^A^ •-**- 
 
 X 
 
LEGENDS OF LONG AGO 
 
 ("Sieben Legenden") 
 
 By 
 
 GOTTFRIED KELLER 
 
 Translated by 
 CHARLES HART HANDSCHIN 
 
 
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 ) 3 J J 
 
 THE ABBEY COMPANY 
 CHICAGO 
 
554 
 
 
 Copyright 1911. by 
 THE ABBEY COMPANY 
 
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FOREWORD -^^ 
 
 GOTTFRIED KELLER, "the mHS^crrnoyQl. , 
 ist of this age and without question its 
 most original literary personality," was 
 called by Paul Heyse "the Shakespeare of the short- 
 story." 
 
 It is little wonder that the beauty and naive at- 
 mosphere of his native city, Zurich, where he was 
 born in 1819, should have inspired the art-loving 
 lad to become a painter. Poor in worldly goods, 
 bereft of a father at five, the lad fought and suffered 
 bravely. After leaving school, he was apprenticed 
 in succession to tv.'^o minor painters of Zurich, and 
 at the age of twenty-one went to Munich to con- 
 tinue his studies. But he was in financial straits 
 most of the two years spent there, and his forte 
 seem.s to have been fencing and rapier-fighting 
 rather than art. In the fall of 1842, he returned 
 home and took to literature. 
 
 Like Lincoln, he was no favorite with women. 
 His first love v/as characteristic. In 1847, he fell 
 a victim to the charms of pretty Louise Rieter, and 
 was unhappy all summer because, poor and without 
 a calling, he dared not importune her. Finally, one 
 day in the fall, he wrote her a letter confessing his 
 love but warning her against reciprocating it. He 
 
 [3] 
 
 311569 
 
never married, but his pure regard for woman made 
 .him Qrtei olMhC; foremost painters of feminine char- 
 acter known to modern literature. 
 
 We next find him in study at the University of 
 Heidelberg, where he resolves to devote himself 
 to literature. In Berlin, whither he next went, to 
 gain a knowledge of the stage, he had again to 
 battle with grim want. His first book of poems, 
 published in Zurich, had not been remunerative. 
 His first novel now proved no more so. He was 
 proud. He would not return home. He would 
 not write to his loved mother before he had made 
 a name for himself. He was lonely and forsaken. 
 He knew not whence his next meal v/ould come. 
 Pessimism was peeping in at his windows. It was 
 then that his thoughts turned lovingly to his beau- 
 tiful homeland, and out of the depths of his soul 
 he wrote the first volume of that cycle of immortal 
 stories, "The People of Seldwyl." The battle was 
 won. His innate goodness of heart, his sturdy 
 view of life, had triumphed. 
 
 After returning to Zurich he was given the posi- 
 tion of Secretary of the Canton, which he held for 
 fifteen years. The first fruit of his new life is our 
 present cycle of stories, modern versions of lives of 
 
 [4] 
 
saints, under the title "Sieben Legenden,"— one of 
 the seven being here omitted. 
 
 Keller's f^me, now fully established, v/as aug- 
 mented by several series of short stories, which 
 earned for him, at the hands of an eminent Ger- 
 man literary historian, the appellation of "the Swiss 
 Goethe," and which made his name a household 
 word in German speaking countries. 
 
 Keller's townspeople are still fond of showing the 
 favorite haunts of the old poet, who died in 1890, 
 and of telling anecdotes of his kindly humor and 
 genial bluntness. And v/ell may the people of 
 Switzerland point to him with pride, for it was 
 the Florentine day of their national art when two 
 men whose names would have made famous any 
 city in Christendom, Gottfried Keller and Arnold 
 Bocklin, lived and wrought in a single Swiss town. 
 
 The "Sieben Legenden" represents Keller at his 
 best. Their naive ingenuousness, poetic charm, and 
 quaint humor have made these legends a favorite 
 book among German-speaking peoples the world 
 over. They are offered here, for the first time in 
 English, in the hope that this little volume may 
 add to the enjoyment of many who love the whole- 
 some and the pure in literature. 
 
 [5] 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sister Beatrice, or the Virgin and the Nun 7 
 
 Eugenia 15 
 
 The Virgin and The Evil One 40 
 
 The Virgin in the Role of Knight 53 
 
 Dorothea's Flower-Basket 73 
 
 The Dance Legend 87 
 
 [6] 
 
SISTER BEATRICE 
 
 OR THE VIRGIN AND THE NUN 
 
 Oh that I had luings like a dove! for then I ivould fly 
 aivay, and be at rest. — Psalm 55,6 
 
 H 
 
 CLOISTER lay high up on a mountain- 
 side and its walls shone afar over the 
 surrounding country. Within it were 
 many women — some beautiful, some ill-favored, all 
 of whom served the Lord and the Holy Virgin ac- 
 cording to a strict discipline. 
 
 The most beautiful of the sisters was Beatrice, 
 the sacristan of the cloister. Of queenly form, she 
 moved from choir to altar performing her duties. 
 She kept the sacristy in order, and at the break of 
 day and again when the shadows of evening began 
 to fall, she tolled the cloister bell. 
 
 But ever and again she turned her wistful eye 
 from the billowy blue of the sky upon the passing 
 gleam of weapons or listened to the huntsman's horn 
 from the neighboring wood and the joyous calls of 
 the men, and a great longing to see the world filled 
 her bosom. 
 
 When at last she was no longer able to restrain 
 the desire of her heart, she arose one moonlit night 
 
 [7] 
 
in June, put strong shoes upon her feet, and, ready 
 for departure, approached the altar. *'I have served 
 thee faithfully for many a year," thus spake she to 
 the Virgin, "but take now these keys from my 
 hands, for I am unable longer to repress the yearn- 
 ing of my heart." 
 
 Then laying her bunch of keys upon the altar, 
 she left the cloister. Down through the solitude 
 of the mountain-side she wended her way until she 
 came to a crossing of the paths in a forest of oaks, 
 where, unable to decide in which direction to turn, 
 she seated herself on a stone bench by the curb of a 
 moss-covered fountain, and there rested through 
 the dewy night until the break of day. 
 
 Over the tree-tops now there shone the first 
 rays of the morning sun, and they fell upon a 
 splendid knight who came riding up, clad in armor, 
 and all alone. 
 
 The nun's beautiful eyes rested full upon the 
 manly figure, but she remained so quiet that the 
 knight had not seen her but for the plashing of the 
 spring, which, striking his ear, directed his eye 
 thither. 
 
 Straightway he made for the spot, dismounted, 
 and, allowing the steed to quench his thirst, greeted 
 the nun reverently. He was a crusader returning 
 
 [8] 
 
home after a long absence, alone, for he had lost 
 ail of his companions. 
 
 But in spite of his reverential demeanor, his ad- 
 miring eyes never wandered from the fair face of 
 Beatrice, who in turn continued to look in wonder 
 and delight at the warrior, for here, certainly before 
 her she beheld a part of the world for which she 
 had longed in secret. Then she looked down abashed. 
 
 The knight now asked whither she was bound 
 and vv^hether he might be of service to her. The 
 sound of his voice recalled her to herself, she raised 
 her eyes to his again, and, confessing all, told him 
 of how she had flov/n from the cloister to see the 
 world, and that already she v/as in great fear and 
 knev/ not whither to turn. 
 
 The knight laughed a hearty laugh and offered 
 to conduct her to a safe road, should she feel dis- 
 posed to entrust herself to him. "My castle," he 
 added, "is not more than a day's journey distant; 
 there you may prepare yourself in safety for your 
 advent into the great and beautiful world." 
 
 She made no answer, but allowed him without 
 resistance to place her upon his charger. There- 
 upon he himself m.ounted, and, with the happy nun 
 seated in front of him, they rode merrily away 
 through the v/ood and meadow. 
 
 [9] 
 
The knight took great pleasure in the company 
 of the sweet nun, while she, too, seemed not averse 
 to him, and soon found herself listening to words of 
 love as eagerly as though she had never heard a 
 cloister bell. 
 
 And thus it is only natural that they saw but 
 little of the passing landscape, or the sunshine, and 
 the fair eremite willingly closed her eyes upon all 
 the great world for which she had longed, save 
 only the bit of it now being borne along upon the 
 back of the faithful steed. 
 
 And Wonnebold, the knight, scarcely thought of 
 the castle of his ancestors until its towers flashed 
 out before them in the moonlight. All about the 
 castle was quiet, and still more quiet was it within, 
 and nowhere was there a light to be seen. 
 
 Wonnebold's father and mother had died, and 
 all the serving people had left, save an old castellan. 
 He appeared, after loud knocking and much ado, 
 with a lantern in his hand, and he nearly died with 
 joy when he caught sight of Wonnebold, without 
 the castle gate. 
 
 Despite his desolation and his years, the old 
 man had kept the castle in habitable condition, so 
 that on this evening all was ready for the home- 
 coming knight and his bride. 
 
 [10] 
 
On the following morning, Wonnebold unlocked 
 the great family chests and Beatrice robed herself 
 in rich garments and bedecked herself with jewels. 
 And this very day Wonnebold made her his wife, 
 and she became a noblewoman, without a peer at 
 the hunts, the festivals and dances, as well as in 
 the humble dwellings of the dependants, and in the 
 baronial pew of the church. 
 
 With varying fortunes, the years passed by, 
 and as twelve summers came and went, she bore 
 her husband eight sons, who grew up like young 
 stags. 
 
 When now the oldest numbered eighteen win- 
 ters, Beatrice arose one night in autumn from her 
 husband's side, carefully laid away all of her 
 worldly attire in the selfsame chests from which 
 they had been taken years ago, and locked them. 
 
 In her bare feet now she stole from one bed 
 to another, kissing her eight sons in turn, and 
 finally laying the keys down by the side of her 
 sleeping husband, she bent over him and imprinted 
 a kiss of farewell upon his lips. 
 
 And now it was but the work of a moment to 
 cut off the long tresses and to don her nun's garb 
 of dark color, which she had preserved, and arrayed 
 thus, noiselessly to leave the castle and take her 
 
 ' [11] 
 
way amid the falling leaves and rushing wind of the 
 autumn night towards the cloister she had deserted 
 m.any years ago. 
 
 As she walked on, she counted the beads of her 
 rosary and pondered on the life she had enjoyed. 
 
 Thus undaunted, she continued her pilgrimage 
 until she stood once more before the cloister-gate. 
 She knocked. The now aged gatekeeper opened, 
 greeting her casually as though she had been absent 
 but half an hour. 
 
 Beatrice passed by her and, entering the chapel, 
 cast herself upon her knees before the altar of the 
 Virgin, who thus addressed her: "Thou hast been 
 gone long, my daughter. All these years have I 
 performed thy service, but I am glad now that thou 
 hast returned and canst take charge of the keys 
 once more." 
 
 And the Virgin bent down and handed the keys 
 to Beatrice, who was transported in joy and won- 
 der over the great miracle. She entered at once 
 upon her service, putting this and that in order, 
 and when the bell tolled the noonday hour, she 
 found her way once more to the dining-hall. 
 
 Many of the sisters had grown old, others had 
 died, new ones had come, and a strange abbess sat 
 at the head of the table. No one seemed to notice 
 
 [12] 
 
the changes that had come over Beatrice, who had 
 now taken her old-time seat, for the Virgin had 
 performed the service in the person of Beatrice 
 herself. 
 
 Ten years passed by and in the cloister prepara- 
 tions were in progress for the celebration of a 
 great festival. On this occasion, each nun had 
 pledged herself to lay upon the altar of the Virgin 
 her rarest offering. 
 
 And thus one embroidered a costly banner, 
 another a covering for the altar, and a third a 
 chasuble. One wrote a Latin hymn, and a second 
 set it to music, while another ornamented a prayer- 
 book v/ith drawings. Whoever was not at all able 
 to do a thing of this sort, sewed a new garment to 
 serve as a gift for the Christmas-tide, while the 
 cook, perhaps, baked a dish of cakes. 
 
 Beatrice alone, listless, and absorbed in memo- 
 ries, dreams of the past, had provided no offering. 
 
 When, therefore, on the festal day, she brought 
 no gift whatever, her sister nuns were amazed and 
 chided her, and thus it happened that she stood 
 humbly a bit to one side in the flower-bedecked 
 sanctuary, as the nuns, in festive procession, laid 
 their tributes in turn upon the altar, to the tolling 
 of bells and the burning of incense. 
 
 [ 13 ] 
 
And now the sisters raised up their voices and 
 sang to the sound of music, and, as they did so, 
 there appeared, clattering down the highway, a 
 hoary horseman and eight stately youths, full 
 armored, well mounted and followed by eight 
 squires, ahorse. It was Wonnebold taking his sons 
 to join the army of the Emperor. 
 
 Attracted by the festive service within, they 
 drew up to the cloister gate, dismounted, and en- 
 tered to offer up a prayer to the Virgin. 
 
 Within the sanctuary, all were astounded at the 
 spectacle of the iron-clad old man kneeling with 
 eight youthful warriors, steel-clad and looking like 
 so many armored angels. The sister-musicians be- 
 came confused, and for a moment the music ceased 
 altogether. 
 
 Beatrice recognized her sons and her husband. 
 She uttered a cry, hastened towards them, and, 
 making herself known to them, she told her secret, 
 and told, too, of the great miracle that had been 
 vouchsafed her. 
 
 Now all confessed that hers indeed had been 
 the richest offering. And even as they spoke there 
 appeared upon each young warrior's head, bowed in 
 prayer, a garland of fresh oak leaves, the testimony 
 and the sign manual of the Queen of the Heavens. 
 
 [14] 
 
EUGENIA 
 
 The nvoman shall not tuear that ivhich pertaineth 
 unto a man, neither shall a man put on 'woman'' s 
 garment', for all that do so are abomination unto 
 the Lord thy God. — Deuteronomy 22,5. 
 
