CHAPTER 4

Before the nuptial ceremony, and during its performance, Undine had

shown a modest gentleness and maidenly reserve; but it now seemed as if

all the wayward freaks that effervesced within her burst forth with

an extravagance only the more bold and unrestrained. She teased her

bridegroom, her foster-parents, and even the priest, whom she had just

now revered so highly, with all sorts of childish tricks; but when the

ancient dame was about to reprove her too frolicsome spirit, the knight,

in a few words, imposed silence upon her by speaking of Undine as his

wife.

The knight was himself, indeed, just as little pleased with Undine’s

childish behaviour as the rest; but all his looks and half-reproachful

words were to no purpose. It is true, whenever the bride observed the

dissatisfaction of her husband--and this occasionally happened--she

became more quiet, placed herself beside him, stroked his face with

caressing fondness, whispered something smilingly in his ear, and in

this manner smoothed the wrinkles that were gathering on his brow.

But the moment after, some wild whim would make her resume her antic

movements; and all went worse than before.

The priest then spoke in a kind although serious tone: “My fair young

maiden, surely no one can look on you without pleasure; but remember

betimes so to attune your soul that it may produce a harmony ever in

accordance with the soul of your wedded bridegroom.”

“SOUL!” cried Undine with a laugh. “What you say has a remarkably

pretty sound; and for most people, too, it may be a very instructive and

profitable caution. But when a person has no soul at all, how, I pray

you, can such attuning be then possible? And this, in truth, is just my

condition.”

The priest was much hurt, but continued silent in holy displeasure, and

turned away his face from the maiden in sorrow. She, however, went up to

him with the most winning sweetness, and said:

“Nay, I entreat you first listen to me, before you are angry with me;

for your anger is painful to me, and you ought not to give pain to a

creature that has not hurt you. Only have patience with me, and I will

explain to you every word of what I meant.”

It was evident that she had come to say something important; when she

suddenly faltered as if seized with inward shuddering, and burst into

a passion of tears. They were none of them able to understand the

intenseness of her feelings; and, with mingled emotions of fear and

anxiety, they gazed on her in silence. Then, wiping away her tears, and

looking earnestly at the priest, she at last said:

“There must be something lovely, but at the same time something most

awful, about a soul. In the name of God, holy man, were it not better

that we never shared a gift so mysterious?”

Again she paused, and restrained her tears, as if waiting for an answer.

All in the cottage had risen from their seats, and stepped back from her

with horror. She, however, seemed to have eyes for no one but the holy

man; an awful curiosity was painted on her features, which appeared

terrible to the others.

“Heavily must the soul weigh down its possessor,” she pursued, when no

one returned her any answer--“very heavily! for already its approaching

image overshadows me with anguish and mourning. And, alas, I have till

now been so merry and light-hearted!” and she burst into another flood

of tears, and covered her face with her veil.

The priest, going up to her with a solemn look, now addressed himself

to her, and conjured her, by the name of God most holy, if any spirit of

evil possessed her, to remove the light covering from her face. But

she sank before him on her knees, and repeated after him every sacred

expression he uttered, giving praise to God, and protesting “that she

wished well to the whole world.”

The priest then spoke to the knight: “Sir bridegroom, I leave you

alone with her whom I have united to you in marriage. So far as I can

discover, there is nothing of evil in her, but assuredly much that is

wonderful. What I recommend to you is--prudence, love, and fidelity.”

Thus speaking, he left the apartment; and the fisherman, with his wife,

followed him, crossing themselves.

Undine had sunk upon her knees. She uncovered her face, and exclaimed,

while she looked fearfully round upon Huldbrand, “Alas! you will now

refuse to look upon me as your own; and still I have done nothing evil,

poor unhappy child that I am!” She spoke these words with a look so

infinitely sweet and touching, that her bridegroom forgot both the

confession that had shocked, and the mystery that had perplexed him;

and hastening to her, he raised her in his arms. She smiled through her

tears; and that smile was like the morning light playing upon a small

stream. “You cannot desert me!” she whispered confidingly, and stroked

the knight’s cheeks with her little soft hands. He turned away from the

frightful thoughts that still lurked in the recesses of his soul,

and were persuading him that he had been married to a fairy, or some

spiteful and mischievous being of the spirit-world. Only the single

question, and that almost unawares, escaped from his lips.

“Dearest Undine, tell me this one thing: what was it you meant by

‘spirits of earth’ and ‘Kuhleborn,’ when the priest stood knocking at

the door?”

