Henry of Ofterdingen: A Romance Part 3

He received the new guests with brotherly heartiness, in the midst of his noisy companions. The mother was conducted to the lady of the castle. The merchants and Henry were obliged to seat themselves at the merry table, where the beaker pa.s.sed bravely around. Henry, after much intreaty, was, in consideration of his youth, excused from pledging every time; the merchants, on the contrary, did not find it much against their tastes, and smacked the old Frank-wine with tolerable gusto. The conversation turned upon the adventures of past years. Henry listened attentively to what was said. The knights spoke of the holy land, of the wonders of the sacred tomb, of the adventures of their enterprise and voyage, of the Saracens in whose power some of them had been, and of the joyous and wonderful life of field and camp. They expressed with great animation their indignation, when they learned that the heavenly birth-place of Christendom was in the power of the unbelieving heathen. They exalted those great heroes, who had earned for themselves an immortal crown, by their persevering endeavors against this lawless people. The lord of the castle showed the rich sword, which he had taken from their leader with his own hand, after he had conquered his castle, slain him, and made his wife and children prisoners, which deeds, by the permission of the emperor, were represented on his coat of arms. All examined the splendid sword. Henry took it and felt suddenly inspired with warlike ardor. He kissed it with fervent devotion. The knight rejoiced at his sympathy with their feelings. The old man embraced him, and encouraged him to devote his hand also forever to the deliverance of the holy sepulchre, and to have affixed to his shoulder the marvel-working cross. He was enraptured, and seemed hardly able to release the sword. "Think, my son," cried the old knight, "a new crusade is on the point of departure. The emperor himself will lead our forces into the land of the morning. Throughout all Europe the cry of the cross is sounding anew, and everywhere heroic devotion is excited. Who knows that we may not, a year hence, be sitting at each other's side in the great and far renowned city of Jerusalem, as joyful conquerors, and think of home over the wine of our fatherland? You will see here, at my house, a maiden from the holy land. Its maidens appear very charming to us of the West; and if you guide your sword skilfully, beauteous captives shall not be wanting."

The knights sang with a loud voice the Crusade-song, which at that time was a favorite throughout Europe.

The grave in heathen hands remaineth; The grave, wherein the Savior lay, Their cruel mockery sustaineth, And is unhallowed every day.

Its sorrow comes in stifled plea,-- Who saves me from this injury?

Where bides each valorous adorer?

The zeal of Christendom has gone!

Where is the ancient Faith's restorer?

Who lifts the cross and beckons on?

Who'll free the grave and rend in twain The haughty foe's insulting chain?

A holy storm o'er earth and billow Is rus.h.i.+ng through the midnight hour; To stir the sleeper from his pillow, It roars round city, camp, and tower, In wailful cry from battlements,-- Up, tardy Christian, get thee hence.

Lo, angels everywhere commanding With solemn faces, voicelessly,-- And pilgrims at the gates are standing With tearful cheeks, appealingly!

They sadly mourn, those holy men, The fierceness of the Saracen.

There breaks a red and sullen morrow O'er Christendom's extended field; The grief, that springs from love and sorrow, In every bosom is revealed; The hearth is left in sudden zeal, And each one grasps the cross and steel.

The armed bands are chafing madly, To rescue the Redeemer's grave; Toward the sea they hasten gladly, The holy ground to reach and save.

And children too obey the spell, The consecrated ma.s.s to swell.

High waves the cross, its triumph flinging On scarred hosts that rally there, And Heaven, wide its portal swinging, Is all revealed in upper air; For Christ each warrior burns to pour His blood upon the sacred sh.o.r.e.

To battle, Christians! G.o.d's own legion Attends you to the promised land, Nor long before the Paynim region Will smoke beneath His terror-hand.

We soon shall drench in joyous mood The sacred grave with heathen blood.

The Holy Virgin hovers, lying On angel wings, above the plain.

Where all, by hostile weapon dying, Upon her bosom wake again.

She bends with cheeks serenely bright Amid the thunder of the fight.

Then over to the holy places!

That stifled plea is never dumb!

By prayer and conquest blot the traces, That mark the guilt of Christendom!

If first the Savior's grave we gain, No longer lasts the heathen reign.

Henry's whole soul was in commotion. The tomb rose before him like a youthful form, pale and stately, upon a ma.s.sive stone in the midst of a savage mult.i.tude, cruelly maltreated, and gazing with sad countenance upon a cross, which shone in the background with vivid outlines, and multiplied itself in the tossing waves of the ocean.

