Chapter I: Introduction (1)

The first ten of these stories are taken from the German of Carmen Sylva, who has kindly given the translator her special permission to add them to the following collection of legends. The originals are to be found in her charming volumes of Roumanian tales: “Pelesch Märchen” and “Durch die Jahrhunderte.”

Many of them are associated with the mountains which surround her home among the pine-woods of Sinaia; others belong to the districts traversed by the Pelesch river, the merry stream that dashes through the ravine at the foot of her garden, “whispering all sorts of wonders and secrets to those who have ears to hear.”

The remaining tales in the volume are collected from different parts of Germany. “The Little Glass-man,” a legend of the Black Forest, is taken from “Hauff’s Märchen”; the other stories are all compiled from, or founded upon, legends to be met with in various German collections, such as Ziehnert’s, Pröhle’s, &c.[1] Most of them, however, are there set forth in so condensed a form, and with such scanty detail, that they could hardly prove of interest as stories, and therefore, they have in sundry cases been somewhat amplified and developed; or, where there was a resemblance between several legends belonging to different districts, indicating that they had a common source, their varying incidents have been worked into one tale.

It will be seen that the latter part, at least, of this volume makes no claim to be considered as an addition to the serious literature of Folk-lore. Its endeavour is rather to furnish the younger readers of the present generation with a fresh supply of stories--half legend, half fairy-tale--of a kind with which the children of an earlier day were familiar, but which are now less often to be met with; stories which came to them also from foreign lands, and were invested with a charm which it has been vainly sought, as the compiler fears, to impart to the present series.

_September 1895._

CONTENTS

PAGE

I. THE JIPI. (_Roumania_) 1

II. THE SERPENT-ISLE. (_Roumania_) 19

III. VÎRFUL CU DOR. (_Roumania_) 37

IV. FURNICA. (_Roumania_) 55

V. THE CARAIMAN. (_Roumania_) 69

VI. THE STAGS’ VALLEY. (_Roumania_) 81

VII. THE WITCH’S STRONGHOLD. (_Roumania_) 101

VIII. PIATRA ARSA. (_Roumania_) 121

IX. RÎUL DOAMNEI. (_Roumania_) 131

X. THE CAVE OF JALOMITZA. (_Roumania_) 139

XI. THE NIXIES’ CLEFT. (_Saxony_) 149

XII. THE FLYING CASTLE. (_The Hartz Mountains and Baden_) 163

XIII. THE SILVER NAIL. (_The Hartz Mountains_) 177

XIV. A DOUBTING LOVER. (_The Riesengebirge_) 195

XV. A LEGEND OF WALPURGIS-NIGHT. (_The Hartz Mountains_) 203

XVI. SEEKERS AFTER GOLD. (_Saxony and the Hartz Mountains_) 215

XVII. THE MAIDEN’S ROCK. (_The Elbe_) 239

XVIII. THE WATER-SNAKE. (_The Hartz Country_) 251

XIX. THE LITTLE GLASS-MAN. (_The Black Forest_)--

I. THE SUNDAY-CHILD 271

II. THE COLD HEART 302

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FRONTISPIECE _To face Title_

_But thereupon the horse was changed into a hawk, that
shot down from a giddy height, and bore her away in his
talons._ (From “The Cave of Jalomitza.”)

PAGE

THE JIPI 3

_And ere one of them could stretch out a hand she had
flown like a bird over the edge of the cliff_ 15

THE SERPENT ISLE 21

_So he manned a sail-boat with stout rowers, took
provisions with him for several days, and set out across
the sea_ 23

_Presently a little boy ran up to him and cried in
pleading tones_, “_Take me away with thee_” 31

VÎRFUL CU DOR 39

_A little to one side, a handsome shepherd stood leaning
upon his staff_ 41

_From every side came the cry_, “_Thou goodly youth, be
mine! Come with me!_” 45

FURNICA 57

THE CARAIMAN 71

_But at the sight of them he burst into such
laughter_---- 77

THE STAGS’ VALLEY 83

_The maiden gazed earnestly at one and another_ 87

_But the poor mother rose up with fixed gaze, and lifting
her arms to the clouds, she cried, “May ye then turn to
stone!”_ 97

THE WITCH’S STRONGHOLD 103

_“But a while ago a beautiful creature came up our
mountain”_ 107

_With these words she began to scatter down jewels in
endless quantities upon the horsemen_ 117

PIATRA ARSA 123

_Looking up, they saw that one of the rocky peaks of the
Bucegi seemed all aglow_ To face 126

RÎUL DOAMNEI 133

_And behold! the river was no longer brown, but clear and
blue as the air_ To face 138

THE CAVE OF JALOMITZA 141

_Jalomitza followed it the whole night through, without
knowing whither she went_ 145

THE NIXIES’ CLEFT 151

THE FLYING CASTLE 165

_For the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned
back_ 170

THE SILVER NAIL 179

_And declaring that he would have no more gaping fools
in his house, disturbing his honeymoon, he drove the
neighbours forth_ 189

A DOUBTING LOVER 197

_Yet even now she would sometimes draw aside from her
young companions, as they paced the gardens or terrace
together_ To face 200

A LEGEND OF WALPURGIS-NIGHT 205

_The company was arriving in great numbers_ 207

_But in a moment the tables were turned, and he found
himself in an unexpected position_ 211

SEEKERS AFTER GOLD 217

THE MAIDEN’S ROCK 241

_And in the twinkling of an eye had rushed like a storm
up the rocky ascent, and fallen upon the luckless lovers_
249

THE WATER-SNAKE 253

THE LITTLE GLASS-MAN. PART I 271

THE LITTLE GLASS-MAN. PART II 302

_He lifted it from the jar, tore open Peter’s jerkin,
pulled the stone from his breast, and held it before him_ 323

I

THE JIPI

There is in Roumania a group of mountains named the Bucegi-group. Among these the two peaks of Jipi tower aloft, close together, as though gazing defiantly at one another, and between them the Urlatoare, or “roaring stream,” dashes down, a cloud-like waterfall, into the valley below, and storms onward over every barrier towards the town of Prahova.

