HOW THEY LIVED AT CASTLE RINGSTETTEN.
The writer of this story, both because it moves his own heart, and
because he wishes it to move that of others, begs you, dear reader,
to pardon him, if he now briefly passes over a considerable space of
time, only cursorily mentioning the events that marked it. He knows
well that he might portray skilfully, step by step, how Huldbrand's
heart began to turn from Undine to Bertalda; how Bertalda more and
more responded with ardent affection to the young knight, and how
they both looked upon the poor wife as a mysterious being rather to
be feared than pitied; how Undine wept, and how her tears stung the
knight's heart with remorse without awakening his former love, so
that though he at times was kind and endearing to her, a cold
shudder would soon draw him from her, and he would turn to his
fellow-mortal, Bertalda. All this the writer knows might be fully
detailed, and perhaps ought to have been so; but such a task would
have been too painful, for similar things have been known to him by
sad experience, and he shrinks from their shadow even in
remembrance. You know probably a like feeling, dear reader, for such
is the lot of mortal man. Happy are you if you have received rather
than inflicted the pain, for in such things it is more blessed to
receive than to give. If it be so, such recollections will only
bring a feeling of sorrow to your mind, and perhaps a tear will
trickle down your cheek over the faded flowers that once caused you
such delight. But let that be enough. We will not pierce our hearts
with a thousand separate things, but only briefly state, as I have
just said, how matters were.
Poor Undine was very sad, and the other two were not to be called
happy. Bertalda especially thought that she could trace the effect
of jealousy on the part of the injured wife whenever her wishes were
in any way thwarted by her. She had therefore habituated herself to
an imperious demeanor, to which Undine yielded in sorrowful
submission, and the now blinded Huldbrand usually encouraged this
arrogant behavior in the strongest manner. But the circumstance that
most of all disturbed the inmates of the castle, was a variety of
wonderful apparitions which met Huldbrand and Bertalda in the
vaulted galleries of the castle, and which had never been heard of
before as haunting the locality. The tall white man, in whom
Huldbrand recognized only too plainly Uncle Kuhleborn, and Bertalda
the spectral master of the fountain, often passed before them with a
threatening aspect, and especially before Bertalda; so much so, that
she had already several times been made ill with terror, and had
frequently thought of quitting the castle. But still she stayed
there, partly because Huldbrand was so dear to her, and she relied
on her innocence, no words of love having ever passed between them,
and partly also because she knew not whither to direct her steps.
The old fisherman, on receiving the message from the lord of
Ringstetten that Bertalda was his guest, had written a few lines in
an almost illegible hand, but as good as his advanced age and long
dis-would admit of.
"I have now become," he wrote, "a poor old widower, for my dear and
faithful wife is dead. However lonely I now sit in my cottage,
Bertalda is better with you than with me. Only let her do nothing to
harm my beloved Undine! She will have my curse if it be so." The
last words of this letter, Bertalda flung to the winds, but she
carefully retained the part respecting her absence from her
father--just as we are all wont to do in similar circumstances.
One day, when Huldbrand had just ridden out, Undine summoned
together the domestics of the family, and ordered them to bring a
large stone, and carefully to cover with it the magnificent fountain
which stood in the middle of the castle-yard. The servants objected
that it would oblige them to bring water from the valley below.
Undine smiled sadly. "I am sorry, my people," she replied, "to
increase your work. I would rather myself fetch up the pitchers, but
this fountain must be closed. Believe me that it cannot be
otherwise, and that it is only by so doing that we can avoid a
greater evil."
The whole household were glad to be able to please their gentle
mistress; they made no further inquiry, but seized the enormous
stone. They were just raising it in their hands, and were already
poising it over the fountain, when Bertalda came running up, and
called out to them to stop, as it was from this fountain that the
water was brought which was so good for her complexion, and she
would never consent to its being closed. Undine, however, although
gentle as usual, was more than usually firm. She told Bertalda that
it was her due, as mistress of the house, to arrange her household
as she thought best, and that, in this, she was accountable to no
one but her lord and husband. "See, oh, pray see," exclaimed
Bertalda, in an angry, yet uneasy tone, "how the poor beautiful
water is curling and writhing at being shut out from the bright
sunshine and from the cheerful sight of the human face, for whose
mirror it was created!"
The water in the fountain was indeed wonderfully agitated and
hissing; it seemed as if something within were struggling to free
itself, but Undine only the more earnestly urged the fulfilment of
her orders. The earnestness was scarcely needed. The servants of the
castle were as happy in obeying their gentle mistress as in opposing
Bertalda's haughty defiance; and in spite of all the rude scolding
and threatening of the latter the stone was soon firmly lying over
the opening of the fountain. Undine leaned thoughtfully over it, and
wrote with her beautiful fingers on its surface. She must, however,
have had something very sharp and cutting in her hand, for when she
turned away, and the servants drew near to examine the stone, they
perceived various strange characters upon it, which none of them had
seen there before.
Bertalda received the knight, on his return home in the evening,
with tears and complaints of Undine's conduct. He cast a serious
look at his poor wife, and she looked down as if distressed. Yet she
said with great composure: "My lord and husband does not reprove
even a bondslave without a hearing, how much less then, his wedded
wife?"
"Speak," said the knight with a gloomy countenance, "what induced
you to act so strangely?"
"I should like to tell you when we are quite alone," sighed Undine.
