by Diccon Bewes
We have no time to think about life and liberty – we are off in pursuit of happiness, Lucerne style. I’m not entirely sure that our first stop is the best place to start the quest, though. We are going to see the saddest monument in Switzerland.
EIGHT
QUEEN OF THE MOUNTAINS
It would never do for us not to ascend the Rigi. It would be like going to Rome and not seeing the Coliseum or going to Naples and not seeing Pompeii.
—Cook’s Tourist’s Handbook to Switzerland, 1874
Europe’s first mountain train has been climbing up Rigi since 1871
Once upon a time the men of Switzerland were armed with more than a red penknife and their trips abroad were not to see the sights. These men were mercenaries, hired by kings and emperors across Europe to fight their battles and conquer their enemies. It hadn’t always been like that. For the first 200 years of Switzerland’s existence the Swiss fought their own battles, invaded neighbours, and generally behaved as badly as any other country. They regularly trounced the Habsburgs and it was the much-feared Swiss soldiers who crushed Burgundy in 1476, sealing the fate of that once-powerful duchy. However, defeat by the French at the Battle of Marignano in 1515 prompted the Swiss to have a change of heart and they decided no longer to fight against anyone – except if they were paid to do so. While the country became neutral, its men were anything but. They fought for whoever who would pay the price – France, Britain, Austria, the Netherlands, Spain – and not just as individuals but in whole battalions from the cantons.
This was the perfect solution to two big Swiss problems: too many men, too little money. Manpower was one of Switzerland’s biggest natural resources and earners of foreign currency, particularly for the poor rural cantons. And shipping the men off to fight abroad meant fewer mouths to feed at home and less testosterone swirling around looking for an outlet. Let them die earning a crust abroad rather than from hunger, or civil war, at home. It was a win–win situation, except for the men who lost their lives.
The French kings were particularly fond of their Swiss boys in red, both as a force of up to 25,000 on the battlefield and as a personal guard. And it was exactly that guard who were massacred during the French Revolution. Most of the 900-strong force were killed on 10 August 1792 during a heroically futile defence of the Tuileries Palace, the Paris home of Louis xvi. Many others were taken prisoner and guillotined in the ensuing chaotic months. One who escaped, because he was in Lucerne on leave, was Captain Karl Pfyffer, and he decided to erect a memorial to his fallen comrades. He started collecting money in 1818 and travelled to Rome to engage the famous Danish sculptor Bertel Thorvaldsen. On 10 August 1821 (the 29th anniversary of the massacre) the monument was unveiled. The sculpture, carved into the cliff face of a disused sandstone quarry, is 6m high and 10m long. It is one of the most photographed spots in Lucerne, and one of the most forlorn. It is the Lion Monument.
The Lion lies in his lair in the perpendicular face of a low cliff – for he is carved from the living rock of the cliff. His size is colossal, his attitude is noble. His head is bowed, the broken spear sticking in his shoulder, his protecting paw rests upon the lilies of France. Vines hang down the cliff and wave in the wind, and a clear stream trickles from above and empties into a pond at the base, and in the smooth surface of the pond the lion is mirrored, among the water lilies.
That was how Mark Twain described what was then, and now, a much-visited place. Murray noted, “There is a quiet solitude and shade about the spot which is particularly pleasing and refreshing.” And he’s right, even on a day like today when visitors stream through the gates as if on a conveyor belt from the ten tour buses parked nearby. There are Chinese couples consulting their guidebooks, American students listening half-heartedly to their teacher, Indian families posing for photos, and countless cameras or smart-phones being held aloft to capture the fallen beast for ever.
Amid the sea of tourists and waves of chatter, my mother and I stand still and silent, transfixed by the sight of a dying lion. And we aren’t the only ones to be moved motionless by the world’s saddest sculpture. Others too are simply looking, absorbing every tiny detail of the lion: the outstretched paw, his slight frown, the fatal wound and a half-open mouth, as if he’s taking his last breath while we watch. My mother wipes away a tear and we retreat to a nearby bench.
