Legend of Volkmarskeller
On the borders of the wood stand the ruins of the ancient Kloster Michaelstein, which we pass, and go up the valley, the brook acting as our guide.
It conducts us first past a number of ponds, which formerly supplied the self-denying monks with carp for their fasts, and now swarm with speckled trout.
Low willows adorn the banks, and bathe their locks in the waves, out of which a thick wood of slender reeds springs forth.
Now the vale narrows, magnificent walls of rock rise, and picturesque waterfalls toss themselves down the stream.
Suddenly the forest grows thin; the vale divides itself in two arms, and in the dale to the right, we see, close by the red-roofed forage-house for game, grey rocks and ruins.
We ascend this dale, and stand by the ruins of the old church Michaelstein, the mother of the later Kloster.
Beneath the ruins extends a wide cave, which gave rise to the building of the church.
This cave served centuries ago as the dwelling-place of a hermit named Volkmar, and still bears his name. Others of like mind joined themselves to Volkmar, and thus arose the brotherhood, and the forest church.
One can now scarcely trace the site of the walls; fruit-trees run wild, and lilacs mark the spot where once the Kloster garden lay, and besides, no trace of a human habitation where once good and holy men dwelt in the mountain solitude.
This spot—this hermitage—was once a renowned shrine, and thousands flocked here to seek consolation, for in the cave was a grave where were said to rest the bones of the Virgin Mary.
Let us enter the cave, which has two openings, one to the south-east, the other to the south-west; it is of considerable height and breadth, resembling a subterranean chapel, formed of cross-arches, and provided with niches. Near the west entrance is the far-famed tomb of Mary.
The small forest church could boast the protection of the great of the earth. Papal bulls gave indulgences for forty days to all who prayed at, and brought gifts to, the shrine.
The Empress Matilda, the wife of Henry the Fowler, endowed it with lands, and Kaiser Otto loaded it with favours, so that an enlargement became necessary, and hence an hour's distance down the valley the larger and more magnificent Kloster was built.
From the charter granted by Kaiser Otto, we learn that this cave was not first occupied by Volkmar; but that a hermitess, Liutburga, dwelt in it long before. Romance has brought them together.
Volkmar was a stately knight, and Liutburga the fairest of the maidens of the Harz, and they loved each other. In her heart lived only his image, and their souls were knit together.
But the Kaiser challenged his knights to combat against the Wenden, who still clung to heathenism, and refused to recognize Christianity, or the authority of the Kaiser.
Every true knight marched to the conflict, and Volkmar girded on his sword, and the scarf that Liutburga had woven for him, and bade farewell to his beloved.
She stood on the battlements of her castle, and saw him ride away, and when she could see him no longer her sighs and tears burst forth.
Before the image of the Virgin she knelt daily, and prayed for his return; but her petitions seemed unheeded, for troops of combatants returned from battle, but nowhere could she see the plumed helmet of Volkmar, and all were silent and sad at her questioning.
An inexpressible sorrow seized her, she clad herself in mourning garments, grew paler than the flower that droops before the mighty frost, and refused to be comforted. She could no longer dwell among men, who understood not her grief, and sought the solitude of the forest.
One day in her solitary ramble she discovered this rocky cave, and here she resolved to retire, and spend the remainder of her days in contemplation and devotion.
But her sorrow gnawed at her heart, and she sank to the earth like a drooping flower. The death-angel came, and kissed away her tears.
But Volkmar was not fallen in battle, but had been only severely wounded and taken prisoner by the Wenden, and led away into their deep forests, and it was long before they gave him back his freedom.
He fled on the wings of love to the castle of Liutburga, and hearing of her retirement he penetrated the mountains to seek out the spot. At last he discovered the cave, and his heart was ready to burst with bliss.
He called loudly her name, but no voice answered, only the echo of the mountains. He climbed the mountain, and reached the entrance to the cave. There lay Liutburga in the moss. "She sleeps!" he thought.
Yes, she slept. The cheeks were ashy pale, the eye broken, cold and still the lips; she awoke no more at his call.
The birds of the wood had sung her death-song, and the trees had showered their leaves and blossoms over the still form.
Volkmar returned no more to the world, which had nothing to offer his broken heart.
Where Liutburga had dwelt in her grief was now his home; the crucifix before which she had knelt was his sanctuary, and henceforth he turned all his thoughts to God, and to the consolation of the sorrowing.
That is the Liutburga of romance. The Liutburga of history[[1]] is indeed a highly interesting and noble personality, if less poetic.
[[1]] See History of Blankenburg.
Countess Gisela, of the Harzgau, whose seat was Blankenburg Schloss, after the death of her husband, Earl Unwan, built Kloster Wenthusen, and other convents and churches.
Once on a journey she was overtaken by the darkness, and took refuge in a Kloster.
Among the nuns who welcomed her, one, Liutburga, won her affections, and on leaving, Gisela took her home with her.
After Gisela's death, Liutburga, with the consent of Bishop Thiatgrin, of Halberstadt, retired to this cave somewhere between 827 and 840, in which Bernhard, son of Gisela, built her a cell and a chapel.
She was renowned for sanctity and good works, and endowed with a superior mind.
A priest of the cathedral of Halberstadt wrote her biography more than a thousand years ago.
We return to the later Kloster Michaelstein, which is not so rich in poetic legends.
Not even a ghostly monk haunts the ruins, nor wanders by moonlight in the venerable cloisters. But on the mountains that surround the dale the two monks, Hans and Henning, still hold guard.
Once the Abbot, fearing the attack of an enemy, sent the unfortunate brothers out to watch, with the command not to return till the enemy approached.
No enemy came, and the Abbot forgot to recall the monks.
They watched conscientiously till they became stone pillars, and stand still there. The face of one, Hans, is of admirable beauty.
There is a legend that once, when the enemy stormed the gates, St. Michael suddenly appeared over the entrance in a flame, with countenance of wrath and drawn sword, at sight of whom every man fled.