It was Saturday night in Göschenen, in the canton of Uri, that part of
Switzerland which William Tell and Walter Fürst have made famous.
The pretty green village on the northern side of the St. Gotthard is
situated on a little stream which drives a mill-wheel and contains
trout. Quiet, kindly people live there, who speak the German language
and have home rule, and the “sacred wood” protects their homes from
avalanche and landslip.
On the Saturday night I am speaking of, all the folks were gathering
round the village pump, underneath the great walnut tree, at the hour
when the church bells were ringing the Angelus. The postmaster, the
magistrate, and the colonel were there, all in their shirt-sleeves and
carrying scythes. They had been mowing all day long, and had come to the
pump to wash their scythes, for in the little village work was sacred
and every man was his own servant. Then the young men came trooping
through the village street, carrying scythes too, and the maids with
their milk-pails; finally the cows, a gigantic breed, every cow as big
as a bull. The country is rich and fertile, but it bears neither wine
nor olives, neither the mulberry tree nor the luxurious maize. Nothing
but green grass and golden corn, the walnut tree and the luscious
beet-root grow there.
At the foot of the steep wall of the St. Gotthard, close to the pump,
stood the inn, “The Golden Horse.” All the tired men, regardless of rank
or position, were sitting at a long table in the garden, not one of
them was missing: the magistrate, the postmaster, the colonel and the
farmers’ labourers; the straw-hat manufacturer and his workmen, the
little village shoemaker, and the schoolmaster, they were all there.
They talked of cattle breeding and harvest time; they sang songs,
reminiscent in their simplicity of cowbells and the shepherd’s flute.
They sang of the spring and its pure joys, of its promise and its hope.
And they drank the golden beer.
After a while the young men rose to play, to wrestle and to jump, for on
the following day was the annual festival of the Rifle Club, and
there would be trials of strength, and competitions; it was important
therefore that their limbs should be supple.
And at an early hour that night the whole village was in bed, for no man
must be late on the morning of the festival, and no one must be sleepy
or dull. The honour of the village was involved.
***
It was Sunday morning; the sun was shining brightly and the church bells
were ringing. Men and women from the neighbouring villages, in their
best Sunday clothes, were gathering on the village green, and all of
them looked happy and very wide awake. Nearly every man carried a gun
instead of the scythe; and matrons and maids looked at the men with
scrutinising and encouraging eyes, for it was for the defence of their
country and their homes that they had learned to handle a gun; and
to-night the best shot would have the honour of opening the dance with
the prettiest girl of the village.
A large waggon, drawn by four horses, gaily decorated with flowers and
ribbons, drew up; the whole waggon had been transformed into a summer
arbour; one could not see the people inside, but one could hear their
songs. They sang of Switzerland and the Swiss people, the most beautiful
country and the bravest people in the world.
Behind the waggon walked the children’s procession. They went by twos,
hand in hand, like good friends or little brides and bridegrooms.
And with the pealing of bells the procession slowly wound up the
mountain to the church.
After divine service the festivities began, and very soon shots were
fired on the rifle-range, which was built against the rocky wall of the
St. Gotthard.
The postmaster’s son was the best shot in the village, and nobody
doubted that he would win the prize. He hit the bull’s-eye four times
out of six.
From the summit of the mountain came a hallooing and a crashing; stones
and gravel rolled down the precipice, and the fir trees in the sacred
wood rocked as if a gale were blowing. On the top of a cliff, his rifle
slung across his shoulders, frantically waving his hat, appeared the
wild chamois hunter Andrea of Airolo, an Italian village on the other
side of the mountain.
“Don’t go into the wood!” screamed the riflemen.
Andrea did not understand.
“Don’t go into the sacred wood,” shouted the magistrate, “or the
mountain will fall on us!”
“Let it fall, then,” shouted Andrea, running down the cliff with
incredible rapidity.
“Here I am!”
“You’re too late!” exclaimed the magistrate.
“I have never been too late yet!” replied Andrea; went to the
shooting-range, raised his rifle six times to his cheek, and each time
hit the bull’s-eye.
