CHAPTER XII--THE STIMULATION OF THE ALPS
To any one who should come from a southern sanitarium to the Alps,
the row of sun-burned faces round the table would present the first
surprise. He would begin by looking for the invalids, and he would
lose his pains, for not one out of five of even the bad cases bears
the mark of sickness on his face. The plump sunshine from above
and its strong reverberation from below colour the skin like an
Indian climate; the treatment, which consists mainly of the open
air, exposes even the sickliest to tan, and a tableful of invalids
comes, in a month or two, to resemble a tableful of hunters. But
although he may be thus surprised at the first glance, his
astonishment will grow greater, as he experiences the effects of
the climate on himself. In many ways it is a trying business to
reside upon the Alps: the stomach is exercised, the appetite often
languishes; the liver may at times rebel; and because you have come
so far from metropolitan advantages, it does not follow that you
shall recover. But one thing is undeniable--that in the rare air,
clear, cold, and blinding light of Alpine winters, a man takes a
certain troubled delight in his existence which can nowhere else be
paralleled. He is perhaps no happier, but he is stingingly alive.
It does not, perhaps, come out of him in work or exercise, yet he
feels an enthusiasm of the blood unknown in more temperate
climates.
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