CHAPTER 7

The writer of this tale, both because it moves his own heart and he

wishes it to move that of others, asks a favour of you, dear reader.

Forgive him if he passes over a considerable space of time in a few

words, and only tells you generally what therein happened. He knows well

that it might be unfolded skilfully, and step by step, how Huldbrand’s

heart began to turn from Undine and towards Bertalda--how Bertalda met

the young knight with ardent love, and how they both looked upon the

poor wife as a mysterious being, more to be dreaded than pitied--how

Undine wept, and her tears stung the conscience of her husband, without

recalling his former love; so that though at times he showed kindness

to her, a cold shudder soon forced him to turn from her to his

fellow-mortal Bertalda;--all this, the writer knows, might have been

drawn out fully, and perhaps it ought to have been. But it would have

made him too sad; for he has witnessed such things, and shrinks from

recalling even their shadow. Thou knowest, probably, the like feeling,

dear reader; for it is the lot of mortal man. Happy art thou if thou

hast received the injury, not inflicted it; for in this case it is

more blessed to receive than to give. Then only a soft sorrow at such a

recollection passes through thy heart, and perhaps a quiet tear trickles

down thy cheek over the faded flowers in which thou once so heartily

rejoiced. This is enough: we will not pierce our hearts with a thousand

separate stings, but only bear in mind that all happened as I just now

said.

Poor Undine was greatly troubled; and the other two were very far from

being happy. Bertalda in particular, whenever she was in the slightest

degree opposed in her wishes, attributed the cause to the jealousy and

oppression of the injured wife. She was therefore daily in the habit of

showing a haughty and imperious demeanour, to which Undine yielded with

a sad submission; and which was generally encouraged strongly by the now

blinded Huldbrand.

What disturbed the inmates of the castle still more, was the endless

variety of wonderful apparitions which assailed Huldbrand and Bertalda

in the vaulted passages of the building, and of which nothing had ever

been heard before within the memory of man. The tall white man, in

whom Huldbrand but too plainly recognized Undine’s uncle Kuhleborn, and

Bertalda the spectral master of the waterworks, often passed before them

with threatening aspect and gestures; more especially, however, before

Bertalda, so that, through terror, she had several times already fallen

sick, and had, in consequence, frequently thought of quitting the

castle. Yet partly because Huldbrand was but too dear to her, and she

trusted to her innocence, since no words of love had passed between

them, and partly also because she knew not whither to direct her steps,

she lingered where she was.

The old fisherman, on receiving the message from the lord of Ringstetten

that Bertalda was his guest, returned answer in some lines almost too

illegible to be deciphered, but still the best his advanced life and

long disuse of writing permitted him to form.

“I have now become,” he wrote, “a poor old widower, for my beloved and

faithful wife is dead. But lonely as I now sit in my cottage, I prefer

Bertalda’s remaining where she is, to her living with me. Only let her

do nothing to hurt my dear Undine, else she will have my curse.”

The last words of this letter Bertalda flung to the winds; but the

permission to remain from home, which her father had granted her, she

remembered and clung to--just as we are all of us wont to do in similar

circumstances.

One day, a few moments after Huldbrand had ridden out, Undine called

together the domestics of the family, and ordered them to bring a large

stone, and carefully to cover with it a magnificent fountain, that was

situated in the middle of the castle court. The servants objected that

it would oblige them to bring water from the valley below. Undine smiled

sadly.

“I am sorry, my friends,” replied she, “to increase your labour; I would

rather bring up the water-vessels myself: but this fountain must indeed

be closed. Believe me when I say that it must be done, and that only by

doing it we can avoid a greater evil.”

The domestics were all rejoiced to gratify their gentle mistress; and

making no further inquiry, they seized the enormous stone. While they

were raising it in their hands, and were now on the point of adjusting

it over the fountain, Bertalda came running to the place, and cried,

with an air of command, that they must stop; that the water she used,

so improving to her complexion, was brought from this fountain, and that

she would by no means allow it to be closed.

This time, however, Undine, while she showed her usual gentleness,

showed more than her usual resolution: she said it belonged to her, as

mistress of the house, to direct the household according to her best

judgment; and that she was accountable in this to no one but her lord

and husband.

“See, O pray see,” exclaimed the dissatisfied and indignant Bertalda,

“how the beautiful water is curling and curving, winding and waving

there, as if disturbed at being shut out from the bright sunshine, and

from the cheerful view of the human countenance, for whose mirror it was

created.”

In truth the water of the fountain was agitated, and foaming and hissing

in a surprising manner; it seemed as if there were something within

possessing life and will, that was struggling to free itself from

confinement. But Undine only the more earnestly urged the accomplishment

of her commands. This earnestness was scarcely required. The servants

of the castle were as happy in obeying their gentle lady, as in opposing

the haughty spirit of Bertalda; and however the latter might scold

and threaten, still the stone was in a few minutes lying firm over the

opening of the fountain. Undine leaned thoughtfully over it, and wrote

with her beautiful fingers on the flat surface. She must, however,

have had something very sharp and corrosive in her hand, for when she

retired, and the domestics went up to examine the stone, they discovered

various strange characters upon it, which none of them had seen there

before.

When the knight returned home, toward evening, Bertalda received him

with tears, and complaints of Undine’s conduct. He cast a severe glance

of reproach at his poor wife, and she looked down in distress; yet she

said very calmly:

“My lord and husband, you never reprove even a bondslave before you hear

his defence; how much less, then, your wedded wife!”

“Speak! what moved you to this singular conduct?” said the knight with a

gloomy countenance.

“I could wish to tell you when we are entirely alone,” said Undine, with

a sigh.

“You can tell me equally well in the presence of Bertalda,” he replied.

“Yes, if you command me,” said Undine; “but do not command me--pray,

pray do not!”

She looked so humble, affectionate, and obedient, that the heart of the

knight was touched and softened, as if it felt the influence of a ray

from better times. He kindly took her arm within his, and led her to his

apartment, where she spoke as follows:

“You already know something, my beloved lord, of Kuhleborn, my

evil-disposed uncle, and have often felt displeasure at meeting him in

the passages of this castle. Several times has he terrified Bertalda

even to swooning. He does this because he possesses no soul, being a

mere elemental mirror of the outward world, while of the world within

he can give no reflection. Then, too, he sometimes observes that you

are displeased with me, that in my childish weakness I weep at this, and

that Bertalda, it may be, laughs at the same moment. Hence it is that he

imagines all is wrong with us, and in various ways mixes with our circle

unbidden. What do I gain by reproving him, by showing displeasure, and

sending him away? He does not believe a word I say. His poor nature has

no idea that the joys and sorrows of love have so sweet a resemblance,

and are so intimately connected that no power on earth is able to

separate them. A smile shines in the midst of tears, and a smile calls

forth tears from their dwelling-place.”

She looked up at Huldbrand, smiling and weeping, and he again felt

within his heart all the magic of his former love. She perceived it, and

pressed him more tenderly to her, while with tears of joy she went on

thus:

“When the disturber of our peace would not be dismissed with words, I

was obliged to shut the door upon him; and the only entrance by which

he has access to us is that fountain. His connection with the other

water-spirits here in this region is cut off by the valleys that border

upon us; and his kingdom first commences farther off on the Danube, in

whose tributary streams some of his good friends have their abode. For

this reason I caused the stone to be placed over the opening of the

fountain, and inscribed characters upon it, which baffle all the efforts

of my suspicious uncle; so that he now has no power of intruding either

upon you or me, or Bertalda. Human beings, it is true, notwithstanding

the characters I have inscribed there, are able to raise the stone

without any extraordinary trouble; there is nothing to prevent them. If

you choose, therefore, remove it, according to Bertalda’s desire; but

she assuredly knows not what she asks. The rude Kuhleborn looks with

peculiar ill-will upon her; and should those things come to pass that he

has predicted to me, and which may happen without your meaning any evil,

ah! dearest, even you yourself would be exposed to peril.”

Huldbrand felt the generosity of his gentle wife in the depth of

his heart, since she had been so active in confining her formidable

defender, and even at the very moment she was reproached for it by

Bertalda. He pressed her in his arms with the tenderest affection, and

said with emotion:

“The stone shall remain unmoved; all remains, and ever shall remain,

just as you choose to have it, my sweetest Undine!”

