In Midsummer Days, and Other Tales Part 11

"Come to me to-morrow... yes, come to the Opera-house, and then we shall see. I am conducting there...."

The singer went, not once or twice, but many times, and regained her former position.

The public had forgiven and forgotten all the evil she had done. And she became greater and more famous than she had been before.

Isn't that an edifying story?

THE STORY OF THE ST. GOTTHARD

It was Sat.u.r.day night in Goschenen, in the canton of Uri, that part of Switzerland which William Tell and Walter Furst have made famous.

The pretty green village on the northern side of the St. Gotthard is situated on a little stream which drives a mill-wheel and contains trout. Quiet, kindly people live there, who speak the German language and have home rule, and the "sacred wood" protects their homes from avalanche and landslip.

On the Sat.u.r.day night I am speaking of, all the folks were gathering round the village pump, underneath the great walnut tree, at the hour when the church bells were ringing the Angelus. The postmaster, the magistrate, and the colonel were there, all in their shirt-sleeves and carrying scythes. They had been mowing all day long, and had come to the pump to wash their scythes, for in the little village work was sacred and every man was his own servant. Then the young men came trooping through the village street, carrying scythes too, and the maids with their milk-pails; finally the cows, a gigantic breed, every cow as big as a bull. The country is rich and fertile, but it bears neither wine nor olives, neither the mulberry tree nor the luxurious maize. Nothing but green gra.s.s and golden corn, the walnut tree and the luscious beet-root grow there.

At the foot of the steep wall of the St. Gotthard, close to the pump, stood the inn, "The Golden Horse." All the tired men, regardless of rank or position, were sitting at a long table in the garden, not one of them was missing: the magistrate, the postmaster, the colonel and the farmers' labourers; the straw-hat manufacturer and his workmen, the little village shoemaker, and the schoolmaster, they were all there.

They talked of cattle breeding and harvest time; they sang songs, reminiscent in their simplicity of cowbells and the shepherd's flute.

They sang of the spring and its pure joys, of its promise and its hope.

And they drank the golden beer.

After a while the young men rose to play, to wrestle and to jump, for on the following day was the annual festival of the Rifle Club, and there would be trials of strength, and compet.i.tions; it was important therefore that their limbs should be supple.

And at an early hour that night the whole village was in bed, for no man must be late on the morning of the festival, and no one must be sleepy or dull. The honour of the village was involved.

It was Sunday morning; the sun was shining brightly and the church bells were ringing. Men and women from the neighbouring villages, in their best Sunday clothes, were gathering on the village green, and all of them looked happy and very wide awake. Nearly every man carried a gun instead of the scythe; and matrons and maids looked at the men with scrutinising and encouraging eyes, for it was for the defence of their country and their homes that they had learned to handle a gun; and to-night the best shot would have the honour of opening the dance with the prettiest girl of the village.

A large waggon, drawn by four horses, gaily decorated with flowers and ribbons, drew up; the whole waggon had been transformed into a summer arbour; one could not see the people inside, but one could hear their songs. They sang of Switzerland and the Swiss people, the most beautiful country and the bravest people in the world.

Behind the waggon walked the children's procession. They went by twos, hand in hand, like good friends or little brides and bridegrooms.

And with the pealing of bells the procession slowly wound up the mountain to the church.

After divine service the festivities began, and very soon shots were fired on the rifle-range, which was built against the rocky wall of the St. Gotthard.

The postmaster's son was the best shot in the village, and n.o.body doubted that he would win the prize. He hit the bull's-eye four times out of six.

From the summit of the mountain came a hallooing and a crashing; stones and gravel rolled down the precipice, and the fir trees in the sacred wood rocked as if a gale were blowing. On the top of a cliff, his rifle slung across his shoulders, frantically waving his hat, appeared the wild chamois hunter Andrea of Airolo, an Italian village on the other side of the mountain.

"Don't go into the wood!" screamed the riflemen.

Andrea did not understand.

"Don't go into the sacred wood," shouted the magistrate, "or the mountain will fall on us!"

"Let it fall, then," shouted Andrea, running down the cliff with incredible rapidity.

"Here I am!"

"You're too late!" exclaimed the magistrate.

"I have never been too late yet!" replied Andrea; went to the shooting-range, raised his rifle six times to his cheek, and each time hit the bull's-eye.

Now, he really was the best shot, but the club had its regulations, and, moreover, the dark-skinned men from the other side of the mountain, where the wine grew and the silk was spun, were not very popular. An old feud raged between them and the men of Goschenen, and the newcomer was disqualified.

But Andrea approached the prettiest girl in the grounds, who happened to be the magistrate's own daughter, and politely asked her to open the dance with him.

Pretty Gertrude blushed, for she was fond of Andrea, but she was obliged to refuse his request.

Andrea frowned, bowed and whispered words into her ear, which covered her face with crimson.

"You shall be my wife," he said, "even if I have to wait ten years for you. I have walked eight hours across the mountain to meet you; that is why I am so late; next time I shall be in good time, even if I should have to walk right through the mountain itself."

The festivities were over. All the riflemen were sitting in "The Golden Horse," Andrea in the midst of them. Rudi, the son of the postmaster, sat at the head of the table, because he was the prize-winner according to the regulations, even if Andrea was the best shot in reality.

Rudi was in a teasing mood.

"Well, Andrea," he said, "we all know you for a mighty hunter; but, you know, it's easier to shoot a chamois than to carry it home."

"If I shoot a chamois I carry it home," replied Andrea.

"Maybe you do! But everybody here has had a shot at Barbarossa's ring, although n.o.body has won it yet!" answered Rudi.

"What is that about Barbarossa's ring?" asked a stranger who had never been in Goschenen.

"That's Barbarossa's ring, over there," said Rudi.

He pointed to the side of the mountain, where a large copper ring hung on a hook, and went on:

"This is the road by which King Frederick Barbarossa used to travel to Italy; he travelled over it six times, and was crowned both in Milan and in Rome. And as this made him German-Roman emperor, he caused this ring to be hung up on the mountain, in remembrance of his having wedded Germany to Italy. And if this ring, so goes the saying, can be lifted off its hook, then the marriage, which was not a happy one, will be annulled."

"Then I will annul it," said Andrea. "I will break the bonds as my fathers broke the bonds which bound my poor country to the tyrants of Schwyz, Uri, and Unterwalden."

"Are you not a Swiss, yourself?" asked the magistrate severely.

"No, I am an Italian of the Swiss Confederation."

He slipped an iron bullet into his gun, took aim and shot.

The ring was lifted from below and jerked off the hook. Barbarossa's ring lay at their feet.

"Long live Italy!" shouted Andrea. throwing his hat into the air.