Now, he really was the best shot, but the club had its regulations,
and, moreover, the dark-skinned men from the other side of the mountain,
where the wine grew and the silk was spun, were not very popular. An old
feud raged between them and the men of Göschenen, and the newcomer was
disqualified.
But Andrea approached the prettiest girl in the grounds, who happened
to be the magistrate’s own daughter, and politely asked her to open the
dance with him.
Pretty Gertrude blushed, for she was fond of Andrea, but she was obliged
to refuse his request.
Andrea frowned, bowed and whispered words into her ear, which covered
her face with crimson.
“You shall be my wife,” he said, “even if I have to wait ten years for
you. I have walked eight hours across the mountain to meet you; that is
why I am so late; next time I shall be in good time, even if I should
have to walk right through the mountain itself.”
The festivities were over. All the riflemen were sitting in “The Golden
Horse,” Andrea in the midst of them. Rudi, the son of the postmaster,
sat at the head of the table, because he was the prize-winner according
to the regulations, even if Andrea was the best shot in reality.
Rudi was in a teasing mood.
“Well, Andrea,” he said, “we all know you for a mighty hunter; but, you
know, it’s easier to shoot a chamois than to carry it home.”
“If I shoot a chamois I carry it home,” replied Andrea.
“Maybe you do! But everybody here has had a shot at Barbarossa’s ring,
although nobody has won it yet!” answered Rudi.
“What is that about Barbarossa’s ring?” asked a stranger who had never
been in Göschenen.
“That’s Barbarossa’s ring, over there,” said Rudi.
He pointed to the side of the mountain, where a large copper ring hung
on a hook, and went on:
“This is the road by which King Frederick Barbarossa used to travel to
Italy; he travelled over it six times, and was crowned both in Milan and
in Rome. And as this made him German-Roman emperor, he caused this
ring to be hung up on the mountain, in remembrance of his having wedded
Germany to Italy. And if this ring, so goes the saying, can be lifted
off its hook, then the marriage, which was not a happy one, will be
annulled.”
“Then I will annul it,” said Andrea. “I will break the bonds as my
fathers broke the bonds which bound my poor country to the tyrants of
Schwyz, Uri, and Unterwalden.”
“Are you not a Swiss, yourself?” asked the magistrate severely.
“No, I am an Italian of the Swiss Confederation.”
He slipped an iron bullet into his gun, took aim and shot.
The ring was lifted from below and jerked off the hook. Barbarossa’s
ring lay at their feet.
“Long live Italy!” shouted Andrea. throwing his hat into the air.
Nobody said a word.
Andrea picked up the ring, handed it to the magistrate and said:
“Keep this ring in memory of me and this day, on which you did me a
wrong.”
He seized Gertrude’s hand and kissed it; climbed up the mountain and
disappeared; was seen again and vanished in a cloud. After a while he
reappeared, high above them; but this time it was merely his gigantic
shadow thrown on a cloud. And there he stood, shaking a threatening fist
at the village.
“That was Satan himself,” said the colonel.
“No, it was an Italian,” said the postmaster.
“Since it is late in the evening,” said the magistrate, “I’ll tell you
an official secret, which will be read in all the papers to-morrow.”
“Hear! hear!”
“We have received information that when it became known that the Emperor
of France was made a prisoner at Sedan, the Italians drove the French
troops out of Rome, and that Victor Emanuel is at this moment on his way
to the capital.”
“This is great news. It puts an end to Germany’s dreams of promenades to
Rome. Andrea must have known about it when he boasted so much.”
“He must have known more,” said the magistrate.
“What? What?”
“Wait, and you’ll see.”
And they saw.
***
One day strangers came and carefully examined the mountain through
their field-glasses. It looked as if they were gazing at the place where
Barbarossa’s ring had hung, for that was the spot at which they directed
their glasses. And then they consulted the compass, as if they did not
know which was the North and which was the South.
There was a big dinner at “The Golden Horse,” at which the magistrate
was present. At dessert they talked of millions and millions of money.
A short time after “The Golden Horse” was pulled down; next came the
church, which was taken down piece by piece and built up again on
another spot; half the village was razed to the ground; barracks were
built, the course of the stream deflected, the mill-wheel taken away,
the factory closed, the cattle sold.
