Heidelberg is known all over the world as one of Germanys great
university towns, as the site of an unrivalled if ruined schloss, and of
a view at the junction of the Rhine with the Neckar which is one of
the most famous in the world. It lies between lofty hills covered with
vineyards and forests, flanked by handsome villas and gardens, and is
crowned by its castle, which has suffered equally from siege and the
elements, being partially blown up by the French in 1609, and struck by
lightning in 1704.
The Wolfs Spring
The name of Jette, a beautiful prophetess of the ancient goddess Herthe,
is linked with the neighbourhood of Heidelberg by the following tragic
tale.
When the old heathen gods and goddesses were still worshipped in the
Rhine country, a certain priestess of Herthe took up her abode in an
ancient grove, where she practised her occult arts so successfully that
the fame of her divinations spread far and wide, and men came from all
parts of Europe to learn from her what the future had in store for them.
Frequently a warrior left her abode with a consuming fire kindled in
his breast which would rob him of sleep for many a long night, yet none
dared to declare his love to her, for, lovely though she was, there
was an air of austerity, an atmosphere of mysticism about her which
commanded awe and reverence, and forbade even the smallest familiarity.
One evening there came to the grove of Herthe a youth from a far distant
land, seeking to know his destiny. All day he had journeyed thitherward,
and the dusk had already fallen ere he reached the sacred spot. Jette
sat on the glimmering altar-steps, clad in a flowing white robe, while
on the altar itself burned a faint and fitful flame. The tall, slender
trees, showing fantastic and ghostly in the fading light, made a fitting
background for the gleaming shrine; and the elusive, unearthly beauty of
the priestess was quite in keeping with the magic scene. Her mantle
of austerity had fallen from her; she had forgotten that she was a
prophetess; for the moment she was but a woman, full of grace and charm.
The youth paused as though held by a spell.
Fair prophetess, he said in a low voice, fearing to break in rudely
upon her meditations, wilt thou read me my fate?
Jette, roused from her reverie, fixed her startled gaze on the handsome
stranger, whose dark, burning eyes met hers in deepest admiration.
Something stirred in her heart at the ardent glance, the thrilling
tones, and her wonted composure deserted her.
Youth, she faltered at length, thou comest at a time when my
prophetic skill hath failed me. Ere I tell thee thy fate I must offer
sacrifice to Herthe. If thou wilt come to-morrow at this hour I will
tell thee what the stars say concerning thy destiny.
It was true that her skill had deserted her under the admiring scrutiny
of the young warrior, yet she delayed also because she wished to hear
his voice again, to meet the ardent yet courteous glance of his dark
eyes.
I will return, O prophetess, said he, and with that he was gone.
Jettes peace of mind had gone too, it seemed, for she could think of
naught but the handsome stranger.
On the following evening he returned, and again she delayed to give him
the information he sought. He was no less rejoiced than was Jette at the
prospect of another meeting.
On the third day the priestess greeted him with downcast eyes.
I cannot read thy destiny, youth, she said; the stars do not speak
plainly. Yet methinks thy star and mine are very close together. She
faltered and paused.
Dost thou love me, Jette? cried the young man joyfully. Wilt thou be
my bride?
The maidens blushing cheeks and downcast glance were sufficient answer.
And wilt thou come with me to my tower? pursued the youth eagerly.
Jette started back in affright.
Nay, that I cannot, she cried. A priestess of Herthe is doomed an she
marry. If I wed thee we must meet in secret and at night.
But I will take thee to Walhalla, and Freya shall appease Herthe with
her offerings.
Jette shook her head.
Nay, said she; it is impossible. The vengeance of Herthe is swiftand
awful. I will show thee a spring where we may meet.
She led him to a place where the stream branched off in five separate
rivulets, and bade him meet her there on the following night at a
certain hour. The lovers then parted, each full of impatience for the
return of the hour of meeting.
Next evening, when the dusk had fallen on the sacred grove of Herthe,
Jette made her way to the rendezvous. The appointed time had not yet
arrived, but scarcely had she reached the spot ere she fancied she heard
a step among the undergrowth, and turned with a glad smile, prepared to
greet her lover. Imagine her dismay when instead of the youth a grisly
wolf confronted her! Her shriek of terror was uttered in vain. A moment
later the monster had sprung at her throat.
Her lover, hastening with eager steps toward the place of meeting, heard
the agonized shriek and, recognizing the voice of Jette, broke into a
run. He was too late! The monster wolf stood over the lifeless body of
his beloved, and though in his despairing fury the youth slew the huge
brute, the retribution of Herthe was complete.
Henceforth the scene of the tragedy was called the Wolfs Spring, and
the legend is enshrined there to this day.
The Jester of Heidelberg
Considering the wide fame of Rhenish vintages, it is perhaps not
surprising that wine should enter as largely into the Rhine legends as
the barley bree is supposed to enter into Scottish anecdote. In truth
there runs through these traditions a stream of Rhenish which plays
almost as important a part in them as the Rhine itself. We are told that
the Emperor Wenzel sold his crown for a quantity of wine; in the tale
connected with Thann, in Alsace, mortar is mixed with wine instead
of water, because of the scarcity of the latter commodity during the
building of a steeple; while in the legends of The Devils Vineyard,
and The Cooper of Auerbach the vintage of Rhineland provides the main
interest of the plot. The following quaint little story, attaching to
the castle of Heidelberg, is a Rhenish tale in every sense of the
word.
In the days when the Schloss Heidelberg was in its most flourishing
state the lord of the castle numbered among his retainers a jester,
small of stature and ugly of feature, whose quips and drolleries
provided endless amusement for himself and his guests. Prominent among
the jesters characteristics was a weakness for getting tipsy. He was
possessed of an unquenchable thirst, which he never lost an opportunity
of satisfying.
Knowing his peculiarity, some youthful pages in the train of the
nobleman were minded to have some amusement at his expense, and they
therefore led him to a cellar in which stood a large vat filled with
fragrant wine. And there for a time they left him.
