CHAPTER III.

Many and many a mile from King Katzekopf’s Court,—in a valley among those Giant Mountains, which separated his territories from the neighbouring kingdoms, stood the Castle of Taubennest, in which, at the date of our tale, dwelt Count Rudolf and his family.

And a happy family they were, all except the Count, who was a discontented man. He had spent his youth in cities, and so the country had no charms for him. He was ambitious, and a time-server. He was never so happy as among great people, and he longed to meddle with the intrigues of state, and to be talked of as among the eminent men of the kingdom.

He was a very poor man when the Castle and its broad lands were bequeathed him by a distant relation, and so he was glad enough to take possession of them, even though he found the bequest coupled with the condition that he should live on his domains continually.

Now if, on acquiring this property, the Count had set himself in earnest to the discharge of the duties for which the possession of that property rendered him responsible,—if he had turned his talents to bettering the condition of his vassals, improving his estates, and benefiting his neighbourhood generally, he would not only have spent his days happily, but would, in all probability, have arrived at the object of his desires, and acquired an illustrious name. But instead of this, he spent his years in murmurs and repinings; now railing at the blindness of Fortune, who had condemned one of his genius for rising in the world to a sphere of inactivity, now complaining that he was imprisoned for life amid the mountains. What a sad thing it is, when people neglect their present duties, for no wiser reason than because they choose to imagine that if their duties were of some different kind, they could discharge them better! Our trial in life consists in our being required to do our best in _whatever_ circumstances we are placed. If we were to choose those circumstances for ourselves, there would be an end of the trial, and the main object for which life is given us would be lost.

Happily for her children and dependents, the character of the Countess Ermengarde was a complete contrast to that of her husband. She was one of those people who seem only to find happiness in doing good to those around them. Had her destiny placed her in the midst of a court, she would have added to its dignity and honour by the lustre of her example. But that example was not lost because her days were spent in comparative seclusion. The Castle of Taubennest was at a great distance from the metropolis, but it did not rear its head in a solitary desert. And the Countess, as she stood on the stone platform, which opened out of her withdrawing room, and led to the garden below, and gazed at the wide and fertile valley which lay stretched before her, could count hamlet after hamlet, the inhabitants of which were tenants to her husband, and over whom, therefore, she felt that it was in her power to exercise an influence for good. But the Countess Ermengarde had yet dearer ties, to whom she well knew that all her care and tenderness were due. There were her two little girls, Ediltrudis and Veronica, and her son, a boy of seven years old, the gentle, yet noble-spirited Witikind. In educating these her treasures, disciplining their youthful minds, and training them for the duties and trials of active life, the greater part of her time was spent, and so fully absorbed was she in this labour of love, that never an hour hung heavy on her hands, and not days only, but months and years seemed to glide on without her having a wish or a thought beyond her children, and the vassals of her husband’s house.

“What a happy family should we be!” exclaimed the Count, as, in spite of himself, he stood enjoying the evening breeze, and watching his lovely children in their play, “What a happy family we should be, my Ermengarde, if we were not condemned to wear out our existence in this dull wilderness!”

“I would you were in any place that could bring you a greater measure of enjoyment than you find here, my dearest Rudolf,” replied the Countess, soothingly, “and yet, methinks, our lot might have been cast in a less fair scene than this. What if the setting sun, instead of throwing its rosy lustre on yonder mountain peaks, and illumining with its declining rays those verdant meadows, through which our glassy river flows, and the fields yellow with the ripening corn, and the purple vineyards, and the deep umbrageous forest, were to light up for us no more joyous scene than a desert of interminable sand? What if, instead of looking forth, and seeing nothing so far as eye can reach which does not call you master, we were landless, houseless wanderers, without bread to eat, or a roof to cover us, should we not have less to be thankful for, than is the case now?”

