This, then, is what Voltaire, in his love of town life and society, was pleased to look upon as being buried alive in the “caverns of Bex”![9] Can we really be at a loss with Nature as she is at Bex? It would seem impossible. That Nature has shortcomings is only natural, and I think we may say, as says the inspired Bengali poet, Rabindranath Tagore, in _The Gardener_:
“Infinite wealth is not yours, my patient and dusky mother dust! The gift of gladness that you have for us is never perfect. The toys that you make for your children are fragile. You cannot satisfy all our hungry hopes, but should I desert you for that?”
Nature at Bex may not be perfect, but certainly in very many respects she is as perfect as she can be, and we are by no means deserting her though necessity obliges us to pass on to
For Nature in most lavish mood accompanies us. No matter at what season, the two and a half hours road from Bex to Les Plans is full of beauty for the eye and mind, but if there is one season above the others when this beauty is the more bewitching it is that of spring. Oh, why—a thousand times why!—is spring in the Alps so neglected by travellers seeking charm and pleasure? Why are the Kursaals crowded in spring by those who, at Custom’s bidding, are waiting for a later, more healthy and resplendent season? Time will come when Custom in this matter will surely be sent to the rightabout, and Alpine spring will be as sought after as now is Alpine winter. It is only about twelve years ago that we who wintered on the Alps were looked upon as mere eccentrics; yet these few short years have proved that we were in truth the favoured pioneers of a season that is actually becoming prime rival to that of summer. In very faith I feel that so it shall be with spring, and that a few years hence a new and fascinating experience will have revealed itself to a hitherto indifferent world.[10]
As one emerges from the timbered gorge, one is confronted at once by the jagged mountains of the chain of the Grand Muveran; not as they appear in summer, with bare, forbidding precipice and scree, but as they can appear in springtime only, clothed about in winter’s dissipating snows and gladdened by an immediate foreground of glistening crocuses on the brown orchard slopes of Frenière. At this point, looking back, one has a splendid view of the giant hill that carries Villars upon its breast; but the village that one sees with its old church tower clinging to the side at a height of 1133 metres, and seemingly in difficulty to restrain itself from slipping into the gulf, is Gryon, where Juste Olivier, one of Switzerland’s most tuneful poets, spent his last years and sang imperishable songs—songs that have found a place in the heart and life of the people, particularly when the theme is the _mi-été_ festivities at Anzeindaz and Taveyannaz. These midsummer fêtes are held annually in connection with the cattle and cheese industry: they are delightfully typical of old-world custom, and the poet has done much to render them impervious to the destructive note of modern sophistication. Both pasturages lie on the mountains between Villars and Les Plans, and are easy excursions from either of these places and from Gryon. Anzeindaz is the more wild and romantic of the two, its surroundings lending themselves admirably to these picturesque timeworn merrymakings; for the pasturage lies at the foot of the rugged Diablerets, at the foot, too, of a glacier, and at the base of a wild col which, although this is a closed district against hunters, is a spot that knows well the poachers of eagles. There can be little doubt of which way Juste Olivier would cast his vote with regard to the railway that it is proposed shall desecrate these fascinating wilds, dissipating their guileless, primitive associations. He would be on the side of the angels; and the angels are on the side of the _Heimatschutz_ or League for the Preservation of Natural Beauty.