THE CASTLE ON THE RHINE

by: Francis A. Durivage (1814-1881)

The following story is reprinted from The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales. Francis A. Durivage. Boston: Sanborn, 1856.

In one of those old feudal castles, which, perched, like eagle nests, upon the picturesque hills that overhang

"The wide and winding Rhine,"

and with their crumbling and ivy-grown towers, arrest the eyes of the delighted traveller, as he views them from the deck of the gliding steamer, there dwelt, some years ago, the Baron Von Rosenburg and his lady Mathilde. The baron was a very proud man, and continually boasting of his descent from a "long and noble line of martial ancestors," gentlemen who were wont, in the "good old times," to wear steel on head, back, and breast, and each of whom supported a score of retainers in his feudal castle. Where the money comes from to support a princely housekeeping, when the head of the family has no property or employment, is sometimes a mystery nowadays; but no such doubt attached to the resources of the baron's ancestors. These gentlemen, when short of provisions, would sally forth at the head of their followers, and capture the first drove of cattle they encountered, without stopping to inquire into the ownership. Sometimes they made excursions on the river, and levied contributions on the little barks of traders who often carried valuable cargoes from one Rhine town to another.

But the privileges of the robber knights and bandit nobles were sadly shorn by the progressive spirit of modern civilization. With a total disregard of the immunities of chivalry, modern legislators declared that it was as great a crime for a baron to seize on a herd of cattle as for a peasant to steal a sheep. Hence the great families along the Rhine went into decay. The castles were dismantled, many noble names died out, very few remained, the representatives of the ancestral glory of olden times.

Among them was the baron. He had been a soldier and a courtier in his youth, had spent some time abroad, and was about forty when he married a lady of the same age, and settled down in the old family castle of Rosenberg. Here he lorded it over the surrounding valley, the simple inhabitants of which, though exempt from all feudal obligations, yet in some sort regarded themselves as vassals of the baron. They made him presents of fish, accompanied him to the chase, and lent him a willing hand, whenever he required assistance at the castle.

The baron, though he had the wherewithal to live comfortably enough, was yet a poor representative of the race he sprang from. His army consisted of a few farm servants, his cavalry of a ploughboy on a cart-horse, and his navy of a fishing boat. But, on the whole, he was happy. He passed his days either in trimming his vines or hunting, and his evenings in poring over mildewed parchments or books of heraldry, hunting up long pedigrees, and puffing a monstrous meerschaum till the atmosphere was as dense as the interior of a smokehouse. The lady Mathilde embroidered from morning till night.

They had, however, a common source of grief. Fate had not blessed them with children. The lady yearned for the companionship of a daughter; the baron mourned at the prospect of the extinction of his name for want of a male heir.

It was while pondering on this subject one day, as they were strolling out together, that the baron and his lady came upon the cottage of an old soldier named Karl Mueller, who cultivated a little vineyard not far from the castle.

The old man was seated on a bench before his door, smoking, and so deeply plunged in revery, that he was not aware of the approach of visitors till the baron touched him on the shoulder.

"In a brown study, Karl?" said the baron.

"I have enough to think about," returned the soldier "I'm getting old, and one thing troubles me."

"What's that, my good fellow?"

"Why, you see, baron, I'm not alone here."

"Not alone?"

"No, sir—I—have—I have a little child here."

"I never knew you were married, Karl."

"Nor was I, your honor. For I always thought an infantry soldier ought to be in marching order, and never have more baggage than he could carry in his knapsack. No, no; the child is none of mine."

"But it is related to you," said the baroness.

"It is my grandchild, madam," replied the soldier, fixing his eyes on the lady; "and the child of as brave a man as ever faced the fire of the enemy. He might have been a field marshal, for the matter of that. I saw him at Oberstadt when the hussars went down to charge the enemy's light cavalry. Faith, madam, they made daylight shine through their ranks. Their curved sabres cut them up as the sickle does the corn. I saw him, the girl's father, madam, go into that affair with the hussars; but he came not out safe. It was pitiful to see his uniform all dabbled with blood, as he lay on the ground, and to see his pale lips quivering, as he prayed for water. I gave him the last drop in my canteen, and I swore I'd protect the child. But I fear I'm getting too old for the task."

The baroness, whose eyes were filled with tears, turned to her husband, and asked,—

"Shall we not give a shelter to the child of a brave man?"

The baron nodded, and the proposal was accepted by Karl, who retired into his cottage, and immediately reappeared, bringing forth a beautiful girl of ten, with fair hair and blue eyes, and a form of graceful symmetry.

"A girl! nonsense!" said the baron, in a tone of disappointment. But the baroness folded the child in her arms with rapture. The child responded to the caresses of the lady with equal ardor.

So the little Adelaide was soon domesticated in the castle which her frolic spirit filled with gayety. The baroness renewed her youth in gazing upon hers, and the baron never scolded her, even when she took his pipe out of his mouth, or rummaged among his parchments.

As she grew up to womanhood, she became more serious and thoughtful. She was anxious to learn every thing touching her father, but on this subject the baroness could give her no information; and Karl, her grandfather, seemed equally averse to speaking of it. When hard pressed, he promised to speak out at some future time.

One day she was summoned in great haste to the cottage of old Karl. The old man had suddenly been taken ill, and required the presence of his granddaughter. It was evident, at a glance, that he was on his death bed.

"Adelaide," said he, "forgive me, before I die, that I may depart in peace."

"Forgive you, dear grandfather! am I not deeply indebted to you?"

"I should have reposed more confidence in you; I should have spoken to you about your parents."

"My father?" asked Adelaide.

"Was a brave and good man. But of your mother—your good mother—she was—"

Here a spasm interrupted his utterance, and he lay back on his pillow gasping for breath. After a brief space he seemed to revive again, and made strong efforts to express himself, but his breath failed him. He motioned to Adelaide to fetch him writing materials, and while she held a sheet of paper on a book before him, he essayed with feeble fingers to trace a sentence with a pen. But the rapid approach of death foiled all his endeavors to communicate a secret that evidently lay close to his heart; and while the young girl bent over him in an agony of grief, he gently sighed away his last. The baron and baroness found their protégée, an hour afterwards, still sorrowing by the bedside of her early friend and protector. With gentle violence they removed her from the chamber of death, and took her home to the castle, where they gave directions to the proper persons to take charge of the old soldier's remains, and inter them with that decent respect which was due to his character and station. Among his effects was found a will, in which he made Adelaide his heiress, bequeathing to her his little landed estate, and a small sum in gold, the produce of his toil and frugality. This event cast a gloom over the spirits of the young maiden, from which, however, her religious persuasions, the attention of her friends, and the elasticity of her youth, eventually relieved her.

The old castle on the Rhine was gay once more, when Rudolph Ernstein, a nephew of the baron, a gay young captain of hussars, whose gallantry and beauty had given him reputation at Vienna, came to pay a long visit to his uncle. He was a high-spirited and accomplished young man, had served with distinction, was a devoted admirer of the ladies, and one of those military Adonises who are born to conquest. He was charmed to find domesticated beneath the old roof tree so fair and lovable a girl as Adelaide, and of course did his best to render his society agreeable to her. He sang to her songs of his own writing, to airs of his own composition, accompanied on his guitar; he told her tales of strange lands that he had visited, of cavalry skirmishes in which he had participated, sketched her favorite scenes in pencil, and offered to teach her the newest dances in vogue at Vienna. He was a dangerous companion to a young girl whose imagination needed but a spark to kindle it, and for a time she indulged in the wild hope that she had made a conquest of Rudolph. But then her reason told her, that even if he loved her, it would be impossible for a young man of family to offer his hand to an almost portionless girl, about whose origin a veil of mystery seemed wrapped. The names of her parents, even, had never been disclosed to her, by the lips of probably the only man who knew her history, and those lips were now cold and mute in death. Hence the little gleam of sunshine which had for a moment penetrated her heart was speedily quenched in a deeper darkness than that which reigned in it before, and she could not help viewing the visit of Rudolph as an ominous event.

One morning, she was witness to a scene which dashed out the last faint glimmering of hope. They were all seated at a huge oaken table, from which the servants had just removed the apparatus of the morning meal.

"Rudolph," said the baron, after lighting his pipe,—an operation of great solemnity and deliberation, and taking a few whiffs to make sure that its contents were duly ignited,—"Rudolph, do you know why I sent for you to Rosenburg?"

"Why, sir," replied the hussar, "I suppose it was because you really have a sort of regard for an idle, good-for-nothing fellow, whose redeeming quality is an attachment to a very kind old uncle, and whose nonsense and good spirits are perhaps a partial compensation for the trouble he gives every body in this tumble-down old castle."

"Tumble-down old castle!" exclaimed the baron, in high dudgeon, the latter part of the soldier's speech cancelling the former; "why, you jackanapes, it will stand for centuries. It resisted the cannon of Napoleon, and it bids defiance to the battering of time. Yes, sir, Rosenburg will stand long after your great-great-grandchildren are superannuated."

"I am not likely to be blessed in the way you hint at, uncle," said the soldier, carelessly. "I am likely, for aught I see, to die a bachelor."

"Nonsense!" said the baron. "What's to become of your family name? Do you think I will allow it to die out, like the Pumpernickels, the Snaphausens, and the Ollenstoffenburgers? No, boy. I sent for you to tell you that I have contracted for your hand with my friend the Baron Von Steinberg."

"Really, sir, you dispose of me in a very cavalier way."

"That's because you're too careless or lazy to look out for yourself," retorted the baron. "But then you can have no possible objection to the present match. The fair Julia is just twenty—eyes, you dog—lips, you rascal—a shape, you blockhead, to bewitch an anchorite. And then she has the gelt—the money, my boy."

"A commodity of which I happen to be minus," said the soldier.

"Arn't you my heir?" asked the baron.

"You are very kind," said the hussar, with a slight sigh.

He glanced at Adelaide, but he read no sentiment on her calm and pensive countenance.

"She's as cold as a glacier on the Donderberg!" he muttered to himself.

"Well, sir—you haven't given me an answer," said the baron, impatiently.

"My dear uncle," said the soldier, jumping up, and snatching his fowling-piece, "it's a glorious morning for sport; and I'm much mistaken if I don't add a half dozen brace of birds to your bill of fare to-day."

"But the fair Julia Von Steinberg?" said the baron.

"O! I forgot," said Rudolph. "I'm entirely in your hands. Do with me as you please. My profession, you know, has given me habits of obedience. I suppose I must sacrifice myself. Good morning."

And away he went to enjoy his sport upon the mountains.

"Young, lovely, and rich!" said poor Adelaide, with a sigh, when she had regained her room. "If this be true, she is indeed worthy of Ernstein. He will love her—they will be happy—and I—I can but wish them joy, and die."

There was great preparation in the castle Von Rosenburg, that day week, for the reception of the prospective bride. Every thing was cleaned and furbished up, from battlement to dungeon keep. An old flag with the family arms was hoisted from the rampart, and the butler, who had served in the wars of the Alliance, mounted an old swivel on the ramparts with the intention of firing it off, on the approach of the old family carriage of the Von Steinbergs, Captain Rudolph Von Ernstein, in his splendid hussar uniform, looked the beau ideal of a soldier lover. Even the baron was rejuvenated by a court suit that had not seen the light since the nuptials of Maria Louisa and the Emperor Napoleon.

At last the carriage appeared. The villagers and hangers on of the establishment hurrahed in the court yard as it drew up, the old butler applied the match to the priming of the swivel and was prostrated by the discharge, while the baron came near tumbling over his sword in his eagerness to welcome his old friend and his old friend's daughter.

The Baron Von Steinberg alighted and bowed his thanks; while Captain Rudolph handed out the lovely Julia. As her light foot touched the pavement, Adelaide advanced to offer a bouquet; at one glance she appreciated the exquisite beauty of her rival, and dropping the flowers, retired to an obscure corner of the court yard to conceal her anguish and despair.

The festive train swept into the castle. All was gayety and uproar within doors. The baron could scarce contain the transports of his joy; and Von Steinberg was equally excited. The excitement, however, seemed to be too much for the fair Julia, whose cheek was paler than the satin robe she wore, while Rudolph, perhaps from sympathy, was uneasy and agitated.

At last the bell of the castle was rung for dinner, and the party proceeded to the great hall. But Adelaide did not make her appearance. Search was made for her; she was not in her apartment. An angry flush overspread the brow of old Rosenburg at this announcement, and after some minutes passed in waiting for her appearance, he ordered dinner to be served without her. The repast was not a very gay one, notwithstanding the efforts of the master of the house to make it so. Night had long fallen, and Adelaide did not reappear. The family, from being vexed, now became alarmed, and it was determined to go in search of her. Rudolph and the baron went forth with two servants and torches to scour the woods, after vainly searching through the castle. One of the men went on in advance. He had been gone but a short time when he came back speechless with grief and amazement. Rudolph and his uncle pushed forward through the thickets, and on the banks of a small stream, dammed up to form a lake, they found the bonnet and shawl of the missing girl.