“Doubtless,” answered the Count; but he made the reply impatiently, and as if his wife were putting the matter before him in an unfair point of view. Without being the least aware of it, he was unthankful for all the blessings which he actually possessed, because a single ingredient which he supposed necessary to fill up his cup of happiness was wanting. So long as he had not _that_, all else went for nothing. “Doubtless,” said the Count; “but, say what you will, this place will never be any better than a wilderness in my eyes. Is it possible to conceive a more monotonous life than I pass? nothing to interest one, not a soul within twenty miles that one cares to speak to!”

The Countess smiled. “Nay, nay, Rudolf,” she cried gaily, “you shall not persuade me that the children and I do not make very agreeable society!”

“The children! there again! what a distressing subject is that! Poor things, they will not have common justice done them! They have not a chance of getting on in the world.”

“For my part,” replied the Countess, “I don’t see what is the necessity for their ‘getting on in the world.’ They will do very well as they are.”

“How can you talk such nonsense as that, Ermengarde?” exclaimed the Count in a tone of pique. “Why, what is to become of the girls, when they grow up to womanhood?”

“Oh,” answered the Countess, “we need scarcely make that a cause of anxiety at present. Years must elapse before they will be women, and when they are grown up, I don’t know why they may not become the wives of honest men, or why they may not find happiness in a single life, if they prefer it.”

“Really, Ermengarde, you sometimes provoke one past all patience. ‘Wives of honest men,’ forsooth! I believe you would be satisfied if you could see them making cheese on the next farm, or wedded to the huntsman, or the woodreve. You forget,” added he proudly, “that their birth entitles them to some splendid connexion, and less than a splendid connexion shall never satisfy me.”

“Why, what is it that you covet for them?”

“That they should see something of courts and cities, instead of being immured in this mountain-dungeon; that they should take that place in the world to which their rank entitles them, and that they should be followed by a host of admirers, and that their cotemporaries should have cause to envy their good fortune. Yes,” continued he, warming with his subject, and falling unconsciously into one of those day-dreams in which he was continually indulging, “I should like to waken and find myself at the court, with Ediltrudis at my side, the admired of all beholders, princes and peers struggling to obtain the honour of her hand, while I, with watchful eyes, would be ascertaining which of her many suitors it would be most prudent to encourage, and which to reject. Can you conceive anything more interesting, more delightful to a parent’s feelings?”

“Yes, indeed, my Lord,” replied the Lady Ermengarde, “to me it would afford more satisfaction, if I were permitted to see my child growing up to maturity, unspotted by the world, and saved from exposure to its poisonous breath, and from the temptation to yield to its evil influences. I would rather see her innocent and happy here, than the star and favourite of a court.”

Had Count Rudolf listened to this speech it would have probably made him very angry, but he was too much occupied with his castles in the air to attend to it.

“And then my pretty little Veronica,” he continued, “your career shall be no less brilliant than your sister’s. Come hither,” said he, calling the child, “and tell us what destiny you would choose. Would you not like to be a Maid of Honour to the Queen, and to be glittering with silks and jewels, and to live in a royal palace, and to spend your time in all manner of pleasures?”

The little girl seemed puzzled, and did not answer immediately. After a pause she said, “Must I leave Taubennest, if I were to be Maid of Honour to the Queen?”

“Yes, my child, that must you, for where the King lives is many a mile from Taubennest.”

“Nay, then, dear father, I would rather be where I am. I should like to see the royal palace, and all the things you mention, but I should prefer to _live_ here. Ah! we never could be so happy as we are here, could we, Witikind? We never could find such pretty walks as we have here among the hills, nor play such merry games in a palace, as now we do in the meadows by the river side. And besides, I dare say I should not be allowed to take my kid with me, nor my birds, nor perhaps,” added the child in a tone of dismay,—her eyes brimming with tears as the thought occurred to her—“perhaps you, and Ediltrudis, and nurse, and papa, and mamma might not be with me. Oh, no, no; I would rather stay where I am; would not you, Witikind?”

“Why, what folly!” exclaimed Count Rudolf, interposing. “Even you, Veronica, must be old enough to know that a boy cannot pass through life beside his nurse’s apron-string. Witikind must see the world, and learn to be bold and manly.”

“Can I not be bold and manly, father, unless I see the world?” asked the boy rather timidly.