Listening to the conversations ebbing around us, it’s clear that few people know what the monument commemorates, perhaps because the inscriptions are in Latin, although the ignored info boards nearby provide all the necessary background. The general consensus is that it’s a tribute to the Swiss struggle for independence. If only it were that worthy. As poignant and majestic as it is, the Lion Monument is a memorial to men who sold themselves for money and to republicans who died for an autocratic monarch. It remembers valour and honour that were sacrificed for a lost cause and financial gain. That makes it even sadder.
The Lion of Lucerne has been a tourist attraction for almost 200 years, as illustrated by this postcard from 1904
Mercenary armies were abolished in the new Swiss federal constitution of 1848, although existing contracts were still honoured (how very correct) until the government banned all forms of fighting for money in 1859. The sole survivor of the bloody practice is the Pope’s Swiss Guard, which has been protecting his Holiness since 1506. To serve in Rome, the men must be under 30, over 1.74m tall, single and have completed their Swiss military service. Being both Swiss and Catholic are somewhat essential as well. If they qualify on all grounds, then they get to wear the jaunty striped uniforms, which were not designed by Michelangelo in the sixteenth century but Commandant Jules Repond in the early twentieth. He used Raphael’s frescoes and the Medici colours as inspirations for an outfit that looks like it’s been around for centuries.
The Lion Monument was one of the “lions”, or essential sights, on Miss Jemima’s whirlwind tour of Lucerne. If you think many of today’s tourists rush around in a hurry, then take a look at what the 1863 group had in mind:
“We had but four hours in Lucerne, and in those four hours a respectable dinner had to be taken in a respectable manner, the Cathedral to be done, the gabled frescoes of the Bridges to be examined, the feudal wall and its four watch towers to be inspected, and of course Thorwaldsen’s Lion would feel slighted if forgotten.”
In the end, they managed it all except the wall and its towers. First they marvelled at the “most brilliant” altarpieces in the cathedral, more commonly called the Hofkirche. Its tapering twin towers have been one of the symbols of the city since 1633, when the church had to be rebuilt after burning down on Easter Sunday. Then our group hurried to the “beautiful picture of fidelity and resignation amid heroic suffering”, as Miss Jemima wrote of the Lion. In the ten minutes before dinner, they inspected the famous covered bridges that cross the River Reuss. Here too, fire has been part of the story.
The long wooden Chapel Bridge used to be the principal link between the old town on the right bank of the Reuss and the new one on the left. It was built in the fourteenth century and formed part of the city’s defences, along with the sturdy stone water tower that stands beside it. Pride of place under the roof were 111 triangular religious paintings, but over half of them, and most of the bridge, were destroyed in a blaze on 17–18 August 1993. Today’s structure is a reconstruction, although I wonder how many of the snap-happy visitors realise that as they stand and click in front of it. Most never know that the city’s surviving medieval covered bridge, the Spreuerbrücke or Mill Bridge, is only a few metres downstream.
Before Lucerne’s road bridge was built, the steamboats docked right beside the old town at the Schweizerhof Quai
There used to be an even longer wooden bridge, the Hofbrücke, which stretched all the way along the lakeshore to the Hofkirche. It might have been splendid, but it didn’t fit in with the needs of a Victorian city, so was dismantled in 1852 to make room for a new lakeside embankment, boat docks and a road bridge a
cross the river. That was finished in 1870 and, as in Geneva, has marred the waterfront ever since. I envy Miss Jemima seeing Lucerne without its ever-present noise and pollution. The one saving grace of the traffic-laden waterfront is that the old town was spared modernisation. It’s as beautiful as ever, a time capsule where elegant murals adorn the buildings and fountains sit in uneven cobbled squares. The only drawback with being so attractive is that the place is usually heaving with people all year round, particularly during Carnival and the uncomfortably named Blue Balls Festival, which is all about music, in case you were wondering.
