"How can this be, dearest Mam'sell," interrupted Hofrat Heerbrand,

somewhat alarmed and hurt, "when I bought these jewels not an hour ago

in the Schlossgasse, for current money?"

But Veronica heeded him not; she was standing before the mirror to

witness the effect of the trinkets, which she had already suspended

in her pretty little ears. Conrector Paulmann disclosed to her, with

grave countenance and solemn tone, his friend Heerbrand's preferment

and present proposal. Veronica looked at the Hofrat with a searching

look, and said: "I have long known that you wished to marry me. Well,

be it so! I promise you my heart and hand; but I must now unfold to

you, to both of you, I mean, my father and my bridegroom, much that

is lying heavy on my heart; yes, even now, though the soup should get

cold, which I see Fränzchen is just putting on the table."

Without waiting for the Conrector's or the Hofrat's reply, though the

words were visibly hovering on the lips of both, Veronica continued:

"You may believe me, best father, I loved Anselmus from my heart, and

when Registrator Heerbrand, who is now become Hofrat himself, assured

us that Anselmus might probably reach that position, I resolved that

he and no other should be my husband. But then it seemed as if alien

hostile beings were for snatching him away from me; I had recourse to

old Liese, who was once my nurse, but is now a wise woman, and a great

enchantress. She promised to help me and give Anselmus wholly into

my hands. We went at midnight on the Equinox to the crossing of the

roads; she conjured certain hellish spirits, and by aid of the black

Cat we manufactured a little metallic mirror, in which I, directing my

thoughts on Anselmus, had but to look in order to rule him wholly in

heart and mind. But now I heartily repent having done all this, and

here abjure all Satanic arts. The Salamander has conquered old Liese;

I heard her shrieks; but there was no help to be given; so soon as the

Parrot had eaten the Parsnip my metallic mirror broke in two with a

piercing clang." Veronica took out both the pieces of the mirror,

and a lock of hair from her work-box, and handing them to Hofrat

Heerbrand, she proceeded: "Here, take the fragments of the mirror,

dear Hofrat; throw them down, tonight, at twelve o'clock, over the

Elbe-bridge, from the place where the Cross stands; the stream is not

frozen there; the lock, however, do you wear on your faithful breast.

I again abjure all magic; and heartily wish Anselmus joy of his

good fortune, seeing he is wedded with the green Snake, who is

much prettier and richer than I. You, dear Hofrat, I will love and

reverence as becomes a true honest wife."

"Alack! Alack!" cried Conrector Paulmann, full of sorrow; "she is

cracked, she is cracked; she can never be Frau Hofrätin; she is

cracked!"

"Not in the least," interrupted Hofrat Heerbrand; "I know well that

Mam'sell Veronica has felt kindly toward the loutish Anselmus; and it

may be that in some fit of passion, she has had recourse to the wise

woman, who, as I perceive, can be no other than the card-caster and

coffee-pourer of the Seetor--in a word, old Rauerin. Nor can it be

denied that there are secret arts, which exert their influence on

men but too balefully; we read of such in the Ancients, and doubtless

there are still such; but as to what Mam'sell Veronica is pleased to

say about the victory of the Salamander, and the marriage of Anselmus

with the green Snake, this, in reality, I take for nothing but a

poetic allegory; a sort of poem, wherein she sings her entire farewell

to the Student."

"Take it for what you will, best Hofrat!" cried Veronica; "perhaps for

a very stupid dream."

"That I nowise do," replied Hofrat Heerbrand; "for I know well that

Anselmus himself is possessed by secret powers, which vex him and

drive him on to all imaginable mad freaks."

Conrector Paulmann could stand it no longer; he broke loose: "Hold!

For the love of Heaven, hold! Are we again overtaken with the cursed

punch, or has Anselmus' madness come over us too? Herr Hofrat, what

stuff is this you are talking? I will suppose, however, that it is

love which haunts your brain; this soon comes to rights in marriage;

otherwise I should be apprehensive that you too had fallen into some

shade of madness, most honored Herr Hofrat; then what would become

of the future branches of the family, inheriting the _malum_ of their

parents? But now I give my paternal blessing to this happy union, and

permit you as bride and bridegroom to take a kiss."

This happened forthwith; and thus before the presented soup had

grown cold, was a formal betrothment concluded. In a few weeks, Frau

Hofrätin Heerbrand was actually, as she had been in vision, sitting in

the balcony of a fine house in the Neumarkt, and looking down with a

smile on the beaux, who, passing by, turned their glasses up to her,

and said: "She is a heavenly woman, the Hofrätin Heerbrand."

TWELFTH VIGIL

Account of the Freehold Property to which Anselmus removed, as

son-in-law of Archivarius Lindhorst; and how he lives there with

Serpentina. Conclusion.

How deeply did I feel, in the depth of my heart, the blessedness of

the student Anselmus, who now, indissolubly united with his gentle

Serpentina, has withdrawn to the mysterious Land of Wonders,

recognized by him as the home toward which his bosom, filled with

strange forecastings, had always longed. But in vain was all my

striving to set before thee, kind reader, those glories with which

Anselmus is encompassed, or even in the faintest degree to shadow them

forth to thee in words. Reluctantly I could not but acknowledge the

feebleness of my every expression. I felt myself enthralled amid

the paltriness of every-day life; I sickened in tormenting

dissatisfaction; I glided about like a dreamer; in brief, I fell into

that condition of the student Anselmus, which, in the Fourth Vigil, I

have endeavored to set before thee. It grieved me to the heart, when I

glanced over the Eleven Vigils, now happily accomplished, and thought

that to insert the Twelfth, the keystone of the whole, would never be

vouchsafed me. For whensoever, in the night season, I set myself to

complete the work, it was as if mischievous Spirits (they might be

relations, perhaps cousins german, of the slain witch) held a polished

glittering piece of metal before me, in which I beheld my own mean

Self, pale, overwatched, and melancholic, like Registrator Heerbrand

after his bout of punch. Then I threw down my pen, and hastened to

bed, that I might behold the happy Anselmus and the fair Serpentina,

at least in my dreams. This had lasted for several days and nights,

when at length quite unexpectedly I received a note from Archivarius

Lindhorst, in which he addressed me as follows:

"Respected Sir--It is well known to me that you have written down, in

Eleven Vigils, the singular fortunes of my good son-in-law Anselmus,

whilom student, now poet; and are at present cudgeling your brains

very sore, that in the Twelfth and Last Vigil you may tell somewhat of

his happy life in Atlantis, where he now lives with my daughter on

the pleasant Freehold which I possess in that country. Now,

notwithstanding I much regret that hereby my own peculiar nature is

unfolded to the reading world; seeing it may, in my office as Privy

Archivarius, expose me to a thousand inconveniences; nay, in the

Collegium even give rise to the question: How far a Salamander can

justly, and with binding consequences, plight himself by oath, as a

Servant of the State, and how far, on the whole, important affairs may

be intrusted to him, since, according to Gabalis and Swedenborg,

the Spirits of the Elements are not to be trusted at

all?--notwithstanding, my best friends must now avoid my embrace;

fearing lest, in some sudden exuberance, I dart out a flash or two,

and singe their hair-curls, and Sunday frocks; notwithstanding all

this, I say, it is still my purpose to assist you in the completion of

the Work, since much good of me and of my dear married daughter (would

the other two were off my hands also!) has therein been said. Would

you write your Twelfth Vigil, therefore, then descend your cursed five

pair of stairs, leave your garret, and come over to me. In the blue

palm-tree room, which you already know, you will find fit writing

materials; and you can then, in a few words, specify to your readers

what you have seen--a better plan for you than any long-winded

description of a life which you know only by hearsay.

With esteem, your obedient servant,

THE SALAMANDER LINDHORST,

P.T. Royal Privy Archivarius."

This truly somewhat rough, yet on the whole friendly note from

Archivarius Lindhorst, gave me high pleasure. Clear enough it

seemed, indeed, that the singular manner in which the fortunes of his

son-in-law had been revealed to me, and which I, bound to silence,

must conceal even from thee, kind reader, was well known to this

peculiar old gentleman; yet he had not taken it so ill as I might

readily have apprehended. Nay, here was he offering me his helpful

hand in the completion of my work; and from this I might justly

conclude that at bottom he was not averse to have his marvelous

existence in the world of spirits thus divulged through the press.

"It may be," thought I, "that he himself expects from this measure,

perhaps, to get his two other daughters the sooner married; for who

knows but a spark may fall in this or that young man's breast, and

kindle a longing for the green Snake; whom, on Ascension-day, under

the elder-bush, he will forthwith seek and find? From the woe which

befell Anselmus, when inclosed in the glass bottle, he will take

warning to be doubly and trebly on his guard against all doubt and

unbelief."

Precisely at eleven o'clock I extinguished my study-lamp and glided

forth to Archivarius Lindhorst, who was already waiting for me in the

lobby.

"Are you there, my worthy friend? Well, this is what I like, that you

have not mistaken my good intentions; do but follow me!"

And with this he led the way through the garden, now filled with

dazzling brightness, into the azure chamber, where I observed the same

violet table at which Anselmus had been writing.