"Good God!" exclaimed Rudolph, "she has destroyed herself. I have noticed a strange wildness in her appearance for several days past; in a fit of mental aberration she has wandered away, and here found her death."

A piercing scream was heard at this moment. The baroness, who had followed them, had recognized the garments of Adelaide.

"My child! my child!" she shrieked, "my own! my beautiful! she is no more."

"This is worse and worse," said the baron, wringing his hands. "This will make us all mad."

But at this moment a boat was seen approaching. It was the miller, who brought with him the body of Adelaide, dripping as it had been drawn from the water. He laid her fair form upon the bank. The baroness, who could not be restrained, threw herself beside her, and kissed her pale lips. Rudolph, too, seized the cold hands.

"She lives!" he exclaimed. "She is not lost to us!"

"Rudolph—dear Rudolph!" murmured the poor girl.

"My child! my child! she lives!" cried the baroness.

And it was indeed so. She had thrown herself into the water, indeed, but the miller, who happened to be at hand, had flown to her rescue, and she was now, by the united efforts of her friends, restored to consciousness.

"Dear, dear Adelaide!" cried the baroness; "your life repays me now for all my sufferings. Yes, dearest, you are my own, my only child. Yes, baron," she added, noticing the incredulous expression of her husband—"the supposed death of a daughter has wrung from a mother's heart the despairing cry that betrayed her secret. In former days, I married, secretly, Colonel Schonfeldt, a brave soldier of the emperor, against whom my parents cherished a deadly enmity. He fell upon the field of battle, and this poor girl, the fruit of our love, was committed to the hands of strangers, till such time as I could take her to my heart. I avow it without shame, nor can you, baron, whose noble qualities won my heart, reproach me with the love I bear this dear girl."

"She is my child now," said the baron, "as well as yours. Let us take her back to the castle; she is a precious charge."

"I will see to her," said Rudolph, "and it shall not be my fault if she ever have another protector."

So the party regained the castle, where Von Steinberg and Julia were anxiously awaiting their return.

When Adelaide had been carefully attended to, Rudolph sought his uncle and guests in the great hall.

"Miss Julia Von Steinberg," said the soldier, "since confessions are the order of the night, I must place mine on record. I met you to-day in obedience to orders, believing my heart was my own. The event of to-night has told me too truly that I had unconsciously lost it. But I am a man of honor, and if you will accept my hand without my heart, it is yours."

"Captain Ernstein," replied the beauty, "I thank you for your frank confession. I cannot possibly accept your hand without your heart. Nay—do not frown, father—I have a secret for your ear, and if you do not wish to wreck your daughter's happiness, you will urge me no further."

Von Steinberg frowned, and pshawed, and pished, and then, clearing his voice, addressed the baron.

"Come, Von Rosenberg," said he, "confess that we have been acting like a couple of old fools, in trying our hand at match making—it is a business for the young people themselves, and not for old soldiers like us. Say, shall we reduce the mutineers to obedience, or shall we let them have it their own way?"

"Circumstances alter cases," answered the baron. "When I proposed for Julia's hand, I didn't know my wife had a daughter to marry. And if that were not the case, I am inclined to think the secret alluded to by the young lady, would prove an insuperable obstacle to the ratification of our treaty."

This secret was no other than a love affair between the fair Julia and a certain count who had waltzed with her at the baths of Baden-Baden, the preceding summer. We are glad to say that the flirtation thus happily commenced ended in matrimony. As for Rudolph, he was shortly after united to the fair Adelaide, on which occasion the baron gave such a rouse as the old towers of Von Rosenberg had not known since the rollicking days of its first feudal masters. It was illuminated at every window and loophole, so that the waters of the Rhine rolled beneath it a sea of fire, or as if their channels were overflowed with generous Asmanshausen; and the old butler discharged his swivel so many times that he had to be taken down from the battlements and drenched with Rhenish to preserve his life.

Thus ended all that is worthy commemorating in the modern history of the Castle on the Rhine.