Project Gutenberg's The Fairies and the Christmas Child, by Lilian Gask
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Title: The Fairies and the Christmas Child
Author: Lilian Gask
Illustrator: Willy Pogány
Release Date: September 27, 2011 [EBook #37547]
Language: English
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[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: The Fairies
and the Christmas
Child]
[Illustration]
[Illustration: _Fr._ "We rocked the cradle"
(_Page 182_)]
[Illustration: Title Page]
The
Fairies and
the Christmas Child
By Lilian Gask
The Illustrations are by
Willy Pogány
T. Y. Crowell & Co
New York
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Contents
Chapter Page
I. The Fairy Ring 1
II. The Princess with the Sea-Green Hair 25
III. Rose-Marie and the Poupican 45
IV. The Bird at the Window 67
V. The White Stone of Happiness 89
VI. The Seven Fair Queens of Pirou 109
VII. In the Dwarf's Palace 133
VIII. The Silver Horn 157
IX. The Little White Feather 175
X. The Wild Huntsman 197
XI. The White Princess 217
XII. The Favourite of the Fates 239
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
List of Illustrations
"We rocked the cradle" _Frontispiece_
Page
"I fancied that I had seen those wee brown men" 11
"The Fairy Ring was thronged with dancing Elves" 20
"Here a Fairy Princess awaited him" 33
Rose-Marie and the Poupican 54
"They tossed him three times in the air" 63
"She hid herself behind a curtain" 83
"What ails you, Madame Marguerite?" 99
"The Lord of Argouges threw himself on his knees" 114
"They instantly changed into snow-white birds" 129
"The Dwarf invited me to be seated" 141
"Elberich had jeered him finely" 151
"'She is yours, O Otnit!' cried the Dwarf" 154
"In the old man's place sat a little Dwarf" 167
"A little white feather danced above their heads" 189
"'How now?' cried a reassuring voice" 196
"He entreated the maiden to come down" 205
"Went shyly down to meet him" 212
"Lowered herself from her window by means of a rope
of pearls" 224
"He tickled the monster's nose" 233
"Pepita rushed into his arms" 253
[Illustration: _To
"The Doctor"
and
Mrs. Macnaughton-Jones
my "Good Fairies"
and best of
Friends_]
[Illustration]
Chapter I
The Fairy Ring
The worst of being a Christmas Child is that you don't get birthday
presents, but only Christmas ones. Old Naylor, who was Father's
coachman, and had a great gruff voice that came from his boots and was
rather frightening, used to ask how I expected to grow up without proper
birthdays, and I thought I might have to stay little always. When I told
Father this he laughed, but a moment later he grew quite grave.
"Listen, Chris," he said. And then he took me on his knee--I was a small
chap then--and told me things that made me forget old Naylor, and wish
and wish that Mother could have stayed with us. The angels had wanted
her, Father explained; well, we wanted her too, and there were plenty
of angels in heaven, anyway. When I said this Father gave me a great
squeeze and put me down, and I tried to be glad that I was a Christmas
child. But I wasn't really until a long time afterwards, when I had
found the Fairy Ring, and met the Queen of the Fairies.
This was how it happened. Father and I lived at one end of a big town,
in a funny old house with an orchard behind it, where the sparrows ate
the cherries and the apple trees didn't flower. Once upon a time, said
Father, there had been country all round it, but the streets and the
roads had grown and grown until they drove the country away, and now
there were trams outside the door, and not a field to be seen. I often
thought that our garden must be sorry to be so crowded up, and that this
was why it wouldn't grow anything but weedy nasturtiums and evening
primroses.
Father is a doctor, and most awfully clever. If you cut off the top of
your finger, he'd pop it on again in no time, and he used to cure all
sorts of illnesses with different coloured medicines he made himself
behind a screen.
But though he had lots and lots of patients--sometimes the surgery was
full of them, 'specially on cold nights when there was a fire--they
didn't seem to have much money to give him, and sometimes they ran
away with their furniture in the night so's not to pay their bills.
This worried Father dreadfully, and even Santa Claus was scared away
by the things he said. On Christmas Eve the old fellow quite forgot
to fill my stocking. It was all limp and empty when I woke in the
morning, and if I hadn't remembered that when I grew up I was going to
be a Commander-in-Chief, I should never have swallowed that lump in my
throat.
Father couldn't even take me to hear "Hark The Herald Angels" at the big
church down the road that day, for someone sent for him in a hurry, and
when he didn't come in for dinner, I wished it wasn't Christmas at all.
Nancy Blake, who kept house for us and was most stingy over raisins,
banged the kitchen door when I said I would make her some toffee, and
I couldn't find anything else to do. I looked at all my books and
pretended I was a soldier in a lonely fort; then I thought I would make
up medicine myself, so's to save Father trouble when he came home. But I
burnt my fingers with some nasty stuff in a green bottle, and it hurt a
good deal. So I determined to go to meet him, and tell him what I'd
done.
[Illustration: "Nancy Blake."]
The trams were running as usual, and as I had a penny left out of my
pocket money--I hadn't spent it before as it had got stuck in some
bulls' eyes--I took the car to the corner; then I jumped out and walked.
There wasn't a sign of Father all down the road, and I remembered at
last that he had said he must look in at the Hospital, which was in
quite a different direction. I should have gone home then, if it hadn't
been so dull with no one but Nancy Blake.
"He won't be back until tea time anyhow," I thought, and I made up my
mind to be a boy scout, and go and explore.
It was a splendid day, and the roofs of the shops and houses glittered
from millions of tiny points, just as you see on Christmas cards. I
walked on and on, feeling gladder every moment, for my fingers had left
off hurting me and I knew that I couldn't be far from the woods, which
were just outside the town. I had been there once with Father, and it
was lovely; so I hurried on as quickly as I could.
When I got there they made me think of Fairyland. The trees were
sparkling with the same frost-diamonds I had noticed on the roofs, and
through the criss-cross branches above my head the sky was as blue as
blue. A jolly little robin was twittering in a bush, enjoying himself no
end; his bright red breast reminded me of the holly I had stuck over
Father's mantelpiece, and I began to feel sad again. For it did seem
hard lines that though Christmas was my birthday, no one, not even
Father, had thought of it.
"I wish that I hadn't been born on Christmas Day!" I said aloud, when I
had reached the very heart of the wood, and I sat down to rest on the
stump of a tree close to a little circle of bright green. It was here
I had come that day with Father, and he had told me that though it was
called a "Fairy Ring," it was really made by the spread of a very small
fungus, or mushroom. I liked the idea of the fairy ring much better, and
as I touched it with my foot I wished again that I wasn't a Christmas
child. And then I heard a sigh.
It wasn't the robin, for he was still twittering on his bush, and it
wasn't the wind, for the air was quite sheltered behind the bank, which
was sweet with wild thyme in summer. The next moment I heard another
sigh, and this seemed to come from a frond of bracken just outside the
fairy ring. It was brown and withered, but the frost had silvered it all
over, and as I looked at it I saw the loveliest little creature you can
imagine clinging to the stem. She was only about three inches high, but
her tiny form was full of grace, and her eyes so bright and beautiful
that they shone like stars. Her hair was the palest silver-gold, and
she had a crown of diamonds and an amethyst wand that sparkled when she
moved it. The scarf wreathed round her shoulders flashed all the colours
of mother-of-pearl, and throwing it from her she hummed to herself a
little song about violets and eglantine, and sweet musk roses. Her notes
were as clear as the lark's, and as if she had called them, more Fairies
showed amidst the bracken.
They were lovely too, though not so lovely as she. One was dressed in
pink, like a pink pea; another had a long grey coat, spangled with drops
of dew, while the third had wings like a big grey moth, and the smallest
Elf was all in brown.
"It is Titania who sings," chirped the robin in my left ear; "Titania,
the Queen of the Fairies, though some call her the fair Queen Mab!" And
he hopped to the foot of the frond of bracken and made a funny little
duck with his head.
"Good bird!" cried Titania, breaking off her song. "You, too, sing
through the winter gloom, and are here to welcome the sweet o' the
year." Then she pointed her gleaming wand at me, and shook her head.
"O Christmas child," she said reproachfully, "it is well that it was I
who heard you, and not my brave lord Oberon, who has less patience with
mortal folly. So you wish you had not been born on Christmas Day? Why,
'tis the day most blessed in all the year--the day when the King of
Kings sent peace and goodwill to Man in the form of the Christ Child. It
is His birthday as well as yours, and in memory of Him the Fairies show
themselves to Christmas children, if they are pure in heart and word and
deed. Your Mother knew this, and she was glad. She called you 'Chris' to
remind you always which day you came."
And then I was sure that I hadn't been dreaming after all, though Nancy
said, "Stuff and Nonsense," when I fancied that I had seen those wee
brown men busy about the house on winter mornings, or flitting in
shadowy corners at night, before she lit the gas. I had never spoken to
them, for I thought if I did they might run away; but I was pleased to
know they had been real.
"You would have seen us before," said Titania, "but you live in a big
town, and your eyes were dimmed with smoke and fog. My dainty Elves love
dales and streams, and the depths of forests; in spring they throng
the meadows, decking the cowslips' coats of gold at early dawn with
splotches of ruby, my choicest favours, and hanging pearls in their
dainty ears. In summer they sleep in the roseleaves, and ride behind
the wings of butterflies, while in winter they hush the babble of the
brooks, and powder the branches of the trees with frost to hide their
nakedness. Away with you, Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed!
Go, freeze the fingers of Father Time into glassy icicles, and forget
not to seek for crimson berries on which our friends the birds may feed
at morn!"
[Illustration: I fancied that I had seen those wee brown men]
[Illustration]
She clapped her hands, and the Fairies fled. I wondered why she did not
fall, since she no longer clung to the frond of bracken; but her tiny
feet were firmly planted in the fork of a leaf, and behind her glinted a
pair of wings which had been invisible before. As I watched her I
thought of a question I had often wanted to ask.
"Where do Fairies come from?" I said, hoping she would not be offended.
"Ah," she replied, "that is more than I may tell you. But we were here,
in these very islands, long before the people of the woods, and the
white-haired Druids who worshipped the God of the Oak. There were
spirits then, as now, in streams and rivers, and sweet-voiced Sirens in
the deep blue sea. Some Fairies rode on magic horses, and some were even
smaller than I, and lived in the ears of the yellow corn. Dagda then was
the King of the Fairies, a mighty spirit whose cauldron was supposed
to be the vast grey dome of the sky. Those were the days of Witches,
Dwarfs, and Giants, and little people who lived in the hills, and many
other Fairies known by different names.
We are found in various guises all over the world, but our home is said
first to have been in Persia. There dwelt the ancient Jinn who haunted
the mountain recesses and the forest wilds ages before the first man
trod the earth. Here, too, were Deevs, malicious creatures of terrible
strength who warred with our sisters, the Peries. These exquisite
creatures abode at Kâf, in the deep green mountains of Chrysolite, the
realm of Pleasure and Delight, wherein was the beauteous Amber City.
Some day you may go to Persia, and then, if you meet a Peri, she will
tell you how a mortal man once came to her sisters' rescue, and
conquered the wicked Deevs."
The thought of meeting a Peri took my breath away, for I had read about
them on winter evenings.
"Do you mean that wherever I go I shall see the Fairies, just as I see
you now?" I cried.
"Wherever you go!" she said, nodding her head, "and soon I believe you
will cross the sea and travel through other lands. But you must not
think," she went on earnestly, "that the Fairies in your own country are
less worth knowing, for you might spend your life in making friends with
them, and yet have much to learn."
I can't remember half of all that Titania told me after this, but she
spoke of fair White Elves who live among the trees, and are ruled by a
King who rides abroad in a beautiful little coach with trappings of gold
and silver; of mischievous Black Elves who live underground, and haunt
people with nasty tempers; of Nymphs and Gnomes and sad-faced Trolls,
and of Brownies and Portunes and Pixies. I should have liked to hear
more about the Brownies and Portunes, but it was fun to learn how the
Brownies play tricks on lazy people who lie in bed and won't get up,
pulling the clothes right off them, and throwing these on the floor,
and of how they help the farmers' wives to bake and brew if they are
clean and neat. Titania said that Fairies dislike people who are untidy,
and I hoped that she hadn't seen my playbox or my chest of drawers. I
made up my mind that directly I got home I would put them straight, and
so that she might not notice how red I had grown, I asked her to tell me
what Portunes were.
[Illustration: The "Portunes" were queer creatures.]
"Queer little wrinkled creatures with faces like old men," she said.
"They wear long green coats covered with darns and patches, and are only
found now in the depths of the country. They like to live on prosperous
farms, and though some of them are barely an inch high, they can lift
heavier weights than the strongest labourer. Like the Brownies, they can
be mischievous as well as helpful. A farmer once offended a Portune by
speaking disrespectfully of his kindred, and the next time that the good
man rode home from market in the dusk, the little fellow sprang on to
the horse's reins, and guided him into the bog. Both horse and man had
to flounder out as best they could, and the farmer was careful
henceforth to mind his tongue."
"And what are Pixies like?" I asked. She had said that I reminded her of
one of these, so of course I was curious about them.
"They are much taller than we are, and very fair," answered Titania,
"with blue-grey eyes like yours. If you want to meet them, you must go
to Devonshire, for it is there that they make their home. They love the
ferns and the heather, and the rich red earth, and live in a Pixy-house
in a rock. They, also, are ruled by a King, who commands them as I do
my Elves and Fays, despatching them hither and thither to do his will.
Sometimes he sends them down to the mines, to show the men who work
there where the richest lode is to be found; and if the miners grumble,
or are discontented, the Pixies lead them astray by lighting false
fires. On other occasions they are told off to help the villagers with
their housework, and their attentions are warmly welcomed by the Devon
folk. One good dame was so pleased with the help a ragged little Pixie
who had torn her frock on a sweet-briar bush gave her with her spinning,
that she made her a new set of clothes of bright green cloth, and laid
these by the spinning wheel. The Pixy put them on at once, and singing
"Pixy fine, Pixy gay,
Pixy now will run away!"
sped out of the house in broad daylight, and, alas! she never came back
again."
"Ho! ho! ho!" laughed a merry voice, and a shock-headed little fellow
swung himself down from a bough just behind me, and turned a somersault
on the ground.
"Welcome, gay Puck!" Titania cried. "Whence do you come, and what do you
do this night?"
"I come from the court of King Oberon, sweet Titania," answered the Elf,
"and to-night I plait the manes and tails of Farmer Best's grey horses.
At early dawn I shall skim the cream off the milk in his good wife's
dairy, since yester-e'en she grudged a drink of it to an orphan child.
'Robin Goodfellow has been here!' she will cry when she sees what I have
been after, and her greedy old eyes will fill with tears. That is one
of my pet names, Wide-eyes," he added, hopping on to my shoulder and
pinching my ear. "I am also Pouke, Hobgoblin, and Robin Hood. But where
are the Urchins, my merry play-fellows? It is high time that they were
here, for the lady moon has hung her lamp i' the sky."
[Illustration: "The Fairy Ring was thronged with dancing Elves"]
The clouds were all tinted a deep rose pink, and behind the trees, just
where the moon had risen, was a haze of purple. I knew by this that it
must be nearly tea-time, and I was just going to say that I must go,
when Titania left the frond of bracken, and alighted in the centre of
the Fairy Ring. Waving her wand, she summoned her "gladsome sprites,"
and next moment the Fairy Ring was thronged with dancing Elves who wore
red caps and silver shoes, with bright green mantles buttoned with bobs
of silk. Puck flew to join them, but Peas-blossom, Cobweb, Moth, and
Mustard-seed, who sprang from nowhere, danced in an inner circle round
the Fairy Queen. They sang as they danced, and this is their song. I
found it afterwards in a book of Father's, which he said had in it more
wonderful things than all books in the world but one:
"By the moon we sport and play,
With the night begins our day.
As we frisk the dew doth fall,
Trip it, little urchins all.
Lightly as the little bee,
Two by two and three by three,
And about goe wee, goe wee."
"And about goe wee, goe wee!" echoed down the glade, and then the
Elves suddenly disappeared, with Puck and Titania and her attendants.
The wood was growing darker every minute, but the sparkles of frost were
glittering still, and lit my way. At the end of the scrub I saw Father
coming to meet me, swinging down the road with such long steps that he
looked like a kindly big giant. He had guessed where I had gone, and he
was so pleased to find me that he forgot to say I mustn't explore any
more without him, as I was afraid he would. He took my hand, and we both
ran; it was lovely at home by the fire.
I meant to have told him about Queen Titania while we were having tea,
but Nancy had made such scrumptious cakes that there wasn't time at
first, and before I had finished he began to open the letters that had
come just after he left that morning. They seemed to be all bills, and
Father sighed as he looked them over, his forehead puckered into rucks
and lines. Presently he came to a big blue envelope, and he turned
this round and round as if he thought there might be something horrid
inside. The paper crackled like anything as he drew it out, and when it
was unfolded he sat looking at it for a long time, though there didn't
seem to be much writing. At last he gave an odd kind of gasp, and took
my face between his hands. He pressed it so hard that he made me say
"O!" though I didn't want to do this, and I wondered what had happened.
"Your great-aunt Helen is dead, Chris," he said at last, as he let me
go. "I haven't seen her for years and years.... She was not over kind to
me when I was a lad, though I believe she meant well.... And now she's
left us all her money. We shan't be poor any more."
This was the beginning of ever so many surprises. First, Father and I
had warm new overcoats, with woolly stuff inside them that felt like
blankets, only much more soft and fluffy, and Nancy had the blue silk
dress she always vowed that she should buy when her ship came home.
There was a fire every night in Father's study, and I had one in my
bedroom. More patients came up for soup than they did for medicine, and
they said "God bless you, Sir!" to Father so often that he wanted to run
away. The children in the hospital had the biggest tree that the ward
would hold, and all the old men and women in the workhouse had a big
tea, and shawls and mufflers.
A few weeks later a strange young man with a very shiny collar and a new
brown bag came to stay with us. Father said he was a "locum," but Nancy
said it ought to be "locust," for his appetite was enormous, and she
couldn't make enough buttered toast to please him. He had come to take
care of Father's patients until someone bought all the medicines and
things in the surgery, and I was awfully glad to hear we were going
away.
"We'll go straight to the sunshine, Chris," said Father, "where there
are trees and flowers instead of long rows of houses, and the air isn't
full of smoke."
And that night I dreamt all about fairies, and of what I was going to
see and hear in foreign lands.
[Illustration: The "Locust."]
[Illustration]
Chapter II
The Princess with the Sea-Green hair.
The cliffs were hidden in the mist when we left Dover, and the sky was
dull and grey. But very soon it began to clear; a silvery light shone
behind the clouds, and then the sun came out, and the rolling waves
turned emerald green. They tossed our steamer up and down as if it were
a cork, and Father soon went below, but I begged so hard to be allowed
to stay on deck that he said I might if I would promise, "honour
bright," not to get into mischief.
When he had gone I put my cap into my pocket, so that it might not blow
off, and leaned over the rails to watch the swell of the sea. I wasn't
thinking of Fairies then, nor of being a Christmas child, but of how it
must feel to be shipwrecked. So when the spray blew in my face and made
me blink, I was surprised to see a merry red face grinning up at me from
the foam. It had curls of seaweed upon its forehead, and a mouth like a
big round "O".
"I'm Father Neptune," it roared, so loudly that I could hear it quite
distinctly above the noise of the wind. "Why not take a header, and
come and ride one of my fine sea horses? 'Father wouldn't like it?'
Ho! ho! ho! What a molly-coddle of a boy!"
A big wave tossed him on one side, and on its crest was a beautiful girl
with a shining tail, and hair like a stream of gold. Of course I knew
she was a mermaid, and would want me to go to her coral caves.
"Won't you come with me and play with my sheeny pearls?" she cried.
"They gleam like the dawn on a summer morning, and you shall choose the
loveliest for your very own."
She held out her arms and I nearly sprang into them, for I thought that
a pearl would be splendid for Father's pin. But just behind her I saw
two ugly mermen, with horrid green teeth and bright red eyes, and ropes
of seaweed in their long thin hands. Then I remembered that mermaids
were dangerous, and I ran straight over to the other side of the steamer
and put my fingers into my ears, so that I might not hear her call. She
spoke so sweetly that it was difficult to resist, but I did not trust
her.
The water was calmer on this side, and I wondered why until I saw some
funny brown men, rather like Brownies, but ever so much bigger and
stronger, stretched out at full length on the tops of the waves.
They were blowing on conchs as hard as they could, and wherever
they blew, the waves grew quieter. I guessed at once that they were
Tritons--seafolk who live with Neptune in his crystal palace under the
sea. I was still watching them when Father came up behind me, and told
me that we were really in.
We stayed the night at a big hotel where almost everyone spoke in a
language which I did not understand, and I had a grown-up dinner with
Father, with heaps of different dishes, most of them tasting much alike.
Next day we went on for hours in the train, and the air grew warmer and
warmer, and the grass more green, until at last we were in the south of
France. There were palms and orange groves and heaps of flowers, and it
would have been just splendid if Father had been all right. He hadn't
had time to be ill at home you see, and now there were no sick people
to worry him, he was so tired that he couldn't do anything. But he told
me not to worry, for once he was really rested, he would soon get well.
And so he did, though it took a long time to rest him, and we couldn't
explore a bit. In the mornings we strolled through the gardens, or down
to the sea, and most afternoons we did nothing at all. Very often, as I
sat beside him on the verandah, with the sun shining full on the green
awning, and the roses nodding to us over the balcony, he would fall
asleep; and then a Flower-Fairy would peep through the ferns, and tell
me the loveliest stories. The Rose-Fairy came, and the Queen of the
Lilies, with a lovely gold crown upon her head; but my favourite Fairy
lived in a bed of violets. Her frock was purple, and I knew when she was
coming because the air all round grew sweet. Her stories were the best
of all. She had heard them from the wind, she said, as he played with
her leaves at dawn. My favourite was one that she said he had brought
from Provence.
[Illustration]
The Princess with the Sea-Green Hair.
"A worthy couple at Marseilles," she began, "had longed for a child
for years in vain, and great was their joy when they knew at last that
their wish was about to be granted. The boy was born during a fearful
storm, and the first sound he heard was the crash of the sea as it broke
on the shore. He was christened Paul, and grew up into a handsome lad
with a quantity of thick fair hair which curled like the tips of the
waves, and piercing blue eyes which were always twinkling with fun and
mischief.
There was not any question as to what calling he should follow, for the
sea claimed him as a son of her own, and he was never content on dry
land. When his ship came home and the crew was dismissed, he could not
rest, and every evening at sunset he would row himself out in a little
boat as far as he could go. One summer night, when a thousand ripples
danced on the waves, he leaned over the side of his boat, gazing
down--down--down. He did not know why, but he felt quite sure that
someone was calling him, and with all his heart he longed to obey the
summons. Presently he felt himself lifted gently, and drawn through
the gleaming water by hands which he could not see. It was black as
night before they released him, for neither sun nor moon pierce the
depths of the ocean. He would have been in total darkness but for the
strange-shaped fish who carried lanterns on their heads, and guided
him to the gates of a palace, formed of millions of barnacles. These
were piled one on the top of the other until they reached an enormous
height, and were decorated with what looked like a row of human eyes.
