Part 7
When morning came, pilgrim and cloak had vanished, and the lady of Strättlingen, who was very economical and far less charitable than her spouse, reproached him bitterly for wasting such a good cloak upon an ungrateful scamp. Although her scolding was vehement and oft renewed, the husband bore it patiently, and when about to set out on a pilgrimage, parted amicably with her, giving her half his ring and telling her she might marry again at the end of five years, if in the meantime he did not return to claim her by producing the other half of the circlet.
This arrangement made, Strättlingen set out for Garganum, where he had heard that St. Michael, his patron saint, had recently alighted. Arriving there, he had a vision of St. Michael himself, who gave him his blessing. But on the way home, Strättlingen was cast into a prison in Lombardy, where he languished four whole years. Throughout this long captivity Strättlingen’s faith never wavered; and when came the time set for his wife’s remarriage should he not return, he fervently prayed that she might be preserved from bigamy.
At that moment the pilgrim appeared in his cell, wrapped in the mantle he had given him, and humbly confessed that he was a demon sent to Strättlingen to entrap him into a reckless act of charity, in hopes that the scolding his wife was sure to administer would cause him to sin. The demon next went on to explain that he was now sent by St. Michael to convey him home. Then he proceeded to carry out the orders he had received from the archangel, and did it so skilfully that a few minutes later the lord of Strättlingen stood at his castle gate, wrapped in the cloak he had given the pilgrim five years before.
Returning thus unexpectedly and unrecognised, Strättlingen perceived that wedding preparations were even then being made. Amid the throng of guests, he stepped up to the table unseen and dropped his half of the ring into his wife’s cup. When she raised it to her lips to drink, she found this pledge, and looking eagerly around her, recognised her husband in his pilgrim’s garb and fell upon his neck. Instead of a wedding feast, a banquet of reunion was now held in the great hall at Strättlingen, and as thank-offering for his miraculous return, the count built the church of St. Michael at Einigen.
This church was secretly dedicated by the archangel himself, who graciously made that fact known to the noble builder. The latter is said to have founded a dozen other churches in the neighbourhood, besides one large monastery. After a time, however, he began to pride himself upon his piety and great gifts to the church, and in punishment for this sin, fell desperately ill.
During this illness he saw the archangels Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel wrestling with the Devil for the possession of his soul. But they finally agreed to decide the matter in a strictly impartial way by weighing Strättlingen’s good and bad deeds in opposite scales. Held by one saint and filled by another and by the Devil, the scales wavered for a moment. Then the one containing the virtues seemed inclined to kick the beam, until St. Michael rested his hand heavily upon it. Seeing this, the Devil slyly clung to the bottom of the scale in which he was specially interested. But his black and claw-like fingers appearing over the edge of the scale, betrayed his stratagem to St. Michael, who, drawing his sword, drove him away.
This curious legend is illustrated by a painting which long graced the church in Lauterbrunnen, and the various legends told above are carefully preserved in the curious chronicle of the church at Einigen.
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OPPOSITE Spiez, at the foot of the Ralligenstock, and near the present town of Ralligen, there was once a village named Roll, whose inhabitants were noted all along the lake shore for their selfishness and pride.
One night when the wind was blowing very hard and after it had rained persistently for several days, a little dwarf came into the village, and knocking at every door humbly begged for shelter. All rudely refused to receive him, except an aged couple living at the end of the village. They bade him enter, gave him the best food that they had in the house, and would gladly have let him sleep in their own bed, had he only been willing to tarry with them over night. But the dwarf told them he still had much to do, and bidding them farewell, ran through the place again, crying that it would soon disappear.
Before morning a terrible storm broke, the lightning struck the top of the Ralligenstock, and all at once the awestruck people heard the rumbling sound of a great landslide. Peering hastily out of their window, the charitable couple saw their little guest gliding rapidly down the mountain side on a huge rock, which he seemed to steer like a sled. Guiding this rock close to their hut, he brought it to a sudden standstill there, making it serve as a bulwark for the tiny house where he had been so hospitably entertained. The rest of the earth and stones swept all the other houses and inhabitants of Roll into the lake, in punishment for their pride and lack of hospitality. But we are told that the little cabin so miraculously spared, stood on the very site of the present castle of Ralligen.
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ON the same side of the Lake of Thun, and not very far from Ralligen, is the charmingly situated town of Merligen. According to somewhat malicious legends, the people there were none too intelligent. They once built a beautiful City Hall, but discovered only too late that they had forgotten to provide any windows, and that it was pitch dark inside. As it was impossible to transact business in utter obscurity, the city council immediately declared light must be brought in without delay, and bade each of the councillors procure a bagful. All therefore betook themselves in a body to a sunny meadow, opened wide their sacks, and when they saw them full of sunlight, closed them tight and bore them off to the City Hall. But although one bagful after another of golden sunshine was carried in there, and all were opened at once, the hall, to their great surprise and disappointment, remained as dark as ever.
