He had not gone very far before seven fine specimens, starting from
covert, darted away. The hounds eagerly pursued six of them, but the
hunter concentrated all his attention upon the seventh and last, which
was also the finest. This hare, however, was as sly as it was large and
fleet-footed, and knowing the man’s unerring aim, began to run around
and around a haycock. Such was the speed with which the hare ran, that
the hunter’s eyes could not follow it, and even the animal’s shadow
failed to keep up with it. The sportsman, seeing he would never bag
this fine hare unless he too resorted to stratagem, quickly bent the
barrel of his gun until it almost formed a hoop. Then, taking quick
aim, he sent after the speeding hare a bullet which laid it low in its
circular track around the haycock.
* * * * *
IN olden times Wotan reigned alone in the canton of Vaud, to which
he is said to have given his local name Vaudai. As long as he was
sole master of the country, Wotan proved on the whole an amiable and
benevolent ruler; but the gradual introduction of Christianity so
soured his temper and made him behave so badly, that the Christians
finally identified him with the Evil One himself.
The new religion was so very distasteful to Wotan, that he hated both
sight and sound of it, and hoping to avoid coming in contact with
it, retreated far up into the mountains and took up his abode on the
summit of the Diablerets. There, he vented his rage by sending dense
fogs and violent storms down into the valleys, and by producing great
snow-storms so that the melting drifts should cause all the rivers to
overflow.
Brooding over his wrongs one day, Wotan determined to make a last
and mighty effort to exterminate Christianity in the Rhône valley by
drowning all the inhabitants. He therefore called up a fearful storm,
and at his command the river began to boil and rise and overflow.
Riding on the crest of a huge wave, Wotan himself swept down the
valley, while the waters rose higher and higher, threatening to wash
away everything along their path. But all Wotan’s magic proved
powerless when he came in sight of St. Maurice, where the Christians
had set up a huge cross. Before this holy emblem the waters suddenly
cowed, crept back into their wonted place, and flowed peacefully on
within their long-appointed limits.
Baffled and discouraged, Wotan again retreated to the Diablerets, where
he is said to beguile the monotony of his sojourn by holding monster
witch-dances on certain nights of the year. All the spirits, witches,
and sorcerers of the neighbourhood then betake themselves on their
broomstick-steeds to the Diablerets, to indulge in mad revelry. They
circle around so wildly in their sabbatical dances that the motion
raises a wind which sweeps down the mountain on all sides, while the
sounds of their cries, hisses, and flying footsteps can often be heard
far down the valley.
* * * * *
THE souls of all those who have done wrong while on earth are also
supposed to haunt the topmost ridges of the Diablerets, where they play
endless games of ninepins with the demons and their master. This belief
is so general that in speaking of a dead sinner the natives generally
say, “Oh, he has gone to join the demons on the Diablerets!” instead
of stating that he has gone to Hades to receive due punishment for
his crimes. Besides, one of the peaks of that mountain is called the
Devil’s Ninepin; and when a great clatter is heard on the glacier,
the people whisper in awestruck tones that the spirits are evidently
engaged in their infernal game. When stones come clattering down on the
pastures, the shepherds think they are some of the spirits’ missiles
which have strayed out of bounds, and they seek to ward off the nearer
approach of evil by repeated and fervent signs of the cross.
* * * * *
ON the way to Chamounix, far above the road, you can perceive the
entrance of the famous stalactite Grotte de Balme, the supposed abode
of all the fairies of that region. These creatures resembled human
maidens, except that they were dark of skin and had no heels to their
feet. Clad in long rippling hair, which fell all around them like a
garment, the fairies of Balme often sought to lure young shepherds
and hunters into their retreat. Sometimes, too, they met these men
on lonely mountain paths, where they tried to win their affections
by gifts of rare Alpine flowers, of fine rock crystals, of lumps of
gold and silver, or by teaching them the use of the healing herbs and
showing them how to discover hidden treasures. The youths who refused
the fairies’ advances encountered such resentment that they were sure
to meet shortly afterwards with some fatal accident. Those who ventured
on the Diablerets, or the Oldenhorn, for instance, were suddenly pushed
over the rocks into abysses and crevasses, from whence they never
escaped alive.
