Swift as thoughtAll our pleasures come to nought!The charger yesterday he press'd,To-day the death-shot pierced his breast,To-morrow opes the chilly grave.Such the measureOf all earthly bliss and pleasure!In that comely cheek of thine,The lily and the rose combine;But rose and lily fade and die.Then resignedTo God's will, I yield my mind:Should the trumpet sound a call,Should it be my fate to fall,Say "A gallant soldier's gone."
Swift as thoughtAll our pleasures come to nought!The charger yesterday he press'd,To-day the death-shot pierced his breast,To-morrow opes the chilly grave.
Swift as thought
All our pleasures come to nought!
The charger yesterday he press'd,
To-day the death-shot pierced his breast,
To-morrow opes the chilly grave.
Such the measureOf all earthly bliss and pleasure!In that comely cheek of thine,The lily and the rose combine;But rose and lily fade and die.
Such the measure
Of all earthly bliss and pleasure!
In that comely cheek of thine,
The lily and the rose combine;
But rose and lily fade and die.
Then resignedTo God's will, I yield my mind:Should the trumpet sound a call,Should it be my fate to fall,Say "A gallant soldier's gone."
Then resigned
To God's will, I yield my mind:
Should the trumpet sound a call,
Should it be my fate to fall,
Say "A gallant soldier's gone."
"Really you have a fine voice," said his host, as he entered the apartment; "but why sing such melancholy songs? I prefer a merry and cheerful one, such as a young fellow of twenty-eight ought to sing."
Albert put his sword aside, and gave his hand to his friend. "Every one to his taste," said he, "but I think that to those whose occupation is war, and whose life is in constant jeopardy, a song which carries consolation and encouragement to the heart of the soldier, gives death a milder aspect."
"That's just what I mean, also," said Dieterick; "but what is the use of being melancholy upon a subject which is certainly the lot of all? 'If you paint the devil on the wall, he will surely appear,' says the proverb; however, that saying does not hold good as the case now stands."
"How? is not war decided," asked Albert, with curiosity; "has the Würtemberger accepted conditions?"
"Conditions? none will be made with him," answered the secretary, with an air of contempt; "he has lived his longest day as Duke; it is our turn now to govern. I will let you into a secret," added he, looking big with importance and mystery, "but it must be strictly between us. Your hand! You think the Duke has fourteen thousand Swiss with him? They are scattered to the winds. The messenger we despatched to Zurich and Bern has returned. All the Swiss at Blaubeuren and on the Alb will be obliged to return home immediately."
"Return home?" said Albert, with astonishment, "and for what purpose? Are they at war themselves in their own country?"
"No," was the answer, "they are in profound peace, but have no money. Believe me, before a week passes over our heads, messengers will arrive to order the whole army home."
"But will they go? they came to the Duke's assistance of their own accord; who can order them to leave his colours?"
"That's very easily managed; do you suppose they will disobey the orders of their magistrates at the risk of the loss of their property, and imprisonment? Ulerich has too little money to retain them, and they will not serve him upon mere promises."
"But you cannot call that behaving honourably," remarked Albert, "to deprive the enemy of the arms with which he wishes to meet you in fair contest."
"In politics, as we call it," answered the scribe, thinking to establish his knowledge of state affairs in the mind of the inexperienced young soldier, "in politics, honour at best is assumed but for appearance sake; for example, the Swiss will explain to the Duke, in excuse for deserting him, that it would be against their conscience to allow their troops to serve against the independence of the free towns; but the truth is, that we can fill the pockets of the bears with more gold florins in order to keep them at home, than the Duke can to assist him."
"Well, after all, let the Swiss desert the Duke," said Albert, "Würtemberg will still be able of herself to send forth valiant and ready hearts sufficient to prevent any dog passing the Alb."
"We have thought of an expedient in that case also," replied the scribe, in explanation; "we will address a letter to the states of Würtemberg, and warn them against the insufferable government of their Duke, exhorting them at the same time to cast off their allegiance to him, and join the League in the laudable undertaking of crushing his tyrannous conduct."
"How!" cried Albert, with horror, whose generous mind was as yet unacquainted with the intrigues of politics: "I call that playing the traitor. Would you force the Duke out of his country by such underhand, unworthy means, and corrupt his confiding subjects to induce them to become his bitterest enemies?"
"I believe you have been thinking, all along, that we wish nothing more than that he should restore Reutlingen again to its former rank of a town of the empire? But how then is Hutten, with his forty-two associates, to be remunerated? In what way is Sickingen to satisfy the demands of his thousand cavalry and twelve thousand infantry, if he does not get a good slice of the country to pay them? And the Duke of Bavaria, do you suppose he will not require a share of it also? And we Ulmers, our frontier borders on Würtemberg----"
"But the Princes of Germany," interrupted Albert, impatiently, "do you suppose they will quietly look on and see you parcel out his rightful possession among strangers? The Emperor, surely, will not suffer you to hunt a Duke of the empire out of his country!"
Herr Dieterick had a ready answer to this question also. "There is no doubt," said he, "that Charles succeeds his father the Emperor: we shall then offer to place the country under his protection, and, should Austria throw her mantle over it, who can resist her power? But what makes you look so downcast? if you thirst for war, you will readily find means to gratify your wish. The nobility still hold to the Duke, and many a one will have his head broken before his castle walls. But we shall lose our dinner if we go on talking thus, come soon, and we'll see what old Sabina has provided for us." Upon which the secretary left the room of his guest with a proud step, as if he himself were already installed in the office of protector of Würtemberg.