There once stood a nut tree close by the lake at Merligen. It bent so far over the water that the people fancied the topmost branches wanted a drink, so they determined to help it reach the water. The chief magistrate climbed the tree, and seizing the highest bough, bade another citizen catch hold of his legs. This done, a third clung to the second, and continuing thus the people formed a living chain which reached down into the lake. The last man now cried,--
“Are you all ready? Shall we pull?”
“No!” cried the chief magistrate, “wait a minute; I want to spit in my hands!”
Saying this, he suddenly let go, and the whole chain of men splashed into the lake, where they were drowned!
At the end of the eighteenth century, after the French had carried off the treasure of Bern to meet the expenses of the Egyptian war, the other cities decided it might be well to hide or bury their valuables, lest they too should fall into their enemies’ hands. The people of Merligen therefore put all their treasures on board a boat, rowed out to the middle of the lake, and sank them in the deepest spot. To make sure, however, that they would be able to find again the exact spot where the valuables were lying, they carefully drew a heavy mark on their boat directly above the sunken treasure. Unfortunately, this streak did not remain on the spot where the treasure was hidden, but to the dismay of the people accompanied them back to Merligen; and it is said no one has ever yet been able to locate these valuables, whose loss is still mourned.
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THE strip of land between the lakes of Thun and Brienz is watered by the Aare, which, flowing through both these bodies of water, also serves as a connecting link between them. Interlaken, as its name indicates, is situated between the two lakes.
From the steamboats on the Lake of Brienz, one can see the wooded slopes and charming village of Iseltwald. Here, we are told, you often hear sounds such as might be produced by a huge Æolian harp. Sometimes loud, sometimes low, the melancholy, ghost-like melody quivers softly through the summer air.
Tradition assures us that a huntsman of this region had his right arm disabled by a stroke of lightning; so, taking up his hunting horn, he wandered from place to place, playing wonderful tunes for a living. His admiring auditors rewarded him for his music by small gifts, and all delighted in his constant tunes. Early in the morning, when the first lark rose to the sky, the stirring notes of “Awake, my heart, and sing!” roused the sleeping inhabitants; and far into the night gentle reveries lulled them to sleep. All day long the music played strong, brisk, helpful accompaniments to their labours, and when a thief prowled about their huts at night, ready to seize their property, a sharp danger signal from the ever-ready horn pealed through the quiet air.
Every one loved the wandering huntsman,--no feast or funeral was complete without him, and wherever he went he invariably met with an enthusiastic welcome. The time came, however, when the poor man felt his last hour was near; and seating himself near the edge of the lake he played a melodious farewell to life, and to the land he loved. Then, addressing a lame beggar who had stolen up to listen to his music, he gave him all the money he had, on condition that he would promise to bury him in the Iseltwald.
“But,” he added, “be sure to place my beloved hunting horn in my hand. It has been my friend and comforter for many a year; and if the dead can still feel and move, I shall be glad to beguile the dark and lonely hours spent in my grave. There I shall play soft tunes, until released by the peal of Gabriel’s trump on the day of judgment, when I, too, shall arise to take part in the grand concert played before the throne of God.”
The old huntsman had scarcely finished these words when he died; and true to his promise the beggar laid him to rest at the foot of a mighty oak, with his beloved horn clasped tight in his dead hand. Since then, belated boatmen have often heard a musical call guiding them safely homeward; and the still summer air often pulsates with the sweet, weird melody the huntsman softly plays to himself while waiting to join in the grand Hallelujah Chorus on the judgment day.
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AFTER leaving Iseltwald the steamers on the Lake of Brienz stop at the Giessbach, part of which famous falls can be seen from its deck, and thence run on to Brienz, where one can take the train to Meiringen and see the beautiful Reichenbach.
Near the last-named town, on the way to the Hohenstollen, whence a magnificent view is obtainable, one passes the Balisalp, of which the following picturesque legend is told. A shepherd named Res used to tend his cattle here; and after they were duly cared for every evening, he was wont to take the huge funnel through which he poured his milk into his pans, and reversing it, step out on a projecting ledge of rock to call out a loving good-night to his sweetheart, who spent the summer on the Seealp. Then, when it was too dark to see the place where she stood, he would quietly enter his hut, climb up into the loft, and lying down on his pallet, would sleep soundly until the next day, when his first morning greeting was also shouted to the girl he loved.
One night the herdsman suddenly awoke, and hearing a crackling sound, peered down into the châlet to see what it might be. To his surprise he saw three strange-looking men sitting around a bright fire they had kindled on his hearth, busy making cheese in a giant kettle. The largest of the three kept stirring the milk, the next one brought more to add to it, while the third kept up a bright blaze by adding fuel to the fire from time to time.
