The greatest piece of good luck that can befall a Continental
village is the discovery, within its limits, of a spring
supplying some kind of malodorous water. From that moment
the entire community, abandoning all other plans, give themselves
over to hatching their golden egg, experience having taught them
that no other source of prosperity can compare with a source
thermale. If the water of the newfound spring, besides
having an unpleasant smell, is also hot, then Providence has
indeed blessed the township.
The first step is to have the fluid analyzed by a celebrity,
and its medicinal qualities duly set forth in a
certificate. The second is to get official recognition from
the government and the authorization to erect a bath house.
Once these preliminaries accomplished, the way lies plain before
the fortunate village; every citizen, from the mayor down to the
humblest laborer, devotes himself to solving the all-important
problem how to attract strangers to the place and keep and amuse
them when they have been secured.
Multicolored pamphlets detailing the local attractions are
mailed to the four corners of the earth, and brilliant chromos of
the village, with groups of peasants in the foreground, wearing
picturesque costumes, are posted in every available railway
station and booking-office, regardless of the fact that no
costumes have been known in the neighborhood for half a century,
except those provided by the hotel proprietors for their
housemaids. A national dress, however, has a fine effect in
the advertisement, and gives a local color to the scene.
What, for instance, would Athens be without that superb
individual in national get-up whom one is sure to see before the
hotel on alighting from the omnibus? I am convinced that he
has given as much pleasure as the Acropolis to most travellers;
the knowledge that the hotel proprietors share the expenses of
his keep and toilet cannot dispel the charm of those scarlet
embroideries and glittering arms.
After preparing their trap, the wily inhabitants of a new
watering-place have only to sit down and await events. The
first people to appear on the scene are, naturally, the English,
some hidden natural law compelling that race to wander forever in
inexpensive by-ways and serve as pioneers for other
nations. No matter how new or inaccessible the spring, you
are sure to find a small colony of Britons installed in the
half-finished hotels, reading week-old editions of the
Times, and grumbling over the increase in prices since the
year before.
As soon as the first stray Britons have developed into an
“English colony,” the municipality consider
themselves authorized to construct a casino and open avenues,
which are soon bordered by young trees and younger villas.
In the wake of the English come invalids of other
nationalities. If a wandering “crowned head”
can be secured for a season, a great step is gained, as that will
attract the real paying public and the Americans, who as a
general thing are the last to appear on the scene.
At this stage of its evolution, the “city fathers”
build a theatre in connection with their casino, and (persuading
the government to wink at their evasion of the gambling laws) add
games of chance to the other temptations of the place.
There is no better example of the way a spring can be
developed by clever handling, and satisfactory results obtained
from advertising and judicious expenditure, than Aix-les-Bains,
which twenty years ago was but a tiny mountain village, and
to-day ranks among the wealthiest and most brilliant eaux
in Europe. In this case, it is true, they had tradition to
fall back on, for Aquæ Gratinæ was already a favorite
watering-place in the year 30 B.C., when Cæsar took the
cure.
There is little doubt in my mind that when the Roman Emperor
first arrived he found a colony of spinsters and retired army
officers (from recently conquered Britain) living around this
spring in popinæ (which are supposed to have
corresponded to our modern boarding-house), wearing waterproof
togas and common-sense cothurni, with double cork soles.
The wife of another Cæsar fled hither in 1814. The
little inn where she passed a summer in the company of her
one-eyed lover—while the fate of her husband and son was
being decided at Vienna and Waterloo—is still standing, and
serves as the annex of a vast new hotel.
The way in which a watering-place is “run” abroad,
where tourists are regarded as godsends, to be cherished,
spoiled, and despoiled, is amusingly different from the manner of
our village populations when summer visitors (whom they look upon
as natural enemies) appear on the scene. Abroad the entire
town, together with the surrounding villages, hamlets, and
farmhouses, rack their brains and devote their time to inventing
new amusements for the visitor, and original ways of enticing the
gold from his pocket—for, mind you, on both continents the
object is the same. In Europe the rural Machiavellis have
had time to learn that smiling faces and picturesque surroundings
are half the battle.