Archivarius Lindhorst disappeared, but soon came back, carrying in his

hand a fair golden goblet out of which a high blue flame was sparkling

up. "Here," said he, "I bring you the favorite drink of your friend

the Bandmaster, Johannes Kreisler.[45] It is burning arrack, into

which I have thrown a little sugar. Sip a touch or two of it; I will

doff my nightgown, and, to amuse myself and enjoy your worthy company

while you sit looking and writing, shall just bob up and down a little

in the goblet."

"As you please, honored Herr Archivarius," answered I: "but if I am to

ply the liqueur, you will get none."

"Don't fear that, my good fellow," cried the Archivarius; then hastily

threw off his nightgown, mounted, to my no small amazement, into the

goblet, and vanished in the blaze. Without fear, softly blowing black

the flame, I partook of the drink; it was truly delicious!

Stir not the emerald leaves of the palm-trees in soft sighing and

rustling, as if kissed by the breath of the morning wind? Awakened

from their sleep, they move and mysteriously whisper of the wonders

which, from the far distance, approach like tones of melodious harps!

The azure rolls from the walls, and floats like airy vapor to and

fro; but dazzling beams shoot through the perfume which, whirling

and dancing, as in jubilee of childlike sport, mounts and mounts to

immeasurable heights, and vaults over the palm-trees. But brighter and

brighter shoots beam on beam, till in bright sunshine and boundless

expanse opens the grove where I behold Anselmus. Here glowing

hyacinths, and tulips, and roses, lift their fair heads; and their

perfumes, in loveliest sound, call to the happy youth: "Wander, wander

among us, our beloved; for thou understandest us! Our perfume is the

Longing of Love; we love thee, and are thine forevermore!" The golden

rays burn in glowing tones: "We are Fire, kindled by Love. Perfume is

Longing; but Fire is Desire: and dwell we not in thy bosom? We are thy

own!" The dark bushes, the high trees, rustle and sound: "Come to

us, thou loved, thou happy one! Fire is Desire; but Hope is our cool

Shadow. Lovingly we rustle round thy head; for thou understandest us,

because Love dwells in thy breast!" The fountains and brooks murmur

and patter. "Loved one, walk not so quickly by; look into our crystal!

Thy image dwells in us, which we preserve with Love, for thou hast

understood us." In the triumphal choir, bright birds are singing:

"Hear us! Hear us! We are Joy, we are Delight, the rapture of Love!"

But longingly Anselmus turns his eyes to the Glorious Temple, which

rises behind him in the distance. The artful pillars seem trees; and

the capitals and friezes acanthus leaves, which in wondrous wreaths

and figures form splendid decorations. Anselmus walks to the Temple;

he views with inward delight the variegated marble, the steps with

their strange veins of moss. "Ah, no!" cries he, as if in the excess

of rapture, "she is not far from me now; she is near!" Then advances

Serpentina, in the fulness of beauty and grace, from the Temple;

she bears the Golden Pot, from which a bright Lily has sprung. The

nameless rapture of infinite longing glows in her bright eyes; she

looks at Anselmus, and says: "Ah! Dearest, the Lily has sent forth her

bowl; what we longed for is fulfilled; is there a happiness to equal

ours?" Anselmus clasps her with the tenderness of warmest ardor; the

Lily burns in flaming beams over his head. And louder move the trees

and bushes; clearer and gladder play the brooks; the birds, the

shining insects dance in the waves of perfume; a gay, bright rejoicing

tumult, in the air, in the water, in the earth, is holding the

festival of Love! Now rush sparkling streaks, gleaming over all the

bushes; diamonds look from the ground like shining eyes; high gushes

spurt from the wells; strange perfumes are wafted hither on sounding

wings; they are the Spirits of the Elements, who do homage to the

Lily, and proclaim the happiness of Anselmus. Then Anselmus raises his

head, as if encircled with a beamy glory. Is it looks? Is it words?

Is it song? You hear the sound: "Serpentina! Belief in thee, Love of

thee, has unfolded to my soul the inmost spirit of Nature! Thou hast

brought me the Lily, which sprung from Gold, from the primeval Force

of the earth, before Phosphorus had kindled the spark of Thought; this

Lily is Knowledge of the sacred Harmony of all Beings; and in this do

I live in highest blessedness forevermore. Yes, I, thrice happy,

have perceived what was highest; I must indeed love thee forever, O

Serpentina! Never shall the golden blossoms of the Lily grow pale;

for, like Belief and Love, Knowledge is eternal."

For the vision, in which I had now beheld Anselmus bodily, in his

Freehold of Atlantis, I stand indebted to the arts of the Salamander;

and most fortunate was it that, when all had melted into air, I found

a paper lying on the violet table, with the foregoing statement of the

matter, written fairly and distinctly by my own hand. But now I felt

myself as if transpierced and torn in pieces by sharp sorrow. "Ah,

happy Anselmus, who hast cast away the burden of week-day life, who

in the love of thy kind Serpentina fliest with bold pinion, and now

livest in rapture and joy on thy Freehold in Atlantis! while I--poor

I!--must soon, nay, in a few moments, leave even this fair hall, which

itself is far from a Freehold in Atlantis, and again be transplanted

to my garret, where, enthralled among the pettinesses of necessitous

existence, my heart and my sight are so bedimmed with thousand

mischiefs, as with thick fog, that the fair Lily will never, never be

beheld by me."

Then Archivarius Lindhorst patted me gently on the shoulder, and said:

"Soft, soft, my honored friend! Lament not so! Were you not even now

in Atlantis, and have you not at least a pretty little copyhold Farm

there, as the poetical possession of your inward sense? And is the

blessedness of Anselmus aught else but a Living in Poesy? Can aught

else but Poesy reveal itself as the sacred Harmony of all Beings, as

the deepest secret of Nature?"

_FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ_

* * * * *

SELECTIONS FROM UNDINE[46] (1811)

TRANSLATED BY F.E. BUNNETT

CHAPTER VIII

The Day after the wedding

The fresh light of the morning awoke the young married pair. Undine

hid bashfully beneath her covers while Huldbrand lay still, absorbed

in deep meditation. Wonderful and horrible dreams had disturbed

Huldbrand's rest; he had been haunted by spectres, who, grinning at

him by stealth, had tried to disguise themselves as beautiful women,

and from beautiful women they all at once assumed the faces of

dragons, and when he started up from these hideous visions the

moonlight shone pale and cold into the room; terrified he looked at

Undine on whose bosom he fell asleep and who still lay in unaltered

beauty and grace. Then he would press a light kiss upon her rosy lips

and would fall asleep again only to be awakened by new terrors.

After he had reflected on all this, now that he was fully awake, he

reproached himself for any doubt that could have led him into error

with regard to his beautiful wife. He begged her to forgive him for

the injustice he had done her, but she only held out to him her fair

hand, sighed deeply, and remained silent. But a glance of exquisite

fervor, such as he had never seen before, beamed from her eyes,

carrying with it the full assurance that Undine bore him no ill-will.

He then rose cheerfully and left her, to join his friends in the

common apartment.

He found the three sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety,

as if they dared not venture to speak aloud. The priest seemed to be

praying in his inmost spirit that all evil might be averted. When,

however, they saw the young husband come forth so cheerfully, the

careworn expression of their faces vanished.

The old fisherman even began to tease the knight, but in so chaste and

modest a manner that the aged wife herself smiled good-humoredly as

she listened to them. Undine at length made her appearance. All rose

to meet her and all stood still with surprise, for the young wife

seemed so strange to them and yet the same. The priest was the first

to advance toward her, with paternal affection beaming in his face,

and, as he raised his hand to bless her, the beautiful woman sank

reverently on her knees before him. With a few humble and gracious

words she begged him to forgive her for any foolish things she might

have said the evening before, and entreated him in an agitated tone

to pray for the welfare of her soul. She then rose, kissed her

foster-parents, and thanking them for all the goodness they had shown

her, she exclaimed, "Oh, I now feel in my innermost heart, how much,

how infinitely much, you have done for me, dear, kind people!" She

could not at first desist from her caresses, but scarcely had she

perceived that the old woman was busy in preparing breakfast than she

went to the hearth, cooked and arranged the meal, and would not suffer

the good old mother to take the least trouble.

She continued thus throughout the whole day, quiet, kind, and

attentive--at once a little matron and a tender bashful girl. The

three who had known her longest expected every moment to see some

whimsical vagary of her capricious spirit burst forth; but they waited

in vain for it. Undine remained as mild and gentle as an angel. The

holy father could not take his eyes from her, and he said repeatedly

to the bridegroom, "The goodness of heaven, sir, has intrusted a

treasure to you yesterday through me, unworthy as I am; cherish it as

you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal welfare."

[Illustration: FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE-FOUQUÉ.]

Toward evening Undine was hanging on the knight's arm with humble

tenderness, and drew him gently out of the door where the declining

sun was shining pleasantly on the fresh grass and upon the tall

slender stems of the trees. The eyes of the young wife were moist,

as with the dew of sadness and love, and a tender and fearful secret

seemed hovering on her lips--which, however, was disclosed only by

scarcely audible sighs. She led her husband onward and onward in

silence; when he spoke she answered him only with looks, in which,

it is true, there lay no direct reply to his inquiries, but a whole

heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they reached the edge of

the swollen forest-stream, and the knight was astonished to see it

rippling along in gentle waves, without a trace of its former wildness

and swell. "By the morning, it will be quite dry," said the beautiful

wife, in a regretful tone, "and you can then travel away wherever you

will, without anything to hinder you."

