Legends of Vaud and Valais
Late in the spring, when the grazing down in the valley is pretty
well exhausted, farmers in Switzerland are wont to drive their cows
up to the mountain pastures, which by this time are all covered with
luxuriant grass and gemmed with dainty wild-flowers. The day set for
the departure of the cattle is always a gala day. The people, dressed
in their Sunday best, assemble in the villages through which the herds
must pass, to exchange merry jests with the herdsmen, bid them God
speed, and admire the fat sleek cows, wearing around their necks bells
of different sizes and varying tones.
The head herdsman proudly walks in front of his cattle, wearing a
bunch of gay ribbons or of fresh flowers in his hat or cap. His blue
cloth coat, with its short sleeves, sets off a dazzlingly white shirt
of coarse linen, and his costume is completed by knee-breeches, thick
woolen stockings, and shoes whose soles are elaborately studded with
bright nails. This man carries a bag full of salt, and an umbrella
slung across his back; and from time to time, as he strides joyfully
ahead of the herd, he offers a handful of salt to the foremost cows.
Leaning on his stout staff, he sturdily climbs the mountain, giving
vent to those long-drawn musical cries known as “huchées” or “jodels,”
according to the section of the country in which they are heard.
Close behind the herdsman comes the bull, with a ring in his nose,
or a fine cow, the queen and leader of the cattle. Conscious of the
honour of wearing the largest and deepest-toned bell, this animal steps
proudly along, tossing a shapely head decked with bunches of bright
flowers on either horn, and between them rests the milking-stool, a
sign of particular distinction.
Cow after cow slowly files past, greeted by calls and loving pats from
proud owners, and amid the tinkling of bells, the trample of hoofs, the
lowing of kine, and the cheers of the people sound the resonant cracks
of the herdsmen’s whips, which they snap incessantly to show their
proficiency in that greatly admired branch of their calling.
The sight of such a herd going up the mountain invariably reminds the
old people of happy summers long gone by, and while sitting on the
benches in front of their stone or wooden houses at twilight, they
entertain the younger generation with reminiscences of the joyful past,
and a regretful sigh always heaves their aged breasts when they finally
mention the Golden Age of Switzerland.
According to tradition, this was the time when none of the
mountains--not even the highest--were ever veiled in cold mists, or
covered with ice and snow. Neither were there any barren and rocky
heights such as we see now. Luxuriant grass grew all the way up the
steepest slopes, carpeting even the topmost ridges, and the climate
was so genial that cattle dotted the hillside pastures during nine or
ten months of the year. The cows were then far larger and fatter than
any we see now, and their milk was so abundant that they were milked
thrice a day into huge ponds, or tanks, where the herdsmen went about
in skiffs to do the skimming.
One of these men is said to have once lost his balance and fallen
head first into a lacteal lake, but although his mourning companions
diligently sought for his corpse, and even dredged that huge natural
milkpan, they could find no trace of him. When churning-day came round,
however, and the big vats of thick cream were poured into a churn
as large and tall as a castle tower, the dead man was suddenly
discovered imbedded like a fly in the thick cream. The dairymen and
milkmaids then mournfully laid his corpse to rest in a huge cave, lined
with honeycombs so tall and massive that none was smaller than the city
gates.
Such was the prosperity of all the farmers in the Cantons of Vaud and
Valais, that their men used goat cheeses (_tommes_) instead of quoits
for their daily games, and on Sundays played bowls with huge balls
of the sweetest, hardest, yellowest butter that has ever been made.
The fruit trees were as productive as the pastures; the grapes, for
instance, being so large and juicy that faucets had to be inserted in
each grape to draw off the juice, while the pears were so fine and
heavy that their stems had to be severed by means of a double hand-saw
when came time to pick them.
The Golden Age of the Alps did not last long, however, for the
unparalleled prosperity the people enjoyed filled their hearts with
such inordinate pride that they became very insolent, and thereby
called down the wrath of heaven upon their guilty heads. The brutality
and avarice which they displayed was punished by earthquakes, storms,
and landslides, which ruined their finest pastures, and by sudden
and unwelcome changes in the temperature. Dense fogs swept over the
mountains, and there were long and heavy snow-falls which swathed the
mountains in a permanent casing of ice and snow. The summer season
became far briefer than in the past, and fields and pastures much less
productive. Cattle and fruit therefore soon dwindled down to their
present comparatively small proportions, and unlimited plenty no longer
reigned in the land.
In the Golden Age the country boasted of a few very large but quite
benevolent giants. They roamed about at will, striding over mountains
and forests, which seemed to them no larger than mole hills and tiny
shrubs. The best known of these giants was Gargantua, renowned alike
for his athletic proportions and for his childlike spirit. He was so
huge that when he sat down to rest upon Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa, or some
other large mountain, his legs hung down on either side until his feet
rested comfortably in the valleys. Sometimes, when indulging in a brief
noonday nap, he used one of these peaks as pillow for his huge and
sleepy head. His thick white beard and hair, falling around him on all
sides, then gave these heights somewhat the same aspect they have now,
with their fields of snow and rivers of ice. The sunken orbits of the
giant’s eyes and his wide-open mouth looked like valleys and crevasses,
while his nostrils could be mistaken for deep and dark caves, and his
ruddy cheeks for great patches of red rock peeping out among the snows.
When the weather was warm, Gargantua’s breath seemed like the mist
hovering on the mountain tops; but when the temperature fell, it
rapidly congealed, spreading like a dense fog all over the country.
His gentlest snores are said to have sounded like the distant rumble
of thunder, or the crash of avalanches; and when he stretched himself
after a siesta, the whole country was shaken as by a violent earthquake.
Once, while the giant lay asleep, his head resting against a mountain,
a large flock of sheep scrambled up over his prostrate form, and began
to thread their way through his tangled hair and beard in quest of
pasture. Awakened by a slight tickling sensation, the giant half opened
his sleepy eyes. The sight of a host of little white creatures crawling
around in his beard so angered him, that he took them up one by one
between his thumb and index, and crushed and threw them away, thinking
they were vermin.
During another nap a large herd of cows strayed into the giant’s
wide-open mouth, which they mistook for a cave. Their presence there,
however, occasioned a prodigious coughing-fit, in the course of which
the cows were ejected with such force that they flew through miles of
space and landed in another country!
As simple and innocent as he was large, Gargantua delighted in playing
in the dirt. To amuse himself, he hollowed out the Rhône valley, and
scooped out a basin for the Lake of Geneva. There the marks of his
fingers can still be seen, for having no other tools he freely used
those nature provides, flinging handfuls of earth and stones on either
side of him, or into a rude basket made of wattled pine-trees which he
carried on his back.
At one time Gargantua elected to build a fine sand-heap, and carried
load after load of dirt and stones to a point southeast of the present
city of Geneva. There he dumped them one after another, and as the heap
increased in size after each basketful, he gleefully cried: “Ça lève,
ça lève!” (It is rising, it is rising!) This cry was overheard by the
people in the neighbourhood, who ever after used it as a name for that
mountain, changing the orthography to Salève.
Gargantua sometimes threw huge rocks around him in sport, or in
petulant fits of anger, punched holes in and through the mountains,
and dug out fistfuls of earth here and there to fashion his mud pies.
He also liked to make gullies for the streams which trickled down the
mountains. Once, while scratching out the Illiez valley he forgot the
burden on his back and stooped to drink from the Rhône, which seemed
to him like a mere rill. By some mischance, however, he stubbed his
big toe against the rocks of St. Triphon, and fell sprawling along
the valley, spilling part of the dirt out of his basket. The simple
fellow, amazed at this accident, picked himself up gravely and uttered
the local substitute for “My goodness!” (Eh Monteh!). This exclamation
was thereafter used by the natives to designate a mound of earth now
covered with oak forests and known as Monthey.
In his wrath at having tripped and broken the straps fastening his
basket to his back, Gargantua gave his burden an ill-tempered kick,
which sent it flying some distance further on, where it dumped the rest
of its contents. This heap of dirt formed the picturesque eminence on
whose wooded heights the ruined tower of Duin now stands.
