was soon obscured by dark heavy clouds. It was a sultry day; the whole
atmosphere was electrical. Distant thunders rolled along over the
wood, and echo, with a hundred voices, repeated the fearful sound in
the winding valleys. At noon, a forked flash of lightning darted down
upon the oak, and shattered root and branches in one moment, with
resistless force, so that the fragments lay scattered far and wide in
the forest. When this was told to Crocus, he rent his clothes, and
went out with his daughters to mourn over his wife’s tree of life, and
to collect and preserve the splinters as precious relics. The elf was
no more to be seen from that day.
After some years, the tender girls grew up, their virgin form bloomed
as a rose starting from the bud, and the fame of their beauty was
spread all over the country. The noblest youths among the people came
forward, and had all sorts of petitions to lay before Father Crocus,
and ask his advice. In truth this was but a pretext, that they might
ogle the lovely girls, as young fellows often feign some business with
the fathers, if they wish to coax the daughters. The three daughters
lived together in great ease and concord, little aware of their own
talents. The gift of prophecy was possessed by them all in equal
degree, and their discourses were oracles without their knowing it.
Soon, however, their vanity was excited by the voice of flattery, the
word-catchers snapped up every sound from their lips, the Seladons
interpreted every gesture, traced the slightest smile, watched the
glance of their eyes, drawing from them indications more or less
favourable, fancied they would thence gather their destinies, and from
that time it has been the custom among lovers to question the good or
bad star of love in the horoscope of the eyes. Scarcely had vanity
insinuated itself into the virgin heart, than pride was at the door
with all the rabble of his train,--self-love, self-praise, obstinacy,
selfishness, and all these stole in together. The elder sisters vied
with each other, to excel the younger in her arts, and secretly envied
her on account of her superior charms, for although all were very
beautiful, Libussa was the most beautiful of them all. The Lady Bela
particularly devoted herself to the study of herbs, as Lady Medea did
in the days of old. She knew their hidden virtues, and how to extract
from them efficacious poisons and antidotes, as well as to prepare from
them scents, pleasant and unpleasant, for the invincible powers. When
her censer smoked, she charmed down the spirits from the immeasurable
space of ether on the other side of the moon, and they became subject
to her, that with their fine organs they might inhale these sweet
perfumes, but when she flung the offensive scent into the censer, she
would have forced the Zihim and Ohim out of the desert.
The Lady Therba was as ingenious as Circe in contriving magic spells of
all sorts, which had force enough to sway the elements, to raise storms
and whirlwinds, hail and tempest, to shake the very bowels of the
earth, or to lift it out of its very hinges. She made use of these
arts to terrify the people, that she might be honoured and feared as a
goddess, and knew better how to accommodate the weather to the wishes
and caprices of mankind, than wise nature herself. Two brothers
quarrelled because they never could agree in their wishes. One was a
husbandman, who always wished for rain that his seed might thrive. The
other was a potter, who always wished for sunshine, that he might dry
his earthen pots, which were destroyed by the rain. Because the
heavens never would satisfy them, they went one day with rich presents
to the house of the wise Crocus, and told their wishes to Therba. The
elf’s daughter smiled at the boisterous complaints of the brothers
against the beneficent arrangements of nature, and satisfied the wishes
of both, letting rain fall on the seed of the agriculturist, and
sunshine on the field of the potter. By their magic arts the two
sisters acquired great fame and vast wealth, for they never
communicated their gifts without reward; they built castles and villas
out of their treasures; they laid out fine pleasure gardens; they were
never weary of feasting and merry-making, and they jilted the suitors
who sought their love.
Libussa had not the proud vain disposition of her sisters. Although
she possessed the same faculty of penetrating into the secrets of
nature and using her hidden virtues, she was satisfied with the share
of miraculous power she had inherited from her mother without carrying
it further, that she might make a profit of it. Her vanity did not go
beyond the consciousness of her own beauty; she did not thirst after
riches, and she did not, like her sisters, wish either to be feared or
honoured. When these kept up a constant bustle in their villas,
hurried from one exciting pleasure to another, and attached the flower
of the Bohemian knighthood to their triumphal car, she remained at home
in her father’s dwelling, managed the household affairs, gave council
to those who asked for it, kindly assisted the oppressed and
distressed,--and all from mere good will without any reward. Her
disposition was gentle and modest, her life chaste and virtuous such as
became a noble maiden. She was, to be sure, secretly pleased at the
victories which her beauty gained over the hearts of men, and she
received the sighs and cooing of pining adorers, as a fitting tribute
to her charms, but no one dared breathe to her a word of love, or
presume to solicit her heart. Yet the wag Cupid loves better than any
thing to exercise his rights with the coy, and will often throw his
burning torch on a low straw-thatched shed when he intends to fire a
lofty palace.
An old knight, who had come into the land with an army of the
Czechites, had settled deep in the forest. He had made the wilderness
arable, and had laid out an estate, on which he intended to pass the
remainder of his days in peace, living on the produce of his fields.
However a powerful neighbour took possession of the property, and drove
out the knight, whom a hospitable countryman took in, giving him a
shelter in his own dwelling. The poor old man had a son, who was the
only prop and consolation of his age--a fine youth, who however
possessed nothing but a hunting spear, and a well practised fist to
support his father. The plunder by the unjust Nabal excited his
revenge, and he armed himself to repel force with force. The command
of the careful old man, who did not wish to expose the life of his son
to any danger, disarmed the noble youth, but afterwards he was
determined not to relinquish his original design. So his father called
him, and said, “Go, my son, to the wise Crocus, or to the wise virgins
his daughters, and ask them whether the gods approve of thine
enterprise, and will grant a favourable issue to it. If so, thou mayst
gird on thy sword, take thy spear in thy hand, and fight for thy
patrimony. If not, remain here till thou hast closed mine eyes, and
then do as seems right to thee.”
The youth set out and first reached the palace of Bela, which had the
appearance of a temple, inhabited by a goddess. He knocked and desired
to be admitted, but the porter, as soon as he saw that the stranger
appeared with empty hands, dismissed him as a beggar, and closed the
door in his face. He proceeded sorrowfully, and came to the dwelling
of Therba, where he knocked and desired a hearing. The porter peeped
out of the window, and said, “If thou bearest gold in thy pocket so
that thou canst weigh it out to my mistress, she will give thee one of
her wise sayings that will tell thee thy fate. If not, go and gather
on the shore of the Elbe as much of it as the tree has leaves, the
sheaf has ears, and the bird has feathers, and then I will open this
door for thee.” The youth thus again deceived, departed quite out of
heart, especially when he learned that the prophet Crocus had gone to
Poland, to officiate as umpire between some Magnates, who could not
agree together. He expected no better reception from the third sister,
and when he saw her paternal forest-castle from a hill in the distance,
he did not venture to approach it, but concealed himself in a thick
bush to brood over his grief. He was soon roused from his gloomy
reflections by a noise like the tramp of horses’ feet. A flying roe
darted through the bushes followed by a beautiful huntress and her
attendants, all mounted on magnificent steeds. She hurled a javelin
which whizzed through the air without reaching the animal. The youth
who watched the scene, at once caught up his cross-bow, and from the
twanging string sent forth a winged arrow which darted at once through
the heart of the beast, so that it fell down on the spot. The lady,
surprised at this unexpected phenomena, looked round for the unknown
hunter, which, when the marksman perceived, he stepped forward and
bowed humbly to the ground. The Lady Libussa thought she had never
seen a handsomer man. At the very first glance his frame made upon her
so strong an impression that she could not help being involuntarily
prepossessed in his favour, and confessing he was of a noble figure.
“Tell me, dear stranger,” said she, “who are thou, and what chance has
conducted thee to these precincts?” The youth rightly surmised that
his good fortune had allowed him to find what he sought, so he modestly
communicated his wishes, not forgetting to say, how uncivilly he had
been dismissed from the doors of her sisters, and how much he had been
afflicted in consequence. She cheered his mind with kind words.
“Follow me to my dwelling,” said she, “I will question for thee the
book of fate, and to-morrow at sunrise I will give thee information.”
The youth obeyed her orders: here there was no churlish porter to
prevent his entrance into the palace; here the lovely resident
exercised the law of hospitality most liberally towards him. He was
delighted with this favourable reception, but still more so with the
charms of his fair hostess. The enchanting form flitted before his
eyes all night, and he carefully guarded against the approach of sleep,
that the events of the past day which he reflected on with delight
might not leave his thoughts for a single moment. The Lady Libussa on
the other hand, enjoyed a gentle slumber, for retirement from the
impressions of the outward senses, which disturb the fine anticipations
of the future, is indispensable to the gift of prophecy. Nevertheless
the glowing fancy of the elf’s sleeping daughter united the form of the
young stranger to all the visionary forms that appeared to her in the
night. She found him where she did not seek him, and under such
circumstances that she could not understand how she should have any
relation to this stranger. When the fair prophetess, on waking early
in the morning, endeavoured as usual to separate and unravel the
visions of the night, she was disposed to reject them altogether as
illusions that had sprung from an aberration of fancy, and to give them
no more attention. But a dark feeling told her that the creation of
her fancy was not a mere empty dream, but that it pointed to certain
events, which the future would unfold, and that this same prophetic
fancy, had in the night just passed, overheard the secret counsels of
destiny better than ever, and had blabbed them out to her. In the same
way, she found that the guest now under her roof was violently inflamed
with ardent love, and her heart quite as unreservedly made her the same
confession with respect to him; but she set the seal of secrecy upon
the information, while the modest youth, on his side, had vowed that he
would impose silence on his tongue and on his eyes, that he might not
expose himself to contemptuous refusal: for the barrier which fortune
had set up between him and the daughter of Crocus seemed to him
insurmountable.
Although the fair Libussa knew perfectly well what answer to give to
the young man’s question, she felt it very difficult to allow him to
depart so quickly. At sunrise she appointed a meeting with him in the
garden and said: “The veil of darkness still hangs before my eyes; to
know thy destiny wait till sunset.” In the evening she said: “Wait
till sunrise:” on the following morning “Wait throughout this day,” and
on the third, “Have patience till to-morrow.” At last, on the fourth
day, she dismissed him, because she had no pretext for detaining him
any longer, without discovering her secret, and with kind words she
gave him this information: “It is not the will of the gods that thou
shouldst contend with a mighty one in the land; endurance is the lot of
the weaker. Go to thy father: be the consolation of his age, and
support him with the labour of thy industrious hand. Take from my herd
two white bulls as a present, and take this rod to guide them. When it
blooms and bears fruit the spirit of prophecy will rest upon thee.”
The youth considered himself unworthy of the lovely maiden’s presents,
and blushed to accept a gift without being able to return it. With
lips void of eloquence, but with a demeanour so much the more eloquent,
he took a sorrowful farewell, and found tied up by the gate a couple of
white bulls, as plump and shining as the divine bull of old, upon whose
sleek back the virgin Europa swam through the blue waves. Joyfully he
unloosened them, and drove them gently along. The road here seemed but
a few yards in length, so completely was his soul occupied with the
thoughts of the fair Libussa, and as he felt he never could share her
love, he vowed he would, at any rate, never love another as long as he
lived. The old knight was delighted at his son’s return, and still
more delighted when he learned that the advice of the wise Crocus’s
daughter so perfectly accorded with his own wishes. The youth being
destined by the gods to follow the calling of a husbandman, did not
delay to yoke his white bulls to the plough. The first attempt
succeeded according to his wishes; the bulls were so strong and so
spirited, that in one day they turned up more land than twelve oxen
would commonly have managed.
Duke Czech, who had conducted the first expedition of his people into
Bohemia, had died long ago, and his descendants inherited neither his
dignity nor his principality. The Magnates, to be sure, assembled
after his decease, to make a new election, but their savage, stormy
temperaments did not allow them to come to any rational decision.
Selfishness and arrogance turned the first state assembly of Bohemia
into a Polish diet;[1] too many hands seized the princely mantle at
once, so they tore it to pieces, and it belonged to nobody. The
government fell into a kind of anarchy; every one did as he pleased;
the strong oppressed the weak, the rich the poor, the great the little.
There was no longer any general security in the country, and
nevertheless these mad caps thought their new republic was admirably
constituted. “All” they cried “is in order; every thing goes its way
with us as everywhere else; the wolf eats the lamb, the kite eats the
pigeon, and the fox eats the fowl.” However, this mad constitution had
no stability; and after the intoxication of visionary freedom was
dissipated, and the people had again become sober, reason once more
asserted her rights, and the patriots, the honest citizens, and all in
fact in the country, who had any love for their father-land, took
counsel to destroy the present idol, the many-headed hydra, and to
unite the people again under a sovereign. “Let us,” they said, “choose
a prince who shall rule over us, according to the custom of our
fathers, who shall curb licentiousness, and administer justice and the
laws. Not the strongest, the bravest, nor the richest, but the wisest
shall be our duke!” The people being weary of the oppressions of the
petty tyrants, were on this occasion unanimous, and answered the
proposition with loud applause. A general assembly was appointed, and
the choice of all fell upon the wise Crocus. A deputation was sent to
invite him to take possession of his dignity, and although he was not
covetous of the distinguished honour, he did not delay to accord with
the wishes of the people. He was dressed in the purple, and he
proceeded with great pomp to Vizegrad, the princely residence, where
the people met him with loud rejoicings, and swore allegiance to him as
their sovereign. He now perceived that even the third slip of reed
offered him by the liberal elf had bestowed its gift upon him.
His love of equity and his wise legislation extended his fame over all
the countries round. The Sarmatian princes, who used incessantly to
quarrel, brought their disputes from a great distance to his tribunal.
He weighed, with the infallible weight and measure of natural equity,
in the scales of justice, and when he opened his mouth, it was as if
the venerable Solon or the wise Solomon, between the twelve lions from
his throne, gave judgment. Once, when some rebels had conspired
against the peace of their country, and had set all the excitable
nation of Poles by the ears, he marched to Poland at the head of his
army, and suppressed the civil war. There likewise was he made duke by
a great part of the people, out of gratitude for the peace which he had
given them. He built there the city of Cracow, which still bears his
name, and has the right of crowning the Polish king to the present day.
Crocus reigned with great glory to the termination of his life. When
he perceived that his end was approaching, and that he should now leave
this world, he ordered to be made of the remains of the oak, which his
wife the elf had inhabited, a box to contain his bones. He then
departed in peace, wept over by his three daughters, who laid him in
the box, and buried him as he had commanded, while the whole country
mourned his loss.
