At the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for the entertainment of tourists is the business of the place, which, as many travelers will remember, is seated upon the edge of a remarkably blue lake—a lake that it behooves every tourist to visit. The shore of the lake presents an unbroken array of establishments of this order, of every category, from the "grand hotel" of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an elder day, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and an awkward summerhouse in the angle of the garden. One of the hotels at Vevey, however, is famous, even classical, being distinguished from many of its upstart neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity. In this region, in the month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke a vision, an echo, of Newport and Saratoga. There is a flitting hither and thither of "stylish" young girls, a rustling of muslin flounces, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times. You receive an impression of these things at the excellent inn of the "Trois Couronnes" and are transported in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the "Trois Couronnes," it must be added, there are other features that are much at variance with these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like secretaries of legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish boys walking about held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the sunny crest of the Dent du Midi and the picturesque towers of the Castle of Chillon.
I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the "Trois Couronnes," looking about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day before by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel—Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache—his aunt had almost always a headache—and now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva "studying." When his enemies spoke of him, they said—but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there—a foreign lady—a person older than himself. Very few Americans—indeed, I think none—had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there—circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.
After knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attache. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path—an urchin of nine or ten. The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approached—the flowerbeds, the garden benches, the trains of the ladies' dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes.
"Will you give me a lump of sugar?" he asked in a sharp, hard little voice—a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.
ที่น้อยเมืองของเวเวย์ สวิตเซอร์แลนด์ มีความสะดวกอย่างยิ่ง มี แน่นอน โรงแรม สำหรับความบันเทิงของนักท่องเที่ยวเป็นธุรกิจของสถานที่ ซึ่ง นักท่องเที่ยวจำนวนมากจะทำ ที่นั่งตามขอบของทะเลสาบเป็นสีฟ้าอย่างน่าทึ่ง ซึ่งทะเลสาบที่มัน behooves ท่องทุก ชายฝั่งของทะเลสาบแสดงเป็นแถวไม่เสียของของใบสั่งนี้ ทุกประเภท ออกจาก "โรงแรมแกรนด์" ของแฟชั่นใหม่ล่าสุด หน้าสีขาว ร้อยระเบียง และโหลธงบินจากหลังคา บำนาญสวิสน้อยของมีวันผู้สูงอายุ มีชื่อจารึกในเยอรมันมองตัวอักษรสีชมพู หรือสีเหลืองผนังและ summerhouse อึดอัดในมุมของสวน โรงแรมในเวเวย์ อย่างไรก็ตาม เป็นชื่อดัง แม้ คลาสสิค ถูกต่างจากของประเทศเพื่อนบ้าน upstart โดยอากาศทั้งหรูหรา และ ของครบ ในภูมิภาคนี้ ในเดือนมิถุนายน นักท่องเที่ยวอเมริกันมากมายมาก มันอาจจะกล่าวว่า จริง ๆ ที่ เวเวย์สันนิษฐานว่าช่วงนี้บางลักษณะของสถานรดน้ำอเมริกัน มีแหล่งท่องเที่ยวและเสียงที่ทำให้เกิดวิสัยทัศน์ เสียงก้อง นิวพอร์ทและซาราโทกา มี flitting hither และไปที่นั่นของหญิงสาวที่ "ทันสมัย" เป็นเฉกเช่นความของมัสลิน flounces เสียงดังของเพลงเต้นรำในเวลาเช้า เสียงความถี่เสียงตลอดเวลา คุณได้รับความประทับใจสิ่งเหล่านี้ที่ดีเยี่ยมของ "โคโรนเนสทรอยส์" และการขนส่งในแฟนซีที่ บ้านโอเชี่ยน หรือศาลา ว่าการประชุม แต่ที่ "ทรอยส์โคโรนเนส มันต้องเพิ่ม มีคุณสมบัติอื่น ๆ ที่มีมากที่๗.๒แนะนำเหล่านี้: เรียบร้อยเยอรมันทิป ที่ดูเหมือนเลขานุการของ legation เจ้าหญิงรัสเซียที่นั่งในสวน เด็กชายเล็ก ๆ ที่เดินเกี่ยวกับโปแลนด์จัด โดยมือ มีผู้ว่าราชการของพวกเขา ดูแดดยอดบุ๋ม du Midi และอาคารที่งดงามของปราสาทกู่I hardly know whether it was the analogies or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American, who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the "Trois Couronnes," looking about him, rather idly, at some of the graceful objects I have mentioned. It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. He had come from Geneva the day before by the little steamer, to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel—Geneva having been for a long time his place of residence. But his aunt had a headache—his aunt had almost always a headache—and now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander about. He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said that he was at Geneva "studying." When his enemies spoke of him, they said—but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely amiable fellow, and universally liked. What I should say is, simply, that when certain persons spoke of him they affirmed that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there—a foreign lady—a person older than himself. Very few Americans—indeed, I think none—had ever seen this lady, about whom there were some singular stories. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been put to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there—circumstances which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships. Many of these he had kept, and they were a source of great satisfaction to him.After knocking at his aunt's door and learning that she was indisposed, he had taken a walk about the town, and then he had come in to his breakfast. He had now finished his breakfast; but he was drinking a small cup of coffee, which had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters who looked like an attache. At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path—an urchin of nine or ten. The child, who was diminutive for his years, had an aged expression of countenance, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in knickerbockers, with red stockings, which displayed his poor little spindle-shanks; he also wore a brilliant red cravat. He carried in his hand a long alpenstock, the sharp point of which he thrust into everything that he approached—the flowerbeds, the garden benches, the trains of the ladies' dresses. In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes."Will you give me a lump of sugar?" he asked in a sharp, hard little voice—a voice immature and yet, somehow, not young.
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