Escalade, with the refrain “Gard, gard, Savoyard! ” and at the verse where---
“Une vielle au poing vigoreux
Prit sa marmite sur le feu
Sans attendre plus tard
Coiffa un Savoyard”—
Madame lifted the “marmite” and poured from it over the table a shower of bonbons in ingenious imitation of potatoes, onions, and Vienna sausages.
Among the members of our household was an English doctor who was as much of a character as the Madame herself. He had spent the early part of his life as surgeon of a regiment in India, and the last thirty years in Paris, where he had remained as a volunteer during the seige in 1870. He had a bald head, a large nose, and trousers of the true British plaid. Indeed his clothes were more English than himself. He always spoke French—such French! Thirty years acclimatization had not taught him his irregular verbs. But he was too good-natured and insouciant to let such trifles interfere with his peace of mind, and everyone was quite as fond of him as if he had always used his subjunctive mode correctly. He knew every man, woman, and child in the Canton, at least he saluted them all with equal cordiality; so it happened that those who could not pronounce his name correctly, called him Monsieur le docteur Bon-jour. He seemed to have nothing to do but amuse himself and help other people to the same end, consequently he was in high demand for our mountain excursions. Our party was otherwise composed of an Italian marquis with a waxed moustache; a pretty American girl; Robert, aetat 14, surnamed “Toi que j’ame,” myself, and either the Madame or one of her daughters to chaperon the party. A favorite excursion was to La Saleve, a long, double mountain lying about seven miles to the east of Geneva. This we reached by taking a tram-car to Carouge, walking to the foot of the mountain and climbing the Pas de l’Echelle. It was no small undertaking on a hot July day to climb that path of steps cut in the perpendicular cliff, but we found ample compensation when we reached the top. Here we threw ourselves on the short grass among the hazel bushes and the rhododendrons and drank in with all our senses, the air, the view and the sweet odors. Below us, as we glanced down over one side of the cliff, lay Geneva at the water’s edge; a mere handful of roofs and chimneys shining through the summer haze. The lake, catching the sunlight like a mirror and framed by sloping vineyards, stretched away in lengthening perspective towards Villeneuve. From the tranquil distance came the faint whistle of a steamer, not only a black line on the glittering water, or from the nearer pastures the tinkle of a goat’s bell. The view on the other side comprised the whole glorious panorama of the Alps, their white peaks rising one above the other, cold, remote and stately—Mont Blanc the father of the group. We all agreed that most fully to appreciate the higher Alps one should go up La Saleve; for the love of mountains comes by education, like many others of this world’s pleasures.
From the level of the lake they are too imposing, and at Chamounix all the surroundings are so high that the difference in their altitudes cannot be appreciated. But as we ascended Saleve or the Jura, each time we paused for breath, the chain of white peaks opposite us seemed to have grown beyond our footsteps, and after we had climbed five hours steadily, they were higher and more unapproachable than ever. Our practical doctor maintained that we could be more poetic, with the help of a sandwich and a glass of wine; which, though prosaic, was undoubtedly true. So, after a proper amount of attention to the Alpine range, we introduced the lunch basket, cigarettes and sketch books. More often we lunched at a village hotel.
Once, after a walk down the mountain on a rainy September day, when we had “cut across” through the dripping bushes, from one bend of the road to the other to shorten our route, we came to a forlorn little hamlet which supported but one hotel. It looked uninviting, but we were too hungry to hesitate. In the front room were a dozen men and women in coarse clothes. The air was filled with tobacco smoke, the steam from cooking, and much loud language. In the middle of the floor was an iron pot in which mush or some such delicacy had been boiled, and around it, disputing possession, were a sheep, a goose, and a baby. The bill and the fat hand chased each fragment around the bottom of the pot; sometimes one got it and sometimes the other, and the sheep eyed the contest with his head on one side in an attitude of meek protestation. A dog was asleep near by. He seemed already to have secured his share by force and enterprise. Several hens and the odor of the stable underneath helped to give a bucolic tinge to this interior. Do you think we were dismayed? I answer, we had walked ten miles in the rain since an early breakfast and were as hungry as only mountain air could make us. So we sat down to a greasy omelet, aux fines herbes, some black bread and sour wine, and I must confess we ate with relish.
One of my favorite walks, which I often took alone, because it led me to the country house of a friend, was to follow the bank of the Rhone through the city, past the modern houses with their jewelry shops, past the old clock-tower on the Ile de la Cite, across the Corraterie, a gay street with shops full of gloves and objets de luxe, past the post-office and finally out into the quiet country. On this side of Geneva is the cemetery, a lugubrious place, which for a whole year I avoided visiting. When a child, I read with a teacher a book written by Rudolph Toepfer, a Genevese of the last century, whose pen runs in the same kindly strain as that of our own Dr. Holmes. In one of his essays he describes his childish memories of walks along the bank of the Rhone, holding to his grandfather’s hand; of the wind-mills that pump up water from the river, slowly waving their long arms like great, dark-winged birds; and finally of the death of his grandfather, the funeral in the cemetery and his first dawning acquaintance with the mystery of death. It made a great impression upon me at the time, and years later, when I walked along that same bending path through the willows, I half expected to see coming towards me a little trousered boy, chattering to his grandfather as he walked by his side. How strange it is that our most vivid impressions occur and recur with such unexpectedness. I cannot remember that I was able to summon up any sentiments whatever on my first sight of the Roman Forum except, perhaps, relating to the warm weather and the unpleasant odors.
A continuation of this river path leads to the Bois de la Batie, a small grove on a hill which overlooks the confluence of the Rhone and the Arve. This is a favorite Sunday afternoon resort for the Genevese, who, with their wives and children, come and sit under the trees and enjoy the view. Below are the two rivers. One flows clear and placid from the depths of the lake and is so Blue that a capital letter but faintly expresses it. The other, glacier-fed from the heart of the Alps, turbulent and muddy like a torrent of soapsuds, comes rushing to meet it, and the two streams flow together in the same bed for three miles from the place of meeting before the blue current is lost in the gray. So distinct does each keep its own peculiar hue that it seems as if a sheet of paper in mid-stream would serve as a dividing line.
But I must guard against painting the back-ground of life in Geneva too pink. We miss many of the conveniences of American houses. The rooms have a cold, bare look that is depressing at first, and we are constantly annoyed by the old-fashioned way in which things are accomplished. We constantly come in contact with customs which shock our American ideas of propriety, thank heaven the cleanest in the wold. If I try I can remember some January days when the fog was thick, the pavements rough, and my books heavy. And there were some days when the “Bise” blew, that terrible north wind that has taught the Genevese to stay indoors a week at a time. On such a day to walk across the bridge in the teeth of the wind was not pleasant. My hands were numb, the cathedral was cold and damp to practice in, and the man that pumped the organ, very, very drunk. But the return to the pleasant dinner-table and the evening games was all the pleasanter in contrast to the troubles of the day. It may be even, that these same discomforts helped make me fond of my foreign home, as of a dear friend whose faults we must accept along with his virtues.