Watching these men, the owner of the hut saw the cheesemaker pour a reddish fluid into the kettle. Then the second stepped to the door, and taking a huge horn, began to play a weird melody. Low at first, it gradually roused all the echoes, and had a magical effect, for all the cows came running up to him and soon stood around in a circle as if to listen. This musical performance ended, the third man poured the contents of the huge kettle into three vessels, and the watching herdsman noted with surprise that the liquid in each receptacle was of a different hue.
Just then, the tallest man looked up, and bade the herdsman come down and drink from any vessel he pleased,--explaining that if he partook of the red liquid he would be as strong as a giant and receive one hundred cows; if he tasted of the green, he would have a large fortune; while if he chose the white, he would receive the magic horn and be able to play the weird tune, which, as he had seen, would charm cows as well as men.
The young dairyman had been so enraptured by the music he had heard, that he unhesitatingly snatched the bowl containing the white liquid and took a deep draught. When he set it down again, his strange visitors warmly congratulated him upon his selection, for had he drunk out of either of the other vessels he would surely have died, and centuries would have elapsed before the Alphorn would again have been offered to mankind. This explanation given, the three strangers suddenly vanished, leaving no trace of their presence save the Alphorn, which the young man put to his lips just as the first gleams of light appeared in the east. Then, to his delight, he found he could play as well as the mysterious stranger.
He soon made a second horn just like the one he had received from his night visitors, and taught his beloved to use it. They kept up a lively musical intercourse all summer, although too far apart to hear each other’s words. In the autumn they were married, and their descendants inherited their wonderful musical instruments, and still play the peculiar air, which has, as yet, lost none of its primitive charm.
A similar story is told of the Wengernalp, where, however, on the eve of the wedding, the young herdsman’s musical call was answered by a ghostly voice announcing the death of his betrothed. The expectant bridegroom was so shocked by these tidings that he dropped his wonderful horn, which was shattered on the rocks below him. Then, maddened by grief, he ranged the mountain, until, in a fit of despair, he committed suicide.
Since then, many imitations have been made of the magic horn, but none has ever reproduced any of its best high notes, and all the present instruments are remarkable for their deep, sad tones, which produce an indescribably mournful impression upon all those who hear them for the first time.
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ON the way from Meiringen to the famous Rhône glacier, one sees some of the most beautiful and varied scenery in the world. After passing charming points too numerous to mention, the road, which rises rapidly, leads over the barren Grimsel Pass, where stands a famous refuge for poor travellers, the well-known Grimsel Hospice.
A legend claims that in olden times this region blossomed like the rose, and that the highest mountains were as fertile as any valley nestling in a sheltered location at their foot. When Our Lord bade the Wandering Jew[4] begin the never-ending journey for which he is so noted, he immediately set out, and tramping incessantly, started to cross the Alps at the Grimsel. Although constantly urged along by a power he could not resist, Ahasuerus, the Jew, marked the happy people dwelling on the banks of the Aare and the Rhône, and marvelled at the extreme fertility of the pass, where grapes and figs grew in abundance, where no barren spot could be seen, and where mighty oaks covered the tops of mountains now crowned by eternal snows.
[4] See the author’s “Legends of the Virgin and Christ.”
The air was mild and balmy, even at the greatest altitude; and hosts of birds in bright plumage flitted about, twittering and singing in the merriest way. Ahasuerus also noticed that the people were gentle and hospitable, for wherever he asked for food or drink it was quickly granted, and he was warmly invited to tarry with them and rest his weary limbs. This invitation, however, he could not accept; but hurried on, unconscious of the fact that a blight fell over every place through which he passed; for the curse laid upon him not only condemned him to move on for ever, but enhanced his punishment by making cold, want, and pestilence follow in his train.
Many years passed by before the Wandering Jew again found himself near the Alps; but weary as he was, he somewhat quickened his footsteps, hoping to feast his eyes upon the landscape which had so charmed him the first time, and to meet again the warm-hearted people who had been so kind to him once before.
As he drew near the mountains, however, sad forebodings wrung his heart, for they were enveloped in a dense fog, which seemed to him particularly cold and clammy. Hurrying on up the pass, he eagerly looked from side to side, yet saw nothing but dark pines wildly tossing their sombre branches against a gray sky, while ravens and owls flew past him, croaking and hooting. Vines, figs, and oaks had vanished, and the happy people, driven away by the constant windstorms which swept the mountains, had taken refuge in the sheltered valleys. But although all else was changed, the spirit of hospitality still lingered on the heights, for the charcoal-burners gladly shared their meagre supply of coarse food with the Wandering Jew, and warmly invited him to be seated at their campfire.