 ^ L W L i ^irHEN women lose their instinct for 
 ^^r f beauty, grace and femininity and seek 
 
 ^^^^ to excel in other realms, it often hap- 
 pens that they don man's attire, and thus equipped 
 start out to make a trial of life. 
 
 Even the early Christian legends tell of in- 
 stances of such desire, and more than one fair saint 
 of those days sought to emancipate herself from the 
 bonds of tradition and the conventions of society. 
 
 Eugenia, a high-bred Roman girl, offers a case 
 in point. Her masculine proclivities betrayed her 
 into an adventure which placed her in great embar- 
 ' rassment, from which she was able to extricate 
 herself only by taking refuge in the time-honored 
 resources of her sex. 
 
 She was the daughter of a highly respected Ro- 
 man citizen who lived with his family in Alex- 
 andria, a city that fairly swarm.ed with philosophers 
 and scholars of all kinds. Eugenia was carefully 
 V reared and educated, and so much did she profit by 
 
 [15] 
 
her instruction that as soon as she had outgrown 
 her short skirts, she was allowed to attend the 
 schools of the philosophers, scholiasts and rhetori- 
 cians, like any male student. On the occasion of 
 such visits, she had a bodyguard of two beautiful 
 lads of her own age to accompany her, the sons of 
 former slaves of her father, who were being edu- 
 cated v/ith Eugenia and taking part in all of her 
 studies. 
 
 She grew up the most beautiful maiden any- 
 where to be found, and her two companions, both 
 of whom, strangely enough, were called Hyacin- 
 thus, also increased in stature and comeliness. 
 Wherever Eugenia, the fair rose, appeared, there 
 on her right and left, might be seen also the two 
 Hyacinths rustling and gliding gracefully along a 
 few steps behind her, their mistress carrying on a 
 disputation with them over her shoulder as they 
 walked. 
 
 Never had a fair blue-stocking two better 
 trained associates. They never differed with their 
 mistress and always allowed her to remain a step 
 in advance in the acquisition of knowledge. Thus 
 she always got the better of an argument and never 
 stood in danger of saying anything more stupid 
 than her companions. 
 
 [16] 
 
All the bookworms of Alexandria composed 
 odes and epigrams upon this favorite of the muses, 
 and the complaisant Hyacinths had to copy these 
 verses carefully upon golden tablets and carry them 
 after their mistress. 
 
 With each semester she grew more lovely and 
 learned, and already she was exploring the intri- 
 cate maze of the Neoplatonic philosophy when the 
 young proconsul, Aquilinus, conceived an ardent 
 passion for her and asked her hand in marriage. 
 Her father, however, felt so deep a respect for his 
 daughter's learning that he waived his right as a 
 Roman father to dispose of her hand, and, not pre- 
 suming to urge her in the slightest, referred the 
 suitor to the girl herself, though personally no man 
 would have been more gratifying to him as a son- 
 in-law than Aquilinus. 
 
 Eugenia herself had long been favorably im- 
 pressed with Aquilinus, the stateliest, most re- 
 spected, and courteous man in Alexandria, and one 
 who, moreover, was considered to have a fine wit 
 and a generous heart. 
 
 Nevertheless she received the devoted consul 
 with perfect coldness and dignity, surrounded by 
 rolls of parchment, the two Hyacinths standing be- 
 hind her chair. One of these wore a robe of azure, 
 
 [17] 
 
the other, one of rose, while Eugenia herself was 
 dressed in immaculate white. Thus a stranger 
 might have been in doubt whether he had before 
 him three fair, tender youths, or three blooming 
 maidens. 
 
 Before this tribunal the worthy Aquilinus 
 stepped, clad in a simple, dignified toga, anxious to 
 give vent to his passionate emotion in tender and 
 loving words. But when Eugenia showed no in- 
 tent of dismissing her companions, he took a seat 
 opposite her and broached his suit in few straight- 
 forward words, restraining himself meanwhile, for 
 as he gazed enraptured upon her fair face and form, 
 a great desire overcame him to cast himself at her 
 feet. 
 
 A smile dimpled Eugenia's cheek, but she did 
 not even as much as redden, so completely had her 
 great learning and mental discipline checked all 
 the finer feelings of her woman's heart. Assuming 
 a serious and profound mien she answered him 
 thus: 
 
 "Thy desire, O Aquilinus, to have me to wife 
 does me great honor, but I cannot allow myself to 
 be moved to a rash act thereby, for such it would 
 be, if, without searching our hearts we should fol- 
 low the promptings of the first impulse. The fore- 
 
 [18] 
 
most quality that I should desire in my future hus- 
 band is that he respect my scholarly endeavors and 
 ambitions, and participate in them. And thus I 
 should be pleased to have you come often to my 
 house to emulate me and my companions in 
 striving for the highest knowledge. In this way we 
 should learn whether or not we are suited to each 
 other, and after some time spent thus we may be 
 able to understand each other as is becoming 
 divinely created beings, who are called to walk 
 not in darkness but in the light." 
 
 Not without a secret flush of anger, but with a 
 proud dignity, Aquilinus replied to this pompous 
 speech: "If I did not understand and appreciate 
 you, Eugenia, I should not desire you to wife. As 
 for me, I am known to every one in Rome as well 
 as in this province. If, therefore, with all your 
 learning you are not able at this time to recognize 
 me for what I am, I fear you never will be. Nor 
 am I here with the intention of becoming a school- 
 boy once more, but to take a wife. As for these 
 two children, it would be my first desire, should you 
 become my bride, that you dismiss them and re- 
 turn them to their parents, to whom they might be 
 of some use. And now I pray you answer me not 
 as a sage, but as a wom.an of flesh and blood." 
 
 [19] 
 
At this, a flush of deepest carnation overspread 
 the face and neck of the beautiful philosopher and 
 with a heaving bosom she replied; "My answer, O 
 Aquilinus, is ready, since I perceive from your 
 words that you do not truly love me. At this I am 
 not grieved but it does offend the daughter of a 
 noble Roman to beji^ to. 
 
 "I never lie," said Aquilinus sternly. "Farewell." 
 
 Eugenia turned away, and Aquilinus strode de- 
 liberately from the house. She was about to re- 
 sume her studies as though nothing had happened 
 but the written page became blurred before her 
 eyes. She was unable to go on and asked the Hy- 
 acinths to read to her. But in vain ; her blood was 
 stirred and her thoughts were far away. 
 
 For if she had, up to this time, looked upon the 
 consul as the only acceptable man among all of her 
 suitors, should she decide to wed, now he had be- 
 come to her a thorn in the flesh that allowed her 
 neither peace nor rest. 
 
 Aquilinus continued quietly to perform his 
 duties, reproaching, meanwhile, in secret, his own 
 foolish heart which would not forget the pedantic 
 beauty. 
 
 Nearly two years passed. Eugenia had become 
 more and more a rernarkable and brilliant person- 
 
 t 20 ] 
 
age, while the Hyacinths had grown to be two great 
 louts whose chins showed the first symptoms of a 
 beard. Although people now began to pass remarks 
 about this unusual companionship, and instead of 
 the complimentary epigrams of former days, satiric 
 ones began to appear, Eugenia could not bring her- 
 self to dismiss her body-guard. It seemed impera- 
 tive to retain it, for had not Aquilinus seriously 
 objected to it? 
 
 Aquilinus, however, continued quietly on his 
 course and seemed to give no further heed to her. 
 Neither did he pay attentions to any other woman. 
 He seemed no longer to think of marriage, and peo- 
 ple began to find fault, saying so high an official 
 ought not to remain unwed. 
 
 All the more stubbornly did Eugenia resolve not 
 to give up her companions, who seemed so objec- 
 tionable to him, for she was determined not to ap- 
 pear desirous of pleasing him. Moreover, she 
 loved to do as she wished, in defiance of custom and 
 public sentiment, and to preserve the consciousness 
 of a pure life, under conditions which for other 
 women might have been dangerous and even ruin- 
 ous. Vagaries of this sort were quite common with 
 women of that day and age. 
 
 But Eugenia was not happy. She had her 
 
 [21] 
 
scholarly companions philosophise on heaven and 
 earth and hell, onlj/ suddenly to interrupt them, 
 in order that they might accompany her out into 
 the fields for miles and miles, without even vouch- 
 safing them a word. 
 
 One morning she decided to visit a near-by 
 country-seat. She herself drbve, and was in a 
 charming mood. It was a clear spring day and the 
 air was laden with the scent of balsam. The Hya- 
 cinths were basking in her good humor, and thus 
 they passed through a suburb just as the Christians 
 were holding their Sabbath services. From mon- 
 astery and chapel there resounded divine song. 
 Eugenia reined in her horse to listen, and heard the 
 words of the psalm : "As the hart panteth after the 
 water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. 
 My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God." 
 
 At the sound of these words, coming as they did 
 from pious, humble lips, her proud soul gave way, 
 her heart was transfixed, and seemed suddenly to 
 knov/ exactly what it desired. Slowly, without 
 speaking, she continued on the way to her country 
 villa. Here she clothed herself in male attire, and, 
 calling the Hyacinths, left the house, without hav- 
 ing been seen by the servants. 
 
 She returned to the monastery, knocked at the 
 
 [22] 
 
gate and introduced herself and her companions as 
 young men who wished to be accepted into the 
 monastery as m.onks; for, said she, *'We desire to 
 separate ourselves from the world and live for 
 God." She was well schooled in theological lore 
 and answered the questions the abbot put to them 
 so well that he accepted the three of them into the 
 cloister and had them invested with the monastic 
 garb. 
 
 Eugenia became a handsome, almost angelic 
 monk and was called Brother Eugenius. The Hya- 
 cinths were likewise, willingly or unwillingly, trans- 
 formed into holy brothers, for they had not even 
 as much as been asked whether they wished for the 
 change, and had long ago become accustomed to 
 live only by and through the wish of their feminine 
 example and mistress. Still they took kindly to the 
 monastic life, since they enjoyed more leisure than 
 heretofore, were no longer obliged to study, and 
 were able to give themselves up entirely to a pas- 
 sive form of obedience. 
 
 Brother Eugenius, on the other hand, did not 
 grow lax in his zeal, and he became a renowned 
 ecclesiastic, with a face white as marble but with 
 glowing eyes and the port of an archangel. He was 
 the means of converting many heathen ; he cared for 
 
 [23] 
 
the sick and suffering, searched deeply into the 
 Scriptures, preached in golden tones, clear as a bell, 
 and upon the death of the abbot was chosen as his 
 successor, thus becoming the superior of seventy 
 monks, great and small. 
 
 Now when Eugenia and her companions had dis- ^ 
 appeared so mysteriously, and were nowhere to be 
 found, her father inquired of an oracle what had 
 become of his daughter, and learned in answer that 
 she had been caught up by the gods and placed 
 among the stars. Straightway the heathen priests 
 heralded the event abroad in order to boast a 
 miracle before the Christians, while the latter had 
 in reality derived the good from it, and had, so to 
 speak, the hare already in their kitchen. The 
 heathen priests went further, and even designated a 
 star, with two lesser satellites, in the heavens as the 
 new constellation. The good people of Alexandria 
 came out on the streets and the house-tops to peer 
 into the heavens, and many a man who had form- 
 erly seen Eugenia on her walks, now revelled in 
 the reminiscence of her beauty and fell in love with " 
 her as he gazed with tear-dimmed eyes upon the 
 star that twinkled so serenely in the billowy vault. 
 
 Aquilinus, too, peered into the heavens, but he 
 shook his head and failed to fall in with the con- 
 
 [24] 
 
 \ 
 I 
 
ventional belief. All the more firmly, however, did 
 the father of the deified girl believe in it. He took 
 not a little pride in the fable, and with the aid of 
 the priests had it decreed that a statue should be 
 erected to her memory and divine honors be shown 
 her. Aquilinus, from whom governmental permis- 
 sion to this end had to be obtained, gave it on con- 
 dition that the statue be made in the very figure 
 and image of the apotheosized girl. This was an 
 easy matter, since there were extant a great number 
 of busts and likenesses of her. A marble statue 
 v/as accordingly erected in the outer court of the 
 Temple of Minerva, a statue that the artist needed 
 not to be ashamed of, since it was, in spite of its 
 realism, ideal, and a work of art as to figure, posture 
 and garments. 
 
 When this piece of news reached the cloister, 
 the seventy monks were not a little put out over 
 the card the heathen priests had played, in the erec- 
 tion of the new idol and the impious deification of 
 a mortal woman. 
 
 Most of all did they have their fling at the 
 woman herself, calling her a jade and a mounte- 
 bank, and during the noonday hour they carried on 
 an unusual noise and bustle. The Hyacinths, who 
 had become good-natured little dominies and who 
 
 [25] 
 
bore the abbot's secret buried in their breasts, 
 looked significantly at him. He, however, beckoned 
 them to be quiet, and paid no heed to the noisy rant, 
 tolerating it as a punishment for his former heath- 
 enish mode of life. 
 
 But the following night, Eugenia arose from her 
 couch, and armed with a heavy hammer, left the 
 cloister softly, to destroy the statue. She took her 
 way to the marble-studded portion of the city, 
 where the temples and public buildings stood, and 
 where she had passed the years of her childhood. 
 
 Not a soul was astir in the quiet world of 
 granite. As the girlish monk ascended the steps of 
 the temple, the moon, rising over the shadows of the 
 city, cast its silvery light upon the columns of the 
 outer court. There Eugenia caught sight of her 
 statue. White as the fallen snow, of wonderful 
 grace and beauty, the delicate folds of the drapery 
 hanging chastely about the shoulders, it stood, with 
 fine spiritual expression, and lips ready to smile. 
 
