# Libussa, Duchess of Bohemia/Libussa

* related portals: Libuše.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Translated from the German original Libussa by J. K. A. Musäus (1784), who retold an ancient Czech tale as it had been retold in Latin in the chronicle Historia regni Bohemiae by Johannes Dubravius (1552)
LIBUSSA.
In the depths of the Bohemian forest, which formerly extended far and wide into the country, and of which now but the shadow remains, lived in times of yore a spiritual little nation, light-shunning, aërial, incorporeal, and of a more refined nature than clay-formed mankind, and therefore imperceptible to their coarser senses, though half visible at moonlight to the more refined; well known to the poets under the name of Dryads, and to the ancient bards under that of Elves. From time immemorial their abode had been undisturbed, till all at once the forest resounded with warlike tumult. Duke Czech, from Hungary, had invaded the mountains with his Sclavonian hordes, to seek a new abode in these inhospitable regions. The beautiful inhabitants of the venerable oaks, of the rocks, of the cliffs, of the grottoes, and of the rushes in the ponds and pools, fled before the clashing of arms and the ​neighing of war-horses; even the violent Erl-King took alarm, and removed his seat to a more distant wilderness. One only of the Elves could not resolve upon separating from her favourite oak; and when the forest was cut down here and there, to make room for arable land, she alone had courage enough to defend her tree against the new-comers, and chose its very summit for her residence.
Among the retinue of the Duke there was a squire, by name Krokus, full of spirit and mettle, strong and well knit, and of gentle accomplishments, to whose care the duke’s favourite horses were confided. He often drove them far into the forest to graze, and sometimes reposed under the oak which the Elf inhabited. She saw the stranger with gladness; and when at night he slumbered at the foot of the tree, she whispered pleasant dreams into his ear, announced to him in significant images the events of the coming day, or if one of the horses had gone astray, and he had lost its track and fallen asleep full of anxiety about it, he saw in his dream the marks of the secret path which led to the place where the stray horse was grazing.
The new settlers extended daily their sphere of activity, and thus approached nearer and ​nearer to the habitation of the Elf, whose gift of divination told her that an inimical axe would soon threaten her life-tree. Thereupon she decided on making her guest acquainted with her trouble.
One pleasant summer’s evening, Krokus, having driven his horses by moonlight later than usual into the inclosure, was hastening to his place of rest under the towering oak. His way led round a well-stocked fish-pond, in the silvery waves of which the golden moon-sickel was brilliantly reflected in a conical form. Beyond the slimy part of the pond on the opposite bank, near the oak, he perceived a female form, which seemed to be taking a walk in the refreshing evening air. The apparition startled the young warrior. “Whence this maid,” he thought to himself, “thus alone in the wilderness at this time of the evening, far past twilight?” The adventure, however, was such as to be rather attractive for a young man than repulsive. In order to investigate the case, he redoubled his steps, without losing sight of the object which had invited his attention, and he soon arrived at the place near the oak where he had first espied her. Now it seemed to him as if what he saw was more of a shadow than a substance; and as he ​stood thus wondering, a cold shiver ran through his frame, but he heard a soft voice thus addressing him: “Approach, dear stranger; do not fear. I am not a phantom, nor a deceiving shadow; I am the Elf of this forest—the inhabitant of the oak under the thickly leaved branches of which thou hast frequently reposed. I have often rocked thee into sweet and pleasant dreams, and predicted to thee coming events; and when a mare or a colt have gone astray, I showed thee the place where thou couldst find it. Repay that favour by a reciprocal service, which I now ask of thee. Be the protector of this tree, which has so often screened thee from the heat of the sun and from the rain, and stop the murderous hatchet of thy brethren who devastate the forest, so that they may not touch its venerable trunk.”
The young warrior having again become bold by this soft speech, answered thus:—“Goddess or mortal, whoever thou be, ask of me whatever thou wishest, and if I can perform it, I will do so. But I am only an insignificant person among the people of my master, the servant of the Duke. If he says to me, to-day or to-morrow, Go to this or to that pasture ground, how shall I take care of thy tree in the distant forest? However, if thou orderest it, I will renounce the service of ​my prince, I will live in the shadow of thy oak, and guard it throughout my life.”
“Do so,” said the Elf; “thou shalt not repent it.” Thereupon she disappeared, and the top of the tree moved slightly, as if a soft evening breeze had stirred the leaves.
Krokus stood for some time rooted to the ground, enraptured with the heavenly form which had appeared to him. So tender a being, of such slender figure and noble bearing, he had never seen amongst the short-waisted lasses of Sclavonia. At length he stretched himself upon the downy moss, yet sleep did not visit his eyes. The rising sun still found him in the giddiness of sweet emotions, which were as strange and new to him as the first rays of light to the newly opened eyes of the blind-born. Early in the morning he hastened to the ducal abode, asked for his discharge, packed up his arms and military trappings, and marched, with his head full of ardent fancies and his back of luggage, with rapid steps towards his sylvan hermitage.
In the meantime an artificer belonging to his people, and by trade a miller, had, during his absence, chosen the trunk of his oak, which was healthy and straight, for an axle-tree to the wheel of his mill, and had gone with his men to ​fell it. The faint-hearted Elf sighed as the voracious saw with its teeth of steel began to nibble at the foundation of her dwelling. Anxiously she looked round from the top of her tree for her faithful champion; still her quick-sightedness could nowhere discover him, and the consternation which had seized upon her made the power of foresight which she possessed so ineffective that she was as little able to decipher her impending fate as the sons of Æsculapius, with their famous prognosis, are able to advise themselves when death knocks at their own door.
Krokus, however, was approaching, and already so near the scene of this sad catastrophe, that the noise of the grating saw resounded in his ears. This din in the forest did not seem to him of good omen; he accelerated his pace, and a single glance rendered him sensible of the impending destruction of the tree confided to his protection. Like a frantic madman, he attacked the woodcutters with lance and drawn sword, and drove them from their work. They beheld in him a mountain-goblin, and fled in the greatest consternation. Fortunately the wound which the tree had received was yet easy to be cured, and the scar disappeared in a few summers.
​In the evening, at his leisure hour, after having chosen the place for his future abode, and measured the space for a small garden, he was revolving once more in his thoughts the whole plan of his hermitage, where he intended to pass his days in retirement, separated from all society, in the service of a shadowy companion who seemed to have little more reality than a calendar saint which a pious friar selects for his spiritual love; when the Elf appeared to him on the banks of the pond, and thus addressed him with a graceful gesture:—
“Thanks to thee, dear stranger, for having prevented the violent hands of thy brethren from felling that tree to which my life is tied by sisterly bonds; for thou must know, that Nature, which has favoured our race with many talents and gifts, has however united the fate of our lives with the growth and duration of the oak. It is through us that this king of the forest towers above the other trees and shrubs; we promote the circulation of its sap through the stem and branches, to give it strength to combat with the storm, and to resist through many ages the power of all-destroying time. In return, our life is dependent on their’s: if the oak decays to which fate has linked our lot, we ​also decay; and if it dies, we also die, and sleep, like mortals, a sort of death-sleep, till, by the eternal circumvolution of all things, through chance or some secret disposition of Nature, our being is again coupled with a new germ, which, by means of our vivifying power, in the course of time again becomes a powerful tree, and thus allows us to enjoy anew the pleasures of life. From this thou mayest gather, what service thou hast rendered to me by thy prowess, and what gratitude I owe thee. Ask now the reward of thy noble deed; tell me the secret wish of thy heart, and it shall be immediately granted.”
Krokus was silent. The presence of the charming Elf had made more impression upon him than her speech, which he but partly understood. She saw his embarrassment; and, in order to relieve it, she took a withered reed from the side of the pond, broke it into three parts, and said, “Choose one of these three hulls, or take one without choosing. In the first thou wilt find honour and glory; in the second, riches and their wise enjoyment; in the third, happiness in love.
The young man cast down his eyes, and answered, “Daughter of heaven, if thou wilt grant me the wish of my heart, know, that it is not inclosed in either of these three hulls which ​thou offerest me. My heart wishes for a higher reward. What is honour, but the tinder of pride? what are riches, but the root of avarice? what is love, but the lure of the passions, to ensnare the noble freedom of the heart? Grant me my wish, to repose in the shade of thy oak from the fatigues of the campaign, to hear from thy sweet lips the precepts of wisdom, and to be enabled to decipher the secrets of the future.”
“Thy request,” answered the Elf, “is of great import, but so are the services thou hast rendered me. Be it, then, as thou wishest. The bandage shall disappear from before thy corporeal eyes, that thou mayest be enabled to view the secrets of concealed wisdom. Enjoying the fruit, take also the shell. For the wise man is also an honoured man; he alone is rich, for he wishes for no more than he wants; and he tastes the nectar of love without poisoning it with impure lips.” Saying this, she once more gave him the three hulls, and departed.
The young hermit prepared his bed of moss under the oak, highly satisfied with the reception the Elf had given him. Sleep overtook him immediately; pleasant morning dreams hovered round his head and filled his imagination with happy forebodings.
​On awaking, he began joyfully his work. He built a commodious hermitage; he digged his garden, and planted roses and lilies, with other odoriferous flowers and plants, not forgeting cabbages and kitchen herbs, and various fruit-trees.
The Elf never failed to visit him in the evening at twilight, and rejoiced with him on the results of his industry. She walked with him, hand in hand, along the banks of the pond, where the easily moved reed lisped to them through the evening breeze a sweet serenade. She instructed her attentive pupil in the secrets of nature; taught him the origin and essence of things, and made him acquainted with their natural and magic properties and effects; and thus transformed the rude warrior into a thinker and philosopher.
In proportion as the feelings and sentiments of the young man became refined through his intercourse with this beautiful shadowy being, the tender form of the Elf seemed to condense and gain more consistence. Her bosom received warmth and life; her hazel eyes shot fire; and she seemed to have taken, with the form of a young girl, the feelings also of a blooming and lovely maiden. These confidential evening walks had the usual effect. After some months acquaint​ance, Krokus found himself in love, and beloved, and had that success which was promised to him with the third hull; nor did he regret being deprived, through the allurements of love, of the freedom of the heart. Although the nuptials of the tender pair were private, they were performed with as much pleasure as the most gorgeous wedding.
