How the Knights feasted in the Castle of Sir Folko de
Montfaucon.
In Sir Folko’s castle were now seated at the banquet table many brave
champions from different nations, also various other guests,--painters,
minstrels, musicians, and poets, among whom Theobaldo soon discovered
some of his lively countrymen. Especially there was one named the Count
Alessandro Vinciguerra, with whom he began to converse in a manner
so witty and cheerful that their discourse afforded amusement to the
whole company. Sir Otto meanwhile remained thoughtful and silent, so
that, after the first admiration excited by his noble form and graceful
demeanour had subsided, he was scarcely noticed by the party. As the
wine-cups, mantling with the richest juice of Medoc and Burgundy,
circled round the festive board, it occurred to the warriors, that, for
better pastime, every one should relate, from the experiences of his
life, some remarkable story. Among so many valiant knights, and other
distinguished characters as were here assembled, materials could not be
wanting for such narratives. All, however, insisted that their noble
host should set an example to his guests,--to which he replied, “I am
aware that the excuses which I would gladly offer would not relieve me
from the duties which I owe to the noble friends who are now around
me. What I have to relate is indeed but of little importance; but I am
like a gardener, from whom a festal wreath is demanded, and who, if
he possesses not roses and jasmine, must be content with daisies and
_forget-me-not_.
“It must be known,” continued he, “to several who are here present,
that our family of Montfaucon derives its origin from Norwegian
ancestors, and that in the mountains of that wild country we have at
this day many noble relations. From thence my predecessors came, as
conquering invaders into France,--arrived with great forces within
that district which is now called Normandy, and with them brought,
among other strange stories, the legend which I am now to repeat to
you. In Norway there dwelt an ancient and far-famed hero, who had an
amiable daughter, well known by the name of the beautiful Sigrid. She
was talked of and praised all over that northern country, and therefore
had many loving suitors. Besides her beauty, she was also distinguished
for her superiority in all female accomplishments, having a deep
knowledge of magic and necromancy, to which pursuits the young ladies
of that land are particularly addicted. Especially she had found means
to prepare a certain drink, which, if used in moderation, inspired
the warrior with unheard-of strength and courage; nay, it was said,
that he was thereby rendered even impenetrable by the weapons of his
adversary. Many other women of Norway have been in possession of the
same charm, and one of our relations at this day is in the habit of
exercising that wonderful art.
“So it happened, that once on a time the old hero said to his daughter,
‘Pretty Sigrid, leave your household cares for one day and go forth
into the woods,--pluck there the red berries and green leaves that
you wot of, for to-morrow I shall need your aid. I have a hard battle
before me.’ ‘With whom then, father, do you mean to fight?’ said the
fair Sigrid. ‘With the young Hakon Swendson,’ answered the old warrior,
‘who in his ambition will wing his flight above me through all the
regions of the north, if I do not take care in time to clip his wings.
Besides, you know that he is sprung from a race, betwixt whom and us
there is an old and deadly feud.’ So the beautiful Sigrid went out
towards sunset into the dusky woods, alone and unprotected, according
to the laws of her mysterious science.
“Up and down the rocky cliffs, along the banks of the woodland
river, through many a dim valley, and on the brink of many a fearful
precipice, the fair damsel pursued her way, and by the time she had
collected all her roots, leaves, and berries, she found that the
night-shadows had already gathered around her, and that she was alone
in a district of the forest which she had till now never beheld. Her
whole attention had been fixed on her plants and flowers, and she had
never thought of the stars, that had shone out one by one above her,
and now, though they glittered so brightly, yet she was quite unable
by their light to discover her road homewards. While she thus stood
meditative, and doubtful what course to pursue, she heard a great
crashing and rustling through the woods, and, behold! a frightful black
bear, rearing himself on his hind-legs, broke out as if to devour her,
or strangle her in his horrid embraces. Just as she had given herself
up for lost, a javelin came hissing through the air over her head, and
in the next moment she saw the bear struck through the heart, fall
writhing on the ground, so that, in the next moment, he rolled over a
neighbouring precipice.
“Thereafter a handsome young warrior made his appearance from the
recesses of the forest, and respectfully offered to attend to her own
home the damsel, whom his interference had thus rescued. The fair
Sigrid, however, wept bitterly; for in her terror she had lost all her
roots, berries, and leaves; so that, according to the laws of magic,
she must begin the labour of collecting them anew,--though the evening
was far advanced, and the country around her wholly new and mysterious.
