Shall we say, Alas, or thank God, that our grief is so often
transient? I speak of such grief as has its source in the wellsprings
of life itself, and seems so identified with our lost friend, as
almost to fill up the void he has left; and his hallowed image seems
fixed within the sanctuary of our soul, until the signal of our
release comes, and sets us free to join him! In truth, a good man will
not suffer this sanctuary to be disturbed; yet even with him, it is
not the first, the all-engrossing sorrow which abides. New objects
will intermingle, and we are compelled to draw from our grief itself a
fresh proof of the perishableness of earthly things: alas, then, that
our grief is transient!
So it was with the Lord of Ringstetten; whether for his weal or woe,
the sequel of this story will show us. At first, he could do nothing
but weep abundantly, as his poor kind Undine had wept when he snatched
from her the beautiful gift, which she thought would have comforted
and pleased them so much. He would then stretch out his hand as she
had done, and burst into tears afresh, like her. He secretly hoped
that he might end by altogether dissolving in tears: and are there not
many whose minds have been visited by the same painfully pleasing
thought, at some season of great sorrow? Bertalda wept with him, and
they lived quietly together at Ringstetten a long while, cherishing
the memory of Undine, and seeming to have forgotten their own previous
attachment. Moreover, the gentle Undine often appeared to Huldbrand in
his dreams; she would caress him meekly and fondly, and depart again
with tearful resignation, so that when he awoke, he doubted whose
tears they were that bedewed his face--were they hers, or only his
own?
But as time went on these visions became less frequent, and the
Knight's grief milder; still he might perhaps have spent the rest of
his days contentedly, devoting himself to the memory of Undine, and
keeping it alive by talking of her, had not the old Fisherman
unexpectedly made his appearance, and laid his serious commands upon
Bertalda, his daughter, to return home with him. The news of Undine's
disappearance had reached him, and he would no longer suffer Bertalda
to remain in the castle alone with its lord. "I do not ask whether my
daughter cares for me or not," said he; "her character is at stake,
and where that is the case, nothing else is worth considering."
This summons from the old man, and the prospect of utter loneliness
amid the halls and long galleries of the castle after Bertalda's
departure, revived in Huldbrand's heart the feeling that had lain
dormant, and as it were buried under his mourning for Undine, namely,
his love for the fair Bertalda. The Fisherman had many objections to
their marriage; Undine had been very dear to the old man and he
thought it hardly certain yet that his lost darling was really dead.
But, if her corpse were indeed lying stiff and cold in the bed of the
Danube, or floating down its stream to the distant ocean, then
Bertalda ought to reproach herself for her death, and it ill became
her to take the place of her poor victim. However, the Fisherman was
very fond of Huldbrand also; the entreaties of his daughter, who was
now grown much more gentle and submissive, had their effect, and it
seems that he did yield his consent at last; for he remained peaceably
at the castle, and an express was sent for Father Heilmann, who in
earlier, happier days had blessed Undine's and Huldbrand's union, that
he might officiate at the Knight's second marriage.
No sooner had the holy man read the Lord of Ringstetten's letter than
he set forth on his way thither, with far greater speed than the
messenger had used to reach him. If his straining haste took away his
breath, or he felt his aged limbs ache with fatigue, he would say to
himself: "I may be in time to prevent a wicked deed; sink not till
thou hast reached the goal, my withered frame!" And so he exerted
himself afresh, and pushed on, without flagging or halting, till late
one evening he entered the shady court of Ringstetten.
The lovers were sitting hand in hand under a tree, with the thoughtful
old man near them; as soon as they saw Father Heilmann, they rose
eagerly and advanced to meet him. But he, scarcely noticing their
civilities, begged the Knight to come with him into the castle. As he
stared at this request, and hesitated to comply, the pious old Priest
said, "Why, indeed, should I speak to you alone, my Lord of
Ringstetten? What I have to say equally concerns the Fisherman and
Bertalda; and as they must sooner or later know it, it had better be
said now. How can you be certain, Lord Huldbrand, that your own wife
is indeed dead? For myself, I can hardly think so. I will not venture
to speak of things relating to her wondrous nature; in truth I have
no clear knowledge about it. But a godly and faithful wife she proved
herself, beyond all about. And these fourteen nights has she come to
my bedside in dreams, wringing her poor hands in anguish, and sighing
out, 'Oh stop him, dear father! I am yet alive! Oh save his life! Oh
save his soul!' I understood not the meaning of the vision till your
messenger came; and I have now hastened hither, not to join but to
part those hands, which may not be united in holy wedlock. Part from
her, Huldbrand! Part from him, Bertalda! He belongs to another; see
you not how his cheek turns pale at the thought of his departed wife?
Those are not the looks of a bridegroom, and the spirit tells me this.
If thou leavest him not now, there is joy for thee no more." They all
three felt at the bottom of their hearts that Father Heilmann's words
were true but they would not yield to them. Even the old Fisherman was
so blinded as to think that what had been settled between them for so
many days, could not now be relinquished. So they resisted the
Priest's warnings, and urged the fulfilment of their wishes with
headlong, gloomy determination, till Father Heilmann departed with a
melancholy shake of the head, without accepting even for one night
their proffered hospitalities, or tasting any of the refreshments they
set before him. But Huldbrand persuaded himself that the old Priest
was a weak dotard; and early next morning he sent to a monk from the
nearest cloister, who readily promised to come and marry them in a few
days.