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.’