‘Search then, and pluck as many more as it pleases you,’ said the young
knight. ‘I know, moreover, that at such times one must be alone and
undisturbed. Therefore I shall walk round thee, fair stranger, making
a wide circle, so that no one shall speak with thee, nor approach too
nearly,--and ere the dawn of day I shall lead you home to your father’s
castle. Search then, pretty maid, and fear not aught that can befall
you in these woods.’ With these words the young knight vanished again
amid the forest thickets; the fair Sigrid continued her employment
as he had enjoined, and if, in that lonely unknown place, terror now
and then assailed her, she felt herself immediately refreshed and
encouraged, when she heard the rattling of the knight’s golden armour
through the distant green coppice.
“At length she had collected another store like that which had been
lost; and thereupon it occurred to her how much better it would be to
boil them immediately in a golden vessel which she had with her, so
that she might at once carry home with her the precious drink which the
old knight had desired her to prepare. Directly after her first and
slightest signal, her protector was close at hand, and scarcely had
she made her wishes known to him, ere he began to gather dry branches
and brushwood, from which in a moment arose bright flames, casting
their light far amid the darkness of the night. But the boiling of her
magical plants required a long time, and when it was nearly ended, the
damsel began to weep bitterly; for she was now so wearied that she
was quite unable to undertake her long journey homewards. Hereupon
the knight said, ‘Fairest of maidens, you may here rest securely. I
shall watch over you while you sleep, and awake you at the proper
hour.’--Then he spread out his mantle on the ground,--collected also a
great quantity of soft moss, making for her a warm and pleasant couch,
and while she looked at it shyly and timidly, he had already vanished
away into the deepest shades.
“The morning red was already bright in the east, when she was awoke,
terrified by the distant sounds of martial horns and trumpets; but
the young hero again stood near her, and said, ‘You must now make all
possible haste to reach your home, for the horns that sound yonder from
a distance are the signals of Hakon Swendson, that now summon your
father to the battle-field. Take up your golden cup then and follow me.’
“Thereafter, he led the maiden through many winding and secret paths
of the forest, till she arrived at her father’s castle. Before taking
leave of him there she wished to know the champion’s name to whom she
had been so much indebted. ‘I am Hakon Swendson,’ answered he, ‘and
I know right well that you are named the beautiful Sigrida, daughter
of the renowned old hero who resides in this castle. I know too, that
the drink which you have this morning prepared is intended to work my
destruction. But I have long been your ardent lover, beautiful Sigrid,
and that ancient and deadly feud between our houses has killed all my
hopes. Therefore I shall now gladly die by your father’s sword, and
wish that the drink which you have brewed from these magical herbs may
render him, as you designed, invincible!’
“Although Hakon Swendson intended after these words instantly to return
to the forest, the fair Sigrid insisted that he should accompany her
into the castle. There she related to her father all that had happened
to her in the foregoing night, and with such eloquence, that the
two warriors forgot all their former wrath against each other. They
mutually threw aside their battle-array, and thereafter Hakon Swendson
and the fair Sigrid were happily united in marriage.”
The company were well pleased with this story. The contrast, afforded
by the noble and generous affections which it exemplified, to the wild
and fierce characters of the northern knights, were compared, by a
great master in the art of painting, (who was among the guests,) to the
effect of a rainbow stretched across a dark threatening thundercloud;
while the Italian Count preferred the similitude of a rose, which,
though not valued amid the blooming gardens of his native country,
would yet, amid the chill mountains of the north, be prized as a great
treasure.
Meanwhile several of the party had turned their attention on a man of
very tall stature, with a dark sunburnt visage; he was a Spaniard, by
name Don Hernandez; and they earnestly requested that he would relate
to them some legend from his own romantic and wonderful country,
especially somewhat of the long and fearful conflicts between the
Christians and Moors. Thereupon he took up a lute, and began to sing a
wild Spanish ballad, unfolding the tragical fortunes of the beautiful
Donna Clara, and her lover, Don Gayferos. The first stanzas began in
a gay tone, describing how he had persuaded her to leave her father’s
palace, and take a moonlight walk with him through the lonely forest.
I.
“Don Gayferos,--Don Gayferos, though the stars are bright on high,
And the nightingale exalts her voice in sweetest melody;
Yet longer in the darksome wood, I will not,--may not stay!”
“Then, dearest Lady, but command,--thy servant shall obey.”
II.
“’Tis well! then guide me homeward straight; but mark, in yonder vale,
The cross that glimmers silently amid the moonlight pale.
That silent form is eloquent;--I must the voice attend,
That warns me by the holy fane my homeward course to wend.
III.
“Nay, wherefore by the chapel, dearest lady, should we go?
The path, methinks, is rough.” “Dares a servant answer so?
Thou should’st my will obey.” “Well, well, it shall be done;”
So down the mountain, arm in arm, the lovers now have gone.
IV.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, by the crucifix we stood,
And wherefore was thy head not bow’d in meek humilitude?”
“Donna Clara, Donna Clara, on thy beauteous hands I gazed,
Wherein, just then, that wreath of flowers was gracefully upraised.”
V.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, but when the grey-hair’d priest
So piously from heaven invoked a blessing on his guest,
Say wherefore wert thou silent?”--“Dearest lady, on mine ear,
Thy silvery voice alone did sound; no other could I hear.”
VI.
“Don Gayferos, Don Gayferos, would’st thou leave the chapel now,
Nor with water from the holy font sign the cross upon thy brow?”
“I had not mark’d the holy font; for from thine eyes so bright,
A dazzling radiance fell on mine, that blinded me with light.”
VII.
“Nay, nay, thou art my servant still; then hear what I command!
As I have done, so in the font, dip reverently thy hand;
And therewith sign thy forehead.”--With a shudder and a frown
The silent knight has turned away, and through the forest flown!
Thus began the Spaniard’s story. Then he changed the music and measure
to a strain somewhat sad and solemn, describing how, on the following
night, Don Gayferos once more brought the Lady Clara, by the notes of
a well-known serenade, to the window, and how she conjured him to say
who he was; above all, whether he were a Spaniard or Moor, an Infidel
or Christian. To this at length he answers, that he is no Christian,
but a Moorish king, who loves her ardently; who has great treasures and
numberless soldiers; who would place her with him on his throne, and
entertain her in all regal magnificence, at his palace of Alhambra,
and in the flower-gardens of Grenada. She leaves her room, and comes
angrily forward on a terrace-walk of the castle, intending to reproach
him; but he joins her there, and scarcely has she pronounced a few
harsh words ere she falls fainting into his arms. Thereafter he places
her before him on his horse, and rides rapidly away through the dark
shades of the forest.
The Spaniard now changed his music once more into slow melancholy
notes, like those of a church anthem or dirge. He described how, at the
dawn of day, when the ruddy gleams of the east were on the landscape,
the beautiful Donna Clara knelt on the turf beside the lifeless frame
of her Moorish lover, who had been attacked in the forest, and killed
by two of her own brothers. With dishevelled hair, and no longer
disguising her attachment, she weeps over his pale remains. Looking up
to the bright sky, she acknowledges, that even as the stars rise and
set, and as the eagle hovers up and down, all in this world is variable
and inconstant, only her affections are unchangeable. Therefore her
brothers built for her, in after times, a lonely hermitage, with a
chapel and an altar, where she spends her life in weeping and in
prayers for the soul of her departed lover.
The sound of the harp died away in slow vibrations, and the listeners
gazed on each other in silent melancholy.
Don Hernandez himself was the first to break the silence. With graceful
and courteous demeanour, “No doubt,” said he, “I should both accuse
and condemn myself, noble champions and gentlemen, for having thus
with my mournful songs disturbed your merriment, had it not been that
you desired to hear a legend from my native land. In my country, it
is true, the people are serious and solemn of mood; for where there
are such contentions between Moors and Christians, one’s thoughts must
often turn on melancholy events,--often, for example, on death.”
“Your story, (song rather I should say,) requires no such apology,”
said the Knight of Montfaucon. “Can you believe that we also do not
entwine dark-coloured flowers in our festal garlands? God be praised,
Frenchmen are not yet depraved into such levity, that we should despise
the solemn character of the Castilian heroes: besides, who is there
among the present company, who would not gladly drink from those deep
fountains of warlike energy and poetic imagination, which have their
source in the rich warm peninsula of the Pyrenean mountains?”
“You are pleased to speak kindly of us,” said Don Hernandez; “nor, in
some respects, are we unworthy of your praise. However, be that as
it may, too many dark flowers must spoil the beauty of the wreath. A
bright lily, or rose, must now and then be intwined therein; and to
such a flower, if I mistake not, may be compared the story which now
seems hovering on the lips of the Count de Vinciguerra.”
“Spaniards and Italians should doubtless assist each other,” replied
the Count; “and, since you desire it, I shall willingly commence my
story:--
“In the fine town of Naples, which, both on account of its situation
and magnificent buildings, cannot be too much praised, there lived,
some time since, a brave, far-famed, but already grey-headed warrior,
named Signor Dimetri. After a life spent in toil and tumult, he wished
to enjoy his old age in luxurious tranquillity, and therefore collected
from different countries all possible rarities and treasures, his house
being filled with the finest paintings, statues, and tapestry; nor was
a cellar of the most costly wines neglected; but the rarest of all
his possessions was a most beautiful young wife, descended from one
of the most noble and wealthy families in Italy. With her, no doubt,
he brought a good share of disquiet and anxiety into his palace; for,
notwithstanding the modesty, the mild and correct demeanour of the
Signora, yet the old hero was but too conscious of his grey hairs and
want of personal attractions; so that he had but little respite from
the jealous fantasies by which he was tormented.
“If, in consequence of his marriage, he was thus disquieted, another
inhabitant of Naples was yet more so. This was the handsome and
accomplished Signor Donatello, a young nobleman universally admired
in the Neapolitan circles, who had chanced to behold Signora Portia
at early mass, (at which time alone she was allowed to go abroad),
and whose whole thoughts, and even dreams, had, since that meeting,
been engrossed by her graceful and enchanting figure. Thenceforward
he endeavoured by every means in his power to draw her attention to
himself, resolving, if he failed in this object, that he would die
for her sake. He did not proceed, however, like those foolish young
men, who send love-embassies by tattling messengers; who ride or walk
up and down daily before their mistress’s windows, or send her costly
presents; thus endangering her domestic peace by rousing the attention
of a jealous husband. Such lovers have themselves to blame, if they
lose all share in those affections which they are so anxious to gain;
but Signor Donatello, on the contrary, behaved with the utmost prudence
and foresight, taking care, no doubt, that Madonna Portia should notice
his passion, which even a single look was sufficient to convey; but in
such manner, that she might be convinced her security and peace were to
him infinitely more dear than the gratification of his own wishes.
“So it happened at last, that she herself contrived the means of
expressing her mutual affection, and the gratitude she felt for his
prudence and consideration. She found a trusty messenger to convey
several letters; and all that Donatello had next to arrange was but
to obtain free entrance as a friend into the house of his beautiful
inamorata. For the future, then, he took advantage of every occasion
to shew the utmost attention and politeness to the old Signor Dimetri;
and yet so wisely did he behave, that it was impossible to suspect
him of any particular motives. All seemed but the effect of accident;
yet he had one attribute, which, though it had aided him more than
all the rest with the fair Portia, yet proved the greatest possible
hindrance to his designs on her husband. This was his extraordinary
grace and beauty of person, without which, being so lively and
agreeable a companion, he would doubtless have been invited long since
into Dimetri’s house; but though he had given scores of magnificent
banquets, to which the old gentleman was invited, yet the latter,
being determined to avoid all risks, kept his doors closed, with the
utmost obstinacy, against his courteous entertainer. In such banquets
the young lover had already spent a considerable share of his fortune,
yet never arrived a single step nearer the object of his wishes. At
length he fixed his attention on a plan, which he had before often
thought of, though it was then more like a dream than reality. This
was, that he should contrive to rescue Signor Dimetri from some great
apparent danger, by which exploit he might infallibly secure his future
confidence and favour. Accordingly he made an agreement with some hired
bravoes, who were to attack the old hero unawares in a retired place.
As soon, therefore, as Dimetri fell into the snare, Signor Donatello
was to rush out against the assassins, who, after a short pretended
resistance, would give over, and take to flight. The plot was admirably
carried through. Dimetri was fully persuaded that his life had been
saved by Donatello, and expressed his gratitude with an air of the
utmost gravity and earnestness. But then, his doors remained just as
firmly locked as ever; nay, since that adventure, his temper seemed
more peevish and capricious than it had been before.
“In truth, the old warrior was unable to disguise from himself, that
in regard to his own person, years, disposition, and manners, he was
by no means fitted to gain or retain the affections of a young beauty
like Madonna Portia. On the other hand, he strove to encourage himself
by reflecting on his own heroic achievements, and all that poets have
written on the love and respect cherished by ladies for warlike valour
and renown. Therefore he did not fail to relate often the history of
his own exploits in the most brilliant colours to his young wife;
and, moreover, to place books in her way, in which the same adventures
were fairly recorded. It seemed to him, however, as if she read these
volumes without any more lively interest than she would have felt
for the wonders told of Hannibal, Scipio, or any other hero, who had
been mouldering for centuries in the dust. Consequently he would,
notwithstanding the weakness of his health, have tried to refresh
his withering laurels by some new campaign, had it not been that his
excessive jealousy would by no means permit him to remain long absent
from his own house. Sometimes, indeed, he made young spirited horses
be paraded at his castle, and mounted them in his wife’s presence, or
shot at marks with a cross-bow, which no one but himself could have
bent. Yet he could not help feeling, that he no longer shone in such
exercises as he had done in his youthful days; while, as to the anxiety
which Madonna Portia expressed for him, it was much more like that of
a daughter for the safety of a weak old father, than of a wife dreading
the loss of a beloved and too venturous husband. How much then must
that inglorious combat with the assassins, and his rescue out of their
hands by the interference of a handsome youth like Donatello, have
wounded the old warrior’s pride! From that day he gradually endeavoured
to break off the acquaintance; and as to inviting the young man to his
house, that was now wholly out of the question.
“After so many disappointments, Donatello at length lost all patience.
With Signor Dimetri he still kept up an appearance of civility and
friendship; but towards every one else his temper and behaviour became
quite intolerable, as if, being miserable himself, he was resolved that
all the world should be so in order to bear him company. Thus it came
to pass, that he, who had been universally admired and sought after in
Naples, was now shunned and hated even by his most intimate friends;
so that two or three young men, whom he had provoked by his scornful
manners, and also crossed in some favourite scheme, resolved to waylay
him in the night, and if not to commit murder, yet at least to wound
and beat him in such manner, that he would be forced to conduct himself
differently for the future. Accordingly he fell one evening into the
snare that was laid for him; for, as he could not refrain from walking
always after dark near the house of his beloved Madonna Portia, it was
easy for them to find means of putting their plans into execution.
Notwithstanding that he made a brave defence, yet, having been taken
unawares, he was unable to stand against the number of his assailants,
and soon received two severe wounds.
“Meanwhile the old warrior heard the clashing of arms and loud voices
on the street; and being determined not to lose such an opportunity of
playing the part of an Orlando before his beautiful lady, he girded
on his belt, and brandishing his great battle-sword, rushed out of
the house. Perhaps, being thus prepared and resolute, he proved a
powerful assailant, or perhaps mere terror at such a frightful figure
got the better of Donatello’s youthful adversaries. Suffice it to
say, they fled immediately, and he was set at liberty. Thereupon the
triumphant victor forgot all at once his former doubts and fears. He
directly brought in his rescued friend as a trophy into the presence
of Signora Portia, insisting, moreover, that a room should be provided
for him, and that she should herself undertake the cure of his wounds.
As Donatello was far too prudent, in Signor Dimetri’s presence, to
speak on any other subject but the wonderful prowess and courage of
his deliverer, describing how he had by his single arm put to flight a
whole troop of banditti, all suspicions were lulled to sleep. Moreover,
he continued to talk with such eloquence of the old hero’s former
exploits, and numberless adventures by sea and land, that, after his
recovery, he lived still as an intimate and chosen friend in Dimetri’s
palace. The latter found him oftentimes alone with his wife; but then
he was always speaking or reading of the same heroic achievements, to
which the lady now seemed to listen with the greatest attention.
“From this story we may learn, that all our best-laid plans to gain the
confidence of another may prove unsuccessful, and that it is not always
by conferring favours that one can excite his good-will. On the other
hand, as soon as his own vanity is inlisted on our side, we have no
farther trouble, but the game of itself will be won.”