Part 8

"And what of that?" said Aucassin. "Who is it that win to heaven? Old priests, and cripples that grovel and pray at altars, and tattered beggars that die of cold and hunger. These only go to heaven, and I do not want their company. So I will go to hell. For there go all good scholars and the brave knights that died in wars, and sweet ladies that had many lovers, and harpers, and minstrels, and great kings. Give me but my Nicolette, and gladly I will keep them company."

_II.--Love's Song in a Dungeon_

Aucassin returned very sorrowfully to the castle, and there his father put him into a dungeon.

Aucassin is cast and bound In a dungeon underground; Never does the sunlight fall Shining on his prison wall; Only one faint ray of it Glimmers down a narrow slit. But does Aucassin forget His sweet lady, Nicolette? Listen! He is singing there, And his song is all of her: "Though for love of thee I die In this dungeon where I lie, Wonder of the world, I will Worship thee and praise thee still! By the beauty of thy face, By the joy of thy embrace, By the rapture of thy kiss, And thy body's sweetnesses, Miracle of loveliness, Comfort me in my distress! Surely, 'twas but yesterday, That the pilgrim came this way-- Weak and poor and travel-worn-- Who in Limousin was born. With the falling sickness, he Stricken was full grievously. He had prayed to many a saint For the cure of his complaint; But no healing did he get Till he saw my Nicolette. Even as he lay down to die, Nicolette came walking by. On her shining limbs he gazed, As her kirtle she upraised. And he rose from off the ground, Healed and joyful, whole and sound. Miracle of loveliness, Comfort me in my distress!"

As Aucassin was singing in his dungeon, Nicolette was devising how to get out of her tower. It was now summer time, in the month of May, when the day is warm, long and clear, and the night still and serene. Nicolette lay on her bed, and the moonlight streamed through the window, and the nightingale sang in the garden below; and she thought of Aucassin, her lover, whom she loved, and of Count Garin, who hated her.

"I will stay here no longer," said Nicolette, "or the count will find me and kill me."

The old woman that was set to watch over her was asleep. Nicolette put on her fine silken kirtle, and took the bedclothes and knotted them together, and made a rope. This she fastened to the bar of her window, and so got down from the tower. Then she lifted up her kirtle with both hands, because the dew was lying deep on the grass, and went away down the garden.

Her locks were yellow and curled; her eyes blue-grey and laughing; her lips were redder than the cherry or rose in summertime; her teeth white and small; so slim was her waist that you could have clipped her in your two hands; and so firm were her breasts that they rose against her bodice as if they were two apples. The daisies that bent above her instep, and broke beneath her light tread, looked black against her feet; so white the maiden was.

She came to the postern gate, and unbarred it, and went out through the streets of Beaucaire, keeping always in the shadows, for the moon was shining. And so she got to the dungeon where her lover, Aucassin, lay. She thrust her head through the chink, and there she heard Aucassin grieving for her whom he loved so much.

"Ah, Aucassin!" she said. "Never will you have joy of me. Your father hates me to death, and I must cross the sea, and go to some strange land."

"If you were to go away," said Aucassin, "you would kill me. The first man that saw you would take you to his bed. And, then, do you think I would wait till I found a knife? No! I would dash my head to pieces against a wall or a rock."

"Ah!" she said. "I love you more than you love me."

"Nay, my sweet lady," said he. "Woman cannot love man as much as man loves woman. Woman only loves with her eyes; man loves with his heart."

Aucassin and Nicolette were thus debating, when the soldiers of the count came marching down the street. Their swords were drawn, and they were seeking for Nicolette to slay her.

"God, it were a great pity to kill so fair a maid!" said the warden of the dungeon. "My young lord Aucassin would die of it, and that would be a great loss to Beaucaire. Would that I could warn Nicolette!"

And with that, he struck up a merry tune, but the words he sang to it were not merry.

Lady with the yellow hair, Lovely, sweet and debonair, Now take heed. Death comes on thee unaware. Turn thee now; oh, turn and flee; Death is coming suddenly. And the swords Flash that seek to murder thee.

"May God reward you for your fair words!" said Nicolette.

Wrapping herself in her mantle, she hid in the shadows until the soldiers went by. Then she said farewell to Aucassin, and climbed up the castle-wall where it had been broken in the siege. But steep and deep was the moat, and Nicolette's fair hands and feet were bleeding when she got out. But she did not feel any pain, because of the great fear that was on her lest she should fall into the hands of the count's men.

Within two bow-shots from Beaucaire was a great forest; and here Nicolette slept in a thicket, until the herd-boys came in the morning, and pastured their cattle close to her resting-place. They sat down by a fountain, and spread out a cloak, and put their bread on it. Their shouting aroused Nicolette, and she came to them.

"God bless you, sweet boys!" said she.

"God bless you, lady!" said one that had a readier tongue than the others.

"Do you know Aucassin, the brave young son of Count Garin?" she said.

"Yes, lady," they said. "We know him very well."

"Then tell him, in the name of God," said she, "that there is a beast in this forest that he must come and hunt. If he can take it, he will not sell a limb of it for a hundred marks of gold. Nay, not for any money."

"I tell him that?" said the boy that had a readier tongue than the others. "Curse me if I do! There's no beast in this forest--stag, boar, wolf or lion--with a limb worth more than two or three pence. You speak of some enchantment, and you are a fairy woman. We do not want your company. Go away."

"Sweet boys," said Nicolette, "you must do as I tell you. For the beast has a medicine that will cure Aucassin of all his pain. Ah! I have five pieces of money in my purse. Take them, and tell him. He must come and hunt within three days, and if he does not, he will never be cured."

"Faith," said the boy, after consulting with his fellows, "we shall tell him if he comes, but we will not search after him!"

_III.--Aucassin Goes in Quest of Nicolette_

Nicolette took leave of the herd-boys, and went into the forest down a green way that led to a place where seven paths met. Close at hand was a deep thicket, and there Nicolette built a lodge of green boughs, and covered it with oak-leaves and lily-flowers, and made it sweet and pleasant, both inside and out. And she stayed in this lodge to see what Aucassin would do.

In the meantime, the cry went through all the country that Nicolette was lost. Some said that she had gone away; others that Count Garin had put her to death. If any man had joy in the news, that man was not Aucassin. His father let him out of prison, and summoned all the knights and ladies of the land to a great feast that he made to comfort his young son. But when the revelry was at its height, there was Aucassin leaning despondently from a gallery, sorrowful and utterly downcast. And an old knight saw him, and came to him.

"Aucassin," he said, "there was a time when I, too, was sick with the sickness that you have. If you will trust me, I will give you some good counsel."

"Gramercy," answered Aucassin. "Good counsel is indeed a precious thing."

"Mount your horse and ride into the forest," said the old knight. "You will see the flowers and the sweet herbs, and hear the birds singing. And, perchance, you may also hear a word that will take away your sickness."

"Gramercy," said Aucassin. "That is what I will do."

He stole out of the hall, and went to the stable, and bridled and saddled his horse, and rode swiftly out into the forest. By the fountain he found the herd-boys. They had spread a cloak out on the grass, and were eating their bread and making merry.

Jolly herd-boys, every one: Martin, Emery, and John, Aubrey, Oliver, and Matt By the fountain-side they sat. "Here," said John, "comes Aucassin, Son of our good Count Garin. Faith, he is a handsome boy! Let us wish him luck and joy." "And the girl with yellow hair Wandering in the forest there," Aubrey said. "She gave us more Gold than we have seen before. Say, what shall we go and buy?" "Cakes!" said greedy Emery. "Flutes and bagpipes!" Johnny said. "No," cried Martin; "knives instead! Knives and swords! Then we can go Out to war and fight the foe."

"Sweet boys," said Aucassin, as he rode up to them, "sing again the song that you were singing just now, I pray you."

"We will not," said Aubrey, who had a readier tongue than the others.

"Do you not know me, then?" said Aucassin.

"Yes," said Aubrey. "You are our young lord, Aucassin. But we are not your men, but the count's."

"Sweet boys, sing it again, I pray you," said Aucassin.

"God's heart!" cried Aubrey. "Why should I sing for you, if I do not want to? There is no man in this country--save Count Garin--that dare drive my cattle from his fields and corn-lands, if I put them there. He would lose his eyes for it, no matter how rich he were. So, now, why should I sing for you, if I do not want to?"

"In the name of God," said Aucassin, "take these ten sous, and sing it!"

"Sir, I will take your money," said Aubrey, "but I will not sing you anything. Still, if you like, I will tell you something."

"By God," said Aucassin, "something is better than nothing!"

"Sir," said Aubrey, then, "we were eating our bread by this fountain, between prime and tierce, and a maid came by--the loveliest thing in all the world. She lighted up the forest with her beauty; so we thought she was a fairy woman. But she gave us some money; and we promised that if you came by we would tell you to go hunting in the forest. In there is a beast of marvellous value. If you took it you would not sell one of its limbs for many marks of gold, for it has a medicine that will cure your sickness. Now I have told you all."

"And you have told me enough, sweet boy," said Aucassin. "Farewell! God give me good hunting!"

And, as he spurred his horse into the forest, Aucassin sang right joyously:

Track of boar and slot of deer, Neither do I follow here. Nicolette I hotly chase Down the winding, woodland ways-- Thy white body, thy blue eyes, Thy sweet smiles and low replies God in heaven give me grace, Once to meet thee face to face; Once to meet as we have met, Nicolette--oh, Nicolette!

_IV.--Love in the Forest_

Furiously did his horse bear him on through the thorns and briars that tore his clothes and scratched his body, so that you could have followed the track of his blood on the grass. But neither hurt nor pain did he feel, for he thought only of Nicolette. All day he sought for her in the forest, and when evening drew on, he began to weep because he had not found her. Night fell, but still he rode on; and he came at last to the place where the seven roads met, and there he saw the lodge of green boughs and lily-flowers which Nicolette had made.

"Ah, heaven," said Aucassin, "here Nicolette has been, and she has made this lodge with her own fair hands! For the sweetness of it, and for love of her, I will sleep here to-night."

As he sat in the lodge, Aucassin saw the evening star shining through a gap in the boughs, and he sang:

Star of eve! Oh, star of love, Gleaming in the sky above! Nicolette, the bright of brow, Dwells with thee in heaven now. God has set her in the skies To delight my longing eyes; And her clear and yellow hair Shines upon the darkness there. Oh! my lady, would that I Swiftly up to thee could fly. Meet thee, greet thee, kiss thee, fold thee To my aching heart, and hold thee. Here, without thee, nothing worth Can I find upon the earth.

When Nicolette heard Aucassin singing, she came into the bower, and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Aucassin then set his sweet love upon his horse, and mounted behind her; and with all haste they rode out from the forest and came to the seashore.

There Aucassin saw a ship sailing upon the sea, and he beckoned to it; and the sailors took him and Nicolette on board, and they sailed to the land of Torelore. And the King of Torelore welcomed them courteously; and for two whole years they lived in great delight in his beautiful castle by the sea. But one night the castle was suddenly stormed by the Saracens; and Aucassin was bound hand and foot and thrown into a ship, and Nicolette into another.

The ship that carried Aucassin was wrecked in a great storm, and it drifted over the sea to Beaucaire. The people that ran to break up the wreck found their young lord, and made great joy over his return. For his father was dead, and he was now Count Aucassin. The people led him to the castle, and did homage to him, and he held all his lands in peace. But little delight had Aucassin in his wealth and power and kingdom.

Though he lived in joy and ease, And his kingdom was at peace, Aucassin did so regret His sweet lady, Nicolette, That he would have liefer died In the battle by her side. "Ah, my Nicolette," he said, "Are you living, are you dead? All my kingdom I would give For the news that still you live. For the joy of finding you Would I search the whole world through, Did I think you living yet, Nicolette--my Nicolette!"

_V.--Nicolette's Love Song_

In the meantime, the Saracens took Nicolette to their great city of Carthage; and because she was lovely and seemed of noble birth, they led her to their king. And when Nicolette saw the King of Carthage, she knew him again; and he, also, knew her. For she was his daughter who had been carried off in her young days by the Christians. Her father held a great feast in honour of Nicolette, and would have married her to a mighty king of Paynim. But Nicolette had no mind to marry anyone but Aucassin, and she devised how she might get news of her lover. One night she smeared her face with a brown ointment, and dressed herself in minstrel's clothes, and took a viol, and stole out of her father's palace to the seashore. There she found a ship that was bound for Provence, and she sailed in it to Beaucaire. She took her viol, and went playing through the town, and came to the castle. Aucassin was sitting on the castle steps with his proud barons and brave knights around him, gazing sorrowfully at the sweet flowers, and listening to the singing of the birds.

"Shall I sing you a new song, sire?" said Nicolette.

"Yes, fair friend," said Aucassin; "if it be a merry one, for I am very sad."

"If you like it," said Nicolette, "you will find it merry enough."

She drew the bow across her viol, and made sweet music, and then she sung:

Once a lover met a maid Wandering in a forest glade, Where she had a pretty house Framed with flowers and leafy boughs. Maid and lover merrily Sailed away across the sea, To a castle by the strand Of a strange and pleasant land. There they lived in great delight Till the Saracens by night Stormed the keep, and took the maid, With the captives of their raid. Back to Carthage they returned, And the maiden sadly mourned. But they did not make of her Paramour or prisoner. For the King of Carthage said, When he saw the fair young maid: "Daughter!" and the maid replied: "Father!" And they laughed and cried. For she had been stolen when She was young by Christian men. And the captain of Beaucaire Bought her as a slave-girl there. Once her lover loved her well Now, alas! he cannot tell Who she is. Does he forget-- Aucassin--his Nicolette?

Aucassin leaped down the castle steps, and took his lady in his arms. Then she went to the house of her godfather, the captain of the town, and washed all the brownness from her face, and clad herself in robes of rich silk. And, early on the morrow, Count Aucassin wedded her, and made her Lady of Beaucaire; and they had great joy of one another. And here my song-story ends. I know no more.

* * * * *

BERTHOLD AUERBACH

On the Height

Berthold Auerbach, a German poet and author of Jewish descent, was born at Nordstetten, in Würtemberg, on February 28, 1812. On the completion of his studies at the universities of Tübingen, Munich and Heidelberg he immediately devoted himself to literature. His first publication dealt with "Judaism and Recent Literature," and was to be followed by a series of novels taken from Jewish history. Of this intended series he actually published, with considerable success, "Spinoza" and "Poet and Merchant." But real fame and popularity came to him when he began to occupy himself with the life of the general people which forms the subject of his best-known works. In these later books, of which "On the Height" is perhaps the most characteristic and certainly the most famous, he revealed an unrivalled insight into the soul of the Southern German country folk, and especially of the peasants of the Black Forest and the Bavarian Alps. His descriptions are remarkable for their fresh realism, graceful style and humour. In addition to these qualities, his last books are marked by great subtlety of psychological analysis. "On the Height" was first published at Stuttgart in 1861, and has been translated into several languages. Auerbach died at Cannes on February 8, 1882, when all Germany was preparing to celebrate his 70th birthday.

_I.--A Peasant Nurse in a Royal Palace_

Walpurga was as in a dream. It had all happened so quickly! Only a fortnight ago, on the walk home from Sunday Mass at the village church, her Hanseï had to make a hay bed for her on a stone-heap by the roadside. She had thought she could not get back to the cottage in time, but she recovered after a while and bravely walked home. Her mother was with her in the hour of suffering, as she had been with her through all the joys and sorrows of her simple life. Then came the supreme joy of the awakening, with a new life by her side, a baby-girl groping helplessly for the mother's breast. Then--was it only yesterday?--when she was waiting for the return of the christening party, a carriage drove up with the village doctor and an elegant stranger. There was much beating about the bush, and then it came out like a thunderbolt. The stranger was a great doctor from the capital, entrusted with the mission to find in the mountains an honest, comely peasant woman, and married she must be, to act as wet-nurse for the expected crown prince or princess.

Then Hanseï came home with the merry party--there was much storming and angry refusal; but finally the practical sense of the peasant folk prevailed. It was, after all, only for a year, and it would mean comfort and wealth, instead of hunger and grinding poverty. And scarcely had their consent been wrung from them, when shouting and cheering announced the great event of the crown prince's birth. Then came that strange, long drive over hill and dale, through the dark night; and now, in the Royal Palace, she tried to collect herself, to grasp the meaning of all that splendour, the unintelligible ceremonious talk and bearing of those about her. She was to be taken at once to see the queen and her precious charge.

Walpurga was full of happiness when she left the queen's bedroom. Touched by the comely young peasant-woman's naive and familiar kindliness, the queen, who seemed to her beautiful as an angel, had kissed her, and, on noticing a tear, had said: "Don't cry, Walpuga! You are a mother, too, like myself!" The little prince took to his nurse without much trouble, and she soon became accustomed to her new life, although her thoughts often dwelt longingly on her native mountains, her own child and mother and husband. How they would miss her! She knew her Hanseï was a good man at heart, but not particularly shrewd, and easily gulled or led astray.

Meanwhile, her high spirits, her artless bluntness, the quaint superstitions of the mountain child, gained her the goodwill and approval of the king and queen, of Dr. Gunther, the court physician, of the whole royal household, and, above all, of the lady-in-waiting, Countess Irma Wildenort.

_II.--The Love Affairs of a King_

Countess Irma's letters to Emmy, her only convent friend, contained little of idle gossip and of things that had happened. They had no continuity. They were introspective, and took the form of a diary taken up at odd moments and left again to be continued, sometimes the following day, sometimes after a week. They revealed intellectual development far in advance of her years, and clear perception of character.

"The queen lives in an exclusive world of sentiment and would like to raise everybody to her exalted mood--liana-like, in the morning-glow and evening-glow of sentiment, never in white daylight. She is most gracious towards me, but we feel it instinctively--there is something in her and in me that does not harmonise....

"Here all of them think me boundlessly naïve, because I have the courage to think for myself....

"The king loves reserve, but also gay freeness. The queen is too serious--eternal organ sound; but you cannot dance to an organ, and we are young and love to dance.