Friend! watch and look about, the Devil is always prowling;If thou triest a bout with him, thou'lt get a thorough towelling.Angelus Silesius,Cherub. Wandersmann, Bookvi. 206.
Friend! watch and look about, the Devil is always prowling;If thou triest a bout with him, thou'lt get a thorough towelling.
Angelus Silesius,Cherub. Wandersmann, Bookvi. 206.
There was a certain Count Gebizo, who possessed a wondrously beautiful wife, a magnificent castle and town, and so many valuable possessions that he was esteemed one of the richest and most fortunate nobles in the country. He seemed to be aware of and thankful for his reputation, for he not only kept a splendid and hospitable board, at which his fair and virtuous wife warmed the hearts of his guests like a sun, but he also practised Christian beneficence in the most comprehensive fashion.
He founded and endowed convents and hospitals, beautified churches and chapels, and on every high-day gave clothing, meat and drink to a great number, often hundreds, of poor; and several dozen must needs be seen every day, almost every hour, about his courtyard, regaling themselves and praising him, otherwise his dwelling, fair as it was, would have seemed to him deserted.
But by such unbounded liberality even the greatest wealth is exhausted, and so it came to pass that the Count was obliged to mortgage all his properties one after the other in order to indulge his passion for grandiose beneficence; and the more he got into debt the more eagerly he redoubled his almsgiving and feasts to the poor, hoping thereby, as he imagined, to turn the blessing of Heaven once more in his favour. In the end he impoverished himself entirely; his castle became deserted and ruinous; ineffective and foolish foundations and deeds of gift, which from force of habit he could not desist from writing, brought him nothing but ridicule; and any tattered beggar, whom he might now and again lure to his castle, threw the meagre pittance at his benefactor's feet, and took himself off with scornful words of abuse.
One thing only was left to him unimpaired, the beauty of his wife Bertrade; nay, the barer things looked in the house, the more brilliant did her beauty seem to grow. She increased too in grace, love and goodness the poorer Gebizo became, so that all the blessings of Heaven seemed to be comprehended in his wife, and thousands of men envied the Count this one treasure which still remained to him. He alone was blind to all this, and the more the fair Bertrade exerted herself to cheer him and sweeten his poverty the less he prized that jewel, and he fell into a bitter and obstinate dejection and hid himself from the world.
One day, when a glorious Easter-morning dawned, a day on which he had once been wont to see joyous throngs making pilgrimage to his castle, he felt so ashamed of his downfall that he had not even heart to go to church, and was perplexed how to pass the bright sunny feast-days. In vain his wife, with pearly tears and smiling lips, begged him not to vex himself, but come with her to church undismayed; he tore himself away crossly, and took himself off to hide in the woods until Easter were over.
Up hill and down dale he wandered, until he came to a primeval wilderness, where monstrous bearded firs surrounded a lake whose depths reflected the gloomy trees in all their length so that everything looked dismal and black. The ground about the lake was thickly carpeted with strange long-fringed moss, in which no footfall could be heard.
Here Gebizo sat himself down and complained to God of his wretched ill fortune, which no longer enabled him to still his own hunger sufficiently, his who had once gladly satisfied thousands, and, worst of all, which recompensed his efforts with the scorn and ingratitude of the world.
On a sudden he observed in the middle of the lake a skiff, and in it a man of lofty stature. As the lake was small and one could easily see across it, Gebizo could not comprehend where the boatman could have come from so suddenly, for he had not observed him anywhere before. Enough, he was now there, gave one stroke of his oar and immediately was on the shore beside the knight, and, before the latter could give a thought to the affair, had enquired of him why he turned such a rueful face to the world. In spite of his extremely handsome exterior, the stranger had an expression of deep-seated discontent about his mouth and eyes; yet this was the very thing which gained Gebizo's confidence, and without any reserve he poured out the tale of his misfortunes and grievances.
"You are a fool," the other responded, "for you possess a treasure greater than all that you have lost. If I had your wife, I should never give a thought to all the riches and churches and convents, nor to all the beggar-folk in the world."
"Give me back those things, and you are welcome to my wife in exchange!" retorted Gebizo with a bitter laugh, and the other exclaimed quick as lightning. "A bargain! Look under your wife's pillow; there you will find what will suffice for all your lifetime to build a convent every day, and feed a thousand people, though you should live to a hundred. In exchange, bring me your wife here to this spot without fail the evening before Walpurgis!"
With these words, such a fire spurted from his dark eyes that two reddish beams glanced over the Count's sleeve, and thence over moss and fir-trees. Then Gebizo saw whom he had before him, and accepted the man's offer. The latter plied his oar, and sailed back to the middle of the lake, where he and his boat sank into the water with a din which resembled the laughter of many brazen bells.
Gebizo, all in a goose-skin, hastened back by the nearest way to his castle, searched Bertrade's bed at once, and found under her pillow an old, shabby book which he could not decipher. But, as he turned over the leaves, one gold piece after another fell out. As soon as he observed this, he betook himself with the book to the deepest vault of a tower, and there, in the utmost secrecy, set to work and spent all the rest of Easter in turning out an ample heap of gold from the pages of this most interesting work.
