"And in the merry dance, she whispers, to impart,
In soft accents, the sorrows of her heart."
L. UHLAND.
If we had ransacked all the pawnbrokers' shops, and attended the
auction of an antiquary's goods, to find "a pocket-book giving a
description of the social pleasures, with the fashionable figure
dances, of the year 1519," we could not have been more fortunate than
in the fund of information which chance has thrown in our way upon that
subject.
Having arrived at that part of the present history which is to treat of
a ball so far back as 1519, a difficulty arose of ascertaining what
were the figures, and how they were danced in those days.
We might, indeed, have simply said, "they danced;" but how easily might
some of our fair readers have made an anachronism, and imagined an old
veteran such as George von Fronsberg, booted and spurred, standing up
in a cotillon. In this embarrassment a very rare book fell in our way,
entitled, "The beginning, origin, and customs of tournaments in the
holy Roman Empire. Frankfort, 1564." We found in these precious pages,
among other well executed wood-cuts, the representation of a ball in
the time of the Emperor Maximilian, which was about a year before the
date of this history.
We may, therefore, take it for granted, that the ball in the town-hall
of Ulm differed in nothing from the explanations afforded by the
above-mentioned drawing, and consequently we shall be able to give a
better idea of the amusements of those days, by giving a description of
the picture, than by our own delineation.
The foreground is occupied by the spectators; and the musicians,
composed of fifers, drummers, and trumpeters, placed in a gallery,
"sound a blast," according to the expression in the tournament book. On
either side, towards the further end of the room, are arranged those
who intend to join in the dance, dressed in rich heavy stuffs. In our
days, we see only two standing colours on such occasions, black and
white, in which the ladies and gentlemen are divided as night and day.
Not so in former times. An extraordinary brilliancy of colours shoot
their rays from the picture. The most beautiful red, from fiery scarlet
to the deepest purple, accompanied by rich deep blue which surprises us
in the paintings of the old masters, form the cheerful colours of their
picturesque drapery and dresses. The centre of the apartment is
occupied by the actual performers. The dance resembles very much the
Polonaise of the present day, in which the gentleman, with his partner,
walk around the room in procession. Four trumpeters, bearing heraldic
flags suspended to their instruments, open the procession, followed by
the first couple. The rank alone of the gentleman entitles him, with
his lady, to the honour of leading; and at each change of the dance,
the next in precedence takes his place. Then come two torch-bearers,
followed by the rest of the dancers in pairs. The ladies walked with
modest and reserved demeanour; and the men placed their feet in a
singular position, as if they were on the point of making a high leap.
Some appear also to stamp with their high heels in time to the music; a
custom even now seen in the Swabian village festivals.
Such was the ball in Ulm. The first blast of the trumpets had sounded
before Albert von Sturmfeder entered the room. His eye flew through the
ranks of the dancers, and soon fell upon his beloved. She was led by a
young Franconian knight of his acquaintance; but she did not appear to
heed the animated conversation which he addressed to her. Her eyes
sought the ground, her look expressed seriousness, bordering on sorrow;
very different from the rest of the female part of the company, who,
floating in all the pleasures of the ball, gave one ear to the music,
the other to their partner; accompanied by inquisitive looks, now to
their acquaintances for the purpose of reading approbation in their
choice of their cavalier, now towards him, to ascertain if his
attention was exclusively taken up with them.
The cornets and trumpets having sounded a finale in lengthened tones,
put an end to the first dance. Dieterick von Kraft having remarked the
arrival of his guest, came to lead him to his cousins, according to his
promise. He whispered to him, that, having himself already engaged
Marie for the next dance, he had asked Bertha's hand for him.
Both the girls had been prepared for the appearance of the interesting
stranger; nevertheless, upon the recollection of the remark she had
made upon him when he passed under her window, Marie's lively features
were covered with a deep blush when he was introduced to them. She was
unable to account to herself for the embarrassment his presence now
produced on her, having only seen him once in her life, and never heard
of him before. Whether it was that she had selected him as the most
striking cavalier in the procession, or whether, among the young
citizens of Ulm, she thought none were to be compared with him in
appearance; such was the effect of this sudden attack on her feelings,
one to which she had hitherto been a stranger, that she had no little
difficulty in endeavouring to conceal her confusion from his
observation.
Though Bertha was timid of betraying the secret of her heart before her
cousin, she had no such feeling to struggle with in regard to Albert.
Their mutual attachment was of long standing and deep-rooted. The first
time she had seen him since their separation in Tuebingen was in the
ranks of the confederates, to whom her father was inveterately opposed.
From that moment her peace of mind had vanished. Her soul was troubled
with cruel doubts and misgivings; and all her hopes appeared for ever
blasted. She nevertheless had sufficient command over herself, and for
a moment the weight which oppressed her mind gave way to joy now that
he stood before her; and she returned his salutation with the same
endearing smile which she was wont to do in the days of their unclouded
happiness. And had her cousin not been taken up in concealing her own
state of embarrassment, she could not have failed to discover, in the
tender glance of Bertha's eye, something which expressed more than
common courtesy.
"I bring you Albert von Sturmfeder, my worthy guest," began the scribe
to Marie, "who begs to have the pleasure of dancing with you."
"Were I not already engaged to my cousin Kraft for the next," said
Marie to the young knight, with recovered self-possession, "I would,
with pleasure; but Bertha is disengaged."
"If you are not engaged, may I have that pleasure?" said he, turning to
Bertha.
"I am engaged to you," she answered. Then it was that Albert heard
again, after so long an absence, that voice which had often called him
by the most endearing name; and he dwelt on those eyes which still
looked on him with undiminished fidelity.
The trumpets again sounded throughout the room. The second in command
of the army of the League, Waldburg Truchses, having the precedence in
the coming dance, came forth with his lady: the torch-bearers followed;
the couples arranged themselves, and Albert also, taking Bertha's hand,
placed himself in the ranks. Her eyes now no longer sought the ground,
but were directed solely to him. But in the expression of her
countenance, Albert could plainly perceive, there was something hanging
on her mind indicative of mental suffering. Joy at meeting him again,
which had but a moment before brightened up her features, was now
succeeded by an expression of dejection, which he could in no wise
account for. So much was he struck by the sudden change in her manner,
that he was on the point of upbraiding her, and taxing her unjustly
with an alteration of love towards him. Grieved at the pain he appeared
to suffer, she gently begged him to wait a fitting moment, and then she
would explain every thing. She looked cautiously behind her at
Dieterick and Marie, who were the next couple to them, to see if they
were near enough to overhear her conversation. Finding they were at
some distance, she said, "Ah! Albert, what unlucky star has brought you
into this army?"
"You were that star, Bertha," he replied: "I thought your father would
be on the side of the League, and I am glad not to find myself
mistaken. Can you blame me for having thrown aside the learned books,
and taken to the profession of arms? No other inheritance has fallen to
my lot than the sword of my father. I will put it to usury; and prove
to your father, that he who loves his daughter is not unworthy of her."
"Oh, God! I trust you have not yet sworn allegiance to the League?" she
exclaimed, interrupting him.
"Do not frighten yourself so, dearest; I have not yet fully bound
myself to it, but I intend to do so in a day or two. Will you not allow
your Albert to gain some little fame! What is it that makes you so
anxious about me? Your father is old, and still he goes with us."
"Ah! my father, my father!" Bertha said, in a desponding tone, "he is
indeed--but stop, Albert, stop, Marie notices us. But I must speak with
you to-morrow--I must, should it cost me my happiness. Oh if I but knew
how to manage it."
"But what is it that agitates you in this way, beloved?" asked Albert,
to whom it was inexplicable how Bertha should only think of the danger
that awaited him, instead of being overjoyed at this meeting. "The
danger is not so great as you imagine," he whispered to her: "think
only of the happiness of being together again, that I can press your
hand, and that we can see each other face to face. Enjoy the present
moment, and be cheerful."
"Cheerful? Oh, those times are gone by, Albert. Hear me, and be
firm;--my father is opposed to the League." She said this in a low
subdued tone.
"Good Heavens! what do you say?" cried the young man; and leant towards
Bertha, as if he had not distinctly heard the ill-foreboding words.
"Oh! tell me; is not your father at present in Ulm?"
The poor girl had thought herself strong enough to withstand the shock
she felt at this moment, but it was too powerful; it deprived her of
utterance, and she could scarcely contain her tears. She answered only
by a slight pressure of her hand; and with downcast eyes went to seek
Kraft, led by Albert, in order to gain a little time to combat the
grief she experienced. The strong mind of this young maiden at last
triumphed over the weakness of her nature; and she whispered to her
lover, in a composed tone, "My father is Duke Ulerich's warmest friend;
and so soon as war is declared, he will take me back to Lichtenstein."
The noise of the drums at this instant was deafening; the trumpets
clanged in their fullest tones as they saluted Truchses, who how passed
by the musicians; and, according to the custom of those days, threw
them some pieces of silver, which caused the trumpets to redouble their
deafening sounds.
The whispered conversation of our two lovers was overpowered by the
confounding noise of the instruments; but their eyes had so much the
more to say to each other in this apparent shipwreck of their hopes, so
that they did not notice the observations, which were passed on them by
the surrounding spectators, as being the handsomest couple in the room.
