against the Virgin and encircled her with ever-increasing rapidity,
seeking to dazzle her with his shield, and directing a hundred thrusts
at her with his lance. All the time, the Virgin stuck to the same spot
in the middle of the lists, and appeared to do no more than defend
herself with shield and spear, skilfully turning her horse about on its
hind-legs so that she always presented her front to her opponent. When
Guhl observed this, he suddenly rode some distance back, then turned
and ran upon her with his lance in rest, intending to thrust her over
the crupper. The Virgin awaited him without stirring; but man and horse
seemed of bronze, so firm they stood, and the poor fellow, unaware that
he was contending against superhuman power, flew unexpectedly out of
his saddle, and lay upon the ground, when he ran upon her spear, while
his own was shattered like a straw upon her shield. Without delay the
Virgin dismounted, knelt on his breast so that he could not move under
the mighty pressure, and with her dagger cut away his moustaches and
their silver bells, and fastened them in her sword-belt, while fanfares
proclaimed her, or rather Zendelwald, the victor.
Next, Sir Mouse the Innumerable came into the dance. He galloped
forward with such violence that his mantle floated in the air like a
threatening grey cloud. But the Virgin-Zendelwald, who only now
appeared to be beginning to warm up to the fray, galloped as stoutly to
meet him, threw him with ease from the saddle at the first thrust, and
when Mouse rose at once and drew his sword, she dismounted at the same
instant to engage him on foot. He was soon dazed by the rapid strokes
with which her sword fell upon his head and shoulders, and he held out
his mantle with his left hand to shelter beneath it, and wait a
favourable opportunity to throw it over his opponent's head. At that,
the Virgin caught a tip of the mantle with the point of her sword, and
enveloped Mouse the Innumerable in it from head to foot so dexterously
and swiftly that he was soon like an enormous wasp entangled in a
spider's web, and lay struggling on the ground.
Then the Virgin belaboured him with the flat of her sword so vigorously
that the mantle was resolved into its component parts, and a shower of
mouse-skins darkened the air amid the universal laughter of the
spectators, while the knight gradually emerged again to view, and
limped away a beaten man, after his conqueror had cut away his
beribboned pigtails.
Thus the Virgin under the guise of Zendelwald remained victor of the
field.
She now opened her visor, strode up to the Queen of the Festival, and
on bended knee laid the trophies of victory at her feet. Then she rose,
and offered the spectacle of a Zendelwald such as he was usually too
shy to be. Without, however, compromising his modesty too much, she
greeted Bertrade with a look, whose effect on the female heart she well
knew. In a word, she proved that she could play, not only the champion,
but the lover, so well, that Bertrade did not take back her word, but
lent a willing ear to the advice of the Emperor, who after all was glad
to see so gallant and noble a man prevail.
Then there was a great festive procession to the gardens, with their
tall lime-trees, where the banquet was spread. There Bertrade sat
between the Emperor and her Zendelwald. But it was as well that the
former was occupied with another pleasant lady; for the latter did not
give his bride much time to converse with others, so politely and
tenderly did he entertain her. He said the nicest things to her on the
spur of the moment, so that time after time she reddened with pleasure.
Joy and contentment prevailed everywhere; up in the green vault of the
trees the birds sang, vying with the instruments of music; a butterfly
settled on the Emperor's crown; and, as if by a special blessing, the
wine-cups gave forth a fragrance like violets and mignonette.
But Bertrade, above all, felt so happy, that, while Zendelwald held her
by the hand, she thought in her heart of her celestial protectress, and
made her a fervent, silent thanksgiving.
The Virgin Mary, who all the time was sitting at her side as
Zendelwald, read the prayer in her heart, and was so well pleased at
her ward's pious gratitude that she embraced Bertrade tenderly, and
imprinted a kiss on her lips, which, as may be imagined, filled the
fair woman with heavenly bliss; for when the celestials take to baking
sweet-stuff, it is sweet indeed.
As for the Emperor and the rest of the company, they shouted approval
to the supposed Zendelwald, raised their goblets, and drank to the
health of the handsome couple.
