Madeleine and her mother retired to the window, and beckoned
Gabrielle to join them.
The corporal and the colporteur lit their pipes, and Klaus with his
knife began to cut a head out of a bit of box-wood he extracted from
his pocket.
‘So, Master Percenez, you have come to witness the great struggle?’
said the soldier, fixing his blue eyes on the little man.
‘Yes, corporal, I have. I am interested in it,--but who is not? It
seems to me that we must fight now, or give in for ever.’
‘A fight there will be,’ said the soldier; ‘a fight of tongues and
hard words. Tongues for swords, hard words for bullets. Did you
ever hear how we managed to gain our liberty in my country? I tell
you that was not with speeches, but with blows. I doubt if your
States-General will do much. I do not think much of talking, I like
action.’
‘And are you free in Switzerland?’ asked Percenez.
‘Yes,’ answered Deschwanden, ‘we are free. We gained our liberty
by our swords. Our brave land was subject to the despotic rule of
the Duke of Austria, and we were reduced to much the same condition
as you French are now. We paid taxes which were exorbitant, we were
crushed by the privileged classes, and robbed of the just reward of
our toil. Then Arnold of Melchthal, Werner Stauffacher, and Walter
Fürst formed the resolution to resist, and lead the people to revolt,
and so they threw off the yoke and became free.’
‘Father,’ said Nicholas, ‘do you remember the inn of the Confederates
on the lake, with their figures painted on the white wall, five times
the size of life?’
‘Ah so!’ exclaimed the corporal; ‘have I not drunk on the balcony
of that same inn over against Grütli? Have I not seen the three
fountains that bubbled up where the Confederates stood and joined
hands and swore to liberate their country from the oppression of
their Austrian governors, to be faithful to each other, and to be
righteous in executing their judgments on the tyrants?’
The old man brushed up the hair on either side of his head, rose to
his feet, filled his tumbler with wine, and waving it above his head,
exclaimed joyously:
‘Here is to the memory of Arnold of Melchthal, Werner Stauffacher,
and Walter Fürst!’
Percenez and young Nicholas drank, standing.
‘Did you ever hear,’ continued the soldier, reseating himself, ‘how
William Tell refused to bow to the ducal cap set up on a pole, the
badge of servitude, and how the governor--his name was Gessler--bade
the valiant archer shoot an apple off his son’s head?’
‘I have heard the story,’ said the colporteur.
‘And I have seen the place,’ cried Nicholas; ‘have I not, father?’
‘We have both seen the very spot where the glorious William stood,
and where grew the tree against which the lad was placed. The square
is no more. Houses have invaded it, so that now Tell could not send
an arrow from his standing-point to the site of the tree. Ah! he
was a great liberator of his country, was Tell. Fill your glasses,
friends! To William Tell!’ He rubbed up his hair, rose to his feet,
and drained his glass again.
‘Have you ever heard how nearly Swiss freedom was lost, by
treachery and gold? You must know that the Confederate States had
vanquished Charles of Burgundy in three great battles, and had
pillaged his camp, which was so full of booty that gold circulated
among the people like copper. The cantons of Uri, of Schwytz, and
Unterwalden--that latter is mine--desired peace, and those of
Lucerne, and Berne, and Zurich desired to extend the Confederacy;
so great quarrels arose, and soon that union which was the source
of their strength promised to be dissolved, and civil war to break
out, and ruin Swiss independence. The Confederates were assembled for
consultation, for the last time, at Stanz. The animosity of party,
however, was so great, that after three sessions of angry debates,
the members rose with agitated countenances, and separated without
taking leave of one another, to meet again, perhaps, only in the
conflict of civil war. That which neither the power of Austria, nor
the audacious might of Charles of Burgundy, had ever been able to
accomplish, my people were themselves in danger of bringing about by
these internal dissensions; and the liberty and happiness of their
country stood in the most imminent peril.’
‘My faith!’ cried Madame Deschwanden, shrugging her shoulders, and
throwing into her face, as she sat in the window, an expression of
disgust and contempt, ‘they are getting upon the Bruder Klaus.’