With our time running out, we grab a sandwich and an ice cream beside the river before heading back to the station. That too was the victim of a calamitous blaze – what is it with Lucerne and fires? – when the glorious domed building, which wouldn’t have looked out of place in Paris, came crashing down in flames on 5 February 1971. Only the front portal remains as a monument to past splendour, with the angular modern replacement station lurking sheepishly in the background. Directly opposite is our paddle steamer, the oldest working example in Switzerland. What better way to sail across Lake Lucerne than on the good ship Uri, in service since 1901 and still going strong?
As we cast off, the long-threatened storm breaks and the heavens open, forcing us to huddle under the overhang from the upper deck (the rarefied level for first-class passengers), along with a Belgian family and their Australian friend. It would probably have been drier to swim. My mother fishes out a packet of Ricola (cranberry flavour) from her handbag and passes them round. I’m only glad she didn’t have room for a Thermos in her suitcase or we’d all be drinking a hot beverage together. How very British.
The multi-fingered lake that sits at the centre of the country, both geographically and historically, is known locally as Vierwaldstättersee, which is why most English speakers stick to the simpler Lake Lucerne. The official translation would be Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, referring to its role as the birthplace of Switzerland. It was along its southern shores, in Rütli meadow, that three men swore an oath of allegiance in August 1291, so founding the confederation that would develop into Switzerland. Those first three cantons bordering the lake (Schwyz, Uri and Unterwalden) soon became four with the addition of Lucerne, so giving the lake its name.
If that wasn’t enough, the area also plays host to the story of William Tell, a citizen of Uri who stood up to the Austrian Habsburg rulers. He was given an impossible challenge by Gessler, the new Austrian bailiff in town: shoot an apple off the head of Tell Junior. Our hero was handy with the crossbow so did exactly that, but was arrested anyway and sent to prison on the far side of the lake. As he and his captors crossed the water by boat, a storm descended on Lake Lucerne and Tell jumped to freedom. It’s all a myth, but one that became a Swiss legend thanks to a nineteenth-century play written by a German and a toe-tapping tune written by an Italian.
Lucerne, its lake and Rigi – and its ill-fated domed railway station on the lower right
In Miss Jemima’s day the tourists didn’t flock here for a slice of Swiss history (and they probably still don’t today); they came by the thousand for the perfectly picturesque scenery of Switzerland’s second largest lake: “you will not see a more beautiful lake in your life” was the view of Cook’s Tourist’s Handbook. The crooked cruciform shape of Lake Lucerne means that the rugged shoreline is never far away, as if the mountains are reaching down to dip their toes into the clear water. And one such peak is Rigi, known as the “Queen of the Mountains”, though it would never win a beauty contest – at least not in Switzerland, which is spoilt for choice in terms of attractive peaks. There are several more impressive, more dramatic or more graceful mountains to choose from. And in a country that can claim 48 named peaks over 4000m high, Rigi is a mere hillock at 1797m. So what is the attraction? Why do 1.25 million passengers every year still climb aboard the Rigi Bahn, the mountain railway that runs to the summit?
Vitznau was chosen as the start of the Rigi Bahn after Weggis decided against it
Simple: they want to enjoy the 360-degree panorama from the top, which is definitely worth the ride: Rigi sits resplendently detached from nearby mountains, surrounded on almost every side by water and with clear-day views across the whole Alps – “All around, the splendour of the world” was Goethe’s comment in his diary. There is also what lies beneath passengers’ feet: Switzerland’s first mountain train. Its revolutionary cog wheels and toothed track made climbing the mountain possible for more than just men and mules; women were often carried up in sedan chairs, including Queen Victoria in 1868.
The line was built on this mountain not only because Rigi isn’t as steep or as high as others, but also because it was already top of Switzerland’s must-do list for every traveller in the mid-nineteenth century. See a glacier, tick. Buy a watch, tick. Watch the sunrise from on top of Rigi, tick. Conquering Rigi with rails was a key moment in developing both the train system and the country as a whole. It marks the moment when Switzerland truly became the playground of Europe.