Another point which is perfectly understood abroad is that a
cure must be largely mental; that in consequence boredom retards
recovery. So during every hour of the day and evening a
different amusement is provided for those who feel inclined to be
amused. At Aix, for instance, Colonne’s orchestra
plays under the trees at the Villa des Fleurs while you are
sipping your after-luncheon coffee. At three o’clock
“Guignol” performs for the youngsters. At five
o’clock there is another concert in the Casino. At
eight o’clock an operetta is given at the villa, and a
comedy in the Casino, both ending discreetly at eleven
o’clock. Once a week, as a variety, the park is
illuminated and fireworks help to pass the evening.
If neither music nor Guignol tempts you, every form of trap
from a four-horse break to a donkey-chair (the latter much in
fashion since the English queen’s visit) is standing ready
in the little square. On the neighboring lake you have but
to choose between a dozen kinds of boats. The hire of all
these modes of conveyance being fixed by the municipality, and
plainly printed in boat or carriage, extortions or discussions
are impossible. If you prefer a ramble among the hills, the
wily native is lying in wait for you there also. When you
arrive breathless at your journey’s end, a shady arbor
offers shelter where you may cool off and enjoy the view.
It is not by accident that a dish of freshly gathered
strawberries and a bowl of milk happen to be standing near
by.
When bicycling around the lake you begin to feel how nice a
half hour’s rest would be. Presto! a terrace
overhanging the water appears, and a farmer’s wife who
proposes brewing you a cup of tea, supplementing it with butter
and bread of her own making. Weak human nature cannot
withstand such blandishments. You find yourself becoming
fond of the people and their smiling ways, returning again and
again to shores where you are made so welcome. The fact
that “business” is at the bottom of all this in no
way interferes with one’s enjoyment. On the contrary,
to a practical mind it is refreshing to see how much can be made
of a little, and what a fund of profit and pleasure can be
extracted from small things, if one goes to work in the right
way.
The trick can doubtless be overdone: at moments one feels the
little game is worked a bit too openly. The other evening,
for instance, when we entered the dining-room of our hotel and
found it decorated with flags and flowers, because, forsooth, it
was the birthday of “Victoria R. and I.,” when
champagne was offered at dessert and the band played “God
Save the Queen,” while the English solemnly stood up in
their places, it did seem as if the proprietor was poking fun at
his guests in a sly way.
I was apparently the only person, however, who felt
this. The English were much flattered by the attention, so
I snubbed myself with the reflection that if the date had been
July 4, I doubtless should have considered the flags and music
most à propos.
There are also moments when the vivid picturesqueness of this
place comes near to palling on one. Its beauty is so
suspiciously like a set scene that it gives the impression of
having been arranged by some clever decorator with an eye to
effect only.
One is continually reminded of that inimitable chapter in
Daudet’s Tartarin sur les Alpes, when the hero
discovers that all Switzerland is one enormous humbug, run to
attract tourists; that the cataracts are “faked,” and
avalanches arranged beforehand to enliven a dull season.
Can anything be more delicious than the disillusion of Tartarin
and his friends, just back from a perilous chamois hunt, on
discovering that the animal they had exhausted themselves in
following all day across the mountains, was being refreshed with
hot wine in the kitchen of the hotel by its peasant owner?
When one visits the theatrical abbey across the lake and
inspects the too picturesque tombs of Savoy’s sovereigns,
or walks in the wonderful old garden, with its intermittent
spring, the suspicion occurs, in spite of one’s self, that
the whole scene will be folded up at sunset and the bare-footed
“brother” who is showing us around with so much
unction will, after our departure, hurry into another costume,
and appear later as one of the happy peasants who are singing and
drinking in front of that absurdly operatic little inn you pass
on the drive home.
There is a certain pink cottage, with a thatched roof and
overhanging vines, about which I have serious doubts, and fully
expect some day to see Columbine appear on that pistache-green
balcony (where the magpie is hanging in a wicker cage), and,
taking Arlequin’s hand, disappear into the water-butt while
Clown does a header over the half-door, and the cottage itself
turns into a gilded coach, with Columbine kissing her hand from
the window.
A problem which our intelligent people have not yet set
themselves to solve, is being worked out abroad. The little
cities of Europe have discovered that prosperity comes with the
tourist, that with increased facilities of communication the
township which expends the most in money and brains in attracting
rich travellers to its gates is the place that will grow and
prosper. It is a simple lesson, and one that I would gladly
see our American watering-places learn and apply.
