come!" cried the children to them: all hastened to the hall. Here, as
they approached, young and old were crowding over the threshold, all
shouting for joy; and from within resounded a triumphant peal of music.
Having entered, they perceived the vast circuit filled with the most
varied forms, and all were looking upwards to a large Bird with glancing
plumage, that was sweeping slowly round in the dome, and in its stately
flight describing many a circle. The music sounded more gaily than
before; the colours and lights alternated more rapidly. At last the
music ceased; and the Bird, with a rustling noise, floated down upon a
glittering crown that hung hovering in air under the high window, by
which the hall was lighted from above. His plumage was purple and green,
and shining golden streaks played through it; on his head there waved a
diadem of feathers, so resplendent that they glanced like jewels. His
bill was red, and his legs of a glancing blue. As he moved, the tints
gleamed through each other, and the eye was charmed with their radiance.
His size was as that of an eagle. But now he opened his glittering beak;
and sweetest melodies came pouring from his moved breast, in finer tones
than the lovesick nightingale gives forth; still stronger rose the song,
and streamed like floods of Light, so that all, the very children
themselves, were moved by it to tears of joy and rapture. When he
ceased, all bowed before him; he again flew round the dome in circles,
then darted through the door, and soared into the light heaven, where he
shone far up like a red point, and then soon vanished from their eyes.
"Why are ye all so glad?" inquired Mary, bending to her fair playmate,
who seemed smaller than yesterday.
"The King is coming!" said the little one; "many of us have never seen
him, and whithersoever he turns his face, there is happiness and mirth;
we have long looked for him, more anxiously than you look for spring
when winter lingers with you; and now he has announced, by his fair
herald, that he is at hand. This wise and glorious Bird, that has been
sent to us by the King, is called Phoenix; he dwells far off in
Arabia, on a tree, which there is no other that resembles on Earth, as
in like manner there is no second Phoenix. When he feels himself grown
old, he builds a pile of balm and incense, kindles it, and dies singing;
and then from the fragrant ashes, soars up the renewed Phoenix with
unlessened beauty. It is seldom he so wings his course that men behold
him; and when once in centuries this does occur, they note it in their
annals, and expect remarkable events. But now, my friend, thou and I
must part; for the sight of the King is not permitted thee."
Then the lady with the golden robe came through the throng, and
beckoning Mary to her, led her into a sequestered walk. "Thou must leave
us, my dear child," said she; "the King is to hold his court here for
twenty years, perhaps longer; and fruitfulness and blessings will spread
far over the land, but chiefly here beside us; all the brooks and
rivulets will become more bountiful, all the fields and gardens richer,
the wine more generous, the meadows more fertile, and the woods more
fresh and green; a milder air will blow, no hail shall hurt, no flood
shall threaten. Take this ring, and think of us: but beware of telling
any one of our existence; or we must fly this land, and thou and all
around will lose the happiness and blessing of our neighbourhood. Once
more, kiss thy playmate, and farewell." They issued from the walk;
Zerina wept, Mary stooped to embrace her, and they parted. Already she
was on the narrow bridge; the cold air was blowing on her back from the
firs; the little dog barked with all its might, and rang its little
bell; she looked round, then hastened over, for the darkness of the
firs, the bleakness of the ruined huts, the shadows of the twilight,
were filling her with terror.
"What a night my parents must have had on my account!" said she within
herself, as she stept on the green; "and I dare not tell them where I
have been, or what wonders I have witnessed, nor indeed would they
believe me." Two men passing by saluted her; and as they went along, she
heard them say: "What a pretty girl! Where can she come from?" With
quickened steps she approached the house: but the trees which were
hanging last night loaded with fruit, were now standing dry and
leafless; the house was differently painted, and a new barn had been
built beside it. Mary was amazed, and thought she must be dreaming. In
this perplexity she opened the door; and behind the table sat her
father, between an unknown woman and a stranger youth. "Good God!
Father," cried she, "where is my mother?"
"Thy mother!" said the woman, with a forecasting tone, and sprang
towards her: "Ha, thou surely canst not--Yes, indeed, indeed thou art my
lost, long-lost dear, only Mary!" She had recognised her by a little
brown mole beneath the chin, as well as by her eyes and shape. All
embraced her, all were moved with joy, and the parents wept. Mary was
astonished that she almost reached to her father's stature; and she
could not understand how her mother had become so changed and faded; she
asked the name of the stranger youth. "It is our neighbour's Andres,"
said Martin. "How comest thou to us again, so unexpectedly, after seven
long years? Where hast thou been? Why didst thou never send us tidings
of thee?"
"Seven years!" said Mary, and could not order her ideas and
recollections. "Seven whole years?"
"Yes, yes," said Andres, laughing, and shaking her trustfully by the
hand; "I have won the race, good Mary; I was at the pear-tree and back
again seven years ago, and thou, sluggish creature, art but just
returned!"
They again asked, they pressed her; but remembering her instruction, she
could answer nothing. It was they themselves chiefly that, by degrees,
shaped a story for her: How, having lost her way, she had been taken up
by a coach, and carried to a strange remote part, where she could not
give the people any notion of her parents' residence; how she was
conducted to a distant town, where certain worthy persons brought her up
and loved her; how they had lately died, and at length she had
recollected her birthplace, and so returned. "No matter how it is!"
exclaimed her mother; "enough, that we have thee again, my little
daughter, my own, my all!"
Andres waited supper, and Mary could not be at home in anything she saw.
The house seemed small and dark; she felt astonished at her dress,
which was clean and simple, but appeared quite foreign; she looked at
the ring on her finger, and the gold of it glittered strangely,
enclosing a stone of burning red. To her father's question, she replied
that the ring also was a present from her benefactors.
She was glad when the hour of sleep arrived, and she hastened to her
bed. Next morning she felt much more collected; she had now arranged her
thoughts a little, and could better stand the questions of the people in
the village, all of whom came in to bid her welcome. Andres was there
too with the earliest, active, glad, and serviceable beyond all others.
The blooming maiden of fifteen had made a deep impression on him; he had
passed a sleepless night. The people of the castle likewise sent for
Mary, and she had once more to tell her story to them, which was now
grown quite familiar to her. The old Count and his Lady were surprised
at her good-breeding; she was modest, but not embarrassed; she made
answer courteously in good phrases to all their questions; all fear of
noble persons and their equipage had passed away from her; for when she
measured these halls and forms by the wonders and the high beauty she
had seen with the Elves in their hidden abode, this earthly splendour
seemed but dim to her, the presence of men was almost mean. The young
lords were charmed with her beauty.
It was now February. The trees were budding earlier than usual; the
nightingale had never come so soon; the spring rose fairer in the land
than the oldest men could recollect it. In every quarter, little brooks
gushed out to irrigate the pastures and meadows; the hills seemed
heaving, the vines rose higher and higher, the fruit-trees blossomed as
they had never done; and a swelling fragrant blessedness hung suspended
heavily in rosy clouds over the scene. All prospered beyond expectation:
no rude day, no tempest injured the fruits; the wine flowed blushing in
immense grapes; and the inhabitants of the place felt astonished, and
were captivated as in a sweet dream. The next year was like its
forerunner; but men had now become accustomed to the marvellous. In
autumn, Mary yielded to the pressing entreaties of Andres and her
parents; she was betrothed to him, and in winter they were married.
She often thought with inward longing of her residence behind the
fir-trees; she continued serious and still. Beautiful as all that lay
around her was, she knew of something yet more beautiful; and from the
remembrance of this, a faint regret attuned her nature to soft
melancholy. It smote her painfully when her father and mother talked
about the gipsies and vagabonds, that dwelt in the dark spot of ground.
Often she was on the point of speaking out in defence of those good
beings, whom she knew to be the benefactors of the land; especially to
Andres, who appeared to take delight in zealously abusing them: yet
still she repressed the word that was struggling to escape her bosom. So
passed this year; in the next, she was solaced by a little daughter,
whom she named Elfrida, thinking of the designation of her friendly
Elves.
The young people lived with Martin and Brigitta, the house being large
enough for all; and helped their parents in conducting their now
extended husbandry. The little Elfrida soon displayed peculiar faculties
and gifts; for she could walk at a very early age, and could speak
perfectly before she was a twelvemonth old; and after some few years,
she had become so wise and clever, and of such wondrous beauty, that all
people regarded her with astonishment; and her mother could not keep
away the thought that her child resembled one of those shining little
ones in the space behind the Firs. Elfrida cared not to be with other
children; but seemed to avoid, with a sort of horror, their tumultuous
amusements; and liked best to be alone. She would then retire into a
corner of the garden, and read, or work diligently with her needle;
often also you might see her sitting, as if deep sunk in thought; or
violently walking up and down the alleys, speaking to herself. Her
parents readily allowed her to have her will in these things, for she
was healthy, and waxed apace; only her strange sagacious answers and
observations often made them anxious. "Such wise children do not grow to
age," her grandmother, Brigitta, many times observed; "they are too good
for this world; the child, besides, is beautiful beyond nature, and will
never find its proper place on Earth."
The little girl had this peculiarity, that she was very loath to let
herself be served by any one, but endeavoured to do everything herself.
She was almost the earliest riser in the house; she washed herself
carefully, and dressed without assistance: at night she was equally
careful; she took special heed to pack up her clothes and washes with
her own hands, allowing no one, not even her mother, to meddle with her
articles. The mother humoured her in this caprice, not thinking it of
any consequence. But what was her astonishment, when, happening one
holiday to insist, regardless of Elfrida's tears and screams, on
dressing her out for a visit to the castle, she found upon her breast,
suspended by a string, a piece of gold of a strange form, which she
directly recognised as one of that sort she had seen in such abundance
in the subterranean vault! The little thing was greatly frightened; and
at last confessed that she had found it in the garden, and as she liked
it much, had kept it carefully: she at the same time prayed so earnestly
and pressingly to have it back, that Mary fastened it again on its
former place, and, full of thoughts, went out with her in silence to the
castle.
Sidewards from the farmhouse lay some offices for the storing of produce
and implements; and behind these there was a little green, with an old
grove, now visited by no one, as, from the new arrangement of the
buildings, it lay too far from the garden. In this solitude Elfrida
delighted most; and it occurred to nobody to interrupt her here, so that
frequently her parents did not see her for half a day. One afternoon her
mother chanced to be in these buildings, seeking for some lost article
among the lumber; and she noticed that a beam of light was coming in,
through a chink in the wall. She took a thought of looking through this
aperture, and seeing what her child was busied with; and it happened
that a stone was lying loose, and could be pushed aside, so that she
obtained a view right into the grove. Elfrida was sitting there on a
little bench, and beside her the well-known Zerina; and the children
were playing, and amusing one another, in the kindliest unity. The Elf
embraced her beautiful companion, and said mournfully: "Ah! dear little
creature, as I sport with thee, so have I sported with thy mother, when
she was a child; but you mortals so soon grow tall and thoughtful! It is
very hard: wert thou but to be a child as long as I!"
"Willingly would I do it," said Elfrida; "but they all say, I shall come
to sense, and give over playing altogether; for I have great gifts, as
they think, for growing wise. Ah! and then I shall see thee no more,
thou dear Zerina! Yet it is with us as with the fruit-tree flowers: how
glorious the blossoming apple-tree, with its red bursting buds! It looks
so stately and broad; and every one, that passes under it, thinks surely
something great will come of it; then the sun grows hot, and the buds
come joyfully forth; but the wicked kernel is already there, which
pushes off and casts away the fair flower's dress; and now, in pain and
waxing, it can do nothing more, but must grow to fruit in harvest. An
apple, to be sure, is pretty and refreshing; yet nothing to the blossom
of spring. So is it also with us mortals: I am not glad in the least at
growing to be a tall girl. Ah! could I but once visit you!"
"Since the King is with us," said Zerina, "it is quite impossible; but I
will come to thee, my darling, often, often; and none shall see me
either here or there. I will pass invisible through the air, or fly over
to thee like a bird. O! we will be much, much together, while thou art
still little. What can I do to please thee?"
"Thou must like me very dearly," said Elfrida, "as I like thee in my
heart. But come, let us make another rose."
Zerina took the well-known box from her bosom, threw two grains from it
on the ground; and instantly a green bush stood before them, with two
deep-red roses, bending their heads, as if to kiss each other. The
children plucked them smiling, and the bush disappeared. "O that it
would not die so soon!" said Elfrida; "this red child, this wonder of
the Earth!"
"Give it me here," said the little Elf; then breathed thrice upon the
budding rose, and kissed it thrice. "Now," said she, giving back the
rose, "it will continue fresh and blooming till winter."
"I will keep it," said Elfrida, "as an image of thee; I will guard it in
my little room, and kiss it night and morning, as if it were thyself."
"The sun is setting," said the other; "I must home." They embraced
again, and Zerina vanished.
In the evening, Mary clasped her child to her breast, with a feeling of
alarm and veneration. She henceforth allowed the good little girl more
liberty than formerly; and often calmed her husband, when he came to
search for the child; which for some time he was wont to do, as her
retiredness did not please him; and he feared that, in the end, it might
make her silly, or even pervert her understanding. The mother often
glided to the chink; and almost always found the bright Elf beside her
child, employed in sport, or in earnest conversation.
"Wouldst thou like to fly?" inquired Zerina once.
"O well! How well!" replied Elfrida; and the fairy clasped her mortal
playmate in her arms, and mounted with her from the ground, till they
hovered above the grove. The mother, in alarm, forgot herself, and
pushed out her head in terror to look after them; when Zerina, from the
air, held up her finger, and threatened yet smiled; then descended with
the child, embraced her, and disappeared. After this, it happened more
than once that Mary was observed by her; and every time, the shining
little creature shook her head, or threatened, yet with friendly looks.
Often, in disputing with her husband, Mary had said in her zeal: "Thou
dost injustice to the poor people in the hut!" But when Andres pressed
her to explain why she differed in opinion from the whole village, nay
from his Lordship himself; and how she could understand it better than
the whole of them, she still broke off embarrassed, and became silent.
One day, after dinner, Andres grew more violent than ever; and
maintained that, by one means or another, the crew must be packed away,
as a nuisance to the country; when his wife, in anger, said to him:
"Hush! for they are benefactors to thee and to everyone of us."
"Benefactors!" cried the other, in astonishment: "These rogues and
vagabonds?"
In her indignation, she was now at last tempted to relate to him, under
promise of the strictest secrecy, the history of her youth: and as
Andres at every word grew more incredulous, and shook his head in
mockery, she took him by the hand, and led him to the chink; where, to
his amazement, he beheld the glittering Elf sporting with his child, and
caressing her in the grove. He knew not what to say; an exclamation of
astonishment escaped him, and Zerina raised her eyes. On the instant she
grew pale, and trembled violently; not with friendly, but with indignant
looks, she made the sign of threatening, and then said to Elfrida: "Thou
canst not help it, dearest heart; but they will never learn sense, wise
as they believe themselves." She embraced the little one with stormy
haste; and then, in the shape of a raven, flew with hoarse cries over
the garden, towards the Firs.
In the evening, the little one was very still; she kissed her rose with
tears; Mary felt depressed and frightened, Andres scarcely spoke. It
grew dark. Suddenly there went a rustling through the trees; birds flew
to and fro with wild screaming, thunder was heard to roll, the Earth
shook, and tones of lamentation moaned in the air. Andres and his wife
had not courage to rise; they shrouded themselves within the curtains,
and with fear and trembling awaited the day. Towards morning, it grew
calmer; and all was silent when the Sun, with his cheerful light, rose
over the wood.
Andres dressed himself; and Mary now observed that the stone of the ring
upon her finger had become quite pale. On opening the door, the sun
shone clear on their faces, but the scene around them they could
scarcely recognise. The freshness of the wood was gone; the hills were
shrunk, the brooks were flowing languidly with scanty streams, the sky
seemed gray; and when you turned to the Firs, they were standing there
no darker or more dreary than the other trees. The huts behind them were
no longer frightful; and several inhabitants of the village came and
told about the fearful night, and how they had been across the spot
where the gipsies had lived; how these people must have left the place
at last, for their huts were standing empty, and within had quite a
common look, just like the dwellings of other poor people: some of their
household gear was left behind.
Elfrida in secret said to her mother: "I could not sleep last night; and
in my fright at the noise, I was praying from the bottom of my heart,
when the door suddenly opened, and my playmate entered to take leave of
me. She had a travelling-pouch slung round her, a hat on her head, and a
large staff in her hand. She was very angry at thee; since on thy
account she had now to suffer the severest and most painful punishments,
as she had always been so fond of thee; for all of them, she said, were
very loath to leave this quarter."
Mary forbade her to speak of this; and now the ferryman came across the
river, and told them new wonders. As it was growing dark, a stranger man
of large size had come to him, and hired his boat till sunrise; and with
this condition, that the boatman should remain quiet in his house, at
least should not cross the threshold of his door. "I was frightened,"
continued the old man, "and the strange bargain would not let me sleep.
I slipped softly to the window, and looked towards the river. Great
clouds were driving restlessly through the sky, and the distant woods
were rustling fearfully; it was as if my cottage shook, and moans and
lamentations glided round it. On a sudden, I perceived a white streaming
light, that grew broader and broader, like many thousands of falling
stars; sparkling and waving, it proceeded forward from the dark
Fir-ground, moved over the fields, and spread itself along towards the
river. Then I heard a trampling, a jingling, a bustling, and rushing,
nearer and nearer; it went forwards to my boat, and all stept into it,
men and women, as it seemed, and children; and the tall stranger ferried
them over. In the river were by the boat swimming many thousands of
glittering forms; in the air white clouds and lights were wavering; and
all lamented and bewailed that they must travel forth so far, far away,
and leave their beloved dwelling. The noise of the rudder and the water
creaked and gurgled between whiles, and then suddenly there would be
silence. Many a time the boat landed, and went back, and was again
laden; many heavy casks, too, they took along with them, which
multitudes of horrid-looking little fellows carried and rolled; whether
they were devils or goblins, Heaven only knows. Then came, in waving
brightness, a stately freight; it seemed an old man, mounted on a small
white horse, and all were crowding round him. I saw nothing of the horse
but its head; for the rest of it was covered with costly glittering
cloths and trappings: on his brow the old man had a crown, so bright
that, as he came across, I thought the sun was rising there, and the
redness of the dawn glimmering in my eyes. Thus it went on all night; I
at last fell asleep in the tumult, half in joy, half in terror. In the
morning all was still; but the river is, as it were, run off, and I know
not how I am to steer my boat in it now."
The same year there came a blight; the woods died away, the springs ran
dry; and the scene, which had once been the joy of every traveller, was
in autumn standing waste, naked and bald; scarcely showing here and
there, in the sea of sand, a spot or two where grass, with a dingy
greenness, still grew up. The fruit-trees all withered, the vines faded
away, and the aspect of the place became so melancholy, that the Count,
with his people, next year left the castle, which in time decayed and
fell to ruins.
Elfrida gazed on her rose day and night with deep longing, and thought
of her kind playmate; and as it drooped and withered, so did she also
hang her head; and before the spring, the little maiden had herself
faded away. Mary often stood upon the spot before the hut, and wept for
the happiness that had departed. She wasted herself away like her child,
and in a few years she too was gone. Old Martin, with his son-in-law,
returned to the quarter where he had lived before.
THE GOBLET.