CHAPTER 9

It was between night and dawn of day that Huldbrand was lying on his

couch, half waking and half sleeping. Whenever he attempted to compose

himself to sleep, a terror came upon him and scared him, as if his

slumbers were haunted with spectres. But he made an effort to rouse

himself fully. He felt fanned as by the wings of a swan, and lulled as

by the murmuring of waters, till in sweet confusion of the senses he

sank back into his state of half-consciousness.

At last, however, he must have fallen perfectly asleep; for he seemed to

be lifted up by wings of the swans, and to be wafted far away over land

and sea, while their music swelled on his ear most sweetly. “The music

of the swan! the song of the swan!” he could not but repeat to himself

every moment; “is it not a sure foreboding of death?” Probably, however,

it had yet another meaning. All at once he seemed to be hovering over

the Mediterranean Sea. A swan sang melodiously in his ear, that this

was the Mediterranean Sea. And while he was looking down upon the waves,

they became transparent as crystal, so that he could see through them to

the very bottom.

At this a thrill of delight shot through him, for he could see Undine

where she was sitting beneath the clear crystal dome. It is true she was

weeping very bitterly, and looked much sadder than in those happy days

when they lived together at the castle of Ringstetten, both on their

arrival and afterward, just before they set out upon their fatal passage

down the Danube. The knight could not help thinking upon all this

with deep emotion, but it did not appear that Undine was aware of his

presence.

Kuhleborn had meanwhile approached her, and was about to reprove her for

weeping, when she drew herself up, and looked upon him with an air so

majestic and commanding, that he almost shrank back.

“Although I now dwell here beneath the waters,” said she, “yet I have

brought my soul with me. And therefore I may weep, little as you can

know what such tears are. They are blessed, as everything is blessed to

one gifted with a true soul.”

He shook his head incredulously; and after some thought, replied, “And

yet, niece, you are subject to our laws, as a being of the same nature

with ourselves; and should HE prove unfaithful to you and marry again,

you are obliged to take away his life.”

“He remains a widower to this very hour,” replied Undine, “and I am

still dear to his sorrowful heart.”

“He is, however, betrothed,” said Kuhleborn, with a laugh of scorn;

“and let only a few days wear away, and then comes the priest with his

nuptial blessing; and then you must go up to the death of the husband

with two wives.”

“I have not the power,” returned Undine, with a smile. “I have sealed up

the fountain securely against myself and all of my race.”

“Still, should he leave his castle,” said Kuhleborn, “or should he once

allow the fountain to be uncovered, what then? for he thinks little

enough of these things.”

“For that very reason,” said Undine, still smiling amid her tears,

“for that very reason he is at this moment hovering in spirit over the

Mediterranean Sea, and dreaming of the warning which our discourse gives

him. I thoughtfully planned all this.”

That instant, Kuhleborn, inflamed with rage, looked up at the knight,

wrathfully threatened him, stamped on the ground, and then shot like an

arrow beneath the waves. He seemed to swell in his fury to the size of

a whale. Again the swans began to sing, to wave their wings and fly; the

knight seemed to soar away over mountains and streams, and at last to

alight at Castle Ringstetten, and to awake on his couch.

Upon his couch he actually did awake; and his attendant entering at the

same moment, informed him that Father Heilmann was still lingering in

the neighbourhood; that he had the evening before met with him in the

forest, where he was sheltering himself under a hut, which he had formed

by interweaving the branches of trees, and covering them with moss and

fine brushwood; and that to the question “What he was doing there, since

he would not give the marriage blessing?” his answer was--

“There are many other blessings than those given at marriages; and

though I did not come to officiate at the wedding, I may still officiate

at a very different solemnity. All things have their seasons; we must

be ready for them all. Besides, marrying and mourning are by no means so

very unlike; as every one not wilfully blinded must know full well.”

The knight made many bewildered reflections on these words and on his

dream. But it is very difficult to give up a thing which we have

once looked upon as certain; so all continued as had been arranged

previously.

Should I relate to you how passed the marriage-feast at Castle

Ringstetten, it would be as if you saw a heap of bright and pleasant

things, but all overspread with a black mourning crape, through whose

darkening veil their brilliancy would appear but a mockery of the

nothingness of all earthly joys.

It was not that any spectral delusion disturbed the scene of festivity;

for the castle, as we well know, had been secured against the mischief

of water-spirits. But the knight, the fisherman, and all the guests were

unable to banish the feeling that the chief personage of the feast was

still wanting, and that this chief personage could be no other than the

gentle and beloved Undine.

Whenever a door was heard to open, all eyes were involuntarily turned in

that direction; and if it was nothing but the steward with new dishes,

or the cupbearer with a supply of wine of higher flavour than the last,

they again looked down in sadness and disappointment, while the flashes

of wit and merriment which had been passing at times from one to

another, were extinguished by tears of mournful remembrance.

The bride was the least thoughtful of the company, and therefore the

most happy; but even to her it sometimes seemed strange that she

should be sitting at the head of the table, wearing a green wreath and

gold-embroidered robe, while Undine was lying a corpse, stiff and cold,

at the bottom of the Danube, or carried out by the current into the

ocean. For ever since her father had suggested something of this

sort, his words were continually sounding in her ear; and this day, in

particular, they would neither fade from her memory, nor yield to other

thoughts.

