man of lofty stature. As the lake was small and one could easily see
across it, Gebizo could not comprehend where the boatman could have
come from so suddenly, for he had not observed him anywhere before.
Enough, he was now there, gave one stroke of his oar and immediately
was on the shore beside the knight, and, before the latter could give a
thought to the affair, had enquired of him why he turned such a rueful
face to the world. In spite of his extremely handsome exterior, the
stranger had an expression of deep-seated discontent about his mouth
and eyes; yet this was the very thing which gained Gebizo's confidence,
and without any reserve he poured out the tale of his misfortunes and
grievances.
"You are a fool," the other responded, "for you possess a treasure
greater than all that you have lost. If I had your wife, I should never
give a thought to all the riches and churches and convents, nor to all
the beggar-folk in the world."
"Give me back those things, and you are welcome to my wife in
exchange!" retorted Gebizo with a bitter laugh, and the other exclaimed
quick as lightning. "A bargain! Look under your wife's pillow; there
you will find what will suffice for all your lifetime to build a
convent every day, and feed a thousand people, though you should live
to a hundred. In exchange, bring me your wife here to this spot without
fail the evening before Walpurgis!"
With these words, such a fire spurted from his dark eyes that two
reddish beams glanced over the Count's sleeve, and thence over moss and
fir-trees. Then Gebizo saw whom he had before him, and accepted the
man's offer. The latter plied his oar, and sailed back to the middle of
the lake, where he and his boat sank into the water with a din which
resembled the laughter of many brazen bells.
Gebizo, all in a goose-skin, hastened back by the nearest way to his
castle, searched Bertrade's bed at once, and found under her pillow an
old, shabby book which he could not decipher. But, as he turned over
the leaves, one gold piece after another fell out. As soon as he
observed this, he betook himself with the book to the deepest vault of
a tower, and there, in the utmost secrecy, set to work and spent all
the rest of Easter in turning out an ample heap of gold from the pages
of this most interesting work.
Then he appeared in the world once again, redeemed all his possessions,
summoned workmen who restored his castle more magnificently than ever,
and dispensed benefactions on every hand like a prince who has been
newly crowned. The principal of his works, however, was the foundation
of a great abbey for five hundred capitulars of the utmost piety and
distinction, a regular town of saints and scholars, in the centre of
which his burial-place was one day to be. He considered this provision
requisite for his eternal salvation. But, as his wife was otherwise
provided for, no burial-place was prepared for her.
The midday before Walpurgis he gave the order to saddle, and bade his
fair wife mount her white hunter, as she had a long journey to ride in
his company. At the same time he forbade a single squire or servant to
attend them. A great dread seized the poor woman; she trembled in every
limb, and for the first time in her life she lied to her husband,
pretending that she was unwell, and begging him to leave her at home.
As she had been singing to herself only a little time before, Gebizo
was incensed at the falsehood, and considered that he had now acquired
a double right over her. She was forced therefore to mount her horse,
dressed too in her best finery, and she rode away sadly with her
husband, not knowing whither she was going.
When they had accomplished about half their journey, they came to a
little church which Bertrade had happened to build in former days and
had dedicated to the Mother of God. She had done it for the sake of a
poor master-mason whom no one would employ, because he was so surly and
disagreeable, that even Gebizo, whom others could not help approaching
in a pleasant and respectful fashion, could not tolerate him, and sent
him away empty-handed, for all the work which he had to give out. She
had caused the little church to be built secretly, and in his gratitude
the despised master-mason had with his own hands wrought a remarkably
beautiful image of Mary in his spare time, and set it over the altar.
Bertrade now craved to enter this church for a moment and say her
prayers, and Gebizo allowed her; for he thought she might have much
need of them. So she dismounted from her horse, and, while her husband
waited outside, went in, knelt before the altar, and commended herself
to the protection of the Virgin Mary. Thereupon she fell into a deep
sleep; the Virgin sprang down from the altar, assumed the form and
garments of the sleeper, went gaily out by the door and mounted the
horse, on which she continued the journey at Gebizo's side and in
Bertrade's stead.
