Produced by Sandra Laythorpe
SINTRAM AND HIS COMPANIONS
By Friedrich de la Motte Fouque
with foreword by Charlotte M. Yonge
Introduction
Four tales are, it is said, intended by the Author to be appropriate to
the Four Seasons: the stern, grave “Sintram”, to winter; the tearful,
smiling, fresh “Undine”, to Spring; the torrid deserts of the “Two
Captains”, to summer; and the sunset gold of “Aslauga’s Knight”, to
autumn. Of these two are before us.
The author of these tales, as well as of many more, was Friedrich, Baron
de la Motte Fouque, one of the foremost of the minstrels or tale-tellers
of the realm of spiritual chivalry--the realm whither Arthur’s knights
departed when they “took the Sancgreal’s holy quest,”--whence Spenser’s
Red Cross knight and his fellows came forth on their adventures, and in
which the Knight of la Mancha believed, and endeavoured to exist.
La Motte Fouque derived his name and his title from the French Huguenot
ancestry, who had fled on the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. His
Christian name was taken from his godfather, Frederick the Great,
of whom his father was a faithful friend, without compromising his
religious principles and practice. Friedrich was born at Brandenburg on
February 12, 1777, was educated by good parents at home, served in the
Prussian army through disaster and success, took an enthusiastic part
in the rising of his country against Napoleon, inditing as many
battle-songs as Korner. When victory was achieved, he dedicated his
sword in the church of Neunhausen where his estate lay. He lived there,
with his beloved wife and his imagination, till his death in 1843.
And all the time life was to him a poet’s dream. He lived in a continual
glamour of spiritual romance, bathing everything, from the old deities
of the Valhalla down to the champions of German liberation, in an ideal
glow of purity and nobleness, earnestly Christian throughout, even in
his dealings with Northern mythology, for he saw Christ unconsciously
shown in Baldur, and Satan in Loki.
Thus he lived, felt, and believed what he wrote, and though his dramas
and poems do not rise above fair mediocrity, and the great number of his
prose stories are injured by a certain monotony, the charm of them is
in their elevation of sentiment and the earnest faith pervading all. His
knights might be Sir Galahad--
“My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.”
Evil comes to them as something to be conquered, generally as a form of
magic enchantment, and his “wondrous fair maidens” are worthy of them.
Yet there is adventure enough to afford much pleasure, and often we have
a touch of true genius, which has given actual ideas to the world, and
precious ones.
This genius is especially traceable in his two masterpieces, Sintram and
Undine. Sintram was inspired by Albert Durer’s engraving of the “Knight
of Death,” of which we give a presentation. It was sent to Fouque by his
friend Edward Hitzig, with a request that he would compose a ballad
on it. The date of the engraving is 1513, and we quote the description
given by the late Rev. R. St. John Tyrwhitt, showing how differently it
may be read.
“Some say it is the end of the strong wicked man, just overtaken by
Death and Sin, whom he has served on earth. It is said that the tuft on
the lance indicates his murderous character, being of such unusual size.
You know the use of that appendage was to prevent blood running down
from the spearhead to the hands. They also think that the object under
the horse’s off hind foot is a snare, into which the old oppressor is
to fall instantly. The expression of the faces may be taken either way:
both good men and bad may have hard, regular features; and both good men
and bad would set their teeth grimly on seeing Death, with the sands of
their life nearly run out. Some say they think the expression of Death
gentle, or only admonitory (as the author of “Sintram”); and I have to
thank the authoress of the “Heir of Redclyffe” for showing me a fine
impression of the plate, where Death certainly had a not ungentle
countenance--snakes and all. I think the shouldered lance, and quiet,
firm seat on horseback, with gentle bearing on the curb-bit, indicate
grave resolution in the rider, and that a robber knight would have his
lance in rest; then there is the leafy crown on the horse’s head; and
the horse and dog move on so quietly, that I am inclined to hope the
best for the Ritter.”
Musing on the mysterious engraving, Fouque saw in it the life-long
companions of man, Death and Sin, whom he must defy in order to reach
salvation; and out of that contemplation rose his wonderful romance,
not exactly an allegory, where every circumstance can be fitted with an
appropriate meaning, but with the sense of the struggle of life, with
external temptation and hereditary inclination pervading all, while
Grace and Prayer aid the effort. Folko and Gabrielle are revived from
the Magic Ring, that Folko may by example and influence enhance all
higher resolutions; while Gabrielle, in all unconscious innocence,
awakes the passions, and thus makes the conquest the harder.
