Already three hundred years ago, Gruyere shepherds began grazing their flocks in the beautiful Motelon valley. Judging by the fact that the Count de Gruyères recruited up to thirty soldiers from the inhabitants of the valley and collected from them a tax amounting to quite a large amount of barley, a lot of people lived on the Motelon land in those ancient times.
The Motelon Valley is famous, firstly, for the beautiful trout that lives in its clear reservoirs, and secondly, for the tincture of gentian root, which its inhabitants are incomparably able to make. Ah, a wonderful tincture! What nectar!
Elixir of hunters, joy of shepherds,
Makes even old people talkative!
This is how Rambert sang this drink.
Around 1780, a young man named Jean-Pierre de Todelot, originally from Gruyères, worked as a shepherd in the Gruen pasture, located at the foot of the Dent de Broc mountain.
One Sunday he went to visit his maternal grandfather in the village of Pre-aux-Cerfs, which is located next to the mountain pass separating the Motelon and Gros Mont valleys. Relatives greeted Jean-Pierre cordially. Cousin Annetta was especially glad to see him. The fact is that Jean-Pierre and Annetta loved each other very much and had long dreamed of a wedding. The girl’s parents reacted favorably to their daughter’s decision to become the wife of such a handsome and dexterous young man as Jean-Pierre, and now the young man had to inform his own father and mother about his intention. Annette's mother prepared a large bottle of gentian root tincture for Jean-Pierre's parents and asked them to give it to them as a sign of friendship and respect.
A few days later Jean-Pierre went to Gruyères. He tidied up his hut, washed, combed his hair, put on a shirt with wide sleeves and a vest embroidered with flowers, pulled a round shepherd's hat on his head, put a pipe in his teeth, and, leaning on a cane with a curved handle, set off.
It was a quiet Saturday evening. The sun was setting. Jean-Pierre walked along steep mountain roads, carefully carrying a bottle of gentian root tincture under his arm. He was in a great mood, extremely pleasant thoughts were floating in his head. Night fell, but the darkness did not bother Jean-Pierre at all, for he perfectly knew all the paths in this area. Moreover, the moon was shining brightly in the sky. The young man quickly walked through mountain ranges, foggy hollows, meadows, covered with the aromas of fragrant herbs. Soon the month hid behind the clouds. It began to rain. By that time, Jean-Pierre had already entered the dense forest called Gisette. He walked right through it along a rocky road and soon found himself near the rocks overlooking a vast pasture, which is also called Gisette. And then a most strange sight met his eyes.
At the foot of one of the rocks there were the ruins of an ancient chapel with a small hut adjacent to it. Jean-Pierre knew that once there was a desert in this place, and many holy hermits spent their lives here. But no one has settled in the desert for a long time. During the day, colorful butterflies flew into the lonely ruins and forest animals climbed into them, and at night only the dim rays of the moon crept there. However, now there was someone there...
Under a rotten wooden canopy, leaning against a half-collapsed wall, sat an old man with a long gray beard, dressed in a monastic robe. His head was covered with a large hood, and his bare feet were wearing torn sandals. Ignoring the nasty cold rain, the stranger was sewing something on his lap. On a long rope tied to a canopy, an ancient iron lamp was swinging, inside of which a light was dancing, and strange shadows trembled on the walls of the ancient building, on the thorny bushes that surrounded it, on the face and clothes of the old man.
Coming closer to the ruins, Jean-Pierre saw that the stranger was crying. Hot tears flowed down the old man’s wrinkled face and dripped directly onto his sewing. Jean-Pierre, not knowing what to say, silently watched the strange monk work for several minutes. Then the young man leaned towards him and said:
- Hello, grandfather! What are you sewing?
But the mysterious old man did not answer. He concentrated on his work. Jean-Pierre decided that he was hard of hearing and shouted in his ear:
- Hey, tailor, aren't you tired? Maybe you can take a break?
However, the old man still did not pay any attention to the young man. Crouching over his sewing, he only began to wield the needle more diligently.
Then Jean-Pierre said:
- Listen, father, if you don’t want to talk to me, then at least take a sip of the tincture!
He uncorked a bottle of gentian root tincture and handed it to the old man. Then the monk jumped up, raised his skinny arms to the sky and, looking at Jean-Pierre with eyes full of tears, shook his head as a sign of refusal.
- Are you disdainful of your aunt’s tincture?! – exclaimed Jean-Pierre. He was offended that the old man did not want to wet his throat with a drink from Pre-au-Cerf. The stranger, continuing to sigh and cry, went back to work. Jean-Pierre was irritated by the old man's stubbornness; it was unbearable for him to see his suffering. And so, without hesitation, he quickly thrust the bottle right under the monk’s nose.
At that same moment, something incredible happened. Some invisible force threw the young man into the air, and he flew upside down straight into the bushes. The guy woke up in the morning - covered in bruises, chilled and scratched. He rose to his feet with difficulty and looked around. The old man had disappeared somewhere, and the ruins looked as if no one had come there at night. The sky was covered with black clouds, rain was pouring down in buckets, and a cold wind was blowing. There was no need to hesitate! Jean-Pierre began looking for the precious bottle of tincture. But she disappeared... Upset, sick and unhappy, Jean-Pierre hit the road.
Only at one o'clock in the afternoon did he reach his parents' house. Pierre's mother, seeing her son, clasped her hands, because he looked terrible: without a pipe, without a cane, without a cap, and most importantly, without a bottle of Pre-au-Cerf drink. The young man was immediately put to bed. He was sick for a whole week! The poor guy had a high fever. In his delirium, he constantly talked about the monk-tailor. Jean-Pierre's parents didn't know what to think.