"Not without you, my little Undine," replied the knight, laughing;

"remember, even if I wished to desert you, the church, and the

spiritual powers, and the emperor, and the empire, would interpose and

bring the fugitive back again."

"All depends upon you, all depends upon you," whispered his wife, half

weeping and half smiling. "I think, however, nevertheless, that you

will keep me with you; I love you so heartily. Now carry me across to

that little island that lies before us. The matter shall be decided

there. I could easily indeed glide through the rippling waves, but it

is so restful in your arms, and, if you are to cast me off, I shall

have sweetly rested in them once more for the last time." Huldbrand,

full as he was of strange fear and emotion, knew not what to reply. He

took her in his arms and carried her across, remembering now for the

first time that this was the same little island from which he had

borne her back to the old fisherman on that first night. On the

farther side he put her down on the soft grass, and was on the point

of placing himself lovingly near his beautiful burden when she said,

"No, there, opposite to me! I will read my sentence in your eyes,

before your lips speak; now, listen attentively to what I will relate

to you!" And she began:

"You must know, my loved one, that there are beings in the elements

which appear almost like you mortals, and which rarely allow

themselves to become visible to your race. Wonderful salamanders

glitter and sport in the flames; lean and malicious gnomes dwell deep

within the earth; spirits, belonging to the air, wander through the

forests; and a vast family of water spirits live in the lakes and

streams and brooks. In resounding domes of crystal, through which the

sky looks in with its sun and stars, these latter spirits find their

beautiful abode; lofty trees of coral, with blue and crimson fruits,

gleam in the gardens; they wander over the pure sand of the sea, and

among lovely variegated shells, and amid all exquisite treasures of

the old world, which the present is no longer worthy to enjoy; all

these the floods have covered with their secret veils of silver, and

the noble monuments sparkle below, stately and solemn, and bedewed by

the loving waters which allure from them many a beautiful moss-flower

and entwining cluster of sea-grass. Those, however, who dwell there,

are very fair and lovely to behold, and for the most part are more

beautiful than human beings. Many a fisherman has been so fortunate

as to surprise some tender mermaid, as she rose above the waters and

sang. He would then tell afar of her beauty, and such wonderful beings

have been given the name of Undines. You, moreover, are now actually

beholding an Undine."

The knight tried to persuade himself that his beautiful wife was

under the spell of one of her strange humors and that she was taking

pleasure in teasing him with one of her extravagant inventions. But

repeatedly as he said this to himself, he could not believe it for a

moment; a strange shudder passed through him; unable to utter a word,

he stared at the beautiful narrator with an immovable gaze. Undine

shook her head sorrowfully, drew a deep sigh, and then proceeded.

"Our condition would be far superior to that of you human beings--for

human beings we call ourselves, being similar to them in form and

culture--but there is one evil peculiar to us. We and our like in the

other elements vanish into dust and pass away, body and spirit,

so that not a vestige of us remains behind; and when you mortals

hereafter awake to a purer life we remain with the sand and the sparks

and the wind and the waves. Hence we have also no souls; the element

moves us and is often obedient to us while we live, though it scatters

us to dust when we die; and we are merry, without having aught to

grieve us--merry as the nightingales and little gold-fishes and other

pretty children of nature. But all beings aspire to be higher than

they are. Thus my father, who is a powerful water-prince in the

Mediterranean Sea, desired that his only daughter should become

possessed of a soul, even though she must then endure many of the

sufferings of those thus endowed. Such as we, however, can obtain a

soul only by the closest union of love with one of your human race.

I am now possessed of a soul, and my soul I owe you, my inexpressibly

beloved one, and it will ever thank you if you do not make my whole

life miserable. For what is to become of me if you avoid and reject

me? Still I would not retain you by deceit. And if you mean to reject

me do so now, and return alone to the shore. I will dive into this

brook, which is my uncle; and here in the forest, far removed from

other friends, he passes his strange and solitary life. He is,

however, powerful, and is esteemed and beloved by many great streams;

and as he brought me hither to the fisherman, a light-hearted,

laughing child, he will take me back again to my parents, a loving,

suffering, and soul-endowed woman."

She was about to say still more, but Huldbrand embraced her with the

most heartfelt emotion and love, and bore her back again to the shore.

It was not till he reached it that he swore, amid tears and kisses,

never to forsake his sweet wife, calling himself more happy than the

Greek sculptor Pygmalion, whose beautiful statue received life from

Venus and became his loved one. In endearing confidence Undine walked

back to the cottage, leaning on his arm, and feeling now for the first

time with all her heart how little she ought to regret the forsaken

crystal palaces of her mysterious father.

CHAPTER XIII

How they lived at Castle Ringstetten

The writer of this story, both because it moves his own heart and

because he wishes it to move that of others, begs you, dear reader, to

pardon him if he now briefly passes over a considerable space of time,

only cursorily mentioning the events that marked it. He knows well

that he might portray according to the rules of art, step by step, how

Huldbrand's heart began to turn from Undine to Bertalda; how Bertalda

more and more responded with ardent love to the young knight, and how

they both looked upon the poor wife as a mysterious being rather to

be feared than pitied; how Undine wept, and how her tears stung the

knight's heart with remorse without awakening his former love, so that

though he at times was kind and endearing to her, a cold shudder

would soon draw him from her and he would turn to his fellow-mortal,

Bertalda. All this the writer knows might be fully detailed, and

perhaps ought to have been so; but such a task would have been too

painful, for similar things have been known to him by sad experience,

and he shrinks from their shadow even in remembrance. You know

probably a like feeling, dear reader, for such is the lot of mortal

man. Happy are you if you have received rather than inflicted the

pain, for in such things it is more blessed to receive than to give.

If it be so, such recollections will bring only a feeling of sorrow

to your mind, and perhaps a tear will trickle down your cheek over

the faded flowers that once caused you such delight. But let that be

enough. We will not pierce our hearts with a thousand separate things,

but only briefly state, as I have just said, how matters were.

Poor Undine was very sad, and the other two were not to be called

happy. Bertalda, especially, thought that she could trace the effect

of jealousy on the part of the injured wife whenever her wishes

were in any way thwarted. She had therefore habituated herself to an

imperious demeanor, to which Undine yielded in sorrowful submission,

and the now blinded Huldbrand usually encouraged this arrogant

behavior in the strongest manner. But the circumstance that most of

all disturbed the inmates of the castle was a variety of wonderful

apparitions which met Huldbrand and Bertalda in the vaulted galleries

of the castle, and which had never been heard of before as haunting

the locality. The tall white man, in whom Huldbrand recognized only

too plainly Uncle Kühleborn, and Bertalda the spectral master of the

fountain, often passed before them with a threatening aspect, and

especially before Bertalda, on so many occasions that she had several

times been made ill with terror and had frequently thought of quitting

the castle. But still she stayed there, partly because Huldbrand was

so dear to her, and she relied on her innocence, no words of love

having ever passed between them, and partly also because she knew

not whither to direct her steps. The old fisherman, on receiving the

message from the lord of Ringstetten that Bertalda was his guest, had

written a few lines in an almost illegible hand but as well as his

advanced age and long disuse would admit of. "I have now become," he

wrote, "a poor old widower, for my dear and faithful wife is dead.

However lonely I now sit in my cottage, Bertalda is better with you

than with me. Only let her do nothing to harm my beloved Undine!

She will have my curse if it be so." The last words of this letter

Bertalda flung to the winds, but she carefully retained the part

respecting her absence from her father--just as we are all wont to do

in similar circumstances.

One day, when Huldbrand had just ridden out, Undine summoned the

domestics of the family and ordered them to bring a large stone and

carefully to cover with it the magnificent fountain which stood in the

middle of the castle-yard. The servants objected that it would oblige

them to bring water from the valley below. Undine smiled sadly. "I am

sorry, my people," she replied, "to increase your work. I would

rather myself fetch up the pitchers, but this fountain must be closed.

Believe me that it cannot be otherwise, and that it is only by so

doing that we can avoid a greater evil."

The whole household were glad to be able to please their gentle

mistress; they made no further inquiry, but seized the enormous stone.

They were just raising it in their hands and were already poising it

over the fountain, when Bertalda came running up and called out to

them to stop, as it was from this fountain that the water was brought

which was so good for her complexion and she would never consent to

its being closed. Undine, however, although gentle as usual, was this

time more than usually firm. She told Bertalda that it was her due, as

mistress of the house, to arrange her household as she thought best,

and that, in this, she was accountable to no one but her lord and

husband. "See, oh, pray see," exclaimed Bertalda, in an angry yet

uneasy tone, "how the poor beautiful water is curling and writhing at

being shut out from the bright sunshine and from the cheerful sight

of the human face, for whose mirror it was created!" The water in the

fountain was indeed wonderfully agitated and hissing; it seemed as if

something within were struggling to free itself, but Undine only the

more earnestly urged the fulfilment of her orders. The earnestness was

scarcely needed. The servants of the castle were as happy in obeying

their gentle mistress as in opposing Bertalda's haughty defiance; and

in spite of all the rude scolding and threatening of the latter, the

stone was soon firmly lying over the opening of the fountain. Undine

leaned thoughtfully over it and wrote with her beautiful fingers on

its surface. She must, however, have had something very sharp and

corrosive in her hand, for when she turned away and the servants

drew near to examine the stone, they perceived all sorts of strange

characters upon it, which none of them had seen there before.

