The Spell of Switzerland

From Morat I came up to Fribourg, which, to me, was so interesting that I should have liked to stay there a week. In the old days it must have made a natural castle standing on its acropolis almost surrounded by the Sarine River. Indeed, some of the medieval walls and towers are still left to bespeak its military prestige. Ancient churches make it picturesque. That of Saint Nicholas was begun about a hundred years after the town was founded; it has wonderful stained-glass windows, dating back to the Fourteenth Century, carved stalls, and a glorious organ with seven thousand eight hundred pipes. I was fortunate enough to be there while the organist was playing. But most church organs are out of tune. Variations of temperature so easily affect the pipes.

I was pleased to know that the Catholic Bishop of Lausanne resides in Fribourg, which, indeed, is largely a Catholic town. The ancient linden-tree on the Place de l’Hotel-de-Ville would have delighted Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, who was always measuring big trunks. This is more than four meters in circumference, and, like every other big tree, it traces its pedigree back to a tiny slip stuck into the ground. It was brought by the young Freiburger, who, having run all the way from Morat, announced the news of the great battle there in 1476 by crying “Victory” and falling dead of his wounds and exhaustion. Probably Pheidippides brought a willow wand which grew into a monstrous tree.

The great suspension bridges also are worth seeing, and every vantage-point has a magnificent view.

Bern was my next objective point. I delighted in the quaint old arcaded streets made under the grey stone houses with their green Venetian shutters, and in the Sixteenth-Century fountains. An abundance of water is one of the most blessed gifts of the gods. I put up at the Bernerhof Hotel and spent a day “seeing the sights.”

Bern was founded by Berthold V of Zähringen in the Twelfth Century, the same Berthold that built Fribourg. Legend makes it out that he named his new city after the quarry of his favourite priest. This proved to be a bear. He spoke his will in a rhyme:

“Holtz, lass dich hauen gern,Die Stadt muss heissen Bern.”

Whether the name came from the legend or the legend from the name is a question no man can decide. The bear is seen on every city shield, and those that once ornamented the city-gates are now penned in the Historical Museum. The bears also come out automatically on the famous Zeitglockenturm. The real bears in the pits – which are pits – are said to be lineal descendants of a cub brought back from a hunt by Berthold himself, or, as others have it, from a pair given him by René, Duc de Lorraine. In 1798 General Brune carried them off to Paris and put them in the Jardin des Plantes, but they were so homesick that they were returned.

“Noble animals,” exclaimed a friend of mine, “fed and pampered as they deserve to be, for they brought good fortune to the triumphant Bernese at Donnerbrühl and at Laupen. Established like real kings under the fir-tree, they seem to look up at us with disdain – at us feeble creatures who gaze at their mighty muscles and at their indomitable eyes!”

A statue to Rudolf von Erlach, the hero of Laupen, is one of the ornaments of the city. Saint Christopher also used to have a wooden statue; it was supposed to guard the silver communion-service, but the plate was stolen again and again, and so he was banished to a niche in the tower that bears his name, and, as he faced the David fountain, he acquired the nickname of Goliath, and, if tradition tells the truth, which I would never dare deny, whenever the town clock struck twelve he used to rain Weckli, or little cakes, on the people. In order to make the legend true it is said that a rich lady ordered this miracle to be performed. She lived to be a hundred, and, when she died in 1857, the Cathedral chimes were rung in her honour. A statue of Saint Christopher also stands now in the Museum – a relic of the day when Bern was mostly built of wood, as was indicated in the duke’s couplet.

I shall not attempt to tell all I saw in Bern; it would fill a volume; besides, I have reserved the fine old city for at least a year in one of my future reincarnations. Bern is the capital of the Swiss Confederation, and whole chapters would require to be written to elucidate the history and government of the country. There are splendid museums, and libraries, and the University, though comparatively recent, has more than a thousand students enrolled.

