about Lucerne; a fog so dense, though white, that the steamboats moved
with the utmost caution, feeling their way as much by incessant
interchange of bell-signals with the shore as by the compass. That the
beech woods were ablaze with autumn’s waning energy was known, but
little besides grey, ghostlike objects could be seen as the train
started with a jerk upon its strenuous journey. Nor was there anything
but fog and phantoms for some twenty minutes or more. Then slowly the
fog lightened, the phantoms took on the form of trees, grew warmer in
tint, still warmer and still clearer, until the golden, red-brown woods,
purpled in part by distance, became revealed, all wreathed about with
trails of veil-like mist. Before the lower, rock-strewn pastures of the
Matt-Alp were reached, every vestige of the fog was left lying compact
below, and the train was labouring upwards towards a radiant, cloudless
sky. The Alps, of course, are rich in such experience as this, but I can
remember nothing that ever more nearly realized my conception of
fairyland. Indeed, if it were not like saying that a lovely hothouse
orchid is so natural as to seem to be made of wax, I would declare that
the piercing of the fogzone that day on the autumn-tinted sides of Mt.
Pilatus resembled nothing so much as the grand transformation scene of
our Christmas-time theatres, when gauze veil after gauze veil is slowly
rolled away, and from grey, then tinted mystery emerges brilliant,
spotless colour.
What a wonderful journey this railway provides! If any proof were needed
of the high eminence of Swiss engineers and of the indomitable spirit
and resource which the Alps breed in their children, here assuredly it
is. Beasts, plants, birds, and insects are not alone to feel the
influence of Alpine circumstance upon character; hare and saxifrage,
ptarmigan and fritillary are not the only pupils trained in Nature’s
Alpine school. Man, in common with the chamois and the edelweiss, the
eagle and the erebia, owes priceless capacity to the life imposed by
high-flung precipice and pasture. Nursed in all the rigour and
beneficence accompanying contact with high altitudes, he develops much
of that amazing efficiency, that impelling adaptiveness which is so
admired in “Alpines”. The will to master the worst and to enjoy the best
is never more alert than in the dweller among mountains. And this fact
is borne in upon the imagination as the train climbs panting up the face
of the Eselwand, in every way the culminating labour of its journey.
Here the track has been carved upon a sheer precipice, and it makes one
dizzy to think of the workmen’s initial efforts to gain a foothold. Some
idea of the resource and nerve that must have been required can be
gathered by standing upon the Kulm Station platform and turning to gaze
down the way the train came up; or, better still, on the rocks beyond
the hotel and facing the Esel’s fearsome cliff to which the line so
desperately clings; for from this vantage-ground the Titlis and the Alps
of Uri, Unterwalden, and the Grisons rise beyond and between the Esel
and the Matthorn, giving terrible depth to the gaunt masses of these
latter, and thus suggesting the magnitude of the task performed by the
railway builders.
A large part of the superiority of Pilatus over the Rigi lies in its
magnificent foreground: invaluable adjunct to the panorama. A vast,
unbroken horizon is well for a time, but it is all of a piece, and its
very immensity becomes wearisome. Humanity is more at home with
partially hidden views. To have everything simultaneously discovered is,
for many subtle but important reasons, to impose a limit upon interest.
A certain amount of interruption gives durability to pleasure.
Delightful combinations are present, and the eye can rest reposefully
upon portions which in themselves are perfect pictures. In this manner,
then, Pilatus is more attractive than either the Rigi or the
Stanserhorn. The panorama itself may be much the same from all three of
these eminences, but from Pilatus it is enhanced by the mighty
foreground. All about the summit are wild, weird places of fascination,
and this was particularly so during those late autumnal days, with the
dense, billowy sea of fog below, covering the whole Lake, stretching
away over the plain towards the Jura, straggling up the valleys towards
Engelberg and the Brünig Pass, and leaving such prominences as the Rigi,
the Bürgenstock, and the Stanserhorn like islands floating on a scarcely
moving ocean. The huge, abrupt escarpments of Pilatus looked the more
impressive for the purple shadows which they threw upon this milk-white
sea; and the choughs, circling and whistling about the crags, lent just
that eerie note which has been so fruitful of legend in the past.
