University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.
HEIDELBERG AND THE BARON.

High and hoar on the forehead of the Jettenbühl
stands the Castle of Heidelberg. Behind it
rise the oak-crested hills of the Geissberg and the
Kaiserstuhl; and in front, from the broad terrace
of masonry, you can almost throw a stone upon
the roofs of the city, so close do they lie beneath.
Above this terrace rises the broad front of the
chapel of Saint Udalrich. On the left, stands the
slender octagon tower of the horologe, and, on the
right, a huge round tower, battered and shattered
by the mace of war, shores up with its broad
shoulders the beautiful palace and garden-terrace
of Elisabeth, wife of the Pfalzgraf Frederick. In
the rear are older palaces and towers, forming a
vast, irregular quadrangle;—Rodolph's ancient

castle, with its Gothic gloriette and fantastic gables;
the Giant's Tower, guarding the drawbridge
over the moat; the Rent Tower, with the linden-trees
growing on its summit, and the magnificent
Rittersaal of Otho-Henry, Count Palatine of the
Rhine and grand seneschal of the Holy Roman
Empire. From the gardens behind the castle, you
pass under the archway of the Giant's Tower
into the great court-yard. The diverse architecture
of different ages strikes the eye; and curious
sculptures. In niches on the wall of Saint Udalrich's
chapel stand rows of knights in armour, all
broken and dismembered; and on the front of
Otho's Rittersaal, the heroes of Jewish history
and classic fable. You enter the open and desolate
chambers of the ruin; and on every side are
medallions and family arms; the Globe of the
Empire and the Golden Fleece, or the Eagle of
the Cæsars, resting on the escutcheons of Bavaria
and the Palatinate. Over the windows and door-ways
and chimney-pieces, are sculptures and
mouldings of exquisite workmanship; and the eye
is bewildered by the profusion of caryatides, and
arabesques, and rosettes, and fan-like flutings, and
garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns, and bullocks'-heads
with draperies of foliage, and muzzles
of lions, holding rings in their teeth. The cunning
hand of Art was busy for six centuries, in raising
and adorning these walls; the mailed hands of Time
and War have defaced and overthrown them in
less than two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada,
the Castle of Heidelberg is the most magnificent
ruin of the Middle Ages.

In the valley below flows the rushing stream of
the Neckar. Close from its margin, on the opposite
side, rises the Mountain of All Saints, crowned
with the ruins of a convent; and up the valley
stretches the mountain-curtain of the Odenwald.
So close and many are the hills, which eastward
shut the valley in, that the river seems a lake.
But westward it opens, upon the broad plain of
the Rhine, like the mouth of a trumpet; and like
the blast of a trumpet is at times the wintry wind
through this narrow mountain pass. The blue

Alsatian hills rise beyond; and, on a platform or
strip of level land, between the Neckar and the
mountains, right under the castle, stands the city of
Heidelberg; as the old song says, “a pleasant
city, when it has done raining.”

Something of this did Paul Flemming behold,
when he rose the next morning and looked from
his window. It was a warm, vapory morning, and
a struggle was going on between the mist and the
rising sun. The sun had taken the hill-tops, but
the mist still kept possession of the valley and the
town. The steeple of the great church rose
through a dense mass of snow-white clouds; and
eastward, on the hills, the dim vapors were rolling
across the windows of the ruined castle, like the
fiery smoke of a great conflagration. It seemed
to him an image of the rising of the sun of Truth
on a benighted world; its light streamed through
the ruins of centuries; and, down in the valley of
Time, the cross on the Christian church caught its
rays, though the priests were singing in mist and
darkness below.

In the warm breakfast-parlour he found the
Baron, waiting for him. He was lying upon a
sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet slippers,
both with flowers upon them. He had a guitar in
his hand, and a pipe in his mouth, at the same
time smoking, playing, and humming his favorite
song from Goethe;

Flemming could hardly refrain from laughing at
the sight of his friend; and told him it reminded
him of a street-musician he once saw in Aix-la-Chapelle,
who was playing upon six instruments
at once; having a helmet with bells on his head,
a Pan's-reed in his cravat, a fiddle in his hand, a
triangle on his knee, cymbals on his heels, and
on his back a bass-drum, which he played with his
elbows. To tell the truth, the Baron of Hohenfels
was rather a miscellaneous youth, rather a universal
genius. He pursued all things with eagerness,
but for a short time only; music, poetry, painting,
pleasure, even the study of the Pandects. His

feelings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life.
His great defect was, that he was too much in love
with human nature. But by the power of imagination,
in him, the bearded goat was changed to a
bright Capricornus:—no longer an animal on
earth, but a constellation in heaven. An easy and
indolent disposition made him gentle and childlike
in his manners; and, in short, the beauty of his
character, like that of the precious opal, was owing
to a defect in its organization. His person was tall
and slightly built; his hair light; and his eyes
blue, and as beautiful as those of a girl. In the
tones of his voice, there was something indescribably
gentle and winning; and he spoke the German
language, with the soft, musical accent of his native
province of Curland. In his manners, if he
had not `Antinous' easy sway,' he had at least
an easy sway of his own. Such, in few words,
was the bosom friend of Flemming.

“And what do you think of Heidelberg and the
old castle up there?” said he, as they seated
themselves at the breakfast-table.

“Last night the town seemed very long to me,”
replied Flemming; “and as to the castle, I have
as yet had but a glimpse of it through the mist.
They tell me there is nothing finer in its way, excepting
the Alhambra of Granada; and no doubt I
shall find it so. Only I wish the stone were gray
and not red. But, red or gray, I foresee that I
shall waste many a long hour in its desolate halls.
Pray, does anybody live up there now-a-days?”

“Nobody,” answered the Baron, “but the man,
who shows the Heidelberg Ton, and Monsieur
Charles de Grainberg, a Frenchman, who has
been there sketching ever since the year eighteen-hundred
and ten. He has, moreover, written a
super-magnificent description of the ruin, in which
he says, that during the day only birds of prey
disturb it with their piercing cries, and at night,
screech-owls, and other fallow deer. These are
his own words. You must buy his book and his
sketches.”

“Yes, the quotation and the tone of your voice
will certainly persuade me so to do.”

“Take his or none, my friend, for you will find
no others. And seriously, his sketches are very
good. There is one on the wall there, which is
beautiful, save and except that straddle-bug figure
among the bushes in the corner.”

“But is there no ghost, no haunted chamber in
the old castle?” asked Flemming, after casting a
hasty glance at the picture.

“Oh, certainly,” replied the Baron; “there
are two. There is the ghost of the Virgin Mary
in Ruprecht's Tower, and the Devil in the Dungeon.”

“Ha! that is grand!” exclaimed Flemming,
with evident delight. “Tell me the whole story,
quickly! I am as curious as a child.”

“It is a tale of the times of Louis the Debonnaire,”
said the Baron, with a smile; “a mouldy
tradition of a credulous age. His brother Frederick
lived here in the castle with him, and had a
flirtation with Leonore von Luzelstein, a lady of
the court, whom he afterwards despised, and was
consequently most cordially hated by her. From

political motives he was equally hateful to certain
petty German tyrants, who, in order to effect his
ruin, accused him of heresy. But his brother
Louis would not deliver him up to their fury, and
they resolved to effect by stratagem, what they
could not by intrigue. Accordingly, Leonore
von Luzelstein, disguised as the Virgin Mary,
and the father confessor of the Elector, in the costume
of Satan, made their appearance in the Elector's
bed-chamber at midnight, and frightened
him so horribly, that he consented to deliver
up his brother into the hands of two Black
Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors from
the Vehm-Gericht. They proceeded together to
Frederick's chamber; where luckily old Gemmingen,
a brave soldier, kept guard behind the arras.
The monk went foremost in his Satanic garb; but,
no sooner had he set foot in the prince's bed-chamber,
than the brave Gemmingen drew his
sword, and said quaintly, `Die, wretch!' and
so he died. The rest took to their heels, and
were heard of no more. And now the souls of
Leonore and the monk haunt the scene of their
midnight crime. You will find the story in Grainberg's
book, worked up with a kind of red-morocco
and burnt-cork sublimity, and great melo-dramatic
clanking of chains, and hooting of owls, and other
fallow deer!”

“After breakfast,” said Flemming, “we will go
up to the castle. I must get acquainted with this
mirror of owls, this modern Till Eulenspiegel.
See what a glorious morning we have! It is truly
a wondrous winter! what summer sunshine; what
soft Venetian fogs! How the wanton, treacherous
air coquets with the old gray-beard trees! Such
weather makes the grass and our beards grow
apace! But we have an old saying in English,
that winter never rots in the sky. So he will come
down at last in his old-fashioned, mealy coat. We
shall have snow in spring; and the blossoms will
be all snow-flakes. And afterwards a summer,
which will be no summer, but, as Jean Paul says,
only a winter painted green. Is it not so?”

“Unless I am much deceived in the climate of

Heidelberg,” replied the Baron, “we shall not
have to wait long for snow. We have sudden
changes here, and I should not marvel much if it
snowed before night.”

“The greater reason for making good use of the
morning sunshine, then. Let us hasten to the
castle, after which my heart yearns.”