Meanwhile, the real Zendelwald waked out of his unseasonable sleep, and
found the sun so far on its course that the tournament must certainly
be over. Although he was now well out of the business, still he felt
very unhappy and sad; for he would have been only too glad to wed the
lady Bertrade. Besides, he did not dare to go back to his mother now.
So he determined to set out on an endless, joyless wandering, until
death should release him from his useless existence. Only, before doing
so, he wished to see his beloved one once again, and imprint her image
on his mind for the remainder of his days, that he might always
remember what he had thrown away.
He accordingly went back all the way to the castle. When he reached the
throng, he heard everywhere proclaimed the praises and good fortune of
a poor knight Zendelwald who had attained the prize, and, bitterly
curious to know who this fortunate namesake might be, he dismounted
from his horse, and forced his way through the crowd until he found a
station at the edge of the garden, on an elevated place from which he
could overlook the whole feast.
There he beheld in all her finery, not far from the sparkling crown of
the Emperor, the radiant, happy face of his beloved; but side by side
with her--his astonishment turned him pale--the living image of his own
person. As he stood petrified, he saw his double embrace and kiss the
pious bride. Thereupon, without delay, he stepped, unnoticed amid the
universal joy, through the ranks until he stood, racked by a strange
jealousy, close behind the couple. At the same moment, his counterfeit
vanished from Bertrade's side, and she looked about for him in dismay.
But when she saw Zendelwald behind her, she laughed joyfully, and said,
"Where are you off to? Come, stay beside me!" And she took his hand and
drew him to her side.
So he sat down, and, to test the seeming dream thoroughly, he seized
the beaker which stood before him and emptied it at one draught. The
wine stood the test, and an unmistakable life streamed through his
veins. Quite in the mood, he turned to the smiling woman and looked
into her eyes; whereupon she joyously resumed the intimate conversation
which had been interrupted the moment before. But Zendelwald could not
imagine what had happened to him, when he found Bertrade address him in
familiar words, to which he several times unthinkingly answered in
others which he had already used somewhere else. Sure enough he
discovered after a little that his predecessor must have been carrying
on the very same conversation with Bertrade which he had devised in his
imagination during the days of his journey, and which he now continued
deliberately, in order to see what end the play would have.
But it did not have an end. Instead, it became more and more edifying;
for when the sun went down, torches were lighted, and the whole
assembly made for the largest hall in the castle to engage in dancing.
After the Emperor had danced the first round with the bride, Zendelwald
took her on his arm and danced three or four times with her round the
hall until, all aglow, she suddenly took him by the hand and drew him
aside to a quiet turret-chamber flooded with moonlight. There she flung
herself on his breast, stroked his fair beard, and thanked him for his
coming and for his affection. Honest Zendelwald, however, wished to
ascertain whether he were dreaming or waking, and questioned her about
how matters really stood, especially about his double. For a long time,
she did not understand him; but one word led to another. Zendelwald
said this and that had happened to him, and told her all about his
journey, about his turning in to the little church, and how he had
fallen asleep there and been too late for the tournament.
At that the affair became so far clear to Bertrade that she recognized
for the second time the hand of her gracious patroness. But now at last
she had opportunity to regard the valiant knight boldly as a gift from
Heaven, and she was grateful enough to press the substantial present to
her heart in good earnest and return him full measure for the luscious
kiss which she had received from Heaven itself.
But, from that time forth, Sir Zendelwald lost all his sluggishness and
dreamy irresolution. He said everything and did everything at the right
time before the tender Bertrade and before the rest of the world, and
he became a great man in the Empire, so that the Emperor was as well
content with him as was his wife.
As for Zendelwald's mother, she appeared at the wedding mounted on
horseback, and as proud as if she had been enthroned in fortune all her
life long. She looked after money and estates, and hunted in the
extensive forests to an advanced age. Bertrade never failed to have
Zendelwald take her once a year to the lonely little castle which was
his home, where she cooed in the grey tower with her darling as
tenderly as the wild doves in the trees round about. But they never
omitted to enter the little church on their way, and address their
prayers to the Virgin, who stood there as prim and saintly as if she
had never once come down from her altar.
THE VIRGIN AND THE NUN
O that I had wings like a dove: for then would I
flee away, and be at rest.
Psalm lv. 6.
A convent lay on a mountain overlooking a wide prospect, and its walls
gleamed across the land. Within, it was full of women, beautiful and
unbeautiful, who all served the Lord and his Virgin Mother after a
strict rule.
The most beautiful of the nuns was called Beatrix, and was sacristan of
the convent. Of tall and commanding presence, she went about her duties
with stately carriage, saw to choir and altar, looked after the
sacristy, and rang the bell before the first flush of dawn and when the
evening-star arose.
Yet amid it all she cast many a tear-dimmed glance at the busy loom of
the blue distance. There she saw weapons glancing, heard the horn of
the hunters in the woods, and the clear shout of men, and her breast
filled with longing for the world.
At last she could control her desire no longer, and one clear, moonlit
night in June she rose, dressed herself, and put on stout new shoes,
and went to the altar, equipped for a journey. "I have served thee
faithfully these many years," she said to the Virgin Mary, "but now
take the keys thyself; for I can endure the heat in my heart no
longer!" With that she laid her bundle of keys upon the altar, and went
forth from the convent. She made her way down amid the solitude of
the mountain, and wandered on until she came to a cross-road in an
oak-forest, where, uncertain which way to take, she sat down by the
side of a spring, which was provided with a stone basin and a bench for
the benefit of wayfarers. Until the sun rose, she sat there, and was
drenched with the falling dew.
Then the sun came over the tops of the trees, and the first rays which
shot through the forest-road fell on a glittering knight who came
riding in full armour all alone. The nun stared with all her lovely
eyes, and did not lose an inch of the manly apparition; but she kept so
still that the knight would never have seen her had not the murmur of
the fountain caught his ear and guided his eyes. He at once turned
aside to the spring, dismounted from his horse and let it drink, while
he greeted the nun respectfully. He was a crusader who, after long
absence, was making his way home alone, for he had lost all his men.
In spite of his respectfulness, he never once removed his eyes from the
charms of Beatrix, who held hers just as steady, and gazed as fixedly
as ever on the warrior; for he was no inconsiderable part of that world
for which she had longed so in secret. But suddenly she cast down her
eyes and felt bashful. At last the knight asked her which way she was
going, and whether he could be of any service to her. The full tones of
his voice startled her; she looked at him once more, and, fascinated by
his glances, acknowledged that she had run away from the convent to see
the world, but that she was frightened already and did not know which
way to turn.
At that the knight, who had all his wits about him, laughed heartily,
and offered to conduct the lady so far on the right way, if she would
trust herself to him. His castle, he added, was not more than a day's
journey from where they were; and there, if she chose, she could make
her preparations in security, and after more mature reflection could
proceed on her way into the fair, wide world.
Without replying, but yet without opposition, she allowed herself,
trembling somewhat nevertheless, to be lifted up on horseback. The
knight swung himself up after her, and, with the rosy-blushing nun
before him, trotted joyously through woods and meadows.
For two or three hundred lengths, she held herself erect and gazed
straight before her, her hands clasped over her bosom. But soon she had
laid her head back on his breast, and submitted to the kisses which
the stalwart lord imprinted thereon. And by another three hundred
lengths she was returning them as fervidly as if she had never rung a
convent-bell. In such circumstances, they saw nothing of the bright
landscape through which they journeyed. The nun, who once had longed to
see the wide world, now shut her eyes to it, and confined herself to
that portion of it which the horse could carry on its back.
The knight Wonnebold also scarcely gave a thought to his father's
castle, until its towers glittered before him in the moonlight. But all
was silent without the castle, and even more silent within, while never
a light was to be seen. Wonnebold's father and mother were dead and all
the menials departed, save an ancient castellan, who after long
knocking made his appearance with a lantern, and almost died for joy
when he saw the knight standing at the painfully-opened door. In spite
of his solitude and his years the old man had maintained the interior
of the castle in habitable condition, and especially had kept the
knight's chamber in constant readiness, so that he might be able to go
to rest the moment he should return from his travels. So Beatrix rested
with him and appeased her longing.
Neither had any thought now of separating from the other. Wonnebold
opened his mother's chests. Beatrix clad herself in her rich garments
and adorned herself with her jewels, and so they lived for the moment
splendidly and in joy, except that the lady remained without rights or
title, and was regarded by her lover as his chattel; she desired
nothing better for the mean time.
But one day a stranger baron and his train turned into the castle,
which by this time was again staffed with servants, and great cheer was
made in his honour. At length the men fell to dicing, at which the
master of the house had such constant good luck that, flushed with good
fortune and confidence, he risked his dearest possession, as he called
it, to wit the fair Beatrix as she stood, with the costly jewels she
was wearing, against an old, melancholy mountain-keep which his
opponent laughingly staked.
Beatrix, who had looked on at the game well contented, now turned pale,
and with good reason; for the throw which ensued left the presumptuous
one in the lurch, and made the baron the winner.
He wasted no time, but at once took his leave with his fair prize and
his attendants. Beatrix barely found time to appropriate the unlucky
dice and hide them in her bosom, and then with streaming tears followed
the unfeeling winner.
After the little cavalcade had ridden some miles they reached a
pleasant grove of young beeches, through which a clear brook flowed.
Like a light-green silken tent, the tender foliage waved aloft,
supported on the slender silvery stems, between which the spacious
summer landscape was seen in glimpses. Here the baron meant to rest
with his booty. He ordered his people to go a little farther ahead,
while he got down in the pleasant greenwood with Beatrix, and made to
draw her to his side with caresses.
At that she drew herself up proudly, and darting a flaming glance upon
him exclaimed that he had won her person, but not her heart, which was
not to be won against an old ruin. If he were a man, he would set
something worth while against it. If he would stake his life, he might
cast for her heart, which should be pledged to him for ever and be his
own if he won; but if she won, his life should be in her hand, and she
should be absolute mistress of her own person once again.
She said this with great gravity; but all the time looked at him with
such a strange expression that his heart began to thump, and he
regarded her in bewilderment. She seemed to become more and more
beautiful as she continued in a softer voice, and with a searching
look, "Who would choose to woo a woman when she returns not his wooing,
and has received no proof of his courage? Give me your sword, take
these dice, and risk it; then we may be united as two true lovers!" At
the same time she pressed into his hand the ivory dice warm from her
bosom. Bewitched, he gave her his sword and sword-belt, and forthwith
threw eleven at one throw.
Next Beatrix took the dice, rattled them vigorously in her hollowed
hands with a secret sigh to the Holy Mary the Mother of God, and threw
twelve, so that she won.
"I make you a present of your life!" she said, bowed gravely to the
baron, picked up her skirts and put the sword under her arm, and
rapidly took her departure in the direction whence she had come. As
soon as she was out of view of the still quite nonplussed and
bewildered baron, she slyly proceeded no farther, but fetched a circuit
about the grove, walked quietly back into it, and hid herself not fifty
paces from the disappointed lover behind the beech-stems, which at that
distance grew sufficiently closely to hide the prudent lady, if need
were. She kept quite still; only a sunbeam fell upon a noble gem at her
neck, so that it flashed through the grove unknown to her. The baron
indeed saw the gleam, and stared at it a moment in his bewilderment.
But he took it for a shining dewdrop on a tree-leaf, and never gave it
a second thought.
At last he recovered from his stupefaction, and blew lustily upon his
hunting-horn. When his people came, he sprang upon his horse, and
pursued after the eloping lady to secure her again. It was the best
part of an hour before the riders returned, and despondently and slowly
made their way through the beech-trees, this time without halting. When
the lurking Beatrix saw the coast clear, she rose and hastened home
without sparing her shoes.
During all this time Wonnebold had passed a very bad day, racked by
remorse and anger; and, as he understood that he had disgraced himself
in the eyes of his love, whom he had gambled away so lightly, he began
to realize how highly he had unconsciously esteemed her, and how
difficult it was to live without her. So, when she unexpectedly stood
before him, without ever waiting to utter his surprise, he opened his
arms to her, and she hastened into them without complaint or reproach.
He laughed loudly as she related her stratagem, and he began to ponder
over her fidelity; for the baron was a very comely and pretty fellow.
Accordingly, to guard against all future mischances, he made the fair
Beatrix his lawful wedded wife in presence of all his peers and
vassals, so that henceforth she ranked as a knight's lady and took her
place among her equals at chase, feast and dance, as well as in the
cottages of their dependents and in the family seat at church.
The years passed with their changes, and in the course of twelve
fruitful harvests she bore her husband eight sons, who grew up like
young stags.
When the eldest was eighteen years old, she rose one autumn night from
her Wonnebold's side unperceived by him, laid all her worldly array
carefully in the same chests from which it had once been taken, closed
them, and laid the keys at the sleeper's side. Then she went barefooted
to the bedside of her sons, and kissed them lightly one after the
other. Last of all, she went again to her husband's bed, kissed him
too, and then shore the long hair from her head, once more put on the
dark nun's frock, which she had preserved carefully, and so left the
castle by stealth, and made her way amid the raging wind of the autumn
night and the falling leaves back to that convent from which she had
once run away. Indefatigably she passed the beads of her rosary through
her fingers, and as she prayed she thought over the life which she had
enjoyed.
So she went on her pilgrimage uncomplaining, until she stood again
before the convent-door. When she knocked, the door-keeper, who had
aged somewhat, opened and greeted her by name as indifferently as if
she had only been absent half an hour. Beatrix went past her into the
church, and fell on her knees before the altar of the Holy Virgin, who
began to speak and said, "Thou hast stayed away rather long, my
daughter. I have seen to thy duties as sacristan all the time; but now
I am very glad that thou art returned and canst take back thy keys!"
The image leaned down, and handed the keys to Beatrix, who was both
alarmed and delighted at the great miracle. Forthwith she set about her
duties, saw to this and that, and when the bell rang for dinner she
went to table. Many of the nuns had grown old, others were dead, young
ones were newly come, and another abbess sat at the head of the table;
but no one suspected what had happened to Beatrix, who took her
accustomed seat; for Mary had filled her place in the nun's own form.
But another day, when some ten years had passed, the nuns were to
celebrate a great festival, and agreed that each of them should bring
the Mother of God the finest present she could devise. So one
embroidered a rich church-banner, another an altar-cloth, and another a
vestment. One composed a Latin hymn, and another set it to music. A
third wrote and illuminated a prayer-book. Whoever could do nothing
else stitched a new shirt for the Christ-child, and sister cook made
him a dish of fritters. Only Beatrix had prepared nothing, for she was
rather weary of life, and she lived with her thoughts more in the past
than in the present.
When the feast-day came, and she had no gift to dedicate, the other
nuns were surprised and reproached her so that she sat humbly aside as
all the pretty things were being borne in festal procession and laid
before the altar of the church, which was adorned with flowers, while
the bells rang out and the incense-clouds rose on high.
Just as the nuns were proceeding to sing and play right skilfully, a
grey-headed knight passed by on his way, with eight armed youths as
lovely as pictures, all mounted on proud steeds and attended by a like
number of tall squires. It was Wonnebold with his sons, whom he was
taking to the Imperial army.
Perceiving that high Mass was being celebrated in God's house, he
called to his sons to dismount, and entered the church with them to
offer a devout prayer to the Holy Virgin. Every one was lost in
admiration at the noble spectacle, as the iron greybeard knelt with the
eight youthful warriors, who looked like so many mail-clad angels; and
the nuns were so put off their music that for a moment it ceased
altogether. But Beatrix recognized them all for her children, from her
husband, gave an exclamation and hastened to them, and, recalling
herself to their memory, disclosed her secret, and declared the great
miracle which she had experienced.
Then all were forced to admit that she had brought the Virgin the
richest gift of the day. That it was accepted was testified by eight
wreaths of fresh oak-leaves which suddenly appeared on the young men's
heads, placed there by the invisible hand of the Queen of Heaven.
THE NAUGHTY SAINT VITALIS
Be not familiar with any woman: but in general
commend all good women to God.
Thomas a Kempis, _Imitatio_ i. 8.