with the fair flower-children and began to sing in unison with the
birds. Then she entered the next room, whose walls were pure rock
crystal, that reflected Märchen many hundred times. In its center,
under mighty palm fans, was a large basin, studded with rubies, into
which foamed a waterfall. The nixes lay around it upon couches, and
waited for the beauty whom as yet they had not seen that day. But
Märchen wanted to hear no more; she had, like a true queen, given ear
to so many that she was overpowered with fatigue, and craved rest.
So she passed into the next room, that was a single little bower of
rushes and bindweeds; the ground was strewn with poppy flowers, and
in its midst stood the fairest couch eye has seen--one single, large
rose--into which Märchen laid herself, and that closed its leaves above
her.
Now the rushes began to rustle like an echo of distant singing, and the
bindweeds tolled their bells, and the poppies gave forth their faint
odor, and Märchen slumbered deep and sweet until the evening.
When the sun was sinking, and gazed like a large, glowing eye between
the trunks of the forest, so that all the leaves looked golden,
Märchen awoke, placed her distaff in her girdle, put the spindle beside
it, and stepped outside.
Twilight was creeping up mysteriously and dreamily and spreading its
wings over the forest. The birds grew still; only the toads in the
watery gorge began their one-toned song. A gentle murmur ran through
the leaves and across the parched grass, for all wanted to look on
Märchen and aspired towards her. Now the moon rose and threw bright
lights hither and thither and haunted the trees. He wanted to kiss
Märchen and entice her forth to play upon the forest meadow.
"The elves await you," he called after Märchen, who would not listen,
but floated on airily, as though the evening breezes bore her. A
mill stood beside the brook in the shadow of the beeches. A fire
gleamed within it, around which people sat gathered. Märchen entered,
and called the children. They flew towards her and drew her to the
fireside, brought her a stool to sit upon, and gazed with large, eager
eyes at her full distaff.
Märchen caressed the dear, fair heads, drew forth the spindle, knotted
the yarn, and began to spin. And while the spindle floated up and
down, swirling, she told them what she beheld in the yarn, until from
sheer listening the children's eyes fell to, and they never knew next
day whether they had really seen Märchen or only in their sleep. She
herself slipped out and glided between the trees till she came to a
meadow shimmering in evening mist. Hundreds of butterflies hung upon
the myriad flowers, two and three on one blossom, and slept so deep
and sound that the heads of the sleepy flowers hung deep down under
the weight of so many guests. Only the large night-moth floated about
darkly and watched over the whole.
"I wonder if the butterflies dream," thought Märchen, as she knelt down
beside the flowers and approached her ear.
Yes, they dreamed of the journeys they had taken that day; they dreamed
they had gained far fairer colors: just such green, blue, and red
hues like the flowers and leaves. Even the plainest gray one dreamt
of colors brighter than the gayest parrot. The flowers dreamt that a
warm wind touched them, and gave to them far sweeter scents than they
had ever owned--quite intoxicatingly luscious. It was Märchen's breath
which they had felt in their sleep.
Soon Märchen came to a pretty house beside a gurgling stream. The water
formed a quiet little pool, in which the moon and the ivy-grown house
were reflected. The beeches dipped the tips of their branches into it,
and a nightingale sang lonesomely into the night. Up in the house burnt
a solitary light, like to a glowworm. Märchen entered the house as
though it were most familiar to her, opened a door softly, and stepped
within a little room. In a deep armchair, beside a writing-table, sat
a handsome, pale, agitated man. His head was sunk in his palm, and he
gazed with lightless eyes across the table, on which Sorrow was resting
both her hands.
"See," he said, "this morning, beside the mountain stream, I was glad
for a moment. Pictures filled my brain, but now all is empty and
dead, and I am so weary--so weary. I wish to die. I cannot forgive my
body that it still lives on, and yet a heavenly gift dwells within me
that keeps me alive and makes me believe I could still create. But I
do nothing more. Fatigue has grown stronger than aught else in this
ugly world. Would that I had never been born, for I am a man who must
reflect the whole world in its pain and suffering and falsehood. I
love men too much, and therefore they have no faces for me. I only see
their souls, and these are beautiful notwithstanding all wickedness and
misery. Now I grow miserable with them. I should like to hide before my
own eyes, for I am worth nothing--nothing. All that I do is vain, and
will vanish unheard; all I think others know much better. A fire burns
in me that consumes me in lieu of warming my fellow-men. I feel like
one that is drowning, to whom no saving hand is extended. I should be
a man and save myself, but my strength is at an end. I have lived too
much. I have lived through all that which others have felt, and borne
my own woes besides. Now it is too much, do you see--too much; and I
can no longer give to the world what I fain would have given it--all
the new, great, lovely things that dwell in my brain. But it had no
time to listen to me. And perhaps there is, after all, no value in
these things, though to my small mind they seemed so great. Yet they
cannot bear the light. I am weary. I want to die."
Sorrow listened, and never took her eyes from him; but her pitying
gaze made him yet more irritable and desperate. Suddenly Märchen stood
before him, with glittering distaff, with shining teeth and beaming
eyes; dimples in her cheeks, and the distaff of promise in her hands.
He looked at her and was dazzled.
"I wanted to help," said Sorrow, "but he grew ever worse."
"_You_ help him!"
Märchen laughed.
"Go your ways and leave him to me; I will manage him. I know all. You
are once more weary of the world and want to die, and have no talent,
and men are all bad, very wicked indeed, and faithless, and have
deserted you, and do not believe in you. Oh, you poor, poor human soul!
Why do you not become a butterfly and sleep on a flower? He knows that
he has wings, and that his flower has scent, and that his meadow is
quite full of blossoms. What does he care whether the others see it
since he sees it! And now look here; I have come back, although you
scarcely deserve it, you doubter. Look at this heavy laden distaff,
that is for you, only for you, if you will listen to me."
And Märchen began to spin and sing and narrate all night long, and
her friend wrote and wrote, without knowing that his pencil moved; he
thought he had only heard and listened. He wrote down thoughts and
songs and poems; they streamed like living fire from under his hand.
And what he wrote moved the world. Men thought his thoughts after
him, and sang his songs, and wept over his stories, and knew not that
the poet who had given them all these things was sad unto death,
misunderstood of all, and that Sorrow visited him far oftener than
Märchen.
They called him a child of the gods and a genius, and knew not that
he was a man for whose soul Sorrow and Märchen struggled ceaselessly,
and who had suffered so much grief and seen so many wonders that his
strength was broken. Ay, the children of the gods must suffer much on
earth, and Märchen only visits those that have been proved, and ever
departs from them if they have made themselves unworthy of her. Once
she told at parting the tale which follows:--
[Footnote 2: I have been forced to keep the German word, as no English
one covers that peculiar type of German fanciful stories that are known
under this appellation. _Märchen_ are something more than fairy tales;
something deeper, wider, richer, and more varied. The queen calls the
present book a cycle of _Märchen_.--TRANSLATOR.]
_THE TREASURE SEEKERS._
The Treasure Seekers.
The Philosopher and the Poet set out together on a pilgrimage, to
seek after the hidden treasure of cognition[1] and to raise it. They
had been told that it lay buried there where the rainbow touches the
earth, and that it was quite easy to find. The Philosopher dragged
instruments with him, and began accurate measurements, and as often
as he saw a rainbow he carefully measured the distance, determined the
spot with mathematical accuracy, hurried thither and began to dig.
The Poet, meanwhile, laid himself in the grass and laughed and toyed
with the sunbeams. They played about his happy brow, they told to him
bright fairy tales of dreamland, and showed him the life and working
of nature. He grew familiar with all plants and creatures, he learnt
to know their speech, and he became versed in their secret whisperings
and sighs. Ay, all created things came to have faces for him, from the
tenderest plant and the most insignificant beast, and before his eyes
were unrolled deeds full of woe and joy.
When at last the Philosopher, with solemn look, torn hands, and weary
back, rose from his shaft back into daylight, laden with some new
stones, he marveled when he saw the Poet's face radiant, as though he
had heard wonders.
"How transfigured you are, you lazy one!" he said angrily.
"Who tells you that I am lazy?"
"You always remain here on the surface while I go into the depths."
"Perhaps the surface, too, offers some solutions, and perchance I read
these."
"What can the surface offer? One must penetrate into the depths. I have
as yet not found the right spot in which the promised treasure lies,
but I have made some most important discoveries, though never yet the
right ones, those that I apprehend."
"Let us seek further," said the Poet.
Suddenly he held his friend by the arm, and pointed with breathless
delight.
"Another rainbow!" cried the Philosopher, and began his measurements.
But the Poet had seen behind the sun-glittering rainbow a wondrous
form with black hair and large, sad eyes. She seemed to wait for him;
then she turned away slowly. As though demented, the Poet rushed after
her; he forgot the aim of his pilgrimage, forgot his friend, who had
descended into a new shaft. He only hurried after that wondrous being
whose eyes had sunk into his soul. Over hill and dale, from house to
house he followed the fair form. He saw the world and its agonies,
wherever he looked he beheld woe, for in his own heart dwelt the
greatest woe, the gnawing pangs of love. He ever thought he must attain
to his enchantress, who stepped in front of him so calmly, through
the fallen autumn leaves, across the soft snow, in the bitter north
wind--north, south, east, and west, ever unapproachable. Once or twice
she looked round after him, and her gaze only increased his yearning.
At last Spring neared on the wings of the wind. At the spot whence the
Poet had set out the fair form halted. Now he should reach it. But at
that moment a hurricane broke loose that shook the world. Forests were
uprooted, and all the sluices of heaven seemed opened. The Poet crossed
the foaming mountain stream at the peril of his life, and came up to
her who stood calm amid all this uproar, and only gazed at him. He
seized her hand.
"You are mistaken in me," she said, sadly. "I wanted to flee from you
because I love you, for I bring you no happiness. I am Sorrow, and
must leave you a heavy heart and serious thoughts. Farewell! You have
found your treasure; now you need me no longer."
So speaking she vanished.
The hurricane had changed into a fine, drizzling rain, through which
the Spring sunbeams pierced to the Poet. At that moment the Philosopher
rose out of the earth richly laden. He let all his burden fall, folded
his hands, and cried--"Why, you lucky wight, you stand in the very
midst of the rainbow, straight upon the treasure."
"Who? I?" said the Poet, waking from his stupor. Then he threw himself
to earth and wept aloud and cried--
"Oh that I had never been born! I suffer unspeakable torture."
The Philosopher shrugged his shoulders and began to dig anew.
"There stands one right upon his treasure," he said, "and does not know
it; and when I tell him he weeps. Oh these poets!"
[Footnote 3: _Erkenntniss_ is the German word. The tree of knowledge
of good and evil is called in German "der baum der Erkenntniss." The
clumsy philosophical term "cognition" alone seems to me to embrace all
the author would include in her meaning.--TRANSLATOR.]
_A LIFE._
A Life.
I wanted to find Truth. Then Sorrow took me by the hand, and said--
"Come with me, I will lead you to Truth, but you must not faint or fear
by the way."
"I! I fear nothing; and I am so strong I could carry mountains."
Sorrow looked at me pityingly, and gave no answer, but led me into a
hall that was vast and high and airy, filled with wondrous strains
of music, glorious pictures, and statues. I wandered among them
bewildered. There was nothing to fear here.
"See," said Sorrow, "here live the Arts; you may choose one of them.
But of your own accord you must select that which suits you; and it
will help you on the road to Truth."
Then I laid my hand on an instrument--
"Music tempts me," I said; "I will sing and play like a god, and it
cost me my life and my happiness."
With what ardor, what fire did I begin to play! I followed music like
an adored mistress. I besought her to lead me to Truth. But she ever
went too fast or soared above my head, while I played till my hands
failed me. Song sounded weak and small in my throat, instead of sobbing
and storming. Then I ran into the Wood in my distress, and it comforted
me.
One day Sorrow touched my shoulder.
"You still play badly, you still sing feebly; let us go further: you
are no artist."
I laid aside my instrument and wept.
"Hush!" said Sorrow; "you wanted to carry a mountain."
And she led me into a large, solemn, dimly lit room, that was full of
books from floor to ceiling.
"Here is food for your spirit," said Sorrow; "seek, seek; in Science
lives Truth."
I seated myself in a tall, worn armchair, and began to learn. But I
could only study slowly, for ever my thoughts would wander their own
ways. Now the fire burned too brightly and told me fairy tales; now the
wind howled round the old house, so that I thought I must away, and the
letters grew dim to my eyes. I strove to check this hapless fantasy
that held me back on the road to Truth; but it was stronger than I.
Sometimes it pressed a pencil into my hand, and then I wrote secretly
poor little verses, which I hid from the very books, from the very air
of the room. At last I threw myself back in the chair and cried--
"Wisdom, too, is not for me. She seems to me dead and dusty, and I--I
desire to live."
"Do you want that?" said Sorrow. "But then you must not fear."
"I do not fear, I want to live."
Then I stood beside a sick bed, where a lovely gifted boy struggled
with Death. His sufferings exceeded the measure of the endurable, yet
Sorrow would not quit him. But Courage, too, remained at his side. Two
years the terrible struggle lasted, and I asked--
"Where is Truth? Is this to live?"
When he died I trembled, for the first time, for fear. Then Sorrow took
me from one deathbed to another. How many fair maiden flowers that had
grown up beside and with me did I see fade! And I wept till my eyes
were dim.
"Is this to live?" I asked again.
Then Sorrow took me with her on long journeys to the North, South,
East, and West. I saw all men, all arts, all treasures, the mighty sea,
and the petty towns, till I grew homesick for the old house in which I
had seen so many die, in which my father had now closed his eyes. For
when I came back I found his armchair empty. Then I was ready to die of
grief.
"What," said Sorrow, "die already? And you could carry a mountain? Why,
you have not lived yet, for you have not loved."
While she said this she laid her hand on my heart, and like a mighty
stream love entered in with song and rejoicing. Only the Wood saw it,
and it rejoiced with me, and yet more secretly I wrote now and again a
little poem.
But Truth was not in love, neither was it in renunciation, for I
murmured and knew not why I should renounce. Sorrow's hand lay heavy on
my arm, and for a long time my steps were weak and slow. I no longer
sought after Truth. But at last I seemed to see that she must lie in
Work, in great, rich Work. When Sorrow heard me say this, she raised my
drooping head and pointed before me.
"Here stands a good man, and waits for you. Will you love him your
life long? Here is your path, it is rough and stony, and leads past
precipices to steep heights. Will you walk on it? And there lies work
for you, mountains high. Will you carry it?"
"I will," I said.
Then Sorrow led me into marriage, and made me a mother, and laid great
rich labors upon my shoulders. I groped about to find the right path,
and we had to meet with mistrust and misunderstanding, and on the steep
path stood hate and strife. But I did not fear, for I was a mother.
But not many years was this high dignity mine, my child's fair eyes
closed, and I laid his curly head in the grave. Yet I stood erect,
notwithstanding the fire in my breast, and I asked of Sorrow--
"Where is Truth? Now that all earthly joy, all earthly hopes have been
borne to the grave, there remains for me nothing but Truth; I have a
right to find her."
Then Sorrow pressed into my hand a pencil, and said--"Seek."
And I wrote and wrote, and knew not that I exercised an art, for years
since, I had with heavy heart renounced being an artist. I sought to do
good where I could. I learnt to understand men and to think myself into
their innermost being; but I did not find Truth. My steps once more
grew heavy and weary, until at last, conquered by sickness, I had to
lie down. And during this long illness I tasted all life's bitterness,
all chagrin and despair that can reside in one poor human breast, and I
desired to die. But Sorrow taught me to be well again, and ever faster
flew my pencil, ever richer streamed my thoughts, ever wider grew my
field of labor, ever sterner the care for others' weal.
Then the ground beneath our feet trembled and War drew nigh with
his companions. His breath was thunder, his eye fire, his hand the
lightning. The cloak that infolded him wrapped the whole heavens in
black night. We staked life and wealth and honor, and our heart's blood
fell to earth in the terrible struggle, from which our trusty ones, who
stood by us as firmly as we stood by them, issued victorious. It was
my part to heal the wounds and soften the sufferings. But neither was
Truth here. True, we came forth from the strife fearless and purified,
but already envy and jealousy lurked on our path, and made it slippery
and unsafe.
"Oh, Truth, Truth," I cried, "my youth is past; I have fought the
hardest fights and I still live, but I have not yet seen Truth."
"There she stands," said Sorrow, and when I raised my eyes I saw in
the distance, besides a silent water, a little child whose eyes gleamed.
"Is that child Truth?" I asked.
Sorrow nodded.
"She is not to be feared, is she?"
But while Sorrow spoke thus, the child grew taller and taller, until
she held the whole earth in her hand, and embraced the whole heavens.
"Do you see Truth," said Sorrow. "And now look within yourself; she is
there too."
And as I gazed within, I cried--
"Wherefore have I suffered and fought? she was ever there, about me,
and in me, and now I will die."
"Not yet," said Sorrow.
Then it grew misty before my eyes, and I saw nothing more. But Sorrow
took me by the hand, and led me further.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note:
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_
Punctuation errors and typos have been standardised.