The wretch thought to continue to deceive his wife, and, the nearer
they came to the journey's end, to lull her and hoodwink her by an
increase of friendliness. Accordingly he talked with her of this and
that, and the Virgin chatted pleasantly and gave him confiding answers,
and behaved as if she had lost all her timidity. So they reached the
gloomy wilderness about the lake, over which dun evening clouds hung;
the ancient firs bloomed purple with buds, as only happens in the most
luxuriant spring-tides; in the thicket a ghostly nightingale sang as
loud as organ-pipes and cymbals; and out from among the fir-trees rode
the man ye wot of, mounted on a black stallion, in rich knightly array,
with a long sword at his side.
He approached very courteously, although he suddenly shot such a
ferocious look at Gebizo that his flesh crept; still, the horses did
not appear to scent anything dangerous, for they stood quiet.
Trembling, Gebizo flung his wife's reins to the stranger and galloped
off alone without so much as a glance back to her. But the stranger
grasped the reins with a hasty hand, and away they went like a
whirlwind through the firs, so that the fair rider's veil and garments
fluttered and waved, away over mountain and valley, and over the
flowing waters so that the horses' hoofs scarcely touched the foam of
their waves. Hurried along by the boisterous storm, a rosy, fragrant
cloud, which shone in the twilight, was wafted in front of the steeds;
and the nightingale flew invisible before the pair, settling here and
there upon a tree and singing until the air rang again.
At last all hills and all trees came to an end, and the two rode into
an endless heath, in the midst of which, as if from afar off, the
nightingale throbbed, although there was no sign of bush or bough on
which it could have sat.
Suddenly the rider halted, sprang from his horse, and helped the lady
out of the saddle with the manner of a perfect cavalier. Scarcely had
her foot touched the heath, when round about the pair there sprang up a
garden of rose-bushes as tall as a man, with a splendid fountain and
seat, above which a starry firmament shone so brilliantly that one
could have seen to read by its light. But the fountain consisted of a
great round basin in which, like modern _tableaux vivants_, a number of
devils formed, or represented, a seductive group of nymphs in white
marble. They poured shimmering water from their hollowed hands--whence
they got it, their lord and master only knew. The water made the most
lovely harmony; for every jet gave out a different note, and the
whole seemed in concert like string-music. It was, so to say, a
water-harmonica, whose chords were thrilled through and through with
all the deliciousness of that first night of May, and melted into
unison with the charming forms of the group of nymphs; for the living
picture did not stand still, but changed and turned imperceptibly.
Not without tender emotion, the strange cavalier conducted the lady to
the seat and invited her to be seated; but then he gripped her hand
with a violent tenderness, and said in a voice that pierced to the
marrow, "I am the Eternally Forlorn who fell from Heaven! Nothing but
the love of a good mortal woman on May-night can make me forget
Paradise and give me strength to endure my eternal discomfiture. Be but
my helpmeet, and I will make thee eternal, and grant thee the power of
doing good and preventing evil to thy heart's content!"
He flung himself passionately on the bosom of the beauteous woman, who
smilingly opened her arms. But at the same instant the Blessed Virgin
assumed her Heavenly form, and enclosed the entrapped Deceiver in her
radiant arms with all her might. In a twinkling, the garden had
vanished with its fountain and nightingale; the cunning demons, who had
formed the tableau, took flight in the form of evil spirits, uttering
cries of anguish, and left their lord in the lurch; while he, never
uttering a sound, wrestled with titanic strength to free himself from
the torturing embrace.
But the Virgin held on bravely and did not let him go, though indeed
she had to summon all her strength. She purposed nothing less than to
bring the outmanoeuvred Devil before Heaven, and there expose him bound
to a gate-post in all his wretchedness to the laughter of the blessed.
But the Evil One changed his tactics, kept still for a brief space, and
assumed the beauty which he had once possessed as the fairest among the
angels, so that he almost rivalled the celestial beauty of Mary. She
exalted herself as much as possible; yet, if she was radiant as Venus
the fair Evening-star, he shone like Lucifer the Son of the Morning, so
that it began to be as bright on that dusky heath as if the heavens
themselves had descended upon it.