Then he appeared in the world once again, redeemed all his possessions, summoned workmen who restored his castle more magnificently than ever, and dispensed benefactions on every hand like a prince who has been newly crowned. The principal of his works, however, was the foundation of a great abbey for five hundred capitulars of the utmost piety and distinction, a regular town of saints and scholars, in the centre of which his burial-place was one day to be. He considered this provision requisite for his eternal salvation. But, as his wife was otherwise provided for, no burial-place was prepared for her.
The midday before Walpurgis he gave the order to saddle, and bade his fair wife mount her white hunter, as she had a long journey to ride in his company. At the same time he forbade a single squire or servant to attend them. A great dread seized the poor woman; she trembled in every limb, and for the first time in her life she lied to her husband, pretending that she was unwell, and begging him to leave her at home. As she had been singing to herself only a little time before, Gebizo was incensed at the falsehood, and considered that he had now acquired a double right over her. She was forced therefore to mount her horse, dressed too in her best finery, and she rode away sadly with her husband, not knowing whither she was going.
When they had accomplished about half their journey, they came to a little church which Bertrade had happened to build in former days and had dedicated to the Mother of God. She had done it for the sake of a poor master-mason whom no one would employ, because he was so surly and disagreeable, that even Gebizo, whom others could not help approaching in a pleasant and respectful fashion, could not tolerate him, and sent him away empty-handed, for all the work which he had to give out. She had caused the little church to be built secretly, and in his gratitude the despised master-mason had with his own hands wrought a remarkably beautiful image of Mary in his spare time, and set it over the altar.
Bertrade now craved to enter this church for a moment and say her prayers, and Gebizo allowed her; for he thought she might have much need of them. So she dismounted from her horse, and, while her husband waited outside, went in, knelt before the altar, and commended herself to the protection of the Virgin Mary. Thereupon she fell into a deep sleep; the Virgin sprang down from the altar, assumed the form and garments of the sleeper, went gaily out by the door and mounted the horse, on which she continued the journey at Gebizo's side and in Bertrade's stead.
The wretch thought to continue to deceive his wife, and, the nearer they came to the journey's end, to lull her and hoodwink her by an increase of friendliness. Accordingly he talked with her of this and that, and the Virgin chatted pleasantly and gave him confiding answers, and behaved as if she had lost all her timidity. So they reached the gloomy wilderness about the lake, over which dun evening clouds hung; the ancient firs bloomed purple with buds, as only happens in the most luxuriant spring-tides; in the thicket a ghostly nightingale sang as loud as organ-pipes and cymbals; and out from among the fir-trees rode the man ye wot of, mounted on a black stallion, in rich knightly array, with a long sword at his side.
He approached very courteously, although he suddenly shot such a ferocious look at Gebizo that his flesh crept; still, the horses did not appear to scent anything dangerous, for they stood quiet. Trembling, Gebizo flung his wife's reins to the stranger and galloped off alone without so much as a glance back to her. But the stranger grasped the reins with a hasty hand, and away they went like a whirlwind through the firs, so that the fair rider's veil and garments fluttered and waved, away over mountain and valley, and over the flowing waters so that the horses' hoofs scarcely touched the foam of their waves. Hurried along by the boisterous storm, a rosy, fragrant cloud, which shone in the twilight, was wafted in front of the steeds; and the nightingale flew invisible before the pair, settling here and there upon a tree and singing until the air rang again.
At last all hills and all trees came to an end, and the two rode into an endless heath, in the midst of which, as if from afar off, the nightingale throbbed, although there was no sign of bush or bough on which it could have sat.
Suddenly the rider halted, sprang from his horse, and helped the lady out of the saddle with the manner of a perfect cavalier. Scarcely had her foot touched the heath, when round about the pair there sprang up a garden of rose-bushes as tall as a man, with a splendid fountain and seat, above which a starry firmament shone so brilliantly that one could have seen to read by its light. But the fountain consisted of a great round basin in which, like moderntableaux vivants, a number of devils formed, or represented, a seductive group of nymphs in white marble. They poured shimmering water from their hollowed hands--whence they got it, their lord and master only knew. The water made the most lovely harmony; for every jet gave out a different note, and the whole seemed in concert like string-music. It was, so to say, a water-harmonica, whose chords were thrilled through and through with all the deliciousness of that first night of May, and melted into unison with the charming forms of the group of nymphs; for the living picture did not stand still, but changed and turned imperceptibly.
Not without tender emotion, the strange cavalier conducted the lady to the seat and invited her to be seated; but then he gripped her hand with a violent tenderness, and said in a voice that pierced to the marrow, "I am the Eternally Forlorn who fell from Heaven! Nothing but the love of a good mortal woman on May-night can make me forget Paradise and give me strength to endure my eternal discomfiture. Be but my helpmeet, and I will make thee eternal, and grant thee the power of doing good and preventing evil to thy heart's content!"
He flung himself passionately on the bosom of the beauteous woman, who smilingly opened her arms. But at the same instant the Blessed Virgin assumed her Heavenly form, and enclosed the entrapped Deceiver in her radiant arms with all her might. In a twinkling, the garden had vanished with its fountain and nightingale; the cunning demons, who had formed the tableau, took flight in the form of evil spirits, uttering cries of anguish, and left their lord in the lurch; while he, never uttering a sound, wrestled with titanic strength to free himself from the torturing embrace.
But the Virgin held on bravely and did not let him go, though indeed she had to summon all her strength. She purposed nothing less than to bring the outmanoeuvred Devil before Heaven, and there expose him bound to a gate-post in all his wretchedness to the laughter of the blessed.