The jester was delighted at the propinquity of his favourite beverage
and decided that he would always remain in the cellar, regaling himself
with the vintage. His thirst increased at the prospect, so he produced
a gimlet, bored a hole in the vat, and drank and drank till at length he
could drink no more; then the fumes of the wine overcame him and he sank
down in a drunken stupor. Meanwhile the merry little stream flowed from
the vat, covered the floor of the cellar, and rose ever higher.
The pages waited at the top of the stairs, listening for the bursts of
merriment which were the usual accompaniments of the jesters drinking
bouts; but all was silent as the grave. At last they grew uneasy and
crept below in a huddled group. The fool lay quite still, submerged
beneath the flood. He had been drowned in the wine.
The joke now seemed a sorry one, but the pages consoled themselves with
the thought that, after all, death had come to the jester in a welcome
guise.
The Passing Bells
There is a legend connected with the town of Speyer in which poetic
justice is meted out to the principal characters, although not until
after they have died.
The tale concerns itself with the fate of the unfortunate monarch Henry
IV. History relates that Henry was entirely unfit to wear the ermine,
but weak as he was, and ignominious as was his reign, it was a bitter
blow that his own son was foremost among his enemies. At first the
younger Henry conspired against his father in secret; outwardly he was
a model of filial affection, so that he readily prevailed upon the weak
monarch to appoint him as his successor. After that, however, he openly
joined himself to his fathers foes; and when the Pope excommunicated
the monarch, gradually the Emperors following went over to the side of
his son, who then caused himself to be invested with imperial honours.
The deposed sovereign, deprived of power and supporters, was compelled
to go into exile; even his personal freedom was secured only as the
price of his renunciation of the crown. Broken and humiliated, feeling
intensely the disgrace of his position, he determined to undertake a
pilgrimage to Liége, accompanied only by his servant Kurt, who alone
of all his train had remained faithful to him. The pilgrimage was
successfully accomplished, but ere he could enter upon the return
journey the wretched Emperor died, in want and misery, utterly neglected
by his kindred. Even after death the Popes ban was effective, so that
his corpse was not allowed interment for several years. During that
period the faithful Kurt kept guard unceasingly over his masters coffin
and would not suffer himself to be drawn therefrom.
At length, however, Henry V, under pressure from his princes and nobles,
gave orders that his fathers remains be conveyed to Speyer and there
interred in the royal vault with such honours as befitted the obsequies
of a monarch. The messengers found old Kurt still holding his vigil
beside the Emperors body, and in recognition of his faithfulness he
was permitted to follow the funeral cortege to Speyer. There were in
the town certain good and pious folk who were touched by the servants
devotion, and by these he was kindly treated. But all their kindness
and attention could not repair the havoc which his weary vigil and long
privations had wrought on his health, and a few months later he followed
his master to the grave.
Strange to relate, as he expired all the bells of Speyer tolled out a
funeral peal such as was accorded to an emperor, and that without being
touched by human hands. Meanwhile Henry V also lay dying. All the
luxury of his palace could not soothe his last moments; though he was
surrounded by courtiers who assumed sorrow and walked softly, and though
all his kindred were around him, he saw ever before him the image of his
dead father, pointing at him with a grim, accusing finger. Stricken with
terror and remorse, and tortured by disease, he longed for death to end
his torments, and at last it came.
Again the passing bell was tolled by invisible hands, but not this time
the peal which announced the passing of an emperor. The citizens heard
the awful sound which told that a criminal had paid the laws last
penalty, and asked one another what poor wretch had been executed. Awe
and astonishment seized upon everyone when it was known that the Emperor
had died, for they knew then that it was no earthly hand that had rung
his death-knell.
Legends of Windeck
Concerning the neighbourhood of Windeck, some eight miles from Baden,
several interesting tales are current. The castle itself has long
enjoyed the reputation of being haunted by the ghost of a beautiful
girl, though when or wherefore this originated tradition does not
relate. We are told that a young huntsman, whom the chase had driven
thitherward, saw the spectre and was so stricken with her charms that
day after day he visited the castle, hoping to see her once more. But
being disappointed, he at length took up his solitary abode in the
deserted fortress, renouncing his former pursuits and ceasing from all
communication with his friends.
One day he was found dead in his bed with so peaceful an expression of
countenance that those who saw him could not doubt that his end had been
a pleasant one. On his finger was a ring of quaint design which he had
not been known to wear, and it was whispered among the peasantry that
the ghost-maid of Windeck had claimed her lover.
The Hennegraben
Hard by the Schloss Windeck lay a deep trench, known as the Hennegraben,
of which traces may still be found. It is rendered immortal by reason of
the following romantic legend, which tells of its magical origin.
A certain young knight, lord of the castle of Windeck, for some unknown
reason had seized and imprisoned the worthy Dean of Strassburg. It is
true that the Churchman was treated with every consideration, more like
a guest than a captive, but he nevertheless resented strongly the
loss of his liberty, as did also the good folk of Strassburg when they
learned what had happened.
Two of the Deans young kinsfolk resolved to journey to Windeck and beg
that their uncle might be set free. On their way thither they had to
pass through a forest, where they met an old woman.
Whither away, my pretty boys? said she. Will you not tell an old
gossip your destination?
The elder of the two replied courteously that they were on their way
to Windeck, where their uncle was imprisoned. Perchance, he added
timidly, the lord may accept us as hostages till the ransom be paid.
Perchance, mimicked the old woman, aye, perchance! Think you the
knight of Windeck will take such lads as you are for hostages?
And in truth they were not an imposing couplethe elder a slim, fragile
youth, whose eyes were already tearful at the prospect of confronting
his uncles captor; while the younger was a mere boy, sanguine and
adventuresome as children often are.
I will challenge this knight, said the boy seriously. I will draw
sword for my uncle, for I also am a knight.
Hush, Cuno, said his brother, smiling in spite of himself at the boys
ardour. We must not talk of fighting. We must entreat the knight to let
our uncle go free.
What would you have, Imma? Entreat? Nay, that we shall not. He
stopped awkwardly, and his sisters rising colour showed plainly her
embarrassment at having her sex thus suddenly revealed.
