Book 2 — CHAPTER III.

Have you ever, dear reader, journeyed in the hot sun-shine, your brain literally broiling in the heat, and the dust driving, like a sleet-storm, into your face, filling your eyes, ears and throat with minute particles, which irritated you almost to phrenzy—and, when almost ready to drop down dead with fatigue, thirst and despair, suddenly seen, upon turning an abrupt angle in the path, a fair smiling woodland lawn stretching before you, and a cool, limpid stream of water gushing out from among the flowers, and a whole orchard of birds singing gaily in the branches? So, after the dusty and perplexing toils of life, return we to Undine and her strange fortunes.

Ah, she was a guilty thing—that beautiful and fairy girl! for what right had she to sacrifice her celestial nature, and become a mere thing of earth for worms to feed upon, just for a few mortal kisses? True, true—but those kisses! oh, what rapture lies hidden in the spell of that hour when the divine soul, with its cold immaculate brightness, yields to the warmer thrillings of terrestrial love, and melts away in ecstasy beneath the glance of passion-lighted eyes—the pressure of warm sweet lips! Immortals live in a bright round of perpetual purity and lustre. No o’erwrought heaving of the breast—no momentary thrilling of agonising bliss—no melting climax of joy, concentrating in its burning focus a whole life of hope and aspiration—repays the weary soul for all her watchings. Undine had drunk of the intoxicating draught till her lips grew to the goblet.

Ah, who can blame her? Who has not tasted moments of earthly bliss so intense that were immortality’s brightest visions spread palpably before him, he would spurn them all?

Soon after the knight left the little island, our good old hermit, upon going to Undine’s apartment, as was his wont, saw her not. He searched every where—the garden, the river bank, the thicket which surrounded his little plantation, were all examined in vain. She had fled away upon the wings of love, and, panting with toil and exhaustion, came at last to her knight’s castle, and ran like lightning through the court. What saw she? Lights were glancing in every niche,—loud and boisterous noises of merriment and gaiety echoed through the passages—and, bracing her little heart with the strength of despair, Undine rushed wildly to the great saloon, and saw the knight—her own beloved—him for whose love Heaven and its joys she had lightly thrown away—leading the pretty blue-eyed German girl to the altar. The white-robed priest was there—and, as he completed the ceremony, he raised his unconscious hands and blessed them in the name of the virgin. And the harp and tambour struck up their wild music—and away fled the bride and bride-groom with the joyous throng of revellers to the dance.

Undine was not yet all a woman. Revenge, as it were the dying spark of her immortal nature, burst brightly up in her bosom; and, rushing wildly out into the forest, she fell upon her knees and cried vehemently for her mother. She was at her side, and gazing wistfully and fondly upon her, ere the echoes had ceased whispering in the woods.

“Execute me this first and only prayer, dear, dear mother!” said Undine—“and forever I release you from the charge of your most miserable child!”

“What would you, sweet?”

“Strike him dead!—aye! but wait——” and her eyes flashed and her whole form seemed convulsed with demoniac passion—“wait till he enfolds her to his heart, as he has done me so often—and kisses her—hell and furies! as he has kissed me so many thousand times—then strike him, mother—let him wither in her arms, like a dead viper, until they shall both sink in base, earthly corruption together. Mother! mother! grant me this, as you love your child!”

On went the marriage feast—and never had Rhine’s blue waters wafted gayer notes or wilder revelry than echoed from the old baronial castle, where our young knight was immolating the beauteous dove that had nestled in his bosom on the altar of worldly pride and miscalled duty.

But when the feast was over, and the bride was led blushing to her chamber, a strange thrill shot through the bosom of the knight as he was about to follow, and he almost staggered into the room. The bride, frightened at his convulsive motions, ran and put her naked arms about him, and he unconsciously leaned his head upon her bosom—when suddenly a terrific burst of thunder shook the castle to its foundation, and the face of the knight became livid and distorted—and, even as Undine had prayed, he withered away ghastily in his bride’s arms, and they both fell shrieking to the earth.

The morning sun rose clear and beautiful over the old ivy crowned castle—but there were mourning and tears beneath that venerable roof; and when the sun slanted across the sighing forest tops at evening, they bore the young and noble knight to his peaceful home, and laid him to rest among the flowers of the green valley—and when all had departed with sorrowful footsteps from the spot, and the stealthy moon came with her bright limbs scantily clad in gauzy clouds, to meet her lover on the hill, she looked upon the celestial form of Undine, bending in sorrow and repentance o’er her lover’s grave—and the dew and the star-light mingling together, dissolved her frail and beautiful outline, until it mixed with the invisible odors that played above the flowers—and the next day there was bubbling a bright spring at the knight’s head, the waters of which, diverging into two graceful channels, clasped like loving arms the form of him Undine so fatally had loved.

And now, thou beautiful spirit, farewell forever! In thy companionship have we found solace from the weight of mortality’s burthen—and while sympathising with thy unhappy and yet blissful fate, have learned to feel that to preserve an immortal nature, it is necessary to forget that we have mortal passions.