But the young men who received the fairies’ overtures graciously were
very well treated, and a few of them were even taken up to the grotto,
where they feasted on choice game, and quaffed fiery wine as long as
they obeyed their fairy wives. If, however, they proved untrustworthy,
or tried to pry into the fairies’ secrets, they were ignominiously
dismissed; and while some of them managed to return home, the majority
never prospered again, and as a rule came to an untimely end.
* * * * *
BEFORE the Rhône enters the Lake of Geneva, and not very far from
Noville, there are low banks and a few picturesque little islands,
all covered with lush grass, and bordered with rustling reeds and
shiny-leaved water-plants of all kinds.
These marshy places, with their dense luxuriant vegetation, are said
to be the favourite haunts of fairies and nixies of all kinds, and
especially of a local water-nymph known as Fenetta. All the river
sprites timidly avoid the glance of man; so it is only now and then
that some sharp-eyed native catches the gleam of a white hand gently
parting the tall reeds, or discerns a slender figure, garbed in
trailing white robes all dripping with water, and wearing a wreath of
water-lilies upon her rippling golden hair.
The water-nymphs betray their presence only by a slight rustle among
the reeds, by an almost inaudible whisper, or by a long-drawn trembling
sigh. But at dawn and twilight their breath is so cold and clammy, that
whenever it happens to strike a mortal, cold shivers begin to creep up
and down his spine, his finger-nails turn blue, and before long his
teeth chatter noisily. Then, if the victim looks behind him, he is
pretty sure to descry somewhere among the reeds on the bank a mist-like
trail, which is the flutter of the water-nymph’s white veil.
Although the river-sprites are lovely in appearance, none of the people
care to see them, for those whose eyes have rested upon them have
invariably died within a year. For that reason, the banks of the stream
are generally deserted after sunset, the hour when the fairies are
wont to sally forth to disport themselves in the cool waters of the
limpid river, to tread the measures of their noiseless but fantastic
dances along the shore, or to flit from one water-lily to another,
gently opening their waxen petals with cool and dainty fingers.
Even in broad daylight it is well to shun these marshy places, and
those who do venture there should always warn the nymphs of their
approach by whistling, singing, or making some other marked sound. Such
signals enable the fairies to scurry out of sight before the visitor
draws near; and when he reaches the bank, waving reeds and grasses are
the only sign of an unseen presence.
It is said that a coquettish maiden from Noville once bade her lover go
and get her some water-lilies, although she knew the hour had struck
when the water-sprites had left their retreat. The young man, who had
frequently declared he did not believe there were any water-nymphs,
cheerfully departed to do her bidding. Running down to the river’s
edge, he hastily unfastened his skiff, and with long and vigorous
strokes rowed out to the place where the water-lilies softly rose and
fell on the rippling waters in the midst of their broad green leaves.
[Illustration: THE MIST NYMPH.]
The last golden gleams had just died out in the west, gray shadows had
replaced the flush on the snow mountains, and a cool evening breeze was
sweeping gently over the river. The young man, who had laboured under
the burning sun all day, revelled in the freshness all around him,
and although he caught glimpses of vapoury white here and there along
the shore, he thought they were trails of mist, and smiled to himself
because superstitious mortals mistook them for the flutter of the
nymphs’ gossamer veils.
He was just bending over the edge of the boat to reach the largest and
finest lily, when he felt an icy breath on his neck, and turning around
with a start, dimly perceived Fenetta’s lovely form, and noticed that
she was sadly and gently motioning to him to depart. As she vanished,
he suddenly felt cold chills running all over him, and looking downward
perceived that his sunburned hands seemed strangely wan and pale. With
chattering teeth and failing strength he now rowed back to the shore;
but although he grew colder and colder every minute, and felt as if the
chill had gone to his very heart, he picked up the lilies to carry them
to his beloved.
Reaching her door with faltering steps, he swooned on the threshold,
scattering the lilies at the feet of the maiden, who came out to
welcome him with merry words and arch smiles. At first she fancied he
had merely tripped, but seeing he did not immediately rise, she stooped
over him barely in time to catch his last sigh and a faint whisper of
“Fenetta! Fenetta!”
The sudden death of this stalwart young lover proved such a shock to
the maiden of Noville, that she lost her reason and began to wander
along the river-bank among the reeds, constantly murmuring “Fenetta!
Fenetta!”
The nymph, in pity for her sorrow, must have appeared to her too; for
one evening she came home with dripping garments and shivering from
head to foot. After a few days’ illness, the girl gently passed away,
still whispering the water-nymph’s name; and since then youths and
maidens have carefully avoided this fatal spot after sundown.
* * * * *
IN the valley of Conthey, noted for its picturesque situation as well
as for its wines, there once dwelt a tailor who made fun of his wife
because she firmly believed in witches, ghosts, and spirits of all
kinds, and even maintained that a helpful sprite assisted her when she
had more work on hand than she could easily accomplish.
The tailor, who had been freely tasting the vintage of some of his
neighbours, once mockingly remarked, while sitting cross-legged upon
his bench, that he wished her familiar spirit would appear and take him
on a nightly journey through the Valais, for he would like to see the
famous witches and demons about which he had heard so many tales.
The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when a grinning, mischievous
dwarf, clad in all the colours of the rainbow, suddenly darted out of
a corner, saying, “Your wish shall be granted!” At the same moment
the tailor felt a clawlike hand close over his coat-collar, and was
whisked through the air to Monthey. There, he and the dwarf alighted
on the banks of the Viege, while the clocks were solemnly tolling the
midnight hour, and quickly mounted a coal-black ram which came rushing
out of the churchyard to meet them. The dwarf, who had jerked the
tailor on the ram’s back, roughly bade him hold fast, whispering that
their fleet-footed steed was the spectral ram of Monthey, which ranged
noisily through the land on certain days in the year.
They now sped on so fast that the tailor felt the wind whistle through
his hair, and he almost fainted with terror when his guide pointed
out the huge Ivy Snake, which was mounting guard over all the gold of
heathendom, spread out on a barren heath. The snake no sooner perceived
them than it rushed towards them, hissing loudly and breathing fire and
brimstone from its gaping mouth. A timely kick, administered by the
dwarf, fortunately urged the black ram on to such speed, that the Ivy
Snake could not overtake them however fast it pursued.
At St. Maurice the ram paused for a moment near the monastery
fish-pond, where a dead trout suddenly rose to the surface of the water.
“There,” cried the dwarf, “one of the choristers has just died, for
whenever one of them breathes his last, a dead trout appears in this
pond.”
In confirmation of his words, a funeral knell began to toll, and this
sound accompanied them for some time as they sped on towards the Plan
Nevé. Here, among the gray rocks and along the huge glacial stream,
they beheld countless barefooted ghosts painfully threading their
way. The dwarf then explained to the tailor that these spirits were
condemned to carry fine sand up the mountain in sieves, but that as
every grain ran out long before they reached their goal, they were
obliged to begin again and again their hopeless task.
At the bottom of a neighbouring well, the dwarf next pointed out the
ghost of Nero, who, in punishment for his manifold sins, was condemned
to blow huge bubbles up to the surface without ever stopping to rest.
In the Aucenda, near Gex, the dwarf also showed him the spirits of
dishonest lawyers, who, having fished in figuratively troubled waters
all their lives, were now condemned to do the same in the ice-cold
stream, where they were further employed in brewing the storms and
freshets which desolate that region.
Before the bewildered tailor had time to comment upon these awful
sights, he was whisked away to La Soye, where a red-headed maiden
told him she would give him a golden calf, provided he would kiss her
thrice. Reasoning that it was far from Conthey, and that his wife
could not possibly see him, the tailor pursed up his lips, and was
about to bestow the first kiss, when the red-headed girl was suddenly
transformed into a hideous, writhing dragon. This metamorphosis so
terrified the poor tailor that he buried his heels in the flanks of the
black ram, which darted away at such a rattling pace that they soon
reached Sion.
