Several days' journey was accomplished without the least interruption.
The road was hard and dry, the weather refreshing and serene, and the
countries, through which they passed, fertile, inhabited, and
continually varied. The fertile Thuringian forest lay behind them. The
merchants, who had often travelled by the same road, were acquainted
with the people, and experienced everywhere the most hospitable
reception. They avoided the retired regions, and such as were infested
with robbers, or took a sufficient escort for their protection, when
obliged to travel through them. Many proprietors of the neighboring
castles were on good terms with the merchants. The latter visited them,
seeking orders for Augsburg. Much friendly hospitality was shown them,
and the old ladies with their daughters pressed around them with hearty
curiosity. Henry's mother immediately won their affection by her
good-natured complaisance and sympathy. They were rejoiced to see a
lady from the capital, who was willing to tell them new fashions, and
who taught them the recipes for many pleasant dishes. The young
Ofterdingen was praised by knights and ladies, on account of his
modesty and artless, mild behavior. The ladies lingered, too, with
pleasure upon his captivating form, which resembled the simple word of
some Unknown, which perhaps one scarcely regards, until, long after he
has gone, it gradually opens its bud, and at length presents a
beautiful flower in all the colored splendor of deeply interwoven
leaves, so that one never forgets it, nor is ever wearied of its
remembrance, but finds in it an exhaustless and ever-present treasure.
We now begin to divine the Unknown more exactly; and our presages take
form, till at once it becomes clear, that he was an inhabitant of a
higher world. The merchants received many orders, and parted from their
hosts with mutual hearty wishes, that they might see each other soon
again. In one of these castles, where they arrived towards evening, the
people were enjoying themselves right jovially. The lord of the castle
was an old soldier, who celebrated and interrupted the leisure of
peace, and the solitude of his situation, with frequent banquets; and
who, besides the tumult of war and the chase, knew no other means of
pastime, except the brimming beaker.
He received the new guests with brotherly heartiness, in the midst of
his noisy companions. The mother was conducted to the lady of the
castle. The merchants and Henry were obliged to seat themselves at the
merry table, where the beaker passed bravely around. Henry, after much
intreaty, was, in consideration of his youth, excused from pledging
every time; the merchants, on the contrary, did not find it much
against their tastes, and smacked the old Frank-wine with tolerable
gusto. The conversation turned upon the adventures of past years. Henry
listened attentively to what was said. The knights spoke of the holy
land, of the wonders of the sacred tomb, of the adventures of their
enterprise and voyage, of the Saracens in whose power some of them had
been, and of the joyous and wonderful life of field and camp. They
expressed with great animation their indignation, when they learned
that the heavenly birth-place of Christendom was in the power of the
unbelieving heathen. They exalted those great heroes, who had earned
for themselves an immortal crown, by their persevering endeavors
against this lawless people. The lord of the castle showed the rich
sword, which he had taken from their leader with his own hand, after he
had conquered his castle, slain him, and made his wife and children
prisoners, which deeds, by the permission of the emperor, were
represented on his coat of arms. All examined the splendid sword. Henry
took it and felt suddenly inspired with warlike ardor. He kissed it
with fervent devotion. The knight rejoiced at his sympathy with their
feelings. The old man embraced him, and encouraged him to devote his
hand also forever to the deliverance of the holy sepulchre, and to have
affixed to his shoulder the marvel-working cross. He was enraptured,
and seemed hardly able to release the sword. "Think, my son," cried the
old knight, "a new crusade is on the point of departure. The emperor
himself will lead our forces into the land of the morning. Throughout
all Europe the cry of the cross is sounding anew, and everywhere heroic
devotion is excited. Who knows that we may not, a year hence, be
sitting at each other's side in the great and far renowned city of
Jerusalem, as joyful conquerors, and think of home over the wine of our
fatherland? You will see here, at my house, a maiden from the holy
land. Its maidens appear very charming to us of the West; and if you
guide your sword skilfully, beauteous captives shall not be wanting."
The knights sang with a loud voice the Crusade-song, which at that time
was a favorite throughout Europe.
The grave in heathen hands remaineth;
The grave, wherein the Savior lay,
Their cruel mockery sustaineth,
And is unhallowed every day.
Its sorrow comes in stifled plea,--
Who saves me from this injury?
Where bides each valorous adorer?
The zeal of Christendom has gone!
Where is the ancient Faith's restorer?
Who lifts the cross and beckons on?
Who'll free the grave and rend in twain
The haughty foe's insulting chain?
A holy storm o'er earth and billow
Is rushing through the midnight hour;
To stir the sleeper from his pillow,
It roars round city, camp, and tower,
In wailful cry from battlements,--
Up, tardy Christian, get thee hence.
Lo, angels everywhere commanding
With solemn faces, voicelessly,--
And pilgrims at the gates are standing
With tearful cheeks, appealingly!
They sadly mourn, those holy men,
The fierceness of the Saracen.
There breaks a red and sullen morrow
O'er Christendom's extended field;
The grief, that springs from love and sorrow,
In every bosom is revealed;
The hearth is left in sudden zeal,
And each one grasps the cross and steel.
The armèd bands are chafing madly,
To rescue the Redeemer's grave;
Toward the sea they hasten gladly,
The holy ground to reach and save.
And children too obey the spell,
The consecrated mass to swell.
High waves the cross, its triumph flinging
On scarrèd hosts that rally there,
And Heaven, wide its portal swinging,
Is all revealed in upper air;
For Christ each warrior burns to pour
His blood upon the sacred shore.
To battle, Christians! God's own legion
Attends you to the promised land,
Nor long before the Paynim region
Will smoke beneath His terror-hand.
We soon shall drench in joyous mood
The sacred grave with heathen blood.
The Holy Virgin hovers, lying
On angel wings, above the plain.
Where all, by hostile weapon dying,
Upon her bosom wake again.
She bends with cheeks serenely bright
Amid the thunder of the fight.
Then over to the holy places!
That stifled plea is never dumb!
By prayer and conquest blot the traces,
That mark the guilt of Christendom!
If first the Savior's grave we gain,
No longer lasts the heathen reign.
Henry's whole soul was in commotion. The tomb rose before him like a
youthful form, pale and stately, upon a massive stone in the midst of a
savage multitude, cruelly maltreated, and gazing with sad countenance
upon a cross, which shone in the background with vivid outlines, and
multiplied itself in the tossing waves of the ocean.
Just at this time, his mother sent for him to present him to the
knight's lady. The knights were deep in the enjoyments of the banquet,
and in their imaginations as to the impending crusade, and took no
notice of Henry's departure. He found his mother in close conversation
with the old, kindhearted lady of the castle, who welcomed him
pleasantly. The evening was serene, the sun began to decline, and
Henry, who was longing after solitude and was enticed by the golden
distance, which stole through the narrow, deep-arched windows into the
gloomy apartment, easily obtained permission to stroll beyond the
castle. He hastened, his whole soul in a state of excitement, into the
free air. He looked from the height of the old rock down into the woody
valley, through which a little rivulet brawled along, turning several
mills, the noise of which was scarcely audible from the greatness of
the elevation. Then he gazed toward the immeasurable stretch of woods
and mountain-passes, and his restlessness was calmed, the warlike
tumult died away, and there remained behind only a clear, imaginative
longing; He felt the absence of a lute, little as he knew its nature
and effects. The serene spectacle of the glorious evening soothed him
to soft fancies; the blossom of his heart revealed itself momently like
lightning-flashes. He rambled through the wild shrubbery, and clambered
over fragments of rock; when suddenly there arose from a neighboring
valley a tender and impressive song, in a female voice accompanied by
wonderful music. He was sure that it was a lute, and standing full of
admiration he heard the following song in broken German.