They say that long, long ago the Jipi were twin-brothers, who loved each other so well that one could not live without the other, or eat a mouthful of bread the other did not share; nay, more--that when one was asked a question, the other answered it, and that when one did himself some hurt, the other wept and would not be comforted. They were as fair as morning and evening, as slender and straight as lances, as swift as arrows, as strong as young bears. The mother who had borne them looked upon them with pride and joy, and would say, as she stroked their curly heads, “Andrei and Mirea, my beautiful sons, may your fame become so great that even the stones shall discourse of it.”

They were of noble blood, and dwelt in a castle upon a lofty crag, where they lorded it as though the whole world belonged to them. They often jestingly declared that they should have to wed one wife only between them, since they were sure never to find two quite alike, and that the best plan would be for them never to wed at all. But of this their mother would not hear, for she longed to cradle her sons’ sons upon her knee and sing them lullabies.

She would often sing the ancient lays of their country to her boys, of an evening, while she sat spinning and the noble lads hung fondly about her. Andrei would kneel at her feet, while Mirea leant upon the arm of her chair, and drew in the sweet scent of the heavy, dark braids that shone lustrous through her delicate white veil.

“Our mother is still quite a young woman,” said Andrei.

“Yes, indeed,” cried Mirea; “she has not yet a single grey hair.”

“Nor a wrinkle,” rejoined Andrei.

“We shall find no wife worth our mother,” continued Mirea, kissing the veil upon her head.

“Thou dost cast them all into the shade,” laughed Andrei, and kissed the fingers that were spinning such wondrous fine threads.

“Our father was a happy man,” cried the one. “And we are lucky children,” rejoined the other. Then the mother would smile at the tender dialogue, and tell them tales of their grandmother, and of the rough times she lived in--of her stern father and yet sterner husband.

The meals that the three partook of together were as merry as though the house had been full of company; and, indeed, when guests were really present they grew graver, as beseemed the dignity of their house. They were the most kindly of hosts, and spent many a night upon the bare ground, that their soft couch might be given up to some stranger guest. All who entered there felt at ease in that happy home, wherein love made its dwelling.

One day the two brothers were out hunting a bear that had been making sore havoc in the district. They climbed up the steepest of their cliffs to find him, and got at last upon his track, as a loud growling and a shower of dislodged stones betokened. At the very moment, however, that Mirea was about to cast his spear, another flew out of the underbrush hard by and smote the beast in the vitals. A peal of silvery laughter followed the stroke. Then the bear, growling with rage, rose upon his hinder feet and made for the patch of undergrowth. Andrei perceived the danger in which the bold huntsman stood, and while Mirea called out indignantly, “Let him end the chase he has begun!” his brother exclaimed, “Canst thou not hear?--it is a boy’s voice!” and casting himself before the bear, which towered high above him, he plunged his knife up to the hilt in its shoulder. The brute clawed the air for a moment and then fell dead. “Oh, what a pity!” cried a clear voice, and from the bushes there stepped forth a wondrously fair maiden, clad in short garments and sandals, and having a white fur cap set upon her wild and abundant brown locks. Her eyes shone beneath dark, highly arched brows; they were green eyes, yet with a glint of gold in them. From her shoulders hung a mantle of snow-white, silky goatskin; like Andrei, she held in her hand a broad hunting-knife, with which she had unflinchingly awaited the onslaught of the bear. “What a pity,” she cried again, “now it is not I that have slain him!” and her eyes filled with tears. Andrei stood quite shame-faced, gazing at the bear, as though he would gladly, to please the lovely maiden, have restored him to life again. To conceal her ill-humour, she thoughtlessly thrust at the brute with her foot--when, behold! he turned in the death-throe and clawed at her once again. But on the instant she was caught back by Mirea, who set her on her feet with the reproving words, “Foolish child!” She gazed upwards in astonishment, for the voice was that of the young man before her--and the face, too, was bewildering in its likeness to his. Open-mouthed, like a child indeed, she looked from one to the other till all three broke out into a storm of laughter.

“You are double!” cried the girl, “like two hazel-nuts in one shell.”

“And two nuts out of one shell we are,” replied Andrei. “But who art thou, little wood-fairy? Perchance some witch in disguise, who will work our undoing.”

“Who can say?” answered the maiden. “Perhaps I am a witch--grandfather often says so; and, indeed, I have only been with him a week yet, and he has had no more of his old pain since I came.”

“We would straightway treat thee as an evil witch, then,” said Mirea, “and carry thee a prisoner to our castle, for having hunted upon our hills without leave.”

“We have a cruel mother, too, at our castle,” added Andrei.

“Good,” cried the maiden. “Her I must see. I am your prisoner!”

She called her attendant huntsman, gave him messages to her grandfather, and bade him bring horses to fetch her home; then she followed the brothers with a light step by the giddiest and steepest paths to the castle.

The lads’ mother, Dame Roxana, stood looking from the castle windows, and wondering what strange shepherd-boy her sons were bringing home with them. The dead bear was carried behind them, slung upon green boughs. As they drew near the castle Dame Roxana exclaimed in alarm, “It is a girl they have with them. Where can they have found her?”

The next moment the sound of youthful voices and footsteps re-echoed through courtyard and hall. “Mother,” cried Mirea, “here we bring thee a prisoner, a hunter who has spoilt our chase! What shall be his punishment?”

Dame Roxana gazed at the young girl in great anxiety. She would fain have sent her away again as quickly as possible; but the vision was so entrancing a one that she could not restrain a kindly smile, and stretched out her hand, which the maiden respectfully kissed. “I think,” said Dame Roxana, “that the worst punishment would be to make this merry child spend a few hours in spinning with an old woman like me!”

“Nay, nay,” the girl replied; “I can spin as lightly as any fairy. The spear has not made my hand heavy. And as for old folks--why, I spend all my time alone with grandfather, who sits in his chair all day, and falls asleep whenever I would tell him aught.”

She was about to lay aside her mantle as she spoke, but Andrei stepped forward and took it from her, while his mother herself lifted the fur cap from her brow and stroked back the damp curly hair. With abundant locks falling about her like a lion’s mane, she seemed fairer than ever, and mother and sons gazed at her in delight.

“What is thy name, dear child?” asked Dame Roxana.

“Urlanda. Is it not an ugly name? They would have called me Rolanda, but it turned into Urlanda, because I was always so wild and untutored. My grandfather dwells on the other side of the mountain. Oh! I have come far to-day.”

“Then thou wilt be all the gladder of the meal that awaits us.”

They led her into the dining-hall, sumptuously decked with Eastern carpets and hangings and massive silver-ware. Here the talk flowed merrily on. Wondrous tales were told of the chase and of adventures with savage bears; but Rolanda would never suffer herself to be outdone, and would cap each tale with one more amazing yet, told in tones as earnest as though she were swearing an oath upon it.

The merriment was heightened by her constant mistaking of one brother for the other, and when Andrei gave himself out as having saved her life, Mirea would eagerly affirm that it was he who had warded off the bear’s last embrace.

“It’s a good thing,” she would cry, “that I have to thank you both for my life, for else, indeed, I should never be able to recognise my preserver.”

When the meal was over she begged for distaff and spindle, “for she wanted to show that her spinning was no hunter’s tale.” This was spoken with a sly glance at the brothers. And, in truth, the threads she spun were as fine and even as a spider’s web, to the great amazement of Dame Roxana.

“I can embroider beautifully too,” said the maiden. “My mother, who could do wonders at it, taught me that, for she hoped to tame me with such fair work. But it was all in vain, for I had always finished before she expected it, and was out and away again to the stables or the chase.” She sighed a little. “But now the stud is sold; and, indeed, who could ride among these wretched mountains, where there is no room? Ah, there are the horses!” and she sprang from her seat. “I must go, or I shall not be home by nightfall; and surely grandfather must know how to chide if he be minded to, for he has such bushy eyebrows!” In a moment she had kissed the hand of Dame Roxana, greeted the brothers with a wave of her furry cap as she cast it upon her curly locks, and was away out of the hall and into her saddle like a whirlwind. But the brothers, too, had their horses ready, and were not to be hindered from bearing their young guest company to the outskirts of their lands. So, greeting Dame Roxana with laughing glances, they rode away, and she looked after them with grave eyes, though a smile was on her lips. Her heart was heavy, she knew not why, and she would fain have called her sons back to her.

It was with difficulty that Rolanda could be restrained from galloping up hill and down dale; only when her pity for the horses was stirred did she draw rein, saying with a sigh, “You call these walking chairs horses!”

As night was now falling, she begged the brothers to seek shelter beneath her grandfather’s roof. The old man was sitting by the hearth when they entered, stroking the white beard that fell down far over his breast.

“And where has this wild creature been now?” he kindly asked.

“In a dreadful prison, because of having trespassed on another’s hunting-ground! And here are my persecutors, whom I have brought with me to prove whether I speak truly.”

The old man’s gaze was full of kindliness as it rested upon the two youths, standing ready to do him homage. The evening meal was soon ready; nor was it less cheerful than that which they had shared at midday at Dame Roxana’s table. At early dawn Andrei and Mirea rode hence again. They were startled, as they passed under the castle windows, at finding themselves pelted by a shower of blossoms. But as they glanced upwards a window was hastily closed, and they saw no one.

This was the first of many mutual visits, of many riding and hunting parties, and pleasant hours passed in merry chatter within doors. But Rolanda had her sadder moments also, when she was more entrancing than ever; then she would speak of her dead parents, and of how lonely she was in the wide world; for her grandfather could not live much longer, and then she would not know whither to turn.

“Oh, cruel words!” Andrei would exclaim. “Are we, then, not thy brothers? and is there no home for thee here?”

“Does our mother not love thee?” Mirea would add.

Then would Dame Roxana’s heart quiver with pain once more; and yet the untutored child had become very dear to her.

Not long after this a clatter of hurrying horse’s hoofs sounded up the hillside, and then upon the stones of the courtyard; it was Rolanda, riding bare-headed and with fluttering locks. As pale as death she burst in upon Dame Roxana. “For God’s sake, let me take shelter with you! Grandfather is dead! I closed his eyes myself; I made him ready for the grave, and laid him there to rest, and felt no fear the while. But now all the kinsfolk have come flocking in, quarrelling over the inheritance, and giving me hard and cruel words because some of it is to be mine. And one bald-headed fellow would straightway have taken me to wife. Ah me! then I was affrighted. Such a wretch! But I told him I was called Urlanda, and was so bad that none would care to marry me. Nor will I have any husband. I will stay here with you until I am turned out.”

It was a hard matter for Dame Roxana to understand this flow of incoherent words, and harder still for her to soothe the agitated girl. She folded her to her heart and stroked the disordered curls; then she led her to the little white bed-chamber, where she had often dwelt before, and told her this should be her home as long as there was a roof over the house.

Rolanda threw herself into her arms, kissed her hands, and promised to become as gentle and calm as a deep, calm lake.

Dame Roxana smiled. “Methinks,” she replied, “that the calm and gentleness will come all in good time, when once thou art a wife.”

“But I would never become a wife. I would always remain a maiden and free--free as a bird.”

Dame Roxana sighed quite low, and listened for the voices of her sons, who had just come home and were asking for Rolanda, whose tumultuous arrival they had witnessed from afar.

A wondrous change took place in the behaviour of the brothers after Rolanda came to sojourn with them.

They had greeted her as their “little sister,” but thereupon the young girl had suddenly grown shy and constrained. They lived out of doors more than ever now, only they no longer went together, but by separate ways; and Rolanda stayed much at home with the mother, and grew dreamy and absent, often shedding tears in secret. When she thought herself unnoticed, her quick glance would travel backwards and forwards between the brothers, as though she would fain discover something that yet remained dark to her. She often still confused the two together, yet now she no longer laughed at this, but gazed anxiously over at the mother. Dame Roxana watched with a heavy heart the dark cloud that seemed gathering over her house, and wept far oftener and more secretly than Rolanda, since the day that each of her sons had confessed to her, alone at the twilight hour, his great, undying, unconquerable love, and had asked--

“Dost think my brother loves her too, he is so changed? And to which of us will she give her heart?”

Dame Roxana offered many a taper in the little mountain chapel at Lespes, and hoped that this painfully made pilgrimage might incline Heaven’s mercy towards them, and ward off a great disaster from her home.

Rolanda had been in a state of indescribable agitation ever since the time that Andrei and Mirea had, each unknown to the other, confessed their love to her. In vain the poor child questioned her heart; she loved them both too well--far too well--to make either wretched; nor could she separate the one from the other in her heart, any more than she could with her eyes. She kept silence towards Dame Roxana, for she could not bear to give her pain; but day by day she saw how the brothers no longer cherished each other, and even how sharp words sometimes passed between them, and that had never chanced in all their lives before.

At last Dame Roxana called the three to her side and spoke.

“I have watched the bitter struggle of your hearts too long. One of you must needs make a hard sacrifice, that the other may be happy.”

“Yes,” answered Mirea gloomily, “one of us must quit this world.”

“For God’s sake!” cried Rolanda, “you would not fight over me?”

“Nay,” said Andrei, with a sad smile, “that were impossible. But one can go hence alone.”

Then said Dame Roxana with uplifted hands, “O godless children! have I, then, borne you and brought you up so feeble that neither of you has the strength to bear his first sorrow? Rolanda, till to-morrow shalt thou have time for thought; by to-morrow we shall all have won strength and courage.”

So they parted.

Andrei took a path that led through the forest to Lespes, and there he knelt in the little rock-hewn chapel and prayed: “O my God! Thou knowest my heart and my strength. Grant that I may be preserved from any sin towards myself, my mother, my brother, or the woman that I love. But if she give herself not to me, then turn me to stone, that I may feel pain no more.” But, by another path, Mirea had come, too, to the little chapel, and had prayed the same prayer. They cast a sorrowful look at one another, and went home, each by himself; for each thought that he alone had offered up the sacrifice.

Dame Roxana appeared next morning as white as the veil which covered the first silver threads in her hair. The two brothers wore the look of men going to their death. Rolanda alone came among them with the glow of joy on her face. She was as though transfigured by an unearthly beauty, that seemed to increase her very height. With gentle dignity she spoke: “Come out yonder with me, my only dear ones; let the decision be given under God’s open sky.”

She glided out before them, hardly seeming to tread on earth; her hands were transparent as wax, and her eyes full of tears as she raised them to heaven. On the edge of a steep and giddy precipice she paused, and knelt before Dame Roxana.

“Give me thy blessing, mother,” she said.

Dame Roxana laid a trembling hand upon the fair, curly head.

“And now,” continued Rolanda in a clear voice, “now hearken to me. I love you both so well, so passing well--far more than myself or my own life--that I cannot give myself to either of you. But whichever brings me back from the abyss, his wife will I be.” And ere one of them could stretch out a hand she had flown like a bird over the edge of the cliff, into the immeasurable depths below. But--oh wonder!--as she fell, she was changed into a foaming waterfall, whose spray floated in the air like a bridal veil. The two brothers would have cast themselves down after her, but they could not, for their feet turned to rock, their arms to rock, their hearts to stone, and so they towered aloft toward heaven. But the unhappy mother spread out her arms, crying, “And I alone must live! Hast Thou no pity, Heaven?” Then with arms outstretched she fell to earth, embracing her children. And, behold! where she lay she was changed into thick, soft moss, that grew and spread farther and farther, till the rocks were half shrouded in it. So they remain, and will remain for ever--the wild white bride, Urlatoare, the self-sacrificing sons, the Jipi, and their loving, tender mother.

II

THE SERPENT-ISLE

The great Latin poet Ovid was banished by the Emperor of Rome, no one knew why, to a desolate spot near the mouth of the Danube, on the shores of the Black Sea. That land has had many masters, and last of all the Roumanians, under King Charles, took it from the Turks. Where Ovid once wandered by that lonely shore there is now a grand hotel, where fashionable ladies and officers sit and listen to the music of the band; a large town, too, lies hard by, but in the poet’s days only a small collection of miserable huts stood there, which men called the city of Tomi. On one side there was nothing to be seen, as far as the eye could reach, but sand and marshes, where at intervals a solitary tree stretched out its barren boughs over some evil-smelling mere; while on the other the endless sea, black and cheerless, rolled its monotonous waves towards the shore. Snowstorms, unknown to an inhabitant of Rome, swept over the land in winter; and in summer the sun beat down with scorching heat, setting the brain on fire and parching the tongue. Wells were scarce here, and Ovid learnt to prize a draught of pure water more than he had ever prized the choicest wines in his Roman cellars. The inhabitants of the country were few--dark-skinned men, whose language was strange to him. The only Romans were men whom he would in former days have thought unworthy of his slightest glance or word--thieves, galley-slaves, or fraudulent officials. Surely he could never have borne such a life, and must have died of misery, save for one only consolation. Every man must have some such, be it only a dog, a flower, or a spider. Ovid had a snake, a tiny, bewitching snake, that always lay curled about his neck or his arm, and in whose eyes he read the most wondrous tales. To his mind she was very likely the victim of some spell--a banished princess in a serpent’s shape--for did he not write the “Metamorphoses”?--and he wove fancies about her by the hour together--of how fair she was in reality, and how unfortunate, his shining little Colubra, as he called her. And as his thoughts wandered thus, and he sat gazing out upon the sea, his eyes would close and he would sink into peaceful sleep. One day, as he thus slept, he dreamed a strange dream; his little snake had suddenly become possessed of human speech, and was whispering softly in his ear, “Come, come with me to the island at the mouth of the Danube--that which they call the Serpent-Isle. There thou shalt witness transformations indeed.” He awoke with a start of surprise; but his little snake was lying quite quietly about his neck, as though she had never spoken a word. Again he fell asleep, and again Colubra whispered, “Come to the Serpent-Isle. Come; trust thy little friend.” The poet awoke once more and gazed at the little creature, that still clung motionless to his throat, and met his eyes with a strange look of comprehension. He slept for the third time, and for the third time Colubra whispered, “Come with me; thou wilt not repent it.” But this time he awoke before she had finished speaking, and she gave him so expressive a glance that Ovid thought to himself, “Why should I not go to the Serpent-Isle? It cannot be a more desolate spot than this is; and if the serpents devour me, then there is an end of my pain for ever.”

So he manned a sail-boat with stout rowers, took provisions with him for several days, and set out across the sea. He reached the island, not without trouble, for the Black Sea has its evil moods, far worse than those of the ocean itself. The heart-sick poet was in danger of being punished for his desire to be quit of life, for it came near taking him at his word. But the boatmen were less weary of life than he, and fought bravely with the stormy elements, grumbling all the while at the enterprise.

“So much pain and danger for the sake of a desert island full of poisonous reptiles,” they would mutter, casting dark glances upon the poet. Several times was he minded to put back, for fear of a mutiny among the crew, but each time a slight movement from the little creature about his throat admonished him to pause. Once or twice he was even aware of an impatient stroke from the slender tail, and the tiny head would be raised aloft, ever gazing in the same direction. “There is the island,” muttered the sailors at last. “Where?” asked Ovid, for he could see nothing. “That strip of land there, at the river’s mouth, that is the Isle of Serpents.” As he saw the bank of sand covered with stunted bushes, the poet’s heart sank, more on account of the men’s discontent than because of the uninviting aspect of the place. To his mind the whole country was equally desolate, and whether it were somewhat more or less so was of little moment. But the little snake about his throat began fairly to dance for joy, and the lonely man felt glad of the pleasure he could give to the only creature he loved. As he stepped on shore he felt for her about his neck. What was his amazement at finding nothing there! His little Colubra was gone! Sore at heart, he thought to himself, “So that was why thou wert so fain to reach the island--only to forsake me! Thou art not a human being, yet thy deeds are even as theirs.” And, lost in bitter thought, he waded onward through the deep sand, having promised the sailors to go and seek water for them. But the wine to be found on board was far more acceptable to the men, and soon they lay wrapped in a drunken sleep. Ovid went sorrowfully on his way. “Now have I lost my all,” he sighed; and since no one saw him, he was not ashamed of the tears that filled his eyes.

Was it the gleam of those tears or the light of the sun that blinded him? Was a midsummer madness upon him? He passed his hand over his brow again and again and closed his eyes; but each time he reopened them his bewilderment increased. For there rose before him a magic garden, with shady trees, undulating lawns, and plashing fountains. A carpet of forget-me-nots and poppies spread out on every side, and the tender petals of the flowers seemed transfused with sunlight. Marble steps led down to the sea, and smooth paths wound in and out among hedges of rose and myrtle. Wondrous birds perched among the planes and chestnut-trees, and poured out a song that no nightingale could rival. Beneath the poet’s feet, violets and mignonette gave forth well-nigh too unrestrained a perfume; and sprays of lilac and jessamine caressed his brow. The lonely exile fancied himself transported to one of the fairest gardens of Rome, and his heart beat high with joy, till it seemed ready to burst in his bosom. But what was his delight when he suddenly became aware of a crowd of beautiful maidens, gliding about among the trees and over the smooth turf chasing and embracing one another in the wildest glee, swinging upon the thick, tangled boughs of the hedge-roses, and tripping down the marble stairs to the sea, to bathe, and splash each other with the clear water. He saw, too, Roman matrons clad in long robes and snowy veils, whose faces seemed familiar, and men wearing the toga and mantle, who paced to and fro, as though in eager discussion over the topics of the day, just as of old in the Roman Forum. But before he could draw near them, a lovely maiden hastened up to him with a gesture of familiar greeting and took his hand, saying, “I warrant thou dost not know me in this shape; yet I am thy little Colubra! Come with me and I will show thee all.” And she drew him away, through the undulating crowd of people, who were all speaking Latin and Greek, so that he could understand their every word. He seemed to recognise them too, and would fain have accosted many a one by name, for they appeared to him to be courtiers of the Emperor, whom he had been wont to see every day. But his little guide clung to his hand with slender, caressing fingers and led him on. He heard around him the names of Greek sculptors or philosophers and Roman statesmen; and though these names might once have been indifferent to him, they now made his heart leap and brought the moisture to his eyes, only because it was so sweet to hear the familiar sounds once more. Several persons approached him with an expression of delighted surprise, but Colubra motioned them all aside with an impatient stamp of her little foot, and if they did not heed, her delicate eyebrows would contract and her dark eyes flash--those eyes which were the only reminder of her serpent nature. Once, however, it is true that she thrust the tip of her rosy tongue between her lips--a little tongue as sharp as though it could prick.

There were very few children to be seen in the magic garden, and those few, the poet noticed, crept sadly about, holding one another by the hand, and gazing with wide-open eyes at this gay, merry world, which seemed quite strange to them. No one spoke to them or took any notice of them, for here each seemed to think of nothing but his own pleasure. Ovid would have given them a kind word, but Colubra drew him past them also, and led him to an arbour hidden among the thick bushes, hard by a bubbling spring. There she fed him with the most luscious fruits, and making a cup out of a broad leaf, she fetched a draught of water for him. Then, swinging herself up on one bough and clasping her white arms round another, she began in triumphant tones: “Now, what dost think of thy little friend?”

“I think thou art lulling me with a faëry dream.”

“Nay, nay, thou art not dreaming! Thou art on the Serpent-Isle, whither all men are banished who have lied during their lifetime. Once in every thousand years the island grows green, and we can take our own shapes again, and wander in this magic garden. But no living man may look upon us save a poet, and he must be a sorrow-stricken creature; nor must he speak with any one, for should he utter the smallest lie he would be changed into a serpent for a thousand years. And it will no longer be fair here to-morrow.”

“But I can surely speak without lying?”

“Yea, with thy little Colubra, or on the mainland yonder, in Tomi, where thou dost need to ask for naught but bread, water, and wood, and where it avails thee nothing to be gracious or witty, since none would understand thee; but amid this company thou wouldst be tempted to speak as they do, and then I would not stand warranty for thee!”

“But I see statesmen here, high officials, artists and philosophers, matrons who are held in esteem, and even little children.”

With a pitying smile she replied, “All these spoke untruths while they lived; and because even in the under-world they and their false tongues are dreaded, they have been sent here on to this island, where they can do no harm, or at least only hiss, and strangle one another. It is saddest of all for the children, because they are such strangers here, and belong to no one, neither are they remembered by any earthly friends. Even this festive day is sad for them, since it makes them feel lonelier than ever. This evening the old boatman, Charon, will sail to the shore of the island, and those who have spoken nothing but the truth during the last thousand years he will suffer to enter his boat, and to journey with him to the under-world. But thou must not await that moment, for then everything will be changed. I, truly, am privileged, for I may stay with thee, and thou art safe on the island, because thou art doing penance enough in thy lifetime.”

“But thou--what hast thou done?” asked the poet.

“I?” The maiden blushed, and springing from the bough, answered carelessly, “I suppose I lied like the rest.” And she drew him hastily away to join a group of dancing maidens. Yet, with a look round at him, she laid her finger on her lip.

It was high time, for an ancient dame approached Ovid with a friendly grimace and began--“Why, see! our great poet! Is he too, like us, banished from the earth and the under-world alike? Poor Ovid, art thou thyself metamorphosed? What a trick they have played us clever people, have they not? Were we to blame for being wiser than the rest? And thy sweet companion! I have known and loved her this long, long while.”

“Thou liest!” cried Colubra, beside herself.

In the twinkling of an eye the old dame was changed into a huge snake, which darted hissing upon the young girl, coiled round her, and would surely have throttled her, had not Ovid used all his strength to wrestle with the noxious creature, and tearing it off, cast it far away from them. The maiden kissed his hands in a passion of gratitude, and the dancers crowned him with roses and myrtle. Presently a little boy ran up to him and cried in pleading tones--

“Take me away with thee; oh! take me away, and I will be as truthful as the sunbeams and as transparent as the clearest brook. Only take me with thee. I have seen that thou art a hero, and I--I was once a hero too; I was so strong that all my playmates feared to feel my fists!” While he yet spoke a little sharp, forked tongue shot out between his rosy lips, and before the poet’s very eyes he was changed into a tiny slow-worm, that wound itself about his feet.

“And canst thou not speak truth for one hour, thou miserable little worm?” cried Colubra angrily. Yet Ovid looked compassionately upon the tiny snake, and did not move for a long time, for fear of hurting it.

But his friend was in haste to draw him from the spot: “Dost thou not see the sun is setting? Methinks I already hear the keel of Charon’s boat rushing through the smooth water. Thou must away from here. The reality here is ugly, terribly ugly. Thou shalt only keep the memory of the beautiful dream.”

Still Ovid lingered. He plucked blossoms and threw them to the laughing girls; he stood gazing out over the sea, that was now bathed in a flood of purple and golden light. But presently, like the very night itself, a ship with dusky sails moved silently towards the shore, spreading darkness around it as it came. The ship was large, but only one boatman stood therein, an old man with snowy beard and sunken eyes. His bony hands held a huge pole, with which he steered the ship, till he brought its keel grating upon the shore. Now he raised his pole aloft, so that the trickling water-drops shone like pure gold in the last rays of sunshine.

“Come,” whispered Colubra, growing pale. But Ovid stood as though spell-bound. Charon raised his pole again and smote it against the trees with a sound like thunder. Then, behold, all the forms that moved upon the island pressed toward the ship and held out imploring hands. But Charon asked in deep, dread tones: “Who hath spoken the truth these thousand years?”

“I!--I!” came the answer from every side: but all who spoke the word were instantly changed into serpents.

“I,” cried a wondrously beautiful woman, forcing her way through the mass of writhing reptiles, her white veil shining as it floated in the twilight air--“I have kept silence for a thousand years, that I might rejoin my seven children in the Elysian fields. I will go to my children!” And with this cry she sped over the sand into the ship.

“I,” said Colubra quite low.

“Thou?” asked Ovid sadly. “Then must I lose thee?”

Colubra looked at the poet and then at the ship.

“If I could but remain a maiden, I would love thee only, and belong to no other.”

“O Colubra, thou liest! Keep silence!”

But he had scarcely spoken the words ere she was changed into the same little snake as of old.

Now the keel grated on the sand once again and Charon pushed off from the shore. And lo! the trees came crashing down, the flowers turned to dust, and the grass withered; while far, far away Charon’s white beard and the woman’s waving white veil shone out in the moonlight. But upon the sandy shore and among the stunted, thorny bushes only the smooth, gleaming serpent-forms crawled and writhed. Then horror fell upon Ovid, and he hastened towards his own boat. With the cry of “Serpents!” he awakened the sleeping men, who rubbed their eyes, muttering discontentedly, “For this we came hither, then--to see serpents!” “Away now, away!” cried Ovid, who, for the horror that was upon him, had well-nigh forgotten his little friend. But as they were pushing off he remembered her, and called aloud: “Colubra! my faithful little Colubra!” Then a faint, very faint sound of laughter smote his ear, and something wound itself caressingly about his neck, and two eyes gazed steadily up into his in the clear moonlight. The sailors thought their master had taken leave of his wits, for he spoke no more, save to murmur from time to time, “A thousand years!--and for me!” while he stroked something which shone round his throat, and which they took to be a jewel.

But, laughing softly once more, Colubra hissed into his ear, “Be not over vain, my soft-hearted poet. Not for thee alone did I give way to lying. For I found my lost lover again, yonder among the serpents, and a serpent he must remain. Yea--and I will remain even as my beloved is, until we can belong to one another.”

Since that day the Serpent-Isle has been green and lovely once again, and only once, but no one was there to see it. Ah, if one could but be a poet, and alive in the year 2000!

III

VÎRFUL CU DOR

There was once on a time a _hora_[2] at Sinaia, the like of which had never been seen before; for it was upon a great holiday, and the monks in the neighbouring cloister had distributed food to every one, heaping bowls of it, so that all the villagers had eaten their fill. The folk had gathered from far and near, from Isvor and Poeana Zapului, from Comarnic and Predeal, and from the other side of the mountains. The sun shone down so warm into the valley that the maidens took the kerchiefs from their heads, and the lads pushed their flower-bedecked hats from their brows, so hot had the dancing made them. The mothers stood round about upon the green, suckling their children; their shimmering veils showed afar off, as white and soft as spring blossoms.

What a stamping and shouting there were amid the merry dancers! The maidens seemed to hover in the air, as though their dainty feet, peeping out from the narrow petticoat, never touched the ground. Their shifts were gaily and richly embroidered, and glittered with gold, like the coins that hung on their necklets. The dance moved on, in circles both great and small; ceaselessly it moved, to the ceaseless music of the lute-players, like the pulsation of a vein, or an undulating wave. A little to one side, a handsome shepherd stood leaning upon his staff and watched the _hora_ with his dark eyes, dark as blackberries. His form was slender, like a young pine-tree; his hair fell in black locks upon his shoulders from under his cap of white lambskin. His shirt was grey, fastened about the hips with a broad leather girdle, and he wore sandals upon his feet. Only for a moment had his eyes glanced uncertainly around; now they had discovered what they sought, and their sparkling gaze was fixed upon a maiden, who did not seem to notice him at all. The maiden was fair--fair as the most beautiful flower; nay, lovelier far than the gentian or the Alpine rose, more delicate than the edelweiss. In each of her eyes shone two points of light, one in the black pupil and the other in the brown circle surrounding it. Her teeth flashed white every time the coral lips parted; her hair was as black as the abyss from whose depths a gleam of water shoots up, and the wreath of flowers upon her head did not fade; it was as though she gave it freshness and life. Such a slender body she had, one might have thought a man could break it with a turn of his hand; and yet the people told tales of her wondrous strength. Yes, Irina was fair, very fair, and Jonel, the young shepherd, gazed upon her ceaselessly. At last he too drew near the circle and grasped her hand. The maidens looked at one another and laughed, and Irina grew crimson. Now of a sudden the lute-players stopped upon a shrill, high note, the lads each turned their partners round under their arms and once about, and then Jonel drew Irina’s hand downwards with a firm grasp. There was deep significance in this, but Irina only shrugged her shoulders and laughed.

“Irina,” he whispered, “dost thou see the golden leaves on yonder beech? It is time--I must go down with my sheep into the valley, down into the Baragan, perhaps as far as the Dobrudgea, and I shall see thee no more till spring-time. Give me a good word, that my heart may have no cause to tremble when I think of thee looking upon the other lads!”

“What wouldst have me say? Thou dost not love me truly, and I shall soon be forgotten.”

“I will die ere I forget thee, Irina.”

“These be but words--these I do not believe.”

“What must I do, then, that thou mayst believe me?”

Irina’s eyes sparkled as she gave him a sidelong glance and answered, “That which thou canst never do.”

“I can do anything,” said Jonel slowly, as though he scarcely knew that he spoke.

“Nay, thou canst not bide without thy sheep; thou wouldst sooner do without me than them.”

“Without my sheep,” repeated Jonel, and sighed.

“Dost see,” laughed Irina, “the only thing which I require of thee, that thou shouldst stay on yonder mountain-top without thy sheep, that thou canst not do! Words, nought but words!”

“And what if I do it?” said Jonel. He grew pale and clenched his teeth as he spoke.

The youths and maidens had gathered about the pair and were listening. “Do it not!” “Do it!” cried one and another.

Then an old shepherd with silver locks and overhanging brows laid his hand on Jonel’s shoulder.

“Let the maidens be,” he said roughly; “they will but break thy heart and then laugh thee to scorn. Dost thou not know that the shepherd who forsakes his sheep must die?” He shook his clenched fist at Irina: “And thou dost think, because thou art fair, that thou canst dare all, and that nothing shall quell thy mischievous spirit? But the evil thou dost work, to thine own self dost thou work it!”

Irina did but laugh again. “He need not go,” said she, “nor do I need him either.” And turning, she ran off to drink from the spring that rises beside the cloister.

Jonel would listen to no one, but with pale cheeks and set mouth took his way toward the mountain. He passed Irina by, and only made a gesture of farewell to her with his hand.

“Do it not!” she called after him, and laughed with the other maidens. And the Pelesch stream, as it rushed by, re-echoed the words, “Do it not! do it not!” But Jonel did not hear it, and went on climbing higher and higher in the noontide sun, over the smooth uplands, beneath the giant pines--whose trunks six men can scarcely span--and through the shady beech-woods, up to the shepherd’s hut round which his flock was lying, and whence his dogs ran forth to meet him, barking for joy. He passed his hand caressingly over their rough coats, and then called his “Mioritza,” or the ewe that led his flock. “Brr, brr, Oitza,”[3] he called; “brr, come hither.” She came trotting up with her little lamb, and suffered him to thrust the carnation that he had stolen from Irina into her fleece. Then he begged the other shepherds to take his flock with them, saying that he would follow later, but must first accomplish a vow that he had taken. They all looked at him in wonder. “And if I return no more,” he ended, “ye shall say that Yearning hath bidden me to the marriage-feast.”

He took his Alp-horn in his hand, and climbed on and on to the very summit of the mountain, whence he could look away across the Danube to the Balkans. There he stood still, and putting his horn to his lips, sent forth a wailing note whose echoes spread far around. But at the call his faithful dog rushed in pursuit, and was soon springing round him, whining for joy; then, seizing his master’s shirt between his teeth, he tried to drag him away toward the valley, so that Jonel scarce knew how to resist, and was obliged at last, with tears in his eyes, to speak roughly to the poor beast and drive him away with stones. And now he had turned away his last friend, and was alone in those desolate mountain wilds. Two eagles circled in the air beneath him; save for this, all was motionless and silent.

He stretched himself upon the turf and sighed so deeply that his breast seemed nigh to bursting. At last he fell asleep, from sheer heart-ache and longing. When he awoke the clouds were rolling above his head and gathering nearer and nearer; first they moved rapidly, then a sudden calm seemed to fall upon them, and finally they closed about him in a mist so dense that he could not see one step before his face. All at once they appeared to take distinct form, and to be gliding round him in the likeness of wondrously beautiful women, clad in shimmering, snow-white garments, and holding one another by the hand. He rubbed his eyes, for he thought he still dreamed; but presently he heard that they were singing, a song so soft and low that it sounded as from afar off; and now they stretched lily-white arms towards him, while from every side came the cry, “Thou goodly youth, be mine, be mine! Come with me!”

But he shook his head.