The princess listened in breathless astonishment, and, when the sweet sounds died away, spoke in cheerful tones to the friendly singer. “Thanks, gentle magician,” said she aloud; “I submit to the pleasure of Odin, and will not be ungrateful for thy anxiety; see, I will partake of thy hospitality, and then retire to rest confident in thy gracious protection.” Ildegarda then ate something of the repast, and the moment she had concluded, the dishes and bowls retired of themselves from the table, without any assistance, through the doors and windows of the palace. While she was lost in astonishment at this singular attendance, the doors on the opposite side of the hall opened of themselves, and she, supposing it a summons for her attention, immediately passed through them, and heard them close behind her. She traversed several stately rooms, till at length she stood in one more magnificent than the rest, and which, from the circumstance of the doors closing when she entered it, she concluded was designed by her host for her chamber. Grateful for his indulgence, she determined to accept his courtesy, and threw herself down upon her couch to sleep: satisfied, she reviewed the events of the day, and found she had little reason to complain. “I could even be happy,” said Ildegarda, “if I were assured of the safety of my father.” The wish was instantly gratified; a large curtain on the opposite side was suddenly withdrawn, and, represented on a magic mirror, the princess beheld her father in his own palace, conversing earnestly with his attendants. The vision lasted but a few moments—the curtain fell again before the mirror, and Ildegarda, in a transport of gratitude, thanked aloud the courteous monster, who thus sought, as he had promised, to offer her the homage most pleasing to her feelings.
Ildegarda now tried to compose her spirits to sleep,—the pale moon had risen over the island, and was pouring a flood of calm cold light into each apartment of the palace,—suddenly, her beams were eclipsed by a light so glorious that the senses of the princess ached as she contemplated the wonder; she looked up to discover the cause, but mortality drooped under its excess of glory, and she bent downwards towards the earth; a soft voice called upon her name, but the princess could not reply; then the beautiful being, who was resting upon the light, beheld the embarrassment of her beloved, and, dismissing part of the effulgence by which she was surrounded, stood visible to the mortal sight, and Ildegarda beheld her beloved goddess, the guardian of her youth, the divine object of her innocent worship, the radiant Rinda, the daughter of the sun, the beloved of Odin and Freya.
Ildegarda bent her brow still lower to the earth, and kissed the fringe of the mantle of her goddess; then the most lovely of those lovely beings, who float on their ether thrones round the domes of Valasciolf, spoke tenderly to the fairest of her worshippers. “Thou hast done well and wisely,” said the daughter of heaven to the child of earth, “in thus offering thy life for thy father and thy country, and thou hast not disappointed my hope; I carried up the perfume of the holy deed to the foot of the throne of Odin; pleased, he took it from my hand, clothed it in light, and placing it on a branch of Hydrasil, the tree of heaven, bade it blow and expand into an immortal flower, to commemorate thy virtue, and remind him of thy deserving. Child of my love—hope all—fear nothing—endure with patience—and thy reward shall be most glorious.” The goddess then recalled around her the extended beams of light, and, concentrating their brightness round her person, again became insupportably effulgent to human vision; in the next instant she was gone, and the glory she had left died away when unfed by her presence.
How sweet was the sleep of Ildegarda that night, and how blessed was her awakening on the morrow! Morning, the gay bride of Balder, beheld her descend joyfully to the hall, after adorning her lovely person with an elegant dress, selected from many, which the unseen hands of her watchful attendants had placed in her apartment for that purpose. Arrived in the hall, she expressed a wish to breakfast; and instantly the courteous dishes glided in from doors and windows to the table, attended by a grave-looking bowl of milk, which steadily sailed on till it placed itself in the centre, where it remained till the princess, by rising from table, dismissed its services for the present. She then roamed through the vast gardens of this beautiful place, and talked to the birds and the deer, fondly hoping and expecting that they were enchanted princes and princesses, and, like the black horse whom she beheld on her arrival, endowed with the faculty of speech; but, after much conversation on her own part, she was compelled to resign this pleasing illusion, and believe that they were merely real birds and real deer, who could only sing and leap. She then returned to the palace, wandered over its spacious apartments, and amused herself by counting the passages and doors. Still the day went off heavily, even with the aid of these time-killing pastimes; and when the hour of supper arrived, the princess welcomed it as sincerely as if hunger had been the instigator of the pleasure her countenance expressed; she seated herself at the table, and was earnestly and anxiously employed in coaxing the birds to partake of it,—when a loud clap of thunder shook the palace to its foundation, and terrified all appetite from the poor princess. She had hardly time to think of its cause, ere it became apparent, for the monster-man himself entered the hall, and, clad in his customary dress, stood still in the middle of the apartment. Although his appearance was as usual, yet his manner was entirely different, for his step was slow and irresolute, and his voice mild and timid; he scarcely ventured to look up as he asked, in a humble and supplicating manner, if the princess would permit him to pay his duty while she supped. Ildegarda, somewhat re-assured by his gentleness, requested him to use his pleasure in a place where unquestionably all things were at his disposal. “Not so, gracious lady,” replied the courteous monster; “I will not stay in your presence, but with your express permission: my power I cede to your beauty and virtue, and am content myself to be the first subject of so lovely a sovereign.” This gallant speech was made with so much humility and respect, that Ildegarda was not alarmed by its tenderness; and the monster, to shew (after she had granted permission) how highly he valued this trifling favour, and how little he was disposed to encroachment, declined the seat which, after a struggle, she offered him, and seated himself upon the ground, at a considerable distance from her. Touched by this humble homage and generous delicacy of a being so powerful, and at whose mercy she so entirely was, the princess so far conquered her abhorrence, as to present him with food and drink; the former he declined, but he took the again-summoned bowl of milk from her snowy hand, and, with a gesture of respectful gratitude, tasted the balmy liquor, as if to indulge her wish. At length, after a long silence, he asked her if she could be happy in the island? “I hope so,” replied the princess; “but will you tell me, sir sorcerer, what has thus singularly changed my destiny? I came hither to die—yet I live,—and anxiety is even manifested by my enemy for my happiness. How am I to understand these contradictions?” “Call me not your enemy, beautiful Ildegarda,” replied the monster, “for that I have not been; destiny had decreed you to be a victim, though not of death; I am but its instrument to work out its intentions; the sacrifice of your liberty only was demanded, and your generous resignation of life itself has impelled me to love your worth, and lighten, as far as my power will, the burthen of your sorrows. I cannot release you from this rock, but I can surround you with pleasures, and render your bondage supportable.” Ildegarda was pleased with this explanation, and, after thanking her host for his generous intentions, withdrew to her chamber, though not till she had accorded to Brandomann (for that he had told her was his name) permission to attend her on the next evening to supper: this was an honour she would gladly have declined,—but she felt it would be ungracious, and that he had some right to calculate upon her complaisance. The next night came, and Brandomann was punctual—conducting himself in the same timid manner—though, observing the dislike of Ildegarda towards him, he put an end to the interview earlier than usual, and quitted her presence in sorrow. The princess was sad that she had inflicted pain, yet she could not but hope that the hideous being would not again seek her society. In this she was disappointed;—he came at night, as before, and seated himself silent and sorrowfully at her feet; he spoke not, and scarcely ventured to look at her, till she, affected by his griefs offered him the bowl and bade him drink; he took it with a smile—the poor monster intended it so, but the frightful grin which distorted his features was so odious, that Ildegarda sickened with affright, and heartily repented her condescension. Brandomann understood her disgust. “Ildegarda,” he said, mournfully, “I too well know how justly I must be an object of abhorrence to the eye of beauty; I will not give you pain therefore—though it will destroy the only happiness I have ever enjoyed, I will intrude no more into your presence,—I will not destroy the little felicity which fate has left you.” He arose to retire; but the generosity of the princess overcame her reluctance,—she was not proof against this noble self-denial,—and, rising hastily from her seat, she requested, entreated,—nay, commanded him to continue his visits. Brandomann was but too happy to obey; and he retired comforted from her presence. The next night Brandomann was not so silent—he exerted himself to amuse and interest his lovely prisoner; and he succeeded admirably when he spoke of the present state of Denmark—the disorders of the king—the disappearance of both the princes, sons of Harold—and the courage and integrity of her noble father; upon this theme he discoursed till tears of pleasure filled the eyes of the princess, whom he repeatedly assured of Haquin’s safety. “Should you wish a confirmation of the intelligence which I give you,” continued Brandomann, “on the first day of every month examine the magic mirror in your chamber; it will satisfy your curiosity, by representing your father and his employments; but only at that time must you consult it.” Still Brandomann continued to talk, and Ildegarda to listen, till she forgot to wish for the hour of separation, and even suffered the monster to retire first; the next day she grew weary ere evening, and waited with something like impatience for the supper hour: it came at last, and Brandomann with it, who perceived, by the reception she gave him, that he was no longer so unwelcome a guest as formerly. Animated by this belief, he again exerted all his powers to interest the princess; he related to her the early history of her country, and the exploits of the greatest heroes, her ancestors of the race of Odin; he then went on to discourse of the Scaldres, their singular union, their mystic occupations, and their magnificent poems; he himself, he remarked to her, was of this privileged order, and, without wearying her attention, recited some of his own compositions and those of his noble brethren. Ildegarda was charmed by his discourses. Balder had touched his lips with eloquence, and Brage had rendered his voice melodious, and many words flowed over his lips, sweet, yet powerful, as a torrent of silvery waters. The princess was pleased while she only listened,—when she looked, the spell was broken.
PART III.
THE GUESTS.
Misery acquaints a man with strange Bedfellows.
Shakspeare—Tempest.
Day after day thus glided on without much variation, though not so heavily as formerly. One evening Brandomann said to her, “Your mornings must still be wearisome to you; perhaps it might give you pleasure to travel around this little island; when such shall be your wish, summon aloud your carriage, with the snow-white deer, (that which brought you hither,) and it will instantly attend your command.” The princess was impatient, till the next morning gave her an opportunity of indulging this new pleasure;—for when our pleasures are few, every little variation is hailed as a new one;—she sprung lightly from her couch, and, with beaming eyes and a throbbing heart, ascended her chariot, which, at her wish, waited at the gates of the marble palace. For some hours she was delighted to be borne swiftly by the coursers of light through flowery vales and blooming gardens; but at length grew weary of the silence and monotony which every where surrounded her, and the inability to utter or reply to an observation. The deer looked at her with their intelligent eyes, and seemed to understand her feelings. “Yes, turn then, my lovely deer,” she replied in answer to their silent interrogatory; “bear me again to my home.” She entered the marble hall. It was many days since she no longer startled at the clap of thunder which announced the approach of Brandomann, and now she heard it with pleasure. “You have been amused to-day,” said he to her as he entered. “Not much,” she replied; “although I blush to say so; I would be happy if I could, yet I cannot help feeling that solitude is melancholy.” “Alas! yes,” replied the lord of the Maelstrom; “but there are companions to whom it is preferable. If I did not fear offending by my presumption”—He was eagerly interrupted by Ildegarda, who accepted the embryo offer with delight; and her manner had such an effect upon the monster, that again the princess repented her condescension. He made ample amends for his hideous joy, however, on the following day, when attending Ildegarda on her journey, by his timid and gentle modesty. Mounted on his coal-black steed, he respectfully followed her brilliant chariot, and never, except in answer to her summons, ventured to approach her side. The princess was naturally generous, and this conduct secured her confidence. She now encouraged him to converse, called him frequently to her side, and took pleasure in calling forth and listening to his observations. On their return to the palace, a huge raven flew down from a tree upon the shoulder of Brandomann, and whispered something in his ear; the latter immediately turned to Ildegarda: “Princess,” he said, “the only friends who ever enliven this solitude by visiting me, are now on the island; will you permit them to attend you at supper?” Ildegarda consented joyfully: the thought of once more seeing human beings filled her spirit with rapture; and, hastening to her apartment, she spent the intervening time in dressing her lovely person to the utmost advantage, not only for her own sake, but also to do honour to the taste and generosity of Brandomann, who had been most lavish in his preparations for her toilet. At length she descended, and, with a palpitating heart, entered the hall. At the door she was met by Brandomann himself, who courteously led her forward to present her to his guests—they rose to receive her—but imagine the astonishment of Ildegarda!—No words can do justice to her surprise, as she surveyed the assembled party: neither knight nor lady, spirit nor fiend, greeted her entrance,—but on one side stood an enormous wild boar—on the other a beautiful white she-goat—in front stood the eight-legged steed of Odin—and the two ravens, whom she had seen on her landing on the island, had perched themselves with infinite gravity upon Brandomann’s club. The princess turned to her friend, and was about to demand an explanation, when she was prevented by the beautiful goat, who, with an air at once kind and dignified, welcomed her to the island, which she said was happy under the government of the good Brandomann, the favourite of Odin, and whom all good spirits loved: the boar made her his best bow—Sleipner assured her of his devotion—the ravens were happy in the honour of her acquaintance—and Ildegarda, after replying to each of these extraordinary visitors, recovered something of her composure, and smilingly sat down to supper with her company. She was about to apologise for the want of proper fare, when she beheld them supplied with their own particular dishes by the same unseen attendants who so assiduously waited upon her. Oats and hay, in a silver manger, were placed before Sleipner—a huge tray of nuts and acorns sallied in, and stood stationary at the tusks of the boar—a salad was the supper of the white goat—and a raw rump steak was provided for the accommodation of the ravens. The princess began to be amused with her situation and company, and listen to their conversation with considerable interest: Mumin and Hugo, the raven messengers of Odin, were talking over some of the divinities of Asgard; and Sleipner mentioned a journey which Thor the Thunderer intended shortly to take upon his back, to correct the impious inhabitants of Jutland, who, since the ascension of the murderer Feggo to his brother’s throne, had totally neglected his worship. “Is the murdered prince in Asgard?” demanded Brandomann. “He has a magnificent palace in Valasciolf,” replied the huge boar, “where he resides among the other heroes and the divine family and ministers of Odin, and with them usually spends his nights at the banquet in Valhalla; but he is not a favourite warrior there: if he was no more amiable on earth than he is in heaven, I am not surprised at his wife’s wishing to get rid of him. Hamlet is also there, and almost as unpopular as his father. Can you imagine it possible, he spends all his time with Forsete at Glitner, and has grown so wise and disputacious, that he is continually instructing Odin himself; nay, the other morning, just before the sounding for the combat, he spoke so learnedly to that blind Horror, whom we dare not name out of heaven, and who is already sufficiently inclined to mischief, that Thor, provoked, lifted up his mallet to knock out the shadow of his brains,—but Balder interfered, and his eloquence and Lofna’s smile restored peace to heaven.”
“And how go on the happy Scaldres?” demanded Brandomann; “what is become of the unlucky Hiarn, whose skill in singing gained him a crown?” “He is singer-in-chief in Valhalla,” replied Sleipner; “and indeed his strains well deserve this distinction. But see,” he continued; “the princess looks to you for an explanation: take your harp, Brandomann, and let it tell the story of Hiarn.” “I obey you,” replied the lord of the Maelstrom; and he caught up his harp and sung—
The heart of the monarch was savage and wild,
And his red hand with life-blood was gory;
He spared not the matron, he spared not the child,
Proud youth, nor the head that was hoary.