The old woman looked at her kindly.
I knew from the first that thou wert a maid disguised, she said.
Go, and God speed you! Tell the knight of Windeck that the people of
Strassburg mean to attack his castle on the morrow, and that his only
means of resisting them is to dig a deep trench across the one possible
approach. But staythere is no time for that; I will give you something
wherewith to dig the trench.
She whistled shrilly and in answer to her call a grey hen fluttered
toward her; this she gave to the young people. When the moon rises,
she said, take the hen and place it where you wish the trench to be.
Then with a few words to the hen in a strange tongue, she bade the
brother and sister farewell and went on her way.
The two continued their journey and upon arriving at Windeck they were
agreeably surprised in the lord of the castle, for he was young and
handsome and very courteous, not at all the ogre they had imagined. In
faltering tones Imma told him their mission, conveyed to him the old
witchs warning, and presented the grey hen.
When he heard that they proposed to gain their uncles freedom by
themselves taking his place, the knight regarded his visitors with
mingled feelings of pity and astonishment. The gentle, appealing glance
of the elder, no less than the naive candour of the younger, appealed
to his sympathies. In a very short time Cuno, who had quite forgotten to
challenge his host, was on the best of terms with him.
Meanwhile the Dean, very impatient and incensed, paced his small chamber
like a caged lion, or bemoaned his lost liberty and meditated on the
chances of escape. He was roused from a reverie by the sound of familiar
voices outside his cell, and a moment later the door was flung open and
Cuno entered unceremoniously.
You are free, uncle, you are free! Imma and I have come to save you!
Once more Imma flushed crimson at the revelation of her sex. The
astonished knight glanced with a new interest at her beautiful face,
with its rosy colour and downcast eyes. Turning to the Dean, he greeted
him cordially.
You are free, he said. Your nephews have promised to remain with me
as hostages till you have provided a ransom, Then, turning humorously
to Imma, he added: Wilt thou be a soldier in my employ, youth? Or
wouldst have a place in my household?
Imma vouchsafed no other reply than a deepening of her colour. She
must, however, have found words to utter when, later, the gallant knight
begged her seriously to remain at Windeck as his wifefor ere nightfall
the old Dean, grumbling and somewhat reluctant, was called upon to
consent to his nieces betrothal. This he did at length, when Imma had
joined her entreaties to those of her lover.
That night the grey hen was placed as the witch had advised, and it
was as she had said. With the dawn the Strassburgers arrived before the
castle, to find a newly made trench filled with the castle troopers.
When they learned that the Dean was free they called for a truce, and it
was not blood, but wine, which flowed that day, for all were invited to
share the wedding-feast of Imma and the knight of Windeck.
The Klingelkapelle
On the road between Gernsbach and Eberstein there once stood an ancient,
moss-grown cell. It had been occupied by a beautiful pagan priestess, a
devotee of Herthe, but when the preaching of the white monks had begun
to spread Christianity among the people she left the neighbourhood. In
passing by that way a Christian monk noticed the deserted retreat and
took possession of it, issuing at intervals to preach to the inhabitants
of the surrounding country.
One stormy night as he sat within his cell he fancied he heard a
pleading voice mingling with the roar of wind and waters. Going to the
door, he beheld a young girl who seemed to be half dead with cold and
fatigue. The good monk, who was never indifferent to human suffering,
drew her quickly inside, bade her seat herself by the fire, and set food
and wine before her. When she had recovered a little from the effects of
the storm the hermit questioned her with regard to her presence in such
a lonely spot and at such an unseasonable hour. The maid replied that
she had once dwelt in just such a pleasant and peaceful cell as that in
which she now reposed, but that cruel persecution had driven her from
her retreat.
Then you, too, are a hermit? said the young monk inquiringly, looking
down at his fair guest. The wine had brought some colour to her pale
cheeks and he could see that she was beautiful, with a beauty beyond
that of any maiden he had ever seen.
Yes, she replied, I am a priestess of Herthe. This cell in which I
beg for shelter was once my own. It was those of your religion who drove
me from it.
You are not a Christian? asked the monk, startled in spite of himself
by the passionate tones in which she spoke.
The maiden laughed.
Am I not as beautiful as your Christian maids? said she. Am I not
human even as they are? She moved about the cell as she spoke, and
picked up a piece of embroidery. See, this is my handiwork; is it
less beautiful because it is not the work of a Christian? Why should we
suffer persecution at your hands?
The young monk endeavoured to show that she was unjust in her estimate
of his religion. Gravely he told her the story of Christianity, but his
thoughts were of her weird beauty and he spake less earnestly than was
usual. And the maid, with an appearance of child-like innocence, waited
until he had finished his recital. She saw that she had him completely
in her power and pressed her advantage to the uttermost. She drew
closer to him, raised his hand, and pressed it to her lips. The monk
surrendered himself to her caresses, and when at length she begged
him to break the symbol of his religion he was too much fascinated to
refuse. He raised the cross and would have dashed it to the ground, but
at that very moment he heard high above the storm the sound of a bell.
Contrite and ashamed, he fell on his knees and prayed for pardon. When
he looked up again the girl had disappeared.
The hermit found the warning bell suspended on a bough outside his cell;
how it came there he never knew, but he was sure that it had been sent
to rescue him from the wiles of Satan and he treasured it as a sacred
relic. Many came from far and near to see the wonder, and on the site
of the cell the monk founded a chapel which became known as the
Klingelkapelle, or Tinkling-chapel.
The Wafer-Nymph of Staufenberg
A charming story is linked with the castle of Staufenberg. One day while
its owner was out hunting he lost his way in the forest. The day was
hot, and the hunter was well-nigh overcome with thirst and fatigue when
he entered a pleasant glade in which a spring of limpid water bubbled
and sparkled. Having quenched his thirst, he seated himself on a mossy
bank to rest before proceeding homeward. Suddenly he saw at a little
distance a damsel of unique and marvellous beauty, braiding her wet hair
by the side of the spring. He watched her for a time in silence, then,
conscious that the damsel had observed his scrutiny, he hastened to her
side and courteously begged her permission to remain a little longer in
the glade.