Albert did not send the most friendly look after his host as he withdrew. He replaced his helmet again in the corner, which he had but an hour ago taken such pleasure in polishing; with sorrow he looked at his sword, that faithful piece of steel, which his father had proved in many a hard conflict, and which he had sent to his orphan son from the field of battle, as his sole legacy. "Fight honourably," was the device engraved on its blade, and he asked himself, could he now draw it in a cause, which bore injustice on its front? Instead of the contest being decided by the military talents of experienced men, and the bravery of individuals, as he had supposed, he now learned that secret intrigue, designated by Herr Dieterick "politics," was to settle the question! Instead of the exhilirating clash of arms, and the prospect of glory, which had induced him to take part in the struggle, he perceived that he was to promote the covetous plans of designing men! Would his honour permit him to assist these low-minded Philistines of townsfolk, in expelling an ancient princely house from its rights, which his ancestors had served with willing arm? No, the thought was intolerable; and to be tutored by this Kraft was still more repugnant to his feelings.
He could not however long entertain any ill-will against his kind-hearted host, when he considered that this plan was not concocted by his own brain, and that men, like this political scribe, when they get hold of a state secret, or some great political scheme, foster it as their own, and as such try to instil it into the minds of their adopted children, as if the wisdom of Minerva had sprung out of their own thick heads.
He therefore met his friend in good humour, when dinner was announced. The conversation between them was dull and common-place. The scribe's thoughts appeared to be occupied with some important project; and Albert taking a review in his mind of the whole state of affairs as they stood, consoled himself with the idea that, as the father of Bertha had sided with the League as he supposed, and such men as Fronsberg had proffered their services in the same cause, there might be less reason to doubt the justice of it than he imagined.
Youth's ever ready with its word; it seizesThe first that comes to hand, as 'twould a knife:And thus ye cry or "shame," or "nobly done,"On every thing--all's either good or bad.
Youth's ever ready with its word; it seizes
The first that comes to hand, as 'twould a knife:
And thus ye cry or "shame," or "nobly done,"
On every thing--all's either good or bad.
These words of the poet well describe the feelings of Albert at this moment, and the sudden change in his sentiments was also to be attributed to his inexperienced mind in worldly affairs, acting as he did alone, without the aid and advice of any tried friend. Anticipating, therefore, the happy moment of meeting his love at the ball in the evenings where he would be able to speak with her, and from her lips have his doubts cleared up respecting her father's intentions, the gloom with which his mind had been overcast in his conversation with his friend the secretary gave away to the pleasing prospect of seeing her again.
Footnote 1: Beer-soup was a mixture of beer, eggs, sugar, cinnamon, and a little milk, with crums of bread, in quantity according to the taste.
"And in the merry dance, she whispers, to impart,In soft accents, the sorrows of her heart."L. Uhland.
"And in the merry dance, she whispers, to impart,
In soft accents, the sorrows of her heart."
L. Uhland.
If we had ransacked all the pawnbrokers' shops, and attended the auction of an antiquary's goods, to find "a pocket-book giving a description of the social pleasures, with the fashionable figure dances, of the year 1519," we could not have been more fortunate than in the fund of information which chance has thrown in our way upon that subject.
Having arrived at that part of the present history which is to treat of a ball so far back as 1519, a difficulty arose of ascertaining what were the figures, and how they were danced in those days.
We might, indeed, have simply said, "they danced;" but how easily might some of our fair readers have made an anachronism, and imagined an old veteran such as George von Fronsberg, booted and spurred, standing up in a cotillon. In this embarrassment a very rare book fell in our way, entitled, "The beginning, origin, and customs of tournaments in the holy Roman Empire. Frankfort, 1564." We found in these precious pages, among other well executed wood-cuts, the representation of a ball in the time of the Emperor Maximilian, which was about a year before the date of this history.
We may, therefore, take it for granted, that the ball in the town-hall of Ulm differed in nothing from the explanations afforded by the above-mentioned drawing, and consequently we shall be able to give a better idea of the amusements of those days, by giving a description of the picture, than by our own delineation.
The foreground is occupied by the spectators; and the musicians, composed of fifers, drummers, and trumpeters, placed in a gallery, "sound a blast," according to the expression in the tournament book. On either side, towards the further end of the room, are arranged those who intend to join in the dance, dressed in rich heavy stuffs. In our days, we see only two standing colours on such occasions, black and white, in which the ladies and gentlemen are divided as night and day. Not so in former times. An extraordinary brilliancy of colours shoot their rays from the picture. The most beautiful red, from fiery scarlet to the deepest purple, accompanied by rich deep blue which surprises us in the paintings of the old masters, form the cheerful colours of their picturesque drapery and dresses. The centre of the apartment is occupied by the actual performers. The dance resembles very much the Polonaise of the present day, in which the gentleman, with his partner, walk around the room in procession. Four trumpeters, bearing heraldic flags suspended to their instruments, open the procession, followed by the first couple. The rank alone of the gentleman entitles him, with his lady, to the honour of leading; and at each change of the dance, the next in precedence takes his place. Then come two torch-bearers, followed by the rest of the dancers in pairs. The ladies walked with modest and reserved demeanour; and the men placed their feet in a singular position, as if they were on the point of making a high leap. Some appear also to stamp with their high heels in time to the music; a custom even now seen in the Swabian village festivals.
Such was the ball in Ulm. The first blast of the trumpets had sounded before Albert von Sturmfeder entered the room. His eye flew through the ranks of the dancers, and soon fell upon his beloved. She was led by a young Franconian knight of his acquaintance; but she did not appear to heed the animated conversation which he addressed to her. Her eyes sought the ground, her look expressed seriousness, bordering on sorrow; very different from the rest of the female part of the company, who, floating in all the pleasures of the ball, gave one ear to the music, the other to their partner; accompanied by inquisitive looks, now to their acquaintances for the purpose of reading approbation in their choice of their cavalier, now towards him, to ascertain if his attention was exclusively taken up with them.