Marie's ear was not shut to the passing remarks of the crowd. She was
too kind-hearted to be envious of her cousin's praise, and consoled
herself with the idea, that, were she in her place, beside the handsome
young man, the couple would not be less attractive. But it was the
animated conversation which Bertha kept up with her partner, that
particularly attracted her attention. Her reserved cousin, who seldom
or ever talked long with any man, now appeared to speak with even more
earnestness than he did. The music and noise, however, hindered Marie
from overhearing the subject of their conversation. This excited
her curiosity to such a degree (a feeling--perhaps, not without
justice--attributed specially to young ladies), that she drew her own
partner nearer to them, for the purpose of listening; but whether it
was by accident or design, that the conversation either dropped or was
kept up in a subdued tone, the nearer she approached, she could not
catch a word of it.
Marie's interest in the young man increased with these obstacles to her
curiosity. Her good cousin Kraft had never appeared so great a bore to
her as now, for all the pretty sayings with which he endeavoured to fix
her attention, were only so many hindrances to her observing the others
more closely. She was therefore glad when the dance was over. She hoped
the next would be more agreeable, with the young knight for her
partner.
Albert came and engaged her, when she sprang with joy to the hand which
he offered; but she deceived herself in finding him the agreeable
partner she had anticipated. Indifferent, reserved, sunk in deep
thought, giving short answers to her questions, it was too clear he was
not the same person who had but a moment before conversed in so
animated a manner with her cousin.
"Was this the courteous knight," thought Marie, "who had saluted them
in so polite a manner, without ever having seen them before? Was it the
same cheerful and merry person whom cousin Kraft had introduced? the
same who had spoken with Bertha so earnestly? or could she--yes, it was
too evident that Bertha had pleased him better than herself--perhaps,
because she was the first to dance with him."
Marie had been little accustomed to see her reserved cousin preferred
before her, which this apparent victory seemed to indicate. Her vanity
was piqued, she felt herself estranged from Bertha, and conceived
herself bound to exert her talents and winning arts to re-establish
herself in her lost rights. She therefore, in her usual merry mood,
carried on the conversation about the coming war, which she contrived
to lengthen out till the end of the dance. "Well," said she, "and how
many campaigns have you gone through, Albert von Sturmfeder?"
"This will be my first," he answered, abruptly, for he was annoyed that
she kept up the conversation, as he wished so much to speak to Bertha
again.
"Your first!" said Marie, in astonishment. "You surely want to deceive
me, for I perceive a large scar on your forehead."
"I got that at the university," he replied.
"How? are you a scholar?" asked Marie, her curiosity still more
excited. "Well, then, I suppose you have visited distant countries,
Padua or Bologna, or perhaps even the heretics in Wittenberg?"
"Not so far as you think," said he, as he turned to Bertha: "I have
never been further than Tuebingen."
"In Tuebingen?" cried Marie, surprised. This single word, like
lightning, unravelled in a moment every thing in her mind which before
had been obscure. A glance at Bertha, who stood before her with
downcast eyes, her cheeks suffused with the blush of confusion,
convinced her that, on that word, hung the key to a long list of
inferences which had occupied her thoughts. It was now quite clear why
the courteous knight saluted them; the cause of Bertha's tears could be
no other, than that of finding Albert had joined the opposite party;
the earnest conversation between them, and Sturmfeder's reserve to
herself, were satisfactorily explained to her mind. There was no
question of their having long known each other.
Indignation was the first feeling that ruffled Marie's breast. She
blushed for herself, when she felt she had endeavoured to attract the
attention of a young man whose heart was fully occupied by another
object. Ill humour, on account of Bertha's secrecy, clouded her
features. She sought excuse for her own conduct, and found it only in
the duplicity of her cousin. If she had but acknowledged, she said to
herself, the feeling which existed between her and the young knight,
she never would have shown the interest she took in him; he would have
been perfectly indifferent to her; she never would have experienced
this painful confusion.
Marie did not deign to give the unhappy young man another look during
the evening, and he was too much occupied with the painful sensations
of his own mind, to be aware of her ill will towards him. He was also
so unfortunate as to be scarcely able to say another word alone and
unobserved to Bertha. The ball ended, and left him in doubt as to what
her future fate, or the intentions of her father were likely to be. She
seized, however, a favourable moment to whisper to him on the
staircase, when she was going home, begging him to remain in the town
on the morrow, in the hope of finding an opportunity to speak with him.
The two girls went home, both ill at ease with each other. Marie gave
short, snappish answers to Bertha's questions, who, whether it was that
she suspected what was passing in her cousin's mind, or whether she was
overwhelmed by grief, became more melancholy and reserved than ever.
