_Pilgrim Sorrow_
A Cycle of Tales
BY
(CARMEN SYLVA)
_QUEEN ELISABETH
OF ROUMANIA_
TRANSLATED BY
_HELEN ZIMMERN_
New-York
_HENRY HOLT & COMPANY_
1884.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 3
THE CHILD OF THE SUN 15
SORROW 35
THE REALM OF PEACE 49
EARTHLY POWERS 67
THE INEXORABLE 87
WILLI 103
THE HERMIT 129
LOTTY 145
MEDUSA 187
HEAVENLY GIFTS 219
THE TREASURE SEEKERS 241
A LIFE 251
_PILGRIM SORROW._
INTRODUCTION.
Roumania, Bulgaria, Servia, and the other new countries situated in the
far East of Europe, are so apt to be associated in our minds with the
tiresome and unanswered Eastern question, that we certainly give both
land and people less attention than many of them deserve. And not least
interesting among them all is Roumania, which during the Turkish war
gained for itself the respect, and admiration of its stronger brothers
and sisters; and which has, in a graceful fairy tale, been described
as "the spoiled child of Europe" by the lady who sits upon its throne.
Writing fanciful stories, aphorisms, novelettes, and poems is this
queen's delight, and she has, within the short time since she began
to publish, acquired for herself a name among German authors. For she
writes in German, which is her native tongue, and under the pseudonym
of Carmen Sylva, in which she seeks some reminiscence of the forests
that were her earliest and dearest friends. It was amid the green woods
and the vine-clad hills of the Rhine that her young intelligence was
unfolded; she was born in this much-sung region, indeed in its fairest
part, and has a true German's pride in that noble river. As a child she
sat for hours upon the lap of the aged patriot-poet, E. M. Arndt, and
he stimulated in her that love of her native land which was also hers
by birthright, for her princely forefathers had fought and suffered in
the cause of German liberation, and had never joined the Confederation
of the Rhine.
Carmen Sylva, or, more properly, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, is the
only daughter of Prince Hermann of Wied Neu-Wied, a tiny principality
situated between Coblenz and Andernach; and here, surrounded by a
devoted, simple, and cultured family, she spent her girlhood, whose
quiet, even course was only interrupted at rare intervals by visits to
the Berlin court and travels with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helena
of Russia. Her parents were anxious she should be taken out of the
mournful home surroundings, where Sorrow had taken up an abode she
rarely quitted. Sickness and suffering among those around her had made
Princess Elizabeth early acquainted with pain.
In the last number of the present cycle the reader may notice that
the tone changes and becomes elegiac and subjective. Though slightly
veiled, it is impossible to ignore that this is an autobiography, that
the soul of the queen is laid bare before us; and a fair and noble soul
it is. Indeed, those who are best acquainted with the details of her
life, can best see how exactly they have been reproduced. There is,
to begin with, her undaunted courage and desire to know, her love of
music, in which she attained a certain proficiency under the tuition
of Madame Schumann and Rubinstein, but whose execution she has had
to abandon owing to weakened health, though the listening to music
remains to her a source of keen delight and enthusiasm. The woods that
surrounded her castle home were, as we have seen, her earliest and
most intimate friends, to whom she confided all her childish griefs
and aspirations, who alone were allowed to listen to the lyrics she
sang and penned in secret, who told her fairy tales in the rustling
of their leaves, and who comforted her sorrows. At the age of eleven
(not two years, as the fable says) it was her lot to witness the nobly
borne death struggles of a most gifted and lovable younger brother,
whose memory has remained to her a religion, and whose life she has
written for her family, illustrated with over two hundred paintings
from her own pencil. For five years after the boy's death her mother
was prostrated upon a couch of sickness, while the Prince, her father,
was a permanent invalid, suffering from chronic lung disease that grew
yearly more hopeless. Her girlhood's friend, too, "the fair maiden
flower," she saw fade and die. No wonder her eyes grew weak with
weeping! It was then she was sent traveling to distract her. While at
St. Petersburg she had a severe attack of typhus fever, and before
she was convalescent she was told that during her absence her beloved
father had been laid in the grave. Then she grew homesick for the old
house in which she had seen so many die, and for a long time she was
sad and weary of her life. "Must every thing I love be borne to the
grave?" she asks in a plaintive little song, written in her diary at
that time. In poetry she found her only outlet, her only consolation;
but as yet she did not publish; these utterances were for herself
alone, to give herself relief and voice. Then at last she was aroused
to work and duty by the claims of matrimony, which for a long while she
had resisted. Her desires had not been towards marriage, and she had
once playfully said that the only throne that could tempt her would
be that of Roumania; there she could find something for her hand to
do. In 1869 Prince Charles of Hohenzollern asked her to be his bride,
and share with him that newly-founded throne. And here she did find
the work "mountains high," of which Sorrow tells her; and how nobly,
admirably, wisely she has attacked these labors, what she has done and
does towards civilizing and educating her half-barbarian subjects, that
lives in their hearts, is repeated by their tongues, and has already
found echo in song and story.
There stands in the public place of Bucharest a statue representing the
queen in the act of giving a draught of water to a wounded soldier.
It was subscribed for by the wives of the officers of the Roumanian
army, and intended as an enduring testimonial of their gratitude to her
whom the popular voice names _muma rantilor_, that is, mother of the
wounded. For what she did during the war of 1877-78 is unforgotten,
unforgettable, by her subjects. She met every train of wounded that came
from the battle-field, she organized hospitals and convalescent homes,
she was present at operations, she comforted the dying and wept with
the survivors. No wonder her people adore her, no wonder that it is
greatly due to her that King Charles is a popular sovereign although
he reigns over a people alien to him in blood and language. "You will
have a noble mission," he said to her on the day of their betrothal;
"you must comfort tenderly when I have been too harsh, and you may
petition for all."
But even after her marriage Sorrow did not depart from Carmen Sylva's
side. She was to know the joy of being a mother; but not for many
years, as she says, was this high dignity to be hers. She had to see
the grave close over her child's golden head, and no other has ever
come to comfort her for this loss. Her greatest treasure, her greatest
earthly happiness, and all her hopes were buried with this little girl.
The sorrow that sprung thence made her truly a poet and an author.
She translated and published the Roumanian nursery songs that had
been beloved of her child, hoping that other children in her distant
German home might love them too. She put into verse the delicate little
sayings of her babe, but those have not been permitted to see the light
of day; she poured into song the whole depth and agony of her grief.
And after having years ago renounced all such hopes, she found that
Sorrow had made her an artist, and that the world cared to listen to
her speech.
Since 1878 the queen's pen has been most productive, although indeed
what she has given to the public was not all written since that date.
The stones here reproduced in English dress quickly gained for her warm
friends upon the Continent, many of whom asked themselves, how comes
it that a woman who occupies a throne beside a beloved husband; who
is young, beautiful, and courted; who surely has beheld life only from
its most brilliant side, can have looked so deep into the human soul,
and learnt to know so well its woes and struggles? The answer lies in
the brief sketch I have above given of her life. She has drunk deep
from the cup of suffering, and therefore she could write the tales of
"Pilgrim Sorrow."
H.Z.
_London_,
October, 1883._
_THE CHILD OF THE SUN._
The Child of the Sun.
Life was a radiant maiden, the daughter of the Sun, endowed with all
the charm and grace, all the power and happiness, which only such a
mother could give to her child. Her hairs were sunbeams, her eyes
gleaming stars. Flowers dropped from her hands, seeds sprang into life
from beneath her footsteps; sweet scents and songs of birds floated
around her; from her lips uncounted songs welled forth. Sounds like
the gurgling of a thousand streams were heard from out her garments,
and yet they were only made of flower petals and covered with tender
webs, in which numberless dew-drops twinkled. Glow-worms encircled the
royal brow like a diadem; birds bore her train over rough paths. When
her foot touched thorns they grew green and blossomed; when she laid
her soft hand upon the bare rock it became covered with moss and fern.
The Sun had bestowed on her glorious child power over all things, and
as companions and playfellows she had given to her Happiness and Love.
In those days there was much joy and blessedness on earth, and no pen
can recount, no pencil paint, how glorious it all was. It was just one
eternal May day, and the august mother looked down from afar upon her
daughter's glad games, and blessed the earth upon which her child was
so happy.
But deep down in the earth there lived an evil spirit called Strife.
The Kobolds brought him news of all the beauty that was outside, and
of the young sovereign who reigned so proudly and lovingly over the
whole world, and who played so sweetly with Happiness and Love. First
he was angry at the tidings, for he desired to be sole ruler of all
things; but after a while a great curiosity took hold of him--and
something beside, something hot and wild, he knew not himself what.
Only he wanted to get outside at all costs. So he began to move a
mighty rock from the center of the earth, and he cast it up on high.
Then he kindled a great fire, so that all the rocks and the metals
above him melted and poured their glowing, scorching streams over the
paradise of earth. And in the midst of these flames Strife rose up,
clothed in dazzling armor, with flowing locks and contracted brows. In
his hands he held a great block of stone, and he peered around him with
his piercing black eyes, seeking what he should destroy first. But of
a sudden he let fall the rock, crossed his arms over his breast, and
stared down upon the garden of earth, like one in a dream. He stood
thus a long, long while, gazing down, silent with wonder, like to a
statue. Suddenly he struck his brow with his fist.
"What! I have lived down there, among cold stones, in the darkness, and
outside is such beauty! What must the sovereign be like to whom all
this belongs?"
The thought brought life once more into this Titanic figure. He stepped
with giant strides down into the blooming, scented world, treading
through it like a storm-wind, stamping down the flowers, breaking down
the trees, without knowing it. He must find the mistress of all this
fair earth. He even passed across the sea, making it pile up waves
tower high, and once more he climbed a lofty mountain, in his hot
impatience to gain a survey. Then he saw upon a meadow-side that which
he sought so ardently. Resting her foot upon cloudy, silver-feathered
flower seeds, her garments gathered up around her, Life was floating by
upon her journey from flower to flower, singing as she went. Upon her
shoulders twittered a pair of birds; upon her finger she bore a bee, to
whom she showed where the best honey lay hid. She had left Love behind
her in a wood, busy building a nest, while Happiness was sleeping upon
a mossy bed beside a waterfall after having played antics innumerable.
Therefore Life was floating forth alone, singing a morning carol to
her mother the Sun. Of a sudden she beheld something gleam and glitter
in front of her, and when she raised her eyes, she saw Strife planted
before her, gazing at her fixedly. His bright armor reflected her
glistening tresses. Life quailed at the sight of this mighty man with
the burning eyes, her foot slipped from its seed-cloud, which sped on
without her. She would have fallen had she not grasped a birch branch
and slid herself down by it upon a mossy rock.
"Aha!" cried Strife, "have I found you at last, you who dispute my
empire, you who wield the scepter here on earth? Who are you, little
maiden, who venture upon such liberties?"
These haughty words restored to Life all her pride and loftiness.
"I am the child of the Sun, and the earth is mine; it was given to me
by my royal mother, and all bends before my power."
Speaking thus she threw back her fair head proudly, so that the Sun
lighted up all her face. Strife saw it and was drunk with love.
"If I overcome you so that you are mine, then you and the earth will
both belong to me."
"Try," said Life, "I am stronger than you."
"I am to wrestle with you, you tender flower! Well, if I do so I must
put aside my armor, or I shall crush you."
And he did so, laying his shield and armor upon the grass. Then he
sprang at her to encircle her waist and to lift her into the air. But
at that moment roses sprang forth from her girdle, and their thorns
pricked him so sharply that he had to let her go. He tried to catch her
by the hair, but this scorched him. Then he tore off his golden chain
and tried to bind her hands with it. She only bowed her head; then the
chain melted in his grasp. Suddenly he felt his wrists clasped by her
tender fingers. He tried to shake her off, but she would not let go.
He lifted her from the ground; she only floated but would not let him
loose, and as often as she grew weary the Sun gave her new strength.
Then he strove to draw her under the shade of the trees; but these
inclined to one side that the Sun might protect her darling. A whole
day did this wrestling last. At last Strife saw that the Sun inclined
towards setting, and though she lingered she had to depart. Then Life
lost her strength, but Strife grew doubly strong. He shook her off and
rushed upon her. Soon her garments lay torn upon the sward, her hair
lost its scorching might, and before dawn broke the chaste maiden knelt
trembling and red with shame upon the earth, entreating forbearance and
mercy with sobs and tears. At this Strife set up a laugh that made the
earth quake, and the rocks re-echoed it like to pealing thunder.
Terrified, Life sank to earth in a swoon. Strife raised her high in
air in his mighty arms and bore her away. Her lovely head was bent
back, her hair swept the ground, her lips were half opened as though
no breath were in them, the wondrous limbs that had resisted him so
long hung faint and powerless, and wherever he bore her there the grass
faded, the leaves decayed and fell from off the trees, and there blew
a storm wind that froze the limbs of Life.
"Wait," said Strife, and he covered her with kisses; "you shall warm at
my fires. Only I must hide you from the Sun or I shall lose you again."
And he vanished with her into the mountains.
The whole earth grew barren and desolate, the birds sang no more, the
flowers drooped, only on the spot where Life had sunk down fainting
there bloomed some crocuses; but even these could not endure. The Sun
grew pale with grief, and wept and beckoned with a white sheet that
fell upon the earth and dispersed into thousands of tiny fragments,
while the mountains upon which Strife's armor had lain became ice for
all time.
When Love and Happiness found that they had lost Life they began
to roam the world in search of her, asking all things after their
beloved companion. They no longer recognized their earth garden in
its changed form, and they wept bitterly. They wandered past hill and
dale, alongside the rivers that lay frozen and ice-clad, and they
called aloud for Life, for they deemed that they must find her. One day
they leant wearily against a tall rock, when of a sudden they heard a
sound within it as of gurgling waters. Flushed with joy they looked at
one another and both exclaimed: "Here she is, here; we hear sounds of
Life," and they began to touch the rock and to call and listen round
about it, until they found an opening whence a spring gushed forth.
Softly they called "Life," and there she stood before them, joyless,
downcast, with weary steps, laying her finger upon her lips.
"My lord slumbers, do not wake him," she whispered sadly.
"Dear Life, come out with us; your garden is bare, your mother is pale,
and we have roamed so long in search of you. Oh, come forth once more."
And they drew Life forth with them, and as she took the first step
outside snowdrops peeped up, and at her next step violets bloomed, and
as she laid her weary hand upon a tree the buds swelled and broke into
leaf.
"Behold," cried Love and Happiness, "you still have your old might. Oh,
do be joyous! Look up at the Sun that she, too, may laugh."
But when the Sun saw her child so weak and weary, she could not refrain
from weeping, though she strove to smile and warm her daughter with
her hot rays. Again and again she had to press her cloud-sheet before
her eyes, and then her tears dropped down upon the earth. Life still
crept along, but wearily. Then came a swallow.
"Hold on to my wings, dear Life; I will bear you a bit;" and thus she
once more floated through the blue air, until the swallow was tired.
Then the stork came and said--
"Kneel on my back and put your arms round my neck; I will carry you
further."
And he bore her far, far, and wherever he alighted a babe was born, and
Love and Happiness followed in their wake, and dwelt beside the child.
And the whole earth grew green and bright. The birds sang again, and
every sunbeam gave new power to Life, so that once more she could stand
on the mountain tops, a blooming, splendid woman, full of grace and
majesty, with earnest eyes and serious mouth, her hands filled with the
fruits that should make rich the world.
But deep down in the earth, Strife who had awoke long ago, sought for
his absent wife. He stormed out into the world, and every where he
beheld her traces, but herself he could not find. How many of her gifts
did he not destroy in his wild haste! Sometimes he would halt puzzled,
piercing the distance with his stern looks. Ay, he was near despairing,
for she, from whom he could no longer live apart, fled from him ever.
Now a tree hid her with his foliage, now a bird in his nest, now a
flower beneath its leaves, now the mist in its veil; and if he came too
near to her an eagle would bear her on his pinions up to the Sun, until
Strife had swept past below, when she returned endowed with new power
and glory. But at last, at last, he did catch sight of her as she was
pressing a vine wreath upon the locks of Happiness, and sending a gleam
from her forehead into the eyes of Love. Then he stepped before her,
looked at her and beckoned. He must have done something to her, for of
pride and resistance there was no longer a trace. He strode before her
without looking round, and she bowed her lovely head and followed him;
and when her comrades would have held her back, she only beckoned with
her hand, and stepped after him silently, wrapped in robes of mist that
swept the falling leaves, and was like to an echo of the gurgling that
had once sounded in her robes. She went into the mountain, bearing with
her fruits and grapes, that the Kobolds pressed into wine with which
they made to themselves merry days.
And she brought forth two children, a boy and a maid. Both were very
pale, and had large dark eyes. The boy had something wild about him,
like his father, the maid was tender like her mother; she was named
Sorrow, but he was called Death. Sorrow did not remain long in her
rocky home. She had inherited from her mother a yearning for earth,
and from her father a ceaseless unrest. So she wandered ever backwards
and forwards upon the earth, and never returned to her home. The boy
followed now his father, now his mother, now his sister, and he made
all still and dead upon their paths; the birds grew still and dead,
the ears of corn grew empty, the children pale; still and dead all who
struggled and suffered.
His mother could only behold him with a shudder; he inspired his father
with malicious joy, but only his sister loved him. She ever called him
to her, and wept when he would not come. One day he said to Sorrow, "I
must kill my mother; ay, if she only looks at me she is dead. But she
ever turns aside from me."
Sorrow was terrified at these words, and did all in her power to turn
the mother's gaze from the son. But she ever felt his might, and could
no longer play with Love and Happiness as formerly. They both, too,
feared Life's awful son even more than her grim spouse, for over him
they had learnt to exert a certain power; he grew quieter in their
presence. But Death remained ever inexorable; his glance now scorching
like the simoon, now numbing like the north; even the Sun lost her
strength before this terrible boy, for he laid night upon all eyelids,
and froze all things living.
Since that time there is an end of the earth's paradise. That is
why Life is no longer a radiant maiden, but a grave woman, full of
useful power, of stern demands on that which she has created. She
cannot forget how fair all was once, and fain would see it thus again,
notwithstanding Strife and Sorrow and Death. She would fain be stronger
than all these three, and yet she must succumb and begin again anew, to
succumb again, ever and ever.
_SORROW._
Sorrow.
Sorrow was a lovely slender child, with dark hair that framed her pale
face. Her delicate lips were nearly always closed, her black eyes
looked deadly weary, so that none could behold her without weeping. The
poor child had no home, and wandered restlessly from place to place.
Now she entered the hut of the poor, now the palace of the rich. She
was so silent and sad that all received her, but, strange to tell, all
who looked at her were attacked with a great woe. One lost his only
child, another his honor, his property, a third was pursued by enemies
without a cause. Again, another knew but grief from his children, so
that he grew gray before his time. Or strife arose between married
folk, or one of the family fell prone upon a sick bed and did not arise
thence for years. People looked at one another astounded whence came so
much affliction, and knew not that they themselves opened the doors to
pale, silent Sorrow, and called her to their table. Sometimes the poor
child came back by the same road and learnt what terrible gifts she had
bestowed. Then she avoided for a long time visiting at the same houses;
but she had grown to love some people, and longed to see them, and did
not notice that she visited them too often. So grief upon grief befell
them, until the sad child took up her staff and bade them farewell
with heavy heart and streaming eyes. She went on her road quietly, not
in haste, not hurriedly, and yet her step was faster than the mountain
stream, faster than the west wind, so that at last she came to lodge
with every human being. It was most terrible when she attached herself
to children. Then the poor little things got long illnesses or even
became orphans, and their pretty faces grew pale and delicate, like to
Sorrow's face, and their eyes as sad and heavy. When Sorrow saw this
she would weep bitterly, and for a long while would look at no child,
ay, even turn her head aside when children were at play.
One day she lay beneath an apple-tree, and saw how the little apples
had such merry red cheeks, that it made one glad to look at them.
"Oh, dear apple-tree," said Sorrow, "give me such merry red cheeks,
then people will like better to look at me."
"No," said the apple-tree, "if you had merry red cheeks, people would
no longer harbor you from pity."
She got up sadly and pursued her road. Then she came to a garden hard
by a river, in which there was such song of birds that it made one's
heart leap for joy.
"Oh, you dear little birds," cried Sorrow, "give me some of your lovely
song, that I may make mankind glad."
"No, dear child," twittered the birds; "if you did not come so silently
and go so quietly, men would not forget you so soon, and begin to
notice that you are Sorrow, and bring them grief."
And yet further roamed poor Sorrow and came to a tall wood. Its scent
was delicious, and it was so pleasant to walk on the thick moss beneath
the trees. Here and there sun-gleams stole through the whispering
foliage, and trembled and danced upon the moss, gilding the faded
leaves. It was beautiful! The child leant wearily against a tree.
"Here I may lodge and bring no grief; here I may rest, and no one look
himself ill at me."
A sunbeam came leaping through the leaves, looked into the dim, lovely
eyes, sprang into them, illumined them brightly, and pierced down into
Sorrow's very heart. The whole wood saw the wonderful gleaming of that
tender girlish face, and rustled for pleasure and admiration. Sorrow
did not know that she had grown more beautiful, but she felt the
sunbeam tremble hot and joyous in her heart.
"Oh, dear wood," she cried, aloud, "give me but a single one of all
your thousand sunbeams, and I shall be happy."
Of a sudden all grew deadly still in the wood; the trees looked at one
another sadly, the sunbeam fled from Sorrow's eyes, touched a lustrous
lizard, and then hid beneath tall ferns.
"You poor, poor child!" said an old oak; "a single sunbeam makes you
too beautiful, men would call you too much and often, and then they
would have to bear pains far beyond their strength. You must remain
without cheer or warmth."
Slowly a hot tear fell upon the woodruff that grew at Sorrow's feet; it
sent up sweet odors and whispered thanks for this dew.
But the restless maid went further, and she came to a large silent
lake. Here nothing stirred, only Evening stepped across the waters,
wrapped in shade, while round about him red rays darted through the
lake, and here and there a star fell into it and remained unmoved on
its quiet expanse. Sorrow dipped her hand into the waters and laid
it on her brow. Evening came by and whispered, "Good-night; sleep
dreamlessly, forget thy woe." She looked after him long, and sighed
softly--
"Once I found rest in the wood; once I forgot my woe when the sunbeam
was in my heart; but that is past."
Lost in dreams, the child gazed into the lake whence blew cool airs,
while the nixes floated in mist across it.
Then Sorrow perceived that a red light fell into the lake, larger,
fiercer than the stars, and it continued to gleam far into the night.
As she lifted her eyes, she noticed that the light came from a
house beside the water. It was thickly grown with ivy, and from its
high-pointed window that stood open there shone this light.
"Strange," thought Sorrow, "I have never entered here, and yet there is
some one watching yonder."
She made her way to the window. There sat a stately woman with
snow-white locks, wrapped in a long soft gown. A delicate kerchief was
bound round her forehead. She wrote sedulously, with firm characters,
in a large book. Her brow was marked with a deep stern furrow, but
about her delicate nostrils and lips there were signs of tender
womanliness and nobility of heart. Sorrow stood sunk in contemplation.
Then two wondrous gray eyes were uplifted and looked at her calmly, and
a deep melodious voice said--
"Why do you not come in, child; I have waited for you long."
Sorrow entered amazed. She did not often hear this greeting. Of a
sudden she found herself encircled by soft arms, and the wondrous woman
took her on her lap, kissed her, and said--
"Dear Sorrow, you had to find me; I might not seek you, for I never
come uncalled. I am Mother Patience, and I sit here and listen and
watch. The lake bears to me the voices of all those who call me. Often
and often have I stepped in your footprints, but alas! not ever."
The furrow in her brow deepened as she spoke these last words. Sorrow
laid her head on this motherly breast.
"Oh, go with me, ever and ever," she craved, softly.
"No, child! when you call me then I will come, and when you are weary
turn in here. I have to write the Book of Life; that gives me much to
do."
Poor little Sorrow remained all night with the wise mother, and next
morning she went on her journey refreshed and strengthened. The whole
earth was blooming and green, for it was harvest time. Sorrow looked at
the poppies and the corn flowers and thought--
"You poor things! now you are blooming so merrily and gleaming in the
sunshine, and yet to-day you will all be mown down."
Then she perceived a burly maiden, who stood alone in a field, and
mowed as fast as three men.
"Good morning, pale one," she called to Sorrow, in roguish tones. "Come
here, and help me."
And so speaking she ran towards her, her locks flying and her blue eyes
laughing like sunshine.
"But who are you?" she asked, amazed, when she saw Sorrow's dark eyes.
"I am Sorrow, and I must wander for ever. And who are you?"
"I am Work; cannot you see that? Do you not see how healthy I am, and
what strong arms I have."
And with that she took up Sorrow like an infant upon her arms, and ran
with her all over the field, and laughed and shouted gleefully. A
faint tinge of red came over Sorrow's face as she said smiling--
"Come with me, do. I may never rest, and yet I am often so weary."
"That may not be, my little sister, for I must sleep in order to be
fresh again in the day. But I am in all places, and must laugh, yet
when I see your eyes my laughter is choked. But when you call me I
will come, and remain behind whence you depart, to make the faces glad
again."
Once more Sorrow stepped forth into the glittering morning and into
the wide wide world. But Work and Patience kept faith and became her
trusty companions. And many a time they met together of an evening in
the house by the lake, and read out of the Book of Life or wrote in its
pages.
_THE REALM OF PEACE._
The Realm of Peace.
Peace dwelt within a deep, silent mountain tarn that was unfathomable,
yet reflected, notwithstanding, the sky's eternal blue. About it tall
cliffs reared their heads, that shone at eve with rosy sheen, while
beyond it was protected by a dense forest in which an ax had never
sounded. Neither Sorrow nor Strife had ever come in here; even the
wind could find no entry, for the rocks had pushed themselves forward
so protectingly that Winter also had to rest content with shaking in
lightly quite a few of his flakes, for there were warm springs in the
tarn, so Frost had no power over it. It was ever green and flowering
round about the shore, and the song of birds filled the air. When Peace
lay floating on the quiet surface of the tarn all the flowering and
singing streamed towards him. Then he would smile blissfully, and kiss
the sunbeams that darted their warm arms towards him; ay, he would
encircle them and draw them under the water and play hide-and-seek
with them behind the trees and leaves. He was such a glorious youth
that all things loved him; they loved his blue eyes, fathomless like
the lake whence he arose, his ruddy lips, his wondrous voice, his
happy laughter. No wonder that the sunbeams sought him, that the moss
trembled with joy when he stepped lightly across it, that the leaf
trembled that touched his brow, that the deer gazed long into the
stream wherein he had seen his image, that the elves and nixes could
only dream of him.
But one day a sound of weeping and sighing swept through the forest, as
though the trees made plaint, and from their leaves fell drops and woke
the fair sleeper whom the sunbeams had lulled to rest. Amazed, he gazed
around him. A girlish figure came towards him, with pale face and long
dark lashes and sad, sad eyes. She dragged her feet wearily across the
moss and sank down beside him.
"Who are you?" he asked, astonished.
"I am Sorrow; Mother Patience sends me to you."
"Who is Mother Patience? and who is Sorrow? I have never heard of
them."
"There is much you have not heard of, for you do not know the world."
Peace smiled. "Do you know it, then?"
Sorrow sighed and nodded her head.
"Look at me," she said, "am I beautiful?"
Peace looked at her long, until he had read the whole history of the
world in the depths of her solemn eyes. Sorrow felt so blissful as she
gazed at him, and every hour she spent with him the poor maiden felt
warmer about her heart, and love entered into it with all its power and
might. When evening came Peace had read every thing. He shuddered.
"No," he said, "you are not beautiful."
Sorrow felt her heart stand still. She said softly--
"Then you will not go with me?"
Peace trembled.
"Oh no," he said, "not with you. It is so lovely here."
"Yes, it is beautiful, but the wisest of women bids me tell you that
your realm is too small; you are born to rule, and she has read in
the Book of Life that a time will come when you shall reign over all
things."
Peace looked thoughtfully down into the tarn.
"But if I am satisfied with my kingdom here?" he said. "I am not
ambitious, I need no fame and no might, I have all I require."
"But if the whole world became like this holy spot, then it would be
yet more beautiful, and you only need to show yourself as you are to
carry off the victory and make it so."
"Do you think so?" said Peace, and he looked at her again with his
lovely eyes, in whose depths dwelt rest and purity. Sorrow's heart
stood still until Peace looked away from her into the water and
continued thoughtfully. "I will go and see for myself whether the world
wants me without having ever beheld my face. If she calls me I will
come, for I will not fight with her. Farewell, Sorrow. I will test the
world to see if I can found my kingdom in her."
Sorrow remained lost in wonder concerning him long after he had
vanished from her gaze. A bird flew over her head towards the evening
sky, flapping its wings as it went. Sorrow fell on her knees beside the
tarn. The waters had grown dark, and through the forest went a sound as
of sighs. The poor maid trembled like a leaf in the wind.
Here, in the realm of Peace, none understood the woe that shook her
breast.
"You are not beautiful," were the words that sounded to her from all
sides--out of the wood, the water, out of her own heart-beats. Night
came by gently, and sought her darling whom she had ever kissed asleep.
She only found Sorrow, and looked at her gloomily.
"What have you done to my Peace?" she asked, in threatening tones.
"I have fetched him away," moaned Sorrow, and wrung her hands.
Night frowned yet more darkly.
"In punishment," she said, "you shall ever seek him and never find him.
Now go!"
Sorrow went forth like to a moaning wind that rushes through the trees.
She wanted to seek for Peace in the world. For a long, long while she
never visited Mother Patience, for she now only thought of one and had
forgotten the good mother. Peace hovered over the world as a bird, and
he beheld how Strife and his children had devastated it. He saw bloody
battlefields, and at sight of the first corpse he grew so giddy that he
was near to fall down with awe. When he beheld murder his heart grew
sore in his breast, as though he had himself been wounded, and he flew
on, away from the scene.
He flew over a great city. There he saw a light burning in an attic
window. He looked in. A pale man sat there, and coughed and wrote with
long white fingers.
"And I, too, shall be great, ay, surely," he murmured to himself. "I
feel it in my breast like fire; there is a light in my brain that
shall illumine the world."
"Poor fool," thought Peace; "Ambition is hunting you to death and you
do not know it."
From out a vine-wreathed window there gazed a lovely girlish head.
Peace thought--"She is like my elves," and he flew in.
But how bitterly was he disenchanted. Flowers and dresses lay about in
tardy confusion, and the fair one maintained that last evening she had
exceeded in charm all others at the ball. Her sister scolded at all
balls; ay, said the whole world was stupid.
"I wish I was that bird who has just come in," she added.
"He, oh, he will dirty every thing!" said the other, and chased him out
again.
In a lonely house there sat an aged woman, and read out of a large
Bible. Deadly pale her youngest son rushed into her room. He was the
only one that remained to her this side the ocean, and he asked her for
money; he must have money or he would shoot himself. The Bible fell
from the old woman's hand, she could not help the reprobate any more;
for though he knew it not she had already sacrificed to him all her
little wealth and even the very house she dwelt in.
In a beautiful garden a nobleman tended his sickly daughter who needed
air and light, a very angel of patience and beauty; meanwhile her
callous mother preferred the idle pleasures of the drawing-room to the
care of her sick child.
In a field Peace saw a number of lads and maidens cutting corn. They
laughed and sang, and threw down their sickles and seated themselves
beneath an apple-tree to enjoy their midday meal and rest. Peace flew
above them and settled among the branches to listen to their prattle
until the lads fell asleep, while the maidens continued to chatter
softly. Then a man came across the field. He wore a broad brimmed hat,
and under it loomed forth his dark, bad face. He woke the lads with
kicks, he threatened the maidens with his stick, called them lazy and
drove them to their work.
Again, further on he beheld a lovely girl given to wife to a rich
monster, notwithstanding her pleadings and prayers. He saw sisters
and brothers haggling over the coffin of a father; even among little
children he witnessed strifes that showed him that they bore within
them the seeds of future passions.
Peace flew towards the south, where lovely girls swung carelessly in
hammocks, rocking themselves and torturing their slaves. He flew to
the north, and beheld a large city full of light-minded women and
unfaithful men, who rushed from one amusement to another--now on
the ice, now in the ball-room, now in sledges, now on or behind the
stage. He flew to the far west, and beheld a rushing and racing after
gain--restless, endless. He flew to the east, and saw noble men and
women working in exile like to day-laborers, heavy at heart with cold
and home-sickness. He flew into the desert, and saw lonely travelers
languishing for water. He flew all over and around the world, but every
where he beheld the signs of pain and struggle. So he went back to his
mountain tarn, and he resolved never to leave his little realm again.
How amazed was he to behold on its shores a great monastery, built of
huge solid stones, that made it appear as though it had stood there for
ages.
"I must have been long absent," thought Peace, as he entered into the
convent.
He stepped inside a wide stone cell, whose tall pointed windows looked
out upon his lake and on the rosy shimmering cliffs beyond. A young
monk sat by an organ, playing and singing in heart-moving tones, as if
he would communicate to the walls the storm that shook his soul. An
older monk had risen from a table, on which, as also on the floor, lay
strewn open folios. He seated himself in the window-niche and covered
his face with his hands. Of a sudden the door was opened, and there
entered an emaciated monk with flaming eyes. His fierce regard rested
sternly on the younger man. Then he turned his haggard form towards the
man in the window-niche, and pointing to the door he said--
"For you, my son, these sounds are noxious poison, which only strict
penance can remedy."
The man addressed bowed his head and went out.
"And you, my son, sin daily by your song. Your life becomes enjoyment
in lieu of penitence, and you lead astray your brethren also. From
to-day forward song and organ are forbidden you."
And he walked to the instrument, locked it, and, putting the key in
his pocket, he went away. The younger man fell upon his knees before
the organ and kissed it like a dead bride, and then went out into the
church.
Peace leant against a beech-tree and wept passionately. "The whole
world is a struggle, and they have taken from me my only home.
Farewell, my silent lake!"
And once more he went out into the world.
He came past a churchyard and went in, going from grave to grave till
he came to the chapel, where a woman knelt and sobbed.
"Not even here," said Peace, and turned to go further.
Then he saw a neglected grave, all overgrown with trailing ivy. Cross
and inscription had long vanished, the mound had sunk, only the ivy
wound its arms lovingly over the forgotten spot.
"Here is my kingdom," said Peace, and he sank down among the leaves.
* * * * *
But Sorrow yet roams the world in search of Peace, for she can never
forget him. Yet, wherever she asked, wherever she sought, nowhere could
she find him. Some had seen him go by, but none had been able to hold
him. She passed through the churchyard, and stepped by the new graves,
only the neglected one she did not visit.
_EARTHLY POWERS._
Earthly Powers.
"Where is Truth? I want to go to her," said Strife.
"She lives in a castle of rock crystal, high up above, on the highest
mountain in the world, and looks out thence on all the lands, and knows
every thing, and whosoever attains thither finds everlasting rest; but
I do not know the road."
So spoke a golden eagle, flapped his wings, and disappeared into
immeasurable heights.
But straight in front of Strife there stood of a sudden a little
being, with turned-up nose, large, light, prominent eyes that only
looked outwards, and a half-opened mouth, as though she had just spoken.
"Whence come you?" said Strife.
"I don't know."
"Whither are you going?"
"I don't know either."
"What do you want in the world?"
"I want to know, for my name is Query."
"Oh, you want to know? Then perhaps you know the road to Truth."
"Yes, I know it, and that is why I do not go on it, for I want to see
that which I do not know."
"But Truth knows all."
"Oh no; how can she know? She sits up there in her castle, while I run
about and ask and ask."
And she skipped about restlessly as she spoke. Seeing a flower, she
stooped down and asked--
"Why do you grow here?"
"Bah," cried Strife, impatiently, and trod it down. "What do I care
about that! You are to show me the road to Truth."
"That I will not," cried Query, and ran away.
With two long strides Strife caught her up, and seized her by the arm.
"I don't leave go of you till you have led me thither."
"But I don't know the whole way; I can only lead you as far as Doubt."
"Then lead me to Doubt."
"I will not," said Query, defiantly, and tugged at the arm that was
captive.
Strife grew enraged. He tore up stinging nettles, and lashed her with
them until she promised to do all that he desired. Then he slung his
golden chain round her body, and said--
"Now lead me and I will follow."
Then she began to lead him astray, on rough paths, through shrubs
and water, and over rocks, and across the desert. At last she stood
still and laughed at him scornfully, pointing out with a titter the
spot whence they had set forth. At this Strife grew so furious that
even impertinent little Query began to tremble. And she had reason to
tremble, for he chained her to the nearest tree and lashed at her with
cords until she could cry no more.
"Now," he said, "explain to me how to reach as far as Doubt, for I will
no longer go with you. But if you deceive me again I will strike you
dead."
She pointed out the road to him, and he went away without looking
back, leaving her tied to the tree. She begged and entreated and cried
for help in vain. His mighty form grew smaller and smaller, the sun
scorched her hotter and hotter. Poor little Query nearly perished. But
the inquisitive swallows, who were her especial friends, saw her need,
and brought her drops of water and crumbs of bread in their beaks.
This lasted until autumn came, and they set forth on their wanderings.
In her need she turned to the wind for aid. He began to blow stronger
and stronger, till he had broken down the tree. Had little Query not
been so lithe and supple, it would have cost her her life. At it was,
she fell to the ground numb with fear and cold. But she soon roused
herself, loosed herself free from the stump, and ran off as fast as her
feet could bear her, to peer once more with curious eyes into the world.
Strife had reached Doubt, who lived at the foot of the mountain where
stood the castle of Truth. His house was surrounded by a large bog,
into which countless persons had sunk who had sought the road to Truth.
Strife hewed down a whole forest and threw it into the bog, and then
stepped across it to the dwelling of Doubt.
"Hold!" cried Doubt. "You don't escape from here without a struggle."
"That just suits me. I came here to wrestle with you."
So they began to tussle, and they fought together for the space of a
whole year. Winter came; they strove upon the ice. Summer came; they
still contended. The wood that Strife had thrown into the bog began to
sink under the mighty bodies, and it sank deeper and deeper until it
threatened to engulf them. Then, at last, Doubt gave way, and said--
"Well go, but it will not be for your happiness."
"I do not seek happiness; I seek Truth," said Strife, and began to
climb the mountain. The longer he ascended the higher it seemed to
grow; with immense exertion he climbed from rock to rock. Beneath him
a precipice yawned continually, and threatened to destroy him. More
than once he had to lay hold of the stones and pull himself up by them.
A block broke and fell thundering into the deeps. From time to time
it lightened and flashed up in the heights; that must be the palace
of crystal which Strife had vowed to enter. After new exertions he
reached a wondrous lovely forest dell, surrounded by tall, aspiring
trees. Within was such scent of flowers, such murmur of water, such
song of birds, that a strange sensation came over him, while straight
in front, upon a polished rocky point, something shone like to the sun
itself. That was the castle of rock crystal. Its thousand facets caught
the light and sunbeams, and reflected them up and down in endless
refractions. The pointed turrets reared themselves against the clear
ether, like ice upon which snow has never fallen. It was as though
light moved about in it of its own will and power, as though it came
forth thence, and not from the Sun that stood behind the castle. When
Strife shielded his eyes with his hand in order to endure the glare, a
lovely maiden, clothed only in her own golden locks, came forth from
the castle and down the hill. She had laid a huge green leaf across
her shoulders to shelter her from the sun, and was thus flooded with
gold-green light. In her hand she held a pitcher cut from a single
topaz. In it the wood, the flowers, and her own graceful image were
reflected. Strife watched her as she placed her small white feet upon
the moss, walking so lightly that she left no trace. She had cast down
her eyes as she neared the spring. Then Strife came close, and said as
gently as he could--
"Give me to drink. I am thirsty."
She lifted her eyes with astonishment and looked at the strong, dark
man. To him it seemed as though heaven looked at him, so deep blue,
so clear and pure were her eyes. The long weary road, the fierce
struggles, ay, even the goal that he would reach, vanished from his
memory as he looked at this impressive beauty.
"Are you Truth?" he asked, at last. "If so I will worship you."
The rosy child-mouth opened.
"No, Truth is my mother; I am called Innocence. Do you wish to go to
her?"
"Yes--no, no longer; I will stay with you, for you are more beautiful
than all."
"Am I beautiful?" asked the girl with surprise; "my mother has never
told me that. But you, you are beautiful, and you look so good,
therefore you shall drink out of my pitcher."
When he had drunk the draught he was quite beside himself. He had only
one thought, to win charming Innocence unto himself.
"Come, play with me, thou heavenly child," he said; "I can teach you
quite new games, here, on this fair meadow."