Chapter IV: Introduction (4)

The beautiful Princess Irina felt her heart breaking for pity. She had given away all her jewels for the poor; she had spent her last coin to buy cattle for the peasants, but they had all been slain by the plague as soon as purchased. She had fed the hungry, till she had scarcely enough left to feed her own four little children. She stood at her window wringing her hands in despair, and prayed thus:

“O good God! hast Thou, then, quite forsaken me? Wilt Thou bring our poor land to destruction? Have we sinned yet more, that we must endure such searchings-out of Thy wrath?”

Then a soft, cool breath stole in, bearing a perfume as from the most beautiful of gardens, and a silvery voice spoke:

“Help shall arise for thee out of a river. Only seek.”

Then she went to the Prince, her husband, and to her children, and bade them farewell, promising soon to return, and saying she now knew where to seek for that which should free them all from their misery. She spoke with such cheerful assurance that it brought trust and hope to every man, for she never told them that she did not even know what she was to seek.

Then, through the burning summer heat, she began a weary pilgrimage toward the rivers. Sometimes she would still chance upon a poor, starved little horse, that would carry her a short distance, and then fall down dead, even beneath her light weight. She went up the _Olto_ river, the _Gin_, the _Buzlu_, the _Sereth_, all the rivers, both great and small. They flowed but meagrely over their stony beds, and those once mighty waters scarcely whispered as they went, they that of old were wont to rush and roar.

“Merciful God!” prayed the Princess, “let but a little cloud appear when I have found the river that is to help us!” But there arose no cloud. She was wandering for a second time up the banks of the _Argesch_, and was just about to turn sadly back, when she caught sight of the mouth of a little stream that she had not noticed before. She turned her steps hesitatingly in that direction, her heart growing heavier and heavier as she saw the stream grow smaller and more insignificant.

Wearied by her hard journey over the stones, she stood still a moment and sighed: “I can find nothing, nothing at all, and perchance my children are starving and dying! Perhaps my thought was but a foolish one--a cobweb of the brain, a lying fancy!” Even as she spoke a shadow seemed to fall upon her. She thought it was only caused by the tears which for the first time were filling her large, wan eyes. She wiped them off. Nay, there was indeed a shadow lying over the treeless waste; and when she raised her eyes, lo! the sun had hidden itself behind a tiny cloud, that yet was growing slowly larger.

Irina began to tremble for joy, that yet was mingled with dread. Had God heard her, or was it only another mistake? “Dear God,” she prayed again, “if this be the river, suffer the cloud to become larger and the rain to fall, for rain alone would be a blessing, and a great help to us in our need.” She went on a little--yes, the cloud was growing larger; she hurried forward, she ran, till she grew too weak to go farther; then a few great, heavy drops began to fall. She drank them in, with lips and eyes, with hands and hair. Now a light patter and plashing began round about her, and all at once a perfect waterspout broke forth. She struggled on in the wet loam of the river-bed as well as she could, till the stream began to swell, and dashed by in a brown, foaming flood, like a broad river. Sometimes she was forced to stand still and seek for her path, but yet she went on and on, for fear the rain should leave off. It rained all day and all night. The Princess was so wet that a stream flowed from her garments. But she wrung them out, girt them up higher, and still went on, for one whole day and night longer. Now she had reached the mountains, and often fell to the ground from exhaustion after her long journey. At last she lay down upon the river-bank and fell asleep, while the rain streamed down upon her, and the river rose higher and higher, as though it would have snatched her down and floated her away.

She awoke trembling with cold. There stood the gleaming sun, looking as fresh in the bright morning air as if he had had a bath himself. And behold! the river was no longer brown, but clear and blue as the air, and at the bottom of the water something shone and glittered like the sunbeams themselves. Irina again girt up her garments and waded in--she must see what it was that shone with so wondrous a gleam. And lo! it was pure gold. She fell on her knees, there in the stream, and gave God thanks, aloud and earnestly. Gold! gold! Now she could help! She went carefully on through the water and gathered up the golden grains and little fragments, filling her mantle with them, till the burden was almost too heavy for her. And now she hurried home with her treasure, and poured it out before her husband. Her children were yet alive, though weak and sorely exhausted; and they scarcely knew her again, she was so emaciated and sunburnt. Yet now messengers went forth into distant lands and bought corn, maize and hay, seeds and cattle; and the river never grew weary of giving till the famine was at an end, and laughing green, and sleek cattle, covered the Roumanian meadows once more. And the thankful people called the river _Rîul Doamnei_, and no one was to touch any of the gold therein, to possess it, save the Princess of the land.

But the Princesses who came after this one, no doubt made a less good use of their riches, for the river has become more niggardly, and the gold that the peasants still find in it now and then, is saved up for exhibition in the State Museum.

X

THE CAVE OF JALOMITZA

In crossing the pass between the peaks of Vîrful cu Dor and Furnica, on the other side of the Bucegi, you come upon the Jalomitza river. One of the springs which feed it rises hard by, in a vast stalactite cave, at the entrance of which stands a small cloister. From time immemorial it has always been said that there is no ending to this cave, and that a man who once went in there has never been seen again to this day.

The cave was once inhabited by a terrible enchanter, of whom it was told that he carried off all the fairest maidens round about--carried them off out of the fields, from their parents’ cottages, yes, even from before the marriage-altar. They all followed him, without resistance, but no one ever saw them more. Many a bold youth had sworn to go and free them, and had even marched bravely into the cave and called the enchanter by name: “Bucur! Bucur!” but not one had ever caught a glimpse either of Bucur or of the maidens.

But in the pretty village of Rucar, at the foot of the Bucegi, there dwelt a beautiful maiden, named Jalomitza, who had been rash enough to say that she engaged never to follow the enchanter, no matter in what shape he might appear before her, or with what promises he might try to entice her.

“And though he should even drag me into his cave,” she said, “I would still get forth again.”

This was a very daring speech, and the old folks shook their heads at it, and shrugged their shoulders, saying: “If he were really to come, she would yet go with him gladly, just like all the others.”

A short time passed, during which no one appeared, and nothing happened, to try the young girl’s courage. She was a joy for all men to look upon, with her red cheeks, her fresh, cool lips, her waving auburn hair, and her great blue eyes. Her nose was delicately cut, with transparent nostrils, only the tip had just a little impudent, upward turn. Her throat rose snow-white from her richly embroidered shift, and upon her forehead, temples, and neck the pretty reddish locks curled in wild abundance, escaping from the plaits and rebelliously defying all the efforts of the comb. When Jalomitza loosened her plaits she was as though clothed from head to foot in a golden mantle, of which she could not see the half in her little mirror when she was decking herself on a Sunday for the _Hora_.

There was one in the village who was for ever running after her, to the well, in the fields, and at the dance. But she did not care to have much to do with poor Coman, and yet he was a fine lad, and rich. He owned broad meadows, with horses, cows, buffaloes, and sheep, and wore a fine, embroidered white leather jerkin, and a long white cloak lined with red, and richly adorned with gold and coloured threads. Many a maiden looked round after Coman, but Jalomitza never did. She thought only of the enchanter Bucur, and of how she would strive with him and avenge all the poor maidens who had fallen into his clutches.

One beautiful Sunday afternoon, when the heated dancers were standing still to rest for a moment, there was heard close by the sweetest sound of flute-playing--so sweet that every heart in that gay young throng beat high with delight. All turned curiously to see who the player was, and there stood a handsome young shepherd, leaning against a tree, with his feet crossed, as quietly as though he had been there for ever--and yet no one had seen him come, and no one knew him. He played on and on, as if he were alone in the world; only once he raised his eyes and looked at Jalomitza, who had drawn quite near, and was listening to those heavenly melodies with parted lips and quivering nostrils.

After a while he looked at her again, and presently a third time.

Then Coman whispered to her from behind: “Come away, Jalomitza; yon is an impudent fellow!”

An impatient motion of the girl’s shoulders and elbows was the only reply.

“Jalomitza!” whispered the jealous lover once more, “art thou not ashamed to let thyself be stared at thus?”

Again she made no answer, but turned her back upon him.

“Jalomitza, I tell thee, yon shepherd is no other than Bucur, the enchanter!”

Just at that moment the shepherd, without leaving off his playing, nodded his head, and Jalomitza’s heart turned cold and her throat dry.

“What dost thou know about it?” she rejoined defiantly, yet her voice trembled a little.

“I know it, I can feel it! I feel it because I love thee--and because I love thee I see, too, that he has taken thy fancy, and that thou wilt fall a prey to him, as all the others have.”

“I! Never--I swear it!” cried Jalomitza, and turned deadly pale.

“Here is my flute; do thou play for us a while,” the shepherd now called out, handing his flute to Coman.

Without knowing what he did, Coman grasped the flute and began to play, and he played more beautifully than he had ever done in his life; but he presently perceived, to his horror, that he could not leave off. He improvised new _Horas_, such as he had never heard before--_Brius_, _Kindias_, he played them all, and could see, as he did so, that the stranger was always dancing with Jalomitza. Then he began to play a _Doina_, and the air was so passing sad that tears stood in all the women’s eyes, and Jalomitza implored him to stop. But he played on and on, looking round with terror in his glance, for the flute would not be silent. Evening closed in; the people, in twos and threes, began to turn homewards, and still Coman blew upon the flute, and Jalomitza stood beside him as though spell-bound. The strange shepherd had disappeared.

“Leave off, Coman,” said she; “thou art breaking my heart. Thou knowest I do not love thee; but I have sworn to thee never to belong to that other. Leave off, Coman; be sensible!”

But Coman played on, now merrily, as though he would have laughed, and now in so sad and melting a strain, that the nightingale made answer from the depths of the dewy valley. Nearer and nearer drew the nightingale; Jalomitza could see it in the moonlight, how it came and settled above Coman’s head, and sang with the flute. Then it flew off, still uttering its sweet, entrancing note, and Jalomitza followed it the whole night through, without knowing whither she went. Coman too, with his flute, followed the wonderful bird through the dewy valley, along by the edge of the stream.