A similar accident occurring when the giant once tried to quench
his thirst in the Sarine, is the alleged origin of the hill upon
which rises the church of Château d’Oex. On another occasion, resting
one foot upon the top of the Berra and the other upon the Gibloux,
Gargantua bent down and took a draught from the Sarine, which drained
it so dry that not a drop of water flowed along its bed for three
whole days. During that time one legend claims that the giant laid the
foundation for the bridge at Pont-la-Ville, near Fribourg, but another
ascribes that construction to his Satanic Majesty in person.
Gargantua’s feet were so large that one of his sandals could serve as
bridge over the Rhône or Sarine, and his hands so strong that he tore
great gaps in the Jura mountains to enable those two streams to make
their way to the sea.
A mountain giant who roamed about in the mist, but never came down into
the valleys, was known as Pathô. He delighted in terrifying the people
in the lowlands by sudden wild cries, or by playfully rolling stones
down upon them, their cattle, houses, or pastures.
Many of the Swiss giants were supposed to dwell in caves, or castles,
on the tallest mountains, hidden from the eyes of men by ever-shifting
clouds. To commemorate this superstition, Schiller wrote a charming
ballad, telling how the daughter of one of these giants once strayed
down into the valley, where, for the first time in her life, she beheld
a farmer ploughing his field. In her delight and wonder, she bundled
man, horses, and plough into her apron, and quickly carried them home,
where she proudly exhibited her new playthings to her father. The
giant, who wished the puny human race no ill, immediately bade his
little daughter carry the frightened peasant and kicking team back to
the place where she had found them, gravely warning her never to meddle
again with the people in the valley, whose diligent toil supplied
giants as well as mortals with their daily bread.
* * * * *
THE monks who lived in the old abbey at Romainmotier, in the northern
part of the canton of Vaud, once built a bridge over the rushing
waters of the Orbe, to enable the throngs of pilgrims to reach a
wonder-working image of the Virgin near Vallorbes. But as these monks
were very eager to enrich their monastery, they also placed a toll-gate
across the bridge, and would allow none to pass without paying a
certain sum.
One night, the bridge-keeper was startled out of his peaceful slumbers
by the rhythmic sound of rapid hoof-beats on the hard road, and he
sprang to his window just in time to find himself face to face with a
panting, foam-flecked steed, upon which sat a girl clad in garments
apparently no whiter than her anguished face. In breathless tones the
maiden bade the keeper open wide the gate and let her pass, for her
beloved mother was dangerously ill, and she wanted to plead for her
recovery at the foot of the miraculous image.
The gate-keeper listened unmoved to this passionate entreaty, and
instead of opening the gate, held it shut tight while sternly demanding
his toll. In vain the girl repeated she had forgotten to bring any
money, and implored him to let her pass, promising to bring him the
required amount on the morrow; he would not listen to anything she said.
Seeing it was useless to parley any longer with such an unfeeling
man, yet determined to save her mother at any price, the brave girl
urged her steed to the very edge of the bridge, and suddenly leaped
over the low parapet into the rushing tide. For a few moments the
horrified gate-keeper saw horse and rider struggling bravely to reach
the opposite shore, but all at once their strength gave way, and they
were swept into a whirlpool in the middle of the stream. A moment later
he saw them dashed against sharp rocks, and vanish beneath the foaming
waters which were soon tinged red with blood.
The gate-keeper stole back to his couch, trembling in every limb, but
told no one of the girl’s visit or of her frightful death. At midnight
on the anniversary of the tragedy, the conscience-stricken man was
however again roused by a loud clatter of hoofs. Torn from his bed by
invisible hands, he found himself on the bridge, face to face with
the same unhappy maid, whose snowy garments were now all stained with
blood. Still impelled by a force he could not resist, the gate-keeper
suddenly dropped down on his hands and knees before her, and felt her
spring lightly upon his back. A second later he was galloping wildly
toward the shrine of the miraculous Virgin.
There the maiden dismounted and fervently prayed for her sick mother;
then rising hastily from her knees, she again sprang upon her human
steed, whom she urged on over the stony road by lashing him with a long
wet reed. At the bridge, the spectre maiden vanished over the parapet,
and the terrified gate-keeper straightened up once more, only in time
to hear the gurgling cry of a drowning person rising above the roaring
and splashing of the swollen stream.
This spectral apparition visited this man every year, and so shattered
his nerves that he fell ill and died of fright. But before he breathed
his last, he humbly confessed to one of the monks his cruel treatment
of the girl, her pitiful end, and his awful punishment.
In memory of this event, an image of a man on all fours, and ridden
by a beautiful maiden, was placed in the convent church, where it was
long exhibited to pilgrims and tourists, to whom the above story is
invariably told.
* * * * *
SOUTH of Romainmotier, on the road from Vallorbes to Lausanne, stands
the small and very ancient town of La Sarraz, with its quaint castle.
We are told that a statue was excavated there lately, which once
stood in the chapel, and represented a knight, on whose cheeks and
shoulder-blades clung loathsome toads. The recovery of that peculiar
statue recalled the olden tale of a young knight of La Sarraz, who,
having won great distinction in warfare, aspired to the hand of a
Count’s daughter.
Although the maiden was far above him in station, her father consented
to their union, provided the bridegroom gave her a castle and three
hundred cows as wedding gift, or _morgengabe_. This condition filled
the knight’s heart with hopeless sorrow, for he could boast no property
except his trusty sword, his stout suit of mail, and his fiery
battle-horse.
His parents, perceiving his dejection, questioned him tenderly, and
when they learned the cause of his sorrow, they joyfully exclaimed that
he need not despair, for they would give him castle and cattle, which
was all they had in the world. They confidently added that they knew
their son would never let them want in their old age, even if they did
bestow everything upon him, reserving naught for themselves.
The selfish son gladly accepted this proffered sacrifice, but when
the marriage ceremony had been completed, and he and his wife were
comfortably settled in their new home, he begrudged his old parents the
little they required, and instigated by his wife, turned them out of
the house one cold and stormy night.
After closing the door upon them, to shut off the sound of their
pitiful sobs and heartbreaking reproaches, the knight of La Sarraz
strode back into the hall of his castle, where a huge beaker of strong
beer and a fine game-pie were awaiting him near a good fire. Settling
himself down comfortably in a big armchair, the knight removed the
crusty cover of the pie. But no sooner had he done so than he started
back in horror, for two live toads sprang straight out of it to his
cheeks, where they buried their claws so deep that no one could remove
them. Every effort was made to kill these animals or drive them
away, but all in vain. The knight, in despair, finally sent for the
neighbouring priest, thinking that his prayers might accomplish what
force and skill had failed to effect.
No sooner did the priest behold the live toads imbedded in the knight’s
cheeks, however, than he exclaimed this must be a visitation from
heaven, and bade him confess what grievous sin he had committed. But
when the knight acknowledged that he had unmercifully driven his
aged parents out of the house they had given him, the priest made a
frightened sign of the cross, and bade him apply to the bishop, as he
could not give absolution for so heinous a sin.
The bishop, equally shocked and horrified at the knight’s confession,
referred him to the Pope, who, seeing the man’s plight, bade him return
to his native land, find his aged parents, atone for his past cruelty
by treating them kindly as long as they lived, and assured him that
when he had obtained their forgiveness, the toads would certainly
depart from his face.
The knight of La Sarraz therefore journeyed home again, and after a
long and conscientious search discovered the dead bodies of his old
father and mother lying side by side in an abandoned hermitage. At the
pitiful sight of their wasted corpses, he fell on his knees, while
tears of bitter repentance flowed in torrents down his cheeks. These
tears effected what no other agent had been able to accomplish, for
the toads suddenly loosened their hold, and sprang from the knight’s
cheeks, down to his shoulders, where they again burrowed and clung fast.
As long as the knight of La Sarraz lived, he bore these awful living
reminders of his sin, but as he kept them carefully hidden from sight,
no one suspected the tortures he endured for more than twenty years. It
is this sin and its awful punishment which was commemorated by the odd
statue in the chapel of La Sarraz.