Bertalda received the knight, on his return home in the evening, with

tears and complaints of Undine's conduct. He cast a serious look at

his poor wife, and she looked down in great distress; yet she said

with great composure, "My lord and husband does not reprove even a

bond-slave without a hearing, how much less, then, his wedded wife?"

"Speak," said the knight with a gloomy countenance, "what induced you

to act so strangely?"

"I should like to tell you when we are quite alone," sighed Undine.

"You can tell me just as well in Bertalda's presence," was the

rejoinder.

"Yes, if you command me," said Undine; "but command it not. Oh pray,

pray command it not!" She looked so humble, so sweet, so obedient,

that the knight's heart felt a passing gleam from better times. He

kindly placed her arm within his own and led her to his apartment,

when she began to speak as follows:

"You already know, my beloved lord, something of my evil uncle,

Kühleborn, and you have frequently been displeased at meeting him in

the galleries of this castle. He has several times frightened Bertalda

into illness. This is because he is devoid of soul, a mere elemental

mirror of the outward world, without the power of reflecting the world

within. He sees, too, sometimes, that you are dissatisfied with me;

that I, in my childishness, am weeping at this, and that Bertalda

perhaps is at the very same moment laughing. Hence he imagines various

discrepancies in our home life, and in many ways mixes unbidden with

our circle. What is the good of my reproving him? What is the use of

my sending him angrily away? He does not believe a word I say. His

poor nature has no idea that the joys and sorrows of love have so

sweet a resemblance, and are so closely linked that no power can

separate them. Amid tears a smile shines forth, and a smile allures

tears from their secret chambers."

She looked up at Huldbrand, smiling and weeping; and he again

experienced within his heart all the charm of his old love. She felt

this, and, pressing him more tenderly to her, she continued amid tears

of joy, "As the disturber of our peace was not to be dismissed with

words, I have been obliged to shut the door upon him. And the only

door by which he obtains access to us, is that fountain. He is at odds

with the other water-spirits in the neighborhood, counting from the

adjacent valleys, and his kingdom only recommences further off on the

Danube, into which some of his good friends direct their course. For

this reason I had the stone placed over the opening of the fountain,

and I inscribed characters upon it which cripple all my uncle's power,

so that he can now neither intrude upon you, nor upon me, nor upon

Bertalda. Human beings, it is true, can raise the stone again with

ordinary effort, in spite of the characters inscribed on it; the

inscription does not hinder them. If you wish, therefore, follow

Bertalda's desire, but, truly, she knows not what she asks! The

ill-bred Kühleborn has set his mark especially upon her; and if this

or that came to pass which he has predicted to me and which might

indeed happen without your meaning any evil--ah! dear one, even you

would then be exposed to danger!"

Huldbrand felt deeply the generosity of his sweet wife, in her

eagerness to shut up her formidable protector while she had even been

chided for it by Bertalda. He pressed her therefore in his arms with

the utmost affection, and said with emotion, "The stone shall remain,

and all shall remain, now and ever, as you wish to have it, my sweet

little Undine."

She caressed him with humble delight as she heard the expressions

of love so long withheld, and then at length she said, "My dearest

friend, since you are so gentle and kind today, may I venture to ask

a favor of you? See now, it is just the same with you as it is with

summer. In the height of its glory summer puts on the flaming and

thundering crown of mighty storms and assumes the air of a king over

the earth. You too sometimes let your fury rise, and your eyes flash,

and your voice is angry, and this becomes you well, though I in my

folly may sometimes weep at it. But never, I pray you, behave thus

toward me on the water, or even when we are near it. You see, my

relatives would then acquire a right over me. They would unrelentingly

tear me from you in their rage because they would imagine that one of

their race was injured, and I should be compelled all my life to dwell

below in the crystal palaces, and should never be permitted to ascend

to you again; or they would send me up to you--and that, oh God, would

be infinitely worse. No, no, my beloved friend, do not let it come to

that, however dear poor Undine be to you." He promised solemnly to do

as she desired, and husband and wife returned from the apartment, full

of happiness and affection.

At that moment Bertalda appeared with some workmen to whom she had

already given orders, and said in the sullen tone which she had

assumed of late, "I suppose the secret conference is at an end, and

now the stone may be removed. Go out, workmen, and attend to it."

But the knight, angry at her impertinence, directed in short and very

decisive words that the stone should be left; he reproved Bertalda,

too, for her violence toward his wife. Whereupon the workmen withdrew,

smiling with secret satisfaction; while Bertalda, pale with rage,

hurried away to her rooms.

The hour for the evening repast arrived, and Bertalda was waited for

in vain. They sent after her, but the domestic found her apartments

empty, and only brought back with him a sealed letter addressed to the

knight. He opened it with alarm, and read: "I feel with shame that

I am only a poor fisher-girl. I will expiate my fault in having

forgotten this for a moment, by returning to the miserable cottage of

my parents. Farewell to you and your beautiful wife."

Undine was heartily distressed. She earnestly entreated Huldbrand to

hasten after their friend and bring her back again. Alas! she had no

need to urge him. His affection for Bertalda burst forth again with

vehemence. He hurried round the castle, inquiring if any one had seen

which way the beautiful fugitive had gone. He could learn nothing of

her and was already on his horse in the castle-yard, resolved to take

at a venture the road by which he had brought Bertalda hither. Just

then a page appeared, who assured him that he had met the lady on the

path to the Black Valley. Like an arrow the knight sprang through the

gate-way in the direction indicated, without hearing Undine's voice of

agony as she called to him from the window: "To the Black Valley! Oh,

not there! Huldbrand, don't go there! or, for Heaven's sake, take me

with you!" But when she perceived that all her calling was in vain,

she ordered her white palfrey to be saddled immediately and rode after

the knight without allowing any servant to accompany her.

CHAPTER XIV

How Bertalda returned home with the Knight

The Black Valley lies deep within the mountains. What it is now called

we do not know. At that time the people of the country gave it this

appellation on account of the deep obscurity in which the low land

lay, owing to the shadows of the lofty trees, and especially firs,

that grew there. Even the brook which bubbled between the rocks wore

the same dark hue, and dashed along with none of that gladness with

which streams are wont to flow that have the blue sky immediately

above them. Now, in the growing twilight of evening, it looked

altogether wild and gloomy between the heights. The knight trotted

anxiously along the edge of the brook, fearful at one moment that

by delay he might allow the fugitive to advance too far, and, at the

next, that by too great rapidity he might overlook her in case she

were concealing herself from him. Meanwhile he had already penetrated

quite a ways into the valley, and might soon hope to overtake the

maiden if he were on the right track, but the fear that this might not

be the case made his heart beat with anxiety. Where would the tender

Bertalda tarry through the stormy night, which was so fearful in the

valley, should he fail to find her? At length he saw something white

gleaming through the branches on the slope of the mountain. He

thought he recognized Bertalda's dress, and turned his course in that

direction. But his horse refused to go forward; it reared impatiently;

and its master, unwilling to lose a moment, and seeing moreover that

the copse was impassable on horseback, dismounted; then, fastening his

snorting steed to an elm-tree, he worked his way cautiously through

the bushes. The branches sprinkled his forehead and cheeks with the

cold drops of the evening dew; a distant roll of thunder was heard

murmuring from the other side of the mountains; everything looked so

strange that he began to feel a dread of the white figure which now

lay only a short distance from him on the ground. Still he could

plainly see that it was a woman, either asleep or in a swoon, and that

she was attired in long white garments such as Bertalda had worn

on that day. He stepped close up to her, made a rustling with the

branches, and let his sword clatter, but she moved not. "Bertalda!"

he exclaimed, at first in a low voice, and then louder and louder--but

still she heard not. At last, when he uttered the dear name with a

more powerful effort, a hollow echo from the mountain-caverns of the

valley indistinctly reverberated "Bertalda!" but still the sleeper

woke not. He bent down over her; the gloom of the valley and the

obscurity of approaching night would not allow him to distinguish her

features.

Just as he was stooping closer over her with a feeling of painful

doubt, a flash of lightning shot across the valley, he saw before him

a frightfully distorted countenance, and a hollow voice exclaimed,

"Give me a kiss, you enamoured swain!" Huldbrand sprang up with a

cry of horror, and the hideous figure rose with him. "Go home!" it

murmured; "wizards are on the watch. Go home, or I will have you!" and

it stretched out its long white arms toward him.

"Malicious Kühleborn!" cried the knight, recovering himself. "Hey,

'tis you, you goblin? There, take your kiss!" And he furiously hurled

his sword at the figure. But it vanished like vapor, and a gush of

water which wetted him through left the knight in no doubt as to the

foe with whom he had been engaged. "He wishes to frighten me back from

Bertalda," said he aloud to himself; "he thinks to terrify me with his

foolish tricks, and to make me give up the poor distressed girl to him

so that he can wreak his vengeance on her. But he shall not do

that, weak spirit of the elements as he is. No powerless phantom

may understand what a human heart can do when its best energies are

aroused." He felt the truth of his words, and that the very expression

of them had inspired his heart with fresh courage.

It seemed too as if fortune were on his side, for he had not reached

his fastened horse when he distinctly heard Bertalda's plaintive voice

not far distant, and could catch her weeping accents through the ever

increasing tumult of the thunder and tempest. He hurried swiftly

in the direction of the sound, and found the trembling girl just

attempting to climb the steep in order to escape in any way from the

dreadful gloom of the valley. He stepped, however, lovingly in her

path, and, bold and proud as her resolve had been before, she now felt

only too keenly the delight that the friend whom she so passionately

loved should rescue her from this frightful solitude, and that the

joyous life in the castle should be again open to her. She followed

almost unresisting, but so exhausted with fatigue that the knight

was glad to lead her to his horse, which he now hastily unfastened in

order to lift the fair fugitive upon it; and then, cautiously holding

the reins, he hoped to proceed through the uncertain shades of the

valley.

But the horse had become quite unmanageable from the wild apparition

of Kühleborn. Even the knight would have had difficulty in mounting

the rearing and snorting animal, but to place the trembling Bertalda

on its back was perfectly impossible. They determined therefore to

return home on foot. Leading the horse after him by the bridle, the

knight supported the tottering girl with his other hand. Bertalda

exerted all her strength to pass quickly through the fearful valley,

but weariness weighed her down like lead and every limb trembled,

partly from the terror she had endured when Kühleborn had pursued her,

and partly from her continued alarm at the howling of the storm and

the pealing of the thunder through the wooded mountain.

At last she slid from the supporting arm of her protector, and,

sinking down on the moss, exclaimed, "Let me lie here, my noble lord;

I suffer the punishment due to my folly, and I must now perish here

anyhow through weariness and dread."

"No, sweet friend, I will never leave you!" cried Huldbrand, vainly

endeavoring to restrain his furious steed; for, worse than before, it

now began to foam and rear with excitement, till at last the knight

was glad to keep the animal at a sufficient distance from the

exhausted maiden to save her from increasing fear. But scarcely had he

withdrawn a few paces with the wild steed than she began to call after

him in the most pitiful manner, believing that he was really going to

leave her in this horrible wilderness. He was utterly at a loss what

course to take. Gladly would he have given the excited beast its

liberty and have allowed it to rush away into the night and spend

its fury, had he not feared that in this narrow defile it might come

thundering with its iron-shod hoofs over the very spot where Bertalda

lay.

In the midst of this extreme perplexity and distress he heard with

delight the sound of a vehicle driving slowly down the stony road

behind them. He called out for help, and a man's voice replied,

promising assistance, but bidding him have patience; and, soon after,

two gray horses appeared through the bushes, and beside them the

driver in the white smock of a carter; a great white linen cloth was

next visible, covering the goods apparently contained in the wagon. At

a loud shout from their master the obedient horses halted. The driver

then came toward the knight and helped him restrain his foaming

animal. "I see well," said he, "what ails the beast. When I first

traveled this way my horses acted no better. The fact is, there is

an evil water-spirit haunting the place, and he takes delight in

this sort of mischief. But I have learned a charm; if you will let me

whisper it in your horse's ear he will stand at once just as quiet as

my gray beasts are doing there."

"Try your luck then, only help us quickly!" exclaimed the impatient

knight.

The wagoner then drew down the head of the rearing charger close to

his own, and whispered something in his ear. In a moment the animal

stood still and quiet, and his quick panting and reeking condition

were all that remained of his previous unmanageableness. Huldbrand had

no time to inquire how all this had been effected. He agreed with the

carter that he should take Bertalda on his wagon, where, as the man

assured him, there was a quantity of soft cotton bales upon which

she could be conveyed to Castle Ringstetten, and the knight was to

accompany them on horseback. But the horse appeared too much exhausted

by its past fury to be able to carry its master so far, so the Carter

persuaded Huldbrand to get into the wagon with Bertalda. The horse

could be tethered on behind. "We are going down hill," said he, "and

that will make it light for my gray beasts." The knight accepted

the offer and entered the wagon with Bertalda; the horse followed

patiently behind, and the wagoner, steady and attentive, walked by the

side.

In the stillness of the night, as its darkness deepened and the

subsiding tempest sounded more and more remote, encouraged by

the sense of security and their fortunate escape a confidential

conversation arose between Huldbrand and Bertalda. With flattering

words he reproached her for her daring flight; she excused herself

with humility and emotion, and from every word she said a gleam shone

forth which disclosed distinctly to the lover that the beloved was

his. The knight felt the sense of her words far more than he regarded

their meaning, and it was the sense alone to which he replied.

Presently the wagoner suddenly shouted with a loud voice. "Up, my

grays, up with your feet, keep together! Remember who you are!" The

knight leaned out of the wagon and saw that the horses were stepping

into the midst of a foaming stream or were already almost swimming,

while the wheels of the wagon were rushing round and gleaming like

mill-wheels, and the wagoner had climbed up in front in consequence of

the increasing waters.

"What sort of a road is this? It goes into the very middle of the

stream," cried Huldbrand to his guide.

"Not at all, sir," returned the other laughing, "it is just the

reverse; the stream goes into the very middle of our road. Look round

and see how every thing is covered by the water."

The whole valley indeed was suddenly filled with the surging flood,

that visibly increased. "It is Kühleborn, the evil water-spirit, who

wishes to drown us!" exclaimed the knight. "Have you no charm against

him, my friend?"

"I know indeed of one," returned the wagoner, "but I cannot and may

not use it until you know who I am."

"Is this a time for riddles?" cried the knight. "The flood is ever

rising higher, and what does it matter to me to know who you are?"

"It does matter to you, though," said the wagoner, "for I am

Kühleborn." So saying, he thrust his distorted face into the wagon

with a grin, but the wagon was a wagon no longer, the horses were not

horses--all was transformed to foam and vanished in the hissing waves,

and even the wagoner himself, rising as a gigantic billow, drew down

the vainly struggling horse beneath the waters, and then, swelling

higher and higher, swept over the heads of the floating pair, like

some liquid tower, threatening to bury them irrecoverably.

Just then the soft voice of Undine sounded through the uproar, the

moon emerged from the clouds, and by its light Undine was seen on

the heights above the valley. She rebuked, she threatened the floods

below; the menacing tower-like wave vanished, muttering and murmuring,

the waters flowed gently away in the moonlight, and, like a white

dove, Undine flew down from the height, seized the knight and

Bertalda, and bore them with her to a fresh, green, turfy spot on the

hill, where with choice refreshing restoratives she dispelled their

terrors and weariness; then she assisted Bertalda to mount the white

palfrey, on which she had herself ridden here, and thus all three

returned to Castle Ringstetten.

CHAPTER XV

The Journey to Vienna

After this last adventure they lived quietly and happily at the

castle. The knight more and more clearly perceived the heavenly

goodness of his wife, which had been so nobly exhibited by her pursuit

and her rescue in the Black Valley, where Kühleborn's power again

commenced; Undine herself felt that peace and security which is never

lacking to a mind so long as it is distinctly conscious of being on

the right path, and, besides, in the newly-awakened love and esteem of

her husband many a gleam of hope and joy shone upon her. Bertalda, on

the other hand, showed herself grateful, humble, and timid, without

regarding her conduct as anything meritorious. Whenever Huldbrand or

Undine were about to give her any explanation regarding the covering

of the fountain or the adventure in the Black Valley, she would

earnestly entreat them to spare her the recital, as she felt too much

shame at the recollection of the fountain and too much fear at the

remembrance of the Black Valley. She learned therefore nothing further

of either; and for what end was such knowledge necessary? Peace and

joy had visibly taken up their abode at Castle Ringstetten. They felt

secure on this point, and imagined that life could now produce nothing

but pleasant flowers and fruits.

In this happy condition of things winter had come and passed away, and

spring with its fresh green shoots and its blue sky was gladdening

the joyous inmates of the castle. Spring was in harmony with them,

and they with spring; what wonder then that its storks and swallows

inspired them also with a desire to travel? One day when they were

taking a pleasant walk to one of the sources of the Danube, Huldbrand

spoke of the magnificence of the noble river, how it widened as it

flowed through countries fertilized by its waters, how the charming

city of Vienna shone forth on its banks, and how with every step of

its course it increased in power and loveliness. "It must be glorious

to go down the river as far as Vienna!" exclaimed Bertalda, but

immediately relapsing into her present modesty and humility she paused

and blushed deeply.

This touched Undine deeply, and with the liveliest desire to give

pleasure to her friend she asked, "What hinders us from starting on

the little voyage?" Bertalda exhibited the greatest delight, and both

she and Undine began at once to picture in the brightest colors the

tour of the Danube. Huldbrand also gladly agreed to the prospect; only

he once whispered anxiously in Undine's ear, "But Kühleborn becomes

possessed of his power again out there!"

"Let him come," she replied with a smile; "I shall be there, and he

ventures upon none of his mischief before me." The last impediment was

thus removed; they prepared for the journey, and soon after set out

upon it with fresh spirits and the brightest hopes.

But wonder not, O man, if events always turn out different from what

we have intended! That malicious power, lurking for our destruction,

gladly lulls its chosen victim to sleep with sweet songs and golden

fairy tales; while on the other hand the rescuing messenger from

Heaven often knocks sharply and alarmingly at our door.

During the first few days of their voyage down the Danube they were

extremely happy. Everything grew more and more beautiful, as they

sailed further and further down the proudly flowing stream. But in a

region, otherwise so pleasant, and in the enjoyment of which they had

promised themselves the purest delight, the ungovernable Kühleborn

began, undisguisedly, to exhibit his power, which started again at

this point. This was indeed manifested in mere teasing tricks, for

Undine often rebuked the agitated waves or the contrary winds, and

then the violence of the enemy would be immediately submissive; but

again the attacks would be renewed, and again Undine's reproofs

would become necessary, so that the pleasure of the little party was

completely destroyed. The boatmen too were continually whispering to

one another in dismay and looking with distrust at the three strangers

whose servants even began more and more to forebode something uncanny

and to watch their masters with suspicious glances. Huldbrand often

said to himself, "This comes from like not being linked with like,

from a man uniting himself with a mermaid!" Excusing himself, as we

all love to do, he would often think indeed as he said this, "I did

not really know that she was a sea-maiden. Mine is the misfortune that

every step I take is disturbed and haunted by the wild caprices of her

race; but mine is not the guilt." By such thoughts as these he felt

himself in some measure strengthened, but, on the other hand, he felt

increasing ill-humor and almost animosity toward Undine. He would look

at her with an expression of anger, the meaning of which the poor

wife understood well. Wearied with this exhibition of displeasure and

exhausted by the constant effort to frustrate Kühleborn's artifices,

she sank one evening into a deep slumber, rocked soothingly by the

softly gliding bark.

Scarcely, however, had she closed her eyes when every one in the

vessel imagined he saw, in whatever direction he turned, a most

horrible human head; it rose out of the waves, not like that of a

person swimming, but perfectly perpendicular as if invisibly supported

upright on the watery surface and floating along in the same course

with the bark. Each wanted to point out to the other the cause of his

alarm, but each found the same expression of horror depicted on the

face of his neighbor, only that his hands and eyes were directed to a

different point where the monster, half laughing and half threatening,

rose before him. When, however, they all wished to make one another

understand what each saw, and all were crying out, "Look there--!

No--there!" the horrible heads all appeared simultaneously to their

view, and the whole river around the vessel swarmed with the most

hideous apparitions. The universal cry raised at the sight awoke

Undine. As she opened her eyes the wild crowd of distorted visages

disappeared. But Huldbrand was indignant at such unsightly jugglery.

He would have burst forth in uncontrolled imprecations had not Undine

said to him with a humble manner and a softly imploring tone, "For

God's sake, my husband, we are on the water; do not be angry with me

now." The knight was silent, and sat down absorbed in reverie. Undine

whispered in his ear, "Would it not be better, my love, if we gave up

this foolish journey and returned to Castle Ringstetten in peace?"

But Huldbrand murmured moodily, "So I must be a prisoner in my own

castle and be able to breathe only so long as the fountain is closed!

I would your mad kindred--" Undine lovingly pressed her fair hand upon

his lips. He paused, pondering in silence over much that Undine had

before said to him.

Bertalda had meanwhile given herself up to a variety of strange

thoughts. She knew a good deal of Undine's origin, and yet not the

whole, and the fearful Kühleborn especially had remained to her a

terrible but wholly unrevealed mystery. She had indeed never even

heard his name. Musing on these strange things, she unclasped,

scarcely conscious of the act; a gold necklace, which Huldbrand had

lately purchased for her of a traveling trader; half dreamingly she

drew it along the surface of the water, enjoying the light glimmer

it cast upon the evening-tinted stream. Suddenly a huge hand was

stretched out of the Danube, seizing the necklace and vanishing with

it beneath the waters. Bertalda screamed aloud, and a scornful laugh

resounded from the depths of the stream. The knight could now restrain

his anger no longer. Starting up, he inveighed against the river; he

cursed all who ventured to intrude upon his family and his life, and

challenged them, be they spirits or sirens, to show themselves before

his avenging sword.

Bertalda wept meanwhile for her lost ornament, which was so precious

to her, and her tears added fuel to the flame of the knight's anger,

while Undine held her hand over the side of the vessel, dipping it

into the water, softly murmuring to herself, and only now and then

interrupting her strange mysterious whisper, as she entreated her

husband, "My dearly loved one, do not scold me here; reprove others

if you will, but not me here. You know why!" And indeed, he restrained

the words of anger that were trembling on his tongue.

Presently in her wet hand which she had been holding under the waves

she brought up a beautiful coral necklace of so much brilliancy that

the eyes of all were dazzled by it. "Take this," said she, holding it

out kindly to Bertalda; "I have ordered this to be brought for you as

a compensation, and don't be grieved any more, my poor child."

But the knight sprang between them. He tore the beautiful ornament

from Undine's hand, hurled it again into the river, exclaiming in

passionate rage, "Have you then still a connection with them? In the

name of all the witches, remain among them with your presents and

leave us mortals in peace, you sorceress!" Poor Undine gazed at him

with fixed but tearful eyes, her hand still stretched out as when she

had offered her beautiful present so lovingly to Bertalda. She then

began to weep more and more violently, like a dear innocent child,

bitterly afflicted. At last, wearied out, she said: "Alas, sweet

friend, alas! farewell! They shall do you no harm; only remain true,

so that I may be able to keep them from you. I must, alas, go away; I

must go hence at this early stage of life. Oh woe, woe! What have you

done! Oh woe, woe!"

She vanished over the side of the vessel. Whether she plunged into the

stream or flowed away with it, they knew not; her disappearance was

like both and neither. Soon, however, she was completely lost sight of

in the Danube; only a few little waves kept whispering, as if sobbing,

round the boat, and they almost seemed to be saying: "Oh woe, woe! Oh,

remain true! Oh, woe!"

Huldbrand lay on the deck of the vessel, bathed in hot tears, and a

deep swoon presently cast its veil of forgetfulness over the unhappy

man.

_WILHELM HAUFF_

* * * * *

CAVALRYMAN'S MORNING SONG[47] (1826)

Crimson morn,

Shalt thou light me o'er Death's bourn?

Soon will ring the trumpet's call;

Then may I be marked to fall,

I and many a comrade brave!

Scarce enjoyed,

Pleasure drops into the void.

Yesterday on champing stallion;

Picked today for Death's battalion;

Couched tomorrow in the grave!

Ah! how soon

Fleeth grace and beauty's noon!

Hast thou pride in cheeks aglow,

Whereon cream and carmine flow?

Ah! the loveliest rose turns sere!

Therefore still

I respond to God's high will.

To the last stern fight I'll fit me;

If to Death I must submit me,

Dies a dauntless cavalier!

* * * * *

THE SENTINEL[48] (1827)

Lonely at night my watch I keep,

While all the world is hush'd in sleep.

Then tow'rd my home my thoughts will rove;

I think upon my distant love.

[Illustration: WILHELM HAUFF]

When to the wars I march'd away,

My hat she deck'd with ribbons gay;

She fondly press'd me to her heart,

And wept to think that we must part.

[Illustration: THE SENTINAL]

Truly she loves me, I am sure,

So ev'ry hardship I endure;

My heart beats warm, though cold's the night;

Her image makes the darkness bright.

Now by the twinkling taper's gleam,

Her bed she seeks, of me to dream,

But ere she sleeps she kneels to pray

For one who loves her far away.

For me those tears thou needst not shed;

No danger fills my heart with dread;

The pow'rs who dwell in heav'n above

Are ever watchful o'er thy love.

The bell peals forth from yon watch-tower;

The guard it changes at this hour.

Sleep well! sleep well! my heart's with thee;

And in your dreams remember me.

FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT

* * * * *

BARBAROSSA[49] (Between 1814 and 1817)

The ancient Barbarossa,

Friedrich, the Kaiser great,

Within the castle-cavern

Sits in enchanted state.

He did not die; but ever

Waits in the chamber deep,

Where hidden under the castle

He sat himself to sleep.

The splendor of the Empire

He took with him away,

And back to earth will bring it

When dawns the promised day.

The chair is ivory purest

Whereof he makes his bed;

The table is of marble

Whereon he props his head.

His beard, not flax, but burning

With fierce and fiery glow,

Right through the marble table

Beneath his chair does grow.

He nods in dreams and winketh

With dull, half-open eyes,

And once a page he beckons beckons--

A page that standeth by.

[Illustration: FRIEDRICH RÜCKERT]

He bids the boy in slumber

"O dwarf, go up this hour,

And see if still the ravens

Are flying round the tower;

And if the ancient ravens

Still wheel above us here,

Then must I sleep enchanted

For many a hundred year."

* * * * *

FROM MY CHILDHOOD DAYS[50] (1817, 1818)

From my childhood days, from my childhood days,

Rings an old song's plaintive tone--

Oh, how long the ways, oh, how long the ways

I since have gone!

What the swallow sang, what the swallow sang,

In spring or in autumn warm--

Do its echoes hang, do its echoes hang

About the farm?

"When I went away, when I went away,

Full coffers and chests were there;

When I came today, when I came today,

All, all was bare!"

Childish lips so wise, childish lips so wise,

With a lore as rich as gold,

Knowing all birds' cries, knowing all birds' cries,

Like the sage of old!

Ah, the dear old place--ah, the dear old place * * *

May its sweet consoling gleam

Shine upon my face, shine upon my face,

Once in a dream!

When I went away, when I went away,

Full of joy the world lay there;

When I came today, when I came today,

All, all was bare.

Still the swallows come, still the swallows come,

And the empty chest is filled--

But this longing dumb, but this longing dumb

Shall ne'er be stilled.

Nay, no swallow brings, nay, no swallow brings

Thee again where thou wast before--

Though the swallow sings, though the swallow sings,

Still as of yore.

"When I went away, when I went away,

Full coffers and chests were there;

When I came today, when I came today,

All, all was bare!"

* * * * *

THE SPRING OF LOVE[51] (1821)

Dearest, thy discourses steal

From my bosom's deep, my heart

How can I from thee conceal

My delight, my sorrow's smart?

Dearest, when I hear thy lyre

From its chains my soul is free.

To the holy angel quire

From the earth, O let us flee!

[Illustration: MEMORIES OF YOUTH]

Dearest, how thy music's charms

Waft me dancing through the sky!

Let me round thee clasp my arms,

Lest in glory I should die!

Dearest, sunny wreaths I wear,

Twined around me by thy lay.

For thy garlands, rich and rare,

O how can I thank thee? Say!

Like the angels I would be

Without mortal frame,

Whose sweet converse is like thought,

Sounding with acclaim;

Or like flowers in the dale;

Like the stars that glow,

Whose love-song's a beam, whose words

Like sweet odors flow;

Or like to the breeze of morn,

Waving round its rose,

In love's dallying caress

Melting as it blows.

But the love-lorn nightingale

Melteth not away;

She doth but with longing tones

Chant her plaintive lay.

I am, too, a nightingale,

Songless though I sing;

'Tis my pen that speaks, though ne'er

In the ear it ring.

Beaming images of thought

Doth the pen portray;

But without thy gentle smile

Lifeless e'er are they.

As thy look falls on the leaf,

It begins to sing,

And the prize that's due to love

In her ear doth ring.

Like a Memmon's statue now

Every letter seems,

Which in music wakes, when kissed

By the morning's beams.

* * * * *

"HE CAME TO MEET ME"[52] (1821)

He came to meet me

In rain and thunder;

My heart 'gan beating

In timid wonder.

Could I guess whither

Thenceforth together

Our path should run, so long asunder?

He came to meet me

In rain and thunder,

With guile to cheat me--

My heart to plunder.

Was't mine he captured?

Or his I raptured?

Half-way both met, in bliss and wonder!

He came to meet me

In rain and thunder;

Spring-blessings greet me

Spring-blossoms under.

What though he leave me?

No partings grieve me--

No path can lead our hearts asunder.

* * * * *

THE INVITATION[53] (1821)

Thou, thou art rest

And peace of soul--

Thou woundst the breast

And makst it whole.

To thee I vow

'Mid joy or pain

My heart, where thou

Mayst aye remain.

Then enter free,

And bar the door

To all but thee

Forevermore.

All other woes

Thy charms shall lull;

Of sweet repose

This heart be full.

My worshipping eyes

Thy presence bright

Shall still suffice,

Their only light.

* * * * *

MURMUR NOT[54]

Murmur not and say thou art in fetters holden,

Murmur not that thou earth's heavy yoke must bear.

Say not that a prison is this world so golden--

'Tis thy murmurs only set its harsh walls there.

Question not how shall this riddle find its reading;

It will solve itself full soon without thine aid.

Say not love hath turned his back, and left thee bleeding--

Whom hath love deserted, hast thou heard it said?

If death tries to fright thee, fear not beyond measure;

He will flee from those who boldly face his frown.

Hunt not thou the fleeting deer of worldly pleasure--

Lion it will turn, and hunt the hunter down.

Chain thyself no longer, heart, to any treasure;

Then thou shalt not say thou art into fetters thrown.

* * * * *

A PARABLE[55] (1822)

In Syria walked a man one day

And led a camel on the way.

A sudden wildness seized the beast,

And as they strove its rage increased.

So fearsome grew its savagery

That for his life the man must flee.

And as he ran, he spied a cave

That one last chance of safety gave.

He heard the snorting beast behind

Come nearer--with distracted mind

Leaped where the cooling fountain sprang,

Yet not to fall, but catch and hang;

By lucky hap a bramble wild

Grew where the o'erhanging rocks were piled.

He saved himself by this alone,

And did his hapless state bemoan.

He looked above, and there was yet

Too close the furious camel's threat

That still of fearful rage was full.

He dropped his eyes toward the pool,

And saw within the shadows dim

A dragon's jaws agape for him--

A still more fierce and dangerous foe

If he should slip and fall below.

So, hanging midway of the two,

He spied a cause of terror new:

Where to the rock's deep crevice clung

The slender root on which he swung,

A little pair of mice he spied,

A black and white one side by side--

First one and then the other saw

The slender stem alternate gnaw.

They gnawed and bit with ceaseless toil,

And from the roots they tossed the soil.

As down it ran in trickling stream,

The dragon's eyes shot forth a gleam

Of hungry expectation, gazed

Where o'er him still the man was raised,

To see how soon the bush would fall,

The burden that it bore, and all.

That man in utmost fear and dread

Surrounded, threatened, hard bested,

In such a state of dire suspense

Looked vainly round for some defense.

And as he cast his bloodshot eye

First here, then there, saw hanging nigh

A branch with berries ripe and red;

Then longing mastered all his dread;

No more the camel's rage he saw,

Nor yet the lurking dragon's maw,

Nor malice of the gnawing mice,

When once the berries caught his eyes.

The furious beast might rage above,

The dragon watch his every move,

The mice gnaw on--naught heeded he,

But seized the berries greedily--

In pleasing of his appetite

The furious beast forgotten quite.

You ask, "What man could ever yet,

So foolish, all his fears forget?"

Then know, my friend, that man are you--

And see the meaning plain to view.

The dragon in the pool beneath

Sets forth the yawning jaws of death;

The beast from which you helpless flee

Is life and all its misery.

There you must hang 'twixt life and death

While in this world you draw your breath.

The mice, whose pitiless gnawing teeth

Will let you to the pool beneath

Fall down, a hopeless castaway,

Are but the change of night and day.

The black one gnaws concealed from sight

Till comes again the morning light;

From dawn until the eve is gray,

Ceaseless the white one gnaws away.

And, 'midst this dreadful choice of ills,

Pleasure of sense your spirit fills

Till you forget the terrors grim

That wait to tear you limb from limb,

The gnawing mice of day and night,

And pay no heed to aught in sight

Except to fill your mouth with fruit

That in the grave-clefts has its root.

* * * * *

EVENING SONG[56] (1823)

I stood on the mountain summit,

At the hour when the sun did set;

I mark'd how it hung o'er the woodland

The evening's golden net.

And, with the dew descending,

A peace on the earth there fell--

And nature lay hushed in quiet,

At the voice of the evening bell.

I said, "O heart, consider

What silence all things keep,

And with each child of the meadow

Prepare thyself to sleep!

"For every flower is closing

In silence its little eye;

And every wave in the brooklet

More softly murmureth by.

"The weary caterpillar

Hath nestled beneath the weeds;

All wet with dew now slumbers

The dragon-fly in the reeds.

"The golden beetle hath laid him

In a rose-leaf cradle to rock;

Now went to their nightly shelter

The shepherd and his flock.

"The lark from on high is seeking

In the moistened grass her nest;

The hart and the hind have laid them

In their woodland haunt to rest.

"And whoso owneth a cottage

To slumber hath laid him down;

And he that roams among strangers

In dreams shall behold his own."

And now doth a yearning seize me,

At this hour of peace and love,

That I cannot reach the dwelling,

The home that is mine, above.

* * * * *

CHIDHER[57] (1824)

Chidher, the ever youthful, told:

I passed a city, bright to see;

A man was culling fruits of gold,

I asked him how old this town might be.

He answered, culling as before

"This town stood ever in days of yore,

And will stand on forevermore!"

Five hundred years from yonder day

I passed again the selfsame way,

And of the town I found no trace;

A shepherd blew on a reed instead;

His herd was grazing on the place.

"How long," I asked, "is the city dead?"

He answered, blowing as before

"The new crop grows the old one o'er,

This was my pasture evermore!"

Five hundred years from yonder day

I passed again the selfsame way.

A sea I found, the tide was full,

A sailor emptied nets with cheer;

And when he rested from his pull,

I asked how long that sea was here.

Then laughed he with a hearty roar

"As long as waves have washed this shore

They fished here ever in days of yore."

Five hundred years from yonder day

I passed again the selfsame way.

I found a forest settlement,

And o'er his axe, a tree to fell,

I saw a man in labor bent.

How old this wood I bade him tell.

"'Tis everlasting, long before

I lived it stood in days of yore,"

He quoth; "and shall grow evermore."

Five hundred years from yonder day

I passed again the selfsame way.

I saw a town; the market-square

Was swarming with a noisy throng.

"How long," I asked, "has this town been there?

Where are wood and sea and shepherd's song?"