Soon rumors about the incident at the ancient ruins spread throughout Gruyères. And one fine day the good abbot of Gruyères, God rest upon him, knocked on the door of the house of the gentlemen de Todelo. He asked Jean-Pierre to tell him in detail about the meeting with the mysterious old man. After listening to the young man, the abbot was silent for a long time, shaking his head and twirling his snuffbox in his hands. And then he said:
“On rainy nights, I often saw from the window some strange light flickering near the Gisette forest, and I could not find an explanation for it. Now everything has become clear to me! Now I will tell you a story, and you will understand everything yourself.
Long ago, at the top of the Gisette pasture, at the foot of the high cliffs, a hermitage was built in honor of St. Anne. As you well know, Saint Anne, together with Saint James, are the heavenly patrons of shepherds. Pustyn was founded by a resident of our city who participated in the Crusades, visited the Holy Land and was captured by Muslims one unfortunate day. In captivity among the infidels, he made a vow to the mother of the Virgin Mary that if, beyond his aspirations, he gained freedom, he would become a monk and live in seclusion until the end of his days. This man miraculously managed to escape from terrible captivity, and soon returned to his homeland.
The old soldier kept his word. High in the mountains, near the rocks that overlook Gisette's pasture, he built a hut and a small chapel with his own hands. This is how the hermitage of St. Anna appeared. Forgetting everything worldly, being in constant fasting and prayer, the hermit lived in his monastery. But sometimes he sadly looked down at the beautiful valley spread out at the foot of the high mountains, where he spent his childhood and youth, where he buried his parents. He was no longer destined to return there. The hermit spent many years in the monastery. And he died while praying, like a saint. After him, many monks lived in the desert of St. Anna.
The devil was so angry at the piety of the desert inhabitants that one day, having broken off a sizeable piece from the mountain, he threw it on top of the chapel in order to destroy it to the ground. But that was not the case! Saint Anna delayed the fall of the terrible stone. To this day it stands on the edge of the cliff that overlooks the chapel. Then the evil one began to cause landslides and rockfalls in the mountains every few years. However, the chapel remained safe and sound. Pieces of rock, every single one, fell onto the Chatelet meadow, located not far from the desert.
And then the cunning devil decided to attack the desert in a different way. He knew well that among the hermits one could find one who, due to his weakness, would not resist temptations for long...
One fine day, a tailor named Bukaret settled in the desert of St. Anne. In his old age, he had the desire to devote the rest of his life to serving the Lord. The tailor lived in the monastery for several years in fasting and prayer. People brought him food and necessary things, and in return he sewed something for them.
One day the hermit felt a strange heaviness in his heart. He suddenly felt unbearably lonely, cold and bored. Unable to resist temptation, he went to a nearby village to talk to people. There was a holiday there. Music played, children laughed, delicious food was prepared. Everyone was so joyful, well-fed and satisfied that it was lovely to see! Our tailor spent the whole evening with the residents of this village. He drank wine, warmed up, and, borrowing a violin from a musician, began playing cheerful melodies.
Late at night the hermit returned to his hut, and it seemed even colder to him than the day before. The place where Bucaret had recently felt like the happiest person in the world began to weigh heavily on him. More and more often the tailor left the desert. He attended all the village holidays. There he ate and drank to his heart's content, and also played the violin. As a result, Bucaret wore out his shoes, and on the eve of winter he found himself barefoot. All the money that people donated to the hermitage of St. Anne was spent by the frivolous tailor on wine and other pleasures. And then the council of city elders decided: “Give Brother Bucaret, the holy hermit, a pair of new shoes, provided that he lives in prayerful solitude, as he should, and stops visiting taverns.”
Having received new shoes, the tailor became thoughtful. And how could he succumb to the devil’s temptation and, instead of serving as an example of Christian piety for people, drank and had fun with the villagers? For the first time in several months of free life, Bucaret began to pray. He decided that he would no longer leave the deserts of St. Anna and would spend his whole life atonement for his sin before God. But soon the hermit died.
Dear Jean-Pierre! I suspect that the hermit from the desert of St. Anne has not yet completed the atonement for his sin. I think that that night you met precisely the late Bucaret, who must now return to earth and sew and pray on rainy nights. You wanted to console the crying old man, but instead, offering him a drink of tincture, you reminded him of the cheerful drinking bouts that became the cause of his misfortune. You hurt him even more and he got angry. Yes, things...
The priest, after standing for a few minutes in thought, began to get ready to go home. In parting, he said to Jean-Pierre:
“Get well soon and don’t forget Brother Bucaret in your prayers.” And tomorrow I will celebrate a mass for the repose of the soul of the poor hermit.
Having recovered from his illness, Jean-Pierre said goodbye to his parents and went back to the Groyan pasture. Passing by the ruins of the St. Anna desert, the young man set out to find his property. He approached the very place where the ghost of the hermit gave him a kick for the tincture of gentian root. And what did he see? A cracked pipe, no longer good for anything, lay on the ground. A cane hung in the branches of a beech tree growing at a distance. And in Jean-Pierre’s hat, stuck in a thick hazel tree, a squirrel sat and gnawed on nuts. As for the bottle with the tincture, it disappeared without a trace.
But that doesn't matter! Six months later, when the happy Jean-Pierre became the husband of the charming Annette, there was no shortage of gentian root tincture at the cheerful wedding. Then Jean-Pierre told people for the last time about his meeting with the ghost of the hermit. Soon he had other concerns. A few years later, Jean-Pierre was already surrounded by a dozen playful children, as is customary in respectable families of the Gruyere region. And he had absolutely no time to think about Bucaret, especially since the light at the Gisette forest was no longer on.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru