Legends from River & Mountain

“He came no further, indeed!” laughed the old witch. “He is smothered beneath thy jewels!”

With a terrible cry, Alba cast herself down upon the patch of snow and began to shovel it away with her hands. But in vain! The covering that lay upon her beloved was too heavy, it was frozen too fast. With one cry—“Oh, mother, mother! what hast thou done to me!”—Alba fell dead beside the ice and snow.

Then Baba Coaja hurled forth so terrible a curse, that the very mountain reeled, and the castle fell with a crash, burying her and her gold beneath its ruins. But on the spot where the beautiful Alba had drawn her last breath, there sprang up a white flower, in a white velvet dress, which has ever since been called “Alba Regina,” or Edelweiss. This flower only blooms close to the eternal snow which covered her beloved, and is as white and pure as she was herself.

Perhaps the snow will turn to jewels again some day, if an innocent maiden should pass over it.

The piece of gold-thread that Alba spun is still being sought for, and every bride hopes that it is she who has found it. That is why not one of them ever fears the golden threads that are so dangerous, but still believes that happiness will be her portion.

VIII
PIATRA ARSA
(“THE BURNT ROCK”)

The beautiful Paùna was proud, very proud. It was not for nothing that she had those great dark eyes, with black brows rising to a point above them, and that sharply-cut aquiline nose. Her mouth was somewhat large, but well-shaped, and when she spoke or laughed she showed two gleaming rows of teeth. Her black tresses were coiled like a crown above her brow, and the people were wont to call her, in jest, Pui de Imparat, or “Emperor’s child,” when she went by with her long stride and her broad shoulders, holding her head as straight as though she were carrying something upon it. But she was not too proud to turn that head when Tannas went by, or to give ear to him when he talked to her during the Hora. Only, if any one teased her about him, an angry flush would rise to her cheek, and she was quick to punish the daring offender with a sharp retort.

Tannas was an object of envy to all the other village lads, specially as the betrothal was looked upon as a certainty. Then, on a sudden, war broke out in the land, and Tannas had to join the army and march down to the Danube. Paùna swallowed her tears before people; but no one dared ask her whether she did not shed a few in secret.

She always contrived to be one of the first in the village to get tidings from the army; and when tales went about of the first battles that had taken place, she was obliged, as she listened, to lean against the great stone cross that stood at the entrance of the village, so weak and faint did the strong Paùna turn. At night all sleep forsook her, and she often had to let her light burn till morning, to chase away the terrible visions that arose before her in the darkness, of Tannas covered with wounds, and dead or dying. One dark night she was sitting thus, still dressed, upon the edge of her bed—and never knew that, outside, some one was gliding round the house, and peeping in at her little window. She did not know, either, how beautiful she looked, gazing before her with wide-open eyes, her hands folded upon her knee. All at once there was a knocking on the window, and she sprang up with a stifled cry, turning her head and trying to pierce the darkness with her eyes. Then she fancied she could make out the face of Tannas at the window, and presently, indeed, she heard him call her in low tones—

“Paùna, dear Paùna, I pray thee to come out to me. Do not be afraid; it is only I, Tannas.”

Paùna’s hand was already upon the latch—in a moment she was outside, and felt herself enfolded in a warm embrace. But she put aside the arm that clasped her, and said: “Art thou Tannas indeed, or is some one making sport of me?”

“Here, feel thine own little ring, Paùna; and here again, the coin about my neck. I could bear it no longer, without coming to see whether thou wert true to me.”

“Who gave thee leave to come away from the army?”

“Me? No one.”

“No one?—and thou art here? Is the war over, then?”

“Nay, there is still war. But I came secretly, and out of love to thee, Paùna!”

“Love to me!” Paùna gave a short, bitter laugh. “Dost thou think, then, that it gives me pleasure to have a deserter for my betrothed? Go out of my sight!”

“Paùna! Is this thy love? Thou art sending me back to death and destruction!”

“Go whither thou wilt. This only I tell thee, I will never be thy wife—I could not endure to have to despise my husband.”

“Thou dost love some other!”

“Nay, Tannas, thee I love, and thee alone. I have many a time watched through the livelong night for love of thee; but I never dreamed that I had a coward for my lover!” Paùna wept, burying her face in her hands.

“And I, who thought thou wouldst welcome me with joy, and hide me in thy dwelling!”

“Oh, shame!” cried the maiden—“shame! that I should have betrothed myself to thee. But this I swear, that the Bucegi Mountain shall burn ere I become thy wife!”

“And I swear,” cried Tannas, “that thou shalt not see me again till I am a cripple—or dead!”

And as they spoke thus, the two lovers faced one another with such burning glances that their eyes sparkled in the darkness.

Just then a red light shone out over the heights above, and looking up, they saw that one of the rocky peaks of the Bucegi seemed all aglow. Brighter and brighter it grew, till a red flame appeared to break out and send up a shower of stars on high. The two lovers stood as though turned to stone. Then windows began to open in the neighbouring houses, and the people to call out to one another that there was a forest fire—nay, that the mountain was burning! All the village was in an uproar—dogs began to bark and cocks to crow.

Thereupon Paùna took her lover by the shoulders, and thrusting him far from her, she cried: “Away, away from hence—hide thy face, or I shall die of shame!”

Then she flung the door to behind her, and extinguished her light. With a beating heart she watched Tannas slip away in the shadow of the houses; and presently she turned her eyes to the mountain as it glowed and slowly grew dark again, but never an answer did she give when the neighbours called her to come and look at the miracle.

From that time forth people began to notice that Paùna looked wonderfully pale; no smile was ever seen now upon her lips, that before had been wont so often to curl in mockery, and quick retorts no longer cut short the teasing words that folk called out to her as she passed. She did her work in silence, but was often so tired that she was obliged to sit down to rest upon the margin of the well, and bathe her forehead with the fresh water. Sometimes she would gaze sadly at her own reflection in the well, or glance timidly up towards the Bucegi Mountain. All at once it began to be bruited about that Tannas had been in the village; this person and that felt sure of having seen him by the light of the burning mountain, and it was even said that his voice had been heard with Paùna’s. When the latter was questioned about it, the drops of sweat burst out upon her brow and round her lips, that trembled slightly as she replied: “Was not all still and dark in our house, the night that the mountain was on fire?”

Paùna’s mother shook her head, till her very under lip quivered, and said that all manner of strange signs were to be seen in these evil days.

At last the news came that a great and deadly battle had been fought. This time Paùna was the last to hear of it, but when she did, she hurried home and made a little bundle, tying up a gourd and some maize-bread in a cloth; and when her mother anxiously asked her whither she was going, she only said: “I shall soon come back again, mother; do not fear for me.”

The battlefield lay wide and silent in the twilight; thousands of dead bodies were scattered upon it; horses writhed in the death-throes, or limped about with drooping heads. The army was encamped around huge sentry-fires, and the men no longer gave any heed to the cries and wailings that echoed from the battlefield. A stately woman’s form moved alone amid the lines of bodies; it was Paùna, who had already made inquiry after Tannas throughout the whole camp. She drew bravely near to both friend and foe, giving many a one a drink, and closely scanning the features of the dead. Night had now closed in, and the moon lit up the fearsome scene. Still the maiden moved to and fro, anon kneeling down and resting some dying man’s head upon her breast, and again searching some terribly disfigured corpse for a little ring, and a coin about the throat. Only once she staggered back, and that was when she beheld some women plundering a corpse, and heard the finger-joints crack as they dragged the rings from off the hand. She hastened away, but soon returned to scan the dead man’s face with anxiety.

The whole camp was sunk in slumber, but still Paùna glided about the battlefield in the moonlight. Sometimes she would utter a low cry: “Tannasse!”—and often a groan would be heard in answer, but she always shook her head sadly, after bending to give the sufferer a drink. The dawn was beginning to break, and the moon to pale, when she suddenly saw something glitter on the ground, and drawing near, found a half-stripped, dead man lying there, on whose hand shone a little ring. And the hand had grasped something that the man wore about his neck, so firmly, that the plunderers had plainly given up trying to force the fingers open. Paùna knew her own ring again, and with a loud cry of “Tannasse!” she sank down beside the body, whose face was so covered with blood that it was scarcely recognisable. In a few moments Paùna came to herself again, and began to wash the beloved face. She saw, with fast-flowing tears, that both eyes and nose were gashed through by a terrible stroke, but she saw also that the blood gushed out again as she wiped it away. Now she was sure that her beloved was not dead, and she hastened to moisten his lips, and to bind up his wound with her kerchief. Then he began to sigh, and when he heard his name called, to feel about with his hand. Presently it touched Paùna’s face, and lingered long upon it.

“My Paùna!” he murmured almost inaudibly. “Let me die—I am blind—I am of no more use on earth!”

“Nay, nay!” cried Paùna, “thou art my beloved, and, God willing, shalt be my husband soon. Only be still now, be still!”

Many long weeks had passed since that morning—weeks during which Paùna had watched day and night by Tannas’s bed and nursed him untiringly. And now, one day, two wanderers were seen coming along the road into the village—a blind man in a soldier’s cloak, with the cross of honour upon his breast, and a maiden, who led him carefully along, and said to the passers-by, with a joyful smile: “This is my bridegroom. He is a hero! See the cross upon his breast!”

“And upon his face!” rejoined Tannas, with a sigh.

Never had such a crowded wedding been seen before. People streamed from far and near, to pity the beautiful Paùna at the side of the blind man. But she smiled at every one, and said: “I am proud now. I have a hero for my husband; and, thank God, I am strong and can work for both.”

The mountain that had been seen on fire was from that day called Piatra Arsa (“the burnt rock”), for both shepherds and hunters bore witness that on that spot they had found the rock all blackened and charred.

IX
RÎUL DOAMNEI
(“THE RIVER OF THE PRINCESS”)

Not far from the pretty little mountain-town of Câmpa Lungo, a clear, cool stream winds along, called Rîul Doamnei—“the river of the Princess.” This stream washes down gold along its bed, sometimes a bit half the size of one’s nail; and it was a custom in times gone by that all the gold found there should belong to the Princess, the wife of the ruler of the land. And this is the reason why:—

There was once a great famine in the land of Roumania, such a famine as had never been known in the memory of man. First the locusts had come into the land, in such swarms that the sun was darkened, and wherever they settled they devastated everything, so that in a few minutes the fairest field of corn would be left bald as a threshing-floor, and the trees, stripped of every leaf, stretched out their naked boughs against the summer sky, beneath whose cloudless blue the heat grew ever greater and greater, so that even at night there was no longer a breath of coolness in the air. As soon as all things around were devoured, the cloud of locusts would arise, only to settle instantly again upon the next green patch. And so it went on unceasingly; and in those days folk were not so clever as they are now, when they cover the great stretches of land where the insects have settled, with petroleum, and set it all on fire. Nor were there then any cannon with which they could shoot into the swarm of flying locusts, as they do now, and so sometimes contrive to scatter them.

After the locusts came the Poles from the North, the Hungarians from the West, and the Turks from the South, and fell upon the land, and by them all the houses were burnt and the cattle stolen away. At last these foes, too, quitted the country, but they left behind them fever and pestilence, both among man and beast.

Men went about with blackened lips, and grievous sores on their bodies. The cattle perished together in heaps on the barren fields, where not a single blade of grass was standing. Only the dogs and the ravens were in good case; they tore the flesh from the bones of the dead creatures, and for miles around nothing was to be seen but white bones with red flesh hanging to them, and millions of flies, that shone with gorgeous prismatic colours, settling upon them.

The air quivered with heat, and pestilential odours spread far over the land, so that men were stricken as with a plague, and died in a few hours.

Complaints were heard no longer, for dull despair had reduced all men to silence; and when the starving people tore one another to pieces, no one even told of it.

The bells rang no more; there was no keeping Sundays or holidays, nor was there any work done, for no one had any oxen for the ploughing, or any seeds to sow.

Men crept about like ghosts, with their bones staring through the skin, their lips drawn back so that the teeth lay bare, and only a few rags upon their bodies. There was hardly any one found to bury the dead, and many remained lying, like the cattle, upon the fields.

The beautiful Princess Irina felt her heart breaking for pity. She had given away all her jewels for the poor; she had spent her last coin to buy cattle for the peasants, but they had all been slain by the plague as soon as purchased. She had fed the hungry, till she had scarcely enough left to feed her own four little children. She stood at her window wringing her hands in despair, and prayed thus:

“O good God! hast Thou, then, quite forsaken me? Wilt Thou bring our poor land to destruction? Have we sinned yet more, that we must endure such searchings-out of Thy wrath?”

Then a soft, cool breath stole in, bearing a perfume as from the most beautiful of gardens, and a silvery voice spoke:

“Help shall arise for thee out of a river. Only seek.”

Then she went to the Prince, her husband, and to her children, and bade them farewell, promising soon to return, and saying she now knew where to seek for that which should free them all from their misery. She spoke with such cheerful assurance that it brought trust and hope to every man, for she never told them that she did not even know what she was to seek.

Then, through the burning summer heat, she began a weary pilgrimage toward the rivers. Sometimes she would still chance upon a poor, starved little horse, that would carry her a short distance, and then fall down dead, even beneath her light weight. She went up the Olto river, the Gin, the Buzlu, the Sereth, all the rivers, both great and small. They flowed but meagrely over their stony beds, and those once mighty waters scarcely whispered as they went, they that of old were wont to rush and roar.

“Merciful God!” prayed the Princess, “let but a little cloud appear when I have found the river that is to help us!” But there arose no cloud. She was wandering for a second time up the banks of the Argesch, and was just about to turn sadly back, when she caught sight of the mouth of a little stream that she had not noticed before. She turned her steps hesitatingly in that direction, her heart growing heavier and heavier as she saw the stream grow smaller and more insignificant.

Wearied by her hard journey over the stones, she stood still a moment and sighed: “I can find nothing, nothing at all, and perchance my children are starving and dying! Perhaps my thought was but a foolish one—a cobweb of the brain, a lying fancy!” Even as she spoke a shadow seemed to fall upon her. She thought it was only caused by the tears which for the first time were filling her large, wan eyes. She wiped them off. Nay, there was indeed a shadow lying over the treeless waste; and when she raised her eyes, lo! the sun had hidden itself behind a tiny cloud, that yet was growing slowly larger.

Irina began to tremble for joy, that yet was mingled with dread. Had God heard her, or was it only another mistake? “Dear God,” she prayed again, “if this be the river, suffer the cloud to become larger and the rain to fall, for rain alone would be a blessing, and a great help to us in our need.” She went on a little—yes, the cloud was growing larger; she hurried forward, she ran, till she grew too weak to go farther; then a few great, heavy drops began to fall. She drank them in, with lips and eyes, with hands and hair. Now a light patter and plashing began round about her, and all at once a perfect waterspout broke forth. She struggled on in the wet loam of the river-bed as well as she could, till the stream began to swell, and dashed by in a brown, foaming flood, like a broad river. Sometimes she was forced to stand still and seek for her path, but yet she went on and on, for fear the rain should leave off. It rained all day and all night. The Princess was so wet that a stream flowed from her garments. But she wrung them out, girt them up higher, and still went on, for one whole day and night longer. Now she had reached the mountains, and often fell to the ground from exhaustion after her long journey. At last she lay down upon the river-bank and fell asleep, while the rain streamed down upon her, and the river rose higher and higher, as though it would have snatched her down and floated her away.

She awoke trembling with cold. There stood the gleaming sun, looking as fresh in the bright morning air as if he had had a bath himself. And behold! the river was no longer brown, but clear and blue as the air, and at the bottom of the water something shone and glittered like the sunbeams themselves. Irina again girt up her garments and waded in—she must see what it was that shone with so wondrous a gleam. And lo! it was pure gold. She fell on her knees, there in the stream, and gave God thanks, aloud and earnestly. Gold! gold! Now she could help! She went carefully on through the water and gathered up the golden grains and little fragments, filling her mantle with them, till the burden was almost too heavy for her. And now she hurried home with her treasure, and poured it out before her husband. Her children were yet alive, though weak and sorely exhausted; and they scarcely knew her again, she was so emaciated and sunburnt. Yet now messengers went forth into distant lands and bought corn, maize and hay, seeds and cattle; and the river never grew weary of giving till the famine was at an end, and laughing green, and sleek cattle, covered the Roumanian meadows once more. And the thankful people called the river Rîul Doamnei, and no one was to touch any of the gold therein, to possess it, save the Princess of the land.

But the Princesses who came after this one, no doubt made a less good use of their riches, for the river has become more niggardly, and the gold that the peasants still find in it now and then, is saved up for exhibition in the State Museum.

X
THE CAVE OF JALOMITZA

In crossing the pass between the peaks of Vîrful cu Dor and Furnica, on the other side of the Bucegi, you come upon the Jalomitza river. One of the springs which feed it rises hard by, in a vast stalactite cave, at the entrance of which stands a small cloister. From time immemorial it has always been said that there is no ending to this cave, and that a man who once went in there has never been seen again to this day.

The cave was once inhabited by a terrible enchanter, of whom it was told that he carried off all the fairest maidens round about—carried them off out of the fields, from their parents’ cottages, yes, even from before the marriage-altar. They all followed him, without resistance, but no one ever saw them more. Many a bold youth had sworn to go and free them, and had even marched bravely into the cave and called the enchanter by name: “Bucur! Bucur!” but not one had ever caught a glimpse either of Bucur or of the maidens.

But in the pretty village of Rucar, at the foot of the Bucegi, there dwelt a beautiful maiden, named Jalomitza, who had been rash enough to say that she engaged never to follow the enchanter, no matter in what shape he might appear before her, or with what promises he might try to entice her.

“And though he should even drag me into his cave,” she said, “I would still get forth again.”

This was a very daring speech, and the old folks shook their heads at it, and shrugged their shoulders, saying: “If he were really to come, she would yet go with him gladly, just like all the others.”

A short time passed, during which no one appeared, and nothing happened, to try the young girl’s courage. She was a joy for all men to look upon, with her red cheeks, her fresh, cool lips, her waving auburn hair, and her great blue eyes. Her nose was delicately cut, with transparent nostrils, only the tip had just a little impudent, upward turn. Her throat rose snow-white from her richly embroidered shift, and upon her forehead, temples, and neck the pretty reddish locks curled in wild abundance, escaping from the plaits and rebelliously defying all the efforts of the comb. When Jalomitza loosened her plaits she was as though clothed from head to foot in a golden mantle, of which she could not see the half in her little mirror when she was decking herself on a Sunday for the Hora.

There was one in the village who was for ever running after her, to the well, in the fields, and at the dance. But she did not care to have much to do with poor Coman, and yet he was a fine lad, and rich. He owned broad meadows, with horses, cows, buffaloes, and sheep, and wore a fine, embroidered white leather jerkin, and a long white cloak lined with red, and richly adorned with gold and coloured threads. Many a maiden looked round after Coman, but Jalomitza never did. She thought only of the enchanter Bucur, and of how she would strive with him and avenge all the poor maidens who had fallen into his clutches.

One beautiful Sunday afternoon, when the heated dancers were standing still to rest for a moment, there was heard close by the sweetest sound of flute-playing—so sweet that every heart in that gay young throng beat high with delight. All turned curiously to see who the player was, and there stood a handsome young shepherd, leaning against a tree, with his feet crossed, as quietly as though he had been there for ever—and yet no one had seen him come, and no one knew him. He played on and on, as if he were alone in the world; only once he raised his eyes and looked at Jalomitza, who had drawn quite near, and was listening to those heavenly melodies with parted lips and quivering nostrils.

After a while he looked at her again, and presently a third time.

Then Coman whispered to her from behind: “Come away, Jalomitza; yon is an impudent fellow!”

An impatient motion of the girl’s shoulders and elbows was the only reply.

“Jalomitza!” whispered the jealous lover once more, “art thou not ashamed to let thyself be stared at thus?”

Again she made no answer, but turned her back upon him.

“Jalomitza, I tell thee, yon shepherd is no other than Bucur, the enchanter!”

