Legends of Rubezahl, and Other Tales/The Hen with the Golden Eggs
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The Hen with the Golden Eggs.
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When Egger Winnebald saw himself thus closely beset on all sides, he resolved to cut his way, sword in hand, through the midst of his foes, and retreat to the mountains. He assembled his people, and briefly pointed out to them that in their present situation they must either conquer or die. He then placed his wife, who was near her confinement, on a powerful charger, and assigned to her, for her service and defence, one of his bravest esquires. But ere the drawbridge was lowered, and the great gate thrown open, he took apart his esquire, and whispered: “Watch over my wife as ’twere the apple of thine eye; keep with her in the rear, so long as thou shalt see my banner flying, and the plume of my helmet waving on high; but should I fall, fly to the forest, and conceal her in the cavern thou knowest of. At night, when she sleeps, stab her to the heart; better that not a memory of me should be left upon earth, than that my loved wife and child should be exposed to the insults of my enemies.”
Having thus spoken, he made a sortie so sudden and furious, that the besiegers at first gave way. But seeing the very inferior force they had to contend with, they recovered their courage, surrounded the enemy, and after a fierce and sanguinary struggle, put Winnebald and all his followers to the sword, not one of them escaping but the confidential esquire, who, in the confusion, galloped off with his mistress to the cave in the forest.
The unfortunate lady had no sooner entered this retreat, than a sense of her terrible calamity fell lead-like on her heart, and she sank on the ground in a state of total insensibility. Seeing her in this condition, the esquire, calling to mind his master’s last request, was about to draw his sword and pierce the forlorn one’s heart, but as he hesitated ere he inflicted the fatal blow, her rare beauty excited at once his pity and his love, and he, not she, was wounded. While duty and passion were struggling within him, the unhappy lady recovered her senses; then, as the consciousness of her sad bereavement came fully upon her, she burst into an agony of tears, wrung her hands, and sobbed as though her very heart was about to break. Untouched by her holy grief, the esquire thus addressed her: “Noble lady, if you knew the fate your husband designed for you, you would not so regret his death. He ordered me to poinard you in this cavern, but your beauty has disarmed me. If you will listen to me, I have that to propose which will at once benefit us both. Forget that you have been my mistress; misfortune has now made us equals; come with me to Bamburg, my native town, where I will marry you; all kindness, respect, and love shall be yours, and your child I will bring up as my own. Renounce the rank in which you were born; ’tis your only chance of safety; your husband’s enemies would treat you with the utmost indignity were you to fall into their hands; nor can you escape doing so, forlorn and helpless as you are, unless you avail yourself of my protection in the way I propose.”
The poor lady’s hair stood on end at what she now heard. She was equally shocked at the barbarous order left by her husband, and at the temerity of her attendant, who had thus dared to avow his insolent love. But the reflection that she was quite at the mercy of this unworthy man restored her presence of mind. She saw that her only safe plan would be to affect to receive his declaration in good part. She therefore, after seeming to weigh his proposition for a minute or two, regarded him with a smiling aspect, and said: “Thou hast said well, Rupert; thy master has indeed forfeited all claim to my love, and I accept thy offer. Give me a few days to recover my agitated spirits, and then I will be thine.”
The amorous esquire, who had anticipated no such easy conquest, was transported with joy at his success. Having exhausted his entire stock of eloquence in thanks and acknowledgments, he prepared a bed of moss for his mistress in the interior of the cave, and himself lay down across its entrance to guard her repose, and, as soon happened, to snatch some for himself. But the beautiful widow had no thought of rest, though she assumed its appearance. As soon as, from unequivocal indications, she was certain that her knavish attendant was sound asleep, she arose, silently approached him, and drawing his sword, by one thrust put a period for ever to his sleeping and waking dreams of love. Stepping over the bleeding corse, she hastened into the forest, where she wandered about as chance directed, utterly unknowing whither she was going, only intent upon avoiding the open country, and whenever, in the distance, she perceived any one of human kind, to retreat still deeper into the wood.
Three days and three nights did she thus wander about, a prey to all the bitterness of grief, with no other support than a few wild fruits. To aggravate her wretchedness, she felt that the moment was approaching when she would become a mother. Exhausted by fatigue, she seated herself under a tree, and weeping and sobbing bitterly, loudly bewailed her condition. Suddenly she beheld before her a little old woman, who seemed as though she had risen out of the earth, and who thus addressed her: “Noble lady, what is it makes you weep? Can I do aught to relieve your distress?” The unfortunate lady felt a momentary relief in hearing the sound of a human voice; but when, on raising her eyes, she beheld a hideous old woman, with trembling hand and palsied limbs, leaning with difficulty on a rough stick, who seemed rather herself in need of assistance than in any degree able to afford it to others, she turned away her eyes, and replied, in a low disappointed tone of voice: “Good mother, why should you desire to know the subject of my tears, since it is not in your power to afford me any assistance?”—“Who knows,” replied the crone, “but I may be of use to you? At any rate, you may as well tell me the occasion of your grief.”—“You see,” replied the widow, “how it is with me; the time of my confinement is closely approaching, and I am wandering amid these wilds, alone and friendless.”—“As to that,” returned the old woman, “I can, I am afraid, be of little assistance. Never having been married myself, I know not how to aid ladies in your situation. But come with me to my house, I will do all I can for you.” The poor lady, in her distress, was glad to take the will for the deed, and under the guidance of the apparent senior of all the virgins of her time, reached a miserable cabin, where she found very little better accommodation than under the shelter of a tree. Here, however, with the aid, such as it was, of the Sybil, she, in an hour or two after, safely gave birth to a daughter, whom she herself nursed and tended as best she might under such adverse circumstances, and whom, in honour of her chaste hostess, she named Lucretia. But notwithstanding this piece of politeness, the lady in the straw was restricted to such a very miserable dietary, that the strongest dishes the grooms in her castle used to regale on would now have seemed perfectly Sardinapalian delicacies; she got nothing but cabbage soup, without butter, or even salt, and black bread, which the old woman cut in slices as thin as a wafer. This Lent provender did not at all satisfy the young mother, who had a first-rate appetite, and conceived a great desire for something solid: a mutton chop, or a steak, or a roast fowl; and this last wish really did not seem so impracticable, for every morning she heard a hen announce, by the usual cackle, that she had laid an egg.