“No, to be sure not!” answered the Count.

“Well then of course I must go,” replied Witikind with a sigh. “But I never can be so happy elsewhere as I am here.”

“Pooh! you are but a child;” rejoined his father, “you don’t know what real happiness is.”

“Did you find real happiness, father, in living among courts and cities?”

“Certainly, I did,” said the Count; and then, after some hesitation he added, “At least I should have found it, if I had not been a poor man, as I was in those days. Ah! what would I have given for such advantages as you have, my boy?”

“Is it possible that there can be so much pleasure to be found away from home and friends?” asked Witikind, still somewhat doubtfully, and looking up with anxiety at the expression of sadness which seemed to spread itself over his mother’s face.

“Possible, Witikind? I would I had the opportunity of enabling you to make the experiment this very moment! How I should like to see you a Page of Honour to the King, It would make a man of you at once.”

Witikind thought it would be a very fine thing to be made a man of at once, and his heart was more inclined to a change than it had yet been. “And I suppose then, father, I should ride a horse instead of a pony, and wear a sword, and be treated by every body as if I were a man.”

“Of course, you would,” replied the Count,—“at least, in a very short time.”

“Then, father, I do think that I should like to go and live at court.”—The Count kissed the boy and withdrew.

It is a very well known, but at the same time a most remarkable circumstance in the natural history of Fairies, that they are not only sure to be found in the most unexpected places, but they are certain to arrive in the very nick of time, for the purpose of overhearing some conversation which was never intended for their ears, but which they never fail to turn to account in some manner for which the speakers are wholly unprepared. It was so on the present occasion.

Our friend, the Lady Abracadabra, who had been paying a visit to some old acquaintances among the Gnomes who inhabited the silver mines in the mountains, in the immediate vicinity of Count Rudolf’s castle, had heard from her subterranean hosts such an interesting account of the goodness and benevolence of Countess Ermengarde, that she had resolved to introduce herself to her. And as she had been led to believe that to be poor, or afflicted, was a ready passport to that lady’s presence, she assumed the garb and appearance of a lame beggar-woman, and in this disguise entered the domain of Taubennest, and approached the castle. No gate was closed against her, no insolent, pampered menial thrust her from the door. The Countess had long since forbidden her servants to turn away one who sought relief at her hands. “We have enough for all,” she was wont to say, “and, therefore, if we give not according to our ability, we may expect that the ability to give, will be taken away from us. If we do not make a good use of our money; our money is like to make itself wings, and fly elsewhere.”

Of course where so much was given, there must have been some unworthy recipients of her bounty. And when this was urged upon her by some of her less liberal friends, she made no attempt to deny the probability of the assertion; “but,” said she, “I would rather bestow my alms on a hundred unworthy recipients, than miss an opportunity of aiding one poor creature who needed my bounty.”

And so the weary traveller, and the needy applicant, were under no fears of being repulsed when they approached the portals of Taubennest, and thus it happened that the Lady Abracadabra wandered forward unobserved, or, if observed, unchecked, until she came close to the platform on which the conversation which has been recorded, took place.

“And so you would like to see the court, would you, my pretty master?” said she, as soon as little Witikind had expressed his wish on the subject.

The boy started at the sudden inquiry, “What is it you want, good mother?” he asked after a little hesitation.

“Nay,” replied the Fairy, “I have expressed no want. I desire to learn what it is that _you_ want?”

“Oh! I want some good Fairy to carry me over hill and dale to the court of King Katzekopf.”

“Are you quite sure of that?” asked the lame woman.

“Aye marry, am I,” replied the boy, laughing. “Will you show me the way to Fairy-land?”

“May be I will, and may be I won’t,” answered the Fairy. “I must first see what metal you are made of. Will you go with me to court?”

“I shouldn’t like your pace, mother,” said Witikind. “I should never get there, if I kept by the side of your crutches.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” rejoined the beggar. “There’s many a worse hobbyhorse than my crutch. Can you ride, sir boy?”

“To be sure I can,” replied Witikind, “I were fit for little, if I could not.”

“Then let me see how you can sit this nag of mine,” said the Fairy; and seating herself sideways on one crutch, she waved the other; when, in an instant, that on which she was seated became a living cockatrice, which mounted up into the air with its burden, and, after three or four circumvolutions, descended on the platform, to which allusion has been made, and then stood still; while the Lady Abracadabra, no longer disguised as a beggar-woman, but wearing her usual Fairy garb, dismounted and approached the astonished Countess and her terrified children.

“I ought to apologize for this intrusion,” said she, “but a Fairy, who comes with purposes of kindness, can scarcely conceive herself to be unwelcome. You do not know me, Countess, for I quarrelled with your father before you were born; but your mother Frideswida and I were well known to one another. I doubt not you have heard her speak of Abracadabra of Hexenberg.”

The Countess intimated her assent.

“I recognize in you, Lady,” said the Fairy, “a transcript of her beauty of feature, and if fame do not greatly misrepresent you, the beauty of her mind has descended to you. I hear you spoken of as the blessing of these valleys, and that your days are spent in feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, and visiting the sick.”

“I live among my own people,” replied Ermengarde, “and they are a simple race, who are satisfied with little, and whom small kindnesses gratify largely.”

“You are modest,” rejoined the Lady Abracadabra, “but if, as I believe, you have the means of doing good, and find pleasure in doing it, why should you be dissatisfied with your abode?”

“I dissatisfied, Lady?” exclaimed the Countess, “I would gladly live and die here.”

“Then, what was the meaning of what I heard no long time since? Methought as I listened to your converse, your boy seemed to say that he should like to go and live at court. You would hardly send him to face such perils alone? That were as unnatural as wicked.”

The Countess knew not what to answer. The thought of separation from Witikind had already filled her with sorrow and dismay, but she was unwilling to excuse herself at the cost of inculpating her husband. She therefore remained silent, but the tears gushed from her eyes in spite of her.

“And how comes it that you, sir boy,” asked the Fairy, addressing Witikind, “are so eager to leave your home? Can you not be happy here?”

“Yes, Lady, I am happy as the day is long; but my father assures us often and often, that our best happiness here is grief and dulness, compared with what we should find, if we went to the great City, and lived in King Katzekopf’s court?”

“Is this true, Lady?” said the Fairy to Ermengarde. “But,” continued she, “I see it is, and will spare you the pain of answering.” She paused awhile, and then added, “Countess, I see a black spot on that child’s fair brow, that, unless we find a remedy, will spread and spread till it infects his whole nature. What his natural disposition may be I know not, but I see his father has inoculated him with one of the most dangerous of all maladies, a love of _self_. He is willing to seek for pleasure, even though it cost him separation from you. He already thinks of himself more than of you.”

“He is but a child, Lady,” said the mother apologetically.

“Aye, Countess Ermengarde, but the child is father to the man. Such as you make him now, such will he be hereafter.”

“Perhaps, Lady, if you spoke to Rudolf, he might be induced to see the matter as you do,” observed the wife.

“Nay, nay!” replied the Fairy, with an increase of sternness in her manner, “I am not one to be trifled with. You _know_ even while you make it, that your suggestion is a hopeless one. To reason with your precious husband (of whom I know more than you think) is only to render him more obstinate. I must devise some other plan. Ah!” she continued, after a momentary pause, “I see my way clearly. The evil shall be made to work its own remedy. Go, tell the Count, that an ancient Fairy, a friend of your mother’s house, and who, on that account, desires to befriend you, has become acquainted with his wishes as respects his son: tell him that I have influence at Court, that King Katzekopf and the Queen are not likely to turn a deaf ear to any request I make them, and that he may hold himself in readiness to expect, ere long, a summons from his Majesty. Countess Ermengarde, tell him this; but I charge you at your peril, tell him no more than this. Meanwhile, keep up good heart, and trust me to befriend your boy. I will teach him one lesson, that shall be of more use to him than all his father’s.”

So saying, she smiled graciously on little Witikind, patted him on the head, and springing on her cockatrice was soon out of sight.