The gates flew open as Paul approached them, and through a passage of
mother-of-pearl he reached a chamber that flashed with opal lights. Here
a Fairy Princess awaited him--a Princess so exquisitely beautiful in
spite of her sea-green hair, that though his heart did not go out to
her, he was not repelled by the love she showed him.
She kept him with her for many hours, and at dawn of day she bade him
return to his home, giving him two golden fish which he was to show
to all who asked him where he had spent the night, telling them he
had been a'fishing. The invisible hands which had brought him thither
bore him back to his boat, and he landed just at sunrise. His golden
fish were a source of awe and wonder to his neighbours, who had never
seen their like before; but the priest shook his head, and warned him to
have no dealings with the powers of darkness.
[Illustration: Here a Fairy Princess awaited him--]
[Illustration]
But Paul could not resist rowing out to the edge of the sunset. Evening
after evening he plied his oars, and always at twilight he was drawn
down--down, to the palace of the strange Princess with the sea-green
hair. When he went on a voyage all was well with him, for his vessel
bore him to other seas, where no one called him when the sky grew red;
but he was no sooner at home with his parents than something within him
made him row out to the west.
At last it seemed as if he had forgotten the Princess, for he fell in
love with sweet Lucile, who was as good and gentle as she was fair, and
willingly gave him her troth. Their wedding was fixed for Easter Day,
and the night before, Paul wandered down to the sea-shore, thinking
of the bliss in store for him on the morrow. His love-lit eyes fell
dreamily on his boat, which had lain for months in the shallow cove
where he had moored her, and without thinking what he was doing, he
stepped inside and took the oars in his hands. Alas! No sooner did he
feel the boat moving under him, than he was seized by the old wild
longing to sail towards the west.
All happened as before, until he reached the Princess's palace; but now,
instead of smiling sweetly, she received him with threatening looks
which showed an array of cruel teeth behind her rose-red lips.
'So! you have been unfaithful to me!' she cried. 'I will not slay you,
since I have greater punishments in store than death.... You shall stay
in the depths of the sea until your yellow hair is bleached and white,
and your face a mask of hideous wrinkles. Then, and then only, shall you
return to land, and those who have loved you best shall spurn you from
them as something loathsome. Scorn for scorn, and pain for pain. Thus
will I take my revenge.'
So for seven long years Paul was a prisoner in the darkness of the deep,
his bed the black and slimy ooze, and his companions fearsome monsters
who would fain have devoured him. At last, when his hair was white
as snow, and his face so wrinkled and ugly that the children of the
mer-folk shuddered as they passed, he was seized by a sprawling octopus,
and dragged up through the water. The loathsome creature held him fast
until they reached a spot not far from the little brown cottage where
Lucile had lived with her old father, and here it loosened its coils;
and a great wave cast Paul on shore. The cottage was empty and deserted,
and the winding path he had trodden so often was covered with moss.
Close by, however, was another cottage, far more spacious, and through
the open door of this Paul saw his old sweetheart sitting beside a
cradle. She sang as she rocked it gently with her foot, and her shining
needles flew in and out of a fisherman's coarse blue sock.
As the shadow fell across the threshold she looked up brightly,
expecting to see her husband. Meeting Paul's gaze instead, her own
grew strained with horror, and snatching her baby from the cradle she
fled to the inner room. Without a word Paul hastened away. He knew his
doom, and hastened to throw himself back to the sea.
In his headlong flight he stumbled against an old, old woman, gathering
drift-wood on the wreck-strewn coast. She would have fallen if he had
not caught her in his arms, and as he held her she saw his eyes. They
alone were unchanged, and his mother knew them.
'My boy--my dear boy!' she cried with a sob of joy. And she drew his
seared face down to her bosom, murmuring over it the same fond words she
had used when he was a child. She kissed him, and the spell was broken;
once more he was good to look upon.... The Princess had not known, you
see, that a mother's love is immortal."
* * * * *
Father was still asleep when the story came to an end, so I implored the
Fairy to tell me another.
"This comes from Provence, too," she said in answer to my pleading, "and
will show you that sea-folk can sometimes be merciful."
[Illustration]
The Sailor and the Porpoise.
"Among the crew of the good ship _L'Oiseau_, was a sailor named Antoine,
who kept all on board alive with his merry wit. One day, while sailing
the waters of the Mediterranean, the sea only faintly ruffled by the
breeze that helped them on their way, they espied what at first appeared
to be a huge sea-serpent making its way towards them. For a few moments
the mariners watched it in much alarm; then, to their immense relief,
they found that their 'sea-serpent' was a string of harmless porpoises,
swimming in a row, with their shining black backs just appearing above
the surface of the water. As they neared the ship they broke their
ranks, and evidently regarding the sailors as their friends, gambolled
upon the waves like boisterous children. No man dreamt of interfering
with them until Antoine thoughtlessly picked up a rusty spear and threw
it at one of those farthest away. He did not do this from any desire to
kill, but only to show how excellent was his aim, and when he saw his
shaft strike home, tinging the sea with red as his victim sank with a
convulsive shudder, he was seized with self-reproach and a nameless
dread.
And behold! a great storm shook the sea, as if the gods themselves were
angry. Thunder and lightning rolled and flashed, and raindrops heavy as
leaden balls fell in swift torrents. So fearful was the tempest that it
threatened to overwhelm the ship, and the Captain was in despair.
In this dire extremity a knight on a magnificent black charger came
riding over the waves.
'Surrender him who threw the spear!' he cried, and the sea stayed its
turmoil to listen. 'Do this, and I will save the ship. Else shall it
perish, with all on board, and sea creatures shall gnaw your bones.'
The sailors were exceedingly afraid, but they would not betray their
comrade. Seeing this, Antoine stepped forth of his own accord, for he
would not let his shipmates suffer for his fault. Leaping from the deck,
he landed upon the haunches of the charger, behind the knight, and that
moment the sea became smooth as glass, and the strange steed disappeared
with his two riders.
The ship made good way, and his shipmates never expected to see poor
Antoine again, but to the amazement and joy of all, he rejoined
the vessel a few days later as though it had stood by for him. The
excitement of the men was great as they gathered round him to hear of
his adventures.
And truly he had a marvellous story to relate. He had ridden, he told
them, to a distant island, where in a castle of shimmering gold, on a
bed of the softest eiderdown, he found a knight stretched in agony. It
was he whom he had wounded, while in the form of a porpoise, and the
spear he had thrown so thoughtlessly was still sticking in his side.
He drew this out, with tears of shame, and then, with his guilty right
hand, he cleansed and bathed the wound. When this was done, the knight
fell into a deep sleep, and woke at dawn well as ever. Taking Antoine's
hand, he led him through many corridors lit with gems to a resplendent
banquet hall, where the walls were encrusted with star-shaped sapphires,
and the floor was of beaten gold. Many other knights were assembled
here, and maidens so fair that Antoine sighed to think of them. When he
had feasted on curious dishes of rich fruits, the same knight who had
brought him thither took him back to the sea-shore, where the same black
horse awaited their coming. Mounting as before, the charger sped like
the wind over the sea until the ship hove in sight. When they came to
within one hundred yards of the vessel, the black steed and his rider
disappeared as mysteriously as they had come, and Antoine was left
struggling in the water. However, he was an excellent swimmer, and soon
reached the ship's side, up which he easily clambered by the aid of a
rope which fortunately happened to be trailing in the water.
This was the tale that Antoine told his shipmates, and in memory of the
clemency of the porpoise-knight, the sailors vowed that never again
would they injure a porpoise. Not only were they as good as their word,
but the vow is kept to this day by their children's children."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter III
Rose Marie and the Poupican.
It was spring time when we left for Brittany. Father had been there
once with Mother, and thought he would like to go again. So I said
goodbye to my Flower-Fairy, and promised that if I could I would come
back one day to see her.
The sunny air of the south had done Father good, and now he was almost
well. While we were in the train he read from the guide book, and told
me about curious "dolmens," or mounds of stone, which are supposed
to have been built to mark the ancients' burying places. There were
hundreds of these in Brittany, he said, and I was glad, for I knew they
were haunted by "Gorics" and "Courils"--strange Fairies of olden times.
That very first evening, while Father was writing letters, I slipped
away by myself instead of going to bed, for I wanted to see a Poupican.
A Poupican, you must know, is the dwarf-child of a Korrigan--a Fairy who
looks lovely by night and horrible by day, and cares for nothing so that
she gets what she wants. Korrigans are said to have been princesses in
days gone by, but they were so cruel and selfish that someone laid them
under a spell, which lasts for thousands of years unless a mortal breaks
it. On account of the wicked things they said their mouths are always
dry, and they are consumed by thirst; so they chose their homes by
streams and fountains, of which there are many in Brittany.
Father had been telling me that there was a famous fountain in a wood
not far from our hotel, and I thought I might find them here. The
fountain was hidden behind a grove of fir-trees, but the moon shone
down on its rough grey stones, and turned the square pond of water in
front of it into a silver mirror.
At first there seemed to be no one there, but when my eyes had grown
used to the gloom I saw a number of Elves about two feet in height, with
misty white veils wound round their bodies. A cloth was spread beside
the fountain. It was covered with the loveliest things to eat--honey and
fruit, and queer-shaped cakes sprinkled with sugar comfits--while in
the centre stood a crystal goblet, from which the moon drew flashes of
soft fairy light. As I crouched in the ferns, a wee green Wood-Elf stole
up behind me; her tiny face was good and kind, and although she was so
small that I could almost have held her in my hand, I felt she was there
to protect me.
Then I turned my eyes to the crystal goblet and I grew thirsty all at
once; and I wondered what the Korrigans would do if I took a sip of the
amber wine which filled it to the brim.
"One drop would make you wise for ever," whispered the Wood-Elf, just as
if I had spoken, "but you would be silent for ever, also. No mortal can
drink that wine and live. The Korrigans pass it round to each other in a
golden cup at the end of their feast, which takes place but once in the
year. It gives them power to work many charms, and to take the form of
animals at will."
[Illustration]
The Hunter who shot the white Doe.
"Once, in these very woods, a hunter shot a fair white doe, when to
his amazement, she spoke to him in a human voice. He was so touched by
her reproaches that he tore his fine linen shirt into strips to bind
up her wound, and then hurried off to the spring for water to quench
her thirst. It was dusk by the time he could get back to her, for the
first spring he reached was dry, and instead of the milk-white doe, he
found a beauteous maiden, who threw herself on his bosom and entreated
him not to leave her. For a year and a day he was under her spells,
but he escaped in the end by making the sign of the cross with his two
forefingers. This sign puts a Korrigan to instant flight, for things
which are holy fill them with terror.... Ah! they have been at their
mischief again. Poor Annette will weep for this."
The Wood-Elf stopped speaking, for running lightly over the grass,
holding each other's long white veils so as to form a swinging cradle,
came a group of nine smooth-limbed Korrigans, their red-gold hair
tossing on the wind behind them. In the midst of the hanging cradle lay
a tiny baby, with widely opened eyes and a solemn pink face, sucking a
fat round thumb.
"They have stolen him from his mother, while she dreamt of fairy gold,"
the Wood-Elf sighed. "She should not have left her door on the latch;
it was a sad mistake. In her little one's place there is now a Poupican.
At first she will not know, but will fondle and kiss the changeling as
if he were her own. After a while she will grieve to find that he gives
her no love in return for hers, and plays as readily with strangers as
with his mother. But her husband, who is a hard man, will rejoice at the
wee child's cleverness. For he will have an old head on young shoulders,
and be wise beyond his years."
