THE LEGEND OF THE GORGE.
It is not utilized. Its only use is to support a very good hotel, the venerable party who takes a franc for admission to it, and several shops devoted to selling “souvenirs” to tourists. These are the only wheels this water power turns. About one hundred people make a comfortable living from the gorge, and they no doubt esteem it highly.
Of course the gorge has its legend. Every well regulated gorge in Switzerland as well as every other country in Europe has a legend, done in the most atrocious English, and execrably printed, which you can purchase of the local guide for what is equivalent to ten cents American money. I doubt not that Switzerland has a legend-factory running somewhere, which turns them out to order. People go several times, you see, and they want a new legend every time.
This legend accounts for the formation of the gorge, and I spent an entire night getting it into understandable English. It runs thus:—
Way back in the dark ages, when the devil was in the habit of coming in person to transact his business with men—and women—there was no gorge at all. The mountain was shaped not as it is now, but was a respectable mountain, with a properly conducted stream dancing down its side. This stream turned two mills, one owned by a very nice miller, named Balthazar, and the other by a very wicked miller, named Caspar.
Balthazar had the respect and esteem of his fellow-men, while Caspar was universally detested. He was a griping, grasping man, who took double toll, and was as avaricious as a grave-yard. Balthazar, on the other hand, was beloved by everybody, because he was good; and, because he was good, he was very poor. Caspar had succeeded in buying up his notes, and he held a claim on his mill, which he desired to get out of the way, as he wanted no competition. But Balthazar kept right along, for he had friends somewhere who advanced money to him, so that he could keep up the interest and defy the enemy.
Caspar tried every way to get rid of his competitor, but he could not, and he chafed under it. He dwelt upon it so long that it became a mania with him. How to crush Balthazar and have the sole privilege of plundering the people was the thought with him by day and night.
One Spring he bought more of Balthazar’s paper, but, to his chagrin, Balthazar came around promptly and paid it, the day it was due, and Caspar found himself foiled again.
And so that night when he was pacing his room and fretting and fuming about his disappointment, he remarked to himself mentally—a very dangerous thing in those days—that he would give his soul to be relieved of this popular rival.
No sooner thought than done. The archdemon appeared in person, and Caspar did not seem to be surprised.