At these long-withheld expressions of tenderness, she returned his

caresses with lowly delight, and at length said:

“My dearest husband, since you are so kind and indulgent to-day, may I

venture to ask a favour of you? See now, it is with you as with

summer. Even amid its highest splendour, summer puts on the flaming and

thundering crown of glorious tempests, in which it strongly resembles a

king and god on earth. You, too, are sometimes terrible in your rebukes;

your eyes flash lightning, while thunder resounds in your voice; and

although this may be quite becoming to you, I in my folly cannot but

sometimes weep at it. But never, I entreat you, behave thus toward me

on a river, or even when we are near any water. For if you should, my

relations would acquire a right over me. They would inexorably tear me

from you in their fury, because they would conceive that one of their

race was injured; and I should be compelled, as long as I lived, to

dwell below in the crystal palaces, and never dare to ascend to you

again; or should THEY SEND me up to you!--O God! that would be far worse

still. No, no, my beloved husband; let it not come to that, if your poor

Undine is dear to you.”

He solemnly promised to do as she desired, and, inexpressibly happy and

full of affection, the married pair returned from the apartment. At this

very moment Bertalda came with some work-people whom she had meanwhile

ordered to attend her, and said with a fretful air, which she had

assumed of late:

“Well, now the secret consultation is at an end, the stone may be

removed. Go out, workmen, and see to it.”

The knight, however, highly resenting her impertinence, said, in brief

and very decisive terms: “The stone remains where it is!” He reproved

Bertalda also for the vehemence that she had shown towards his wife.

Whereupon the workmen, smiling with secret satisfaction, withdrew; while

Bertalda, pale with rage, hurried away to her room.

When the hour of supper came, Bertalda was waited for in vain. They sent

for her; but the domestic found her apartments empty, and brought back

with him only a sealed letter, addressed to the knight. He opened it in

alarm, and read:

“I feel with shame that I am only the daughter of a poor fisherman. That

I for one moment forgot this, I will make expiation in the miserable hut

of my parents. Farewell to you and your beautiful wife!”

Undine was troubled at heart. With eagerness she entreated Huldbrand to

hasten after their friend, who had flown, and bring her back with him.

Alas! she had no occasion to urge him. His passion for Bertalda again

burst forth with vehemence. He hurried round the castle, inquiring

whether any one had seen which way the fair fugitive had gone. He

could gain no information; and was already in the court on his horse,

determining to take at a venture the road by which he had conducted

Bertalda to the castle, when there appeared a page, who assured him that

he had met the lady on the path to the Black Valley. Swift as an arrow,

the knight sprang through the gate in the direction pointed out, without

hearing Undine’s voice of agony, as she cried after him from the window:

“To the Black Valley? Oh, not there! Huldbrand, not there! Or if you

will go, for Heaven’s sake take me with you!”

But when she perceived that all her calling was of no avail, she ordered

her white palfrey to be instantly saddled, and followed the knight,

without permitting a single servant to accompany her.

The Black Valley lies secluded far among the mountains. What its present

name may be I am unable to say. At the time of which I am speaking, the

country-people gave it this appellation from the deep obscurity produced

by the shadows of lofty trees, more especially by a crowded growth of

firs that covered this region of moorland. Even the brook, which bubbled

between the rocks, assumed the same dark hue, and showed nothing of that

cheerful aspect which streams are wont to wear that have the blue sky

immediately over them.

It was now the dusk of evening; and between the heights it had become

extremely wild and gloomy. The knight, in great anxiety, skirted the

border of the brook. He was at one time fearful that, by delay, he

should allow the fugitive to advance too far before him; and then again,

in his too eager rapidity, he was afraid he might somewhere overlook

and pass by her, should she be desirous of concealing herself from his

search. He had in the meantime penetrated pretty far into the valley,

and might hope soon to overtake the maiden, provided he were pursuing

the right track. The fear, indeed, that he might not as yet have gained

it, made his heart beat with more and more of anxiety. In the stormy

night which was now approaching, and which always fell more fearfully

over this valley, where would the delicate Bertalda shelter herself,

should he fail to find her? At last, while these thoughts were darting

across his mind, he saw something white glimmer through the branches on

the ascent of the mountain. He thought he recognized Bertalda’s robe;

and he directed his course towards it. But his horse refused to go

forward; he reared with a fury so uncontrollable, and his master was so

unwilling to lose a moment, that (especially as he saw the thickets were

altogether impassable on horseback) he dismounted, and, having fastened

his snorting steed to an elm, worked his way with caution through the

matted underwood. The branches, moistened by the cold drops of the

evening dew, struck against his forehead and cheeks; distant thunder

muttered from the further side of the mountains; and everything put on

so strange an appearance, that he began to feel a dread of the white

figure, which now lay at a short distance from him upon the ground.

