As he who relates this tale is moved to the heart by it, and hopes
that it may affect his readers too, he entreats of them one favour;
namely, that they will bear with him while he passes rapidly over a
long space of time; and be content if he barely touches upon what
happened therein. He knows well that some would relate in great
detail, step by step, how Huldbrand's heart began to be estranged from
Undine, and drawn toward Bertalda; while she cared not to disguise
from him her ardent love; and how between them the poor injured wife
came to be rather feared than pitied--and when he showed her kindness,
a cold shiver would often creep over him and send him back to the
child of earth, Bertalda;--all this the author knows, might be dwelt
upon; nay, perhaps it ought to be so. But his heart shrinks from such
a task, for he has met with such passages in real life, and cannot
even abide their shadows in his memory. Perhaps, gentle reader, such
feelings are known to thee also, for they are the common lot of mortal
man. Well is thee if thou hast felt, not inflicted, these pangs; in
these cases it is more blessed to receive than to give. As such
recollections wake up from their cells, they will but cast a soft
shade over the past; and it may be the thought of thy withered
blossoms, once so fondly loved, brings a gentle tear down thy cheek.
Enough of this: we will not go on to pierce our hearts with a thousand
separate arrows, but content ourselves with saying, that so it
happened in the present instance.
Poor Undine drooped day by day, and the others were neither of them
happy; Bertalda especially was uneasy, and ready to suspect the
injured wife, whenever she fancied herself slighted by Huldbrand;
meantime she had gradually assumed the command in the house, and the
deluded Huldbrand supported her openly. Undine looked on, in meek
resignation. To increase the discomfort of their lives, there was no
end to the mysterious sights and sounds that haunted Huldbrand and
Bertalda in the vaulted galleries of the castle; such as had never
been heard of before. The long white man, too well known to him as
Uncle Kühleborn, and to her as the spirit of the fountain, often
showed his threatening countenance to both; but chiefly to Bertalda,
who had more than once been made ill by the fright, and thought
seriously of leaving the castle. But her love for Huldbrand detained
her, and she quieted her conscience by thinking, that it had never
come to a declaration of love between them; and, besides, she would
not have known which way to turn. After receiving the Lord of
Ringstetten's message, that Bertalda was with them, the old Fisherman
had traced a few lines, scarcely legible, from infirmity and long
disuse, saying, "I am now a poor old widower; for my dear good wife is
dead. But, lonely as I am by my fireside, I had rather Bertalda stayed
away than come here. Provided she does not harm my dear Undine! My
curse be upon her if she does." Bertalda scattered these last words to
the winds, but treasured up her father's command that she should not
join him: as is the way with us selfish beings.
One day, when Huldbrand had just ridden out, Undine sent for her
servants and desired them to fetch a large stone and carefully to stop
up the mouth of the magnificent fountain, which played in the centre
of the court. The men objected, that they must then always go down the
valley to a great distance for water. Undine smiled mournfully. "It
grieves me to add to your burdens, my good friends," said she, "I had
rather go and fill my pitcher myself; but this fountain must be
sealed up. Trust me, nothing else will do, and it is our only way of
escaping a much worse evil."
The servants rejoiced at any opportunity of pleasing their gentle
mistress; not a word more was said, and they lifted the huge stone.
They had raised it, and were about to let it down on the mouth of the
spring, when Bertalda ran up, calling out to them to stop: the water
of this fountain was the best for her complexion, and she never would
consent to its being stopped. But Undine, instead of yielding as
usual, kept firmly, though gently, to her resolution; she said that it
behooved her, as mistress of the house, to order all such matters as
appeared best to her, and none but her lord and husband should call
her to account. "Look, oh look!" cried Bertalda, eagerly and angrily,
"how the poor bright water curls and writhes, because you would
deprive it of every gleam of sunshine, and of the cheerful faces of
men, whose mirror it was created to be!" In truth, the spring did
writhe and bubble up wonderfully, just as if someone were trying to
force his way through; but Undine pressed them the more to dispatch
the work. Nor was there much need to repeat her commands. The
household people were too glad at once to obey their gentle lady, and
to mortify the pride of Bertalda, in spite of whose threats and wrath,
the stone was soon firmly fastened down on the mouth of the spring.
Undine bent over it thoughtfully, and wrote on its surface with her
delicate fingers. Something very hard and sharp must have been hidden
in her hand; for when she walked away, and the others came up, they
found all manner of strange characters on the stone, none of which
were there before.
When the Knight came home that evening, Bertalda received him with
tears and complaints of Undine. He looked sternly at his poor wife,
who mournfully cast down her eyes, saying, however, with firmness, "My
lord and husband would not chide the meanest of his vassals, without
giving him a hearing, much less his wedded wife."--"Speak, then; what
was your reason for this strange proceeding?" said the Knight with a
frown. "I would rather tell it you quite alone!" sighed Undine. "You
can say it just as well in Bertalda's presence," replied he. "Yes, if
thou requirest it," said Undine, "but require it not." She looked so
humble, and so submissive in her touching beauty, that the Knight's
heart was melted, as by a sunbeam from happier days. He took her
affectionately by the hand, and led her to his own room, where she
spoke to him as follows.