As it is always my habit to get above a city if possible, either on a church tower or on some commanding hill, I went to the Gurten and was there at sunset when the Alpenglow was exhibited with all its pomp. Below lay the splendid buildings of the prosperous town with their towers and variegated roofs and gables. At the foot of the lovely Blümlisalp could be seen the glint of the Lake of Thun, and as for mountains – merely to mention the Jungfrau, the Finsteraarhorn, the Eiger and the Mönch, brings up to me now, not seeing them, a vision that makes the tears come to my eyes. What shall I say, too, to add to the picture, so inadequately hinted at, merely, more than to chronicle that the moon arose not quite at her full but pouring out a jar of golden light that filled the whole valley with vibrating, quivering beauty? At night mountains seem to shrink as if they lay down to sleep. So, from the eight hundred and sixty-one meter altitude of the Gurten, I had the brilliant afternoon sunlight, the most perfect view of the blushing Jungfrau, – and it was most becoming to her, – and then a radiant moonlight night.

CHAPTER XXIII

AT ZÜRICH WITH THE PROFESSOR

EARLY the following morning I started for Zürich by the way of Lucerne. I shall say nothing about that gem of cities now; for, in the first place, it was raining when I arrived there, and, in the second place, I had later an opportunity to spend a fortnight there, or rather in the vicinity, with a college classmate who was occupying a handsome villa situated high up above the lake and affording a marvellous gallery of views from every side. I met him by accident in the railway station and he insisted on taking me home with him then and there. Only by faithfully promising him that I would come back to him after my trip in the Tyrol, did he allow me to continue on my way.

So I reached Zürich exactly on time and I found Professor Landoldt awaiting me. He took me in a taxicab to his quaint and amusing old house, situated high up and looking over the whole city. When we got there I must say it did not overlook anything, because of the low hanging clouds from which fell a steady rain. One of R. Töpfer’s “Nouvelles Génévoises” begins with these words: – “When you travel in Switzerland alone and not bringing your always amiable family along with you, the rain is a melancholy harbinger of tedium as it confines you in a hotel-parlor in the company of disappointed tourists.”

I was alone and without my family and it was disappointing to get my first view of Zürich without being able to see much of anything. But the cheery welcome that I received atoned for it. Frau Landoldt was a hearty German woman. I learned accidentally that her father was a Baron von Eggisland and quite well-known as an artist. She herself had a remarkable gift for painting. She was very pretty, with rippling fair hair and eyes like turquoises. They had no children. German individuality is always seen in the decoration of rooms, in the arrangement of pictures and ornaments; it is very different from English or American taste. But in her home prevailed that atmosphere of Gemütlichkeit which is the very soul of hospitality and makes one happy.

In the middle of the afternoon coffee was brought in, together with Apfelküchen and cheese, jam and fruit. We chatted as we drank the delicious coffee. The Professor and his wife were interested to know what I had been doing since I reached Switzerland, and I told them about some of the more notable expeditions which I had enjoyed, especially my trip around the Lake Leman and my visit to Geneva.

As it still rained and was not propitious for sallying forth, we went into the study of Professor Landoldt, which, as I glanced over it, I found had a well-selected variety of books in various languages, especially on history. One of my first remarks, after I had made a cursory tour of the room, rather surprised the serious-minded German. I said: “If one of my chickens – though, to tell the truth, I never had a chicken in my life – were to escape and fly over into my neighbour’s yard or my dog should run away, I could claim him and bring him back?”

“A propos?” asked the Professor, most politely, but evidently thinking I had gone verrückt.

“As far as I can make out, a large part of the soil of Switzerland has run away and is disporting itself all over the rest of Europe. Why does it not still belong to Switzerland?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” he said, very seriously.

“What I really mean is this; if Switzerland, which is a republic, governed, as far as I can judge, more democratically even than our United States, could establish its claim to its run-away land and introduce the same form of government in the army-swamped countries of Europe, – in Germany, France and Austria, – think what a blessing it would be!”

