strewed thorns and briars. The whole town had very little affection for
their chief, and delighted to oppose him at every opportunity; for he
was harsh and cruel, and punished severely the citizens for trifling
and innocent mirth, unless they purchased pardon by the means of heavy
penalties and bribes. After the yearly wine-fair in the month of
January he was in the habit of obliging them to pay all their earnings
into his treasury, to make amends for their past merriments. One day
the tyrant of Neisse had put their patience to too hard a trial, and
broken the last tie of obedience from his oppressed townsmen. The
malcontents had created a riot, and filled their persecutor with deadly
fear; for they threatened nothing less than to set fire to his house,
and to burn him, together with all the riches he had gathered by
oppressing them.
At this critical moment, Robert went to Willibald, and said to him,
‘Now, my old friend, is the time when you may help me with your art, as
you frequently have offered to do. If your music be really so powerful
as you say it is, go then and deliver the mayor by softening the
enraged mob. As a reward he certainly will grant you anything you may
request. Speak then a word for me and my love, and demand my beloved
Brunhelda as the price of your assistance.’
The bag-piper laughed at this speech, and replied:
‘We must satisfy the follies of children in order to prevent them
crying.’ And so he took his bag-pipe and walked slowly down to the
town-house square, where the rioters, armed with pikes, lances, and
lighted torches, were laying waste the mansion of the worshipful head
of the town.
Willibald placed himself near a pillar, and began to play his
‘Grandfather’s Dance.’ Scarcely were the first notes of this favourite
tune heard, when the rage-distorted countenances became smiling and
cheerful, the frowning brows lost their dark expression, pikes and
torches fell out of the threatening fists, and the enraged assailants
moved about marking with their steps the measure of the music. At last,
the whole multitude began to dance, and the square, that was lately the
scene of riot and confusion, bore now the appearance of a gay dancing
assembly. The piper, with his magic bag-pipe, led on through the
streets, all the people danced behind him, and each citizen returned
jumping to his home, which shortly before he had left with very
different feelings.
The mayor, saved from this imminent danger, knew not how to express
his gratitude; he promised to Willibald everything he might demand,
even were it half his property. But the bag-piper replied, smiling,
saying his expectations were not so lofty, and that for himself he
wanted no temporal goods whatever; but since his lordship, the mayor,
had pledged his word to grant to him everything he might demand, so he
beseeched him, with due respect, to grant fair Brunhelda’s hand for his
foster-son.
The haughty mayor was highly displeased at this proposal. He made
every possible excuse; and as Willibald repeatedly reminded him of his
promise, he did what the despots of those dark times were in the habit
of doing, and which those of our enlightened days still practise, he
declared his dignity offended, pronounced Willibald to be a disturber
of the peace, an enemy of the public security, and allowed him to
forget in a prison the promises of his lord, the mayor. Not satisfied
herewith, he accused him of witchcraft, caused him to be tried by
pretending he was the very bag-piper and rat-catcher of Hameln, who
was, at that time, and is still in so bad a repute in the German
provinces, for having carried off by his infernal art all the children
of that ill-fated town.
‘The only difference,’ said the wise mayor, between the two cases was,
that at Hameln only the children had been made to dance to his pipe,
but here young and old seemed under the same magical influence. By
such artful delusions, the mayor turned every merciful heart from the
prisoner. The dread of necromancy, and the example of the children of
Hameln, worked so strongly, that sheriffs and clerks were writing day
and night. The secretary calculated already the expense of the funeral
pile, for necromancers, witches and wizards were burnt in those days;
the sexton petitioned for a new rope to toll the dead-bell for the poor
sinner; the carpenters prepared scaffolds for the spectators of the
expected execution; and the judges rehearsed the grand scene, which
they prepared to play at the condemnation of the famous bag-piper. But
although justice was sharp, Willibald was still sharper; for as he
laughed very heartily over the important preparations for his end, he
now laid himself down upon his straw and died!
Shortly before his death, he sent for his beloved Robert, and addressed
him for the last time.