But when they entered their room, silent and cold towards each other,
then it was that they both felt how painful was the interruption of
their hitherto affectionate intercourse. Up to this eventful evening,
they had always assisted each other in all those little services, which
unite young girls in friendship. How different was it now? Marie had
taken the silver pin out of her rich light hair, which fell in long
ringlets over her beautiful neck. She attempted to put it up under her
cap, but unaccustomed to arrange it without Bertha's help, and too
proud to let her enemy, as she now called her cousin in her mind,
notice her embarrassment, she threw it away in a corner, and seized a
handkerchief to tie it up.
Bertha, unconscious of having offended her cousin, could not fail
noticing her change of affection towards her, and felt acutely the
apparent sting of her ruffled temper. She quietly picked up the cap,
and came to render her cousin her usual assistance.
"Away with you, you false one!" said the angry Marie, as she pushed
away the helping hand.
"Dearest Marie, have I deserved this of you?" said Bertha, gently, and
with tenderness. "Oh, if you but knew how unhappy I am, you would not
be so harsh with me."
"Unhappy, indeed!" loudly laughed the other, "unhappy! because the
courteous knight only danced with you once, I suppose."
"You are very hard, Marie," replied Bertha; "you are angry with me, and
will not even tell me the cause of your displeasure."
"Really! so you do not know how you have deceived me? but you cannot
keep your duplicity a secret any longer, which has subjected me to
scorn and confusion. I never could have thought you would have acted so
ungenerously, so falsely by me!"
The wounded feeling of being out-done by her cousin, and as she
thought, despised by Sturmfeder, was again awakened in Marie's mind;
her tears flowed, she laid her heated forehead in her hand, and her
rich locks fell over and hid her face.
Tears are the symptoms of gentle suffering, they say: Bertha had
experienced it, and continued her conversation with confidence. "Marie!
you have accused me of keeping a secret from you. I see you have
discovered that, which I never could have divulged. Put yourself in my
situation--ah! you yourself, cheerful and frank as you are, would never
have confided to me your inmost secret. But I will conceal it no
longer--you have guessed what my lips shunned to express. I love him!
Yes, and my love is returned. This mutual feeling dates much further
back than yesterday. Will you hear me? and I will tell you all."
Marie's tears still flowed on. She made no answer to Bertha's last
question, who now related to her the way in which they became
acquainted with each other in the house of her good aunt in Tuebingen;
how she liked him, long before he acknowledged his love of her; and
narrated many endearing recollections of the past--the happy moments
they had spent together, their oath of fidelity at their separation.
"And now," she continued, with a painful smile, "he has been induced to
join the League in this unhappy war, because we were in Ulm, thinking,
very naturally, that my father was embarked in the same cause. He hopes
to render himself worthy of me by the aid of his sword; for he is poor,
very poor. Oh! Marie, you know my father--how good he is, but also how
stern, when any thing runs counter to his opinion. Would he give his
daughter to a man who has drawn his sword against Wuertemberg? Certainly
not. This is the cause of all the trouble and grief I suffer. Often
have I wished to unburden my heart to you, but an uncontrollable
feeling closed my lips. But now that you know the whole truth, can you
still be angry with me? shall I lose my friend also, as well as my
beloved?"
Poor Bertha could contain her tears no longer, and wept aloud. Marie,
overpowered by the grief of her friend, embraced her cousin with the
warm affection of a tender heart sympathising in her painful situation,
and all feeling of enmity was in a moment extinguished in her breast.
"In a few days," said Bertha, after a short silence, "my father will
quit Ulm, and I must accompany him. But I must see Albert again, if it
were only for a quarter of an hour. Marie, your ingenuity can easily
find us an opportunity; only for a very short quarter of an hour!"
"But you do not wish to make him desert the good cause?" asked Marie.
"I know not what you call the good cause," replied Bertha. "The Duke's
cause is, perhaps, not less good than yours. You talk thus because you
belong to the League. I am a Wuertemberger, and my father is faithful to
his Duke. But shall we girls decide upon the merits of the war? rather
let us think of the means, whereby I may see him again."
Marie had listened with so much interest to the history of her cousin,
that she quite forgot having ever entertained any ill-will towards her.
Besides which, being naturally fond of any thing involved in mystery,
she was glad of an opportunity, such as the present, to exercise her
wits. She felt all the importance and honour of being a confidant, and
consequently determined to spare no pains in serving the lovers in
their critical position.
After a few moments' thought, she said, "I have it; we'll invite him at
once into our garden."
"In the garden!" asked Bertha, fearful and incredulous; "and by whom?"
"His host, good cousin Dieterich himself shall bring him," answered
Marie. "That's a good thought! and he shall not know anything of the
plot; leave that alone to me."
Though Bertha was strong and determined in matters of importance, she
trembled for the result of this rash step. But her bold and cheerful
little cousin knew how to combat her scruples and fears. With renewed
hope, then, in the success of their scheme for the morrow, and their
hearts being restored again to their former mutual confidence, the
girls embraced each other with tender affection, and retired to rest.