“The time will come,” said the Professor, “when there will be the United States of Europe. Militarism foments national jealousies, but the common people cherish no hatreds. Our little Switzerland was originally just as much divided against itself as Germany and France would be if Fate should suddenly amalgamate them. Germany seized Alsace, and, when I was in Strassbourg not long ago, I noticed that all the men at the market wore knots of black ribbon: that was in token of mourning, because they had been torn from France. But if there were the United States of Europe all that commemoration of hard feelings would vanish. Napoleon was eagle-eyed and prophetic enough to foresee what was coming; he would have made Europe one grand empire, but one grand empire would have been the next step to one grand republic, just as the trusts foreshadow government ownership. Think what would be the saving in what you call ‘dollars and cents’ alone, if the rivalry in military expenditure could be stopped. It would free billions and billions to make perfect roads, to do away with slums, to educate the masses, to cure the disease of intemperance, as well as other curable diseases. It is coming as sure as Fate. We already see the rosy light of its rising on the highest mountain-tops – the sun of democracy touches the edge of the horizon.”

“That is fine,” said I. “Yes, the people are waking to their birthrights. Not long ago I was asked to address a large audience of Russian Jews gathered to do honour to Count Tolstoï. I said the time would come when, instead of the Emperor of Russia and the Emperor of Germany commanding several millions of peasants torn from their homes to fight with one another for some cause in which they had not the slightest interest, and naturally friendly, these same millions of men would suddenly reverse the current; if there was to be a fight, they would stand round in a vast circle and let the two emperors settle it in the arena just as David fought with Goliath, – perhaps by a discussion, and not by swords and slings or pistols, – and it would be settled just as equitably as if thousands of men and thousands of horses were killed and horribly maimed.”

“The possibility of men of rival nations working side by side has been shown again and again. I have been recently reading about the battle of Zürich, where Masséna defeated the Russians and Austrians. Russians and Austrians fought side by side. A juggle would have set Austrians and Russians fighting one another. Hitherto they have been only pawns, but the new game of chess makes the united pawns more powerful than kings, queens and bishops.”

“That reminds me of the prediction made by the young Marquis de Pezay, author of ‘Zèles au Bain,’ who in 1771 came to Switzerland and published his ‘Soirées Helvétiques’ full of odd apostrophes – ‘Peoples, whom I am about to visit, good Swiss, shut not your gates to my passage!’ He did not altogether like the mountains, though he called them sublime and immense – ‘colosses d’albâtres’ – and he said that they would some day be cut down and practicable roads would be put through, ‘so as to make the nations sisters.’ He made fun of the militarism of the Bernese, though he himself was an officer in the French army. He said: ‘When universal peace comes about we shall see bloody partizans exchanged for useful basins,’ – if that is what he means by bâches salutaires, – ‘the ruinous revêtements of our citadels will look down only on wide canals navigable and well-supplied with fish, and gunpowder will not be exploded in the air except to blow up rocks or celebrate the festivals of pacific kings.’”

“So is that fine,” said the Professor. “But speaking of the Russians and the Austrians fighting side by side – that was a masterly retreat which Suvórof made over the mountains. I do not know which to admire most, Hannibal in taking his elephants across the Alps from the Rhône to the Po, or the Russian field-marshal extricating himself from the cul de sac into which his obstinacy had entrapped him.”

“That is odd!” I exclaimed. “I have just been reading about Hannibal in Polybius and Livy, but I have forgotten if I ever knew the exact facts about Suvórof.”

“I will tell you about it,” said the Professor, “if you would like to hear it.”

“Indeed I would.”

The Professor got out a large atlas, and occasionally showed me the places on the map. “I will tell you,” he said, “there is a remarkable account of Suvórof’s adventure in the Swiss novelist Ernst Zahn’s ‘Albin Indergand.’ It is right from the life. But I will do my best.

“Suvórof, who had crossed the Alps and seized Turin and Milan, was ordered by the Emperor to have his plans approved before being put into execution. He complained of this absurd restriction. ‘In war,’ he said, ‘circumstances are changing from one moment to another; consequently there can be no precise plan of action.’

“He was surrounded by jealousies and by spies, and the Austrian court issued orders without consulting him.

“He was so disgusted with the condition of things that he was tempted to throw up his command. He wrote to the Emperor asking if he might be recalled: ‘I wish to lay my bones in my fatherland and pray God for my Emperor.’ The battle of the Trebbia was succeeded by the sanguinary fight at Novi, where Suvórof allowed his forces to be almost annihilated before he woke to the danger in which he was placed. At this battle the French loss was twelve thousand; that of the Allies eight thousand, of which one-fourth were Russians. The Russians began to sack Novi, but Suvórof managed to restrain them. He was then ordered to lead the armies in Switzerland.