You are the lord of these domains, she replied graciously. It is I
who am grateful to you for suffering me to dwell here.
The young knight protested eagerly that she honoured the forest with her
presence, and, indeed, he had already begun to wish that she might dwell
not only in the forest but in the schloss itself as his wife and its
mistressfor he had fallen in love with her at first sight. Indeed, so
ardent was his passion that he could not conceal his infatuation; he
told her of his love and begged that she would give him a little hope.
The maids hesitation only drove him to urge his suit with increasing
ardour.
I will say neither yes nor no, she replied, smiling. Meet me
to-morrow at this hour and you shall have your answer.
The knight parted reluctantly from the fair lady and promised to return
on the following day. When the appointed time arrived he was already at
the tryst, eagerly awaiting the approach of his beloved. When at length
she came he renewed his pleadings with even greater ardour, and to his
unbounded delight the answer was favourable.
I am a water-nymph, said the lady, the spirit of the stream from
which you drank yesterday. You saw me then for the first time, but I
have often seen you in the forestand I have long loved you.
The knight was more than ever enchanted by this naive confession, and
begged that their wedding should not be long delayed.
There is one condition, said the nymph. If you marry me you must
remain for ever faithful. Otherwise you must suffer death, and I eternal
unhappiness.
The knight laughed at the bare idea of his proving unfaithful to his
beloved, and his vows were sincere.
Shortly afterward they were married, and none supposed the beautiful
being to be aught but a very attractive woman; in time there was born to
them a little son. The knight adored both wife and child, and for some
years lived a life of ideal domestic happiness. But there came a time
when another interest entered into his life. Rumours of fighting reached
him from France; he saw the knights of neighbouring fortresses leading
their troops to the war, and a martial spirit stirred within him. His
wife was not slow to observe that his world was no longer bounded by the
castle-walls of Staufenberg, and she wisely resolved not to stand in the
way of her lords ambitions, but rather, if possible, to help them to
an honourable realization. So with much labour and skill she made him a
strangely wrought belt, which she gave him at once as a love-token and
a charm to secure success in battle. She concealed her grief at his
departure and bade him farewell bravely.
At the head of his troop the knight rode boldly into France and offered
his services to a distinguished French leader, to whom he soon became
indispensableso much so, in fact, that the nobleman cast about for a
means of retaining permanently in his train a knight of such skill and
courage. But he could think of nothing with which to tempt the young
man, who was already possessed of gold and lands, till the artless
glances of his youngest daughter gave him his cue. For he saw that
she had lately begun to look with some favour on the simple knight of
Staufenberg, and it occurred to him that the hand of a lady of rank
and beauty would be a very desirable bait. Nor was he mistaken, for the
gaieties of the Frankish court had dazzled the knight, and the offer
of the ladys hand completely turned his head; not that he felt a great
affection for her, but because of the honour done to him. So he accepted
the offer and drowned, as best as he could, the remembrance of his wife
and child at Staufenberg. Nevertheless he sometimes felt that he was not
acting honourably, and at length the struggle between his love for his
wife and his pride and ambition became so severe that he determined to
consult a priest.
The good man crossed himself when he heard the story. She whom you
married is an evil spirit, said he. Beneficent spirits do not wed
human beings. It is your duty to renounce her at once and do penance for
your sin. Though he hardly found it possible to believe the priests
assertion, the knight strove to persuade himself that it was true, and
that he was really acting virtuously in renouncing the water-nymph and
marrying again. So he performed the penances prescribed by the priest,
and allowed the wedding preparations to proceed.
When the day of his wedding arrived, however, he was strangely perturbed
and pale. The rejoicings of the people, the gay processions, even the
beautiful bride, seemed to have no interest for him. When the hand of
the lady was placed in his he could not repress an exclamation; it was
cold to the touch like the hand of a corpse.
On returning the wedding procession was obliged to cross a bridge, and
as they approached it a great storm arose so that the waters of the
stream washed over the feet of the bridegrooms horse, making it prance
and rear. The knight was stricken with deadly terror, for he knew that
the doom of which the water-nymph had spoken was about to overtake him.
Without a word he plunged into the torrent and was nevermore seen.
At the very hour of this tragedy a great storm raged round the castle of
Staufenberg, and when it abated the mother and child had disappeared for
ever. Yet even now on a stormy night she can still be heard among the
tree-tops weeping passionately, and the sound is accompanied by the
whimpering of a child.
Trifels and Richard Coeur-de-Lion
As a troop of horsemen rode through Annweiler toward the castle of
Trifels, in which Richard Coeur-de-Lion was imprisoned by the Archduke
of Austria, his deadly enemy, the plaintive notes of a familiar lay fell
on their ears. The singer was a young shepherd, and one of the knights,
a troubadour, asked him to repeat his ditty. The youth complied, and
the knight accompanied him as he sang, their voices blending tunefully
together.
Giving him generous largess, the knight asked the minstrel who had
taught him that song. The shepherd replied that he had heard it sung in
the castle of Trifels. At this intelligence the stranger appeared highly
gratified, and, turning to his companions, ejaculated: The King is
found!
It was evident to the shepherd that the new-comers were friends of
Richard, and he warned them earnestly that danger lay before them. Only
by guile could they hope to succour their King. The warning was heeded,
and the tuneful knight rode forward alone, disguised in a minstrels
tunic, in which he was welcomed at the castle. His courtly bearing soon
won him the favour of the castellans pretty niece, who persuaded her
uncle to listen to his songs. During one of their stolen interviews the
girl betrayed the place where the King of England was imprisoned,
and that night, from beneath a window, the minstrel heard his Kings
well-remembered voice breathing a prayer for freedom. His hopes being
thus confirmed, he took his harp and played the melody which he himself
had composed for Richard. The King immediately joined in the familiar
lay. When its strains had ended, Blondel! cried the captive excitedly.
The minstrel cautiously replied by singing another song, telling how he
was pledged to liberate his master.
But suspicion was aroused, and Blondel was requested to depart on the
following day. Deeming it prudent to make no demur, he mounted his
horse, after having arranged with the castellans niece to return
secretly at nightfall. He rode no further than an inn near Annweiler,
which commanded a view of the castle. There his host informed him that
the Emperor was presently to be crowned at Frankfort, and that on the
evening of that day the garrison would celebrate the event by drinking
his health.
The minstrel said that he would certainly join the company, ordered wine
for the occasion, and promised to pay the reckoning. He then withdrew to
seek his comrades. At dusk he returned stealthily to the castle, and at
his signal the maid appeared at a little postern and admitted him.
On the day of the Emperors coronation stealthy forms crept among the
trees near by the castle, and concealed themselves in the thick foliage
of the underbrush. The garrison, gaily dressed, quitted the keep, the
drawbridge was lowered, and the men were soon quaffing the choice wine
which the stranger had ordered.
Meanwhile Blondel had appeared before the postern and had given his
accustomed signal; for a time there was no response, and the minstrel
was becoming impatient, when the gate was suddenly opened and the maiden
appeared.
The minstrel now told the girl his reason for coming hither: how he
hoped to liberate the captive monarch. As a reward for her connivance
he promised to take her with him to England. Then he beckoned to his
friends, there was a sudden rush, and armed forms thronged the postern.
The frightened maid, dreading lest violence should overtake her uncle,
shrieked loudly; but her cries were unheeded, and the English knights
pressed into the courtyard.
The assailants met with little resistance, seized the keys, threw open
the prison door, and liberated their King. The castellan protested
loudly, and threatened Richard with mighty words, but all to no purpose.
When the garrison returned they were powerless to render aid, for the
castellan was threatened with death should his followers attack the
castle. In the end a truce was made, and the English were allowed to
retire unmolested with their King. Although urged by him, the maid
refused to accompany Blondel, so, giving her a gold ring as a memento,
he parted from her.
Returning again many years afterward, the minstrel once more heard the
same song which the King had sung to his harp in the castle of
Trifels. Entering the inn, he recognized in the landlord the one-time
shepherd-boy. From him he learnt that the castellan had perished by an
unknown hand, and that his pretty niece, having, as she thought, plumbed
the depths of masculine deceit, had entered the nunnery of Eberstein at
Baden.
Thann in Alsace
Thann is known to legend by two things: a steeple and a field. The
steeple was built in a season of great drought. Water had failed
everywhere; there was only the thinnest trickle from the springs
and fountains with which the people might allay their thirst. Yet,
strangely, the vineyards had yielded a wonderful harvest of luscious
grapes, and the wine was so abundant that the supply of casks and
vessels was insufficient for the demand. Therefore did it happen that
the mortar used for building the steeple was mixed with wine, wherefore
the lime was changed to must. And it is said that even to this day,
when the vines are in blossom, a delicate fragrance steals from the old
steeple and on the stones a purple dew is seen, while some declare that
there is a deeper tone in the harmony of the bells.
The Lying-field
The field is a terrible place, barren and desolate, for it is avoided
as a spot accursed. No living thing moves upon it; the earth is streaked
with patches of dark moss and drifts of ghastly skulls, like a scattered
harvest of death. Once, says the legend, a wayfarer, surprised by the
swift-fallen night, lost himself on the plain. As he stumbled in the
darkness he heard the clocks of the town near by strike the hour of
midnight. At this the stillness about the wanderer was broken. Under his
feet the earth seemed to tremble, there was a rattling of weapons, and
there sounded the tramp of armed men and the tumult of battle.
Suddenly the shape of a man in armour appeared before him, terrific and
menacing.
What do you seek here, in a field that has been accursed through many
centuries? he asked. Do you not know that this is a place of terror
and death? Are you a stranger that you stand on the place where a
king, Louis the Pious, betrayed by his own sons, was handed over to
his enemies, his crown torn from his head by his own troops? And he who
would have died gladly in battle suffered the shame and dishonour that
were worse than death. He lifted up his hands to heaven and cried with
bitterness: There is no such thing on earth as faith and loyalty.
Accursed be sons and warriors, accursed be this field whereon such deeds
have been done, accursed be they for ever!
The spectre paused and his words echoed across the field like the cry of
a lost soul. Again he spoke to the trembling wanderer: And that curse
has endured through the centuries. Under this plain in mile-wide graves
we faithless warriors lie, our bones knowing no repose; and never will
that curse of our betrayed king be lifted from us or this place!
The spectral warrior sank into the gloomy earth, the tumult of fighting
died away. The wayfarer, seized with terror, stumbled blindly on in the
night.
Strassburg
Strassburg, the capital of Alsace-Lorraine, is only two miles west of
the Rhine. The city is of considerable antiquity, and boasts a cathedral
of great beauty, in which the work of four centuries is displayed to
wonderful advantage. By the light of the stained-glass windows the
famous astronomical clock in the south transept can be descried,
still containing some fragments of the horologe constructed by the
mathematician Conrad Dasypodius in 1574. This, however, does not tally
with the well-known legend of the clock, which now follows.
The Clockmaker of Strassburg
There dwelt in the town of Strassburg an old clockmaker. So wrapped up
was he in his art that he seemed to live in a world of his own, quite
indifferent to the customs and practices of ordinary life; he forgot his
meals, forgot his sleep, cared nothing for his clothes, and would have
been in evil case indeed had not his daughter Guta tended him with
filial affection. In his absent-minded fashion he was really very fond
of Guta, fonder even than he was of his clocks, and that is saying not a
little.
The neighbours, busy, energetic folk who performed their daily tasks and
drank wine with their friends, scoffed at the dreamy, unpractical old
fellow and derided his occupation as the idle pastime of a mind not too
well balanced. But the clockmaker, finding in his workroom all that he
needed of excitement, of joy and sorrow, of elation and despondency, did
not miss the pleasures of social life, nor did he heed the idle gossip
of which he was the subject.
It need hardly be said that such a man had but few acquaintances; yet a
few he had, and among them one who is worthy of especial notea wealthy
citizen who aspired to a position of civic honour in Strassburg. In
appearance he was lean, old, and ugly, with hatchet-shaped face and
cunning, malevolent eyes; and when he pressed his hateful attentions on
the fair Guta she turned from him in disgust.