* * * * *
IN the tenth century, when all the western part of Switzerland formed
part of the kingdom of Burgundy, good Queen Bertha rode through the
land, visiting every castle, farm, and hamlet, and taking a kindly
interest in the affairs of rich and poor.
Wherever she went, she encouraged high and low to be good and virtuous,
setting them a shining example of industry by spinning diligently from
morning until night. Such was her skill in handling the distaff, that
she twirled it even while riding her snow-white palfrey from place to
place. Those days were so peaceful and happy, that the time “when Queen
Bertha span,” is still regarded in Switzerland as a synonym for the
Golden Age. Of course, the memory of so virtuous a ruler has been kept
green in the minds of the people, who have also carefully preserved her
saddle with its hole for her distaff. This relic can still be seen in
Payerne, where the virtuous Queen lies buried beside her husband and
son.
Statues, pictures, and poems perpetuate Queen Bertha’s fame, and people
still relate anecdotes about her. One of these affirms that the queen,
seeing a shepherd girl spin while tending her flock, was so delighted
with her industry that she bestowed upon her a rich reward. The court
ladies, wishing to secure similar benefits, presented themselves on the
morrow, distaff in hand, before their royal mistress. Observing them
for a moment in silence, the queen then archly remarked: “Ah, ladies!
the peasant girl, like Jacob, received the blessing because she came
first, but you, like Esau, have come too late!”
Queen Bertha was so good and charitable, that she was particularly
loved by the poor, who claim that her spirit still haunts that region.
Every year, towards Christmas time, she is said to wander through the
villages after nightfall, peering in at every window to ascertain
whether the women and girls have spun all their flax. Those who have
been careful and diligent, and can show empty distaffs and skeins of
fine, smooth thread, are rewarded by magic gifts. These consist of
skeins which never end, or handfuls of leaves, twigs, shavings, or
coal, which, if carefully put away, turn into gold before morning. But
the maidens who have been careless or lazy are sure to be punished by
sleepless nights, troubled dreams, tangled skeins, and numerous other
petty mishaps.
We are told that Queen Bertha built the castle of Vufflens for a
faithful servant who had become insane. As it was not safe to let him
go abroad, the good Queen carefully selected this lovely spot so that
the poor man could constantly feast his eyes upon the magnificent view
of the lake, with Mont Blanc in the distance.
It is said that a thunderbolt put a sudden and merciful end to this
madman’s life. Then, as Queen Bertha was about to leave the country to
join her married daughter in Lombardy, she bestowed the castle upon
Grimoald, a brother of the deceased, believing him to be good and
honourable too, although he was really a base-hearted wretch whom every
one feared.
Grimoald had not deemed it necessary to marry until then, but, wishing
to have an heir for his new castle, he soon brought home a reluctant
bride, forced by a stern father to accept his hand. He treated his
wife, Ermance, moderately well until the birth of her first child. But
when he heard that this babe was a girl, instead of the boy he desired,
he flew into a towering rage, and vowed it should be confined in one
of the corner turrets of the castle, to remain there with its nurse
until he had an heir. Poor Ermance pleaded in vain for an occasional
glimpse, or even for news, of her child. Then, she began a series
of pilgrimages, and fasted and prayed without ceasing, hoping that
Providence would give her a son. To her intense sorrow, however, she
gave birth to daughters only, who as soon as they came into the world
were consigned to separate towers, their cruel father reiterating ever
more emphatically the remarks he had made at the advent of his first
child.
When the fourth daughter came, the poor mother, clasping her
passionately in her arms, begged permission to share her imprisonment
and be her nurse. Grimoald, whose wrath by this time knew no bounds,
then angrily said:
“Since you can give me nothing but daughters, you may go! But remember,
I shall keep you in prison for ever. Every one shall believe you are
dead, and I will take another wife, who, I hope, will not be such a
fool as you!”
Striding out of his wife’s room, Grimoald then made all his
arrangements. By his orders, the babe was carried to the turret, and
Ermance covered with a sheet as if she were dead. Then a coffin was
brought into the room by servants, who fancied their mistress had died
of grief at losing her fourth child too. But during the night, Raymond,
Grimoald’s trusted henchman, put some stones into this coffin, nailed
down the lid, and secretly conveyed his mistress to the fourth tower,
which, like all the rest, then communicated with his own dwelling by
secret passageways.
Years now passed by, during which Ermance devoted all her thoughts to
her last child, for her husband had made Raymond tell her that the
other little girls were all dead. From a narrow window high up in the
wall, she caught a glimpse of her funeral procession; but although she
often saw her husband ride in and out of the castle yard, she never
beheld a woman beside him, for now that his cruelty was known, no one
would consent to marry him.
Although confined within the narrow limits of a little tower room,
Ermance’s youngest daughter throve like a flower, and became so pretty
and attractive that she won the heart of her grim jailer. Before she
was thirteen, Raymond could refuse her nothing, and when he fell ill,
he sent his adopted son and daughter to wait upon her and her mother.
In the company of these charming young people,--to whom mother and
daughter felt equally attracted,--the prisoners spent many happy hours,
and heard many tidings of the outside world.
In the meantime Grimoald was failing fast, and Raymond rushed into the
tower one night to summon his mistress and her daughter to his master’s
death-bed. On entering her husband’s chamber, Ermance was somewhat
surprised to behold there Raymond’s adopted children with two other
beautiful girls. But she almost died of joy, when Grimoald faintly
informed her that these three maidens were the children for whom she
had mourned so long. Then, after begging and obtaining her forgiveness
for all he had made her endure, Grimoald told her that Raymond’s
adopted son, the child of an elder brother, was to inherit the castle
of Vufflens, where, however, she and her daughters might dwell as long
as they pleased.
Neither Ermance nor her daughters could mourn greatly for a husband
and father who had treated them so cruelly, and after he was laid to
rest, they openly rejoiced to find themselves free to go wherever they
pleased. The four girls, especially, were in a state of rapturous
delight over everything they heard and saw; for, until then, their
world had consisted of narrow turret chambers, with as much of the
country as they could perceive from loop-hole windows.
In time, three of these maidens, who were noted for their great beauty,
married the lords of Blonay, Châtelard, and La Sarraz, whose castles
still exist to-day, while the fourth became the wife of Artus, the
new and gallant young lord of Vufflens. Unlike his uncle, this knight
treated his wife and children with the utmost consideration, and the
corner turrets were never again used as prisons for innocent babes.
* * * * *
IN journeying on eastward along the northern shore of the Lake of
Geneva, one soon comes to a dense forest of pine and hickory, very near
Clarens, where stands the famous overhanging “Scex que Plliau,” or
Raining Rock, of which the following romantic legend is told:
The son of a rich lord, whose castle was at Montreux, once fell
desperately in love with Joliette, the daughter of a neighbouring
mountaineer. All went well until the young man’s father heard of this
love affair, and peremptorily bade his son part for ever from the
maiden who was too far beneath him in station ever to become his wife.
The young lover, unwilling to give up his beloved, yet not daring to
see her openly, now began to roam about the country, ostensibly in
quest of game, but in reality in hope of encountering by chance the
fair Joliette. One day, the good fairies who watch over all true lovers
of that region, brought both young people to a charming and secluded
spot in the forest, and while they sat there under an overhanging rock,
exchanging vows and confidences, the hours sped by unmarked.
They were still lingering there, hand in hand, listening to the
soughing of the wind in the pines, and the ripple of the waters over
the stony bed of Clarens Bay, when they were suddenly startled out
of their love dream by the angry voice of the young man’s father.
Terrified beyond measure by this unwelcome interruption, Joliette fled
for protection to the arms of her lover, who, clasping her close to his
heart, gazed defiantly at his sire.
The baron of Chaulin, however, like all mediæval fathers, expected his
son to obey him implicitly; so when he beheld this attitude, he angrily
bade his followers hurl the disobedient lovers over the rocks into the
ravine at their feet! But, before this fierce order could be carried
out, Albert sprang in front of Joliette with drawn sword, swearing he
would have the life blood of any one who dared to lay a finger upon his
betrothed.
