Legends of the Rhine
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Wilhelm Ruland >> Legends of the Rhine
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The crafty magistrates, being anxious to have the clock perfect,
granted him this request.
The artist filed, sawed, regulated here and there, and then was led
away, and in the same hour deprived of his sight.
The cruel deed was hardly accomplished, when it was found that the
clock had stopped. The artist had destroyed his work with his own
hands; his righteous determination that the chimes would never ring
again, had become a melancholy truth. Up to the present no one has
been able again to set the dead works going. An equally splendid clock
now adorns the cathedral, but the remains of the first one have been
preserved ever since.
The little Man at the Angel's Pillar
Close to the famous clock in the Cathedral of Strassburg, there is a
little man in stone gazing up at the angel's pillar which supports the
south wing of the cathedral. Long ago the little man who is now
sculptured in stone, stood there in flesh and blood. He used to stare
up at the pillar with a criticising eye from top to bottom and again
from bottom to top. Then he would shake his head doubtfully each time.
It happened once that a sculptor passed the cathedral and saw the
little man looking up, evidently comparing the proportions of the
pillar.
"It seems to me you are finding fault with the pillar, my good
fellow," the stone-cutter remarked, and the little man nodded with a
self-satisfied look.
"Well, what do you think of it? Speak out my man," said the master,
tapping the fellow's shoulder encouragingly.
"The pillar is certainly splendid," began the latter slowly, "the
Apostles, the angels, and the Saviour are most beautiful too. But
there is one thing troubling me. That slender pillar cannot support
that heavy vault much longer; it will soon totter and fall down, and
all will go to pieces."
The sculptor looked alternately at the work of art and at its strange
fault-finder. A contemptuous smile passed over his features.
"You are quite convinced of the truth of your statement, aren't you?"
asked he enquiringly.
The bold critic repeated his doubts with an important air.
"Well," cried the stone-cutter, with comical earnestness, "then you
will remain there always, gazing at the pillar until it sinks down,
crushed by the vault."
He went straight off into his workshop, seized hammer and chisel, and
formed the little man into stone just as he was, looking upwards with
a knowing face and an important air.
This little figure is still there at the present day with both hands
leaning on the balustrade of St. Nicholas' chapel, awaiting the
expected fall of the pillar, and most likely he will remain there for
many a century to come.
WORMS
The Nibelungen Lied
[Illustration: Siegfried auf der Totenbahre--Nach dem Gemaelde von Emil
Lauffer]
To-day we are deeply touched, as our forefathers must have been, at
the recital of the boundless suffering and the overwhelming
concatenation of sin and expiation in the lives of the Recken and
Frauen of the Nibelungen Legend. That naive singer has remained
nameless and unknown, who about the end of the 12th century wrote down
this legend in poetic form, thus preserving forever our most precious
relic of Germanic Folksepic. A powerful story it is of sin and
suffering: corresponding to the world itself and just as the primitive
mind of a people loves to represent it. The story begins as a lovely
idyll but ends in gloomy tragedy.
The ancient Rhenish town of Worms was during the great migrations the
seat of authority of the Burgundian invaders, an east Germanic stock.
During the glorious reign of King Gunther there appears, attracted by
the beauty of Chriemhild the king's sister, a young hero, Siegfried,
by name. He is himself a king's son, his father Siegmund reigning in
Xanten "nieden by dem Rine." King Gunther receives the fair Recken
into his service as a vassal.
Siegfried, exhibiting the fairest loyalty to his overlord, and
rendered invisible by magic, conquers for him the redoubtable
Brunhild, the proud queen of the island kingdom of Isenland (Iceland)
and compels her to wed King Gunther. As a reward Siegfried receives
the hand of Chriemhild. In the fulness of his heart the hero presents
to Chriemhild as a marriage gift, the Nibelungen Hoard, which he had
gained in his early years from the sons of the king of the Nibelungen
and from Dwarf Alberich the guardian of the treasure.
Joy reigns in the king's court at Worms, but it was not shared by all.
Besides Chriemhild there was another secretly drawn towards the hero,
and in Brunhild's heart the bridal happiness of Chriemhild awakens
such envy that soon no friendly word passes between the women. They
become estranged and one day her bad feeling leads Brunhild to harsh
words. Then alas, Chriemhild gave unbridled licence to her tongue. In
her rash insolence she represents to Brunhild that it was not Gunther
but Siegfried who formerly overcame her. As proof of this she produces
the ring and girdle which Siegfried had taken on that night from the
powerful Brunhild, and which he had presented to Chriemhild. With
fierce haughtiness Chriemhild taunts her opponent with a hateful name
no woman could endure, and forbids her to enter the cathedral.
