During this time, she, one morning, missed her cross, which was so dear to her; somebody must have taken it from her during the night; for she never took it off, and she suspected the female servant, whom, the evening before, she heard whispering behind the house with Heiling. Weeping, she told it to her father; but he laughed at her on account of her suspicion, pretending that the cross could not be of any value to Heiling, and that he was above such playing; he thought she must have lost it somewhere.
Nevertheless she stood to her opinion, and perceived clearly that Heiling continued now his wooing earnestly and with great confidence. The father too became severer, and declared, at last, plainly, she must marry Heiling, it was his firm and unchangeable will, for Arnold had forgotten her, and, besides, the three years were past. Heiling swore, to her, in presence of the father, his eternal love, and that he did not take her for her money, as others might do, but for her own sake, for he had money enough, and he would make her richer and happier than she ever had dreamt of.
Lizy despised him and his wealth; but at last when, pressed on both sides and tormented by the idea of the death of Arnold, she had no other resource left, but that at the service of every despairing one, she begged a delay of three days, hoping that her beloved Arnold would return within this short space.
The three days were granted to her. Full of hope to see their wishes soon accomplished, both men left the house, and Veit accompanied Heiling.
They met the priest of the village, at the head of a procession, who went to carry the last consolation to a dying person. Every one bent down before the image of the One Crucified, and Veit knelt down, but his companion jumped, with the expression of horror, into the next house. Astonished, and not without fright, Veit looked after him, and shaking his head went home.
A messenger came soon from Heiling, who in formed him that his master had suddenly been attacked by a vertigo. Veit should come to see him and not have suspicious thoughts. But, making the sign of the cross, Veit answered: “Go and tell your master I should be very glad if it had been nothing else but a vertigo.”
Lizy sat, meanwhile, crying and praying upon a hill before the village, where she could overlook the road to Prague.
A cloud of dust rose at a distance; her heart beat mightily; but when she was able to distinguish, and saw a troop of richly dressed men on horse back, her cheering hopes disappeared.
At the head of that troop of horsemen, rode a venerable old man, on his left hand a beautiful youth, for whom, it was obvious, the fast trot of the horse was still too slow, and whom the old man had much trouble to retain. Lizy was afraid of the crowd of men; she cast down her eyes without regarding the troop any more. At once the youth jumped from the horse and sank upon his knees before the maid. “Lizy, is it possible, my dear, dear Lizy.” Frightened, the girl looked at him, and in the feeling of the highest blissfulness, she sunk in the arms of the young man, exclaiming: “Arnold! my Arnold!” Long they remained in route transport.
The companions of Arnold stood in joyous emotion around the happy couple; the old man joined his hands and thanked God, and the setting sun never saw happier people. When the lovers recovered themselves from the intoxication of joy, they did not know who should tell his history the first. Lizy began at last, and, in a few words, she represented her unfortunate situation and her position to Heiling. Arnold shrunk back at the idea that he could have lost his beloved one. The old man inquired minutely after Heiling, and exclaimed at last: “Friends, that is the very same scoundrel who committed, in my native town, those vile tricks, and escaped the arms of justice only by a quick flight. Let us thank God that we frustrate here one of his deeds of infamy!” During such talk of Heiling and Lizy, they came at last, but very late, to the village.
Lizy led Arnold triumphantly to her father, who could scarcely trust his eyes, seeing so many richly dressed men entering his house. “Father of my Lizy,” said Arnold, “here I am to apply for your daughter; I have become a wealthy man; I am in the favor of great lords, and am able to keep more than I have promised.”
“Is it possible,” said Veit, astonished, “you are the poor Arnold, the son of my late neighbor.”
“So he is,” said the old man, “the same who, three years ago, left this village poor and in despair. He came to me, I soon saw that he could become a master of his art, and employed him. He worked to the satisfaction of everybody, and I could soon make him overseer of the most important works. In many large cities he has acquired great fame, and, at present, he is about to execute, in Prague, the greatest work of his art. He has become rich, and beloved by lords and dukes. Give him your daughter, and fulfil your old promise. The rogue, to whom you intend giving your Lizy, has deserved, a thousand times, to be hung. I know the scoundrel.”
“Is all true that you report!” asked the astonished Veit.
“True, literally true!” repeated all.
“Well then I will not oppose your happiness, gallant master,” said Veit to Arnold, “take the girl, and God bless you!” Incapable of thanking him, the happy couple sank down at his feet; he drew them to his heart and faith was remunerated.
“Mr. Veit,” said the old man, interrupted only by the joyous sobbing of the lovers, “Mr. Veit, I have something more to ask from you: Let the children be married tomorrow, that I may have the joy of seeing my good Arnold happy, whom I love as a son, for heaven has not given me any. The day after tomorrow I have to return to Prague.”
“Very well,” said Veit, “if that is such a great favor for you, we can arrange it in that manner. Children!” he addressed the happy ones, “tomorrow is your wedding, I will give it at the farm near the mountain! I am now going to the priest. You, Lizy, go in the kitchen to entertain the worthy guests as they deserve.”
Lizy obeyed, but Arnold followed her secretly, and it was very natural they should be found soon fondling in the garden.
After the first intoxication of joy and love, Arnold thought of the grave of his father, and both lovers went to the place, where they had seen each other the last time, and parted in despair.
On the grave they repeated their vows, and both were in a solemn disposition. “This moment of happiness,” said Arnold, embracing his beloved girl fervently, “does it not make up for the three long years of pain. We are at the aim; life does not afford any greater happiness, only there above, they say, is a higher state of beatitude!”
“Oh, if once we were allowed to die so, arm in arm, and heart to heart!” said Lizy.
“Die? yes die on thy bosom!” repeated Arnold. “Good God, do not be angry with us, that in the excess of joy we have still a feeling for the higher one; we acknowledge, with a grateful heart, what thou hast done for us! Yes, Lizy, let us pray here upon the grave of our father, and be thankful for the grace of heaven!”
The prayer was silent, but ardent and sacred, and the lovers returned home in deep emotion. The next morning was fair and lovely: it was a Friday, the feast of St. Lawrence. The whole village became animated; in every door stood finely dressed young men and girls; for Veit was rich, and everybody was invited to the wedding.
Heiling’s door only was locked up; for it was a Friday, and then he was never visible, as we have seen.
The procession, which was to conduct the happy couple to church, for the most beautiful celebration, was soon ready; Veit and the master of Arnold walked together, and shed tears about the happiness of their children. For the dinner, Veit had selected the place under the big linden tree. There the procession went after the ceremony was over. Heaven beamed out of the eyes of the lovers.
The festival entertainment lasted several hours, and cheers for Arnold and his lovely bride resounded often from the checkered tables. From the linden tree, the happy couple went with both fathers, the friends of Arnold, and some playmates of Lizy, to the farm on the mountain, near the river Eger. The house was situated in a lovely place, between the bushes, upon the high walls of the valley, and in this smaller, but more intimate circle, the
hours passed to the overjoyed Arnold and his Lizy like moments.
At this farm, the neat bridal-chamber had been prepared, and among the fruit trees, there was a table set for the friendly supper. Delicate wine for the guests sparkled in full goblets.
The evening was approaching, and twilight, its harbinger, already enveloped the mountains and fields in a magical shade, but the merry people were scarcely aware of it. At length, the last glitter of day was extinguished, and a star-lit night greeted the happy couple.
The old Veit began to talk of his youth, and was very circumstantial; for the wine had made him talkative. Midnight was approaching, and Arnold and Lizy were anxious to get to the end of Veit’s narration. At last he finished. “Now goodnight, children,” he exclaimed, and was about to lead the married couple to the bridal chamber. The clock of the village struck just midnight. A dreadful storm rose all at once and roared in the valley, and Hans Heiling, with a horribly distorted face, stood amidst the frightened people.
“Devil,” he cried, “I renounce your service, annihilate those!”
“Then you are mine!” howled a voice from amidst the storm.
“Even if I shall belong to you, and if all the torments of hell await me—annihilate those!”
A red blaze seemed to cover the mountains, and Arnold and Lizy, Veit and all the friends were turned to rocks, the bridal couple lovingly united, the others joining their hands for prayer.
“Hans Heiling,” it thundered with scornful laughing from the storm, “those are blessed in death; their souls fly to heaven; but thy debt is due—thou belongest to me!”
Hans Heiling tumbled down from the height of the rock in the foaming Eger, which received him hissingly and devoured him;—no eye has ever seen him since.
The next morning Lizy’s friends came with wreathes and flowers to decorate the newly married couple—all the people of the whole village followed. They found destruction everywhere; they recognized the features of their friends on the rocks, and weeping and sobbing, the girls wound their wreathes round the petrified figures of the lovers. All fell upon their knees and prayed for the beloved souls. It was a solemn moment, and the angel of peace came down, and thrice he swung gently his lily-staff of innocence around them.
A venerable old man at last interrupted the solemn silence. “Hail them,” he said, “they have departed in joy and love; they died arm in arm, and heart to heart! Decorate their tombs always with flowers, and those rocks may be an eternal monument to us, that an evil spirit has no power over guiltless hearts, and that true love is averred in death!”
From that day, every loving couple went to Hans Heiling’s rock, to beg the glorified for their blessing and protection.
That pious rite has been lost in the current of time; but the tradition lives in the hearts of the people, and even today, the guide, who leads the stranger in the awful valley of the Eger, to the rock of Hans Heiling, tells of Arnold and Lizy, and shows the images of stone into which they were turned, and those of the father of the bride and the other guests; but the tooth of time has gnawed them, and rendered them less discernible.
Not many years ago, the Eger is said to have roared wonderfully on that place, where Hans Heiling was tumbled down, and nobody passed it, who did not make the sign of the cross and recommend his soul to the Lord.
THE VISION OF AGIB, by Anonymous
AN EASTERN TALE.
The caravan slowly passed on its way through the desert, while the sands glowed like a furnace, and the sun looked hotly down, the travellers’ voices becoming every moment less animated, and the camel’s step more heavy. Rich stores were crossing the scorched waste, but as the thirsty and weary merchants toiled through that vast and burning plain, and sickened in the unbroken and fiery glare which surrounded them, they felt that the wealth they bore with them, would be a cheap exchange for the repose and the gentler climate they had left behind. But the distance which stretched before them was now less than that they had already traversed, and they pursued their way with an endurance suited to its evils.
Agib, the nephew of the rich merchant Hussein, accompanied the caravan. The merchandize of Agib was more valuable than that of any of his companions. The richest goods filled his packages—silks for the maidens of Yemen, and jewels of the highest price, and most exquisite workmanship; for his uncle, the wealthy Hussein, had associated him with himself in trade, and they were celebrated in all the bazaars of the east, as dealers in the costliest articles of commerce. This, however, was the young merchant’s first journey to Yemen, and of course its dangers and its toils were new to him. Early left an orphan in the house of his uncle, he had been carefully bred up in all the accomplishments of the East; and, habituated to the society of the merchant’s only daughter, the beautiful Zarah, he had so won upon her youthful affections, and become himself so much attracted by her early loveliness, that Hussein had resolved to unite these objects of his deep solicitude, and to live in the enjoyment of their continual society. But first, anxious to test the ability of his future son for his own profession, he had, as we have seen, adopted him into partnership with himself, and insisted on his making the journey to Yemen. Greatly did Zarah repine at the separation, nor had the luxury of his early life prepared the young Agib for this trying delay, or the fatigues of the desert Arabia. Yet these he had hitherto borne at least without complaint, and the hoof of his spirited steed had been still among the foremost in the caravan. So with such tales or converse as might beguile the way, the travellers toiled on to the noon of the weary day.
About this hour, however, a cry from the rear of the caravan aroused the young merchant from a day dream of love and Zarah, and, looking back, he beheld, approaching with a rapidity which divested him at once of the power to think, one of those huge and flying pillars of sand, of which he had from time to time heard frightful accounts from the camel drivers. Onward it whirled with furious velocity. A consciousness of sinking forms, of a rushing sound, a choking rain of sand, and the hot and stifling breath of the desert, the painful throbs of his burning frame, the terror, the suffocation, were all merged in entire forgetfulness.
It was evening, and the sun was setting. Agib awakened to the sound of waters, and felt the dewy breath of closing day refresh his exhausted frame, and dispel the languor that pervaded his senses. He perceived that the spot on which he lay was covered with fresh verdure, and that beside him a copious spring sent forth a stream of pure and pellucid water, which wandered through a beautiful oasis, its banks fringed with palms and pomegranates, and its light ripples disturbing the repose of fragrant amaranths and white lilies, which bent their heads to partake its coolness. Large masses of rock raised themselves around the spring, except on one side, where they were lowered to permit the overflow of the bright and foamy cascade which supplied the rivulet. Immediately on leaving this little cataract the brook became tranquil, and led its waters silently onward through the grass and bloom of the quiet scene.
Agib gazed around him with amazement. He remembered the sand storm of the desert, and was unable to account for his present situation.
“Alla be praised, however,” he said at length, as he crept to the clear source of the stream, “for in whatever manner I may have been transported hither, the gracious decree of the eternal only could have provided such an awakening from that sultry slumber.” He tasted the waters, and leaned against the rocks with a delicious sense of refreshment and repose.
“But where am I?” he said. “Have I crossed the narrow bridge? Am I already in the gardens of the blessed?”
A strain of music, soft indeed, but clear, liquid and distinct as the voice of the nightingale, now stole upon the ear of the astonished merchant. For some moments it continued like the harmonious warbling of a thousand birds. It ceased.
“Prophet of the faithful!” murmured Agib, “these birds could only sing in Paradise!”
From an aperture in the rock, hitherto unobserved by the enchanted merchant, now issued a form of matchless grace
and delicacy. No veil obscured the splendor of features, beautiful beyond the brightest dream of imagination, and the light folds of a thin white robe fell gracefully around a figure, the just proportions of which it did not conceal.
“Alla! Alla!” whispered Agib, fearful by a sound to dispel the illusion. “It is an Houri, beaming with the glory of her immortal existence.” The being approached, and Agib yielded his senses to the musical voice which clothed words of welcome with a charm till now unknown.
“Stranger,” said this beautiful apparition, “thou art weary—thou hast suffered. Repose awaits thee in my dwelling. Unconsciousness today released thee from the pang of a burning death. Enter with me, and refresh thy returning senses with delight.”
She turned and signed to the merchant to follow her.
“I obey thee, Glory of Paradise,” he said, “for doubtless I behold in thee the loveliest of the Houris?”
“Not one of those blessed immortals am I,” said the stranger, with a smile as soft as the voice in which she spoke. “You are still in the world—still in the desert—and I am but the fairy of this oasis. Yet, as I was not of those malignant spirits that warred against the wise Solomon, or disregarded God, I am, as you will hereafter discover, a fairy of unbounded power. I cannot, it is true, transport my guest to Paradise, but I can lead you to pleasures unknown to your world.”
“Enter!” said the fairy, as she preceded him through the grotto-like entrance of her palace. This entrance was encrusted with spars that glittered like diamonds in the brilliant light of a thousand fragrant and pendant lamps. They passed into a spacious hall, the floor of which was an even surface of white and polished marble, and the walls and ceilings of which, carved out of the same material, were wrought into the most exquisite form of real or ideal beauty. The butterfly seemed to hang upon the flower, the nightingale to sing beside the rose. Foliage, blossoms, all the loveliest creations of nature, seemed here to have blanched into the purest marble, and, in losing their colors, to have acquired a delicate immortality. Mussulman as he was, Agib could not repress a sensation of pleasure, as his eye wandered along the apartment, and successively caught these matchless imitations. But as he looked along its extent, other objects divided his attention. Graceful dances displayed the winged beauty of fairy forms, whilst various instruments yielded to the touch of others, the softest melody. Some stood grouped together, others apart; but each pursued an amusement, and all combined to dazzle the mind of Agib, who conceived himself in the region of delight. On the entrance of the fairy queen, a gesture of reverence thrilled along the crowd, and a submissive alacrity anticipated her will.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 43