Murzoll's Child.
For five hours did Wally continue to ascend; now over whole fields of
fragrant Alpine plants, now sinking ankle-deep in snow-fields, or
crossing broad moraines. Last night's sleeplessness lay heavily upon
her limbs, and she almost despaired of ever reaching the end of her
journey. Her hands and feet trembled, for to struggle for life during
five hours against so steep an ascent is hard work. Large drops stood
on Wally's brow, when suddenly as by a magic stroke she stood before a
dense wall of cloud. She had turned an angle of the rock which hid the
sun, and now thick mists enveloped her and an icy breath dried the
sweat from her forehead. Her foot slipped at every step, for the ground
was like glass; she stood upon ice, she had stepped upon the Murzoll
glacier, the highest ridge of the serrated Hochjoch. Nothing grew here
but starveling mountain-grass between clefts in the snow; around were
the blue gleaming ice-crevasses, the virgin snow-flats, untrodden this
year by foot of man or beast. Mid-winter! Wally shuddered at its icy
touch. This was the forecourt to Murzoll's ice-palace, of which so many
tales are told in the Oetz valley, where the "phantom maidens" dwell,
of whom old Luckard had related many a story to the little Wally in the
long winter evenings when the snowstorms howled round the house. The
air that blew on her now from those desolate walls of ice, those caves
and dungeons, came to her with a ghostly thrill like a shudder out of
her childhood, as though in very truth there dwelt the dark spirit of
the glacier, with whom Luckard had so often frightened her to bed when
she had been naughty.
Silently she walked on. At last her deaf guide halted by a low cabin
built of stone, with a wide overhanging roof, a strong door of rough
wood, and little slits instead of windows. Within were a couple of
blackened stones for a hearth, and a bed of old rotten straw. This was
the hut of the Schnalser herdsman, who had formerly found shelter here,
and here Wally was now to dwell. She did not change countenance however
at the sight of the comfortless hut; it was neither more nor less than
a bad mountain cabin, there were many such, and she was used to hard
living. It was not such things as these that could quench her resolute
spirit; but she was exhausted to faintness; since yesterday she had
gone through more than even her unusual strength could bear.
Mechanically she helped the deaf man, whom Luckard had loaded with a
number of good things for Wally, to arrange a better bed, and to make
the desolate hut somewhat more habitable. Mechanically she eat with him
some of the food Luckard had sent. The man saw that she was pale, and
said compassionately, "There, now thou's eaten something, lie down a
while and sleep. Thou needs it. I'll fetch thee up some wood meanwhile
to last thee a few days, then I must go back, or I shall never be home
by daylight, and thy father strictly ordered me to get back to-day." He
shook up a good bed of straw that he had brought with him; she sank
down on it with half closed eyes and held out her hand gratefully.
"I'll not wake thee," he said. "In case thou'rt still asleep when I go,
I'll say goodbye to thee now. Take care of thyself and don't be
frightened. I'm sorry for thee all alone up here; but, why didn't thou
obey thy father?"
Wally heard the last words as in a dream. The deaf man left the cabin,
shaking his head compassionately; the girl was already sound asleep.
Her breast heaved painfully, for even in her sleep her past sorrow
weighed on her like a mountain. And she dreamed of her father; he was
dragging her into church by her hair, and she thought that if only she
had a knife so that she might cut off her hair she would be free. Then
suddenly Joseph stood by her, and with one stroke he cut through the
long plait, so that it remained in her father's hand; and while Joseph
was struggling with her father she ran out and climbed to the height of
the Sonnenplatte to throw herself into the torrent. But a terror came
over her, and she hesitated; then again she heard her father close
behind her, and urged by despair she made the leap. She fell and fell,
but could never reach the bottom, and suddenly she felt as if she were
met from below by a gust of wind that supported and carried her
upwards. So she floated, struggling always to keep the balance she
continually feared to lose, up to the very summit of Murzoll. But she
could gain no footing on the rock; a terrible whirlwind had seized her,
and she strove in vain to cling to the bare precipice, like a ship that
cannot reach the land. Black storm-clouds gathered together around her,
through which Murzoll's snowy summit rose in ghostly whiteness. Fiery
snakes shot through the black mass, the mountains quaked beneath a
crashing thunder-clap, and flung whirling backwards and forwards
between these mighty powers, a terror came over her that the tempest
might cast her head downwards into the abyss. She bowed and turned,
like a little ship on the swaying waves of the wind, striving only to
keep her head uppermost. But suddenly her feet were raised and she felt
that the weight of her head must carry her down, through the storm and
thunder and the black darkness of the clouds; she would have cried for
help, but could utter no sound--terror choked her voice. Then all at
once she felt herself supported, she was on firm ground, she lay in a
mountain cleft, as it seemed; but no, it was no cleft, they were giant
arms of stone that embraced her, and behold, out of the brightening
clouds a mighty face of stone bent over her: it was the hoary
countenance of Murzoll. His hair was of snow-covered fir trees, his
eyes were ice, his beard was of moss and his eyebrows of edelweiss; on
his brow was set as a diadem the crescent moon which shed its mild
radiance over the white face; and the icy eyes shone with a ghostly
light in its bluish rays. He gazed at the maiden with these cold eyes,
piercing but unfathomable, and beneath their glance the drops of agony
on her brow and the tears on her cheeks froze and fell down with a
faint ringing sound like crystal beads. He pressed his stony lips to
hers, and under the long kiss his mouth grew warm and dewy and
blossomed with Alpine roses, and when Wally looked up at him again
glacier streams flowed from the icy eyes down upon his mossy beard. The
black clouds had cleared away and the breath of spring stirred the
night.
Now Murzoll moved his lips, and his voice sounded like the dull roll of
a distant avalanche. "Thy father has banished thee," he said, "I will
receive thee as my child, for a heart of cold stone may more easily be
moved than the hardened heart of man. Thou pleasest me, thou art one of
mine; there is strength in thy nature as the rocks are strong. Wilt
thou be my child?"
"I will," said Wally, and clung to the stony heart of her new father.
"Then stay with me and go no more among men; among them there is
strife, with me there is peace."
"But Joseph, whom I love," said Wally, "shall I never have him?"
"Let him be," replied the mountain, "thou mayest not love him; he is a
chamois hunter, and to such as he my daughters have sworn destruction.
Come, I will take thee to them, that they may deaden thy heart, else
thou canst not live in our eternal peace." And he carried her through
wide halls and endless galleries of ice till they came to a vast hall
that was transparent as though of crystal; the rays of the sun shone
through and broke into millions of coloured sparks, and through the
walls heaven and earth gleamed in varied and mingled splendour. There
white maiden-forms, glistening like snow, with waving veils of mist,
were playing with a herd of chamois, and it was charming to see them
sporting with the swift-footed animals, catching them and chasing them
here and there. These were Murzoll's daughters, the "phantom maidens"
of the Oetz valley. They crowded inquisitively round Wally as Murzoll
set her down on the slippery glass of the floor. They were as beautiful
as angels, and had faces like milk and blood; but as Wally observed
them more closely, a slight shudder ran through her, for she saw that
they had all eyes of ice, like their father, and that the rosy hue of
their cheeks and lips was not that of blood, but the sap of the Alpine
rose, and they were as cold as frozen snow.
"Will you receive this maiden?" asked Murzoll. "I like her, she is
strong and firm as the rock, she shall be your sister."
"She is fair," said the maidens; "she has eyes like the chamois. But
she has warm blood, and she loves a hunter--we know!"
"Lay your hands on her heart that she may be frozen with all her love,
and live in bliss with you," said Murzoll.
The damsels hastened to her--it was like the breath of a snow
storm--and laid their cold white hands on her heart; already she felt
it shrink and throb more slowly. But she kept off the maidens with both
arms and cried, "No, no, leave me. I want none of your bliss, I want
only Joseph."
"If thou goest back amongst men we will dash Joseph to pieces, and
throw thee and him into the abyss," threatened the phantom maidens;
"for no one may live among men who has seen us."
"Throw me into the abyss, but leave me my heart to love. All, anything
I will bear, but I will not part from my love," and with the strength
of despair Wally seized one of the damsels round the waist and wrestled
with her; and behold! the tender form was shattered in her arms, and
she held in her hand only dripping snow. The daylight was extinguished;
suddenly all was veiled in grey twilight. She stood on the bare rock; a
sharp wind drove needles of ice in her face, and instead of the
"phantom maidens" white mists whirled round her in a wild dance. High
above, Murzoll's pale countenance looked darkly down upon her through
the clouds, and his voice of thunder said,
"Dost thou rebel against Men and Gods?--Heaven and earth will be thy
enemies. Woe is thee!" And all had vanished--Wally awoke. The chill
evening wind whistled through the window-slits on the girl. She rubbed
her eyes; her heart still trembled at the weird dream; she thought long
before she knew where she was, or could separate the images of her
dream from the reality; an inexplicable sense of horror remained in her
mind and mingled itself with all she saw. She rose from her bed and
involuntarily called loudly for the servant. She went out of the hut to
seek him; it was a clear and beautiful evening; the mists were
scattered, but the sun was low and the breeze blew keenly from the
heights. Wally hastened hither and thither in search of the deaf man;
she found only the pile of firewood that he had made for her. Then it
occurred to her that he had said he would go away while she was asleep.
It was so; he had not waited for her awakening. It was not right of him
to abandon her while she slept. To wake thus and find no one; it was
hard! All was so silent around her, so deserted and empty. It must be
six o'clock and milking time. The confiding cattle would look at the
stable door, where no mistress would come in with bread and salt for
them--she was sitting up here with her hands in her lap, and around her
far and wide stirred no living thing. Oh! the deathly stillness and
inaction--she knew not how she felt--alone, so terribly alone! She
climbed higher still, on to an overhanging point, that she might look
down upon the wide world. A vast unknown picture was spread before her
eyes in the purple of the setting sun. There lay before her to the very
verge of the horizon the great range of the Tyrol, in the distance
growing fainter and fainter, close at hand crushing and overpowering
her with their great silent sublimity; between them, like children in
their father's arms, slept the blooming valleys. A nameless longing
seized her for the beloved fields of home, that even now lay reposing
peacefully before her eyes in the evening shadows. The sun had set, and
on the horizon lay violet clouds shot with streaks of ruddy gold;
little by little, the pale full moon began to shine, contesting the
victory with the last flickering gleams of day. Down in the valleys it
was already night; here and there, scarcely visible in the distance, a
light glimmered from afar--a star of earth. Now they were going to
rest, her weary companions down yonder. With them all was well; a
friendly roof was above their heads; they rested securely in the bosom
of a sheltered home--perhaps, already half-asleep, they still listened
behind the coloured curtain of the little window to the beloved one's
song--only she was alone, thrust forth and banished, exposed
defenceless to every terror, her only shelter the inhospitable hut,
where the wind whistled through the empty window-slits. "Father,
father, how could thou have the heart to do it?" she cried aloud, but
near and far nothing answered but the rush of the night-wind. Higher
and higher rose the moon, the streaks of light in the west lost their
gold, and glimmered only a pale yellow in the darkness of the evening
sky. The outlines of the mountains seemed to shift and grow larger in
the twilight; threatening, overpowering, her nearest neighbour, the
mighty Similaun, looked down upon her. All the giant peaks around
seemed to stare at her frowningly, because she had dared to spy out
their nightly aspect. It was as though only since Wally's arrival, they
had all become so still and quiet--as a company that confers of private
affairs is suddenly dumb when a stranger enters. There she stood, the
helpless human form, so lonely in the midst of this silent, motionless
world of ice, so inaccessibly high above all living things, so strange
in the weird company of clouds and glaciers, in the terrible,
mysterious silence. "Now art thou all alone in the world!" cried an
inner voice, and an unspeakable anguish, the anguish of the forsaken
ones, swept over her. It seemed to her all at once as though she were
doomed to go on, for ever lost, through vast immeasurable space, and as
though seeking help she clung to the steep wall of rock, pressing her
wildly-beating heart against the cold stone.
What passed within her in that hour, she herself did not know, but it
seemed as though the stone against which she pressed her young, warm,
trembling heart, had exercised some mysterious power over her, for that
hour left her hard and rough as if she had been in very truth Murzoll's
child.