But the Evil One changed his tactics, kept still for a brief space, and assumed the beauty which he had once possessed as the fairest among the angels, so that he almost rivalled the celestial beauty of Mary. She exalted herself as much as possible; yet, if she was radiant as Venus the fair Evening-star, he shone like Lucifer the Son of the Morning, so that it began to be as bright on that dusky heath as if the heavens themselves had descended upon it.
When the Virgin perceived that she had undertaken too much, and that her strength was failing, she contented herself with releasing the Fiend on condition that he renounced the Count's wife, and the celestial and infernal beauties forthwith separated with great violence. The Virgin, somewhat wearied, betook herself back to her little church; the Evil One, incapable of any further disguise and mauled in every limb, crawled away over the sand in horrid, degraded form, the very embodiment of long-tailed sorrow. So badly had his purposed hour of dalliance turned out for him.
Meantime Gebizo, after abandoning his lovely wife, had gone astray in the darkening night, and horse and rider had fallen into a chasm, where his head was dashed against a stone so that he promptly departed this life.
As for Bertrade, she remained in her sleep until the sun rose on the first of May; then she awoke, and was surprised to see how the time had flown. Still, she quickly said her Ave Maria, and, when she came out of the church hale and hearty, her horse was standing before the door as she had left it. She did not wait long for her husband, but rode home blithely and quickly, for she guessed that she had escaped from some great peril.
Soon the Count's body was found and brought home. Bertrade had it entombed with all honour, and founded innumerable masses for him. But all love for him was in some inexplicable way eradicated from her heart, although it remained as kind and tender as ever. Accordingly, her exalted patroness in Heaven looked about for another husband for her, who should be more worthy of such gracious love than the deceased Gebizo had been. How this business came about is written in the next legend.
Mary is named a Throne, the Lord's own Tabernacle,An Ark, Keep, Tower, House, a Spring, Tree, Garden, Mirror,A Sea, a Star, the Moon, a Hill, the Blush of Morning.All these how can she be? She is another world!Angelus Silesius,Cherub. Wandersmann, Bookiv. 42.
Mary is named a Throne, the Lord's own Tabernacle,
An Ark, Keep, Tower, House, a Spring, Tree, Garden, Mirror,
A Sea, a Star, the Moon, a Hill, the Blush of Morning.
All these how can she be? She is another world!
Angelus Silesius,Cherub. Wandersmann, Bookiv. 42.
Gebizo had acquired so much wealth over and above his former possessions that Bertrade found herself mistress of a noble earldom, and became famous throughout the Empire for her wealth as well as her beauty. As, withal, she was very unassuming and friendly with every one, the jewel of her person appeared an easy conquest to all the nobility, shy and enterprising, bold and timid, great and small alike, and every one who had seen her a few times was surprised that he did not already have her in his possession. Yet more than a year passed, and no one knew of any who had acquired real grounds for hope.
Even the Emperor heard of her, and, as he was desirous that such a splendid fief should pass into the hands of a suitable husband, he determined to pay the celebrated widow a visit in the course of a journey, and signified his intention to her in a most gracious and friendly letter. This he entrusted to a young knight Zendelwald, whose road lay that way. He was favourably received by Bertrade, and entertained handsomely, as was every one who resorted to her castle. He beheld with admiration the lordly halls, battlements and gardens, and incidentally fell violently in love with their mistress. Still, he did not linger an hour longer in the castle on that account; but, when he had delivered his message and seen all that there was to see, he took a brief farewell of the lady and rode away, the only one of all those who had ever been there who did not think himself competent to win that prize.
The fact was that he was sluggish in word and deed. Even when his mind and heart had mastered any matter, which they always did with thoroughness and fire, Zendelwald could never bring himself to take the first step to a realization, for the thing seemed to him as good as finished when once he saw his way clearly to it in his mind. Although he was ready enough to talk when there was nothing to be gained by doing so, he never uttered the opportune word which would have brought him fortune. Not only his tongue, but his hand too, was so far behind his thought that in battle he was often all but overcome by his opponent, because, seeing in his mind's eye his enemy already at his feet, he delayed giving the decisive stroke. Thus his manner of fighting excited surprise at every tournament; for he always began by scarcely exerting himself, and it was not until he was in the utmost extremity that he gained the victory by some masterly stroke.
His mind in full play on the subject of the fair Bertrade, our Zendelwald now rode home to his little castle, which lay in a lonely mountain forest. A few charcoal-burners and woodmen were all his subjects, and so his mother always awaited his return in bitter impatience to know whether he had at last brought home fortune.
Zendelwald's mother was as handy and determined as he was indolent, though not any more successful; for on her side she had carried her qualities to excess, and they had twined into fussiness. In her youth she had been eager to find a husband as soon as possible, and had overpressed several opportunities so hastily and eagerly that in her haste she had made the very worst possible choice in the shape of a disreputable, foolhardy fellow, who ran through all his inheritance, came to a premature end, and left her nothing but a long widowhood, poverty and one son who would not take the trouble to bestir himself to grasp at fortune.