The quickest way to reach the foot of Rigi was by boat and back in 1863 the Junior United Alpine Club sailed on the aptly named SS Rigi, which, in a stroke of good fortune, can still be seen at the Swiss Transport Museum in Lucerne. Built in 1848, the steamer is the oldest surviving means of motorised transport in Switzerland – and is remarkably small and plain. An open wooden deck, a single black funnel, two little huts for the captain and stores: all very minimalist compared with the ostentatious Belle Époque steamers (such as the Uri) that are floating palaces of polished brass and refined saloons. The SS Rigi is but one of the many fascinating exhibits at Switzerland’s most-visited museum, along with a Wetterhorn cable car and a parade of trains, planes and automobiles. You don’t have to be a petrol-head to enjoy the wealth of transport history on display there. Miss Jemima would probably find it rather amusing to see the ship she sailed on preserved as a historical object.
Among the passengers on board that day with her were
“guides who had taken a passage on the boat for the purpose of securing a party for the ascent of the mountain. We engaged the most honest-looking to carry our satchels on his upright frame, packed on after that ingenious fashion of adhesiveness known only to Swiss guides and porteurs.”
However, having a guide didn’t stop them being harassed after docking and deboarding in Weggis, a small village that was a traditional starting point for the hike up Rigi. Their experience is so un-Swiss to modern sensibilities that it’s worth reliving:
“We landed at Weggis, and if each man, boy and mule-keeper who attacked us had been a wasp and each word a sting, Weggis had possessed our remains. We were literally infested by, dogged and danced around by these importunates! Our efforts and ruses to evade them were numerous and varied. The last hopes of the applicants were only finally crushed by la plus jolie dame announcing we had been up Mont Blanc! That was too much for even a Rigi man to equal. They fell back speechless before such climbers, and finally allowed ‘la plus jolie dame’ and the mountain Amazons to pass unseized.”
Change the place names and it could easily read like a modern tourist’s account of visiting India or Egypt. It certainly is not Weggis today, where apartments now sell for 1.5 million francs, nor modern Switzerland, where even in the most touristy of places people are rarely harassed by touts and hawkers. The Swiss developed politeness and wealth at the same time. As prosperity increased, the urgency of survival through selling something disappeared, as did the hard sell; the richer they got, the softer their sales techniques. They’re so soft that sometimes in Swiss shops you’re lucky if the staff even acknowledge your existence; I often feel like apologising for interrupting their chatting or daydreaming. But rather that than this:
“Again, we are reminded that tourists are the staple commodity in the twenty-two cantons of Switzerland as another band of parasites would feed upon us, or rather feed us, as they dangled bunches of cherries in our faces with the cry of
‘Vingt centimes! Vingt centimes!’ These cherry vendors regard us as their legitimate prey – they industriously reap a good harvest in their Rigi farms as they try every art and device to make us purchasers.”
And they were certainly persistent. A few hundred metres further on, Miss Jemima’s enjoyment of the scenery came to an abrupt halt:
“‘Vingt centimes! Vingt centimes!’ again rings in our ears, putting to flight our dreams of history, of valour, of poetry and beauty. This was too much for Miss Eliza’s equanimity, who was roused to evoke such vilification of the enemy as her refined vocabulary could furnish.”
Whatever Miss Eliza said, however colourful her language, it did the trick and the group was then left in peace to climb their mountain, only having to bear the stares of a “goitred ogre” who stood guard beside a cherry tree.
When Mark Twain walked the same walk (and famously took three days rather than three hours to finish it), he was faced with boys singing a rather different tune and handled them in typical Twainish fashion:
The jodling (pronounced yodling – emphasis on the o) continued, and was very pleasant and inspiring to hear. Now the jodler appeared – a shepherd boy of sixteen – and in our gladness and gratitude we gave him a franc to jodel some more. So he jodeled and we listened. We moved on, presently, and he generously jodeled us out of sight. After about fifteen minutes we came across another shepherd boy who was jodling, and gave him half a franc to keep it up. He also jodled us out of sight. After that, we found a jodler every ten minutes; we gave the first one eight cents, the second one six cents, the third one four, the fourth one a penny, contributed nothing to Nos, 5, 6, and 7, and during the remainder of the day hired the rest of the jodlers at a franc apiece, not to jodel anymore. There is somewhat too much of this jodling in the Alps.