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[Illustration: _The Winkelried statue_
(_After a photograph by Guccione, Rome_)]
_Life Stories for Young People_
ARNOLD OF WINKELRIED
THE HERO OF SEMPACH
_Translated from the German of
Gustav Höcker_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” etc._
WITH THREE ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1908
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1908
Published August 22, 1908
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
Translator’s Preface
The story of Arnold of Winkelried, the famous hero of Switzerland, and
of his heroic death in the battle of Sempach, will never lose its
interest. The learned iconoclasts, having the advantage of the obscurity
of fourteenth-century history, may continue to declare that he is only a
legendary hero, as they have asserted of William Tell, but Winkelried,
like Tell, still lives in the hearts of the Swiss people as the actual
embodiment of patriotic devotion, love of freedom, and love of humanity,
and thus he will remain in the hearts of men for all time. The narrative
in this little volume might be called a collection of short sketches
illustrating the great events of the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries, with Winkelried as their dominant figure and connecting link.
The author tells us the legends which cluster around Pilatus, and good
father Vincentius’s thrilling story of the battle of Morgarten. He shows
us how a mystery play was performed. The ravages of the Black Death are
vividly set forth. Then he tells us of the robber knights and Duke
Leopold’s tournament at Basle. He describes in detail the curious
methods employed in storming a castle, introduces Winkelried in his
daring adventure as a beggar monk, and closes the graphic story with a
thrilling account of the famous Sempach battle and the way in which
Winkelried gave himself to death by making a passage for the
Confederates through the forest of Austrian spears. There is no nobler
example of patriotic devotion and sublime courage in history.
G. P. U.
Chicago, May 1, 1908.
Contents
Chapter Page
I Knight Schrutan and the Pilatus 11
II The Battle of Morgarten 31
III The Mystery Play at Engelberg 50
IV The Black Death 58
V The Robber Knights 72
VI The Tournament at Little Basle 94
VII Storming of a Lithuanian Castle 108
VIII The Beggar Monk 119
IX Winkelried’s Heroic Death 131
Appendix 140
Illustrations
The Winkelried statue _Frontispiece_
Monument commemorating the Battle of Sempach 54
Winkelried’s heroic death at the Battle of Sempach 122
Arnold of Winkelried
Chapter I
Knight Schrutan and the Pilatus
The Lake of the Four Forest Cantons, lying amidst the four cantons, Uri,
Unterwalden, Schwyz, and Lucerne, from which it derives its name,
surpasses all other Swiss lakes in the grandeur of its natural beauty
and in the wealth of its historical associations.
In the year 1315, which is about the period in which the events of this
story occurred, there was upon this lake a little flotilla, which seems
insignificant enough when compared with the powerful fleets of the
present day. At that time the cantons of Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden
were frequently engaged in hostilities with their neighbor Lucerne,
which still adhered to Austria. Their encounters took place on skiffs
and boats and clumsy vessels along the shores of the lake. One big,
sharp-pointed, oaken craft, called the “Goose,” was the flagship of the
Lucerne fleet. The “Fox” was the flagship of Uri. One day the Lucerne
flagship ventured too near the shore and was struck by a millstone which
the Unterwaldeners hurled down upon it from a watch-tower, and which so
disabled it that Lucerne’s naval power was virtually destroyed.
At the point where the lake makes a wide bend to the south into the very
heart of the Alps lies Unterwalden, among precipitous cliffs and
mountain pastures. It is a majestic sight when the mists clear away on a
bright summer’s morning and the Rigi, Pilatus, the rocky summits of
Schwyz, and the range of mountain-peaks extending even to the distant
dazzling Jungfrau and the Black Monk are revealed in the brilliant
atmosphere. The name “Unterwalden” was applied to this picturesque
region in modern times. It is not known what it was called in ancient
times, but there can be no doubt that it was inhabited, as it contains
unusually rich pasturage for animals and offers favorable opportunities
for hunting and fishing.
Not far away from the lake is the little city of Stans, situated in a
luxuriant garden, whose fruitfulness is unimpaired, although from the
middle of November until the beginning of February the sun is visible
only in the morning between Briefenberg and the Staufer Horn, and in the
afternoon never gilds the roofs of the little place.
At the eastern extremity of the city stands, even to this day, the
Winkelried house, to which we shall now introduce our readers. They must
imagine themselves in the middle of the fourteenth century. Although it
had ample sleeping-rooms, spacious closets, and large, gayly colored
chests in which the linen and garments were kept, as well as other
conveniences, a single room was the family’s living apartment. A long
wooden bench stood against the wall, in front of which was a large oaken
table with massive feet. Some wooden chairs and a leathern arm-chair
completed the furniture. Tankards, dishes, and glasses were arranged on
shelves, and some silver vessels were enclosed in a beautifully carved
cabinet. A holy-water ewer was fastened near the door, and a crucifix
hung between the windows. Instead of a stove there was an open coal
fire, into which thyme was sprinkled to diffuse a pleasant odor
throughout the room. Several tiny cages were suspended from the low
ceiling. The sprightly little singers which occupied them were quiet
now, having gone to sleep with their heads tucked under their wings, for
it was evening and the room had grown dark.
A woman of middle age was seated in the easy-chair absorbed in
meditation. A boy sat in her lap, and as he tenderly embraced his mother
his eyes turned to the window through which he saw the moon rising over
the peaks of Pilatus and the summit of the Felsenhorn, outlined like a
sharp black shadow against the sky.
“Little mother,” said the boy, breaking the silence, “why is that
mountain called ‘Pilatus’? That is the name of the Roman governor who
delivered our Saviour to the Jews.”
“You are right, my Arnold. The mountain was named for him,” replied his
mother.
“Why?” asked Arnold.
“Pontius Pilate, who was the Governor of Judea, administered the affairs
of the province so corruptly that the Emperor Tiberius recalled him to
Rome and shut him up in prison,” said his mother. “Rather than suffer
this disgrace, Pilate took his own life. As he was a self-murderer his
body was thrown into the Tiber. A terrible tempest of rain and hail at
once swept down upon Rome. For weeks the thunder crashed and shook the
city. The people at last decided that the storm was caused by the dead
Pilate, so they took the body from the river and carried it away. But
wherever they deposited it—in the Rhone or in other rivers—violent
storms and tempests raged, as they had done in Rome. At last they
brought the body here and threw it into the little solitary lake near
the top of yonder lofty, rugged, and almost inaccessible mountain. It
was then called the Pilatus Lake and at a later day the name was also
given to the mountain. Before that the mountain was called Fracmont,
which comes from a Latin word signifying its jagged appearance. The lake
has neither inlet nor outlet. It is not increased by the rain or the
snow, nor does the most intense Summer heat lower it. It does not freeze
in Winter. The wind does not agitate its dark surface, but when its
quiet is disturbed by human hands frightful tempests arise.”
“Does the dead Pontius Pilate who is buried there make these storms?”
said Arnold.
“Yes, my child. At times he rises from the lake and sits upon a
mountain-peak, and from thence stirs up the storms which spread such
devastation over the country. But once there came a wandering scholar—”
“What kind of persons are those?” asked the lad.
“They are scholars who go from one school to another, pursuing their
studies, now in this one, now in that. They are poor, and the
ecclesiastics and other religious people whom they visit in their
wanderings support them. Last Summer one of them ate at our table.”
“Was he a scholar?” asked Arnold, in great surprise; “why, he was as big
as father, and had a long beard, besides.”
“Yes,” replied his mother, with a smile; “it is not unusual for these
learned beggars to remain in the schools until their thirtieth year,
when they sometimes get positions as under-teachers.”
“One of these travelling scholars came, you were saying,” said Arnold,
thus recalling to his mother the interrupted story.
“Yes, one of them came into our neighborhood who knew how to exorcise
evil spirits, and the valley people promised to pay him well if he would
quiet Pilate. The student betook himself to the lake and hurled such
powerful incantations at him that he promised to rest quietly in the
lake upon condition that he might rise from his watery grave one day in
each year. Since that time, upon every Good Friday, Pilate leaves the
lake and sits in his red robes of office as he used to do. During the
remainder of the year he is quiet and invisible. But when he becomes
provoked by unusual noises in the vicinity of the lake, or stones are
thrown into it, then the clouds gather about the mountains, terrible
storms break loose, and the lake emits fiery exhalations. On this
account people are forbidden to go near the lake lest some one may
ignorantly or maliciously provoke him and thereby endanger this region
as well as himself.”
The mother ceased. The boy gazed steadily at the mysterious mountain, at
that instant illuminated by the rising moon and gleaming like silver in
its snowy drapery.
“Do you know anything more about Pilatus?” he asked, after a little.
“No, my darling, I have told you all that people say about it.”
The story greatly excited Arnold. He wanted to hear more of the same
thrilling kind. A dim recollection of an extraordinary adventure
connected with his own family rose in his mind.
“Little mother,” he said, “what was that horrible animal which once
lived in this region? I heard you tell about it once, but I have
forgotten most of the story. I know that a knight called Winkelried
killed it.”
“That was Henry of Winkelried, your grandfather, usually called
‘Schrutan.’”
“Why Schrutan?”
“The name was probably given to him by his companions in the
tournaments; for like all knights he was fond of tilting.”
“If my grandfather was a knight, why are there no knights now?” asked
Arnold, raising his head from his mother’s shoulder and gazing at her
earnestly.
“The times have greatly changed,” she replied. “Once the powerful family
of Hohenstaufen[1] ruled over the German Empire. It occupied the throne
more than a hundred years. The emperors fought many great battles, and
the Winkelrieds, who were in their service, were elevated to knighthood.
But when the Hohenstaufens ceased to rule, an evil time ensued. As it
was no longer an honor to be a knight, the Winkelrieds discarded
knighthood and lived like plain country people.”
“And what is it about the terrible animal and my grandfather who was
called Knight Schrutan?” said Arnold.
“Listen,” said his mother, as she began to tell him the story once more.
“You know the little village of Odwylen, between Stans and the Kernwald.
In the mountains near it there is a vast cavern which is said to have
been occupied by heathens in the ancient days. Perhaps they were the old
Romans who took refuge there because they had committed crimes and been
banished from their own country. About a century ago a huge dragon had
its lair in this cavern. It killed both men and beasts. The people of
the little village, which is called Wylen to this day, had to flee, and
as it was forsaken and desolate it took the name of Odwylen.[2] Along
the roads which lead across the moors and meadows between Stans and
Sarnen to the little village, not a person could be seen, nor were any
animals pastured there, for the dragon concealed itself in the swamps
and attacked every living thing. To be safe from the monster they laid
out new roads, traces of which are visible even to-day. The people of
Unterwalden sometimes undertook to attack the dragon, but it was always
on the alert, and as soon as it discovered its enemies it retreated to
the mountain cavern or some other place where it could defy pursuit. It
was so agile that it could run up the steepest mountain-side as swiftly
as a lizard and as easily as if it were on level ground. Knight Schrutan
heard about this dragon. He was no longer in his own country, for in his
wrath he had slain an Unterwaldener who had wronged him, and he had been
banished for it. He requested permission to attack the dragon, asking no
other compensation than the remission of his penalty of exile. Being a
valiant knight, the Unterwaldeners granted his petition and allowed him
to return home. The knight made a long spear with a sharp spike for its
tip, and at once sought the dragon, which he was not long in finding.
When the monster saw that it had to deal with but one man, it rushed
upon him with open jaws. Knight Schrutan hurled the spear with all his
strength into its throat, where the spike held it securely. Then he drew
his sword and smote the dragon until, bleeding from numerous wounds, it
died in terrible convulsions.”
Arnold scarcely breathed during the story, so spellbound was he. At last
a deep sigh escaped him. He slid down from his mother’s lap and stood
before her with his arms crossed, impatiently awaiting her next words,
for he knew the story was not yet finished. He was sure there was
something else, but could not remember what it was. His mother
continued:
“When the knight saw that his task was complete and successful he raised
both arms and praised God for His personal assistance. But, alas! he
kept his sword in his hand and the poisonous blood of the dragon dripped
upon the unprotected parts of his body. A few days afterwards the
valiant hero died, mourned by all the people of that region, whom he had
rescued from the ravages of the cruel monster.”
Arnold stood lost in thought as his mother brought the story to an end.
Had his brave ancestor gone forth to battle, and had he returned
victorious, and been overwhelmed with gold and honors by the grateful
Unterwaldeners it would not have been half so inspiring to the lad as
this tragic fate of the hero who paid for his brave deed with his life.
Young as he was, he too longed to achieve something great and bequeath
to others a legacy of glorious memories. The spark of self-sacrifice was
kindled at that instant in the boy’s breast, not to be extinguished
except with his last breath.
“Little mother,” cried Arnold, with glowing cheeks, “I will be such a
knight!”
His mother smiled, but made no reply. She knew the Winkelrieds’ love of
freedom. She knew, also, how different it was from the conceptions of
freedom in the days of chivalry, and she was sure that Arnold’s was the
true Winkelried love. She had long been aware of the boy’s heroic
spirit, but she had never thought of him as an armed warrior in the
field.
That night Arnold dreamed of nothing but Pilatus, the Knight Schrutan,
and the dragon, and they were mingled together in the strangest manner.
He dreamed he was on Lake Pilatus and saw the knight engaged in a
desperate struggle with the dragon. Nearer and more near the hero forced
the monster to the water’s edge, and with one last desperate effort he
drove it into the gloomy lake, which rose high above the sinking
reptile. The sky was instantly overspread with black clouds. The region
was enveloped in darkness, and, accompanied by deafening crashes of
thunder, Pilate rose from the lake in his red robes, holding in his hand
a spear set with sharp spikes, and making menacing gestures at the
knight. Schrutan plunged into the lake without hesitation, and
notwithstanding his heavy armor, breasted the waves with strong arms,
prepared to struggle with the evil spirit. Before he could reach him,
however, the water changed to dragon’s blood in which the knight was
overwhelmed.
On the next day, Florian Häbli, Arnold’s friend and playmate, came to
see him. Notwithstanding Florian’s father was poor and had to earn a
living for his large family by fishing and felling trees, Arnold
preferred him to all the other boys, and admired his courage, though
Florian sometimes was bolder in words than in action. The two boys at
first indulged in a vigorous snowball fight. Then they made a snow man,
and when it was finished Arnold placed a hat upon its head. As this
reminded him of the cloud caps which at times covered the summit of
Pilatus, he called the snow man the wicked Pontius Pilate, and bade
Florian help him to destroy Pilate. Both lads began a fierce bombardment
of the snow man, and kept it up until it was reduced to a shapeless
mass. Then Arnold told Florian about Schrutan and his adventure; and he
said he would like to encounter a dragon, but unfortunately there were
no more of them in that neighborhood.
“Do you really mean to say that you, such a little fellow, would really
fight a dragon?” rather contemptuously replied Florian, who was half a
head taller than Arnold. “Why, it would bury you in the cavity of one of
its teeth.”
Arnold, with equal contempt, answered back: “You shall yet see what I
will do. And I shall not kill a dragon,” he said, with a glance at the
fragments of the snow man. “The wicked Pilate is up there in the lake.
He sends storms over the land, which destroy the crops just as the
dragon killed men and beasts. He rises from the lake every Good Friday,
and then we can attack him.”
“Have you the courage to do it?” said Florian, incredulously.
“Yes, I have,” replied Arnold, in a manner so serious that Florian was
deeply impressed. He stated the perils of such an undertaking to his
companion, and also informed him that no one was allowed to go near the
banks of the lake. But Arnold was not to be dissuaded from his purpose.
He replied by setting forth with such enthusiasm the duty of some one to
perform the heroic deed of ridding the region of the evil spirit that
Florian resolved not to be outdone by his brave comrade. He decided on
the spot to accompany him on his dangerous expedition, and to help him
to overcome Pilate. The two lads talked of nothing else from day to day,
and carefully guarded their secret. Florian agreed to all the details of
the plan and worked them out assiduously. Most of his time was spent in
devising the weapons they should use. He was eager to construct a
catapult, like those used to batter down the walls of fortresses, but
found it impossible. Then he considered other methods of attack. He
thought of Greek fire, but he did not know how to make it. At last he
thought of a thunder-machine, for he had heard that these machines, by
some mysterious force, could hurl great iron balls. But as all his plans
proved impracticable, he next began to devise methods of protection
against the enemy’s attack which would make up for the lack of these
terrible weapons,—such as an invulnerable coat of mail, or some
wonderful ointment which could be rubbed on the body from head to foot,
and make the skin as hard as horn.
Arnold listened to all of Florian’s suggestions without making any
reply. He had long since settled the whole matter himself. His courage
was sufficient armor for him, and his weapon was the simple sling, with
which David smote the giant Goliath. He was sure he could overcome
Pilate if he had a fair chance, and to make sure of it he practised with
the sling until he became so expert that he could hit any mark within
stone’s throw.
