The magic ring, Vol. 1 (of 3) 8 – Gillies · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The magic ring, Vol. 1 (of 3) 8Chapter 7
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Literature · Romance
The magic ring, Vol. 1 (of 3) 8
Chapter 7
GilliesEnglish
How Sir Otto vanquished Sir Heerdegen von Lichtenried.
In that smiling land, where the silver-blue Mayne rolls its waters past the old free town of Frankfort, where, on both sides, are situated the most attractive villages and garden-houses, vineyards and pleasure-grounds, life is indeed joyous and delightful! Whoever has the good fortune to be there in the vernal season of flowers and blossoms, especially if he be a young warrior, with his heart full and buoyant with grand and lofty anticipations, may quaff for once a cup of pleasure such as the whole course of his after-life may not offer to his lips. The truth of what has just now been said is known to the writer of this history from his own experience; and he heartily wishes that his readers may have proved it also, both for their own sakes, and in order that they may better sympathize with the feelings, which, as it were, spread a golden web of enchantment over all the objects by which the youthful Otto was now surrounded. He knew not what to look upon as most interesting, the thoughts of his journey and warlike exploits,--the blooming fairy-land, with its orchard-trees, winding-walks and avenues, varied hills and dales, in which he was placed; or, finally, the mirthful and courteous people by whom this land was inhabited.
In such mood of mind he rode up to a house for the entertainment of travellers, which was situated not far from the banks of the river, and whose inviting portico of vines and jasmines determined him to alight and rest here at least till after mid-day. His noble charger was duly led into the stable, and supplied with provender, though the knight must himself attend to this duty, as the faithful and attached animal would not allow any one else to come near him. At last Sir Otto was seated in the portico, with a flask of old Rudisheimer before him, which, as he poured out a full glass, shone like liquid gold amid the light that came flickering through the dark-green foliage of the arbour.
Soon afterwards a man happened to come out from the house into the portico, not much older than Otto in years, but of a sombre, sunburnt visage, accoutred as a knight, and with his whole armour dusty and rusted, as if from a long journey. His weapons too were without ornament, and buckled on in such a manner, that it was obvious the stranger cared not for external appearances; and he must have afforded a remarkable contrast to the youth, in his bright silver coat of mail, whom he now found sitting over his wine in the arbour. The stranger’s salutation was courteous, though in a tone which betrayed somewhat of moroseness and discontent. He took his place opposite to the Knight of Trautwangen, and also demanded wine. The latter was at first by no means well satisfied with his companion, believing that such an intruder would put to flight all the fairy-visions which the pleasant scene around him had inspired, without offering by his discourse any desirable compensation. He soon discovered, however, that the stranger belonged to that class of people who are justly compared to rough diamonds, to hard ordinary-looking pebbles, that when struck, yield bright sparks, or to the dingy masses of ore from which the alchemist at last brings forth pure gold. He had travelled through many distant countries, yet had never lost his original character,--that of an honest unaffected German; or such attributes had been strengthened rather than weakened, as the more he had observed of other countries the more deeply he had been aware of his exclusive attachment to his native land. The conversation, when once begun, proved interesting to both parties, and they soon found themselves in such good humour, that they were not displeased when a third party made his appearance from the house and joined their table. This was a young merchant, named Theobaldo, of Italian birth, who had been sent by his relations in the south to study the commerce of this flourishing town. Among much other discourse, the strange knight in the rusty armour related the following history, to which they listened with great attention.
“In the distant northern kingdom of Sweden, there are not only people yet living under the clouds of ignorance and pagan superstition, but, especially on the borders of Finland, are many unfortunate victims of witchcraft and necromancy, which arts are still practised there by magicians and sorcerers, who can bring against their enemies all sorts of evil in body, goods, and estate. Just on the Finland frontier there is situated a high mountain, which, on the Swedish side, is covered with beautiful copsewood, and on the other with dark pine-trees, so closely ranked together, and so luxuriant in shade, that one might almost say, the smallest bird could not find his way through the thickets. Below the copsewood there stands a chapel with the image of St George, as guardian of the land, and a defence against the dragons, (if there be such,) and other monsters of paganism; while on the other side, on the borders of the dark fir-wood, are certain cottages inhabited by wicked sorcerers, who have, moreover, a cave cut so deep into the mountain, that it joins with the bottomless abyss, whence come all the devils that assist them. The Swedish Christians, who dwelt in the neighbourhood of this mountain, thought it would be necessary, besides the chapel and statue of St George, to choose some living protector, and therefore selected an ancient warrior, highly renowned for his prowess in the battle-field, and who had in his old age become a monk. When this man went to take up his abode on the mountains, his only son (for he had formerly lived as a married man in the world) would on no account leave him; but lived there also, assisting his father in his duties as watcher, and in the exercises of prayer and penitence, fully equalling the example that was now afforded him, as he had formerly done by his bravery as a soldier. The life here led by those two valiant champions is said to have been most edifying and pious.