“Tales! mere tales of children!” answered Undine, laughing, now quite

restored to her wonted gaiety. “I first frightened you with them, and

you frightened me. This is the end of the story, and of our nuptial

evening.”

“Nay, not so,” replied the enamoured knight, extinguishing the tapers,

and a thousand times kissing his beautiful and beloved bride; while,

lighted by the moon that shone brightly through the windows, he bore her

into their bridal apartment.

The fresh light of morning woke the young married pair: but Huldbrand

lay lost in silent reflection. Whenever, during the night, he had fallen

asleep, strange and horrible dreams of spectres had disturbed him; and

these shapes, grinning at him by stealth, strove to disguise themselves

as beautiful females; and from beautiful females they all at once

assumed the appearance of dragons. And when he started up, aroused by

the intrusion of these hideous forms, the moonlight shone pale and cold

before the windows without. He looked affrighted at Undine, in whose

arms he had fallen asleep: and she was reposing in unaltered beauty and

sweetness beside him. Then pressing her rosy lips with a light kiss, he

again fell into a slumber, only to be awakened by new terrors.

When fully awake, he had thought over this connection. He reproached

himself for any doubt that could lead him into error in regard to his

lovely wife. He also confessed to her his injustice; but she only gave

him her fair hand, sighed deeply, and remained silent. Yet a glance of

fervent tenderness, an expression of the soul beaming in her eyes, such

as he had never witnessed there before, left him in undoubted assurance

that Undine bore him no ill-will.

He then rose joyfully, and leaving her, went to the common apartment,

where the inmates of the house had already met. The three were sitting

round the hearth with an air of anxiety about them, as if they feared

trusting themselves to raise their voice above a low, apprehensive

undertone. The priest appeared to be praying in his inmost spirit, with

a view to avert some fatal calamity. But when they observed the young

husband come forth so cheerful, they dispelled the cloud that remained

upon their brows: the old fisherman even began to laugh with the

knight till his aged wife herself could not help smiling with great

good-humour.

Undine had in the meantime got ready, and now entered the room; all

rose to meet her, but remained fixed in perfect admiration--she was so

changed, and yet the same. The priest, with paternal affection beaming

from his countenance, first went up to her; and as he raised his hand to

pronounce a blessing, the beautiful bride sank on her knees before him

with religious awe; she begged his pardon in terms both respectful and

submissive for any foolish things she might have uttered the evening

before, and entreated him with emotion to pray for the welfare of her

soul. She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and, after thanking them

for all the kindness they had shown her, said:

“Oh, I now feel in my inmost heart how much, how infinitely much, you

have done for me, you dear, dear friends of my childhood!”

At first she was wholly unable to tear herself away from their

affectionate caresses; but the moment she saw the good old mother busy

in getting breakfast, she went to the hearth, applied herself to cooking

the food and putting it on the table, and would not suffer her to take

the least share in the work.

She continued in this frame of spirit the whole day: calm, kind

attentive--half matronly, and half girlish. The three who had been

longest acquainted with her expected every instant to see her capricious

spirit break out in some whimsical change or sportive vagary. But their

fears were quite unnecessary. Undine continued as mild and gentle as an

angel. The priest found it all but impossible to remove his eyes from

her; and he often said to the bridegroom:

“The bounty of Heaven, sir, through me its unworthy instrument,

entrusted to you yesterday an invaluable treasure; cherish it as you

ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal welfare.”

Toward evening Undine was hanging upon the knight’s arm with lowly

tenderness, while she drew him gently out before the door, where the

setting sun shone richly over the fresh grass, and upon the high,

slender boles of the trees. Her emotion was visible: the dew of sadness

and love swam in her eyes, while a tender and fearful secret seemed to

hover upon her lips, but was only made known by hardly-breathed sighs.

She led her husband farther and farther onward without speaking. When he

asked her questions, she replied only with looks, in which, it is true,

there appeared to be no immediate answer to his inquiries, but a whole

heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they reached the margin of the

swollen forest stream, and the knight was astonished to see it gliding

away with so gentle a murmuring of its waves, that no vestige of its

former swell and wildness was now discernible.

“By morning it will be wholly drained off,” said the beautiful wife,

almost weeping, “and you will then be able to travel, without anything

to hinder you, whithersoever you will.”

“Not without you, dear Undine,” replied the knight, laughing; “think,

only, were I disposed to leave you, both the Church and the spiritual

powers, the Emperor and the laws of the realm, would require the

fugitive to be seized and restored to you.”

“All this depends on you--all depends on you,” whispered his little

companion, half weeping and half smiling. “But I still feel sure that

you will not leave me; I love you too deeply to fear that misery. Now

bear me over to that little island which lies before us. There shall

the decision be made. I could easily, indeed, glide through that mere

rippling of the water without your aid, but it is so sweet to lie in

your arms; and should you determine to put me away, I shall have rested

in them once more,... for the last time.”

Huldbrand was so full of strange anxiety and emotion, that he knew not

what answer to make her. He took her in his arms and carried her over,

now first realizing the fact that this was the same little island from

which he had borne her back to the old fisherman, the first night of his

arrival. On the farther side, he placed her upon the soft grass, and

was throwing himself lovingly near his beautiful burden; but she said to

him, “Not here, but opposite me. I shall read my doom in your eyes, even

before your lips pronounce it: now listen attentively to what I shall

relate to you.” And she began:

“You must know, my own love, that there are beings in the elements which

bear the strongest resemblance to the human race, and which, at the

same time, but seldom become visible to you. The wonderful salamanders

sparkle and sport amid the flames; deep in the earth the meagre and

malicious gnomes pursue their revels; the forest-spirits belong to the

air, and wander in the woods; while in the seas, rivers, and streams

live the widespread race of water-spirits. These last, beneath

resounding domes of crystal, through which the sky can shine with its

sun and stars, inhabit a region of light and beauty; lofty coral-trees

glow with blue and crimson fruits in their gardens; they walk over the

pure sand of the sea, among exquisitely variegated shells, and amid

whatever of beauty the old world possessed, such as the present is no

more worthy to enjoy--creations which the floods covered with their

secret veils of silver; and now these noble monuments sparkle below,

stately and solemn, and bedewed by the water, which loves them, and

calls forth from their crevices delicate moss-flowers and enwreathing

tufts of sedge.

“Now the nation that dwell there are very fair and lovely to behold,

for the most part more beautiful than human beings. Many a fisherman has

been so fortunate as to catch a view of a delicate maiden of the waters,

while she was floating and singing upon the deep. He would then spread

far the fame of her beauty; and to such wonderful females men are wont

to give the name of Undines. But what need of saying more?--You, my dear

husband, now actually behold an Undine before you.”

The knight would have persuaded himself that his lovely wife was under

the influence of one of her odd whims, and that she was only amusing

herself and him with her extravagant inventions. He wished it might be

so. But with whatever emphasis he said this to himself, he still could

not credit the hope for a moment: a strange shivering shot through his

soul; unable to utter a word, he gazed upon the sweet speaker with a

fixed eye. She shook her head in distress, sighed from her full heart,

and then proceeded in the following manner:--“We should be far superior

to you, who are another race of the human family,--for we also call

ourselves human beings, as we resemble them in form and features--had

we not one evil peculiar to ourselves. Both we and the beings I have

mentioned as inhabiting the other elements vanish into air at death and

go out of existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us remains;

and when you hereafter awake to a purer state of being, we shall remain

where sand, and sparks, and wind, and waves remain. Thus we have no

souls; the element moves us, and, again, is obedient to our will, while

we live, though it scatters us like dust when we die; and as we

have nothing to trouble us, we are as merry as nightingales, little

gold-fishes, and other pretty children of nature.

“But all beings aspire to rise in the scale of existence higher than

they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a powerful

water-prince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only daughter should

become possessed of a soul, although she should have to endure many of

the sufferings of those who share that gift.

“Now the race to which I belong have no other means of obtaining a soul

than by forming with an individual of your own the most intimate union

of love. I am now possessed of a soul, and my soul thanks you, my best

beloved, and never shall cease to thank you, if you do not render my

whole future life miserable. For what will become of me, if you avoid

and reject me? Still, I would not keep you as my own by artifice. And

should you decide to cast me off, then do it now, and return alone to

the shore. I will plunge into this brook, where my uncle will receive

me; my uncle, who here in the forest, far removed from his other

friends, passes his strange and solitary existence. But he is powerful,

as well as revered and beloved by many great rivers; and as he brought

me hither to the fisherman a light-hearted and laughing child, he will

take me home to my parents a woman, gifted with a soul, with power to

love and to suffer.”

She was about to add something more, when Huldbrand, with the most

heartfelt tenderness and love, clasped her in his arms, and again bore

her back to the shore. There, amid tears and kisses, he first swore

never to forsake his affectionate wife, and esteemed himself even more

happy than Pygmalion, for whom Venus gave life to his beautiful statue,

and thus changed it into a beloved wife. Supported by his arm, and in

the confidence of affection, Undine returned to the cottage; and now

she first realized with her whole heart how little cause she had for

regretting what she had left--the crystal palace of her mysterious

father.