His resolute bearing checked for a moment the advance of the baron’s
followers, who had tried to execute their master’s order. While they
stood there motionless, silently awaiting further directions, a fairy
voice was suddenly heard, bidding the young people marry without fear,
promising them her protection, and upbraiding the hard-hearted father
for opposing their union. This speech, which somewhat encouraged the
lovers, further exasperated the baron. He furiously bade his men seek
for the witch and hang her on the nearest tree, adding that his son
should marry Joliette when water dripped through the rock above them,
but not before!
To emphasise this statement, the baron savagely kicked the stone with
his mailed heel, and he was about to pour forth more abuse, when he
suddenly beheld the rock turn damp and saw the first drop of water form
and fall. All now gazed in open-mouthed wonder at the overhanging rock,
to which clung countless big drops which fell one after another, with a
gentle splash, while new ones formed above in their stead.
“The rock is raining, the rock is raining!” the baron’s followers
gasped; and then, seized with superstitious terror, they turned and
fled, leaving their master alone with the lovers.
“Yes,” cried the fairy’s voice, “the rock is raining, and unless the
baron of Chaulin breaks his word for the first time in his life, you
young people can now marry without further delay.”
Awed by this phenomenon, or too honourable to disregard his oath, the
baron not only consented to the young people’s union, but gave them
such a grand wedding that all Montreux feasted and danced for a whole
week.
Since then, water has constantly trickled from the overhanging Raining
Rock, down on the moss and the shiny-leaved water plants beneath
it; and the delicate fronds of the ferns, growing in every cranny,
perpetually rise and fall with dainty grace as the huge drops fall down
upon them, and glancing off, slowly roll from stone to stone until they
find their way into the Lake of Geneva.
* * * * *
NORTH of Clarens, on the boundary of the cantons of Vaud and Fribourg,
is the mighty Dent de Jaman, which can best be crossed by means of the
“col,” or pass, of the same name.
A peasant who had never left his native valley in the southern part
of the canton of Fribourg, once decided that it might be well to see
a little of the world, and after talking a long while of his plans,
he bade his friends and relatives an impressive farewell and set out.
Armed with his mountain staff, he slowly climbed the rough path leading
to the Col de Jaman. Tramping sturdily on, he soon came to the boundary
line between his own canton and that of Vaud. Never yet had he ventured
so far from home, and everything seemed so strange that he kept looking
around and behind him, marvelling at the view, which grew more and more
extended with every step.
As it was one of those bright days when every object is perceptible for
miles around, there was plenty to see, and as he had never travelled,
he was quite unprepared for the sight which greeted his eyes when
he reached the top of the pass. He therefore stood still there, in
open-mouthed wonder, his gaze fixed upon the wonderful Lake of Geneva,
whose waters were of the exact tint of the sky overhead.
After staring thus for some time, the sturdy peasant heaved a great
sigh, turned slowly on his hobnailed heel, and wended his way home
again, along the very path which he had just trod.
When he reached his native village once more, the people all crowded
around him, asking why he had come back so soon, and what had induced
him to give up his long-cherished plan to see the world on the other
side of the mountain?
The peasant, whose intellect was none of the keenest, listened stolidly
to all their questions, then, scratching his curly head, slowly
explained that on reaching the top of the pass he had discovered it
would be useless and rather unsafe to venture any farther, as a big
piece of the sky had just dropped down into the valley on the other
side of the mountain!
* * * * *
A SIMPLE mountaineer, whose greatest ambition was to own a horse,
worked and saved with the utmost diligence until he had amassed a sum
sufficient to purchase a colt. Thinking it would be very delightful to
watch the gradual development of this animal into the coveted steed,
the good man tied up his savings in a corner of his handkerchief, and
taking his sharpest-pointed staff set out long before day-break for
Aigle, where he knew a large horse and cattle fair was held.
After a long, fatiguing tramp down the steep Ormond mountains, the
sturdy mountaineer reached the valley, and entering the town of
Aigle, proceeded to examine every horse and foal on the market, with
the laudable aim of securing the best animal he could for his money.
Pricing them one after another, he found, to his intense dismay, that
his savings were not sufficient to pay for the smallest colt offered
for sale there, and that he would have to return home without having
made the desired purchase.
A charlatan, who had slyly watched him for some time, now stepped up
to him, and before long drew from the unsophisticated mountaineer a
detailed account of his long cherished hopes and of his present bitter
disappointment. After listening with feigned sympathy to the whole
story, the charlatan suggested that if the peasant’s means would not
permit his buying a foal, he ought to purchase a mare’s egg; adding
that a cow could hatch it, and suckle the foal until it was old enough
to eat grass.
The peasant, delighted with this suggestion, promptly expressed a
fervent desire to buy a mare’s egg if such a treasure could only be
secured. Assuring him there would be no difficulty about that, the
charlatan led the peasant to another part of the town, and after
threading his way amid countless bags and baskets of fruit and
vegetables exposed for sale, he finally stopped before a cart in which
lay a huge yellow squash.
“There is a fine mare’s egg!” cried the charlatan to the peasant,
making a sign to his accomplice, the proprietor of both squash and
cart. The mountaineer, who had never seen a squash in his life, stared
at it in awe and wonder, and after asking countless questions and doing
considerable chaffering, he decided to purchase it. To carry it home
safely, he then tied it up in his huge handkerchief, which he hung on
the end of his stick over his shoulder.
He was so elated by his purchase, and by the potations he had indulged
in with his friend, the charlatan, while closing the bargain, that he
set out for home trolling a merry song. Climbing higher and higher, he
revelled in joyful anticipations of his wife’s surprise, and of the
time when the huge egg he carried would be safely hatched and a pretty
foal would come at his call.
While walking near the edge of a precipice, glancing from time to time
down its steep sides covered with jagged rocks and stunted bushes,
the knots in the handkerchief, loosened by the weight of the squash,
suddenly came undone, and the startled peasant beheld his precious
purchase bounding from rock to rock down the precipitous slope! As he
stood there, motionless in utter despair, the squash dashed with such
force against a sharp stone that it flew into pieces which scattered
far and wide.
At the same moment, a brown hare, hiding in a bush near by, sprang
in terror from its cover and darted down the mountain. The peasant,
thinking this was the desired colt, accidentally released from the
shattered egg, loudly called: “Coltie, Coltie, come here!” and wrung
his hands in helpless grief when he saw the fleet brown creature
disappear.
After vainly watching for hours for its return, the peasant sorrowfully
went home, and spent the evening relating his various adventures to
his wife. And, as long as he lived, he talked of the remarkable horse
which he would have had, had not the fleet-footed colt run away as soon
as hatched from the mare’s egg bought on the market-place at Aigle.
* * * * *
THE mountains around Ormont were once remarkably rich in game of all
kinds, and the favourite haunts of large herds of chamois. Tradition
claims that these animals were herded on the high pastures by countless
dwarfs, the servants of the august Spirit of the Alps. Chamois-hunters
who slew too many of these deer, or who ventured high up the mountains
and along the dizzy precipices where they were supposed to be safe from
human reach, were sure to be punished for their temerity. Either the
Spirit of the Alps appeared to them in person (as in Schiller’s poem
of the Chamois Hunter), bidding them begone in awe-inspiring tones,
or dwarfs uttered similar warnings. When some rash mortal ventured
to disobey these orders, the gnomes slyly laid bits of treacherous
ice under his feet, or deftly loosed the rocks on which he trod, thus
making him lose his precarious foothold and fall into some abyss, where
he was dashed to pieces.
The chamois-hunters of the region not only delighted in this
venturesome sport, but prided themselves upon constantly adding
new victims to their hunting record, which was always kept with
scrupulous care. Some of these men, wandering up to almost inaccessible
heights, are said to have encountered there dainty, mist-like Alpine
fairies, who guided them safely over dangerous places, watched over
their slumbers when they rested exhausted at the edge of frightful
precipices, and often whispered wonderful dream tales into their drowsy
ears.
Both dwarfs and fairies are also reported to have revealed to their
favourites the places where the finest rock crystals could be found,
to have delivered into their keeping long-concealed treasures, or to
have bestowed upon them magic bullets which never missed their aim,
or cheeses made of chamois milk, which became whole again after every
meal, provided a small piece was left “for manners.”
As the chamois are the shyest of game, and their brown coats are not
easily distinguishable at a distance from the rocks, hunters often
carry spy-glasses to locate their quarry. We are told that one of these
men, discovering that the chamois were sure to see him and scamper away
before he could lay down his glass and take good aim, once decided
that it would be of great assistance to him if he could only see and
shoot around the corner of any rock behind which he chose to hide.
After much cogitation, therefore, this particular hunter bent his
gun and spy-glass so they formed sharp angles. Thanks to this clever
device, he easily discovered and killed his prey!
Another sportsman once set out with his pack of dogs to hunt hares.
He had not gone very far before seven fine specimens, starting from
covert, darted away. The hounds eagerly pursued six of them, but the
hunter concentrated all his attention upon the seventh and last, which
was also the finest. This hare, however, was as sly as it was large and
fleet-footed, and knowing the man’s unerring aim, began to run around
and around a haycock. Such was the speed with which the hare ran, that
the hunter’s eyes could not follow it, and even the animal’s shadow
failed to keep up with it. The sportsman, seeing he would never bag
this fine hare unless he too resorted to stratagem, quickly bent the
barrel of his gun until it almost formed a hoop. Then, taking quick
aim, he sent after the speeding hare a bullet which laid it low in its
circular track around the haycock.
* * * * *
IN olden times Wotan reigned alone in the canton of Vaud, to which
he is said to have given his local name Vaudai. As long as he was
sole master of the country, Wotan proved on the whole an amiable and
benevolent ruler; but the gradual introduction of Christianity so
soured his temper and made him behave so badly, that the Christians
finally identified him with the Evil One himself.
The new religion was so very distasteful to Wotan, that he hated both
sight and sound of it, and hoping to avoid coming in contact with
it, retreated far up into the mountains and took up his abode on the
summit of the Diablerets. There, he vented his rage by sending dense
fogs and violent storms down into the valleys, and by producing great
snow-storms so that the melting drifts should cause all the rivers to
overflow.
Brooding over his wrongs one day, Wotan determined to make a last
and mighty effort to exterminate Christianity in the Rhône valley by
drowning all the inhabitants. He therefore called up a fearful storm,
and at his command the river began to boil and rise and overflow.
Riding on the crest of a huge wave, Wotan himself swept down the
valley, while the waters rose higher and higher, threatening to wash
away everything along their path. But all Wotan’s magic proved
powerless when he came in sight of St. Maurice, where the Christians
had set up a huge cross. Before this holy emblem the waters suddenly
cowed, crept back into their wonted place, and flowed peacefully on
within their long-appointed limits.
Baffled and discouraged, Wotan again retreated to the Diablerets, where
he is said to beguile the monotony of his sojourn by holding monster
witch-dances on certain nights of the year. All the spirits, witches,
and sorcerers of the neighbourhood then betake themselves on their
broomstick-steeds to the Diablerets, to indulge in mad revelry. They
circle around so wildly in their sabbatical dances that the motion
raises a wind which sweeps down the mountain on all sides, while the
sounds of their cries, hisses, and flying footsteps can often be heard
far down the valley.
* * * * *
THE souls of all those who have done wrong while on earth are also
supposed to haunt the topmost ridges of the Diablerets, where they play
endless games of ninepins with the demons and their master. This belief
is so general that in speaking of a dead sinner the natives generally
say, “Oh, he has gone to join the demons on the Diablerets!” instead
of stating that he has gone to Hades to receive due punishment for
his crimes. Besides, one of the peaks of that mountain is called the
Devil’s Ninepin; and when a great clatter is heard on the glacier,
the people whisper in awestruck tones that the spirits are evidently
engaged in their infernal game. When stones come clattering down on the
pastures, the shepherds think they are some of the spirits’ missiles
which have strayed out of bounds, and they seek to ward off the nearer
approach of evil by repeated and fervent signs of the cross.
* * * * *
ON the way to Chamounix, far above the road, you can perceive the
entrance of the famous stalactite Grotte de Balme, the supposed abode
of all the fairies of that region. These creatures resembled human
maidens, except that they were dark of skin and had no heels to their
feet. Clad in long rippling hair, which fell all around them like a
garment, the fairies of Balme often sought to lure young shepherds
and hunters into their retreat. Sometimes, too, they met these men
on lonely mountain paths, where they tried to win their affections
by gifts of rare Alpine flowers, of fine rock crystals, of lumps of
gold and silver, or by teaching them the use of the healing herbs and
showing them how to discover hidden treasures. The youths who refused
the fairies’ advances encountered such resentment that they were sure
to meet shortly afterwards with some fatal accident. Those who ventured
on the Diablerets, or the Oldenhorn, for instance, were suddenly pushed
over the rocks into abysses and crevasses, from whence they never
escaped alive.
But the young men who received the fairies’ overtures graciously were
very well treated, and a few of them were even taken up to the grotto,
where they feasted on choice game, and quaffed fiery wine as long as
they obeyed their fairy wives. If, however, they proved untrustworthy,
or tried to pry into the fairies’ secrets, they were ignominiously
dismissed; and while some of them managed to return home, the majority
never prospered again, and as a rule came to an untimely end.
* * * * *
BEFORE the Rhône enters the Lake of Geneva, and not very far from
Noville, there are low banks and a few picturesque little islands,
all covered with lush grass, and bordered with rustling reeds and
shiny-leaved water-plants of all kinds.
These marshy places, with their dense luxuriant vegetation, are said
to be the favourite haunts of fairies and nixies of all kinds, and
especially of a local water-nymph known as Fenetta. All the river
sprites timidly avoid the glance of man; so it is only now and then
that some sharp-eyed native catches the gleam of a white hand gently
parting the tall reeds, or discerns a slender figure, garbed in
trailing white robes all dripping with water, and wearing a wreath of
water-lilies upon her rippling golden hair.
The water-nymphs betray their presence only by a slight rustle among
the reeds, by an almost inaudible whisper, or by a long-drawn trembling
sigh. But at dawn and twilight their breath is so cold and clammy, that
whenever it happens to strike a mortal, cold shivers begin to creep up
and down his spine, his finger-nails turn blue, and before long his
teeth chatter noisily. Then, if the victim looks behind him, he is
pretty sure to descry somewhere among the reeds on the bank a mist-like
trail, which is the flutter of the water-nymph’s white veil.
Although the river-sprites are lovely in appearance, none of the people
care to see them, for those whose eyes have rested upon them have
invariably died within a year. For that reason, the banks of the stream
are generally deserted after sunset, the hour when the fairies are
wont to sally forth to disport themselves in the cool waters of the
limpid river, to tread the measures of their noiseless but fantastic
dances along the shore, or to flit from one water-lily to another,
gently opening their waxen petals with cool and dainty fingers.
Even in broad daylight it is well to shun these marshy places, and
those who do venture there should always warn the nymphs of their
approach by whistling, singing, or making some other marked sound. Such
signals enable the fairies to scurry out of sight before the visitor
draws near; and when he reaches the bank, waving reeds and grasses are
the only sign of an unseen presence.
It is said that a coquettish maiden from Noville once bade her lover go
and get her some water-lilies, although she knew the hour had struck
when the water-sprites had left their retreat. The young man, who had
frequently declared he did not believe there were any water-nymphs,
cheerfully departed to do her bidding. Running down to the river’s
edge, he hastily unfastened his skiff, and with long and vigorous
strokes rowed out to the place where the water-lilies softly rose and
fell on the rippling waters in the midst of their broad green leaves.
The last golden gleams had just died out in the west, gray shadows had
replaced the flush on the snow mountains, and a cool evening breeze was
sweeping gently over the river. The young man, who had laboured under
the burning sun all day, revelled in the freshness all around him,
and although he caught glimpses of vapoury white here and there along
the shore, he thought they were trails of mist, and smiled to himself
because superstitious mortals mistook them for the flutter of the
nymphs’ gossamer veils.
He was just bending over the edge of the boat to reach the largest and
finest lily, when he felt an icy breath on his neck, and turning around
with a start, dimly perceived Fenetta’s lovely form, and noticed that
she was sadly and gently motioning to him to depart. As she vanished,
he suddenly felt cold chills running all over him, and looking downward
perceived that his sunburned hands seemed strangely wan and pale. With
chattering teeth and failing strength he now rowed back to the shore;
but although he grew colder and colder every minute, and felt as if the
chill had gone to his very heart, he picked up the lilies to carry them
to his beloved.
Reaching her door with faltering steps, he swooned on the threshold,
scattering the lilies at the feet of the maiden, who came out to
welcome him with merry words and arch smiles. At first she fancied he
had merely tripped, but seeing he did not immediately rise, she stooped
over him barely in time to catch his last sigh and a faint whisper of
“Fenetta! Fenetta!”
The sudden death of this stalwart young lover proved such a shock to
the maiden of Noville, that she lost her reason and began to wander
along the river-bank among the reeds, constantly murmuring “Fenetta!
Fenetta!”
The nymph, in pity for her sorrow, must have appeared to her too; for
one evening she came home with dripping garments and shivering from
head to foot. After a few days’ illness, the girl gently passed away,
still whispering the water-nymph’s name; and since then youths and
maidens have carefully avoided this fatal spot after sundown.
* * * * *
IN the valley of Conthey, noted for its picturesque situation as well
as for its wines, there once dwelt a tailor who made fun of his wife
because she firmly believed in witches, ghosts, and spirits of all
kinds, and even maintained that a helpful sprite assisted her when she
had more work on hand than she could easily accomplish.
The tailor, who had been freely tasting the vintage of some of his
neighbours, once mockingly remarked, while sitting cross-legged upon
his bench, that he wished her familiar spirit would appear and take him
on a nightly journey through the Valais, for he would like to see the
famous witches and demons about which he had heard so many tales.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a grinning, mischievous
dwarf, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, suddenly darted out of
a corner, saying, “Your wish shall be granted!” At the same moment
the tailor felt a clawlike hand close over his coat-collar, and was
whisked through the air to Monthey. There, he and the dwarf alighted
on the banks of the Viege, while the clocks were solemnly tolling the
midnight hour, and quickly mounted a coal-black ram which came rushing
out of the churchyard to meet them. The dwarf, who had jerked the
tailor on the ram’s back, roughly bade him hold fast, whispering that
their fleet-footed steed was the spectral ram of Monthey, which ranged
noisily through the land on certain days in the year.
They now sped on so fast that the tailor felt the wind whistle through
his hair, and he almost fainted with terror when his guide pointed
out the huge Ivy Snake, which was mounting guard over all the gold of
heathendom, spread out on a barren heath. The snake no sooner perceived
them than it rushed towards them, hissing loudly and breathing fire and
brimstone from its gaping mouth. A timely kick, administered by the
dwarf, fortunately urged the black ram on to such speed, that the Ivy
Snake could not overtake them however fast it pursued.
At St. Maurice the ram paused for a moment near the monastery
fish-pond, where a dead trout suddenly rose to the surface of the water.
“There,” cried the dwarf, “one of the choristers has just died, for
whenever one of them breathes his last, a dead trout appears in this
pond.”
In confirmation of his words, a funeral knell began to toll, and this
sound accompanied them for some time as they sped on towards the Plan
Nevé. Here, among the gray rocks and along the huge glacial stream,
they beheld countless barefooted ghosts painfully threading their
way. The dwarf then explained to the tailor that these spirits were
condemned to carry fine sand up the mountain in sieves, but that as
every grain ran out long before they reached their goal, they were
obliged to begin again and again their hopeless task.
At the bottom of a neighbouring well, the dwarf next pointed out the
ghost of Nero, who, in punishment for his manifold sins, was condemned
to blow huge bubbles up to the surface without ever stopping to rest.
In the Aucenda, near Gex, the dwarf also showed him the spirits of
dishonest lawyers, who, having fished in figuratively troubled waters
all their lives, were now condemned to do the same in the ice-cold
stream, where they were further employed in brewing the storms and
freshets which desolate that region.
Before the bewildered tailor had time to comment upon these awful
sights, he was whisked away to La Soye, where a red-headed maiden
told him she would give him a golden calf, provided he would kiss her
thrice. Reasoning that it was far from Conthey, and that his wife
could not possibly see him, the tailor pursed up his lips, and was
about to bestow the first kiss, when the red-headed girl was suddenly
transformed into a hideous, writhing dragon. This metamorphosis so
terrified the poor tailor that he buried his heels in the flanks of the
black ram, which darted away at such a rattling pace that they soon
reached Sion.
There the dwarf transferred the tailor to the back of the three-legged
white horse which haunts this city, and as they galloped away, the
tailor saw that they were followed by a fire-breathing boar, the ram,
the dragon, the red-headed girl, the ghosts of Plan Nevé with their
sieves, and the dripping lawyers. In the dim distance he could also
descry Nero, still blowing huge bubbles, and the deceased chorister
holding a dead trout between his teeth.
This strange procession now swept along the Rhône valley to the Baths
of Leuk, where they were joined by a mischievous sprite who rapped
loudly at every door as he darted past. At Zauchet, their ranks were
further increased by the wraith of a giant ox, whose horns glowed like
live coals and whose tail consisted of a flaming torch.
Next they sped down the Visp valley, where a woman once refused food
to Our Lord when he journeyed through the land. In punishment for this
sin, the hamlet where she dwelt sank beneath the ground, and a stream
now runs over the broad, flat stone which formed the altar of the
village church.
Arriving at Zermatt, the dwarf and tailor exchanged their mount for
a blue-haired donkey, whose loud bray, added to the snorts, groans,
hisses, and cries of their ghostly train, created an awful din in the
peaceful valleys through which they swept like the wind. Arriving
finally at Lake Champey, the Blue Ass swam to an island, where the
Devil of Corbassière and a number of witches were madly treading the
swift measures of an infernal dance.
The tailor, seeing this, sprang from his steed to join them; but when
he offered to kiss the youngest and prettiest of the witches, the
Devil of Corbassière angrily flung him head first into the lake. As
the witches belaboured him with their broomsticks whenever he tried to
creep ashore on the island, the tailor finally struck out for the other
bank, where he sank down, panting and exhausted, and closed his eyes.
Suddenly he felt a small hand laid upon him, and thinking it must be
one of his recent tormentors, he cried aloud in terror, “Leave me
alone, you witch!”
A vigorous box on his ear made him open his eyes with a start, just
in time to see his wife standing over him with upraised hand, saying,
“I’ll teach you to call me a witch!”
The tailor now protested that he had done nothing of the kind; but
although his wife declared that he had merely fallen asleep over his
work, he knew that his spirit had journeyed all through the Valais, in
company with the dwarf and the demons which haunt the land.
He was so thoroughly imbued with this belief that he never made fun of
his wife’s superstitions again, and when sceptics denied the existence
of ghosts, demons, or witches, he merely shook his head, for he had
seen for himself that “there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
* * * * *
THE ascension of the Fletschhorn, near the Simplon, was probably first
accomplished in 1856, but tradition claims that this feat was performed
long before this date by a dauntless Swiss.
He resolved to be the first to reach the top of the mountain, and with
that object in view started to scale it early one fine morning. As he
did not know which road to follow, he scrambled up and down the rocks,
through snow and over ice, and thus was quite exhausted long before he
came near the top, where jagged rocks and steep walls of ice offer only
a most precarious foothold.