For fiery dragons once had their lairs upon these heights. Renward
Cysart, town clerk of Lucerne in the sixteenth century, says so; and he
tells of how they were often seen flying backwards and forwards between
Pilatus and the Rigi. One day, he avers, a cooper from Lucerne, while
climbing Pilatus, missed his footing, fell into a cavern, and on coming
to his senses, found himself confronted with “two large, terrible, and
monstrous dragons”, which, however, did him no harm, but allowed him to
live with them until the return of summer, when he, clinging to the tail
of one of his delightful hosts, was landed in a safe place, from whence
he reached home and recounted his adventure, which recountal was handed
down through several generations until it came to Master Cysart who,
therefore, vouches for its accuracy, though regretting “that the day,
year, and name have, through carelessness, passed into forgetfulness”.
Dragons were common objects of the Alps in those and previous days. The
country between Stans and Kernwald (well seen from Pilatus) was ravaged,
about the year 1240, by an enormous specimen, which was slain by one
Winkelried, an ancestor of the hero of Sempach. Legend usually has
relative truth at the back of it, and although we may feel inclined to
dismiss dragons and their doings as unalloyed fabrications of primitive,
superstitious minds, yet certain authorities hold that the dragon was a
species of enormous serpent formerly inhabiting some parts of the Alps,
but now extinct there.
Pilatus is said to obtain its name from what is perhaps the most
important of the host of legends connected with the mountain. Although
there has been an attempt to derive _Pilatus_ from _pileatus_, meaning
“hatted” (in reference to the “hat” or hood of cloud which so frequently
sits upon the summit), the more probable derivation seems to be from the
one-time belief that Pontius Pilate’s remains were buried in a lake near
the summit of the mountain. According to this legend, Pontius Pilate
committed
[Illustration: THE TITLIS FROM ENGELBERG--WINTER]
suicide in prison in Rome, and his body was thrown into the Tiber, when
at once a terrific, devastating storm arose. The body was therefore
taken out, conveyed to Vienne, in France, and thrown into the Rhone,
here again causing disturbance. It was then transferred to Lausanne, but
a further repetition of its untoward behaviour caused it to be banished
to the little lake upon Mount Pilatus. Here it remained benign so long
as the lake was in no way interfered with. If, however, anything was
thrown into the water, “the lightnings flashed, the thunder rolled, and
desolation broke over the land”. The town council of Lucerne therefore
felt called upon to forbid all persons to approach the Lake, and it is
related how at least one wretched man was executed for disobedience. But
“by degrees the belief in the supernatural powers of the old Roman
began to decay,” says J. Hardmeyer, in his little work upon this
mountain, “and at last, in 1585, a certain Johannes Muller, rector
of Lucerne, brought about its complete overthrow. With numerous
companions he made his way to the lake on Mount Pilatus, boldly
challenged the evil spirit to show his might, threw stones into the
water, and made some of his people wade about in it, and behold,
neither storm nor tempest followed, not a wave rose, and the skies
remained as serene as before. This was the death-blow to the legend
of Pontius Pilate and his evil deeds. The council of Lucerne went
still further: they had the mountain lake drained off, so that
nothing remained of it but a small morass, where a little water
still collects after the melting of the snows, but soon
disappears.”
Thus perishes Romance before the onward march of prosaic understanding!
ENGELBERG, THE LAKE, AND WILLIAM TELL
Andermatt and Engelberg are the two really Alpine villages which one
usually connects with Lucerne. Andermatt is rather remote, being away up
in the mountains beyond Göeschenen; but the journey to Engelberg is no
more than that to the summit of Pilatus. From Stansstad, with its
sturdy, grey old tower upon the water’s edge--a tower built soon after
the banding together of the Forest Cantons, and last used in the
desperate struggle against the French in 1798--there is an electric
railway. The line passes over the orchard-covered plain to Stans, the
capital of Nidwalden and the birthplace of Arnold von Winkelried, whose
monument is in the marketplace, and whose ancient farmstead still exists
amid flowery fields beyond the town; then on past Wolfenschiessen, known
to history in connection with the Austrian Governor of that name killed
hereabouts by the woodman Baumgartner for insulting his wife--a deed
which appears to have done much to mature the defensive alliance of 1307
between the three Cantons; and so on to Grafenort, where the engine is
changed and the line commences its steep ascent to Engelberg. Through a
forest, wherein the hart’s-tongue fern luxuriates, the train advances,
crossing and re-crossing the winding carriage-road. Here and there
through the trees to the right of the line are glimpses of towering
cliffs with waterfalls tumbling wildly over the rugged sides and falling
into the gorge below, where foams and froths the Engelberger Aa on its
way to the Lake at Buochs. The ascent is not a long one. Soon the forest
is replaced by rapid flower-strewn slopes, and the near presence of
impressive mountains. Then the valley somewhat broadens, and through
almost flat pastures the train quickly reaches the village, its big
hotels and spick-and-span prosperity.