The Jew, however, had to hasten on; and many long years elapsed before he again trod the Grimsel Pass. For a while he still perceived dark firs and smouldering fires, but it seemed to him that they were much nearer the foot of the mountain than they had been at his second visit. As he climbed upward he also noticed that the path was much more rugged than before, for rocks and stones had fallen down upon it from above, making it almost impassable in certain places. As no obstacle could stop this involuntary traveller, he went on over rolling stones and jagged rocks, and nearing the top of the pass discovered that every trace of vegetation had vanished, and that the place formerly so fertile was now covered with barren rocks and vast fields of snow. Raising his eyes to the peaks all around him he perceived that oaks, beeches, and pines had all vanished, and that the steep mountain sides were heavily coated with ice, which ran far down into the valleys in great frozen streams.
The sight of all this desolation, which had taken the place of such luxuriant vegetation, proved too much for poor Ahasuerus, who sank down on a rock by the wayside and burst into tears. There he sat and sobbed, as he realised for the first time the blighting effect of his passage. His tears flowed so freely that they trickled down into a rocky basin, and when he rose to pursue his way down into the Hasli valley, he left a little lake behind him.
In spite of the masses of snow and ice all around, and of the cold winds which constantly sweep over that region, the waters of the lake still remain as warm as the tears which fell from Ahasuerus’s eyes; and no fish are ever found in this pool.
Still, notwithstanding the desolate landscape, Ahasuerus found the spirit of hospitality not quite dead, for far up on the pass rose a shelter for weary travellers, where they were carefully tended by pious monks. But even here he could not rest, and as he passed along down the mountain, he heard the thunder of falling avalanches behind him. It is during this last journey that he is supposed to have lost the queer old shoe which was long treasured in one of the vaults of the Bern Library.
It is also said that when pausing at one of the huts in the Hasli valley, he sorrowfully foretold that when fate brought him there for the fourth and last time, the whole fruitful valley, from the top of the mountains down to the Lake of Brienz, would be transformed into a huge unbroken field of ice, where he would wander alone in quest of the final resting-place which until now has been denied him, although Eugene Field claims he found it in the New World.[5]
[5] See “The Holy Cross,” by Eugene Field.
This account of the passage of the Wandering Jew is told with slight variations of all the passes between Switzerland and Italy. Every particularly barren spot in the former country is supposed to have been blighted because he passed through there, or because mortals sinned so grievously that they brought a curse down upon it.
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ALTHOUGH travellers coming over the Grimsel often make their way from there to Grindelwald, in the heart of the Oberland, this point is most easily reached from Interlaken, by means of the railroad following the course of an Alpine stream, the Lütchine, which flows in a rocky bed between tall cliffs and steep pine-clad hills. After passing Burglauenen, of which the same story is told as of Roll on the Lake of Thun, you come to Grindelwald, where you have the best view of the Wetterhorn.
A picturesque legend claims that in the Golden Age, when no snow or ice had ever been seen in Switzerland, rich pastures lay between the Faulhorn and the Siedelhorn. A fine brook flowing through there supplied the cattle with all the water they needed, and enabled the herdsmen to keep all their pails and pans in a state of dazzling whiteness and immaculate purity. The pasture was so rich, and the cows gave such quantities of milk, that the men were always tired of milking long before they were through. Spoiled by too great plenty, and over-inclined to take their ease, these men cursed cows and pasture, so a great change soon took place, which at first struck them as very welcome, because as the kine’s milk decreased their work diminished.
But one day a maiden came to Gidi, the principal herdsman, and breathlessly announced that a very strange thing had happened, for the brook was all covered with a very thin sheet of glass! When Gidi heard this, he cried,--
“Then it is high time we should change our pasture!”
He therefore immediately drove his herd down into the valley, where, clearing away the dense forest, he built the little village Gidisdorf, which still bears his name. Since then, that place--more generally known as Grindelwald--has become a great resort for tourists, who are attracted thither by the healthful situation, and by the marvellous views obtainable on all sides. From this place many interesting excursions are possible, among others that to the Scheidegg.
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IT seems that the possession of the Great or Hasli Scheidegg was once the cause of a serious dispute between the people of Hasli and Grindelwald. As the matter could not be settled otherwise, it was to be decided by oath. The people of Grindelwald, who could not swear truthfully that it belonged to them, nevertheless won it by stratagem, for their champion, filling his shoes with earth from his garden at Grindelwald, boldly presented himself before the judge on the disputed land. There he swore in a tone of such intense conviction that he stood upon Grindelwald soil, that the judge, persuaded of the rectitude of his claim, awarded the disputed land to his community.
The perjurer was, however, duly punished for this crime, for even now his soul can find no rest. Mounted the wrong way round upon a ghostly steed, he rides every night from the spot where he committed perjury down to Meiringen; and if one listens attentively one can often hear his sighs and groans as he takes this nightly jaunt.
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