One day this creature called on the clockmaker, announced that he had
been made a magistrate, and demanded the hand of Guta, hinting that it
would go ill with the master should he refuse.
The clockmaker was taken completely by surprise, but he offered his
congratulations and called the girl to speak for herself as to her hand.
When Guta heard the proposal she cast indignant glances at the ancient
magistrate, whereupon he, without giving her an opportunity to speak,
said quickly:
Do not answer me now, sweet maid; do not decide hastily, I beg of you,
for such a course might bring lasting trouble on you and your father. I
will return to-morrow for your answer.
When he was gone Guta flung herself into her fathers arms and declared
that she could never marry the aged swain.
My dear, said the clockmaker soothingly, you shall do as you please.
Heed not his threats, for when I have finished my great work we shall be
as rich and powerful as he.
On the following day the magistrate called again, looking very important
and self-satisfied, and never doubting but that the answer would be
favourable. But when Guta told him plainly that she would not marry him
his rage was unbounded, and he left the house vowing vengeance on father
and daughter.
Scarcely was he gone ere a handsome youth entered the room and looked
with some surprise at the disturbed appearance of Guta and her
father. When he heard the story he was most indignant; later, when the
clockmaker had left the young people alone, Guta confessed that the
attentions of the magistrate were loathsome to her, and burst into
tears.
The young man had long loved the maiden in secret, and he could conceal
his passion no longer. He begged that she would become his bride, and
Guta willingly consented, but suggested that they should not mention
the matter to her father till the latter had completed his great clock,
which he fondly believed was soon to bring him fame and fortune.
She also proposed that her lover should offer to become her fathers
partnerfor he, too, was a clockmakerso that in the event of the
masters great work proving a failure his business should still be
secure. The young man at once acted upon the suggestion, and the father
gratefully received the proffered assistance.
At last the day came when the clockmaker joyfully announced that his
masterpiece was finished, and he called upon Guta and his young partner
to witness his handiwork. They beheld a wonderful clock, of exquisite
workmanship, and so constructed that the striking of the hour
automatically set in motion several small figures. The young people were
not slow to express their admiration and their confidence that fame was
assured.
When the clock was publicly exhibited the scepticism of the citizens was
changed to respect; praise and flattery flowed from the lips that had
formerly reviled its inventor. Nevertheless the civic authorities, urged
thereto by Gutas discarded lover, refused to countenance any attempt
to procure the wonderful clock for the town. But soon its fame spread
abroad to other cities. Members of the clockmakers guild of Basel
travelled to see it, and raised their hands in surprise and admiration.
Finally the municipal authorities of Basel made arrangements to purchase
it.
But at this point the citizens of Strassburg stepped in and insisted on
preserving the clock in their own city, and it was therefore purchased
for a round sum and erected in a chapel of the Strassburg Cathedral.
The corporation of Basel, having set their hearts on the wonderful
timepiece, commissioned the clockmaker to make another like it, and
offered substantial remuneration. The old man gladly agreed, but his
arch-enemy, hearing of the arrangement and scenting a fine opportunity
for revenge, contrived to raise an outcry against the proposal. Where
was the advantage, asked the magistrates, in possessing a wonderful
clock if every city in Germany was to have one? So to preserve the
uniqueness of their treasure they haled the old clockmaker before
a tribunal and ordered him to cease practising his art. This he
indignantly refused to do, and the council, still instigated by his
enemy, finally decided that his eyes be put out, so that his skill in
clockmaking should come to a decided end. Not a few objections were
raised to so cruel a decision, but these were at length overruled. The
victim heard the dreadful sentence without a tremor, and when asked if
he had any boon to crave ere it were carried out, he answered quietly
that he would like to make a few final improvements in his clock, and
wished to suffer his punishment in its presence.
Accordingly when the day came the old man was conducted to the place
where his masterpiece stood. There, under pretence of making the
promised improvements, he damaged the works, after which he submitted
himself to his torturers. Hardly had they carried out their cruel task
when, to the consternation of the onlookers, the clock began to emit
discordant sounds and to whirr loudly. When it had continued thus for a
while the gong struck thirteen and the mechanism came to a standstill.
Behold my handiwork! cried the blind clockmaker. Behold my revenge!
His assistant approached and led him gently away. Henceforward he lived
happily with Guta and her husband, whose affectionate care compensated
in part for the loss of his eyesight and his enforced inability
to practise his beloved art. When the story became known the base
magistrate was deprived of his wealth and his office and forced to quit
the town.
And as for the clock, it remained in its disordered state till 1843,
when it was once more restored to its original condition.
The Trumpeter of Säckingen
A beautiful and romantic tale which has inspired more than one work of
art is the legend of the Trumpeter of Säckingen; it shares with The
Lorelei and a few other legends the distinction of being the most
widely popular in Rhenish folklore.
One evening in early spring, so the legend runs, a gallant young soldier
emerged from the Black Forest opposite Säckingen and reined in his steed
on the banks of the Rhine. Night was at hand, and the snow lay thickly
on the ground. For a few moments the wayfarer pondered whither he should
turn for food and shelter, for his steed and the trumpet he carried
under his cavalry cloak were all he possessed in the world; then with
a reckless gesture he seized the trumpet and sounded some lively notes
which echoed merrily over the snow.
The parish priest, toiling painfully up the hill, heard the martial
sound, and soon encountered the soldier, who saluted him gravely. The
priest paused to return the greeting, and entering into conversation
with the horseman, he learned that he was a soldier of fortune,
whereupon he invited him with simple cordiality to become his guest. The
proffer of hospitality was gratefully accepted, and the kindly old man
led the stranger to his home.
