thus lifted from her native element, but the soothing words of her
lover infused new life into her fainting frame, and in safety they
reached the cave, where Eothwald joyfully deposited his lovely charge
on the couch he had so long prepared for her use.
Uttering but scant welcome the sculptor flew rapidly to his work, for
already fatigue and exhaustion clouded the sweet eyes, that were wont
to sparkle so merrily, and spread a new languor over the limbs of his
exquisite model. With passionate energy Eothwald moulded his plastic
clay, completely forgetting in his ardour the unwonted position of the
sea-king's daughter, and her need of watchful tenderness.
A stranger in a new and untried world--a timid maiden strayed for the
first time far beyond the protecting care of parents and brethren, the
little Duva reclined amazed upon her fragrant bed of leaves. Strange
thrills were sent through her by the strong night perfumes exhaled on
every side from earthly leaf, tree, and flower.
At last she was upon that land about which from childhood she had
dreamed, with an eager desire to explore its forbidden mysteries. But
she thought not of these things, her whole heart was absorbed in
Eothwald. The young sculptor no longer gazed on her with the melting
eye of love. By the flickering light of the torch which shed its ruddy
glow over the cave, she could perceive the artist's glance now fixed on
his clay figure, now turned upon herself with a searching look of
restless dissatisfaction due in reality to the shortcomings of his own
handiwork, but which chilled and saddened Duva's sensitive heart.
[Illustration: EOTHWALD AND DUVA IN THE CAVE.
P. 102.]
Again and again the gentle maiden nerved her voice to speak, but
faintness overpowered her, and a dreamless sleep already fanned her
with its over-shadowing wings. Eothwald's form swam magnified before
her eyes, and then vanished altogether amid the mist of gathering
tears. The cave grew dim--the little sea-child again beheld the palace
of her father--her lovely sisters waved a mute welcome through the
changing atmosphere. With the tremulous sigh of a repentant child that
has erred, but returns with glad sorrow to fling itself on its mother's
breast, Duva, forgetting all save that joyful vision, stretched forth
her innocent arms with a low murmur of tenderness, and a gesture of
delight.
"Can you not remain as I placed you?" impatiently muttered the
sculptor, as the sudden movement of Duva's arms altered her whole
position, and lost irretrievably the graceful attitude he was striving
faithfully to immortalise. Even as he spoke, something about his
beloved alarmed him; he rushed across the cave, but ere he could touch
her, Duva's fair form had disappeared--she was gone!
The red torch flickered high, and suddenly expired. The moon's ray,
cold and pale, penetrated within the cave, and lo! upon the spot so
lately pressed by the enchanting figure of the poor little stranger,
pure and transparent in the silvery light, glistened a white pearly
shell, while a tiny rivulet stole silently from beneath it, and
trickled into the moonlit glen without.
Eothwald threw himself wildly on his knees, and felt the couch all over
in vain--in vain!--then in desperation he fled out into the wood and
searched for his lost love, breathing her name in fondest accents
through the silence of the night, but alas! awakening no response from
the desolate solitudes around him. Wearied and heart-broken he returned
at length from his fruitless errand, and sank into heavy slumber.
Hours had passed unheeded away, when with troubled recollection he
awoke and sprang to his feet. Gradually he remembered that in his
dreams Duva had again appeared to him. With bitter tears she
sorrowfully told him that his own thoughtless actions had parted them.
He first tempted her by mortal love to deceive and leave her fond
parents and her beloved home; then as he moulded his clay from her
beautiful form, in the self-abstraction of genius, he half forgot her
sacrifice, and neglected her tender spirit. Wounded and unable to
struggle against her altered condition of life without the comforting
care of her mortal lover, she had fallen a victim to the law that ruled
supreme over herself and her kindred, and lost her visible shape, which
became again transformed into the water, whence it originally sprang.
With streaming eyes she waved a long farewell, then, lovely as a
morning dream, faded from his view.
Eothwald flew back to his work with fierce energy; he felt indeed a
high soaring ambition. He yearned to represent worthily, to this and
future generations, the fair lineaments, the tender immortal beauty of
the sea-king's daughter, who had given him her simple young heart, and
whose affection he had so rudely requited. A solemn inward voice told
him he had no time to spend in useless remorse, or in unavailing
lamentation. Death's shadowy finger already beckoned him to the "silent
land." Grief had snapped the first chord of life's hitherto sweet
melody, and his days on earth were numbered.
He returned in a short space to his native city. His half-finished work
was slowly removed to the studio. There by day and by night he laboured
almost ceaselessly, and wove into a wild poetical dream the young life
of the fair Duva and her family, as she herself in days gone by had
frequently, half romancing and half in earnest, described it to him.
He designed a lofty fountain, and upon its six sides placed in groups
of wondrous imagery her parents, their nine lovely daughters, and the
young river-god Naecken, whose strains had first led him to his beloved.
As in his lonely studio he ceaselessly toiled, he wrote down at
intervals this explanation of his labours--that to all futurity might
be known the names and history of those whose divine beauty he thus
strove to commemorate.[2]
[2] The description of the different groups represented on
the fountain, is taken from a beautiful work of art, designed
and executed by Molin, a young Swedish sculptor of great
promise, now dead.
"Agir, the ocean god, who hates mankind, I represent in the prime of
life, with a long flowing beard, which he holds back with one hand, in
the other he grasps a sceptre. Enthroned on a gigantic shell, and
planting his foot on a dolphin, his handsome features wear an
expression of proud disdain.
"When the winter has passed (as our Northern poets have sung) and the
May sun melts the ice, the ships in the harbour lift their anchors
ready to sail, and only the wind is wanting. Thereupon Agir (who
delights in punishing the pride of mankind by robbing them of their
treasures--taking husbands from their homes, their wives, and their
children, and drowning the mourners in floods of bitter tears) calls to
his youngest daughter Kolga to begin the sport.
"In the next shell-like division of the fountain, I place Kolga, who,
with short rough hair and hoydenish action, distends to the full her
rosy cheeks as she blows through the valves of her shell a soft,
seductive wind, sufficient to swell the sails, and tempt the ill-fated
ships to sea. Above her, shrouded in her long veil, is the mysterious
and majestic Ran (Agir's princely consort, and the anxious mother of
his many children). She encourages Roenn, her second youngest, who
gently and dreamingly along the blue ripples stirs the first breath on
the calm waters. Haefring, Unn, and Bylgia, with the little water-elves
and sprites, help to raise the swelling seas until the waves are
mountains high.
"Then the hard-hearted and vindictive Boara (once scorned and deserted
by a mortal lover) crushes the prows to atoms. She delights in the
destruction of human handiwork, and is therefore portrayed with a
sternly beautiful though cruel countenance. Next Agir calls on
Blodughadda, enveloped in her long flowing tresses, to descend through
the deeper waters and secure the ships' rich treasures, for no lock or
key any longer protects them.
"But the fond father misses his favourite children, Himinglaefa and
Duva; he loudly calls on Ran to tell him where they are. 'Alas,'
answers his queen, 'our daughters are held captive in the web of
Naecken; up there, on the fresh water-stream, they float, like one
charmed, listening to his melodious song. I have begged and threatened,
but all in vain. Methinks one or both of them is befooled by first
love.'
"Then Agir arose in fearful rage, calling upon his remaining daughters
to entice Naecken forth from the precincts of his grotto (which, being
in fresh water, was beyond the sea-king's domain) into the deep ocean,
there to take him captive, and deliver their sisters from his thraldom.
"So they all float on, displaying their charms like roses and lilies
playing on the waters: their beautiful dishevelled hair, their graceful
forms, their coral chains, their strings of pearls, triumphantly making
sure of enticing the hapless youth into the salt waters. But no sooner
have they reached the entrance to the grotto, than behold! a youth,
divinely beautiful, is seen. Harp in hand, he sings a soft, melancholy
strain with the purest of voices. The beauteous sisters, scarce moving,
tarry on the heaving waters, and listen, entranced, to his
heart-thrilling song.
"Awakening from his own love-dreams as he marks the approach of
Himinglaefa's lovely sisters, the young river-god sings of his happy
youth, when amid green meadows, and under verdant trees, he listened
to the melodies of birds, and learnt from them the sweet art of
song--until, restless and eager for change, he wandered forth from
his early home into the wide world, with endless longing for the
unattainable. To punish his presumption, he was at length condemned
only to exist in water, and became the genius of running streams.
Thus he pours out his lament in strains so moving, that even the wild
swan is arrested in her flight, and the daughters of Agir, deeply
enthralled, heedless of their parents' call to action, remain
motionless before the grotto, allowing ships and mariners to sail by
in perfect calm.
"At length, Agir and Ran, angry and impatient, hasten towards them,
when, enchanted like their children, by Naecken's exquisite lay, they
also remain to listen, forgetful of the time and of the passing hours,
till daylight breaks suddenly upon them. The relentless laws of fate
forbidding their escape (if found within fresh water at sunrise), they
all then become spell-bound."
Such was the description Eothwald wrote of his wondrous fountain, on
which Naecken still dreams on, harp in hand, singing of the days of
yore. The beautiful Himinglaefa leans forward, modestly drawing her
long tresses across her white shoulders, drinking in, with downcast
eyes, every intonation of her betrothed. The child-like Duva, adorned
as when the sculptor first beheld her, with long strands of priceless
pearls intertwined on hair, neck, and bosom, raises herself from the
water in the attitude he had studied a thousand times, and half
surrounds her beloved sister with her arm, listening intently, as on
that well-remembered evening, to Naecken's heart-thrilling music. No
shadow of future sorrow clouds Duva's fair brow; but moulded in all
the fresh innocence of her dewy youth, she remains to this hour the
loveliest mermaiden that ever gladdened mortal eye.
The shell she left upon the couch of leaves, the artist introduced
again and again in his labour of love, and indeed took from its shape
the designs for the six sides of his fountain, the figures on which
were the size of life.
At last the story of Duva's early life was given. Raised from ocean,
cavern, and grotto by Eothwald's genius, her family were immortalized
by his art. The sculptor's task was completed. In a paroxysm of agony,
he fell on his knees as he realized that though instinct with life his
inspired work arose in all its chill perfection before him, yet the
living, loving, lovely mermaiden would never more greet him with her
warm, shy smile, and her low, tender voice.
At daybreak the old housekeeper came to light the studio fire; for
it was now winter-time, and the snow lay thick upon the ground. By
the first dim ray of light she descried Eothwald kneeling before his
finished sculpture. Her heart misgave her; he was her foster-child--dear
to her as her own. She stumbled forward and touched his arm; it was
cold and motionless as his own marble figures. Then a loud cry of grief
told the tale of death. Eothwald was no more. His immortal spirit had
fled. Whether in the regions of the unknown invisible world he may once
more meet and clasp his Duva to his breast by the blessed waters of
Paradise, we cannot tell, but such may be the merciful will of that
loving Father who watches unceasingly over the creatures of his hand,
and feels a divine sympathy in their sorrows.
One of Eothwald's hands rested on the word Duva, which he had finished
chiselling beneath his beauteous beloved. In his other hand was found,
fast clasped--so fast indeed that they could not remove it from his
stiffened fingers--a gleaming white pearly shell.
FIDO AND FIDUNIA.
Once within a deep and gloomy forest there dwelt a lonely maiden. She
had never known any companionship but that of nature, animate and
inanimate. She loved the birds, the shy playful squirrels, and all the
various animals, which having always known her there, friendly and
harmless, regarded her in their turn, with trustful affection.
It made no difference in their feelings towards the young girl that she
was not beautiful. Her thick sandy hair hung in coarse straight elf
locks on her shoulders. Her skin looked rough, and her features were
not prepossessing. But these poor ignorant creatures only noticed that
her voice was low and exceeding sweet. When she stooped to fondle the
frolicsome rabbits, or perchance to bind up the leg of some wounded
hare, they thought her tender fingers wondrous soft, and her warm cheek
felt very smooth to them as she pressed it against their furry coats,
and pettingly coaxed them to linger a moment on her lap.
Strange to say, though the little maid had no distinct remembrance of
human fellowship, yet she spoke in silvery tones a language which you
or I, dear children, should very well understand.
She dwelt in the hollow of an old tree, and few were the wants of her
simple life. A clear spring, bubbling up among the rocks near at hand,
in the centre of an open grassy space, formed a natural bath, where
every morning, undisturbed by fear of man, she bathed herself, and
wrung the water from her dripping tresses.
In summer time she often slept high up between the forked branches of a
mighty cedar-pine, where with sticks and long grass she had woven
herself a sort of nest. From hence also she could contemplate the
stars, between whom and herself there ever seemed a link of sympathy.
To her untaught imagination it appeared that the heavenly luminaries
were happy in being among others of their kind. Whereas, had she but
known it, each one of those seemingly tiny lights glowed myriads of
miles apart from its nearest neighbour.
Fidunia dwelt serene, content with her lot; yet it was only natural
that in her maturing bosom the yearning instincts of womanhood should
awake, and that she longed, with an intensity of which she herself was
hardly aware, for some creature to whom she could recount, and with
whom she could share, the pleasures and pains of her solitary life.
In the forest where she had her home there were no great alternations
of heat and cold, nor was the length of the days so different as we
find it in our own more northerly climate. Still it was spring-time in
this land of which I speak. The fair soft tread of summer already sent
a reviving thrill through the woods and glades, and Fidunia's thoughts
turned anew to her forlorn condition.
She remarked, as was her wont, the habits of the brute-world around.
Every bird had its mate. The sober rooks perambulated the green sward
in pairs. The thrush wooed his love in songs of gushing melody. The
tender turtle-doves cooed ceaselessly to each other. The very mole that
burrowed by the fountain side, brought a sable bride to enjoy with him
the hidden comforts of his subterranean dwelling.
Fidunia sat and pondered over these things. Again and again she tried,
like Narcissus, to see her image in the crystal spring. But kind
nature, careful to spare the little maid a needless pang, ruffled the
translucent surface so perpetually, that the young girl's face only
cast a dancing shadow on the bubbling water amid the rocks.
Baffled in her hopes of even a shadowy companion, Fidunia, with a tear
in her eye, murmured "Alone, ever alone! Ah, cruel fate! How I sigh for
something really to love me."
Awhile she remained motionless, gazing moodily into the troubled
spring, but anon her quick ear caught the pattering sound of little
feet upon the dead beech-leaves that formed a rich carpet near at hand.
She thought it was the squirrels, yet theirs was a bounding lighter
tread. She turned--and, lo! running towards her across the open space,
she saw a beautiful dog. In colour he was almost golden; his silky hair
fell soft as feathery down on either side of his little body. His tail
and ears of darker chestnut tinge imparted piquancy to his shape. His
paws were exquisitely clean, and covered with lovely hair. His
brilliant dark brown eyes shone with extraordinary intelligence--at
least, so Fidunia thought--as the little fellow slowly trotted up and
stood before her, wagging his bushy tail.
"Art thou come to be my companion?" the maiden joyfully cried. In
answer to her question, the small quadruped came nearer still, and very
very gently laid himself down at her feet. His mute gesture was most
expressive.
Fidunia surveyed him carefully, she thought she saw the marks of
sadness in his wistful countenance--he gambolled not around her, nor
attempted to lick her hand, but fixing on her his large anxious eyes,
seemed to implore permission to remain by her side. Naturally fearless
and fond of animals, Fidunia drew him upon her knee, and gently
stroking the while his silky coat she asked him "whence he came, where
his home, and what his name." The little creature could not reply in
human tongue, but he continued to wag his eloquent tail, and to gaze
earnestly in her face.
"If you are going to be my companion, I must know what to call you,"
said the wondering maiden. "My name is Fidunia," added she
dreamily--but at this last word the dog sprang from her lap to the
ground, and assumed a begging attitude in front of the little damsel.
"Nay, nay, my dear doggie, I cannot call you Fidunia," cried she, but,
after a moment's reflection, "would not 'Fido' do as well?"
Hardly had this name dropped from her lips than the wise animal bounded
into the air, and then ran round and round in a manner most expressive
of joy. Fidunia delighted, clapped her hands, and as at this well-known
signal all her feathered and furred friends came trooping around to
enquire her will, she at once introduced Fido to their notice, and an
alliance offensive and defensive was forthwith agreed upon between the
community at large, and their mistress's new favourite.
Ere long Fidunia discovered that her comrade was both active and
playful, and though he could not speak her language nor she understand
his, and she therefore never discovered his previous history, yet she
surmised that he must have been separated from some one he dearly
loved. For this reason she bore patiently with his occasional fits of
low spirits. Soothed and cheered by her gentle companionship and
thoughtful sympathy, Fido, before very long forgot his sorrows, and
became the gayest of the gay.
Echoes hitherto unknown to Fidunia in the solemn forest, were roused by
his shrilly bark of joy, as capering round his young mistress, they
wandered together far adown those sylvan glades. Fidunia could now
indeed venture farther from home, as however long they roamed abroad,
the dog's wondrous instinct always led them back to the gnarled tree,
the crystal fountain, and the green velvety lawn, for so many years the
little maiden's happy abode.
She soon discovered that Fido was very accomplished in various
ways--and she fancied also that he understood all she said to him--he
watched so keenly every word that fell from her lips.
About this time strange dreams began to haunt the young girl. Night
after night she wandered in regions such as she never remembered to
have seen in her waking hours.
At one time she walked amid beautiful gardens--on either side of her
bloomed a rich profusion of lovely fragrant flowers. Within each sweet
floweret lurked a tiny elf, and as she passed along, fairies swung
themselves forth singing through the perfume laden air in soft musical
tones, "King Antiphates is blind! King Antiphates is blind! and the
maid who alone can deliver him knows not her mission!"
At another time she climbed painfully along a steep path, leading
through scenes perfectly unknown to her. The hot sun beat on her bare
head, and she toiled on and on, ever ascending, yet never reaching the
craggy summit towering far above. Beneath her feet, an unfathomable
ocean surged and swelled, and broke in hoarse grumblings upon the
frowning iron-bound shore, sending vast sheets of spray aloft, and
awakening strange terrors in the woodland maiden's breast. White
screaming sea-birds dashed around her, and as they brushed her face
with their wings, she heard them cry wildly, "The great king is blind,
only Fidunia can deliver him--but she knows it not! she knows it not!"
Again the little maiden found herself upon a lonely terrible mountain.
She stood upon dismal rocks whereon appeared no vestige of life. Tossed
and wreathed in fantastic shapes, the very stones seemed to bear the
impress of writhing agony. Though now cold and motionless, they had
passed through the seething horrors of fire. Scathed and withered,
repulsive alike to man, beast and herb, amid their desolate clefts,
only the slimy reptile traced his sinuous course; or the bright-eyed
lizard peered warily forth on the shuddering beholder. Turning to
escape, if possible, from this dreary place, Fidunia found herself on
the very verge of a huge chasm. She felt a burning heat scorch her
face, and penetrate her feet. Long tongues of horrid flame darted in
lurid flashes from the thick darkness below. A sulphurous vapour
enveloped her in its hot and suffocating fumes. She endeavoured to cry
for help, but could not utter a sound--an echo like the reverberating
growl of distant thunder filled the air around her with these words,
"He will never see now, for the maiden dreams away her life in the
forest, and knows not that she alone can save him."
[Illustration: FIDO AND FIDUNIA.
P. 123.]
From this last and most frightful of all her visions, Fidunia woke
agitated and confused. Why were words of the same import evermore
repeated in her slumbers? Whence came these awful voices that sounded
through the gloom of night? Who was the Antiphates whose misfortune was
known, as it seemed, to all the world save herself? It was early
morning as she sat up and pondered over these things. Her feverish
heart was refreshed by the dewy silence around. Only through the trees
came the faint twitter of half awakened birds. The sky, brightening
towards the East, heralded the approach of sunrise.
Her resolve was taken. She would set off that very day and journey
forth into the unknown world which hitherto she had only visited in
dreams. She awoke Fido therefore, and explained to him despite his
melancholy dissuading looks, that they must leave the fountain, the
lawn, and the tree, and travel far beyond the forest to seek their
fortunes among the children of men.
Clapping her hands together, she summoned her faithful forest friends,
who sorrowfully accompanied their beloved mistress and her companion as
far as their strength would permit, then bade them a melancholy
farewell.
Quite overcome by losing sight (perchance for ever) of her sylvan home
and her attached little subjects, Fidunia that night sobbed herself to
sleep, with Fido in her arms, and half regretted her determination. But
in her dreams angels hovered over her, and whispered encouragement to
the weary sad-hearted maiden.