For the first nine days she submitted in silence to the meagre diet which her hostess inflicted; on the tenth she threw out a gentle hint touching a little chicken broth. The old lady turning a deaf ear to this, she at length spoke out: “Good Madam,” said she, “your soups are so poor and so sour, and your bread so hard, that altogether they make my gums sore. Do pray give me something more nourishing; I’ll pay you well for it. There’s the hen, which makes such a noise in the house: roast that for me, that I may get up the strength necessary to enable me to proceed on my journey with my child. Look at this string of pearls round my neck: when we part I will divide it with you.”—“Noble lady,” mumbled out the toothless old crone, “it becomes not you to criticise my table; no mistress of a house will endure this from a stranger. I know perfectly well how to make soups, and to make them nice and tasty too; I should think I’ve cooked as often as you, at all events. My soups I particularly regard as faultless, and they are especially adapted for you. As to my hen, you’ll certainly not have that; ’tis my friend, my sole companion in this solitude; it feeds out of my dish, and goes to roost on my bed. Keep your pearls; I will receive no reward for what I have done.” The lady in the straw, seeing clearly that her hostess was offended, said no more, and, by way of appeasing her, did her best to eat with apparent relish the soup that was placed before her. Next morning the old woman took her large basket and hawthorn walking-stick, saying: “All our bread is gone but this loaf, which I will share with you; I am going to the baker’s to get a supply; look well to the house during my absence; take great care of my hen, and think not of killing her; her eggs are yours, if you can find any; but she is very much addicted to hiding them. Await my return for seven days; the nearest village is not, indeed, more than a league distant, but for me that is a three days’ journey. If I don’t come back in seven days, you may give me up altogether.” So saying, she set out at about the speed of a tortoise: at noon she was still within a bow-shot of the cottage, and her guest, who every now and then followed her with her eyes, did not lose sight of her till the close of the day.
Lady Winnebald, now mistress of the kitchen, searched eagerly for some eggs to vary her soup and dry remnant of bread; for seven days she looked into every nook and corner of the house, and examined every bush and hedge about it; but not one solitary egg could she discover. On the eighth day she began to be impatient for the old woman’s return; still more so on the ninth. Almost all her provisions being exhausted, she resolved to wait three days more, after the expiration of which term, in case of the non-appearance of the old lady, she determined to take possession of all her moveables, as of a property abandoned by the lawful owner. The three days passed on; she entered on her self-constituted rights, and in the state of want to which the young mother was reduced, she resolved to exercise her first act of ownership on the hen who so maliciously secreted her eggs: it was condemned, without appeal, to be executed next morning; and lest it should escape meantime, was imprisoned under a large basket. Before sun-rise on the succeeding day, as she was sharpening a large knife to kill the bird she destined for breakfast, having already set the pot on the fire with water to boil, the hen announced in her usual manner that she had laid an egg. The universal legatee, delighted with this unhoped-for addition to her scanty means of subsistence, flew to the basket, and there found the treasure so long looked for. “This will do for breakfast,” said she; “and ’twill be ready so much sooner.” The execution of the hen was for the present postponed. The egg was thrown into the pot; on being taken out ’twas heavier than lead, and when the lady broke the shell, she found, to her immense astonishment, that the yolk was one solid mass of gold!
The joy of this discovery effectually superseded all feelings of hunger; her first thought was to feed and caress the hen. Fervently did she thank heaven that she had learned the great value of her acquisition before the pot had received so precious a treasure. This alchymist of a hen gave quite a new turn to her ideas respecting her old hostess, whom she had at first taken to be merely a decrepit mortal, and whom afterwards, when forced to live on her vile soups, she had looked upon as a beggar of the poorest class; now she considered her to be either a beneficent fairy, who, taking compassion on her, had bestowed upon her this invaluable gift; or, on the other hand, as a sorceress, laying a snare for her. It was obvious there was magic in the business; the cautious widow, therefore, while intent upon quitting her present abode, was anxious to avoid taking any step that might be offensive to an invisible power which seemed disposed to favour her. She was long undecided whether to take the miraculous hen with her, or to set it at liberty. The eggs the old lady had permitted her to appropriate; and in three days she had become possessed of three large lumps of gold. The question was, whether, if she took the hen, it would be deemed a theft; or whether she might not lawfully adopt it as an understood supplement to the old lady’s donation. After a protracted dispute between her wishes and her scruples, the latter, as usual, gave way; and having adjudicated the hen to be clearly her property, she put it safely in a small coop she found, and wrapping her child in her apron, and tying it to her back gipsy fashion, she quitted the lonely cottage, in which no living thing now remained but a solitary cricket that was chirping in the fireplace.
The wanderer directed her steps towards the village where the old lady had said she was going to buy bread, expecting every moment that she would appear and demand her hen. Within an hour she reached a well-frequented road that led direct to the village. Curiosity induced her to enter the baker’s shop, and make some inquiries about the old lady who sometimes came there to purchase bread; but not a soul in the house knew anything about her, nor had ever seen such a person. She repeated her inquiries to a number of the peasants, who had collected around her, who were all quite astonished, for not one of them had ever seen or heard of the solitary cottage in the wood. At last an ancient crone said she remembered to have heard from her grandmother of a “Woman of the Woods,” who once in a century made her appearance for the purpose of performing some good action, and then disappeared. This explained the whole affair; our widow at once saw that it had been her good fortune to come to that part of the Fichtelberg just at the time when the periodical advent of the unknown enabled her to receive from her beneficent hand the aid she so much needed. The hen became now doubly dear to her; for while she fully appreciated the gold egg which she found every morning in the coop, the bird became also extremely valuable as a memorial of the benefactress who had rendered such timely aid, and given her such a priceless treasure. As her heart expanded under this feeling, she experienced no small regret that she had not, while it was in her power, made any advance towards a more social and generous intercourse with so noble a friend; owing to which ill-timed reserve it is that we can now never learn to what class in the world of spirits her benevolent protectress belonged.
In this village the widow hired a cart and a yoke of oxen, with which she proceeded to Bamburg, where she arrived quite safe with her child, her hen and fifteen eggs, and took a house. She lived at first very retired, directing all her attention to the education of her daughter and the cherishing of her hen; but after a time, her eggs having multiplied, she purchased lands and houses, vineyards and castles, and lived in excellent style on her rents; she gave alms to the poor, and made rich presents to the neighbouring convents; so that the fame of her opulence and her good works spread far and wide, and attracted the attention of the Bishop, who came and made her acquaintance, and exhibited great friendship and esteem for her. Meantime, as Lucretia increased in stature, her charms became daily more conspicuous, and her beauty and modesty were the subjects of general admiration.
About this period (1057) the Emperor convoked the Germanic Diet at Bamburg. So encumbered was the town by the numerous trains of the Princes and Prelates who flocked thither, that our widow, to withdraw herself from the crowd, retired with her daughter to one of her country houses; but the worthy Bishop spoke so highly of Lucretia to the Empress, that she expressed a desire to have the young beauty as one of her maids of honour. Now as Henry’s court was far from being a model of correctness, the anxious mother would have willingly, with all due thanks and respect, declined this honour; but her Majesty insisted still the more, and the Bishop supporting the request with his influence, she at length gave way. The fair Lucretia was accordingly sent to Court, furnished with a splendid wardrobe, and received in charge from the Empress her work-box, with the additional privilege, in common with five other young ladies of quality, of bearing on gala days her Majesty’s train. Whenever she made her appearance, every eye was fixed upon her; and it was soon unanimously voted by the courtiers that she was, beyond any comparison, the loveliest lady of the Court.
Every day was a festival, and the round of ever-varying pleasures, contrasting so forcibly with the retired life she had led at home, perfectly enchanted Lucretia. Besides her salary as Work-Box Lady, our maid of honour’s tender parent set aside for her as pocket-money the revenue arising from sixty golden eggs, so that not a wish of her heart, as far as finery went, remained ungratified; and as to love, it had not yet found a place in her young heart. All her thoughts were upon balls and drawing-rooms, and parties, and fine dresses, and amusements, and herein she fully gratified her utmost desires, outvying in splendour, as in beauty, all her youthful companions, who, though of course they hated her most cordially, were fain to keep their envy and malice to themselves, and to profess the utmost fondness for “dear Lady Lucretia;” “dear Lady Lucretia” happening to continue very high in the Empress’s favour. The young knights and nobles were, to a man, equally loud in their expressions of admiration; and they were perfectly sincere.
For a girl, in the first instance the least vain in the world, under such circumstances not to become intoxicated by the incense constantly offered up to her, were still more extraordinary than for a hen to lay golden eggs. Her appetite for flattery soon became insatiate, and the nature of the adulation she received, in its due course generated in her mind ideas of the most accomplished coquetry. She conceived the design of annexing to her train every noble and noblet of the Court; nay, she would willingly have had the whole German nation prostrate at her feet. She concealed these projects of universal conquest under an appearance of the greatest modesty, which the more effectually enabled her to attain her object. She set at pleasure every heart in flames, which incendiary disposition, by the way, was all she inherited from her father. Once secure of her conquest, she ever treated the aspirant with the greatest coldness and contempt, taking a malicious pleasure in beholding the throes and pangs of his disappointed passion. Her own heart was defended by a wall of brass, which none of her paladins could force, or produce any effect upon. However ardently beloved, she loved not in return; whether it was that her hour was not yet come, or that her ambition had not found wherewithal to satisfy it, or that coquetry had closed her heart against sentiment. The more consummate masters in the science of the female heart, indeed, discovering that the fortress was impregnable, made a timely retreat, without hazarding the dishonour of a defeat; but plenty of inexperienced youths took their places, who were, one after the other, made the victims of their silly credulity, while she herself remained heart-whole.
For some years past a certain Count von Klettenberg had attended the Emperor’s Court, who, notwithstanding a slight bodily defect, was the most popular man with the ladies there. One of his shoulders was shorter than the other, whence he was called Ulric the Unequal; but the beauty of his face, and, with that one exception, of his form, his noble air, his wit, and his amiability were such, that the fair sex overlooked this imperfection. Ulric enjoyed great consideration at Court, and above all, as we have just said, was a general favourite with the fair sex, to whom he always had something agreeable to say; the Empress herself took a pleasure in his conversation. In the way of giving novelty and piquancy to those Court festivals, that are so apt to become insipid from their uniformity, his resources of fancy were inexhaustible. Whenever the bad weather kept the Court within doors, or the ill-humour of the Emperor banished the courtiers from the royal presence, Count Ulric’s gaiety and inventive powers were called into requisition, always with entire success, to chase away dull care.
Though constantly in the society of the ladies, Ulric, till now, had escaped the arrows of Cupid. Passing gallantries had, of course, formed the amusement of many an hour, but as to serious passion, he knew not what it meant. Like the proud Lucretia, he wished to enslave the hearts of others, but himself to remain free. Chance haying brought together two persons so worthy and so qualified to enter the lists with each other, it was not long ere the contest commenced.
Lucretia was fully determined to make a conquest of the Count; and as he had the reputation of being the most inconstant lover in the whole Court, she felt it was necessary for her purpose to set about the business in a very different way from that which had been adopted towards her other admirers, whom she had been wont to change just as she did her clothes; the Count was a fish of another description, who must be played with cautiously, if she desired to have the honour of effectually hooking him. On his part, Ulric was simply ambitious of haying an affair of gallantry with the beautiful maid of honour, in order that, by eclipsing all his competitors, he might show how superior he was to them in the art of love, in the knowledge of the female heart. With these respective views the belligerent powers opened the campaign.
The lady experienced no small triumph, nay was, with all her airs, not a little flattered when she saw the darling of the Court, he who hitherto had shown himself proof against all serious impressions, doing homage to her charms. Now would she take full vengeance for his past indifference. His eyes, which heretofore had never rested on Lucretia, were now constantly fixed upon her alone; he followed her everywhere, as the day the sun. Every fête which he gave had immediate reference to her, no taste but hers was consulted in all his arrangements; he hesitated at no expense to carry out her suggestions, and did she disapprove of any contemplated feature, it was at once abandoned, even though the Empress herself had given it her sanction. It soon became obvious to what goddess all his sacrifices were offered, and it was openly said among the courtiers, that the Court had become a horn which played just what tunes Lucretia pleased, and no others. Pretty faces throughout the palace became exceedingly pinched and yellow with spite and envy, at the progress of an amour which at once annihilated any idea their fair owners had formed of achieving, or of having achieved, the conquest of the Count. And so it was; the Count gave up, in favour of the lovely Bamburger, all his other little affairs of the heart, and she set the rest of her admirers at liberty, reserving all her artillery for the Count.
A month passed on, and the affair had proceeded to the satisfaction of both parties. But now approached the time when the one or the other was to be held up to public ridicule, while the conqueror was to shine in all that brilliancy which so signal a victory must confer. In the outset, the vanity of the Count had designed nothing more than a display of his superiority to all his competitors, after which it was his purpose, leaving Lucretia to wear the willow, to fly to other conquests. His rivals were indeed dismissed, but meantime Dan Cupid, who seldom permits people to play tricks with him unpunished, had turned the Count’s jest into downright earnest, by inflicting that wound in his heart which he at first only feigned to be there. The fair Lucretia had really and truly made a conquest of him, and he was now as fast chained to her triumphal car as the most sentimental of her other admirers. Her aim was accomplished. The victim was secured, and her own heart remained untouched. Now then to complete the thing. Her triumph up to this point was manifest to all, but she reflected, were the prisoner to break her chains, to throw off her authority by his own act, the laugh would be turned against her. To obviate this danger, her plan would be to dismiss him while he was yet her slave, and have thus all the éclat of making what prisoners she chose, and of getting rid of them just when she chose. Chance assisted her views.
Count Rupert von Kefernburg, whose estates lay contiguous to those of Count Ulric, came at this time to Goslar, where the Emperor was holding his Court, for the purpose of introducing a cousin of his, a raw country girl. He here beheld Lucretia, and, the common destiny of all the knights and nobles who, from the four quarters of the empire, repaired to Court, fell desperately in love with her. His physiognomy was such as by no means to recommend him to the fair sex, and, moreover, a negligence on the part of his nurse when he was a child had furnished his back with a superfluity, which had led to his receiving the distinctive appellation of Rupert with the Hump. In those times the art of the tailor had not arrived at its present perfection, in the way of disguising such defects, which, accordingly, as they could not be concealed, were in many cases, without offence, made use of to distinguish the sufferer from others of the same name, and in this way historians have transmitted the record of them to posterity. The epithets of the Limper, the Stammerer, the Squinter, the One-eyed, the Gross, and most inexpiable of deformities, the Moneyless, still figure gravely on “the high historic page,” side by side with more dignifying appellatives.
The Lord of Kefernburg, though his appearance did not warrant him in expecting any great degree of success with the fair, was endowed with so large a share of confidence in his own merits that the hump on his shoulder was altogether countervailed, as far as he was himself concerned, by the pleasing influence of the largely-developed bump on his head which covered the organ of self-esteem. He therefore, without the slightest distrust as to the result, set about the siege of Lucretia’s heart; and as it happened at this moment that this Janusian Temple, which had been for some time closed, was once more thrown open, his homage was, to all appearance, graciously received, and Goslar at once became to Rupert a perfect terrestrial paradise. The worthy Count little suspected that in reality the hardened coquette was only making use of him as a means of at once gratifying her vanity and her vengeance.
Ulric was now in the situation of a prime minister who feels his credit totter, but wanting the spirit to send in his resignation, postpones it from day to day, till he is overtaken by an ignominious dismissal. Could he have resolved to break at once with his fickle mistress, he might perhaps have so managed as even now to have concealed his discomfiture and have turned the tables completely on the lady. There was the round, rustic Thuringian, Count Rupert’s cousin, who might have been made excellent use of by the accomplished Ulric, in just the same way in which Lucretia meant to employ Count Rupert himself; but all his skill in love manœuvring was thrown out by the deep passion which had now taken possession of his heart; it had happened to him as sometimes befals actors who on the stage have to make love frequently to the same person: the sentiment he at first but feigned became a strong, an all-absorbing reality. The moth may fly at the candle many and many a time with impunity, but it is at last caught in the flame, and, despite its convulsive struggles, is only freed by death. The appearance even of so contemptible a rival as Rupert served to open Ulric’s eyes to the violence of his own passion, and the entire absence of it on the part of Lucretia. In vain, like the wounded tiger of the fable, did he endeavour to wrench out the arrow that had pierced him; he but aggravated his own agonies by the attempt; Lucretia enjoyed her triumph, as she cruelly smiled upon his competitor before his face.
By way of coup-de-grace to her victim, she one day gave a magnificent entertainment, whereat, while the dessert was enlivened by charming music, vocal and instrumental, some friends, instructed by her previously, pressed round her and begged that she would give some name to this happy day, by which it might ever be remembered. “It is for you, my kind friends,” said she, “rather than for me, to do this.” But as they continued to urge her, she at last exclaimed, with malicious emphasis: “Well, then, we will call this day, Count Ulric’s Defeat!”
For a time the unfortunate lover gave way to despair; but common sense constantly reminding him that at all events despair would do no good, seeing that the fair ones of that day were not given to sentimentality, he resolved to keep up his spirits and make a vigorous effort to recover the position he had lost. “Vanity,” said he to himself, “is Lucretia’s ruling passion, and ’tis that I must work upon, cost what it may.” He accordingly became once more the heart and soul of the Court, taking the lead in all the entertainments that were got up, and himself vying with the richest nobles there in the costliness of his own fêtes, all of which were avowedly given in honour of Lucretia, who readily bestowed upon him a smile or two in acknowledgment of the compliment, and accepted without hesitation the rich gifts he lavished upon her. For instance, a rich merchant of Augsburgh had just offered the Empress a jewel of very great price he had brought with him from Alexandria, which she had declined as being too expensive. To purchase this, Ulric pledged one half of his territories, and then humbly placed it at the disposal of the mistress of his thoughts, who quietly took it, wore it that evening at a party, rewarded the donor with a few tender glances, and next morning deposited it in her jewel-case, where it remained as little heeded as the Count himself. Ulric, not discouraged, essayed by new gifts, new entertainments of the most gorgeous description, to make himself agreeable to her, but all in vain. Meantime, his lavish expenditure ere long compelled him to pledge the remainder of his estates: his honours and his honour were now all that remained to him; and on these no usurer would have advanced a single farthing.
So outrageous, indeed, had been his prodigalities that the Empress herself, when it was too late, condescended to recommend him not thus madly to dissipate the inheritance of his ancestors. The Count could not resist this opportunity of speaking to her Majesty on the subject nearest his heart: “Most gracious Lady,” said he, “you are aware that I passionately love Lucretia: truly may I say that I cannot exist without her. The whole Court has seen her treatment of me, has witnessed her cruel and contumelious falsehood. I have endured that which would have exhausted the endurance of most men, yet cannot I resolve to renounce her. To propitiate her I have expended all my patrimony; from time to time she has bestowed on me a deceitful smile, but her heart remains closed against me. What I would entreat of your Majesty is that you enjoin Lucretia to give me her hand, if she can assign no sound reason for refusing it.” The Empress promised she would speak to Lucretia in his favour, and endeavour to prevail upon her to reward his love with a due return.
But ere she had had an opportunity of talking with the proud Lucretia on the subject, Count Rupert requested an audience, and addressed her in the following terms: “August Empress, a lady in your train, the charming Lucretia, has deeply engaged my affections, and I have been fortunate enough to secure hers. I have, therefore, come to entreat that your Majesty would be pleased to dispense with her further attendance, and bestow her hand upon me, that, as her husband, I may take her home with me.”
Her Highness felt no little curiosity to know what claim Count Rupert could have to a heart which, she understood, was already the just property of another, and was, moreover, indignant that her favourite should have been carrying on a love correspondence with two nobles of the Court at one and the same time, a circumstance highly discreditable in itself, and which in those days was exceedingly calculated to bring on a duel, à l’outrance, no lover being disposed to relinquish his supposed claims without bloodshed. However, as both parties had appealed to her, she consoled herself with the hope that both would implicitly submit to her decision.
Having dismissed Count Rupert, and retired to her private apartment, she sent for Lucretia, and on her arrival thus addressed her, in an angry tone: “Young lady, what confusion is this you are creating at my Court with your mischievous flirtations? Two noblemen, within a few hours the one after the other, have applied to me for your hand, each of whom assures me he has received from you a favourable consideration. What means this? Do you imagine that you are, with impunity, to play such tricks as these with knights and nobles? first accepting their homage, and then contumeliously discarding them? Think you it becomes a modest girl to have two lovers at once in her train, both of whom she amuses herself with rendering alike confident of success, though caring, as it would seem, for neither? This cannot be permitted to continue. You have given Count Ulric, and you have given Count Rupert, such encouragement as to authorise them in demanding with confidence your hand. I will not speak in favour of the one more than of the other; but one of them you must elect for your husband, or incur my severest displeasure.”
Lucretia turned quite pale; she had never anticipated that her little caprices would reach the notice of the Empress. She threw herself at the feet of her mistress, seized her hand, which she bathed with tears, and as soon as she had somewhat recovered from her consternation, said: “Be not angry with me, mighty Sovereign; if my poor attractions produce any disorder in your Court, the fault is not mine; I cannot help it. Do not the courtiers cast their bold glances at all your ladies? How, then, can I prevent their being directed to me? I have given none of them any such encouragement as could warrant their asserting the possession of my heart, which is still entirely at my own disposal. I trust, therefore, that your Majesty will not compel your poor servant to wed a husband for whom she entertains not the slightest inclination.”
“You speak in vain,” replied the Empress; “such pitiful evasions only confirm me in my determination. I know how deeply your basilisk glances have infused the sweet poison of love into the hearts of my knights and nobles. You must now suffer the just penalty you have incurred, and yourself wear the chains wherewith hitherto it has been your sport to enslave your lovers, for I will not rest until I have provided you with a husband.”
When the humbled Lucretia found that the Empress was thoroughly in earnest, she did not venture to offer any further opposition, lest she should still more highly irritate her mistress. But she now had recourse to dissimulation. “Madam,” said she, “your will is my law; I submit to your commands. Your Majesty has left it to me to choose between the candidates; as they so equally possess my esteem, that I cannot give the one a preference over the other, will your Majesty permit me to propose to each of them a condition, I undertaking to accept for my husband the first who shall present himself, having fulfilled that condition; and, on the other hand, having your royal word that I shall not be compelled to wed either until the condition is performed.”
The Empress, softened by this apparent submissiveness on the part of the crafty Lucretia, consented to her request. Having passed her word, as desired, she smilingly asked: “Well, and now what conditions are these on which the competitors are to win or lose thee?” The audacious girl could hardly conceal her triumphant laughter as she replied: “Madam, I simply require that the one and the other shall get rid of their little superfluities: Count Ulric must bring his shoulders, and Count Rupert his back, to a proper level, ere I consent to receive the marriage ring from either; and I have your Majesty’s royal word that until they have effected this condition they shall not be entitled to claim me for a bride.”
“Perfidious serpent!” exclaimed the enraged Empress, “quit my sight; you have deceived me by an unworthy artifice, but I have given my royal word, and I will adhere to it.” Lucretia, haying been thus ignominiously dismissed, her Majesty threw herself back on the sofa, and for a short time gave way to vexation at having been thus foiled by a chit of a girl. She then sent word to the respective candidates of the disagreeable result of her intervention. Ulric was quite inconsolable at the intelligence; more especially he felt in its full force the bitterness of malice with which the insolent Lucretia had cast at him reproachfully a defect which he himself hardly ever thought of, so little did he deem it noticed by others. “Could the shameless creature,” cried he, “find no gentler pretext for dismissing me, after having ruined me as she has done? Was there any necessity for her thus to accompany a condition impossible for me to fulfil, with the sting of her adder’s tongue? Have I deserved such treatment at her hands?”
Full of mortification and despair, Ulric quitted the Court without taking leave of any one, and the courtiers inferred from his abrupt disparition that he was meditating some signal vengeance on the arrogant Lucretia. But little cared she about the matter; she waited quietly, like a spider in the centre of its web, for some new victim to be entangled in her snares. Count Rupert, less sentimental than Ulric, extricated himself from the trammels of the coquette without difficulty, and without having, like his rival, deposited his whole fortune in her jewel-case, a circumstance which in no degree troubled Lucretia, who, to do her justice, was not at all avaricious. Indeed, ’twould have been strange had this been her vice, possessed as she was of plenty of golden eggs, and in the bloom of beauty. Not Ulric’s presents, but Ulric himself, sacrificed on the altar of her vanity, had afforded her gratification, and she was, consequently, very hurt and indignant at the reproaches daily made her by the Empress, and re-echoed by the murmuring of the whole Court, which charged her with having been the ruin of Ulric in a pecuniary point of view. For it to be said that she had broken his heart, was exceedingly exhilarating and satisfactory; but that people should suggest she had undone his pocket, was shocking, intolerable; so she resolved to divest herself of these ill-acquired riches, and that in such a way as should at once flatter her personal vanity and place her credit high in an influential quarter. She founded a convent for girls of noble family on the Rammelsberg, not far from Goslar, and endowed it as richly as Madame de Maintenon did her ghostly Elysium, St Cyr, in like manner with other people’s money. Such a monument of devotion was at that period quite enough to invest anybody with the odour of sanctity, and to disperse from before the eyes and memory of the world far greater sins than Lucretia had been guilty of. She forthwith was cited as a perfect model of all the virtues; even the Empress was disposed to pardon her, when she saw how good a use she made of the wealth she had acquired from the Count. In order in some small degree to indemnify the poor man, she obtained for him from the Emperor an order of sustenance on a rich monastery, which she designed to send him as soon as she could discover the place of his retreat.
Meantime the Count himself pursued his despairing way o’er hill and dale, now forswearing for aye deceitful love, now half resolved to return and once more gaze on the beautiful form that so enslaved him. At length, disgust with the world overpowered for awhile every other sentiment, and he determined, after having made a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre, to shut himself up in a monastery. But ere he passed the confines of Germany, he had to sustain a terrible struggle with Love, who resisted with all his might the attempt to dislodge him; the image of the haughty Lucretia ever presented itself before him, do what he might to banish it from his thoughts, following him like a tormenting fiend. Reason urged him to detest the ingrate; but his heart revolted against the dictates of reason. Absence, so far from mitigating his passion, increased it; every step that led him from the object of his love seemed to pour a fresh drop of oil on the flame, and the charms of the beauteous but insensible Lucretia seemed to grow more and more wondrous, the farther they were removed from his vision. Often did the desire well nigh overcome him, to retrace his steps, and seek his salvation, not in the Holy Land, but at Goslar. He, however, proceeded on his journey, but with a heavy heart and lagging footsteps, as a ship which labours against a contrary wind.
In this pitiable state of mind he wandered through the mountain-passes of the Tyrol, and had nearly reached the frontiers of Italy, not far from Roveredo, when he lost his way in a forest, where, after considerable search, he could discover no place of shelter for the night. He accordingly alighted, and turning his horse to graze under a tree, himself lay down under its branches, for he was sore wearied, more indeed by wear and tear of the mind, than by the journey itself. Ere long, sleep, that gentle consoler of the unhappy, “weighed his eyelids down,” and for awhile “steep’d his senses in forgetfulness.” By-and-bye, feeling himself shaken by a hand as cold as death, he started; and on awaking from his deep slumber, saw bending over him a lean old woman, who was examining his face by the light of a lanthorn. At this sight an awful fear for a moment pervaded him, for he thought he beheld a spirit; but resuming courage, he half arose, and exclaimed: “Who art thou, woman, and why comest thou here to disturb my repose?”
The old woman replied: “I am herb-gatherer to the Signora Dottorena, of Padua, who lives hard by at her villa; she has sent me to gather certain herbs and roots, which have peculiar virtues when plucked at midnight. Finding you lying here, I supposed you were a traveller who had been assassinated by robbers, and shook you by the arm to see whether you had any life left in you.”
During this explanation the Count had entirely recovered himself. “Is the villa of thy mistress far off?” said he.
“Just down there, in the hollow,” replied the crone; “I have only this moment come from it. If you request of her a lodging for the night, it will be granted, but beware of infringing on the laws of hospitality; my lady has a charming daughter, who is extremely susceptible of tender impressions, and whose piercing eyes can hardly fail to reach your heart. Her mother watches over her with the utmost care; and were she to observe that any of her guests expressed too much tenderness for the Signorina Ughella, she would instantly cast some spell upon him, for she is a great enchantress, whom all the powers of nature, all the spirits of the air, obey.”
