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Updated: May 17, 2025
I looked wistfully, as we rattled into dreary Andermatt, at the great white zigzags of the Oberalp road which climbed away to the left. Even on one's way to Italy one may spare a throb of desire for the beautiful vision of the castled Grisons.
Two lovers pass us whispering, and we follow them with our eyes. This Utopia has certainly preserved the fundamental freedom, to love. And then a sweet-voiced bell from somewhere high up towards Oberalp chimes two-and-twenty times. I break the silence. "That might mean ten o'clock," I say. My companion leans upon the bridge and looks down into the dim river below.
I expand. "We have come so far that this country of yours seems very strange indeed to us." "The mountains?" "Not only the mountains." "You came up out of the Ticino valley?" "No not that way." "By the Oberalp?" "No." "The Furka?" "No." "Not up from the lake?" "No." He looks puzzled. "We came," I say, "from another world." He seems trying to understand.
This is Geschenen, at the entrance of the great tunnel, the meeting place of the upper gorges of the Reuss, the valley of Urseren, of the Oberalp, and of the Furka. Geschenen has now the calm tranquility of old age.
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