Bambi noticed that the world was changed. It was hard for him to get
used to this altered world. They had all lived like rich folk and now
had fallen upon hard times. For Bambi knew nothing but abundance. He
took it for granted that he would always have plenty to eat. He thought
he would never need to trouble about food. He believed he would always
sleep in the lovely green-leafed glade where no one could see him, and
would always go about in his smooth, handsome, glossy red coat.
Now everything was changed without his having noticed the change take
place. The process that was ending had seemed only a series of episodes
to him. It pleased him to see the milk-white veils of mist steam from
the meadow in the morning, or drop suddenly from the gray sky at dawn.
They vanished so beautifully in the sunshine. The hoar frost that
covered the meadow with such dazzling whiteness delighted him too.
Sometimes he liked to listen to his big cousins the elks. The whole
forest would tremble with their kingly voices. Bambi used to listen and
be very much frightened, but his heart would beat high with admiration
when he heard them calling. He remembered that the kings had antlers
branching like tall, strong trees. And it seemed to him that their
voices were as powerful as their antlers. Whenever he heard the deep
tones of those voices he would stand motionless. Their deep voices
rolled towards him like the mighty moaning of noble, maddened blood
whose primal power was giving utterance to longing, rage and pride.
Bambi struggled in vain against his fears. They over-powered him
whenever he heard those voices, but he was proud to have such noble
relatives. At the same time he felt a strange sense of annoyance because
they were so unapproachable. It offended and humiliated him without his
knowing exactly how or why, even without his being particularly
conscious of it.
It was only after the mating season had passed and the thunder of the
stags’ mighty voices had grown still, that Bambi began to notice other
things once more. At night when he roamed through the forest or by day
as he lay in the glade, he heard the falling leaves whisper among the
trees. They fluttered and rustled ceaselessly through the air from all
the tree-tops and branches. A delicate silvery sound was falling
constantly to earth. It was wonderful to awaken amidst it, wonderful to
fall asleep to this mysterious and melancholy whispering. Soon the
leaves lay thick and loose on the ground and when you walked through
them they flew about, softly rustling. It was jolly to push them aside
with every step, they were piled so high. It made a sound like “Sh!
sh!”—soft and very clear and silvery. Besides, it was very useful, for
Bambi had to be particularly careful these days to hear and smell
everything. And with the leaves you could hear everything far off. They
rustled at the slightest touch and cried, “Sh! sh!” Nobody could steal
through them.
But then the rain came. It poured down from early morning till late at
night. Sometimes it rained all night long and into the following day. It
would stop for a while and begin again with fresh strength. The air was
damp and cold, the whole world seemed full of rain. If you tried to
nibble a little meadow grass you got your mouth full of water, or if you
tugged the least little bit at a bough a whole torrent of water poured
into your eyes and nose. The leaves no longer rustled. They lay pale and
soggy on the ground, flattened by the rain and made no sounds. Bambi
discovered for the first time how unpleasant it is to be rained on all
day and all night until you are soaked to the skin. There had not even
been a frost yet, but he longed for the warm weather and felt it was a
sad business to have to run around soaked through.
But when the north wind blew, Bambi found out what cold is. It wasn’t
much help to nestle close to his mother. Of course at first he thought
it was wonderful to lie there and keep one side warm at least. But the
north wind raged through the forest all day and all night long. It
seemed to be driven to madness by some incomprehensible ice-cold fury,
as though it wanted to tear up the forest by its roots or annihilate it
somehow. The trees groaned in stubborn resistance, they struggled
mightily against the wind’s fierce onslaught. You could hear their
long-drawn moans, their sigh-like creakings, the loud snap when their
strong limbs split, the angry cracking when now and again a trunk broke
and the vanquished tree seemed to shriek from every wound in its rent
and dying body. Nothing else could be heard, for the storm swooped down
still more fiercely on the forest, and its roaring drowned all lesser
noises.
Then Bambi knew that want and hardship had come. He saw how much the
rain and wind had changed the world. There was no longer a leaf on tree
or shrub. But all stood there as though violated, their bodies naked for
all to see. And they lifted their bare brown limbs to the sky for pity.
The grass on the meadow was withered and shortened, as if it had sunk
into the earth. Even the glade seemed wretched and bare. Since the
leaves had fallen it was no longer possible to lie so well hidden as
before. The glade was open on all sides.
One day, as a young magpie flew over the meadow, something cold and
white fell in her eye. Then it fell again and again. She felt as if a
little veil were drawn across her eye while the small, pale, blinding
white flakes danced around her. The magpie hesitated in her flight,
fluttered a little, and then soared straight up into the air. In vain.
The cold white flakes were everywhere and got into her eyes again. She
kept flying straight up, soaring higher.
“Don’t put yourself out so much, dearie,” a crow who was flying above
her in the same direction called down, “don’t put yourself out so much.
You can’t fly high enough to get outside these flakes. This is snow.”
“Snow!” cried the magpie in surprise, struggling against the drizzle.
“That’s about the size of it,” said the crow, “it’s winter, and this is
snow.”
“Excuse me,” the magpie replied, “but I only left the nest in May. I
don’t know anything about winter.”
“There are plenty in the same boat,” the crow remarked, “but you’ll soon
find out.”
“Well,” said the magpie, “if this is snow I guess I’ll sit down for a
while.” She perched on an elder and shook herself. The crow flew
awkwardly away.
At first Bambi was delighted with the snow. The air was calm and mild
while the white snow-stars whirled down and the world looked completely
different. It had grown lighter, gayer, Bambi thought, and whenever the
sun came out for a little while everything shone and the white covering
flashed and sparkled so brightly that it blinded you.
But Bambi soon stopped being pleased with the snow. For it grew harder
and harder to find food. He had to paw the snow away with endless labor
before he could find one withered little blade of grass. The snow crust
cut his legs and he was afraid of cutting his feet. Gobo had already cut
his. Of course Gobo was the kind who couldn’t stand anything and was a
constant source of trouble to his mother.
[Illustration: _Bambi had to paw the snow away with endless labor before
he could find one withered little blade of grass._]
The deer were always together now and were much more friendly than
before. Ena brought her children constantly. Lately Marena, a half-grown
doe, had joined the circle. But old Nettla really contributed most to
their entertainment. She was quite a self-sufficient person and had her
own ideas about everything. “No,” she would say, “I don’t bother with
children any more. I’ve had enough of that particular joke.”
Faline asked, “What difference does it make, if they’re a joke?” And
Nettla would act as if she were angry, and say, “They’re a bad joke,
though, and I’ve had enough of them.”
They got along perfectly together. They would sit side by side
gossiping. The young ones had never had a chance to hear so much.
Even one or another of the Princes would join them now. At first things
went somewhat stiffly, especially since the children were a little shy.
But that soon changed, and they got along very well together. Bambi
admired Prince Ronno, who was a stately lord, and he passionately loved
the handsome young Karus. They had dropped their horns and Bambi often
looked at the two slate-gray round spots that showed smooth and
shimmering with many delicate points on the Princes’ heads. They looked
very noble.
It was terribly interesting whenever one of the Princes talked about
Him. Ronno had a thick hide-covered swelling on his left fore-foot. He
limped on that foot and used to ask sometimes, “Can you really see that
I limp?” Everyone would hasten to assure him that there was not the
trace of a limp. That was what Ronno wanted. And it really was hardly
noticeable.
“Yes,” he would go on. “I saved myself from a tight corner that time.”
And then Ronno would tell how He had surprised him and hurled His fire
at him. But it had only struck his leg. It had driven him nearly mad
with pain, and no wonder, since the bone was shattered. But Ronno did
not lose his head. He was up and away on three legs. He pressed on in
spite of his weakness for he saw that he was being pursued. He ran
without stopping until night came. Then he gave himself a rest. But he
went on the next morning until he felt he was in safety. Then he took
care of himself, living alone in hiding, waiting for his wound to heal.
At last he came out again and was a hero. He limped, but he thought no
one noticed it.
They were often together now for long periods and told many stories.
Bambi heard more about Him than ever before. They told how terrible He
was to look at. No one could bear to look at His pale face. Bambi knew
that already from his own experience. They spoke too about His smell,
and again Bambi could have spoken if he had not been too well brought up
to mix in his elders’ conversation. They said that His smell differed
each time in a hundred subtle ways and yet you could tell it in an
instant, for it was always exciting, unfathomable, mysterious and
terrible.
They told how He used only two legs to walk with and they spoke of the
amazing strength of His two hands. Some of them did not know what hands
were. But when it was explained, old Nettla said, “I don’t see anything
so surprising in that. A squirrel can do everything you tell about just
as well, and every little mouse can perform the same wonders.” She
turned away her head disdainfully.
“O no,” cried the others, and they gave her to understand that those
were _not_ the same things at all. But old Nettla was not to be cowed.
“What about the falcon?” she exclaimed. “And the buzzard? And the owl?
They’ve got only two legs and when they want to catch something they
simply stand on one leg and grab with the other. That’s much harder and
He certainly can’t do that.”