‘Young man,’ said he, ‘you seest that in your way of viewing mankind
and the world I can render you no assistance. I am tired of the whims
your folly has obliged me to perform. You have now acquired experience
enough fully to comprehend that nobody should calculate, or at least
ground, his designs on the goodness of human nature, even if he himself
should be too good to lose entirely his belief in the goodness of
others. I, for my own part, would not rely upon the fulfilment of my
last request to you, if your own interest would not induce you to its
performance. When I am dead, be careful to see that my old bag-pipe is
buried with me. To detain it would be of no use to you, but it may be
the cause of your happiness, if it is laid under ground with me.’
Robert promised to observe strictly the last commands of his old
friend, who shortly after closed his eyes. Scarcely had the report of
Willibald’s sudden death spread, when old and young came to ascertain
the truth. The mayor was more pleased with this turn of the affair than
any other; for the indifference with which the prisoner had received
the news of his approaching promotion to the funeral pile, induced
his worship to suppose the old bag-piper might some fine day be found
invisible in his prison, or rather be found not there at all; or the
cunning wizard, being at the stake, might have caused a wisp of straw
to burn instead of his person, to the eternal shame of the court of
Neisse. He therefore ordered the corpse to be buried as speedily as
possible, as no sentence to burn the body had yet been pronounced. An
unhallowed corner of the churchyard, close to the wall, was the place
assigned for poor Willibald’s resting-place. The jailor, as the lawful
heir of the deceased prisoner, having examined his property, asked what
should become of the bag-pipe, as a _corpus delicti_.
Robert, who was present, was on the point to make his request, when the
mayor, full of zeal, thus pronounced his sentence:
‘To avoid every possible mischief, this wicked, worthless tool shall
be buried together with its master.’ So they put it into the coffin at
the side of the corpse, and early in the morning pipe and piper were
carried away and buried.
But strange things happened in the following night. The watchmen on the
tower were looking out, according to the custom of the age, to give the
alarm in case of fire in the surrounding country, when about midnight
they saw, by the light of the moon, Willibald rising out of his tomb
near the churchyard wall. He held his bag-pipe under his arm, and
leaning against a high tombstone upon which the moon shed her brightest
rays he began to blow, and fingered the pipes just as he was accustomed
to do when he was alive.
While the watchmen, astonished at this sight, gazed wisely on one
another, many other graves opened; their skeleton-inhabitants peeped
out with their bare skulls, looked about, nodded to the measure, rose
afterwards wholly out of their coffins, and moved their rattling limbs
into a nimble dance. At the church windows, and the grates of the
vaults, other empty eye-holes stared on the dancing place: the withered
arms began to shake the iron gates, till locks and bolts sprung off,
and out came the skeletons, eager to mingle in the dance of the dead.
Now the light dancers stilted about, over the hillocks and tombstones,
and whirled around in a merry waltz, that the shrouds waved in the wind
about the fleshless limbs, until the church clock struck twelve, when
all the dancers, great and small, returned to their narrow cells; the
player took his bag-pipe under his arm, and likewise returned to his
vacant coffin.
Long before the dawn of the day, the watchmen awoke the mayor, and made
to him, with trembling lips and knocking knees, the awful report of the
horrid night scene. He enjoined strict secrecy on them, and promised to
watch with them the following night on the tower. Nevertheless, the
news soon spread through the town, and at the close of the evening,
all the surrounding windows and roofs were lined with virtuosi and
cognoscenti of the dark fine arts, who all beforehand were engaged in
discussions on the possibility or impossibility of the events they
expected to witness before midnight.
The bag-piper was not behind his time. At the first sound of the bell
announcing the eleventh hour, he rose slowly, leaned against the
tombstone, and began his tune. The ball guests seemed to have been
waiting for the music, for at the very first notes they rushed forth
out of the graves and vaults, through grass hills and heavy stones.
Corpses and skeletons shrouded and bare, tall and small, men and women,
all running to and fro, dancing and turning, wheedling and whirling
round the player, quicker or more slowly according to the measure he
played, till the clock tolled the hour of midnight. Then dancers and
piper withdrew again to rest.
The living spectators, at their windows and on their roofs, now
confessed that ‘there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamt of in our philosophy.’ The mayor had no sooner retired from the
tower, than he ordered Robert to be cast into prison that very night,
hoping to learn from his examination, or perhaps by putting him to the
torture, how the magic nuisance of his foster-father might be removed.
Robert did not fail to remind the mayor of his ingratitude towards
Willibald, and maintained that the deceased troubled the town, bereft
the dead of their rest and the living of their sleep, only because he
had received, instead of the promised reward for the liberation of the
mayor, a scornful refusal, and moreover had been thrown into prison
most unjustly, and buried in a degrading manner. This speech made a
very deep impression upon the minds of the magistrates; they instantly
ordered the body of Willibald to be taken out of his tomb, and laid in
a more respectable place.
The sexton, to show his penetration on the occasion, took the bag-pipe
out of the coffin, and hung it over his bed. For he reasoned thus:
if the enchanting or enchanted musician could not help following his
profession even in the tomb, he at least would not be able to play to
the dancers without his instrument.
But at night, after the clock had struck eleven, he heard distinctly a
knock at his door; and when he opened it, with the expectation of some
deadly and lucrative accident requiring his skill, he beheld the buried
Willibald _in propriâ persona_.
‘My bag-pipe,’ said he, very composedly, and passing by the trembling
sexton, he took it from the wall where it was hung up; then he returned
to his tombstone, and began to blow. The guests, invited by the tune,
came like the preceding night, and were preparing for their midnight
dance in the churchyard. But this time the musician began to march
forward, and proceeded with his numerous and ghastly suite through the
gate of the churchyard to the town, and led his nightly parade through
all the streets, till the clock struck twelve, when all returned again
to their dark abodes.
The inhabitants of Neisse now began to fear lest the awful night
wanderers might shortly enter their own houses. Some of the chief
magistrates earnestly entreated the mayor to lay the charm by making
good his word to the bag-piper. But the mayor would not listen to it;
he even pretended that Robert shared in the infernal arts of the old
piper, and added, ‘The son deserves rather the funeral pile than the
bridal bed.’
But in the following night the dancing spectres came again into the
town, and although no music was heard, yet it was easily seen by their
motions that the dancers went through the figure of the ‘Grandfather’s
Dance.’ This night they behaved much worse than before, for they
stopped at the house wherein a betrothed damsel lived, and here they
turned in a wild whirling dance round a shadow, which resembled
perfectly the spinster in whose honour they moved the nightly bridal
dance. Next day the whole town was filled with mourning, for all
the damsels whose shadows were seen dancing with the spectres had
died suddenly. The same thing happened again the following night. The
dancing skeletons turned before the houses, and wherever they had been,
there was, next morning, a dead bride lying on the bier.
The citizens were determined no longer to expose their daughters and
mistresses to such an imminent danger. They threatened the mayor to
carry Brunhelda away by force and to lead her to Robert, unless the
mayor would permit their union to be celebrated before the beginning of
the night. The choice was a difficult one, for the mayor disliked the
one just as much as the other, but as he found himself in the uncommon
situation where a man may choose with perfect freedom, he, as a free
being, declared freely his daughter to be Robert’s bride.
Long before the spectre hour the guests sat at the wedding table. The
first stroke of the bell sounded, and immediately the favourite tune
of the well-known bridal dance was heard. The guests, frightened to
death, and fearing the spell might still continue to work, hastened
to the windows, and beheld the bag-piper, followed by a long row of
figures in white shrouds, moving to the wedding-house. He remained at
the door and played, but the procession went on slowly, and proceeded
even to the festive hall. Here the strange pale guests rubbed their
eyes, and looked about them full of astonishment, like sleep walkers
just awakened. The wedding guests fled behind the chairs and tables;
but soon the cheeks of the phantoms began to colour, their white lips
became blooming like young rosebuds; they gazed at each other full of
wonder and joy, and well-known voices called friendly names. They were
soon known as revived corpses, now blooming in all the brightness of
youth and health: and who should they be but the brides whose sudden
death had filled the whole town with mourning, and who, now recovered
from their enchanted slumber, had been led by Willibald with his magic
pipe out of their graves to the merry wedding feast. The wonderful old
man blew a last and cheerful farewell tune, and disappeared. He was
never seen again.