 The Christian maiden approached curiously, 
 v/ith hammer raised in hand. As she surveyed the 
 statue close by, a sweet thrill coursed through her 
 soul. The hammer fell to the ground, and she gave 
 herself up to the enjoyment of her former self in 
 silence. 
 
 [26] 
 
As she did so, a sense of bitter melancholy over- 
 came her, a feeling as though she had been expelled 
 from a beautiful world and were astray in the 
 desert, a hapless shade. For though the statue was 
 idealized, it expressed Eugenia's one-time true self 
 all the more faithfully, the real self which her book- 
 ishness had only temporarily eclipsed. It was 
 therefore not mere vanity that brought her to 
 recognize her better self now in the magic moon- 
 light, and that awakened in her the feeling that she 
 had made a mistake. 
 
 Suddenly she heard the sound of a man's deter- 
 mined step, and involuntarily she concealed herself 
 in the shade of a marble column, from where she 
 saw the form of Aquilinus approaching. He walked 
 up to the statue, gazed upon it long, and finally 
 laying one arm about the girlish shoulders, softly 
 pressed a kiss upon the marble lips. Thereupon 
 wrapping himself in his toga he walked slowly 
 away, looking back more than once, as he did so, 
 upon the resplendent form of white. 
 
 Eugenia found herself trembling violently. 
 Angry and excited, she strove to collect herself and 
 with raised hammer stepped up to the statue to put 
 an end to this idolatry forever. But instead of 
 shattering the beautiful head, she burst into tears, 
 
 [27] 
 
and, like Aquilinus, she too pressed a kiss upon its 
 lips. Then she hastened quickly away as she heard 
 afar the step of the night-guard approaching. 
 
 With heaving breast she stole back to her cell. 
 That long night, until the sun arose, she slept not, 
 and during the matins, which she overslept, she 
 dreamed of many things which had nothing what- 
 ever to do with morning prayers. 
 
 The monks, believing that their abbot needed 
 sleep because of protracted spiritual vigils, allowed 
 him to slumber on until at last they found it neces- 
 sary to rouse him on account of a special emer- 
 gency. 
 
 An aristocratic widow who was ill and in need 
 of spiritual aid had sent word that she desired the 
 ministration and advice of the abbot, Eugenius, for 
 v/hose zeal and high personality she had long felt a 
 deep reverence. The monks did not wish to allow 
 so good an opportunity of enhancing the honor of 
 the church to pass unheeded, and they therefore 
 hastened to awake the abbot. 
 
 Half asleep and with flushed cheeks, as they had 
 not seen her for many a day, she started on her 
 way, her thoughts tarrying more with her morn- 
 ing dreams and the columns of the temple than on 
 the business in hand. 
 
 [28] 
 
Thus she entered the house of the heathen sup- 
 pliant, was led to a chamber and left alone with 
 her. A beautiful woman of less than thirty sum- 
 mers lay upon a couch, but, strange to say, looking 
 not at all like an ill or contrite person, but aglow 
 with the proud joy of life. Scarcely could she con- 
 trol her feelings until the supposed monk had, at 
 her request, taken a seat by her bedside, when she 
 seized both his white hands, pressed her forehead 
 upon them and covered them with kisses. 
 
 Eugenia, who was occupied with her own 
 thoughts, paid little heed to the passionate bearing 
 of the woman, and regarding her actions as a token 
 of humility and spiritual contrition, made no at- 
 tempt to restrain her. Encouraged by this, the fair 
 heathen threw her arms about Eugenia's neck. 
 
 Utterly dazed, Eugenia recovered from her 
 absent-mindedness. At the same time the woman 
 poured into the ears of the terrified monk a perfect 
 torrent of words, confessing her love and seeking 
 in all manner of ways to convince him that it was 
 his duty to return it. 
 
 Eugenia gathered herself up in towering rage 
 and set the pagan siren severely to rights, retort- 
 ing with fearful imprecations, such as only a monk 
 has at his command. 
 
 [29] 
 
When the woman saw her plan foiled, she sud- 
 denly changed her tactics. Like a tigress she 
 sprang towards Eugenia, raising so murderous a 
 commotion that her maids rushed in from all di- 
 rections. 
 
 **Help ! Help ! This man has assaulted me," she 
 cried, suddenly releasing her hold on Eugenia, who 
 arose breathless in confusion and fright. The 
 maids took to screaming even more loudly than 
 their mistress, and, running hither and thither, at- 
 tracted male help by their cries. Eugenia was un- 
 able to speak a word for fear, and fled from the 
 house filled with shame and disgust, pursued by the 
 din and curses of the mad mob. 
 
 Nor did the malicious widow hesitate to go 
 directly to the consul, Aquilinus, followed by a 
 goodly retinue, there to accuse the monk of base 
 misdemeanor. She told how he had in his hypo- 
 critical manner entered her house, first to impor- 
 tune her by attempting to convert her to the Chris- 
 tian faith, and, having failed in this, to assault her 
 flagrantly. 
 
 Her entire retinue attested the truth of these 
 assertions, whereupon Aquilinus had the cloister 
 immediately surrounded by troops, and the abbot, 
 with the monks, brought before him for trial. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
"So this is the sort of work you carry on, is 
 it?" he asked them in his severest tones. "Do you 
 already feel your importance so much that you, 
 whom we have barely come to tolerate, insult our 
 women and go about like ravenous wolves? Did 
 your Master, whom I honor more than you do, ye 
 hypocrites, — did He teach you to do such deeds? 
 You are a motley assemblage and a pack of ras- 
 cals. Defend yourselves, if you can, against the 
 accusation.'* 
 
 The shameless woman now repeated her story, 
 which she punctuated with hypocritical sighs and 
 tears. When she had finished and had again veiled 
 herself with great propriety, the monks looked in 
 fear at their abbot, whose virtue they never 
 doubted, and raised up their voices to deny the false 
 accusation. 
 
 On the other hand, not only the followers of 
 the lying woman, but also a number of neighbors 
 and passers-by who had seen the abbot flying from 
 the house in shame and confusion, and who nat- 
 urally believed him guilty, emphatically attested his 
 guilt, thus silencing the poor monks by great odds. 
 
 The monks looked again upon their abbot, this 
 time somewhat in doubt, reminding him that if he 
 was guilty the punishment of God would speedily 
 
 [31] 
 
follow, just as they even now gave him over to 
 worldly justice. 
 
 At this all eyes were directed upon Eugenia, 
 who stood forsaken in the midst of the crowd. She 
 had been found weeping in her cell when she was 
 taken into custody along with the monks, and 
 during the entire trial had stood with eyes down- 
 cast, her cowl drawn far down over her face. She 
 was in a serious predicament. If she preserved the 
 secret of her identity and her sex, she fell a victim 
 to the false accusation. If she disclosed it, she 
 would bring down a greater storm of disapproval 
 and certain ruin upon the cloister, for a monastery 
 that had as its abbot a beautiful young woman 
 could not escape unfortunate suspicion and ridicule 
 at the hands of the evil-disposed heathen round 
 about. 
 
 Now, this fear and hesitation would not have 
 agitated her had she still been, according to monas- 
 tic notion, of an undivided heart. But since the 
 past night, doubt had entered her soul, and the 
 meeting with the wicked woman had only served 
 to confuse her still more. She had not, conse- 
 quently, the courage to take a decided stand and 
 bring about a miraculous solution. 
 
 But when Aquilinus requested her to speak, she 
 
 [32] 
 
remembered his former affection for her, and trust- 
 ing to this, bethought herself of a way of escape. 
 In soft and gentle tones she pleaded not guilty to 
 the charge and offered to prove her innocence to 
 the consul, if he would grant her a private au- 
 dience. 
 
 Something in the tone of her voice moved 
 Aquilinus. He granted her the desired interview, 
 had her taken to his residence, and was closeted 
 there with her alone. 
 
 Eugenia raised her eyes to his, threw back her 
 cowl and said: "I am Eugenia, whom thou once 
 didst desire to wife." 
 
 He recognized her at once and was convinced 
 that it was she. At the same time a great storm 
 of wrath and jealousy arose in his bosom at the 
 thought that his old love had lived for so long a 
 time among a company of monks. 
 
 He restrained himself, and while eyeing her with 
 close scrutiny feigned disbelief in her words, say- 
 ing: "You do indeed look very much like that 
 erratic girl. But what is that to me ? What I want 
 to know is about your affair with this widow." 
 
 Eugenia now related the entire story, timidly 
 and anxiously. From the manner of her recital, 
 Aquilinus saw at once the falsehood and the base- 
 
 [33] 
 
ness of the accusation. Nevertheless, he replied 
 with apparent calmness: ''And if you are Eugenia, 
 as you say, how did you become a monk, how was 
 it possible, and what was your object in so doing?" 
 
 At these words she blushed deeply and cast 
 down her eyes in embarrassment. And still it 
 seemed not unpleasant to her to be there and to 
 be able to converse with a good old friend concern- 
 ing herself and her past life. Without hesitation 
 she related sim.ply and sincerely all that had hap- 
 pened to her since her disappearance, taking good 
 care, however, not even so much as to mention the 
 two Hyacinths. 
 
 Her story pleased him not a little, and more- 
 over, it was becoming more difBcult for him with 
 every passing moment to conceal his joy at finding 
 his long-lost love. But he controlled his feelings 
 and resolved to learn from her conduct in this 
 whole affair whether she was still the modest and 
 chaste Eugenia of former days. 
 
 With this object in view he said : "Your story 
 is a very good one, yet I consider the girl whom 
 you allege you are incapable of such escapades, 
 despite her former caprices. The true Eugenia 
 would at least have preferred to become a nun. 
 Why in the world should a woman, no matter how 
 
 [34] 
 
learned and pious she might be, desire to don a 
 monk's cowl and live with a company of seventy 
 monks? And so I shall continue to consider you a 
 smooth, beardless, jolly old dog of an imposter in 
 whom I shall in no wise put faith. And besides, 
 the Eugenia you speak of has been declared divine 
 and is said to have been placed in the heavens 
 among the constellations. Her consecrated statue 
 stands in the temple, and you will fare ill indeed if 
 you continue in your sacrilegious declaration. 
 
 "The statue you speak of was kissed by a cer- 
 tain man the past night," replied Eugenia in a low 
 voice, casting an inquisitive glance at Aquilinus, 
 who stood astounded and gazed upon her as upon 
 one endowed with superhuman knowledge. How 
 can the same man be so cruel as to torture the 
 original of the statue?" . ^ 
 
 Aquilinus fought down his confusion, seemed 
 not to hear the words and continued coldly and 
 severely: "In short, for the honor of the poor 
 monks, who seem innocent, I can and will not be- 
 lieve that you are a woman. Prepare for death. 
 Your statements have failed to satisfy me." 
 
 "Then Heaven help me!" cried Eugenia, and 
 sank to the floor like a white rose broken by the 
 storm. Aquilinus caught her up in his arms, 
 
 [35] 
 
pressed her to his bosom, while his hot tears fell 
 upon her beautiful head. He kissed her lips I dare 
 say three or four times and left the room, locking 
 the door behind him. 
 
 Bearing Eugenia's cowl in his hand, he took 
 himself back to the waiting crowd, whom he ad- 
 dressed thus: "This is indeed a strange affair. 
 You monks are guiltless and may return to your 
 cloister. Your abbot was a demon who had planned 
 to destroy you. Here, take his cowl with you and 
 preserve it as a memento. After the evil spirit had, 
 in my sight, transformed his shape most incredibly, 
 he dissolved into thin air before my very eyes and 
 disappeared. And this woman who sought to de- 
 stroy you, through the demon, has thereby fallen 
 under suspicion of witchcraft, and shall be cast into 
 prison. Now all of you betake yourselves home and 
 be of good cheer." 
 
 All were astonished at this speech, and looked 
 in fear at the garment of the demon. The widow 
 turned pale and covered her face, thereby giving 
 sufficient evidence of her guilt. 
 
 The good monks rejoiced at their victory, and 
 wended their way gratefully homeward carrying 
 the cowl, but never dream.ing how sweet a kernel 
 had but just been enclosed within it. ; 
 
 [36] 
 
The widow was led to prison, and Aquilinus 
 with his most trusted servant travelled the city 
 over, calling at the shops dealing in women's cloth- 
 ing and buying a large amount of the most costly 
 apparel, which w^as carried by the slave to the con- 
 sul's house as secretly and quickly as possible. 
 
 Noiselessly Aquilinus stepped into the room in 
 which he had left Eugenia. There she lay quite 
 charmingly upon a divan, sleeping soundly, as 
 might be expected of one recuperating from great 
 hardship. As he sat by her side softly stroking 
 her close-cropped hair and laughing to himself at 
 the sight of her monk's tonsure, which was partly 
 hidden by a black velvet cap, she awoke and gazed 
 about her with wondering eyes. 
 
 "Will you be my wife?" he pleaded in gentle 
 tones. Whereupon she answered neither yea nor 
 nay, but hid her blushes in the folds of the purple 
 robe in which she lay wrapped. 
 
 Then Aquilinus brought the garments and jew- 
 els, everything that a gentlewoman of that day 
 might need to clothe herself from head to toe. 
 Thereupon he left the room. 
 
 After sunset of the same day he drove with her, 
 accompanied only by a trusted servant, to one of 
 his country villas, which lay charmingly isolated 
 
 [37] 
 
in the shade of a great wood. Here they were 
 quietly wedded, and although love was late in 
 coming, the time did not seem lost to them be- 
 cause of thankful hearts for the great happiness 
 they found in each other's presence. 
 
 Aquilinus spent his time in the performance of 
 his civic duties, hastening away, however, at the 
 close of the day to his villa and his young wife, 
 with the fastest of steeds. Only on stormy or 
 rainy days, now and then, was he fond of hasten- 
 ing home unannounced earlier in the afternoon, to 
 cheer his love, who in true housewifely fashion 
 now gave herself up to the study of married life 
 and its pleasures with the same ardor that she had 
 formerly bestowed on the study of philosophy and 
 Christian asceticism. 
 
 When her hair had again grown to its natural 
 lengtTi, Aquilinus took his wife back to Alexandria, 
 and adducing a fitting explanation and story, re- 
 stored her to her astonished parents, — whereupon 
 they celebrated a splendid wedding. 
 
 Her father was surprised, to be sure, to find in 
 his daughter, instead of an Immortal and a heav- 
 enly constellation, a simple, loving housewife, and 
 he witnessed the removal of the consecrated statue 
 with some regret. However, the joy of finding his 
 
 [38] 
 
daughter in the body, more beautiful and lovely 
 than ever, was uppermost. 
 
 Aquilinus had the statue placed in the most 
 splendid apartment of his residence, but refrained 
 henceforth from kissing it, since he now had the 
 living original close at hand. 
 
 After Eugenia had sufficiently acquainted her- 
 self with the ins and outs of wedded life, she 
 turned this knowledge to good account in that she 
 converted her husband to Christianity, and con- 
 tinuing always in the bonds of tenderest love, she 
 rested not until Aquilinus had publicly confessed 
 to her faith. 
 
 The legend now goes on to relate how the whole 
 family returned to Rome at the time when the anti- 
 Christian Valerian had come to the throne, and 
 how during the persecutions of the Christians, 
 Eugenia became famed as a standard-bearer and 
 martyr of the faith, and proved the full strength 
 of her mind and heart. 
 
 Her influence over Aquilinus was so great that 
 he had even permitted the two Hyacinths to ac- 
 company her to Rome, where they, too, were 
 crowned wuth the crown of martyrdom. Their in- 
 tercession is said to be beneficial for indolent girj 
 pupils who have fallen behind in their studies. 
 
 [39] 
 
THE VIRGIN AND THE EVIL ONE 
 
 Friend, rise and look about; 
 
 Satan attempts each hour, 
 And should he find thee out, 
 
 Then thou art in his poiuer. 
 
 —Angelus Silesius. 
 
 QOUNT GIBIZO possessed a very beautiful 
 wife, a magnificent castle and so many 
 great estates that he was considered one of 
 the richest and happiest lords of the country. That 
 he appreciated this reputation is shown by the 
 Christian benevolence which he exercised to a high 
 degree as well as by his keeping a brilliant circle of 
 friends of whom his good and beautiful wife, Ber- 
 trade, was the most shining luminary. 
 
 He founded and endowed cloisters and hospices, 
 beautified churches and chapels, and on high fes- 
 tival days fed hundreds of the poor. In truth, he 
 was never content unless dozens of guests were 
 daily and hourly present at the castle to spend 
 their time in feasting, and in singing the praises of 
 their lord and master. Unless thus surrounded, his 
 dwelling, however magnificent it was, seemed to 
 him lonely and forsaken. 
 
 But with such prodigal liberality even great 
 wealth must finally be exhausted, and thus it hap- 
 
 [40] 
 
pened that the count was obliged to sell his estates' 
 one by one to satisfy his love of great munificence. 
 But the deeper he was plunged into debt the more 
 did he increase his gifts and his feasts to the poor, 
 seeking in this way once more to win the favor of 
 heaven. 
 
 At last he was thoroughly impoverished, and his 
 now desolate castle was fast crumbling into ruins. 
 Invalid, meaningless deeds and charters which he 
 still continued to write and bestow upon his 
 friends, as in his days of plenty, brought him only 
 scorn and ridicule. And if peradventure he was 
 able to entice a tattered beggar to his castle, the 
 mendicant cast the dish of poor soup that was 
 offered him disdainfully at his feet and left the 
 domain. 
 
 In these troublous times the beauty of his wife, 
 Bertrade, alone, remained unchanged; indeed, the 
 more desolate the house, the more resplendent was 
 she. Yea, she even seemed to grow in grace, love- 
 liness, and goodness of heart, the poorer Gibizo 
 became, until she seemed the embodiment of all the 
 blessings of heaven, and thousands of men envied 
 the count this one remaining treasure. 
 
 Gibizo alone took no note of this. The more 
 Bertrade sought to encourage him and to lighten 
 
 [ 41 ] 
 
nis poverty, the more did he fail to appreciate her. 
 Finally he lapsed into a bitter and stubborn melan- 
 choly and withdrew entirely from the society of 
 men. 
 
 Now, on a beautiful Easter morning, when in 
 years gone by Gibizo had been accustomed to see 
 throngs of happy people streaming to his castle, 
 the shame of it all fell especially heavy on his 
 heart. He would not even attend divine worship, 
 and knew not how to spend the festive holiday- 
 time. 
 
 Smiling through her tears, the wife pleaded with 
 him in vain not to allow himself to be crushed by 
 misfortune, but to accompany her undismayed to 
 church. He thrust her aside almost rudely and hied 
 him away to the woods until the Easter-tide should 
 have passed. 
 
 Over hill and dale he wandered until he came 
 to a primeval wilderness where great shaggy firs 
 enclosed a lake, upon the surface of which the 
 mighty tree-trunks were mirrored at full length. 
 The scene was dark and sombre; the earth about 
 the lake was overgrown with fantastic, fringy 
 mosses, so soft and heavy that they did not resound 
 to the tread. 
 
 Here Gibizo sat down to mutter against God. 
 
 [42] 
 
His misfortune weighed heavily upon him. He 
 could no longer even stay his hunger, although he 
 had joyfully fed thousands in his time — for all of 
 which God seemed to have repaid him with the 
 scorn and the ingratitude of the world. 
 
 Suddenly he saw in the middle of the lake the 
 tall form of a man in a boat. The lake was small; 
 he could easily survey its entire extent, and he 
 could not understand whence the boatman had so 
 suddenly come. But there he was, and with one 
 stroke of the oar he landed the craft at the feet of 
 the knight. Before the latter was able to utter a 
 word the stranger inquired why he appeared so 
 gloomy. 
 
 In spite of the strikingly splendid appearance of 
 the stranger, there was an expression of deep un- 
 happiness about his mouth and eyes that awakened 
 Gibizo's confidence and led him to pour into the 
 willing ear all his misfortunes and his pent-up 
 anger. 
 
 "What a fool you are," cried the stranger. 
 "Why, you possess a treasure, greater than all you 
 have lost! If I had your wife, all the riches, the 
 churches, the cloisters, and all the beggars in the 
 world might be hanged!" 
 
 "Give me these again, and, for all I care, you 
 
 [43] 
 
may have my wife," retorted Gibizo with a bitter 
 laugh. Whereupon the stranger replied in a trice: 
 "Good, it's a bargain! Look beneath your wife's 
 pillow; there you will find money enough to last 
 you your entire lifetime ; enough to build a cloister 
 every day and to feed a thousand people, should you 
 live even to be a hundred years old. In return, 
 bring your wife to this spot without fail on Wal- 
 purgis-night.'* 
 
 At these words there shot out from his dark 
 eyes so fiery a gleam that it extended like two red 
 streaks of light over the count's shoulder and shone 
 on the moss and the trunks of the firs beyond. 
 
 And now Gibizo understood with whom he was 
 dealing; yet he accepted the offer. 
 
 The stranger again plied his oar and made for 
 the middle of the lake, where man and boat sank 
 out of sight with a din like the clanging of many 
 brazen bells. 
 
 Chilled with fear, Gibizo hastened by the short- 
 est route to his castle, where he at once inspected 
 Bertrade's couch, and there, beneath her pillow, he 
 found an old book, which he was unable to read. 
 But as he turned the pages, pieces of gold fell out. 
 No sooner had he discovered this than he hastened 
 away to the deepest dungeon of the castle-tower, 
 
 [44] 
 
and there, all by himself, during the Easter holi- 
 days, he leaved out of the interesting book a pile of 
 gold sufficient for all of his present needs. 
 
 Once more Gibizo made his appearance among 
 his fellows. He redeemed all of his lost possessions, 
 called in workmen to renovate and remodel his 
 castle on a grander scale than ever, and granted 
 largesses on all hands like a prince who has just 
 come to his regency. 
 
 The greatest of his beneficences was the found- 
 ing of a magnificent abbey, planned to accommo- 
 date five hundred of the most pious and celebrated 
 monks, virtually a city of saints and scribes, in the 
 midst of which he intended his own final resting 
 place to be. The latter plan he deemed wise in view 
 of the welfare of his soul, but since he had made 
 other plans for his wife's future, a sepulchre for her 
 was not provided. 
 
 ^^^^t noon of the day before Walpurgis he ordered 
 tw-iiorses saddled, and requesting his wife to 
 mount her white palfrey, he pretended that she 
 was to take a long journey with him. At the same 
 time he forbade that any squire or servant attend 
 them. 
 
 Now a great fear began to creep over the good 
 v/oman, and, trembling from head to foot, she spoke 
 
 [45] 
 
false to her husband for the first time, alleging that 
 she was not well and begging him to allow her to 
 remain at home. 
 
 Since she had, however, only shortly before, 
 been heard singing to herself, Gibizo became angry 
 at the falsehood, and he made himself believe that 
 now he was doubly justified in what he was plan- 
 ning. He therefore insisted that she attire herself 
 in her most beautiful robe and accompany him on 
 the ride, which she did, without even knowing 
 whither they were bound. 
 
 When they had travelled about half the distance, 
 they came to a small chapel which Bertrade had 
 erected and dedicated to the service of the Virgin. 
 She had built it partly out of sympathy for a poor 
 old architect who was of a rather morose and 
 unamiable disposition, and whom consequently no 
 one was inclined to employ, least of all Gibizo, ^who 
 was fond of having people come to him in a sup- 
 plicating and reverential manner. 
 
 Bertrade had employed him without Gibizo's 
 knowledge, and the unfortunate craftsman had, by 
 way of showing his appreciation, carved a beauti- 
 ful statue of the Virgin and placed it on the altar. 
 
 Bertrade now expressed a desire to enter the 
 chapel for a moment to offer up a prayer. Gibizo 
 
 [46] 
 
acquiesced, for, thought he, it will soon stand her 
 in good stead. She dismounted accordingly, and 
 while her spouse waited without, she entered, and, 
 kneeling down before the altar, commended herself 
 to the protection of her heavenly guardian. 
 
 While in this posture, a deep sleep stole over 
 her, and the Virgin, descending from the altar and 
 taking on the form and garb of the sleeper, stepped 
 briskly out from the chapel, mounted the horse, 
 and continued by the side of the count in Bertrade's 
 stead. 
 
 And now the wretch attempted to deceive his 
 wife and to lull her into a sense of security by di- 
 verting her thoughts with a great show of friendly 
 attention. He spoke to her glibly of many things, 
 the Virgin making soft and low answer, and by her 
 sweet prattle leading him to believe that she was 
 abandoning all fear. 
 
 In this way they arrived at the wilderness by the 
 lake, above which the fallow clouds of evening 
 hung. There stood the shaggy firs, their purple 
 buds glowing in the sunset light as only the rarest 
 springtime shows them. In the neighboring thicket 
 the nightingale moaned its weird song, like to the 
 sound of organ and cymbal, while from out the firs 
 rode the stranger, upon a steed black as night, 
 
 [47] 
 
clothed in rich, knightly garb, his long sword hang- 
 ing by his side. 
 
 He approached very gallantly, at the same time, 
 however, shooting so terrible a glance upon Gibizo 
 that his flesh began to creep. But beyond this no 
 one seemed to scent evil, not even the horses, for 
 they remained calm. Gibizo tossed his wife's reins 
 to the stranger and galloped away without even 
 looking back at her. The knight seized the reins 
 with eager hand and away they flew through the 
 firs, the veil and cloak of the fair lady flapping and 
 fluttering in the breeze. Over hill and dale and 
 running streams they sped, the horses' hoofs hardly 
 touching the crests of the waves. 
 
 Before them, in the gloaming, driven on in the 
 mad swirl, rolled a rose-scented cloud, while the 
 invisible nightingale flew on before, alighting now 
 and then on a tree, singing her song right lustily on 
 the evening air. 
 
 Finally hills and forests came to an end and they 
 galloped out upon a broad heath, in the midst of 
 which, and as if from a great distance, they heard 
 again the song of the bird, although round about 
 them neither shrub nor tree was anywhere to be 
 seen upon which she might have alighted. 
 
 Suddenly the knight reined in his steed, sprang 
 
 [48] 
 
from the saddle, and with the demeanor of a per- 
 fect cavalier, helped the lady to dismount. 
 
 Barely had her foot touched the earth when up 
 about them there sprang to the height of a man a 
 garden of rose-bushes and a beautiful fountain sur- 
 rounded by seats, over all of which the starry 
 heaven shone so brightly that you could read by its 
 light. The fountain was in the form of a great, 
 round basin, within which a number of imps were 
 made to represent a white marble group of beauti- 
 ful, sylph-like forms. Shimmering streams of water, 
 of which no one but their lord and master knew 
 whence it came, poured from their hands. The 
 plash of the water was as music to the ear, for each 
 jet had a sound of its own, and the whole swelled 
 into a sweet harmony like that of an orchestra of 
 stringed instruments. A harmonica of the waters, 
 it seemed, in whose chords vibrated all the sweets 
 of the first night of May. With it mingled and 
 blended the beautiful forms of the nymphs, for the 
 whole was not stationary, but moved and changed 
 panorama-like. 
 
