LEGENDS OF RUBEZAHL.
Rubezahl belongs to that class of demons to whom fancy has assigned the forests and solitary places as a fit abode. He is, however, distinguished from all the other members of the family by certain very peculiar traits; those spirits who haunt Shakspeare’s lonely forests, in the twilight of the world of dreams—in the Midsummer’s Night’s Dream for example, and As you like it—are little, spiritful fays, who indulge in every species of gleesome revelry,—but Rubezahl, the lord of the mountain, delights to exhibit himself in gigantic forms, the sole monarch of a large, wild tract of mountainous country. As all the tales of the Giant Mountains are founded on the existence of this capricious sprite, they do not exhibit that depth of feeling which we occasionally meet with in the traditions of other mountainous regions; yet they possess some very remarkable features, which are to be ascribed, as in the case of the latter, to the native and external characteristics of the district, to which they belong. In most large mountain-systems, the highest point is surrounded by inaccessible rocks, deep valleys, and wild ravines; and few of the peasantry dare to visit those lonely regions, imprinted with the stamp of mystery, whence Nature looks down, wild, enigmatical, and threatening upon the distant plains. Very different in this respect are the Giant Mountains; a vast, mild, inhabited plain stretches close to their foot; and their loftiest summit, the Schneekuppe, or Snow-top, has not that air of mystical grandeur surrounding it; there the dark mountains, and misty lakes,—the steepest rocks and the wildest waterfalls,—are found in the immediate vicinity of the friendly villages. This brings the mysterious more familiarly near; and what in other mountains has a destructive and gloomy power over the spirits of mankind, appears here like a light dream; the powerful spirits of the mountains only indulge themselves in a few antic tricks, and men talk of them without fear.
There are many other features in which the Giant Mountains differ from most other ranges. These hills divide two widely different climates,—forming an enormous barrier or boundary line between the two; the climates of the south and north here meet each other, without any intervening gradation of temperature, and destroy the equilibrium of the air, so that clouds are suddenly formed which rush together, and are again divided, or cling like a light veil around the lofty summit of the mountain,—blasts of wind rush in contrary directions among the high cliffs,—sudden gushes of rain pour down,—and the weather clears up and darkens with surprising rapidity. These whimsical changes are considered as so many manifestations of the caprices of the fantastic Rubezahl, who is more familiar with the Silesians than with the inhabitants of Bohemia, who are separated by a wilder district from the peak of the Giant Mountains. Though almost all the traditions of Rubezahl abound more in comic than tragic traits, the latter are not entirely wanting.
With regard to the origin of the name of Rubezahl, there have been several conjectures. Prætorius, the author of a very tasteless work, which appeared shortly after the Thirty years’ war, and who is to this moment the principal writer upon Rubezanl, has collected upwards of a hundred different derivations, which he explains in a very dry and unattractive style. The 33rd of these is that his name comes from numbering neeps or turnips: as if the spirit, in the excess of his avarice, could not abstain from counting the most trifling of his possessions,—the turnips of his garden. This derivation has in our days obtained most credit from the authority of Musæus, the well-known writer of Tales; only, according to him, the appellation does not mark the avarice of the spirit—for of this feature the world of tradition knows nothing—it is grounded on a love adventure. For many thousand years, Musæus relates, Rubezahl had inhabited the Giant Mountains; at last the lovely daughter of a neighbouring prince attracted his regards, and by his spells he succeeded in getting her into his power. To beguile the gloomy and cheerless solitude around her new residence, and to gain her heart,—in which he had hitherto failed,—he created a host of servants to wait upon her, out of a number of turnips, and bestowed upon them the forms of her companions and acquaintances. But as the turnips faded upon the field, these enchanted beings also withered away, and yearly left the forsaken maiden in sadder solitude than ever. Rubezahl had once prepared a large field of turnips, to procure, against the arrival of the following spring, a numerous attendance of servants for his beloved. But she was enamoured of a prince of Ratibor, and found means to inform him of her situation. In the meanwhile she began to show herself somewhat more gracious, and as the day approached on which she expected her lover, she flattered Rubezahl that she was almost vanquished by his love, and would be ready to return it if he would count with the greatest accuracy his whole field of turnips, and tell her their exact number, neither one more nor less. But whilst the spirit, to make sure of his reckoning, was busy counting his turnips over and over again, the maiden took the opportunity of making her escape with the prince of Ratibor, and ere he returned they were far beyond his domains. The enraged spirit left the mountain for several thousand years, and at last came back in a very misanthropical mood. The whole tale as given by Musæus has something absolutely modern and sentimental about it, and is evidently the offspring of his own fancy.
Manifold are the whims of Rubezahl; or, as his goblinship has been designated in English, Number Nip. He is particularly displeased when he hears his name irreverently shouted aloud; and on such occasions seldom fails to send the impertinent traveller home with a drenched skin, by collecting the clouds and raising violent thunder-storms above his head. At other times he takes a malicious pleasure in leading strangers, ignorant of the country, far astray into the most lonely and cheerless regions of his mountain-domains. He has, however, a good many gentlemanly traits about him. For instance, he delights to outwit and punish the rascally Jewish horse-venders, by sometimes presenting himself to them under the appearance of a wealthy nobleman, mounted upon a fine steed which he wishes to dispose of. The horse-dealer is, of course, allowed to drive an excellent bargain; but his triumph is of short duration, for he soon finds his new purchase changed into a bundle of straw! Again, should Rubezahl espy some poor knight wending his way in a threadbare suit, and upon a sorry animal, among the defiles of the mountain, he will sometimes hit upon a most delicate mode of relieving his necessities. Riding up to the traveller in the appearance of a stately knight, mounted upon a noble charger, he enters into conversation with him, and speedily contrives to engage himself in some absurd wager, stipulating that the loser shall forfeit his raiment and horse. In this way without offending the most knightly feelings, he has sent many a cavalier out of his regions with a merry heart, who had entered them drooping and desponding. Occasionally too, not content with making them the gift of a steed, he secretly slips into their pockets a few hundreds of gold coins. But should some worthless profligate think to retrieve his shattered fortune by Rubezahl’s bounty, he finds himself wofully outwitted. The ordinary bargain is made to be sure, and the fellow, as usual, wins the wager, and rides gaily off, chuckling over his success; but the new attire he has put on is imperceptibly changed into a covering of withered leaves, and a rough unseemly stick takes the place of the fine steed, while all the time the rogue rides briskly on, utterly unconscious of the sorry figure he is making, till the shouts of the villagers awaken him to a sense of his miserable plight. Rubezahl sometimes amuses himself at the expense of the poor women who come to pick up little pieces of fire-wood about the mountain; but he never fails to recompense them for the trouble and vexation his tricks may have occasioned them. To poor children, too, if deserving, he occasionally makes valuable presents. He sometimes presents himself among the guests at a village-wedding, and, after dancing with the bride, and contributing in various ways to the general merriment, slips off, leaving some substantial proof of his kindness behind him. The following Legends may be taken as a specimen of the current traditions respecting this tricksy spirit:—
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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