THE ANNIVERSARY OF BERTALDA'S NAME-DAY.
The company were sitting at dinner; Bertalda, looking like some
goddess of spring with her flowers and jewels, the presents of her
foster-parents and friends, was placed between Undine and Huldbrand.
When the rich repast was ended, and the last course had appeared,
the doors were left open, according to a good old German custom,
that the common people might look on, and take part in the festivity
of the nobles. Servants were carrying round cake and wine among the
spectators. Huldbrand and Bertalda were waiting with secret
impatience for the promised explanation, and sat with their eyes
fixed steadily on Undine. But the beautiful wife still continued
silent, and only kept smiling to herself with secret and hearty
satisfaction. All who knew of the promise she had given could see
that she was every moment on the point of betraying her happy
secret, and that it was with a sort of longing renunciation that she
withheld it, just as children sometimes delay the enjoyment of their
choicest morsels. Bertalda and Huldbrand shared this delightful
feeling, and expected with fearful hope the tidings which were to
fall from the lips of Undine. Several of the company pressed Undine
to sing. The request seemed opportune, and ordering her lute to be
brought, she sang the following words:--
Bright opening day,
Wild flowers so gay,
Tall grasses their thirst that slake,
On the banks of the billowy lake!
What glimmers there so shining
The reedy growth entwining?
Is it a blossom white as snow
Fallen from heav'n here below?
It is an infant, frail and dear!
With flowerets playing in its dreams
And grasping morning's golden beams;
Oh! whence, sweet stranger, art thou here?
From some far-off and unknown strand,
The lake has borne thee to this land.
Nay, grasp not tender little one,
With thy tiny hand outspread;
No hand will meet thy touch with love,
Mute is that flowery bed.
The flowers can deck themselves so fair
And breathe forth fragrance blest,
Yet none can press thee to itself,
Like that far-off mother's breast.
So early at the gate of life,
With smiles of heav'n on thy brow,
Thou hast the best of treasures lost,
Poor wand'ring child, nor know'st it now.
A noble duke comes riding by,
And near thee checks his courser's speed,
And full of ardent chivalry
He bears thee home upon his steed.
Much, endless much, has been thy gain!
Thou bloom'st the fairest in the land!
Yet ah! the priceless joy of all,
Thou'st left upon an unknown strand.
Undine dropped her lute with a melancholy smile, and the eyes of
Bertalda's foster-parents were filled with tears. "Yes, so it was on
the morning that I found you, my poor sweet orphan," said the duke,
deeply agitated; "the beautiful singer is certainly right; we have
not been able to give you that `priceless joy of all.'"
"But we must also hear how it fared with the poor parents," said
Undine, as she resumed her lute, and sang:--
Thro' every chamber roams the mother,
Moves and searches everywhere,
Seeks, she scarce knows what, with sadness,
And finds an empty house is there.
An empty house! Oh, word of sorrow,
To her who once had been so blest,
Who led her child about by day
And cradled it at night to rest.
The beech is growing green again,
The sunshine gilds its wonted spot,
But mother, cease thy searching vain!
Thy little loved one cometh not.
And when the breath of eve blows cool,
And father in his home appears,
The smile he almost tries to wear
Is quenched at once by gushing tears.
Full well he knows that in his home
He naught can find but wild despair,
He hears the mother's grieved lament
And no bright infant greets him there.
"Oh! for God's sake, Undine, where are my parents?" cried the weeping
Bertalda; "you surely know; you have discovered them, you wonderful
being, for otherwise you would not have thus torn me heart. Are they
perhaps already here? Can it be?" Her eye passed quickly over the
brilliant company and lingered on a lady of high rank who was
sitting next her foster-father. Undine, however, turned toward the
door, while her eyes overflowed with the sweetest emotion. "Where
are the poor waiting parents?" she inquired, and, the old fisherman
and his wife advanced hesitatingly from the crowd of spectators.