Robert was of opinion, the bag-piper was no other than the famous
Spirit of the Silesian Mountains.[1] The young painter had originally
met him once when he travelled through the hills, and acquired his
goodwill by rendering him some service, for the old man was, or
pretended to be, in great distress, and Robert gave him wine and
food, and housed him for many days. Then suddenly the strange piper
disappeared, but shortly returned and promised the youth he would grant
him anything he wished if he could, and he declared that with his magic
pipes he could subdue anyone to his will. Then it was that Robert
beseeched him to help him to win the consent of the Mayor of Neisse to
wed his daughter. Willibald promised the youth to assist him in his
love-suit, and he kept his word, although after his own jesting fashion.
Robert remained all his lifetime a favourite with the Spirit of the
Mountains. He grew rich, and became celebrated. His dear wife brought
him every year a handsome child, his pictures were sought after even
in Italy and England; and the ‘Dance of the Dead,’ of which Basil,
Antwerp, Dresden, Lubeck, and many other places boast, are only copies
or imitations of Robert’s original painting, which he had executed
in memory of the real ‘Dance of the Dead at Neisse!’ But, alas! this
picture is lost, and no collector of paintings has yet been able to
discover it, for the gratification of the cognoscenti, and the benefit
of the history of the art.
[1] The Spirit of the Silesian Mountains plays a great part in the
German Popular Tales. He always appears full of mirth and whims.
The people know him best by his nickname Rubezahl, the turnip
counter. The accident which gave rise to this nickname has been
related in a masterly manner in _Musäus’s German Popular Tales_.
XIV
THE MYSTIC SPELL
A WEIRD STORY OF BRAZIL
TOLD BY SIGNOR DON ALONZO RODERICK, SPANISH CONSUL AT RIO DE JANEIRO.
Rio and its neighbourhood is perhaps one of the most beautiful spots
on the face of the globe. Indeed, I am not sure but what it may claim
to be absolutely without a rival, for it has features that are unique.
Nature would almost seem to have exhausted her efforts to build up a
scene which lacks no single detail necessary for imposing pictorial
effect, though, as most people know, hidden beneath all this entrancing
beauty death lurks in a hundred forms; and he who is not wary and ever
on his guard is liable to be struck down with appalling suddenness.
My predecessor had suffered much in his health, and succumbed at last
to the scourge of yellow fever. When I arrived to take up his work I
found everything in such confusion that I had to labour very hard to
reduce chaos to order and put the consular business shipshape. It thus
came about that for many months I was unable to leave my post in Rio,
and as a consequence my health began to suffer. Soon after my arrival
I made the acquaintance of a Portuguese gentleman named Azevedo Souza,
a merchant of high standing in Rio. His business was of a very mixed
character, and amongst other things he was an orchid exporter. In this
branch of his trading he had been exceptionally successful. Through his
instrumentality collectors had had brought under their notice some
wonderful and hitherto unknown specimens of these marvels of nature.
His collecting station was far up north in the interior. He spoke of
it enthusiastically as an earthly paradise, and gave me many pressing
invitations to be his guest, when he paid his periodical visits to look
after his affairs in that region.
Senhor Souza was an estimable gentleman, and very highly respected. He
had a charming family, amongst them being a daughter, Juliette by name,
and one of the sweetest young ladies I have ever had the pleasure of
associating with. At this period Juliette was about seven-and-twenty,
and as the apple of his eye to her father. She was invaluable to him
in his business, at any rate to the orchid branch of it; for not only
had she an all-round cleverness, but probably she knew more about
orchids than any living woman. She herself was the means of introducing
to the scientific world an entirely new orchid, the flower of which
was of such transcendent beauty that the Brazilians, used as they are
to floral glories, said that this particular bloom must have been
‘specially cultivated in God’s own garden.’ Juliette made a most
arduous and hazardous journey into the depths of virgin forests in
search of this plant, and narrowly escaped losing her life.