Morning broke, and Jalomitza smote her hands upon her head in terror: “Where am I? I am far away from home, and this place is strange to me. Coman, where are we? I am affrighted! That bird was Bucur!”

Coman gave no answer, but only played a merry dance. Then a horse came galloping towards them over the meadow, and circled about the maiden, offering her his back to mount, and rubbing his head against her.

“Ah me!” she cried, “I know the dread one again! If I were but a bird and could flee away!”

She had scarcely said this before she was flying away in the shape of a dove, far away into the dewy morning.

But thereupon the horse was changed into a hawk, that shot down upon her from a giddy height, and bore her away in his talons toward the mountains.

“Ah, would I were a flower down in the meadow!” thought the terrified maiden; and the next instant she was growing beside the stream, a blue forget-me-not; but then the hawk became a butterfly, and circled about the flower, settling upon it, and swinging with it to and fro.

“Oh, were I rather a trout in the stream!” thought Jalomitza; and in a moment she became a trout, but the butterfly turned into a net, caught her, and lifted her up into the air, till she was like to die.

“I would I were a lizard!” thought the poor maid as she lay dying in the net; and lo! in the twinkling of an eye she was gliding as quick as thought among the grass and flowers, and fancying she was hidden beneath every stone and leaf. But from under the nearest stone a snake crawled forth, and held her spell-bound beneath his dreadful eyes, so that she could not move. They tarried a long while thus, and the little lizard’s heart beat to bursting against her sides.

“Would I had become a nun! I should have been safe in the cloister!” she thought; and in a moment the lofty dome of a church rose above her head, she saw tapers burning, and heard the voices of many hundreds of nuns re-echoing in a mighty wave of song. Jalomitza knelt, in the guise of a nun, before the picture of one of the saints; her heart was still throbbing with fear, and she rejoiced to think that she was hidden in this sanctuary. She raised her eyes in thanksgiving to the picture above her--and behold! Bucur’s eyes were gazing at her from out its face, and cast such a spell upon her that she could not quit the spot, even when the church grew empty. Night fell; the eyes began to shine and glitter, and Jalomitza’s tears fell ceaselessly down on the stones where she knelt.

“Ah me!” she cried, “even in this holy place I find no rest from thee! Would I were a cloud!” As she spoke the vaulted roof above her changed to the blue vault of heaven, and she was floating as a cloud through its boundless heights. But her persecutor turned into the wind, and hunted her from south to north, and from east to west, over the whole earth.

“I had better have been a grain of sand,” said the little cloud to itself at last. Then it sank to earth, and fell, in the form of a tiny grain of golden sand, into the _Rîul Doamnei_. But Bucur became a peasant, wading with naked feet in the river to seek for gold, and he fished up the little grain of sand out of the depths. It slipped hastily through his fingers, and turned into a doe, that fled away toward the woodland thickets. But before the doe could reach the shelter of the forest, Bucur became an eagle, shot down upon her from above, and once more bore her off in his talons toward his eyrie in the Bucegi Mountain. Hardly had he loosed his grasp of her before she fell, as a dewdrop, into the cup of a gentian blossom. But he became a sunbeam, and glanced down upon her to drink her up. Then at last, in the shape of a wild goat, she dashed, without knowing whither she went, straight towards his cave. Laughing, he pursued her in the guise of a hunter, and murmured: “I have thee now.” She ran into the cave, ever deeper and deeper, and on a sudden perceived that all the stones round about were beautiful maidens, from whose eyes tears dropped unceasingly down.

“Oh, flee, flee from hence!” a hundred voices called to her. “Thou unhappy maid! If once he kisses thee, thou wilt turn to stone like us!”

At that moment an arrow flew through the whole length of the cave, and struck the little goat as she fled. In deadly anguish she cried: “Oh, would I were a stream! then I could flow away from him.” Instantly she felt herself rushing out of the cave as a foaming mountain torrent; the enchanter uttered a terrible curse, turned into rock, and caught in his arms the little stream, that still kept on ever escaping him. Just then Coman reached the cave, and recognising his Jalomitza by her voice, as she uttered a heartrending cry of “Coman, Coman!” he gathered up all his remaining strength, and hurled his flute against the rock, in the outlines of which he could discern Bucur’s cruel grin. And now the spell was broken. Bucur could no more change his shape again than Jalomitza hers, and so she flows on to this day, away over his stony, immovable arms. But Coman built a little church before the cave, and became a monk, dwelling there in holiness, and gazing upon his fair beloved, unto his life’s end.

XI

THE NIXIES’ CLEFT

Not far from the little village of Dietenhain, in Saxony, there stands, on the bank of the Zschopau river, where it winds through the forest, a great rock full of narrow clefts. In the days of long ago, when fairies and spirits were still visible to the eyes of Sunday-children,[7] there dwelt in a cleft of this rock the King of the Nixies, who held sway over all the water-folk of the Zschopau and its tributary rivers. No one could have told, looking by day at the outside of that rugged cliff, and at the narrow entrance of the Nixies’ dwelling, how beautiful it was when night fell, and the moonbeams lit up the broad sweep of the river and crept in among the dusky trees upon its banks. For then the belated fisherman might see how all the face of the cliff seemed to melt away like a dream, and how a stately castle, built of shining crystal, arose in its place. A soft, unearthly light shone through the walls, so that one could look from end to end of the vast halls and galleries, and see how the doors and windows were cut each from a single opal, and how the whole building was hung with garlands of lotus-flowers and water-lilies. Light figures, clad in misty draperies, moved airily to and fro, and sounds of such exquisite music rang out from the place, that the very fishes rose to the surface of the river to listen, and the passing boatmen hung upon their oars as if spell-bound. But the castle was never to be seen if crowds of people set out from home on purpose to gaze at it; and always with the first ray of sunlight in the morning, it vanished like a summer cloud, the music was silenced, and the little fishes dived to the bottom of the river again.

Now, it was small wonder that there was sometimes music and dancing in the Nixie’s castle, for he had three beautiful daughters, and doubtless they often invited their friends from the neighbouring streams and caves to the palace, that they might disport themselves together. Yet it seemed that this did not satisfy the beautiful Nixies, but that they still pined for the company of mortal men, as we, too, must needs ever hanker after all that lies out of our reach and is fraught with danger. So the Nix-maidens now and then had leave, when the new moon rose at a favourable time, to go to the village dances at Dietenhain, and liked them better than the splendours of their own crystal palace. And they, too, were the despair of all the village youths, and the envy of all the village beauties, for what mortal maidens could be compared to these, with their strange, unearthly loveliness? Their delicate features were as though moulded in wax; their cheeks were as white and glistening as the foam on their own river, and, despite all the heat and agitation of the dance, remained ever as pure, as pale, and as cold as ice. Only their eyes shone with a warmer light, that would sometimes deepen to the glow of passion when they met the burning glances of their partners in the dance. But kind and sweet as they might show themselves to these partners, none of them ever heard a word pass the Nixies’ lips. Their flaxen tresses, fair to whiteness, were decked with trailing wreaths of water-plants, and their veils and draperies were woven of mist, that glistened, as they moved, with the faintest rainbow hues. A broad girdle of cunningly plaited rushes confined these draperies at the waist, and a necklace of many rows of crystal dewdrops sparkled on their bosoms. From this chain hung a fresh-water lily, that was as good as a watch to the fairy sisters, for as soon as they saw their lilies fading, they knew that the first ray of sunlight was at hand, and vanished like a dream from the dancers’ midst. Yet sometimes they would suffer a favoured partner to bear them company for a little way through the forest, but as they neared the river-bank, their gentle yet warning glances and gestures forbade the eager lovers to pursue them farther. And though many a heart was heavy for their sake, yet none ever dared disobey their warnings or rouse their displeasure, either among the youths who loved them, or the maidens whose loves they had crossed; for it was known that it is an ill thing to anger the water-folk, and that they bid their rivers take a human life for every slight that is put upon them.

So a hundred summers passed by; men were born, and grew old, and died in the village, but the Nixies’ beauty blossomed each year anew, and the lips that had kissed the grandfather, now pressed the same warm kisses on the mouths of father and son, and the kisses never grew colder.

But one day there came back from the wars to Dietenhain a young soldier, the finest lad and the most stalwart the village had ever seen. All the maidens strove to win his favour, but among them all he had eyes for one alone--Katrine, the miller’s daughter--Katrine, the boldest, proudest girl in the country-side; and the bravest, too. Had she not saved a child from drowning that had fallen into the mill-stream, and did she not drive away the wolf that had crept from the forest and prowled around the village, one winter’s day, when all the men were from home? Nay, Katrine was afraid of nothing--handsome, too, she was; but soldier Veit maintained that he cared more for a stout heart and a strong arm than for beauty, even in a woman. But perhaps Veit scarcely knew his own mind on this subject.

To be sure, nothing had yet been said of betrothal, for Veit had only been home a month; but he was always willing to carry the neighbours’ sacks of corn to be ground, and would stay leaning over the mill-bridge and talking to Katrine by the hour, till her mother said she had need of one of the friendly forest-dwarfs to come and finish her neglected work for her. But her father began to look askance at Veit, and said soldiers were wont to make too light of home-work, and of many other things.

Now a great holiday fell about this time, and there was to be a fine dance in the village on that evening. Mysterious whispers began to creep about among the lads and maidens. “The moon is in its first quarter--who knows? perhaps the Nixies will be seen at the dance,” they said; “it is many months since they were last among us.”

And one timid maiden cried, “Oh, I pray not! There is no pleasure in the dance for me when I know they are by, the silent, uncanny creatures!”

“Little care I for that,” rejoined Katrine, who was standing near; “’tis for another cause I would wish them away. They say many a heart has been broken in the village, ay, through these hundred years and more, for the sake of the vain, misty things. Now ’tis enough! Let not one of them touch aught that concerns me!”

The maidens shrank back in terror. “Hush, hush, Katrine!” they cried; “how canst thou dare speak thus--thou who dwellest by the water-side, too? Who can tell what may befall?”

Katrine laughed scornfully, all the more so, no doubt, that Veit had just joined the group, and was listening with a mocking air.

“To be sure,” he said, “Katrine is not afraid, I’ll be bound; and why should she be? I, for one, do not believe in these Nixies and their spells; there is not a Nixie of them all can lay a spell on me!”

Now it was the men’s turn to murmur. “’Tis the ignorant who boast,” said an old white-haired fellow, who leaned, smoking his pipe, against the tavern door. “Thou art a foolish fellow, Veit. There is many a one among us could speak of the Nixies’ spells. Dost thou mind poor Heinrich, who wanders about as if he were daft and speaks to no one? Hast thou marked him sitting alone in a corner of the ale-house at night? He is a living proof that the Nixies are no dream. To be sure, he has not taken the matter aright. A kiss and a laugh--that is the way to use with them.”

“They may get the laugh from me, but never a kiss,” rejoined Veit, angered at the old man’s reproof; and he exchanged a glance with Katrine, who turned away with an unwonted blush upon her cheek.

The dance was at its height. Lanterns, fastened with garlands of flowers, hung from the trees that surrounded the village-green, but their light was not needed, for the rays of the young moon flooded the dancing-space with their silvery radiance. Veit leaned against a tree; he was hot from the dance, and glad to rest as he waited for his turn to lead Katrine out. All at once he felt a cool breeze fan his cheek, and yet no wind stirred the branches above him. This was as the cool, moist breath of a fountain. He turned his head, for he fancied he caught a glimpse of something glistening in the shadow behind him. Yes, indeed, there was some one standing by him, a misty form, whose white draperies shone like a ray of moonlight among the trees. And then a pair of eyes were raised to his--eyes as deep, and yet transparent, as the waters of some mountain lake, eyes that shone, beneath the masses of pale hair, as the lake shines when the stars are mirrored in it. And that gaze drank up Veit’s very soul, and with it the memory of Katrine, and of all his promises and all his boasts. In vain Katrine waited for her partner, and turned at last in a rage to seek another, hoping by jealousy to win back her truant lover. In vain! All night long Veit danced with that misty form on the outskirts of the green, where the trees throw their deepest shadow. For the Nixies do not willingly mingle with the throng of mortal youths and maidens. There, too, in the shadow, Heinrich danced, the clouds all lifted from his brow; and yet another dancer drew near and clasped the third fairy sister in his arms. The hours flew by, and the enraptured dancers could hardly believe that the dawn was breaking, but there, on the necklace of each of the sisters, hung the water-lily, scarcely whiter than the fair bosom on which it rested--and the petals of the flower were drooping! Then suddenly Veit felt the gentle pressure lifted from his arm, and even as he looked round, the glistening forms were already disappearing among the dark pine-stems. He hastened after them, his comrades at his heels, but not all their entreaties could stay the Nixies’ fast-fleeting steps; and when their partners reached the edge of the forest, where it meets the lush, green river-meadows, the rising mists of morning had already swallowed up those fairy beings, that seemed, indeed, born of the mists themselves.

Heinrich sighed heavily, and wandered away by himself down another path that led to the river-side; and the third youth, a merry, reckless fellow, sauntered off with a careless laugh; but Veit made an angry gesture, and exclaimed as he turned his steps homeward: “I shall catch them yet; it is not thus she shall baulk me.”

But many a time was Veit doomed to disappointment. True, the Nixies returned, and oftener than was their wont; for now, whenever the moon shone, and the lads and maidens danced on the green in their spare moments, even though it might be but of a work-day evening, the white sisters crept like the moonbeams through the trees, seeking out always the same partners. And between times Heinrich grew more and more melancholy, and Veit more forgetful of his old love for Katrine, and more reckless, withal, in his speech. The old folk in the village shook their heads ever more gravely, and whispered ancient tales of boatmen who had been drawn down into the deep water by the Nixies’ rock. “Veit had better guard his tongue, and not try to blind their eyes with his foolish boasts, now that he was plainly more under the spell than any man of them all.” What would they have said had they known that the white sisters, too, had warnings whispered to them by the friendly folk who came to the crystal palace? “It was ill for Nixies ever to seek out the same man among mortals, and, indeed, to love the haunts of any mortals over-much.” Perhaps these speeches were prompted by jealousy as much in the crystal palace as they might have been in the village hut, but however this may be, the Nix-maidens heeded them not, and seemed, indeed, more eager than ever before to join the dances on the green.

Now if Veit forgot, Katrine never did; and her anger against the interlopers grew hotter and more cruel as her own pain and heartache grew deeper. She sat at home and brooded over thoughts of revenge, and she spoke with all the wise elders of the village who could tell her anything of the traditions concerning the Nixies. They dreaded being surprised by the sunlight--that was plain. But why? No one had ever yet had the courage to gainsay them, or try to hold them back and find out the truth. Love, however, gives courage, and Karl, the third partner whom the fairy sisters sought out, had sworn he loved Katrine, and only went with the Nix-maidens because Katrine slighted him. True, Katrine had given her heart to Veit, but the longing for revenge, and the desire to win back her lost love at any cost, had grown so strong in her that there was nothing she would not do to gain her end. So it was Karl now who talked with Katrine on the mill-bridge, and promised, if her love was to be his reward, to carry out the plot they made together. Then the cunning Karl set about fanning the flame that was already raging in Veit’s veins, and consuming the life of poor, foolish Heinrich. How often, Karl insinuated, had they not been on the point of winning the love of the wayward Nix-maidens, when the first rays of dawn had interrupted them! Were they always to be cheated thus? What mystery was there about these Nixies, that they would not let themselves be followed, or persuaded to outstay the rising of the sun? Nay, they had not managed wisely! At the next dance, let them lead the fairy sisters away, while the night was yet dark, to the deepest part of the forest, where no light of dawn could penetrate, and try if thus the spell might not be broken, and the love of these evasive maidens won.

He spoke to willing ears. Had not Veit said long ago that he would be master of his fairy partner at last? The plan was a good one. Why had it never been thought of before? It must be, Veit concluded, the spell that the wilful creature had laid upon him that had so dulled his mind! Heinrich, too, needed no pressing; he was clean daft for love, and hardly knew what he did any longer. So the plan was laid, and woe betide the Nixies when the time for the next dance arrived. Katrine watched for it now with anxious eyes, and her heart throbbed with bitter satisfaction when at last she saw those rainbow draperies glisten once more in the moonlight beneath the trees. But they were not long to be seen. The Nixies had suffered their fancy to ensnare them too far, and when the eager lovers spoke of a quiet space amid distant forest trees where they could dance and dally undisturbed, they consented only too easily to follow them thither. No one knew how the hours sped by in that quiet and dusky spot. Once, as they lay resting upon the grass, Karl contrived with cunning hand to unfasten the lilies from the crystal chains, and the flowers that might have warned the Nixies from their fate withered unheeded upon the moss. They were missed too late. Too late the fairy sisters grasped at their chains and sought with anxious eyes for their guardian lilies. When they espied them, they were already faded and dying. At that sight a moan, the only sound that mortal ears had ever heard from the Nixies’ lips, escaped the ill-fated sisters. They fled, as the spray of the fountain flies before the wind, through the forest-glades; but even as they reached the river-meadow, a ray of sunlight greeted them upon its verge--sunlight, that gladdens the heart of man, but to them was the shaft of death. No friendly mist spread forth a sheltering veil over the meadow; and as they felt the warmth of those piercing rays, they melted as wax before the fire, as foam upon the water. In a moment the fairy sisters were gone, and in their stead three slender rivulets, whose foamy whiteness was stained with a faint streak of red, wound their way with a complaining murmur through the green meadow, towards the river and the great rock. They disappeared among its hollows, and he who doubts the tale need but seek out the river-bank by Dietenhain, and he will find the three streamlets, and the spot that is still called the “Nixies’ cleft.”

But the spell that the fairy sisters had laid upon two human hearts was not to be broken thus. From that time Heinrich could find no rest from his remorse and sorrow, so that they drove him at last to seek his death in the fatal river. Veit, too, flying in horror from the village, was drowned in crossing the Elbe, by the great rock at Strehla, where it is said that the Nixies yearly require the sacrifice of one human life. Only the reckless Karl and the bold Katrine seem to have gone scot-free. They married after a while, and lived on beside the mill-stream without fear of the Nixies; nor can I learn that the water-folk ever succeeded in doing them any harm.

XII

THE FLYING CASTLE

Beside the stream of Gerlach, and at the foot of the Glockenberg, in the Hartz Mountains, there is a deep pit, and here--so the country-folk tell--there once stood a mighty castle, that was inhabited, not by knights or earls, but by a wicked woman, who was known only as the “Lady of the Castle.” She was learned in all manner of evil lore, and cast spells upon many of the country-people and their belongings, so that she was feared and hated throughout the district. But her favourite pastime was to capture the village maidens as they passed along the road below, and shut them up in the castle, where she made them work for her, nor ever let them out again as long as they lived. All about the woods and hedges her spies and serving-men were hidden, ready to pounce on any luckless girl whose business obliged her to cross that dangerous valley.

One might suppose that the whole country-side would have risen in arms against this hateful tyrant. But her dread power of working spells and her authority as lady of all the surrounding lands made the people afraid to rebel. At last they could bear it no longer, however, and they determined to form a strong band, and march against the castle, with their priest at their head, carrying a crucifix, to be their defence against the spells and curses of the witch. When the little army reached the castle they found the great gates closed, the drawbridge up, and the walls manned by a host of grinning dwarfs, more like apes than men, who swarmed about the battlements with threatening gestures. This sight struck terror to the hearts of the rescuers, but the priest encouraged them by the assurance that, if every man did but cross himself faithfully, there could no danger befall him from any of these fiendish apparitions. However, as the castle could not be surprised, they determined to surround and keep watch about it that night, till they could bring ladders and storm it on the following day. So sentry-fires were lighted, and preparations made for a camp, but not one of the besiegers could get to sleep that night. And behold! at midnight, as they sat round their fires, watching the dark, silent fortress with anxious eyes, they saw three tongues of blue flame shoot up from the topmost tower, and suddenly there appeared upon it the Lady of the Castle, her witch’s staff in her hand. Her tall form, veiled in black, stood out in dusky outline against the lurid blue light; and as she stood there, she waved her wand towards the four corners of heaven, and uttered some words in an unknown tongue. Immediately the ground trembled, the light of the stars was darkened, a fearful roar and turmoil were heard, and with a rending sound, as though the earth were opening beneath it, the great castle was torn from its foundations and carried by an invisible hand through the air, till it reached the top of a neighbouring mountain, where it settled like some monster bird. But as it went the voice of the witch was heard crying aloud: “If ye dare to disturb me again in my dwelling, I will take your houses too, and carry them through the air, as I do this my castle--but into the lake yonder will I cast them down.” The terror-stricken besiegers hardly dared follow the flight of the castle with their eyes, but there it was the next morning, and for many days to come, standing upon the mountain far above them.

Now there was no more question of rescuing the maidens by force, and no one, you may be sure, ever set foot on that mountain if he could help it. But the witch’s servants still haunted the woodland paths, and bore off many a hapless girl into a captivity, which now seemed more terrible than ever, far away on yon lonely hill-top.

But as the years went on, there grew up in the village a brave and pious maiden whom her parents had dedicated from childhood to the holy St. Anthony, the patron saint of the family. For it was good, they thought, to be under the protection of a saint, when there was so much evil dwelling near at hand, and so much danger to be feared. The maiden was named Antonia, and got her living as a shepherdess. This often led her into lonely places among the woods and meadows at the foot of the dreaded mountain, but she was never afraid, and always escaped being caught, though many a maid she knew was taken almost from her side. Sometimes she would even lead her sheep up the slopes of the mountain itself, for every one shunned those pastures, so that they were rich and untrodden. And as she got nearer to the castle, and looked up at its dark, frowning walls, she mused more and more upon the poor creatures shut up within it, and how they might be helped to escape. At last the matter got such hold upon her mind that she dreamed of it at night, and her dreams took clearer and clearer shape, until this is what she dreamed. She saw a garden filled with shrubs and flowers, such as she had never known before; dark walls closed it in on every side, but within all was bright and blooming. Yet there was a taint in the scent of the blossoms, and an unwholesome heaviness filled the air. She herself lay upon a mossy bank, and above her hung boughs covered with trails of purple blossom. She tried to reach them, but could not move a limb. Then a dreadful sense of terror came over her, and she called aloud upon St. Anthony, and at once the heavy air cleared, and the weight was lifted from her limbs; and as she rose, cheerful and glad once more, a voice sounded among the trees: “From within the castle help must come--from within.”

The sound of the voice woke her, and there she lay in her own bed at home, and wondered. “From within.” Did that mean that she must give herself up into captivity? The more she thought of it, the more she was sure it must be so; but she dared ask counsel of no one, for she knew her parents would never consent to her casting herself into the lion’s jaws.

And there was one other, too, in the village, who would never suffer it either. She thought of him, and sighed; yet now she thought far oftener of her captive sisters even than of him, and his glance and his smile made her sad instead of merry.

The day came--she had felt it coming for long--when she could resist the call no more: the dark walls of the castle drew her as by an irresistible fascination; and when it was time to lead her sheep homeward at evening, she gave them into the charge of another maiden who was going that way, and saying she had lost her staff upon the hill and must turn back to seek it, she sprang up the mountain-slopes.

To her surprise, no one spoke to her, no armed figures dashed out from among the bushes to seize her, but she was allowed to go on unharmed, right up to the castle. She had never been so far before, and when she reached the great gates, they looked so dark and frowning in the twilight, and the whole place so still and lonely, that for the first time her heart sank, and she almost turned back. But just then the vesper-bell sounded from the valley below, and it seemed to put heart into her, and to remind her that her saintly protector was just as near as in the valley. She advanced towards the gate, and was raising her staff to knock upon it, when it opened silently, and in the dusky porch she saw a tall figure, veiled in black, and holding a golden key. It beckoned to her, and with a beating heart Antonia entered, and heard the great door swing to behind her.

As she went forward, the air grew thick and heavy, and she felt the same sense of deadly faintness that she remembered in her dream steal over her now. Presently her guide lifted a dark hanging, that covered one of the doors in the passage they had been following, and they came out into a lofty hall. Here the darkness had fully closed in, and the great, misty spaces of the roof were lit by swinging lamps, that threw out a strong perfume as they burnt. Underneath, all along the walls, ran long divans, or heaps of cushions, covered with silken drapery, and above them hung canopies formed of huge flower-heads, like poppies, whose transparent, blood-red petals waved and fluttered gently in the upper air, shedding the same drowsy perfume as the lamps. Upon the divans many maidens lay sleeping, in all sorts of positions, just as they had sunk down while at work. The faces of some were familiar to Antonia; these were the girls who had been ravished from the village since she could remember; and others there were, who had been taken many years before her birth, and of whom she had but heard. Before every girl--for they kept their youth unchanged--stood a wide tapestry-frame, on which, through each weary day, their fingers wove strange and lovely patterns, in delicate hues of every kind. As long as daylight lasted, the witch, as Antonia learnt afterwards, kept them awake by many ingenious means of torture; by unearthly and startling sounds that broke from the vaults below--by cruel pricks from the magic needles they worked with--by strokes, too, from her fairy wand, with which she walked up and down, and which lengthened at her pleasure, so that none were out of its reach. But even so, though their fingers might move, their heads were heavy and giddy, and no thought of home, no stirrings of a desire for freedom, ever arose with enough strength to give them energy to rebel.

As she entered the hall, the witch cast off her black veil, and Antonia beheld the cruel red eyes, the lank jaws, and the grizzled tresses, the sight of which had first bereft her wretched captives of all their will and courage. But upon brave little Antonia they failed in their dreadful effect, and the witch saw it with surprise. “Here we have a hearty lass indeed,” she jeered; “and truly I might have known it, since she is the first I have known foolhardy enough to come to these gates of her own accord. Perhaps she will be able to bear the burden of the keys.” And bending down, she drew from under an iron table a heavy ebony casket, bound with silver, and a huge bunch of keys. Both of these she fastened with chains about Antonia’s shoulder, and the poor girl almost sank to the ground beneath their terrible weight. The witch grinned. “I have long been looking for a girl strong enough to carry these about for me,” she said, “and perhaps they will keep thee quiet. Now follow me; thy time for slumber is not yet.”

So all through the night, and for many other nights and days, Antonia followed her about, staggering beneath her burden, while the witch visited all the doors and grated windows of the castle, all the underground cells where she put her few unruly prisoners, or where she kept her treasures of gold and jewels, and stores of beautiful silks for the embroideries. Antonia now carried the keys of all these doors, bound about her in such a way that she herself could not raise a hand to touch one.

When the midday sun was hot, all the maidens, and Antonia among them, were allowed to spend an hour in the garden; and as soon as she entered it Antonia knew it for the place she had seen in her dreams. There were the high, dark walls, that matted boughs of ivy, and a poisonous scarlet creeper, only partly succeeded in hiding. There were the strange shrubs and nameless purple flowers, and there was to be felt the heavy, sickly air--she remembered it all so well. The sun struck through the overhanging boughs with a fierce, burning heat, as though it were shining through a roof of glass, and no refreshing breezes ever stirred the leaves, or cooled the brows of the captive maidens. Yet they never complained; and when, during their short hour of leisure, Antonia spoke to them as to old acquaintances, or told them she had come from their home, they did not seem to care about hearing of it, or to have any recollection of their former friends. She saw she could expect no help from them. From whom was she to look for it, then? Surely, only from her guardian, St. Anthony, whose voice it had been, she knew, that had bidden her “give help from within the castle.” But where, in all this bewitched, wicked place, could she find a corner to pray to him, or a spot worthy of his holy presence? Not one of the captive maidens wore her rosary, or seemed ever to think of saying a prayer. How could he turn his eyes upon such a household? Oh! could it be that she, in her earnest desire to obey his voice and help her forsaken sisters, might be thought worthy to make a shrine for him! Well, at any rate she would try.

And so, day after day, in the little time given her for rest and refreshment, Antonia toiled to make St. Anthony a shrine. She found a spot, hidden among wild-rose bushes--the only flowers in the garden that she knew--where there was a ruined pillar and what looked like the remains of an old archway. Here there were some fallen stones; and others she brought--staggering under their weight and that of her hateful keys--from more distant parts of the garden. Sometimes her strength almost gave way; sometimes she had to stop her work because of the spying eyes of the witch herself; sometimes she had to make great efforts to overcome the dull, faint feeling that the unwholesome air produced, and that she feared above all things.

But at last the work was done, and a little shrine rose unseen among the thick bushes. She covered the grey stone with a shower of rose-leaves, and the white petals of a fragrant flower that grew among the grass of the garden--and looked proudly and hopefully upon her labour of love. And now she flung herself upon her knees before it, praying St. Anthony to accept her work, to fill the shrine which she had made, and to free his children from the captivity of evil. At first there was no answer; the minutes of her short hour of rest were ebbing fast away, and the bell which called back the maidens to their tasks was beginning to sound, when her eager eyes caught sight of a shadowy form in the niche of the little shrine. It grew plainer, and a figure like that of an old man, robed in grey, hovered for a moment against the wall. Scarcely had his foot touched the rose-covered pedestal, when a sound like thunder rent the air, and a mighty blast of wind swept through the trees of the sleeping garden. Antonia fell with her face to the earth, but in the roar of the storm she was aware of these words, spoken by the same voice she had heard in her dream: “Thy prayer is heard, the prison-gates are open, and thou art freed from thy burden; but it shall fall upon her who laid it on thee--yea, for twice two hundred years.” The thunder rolled louder, and she heard and knew no more.