Brunhild, weeping, informs King Gunther of the contumely heaped upon
her. The king is filled with wrath, and his vassal, the gloomy Hagen,
considers how he may destroy Siegfried avowedly to avenge the Queen,
but secretly for the possession of the Nibelungen Hoard. During a hunt
in the Odenwald Siegfried was treacherously stabbed by Hagen whilst
stopping to drink from a well. The intention was to spread the report
that Siegfried had been slain by robbers whilst hunting alone. So, on
the following day they crossed the Rhine back to Worms.
In the night Hagen caused the dead body of Siegfried to be laid in
front of Chriemhild's chamber. In the early morning as Chriemhild
accompanied by her attendants was preparing to go to mass in the
cathedral she noticed the corpse of her hero. A wail of sorrow arose.
Chriemhild threw herself weeping on the body of her murdered husband.
"Alas!" she cried "thy shield is not hewn by swords: thou hast been
foully murdered. Did I but know who has done this, I would avenge thy
death." Chriemhild ordered a magnificent bier for her royal hero, and
demanded that an ordeal should be held over the corpse. "For it is a
marvellous thing, and to this day it happens, that when the
bloodstained murderer approaches wounds bleed anew."
So all the princes and nobles of Burgundy walked past the dead body,
above which was the figure of the crucified Redeemer of the world, and
lo! when the grim Hagen came forward the wounds of the dead man began
to flow. In the presence of the astounded men and horrified women
Chriemhild accused Hagen of the assassination of her husband.
Much treachery and woe accompanied the expiation of this great crime.
The Nibelungen Hoard, the cause of the shameful deed, was sunk in the
middle of the Rhine in order to prevent future strife arising from
human greed. But Chriemhild's undying sorrow was not mitigated, nor
her unconquerable thirst for revenge appeased.
After the burial of his son King Siegmund begged in vain that
Chriemhild should come to the royal city of Xanten; she remained at
Worms for thirteen years constantly near her beloved dead.
Then the sorrowing woman removed to the Abbey of Lorch which her
mother, Frau Ute, had founded. Thither also, she transferred
Siegfried's body.
When Etzel (Attila) the ruler of the Huns wooed her, Chriemhild urged
not by love but by very different feelings gave him her hand and
accompanied her heathen lord to the Ungarland. Then she treacherously
invited Siegfried's murderers to visit her husband, and prepared for
them a destruction which fills the mind with horror. The Burgundian
king and his followers, who, since the Hoard had come into their
possession, were called the Nibelungen, fell slaughtered in the
Etzelburg under the swords of the Huns and their allies, thus atoning
for their faithlessness to the hero Siegfried. And with this awful
holocaust ends the Lied of the Nibelungen Not, the most renowned
heroic legend in the German tongue.
SPEYER
The Bells of Speyer
The German Emperor, Henry IV., had much trouble to bear under his
purple mantle. Through his own and through stranger's faults the crown
which he wore was set with thorns, and even into the bosom of his
family this unhappy spirit of dissension had crept. The
excommunication of the Pope, his powerful enemy, was followed by the
revolt of the princes, and lastly by the conspiracy of his own sons.
His eldest son, Conrad, openly rebelled against him, and treated his
father most scornfully. When this prince died suddenly, the second
son, Henry, attempted the deposition of his father and made intrigues
against him. Thus forced to abdicate his throne the broken-down
emperor fled to Liege, accompanied by one faithful servant, Kurt, and
there lay down to his last rest.
His body was left for five years in unconsecrated ground in a foreign
country. Kurt remained faithful, and prayed incessantly at the
burial-place of his royal master.
At last the Pope at Henry's request consented to recall the ban. Henry
ordered his father's remains to be brought to Speyer and solemnly
interred with the royal family. Kurt was allowed to follow the
procession to Speyer, but wearied out by this long watching the old
man died a few days afterwards. Just at the moment of his death the
bells in the cathedral at Speyer tolled without any human hand putting
them in motion, as they always did when an imperial death took place.
Years passed.
The German emperor Henry V. lay dying on his luxurious couch at
Speyer. His bodily sufferings were intense, but the agony of his mind
was even greater; he had obtained the crown which now pressed so
heavily on his head, by shameful treacherous means. The apparition of
his father dying in misery appeared to him, and no words of the
flatterers at his bed-side could still the voice of his conscience. At
last death freed him from all his torments, and at the same hour the
bells which were always rung when a poor sinner was led to execution,
tolled, set in motion by no human hand.
Thus were the bells the instrument of that Hand which wisely and
warningly wrote ... "Honour thy father and thy mother...."
FRANKFORT
The Knave of Bergen
[Illustration: Der Scharfrichter von Bergen--Nach einer Zeichnung von
Adolf Menzel--The Knave of Bergen--Le bourreau de Bergen]
The emperor was to be crowned at Frankfort, and great festivities were
to be given in the town in his honour, among them a masquerade, at
which knights and noble ladies rivalled each other in splendour. Joy
was depicted on every face at this great assembly, only one knight
among the many guests being noticeable for his gravity and restraint.
He wore black armour, and the feather waving above his visor was black
too. No one knew him or could guess who he was. He approached the
empress with a noble grace, bent his knee, and asked her to dance with
him, which she graciously consented to do. He glided gracefully
through the splendid halls with the queen of the festival, and soon
every eye was turned on them, and everyone was eager to know who he
was.
The empress was charmed with her excellent partner, and the grace of
his refined conversation pleased her so much that she granted him a
second and a third dance.
Everyone became more and more curious to know who this masked knight
was. Meanwhile the hour struck when every mask had to be raised, and
every masked guest must make himself known. More than all the others
the empress was anxious to know who her partner was. But he hesitated
and even refused to take off his mask until she ordered him
peremptorily to do so. The knight obeyed, but none of the high ladies
or noble knights recognised him. Suddenly two stewards pressed through
the crowd, crying out with indignation and horror;
"It is the headsman from Bergen!"
Then the emperor in great wrath ordered the shameful offender who had
thus degraded the empress and insulted his sovereign to be led to
execution.
But the culprit, throwing himself at the emperor's feet, said boldly,
"I have transgressed, my lord, and offended you and your noble guests,
but most heavily have I sinned against my queen. No punishment, not
even blood, will be able to wash out the disgrace you have suffered
through me. Therefore, oh King! allow me to propose a remedy to efface
the shame. Draw your sword and knight me, and I will throw down my
gauntlet to any one who dares to speak disrespectfully of my
sovereign."
The emperor was taken by surprise at this bold proposal. However it
appeared the wisest plan to adopt.
"You are a knave," he replied after a moment's consideration, "but
your advice is good and displays prudence, just as your offence shows
adventurous courage. Well then,"--laying his sword on the man's
neck--"rise Sir Knight. You have acted like a knave, and the Knave of
Bergen you shall be called henceforth."
A joyful shout of approbation pealed through the halls, and the new
knight again glided gracefully through the crowd with the queen of the
festival.
MAYENCE
Heinrich Frauenlob
[Illustration: Heinrich Frauenlob--Steinbild im Dom zu Mainz]
The priest or as some say, canon, in the old town of Mayence was a
very worthy man, and at the same time a heaven-gifted singer. Besides
devoting himself to science, he composed numerous pious verses which
he dedicated to the Holy Virgin. He also played the harp, and wrote
many beautiful songs in honour of the female sex.
In contrast to many contemporary poets, he considered "woman" a higher
title than "wife," which only signifies a married woman. So on account
of the chivalry displayed in his numberless poems and songs, posterity
gave him the name of "Frauenlob," under which title he is better known
than under his own name of Heinrich of Meissen.
The love and veneration which thankful women paid him was very great,
not only during his life-time, but even more so after his death. Their
grief was intense when it became known that the poet's voice would
never more be heard in this world. It was agreed to honour him with
such a burial as no poet had ever before received. The funeral
procession moved slowly and sorrowfully along the streets, the greater
part of the cortege being women in deep mourning who prayed for the
repose of the poet's soul. Eight of the most beautiful among them
carried the coffin, which was covered with sweet-scented flowers.
At the grave songs of lamentation were heard from women's gentle
voices. Precious Rhine-wine which had been the poet's favourite drink,
and which so often had inspired his poetry, was poured by hands of his
admirers over his grave, so profusely, the legend relates, that the
entrance of the church was flooded by the libation. But still more
precious than all these gifts were the tears, which on this memorable
day were shed by many a gentle lady.
The wanderer can still see the monument erected to this great
benefactor in the cathedral at Mayence, which represents the figure of
a beautiful woman in pure-white marble placing a wreath on the coffin
of the great singer, who had honoured women in the most chivalrous of
songs.
Bishop Willigis
[Illustration: Bischof Willigis in der Klosterschule--Nach dem Gemaelde
von Lindenschmitt]
In the year 1000 there was a very pious priest in Mayence called
Bishop Willigis. He was only the son of a poor wheelwright, but by his
perseverance and his own merit he had attained to the dignity of first
priest of the kingdom. The honest citizens of Mayence loved and
honoured the worthy divine, although they did not altogether like
having to bow down to one who had been brought up in a simple cottage
like themselves.
The bishop once reproved them in gentle tones for thinking too much of
mere descent. This vexed the supercilious citizens, and one night they
determined to play Willigis a trick. They took some chalk and drew
enormous wheels on all the doors of his house.
Early next morning as the bishop was going to mass, he noticed the
scoffers' malicious work. He stood silently looking at the wheels, the
chaplain by his side expecting every moment that the reverend prelate
would burst forth in a terrible rage. But a gay smile spread over the
bishop's features and, ordering a painter to be sent to him, he told
him to paint white wheels on a scarlet back-ground, visible to every
eye, just where the chalk wheels had been drawn, and underneath to
paint the words, "Willigis! Willigis! just think what you have risen
from." But he did not stop there. He ordered the wheelwright to make
him a plough-wheel, and caused it to be placed over his couch in
memory of his extraction.
Thereafter the scoffers were put to silence, and the people of Mayence
began to honour and esteem their worthy bishop, who, though he had
been so exalted, possessed such honest common-sense.
White wheels on a red ground have been the arms of the Bishops of
Mayence ever since.
JOHANNISBERG
Wherever the German tongue is heard, and even further still, the king
of all Rhine wines, "Johannisberger" is known and sought after. Every
friend of the grape which grows on the banks of this river is well
acquainted with it, but few perhaps know of its princely origin. It is
princely, not because princes' hands once kept the key to
Johannisberg, but rather because princely hands planted the vine in
the Rhine country, and this royal giver was no other than Charlemagne,
the all-powerful ruler of the kingdom of the Franks.
Once in early spring Charles the Great was standing on the balcony of
his castle at Ingelheim, his eyes straying over the beautiful stretch
of country at his feet. Snow had fallen during the night, and the
hills of Ruedesheim were clothed in white. As the imperial ruler was
looking thoughtfully over the landscape, he noticed that the snow on
one side of Johannisberg melted quicker in the sun's rays than on any
other part. Charles, who was a great and deep thinker, began to
reflect that on a spot where the rays of the sun shone so genially,
something better than grass would thrive.
Sending for Kunrat, his faithful servant, he bade him saddle his horse
the next day at dawn and ride to Orleans, a town famous for its good
wine. He was to inform the citizens that the emperor had not forgotten
the excellent wine they had given him there, and that he would like to
grow the same vines on the Rhine. He desired the citizens of Orleans
therefore to send him plants from their country.
The messenger set off to do the king's bidding and ere the moon had
again gone round her course, was back in the castle at Ingelheim.
Great satisfaction prevailed at court. Charles, mighty ruler as he
was, even went so far as to cross to Ruedesheim, where he planted with
his royal hand the French vine in German soil.
This was no mere passing whim on the part of the emperor. He sent
messengers constantly to bring word how the vines were thriving in
Ruedesheim and on the flanks of Johannisberg, and when the third autumn
had come round, the Emperor Charlemagne set out from his favourite
resort, Aix-la-Chapelle, for the Rhine country, and great rejoicing
prevailed among the vine-reapers from Ruedesheim to Johannisberg.
The first cup of wine was solemnly offered to the emperor, a golden
wine in a golden goblet, a wine worthy of a king.
Charles took a long deep draught, and with brightened eyes praised the
delicious drink. It became his favourite wine, this fiery
"Johannisberger," making him young again in his old age. What
Charlemagne then felt when he drank this wine, every one who raises
the sparkling grapejuice to his lips is keenly sensible of also.
Wherever the German tongue is heard, and even further still, the king
of all Rhine wines is known and sought after, Johannisberger wine.
* * * * *
The legend weaves another wonderful tale about the great emperor
blessing his grapes.
A poet's pen has fashioned it into a song, which is still often heard
among the grapegatherers.
