# Der Freischütz (The Free-Shooter)

Translation of "Der Freischütz" from Gespensterbuch volume 1 (1810). Extracted from "An Account of Weber’s ‘Der Freischütz’" in Der Freischütz (The Free-Shooter); A Lyric Folk-Drama (1849).
Der Freischütz (The Free-shooter).
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
“Hark ye, mother,”—said the old Forester Bertram of Lindenhayn—“ye know I wish ye nought but love, yet, clear your brain of this one crotchet, and fortify the girl’s spirit to obey me. I refuse flatly; so let her weep away—and submit; there is no use in any more nonsense or delay.”
“But, father dear,”—chimed in the Forester’s wife imploringly,—“would not our Kate be as happy with the young clerk, as with the hunter Robert? You know not Wilhelm sufficiently, he is so brave a lad, and one so true of heart.”
“But no huntsman,”—answered the Forester,—“my Forestry hath been bequeathed for these two hundred years from father straight to son. Had ye brought me a boy ’stead of this girl, it might have been; to him I could have left my place, and Kate have chosen her own suitor at her will; but, as it stands. . . . . . . . .no! The whole source of my care and anxiety is, that the Duke should elect my son-in-law at the Trial-shot; let him be but a first-rate marksman, need I sacrifice then the girl? No, mother Anne, I do not stickle for Robert; if he please ye noway, pick me out some gallant young huntsman, to whom during life-time I can hand my office o’er, we will then pass our old days in peace among our children, with a little sport my mere occasional pastime.”
Mother Anne would have spoken yet one good word more for the young clerk, but the Forester, who well knew the cunning of a woman’s persuasive powers, would not submit his resolution to the chance of another attack; so, taking his gun from the wall, he went out into the wood.
Scarcely had he turned the corner of the house, when Kate popped smilingly in at the door her pretty little head covered with its golden locks. “Has all gone well, mother darling? is it so?”—she cried, and springing at one bound into the chamber, she flung her arms around the neck of the Forester’s wife.
“Ah, Kate, be not too gladsome,”—rejoined the mother,—“thy father is good,—kindly, heartfully good, but he will give thee to no man, unless he be a hunter; with that determination has he left me, and I know him well.”
Kate wept piteously, and would rather die than be torn from her Wilhelm. The mother scolded and consoled her by turns, and finally joined her tears to those of the daughter. She even spake of attempting to capture the Forester’s heart by storm, when a knock was heard at the door, and Wilhelm entered.
“Ah, Wilhelm,”—cried Kate to him, with streaming eyes,—“we must part! find thee another sweatheart, thou mayest not be my life, nor yet I thine; father will give me to Robert, because that he is a hunter, and mother cannot help us. But though I must leave thee, I will never be another’s, and remain thine,—true to thee, ’till death.”
Mother Anne told the young clerk (who knew not what to make of Kate’s address) to be calm, and narrated to him, how that Old Bertram had no personal objection against him, but that in order to ensure the succession of his Forestry to his heirs, he must have for a son-in-law—a hunter.
“Is that all?”—replied Wilhelm tranquilly, pressing the weeping girl to his breast.—“Come, have a good heart, sweet Kate. At hunting-craft I am not utterly unskilful, having served pupillage therein with my uncle the Head-forester Finsterbuch, and must only leave my godfather the Baillie and his writing-desk, for the hunter’s pouch. What boots to me the promised wardenship, if that I cannot place my Kate as lady-bailiff near me on the bench? Make but a choice equal to thy mother’s, let Wilhelm the Forester be as dear to thee as Wilhelm the Clerk, and willingly I change; how far pleasanter the wild free hunter-life, than a stiff existence in the town!”
“O thou glorious, golden Wilhelm!”—exclaimed Kate, and every ​cloud was banished from her brow, while Joy’s glowing sun-ray sparkled in her eye,—“if such your purpose, speak instantly with father, lest that he give his word to Robert.”
“Await me, Kate”—said Wilhelm—“I will after him into the wood. He may be in pursuit of the stag which should be sent the morrow to the Court-house. Hand me pouch and gun, I will seek him, give him a hunter’s salute, and pray him take me in his service.”
Mother and daughter fell upon his neck, and embraced the new-made hunter; they then equipped him as well as they were able, and with a feeling of hopeful delight not unmixed with sorrow, saw him depart into the forest.
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
“A gallant youth, this Wilhelm!”—cried the Forester joyfully, as the two sportsmen returned home—“who could have expected such shooting from a ‘knight of the quill’? Now, the very morrow will I speak with our baillie; it were a shame should the lad not embrace the hunter’s noble calling! We will make him another Cuno. You know who Cuno was?”
Wilhelm shook his head.
“Have I never told you?”—continued the Forester.—“Mark, then; he was my ancestor, founder and endower of this my Forestry. Formerly but a mere trooper’s sub’, he served under the young Lord of Wippach, who perceived his parts, and bade him accompany him in all his skirmishings, tourneys, and hunting-bouts. Once upon a time, this Lord of Wippach was summoned, along with other nobles and knights, to a great hunt held by the Duke. At this hunt the hounds started a stag, on which sat a man crying piteously and wringing his hands; for ’twas formerly a tyrannical custom amongst our Lords of the Chase, that every poacher should be bound to a wild stag, and be either gored and torn to pieces, or else forced to perish by hunger and thirst. When the Duke saw this, his anger exceeded that of the rest, and he called out to the assembled hunters, promising a great reward to whomsoever should hit the stag; at the same time threatening his greatest displeasure and condemnation, should the man bound upon it be in any ways wounded, since he would have him alive, to know who had dared to disobey his laws. None of the surrounding nobles dared to chance the Duke’s displeasure for a shot. At last, Cuno, my ancestor, stepped forward, (the same whom you see there in the picture) and thus addressed the Duke: ‘Most gracious Sire, an ye permit me, by the help of God I would attempt this shot; should I fail, my life is yours to take as an atonement; riches and wealth have I none, but my heart bleeds for yon poor man, and I would stake my existence that he hath fallen amongst foes or thieves.” The Duke, well-pleased, bade Cuno try his luck, repeating his former promise without the adjunct of the threat, lest he should be intimidated. Cuno then took his rifle, cocked it in God’s name, and commended the bullets to the holy Saints with a faith-breathing pious prayer. Without delay he straight shot bravely into the wood, and in an instant the stag flew out, fell, and expired; but the man remained unhurt, save that his hands and face were a little torn by the bushes. The Duke kept his word, and gave Cuno as a reward this Forestry for himself and his heirs for ever. But Envy is ever consequent upon Good-luck and Prosperity, and Cuno found it so. There were many, amongst others, relations, who had hoped the Forestry for themselves, who persuaded the Duke that the shot had succeeded through the aid of devils’ arts and magic, that Cuno had not aimed at all, but taken a random-shot into the air, which must hit the mark; it was then determined upon, that every one of Cuno’s successors, ere he obtained the Forestry, should undergo a Trial-shot; or severe or light, as the then Hunting-master of the district should ordain. I was obliged, in consequence of this edict, to strike a ring from the beak of a wooden bird swinging on a pole. Now, since none have hitherto failed at this ordeal, he who as son-in-law would be my successor, must first be a dexterous huntsman.”
Wilhelm, to the Forester’s joy, had evinced a great interest in this narration. He gladly pressed the old man’s hand in his, and promised, under his guidance, to become a hunter such as should not shame the brave ancestral Cuno.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
Wilhelm had served scarce fourteen days his pupilship at the Forest-lodge, when Bertram, who became every day the more attached to him, formally gave consent to his union with Kate. The espousals, however, were put off until the day of the Trial-shot, when the Forester hoped the festival would have more éclat from the presence of the Hunting-master. The bridegroom-elect was in extacies, and sank the memory of himself and of the whole world in the golden heaven of his love, so that old Bertram continually teazed him with the remark, “that he deserved to hit no more game, since he so effectually had struck home to the heart of Kate.”
Since the day of his betrothal, nothing but ill-luck in the chase had fallen to the lot of Wilhelm. First his gun began to miss fire; then he hit the trunks of trees instead of his mark. When he returned home, and emptied his hunting-pouch, in place of the partridge, he pulled forth a raven or a crow, and instead of the hare, a dead cat. The Forester gave him endless admonitions regarding his unwarrantable carelessness, and Kate herself began to feel anxious for the result of the Trial-shot.
Wilhelm redoubled his assiduity and zeal; still, as the eventful day approached upon which the ordeal should take place, his ill-luck seemed to follow him more and more. Every shot continually miscarried; at last he shuddered at the sight of a gun, as though he saw a ghost; already he had struck a cow in her pasture and nearly wounded the herdsman.
“I will stick to it”—said Rudolf the hunter, one evening—“something has set a snare about Wilhelm, which lies not in the natural course of things, and he first must break this spell.”
“Talk not so foolishly”—spake the Forester, reproachfully—“that is superstitious nonsense, such as no true hunter should suffer to pass his lips. Know you not, trusty huntsman mine, the three things a fortunate sportsman should have and may have? ho, ho, ho! say on.”
Rudolf cleared his throat for the hunter-adage, and spake quickly: “Ho, ho, ho! trusty huntsman mine, that can I quote ye well:—
“Enough!”—interrupted old Bertram—“let the hunter redeem himself with those three things, or be chronicled as a milk-heart and a ninny.”
“By your favor, father Bertram”—replied Wilhelm somewhat chafed—“here is my gun, I will see if anything shall hinder me on this point; then my knowledge—I will not speak in self-praise, but hope to prove sure marksman, aye, good and sure as any man; perhaps my bullets went amiss because the wind blew athwart my barrel. Only tell me how to act, most willingly will I obey.”
“’Tis passing strange!”—murmured the Forester, who knew not what to say in answer.
“Credit me, Wilhelm”—again chimed in Rudolf—“it is exactly as I have hinted. Hie thee some Friday at midnight to a cross-road, and draw a circle ’round thee with a ramrod or a bloody sword, only in the name of Samiel.........”
“Silence!”—cried the Forester angrily—“know ye not what that name imports? ’tis one of the Devil’s evil-spirits, from whom God defend thee, and all Christians likewise.”
Wilhelm crossed himself and would hear no more; Rudolf stuck to his own opinion. All night long the lad was occupied in rubbing his fowling-piece, he cleaned every screw and every spring, and with earliest dawn went forth to seek his luck anew.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH.
All his courage, however, soon vanished, the game seemed to abound for the express purpose of cheating him. At ten paces distance he fired upon a roebuck, twice the rifle hung fire; the third time, the piece cer​tainly went off, but the wild animal escaped unhurt through the thicket. As, destitute of hope the unlucky hunter threw himself under a tree and bewailed his fate, a rustling was heard in the bush, and an old soldier with a wooden leg came limping out.
“Hallo, my gentle sportsman”—said he to Wilhelm—“why so sorrowful? Art in love, hast an empty purse, or has something bewitched thy rifle? Give me a fill of tobacco, we will chat awhile together.” Wilhelm, with a dejected mien, gave him what he required, and the Wooden-leg threw himself beside him on the grass. Bye and bye the conversation turned on venery, and Wilhelm recounted his misfortunes. The old soldier bade him show his gun. “This is bewitched,” said he, ere he had held it in his grasp an instant, “ye can take no more rightful aim with this; and be you ever so skilful a marksman, the same hap will attend every gun ye take in your hand.”
Wilhelm, somewhat terrified, raised several doubts in opposition to the stranger’s faith in magic; the latter on his part besought him to prove his words. “With us soldier folk”—said he—“such occurrences are not rare, and up till evening, even to midnight, could I cite ye marvellous examples. How hit the sharpshooters their mark, who fire in spite of everything, and strike their man ’mid volumes of thick powder-smoke which obscures all, knowing no art save to aim and pull their trigger? Here, for instance, is a bullet, which is sure to hit its mark, so much of secret virtue hath it to withstand every witchcraft. Try it, it will not fail thee.”
Wilhelm loaded his rifle and looked round him for an aim. A huge bird of prey swooped high up in the clouds, seeming a mere point. “Shoot that eagle yonder”—said he with the wooden leg. Wilhelm laughed, for the bird flew at such an altitude ’twas almost out of sight. “Hey man, fire!”—exclaimed the other—“I’ll wager my wooden stump that he falls.” Wilhelm pulled his trigger, the dark point sank quickly, and a large lammergeyer fell bleeding to the earth.
“Ye need not wonder at it”—said the soldier to the young hunter now all speechless with astonishment—“you were always an excellent marksman. It is no monstrous difficult art to cast such bullets, and requires merely some skill and courage, since it must be done at night-time. I will teach you bye and bye when we see each other again, to-day I must be off, since it just struck seven. Accept then a couple of these my stock,—you still seem half incredulous. Au revoir!”
With these words the Wooden-leg gave Wilhelm a handful of bullets and limped away. Full of wonder the hunter tried another of these balls, and hit an almost impossible mark; he then essayed his usual charge, and failed. Again he wished to have the old soldier by his side, but could find him not in the wood: Wilhelm was therefore obliged to solace himself with the hope of his promised reappearance.
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
There was great joy in the Forest-lodge, when Wilhelm returned, as of yore, with a stock of venison; and father Bertram prophesied from his achievements that he would turn out a skilful hunter yet. He now pondered about relating the cause why ill-luck had followed him so unmercifully, and what he had done to cast it off; but he was ashamed to speak regarding these infallible bullets without sufficient evidence, and he therefore threw the odium upon his gun which he had not cleaned till the previous night.
“See now, mother Anne”—said the Forester, laughing—“it is as I have told ye; our hunter hath trimmed his tools; and the hobgoblin which old Father Cuno conjured up this morn, lay in that rusted nail.”
“What hobgoblin?” enquired Wilhelm.
“Nought”—replied the other—“that picture fell down of itself this morning, just as the clock struck seven; and mother Anne conjectures thence ’tis haunted.”
“At seven!” cried Wilhelm, as it occurred to him that this was the very hour the Wooden-leg had parted from him.
“Good ’sooth, but that was no right hour for ghosts,” exclaimed the forester, and patted mother Anne pleasantly on the back. She, however, shook her head thoughtfully. “God grant, that all hath happened naturally,” said she with a sigh. Thereupon Wilhelm blushed a little. He resolved to lay his bullets on one side, and only to use one for the Trial-shot, so that his happiness might not be marred by the intervention of any evil spirit. The Forester urged him, however, to continue at the sport, and in order not again to excite a suspicion of his bad-luck, or irritate the old man, he was obliged to have recourse to some of his magic bullets.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
In a few days Wilhelm became so accustomed to the use of these lucky balls, that his conscience was quieted on the rightfulness of employing them. He went daily into the wood in the hope of meeting the soldier with the wooden leg; for his stock had diminished to two only, and in order to make sure at the Trial shot, the most sparing use of them had become necessary. The old Forester to-day bore him company to the field; and the morrow the Umpire was expected, who would naturally require before the Trial, to be shown a proof of his skill. A message came, however, to Bertram towards evening, to say that this dignitary had been bidden to a grand battue held by the Court, and that he should visit their district some eight days later.
At this, Wilhelm thought he should have sank to the earth; and his fears excited the suspicion that all things had conspired to retard the promised bliss of his marriage. He must now go to the chase, and at least sacrifice one of his bullets. He swore, however, to retain the last for that decisive shot upon his bridal day.
The Forester chided as Wilhelm returned from the chase with but a single stag, then his supplies diminished fearfully. Another day he scolded him still more, since Rudolf returned with a rich booty, whiles Wilhelm came home almost empty-handed. At even he was for sending the lad forth again, expressing unwillingness to his union with Kate, unless he brought back at least two roebucks the following morning. Kate grew sadly anxious, and besought him by their mutual affection to apply himself to the chase with renewed diligence, and to think less on her.
Full of despair, Wilhelm therefore betook him to the forest. Kate beheld him lost to her for ever as it were, and to him alone was left the mournful determination as to by what means he could restore himself good-luck.
Whilst wandering adrift, thus buried in the contemplation of his miserable fate, a herd of deer came running close beside him. With a convulsive grasp he seized his last bullet; it seemed to weigh a hundred-weight in his hand. He was about to reserve it, resolute to keep back the treasure, cost what it would,—when he perceived him of the wooden leg advancing toward him in the distance; joyfully, he rammed down this last bullet, fired, and two roebucks fell. Wilhelm suffered them to lie, and hastened to the old soldier, but he must have taken another track, for he was nowhere to be found.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
Father Bertram was well pleased with our Wilhelm, but the latter passed the day in a fit of silent despair, nor even the caresses of his darling Kate could rouse him from his melancholy.
Toward even-tide he sat apart so wrapped in thought that he scarcely remarked the old Forester, who had entered into a lively altercation with Rudolf; until the noise they made finally aroused him.
“You should not tolerate this any more than myself”—cried Bertram to the young dreamer—“that any man should slur our Cuno’s memory like Rudolf here. Did not the Saints protect him, and that poor man beside? read, too, of your English Robin Hood i’ the old ballad! We ought to still praise God thereon, and not accuse our ancestor of magic. He died quietly and calmly in his bed surrounded by his children and relations; but those who play with devils’ arts ne’er come to a goodly end, as I myself have witnessed, when practising at Prague in Bohemia.”
“O tell us what it was!” cried Rudolf, and the rest joined in his request.
“The circumstance was evil enough”—continued the Forester—“and the bare thought of it makes me still to shudder. There was then in ​in Prague a young man by name George Schmid, a rumbustious wildling youth, but brave and alert beside; he possessed a great liking for the chase, and joined our party as often as he was able. He would have made himself an expert hunter, had he not been too hasty, and shot too often at random. Once when we went out together, he loudly asserted that he would soon prove a better hunter than any of us, and that no game should escape him either in the field, or the air. He gave utterance then to an evil word. A few days afterwards a strange huntsman rapped betimes at our door, telling us that George lay in the street without, helpless and half dead. We lads made for the spot forthwith: there lay George all bleeding and mangled, as though he had been torn by wild cats, nor could he speak, being senseless and scarcely alive. We bore him gently into the house, and one of us took the news into Prague, whence he was immediately sent for. There, previous to his death, he related how that he would have cast free-bullets which never fail, with an old mountaineer; and that whiles about it, the Devil had so roughly handled him, he must pay the penalty with his life.”
“What happened to him?”—enquired Wilhelm trembling—“has then the Devil aught with such arts to do?”
“Who else?”—replied the Forester—“I know that many prate a jargon about ‘natural science’ and ‘propitious stars’; but I stick to mine opinion thereupon, such things are devilry.”
Wilhelm began to breathe more freely. “Did George never relate what had misused him so?” asked he of the Forester.
“Freely”—replied the other—“and to the ears of Justice. He had gone with the mountaineer to a cross-road at midnight; there they made a circle with a bloody sword, and laid skulls and cross-bones around it. Then had the mountaineer instructed Schmid, what he was to do. He was to begin directly the clock struck eleven, to cast the bullets, no more and no less than three and sixty, one over or under this number ere the clock chimed midnight, and he was lost; also, it were fatal to him to utter one word during his work, or to step out of the circle. Sixty of these bullets would be then infallible, and three only would fail. Schmid had now applied himself vigorously to cast, but, as he said, such terrific and monstrous apparitions appeared, that at last he shrieked aloud, and sprang out of the circle; whereupon he fell senseless to the earth, and knew no more till he found himself in Prague under the Doctor’s hands, and speaking to living persons; all had appeared as ’twere a dream.”
“God defend every Christian from such snares of Satan”—said the Forester’s wife, and crossed herself.
“Had George entered in a compact with the Fiend as well?”—enquired Rudolf further.
“I will not attest that for certain”—answered the Forester—“though so ’tis said, I cannot certify it. ’Tis evil crime enough when a man can so far sin as to invoke the aid of One whose presence must be destruction to both body and soul. The Evil One comes oft enough uncalled, nor needeth any compact. An honest hunter wants no more (as ye have proven, Wilhelm) than a good barrel and good skill to boot—they give the hunter free-bullets, and help him hit whate’er he will. For no price would I use such ball, the Devil is a crafty knave, and could turn to his own bad aim, as well as mine.”
