How Sir Otto vanquished Sir Heerdegen von Lichtenried.
In that smiling land, where the silver-blue Mayne rolls its waters
past the old free town of Frankfort, where, on both sides, are
situated the most attractive villages and garden-houses, vineyards
and pleasure-grounds, life is indeed joyous and delightful! Whoever
has the good fortune to be there in the vernal season of flowers and
blossoms, especially if he be a young warrior, with his heart full
and buoyant with grand and lofty anticipations, may quaff for once a
cup of pleasure such as the whole course of his after-life may not
offer to his lips. The truth of what has just now been said is known
to the writer of this history from his own experience; and he heartily
wishes that his readers may have proved it also, both for their own
sakes, and in order that they may better sympathize with the feelings,
which, as it were, spread a golden web of enchantment over all the
objects by which the youthful Otto was now surrounded. He knew not
what to look upon as most interesting, the thoughts of his journey and
warlike exploits,--the blooming fairy-land, with its orchard-trees,
winding-walks and avenues, varied hills and dales, in which he was
placed; or, finally, the mirthful and courteous people by whom this
land was inhabited.
In such mood of mind he rode up to a house for the entertainment of
travellers, which was situated not far from the banks of the river, and
whose inviting portico of vines and jasmines determined him to alight
and rest here at least till after mid-day. His noble charger was duly
led into the stable, and supplied with provender, though the knight
must himself attend to this duty, as the faithful and attached animal
would not allow any one else to come near him. At last Sir Otto was
seated in the portico, with a flask of old Rudisheimer before him,
which, as he poured out a full glass, shone like liquid gold amid the
light that came flickering through the dark-green foliage of the arbour.
Soon afterwards a man happened to come out from the house into the
portico, not much older than Otto in years, but of a sombre, sunburnt
visage, accoutred as a knight, and with his whole armour dusty and
rusted, as if from a long journey. His weapons too were without
ornament, and buckled on in such a manner, that it was obvious the
stranger cared not for external appearances; and he must have afforded
a remarkable contrast to the youth, in his bright silver coat of mail,
whom he now found sitting over his wine in the arbour. The stranger’s
salutation was courteous, though in a tone which betrayed somewhat of
moroseness and discontent. He took his place opposite to the Knight
of Trautwangen, and also demanded wine. The latter was at first by
no means well satisfied with his companion, believing that such an
intruder would put to flight all the fairy-visions which the pleasant
scene around him had inspired, without offering by his discourse any
desirable compensation. He soon discovered, however, that the stranger
belonged to that class of people who are justly compared to rough
diamonds, to hard ordinary-looking pebbles, that when struck, yield
bright sparks, or to the dingy masses of ore from which the alchemist
at last brings forth pure gold. He had travelled through many distant
countries, yet had never lost his original character,--that of an
honest unaffected German; or such attributes had been strengthened
rather than weakened, as the more he had observed of other countries
the more deeply he had been aware of his exclusive attachment to his
native land. The conversation, when once begun, proved interesting to
both parties, and they soon found themselves in such good humour, that
they were not displeased when a third party made his appearance from
the house and joined their table. This was a young merchant, named
Theobaldo, of Italian birth, who had been sent by his relations in the
south to study the commerce of this flourishing town. Among much other
discourse, the strange knight in the rusty armour related the following
history, to which they listened with great attention.
“In the distant northern kingdom of Sweden, there are not only people
yet living under the clouds of ignorance and pagan superstition, but,
especially on the borders of Finland, are many unfortunate victims of
witchcraft and necromancy, which arts are still practised there by
magicians and sorcerers, who can bring against their enemies all sorts
of evil in body, goods, and estate. Just on the Finland frontier there
is situated a high mountain, which, on the Swedish side, is covered
with beautiful copsewood, and on the other with dark pine-trees, so
closely ranked together, and so luxuriant in shade, that one might
almost say, the smallest bird could not find his way through the
thickets. Below the copsewood there stands a chapel with the image of
St George, as guardian of the land, and a defence against the dragons,
(if there be such,) and other monsters of paganism; while on the
other side, on the borders of the dark fir-wood, are certain cottages
inhabited by wicked sorcerers, who have, moreover, a cave cut so deep
into the mountain, that it joins with the bottomless abyss, whence come
all the devils that assist them. The Swedish Christians, who dwelt in
the neighbourhood of this mountain, thought it would be necessary,
besides the chapel and statue of St George, to choose some living
protector, and therefore selected an ancient warrior, highly renowned
for his prowess in the battle-field, and who had in his old age become
a monk. When this man went to take up his abode on the mountains, his
only son (for he had formerly lived as a married man in the world)
would on no account leave him; but lived there also, assisting his
father in his duties as watcher, and in the exercises of prayer and
penitence, fully equalling the example that was now afforded him, as
he had formerly done by his bravery as a soldier. The life here led
by those two valiant champions is said to have been most edifying and
pious.