The old priest, though not a little curious with regard to his guests
previous history, forbore out of courtesy to question him, but
the warmth and cheer soon loosened the trumpeters tongue, and he
volunteered to tell the old man his story. Shorn of detail, it ran
as follows: The soldiers youth had been passed at the University of
Heidelberg, where he had lived a gay and careless life, paying so little
attention to his studies that at the end of his course his only asset
was a knowledge of music, picked up from a drunken trumpeter in exchange
for the wherewithal to satisfy his thirst. The legal profession, which
his guardian had designed for him, was clearly impossible with such
meagre acquirements, so he had joined a cavalry regiment and fought in
the Thirty Years War. At the end of the war his horse and his trumpet
were his sole possessions, and from that time he had wandered through
the world, gaining a scanty livelihood with the aid of his music. Such
was his history.
That night Wernerfor so the young man was calledslept soundly in the
house of the old priest, and next morning he rose early to attend the
festival of St. Fridolin, in celebration of which a procession was
organized every year at Säckingen. There, at the head of a band of
girls, he beheld a maid who outshone them all in beauty and grace, and
to her he immediately lost his heart. From that moment the gaieties of
the festival had no attraction for him, and he wandered disconsolately
among the merry-makers, thinking only of the lovely face that had caught
his fancy.
Toward nightfall he embarked in a little boat and floated idly down
the Rhine. Suddenly, to his amazement, there arose from the water the
handsome, youthful figure of the Rhine-god, who had recognized in his
pale cheek and haggard eye the infallible signs of a lover. Indicating a
castle at the edge of the river, the apparition informed Werner that his
lady-love dwelt therein, and he bade him take heart and seek some mode
of communicating with her. At this Werner plucked up courage to row
ashore to his ladys abode. There in the garden, beneath a lighted
window, he played an exquisite serenade, every perfect note of which
told of his love and grief and the wild hopes he would never dare to
express in words.
Now, the lord of the castle was at that very moment telling to his
beautiful daughter the story of his own long-past wooing; he paused in
his tale and bade his daughter listen to the melting strains. When
the notes had died away an attendant was dispatched to learn who the
musician might be, but ere he reached the garden Werner had re-embarked
and was lost to sight on the river. However, on the following day the
nobleman pursued his inquiries in the village and the musician was
discovered in an inn.
In obedience to a summons the trumpeter hastened to the castle, where
the old lord greeted him very kindly, giving him a place with his
musicians, and appointing him music-master to the fair Margaretha.
Henceforward his path lay in pleasant places, for the young people were
thrown a great deal into each others society, and in time it became
evident that the lady returned the young soldiers tender passion. Yet
Werner did not dare to declare his love, for Margaretha was a maiden
of high degree, and he but a poor musician who not so very long ago had
been a homeless wanderer.
One day Werner heard strange, discordant sounds issuing from the
music-room, and thinking that some mischievous page was taking liberties
with his trumpet, he quietly made his way to the spot, to find that the
inharmonious sounds resulted from the vain attempt of his fair pupil to
play the instrument. When the girl observed that her endeavours had been
overheard, she joined her merriment with that of her teacher, and Werner
then and there taught her a bugle-call.
A few weeks later the nobleman, hearing of a rising of the peasants,
hastened to Säckingen to restore order, leaving his daughter and Werner
to guard the castle. That night an attempt was made upon the stronghold.
Werner courageously kept the foe at bay, but was wounded in the mêlée,
and Margaretha, seeing her lover fall and being unable to reach him,
took the trumpet and sounded the bugle-call he had taught her, hoping
that her father would hear it and hasten his return. And, sure enough,
that was what happened; the nobleman returned with all speed to the
assistance of the little garrison, and the remnant of the assailants
were routed. Werner, who was happily not wounded seriously, now received
every attention.
Her lovers peril had taught Margaretha beyond a doubt where her
affections lay, and she showed such unfeigned delight at his recovery
that he forgot the difference in their rank and told her of his love.
There on the terrace they plighted their troth, and vowed to remain true
to each other, whatever might befall. Werner now ventured to seek the
nobleman that he might acquaint him of the circumstances and beg for
his daughters hand, but ere he could prefer his request the old man
proceeded to tell him that he had but just received a letter from an old
friend desiring that his son should marry Margaretha. As the young
man was of noble birth, he added, and eligible in every respect he was
disposed to agree to the arrangement, and he desired Werner to write to
him and invite him to Säckingen. The unfortunate soldier now made his
belated announcement; but the old man shook his head and declared that
only a nobleman should wed with his daughter. It is true he was greatly
attached to the young musician, but his ideas were those of his times,
and so Werner was obliged to quit his service and fare once more into
the wide world.
Years passed by, and Margaretha, who had resolutely discouraged the
advances of her high-born lover, grew so pale and woebegone that her
father in despair sent her to Italy. When in Rome she went one Sunday
with her maid to St. Peters Church, and there, leading the Papal
choir, was her lover! Margaretha promptly fainted, and Werner, who had
recognized his beloved, was only able with difficulty to perform the
remainder of his choral duties. Meanwhile the Pope had observed that the
young man was deeply affected, and believing this to be caused by the
ladys indisposition, he desired that the couple should be brought
before him at the conclusion of the service. With kindly questioning
he elicited the whole story, and was so touched by the romance that he
immediately created Werner Marquis of Santo Campo and arranged that
the marriage of the young people should take place at once. Immediately
after the ceremony, having received the Papal blessing, they returned
to Säckingen, where the father of the bride greeted them cordially, for
Margaretha was restored to health and happiness, and his own condition
was satisfied, for had she not brought home a noble husband?
The Charcoal-Burner
In the woods of Zähringen there dwelt a young charcoal-burner. His
parents before him had followed the same humble calling, and one might
have supposed that the youth would be well satisfied to emulate their
simple industry and contentment. But in truth it was not so.
On one occasion, while on an errand to the town, he had witnessed a
tournament, and the brilliant spectacle of beauty and chivalry had
lingered in his memory and fired his boyish enthusiasm, so that
thenceforth he was possessed by divine discontent. The romance of the
ancient forests wherein he dwelt fostered his strange longings, and in
fancy he already saw himself a knight, fighting in the wars, jousting in
the lists, receiving, perchance, the prize of the tourney from the fair
hands of its queen. And, indeed, in all save birth and station he was
well fitted for the profession of armshandsome, brave, spirited, and
withal gentle and courteous.
