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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: But at the sight of them he burst into such laughter----]
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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: The maiden gazed earnestly at one and another.]
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.