It is within the bounds of possibility that the similarities of
folk-lore may have brought to Fouque’s knowledge the outline of the
story which Scott tells us was the germ of “Guy Mannering”; where a boy,
whose horoscope had been drawn by an astrologer, as likely to encounter
peculiar trials at certain intervals, actually had, in his twenty-first
year, a sort of visible encounter with the Tempter, and came off
conqueror by his strong faith in the Bible. Sir Walter, between
reverence and realism, only took the earlier part of the story, but
Fouque gives us the positive struggle, and carries us along with the
final victory and subsequent peace. His tale has had a remarkable power
over the readers. We cannot but mention two remarkable instances at
either end of the scale. Cardinal Newman, in his younger days, was
so much overcome by it that he hurried out into the garden to read it
alone, and returned with traces of emotion in his face. And when Charles
Lowder read it to his East End boys, their whole minds seemed engrossed
by it, and they even called certain spots after the places mentioned.
Imagine the Rocks of the Moon in Ratcliff Highway!
May we mention that Miss Christabel Coleridge’s “Waynflete” brings
something of the spirit and idea of “Sintram” into modern life?
“Undine” is a story of much lighter fancy, and full of a peculiar grace,
though with a depth of melancholy that endears it. No doubt it
was founded on the universal idea in folk-lore of the nixies or
water-spirits, one of whom, in Norwegian legend, was seen weeping
bitterly because of the want of a soul. Sometimes the nymph is a wicked
siren like the Lorelei; but in many of these tales she weds an earthly
lover, and deserts him after a time, sometimes on finding her diving
cap, or her seal-skin garment, which restores her to her ocean kindred,
sometimes on his intruding on her while she is under a periodical
transformation, as with the fairy Melusine, more rarely if he becomes
unfaithful.
There is a remarkable Cornish tale of a nymph or mermaiden, who thus
vanished, leaving a daughter who loved to linger on the beach rather
than sport with other children. By and by she had a lover, but no sooner
did he show tokens of inconstancy, than the mother came up from the sea
and put him to death, when the daughter pined away and died. Her name
was Selina, which gives the tale a modern aspect, and makes us wonder
if the old tradition can have been modified by some report of Undine’s
story.
There was an idea set forth by the Rosicrucians of spirits abiding in
the elements, and as Undine represented the water influences, Fouque’s
wife, the Baroness Caroline, wrote a fairly pretty story on the sylphs
of fire. But Undine’s freakish playfulness and mischief as an elemental
being, and her sweet patience when her soul is won, are quite
original, and indeed we cannot help sharing, or at least understanding,
Huldbrand’s beginning to shrink from the unearthly creature to something
of his own flesh and blood. He is altogether unworthy, and though in
this tale there is far less of spiritual meaning than in Sintram, we
cannot but see that Fouque’s thought was that the grosser human nature
is unable to appreciate what is absolutely pure and unearthly.
C. M. YONGE.
CHAPTER 1
In the high castle of Drontheim many knights sat assembled to hold
council for the weal of the realm; and joyously they caroused together
till midnight around the huge stone table in the vaulted hall. A rising
storm drove the snow wildly against the rattling windows; all the oak
doors groaned, the massive locks shook, the castle-clock slowly
and heavily struck the hour of one. Then a boy, pale as death, with
disordered hair and closed eyes, rushed into the hall, uttering a wild
scream of terror. He stopped beside the richly carved seat of the mighty
Biorn, clung to the glittering knight with both his hands, and shrieked
in a piercing voice, “Knight and father! father and knight! Death and
another are closely pursuing me!”
An awful stillness lay like ice on the whole assembly, save that the boy
screamed ever the fearful words. But one of Biorn’s numerous retainers,
an old esquire, known by the name of Rolf the Good, advanced towards the
terrified child, took him in his arms, and half chanted this prayer: “O
Father, help Thy servant! I believe, and yet I cannot believe.” The boy,
as if in a dream, at once loosened his hold of the knight; and the good
Rolf bore him from the hall unresisting, yet still shedding hot tears
and murmuring confused sounds.
The lords and knights looked at one another much amazed, until the
mighty Biorn said, wildly and fiercely laughing, “Marvel not at that
strange boy. He is my only son; and has been thus since he was five
years old: he is now twelve. I am therefore accustomed to see him so;
though, at the first, I too was disquieted by it. The attack comes upon
him only once in the year, and always at this same time. But forgive me
for having spent so many words on my poor Sintram, and let us pass on to
some worthier subject for our discourse.”
Again there was silence for a while; then whisperingly and doubtfully
single voices strove to renew their broken-off discourse, but without
success. Two of the youngest and most joyous began a roundelay; but
the storm howled and raged so wildly without, that this too was soon
interrupted. And now they all sat silent and motionless in the lofty
hall; the lamp flickered sadly under the vaulted roof; the whole party
of knights looked like pale, lifeless images dressed up in gigantic
armour.
Then arose the chaplain of the castle of Drontheim, the only priest
among the knightly throng, and said, “Dear Lord Biorn, our eyes and
thoughts have all been directed to you and your son in a wonderful
manner; but so it has been ordered by the providence of God. You
perceive that we cannot withdraw them; and you would do well to tell
us exactly what you know concerning the fearful state of the boy.
Perchance, the solemn tale, which I expect from you, might do good to
this disturbed assembly.”
Biorn cast a look of displeasure on the priest, and answered, “Sir
chaplain, you have more share in the history than either you or I could
desire. Excuse me, if I am unwilling to trouble these light-hearted
warriors with so rueful a tale.”
But the chaplain approached nearer to the knight, and said, in a firm
yet very mild tone, “Dear lord, hitherto it rested with you alone to
relate, or not to relate it; but now that you have so strangely hinted
at the share which I have had in your son’s calamity, I must positively
demand that you will repeat word for word how everything came to pass.
My honour will have it so, and that will weigh with you as much as with
me.”
In stern compliance Biorn bowed his haughty head, and began the
following narration. “This time seven years I was keeping the Christmas
feast with my assembled followers. We have many venerable old customs
which have descended to us by inheritance from our great forefathers;
as, for instance, that of placing a gilded boar’s head on the table, and
making thereon knightly vows of daring and wondrous deeds. Our chaplain
here, who used then frequently to visit me, was never a friend to
keeping up such traditions of the ancient heathen world. Such men as he
were not much in favour in those olden times.”
“My excellent predecessors,” interrupted the chaplain, “belonged more
to God than to the world, and with Him they were in favour. Thus they
converted your ancestors; and if I can in like manner be of service to
you, even your jeering will not vex me.”
With looks yet darker, and a somewhat angry shudder, the knight resumed:
“Yes, yes; I know all your promises and threats of an invisible Power,
and how they are meant persuade us to part more readily with whatever of
this world’s goods we may possess. Once, ah, truly, once I too had such!
Strange!--Sometimes it seems to me as though ages had passed over since
then, and as if I were alone the survivor, so fearfully has everything
changed. But now I bethink me, that the greater part of this noble
company knew me in my happiness, and have seen my wife, my lovely
Verena.”
He pressed his hands on his eyes, and it seemed as though he wept. The
storm had ceased; the soft light of the moon shone through the windows,
and her beams played on his wild features. Suddenly he started up, so
that his heavy armour rattled with a fearful sound, and he cried out
in a thundering voice, “Shall I turn monk, as she has become a nun? No,
crafty priest; your webs are too thin to catch flies of my sort.”
“I have nothing to do with webs,” said the chaplain. “In all openness
and sincerity have I put heaven and hell before you during the space of
six years; and you gave full consent to the step which the holy Verena
took. But what all that has to do with your son’s sufferings I know not,
and I wait for your narration.”
“You may wait long enough,” said Biorn, with a sneer. “Sooner shall--”
“Swear not!” said the chaplain in a loud commanding tone, and his eyes
flashed almost fearfully.
“Hurra!” cried Biorn, in wild affright; “hurra! Death and his companion
are loose!” and he dashed madly out of the chamber and down the steps.
The rough and fearful notes of his horn were heard summoning his
retainers; and presently afterwards the clatter of horses’ feet on the
frozen court-yard gave token of their departure. The knights retired,
silent and shuddering; while the chaplain remained alone at the huge
stone table, praying.