Perhaps, when I say that I was a bachelor the reader will readily
guess that my acquaintance with Juliette aroused in me an admiration
which I devoutly hoped would find its consummation in a happy union,
for she was by no means indifferent to my attentions. Not only was she
highly cultivated, but had astonishing linguistic powers, and spoke
many languages fluently. She was perfectly acquainted with Spanish, and
had read the beautiful literature of Spain extensively. Senhor Souza
encouraged my suit, and at last the time came when I was emboldened
to tell Juliette she was the one woman in the world who could make
me happy. Ah, I shall never forget that night until the grave closes
over me. We were seated in the veranda of Senhor Souza’s splendid
villa, situated just on the outskirts of the town, and commanding an
enchanting view of the bay of Rio, with its remarkable Sugar Loaf
Mountain and the marvellous range beyond it. And what a night it was!
The glory of the stars, shining as they can only shine in the tropics;
the sparkling moonlit sea; the soft, flower-perfumed breeze that
stirred the foliage to a languorous _susurrus_; the fireflies that like
living jewels filled the air, begot in one a feeling of reverence, and
strengthened one’s faith in the Great God who created such a world of
beauty. Those who have never experienced such a night under a tropical
sky know nothing of what the true poetry of nature means. It stirs one
with a ravishing, ecstatic feeling of delight which is a foretaste of
the joys of heaven.
I had been sitting for some time with Juliette’s hand in mine. We were
silent, being deeply impressed with the magical beauty of the night,
for we both had poetical instincts; indeed, Juliette’s was a highly
strung romantic temperament, and she was able to express her thoughts
in language that could stir the pulses and move to tears.
But this night of all nights was a night for love, and as I pressed
her hand I asked her to crown my happiness by becoming my wife. To my
astonishment she shuddered, sighed deeply, and then in a tone of the
most touching pathos exclaimed:
‘Oh, why--oh, why have you asked me that?’
‘Juliette,’ I answered in amazement, ‘is it not a natural question for
a man to ask a woman sooner or later, when every beat of his heart
tells him that he loves her?’
‘Yes, yes,’ she replied in distressful tones, and shuddering again
violently, ‘but, but----’
‘But what?’ I asked as she paused.
‘I pray you press me not for an answer.’
‘This is extraordinary!’ I remarked, feeling distressed beyond the
power of words to express; and yet, distressed as I was, she was
infinitely more troubled; she sobbed like one whose heart was rent.
‘You know that I love you, Juliette,’ I went on. ‘You have encouraged
me. You have tacitly bidden me to hope; and now----’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ she cried with a catching of her breath, and a
spasmodic closing of her fingers round mine. ‘And I love you, I
love you. But I have been living in a fool’s paradise. I have been
dreaming dreams. I thought that the sweet delicious time would go on
indefinitely. You waken me now abruptly, and I no longer dream. I must
not, cannot be your wife.’
‘Juliette, what is this mystery?’ I exclaimed, growing excited, for I
was sure some extraordinary influence was at work, and that she was
under a spell.
She laughed, though it wasn’t the light laugh of joy peculiar to her,
but a little forced spasmodic laugh of bitterness and despair.
‘I will tell you,’ she answered, trying to master her emotions by a
mighty effort of will. ‘It is better that you should know, otherwise
you may deem me fickle, and think that I have trifled with your
feelings. Years ago, when I was a little girl, I had a nurse, a strange
old Brazilian crone who had been in the family service for many years.
She was very fond of all my brothers and sisters, but for some reason
I could never understand took a strong dislike to me. I think this
dislike was mutual, for I remember that she used to make me shudder at
times, and fill me with a nameless dread. This, perhaps, was hardly to
be wondered at, for she treated me roughly and unkindly, and many a
time I complained to my father. He, however, shared my mother’s belief
in the old woman’s fidelity and gentleness, and would chide me for
what he termed my unfounded, childish fears. Consequently I ceased to
complain, and kept my little sorrows to myself.
‘The name of this old nurse was Joanna Maria. One day she and I and
an elder sister who was about two years my senior had been down to
the bay, and wandering about the sea-shore in search of the beautiful
shells which are often thrown up after a storm. Old Joanna was
peculiarly irritable and fretful that morning. Once, when I stumbled
over a rock and fell into a pool of sea-water, she snatched me up
fiercely, and shook me until nearly all the life was frightened out
of me. Then she sat down, made me sit beside her, and, looking at me
fixedly with her bleared eyes, said: