THE ROSES OF SAINT ELIZABETH

WORKS OF JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF

L. C. PAGE & COMPANY New England Building Boston, Mass.

The Roses of Saint Elizabeth

BY Jane Scott Woodruff

Author of “The Little Christmas Shoe,” etc.

ILLUSTRATED IN COLOURS BY Adelaide Eberhart

L. C. Page & Company

Boston Mcmvi

Copyright, 1905, by L. C. PAGE & COMPANY

(Incorporated)

All rights reserved

Published August, 1905

COLONIAL PRESS Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston, U.S.A.

TO My husband

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

I.

rom a hill which overlooks the smiling little town of Eisenach, frowns the grim old castle of the Wartburg. It is a gloomy-looking place, with its vast chambers, and long, winding corridors of stone; and yet, that it has held at least one bit of brightness, all would agree who had ever seen the smile of Katrina, the caretaker’s little daughter.

It was Katrina’s chief delight to2 stand at her father’s side when he unlocked the huge iron portals, and admitted visitors into the castle court; while not a few of these would stop and say some pleasant word to the child, or else stroke her golden hair in passing.

To many persons the life of this nine-year-old girl might perhaps seem very dull; but in Katrina’s happy nature was the spirit of contentment. However, she had one keen desire,—it was to see inside the ancient castle. And sometimes, when there were visitors going in, she would beg her father to take her with him, but he always shook his head, saying:

“No, my child, the chill air of the Wartburg is not for such a tender plant as thou.”

3 So she would wait outside, she and the sunbeams together, until her father’s rounds were finished.

It was a simple, wholesome life that Katrina led, even though it was within the walls of one of the most noted of all the ancient castles. Her parents, good, honest folk, were poor, and realized that their child would have to face the sterner side of life. She was, they said, already too dreamful and imaginative, so they taught her to be practical, and, as far as possible, hid the romance of the castle from her view.

But by degrees much that was weird, as well as romantic, began to weave itself about the child’s more practical existence like bright threads woven into gray. And4 little by little, through a means singularly strange, she came to be familiar with many of the legends and historic tales relating to this old Thuringian fortress.

Now, living, as she did, far up on this lonely hilltop, Katrina had few companions. But there was one who had been her playmate always, and that was Fritz Albrecht, of Eisenach, the toymaker’s son.

Fritz, to be sure, was five years older than Katrina, but this only served to make the lad feel responsible as her protector. When a very little boy, his mother had read to him tales of knighthood and valour; and now, even though the mother he had loved so dearly had been taken from him, the5 seeds of chivalry she had sown in his heart promised to be fruitful.

It was a quaint little house in which Fritz and his father lived, and where the latter had his workshop. But quainter still was the house that faced them across the narrow street paved with cobblestones, and on which Fritz was accustomed to look daily.

From his frequent visits to it, the boy knew every room in this old house with its queer gables and red-tiled roof. But never would he forget the day, not long before she died, when his mother had taken him into a certain small room over the entrance, and, holding his chubby hand in hers, had said, in her gentle fashion:

“My little Fritz, thou art in the6 room which sheltered the great Martin Luther when he was a lad scarcely older than thyself. Ponder well what I am telling thee, and when thou art older thou must learn about the splendid work that Luther did. And there,” the mother added, as she pointed to the portrait of a sweet-faced woman, “is the good Widow Cotta. It was she who heard little Martin Luther singing in the streets, and, out of the goodness of her mother-heart, for she had children of her own, took him in and gave him a home here with her own family.”

That was all his mother had told him about Martin Luther, but it aroused in Fritz a desire to know more about the boy who had earned the money to go to7 school by singing carols in these same streets where he, Fritz, walked every day.

For many months, as he passed some of the more ancient-looking houses, Fritz would often stop and gaze up at the windows with their tiny panes, saying, as he did so:

“I wonder if the people who lived here long ago heard him singing, and if they threw money to him out of these same windows.”

Very often he had talked about it to Katrina, and she never tired of listening.

“Some day I’ll take thee there, Katrina, indeed I will, and show thee the very bed little Martin Luther slept in.”

“Yes,” was Katrina’s answer,8 eagerness shining in her big blue eyes. “I want to go and see it all, and,” she added, thoughtfully, “when I’m grown to be a woman like my own, dear mütterchen, I’m going to give money to every little boy I can. It might help them to be great, too, some day. The people who gave little Martin Luther money didn’t know what a great man he was going to be. But,” she added, after a moment’s pause, “maybe it was the home the good Frau Cotta gave him more than the money that helped to make him great.”

The two children, as they talked together, were seated on a bench in the castle courtyard. It was a beautiful summer evening, and Fritz had begged Katrina to come9 outside and see the splendid colours of the sunset: for this boy of fourteen years was even then an artist in his heart.

For a long while they had been sitting there, their faces toward the western sky, when suddenly both gave a start, while into Katrina’s eyes came a look of wonder. But Fritz laid a calming hand on hers.

“It’s the voice, Katrina, the same voice we heard that other evening! Have no fear; dost thou not remember what it told us?”

II.

atrina did remember what the voice had said. She recalled the grand, majestic tones in which it had spoken of the Wartburg.

“How little can you children realize, as you play your youthful games here in its very shadow, for how many ages this same castle has been watching the play, not only of children, but of men and women grown!”

“Oh, won’t you tell us something about those men and women?” cried the boy and girl together, and there was an eager11 look in both their faces. All fear had vanished from Katrina, who whispered to her playmate:

“Canst thou guess, dear Fritz, whose voice it is that speaks?”

The boy shook his head.

“No, and that is the mystery of it all. It seems as though the one who spoke stood close beside me, and yet, I look all about, and can see no human being but thyself. Art thou playing me some prank, little one? But thou couldst not change thy sweet treble for deep bass.” And the boy laughed gaily at such a notion.

“Yes, my children,” the voice continued, in those same melodious accents like the notes of a distant organ, “I have seen many generations come and go.12 Little has taken place here without my knowledge.”

“If you’d only tell us some of the wonderful things you’ve seen, we’d be so happy,” Katrina said.

“Where shall I begin?” and the voice took on a reminiscent tone.

“At the very beginning of it all,” and, as he spoke, Fritz drew nearer to Katrina. They were filled with a curiosity to hear what the strange voice might have to tell them.

“Then you would have me to relate how the Wartburg came into existence? To do that, I must go back very far,—yes, even far beyond the time of my own presence here. Well, if you will have it so, then follow the directions that I give you. Go, both of you,13 and study carefully that great stone pillar near the entrance yonder. Come back, and tell me what you find carved upon its double capital.”

Hand in hand the children went. Then, after gazing long at the figure carved on the crumbling pillar, they returned and said:

“It was the queerest-looking man with a long beard, and he seemed to be springing from a rock.”

“Just so,” the voice replied. “The image you saw was that of the founder of this castle, and his name was Ludwig the Leaper.”

“Ludwig the Leaper!” Fritz exclaimed. “How did anybody ever come to have such a funny name as that?”

14 “It is exactly what I am about to tell you,” said the voice with some impatience; “do not interrupt me. You shall hear it all in time. It was in the year 1067,” the voice went on to say, “that Ludwig, while riding through the country, came upon this beautiful hill. He saw that it was a splendid site on which to build a castle, and with joy exclaimed:

“‘Wart Berg, du sollst mir eine Berg werden.’[1]

[1] “Wait Hill, thou shalt become my hold.”

“And very soon this stronghold was begun. A severe famine fell upon the land during the time the castle was being built, and every stone meant bread for the hungry poor who helped in its construction. Some brought the rough15 stone from the quarry, while others cut it into blocks and got it ready for the builders.

“After living here in happiness for several years, Ludwig committed a crime for which he was put in prison, and all of two years lay pining in an old fortress on the river Saale. But one day he made his escape by a bold leap into the river.”

“Ah, so!” cried Fritz and Katrina, clapping their hands. “Now we know why he was called Ludwig the Leaper.”

“Yes,” and, as the voice spoke, there was a low, rustling sound very much like laughter. “So your curiosity has been appeased! But after all, I must not chide you for being curious. Had it not16 been for my desire to know things, I should not now possess the greatest of all treasures.”

“The greatest of all treasures! I pray you tell us what the greatest treasure is?”

But before the voice could answer Fritz’s query, some one called:

“Katrina, Katrina, come at once! I need thee, child, to help me.”

“Yes, mütterchen, I’ll come at once.”

Fritz went with Katrina to the postern-door, where Frau Hofer stood, her white apron and a large iron spoon showing that she had been busy with preparations for their supper.

“Come in, Fritz, and break the evening bread with us; thou art17 always welcome at our little table.”

There was a caress in Frau Hofer’s voice; she felt warmly for this motherless boy, the son of her girlhood’s dearest friend.

“Thank thee, Tante Frieda, I can’t come in this time. It’s hard, though, to resist that odour of gingerbread,” Fritz added with a smile; “but the father will come home to-night, and I must be there to greet him.”

“Thy father will be tired from his journey, so thou must have something hot for him when he comes.”

“Yes, old Gesta promised to make one of her famous stews for him, and I’ll get out a bottle of his favourite wine.”

18 “Did he sell all of his toys in Nüremberg?” Frau Hofer asked.

“Yes, and he has orders for all that he can make between now and Christmas.”

“Then that means thou wilt have to turn toymaker in earnest now, and help him. Thou hast already had some training in the work. It would be good to walk along the street and see a sign that read ‘Conrad Albrecht and Son, Toymakers.’”

Fritz made a wry face and shook his head.

“My tools and these fingers would never be at peace. They were not intended for each other. Look at my hands, tante; can’t you see that they are far too clumsy for such work?”

19 And saying this, the boy held up his broad little palms and stretched his fingers wide apart.

“But,” he added with a smile, “if my work-bench were only a ship, I’d sail away to distant lands; then, if there were mountains in the way, I’d tunnel through them, and over the rivers I’d throw great bridges. And, maybe, when tired of all this,” he added, looking knowingly at Katrina, “I’d get into my ship again, and sail away and away in search of the greatest of all treasures.”

Frau Hofer raised a mocking forefinger and smiled:

“We’ll have to put an anchor on thy work-bench and hold thee, lad, or one of these fine days thou wilt really sail away and leave us.”

20 “Not while the father lives,” and Fritz’s dark eyes took on a serious look. “But come!” he suddenly exclaimed; “I’m keeping you both out here, when there are many duties waiting for you in the home.”

Then, with one of his frank smiles, the boy lifted his cap gallantly and turned away.

III.

efore Fritz left the courtyard, he stopped beside the bench where he and Katrina had been sitting. The hope was strong in him that he might hear the voice again; for there was one question he wished to ask. And while he stood there, hoping to realize his wish, he watched the shadows as they crept over the mountains, then into the valley far below. Only faintly now could he discern the white pathway that wound over the nearest hill, then down into the Marienthal.

22 Suddenly, Fritz gave a start of pleasure; the voice was speaking in those same rich accents.

“So you are looking down there at the Singers’ Way. That is the name of the white path you see, glistening against the dark green background in the valley yonder.”

“Yes, I know it well,” said Fritz. “My father has taken Katrina and me to walk there very often. When we felt tired we’d rest on the Singers’ bench far away at the end, and father would tell us of the minstrels who used to sing at the castle long ago,—how, when weary with the journey, they, too, would stop and rest on that same seat.”

“But have you never seen the23 splendid Minstrels’ Hall, where the bards who visited the Wartburg in the olden days would sing and play their harps?”

“No, I have never been inside the castle. Katrina hasn’t been allowed to go, and I am waiting until we can visit it together.”

“Ah, then you have yet to see the great hall where they held the famous minstrel contest, which has passed into song and story.”

“I’d like truly to have you tell me about this contest,” was Fritz’s answer. “Then when we visit the Minstrels’ Hall I can repeat the story to Katrina.”

“Very well,” the voice responded. “When you and your little friend enter the great room, you will see a slightly raised platform.24 This is called the ‘bower,’ and it was here that the singers performed their parts when they came before the landgraves and their distinguished company. Now the famous contest of which I am about to tell you took place in the time of the good Landgrave Herman.

“At Herman’s court were a company of poets of good birth, the chief of whom were Wolfram of Eschenbach and Henry of Ofterdingen. This Henry of Ofterdingen has figured in many a romantic story, and some have confused him with Tannhäuser, another bard, who lived at a later date.

“Once upon a time,” the voice went on, “when the good Herman and his wife Sophia, with all their25 court, were gathered in the Minstrels’ Hall, the singers, one by one, recited the deeds of the Landgrave Herman. But when it came to the turn of Henry of Ofterdingen he sang praises to the Duke of Austria, and compared him with the shining sun. Thus begun, the contest waxed so fierce that it was agreed the conquered should be put to death. Only by foul play could the other minstrels worst Henry of Ofterdingen. He, seeing their intentions, appealed to the Landgravine Sophia for protection. Out of pity the noble princess shielded him, but gave him his freedom on one condition only. He must go to Austria, and, in a year’s time, return, bringing with him as arbitrator the world-renowned26 master of song, Klingsor of Hungary.

“Ofterdingen, glad to escape, hastened away to Austria, and sought the duke whom he had lauded in his songs. The latter received him graciously, and, besides enriching him with costly gifts, gave him a letter to Klingsor, who dwelt in his splendid, but solitary, castle in the Seven Hills.

“To the surprise of every one, Henry of Ofterdingen, accompanied by Klingsor, appeared before the Wartburg at the appointed time. Now this Klingsor was an astrologer, who professed to foretell events by reading them in the stars. And on the first night of his coming to the Wartburg, he was found seated27 outside the castle, gazing attentively at the starry sky. On being asked why he sat looking at the heavens, Klingsor replied:

“‘Ye must know that this night a daughter is born to my master, King Andrew of Hungary. She will be called Elizabeth, and lead a saintly life; furthermore, she is to be wedded to the young prince Ludwig, son of the Landgrave Herman; and the whole world, but especially Thuringia, will be blessed with her goodness.’

“The Landgrave Herman, to whom the news was carried, was filled with joy, and ordered that a great banquet be held in Klingsor’s honour. Then the contest, the trial of skill, with Klingsor in the lead, began in earnest. It28 was not long until he succeeded in overcoming all the opponents of Ofterdingen with the exception of Wolfram of Eschenbach,—him he could not conquer.”

At this point the voice ceased speaking, and Fritz waited for several moments, hoping it would resume the theme, but was disappointed.

“Why,” he asked at last, “could not the mighty Klingsor conquer Wolfram of Eschenbach?”

Still there was no answer. But after a time the voice went on to say:

“As I told you and your companion, I have watched many generations come and go. In fact, little has taken place here without my knowledge. I possess, as I have said before, the greatest of all treasures.”

29 Then, all of a sudden, something seemed to rivet Fritz’s gaze upon the rustling leaves of an old vine, which for centuries had hung upon the castle like a rich, green mantle, and, to his bewilderment, Fritz realized that it was the Ivy which had spoken.

But what it meant by saying that it possessed the greatest treasure Fritz did not learn; for when he asked the question, the only sound he heard was one that came up to him from out of the Marienthal—an echo of his own words, “the greatest treasure.”

IV.

atrina had followed her mother into the great, vaultlike hall on the ground floor of the castle. Then they crossed a narrow passage, where a door stood open, and out of which came the odour of baking gingerbread that had tickled Fritz’s nostrils.

Down here in one corner of the castle, on the side where the morning sun shone brightly, three rooms had been set apart as the dwelling-place of Rudolf Hofer, caretaker of the castle, his wife, and their only child. To them the31 home was very dear, and these three rooms had for Rudolf many a sweet and sacred memory. It was there that his parents and grandparents, in fact, many generations of his ancestors, had dwelt; for, as far back as he could trace it, Rudolf found that a Hofer had kept the castle keys.

It was to his good wife Frieda, with her refined taste, as well as thrift, that Rudolf gave full credit for the present cheerfulness of what might have been a very cold, forbidding habitation. But, instead of dull lifelessness, every window-ledge was gay with potted plants, which gave out their treasured blossoms to the sunshine. While it was to Frieda’s, and even Katrina’s little hands, that the bright32 rows of tin and copper vessels, arranged along the kitchen walls, owed their glint and sparkle, when the firelight shone upon them.

From her mother, Dame Frieda had inherited the domestic virtues of her class, and now, in her own turn, she desired to cultivate in Katrina, child though she was, a love for the household arts; for, as she would say:

“Thou’lt be a wife thyself, one day, my mädchen, and it behoves thee to be a good one.”