The Elf presented her husband, in the course of time, with three daughters. The enraptured father called the first-born Bela—the second, Therba—and the youngest, Libussa. They all resembled fairies in beauty; and although they were not formed of so fine a matter as their mother, still their bodily structure was far more refined than the coarser clay of their father. Besides, they were free from all the infirmities of childhood, as measles, hooping-cough, scarlet fever, &c. Nor did they want leading-strings, for after nine days they ran about like partridges; and as they grew up, they manifested all the talents of their mother, could discover secret things, and foretell the future.
Krokus also, in time, obtained a decent knowledge of these things. When the wolves had dispersed the flocks through the forest, and the shepherds searched in vain for their lost sheep and cattle,—when the wood-cutters missed a ​hatchet or an axe, they came to Krokus for advice, who told them where to look for the lost things. When a wicked neighbour had stolen something from the common property, or had broken into a neighbour’s house and robbed or killed the landlord, and nobody could guess who was the criminal, they went for counsel to the sage Krokus. He assembled them in an open field, made them form a circle, then stepping into the middle, bowled the never-missing sieve, which invariably detected the culprit. Thus his reputation spread all over Bohemia; and whoever had a case or business of consequence, went to the wise man to ask his opinion about the issue. The invalid and the sick also came to him to be cured; even diseased cattle were brought to him, for he understood as well how to cure them by his own shadow as did the famous St. Martin of Schierbach. The concourse of people which came to visit him augmented daily, as if Apollo’s tripod had been transplanted into the Bohemian forest; and although Krokus gave advice gratis to the sick, the diseased, and the care-worn, still the treasure of his secret wisdom brought him large interest and great gain, for the people came with presents and donations, and overwhelmed him with proofs ​of their goodwill. It was he who first revealed the secret of gold-washing from the sands of the river Elbe, and received tithe from every gold-fisher. In this way his property and possessions accumulated. He built fortified castles and palaces; had large herds of cattle, fruitful tracts of land, fields, and meadows; and found himself insensibly in the possession of that wealth which the liberal Elf had promised him with the second hull.
One beautiful summer evening, when Krokus was returning, with several of his horsemen, from an excursion into the plain, where he had, upon the demand of the litigating parties, amicably settled a boundary quarrel between two communities, he perceived his spouse on the banks of the fish-pond, in the same place where she had first appeared to him. She made him a sign with her hand; he therefore dismissed his servants, and hastened to embrace her. She received him, as usual, most affectionately; but her heart was sad and oppressed, and from her eyes dropped ethereal tears, so transparent and volatile, that in falling they were absorbed by the air without ever reaching the ground. Krokus was greatly alarmed at the sight, for he had never before seen the eyes of his spouse otherwise than radiant with youthful mirth.
​“What ails thee, beloved of my heart?” said he; “dark presentiments torment my soul. Say, what is the meaning of these tears?”
The Elf sighed, leant her sorrowful head against his shoulder, and thus spoke: “Dear husband, during thy absence I have read in the book of fate, that an unfortunate destiny awaits the tree of my life: I must part from thee for ever. Follow me into the palace, that I may bless my little ones, for we shall meet no more.”
“O, beloved one!” exclaimed Krokus; “banish these sorrowful thoughts! What misfortune can menace your tree? Is it not strong and sound in stem and root? Look at its fresh branches, how they spread, laden with leaves and fruit, and its top towers towards heaven. As long as this arm can move, I will protect it against any offender who may dare to damage its trunk.”
“A powerless protection that of a mortal arm,” she replied. “An ant may oppose an ant; a fly may oppose a fly; and an earthworm can only oppose an earthworm. But what can even the most powerful among you do against the workings of Nature, or the inevitable decrees of Fate? Terrestrial kings may overturn comparative mole-hills, which they call castles and forts; but the smallest breath of air defies their power, and, in spite of their ​commands, blows where it chooses. Thou hast formerly protected this tree against the violence of man; but can you prevent the storm from despoiling it of its leaves? or when a hidden worm gnaws in its marrow, can you take it out and crush it.”
Thus conversing, the loving pair arrived at their palace. The slender young ladies came jumping joyfully to meet their mother, as was their wont; they gave an account of their day’s work, and brought their embroidery and needlework as a proof of their skilful application. But this time the hour of domestic bliss was joyless. They soon perceived that in the face of their father traces of deep sorrow were engraved, and it was with sympathizing grief that they saw their mother’s tears, without venturing to ask for the cause. The mother gave them much good advice and exhortation, but her speech resembled the song of the swan, as if she wished to give her blessing to the world. She remained with her beloved till the morning star appeared in the heavens; then she embraced her husband and children with melancholy tenderness, and returned with the dawn by the secret little gate to her tree, leaving her beloved ones to oppressive forebodings.
​At the rising of the sun Nature seemed wrapt in an ominous calm. The brilliant orb, radiant for some time, became slowly obscured by sombre and heavy clouds. The day was sultry, and the whole atmosphere electric. Distant thunders roared above the forest, and the many-voiced echo mournfully resounded those awful noises. At noon a notched flash of lightning descended upon the venerable oak, shivered in a twinkling with irresistible force both trunk and branches, and sent the splinters far into the forest. When this was reported to Krokus, he tore his dress, went out with his three daughters to mourn over the life-tree of his spouse, and collected the splinters, to keep them as the most precious relics. From that day the Elf was never again seen.
In a few years the tender young ladies grew up; their maidenly beauty expanded like the bud of a rose-tree, and the rumour of their beauty spread all over the country. The most noble of the youth of the land came to visit father Krokus under pretence of asking his advice, but in reality to see with their own eyes those marvels of beauty. The sisters lived together on the best terms possible, and in the greatest candour, being as yet scarcely acquainted with their own talents. The gift of divination ​they possessed in the highest degree, and their discourses were oracles, without their being at all aware of it. Their vanity, however, was soon aroused by the voice of flattery. The word-catchers seized each sound from their mouth; the Celadons interpreted each movement, espied the slightest smile, explored each glance of the eye, saw in them more or less favourable omens, and believed they could guess through them their fate; and since that time it is customary with lovers to ask from the horoscope of the eyes the success or disappointment of their love. No sooner had vanity seized upon the virgin heart, than pride and arrogance, its invariable concomitants, were already at the door, accompanied by their associates,—egotism, selfishness, self-praise, and obstinacy; and, one after another, they all gained admittance. The elder sisters strove to surpass the younger one by their arts, and secretly envied her superior bodily charms: for although they were all three beautiful, still Libussa surpassed the other two in loveliness.
Miss Bela chiefly applied herself to botany; as did Medea in former times. She knew the hidden virtues of herbs, and could extract from them both poison and its antidote. ​She also knew how to prepare odoriferous scents, so sweet and pleasant that she attracted with them the spirits which inhabit the fathomless space beyond the moon, and they became submissive to her in order to inhale with their fine organs the delicious vapours; but when she threw nauseous scents upon the censer, she could have driven thereby Zihim and Ohim from the desert.
Miss Therba was as clever as Circe in finding out magic words and conjuring formulas, which were powerful enough to rule the elements, to raise a storm, to stir up a whirlwind, to excite a tempest, bring down a shower of hail-stone, or even to create an earthquake. She used these arts to frighten the people, that they might honour and fear her like a goddess; she knew, in fact, what weather the people wanted better than sage Nature herself. Two brothers once quarrelled, for they could never agree in their wishes. The one was a husbandman, and always wanted rain for the growth of his plants; the other was a potter, and always wanted sunshine to dry his earthen pots, which rain destroyed. As Heaven could never satisfy them, they went one day with rich presents to the residence of the sage Krokus, and confided ​their business to Therba. The daughter of the Elf smiled at the boisterous complaints of the brothers against the beneficial arrangements of Nature, and satisfied both their demands; she let rain fall upon the fields of the husbandman, and upon the neighbouring ground of the potter she let the sun shine.
Through these charms both sisters gained much renown and great riches; for they never parted with their gifts without reward or gain. By means of their riches they built palaces and country-houses, laid out splendid pleasure-gardens, and were never tired of giving balls and entertainments, and of trifling with those who were suitors for their hand.
Libussa had not the pride and vanity of her sisters. Although possessing the same ability of discovering the secrets of nature, and of making use of her hidden powers, she was contented with sharing these wonderful gifts of her maternal inheritance without making usurious advantage of them. Her vanity did not extend beyond the consciousness of her beauty; she did not covet riches, nor strive to be honoured or feared, like her sisters. For whilst they amused themselves at their country-seats, flew from pleasure to pleasure, chaining the flower of ​the Bohemian chivalry to their triumphal car, she remained in the paternal mansion, superintended the household affairs, gave advice to the enquiring, and help to the oppressed and suffering, from sheer good-will, without expectation of a reward. She was gentle and modest, and her conduct virtuous and without blemish, such as befitted a noble young lady. It is true, she rejoiced secretly upon her conquests, and considered the sighs of her admirers as a just tribute to her charms; but none of them dared to speak to her of love, or sue for her hand. But the god of love exercises his prerogative most willingly upon prudes, and often throws his burning torch upon a low thatched roof when he intends to set a lofty palace in flames.
A veteran knight, who had come into the country with the army of Czech, had settled himself in the midst of the forest, where, having put the waste land into a state of cultivation, and erected a country seat, he intended to pass the rest of his days in peace, and to live upon the produce of his fields. But a powerful and violent neighbour seized upon the knight’s property, and drove him away, when a hospitable husbandman received him into his habitation, giving him shelter and protection. The poor old man had ​a son, who was his only consolation and the support of his advanced years—a brave youth, but so poor that he had nothing wherewith to keep his father, except his hunting spear and a strong right arm. The injustice of the robbery of this Nabal excited his revenge, and he prepared himself to repel force by force; but the positive orders of the careful father, unwilling to expose the life of his son to any danger, disarmed the young man. As, however, he continued from time to time to return to his project, insisting upon vengeance, his father once called him, and addressed him thus:—“Go, my son, and see the sage Krokus, or the clever maids, his daughters, and ask their advice, to know if the gods approve of thy undertaking, and if thou mayest expect a happy result. If so, gird on thy sword, take thy spear in hand, and fight for thy patrimony; but if not, remain here till thou hast closed my eyes, and then act as thou mayest think proper.”
The young man departed, and arrived first at the palace of Bela, which resembled a temple inhabited by a goddess. He knocked, and asked for admission; but when the porter saw that the stranger arrived with empty hands, he sent him away like a beggar, and slammed the door in his face.
​He departed sorrowfully, and went next to the sister Therba. He knocked, and asked for an audience. The porter came to the window of his lodge, and said, “If thou hast gold in thy pouch, to present to my mistress, she will teach thee one of her adages, by which thou mayest learn thy destiny; but if thou hast none, go and gather as many grains on the shore of the Elbe as the tree has leaves, as the sheaf has ears, and the bird has feathers, and then come here, and I will open to thee the gate.” Dispirited and disappointed, the youth sneaked away, especially as he had heard that the seer Krokus had gone to Poland, to arrange as arbitrator a quarrel between two grandees.
He did not expect a better reception from the third sister; and when he saw her paternal palace from a hillock in the distance, he did not dare to approach it, but hid himself in a copse, to ponder in solitude upon his grief. But he was soon aroused from his reverie by a noise resembling the trampling of horses. A doe broke through the bushes, pursued by a lovely huntress and her maids upon stately horses. She threw a dart, which flew buzzing from her hand through the air, but without hitting the game. The lurking youth quickly seized his cross-bow, ​and darted a feathered arrow from the humming bow-string, that perforated the heart of the doe, which immediately fell. The young lady, astonished at the unexpected sight, looked about for the unknown sportsman; which the archer perceiving, he stepped forth from the bushes, and bowed humbly before her. Miss Libussa thought she had never seen a handsomer man. She was at first sight so much impressed in his favour, that she could not refuse him her good-will, which is the general prerogative of a good outward appearance. “Tell me, dear stranger,” she cried, “who are you? and what brings you into these precincts?” The young man saw that his lucky star had enabled him to find what he was in search of; he told her modestly his business, nor did he conceal how disgracefully he had been sent away from her sisters’ gates, and how much he was grieved by it. She cheered him by her kind words, and said, “Follow me to my abode; I will consult for you the book of fate, and give you your answer to-morrow at sunrise.”
The youth did as he was told. No clownish fellow here stopped his entrance into the palace, whose beautiful mistress treated him with noble hospitality. He was charmed with his reception, but still more with his hostess. Her enchanting ​form hovered the whole night before his eyes, and he took care not to sleep, in order not to lose for a moment the recollection of the events of the day before.
Miss Libussa, on her part, enjoyed a sweet sleep; for isolation from the impressions of the outer senses, which disturb the clearer presentiments of the future, is indispensable to the gift of divination. The ardent imagination of the sleeping daughter of the Elf interwove the image of the young stranger with all the significant visions which appeared to her that night in her dreams. She found him where she did not look for him, in situations of which she could not understand the relation they could have to the stranger. On first awaking, when the beautiful prophetess was in the habit of deciphering her visions of the night, she was disposed to consider them as errors of a night-dream, proceeding from the disturbance of the ordinary march of fantasy, and to pay no further attention to them. But a vague feeling told her, that the creations of her imagination were not an empty dream, but alluded to certain events which the future would disclose, and that her prophetic fantasy of last night had disclosed to her more of the secret decrees of fate than ever. Through the same channel she became ​aware that the guest under her roof was ardently in love with her, and as explicitly did her own heart make the same avowal in regard to him; but she immediately put the seal of silence upon the discovery, as did also the young man on his side, having sacredly promised himself to keep his tongue and his eyes in subjection, in order not to be exposed to an humiliating rejection, for the partition-wall which fortune had placed between him and Krokus seemed to him insurmountable.
Although the handsome Libussa knew well enough what to answer to the questions of the youth, she was loath to dismiss him so soon. At sun-rise she made him come into her pleasure-garden, and said to him, “The veil of darkness is still before my eyes; to know your destiny, you must wait till sun-set ;” and in the evening she said, “Wait till sun-rise;” and the next day “Stop yet to-day;” and on the third day, “Wait till to-morrow.” On the fourth day she dismissed him at last, for she could find no pretext to keep him any longer, without betraying her secret; and gave him, in kind words, the following answer: “The gods do not wish that you should dispute with one that is powerful in the land; to suffer in patience is the lot of ​the weak. Go to your father; remain the consolation of his old age, and support him by the labour of your industrious hands. Take two white bulls from my herd as a gift, with this staff to guide them; when it shall bloom and bring forth fruit, the spirit of prophesy will dwell within you.”
The youth thought himself unworthy of the gift of the charming maiden, and blushed deeply at accepting a donation without being able to give one in return. On taking leave, if his lips were not eloquent, his doleful mien was greatly so. He found attached to the gate below two splendid white bulls, as sleek and beautiful as that godlike bull upon whose smooth back in times of yore the virgin Europa swam through the blue waves of the sea. He detached them joyfully, and drove them leisurely before him.
The distance on his way seemed only a few yards, his mind being all along occupied with thoughts of the beautiful Libussa; and he vowed to himself that, although he had no hopes of ever enjoying her love, he would never love another.
The old knight was greatly rejoiced at the return of his son, and still more that the decision of the daughter of the sage Krokus was quite ​in accordance with his own wishes. As, by order of the gods, the cultivation of land had become the vocation of youth, he, without delay, harnessed the bulls, and put them to the plough. The first essay succeeded to his wishes: the bulls possessed so much strength and spirit, that they turned up more land in one day than twelve yoke of oxen could manage; for they were swift and vigorous as the bull which is represented in the calendar as springing from the clouds in the month of April, and not sluggish and lazy as the ox mentioned in the gospel.
Duke Czech, who had led his people into Bohemia, was long since among the departed, and his descendants inherited neither his dignity nor principality. The grandees, it is true, assembled to make a new choice; but their fierce and violent dispositions prevented them from coming to any sensible resolution. Egotism and vanity turned the Bohemian assembly of states into a Polish diet, for as too many hands grasped at the purple cloak, it was torn to pieces, and none obtained it. The government became anarchical; every one did as he liked the strong oppressed the weak, the rich the poor, and the great the little. There was no personal security in the country. Still ​there were plenty of empty-headed fools, who believed that their new republic was well arranged. They said, that the thing was natural, and that matters in general went on as well as anywhere else; for does not the wolf eat the lamb, the kite the pigeon, and the fox the hen? This weak constitution could have no stability. When the liberty-mania began to subside, and the people became sober again, reason also began to re-assert its rights. The patriots, the honest citizens, and whoever loved his country, assembled in council, and decided on destroying the idol of the many-headed hydra, and to reunite the people under one chief. “Let us choose,” they said, “a prince, who shall govern us according to our ancestral customs, who can curb the licentious, and administer impartial justice. Not the most powerful, not the most daring, not the richest-no; the most wise shall be our Duke. The people, who were long since tired of the extortions of petty tyrants, were this time unanimous, and gave their full approbation to the proposition. A diet was called together, and the unanimous choice fell upon Krokus. An embassy was dispatched to invite him to accept the princely dignity. Although Krokus did not aim at high honours, he hesitated ​not to satisfy the desire of the people. He was invested with the purple, and went with great pomp to Vizegrade, the residence of the princes, where the people received him with joyous acclamations, and did homage to him as their sovereign. Thus Krokus saw that the third hull of the Elf had also conferred its gifts upon him.
His love of justice, and wise administration of the law, soon spread his reputation over all the neighbouring countries. The Sarmatian princes, who were in the habit of continually warring against each other, came from afar to bring their quarrels before his tribunal. He decided their disputes by the never-failing standard of natural law; and whenever he gave his opinion, it was as if the much-honoured Solon, or the wise Solomon among the twelve lions from his throne, had given their judgment. Once, when some malcontents in Poland had made a confederation against the tranquillity of their country, and caused the easily excited Polish nation to break out into open rebellion, he went at the head of his army into Poland, and brought the civil war to a termination; and, out of gratitude, the greater part of the nation chose him for their sovereign. He built there the town of Krakau, so called ​after him, which enjoyed the privilege of crowning the kings of Poland to the latest period.
Krokus governed the country with the greatest glory until his death. When he felt that his last days were approaching, he ordered a coffin to be made from the fragments of the oak which his spouse had inhabited, to contain his remains, and soon afterwards departed in peace, greatly deplored by his three daughters, who put his body into the coffin, and buried him according to his orders, near the place where formerly stood the oak. The whole country went into mourning for him.
As soon as the funeral pomp was over, the states met to consult who was to take the vacant throne. The people were unanimous as to choosing one of the daughters of Krokus, only they could not agree upon which of the three sisters their choice should fall. Miss Bela had, in fact, the smallest number of partisans, for she had not a good heart, and often used her supernatural powers to do mischief; but she had excited such dread among the people, that no one dared to oppose her, for fear of incurring her displeasure and vengeance. When it came to voting, there were no votes for her, but neither were there any votes against her. With ​the setting of the sun the representatives of the people separated, and postponed the election to the next day.
When they met again on the following morning Miss Therba was proposed. But the confidence she had in her magic spells had turned her head; she was proud and overbearing; wanted to be venerated like a goddess, and if she was not always adulated, her temper forsook her, and she became angry, quarrelsome, and obstinate—qualities which deprive the fair sex of the possession of that flattering epithet. It is true, she was less feared than her elder sister, but nevertheless she was not a jot more beloved. Thus there was no more ado upon the elective field than there is at a funeral repast, and the votes were not even taken.
On the third day Libussa was proposed. As soon as her name was pronounced, confidential whispers were heard all over the field; the serious faces began to clear up; and every elector could tell his neighbour of some good trait or other which the young lady possessed. One extolled her good manners; another, her modesty; a third, her cleverness; a fourth, her infallibility in foretelling the future; a fifth, her disinterestedness towards those who ​came to ask for her advice; a sixth, her purity; and ninety others, her beauty; and the last of all her, domestic habits. When a lover enumerates such a register of the perfections of his beloved, it is very dubious whether in reality she possesses one of them; but the public at large is very seldom mistaken to the advantage of the person thus canvassed, though very often to her disadvantage.
Miss Libussa’s good qualities being thus generally acknowledged, she became evidently the most important pretender to the throne. But the preference given to a younger sister, as experience teaches, has disturbed the harmony of many a family; and it was to be feared that it might here also disturb the peace of the country. This consideration embarrassed the sage guardians of the people so much that they could not come to a decision. A speaker was wanting, who by the power of his eloquence could stimulate the goodwill of the electors;—and he made his appearance in proper time.
Wladomir, a Bohemian grandee, next in rank to the Duke, was an old admirer of Libussa, and had, during the life-time of Krokus, asked for her hand. He was one of the most faithful vassals of the Duke, who loved him like a son. ​Krokus would have gladly seen his daughter united to him; but the coyness of the maiden was insurmountable, and he would by no means force her inclinations. Wladomir, however, was not easily discouraged, and he hoped through his constancy and fidelity finally to overcome the obstinacy of the young lady. He remained in the suite of the Duke to the last, but without making the slightest progress in her good graces. Now he thought the favourable moment was come to win her heart by a meritorious action, and to gain from her gratitude what he could not obtain from her spontaneous free-will. He decided upon braving the hate and vengeance of the two dreaded sisters, and elevating his beloved to the throne at the risk of his life. Seeing the indecision and vacillation of the elective council, he rose and said, “If you will listen to me, ye nobles of the land and valorous knights, I will relate to you a parable, from which you may learn how to terminate the election to the benefit of the country. As soon as silence was established, he thus began:—
“The bees had lost their queen, and the whole hive became depressed and sad. They flew but seldom, and lazily, about; had neither inclination nor courage to make honey; their ​industry began to slacken, and food was wanting. Therefore they were seriously considering the necessity of choosing a new chief, who understood their policy, and was able to keep order and maintain discipline. The wasp came first, and said, ‘Choose me for your queen. I am powerful and formidable: the proud horse fears my sting; and even your mortal enemy the bear I can resist, for when he approaches your honey-tree, I can sting him in the muzzle. I will take care of you, and protect you.’ The bees were well pleased with this speech; but, after due consideration, the wisest among them answered, ‘Thou art valorous and terrible; but it is the very sting which is to protect us that we fear. Thou canst not be our queen.’ Thereupon the drone came humming, and said, ‘Take me for your queen. Hear you not the noise of my wings, announcing elevation and dignity? I am not wanting either in a sting for your defence.’ The bees answered, ‘We are a peaceable and quiet people; the fierce noise of thy wings would only disturb us, and prevent our industry. Thou canst not be our queen.’ At last the mother-bee asked to be heard: ‘Although I am bigger and stronger than you,’ she said, ‘my ascendancy can never hurt you; ​for see, I have not got the dangerous sting. I am of a gentle disposition, and a friend of order and domestic habits, and know how to promote industry and encourage labour.’ Then the bees answered, ‘Thou art worthy to govern us; we will obey thee. Be thou our queen.’”
Wladomir was silent. The whole assembly guessed the meaning of his speech, and their minds were favourably disposed for Libussa; but at the moment when they wished to proceed to the election, a croaking raven flew over the election-field. This unfavourable omen interrupted all further deliberation, and the election was postponed to the next day. Miss Bela had dispatched that bird of bad portent, to interrupt the election; for she knew the disposition of the electors, and Prince Wladomir had excited her deepest hatred. She consulted with her sister Therba, and they decided that both should avenge themselves upon their common detractor, by sending a heavy night-mare to squeeze the soul out of his body.
The hardy knight had no presentiment of the danger that threatened him. He went, as usual, to pay his respects to his mistress, and, for the first time, was received with a friendly look, from which he augured a future full of bliss; and if his ​delight could by any means be increased, it was by the gift of a rose, which adorned the bosom of the young lady, and which she gave him, with the order to put it next his heart, and allow it to wither there. He quite misunderstood her words, which may be easily forgiven him, as there is not a more difficult science than the interpretation of love, which may be called the cradle of error. The enamoured knight’s first care was to keep the rose as long as possible fresh and blooming; he put it into a flower vase filled with fresh water, and fell asleep indulging the most flattering hopes.
In the awful midnight hour, the destroying angel sent by Bela stole to his bedroom, blew open with his panting breath the locks and bolts, and pressing with heavy weight upon the sleeping knight, so squeezed him, that, on awaking, he thought a mill-stone had fallen on his chest. Thus choked, he believed that his last moment had arrived; but, happily calling to mind the rose which stood in the vase close to his bedside, he pressed it to his breast, and said, “‘Fade away with me, beautiful rose, and die upon my expiring heart, as a proof that my last thought was directed to thy beautiful mistress.” His heart immediately began to feel easy. The heavy ​night-mare could not resist the magic power of the rose; its heavy weight did not exceed that of a feather; and the antipathy of the night-mare to the scent of the rose soon drove it altogether out of the room, whilst the narcotic power of its fragrancy lulled the knight again into a sweet repose.
Fresh and gay, at sunrise Wladomir mounted his courser, and rode to the election field, to see what impression his parable had made upon the electors, and to watch the course of the proceedings; resolving, that if any adverse wind should threaten to strand the vacillating bark that bore his hopes, to take the helm in his hands, and steer it clear through all the obstacles of hidden rocks and cliffs.
This time, however, there was no danger. The stern senators had so carefully ruminated upon and digested the parable of Wladomir during the night, that it had entered into their minds and hearts. An active knight, who foresaw the favourable turn of events, and who had a sympathetic feeling with Wladomir as to the affair of the heart, tried to snatch away from him the honour of placing the young lady upon the Bohemian throne, or at least of dividing that honour with him. He came forth, drew his ​sword, and proclaimed with a loud voice Libussa Duchess of Bohemia; proposing that every onewho was of his opinion should also draw his sword to defend his choice. Many hundred swords were immediately seen glittering upon the election field; a general huzza announced the new princess; and everywhere the joyous exclamation was heard, “Let Libussa be our Duchess.”
A deputation was chosen, with prince Wladomir and Mizislas (the knight who first drew his sword) at its head, to announce to the young lady her elevation to the princely dignity. She accepted with modest blushes, the sovereignty over the people, and the charm of her glorious beauty subjected to her every heart. The people did homage to her with the greatest delight; and though both her sisters envied her, and employed their secret arts to avenge themselves upon her and the country on account of their supposed injury, and essayed by means of calumny to excite a dangerous fermentation in the nation, and thus to disturb the happiness of her reign, still Libussa knew how to counteract their unsisterly manoeuvres, and to render innocuous all their plans and sorceries, till at length they became tired of venting their ineffectual hatred upon her.
​The amorous Wladomir waited in the meantime with the utmost anxiety the issue of events. He tried ever and anon to read in her eyes his prospects of future success; but Libussa had condemned them to keep complete silence as to the sentiments of her heart, and it is always a critical task to seek an oral explanation from a lady without some previous telegraphic communication through the eyes. The only favourable sign, which still kept his hopes alive, was the unfading rose, which, after the lapse of a year, was still as fresh and blooming as on the evening when he received it from the hands of Libussa. A flower from the hand of a young lady, a nosegay, a ribbon, or a lock of hair, it is true, are of more worth than a decayed tooth; but all these things are at best but equivocal pledges of love, if they have not received a definite meaning by positive words. Thus Wladomir sighed in secret, waiting to see what time or circumstances might produce in his favour.
The impetuous knight Mizislas carried on his intrigues in a more active way, pushing himself forward on every occasion, in order to be noticed. On the day of homage he was the first vassal who took the oath of fidelity to the new princess. He followed her everywhere, as the Moon does ​the Earth, to prove by unasked-for services his devotedness to her person; and on public festivities and state processions he made his sword glitter before her eyes, as if he wished to keep its services in her remembrance.
Libussa, however, seemed, according to the general custom of the world, to have soon forgotten the promoters of her fortune; for when an obelisk is once raised, nobody pays any attention to the lever and other instruments which have served in erecting it; at least, it was thus that the competitors for the hand of the young lady explained her indifference. Both were, however, mistaken in their opinions. The noble princess was neither unfeeling nor ungrateful; but her heart was no more in her keeping, and she could not therefore dispose of it. Love had already pronounced its verdict in favour of the slender hunter. The first impression which he had made upon her heart was so strong, that no other could efface it. It was therefore less astonishing that she could resist the entreaties of the flower of the Bohemian knighthood, than it was on the part of Penelope, the beautiful Queen of Ithaca, to have resisted a countless number of wooers, having only the grey-bearded Ulysses in perspective. Rank and birth, however, ​had placed so great a distance between Libussa and the object of her choice, that any attachment other than of a Platonic kind was scarcely to be hoped for. For although, in those times, alliances were no more arranged by genealogical tables, pedigrees, and parchments, than were the different kinds of insects by their feelers and wing-shells, or flowers and plants by their stamina, their pistils, their calices, and their metaries, still it was well known that the precious vine will only cling to the high elm-tree, and the ivy to the oak, while the vile creeper will only cling to the hedge. A mesalliance where the difference of station did not exceed a few inches, excited not, it is true, as in our critical times, a deal of pedantical talk: but when there was a difference of some yards, and the space between was filled by several competitors, making the distance more perceptible, there would have been, even in those remote times, a good deal of fuss about it. The prudent young lady had considered all this, and therefore gave no encouragement to her passion. She made the vestal vow not to encourage any wooers, either by her eyes, gesture, or words; with the restriction, however, to platonize as much as she liked, which she considered only a just indemnification. ​Such an ascetic system was not at all to the liking of the aspirants, nor could they at all understand the distant coldness of their mistress. Jealousy, that almost constant companion of love, whispered to them suspicious tales; one believed the other to be his successful rival, and both tortured their minds incessantly to discover some proof of it. But Libussa weighed carefully and cunningly the scarce favours which she granted to the two honourable knights; and so evenly did she balance them, that neither scale outweighed the other.
Wearied at length by useless waiting, both lovers left the court of the princess, retiring in secret discontent to their castles, which had been granted to them in fief by Duke Krokus. Both returned to their homes in ill-humour; where Prince Wladomir became an annoyance to all his subjects and neighbours, and the knight Mizislas gave himself up continually to hunting. He chased the stag and the fox over fields and inclosures belonging to his tenants, and in the pursuit of a hare he and his suite would often trample down a hundred acres of corn. This produced great discontent in the country; but although they were much oppressed, nobody dared to accuse the powerful, and thus ​no complaints reached the throne of the duchess. She, however, by means of her second sight, was well aware of the injustice committed within the limits of her realm. Her character being in unison with her soft features, she was deeply affected by the wrongs perpetrated by her vassals, the violence used by the powerful, and the injury suffered by the weak. She communed with herself how to check the mischief, and, inspired by wisdom, decided upon following the example of the gods, who do not punish criminals on the instant they commit their misdeeds, although their slowly-pursuing vengeance overtakes them sooner or later. The young princess convened the states and the knighthood to a general court of justice, and had it publicly announced, that whoever had a complaint to make might come boldly forward, and should have a safe-conduct.
From all parts of the country the oppressed and injured arrived, but at the same time came the quarrelsome and litigious. Libussa sat upon the throne, like the goddess Themis with sword and scales, and distributed justice with unfailing equity, without regard to rank or person; for she was not as easily misled by the labyrinthine ways of chicanery, as are often the heavy heads ​of well-fed aldermen, and every one was astonished at the facility with which she disentangled the intricate knots of law-suits concerning the questions of mine and thine.
When the throng round the bar of justice had nearly subsided, and the sessions were drawing to a close, there appeared on the last day a neighbour of the rich Wladomir, and some deputies from the sporting Mizislas, asking for an audience to make a complaint.
The freeholder first spoke: “An industrious planter,” he said, “once enclosed a small piece of ground on the banks of a large river, whose silvery floods flowed smoothly down into the gay valley. He thought the beautiful river would serve him on that side as a protection, so that the voracious game could not destroy his sown fields, and would water the roots of his fruit trees, so that they would rapidly grow and bring forth luxurious fruit. But when the work of his hands had begun to bring him some profit, the treacherous river became muddy, its formerly quiet waters began to overflow, inundating and carrying away one piece after another of the fertile field, and making itself a bed in the middle of the fruitful land, to the great sorrow of the poor planter, who was compelled to give up his pro​perty to the malicious amusement of his fierce and violent neighbour, being merely able to save himself from the rapid flood. Powerful daughter of the sage Krokus, the poor planter entreats you to order the presumptuous river not to throw any more its proud waves over the fields of the laborious husbandman, and thus destroy his hard labour and future hopes, but to flow quietly on within the limits of its own bed.”
During this speech the serene countenance of the beautiful Libussa became clouded, a judge’s seriousness was observable in her eyes, and all around were silent to hear her judgment, which was as follows:—“Thy case is simple and straightforward, and no power shall interfere with thy rights. A strong dyke shall stop the force of the unbridled stream, which it shall be unable to pass, and with its fishes it shall repay thee sevenfold for the loss its destroying waves have caused.”
Then she made a sign to the eldest of the deputies of the community belonging to Mizislas; who, bowing to the ground, said, “Sage daughter of the glorious Krokus, tell us to whom belongs the corn in the fields;—to the man who sows the seed and puts it into the earth, that it may germinate and bring fruit, or to the storm which crushes and destroys it?”
​She answered, “To the man who sows it.”
“Then order the storm,” said the speaker, “that it may no more choose our corn-fields as the place of its riotous amusements, and tread down our corn and destroy our fruits.”
“Let it be so,” said the duchess. “I will tame the storm, and banish it from your fields; it shall fight with the clouds, and disperse them, for they are coming from the north, and threaten the country with hail and bad weather.”
Prince Wladomir and the knight Mizislas were both assessors of the tribunal. When they heard the complaints against them, and the judgment of the princess, they became pale, and fixed their eyes in suppressed rage on the ground. They did not, however, dare to show how much they were vexed at being condemned by the lips of a woman. Although the plaintiffs had modestly hid their complaints under an allegorical veil, and the sentence of the chief-justice Libussa had judiciously respected that cover, its texture was so fine and transparent, that every one who had eyes could see those who stood behind it.
The culprits not daring to appeal from the decision of the princess to the people, the judgment against them having given general satisfaction, they quietly submitted to it, although with ​great reluctance. Wladomir gave to his neighbour, the farmer, a sevenfold compensation for the loss he had sustained; and the Nimrod Mizislas was obliged to promise, on the honour of a knight, not to choose any more the corn-fields of his neighbours for his hunting-ground. Libussa also gave them a more glorious occupation to exercise their activity upon, which at the same time was fitted to re-establish their reputation for knightly valour, which had somewhat suffered by their late exploits. She put them both at the head of her army, which she was sending against Zornebock, prince of the Serbes, a giant and powerful sorcerer, who at the very time was making war against Bohemia. As a penitence, she ordered them not to return to her court till the one could bring her the crest, and the other the golden spurs, of the vanquished enemy as trophies.
The never-fading rose proved its magic power throughout this campaign. Prince Wladomir had become, through it, as invulnerable as the hero Achilles, and as quick, light, and skilful as Achilles the butterfly. The armies met on the northern confines of the country, and the signal for battle was given. The Bohemian heroes broke through the enemy’s squadrons ​with storm-like impetuosity, and mowed down everything before them like the scythe of the reaper in a corn-field. Zornebock succumbed under their powerful strokes; and they returned in triumph to Vizegrade, carrying with them the booty they were ordered to bring. Thus they washed out in the blood of their foes the blots and stains which had previously spotted their knightly honour.
The duchess presented them with many tokens of her princely favour, dismissed them to their homes, and gave them, as an additional proof of her good-will, a purple apple, which she enjoined them to divide between themselves, but without cutting it. They then went their way, having the apple carried before them upon a shield, and consulting together how they should divide it cleverly without disobeying the injunction of the gentle donor. They were thus amicably discussing the mode of its partition, till they came to a crossway, where they had to separate; when both wanted to keep possession of the apple, which only one could have, without dividing it. Thereupon they began to disagree, and were upon the point of deciding by the sword to whose lot the indivisible apple should fall, when a shepherd came up to them who was driving his ​herd along, the road. They immediately chose him for their arbiter (perhaps calling to mind the story of the three well-known goddesses in times of yore, who, in their quarrel about an apple, had also hit upon a shepherd to decide between them), and they made him acquainted with the case.
The shepherd considered for a moment, and then said, “In the gift of this apple there is a deeply hidden meaning; but who can guess it, except the clever young lady who has concealed it therein? In my opinion, this apple is a deceptive fruit, ripened on the tree of discord, and its purple colour points at a bloody strife between you, that one may destroy the other, instead of enjoying the gift. Tell me, how is it possible to divide an apple without separating it?”
The two knights pondered over the speech of the shepherd, and thought there was much wisdom in it. “Thou art right,” they said; “for has not the cursed apple already produced quarrel and discord between us? Have we not been ready to fight one another for the deceitful gift of that proud lady, who despises us both at heart? Did she not place us at the head of the army, thinking we should be killed? And has she not here succeeded in arming our hands with ​the weapon of discord against ourselves. We renounce the treacherous gift; neither of us shall have the apple. It shall be thine, as a reward for thy honest advice. It is to the judge that belongs the fruit of the process; the parties must be satisfied with the peel.”
The knights thereupon took each his way home, and the shepherd meanwhile consumed, with the ease common to judges, the apple of discord.
The ambiguous gift of the duchess angered the knights exceedingly; and their anger was not at all diminished when, on reaching their homes, they found they could no longer act as despotically as formerly with their subjects and feudaries, but were compelled to obey the laws published by Libussa for the general security and welfare. They entered into a league, offensive and defensive; and made many partisans, whom they sent about into the districts, in order to throw aspersions and calumnies upon female government. “What a shame,” they said, “to be subject to a female, who gathers our laurels to adorn her distaff with them! It belongs to man to be master of his house, and not to woman; it is his right, and it is the custom in every other country. What is an army without ​a duke to march at the head of it, but a body without a head? Let us have a prince, who may be our master, and whom we will obey.”
These doings were no secret to the vigilant princess. She knew from whence the wind blew, and what it foreboded. Therefore she called the states together, and presented herself before them with the dignity of a terrestrial goddess, and her words flowed like honey from her pure lips.
“There is a rumour in the country,” she said to the assembly, “that you want a duke to lead you to battle, and that you consider it disgraceful henceforth to obey me. It is you, however, who have selected me by your free and unrestricted choice—not from among the men, but from the daughters of the country, and have invested me with the purple, that I may govern you according to the laws and customs of the country. Whoever can reproach me with a fault in the administration of the government, let him appear now openly, and give witness against me. But if I have administered justice, and held the reins of government in the same manner as did my father Krokus,—if I have flattened the hills, levelled the plains, and replenished the abyss, so that you may travel all over the country,—if ​I have secured your harvests, your flocks, and your orchards,—if I have bent the stiff neck of the powerful, raised up the oppressed, and supported the weak,—if I have done all this, it behoves you to keep your promise to be faithful to me, to be willing and obedient, according to your oath of allegiance. If you think it is inglorious to obey a woman, you ought to have considered this before you chose me for your sovereign; if there is something disgraceful in it, it is your own doing. But your proceedings show that you do not understand your own benefit for a woman’s hand is soft and gentle, and only used to fan the mild air; but sinewy and harsh is the arm of man, oppressive and heavy, when he wields the weight of power. You are not aware, that when a woman governs, the authority is vested in men, for she follows sound advice; but when the spindle is excluded from the throne, there is a petticoat government, for those who please the eyes of the king have his heart in their hands. Therefore consider well what you are about, that you may not regret it when it will be too late.”
The speaker upon the throne was silent, and a deep and reverential stillness prevailed throughout the assembly, nobody daring to say a word ​against her. Still Prince Wladomir and his confederates did not abandon their project. They whispered to one another: “The chamois does not like to abandon the fat pasture ground;(24) but the hunting-horn shall send forth a still louder blast, and drive her away.”
The next day they persuaded the knighthood to demand imperatively that she should choose, in the space of three days, a consort, to give by the choice of her heart a prince to the people, who might divide the government with her.
At this rash demand, which seemed to be the voice of the nation, a virgin blush overspread the cheeks of the beautiful Libussa. Her clear-sighted eye saw all the cliffs under water, which menaced her with danger on this occasion. Even if she were to sacrifice her inclination, as is the custom in high life, she still could give her hand but to one suitor, and she was well aware that all the other pretenders would consider it an humiliation, and try to avenge themselves. Besides, she considered the secret vow of her heart as inviolable and sacred. She therefore tried to persuade the states to abandon their importunate demand, and made another essay to dissuade them altogether from their project of choosing a duke.
​“When the eagle died,” she began, “the birds chose the wood-pigeon for their queen, and all the winged tribes obeyed her commands. But the nature of birds being easy and aërial, they soon changed their minds, and regretted their promise. The proud peacock opined, that it would become him much better to govern; the greedy sparrow-hawk, used to beat the smaller birds, considered it dishonourable to obey the pacific dove; they made partisans, and hired the weak-minded screech owl as their speaker to the confederation for a new election. The foolish bustard, the heavy heath-cock, the lazy stork, the brainless heron, and all the larger birds, chattered and crowed their loud applause; and the swarms of smaller birds, in their ignorance, warbled and chirped in the same way among the bushes and hedges. At the same moment the warlike kite rose majestically into the air, and all the birds screamed aloud, ‘What a royal flight! what an eagle’s glance in his spying eyes! what an expression of power in the hooked beak and the powerful claws! The daring and noble kite shall be our king!’ Scarcely had the sagacious bird ascended the throne before he proved to his feathered subjects his daring and activity by tyranny and insolence; ​he plucked the feathers off the larger birds, and tore the singing-birds to pieces.”
This speech, expressive as it was, made but little impression upon minds longing for a change in the government; and they adhered to the plebiscite, which required that Miss Libussa should choose a consort in the course of three days.
Prince Wladomir was highly pleased, for now he expected to obtain the prize to which he had so long aspired. Love and ambition gave him energy, and made him eloquent. He came to court, and asked for an audience from the duchess. “Gracious sovereign of the people and of my heart,” he said to her, “there is no secret unknown to thee. Thou knowest the flames which consume my heart—they are sacred and pure; and thou knowest the heavenly fire that has lit them. By order of the people, thou art to give a prince to the country. Canst thou refuse a heart that only lives and beats for thee? To be worthy of thee, to place thee upon thy father’s throne, I have risked fortune and life; grant me also the honour of keeping thee upon the throne through the alliance of tender love. Let us divide throne and heart; the first be your’s, and the second mine. Thus thou wilt ​place my happiness beyond that which falls to the share of mortals.”
Libussa listened to him with virgin modesty. When he had finished, she made, without speaking, a sign with her hand to dismiss him, as if she wanted to reflect what answer to make to his proposals.
Soon after; the bold knight Mizislas announced himself, and wanted to be admitted. “Charming princess,” he said, entering the audience-room, the beautiful dove, the queen of the air, shall no more coo alone, but look out for a mate, as thou well knowest. The proud peacock, as the rumour says, spreads his shining plumage before her eyes, and thinks to dazzle her with the splendour of his feathers; but she is prudent and modest, and will not mate with the supercilious peacock. The greedy kite, formerly a bird of prey, has now completely changed his nature; he is honest and pious, and without harm, for he loves the beautiful dove, and wishes that she may join him. His having a curved beak and sharp claws thou must not mind, for he wants them to defend the beautiful dove, his beloved, that no harm may befal her, and that she may keep her throne, for he is faithful and attached to her, and it was he who on the day of her elevation ​was the first to do homage to her. Tell me now, wise princess, if the sweet dove believes her faithful kite worthy of her love, as she ardently desires.”
Libussa did as before; she made the knight also withdraw. After a short while she called in both competitors, and thus spoke to them: “I am much obliged to you, noble knights, that you have both assisted me to obtain the Bohemian crown, which my father wore before me with glory; nor have I forgotten your zeal, which you just now have brought to my recollection; nor am I ignorant that you both love me, for your looks and manners were long ago the interpreters of your sentiments. That on my part, however, I have not responded to your love, do not consider as prudery; neither was it meant as insult or humiliation, but it was the difficulty of a dubious choice. I weighed your merits, and the balance was on a level. Therefore I decided upon leaving the decision to yourselves, and offered you the possession of my heart in the enigmatical apple, in order to see which of you had the larger share of sense and wisdom, to appropriate to himself the indivisible gift. Tell me then at once, in whose possession the apple is? He that has taken it from the other may from this hour take possession of my hand and my throne.”
​The two competitors looked at each other in amazement; they grew pale with vexation, and remained dumb. After a long pause, Prince Wladomir broke the silence, and said, “The riddles of the wise are, to the foolish, like a nut to the toothless mouth; like a pearl found by a hen in the sand; like a lighted candle in the hand of a blind man. O princess, do not be angry, that we did not know how to use or esteem thy gift; we mistook thy intention, and believed thou hadst thrown an apple of discord between us, to excite us to duel and strife, and we renounced the mischievous fruit, whose sole possession neither of us would have granted to the other.”
“You have pronounced your own sentence,” replied Libussa. If an apple could thus inflame your jealousy, what contention would there have been between you for a myrtle wreath encircling a crown!”
With that answer she dismissed the knights, who were deeply annoyed at having followed the advice of the unwise arbitrator, and carelessly given away the pledge of love. Each of them now ruminated by himself how, in spite of all, he could execute his plan, and seize upon the Bohemian throne and its lovely occupant.
​In the meantime Libussa was far from being idle during the three days which were granted to her for consideration. She diligently communed with herself by what means she could satisfy the importunate demand of the people, and give to the country a duke, and to herself a spouse, who would be the chosen of her heart. She dreaded lest Prince Wladomir should impose himself by force upon her, or rob her of the throne. Necessity compelled her to execute a plan which she had often revolved in her head as a pleasant dream; for what mortal has not a hobby in his head, which he seizes in his leisure hours, and plays with as with a doll. There is not a more amusing pastime for a young lady who wears tight shoes, than to think, when cutting her corns, of a handsome carriage and four; the prude dreams of a prince sighing at her feet; the vain orders a set of jewels; the avaricious wins the first prize in a lottery; the man who sits in a debtors’ prison comes into the possession of a rich inheritance; the squanderer discovers the philosopher’s stone; and the poor woodman finds a treasure in a hollow tree. It is true, all this only takes place in the imagination—not, however, without a certain secret enjoyment. Second sight was ever intimately connected with ​strong imaginative powers; therefore the handsome Libussa sometimes abandoned herself to that pleasant indulgence of her fancy, and that obliging confidant invariably entertained her with the image of the young huntsman who had made such a lasting impression upon her heart. A thousand projects came into her head, which her imagination presented to her as easy and successful. At one time she proposed to draw the youth from his obscurity, place him in the army, and so raise him gradually from honour to honour; then fancy placed a laurel crown upon his temples, and led him, covered with glory and victory, to her throne, which she most willingly shared with him. At another time she gave a different turn to the romance: she fitted him out as a knight-errant, to seek adventure, introduced him at her court, where his bravery, his stateliness, and gallantry won for him every heart. But when cool reflection again resumed its sway over her senses, the figures of the magic lanthorn waned before the bright rays of wisdom, and the beautiful dream was gone. She considered what a hazardous enterprise such an undertaking would be, and what misfortunes would arise for the country and the people, when envy and jealousy should make her grandees revolt ​against her, and general discord be the signal for murder and rebellion. Therefore she hid carefully the desires of her heart, so that the eyes of the prying should perceive nothing. But now, since the people longed for a prince, the case had taken a different turn, and it was only required to reconcile her wishes with the desire of the nation. She fortified her courage with a manly energy, and on the dawn of the third day she put on her jewels, and placed a chaste crown of myrtle upon her head. Surrounded by the whole suite of her maids of honour, who were all adorned with garlands, she mounted the ducal throne, full of spirit and easy dignity.
The assembly of the knights and vassals was wrapt in silence, to hear the name of the happy prince with whom she had decided to share her throne.
“Ye nobles of my country,” she spoke; “the decision of fate still remains untouched in the urn of secrecy; ye are still free, like my coursers which are grazing in the meadows, before they are tamed by bridle and bit, and their slim back is oppressed by the burden of a saddle and a rider. It is now your turn to tell me, if during the time which you have given me for the choice ​of a husband, your arduous desire to see a prince reigning over you has not changed, and you have not thought better of it, and wish now to give the subject more mature consideration, or if you still remain unchanged in your determination.”
She was silent for a moment; but the noise and bustle, as well as the gestures of the senators, did not long leave her in doubt, and the speaker affirmed her conclusion, that the choice of a duke was firmly decided upon.”
“Let it then be so,” she said; “the die is cast. I am not responsible for the result. The gods have chosen a prince for Bohemia, who will hold the sceptre with wisdom and justice. The young cedar does not as yet surpass the proud oak trees in size; he grows unobserved among the trees of the forest, surrounded by vile shrubs; but soon will he extend his branches, to give shadow to the roots, and his top will tower into the clouds. Ye nobles of the land, choose twelve honest men from amongst you, that they may go and look for the prince, and bring him to the throne. My favourite horse shall show the way; it shall trot before you free and unencumbered; and, as a sign that you have found the man of whom you are in search, you must ​remark that the person whom the gods have chosen for your prince will, at the time when you approach him, be taking his meat upon an iron table, in the open air, and in the shadow of a solitary tree. To him you must do homage, and invest him with the insignia of princely dignity.”
She thereupon dismissed the assembly with a serene countenance, though a little abashed, as brides generally are when they expect the bridegroom. Her speech astonished every one; and the prophetic spirit which appeared in it produced a sensation similar to that of an oracle, to which people give a blind belief, and only thinkers comment upon.
The deputies were chosen; the noble courser was ready, bridled and adorned with eastern splendour, as if it were destined to carry the sultan to the mosque. The cavalcade moved on, amid the loud acclamations of a great concourse of people, and the white horse trotted proudly ahead. But the train was soon lost sight of, and the spectators saw nothing but a cloud of dust in the distance; for the fiery horse, as soon as it came into the country, took a better speed, and began to run as if it were an English racer, so that the company of the deputies had ​all the trouble in the world to follow. Although the swift courser seemed to be abandoned to itself, an invisible power still guided the reins and spurred its sides. Miss Libussa, thanks to the magic power which she had inherited from her mother, had so well trained the horse, that it did not go out of the road either to the right or to the left, but hastened straight to its destination; and she waited with tender expectation for the chosen one to come, as everything seemed to incline to the fulfilment of her wishes.
The envoys in the meantime had a hard course to run. They had already proceeded a great number of miles, over hill and dale; they had passed the river Moldau, swimming; and, as their stomachs put them in mind of their dinners, they also recellected the wondrous table upon which their new prince, according to the words of Libussa, would be taking his meal. They made all sorts of comment upon it, and one forward knight said to his companions, “I believe our lady the duchess means to make April fools of us; for who ever heard of a man in Bohemia who dines upon an iron table? What is the bet, that our hasty travelling will only bring down upon us ridicule and shame?” But another, who had more sense, thought that the iron table might have an em​blematical meaning. Thus, they might meet a knight-errant reposing under a tree in the field, and making a frugal meal upon his shield. A third said, jocosely, “I fear our way leads us straight down into the workshops of the Cyclopes, and we shall have to bring up the lame Vulcan, or one of his associates, who dines upon an iron anvil, to our Venus.”
In the midst of their discourse they saw their leader, the white horse, who was considerably in advance, take his way across a new-ploughed field, and stop, to their great astonishment, before a ploughman. They approached in great haste, and found a husbandman sitting upon a turned-up plough, and taking his meal, consisting of black bread, from the iron plough-share, in the shadow of a wild pear-tree. He seemed to be pleased with the beautiful horse, coaxed it, and offered it bread, which it took from his hand, and ate.