"You can tell me just as well in Bertalda's presence," was the
rejoinder.
"Yes, if you command me," said Undine; "but command it not. Oh pray,
pray command it not!"
She looked so humble, so sweet, and obedient, that the knight's
heart felt a passing gleam from better times. He kindly placed her
arm within his own, and led her to his apartment, when she began to
speak as follows:--
"You already know, my beloved lord, something of my evil uncle,
Kuhleborn, and you have frequently been displeased at meeting him in
the galleries of this castle. He has several times frightened
Bertalda into illness. This is because he is devoid of soul, a mere
elemental mirror of the outward world, without the power of
reflecting the world within. He sees, too, sometimes, that you are
dissatisfied with me; that I, in my childishness, am weeping at
this, and that Bertalda perhaps is at the very same moment laughing.
Hence he imagines various discrepancies in our home life, and in
many ways mixes unbidden with our circle. What is the good of
reproving him? What is the use of sending him angrily away? He does
not believe a word I say. His poor nature has no idea that the joys
and sorrows of love have so sweet a resemblance, and are so closely
linked that no power can separate them. Amid tears a smile shines
forth, and a smile allures tears from their secret chambers."
She looked up at Huldbrand, smiling and weeping; and he again
experienced within his heart all the charm of his old love. She felt
this, and pressing him more tenderly to her, she continued amid
tears of joy:--
"As the disturber of our peace was not to be dismissed with words, I
have been obliged to shut the door upon him. And the only door by
which he obtains access to us is that fountain. He is cut off by the
adjacent valleys from the other water-spirits in the neighborhood,
and his kingdom only commences further off on the Danube, into which
some of his good friends direct their course. For this reason I had
the stone placed over the opening of the fountain, and I inscribed
characters upon it which cripple all my uncle's power, so that he
can now neither intrude upon you, nor upon me, nor upon Bertalda.
Human beings, it is true, can raise the stone again with ordinary
effort, in spite of the characters inscribed on it. The inscription
does not hinder them. If you wish, therefore, follow Bertalda's
desire, but, truly! she knows not what she asks. The rude Kuhleborn
has set his mark especially upon her; and if much came to pass which
he has predicted to me, and which might, indeed, happen without your
meaning any evil, ah! dear one, even you would then be exposed to
danger!"
Huldbrand felt deeply the generosity of his sweet wife, in her
eagerness to shut up her formidable protector, while she had even
been chided for it by Bertalda. He pressed her in his arms with the
utmost affection, and said with emotion: "The stone shall remain,
and all shall remain, now and ever, as you wish to have it, my sweet
Undine."
She caressed him with humble delight, as she heard the expressions
of love so long withheld, and then at length she said: "My dearest
husband, you are so gentle and kind to-day, may I venture to ask a
favor of you? See now, it is just the same with you as it is with
summer. In the height of its glory, summer puts on the flaming and
thundering crown of mighty storms, and assumes the air of a king
over the earth. You, too, sometimes, let your fury rise, and your
eyes flash and your voice is angry, and this becomes you well,
though I, in my folly, may sometimes weep at it. But never, I pray
you, behave thus toward me on the water, or even when we are near
it. You see, my relatives would then acquire a right over me. They
would unrelentingly tear me from you in their rage; because they
would imagine that one of their race was injured, and I should be
compelled all my life to dwell below in the crystal palaces, and
should never dare to ascend to you again; or they would send me up
to you--and that, oh God, would be infinitely worse. No, no, my
beloved husband, do not let it come to that, if your poor Undine is
dear to you."
He promised solemnly to do as she desired, and they both returned
from the apartment, full of happiness and affection. At that moment
Bertalda appeared with some workmen, to whom she had already given
orders, and said in a sullen tone, which she had assumed of late: "I
suppose the secret conference is at an end, and now the stone may be
removed. Go out, workmen, and attend to it."
But the knight, angry at her impertinence, desired in short and very
decisive words that the stone should be left: he reproved Bertalda,
too, for her violence toward his wife. Whereupon the workmen
withdrew, smiling with secret satisfaction: while Bertalda, pale
with rage, hurried away to her room.
The hour for the evening repast arrived, and Bertalda they waited for
in vain. They sent after her, but the domestic found her apartments
empty, and only brought back with him a sealed letter addressed to
the knight. He opened it with alarm, and read: "I feel with shame
that I am only a poor fisher-girl. I will expiate my fault in having
forgotten this for a moment by going to the miserable cottage of my
parents. Farewell to you and your beautiful wife."
Undine was heartily distressed. She earnestly entreated Huldbrand to
hasten after their friend and bring her back again. Alas! she had no
need to urge him. His affection for Bertalda burst forth again with
vehemence. He hurried round the castle, inquiring if any one had
seen which way the fugitive had gone. He could learn nothing of her,
and he was already on his horse in the castle-yard, resolved at a
venture to take the road by which he had brought Bertalda hither.
Just then a page appeared, who assured him that he had met the lady
on the path to the Black Valley. Like an arrow the knight sprang
through the gateway in the direction indicated, without hearing
Undine's voice of agony, as she called to him from the window:--
"To the Black Valley! Oh, not there! Huldbrand, don't go there! or,
for heaven's sake, take me with you!" But when she perceived that
all her calling was in vain, she ordered her white palfrey to be
immediately saddled, and rode after the knight, without allowing any
servant to accompany her.