“Once on a time it happened, that the young hero went out to cut wood in the forest. He bore a sharp axe on his shoulders, and was besides girded with a great sword; for, as the woods were not only full of wild beasts, but also haunted by wicked men, the pious hermits took the precaution of always going armed. While the good youth was forcing his way through the thickest of the copsewood, and already beheld over it the pointed tops of the fir-trees, (for he was close on the Finland frontier,) there rushed out against him a great white wolf, so that he had just time enough to leap to one side, and not being able immediately to draw his sword, he flung the axe at his assailant. The blow was so well aimed, that it struck one of the wolf’s fore-legs, who being cruelly wounded, limped back, with a yell of anguish, into the wood. The young hermit-warrior, however, thought to himself, “It is not enough that I am rescued, but I must take such measures that no one else may in future be injured, or even terrified by this wild beast.” So he rushed in as fast as possible among the fir-trees, and inflicted such a vehement blow with his sword on the wolf’s head, that the animal, moaning piteously, fell to the ground. Hereupon there came over him all at once a strange mood of regret and compassion for his poor victim. Instead of putting it immediately to death, he bound up the wounds, as well as he could, with moss and twigs of trees, placed it on a sort of canvass sling, on which he was in the habit of carrying great faggots, and with much labour brought it home, in hopes that he might be able at last to cure and tame his fallen adversary.
“He did not find his father in the cottage, and it was not without some fear and anxiety that he laid the wolf on his own bed, which was made of moss and rushes, and over which he had painted a figure of St George and the dragon. He then turned to the fire-place of the small hut, in order to prepare a healing salve for the wounds; but, when thus occupied, how was he surprised to hear the moanings and lamentations of an articulate voice from the bed on which he had just before deposited the wolf! On returning thither, his astonishment was inexpressible on perceiving, instead of the frightful wild beast, a most beautiful damsel, on whose head the wound which he had inflicted was bleeding through her fine golden hair, and whose right arm, in all its grace and snow-white luxuriance, was stretched out motionless, for it had been broken by the blow from his axe! “Pray,” said she, “have pity, and do not kill me outright. The little life that I have still left is indeed painful enough, and may not last long,--yet sad as my condition is, it is yet tenfold better than to die!”--The young man then knelt down weeping beside her, and she explained to him how she was the daughter of a magician on the other side of the mountain, who had sent her out in the shape of a wolf to collect plants from places which, in her own proper form, she could not have reached. It was but in terror that she had made that violent spring, which the youth had mistaken for an attack on him, when her only wish had been to pass him by. “But you directly broke my right arm,” said she, “though I had no evil design against you!” How she had now regained her proper shape she could not imagine; but to the youth it was quite clear, that the picture of St George and the dragon had broken the spell by which the poor girl had been transformed.
“While the son was thus occupied, the old man returned home, and soon learned all that had occurred, perceiving, at the same time, that if the young pagan wanderer had been released from the spells by which she had been bound, the youth was in his turn enchanted, and spell-bound by her beauty and amiable behaviour.
“From that moment he exerted himself to the utmost, for the welfare of her soul, endeavouring to convert her to Christianity, while his son attended to the cure of her wounds; and, as their endeavours were on both sides successful, it was resolved among them, that the lovers should be united in holy bonds of matrimony, for the youth had not yet restricted himself by any monastic vows.
“The magician’s daughter was now restored to perfect health; a day had been appointed for her baptism and marriage, before which it happened that the bride and bridegroom went to take a pleasure-walk one evening through the woods. The sun was yet high in the west, and shone so fervently through the beech-trees on the green turf, that they could never resolve on returning home, but always came deeper and deeper into the forest. Then the bride told him stories of her early life; and sang old songs, which she had learned when a child, and which sounded beautifully amid the woodland-solitude. Though the words were such that they could not be agreeable to the youth’s ears, (for she had learned them among her pagan and wicked relations,) yet he could not interrupt her; first, because he loved her so dearly; and, secondly, because she sung in a voice so clear and sweet, that the whole forest seemed to rejoice in her music. At last, however, the pointed heads of the pine-trees again became visible, and the youth wished to turn back, in order that he might not come again too near the accursed Finland frontier. His bride, however, said to him,--“Dearest Conrad,” (for that was his name,) “why should we not walk on a little farther? I would gladly see the very place where you wounded me so cruelly on the head and arm, and made me a prisoner; all which has in the end only contributed to my happiness. Methinks we are now very near the spot.” Accordingly they sought about here and there, till at last the twilight fell dim and heavily on the dense woods. The sun had long since set; the moon had risen, however, and as her light broke forth the lovers stood on the Finland frontier,--or rather they must have gone already some distance beyond it, for the bridegroom was exceedingly terrified when he found his cap lifted from his head, as if by a human hand, though this was only the branch of a fir-tree. Immediately thereafter the whole air around them was filled with strange and supernatural beings,--witches, devils, dwarfs, horned owls, fire-eyed cats, and a thousand other wretches that could not be named or described, whirled around them as if dancing to rapid music; at which, when the bride had looked on for a while, she broke out into loud laughter, and at last began to dance furiously along with them. The poor bridegroom might shout and pray, as much and as earnestly as he would, for she never attended to him, but at last transformed herself in a manner so extraordinary, that he could not distinguish her from the other dancers in that abominable waltz. He thought, however, that he had kept his eyes upon her, and seized on one of the dancers; but, alas! it was only a horrible spectre who held him fast, and threw her wide-waving shroud around him, so that he could not make his escape; while, at the same time, some of the subterraneous black demons pulled at his legs, and wanted to tear him down along with them into their bottomless caves.
“Fortunately he happened at that moment to cross himself, and call on the name of our Saviour; upon which the whole of this vile assembly fell into confusion. They howled aloud, and ran off in all directions; while, in the mean time, he saved himself by recrossing the frontiers, and getting under the protection of the Swedish copsewood. His beautiful bride, however, was completely lost, and by no endeavours could he ever obtain her again, though he often came to the Finland border, called out her name aloud, wept and prayed; but all in vain! Many times, it is true, he saw her floating about through the pine-trees, as if in the chase, but she was always accompanied by a train of frightful creatures, and she herself also looked wild and disfigured. For the most part she never noticed Conrad; but, if she could not help fixing her eyes on him, she laughed so immoderately, and in a mood of merriment so strange and unnatural, that he was terrified, and made the sign of the cross; whereupon she always fled away howling into the thickets. He fell more and more into melancholy abstraction, hardly ever spoke, and though he had given over his vain walks into the forest, yet, if one asked him any question, the only answer he returned was, “Ay, she is gone away beyond the mountains!”--so little did he know or remember of any other object in the world but the lost beauty! At last he died of grief;--and, according to a request which he had once made, his father prepared a grave for him on the place where the bride was found and lost; though, during the fulfilment of this duty, he had enough to do, one while in contending with the crucifix against evil spirits, and at another with his sword against wild beasts, which were no doubt sent thither by the magicians to attack and annoy him. At length, however, he brought his task to an end, and thereafter it seemed as if the bride mourned for the youth’s untimely death; for there was heard often a sound of howling and lamentation at the grave. For the most part indeed this noise is like the voices of wolves, yet, at the same time, human accents are to be distinguished, and I myself have often listened thereto on dark winter nights.”
The knight in rusty armour having concluded his story, all three sat for some time silent and meditative,--till at length Theobaldo began to speak. “The cureless wounds of unfortunate love; the loss, or, much more, the changed heart of one whom we held most dear, and to whom, though changed, we yet feel an unconquerable attachment, are indeed among the most fearful causes of distress to which we are in this life subjected. I remember a story somewhat alike in this respect to that which we have now heard; and if my worthy companions are inclined to listen, am ready to narrate it.” Both knights assured him that they would be deeply attentive, and he proceeded as follows:--“It may be about twenty-five or thirty years since there lived, in my native town of Milan, a young maiden, who was not only amiable in temper, but such a paragon of beauty, as only some great master in painting, or sculpture, could imagine in a summer night’s dream. At the same time she was modest, quiet, retired, and humble; though, notwithstanding this disposition, as a diamond will shine even amid the deepest shade, she became known and admired through the whole town, under the name of the beautiful Lisberta. This flower of the Milanese damsels was one day invited to make her appearance, adorned with garlands and in festal attire, at a religious procession, in order that her extraordinary charms might heighten its effect on beholders; and, as she considered this but as the fulfilment of a pious duty, she agreed to the request which had been urged upon her. She, therefore, adorned herself in the best manner with the richest dress, flowers, jewels, rings, and gold chains,--finishing her toilette, however, long before the procession was ready to commence; so that, having some time at her own disposal, and invited by the pleasant fragrant air of spring, she resolved to take a walk in the garden, which had been tastefully laid out round her father’s house, who was one of the richest men in Milan.
