On the borders of the wood stand the ruins of the ancient Kloster
Michaelstein, which we pass, and go up the valley, the brook acting
as our guide.
It conducts us first past a number of ponds, which formerly supplied
the self-denying monks with carp for their fasts, and now swarm with
speckled trout.
Low willows adorn the banks, and bathe their locks in the waves, out
of which a thick wood of slender reeds springs forth.
Now the vale narrows, magnificent walls of rock rise, and picturesque
waterfalls toss themselves down the stream.
Suddenly the forest grows thin; the vale divides itself in two arms,
and in the dale to the right, we see, close by the red-roofed
forage-house for game, grey rocks and ruins.
We ascend this dale, and stand by the ruins of the old church
Michaelstein, the mother of the later Kloster.
Beneath the ruins extends a wide cave, which gave rise to the
building of the church.
This cave served centuries ago as the dwelling-place of a hermit
named Volkmar, and still bears his name. Others of like mind joined
themselves to Volkmar, and thus arose the brotherhood, and the forest
church.
One can now scarcely trace the site of the walls; fruit-trees run
wild, and lilacs mark the spot where once the Kloster garden lay, and
besides, no trace of a human habitation where once good and holy men
dwelt in the mountain solitude.
This spot--this hermitage--was once a renowned shrine, and thousands
flocked here to seek consolation, for in the cave was a grave where
were said to rest the bones of the Virgin Mary.
Let us enter the cave, which has two openings, one to the south-east,
the other to the south-west; it is of considerable height and
breadth, resembling a subterranean chapel, formed of cross-arches,
and provided with niches. Near the west entrance is the far-famed
tomb of Mary.
The small forest church could boast the protection of the great of
the earth. Papal bulls gave indulgences for forty days to all who
prayed at, and brought gifts to, the shrine.
The Empress Matilda, the wife of Henry the Fowler, endowed it with
lands, and Kaiser Otto loaded it with favours, so that an enlargement
became necessary, and hence an hour's distance down the valley the
larger and more magnificent Kloster was built.
From the charter granted by Kaiser Otto, we learn that this cave was
not first occupied by Volkmar; but that a hermitess, Liutburga, dwelt
in it long before. Romance has brought them together.
Volkmar was a stately knight, and Liutburga the fairest of the
maidens of the Harz, and they loved each other. In her heart lived
only his image, and their souls were knit together.
But the Kaiser challenged his knights to combat against the Wenden,
who still clung to heathenism, and refused to recognize Christianity,
or the authority of the Kaiser.
Every true knight marched to the conflict, and Volkmar girded on his
sword, and the scarf that Liutburga had woven for him, and bade
farewell to his beloved.
She stood on the battlements of her castle, and saw him ride away,
and when she could see him no longer her sighs and tears burst forth.
Before the image of the Virgin she knelt daily, and prayed for his
return; but her petitions seemed unheeded, for troops of combatants
returned from battle, but nowhere could she see the plumed helmet of
Volkmar, and all were silent and sad at her questioning.
An inexpressible sorrow seized her, she clad herself in mourning
garments, grew paler than the flower that droops before the mighty
frost, and refused to be comforted. She could no longer dwell among
men, who understood not her grief, and sought the solitude of the
forest.
One day in her solitary ramble she discovered this rocky cave, and
here she resolved to retire, and spend the remainder of her days in
contemplation and devotion.
But her sorrow gnawed at her heart, and she sank to the earth like a
drooping flower. The death-angel came, and kissed away her tears.
But Volkmar was not fallen in battle, but had been only severely
wounded and taken prisoner by the Wenden, and led away into their
deep forests, and it was long before they gave him back his freedom.
He fled on the wings of love to the castle of Liutburga, and hearing
of her retirement he penetrated the mountains to seek out the spot.
At last he discovered the cave, and his heart was ready to burst with
bliss.
He called loudly her name, but no voice answered, only the echo of
the mountains. He climbed the mountain, and reached the entrance to
the cave. There lay Liutburga in the moss. "She sleeps!" he thought.
Yes, she slept. The cheeks were ashy pale, the eye broken, cold and
still the lips; she awoke no more at his call.
The birds of the wood had sung her death-song, and the trees had
showered their leaves and blossoms over the still form.
Volkmar returned no more to the world, which had nothing to offer his
broken heart.
Where Liutburga had dwelt in her grief was now his home; the crucifix
before which she had knelt was his sanctuary, and henceforth he
turned all his thoughts to God, and to the consolation of the
sorrowing.
That is the Liutburga of romance. The Liutburga of history[1] is
indeed a highly interesting and noble personality, if less poetic.
[1] See _History of Blankenburg_.
Countess Gisela, of the Harzgau, whose seat was Blankenburg Schloss,
after the death of her husband, Earl Unwan, built Kloster Wenthusen,
and other convents and churches.
Once on a journey she was overtaken by the darkness, and took refuge
in a Kloster.
Among the nuns who welcomed her, one, Liutburga, won her affections,
and on leaving, Gisela took her home with her.
After Gisela's death, Liutburga, with the consent of Bishop
Thiatgrin, of Halberstadt, retired to this cave somewhere between 827
and 840, in which Bernhard, son of Gisela, built her a cell and a
chapel.
She was renowned for sanctity and good works, and endowed with a
superior mind.
A priest of the cathedral of Halberstadt wrote her biography more
than a thousand years ago.
We return to the later Kloster Michaelstein, which is not so rich in
poetic legends.
Not even a ghostly monk haunts the ruins, nor wanders by moonlight in
the venerable cloisters. But on the mountains that surround the dale
the two monks, Hans and Henning, still hold guard.
Once the Abbot, fearing the attack of an enemy, sent the unfortunate
brothers out to watch, with the command not to return till the enemy
approached.
No enemy came, and the Abbot forgot to recall the monks.
They watched conscientiously till they became stone pillars, and
stand still there. The face of one, Hans, is of admirable beauty.
There is a legend that once, when the enemy stormed the gates, St.
Michael suddenly appeared over the entrance in a flame, with
countenance of wrath and drawn sword, at sight of whom every man fled.
Reinhilde of the Königsburg.
The Königsburg stood on the right bank of the Bode, on a mountain not
far from Bodfeld. Originally it belonged to the Saxon Kaisers. The
Sausenburg was on the left bank of the Bode, about an hour's walk
from Elbingerode. Of the latter nothing is now left save the hewings
in the stone masses which formed its foundations. From the
battlements of its tower the hunting castles Bodfeld and Königsburg
could be seen.
In this romantic neighbourhood, in the thick fir forest, stand the
crumbling tower and scraps of broken walls of the Königsburg,
overshadowed by the green veil of the wood, moss, ivy, and
wild-flowers, and the mystic fascination of a time more than a
thousand years ago.
Desolate stand the ruins of the once imperial hunting seat, the moat
so thickly overgrown with the buck-thorn that no human foot would
willingly attempt to tread it.
A light sighing stirs in the foliage like a ghostly breath from the
primeval days.
Dost thou remember the time when we listened to the rustling and
moaning of the fir-trees, like echoes of the voices of olden times?
In our dreams we saw the ancient Königsburg in splendour, heard the
forest ring with the noise of the hunt, saw the troop of huntsmen
ride back to the castle, among them many a knight, earl, and prince,
and foremost rode the Kaiser with his blushing daughter Reinhilde.
How radiant was the royal maiden, her green veil floating on the
breeze, her clear eyes gazing fearlessly around her, her sweet face
smiling like a bright morning in spring.
The Kaiser bends to her and whispers in her ear.
Why do her blushing cheeks turn pale? What has caused the smile to
vanish so suddenly from her face, and the tears to rush to her eyes?
She turns in fear and looks upon her following train. Why does a
noble knightly countenance there also turn pale?
The Kaiser glances in surprise at his shrinking daughter.
"Dear little Reinhilde, have I grieved thee? Hast thou understood
me? Two princes beg the honour of thy hand."
Reinhilde raises her eyes with firmness to his and replies: "Dear
father, forgive, but I do not seek for crowns. Thou thyself hast not
hidden from me how heavy is the crown. Thou hast often told me that
only love makes happy; and I have found a love deep and pure, and
could shout for joy; a heart, a knightly heart is mine. Oh! do not
tear this true and noble heart from mine."
The Kaiser frowns and the anger-vein swells on his brow as he
replies: "Dost thou dare to speak thus to me, thou shameless girl?
Who is the low knave, the insolent coxcomb, who has dared to raise
his eyes to the Kaiser's daughter? My rage shall crush him; ruin on
his head who has robbed me of the joy of my old age--the heart of my
daughter."
All stand aghast at the Kaiser's wrath, all save one noble knight,
who steps fearlessly forth from the circle, with head proudly raised,
a youth of manly beauty, the blond locks falling on his shoulders,
the blue eyes blazing in just indignation, approaches the Kaiser, and
cries, "Herr Kaiser, it was not a 'knave.' At the breach on the
bloody field thou hast said, 'Brave Werner, thou art my bravest
hero!' And thou hast chosen me as companion for thy kingly son. Oft
hast thou said to me, 'For Werner's faithfulness where shall I find a
worthy reward?' Herr Kaiser, now thou hast the reward; take back the
word of scorn; listen to the voice of love; make two hearts happy."
Gently Reinhilde clasps the father's hands; but the anger-vein swells
higher on the imperial brow.
"Throw the traitor in the deepest dungeon in chains!" he cries; "and
thou, whom I disown as daughter, get out of my sight; let me never
see thee again!"
The Kaiser sets spurs to his steed and rides to the Schloss, the
attendants bring the unhappy knight to the dungeon, Reinhilde faints
and sinks from her steed in the grass, and soon no sound is heard
save the sighing in the firs.
With heavy head resting on his arm, the Kaiser sits alone in the
great hall of the Königsburg.
Suddenly he starts wildly to his feet; was that a moan that fell upon
his ear? No, 'tis only the rattle of the hoarse weathercock. Hark!
surely that is a cry of anguish. He listens in agony.
"No, no," the watcher cries from the tower. He hears the moaning of
the tempest, and rain and hailstones beat against the windows.
In heartrending tones the Kaiser cries, "Reinhilde! It was too hard
and cruel; a loving word had been better."
Quickly he calls his old servant. "Alter,[1] bring me my little
daughter."
[1] Old man.
The servant trembles in terror, and tears burst forth.
"What ails thee, Alter?" cries the Kaiser.
"Herr Kaiser, thou knowest thy little daughter is not here! Thou
hast disowned her."