Libussa, Duchess of Bohemia/The Man Without a Name
THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME.
An Anecdote.
On the Thuringian frontier, near the little river of Lockwitz, in Voigtland,[1] is situated the castle of Lauenstein,[2] which was formerly a nunnery, but destroyed in the Hussite wars. The spiritual domain, having been returned as derelict property to the secular power, was disposed of by the Count of Orlamünde,[3] the then proprietor, to a certain squire Lauenstein, who either gave his name to the eastle, or took his therefrom. It was, however, soon to be seen, that ecclesiastical property does not thrive in profane hands, and that such a robbery is sooner or later resented.
The bones of the holy nuns, which for centuries past had reposed in peace and quietness in their sombre vaults, could not support with equanimity the desecration of their sanctuary. The musty skeletons began to stir; they clattered and clanked at night time from below, and made a most fearful noise and rattling in the principal gallery, which was yet unimpaired. A procession of nuns often traversed in solemn train the castle yard, paraded through the apartments, and slammed the doors, so that the proprietor was continually disturbed in his sleep. At other times they rambled about in the servants’ hall, or in the stables, frightened the maids by twitching and pinching them, and tormented the cattle so that the cows had their milk dried up, and the horses snorted and reared, and broke the bars.
Owing to this misbehaviour of the pious sisters, and their unceasing pestering, the people as well as the beasts had their lives embittered, and lost all courage, from his worship the squire down to the grim bull-dog. The lord of the manor did not spare any expense to get rid of these troublesome inmates, and to bring them to silence by means of the most reputed exorcisms. But the most powerful benedictions, which in other cases would have made the whole satanic brood tremble, and even the sprinkling-bush saturated with holy water, which usually makes as much havoc among evil spirits as the fly-flap among domestic flies, were for a long time unavailing against the obstinacy of these spectral Amazons, who defended their rights and claims upon the soil of their former property so firmly, that the exorcisers themselves were sometimes compelled to take to their heels with their sacred relics.
At length it fell to the lot of a travelling exorcist, whose sole occupation it was to travel from place to place to find out sorceresses, to banish hobgoblins, and to purify demoniacs from the caterpillar brood of sprites,—it fell to his lot to tame these ghostly night-revellers, and to lock them up again in their dark death-chamber, where they were permitted to roll about their skulls, and to rattle and clatter as much as they liked with their bones. Everything was now quiet in the castle, and the nuns once more reposed in their silent death-sleep. But, after the lapse of seven years, one of these turbulent spirits, having slept its fill, again made itself visible at night, and carried on the former game till it was tired, and then took another repose of seven years, when it again came to this upper world, and disturbed the castle. The inhabitants got in time used to the sight of the ghost; and when the period of its appearance came, the servants took care to avoid the principal gallery in the evening, or kept, if possible, altogether in their rooms.
On the demise of the first owner the property descended to his lawful heir; and an heir was never wanting till the time of the thirty years war, when the last of the race of Lauenstein flourished, upon bringing whom into existence Nature seemed to have exhausted all her powers. Mother Nature, indeed, had been so lavish of the stuff for his body, that at the time when he was of full size his weight equalled that of Finatzi in Presburg, who weighed in his fifty-sixth year four hundred and eighty-eight pounds; nor was the size of the good squire of Lauenstein an inch less than that of Paul Bulterbrod of Holstein, who exhibited himself in Paris to the astonished gaze of its pleasure-loving inhabitants. Squire Sigmund was, however, a very handsome man before the bumpkin epoch of his body. He lived upon his estate in ease and respectability, without diminishing the income which his forefathers had amassed, but making a wise use of the goods of this world. As soon as his predecessor made room for him, and left him in possession of Lauenstein, he took, according to the custom of all his ancestors, a consort, and was seriously intent upon the propagation of the noble race which he represented. His wishes were accomplished, and his spouse presented him with a firstling of their happiness; but, alas! the child was a little girl, and the last of the race of Lauenstein, for no brother afterwards made his appearance. The too careful nursing of the wife became the husband so well, that all hopes of another child were smothered in his fat.
The thrifty wife, who from the first moment of their marriage kept the command of the house to herself, had of course also to take care of the education of her daughter. The more papa grew paunch-bellied, the less active became his soul, until at length he took no notice of anything unless it was roast or boiled.
Miss Emily, owing to the pressure of household affairs, was mostly left to the care of mother Nature, and she did not at all fare the worse for it. That secret artificer—who does not willingly risk her reputation, and who, if she commits an error, generally repairs it by a master-piece—had been more careful in the symmetry between the powers of the body and mind of the daughter than she had been with the father, for she was handsome as well as clever. As the young lady grew up, and displayed more and more her beauty and wit, the pretensions and hopes of the mother to revive again the splendour of the expiring race rose in proportion. This lady possessed a quiet pride, which in common intercourse was not to be perceived, unless by her high respect to the family pedigree, which she considered the greatest ornament of the house. In the whole country there was, with the exception of the lords of Reuss, no family which she considered noble and ancient enough to transplant upon it the last flower of the Lauenstein tree; and although the young squires of the neighbourhood gave themselves much trouble to catch the prize, the cunning mother always knew how to defeat their plans. She watched the young lady’s heart as carefully as a custom-house officer does suspected packages, that no forbidden wares may be smuggled in; she repudiated all speculations of well-meaning aunts and cousins which had any relation to the marriage of her daughter, whom she seemed to place so high, that none of the young men dared to approach her.
The heart of a young lady, as long as it submits to tuition, may be compared to a skiff upon a mirror-like sea, which can be steered any way the rudder propels it; but when the storm rages, and the waves swing it forward and backward, it no more obeys the rudder, but follows the course of the winds and waves. The tractable Emily was easily led by the motherly leading-strings upon the path of pride; her (as yet unprejudiced) heart was open to every impression. She expected a prince, or at least a count, would pay homage to her attractions; and all less nobly born Paladins, who courted her, she received with cold disdain. But, before an admirer of sufficient rank made his appearance, a circumstance happened which occasioned that all the princes and counts of the Roman empire of Germany would have come too late to woo for the young lady’s heart.
During the movements of the thirty years war, the army of the brave Wallenstein took up its winter quarters in the Voigtland, and squire Sigmund received many uninvited guests, who did more mischief in the castle than did formerly the ghostly night-walkers. Although they had a lesser claim to the ownership, they were not to be driven away by exorcisms. The lords of the manor were compelled to put on a good face to a bad case; and as the commanding officers maintained good discipline, they treated them splendidly, in order to keep them good temper. Banquets and balls followed in rapid succession. At the first presided the lady, at the second the daughter of the house. This noble exercise of hospitality made the rude warriors quite supple: they honoured the house where they were so well treated, and host and guests were satisfied with each other.
Among these gods of war there was many a young hero capable of turning the head of a Venus; but one among them outshone all the rest,—a young officer called the handsome Fred, who resembled the god of love in a helmet: he was handsome, polite, mild, modest, pleasant, of a lively spirit, and a good dancer. No man had as yet made any impression upon Emily’s heart; but he excited in her bosom an unknown sentiment, which filled her soul with inexpressible gratification. The only thing that astonished her was, that the beautiful Adonis was neither a prince nor a count, but was simply called “the handsome Fred.” She asked, on closer acquaintance, one or two of his comrades in arms about the family name and descent of the young man, but none could throw any light upon the subject. All of them praised handsome Fred as a brave man, who knew the service well, and possessed the most amiable qualities; but about his pedigree there were as many different opinions as there were about that of the then living and well-known, but still enigmatical, Count Cagliostro,[4] who till now is by some believed to be a descendant of a grand-master of Malta, and on his mother’s side a nephew to the Grand Turk, by others the son of a Neapolitan coachman, and still by others the own brother of Zanowich, the known Prince of Albania; and as to his calling, some believed him to be a being gifted with the power of performing miracles, and others to be a hair-dresser by profession. But as to handsome Fred, all were unanimous about his having entered the army as a common soldier, and having risen by his own merit to the grade of a captain commanding a squadron, and that if he was further favoured by fortune, he would rapidly rise to the highest posts in the army.
The secret inquiries of the inquisitive Emily soon became known to him; his friends had thought to flatter him with the announcement of it, which they accompanied by all sorts of favourable suppositions. He, however, pretended to take them as an insulting joke, although he was right glad to hear that the young lady had made inquiries about him. For when he first saw her, he was charmingly surprised, which is generally the precursor of love.
No idiom possesses such energy, and is at the same time so intelligible and expressive, as the sentiment of sweet sympathies, through the agency of which the progress from the first acquaintance to love is much more rapid than that from the ranks to the epaulette. In the present instance, it is true, the parties did not come immediately to a verbal understanding; but they knew how to make each other acquainted with their sentiments, for their looks met half way, and told what their timid lips did not as yet dare to communicate. The neglectful mother, owing to the bustle in the house, had just at the most inopportune moment suppressed the sentinel before the door of her daughter’s heart; and as this important post was unguarded, the cunning smuggler Amor profited by the occasion to sneak in during the twilight unperceived. When once in possession, he gave to the young lady quite different advice from what her mother used to do. He, the most inveterate enemy of ceremony, made his obedient pupil soon overcome the prejudice of rank and birth, and the belief that lovers could be classified and registered like the beetles and worms of a collection of dead insects. The freezing pride of ancestry melted as quickly in her soul, as the oddly shaped flower-tendrils upon a frozen window-pane, when warmed by the rays of a lovely sun. Emily dispensed in her lover with pedigree and patent of nobility, and went even so far in her political heresy that she held it as her opinion that the traditional privileges of birth were, as far as love was concerned, the most insufferable yoke which human liberty had as yet submitted to.
The handsome Fred adored the young lady, and as he could see from every circumstance that he was not less fortunate in love than he was in war, he seized upon the first favourable occasion to reveal to her the state of his heart. She received the confession of his love with blushing modesty, but nevertheless with considerable pleasure, and the dear beings united themselves by reciprocal vows of everlasting fidelity. They were now happy in the present, but trembled for the future. The return of spring called the heroes again to the tent. The armies concentrated, and the sorrowful moment when they were to separate was fast approaching. Now the consultations became serious, to find out how to consolidate the compact of love by legal means, so that nothing but death could separate them. Miss Emily had confided to her affianced the opinions of her mother in respect to marriage, and it was not to be supposed that the proud lady should deviate by a hair’s breadth from her cherished system in favour of a love-match.
A hundred projects were made and again abandoned; for in each were found innumerable difficulties, which made a happy result doubtful. But as the young warrior had found his bride determined to take any road that would lead them straight to the realization of their wishes, he proposed an elopement,—the safest invention of love, which has so many times succeeded, and will yet succeed, in spoiling the plans of parents and in overcoming their obstinacy. The young lady considered for a moment, but at last consented. There was yet, however, one thing to be considered, that was how she could make her exit from the well-bastioned and circumvallated castle, in order to throw herself into the arms of the welcome robber; for she knew that the vigilant mother, as soon as Wallenstein’s garrison should have left, would again fill up the vacant post, watch each of her steps, and scarcely lose sight of her. Inventive love, however, conquers all difficulties. It was well known to Emily that All Souls day, in the next autumn, was the time when, according to old tradition, the ghostly nun was after the lapse of seven years to make again her apparition in the castle; she also knew the fear in which all the inmates stood of her, therefore she projected the plan to play this time the part of the spirit-nun herself, to procure secretly a nun’s dress, and to escape thus incognito.
Handsome Fred was delighted with this well-conceived plan, and clapped his hands with joy. Although at the time of the thirty years war, free-thinkers were as yet rather scarce, the young warrior was however enough of a philosopher, if not to doubt altogether the existence of ghosts, at least to make it no concern of his to trouble his head about them. When everything therefore was settled between them, he lept into the saddle, recommended himself to the protection of love, and departed at the head of his squadron. The ensuing campain was a happy one for him: although he braved all danger, it seemed as if the god of love had granted his prayer and taken him under his special protection.
In the meantime Miss Emily lived in hopes and fears. She trembled for the life of her faithful lover, and gathered assiduously news from the battle-fields, to learn how their guests of last winter fared. Each rumour of a skirmish made her fear and tremble, which her mother declared to be a proof of a good and sensible heart, without having the least suspicion. The gallant warrior did not neglect to inform her from time to time himself of his fate, by secret letters which through the means of a faithful Abigail came straight to her hands; and he occasionally received news from her through the same channel. As soon as the campaign was over, he prepared everything for his approaching secret expedition. He bought four moor-headed horses and a travelling carriage, and inspected diligently the almanack, in order not to miss the day on which he had to appear in the promised place, in a grove near the castle of Lauenstein.
On the day of All-Souls the young lady prepared herself, with the assistance of her faithful Abigail, to execute her plan: she pretended to be unwell, retired to her chamber, and metamorphorsed herself into the prettiest hobgoblin that ever tenanted this earth. The evening hours seemed to last longer than usual, and each moment augmented her desire to pass through the adventure. In the meanwhile that silent and discreet friend of lovers, the bright moon, illuminated with her pale light the castle of Lauenstein, where the bustle of the active day gave way insensibly to solemn silence. Every one in the house was asleep, except the housekeeper, who in heavy numbers was still calculating late at night her kitchen expenses,—the scullion, who was obliged to finish the plucking of thirty larks, destined to serve as a relish for the breakfast of the master of the house,—the porter, who at the same time filled the place of a watchman and told the hours,—and Hector, the watchful yard-dog, who welcomed the rising morn with his barking. As soon as midnight sounded, the daring Emily set out upon her errand; she had procured herself a skeleton key which opened every door, and descended quietly the stairs to the principal passage, from whence she saw a light burning in the kitchen. She therefore rattled her bunch of keys with all her might, slammed all the doors, and opened all the house and castle-doors without hindrance; for as soon as the four waking inmates heard the unusual noise, they imagined the arrival of the dreaded nun. The frightened scullion hid himself in one of the cupboards, the housekeeper in her bed, the dog in his kennel, and the watchman in the straw. The young lady had thus safely arrived outside the castle, and hastened to the grove, where she thought she saw already in the distance the carriage with the four horses expecting her. When, however, she had arrived close to the place, she saw nothing but the shadow of the trees. She believed herself to have been misled by that error, and to have mistaken the place of appointment; she therefore crossed all the alleys of the grove from the first to the last, but her knight with his carriage and four was nowhere to be seen. She was greatly discomfited at this accident, and did not know what to make of it. Not to appear at a given rendezvous, is in itself a great crime among lovers; but to be absent in the present case, was more than high treason towards love. The affair was incomprehensible to her. After having waited for an hour in vain, with her heart trembling from fear and cold, she began bitterly to cry and complain: “Alas! the faithless one mocks me; he is in the arms of a rival, and unable to disengage himself from her, and has disdained my faithful love!” That thought brought the long-neglected pedigree again to her recollection, and she was ashamed to have forgotten herself so far as to love a man without a name and without noble sentiments. When the influence of passion had ceased, she took advice from reason, how she should repair the error she had committed, and that faithful adviser counselled her to return to the castle, and bury in oblivion all thoughts of her faithless lover. She immediately acted upon the first part of this advice, and arrived safe and sound in her bedroom, greatly to the astonishment of her faithful maid, to whom she had confided every thing; but as to the second point, she decided upon considering it over again when more at ease.
The man without a name was, however, not so guilty as the angry Emily had imagined. He had not missed being punctual at the time and place of appointment. His heart was greatly elated and he waited in impatient expectation of receiving his beloved. When midnight was approaching, he advanced in silence near the castle, to see when the little gate would open. Sooner than he expected the beloved form of the nun came out of it. He flew from his ambuscade towards her, pressed her in his arms, and said, “I have got thee; I shall hold thee, and never leave thee. My dear love, thou art mine; I am thine, body and soul.” Joyfully he carried the beautiful burden to his carriage, and off they drove, through thick and thin, over hill and dale. The horses snorted and reared, shook their manes, became unmanageable, and started off. One of the wheels detached itself, and the coachman was thrown far into the field; and over a deep precipice rolled the carriage, the horses, himself, and the nun, into the depth of the abyss.