Time passed, and his ambitions seemed as far as ever from realization.
Yet the ambitious mind lacks not fuel for its fires; the youths
imagination peopled the woody solitudes with braver company than courts
could boastvivid, unreal dream-people, whose shadowy presence increased
his longing for the actuality. The very winds whispered mysteriously of
coming triumphs, and as he listened his unrest grew greater. At length
there came a time when dreams no longer satisfied him, and he pondered
how he might attain his desires.
I will go out into the world, he said to himself, and take service
under some great knight. Then, peradventure
At this point his musings were interrupted by the approach of an old
man, clad in the garb of a hermit.
My son, he said, what aileth thee? Nayas the youth looked up in
astonishmentnay, answer me not, for I know what thou wouldst have. Yet
must thou not forsake thy lowly occupation; that which thou dost seek
will only come to thee whilst thou art engaged thereon. Follow me, and I
will show thee the spot where thy destiny will meet thee.
The young man, not yet recovered from his surprise, followed his aged
guide to a distant part of the forest. Then the hermit bade him farewell
and left him to ponder on the cryptic saying: Here thy destiny will
meet thee.
Time will show the old mans meaning, I suppose, he said to himself;
in any case, I may as well burn charcoal here as elsewhere.
He set to work, hewed down some great trees, and built a kiln, which,
before lighting, he covered with stony earth. What was his amazement
when, on removing the cover of the kiln in due course, he discovered
within some pieces of pure gold! A moments reflection convinced him
that the precious metal must have been melted out of the stones, so
he again built a kiln, and experienced the same gratifying result.
Delighted with his good fortune, he concealed his treasure in an
appropriate hiding-place and proceeded to repeat the process till he had
obtained and hidden a large fortune, of whose existence none but himself
was aware.
One night, as he lay awake listening to the wind in the treesfor his
great wealth had this drawback, that it robbed him of his sleephe
fancied he heard a knock at the door. At first he thought he must have
been mistaken, but as he hesitated whether to rise or not the knock was
repeated. Boldly he undid the doora feat requiring no small courage
in that remote part of the forest, where robbers and freebooters
aboundedand there, without, stood a poor wayfarer, who humbly begged
admittance. He was being pursued, he declared; would the charcoal-burner
shelter him for a few days? Touched by the suppliants plight, and moved
by feelings worthy of his chivalrous ideals, the youth readily extended
the hospitality of his poor home, and for some time the stranger
sojourned there in peace. He did not offer to reveal his identity,
nor was he questioned on that point. But one morning he declared his
intention of taking his departure.
My friend, he said warmly, I know not how I may thank you for your
brave loyalty. The time has come when you must know whom you have served
so faithfully. Behold your unfortunate Emperor, overcome in battle,
deprived of friends and followers and fortune!
At these astounding words the young charcoal-burner sank on his knees
before the Emperor.
Sire, he said, you have yet one humble subject who will never forsake
you while life remains to him.
I know, replied the Emperor gently, raising him to his feet, and
therefore I ask of you one last service. It is that you may lead me by
some secret path to the place where the remnant of my followers await
me. Alas, that I, once so powerful, should be unable to offer you any
token of a sovereigns gratitude!
Sire, ventured the youth, methinks I may be privileged to render yet
one more service to your Majesty. Straightway he told the story of his
hidden treasure and with simple dignity placed it at the disposal of
his sovereign, asking for nothing in return but the right to spend his
strength in the Emperors servicea right which was readily accorded
him.
The gold, now withdrawn from its place of concealment, proved to be
a goodly store, and with it the Emperor had no difficulty in raising
another army. Such was the courage and confidence of his new troops that
the first battle they fought resulted in victory. But the most valiant
stand was made by the erstwhile charcoal-burner, who found on that field
the opportunity of which he had long dreamt. The Emperor showed his
recognition of the gallant services by knighting the young man on the
field of battle. On the eminence whither the old hermit had led him the
knight built a castle which was occupied by himself and his successors
for many generations.
And thus did the charcoal-burner become the knight of Zähringen, the
friend of his Emperor, the first of a long line of illustrious knights,
honoured and exalted beyond his wildest dreams.
Conclusion
With this legend we close on a brighter and more hopeful note than
is usually associated with legends of the Rhine. The reader may have
observed in perusing these romances how closely they mirror their
several environments. For the most part those which are gay and buoyant
in spirit have for the places of their birth slopes where is prisoned
the sunshine which later sparkles in the wine-cup and inspires song
and cheerfulness. Those, again, which are sombre and tragic have as
background the gloomy forest, the dark and windy promontory which
overhangs the darker river, or the secluded nunnery. In such
surroundings is fostered the germ of tragedy, that feeling of the
inevitable which is inherent in all great literature. It is to a tragic
imagination of a lofty type that we are indebted for the greatest of
these legends, and he who cannot appreciate their background of gloomy
grandeur will never come at the true spirit of that mighty literature of
Germany, at once the joy and the despair of all who know it.
Countless songs, warlike and tender, sad and passionate, have been
penned on the river whose deathless tales we have been privileged to
display to the reader. But no such strains of regret upon abandoning
its shores have been sung as those which passed the lips of the English
poet, Byron, and it is fitting that this book should end with lines so
appropriate:
Adieu to thee, fair Rhine! How long delighted
The stranger fain would linger on his way!
Thine is a scene alike where souls united
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray;
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here,
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay,
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere,
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year.
Adieu to thee again! a vain adieu!
There can be no farewell to scene like thine;
The mind is colourd by thy every hue;
And if reluctantly the eyes resign
Their cherishd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine!
Tis with the thankful heart of parting praise;
More mighty spots may rise, more glaring shine,
But none unite in one attaching maze
The brilliant, fair, and soft,the glories of old days.
The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom
Of coming ripeness, the white citys sheen,
The rolling stream, the precipices gloom,
The forests growth, and Gothic walls between,
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been,
In mockery of mans art: and there withal
A race of faces happy as the scene,
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all,
Still springing oer thy banks, though Empires near them fall.