Libussa, Duchess of Bohemia; also, The man without a name

Front matter

,

DUCHESS OF BOHEMIA;

ALSO,

Preface

It is a thoroughly mistaken idea, to believe that Fancy Tales are drolleries invented only to lull children asleep, and not fit to entertain the more enlightened public. The mind, as well as the stomach, requires variety and change, to prevent satiety and disgust. The plodding merchant, the calculating politician, the subtle lawyer, the serious judge, the problem-crammed mathematician, and even the dogmatic divine, need an occasional relaxation of the mind, which they find in light literature. There is certainly no want of novels—historical, sentimental, romantical, nautical, philosophical, political, or any other sort; the difficulty is only in the choice. Nor is there a want of novel-writers; of all the branches of literature this is the most prolific, for the taste of the public lies that way: but although some of the living novel-writers are authors of the highest merit, and their dishes are such as to satisfy even the most dainty, the reader might find himself at last in the predicament of the gourmand—“Tojours des perdrix.”

It may be pleasant sometimes to weep over the misfortunes of a tender and sentimental hero, like Grandison, Werther, or La Nouvelle Heloise; but the continual sight of misfortunes of the heart will, it is to be feared, have the effect of over-exciting or of blunting the feelings. Why not, therefore, let the heart for a short time repose—have a refreshing peep into the magic lanthorn, to see the figures on the wall, and allow fancy a free scope? Whatever the learned doctors may say, Fancy is the dearest boon-companion of the human mind, from the first developement of the soul in its infantine shell till the blight of its energies in the shrivelled-up body of old age. The child, whether brought up at the road-side cottage or in the castellated mansion, will abandon its dearest plaything—the hoop, the top, the wooden horse, the doll, or the drum—to come and listen to the story of Jack the Giant-killer or Mother Hubbard. The soldier sitting near the watch fire will forget the fatigues of the march, to listen, on the shores of the Ebro, to the Tales of the Alhambra, or, on the borders of the Ganges, to the genial tales of the Arabian Nights. The sailor will give his grog to listen to the elder and more weather-beaten tar relating his meeting with the phantom ship or the ghost of the Red Rover. But not those primitive minds alone are fond of the wonderful and preternatural; for many a debating senator, and grey-headed savant, will peruse with pleasure works upon animal magnetism and other wonderful inventions of the age; and Morrison’s pills, Holloway’s ointments, and Major Beniowski’s phrenotypics, will always find purchasers. Even the sober Times, knowing the taste of the public, occasionally indulges in the wonderful, and devotes a few columns to the last travels of the sea-serpent. The propensity for the supernatural is deeply imbedded in our souls. The human mind is not always satisfied with the real; its boundless activity passes from realities into the domain of hypothetic possibilities. Thus each nation has its fancy stories, which, if they form not part of its literature, are at least traditional in the mouths of the million; and, sooner or later, a man of talent will be found who, working in the large field of literature, will find some as yet uncultivated corner, and devote it entirely to popular fancy tales. This is what Musæus has done in Germany, and which has made his name as immortal as the language.

In popular fancy tales the national character can be as easily traced as in the mechanical works of art of a nation. Thus, richness of invention, luxuriance, and surfeit in strange decorations, distinguish the Eastern fabrics as well as the Eastern tales. Carelessness in elaborating, lightness and shallowness in the fundamental parts, with a certain ease and grace, are to be traced in the French manufactures, as well as in their Contes des Fées. System, harmony, and solid composition, are the marks of German implements and of German poetry.

One of the greatest merits of Musæus’s tales is, that they are neither borrowed from other nations, nor creations of his own invention; but are, without exception, purely German traditions, which have been transmitted from the great grandfather to the great grandson.

This is the third volume of Musæus’s Fancy Tales, which I here offer to the public. The success of the two former volumes allows me to hope that this will meet with a similar favour. The more so, as Libussa is one of the best of Musæus’s tales, and may be called an historical fancy tale, being, as may be seen by the notes which I have added, strictly historical. The historiographer of the Bohemian history, Dubravius, describes the persons of Krokus, Libussa, Therba, Bela, and Primislas, just as Musæus gives them. Libussa’s speech, when compelled to choose a consort, is a verbal translation from the Latin history of Dubravius. So that by reading this tale the reader will be transplanted into the country which has given birth to Ziska, Huss, and Wallenstein, at a time when the Bohemian people were yet in the cradle of civilization. Their manners and customs are well sketched; and the tale may therefore instruct, whilst the wonderful flights of fancy and easy style may amuse. If so, I shall have every reason to congratulate myself for having brought it before the English public; for trite, but still true, is the maxim—

“Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci.”

THE TRANSLATOR.

Life of Musæus

LIFE OF MUSÆUS.

Musæus was born at Jena, in 1735. His father was provincial judge in that town, and afterwards councillor and mayor in Eisenach. The uncle of young Musæus, who was general ecclesiastical superintendent (equivalent to the rank of a bishop in England), took the promising youth at the age of nine years into his house, where he treated him as a son during ten years.

At the age of nineteen John Charles A. Musæus went to the university of Jena, where he remained three years and a half, during which time he took his degrees, and shortly afterwards became member of the German Society,—no small distinction at that time for a young man. He then returned to Eisenach to his father, where he preached with considerable success, in the expectation of obtaining a living, which was soon offered to him at a village called Pfarrwitz; where, however, the inhabitants objected to him, having heard that he had danced on several occasions. This disgusted him with the profession of an ecclesiastic, and he gave up altogether the idea of becoming a clergyman. In 1763 he became Master of the Pages at the court of Weimar, where he remained seven years, and afterwards obtained a professorship at the college of Weimar. There he married a young lady, Juliana Kruger, by whom he had two sons.

The famous German poet Wieland was an intimate friend of his; and the dramatic writer Augustus von Kotzebue, who was his pupil, has written his biography, and published a volume of his posthumous miscellaneous writings. In speaking of the kindness of his heart and temper, Kotzebue says, “Weep, ye that have known Musæus, for he is no more; and weep, ye also that have not known hin, for not having known the man,—unique in his kindness of heart, in his philanthropy, and good temper.” As a farther proof of his excellence in private life, Kotzebue says, “He wrote satires, and had no enemies; he was esteemed by his superiors, and beloved by his inferiors.”

Among his first writings was “Grandison the Second;” a parody of the Grandison of Richardson, replete with vivid satire. It was reprinted in 1787. The rage which Lavater’s system had excited in Germany, gave occasion to his “Physiognomical Travels,” which had the greatest success. In 1782 he first published his popular “Fancy Tales,” which made his name immortal. Afterwards he published “The Apparitions of Friend Heins,” in 1786. He also published “The Gardener’s Daughter,” a comic opera; “The Four Degrees of Human Age,” a prelude, with music; besides several satires, poems, and critical essays. He commenced a new collection of Tales, under the title of “Ostrich Feathers,” when, after the publication of the first volume, he suddenly died, October the 28th, 1787, at the age of fifty-two, of a disease which is very rare,—the polypus of the heart.

At the latter end of his life he had purchased a country-seat on the Altenberg, near Weimar, which the Duchess Amelia of Saxe Weimar, the great patroness of authors, and herself a poet, had furnished for him.

An unknown hand has erected a monument to him in the cemetery of Weimar, simple as was his life, but full of taste. A similar monument in bas-relief was erected to his memory by his friends in the church of St. Jacob: an urn upon an open book, with the inscription, “To the Immortal Musæus.”

Libussa

LIBUSSA.

In the depths of the Bohemian forest, which formerly extended far and wide into the country, and of which now but the shadow remains, lived in times of yore a spiritual little nation, light-shunning, aërial, incorporeal, and of a more refined nature than clay-formed mankind, and therefore imperceptible to their coarser senses, though half visible at moonlight to the more refined; well known to the poets under the name of Dryads, and to the ancient bards under that of Elves. From time immemorial their abode had been undisturbed, till all at once the forest resounded with warlike tumult. Duke Czech, from Hungary, had invaded the mountains with his Sclavonian hordes, to seek a new abode in these inhospitable regions. The beautiful inhabitants of the venerable oaks, of the rocks, of the cliffs, of the grottoes, and of the rushes in the ponds and pools, fled before the clashing of arms and the neighing of war-horses; even the violent Erl-King took alarm, and removed his seat to a more distant wilderness. One only of the Elves could not resolve upon separating from her favourite oak; and when the forest was cut down here and there, to make room for arable land, she alone had courage enough to defend her tree against the new-comers, and chose its very summit for her residence.

Among the retinue of the Duke there was a squire, by name Krokus, full of spirit and mettle, strong and well knit, and of gentle accomplishments, to whose care the duke’s favourite horses were confided. He often drove them far into the forest to graze, and sometimes reposed under the oak which the Elf inhabited. She saw the stranger with gladness; and when at night he slumbered at the foot of the tree, she whispered pleasant dreams into his ear, announced to him in significant images the events of the coming day, or if one of the horses had gone astray, and he had lost its track and fallen asleep full of anxiety about it, he saw in his dream the marks of the secret path which led to the place where the stray horse was grazing.

The new settlers extended daily their sphere of activity, and thus approached nearer and nearer to the habitation of the Elf, whose gift of divination told her that an inimical axe would soon threaten her life-tree. Thereupon she decided on making her guest acquainted with her trouble.

One pleasant summer’s evening, Krokus, having driven his horses by moonlight later than usual into the inclosure, was hastening to his place of rest under the towering oak. His way led round a well-stocked fish-pond, in the silvery waves of which the golden moon-sickel was brilliantly reflected in a conical form. Beyond the slimy part of the pond on the opposite bank, near the oak, he perceived a female form, which seemed to be taking a walk in the refreshing evening air. The apparition startled the young warrior. “Whence this maid,” he thought to himself, “thus alone in the wilderness at this time of the evening, far past twilight?” The adventure, however, was such as to be rather attractive for a young man than repulsive. In order to investigate the case, he redoubled his steps, without losing sight of the object which had invited his attention, and he soon arrived at the place near the oak where he had first espied her. Now it seemed to him as if what he saw was more of a shadow than a substance; and as he stood thus wondering, a cold shiver ran through his frame, but he heard a soft voice thus addressing him: “Approach, dear stranger; do not fear. I am not a phantom, nor a deceiving shadow; I am the Elf of this forest—the inhabitant of the oak under the thickly leaved branches of which thou hast frequently reposed. I have often rocked thee into sweet and pleasant dreams, and predicted to thee coming events; and when a mare or a colt have gone astray, I showed thee the place where thou couldst find it. Repay that favour by a reciprocal service, which I now ask of thee. Be the protector of this tree, which has so often screened thee from the heat of the sun and from the rain, and stop the murderous hatchet of thy brethren who devastate the forest, so that they may not touch its venerable trunk.”

The young warrior having again become bold by this soft speech, answered thus:—“Goddess or mortal, whoever thou be, ask of me whatever thou wishest, and if I can perform it, I will do so. But I am only an insignificant person among the people of my master, the servant of the Duke. If he says to me, to-day or to-morrow, Go to this or to that pasture ground, how shall I take care of thy tree in the distant forest? However, if thou orderest it, I will renounce the service of my prince, I will live in the shadow of thy oak, and guard it throughout my life.”

“Do so,” said the Elf; “thou shalt not repent it.” Thereupon she disappeared, and the top of the tree moved slightly, as if a soft evening breeze had stirred the leaves.

Krokus stood for some time rooted to the ground, enraptured with the heavenly form which had appeared to him. So tender a being, of such slender figure and noble bearing, he had never seen amongst the short-waisted lasses of Sclavonia. At length he stretched himself upon the downy moss, yet sleep did not visit his eyes. The rising sun still found him in the giddiness of sweet emotions, which were as strange and new to him as the first rays of light to the newly opened eyes of the blind-born. Early in the morning he hastened to the ducal abode, asked for his discharge, packed up his arms and military trappings, and marched, with his head full of ardent fancies and his back of luggage, with rapid steps towards his sylvan hermitage.

In the meantime an artificer belonging to his people, and by trade a miller, had, during his absence, chosen the trunk of his oak, which was healthy and straight, for an axle-tree to the wheel of his mill, and had gone with his men to fell it. The faint-hearted Elf sighed as the voracious saw with its teeth of steel began to nibble at the foundation of her dwelling. Anxiously she looked round from the top of her tree for her faithful champion; still her quick-sightedness could nowhere discover him, and the consternation which had seized upon her made the power of foresight which she possessed so ineffective that she was as little able to decipher her impending fate as the sons of Æsculapius, with their famous prognosis, are able to advise themselves when death knocks at their own door.

Krokus, however, was approaching, and already so near the scene of this sad catastrophe, that the noise of the grating saw resounded in his ears. This din in the forest did not seem to him of good omen; he accelerated his pace, and a single glance rendered him sensible of the impending destruction of the tree confided to his protection. Like a frantic madman, he attacked the woodcutters with lance and drawn sword, and drove them from their work. They beheld in him a mountain-goblin, and fled in the greatest consternation. Fortunately the wound which the tree had received was yet easy to be cured, and the scar disappeared in a few summers.

In the evening, at his leisure hour, after having chosen the place for his future abode, and measured the space for a small garden, he was revolving once more in his thoughts the whole plan of his hermitage, where he intended to pass his days in retirement, separated from all society, in the service of a shadowy companion who seemed to have little more reality than a calendar saint which a pious friar selects for his spiritual love; when the Elf appeared to him on the banks of the pond, and thus addressed him with a graceful gesture:—

“Thanks to thee, dear stranger, for having prevented the violent hands of thy brethren from felling that tree to which my life is tied by sisterly bonds; for thou must know, that Nature, which has favoured our race with many talents and gifts, has however united the fate of our lives with the growth and duration of the oak. It is through us that this king of the forest towers above the other trees and shrubs; we promote the circulation of its sap through the stem and branches, to give it strength to combat with the storm, and to resist through many ages the power of all-destroying time. In return, our life is dependent on their’s: if the oak decays to which fate has linked our lot, we also decay; and if it dies, we also die, and sleep, like mortals, a sort of death-sleep, till, by the eternal circumvolution of all things, through chance or some secret disposition of Nature, our being is again coupled with a new germ, which, by means of our vivifying power, in the course of time again becomes a powerful tree, and thus allows us to enjoy anew the pleasures of life. From this thou mayest gather, what service thou hast rendered to me by thy prowess, and what gratitude I owe thee. Ask now the reward of thy noble deed; tell me the secret wish of thy heart, and it shall be immediately granted.”

Krokus was silent. The presence of the charming Elf had made more impression upon him than her speech, which he but partly understood. She saw his embarrassment; and, in order to relieve it, she took a withered reed from the side of the pond, broke it into three parts, and said, “Choose one of these three hulls, or take one without choosing. In the first thou wilt find honour and glory; in the second, riches and their wise enjoyment; in the third, happiness in love.

The young man cast down his eyes, and answered, “Daughter of heaven, if thou wilt grant me the wish of my heart, know, that it is not inclosed in either of these three hulls which thou offerest me. My heart wishes for a higher reward. What is honour, but the tinder of pride? what are riches, but the root of avarice? what is love, but the lure of the passions, to ensnare the noble freedom of the heart? Grant me my wish, to repose in the shade of thy oak from the fatigues of the campaign, to hear from thy sweet lips the precepts of wisdom, and to be enabled to decipher the secrets of the future.”

“Thy request,” answered the Elf, “is of great import, but so are the services thou hast rendered me. Be it, then, as thou wishest. The bandage shall disappear from before thy corporeal eyes, that thou mayest be enabled to view the secrets of concealed wisdom. Enjoying the fruit, take also the shell. For the wise man is also an honoured man; he alone is rich, for he wishes for no more than he wants; and he tastes the nectar of love without poisoning it with impure lips.” Saying this, she once more gave him the three hulls, and departed.

The young hermit prepared his bed of moss under the oak, highly satisfied with the reception the Elf had given him. Sleep overtook him immediately; pleasant morning dreams hovered round his head and filled his imagination with happy forebodings.

On awaking, he began joyfully his work. He built a commodious hermitage; he digged his garden, and planted roses and lilies, with other odoriferous flowers and plants, not forgeting cabbages and kitchen herbs, and various fruit-trees.

The Elf never failed to visit him in the evening at twilight, and rejoiced with him on the results of his industry. She walked with him, hand in hand, along the banks of the pond, where the easily moved reed lisped to them through the evening breeze a sweet serenade. She instructed her attentive pupil in the secrets of nature; taught him the origin and essence of things, and made him acquainted with their natural and magic properties and effects; and thus transformed the rude warrior into a thinker and philosopher.

In proportion as the feelings and sentiments of the young man became refined through his intercourse with this beautiful shadowy being, the tender form of the Elf seemed to condense and gain more consistence. Her bosom received warmth and life; her hazel eyes shot fire; and she seemed to have taken, with the form of a young girl, the feelings also of a blooming and lovely maiden. These confidential evening walks had the usual effect. After some months acquaint- ance, Krokus found himself in love, and beloved, and had that success which was promised to him with the third hull; nor did he regret being deprived, through the allurements of love, of the freedom of the heart. Although the nuptials of the tender pair were private, they were performed with as much pleasure as the most gorgeous wedding.

The Elf presented her husband, in the course of time, with three daughters. The enraptured father called the first-born Bela—the second, Therba—and the youngest, Libussa. They all resembled fairies in beauty; and although they were not formed of so fine a matter as their mother, still their bodily structure was far more refined than the coarser clay of their father. Besides, they were free from all the infirmities of childhood, as measles, hooping-cough, scarlet fever, &c. Nor did they want leading-strings, for after nine days they ran about like partridges; and as they grew up, they manifested all the talents of their mother, could discover secret things, and foretell the future.

Krokus also, in time, obtained a decent knowledge of these things. When the wolves had dispersed the flocks through the forest, and the shepherds searched in vain for their lost sheep and cattle,—when the wood-cutters missed a hatchet or an axe, they came to Krokus for advice, who told them where to look for the lost things. When a wicked neighbour had stolen something from the common property, or had broken into a neighbour’s house and robbed or killed the landlord, and nobody could guess who was the criminal, they went for counsel to the sage Krokus. He assembled them in an open field, made them form a circle, then stepping into the middle, bowled the never-missing sieve, which invariably detected the culprit. Thus his reputation spread all over Bohemia; and whoever had a case or business of consequence, went to the wise man to ask his opinion about the issue. The invalid and the sick also came to him to be cured; even diseased cattle were brought to him, for he understood as well how to cure them by his own shadow as did the famous St. Martin of Schierbach. The concourse of people which came to visit him augmented daily, as if Apollo’s tripod had been transplanted into the Bohemian forest; and although Krokus gave advice gratis to the sick, the diseased, and the care-worn, still the treasure of his secret wisdom brought him large interest and great gain, for the people came with presents and donations, and overwhelmed him with proofs of their goodwill. It was he who first revealed the secret of gold-washing from the sands of the river Elbe, and received tithe from every gold-fisher. In this way his property and possessions accumulated. He built fortified castles and palaces; had large herds of cattle, fruitful tracts of land, fields, and meadows; and found himself insensibly in the possession of that wealth which the liberal Elf had promised him with the second hull.

One beautiful summer evening, when Krokus was returning, with several of his horsemen, from an excursion into the plain, where he had, upon the demand of the litigating parties, amicably settled a boundary quarrel between two communities, he perceived his spouse on the banks of the fish-pond, in the same place where she had first appeared to him. She made him a sign with her hand; he therefore dismissed his servants, and hastened to embrace her. She received him, as usual, most affectionately; but her heart was sad and oppressed, and from her eyes dropped ethereal tears, so transparent and volatile, that in falling they were absorbed by the air without ever reaching the ground. Krokus was greatly alarmed at the sight, for he had never before seen the eyes of his spouse otherwise than radiant with youthful mirth.

“What ails thee, beloved of my heart?” said he; “dark presentiments torment my soul. Say, what is the meaning of these tears?”

The Elf sighed, leant her sorrowful head against his shoulder, and thus spoke: “Dear husband, during thy absence I have read in the book of fate, that an unfortunate destiny awaits the tree of my life: I must part from thee for ever. Follow me into the palace, that I may bless my little ones, for we shall meet no more.”

“O, beloved one!” exclaimed Krokus; “banish these sorrowful thoughts! What misfortune can menace your tree? Is it not strong and sound in stem and root? Look at its fresh branches, how they spread, laden with leaves and fruit, and its top towers towards heaven. As long as this arm can move, I will protect it against any offender who may dare to damage its trunk.”

“A powerless protection that of a mortal arm,” she replied. “An ant may oppose an ant; a fly may oppose a fly; and an earthworm can only oppose an earthworm. But what can even the most powerful among you do against the workings of Nature, or the inevitable decrees of Fate? Terrestrial kings may overturn comparative mole-hills, which they call castles and forts; but the smallest breath of air defies their power, and, in spite of their commands, blows where it chooses. Thou hast formerly protected this tree against the violence of man; but can you prevent the storm from despoiling it of its leaves? or when a hidden worm gnaws in its marrow, can you take it out and crush it.”

Thus conversing, the loving pair arrived at their palace. The slender young ladies came jumping joyfully to meet their mother, as was their wont; they gave an account of their day’s work, and brought their embroidery and as a proof of their skilful application. But this time the hour of domestic bliss was joyless. They soon perceived that in the face of their father traces of deep sorrow were engraved, and it was with sympathizing grief that they saw their mother’s tears, without venturing to ask for the cause. The mother gave them much good advice and exhortation, but her speech resembled the song of the swan, as if she wished to give her blessing to the world. She remained with her beloved till the morning star appeared in the heavens; then she embraced her husband and children with melancholy tenderness, and returned with the dawn by the secret little gate to her tree, leaving her beloved ones to oppressive forebodings.

At the rising of the sun Nature seemed wrapt in an ominous calm. The brilliant orb, radiant for some time, became slowly obscured by sombre and heavy clouds. The day was sultry, and the whole atmosphere electric. Distant thunders roared above the forest, and the many-voiced echo mournfully resounded those awful noises. At noon a notched flash of lightning descended upon the venerable oak, shivered in a twinkling with irresistible force both trunk and branches, and sent the splinters far into the forest. When this was reported to Krokus, he tore his dress, went out with his three daughters to mourn over the life-tree of his spouse, and collected the splinters, to keep them as the most precious relics. From that day the Elf was never again seen.

In a few years the tender young ladies grew up; their maidenly beauty expanded like the bud of a rose-tree, and the rumour of their beauty spread all over the country. The most noble of the youth of the land came to visit father Krokus under pretence of asking his advice, but in reality to see with their own eyes those marvels of beauty. The sisters lived together on the best terms possible, and in the greatest candour, being as yet scarcely acquainted with their own talents. The gift of divination they possessed in the highest degree, and their discourses were oracles, without their being at all aware of it. Their vanity, however, was soon aroused by the voice of flattery. The word-catchers seized each sound from their mouth; the Celadons interpreted each movement, espied the slightest smile, explored each glance of the eye, saw in them more or less favourable omens, and believed they could guess through them their fate; and since that time it is customary with lovers to ask from the horoscope of the eyes the success or disappointment of their love. No sooner had vanity seized upon the virgin heart, than pride and arrogance, its invariable concomitants, were already at the door, accompanied by their associates,—egotism, selfishness, self-praise, and obstinacy; and, one after another, they all gained admittance. The elder sisters strove to surpass the younger one by their arts, and secretly envied her superior bodily charms: for although they were all three beautiful, still Libussa surpassed the other two in loveliness.