THE MAGIC RING.
OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.
THE
MAGIC RING;
A ROMANCE,
FROM THE GERMAN OF
FREDERICK, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH;
PUBLISHED BY
OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT;
AND GEO. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON.
1825.
TO
CONRAD CHARLES,
FREYHERR VON ÄMSELNBURG, IN BERLIN,
TRANSLATOR OF
_“The Lady of the Lake,” “The Bridal of Triermain,”
and “The Antiquary.”_
I know not, my dear friend, whether you recollect a conversation that
we had some time since respecting the Baron de la Motte Fouqué and
his writings. If you do not, I take the liberty of calling it to your
remembrance,--as what you then said has not only induced me to execute
the following translation, but may likewise serve as an introductory
notice to the readers of the work.
I remember well that, when speaking of the Baron, (in whose company
we had dined that day at Charlottenburg,) you bestowed great praise
on his various publications;--but, being then an incompetent judge of
their merits, I could only reply, that I doubted not they deserved the
eulogiums you passed upon them, since the Baron was certainly a jovial
and pleasant companion,--a “chevalier, _sans peur et sans reproche_,”
if one might judge from the serenity of his aspect, and the
complacency with which he quaffed his old Hochheimer and Johannisberg.
I had indeed, as a tyro in the German language, tried to read over his
“Magic Ring,” the only work of his which had fallen in my way; but I
had not been long at Berlin ere I was informed of the high reputation
he had acquired by his writings on various subjects. I heard of his
early devotion to literature; of his friendship with the Schlegels;
of his being “_in utrumque paratus_,” with the pen and the sword; of
his campaigns as an officer, when the tumults and devastations of the
French invasion were at their height; and especially of his conduct in
the battles of Kulm in Bohemia, of Lutzen, of Leipsig, and afterwards
on the banks of the “castellated Rhine.” I had opportunities of meeting
with the Baron, and was invited to pass some days at his country
residence of Nennhausen; though circumstances rendered it impossible
for me to profit sufficiently by his hospitality.
I also remember that, on the evening to which I have alluded, you were
so eloquent in praise of the Baron, that we were detained till it was
too late to go to the opera,--and therefore walked up and down in the
long _allée_, under the lime-trees, for nearly two hours, during which
time you went on analyzing and commending every one of his numerous
productions. Among these, you expressed your special admiration of
his “Hero of the North,” and “Eginhard and Emma;” both of which, you
insisted, were animated by the true spirit of chivalry and romance,
and that in an English dress they would be excellent, either in their
dramatic form, or remodelled into prose novels. But, as I expressed my
dislike to dramatic poems which were unfit for the stage, you proceeded
to mention the Baron’s other narrative works, such as “Waldemar the
Pilgrim,” “Thiodulf’s Wanderings,” “Bertrand de Guesclin,” and many
more, which, though favourites of yours, are altogether unknown in this
country.
At last we came to speak of the “Magic Ring,”--the only one of our
author’s works which I had then seen, and which I had only glanced
at very hastily;--and you naturally asked me how it happened, that
although “Undina,” “Sintram,” and even the “Minstrel Love,” were
translated into English, this romance had been hitherto neglected?
To this I replied, that the “Sintram” and “Undina” were, even in the
translation, interesting tales of wonder;--but that, on the contrary,
the beauties of the “Magic Ring,” which are so much admired by a
German reader, depended on certain characteristic features, which a
translator could never impart, unless by means of a _remaniement_ or
_rifacimento_. These peculiarities were, first, the Baron’s accurate
imitation of the quaint, rude style of the old romancers; secondly, the
melody of his verses, in which the thoughts are far too shadowy to be
embodied in our language; thirdly, his allegorical representations and
historical allusions, which no English reader could well comprehend,
especially as the author has not furnished a proper key to unfold their
meaning.
These objections, especially the last, you treated with indifference;
and although my own opinion (that a _remaniement_ would have been far
better than a translation) remains unaltered,--yet, having resolved to
translate the “Magic Ring” by way of experiment, I have adopted, as
nearly as possible, the method you suggested for its execution.
