CHAPTER 8

After this last adventure they lived at the castle undisturbed and in

peaceful enjoyment. The knight was more and more impressed with the

heavenly goodness of his wife, which she had so nobly shown by her

instant pursuit and by the rescue she had effected in the Black Valley,

where the power of Kuhleborn again commenced. Undine herself enjoyed

that peace and security which never fails the soul as long as it

knows distinctly that it is on the right path; and besides, in the

newly-awakened love and regard of her husband, a thousand gleams of hope

and joy shone upon her.

Bertalda, on the other hand, showed herself grateful, humble, and timid,

without taking to herself any merit for so doing. Whenever Huldbrand or

Undine began to explain to her their reasons for covering the fountain,

or their adventures in the Black Valley, she would earnestly entreat

them to spare her the recital, for the recollection of the fountain

occasioned her too much shame, and that of the Black Valley too much

terror. She learnt nothing more about either of them; and what would

she have gained from more knowledge? Peace and joy had visibly taken up

their abode at Castle Ringstetten. They enjoyed their present blessings

in perfect security, and now imagined that life could produce nothing

but pleasant flowers and fruits.

In this happiness winter came and passed away; and spring, with its

foliage of tender green, and its heaven of softest blue, succeeded to

gladden the hearts of the three inmates of the castle. The season was in

harmony with their minds, and their minds imparted their own hues to the

season. What wonder, then, that its storks and swallows inspired them

also with a disposition to travel? On a bright morning, while they were

wandering down to one of the sources of the Danube, Huldbrand spoke of

the magnificence of this noble stream, how it continued swelling as it

flowed through countries enriched by its waters, with what splendour

Vienna rose and sparkled on its banks, and how it grew lovelier and more

imposing throughout its progress.

“It must be glorious to trace its course down to Vienna!” Bertalda

exclaimed, with warmth; but immediately resuming the humble and modest

demeanour she had recently shown, she paused and blushed in silence.

This much moved Undine; and with the liveliest wish to gratify her

friend, she said, “What hinders our taking this little voyage?”

Bertalda leapt up with delight, and the two friends at the same

moment began painting this enchanting voyage on the Danube in the most

brilliant colours. Huldbrand, too, agreed to the project with pleasure;

only he once whispered, with something of alarm, in Undine’s ear--

“But at that distance Kuhleborn becomes possessed of his power again!”

“Let him come, let him come,” she answered with a laugh; “I shall be

there, and he dares do none of his mischief in my presence.”

Thus was the last impediment removed. They prepared for the expedition,

and soon set out upon it with lively spirits and the brightest hopes.

But be not surprised, O man, if events almost always happen very

differently from what you expect. That malicious power which lies in

ambush for our destruction delights to lull its chosen victim asleep

with sweet songs and golden delusions; while, on the other hand, the

messenger of heaven often strikes sharply at our door, to alarm and

awaken us.

During the first days of their passage down the Danube they were

unusually happy. The further they advanced upon the waters of this proud

river, the views became more and more fair. But amid scenes otherwise

most delicious, and from which they had promised themselves the purest

delight, the stubborn Kuhleborn, dropping all disguise, began to show

his power of annoying them. He had no other means of doing this, indeed,

than by tricks--for Undine often rebuked the swelling waves or the

contrary winds, and then the insolence of the enemy was instantly

humbled and subdued; but his attacks were renewed, and Undine’s reproofs

again became necessary, so that the pleasure of the fellow-travellers

was completely destroyed. The boatmen, too, were continually whispering

to one another in dismay, and eying their three superiors with distrust,

while even the servants began more and more to form dismal surmises, and

to watch their master and mistress with looks of suspicion.

Huldbrand often said in his own mind, “This comes when like marries not

like--when a man forms an unnatural union with a sea-maiden.” Excusing

himself, as we all love to do, he would add: “I did not, in fact, know

that she was a maid of the sea. It is my misfortune that my steps are

haunted and disturbed by the wild humours of her kindred, but it is not

my crime.”

By reflections like these, he felt himself in some measure strengthened;

but, on the other hand, he felt the more ill-humour, almost dislike,

towards Undine. He would look angrily at her, and the unhappy wife but

too well understood his meaning. One day, grieved by this unkindness, as

well as exhausted by her unremitted exertions to frustrate the artifices

of Kuhleborn, she toward evening fell into a deep slumber, rocked and

soothed by the gentle motion of the bark. But hardly had she closed

her eyes, when every person in the boat, in whatever direction he might

look, saw the head of a man, frightful beyond imagination: each head

rose out of the waves, not like that of a person swimming, but quite

perpendicular, as if firmly fastened to the watery mirror, and yet

moving on with the bark. Every one wished to show to his companion what

terrified himself, and each perceived the same expression of horror on

the face of the other, only hands and eyes were directed to a different

quarter, as if to a point where the monster, half laughing and half

threatening, rose opposite to each.

