I. Merlin and His Prophecies
Once, in those dim, far off times when history fades away and is lost in the mists of tradition, there sat upon the throne of Britain a man named Vortigern. Like many another king of his day—and of later days for that matter, he had no right whatever to the crown, for he had gained it by the betrayal of a trust, and, some believed, by a still darker crime. Constantine, his overlord, who had reigned in Britain before him, had, at his death, committed to this Vortigern, his chief minister, the care of his three sons, Constans, the heir, and his two brothers Pendragon and Uther. Soon after the King’s death little Constans had mysteriously disappeared. Then the true friends of the two remaining princes, fearing for their lives, had fled with them across the sea and found refuge for them at the court of France.
All this, however, was now many years ago; and so long had Vortigern’s right to rule been unquestioned that he had almost forgotten his crime.
In the early days of his reign he had indeed fought valiantly against the only enemies that the Britons had at that time greatly to fear. These were the tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed Saxons who came from beyond the seas led by Hengest and Horsa. But as the years had passed, he and his warriors had given themselves up more and more to lives of luxury and idleness, so that at last they had been obliged to make a shameful peace with the enemy, and the Saxons were now gradually becoming masters of the land.
It so happened, therefore, that on the day when our story opens, King Vortigern had gathered his court about him in his capital city of London, there to hold a high festival, and in feasting and carousing to forget the disgrace of their surrender and the ills of the country.
Suddenly, up to the castle gate, through the great portal, along the wide corridors, and into the very banquet-hall itself, never stopping to dismount, rode a breathless messenger.
“To arms! Sir King, to arms!” he cried, waiting for no ceremony. “Pendragon and Uther have this day set sail from the coast of France with a mighty army, and they have sworn by a great oath to take your life as you took the life of their brother Constans!”
Then the King remembered, and his face went ashen grey. He turned to one after another of the men who should have been his mighty warriors, and, reading in their flabby cheeks and lustreless eyes the story of their slothful living, knew that his cause was well-nigh lost before the fighting began.
“Summon my messengers!” he was able to say at last, and when these were brought before him:
“Ride! into every corner of my kingdom, ride! And call together the most skillful artificers, craftsmen and mechanics, for I have a great work for them to do.”
Within a week the messengers on their fleet horses had scoured the land, so that there stood before the King a hundred of the best workmen that Britain could produce.
“Now hear my command,” said he. “On the plain that lies furthest west in my kingdom build me a tower whose walls shall be so firm as to withstand all assault of catapult and battering-ram; and have it ready for my retreat within a hundred days, or your lives, to the last man, shall be forfeited.”
The workmen left the presence of the King with fear in their hearts; but to such good purpose did they labor that within a few days there began to be visible upon the plain the jagged outlines of the walls that were to enclose that mighty tower. Then the weary workmen, for the first time feeling assured that they could accomplish their task within the hundred days, lay down for the night and were soon fast asleep.
With the first pale glimmer of dawn, however, they arose ready to return to their labors with renewed energy. But what a sight met their eyes! The tower lay in ruins! The walls had fallen during the night!
Then with the strength of terror they fell upon their task once more. When the second morning came they turned their gaze half in hope and half in dread toward the scene of their labors, only to have their worst fears confirmed. Once again there lay before them but a heap of ruins!
“We must use larger stones,” said one.
“We have no time to talk,” put in a second. “If our lives are to be spared we must work as we never worked before.”
So all through the long hours of the day they toiled in silence and in dread until the damage of the night had been repaired, only to find when morning came that, for the third time, their tower had crumbled to the ground.
“This is enchantment!” they then cried in despair. “We cannot build the tower. Let us go and throw ourselves before the King to plead for mercy!”
But when Vortigern, with his guilty conscience, heard that word “enchantment,” a greater dread fell upon his heart.
“Lead out these useless artificers,” he thundered, “and summon my wise men.”
And presently the great doors of the throne-room were thrown open and, one by one, in solemn procession, trailing their black robes, the astrologers, the wizards and the magicians of the realm filed in, until they stood in a silent semi-circle before the King.
At last Vortigern raised his eyes.
“Tell me,” he said gloomily, “tell me, O my Wise Men, as you hold in your possession all the secrets of this world, and of other worlds unknown to ordinary mortals, tell me, I adjure you, why my tower of refuge will not stand.”
He ceased, and a deep silence fell upon the room. Wizard turned to astrologer, and astrologer to magician, for each knew in his heart that he could give no answer to the question of the King.
At last the oldest man present stepped forward and bowing low, began to speak in deep and solemn tones:
“Your Majesty,” said he, “give us we pray you until tomorrow at high noon. This night shall the wizards work their spells and the astrologers consult the stars in their courses. Then shall we be able to tell you why your tower will not stand.”
“Let it be so,” replied the King, “but also let it be well understood that if at high noon tomorrow you are still unable to answer, your lives shall pay the penalty, even as the lives of my workmen shall pay the penalty if they do not raise my tower within the hundred days. Fail me not, my Wise Men!”
That night, far down in the deepest dungeons of the castle, the wizards gathered together about a steaming cauldron, vainly chanted their incantations and worked their magic spells, while on the highest battlements, the black-robed astrologers watched the stars from evening until morning; but when the day-star itself faded from their sight in the paling blue of dawn, they were no wiser than at the beginning of their vigil.
“What shall we do?” they cried to one another in consternation when the two companies of watchers had met to report their failures.
“Hush! Speak low!” whispered the Sage. “We must pretend. It is the only way to save ourselves. I have a plan.”
And as they gathered about him he continued:
“He had fought valiantly against the enemies”
“You all know the prophecy—that a child who never had mortal parents shall soon appear among us, and that he shall be able to read more in the stars than the wisest of our astrologers, that he shall be a greater magician than the greatest of us, and that through him we shall lose our power and pass away?”
“Ah! yes, we have heard,” they answered, shaking their white heads mournfully.
“That child,” continued the Sage, “is living somewhere in Britain at this very moment, and his name is Merlin. Let us tell the King that his tower, to make it stand, needs but the blood of this child sprinkled upon its foundations. So shall we by the same act save our lives and rid ourselves of one who otherwise will surely work us harm.”
Then the Wise Men bowed their heads and answered:
“You have spoken the words of wisdom.”
So at high noon that day, when they were once more gathered about the throne, they gave their answer:
“Seek, your Majesty,” said they, “a child named Merlin who never had mortal parents. Sprinkle his blood upon the foundations of your tower. Then will it stand until the end of time.”
Thereupon the King summoned his messengers and gave the order:
“Ride! into every town, village and hamlet of my kingdom, ride! And seek this child until you find him; but know that if he is not brought to me within ten days, your lives shall be forfeited, and not yours alone, but also the lives of my Wise Men for giving me useless knowledge, and the lives of my workmen for doing useless work! Ride!”
Then out from old London Town, north and south and east and west, up hill and down dale, over mountains and across rivers, rode the King’s messengers on their strange quest. One day, two days, three, four, five and six days, seven days, eight days; and when the ninth day came two of them found themselves far from home, riding through the street of a tiny hamlet.
“What is the use of seeking further?” said one. “For my part I do not believe, for all the Wise Men say, that there ever was or ever could be such a child.”
“I fear you are right,” replied his companion, “we may as well give up the search and flee for our lives.”
As he spoke the last words, however, the men were obliged to draw rein lest their horses should trample upon a crowd of children who were quarreling in the narrow street. One urchin had just given another a sharp blow across the face, whereupon his victim was proceeding to vent his rage in words that immediately arrested the attention of the messengers.
“Wizard turned to astrologer”
“How dare you strike me?” he was screaming at the top of his shrill little voice. “You who came nobody knows from where, and who never had a father or a mother!”
In an instant one of the men had slipped from his horse. Then, having seized both boys, he drew them aside that he might question them. Very soon boys and men found themselves the centre of an interested group of villagers each one of whom seemed more anxious than his neighbor to give all the information that he happened to possess on the subject.
“Yes, his name is Merlin,” said one, “and he was cast upon our shores by the waves of the sea.”
“Not at all!” interrupted another. “He was brought to our village in the night by evil spirits.”
And so it went, but the anxious messengers soon cut short their eloquence.
“If your name is Merlin,” said they to the lad, “and you do not know who your father and mother are, you must come with us. It is the command of the King.”
“I am quite willing,” replied the boy with unexpected meekness.
“Perhaps he would not be so willing,” whispered one under his breath to his companion, “if he knew why he is wanted.”
“I hear what you say,” Merlin broke in, “and what is more, I know what you mean; but just the same, I am willing to go with you to King Vortigern. In fact I struck the boy knowing what he would say and what you would do; so you see I am not afraid.”
On the tenth day after the departure of his couriers, the King sat alone in his audience chamber. Suddenly the great doors were swung wide, and a boy wearing the simple dress of a tiller of the soil appeared before him.
“Your Majesty,” said he, “I am Merlin, the child who never had father or mother. You sent for me because your Wise Men have said that my blood is needed to make your strong tower stand. They have told you an untruth because they know nothing about the tower, and also because they are my enemies. I ask only that you call them together so that I can prove to you that what I say is so.”
Then, at the astonished King’s command, the great bell of the castle was tolled, and presently the black-robed astrologers, wizards and magicians filed once again into the royal presence.
“You may question my Wise Men now,” said the King to Merlin, “and save yourself if you can.”
“Tell us, then, O Prophets of King Vortigern,” cried the boy, “what lies under the plain where the King has tried to build his tower.”
Then the Wise Ones drew apart that they might take counsel together, and presently the Sage stepped before the King and said:
“Your Majesty, we are now ready to give our answer. We who have the power to look deep into the bowels of the earth know well that beneath the plain where you have sought to build your tower, should you dig never so deep, you would find nothing but the good, brown soil of your Majesty’s kingdom.”
At this Merlin smiled and shook his dark curls.
“You tell us, then,” said the King.
“Let your workmen dig,” replied the boy, “and beneath the plain they will find a deep pool.”
And when the workmen had dug, they found, just as Merlin had prophesied—a deep, dark pool beneath the plain.
Then cried the King:
“My Wise Men have been put to shame by this mere lad. His life shall be spared; but they, for their deceit, shall be driven in disgrace from my kingdom.”
But Merlin interposed, saying:
“Not yet, Sir King, I pray you. Let us have another test that you may feel perfectly sure. Ask your Wise Men what lies under the pool that lay under the plain where you sought to build your tower.”
Again the Wise Ones talked together; and again because they knew not what else to say, they gave the same answer:
“Sir King, you will find good, brown earth beneath the pool that lay beneath the plain where Your Majesty sought to build his tower.”
“No, Sir King,” said Merlin. “Beneath the pool you will find two great stones. Let your workmen drain the pool and see.”
And when the pool was drained, there lay two immense boulders, just as Merlin had said.
“Truly this is a marvelous child,” exclaimed Vortigern. “Away with my false prophets! From this time forth I will have no Wise Man but Merlin!”
“Stay, Your Majesty,” said Merlin. “Let there be one more test, then no question can ever arise in your mind. Ask your Wise Men what lies beneath the stones that lay beneath the pool that lay beneath the plain where you sought to build your tower.”
But this time the Wise Ones were wise enough to hold their peace.
“Very well,” said Merlin, “then I will tell you. Beneath the stones you will find two great dragons, one red, the other white. During the day these monsters sleep, but at night they awaken and fight; and it was because of their terrible underground battles that your tower could not be made to stand. The night following the raising of the stones they will fight for the last time; for the red dragon will kill the white one, and after that, O Mighty King, you may build your tower in peace.”
Then the Wise Ones trembled, and silently they followed the King and Merlin across the plain to watch the fatal raising of the stones.
When at last the mighty boulders had yielded to the combined strength of all the workmen, there, before the eyes of the crowds that had gathered, lay the two dragons—fast asleep.
“Now send the people away,” said Merlin to the King, “but you and I must stay here and watch, for at midnight the dragons will fight their last battle.”
And when the crowds had dispersed, and the Wise Men slunk away one by one, Vortigern and the boy Merlin sat alone together on the brink of the pool as the evening shadows fell.
The air grew chill. Presently the moon arose, shedding its weird light upon the strange scene; and still the dragons slept on. Toward midnight Merlin leaned forward, and, lightly touching the King’s arm, whispered:
“See! They are about to awaken. Make no noise!”
Then slowly, and still drowsily, the great white dragon stirred and opened his hideous eyes, while along his whole scaly body there ran a shudder. This seemed to arouse the red monster from his dreams, for before King Vortigern could draw breath, the two terrible creatures had risen on their bat-like wings far above his head, and, with fire streaming from their nostrils, were gnashing upon each other with their fangs, and striking at each other with their ugly claws.
For an hour or more the awful battle continued, sometimes far above their heads, and sometimes perilously near them on the earth; and it seemed to the King that neither would ever be able to gain an advantage—so well were they matched. After a while, however, the white beast began to show signs of weakening; and at last with a mighty crash, he fell to the ground—dead. Then the red dragon spread his wings, and with a strange hissing sound vanished into the shadows of the night, never to be seen again by mortal eyes.
“Tell me,” said the King when he could find sufficient voice to speak. “Tell me, O wonderful boy that you are, what do these strange things mean?”
“I will tell you, O mighty King, without fear or favor,” replied Merlin, “although I know full well that what I have to say will not be at all to your liking. You may build your tower now, for there is nothing to hinder you; and you may shut yourself up within its strong walls. Nevertheless, Pendragon and Uther, the sons of King Constantine whose trust you betrayed, and the brothers of the young heir Constans whom you so cruelly murdered, have to-day landed on your shores with a mighty army. Forty days and forty nights shall the siege continue, and at the end of that time your tower shall be destroyed with every living soul within its walls.
“Then shall reign in Britain first Pendragon and afterwards Uther; and all the days of their lives they shall war against the Saxon whom you, Sir King, have brought to this land. The White Dragon stands for the Saxon, and the Red Dragon for the Briton. Long and deadly shall be the strife between them, but in the fulness of time there shall be born to Uther a son whose name shall be called ARTHUR. He shall be the greatest king that these Islands are destined ever to know. He and his wonderful knights shall make war on the Saxon and drive him from the land. So shall the mischief of your reign be repaired—for a season.”
Then the King, still clinging to the shadow of his former hope, hastened the building of his tower, and shut himself within its mighty walls. Nevertheless, within forty days after the beginning of the siege, having been driven back time and again, Pendragon and Uther, counselled by Merlin, threw burning brands over the ramparts, so that the tower took fire and burned with a mighty conflagration until all within had perished.
Thus was Merlin’s prophecy concerning Vortigern fulfilled; and as for his other prophecies—that is another story.
(Number Two—“How Arthur Won His Kingdom”—will appear in the next issue)
GLOSSARY FOR BEGINNERS
1. Adjure, to charge or entreat solemnly. 2. Artificer, one who works or constructs with skill. 3. Astrologer, one who reads the supposed destinies of men in the stars. 4. Battering-ram, a long beam, usually with a heavy head, used in making breaches in walls. 5. Boulder, a stone or rock. 6. Catapult, a military engine used for throwing spears. 7. Cauldron, a large kettle or boiler. 8. Hamlet, a small village. 9. Incantations, the saying or singing of magical words for enchantment. 10. Over-lord, a king or chief who held authority over other lords. 11. Quest, a search. 12. Realm, a kingdom. 13. Sage, a wise man. 14. Vigil, a night watch. 15. Wizard, one having the power of magic; a male witch.
Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata[1]
And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.
—Longfellow.
Beethoven
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.,
[1] The text of the Beethoven Moonlight Sonata is reprinted from the Aldine Fourth Reader, through the courtesy of the publishers, Newson & Co., New York.
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk and afterward sup with me. In passing through some dark, narrow street he paused suddenly. “Hush!” he said—“What sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F!” he said eagerly. “Hark! how well it is played!”
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!”
“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”
“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use.”
Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.
“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”
“I will play for her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling about her face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.
“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to enter. I am a musician.”
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.
“I—I also overheard something of what you said,” continued my friend. “You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?”
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily.
“Thank you!” said the shoemaker, “but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music.”
“No music!” echoed my friend. “How, then, does the Fraulein—”
He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind.
“I—I entreat your pardon!” he stammered. “But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?”
“Entirely.”
“And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?”
“I used to hear a lady practising near us. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her.”
She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart would break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonshine. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone, “who and what are you?”
The composer smiled, as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F.
The Moonlight Sonata
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, “Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hand with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
“Play to us once more—only once more!”
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged, and massive figure. “I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” he said, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.
This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive, terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning toward the door—“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly; “I will come again, and give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!” They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.”
We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the origin of that Moonlight Sonata with which we are all so fondly acquainted.
