Chapter II: Introduction (2)

“Do not despise us,” cried one; “we will give thee such happiness as shall make thee forget the valley for ever!” She parted the mist with her hand, and there appeared before him a mountain meadow, carpeted with flowers as he had never seen one before, and upon the meadow stood a shepherd’s hut built of rose-leaves, and beside it was a spring, whose pearly drops gushed out over the fresh green moss.

“Come, we will dwell there together!” called the fair one in silvery tones. “Nay, come to me!” cried another, and before his very eyes she built out of the mist a house that shone like a rainbow when the sunbeams fell upon it. Inside it was as downy as though floor and walls alike were of the softest wool; from the roof fell rainbow drops, and no sooner did they touch the earth than grass and flowers sprang up there. “We will dwell here,” cried the lovely maiden. “See, I will adorn thee, even as I am adorned;” and she cast wreaths and chains of the glittering drops about his head and his neck. But he shook them off again. “One only may deck me,” he said, with a darkening brow; “only my bride.”

“Then I will be thy bride!” exclaimed a third maiden. “See, here is my dower!” And rolling the mist into balls, she made sheep of it, ever more and more sheep, till the whole mountain--nay, all the mountains and the sky itself were full of them. They were dazzling white, with silver and gold bells about their necks, and everywhere fresh green sprang up beneath their feet. For a moment the face of the lonely shepherd cleared, but anon he waved the tempting picture aside. “I have but one flock,” he said, “my own, and I desire no other.”

Then the mist grew thicker and darker again; he was soon surrounded by black clouds once more, and from their midst the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled dreadful and near. And in the thunder a voice spoke: “Rash son of Earth, thou that hast dared despise us, to destruction art thou doomed!” Then a fresh peal of thunder seemed to rend the very mountain, and as it rolled on toward the valley, snowflakes began to fall around Jonel, first lightly, then thicker and thicker, till all the mountain-top was covered, and his cloak, his hair and his eyebrows were frosted over. And, ’mid the soft patter of the descending snow, the sweet voices rang out again in rich harmony, the sound of shepherds’ pipes and Alpine horns mingled with their song, and a palace built by unseen hands rose before him--a palace of snow so dazzling in its radiance that now and again he had to shield his eyes from it. And lo! when he looked up, the moon and the stars had assembled in the palace, and illuminated it so that the walls shone quite transparent. The moon sat enthroned on high upon a downy couch and watched the stars, that were holding one another by the hand and dancing a _hora_. The blacker the heavens became, the more stars flocked into the palace, and whenever the moon beckoned, another little star left the sky and hurried in. There were quite tiny stars, like children, that rolled about with one another, and laughed and played at the feet of the moon. Others marched in majestically, wearing a long train--a train as long as the whole Bucegi, that swept over all the mountain-tops and was borne by a host of little stars, all in shining dresses and decked with wreaths and crowns of wondrous brightness. The gates of the palace opened wider of their own accord as these mighty stars appeared. And one of these commanded the moon to come down from her seat and do obeisance. Then that star beckoned to Jonel and said, “Come, child of man, be thou my consort; with me thou shalt range over the universe, my little stars shall be thy servants, and thou thyself shalt bathe, a shining star, in a flood of radiance!”

Jonel, without knowing it, had drawn close to the gateway, and was listening to these entrancing tones, while the other stars all sang together in soft accompaniment. Then the moon raised her head and looked at him, and she was so like Irina that Jonel clutched at his heart and cried out, “Nay, were the whole world at my feet, I would but offer it to Irina!”

Then there arose a rustling, roaring sound, that ended in a fearful crash--the stars swept by towards heaven, in an endless, mighty train--the palace fell, burying Jonel in its ruins--and the moon gazed down pale and sad upon the desolate snow-drifts.

But the dwarfs, who had heard the fearful crash overhead, now climbed painfully forth from the recesses of the mountain to see whether their roof were in danger. And so they discovered the vast heap of precious stones of which the palace had been built, and began in great glee to collect this costly treasure, and to drag it down into the fastnesses of the mountain, where they heaped it up in their mighty vaults. Thus they came upon poor Jonel, and since there was still some life left in him, and he was so fair to look upon--far more so, certainly, than any of themselves--they dragged him down too, with much trouble, and laid him upon a couch of their softest moss. They drew water from both hot and cold springs, washed and bathed him, and then carried him to the great underground lake that feeds all earthly springs. After they had plunged him once into those waters he awoke healed of all pain, and looked about him in astonishment.

“Where am I?” he exclaimed at last. And well might he be amazed. For above him vaults of shimmering rock rose to giddy heights and were lost in darkness; and at his feet a lake stretched forth, so far, so far, that it seemed as though it must fill up the whole earth within, and it too was lost in dark distance. All around thousands of gnomes were standing, running, or climbing; they wore long beards, and carried lights, some in their girdles, some upon their heads. Countless hosts of them were busy carrying jewels to the lake, washing them in its water--whereby their radiance was greatly enhanced--and storing and arranging them in chambers or upon heaps. Many of the gnomes came in upon rafts, bringing treasure of hitherto unknown stones with them; others loaded up rafts for a far voyage and pushed off from shore.

There was such a stir and din of lights and voices in the great vault that Jonel was fairly bewildered. Yet all seemed to understand their business quite clearly, save those who surrounded him, and they did not appear to know what they should do with him. But a sudden longing seized him to journey away into the unknown, dark distance, and he hurried towards a raft that was just about to put off. Then there arose from the waves a beautiful woman; she was as like to Irina as though she had been her sister, and she stretched out her arms towards Jonel. With a great cry of “Irina!” he would have flung himself down to her, but that twenty strong arms held him back, and twenty others as strong began to rain blows upon him. He made resistance, for the beautiful woman still beckoned to him from the water; but his captors would not let go their hold, and even began to stone him in their anger.

Then on a sudden there appeared before him a dwarf who wore a crown upon his head, and who, commanding the others to desist, said, “Thou art mistaken, Jonel; thy bride is not here; she waits for thee in the valley. This is my appointed bride, and for her I have tarried many a long year.” At this an angry look, that yet only enhanced her charm, crossed the fair woman’s face, and with a threatening gesture she dived beneath the waves.

The little king sighed, and Jonel sighed, and all the dwarfs, being good, faithful subjects, sighed too; yet they still held their stones in readiness, lest perchance Jonel should be condemned to die. But the king gazed pityingly at the goodly shepherd-lad, and bade his people wash him once more in the waters of the healing spring, since he was bleeding from many wounds. With youth and beauty thus renewed, he was escorted, by the king’s orders, to the mountain-top where they had found him, and as the little monarch bade him farewell he added, “Thou art surely to blame, Jonel; thou hast forgotten thy duty for the sake of a fair woman. Thy faithfulness to her is beautiful and great, but thine unfaithfulness to thy duty is greater; and though I may understand the feeling that overmastered thee, I cannot avert the punishment that awaits thee.”

With a heavy heart did Jonel take his stand once more upon the lonely peak, around which the storm was still raging.

Its violence increased with every moment, as though it would fain have cast down the solitary mortal from the height whereon he stood, to dash him into a thousand pieces. Jonel took firm hold of a projection in the rock, and glanced wildly about him, expecting to see new enemies, new dangers and temptations, rise up on every side. He felt as though the storm were crushing him to the earth, as though it were tearing and dragging at his heart, as though he were dying of his agony and grief. He clung yet more closely to the rock, that seemed to reel beneath the pressure.

And amid the raging and the din round about him he caught sounds, now as of many voices, and again as of one voice alone, calling, enticing, threatening; then there was a blare of trumpets, that seemed to cleave his very brain; and suddenly his love for Irina changed into bitter, burning hate, since it was she who with laughing lips had sent him to his death. Yea, he would wait out his time here, unshaken to the end; but in spring he would go down and take leave of her with scorn, for ever! No woman should possess his heart; that should be for his flock alone, the flock he had shamefully forsaken.

Then there rang forth from the rock a deep and mighty voice: “Nay, lad! thou art mine, in my power, irrevocably and for ever!” and in a moment the rock changed into a giant woman’s form, that embraced Jonel with stony arms and kissed him with lips of stone. In horror he strove to free himself from her, and could not. “Who art thou?” he cried. “Have all the powers of hell conspired together against me? Who art thou--unless thou be Velva?”

But the woman had turned to rock again, and through the storm these words echoed: “I am the Spirit of Yearning, and thou art mine--mine the last lips thou shalt ever kiss.”

Then a great silence fell upon the place, and the sun broke forth from behind the clouds. It shone upon a pale man, who stood leaning upon his Alpine horn and gazing into the valley, and far away to the Danube. He neither sighed nor moved, and the beating of his heart did not stir his arms, which were folded upon his breast.

Save for the languid motion of his eyelids no one could have told that he still lived. Anon the surrounding world began to awake to life. Ice and snow melted and ran down in streams to the valley, while young green crept forth upon the spots the snow had covered. But Jonel never moved. The forest shook off its withered leaves and the new buds began to swell. But Jonel never seemed to heed them. Up the mountain slopes came the voices of twittering birds, and the sound of the woodland streams rushing on under the warm rain. But Jonel did not hear. It seemed as though all things living had drawn near to awaken him, yet in vain; he only gazed forth toward the Danube, as though he were turned to stone. Then all at once his face awoke to life, his eyes shone, a faint colour came upon his cheek, and with open arms and outstretched neck, he stood listening as the sound of barking dogs and tinkling bells drew nearer. Now he could plainly see the white fleeces of his flock, and he put his horn to his lips to sound a welcome. But even as he did so he clutched at his heart, and wailing forth the words “I die!” he sank upon the earth.

In vain did his dogs lick him lovingly on hands and face, in vain did his _mioritza_ stand bleating beside him and his fellow-shepherds call him by name; he lay still, with a happy smile upon his wan face, and gave answer to none. The Alpine horn, whose voice his breath had so lately stirred, lay broken beside him, and nought around him bore witness to the battles the young warrior had fought. They buried him where he lay, and named the mountain _Vîrful cu Dor_--“the Peak of Yearning.” Often have I been up there and seen his grave, and the sheep love to browse upon it still.

IV

FURNICA

There was once a beautiful maiden, Viorica by name; she had hair like gold, and eyes like the blue sky, and cheeks like carnations, and lips like cherries, and her body was as lithe as the rushes that sway by the riverside. All men rejoiced when they beheld this fair maiden, yet not so much on account of her beauty as because of her wondrous diligence. When she went to the spring with her pitcher on her head she carried her distaff in her girdle and spun the while. She could weave too, and embroider like a fairy. Her shifts were the finest in the whole village, wrought with black and red stitches, and with wide seams of broidery on the shoulders. She had adorned her petticoat, and even her Sunday hose, with flowers wrought in the same way. In short, it seemed as though the little hands could never rest; in field and meadow she did as much work as in the house; and all the lads turned their eyes upon the fair Viorica, who should one day be such a notable housewife. But she never turned her eyes toward them; she would hear no talk of marriage; there was plenty of time for that, she said, and she had to care for her old mother. Thereupon the mother would bend her brows, and say that, for her part, she thought a stalwart son-in-law would be but a prop the more. But this troubled the little daughter, who would ask whether she were of no more use at all, that the mother should be so set upon having a man into the house.

“The men do but make a deal more work for us,” said she; “for we must spin and stitch and weave for them as well as ourselves, and then we never find time to get the field-labor done.”

Then the mother would sigh, and think of her dead son, for whom she had made so many fine linen shirts, and washed them so dazzlingly white that all the village maidens gazed their eyes out, looking after him. It had never been too much trouble for her--but then, what will not a mother do, indeed, and never be weary!

The hour came when Viorica had to own that her mother had been right to wish for a son-in-law, even as though something had warned her that she was not much longer for this world. She began to fail, and all her daughter’s love was powerless to hold her upon earth. The fair maiden had to close the beloved eyes; and now she was all alone in the little house. For the first time, her hands lay idle in her lap. For whom, indeed, should she work now? There was no one left to her.

One day, as she sat upon her threshold and gazed sadly forth, she saw something long and black moving across the ground towards her; and, behold! it was an endless procession of ants. No one could have told whence the creeping host had travelled, it reached so far into the distance. But now it halted, forming into a mighty circle round about Viorica, and one or two of the ants stepped forth and spoke thus:

“Well do we know thee, Viorica, and oft have we admired thy industry, which we may liken to our own; and that is a thing we seldom notice among mortal men. We know, too, that thou art now alone in the world, and so we pray thee to go hence with us and be our Queen. We will build thee a palace, finer and larger than the largest house thou hast ever seen. Only one thing thou must promise--that thou wilt never return to dwell among men, but stay with us faithfully all thy life long.”

“I will stay with you gladly,” replied Viorica, “for I have nothing more to hold me here except my mother’s grave; but that I must still visit, and bring flowers, wine, and cake to it, and pray there for her soul.”

“Thou shalt visit thy mother’s grave; only thou must speak with no man on the way, else wilt thou be unfaithful to us, and our revenge shall be terrible.”

So Viorica went forth with the ants, a far, far way, until they reached the spot that seemed most fitting for the building of her palace. Then Viorica saw how far the ants surpassed her in skill. How could she have raised up such a building in so short a time? There were galleries, one above another, leading into spacious halls, and farther yet, into the innermost recesses where the pupæ, or infant ants, dwelt, that were carried out whenever the sun shone, and brought quickly under shelter again as often as there was a threatening of rain. The chambers were daintily decked with the petals of flowers, fastened on to the walls with pine needles; and Viorica learnt to spin cobwebs, out of which canopies and coverlets were fashioned. Higher and higher grew the building, but the apartment that was prepared for Viorica was more beautiful than any vision of her dreams. Many galleries led to it, so that she could hold communication with all her subjects with the greatest rapidity. The floors of these galleries were laid over with poppy-leaves, so that the feet of the Queen should rest on nothing but purple. The doors were of rose-leaves, and the hinges were spiders’ threads, so that they could open and shut noiselessly. The floor of the room was covered with a thick velvety carpet of edelweiss, into which Viorica’s rosy feet sank softly down; for she needed to wear no shoes here, they would have been far too clumsy, and would have trodden the flower-carpets to pieces. The walls were hung with a tapestry cunningly woven of carnations, lilies of the valley, and forget-me-nots, and these flowers were constantly renewed, so that their freshness and perfume were always entrancing. The ceiling had a tent-like covering of lily-leaves stretched across it. The bed had taken the diligent little ants many weeks to prepare; it was all made of pollen, the softest they could find, and a cobweb of Viorica’s spinning was spread over it. When she lay there asleep she was so lovely that the stars would have fallen from heaven, could they have seen her. But the ants had built her room in the most secret recesses of the palace, and guarded their beloved Queen jealously and well; even they themselves scarcely dared to look upon her in her sleep.

Life in the ant-hill could scarce have been made happier or fairer than it was. One and all, they took a pride in doing the most they could, and trying to surpass each other in pleasing their industrious Queen. They were as quick as lightning in carrying out her every command; for she never gave too many orders at once, and never unreasonable ones; but her gentle voice sounded ever as though it were but giving some friendly advice or opinion, and her eyes expressed her thanks in a sunny glance. The ants often declared that they had the sunshine dwelling within their house, and exulted over their good fortune. They had made a special terrace for Viorica, where she could enjoy air and sunlight when her room grew too confined; and from thence she could observe the progress of the building, which was already as high as many a mountain. One day she sat in her room embroidering a dress, upon which she had sewn butterflies’ wings with the threads from a silkworm that the ants had brought in for her. None but her dainty fingers could have accomplished such a task. All on a sudden there was a tumult round about her mountain; the sound of voices rang forth, and in a moment all her little kingdom was thrown into alarm, and her subjects came breathlessly crowding about their Queen and crying, “They are overthrowing our house; evil men are trampling it down. Two, nay, three galleries have fallen in, and the next is threatened. What shall we do?”

“Is that all?” asked Viorica calmly. “I will bid them stay their course, and in a few days the galleries will be built up again.” She hurried through the labyrinth of galleries, and appeared suddenly upon her terrace. Looking down, she beheld a splendid youth, who had just dismounted from his horse, and was engaged with some of his followers in turning up the ant-hill with sword and lance. But when she appeared they all stopped short, and the noble youth stood shielding his dazzled eyes with his hand as he gazed upon the radiant figure in its shining draperies. Viorica’s golden hair fell in waves to her very feet, a delicate colour flooded her cheeks, and her eyes shone like stars. She dropped them, indeed, a moment before the young man’s glance; but soon she raised them again, and from her rosy mouth her voice came ringing forth--

“Who are ye that have laid such rude hands upon my kingdom?”

“Forgive, fairest lady!” cried the youth, “and as surely as I am a knight and a king’s son, I will henceforth be thy most zealous defender! How could I guess that a fairy--nay, a goddess--reigned over this kingdom?”

“I thank thee,” answered Viorica. “I need no other service save that of my faithful subjects; and all I ask is, that no foot of mortal man shall intrude upon my kingdom.”

With these words she disappeared as though the mountain had swallowed her up, and those outside could not see how hosts of ants were kissing her feet and escorting her back in triumph to her chamber, where she took up her work once more as calmly as though nothing had happened. And outside, there, before the mountain, the king’s son stood as though in a dream, and for hours could not be prevailed upon to remount his horse. He still kept hoping that the beautiful Queen would appear again--even though it were with angry word and glance, he would at least see her once more! But he only saw ants and yet more ants, in an endless stream, busying themselves with all diligence in repairing the mischief that his youthful thoughtlessness had occasioned. He could have crushed them under foot in his anger and impatience, for they seemed not to understand, or perhaps not even to hear, his questions, and ran quite boldly in front of him, in their new-found sense of security. At last he dejectedly mounted his steed, and so, plotting and planning how he might win the loveliest maid his eyes had ever beheld, he rode on through the forest till nightfall, to the great discontent of his followers, who consigned both ant-hill and maiden to the devil, as they thought of the supper-table and the bumpers of wine that had long been awaiting them.

Viorica had gone to rest later than any of her subjects. It was her wont to visit the nurseries herself, to see to the infants and feel if their little beds were soft enough; so she glided about, lifting one flower-curtain after another, with a fire-fly clinging to her finger-tips, and looked tenderly after the little brood. Now she went back into her room, and dismissed all the fire-flies, who had been lighting her about her work for many hours. She only kept one little glow-worm beside her while she undressed. She was used to fall at once into the deepest and quietest sleep, but to-night she tossed restlessly to and fro, twisting her hair about her fingers, sitting up and then lying down again, and all the time feeling so hot--oh, so hot! Never before had she been sensible of a lack of air in her kingdom, but now she would gladly have hurried forth, only that she feared to be heard and to corrupt others by her bad example. Had she not already, though under much pressure from the others, been obliged to pass many a harsh sentence, to banish some ants from her jurisdiction, because they had indulged in forbidden wanderings--nay, even to condemn some to capital punishment, and, with a bleeding heart, to see them ruthlessly stung to death?

The next morning she was up earlier than any of the rest, and gave them a surprise by showing them one of the galleries that she had built up all alone.

Doubtless she herself did not know that whilst doing so she had cast several glances towards the forest, and had even stood listening for a few moments.

She was scarcely back in her chamber again before some of the ants hurried to her in terror, crying, “The bad man who came yesterday has returned, and is riding round our hill!”

“Let him be,” replied Viorica, the Queen, quite calmly; “he will do us no more harm.” But the heart of Viorica, the lovely maiden, beat so fast that she could scarce draw breath.

A wondrous unrest had come over her; she roamed about far more than was her wont; she was always thinking that the baby-ants were not enough in the sunshine, and carrying them out herself, only to bring them in again as quickly; and she often gave contradictory orders. The ants could not tell what had befallen her, and took twice the pains to do all their tasks quickly and well. They surprised her with a splendid new vaulted hall, too; but she gazed at it with an abstracted air and praised it but scantily. The sound of horses’ hoofs was now constantly heard, both late and early, round about the mountain; but for many days Viorica never showed herself. A desperate yearning for the companionship of human beings, which she had never yet felt, now seized upon her. She thought of her native village, of the Hora, of her little house, of her mother, and of her mother’s grave, which she had never again visited.

After a few days she announced to her subjects that she thought of making a pilgrimage to her mother’s grave, and at this the ants inquired, in alarm, whether she were no longer happy with them, since she had begun to think of her home again.

“Nay,” replied Viorica, “I would go for a few hours only, and be back among you before nightfall.”

She refused all escort, but one or two of the ants followed her, unobserved, afar off. Everything looked greatly changed to her, and she thought she must have been away a long time. She began to reckon how long it could have taken the ants to build the great mountain wherein they dwelt, and said to herself that it must have been years. Her mother’s grave was no longer to be found, the spot was so overgrown with grass and weeds, and Viorica wandered about the churchyard weeping, since here too she was nought but a stranger. Evening drew on, and still Viorica was seeking for the grave she could not find. Then close beside her she heard the voice of the King’s son. She would have fled, but he held her fast and spoke to her of his mighty love, with such gentle and moving words that she stood still with bowed head, listening to him. It was so sweet to hear a human voice once more, and to hear it speak of love and friendship. Not until the night had grown quite dark did she remember that she was no forlorn orphan, but a Queen forgetful of her duties, and that the ants had forbidden her to hold any further converse with mankind. Then she broke away and fled in haste from the King’s son; but he pursued her, with caressing words, to the very foot of her mountain. Here she prayed and implored him to leave her, but he would only consent upon her promising to meet him again the following evening.

She glided noiselessly in, feeling her way along the galleries, and looking fearfully behind her, for she fancied she heard the sound of hurriedly tripping feet and whispering voices all around. No doubt it was but the anxious beating of her heart, for as soon as she stood still all was silence. At last she reached her chamber and sank in exhaustion upon her couch, but no soothing sleep fell on her eyelids. She felt that she had broken her promise; and who would now hold her in respect, since her word was no longer sacred? She tossed uneasily to and fro; her pride revolted against any secrecy, and yet she knew the ants only too well--their implacable hate, their cruel punishments. Many times she raised herself on her elbow to listen, and always she seemed to hear the hurried tripping of thousands of little feet, as though the whole mountain were alive.

When she felt that morning drew near, she lifted one of the rose-leaf curtains to hurry out into the open. But what was her amazement when she found the doorway completely stopped up with pine-needles! She tried another, then a third, until she had been the round of them all. In vain--they were all filled in to the very roof. Then she called aloud, and lo! the ants appeared in hosts, creeping in through countless tiny, invisible openings.

“I must go forth into the air,” said Viorica in commanding tones.

“Nay,” replied the ants, “we cannot let thee forth, or we shall lose thee.”

“Do ye then obey me no more?”

“Yea, in all things, save this one. Crush us under foot in punishment if thou wilt; we are ready to die for the good of our community, and to save the honour of our Queen.”

Viorica bowed her head, and tears gushed from her eyes. She implored the ants to give her back her freedom, but the stern little creatures held their peace, and all at once she found herself alone in those dark halls.

Oh, how Viorica wept and wailed and tore her beautiful hair! Then she began to try and dig an opening with her tender fingers, but all she scooped out was filled in again as quickly, so that she was fain at last to throw herself upon the ground in despair. The ants brought her the sweetest flowers, and nectar and dewdrops to quench her thirst, but all her prayers for freedom remained unanswered.

In the fear that her wailing might be heard without, the ants built their hill higher and higher, till it was as high as the peak Vîrful cu Dor, and they called their mountain Furnica, or “the ant.” The King’s son has long since left off riding round about the mountain, but in the silence of the night one can still hear the sound of Viorica’s weeping.

V

THE CARAIMAN

The Caraiman towers up, dark and threatening of aspect, with his mighty peak of rock, that looks as though a great fragment of it had been partly loosened, and were hanging in mid-air. That part of the rock is shaped like a set of bagpipes--and this is the tale they tell about it.

Long, long ago, when the sky was nearer to the earth than now, and there was more water than land, there dwelt a mighty sorcerer in the Carpathians. He was as tall as the tallest pine-tree, and he carried upon his head a whole tree with green twigs and budding branches. His beard, that was many yards long, was of moss, and so were his eyebrows. His clothing was of bark, his voice was like rolling thunder, and beneath his arm he carried a set of bagpipes, as big as a house. He could do anything he liked with his bagpipes. When he played softly, young green sprang up all round about him, as far as his eye could reach; if he blew harder, he could create living things; but when he blew fearfully loud, then such a storm arose that the mountains shook and the sea shrank back from the rocks, so that more land was left uncovered.

Once he was attacked by some powerful enemies, but instead of having to defend himself, he merely put the bagpipes to his lips, and changed his foes into pines and beech-trees. He was never tired of playing, for it delighted his ear when the echo sent back the sound of his music to him, but still more was his eye delighted to see all grow into life around him. Then would thousands of sheep appear, on every height and from every valley, and upon the forehead of each grew a little tree, whereby the Caraiman might know which were his; and from the stones around, too, dogs sprang forth, and every one of them knew his voice. Since he had not noticed much that was good in the inhabitants of other countries, he hesitated a long while before making any human beings. Yet he came to the conclusion that children were good and loving, and he decided to people his land with children only. So he began to play the sweetest tune he had ever yet composed--and behold! children sprang up on every side, and yet more children, in endless crowds. Now you can fancy how wonderful the Caraiman’s kingdom looked. Nothing but play was ever carried on there; and the little creatures toddled and rolled around in that beautiful world and were very happy. They crept under the ewes and sucked the milk from their udders; they plucked herbs and fruit and ate them; they slept on beds of moss and under overhanging rocks, and were as happy as the day was long. Their happiness crept even into their sleep, for then the Caraiman played them the loveliest airs, so that they had always beautiful dreams.

There was never any angry word spoken in the kingdom of the Caraiman, for these children were all so sweet and joyful that they never quarrelled with one another. There was no occasion for envy or jealousy either, since each one’s lot was as happy as his neighbour’s. And the Caraiman took care that there should be plenty of sheep to feed the children; and with his music he always provided enough of grass and herbs, that the sheep, too, might be well nourished.

No child ever hurt itself, either; the dogs took care of that, for they carried them about and sought out the softest, mossiest spots for their playgrounds. If a child fell into the water, the dogs fetched it out; and if one were tired, a dog would take it upon his back and carry it into the cool shade to rest. In short, the children were as happy as though they had been in Paradise. They never wished for anything more, since they had never seen anything outside their little world.

There were not yet any “smart” or “ugly” clothes then; nor any fine palaces with miserable huts beside them, so that no one could look enviously at his neighbour’s belongings. Sickness and death were unknown, too, in the Caraiman’s country; for the creatures he made came into the world as perfect as a chick from its shell, and there was no need for any to die, since there was so much room for all. All the land which he had redeemed from the sea had to be populated, and for nothing but sheep and children there was room on it, and to spare, for many a long day.

The children knew nothing of reading or writing; it was not necessary they should, since everything came to them of itself, and they had to take no trouble about anything. Neither did they need any further knowledge, since they were exposed to no dangers.

Yet, as they grew older, they learnt to dig out little dwellings for themselves in the ground, and to carpet them with moss, and then of a sudden they began to say, “This is mine.”

But when once a child had begun to say, “This is mine,” all the others wanted to say it too. Some built themselves huts like the first; but others found it much easier to nestle into those that were already made, and then, when the owners cried and complained, the unkind little conquerors laughed. Thereupon those who had been cheated of their belongings struck out with their fists, and so the first battle arose. Some ran and brought complaints to the Caraiman, who in consequence blew a mighty thunder upon his bagpipes, which frightened all the children terribly.

So they learnt for the first time to know fear; and afterwards they showed anger against the tale-bearers. In this way even strife and division entered into the Caraiman’s beautiful, peaceful kingdom.

He was deeply grieved when he saw how the tiny folk in his kingdom behaved in just the same way as the grown people in other lands, and he debated how he might cure the evil. Should he blow them all away into the sea, and make a new family? But the new ones would soon be as bad as these, and then he was really too fond of his little people. Next he thought of taking away everything over which they might quarrel; but then all would become dry and barren, for it was but over a handful of earth and moss that the strife had arisen, and, in truth, only because some of the children had been industrious and others lazy. Then he bethought himself of making them presents, and gave to each sheep and dogs and a garden for his particular use. But this only made things far worse. Some planted their gardens, but others let them run wild, and then perceived that the cultivated gardens were the fairest, and that the sheep that had good pasture gave the most milk. Then the trouble became great indeed. The lazy children made a league against the others, attacked them, and took away many of their gardens. Then the industrious ones moved to a fresh spot, which soon grew fair also under their hands; or else they refused to be driven out, and long conflicts arose, in the course of which some of the children were slain. When they saw death for the first time they were greatly frightened and grieved, and swore to keep peace with one another. But all in vain--they could not stay quiet for long; so, as they were now loth to kill one another, they began to take away each other’s property by stealth and with cunning. And this was far sadder to see; the Caraiman, indeed, grew so heavy of heart over it that he wept rivers of tears. They flowed down through the valley and into the sea; yet the wicked children never considered that these were the tears their kind father was weeping over them, and went on bickering and quarrelling. Thereupon the Caraiman wept ever more and more, and his tears turned to torrents and cataracts that devastated the land, and ended by changing it into one large lake, wherein countless living creatures came to their death. Then he ceased weeping, and blew a mighty wind, which left the land dry again; but now all the green growth had vanished, houses and gardens lay buried under heaps of stones, and the sheep, for lack of pasture, no longer gave any milk. Then the children cut their throats open with sharp stones, to see if the milk would not flow out in a fresh place; but instead of milk, blood gushed out, and when they had drunk that they became fierce, and were always craving for more of it. So they slew many other sheep, stealing those of their brethren, and drank blood and ate meat. Then the Caraiman said, “There must be larger animals made, or there will soon be none left!” and blew again upon his bagpipes. And behold! wild bulls came into the world, and winged horses with long scaly tails, and elephants, and serpents. The children now began to fight with all these creatures, and thereby grew very tall and strong themselves. Many of the animals allowed themselves to be tamed and made useful; but others pursued the children and killed them, and as they no longer dwelt in such peace and safety, many grievous and dangerous sicknesses appeared among them. Soon they became in all respects like the men of other lands, and the Caraiman grew more and more soured and gloomy, since all that which he had intended to use for good, had but turned to evil. His creatures, too, neither loved nor trusted him, and instead of perceiving that they themselves had wrought the harm, thought that the Caraiman had sent sorrow upon them out of wanton cruelty and sport. They would no longer listen to the bagpipes, whose sweet strains had of old been wont to delight their ears. The old giant, indeed, did not often care to play on his pipes now. He had grown weary for very sorrow, and would sleep for hours together under the shade of his eyebrows, which had grown down into his beard. But sometimes he would start up out of sleep, put the pipes to his mouth, and blow a very trumpet-blast out into the wicked world. Hence there at last arose such a raging storm that the trees ground, creaking and groaning, against one another, and caused a fire to burst out, so that soon the whole forest was in flames. Then he reached up with the tree that grew upon his head, till he touched the clouds, and shook down rain, to quench the fire. But all this while the human beings below had but one thought--how to put the bagpipes to silence for ever and ever. So they set out with lances and spears, and slings and stones, to give battle to the giant; but at the sight of them he burst into such laughter that an earthquake took place, which swallowed them all up, with their dwellings and their cattle. Then another host set out against him with pine-torches, wherewith to set his beard on fire. He did but sneeze, however, and all the torches were extinguished and their bearers fell backwards to the earth. A third host would have bound him while he slept, but he stretched his limbs, and the bonds burst, and all the men about him were crushed to atoms. Then they would have set upon him all the mighty wild beasts he had created. But he swept the air together and made thereof an endless fall of snow, that covered them over and over, and buried them deep, and turned to ice above them; so that after thousands of years, when their like was no more to be seen on earth, those beasts still lay, with fur and flesh unchanged, embedded in the ice.

Then they bethought themselves of getting hold of the bagpipes by stealth, and carrying them off while the giant was asleep. But he laid his head upon them, and it was so heavy that men and beasts together could not drag the pipes from under it. So at last they crept up quite softly and bored a tiny hole in the bagpipes--and lo! there arose such a storm that one could not tell earth or sea or sky apart, and scarcely anything survived of all that the Caraiman had created. But the giant awoke no more; he is still slumbering, and under his arm are the bagpipes, which sometimes begin to sound, when the storm-wind catches in them, as it hurries down the Prahova valley. If only some one could but mend the bagpipes, then the world would belong to the children once more.

VI

THE STAGS’ VALLEY

Between the mountains Caraiman and Omul lies a wide valley shaped like a crescent. It is called _Valea Cerbului_--the Stags’ Valley--though for a long time past no stags have been seen there. But the valley contains something else which time cannot do away. All along the foot of the mountain, and leaning up against it, stand a number of gigantic stone figures, with unmistakable hands and faces, not unlike statues of the ancient Egyptian gods. A strange legend is told about these figures.

In days gone by there dwelt among these mountains a race of men, proud and of mighty strength, who were feared in all the region round about, for whatever they undertook was sure of success. From the hour of their birth they lived out under the open sky, slept upon the snow, and bathed in the icy mountain-streams. They were so tall that they could climb the highest mountains in a few steps; and if they did but give a tree one single stroke, it remained crooked for all time to come. They drank the milk of winged hinds and rode upon winged stags, whose wings, however, only increased their speed in covering the ground, for they could not rise into the air with burdens upon their backs.

An aged, very aged King ruled over these men; he was so wise that they consulted him about everything, and obeyed him like children. It was a glorious sight when the old man, with waving white locks and beard, swept by upon his winged stag, all his men following after, like a storm-cloud, beneath whose thunder the Carpathians shook again.

There was something, however, which filled them all with deepest concern. King Briar had no son, but only one daughter--a glorious maiden, as tall as a fir-tree, as bold as a boy, and so strong that she could lead the wild winged stags three and four on one halter, without giving way a step when they reared and tore at the bridle.

The men held a great council, and came to lay their anxious thoughts before the King. “May the Great Spirit send thee yet a long, long life,” said they, “but when he shall call thee down to the golden caverns below, whom are we to choose in thy stead, since thou hast no son? We would gladly choose thy daughter, and gladly would we serve her, but how can we submit a maiden to the hard test our kings have to undergo?”

The King stroked his white beard and answered: “Who knows but my child would endure the ordeal as heroically as though she were a lad? Ye can see that in all other matters she is brave and strong, and if she should choose a good and a wise mate, ye would be as happy then as ye are now. I will ask her if she will make the trial.”

King Briar clapped his hands. Then the Carpathians trembled from end to end; and presently, amid a trampling of hoofs and rustling of wings, a sound like the rushing of the storm-wind drew near.

The King’s daughter stood upright upon a stag’s back, clasping the golden chains that held his bit in one hand, while with the other she swung a whip, as long as a huge snake, that flashed in the air like a streak of fiery lightning. Her form seemed to reach up to the sky, and her hair fluttered about her like a thick cloud, hiding the sun at intervals. But, instead of the sun, the stars in her face shone forth, and the teeth that her laughing mouth disclosed, as she sang and shouted for glee.

The King glanced at his men with a smile, as though he would have said, “Is she enough of a lad for ye?”

At that moment she sprang to the ground, and throwing the chains to some of the bystanders, she cried, “There, take them; but there is not one of you can drive them all at once.” Then kneeling before the King, she asked in gentle tones, “Didst thou call me, my father?”

“Vijelia,[4] my child, arise and look upon these men; they have come to ask who shall be king after me. Whom thinkest thou?”

The maiden gazed earnestly at one and another, and when she had scanned every face, she turned again and examined each a second, yea, and a third time. Her face the while grew ever more anxious and grave, and more gloomy the frown that drew her heavy brows together, till the flashing eyes, in which a tear glistened, were darkened as by the shades of night.

Then she spoke in a deep and hollow voice: “None, my father; for not one is thine equal in my eyes. But thou, in thy wisdom, hast surely chosen long since, and chosen the best.”

“He whom I choose must submit to the test of which I still bear the scars on my body. Dost thou know the test, my child?”

“Yea, surely do I know it! It is a pity that I am not a lad. The test would not make me quail!”

“And what if I should treat thee as a lad?”

“Me!” A crimson flush overspread the cheeks and forehead and throat of the noble maiden, and with trembling lips she spoke:--

“I have not deserved so great an honour, and know not whether I have understanding enough; but the test I will gladly endure, if my father will make the first throw with his own hand. He shall himself consecrate me as his successor, but he must yet live for long years after, and grant me my freedom as of yore.”

This speech was greeted with a tempest of applause, that thundered and re-echoed till the eagles felt the air quiver around them, and the trees swayed as though beneath the northern storm-wind. The King’s daughter bent her head with a smile of acknowledgment, and thrust back the golden locks from her glowing face. The day upon which the test was to begin was now fixed, and the place for it chosen.

First of all, Vijelia had to stand through a whole day, without meat or drink, in the burning sun. If she showed any weakness or weariness, or ate and drank too greedily when evening came, she could not be king.

The second day she was to collect a mighty heap of stones from a certain river in the depths of the valley, and would have to perform her journey countless times before she could get together the requisite number of stones, which, on the third day, were to be cast at her. If her endurance failed beneath the stoning, she could not be king.

The oldest man of the tribe explained all this to her, and she listened to him with a cheerful face.

The day came--a burning hot July day--and at sunrise Vijelia, clad in a snowy woollen robe, took her stand upon a neighbouring hill-top. For the first few hours she sang, as she stood there, in a full and ringing voice; but as noon drew on, her lips and throat grew so dry, she was fain to keep silence. The sun had already passed over the highest of the mountain-peaks before she even changed her weight from one foot to the other. Suddenly she heard the sound of hoofs ascending towards her, and lo! her stags appeared, and, flying around her, fanned her with a cool breeze from their wings; then her favourite hind drew near, offering her full udders for her mistress to drink from. But Vijelia, with stern voice, bade them all depart, and with drooping heads the faithful creatures slank away to their pasture.

The hours crept slowly on, and the sun burnt so hot that the tips of Vijelia’s golden locks were singed by it. But she did not stir.

When the sun was setting the men came and offered her a drink of water, but she only moistened her lips with it, and called, “Mititica!” Then the winged hind came flying up, and she took a little milk from her, refusing all other nourishment.