“On her way through the long avenues and shady walks, wherein were the rarest fruit-trees and flowering plants, she came to the borders of a lake clear as crystal, which lay there like a sleeping beauty in the arms of the green thickets by which it was environed. As if bound by magic spells to the spot, she stood on the water’s brink, looking at her reflected image, in all her pomp of dress and glittering jewels; so that, like the fabulous Narcissus of old, she could not help wondering at her own attractions. At last, she forced herself, by a kind of vehement effort, to fix her eyes on the real objects by which she was surrounded, in order that she might escape from the delusions of the watery mirror, and thus became aware of something among the grass, which glittered like burnished gold and silver. Glad of aught that could divert her attention, and desirous to know what extraordinary meadow-flower this could be that shone so brightly, she hastened to the spot, and found, to her great surprise, that it was a highly-polished sword, with a golden hilt, a scabbard bound with silver, and altogether of a most elegant fashion. She took it up, as if it had been a mere toy, notwithstanding the terror which she usually entertained of such warlike instruments; nay, she even drew it half out of the sheath, and wondered to find that her features were now reflected in greater beauty from the polished steel than they had been before from the water, while at the same time she felt less apprehension and perplexity. Alas! poor Lisberta, thou hadst then unwittingly the means of thine own destruction in thy hands, which, like a merciless sickle, was to cut down thy life and happiness like a May flower in bloom! Though the sword alone would not cause such misfortune, yet thou wert destined to fall the victim of him by whom it was usually worn and wielded.
“From amid the verdant thickets stepped forward a knight in full armour,--no longer a youth, but yet not old, and with such indescribable heroic dignity in his person and demeanour, that, on his appearance, the beautiful Lisberta, from an involuntary emotion of respect, had almost fallen on her knees before him. “Fairest of damsels,” said the knight, “beware of wounding yourself with that sharp-edged weapon. Far rather would I see my heart’s blood streaming from my veins, than even the slightest drop from these snow-white hands!” Thereupon, with the greatest respect, he took from her the sword, placing it again in the belt by his side, and before he had time to say more, the servants came into the garden, calling aloud for Lisberta, as the procession had already begun. The shy timid girl hastily made a sign to the knight that he should withdraw, and, after a respectful obeisance, he disappeared immediately through the green hedges by which the garden was enclosed.
“How confusedly the procession, the singing of the choir, and the applause of the multitude, were blended and lost to the senses of Lisberta, I need not further describe; besides, my heart bleeds to think of the fate which awaited the poor victim; and thus I have dwelt too long on the circumstances of her early life, well knowing how melancholy were the events that attended her afterwards. From this point then allow me to proceed more quickly towards the end.
“In the evening after the festival, when she was sitting lost in thought at her window, the declining sun shone so brightly and beautifully, that she could not help observing one of her favourite flowers,--a tall and slender plant, which had broke loose from the rushes with which it had been tied up, and now hung down from the veranda towards the terrace-walk below. On her endeavouring to restore the plant to its former station, she observed a figure passing through the garden, in which she recognised but too plainly, the knight with whom she had spoken in the morning,--the owner of that brightly gleaming sword. In all haste she tied up the flower, and would have retreated; but what was her surprise to find a letter attached thereto, which no doubt had been the work of that mysterious wanderer. On unfolding and reading it, she indeed found that it was a love-letter from him, and that he was a renowned knight from a distant country, who, in the town of Milan, was known by the name of Signor Uguccione, and of whose warlike exploits and amiable conduct she had already heard many wonderful stories. Her heart, therefore, which was already moved in his favour, soon yielded, when she thought of the high praises that had been bestowed on him. The blooming plant was ere long loosed again from its support, and sent down with her love-embassy, in reply to that which she had received;--and soon after returned with another letter from Uguccione. In this way salutations went and came, till at last Lisberta herself went down by moonlight by the private staircase which led into the garden; for in the night hours she was sure that no one would come to disturb their conversation.
“It happened, after some time, however, that though Lisberta’s letters were sent down as usual, yet no one came thither to take them from their verdant envelope. When she drew up the plant, she found them, alas! unopened. At last she began to make inquiries after Uguccione, and learned that many days ago he had vanished, in a manner the most unaccountable, from Milan. Yet every night the unfortunate damsel used to bend the plant down as usual to the terrace, and if she drew it up and found no letter, she always wept bitterly. This was continued so long, that at last, by such continual grief, her heart was broken. After her death and funeral, a lady who had won her confidence made the fatal flower be planted on her grave; and I have often beheld it there, spreading its green shade and fragrance over that lonely and mournful place.”