Engelberg has all the airs and graces which two crowded seasons can
give. It is as popular in winter as in summer, and is organized
accordingly. But with the exception of its famous monastery, there is
little that is old and picturesque about it. As the local guidebook
says--and says seemingly with pride and glee--: “Favoured by a great
fire in the autumn of 1887, the witnesses of modern civilization have
become predominant”--an expression of sentiment which is apt to make one
think of Thoreau’s caustic remark about man placing his hoof among the
stars. However, although “the splendid hotel buildings tower
gigantically above the country cottages of former times”, and the fine
old timbered dwelling of the tailor stands an heroic interval in the
midst of shop-fronts decorated in the best art shades of paint, yet
something has been spared of the peasants’ old-time costumes--the
women’s quaint silver hair-shields and bejewelled silver-gilt necklaces,
and the men’s elaborately embroidered blouses. Nor have the blessings of
fire and civilization suppressed the lovely mountain flowers which
carpet the pastures outside the hotel-zone. Here, from the early spring
crocus and soldanella to the late autumn crocus and willow-gentian,
there is a rich round of floral delight. Rock, Alp, and forest are alike
gay with colour, and many a botanical treasure haunts the district.
Perhaps the best season for appreciating this side of Engelberg’s charm
is spring and early summer. The near fields and slopes are then wearing
their finest dress. Where, erstwhile, the _sportsleute_ revelled on ski,
the vernal gentian and yellow violet are in radiant masses, and where
the luge ran merrily but a few weeks previously, the geranium and
globe-flower are ablaze. And for this bright and wild abundance there is
a wonderfully effective background of stately mountains. The rugged
Engelberg, the fretted Spannorts, and the giant Titlis of such
distinctive form, all abundantly clothed in snow at this season, make as
admirable a setting for these slopes and fields of
[Illustration: THE ENGELBERG AT ENGELBERG SPRING]
early flowers as could be well desired. Later on, when the Surenen Pass,
the Trübsee, the Joch Pass, and the Engstlenalp can be comfortably
reached, the wealth of Alpine anemone, deep-blue monkshood,
blue-and-white columbine, steel-blue thistle, and a host of other
treasures carry the Feast of Flora to the very verge of the eternal
snows.
It was the pastures of the Surenen which gave birth to the legend of the
famous Bull of Uri--the bull whose head figures on Uri’s armorial
shield. A shepherd becoming inordinately attached to a lamb, baptized it
into the Christian Church; whereupon the lamb developed into a monster
and slew the shepherd. The monster continued to be such a scourge upon
these pastures that the inhabitants of Uri trained a pure white bull
especially to do battle with it. In the combat which ensued, the monster
was slain, but the bull was so grievously wounded that it died soon
after. One of the bull’s horns became the famous battlehorn of the men
of Uri, striking panic into the hearts of their enemies whenever it was
sounded.
Legend also hangs about the Engelberg; for it was upon those rocky
heights that Conrad von Seldenbüren heard angels singing, St. Cecilia
with her lute being amongst the number. This so impressed the good man
that he there and then (in the year 1120) founded the monastery which
stands to this day, and, until 1798, ruled the valley. Great for
centuries as a centre of literature and science, it still retains its
prestige as an educational institution. The building contains much of
high interest--the great library of over 20,000 books and manuscripts,
and the Sacristy full of precious relics of the past--but access to
these is difficult for visitors. As for the natives of Engelberg, for
the most part they practise the breeding of cattle and the weaving of
silk, both industries being fostered by the Monastery, itself owning a
herd of mouse-coloured cows with tuneful silver bells. The natives have
retained much of their engaging individuality. Sturdy children of a
sturdy race, many of them are quite typical descendants of what one
imagines Tell’s strong, strenuous age to have been.
In leaving Engelberg, unless the Surenen Pass be crossed into Uri, and
so down to the Lake near Flüelen, the best way is to branch off at Stans
and touch the Lake at Buochs. From Buochs, where farms and orchards form
the prevailing note, the steamboat passes, by way of Beckenried and its
big old walnut tree, to Gersau at the southern foot of the Rigi. Until
the end of the eighteenth century this village, prosperous-looking
nowadays with its big hotels along the quay-side promenade, was a
fullblown republic on its own account; but to-day its independence is
merged in that of the Canton Schwyz. There is a lovely walk from here
to Brunnen; loveliest perhaps in spring when the rosy, black-pointed
heather (_Erica carnea_) decks the rocks through which in part the road
is cut. Not far along this road is the chapel of Kindlimord nestling
among pines on the steep and rocky shore of a tiny deep-green bay. It is
said that here a strolling fiddler murdered his child who cried to him
for food, and that this romantically situated little chapel was built in
expiation of the deed.
On the farther shore of the Lake, almost opposite Kindlimord, and below
the woods of Seelisberg, is Treib, the most ancient and picturesque of
houses in all this district. Rich in colour and quaint design, and
possessing its own little harbour, it stands quite alone amid the beech
woods which here sweep down to the water. It is a perfect bijou picture
from the distant past: something for a showcase in some sheltering
museum, rather than for such buffeting storm-winds and waves as recently
overthrew its stone breakwater. Built in 1243, it did service as the
first Federal Palace, the Assembly of the three Cantons, Uri, Schwyz,
and Unterwalden, having been held here in 1291. It then became the Guild
House of the boatmen of the Four Cantons. At that time roads were
scarce, communication was mostly by water, and Treib was correspondingly
important. The interior of the house is redolent of old-world
associations: the small bottle-glass windows, the massive old stoves,
the fine wooden ceilings, the quaintly carved chairs, the aged pewter
plates, the genealogical tree dating from 1360, and the
fourteenth-century clocks, one of which is entirely of wood--but
absolutely unheeding of Greenwich time. Treib is indeed a refreshing
place to linger in after the almost omnipresence of the great hotels.
But the past is impossible as a permanency. Modern hoteldom holds its
own--and more than its own. At Brunnen, whither the boat transports us,
Treib is just a sideshow--something to patronize in fine weather as a
poor and utterly antiquated relation.
Brunnen owes the spoiling of its site to the magnificent prospect to be
enjoyed from thence of the Bay of Uri. Hotels innumerable, to the right
and to the left, crowding upon quay, perching upon cliff and soaring
above forest; but the prospect of the Bay of Uri remains--at once
Brunnen’s making and undoing. From the very nature of things this
invasion was inevitable. It was inevitable that the touring world and
his wife should wish for ample accommodation at such a view-point. Nor
is forgiveness difficult if one but turns one’s face towards the
Uri-Rothstock. Brushes and pens without number have essayed to depict
this prospect, to translate its beauty and magnificence, to catch its
ceaseless, changeful charm; and brushes and
[Illustration: TREIB]
pens without number have necessarily failed in the attempt. Something
only of its fascinating phases and _ensemble_ can at most be given. As a
whole it is too elusive, too consummate: too surely out of reach of
human dexterity in either paint or words. Even if it had but one mood,
one fixed mood upon which contemplation could feed indefinitely, a
description of it must needs be inadequate; but as it is--well,
description falls far short of what is _felt_. Seen through the
soft-gold haze of spring, or through actinic summer sunshine, or through
the warm mists of autumn, or through winter’s steely breath, there is
such ever-shifting light and shade, such incessant recomposing of the
picture, and always such mystery in parts and such subtlety over all,
that here, at any rate, one knows that one’s inner consciousness is more
than a match for one’s powers of formal expression. A restless repose
suffuses the whole landscape; its moods are unified though everchanging.
The Lake reflects the mountains, and the mountains reflect the Lake; for
the Lake--to use Canon Rawnsley’s simile--“is as many-minded as a
beautiful woman”, and so, also, are the mountains.
And this elusive yet striking quality of beauty is no particular
possession of the mere distant view from Brunnen; it is just as evident
upon near inspection. From Tellsplatte or from Flüelen, from Isleton or
from the Rütli, or from any open spot upon the whole length of the
wonderful Axenstrasse, “this temple of wild harmony” has all the
charming variety and mystery of lovely woman. The close intimacy of
severe and towering crags (as at Sisikon and Isleton) does nothing to
dispel it; rather is it accentuated by the presence of something so
rudely definite. Whether it be where the bare precipice plunges headlong
to the Lake (as at the Teufelsmünster, near Flüelen), or whether it be
where the beech woods run down to meet the waters (as at the Rütli and
round about the Schillerstein), sublimity, which in part is mystery, is
never wanting. Always there are heights, or snows, or distances over
which the thin air plays in endless moods of light and shade. The Bay of
Uri is indeed a wonder-spot in which to roam and float and dream. Well
might the water-sprite in Gerhart Hauptmann’s _The Sunken Bell_ have
drawn his inspiration from men and women to be found wandering here
entranced; well might these scenes by Uri’s waters have given him the
insight to exclaim:--
“Man’s a thing that, so to say,
Among the fairy-folk has lost his way.
Akin to us and yet not native here;
Half of our world, and half--ah, who knows where?”
For amid scenes like these man knows that he is more than mortal; amid
scenes like these he discerns that elusiveness in himself which is akin
to the elusiveness around him; amid scenes like these his own
inexpressible subtleties are alive to the inexpressible subtleties of
Nature, and his fairy self goes out in intimate communion with the fairy
world.
Men may well continue to write of the Bay of Uri; just as they may well
continue to write of beautiful woman. Will they ever have finished
writing about either? will they ever have said all that can be said? It
is one of the extraordinary things about the Bay of Uri that romance
should be doubled in its every corner. Much in history has had a most
prosaic background, but here, in Uri, Nature and History have combined
to lift events into the very forefront of romantic fascination. No story
of the heroic past is more universally known than that of William Tell
and the founding of the Swiss Confederation; and it is probably safe to
say that this universality is due in no small measure to the magnificent
natural setting for that story. One indeed wonders if Goethe, had he
never visited these waters and been enthralled by their surroundings,
would have been moved to recommend his friend Schiller to dramatize this
story. One, moreover, wonders if Schiller ever would have achieved the
famous thing he did if he had not been able to place his drama amid the
scenery of this Bay. One’s questioning may go further still, and one may
even wonder if the superb scenery has not played an important part in
welding the story with the very religion of the Swiss people. History
and Nature seem here to be made for each other, and it does not
necessarily require a Swiss to feel the thrill which each lends to the
other.
Here, briefly, is the story. Around the year 1240 the Austrian Empire
was the dominant power in these parts. The Canton of Unterwalden was
governed by the Empire; whereas the Cantons of Uri and of Schwyz
governed themselves, but were under the protection of, and owed service
to the Empire. Little by little the Hapsburg dynasty endeavoured to
absorb the whole country surrounding the Lake. Governors were set up in
the three Cantons, tyranny developed, and to meet this process of
absorption, Uri, Schwyz, and Unterwalden, in 1307, entered into a solemn
alliance (the original document, drawn up afterwards, still exists in
the archives of Schwyz). This, then, broadly stated, was the setting of
the stage upon which William Tell and his companions played their famous
parts. These actors emerge, so to speak, from the wings to the dull
mutterings of popular exasperation. The Governors are treating the
people as the merest serfs. Wolfenschiessen, Governor of Unterwalden,
has been killed by the outraged Baumgartner of Altzellen; a
dungeon-castle is being built at Altdorf, in Uri, to overawe the
people; Arnold of Melchthal’s old father has had his eyes put out and
his estate confiscated because his son has chastised one of the
Governor’s impudent servants; and Governor Gessler has vowed vengeance
upon Werner Stauffacher of Steinen in Schwyz, because the latter is a
landed proprietor, and has built himself too fine a house. Walter Fürst
(Tell’s father-in-law) of Canton Uri, Werner Stauffacher of Canton
Schwyz, and Arnold von Melchtal of Canton Unterwalden, each bringing
with them ten men, meet at night on the Rütli--a steep, grass-covered
clearing made in the beech woods almost opposite Brunnen--and pledge
themselves, in the name of their respective Cantons, to resist all
attempts at annexation by Austria. Governor Gessler, hearing rumours of
this revolt, sets his hat upon a pole at Altdorf and orders all and
sundry to bow down to it.
“The Hat’s a perfect scarecrow to the People.”
William Tell, among others, refuses to bow the knee, and is condemned by
Gessler to shoot an apple from off his (Tell’s) son’s head:--
“Thou shalt shoot or perish--
Ay, instantly--and thy Son perish with thee”.
Tell comes successfully through the ordeal, but has a second arrow
hidden in his tunic. The Governor sees it and forces Tell to confess--
“If with the first I’d chanc’d to slay my Child--
This second shaft would I have shot at thee”.
Gessler thereupon has Tell seized and bound, and declares:--
“Some Dungeon’s depth must be thy habitation.
* * * * *
--Convey him to the Bark! I’ll follow quickly.
I will myself conduct him o’er to Küssnacht.”
A violent storm springs up; the bark is likely to be wrecked. Gessler,
in fear and trembling for his own safety, and knowing Tell to be an
adept steersman, has him released and orders him to take the helm. Tell
directs the bark to the Axenberg, springs upon a little shelf of rock
and,
“sending back
The stagger’d Boat into the whirl of waters,”