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.
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.
On either side of the Upper Grindelwald Glacier tower the Wetterhorn and the two Schreckhorn peaks. The latter mountains are said to be haunted by an unhappy chamois-hunter, who insisted on going in pursuit of game, although a terrible storm was raging and his wife frantically implored him to stay at home.
After climbing far up among the rocks, he detected a fine chamois, and crouching near the edge of a fearful abyss, took careful aim and fired. But just then his gun recoiled, and losing his insecure footing, he slipped over the edge. Instead of falling all the way down, however, the hunter landed on a narrow ledge of rock, whence he could not stir, for the cliff rose straight above and fell sheer below him hundreds of feet.
The poor man, unable to move, remained almost in the same position for three days and two nights, when, seeing no hope of escape, and unable to endure his sufferings any longer, he resolved to commit suicide. Writing the story of the accident which had befallen him and of his fatal resolve, he threw the scrap of paper down into the abyss at his feet. Then, reloading his gun, which he had held fast in his fall, he sent an unerring bullet straight through his brain.
Months later the paper was found close by his shattered corpse; and since then, whenever a storm rages, one can hear the sudden report of a gun, a crashing fall, prolonged heart-rending groans, and the people declare it is the suicide repeating the awful tragedy which ended his life.
It seems that there was once a convent at Interlaken where the nuns, unmindful of their vows, led anything but pure lives. Banished after death to the Schreckhorn, these nuns lie buried deep in the snow; but the spots where they rest glitter in a peculiar way, and are known as Snow Eyes. People say that they are placed there to serve as a constant warning to the valley maidens not to follow the example of those dissolute nuns.
A legend claims that St. Martin once came to Grindelwald, and finding a valley too narrow to admit as much sunshine as he deemed necessary for the good of the people, determined to widen it. He therefore resolutely braced his back against the Mettenberg, and jamming his stick hard against the Eiger, pushed with such force that he partly accomplished his purpose. Such was the effort he made, that the imprint of his back can still be seen in the Mettenberg and a final thrust of his staff punched a hole through the Eiger! This perforation, far up the mountain, is known as the Heiterloch or Martinsloch, and the sun always shines through it on St. Martin’s Day, to keep bright the memory of the saint who made it.
Far up on the southwestern side of the Jungfrau, or Virgin Mountain, is a desolate, icy place, known as the Rothenthal, or Red Valley. In olden times this was one of the most fertile pastures that had ever been seen. And as it was all gemmed over with delicate Alpine flowers, it was generally known as the Alp of the Little Flowers, or the Blümelis Alp.
A beautiful winding road leading right through this valley formed a convenient pass between the cantons of Bern and Valais, and the people there would have been perfectly happy had they not been subject to tyrannical lords. These noblemen were grasping and unprincipled, as well as cruel, and built a castle near the highway so that they could conveniently despoil all travellers and levy supplies from the peasants in the neighbourhood. Not content with these depredations, they cultivated every vice they could think of, and often kidnapped the maidens who happened to please their taste or catch their lustful eyes.
A beautiful and innocent maiden was once tending her cows upon the fragrant Blümelis Alp when the lord of Rothenthal suddenly perceived her, and inflamed by passion suddenly tried to seize her. The poor girl uttered a wild shriek of terror, and looked around her for help. No one was in sight, however, and she already deemed herself lost, when a big black goat suddenly appeared, and rushing against her assailant with lowered horns, bucked him repeatedly, and finally hurled him over the edge of the precipice. The maiden, who had fled when the nobleman let go of her to defend himself against his horned antagonist, turned around just in time to see her persecutor fall. At the same moment the mountains shook violently, and huge masses of ice and rock came crashing down upon the blooming pasture, which, in the twinkling of an eye, was converted into the icy waste you can see there to-day.
Although now seldom trodden by human feet, the Rothenthal is still said to be haunted by the spirits of all those who have oppressed their fellow-men. Here they wander, up and down, bewailing their fate with sighs and groans which can be heard far and wide. Whenever the demons bring a new spirit thither to share their punishment, there is a grand commotion in the Rothenthal,—stones roll, avalanches fall, and the cries and groans become so loud and sustained that the people in the neighbouring valleys, awakening with a start, hide their heads under their blankets and murmur,—
“They are bringing another lord to the Valley!”
A moment later a sudden and stronger gust of wind sweeps past their dwellings; and when it is over, they timidly emerge from their coverings, making the sign of the cross to ward off evil, or softly breathing a prayer to be preserved from harm.
Interlaken is also the usual point of departure for those who wish to visit the valley of Lauterbrunnen, the famous Falls of the Staubbach, and the pastures of Mürren, whence such a beautiful view of the Alps can be obtained, and whence the sunset effects on the glaciers are particularly grand. As Mr. Samuel Longfellow says,—
6 Poems of Places—Switzerland: Longfellow.
We are informed that in olden times, before the stream here had hollowed out its deep ravine, a herdsman used to exchange long conversations with his beloved, who tended her cattle on the opposite side of the Sausbach. One day when there was a great freshet, and the noise of the roaring waters drowned their voices, the young people, in a playful mood, began to fling handfuls of grass and sod at each other, laughing merrily and making mocking signs whenever one of the harmless missiles reached its goal. In the excitement of the game, however, the young man finally tore up a great lump of loose earth, and unconscious of the fact that a sharp stone lay imbedded deep in it, hurled it with accurate aim straight at the head of his sweetheart. Instead of the half-laughing, half-indignant outcry he fully expected, he suddenly saw the maiden sink lifeless to the ground, for the sharp stone had run straight into her temple!
The broken-hearted youth gave up his herd, withdrew from the company of his former associates, and building a hut on the very spot where the girl he loved had perished, spent the rest of his life in penance and prayer. It is also said that he finally died there, without having known another happy moment, and without ever smiling again.