“Once on a time it happened, that the young hero went out to cut wood
in the forest. He bore a sharp axe on his shoulders, and was besides
girded with a great sword; for, as the woods were not only full of
wild beasts, but also haunted by wicked men, the pious hermits took
the precaution of always going armed. While the good youth was forcing
his way through the thickest of the copsewood, and already beheld
over it the pointed tops of the fir-trees, (for he was close on the
Finland frontier,) there rushed out against him a great white wolf, so
that he had just time enough to leap to one side, and not being able
immediately to draw his sword, he flung the axe at his assailant. The
blow was so well aimed, that it struck one of the wolf’s fore-legs,
who being cruelly wounded, limped back, with a yell of anguish, into
the wood. The young hermit-warrior, however, thought to himself, “It
is not enough that I am rescued, but I must take such measures that
no one else may in future be injured, or even terrified by this wild
beast.” So he rushed in as fast as possible among the fir-trees, and
inflicted such a vehement blow with his sword on the wolf’s head, that
the animal, moaning piteously, fell to the ground. Hereupon there came
over him all at once a strange mood of regret and compassion for his
poor victim. Instead of putting it immediately to death, he bound up
the wounds, as well as he could, with moss and twigs of trees, placed
it on a sort of canvass sling, on which he was in the habit of carrying
great faggots, and with much labour brought it home, in hopes that he
might be able at last to cure and tame his fallen adversary.
“He did not find his father in the cottage, and it was not without
some fear and anxiety that he laid the wolf on his own bed, which was
made of moss and rushes, and over which he had painted a figure of St
George and the dragon. He then turned to the fire-place of the small
hut, in order to prepare a healing salve for the wounds; but, when thus
occupied, how was he surprised to hear the moanings and lamentations of
an articulate voice from the bed on which he had just before deposited
the wolf! On returning thither, his astonishment was inexpressible
on perceiving, instead of the frightful wild beast, a most beautiful
damsel, on whose head the wound which he had inflicted was bleeding
through her fine golden hair, and whose right arm, in all its grace and
snow-white luxuriance, was stretched out motionless, for it had been
broken by the blow from his axe! “Pray,” said she, “have pity, and do
not kill me outright. The little life that I have still left is indeed
painful enough, and may not last long,--yet sad as my condition is,
it is yet tenfold better than to die!”--The young man then knelt down
weeping beside her, and she explained to him how she was the daughter
of a magician on the other side of the mountain, who had sent her out
in the shape of a wolf to collect plants from places which, in her own
proper form, she could not have reached. It was but in terror that
she had made that violent spring, which the youth had mistaken for an
attack on him, when her only wish had been to pass him by. “But you
directly broke my right arm,” said she, “though I had no evil design
against you!” How she had now regained her proper shape she could not
imagine; but to the youth it was quite clear, that the picture of St
George and the dragon had broken the spell by which the poor girl had
been transformed.
“While the son was thus occupied, the old man returned home, and soon
learned all that had occurred, perceiving, at the same time, that
if the young pagan wanderer had been released from the spells by
which she had been bound, the youth was in his turn enchanted, and
spell-bound by her beauty and amiable behaviour.
“From that moment he exerted himself to the utmost, for the welfare
of her soul, endeavouring to convert her to Christianity, while his
son attended to the cure of her wounds; and, as their endeavours were
on both sides successful, it was resolved among them, that the lovers
should be united in holy bonds of matrimony, for the youth had not yet
restricted himself by any monastic vows.
“The magician’s daughter was now restored to perfect health; a day had
been appointed for her baptism and marriage, before which it happened
that the bride and bridegroom went to take a pleasure-walk one evening
through the woods. The sun was yet high in the west, and shone so
fervently through the beech-trees on the green turf, that they could
never resolve on returning home, but always came deeper and deeper into
the forest. Then the bride told him stories of her early life; and
sang old songs, which she had learned when a child, and which sounded
beautifully amid the woodland-solitude. Though the words were such
that they could not be agreeable to the youth’s ears, (for she had
learned them among her pagan and wicked relations,) yet he could not
interrupt her; first, because he loved her so dearly; and, secondly,
because she sung in a voice so clear and sweet, that the whole forest
seemed to rejoice in her music. At last, however, the pointed heads
of the pine-trees again became visible, and the youth wished to turn
back, in order that he might not come again too near the accursed
Finland frontier. His bride, however, said to him,--“Dearest Conrad,”
(for that was his name,) “why should we not walk on a little farther?
I would gladly see the very place where you wounded me so cruelly on
the head and arm, and made me a prisoner; all which has in the end only
contributed to my happiness. Methinks we are now very near the spot.”