When the Virgin perceived that she had undertaken too much, and that
her strength was failing, she contented herself with releasing the
Fiend on condition that he renounced the Count's wife, and the
celestial and infernal beauties forthwith separated with great
violence. The Virgin, somewhat wearied, betook herself back to her
little church; the Evil One, incapable of any further disguise and
mauled in every limb, crawled away over the sand in horrid, degraded
form, the very embodiment of long-tailed sorrow. So badly had his
purposed hour of dalliance turned out for him.
Meantime Gebizo, after abandoning his lovely wife, had gone astray in
the darkening night, and horse and rider had fallen into a chasm, where
his head was dashed against a stone so that he promptly departed this
life.
As for Bertrade, she remained in her sleep until the sun rose on the
first of May; then she awoke, and was surprised to see how the time had
flown. Still, she quickly said her Ave Maria, and, when she came out of
the church hale and hearty, her horse was standing before the door as
she had left it. She did not wait long for her husband, but rode home
blithely and quickly, for she guessed that she had escaped from some
great peril.
Soon the Count's body was found and brought home. Bertrade had it
entombed with all honour, and founded innumerable masses for him. But
all love for him was in some inexplicable way eradicated from her
heart, although it remained as kind and tender as ever. Accordingly,
her exalted patroness in Heaven looked about for another husband for
her, who should be more worthy of such gracious love than the deceased
Gebizo had been. How this business came about is written in the next
legend.
THE VIRGIN AS KNIGHT
Mary is named a Throne, the Lord's own Tabernacle,
An Ark, Keep, Tower, House, a Spring, Tree, Garden, Mirror,
A Sea, a Star, the Moon, a Hill, the Blush of Morning.
All these how can she be? She is another world!
Angelus Silesius, _Cherub. Wandersmann_, Book iv. 42.
Gebizo had acquired so much wealth over and above his former
possessions that Bertrade found herself mistress of a noble earldom,
and became famous throughout the Empire for her wealth as well as her
beauty. As, withal, she was very unassuming and friendly with every
one, the jewel of her person appeared an easy conquest to all the
nobility, shy and enterprising, bold and timid, great and small alike,
and every one who had seen her a few times was surprised that he did
not already have her in his possession. Yet more than a year passed,
and no one knew of any who had acquired real grounds for hope.
Even the Emperor heard of her, and, as he was desirous that such a
splendid fief should pass into the hands of a suitable husband, he
determined to pay the celebrated widow a visit in the course of a
journey, and signified his intention to her in a most gracious and
friendly letter. This he entrusted to a young knight Zendelwald, whose
road lay that way. He was favourably received by Bertrade, and
entertained handsomely, as was every one who resorted to her castle. He
beheld with admiration the lordly halls, battlements and gardens, and
incidentally fell violently in love with their mistress. Still, he did
not linger an hour longer in the castle on that account; but, when he
had delivered his message and seen all that there was to see, he took a
brief farewell of the lady and rode away, the only one of all those who
had ever been there who did not think himself competent to win that
prize.
The fact was that he was sluggish in word and deed. Even when his mind
and heart had mastered any matter, which they always did with
thoroughness and fire, Zendelwald could never bring himself to take the
first step to a realization, for the thing seemed to him as good as
finished when once he saw his way clearly to it in his mind. Although
he was ready enough to talk when there was nothing to be gained by
doing so, he never uttered the opportune word which would have brought
him fortune. Not only his tongue, but his hand too, was so far behind
his thought that in battle he was often all but overcome by his
opponent, because, seeing in his mind's eye his enemy already at his
feet, he delayed giving the decisive stroke. Thus his manner of
fighting excited surprise at every tournament; for he always began by
scarcely exerting himself, and it was not until he was in the utmost
extremity that he gained the victory by some masterly stroke.
His mind in full play on the subject of the fair Bertrade, our
Zendelwald now rode home to his little castle, which lay in a lonely
mountain forest. A few charcoal-burners and woodmen were all his
subjects, and so his mother always awaited his return in bitter
impatience to know whether he had at last brought home fortune.