If the weary heart is living
Yet, beneath a foreign sky;
If a pallid Hope is giving
Fitful glimpses to the eye;
Can I still of home be dreaming?
Sorrow's tears adown are streaming,
Till my heart is like to die.
Could I myrtle-garlands braid thee,
And the cedar's sombre hair!
To the merry dances lead thee,
That the youths and maidens share!
Hadst thou seen in robes the fairest,
Glittering with gems the rarest,
Thy belov'd, so happy there!
Ardent looks my walk attended,
Suitors lowly bent the knee,
Songs of tenderness ascended
With the evening star to me.
In the cherished there confiding,--
Faith to woman, love abiding,
Was their burden ceaselessly.
There, around the crystal fountains
Heaven fondly sinks to rest,
Sighing through the wooded mountains
By its balmy waves caressed;
Where among the pleasure-bowers,
Hidden by the fruits and flowers,
Thousand motley songsters nest.
Wide those youthful dreams are scattered!
Fatherland lies far away!
Long ago those trees were shattered,
And consumed the castle gray.
Came a savage band in motion
Fearful like the waves of ocean,
And Elysium wasted lay.
Terribly the flames were gushing
Through the air with sullen roar,
And a brutal throng came rushing
Fiercely mounted to the door.
Sabres rang, and father, brother,
Ne'er again beheld each other,--
Us away they rudely tore.
Though my eyes with tears are thronging,
Still, thou distant motherland,
They are turned, how full of longing,
Full of love, toward thy strand!
Thou, O child, alone dost save me
From the thought that anguish gave me,
Life to quench with hardy hand.
Henry heard the sobbing of a child and a soothing voice. He descended
deeper through the shrubbery, and discovered a pale, languishing girl
sitting beneath an old oak tree. A beautiful child hung crying on her
neck, and she herself was weeping; a lute lay at her side upon the
turf. She seemed a little alarmed when she saw the young stranger, who
was drawing near with a saddened countenance.
"You have probably heard my song," said she kindly. "Your face seems
familiar to me; let me think. My memory fails me, but the sight of you
awakens in me a strange recollection of joyous days. O! it appears as
if you resembled my brother, who before our disasters was separated
from us and travelled to Persia, to visit a renowned poet there.
Perhaps he yet lives and sadly sings the misfortunes of his sisters.
Would that I yet remembered some of the beautiful songs he left us! He
was noble and kind-hearted, and found his chief happiness in his lute."
The child, who was ten or twelve years old, looked at the strange youth
attentively, and clung fast to the bosom of the unhappy Zulima. Henry's
heart was penetrated with sympathy. He consoled the songstress with
friendly words, and prayed her to relate to him her history
circumstantially. She seemed not unwilling to do so. Henry seated
himself before her, and listened to her tale, interrupted as it was by
frequent tears. She dwelt principally upon the praises of her
countrymen and fatherland. She portrayed their loftiness of soul, and
their pure, strong susceptibility of life's poetry, and the wonderfully
mysterious charms of nature, She described the romantic beauties of the
fertile regions of Arabia, which lay like happy islands in the midst of
impassable, sandy wastes, refuge places for the oppressed and weary,
like colonies of Paradise,--full of fresh wells, whose streams trilled
over dense meadows and glittering stones, through venerable groves,
filled with every variety of singing birds; regions attractive also in
numerous monuments of memorable past time.
"You would look with wonder," she said, "upon the many-colored,
distinct, and curious traces and images upon the old stone slabs. They
seem to have been always well known; nor have they been preserved
without a reason. You muse and muse, you conjecture single meanings,
and become more and more curious to arrive at the deep coherence of
these old writings. Their unknown meaning excites unwonted meditation;
and even though you depart without having solved the enigmas, you have
yet made a thousand remarkable discoveries in yourself, which give to
life a new refulgence, and to the mind an ever profitable occupation.