Every spring when the vines are blossoming on the hills and in the
valleys along the river, and their fragrance scents the air, a tall
shadow wanders about the vineyards at night, a purple mantle hanging
from his stately shoulders, and a crown on his head. It is
Charlemagne, the great Emperor, who planted the grapes long years
before. The luscious scent of the blossoms wakens him up from his tomb
in Aix-la-Chapelle, and he comes to bless the grapes.
When the full moon gently casts her bright beams on the water,
lighting up the emperor's nightly path, he may be seen crossing the
golden bridge formed by her rays and then wandering further along the
hills, blessing the vines on the other side of the river.
At the first crow of the cock he returns to his grave in
Aix-la-Chapelle, and sleeps till the scent of the grapes wakens him
next spring, when he again wanders through the countries along the
Rhine, blessing the vineyards.
* * * * *
Let us now relate another little story which is told of the monks who
lived at Johannisberg.
Once the high Abbot of Fulda came unexpectedly to visit the cloister
at Johannisberg just about the time when the grapes were ripe. The
worthy Abbot made many inquiries about his people, showed himself
highly pleased with the works of the industrious monks, and as a mark
of his continued favour, invited all the inmates of the cloister to a
drinking-bout.
"Wine maketh the heart glad," thus quoting King David's significant
words, the holy man began his speech: "God's loving hand will be
gracious in future years to your vines. Let us profit by his grace,
brothers, and drink what he has provided for us in moderation and
reverence. But before we refresh ourselves with God's good gifts, take
your breviaries and let us begin with a short prayer."
"Breviaries!" was whispered along the rows, and the eyes of the fat
genial faces blinked in helpless embarrassment.
"Yes, your breviaries," and the white-haired Abbot looked silently but
sternly at the brothers.
They searched and searched.
Gradually the frown disappeared from the Abbot's face, and a smile
gradually spread over his withered features.
"Well, never mind, let us drink," said he. Then feeling his pockets,
he said with a gleam in his eye, "That's too bad! I ought to have
brought a corkscrew with me when I came to the Rhine."
"A corkscrew!" Every one dives his hand into his pocket, and as many
corkscrews were produced before the worthy Abbot as there were
brothers present.
Then a gleam of merriment beamed in the Abbot's eyes.
"Bravo, ye pious monks! what a plentiful supply of corkscrews! Do not
all look so embarrassed, we shall not be annoyed about it to-day
but--to-morrow! Now we shall sing with King David, 'Wine maketh the
heart glad,'" and the uncorked bottle went the rounds.
INGELHEIM
Eginhard and Emma
I.
The story which we have now to relate is a very touching one, and it
becomes even more interesting when we know that it is based on real
fact.
In the little town of Ingelheim there was a beautiful marble castle,
the favourite residence of Charlemagne. He often retired to this
lonely, peaceful spot accompanied only by a few of his faithful
vassals and the members of his own family. Eginhard, the emperor's
private secretary, was never missing from this little circle.
Charlemagne thought highly of this man, then in the prime of youth, on
account of his profound knowledge and extraordinary talents.
The young scholar, so different from the wise councillors not only in
his learning but in his cultivated manners, was a great favourite
among the ladies of the court.
Eginhard who was a constant companion of the emperor, had also become
an intimate member of the family circle, and Charlemagne entrusted him
with the education of his favourite child Emma, daughter of his wife
Gismonda. This dark-eyed maiden was considered the most beautiful of
her age, and the young scholar could not long remain cold and
indifferent to her charms. The undisturbed hours which should have
been spent in learning, led to a mutual understanding. Eginhard
struggled to remind himself of his duty towards his sovereign, but
love overcame him, and soon an oath of eternal fidelity united these
young hearts.
II.
The great emperor ought to have known what would be the consequence of
allowing the young scholar to enjoy the society of his dark-eyed,
passionate daughter. In the still hours of the night when all the
inmates of the castle lay wrapped in sleep, Eginhard sought the
chamber of his beloved. She listened enchanted to the glowing words of
his burning heart, but their love was chaste and pure, no gusts of
passion troubling them.
But fate was against these lovers. One night they were sitting in
Emma's chamber talking confidentially together. The great palace was
veiled in darkness, no ray of light, no star was to be seen in the
heavens. As Eginhard was about to leave the chamber, he perceived that
the courtyard below was covered with snow. It would have been
impossible to pass across it without leaving a trace behind him, but
at all risks he must reach his room.
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