“He was heartbroken at the vain result of his efforts and triumphs.

“He was almost seventy years old, and during his professional career of half a century, he had never been defeated.

“He had for a local guide through Switzerland Colonel Weywrother, an Austrian officer. Misled by him the Russian general calculated that he could reach Schwyz in seven days. He had twenty thousand men. Uncorrected by Weywrother, he selected a road which ended at Altorf whence the only passage to Lucerne and Schwyz was by water. When, after an incredibly rapid march, covering in four days a space usually requiring a week, they reached Taverna, not one of the fifteen hundred mules ordered was on hand and all the advantage of this marvellous forced passage was lost. They were delayed five days, and then only six hundred and fifty mules came.

“The Grand Duke Constantine suggested dismounting the four thousand Cossacks and using their horses as pack-animals. Lieutenant-General Rosenberg, with a division of six thousand, attempted to turn the Saint-Gotthard pass by the Val di Blegno, Dissentis and the Oberalp Lake. He was obliged to bivouac at Cassaccia, nearly two thousand three hundred meters above the sea, in bitter cold without fire or any sort of shelter. But he succeeded in getting behind the enemy’s position.

“Suvórof, mounted on a Cossack horse and wearing the cloth uniform-coat of a private over his flimsy suit, and topping all with his famous threadbare cloak, rode up from Bellinzona, accompanied by an aged peasant guide, who did not know that the road ended at Altorf.

“Reaching and capturing Airolo, they drove out the French, who retired to the mountain and kept up a galling fire.

“When the Russians attempted to carry the summit of the pass it took two successive assaults, at a loss of two thousand men, to win it.

“Rosenberg had, in the meantime, driven the French from the Oberalpsee and crossed the heights above Andermatt, then dashing down through dense fog, had captured that village, and cut off the French reinforcements.

“Flinging his cannon into the Reuss, he took his men over the Betzberg, more than two thousand two hundred meters in height, and brought them in safety into the Göschenen valley.

“The Urner Loch, a passage cut in the solid rock and just large enough to admit a single pedestrian and his pack, and the Devil’s Bridge, wide enough to allow two men to walk abreast, hanging twenty-three meters above the swift Reuss, were the only means of getting to the pass, which is about half a kilometer long.

“A promiscuous slaughter followed. A French gun swept the tunnel from end to end with grape, and mowed down all who entered. The rearmost Russians pushed those in front of them towards the hole. Its entrance was choked with human beings, and many were pushed over the edge of the chasm and perished in the boiling torrent.

“This waste of life lasted till the Russian flanking parties came in sight on the heights above. Then the defenders of the tunnel retired across the Devil’s Bridge. One can see even now where they broke down the masonry platform by which it was approached. Then followed a murderous battle. The combatants were separated only by the narrow chasm of the Reuss. At last the French, seeing the enemy working his way along the mountain above them to the right, began to waver. Their assailants streamed across the narrow arch as far as the break in the masonry platform. To cross it they pulled down a shed hard by; bound its timbers together with officers’ sashes and laid them across the chasm; Prince Meschersky was the first to cross. ‘Do not forget me in the despatches,’ he cried, as he fell mortally wounded. A Cossack followed him but fell into the torrent.

“The French retreated to Seedorf, on the left bank of the Reuss, and there waited the turn of affairs. Meantime Suvórof had reached Altorf, where he found the end of his path.

“Not knowing how conditions were around Zürich, he determined to force his way to Schwyz. To do this meant to march across the Rosstock, that rugged ridge between the Schächental and the Muotta.

“Even under favourable conditions it is a hard task; but it was now late in the season; yet in spite of all common sense reasons he decided on this plan.

“The terrible advance up the Kinzig pass began on the 27th of September. Bagration was in the van; Rosenberg remained behind to protect the rear. Here is the graphic picture which Milyutin gives of the journey: —

“‘The path became gradually steeper and at times disappeared altogether.