Old Nettla was not at all inclined to admire anything connected with
Him. She hated Him with all her heart. “He is loathsome!” she said, and
she stuck to that. Besides, nobody contradicted her, since nobody liked
Him.
But the talk grew more complicated when they told how He had a third
hand, not two hands merely, but a third hand.
“That’s an old story,” Nettla said curtly. “I don’t believe it.”
“Is that so?” Ronno broke in. “Then what did He shatter my leg with? Can
you tell me that?”
Old Nettla answered carelessly, “That’s your affair, my dear, He’s never
shattered any of mine.”
Aunt Ena said, “I’ve seen a good deal in my time, and I think there’s
something in the story that He has a third hand.”
“I agree with you,” young Karus said politely. “I have a friend, a
crow ...” He paused, embarrassed for a moment, and looked around at
them, one after the other, as though he were afraid of being laughed
at. But when he saw that they were listening attentively to him he
went on. “This crow is unusually well informed, I must say that.
Surprisingly well informed. And she says that He really has three
hands, but not always. The third hand is the bad one, the crow says.
It isn’t attached like the other two, but He carries it hanging over
His shoulder. The crow says that she can always tell exactly when He,
or anyone like Him, is going to be dangerous. If He comes without the
third hand He isn’t dangerous.”
Old Nettla laughed. “Your crow’s a blockhead, my dear Karus,” she said.
“Tell her so for me. If she were as clever as she thinks she is, she’d
know that He’s always dangerous, always.” But the others had different
objections.
Bambi’s mother said, “Some of Them aren’t dangerous; you can see that at
a glance.”
“Is that so?” old Nettla asked. “I suppose you stand still till They
come up to you and wish you a good day?”
Bambi’s mother answered gently. “Of course I don’t stand still; I run
away.”
And Faline broke in with, “You should always run away.” Everybody
laughed.
But when they talked about the third hand they became serious and fear
grew on them gradually. For whatever it might be, a third hand or
something else, it was terrible and they did not understand it. They
only knew of it from others’ stories, few of them had ever seen it for
themselves. He would stand still, far off, and never move. You couldn’t
explain what He did or how it happened, but suddenly there would be a
crash like thunder, fire would shoot out and far away from Him you would
drop down dying with your breast torn open. They all sat bowed while
they talked about Him, as though they felt the presence of some dark,
unknown power controlling them.
They listened curiously to the many stories that were always horrible,
full of blood and suffering. They listened tirelessly to everything that
was said about Him, tales that were certainly invented, all the stories
and sayings that had come down from their fathers and
great-grandfathers. In each one of them they were unconsciously seeking
for some way to propitiate this dark power, or some way to escape it.
“What difference does it make,” young Karus asked quite despondently,
“how far away He is when He kills you?”
“Didn’t your clever crow explain that to you?” old Nettla mocked.
“No,” said Karus with a smile. “She says that she’s often seen Him but
no one can explain Him.”
“Yes, He knocks the crows out of the trees, too, when He wants to,”
Ronno observed.
“And He brings down the pheasant on the wing,” Aunt Ena added.
Bambi’s mother said, “He throws His hand at you, my grandmother told me
so.”
“Is that so?” asked old Nettla. “What is it that bangs so terribly
then?”
“That’s when He tears His hand off,” Bambi’s mother explained. “Then the
fire flashes and the thunder cracks. He’s all fire inside.”
“Excuse me,” said Ronno. “It’s true that He’s all fire inside. But that
about His hand is wrong. A hand couldn’t make such wounds. You can see
that for yourself. It’s much more likely that it’s a tooth He throws at
us. A tooth would explain a great many things, you know. You really die
from His bite.”
“Will He never stop hunting us?” young Karus sighed.
Then Marena spoke, the young half-grown doe. “They say that sometime
He’ll come to live with us and be as gentle as we are. He’ll play with
us then and the whole forest will be happy, and we’ll be friends with
Him.”
Old Nettla burst out laughing. “Let Him stay where He is and leave us in
peace,” she said.
Aunt Ena said reprovingly, “You shouldn’t talk that way.”
“And why not?” old Nettla replied hotly, “I really don’t see why not.
Friends with Him! He’s murdered us ever since we can remember, every one
of us, our sisters, our mothers, our brothers! Ever since we came into
the world He’s given us no peace, but has killed us wherever we showed
our heads. And now we’re going to be friends with Him. What nonsense!”
Marena looked at all of them out of her big, calm, shining eyes. “Love
is no nonsense,” she said. “It has to come.”
Old Nettla turned away. “I’m going to look for something to eat,” she
said, and trotted off.