Just at that moment the shepherd, without leaving off his playing, nodded his head, and Jalomitza’s heart turned cold and her throat dry.

“What dost thou know about it?” she rejoined defiantly, yet her voice trembled a little.

“I know it, I can feel it! I feel it because I love thee—and because I love thee I see, too, that he has taken thy fancy, and that thou wilt fall a prey to him, as all the others have.”

“I! Never—I swear it!” cried Jalomitza, and turned deadly pale.

“Here is my flute; do thou play for us a while,” the shepherd now called out, handing his flute to Coman.

Without knowing what he did, Coman grasped the flute and began to play, and he played more beautifully than he had ever done in his life; but he presently perceived, to his horror, that he could not leave off. He improvised new Horas, such as he had never heard before—Brius, Kindias, he played them all, and could see, as he did so, that the stranger was always dancing with Jalomitza. Then he began to play a Doina, and the air was so passing sad that tears stood in all the women’s eyes, and Jalomitza implored him to stop. But he played on and on, looking round with terror in his glance, for the flute would not be silent. Evening closed in; the people, in twos and threes, began to turn homewards, and still Coman blew upon the flute, and Jalomitza stood beside him as though spell-bound. The strange shepherd had disappeared.

“Leave off, Coman,” said she; “thou art breaking my heart. Thou knowest I do not love thee; but I have sworn to thee never to belong to that other. Leave off, Coman; be sensible!”

But Coman played on, now merrily, as though he would have laughed, and now in so sad and melting a strain, that the nightingale made answer from the depths of the dewy valley. Nearer and nearer drew the nightingale; Jalomitza could see it in the moonlight, how it came and settled above Coman’s head, and sang with the flute. Then it flew off, still uttering its sweet, entrancing note, and Jalomitza followed it the whole night through, without knowing whither she went. Coman too, with his flute, followed the wonderful bird through the dewy valley, along by the edge of the stream.

Morning broke, and Jalomitza smote her hands upon her head in terror: “Where am I? I am far away from home, and this place is strange to me. Coman, where are we? I am affrighted! That bird was Bucur!”

Coman gave no answer, but only played a merry dance. Then a horse came galloping towards them over the meadow, and circled about the maiden, offering her his back to mount, and rubbing his head against her.

“Ah me!” she cried, “I know the dread one again! If I were but a bird and could flee away!”

She had scarcely said this before she was flying away in the shape of a dove, far away into the dewy morning.

But thereupon the horse was changed into a hawk, that shot down upon her from a giddy height, and bore her away in his talons toward the mountains.

“Ah, would I were a flower down in the meadow!” thought the terrified maiden; and the next instant she was growing beside the stream, a blue forget-me-not; but then the hawk became a butterfly, and circled about the flower, settling upon it, and swinging with it to and fro.

“Oh, were I rather a trout in the stream!” thought Jalomitza; and in a moment she became a trout, but the butterfly turned into a net, caught her, and lifted her up into the air, till she was like to die.

“I would I were a lizard!” thought the poor maid as she lay dying in the net; and lo! in the twinkling of an eye she was gliding as quick as thought among the grass and flowers, and fancying she was hidden beneath every stone and leaf. But from under the nearest stone a snake crawled forth, and held her spell-bound beneath his dreadful eyes, so that she could not move. They tarried a long while thus, and the little lizard’s heart beat to bursting against her sides.

“Would I had become a nun! I should have been safe in the cloister!” she thought; and in a moment the lofty dome of a church rose above her head, she saw tapers burning, and heard the voices of many hundreds of nuns re-echoing in a mighty wave of song. Jalomitza knelt, in the guise of a nun, before the picture of one of the saints; her heart was still throbbing with fear, and she rejoiced to think that she was hidden in this sanctuary. She raised her eyes in thanksgiving to the picture above her—and behold! Bucur’s eyes were gazing at her from out its face, and cast such a spell upon her that she could not quit the spot, even when the church grew empty. Night fell; the eyes began to shine and glitter, and Jalomitza’s tears fell ceaselessly down on the stones where she knelt.

“Ah me!” she cried, “even in this holy place I find no rest from thee! Would I were a cloud!” As she spoke the vaulted roof above her changed to the blue vault of heaven, and she was floating as a cloud through its boundless heights. But her persecutor turned into the wind, and hunted her from south to north, and from east to west, over the whole earth.

“I had better have been a grain of sand,” said the little cloud to itself at last. Then it sank to earth, and fell, in the form of a tiny grain of golden sand, into the Rîul Doamnei. But Bucur became a peasant, wading with naked feet in the river to seek for gold, and he fished up the little grain of sand out of the depths. It slipped hastily through his fingers, and turned into a doe, that fled away toward the woodland thickets. But before the doe could reach the shelter of the forest, Bucur became an eagle, shot down upon her from above, and once more bore her off in his talons toward his eyrie in the Bucegi Mountain. Hardly had he loosed his grasp of her before she fell, as a dewdrop, into the cup of a gentian blossom. But he became a sunbeam, and glanced down upon her to drink her up. Then at last, in the shape of a wild goat, she dashed, without knowing whither she went, straight towards his cave. Laughing, he pursued her in the guise of a hunter, and murmured: “I have thee now.” She ran into the cave, ever deeper and deeper, and on a sudden perceived that all the stones round about were beautiful maidens, from whose eyes tears dropped unceasingly down.

“Oh, flee, flee from hence!” a hundred voices called to her. “Thou unhappy maid! If once he kisses thee, thou wilt turn to stone like us!”

At that moment an arrow flew through the whole length of the cave, and struck the little goat as she fled. In deadly anguish she cried: “Oh, would I were a stream! then I could flow away from him.” Instantly she felt herself rushing out of the cave as a foaming mountain torrent; the enchanter uttered a terrible curse, turned into rock, and caught in his arms the little stream, that still kept on ever escaping him. Just then Coman reached the cave, and recognising his Jalomitza by her voice, as she uttered a heartrending cry of “Coman, Coman!” he gathered up all his remaining strength, and hurled his flute against the rock, in the outlines of which he could discern Bucur’s cruel grin. And now the spell was broken. Bucur could no more change his shape again than Jalomitza hers, and so she flows on to this day, away over his stony, immovable arms. But Coman built a little church before the cave, and became a monk, dwelling there in holiness, and gazing upon his fair beloved, unto his life’s end.

XI
THE NIXIES’ CLEFT

Not far from the little village of Dietenhain, in Saxony, there stands, on the bank of the Zschopau river, where it winds through the forest, a great rock full of narrow clefts. In the days of long ago, when fairies and spirits were still visible to the eyes of Sunday-children,[7] there dwelt in a cleft of this rock the King of the Nixies, who held sway over all the water-folk of the Zschopau and its tributary rivers. No one could have told, looking by day at the outside of that rugged cliff, and at the narrow entrance of the Nixies’ dwelling, how beautiful it was when night fell, and the moonbeams lit up the broad sweep of the river and crept in among the dusky trees upon its banks. For then the belated fisherman might see how all the face of the cliff seemed to melt away like a dream, and how a stately castle, built of shining crystal, arose in its place. A soft, unearthly light shone through the walls, so that one could look from end to end of the vast halls and galleries, and see how the doors and windows were cut each from a single opal, and how the whole building was hung with garlands of lotus-flowers and water-lilies. Light figures, clad in misty draperies, moved airily to and fro, and sounds of such exquisite music rang out from the place, that the very fishes rose to the surface of the river to listen, and the passing boatmen hung upon their oars as if spell-bound. But the castle was never to be seen if crowds of people set out from home on purpose to gaze at it; and always with the first ray of sunlight in the morning, it vanished like a summer cloud, the music was silenced, and the little fishes dived to the bottom of the river again.

Now, it was small wonder that there was sometimes music and dancing in the Nixie’s castle, for he had three beautiful daughters, and doubtless they often invited their friends from the neighbouring streams and caves to the palace, that they might disport themselves together. Yet it seemed that this did not satisfy the beautiful Nixies, but that they still pined for the company of mortal men, as we, too, must needs ever hanker after all that lies out of our reach and is fraught with danger. So the Nix-maidens now and then had leave, when the new moon rose at a favourable time, to go to the village dances at Dietenhain, and liked them better than the splendours of their own crystal palace. And they, too, were the despair of all the village youths, and the envy of all the village beauties, for what mortal maidens could be compared to these, with their strange, unearthly loveliness? Their delicate features were as though moulded in wax; their cheeks were as white and glistening as the foam on their own river, and, despite all the heat and agitation of the dance, remained ever as pure, as pale, and as cold as ice. Only their eyes shone with a warmer light, that would sometimes deepen to the glow of passion when they met the burning glances of their partners in the dance. But kind and sweet as they might show themselves to these partners, none of them ever heard a word pass the Nixies’ lips. Their flaxen tresses, fair to whiteness, were decked with trailing wreaths of water-plants, and their veils and draperies were woven of mist, that glistened, as they moved, with the faintest rainbow hues. A broad girdle of cunningly plaited rushes confined these draperies at the waist, and a necklace of many rows of crystal dewdrops sparkled on their bosoms. From this chain hung a fresh-water lily, that was as good as a watch to the fairy sisters, for as soon as they saw their lilies fading, they knew that the first ray of sunlight was at hand, and vanished like a dream from the dancers’ midst. Yet sometimes they would suffer a favoured partner to bear them company for a little way through the forest, but as they neared the river-bank, their gentle yet warning glances and gestures forbade the eager lovers to pursue them farther. And though many a heart was heavy for their sake, yet none ever dared disobey their warnings or rouse their displeasure, either among the youths who loved them, or the maidens whose loves they had crossed; for it was known that it is an ill thing to anger the water-folk, and that they bid their rivers take a human life for every slight that is put upon them.

So a hundred summers passed by; men were born, and grew old, and died in the village, but the Nixies’ beauty blossomed each year anew, and the lips that had kissed the grandfather, now pressed the same warm kisses on the mouths of father and son, and the kisses never grew colder.

But one day there came back from the wars to Dietenhain a young soldier, the finest lad and the most stalwart the village had ever seen. All the maidens strove to win his favour, but among them all he had eyes for one alone—Katrine, the miller’s daughter—Katrine, the boldest, proudest girl in the country-side; and the bravest, too. Had she not saved a child from drowning that had fallen into the mill-stream, and did she not drive away the wolf that had crept from the forest and prowled around the village, one winter’s day, when all the men were from home? Nay, Katrine was afraid of nothing—handsome, too, she was; but soldier Veit maintained that he cared more for a stout heart and a strong arm than for beauty, even in a woman. But perhaps Veit scarcely knew his own mind on this subject.

To be sure, nothing had yet been said of betrothal, for Veit had only been home a month; but he was always willing to carry the neighbours’ sacks of corn to be ground, and would stay leaning over the mill-bridge and talking to Katrine by the hour, till her mother said she had need of one of the friendly forest-dwarfs to come and finish her neglected work for her. But her father began to look askance at Veit, and said soldiers were wont to make too light of home-work, and of many other things.

Now a great holiday fell about this time, and there was to be a fine dance in the village on that evening. Mysterious whispers began to creep about among the lads and maidens. “The moon is in its first quarter—who knows? perhaps the Nixies will be seen at the dance,” they said; “it is many months since they were last among us.”

And one timid maiden cried, “Oh, I pray not! There is no pleasure in the dance for me when I know they are by, the silent, uncanny creatures!”

“Little care I for that,” rejoined Katrine, who was standing near; “’tis for another cause I would wish them away. They say many a heart has been broken in the village, ay, through these hundred years and more, for the sake of the vain, misty things. Now ’tis enough! Let not one of them touch aught that concerns me!”

The maidens shrank back in terror. “Hush, hush, Katrine!” they cried; “how canst thou dare speak thus—thou who dwellest by the water-side, too? Who can tell what may befall?”

Katrine laughed scornfully, all the more so, no doubt, that Veit had just joined the group, and was listening with a mocking air.

“To be sure,” he said, “Katrine is not afraid, I’ll be bound; and why should she be? I, for one, do not believe in these Nixies and their spells; there is not a Nixie of them all can lay a spell on me!”

Now it was the men’s turn to murmur. “’Tis the ignorant who boast,” said an old white-haired fellow, who leaned, smoking his pipe, against the tavern door. “Thou art a foolish fellow, Veit. There is many a one among us could speak of the Nixies’ spells. Dost thou mind poor Heinrich, who wanders about as if he were daft and speaks to no one? Hast thou marked him sitting alone in a corner of the ale-house at night? He is a living proof that the Nixies are no dream. To be sure, he has not taken the matter aright. A kiss and a laugh—that is the way to use with them.”

“They may get the laugh from me, but never a kiss,” rejoined Veit, angered at the old man’s reproof; and he exchanged a glance with Katrine, who turned away with an unwonted blush upon her cheek.

The dance was at its height. Lanterns, fastened with garlands of flowers, hung from the trees that surrounded the village-green, but their light was not needed, for the rays of the young moon flooded the dancing-space with their silvery radiance. Veit leaned against a tree; he was hot from the dance, and glad to rest as he waited for his turn to lead Katrine out. All at once he felt a cool breeze fan his cheek, and yet no wind stirred the branches above him. This was as the cool, moist breath of a fountain. He turned his head, for he fancied he caught a glimpse of something glistening in the shadow behind him. Yes, indeed, there was some one standing by him, a misty form, whose white draperies shone like a ray of moonlight among the trees. And then a pair of eyes were raised to his—eyes as deep, and yet transparent, as the waters of some mountain lake, eyes that shone, beneath the masses of pale hair, as the lake shines when the stars are mirrored in it. And that gaze drank up Veit’s very soul, and with it the memory of Katrine, and of all his promises and all his boasts. In vain Katrine waited for her partner, and turned at last in a rage to seek another, hoping by jealousy to win back her truant lover. In vain! All night long Veit danced with that misty form on the outskirts of the green, where the trees throw their deepest shadow. For the Nixies do not willingly mingle with the throng of mortal youths and maidens. There, too, in the shadow, Heinrich danced, the clouds all lifted from his brow; and yet another dancer drew near and clasped the third fairy sister in his arms. The hours flew by, and the enraptured dancers could hardly believe that the dawn was breaking, but there, on the necklace of each of the sisters, hung the water-lily, scarcely whiter than the fair bosom on which it rested—and the petals of the flower were drooping! Then suddenly Veit felt the gentle pressure lifted from his arm, and even as he looked round, the glistening forms were already disappearing among the dark pine-stems. He hastened after them, his comrades at his heels, but not all their entreaties could stay the Nixies’ fast-fleeting steps; and when their partners reached the edge of the forest, where it meets the lush, green river-meadows, the rising mists of morning had already swallowed up those fairy beings, that seemed, indeed, born of the mists themselves.

Heinrich sighed heavily, and wandered away by himself down another path that led to the river-side; and the third youth, a merry, reckless fellow, sauntered off with a careless laugh; but Veit made an angry gesture, and exclaimed as he turned his steps homeward: “I shall catch them yet; it is not thus she shall baulk me.”

But many a time was Veit doomed to disappointment. True, the Nixies returned, and oftener than was their wont; for now, whenever the moon shone, and the lads and maidens danced on the green in their spare moments, even though it might be but of a work-day evening, the white sisters crept like the moonbeams through the trees, seeking out always the same partners. And between times Heinrich grew more and more melancholy, and Veit more forgetful of his old love for Katrine, and more reckless, withal, in his speech. The old folk in the village shook their heads ever more gravely, and whispered ancient tales of boatmen who had been drawn down into the deep water by the Nixies’ rock. “Veit had better guard his tongue, and not try to blind their eyes with his foolish boasts, now that he was plainly more under the spell than any man of them all.” What would they have said had they known that the white sisters, too, had warnings whispered to them by the friendly folk who came to the crystal palace? “It was ill for Nixies ever to seek out the same man among mortals, and, indeed, to love the haunts of any mortals over-much.” Perhaps these speeches were prompted by jealousy as much in the crystal palace as they might have been in the village hut, but however this may be, the Nix-maidens heeded them not, and seemed, indeed, more eager than ever before to join the dances on the green.

Now if Veit forgot, Katrine never did; and her anger against the interlopers grew hotter and more cruel as her own pain and heartache grew deeper. She sat at home and brooded over thoughts of revenge, and she spoke with all the wise elders of the village who could tell her anything of the traditions concerning the Nixies. They dreaded being surprised by the sunlight—that was plain. But why? No one had ever yet had the courage to gainsay them, or try to hold them back and find out the truth. Love, however, gives courage, and Karl, the third partner whom the fairy sisters sought out, had sworn he loved Katrine, and only went with the Nix-maidens because Katrine slighted him. True, Katrine had given her heart to Veit, but the longing for revenge, and the desire to win back her lost love at any cost, had grown so strong in her that there was nothing she would not do to gain her end. So it was Karl now who talked with Katrine on the mill-bridge, and promised, if her love was to be his reward, to carry out the plot they made together. Then the cunning Karl set about fanning the flame that was already raging in Veit’s veins, and consuming the life of poor, foolish Heinrich. How often, Karl insinuated, had they not been on the point of winning the love of the wayward Nix-maidens, when the first rays of dawn had interrupted them! Were they always to be cheated thus? What mystery was there about these Nixies, that they would not let themselves be followed, or persuaded to outstay the rising of the sun? Nay, they had not managed wisely! At the next dance, let them lead the fairy sisters away, while the night was yet dark, to the deepest part of the forest, where no light of dawn could penetrate, and try if thus the spell might not be broken, and the love of these evasive maidens won.

He spoke to willing ears. Had not Veit said long ago that he would be master of his fairy partner at last? The plan was a good one. Why had it never been thought of before? It must be, Veit concluded, the spell that the wilful creature had laid upon him that had so dulled his mind! Heinrich, too, needed no pressing; he was clean daft for love, and hardly knew what he did any longer. So the plan was laid, and woe betide the Nixies when the time for the next dance arrived. Katrine watched for it now with anxious eyes, and her heart throbbed with bitter satisfaction when at last she saw those rainbow draperies glisten once more in the moonlight beneath the trees. But they were not long to be seen. The Nixies had suffered their fancy to ensnare them too far, and when the eager lovers spoke of a quiet space amid distant forest trees where they could dance and dally undisturbed, they consented only too easily to follow them thither. No one knew how the hours sped by in that quiet and dusky spot. Once, as they lay resting upon the grass, Karl contrived with cunning hand to unfasten the lilies from the crystal chains, and the flowers that might have warned the Nixies from their fate withered unheeded upon the moss. They were missed too late. Too late the fairy sisters grasped at their chains and sought with anxious eyes for their guardian lilies. When they espied them, they were already faded and dying. At that sight a moan, the only sound that mortal ears had ever heard from the Nixies’ lips, escaped the ill-fated sisters. They fled, as the spray of the fountain flies before the wind, through the forest-glades; but even as they reached the river-meadow, a ray of sunlight greeted them upon its verge—sunlight, that gladdens the heart of man, but to them was the shaft of death. No friendly mist spread forth a sheltering veil over the meadow; and as they felt the warmth of those piercing rays, they melted as wax before the fire, as foam upon the water. In a moment the fairy sisters were gone, and in their stead three slender rivulets, whose foamy whiteness was stained with a faint streak of red, wound their way with a complaining murmur through the green meadow, towards the river and the great rock. They disappeared among its hollows, and he who doubts the tale need but seek out the river-bank by Dietenhain, and he will find the three streamlets, and the spot that is still called the “Nixies’ cleft.”

But the spell that the fairy sisters had laid upon two human hearts was not to be broken thus. From that time Heinrich could find no rest from his remorse and sorrow, so that they drove him at last to seek his death in the fatal river. Veit, too, flying in horror from the village, was drowned in crossing the Elbe, by the great rock at Strehla, where it is said that the Nixies yearly require the sacrifice of one human life. Only the reckless Karl and the bold Katrine seem to have gone scot-free. They married after a while, and lived on beside the mill-stream without fear of the Nixies; nor can I learn that the water-folk ever succeeded in doing them any harm.

XII
THE FLYING CASTLE