The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite
the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The
preliminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people
were betrothed without seeing each other, and the time was appointed for
the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled
from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the
baron’s to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from him
from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day
and hour when he might be expected to arrive.
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two
aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole morning
about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of
their contest to follow the bent of her own taste; and fortunately
it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could
desire, and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her
charms.
The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of
the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft
tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually
hovering around her, for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in
affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel
how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the
expected lover.
The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, nothing
exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and
could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried
from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he
continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be
diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer’s day.
In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung
with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good
cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and
Ferre-wein; and even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under
contribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest
with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality; but the
guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The sun,
that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald,
now just gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted
the highest tower and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant
sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them;
the sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the
mountain-echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below slowly
advancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of
the mountain they suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last
ray of sunshine departed, the bats began to flit by in the twilight, the
road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view, and nothing appeared stirring
in it but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity a very
interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald.
The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route in that
sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony when his
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his
hands and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a dinner at the
end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful
companion-in-arms with whom he had seen some service on the
frontiers--Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and
worthiest hearts of German chivalry--who was now returning from the
army. His father’s castle was not far distant from the old fortress of
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile and
strangers to each other.
In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young friends related all
their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave the whole history
of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but
of whose charms he had received the most enrapturing descriptions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to
perform the rest of their journey together, and that they might do it
the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the count
having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military
scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious now
and then about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity that
awaited him.
In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and
were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is
well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested
by robbers as its castles by spectres; and at this time the former were
particularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering
about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the
cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst
of the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly
overpowered when the count’s retinue arrived to their assistance. At
sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received a
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city
of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent who was
famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; but half
of his skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate count were
numbered.
With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the
castle of Landshort and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his
appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was
one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous
that his mission should be speedily and courteously executed. “Unless
this is done,” said he, “I shall not sleep quietly in my grave.” He
repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request at a moment
so impressive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe
him to calmness, promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him
his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment,
but soon lapsed into delirium--raved about his bride, his engagements,
his plighted word--ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle
of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the
saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s tear on the untimely
fate of his comrade and then pondered on the awkward mission he had
undertaken. His heart was heavy and his head perplexed; for he was to
present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still, there were
certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed
beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world; for
he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of
eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all
singular adventure.
Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the holy
fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his friend,
who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg near some of his
illustrious relatives, and the mourning retinue of the count took charge
of his remains.
It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more
for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing
himself on the watch-tower.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from
the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to
hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone, the
cook in an agony, and the whole household had the look of a garrison,
that had been reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to
give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were
seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of
a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes,
and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron hastened to
receive his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the
gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye and an air of
stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified that he should
have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was
ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect
for the important occasion and the important family with which he was to
be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it
must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on
sooner than his attendants.
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon you thus
unseasonably----”
Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings, for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy
and eloquence. The stranger attempted once or twice to stem the torrent
of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on.
By the time the baron had come to a pause they had reached the inner
court of the castle, and the stranger was again about to speak, when he
was once more interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her
for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed
forth in the gaze and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden
aunts whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the
stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away, but
there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of
the cheek that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed
for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for parley.
The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until
the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of
Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field,
and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting-spears, and
tattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the
jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly among
crossbows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched
immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment.
He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his
bride. He conversed in a low tone that could not be overheard, for the
language of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that
it cannot catch the softest whisper of the lover? There was a mingled