Still, he could see distinctly that it was a female, either asleep or

in a swoon, and dressed in long white garments such as Bertalda had worn

the past day. Approaching quite near to her, he made a rustling with the

branches and a ringing with his sword; but she did not move.

“Bertalda!” he cried, at first low, then louder and louder; yet she

heard him not. At last, when he uttered the dear name with an energy yet

more powerful, a hollow echo from the mountain-summits around the valley

returned the deadened sound, “Bertalda!” Still the sleeper continued

insensible. He stooped down; but the duskiness of the valley, and the

obscurity of twilight would not allow him to distinguish her features.

While, with painful uncertainty, he was bending over her, a flash of

lightning suddenly shot across the valley. By this stream of light he

saw a frightfully distorted visage close to his own, and a hoarse voice

reached his ear:

“You enamoured swain, give me a kiss!” Huldbrand sprang upon his feet

with a cry of horror, and the hideous figure rose with him.

“Go home!” it cried, with a deep murmur: “the fiends are abroad. Go

home! or I have you!” And it stretched towards him its long white arms.

“Malicious Kuhleborn!” exclaimed the knight, with restored energy; “if

Kuhleborn you are, what business have you here?--what’s your will, you

goblin? There, take your kiss!” And in fury he struck his sword at the

form. But it vanished like vapour; and a rush of water, which wetted

him through and through, left him in no doubt with what foe he had been

engaged.

“He wishes to frighten me back from my pursuit of Bertalda,” said he to

himself. “He imagines that I shall be terrified at his senseless tricks,

and resign the poor distressed maiden to his power, so that he can wreak

his vengeance upon her at will. But that he shall not, weak spirit of

the flood! What the heart of man can do, when it exerts the full force

of its will and of its noblest powers, the poor goblin cannot fathom.”

He felt the truth of his words, and that they had inspired his heart

with fresh courage. Fortune, too, appeared to favour him; for, before

reaching his fastened steed, he distinctly heard the voice of Bertalda,

weeping not far before him, amid the roar of the thunder and the

tempest, which every moment increased. He flew swiftly towards the

sound, and found the trembling maiden, just as she was attempting to

climb the steep, hoping to escape from the dreadful darkness of this

valley. He drew near her with expressions of love; and bold and proud as

her resolution had so lately been, she now felt nothing but joy that the

man whom she so passionately loved should rescue her from this frightful

solitude, and thus call her back to the joyful life in the castle. She

followed almost unresisting, but so spent with fatigue, that the knight

was glad to bring her to his horse, which he now hastily unfastened from

the elm, in order to lift the fair wanderer upon him, and then to lead

him carefully by the reins through the uncertain shades of the valley.

But, owing to the wild apparition of Kuhleborn, the horse had become

wholly unmanageable. Rearing and wildly snorting as he was, the knight

must have used uncommon effort to mount the beast himself; to place

the trembling Bertalda upon him was impossible. They were compelled,

therefore, to return home on foot. While with one hand the knight drew

the steed after him by the bridle, he supported the tottering Bertalda

with the other. She exerted all the strengths in her power in order to

escape speedily from this vale of terrors. But weariness weighed her

down like lead; and all her limbs trembled, partly in consequence

of what she had suffered from the extreme terror which Kuhleborn had

already caused her, and partly from her present fear at the roar of the

tempest and thunder amid the mountain forest.

At last she slid from the arm of the knight; and sinking upon the moss,

she said: “Only let me lie here, my noble lord. I suffer the punishment

due to my folly; and I must perish here through faintness and dismay.”

“Never, gentle lady, will I leave you,” cried Huldbrand, vainly trying

to restrain the furious animal he was leading, for the horse was all

in a foam, and began to chafe more ungovernably than before, till the

knight was glad to keep him at such a distance from the exhausted maiden

as to save her from a new alarm. But hardly had he withdrawn five steps

with the frantic steed when she began to call after him in the most

sorrowful accents, fearful that he would actually leave her in this

horrible wilderness. He was at a loss what course to take. He would

gladly have given the enraged beast his liberty; he would have let him

rush away amid the night and exhaust his fury, had he not feared that

in this narrow defile his iron-shod hoofs might come thundering over the

very spot where Bertalda lay.

In this extreme peril and embarrassment he heard with delight the

rumbling wheels of a waggon as it came slowly descending the stony way

behind them. He called out for help; answer was returned in the deep

voice of a man, bidding them have patience, but promising assistance;

and two grey horses soon after shone through the bushes, and near them

their driver in the white frock of a carter; and next appeared a great

sheet of white linen, with which the goods he seemed to be conveying

were covered. The greys, in obedience to a shout from their master,

stood still. He came up to the knight, and aided him in checking the

fury of the foaming charger.

“I know well enough,” said he, “what is the matter with the brute.

The first time I travelled this way my horses were just as wilful and

headstrong as yours. The reason is, there is a water-spirit haunts this

valley--and a wicked wight they say he is--who takes delight in mischief

and witcheries of this sort. But I have learned a charm; and if you will

let me whisper it in your horse’s ear, he will stand just as quiet as my

silver greys there.”

“Try your luck, then, and help us as quickly as possible!” said the

impatient knight.

Upon this the waggoner drew down the head of the rearing courser close

to his own, and spoke some words in his ear. The animal instantly stood

still and subdued; only his quick panting and smoking sweat showed his

recent violence.

Huldbrand had little time to inquire by what means this had been

effected. He agreed with the man that he should take Bertalda in his

waggon, where, as he said, a quantity of soft cotton was stowed, and

he might in this way convey her to Castle Ringstetten. The knight could

accompany them on horseback. But the horse appeared to be too much

exhausted to carry his master so far. Seeing this, the man advised him

to mount the waggon with Bertalda. The horse could be attached to it

behind.

“It is down-hill,” said he, “and the load for my greys will therefore be

light.”

The knight accepted his offer, and entered the waggon with Bertalda.

The horse followed patiently after, while the waggoner, sturdy and

attentive, walked beside them.

Amid the silence and deepening obscurity of the night, the tempest

sounding more and more remote, in the comfortable feeling of their

security, a confidential conversation arose between Huldbrand and

Bertalda. He reproached her in the most flattering words for her

resentful flight. She excused herself with humility and feeling; and

from every tone of her voice it shone out, like a lamp guiding to the

beloved through night and darkness, that Huldbrand was still dear to

her. The knight felt the sense of her words rather than heard the words

themselves, and answered simply to this sense.

Then the waggoner suddenly shouted, with a startling voice: “Up,

my greys, up with your feet! Hey, now together!--show your

spirit!--remember who you are!”

The knight bent over the side of the waggon, and saw that the horses

had stepped into the midst of a foaming stream, and were, indeed, almost

swimming, while the wheels of the waggon were rushing round and flashing

like mill-wheels; and the waggoner had got on before, to avoid the swell

of the flood.

“What sort of a road is this? It leads into the middle of the stream!”

cried Huldbrand to his guide.

“Not at all, sir,” returned he, with a laugh; “it is just the contrary.

The stream is running in the middle of our road. Only look about you,

and see how all is overflowed!”

The whole valley, in fact, was in commotion, as the waters, suddenly

raised and visibly rising, swept over it.

“It is Kuhleborn, that evil water-spirit, who wishes to drown us!”

exclaimed the knight. “Have you no charm of protection against him,

friend?”

“I have one,” answered the waggoner; “but I cannot and must not make use

of it before you know who I am.”

“Is this a time for riddles?” cried the knight. “The flood is every

moment rising higher; and what does it concern ME to know who YOU are?”

“But mayhap it does concern you, though,” said the guide; “for I am

Kuhleborn.”

Thus speaking he thrust his head into the waggon, and laughed with a

distorted visage. But the waggon remained a waggon no longer; the grey

horses were horses no longer; all was transformed to foam--all sank

into the waters that rushed and hissed around them; while the

waggoner himself, rising in the form of a gigantic wave, dragged the

vainly-struggling courser under the waters, then rose again huge as a

liquid tower, swept over the heads of the floating pair, and was on the

point of burying them irrecoverably beneath it. Then the soft voice of

Undine was heard through the uproar; the moon emerged from the clouds;

and by its light Undine was seen on the heights above the valley.

She rebuked, she threatened the floods below her. The menacing and

tower-like billow vanished, muttering and murmuring; the waters gently

flowed away under the beams of the moon; while Undine, like a hovering

white dove, flew down from the hill, raised the knight and Bertalda,

and bore them to a green spot, where, by her earnest efforts, she soon

restored them and dispelled their terrors. She then assisted Bertalda

to mount the white palfrey on which she had herself been borne to the

valley; and thus all three returned homeward to Castle Ringstetten.