Accordingly they sought about here and there, till at last the twilight
fell dim and heavily on the dense woods. The sun had long since set;
the moon had risen, however, and as her light broke forth the lovers
stood on the Finland frontier,--or rather they must have gone already
some distance beyond it, for the bridegroom was exceedingly terrified
when he found his cap lifted from his head, as if by a human hand,
though this was only the branch of a fir-tree. Immediately thereafter
the whole air around them was filled with strange and supernatural
beings,--witches, devils, dwarfs, horned owls, fire-eyed cats, and a
thousand other wretches that could not be named or described, whirled
around them as if dancing to rapid music; at which, when the bride
had looked on for a while, she broke out into loud laughter, and at
last began to dance furiously along with them. The poor bridegroom
might shout and pray, as much and as earnestly as he would, for she
never attended to him, but at last transformed herself in a manner so
extraordinary, that he could not distinguish her from the other dancers
in that abominable waltz. He thought, however, that he had kept his
eyes upon her, and seized on one of the dancers; but, alas! it was only
a horrible spectre who held him fast, and threw her wide-waving shroud
around him, so that he could not make his escape; while, at the same
time, some of the subterraneous black demons pulled at his legs, and
wanted to tear him down along with them into their bottomless caves.
“Fortunately he happened at that moment to cross himself, and call on
the name of our Saviour; upon which the whole of this vile assembly
fell into confusion. They howled aloud, and ran off in all directions;
while, in the mean time, he saved himself by recrossing the frontiers,
and getting under the protection of the Swedish copsewood. His
beautiful bride, however, was completely lost, and by no endeavours
could he ever obtain her again, though he often came to the Finland
border, called out her name aloud, wept and prayed; but all in
vain! Many times, it is true, he saw her floating about through the
pine-trees, as if in the chase, but she was always accompanied by a
train of frightful creatures, and she herself also looked wild and
disfigured. For the most part she never noticed Conrad; but, if she
could not help fixing her eyes on him, she laughed so immoderately, and
in a mood of merriment so strange and unnatural, that he was terrified,
and made the sign of the cross; whereupon she always fled away howling
into the thickets. He fell more and more into melancholy abstraction,
hardly ever spoke, and though he had given over his vain walks into the
forest, yet, if one asked him any question, the only answer he returned
was, “Ay, she is gone away beyond the mountains!”--so little did he
know or remember of any other object in the world but the lost beauty!
At last he died of grief;--and, according to a request which he had
once made, his father prepared a grave for him on the place where the
bride was found and lost; though, during the fulfilment of this duty,
he had enough to do, one while in contending with the crucifix against
evil spirits, and at another with his sword against wild beasts, which
were no doubt sent thither by the magicians to attack and annoy him.
At length, however, he brought his task to an end, and thereafter it
seemed as if the bride mourned for the youth’s untimely death; for
there was heard often a sound of howling and lamentation at the grave.
For the most part indeed this noise is like the voices of wolves, yet,
at the same time, human accents are to be distinguished, and I myself
have often listened thereto on dark winter nights.”
The knight in rusty armour having concluded his story, all three sat
for some time silent and meditative,--till at length Theobaldo began to
speak. “The cureless wounds of unfortunate love; the loss, or, much
more, the changed heart of one whom we held most dear, and to whom,
though changed, we yet feel an unconquerable attachment, are indeed
among the most fearful causes of distress to which we are in this life
subjected. I remember a story somewhat alike in this respect to that
which we have now heard; and if my worthy companions are inclined to
listen, am ready to narrate it.” Both knights assured him that they
would be deeply attentive, and he proceeded as follows:--“It may be
about twenty-five or thirty years since there lived, in my native town
of Milan, a young maiden, who was not only amiable in temper, but
such a paragon of beauty, as only some great master in painting, or
sculpture, could imagine in a summer night’s dream. At the same time
she was modest, quiet, retired, and humble; though, notwithstanding
this disposition, as a diamond will shine even amid the deepest shade,
she became known and admired through the whole town, under the name
of the beautiful Lisberta. This flower of the Milanese damsels was one
day invited to make her appearance, adorned with garlands and in festal
attire, at a religious procession, in order that her extraordinary
charms might heighten its effect on beholders; and, as she considered
this but as the fulfilment of a pious duty, she agreed to the request
which had been urged upon her. She, therefore, adorned herself in the
best manner with the richest dress, flowers, jewels, rings, and gold
chains,--finishing her toilette, however, long before the procession
was ready to commence; so that, having some time at her own disposal,
and invited by the pleasant fragrant air of spring, she resolved to
take a walk in the garden, which had been tastefully laid out round her
father’s house, who was one of the richest men in Milan.