“‘It was not an easy matter for pedestrians to climb such a height: what then must have been the difficulty of conducting horses and mules, laden with guns, ammunition and cartridges! The poor animals could hardly budge a foot; in many cases they stumbled from the narrow pathway headlong into the abyss and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below. The horses often dragged the men with them in their fall; a false step was death.

“‘At times black clouds descending the mountain-sides enveloped the column in dense vapor and the troops were soaked to the skin as if by heavy rain. They groped their way through the raw fog, everything round about being invisible.

“‘The boots of both officers and men were for the most part worn out. Their biscuit-bags were empty. Nothing was left to sustain their strength.

“‘But, in spite of extreme suffering, the half-shod, starving troops of Russia kept up their spirits. In the hour of trial the presence of the son of their Emperor, sharing their fatigues and dangers, encouraged them. During the entire march the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovitch marched with Bagration’s advance-guard.’

“The sufferings of those Russians were incredible! The main body of the troops spent the bitter cold night in the mountains, with little to eat, no fire and no shelter. Many perished from exposure.

“In the morning Suvórof learned that Korsákof had been defeated at Zürich, that Glarus was in the hands of the French; that Hotze was defeated and killed in the battle on the Linth; that the Austrians who should have been his support on the right had retreated. Masséna was approaching Schwyz to meet him there; Molitor held Glarus; Le Courbe was at Altorf.

“He was caught in a trap. On the 29th he summoned a council of war.

“When the council was assembled he broke into a furious invective against the Austrians and put the question fair and square: —

“‘We are surrounded in the midst of the mountains by an enemy superior in strength. What are we to do? To retreat is dishonor. I have never retreated. To advance to Schwyz is impossible. Masséna has sixty thousand men; we have not twenty thousand. Besides, we are destitute of provisions, cartridges and artillery. We can look to no one for aid. We are on the brink of ruin.’

“The council voted to march on Glarus and force a passage past the Wallensee.

“Suvórof ended with these brave words: —

“‘All one can do is to trust in Almighty God and in the courage and devotion of our troops. We are Russians. God is with us.’

“Then the old marshal fell at the feet of the Grand Duke Constantine Pavlovitch. The Grand Duke raised him and kissed him.

“‘Save the honor of Russia and her Tsar! Save our Emperor’s son! Da! We are Russians. With the help of God we will conquer!’

“Bagration pushed the French back into the narrow gorge between the mountains and the Klöntalersee; but having then a solid position they resisted further attack. Masséna, advancing from Schwyz, was attacking Rosenberg in the rear in the Muotta valley, but met by Rehbinder’s brigade and attacked from above by Cossacks fighting on foot, they were driven back through the defile, a terrible slaughter of the fugitives taking place at the bridge, now known as Suvórof’s, which spanned the Muotta.

“Again the Russians had to sleep out-of-doors, cold and starving and exposed to a bitter sleet. The grand duke and Suvórof found shelter in a cow-shed.

“On the morning of October 1, Masséna with fifteen thousand men again attacked Rosenberg whose troops followed up ‘a staggering volley’ with the famous Suvórof bayonet charge and drove them miles down the valley, inflicting on them a loss of more than two thousand, not counting perhaps as many more drowned in the Muotta, while some hundreds fell or threw themselves over precipices.

“Bagration was having equal success against Molitor in the defile by the Klöntalersee driving him back to Mollis, but when he was reinforced, retiring to Nettstal, in good order. Suvórof himself had captured Glarus and a large supply of provisions; while Rosenberg by a master-stroke of strategy succeeded in rejoining Suvórof in spite of a heavy snow-storm, and the sufferings of his men, who in their turn had to bivouac on the pass without food or fire.

“The army, however, was still hemmed in and was short of provisions, and still worse, short of ammunition. Their only hope was to escape by the Panixer pass, but at this time of the year the deep snow already fallen had obliterated the path; they were surrounded by dense clouds; they had no guides; the superstitious Russians were greatly alarmed by seeing the lightning and hearing peals of thunder below them – a phenomenon which seemed to them supernatural. Occasionally a man, or even an officer, mounted, would vanish entirely, swallowed up in some deep crevasse hidden by snow.

“They had to spend the night again on the mountain; it grew bitter cold; the snow became dangerously slippery. A bombardment of rocks from the heights above killed many.