While the Wood-Elf was speaking, poor Annette's baby lay contentedly
beside the crystal goblet, sucking his thumb and looking up at the
stars. The Korrigans had left off singing now, and they were passing
round the golden cup when there came on the wind the sound of a church
bell. Flinging the cup and the goblet into the pond, and staying only
to wind the baby in their clinging veils, the Korrigans fled into the
darkness with cries of anguish. Some spell seemed to hold me, or I
should have tried to rescue the little thing; for it was dreadful to
think what might happen to him with the Korrigans.
But the Wood-Elf was quite comforting. "He will be well taken care of,"
she said, "and someday Annette may break the spell, with the help of the
Curé. Rose-Marie got back her child by her own wit, but then she has the
name of the blessed Mother. 'You would like to know how?' Then I must
speak softly, lest a Korrigan should hear."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Rose Marie and the Poupican.
"Rose-Marie was very young when she married Pierre," began the Elf, "and
nothing his mother or hers could say would induce her to beware of
Korrigans when her baby came.
'They would not hurt him even if they could,' she cried. 'Who could harm
anything so small and sweet?' And she actually set his cradle under
the cherry trees, so that his round pink face was covered with fallen
petals. Then she went to fetch Pierre from his sowing that he might see
how his little son was hidden under the spring snow, and lingered on her
way to gather a cluster of purple violets.
When she had disappeared, the Korrigans stole her baby, leaving a
Poupican in the fragrant nest. The sun had gone in when she came back,
and the little creature was wailing fretfully, Rose-Marie snatched him
to her bosom and tried to soothe him, but from that day forward she had
no rest. Her milk was sweet and plentiful, and the cradle was soft and
warm, but he gave neither her nor her good man Pierre a moment's peace.
All through the hours of the night he wailed, and tore at her hair when
she held him close to her, scratching her face like an angry kitten.
[Illustration: Rose-Marie and the Poupican]
When he grew older, he was just as bad, for there was no end to his
mischief. He shut the cat in a bin of flour, and opened the oven door
when Rose-Marie was baking, so that the bread was spoilt. He drove the
hens into the brook, and cut the cord which tethered Pierre's white cow,
so that she roamed for miles. And with all he did, he never uttered a
word. It was this which first roused Rose-Marie's suspicions, and after
that she watched him carefully.
One morning she made up her mind to surprise him into speaking, and as
he sat beside the hearth, peering at her through his half-closed eyes,
she set an egg shell on the fire, and placing in this a spoonful of
broth, stirred it carefully with a silver pin. The Poupican was amazed,
for it was nearing the dinner hour, and there would be ten to feed. At
last he could contain himself no longer.
'What are you doing, Mother?' he asked in a strange cracked voice.
'I am preparing a meal for ten,' returned Rose-Marie, without looking
round.
'For ten--in an eggshell?' he cried. 'I have seen an egg before a hen;
I have seen the acorn before the oak; but never yet saw I folly such as
this!' And he fell to cackling like a full farmyard, rocking himself
from side to side, and repeating, 'Such folly I never saw!' until even
gentle Rose-Marie was moved to anger.
'You have seen too much, my son,' she said, and lifting him up by the
scruff of his neck in spite of his struggles, she carried him out of
the house. Then, sitting down on a heap of stones beside the brook,
she proceeded to whip him soundly. At his first cry of pain a Korrigan
appeared, in the shape of an ugly old woman with bleared red eyes and
straggling tresses. She was leading a curly-haired boy by the hand,
the living image of Pierre. As she released him he flew across the
grass to Rose-Marie and hid his face in her skirts.
'Here is thy son!' croaked the Korrigan. 'I have fed him on meal and
honey, and he has learnt no evil. Give me my Poupican, and I will go.'
So Rose-Marie gave up the Poupican, and with a thankful heart took her
own son home."
* * * * *
"Do you know any more stories?" I asked when the Elf stopped for breath.
I didn't want to go back just yet, for it was jolly in the wood, and I
could smell violets close by.
"More than I can tell," replied the Elf, "but you shall hear what
happened to Peric and Jean."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Story of Peric and Jean.
"In a beautiful valley not far from here a number of Korrigans were
accustomed to gather on summer nights, for the grass was soft as velvet,
and the mountains sheltered it from the breeze. None of the peasants
dare cross the valley after dark, lest they might be forced to join
their revels; for it was known by all that the Korrigans must dance
whether they would or not, until some mortal should break the charm that
had been laid upon them.
One evening, when the west was aglow with fire, a farmer was sent for
to attend the sick bed of his mother, who lived on the other side of
the valley. His wife and he had been at work all day in the fields,
since labour was scarce and they were poor, and as both loved the old
woman dearly, they hurried off without stopping to lay aside their
_fourches_--little sticks which are still used in some parts of
Brittany as 'plough paddles.' By the time they were half-way across
the valley, the dusk had fallen, and they found themselves encircled
by angry Korrigans, who shrieked with rage and made as if they would
tear them to pieces. Before they had touched them, however, they all
fell back, and a moment later broke into singing. This was their
song:--
'Lez y, Lez hon,
(_Let him go, let him go_,)
Bas an arer zo gant hook;
(_For he has the wand of the plough_;)
Lez on, Lez y,
(_Let her go, let her go_,)
Bas an arer zo gant y!'
(_For she has the wand of the plough_!)
Then the dancers made way for the farmer and his wife, who reached the
old mother safely, and comforted her last hours.
When they returned to their own homes they told what they had seen and
heard. Some of the villagers were still too much afraid of the Korrigans
to venture, but others armed themselves with _fourches_, and hastened to
the valley when night had fallen. All of these witnessed the famous
dance, but none felt inclined to join it.
In a neighbouring village two tailors dwelt, and they were as anxious as
the rest to see the Korrigans. The elder was a tall and handsome fellow
named Jean, but in spite of his inches he had no pluck, and was idle as
well as vain. The other was Peric, a red-haired hunchback, so kind and
lovable in spite of his looks that if ever a neighbour were in trouble,
it was to Peric he went first. Though the hunchback and Jean shared the
same business, the latter was always gibing at Peric, and left him to do
most of the work.
'Since you're so courageous,' he sneered, one fine warm night when
he and Peric had stayed behind in the valley to watch the Korrigans,
'suppose you ask them to let you join their dance. Your hump should make
you safe with them, for they are not likely to fall in love with you.'
'All right,' said Peric cheerfully, though at this unkind reference to
his deformity his face had flushed. And taking off his cap he approached
the whirling Elves.
'May I dance with you?' he asked politely, dropping his _fourche_ to
show he trusted them.
'You're more brave than good looking,' they replied, their feet still
moving to the same quick measure. 'Are you not afraid that we shall work
you ill?'
'Not a bit!' answered Peric, joining hands with them; and he started to
sing as lustily as they:--
'_Dilun, Dimeurs, Dimerc'her_,'
which means 'Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.' After a while he grew tired of
singing these three words so often, and went on of his own accord:--
'_Ha Diriaou, ha Digwener_,'
(And Thursday and Friday!)
'_Mat! Mat!_' (Good! Good!) cried the Korrigans in chorus, and though he
could not tell why they were so delighted, he was glad to have given
them pleasure. When they offered him the choice of wealth or power in
return for some mysterious service which he seemed to have rendered
them, he only laughed, for he thought that they were poking fun at him.
'Take away my hump, then,' he cried at last, 'and make me as handsome as
my friend Jean. A little maid whom I love dearly will not look at me
when he is near, though she likes well enough to talk to me by the
fountain if he is out of the way.'
[Illustration: They tossed him three times in the air.]
[Illustration]
'Is that all?' exclaimed the Korrigans. 'That will not give us the
slightest trouble!' and catching him in their veils, they tossed him
three times in the air. The third time he alighted on his feet. He was
now as tall and straight as he could wish to be, with fine soft hair as
black as the raven's wing.
Instead of rejoicing at his friend's good fortune, Jean was full of
envy. Forgetting his fears in his greed for gain, he pushed himself into
the midst of the Korrigans, who had once more begun to dance, and joined
them in their singing. His voice was less melodious than Peric's, and he
did not keep time so well, but they suffered him amongst them out of
curiosity.
Presently he, like Peric, grew tired of the monotonous chant, and
shouted:
'_Ha Disadarn, ha Disul_'
(And Saturday and Sunday)
'What else? what else?' cried the Korrigans in great excitement, but
he only looked as stupid as an owl, and repeated these words over and
over. Catching him in their veils, they tossed him up as they had done
Peric, and when he came down again he found he had red hair and a hump.
They were angry you see, that he had come so near to breaking the spell
and had then disappointed them, for if he had only had the sense to add:
'_Ha cetu chu er sizun_,'
(And now the week is ended)
he would have broken the spell and set them free, since Peric had
already sung 'And Saturday and Sunday.'"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter IV
The Bird at the Window.
There were so many things in Brittany that Father wanted to show
me--places he had seen with Mother, and curious monuments, and lovely
views,--that I could not get out alone again until the day before we
went on to Normandy. No Fairy would ever speak to me unless I was quite
by myself, and the quaint little men who peered out from the old ruins
when I ran on in front, scampered away at once when Father came in
sight.
On that last morning a funny old postman in a blue cap brought him some
letters from home. They were about the practice, and Father said that he
must stay indoors to answer them. The patients did not seem to like the
"locust" at all, according to Nancy. I don't suppose he gave them such
nice-tasting medicines as Father did.
The moment he took up his pen I was off to the wood. The paths were
carpeted with velvet moss, and starry flowers peeped through the green.
Some bees were buzzing round a clump of violets that grew by the side of
the fountain, and sitting on the steps were two hideous old women, with
bleared red eyes and wisps of faded hair. As I drew near they scowled
most horribly, and vanished in the spray. I was delighted to find my
Wood-Elf by the violets, for somehow the sight of those two old crones
had made me shiver.
"They were Korrigans!" the Wood-Elf whispered. "That is how they look by
daylight, so it is no wonder that they hate to be seen by mortals! I
shouldn't advise you to come here to-night, for they will bear you a
grudge, and might tempt you to dance with them!"
I thought of what had befallen Jean, and shook my head. It must be
dreadful to have a hump, though I read of one once that turned into
wings. But Jean's didn't seem that kind.
"I know better than to put myself in their power," I cried, and the
Wood-Elf laughed.
"You think you are very wise," she said, pausing the next moment to coax
a bee to give her a sip of honey, "but mortal men are not a match for
Fairy Folk. The Dwarfs, or Courils, who haunt the stone tables and
curious mounds you find throughout this country, compel all travellers
by night who come their way to dance with them, whether they will or no.
They don't let them stop dancing until they drop to the ground, worn
out with fatigue, and sometimes the poor creatures never regain their
strength. Mère Gautier's husband danced with the Dwarfs when he was but
eight-and-twenty, and he has not done a stroke of work from that day
to this, though now he is eighty-five. Mère Gautier keeps the home
together, and he sits by the fireside and tells the neighbours how the
Dwarfs looked and what they said. The Curé declares that such idleness
is sinful, and that he might work if he would; but one cannot be sure,
and he makes himself out to be a very poor creature.
The Gorics--tiny men but three feet high, though they have the strength
of giants--are little better than Courils. Near Quiberon, by the sea
shore, is a heap of huge stones, some say no less than four thousand in
number, known as 'The House of the Gorics,' and every night the Dwarfs
come out and dance round it till break of day. If they spy a belated
traveller, even in the distance, they compel him to join them, just as
the Courils do; and when he faints from sheer exhaustion they vanish in
peals of laughter."
"The Fairy I met in the South spoke of little men who gave away fairy
gold," I said, trying not to let my voice sound sleepy. The sun was hot,
though it was early spring, and there was a grasshopper just at my elbow
who had been chirping a lullaby to her babies for the last half-hour.