For I recollect distinctly, that, on my requesting to hear your opinion
how an English version ought to be attempted, your answer was, that
the “Magic Ring” would, if _literally_ translated, make a very amusing
novel in the style adopted among us sixty years ago in “Popular Tales
of the Germans,” and which, by the way, has been recently exemplified
in Mr Roscoe’s Italian Romances. With regard to the _old-Frankish
tournure_ of language, the stiffness with which a translator too
often moves through his task, and which has been aptly compared to the
performance of our Macheath “dancing a hornpipe in real fetters,” might
perhaps serve as a tolerable imitation of that characteristic. As to
the songs and other poetry, these, you said, were merely portions of
the story thrown into rhyme, and would succeed just as well in prose as
in verse.
Lastly, You observed, that, for understanding the author’s allegorical
allusions, nothing more was requisite than to bear in mind the history
of the Norwegians, Swedes, Danes, &c.; otherwise known by the name
of the Normans (Nordmänner) or “Men of the North.” These people
(represented in this work by an ancient warrior, bearing in his
latter days the name of Sir Hugh von Trautwangen,) being poor, and
dissatisfied with their own cold regions, emigrated in great numbers
to the more southern countries of France, England, the Netherlands,
Germany, Italy; nay, it is said, even into Greece, Palestine, and other
oriental climes. Of these historical facts, no school-boy in Britain is
ignorant, as every one has read of Normandy and the Norman invasion.
The Nordmänner, or Normans, at the first period of their emigrations,
were Pagans,--the votaries of Odin and the other fabulous gods of
Valhalla; they were also skilled in necromancy and all the varied arts
of the magician,--whether for purposes of good or evil,--wherein (as
learned divines have sometimes maintained of the ancient oracles) the
devil might be supposed to have assisted them.
Such are the materials whence Fouqué has drawn the machinery of his
romances. The _white_ magic of the now converted Druda contends against
the black machinations of the infidel Gerda; and as for the “Mysterious
Ring,” it seems to have been only one among other necromantic spells,
though some readers have supposed that the author hereby intended to
allegorize the delusive spirit of the World, and of the worldly-minded,
in opposition to that of pure religion and heavenly affections. Hence
the Baron has represented the people of the North as led astray to wage
war against all nations and against each other; till at last, by the
influence of Bertha, (a personification of the true Christian faith,)
they become harmonized and happily united into one community.
“Nothing,” you added, “can be clearer and more intelligible than this
outline; and, if the work were even _literally_ rendered into English,
it would present an excellent ‘knightly tale of the olden time,’ with a
religio-historical moral. Let this be done, and there need be no doubt
entertained of its success.”
To these remarks I ventured to reply, that, to the best of my judgment,
there was not one character in the romance, nor any part of the
machinery, under which the author had not involved some abstruse and
figurative meaning which ought to be explained. Gerda, for example,
I alleged, was not a mere enchantress, introduced for the purpose of
bringing about some strange adventures: on the contrary, she seemed
to represent Superstition, whose horrid rites are contrasted with
the mild and rational piety of the Druda. The Ring, too, I thought,
might not only be intended to allegorize the delusions of the world,
but also those of natural-magic, (_die natur-kenntnisse_,) and other
profane sciences.--“Trouble yourself no farther with such inquiries
and speculations,” you replied: “emblems and allegories are nuts hard
enough to crack; let the readers break their teeth on them if they
will.”
With this homely metaphor our discourse ended; and your plan has
accordingly been carried into effect. Instead of indulging my own
feelings in a _remaniement_,--which would have been a new work founded
on old materials,--I have merely translated the Baron’s words, (which
need not preclude other German scholars from bringing forward the same
story on a different plan); and, under the auspices of your name, which
is at least as well known here as that of the Baron, it is not without
some degree of confidence that I introduce these volumes to the public.
I am, my dear sir, with great respect, &c. &c.
THE TRANSLATOR.
PREFACE
BY THE BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.
COURTEOUS READER!
It is with a mixed feeling of apprehension and delight, that the author
now betakes himself to his task of writing the following story. There
are people in the world who laugh scornfully, if they meet with one
of their fellow-mortals who calls on Heaven to aid him in any worldly
enterprise; but, notwithstanding this, the writer of these lines is
not afraid to confess, that he has just now prayed with his whole
heart to the Giver of all good, for assistance in the pleasant labour
which awaits him. By this means, he has been supported ere now through
similar undertakings; and he confidently trusts, that at this time also
his prayers will not be unanswered. For, in truth, the history, which
he now proposes to write, hovers yet, like a strange vision, before
his “mind’s eye;” it seems to him as if he were about to set sail on
a wide weltering sea, with shores varied and romantic, with gleaming
rainbow-tints on its waters, and not without whirlpools and rocks;
while the sky is overspread with clouds of the wildest shapes and the
richest colouring!
Full well do I know the arduous course which I have to steer; but as to
the separate events that are to be encountered, I know them not; for
these are yet uncertain as a dream. However this may be, not the less
boldly, courteous reader, do I invite thee to join me in this voyage;
for, should’st thou be unwilling to engage in the enterprise, it would
seem as if the name of God, on whom I have now called, sounded strange
and unwelcome in thine ears; otherwise thou would’st be satisfied with
what I shall obtain by my prayers, and which I promise faithfully to
communicate to thee. But consider, I beseech thee, that if thou shalt
find any thing worthy of commendation, and pleasing in my work, it is
not mine, but a gift from the Supreme Power, which is conveyed to me
insensibly as I write; for I am then only capable of expressing myself
with effect, when my mind is more elevated than is usual in the present
state of our depraved and mortal nature.
In the following pages, then, I lay before thee the best fruits of
those hours when my fancy is most free and exalted; while, in this
preface, I have spoken the plain, unadorned truth. On this, as a true
knight, I pledge my word of honour. And now I bid thee heartily welcome
to the groves and meadows, the battles and festivals, the joyous
weddings, or mournful obsequies, which our story may unfold.
THE
MAGIC RING.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
How the young Squire Otto and his pretty Cousin discoursed
together, on the banks of the Danube, during a
fine evening in May.
In the happy land of Suabia, close to the river Danube, there lies a
fine level meadow, where once on a time (it was in the month of May,
just as the declining sunbeams were taking leave of the flowers) a
young squire, by name Otto von Trautwangen, was enjoying his evening
recreation. At this beautiful season, it was Otto’s custom frequently
to leave his father’s castle in the neighbouring mountains, and repair
to the pleasant banks of the river. Here he amused himself alternately
with angling in the streams, or in shooting with a cross-bow at marks,
which he had contrived in many strange shapes, such as dragons,
hobgoblins, witches, &c. and painted in glaring colours. On the wide
level meadow he ran no risk of wounding any one with his arrows. This
evening, however, his bow and quiver lay beside him on the grass, and
he held his fishing-rod, watching as it seemed the play of his line in
the water; but he was lost in reverie, and forgot that he had not even
baited his hook.
Then Bertha von Lichtenried came walking towards him, his father’s
niece, along with whom he had from his childhood been educated at the
castle. She took her place beside him on the grass, and half mocking,
half anxiously questioned him on what he was meditating so deeply? He
himself knew not well what to say, and now so much the less, when he
saw his cousin’s pretty face smiling on him reflected in the water.
She looked even _too_ beautiful in his estimation, and perhaps she
thought the same of him, as she smiled on her companion so kindly. It
was delightful to see how the two young people thus carried on a silent
conversation together in the living mirror of the Danube! When Otto
had considered for a while, it occurred to him that he had remarked a
pilgrim, in a red-cross mantle, passing on the opposite side of the
river, after which he had fallen into a mood of deep thought. He told
Bertha of this, and described to her how solemn was the impression
left on his mind; how the pilgrim had always looked steadfastly on the
road before him, without turning in the least to the right or left, so
that one could not precisely say whether it was old age, humility, or
an ardent longing after the sacred object of his journey, that bent
his head forwards, and harmonized every gesture. To this the young man
added his own reflections, how admirable it must be to travel across
kingdoms, seas, and rivers, to distant unknown lands! Nothing in his
opinion could be pleasanter than such a pilgrimage, and it would never
be the fatigue of travelling, but only the tedium of repose afterwards,
that would prove oppressive.
“You do not mean to turn a pilgrim then?” said Bertha with a confident
smile. “The Saints forbid!” said the young man; “these woods and
meadows here hold me like a magic spell within their circle. Take care
then that you never desert them, my pretty cousin!” At these words,
Bertha blushed so deeply and suddenly, that it seemed as if twin
rosebuds had sprung up in the water, and said, “As you are so certainly
to remain here, then we may jest a little on the supposed possibility
of your going. Let us try for once that farewell ditty, in two parts,
which Master Walter has so finely indited. As in winter, one likes to
hear the snow-storm, when sitting warm by the fireside, so we may now
venture to sing these verses, which, in their proper place, we should
have no heart to repeat.” Otto then began,
“Sweet home, so long beloved,
That I no more shall view,” &c.
But after the first two stanzas they gave over their music, for on the
other side of the river there came a great procession of pilgrims,
among whom appeared such variety of characters, that the young people
found their attention irresistibly attracted. In the midst of the
assemblage were graceful figures of young women, mounted on mules,
richly caparisoned, and attended for their protection by warriors
on foot, with long halberts in their hands. Then there were certain
pilgrims, of whom, notwithstanding their grey mantles and oddly-shaped
caps, it was easy to determine that they must be courtiers, and
persons of high dignity, especially as their demeanour contrasted so
powerfully with that of a great number of country people, who moved
about irregularly enough in the procession. One could distinguish too,
many respectable citizens of middle rank, painters also, and musicians,
who bore with them the instruments of their respective arts, which
they hoped to exercise in distant lands for the honour and glory of
our holy religion. At last there came a troop of warlike knights,
mounted on fine chargers, in bright-gleaming armour, who could be known
as pilgrims only by the red cross on their shoulders. Just as the
procession came opposite to Bertha and Otto, the ladies, mounted on
their stately mules, and attended by their halberdiers, began to sing
a grand choral hymn in praise of the eastern lands, whither they were
thus pursuing their way.
The effect of their voices during the stillness of the evening was
magical. Accidentally the sun, just then verging on the hills, broke
through a cloud with new and unexpected refulgence, as if, instead
of setting, he had been about to rise again, in order to reward and
inspire those pious votaries. When the last notes had died solemnly and
slowly away, the mail-coated knights struck in with a bold and martial
chorus, in which they were joined by the halberdiers, while a powerful
flourish of trumpets filled up the pause betwixt every stanza. Their
song expressed contempt of the Saracens, and admiration of the English
King Richard the Lion Heart, whose forces had just then gone forth like
a thunder-storm, destructive and yet beneficial, into the Holy Land:
“Who falls there, he is glorious,
And he who lives, victorious.”
Such were the concluding words of their chaunt; and when the long train
had passed by, both the young people remained for some time thoughtful
and silent. At length, “It is very true,” said Otto, “King Richard
of England, who, for his bravery and magnanimity, is called _Cœur de
Lion_, has vowed to make a crusade against the Saracens. My father
and Master Walter spoke of this all last night at the castle. Good
Heaven, what grand exploits will be performed there!” On saying this,
the youth’s cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled. Bertha sighed as she
answered, “If you talk with such pleasure of wars and foreign travels,
whenever any one in the guise of a pilgrim happens to come hither, then
I shall no longer have courage to sing that farewell-ballad which we
had begun.” “Nay, nay, be not afraid,” said Otto smiling, “we shall not
speak more of any such adventures. Only attend now to your voice, and
keep up the octave. You know we are to sing the next stanza together.”
It seemed destined, however, that they were not to finish their ballad
to-day; for just as they had commenced again, they were disturbed by
a noise as of many horses from the meadow behind them, and on turning
their eyes thitherward, they perceived--what we shall describe in the
next chapter.