When, however, they wished to make one another understand the site,

and all cried out, “Look, there!” “No, there!” the frightful heads all

became visible to each, and the whole river around the boat swarmed with

the most horrible faces. All raised a scream of terror at the sight, and

Undine started from sleep. As she opened her eyes, the deformed visages

disappeared. But Huldbrand was made furious by so many hideous visions.

He would have burst out in wild imprecations, had not Undine with the

meekest looks and gentlest tone of voice said--

“For God’s sake, my husband, do not express displeasure against me

here--we are on the water.”

The knight was silent, and sat down absorbed in deep thought. Undine

whispered in his ear, “Would it not be better, my love, to give up this

foolish voyage, and return to Castle Ringstetten in peace?”

But Huldbrand murmured wrathfully: “So I must become a prisoner in

my own castle, and not be allowed to breathe a moment but while the

fountain is covered? Would to Heaven that your cursed kindred--”

Then Undine pressed her fair hand on his lips caressingly. He said no

more; but in silence pondered on all that Undine had before said.

Bertalda, meanwhile, had given herself up to a crowd of thronging

thoughts. Of Undine’s origin she knew a good deal, but not the whole;

and the terrible Kuhleborn especially remained to her an awful, an

impenetrable mystery--never, indeed, had she once heard his name. Musing

upon these wondrous things, she unclasped, without being fully conscious

of what she was doing, a golden necklace, which Huldbrand, on one of

the preceding days of their passage, had bought for her of a travelling

trader; and she was now letting it float in sport just over the

surface of the stream, while in her dreamy mood she enjoyed the bright

reflection it threw on the water, so clear beneath the glow of evening.

That instant a huge hand flashed suddenly up from the Danube, seized the

necklace in its grasp, and vanished with it beneath the flood. Bertalda

shrieked aloud, and a scornful laugh came pealing up from the depth of

the river.

The knight could now restrain his wrath no longer. He started up, poured

forth a torrent of reproaches, heaped curses upon all who interfered

with his friends and troubled his life, and dared them all,

water-spirits or mermaids, to come within the sweep of his sword.

Bertalda, meantime, wept for the loss of the ornament so very dear to

her heart, and her tears were to Huldbrand as oil poured upon the flame

of his fury; while Undine held her hand over the side of the boat,

dipping it in the waves, softly murmuring to herself, and only at times

interrupting her strange mysterious whisper to entreat her husband--

“Do not reprove me here, beloved; blame all others as you will, but not

me. You know why!” And in truth, though he was trembling with excess of

passion, he kept himself from any word directly against her.

She then brought up in her wet hand, which she had been holding under

the waves, a coral necklace, of such exquisite beauty, such sparkling

brilliancy, as dazzled the eyes of all who beheld it. “Take this,” said

she, holding it out kindly to Bertalda, “I have ordered it to be brought

to make some amends for your loss; so do not grieve any more, poor

child.”

But the knight rushed between then, and snatching the beautiful ornament

out of Undine’s hand, hurled it back into the flood; and, mad with rage,

exclaimed: “So, then, you have still a connection with them! In the

name of all witches go and remain among them with your presents, you

sorceress, and leave us human beings in peace!”

With fixed but streaming eyes, poor Undine gazed on him, her hand still

stretched out, just as when she had so lovingly offered her brilliant

gift to Bertalda. She then began to weep more and more, as if her heart

would break, like an innocent tender child, cruelly aggrieved. At last,

wearied out, she said: “Farewell, dearest, farewell. They shall do you

no harm; only remain true, that I may have power to keep them from you.

But I must go hence! go hence even in this early youth! Oh, woe, woe!

what have you done! Oh, woe, woe!”

And she vanished over the side of the boat. Whether she plunged into the

stream, or whether, like water melting into water, she flowed away with

it, they knew not--her disappearance was like both and neither. But she

was lost in the Danube, instantly and completely; only little waves were

yet whispering and sobbing around the boat, and they could almost be

heard to say, “Oh, woe, woe! Ah, remain true! Oh, woe!”

But Huldbrand, in a passion of burning tears, threw himself upon the

deck of the bark; and a deep swoon soon wrapped the wretched man in a

blessed forgetfulness of misery.

Shall we call it a good or an evil thing, that our mourning has no

long duration? I mean that deep mourning which comes from the very

well-springs of our being, which so becomes one with the lost objects

of our love that we hardly realize their loss, while our grief devotes

itself religiously to the honouring of their image until we reach that

bourne which they have already reached!

Truly all good men observe in a degree this religious devotion; but yet

it soon ceases to be that first deep grief. Other and new images throng

in, until, to our sorrow, we experience the vanity of all earthly

things. Therefore I must say: Alas, that our mourning should be of such

short duration!

