Let us glance at the home of Basil Wolgemuth. It was a German habitation
of the Middle Ages; a comfortable but not luxurious dwelling, such a one
as we see in old German pictures. In homes like this was nurtured the
genius of Rembrandt, of Rubens, of Vandyck; from such a peaceful German
home sprang the fiery spirit and indomitable zeal of Luther; and in like
home-nests were cradled the early years of most of the rude but noble
men, who, either by the sword or the pen, have made their names famous
throughout the fair land of the Rhine.
Basil, his mother, Margareta, and another young girl sat round a table,
spread with the ample fare of bread and fruits. The mother was worthy of
such a son,——a matron of placid but noble aspect; like him, too, in the
deep clear eyes and open forehead. Margareta, a sweet bud, which only
needed time to burst forth into a perfect flower, sat by her brother’s
side; the fourth of the group was Isilda.
I hardly know how to describe Isilda. There is one face only I have
seen which pictures her to my idea; it is a Madonna of Guido Reni’s.
Once beheld, that face imprints itself forever on the heart. It is the
embodiment of a soul so pure, so angelic, that it might have been Eve’s
when she was still in Eden; yet there is in the eyes that shadow of
woman’s intense love, the handmaid of which is ever sorrow; and those
deep blue orbs seemed thoughtfully looking into the dim future with a
vague sadness, as if conscious that the peace of the present would not
endure. Womanly sweetness, feelings suppressed, not slumbering, a soul
attuned to high thoughts like a well-strung lyre, and only needing a
breath to awaken its harmonious chords,——all these are visible in that
face which shone into the painter’s heart, and has lived forever in the
work of his hand. And such was Isilda.
Basil sat opposite to her; he looked into her eyes; he drank in her
smile, and was happy. All traces of the careworn student had vanished;
he was cheerful even to gayety; laughed and jested with his sister; bade
her sing old ditties, and even joined in the strain, which made them all
more mirthful still. Basil had little music in his voice, but much in his
heart. When the songs ceased, Margareta prayed him to repeat some old
ballad, he knew so many. The student looked towards Isilda; her eyes had
more persuasive eloquence than even his sister’s words, and he began:——
“THE ELLE-MAID GAY.[1]
“Ridest by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig,
Ridest by the woodland gray?
Who sits by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig?
It is the Elle-maid gay.
“A kiss on thy lips lies, Ludwig, Ludwig,
Pure as the dews of May:
Think on thine own love, brown-haired Ludwig,
And not on an Elle-maid gay.
“She sits ’neath a linden, singing, singing,
Though her dropped lids nothing say;
For her beauty lures whether smiling or singing,
For she is an Elle-maid gay.
“‘Thou hast drunk of my wine-cup, Ludwig, Ludwig,
Thou hast drunk of my lips this day;
I am no more false than thou, young Ludwig,
Though I am an Elle-maid gay.’
“‘Ride fast from the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig,’
Her laughter tracks his way;
‘Didst thou clasp a fair woman, Ludwig, Ludwig,
And found her an Elle-maid gay?’
“‘Flee, flee!’ they cry, ‘he is mad, Count Ludwig;
He rides through the street to-day
With his beard unshorn, and his cloak brier-torn:
He has met with the Elle-maid gay!’
“‘I fear him not, my knight, my Ludwig’
(The bride’s dear lips did say),
‘Though he comes from the woodland, he is my Ludwig;
He saw not the Elle-maid gay.
“‘Welcome, my lord, my love, my Ludwig!’
But her smile grew ashen-gray,
As she knew by the glare of the mad eyes’ stare,
He had been with the Elle-maid gay.
“‘God love thee——God pity thee, O my Ludwig!’
Nor her true arms turned she away.
‘Thou art no sweet woman,’ cried fiercely Ludwig,
‘But a foul Elle-maid gay.
“‘I kiss thee——I slay thee;——I thy Ludwig’:
And the steel flashed bright to the day:
‘Better clasp a dead bride,’ laughed out Ludwig,
‘Than a false Elle-maid gay.
“‘I kissed thee, I slew thee; I——thy Ludwig;
And now will we sleep alway.’
Still fair blooms the woodland where rode Ludwig,
Still there sits the Elle-maid gay.”
The student ceased; and there was a deep silence. Basil’s young sister
glanced round fearfully. Isilda moved not; but as the clear tones of
Basil’s voice ended, one deep-drawn sigh was heard, as it were the
unconscious relief of a full heart.
“You have chosen a gloomy story, Basil,” said the mother, at last.