‘Yes, wife,’ said the soldier, turning to her, and brushing up his
hair, ‘glorious Bruder Klaus! Here’s to his---- but no, you shall
hear the story first. So! up the face of a precipice in the Melchthal
lived a hermit, Nicholas von der Flue. And here I may add that our
captain is called by the same name. Well, then, this hermit, whom
we call Brother Nicholas, or, for short, Brother Klaus, left his
cell at the moment of danger, and sending a messenger before him to
bid the deputies await his arrival, he walked all the way to Stanz
without resting, and entered the town-hall, where the assembly
sat. He wore his simple dark-coloured dress, which descended to his
feet; he carried his chaplet in one hand, and grasped his staff in
the other; he was, as usual, barefoot and bare-headed; and his long
hair, a little touched by the snows of age, fell upon his shoulders.
When the delegates saw him enter, they rose out of respect, and God
gave him such grace that his words restored unanimity, and in an hour
all difficulties were smoothed away; the land was preserved from
civil war, and from falling again,--as in that case it must have
fallen,--under the power of Burgundy or Austria.’
‘I have seen the very coat Bruder Klaus wore,’ said Nicholas, his
large blue eyes full of pride and joy.
‘Yes,’ said the soldier, triumphantly; ‘we have both seen his habit;
we have seen his body, too, at Sachseln. Fill your glasses!’ he
rubbed up his hair, first over his ears and then above his forehead
and at the back of the head, and starting to his feet, pledged Bruder
Klaus of pious memory. Percenez and Nicholas joined enthusiastically.
‘See!’ said the latter, taking his black ribbon from his neck, and
extending the medal to Percenez; ‘on that coin is a representation of
the blessed hermit; that piece has been laid on his shrine, and has
been blessed by the priest of Sachseln.’
‘Fetch him the statue of the glorious brother!’ cried the corporal
to his son; ‘let him see what blessed Nicholas really was like.’
The lad instantly dived out of the room, down a passage, and
presently reappeared with a wooden figure of the hermit, carved by
himself. The face was exquisitely wrought, and the hands delicately
finished. The whole was painted, but not coarsely.
‘He was very pale in the face, almost deadly white, and dark about
the eyes,’ said the soldier. ‘We have his portrait, taken during his
life, in the town-hall of Sarnen----’ all at once the corporal’s
eyes rested on his watch.
‘Herr Je!’ he exclaimed; ‘we have exceeded our time by three
minutes.’ He rapped with his knuckles on the table, and shouted the
order:
‘Music!’
Instantly his son Nicholas produced a flute, and warbled on it a
well-known Swiss air. The corporal folded his hands on his breast,
threw back his head, fixed his eyes on the scrap of blue sky visible
above the roofs of the houses opposite, and began to sing, ‘Herz,
mein Herz warum so traurig’--of which we venture to give an English
rendering:
‘Heart, my heart! why art thou weary,
Why to grief and tears a prey?
Foreign lands are bright and cheery;
Heart, my heart, what ails thee, say?
‘That which ails me past appeasing!
I am lost, a stranger here;
What though foreign lands be pleasing,
Home, sweet home, alone is dear.
‘Were I now to home returning,
Oh, how swiftly would I fly!
Home to father, home to mother,
Home to native rocks and sky!
‘Through the fragrant pine-boughs bending
I should see the glacier shine,
See the nimble goats ascending
Gentian-dappled slopes in line;
‘See the cattle, hear the tinkle
Of the merry clashing bells,
See white sheep the pastures sprinkle
In the verdant dewy dells.
‘I should climb the rugged gorges
To the azure Alpine lake,
Where the snowy peak discharges
Torrents, that the silence break.
‘I should see the old brown houses,
At the doors, in every place,
Neighbours sitting, children playing,
Greetings in each honest face.
‘Oh my youth! to thee returning,
Oft I ask, why did I roam?
Oh my heart! my heart is burning
At the memory of Home.
‘Heart, my heart! in weary sadness
Breaking, far from fatherland,
Restless, yearning, void of gladness,
Till once more at home I stand.’
As the old man sang, the tears filled his large eyes, and slowly
trickled down his weather-beaten cheeks. He sat for some while in
silence and motionless, absorbed in memory. Now and then a smile
played over his rugged features.
‘I remember walking from Beckenreid to Seelisberg one spring
evening,’ he said, speaking to himself; ‘the rocks were covered with
wild pinks. We never see wild pinks here. And the thyme was fragrant,
multitudes of bees swarmed humming about it. I remember, because,
when tired, I sat on the thyme, and listened to their buzz. Down
below lay the deep blue green lake reflecting the mountains, still
as glass. The bell of Gersau was chiming. The red roofs were so
pretty under the brown rocks of the Scheideck and Hochflue. A little
farther on, upon a mass of fallen rock in the water, in the midst of
a feathery tuft of birch, stood the chapel of Kindlismord.’ He paused
and smiled, and then a great tear dropped from his cheek to his
breast. ‘I saw a foaming torrent rush through the forest and dart
over a ledge and disappear. The golden clouds overhead were reflected
in the lake. I picked a bunch of blue salvias and a tiger-lily.’ He
drew a heavy sigh, brushed his hair down with his hands, shook his
head, looked at his watch, and rapped the table with the order:
‘Prayers!’
Immediately all rose, and the old soldier led the way down the
passage into Klaus’s workshop.
Klaus, as has already been said, carved statues for churches. His
room was full of figures, some finished and coloured, others half
done; some only sketched out of the block. On a shelf stood a row of
little saints; but the majority were from three to five feet high.
In the corner was a huge S. Christopher, carrying the infant Saviour
on his shoulder, and leaning on a rugged staff. His work-table was
strewn with tools and shavings and chips of wood, and the floor was
encumbered with blocks of oak and box, wood shavings and sawdust. In
a niche in the side of the room, on a pedestal, stood a life-sized
figure of the Swiss hermit, the patron saint of the Deschwandens,
with a pendent lamp before it. A crucifix of ebony and boxwood stood
before the little window which lighted the room, and was situated
immediately above his work-table. The corporal knelt down, followed
by his family and the guests, and recited the usual evening prayers
in a firm voice, ending with the Litany of the Saints.
After the last response, the corporal made a pause, and rapped with
his knuckles against the bench in front of him, whereupon Madame
Deschwanden rose with a sniff and a great rustle of her garments, and
sailed out of the room, leaning on Madeleine.
‘You had better come, too,’ she said to Percenez and Gabrielle; ‘that
father and son there have not done yet. They have their blessed Swiss
saints to invoke in their barbarous jargon. But, as I do not approve
either of their tongue or of their Klauses and Meinrads, Madeleine
and I always leave them to themselves.’
The colporteur and his little ward rose, but not without hesitation,
for the corporal and his son remained kneeling as stiff as any of the
wooden figures surrounding them, with hands joined and eyes directed
immediately in front of them.
‘Oh my faith!’ exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, as she reached the
sitting-room; ‘to think that I have been reduced to this,--to become
the spouse of a clockwork-man made of wood. Heavens! Étienne, the
corporal does everything to the minute; dresses, washes, eats, prays,
dreams of his precious Schweizerland, all by the watch, and I--poor
I--I am in despair. This does not suit me at all.’
Percenez attempted to console his sister, and she rattled on with
her story of grievance, whilst Gabrielle, musing and not speaking,
heard the solemn voice of the old soldier sounding from the workshop:
‘Heiliger Meinrad!’
And Nicholas’s response: ‘Bitte für uns[2].’
‘Heiliger Gallus!’
‘Bitte für uns.’
‘Heiliger Beatus!’
‘Bitte für uns.’
‘Heiliger Moritz und deine Gefährte!’
‘Bittet für uns.’
‘Heiliger Bonifacius!’
‘Bitte für uns.’
‘Heilige Verena!’
‘Bitte für uns.’
‘Heiliger Bruder Klaus!’
‘Bitte für uns.’
Shortly after, the corporal and his son returned to the room.
Gabrielle was sitting by herself in the dusk near the door--in fact,
in that corner of the sofa into which Madame Deschwanden had driven
Nicholas, when she wanted the paper with roses and jessamine and
Brazilian humming-birds.
The young man walked towards her somewhat awkwardly, and leaning on
the arm of the sofa with his back to the window, said:
‘You must be puzzled at our relationship in this house.’
‘I do not quite understand the relationship, I own,’ answered
Gabrielle, shyly.
