The Enchanted Knights

Front matter

THE

ENCHANTED KNIGHTS;

OR THE

Preface

In all works rendered from the German into the English tongue, the adaptation must necessarily lose much of the beauty of the original, the language of this Country being too weak and barren to convey to the mind of the reader the delicate metaphor, and redundant sentences of the German. The translator has however as closely as possible followed the style of the German, and if his readers should remark a somewhat strange expression of thought, action, or idea, they must attribute this, which may be considered a fault in English Literature, solely to his desire to make the work what in truth every translation ought to be, a faithful reflection of the original.

The translator of the “Enchanted Knights,” and of the “Demon of the ring,” need offer no reasons for introducing to the English public two of the best tales of one of the most renowned writers of fiction and legendary romance that even Germany, so prolifick in works of imagination and ghostliness, ever produced.

These stories so ingenious in their construction, so wonderful in their character, so replete with incident and adventure of the most exciting nature, but withal so clear of comprehension have met with universal favour in Germany.

Musæus, the author, was a man of deep intellect and fertile imagination, embracing at once the tact of the dramatist and the energy and enthusiasm of the romancist: capable of imparting his ideas with the utmost vividness and enchaining the attention of his readers.

But the fame of Musæus has not been confined to Germany: a translation by Paul de Kock has been published in France with very great success. Without using more words of our own in praise of the eminent romancist, we lay before the reader the opinion of Wieland, justly called the German Voltaire, and of Paul de Kock, upon the merits of this singular production.

Extract from the Preface of Paul de Kock.

“The popular Fancy Stories of Musæus are entertaining as well as moral. In every line the author excites our curiosity and amuses our imagination and at the same time neglects not to present ridicule in its true light, to chastise vice, and to throw irony and satire upon folly and prejudice.

If Musæus had only written the Chronicle of the Three Sisters that story alone would have been sufficient to establish his reputation, and to place him upon a level with the first authors of Germany. None of the tales of the Thousand and one Nights—so rich in beauties and wonders—can enter the lists against this production, in which the author has lavished all the treasures of fairyism, and joined to the most extraordinary tales, an interesting story of which the progress in the midst of the most fantastical events is always clear and not interrupted at every instant by episodes foreign to the tale, as in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. The plan of suspending one tale to begin another, and then suspending that to begin a third, tires the attention of the reader, who obliged to follow up three stories instead of one, loses sight of the events in the early portion of the work before he has half perused it, or else he is compelled to pause to arrange in his mind the events of the narrative, lest he should confound the different tales, and thus grows weary of the work which, instead of diverting fatigues.

Musæus cannot be reproached with this fault; his stories are never crossed by new tales, and the reader arrives untired at the denouement. The “Chronicle of the Three Sisters” presents everything that can be expected from a work of this kind. The marvellousness of the subject, the charm of the descriptions, the fantasticalness of the enchantments, make these tales powerfully interesting, so that the reader can scarcely leave off before he reaches the conclusion. If his works seem frivolous to some persons who disdain all which belongs not to high literature, there are others who will be much gratified in the opportunity of indulging, after their more grave occupations in the perusal of these tales, and will be glad to experience again in mature age some of the sensations which charmed their youthful days.”

Extract from the Preface of Wieland.

“This work in its kind is one of the best publications of late years—so rich in the most splendid literary productions. The tales it contains may be, without the slightest danger, put into the hands of every youth. Far from corrupting the heart they are, on the contrary, adapted to develope in young heads the ideas which ought to germ there. At my age (seventy), I have consecrated considerable time to superintend a new edition of this work. That is, I think, a sufficient proof that I consider its perusal far from dangerous.”

The Demon of the Ring

THE CHRONICLE

OF THE

First Book

FIRST BOOK.

A certain rich count, whose name many noble houses would not care to see here, lived like a king, squandered away all his property and possessions, kept open house to all who came to see him, and entertained them in the most sumptuous manner for three days. His guests reeled away highly delighted with the hospitality of their noble entertainer. He was fond of backgammon and dice; his court was full of golden-curled pages, runners, and heiduques, in brilliant liveries; in his stables were stalled innumerable horses, and in his kennels kept hounds of the highest breed. This extravagance melted his treasures away. He mortgaged town after town, sold his jewels and plate, dismissed the servants and shot the dogs, so that nothing was left him but an old hunting castle, a virtuous wife, and three most beautiful daughters. In this castle he lived, after the decay of his fortune, abandoned by the whole world. The countess and her three daughters attended the kitchen themselves, but, as they were ignorant of the culinary art, they could prepare nothing but potatoes. These frugal repasts did not much suit the taste of the lord of the manor; he became surly and morose, hallood and swore through the large empty building, till the bare walls re-echoed his ill humour.

One beautiful summer’s morning, impelled by spleen, he took his hunting spear, and went into the forest to kill some game to procure a dainty for his dinner. This forest was said to be haunted, many a traveller had been led astray, and some had never returned, having been strangled by wicked gnomes or torn to pieces by wild beasts. The count neither believed nor feared any thing from invisible powers; he marched stoutly over hill and dale, crept through bush and thorn, but without finding his hoped-for prey. Tired at last he sat down under a large oak tree to take his dinner, consisting of boiled potatoes and salt, the sole contents of his pouch, when, by chance lifting his eyes, he beheld what a sight!—a most ferocious bear striding straight towards him. The poor count was very much frightened at the apparition; he could not escape, nor was he armed to encounter a bear; yet, at all hazards, he took the spear in his hands to defend himself as well as he could. The monster approaching closely, stopped and growled these words distinctly:—“Robber! thou plunderest my honey tree! and shalt pay for thy misdeed with thy life.” “Alas! my lord bear,” supplicated the count, “do not devour me—I do not covet your honey—I am an honest knight. If you feel an appetite, pray content yourself with my humble repast, and be my guest.” Thereupon he presented to the bear all the potatoes in the pouch, but the beast disdained his offer and angrily replied, “Wretch! thou canst not redeem thy life at that price; promise me instantly thy eldest daughter, Wulfield, for a wife, or I devour thee.” The count, in his fright, would have promised to the enamoured bear his three daughters, and his spouse into the bargain, if he had asked for them, for necessity knows no law. “She shall be your’s, my lord bear,” said he, beginning to recover from his fright, “but,” added he cunningly, “on condition that you redeem the bride and come yourself to take her away, as the country’s custom requires.” “It is a bargain—your hand,” exclaimed the bear, stretching out his rough paw, “in seven days I redeem my love with an hundred weight of gold, and take her home.” “Let it be so settled,” said the count,” upon the word of a man!” They then separated in peace, the bear trotting to his den; the count, who did not tarry long in the terrible forest, arrived, by the glimmer of the stars, tired and harrassed, at his castle.

A bear who can speak and act like a man, every one knows, is not a natural, but a bewitched one. This the count easily conceived, and therefore tried to outdo his shaggy son-in-law, and to barricade himself in his fortified castle in such a way as to make it impossible for the brute to get in on the appointed day, and carry off his bride. If ever speech and sense, he reasoned, are given to a bear, he is after all but a bear, and possesses no more than the qualities of a natural one. I hope he will not be able to fly, like a bird through the air nor, pass through the keyhole like a ghost.

The next morning he related his adventure in the forest to his spouse and the young ladies. Wulfield, hearing that she was to be wedded to a hideous bear, was frightened into a swoon; the mother wrung her hands and lamented aloud; the sisters despaired and trembled with fear and alarm; but the count examined the walls and ditches which surrounded the castle, and took care to see that the iron gate was bolted and locked, wound up the draw-bridge, and, after securing every accessible passage, went to the watch tower, and found there a strongly mured closet under the pinnacle, in which he confined the young lady who in her distress tore her soft flaxen hair, and nearly wept her azure eyes out. Six days had now elapsed and the seventh began to dawn, when from the forest a loud noise was heard, as though Arthur’s chase were coming that way;—whips cracked, bugles sounded, horses stamped, wheels rattled, and a splendid state carriage, surrounded by horsemen, was seen rolling rapidly over the plain towards the castle. All the bolts unfastened without effort, the gates flew open, the draw-bridge went down, and a young prince, beautiful as a summer’s morning, dressed in velvet embroidered with silver descended from the carriage. Around his neck was a triple chain of gold twice the length of a man; his hat was encircled with a string of pearls and diamonds which dazzled the eyes, and the clasps which fastened an ostrich feather was worth a duchy. Quick as lightning he went up the winding stairs of the turret, and a moment afterwards the affrighted bride descended trembling in his arms. The noise awakened the count from his morning slumber, and when, opening the window of his bed room, he saw coaches and horses, knights and men at arms in the court yard—his daughter in the arms of a stranger, who after lifting her into the wedding carriage, left with the whole train by the castle gate, his heart sank within him, and he began to lament loudly. “Adieu, my dear daughter! Adieu, thou bride of a bear!” Wulfield heard the voice of her father, and waived an adieu with her handkerchief from the carriage window.

The parents were saddened by the loss of their daughter, and looked at each other in silent consternation. The countess did not believe her own eyes, and thought the abduction of her daughter nothing but a trick of the devil. Taking a bunch of keys she ran up to the watch tower, and opened the cell in the hope of finding Wulfield there, but she saw neither her daughter nor anything belonging to her. On the table she perceived a silver key, and looking through the dormer distinguished at a distance a cloud of dust ascending towards the east, and heard the shouts and huzzas of the wedding party just entering the forest. Sorrowfully she descended from the tower, put on a mourning dress, strewed her head with ashes, and wept for three days, her husband and daughters joining in her lament. On the fourth day the count left his mourning room to take an airing, and whilst crossing the yard he perceived a fine chest of solid ebony securely locked. He easily guessed the contents; the countess gave him the key which she had found in Wulfield’s room, he opened the chest with it, and found to his delight a hundred-weight of doubloons of the same coinage. Rejoiced at the sight, he forgot all his woes, bought falcons and horses, fine dresses for his wife and the pretty young ladies, took servants in his pay, and began again to riot and squander till the last doubloon was drawn from the chest. The treasure gone, he again fell into debt, and his impatient creditors plundered the castle so completely, that they left nothing but one old falcon. The countess and her daughter again boiled potatoes, and the count, with the falcon on his arm, rove daily through the fields, driven to this exercise by the monotony of his life. Once, as he cast the falcon, the bird flew high in the air, and would not return to the hand of its master, although he lured it. He followed its flight as well as he could through the large plain till the bird approached the calamitous forest, which the count would not any more dare to enter, and therefore gave up the chase. Suddenly an enormous eagle ascended above the forest, and pursued the falcon, which, on seeing so far superior an enemy, returned with the swiftness of an arrow to its master for shelter, but the eagle, darting from the sky, struck one of his heavy talons into the count’s shoulder, and with the other crushed the faithful falcon. The alarmed count endeavoured to disengage himself from the feathered monster by blows and thrusts with his spear. The eagle however seized the weapon, broke it like a reed, and screamed in his ear with a loud voice:—“Audacious man! why disturbest thou my airy dominion with thy bird hunting—the crime thou hast committed will cost thee thy life.” This speech of the bird made the count aware of the nature of the adventure that had befallen him, so, taking courage, he said:—Patience, my lord eagle, patience! What have I done to you? my falcon has suffered for his offence—I leave him to you to satisfy your appetite.” “No,” said the eagle, “I feel to day an appetite for human flesh, and thou seemest to me a fat morsel.” “Pardon,” my lord eagle,” shrieked the count in agony, “Ask what you like from me, and I will give it to you—only spare my life.” “Well,” said the murderous bird, “I take thee at thy word—thou hast two handsome daughters—I want a consort—promise me thy daughter Adelaide for a wife, and thou mayest return in peace, and I shall redeem her with two bars of gold, each weighing an hundred pounds. In seven weeks I come to take my lady-love home.” Upon this the bird arose and disappeared in the clouds.

Necessity makes a man part with everything. When the father saw the traffic with his daughters so profitable to him, he consoled himself upon their loss. Thus he came home in very good temper, carefully concealing his adventure, partly to avoid the reproaches which he feared from the countess, and partly not to afflict too soon the heart of his beloved daughter. For appearance sake, he complained of the loss of his falcon, which, he said, had flown away.

Adelaide was a spinner superior to any in the country, as well as a skilful weaver, and at that moment she took a most beautiful piece from the loom, as fine as cambric, which she bleached on a grass plot not far from the castle. Six weeks and six days had now passed away; the handsome spinner had no presentiment of her impending fate, though the father, who became more melancholy as the time of the visit approached, threw out several hints, by narrating fictitious dreams, or by alluding to the fate of long-forgotton Wulfield. Still Adelaide was in high spirits, and believed that the state of her father’s health was the cause of his whimsical fancies. On the appointed day, she capered towards the bleaching turf, and spread her linen to imbibe the morning dew. After having attended to her bleaching, she looked leisurely around and saw a most beautiful train of knights and sqiures approaching. Not having yet made her morning toilet, she hid behind a rose-bush in full bloom, and peeped through its branches to see the magnificent cavalcade. The handsomest of the number, a tall and slender knight, with an open helmet, gallopped to the bush, addressing her in a soft voice:—“I see you—I am looking for you, my pretty love—do not hide yourself. Quickly mount with me, my pretty eagle’s bride.” Adelaide was thunderstruck at hearing these words. The amiable knight had pleased her very much, but the words “eagle’s bride” made her blood freeze in her veins. She sunk upon the grass, her senses departed, and on awakening she found herself on the breast of the charming knight on the road to the forest. Her mother in the mean time prepared the breakfast, and Adelaide’s absence being noticed, she sent her youngest daughter to seek her, who went out and did not return. The mother’s heart foreboded nothing good, and, wanting to learn what had made her daughter stay away so long, she also went. The count knew well what had occurred, and his heart beat violently in his breast; he followed to the grass plot where his wife and daughter still sought for Adelaide, calling her by name; he, too, called aloud, though he well knew that all calling and searching was vain. On his way he passed the rose-bush, where he saw something glitter, and when he looked closely found it to be two golden eggs, each weighing an hundred pounds. Now he could not any longer conceal from his wife what had really befallen his daughter.

“Infamous soul vendor! Do you thus sacrifice to Moloch your own flesh and blood?” The count, not generally very eloquent, exculpated himself as he best could by detailing the imminent danger of his life, but the disconsolate mother ceased not to overwhelm him with bitter reproaches. To terminate her upbraidings he employed the most infallible remedy—that is, to be silent and let his lady talk as long as she liked. Meanwhile he rolled the golden eggs to a place of safety. After that he wore three days’ mourning for decency’s sake, thinking only how to re-commence his former life. In a short time the castle was again the habitation of joy, and the Elysium of greedy guests. Balls, tournaments, and splendid feasts were alternately given. Bertha, the remaining daughter, attracted at the court of her father the eyes of all the stately knights, like the silvery moon, the gaze of sentimental wanderers in a clear summer’s night. It was she who used to award the prizes at the knightly sports, and to lead the dance with the conquering knight. The hospitality of the count and the beauty of the daughter allured the most noble knights from the remotest parts of the country. Many wooed the rich heiress, but among so many competitors choice was not an easy matter for Bertha all of them excelling in nobility, beauty, and grace. The lovely girl was selecting and choosing till the golden eggs upon which the count had not spared the file, had dwindled away to the size of a hazel nut. The count’s finances now soon relapsed into their former state, the tournaments discontinued, the knights and squires disappeared, the castle fell into its pristine appearance and solitude, and the noble family once more resumed their frugal potatoe meals. The count, again ill humoured, took to the fields, wishing for new adventures, but shunning the bewitched forest found none. Following once a covey of partridges, he advanced farther than usual, and arrived close to the dreaded forest; not daring to enter it, he went along its borders, and perceived an immense fish pond, which he had never seen before, and through whose crystal waters he saw innumerable trout disporting in the limpid wave. He was much pleased at the discovery, and as the pond had a very innocent exterior, he hurried home to make a net to ensnare its mute imhabitants. Next morning at an early hour he reached the pond and chanced to find a little boat lying on the rushes—he jumped into it, rowed merrily about, cast the net, caught at one draught more trout than he could carry, and then delighted with his prize, made for the shore. When about a stone’s throw from the bank, the boat suddenly stopped and became immoveable, as if fastened to the ground. The count believed that it had stranded, and worked with all his force to set it afloat, but in vain. The water flowed around, and the boat far above the water, was as if hanging upon a rock. The inexperiencd fisherman felt not at all at his ease, and though the boat were as though nailed to a bank, the shore appeared to recede, the pond to swell to the size of a sea, waves began to mount, billows to foam and roar, and to his alarm he discovered that a fish of most enormous proportions was carrymg him and his boat away upon its back. He resigned himself to his fate, awaiting what would next occur. All at once the fish dived, and the boat was again afloat, but a moment afterwards this prodigy of the sea was visible above the water, and then opening its horrid jaws, like the gates of hell, the following words sounded distinctly from the dark abyss:—“Audacious fisherman! what art thou doing here? Thou art murdering my subjects.—thou shalt forfeit thy life for this crime.” The count was already so well used to similar adventures that he knew how to conduct himself. Seeing that the fish could be sensibly spoken to, he soon recovered from his first surprise, and boldly said:—“My lord Behemoth, do not violate hospitality, but grant me a dish from your watery domains—if you came to visit me, my kitchen and cellar should be entirely at your service.” “We are not yet so intimate,” answered the monster—“Knowest thou not it is the right of the stronger to devour the weaker? Thou hast stolen my subjects to swallow them, and I shall do the same to thee!” On this the fish opened its jaws still wider, as if he were about to engulph the boat, man and mouse. “Alas! spare my life,” shrieked the count—“You see I would make but a poor breakfast for your shark-like belly.” The monstrous fish pondered for a moment—“Well,” said he, “I know thou hast a handsome daughter—promise her to me in marriage, and take thy life as a boon.” The count seeing the fish’s thoughts turned into that channel, dismissed all fear. “She is at your service—you are a valiant son-in-law, to whom an honest father cannot refuse his child—but how will you redeem the bride according to custom?” “I have,” said the fish, “neither gold nor silver; but at the bottom of this sea is an immense treasure of pearls of the finest grain—ask and thou shalt have.” “In that case,” said the count, “three bushels of the finest will not be too much for a lovely bride.” “They are thine,” said the fish, concluding, “and the bride is mine—in seven months I carry my lady love home.” He then, by wagging his tail, quickly drove the boat ashore. The count took his trout home, had them boiled, and, as well as the countess and the handsome Bertha, found this Carthusian dinner very much to their taste. The young lady did not know how dearly she would have to pay for her dinner. Meanwhile the moon had waned six times, and the count nearly forgotten his adventure, but when the horned Aster began to fill for the seventh time, he became thoughtful upon the impending catastrophe, and, unwilling to be a spectator of the coming scene, undertook a short journey into the country. In the sultry hour of noon, the day when Luna was at her full, a troop of stately horsemen approached the castle. The countess, astonished at seeing so many visitors, knew not whether she ought to open the gate or not, but as a well known knight announced himself she no longer hesitated. At the time when tournaments were held at the castle, the season of the count’s wealth and prosperity, this knight had many times fought in the lists, received the reward of his valour from the finely moulded hands of Bertha, and led the dance with her. Since the change in the fortunes of the family he had disappeared as well as the other knights. The good countess blushed at her poverty—not having anything with which to entertain the knight and his suite. But as he never drank wine, he only went to beg a draught of water from the cool well of the castle, as he used to do on former visits, and from which habit he was by his friends jocosely called the “Water Knight.” Bertha sped, on a sign of her mother, to the well, filled a pitcher and poured the water into a crystal cup for the knight. He took it from her pretty little hand, put it to his mouth at the same place where she had previously kissed it with her purple lips, and pledged her in a bumper. During this occurence the countess found herself in great perplexity at her inability to present any refreshment to her guests, but bethinking herself that there was in the castle garden a ripe water melon, she instantly went and plucked it, then placing it on an earthen plate which she decked with vine leaves, surrounding it with the prettiest and most odorous flowers. When hastening to present it to her guests, she found the castle yard deserted—neither man at arms nor horses were to be seen, no knight, no squire was there. She called for her daughter Bertha but no reply—she searched for her all over the castle, but in vain. In the vestibule were three sacks, made of new linen, which she did not perceive at first, because of her surprise, and which when touched seemed to be filled with dried peas. Her sorrow did not then allow her a closer inspection. The good mother abandoned herself entirely to despair, and wept continually till the evening, when her husband returned and beheld her in the utmost wretchedness. She could not conceal from him the event of the day, although she would fain have done so, dreading to incur his anger for having allowed a strange knight to enter the castle, and rob them of their beloved daughter. The count consoled her affectionately, and only asked for the sacks of peas, of which she had spoken, and went with her to look at them. Opening them in her presence, what was the surprize of the afflicted countess on seeing real pearls, large as garden peas, finely drilled, of beautiful form, and of the finest grain rolling out. She saw that the robber of her daughter had paid her each tear with a real pearl, conceived a very high idea of his riches and station, and consoled herself by thinking that this son-in-law was not a monster, but a stately knight—an opinion which the count took good care not to shake.

Now the parents had lost all their daughters, but in lieu they possessed an immense treasure. The count soon turned part of it into money. From morning till evening the castle was thronged with jews and merchants who bargained for the costly jewels. The count redeemed his towns, gave his hunting castle in lease to one of his feoffers, went to inhabit his former residence, re-established his court, and lived thenceforth not a spendthrift, but a good husbandman, perhaps because he had no other daughter to sell. The noble pair would have found themselves in a very comfortable state, were it not that the countess was unable to console herself for the loss of her, daughters, for whom she wept in silence and always wore mourning. For some time she hoped again to see her Bertha and the pearl knight return, and as often as a stranger was announced at court she expected to see her son-in-law. At last the count could not let her any longer languish in vain hopes, and in the confidential bed-room, where many a man’s secrets are divulged, he confessed to her, that her splendid son-in-law was but a horrible fish. “Alas,” exclaimed she in agony, “have I borne children that they may become the prey of disgusting monsters! What is earthly happiness? what are treasures to a childless mother!” “Dear wife,” answered the count, “be consoled—it cannot be remedied—if it depended on me you should not be childless.” The countess, misconstruing the meaning of those words, took them to heart. She thought her husband was reproaching her on her increasing age and barrenness, when as yet he was a strong and vigorous man. It greived her so much that she fell into a deep melancholy—friend Hein would have been a welcome guest had he then called upon her.