To this the Count paid very little attention, all he desired was a comfortable bed, wherein he might forget his cares for awhile. He immediately bridled his horse, and disposed himself to follow the old woman, who led him through the underwood, down into a pretty valley, watered by a swift rivulet. By an avenue of tall elms the traveller soon approached the wall surrounding the villa, the tall roofs and terraces of which, seen beyond, under a bright moon, looked charmingly amidst the wild forest scenery. The old woman opened a wicket leading into a pleasure garden, tastefully laid out, to which the splashing sound of a number of fountains gave additional freshness. Several ladies were promenading one of the broad walks, enjoying this freshness, and the lovely aspect of nature, on a fine calm summer’s night. The old woman, recognizing her mistress among the group, advanced and introduced the stranger, whom the Signora Dottorena, at once perceiving him to be no common person, received with the utmost politeness, herself conducted him into the house, and had an elegant supper served up for him.
While engaged with this welcome refreshment, the Count had ample leisure and opportunity to contemplate his hostess and the ladies composing her society, who, meanwhile, remained in an adjoining apartment, the door of which was thrown open. The mistress of the mansion had indeed passed her zenith, but her countenance was still beautiful and most striking. In her dark eyes, dignity and wisdom sat enthroned, and her fine voice sounded like music, as she discoursed with her listening friends in the soft language of Italy.
The Signorina Ughella, her daughter, possessed a form and features more perfect than the fancy of the most imaginative artist could design. All her motions were full of tender grace; and her black sparkling eyes were indeed such as mortal man could hardly withstand. The train of this noble pair consisted of three young ladies, who might well have induced a comparison with the nymphs of chaste Diana, as depicted by Raphael’s pencil. With the exception of John Buncle, whose rare fortune it was, into whatever bye-nook or out-of-the-world place he found his way, ever to meet with a party of ladies, all of them so many chaste Venuses and beauteous Minervas, never was mortal so unexpectedly blessed in this way as was Count Ulric von Klettenberg, when he found himself thus transported, from an uncomfortable, supperless night’s lodging under a tree, in the depths of an unknown wood, to a mansion which seemed the abode of the loves and the graces. Small as was his faith in magic, yet the unexpected apparition of the old woman, amid the shades of night, in the solitude of the forest, the caution she had given him, and her then introducing him to this magnificent place, so curiously inhabited, had made such an impression upon him, that he involuntarily anticipated something or other supernatural. It was, therefore, with some degree of mistrust that he presented himself to the ladies in the drawing-room; but he very soon became satisfied that neither Signora Dottorena nor her daughter, nor their three companions, had any other witchcraft about them than what is conferred by superior personal charms, combined with superior intellect. He speedily grew ashamed of his absurd suspicions, and in their place conceived sentiments of grateful esteem for the amiable group who had given him so kind, so generous a reception. As to Love, who seemed the divinity of this temple, he had now no further power over Ulric, who comparing the glowing beauties of the young ladies surrounding him with those of the irresistible Lucretia, his heart still unhesitatingly gave the palm to her.
After a night’s repose, which was most welcome to him, he would early next morning have taken his leave of the ladies and continued his journey, but the Signora pressed him to stay with such winning grace, and the Signorina Ughella begged him, with so enchanting a glance, not to refuse her mother’s invitation, that he could not but comply.
The time passed on very pleasantly, amidst a variety of amusements, in all of which the practised courtier had full opportunities of displaying his accomplishments. Sometimes the ladies entertained him with a concert, wherein they exhibited their thorough knowledge of music, and charmed the ears of the German dilettante with sweet strains from Italy. Occasionally, between whiles, one of the fair ones would honour the Count with her hand in a pas de deux, and as he was pre-eminently noted in his own circle for his proficiency in dancing, he had thus peculiar opportunities for showing himself off to the best advantage. His company appeared to be as agreeable to the ladies as theirs was to him, and the conversation daily assumed a more friendly and intimate tone.
One morning, after breakfast, as the Signora was walking with her guest in the garden, she led him into an arbour. From the day of his arrival she had observed in the stranger a vein of melancholy, which the charms of her little Tempe had failed to remove. The Signora, though wise and learned, was still a woman, and all her wisdom and learning had not raised her above the ordinary weakness of the sex, curiosity; and although, according to the testimony of her herb woman, all the spirits of air were subject to her commands, they had, it should seem, given her no information relative to her guest. She neither knew who he was, whence he came, nor whither he was going, and having a vast inclination to be enlightened on these various points, she availed herself of this tête-à-tête, to turn the conversation in that direction; and the Count no sooner saw what she aimed at, than he proceeded fully to relate the story of his life, detailing the rise, progress, and result of his passion for Lucretia, and, in short, opened his whole heart to his new friend.
Highly gratified by this confidence, the lady in return gave him a full, true, and particular account of her own history, whence he learned that sprung from a noble family in Padua, but early left an orphan, her guardians had compelled her to marry a very old, but very rich physician, who, though deemed a profound master of all the secrets of nature, died shortly after from the effects of a drug he had taken, for the purpose of restoring him to youth, herein less successful than Count Cogliostro, who, as they say, by some mysterious process, contrived to retain a vigorous life for three hundred years. On the old doctor’s death, his widow inherited his large fortune and valuable manuscripts. Feeling no disposition to a second marriage, she had amused herself in her widowhood with the study of her late husband’s writings, and had by this means acquired not only a rare acquaintance with the more hidden secrets of nature, but also such a knowledge of physic, and thereby, after awhile, so high a reputation, that the University of Padua had conferred upon her a doctor’s degree, and appointed her to a public professorship of medicine. But the occult sciences had ever been her favourite study, which, coming to the knowledge of the ignorant vulgar, great and small, had obtained for her the reputation of something like sorcery.
She spent each summer with her daughter and a few friends, in this pleasant villa, in the Tyrol, which she had purchased for the sake of having ready access to a variety of plants and herbs peculiar to the Alps. The winter she passed at Padua, engaged in her public duties. Her house there was closed against all male visitors, her lecture-room excepted, which of course was open to the disciples of Hippocrates. In the country, however, every agreeable and well-conducted guest was welcome.
The Signora having concluded her own narrative, reverted to the Count’s unfortunate attachment, and seemed to take a deep interest in his fate. What excited her utter wonder was the constancy with which he persisted in adoring so ungrateful a woman. “Noble sir,” said she, “it is not easy to devise a remedy for your ills, since you would endure the pangs of despised love rather than enjoy the sweets of revenge. Could you but resolve to hate the perfidious creature, it were easy for me to provide you with the means of holding her up to ridicule and scorn, and repaying her doubly all the evil she has inflicted upon you. I can prepare a powder, which, diluted in water, would have the property of producing in the heart of whoever takes it, an irresistible passion for the person from whose hands it has been received. Let the coquette who trifles with your feelings but moisten her lips with this beverage, and she will in a moment be overcome with a resistless love for you. Then repulsing her with all the scorn she has cast upon you, mocking with her own bitterness of insult her sighs and tears, you would be amply avenged in the eyes of the whole Court; but woe be to you if, yielding to her fascinations, you should weakly consent to unite your fate with hers; instead of a loving wife you would find a fury, who would pierce your heart with a thousand stabs, more venomous, more fatal, than those of adders; for as soon as the effect of the powder has subsided, there remains in the heart only an invincible rancour against the object so lately beloved.”
Ulric, after a moment’s reflection, replied: “Revenge is sweet, but sweeter still the love which attaches me to the unkind Lucretia. Deeply as I feel the wrongs she has done me, I cannot hate her. I will fly far from her, forgiving her the misery she has occasioned me, and bearing her image in my heart till I die.”
“Every country has its different notions,” said the Signora; “an Italian would never forgive such indignity as that you have endured. However, as you take this more generous course, and I am very far from reproaching you for doing so, why not retrace your steps, and once more throw yourself at the feet of your mistress; obdurate as she seems, she may relent. You may, peradventure, find this better than the perilous and unprofitable journey you contemplate.”
The Count liked this advice, though he felt ashamed so suddenly to abandon the resolution he had adopted, and ere he could collect his thoughts for a reply, the Signora had quitted him with a smile of peculiar meaning.
A few mornings after, Ulric, while walking with his hostess and her fair friends, announced his intention to take his leave of them the next day, and this time she made no objection to his going. In the evening, when they were all assembled in the saloon, the ladies were in higher spirits even than usual, not excepting the Signora herself, who rarely laid aside her gravity, though always cheerful. On this occasion, however, she went so far as to express a wish to dance a saraband with her visitor. The Count exerted himself to maintain his reputation of a first-rate dancer; and so pleased his partner, that when the step was over she requested him to repeat it, and so once again, until he was in a complete bath of perspiration. The Signora then, for the sake, as she said, of its greater coolness, hastily led him into an adjoining apartment.
The moment they had entered it, she closed the door, and taking off, without a word said, the Count’s doublet, and throwing back his collar, applied her agile hand to the highest shoulder, which she rubbed and pulled about vigorously, as though she were twisting a piece off. This operation occupied but a few seconds, and the lady having then opened a drawer and thrown something into it, led Ulric to a mirror: “Behold, Count,” said she, “the condition on which Lucretia promised you her heart and hand, is fulfilled; I have rectified the trifling defect which derogated in some degree from the elegance of your figure. Resume your courage, banish all melancholy, and fly to Goslar; the capricious Lucretia has no longer any pretext for refusing you.”
For a long time Count Ulric stood silently viewing himself in the glass, excess of wonder and joy having deprived him of utterance. At length, he threw himself at the feet of his benefactress, seized the hand which had operated so great a change, and poured forth a torrent of words, expressive of his heartfelt gratitude. The Signora then led him back into the saloon, and Ughella and her companions clapped their hands for joy, that their amiable friend had been relieved from his only blemish.
The extreme impatience of Ulric to commence his journey did not allow him to close his eyes that night. Not Jerusalem now, but Goslar, was to him the promised land. Day at length appeared; he took an affectionate leave of the ladies immediately after breakfast, and then vaulting on his good horse, and giving it the spur, gallopped off towards the haven of his hopes. His passionate desire to breathe once more the same air, to be once more beneath the same roof, to sit once more at the same table, with Lucretia, deprived him of all ordinary precaution. ‘Fair and softly goes far,’ says the proverb; Ulric did not go fair and softly, but furiously and senselessly, and the consequence was, that as he gallopped down a steep hill, near Brixen, his horse stumbled, and the rider got a fall, which broke one of his arms. This disaster sorely afflicted him, for he feared lest Lucretia, before his return, should bestow her hand upon some more fortunate rival, and thus prevent the possibility of his demanding the fulfilment of her promise. As some security against this catastrophe, he wrote to his patron, the Empress, giving her an account of his fortunate adventure at the villa, of the accident which delayed his arrival, and entreating her, meantime, while preserving closely the secret of his approaching re-appearance, to prevent Lucretia from marrying any one else.
It happened that whatever her other great qualities, the Empress did not possess that of being able to keep a secret. Accordingly the Count’s missive was no sooner perused, than its contents were communicated to her Ladies of the Bedchamber; and when the Lord Chamberlain, who had set up pretensions to the hand of the fair Lucretia himself, suggested a doubt of the authenticity of the document, her Majesty put the matter beyond question by showing him the original letter. The news in due course reached Count Rupert, to whom it immediately occurred that he might, perhaps, in the same way, get rid of his incumbrance, and thus, having fulfilled the condition imposed by his mistress, return ere Ulric had recovered from his accident, and forestal him in demanding the fair one’s hand. Having made a calculation of the time which a judicious surgeon occupies in healing the wounds of a patient who is likely to pay, he found that he might manage to go to the Signora’s, make himself agreeable (that of course he should do at his first appearance), get her to dance a saraband with him and remove his hump, and be back ere Ulric’s medical attendant would, in all probability, allow him to move.
No sooner said than done; he at once had his horse saddled, and travelling with the speed of a bird of passage flying to a warmer climate, soon made his way to the house of the lady he sought, for she was well known all around. In default of the herb-woman as chamberlain, he introduced himself under the incognito of a knight errant, and received the same friendly welcome which had been accorded to his predecessor. But his over-free manners, his arrogance, his assumption, his dogmatic tone of conversation, very soon disgusted the Signora, who, however, contented herself with keeping him at a distance by cold politeness.
Several times already there had been a concert, interspersed with dancing, in the evening; and Count Rupert, on each occasion, had hoped that the Signora would invite him to join her in a saraband, but she seemed to have quite lost her taste for it, and merely looked on. Vainly did the Count seek to conciliate her favour, after his fashion, by overwhelming her with gross and clumsy flatteries; she was not at all affected by them. Meantime it was his fortune, on one or two occasions, to detect the Signorina Ughella glancing at him with her great, sparkling black eyes, with an expression, as he readily conceived, of tenderness; and he, who fancied himself a regular lady-killer, could not resist this apparent opportunity of making a conquest. His Countship was indeed far from handsome, but he was the only male personage in the house, and Donna Ughella, who had a very tender heart, was dying of ennui. Rupert forgot for a moment the haughty Lucretia, and Ughella became the lady of his thoughts.
Mama was not slow in perceiving this incipient affair, and determined to punish as he merited the would-be violator of the laws of hospitality. One evening she proposed to the worthy Paladin to dance with him. Rupert, who had begun altogether to despair of obtaining this favour, was delighted, imagining that the time was at length arrived when he should be delivered from his hunch. He went through his best paces, and danced away until he was well nigh exhausted, the lady, meanwhile, exhibiting not the least fatigue.
The saraband at last concluded, the lady, beckoning her partner, walked into the cabinet, whither she had conducted Count Ulric, and Rupert joyfully followed. The door being closed, the Signora turned back the patient’s collar; then going to the chest of drawers, she opened one, and took out of it a large substance, as big as an ostrich’s egg, which she thrust into Rupert’s bosom, exclaiming: “Insolent wretch! take that as a punishment for having set at naught the sacred laws of hospitality.”
