to silence; and when the starving people tore one another to pieces, no
one even told of it.
The bells rang no more; there was no keeping Sundays or holidays, nor
was there any work done, for no one had any oxen for the ploughing, or
any seeds to sow.
Men crept about like ghosts, with their bones staring through the skin,
their lips drawn back so that the teeth lay bare, and only a few rags
upon their bodies. There was hardly any one found to bury the dead, and
many remained lying, like the cattle, upon the fields.
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.
[Illustration: And behold! the river was no longer brown, but clean and
blue as the air.]
X
THE CAVE OF JALOMITZA
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration: Jalomitza followed it the whole night through, without
knowing whither she went.]
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
[Illustration]
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!”