LEGENDS
OF
SWITZERLAND
By the Same Author
LEGENDS OF THE VIRGIN AND CHRIST
LEGENDS OF THE RHINE
LEGENDS OF THE MIDDLE AGES
STORIES OF THE WAGNER OPERAS
STORIES OF FAMOUS OPERAS
MYTHS OF GREECE AND ROME
MYTHS OF NORTHERN LANDS
$1.50 per volume
[Illustration: COATS OF ARMS OF THE SWISS CANTONS.]
LEGENDS
OF
SWITZERLAND
BY
H. A. GUERBER
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1899
_Copyright, 1899_,
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
DEDICATED
TO
SWITZERLAND
IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF HAPPY SUMMERS SPENT
WITHIN ITS BORDERS
PREFACE
Aside from the picturesque, historical, and geological interest
connected with a journey in Switzerland, that country also boasts of
a rich fund of legends, delightfully characteristic of the people at
whose firesides they have been told for centuries.
The grand scenery, terrific storms, sudden earthquakes, landslides
and avalanches, together with the barbaric invasions and fierce wars
which have swept over it for thousands of years, have all left their
indelible stamp, not only upon the face of nature, but also in the
imagination and folklore of the people.
In varying keys, and touching upon many chords and themes, these
legends refer to saints and to sinners, to heathen gods, giants,
ghosts, dwarfs, Devil, and fairies, as well as to kings and queens,
knights and ladies, monks and nuns, besides dwelling particularly upon
shepherds, pastures, cattle, and game.
The rustic crudity of some of these tales, the mediæval halo of romance
around others, added to the poetic subtle charms of a few, have been
rendered as faithfully as possible, to enable the reader to gain a
nearer insight into the life and thoughts of the sturdy race which has
established the most lasting republic in modern Europe.
Life-long familiarity with the official languages, some knowledge of
the peculiar dialects, together with prolonged sojourns in the country,
and diligent study of its principal works on national folklore, have
enabled the writer to collect these legends, some of which are now laid
before the English-speaking public for the first time.
Trusting they may enhance the pleasure of a trip to Switzerland for all
those who have the good fortune to enjoy one, remind former travellers
of matchless scenes, and amuse and interest even stay-at-homes, this
book is sent out into the world with the sincere hope that it may meet
with a kindly welcome.
CONTENTS
PAGE
LEGENDS OF GENEVA 1
LEGENDS OF VAUD AND VALAIS 6
FRIBOURG 69
LEGENDS OF NEUCHÂTEL 79
BERN 97
LEGENDS OF SOLEURE 140
BASEL 147
AARGAU 158
THE FOREST CANTONS 176
TESSIN 238
SCHAFFHAUSEN 242
LEGENDS OF ZÜRICH 248
LEGENDS OF ZUG 261
THURGAU 270
ST. GALL AND APPENZELL 274
GLARUS AND GRISONS 281
INDEX 303
ILLUSTRATIONS
COATS-OF-ARMS OF THE SWISS CANTONS, WITH CANTONAL
BEADLES IN TRADITIONAL COSTUME (in color) _Frontispiece_
FACE PAGE
LAKE OF GENEVA, WITH DENT DU MIDI 2
THE MIGRATION OF THE HERDS 8
ALPINE FAY 38
THE MIST NYMPH 44
THE WILD HUNT 100
THE OLD ST. CHRISTOPHER TOWER 106
THE GIESSBACH 122
GRINDELWALD 132
THE JUNGFRAU 136
THE SPALENTHOR, BASEL 148
THE OATH ON THE RÜTLI 184
TELL ANSWERS GESSLER 188
LUCERNE, WITH MT. PILATUS 196
THE RIGI 214
THE DEVIL’S BRIDGE 236
THE FALLS OF THE RHINE 242
CHARLEMAGNE AND THE SERPENT 250
Legends of Switzerland
❦
LEGENDS OF GENEVA
The crescent-shaped Leman, or Lake of Geneva, the largest and bluest
of all the Swiss lakes, has been sung by all the poets and praised by
every writer who has had the good fortune to behold it in its native
splendour.
The fertile slopes on the northern bank, the charming resorts and
drives to the east and south, and the glorious view of Mont Blanc, in
Savoy, as seen from Geneva itself, bewitch all those who are privileged
to enjoy them. Countless steamboats and sailboats are constantly plying
to and fro over the lake, and stopping at picturesque points along
the shore, whence delightful excursions can be made either among rich
pastures, orchards, and vineyards, or up into the mountains from which,
rippling and roaring, torrents and streams pour down to fill the basin
of this beautiful lake. The most picturesque craft on the Lake of
Geneva are the lateen-sailed market-boats, hovering like birds over
waters whose colour reminds one of the Mediterranean, the only other
body of water in Europe where such vessels are frequently seen.