Having said this, she took a flask containing some strong narcotic fluid, and sprinkled its contents upon the face of the Count, who immediately sunk insensible on a sofa. On recovering his senses, he found himself surrounded by impenetrable darkness; the lights were extinguished, and there was profound silence. In a few minutes, a door opposite him opened, and there entered a lean old woman, bearing a lanthorn, by the light of which she examined his face. In her he immediately recognised the Signora’s herb-woman, whom Ulric had described in his letter. Starting up, he mechanically cast his eyes over his chest, and found to his horror that the superfluous hunch which had been taken from Ulric’s shoulder had been annexed to his own person, forming a counterpart to the protuberance on his back. Half frantic with rage, he seized the old woman by the throat, and yelled out: “Execrable scarecrow! where is the vile sorceress thy mistress? Tell me, that my sword may avenge this outrage! Speak! or I strangle thee!”
“Noble sir,” gasped the crone, “waste not your anger upon a poor servant, who has had nought to do with the injury that has been inflicted on you. The Signora is no longer here; she departed with all her household the moment she had quitted the cabinet. Attempt no pursuit, for even were you to overtake her, something still worse than what has now happened would befal you. Endure with patience what cannot now be helped. There is still hope for you: the Signora has a compassionate heart, and what she has distorted she can, if she pleases, make straight again. If, after the expiration of three years, you return hither, she will, doubtless, have ceased to bear you ill-will; and if you humble yourself before her, will make your figure straighter and better than ever it was.” This prospect somewhat calmed the fury of the poor o’erladen Rupert, who thanked the old woman for her consolatory suggestion. Early next morning, he mounted his horse, and took the road to his native place, intending to remain there till the expiatory period was passed, after which he hoped the Signora would relent, and make him more perfect than he was before.
Ulric, meantime, having recovered, proceeded in triumph to Goslar, confident that his august protectress had taken care to protect his interests, and keep the beautiful Lucretia unmarried. As he traversed the streets on his way to the castle, the whole town was in motion, everybody rushing to behold with his own eyes the astonishing change which had been effected in the person of Ulric, now no longer “the Unequal:” an embassy from the King of Abyssinia would not have excited more general curiosity. The Empress received him most graciously, herself leading forward Lucretia, attired as a bride, and presented her to him, as a prize he had fairly won by fulfilling the extraordinary condition the young lady had herself imposed. His dream of bliss was somewhat disturbed, when the Empress asked him what dower he proposed to bestow upon Lucretia. A good deal confounded, he replied, that his good sword was now all the wealth he possessed, but with that he trusted he should win both riches and honour, at the expense of the Emperor’s enemies. “And will you accept him upon these terms?” said the Empress, turning to Lucretia. The Count tremblingly awaited her reply; but since his return to Goslar, the sentiments of Lucretia had undergone a total change.
“Count,” said she, “I must confess that I have put your attachment to very severe trials; but since nothing has been able to alienate your love from me,—since for my sake, you have been willing to attempt even that which appeared to be an impossibility, it is just that I should no longer refuse to be yours. My heart, and the trifling fortune I may one day inherit from my mother, are all it is in my power to offer you; if you still love me, your love is all I desire in return.” Such generous sentiments from Lucretia astonished the Empress and the whole Court; Ulric, moved even to tears, seized the hand of his mistress, pressed it to his heart, and exclaimed: “Receive my earnest gratitude, my immutable love; and rest assured, that ere long my good sword shall secure for you a position worthy of you.”
The Empress immmediately sent a request to the Bishop, that he would personally bestow the nuptial benediction on the now happy pair, and herself undertook all the preparations for the wedding, which was celebrated at Court the next morning, with the utmost magnificence. In a few days, after a long struggle between love and duty, Count Ulric, in fulfilment of his promise, proposed forthwith to join the Emperor’s army; but Lucretia would not permit him to depart: “Dear Ulric,” said she, “during the honey-moon, at least, you must not oppose my wishes; when that is past you must, I suppose, take your own way, as you men always do; at present, I require you to accompany me to Bamburg, on a visit to my mother, whom it becomes you, as a dutiful son-in-law, to pay your respects to.”
The wedded pair next day set out for Bamburg, and great was the rejoicing in the house of Mama on the arrival of these beloved visitors. The only thing that annoyed the Count in his new residence was that every morning the sweet sleep he was enjoying by the side of his Lucretia was broken by the shrill cackling of a hen in an adjoining apartment. He at last lost all patience with his inconvenient neighbour, and vowed to twist its neck about if ever it fell into his hands. “Nay,” said his wife, “that will never do; that hen lays an egg every morning that we could ill spare.” Not a little was the Count astonished to hear one formerly so profuse and prodigal, talk of an egg as the wife of a peasant might do. “I have sacrificed my whole estate to you,” cried he, “and you now hesitate to sacrifice a pitiful hen to my repose! It is impossible you can have ever loved me.”
The young wife patted her spouse’s cheek: “Learn, naughty grumbler,” said she, “that the hen which so disconcerts thee is our best friend. Every morning it lays a golden egg in my mother’s chamber, where it has its meals from her own hand, and where it takes its nightly roost. For nineteen years has it daily paid us this important tribute; and hence thou may’st judge whether, in accepting thy presents heretofore, I was actuated by any mercenary consideration. I took them not on account of their intrinsic value, but as so many proofs of thy devotion, a devotion thou shalt find repaid thee. When we married, thou acceptedst me with, as it seemed, but slight expectations; I thee with nothing but thy true heart and thy good sword. Thou may’st guess how long thou needest to remain without thy redeemed patrimony; I without a dower to increase it.”
The Count could hardly believe his ears, so Madame, as soon as they were dressed, took him into her mother’s room, and telling her what an incredulous person she had to deal with, requested that ocular demonstration might forthwith be given him, in the shape of a new-laid golden egg. Mama, who was up feeding her valuable friend, at once desired the Count to look for himself in the coop; and there, sure enough, lay a fine large egg, and in the egg, sure enough, when he broke it, he found a fine large golden yolk. Mama then unlocked her great chest, and begged Son-in-Law Ulric to give a look at its contents. He did so, and almost fell back in pure bewilderment when he saw it was filled well nigh to the top with golden eggs. There was wealth enough to buy half a dozen baronies; and in a short time his patrimony was redeemed and trebled in extent, by the benevolence of the kind mother-in-law, without its having been necessary for him once to put hand to sword-handle in the Emperor’s service; on the contrary, he allowed lance and war harness to rust in their respective corners, and passed his days in peace at home with his Lucretia, who proved, by her whole wedded life, that it is quite possible for a very skittish mistress to make a very excellent wife.
As to poor Count Rupert, when he went back at the end of three years to the Signora, he had the door shut in his face. After the expiration of three other years, however, at the intercession of Count Ulric and his lady, between whom and the amiable circle at Raveredo there had arisen a most delightful intercourse, not only the additional protuberance, but the original superfluity, were removed; and Count Rupert, whom misfortune had rendered a wiser and a better man, became a frequent and a favourite visitor at the mansion of the fortunate owner of the Hen with the Golden Eggs.
End of the Hen with the Golden Eggs.
REYNELL AND WEIGHT, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET.