By Wilhelm Hauff
Many years ago, while yet the roads in the Spessart were in poor condition and but little traveled, two young journeymen were making their way through this wooded region. The one might have been about eighteen years old, and was by trade a compass-maker; the other was a goldsmith, and, judging from his appearance, could not have been more than sixteen, and was most likely making his first journey out into the world.
Evening was coming on, and the shadows of the giant pines and beeches darkened the narrow road on which the two were walking. The compass-maker stepped bravely forward, whistling a tune, playing occasionally with Munter, his dog, and not seeming to feel much concern that the night was near, while the next inn for journeymen was still far ahead of them. But Felix, the goldsmith, began to look about him anxiously. When the wind rustled through the trees, it sounded to him as if there were steps behind him; when the bushes on either side of the road were stirred, he was sure he caught glimpses of lurking faces.
The young goldsmith was, moreover, neither superstitious nor lacking in courage. In Wuerzburg, where he had learned his trade, he passed among his fellows for a fearless youth, whose heart was in the right spot; but on this day his courage was at a singularly low ebb. He had been told so many things about the Spessart. A large band of robbers were reported as committing depredations there; many travellers had been robbed within a few weeks, and a horrible murder was spoken of as having occurred here not long before. Therefore he felt no little alarm, as they were but two in number and could not successfully resist armed robbers. How often he regretted that he had not stopped over-night at the edge of the forest, instead of agreeing to accompany the compass-maker to the next station!
“And if I am killed to-night, and lose all I have with me, you will be to blame, compass-maker, for you persuaded me to come into this terrible forest,” said he.
“Don’t be a coward,” retorted the other. “A real journeyman should never be afraid. And what is it you are afraid of? Do you think that the lordly robbers of the Spessart would do us the honor to attack and kill us? Why should they give themselves that trouble? To gain possession of the Sunday-coat in my knapsack, or the spare pennies given us by the people on our route? One would have to travel in a coach-and-four, dressed in gold and silks, before the robbers would think it worth their while to kill one.”
“Stop! Didn’t you hear somebody whistle in the woods?” exclaimed Felix, nervously.
“That was the wind whistling through the trees. Walk faster, and we shall soon be out of the wood.”
“Yes, it’s all well enough for you to talk that way about not being killed,” continued the goldsmith; “they would simply ask you what you had, search you, and take away your Sunday-coat and your change. But they would kill me because I carry gold and jewelry with me.”
“Why should they kill you on that account? If four or five were to spring out of the bush there now with loaded rifles pointed at us, and politely inquire, ‘Gentlemen, what have you with you?’ or ‘If agreeable, we will help you carry it,’ or some such elegant mode of address, then you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself, but would open your knapsack and lay the yellow waist-coat, the blue coat, two shirts, and all your necklaces, bracelets, combs, and whatever you had besides, politely on the ground, and be thankful for the life they spared you.”
“You think so, do you?” responded Felix warmly. “You think I would give up the ornament I have here for my godmother, the dear lady countess? Sooner would I part with my life! Sooner would I be hacked into small pieces. Did she not take a mother’s interest in me, and since my tenth year bind me out as apprentice? Has she not paid for my clothes and every thing? And now, when I am about to go to her, to carry her something of my own handiwork that she had ordered of the master; now, that I am able to give her this ornament as a sample of what I have learned; now you think I would give that up, and my yellow waistcoat as well, that she gave me? No, better death than to give to these base men the ornament intended for my godmother!”
“Don’t be a fool!” exclaimed the compass-maker. “If they were to kill you, the countess would still lose the ornament; so it would be much better for you to deliver it up and keep your life.”
Felix did not answer. Night had settled down, and by the uncertain gleam of the new moon he could not see more than five feet before him. He became more and more nervous, kept close by the side of his companion, and was uncertain whether he ought to approve of the arguments of his friend or not. Thus they continued on, side by side for another hour, when they saw a light in the distance. The young goldsmith was of opinion that they should not prematurely rejoice, as the light might come from a den of thieves; but the compass-maker informed him the robbers had their houses or caves under ground, and that this must be the inn that a man had told them of, as they entered the forest.
It was a long, low house, before which a wagon stood; and adjoining the house was a stable from which came the neighing of horses. The compass-maker beckoned his comrade to a window whose shutters were open; and by standing on their toes they were able to look into the room. In a chair before the stove slept a man whose clothes bespoke him a wagoner–very likely the owner of the cart before the door. On the other side of the stove sat a woman and a girl, spinning. Behind the table, close to the wall, sat a man with a glass of wine before him. His head was supported in his hands so that his face could not be seen. But the compass-maker judged from his clothes that he was a man of rank. While they were peeping, a dog in the house began to bark; Munter, the compass-maker’s dog, barked a reply; and a servant-girl appeared at the door and looked out at the strangers.
They were promised supper and a bed; so they entered, and laying their heavy bundles, sticks, and hats in the corner, sat down at the table with the gentleman. He looked up at their greeting, and they perceived him to be a handsome young man, who returned their greeting pleasantly.
“You are late on the road,” said he; “were you not afraid to travel through the Spessart on so dark a night? For my part, I would have stabled my horse in this tavern before I would have ridden an hour longer.”
“You are quite right in that, sir,” responded the compass-maker. “The hoof beats of a fine horse are music in the ears of these highwaymen, and lure them from a great distance; but when a couple of poor journeymen like us steal through the woods–people to whom the robbers would sooner think of making a present than of taking any thing from them–then, they do not lift a foot.”
“That is very likely,” chimed in the wagoner, who, awakened by the arrival of the journeymen, had taken a seat at the table. “They could not very well be attracted by a poor man’s purse, but there have been instances of robbers killing poor people, simply out of thirst for blood, and of forcing others to join the band and serve as robbers.”
“Well, if such are the deeds of these people in the forest, then this house will not afford us very good protection,” observed the young goldsmith. “There are only four of us, or, counting the hostler, five; and if ten men were to attack us here, what could we do against them? And more than this,” he added, in a low tone, “who can guarantee that the people of this inn are honest?”
“Nothing to fear there,” returned the wagoner. “I have known this tavern for more than ten years, and have never seen any thing wrong about it. The master of the house is seldom at home; they say he carries on a wine trade; but his wife is a quiet woman who would not harm any one. No, you do them a wrong, sir.”
“And yet,” interposed the young gentleman, “I should not like to brush aside so lightly what he said. Don’t you remember the reports about those people who suddenly disappeared in this forest and left no trace behind them? Several of them had previously announced their intention of passing the night at this inn; and as two or three weeks passed by without their being heard from, they were searched for, and inquiries made at this inn, when they were assured that the missing men had never been here. It looks suspicious, to say the least.”
“God knows,” cried the compass-maker, “we should do a much more sensible thing if we were to camp out under the next best tree we came to, than to remain within these four walls, where there is no chance of running away when they are once at the door, for the windows are grated.”
All grew very thoughtful over these speeches. It did not seem so very improbable, after all, that these tavern people in the forest, be it under compulsion or of their free accord, were in league with the robbers. The nighttime seemed particularly dangerous to them, for they had all heard many stories of travellers who had been attacked and murdered in their sleep; and even if their lives were not endangered, yet most of the guests of the inn were possessed of such moderate means that the robbery of even a part of their property would have: been a very serious loss to them. They looked dolefully into their glasses. The young gentleman wished himself on the back of his horse, trotting through a safe open valley. The compass-maker wished for twelve of his sturdy comrades, armed with clubs, for a body-guard. Felix, the goldsmith, was more anxious for the safety of the ornament designed for his benefactress, than for his own life. But the wagoner, who had been blowing clouds of smoke before him, said softly: “Gentlemen, at least they shall not surprise us asleep. I, for my part, will remain awake the whole night, if one other will keep watch with me.”
“I will”–”I too,” cried the three others. “And I could not go to sleep,” added the young gentleman.
“Well we had better contrive some means of keeping awake,” said the wagoner. “I think while we number just four people, we might play cards, that would keep us awake and while away the time.”
“I never play cards,” said the young gentleman, “therefore you would have to count me out.”
“Nor do I know any thing about cards,” added Felix.
“What can we do, then, if we don’t play cards,” asked the compass-maker. “Sing? That wouldn’t do, for it would only attract the attention of the robbers. Give one another riddles to guess? That would not last very long. How would it do if we were to tell stories? Humorous or pathetic, true or imaginative, they would keep us awake and pass away the time as well as cards.”
“I am agreed, if you will begin,” said the young gentleman, smiling. “You gentlemen of trades visit all countries, and have something to tell; for every town has its own legends and tales.”
“Yes, certainly, one hears a great deal,” replied the compass-maker. “But, on the other hand, gentlemen like you study diligently in books, where really wonderful things are written; therefore, you would know how to tell a wiser and more entertaining story than a plain journeyman, such as one of us, could pretend to–for unless I am much mistaken you are a student, a scholar.”
“A scholar, no,” laughed the young gentleman; “but certainly a student, and am now on my way home for the vacation. But what one reads in books does not answer for the purpose of a story nearly as well as what one hears. Therefore begin, if the other gentlemen are inclined to listen.”
“Still more than with cards,” responded the wagoner, “am I pleased when I hear a good story told. I often keep my team down to a miserably slow pace, that I may listen to one who walks near by, and has a fine story to tell; and I have taken many a person into my wagon, in bad weather, with the understanding that he should tell me a story; and one of my comrades I love very dearly, for the reason that he knows stories that last for seven hours and even longer.”
“That is also my case,” added the young goldsmith. “I love stories as I do my life; and my master in Wuerzburg had to forbid me books lest I should neglect my work. So tell us something fine, compass-maker; I know that you could tell stories from now until day-break before your stock gave out.”
The compass-maker complied by emptying his glass and beginning his story.
THE HIRSCH-GULDEN.
In Upper-Suabia still stands the walls of a castle that was once the stateliest of the surrounding country, Hohen-Zollern. It rose from the summit of a round steep mountain, from whence one had a distant and unobstructed view of the country. Farther than this castle could be seen from the encircling horizon, was the brave race of the Zollerns feared; and their name was known and honored in all German countries.
There lived several hundred years ago, in this castle, a Zollern, who was by nature a singular man. One could not say that he oppressed his subjects, or that he lived at war with his neighbors; yet no one trusted him, on account of his sullen look, his knitted brow, and his moody, crusty manner. There were few people, outside of the castle servants, who had ever heard him speak properly like other people; for when he rode through the valley, if one met him, gave him the road, and said to him with uncovered head, “Good evening, Sir Count! It is a fine day,” he would answer, “Stupid stuff,” or, “I know it already.” If, however, one had been inattentive to his wants or had neglected his charger, or if a peasant with his cart met him on a narrow road, so that the count could not pass him quickly enough, he broke out into a torrent of curses. Yet it was never said of him on these occasions that he had struck a peasant. But all through this region he was called “The Tempest of Zollern.”
The Tempest of Zollern had a wife who was a complete contrast to himself, and as mild and pleasant as a May morning. Often by her friendly words and her kind glance had she reconciled to her husband people whom he, by his rude speech, had deeply insulted. To the poor she did all the good in her power; nor could the warmest days of Summer or the most terrible snow storms of Winter prevent her from descending the steep mountain to visit poor people or sick children. If the count met her on these errands, he would say in a surly manner, “Know already–stupid stuff,” and proceed on his wa
Many ladies would have been discouraged or intimidated by such a crusty manner; one would have thought, “why should I concern myself with poor people when my husband calls it all stupid stuff?” another, through pride or sorrow, might have lost her love for so moody a husband; but not so with the Countess Hedwig of Zollern. She was constant in her affection, strove to smooth the lines on his brow with her beautiful white hand, and loved and honored him. And when after a long time Heaven bestowed upon them the gift of a son, she loved her husband none the less while conferring all the duties of a tender mother on her little boy.
The Tempest of Zollern and Countess Hedwig of Zollern
Three years went by, and the Count of Zollern saw his son only on Sunday afternoons, when the child was handed to him by the nurse. He looked at him without changing a feature of his face, growled something through his beard, and gave him back to the nurse. But when the boy was able to say “father,” the count gave the nurse a gulden, but showed no pleasanter face to the boy.
On his third birthday, however, the count had his son put on the first pair of breeches and had him dressed splendidly in velvet and silk. Then he ordered his horse, and also another fine horse for his son, took the child up on his arm, and began to descend the spiral staircase. The countess was astonished as she saw this. She was not accustomed to inquire where he was going and when he would return; but this time anxiety for her child opened her lips.
“Are you going to ride out, Sir Count?” she asked. He made no reply. “For what purpose do you take the child?” continued she, “Cuno will take a walk with me.”
“Know already,” replied the Tempest of Zollern; and kept on his way till he stood in the court-yard, where he took the boy by one of his little feet and lifted him into the saddle, bound him fast, and then swinging himself on his horse, trotted out of the castle gate with the bridle of his son’s horse in his hand.
At first the little fellow regarded it as a great treat to ride down the mountain with his father. He clapped his hands, laughed, shook the mane of his horse to make him go faster, all of which pleased the count so much that he called out several times: “You will make a brave lad!”
But when they came to the foot of the mountain, and the count’s horse began to trot, the boy lost his courage, and begged, at first very quietly, that his father would ride slower; but as the count spurred on his horse, and the strong wind nearly took poor Cuno’s breath away, the boy began to cry, became more and more impatient, and finally howled at the top of his lungs.
“Know already! stupid stuff!” began his father. “The young one howls on his first ride; be still, or—-”
But in the moment he was about to stop the boy’s cries by a curse, his horse reared, and the bridle of his son’s horse slipped from his hand. He gave his attention to quieting his horse, and when he had mastered it and looked around for his child, he saw the other horse running up the mountain without its little rider.
Stern and unfeeling as was the Count of Zollern, this sight struck him to the heart. He believed his son had been dashed to the ground and killed. He pulled his beard and groaned; but nowhere could he find a trace of the boy. He had just began to think that the frightened horse had thrown him into the ditch that ran along the road, full of water, when he heard a child’s voice call his name, and as he quickly turned, there sat an old woman under a tree, not far from the road, rocking the child on her knees.
“How do you come by that boy, old witch?” shouted the count angrily. “Bring him to me at once.”
“Not so fast, not so fast, your Honor!” laughed the ugly old woman, “or you too might meet with an accident on your proud horse. How did I come by the boy, did you ask? Well, his horse ran by and he was hanging down by one little foot, with his hair touching the ground, when I caught him in my apron.”
“Know already!” cried the Count of Zollern, ill-humoredly. “Bring him here now; I can not very well dismount, my horse is wild and might kick him.”
“Give me a hirsch-gulden, then,” pleaded the woman humbly.
“Stupid stuff!” cried the count, and flung some copper coins to her under the tree.
“Oh, no! Come, I could make good use of a hirsch-gulden,” continued the old woman.
“What, a hirsch-gulden! You are not worth that much yourself!” said the count angrily. “Quick with that child, or I will set the dogs on you!”
“So, I am not worth a hirsch-gulden, eh?” replied the old woman with a mocking laugh. “Well, it shall be seen what part of your heritage is worth a hirsch-gulden; but there, keep your money!” So saying, she tossed the three copper coins to the count; and so well could the old woman throw, that all three of the coins fell into the purse that the count still held in his hand.
The count was struck dumb with astonishment at this exhibition of skill, but at last his surprise was changed into anger. He grasped his gun, cocked it, and took aim at the old woman. But she, unmoved, hugged and kissed the boy, holding him up before her so as to protect herself from the bullet. “You are a good little fellow,” said she. “Only remain so, and you will never want for any thing.” Then she let him go, shook her finger threateningly at the count, and said: “Zollern, Zollern! you owe me a hirsch-gulden!” With that she moved off slowly into the forest, leaning on a staff of box-wood. Conrad, the attendant, dismounted from his horse trembling, lifted his little master into the saddle, vaulted up behind him, and followed the count up to the castle.
This was the first and last time that the Tempest of Zollern took his son out riding with him; for because the boy had cried when his horse broke into a trot, the count regarded him as a spiritless child out of whom nothing was to be made, and looked on him with displeasure; and when the boy, who loved his father dearly, came in a friendly, coaxing way to his knee, he would motion him to go away, exclaiming: “Know it already! Stupid stuff!”
The countess had patiently borne all the unpleasant caprices of her husband, but this unfatherly behavior towards an innocent child affected her deeply. She fell sick several times with terror, when the sullen count had punished the boy severely for some trivial offense, and died at last in her best years, and was mourned by her servants, by the people for miles around, but especially by her little son.
From this time forth the aversion of the count for his son steadily progressed. He turned the lad over to the nurse and the house-chaplain to bring up, and looked after him but little himself–especially as shortly after his wife’s death he married a rich young lady, who in a twelvemonth presented him with twins.
Cuno’s favorite walk was to the house of the old woman who had once saved his life. She told him many things about his dead mother, and how much the countess had done for her. The men and maid-servants often warned him that he should not visit the Frau Feldheimerin so often, because she was nothing more nor less than a witch; but the boy was not frightened by their tales, as the chaplain had taught him that there were no witches, and that the stories that certain women could bewitch one, and ride through the air on broomsticks to the Brocken Mountains, were lies. To be sure, he had seen many things about Frau Feldheimerin that he could not understand; the trick with the three coins that she had thrown so cleverly into his father’s purse, he remembered distinctly. Then too she could prepare all manner of salves and decoctions with which she healed people and cattle; but it was not true, as was said of her, that she had a weather-pan, which, whenever she placed it over the fire, produced a terrible thunder-storm. She taught the little count much that was useful to him–various remedies for sick horses, a drink to cure hydrophobia, a bait for fishes, and many other things. The Frau Feldheimerin was soon his only company, for his nurse died, and his step-mother did not trouble herself much about him.
Frau Feldheimerin was soon his only company
With his half-brothers, Cuno had a more sorrowful life than before. They had the good fortune to stick to their horses on their first ride, and the Tempest of Zollern, therefore, regarded them as apt and promising boys, and took them out to ride every day, and taught them all that he knew himself.
But they did not learn much that was good from him, for he could neither read nor write, and he would not have his two precious sons wasting their time over such matters; but by the time they were ten years old they could swear as terribly as their father, quarreled with everybody, lived together as peacefully as would a dog and cat, and only when they joined hands to do Cuno a wrong were they at all friendly with each other.
Their mother did not grieve over this state of things, as she considered it healthful and strengthening for the boys to fight; but a servant told the count about their quarrels one day, and although he answered, “Know it already! stupid stuff!” yet he tried to hit upon some plan for the future that would prevent his sons from killing each other, as he dreaded that threat of the Frau Feldheimerin, whom he held to be a witch: “Well, it shall be seen what part of your heritage is worth a hirsch-gulden.”
One day as he was hunting in the vicinity of his castle, his attention was attracted by two mountains, which from their form seemed well adapted for castles; and he at once resolved to build there. Upon one of these mountains he built the Castle Schalksberg, naming it after the smaller of the twins, who, on account of his many naughty tricks, had long ago received the nickname of the little Schalk from his father. The castle he built on the other hill he thought at first of calling Hirschguldenberg, in order to propitiate the old witch, because she did not esteem his heritage worth a hirsch-gulden; but he finally concluded to give it the simple name of Hirschberg. Such are the names of the two mountains to-day; and he who travels through the Suabian Alps can have them pointed out to him.
The Tempest of Zollern had at first designed to make a will bequeathing Zollern to his eldest son, Schalksberg to the little Schalk, and Hirschberg to the other twin; but his wife did not rest until he had changed it. “The stupid Cuno–” such was the way she spoke of the poor boy, because he was not so wild and ungovernable as her sons–”the stupid Cuno is rich enough from what he inherited from his mother, without getting the beautiful castle of Zollern. And shall my sons get only a castle, to which nothing belongs but a forest?”
It was in vain that the count represented to her that one could not justly rob Cuno of his birthright; she wept and scolded, until the Tempest of Zollern who never gave way to any one, at last, for the sake of peace, surrendered to her, and willed Schalksberg to Schalk, Zollern to Wolf, the larger of the twins, and Hirschberg, with the village of Balinger, to Cuno. Soon afterwards he was taken severely ill. When the doctor told him he was going to die, he replied, “Know it already;” and when the chaplain begged him to prepare for the future life, he answered, “Stupid stuff,” cursed and stormed, and died, as he had lived, a great sinner.
But before his body was laid to rest, the countess produced the will, and sneeringly told Cuno that he might show his learning by reading what was written therein–namely, that he no longer had any business at Zollern. With her sons she rejoiced over the fine estate and the two castles which they had taken away from him, the first-born.
Cuno submitted, without complaint, to the provisions of the will; but with tears, he took leave of the castle where he was born, where his mother lay buried, and where the good chaplain lived, while not far away was the home of his only woman friend, Frau Feldheimerin. The castle of Hirschberg was, it is true, a fine stately building; but still it was so lonely and desolate for him, that he felt very homesick.
The countess and the twin brothers, who were now eighteen years old, sat one evening on the balcony looking down the mountain-side, when they perceived a stately knight riding up the road, followed by several servants and two mules bearing a sedan chair. They speculated for some time as to who he might be, when at last the little Schalk cried out: “Why, that is no other than our brother from Hirschberg!”
“The stupid Cuno!” said the countess in surprise. “Why, he is about to do us the honor of inviting us to visit him, and has brought along that splendid sedan to carry me to Hirschberg. Such kindness and politeness I had not given my son, the stupid Cuno, the credit of possessing. One politeness deserves another; let us go down to the gate to receive him; look pleased to see him, and perhaps he will make us some presents at Hirschberg–you a horse, and you a harness; and I have long wished to own his mother’s ornaments.”
“I don’t want any presents from the stupid Cuno,” replied Wolf, “neither will I appear glad to see him; and for aught I care, he might follow our blessed father; then we should inherit Hirschberg and everything, and to you, madame, we would sell those ornaments at a low price.”
“Indeed, you good-for-nothing!” exclaimed his mother angrily, “I should have to buy the ornaments, should I? Is that your gratitude for my procuring Zollern for you? Little Schalk, I can have the ornaments free, can I not?
“No pay, no work, lady mother!” replied Schalk, laughing. “And if it be true that the ornaments are worth as much as most castles are, we certainly should not be fools enough to hang them around your neck. As soon as Cuno shuts his eyes for good, we will ride over there, divide every thing, and I will sell my part of the ornaments. Then if you will give more than the Jew, you shall have them.”
Thus speaking, they came to the castle gate, and the countess had great difficulty in concealing the rage she felt, as Count Cuno rode over the draw-bridge. When he saw his step-mother and brothers standing there, he stopped his horse, dismounted, and greeted them politely; for although they had done him much wrong, still he remembered that they were his brothers and that his father had loved this woman.
“Well, this is nice to have my son visit us,” said the countess, in a sweet voice, and with a gracious smile. “How do you like Hirschberg? Can one feel at home there? And you have furnished yourself with a sedan. Why, how splendid it is! an empress would have no cause to be ashamed of it; a wife will not be long wanting, I’m thinking, to ride around the country in it.”
“I have not thought about that yet, gracious mother,” replied Cuno, “and will therefore take home other company for my entertainment; for this purpose I have brought along the sedan.”
“Why, you are very kind and thoughtful,” interrupted the countess, as she bowed and smiled.
“For he can not ride a horse very well now,” continued Cuno, quietly. “Father Joseph, I mean, the chaplain. I will take him home with me, for he is my old teacher, and we made that arrangement when I left Zollern. I will also pick up the old Frau Feldheimerin at the foot of the mountain. Why, bless me, she’s as old as the hills, and saved my life once when I rode out for the first time with my blessed father. I have plenty of room in Hirschberg, and she shall live and die there.” So saying, he passed through the court-yard to call the chaplain.
The youngster Wolf bit his lips angrily; the countess became livid with rage; while Schalk laughed aloud. “What will you give me for the horse that I received as a present from him?” said he. “Brother Wolf, will you trade off your harness for it? Is he going to take home the chaplain and the old witch? They will make a fine pair; in the forenoon he can learn Greek from the chaplain, and in the afternoon take lessons in witchcraft from Frau Feldheimerin. Why, what kind of tricks is the stupid Cuno up to!”
Father Joseph, the chaplain
“He is a low, vulgar fellow,” cried the countess, “and you shouldn’t laugh about it, little Schalk. It is a shame for the whole family, and we shall be the sport of the neighborhood when it is reported that the Count of Zollern has fetched the old witch home to live with him in a splendid sedan. He gets that from his mother, who was also familiar with the sick and with miserable servants. Alas, his father would turn in his coffin if he could know of it.”
“Yes,” added Schalk, “father would say in his grave: ‘Know already! stupid stuff!’”
“As sure as you live! there he comes now with the old man, and is not ashamed to take him by the arm,” exclaimed the countess, in disgust. “Come, I don’t wish to meet him again.”
They went off, and Cuno conducted his old teacher to the drawbridge, and assisted him into the sedan. They stopped at the foot of the mountain, before the hut of Frau Feldheimerin, and found her waiting with a bundle full of glasses, dishes, and medicines.
But Cuno’s action was not looked at in the light prophesied by the countess. It was thought to be noble and praiseworthy that he should try to cheer the last days of the old Frau Feldheimerin, and that he should take Father Joseph into his castle. The only ones who disliked and slandered him were his brothers and his stepmother. But only to their own hurt; for everybody took an aversion to such unnatural brothers, and by way of retaliation the story went that they lived in continual strife with their mother and did all they could to harm one another. Count Cuno made several attempts to reconcile his brothers to himself, for it was unbearable to him when they rode by his castle without stopping, or when they met him in the field and forest and greeted him as coldly as though he were a stranger. But his attempts failed, and only increased their bitterness towards him.
One day a plan occurred to him by which he might perhaps win their hearts, for he knew that they were miserly and avaricious. There was a pond situated at about an equal distance from the three castles, but lying in Cuno’s domain. This pond contained the finest pike and carp to be found any where; and it was one of the chief grievances of the twin-brothers, who were fond of fishing, that their father had not included this pond in the land he had given them. They were too proud to fish there without their brother’s knowledge, neither would they ask permission of him. But Cuno knew that his brothers had set their hearts on this pond, so he sent an invitation to them to meet him there on a certain day.
It was a beautiful Spring morning, as, nearly at the same moment, the three brothers from the three castles met.
“Why, look you!” said Schalk; “we are well met! I rode away from Schalksberg just on the stroke of seven.”
“So did I,”–”and I,” repeated the brothers from Hirschberg and Zollern.
“Well, then, the pond must lie precisely in the middle,” continued Schalk. “It is a beautiful sheet of water.”
“Yes, and for that reason did I choose this spot for our meeting. I know that you are both fond of fishing, and although I sometimes throw a line myself, yet there are fish enough here for three castles, and on these banks there is room enough for us three, even were we all to meet here at the same time. Therefore, I propose from this time forth that this pond shall be the common property of us three, and each one of you shall have the same rights here that I do.”
“Why, our brother is certainly graciously minded,” said Schalk, in a jeering way. “He really gives us six acres of water and a few hundred little fishes! And what shall we have to give in return?”
“You shall have it free,” said Cuno. “I should like to see and speak with you at this pond now and then. We are the sons of one father.”
“No,” exclaimed Schalk; “that would not do at all, for there is nothing more silly than to fish in company; one is always frightening off the other’s fishes. We might, however, decide on days for each one–say Monday and Thursday for you, Cuno, Tuesday and Friday for Wolf, and Wednesday and Saturday for me. Such an arrangement would suit me.”
“But I won’t agree to that,” cried the surly Wolf. “I don’t want any free gift, neither will I divide my rights with any one. You were right, Cuno, in making your offer, for in justice the pond belongs as much to one as to the other; but let us throw the dice to decide who shall have the entire ownership for the future, and if I am more fortunate than you, then you will have to come to me for permission to fish.”
“I never throw,” replied Cuno, sad at this display of obduracy on the part of his brothers.
“Of course not,” sneered Schalk. “Our brother is so pious that he thinks it is a deadly sin to throw dice. But I will make another proposal, to which the most religious recluse could offer no objection: Let us get some bait and hooks, and he who shall have caught the most fish this morning when the bell of Zollern strikes twelve, will be the owner of the pond.”
“I am truly a fool,” responded Cuno, “to strive for that which is mine by right of inheritance; but that you may see that my offer of a division was made in earnest, I will fetch my fishing tackle.”
They rode home, each one to his own castle. The twins sent their servants out in all haste, with orders to turn over all the old stones near by, and to collect what worms they found underneath them for bait. But Cuno took his usual fishing tackle, together with the bait which Frau Feldheimerin had once learned him to prepare, and was the first to reach the pond again. On the arrival of the twins he allowed them the first choice of position, and then threw in his own line. Then it was as if the fish seemed to recognize in him the owner of the pond. Whole schools of carp and pike drew near and swarmed about his line. The oldest and largest crowded the small fry aside; every moment he landed a fish, and each time he cast his line twenty or thirty darted at the hook with open mouths. Before two hours had passed, the ground around him was covered with fish; then he laid down his line and went over to where his brothers sat, to see how they were getting along. Schalk had one poor little carp and two paltry shiners; while Wolf had caught three barbels and two little gudgeons, and both looked sadly down into the water, for they had seen from their place the vast number that Cuno had caught.
When Cuno approached his brother Wolf, the latter sprang up in a rage, tore off his line, broke his rod into small pieces and flung them into the pond. “I wish I had a thousand hooks to throw in there, instead of one, and that a fish, was wriggling on every one of them,” cried he; “but this could never have occurred in a natural way, it is sorcery and witchcraft, or how should you, stupid Cuno, catch more fish in one hour than I could take in a year?”
“Yes, that’s so,” echoed Schalk. “I remember now that he learned how to fish from that vile witch, Frau Feldheimerin; and we were fools to fish with him; he will be a wizard himself one of these days.”
“You wicked fellows!” returned Cuno, sadly. “I have had time enough this morning to get an insight into your avarice, your shamelessness, and your insolence. Go now, and never return here; and believe it would be better for your souls if you were half as pious and good as she whom you have called a witch.”
“No, she is not a genuine witch,” sneered Schalk. “Such wives can prophesy; but Frau Feldheimerin is about as much of a prophetess as a goose is a swan. Didn’t she tell our father that one would be able to buy a good part of his heritage for a hirsch-gulden? And yet at his death everything within sight of the towers of Zollern belonged to him. Frau Feldheimerin is nothing more than a silly old hag, and you the stupid Cuno.”
Thus saying, Schalk ran off as fast as he could, for he feared the strong arm of his brother Cuno; and Wolf followed him, shouting back all the cursed he had learned from his father.
Grieved to the soul, Cuno returned home; for he now saw plainly that his brothers would never be reconciled to him. And he took their bitter words so seriously to heart that he fell sick the next day, and only the consoling words of good Father Joseph, and the strengthening remedies of Frau Feldheimerin, rescued him from death.
But when his brothers heard that Cuno lay very sick, they sat down to a jovial banquet, and over their cups made an agreement that the one who should be the first to hear of his death was to fire off a cannon, in order to notify the other of the event, and he who fired first might take the best cask of wine in Cuno’s cellar. From this time forth Wolf stationed a watchman in the vicinity of Hirschberg, while Schalk bribed one of Cuno’s servants with a large sum of money, to inform him, without delay, when Cuno was breathing his last.
But this servant was more faithful to his good and gentle master than to the wicked Count of Schalksberg. He inquired one evening of Frau Feldheimerin, very solicitously, after his master’s health, and when she told him that the count was doing quite well, he related to her the project of the brothers of firing off guns when the Count Cuno should die. The old woman was infuriated, and quickly repeated this story to the count, who could hardly believe his brothers were so utterly heartless; so she advised him to put the matter to the proof by spreading a report of his death. The count summoned the servant to whom his brother had given a bribe, questioned him closely, and then ordered him to ride to Schalksberg and announce his approaching death.
As the servant was riding hastily down the hill, he was seen and stopped by the servant of Count Wolf, who asked him where he was riding to in such a hurry. “Alas!” was his reply, “my poor master will not outlive the night, they have all given him up.”
“Indeed! Has his time come?” cried the spy, as he ran to his horse, ‘sprang on his back, and rode so fast towards Zollern, that his horse sank down at the gate, and he was himself only able to call out: “Count Cuno is dying!” before he fell down senseless. Thereupon, the cannon of Hohen-Zollern thundered, and Count Wolf rejoiced with his mother, in anticipation of the cask of wine, over the castle and its belongings, the jewels, the pond, and the echo of his cannon.
But what he had taken for its echo, was the cannon of Schalksberg, and Wolf said smilingly to his mother: “It seems Schalk has had a spy there too, and therefore he and I will have to divide the wine equally, as well as the rest of the property.” With this he mounted his horse, fearing lest Schalk should arrive at Hirschberg before he did, and perhaps take away some of the jewels of the deceased. But the twins met at the fish-pond, and each blushed before the other, so apparent was the desire of both to be the first-comer at Hirschberg. They said not a word about Cuno, as they continued on their way together, but discussed in a brotherly manner how things should be arranged in the future, and to which of them Hirschberg should belong. But as they rode over the draw-bridge into the court, they saw their brother, safe and sound, looking out of the window; but anger and scorn flashed from his features.
The brothers shrank back in terror, taking him at first to be a ghost, and crossed themselves; but when they saw that he was still in flesh and blood, Wolf exclaimed:
“Stupid stuff! I thought you were dead.”
“Omittance is no quittance,” said Schalk, darting up at his half-brother a venomous look.
Cuno replied in a threatening voice: “From this hour, all bonds of brotherhood between us are broken. I heard the salute you fired; but know this, that I have five field-pieces here in the court that were loaded to do you honor. Take care to keep out of the range of my cannon, or you shall have a sample of our shooting at Hirschberg.”
They did not wait to be spoken to a second time, for they saw that their brother was fully in earnest; so they gave their horses the spurs and raced down the mountain, while their brother sent a parting shot after them, that whistled above their heads, so that they both made a low and polite bow together; but he only wished to frighten and not to wound them.
“Why did you fire off your gun?” asked Schalk of his brother Wolf, in an ill-humored lone. “I only shot because I heard your gun, you fool!”
“On the contrary,” replied Wolf. “I’ll leave it to mother if you were not the first to shoot; and you have brought this disgrace on us, you little badger.”
Schalk returned all his brother’s epithets with interest; and when they came to the pond, they hurled at one another some of the choicest curses that the “Tempest of Zollern” had bequeathed them, and parted in hate and anger.
Shortly after this occurrence, Cuno made his will, and Frau Feldheimerin said to Father Joseph: “I would wager something that he has not left much to the twins.” But with all her curiosity, and much as she urged her favorite, he would not tell her what was written in the will; nor did she ever learn, for a year afterwards the good woman passed away in spite of her salves and potions. She died, not of any disease, but of her ninety-eighth year, which might well bring even the most healthy person to the grave. Count Cuno had her buried with as much ceremony as if she had been his own mother and not a poor old woman, and he grew more and more lonely in his castle, especially as Father Joseph soon followed Frau Feldheimerin.
Still he did not suffer this solitude very long; for in his twenty-eighth year the good Cuno died, and, as wicked people asserted, of poison administered by Schalk. Be that as it may, some hours after his death the thunder of cannon was heard once more from Zollern and Schalksberg.
“This time he will have to acknowledge the truth of the reports,” said Schalk to his brother Wolf, as they met on the road to Hirschberg.
“Yes,” answered Wolf; “but even if he should rise from the dead and abuse us from the window as before, I have a rifle with me that will make him polite and dumb.”
As they rode up the castle hill, they were joined by a horseman with his retinue, whom they did not know. They believed, however, that he must be a friend of their brother’s who had come to attend the funeral. Therefore they demeaned themselves as mourners, were loud in their praises of the deceased, lamented his early death, and Schalk even managed to squeeze out a few crocodile tears. The stranger paid no attention to what they said, but rode silently by their side up to the castle. “Now, then, we will make ourselves comfortable; and, butler, bring some wine, the very best!” cried Wolf, as he dismounted. They went up the spiral staircase into the salon, where they were followed by the silent stranger; and just as the twins had sat down to the table, he took from his purse a silver coin, and throwing it down on the slate table, where it rolled about and settled down with a ring, said:
“Then and there you have your inheritance; it is a good piece of silver, a hirsch-gulden.”
The two brothers looked at one another in astonishment, laughed, and asked him what he meant by this.
The stranger, by way of reply, produced a parchment, attached to which were many seals, in which Cuno had recorded all the instances of malevolence that his brothers had shown him in his life-time, and at the close decreed and made known that his entire estate, real and personal, with the exception of his mother’s jewels, should, in the event of his death, become the property of Wuertemberg, in consideration of a pitiful hirsch-gulden! But with his mother’s jewels, a poor-house should be built in the town of Balingen.
The brothers were astonished anew; but instead of laughing this time, they ground their teeth together, for they could not hope to dispute the claim of Wuertemberg. They had lost the beautiful castle, the forest and field, the town of Balingen, and even the fish-pond, and inherited nothing but a miserable hirsch-gulden. This, Wolf stuck into his purse with a defiant air, put on his cap, passed the Wuertemberg officer without a word, sprang on his horse, and rode back to Zollern.
When, on the following morning, his mother reproached him with having trifled away the estate and jewels, he rode over to Schalksberg and said to his brother:
“Shall we gamble with our inheritance, or drink it up?”
“Let’s drink it away,” replied Schalk; “then we shall both have won. We will ride down to Balingen and let the people see our disdain, even if we have lost the village in a most outrageous manner.”
“And at ‘The Lamb’ tavern they have as good red wine as any the emperor drinks,” added Wolf.
So they rode down together to “The Lamb,” and inquired the cost of a quart of this red wine, and drank the worth of the gulden. Then Wolf got up, took from his purse the silver coin with the leaping stag stamped on it, threw it down on the table, and said:
“There’s your gulden, that will make it right.”
But the landlord picked up the gulden, looked at it first on one side and then on the other, and said smilingly:
“Yes, if it was any thing but a hirsch-gulden; but last night the messenger came from Stuttgart, and early this morning it was proclaimed in the name of the Count of Wuertemberg, to whom this town now belongs, that these coins would be no longer current; so give me some other money.”
The brothers looked at one another in dismay. “Pay up,” said one. “Haven’t you got any change?” replied the other; and, in short, they were obliged to remain in debt to “The Lamb” for a gulden.
They started back “home without speaking to one another until they came to the cross-road, where the road to the right ran to Zollern and the one to the left to Schalksberg. Then Schalk said:
“How now? We have inherited less than nothing; and moreover, the wine was miserable.”
“Yes, to be sure,” replied his brother, “but what Frau Feldheimerin said, has come to pass: ‘We shall see what part of your inheritance is worth a hirsch-gulden.’ And now we were not able to pay for even a measure of wine with it.”
“Know it already!” answered he of Schalksberg.
“Stupid stuff!” returned the Count of Zollern, as he rode off moodily, towards his castle.
“That is the Legend of the Hirsch-Gulden,” concluded the compass-maker, “and said to be a true one. The landlord at Duerrwangen, which is situated near the three castles, related it to one of my best friends, who often acted as guide through the Suabian Alps, and always put up at Duerrwangen.”
The guests applauded the compass-maker’s story. “What curious things one hears in the world!” exclaimed the wagoner. “Really, I feel glad now that we did not spoil the time with cards; this is much better, and so interested was I in the story, that I can tell it to-morrow to my comrades without missing a single word of it.”
“While you were telling your story, something came into my mind,” said the student.
“Oh, tell it, tell it!” pleaded the compass-maker and Felix.
“Very well,” replied he, “it makes no difference whether my turn comes now or later. Still, what I tell you must be considered in confidence, for the incidents are reported to have really occurred.”
He changed his position to a more comfortable one, and was just about to begin his story, when the landlady put away her distaff and went up to her guests at the table. “It is time now, gentlemen, to go to bed,” said she. “It has struck nine, and to-morrow will be another day.”
“Well, go to bed then,” said the student. “Set another bottle of wine on the table for us, and we won’t keep you up any longer.”
“By no means,” returned she, fretfully; “so long as guests remain in the public-room, it is not possible for the landlady and servants to retire. And once for all, gentlemen, I must request you to go to your rooms; the time hangs heavy on me, and there shall be no carousing in my house after nine o’clock.”
“What’s the matter with you, landlady?” said the compass-maker in surprise. “What harm can it do you if we sit here even after you have gone to sleep? We are honest people, and won’t run off with any thing, nor leave without paying. I won’t be ordered around in this way in any tavern.”
The woman’s eyes flashed angrily. “Do you suppose I will change the rules of my house to suit every ragamuffin of a journeyman and every vagrant who pays me only twelve kreuzers? I tell you for the last time that I won’t submit to this nuisance.”
The compass-maker was about to make a retort, when the student gave him a significant look, winked at the others, and said: “Very well, if the landlady will have it so, then let us go up to our rooms. But we should like some candles to find our way.”
“I cannot accommodate you in that,” responded the landlady, sullenly; “the others can find their way in the dark, and this stump of a candle will suffice for your needs; it’s all I have in the house.”
The young gentleman got up and took the light without replying. The others followed him, the journeymen taking their bundles up with them to keep them near their side.
When they got up to the head of the stairs, the student cautioned them to step very lightly, opened his door, and beckoned them to come in. “There can now be no doubt,” said he, “that she means to betray us. Did you not notice how anxious she was to have us go to bed, and the means she took to prevent our remaining awake and together? She probably thinks that we will go to bed now, and thus play into her hands.”
“But do you think that escape is impossible?” asked Felix. “In the forest one might more reasonably hope for rescue than in this room.”
“These windows are also grated,” said the student, vainly trying to wrench out one of the iron bars. “There is but one way by which we can get out, if we wish to escape, and that is by way of the front door; but I do not believe that they would let us out.”
“We might make the attempt,” said the wagoner; “I will see whether I can get into the yard. If it is possible then I will return for you.”
The others assented to this proposal, so the wagoner took off his shoes and stole on tiptoe to the stair-case, while his companions listened anxiously from their room. He had got half-way down, safely and unnoticed, when suddenly a bull-dog rose up before him, placed its paws on his shoulders, and displayed a gleaming set of teeth right before his face. He did not dare to step either forward or backward, for at the least movement the dog would have seized him by the throat. At the same time the dog began to growl and bark, until the landlady and hostler appeared with lights.
“Where were you going? What do you want? cried the woman.
“I wanted to fetch something from my cart,” answered the wagoner trembling in every limb; for as the door opened he had caught a glimpse of several dark suspicious faces of armed men in the room.
“You might have done that before you went upstairs,” replied the woman crossly. “Come here, Fassan! Jacob, lock the yard-gate and light the man out to his wagon.”
The dog drew back his muzzle from the wagoner’s face, removed his paws from the man’s shoulders, and lay down once more across the stair-way. In the meantime the hostler had secured the yard-gate, and now lighted the wagoner to his cart. An escape was not to be thought of. But when he came to consider what he should take from his wagon, he recollected that he had a pound of wax candles that were to be delivered in the next town. “That short piece of candle won’t last more than fifteen minutes longer,” said he to himself, “and yet we must have light!” He therefore took two wax candles from the wagon, concealed them in his sleeve, and also took his cloak as an excuse for his errand, telling the hostler that he needed it for a blanket.
Without further incident he got back to the room upstairs. He told his companions about the big dog that guarded the stair-case, of the glimpse he had caught of the armed men, and of all the precautions that had been taken to prevent their escape; and concluded with a groan: “We shall not survive the night.”
“I don’t think that,” said the student. “I cannot believe that these people would be so foolish as to take the lives of four men for the sake of the few little things we have with us. But we had better not try to defend ourselves. For my part I shall lose the most; my horse is already in their hands, and it cost me fifty ducats only four weeks ago; my purse and my clothes I will give up willingly, for after all my life is dearer to me than all these.”
“You talk sensibly,” responded the wagoner. “Such things as you have can be easily replaced; but I am the messenger from Aschaffenburg, and have all kinds of goods in my wagon, and in the stable two fine horses, all I possess in the world.”
“I can hardly believe that they would harm you,” said the goldsmith; “the robbery of a messenger would cause an alarm to be given all through the country. But then I agree with what the young gentleman said: sooner would I give up every thing I possess, and bind myself with an oath never to speak of this matter and never to make complaint against them, than to attempt to defend my little property against people who have rifles and pistols.”
During these words, the wagoner had taken out his wax candles. He stuck them on the table and lighted them. “Here let us await, in the name of God, whatever may happen to us,” said he; “let us sit down together again, and banish sleep with stories.”
“We will do that,” answered the student; “and as the turn came to me down-stairs, I will now begin.”