‘I am not the son of madame,’ said he, nodding his head in the
direction of Percenez’s sister, ‘nor is Madeleine my own sister. My
father married again, after my mother’s death, and Madame Chabry was
a widow with an only daughter. Do you understand now?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘I should like to hear your opinion about the box,’ he continued. ‘Do
you think we have any right to keep it? Mamma is set upon it, so is
Madeleine, but the question is, have they any right to it?’
Gabrielle looked at her shawl, and plucked at the fringe.
‘You do not like to answer,’ said Klaus.
‘I think the box ought to be returned,’ she said, timidly, and in a
low, faltering voice.
A smile beamed on the lad’s broad face. He nodded at her in a
friendly, approving manner, and said, ‘So my father says. I consulted
him in the other room. And now the difficulty is to get the box away.
Observe my father.’
Gabrielle looked towards the corporal; he was standing near the
window, with his back to the table on which the mother-of-pearl
coffer lay, and was engaged in animated conversation with Percenez,
Madame, and Madeleine. Gabrielle observed that the old soldier made
a point of addressing his wife and daughter-in-law in turn, and then
directing an observation to Percenez. From sentences she caught,
the girl ascertained that the corporal was attacking the French
character, and was especially caustic on the subject of French women.
His wife was at once in a blaze, and Madeleine caught fire. Percenez
took up cudgels on behalf of his countrywomen, but the soldier was
not to be beaten by the three combined. As soon as the conversation
or argument gave symptoms of flagging, he produced from his armoury
some peculiarly pungent remark, which he cast as a bomb-shell among
them, and which at once aroused a clatter of tongues.
‘There’s a story told in my country of a man who married a
Frenchwoman,’ said the soldier, fixing his wife with his eye.
‘I will not listen to your stories,’ said Madame Deschwanden; ‘they
are bad, wicked tales. Stop your ears, Percenez, as I stop mine.
Madeleine, don’t listen to him. A Frenchman uses his tongue like a
feather, but a German or Swiss knocks you down with it like a club.’
‘There is a story in my country,’ pursued the corporal, turning
composedly towards the colporteur, ‘of a Swiss farmer who married a
French mademoiselle.’
‘Ah! I pity her, poor thing, I do,’ said Madame Deschwanden,
suddenly removing her hand from her ear and fluttering it in her
husband’s face; ‘she doubtless thought him flesh and blood, and only
too late found him out to be a Jacquemart--a wooden doll worked by
springs.’
‘So!’ continued the soldier, calmly, ‘the man died----’
‘Of dry rot,’ interpolated madame; ‘there was a maggot in his head.’
‘He died,’ the soldier pursued; ‘and then, having left the earth, he
presented himself at the gates of Paradise.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed madame; ‘and he found that it was peopled with Bruder
Klauses--like the wooden saints your boy carves.’
‘Now you know, Percenez, my good friend, that there is a preliminary
stage souls have to pass through before they can enter the realm of
the blessed; that stage is called purgatory. So! S. Peter opened
the door to the Swiss Bauer and said, “You cannot come in. You have
not been in purgatory!” “No,” answered the farmer, “but I have
spent ten years married to a French wife.” “Then step in,” said the
door-keeper, “you have endured purgatory in life.”’
‘I will not listen to you,’ screamed Madame Deschwanden, resolutely
facing the window and presenting her back to her husband.
Madeleine followed suit, and was immediately engrossed in what was
taking place in the street.
‘You Frenchwomen!’ called the corporal, tauntingly, as he stepped
backwards with his hands behind him. The mother and daughter turned
abruptly, and facing him exclaimed together, ‘We glory in the title;’
then reverted to their contemplation of the street.
‘Now,’ said Nicholas, in a low voice, ‘observe my father attentively;
he is a skilful general.’
Corporal Deschwanden retreated leisurely backwards, as though
retiring from the presence of royalty, till he reached the table,
when his hands felt for the casket, and took it up; then, still
fronting the window and the women at it, he sidled towards the door,
keeping the mother-of-pearl box carefully out of sight.
Having reached the door, he asked Percenez if he would accompany him
for a stroll. The colporteur gladly consented, and followed him out
of the room.