Their glance rested inquiringly now on Undine, now on the beautiful
girl who was said to be their daughter "It is she," said the
delighted benefactress, in a faltering tone, and the two old people
hung round the neck of their recovered child, weeping and praising
God.
But amazed and indignant, Bertalda tore herself from their embrace.
Such a recognition was too much for this proud mind, at a moment
when she had surely imagined that her former splendor would even be
increased, and when hope was deluding her with a vision of almost
royal honors. It seemed to her as if her rival had devised all this
on purpose signally to humble her before Huldbrand and the whole
world. She reviled Undine, she reviled the old people, and bitter
invectives, such as "deceiver" and "bribed impostors," fell from her
lips. Then the old fisherman's wife said in a low voice to herself:
"Ah me, she is become a wicked girl; and yet I feel in my heart that
she is my child."
The old fisherman, however, had folded his hands, and was praying
silently that this might not be his daughter. Undine, pale as death,
turned with agitation from the parents to Bertalda, and from
Bertalda to the parents; suddenly cast down from that heaven of
happiness of which she had dreamed, and overwhelmed with a fear and
a terror such as she had never known even in imagination. "Have you
a soul? Have you really a soul, Bertalda?" she cried again and again
to her angry friend, as if forcibly to rouse her to consciousness
from some sudden delirium or maddening nightmare. But when Bertalda
only became more and more enraged, when the repulsed parents began
to weep aloud, and the company, in eager dispute, were taking
different sides, she begged in such a dignified and serious manner
to be allowed to speak in this her husband's hall, that all around
were in a moment silenced. She then advanced to the upper end of the
table, where Bertalda has seated herself, and with a modest and yet
proud air, while every eye was fixed upon her, she spoke as
follows:--
"My friends, you look so angry and disturbed and you have
interrupted my happy feast by your disputings. Ah! I knew nothing of
your foolish habits and your heartless mode of thinking, and I shall
never all my life long become accustomed to them. It is not my fault
that this affair has resulted in evil; believe me, the fault is with
yourselves alone, little as it may appear to you to be so. I have
therefore but little to say to you, but one thing I must say: I have
spoken nothing but truth. I neither can nor will give you proofs
beyond my own assertion, but I will swear to the truth of this. I
received this information from the very person who allured Bertalda
into the water, away from her parents, and who afterward placed her
on the green meadow in the duke's path."
"She is an enchantress!" cried Bertalda, "a witch, who has
intercourse with evil spirits. She acknowledges it herself."
"I do not," said Undine, with a whole heaven innocence and
confidence beaming, in her eyes. "I am no witch; only look at me."
"She is false and boastful," interrupted Bertalda, "and she cannot
prove that I am the child of these low people. My noble parents, I
beg you to take me from this company and out of this city, where
they are only bent on insulting me."
But the aged and honorable duke remained unmoved, and his wife,
said: "We must thoroughly examine how we are to act. God forbid that
we should move a step from this hall until we have done so."
Then the old wife of the fisherman drew near, and making a low
reverence to the duchess, she said: "Noble, god-fearing lady, you
have opened my heart. I must tell you, if this evil-disposed young
lady is my daughter, she has a mark, like a violet, between her
shoulders, and another like it on the instep of her left foot. If
she would only go out of the hall with me!"
"I shall not uncover myself before the peasant woman!" exclaimed
Bertalda, proudly turning her back on her.
"But before me you will." rejoined the duchess, very gravely.
"Follow me into that room, girl, and the good old woman shall come
with us." The three disappeared, and the rest of the company
remained where they were, in silent expectation. After a short time
they returned; Bertalda was pale as death. "Right is right." said
the duchess; "I must therefore declare that our hostess has spoken
perfect, truth. Bertalda is the fisherman's daughter, and that is as
much as it is necessary to inform you here."
The princely pair left with their adopted daughter; and at a sign
from the duke, the fisherman and his wife followed them. The other
guests retired in silence or with secret murmurs, and Undine sank
weeping into Huldbrand's arms.