A legend claims that in olden times a fairy boat of this peculiar
shape was often seen flitting from point to point along the shores of
Lake Leman. Its sails catching every gleam of golden light, it shone
like the face of the new moon in a summer sky. Drawn by eight large
snow-white swans, it glided gently over the waters, to the song both
weird and sweet of these graceful birds, accompanied by the thrilling
chords of a harp touched by the invisible fingers of the Spirit of the
Winds.
Standing by the mast of this ship, was a tall woman of dazzling beauty,
whose golden locks streamed out in the breeze, while the sunset flush
on the snow-mountains seemed no more delicate than the bloom on her
dainty cheeks. Clad in flowing robes of purest white, she stood there,
smiling gently at countless winged and chubby sprites, hovering around
her like butterflies about a rose, and scattering handfuls of flowers
and fruit at her feet.
[Illustration: LAKE OF GENEVA, WITH DENT DU MIDI.]
It is said that wherever the fairy ship touched the shore, the soil
bore flowers and fruit in abundance, and any one who was so
fortunate as to catch a glimpse of the lucky vessel was sure of the
fulfilment of any desire, expressed or unexpressed. Even when buried so
deep in the hidden recesses of the heart that the owner was scarcely
conscious of its existence, the fairy’s melting blue eyes were sure to
discover this wish, and her heart was so tender that, once discovered,
she could not but grant it.
The fairy skiff of Lake Geneva haunted its shores for many years, and
might still be seen there, had not the giant swans been frightened away
by the puffing and snorting steamboats which furrow the blue waves.
None but the oldest inhabitants ever mention this ship, of which they
caught fleeting glimpses in their early youth, when they sat by the
lakeside during the long moonlight nights, in hopes of securing the
realization of their dearest hopes.
But the luck-ship figures not only in the tales told by the peasants
around the fireside during the long winter evenings; it is also often
seen in effigy upon Genevan holiday and birthday cards. Then “Good
Luck,” or “Happy New Year,” is inscribed across the wing-like lateen
sails, and such a card is supposed to bring the happy recipient as much
good fortune as an actual glimpse of the swan-drawn vessel of mythic
fame.
An interesting old legend is connected with the church of Ste. Marie
Madeleine in Geneva, and with a local yearly festival celebrated there
on the twenty-second of July.
In the days when the Madeleine church was founded, Geneva, after having
been the main stronghold of the Allobroges before Christ, and a Roman
camp from the days of Cæsar until the fifth century, was the capital
of a Burgundian kingdom. The Christians in that part of the country,
desirous of building a church where they could worship God, selected a
site just outside of the city fortifications, and then began to solicit
contributions on all sides.
In those days there dwelt in Geneva a very good and pious girl, noted
far and wide for her deftness in spinning, and for the unusual beauty
and fineness of her thread. As soon as this virtuous maiden heard that
funds were needed for a church to be dedicated to her patron saint, she
made a solemn vow to consecrate to that good purpose all the thread she
could spin, and immediately set to work.
From early morn until far into the night, Madeleine now spun on
unweariedly, selling skein after skein of thread to purchase stones
and mortar for the new building. As is always the case, the zeal and
gifts of many of the Christians soon ebbed, but Madeleine twirled her
distaff faster and faster, working without respite day after day, to
make up for all deficiencies.
The workmen, who contributed their labour, soon depended upon her alone
for materials, and fearing lest her strength or courage should fail
before the church was finished, they called out to her every time they
passed her house to keep up a good heart and work on. This cry,--
“Tiens bon, Marie Madeleine,
Tiens bon, Marie Madelon!”
was taken up by all the Christians in town, and now forms the refrain
of a song sung at Geneva’s yearly festival.
Thus encouraged, Marie Madeleine went on spinning until the
building was completed, and as most of the stones were purchased
with the proceeds of her industry, the workmen carved spindles and
spinning-wheels all over the church. On the festival of Ste. Marie
Madeleine, illuminations and processions are the order of the day in
Geneva, and the statue of a spinner is carried along all the principal
streets of the town, to the rhythmic chant of the old distich, which
commemorates alike the maiden’s piety and her extreme diligence.
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.
[Illustration: THE MIGRATION OF THE HERDS.]
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!
[Illustration: ALPINE FAY.]