"If you shut your eyes you will see nothing!" the Wood-Elf pouted; and
I knew that she had noticed my yawn. I sat up then, and told her how
pretty I thought her frock, all brown and green, with a dainty girdle of
silver. She laughed at this, and I coaxed her to tell me another story.
It was one, she said, that had been sung in verse on the Welsh hills,
for in ancient times the people of Wales and those of "Little Britain"
were the closest friends.
[Illustration]
The Wee Men of Morlaix
"Long, long ago," she began, "a lordly castle was built at Morlaix,
in the midst of such pleasant surroundings that some little Dwarfs in
search of a home thought that they could not do better than build their
stronghold underneath it. So they set to work immediately, for they
have a very wise rule that when once they decide that a thing must
be done, it shall be done at once. By the time that the castle was
finished, their home was completed too. Far below the ground they had
fashioned a number of oval chambers, with ceilings encrusted with
gleaming pearls which they found in the bay, and floors paved with
precious amber. Beyond these chambers lay their treasure house, where
they kept rich stores of fairy gold, and the winding passages which led
to the upper world were only just wide enough to allow them to creep
through. Their entrances were cunningly contrived to look like rabbit
holes, so that strangers might think they led to nothing more than some
sandy warren.
But the country folk knew better, for they often watched the little men
run in and out, beating a faint tattoo on the silver basins in which
they collected the morning dew and the evening mist, which served them
for food and drink. Now and then, when the sky was a vault of blue,
and the sun shone his brightest, they brought up piles of their golden
coins, that they might see them glisten in the light of day. So friendly
were they to mortals, that if they were surprised while thus employed,
they seldom failed to share their wealth.
One very bleak autumn there was much distress on the countryside, for
the harvest had failed for the third season, and many of the smaller
farmers were on the verge of ruin. Jacques Bosquet--_Bon Jacques_--his
neighbours called him, for he had never refused his help to a friend in
need--was one of these. His frail old mother was weak and ailing, and he
did not know how to tell her that she must leave the homestead to which
she had come as a bride, full fifty years before. In his despair he
tried to borrow a thousand francs from a rich merchant in the next town;
but the merchant was a hard man, and his mouth closed like a cruel steel
trap when he told Jacques roughly that he had no money to lend. As
Jacques returned home his eyes were so dim with the tears which pride
forbade him to shed, that in passing the castle of Morlaix he all but
fell over three little men, who were counting out gold by a deep hole.
'What is wrong with you, friend, that you do not see where you are
going?' cried the eldest of the three; and when Jacques told them of his
fruitless errand, they at once invited him to help himself to their
treasure.
'Take all you can hold in your hand!' they urged, and since Jacques'
hand had been much broadened with honest toil, this meant a goodly sum.
The three little men had vanished before Jacques found words to express
his gratitude, and he hurried away with a thankful heart. The coins were
of solid gold, and stamped with curious signs; to his great joy he very
soon sold them for a big price, and had now sufficient not only to pay
his debts, but to carry him through the winter.
When the merchant who had received his appeal so churlishly heard of his
good fortune, he was full of envy, and determined to lay in wait for the
little men himself. Though blessed with ample means, he coveted more,
and when at last he surprised the Dwarfs as Jacques had done, he made
so piteous a tale that they generously allowed him to take two handfuls
instead of one. But this did not content the greedy fellow, and pushing
the wee men rudely away, he stooped to fill his pockets from the heap.
As he did so, a shower of blows rained fiercely round his head and face,
and so heavily did they fall that he had much ado to save his skull.
When at last the blows ceased, and he dared to open his eyes, the Dwarfs
had gone, with all their gold, and his pockets were empty of even that
which they had contained before."
The Wood Elf paused, for a large brown bird had perched himself on a
branch which overhung the fountain. She waited until he had dipped his
beak in the sparkling stream and flown away before she spoke again.
"That bird is a stranger to these woods," she said presently under her
breath, "and I wondered if it were really an Elf or a Fée. One never
knows in these parts."
"Tell me!" I urged; for I knew by her look that she was thinking of
another story.
[Illustration]
The Bird at the Window.
"There was once a most beautiful lady," she began, "whose face was so
kind and gentle that wherever she went the children flocked round her
and hung on her gown. No flower in the garden could hold up its head
beside her, for the roses themselves were not so sweet, and even the
lilies drooped before her exceeding fairness.
From far and near lovers came to woo her, but she would none of them;
for ever in her mind was a gallant knight to whom she had plighted
her troth in the land of dreams. In the presence of a holy man, whose
features were those of the Curé who confirmed her, he had placed a ring
upon her finger; and so real did this dream seem, that she held herself
to to be the knight's true wife. Her songs were all of him as she sat
at her spinning, and her tender thoughts made warp and weft with the
shining threads. When she went to the fountain, she heard his voice in
the splash of the falling water, and when the stars shone through her
casement, she fancied that they were the adoring eyes of her beloved.
She prayed each night that she might be patient and faithful until he
claimed her, for he, and none other, should touch her lips.
But she was very beautiful, and her parents were very poor. And when the
lord of those parts saw and desired her, they gave her to him, despite
her prayers, though he was bent and old. He carried her off to his grim
castle, and that no man but he should gaze on her loveliness, he shut
her in his tower, with only an aged widow as her attendant. The widow
was half-blind and wholly deaf, and withal so crabbed in disposition
that as she passed the very dogs in the street slunk off to a safe
distance. In vain the beautiful lady pleaded to be allowed to stroll in
the gardens, or to ply her needle on the balcony; he would not let her
stir from her gloomy chamber, and for seven long years he kept her in
durance. His love had by this time turned to hate, for her beauty was
dimmed with weeping. No longer did her hair make a mesh of gold for
sunbeams to dance in, and her face was like a sad white pearl from which
all tints had fled. And the heart of the wicked lord rejoiced, for since
he could not win her favour, and she no longer delighted his eyes, he
was glad that she should die.
One morning in May when the dew lay thick upon the meadows and every
thrush had found a mate, the old lord went off for a long day's
hunting, and the aged widow fell fast asleep. The beautiful lady sighed
anew as the sweet spring sunshine flooded her prison, seeming to mock
her with its splendour. 'Ah, woe is me!' she cried. 'I may not even
rejoice in the sun as the meanest of God's creatures!' And in her great
despair she called aloud to her own true knight, bidding him deliver her
from her misery. Even as she spoke, a shadow fell across the window. A
bird had stayed his flight beside it; he pressed through the bars and
was at her feet. His ash-brown plumage and rounded wings told her he
was a goshawk, and from the jesses on his legs she saw he had been
a'hunting. While she gazed in surprise at his sudden appearance, she
beheld a transformation, and in less time than it takes to tell, the
goshawk had become a gallant knight, with raven locks and flashing eyes.
It was the knight of her dreams, and with a cry of joy she flew to him.
'I could not come to thee before, my Sweet,' said he, 'since thou didst
not call for me aloud. Now shall I be with thee at thy lightest wish,
and no more shalt thou be lonely. But beware of the aged crone who
guards thy door! Her purblind eyes are not beyond seeing, and should
she discover me I must die.'
And now the beautiful lady no longer pined to leave her prison, for she
had only to breathe his name, and her lover reappeared. Her beauty came
back to her as gladness to the earth when the sun shines after rain, and
her songs were as joyous as those of the lark when it soars high in the
heavens. The old lord was greatly puzzled, and bade the ancient widow
keep a careful watch.
'My beautiful lady is gay!' he said, with an ugly smile. 'We must learn
why she and sighs are strangers. I had thought ere this to lay her to
sleep beneath a smooth green coverlet, and it does not please me to see
her thus content.'
The aged crone bathed her eyes in water that flowed from a sacred
shrine, so that sight might come back to them, and hid herself behind a
curtain when the beautiful lady thought that she had left the tower.
From this place of vantage she beheld, shortly after, the arrival of
the goshawk, and his transformation into a handsome and tender knight.
Slipping away unseen, she hastened to her master and told him all, not
forgetting to describe the beautiful lady's rapture in her knight's
embrace.
The jealous lord was furious with rage, and caused, at dead of night,
four sharp steel spikes to be fixed to the bars of the window in the
tower. On leaving his love, the goshawk flew past these safely, but
when he returned at dusk the next evening, he overlooked them in his
eagerness, and was sorely hurt. The beautiful lady hung over her
beloved, distraught with grief; all bleeding from his wounds, he sought
to comfort her.
[Illustration: She hid herself behind a curtain.]
[Illustration]
'Dear love, I must die!' he murmured faintly, 'but thou shalt shortly
bear me a son who will dispel thy sorrows and avenge my fate.' Then he
gave her a ring from his finger, telling her that while she wore it
neither the old lord nor the widow would remember aught that she would
have them forget. He also gave her his jewelled sword, and bade her keep
it till the day when Fate should bring her to his tomb, and she should
'learn the story of the dead.' Then, and then only, he commanded, was
his son to know what had befallen him.
The beautiful lady wept anew, and in a passion of grief begged him not
to leave her; but once more bidding her a fond farewell, he resumed the
form of a goshawk, and flew mournfully away.
It happened as the knight foretold. Neither the widow nor the old lord
remembered his coming, and when the beautiful lady's son was born, the
old lord was proud and happy. His satisfaction made him somewhat less
cruel to the beautiful lady, who lived but for her boy. In cherishing
him her grief grew less, but though she had now her freedom, she never
ceased to long for the time when her son should know the truth about his
father.
The boy grew into a lad, and the lad into a handsome and gallant
knight. He was high in favour at court, since none could approach him in
chivalry or swordmanship, and many marvelled that one so brave and pure
as he could be the son of the old lord, whose advancing years were as
evil as those of his youth had been. One day his mother and he were
summoned by the King to a great festival, and rather than let them out
of his sight, the old lord rose from his bed to go with them. They
halted on their way at a rich Abbey, where the Abbot feasted them
royally and before they left desired to show them some of the Abbey's
splendours. When they had duly admired the exquisite carvings in the
chapels, and the golden chalice on the High Altar, he conducted them to
a chapter room, where, covered with hangings of finely wrought tapestry,
and gorgeous embroideries of blue and silver, was a stately tomb. Tapers
in golden vessels burned at its head and feet, and the clouds of incense
that filled the air floated from amethyst vessels. It was the tomb, the
Abbot said, of 'a noble and most valiant knight,' who had met his death
for love's sweet sake, slain by certain mysterious wounds which he bore
on his stricken breast.
When the beautiful lady heard this, she knew she had found the resting
place of her own true love, and taking his sword from the silken folds
of her gown, where she had ever carried it concealed from view, she
handed it to the young knight and told him all.
'Fair son, you now have heard,' she said,
'That God hath us to this place led.
It is your father who here doth lie,
Whom this old man slew wrongfully.'
With this she fell dead at her son's feet; and forthwith he drew the
sword from its jewelled scabbard, and with one swift blow smote off the
old lord's head.
Thus did he avenge the wrongs of his parents, whom he vowed to keep in
his remembrance while life should last."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter V
The white Stone of Happiness.
The fruit trees were a-glow with blossom when we reached Normandy, and
the pink and white Elves who played hide-and-seek in the boughs were as
lovely as Titania. We spent some time at a big farm, where Father had
stayed long ago with Mother, and we drove all over the country in the
farmer's gig.
One day I woke quite early, when the birds had only just commenced to
twitter, and the sky was still rosy with dawn. I threw open my little
casement window as wide as it would go, and the air smelt so sweet, and
it was all so beautiful, that I longed to be out-of-doors. In the quiet
of the early morning the Elves might be abroad, so I slipped on my
things and stole down to the orchard. And there, sure enough, were the
Elfin hosts.
