THE MAGIC RING.

OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.

THE

MAGIC RING;

A ROMANCE,

FROM THE GERMAN OF

FREDERICK, BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

EDINBURGH;

PUBLISHED BY

OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT; AND GEO. B. WHITTAKER, LONDON.

1825.

TO

CONRAD CHARLES,

FREYHERR VON ÄMSELNBURG, IN BERLIN,

TRANSLATOR OF

“The Lady of the Lake,” “The Bridal of Triermain,” and “The Antiquary.”

I know not, my dear friend, whether you recollect a conversation that we had some time since respecting the Baron de la Motte Fouqué and his writings. If you do not, I take the liberty of calling it to your remembrance,—as what you then said has not only induced me to execute the following translation, but may likewise serve as an introductory notice to the readers of the work.

I remember well that, when speaking of the Baron, (in whose company we had dined that day at Charlottenburg,) you bestowed great praise on his various publications;—but, being then an incompetent judge of their merits, I could only reply, that I doubted not they deserved the eulogiums you passed upon them, since the Baron was certainly a jovial and pleasant companion,—a “chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche,” if one might judge from the serenity of his aspect, and the complacency with which he quaffed his old Hochheimer and Johannisberg.

I had indeed, as a tyro in the German language, tried to read over his “Magic Ring,” the only work of his which had fallen in my way; but I had not been long at Berlin ere I was informed of the high reputation he had acquired by his writings on various subjects. I heard of his early devotion to literature; of his friendship with the Schlegels; of his being “in utrumque paratus,” with the pen and the sword; of his campaigns as an officer, when the tumults and devastations of the French invasion were at their height; and especially of his conduct in the battles of Kulm in Bohemia, of Lutzen, of Leipsig, and afterwards on the banks of the “castellated Rhine.” I had opportunities of meeting with the Baron, and was invited to pass some days at his country residence of Nennhausen; though circumstances rendered it impossible for me to profit sufficiently by his hospitality.

I also remember that, on the evening to which I have alluded, you were so eloquent in praise of the Baron, that we were detained till it was too late to go to the opera,—and therefore walked up and down in the long allée, under the lime-trees, for nearly two hours, during which time you went on analyzing and commending every one of his numerous productions. Among these, you expressed your special admiration of his “Hero of the North,” and “Eginhard and Emma;” both of which, you insisted, were animated by the true spirit of chivalry and romance, and that in an English dress they would be excellent, either in their dramatic form, or remodelled into prose novels. But, as I expressed my dislike to dramatic poems which were unfit for the stage, you proceeded to mention the Baron’s other narrative works, such as “Waldemar the Pilgrim,” “Thiodulf’s Wanderings,” “Bertrand de Guesclin,” and many more, which, though favourites of yours, are altogether unknown in this country.

At last we came to speak of the “Magic Ring,”—the only one of our author’s works which I had then seen, and which I had only glanced at very hastily;—and you naturally asked me how it happened, that although “Undina,” “Sintram,” and even the “Minstrel Love,” were translated into English, this romance had been hitherto neglected? To this I replied, that the “Sintram” and “Undina” were, even in the translation, interesting tales of wonder;—but that, on the contrary, the beauties of the “Magic Ring,” which are so much admired by a German reader, depended on certain characteristic features, which a translator could never impart, unless by means of a remaniement or rifacimento. These peculiarities were, first, the Baron’s accurate imitation of the quaint, rude style of the old romancers; secondly, the melody of his verses, in which the thoughts are far too shadowy to be embodied in our language; thirdly, his allegorical representations and historical allusions, which no English reader could well comprehend, especially as the author has

not furnished a proper key to unfold their meaning.

These objections, especially the last, you treated with indifference; and although my own opinion (that a remaniement would have been far better than a translation) remains unaltered,—yet, having resolved to translate the “Magic Ring” by way of experiment, I have adopted, as nearly as possible, the method you suggested for its execution.

For I recollect distinctly, that, on my requesting to hear your opinion how an English version ought to be attempted, your answer was, that the “Magic Ring” would, if literally translated, make a very amusing novel in the style adopted among us sixty years ago in “Popular Tales of the Germans,” and which, by the way, has been recently exemplified in Mr Roscoe’s Italian Romances. With regard to the old-Frankish tournure of language, the stiffness with which a translator too often moves through his task, and which has been aptly compared to the performance of our Macheath “dancing a hornpipe in real fetters,” might perhaps serve as a tolerable imitation of that characteristic. As to the songs and other poetry, these, you said, were merely portions of the story thrown into rhyme, and would succeed just as well in prose as in verse.

Lastly, You observed, that, for understanding the author’s allegorical allusions, nothing more was requisite than to bear in mind the history of the Norwegians, Swedes, Danes, &c.; otherwise known by the name of the Normans (Nordmänner) or “Men of the North.” These people (represented in this work by an ancient warrior, bearing in his latter days the name of Sir Hugh von Trautwangen,) being poor, and dissatisfied with their own cold regions, emigrated in great numbers to the more southern countries of France, England, the Netherlands, Germany, Italy; nay, it is said, even into Greece, Palestine, and other oriental climes. Of these historical facts, no school-boy in Britain is ignorant, as every one has read of Normandy and the Norman invasion.

The Nordmänner, or Normans, at the first period of their emigrations, were Pagans,—the votaries of Odin and the other fabulous gods of Valhalla; they were also skilled in necromancy and all the varied arts of the magician,—whether for purposes of good or evil,—wherein (as learned divines have sometimes maintained of the ancient oracles) the devil might be supposed to have assisted them.

Such are the materials whence Fouqué has drawn the machinery of his romances. The white magic of the now converted Druda contends against the black machinations of the infidel Gerda; and as for the “Mysterious Ring,” it seems to have been only one among other necromantic spells, though some readers have supposed that the author hereby intended to allegorize the delusive spirit of the World, and of the worldly-minded, in opposition to that of pure religion and heavenly affections. Hence the Baron has represented the people of the North as led astray to wage war against all nations and against each other; till at last, by the influence of Bertha, (a personification of the true Christian faith,) they become harmonized and happily united into one community.

“Nothing,” you added, “can be clearer and more intelligible than this outline; and, if the work were even literally rendered into English, it would present an excellent ‘knightly tale of the olden time,’ with a religio-historical moral. Let this be done, and there need be no doubt entertained of its success.”

To these remarks I ventured to reply, that, to the best of my judgment, there was not one character in the romance, nor any part of the machinery, under which the author had not involved some abstruse and figurative meaning which ought to be explained. Gerda, for example, I alleged, was not a mere enchantress, introduced for the purpose of bringing about some strange adventures: on the contrary, she seemed to represent Superstition, whose horrid rites are contrasted with the mild and rational piety of the Druda. The Ring, too, I thought, might not only be intended to allegorize the delusions of the world, but also those of natural-magic, (die natur-kenntnisse,) and other profane sciences.—“Trouble yourself no farther with such inquiries and speculations,” you replied: “emblems and allegories are nuts hard enough to crack; let the readers break their teeth on them if they will.”

With this homely metaphor our discourse ended; and your plan has accordingly been carried into effect. Instead of indulging my own feelings in a remaniement,—which would have been a new work founded on old materials,—I have merely translated the Baron’s words, (which need not preclude other German scholars from bringing forward the same story on a different plan); and, under the auspices of your name, which is at least as well known here as that of the Baron, it is not without some degree of confidence that I introduce these volumes to the public.

I am, my dear sir, with great respect, &c. &c.

The Translator.

PREFACE

BY THE BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

Courteous Reader!

It is with a mixed feeling of apprehension and delight, that the author now betakes himself to his task of writing the following story. There are people in the world who laugh scornfully, if they meet with one of their fellow-mortals who calls on Heaven to aid him in any worldly enterprise; but, notwithstanding this, the writer of these lines is not afraid to confess, that he has just now prayed with his whole heart to the Giver of all good, for assistance in the pleasant labour which awaits him. By this means, he has been supported ere now through similar undertakings; and he confidently trusts, that at this time also his prayers will not be unanswered. For, in truth, the history, which he now proposes to write, hovers yet, like a strange vision, before his “mind’s eye;” it seems to him as if he were about to set sail on a wide weltering sea, with shores varied and romantic, with gleaming rainbow-tints on its waters, and not without whirlpools and rocks; while the sky is overspread with clouds of the wildest shapes and the richest colouring!

Full well do I know the arduous course which I have to steer; but as to the separate events that are to be encountered, I know them not; for these are yet uncertain as a dream. However this may be, not the less boldly, courteous reader, do I invite thee to join me in this voyage; for, should’st thou be unwilling to engage in the enterprise, it would seem as if the name of God, on whom I have now called, sounded strange and unwelcome in thine ears; otherwise thou would’st be satisfied with what I shall obtain by my prayers, and which I promise faithfully to communicate to thee. But consider, I beseech thee, that if thou shalt find any thing worthy of commendation, and pleasing in my work, it is not mine, but a gift from the Supreme Power, which is conveyed to me insensibly as I write; for I am then only capable of expressing myself with effect, when my mind is more elevated than is usual in the present state of our depraved and mortal nature.

In the following pages, then, I lay before thee the best fruits of those hours when my fancy is most free and exalted; while, in this preface, I have spoken the plain, unadorned truth. On this, as a true knight, I pledge my word of honour. And now I bid thee heartily welcome to the groves and meadows, the battles and festivals, the joyous weddings, or mournful obsequies, which our story may unfold.

THE

MAGIC RING.

VOL. I.

CHAPTER I.

How the young Squire Otto and his pretty Cousin discoursed together, on the banks of the Danube, during a fine evening in May.

In the happy land of Suabia, close to the river Danube, there lies a fine level meadow, where once on a time (it was in the month of May, just as the declining sunbeams were taking leave of the flowers) a young squire, by name Otto von Trautwangen, was enjoying his evening recreation. At this beautiful season, it was Otto’s custom frequently to leave his father’s castle in the neighbouring mountains, and repair to the pleasant banks of the river. Here he amused himself alternately with angling in the streams, or in shooting with a cross-bow at marks, which he had contrived in many strange shapes, such as dragons, hobgoblins, witches, &c. and painted in glaring colours. On the wide level meadow he ran no risk of wounding any one with his arrows. This evening, however, his bow and quiver lay beside him on the grass, and he held his fishing-rod, watching as it seemed the play of his line in the water; but he was lost in reverie, and forgot that he had not even baited his hook.

Then Bertha von Lichtenried came walking towards him, his father’s niece, along with whom he had from his childhood been educated at the castle. She took her place beside him on the grass, and half mocking, half anxiously questioned him on what he was meditating so deeply? He himself knew not well what to say, and now so much the less, when he saw his cousin’s pretty face smiling on him reflected in the water. She looked even too beautiful in his estimation, and perhaps she thought the same of him, as she smiled on her companion so kindly. It was delightful to see how the two young people thus carried on a silent conversation together in the living mirror of the Danube! When Otto had considered for a while, it occurred to him that he had remarked a pilgrim, in a red-cross mantle, passing on the opposite side of the river, after which he had fallen into a mood of deep thought. He told Bertha of this, and described to her how solemn was the impression left on his mind; how the pilgrim had always looked steadfastly on the road before him, without

turning in the least to the right or left, so that one could not precisely say whether it was old age, humility, or an ardent longing after the sacred object of his journey, that bent his head forwards, and harmonized every gesture. To this the young man added his own reflections, how admirable it must be to travel across kingdoms, seas, and rivers, to distant unknown lands! Nothing in his opinion could be pleasanter than such a pilgrimage, and it would never be the fatigue of travelling, but only the tedium of repose afterwards, that would prove oppressive.

“You do not mean to turn a pilgrim then?” said Bertha with a confident smile. “The Saints forbid!” said the young man; “these woods and meadows here hold me like a magic spell within their circle. Take care then that you never desert them, my pretty cousin!” At these words, Bertha blushed so deeply and suddenly, that it seemed as if twin rosebuds had sprung up in the water, and said, “As you are so certainly to remain here, then we may jest a little on the supposed possibility of your going. Let us try for once that farewell ditty, in two parts, which Master Walter has so finely indited. As in winter, one likes to hear the snow-storm, when sitting warm by the fireside, so we may now venture to sing these verses, which, in their proper place, we should have no heart to repeat.” Otto then began,

But after the first two stanzas they gave over their music, for on the other side of the river there came a great procession of pilgrims, among whom appeared such variety of characters, that the young people found their attention irresistibly attracted. In the midst of the assemblage were graceful figures of young women, mounted on mules, richly caparisoned, and attended for their protection by warriors on foot, with long halberts in their hands. Then there were certain pilgrims, of whom, notwithstanding their grey mantles and oddly-shaped caps, it was easy to determine that they must be courtiers, and persons of high dignity, especially as their demeanour contrasted so powerfully with that of a great number of country people, who moved about irregularly enough in the procession. One could distinguish too, many respectable citizens of middle rank, painters also, and musicians, who bore with them the instruments of their respective arts, which they hoped to exercise in distant lands for the honour and glory of our holy religion. At last there came a troop

of warlike knights, mounted on fine chargers, in bright-gleaming armour, who could be known as pilgrims only by the red cross on their shoulders. Just as the procession came opposite to Bertha and Otto, the ladies, mounted on their stately mules, and attended by their halberdiers, began to sing a grand choral hymn in praise of the eastern lands, whither they were thus pursuing their way.

The effect of their voices during the stillness of the evening was magical. Accidentally the sun, just then verging on the hills, broke through a cloud with new and unexpected refulgence, as if, instead of setting, he had been about to rise again, in order to reward and inspire those pious votaries. When the last notes had died solemnly and slowly away, the mail-coated knights struck in with a bold and martial chorus, in which they were joined by the halberdiers, while a powerful flourish of trumpets filled up the pause betwixt every stanza. Their song expressed contempt of the Saracens, and admiration of the English King Richard the Lion Heart, whose forces had just then gone forth like a thunder-storm, destructive and yet beneficial, into the Holy Land:

Such were the concluding words of their chaunt; and when the long train had passed by, both the young people remained for some time thoughtful and silent. At length, “It is very true,” said Otto, “King Richard of England, who, for his bravery and magnanimity, is called Cœur de Lion, has vowed to make a crusade against the Saracens. My father and Master Walter spoke of this all last night at the castle. Good Heaven, what grand exploits will be performed there!” On saying this, the youth’s cheeks glowed and his eyes sparkled. Bertha sighed as she answered, “If you talk with such pleasure of wars and foreign travels, whenever any one in the guise of a pilgrim happens to come hither, then I shall no longer have courage to sing that farewell-ballad which we had begun.” “Nay, nay, be not afraid,” said Otto smiling, “we shall not speak more of any such adventures. Only attend now to your voice, and keep up the octave. You know we are to sing the next stanza together.”

It seemed destined, however, that they were not to finish their ballad to-day; for just as they had commenced again, they were disturbed by a noise as of many horses from the meadow behind them, and on turning their eyes thitherward, they perceived—what we shall describe in the next chapter.

CHAPTER II.

How two Strangers (a Lady and a Knight) suddenly arrived, and how the Lady told a marvellous Story of a Ring.