Page 218 - tender-is-the-night

‘The ones made in England always last five or six years.
Two years ago the Germans underbid us, and how long do
you think their cable lasted?’
‘How long?’
‘A year and ten months. Then the Swiss sold it to the Ital-
ians. They don’t have rigid inspections of cables.’
‘I can see it would be a terrible thing for Switzerland if a
cable broke.’
The conductor shut a door; he telephoned his confrere
among the undulati, and with a jerk the car was pulled up-
ward, heading for a pinpoint on an emerald hill above. After
it cleared the low roofs, the skies of Vaud, Valais, Swiss Sa-
voy, and Geneva spread around the passengers in cyclorama.
On the centre of the lake, cooled by the piercing current of
the Rhône, lay the true centre of the Western World. Upon it
floated swans like boats and boats like swans, both lost in the
nothingness of the heartless beauty. It was a bright day, with
sun glittering on the grass beach below and the white courts
of the Kursal. The figures on the courts threw no shadows.
When Chillon and the island palace of Salagnon came
into view Dick turned his eyes inward. The funicular was
above the highest houses of the shore; on both sides a tangle
of foliage and flowers culminated at intervals in masses of
color. It was a rail-side garden, and in the car was a sign:
Défense de cueillir les fleurs.
Though one must not pick flowers on the way up, the
blossoms trailed in as they passed—Dorothy Perkins roses
dragged patiently through each compartment slowly wag-
gling with the motion of the funicular, letting go at the last

218 Tender is the Night