But though I told them who I was, they were too shy to talk, and
scattered the blossom on my upturned face, when I tried to coax them.
A fat brown thrush scolded me for disturbing her babies at their
breakfast, and fluttered round me, beating her wings, until I moved
away, when the Elves seemed to be as pleased as she was, for they
wanted to be left to themselves.
On the opposite side of the orchard was a bank of moss, and I strolled
across and sat down in a little hollow. The moss was soft as velvet, and
through the boughs of a pear tree, laden with bloom, I could see the
gate to the farm-yard. A speckled hen was the only creature in sight,
and it amused me to watch how daintily she pecked this side and that.
All at once there came an excited chorus of "_Cluck-Cluck-Cluck!_" and
it seemed as if every fowl in the place were trying to go through the
gate. They were led by a fine young cock, with beautifully bright green
head feathers. Once he was safely through, he perched himself on an
empty pail, and crowed indignantly.
"_Cock-adoodle-do-oo!_" mocked a voice behind him, and a little boy in
a red cap gave him a box on the ears which sent him flying.
"That bird thinks twice too much of himself," he grinned, as he ran to
me over the grass. "Who am I? Why, _Nain Rouge_ of Normandy, first
cousin to Puck and Robin Goodfellow across the water."
He had twinkling eyes that were never still, and a roguish face. I knew
I was going to like him immensely, so I showed him my new knife and said
he might whittle his stick if he'd promise to give it back to me. _Nain
Rouge_ felt both blades with a small brown finger, and said they were
too blunt for him.
"Blunt?" I cried. "Why, they're as sharp as sharp can be! Just see!" But
when I tried to show him how sharp they were, neither would cut at all.
I was so surprised that I hadn't a word to say, and _Nain Rouge_ doubled
himself in two with laughter.
"Never mind," he gasped, when he could speak, "I'll make them all right
for you." He touched them again, twisting his tongue round the corner of
his mouth, and screwing his eyes up comically.
"Now cut!" he said, and when I found they were as sharp as ever, I shut
up the blades, and put the knife back into my pocket. I was glad I had
left my watch in the house, for _Nain Rouge_ might have tried to play
tricks with that.
"Another name I go by is the 'Lutin,'" he said, throwing himself on the
ground beside me. "When I have nothing better to do, I _lutine_, or
twist, the horses' manes. One summer afternoon two lazy maids fell fast
asleep in the hay loft, when they ought to have been down with the
reapers in the long field. I _lutined_ their hair so nicely for them
that when they woke they could not untwist it, and had to cut it off!
The House Spirits made rather a fuss, for those girls were pets of
theirs, but Abundia, Queen of the Fées and Lutins, said I had done
quite right. We can't bear laziness, you know, for we're always busy
ourselves."
"What do you do besides mischief?" I said slyly, as he smoothed the
feather in his pretty cap. _Nain Rouge_ looked quite offended.
"If the truth were told," he said in a huff, "I should fancy I'm twice
as much use as you are. The farmers couldn't get on without me. I look
after the horses, and help to rub the poor beasts down when they come
home tired at the end of the day; I stir their food so that it agrees
with them, and scare off the grey goblins who might put it into their
heads to work no more at the plough. And I'm as good to the farmers'
wives as an extra maid, even if I do take my pay in a drink of cream. I
dance my shadow on the wall to amuse the children if they are fretful,
and tell them stories when the wind moans down the chimney and would
frighten them if it could. And I pinch their toes when they are naughty,
and hide the playthings they leave about."
He looked so much in earnest while he told me all this, and so very
good, that I was beginning to think he was not half so mischievous as
Puck, when he gave a funny little chuckle, and rubbed his hands.
"Such fun as I have with the fishermen!" he cried. "If they forget to
cross themselves with holy water before they go to sea, I fill their
nets with heavy stones, or entice away the fish. When the fancy takes
me, I change myself into the form of a handsome young man, and if folks
do not then treat me with proper respect, and call me '_Bon Garçon_'
civilly, I pelt them with stones until they run! Their wives and
daughters are always gentle to poor _Nain Rouge_, however; and when I
can, I do them a good turn. Shall I tell you how I consoled the fair
Marguerite when she wept? Then listen well!"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The white Stone of Happiness.
"A favourite haunt of mine," began _Nain Rouge_, "is a little fishing
village, close to Dieppe. The maidens there are more to my mind than
those on any other part of the coast; their skin is like clear pale
amber, warmed into redness where the sun has kissed it, and their
eyes--ah! you should see them! The fairest of all was Marguerite, and
often I sat for hours on her window-sill to watch her at her spinning.
Etienne would come and watch her too, and he thought, foolish lad, that
her angel-face meant an angel temper; but I knew she had a tongue.
And such a tongue! It was like the brook, for it never stopped, and she
said such sharp and bitter things that the love of her friends withered
up as they heard them, just as spring lilies droop before a cruel East
wind. Etienne was a stranger, or he would have known better than to woo
her seriously. Strange to relate, the wayward maid was different from
the day he came. I had never known her so soft and sweet, and the
neighbours said that surely some good fairy had laid her under a spell.
Etienne and she were wed one summer morning, but the little new moon had
not shone in the heavens a second time when there was trouble between
them. Marguerite's tongue was sharper than ever from its long rest, and
Etienne could not believe it belonged to his 'angel' bride. He left the
cottage without a word, and when he came back his mouth was grim, for
his mates had hastened to make things worse by telling him many tales.
A foolish man was Etienne, or he would not have heeded them; but that is
neither here nor there.
From this time on he made as though he were deaf when Marguerite railed
at him, and he took her no more to his breast when he came back from the
sea. And Marguerite grieved, for she loved him well in her woman's way,
and longed for his caresses. The sight of his pale set face, and his
sombre eyes--they were like the eyes of a dog in pain, when the hand he
loves best has struck him--stung her to fresh taunts, and there came a
day when he answered her back in the same way, and all but struck her.
Ah! a woman's tongue can do rare mischief! His mother had never heard an
ugly word from him.
One eve I met Marguerite on the shore. She was sobbing bitterly, for she
had just come out of a cave in the rocks, where dwelt a Witch who
could read the future.
I had taken the form of a slim, dark, serious looking lad, and laying
a gentle hand upon her arm, 'What ails you, Madame Marguerite?' I said.
She glanced at me piteously, as one who seeks a refuge and knows not
where to turn, and wrung her hands.
[Illustration: "What ails you, Madame Marguerite?"]
[Illustration]
'I have lost my Etienne's heart for ever, for ever,' she wailed, 'unless
I can find the White Stone of Happiness, which a mermaid throws from the
depths of the sea once in a thousand years. I may search for months, and
never find it; and Etienne holds aloof from me, and grows further away
each day.'
Now just at her feet lay a small white stone, smooth and round as a
Fairy's plaything. I picked it up and showed it to her.
'It shall be yours,' I told her gravely, 'if you give me your solemn
promise to heed my words.'
'I promise!' she answered fervently, and the wind tossed her unbound
hair until it floated round her shoulders like a Kelpie's mane. A
seventh wave rushed up to her feet, and as she moved nearer the
breakwater, I sang her this little song:
'Fairy stone of fairy spell,
Marguerite, O guard it well!
When thine anger doth arise
Elves would rob thee of thy prize.
Press it 'neath thy tongue so red,
Hold it firm till wrath has sped.
Smile, speak softly, and behold,
Love shall warm thee as of old.'
Then I gave her the stone, and she clasped it against her bosom and sped
to her home.
When Etienne returned he was in a bitter mood. Luck had been against
him; he had caught no fish, and his largest net had been torn on the
rocks. Marguerite set a meal before him, but he pushed it angrily away;
for the broth had burned while she was with the Witch, and tasted
anything but pleasant.
'Such food is not fit for a dog!' he cried. ''Twas an ill day for me
when I came to _Le Pollet_! I had done better to drown myself.'
Marguerite stayed her fierce reply that she might slip the white stone
between her lips; and as she held it beneath her tongue her anger
suddenly melted. She thought now of Etienne's hunger and weariness, and
was sorry that she had nought in the house for him to eat. And as he sat
in moody silence she stole away, and begged some good broth from her
godmother, who had always enough and to spare. This she placed before
him beside the hearth, and smiled, and spoke in a gentle voice that made
him turn to her with a start--it was just as if the Marguerite he loved
had come back to him from the grave. Then he drew her to him, hiding his
face in her dress; and for the first time since many a long day there
was peace between them. Marguerite kept that white stone always, and
when she was tempted to speak in anger it worked like a Fairy spell."
"And wasn't it one?" I asked, as _Nain Rouge_ put on his cap again, and
a delicious smell of fried eggs and bacon came from the farmhouse
kitchen on the breeze.
"Not it," said _Nain Rouge_, laughing heartily, "there were thousands
like it on the beach, but you see it did just as well. For if once a
woman can be induced to hold her tongue when she is angry, there'll be
little trouble 'twixt man and wife. This has been so from all time."
"_Cock-a-doodle doo!_" cried the black cock, strutting grandly in front
of us. _Nain Rouge_ darted after him, and I left them to themselves and
went in to breakfast.
I did not see _Nain Rouge_ again, but I heard a great deal about him
from Madame Daudet, the farmer's wife; she called him "the plague of
her life." She said he hid her spectacles every time that she laid them
down, and that it was quite impossible to make good butter, for he would
play tricks with the cream. I think she was fond of him, all the same,
for when I mentioned his name her jolly old face crinkled up into
smiles, and she looked quite pleased and happy.
One day when Father had gone to the village to see some sick child whom
the peasants believed to have been gazed at with "an evil eye," because
it seemed unable to get well, Madame came to me as I stood prodding
with a stick some fat black pigs who would not stir.
"Since you are so fond of Fairy Folk," she said, "why not go to the
valley, and see if you can meet a Fée? I have never seen one myself,
but my great-great-grandmother came across a bevy of them in a
forest near Bayeux. The loveliest one was their Queen, and my
great-great-grandmother talked of her beauty until her dying day."
"All right," I said. And she gave me some brown bread and a golden
apple, so that I need not come home for tea. Perhaps she wanted to get
me out of the way, for the sick child's aunt was coming to pay her a
visit, and she liked a gossip.
The valley was very still. Even the birds seemed to have gone to sleep,
and the stream that trickled down from the hill tinkled very softly, as
if it had to be careful not to wake the ferns that fringed its banks.
As I looked up the glade I saw a lovely little lady coming slowly
towards me, and my heart began to thump in the queerest way. She wore a
trailing silvery gown, with a deep band of blue at its border. Her shoes
were set with tiny diamonds, and her dainty feet moved through the grass
as prettily and as softly as the wind does through the corn. She did not
see me until she had come quite close, for I stood in the shade of a
blossoming bush. As I took off my cap, her fair face flushed deeply, and
for a moment I feared she would run away. So I hastened to tell her that
I was a Christmas Child, and why I had come to the valley. At this she
smiled, and I saw that her eyes were as blue as the depths of the sea.
"You are welcome," she said, "though at first I feared you. Such sorrow
has come to Fées through mortals that we are wont to fly at man's
approach. But a Christmas Child is almost a Fée himself, and I may talk
to you. My name is Méllisande."
Then she asked me to walk with her through the wood, and I felt quite
proud when she took my hand. A cheeky little Elf, who overheard me say
that I would go with her anywhere, turned a somersault in the air and
burst out laughing, but I pretended not to hear. It wasn't his business,
anyhow, and I wished that that walk through the valley had been twice as
long.
At the further end, quite hidden among the larches, was a natural grotto
of moss-grown stones, and just inside it a heap of ferns, piled up to
make a throne that was fit for a queen. Méllisande seated herself on
this, and I sat down at her feet.
We did not talk for a long while, for she seemed to be thinking as
she stroked my hair, and I only wanted to look at her. After awhile
I asked her if she had been one of the Fées that Madame Daudet's
great-great-grandmother had met in a forest near Bayeux. She smiled
and sighed as she told me "Yes," and a wood dove flew out of the trees
and perched on her shoulder.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter VI
The Seven Fair Queens of Pirou.
"Once upon a time," said Méllisande, "there dwelt at the Castle of
Argouges a noble lord who was famous not only for his bravery, but for
the extreme beauty of his dark features and slender form. All women
loved him, but though he served them with chivalry, as became a knight,
he sought his pleasure in the woods and fields rather than in their
company. He knew what the brook was humming as it gurgled over the
stones, and the wind told him all its secrets as it rustled among the
pines. Sometimes he wrote these things on a sheet of paper and read them
to himself aloud as he lay on the green sward. The Fées in the forest
drew near to listen, for the voice of this lord of Argouges was sweet as
the lute of Orpheus, and their lovely Queen lost her heart to him. Day
after day she hovered by his side, sighing when he was sad, and
rejoicing when the words he sought came quickly to his pen.
Once when he looked up suddenly he saw her as in a vision. A silvery
veil of misty gauze half hid her exquisite form; and out of this her
face looked down upon him, pure as an angel's, but with the love of a
woman in her lustrous eyes. As he sprang to his feet, she melted away in
a white cloud, and close to his ear he heard a mournful sigh, as if her
spirit grieved to part from his. And he wrote no longer of flowing water
or whispering wind, but of the Lady of the Woods.
For many a day he saw her no more, for Henry I of England coveted
Normandy, the ancient patrimony of his house, and sent his armies to
take possession of it. When the city of Bayeux was besieged, the Lord of
Argouges was amongst its most gallant defenders, and his resource and
daring were the talk of all. None who crossed swords with him lived to
tell the tale, for his courage was equalled by his skill.
One morn a giant sprang from the enemy's ranks--a lusty German, well
over seven feet, with the limbs of a prize-fed ox.
'I dare you to fight me singly, Lord of Argouges!' he cried, for he
knew with whom he had to deal. The soldiers near stayed their hands to
watch; the hearts of the Normans almost stood still, but the English
exulted, for surely now would the Lord of Argouges bite the dust, and
his fiery sword no more work havoc in their ranks! Their dismay was
great when he proved himself victor, though they would not have
wondered had they had vision to see how ever beside him moved the
shadowy form of his Lady of the Woods, directing his arm that his aim
might be swift and sure, and oft-times interposing her tender body
between him and the German's thrusts. Later on, when the gallant
knight fainted from his wounds and was left for dead, she tended him
pitifully as he lay on the blood-stained earth, moistening his lips
with the dew of heaven, and whispering such sweet thoughts to him that
the weary hours were eased by blissful dreams. He was still alive when
morning dawned, and was found by his friends and carried into camp.
Though visible to him alone, the Lady of the Woods was there beside
his couch, and the terrible sights and sounds that accompanied the
merciful efforts of those who tended the wounded could not scare her
away from him. When his suffering was over, and he could raise himself
to eat and drink, she came to him no more, and as his strength slowly
returned he was consumed with a passionate desire to find her.
At length he was able to go home to his castle, and once more he roamed
the forest. The songs of the birds were hushed by now, and the trees
under which he used to rest were almost bare. It was autumn, for he had
been long absent, and even yet his step was slow and his proud head bent
with weakness. He was sick with longing for his gentle lady; 'If I do
not find her, I shall die!' he cried.
Presently he came to a glade where the naked boughs formed a splendid
arch above his head, and he saw a troop of horsewomen riding toward him
on snow-white steeds. In their midst was his Lady of the Woods, a bridal
veil on her star-crowned hair, and myrtle at her breast. He awaited her
approach in a trance of delight; nearer and nearer came the prancing
horses, their skins of satin glinting in the sun. The cavalcade reached
his side; the Queen of the Fées dismounted and stood beside him, while
the ground at her feet became a bed of lilies. The Lord of Argouges
threw himself on his knees amidst their fragrance, gazing up at her with
enraptured eyes, as softly and shyly she bent toward him.
'Once more I greet you, dear lord!' she said, and as she touched his
forehead with her lips, the birds still lingering in the forest burst
into joyful song. When the knight found words to tell her of his great
love, she plighted her troth to him, but only he heard her whispered
promise that she would be his wife.
Once more she mounted her snow-white steed; he seated himself behind
her, and thus they rode to the castle gates, accompanied by her maidens.
Here the Lord of Argouges sprang to the ground; light as a wisp of
thistledown, she floated into his arms, and to the amaze of the
household, who had watched the approach of the procession from the
castle windows, her horse, thrice neighing, changed into a bird, and
fluttered sorrowfully away.
[Illustration: "The Lord of Argouges threw himself on his knees"]
'Farewell, sweet Queen!' her maidens cried, and kissing their hands to
her, rode swiftly back to the depths of the forest.
Then the Lord of the Argouges drew the Lady of the Woods across the
threshold of the castle, and so queenly was her beauty and so gracious
her demeanour, that even his aged mother, jealous of the son for whom
she would have shed her life-blood, found no word to say against his
choice.
'My love for him is nought beside thine,' the Fée Queen pleaded very
sweetly, 'for thou didst bring him into the world, and hast anguished
for him as none else can. But I too have suffered on his behalf; I pray
thee, let me love him too!'
Then his mother looked long and deeply into the eyes of the woman who
had dethroned her from her dear son's heart, and what she saw there
filled her with peace. 'Be it as thou wilt,' she said, and that
self-same night the Lord of Argouges wedded his Lady of the Woods in
the castle chapel, which was decked with the fragrant lilies that sprang
wherever her feet had trod. The rejoicings lasted for seven days, and
the Lord of Argouges looked as one to whom the gates of Paradise had
opened.
The Queen of the Fées was now to all seeming a mortal woman, and so far
from regretting that she had laid aside her rank, each day found her
more content in her husband's love, and by every womanly art she knew
she sought to please him. One favour only she asked of him--that never
in her hearing would he mention the word 'Death.'
'If you do, you will lose me for ever,' she told him fearfully, and he
vowed by all that he held most sacred that this dread word should not
cross his lips.
The years went on. The lovely Lady of the Woods bore him fair daughters
and gallant sons, and all was well with the Lord of Argouges. But one
thing grieved him; since the Fées' sweet Queen had linked her lot with
his, she too was subject to the laws of Time, and her beauty waned with
increasing age. The gold of her hair was streaked with silver, and her
face lost some of its soft pink bloom. Her lord spake no word of what
was in his mind as he looked at her earnestly one bright spring morn,
but she divined his regretful thoughts, and full sorrowful were her own.
The Fées could not help her, since she had left her fairy kindred
to throw in her lot with mortal man, and so, with woman's wit, she
determined that at the forthcoming festival at the Court the splendour
of her attire should make her lord forget Time's changes. She therefore
summoned to the castle the most skilful workers in silks and broideries,
who toiled in her service day and night, that she might be richly
adorned at the Royal Tournament.
Her gown was of azure satin, encrusted with many gems, and her long
court train glittered and shone with gold and silver. Diamonds blazed at
her breast and neck, while a circlet of rubies glowed in her hair. But
their rich red lustre made her pale sweet face look paler than ever,
and she still gazed wistfully at her glass though the Lord of Argouges
waited below, wondering what delayed her. At length he sought her
himself, and in spite of his impatience, he could but admire her
resplendent attire.
'You have robbed the sky of his morning glories!' he told her gallantly.
Then, as she lingered still, his impatience returned: 'Fair spouse,' he
said, 'it were well if Death should send you as his messenger, for you
tarry long when you are bidden to haste!--Forgive me, Sweet! I should
not have said that word!'
His remorse came too late, for the ominous sound had scarcely crossed
his lips when with a cry of bitter anguish, his lady became once more a
Fée, and vanished from his sight. Long and vainly did he seek her, for
though her footmarks are still to be seen on the battlements of the
Castle, and night after night she wandered round it clad in a misty robe
of white, they two met on earth no more. She is pictured still in the
crest of the house of Argouges, over its motto, 'A la Fe!'"
I liked this story, but I wished that it had not ended quite so sadly.
When I said so to Méllisande she turned her face away from me, and I
think it was a tear drop that glittered on her hand.
"Then I will tell you neither of Pressina nor Melusina," she said, "for
both these Fées lived to rue the day when they put faith in the word of
man. It was different with the fair Norina. She demanded no pledge, for
doubt and distrust came not nigh her path, and her love brought her only
gladness."
The shadows lengthened; the wood dove flew off to rejoin her mate; and
Méllisande's lips began to smile as she thought of another story.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Seven Fair Queens of Pirou.
"Long, long ago," she went on presently, "when our beautiful Normandy
was known by another name, and formed part of the kingdom of Neustria,
which was given to the Duke of Paris by Charles the Bald, there lived a
wise and noble lord who was said to have magic powers. So gentle was he
that the very birds would perch on his shoulder and twitter their joys
to him, yet so brave and strong that the proudest knight cared not to
provoke his wrath. He was skilled in the lore of plants and herbs, and
by means of a slender hazel from the woods could tell where crystal
waters flowed deep in the bowels of the earth. Full many a maid would
have flown to him had he lifted his little finger, but though he was
often lonely as he wandered beneath the stars, his heart went out to
none, whether of high or low degree, and he preferred his own company to
that of a mate whom he could not love.
One Mayday he was up at dawn, searching the fields for a tiny plant
which had some special gift of healing. The grass was spangled with
myriad flowers, but he passed them all till he came to the one he
sought--a small pale blossom of faintest lilac, with perfume as sweet as
a rose's. While yet he held it in his hand he heard a cry; it was that
of some creature in pain, and forcing his way through a prickly hedge,
he found a pure white dove with a broken wing lying under a thornbush.
'Poor bird!' he exclaimed compassionately. 'Who has dared to injure so
fair a thing?' With tender hands he set the broken wing, binding it to
her side with three green leaves and some long-stemmed grass, and fed
her with juice from the lilac flower as he soothed her with gentle
words. When he had stilled her flutterings, he laid her on his breast,
that he might bear her home and tend her until she could fly once more
under the vault of heaven.
On he strode through the meadow, and high in the sky the larks trilled
their pæans of joy. Never to him had seemed the earth so fair, and the
morning sun tinged his cheek with gladness. Suddenly he felt the burden
on his breast grow heavy, and stayed his footsteps in surprise. No
longer did he hold a wounded dove against his bosom, but a beauteous
maiden in pure white garb, with three green leaves bound about her arm
with stems of grass.
He set her on her feet and stared at her in amaze; she met his
enraptured gaze with eyes that shone like twin blue stars. Then her
eyelids fell; she drooped beneath his glance as a fragile flower beneath
the sun's fierce wooing.
And as the wind sweeps over a field of corn when it is ripe for reaping,
love took possession of him. Fée or woman, he swore, this beauteous maid
should be his wife if she were willing, and he would guard her through
good and ill while life should last.
'Art thou mine?' he asked her presently, hoarse for very joy.
'I am thine!' she said, for she had loved him long, and had but taken
the form of a dove to try him. And taking her home to his castle, they
were wedded by the holy priest.
No longer now was he lonely, no longer did he wander solitary beneath
the stars, for the lovely Fée was as true and tender as mortal woman,
and made him a faithful wife. Sons were denied them, but seven fair
daughters came, and he called them after the seven gems that graced
their mother's diadem.