The tender hero did not know what had become of him, his body was crushed, his head bruised, and from the heavy fall he had lost all consciousness. When he came to himself again, he missed his travelling companion. He passed the rest of the night in the most piteous situation, and was brought next morning by some countrymen who had found him, into the nearest village.
His carriage had tumbled to pieces, and his four moor-headed horses had broken their necks. Their loss, however, did not grieve him much. He was only suffering great anxiety on account of his Emily; and he sent people in all directions to find her out, but he could get no news of her. The midnight hour only relieved his anxiety about her; for when the clock struck twelve, the door opened, and his lost travelling companion entered his room—not in the shape of the beautiful Emily, but in that of a spectral nun, a disgusting skeleton.
The handsome Fred perceived with horror that he had made a mistake; he was in a cold sweat of death, began to cross himself, and to recite all the prayers which in his distress came to his memory. The nun did not pay any attention to these. She came close to his bed, stroked with her icy and bony hand his burning cheeks, and said, “Fred, my Fred, you mus submit. I am thine; thou art mine, soul and body.” Having tormented him thus during an hour with her presence, when the clock struck one, she disappeared.
This platonic love-performance she repeated every night, and even followed him to the town of Eichsfell, where he was quartered.
There he had neither peace nor quietness with his spectral love. He pined and grieved, and lost all courage, so that the high and low staff of the regiment perceived his melancholy, and every honest warrior pitied him greatly. It was a riddle to them, what hidden sorrow their brave companion had; for he feared to make known his unfortunate secret.
The handsome Fred, however, had a confidant among his comrades, an old quartermaster, who had the reputation of being master of all magical operations. He possessed, rumour said, the lost secret of making himself invulnerable; he could summon ghosts, and had every day one sure shot. This experienced warrior pressed him with amiable importunity to make known to him the secret sorrow by which he was oppressed; and the much-tormented martyr of love, being tired and sick of life, could not help at last confessing, under the promise of secrecy.
“Brother, is it nothing more?” said the exorciser, smiling, “thou shalt soon be freed of that trouble. Follow me to my lodging.”
They made many mysterious preparations, drew circles and characters upon the ground; and, on the call of the master, there appeared in the dark room, which was only a little lighted by the dull glimmer of a magic lamp, the midnight-ghost, although it was but noon. The exorciser reproached her severely for the mischief she had been guilty of, and assigned a hollow water-willow in a lonely valley, as her future abode, with the order to depart immediately for her rural residence.
The spirit disappeared; but at the same moment a storm and whirlwind arose, so strong, that the town was all in commotion. It is, however, a custom in the above town, that whenever a storm arises, twelve citizens mount their horses, and ride in solemn procession through the town, intonating a hymn of repentance, to charm away the wind. As soon as the twelve mounted and spurred apostles went out to silence the hurricane, its howling voice became dumb, and the ghost was no more seen.
The brave warrior had been aware that this devilish mummery was intended to ensnare his poor soul, and therefore he was very glad to be rid of that tormenting spirit. He had made another campaign under the dreaded Wallenstein in Pomerania, and during three subsequent campaigns he had had no news from the charming Emily. He had, however behaved so well, that on their return to Bohemia he was in command of a regiment. He took his way through the Voigtland, and when he saw the castle of Lauenstein at a distance, his heart began to beat quicker, from doubt and fear if his beloved had remained faithful to him. He announced himself as an old friend of the family, without making himself known, and the doors were thrown open to him, according to the custom of hospitality. Alas! how was Emily frightened when the handsome Fred, whom she believed faithless, entered the room. Joy and anger besieged at the same time her soul; she could not make up her mind to bestow a friendly look upon him, although this compact with her pretty eyes required great self-command on her part. During three years and more she had diligently communed with herself, to know if she was in duty bound to forget him or not, and through that very reason he had never for a moment escaped her thoughts. His image was always hovering around her, and, above all, the god of dreams seemed to be his special patron; for the innumerable dreams of the young lady during his absence invariably tended to defend and exculpate him.
