Part 9

"There is the mystery; it is a secret," whispered the old man, "which those who know dare not tell, and none know but those who are in the power of our great adversary; and indeed none but wicked persons will ever venture the discovery. Once only a wandering musician by miracle appeared again; but he came commissioned by the powers of darkness to traverse the world; and he plays strange notes upon a pipe--sounds which are heard to echo first in the distance, then more loud and sweet. Those who approach too close within his sphere are seized with a strange unaccountable delirium; and away they run in search of the mountain, heedless of every obstacle, and never weary--never satisfied until they gain the fatal summit, which opens for them, and whence there is no return. Their supernatural strength forsakes them only in the infernal abode; when they continue wandering round its unhallowed precincts like unblest pilgrims, without the least hope of salvation. I lost all hope of comfort in my two sons long ago: they grew wilful and abandoned; they despised their parents, and our holy faith itself. Then they began to hear the strange music; and they are now fled far into the hills--the inhabited world is too narrow for them; and they will never stop until they reach the boundless regions below." And the old man wrung his hands.

"And what do you think of doing in this matter?"

"What should I do?--with this crutch, my only support, I have set out in pursuit of them, being determined either to find them or to die."

At these words he rose with a resolute effort, and hastened forward as fast as his feeble steps could bear him, as if fearful of losing a moment; while Eckart gazed after him with a look of pity, lamenting his useless anxiety and sorrows yet to come.

"To all his other evils," cried Eckart, "even madness itself does not seem to have brought any relief."

Night came, and passed away;--the morning broke, yet no signs of young Conrad. The old warrior wandered among the hills, and cast his eyes wistfully towards the castle; still no one appeared. Then he heard a tumult, as if proceeding from the place; and, unable to restrain his anxiety, he at last mounted his steed that was grazing near, and rode hastily towards the castle. He no longer disguised himself, but spurred boldly among the troops and pages surrounding the castle-gates, not one of whom ventured to stop or lay a hand upon him. All opened to him a path.

"Where is my son Conrad?" inquired the old hero, as he advanced.

"Inquire nothing," said one of the pages, casting down his eyes: "it would only grieve you;--better turn back."

"And Dietrich," added the old man,--"where is he?"

"Mention his name no more," said an aged knight, "the duke's rage was kindled, and he thought to punish you through him."

Hot scorn flushed the face of the old hero when he heard these words; grief and fury took possession of him, and he rode through the castle-gates with speed. All opened a way for him with fear and reverence; and he soon threw himself from his horse at the palace-doors. With trembling step he mounted into the marble halls.

"Am I here," he cried, "in the dwelling of the man who was once my friend?" He tried to collect his thoughts; but dreadful visions seemed to rise before him: and he staggered wildly into the duke's presence.

Not aware of his arrival, Burgundy uttered a cry of alarm, as he found himself confronted with the old man. "Art thou the Duke of Burgundy?" asked the old hero.

The duke replied, "I am."

"And hast thou caused my son Dietrich to die?"

The duke answered, "Yes."

"And my youngest boy! my Conrad!--was not he too good and beautiful for thy sword?--hast thou killed him too?"

"I have," said the duke again.

And Eckart replied, as he shed tears, "Oh, say not that! say not that, Burgundy!--for I cannot bear those words: recall them. Say, at least, that it repents you of all you have done; and I will yet try to take comfort, though you have now done your worst to break my heart."

The duke answered, "Away! thou faithless traitor! hence from my sight! thou art the bitterest enemy I have on the face of the earth."

Eckart stood firm, and said, "Heretofore thou didst call me thy best friend; but good thoughts are now become strange to thee. Never did I aught against thy honour: nay, I have revered and loved thee as my true prince, so help me God! or here, with this hand upon my good sword, I could take speedy and bitter vengeance for all my wrongs. But no; I will for ever banish myself from your presence, and end my few and evil days in solitude and woe."

Having uttered these sad words, Eckart turned away; while Burgundy, agitated with hateful passions, called aloud for his pages and his lancers, who surrounded the old hero, and followed him with the points of their spears out of the duke's palace; none venturing, though at their lord's command, to put him to death.

Away he spurred at speed, Eckart that noblest knight; And spoke, "No more I heed The world, nor wrong, nor right.

My sons are gone, and I Am left to mourn alone; My prince would have me die; And friends I have not one."

Then made he to the woods, And with full heart did strive To bear his dismal moods-- To bear his woes and live.

"I fly man's hated face! Ye mountains, lakes, and trees, Be now my resting-place, And join your tears to these.

No child beguiles my grief; Their lives were sworn away; Their days were all too brief-- My last one they did slay!"

Thus wild did Eckart weep, Till mind and sense were gone; Then madly down the steep He spurr'd his true steed on.

He bounded, leaped, and fell, Yet Eckart took no heed; But said it was right well, Though sadly he did bleed.

He next ungirt his horse, And lay down on the ground; And wish'd it had happ'd worse-- That he his grave had found.

None of the duke's peasantry could say whither the faithful Eckart had fled; for he had taken to the wild mountain-woods, and been seen by no human being. The duke dreaded his great courage and prudence, and he repented that he had not secured him, blaming his pages that they had suffered him to escape. Yet, to make his mind more easy, he proceeded at the head of a large train, as if going to the chase; being determined to ride through all the surrounding hills and woods until he should find the spot where Eckart had concealed himself, and there put him to death.

His followers spread themselves abroad on all sides, and vied with each other in the hope of pleasing the prince, and reaping the reward of their evil deed; but the day passed, and the sun went down, without their discovering any traces of him they sought.

A storm was now gathering, and the great clouds came darkling over the woods and hills; the thunder began to peal along the sky; the lightning flashed athwart the heavens, smiting the largest oaks; while torrents of rain fell upon their heads. The duke and his followers ran for shelter among the rocks and caves; but the duke's steed burst his reins, and ran headlong down the heights; while his master's voice was lost in the uproar of the storm, and separated from all his followers, he called out in vain for assistance.

Wild as the animals of the forest, poor Eckart had wandered, unconscious now of his sorrows or whither he went. Roots and berries, with the water of the mountain-spring, formed his sole refreshment: he would no longer have known any of his former acquaintance; the day of his despair seemed at length to have gone by. Yet no! As the storm increased, he suddenly seemed to recover some portion of his intellect, and to become aware of objects around him. Then he uttered a loud cry of horror, tore his hair, and beat his aged breast, as he bethought himself of his children. "Dear as the life-blood of my heart," he cried, "whither, my sweet boys, are ye all gone? Oh, foul befell my coward spirit that hath not yet avenged ye! Why smote I not your fell destroyer, who hath pierced my heart through and through, worse than with a thousand daggers? Mad wretch that I am! I deserve it all--all; for well may your tyrant murderer despise me, when I oppose not the assassin of my own children. Ah, would that he might once come within the reach of my arm!--for now I long, when it is all too late, to taste the sweetness of revenge."

Thus he spent the night, wandering, and weeping as he went. At last he thought he heard a distant voice of some one crying for help. He turned his steps towards the direction in which it came; and finally he approached a man, whom the darkness hid from his sight, though he heard his voice close to him. This voice beseeched him piteously to guide a stranger into the right path. Eckart shrieked as it again fell upon his ear--he knew it; and he seized his sword. He prepared to cut down the assassin of his children--he felt new strength--and drew nigh, in the hope of full vengeance; when suddenly his oath of fealty, and all his former promises, when he was the duke's friend, came across his mind. Instead of piercing him to the heart, he took the duke's hand, and promised to lead him into the right path. They passed along conversing together, although the duke trembled with fear and cold. Soon they met some one. It was Wolfram, the duke's page, who had been long in search of his master. It was still dark night--not a star cast its feeble rays through the thick black clouds. The duke felt very weak, and sighed to reach some habitation, to refresh himself and repose; besides, he was in dread of encountering the enraged Eckart, whose strange feigned voice he did not yet know. He feared he should hardly survive till morning, and trembled at every fresh blast of wind that shook the trees, or the thunder as it rolled more awfully above their heads. "My good Wolfram," cried the duke, "mount this lofty fir, and cast a keen glance around thee to discover some light--whether from house or hut it boots not, so that we can but live to reach it."

The page obeyed at his life's risk, as the storm bent the strongest branches of the huge tree as if it had been a tender reed. Its topmost boughs sometimes nearly touched the ground; while the boy appeared little more than an acorn growing on a branch of the tree. At length he cried out, "In the plain below us there I perceive a glimmering--I can see the way we ought to go." At the same time he carefully descended, and took the lead. In a short while the friendly light greeted the eyes of all three--the very sight of which greatly restored the fallen spirits of the duke.

Absorbed within himself, Eckart uttered not a word. He walked along, striving with the bitter feelings that rose in his breast, leading the duke by the hand.

At length the page knocked at the cottage-door; and an infirm old woman appeared. When they had entered, Eckart loosed the duke's hand, whom he had led along; and the latter fell trembling upon his knees, to return Heaven thanks for his deliverance from the perils of that terrific night.

Eckart retired into a dark corner; where he found, stretched in sleep, the same old man who shortly before had been bewailing his unhappy fate in regard to his sons, whom he was then in search of.

The duke having finished his prayers, thus spoke:--"This has indeed appeared a miraculous night to me. I feel the goodness and almighty power of God more than ever I had before reason to do. Yet my heart hath failed within me, and I feel that I must shortly die; only wishing for time, before I depart, to entreat forgiveness for my manifold sins and offences against the Most High; but I will take care to reward you both, my faithful companions, before I go, and that as handsomely as I can. To thee, my trusty page, I bequeath the two castles which lie close to the next mountain here, on condition that, in remembrance of this terrific night, thou dost in future call them the Tannenhäuser, or Fir-houses.--And who art thou, good man, that hast laid thy weary limbs in the corner? Come forth, that I may reward thee quickly, according to thy great services and many kind offices shewn me during this terrific night."

Then up rose Eckart, like a thing That starts from out the dim moonlight; His furrowed cheek betrays the sting Of many a woful day and night.

The soul of Burgundy sighed sore To witness thus that aged face; The blood forsook his veins--he tore His hair, and swooned for dire disgrace.

They raise him from the low cold ground, His limbs and temples warmly chafe: "Then, O my God, at last he's found," He cried; "true Eckart's here--he's safe.

O whither shall I fly thy look? Was't thou didst bring me from the wood? And was it I thy dear babes struck-- Thou that to me hast been so good?"

And Burgundy, as thus he said, He felt his heart was breaking fast; On Eckart's breast he laid his head, And thought he there would breathe his last.

His senses fled! Then Eckart spoke: "I reck not, master, of their fate-- That so the world may see, though broke, True Eckart's heart's yet true and great."

Thus passed the night. In the morning the followers of the duke arrived, and found him very sick. They placed him upon their mules, and carried him back to his castle. Eckart stirred not from his side; and often the duke took his hand, and, pressing it to his bosom, looked up at him imploringly; when Eckart would embrace him, and speak soft words of comfort till he was again still. The duke next called together his council, and declared that such was his confidence in his faithful Eckart, the bravest and noblest of all his land, that he would leave him governor of his sons. Having said which, he died.

Eckart then took the reins of government into his own hands, fulfilling the trust reposed in him in such a humane and prudent way as to excite the admiration of all the country. Shortly afterwards, the report spread more and more on all sides, of the arrival of the strange musician from Venus-berg, who seduced his victims with the strange sweetness of his tones; so that they disappeared without leaving a trace behind. Many gave credit to the report--others not; while Eckart again bethought him of the unhappy old man whom he had seen so forlorn and crazed upon the mountain.

"I have now adopted you as my children," he said to the young princes, as he one day sat with them on the bill before the castle; "your happiness is now become my inheritance; I shall continue to survive, after my departure, in your welfare and your good conduct."

They all stretched themselves on the hill-side, whence they could look far into the distant and lovely prospect beyond; and Eckart would then strive to subdue the regrets he felt for his own children, though they would appear as if passing over the mountain before him, while in the distance he thought he heard the faint echo of delicious music gradually growing louder.

Hark! comes it not like dreams Before the morning beams? From some far greenwood bowers, Such as the night-bird pours, So sweet, and such its dying fall?-- Those tones the magic song recall; And Eckart sees each princely cheek Flushed with the joys its victims seek; Wild wishes seized each youthful breast For some far unknown bourne of rest.

"Away to the mountains!" they cried; "the deep woods Where the trees, winds, and waters make music for gods: Sweet, strange, secret voices are singing there now, And invite us to seek their blest Eden below."

In strange attire then came in view The unblest sorcerer, and anew Inspired the maddening youths, till bright And brighter shone the sunny light. Trees, streams, and flowers danced in the rays; Through earth, air, heavens, were heard the lays; The grass, fields, forests, trembling join'd That magic tumult wild and blind. Swift as a shadow fade the ties That bind the soul to earth, and rise Soft longings for unearthly scenes; And strange confusion intervenes Between the seen and unseen world, Till reason from her seat is hurl'd,

And madly bursts the soul away To mingle in the infernal fray.

The trusty Eckart felt it, But wist not of the cause; His heart the music melted, He wondered what it was.

The world seems new and fairer, All blooming like the rose; Can Eckart be a sharer In raptures such as those?

"Ha! are those tones restoring My wife and noble sons?-- All that I was deploring-- My lost beloved ones?"

Yet soon his sense collected, Brought doubts within his breast: These magic arts detected, A horror him possessed.

His children fade in air-- Mocks of infernal might; His young friends vanished were-- He could not check their flight.

Yes, these his princely trust, Late yielded to his power, He now desert them must, Or share their evil hour.

Faith, duty to his prince, Is still his watchword here; He still thinks of him, since His last sad look and tear.

So boldly doth he now Advance his foot and stand, Arm'd proof to overthrow The evil powers at hand.

The wild musician comes; Eckart his sword has ta'en; But ah! those magic tunes His mortal strength enchain!

From out the mountain's side Come thousand dwarfish shapes, That threaten and deride, And leap and grin like apes.

The princes fair are gone, And mingled with the swarm; True Eckart is alone, And faint his valiant arm.

The rout of revellers grows, Gathering from east to west, And gives him no repose-- Around--before--abreast.

True Eckart's 'mid the din, His might is lost and gone; The hellish powers must win-- He of their slaves be one.

For now they reach the hill Whence those wild notes are heard; The dwarfish fiends stand still, The hills their sides uprear'd,

And made a mighty void, Whence fiercer sprites glower'd grim. "What now will us betide?" He cried:--none answered him.

Again he grasped his sword; He said he must prove true: Eckart has spoke the word, And rushed amid the crew.

He saved the princes dear; They fled and reach'd the plain; But see, the fiend is near-- His imps their malice strain.

Though Eckart's strength is gone, He sees the children safe; And cried, "I fight alone-- Now let their malice chafe!"

He fought--he fell--he died Upon that well-fought field; His old heroic pride Both scorn'd to fly or yield.

"True to the sire and son, The bulwark of their throne, Proud feats hath Eckart done; There's not a knight, not one,

Of all my court and land," Cried the young duke full loud, "Would make so bold a stand. Our honour to uphold.

For life, and land, and all, To Eckart true we owe; He snatch'd our souls from thrall, For all it work'd him woe."

And soon the story ran Through Burgundy's broad land, That who so venture can To take his dangerous stand

Upon that mountain-side, Where in that contest hard True Eckart fought and died, Shall see his shade keep guard,

To warn the wanderers back Who seek th' infernal pit, And spurn them from the track That leads them down to it.

THE TANNENHÄUSER.

About four centuries had elapsed since the death of the Faithful Eckart, when there lived a Lord of the Woods who stood in high reputation as a counsellor at the imperial court. The same lord had a son, one of the _handsomest_ knights in all the land, highly esteemed and beloved by his friends and countrymen. Suddenly, however, he disappeared under very peculiar circumstances, which occurred previous to his departure; and no one could gather any tidings of him whatsoever. But from the time of the Faithful Eckart, a tradition respecting the Venus-berg had become very prevalent among the people, and it was asserted by many that he must have wandered thither, and there been devoted to eternal destruction.

Among the whole of his friends and relatives who lamented the young knight's loss, none grieved so much as Frederick of Wolfsburg. They had been early companions, and their attachment had grown with their years, insomuch that their subsequent attachment appeared rather the result of necessity than of choice. Meanwhile the Lord of the Woods died, having heard no account of his son; and in the course of a few years his friend Frederick married. He had already a playful young circle around him. Years passed away, and still no tidings arrived as to the fate of his friend, whom he was at length reluctantly compelled to number with the dead.

One evening, as he was standing under the tower of his castle, he observed a pilgrim approaching at some distance, in the direction of the castle-gates. The stranger was very singularly dressed; his whole appearance, and particularly his gait, striking the young knight as something odd and unaccountable. As the pilgrim drew nigh, he went to meet him; and, on examining his features, thought he could recognise them. He looked again, and the whole truth burst upon him: it was indeed no other than his long-lost friend--the young Lord of the Fir-woods himself. Yet he shuddered, and uttered an exclamation of surprise, when he contemplated the ravages which time had made in the noblest face and form--the theme of his former admirers,--of which only the ruins were to be traced;--no, he no longer appeared the same being.

The two friends embraced, while they still gazed at each other as upon perfect strangers but newly introduced. Many were the confused questions and answers which passed between them; and Frederick often trembled at the strange wild glances of his friend: the fire seemed to sparkle in his eyes. He agreed, however, to sojourn with him; but when he had remained a few days, he informed Frederick that he was about to go upon a pilgrimage to Rome.

Their acquaintance in a short time grew more familiar, and resumed its former happy and confidential tone. They recalled the mutual adventures and plans of their early years, though the Lord of the Woods seemed to avoid touching upon any incident which had occurred since his late disappearance from home. This only raised Frederick's curiosity the more; he entreated to be informed, and with yet more earnestness as he found their former regard and confidence increase. Still the stranger long sought, by the most friendly appeals and warnings, to be excused; till at last, upon fresh solicitation, he said, "Now, then, be it so! your wish shall be fully gratified; only never in future reproach me, should my history excite feelings--lasting feelings--of sorrow and dismay."

Frederick took him in the most friendly manner by the arm, and led him into the open air. They turned into a pleasant grove, and seated themselves on a mossy bank; the stranger then giving his hand to his friend, turned away his head among the soft leaves and grass, and, amidst many bitter sighs and sobs, gave way to the sad emotions which the recollection seemed to inspire. His friend, pressing his hand, tried every means to console him; upon which the stranger, again raising his head, began his story in a calmer voice, to the following purport:--