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
The Forester retired to his rest, and left Wilhelm in the most painful disquietude of mind. He tossed restlessly about his bed, and sleep had fled from his eyelids. The soldier with the wooden-leg, George, Kate, the royal Commissionary who should preside at the Trial-shot, flitted before his vision, and his feverish fancy grouped their images into fearful tableaux. Here, the bleeding image of the miserable invoker of spirits warned him, this phantom soon resolved itself into an appearance of Kate pale and lifeless; then the Wooden-leg stood before him with a mocking hellish laughter. Now he found himself at the Trial-shot before the royal Commissary; he aimed, fired, and——failed! Kate sank fainting to the earth, her father repulsed him, then came he of the wooden-leg and offering fresh bullets—too late; no second shot was permitted him.
So passed the night. With the early morning he entered the forest, and sought the place where he had encountered the old soldier. The fresh bright morning-air had cleared from his spirit the dark shadows of the preceding evening. “Fool”—said he to himself—“whiles thou provest not not this wondrous secret, a secret must it still remain. And is the what I seek unnatural, that Spirit’s help is needful thereunto? Man lays a rein upon his beast, and so constrains him to his master’s will; wherefore by natural art should he not rule the dead metal in the barrel, that through him hath received its substance and its shape? Nature is so rich in miracles, the which have ne’er been sifted; should I then trifle with my happiness, succumbing to prejudice. I will not invoke Spirits, but use me Nature and her inborn strength; and wherefore am I not qualified to learn her secrets? I seek the Wooden-leg and find him not,—I have a holier courage than this George; Presumption urged him on; Love and Honor bid me.”
However he of the wooden-leg was not to be found, though Wilhelm sought him with such earnestness. None, of all that he accosted, had seen any one answering to his description.
The following day was passed in as fruitless a search.
“So be it then”—concluded Wilhelm—“my days are numbered. This very night I hie me to the cross-road in the Forest; ’tis lonely there, no one will see my labour by the night, nor will I quit the circle till my work’s completed quite.”
CHAPTER THE NINTH.
Twilight darkened, and Wilhelm had prepared himself lead, a bullet-mould, coals, and other necessaries, so that he could steal at even, unnoticed from the house. He wished to be off, and bade the old Forester a “good night” as he clasped his hand.
“Wilhelm”—spake he—“I know not why, but a fear I never before experienced has come over me this night. If you would do me a service, pass it with me; you yourself must not give way to sorrow thus, in case mishap result therefrom.”
Kate profferred her request that she might watch by her father, and would give up the charge to no other hands, not even into those of her beloved Wilhelm; but Bertram waved her to desist. “Another time, and you can watch”—said he—“now, shall I be more tranquil having Wilhelm with me.”
Wilhelm would gladly have made an excuse, but Kate urged on him the guardianship of her father so pressingly, and with such entreaties not to be withstood, that he willingly remained and postponed his project for another night.
After midnight, Father Bertram became tranquil and slept sound; so that in the morning he laughed at his fears. He wished to accompany Wilhelm to the forest, but the latter hoped to meet with the stranger, and warned the Forester to pay greater attention to his health. The soldier appeared not, Wilhelm therefore determined a second time to betake himself to the cross-road.
When he returned that evening from the chase, Kate ran smiling towards him. “Only guess, Wilhelm”—she cried—“whom you will find here. Visitors are come for you, right dear friends; but I will not tell you who, you must guess.”
Wilhelm was not disposed either for guessing, or seeing visitors; his sweetheart at this moment was a trouble to him. He checked Kate’s joy by his dejection, and was seeking for an excuse to return, when the door of the house opened and the moon shewed him a venerable old man in a hunter’s dress, advancing towards him with outstretched arms.
“Wilhelm!” cried a well-known, friendly voice, and the lad found himself in the embraces of his uncle.
The bright remembrances of childhood’s love, joy, and gratitude, broke forth in the heart of Wilhelm, the deed of darkness was forgotten ’till in the midst of their pleasant chat the midnight-hour struck, and Wilhelm remembered with a shudder his neglect.
“But one more night remains”—thought he to himself—“to-morrow or never!”—his agitation did not escape the old man, who good-naturedly saw good ground for Wilhelm’s being a little distraught, and he blamed the having continued a conversation so late into the night, which could as well have come off next morning. “Do not repent the lateness of the ​time”—said he to Wilhelm, at parting—“perhaps you’ll sleep the sounder for ’t.”
These words had weighty import with him to whom they were addressed. He thought within himself that the postponement of his project would banish all calm sleep for that night.
CHAPTER THE TENTH.
The third evening came. That which had to be done, must be done this day, for the morrow was fixed for the trial. Mother Ann had been busy from sunrise to sunset in the house with Kate making suitable reception for the guest above-mentioned. At evening, all were in their best and every thing arranged beseemingly. Mother Ann embraced Wilhelm, when he returned from the chase, and saluted him for the first time with the beloved title of “son.” Kate’s eyes glowed with the tender desire of a young and lovely bride. The table was adorned gaily with emblematic flowers, and richer than usual with Wilhelm’s marriage-presents from the mother, and with tall daintily-cared flagons set there by the Forester. “To-day it is our feast”—said the old Bertram, as he entered in his wedding garment—“to-morrow, shall we not be alone, and cannot sit so cosily and heartfully together: let us be joyful then, as though a life of joy were in this one hour.”
He embraced all round, and was so affected, that his voice betrayed him. “Now, Papa”—said his wife with a significant smile—“I do not think our young people will be as gladsome to-morrow, as to-day; do you understand me?”
“Aye, aye, mother”—replied the Forester—“I hope the young folk understand ye too, and make themselves as happy as they can. Children, the minister will be here in the morning, and as soon as Wilhelm has proved that he can shoot.........”
A rattling, and a loud cry from Kate, interrupted the Forester. Cuno’s picture had fallen from the wall, and the border of the frame had slightly wounded her upon the forehead. The nail had remained in its place, and had fallen with a large piece of the plaster.
“I cannot tell”—said the Forester concernedly—“why that picture will not hang as usual, this is now the second time that it has frightened us. Art thou hurt, Kate?”
“’Tis of no consequence”—she added cheerfully, and wiped the blood from her hair—“I was far more terrified.”
Wilhelm was in his turn dreadfully agitated when he saw Kate’s death-pale cheek, and remarked the blood upon her forehead. The phantoms of the previous night rose up before him, and all their gloomy bodings seemed fulfilled. His resolution to commence the twice-deferred work, that evening, was shaken; but the wine, of which he drank quicker and deeper than was his wont, filled him with a daring courage, and he determined a-fresh, boldly to undertake the venture, seeing in the attempt nothing more than the brave struggle of Love and Courage against Danger.
The clock now told nine. Wilhelm struck his breast with force. He sought for an excuse to absent himself; a likely thing, for a bridegroom to leave his bride upon the nuptial-eve! Time flew on swiftly, a thousand pangs tormented him thus dallying with delaying Love. At last, ten was passed, now was the time for parting. Without a farewell he slank from the side of his bride; already with his tools he stood outside the house, when the mother came after him. “Wilhelm, Wilhelm!” she anxiously enquired. “I have shot a buck, and forgotten it in the thicket,” was the answer. In vain she besought him, in vain Kate hung smiling on him, there was something terrible but undefined in his agitated haste, as repulsing them both, he hurried into the forest.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
The moon was on the wane, and appeared on the horizon of a dark red color. Grey clouds floated across it, and occasionally darkened the landscape, soon though again it re-appeared, sleeping in the awful stillness of the moonlight. The birchen and the aspen seemed like spectres in the wood, and the white-poplars appeared to Wilhelm to beckon him as though they stood, a dim host of phantom-shadows. He shuddered, and his disquietude of the previous night, in conjunction with the second fall of Cuno’s picture, seemed to him the last warnings of his guardian-angel, ere he should consummate his evil deed.
Once again he swerved from his determination. Already was he upon the point of retracing his steps, when a voice seemed to whisper his ear. “Fool! hast already not used magic, lack you the courage to create it?” He paused, the moon issued smiling from her dark clouds, and was reflected on the peaceful roof of the Forest-lodge. Wilhelm saw Kate’s window twinkle through the silvery beam; he stretched forth his arms, and stepped back towards his home; then the voice whispered to him again, and a powerful wind brought the sound of the half-hour’s chime. “On, to the deed,” it seemed to say. “To the deed!” he repeated aloud; “’tis weak and childish when half way to turn me back; folly to attempt a great thing, when perhaps one has for one’s welfare ventured so little. I will proceed.”
He made a bold step forward, the wind drove the scudding clouds again across the moon, and Wilhelm entered the deepest part of the forest.
At last he was arrived at the cross road. The magic circle was described, the skulls and cross-bones laid in order round. The moon sank deeper and deeper behind the clouds, leaving it to the dull coals, blown by the chance gusts of wind, to lend their red and mournful glimmer to the deed of night. In the distance a turret-clock chimed the three-quarters past: Wilhelm laid the melting ladle on the coals, and threw in the lead, together with three bullets which had already hit their mark, for he remembered to have heard say, that this with the Free-shooters was the usual custom. It now began to rain in the forest. Owls, bats, and birds of night, dazzled by the blaze, fluttered about. They perched on various branches, and sat round the magic circle, where their low hooting seemed to maintain an unintelligible conversation with the skulls. Their numbers increased, and behind them vapory figures waved to and fro like clouds; some of the fashion of beasts, and some of men. The gusts of wind played with their mournful robings, as with the dew-cloud at even; one only stood firm, drawing near to the circle, and looking fixedly and sadly upon Wilhelm. At times it stretched out towards him its pale hands, and seemed to sigh. The coals burnt lower when it raised its hands, but a grey owl flapped its wings and fanned them up again. Wilhelm raised himself, and the countenance of his dead mother seemed to look forth on him in the dim phantom, with an expression of mournful woe.
The clock then struck eleven: the pale spectre vanished sighing. The owls and night-ravens fluttered and hooted; between their wings they rattled the bones and skulls. Wilhelm kneeled down before his pile of coals, he poured the lead, and at the last stroke of the clock,—fell the first bullet from the mould!
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
The owls and skulls were quiet. But through the forest came an old decrepid beldame, making straight for the circle. She was surrounded with wooden spoons; pot-ladles and other cooking utensils were hanging from her waist and made a frightful clattering; the owls welcomed her with screechings, and stroked her with their wings. At the circle she bowed to the bones and skulls, but the coal-flame flickered towards her, so that she drew back her horny hand. She then ran round the circle, and grinning held out her several wares to Wilhelm,—grumbling the whiles to him thus:
Wilhelm shuddered, but remained quiet and hastened on his work. The old witch was not unknown to him. A mad beggar-woman was she, who had often made her appearance in the neighbourhood, until she found ​a refuge in the madhouse. He knew not whether it were reality or an illusion, which then appeared to him. After a while the old thing angrily threw him her stick, and with the words
hobbled slowly into the forest.
Then came a tremendous rattling, like the rolling of wheels and crack of whips. A chariot appeared drawn by six horses, and with out riders. “What’s this on our road?” cried the foremost; “Room there!” Wilhelm looked up; sparks flashed from the horses’ hoofs, and round the carriage-wheels glowed a phosphoric light. Wilhelm believed it to be an illusion, and remained tranquil. “Thorough! thorough! on! on! upon our way, away! away!” cried the outrider again, and that instant the whole troop made for the circle. Wilhelm fell to the earth as the horses bounded over his head; but the phantom steeds sprang with the chariot into the air, turned once round over the magic circle, and vanished in a whirlwind, which broke the surrounding twigs and branches, strewing them about.
Time passed on before Wilhelm had recovered from his fright. He attempted to steady his trembling hand, and cast with disquietude another bullet. Then the distant well-known tower-clock chimed. How comforting sounded its friendly voice from the world of life without, to the miserable mortal in the unhallowed circle; but the clock chimed twice,—thrice.—He shuddered at the rapid flight of the precious moments, for the third part of his labor was not as yet completed. It struck a fourth time! Wilhelm’s strength forsook him, every nerve appeared unstrung, and the bullet-mould fell from his trembling hand. He listened with a desperate resignation to the striking of the complete hour; the bell clashed, vibrated, and died away. The fearful power of the Fiend seemed to sport with the sound of the midnight-hour itself. Full of joyful expectation Wilhelm dashed out his watch; it told the half-hour only. He looked thankfully toward Heaven; a conviction strengthened his joy that he had triumphed over the powers of darkness, evidenced by a loud cry which then rang in his ears.
Nerved and strengthened against any fresh deception, he courageously set to work again. A deep stillness reigned around him, the owls only croaked, as it were, and struck the skulls against the bones from time to time. At length the bush rustled. The sound was too well known to the skilful hunter: he looked, and, as he had surmised, a wild sow brake through the thicket and made for the circle. Wilhelm felt that there was no deception here; he sprang up, pointed his gun, and fired on the animal: no spark, however, was struck from his flint; he drew his hanger, but the bristly beast sprang, like the chariot and horses, into the air, and vanished.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
Wilhelm, alarmed, endeavoured to make up for his lost time. Sixty bullets were cast, he looked forward joyfully; the clouds opened, and the moon threw a clear light on the landscape. A piteous cry sounded in the wood: “Wilhelm! Wilhelm!”—it was the voice of Kate. Wilhelm beheld her rush through the bush, and cast on him a terrified glance. Behind her ran the old witch, and stretched her horny arms to catch the fleeting figure, whom she sought to lay hold of by the fluttering robe. Kate exerted her last remaining strength for flight, when he of the wooden leg stepped in her path: she stopped a moment, and the old woman clutched her with her bony fleshless hands. Wilhelm could contain himself no longer, he threw the mould with the last bullet from his hand, and just as about to spring from the circle, the clock struck twelve, the whole appearance vanished, the owls knocked the bones and skulls together and flew away, the fire expired, and Wilhelm sank fainting to the earth.
Now there came slowly up a rider on a coal-black steed. He halted before the scattered remains of the magic circle.
“Thou hast well survived the ordeal”—said he—“what wantest thou with me?”
“Nothing from thee!”—answered Wilhelm—“what I required, that have I obtained myself.”
“With my help”—continued the stranger—“therefore let me share.”
“Nothing!”—cried Wilhelm—“I neither bargained with thee, nor have called thee.”
The horseman laughed scornfully. “Thou art bold”—said he—“such as thee should be cared for. Take the bullets thou hast made. Sixty for thee, three for me; those hit, these miss: we meet again, then wilt thou understand.”
Wilhelm raised himself up. “I will never meet thee again”—he cried—“leave me!”
“Why dost thou turn from me?”—asked the stranger, with a fearful laugh—“know’st thou me not?”
“No, no!”—shrieked Wilhelm, shuddering—“I will not know thee, I know nought of thee! whoe’er thou art, leave me!”
The dark horseman turned his steed. “Thy hair on end”—said he, with dark earnestness—“tells that thou knowest me well. I am he, whose mention breathes an icy shudder o’er the inmost soul!”
With these words he disappeared, and the trees beneath which he had taken stand, fell scorched in ashes to the ground.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
“Merciful Heaven, Wilhelm, what has happened to thee?”—exclaimed Kate and mother Anne, as Wilhelm, all pale and agitated, returned home after midnight—“it seems as ye were risen from your grave!”
“’Tis through the night air”—answered Wilhelm—“what I have done hath made me fev’rish.”
“Wilhelm”—said the Forester, who then stepped in—“something has happened to thee in the forest. Why dost thou not tell us? you mystify me.”
Wilhelm was struck by the old man’s earnestness. “Yes”—replied he—“something has certainly happened to me. But have patience for nine days only. Earlier, if you will yourself”......
“Willingly, dear son, willingly!—interrupted the Forester—“Good sooth, it must be a secret, to be kept nine days. Let him alone, mother, tease him not, Kate! I had nearly done ye an injustice, Wilhelm! go now and rest, for ‘night,’ hath the adage, ‘is no man’s friend,’ only take courage, whoe’er is virtuous and walks uprightly, no nightly apparition haunts him ever.”
Wilhelm had need of all the dissimulation possible, in order not to betray how near the old man’s suspicions neared the truth. His beautiful paternal love, his unshaken trust when all things seemed to indicate his guilt, nigh broke the heart of Wilhelm. He hastened to his chamber, resolved to annihilate his magic work. “One bullet only—one only will I use”—he cried out, as, weeping, he raised his folded hands to Heaven—“The end in view will surely now absolve the middle course I take. Ten thousand full atonements will I give, if aught be sinful then in this my deed! Can I now draw back without I lose my bliss, mine honour, and my love?”
This intention lulled his heart, and he looked upon the morning sun with more tranquillity than he had hoped to do.
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.
The royal Commissary arrived, and desired, before the Trial-shot, to make a hunting party with a few, including the young Forester. “Though”—said he—“it is right that we should honour the old solemnity, yet the hunter’s skill is best displayed in the forest. Up then, young heir-presumptive; to the field!”
Wilhelm turned pale, and would have excused himself, but as this would not hold with his superior, he begged to do as little as possible before his Trial-shot. The old Forester shook his head thoughtfully. “Wilhelm, Wilhelm”—said he, in a deep and earnest tone—“and have I guessed then rightly, yesterday?”
​“Father!”—cried the latter, and desperation almost deprived him of speech. He withdrew quickly, but in a few moments was equipped for the chase with his father-in-law, and followed the Commissary to the forest.”
The old Forester sought to conceal his uneasiness, but strove in vain to bear an untroubled mien. Kate was also restless, and wandered to and fro at home. She enquired of her father “whether it were not possible to omit the Trial-shot?” “Would that it were!”—said he, and embraced her in silence.
At last the minister arrived, wishing peace to all; he reminded the bride of her wreath. Mother Anne had procured it, but in the midst of their bustle, had mislaid the box. A child was immediately despatched to a shop, to bring another wreath for the bride. “Bring the prettiest”—cried mother Anne to the child; but the latter, in its innocence, asked for the most glittering, and the shop-mistress, in construing its meaning, gave it a virgin’s funeral-wreath of myrtle and of rosemary entwined with silver. Both mother and bride saw the hidden meaning of the mischance; each shuddered, and embracing each other, sought to forget their terror in smiling at the child’s mistake. The box was again sent back; it opened easily, the contents had been exchanged, and the bridal-wreath was bound on Kate’s fair tresses.
CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH AND LAST.
The hunting party returned. The Commissary was extravagant in Wilhelm’s praise. “It seems to me absurd”—said this umpire—“to desire a further trial after so many proofs of skill. Nevertheless, to honour an old law, we must for once do that which is unnecessary; therefore, the quicker done the better. On yonder pillar sits a dove, shoot it.”
“For God’s sake!”—cried Kate, hastening thither—“Wilhelm, do not shoot. Ah, I dreamt last night that I was a white dove, and that they put a ring about my neck; you entered, and my mother was covered with blood.”
Wilhelm drew back his gun already pointed, but the Commissary smiled. “Ha, ha!”—said he—“so frightened, this will not do for a hunter-maiden: take heart, take heart, little bride! or is the dove mayhap your pet?”
“No”—answered she—“I only feel so sad.”
“Now then”—cried the Commissary—“courage, Sir Forester, and fire!”
He fired, and at the same moment, uttering a loud shriek, Kate fell to the earth.
“Extraordinary girl”—cried the Chief, and raised Kate up, but a stream of blood poured over her face: her brow was shattered, and a rifle bullet lay in the wound.
“What is’t?”—exclaimed Wilhelm, as a loud cry arose behind him. Looking back he saw Kate bleeding in the pallor of death. Beside her stood he of the wooden leg, who, with hellish laughter, grinned out—“Sixty achieve, three deceive!”
Wilhelm drew his hanger from its sheath, and struck at the Accursed One. “Deceiver!”—shrieked he, madly—“is’t thus thou mockest me?” More he could not utter, but sank senseless to the ground beside his bleeding bride.
In vain sought the good Pastor and the Commissary to comfort the aged pair. Mother Anne had scarcely on the breast of the virgin’s corse laid the prophetic funeral wreath, ere she poured out her last last tears in ineffectual grief. The lonely father followed soon their path. And in a madhouse, closed the days of Wilhelm!
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