The two little adventurers impatiently awaited the spring-time, which
would bring Holy Week and the eventful day. The mountains took on fresh
tints. The sky was gorgeously colored, and the atmosphere so transparent
that the most distant mountains seemed near by. There was a certain
relaxation in the air and a peculiar rustle in the woods. The dwellers
in the valley went around anxiously and extinguished the fire on every
hearth, for these manifestations of nature were the harbingers of the
violent Föhn. This dreadful wind (the Föhn) sweeps down from the
mountains upon the valleys, but gentle Spring follows in its train. The
Föhn melts the Winter snows even more rapidly than the sun, on which
account it is called the “snow-eater,” and its warm breath imparts new
life to the grasses and buds.
The valley was already clothed in tender green when Good Friday came. On
that eventful morning, armed only with his sling, Arnold and his
companion-at-arms set out for Lake Pilatus. Arnold did not know the way,
but Florian was familiar with it. His godfather, Peter Ruttimer, whose
duty it was to keep strangers away from it, had sometimes taken Florian
with him, so that he knew the road, and now and then had even been near
the lake.
After a troublesome and painful tramp of several hours, climbing up
steep places on all fours, and frequently stopping to rest, the
venturesome lads reached the accursed water, enclosed all round with
gloomy forests. Florian would have greatly preferred to abandon the
expedition, of which he was growing very tired, and visit his godfather;
but Arnold’s cool contempt of every danger deeply impressed him and
strengthened his wavering courage.
There was not a ripple on that gloomy water; not a trace of Pilate, who
should have been sitting there in his official robes, was to be seen.
Florian, after all, was right when he said that Pilate would not allow
any one to see him.
“You see, he does not come,” whispered Florian, after they had waited a
long time.
“He will come yet,” replied Arnold; and to expedite the wished-for
moment he picked up a large stone, and before Florian could stop him,
hurled it into the lake with all his might. It struck with a great
splash. With a loud outcry, brave Florian took to his heels and ran away
as fast as he could.
Arnold, however, was not in the least disturbed. After waiting a little
while, he sent Pilate a second invitation. He repeated it a dozen times,
making longer pauses between the throws so as to give him time to
consider it. His efforts were useless. He could not even rouse the
sluggish water into activity again. But he did not mind that, for he was
certain that Pilate was in the lake. At last he decided that more
energetic measures were necessary to entice him to the surface. He
arranged for a general bombardment by collecting a veritable arsenal of
stones. When he had piled them up in a small pyramid he began
operations. He hurled one stone after another into the lake and kept up
the assault with such vigor that the sweat poured down his face. But
Pilate treated these unprecedented insults with silent contempt. While
Arnold was making preparations to renew the bombardment, for which he
was collecting fresh ammunition, he heard footsteps rapidly approaching.
Turning round, he saw the powerful figure of Peter Ruttimer, and
Florian, who had turned informer, by his side.
The guardian of Pilatus had already thrown up his hands in dismay when
he noticed that the water of the lake had been disturbed by some one
throwing stones. White with rage, he rushed after the malefactor. Little
he cared that that malefactor’s ancestor was a knight. He would have
liked to give him a sound whipping on the spot, but refrained, fearing
that Arnold would make an outcry which would only add another offence to
his disobedience of orders; so he contented himself by hissing out the
maledictions which herdsmen employ when their animals are refractory,
after which he drove both boys down the mountain. He would have had the
legal penalty imposed upon Arnold had not his godson also been concerned
in the offence.
Nearly two hundred and fifty years later, imitators of these boys went
to the lake. Johann Müller, the Lucerne magistrate, climbed to the
notorious spot with many others. They shouted to Pilate to arise from
his watery grave, and they threw stones into the lake; but neither
Pilate nor the tempest appeared. Some walked into the water to see if it
was bottomless or would emit fiery exhalations, as was the general
belief. Several years later the lake was drained,—only an ugly and
dangerous morass remaining. The herdsmen, however, did not give up their
belief in the legend. For a long time an old custom prevailed among them
of shouting an incantation every evening through their milk-funnels to
prevent Pilate from harming them or their animals during the night.