The lord of Ringstetten experienced this; but whether for his good,

we shall discover in the sequel of this history. At first he could do

nothing but weep--weep as bitterly as the poor gentle Undine had wept

when he snatched out of her hand that brilliant ornament, with which

she so kindly wished to make amends for Bertalda’s loss. And then he

stretched his hand out, as she had done, and wept again like her, with

renewed violence. He cherished a secret hope, that even the springs of

life would at last become exhausted by weeping. And has not the like

thought passed through the minds of many of us with a painful pleasure

in times of sore affliction? Bertalda wept with him; and they lived

together a long while at the castle of Ringstetten in undisturbed quiet,

honouring the memory of Undine, and having almost wholly forgotten their

former attachment. And therefore the good Undine, about this time, often

visited Huldbrand’s dreams: she soothed him with soft and affectionate

caresses, and then went away again, weeping in silence; so that when he

awoke, he sometimes knew not how his cheeks came to be so wet--whether

it was caused by her tears, or only by his own.

But as time advanced, these visions became less frequent, and the sorrow

of the knight less keen; still he might never, perhaps, have entertained

any other wish than thus quietly to think of Undine, and to speak of

her, had not the old fisherman arrived unexpectedly at the castle, and

earnestly insisted on Bertalda’s returning with him as his child. He had

received information of Undine’s disappearance; and he was not willing

to allow Bertalda to continue longer at the castle with the widowed

knight. “For,” said he, “whether my daughter loves me or not is at

present what I care not to know; but her good name is at stake: and

where that is the case, nothing else may be thought of.”

This resolution of the old fisherman, and the fearful solitude that, on

Bertalda’s departure, threatened to oppress the knight in every hall and

passage of the deserted castle, brought to light what had disappeared in

his sorrow for Undine,--I mean, his attachment to the fair Bertalda; and

this he made known to her father.

The fisherman had many objections to make to the proposed marriage. The

old man had loved Undine with exceeding tenderness, and it was doubtful

to his mind that the mere disappearance of his beloved child could be

properly viewed as her death. But were it even granted that her corpse

were lying stiff and cold at the bottom of the Danube, or swept away

by the current to the ocean, still Bertalda had had some share in her

death; and it was unfitting for her to step into the place of the poor

injured wife. The fisherman, however, had felt a strong regard also for

the knight: this and the entreaties of his daughter, who had become much

more gentle and respectful, as well as her tears for Undine, all exerted

their influence, and he must at last have been forced to give up his

opposition, for he remained at the castle without objection, and a

messenger was sent off express to Father Heilmann, who in former and

happier days had united Undine and Huldbrand, requesting him to come and

perform the ceremony at the knight’s second marriage.

Hardly had the holy man read through the letter from the lord of

Ringstetten, ere he set out upon the journey and made much greater

dispatch on his way to the castle than the messenger from it had made in

reaching him. Whenever his breath failed him in his rapid progress, or

his old limbs ached with fatigue, he would say to himself:

“Perhaps I shall be able to prevent a sin; then sink not, withered body,

before I arrive at the end of my journey!” And with renewed vigour he

pressed forward, hurrying on without rest or repose, until, late one

evening, he entered the shady court-yard of the castle of Ringstetten.

The betrothed were sitting side by side under the trees, and the aged

fisherman in a thoughtful mood sat near them. The moment they saw Father

Heilmann, they rose with a spring of joy, and pressed round him with

eager welcome. But he, in a few words, asked the bridegroom to return

with him into the castle; and when Huldbrand stood mute with surprise,

and delayed complying with his earnest request, the pious preacher said

to him--

“I do not know why I should want to speak to you in private; what I have

to say as much concerns Bertalda and the fisherman as yourself; and what

we must at some time hear, it is best to hear as soon as possible. Are

you, then, so very certain, Knight Huldbrand, that your first wife is

actually dead? I can hardly think it. I will say nothing, indeed, of the

mysterious state in which she may be now existing; I know nothing of

it with certainty. But that she was a most devoted and faithful wife is

beyond all dispute. And for fourteen nights past, she has appeared to me

in a dream, standing at my bedside wringing her tender hands in anguish,

and sighing out, ‘Ah, prevent him, dear father! I am still living! Ah,

save his life! Ah, save his soul!’

“I did not understand what this vision of the night could mean, then

came your messenger; and I have now hastened hither, not to unite, but,

as I hope, to separate what ought not to be joined together. Leave her,

Huldbrand! leave him, Bertalda! He still belongs to another; and do you

not see on his pale cheek his grief for his lost wife? That is not the

look of a bridegroom; and the spirit says to me, that ‘if you do not

leave him you will never be happy!’”

The three felt in their inmost hearts that Father Heilmann spoke the

truth; but they would not believe it. Even the old fisherman was so

infatuated, that he thought it could not be otherwise than as they

had latterly settled amongst themselves. They all, therefore, with a

determined and gloomy eagerness, struggled against the representations

and warnings of the priest, until, shaking his head and oppressed with

sorrow, he finally quitted the castle, not choosing to accept their

offered shelter even for a single night, or indeed so much as to taste a

morsel of the refreshment they brought him. Huldbrand persuaded himself,

however, that the priest was a mere visionary; and sent at daybreak to a

monk of the nearest monastery, who, without scruple, promised to perform

the ceremony in a few days.