The cornets and trumpets having sounded a finale in lengthened tones, put an end to the first dance. Dieterick von Kraft having remarked the arrival of his guest, came to lead him to his cousins, according to his promise. He whispered to him, that, having himself already engaged Marie for the next dance, he had asked Bertha's hand for him.
Both the girls had been prepared for the appearance of the interesting stranger; nevertheless, upon the recollection of the remark she had made upon him when he passed under her window, Marie's lively features were covered with a deep blush when he was introduced to them. She was unable to account to herself for the embarrassment his presence now produced on her, having only seen him once in her life, and never heard of him before. Whether it was that she had selected him as the most striking cavalier in the procession, or whether, among the young citizens of Ulm, she thought none were to be compared with him in appearance; such was the effect of this sudden attack on her feelings, one to which she had hitherto been a stranger, that she had no little difficulty in endeavouring to conceal her confusion from his observation.
Though Bertha was timid of betraying the secret of her heart before her cousin, she had no such feeling to struggle with in regard to Albert. Their mutual attachment was of long standing and deep-rooted. The first time she had seen him since their separation in Tübingen was in the ranks of the confederates, to whom her father was inveterately opposed. From that moment her peace of mind had vanished. Her soul was troubled with cruel doubts and misgivings; and all her hopes appeared for ever blasted. She nevertheless had sufficient command over herself, and for a moment the weight which oppressed her mind gave way to joy now that he stood before her; and she returned his salutation with the same endearing smile which she was wont to do in the days of their unclouded happiness. And had her cousin not been taken up in concealing her own state of embarrassment, she could not have failed to discover, in the tender glance of Bertha's eye, something which expressed more than common courtesy.
"I bring you Albert von Sturmfeder, my worthy guest," began the scribe to Marie, "who begs to have the pleasure of dancing with you."
"Were I not already engaged to my cousin Kraft for the next," said Marie to the young knight, with recovered self-possession, "I would, with pleasure; but Bertha is disengaged."
"If you are not engaged, may I have that pleasure?" said he, turning to Bertha.
"I am engaged to you," she answered. Then it was that Albert heard again, after so long an absence, that voice which had often called him by the most endearing name; and he dwelt on those eyes which still looked on him with undiminished fidelity.
The trumpets again sounded throughout the room. The second in command of the army of the League, Waldburg Truchses, having the precedence in the coming dance, came forth with his lady: the torch-bearers followed; the couples arranged themselves, and Albert also, taking Bertha's hand, placed himself in the ranks. Her eyes now no longer sought the ground, but were directed solely to him. But in the expression of her countenance, Albert could plainly perceive, there was something hanging on her mind indicative of mental suffering. Joy at meeting him again, which had but a moment before brightened up her features, was now succeeded by an expression of dejection, which he could in no wise account for. So much was he struck by the sudden change in her manner, that he was on the point of upbraiding her, and taxing her unjustly with an alteration of love towards him. Grieved at the pain he appeared to suffer, she gently begged him to wait a fitting moment, and then she would explain every thing. She looked cautiously behind her at Dieterick and Marie, who were the next couple to them, to see if they were near enough to overhear her conversation. Finding they were at some distance, she said, "Ah! Albert, what unlucky star has brought you into this army?"
"You were that star, Bertha," he replied: "I thought your father would be on the side of the League, and I am glad not to find myself mistaken. Can you blame me for having thrown aside the learned books, and taken to the profession of arms? No other inheritance has fallen to my lot than the sword of my father. I will put it to usury; and prove to your father, that he who loves his daughter is not unworthy of her."
"Oh, God! I trust you have not yet sworn allegiance to the League?" she exclaimed, interrupting him.
"Do not frighten yourself so, dearest; I have not yet fully bound myself to it, but I intend to do so in a day or two. Will you not allow your Albert to gain some little fame! What is it that makes you so anxious about me? Your father is old, and still he goes with us."
"Ah! my father, my father!" Bertha said, in a desponding tone, "he is indeed--but stop, Albert, stop, Marie notices us. But I must speak with you to-morrow--I must, should it cost me my happiness. Oh if I but knew how to manage it."
"But what is it that agitates you in this way, beloved?" asked Albert, to whom it was inexplicable how Bertha should only think of the danger that awaited him, instead of being overjoyed at this meeting. "The danger is not so great as you imagine," he whispered to her: "think only of the happiness of being together again, that I can press your hand, and that we can see each other face to face. Enjoy the present moment, and be cheerful."
"Cheerful? Oh, those times are gone by, Albert. Hear me, and be firm;--my father is opposed to the League." She said this in a low subdued tone.
"Good Heavens! what do you say?" cried the young man; and leant towards Bertha, as if he had not distinctly heard the ill-foreboding words. "Oh! tell me; is not your father at present in Ulm?"
The poor girl had thought herself strong enough to withstand the shock she felt at this moment, but it was too powerful; it deprived her of utterance, and she could scarcely contain her tears. She answered only by a slight pressure of her hand; and with downcast eyes went to seek Kraft, led by Albert, in order to gain a little time to combat the grief she experienced. The strong mind of this young maiden at last triumphed over the weakness of her nature; and she whispered to her lover, in a composed tone, "My father is Duke Ulerich's warmest friend; and so soon as war is declared, he will take me back to Lichtenstein."