And then three thousand Italian-speaking labourers with dark hair and
olive skins arrived on the scene.
The beautiful old songs of Switzerland and the pure joys of spring were
heard no more.
Instead of that, the sound of hammering could be heard day and night. A
jumper was driven into the mountain at the exact spot where Barbarossa’s
ring had hung; and then the blasting began.
It would not have been so very difficult (as everybody knew) to make a
hole through the mountain, but it was intended to make two holes, one on
each side, and the two holes were to meet in the middle; nobody believed
that this was possible, for the tunnel was to be nearly nine miles long.
Nearly nine miles!
And what would happen if they did not meet? Well, they would have to
begin again at the beginning.
But the engineer-in-chief had assured them that they would meet.
Andrea, on the Italian side, had faith in the engineer-in-chief, and
since he was himself a very capable fellow, as we know, he applied for
work under him and soon was made a foreman.
Andrea liked his work. He no longer saw daylight, the green fields and
snow-clad Alps. But he fancied that he was cutting a way for himself
through the mountain to Gertrude, the way which he had boasted he would
come.
For eight years he stood in darkness, living the life of a dog, stripped
to the waist, for he was working in a temperature of a hundred degrees.
Now the way was blocked by a spring, and he had to work standing in the
water; now by a deposit of loam, and he stood almost knee-deep in
the mire; the atmosphere was nearly always foul, and many of his
fellow-labourers succumbed to it; but new ones were ever ready to take
their place. Finally Andrea, too, succumbed, and was taken into the
hospital. He was tortured by the idea that the two tunnels would never
meet. Supposing they never met!
There were also men from the other side in the hospital; and at
times, when they were not delirious, they would ask one another the
all-absorbing question: “Would they meet?”
The people from the South had never before been so anxious to meet the
people from the North as they were now, deep down in the heart of the
mountain. They knew that if they met, their feud of over a thousand
years’ standing would be over, and they would fall into each other’s
arms, reconciled.
Andrea recovered and returned to work; he was in the strike of 1875,
threw a stone, and underwent a term of imprisonment.
In the year 1877 his native village, Airolo, was destroyed by fire.
“Now I have burnt my boats behind me,” he said, “there is no going
back--I must go on.”
The 19th of July 1879 was a day of mourning. The engineer-in-chief had
gone into the mountain to measure and to calculate; and, all absorbed
in his work, he had had a stroke and died. Died with his race only half
run! He ought to have been buried where he fell, in a more gigantic
stone pyramid than any of the Egyptian Pharaohs had built for tees, and
his name, Favre, should have been carved into the stone.
However, time passed, Andrea gained money, experience, and strength. He
never went to Göschenen, but once a year he went to the “sacred wood” to
contemplate the devastation, as he said.
He never saw Gertrude, never sent her a letter; there was no need for
it, he was always with her is his thoughts, and he felt that her will
was his.
In the seventh year the magistrate died, in poverty.
“What a lucky thing that he died a poor man,” thought Andrea; and there
are not many sons-in-law who would think like that.
In the eighth year something extraordinary happened; Andrea, foremost
man on the Italian side of the tunnel, was hard at work, beating on his
jumper. There was scarcely any air; he felt suffocated, and suffered
from a disagreeable buzzing in his ears. Suddenly he heard a ticking,
which sounded like the ticking of a wood-worm, whom people call “the
death-watch.”
“Has my last hour come?” he said, thinking aloud.
“Your last hour!” replied a voice; he did not know whether it was within
or without him, but he felt afraid.
On the next day he again heard the ticking, but more distinctly, so that
he came to the conclusion that it must be his watch.
But on the third day, which was a holiday, he heard nothing; and now he
believed that it must have been something supernatural; he was afraid
and went to mass, and in his heart he deplored the futility of life. He
would never see the great day, never win the prize offered to the man
who would first walk through the dividing wall, never win Gertrude.
On the Monday, however, he was again the foremost of the men in the
tunnel, but he felt despondent, for he no longer believed that they
would meet the Germans in the mountain.
He beat and hammered, but without enthusiasm, slowly, as his weakened
heart was beating after the tunnel-sickness. All of a sudden he heard
something like a shot and a tremendous crashing noise inside the
mountain on the other side.
And now a light burst on him; they had met.
He fell on his knees and thanked God. And then he arose and began to
work. He worked during breakfast, during dinner, during recreation time,
and during supper. When his right arm was lame with exertion, he worked
with the left one. He thought of the engineer-in-chief, who had been
struck down before the wall of rock; he sang the song of the three men
in the fiery furnace, for it seemed to him that the air around him was
red-hot, while the perspiration dropped from his forehead, and his feet
stood in the mire.
On the stroke of seven, on the 28th of January, he fell forward on his
jumper, which pierced the wall right through. Loud cheering from the
other side roused him, and he understood; he realised that they had met,
that his troubles were over, and that he was the winner of ten thousand
lire.
After a sigh of thanksgiving to the All-Merciful God, he pressed his
lips to the bore-hole and whispered the name, of Gertrude; and then he
called for three times three cheers for the Germans.
At eleven o’clock at night, there were shouts of “attention!” on the
Italian side, and with a thunderous crash, a noise like the booming of
cannon at a siege, the wall fell down. Germans and Italians embraced
one another and wept, and all fell on their knees and sang the “Te Deum
laudamus.”
It was a great moment; it was in 1880, the year in which Stanley’s work
in Africa was done, and Nordensköld had accomplished his task.
When they had sung the “Te Deum” a German workman stepped forward and
handed to the Italians a beautifully got-up parchment. It was a record
and an appreciation of the services of the engineer-in-chief, Louis
Favre.
He was to be the first man to pass through the tunnel, and Andrea was
appointed to carry the memorial and his name by the little workmen’s
train to Airolo.
And Andrea accomplished his mission faithfully, sitting before the
locomotive on a barrow.
Yes, it was a great day, and the night was no less great.
They drank wine in Airolo, Italian wine, and let off fireworks. They
made speeches on Louis Favre, Stanley, and Nordensköld; they made a
speech on the St. Gotthard, which, for thousands of years had been a
barrier between Germany and Italy, between the North and the South. A
barrier it had been, and at the same time a uniter, honestly dividing
its waters between the German Rhine, the French Rhone, the North Sea and
the Mediterranean....
“And the Adriatic,” interrupted a man from Tessin. “Don’t forget the
Ticino, which is a tributary to the largest river of Italy, the mighty
Po....”
“Bravo! That’s better still! Three cheers for the St. Gotthard, the
great Germany, the free Italy, and the new France!”
It was a great night, following a great day.
***
On the following morning Andrea called at the Engineering Offices. He
wore his Italian shooting-dress; an eagle’s feather ornamented his hat,
and a gun and a knapsack were slung across his shoulder. His face and
his hands were white.
“So you have done with the tunnel,” said the cashier, or the “moneyman,”
as they called him. “Well, nobody can blame you for it, for what remains
to be done is mason’s work. To your account, then!”
The moneyman opened a book, wrote something on a piece of paper, and
handed Andrea ten thousand lire in gold.
Andrea signed his name, put the gold into his knapsack and went.
He jumped into a workman’s train, and in ten minutes he had arrived
at the fallen barrier. There were fires burning in the mountain, the
workmen cheered when they saw him and waved their caps. It was splendid!
Ten more minutes and he was at the Swiss side. When he saw the daylight
shining through the entrance to the tunnel, the train stopped and he got
out.
He walked towards the green light, and came to the village and the
green world, bathed in sunlight; the village had been rebuilt and looked
prettier than before. And when the workmen saw him they saluted their
first man.
He went straight up to a little house, and there, under a walnut tree,
by the side of the bee-hives, stood Gertrude, calm, and a hundred times
more beautiful and gentle. It looked as if she had stood there for eight
years, waiting for him.
“Now I have come,” he said, “as I intended to come! Will you follow me
to my country?”
“I will follow you wherever you go!”
“I gave you a ring long ago; have you still got it?”
“I have it still!”
“Then let us go at once! No, don’t turn back! Don’t take anything with
you!”
And they went away, hand in hand, but not through the tunnel.
“On to the mountain!” said Andrea, turning in the direction of the old
pass; “through darkness I came to you, but in light I will live with you
and for you!”