Just at this time, his mother sent for him to present him to the knight's lady. The knights were deep in the enjoyments of the banquet, and in their imaginations as to the impending crusade, and took no notice of Henry's departure. He found his mother in close conversation with the old, kindhearted lady of the castle, who welcomed him pleasantly. The evening was serene, the sun began to decline, and Henry, who was longing after solitude and was enticed by the golden distance, which stole through the narrow, deep-arched windows into the gloomy apartment, easily obtained permission to stroll beyond the castle. He hastened, his whole soul in a state of excitement, into the free air. He looked from the height of the old rock down into the woody valley, through which a little rivulet brawled along, turning several mills, the noise of which was scarcely audible from the greatness of the elevation. Then he gazed toward the immeasurable stretch of woods and mountain-pa.s.ses, and his restlessness was calmed, the warlike tumult died away, and there remained behind only a clear, imaginative longing; He felt the absence of a lute, little as he knew its nature and effects. The serene spectacle of the glorious evening soothed him to soft fancies; the blossom of his heart revealed itself momently like lightning-flashes. He rambled through the wild shrubbery, and clambered over fragments of rock; when suddenly there arose from a neighboring valley a tender and impressive song, in a female voice accompanied by wonderful music. He was sure that it was a lute, and standing full of admiration he heard the following song in broken German.

If the weary heart is living Yet, beneath a foreign sky; If a pallid Hope is giving Fitful glimpses to the eye; Can I still of home be dreaming?

Sorrow's tears adown are streaming, Till my heart is like to die.

Could I myrtle-garlands braid thee, And the cedar's sombre hair!

To the merry dances lead thee, That the youths and maidens share!

Hadst thou seen in robes the fairest, Glittering with gems the rarest, Thy belov'd, so happy there!

Ardent looks my walk attended, Suitors lowly bent the knee, Songs of tenderness ascended With the evening star to me.

In the cherished there confiding,-- Faith to woman, love abiding, Was their burden ceaselessly.

There, around the crystal fountains Heaven fondly sinks to rest, Sighing through the wooded mountains By its balmy waves caressed; Where among the pleasure-bowers, Hidden by the fruits and flowers, Thousand motley songsters nest.

Wide those youthful dreams are scattered!

Fatherland lies far away!

Long ago those trees were shattered, And consumed the castle gray.

Came a savage band in motion Fearful like the waves of ocean, And Elysium wasted lay.

Terribly the flames were gus.h.i.+ng Through the air with sullen roar, And a brutal throng came rus.h.i.+ng Fiercely mounted to the door.

Sabres rang, and father, brother, Ne'er again beheld each other,-- Us away they rudely tore.

Though my eyes with tears are thronging, Still, thou distant motherland, They are turned, how full of longing, Full of love, toward thy strand!

Thou, O child, alone dost save me From the thought that anguish gave me, Life to quench with hardy hand.

Henry heard the sobbing of a child and a soothing voice. He descended deeper through the shrubbery, and discovered a pale, languis.h.i.+ng girl sitting beneath an old oak tree. A beautiful child hung crying on her neck, and she herself was weeping; a lute lay at her side upon the turf. She seemed a little alarmed when she saw the young stranger, who was drawing near with a saddened countenance.

"You have probably heard my song," said she kindly. "Your face seems familiar to me; let me think. My memory fails me, but the sight of you awakens in me a strange recollection of joyous days. O! it appears as if you resembled my brother, who before our disasters was separated from us and travelled to Persia, to visit a renowned poet there.

Perhaps he yet lives and sadly sings the misfortunes of his sisters.

Would that I yet remembered some of the beautiful songs he left us! He was n.o.ble and kind-hearted, and found his chief happiness in his lute."

The child, who was ten or twelve years old, looked at the strange youth attentively, and clung fast to the bosom of the unhappy Zulima. Henry's heart was penetrated with sympathy. He consoled the songstress with friendly words, and prayed her to relate to him her history circ.u.mstantially. She seemed not unwilling to do so. Henry seated himself before her, and listened to her tale, interrupted as it was by frequent tears. She dwelt princ.i.p.ally upon the praises of her countrymen and fatherland. She portrayed their loftiness of soul, and their pure, strong susceptibility of life's poetry, and the wonderfully mysterious charms of nature, She described the romantic beauties of the fertile regions of Arabia, which lay like happy islands in the midst of impa.s.sable, sandy wastes, refuge places for the oppressed and weary, like colonies of Paradise,--full of fresh wells, whose streams trilled over dense meadows and glittering stones, through venerable groves, filled with every variety of singing birds; regions attractive also in numerous monuments of memorable past time.