 Not ung^-aciously did the strange cavalier now 
 conduct hi?: lady to the garden-bench and invite her 
 to be ocated. Then seizing her hand vehemently, 
 he said in a voice that penetrated to the heart : "I 
 
 [49] 
 
am the eternally Solitary One who fell from high 
 heaven. Only the love of a good woman in the 
 night of May allows me for a time to forget Para- 
 dise and gives me strength to bear the eternal 
 damnation. Be mine, and I will make you im- 
 mortal and give you power to do good and prevent 
 evil, as you may desire.'* 
 
 With that he cast himself passionately upon 
 the breast of the beautiful woman, who smilingly 
 awaited him. But at that moment the Virgin took 
 on her divine form and gripping the now captive 
 traitor she held him in her white arms as in a vise. 
 
 Instantly the garden, the fountain and the night- 
 ingale disappeared, and the ingenious imps of the 
 living picture took flight like evil spirits amid fear- 
 ful cries of anguish, leaving their master in the 
 lurch, wrestling with titanic strength to loosen 
 himself from the agonizing embrace, yet not even so 
 much as uttering a sound. 
 
 The Virgin struggled, and gripped her adversary 
 fast, although she had to summon all of her strength 
 to do so. Her plan aimed at nothing short of carry- 
 ing the outwitted devil straight to hea-^-en, there, to 
 his great discomfiture, to bind him to a door-post 
 amid the laughter of the saints. 
 
 But now the Evil One changed his tactics. For 
 
 [50] 
 
a time he remained quiet; then he assumed the 
 beautiful form that he had possessed when he was 
 the foremost of the angels, with the result that it 
 became a comparison of beauty between him and 
 the Virgin. 
 
 She set herself off as well as she might, but 
 though she glittered like Venus, the beautiful star 
 of the evening, he shone like Lucifer, the bright 
 star of the morning, and thus the dark heath was 
 made to gleam and sparkle as though the heavens 
 themselves had descended in all of their glory. 
 
 When now the Virgin saw that she had under- 
 taken more than she could accomplish, and felt her 
 powers waning, she contented herself with releasing 
 the enemy, upon his promise to renounce his de- 
 signs upon the Coimtess Bertrade, whereupon the 
 heavenly and the satanic beauties flew away in dif- 
 ferent directions with tumultuous noise. 
 
 Somewhat fatigued, the Virgin returned to her 
 chapel, while the Evil One, paralyzed in all his 
 limbs and unable to undergo further transforma- 
 tion, dragged himself off over the sand, much the 
 worse for wear, and looking the disordered embodi- 
 ment of grief. Thus badly did he fare in his pro- 
 posed love-hour. 
 
 Meantime Gibizo, after leaving his sweet wife, 
 
 [51] 
 
had ridden astray in the falling dusk, and horse and 
 rider had fallen into a deep abyss, where he was 
 dashed upon the rocks with such violence that he 
 straightway yielded up his wicked spirit. 
 
 Bertrade, in the chapel, continued in slumber 
 until the morning sun of the first day of May began 
 to climb the eastern hills, when she awoke, much 
 astonished at the length of her nap. 
 
 She prayed the Ave, stepped out from the chapel, 
 and there stood her horse just as she had left it. 
 
 She did not stop to await her husband's return, 
 but rode quickly and cheerfully homeward, for she 
 divined that she had escaped some great danger. 
 
 Soon the remains of the late count were brought 
 to the castle. Bertrade had him buried with all 
 honors, and besides she paid for many masses to be 
 read for his soul's repose, but all of her love for him 
 had been crushed from her heart, although toward 
 all others she remained as kind and loving as ever. 
 
 In the course of time, Bertrade's heavenly pro- 
 tectress gave her another husband, one more worthy 
 than Gibizo of so devoted a wife, and these events 
 took place as will be related in the following legend. 
 
 [52] 
 
THE VIRGIN IN THE ROLE OF 
 
 KNIGHT 
 
 The tent of God, Mary is a lied, and God^s throne; 
 An ark, burg, tonxjer, house, a spring, a sea, garden, jnirror, 
 A tree, a star, the moon, th< morning-red, a mountain. 
 Can she be all of these? Shi calls a world her oivn. 
 
 — Angelus Silesius. 
 
 6IBIZO had in aaiition to his former pos- 
 sessions acquired many more, and thus 
 Bertrade held sway over a great earldom, 
 and became famed throughout the German empire 
 for her riches as well as for her great beauty. 
 
 Since she was modesty itself, and was very 
 friendly towards all men, this treasure of a woman 
 was thought easy to be won by all the enterprising 
 and the timid, the bold and the bashful, the great 
 and the small noblemen of the realm, and every 
 man who saw her wondered why in all the world 
 he had not already made her his wife. But more 
 than one year had gone by and still there was no 
 man to whom she had really given reason to hope. 
 
 The Emperor himself heard of her, and desiring 
 that so important a fief as hers should come into 
 the hands of a good man, he decided to pay a visit 
 to the far-famed Bertrade, informed her of his in- 
 
 [53] 
 
tention by letter, and sent th< message by a young 
 knight, Zendelwald by name, who happened to be 
 bound that way. Zendelw.dd was received gra- 
 ciously by Bertrade, and encertained like all others 
 who chanced to be her gu !Sts at her castle. He 
 was charmed, and gazed u')on the beautiful halls, 
 the battlements and the g irdens in great respect, 
 and incidentally he fell in love with the fair pos- 
 sessor. 
 
 But, strange as it may seem, he did not tarry an 
 hour longer than his mission required. As soon 
 as he had concluded his errand he bade the count- 
 ess a brief farewell and rode away, the only one of 
 all who had ever visited Bertrade, to acknowledge 
 himself unable to win this fair prize. 
 
 Zendelwald was slow of speech and action. 
 When his mind and heart had once taken posses- 
 sion of a project, a thing which he always did with 
 the zest and enthusiasm native to him, he could not 
 find it within himself to take the first step towards 
 carrying it out, since the matter seemed to him 
 accomplished, once he had settled it in his own 
 mind. 
 
 And so, although he was very fond of talking 
 about things when there was nothing immediately 
 to be realized, he never spoke the word which 
 
 [54] 
 
might have sealed his fortune at the right moment. 
 
 Moreover, his thoughts not only outran his 
 speech, but his hand as well, with the result that he 
 had been nearly conquered several times in armed 
 combat because he had neglected to deal the de- 
 cisive blow at the proper moment, in his mind's 
 eye already seeing his opponent at his feet. Thus 
 his manner of fighting excited great curiosity at the 
 tournaments, since at the outset he hardly moved 
 or exerted himself at all, and only when hard 
 pressed did he put forth a great and final effort, 
 thereby generally winning the conflict. 
 
 Deep in thought, the object of which was beau- 
 tiful Bertrade, Zendelwald now rode home to his 
 castle, which lay in a solitary mountain forest. 
 Charcoal-burners and wood-cutters were his only 
 subjects, and thus his lonely mother awaited his re- 
 turn as usual with great im.patience, wondering 
 whether he might this time bring his good fortune 
 home with him in the shape of a lovely wife. 
 
 But if Zendelwald was a dreamer, his mother 
 was not. She was active and resolute, without, 
 however, deriving much advantage from these 
 characteristics, since she had always displayed 
 them so unpleasantly to others that they no longer 
 proved themselves effective. 
 
 [55] 
 
When a girl, she had sought to capture a 
 husband as soon as might be, and therefore had 
 pursued her matrimonial chances so hotly that in 
 her haste she hit upon the worst possible choice 
 in the person of a rash and foolhardy fellow who 
 squandered his inheritance and came to a prema- 
 ture grave, leaving her a young widow in poverty, 
 and burdened with a son who was slow to make 
 his fortune. 
 
 The sole sustenance of the small household con- 
 sisted of wild fruit and game and the milk of a 
 couple of goats. Zendelwald's mother was a great 
 huntress. With her crossbow she brought down 
 wild doves and woodcocks to her heart's content. 
 She caught trout, too, in the neighboring streams, 
 and with her own hands made the necessary re- 
 pairs in the castle walls with stone and mortar. 
 
 Even now she was returning from the chase, 
 and as she hung a hare in the window of her 
 kitchen, she glanced down across the valley and 
 caught sight of her son riding up the path. Over- 
 joyed at the sight, she hastened to lower the draw- 
 bridge, for Zendelwald had not been home for 
 months. 
 
 She began at once to quiz him whether per- 
 chance he had lit upon and brought with him some 
 
 [56] 
 
little pinion or tail-feather of the Bird of Fortune 
 on which it might be wise to keep a hold. But 
 when he related the usual unimportant happen- 
 ings of his warlike expedition she shook her head 
 angrily, and when he finally mentioned his mis- 
 sion to the charming and beautiful Bertrade and 
 was loud in his praise of her grace and beauty, she 
 called him a laggard and a lazy-bones because of 
 his ignominious departure from the countess* do- 
 mains. 
 
 Moreover, when she perceived, as she soon did, 
 that Zendelwald thought of nothing but his distant, 
 noble lady, she became doubly incensed to learn 
 that in spite of his deep regard for Bertrade, he 
 had been at a loss to know what to do or to say 
 and that his love was a hindrance to him rather 
 than an impulse towards action. 
 
 From this mom.ent Zendelwald's pathway was a 
 thorny one. His mother sulked and stormed. To 
 quiet her anger, and by way of diversion, she set 
 to work with her own hands to repair the crumbling 
 roof of the castle tower until our good Zendelwald 
 became alternately hot and cold with fear at seeing 
 her clambering about on the high roofs. She was 
 in a fine fury and continued to throw pieces of 
 broken tile to the earth so furiously that she al- 
 
 [57] 
 
most killed a strange horseman who chanced to be 
 entering the castle gate to petition for a night's 
 lodging. 
 
 However, this man succeeded in appeasing the 
 austere dame with his tales of adventure, told over 
 the evening meal. Especially did he catch her 
 fancy when he dwelt on the Emperor's visit at the 
 castle of the beautiful Bertrade and on the festivals 
 which followed fast one upon another's heels. 
 "The charming woman," related he, "is being in- 
 cessantly urged by the King and his grandees to 
 select a husband from among the noblemen of the 
 realm. But she has had recourse to the subterfuge 
 of convoking a great tournament, and has promised 
 to bestow her hand upon the victor, for she be- 
 lieves firmly that her protectress, the Holy Virgin, 
 will intervene, and guide the arm of the chosen 
 
 one. 
 
 "Now, this is an adventure for you," the stran- 
 ger concluded, turning to Zendelwald; "A hand- 
 some young man of your stamp ought to aspire to 
 the very best to be had in the world. Rumor has 
 it, too, that the lady is possessed of a firm belief 
 that in this way some unsurmised good fortune will 
 come to her, some impecunious but doughty knight 
 on whom she may bestow all of her love, for she 
 
 [58] 
 
is much averse to the great counts and vain suit- 
 ors known to her." 
 
 When the stranger had departed, Zendelwald's 
 mother said: "Now I'll wager that no one but 
 Bertrade herself has sent this messenger to en- 
 tice you on to the right trail, my dear Zendelwald. 
 That's as plain as can be. How otherwise should 
 this queer bird who has just drunk our last jug 
 of wine have come to this forest?" 
 
 At this Zendelwald struck up a great laugh, 
 and louder and louder he laughed, partly, no doubt, 
 because of her maternal fancies, partly because it 
 pleased him. The mere thought that Bertrade 
 might desire him as her husband shook him with 
 laughter. 
 
 But the mother, believing he was laughing her 
 to scorn, went into a great rage and cried: "Now 
 hear me. My curse upon you, if you do not obey 
 me and betake yourself on the way at once to win 
 this woman. Do not return without her, or I will 
 never look upon you again. And if you come with- 
 out her, I'll take my cross-bow and leave this spot, 
 to find a resting-place beneath the sod, where I 
 may be unmolested by your stupidity." 
 
 Now there was no alternative for Zendelwald. 
 For the sake of the family peace he laid on his 
 
 C 59 ] 
 
armor, took his weapons, and commending himself 
 to the protection of Heaven, rode away in the di- 
 rection of Bertrade's castle, without, however, se- 
 riously purposing ever to arrive there. 
 
 He held pretty closely to the course, neverthe- 
 less, and the nearer he drew to the place, the more 
 clearly did the thought shape itself that he as well 
 as any one might undertake the thing, and that 
 after he should have overcome his rivals it would 
 not be risking his life to venture a dance with the 
 fair lady of his heart. 
 
 In his imagination, the adventure unrolled it- 
 self step by step and he fairly revelled in it. In- 
 deed, for days, while riding through the verdant 
 fields of summer, he held sweet concourse with 
 his beloved, communicating to her the most charm- 
 ing fancies, which made her face radiant with wom- 
 anly joy. But all of this was in his mind. 
 
 Even now, as he was again depicting some joy- 
 ful event in his imagination, he saw along the blue 
 mountain-ridge the towers and battlements and 
 the gilded parapets of her castle sparkle and gleam 
 in the morning sun, and he was so frightened by 
 the sight that all his dream-fabric vanished, leav- 
 ing him as timid and irresolute as before. 
 
 Involuntarily he reined in his steed and looked 
 
 [ 60 ] 
 
about him, after the fashion of the irresolute, for 
 a manner of escape. As he did so he caught sight 
 of a small chapel, the same which Bertrade had 
 erected to the honor of the Virgin and in which 
 she had had her long sleep. He decided to stop 
 there to collect and strengthen himself a bit before 
 the altar. More especially did he feel the need of 
 this since it was the very day on which the tourna- 
 ment was to be held. 
 
 As he entered, a priest was saying mass. There 
 were only two or three people in attendance, and 
 the presence of the knight shed not a little lustre 
 on the small congregation. But when the service 
 was over and priest and sacristan had left the 
 church, Zendelwald felt so comfortable in his little/ 
 nook that he soon fell asleep, quite forgetting both 
 tournament and lady love, unless perchance he saw 
 them in his dreams. 
 
 And again the Virgin descended from the altar,y!>^ 
 and taking on Zendelwald's form and armor, she 
 mounted his horse and rode away in his stead, with 
 closed visor — a Brunhild in bearing — towards the 
 castle. 
 
 After riding some distance, she came upon a pile 
 of old rubbish and dry branches which attracted 
 her attention. Peering closer, she noticed the tail 
 
 [61] 
 
of a reptile protruding from under the mass. It 
 was the Evil One, who, still filled with his base 
 passion, had continued to slink about the neighbor- 
 hood of the castle and who at the approach of the 
 Virgin had taken refuge under the rubbish heap. 
 Apparently without noticing him she rode by, but 
 by a clever maneuver made her horse's hind hoof 
 strike the projecting tail. With a hiss, the Evil 
 One started up and away and was not seen again 
 in the neighborhood. 
 
 Amused by this little escapade, she rode merrily 
 on towards the castle. When she arrived there, the 
 tournament was almost over. Only tv/o of the 
 most powerful knights still remained and were 
 about to decide the outcome of the tournament be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Slowly and in a careless manner, after the fash- 
 ion of Zendelwald, the Virgin rode into the lists, 
 and for a moment she seemed undecided whether 
 she should enter the conflict or not. 
 
 "Oh, here comes Zendelwald, late as usual," the 
 people called, and the two knights who remained 
 on the field said: "What will he here? Let us put 
 him out of the way, before settling the matter." 
 
 The one was called Sir Guhl, the Speedy, be- 
 cause he was fond of wheeling his horse about like 
 
 [62] 
 
a whirlwind, and of confusing and conquering his 
 opponent by a hundred sly turns and tricks. 
 
 With him the supposed Zendelwald had first to 
 try consequences. Sir Guhl had a pitchy black 
 moustache, the ends of which were twisted smartly 
 and stood perpendicularly upright, so stiffly that 
 they were able to support two small silver bells 
 that were fastened to them and which rang when- 
 ever he moved his head. He called these bells the 
 chimes of his enemies' dismay, and the chimes of 
 his lady-love's delight. His shield shone in chang- 
 ing colors, accordingly as he turned it this way or 
 that, and so adept was he in bringing about this 
 play of color that the eyes of the onlookers were 
 dazzled by it. And finally, his helmet plumes con- 
 sisted of a great rooster's tail. 
 
 The second opponent was called Sir Maus, the 
 Innumerable, which epithet he intended to mean 
 that he was to be regarded as a great and number- 
 less army. As evidence of his great strength he 
 had let the hair grow from his nostrils to the length 
 of six inches, and had it braided in two small braids 
 which hung down over his mouth and were adorned 
 v/ith dainty bows of red ribbon. Over his armor 
 he v/ore a large loose-fitting cloak which was made 
 of thousands of mole-skins, and which almost cov- 
 
 [63] 
 
ered both horse and rider. A great outstretched 
 bat's wing served him as a crest, from below which 
 he shot out menacing glances through the narrow 
 slits of his eyes. 
 
 The signal for the contest with Sir Guhl was 
 given. He rode up to and about the Virgin, en- 
 circling her with increasing rapidity in order to 
 blind her with his shield, all the while essaying nu- 
 merous blows with his lance. 
 
 But the Virgin continued in the centre of the 
 field as if rooted to the spot, and seemed only to 
 ward off his attack with shield and lance, wheeling 
 her horse with great skill as she did so, and man- 
 aging continually to face the enemy. 
 
 Guhl, noticing this, suddenly rode off some dis- 
 tance ; then turning, he rushed upon his antagonist 
 with lance atilt to strike her to the ground. 
 
 The Virgin awaited him, motionless, and rider 
 and steed seemed modelled in steel, so immovably 
 did they stand. Poor Guhl, who knew not that 
 he was closing in with a higher power, lit upon 
 her lance and was thrown from his saddle to the 
 earth in a trice, while his own weapon was shat- 
 tered upon her shield like a reed. 
 
 Immediately she sprang from her horse and, 
 placing her knee upon his breast, pinned him to the 
 
 [64] 
 
ground. With a stroke of her dagger she cut off 
 the moustaches with their bells, and fastened them 
 to her sword-belt, just as the flourish of trumpets 
 greeted her, or rather Zendelwald, as the victor. 
 
 Now it was Sir Maus's turn. With great verve 
 he galloped into the field, his cloak flying in the 
 air like a menacing cloud of gray. 
 
 But Virgin-Zendelwald, who only now seemed 
 to be warming up to the contest, dashed towards 
 him with an equal show of strength, unseating him 
 easily with her first blow. And when he sprang 
 up and drew his sword, she also sprang from her 
 horse, ready to continue the struggle on foot. 
 
 He was soon dazed by the rapid sword-blows 
 that she dealt him on head and shoulders, while he, 
 holding out his cloak with his left hand to screen 
 himself, sought if possible to cast it over the head 
 of his opponent. 
 
 But the Virgin caught a corner of the cloak 
 upon the point of her sword, and with a swift turn 
 of her hand wrapped Sir Maus, the Innumerable, 
 up in it from head to foot with such graceful dex- 
 terity that he lay struggling upon the earth like a 
 great wasp that has been enmeshed by a spider. 
 
 Thereupon she gave him so thorough a drub- 
 bing with the flat of her sword that his mantle was 
 
 [65] 
 
resolved into its component parts, and the thou- 
 sands of mole-skins, flying this way and that, amid 
 the general laughter of the spectators, almost shut 
 out the light of the sun. After a time the knight 
 emerged from the hubbub and hobbled away, a 
 crushed man; not, however, before his conqueror 
 had deprived him of his ribboned moustachios. 
 
 And thus the Virgin, in the person of Zendel- 
 wald, stood upon the field of combat, the sole victor. 
 
 She now raised her visored helmet, strode up to 
 the queen of the tournament, and, bending her knee 
 before her, laid the trophies of victory at her feet. 
 
 This done, she arose, and looking a bolder Zen- 
 delwald than that gentleman ever had the boldness 
 to look, without, however, sacrificing any of his 
 modesty, she greeted Bertrade with a look the effect 
 of which upon a woman's heart she well knew. In 
 short, she deported herself in such manner in her 
 role of lover as well as knight, that Bertrade did 
 not retract her promise, made before the tourna- 
 ment, but yielded to the advice of the Emperor, 
 who was happy to see so valiant and noble a man 
 come into the earldom. 
 
 They now took their v/ay in great procession 
 to the grove of high towering lindens, where a ban- 
 quet had been prepared. Bertrade sat between the 
 
 [66] 
 
1 
 
 Emperor and her chosen Zendelwald, and it was 
 fortunate that the Emperor had, at his side, an- 
 other pretty companion, for Zendelwald did not al- 
 low his bride much time to speak to others, so 
 cleverly and tenderly did he entertain her. Evi- 
 dently he was whispering sweet nothings into her 
 ear, since every now and then deep blushes over- 
 spread her radiant face and neck. 
 
 Joy reigned supreme. In the heavy-foliaged 
 arches overhead, the birds vied with the music of 
 the festive board. A butterfly alighted on the Em- 
 peror's golden crov/n, while the goblets of wine, as 
 if by a special blessing of heaven, gave forth a 
 fragrance as of violets and mignonette. 
 
 Bertrade was very happy, and while Zendelwald 
 held her hand in his, her thoughts ascended to her 
 divine Protectress, and she offered up a fervent 
 prayer of thanksgiving in her heart. 
 
 The Virgin, who, as v/e know, was sitting at her 
 side in the person of Zendelwald, read the prayer in 
 her heart and was so gratified with the piety of her 
 fledgling that she embraced her passionately and 
 impressed a kiss upon her lips, filling the lovely 
 woman with heavenly rapture, for when the celes- 
 tials take to making sweets they make them very 
 sweet. 
 
 [67] 
 
The Emperor, however, and the rest of the com- 
 pany, applauded the supposed Zendelwald, and 
 raising their beakers drank to the health of the 
 beautiful couple. 
 
 Meantime, the real Zendelvv^ald awoke from his 
 inopportune sleep, and saw the sun already so high 
 that he thought the tournament must be over. 
 
 Although he was now fortunately delivered 
 from the affair, he felt unhappy and sad, for really 
 he had desired very much to win the lady's love, 
 and besides, he now no longer dared return to his 
 mother, and thus he decided to set out upon never- 
 ending wanderings until death should release him 
 from his useless existence. Only once more he 
 wished to look upon the loved woman that he 
 might fix her image upon his heart forever to re- 
 mind him of his loss. 
 
 He wended his way towards the castle accord- 
 ingly, and as he drew near he heard all lips pro- 
 claiming the praise and the good fortune of a cer- 
 tain poor knight Zendelwald, w^ho was said to have 
 gained the prize. Painfully curious to learn who 
 this Zendelwald might be, he dismounted and made 
 his way through the crowd to an elevated spot near 
 the edge of the garden, from where he was able 
 to survey the entire festive scene. 
 
 [68] 
 
He saw the face of Bertrade beaming in jew- 
 elled splendor near the sparkling crown of the Em- 
 peror, and next to her, to his utter amazemept, he 
 saw the exact likeness of his own person. •/ 
 
 He gazed upon the scene as one transfixed, until 
 he saw his double embrace and kiss the beautiful 
 bride; then, unmindful of the general joy, he strode 
 with a steady tread through the crowd and stood 
 close behind the couple, consumed with a strange 
 feeling of jealousy. 
 
 At the same moment his counterpart disap- 
 peared from Bertrade's side and she, looking about 
 for him and catching sight of Zendelwald behind 
 her, cooed a joyful little laugh of love and said: 
 "Are you there, my love? Come, remain close by 
 me," and she seized his hand and drew him to her 
 side. 
 
 Zendelwald sat down, accordingly, and, to test 
 what seemed to him to be a dream, he seized a gob- 
 let of wine standing before him and emptied it at 
 one draught. The wine was good; it poured life 
 and confidence into his veins, and as his spirits rose, 
 he turned and gazed into the eyes of the radiant 
 woman, who now took up the conversation where 
 it had been interrupted. 
 
 But when Bertrade spoke words that he seemed 
 
 [69] 
 
to have heard before, and to which he made answer 
 in words which he too seemed to have spoken 
 somewhere previously, Zendelwald hardly knew 
 what to make of it all. And, indeed, after a time 
 he noticed that his predecessor must have said the 
 very things which he himself had imagined himself 
 saying to her on his journey hither, and which he 
 now deliberately continued in order to see what the 
 outcome of the whole affair might be. 
 
 But there were no untoward results; in fact, 
 their conversation became m.ore and more pleasant, 
 and when the sun had set, torches were lighted 
 and the entire company betook themselves to the 
 great hall of the castle to give themselves up to the 
 pleasures of the dance. 
 
 The first dance with the bride was the Emper- 
 or's privilege. Thereupon Zendelwald claimed her, 
 but they had taken only three or four turns about 
 the hall, when his rosy partner seized him by the 
 hand and led him to a quiet turret chamber which 
 lay flooded with the light of the moon. Now, seated 
 by his side, she embraced him tenderly, caressing 
 his tawny beard and thanking him for his coming 
 and for his love. 
 
 But honest Zendelwald nov/ wanted to know 
 whether he was dreaming or waking; so he ques- 
 
 [70] 
 
tioned her as to the real state of affairs, especially 
 concerninf< his double. 
 
 For a long time she failed to understand what 
 he was driving at, until finally it began to dawn 
 upon her. Zendelwald related what had befallen 
 him and told of his experiences from the time he 
 had entered the chapel; how he had fallen asleep, 
 thereb}^ arriving too late for the tournament. 
 
 Nov/ Bertrade understood, and she recognized 
 the hand of her protectress for the second time in 
 her life. Even more than heretofore she now re- 
 garded her brave knight as a gift of Heaven, and so 
 thankful v/as she that she pressed the sturdy gift 
 doughtily to her heart and returned the sweet kiss 
 that she had received from Heaven itself. 
 
 From this time on Zendelwald laid off all his 
 indolent waj^s and his dreamy manner and became 
 quick of speech and action, not only towards the 
 loved woman but towards all the world. And he 
 became renowned in the empire, and the Emperor 
 was as m.uch pleased with him as was his wife. 
 
 Zendelwald's mother honored the young couple 
 with her presence at the wedding, and she came 
 high ahorse and as proudly as though Fortune had 
 smiled upon her all the days of her life. She con- 
 tinued to administer the affairs of her own estates, 
 
 [71] 
 
and remained, until a ripe old age, in her great for- 
 ests, devoted to the chase. 
 
 Once a year Bertrade insisted upon being accom- 
 panied by Zendelwald to his little, obscure, paternal 
 castle, there to coo with her lover as tenderly as 
 the wild doves on the great trees about the old 
 haunt. And never once did they neglect to enter 
 the chapel and to offer up their prayers to the Vir- 
 gin, who continued in her place on the altar, as 
 quiet and serene as though she had never been 
 known to forsake it. 
 
 [72] 
 
DOROTHEA'S FLOWER-BASKET 
 
 "But to lose oneself thus means to find oneself. 
 
 — Franciscus Ludo'vicus Blosius. 
 
 ON THE southern shore of the Pontus 
 Euxinus, not far from the mouth of the 
 river Halys, there lay, in the light of the 
 brightest of spring mornings, a Roman villa. A 
 breeze from the northeast wafted grateful coolness 
 over the gardens from the waters of the sea, re- 
 freshing heathens and Christians alike, and caus- 
 ing all to feel as blithe as the foliage that trembled 
 in the spring breeze. 
 
 In a shady bower by the shore of the sea, stood 
 tv/o young people, a handsome youth and the fairest 
 of maidens. She held in her hand a beautiful, large 
 cut-glass vase of translucent red and seemed to be 
 inviting the young man to admire it. As she did 
 so, the light of the morning sun, reflected by the 
 vase upon her face, vied with the blushes on her 
 cheek. 
 
 Dorothea was the maiden's name. She was the 
 daughter of a patrician, and it was well known that 
 her hand was being sought in marriage by Fabri- 
 cius, the governor of the province of Cappadocia. 
 But since he was a bitter persecutor of the Chris- 
 
 [73] 
 
tians, and Dorothea's parents were kindly disposed 
 towards the new faith, they resisted, as far as they 
 dared, the suit of the powerful inquisitor. 
 
 Now one must not suppose that Dorothea's par- 
 ents wished to embroil their children in controver- 
 sies concerning the faith, nor to barter away their 
 hearts as the purchase price of new proselytes to 
 the Christian religion; they were too noble and 
 liberal-minded to do that. They simply felt that a 
 religious inquisitor would certainly turn out but a 
 poor lover and husband. 
 
 Dorothea did not trouble herself about these as- 
 pects at all. She felt herself quite secure against 
 the blandishments of the governor. The fact was, 
 she loved his private secretary, Theophilus, who 
 even at this moment stood at her side, casting per- 
 plexed but admiring glances at the ruby vase. 
 
 Theophilus was a well-bred and handsome 
 young man of Greek descent who had risen, in 
 spite of adverse circumstances, and who enjoyed 
 the respect of all who knew him. But his years of 
 poverty had imprinted upon his character a trait of 
 mistrust and of taciturnity, and since he had made 
 his way in the world entirely by his own efforts, he 
 was rarely able to make himself believe that any- 
 one had his interests especially at heart. 
 
 [74] 
 
He was passionately devoted to Dorothea, but 
 the fact that the first man in Cappadocia was paying 
 suit to her deterred him from entertaining any hope 
 for himself, and not for any consideration would he 
 have consented to become the laughing-stock in a 
 race with that great gentleman. 
 
 Nevertheless, Dorothea sought to accomplish her 
 ends and for the present to enjoy the pleasure of 
 his company as often as possible. And since he 
 seemed always quiet and indifferent, her ardor rose 
 until she even began to make use of doubtful little 
 artifices, as when she tried to arouse his jealousy 
 by seeming to look with favor upon the suit of the 
 governor. 
 
 But poor Theophilus had no comprehension of 
 such strategy, and if he had understood, his pride 
 would not have allowed him to show his jealousy. 
 
 In spite of himself he was, however, gradually 
 carried away, made uneasy and brought at times to 
 betray his real feelings, but straightway collecting 
 himself, he resumed his usual manner, thus leaving 
 his fair admirer no alternative but to proceed more 
 aggressively and perchance suddenly to enmesh 
 him. 
 
 At present he had come to the Black Sea region 
 on business, and Dorothea, as soon as she learned 
 
 [75] 
 
of it, had followed her parents thither to their coun- 
 try villa. Thus she had, by clever planning, suc- 
 ceeded on this morning in inveigling him into the 
 arbor. She intended to have this meeting appear 
 partly as an accident, partly as an evidence of 
 friendship. She hoped, too, that this piece of good 
 fortune, backed by the ingratiating manner which 
 she intended to assume, might induce a cheerful 
 and confiding mood in him. 
 
 Thus she happened to be exhibiting to him the 
 vase that her uncle had sent her as a present from 
 Trapezunt, on the anniversary of her patron saint's 
 day. Her face was aglow with joy at having her 
 lover so near her and all to herself, and at being 
 able to delight him with so beautiful a thing as the 
 vase. He too seemed happy. The sun of love was 
 beaming in his heart, smiling on his lips and shin- 
 ing from his eyes. 
 
 But along with blooming Eros, the ancients 
 neglected to mention the god of Envy who, at the 
 decisive moment, when Fortune smiles, casts a veil 
 over lovers' eyes and hushes the v/ords of love and 
 troth already on their lips. 
 
 When Dorothea placed the vase trustingly in 
 his hands and he asked who had given it to her, a 
 burst of v/anton roguishness led her to answer: 
 
 [76] 
 
"Fabricius," and she felt sure he would not fail to 
 understand the pleasantry. 
 
 But since she had not succeeded in intermingling 
 with her smile the requisite touch of sarcasm for 
 the absent Fabricius, which would have made the 
 pleasantry more evident, Theophilus firmly believed 
 that her joyful mood was induced by the recollec- 
 tion of the giver and that he, Theophilus, had made 
 a great mistake by attempting the conquest of a 
 heart that was already won, and was a stranger to 
 him. 
 
 Mute with a sense of shame, he cast down his 
 eyes and the trembling of his hands caused the vase 
 to fall to the ground where it was dashed to pieces. 
 
 The first shock of this untoward turn caused 
 Dorothea to forget not only her intended pleas- 
 antry, but, for the moment, Theophilus as well, and 
 as she bent down to pick up the fragments she ex- 
 claimed: "How stupid!" And since she was quite 
 intent upon what she was doing, she failed to notice 
 the change that had come over his face, and not 
 once surmised his misinterpretation of her remark 
 concerning Fabricius. 
 
 When she again rose, and quickly collecting 
 herself, turned to address him, Theophilus had al- 
 ready drawn himself up proudly to his full height. 
 
 [77] 
 
Darkling and seemingly unconcerned, he looked 
 into her eyes; almost scornfully he begged her par- 
 don, and promising a full restitution for the broken 
 vase, bowed and left the garden. 
 
 Dorothea turned pale, and with tears gathering 
 in her beautiful eyes followed the tall form of Theo- 
 philus as he drew his white toga about him, and 
 inclined his head with its curling locks, as if lost in 
 deep philosophical reflections. 
 
 Only the waves of the silvery sea lapped softly 
 in slow beats at the marble steps of the shore. All 
 else was quiet, and Dorothea's small strategies were 
 at an end. 
 
 Weeping bitterly, she wended her way slowly 
 to her room, there to hide the fragments of the 
 broken vessel. 
 
 Months passed, and the lovers had not met. 
 Theophilus had betaken himself at once to the 
 capital, and when, by autumn, Dorothea also re- 
 turned, he carefully avoided seeing her. Even the 
 thought of a meeting with her troubled and excited 
 him, and thus their fond young dream seemed 
 forever past and ended. 
 
 Now it came about, and quite naturally too, 
 that Dorothea sought solace in the faith of her 
 parents, and they, noticing it, did not neglect to 
 
 [78] 
 
encourage her and to seek to introduce her to the 
 tenets of the new religion. 
 
 Meantime the apparently favorable attitude of 
 Dorothea towards the governor had produced its 
 unfortunate effect in that it led Fabricius to renew 
 his suit with increased fervor, as he fully believed 
 he was justified in doing. 
 
 But what was his astonishment when Dorothea 
 would not even deign to look upon him, and his 
 presence seemed more distasteful to her than com- 
 munion with her own sad thoughts. Yet Fabricus 
 was undismayed. In sooth, he increased his at- 
 tentions, but strangely enough, he began at the 
 same time to assail her new faith, and to mingle his 
 flatteries with thinly veiled threats. 
 
 Dorothea, however, confessed her belief openly 
 and fearlessly; and flatly discountenancing his suit, 
 paid no more attention to him. 
 
 Theophilus heard of all this and learned too that 
 she was quite unhappy. Most of all did the news 
 that she positively refused to have anything to do 
 with the governor astonish him. Now, although in 
 matters of religion Theophilus was worldly-minded 
 and quite indifferent, he was not at all inimical to 
 the girl's new faith, and actuated by his old-time 
 regard for her, he began gradually to make ap- 
 
 [79] 
 
preaches, in order, if possible, to see or hear how 
 she was faring. 
 
 But Dorothea was able in those days to think 
 or do nothing except to speak in the tenderest 
 phrases of a heavenly bridegroom, who was await- 
 ing her in undying glory to present her with the 
 rose of eternal life. 
 
 Of course Theophilus did not understand this 
 language. It angered and hurt him and filled his 
 heart with a peculiar, painful jealousy of the un- 
 known god who had infatuated the mind of the 
 poor child, for he was unable to explain the lan- 
 guage of the agitated and forsaken woman in any 
 other than the current mythological fashion. But 
 to be jealous of a celestial did not hurt his pride; 
 and his sympathy for a maiden who boasted of re- 
 lations with the gods, waned. 
 
 Still it was only her unrequited love for him 
 that was responsible for this behavior, just as Theo- 
 philus himself never ceased to feel the promptings 
 of the old ardor in his heart. 
 
 Things went on in this way for a time until 
 Fabricius forcibly intervened. Alleging that he had 
 new imperial orders to prosecute the Christians, he 
 had Dorothea and her parents arrested, but separ- 
 ately incarcerated and examined under torture. 
 
 [80] 
 
Eager to learn the result, Fabricius came in person 
 and with his own ears heard Dorothea revile the 
 ancient gods and confess Christ as the one and 
 only Lord of the world, whose promised bride she 
 professed to be. 
 
 Now the governor was likewise seized with 
 great jealousy. He resolved to destroy her and 
 commanded that she be tortured and, should she 
 continue perverse, executed. Thereupon he de- 
 parted. 
 
 Accordingly she was placed upon an iron grate 
 under which coals were ignited in such fashion that 
 the heat arose but slowly. But Dorothea's delicate 
 body soon began to suffer great agony. She uttered 
 suppressed sobs; her limbs, which were fastened 
 to the iron bars, moved convulsively and tears 
 started from her eyes. 
 
 Meanwhile Theophilus, who usually refrained 
 from going near such scenes, had heard of Doro- 
 thea's straits and had hastened thither in agitation 
 and solicitude. All unmindful of his own safety, he 
 forced his way through the gaping crowd, and when 
 Dorothea's subdued sobs struck his ear, he snatched 
 a sword from one of the soldiers and with a bound, 
 stood before the bed of torture. 
 
 "Thou art in great pain," said he, smiling 
 
 [81] 
 
through his grief, as he stood about to cut her 
 bonds asunder. 
 
 As if suddenly freed from all suffering and filled 
 with the greatest joy, she answered: "And why 
 dost thou think it painful, Theophilus? These are 
 the roses of my beloved bridegroom on which I am 
 reclining, and today is my bridal day." 
 
 About her lips there hovered an expression of 
 sweet playfulness and her eyes beamed upon him 
 with an almost heavenly radiance, while a halo of 
 light seemed to transfigure both the girl and her 
 gruesome couch. A solemn stillness ensued; Theo- 
 philus' arm faltered; then he cast the sword aside 
 and withdrew, abashed and perplexed, as he had 
 that eventful morning in the garden by the sea. 
 
 And now the flame leapt up anew. Dorothea 
 groaned loudly and begged for death. This boon 
 was soon granted her and she was led forth to the 
 place of execution to be beheaded. 
 
 With a light step she made her way thither, fol- 
 lowed by the thoughtless, clamoring mob. As she 
 was led along, she caught sight of Theophilus, who, 
 standing by the way, never took his eyes from her 
 for a m.oment. Their glances met. Dorothea 
 paused a moment, and in her sweet voice said: "O 
 Theophilus, if only you knew how beautiful are the 
 
 [82] 
 
rose-gardens of my Lord, into which I shall enter 
 within a few moments, and how fragrant the sweet 
 apples that grow there, you would come with me." 
 
 And Theophilus, laughing bitterly, answered 
 "Ah, Dorothea, send me of your roses and apples 
 when you enter into your paradise, will you not?" 
 And she nodded sweetly and continued on her way. 
 Theophilus followed her with his eyes until the 
 cloud of dust, gold-tinted by the rays of the evening 
 sun, which accompanied the procession, faded away 
 in the distance, and the street became again quiet 
 and forsaken. 
 
 Then, concealing his face in his toga, to hide his 
 grief, he walked slowly homeward. With wavering 
 step he mounted to the roof of his dwelling, from 
 whence there was an outlook towards the mount 
 Argasus, at the base of which the place of execu- 
 tion lay. Far in the distance he could distinguish 
 clearly the dark, surging mass of human forms, and 
 he extended his arms passionately towards the 
 spot. And now he saw in the light of the setting 
 sun the flash of a descending blade, and he fell head- 
 long as he stood, with his face upon the ground, for 
 at that very m.oment Dorothea had perished be- 
 neath the executioner's sword. 
 
 He had not long lain motionless, however, when 
 
 [83] 
 
a bright shaft of light illumined the falling dusk, 
 the dazzling splendor of it penetrating his closed 
 eyelids like liquid gold, while at the same time the 
 air was filled with sweet fragrance. 
 
 As if animated by a new sense of life, the young 
 man arose. Before him stood a wondrously beauti- 
 ful boy with curly golden locks and dimpled bare 
 feet. He was clothed in a starry garment and held 
 in his luminous hands a small basket, filled with 
 exquisite roses, the like of which he had never 
 seen before, and among the roses there lay three 
 apples of Paradise. 
 
 With a naive and childlike laugh, and yet not 
 without a certain sweet archness, the child said: 
 "Dorothea sends you this," and placing the basket 
 in Theophilus' hands he added, "You are sure you 
 have a firm hold upon it?'* then disappeared. 
 
 There was no mistake. Theophilus really held 
 the basket in his hand.. Upon examination he 
 found in each of the three apples the marks of two 
 dainty teeth, a token which lovers of antiquity were 
 fond of employing. Straightway he placed an 
 apple between his lips, and under the starry 
 heavens, partook with a sweet sadness of the 
 heavenly food. 
 
 As he did so, a great longing came over him, and 
 
 [84] 
 
pressing the basket to his breast and covering it 
 with his cloak, he hastened down from the roof, 
 through the streets and into the palace of the 
 governor, whom he found sitting at meat, seeking 
 to drown his great rage in the undiluted wine of 
 Colchis. 
 
 With glowing eyes Theophilus approached him, 
 not, however, disclosing his basket, and in the pres- 
 ence of the entire household addressed him thus: 
 "I confess to the faith of Dorothea whom you have 
 just put to death. It is the only true faith." 
 
 "Then you shall follow the witch," cried the 
 governor, springing from his chair, shaken by sud- 
 den anger and fierce envy. And the private secre- 
 tary was beheaded that very hour. 
 
 Thus Theophilus was united with Dorothea at 
 once and forever. 
 
 She greeted him with the calm look and de- 
 meanor of the angels, and like two doves, who, 
 separated for a season by the storm, have been re- 
 united and now wing their v/ay about the nest in 
 great circles, so the reunited lovers glided hand in 
 hand swiftly and without stopping to rest, along 
 the outermost confines of heaven, freed from all 
 the dross of the earthly, and yet perfectly them- 
 selves. 
 
 [85] 
 
Joyously they separated now and strayed far 
 and wide in the infinite realms, each knowing, how- 
 ever, where the other was, and what he thought, and 
 that each enfolded the other and all creation and all 
 being in his love. Again they sought each other, 
 as a longing that knew no sorrow and no im- 
 patience possessed them; and when they met they 
 wandered hand in hand or rested in contempla- 
 tion of each other and of the vast extent of the in- 
 finite world. 
 
 [«6] 
 
THE DANCE LEGEND 
 
 O virgin of Israel; thou shalt again be adorned 
 nvith thy tabrets, and shalt again go forth in the 
 dances of them that make merry. 
 
 Then shall the virgin rejoice in the dance, hoth 
 young men and old together. — Jeremiah XXXI, 4,13. 
 
 HCCORDING to Saint Gregory, Musa was 
 the dancer among the saints. She was a 
 beautiful girl, of good parentage, and 
 she served the Virgin zealously. She was possessed 
 of but one reprehensible trait, — an almost irresist- 
 ible love of the dance. So ardent was her fondness 
 for this pastime that when the child was not at her 
 prayers, she might surely be found dancing. And 
 in sooth there was no form of dancing she did not 
 like. She danced with her playmates, with the 
 children, with the young men, and by herself. She 
 danced in her chamber, she danced in the halls, she 
 danced in the gardens and she danced out on the 
 meadows. And even v/hen she approached the 
 altar, her carriage was rather the graceful, rythmic 
 movement of the dance than the prosaic walk, and 
 she never failed to enjoy a few measures on the 
 smooth marble slabs before the church door. 
 
 Indeed, one day when she was alone in the sanc- 
 
 [87] 
 
tuary she could not refrain from executing a few 
 figures before the altar, and, as it were, dancing a 
 pretty prayer before the Virgin. So enrapt was 
 she in this that, when a noble looking man danced 
 out towards her, supplementing her figures so skill- 
 fully that together they carried out a most beauti- 
 ful minuet, she imagined herself only dreaming. 
 
 The man wore a gown of royal purple and a 
 crown of gold, and his lustrous, wavy, dark beard 
 had the merest suggestion of the silvery hoar of 
 years, like the distant glimmer of starlight. 
 
 Above them from the choir-loft resounded 
 sweet music, for there on the parapet sat, or stood, 
 a company of small cherubs playing various in- 
 struments, their dimpled little legs hanging down 
 over the coping. 
 
 They were gladsome little fellows, and practical 
 too, for they made the stone angels that served as 
 decorative figures on the balcony railing hold their 
 music for them, all except the smallest of them, a 
 chubby-cheeked flute-player, who sat with legs 
 crossed, holding the sheet of music between his 
 pink toes. This little fellow was also most intent 
 upon his work. The rest sat dangling their feet 
 and teasing each other, and now and again one of 
 them would stretch his rustling wings so that you 
 
 [88] 
 
might see the play of colors on them as on the neck 
 of a dove. 
 
 But Musa was too engrossed to wonder at all 
 this, until the dance was over, and that was a con- 
 siderable time, for her jovial partner seemed to take 
 just as much pleasure in it as did Musa, who felt as 
 if transported to the heavens. 
 
 But when the music ceased and Musa stood 
 with heaving bosom, fear began to steal over her as 
 she looked in amazement at the man, who seemed 
 neither to breathe more heavily nor to have become 
 in the slightest heated by the dance. 
 
 Introducing himself as David, the royal ancestor 
 and at the same time the messenger of the Virgin, 
 he said: "And now, my pretty maid, what say you 
 to spending eternity in one never-ending joyous 
 dance, compared to v>7hich the one we have just 
 danced may be called a sorry form of creeping?" 
 
 She answered that nothing could give her 
 greater delight, whereupon David replied : "In that 
 case you have only to renounce the dance and all 
 worldly pleasures during your lifetime and to con- 
 secrate yourself to penance and spiritual exercises 
 v/ithout once wavering or wearying in them." 
 
 Taken aback somewhat by this, she asked him 
 whether she must renovmce these pleasures entirely. 
 
 [ 89 ] 
 
She even expressed a doubt that there was any 
 dancing in heaven, for, said she, "Everything has 
 its time and place, and the earth seems good enough 
 for dancing, so that heaven must have other uses, 
 otherwise death were entirely superfluous." 
 
 But David made clear to her that she was much 
 mistaken, and he proved by many passages of 
 Scripture, as well as by his own example, that danc- 
 ing was a sacred form of amusement among the 
 blessed. *'Now, we want a few more dancers in 
 heaven," said he, "so let us have a quick decision 
 whether or not you will, through temporal renun- 
 ciation, enter the joys of the blest." 
 
 Musa stood irresolute and in doubt, nervously 
 pursing her lips against the tips of her rosy fingers. 
 It did seem hard to give up her favorite pastime 
 and all for the promises of an insecure reward. 
 
 But as she stood revolving the matter, suddenly, 
 upon a signal from David, the first measures of an 
 ineffably sweet dance floated out on the stillness 
 of the chapel. The girl stood trembling with joy- 
 ful agitation, her limbs all a-quiver, but unable to 
 enter into the movement of the dance, for, as she 
 soon perceived, her earthly body was far too cum- 
 brous for such melody. Filled with longing, she 
 placed her hand in that of the king and promised. 
 
 [90] 
 
In a trice she was alone. The ministering 
 angels had fluttered and rustled away, jostling each 
 other as they flew out through an open window of 
 the chapel, after having in true childlike mischiev- 
 ousness slapped the cheeks of the patient stone 
 cherubs with their rolled-up music sheets, each slap 
 awakening loud echoes in the old church. 
 
 Musa walked home with devout step, the 
 heavenly melody still vibrating within her soul. 
 Laying off her pretty clothes, she donned a coarse 
 penitent's garb. Where the trees cast a dense 
 shade, in the rear of her father's garden, a hermit's 
 cell was erected, and within it a moss-covered pal- 
 let. Here she lived from that time on, apart from 
 the world, — a penitent and a recluse. 
 
 She spent her time in prayer and frequent casti- 
 gations. Her most severe penance consisted in 
 holding her limbs perfectly quiet, for as soon as a 
 note was sounded without — the song of a bird or 
 the rustling of the leaves — her feet began to twitch 
 for the dance. And since, before she was aware of 
 it, this impulse at times prompted her into a little 
 bound, she had her feet fastened together with a 
 light chain. 
 
 Her relatives and friends marvelled day and 
 night at her transformation, but were none the less 
 
 [91] 
 
proud to possess so great a saint, and guarded the 
 hermitage among the trees as the apple of their 
 eye. Many came for advice and for prayers. Espe- 
 cially did they bring young girls who were awk- 
 ward of bearing, since all whom she touched began 
 forthwith to walk easily and gracefully. 
 
 In this way Musa lived in her cell for three 
 years. Towards the end of the third year she had 
 become as light and ethereal as a summer cloud. 
 She lay day and night on her moss-covered bed, her 
 eyes turned wistfully to heaven, where already she 
 believed she could see, through the blue, the golden 
 slippers of the saints dancing down the corridors of 
 heaven. 
 
 At last, on a blustering autumn day the news 
 went out that the saint lay dying. She had laid off 
 her dark penitential garb, had clothed herself in a 
 dazzling white bridal gown and lay with folded 
 hands, serenely awaiting the hour of departure. 
 
 The garden was filled with throngs of the faith- 
 ful, the autumn winds sighed mournfully, while, all 
 about, the leaves fell noiselessly to the ground. 
 
 But, of a sudden, the moaning of the wind in 
 the tree-tops was changed to sweet music, and 
 when the people looked aloft, they saw the 
 branches clothed with bright green foliage. The 
 
 [ 92 ] ^ 
 
myrtles and pomegranates had sprung out in full 
 bloom and fragrance, and round about, the ground 
 was covered with flowers, while the delicate white 
 form of the dying girl lay suffused with rosy light. 
 
 At this moment her fair spirit took its flight, the 
 chain about her ankles snapped asunder with a 
 sound like the silvery peal of a bell, while the 
 heavens that now lay wide open to the eyes of all 
 were filled with infinite splendor and majesty. 
 
 And there were seen thousands of fair boys and 
 girls dancing in great circles in the white light of 
 heaven. Now a glorious king, riding on a cloud on 
 one border of which was stationed a royal choir of 
 cherubs, descended towards the earth and received 
 the sainted form of Musa before the eyes of all as- 
 sembled in the garden. 
 
 The multitude continued to gaze until they saw 
 her spring with a bound into the open heavens, 
 where she was lost at once in the vibrant ranks of 
 the shining dancers. 
 
 There was high holiday in heaven that day, and 
 on holidays it was the custom (to be sure this is 
 denied by Gregory of Nyssa, yet it is affirmed by 
 Gregory of Nazianzus) to invite the nine Muses, 
 who dwelt in Hades, into heaven, there to render 
 assistance at the ceremonies. They were, on such oc- 
 
 [93] 
 
casions, dined sumptuously but were obliged, after 
 having fulfilled their task, to return to the shades. 
 
 When on this day the dances and songs and all 
 the ceremonies were over and the heavenly hosts 
 were about to sit down to the feast, Musa was 
 seated with the Nine Sisters, who sat nestling close 
 together, casting shy glances hither and thither 
 from the corners of their fiery black or tranquil 
 dark-blue eyes. Martha, the industrious, mentioned 
 in the gospels, was there to attend in person to their 
 wants. She had donned her prettiest kitchen-apron, 
 and the sweetest little spot of soot adorned her 
 white chin. She was radiant, and insistently urged 
 the Muses to help themselves to all the good things. 
 
 But not until Musa and Saint Cecilia and other 
 women v/ell versed in art-lore approached, and 
 pleasantly greeting the shy Pierides, sat down with 
 them, did they lay aside their shyness and appear 
 at ease; but finally the intercourse among the fair 
 banqueters became happy and free. 
 
 Musa sat next to Terpsichore; Cecilia sat be- 
 tween Polyhymnia and Euterpe, and all clasped one 
 another's hands. Then came the cherubs, and seek- 
 ing to ingratiate themselves by fond caresses, 
 begged for some of the fruits that shone on the am- 
 brosial board. 
 
 [ 04 ] _ 
 
King David came also, hoid^'ng in his ha?icl a 
 golden goblet from which each drank in turn. Joy 
 animated the fair circle, as*, he walked cbrr-plHcmitly 
 about the board, stopping a moment in passing to 
 caress the . cheek of the lovely Erato. 
 
 At the moment of supremest joy at the table of 
 the Muses, Our Lady herself approached in all of 
 her beauty and grace, and sat down for a little 
 chat with them. When she at length departed she 
 kissed high Urania tenderly upon the lips, whisper- 
 ing as she did so that she would never be content^ 
 until the Muses were taken into Paradise forever. 
 
 But her wish was never realized, and this is the 
 reason for it : To prove their gratitude for the kind- 
 nesses bestowed upon them and to show their good 
 will, the Muses held a council and decided to pre- 
 pare a song of praise to be given at their next ap- 
 pearance in heaven. The rehearsal was held in a 
 remote spot of the Lower World, and they strove to 
 imitate the form of the solemn choral songs cus- 
 tomary in heaven. They formed two quartettes of 
 their number, with Urania as a sort of leading voice 
 for both. In this way they achieved a most remark- 
 able vocal effect. 
 
 When at the next holiday in heaven the Muses 
 were again invited to take part they took advan- 
 
 [95] 
 
tag€; of. a memejnt. 'which seemed timely, and assum- 
 ing their respective places began gently to intonate 
 their r>cng, ^vh^ch srx)n rose and swelled mightily 
 down the great corridors of heaven. 
 
 But alas ! in these halls it sounded sombre and 
 uncouth, indeed almost defiant, and so full of long- 
 ing and sorrow was it that there fell upon the 
 hearers a frightened silence. Gradually, as the song 
 went on, all the folk of heaven were overcome by 
 the burden of earth-woe and homesickness con- 
 tained in it, and all burst into a torrent of tears. 
 
 A great sobbing was heard throughout the 
 length and breadth of heaven, and all the elders and 
 prophets rushed up astovmded. But in their well- 
 meaning zeal the Muses continued to sing louder 
 and louder and in more melancholy strains than 
 ever, and all Paradise with the patriarchs, elders, 
 prophets, and all who had ever walked or reclined 
 upon the green celestial meads were overcome by 
 their emotions, and finally the Most High, ap- 
 proaching in person to right matters, silenced the 
 Muses with a long-drawn peal of thunder. 
 
 Then quiet and peace were restored in heaven. 
 But the unfortunate Nine Sisters were oblip"ed to 
 leave and have not again been invited to enter the 
 sacred portals. 
 
 [96] 
 
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