The stately colonel, whose dignified position made the mother somewhat relent in her severe keeping, soon found occasion to try the apparent coldness of his beloved in a tête-à-tête. He revealed to her the horrid adventure of the elopement, and she confessed to him candidly the painful suspicion she had of his having broken the oath of fidelity. Both lovers agreed to extend the circle of the secret, and to take mamma into their confidence.
The good lady was as much surprised at the disclosure of the state of affections of the sly puss Emily, as she was astounded at the communication of the facts relating to the elopement. She thought it but right that so hard a trial of love should be rewarded. She, however, objected to “a man without a name.” But when the young lady explained to her, that it was far preferable to marry a man without a name, than a name without a man, she could find no argument against it. She therefore gave her motherly consent, there being no prince or count at hand; and, besides, it was evident that the secret treaties of the contracting parties were all but agreed to.
The handsome Fred embraced his bride; and the marriage was happily solemnized, without any further interference on the part of the spectral nun.
NOTES.
BY THE TRANSLATOR,
Note 1.
↑ Voigtland.] In Latin, Voigtlandia, Voigtia, or Voitlandia, also called Terra Advocatorum. The name is said to be derived from an inscription in verse on the wall of the ancient castle of Voigtburg:—
“Castra locans Drusus hîc, Prætoria nomina monti Fecit, posteritas servat et illa sibi.”
If what the ancient poet wrote upon the wall be true, the Roman general, Drusus, must have built that castle of Voigtburg about the year 60 of the Christian æra, and called it arcem prætoriam. As the words prætor and advocatus have the same meaning, the governors (or Voigts) were afterwards called advocati; and this may account for the fact, that the whole country went afterwards by the name of Terra advocatorum, in German Voigtland.
The Voigtland is situated in Upper Saxony, and is bordered on the north by the principality of Altenburg aud the district called Osterland, on the east by Bohemia and the circle of the Erzgebirg, on the west by Thuringia and Franconia, and on the south by part of Upper Saxony. The principal rivers are the Eger, the Saale, and the Elster. The well-known mountain Fichtelberg is also in Voigtland.
Note 2.
↑ Lauenstein.] Several castles and towns in Germany bear this name. There is the castle and town of Lauenstein in the circle of the Erzgebirg in Saxony; a small town of that name in Lower Carinthia; a castle and small town in the kingdom of Hanover; besides the castle and village of Lauenstein in the Voigtland, on the little river of Lockwitz. It is situated close to the Thuringian frontier, and belongs now to the house of Brandenburg.
Note 3.
↑ The Count of Orlamünde was, according to history, in the year 1429, in possession of Lauenstein.
Note 4.
↑ Cagliostro.] There is no doubt that the famous Count Cagliostro was a man of superior talent and abilities, and probably a natural son of some distinguished personage; although, after his death, it was reported that he was the son of a man of low extraction in Palermo, a certain Joseph Balsamo. He died in the castle of St. Angelo in Rome, in the year 1794. Most of his biographers call him an impostor, and give him the worst of characters. There are, however, very strong reasons to doubt the authenticity of the reports against him, as they emanated from the court of Rome, which he would have taken good care not to offend, had he really been a low and common impostor. At any rate, the charges brought against him in the work published at Rome by the Apostolic Chamber bear the stamp of falsehood. That work is entitled “A Compendium of the Life and Actions of Giuseppe Balsamo, otherwise called Count Cagliostro, extracted from the process carried on against him at Rome in the year 1790.” In this work the Apostolic Chamber attributes the impunity which he enjoyed for so many years, and in so many countries, in spite of his crimes (crimes which were not proved at all) to the powerful influence of his relations; accusing him, at the same time, with apostolic indifference to logic, of being low-born, and of belonging to the most abject rabble of Palermo.
The End.
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