The embassy was greatly astonished at the apparition. None of them, however, doubted but that they had found the right man. They approached him respectfully; the eldest amongst them began to speak, and said, “The duchess of Bohemia has sent us, and orders that, according to the decision of the gods, thou shalt change thy plough for the throne, and thy driving-stick ​for the sceptre. She chooses thee for her consort, to govern, together with her, Bohemia.
The young peasant thought they wanted to joke with him, which he did not relish at all, and still less because he thought they had guessed his secret love, and now came to laugh at him. Therefore he answered angrily, to repel scorn with scorn: “Let us consider if your duchy is worth being exchanged for the plough? If the prince cannot eat more, drink more, or sleep better than the peasant, then it is certainly not worth while to exchange this field for the country of Bohemia, and this polished driving-stick for the sceptre. Tell me, is a little salt-cellar not sufficient to season my morsel; or will it taste better if I take it out of a bushel?”
Thereupon one of the twelve answered, “The light-shunning mole digs under the earth to find worms, which he lives upon, for he has not eyes that can endure the light of day, nor has he feet to be able to run like the fleet doe; the crawfish creeps about in the slime of rivers and seas, likes best to reside under the roots of trees and bushes that grow on the river’s banks, for he has no fins to swim; and the domestic birds dare not fly over the clay wall that surrounds them, for they are too faint-hearted to rely upon their ​wings, as do the daring birds of prey. If thou hast got eyes to see, feet to walk, fins to swim, and wings to fly, thou wilt not turn the earth like a mole, or hide in the mire like a craw-fish, or, like the prince of the domestic birds, only crawl upon the dunghill; but thou wilt go forth into the light of day, and run, swim, or fly toward the skies, according to the gifts which Nature has bestowed upon thee. For an active man is not satisfied with what he is, but tries to become all he can be. Therefore try to be what the gods ask of thee, and then thou wilt be able to judge if the country of Bohemia is worthy, or not, to be exchanged for an acre of land.”
This serious speech of the deputy, in which there was no mockery to be perceived, and the sight of the insignia of princely dignity—the purple, the sceptre, and the golden sword—which the deputies showed him as a proof of their mission, overcame at last the distrust of the doubting ploughman. His mind became at once enlightened; the charming thought awoke within him, that Miss Libussa had guessed the sentiments of his heart, that she had by means of her secret power seen his fidelity and constancy, and that she wanted to reward him in a way he had not dared to dream of. He now remembered the gift ​of divination which she had promised him, and thought that the moment of its fulfilment was come. Promptly seizing his hazel stick, he pushed it deep into the ground, put some loose earth around it in the same way as a tree is planted, and lo! the stick began to bud, the buds to sprout, and the branches to be covered with leaves and flowers. Two of the growing branches, however, decayed, and their withered leaves became the sport of the winds; but the third branch grew stronger, and its fruits ripened. Now the prophetic spirit came upon the enraptured ploughman, and he spoke: “Ye deputies of the princess Libussa and of the people of Bohemia, listen to the words of Primislas, the son of the honourable knight Mnatha, who, under the spirit of prophecy, sees through the mist of futurity. The man who governed the plough has been called upon by you to take into his hands the government of the country before he was able to finish his day’s work. Alas! if the plough had been allowed to plough up the field all around to the mere stone, Bohemia would have remained an independent country to the end of time. But now that you have disturbed too soon the work of the plougher, the soil of your country will fall to the inheritance of a neigh​bouring power, and become an integral part of another empire. The three branches of the growing stick announce to your princess three sons; two of whom will die before their maturity, but the third will inherit the throne, and through him a numerous posterity is promised, till the eagle shall come flying over the mountains, and go and come again as to his own home. When then the son of the god shall appear who is the friend of the ploughman, and deliver him from the chains of serfdom, posterity will bless its destiny. For when he shall have destroyed the dragon of superstition, he will extend his arm towards the distant moon, to tear it from the clouds to enlighten the world, a beneficent star.
The honourable deputation stood in silent admiration, and stared at the prophetic man as upon a strange idol. They felt as if a god had spoken to them. He, however, turned away from the deputies to the companions of his toil, the two white bulls; which he unharnessed, dismissed henceforth from their task, and gave them their liberty; whereupon they sprang joyfully about in the grassy meadow, but soon began sensibly to waste away, till, melting into a light mist, they disappeared from the sight.
Primislas, after this, put away his wooden ​shoes, and went to the neighbouring stream to wash himself. He then dressed himself in the splendid dress which they had brought him; and having girded on the knightly sword, and put on the golden spurs, he mounted courageously the white courser, which allowed itself to be quietly guided.
When on the point of leaving his home for ever, he ordered the deputies to carry his wooden shoes, after him, and to preserve them as an historic token that at one time the lowest of the people had been elevated to the highest dignity in Bohemia, that he and his descendants might not be forgetful of their origin, but might honour and protect the peasantry, as the caste to which they once belonged. After that time it was a custom with the kings of Bohemia to have on the coronation day a pair of wooden shoes placed before them; and this custom was observed till the male line of Primislas became extinct.
The hazel-stick which Primislas had planted grew and bore fruit, and its roots spread around, till at last the whole field belonging to Primislas was changed into a hazel forest, greatly to the advantage of the neighbouring village; for its inhabitants obtained from the Bohemian kings a freehold patent, exempting them from all tax​ation, with the exception of a tribute of a pint of filberts; which privilege they enjoyed till very lately.
Although the glorious horse, which carried the bridegroom to his mistress, was proceeding with the swiftness of the wind, Primislas still spurred it sometimes on, so ardent was his desire to see again Libussa, whose form had been seven years since imprinted on his memory. He only thought of the myrtle-crown, which in the estimation of lovers far surpasses a royal one; and if grandeur and love had been placed in opposite scales, Miss Libussa would have far outweighed the Bohemian empire, which would have been thrown high up, like a light gold piece in the balance of a money-changer.
The sun was nearly setting when the new prince made his triumphal entry in Vizigrade. Libussa was in her garden, gathering plums into a basket, when the arrival of her spouse was announced to her. She met him bashfully, surrounded by all the young ladies of her court; received him as a bridegroom sent to her by the gods; and concealed the choice of her heart under a seeming resignation to the will of the invisible powers.
The eyes of every one at court were directed ​upon the new-comer, but they only saw in him a handsome and well-proportioned man. Several of the courtiers, comparing themselves with him as to his exterior, could not understand why the gods had disdained the anti-chamber, and not rather chosen one of them for a consort to the young princess instead of the sun-burnt ploughman. It was also easy to be seen, that Prince Wladomir and the knight Mizislas were very loath to renounce their pretensions. The young lady, therefore, was anxious to vindicate the choice of the gods, and to make it publicly known that squire Primislas, if wanting in the advantage of high birth, had at least been provided with an equivalent by mother Nature in the shape of common sense and wit. She prepared a splendid banquet, which was not at all inferior to that given by the hospitable Queen Dido to the pious Æneas. When the glass had for some time assiduously circulated from mouth to mouth, exciting serenity and joy, and part of the night had been already passed in sport and merriment, Libussa proposed to play at riddles; and as the guessing of hidden things was her peculiar province, she readily solved the riddles propounded, to the great satisfaction of all present.
When her turn to propose a riddle came, she ​called Prince Wladomir, the knight Mizislas, and squire Primislas, to her, and said—
“Ye brave companions, prepare yourselves to solve a riddle of mine, that I may see which of you is the cleverest and wisest. I have designed for each of you a present from this little basket, which contains plums which I have gathered in my garden. One of you shall have half of them and one over; another shall have half of the remainder and one over; and the third shall have half of those still remaining and three over. As this will make the basket empty, now tell me how many plums there are at present in the basket.
The hasty knight Mizislas measured the fruit-basket with his eyes, instead of considering the meaning of the problem with his intellect, and said, “I do not mind to solve anything that can be solved by the sword; but thy riddles, gracious princess, are too finely woven for me. I will however, to satisfy thy request, try my luck in guessing. I think that three-score of plums well-packed and counted are in that basket.”
“Thou hast made a mistake, my dear knight,” answered the princess. “For if you add as many more to them as there are in the basket, besides half as many and one third of the ​number, and add five to them, then there will be as many above three-score as there are now wanting to complete that number.”
Prince Wladomir calculated for a long time, and very laboriously, as if upon the solution of the riddle his appointment to the place of superintendent-general of the finances had depended, and at last hit upon the number 45 as the result of his mental operation.
But the princess said, “If there were half as many again in it as there are, besides a third part and a sixth part, there would be as many over forty-five as there are now below that number.”
Although every student of mathematics who is anything of an arithmetician could have solved this problem with the greatest ease, yet for a bad calculator the power of divination is absolutely required, if he has to pass honourably through his trial. As the wise Primislas happily did possess the gift of divination, he found without any trouble the solution of the problem. “Thou trusty companion of the heavenly powers,” he said, “he that undertakes to espy thy high-flown and divine mind, resembles him that tries to follow the eagle in his flight when he hides among the clouds. I shall, however, follow ​thy hidden flight as far as the eye can reach to which thou hast granted a clearer sight. I guess that thou hast hidden in thy basket the number of thirty plums, not one more nor one less.”
The princess looked kindly at him, and said, “Thou espiest the glimmering spark that is hidden in the ashes; to thee light breaks forth through mist and darkness. Thou hast rightly solved my riddle.”
Thereupon she opened her basket, and counted upon the hand of Prince Wladomir 15 plums and one over, and there remained still 14; of which she gave 7 to the knight Mizislas and one over, and there remained yet 6 in the basket; of which she gave half to the wise Primislas, and then added the three remaining, and the basket was empty.
The whole court was astonished at the arithmetical wisdom of Libussa, and the acuteness of her spouse. None could understand how human wit could on the one part hide a common number under such enigmatical words, and on the other find that number with such certainty out of its artificial secrecy. The empty basket Libussa gave to the two knights who could not obtain her favour, as a token of unrequited love. Thence ​arose the habit of saying, when speaking of a rejected suitor, “he has got the basket from his lady love,”—a phrase still in use throughout Germany.
When everything was ready for the marriage and installation, both ceremonies were performed with great pomp. The people of Bohemia had now a duke, and Libussa a husband, according to the wishes of their hearts; and what was rather surprising in the case was, its being the result of chicanery, which is not always the best mediator. If, however, one of the two parties was deceived, it certainly was not the wise Libussa, but rather the people; which indeed is generally the case.
The Bohemian empire had now a duke in name; but the government was, as before, in a female hand. Primislas was indeed a true sample of an obedient and submissive husband, who neither disputed the domestic authority nor the public policy with his duchess. His views and wishes sympathized as completely with her’s as two well-tuned strings, one of which though untouched echoes spontaneously the sound emitted by the other. Neither did Libussa possess the proud and vain mind of certain ladies, who, considering themselves as acquisitions, and believ​ing that they have made the fortune of the poor fellow whom they honour with their precious self, recall to him in after times with insolence his wooden shoes. On the contrary, she imitated the famous Palmyrean queen Zenobia,, who led her good-natured Odinat solely by the superiority of her talents.
The happy pair lived in the enjoyment of unchanging love, as was the custom at that time, when the links that united hearts were as strong and lasting as the cement and mortar which made the walls of the ancient world so indestructible. Duke Primislas soon became one of the most gallant knights of the age, and the Bohemian court the most splendid in Germany. Insensibly many knights and noblemen came from all parts of the empire, with their followers, to the residence, which soon became too small for the inhabitants. Therefore Libussa sent for her administrators, and ordered them to build a town where they would find at noon a man making the wisest use of his teeth. They went and found, at the indicated time, a man who was hard at work in cutting a block of wood in two. They judged that this industrious man, who made a far better use of the teeth of the saw at noon-time than the parasite makes of his at the tables of the great, was ​the one whom the princess designated. Therefore they drew a line around the field with the plough, to indicate the compass of the town wall. The workman, when asked what he intended to make out of the wood which he had sawn in two, answered, “Prach,” which means in the Bohemian language a door-sill. Libussa, therefore, called the new town Prach, that is Prague, the well-known metropolis of Bohemia, situated on the river Moldavia.
In after days the prediction of Primislas became punctually verified. His consort became mother of three princes, of which two died at a tender age; the third, however, grew up, and became the ancestor of a glorious line of kings, which flourished for centuries upon the Bohemian throne.
NOTES.
BY THE TRANSLATOR.
Note 1. Page 1.
↑ The Bohemian forest.] In the time of Czech and Krokus, about the year 550 of the Christian æra, the whole of the country now called Bohemia was nearly one vast forest, which by the ancient Romans was called the Hercynian Forest, and was 150 miles in depth. According to Cæsar, the Boii inhabited that forest (see Comm. lib. vi., c. 24), whence the name of Boiimians, afterwards Bohemians. The Boii seem to have settled in that country in the year 590 before Christ. They afterwards migrated to Bavaria, which country was called after them Boiaria, now Bavaria.
In the first century after Christ, the Marcomanes inhabited Bohemia, and Marbod was their king. They were incessantly involved in wars with the Romans. When, in the year 476, the Roman empire became the prey of the Legres, the Rugieres, and the Herulæans, the Marcomanes disappeared from Bohemia, and the Thuringians and Franks took their place, till the sixth century, when the Sclavonian race extended itself into Bohemia.
Note 2. Page 1.
↑ Dryads and Elves.] Dryads, or, more properly, Hamadryads, in heathen mythology, were a sort of deities or nymphs which the ancients thought inhabited groves and woods. The Hamadryads were attached to some particular tree, with which they were born, and with which they died, whereas the Dryads were goddesses of woods and trees in general.
Elves were yet common in the middle ages, and were considered a sort of wandering spirits, to be seen only at moonlight in wild and unfrequented places.
“If e’er one vision touch’d thy infant thought, Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught, Of airy Elves by moonlight shadow seen, The silver token, and the circled green.”
Note 3. Page 1.
↑ Duke Czech.] According to Sclavonian history, Czech and Lech were two brothers, belonging to a powerful princely family, which lived in the south of Hungary, where now the kingdoms of Sclavonia and Croatia (belonging to the Austrian empire) are situated. Czech, having killed another powerful prince of the country, was obliged to seek safety from revenge in flight. Thus he left his country, accompanied by his brother Lech and several thousand of their followers, who, according to the custom of those times, were accompanied by their families, so that they formed a whole wandering nation, similar to that of the Jews when leaving Egypt. Thus they came, after traversing Hungary, into Moravia. Finding the ​country occupied, and having been told by the Moravians that beyond the neighbouring mountains there was a country pleasant and fertile, and lately abandoned by its inhabitants (the Marcomanes), they crossed the mountains, and took possession of it. Thus Czech became the prince of a new country, in which but few of the old inhabitants had remained, but where there was a great abundance of cattle, horses, and game. The brother Lech, not willing to be a subject, took his followers to look for another country, where he also might settle as an independent prince. He crossed the northern mountains, and entered Poland, which country he found very thinly populated, and where he had no difficulty in establishing himself as the reigning prince. Thus the two brothers became founders of two new empires, which for a considerable time played a conspicuous rôle in history. Till now, in the Sclavonian languages, the Bohemians are called Czechs, and the Poles, Lechs, or Lachi.
Note 4. Page 2.
↑ The Erl-King.] One of the chiefs of the German forest ghosts, said to be very inimical to children. Every one knows the splendid ballad of Goëthe, entitled “The Erl-King.
Note 5. Page 2.
↑ Krokus was the second duke of Bohemia, when inhabited by the Sclavonians. He was chosen duke some time after the death of Czech. He reigned with great wisdom over Bohemia; and before ascending the Bohe​mian throne, was called into Poland, where he arranged the difficulties which existed among the successors of Lech. He is also considered as the founder of the town of Krakau.
Note 6. Page 6.
↑ The sons of Æsculapius.] Medical practitioners, in Germany, are often so called, from Æsculapius, the god of medicine.
Note 7. Page 12.
↑ The never-missing sieve.] Among the gypsies and some of the Sclavonian tribes, the sorcerers, or wise men, used to find out the culprit by bowling a sieve, which hit the guilty.
Note 8. Page 12.
↑ St. Martin, of Schierbach.] A saint who used to cure people by placing them so as to let his shadow fall upon them, by which act alone they fully recovered, as the story goes.
Note 9. Page 12.
↑ Apollo’s tripod.] Meaning the oracle of Delphi, where the priestess, or seer, sat upon a tripod.
Note 10. Page 17.
↑ Word-catchers.] A term used, in German, to signify flatterers, who look out for every word, to bestow praise upon the person whom they adulate.
Note 11. Page 17.
↑ Celadons.] Lovers who sigh in vain.
Note 12. Page 17.
↑ Miss Bela.] The eldest of the daughters of Krokus; of whom the historian Dubravius says, “Bela, natu filiarum maxima, herbis incantandis Medeam imitabatur.”
Note 13. Page 17.
↑ Medea.] In mythology, the daughter of Aetes, king of Colchis. She married Jason, who came to Colchis in quest of the golden fleece. She knew the hidden qualities of herbs and poisonous plants.
Note 14. Page 18.
↑ Zihim and Ohim.] See Isaiah, c. xiii., v. 19, 20, 21.
Note 15. Page 18.
↑ Miss Therba.] The second daughter of Krokus, of whom Dubravius says, “Terba, sive Teleba, carminibus magicis circumreddebat.” Of both together he said, “Frequens multitudinis concursus fieri, dum alii eorum formam sibi et amoris consiliare, alii cum bonâ valetudine in gratiam redire, alii res amissas recuperare cupiunt. Quâ arte ita Belam exceluisse ferunt, ut proverbii vice, in re inventâ prorsus difficili jactaretur: Ne Belam quidem reperire posse quod sit perditum. Hæc arcem Belinam, illa altera arcem Thetin, ex mercenariâ pecuniâ (nihil enim gratuite faciebant) ædificandam curavit.”
Note 16. Page 18.
↑ Circe.] Daughter of Sol and Perseis, and aunt of Medea, being the sister of king Actes, of Colchis. She was famous for her knowledge of magic. Ulysses stopped a year with her in the island Æaca.
Note 17. Page 19.
↑ Libussa.] The third daughter of Krokus. She was elected Duchess of Bohemia after the death of Krokus, but was afterwards compelled by the Bohemian States to choose a husband. She chose Primislas, an unknown person. They reigned very happily, and gave to Bohemia a long line of sovereigns. Dubravius says of her, “Liberalior in hâc re Libussa natû minima apparuit, utque a nemine quidquam extorquebat, at potius fata publica omnibus quam privata singulis præcinebat; quâ liberalitate, et qui non gratuitâ solum, sed etiam minus fallaci prædictione utebatur, assecuta est, ut a viris comitia prætoria habentibus in locum patris Crocci subrogaretur.”
Note 19. Page 29.
↑ Krakau.] Formerly the capital of Poland; from 1815 to 1847 a republic, which, although guaranteed by the treaty of Vienna as an independent country, was incorporated with Austria in 1847, as Poland was to Russia.
Note 20. Page 31.
↑ The elective field.] Among the Sclavonian races, the elections always took place in a field destined for the purpose.
Note 21. Page 47.
↑ Nimrod.] The sixth son of Cush, “a mighty hunter before the Lord.” The beginning of his kingdom was Babel and Erech and Arcad and Calnech, in the land of Shinar.
Note 22. Page 47.
↑ The Serbes, or Servians, the inhabitants of Servia, now belonging to European Turkey.
Note 23. Page 47.
↑ Achilles the butterfly.] A diurnal butterfly, from a yellow caterpillar, which lives upon the cujava tree.
Note 24. Page 69.
↑ Till the eagle, &c.] The Austrian eagle has since verified the prediction; which prediction is to be found in all the ancient Bohemian historians.
Note 25. Page 71.
↑ This privilege was only taken from them by Prince Metternich.
Note 26. Page 76.
↑ In Germany they invariably, when speaking of a rejected lover, use the phrase, Er hat den Korb bekommen, “he has got the basket.”
Note 27. Page 77.
↑ Zenobia, queen of Palmyra, said to be descended from Ptolemus and Cleopatras. She was a pupil of the famous Longinus; spoke Latin, Egyptian, and Greek. She wrote an epitome of the history of Egypt; was, besides, admired for her beauty, chastity, sobriety, and extraordinary courage. She married Odenatus, a Saracen prince, who was much devoted to her. She was besieged in Palmyra by the Emperor Aurelius in 172; which town, after a most desperate resistance, was finally taken. In her latter days she lived in a villa near Rome.