"You know that wicked Uncle Kühleborn, my dearest lord, and have often
been provoked at meeting him about the castle. Bertalda, too, has been
often terrified by him. No wonder; he is soulless, shallow, and
unthinking as a mirror, in whom no feeling can pierce the surface. He
has two or three times seen that you were displeased with me, that I
in my childishness could not help weeping, and that Bertalda might
chance to laugh at the same moment. And upon this he builds all manner
of unjust suspicions, and interferes, unasked, in our concerns. What
is the use of my reproaching him, or repulsing him with angry words?
He believes nothing that I say. A poor cold life is his! How should he
know, that the sorrows and the joys of love are so sweetly alike, so
closely linked, that it is not in human power to part them. When a
tear gushes out, a smile lies beneath; and a smile will draw the tears
from their secret cells."
She smiled through her tears in Huldbrand's face, and a warm ray of
his former love shot through his heart. She perceived this, pressed
closer to him, and with a few tears of joy she went on.
"As I found it impossible to get rid of our tormentor by words, I had
nothing for it, but to shut the door against him. And his only access
to us was that fountain. He has quarrelled with the other fountain
spirits in the surrounding valleys, and it is much lower down the
Danube, below the junction of some friends with the great river, that
his power begins again. Therefore I stopped the mouth of our fountain,
and inscribed the stone with characters which cripple the might of my
restless uncle; so that he can no longer cross your path, or mine, or
Bertalda's. Men can indeed lift the stone off as easily as ever; the
inscription has no power over them. So you are free to comply with
Bertalda's wish; but indeed, she little knows what she asks. Against
her the wild Kühleborn has a most particular spite, and if some of his
forebodings were to come true, (as they might, without her intending
any harm) O, dearest, even thou wert not free from danger!"
Huldbrand deeply felt the generosity of his noble-minded wife, in so
zealously shutting out her formidable protector, even when reviled by
Bertalda for so doing. He clasped her fondly in his arms, and said
with much emotion, "The stone shall remain; and everything shall be
done as thou wishest, now and hereafter, my sweetest Undine."
Scarce could she trust these words of love, after so dreary an
estrangement; she returned his caresses with joyful but timid
gratitude, and at length said, "My own dear love, as you are so
exceedingly kind to me to-day, may I ask you to promise one thing?
Herein you are like the summer: is he not most glorious when he decks
his brows with thunders, and frowns upon us from his throne of clouds?
So it is when your eyes flash lightning; it becomes you well,
although in my weakness I may often shed a tear at it. Only--if you
would promise to refrain from it when we are sailing, or even near any
water. For there, you see, my relations have a right to control me.
They might relentlessly tear me from you in their wrath, fancying that
there is an insult offered to one of their race; and I should be
doomed to spend the rest of my life in the crystal palaces below,
without ever coming to you; or if they did send me up again--oh
Heaven, that would be far worse! No, no, my best beloved; you will not
let it come to that, if you love your poor Undine."
He solemnly promised to do as she asked him, and they returned to the
saloon, quite restored to comfort and peace. They met Bertalda,
followed by a few labourers whom she had sent for, and she said in a
tone of bitterness that had grown common with her of late, "So, now
your private consultation is over, and we may have the stone taken up.
Make haste, you people, and do it for me." But Huldbrand, incensed at
her arrogance, said shortly and decidedly, "The stone shall not be
touched," and he then reproved Bertalda for her rudeness to his wife;
upon which the labourers walked off, exulting secretly, while Bertalda
hurried away to her chamber, pale and disturbed.
The hour of supper came, and they waited in vain for Bertalda. A
message was sent to her; the servants found her room empty, and
brought back only a sealed letter directed to the Knight. He opened it
with trepidation and read, "I feel with shame that I am only a
fisherman's daughter. Having forgotten it a moment, I will expiate my
crime in the wretched hut of my parents. Live happy with your
beautiful wife!"
Undine was sincerely grieved; she entreated Huldbrand to pursue their
friend at once, and bring her back with him. Alas! there was little
need of entreaty. His passion for Bertalda returned with fresh
violence; he searched the castle all over, asking everyone if they
could tell him in what direction the fair one had fled. He could
discover nothing; and now he had mounted his horse in the court, and
stood ready to set forth, and try the route by which he had brought
Bertalda to the castle. A peasant boy just then came up, saying that
he had met the lady riding toward the Black Valley. Like a shot the
Knight darted through the gate, and took that direction, without
heeding Undine's anxious cries from a window: "To the Black Valley?
oh, not there! Huldbrand, not there! Or take me with you for God's
sake!" Finding it vain to cry, she had her white palfrey saddled in
all haste, and galloped after her husband, without allowing anyone to
attend her.