Zendelwald's mother was as handy and determined as he was indolent,
though not any more successful; for on her side she had carried her
qualities to excess, and they had twined into fussiness. In her youth
she had been eager to find a husband as soon as possible, and had
overpressed several opportunities so hastily and eagerly that in her
haste she had made the very worst possible choice in the shape of a
disreputable, foolhardy fellow, who ran through all his inheritance,
came to a premature end, and left her nothing but a long widowhood,
poverty and one son who would not take the trouble to bestir himself to
grasp at fortune.
The little household's only fare consisted of the milk of some goats,
forest-fruits, and game. Zendelwald's mother was an accomplished
sportswoman, and shot wild pigeons and grouse with the cross-bow as she
pleased. She also caught trout in the brooks, and with her own hands
repaired the little castle with stone and lime where it became decayed.
At that moment she had just returned home with a hare which she had
knocked over, and, as she hung the animal from the window of her
high-perched kitchen, she gave another look out into the valley and saw
her son riding along the road. She let down the drawbridge with joy,
for he had been absent for months.
She at once began to enquire whether he had got hold of any tuft or
feather of luck to bring home and make the most of, and, as he
recounted the usual unprofitable experiences of his most recent
campaign, she shook her head in wrath. But, when he came to tell her
all about his mission to the rich and captivating Bertrade, and lauded
her kindness and beauty, she scolded him for a lazy-bones and a
faint-heart to run away so basely. She was not long in perceiving that
Zendelwald could think of nothing else than the far-off lady, and she
began to be downright impatient with him to think that with such a
praiseworthy passion in his heart he failed utterly to make anything of
it, since in his case to be so head and ears over in love was a
hindrance rather than an incentive to action.
His days were not of the happiest. His mother was sulky with him, and
in her irritation sought to divert herself by mending the damaged roof
of the tower, so that the good Zendelwald was in fear and trembling as
he saw her clambering about aloft. In her ill temper she would pitch
down broken tiles, and wellnigh knocked out the brains of a stranger
knight as he was about to enter the door to request a night's lodging.
The latter, however, managed to win the ungracious lady's friendship
during supper, as he related many pleasant things, and in particular
that the Emperor was then staying at the pretty widow's great castle
where one feast was followed by another, and the fortunate lady was
unceasingly besieged by the Emperor and his lords to choose a husband
from among them. She, however, had found a way of evasion by convoking
a great tournament and promising her hand to the victor, in the firm
belief that her patron the Blessed Virgin would intervene and direct
the arm of the right man, who was destined for her, to victory.
"Now, that would be something for you to try," the guest concluded,
turning to Zendelwald; "such a handsome young knight ought to go
straight for it and try to win the best fortune of these days,
according to worldly estimation. Besides, it is commonly said that the
lady hopes that in this way some unknown luck may turn up, perchance
some poor but honest hero, whom she can kiss and coll, and that she has
an aversion to all the great and famous counts and idle wooers."
When the stranger had ridden away, Zendelwald's mother said, "Now, I'll
wager that no less a person than Bertrade herself sent that messenger
to put you on the right track, my dear Zendelwald! It's as clear as
daylight; what other business had the fellow, who has drunk our last
flagon of wine, to bring him travelling in this forest?"
Her son began to laugh mightily at her words, and went on laughing more
and more heartily, partly at the manifest impossibility of his mother's
fancies, partly because he found those said fancies rather agreeable.
The mere thought that Bertrade could possibly wish to take possession
of him kept him laughing uncontrollably. But his mother, who thought
that he was laughing in derision of her, flew into a rage, and cried,
"Listen! My curse be upon you if you do not obey me and set out on your
way at once to win that fortune. Do not come back without it, else I
never wish to see you again! Or, if you do come back, I'll take my bow
and arrows and go out to seek a grave where I can have peace from your
stupidity!"
So now Zendelwald had no choice; for the sake of peace and quietness,
he furbished his weapons, sighing the while, and rode as Heaven might
guide him in the direction of Bertrade's dwelling, without being
convinced that he should really go there. Nevertheless he stuck pretty
close to the road, and the nearer he came to his destination, the more
clearly the thought took shape that, after all, he might undertake the
adventure as well as another, and that, when he had settled matters
with his rivals, it would not cost him his head to try conclusions with
the fair lady. The adventure now developed stage by stage in his mind,
and came to the happiest issue; indeed, all day long, as he rode
through the green summer landscape, he held sweet dialogues with his
beloved, in which he told her most beautiful conceits, so that her face
became rosy for gratification and joy--all this in his imagination.
As he was in the act of inwardly depicting one more happy event, he saw
in good earnest, on a distant blue ridge, the towers and battlements of
the castle shining in the morning sun, with its gilded balustrades
gleaming from afar, and was so startled at the sight that all the
fabric of his dreams was dissolved, and left nothing but a faint,
irresolute heart behind.
Involuntarily he reined in his horse and looked around, as laggards
will, for a place of refuge. Whereupon he became aware of a pretty
little church, the same which Bertrade had once built to the Mother of
God, and in which she had slept that sleep. He at once resolved to go
in and collect his thoughts somewhat before the altar, the more so as
it was the day on which the tournament was to be held.
The priest was in the act of singing Mass, which was attended only by
two or three poor people, so that the knight contributed no small
ornament to the little congregation. When all was over, and priest and
sacristan had left the church, Zendelwald felt so comfortable in those
quarters that he fell sound asleep, and forgot tournament and beloved
one, unless indeed he dreamt about them.
Thereupon the Virgin Mary stepped down once again from her altar,
assumed his form and accoutrements, mounted his horse, and rode with
closed visor, a bold Brunhilda, all the way to the castle in
Zendelwald's stead.
When she had ridden a while, she came across a heap of dried rubbish
and withered brushwood lying by the wayside. It seemed suspicious to
the watchful Virgin, and she noticed something like the tail-end of a
serpent peeping out of the confusion. She saw then that it was the
Devil, who, still as enamoured as ever, was also prowling about the
neighbourhood of the castle, and had hurriedly hid himself from the
Virgin in the rubbish. She rode past without appearing to notice him,
but cleverly made her horse spring to the side, so that he came down
with his hind hoofs on the suspicious tail-end. With a hiss the Evil
One made out and away, and never more showed himself again in this
connection.
Amused by the little adventure, she rode, full of good humour, to
Bertrade's castle, where she arrived just when only the two stoutest
jousters remained to fight the deciding contest.
Slowly and carelessly, for all the world like Zendelwald, she rode into
the lists, and appeared undecided whether she should take part in the
contest or not.
"Here comes lazy Zendelwald," the word went round, and the two stout
champions said, "What does he want with us? Just a minute, and let us
get him out of the way before we settle matters between ourselves."
One of the champions called himself "Guhl the Speedy." He was in the
habit of turning himself and his horse about like a whirlwind, and
trying to bewilder and outwit his opponents by a hundred tricks and
stratagems. The supposed Zendelwald had to engage him first. He wore a
coal-black moustache, the ends of which were twisted and turned up in
the air so stiffly that two little silver bells, which were attached to
them, could not bend them down, and tinkled incessantly whenever he
moved his head. He described this as a peal of terror for his foes and
of delight for his lady! His shield glittered, now with this colour,
now with that, according to the direction in which he turned it, and he
could effect this change so rapidly that the eye was blinded by it. His
plume was formed of an enormous cock's tail.
The other stout champion dubbed himself "Mouse the Innumerable," by
which he meant to convey that he was as good as an innumerable army. In
token of his prowess, he had allowed the hair of his nostrils to grow
out about six inches, and had plaited it into two tresses, which hung
over his mouth and were adorned at the ends with neat little red
favours. Over his armour he wore a great spreading mantle, which almost
enveloped himself and his horse, and was cunningly sewed together from
a thousand mouseskins. For a crest, he was overshadowed by the mighty
outspread wings of a bat, from under which he darted threatening
glances out of his slits of eyes.