UNDERGRADUATE PAGE

Travelogue

By J. STUART MACLURE (Christ's College, Cambridge)

C c OFTEN think," said the director's wife, looking round at the starving tourists attacking their afternoon tea, " what a

wonderful job this is—giving holidays to all these tired people." Of course I agreed ; a new employee could not afford to disagree with the director's wife any more than the director could. " Giving all these tired people " holidays was an exhausting job, and included wet-nursing them during their waking hours as well as showing them the beauties of Swiss scenery. 1 even had two of them at my table in the dining-room.

Mr. and Mrs. Small came from Bradford ; they made no secret of the fact. Mr. Small was a bit sceptical about Switzerland, although the food seemed all right. (" Not but what the Missus couldn't do better, at home, if she had the stuff.") They were only staying a week ; Mr.. Small couldn't leave Market. " By the way," he said on the second day in Lucerne, " where's Market ? " I made inquiries for him, and he spent a happy morning in the one portion of that beautiful city which smells and is fly-ridden.

" What's the beer like here ? " asked Mr. Small, and Mrs. Small said, "Aye, Alfred must have his bottle of beer at nine o'clock at night. Otherwise he doesn't sleep." He tasted the beer critically, and compared it not altogether unfavourably with that of his home- town. I asked them if they were going on any excursions to- the mountains. " No," said Mrs. Small, " I don't care for the moun- tains myself—all those' narrow roads and precipices and things ; I haven't got a head for heights. I am quite happy looking at the shops, though I haven't any money to buy anything with."

"Is there much chance of a game of whist," said Mr. Small, "or solo or something ? " I said I thought some of the clients who slept all day in the lounge might very much care for a game.

" I like a game of solo," said Mrs. Small thoughtfully.

At last, two days before they were due to leave, they stirred themselves and decided to book for an excursion to " Tell's country " —a tedious trip which involved a six-hour journey on the lake, with an odd couple of hours spent in Altdorf, trams, cafés and so forth. It was my misfortune to take the party. The trip is a quiet one, because it is not usually possible to harangue the clients on the boat, so the conductor can spend most of his time drinking coffee at reduced rates in the first-class saloon. On this occasion, however, Mr. and Mrs. Small, having paid their money, were- not going to allow the conductor out of their sight. " I want value for my brass," Mr. Small had remarked on one occasion, and repeated it from time to time if he thought anyone remained in doubt.

Every time a snow-capped peak appeared in sight, Mrs. Small turned to me and said, " Is that the Matterhorn ? "—the only mountain thought to exist in Switzerland by English tourists. At the end of the day she still refused to believe that it was seventy miles away.

" Tell me," said Mr. Small. " Let's get this straight. Was William Tell an Englishman or an American ? " I shuddered, as, before I could reply, a loathsome small child piped up to answer his question. " William Tell or Guillaume Tell (French) was a mythical figure in Swiss history, believed never to have existed. He was written up by Schiller. . . ."

" That's quite enough of that," I said realising that the child had been before.. " In our school play . . ." she began.

" And that, ladies and gentlemen," I said in a loud voice, " is the Schiller stone." I pointed vaguely in the direction of the lakeside.

" Look, Alfred," said Mrs. Small, indicating a man working in a field. " A native."

Fortunately the boat arrived at Fltielen, and we disembarked for lunch, after which the party proceeded by tram to Altdorf, " scene of the famous apple-shooting incident in the William Tell story." In the middle of the- square stands an enormous statue of a gargantuan, thug-like figure, his hand resting heavily on the shoulder of a diminutive, rickety little boy, who is clutching in his arms an outsize apple. Over the man's back is slung an'awkward-looking crossbow. " Who's that ? " asked Mrs. SmalL " This, ladies and gentlemen," I began, " is the statue of Walther Tell, with his father William, erected in the year 1895, and executed by the sculptor Kissling."

" Is that the same apple ? " asked Mr. Small, the word " liar " hovering on his lips.

" Tell was challenged to shoot the apple off his sun's head at a distance of a hundred paces. . . ."

" In our school play it was only eighty," said the horrid child.

" Authorities are not agreed on this point," I explained. " But ... and now if you will follow me, I will take you to the cafe where we shall have tea."

Crying " Tea," " Must have a cup of tea," " I could just do with a cup of tea," and other thirsty phrases, the mob surged after me. Inside the café confusion reigned as the whole staff was mustered to serve tea to the English. " There's nothing like a cup of tea," said Mrs. Small.

" I'll have a glass of beer," said Mr. Small, " it's cheaper."

After tea we returned to the boat, by way of Tell's birthplace, Tell's boyhood house, Tell's old school and numerous Tell's chapels, and so eventually to the hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Small were quits pleased with themselves. After all they had come abroad to see Switzerland.

The night before they left, I asked Mr. Small what he thought of Lucerne. " Aye," he said, slowly extracting a troublesome piece of chicken from behind a left molar. " Lucerne is all right—but not a patch on Bradford. Prices don't compare. Still," he added, "I am glad I've seen Switzerland, though I don't know where all the money has gone."

I had just a vague idea. I thought 1 caught the dulcet tones of the director's wife again: " What an excellent racket this is— selling holidays to all these stupid people ! "