"You would look with wonder," she said, "upon the many-colored, distinct, and curious traces and images upon the old stone slabs. They seem to have been always well known; nor have they been preserved without a reason. You muse and muse, you conjecture single meanings, and become more and more curious to arrive at the deep coherence of these old writings. Their unknown meaning excites unwonted meditation; and even though you depart without having solved the enigmas, you have yet made a thousand remarkable discoveries in yourself, which give to life a new refulgence, and to the mind an ever profitable occupation.

Life, on a soil inhabited in olden time, and once glorious in its industry, activity, and attachment to n.o.ble pursuits, has a peculiar charm. Nature seems to have become there more human, more rational; a dim remembrance throws back through the transparent present the images of the world in marked outline; and thus you enjoy a twofold world, purged by this very process from the rude and disagreeable, and made the magic poetry and fable of the mind. Who knows whether also an indefinable influence of the former inhabitants, now departed, does not conspire to this end? And perhaps it is this hidden bias, that drives men from new countries, at a certain period of their awakening, with such a restless longing for the old home of their race, and that emboldens them to risk their property and life, for the sake of possessing these lands."

After a pause she continued.

"Believe not what you are told of the cruelties of my countrymen.

Nowhere are captives treated more magnanimously; and even your pilgrims to Jerusalem were received with hospitality; only they seldom deserved it. Most of them were worthless men, who distinguished their pilgrimages by their evil deeds, and who, for that reason, often fell into the hands of just revenge. How peacefully might the Christian have visited the holy sepulchre, without being under the necessity of commencing a terrible and useless war, which embitters everything, spreads abroad continued misery, and which has separated forever the land of the morning from Europe! What is there in the name of possessor? Our rulers reverentially honored the grave of your Holy One, whom we also consider a divine person; and how beautifully might his sacred tomb become the cradle of a happy union, the source of an alliance blessing all forever!"

Night overtook them during this conversation, darkness approached, and the moon rose in quiet light from the dark forest. They descended slowly towards the castle. Henry was full of thought, and his warlike inspiration had entirely vanished. He observed a strange confusion in the world; the moon a.s.sumed the appearance of a sympathizing spectator, and raised him above the ruggedness of the earth's surface, which there seemed so inconsiderable, however wild and insurmountable it might appear to the wanderer below. Zulima walked silently by his side, hand in hand with the child. Henry carried the lute. He endeavored to revive the sinking hope of his companion, to revisit once again her home, whilst he felt within him an earnest prompting to be her deliverer, though in what manner he knew not. A strange power seemed to lie in his simple words, for Zulima felt an unwonted tranquillity, and thanked him in the most touching manner for his consolation.

The knights were yet in their cups, and the mother was engaged in household gossip. Henry had no desire to return to the noisy hall. He felt weary, and with his mother soon betook himself to the chamber, that was set apart for them. He told her before he fell asleep, what had happened, and soon sank into pleasant dreams. The merchants had also retired betimes, and were early astir. The knights were in deep sleep, when they started on their journey; but the lady of the house tenderly took leave of them. Zulima had slept but little; an inward joy had kept her awake; she made her appearance as they were departing, and humbly but eagerly a.s.sisted the travellers. Before they started, she brought with many tears her lute to Henry, and touchingly besought him to take it with him as a remembrance of Zulima.

"It was my brother's lute," she said, "who gave it to me at our last parting; it is the only property I have saved. It seemed to please you yesterday, and you leave me an inestimable gift,--_sweet hope_. Take this small token of my grat.i.tude, and let it be a pledge, that you will remember the poor Zulima. We shall certainly see each other again, and then perhaps I shall be much happier."

Henry wept. He was unwilling to take the lute, so indispensable to her happiness.

"Give me," said he, "the golden hand in your hair ornamented with the strange characters, unless it be memorial of your parents, sisters, or brothers, and take in return a veil which my mother will gladly resign to you."

She finally yielded to his persuasions; and gave him the band, saying;

"It is my name in my mother tongue, which I myself in better times embroidered on this band. Let it be a pleasure for you to gaze upon it, and to think that it has bound up my hair during a long and sorrowful period, and has grown pale with its possessor." Henry's mother loosed the veil and gave it to her, while she embraced her with tears.

CHAPTER V.

After a few days' journey they arrived at a small village, situated at the foot of some sharp hill-tops, interspersed with deep defiles. The country in other respects was fruitful and pleasant, though the hilly ridge presented a dead, repulsive appearance. The inn was neat, the people attentive; and a number of men, partly travellers, partly mere drinking guests, sat in the room entertaining themselves with various cheer.