looking at him with wide-open eyes, she said: “Am I fair?”
“Yea, verily, wondrous fair! So bewitching art thou, with thy golden
hair and thy golden eyes, that I love thee from this hour!”
“And I love thee, too,” replied the guileless maiden, unaware of the
fact that it is not customary among men to say what one thinks. “But do
not say my hair is golden, for gold is so ugly!”
“Ugly!” The King’s son laughed. “I have never heard that of it before.
Hast thou, then, seen so much gold that it has grown to seem ugly to
thee?”
“Ah, yes! I see nought save gold--instead of green trees, gold--instead
of flowers, gold--instead of men, gold--heaps of it, like that.” And
she spread out her arms and turned herself about. “Oh, how much rather
would I sit upon yon beautiful creature! I have never seen a horse
before--may I touch it?”
“Yes, indeed, and stroke it too, and climb up beside me. Thou shalt
ride as long as thou hast a mind to.”
Then he bade her rest her foot on his and give him both her hands,
and so he drew her up before him on the saddle, clasped his arm about
her, and gave his horse the spur. He fancied she would be frightened,
but no such thought occurred to the gentle, innocent creature, for she
knew nought of danger. As soon as the ground was soft beneath them he
loosened the reins, and away they sped, through the woodland shade,
and over the flowery meadows.
Alba shouted and clapped her hands for glee, crying: “Faster, faster
yet!” So they drew near to the city, through which they had to ride
before reaching the hill upon which the royal castle stood. Then
suddenly fear came upon the maiden.
“Are all these human beings?” she asked, as they rode at a foot’s-pace
through the streets. “And does not the wind blow down these tiny
houses?”
“Nay,” laughed Porfirie. “The wind does not blow here as hard as it
does up yonder.”
“See, my people,” he cried to the folk as he passed, “here I bring
you your Queen. She is a fairy-blossom, and I plucked her from yonder
cliff!”
“But I am no Queen,” said Alba in affright.
“I am a King, and since thou art to be my wife, thou wilt become Queen
also.”
“Thy wife? But I was to have no husband, my mother said.”
“She only said that because she knew that none was to have thee, save I
alone.”
“Art thou not at all bad, then?”
“No, I am not bad.”
“Then art thou not a human being?”
“Nay, but I am.”
“Yet my mother said that all human creatures were bad, and that I must
have nought to do with them.”
“Who is thy mother, then?”
“That I do not know. She spins gold.”
“Spins gold? And for what?”
“For bridal veils--but I will have no gold at my wedding!” added Alba
hastily, and she clutched at her head as though she would defend it
from that dangerous contact.
“But thou canst not do otherwise,” said Porfirie, “or every one would
wonder. Here we are at my home; we are even now riding into the
courtyard, and thou must speak pleasantly to my mother.”
“Is she old and ugly?”
“Nay, she is fair and proud.”
“What does ‘proud’ mean?” asked Alba.
Porfirie looked into her eyes--they were as clear and unsullied as the
sun itself. He pressed the maiden to his heart; then throwing the reins
to the attendants who came forward, he sprang from his horse, lifted
Alba gently to the ground, and offered his hand to lead her up the
broad stone steps.
They entered a lofty hall, and there sat a tall, noble lady, surrounded
by many maidens, and she was spinning beautiful gold-coloured silk. All
rose from their work, and gazed in delighted amaze on the beautiful
pair standing beneath the portal, that was just then flooded by the
glory of the setting sun.
“Here, mother,” cried Porfirie, “is thy dear daughter, my sweet bride,
whom I found up yonder, quite near the sky; and I am not yet sure
whether she be not indeed one of the heavenly inhabitants, that will
presently spread wings and flee away from us!”
“Oh, thou beauteous lady!” cried Alba, and fell at the feet of the
Queen, who raised her up and kissed her with great kindness.
“And thou art spinning too,” she went on, “only far, far more
beautifully than my mother; for what thou dost spin is as soft and fine
as snowflakes, or the petals of flowers.”
“What does thy mother spin, then?”
“Oh, always that hard, ugly gold!”
“Gold!” echoed the bystanders; and many laughed, and did not believe
the maiden’s words.
“Canst thou, too, spin gold?”
“I can, but I may not.”
“Why not?”
She was opening her lips to tell what her mother did over her spinning,
but all at once she felt strangely ill at ease, and realised how
angrily every one would look at her if the maidens knew that all kinds
of sorrow was spun for them into their bridal veils. And here they were
all looking so happy and so kind, these bad people, against whom her
mother had warned her! They seemed far better, indeed, than that mother
herself, of whom the mountain-dwarfs were always so horribly afraid.
She was relieved of her perplexity by hearing one of the maidens
whisper: “Her dress is velvet--real white velvet!”
“And the jewels--from whom did she get her jewels?” said another,
rather louder.
“From my friends,” answered Alba. “Would you like them? I have many
more such playthings at home.” And taking the emeralds from her neck,
she gave each of the girls one.
She would have done the same with her strings of pearls, had not the
Queen prevented her.
“Are thy friends so rich, then?” inquired the latter.
“I do not know. What is ‘rich’? They bring it all up out of the earth
in sacks; and when they do not bring enough, they are punished.”
Then the Queen’s face darkened; she drew her son aside and said: “This
maiden is none other than the daughter of the abominable witch, Baba
Coaja. Take her back as quickly as possible to the spot where thou
didst find her. She will only bring trouble upon our house.”
“Ask anything of me but that, mother,” replied the young King, turning
pale. “I love this sweet and innocent maid with my every thought, with
my every breath, with all the blood in my veins, and though she were
Baba Coaja her very self, I could not give her up!”
The Queen sighed. But she gave orders that an apartment should be made
ready next to her own for the maiden; and the wedding was fixed for the
following day.
The Queen desired to adorn her new daughter for it with her own hands,
but she had a bitter struggle with her, because the maiden would on no
account suffer any gold-threads to be laid upon her head. She fled from
one end of the castle to the other like a hunted doe, she cast herself
upon the ground, and hid beneath the coverings of the divans; she
begged and prayed with streaming eyes that she might be spared. “Let
the Queen put some of the beautiful silken threads of her own spinning
upon her hair, only not the horrible gold!”
But as she knelt wailing and praying before her, the Queen gave a
sign, and two of the attendant maidens bound her hands, while a third
fastened on the golden veil. They all expected to see an outbreak of
rage and despair; but Alba grew quite quiet. As pale as death, she
bowed her head beneath its burden. “Thou art harder than my mother,”
she said, “for she would not give me a husband, lest I should be
unhappy, but thou dost thyself call down sorrow upon me!”
No one understood these words. Alba could not be prevailed upon to
explain them, whereby the general mistrust of her was yet further
increased. She looked so sad that the people no longer even recognised
in her the beaming maiden of yesterday; and all her young husband’s
words of love could not chase the clouds from her brow.
At court there was presently no talk of anything but the countless
treasures of the young Queen, and many people urged the King to go up
the mountain and examine them for himself. He cared nothing for the
treasures; he only thought of how he could bring back the smile to his
young wife’s face, and fancied that perhaps, if he fetched her the
ornaments she was fond of, she would grow merry again. For she smiled
pityingly at the little stones other people called jewels, and could
not at all understand that such trifles should be costly. But as soon
as she learnt that Porfirie intended to ride up to her castle again,
she was terror-stricken, and implored and conjured him not to do so.
“It will surely be thy death,” said she.
He, however, would not be convinced, and the more she depicted the
dangers that awaited him there, the more did these very dangers attract
him; so that one morning he set off secretly, while she still lay in a
deep slumber.
With only a few followers, he dashed up towards Baba Coaja’s castle.
But she spied his coming from afar, and cried out to him as he drew
nearer: “A curse upon thee--thou who didst ravish my child, only to
bring her to sorrow! See here, then--satisfy the greed that has driven
thee back hither, miserable wretch! I never desired to have aught to do
with thee--why didst thou seek me out?”
With these words she began to scatter down jewels in endless quantities
upon the horsemen; but as they fell, the precious stones were changed
into ice and snow, and whirled through the air in such clouds that the
unhappy men were unable to shield themselves, and were, moreover, so
dazzled that they could no longer see their way. The greater number
of them fell over the precipices; but the young King, who, thirsting
for vengeance, tried to reach the castle that he might strangle the
terrible witch, was so completely caught in the avalanche that ere a
moment was past he could no longer move a limb, and before he had time
to utter a word he was buried deep beneath the snow.
As he disappeared, Baba Coaja said, with a malicious laugh: “Now she
will come, to him, not to me--yet it will be to me, not to him, that
she comes. I shall have my child again, for she may not remain in the
wicked world, and among men, whom I hate.”
And indeed it was not long before Alba, weary with her long journey
afoot, her white velvet dress dusty and travel-stained, came hastening
up the mountain.
“Where, where is he?” she asked, with blanched lips.
“So!” said the old witch, “thou hast run away from me with a strange
man, and now comest back, and dost not ask after me, but after him? He
is not here.”
“Yes, yes, he is! I traced him, up to the edge of yonder snow!”
[Illustration: With these words she began to scatter down jewels in
endless quantities upon the horsemen.]
“He came no further, indeed!” laughed the old witch. “He is smothered
beneath thy jewels!”
With a terrible cry, Alba cast herself down upon the patch of snow and
began to shovel it away with her hands. But in vain! The covering that
lay upon her beloved was too heavy, it was frozen too fast. With one
cry--“Oh, mother, mother! what hast thou done to me!”--Alba fell dead
beside the ice and snow.
Then Baba Coaja hurled forth so terrible a curse, that the very
mountain reeled, and the castle fell with a crash, burying her and
her gold beneath its ruins. But on the spot where the beautiful Alba
had drawn her last breath, there sprang up a white flower, in a white
velvet dress, which has ever since been called “Alba Regina,” or
_Edelweiss_. This flower only blooms close to the eternal snow which
covered her beloved, and is as white and pure as she was herself.
Perhaps the snow will turn to jewels again some day, if an innocent
maiden should pass over it.
The piece of gold-thread that Alba spun is still being sought for, and
every bride hopes that it is she who has found it. That is why not one
of them ever fears the golden threads that are so dangerous, but still
believes that happiness will be her portion.
VIII
PIATRA ARSA
(“THE BURNT ROCK”)
[Illustration]
The beautiful Paùna was proud, very proud. It was not for nothing that
she had those great dark eyes, with black brows rising to a point
above them, and that sharply-cut aquiline nose. Her mouth was somewhat
large, but well-shaped, and when she spoke or laughed she showed two
gleaming rows of teeth. Her black tresses were coiled like a crown
above her brow, and the people were wont to call her, in jest, _Pui de
Imparat_, or “Emperor’s child,” when she went by with her long stride
and her broad shoulders, holding her head as straight as though she
were carrying something upon it. But she was not too proud to turn that
head when Tannas went by, or to give ear to him when he talked to
her during the Hora. Only, if any one teased her about him, an angry
flush would rise to her cheek, and she was quick to punish the daring
offender with a sharp retort.
Tannas was an object of envy to all the other village lads, specially
as the betrothal was looked upon as a certainty. Then, on a sudden,
war broke out in the land, and Tannas had to join the army and march
down to the Danube. Paùna swallowed her tears before people; but no one
dared ask her whether she did not shed a few in secret.
She always contrived to be one of the first in the village to get
tidings from the army; and when tales went about of the first battles
that had taken place, she was obliged, as she listened, to lean against
the great stone cross that stood at the entrance of the village, so
weak and faint did the strong Paùna turn. At night all sleep forsook
her, and she often had to let her light burn till morning, to chase
away the terrible visions that arose before her in the darkness, of
Tannas covered with wounds, and dead or dying. One dark night she was
sitting thus, still dressed, upon the edge of her bed--and never knew
that, outside, some one was gliding round the house, and peeping in at
her little window. She did not know, either, how beautiful she looked,
gazing before her with wide-open eyes, her hands folded upon her knee.
All at once there was a knocking on the window, and she sprang up with
a stifled cry, turning her head and trying to pierce the darkness with
her eyes. Then she fancied she could make out the face of Tannas at the
window, and presently, indeed, she heard him call her in low tones--
“Paùna, dear Paùna, I pray thee to come out to me. Do not be afraid; it
is only I, Tannas.”
Paùna’s hand was already upon the latch--in a moment she was outside,
and felt herself enfolded in a warm embrace. But she put aside the arm
that clasped her, and said: “Art thou Tannas indeed, or is some one
making sport of me?”
“Here, feel thine own little ring, Paùna; and here again, the coin
about my neck. I could bear it no longer, without coming to see whether
thou wert true to me.”
“Who gave thee leave to come away from the army?”
“Me? No one.”
“No one?--and thou art here? Is the war over, then?”
“Nay, there is still war. But I came secretly, and out of love to thee,
Paùna!”
“Love to me!” Paùna gave a short, bitter laugh. “Dost thou think, then,
that it gives me pleasure to have a deserter for my betrothed? Go out
of my sight!”
“Paùna! Is this thy love? Thou art sending me back to death and
destruction!”
“Go whither thou wilt. This only I tell thee, I will never be thy
wife--I could not endure to have to despise my husband.”
“Thou dost love some other!”
“Nay, Tannas, thee I love, and thee alone. I have many a time watched
through the livelong night for love of thee; but I never dreamed that I
had a coward for my lover!” Paùna wept, burying her face in her hands.
“And I, who thought thou wouldst welcome me with joy, and hide me in
thy dwelling!”
“Oh, shame!” cried the maiden--“shame! that I should have betrothed
myself to thee. But this I swear, that the Bucegi Mountain shall burn
ere I become thy wife!”
“And I swear,” cried Tannas, “that thou shalt not see me again till I
am a cripple--or dead!”
And as they spoke thus, the two lovers faced one another with such
burning glances that their eyes sparkled in the darkness.
Just then a red light shone out over the heights above, and looking up,
they saw that one of the rocky peaks of the Bucegi seemed all aglow.
Brighter and brighter it grew, till a red flame appeared to break out
and send up a shower of stars on high. The two lovers stood as though
turned to stone. Then windows began to open in the neighbouring houses,
and the people to call out to one another that there was a forest
fire--nay, that the mountain was burning! All the village was in an
uproar--dogs began to bark and cocks to crow.
Thereupon Paùna took her lover by the shoulders, and thrusting him far
from her, she cried: “Away, away from hence--hide thy face, or I shall
die of shame!”
Then she flung the door to behind her, and extinguished her light.
With a beating heart she watched Tannas slip away in the shadow of the
houses; and presently she turned her eyes to the mountain as it glowed
and slowly grew dark again, but never an answer did she give when the
neighbours called her to come and look at the miracle.
[Illustration: And looking up, they saw that one of the rocky peaks of
the Bucegi seemed all aglow.]
From that time forth people began to notice that Paùna looked
wonderfully pale; no smile was ever seen now upon her lips, that before
had been wont so often to curl in mockery, and quick retorts no longer
cut short the teasing words that folk called out to her as she passed.
She did her work in silence, but was often so tired that she was
obliged to sit down to rest upon the margin of the well, and bathe her
forehead with the fresh water. Sometimes she would gaze sadly at her
own reflection in the well, or glance timidly up towards the Bucegi
Mountain. All at once it began to be bruited about that Tannas had been
in the village; this person and that felt sure of having seen him by
the light of the burning mountain, and it was even said that his voice
had been heard with Paùna’s. When the latter was questioned about it,
the drops of sweat burst out upon her brow and round her lips, that
trembled slightly as she replied: “Was not all still and dark in our
house, the night that the mountain was on fire?”
Paùna’s mother shook her head, till her very under lip quivered, and
said that all manner of strange signs were to be seen in these evil
days.
At last the news came that a great and deadly battle had been fought.
This time Paùna was the last to hear of it, but when she did, she
hurried home and made a little bundle, tying up a gourd and some
maize-bread in a cloth; and when her mother anxiously asked her whither
she was going, she only said: “I shall soon come back again, mother; do
not fear for me.”
The battlefield lay wide and silent in the twilight; thousands of dead
bodies were scattered upon it; horses writhed in the death-throes, or
limped about with drooping heads. The army was encamped around huge
sentry-fires, and the men no longer gave any heed to the cries and
wailings that echoed from the battlefield. A stately woman’s form moved
alone amid the lines of bodies; it was Paùna, who had already made
inquiry after Tannas throughout the whole camp. She drew bravely near
to both friend and foe, giving many a one a drink, and closely scanning
the features of the dead. Night had now closed in, and the moon lit up
the fearsome scene. Still the maiden moved to and fro, anon kneeling
down and resting some dying man’s head upon her breast, and again
searching some terribly disfigured corpse for a little ring, and a
coin about the throat. Only once she staggered back, and that was when
she beheld some women plundering a corpse, and heard the finger-joints
crack as they dragged the rings from off the hand. She hastened away,
but soon returned to scan the dead man’s face with anxiety.
The whole camp was sunk in slumber, but still Paùna glided about the
battlefield in the moonlight. Sometimes she would utter a low cry:
“Tannasse!”--and often a groan would be heard in answer, but she
always shook her head sadly, after bending to give the sufferer a
drink. The dawn was beginning to break, and the moon to pale, when she
suddenly saw something glitter on the ground, and drawing near, found a
half-stripped, dead man lying there, on whose hand shone a little ring.
And the hand had grasped something that the man wore about his neck, so
firmly, that the plunderers had plainly given up trying to force the
fingers open. Paùna knew her own ring again, and with a loud cry of
“Tannasse!” she sank down beside the body, whose face was so covered
with blood that it was scarcely recognisable. In a few moments Paùna
came to herself again, and began to wash the beloved face. She saw,
with fast-flowing tears, that both eyes and nose were gashed through
by a terrible stroke, but she saw also that the blood gushed out again
as she wiped it away. Now she was sure that her beloved was not dead,
and she hastened to moisten his lips, and to bind up his wound with her
kerchief. Then he began to sigh, and when he heard his name called,
to feel about with his hand. Presently it touched Paùna’s face, and
lingered long upon it.
“My Paùna!” he murmured almost inaudibly. “Let me die--I am blind--I am
of no more use on earth!”
“Nay, nay!” cried Paùna, “thou art my beloved, and, God willing, shalt
be my husband soon. Only be still now, be still!”
Many long weeks had passed since that morning--weeks during which Paùna
had watched day and night by Tannas’s bed and nursed him untiringly.
And now, one day, two wanderers were seen coming along the road into
the village--a blind man in a soldier’s cloak, with the cross of honour
upon his breast, and a maiden, who led him carefully along, and said to
the passers-by, with a joyful smile: “This is my bridegroom. He is a
hero! See the cross upon his breast!”
“And upon his face!” rejoined Tannas, with a sigh.
Never had such a crowded wedding been seen before. People streamed from
far and near, to pity the beautiful Paùna at the side of the blind man.
But she smiled at every one, and said: “I am proud now. I have a hero
for my husband; and, thank God, I am strong and can work for both.”
The mountain that had been seen on fire was from that day called
_Piatra Arsa_ (“the burnt rock”), for both shepherds and hunters bore
witness that on that spot they had found the rock all blackened and
charred.
IX
RÎUL DOAMNEI
(“THE RIVER OF THE PRINCESS”)
[Illustration]
Not far from the pretty little mountain-town of Câmpa Lungo, a clear,
cool stream winds along, called _Rîul Doamnei_--“the river of the
Princess.” This stream washes down gold along its bed, sometimes a bit
half the size of one’s nail; and it was a custom in times gone by that
all the gold found there should belong to the Princess, the wife of the
ruler of the land. And this is the reason why:--
There was once a great famine in the land of Roumania, such a famine as
had never been known in the memory of man. First the locusts had come
into the land, in such swarms that the sun was darkened, and wherever
they settled they devastated everything, so that in a few minutes the
fairest field of corn would be left bald as a threshing-floor, and the
trees, stripped of every leaf, stretched out their naked boughs against
the summer sky, beneath whose cloudless blue the heat grew ever greater
and greater, so that even at night there was no longer a breath of
coolness in the air. As soon as all things around were devoured, the
cloud of locusts would arise, only to settle instantly again upon the
next green patch. And so it went on unceasingly; and in those days folk
were not so clever as they are now, when they cover the great stretches
of land where the insects have settled, with petroleum, and set it all
on fire. Nor were there then any cannon with which they could shoot
into the swarm of flying locusts, as they do now, and so sometimes
contrive to scatter them.
After the locusts came the Poles from the North, the Hungarians from
the West, and the Turks from the South, and fell upon the land, and
by them all the houses were burnt and the cattle stolen away. At last
these foes, too, quitted the country, but they left behind them fever
and pestilence, both among man and beast.
Men went about with blackened lips, and grievous sores on their bodies.
The cattle perished together in heaps on the barren fields, where not a
single blade of grass was standing. Only the dogs and the ravens were
in good case; they tore the flesh from the bones of the dead creatures,
and for miles around nothing was to be seen but white bones with red
flesh hanging to them, and millions of flies, that shone with gorgeous
prismatic colours, settling upon them.
The air quivered with heat, and pestilential odours spread far over the
land, so that men were stricken as with a plague, and died in a few
hours.