The mother and daughter still maintained their position at the open
window, till suddenly the former threw up her hands with a cry of
dismay, sprang abruptly into the middle of the room, and shrieked
out, ‘I am betrayed! the thief! the rogue! the malicious one! He
has carried off the mother-of-pearl box. I saw it under his arm.
He showed it to Étienne, and laughed as he crossed the street.
Madeleine! what shall we do? We will take poison, and die in one
another’s arms!’ Then, after a volley of shrieks, she fell on her
daughter’s neck and deluged her with tears.
‘I think that was a skilfully-executed manœuvre of my father’s,’ said
Nicholas, aside.
Gabrielle smiled; but then, observing how distressed was her hostess,
she said, in a low voice, ‘I am afraid your mother is heart-broken
over her loss.’
‘Yes, for half an hour, and then she will have forgotten all about
it. You will see, when my father returns, it will be with a locket,
or a brooch, or a ribbon, and then she will be all “ecstasy and
raptures,” and will kiss him on both cheeks, and pronounce him the
best of husbands.’
Gabrielle looked up into his face with an expression of delight in
her eyes and on her lips.
The young man’s eyes rested on her countenance with pleasure. After a
moment’s hesitation, he said:
‘Mademoiselle Gabrielle, may I ask you one little favour? I know I
have not deserved it by anything I have done, but you will confer a
debt of gratitude on my father and on me if you will accede to my
request.’
‘What is it?’ asked the girl, opening her eyes very wide, and
wondering very greatly what he meant.
‘Will you promise me not to take part with my mother and Madeleine
against the Swiss? My father laughs, and I laugh, but what they say
cuts us,--sometimes deeply. We are proud of our country;’ he brushed
his hair from his brow and straightened himself, his attitude and
action a reproduction of his father. ‘We have reason to be proud of
it, and we do not like to be joked about it, and to hear slurs cast
on it. Oh! Mademoiselle Gabrielle, I do not know why I ask this of
you, but I should feel it dreadfully if you joined them against us,
and so, too, would my father.’
‘I promise with all my heart.’
‘That is delightful!’ exclaimed Nicholas, clapping his hands, whilst
a joyous flush overspread his open countenance; ‘and then, there
is something more.’ His face grew solemn at once. ‘Do not speak
against, or make a joke about, Bruder Klaus. You do not know what a
man that was, what a saint he is, what he did for his country, what
a miraculous life he led, what wonders are wrought yet at his tomb.
You should have seen his portrait--the grave white face, and the
eyes reddened with weeping, and the sunken cheeks! Oh, Mademoiselle
Gabrielle, you may be sure that, among the greatest of saints, our
Bruder Klaus----’
‘What!’ exclaimed Madame Deschwanden, looking up from her daughter’s
shoulder, as she caught the word; ‘if that boy is not dinning Bruder
Klaus into Mademoiselle André’s ear already. Was ever a woman so
overwhelmed, so haunted as I am with these ragged old Swiss hermits?
I have the nightmare, and dream that Bruder Klaus is dancing on my
breast. I look out of the window in the dark, and see Bruder Klaus
jabbering in the gloom, and pointing at me with his stick. I wish
to goodness the precious Bruder had committed a mortal sin, and his
sanctity had gone to the dogs, I do!’
Nicholas drew nearer to Gabrielle, as though shrinking from his
stepmother’s expressions as impious, and willing to screen the girl
from their pernicious influence. He stooped towards her, with his
great blue eyes fastened on her with intensity of earnestness, as he
whispered:
‘You will promise me that? Oh! please do, dear mademoiselle!’
‘Certainly I will,’ answered Gabrielle, frankly looking at him.
He caught her hand and kissed it, and then precipitately left the
room.
END OF VOL. I.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] The window is described from one existing in the north aisle of
the church of S. Foy, at Conches, the stained glass in which church
is perhaps the finest in Normandy.
[2] Holy Meinrad, &c. Pray for us.
Transcriber’s Notes
The Table of Contents at the beginning of the book was created by
the transcriber.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation such as “boxwood”/“box-wood” have
been maintained.
Minor punctuation and spelling errors have been silently corrected
and, except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the
text, especially in dialogue, and inconsistent or archaic usage,
have been retained.
Page 56: “epecially noticeable when a band of girls” changed to
“especially noticeable when a band of girls”.