The little household's only fare consisted of the milk of some goats, forest-fruits, and game. Zendelwald's mother was an accomplished sportswoman, and shot wild pigeons and grouse with the cross-bow as she pleased. She also caught trout in the brooks, and with her own hands repaired the little castle with stone and lime where it became decayed. At that moment she had just returned home with a hare which she had knocked over, and, as she hung the animal from the window of her high-perched kitchen, she gave another look out into the valley and saw her son riding along the road. She let down the drawbridge with joy, for he had been absent for months.
She at once began to enquire whether he had got hold of any tuft or feather of luck to bring home and make the most of, and, as he recounted the usual unprofitable experiences of his most recent campaign, she shook her head in wrath. But, when he came to tell her all about his mission to the rich and captivating Bertrade, and lauded her kindness and beauty, she scolded him for a lazy-bones and a faint-heart to run away so basely. She was not long in perceiving that Zendelwald could think of nothing else than the far-off lady, and she began to be downright impatient with him to think that with such a praiseworthy passion in his heart he failed utterly to make anything of it, since in his case to be so head and ears over in love was a hindrance rather than an incentive to action.
His days were not of the happiest. His mother was sulky with him, and in her irritation sought to divert herself by mending the damaged roof of the tower, so that the good Zendelwald was in fear and trembling as he saw her clambering about aloft. In her ill temper she would pitch down broken tiles, and wellnigh knocked out the brains of a stranger knight as he was about to enter the door to request a night's lodging.
The latter, however, managed to win the ungracious lady's friendship during supper, as he related many pleasant things, and in particular that the Emperor was then staying at the pretty widow's great castle where one feast was followed by another, and the fortunate lady was unceasingly besieged by the Emperor and his lords to choose a husband from among them. She, however, had found a way of evasion by convoking a great tournament and promising her hand to the victor, in the firm belief that her patron the Blessed Virgin would intervene and direct the arm of the right man, who was destined for her, to victory.
"Now, that would be something for you to try," the guest concluded, turning to Zendelwald; "such a handsome young knight ought to go straight for it and try to win the best fortune of these days, according to worldly estimation. Besides, it is commonly said that the lady hopes that in this way some unknown luck may turn up, perchance some poor but honest hero, whom she can kiss and coll, and that she has an aversion to all the great and famous counts and idle wooers."
When the stranger had ridden away, Zendelwald's mother said, "Now, I'll wager that no less a person than Bertrade herself sent that messenger to put you on the right track, my dear Zendelwald! It's as clear as daylight; what other business had the fellow, who has drunk our last flagon of wine, to bring him travelling in this forest?"
Her son began to laugh mightily at her words, and went on laughing more and more heartily, partly at the manifest impossibility of his mother's fancies, partly because he found those said fancies rather agreeable. The mere thought that Bertrade could possibly wish to take possession of him kept him laughing uncontrollably. But his mother, who thought that he was laughing in derision of her, flew into a rage, and cried, "Listen! My curse be upon you if you do not obey me and set out on your way at once to win that fortune. Do not come back without it, else I never wish to see you again! Or, if you do come back, I'll take my bow and arrows and go out to seek a grave where I can have peace from your stupidity!"
So now Zendelwald had no choice; for the sake of peace and quietness, he furbished his weapons, sighing the while, and rode as Heaven might guide him in the direction of Bertrade's dwelling, without being convinced that he should really go there. Nevertheless he stuck pretty close to the road, and the nearer he came to his destination, the more clearly the thought took shape that, after all, he might undertake the adventure as well as another, and that, when he had settled matters with his rivals, it would not cost him his head to try conclusions with the fair lady. The adventure now developed stage by stage in his mind, and came to the happiest issue; indeed, all day long, as he rode through the green summer landscape, he held sweet dialogues with his beloved, in which he told her most beautiful conceits, so that her face became rosy for gratification and joy--all this in his imagination.
As he was in the act of inwardly depicting one more happy event, he saw in good earnest, on a distant blue ridge, the towers and battlements of the castle shining in the morning sun, with its gilded balustrades gleaming from afar, and was so startled at the sight that all the fabric of his dreams was dissolved, and left nothing but a faint, irresolute heart behind.
Involuntarily he reined in his horse and looked around, as laggards will, for a place of refuge. Whereupon he became aware of a pretty little church, the same which Bertrade had once built to the Mother of God, and in which she had slept that sleep. He at once resolved to go in and collect his thoughts somewhat before the altar, the more so as it was the day on which the tournament was to be held.
The priest was in the act of singing Mass, which was attended only by two or three poor people, so that the knight contributed no small ornament to the little congregation. When all was over, and priest and sacristan had left the church, Zendelwald felt so comfortable in those quarters that he fell sound asleep, and forgot tournament and beloved one, unless indeed he dreamt about them.
Thereupon the Virgin Mary stepped down once again from her altar, assumed his form and accoutrements, mounted his horse, and rode with closed visor, a bold Brunhilda, all the way to the castle in Zendelwald's stead.
When she had ridden a while, she came across a heap of dried rubbish and withered brushwood lying by the wayside. It seemed suspicious to the watchful Virgin, and she noticed something like the tail-end of a serpent peeping out of the confusion. She saw then that it was the Devil, who, still as enamoured as ever, was also prowling about the neighbourhood of the castle, and had hurriedly hid himself from the Virgin in the rubbish. She rode past without appearing to notice him, but cleverly made her horse spring to the side, so that he came down with his hind hoofs on the suspicious tail-end. With a hiss the Evil One made out and away, and never more showed himself again in this connection.
Amused by the little adventure, she rode, full of good humour, to Bertrade's castle, where she arrived just when only the two stoutest jousters remained to fight the deciding contest.
Slowly and carelessly, for all the world like Zendelwald, she rode into the lists, and appeared undecided whether she should take part in the contest or not.
"Here comes lazy Zendelwald," the word went round, and the two stout champions said, "What does he want with us? Just a minute, and let us get him out of the way before we settle matters between ourselves."
One of the champions called himself "Guhl the Speedy." He was in the habit of turning himself and his horse about like a whirlwind, and trying to bewilder and outwit his opponents by a hundred tricks and stratagems. The supposed Zendelwald had to engage him first. He wore a coal-black moustache, the ends of which were twisted and turned up in the air so stiffly that two little silver bells, which were attached to them, could not bend them down, and tinkled incessantly whenever he moved his head. He described this as a peal of terror for his foes and of delight for his lady! His shield glittered, now with this colour, now with that, according to the direction in which he turned it, and he could effect this change so rapidly that the eye was blinded by it. His plume was formed of an enormous cock's tail.
The other stout champion dubbed himself "Mouse the Innumerable," by which he meant to convey that he was as good as an innumerable army. In token of his prowess, he had allowed the hair of his nostrils to grow out about six inches, and had plaited it into two tresses, which hung over his mouth and were adorned at the ends with neat little red favours. Over his armour he wore a great spreading mantle, which almost enveloped himself and his horse, and was cunningly sewed together from a thousand mouseskins. For a crest, he was overshadowed by the mighty outspread wings of a bat, from under which he darted threatening glances out of his slits of eyes.
When the signal was given for the fight with Guhl the Speedy, he rode against the Virgin and encircled her with ever-increasing rapidity, seeking to dazzle her with his shield, and directing a hundred thrusts at her with his lance. All the time, the Virgin stuck to the same spot in the middle of the lists, and appeared to do no more than defend herself with shield and spear, skilfully turning her horse about on its hind-legs so that she always presented her front to her opponent. When Guhl observed this, he suddenly rode some distance back, then turned and ran upon her with his lance in rest, intending to thrust her over the crupper. The Virgin awaited him without stirring; but man and horse seemed of bronze, so firm they stood, and the poor fellow, unaware that he was contending against superhuman power, flew unexpectedly out of his saddle, and lay upon the ground, when he ran upon her spear, while his own was shattered like a straw upon her shield. Without delay the Virgin dismounted, knelt on his breast so that he could not move under the mighty pressure, and with her dagger cut away his moustaches and their silver bells, and fastened them in her sword-belt, while fanfares proclaimed her, or rather Zendelwald, the victor.
Next, Sir Mouse the Innumerable came into the dance. He galloped forward with such violence that his mantle floated in the air like a threatening grey cloud. But the Virgin-Zendelwald, who only now appeared to be beginning to warm up to the fray, galloped as stoutly to meet him, threw him with ease from the saddle at the first thrust, and when Mouse rose at once and drew his sword, she dismounted at the same instant to engage him on foot. He was soon dazed by the rapid strokes with which her sword fell upon his head and shoulders, and he held out his mantle with his left hand to shelter beneath it, and wait a favourable opportunity to throw it over his opponent's head. At that, the Virgin caught a tip of the mantle with the point of her sword, and enveloped Mouse the Innumerable in it from head to foot so dexterously and swiftly that he was soon like an enormous wasp entangled in a spider's web, and lay struggling on the ground.
Then the Virgin belaboured him with the flat of her sword so vigorously that the mantle was resolved into its component parts, and a shower of mouse-skins darkened the air amid the universal laughter of the spectators, while the knight gradually emerged again to view, and limped away a beaten man, after his conqueror had cut away his beribboned pigtails.
Thus the Virgin under the guise of Zendelwald remained victor of the field.
She now opened her visor, strode up to the Queen of the Festival, and on bended knee laid the trophies of victory at her feet. Then she rose, and offered the spectacle of a Zendelwald such as he was usually too shy to be. Without, however, compromising his modesty too much, she greeted Bertrade with a look, whose effect on the female heart she well knew. In a word, she proved that she could play, not only the champion, but the lover, so well, that Bertrade did not take back her word, but lent a willing ear to the advice of the Emperor, who after all was glad to see so gallant and noble a man prevail.
Then there was a great festive procession to the gardens, with their tall lime-trees, where the banquet was spread. There Bertrade sat between the Emperor and her Zendelwald. But it was as well that the former was occupied with another pleasant lady; for the latter did not give his bride much time to converse with others, so politely and tenderly did he entertain her. He said the nicest things to her on the spur of the moment, so that time after time she reddened with pleasure. Joy and contentment prevailed everywhere; up in the green vault of the trees the birds sang, vying with the instruments of music; a butterfly settled on the Emperor's crown; and, as if by a special blessing, the wine-cups gave forth a fragrance like violets and mignonette.
But Bertrade, above all, felt so happy, that, while Zendelwald held her by the hand, she thought in her heart of her celestial protectress, and made her a fervent, silent thanksgiving.
The Virgin Mary, who all the time was sitting at her side as Zendelwald, read the prayer in her heart, and was so well pleased at her ward's pious gratitude that she embraced Bertrade tenderly, and imprinted a kiss on her lips, which, as may be imagined, filled the fair woman with heavenly bliss; for when the celestials take to baking sweet-stuff, it is sweet indeed.
As for the Emperor and the rest of the company, they shouted approval to the supposed Zendelwald, raised their goblets, and drank to the health of the handsome couple.
Meanwhile, the real Zendelwald waked out of his unseasonable sleep, and found the sun so far on its course that the tournament must certainly be over. Although he was now well out of the business, still he felt very unhappy and sad; for he would have been only too glad to wed the lady Bertrade. Besides, he did not dare to go back to his mother now. So he determined to set out on an endless, joyless wandering, until death should release him from his useless existence. Only, before doing so, he wished to see his beloved one once again, and imprint her image on his mind for the remainder of his days, that he might always remember what he had thrown away.
He accordingly went back all the way to the castle. When he reached the throng, he heard everywhere proclaimed the praises and good fortune of a poor knight Zendelwald who had attained the prize, and, bitterly curious to know who this fortunate namesake might be, he dismounted from his horse, and forced his way through the crowd until he found a station at the edge of the garden, on an elevated place from which he could overlook the whole feast.
There he beheld in all her finery, not far from the sparkling crown of the Emperor, the radiant, happy face of his beloved; but side by side with her--his astonishment turned him pale--the living image of his own person. As he stood petrified, he saw his double embrace and kiss the pious bride. Thereupon, without delay, he stepped, unnoticed amid the universal joy, through the ranks until he stood, racked by a strange jealousy, close behind the couple. At the same moment, his counterfeit vanished from Bertrade's side, and she looked about for him in dismay. But when she saw Zendelwald behind her, she laughed joyfully, and said, "Where are you off to? Come, stay beside me!" And she took his hand and drew him to her side.
So he sat down, and, to test the seeming dream thoroughly, he seized the beaker which stood before him and emptied it at one draught. The wine stood the test, and an unmistakable life streamed through his veins. Quite in the mood, he turned to the smiling woman and looked into her eyes; whereupon she joyously resumed the intimate conversation which had been interrupted the moment before. But Zendelwald could not imagine what had happened to him, when he found Bertrade address him in familiar words, to which he several times unthinkingly answered in others which he had already used somewhere else. Sure enough he discovered after a little that his predecessor must have been carrying on the very same conversation with Bertrade which he had devised in his imagination during the days of his journey, and which he now continued deliberately, in order to see what end the play would have.
But it did not have an end. Instead, it became more and more edifying; for when the sun went down, torches were lighted, and the whole assembly made for the largest hall in the castle to engage in dancing. After the Emperor had danced the first round with the bride, Zendelwald took her on his arm and danced three or four times with her round the hall until, all aglow, she suddenly took him by the hand and drew him aside to a quiet turret-chamber flooded with moonlight. There she flung herself on his breast, stroked his fair beard, and thanked him for his coming and for his affection. Honest Zendelwald, however, wished to ascertain whether he were dreaming or waking, and questioned her about how matters really stood, especially about his double. For a long time, she did not understand him; but one word led to another. Zendelwald said this and that had happened to him, and told her all about his journey, about his turning in to the little church, and how he had fallen asleep there and been too late for the tournament.
At that the affair became so far clear to Bertrade that she recognized for the second time the hand of her gracious patroness. But now at last she had opportunity to regard the valiant knight boldly as a gift from Heaven, and she was grateful enough to press the substantial present to her heart in good earnest and return him full measure for the luscious kiss which she had received from Heaven itself.
But, from that time forth, Sir Zendelwald lost all his sluggishness and dreamy irresolution. He said everything and did everything at the right time before the tender Bertrade and before the rest of the world, and he became a great man in the Empire, so that the Emperor was as well content with him as was his wife.
As for Zendelwald's mother, she appeared at the wedding mounted on horseback, and as proud as if she had been enthroned in fortune all her life long. She looked after money and estates, and hunted in the extensive forests to an advanced age. Bertrade never failed to have Zendelwald take her once a year to the lonely little castle which was his home, where she cooed in the grey tower with her darling as tenderly as the wild doves in the trees round about. But they never omitted to enter the little church on their way, and address their prayers to the Virgin, who stood there as prim and saintly as if she had never once come down from her altar.
O that I had wings like a dove: for then would I flee away, and be at rest.Psalmlv. 6.
O that I had wings like a dove: for then would I flee away, and be at rest.
Psalmlv. 6.
A convent lay on a mountain overlooking a wide prospect, and its walls gleamed across the land. Within, it was full of women, beautiful and unbeautiful, who all served the Lord and his Virgin Mother after a strict rule.
The most beautiful of the nuns was called Beatrix, and was sacristan of the convent. Of tall and commanding presence, she went about her duties with stately carriage, saw to choir and altar, looked after the sacristy, and rang the bell before the first flush of dawn and when the evening-star arose.
Yet amid it all she cast many a tear-dimmed glance at the busy loom of the blue distance. There she saw weapons glancing, heard the horn of the hunters in the woods, and the clear shout of men, and her breast filled with longing for the world.
At last she could control her desire no longer, and one clear, moonlit night in June she rose, dressed herself, and put on stout new shoes, and went to the altar, equipped for a journey. "I have served thee faithfully these many years," she said to the Virgin Mary, "but now take the keys thyself; for I can endure the heat in my heart no longer!" With that she laid her bundle of keys upon the altar, and went forth from the convent. She made her way down amid the solitude of the mountain, and wandered on until she came to a cross-road in an oak-forest, where, uncertain which way to take, she sat down by the side of a spring, which was provided with a stone basin and a bench for the benefit of wayfarers. Until the sun rose, she sat there, and was drenched with the falling dew.
Then the sun came over the tops of the trees, and the first rays which shot through the forest-road fell on a glittering knight who came riding in full armour all alone. The nun stared with all her lovely eyes, and did not lose an inch of the manly apparition; but she kept so still that the knight would never have seen her had not the murmur of the fountain caught his ear and guided his eyes. He at once turned aside to the spring, dismounted from his horse and let it drink, while he greeted the nun respectfully. He was a crusader who, after long absence, was making his way home alone, for he had lost all his men.
In spite of his respectfulness, he never once removed his eyes from the charms of Beatrix, who held hers just as steady, and gazed as fixedly as ever on the warrior; for he was no inconsiderable part of that world for which she had longed so in secret. But suddenly she cast down her eyes and felt bashful. At last the knight asked her which way she was going, and whether he could be of any service to her. The full tones of his voice startled her; she looked at him once more, and, fascinated by his glances, acknowledged that she had run away from the convent to see the world, but that she was frightened already and did not know which way to turn.
At that the knight, who had all his wits about him, laughed heartily, and offered to conduct the lady so far on the right way, if she would trust herself to him. His castle, he added, was not more than a day's journey from where they were; and there, if she chose, she could make her preparations in security, and after more mature reflection could proceed on her way into the fair, wide world.
Without replying, but yet without opposition, she allowed herself, trembling somewhat nevertheless, to be lifted up on horseback. The knight swung himself up after her, and, with the rosy-blushing nun before him, trotted joyously through woods and meadows.
For two or three hundred lengths, she held herself erect and gazed straight before her, her hands clasped over her bosom. But soon she had laid her head back on his breast, and submitted to the kisses which the stalwart lord imprinted thereon. And by another three hundred lengths she was returning them as fervidly as if she had never rung a convent-bell. In such circumstances, they saw nothing of the bright landscape through which they journeyed. The nun, who once had longed to see the wide world, now shut her eyes to it, and confined herself to that portion of it which the horse could carry on its back.
The knight Wonnebold also scarcely gave a thought to his father's castle, until its towers glittered before him in the moonlight. But all was silent without the castle, and even more silent within, while never a light was to be seen. Wonnebold's father and mother were dead and all the menials departed, save an ancient castellan, who after long knocking made his appearance with a lantern, and almost died for joy when he saw the knight standing at the painfully-opened door. In spite of his solitude and his years the old man had maintained the interior of the castle in habitable condition, and especially had kept the knight's chamber in constant readiness, so that he might be able to go to rest the moment he should return from his travels. So Beatrix rested with him and appeased her longing.
Neither had any thought now of separating from the other. Wonnebold opened his mother's chests. Beatrix clad herself in her rich garments and adorned herself with her jewels, and so they lived for the moment splendidly and in joy, except that the lady remained without rights or title, and was regarded by her lover as his chattel; she desired nothing better for the mean time.
But one day a stranger baron and his train turned into the castle, which by this time was again staffed with servants, and great cheer was made in his honour. At length the men fell to dicing, at which the master of the house had such constant good luck that, flushed with good fortune and confidence, he risked his dearest possession, as he called it, to wit the fair Beatrix as she stood, with the costly jewels she was wearing, against an old, melancholy mountain-keep which his opponent laughingly staked.
Beatrix, who had looked on at the game well contented, now turned pale, and with good reason; for the throw which ensued left the presumptuous one in the lurch, and made the baron the winner.
He wasted no time, but at once took his leave with his fair prize and his attendants. Beatrix barely found time to appropriate the unlucky dice and hide them in her bosom, and then with streaming tears followed the unfeeling winner.
After the little cavalcade had ridden some miles they reached a pleasant grove of young beeches, through which a clear brook flowed. Like a light-green silken tent, the tender foliage waved aloft, supported on the slender silvery stems, between which the spacious summer landscape was seen in glimpses. Here the baron meant to rest with his booty. He ordered his people to go a little farther ahead, while he got down in the pleasant greenwood with Beatrix, and made to draw her to his side with caresses.
At that she drew herself up proudly, and darting a flaming glance upon him exclaimed that he had won her person, but not her heart, which was not to be won against an old ruin. If he were a man, he would set something worth while against it. If he would stake his life, he might cast for her heart, which should be pledged to him for ever and be his own if he won; but if she won, his life should be in her hand, and she should be absolute mistress of her own person once again.
She said this with great gravity; but all the time looked at him with such a strange expression that his heart began to thump, and he regarded her in bewilderment. She seemed to become more and more beautiful as she continued in a softer voice, and with a searching look, "Who would choose to woo a woman when she returns not his wooing, and has received no proof of his courage? Give me your sword, take these dice, and risk it; then we may be united as two true lovers!" At the same time she pressed into his hand the ivory dice warm from her bosom. Bewitched, he gave her his sword and sword-belt, and forthwith threw eleven at one throw.
Next Beatrix took the dice, rattled them vigorously in her hollowed hands with a secret sigh to the Holy Mary the Mother of God, and threw twelve, so that she won.
"I make you a present of your life!" she said, bowed gravely to the baron, picked up her skirts and put the sword under her arm, and rapidly took her departure in the direction whence she had come. As soon as she was out of view of the still quite nonplussed and bewildered baron, she slyly proceeded no farther, but fetched a circuit about the grove, walked quietly back into it, and hid herself not fifty paces from the disappointed lover behind the beech-stems, which at that distance grew sufficiently closely to hide the prudent lady, if need were. She kept quite still; only a sunbeam fell upon a noble gem at her neck, so that it flashed through the grove unknown to her. The baron indeed saw the gleam, and stared at it a moment in his bewilderment. But he took it for a shining dewdrop on a tree-leaf, and never gave it a second thought.
At last he recovered from his stupefaction, and blew lustily upon his hunting-horn. When his people came, he sprang upon his horse, and pursued after the eloping lady to secure her again. It was the best part of an hour before the riders returned, and despondently and slowly made their way through the beech-trees, this time without halting. When the lurking Beatrix saw the coast clear, she rose and hastened home without sparing her shoes.
During all this time Wonnebold had passed a very bad day, racked by remorse and anger; and, as he understood that he had disgraced himself in the eyes of his love, whom he had gambled away so lightly, he began to realize how highly he had unconsciously esteemed her, and how difficult it was to live without her. So, when she unexpectedly stood before him, without ever waiting to utter his surprise, he opened his arms to her, and she hastened into them without complaint or reproach. He laughed loudly as she related her stratagem, and he began to ponder over her fidelity; for the baron was a very comely and pretty fellow.
Accordingly, to guard against all future mischances, he made the fair Beatrix his lawful wedded wife in presence of all his peers and vassals, so that henceforth she ranked as a knight's lady and took her place among her equals at chase, feast and dance, as well as in the cottages of their dependents and in the family seat at church.
The years passed with their changes, and in the course of twelve fruitful harvests she bore her husband eight sons, who grew up like young stags.
When the eldest was eighteen years old, she rose one autumn night from her Wonnebold's side unperceived by him, laid all her worldly array carefully in the same chests from which it had once been taken, closed them, and laid the keys at the sleeper's side. Then she went barefooted to the bedside of her sons, and kissed them lightly one after the other. Last of all, she went again to her husband's bed, kissed him too, and then shore the long hair from her head, once more put on the dark nun's frock, which she had preserved carefully, and so left the castle by stealth, and made her way amid the raging wind of the autumn night and the falling leaves back to that convent from which she had once run away. Indefatigably she passed the beads of her rosary through her fingers, and as she prayed she thought over the life which she had enjoyed.
So she went on her pilgrimage uncomplaining, until she stood again before the convent-door. When she knocked, the door-keeper, who had aged somewhat, opened and greeted her by name as indifferently as if she had only been absent half an hour. Beatrix went past her into the church, and fell on her knees before the altar of the Holy Virgin, who began to speak and said, "Thou hast stayed away rather long, my daughter. I have seen to thy duties as sacristan all the time; but now I am very glad that thou art returned and canst take back thy keys!"
The image leaned down, and handed the keys to Beatrix, who was both alarmed and delighted at the great miracle. Forthwith she set about her duties, saw to this and that, and when the bell rang for dinner she went to table. Many of the nuns had grown old, others were dead, young ones were newly come, and another abbess sat at the head of the table; but no one suspected what had happened to Beatrix, who took her accustomed seat; for Mary had filled her place in the nun's own form.
But another day, when some ten years had passed, the nuns were to celebrate a great festival, and agreed that each of them should bring the Mother of God the finest present she could devise. So one embroidered a rich church-banner, another an altar-cloth, and another a vestment. One composed a Latin hymn, and another set it to music. A third wrote and illuminated a prayer-book. Whoever could do nothing else stitched a new shirt for the Christ-child, and sister cook made him a dish of fritters. Only Beatrix had prepared nothing, for she was rather weary of life, and she lived with her thoughts more in the past than in the present.
When the feast-day came, and she had no gift to dedicate, the other nuns were surprised and reproached her so that she sat humbly aside as all the pretty things were being borne in festal procession and laid before the altar of the church, which was adorned with flowers, while the bells rang out and the incense-clouds rose on high.
Just as the nuns were proceeding to sing and play right skilfully, a grey-headed knight passed by on his way, with eight armed youths as lovely as pictures, all mounted on proud steeds and attended by a like number of tall squires. It was Wonnebold with his sons, whom he was taking to the Imperial army.
Perceiving that high Mass was being celebrated in God's house, he called to his sons to dismount, and entered the church with them to offer a devout prayer to the Holy Virgin. Every one was lost in admiration at the noble spectacle, as the iron greybeard knelt with the eight youthful warriors, who looked like so many mail-clad angels; and the nuns were so put off their music that for a moment it ceased altogether. But Beatrix recognized them all for her children, from her husband, gave an exclamation and hastened to them, and, recalling herself to their memory, disclosed her secret, and declared the great miracle which she had experienced.
Then all were forced to admit that she had brought the Virgin the richest gift of the day. That it was accepted was testified by eight wreaths of fresh oak-leaves which suddenly appeared on the young men's heads, placed there by the invisible hand of the Queen of Heaven.