“On her way through the long avenues and shady walks, wherein were the
rarest fruit-trees and flowering plants, she came to the borders of a
lake clear as crystal, which lay there like a sleeping beauty in the
arms of the green thickets by which it was environed. As if bound by
magic spells to the spot, she stood on the water’s brink, looking at
her reflected image, in all her pomp of dress and glittering jewels; so
that, like the fabulous Narcissus of old, she could not help wondering
at her own attractions. At last, she forced herself, by a kind of
vehement effort, to fix her eyes on the real objects by which she was
surrounded, in order that she might escape from the delusions of the
watery mirror, and thus became aware of something among the grass,
which glittered like burnished gold and silver. Glad of aught that
could divert her attention, and desirous to know what extraordinary
meadow-flower this could be that shone so brightly, she hastened to the
spot, and found, to her great surprise, that it was a highly-polished
sword, with a golden hilt, a scabbard bound with silver, and altogether
of a most elegant fashion. She took it up, as if it had been a mere
toy, notwithstanding the terror which she usually entertained of such
warlike instruments; nay, she even drew it half out of the sheath, and
wondered to find that her features were now reflected in greater beauty
from the polished steel than they had been before from the water,
while at the same time she felt less apprehension and perplexity.
Alas! poor Lisberta, thou hadst then unwittingly the means of thine
own destruction in thy hands, which, like a merciless sickle, was to
cut down thy life and happiness like a May flower in bloom! Though the
sword alone would not cause such misfortune, yet thou wert destined to
fall the victim of him by whom it was usually worn and wielded.
“From amid the verdant thickets stepped forward a knight in
full armour,--no longer a youth, but yet not old, and with such
indescribable heroic dignity in his person and demeanour, that, on
his appearance, the beautiful Lisberta, from an involuntary emotion
of respect, had almost fallen on her knees before him. “Fairest of
damsels,” said the knight, “beware of wounding yourself with that
sharp-edged weapon. Far rather would I see my heart’s blood streaming
from my veins, than even the slightest drop from these snow-white
hands!” Thereupon, with the greatest respect, he took from her the
sword, placing it again in the belt by his side, and before he had
time to say more, the servants came into the garden, calling aloud
for Lisberta, as the procession had already begun. The shy timid girl
hastily made a sign to the knight that he should withdraw, and, after
a respectful obeisance, he disappeared immediately through the green
hedges by which the garden was enclosed.
“How confusedly the procession, the singing of the choir, and the
applause of the multitude, were blended and lost to the senses of
Lisberta, I need not further describe; besides, my heart bleeds to
think of the fate which awaited the poor victim; and thus I have dwelt
too long on the circumstances of her early life, well knowing how
melancholy were the events that attended her afterwards. From this
point then allow me to proceed more quickly towards the end.
“In the evening after the festival, when she was sitting lost in
thought at her window, the declining sun shone so brightly and
beautifully, that she could not help observing one of her favourite
flowers,--a tall and slender plant, which had broke loose from the
rushes with which it had been tied up, and now hung down from the
veranda towards the terrace-walk below. On her endeavouring to restore
the plant to its former station, she observed a figure passing through
the garden, in which she recognised but too plainly, the knight with
whom she had spoken in the morning,--the owner of that brightly
gleaming sword. In all haste she tied up the flower, and would have
retreated; but what was her surprise to find a letter attached thereto,
which no doubt had been the work of that mysterious wanderer. On
unfolding and reading it, she indeed found that it was a love-letter
from him, and that he was a renowned knight from a distant country,
who, in the town of Milan, was known by the name of Signor Uguccione,
and of whose warlike exploits and amiable conduct she had already heard
many wonderful stories. Her heart, therefore, which was already moved
in his favour, soon yielded, when she thought of the high praises that
had been bestowed on him. The blooming plant was ere long loosed again
from its support, and sent down with her love-embassy, in reply to that
which she had received;--and soon after returned with another letter
from Uguccione. In this way salutations went and came, till at last
Lisberta herself went down by moonlight by the private staircase which
led into the garden; for in the night hours she was sure that no one
would come to disturb their conversation.
“It happened, after some time, however, that though Lisberta’s letters
were sent down as usual, yet no one came thither to take them from
their verdant envelope. When she drew up the plant, she found them,
alas! unopened. At last she began to make inquiries after Uguccione,
and learned that many days ago he had vanished, in a manner the most
unaccountable, from Milan. Yet every night the unfortunate damsel used
to bend the plant down as usual to the terrace, and if she drew it up
and found no letter, she always wept bitterly. This was continued so
long, that at last, by such continual grief, her heart was broken.
After her death and funeral, a lady who had won her confidence made the
fatal flower be planted on her grave; and I have often beheld it there,
spreading its green shade and fragrance over that lonely and mournful
place.”