Life, on a soil inhabited in olden time, and once glorious in its
industry, activity, and attachment to noble pursuits, has a peculiar
charm. Nature seems to have become there more human, more rational; a
dim remembrance throws back through the transparent present the images
of the world in marked outline; and thus you enjoy a twofold world,
purged by this very process from the rude and disagreeable, and made
the magic poetry and fable of the mind. Who knows whether also an
indefinable influence of the former inhabitants, now departed, does not
conspire to this end? And perhaps it is this hidden bias, that drives
men from new countries, at a certain period of their awakening, with
such a restless longing for the old home of their race, and that
emboldens them to risk their property and life, for the sake of
possessing these lands."
After a pause she continued.
"Believe not what you are told of the cruelties of my countrymen.
Nowhere are captives treated more magnanimously; and even your pilgrims
to Jerusalem were received with hospitality; only they seldom deserved
it. Most of them were worthless men, who distinguished their
pilgrimages by their evil deeds, and who, for that reason, often fell
into the hands of just revenge. How peacefully might the Christian have
visited the holy sepulchre, without being under the necessity of
commencing a terrible and useless war, which embitters everything,
spreads abroad continued misery, and which has separated forever the
land of the morning from Europe! What is there in the name of
possessor? Our rulers reverentially honored the grave of your Holy One,
whom we also consider a divine person; and how beautifully might his
sacred tomb become the cradle of a happy union, the source of an
alliance blessing all forever!"
Night overtook them during this conversation, darkness approached, and
the moon rose in quiet light from the dark forest. They descended
slowly towards the castle. Henry was full of thought, and his warlike
inspiration had entirely vanished. He observed a strange confusion in
the world; the moon assumed the appearance of a sympathizing spectator,
and raised him above the ruggedness of the earth's surface, which there
seemed so inconsiderable, however wild and insurmountable it might
appear to the wanderer below. Zulima walked silently by his side, hand
in hand with the child. Henry carried the lute. He endeavored to revive
the sinking hope of his companion, to revisit once again her home,
whilst he felt within him an earnest prompting to be her deliverer,
though in what manner he knew not. A strange power seemed to lie in his
simple words, for Zulima felt an unwonted tranquillity, and thanked him
in the most touching manner for his consolation.
The knights were yet in their cups, and the mother was engaged in
household gossip. Henry had no desire to return to the noisy hall. He
felt weary, and with his mother soon betook himself to the chamber,
that was set apart for them. He told her before he fell asleep, what
had happened, and soon sank into pleasant dreams. The merchants had
also retired betimes, and were early astir. The knights were in deep
sleep, when they started on their journey; but the lady of the house
tenderly took leave of them. Zulima had slept but little; an inward joy
had kept her awake; she made her appearance as they were departing, and
humbly but eagerly assisted the travellers. Before they started, she
brought with many tears her lute to Henry, and touchingly besought him
to take it with him as a remembrance of Zulima.
"It was my brother's lute," she said, "who gave it to me at our last
parting; it is the only property I have saved. It seemed to please you
yesterday, and you leave me an inestimable gift,--_sweet hope_. Take
this small token of my gratitude, and let it be a pledge, that you will
remember the poor Zulima. We shall certainly see each other again, and
then perhaps I shall be much happier."
Henry wept. He was unwilling to take the lute, so indispensable to her
happiness.
"Give me," said he, "the golden hand in your hair ornamented with the
strange characters, unless it be memorial of your parents, sisters, or
brothers, and take in return a veil which my mother will gladly resign
to you."
She finally yielded to his persuasions; and gave him the band, saying;
"It is my name in my mother tongue, which I myself in better times
embroidered on this band. Let it be a pleasure for you to gaze upon it,
and to think that it has bound up my hair during a long and sorrowful
period, and has grown pale with its possessor." Henry's mother loosed
the veil and gave it to her, while she embraced her with tears.