The mountaineer, who was an expert climber, knew it would be folly to
venture any farther that day, so he sat down to rest a moment before he
began the descent. While sitting there on the mountain side, trying to
recover his breath, he suddenly heard a ghostly voice far above him,
bidding him bring a cat, dog, and cock, as propitiatory sacrifices to
the Spirit of the Mountain next time he attempted the ascent.
Refreshed by a few days’ rest and by strengthening food, the
mountaineer soon set out again, taking with him the three animals the
Mountain Spirit had asked for. At the first dangerous spot the dog lost
his foothold and fell down a precipice; farther on even the cat’s sharp
claws failed to preserve it from slipping down into the blue-green
depths of a crevasse, and after some more rough climbing the cold grew
so intense that the poor cock was frozen stiff!
The brave mountaineer now pressed on alone, although it was snowing
hard and the wind blew sharp ice splinters into his face which almost
blinded him. Presently the storm began to rage with such fury that the
man had to relinquish his purpose, although he had now reached a much
higher point than the first time.
On arriving home, friends and neighbours crowded around him, to hear
a minute account of his adventures; but they all deemed him more
than foolhardy when he declared that, in spite of all the perils
encountered, he meant to try again on the next favourable day.
True to his resolve, however, the man started out again with cat,
dog, and cock, which poor animals met with the same fate as their
predecessors. As for the Swiss himself, he climbed higher and higher,
until he came so near the summit that a last determined effort would
have enabled him to reach it. But the great exertions he had made, and
the rarefied atmosphere, brought on a severe headache which made him
feel very weak and dizzy. Nevertheless he bravely went on until the
pain in his head grew so intolerable that it seemed as if his skull
would burst. He therefore relinquished his attempt, and crept slowly
home, feeling his headache decrease with every downward step.
But even this last experience could not daunt our climber, who set out
again a few days later, with the same strange trio of animals. This
time, however, he prudently provided himself with an iron hoop, which
fitting closely around his head, would prevent its bursting should he
again reach a great altitude!
Thus equipped, he wended his way up the Fletschhorn, where cat, dog,
and rooster soon perished, leaving the man to continue his perilous
climb alone. Although the pain in his head again grew worse with
every upward step, our mountaineer pressed bravely on, knowing the
iron band would hold fast, and finally reached the topmost pinnacle of
the mountain. His fellow-citizens, proud of this feat, bestowed upon
him the Fletschalp, and honoured him as long as he lived as the most
skilful Alpine climber of that part of the country.
* * * * *
PATCHES of so-called red snow are sometimes found high up on the Alps;
but while scientists ascribe that peculiar colour to a microscopic
fungus growth, the legend accounts for the vivid hue in a very
different way.
In bygone times, before the Alps had been pierced by tunnels and even
before convenient roadways had been built, rough paths leading over the
various passes served as means of communication between Switzerland
and Italy. These were much frequented by pack-drivers with their
sure-footed mules, and among other things thus imported were fiery
Italian wines. Some of the muleteers who had a tendency to drink, or
who were none too scrupulous to cheat their employers, used to tap
the barrels and kegs on their way over the mountains, replacing the
wine they had consumed by water from some mountain stream, so that the
vessels were always full when they reached their destination.
The pack-drivers on the Furka Pass were, it seems, especially addicted
to this species of peculation, and generally paused at the top of the
pass to refresh themselves after their long and arduous climb. In
their eagerness to partake of the strength-giving fluid, some of them
often tapped their barrels so hastily that red wine spurted forth, and
falling upon the immaculate snow gave it a blood-like tinge.
In punishment for this crime, or for so carelessly guarding their
merchandise that they did not even notice when barrels leaked, many
pack-drivers are now said to haunt this pass, continually treading
the path they once went over. They are tormented by a thirst such as
is known by the damned only, and which all the ice, snow, and running
streams around there cannot quench. Their only refreshment now comes
from the scattered drops remaining here and there upon the snow, or
from small libations which compassionate travellers still pour out
along the pass, to moisten the parched lips and throats of these
unhappy spirits.
* * * * *
THE old and picturesque city of Grandson, on the west shore of Lake
Neuchâtel, and in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, is noted
in history as the place where, in 1476, fifty thousand Burgundians,
under their Duke Charles the Bold, were routed with great slaughter by
less than half that number of Swiss patriots. Rich and quaint specimens
of the booty secured on that memorable occasion by the victors, still
adorn various Swiss museums and arsenals; Soleure exhibiting the
costume of Charles’s jester, while Lucerne boasts of the golden Seal of
Burgundy.
Many romantic legends are told of the town and castle of Grandson,
which were defended by a Bernese patriot, Brandolf of Stein, at the
beginning of the Burgundian war. Such was the courage and skill of this
commander, that, perceiving he could not secure the town by force, the
Count of Romont, Charles’s ally, resorted to stratagem. It succeeded
only too well, and the Burgundians were already masters of the town
when the first alarm was given, and Stein rushed bravely into the fray
at the head of his five hundred men. The Swiss, however, soon saw
that the town was lost, and wishing to preserve the castle until his
countrymen could send reinforcements to eject the Burgundians, Stein
quickly ordered a retreat.
To make sure that the enemy would be held at bay until all his men
were safe, and the castle gates duly closed, Stein himself covered
their retreat; but at the last moment he was surrounded and overpowered
by Romont, who, forcing him to surrender, led him away to his own
quarters to await the arrival and decree of the Duke.
As soon as Charles came, he bade Romont lead Stein under the walls
of the castle, and have a herald proclaim that unless the garrison
surrendered immediately, Stein would be put to death. This order was
executed; but the last words of the proclamation had scarcely been
uttered when the prisoner sternly cried,--
“Comrades, pay no heed to these summons. You were Swiss before you
became my friends; therefore be true to your country, and die rather
than relinquish your trust. But if you love me, guard well my treasure
and cast it into the lake rather than let it fall into the hands of our
enemy.”
Before the Burgundians could recover sufficient presence of mind to
silence him, this brief speech was ended, and it was clear that not a
word of it had been lost, for the garrison shouted a unanimous refusal
to yield when summoned to do so for the third and last time. Still,
when the Swiss saw their beloved chief led away to the scaffold, hot
tears poured freely down their bronzed and bearded cheeks.
Such was their respect for their master’s memory that they resisted
every attack, holding out until forged papers convinced them that Bern
was in the power of the Burgundians, and that they could expect no
help from their distressed countrymen. These false tidings determined
them to surrender the castle, provided their safety was guaranteed by
Charles the Bold.
But the gates were no sooner opened than Charles, in spite of his
promises, ordered most of these brave men cast into the lake or
hanged, sparing only a few of those who pledged themselves to serve
him faithfully. Having thus rid himself of the garrison, the Duke
next proceeded to search for Stein’s treasure, but all in vain. He
questioned the few survivors, but they truthfully declared they had
never heard of any store of gold, silver, or precious stones. Convinced
nevertheless that Stein must have owned at least one priceless jewel,
Charles bitterly regretted having slain him before ascertaining the
nature and place of concealment of that treasure.
Thinking that Laurent, keeper of the alarm tower, an old retainer of
Stein’s, might know something about it, Charles went in quest of him,
harshly threatening to pitch him into the lake, unless he immediately
revealed all he knew concerning his master’s possessions. Thus
constrained, Laurent reluctantly admitted that Stein, having spared the
life of a Mussulman, had received from this grateful man a pyramidal
diamond of fabulous value, from which hung by a slender golden chain a
huge pear-shaped pearl.
The Duke, who had a passion for diamonds, immediately ordered a new
and more minute search; but as the treasure was not forthcoming, he
renewed his visit and threats, telling Laurent he must produce the
missing jewel or die on the spot. In vain the poor man swore he had
never seen the diamond since his mistress wore it on her wedding-day;
the Duke refused to believe him, and angrily ordered him flung out of
the window! Just then, however, a panel in the wall directly opposite
Charles slipped noiselessly aside, revealing a deep niche in which
stood a beautiful, stern-faced woman, gowned all in black, but wearing
a dazzling diamond pendant. This woman stepped slowly forward, the
panel closed behind her, and the Duke started back in terror when she
threw the magnificent jewel at his feet, crying,--
“There, traitor, behold the diamond you covet; but Stein’s real
treasures, his sorrowing wife and innocent daughter, will die by their
own hand rather than fall into the power of such a miscreant as you!”