The noise of the drums at this instant was deafening; the trumpets clanged in their fullest tones as they saluted Truchses, who how passed by the musicians; and, according to the custom of those days, threw them some pieces of silver, which caused the trumpets to redouble their deafening sounds.
The whispered conversation of our two lovers was overpowered by the confounding noise of the instruments; but their eyes had so much the more to say to each other in this apparent shipwreck of their hopes, so that they did not notice the observations, which were passed on them by the surrounding spectators, as being the handsomest couple in the room. Marie's ear was not shut to the passing remarks of the crowd. She was too kind-hearted to be envious of her cousin's praise, and consoled herself with the idea, that, were she in her place, beside the handsome young man, the couple would not be less attractive. But it was the animated conversation which Bertha kept up with her partner, that particularly attracted her attention. Her reserved cousin, who seldom or ever talked long with any man, now appeared to speak with even more earnestness than he did. The music and noise, however, hindered Marie from overhearing the subject of their conversation. This excited her curiosity to such a degree (a feeling--perhaps, not without justice--attributed specially to young ladies), that she drew her own partner nearer to them, for the purpose of listening; but whether it was by accident or design, that the conversation either dropped or was kept up in a subdued tone, the nearer she approached, she could not catch a word of it.
Marie's interest in the young man increased with these obstacles to her curiosity. Her good cousin Kraft had never appeared so great a bore to her as now, for all the pretty sayings with which he endeavoured to fix her attention, were only so many hindrances to her observing the others more closely. She was therefore glad when the dance was over. She hoped the next would be more agreeable, with the young knight for her partner.
Albert came and engaged her, when she sprang with joy to the hand which he offered; but she deceived herself in finding him the agreeable partner she had anticipated. Indifferent, reserved, sunk in deep thought, giving short answers to her questions, it was too clear he was not the same person who had but a moment before conversed in so animated a manner with her cousin.
"Was this the courteous knight," thought Marie, "who had saluted them in so polite a manner, without ever having seen them before? Was it the same cheerful and merry person whom cousin Kraft had introduced? the same who had spoken with Bertha so earnestly? or could she--yes, it was too evident that Bertha had pleased him better than herself--perhaps, because she was the first to dance with him."
Marie had been little accustomed to see her reserved cousin preferred before her, which this apparent victory seemed to indicate. Her vanity was piqued, she felt herself estranged from Bertha, and conceived herself bound to exert her talents and winning arts to re-establish herself in her lost rights. She therefore, in her usual merry mood, carried on the conversation about the coming war, which she contrived to lengthen out till the end of the dance. "Well," said she, "and how many campaigns have you gone through, Albert von Sturmfeder?"
"This will be my first," he answered, abruptly, for he was annoyed that she kept up the conversation, as he wished so much to speak to Bertha again.
"Your first!" said Marie, in astonishment. "You surely want to deceive me, for I perceive a large scar on your forehead."
"I got that at the university," he replied.
"How? are you a scholar?" asked Marie, her curiosity still more excited. "Well, then, I suppose you have visited distant countries, Padua or Bologna, or perhaps even the heretics in Wittenberg?"
"Not so far as you think," said he, as he turned to Bertha: "I have never been further than Tübingen."
"In Tübingen?" cried Marie, surprised. This single word, like lightning, unravelled in a moment every thing in her mind which before had been obscure. A glance at Bertha, who stood before her with downcast eyes, her cheeks suffused with the blush of confusion, convinced her that, on that word, hung the key to a long list of inferences which had occupied her thoughts. It was now quite clear why the courteous knight saluted them; the cause of Bertha's tears could be no other, than that of finding Albert had joined the opposite party; the earnest conversation between them, and Sturmfeder's reserve to herself, were satisfactorily explained to her mind. There was no question of their having long known each other.
Indignation was the first feeling that ruffled Marie's breast. She blushed for herself, when she felt she had endeavoured to attract the attention of a young man whose heart was fully occupied by another object. Ill humour, on account of Bertha's secrecy, clouded her features. She sought excuse for her own conduct, and found it only in the duplicity of her cousin. If she had but acknowledged, she said to herself, the feeling which existed between her and the young knight, she never would have shown the interest she took in him; he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; she never would have experienced this painful confusion.
Marie did not deign to give the unhappy young man another look during the evening, and he was too much occupied with the painful sensations of his own mind, to be aware of her ill will towards him. He was also so unfortunate as to be scarcely able to say another word alone and unobserved to Bertha. The ball ended, and left him in doubt as to what her future fate, or the intentions of her father were likely to be. She seized, however, a favourable moment to whisper to him on the staircase, when she was going home, begging him to remain in the town on the morrow, in the hope of finding an opportunity to speak with him.
The two girls went home, both ill at ease with each other. Marie gave short, snappish answers to Bertha's questions, who, whether it was that she suspected what was passing in her cousin's mind, or whether she was overwhelmed by grief, became more melancholy and reserved than ever.
But when they entered their room, silent and cold towards each other, then it was that they both felt how painful was the interruption of their hitherto affectionate intercourse. Up to this eventful evening, they had always assisted each other in all those little services, which unite young girls in friendship. How different was it now? Marie had taken the silver pin out of her rich light hair, which fell in long ringlets over her beautiful neck. She attempted to put it up under her cap, but unaccustomed to arrange it without Bertha's help, and too proud to let her enemy, as she now called her cousin in her mind, notice her embarrassment, she threw it away in a corner, and seized a handkerchief to tie it up.
Bertha, unconscious of having offended her cousin, could not fail noticing her change of affection towards her, and felt acutely the apparent sting of her ruffled temper. She quietly picked up the cap, and came to render her cousin her usual assistance.
"Away with you, you false one!" said the angry Marie, as she pushed away the helping hand.
"Dearest Marie, have I deserved this of you?" said Bertha, gently, and with tenderness. "Oh, if you but knew how unhappy I am, you would not be so harsh with me."
"Unhappy, indeed!" loudly laughed the other, "unhappy! because the courteous knight only danced with you once, I suppose."
"You are very hard, Marie," replied Bertha; "you are angry with me, and will not even tell me the cause of your displeasure."
"Really! so you do not know how you have deceived me? but you cannot keep your duplicity a secret any longer, which has subjected me to scorn and confusion. I never could have thought you would have acted so ungenerously, so falsely by me!"
The wounded feeling of being out-done by her cousin, and as she thought, despised by Sturmfeder, was again awakened in Marie's mind; her tears flowed, she laid her heated forehead in her hand, and her rich locks fell over and hid her face.
Tears are the symptoms of gentle suffering, they say: Bertha had experienced it, and continued her conversation with confidence. "Marie! you have accused me of keeping a secret from you. I see you have discovered that, which I never could have divulged. Put yourself in my situation--ah! you yourself, cheerful and frank as you are, would never have confided to me your inmost secret. But I will conceal it no longer--you have guessed what my lips shunned to express. I love him! Yes, and my love is returned. This mutual feeling dates much further back than yesterday. Will you hear me? and I will tell you all."
Marie's tears still flowed on. She made no answer to Bertha's last question, who now related to her the way in which they became acquainted with each other in the house of her good aunt in Tübingen; how she liked him, long before he acknowledged his love of her; and narrated many endearing recollections of the past--the happy moments they had spent together, their oath of fidelity at their separation. "And now," she continued, with a painful smile, "he has been induced to join the League in this unhappy war, because we were in Ulm, thinking, very naturally, that my father was embarked in the same cause. He hopes to render himself worthy of me by the aid of his sword; for he is poor, very poor. Oh! Marie, you know my father--how good he is, but also how stern, when any thing runs counter to his opinion. Would he give his daughter to a man who has drawn his sword against Würtemberg? Certainly not. This is the cause of all the trouble and grief I suffer. Often have I wished to unburden my heart to you, but an uncontrollable feeling closed my lips. But now that you know the whole truth, can you still be angry with me? shall I lose my friend also, as well as my beloved?"
Poor Bertha could contain her tears no longer, and wept aloud. Marie, overpowered by the grief of her friend, embraced her cousin with the warm affection of a tender heart sympathising in her painful situation, and all feeling of enmity was in a moment extinguished in her breast.
"In a few days," said Bertha, after a short silence, "my father will quit Ulm, and I must accompany him. But I must see Albert again, if it were only for a quarter of an hour. Marie, your ingenuity can easily find us an opportunity; only for a very short quarter of an hour!"
"But you do not wish to make him desert the good cause?" asked Marie.
"I know not what you call the good cause," replied Bertha. "The Duke's cause is, perhaps, not less good than yours. You talk thus because you belong to the League. I am a Würtemberger, and my father is faithful to his Duke. But shall we girls decide upon the merits of the war? rather let us think of the means, whereby I may see him again."
Marie had listened with so much interest to the history of her cousin, that she quite forgot having ever entertained any ill-will towards her. Besides which, being naturally fond of any thing involved in mystery, she was glad of an opportunity, such as the present, to exercise her wits. She felt all the importance and honour of being a confidant, and consequently determined to spare no pains in serving the lovers in their critical position.
After a few moments' thought, she said, "I have it; we'll invite him at once into our garden."
"In the garden!" asked Bertha, fearful and incredulous; "and by whom?"
"His host, good cousin Dieterich himself shall bring him," answered Marie. "That's a good thought! and he shall not know anything of the plot; leave that alone to me."
Though Bertha was strong and determined in matters of importance, she trembled for the result of this rash step. But her bold and cheerful little cousin knew how to combat her scruples and fears. With renewed hope, then, in the success of their scheme for the morrow, and their hearts being restored again to their former mutual confidence, the girls embraced each other with tender affection, and retired to rest.
As like a spirit of the airShe hangs upon his neck,In falt'ring tones the lovely fairAt last essays to speak;"And wilt thou, then, thy true love leaveFor ever?"--thus the fairBegan, when, overcome by grief,Her words are lost in air.Schubart.
As like a spirit of the air
She hangs upon his neck,
In falt'ring tones the lovely fair
At last essays to speak;
"And wilt thou, then, thy true love leave
For ever?"--thus the fair
Began, when, overcome by grief,
Her words are lost in air.
Schubart.
Albert was sitting in his room, in the forenoon of the day after the ball, thoughtful and dejected. He had paid a visit to his friend Breitenstein, from whom he heard little that was consoling to his hopes. A council of war had been assembled early in the morning, and war was irrevocably decided upon. Twelve pages were despatched through the Goecklinger gate to convey the declarations of defiance of the Duke of Bavaria, the nobility, and assembled states, to the Würtembergers at Blaubeuren. This news was speedily spread from mouth to mouth through the streets, and joy at the prospect of marching at last into the field, was visibly depicted on every countenance. To one alone was the announcement a terrible blow. Grief drove him from the circle of the joyous multitude, who adjourned to the wine shops, to celebrate, by loud carousal, the birthday of the war, and to cast lots for the booty of anticipated victory. Ah! his lot was already cast! A bloody field of battle was spread between him and his beloved; she was lost to him for a length of time, perhaps for ever.
Hurried steps ascending the staircase, roused him out of his melancholy mood. His friend the scribe put his head in at the door, crying out, "Good luck, my boy! the dance is about to commence in good earnest. Have you heard the news? war is announced, and our messengers have been despatched an hour ago, with the declaration to the enemy."
"I know that already," said his gloomy guest.
"Well, and does not your heart jump more freely? Have you also heard--no, you could not," continued Dieterich, as he approached him in confidence--"the Swiss have withdrawn their aid from the Duke."
"How? Have they deserted him?" replied Albert. "Well, then, I suppose that will put an end to the war."
"I would not be quite certain of that," said the scribe, doubtfully. "The Duke of Würtemberg is young and bold, and has many knights and followers at his command. He will not, indeed, run the risk of fighting a battle in the field, but many fortified castles and cities remain faithful to his cause. Höllenstein, defended by Stephen von Lichow, Göppingen, which Philip von Rechberg will not give up at the first shot, Schorndorf, Rothenberg, Arsperg, but, above all, Tübingen, which he has strongly fortified, still hold faithful to him. Many a one will bite the grass before your steed drinks of the water of the Neckar."
"Well, well!" he continued, perceiving this news did not cheer up his silent guest, "if this warlike message does not please you, you will, perhaps, lend a willing ear to a more peaceful commission. Tell me, have you not a cousin somewhere or other?"
"A cousin, yes; but why do you ask?"
"Only think! now I understand the confused conversation I had with Marie a little while ago. As I came out of the town hall, she winked to me from her window to come to her, when she desired me to bring my guest this afternoon into her garden on the Danube. Bertha, who knows your cousin very well, has something of importance to send to her, and hopes you will be so kind as to be the bearer of it. Such secrets and commissions generally consist in mere trifles. I would bet, it is nothing but a little model of a weaver's loom, or a pattern of fine wool, or some mysterious secret in the art of cooking; perhaps a few seeds of some rare flower, for Bertha is a great florist. However, if these girls pleased you yesterday, you will have no objection to accompany me to-day."
In the midst of his painful thoughts, on the hour of separation from his love, Albert could scarce refrain from laughing at the cunning ingenuity of the girls; he proffered his hand heartily to the welcome messenger, and prepared to follow his friend.
The garden was situated on the banks of the Danube, about two thousand paces below the bridge. It was not large, and bore the appearance of being kept with care and attention. The fruit trees were as yet not clothed with foliage, neither were the curiously formed flower beds ornamented with flowers; a long walk of yew trees skirting the bank of the river, and terminating in a large arbour, formed a pleasing picture by their bright green colour, and gave sufficient protection to a white neck and arm, against the piercing rays of a burning sun. The two girls, awaiting the arrival of the young men, were seated on a commodious stone bench in the arbour, and had an extended view, up and down the Danube, through apertures made in the side of it.
Bertha sat there in sorrowful thought, her arm resting on one of the apertures, and her head, weary from grief and weeping, supported on her hand. Her dark glossy hair threw out in strong relief her beautiful white complexion, which sorrow had rendered a deadly pale colour; sleepless nights had robbed her brilliant blue eye of its usual animation, and given to it a languishing--perhaps so much the more interesting--look of melancholy. Beside her sat the rosy Marie, fresh and plump, a perfect specimen of a merry heart. Her golden tresses, animated round face, bright hazel eyes, light and lively movements, were peculiarly striking when compared with the dark locks, oval careworn countenance, and thoughtful look of her dejected cousin.
Marie appeared to have summoned up her most agreeable mood, expressly for the purpose of consoling her cousin, or at least to dissipate her pain. She prattled about indifferent things--she laughed at and mimicked the gestures and peculiarities of many of their acquaintances--she tried a thousand little arts, with which nature had endowed her--but with little success; for only now and then a painful smile spread over Bertha's beautiful features.
As a last resource, she took to her lute, which stood in the corner. Bertha was an accomplished performer on this instrument, and Marie would not have been easily persuaded to play before so expert a mistress on any other occasion; but now, she hoped to be able to elicit a smile, at least, if it were only on account of her bad performance.
"What is Love, I'm ask'd to tell:Fain we would his nature know;You who've studied it so well,Why he pains us, prithee show.Joy it brings, if love be there;If pain, of love 't is not the spell;--Oh, then, I know the name that it should bear."
"What is Love, I'm ask'd to tell:
Fain we would his nature know;
You who've studied it so well,
Why he pains us, prithee show.
Joy it brings, if love be there;
If pain, of love 't is not the spell;--
Oh, then, I know the name that it should bear."
"Where did you get that old Swabian song?" asked Bertha, who had lent a willing ear to the music and words.
"It is pretty, is it not? but the remainder is still more so; would you like to hear it?" said Marie. "A music master, Hans Sacks, taught it me in Nürnberg. It is not his own composition, but Walther's, the bird-feeder, who lived and loved a good three hundred years ago. But listen:
"How I rightly may divineLove's enigma, prithee say.'Tis the charm of pow'r to joinTwo hearts, where each must own its sway;One heart avails not, each must shareIts influence: dear mistress mine,Say, wilt thou share with me, thou lovely May?
"How I rightly may divine
Love's enigma, prithee say.
'Tis the charm of pow'r to join
Two hearts, where each must own its sway;
One heart avails not, each must share
Its influence: dear mistress mine,
Say, wilt thou share with me, thou lovely May?
"Well, though you have shared your love equally with the poor young man," said the playful Marie, "I pity you, from my heart, the painful burden of its weight. If such be its chains, cousin Kraft, who would willingly give me a portion of his, must wait awhile, and groan under the load of carrying the whole charge of it on his own shoulders. But I see you are again absorbed in thought," she added, "so I must sing you another of Walther's songs:
"I know not what has chanced, I weenMy sight was never on this wise.Since in my heart she first was seen,I see her still without my eyes.What miracle is this? What pow'rEnables me, without the aid of sight,To see her every day and every hour?"Would you then learn the organs and the art,By which I see to earth's extremest zone?They are the thoughts I nourish in my heart;They penetrate through walls of brick and stone;And, should these watchers fail, her presence stillIs evermore, as 't were, before my eyes,Seen by my heart, my spirit, and my will."
"I know not what has chanced, I weenMy sight was never on this wise.Since in my heart she first was seen,I see her still without my eyes.What miracle is this? What pow'rEnables me, without the aid of sight,To see her every day and every hour?
"I know not what has chanced, I ween
My sight was never on this wise.
Since in my heart she first was seen,
I see her still without my eyes.
What miracle is this? What pow'r
Enables me, without the aid of sight,
To see her every day and every hour?
"Would you then learn the organs and the art,By which I see to earth's extremest zone?They are the thoughts I nourish in my heart;They penetrate through walls of brick and stone;And, should these watchers fail, her presence stillIs evermore, as 't were, before my eyes,Seen by my heart, my spirit, and my will."
"Would you then learn the organs and the art,
By which I see to earth's extremest zone?
They are the thoughts I nourish in my heart;
They penetrate through walls of brick and stone;
And, should these watchers fail, her presence still
Is evermore, as 't were, before my eyes,
Seen by my heart, my spirit, and my will."
Bertha praised the song of Walther the birdfeeder, as being consolatory in separation. Marie agreed with her. "I have one more verse," she added, smiling:
"Though she wander'd in Swabia, far and wide,Through castles and walls her course he espied.O'er the Alb unto Lichtenstein had she gone,His eyes would have follow'd through rock and stone."
"Though she wander'd in Swabia, far and wide,
Through castles and walls her course he espied.
O'er the Alb unto Lichtenstein had she gone,
His eyes would have follow'd through rock and stone."
Marie was going on with her singing, when the garden door opened. Footsteps were heard in the walk, and the girls rose to receive their expected visitants.
"Albert von Sturmfeder," began Marie, after the usual salutations were over, "you will pardon me for having ventured to invite you into my father's garden; but, as my cousin, Bertha wishes to give you some commissions, for her friend, I have taken the liberty." She then turned to Dieterich von Kraft, and said, "We will not interrupt their conversation; so, come and talk over the ball of last evening." Upon which she took the hand of her cousin, and led him away down the yew-tree walk.
Albert seated himself beside Bertha, who laid her head on his breast, and wept bitterly. His most soothing words were unable to calm her grief. "Bertha," he said, "you were always so stout-hearted; how can you thus give up all hope of a happier destiny?"
"Hope?" she replied, sorrowfully: "to our hope, to our happiness, there is an eternal end."
"But hearken, dearest," replied Albert, who, to cheer up her drooping spirit, endeavoured to inspire her with courage; "let not this slight interruption to our hopes throw its chilling influence over the purity of our love, as if it were to extinguish altogether its bright flame. All will be well yet. Rather let us put our trust in God, and wait his almighty will; for I never can believe that He who knows the secret of our hearts, and has joined them together by the indissoluble tie of faithful attachment, will not, in his own way, make all things to work for our good." These consoling words produced a smile upon her countenance; but it pourtrayed the character of despondency rather than of hope.
She replied, after a short silence, "Listen to me with attention, Albert. I must acquaint you with a profound secret, upon which hangs my father's life. He is as bitter an enemy to the League, as he is the firm friend of the Duke. He is not come here solely for the purpose of fetching his daughter home; no, he is using his utmost endeavour to find out the plans of the enemy, and with money and address to spread distrust and confusion among them. Do you suppose, then, that such a determined adversary to the League, would ever consent to give his daughter to a man who seeks to raise himself by our destruction? to one who has attached himself to a party, whose object is not justice, but plunder?"
"Your zeal, Bertha, for the Duke's cause, carries you too far," the young man interrupted her; "you ought to know that many an honourable man serves in our army."
"And even if this were the case," she replied, with animation, "still they are deceived and led away, as you yourself also are."
"How are you so certain of that?" answered Albert, who, though he suspected she was somewhat right, blushed to find the party he had espoused should be so vilified by his beloved: "might not your father be also equally blinded and deceived? How can he serve with such zeal the cause of that proud ambitious Duke, who murders his nobility, treads his citizens in the dust, squanders the industry of the land in riotous living, and allows his peasantry to starve with hunger?"
"Yes, his enemies represent him in this light," she replied; "this army speaks of him in the same terms; but ask those below, on the banks of the Neckar, if they do not love their hereditary Prince, though his hand may lay heavy on them at times? Ask those faithful men who have rallied around him, whether they are not willing and ready, to shed their blood for the grand-child of Eberhard, rather than allow that proud Duke of Bavaria, that rapacious nobility, those needy townsfolk to tread their land?"
Albert was thoughtfully silent for a time. "But," he asked, "how can his warmest supporters exculpate him from the murder of Hutten?"
"You are very ready to talk of your honour," Bertha answered, "and will not suffer the Duke to defend his own. Hutten did not fall by treachery, as his partisans have given out to the world, but in honourable fight, in which the Duke's life was equally exposed. I do not wish to excuse him for all his actions, but it is but just to remember, that a young man, like him, surrounded by evil advisers, has not the power always to act wisely. But he is really good, and if you knew how mild and humane he can be!"
Albert was piqued that Bertha should speak in such glowing terms of the Duke's virtues, and jealousy for a moment took possession of his soul and ruffled his temper. He replied with a sarcastic and malignant smile, "A little more, and you would call him the handsome Duke; who, for aught I know, if he were aware what an advocate he had in you, might think it worth his trouble to ingratiate himself in your heart, and supplant poor Albert."
"I really did not think you capable of such petty jealousy," Bertha answered, and turned away, with a tear of indignation starting into her eye, from a feeling of wounded dignity. "Cannot you believe it possible for the heart of a young girl to beat warm in the cause of her country?"
"Do not be angry with me," Albert implored, and felt ashamed at the injustice of his remark; "really, I meant it in joke."
"Can you indulge in a joke at this moment, when our life's happiness is at stake! My father leaves Ulm to-morrow, war being declared. It will be long, perhaps very long, before we see each other again--and can you joke now? Ah! could you have witnessed the many nights I have prayed God, with burning tears, to incline your heart to our side, to defend us from the misery and pain of being separated for ever, you certainly would not have trifled so cruelly with my feelings."
"He has not inclined it to happiness," said Albert, looking about him, agitated.
"And is it still impossible," said Bertha, as she took his hand, with the most expressive tenderness, "is it still impossible? Come along with us, Albert; think how happy my father would be to present a young warrior to his Duke? He has often said that one gallant sword is of great price in such times; you will be highly esteemed by him, you will fight by his side, my heart will not then be torn or divided between the conflicting parties, my prayers for prosperity and victory, will not wander in doubtful agitation between the two armies."
"Stop, for heaven's sake, stop!" cried the young man, and covered his eyes with his hands; for the conquest of conviction beamed from her looks, the power of truth was encamped on her sweet lips. "Do you wish to persuade me to become a deserter? I entered but yesterday with the army, war is this day declared, and shall I ride over to the Duke to-morrow? Is my honour so indifferent to you?"
"Honour!" Bertha said, "is such honour dearer to you than your love? How different were his words, when Albert swore eternal fidelity! Well, then, go and be happier with them than with me! But when the Duke of Bavaria creates you a knight on the field of battle, for carrying desolation through our fields, when he decorates the neck of Albert von Sturmfeder with the chain of honour, for having been the foremost in crushing Würtemberg's citizens, may the joy of your thoughts not be troubled then, by having broken the heart of one so true to you--of one who loved you so tenderly!"
"Dearest," answered Albert, whose breast was torn by conflicting feelings, "grief does not permit you, to perceive how unjust you are. But be it so; you conceive that I prefer the glory, which is leading me onwards, to making a sacrifice of it to love. But hear me. I dare not come over to your side. I will give in my resignation to the League. Let those fight and conquer who will; my dream of glory is thus at an end."
Bertha sent a look of gratitude to heaven for this avowal, and rewarded the words of the young man by a sweet acknowledgment. "Oh! believe me," she said, "I know how much this sacrifice must cost you. But do not let me see you look so sad, when you cast your eyes at your sword. The sun will still shine upon our happiness one of these days. I can now bid you farewell with consolation in my heart, for, whichever way the war may end, you can appear unconstrained before my father, who will rejoice to hear of your having made the heavy sacrifice for my sake."
Marie now gave her friends the signal that she was unable to retain the clerk of the council any longer, which roused them from their absorbing conversation. Bertha quickly composed herself, and with Albert quitted the arbour.
"Cousin Kraft wishes to depart," said Marie, "and requires his friend to accompany him."
"I must indeed go with you, if I wish to find my way home," replied the young man, who was too well acquainted with the received customs of his day, not to be aware that he, a stranger, could not remain with the young ladies, without their cousin being of the party, precious as the last moments, before a long separation from his love, might be to him.
They proceeded down the garden, the silence only broken by Dieterick, who expressed his sorrow, in very courteous terms, at the prospect of his cousin leaving Ulm so soon as the morrow. But Marie, thinking she discovered something in the look of Albert's eye, which expressed a wish not yet satisfied, and to the accomplishment of which witnesses might be unwelcome, drew cousin Kraft on one side, and questioned him so closely upon a plant, whose leaves were just bursting, that he had not time to observe what was going on behind his back.
Albert took immediate advantage of the happy moment, and pressed Bertha once more to his heart. The noise occasioned by her heavy silken dress, and the clattering of his sword, drew the scribe's attention from his botanical observations; he looked around, and oh, wonder! he saw his very reserved cousin in the arms of his guest.
"That was a salute for the dear cousin in Franconia, I suppose?" he remarked, after he had recovered from his surprise.
"No, Mr. Secretary," answered Albert, with firmness, "it was a salute for me alone, and from her whom I hope one day to call my own. Have you anything to say against it, my friend?"
"God forbid! I congratulate you with all my heart," answered Dieterick, somewhat subdued by the determined look of the young man. "But, by the powers, I call that an entire case ofveni,vidi,vici. I have been trying my luck with the beauty for more than a quarter of a year, and I can scarcely boast of one kind look from her during the whole time."
"Forgive the joke, cousin, which we have played upon you," said Marie; "be reasonable, and let me explain the matter." She then gave him to understand, why Albert and he had been invited into the garden, and begged him to be silent upon the subject before Bertha's father. He was softened into compliance by the kind look of Marie, upon condition, that she would submit also to the same ordeal her cousin had just undergone.
Marie gently repelled his unmannerly request, and, by way of teazing him, asked him again at the garden door the natural history of a violet, the first of the season. He was kind enough to give her a long and learned dissertation upon the subject, without allowing himself to be interrupted by the noise of a rustling silk dress or clattering sword. A grateful look from Bertha, a friendly shake of the hand from Marie, rewarded him at parting; and long floated the veils of the pretty cousins over the garden hedge, as their eyes followed the path of the young men.