There the dwarf transferred the tailor to the back of the three-legged
white horse which haunts this city, and as they galloped away, the
tailor saw that they were followed by a fire-breathing boar, the ram,
the dragon, the red-headed girl, the ghosts of Plan Nevé with their
sieves, and the dripping lawyers. In the dim distance he could also
descry Nero, still blowing huge bubbles, and the deceased chorister
holding a dead trout between his teeth.
This strange procession now swept along the Rhône valley to the Baths
of Leuk, where they were joined by a mischievous sprite who rapped
loudly at every door as he darted past. At Zauchet, their ranks were
further increased by the wraith of a giant ox, whose horns glowed like
live coals and whose tail consisted of a flaming torch.
Next they sped down the Visp valley, where a woman once refused food
to Our Lord when he journeyed through the land. In punishment for this
sin, the hamlet where she dwelt sank beneath the ground, and a stream
now runs over the broad, flat stone which formed the altar of the
village church.
Arriving at Zermatt, the dwarf and tailor exchanged their mount for
a blue-haired donkey, whose loud bray, added to the snorts, groans,
hisses, and cries of their ghostly train, created an awful din in the
peaceful valleys through which they swept like the wind. Arriving
finally at Lake Champey, the Blue Ass swam to an island, where the
Devil of Corbassière and a number of witches were madly treading the
swift measures of an infernal dance.
The tailor, seeing this, sprang from his steed to join them; but when
he offered to kiss the youngest and prettiest of the witches, the
Devil of Corbassière angrily flung him head first into the lake. As
the witches belaboured him with their broomsticks whenever he tried to
creep ashore on the island, the tailor finally struck out for the other
bank, where he sank down, panting and exhausted, and closed his eyes.
Suddenly he felt a small hand laid upon him, and thinking it must be
one of his recent tormentors, he cried aloud in terror, “Leave me
alone, you witch!”
A vigorous box on his ear made him open his eyes with a start, just
in time to see his wife standing over him with upraised hand, saying,
“I’ll teach you to call me a witch!”
The tailor now protested that he had done nothing of the kind; but
although his wife declared that he had merely fallen asleep over his
work, he knew that his spirit had journeyed all through the Valais, in
company with the dwarf and the demons which haunt the land.
He was so thoroughly imbued with this belief that he never made fun of
his wife’s superstitions again, and when sceptics denied the existence
of ghosts, demons, or witches, he merely shook his head, for he had
seen for himself that “there are more things in heaven and earth than
are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
* * * * *
THE ascension of the Fletschhorn, near the Simplon, was probably first
accomplished in 1856, but tradition claims that this feat was performed
long before this date by a dauntless Swiss.
He resolved to be the first to reach the top of the mountain, and with
that object in view started to scale it early one fine morning. As he
did not know which road to follow, he scrambled up and down the rocks,
through snow and over ice, and thus was quite exhausted long before he
came near the top, where jagged rocks and steep walls of ice offer only
a most precarious foothold.
The mountaineer, who was an expert climber, knew it would be folly to
venture any farther that day, so he sat down to rest a moment before he
began the descent. While sitting there on the mountain side, trying to
recover his breath, he suddenly heard a ghostly voice far above him,
bidding him bring a cat, dog, and cock, as propitiatory sacrifices to
the Spirit of the Mountain next time he attempted the ascent.
Refreshed by a few days’ rest and by strengthening food, the
mountaineer soon set out again, taking with him the three animals the
Mountain Spirit had asked for. At the first dangerous spot the dog lost
his foothold and fell down a precipice; farther on even the cat’s sharp
claws failed to preserve it from slipping down into the blue-green
depths of a crevasse, and after some more rough climbing the cold grew
so intense that the poor cock was frozen stiff!
The brave mountaineer now pressed on alone, although it was snowing
hard and the wind blew sharp ice splinters into his face which almost
blinded him. Presently the storm began to rage with such fury that the
man had to relinquish his purpose, although he had now reached a much
higher point than the first time.
On arriving home, friends and neighbours crowded around him, to hear
a minute account of his adventures; but they all deemed him more
than foolhardy when he declared that, in spite of all the perils
encountered, he meant to try again on the next favourable day.