Evening had scarcely arrived, when the company returned to their homes;

not dismissed by the impatience of the bridegroom, as wedding parties

are sometimes broken up, but constrained solely by heavy sadness and

forebodings of evil. Bertalda retired with her maidens, and the knight

with his attendants, to undress, but there was no gay laughing company

of bridesmaids and bridesmen at this mournful festival.

Bertalda wished to awaken more cheerful thoughts; she ordered her

maidens to spread before her a brilliant set of jewels, a present from

Huldbrand, together with rich apparel and veils, that she might select

from among them the brightest and most beautiful for her dress in the

morning. The attendants rejoiced at this opportunity of pouring forth

good wishes and promises of happiness to their young mistress, and

failed not to extol the beauty of the bride with the most glowing

eloquence. This went on for a long time, until Bertalda at last, looking

in a mirror, said with a sigh--

“Ah, but do you not see plainly how freckled I am growing? Look here on

the side of my neck.”

They looked at the place, and found the freckles, indeed, as their fair

mistress had said; but they called them mere beauty spots, the faintest

touches of the sun, such as would only heighten the whiteness of her

delicate complexion. Bertalda shook her head, and still viewed them as a

blemish. “And I could remove them,” she said at last, sighing. “But

the castle fountain is covered, from which I formerly used to have that

precious water, so purifying to the skin. Oh, had I this evening only a

single flask of it!”

“Is that all?” cried an alert waiting-maid, laughing as she glided out

of the apartment.

“She will not be so foolish,” said Bertalda, well-pleased and surprised,

“as to cause the stone cover of the fountain to be taken off this very

evening?” That instant they heard the tread of men passing along the

court-yard, and could see from the window where the officious maiden was

leading them directly up to the fountain, and that they carried levers

and other instruments on their shoulders.

“It is certainly my will,” said Bertalda with a smile, “if it does not

take them too long.” And pleased with the thought, that a word from her

was now sufficient to accomplish what had formerly been refused with

a painful reproof, she looked down upon their operations in the bright

moonlit castle-court.

The men raised the enormous stone with an effort; some one of the number

indeed would occasionally sigh, when he recollected they were destroying

the work of their former beloved mistress. Their labour, however, was

much lighter than they had expected. It seemed as if some power from

within the fountain itself aided them in raising the stone.

“It appears,” said the workmen to one another in astonishment, “as if

the confined water had become a springing fountain.” And the stone rose

more and more, and, almost without the assistance of the work-people,

rolled slowly down upon the pavement with a hollow sound. But an

appearance from the opening of the fountain filled them with awe, as it

rose like a white column of water; at first they imagined it really to

be a fountain, until they perceived the rising form to be a pale female,

veiled in white. She wept bitterly, raised her hands above her head,

wringing them sadly as with slow and solemn step she moved toward the

castle. The servants shrank back, and fled from the spring, while the

bride, pale and motionless with horror, stood with her maidens at the

window. When the figure had now come close beneath their room, it looked

up to them sobbing, and Bertalda thought she recognized through the

veil the pale features of Undine. But the mourning form passed on,

sad, reluctant, and lingering, as if going to the place of execution.

Bertalda screamed to her maids to call the knight; not one of them dared

to stir from her place; and even the bride herself became again mute, as

if trembling at the sound of her own voice.

While they continued standing at the window, motionless as statues,

the mysterious wanderer had entered the castle, ascended the well-known

stairs, and traversed the well-known halls in silent tears. Alas, how

different had she once passed through these rooms!

The knight had in the meantime dismissed his attendants. Half-undressed

and in deep dejection, he was standing before a large mirror, a wax

taper burned dimly beside him. At this moment some one tapped at his

door very, very softly. Undine had formerly tapped in this way, when she

was playing some of her endearing wiles.

“It is all an illusion!” said he to himself. “I must to my nuptial bed.”

“You must indeed, but to a cold one!” he heard a voice, choked with

sobs, repeat from without; and then he saw in the mirror, that the door

of his room was slowly, slowly opened, and the white figure entered, and

gently closed it behind her.

“They have opened the spring,” said she in a low tone; “and now I am

here, and you must die.”

He felt, in his failing breath, that this must indeed be; but covering

his eyes with his hands, he cried: “Do not in my death-hour, do not make

me mad with terror. If that veil conceals hideous features, do not lift

it! Take my life, but let me not see you.”

“Alas!” replied the pale figure, “will you not then look upon me once

more? I am as fair now as when you wooed me on the island!”

“Oh, if it indeed were so,” sighed Huldbrand, “and that I might die by a

kiss from you!”

“Most willingly, my own love,” said she. She threw back her veil;

heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling with love and

the awe of approaching death, the knight leant towards her. She kissed

him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed not her hold, pressing him more

closely in her arms, and weeping as if she would weep away her soul.

Tears rushed into the knight’s eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and

agony shot through his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly

back from her fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse.

“I have wept him to death!” said she to some domestics, who met her

in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified group, she went

slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain.