her movements as she caught them laughing and shouting gleefully. Then
he made her run and he ran after. Then he blindfolded his eyes with
leaves, and she teased him till he caught her. At last she grew so
wanton that she bound him round with creepers, upon which he made as
though he could not stand, and let himself fall into the grass. She
laughed merrily, and strewed him with flowers and leaves; but when she
had nearly covered him, he shook himself free, sprang up, raised her
high into the air, and ran with her to the wood.
"Mother, mother!" called the terrified maiden.
Then the sun sank and night covered all things.
Truth sat in her crystal castle and waited for her daughter. She
wondered where the sweet child could have strayed, and tried to behold
her as she saw all things. But fear for her own flesh and blood
troubled her vision. She passed her hand before her eyes several times,
but she clearly beheld the sun set and the moon rise so she could not
be blind. When the moon shone down on her castle, she heard quite
distinctly her child's voice crying in terror, "Mother, my mother!" and
the next moment, with a fearful crash, the castle of crystal was rent
in twain from top to bottom. Truth grew yet paler than the moon that
was shining into her face. She rushed down the mountain. The stream
sparkled in the moonlight, and there lay the topaz pitcher and a smell
of crushed flowers filled the air. The mourning mother stood still and
asked of Night where was her child, and all the flowers began to weep
and drooped their heads in sorrow, and soon the whole meadow was wet
with their tears.
Truth went onward, petrified, following the traces of her child deep
into the wood, where the moon played with the shadows and conjured
forth all sorts of shapes. She went on and on, till at last she heard
a sound of weeping, and the next moment she stood before her daughter,
who lay on her knees and stretched out her arms towards her. No one
spoke a word, even Night held her breath; but the eyes of Truth began
to glow like flames of fire. With one look she burnt her daughter's
hair, with the next she dazzled Strife, who stood entranced and could
only stare at her. He felt the pain of it shoot through all his body,
he put his hand up to his eyes, he tottered and fell against a tree.
He wanted to see; he knew that Innocence was kneeling there in the
moonlight, but he was stone blind; no ray of light was ever again to
illuminate his darkness. At last Truth spoke with deep resounding
voice--
"My child, you are torn from me for ever. Up here there is no longer
room for you. Oh why did you not obey? I had warned you against every
stranger; you were to speak to none, to give no answers. Here, take my
cloak; at the foot of the mountain you will find shelter."
With these words she turned and went away, and her sighs bent the
crowns of the trees, and grew to a great storm that raged through the
world like an everlasting plaint. Strife stormed down the mountain and
howled with pain and despair. Since that time he has grown yet more
violent, for he is blind, and rushes through the world senselessly,
trying to wreak vengeance on it for his eternal pain. Poor Innocence
wrapped the cloak round her trembling limbs, and descended slowly into
the valley. Her feet were scratched by the rough stones, and her tears
flowed ceaselessly. A few hours ago and she had been the most lovely
flower on the heights, and now she was crushed and trodden down. She
came to the haunts of men, and knocked at their doors and asked for
alms, but she got more abuse than alms. At last she came to the spot
where Doubt dwelt, and one stormy night she passed with light foot
over the bog, not knowing that death yawned under her feet. Doubt was
amazed when he heard a tap at his door. Who could have crossed the
bog on such a night! There stood a pale tired woman, and begged for
shelter, and said she would not stay long.
"Who are you?" asked Doubt.
"I am called Innocence."
Doubt laughed a hard short laugh.
"You will not make me believe that."
But as his words made her cry he grew very somber.
"Is it Strife that has brought you to this? Oh shame, oh everlasting
shame! A curse on him and his search for Truth. It were better he had
been drowned here."
And Doubt received Innocence most kindly and kept her beside him, but
he could give her no comfort. Each of his words only made her heart
heavier, until at last he told her that she would be a mother.
"Then I shall die," said Innocence.
At the moment her child was born it glided away like a snake, and
hopped and danced like a will-o'-the-wisp across the bog of Doubt.
"Oh, my child," sighed Innocence, "come to me, only once."
Then she felt a burning and glowing at her breasts and a sucking that
drained her very life. And while the little being sucked it gained
charming form, and it had eyes that shone now black, now green.
Innocence felt how it was draining from her all her heart's blood, and
with a soft sigh she inclined her lovely head in death. Doubt buried
her in the silent bog that covered her with its dark waters. Then he
looked at the child.
"Shall I murder you, you horrid wretch? No; the world is ripe for you,
you shall live; go forth and avenge your mother!"
And so saying he threw her into the bog, across which she slid like
an eel, and hopped out into the world to do as much mischief in it as
possible.
Strife was her special butt; she tempted and teased and provoked him
incessantly, and often sent him into towering rages. Then he tried to
wring her neck, for he knew not that she was his daughter. But she
always escaped, laughing, from the blind man, and mocked him.
The world was enchanted with her. It lay at her feet and adored her as
a goddess; and this goddess was Falsehood.
_THE INEXORABLE._
The Inexorable.
The sea was running high and was black as night. Only the crests of
the endless waves glistened in the lightning that flashed across the
heavens. The storm was raging towards the land and threw the ships
upon the rocks, so that hundreds of human lives perished in the ocean.
Then of a sudden it seemed as though the storm grew entangled among
the cliffs on the shore, and condensed into a form that reared up
tall and pale against the mighty heavens. It was a grave youth with
unflinching black eyes, who leaned upon a sickle and held an hour-glass
in his hand. He gazed across the waters with an indifferent air, as
though the wrecks, and corpses beneath, concerned him as little as the
sand in his glass, which trickled down evenly, steadily, regardless of
the blustering of the storm, or the sudden quiet. There was something
iron-like in the youth's features, in his eyes there lay a power that
destroyed all things they looked upon; even the ocean seemed to be
numbed by them, and to grow silent with fear. Day dawned, and flooded
with roseate hues from the rising sun. Sorrow came stepping over the
cliffs. She stretched out her arms to the youth.
"Brother," she cried, "brother, what have you done! You have raged
terribly, and did not hear how I called you, ay, cried for you so
eagerly."
"I heard nothing," said Death. "I felt myself too quiet, so I roused
myself. A few vessels were lost in the act."
"O pitiless one!" said Sorrow.
"I do not comprehend your grief," answered the somber youth; and
turning from her, he walked away. He paced silently through the sunny
world; it blew chill around him, and wherever he paused a silent
shudder seized all things. He went by a house and looked in. There lay
a man tortured with pain who beheld him and called him imploringly; but
he only shook his head and went further. A lovely young woman stood in
her garden surrounded by joyous children, her husband had just stepped
up to her and kissed her. The pale wanderer laid his hand on her
shoulder and beckoned to her; she followed him a few steps and sank
lifeless to the ground.
Then he came to a forest in which a pale man was pacing hither and
thither, tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, crying--
"Dishonored, dishonored!"
He saw the passer-by with the somber eyes, saw him lift his white hand
and point to a tree. The despairing man understood the signal.
He passed a group of playing children, and softly mowed the grass
between their feet with his scythe. Then they bowed their heads like
broken flowerets.
There an old man sat in an armchair, and was enjoying the warming
sunbeams. Death raised his hour-glass and held it before his eyes--the
last sands were running down.
He halted by a stagnant pool. No water could be seen, for it was
covered with green. The rushes quivered under his cold breath, and
the toad that had been croaking grew silent. Then the reeds rustled
and a lovely woman drew close to the water, took something from a
handkerchief and threw it down. It sank with a faint gurgle into the
depths. Twice she made a movement as though she would spring in after
it, but each time Death extended his scythe towards her, and she fled
terrified. He lifted his hour-glass in which the sand ran down quickly,
hurriedly. Then something white came up between the green water-plants,
and with wide-open eyes a little corpse appeared, gazing at the running
sand.
Then Death went further, and across a battle-field, where he mowed down
many fine men.
At last he came to a lovely valley in which autumn was reigning in all
its glory. The trees were bathed in gleaming gold, the sward beneath
was a luscious green, strewn with tender flowers. A silvery laugh came
from the branches through which a charming little figure was floating,
now hiding among the leaves, now jumping down upon the grass, and at
last running with lightsome step, and garments streaming in the breeze,
to meet a stately man who stood leaning on a club beside a hillock.
"Come to me, fair Happiness," he cried aloud. "You must go with me. You
are mine, for I am Courage."
"Must I?" said the sweet little form, and turned her back to him.
As she did so her eyes, full of beaming wantonness and measureless
roguery, turned towards the pale pilgrim. He saw the dimples that
played on her chin and cheeks, her neck and her arm. Her whole slender
figure was inwrapt by her light floating locks, which were moved by the
softest breeze, and which looked in the sunshine like falling gold-dust.
"Yes," cried Courage, "you must, for you love me. I have found that
out."
"I love you in this fair valley, and that is why I give you smiles; but
if you must go out into the world, you must go alone. There stands one
who has never yet spoken with me, and he looks as if he too needed the
gift of smiling."
"You can't give it to him," said Courage. "Do not try. You will only
hurt yourself with his scythe."
But Happiness had already run up to the Inexorable.
"Shall I teach you how to smile, you serious youth? You seem to need
it."
"Yes, I could use it, for all behold me unwillingly, and no one goes
with me unless he is obliged, and it is because I cannot smile."
"Yes," said Happiness, and she grew quite timid; "but in order to teach
you smiling, I must kiss you. That does not seem to me so hard, only
your eyes terrify me."
"Then I will close them," said Death.
"No, no, you are so pale, I shall be still more afraid; and your
scythe, too, is so sharp and cold."
"Then I will throw it from me."
And he threw his scythe far away; it grazed the trees as it fell. Then
their golden foliage fell to earth, and all the branches grew bare,
and as the scythe sank into the grass it grew covered with rime, and
the flowers hung down their crowns.
"Oh, you have spoilt my garden with your ugly scythe," cried Happiness;
"and I was going to make you such a lovely present."
"I did not want to do it, but the scythe flew out of my hand, and now
I am much sadder because I have grieved you. You can find new gardens,
but no one can teach me how to smile."
"You shall learn, notwithstanding," said the fair maiden, and she
stepped close to him; but as often as her rosy lips approached him
she grew so cold that she fell back shuddering. Then he looked at her
imploringly without raising his hand, as if he feared to hurt her by
a touch; but his gaze held her spellbound like a great power, and
she had to kiss him. But at the moment that her lips touched him his
cold sank deep into her heart, and she fell dead to the earth. Courage
sprang angrily at the pale youth.
"You have murdered my Happiness."
"Was she yours?" asked Death, and sighed; "then go after her; there she
floats."
Following the indication of his hand, Courage saw how the soft breezes
were tenderly bearing away Happiness upon their wings, like to a light
cloudlet. Courage hurried after them with powerful steps, keeping his
eyes ever fixed on that rosy cloud.
Death stood and gazed until he felt quite warm within, and a tear ran
slowly down his pale cheeks. He had to learn for himself, what as yet
he knew not, how it hurts if we chase away Happiness.
When nothing more could be seen but bare trees, faded grass, and
withered flowers, he lifted his scythe and looked sadly around the
valley, as though he expected it would all bloom again. But the earth
remained dead and stark, so he turned once more to the sea. That was
rolling its eternal tides upwards and downwards, as indifferent as
ever. But he who stood above and looked down was no longer indifferent.
He thought of the maiden whom he had hurt, and his yearning was as
great as the ocean at his feet. And this yearning transfigured him to
wondrous beauty. Thus he was seen of a pale maiden with unkempt hair
and torn garments. She fell at his feet; but he was terrified by her,
and drew back a pace.
"Do you no longer know me?" said the maiden. "You used to know me well,
and you knew that I perished for yearning after you. I am Despair.
Have you forgotten that you promised to kiss me, to give me one single
kiss? It would be happiness for ever."
The youth's eyes grew dark as night, and his voice sounded stern as he
said--
"And you dare to speak of happiness? Do you know what happiness is? If
you come near it only once may you be turned to stone!"
"And if I were to turn to stone, yet I implore for a kiss from your
mouth."
The youth shuddered and thought of the lips that had touched his and
taught him to smile, and as he thought of them he smiled. When the
maiden at his feet saw this, she threw her arms about his neck, and
laid her head on his breast. She did not see the hate and loathing that
flashed from his eyes, but the next moment a hideous skeleton grinned
at her, and nearly crushed her in his bony arms, and a death's-head
kissed her.
Then the earth trembled and opened. Cities vanished, fire streamed
forth from mountains, forests were uprooted, rocks flew through the
air, the sky was on fire, and the sea rolled in upon the land. When all
was still again, Despair reared above the waters, an image of stone.
Death rushed away as a storm wind to pursue the rosy cloud under this
disguise.
_WILLI._
Willi.
Mother Patience was once again sitting by her window writing. She had
often been called that day, and had much to confide to her mighty
folios, much too that was good and pleasant; that is why an air of
cheerful calm rested on her features. The whole room was filled with
the scent of lovely flowers, and on the hearth there burnt a bright
fire that threw magic lights and shades upon the industrious scribe.
Without it was blowing cold, and like sharp needlepoints the frozen
snow flew against the window panes. A light covering of ice lay over
the lake, firm enough to hold the ravens. The distant road resounded
hard and dry under the quick steps of shivering wanderers, the wind
sang melancholy tunes round the lonely little house, as though he
would recount to Mother Patience all the misery of the earth. He shook
and tussled at the ivy that tenderly inwrapt the house. Suddenly she
stopped to listen; a light, well-known footstep had passed her window,
and the next moment Sorrow knelt at her feet, breathless, trembling
like a hunted deer.
"Mother," she said, "mother, how terrible. Why were you not there, then
that awful woman would not have gone with me, and it all would not have
happened."
So speaking Sorrow looked behind her fearfully, as though that pursued
her that had alarmed her so.
"Calm yourself, child, no awful people come hither. Tell me what has
occurred."
"It was my fault," wailed Sorrow; "I did it. Oh, why am I in the world?
why am I not there, deep down in the lake where the frozen water would
bury me safely?"
"Be quiet, child, quiet; do not murmur, do not complain, for you bow
down the haughty and soften the hardhearted."
"No, mother, that is just it; I harden the hearts, and those who love
know each other no more. You must hear my tale.
"Two years ago I turned in on a prosperous farm; it was called The
Holt. Wherever you looked you saw evidences of full rich life. The
cattle were well fed and tended like horses, the barns were full, the
maids and men in noisy activity. A splendid boy with blue eyes and
brown locks was cracking his whip in the yard. He wanted to chase the
calves that were going to drink. A slender pretty girl with laughing
brown eyes and a coronet of fair plaits came out upon the doorstep.
"'Johnnie, Johnnie!' she cried; 'you rogue, you naughty boy; will you
leave the calves alone.'
"The boy laughed and cracked his whip louder than ever, but swift as
lightning the girl ran out, and with a curious stern look about her
mouth wrenched the whip from him before he was aware of it, and held
it high in the air so that he could not reach it, though he jumped and
tried. It was a charming picture,--the boy impetuously defiant, the
girl so firm and lithe. I looked at both with pleasure. But there was
another looking at them, he seemed to be the bailiff. When the girl
looked round she grew quite red at the gaze that rested on her, and
called out--
"'Why do you stand like that? Could you not hinder him?'
"'Oh, yes; but then Willi would not have flown out like a little demon.
I only waited to see her come out and make her stern face.'
"'Get along with you,' she said, and threatened him with the whip.
"The bell rang for supper. I was called in and allowed to sit among the
maids. There stood the Holt farmer, stately and strong. He had just
such brown eyes as his daughter, and the same stern look about the
mouth, only in him it was more marked. His wife had blue eyes like
the boy, but her air was depressed, as if she could not hold herself
against the strong wills around her.
"'Johnnie, say grace,' said the farmer.
"Johnnie was cross and mumbled--
"'Come, Lord Jesus, sit down among us, and give me back my whip.'
"'But, Johnnie!' thundered the voice of the farmer, who tried thus to
overpower the tittering that went round the table.
"The tone was a merry one. Johnnie was much teased, and he swallowed
down his vexation with his hot soup. The bailiff sat opposite Willi,
and they often exchanged secret glances.
"'Johnnie is my crown prince,' said the farmer; 'and he will once reign
over all this domain, while Willi will have all the money and wed the
Raven farmer.'
"'That I will not,' said the girl, without looking up from her plate,
and again that stern look came into her face; 'I do not like that man.'
"'She does not want to be a raven mother,'[1] the head-maid whispered
to the bailiff, and all began to laugh.
"'What is all this whispering?' asked the farmer, frowning darkly.
"No one would reply. At last Johnnie called out--
"'Willi does not want to be a raven mother.'
"Then the laughter knew no bounds. Willi threw a censuring look at her
brother; the farmer said dryly--
"'I do not like these silly jokes, and if I say a thing it must be.'
"Willi was silent, but under her fair plaits the same resolve remained.
"Now hear the terrible part. In the same night that I slept there
Johnnie got ill with fever. The doctor was sent for in haste; the
whole house was upset, and before I could leave the village that I was
leisurely pacing, little Johnnie grew pale and still, the whole farm
silent as the grave, and only the sobs of women were heard through the
open window as they laid the boy in his coffin. The farmer's wife was
quite broken down, she wept and moaned incessantly; the farmer bit his
teeth together in wild grief. Willi did her work, but often passed her
hands across her eyes; only whenever the bailiff would come near her,
she turned her back and went away.
"It was long before I went that road again; I could not look at the
poor things. Only now have I passed once more. I wanted so much to know
what the people were doing, and whether Willi had married the Raven
farmer to comfort her father, since his pride, his darling, his crown
prince lay in the grave. Oh, mother, mother, had I not brought them
misfortune enough! There they stood, all three, upon the threshold, and
the north wind howled around them. The old woman was holding her apron
before her eyes; the father was angry like a wild bull. He shook Willi
and turned her adrift with the words--
"'Away from my house, wench; I know you not.'
"Willi's face was pale as death, but unmoved. No sound crossed her
lips, no prayers, no complaint. The door of her home fell sounding into
its lock, and Willi, wrapped in a shawl, stood outside in the north
wind. But under her shawl something moved, which she shielded tenderly,
and that soon began to cry for its mother's breast. Then her face grew
rather softer, and she looked anxiously at the little creature with
whom she was thus left alone this wintry night--she, the daughter of
the rich farmer of The Holt. She did not seem strong on her feet and
had often to stop by the roadside, now to rest, now to quiet the child.
Thus she went on all night along the high road till she reached a
strange village. There she sought shelter from the wind under a porch,
seated herself on the stone steps and fell asleep. But scarcely had day
dawned before she was chased away by the maid who had come to sweep,
and who threw hard words at her. The wind had abated a little, but she
was so numbed that she tottered on her feet.
"After a while she managed to walk again, and thus she passed through
the whole large village, over the hard frozen ground, under the gray
leaden sky that grew darker, more glowering as the day advanced. The
child would no longer be quieted, and cried often and long. So poor
Willi went from house to house and begged for work.
"'We want no maid with a child,' was the hard reply she received every
where, or 'What can we do with the little screamer?'
"Then she begged for a little milk for the babe, for her own was
diminishing from hour to hour. But no one would give her any, and she
wandered on. I went after her, for I could no longer lose hold of her.
Suddenly I saw some one come up behind me--a terrible woman, with stony
face and wild hair. She came nearer, ever nearer, and as she was close
upon me she laughed hoarsely--
"'You have done your work well. It is my turn now, for I am Despair.'
"The wind was howling anew, and a snow storm began that even took away
my breath. Willi thought she had walked away, but in the dead of the
night she found herself once more at the entrance of the same village.
She seated herself in a hedge half dead with cold and hunger. The babe
in her arms whimpered unceasingly, only from time to time it cried
aloud. In the morning she roused herself with an effort, and once more
begged for a drop of milk at various doors. She was scolded anew. Once
a boy gave her a piece of bread, she could not eat it. She tried twice,
three times, to swallow the hard, cold pieces. Then the child whined
again. She shook her head and threw the bread into the snow. Slowly she
dragged herself onwards, till she came near the river, already covered
with a thin crust of ice, on which lay the fresh fallen snow. The wind
had lulled, but the sky was still leaden gray and a new snowstorm
threatened. The fearful woman stepped past me towards Willi, who now
stood on the bridge staring down abstractedly. She laid her hand upon
her shoulder. Willi turned her head slowly; but when she saw the stony
eyes she shrieked and the child fell out of her arms. I heard the ice
crack and crackle, and then there was nothing more. Willi lay on the
ground unconscious, and people who were just passing the bridge peeped
down, shook their heads and raised her up. I do not know where they
took her, beautiful Willi with her wild shock of fair hair and her
bright brown eyes. Oh, mother, what have I done! Can you not help?"
"Not yet," said Patience, and looked dreamingly in front of her, "but I
shall help when it is time."
Winter was past, the world began to stir anew, the tomtits and
blackbirds twittered, in the fields there was merry life, when Willi
stood before her judges accused of infanticide. She was white as a
sheet, her eyes gleamed unnaturally from out of dark hollows, and to
all questions she only replied by a shake of the head. Brow and lips
had a strange expression. Was it the reflection of that terrible face
that had stared at her on the bridge, or of the thoughts with which she
had wrestled in prison?