Then, before the Duke could recover sufficient presence of mind to
speak or move, the Lady of Stein vanished behind the secret panel, and
Charles could have believed himself victim of a delusion had not the
jewel still sparkled at his feet.
The Lady of Stein had vanished; but the Burgundian now learned from
Laurent that the two ladies were waiting, in the secret chambers of the
castle, for an opportunity to escape to a convent, where both intended
to take the veil, since he had broken their hearts by killing Stein.
Charles, who had an eye for beauty, promptly reasoned that the daughter
of such a handsome mother must be very lovely, and he began to devise
an excuse to see her. He therefore artfully informed Laurent that
Romont alone was to blame for Stein’s death; adding that his dearest
wish was to provide a suitable husband for Elizabeth Stein, and that,
in token of regard, he would give her her father’s jewel as wedding
present. Then he persuaded Laurent to carry a message to his stern
mistress and induce her to come down into the great hall of the castle,
where he would await her.
The Duke having departed, Laurent touched a cunningly hidden spring,
and threaded his way along secret passages which led from tower to
tower, down long, narrow stairs, and into a passageway opening out on
the lake. In one of these recesses he found his mistress, who finally
consented to appear before Charles with her seventeen-year-old daughter
Elizabeth.
The moment Charles’s eyes rested upon this lovely maiden, he was seized
with a mad passion, which he determined to gratify at any cost. His
first move was to try and gain the good graces of both women, but in
spite of all his protestations and courteous speeches, the Lady of
Stein declared he must prove his innocence by punishing her husband’s
murderer, adding that her daughter would either marry her father’s
avenger or become a nun.
On hearing these words, Charles gave immediate orders to seize Romont
and have him beheaded in the presence of both ladies. A few moments
later, therefore, the Count stood in the castle yard; but when the
executioner read aloud his death sentence, he boldly declared he
was neither a murderer nor a traitor, and that he could prove his
innocence, were the guest in his tent only allowed to appear with him
before Charles. Anxious to seem just and generous in the eyes of the
ladies, the Duke granted this request, and the brave young James of
Romont soon came in, followed by a man in full armour.
“My lord Duke,” cried Romont, “I am not a traitor! I have merely been
guilty of disobeying an order which I knew you would regret in time.
You accuse me of being Stein’s murderer; that is impossible, for,
behold! there he stands!”
At that moment the stranger to whom Romont pointed threw up his
vizor, and both ladies rapturously flew into his arms, thus proving
his unmistakable identity. The first outburst of emotion over, Stein
told his wife and daughter how generously Romont had treated him, and
Charles winced when he heard them express their undying gratitude, and
saw the glances exchanged by the young people, who had fallen in love
with each other at first sight.
To rid himself of the youthful saviour who found such evident favour in
Elizabeth’s eyes, Charles now sternly ordered Romont back to prison,
saying he must prove himself innocent of the charge of treachery which
had also been brought against him.
Sure of speedy acquittal,--for he was the soul of honour,--Romont
quietly allowed himself to be led away to a dungeon, where he beguiled
the weary hours by long day-dreams, and by composing and singing tender
love-songs in praise of the fair Elizabeth.
In the meantime, Charles led the Stein family to his own camp, where
he assigned them sumptuous tents, and surrounded them with all manner
of graceful attentions. But in spite of all his efforts to win their
confidence, Stein and his wife could not help suspecting he was not
so good and true as he would fain appear. For this reason they both
watched carefully over their daughter, and the Duke could not secure a
moment’s private intercourse with her, although he frequently tried to
do so.
This watchfulness vexed Charles greatly; for while he loved the girl,
he had no intention of marrying her, but he knew her parents would
detect his evil intentions should he approach her through them.
One day, he accidentally learned that Romont managed to send love-songs
to the fair Elizabeth, and that her parents unconsciously encouraged
her secret passion for the young prisoner by speaking of him in terms
of the highest praise. Thinking he might perchance win Elizabeth by
working upon her fears for Romont’s safety, the Duke now informed Stein
that he would forgive and release the prisoner, provided Elizabeth
interceded in his behalf, and if he were allowed to make sure of her
real sentiments in a private interview.
Although loath to lose sight of his daughter even for a minute, Stein
felt too deeply in Romont’s debt to refuse this apparently simple
request, and himself conducted Elizabeth to the Duke’s tent, where he
bade her enter while he mounted guard at the door.
The timid Elizabeth therefore presented herself alone before Charles,
who gently reassured her, and then explained that if she would only
consent to be his, Romont should be released, but that if she refused,
the young man should be put to death.
At first the virtuous Elizabeth could not credit her ears, but when the
Duke drew near as if to clasp her in his arms, she fled to her father
crying--
“Take me away, father! The poor prisoner we love will have to die, but
I know he would rather lose his life than see me dishonoured!”
Stein gnashed his teeth on hearing these words, which more than
confirmed his darkest suspicions; and while he gently led his weeping
daughter back to her mother, he tried to plan how best to avenge this
deadly insult.
In the meantime, the Duke feverishly paced his tent, and calling for
his confidant asked him what course he could pursue to recover the
maiden’s confidence and still attain his evil ends. This man, whose
task it was to gratify the Duke’s passions, now artfully suggested that
Charles should declare he had merely wished to test Elizabeth’s virtue,
and should propose to her parents that she marry Romont without delay.
Then, under pretext of sparing the latter the hard duty of fighting
against his wife’s people, Charles was to dismiss Romont from the army.
But while he thus openly posed as the young people’s friend and
benefactor, one of his emissaries was to persuade a few of the camp
followers that Romont was a traitor, and instigate them to create a
disturbance when the bridal party left the church. In the midst of the
confusion a hired assassin could easily kill Romont; and the Duke,
in pretending to avenge his death and protect Elizabeth, would gain
possession of his vast estates and of his young widow, who would then
be at his mercy.
This artful plan so pleased Charles that he immediately hastened to the
Steins’ tent, where he played his part with such consummate skill that
they believed all he said, and joyfully consented to their daughter’s
immediate marriage.
The preparations were speedily made, and the nuptials solemnised; but
as the little procession left the church, Stein and the Duke were
detained for a moment by a man with a petition.
Romont, proudly leading his peerless young bride, on whose bosom
sparkled the famous diamond, suddenly found himself surrounded by a
brawling troop of soldiers, who angrily shook their fists at him and
denounced him as a traitor. Before he could speak one word in his own
defence, the hired assassin sprang forward with raised dagger, crying,
“Die, thou traitor!”
Just then Elizabeth sprang forward, and the sharp blade had to pass
through her slender body before it could touch Romont. A scene of
indescribable confusion ensued; but although Romont swiftly carried his
dying bride into her mother’s tent, where every care was lavished upon
her, she lived only long enough to whisper, “I die happy since I could
save you, beloved!” and gently breathed her last.
When the fatal truth dawned upon the frantic bridegroom, he fell
fainting across his dead bride; and it was only then that they
discovered that he too had been wounded, for his doublet was drenched
with blood. Nobly forgetting her own sorrow to minister to her
husband’s saviour, the Lady of Stein nursed Romont so carefully that in
spite of his longing to follow Elizabeth’s pure spirit into the better
land, he was soon restored to health. But he never forgot his bride,
and when her parents ultimately died, he left his own country to take
up his abode in a foreign land.
As for the Duke, he was sorely punished for all his crimes. Not only
did he lose Elizabeth, whom he passionately loved; but a few days after
her death he was defeated by her countrymen at the battle of Grandson.
Such was the fury of that Swiss onslaught, that Charles would have
fallen into their hands had not his fleet steed swiftly carried him out
of their reach. A few months later he suffered a second crushing defeat
at their hands at Morat; and he was slain near Nancy, in the following
year, while trying to escape from his Swiss foes for the third and last
time.