They cried, nor heard among the roar

"This town was ever so before,

And so will live forevermore!"

"Five hundred years from yonder day

I want to pass the selfsame way."

* * * * *

AT FORTY YEARS[58] (1832)

When for forty years we've climbed the rugged mountain,

We stop and backward gaze;

Yonder still we see our childhood's peaceful fountain,

And youth exulting strays.

One more glance behind, and then, new strength acquiring,

Staff grasped, no longer stay;

See, a further slope, a long one, still aspiring

Ere downward turns the way!

Take a brave long breath and toward the summit hie thee--

The goal shall draw thee on;

When thou think'st it least, the destined end is nigh thee--

Sudden, the journey's done!

* * * * *

BEFORE THE DOORS[59]

I went to knock at Riches' door;

They threw me a farthing the threshold o'er.

To the door of Love did I then repair--

But fifteen others already were there.

To Honor's castle I took my flight--

They opened to none but to belted knight.

The house of Labor I sought to win--

But I heard a wailing sound within.

To the house of Content I sought the way--

But none could tell me where it lay.

One quiet house I yet could name,

Where last of all, I'll admittance claim;

Many the guests that have knocked before,

But still--in the grave--there's room for more.

[Illustration: AUGUST GRAF VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND]

_AUGUST VON PLATEN-HALLERMUND_

* * * * *

THE PILGRIM BEFORE ST. JUST'S[60] (1819)

'Tis night, and tempests whistle o'er the moor;

Oh, Spanish father, ope the door!

Deny me not the little boon I crave,

Thine order's vesture, and a grave!

Grant me a cell within thy convent-shrine--

Half of this world, and more, was mine;

The head that to the tonsure now stoops down

Was circled once by many a crown;

The shoulders fretted now with shirt of hair

Did once the imperial ermine wear.

Now am I as the dead, e'er death is come,

And sink in ruins like old Rome.

* * * * *

THE GRAVE OF ALARIC[61] (1820)

On Busento's grassy banks a muffled chorus echoes nightly,

While the swirling eddies answer and the wavelets ripple lightly.

Up and down the river, shades of Gothic warriors watch are keeping,

For they mourn their people's hero, Alaric, with sobs of weeping.

All too soon and far from home and kindred here to rest they laid him,

While in youthful beauty still his flowing golden curls arrayed him.

And along the river's bank a thousand hands with eager striving

Labored long, another channel for Busento's tide contriving.

Then a cavern deep they hollowed in the river-bed depleted,

Placed therein the dead king, clad in proof, upon his charger seated.

O'er him and his proud array the earth they filled, and covered loosely,

So that on their hero's grave the water-plants would grow profusely.

And again the course they altered of Busento's waters troubled;

In its ancient channel rushed the current--foamed, and hissed, and bubbled.

And the Goths in chorus chanted: "Hero, sleep! Tiny fame immortal

Roman greed shall ne'er insult, nor break thy tomb's most sacred portal!"

Thus they sang, and paeans sounded high above the fight's commotion;

Onward roll, Busento's waves, and bear them to the farthest ocean!

* * * * *

REMORSE[62] (1820)

How I started up in the night, in the night,

Drawn on without rest or reprieval!

The streets with their watchmen were lost to my sight,

As I wandered so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the gate with the arch medieval.

[Illustration: THE MORNING HOUR]

The mill-brook rushed from its rocky height;

I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;

Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,

As they glided so light

In the night, in the night,

Yet backward not one was returning.

O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,

The stars in melodious existence;

And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;

They sparkled so light

In the night, in the night,

Through the magical, measureless distance.

And upward I gazed in the night, in the night,

And again on the waves in their fleeting;

Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight;

Now silence, thou light,

In the night, in the night,

The remorse in thy heart that is beating.

* * * * *

WOULD I WERE FREE AS ARE MY DREAMS[63] (1822)

Would I were free as are my dreams,

Sequestered from the garish crowd

To glide by banks of quiet streams

Cooled by the shadow-drifting cloud!

Free to shake off this weary weight

Of human sin, and rest instead

On nature's heart inviolate--

All summer singing o'er my head!

There would I never disembark,

Nay, only graze the flowery shore

To pluck a rose beneath the lark,

Then go my liquid way once more,

And watch, far off, the drowsy lines

Of herded cattle crop and pass,

The vintagers among the vines,

The mowers in the dewy grass;

And nothing would I drink or eat

Save heaven's clear sunlight and the spring

Of earth's own welling waters sweet,

That never make the pulses sting.

* * * * *

SONNET[64] (1822)

Oh, he whose pain means life, whose life means pain,

May feel again what I have felt before;

Who has beheld his bliss above him soar

And, when he sought it, fly away again;

Who in a labyrinth has tried in vain,

When he has lost his way, to find a door;

Whom love has singled out for nothing more

Than with despondency his soul to bane;

Who begs each lightning for a deadly stroke,

Each stream to drown the heart that cannot heal

From all the cruel stabs by which it broke;

Who does begrudge the dead their beds like steel

Where they are safe from love's beguiling yoke--

He knows me quite, and feels what I must feel.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: From Addresses on Religion (Discourse IV).]

[Footnote 2: This refers to the second book, which takes the form of a

dialogue between the inquirer and a Spirit.]

[Footnote 3: An allusion to the second book.]

[Footnote 4: The audience gathered in the building of the Royal

Academy at Berlin.--ED.]

[Footnote 5: J.G. Hamann. _Hellenistische Briefe_ I, 189.]

[Footnote 6: Goethe. _Werke_ (1840) xxx., 352. Mr. Ward's translation

of Goethe's "Essays on Art," p. 76.]

[Footnote 7: Selections translated by Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 8: Permission George Bell & Son, London.]

[Footnote 9: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock & Company,

Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 10: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 11: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]

[Footnote 12: Translator: Herman Montagu Donner.]

[Footnote 13: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]

[Footnote 14: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 15: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 16: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 17: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]

[Footnote 18: Translator: W.W. Skeat.]

[Footnote 19: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow.]

[Footnote 20: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]

[Footnote 21: Translator: Percy Mackaye.]

[Footnote 22: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]

[Footnote 23: Translator: W.W. Skeat. From _Representative German

Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 24: Translator: W.W. Skeat. From _Representative German

Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 25: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock &

Company, Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 26: Translator: W.H. Furness.]

[Footnote 27: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg]

[Footnote 28: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 29: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 30: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 31: Translator: C.T. Brooks.]

[Footnote 32: Translator: W.H. Furness.]

[Footnote 33: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow. From _Representative

German Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 34: Translator: Kate Freiligrath-Kroeker. Permission William

Heinemann, London.]

[Footnote 35: Translator: C.G. Leland. From _Representative German

Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 36: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]

[Footnote 37: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]

[Footnote 38: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman]

[Footnote 39: Translator: Alfred Baskerville]

[Footnote 40: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor

Kiliani. From _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]

[Footnote 41: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 42: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 43: From the _Foreign Quarterly_]

[Footnote 44: Chapters 2, 6, 8.]

[Footnote 45: An imaginary musical enthusiast of whom Hoffmann has

written much; under the fiery, sensitive, wayward character of this

crazy bandmaster, presenting, it would seem, a shadowy likeness

of himself. The _Kreisleriana_ occupy a large space among these

_Fantasy-pieces_; and Johannes Kreisler is the main figure in _Kater

Murr_, Hoffmann's favorite but unfinished work. In the third and last

volume, Kreisler was to end, not in composure and illumination, as the

critics would have required, but in utter madness: a sketch of a wild,

flail-like scarecrow, dancing vehemently and blowing soap-bubbles, and

which had been intended to front the last title-page, was found

among Hoffmann's papers, and engraved and published in his _Life and

Remains_.]

[Footnote 46: Permission Bernhard Tauchnitz, Leipzig.]

[Footnote 47: Translator: Herman Montagu Donner.]

[Footnote 48: Translator: John Oxenford. From _Representative German

Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 49: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor

Kiliani.

From _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]

[Footnote 50: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.

This is a working-over of an old popular song in imitation of the

swallow's cry, found in various dialect-forms in different parts of

Germany. The most widespread version is:

Wenn ich wegzieh', wenn ich wegzieh',

Sind Kisten and Kasten voll!'

Wann ich wiederkomm', wann ich wiederkomm',

Ist alles verzehrt.]

[Footnote 51: Translator: Alfred Baskerville.]

[Footnote 52: Translator: Bayard Taylor. From _Representative German

Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 53: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 54: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 55: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 56: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. From _Book of German Songs_,

permission Ward, Lock & Company, Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 57: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]

[Footnote 58: Translator: A.I. du P. Coleman.]

[Footnote 59: Translator: H.W. Dulcken. Permission Ward, Lock & Company,

Ltd., London.]

[Footnote 60: Translator: Lord Lindsay. From _Ballads, Songs and

Poems_.]

[Footnote 61: Translators: Bayard Taylor and Lilian Bayard Taylor

Kiliani. From _A Sheaf of Poems_, permission R.G. Badger, Boston.]

[Footnote 62: Translator: Henry W. Longfellow. From _Representative

German Poems_, Henry Holt & Co., New York.]

[Footnote 63: Translator: Percy MacKaye.]

[Footnote 64: Translator: Margarete Münsterberg.]