True to his resolve, however, the man started out again with cat,
dog, and cock, which poor animals met with the same fate as their
predecessors. As for the Swiss himself, he climbed higher and higher,
until he came so near the summit that a last determined effort would
have enabled him to reach it. But the great exertions he had made, and
the rarefied atmosphere, brought on a severe headache which made him
feel very weak and dizzy. Nevertheless he bravely went on until the
pain in his head grew so intolerable that it seemed as if his skull
would burst. He therefore relinquished his attempt, and crept slowly
home, feeling his headache decrease with every downward step.
But even this last experience could not daunt our climber, who set out
again a few days later, with the same strange trio of animals. This
time, however, he prudently provided himself with an iron hoop, which
fitting closely around his head, would prevent its bursting should he
again reach a great altitude!
Thus equipped, he wended his way up the Fletschhorn, where cat, dog,
and rooster soon perished, leaving the man to continue his perilous
climb alone. Although the pain in his head again grew worse with
every upward step, our mountaineer pressed bravely on, knowing the
iron band would hold fast, and finally reached the topmost pinnacle of
the mountain. His fellow-citizens, proud of this feat, bestowed upon
him the Fletschalp, and honoured him as long as he lived as the most
skilful Alpine climber of that part of the country.
* * * * *
PATCHES of so-called red snow are sometimes found high up on the Alps;
but while scientists ascribe that peculiar colour to a microscopic
fungus growth, the legend accounts for the vivid hue in a very
different way.
In bygone times, before the Alps had been pierced by tunnels and even
before convenient roadways had been built, rough paths leading over the
various passes served as means of communication between Switzerland
and Italy. These were much frequented by pack-drivers with their
sure-footed mules, and among other things thus imported were fiery
Italian wines. Some of the muleteers who had a tendency to drink, or
who were none too scrupulous to cheat their employers, used to tap
the barrels and kegs on their way over the mountains, replacing the
wine they had consumed by water from some mountain stream, so that the
vessels were always full when they reached their destination.
The pack-drivers on the Furka Pass were, it seems, especially addicted
to this species of peculation, and generally paused at the top of the
pass to refresh themselves after their long and arduous climb. In
their eagerness to partake of the strength-giving fluid, some of them
often tapped their barrels so hastily that red wine spurted forth, and
falling upon the immaculate snow gave it a blood-like tinge.
In punishment for this crime, or for so carelessly guarding their
merchandise that they did not even notice when barrels leaked, many
pack-drivers are now said to haunt this pass, continually treading
the path they once went over. They are tormented by a thirst such as
is known by the damned only, and which all the ice, snow, and running
streams around there cannot quench. Their only refreshment now comes
from the scattered drops remaining here and there upon the snow, or
from small libations which compassionate travellers still pour out
along the pass, to moisten the parched lips and throats of these
unhappy spirits.
* * * * *
THE old and picturesque city of Grandson, on the west shore of Lake
Neuchâtel, and in the northern part of the canton of Vaud, is noted
in history as the place where, in 1476, fifty thousand Burgundians,
under their Duke Charles the Bold, were routed with great slaughter by
less than half that number of Swiss patriots. Rich and quaint specimens
of the booty secured on that memorable occasion by the victors, still
adorn various Swiss museums and arsenals; Soleure exhibiting the
costume of Charles’s jester, while Lucerne boasts of the golden Seal of
Burgundy.
Many romantic legends are told of the town and castle of Grandson,
which were defended by a Bernese patriot, Brandolf of Stein, at the
beginning of the Burgundian war. Such was the courage and skill of this
commander, that, perceiving he could not secure the town by force, the
Count of Romont, Charles’s ally, resorted to stratagem. It succeeded
only too well, and the Burgundians were already masters of the town
when the first alarm was given, and Stein rushed bravely into the fray
at the head of his five hundred men. The Swiss, however, soon saw
that the town was lost, and wishing to preserve the castle until his
countrymen could send reinforcements to eject the Burgundians, Stein
quickly ordered a retreat.
To make sure that the enemy would be held at bay until all his men
were safe, and the castle gates duly closed, Stein himself covered
their retreat; but at the last moment he was surrounded and overpowered
by Romont, who, forcing him to surrender, led him away to his own
quarters to await the arrival and decree of the Duke.