As soon as the funeral pomp had ended, the states assembled to consider
who should now occupy the vacant throne. The people were unanimous for
a daughter of Crocus, only they could not agree which of the three
sisters should be chosen. The Lady Bela had the fewest adherents, for
her heart was not good, and she often used her magic lantern to make
mischief. Nevertheless she had inspired the people with such fear,
that no one ventured to object to her for fear of rousing her
vengeance. When it came to the vote, all the electors were silent,
there was no voice for her and none against her. At sunset the
representatives broke up the meeting, and deferred the election to the
following day. Then the Lady Therba was proposed, but confidence in
her own magic spells had turned her head, she was proud, supercilious,
and wished to be viewed as a goddess; and if incense was not always
offered to her, she was peevish, wilful and ill-tempered, displaying
all those qualities which deprive the fair sex of their flattering
epithet. She was not so much feared as her elder sister, but then she
was not more beloved. For this reason the place of election was as
still as a funeral feast, and there was no voting. On the third day
the Lady Libussa was proposed. As soon as this name was uttered, a
familiar whispering was heard throughout the circle, the solemn faces
became unwrinkled and brightened up, and every one of the electors
could communicate to his neighbour some good quality of the lady. One
lauded her unassuming demeanour, another her modesty, the third her
wisdom, the fourth the infallibility of her predictions, the fifth her
disinterested conduct to all who asked counsel, the tenth her chastity,
ninety others her beauty, and the last her thriftiness. When a lover
sketches such a list of his mistress’s perfections, it is always a
matter of doubt whether she really possesses one of them, but the
public in its decisions does not easily err on the favourable side,
though it often does on the unfavourable one. By reason of qualities
so laudable, and so universally recognised, the Lady Libussa was
certainly the most powerful candidate for the throne, as far as the
hearts of the electors were concerned; nevertheless the preference of
the younger sisters to the elder one has so often, as experience
testifies, disturbed domestic peace, that it was to be feared, in a
more important affair, the peace of the country would be interrupted.
This consideration put the wise guardians of the people to such great
embarrassment, that they could not come to any decision at all. An
orator was wanted who should attach the weight of his eloquence to the
good will of the electors, if the affair was to make any progress, and
the good wishes of the electors were to have any effect. Such an
orator appeared as if called for.
Wladomir, one of the Bohemian magnates, next in rank to the duke, had
long sighed for the charming Libussa, and had solicited her hand in the
lifetime of her father, Crocus. He was one of his most faithful
vassals, and was beloved by him as a son, and therefore had the good
father wished that love might unite the pair together. The coy mind of
the maiden was, however, invincible, and he would on no account force
her affections. Prince Wladomir did not allow himself to be scared by
this doubtful aspect of affairs, and fancied that by fidelity and
perseverance he might bear up against the lady’s hard disposition, and
render it pliable by tenderness. He had attached himself to the duke’s
train, as long as he lived, without advancing one step nearer to the
goal of his wishes. Now he thought he had found an opportunity of
opening her closed heart, by a meritorious act, and of gaining, from
magnanimous gratitude, what, it seemed, he could not obtain by love.
He ventured to expose himself to the hatred and revenge of the two
dreaded sisters, and to raise his beloved to the throne at the peril of
his life. Marking the wavering irresolution of the assembly, he took
up the discourse and said: “Brave knights and nobles of the people, I
will lay a simile before you, from which you may learn how to complete
this election to the advantage of your father-land.” Silence having
been commanded, he proceeded thus: “The bees had lost their queen, and
the whole hive was melancholy and joyless. They flew out idly and
sparingly, they had scarcely spirits for making honey, and their
pursuit and nourishment was on the decline. They therefore thought
seriously about a new sovereign who should preside over their affairs,
that all order and discipline might not be lost. The wasp then came
and said: ‘Make me your queen, I am strong and terrible, the stout
horse fears my sting, I can defy even your hereditary foe the lion, and
prick his mouth when he approaches your honey-tree. I will guard you
and protect you.’ This discourse was pleasing enough to the bees, but
after mature deliberation the wisest among them said: ‘Thou art
vigorous and terrible to be sure, but we dread that very sting which is
to defend us; therefore thou canst not be our queen.’ Then the humble
bee came up humming, and said: ‘Take me for your queen! Do you not
hear that the rustle of my wings announces rank and dignity? Besides,
I too have a sting to protect you.’ The bees answered, we are a
peaceful and quiet race; the proud noise of thy wings would annoy us
and disturb the pursuits of our industry; thou canst not be our queen.’
Then the ant desired a hearing: ‘Although I am larger and stronger than
you,’ she said, ‘my superiority can never injure you, for see I am
entirely without the dangerous sting, I am of a gentle disposition, and
besides that, a friend of order, of frugality, know how to preside over
the honey-tree and to encourage labour.’ The bees then said: ‘Thou art
worthy to govern us--we will obey thee--be thou our queen!’”