The maidens were of such supreme loveliness that as they grew up to
womanhood they were known as the Seven Fair Queens; each was without
rival in her own style of beauty. Pearl was fair as day, with a skin
like milk; Ruby's dark splendour was a gift from the Queen of Night,
and her red, red mouth the bud of a perfect flower. The glorious hair
of Amber fell round her shoulders in shimmering waves of light, and
sunbeams lost themselves in her lashes. Sweet Turquoise had her mother's
eyes of blue forget-me-not, while Sapphire's were of deeper hue, and
Amethyst's that of the violet. Chrysolite's were a misty green, like the
sky in the early morning, and no mermaid sang sweeter songs than she as
she sat on the rocks at low tide.
There came a time when the father of the Seven Fair Queens fell very
sick, and not all his potions could prolong his days. His call had come,
and so closely were he and Norina united, that one eve at sunset her
life went out with his. For awhile their orphaned daughters wept with
grief as they paced the gardens, or sat by the crackling fire in the
great hall. But youth cannot mourn for ever, and with a second spring,
glad hopes came back to them, and once more they rode in the chase.
Since they were rich as well as beautiful you may be sure they had many
wooers, but all preferred to reign alone.
'When we wed, it will be with Fées!' they said disdainfully. This
angered their lovers, and presently they were left in peace.
Full wisely did they use their parents' wealth, improving the land and
making sure provision for all dependant on their bounty. On the coast
of the Cotentin they built the Castle of Pirou, which gave work to the
poor for several succeeding years, and when it was finished they filled
it with gorgeous tapestries and all the treasures of art they could
collect. Here they lived in splendour, keeping open house; no passing
wayfarer, however humble, need miss a welcome if he cared to claim it.
They were still in the first full bloom of their beauty when their fame
reached the ears of one of the great sea pirates, the dreaded Vikings
who rode the waves like giant birds of prey. North, South, East and
West, from Norway and Sweden, and little Denmark, they sailed in search
of plunder, and such was their love of fighting that they would, if
need be, challenge each other rather than allow their swords to rust
with disuse. Although they robbed, they were brave men, and believed
themselves entitled to all they took. Their vessels were small, and
light of draught, so they could penetrate many rivers, but the great
chiefs chose the sea for their battle ground, and ravaged many a town
and village on the coast of France.
When the mighty Siegmund heard of the Seven Fair Queens of Pirou, he
resolved to storm their castle and take the loveliest for his bride.
With this intent he set sail for the coast of Cotentin with a gallant
fleet. The wind and the tide were with him; he reached it one soft
spring morning when the sea was a sheet of blue.
As the vessel which bore him neared the shore, the Viking espied a bevy
of maidens in a sheltered cove, where the sand lay in golden ripples.
Ruby and Pearl, and the gentle Turquoise sported in a sun-kissed pool;
while Sapphire and Amethyst wove wreaths of seaweed, and Amber was
smoothing her shining hair with a slender shell of mother-of-pearl
that the waves had thrown at her feet. Chrysolite sat on a dark rock,
singing, and her soft clear notes rang over the waters, enchanting
Siegmund with their music.
'By Thor and Odin,' he thundered, 'our journey was well planned. Haste
thee, my men, and get me to that rock! That maiden shall be my bride.'
The boat sped swiftly, with Siegmund sitting in the stern. His yellow
locks streamed over his stalwart shoulders, and his face was like that
of some eager god as he noted Chrysolite's beauty. The maiden saw his
approach; and now the glad notes of her exquisite song changed to a
mournful rhythm. She was chanting the words that her mother had
breathed to her seven daughters as she lay a'dying:
'Women ye, my daughters fair
(Cloudless spreads the sky);
But when menace fills the air,
Fées, as once was I.
Slender arm shall change that day
Into snow-white plume;
Winged as birds, haste swift away
From thy threatening doom!'
As the last words left her sorrowful lips, Chrysolite's sisters gathered
round her; the boat's keel grated on the sand, and Siegmund sprang
eagerly forward. At the same moment the Seven Fair Queens of Pirou
raised their arms, and instantly these changed, before his eyes, to
fluttering wings. High in the air mounted the maidens, and to the
bewildered gaze of Siegmund they were nought but a line of snow-white
birds flying westward in single file high up in the sky.
[Illustration: "They instantly changed into snow-white birds."]
[Illustration]
When Siegmund had somewhat recovered from his amazement, he and his
followers sacked the castle, and pillaged the surrounding country;
it did them but little good, for a storm blew up as they sailed back
northward, and the ships that carried the stolen treasure were wrecked
on the rocks. As for the Seven Fair Queens, they mated with Fées, and
were glad as the morning. Every year as spring comes round, they return
to Pirou with their numerous descendants, in the form of a flock of wild
geese, and take possession of the nests which they have hollowed out in
the crumbling walls. They also appear when a child is born to the house
of Pirou; if it be a daughter, and Fate has destined her for a nun,
one sits apart in a corner of the courtyard, and sighs as if in sore
distress. If a son is born, the male birds display their plumage, and
show by their mien that they rejoice."
* * * * *
Méllisande rose from her throne of ferns, "It will be twilight soon,"
she said, "and we must go. See! the mists are already rising in the
valley, and the night-birds awake and call. Farewell, dear Christmas
Child, farewell!"
And, stooping down, she kissed my forehead.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter VII
In the Dwarf's Palace.
Now I knew that Germany was the very country for Dwarfs and Fairies,
and when I heard that this was where we were going next I determined to
be on the look out. I did not see them, though, for a long time after we
arrived, for I was so tremendously interested in everything else. Even
in the big cities where Father spent hours and hours in the hospitals,
watching the wonderful things that the German doctors did, most of the
children looked plump and rosy, and I didn't see any so thin and pale
as those we had left at home. One of the Herr Professors, with whom we
stayed, said that this was because the State made so kind a Grandmother,
but when I asked him what he meant, he only laughed.
I liked this professor best of all--he had such a nice way of talking,
and he loved Fairies as much as I do. He said "_Ach! So!_" when I told
him I was a Christmas Child, and smiled all over his kind old face. Then
he put his hand on my shoulder, and told me that I must remember to do
my part to make my birthday the gladdest day in the year for everyone
around me.
"It is different in your country," he went on, "but here, in the
Fatherland, there is scarcely a cottage home which has not its Christmas
tree, even if this is only a branch of fir stuck in a broken pot, and
hung with oranges and golden balls. No child is so poor but has his
Christmas presents of cakes and toys, for if his mother cannot provide
them, she tells his teacher in good time, and the teacher sees that he
is not forgotten."
I thought this was a ripping plan, for it is horrid when Santa Claus
forgets you, and your stockings hang all limp and flat, like mine did
last year. And I made up my mind, then and there, that next Christmas
there should be a tree for all the littlest and grubbiest children in my
old home.
While Father was at the hospitals with the Herr Professor, I stayed with
Rudolf and Gretchen, two of his grandchildren--fat little things with
big blue eyes, who stared at me as if I had seven heads when I told them
about the Korrigans. Gretchen believed in Fairies of all kinds, but
Rudolf only in Dwarfs and Giants. He even said that Santa Claus was
just his own father dressed up, and declared he had seen his old brown
pipe peeping out of Santa Claus' pocket the last time he paid them a
visit. Gretchen said that if so, Santa Claus had taken away the old
brown pipe to bring a lovely new one in its place, and Rudolf told her
girls knew too much. They were both angry by this time, and their faces
looked very red. So I thought we had better talk about Dwarfs and
Giants.
"Grandfather says there are no Giants now," Rudolph said seriously, "but
there are plenty of Dwarfs in the hill which looks down on the forest. I
saw one there myself last summer; he ran away and wouldn't speak to me,
as if he were afraid."
Without saying anything to Rudolf, who might have wanted to come too, I
started for the hill directly after dinner, while he and Gretchen were
arguing again over the pipe and Santa Claus. The Professor's house was
just at the end of the town, so I didn't have far to go; but the hill
took much longer to climb than I thought it would, and I was quite out
of breath when I reached the top and sat down on a flat white stone. As
I looked about me, I swung my foot, and it tapped against a biggish rock
that was just in front. The third time that I did this, a little brown
man hopped briskly out of a crevice and stood before me. He wore a
bright red coat trimmed with green buttons, and carried in his hand a
close-fitting cap of grey.
[Illustration: Fat little things, with big blue eyes.]
"Gently, gently, good child!" he cried. "One knock is enough, if we want
to hear it, for our ears are as keen as we could wish. Why did you call
me, and what would you have?"
"I would hear of you, and of your kinsmen, Master Dwarf!" I said. "I am
a Christmas Child, and the Fairies are all my friends."
At this he bowed, and said he was glad to meet me, nodding his head with
a sort of grunt as I told him where I had met Titania.
"If it be your pleasure," he said, looking round to see that no one was
near but me, "I will take you within the hill, and introduce you to my
wife. The ground whereon you stand is hollow, as you will soon perceive,
and we are less than a stone's throw from my palace."
I told him that nothing would please me more than to pay him a visit,
and muttering a word in some strange language, he rapped his knuckles on
a cleft in the rock. It widened sufficiently to let us both through, and
closed again with a thud.
The winding passage in which I found myself was lit by a soft red glow,
coming from hundreds of rubies set deep in the walls, which seemed to
be of oxidised silver. After several twists and turns, it ended in a
wide hall, where I could just stand upright under the jewelled dome! As
soon as my eyes grew accustomed to the blaze of light which came from
the diamond stars set round it, I saw a sweet little creature in a frock
of pale purple silk, cut short in the sleeves to show her pretty white
arms, on which she wore many bracelets.
"My wife!" said the Dwarf proudly, and he explained to her who I was and
what I wanted, and a great deal more about me that I was astonished he
should know. My surprise amused him a good deal, and as his wife led the
way to her boudoir he chuckled merrily.
"There are Kobolds, or House-Spirits in most old houses," he remarked,
"and it is more than two hundred years since the first stone was laid of
the Herr Professor's. I knew this noon that you were coming, and the
Kobold spoke well of you, and said that you were not above taking advice
from others wiser than yourself. Now, sir! What do you think of this?"
And he opened a door with a great flourish, holding it back for me to
enter.
"It's grand!" I said, for so it was. The silver floor was inlaid with
a gold scroll; the walls, of tinted mother-o'-pearl, were adorned with
wreaths of forget-me-nots, each tiny turquoise flower having an amber
centre. The furniture was of filigree silver, so fragile to look at
that I was afraid to touch it, much less to sit down on one of the tiny
chairs, even if I could have fitted myself in. The Dwarf invited me to
be seated, and his small wife gave me a roguish smile as she brought a
velvet cushion from an inner room, and placed this on the ground. I
found afterwards that it was the Dwarfs own bed, and that his pillow was
made of spun spider silk, filled with scented roseleaves and wild thyme.
[Illustration: The Dwarf invited me to be seated.]
[Illustration]
"When you are rested and refreshed," said the Dwarf kindly, as his
little spouse offered me a sip of nectar from a crystal goblet, "I will
show you my palace. There is not much to see, for we are humble folk,
and this hill comparatively a small one. The estates of some of our
nobles extend for miles, and that of our Emperor runs through a range
of mountains. In times gone by we welcomed mortals as our guests, for
we were anxious to be their friends. But they grudged us even a handful
of peas in return, and met our advances with jeers. Now we keep to our
hills as far as possible, and when we desire to walk abroad, we are
careful to wear our mist caps, which render us quite invisible."
He sighed so deeply that the dainty lace cap poised on his wee wife's
hair was almost blown away, and then, straightening his bent shoulders,
he took me to see his Banquet Hall. The curtains were all of filigree
silver, fine as lace, and on the walls of the kitchen, where silent
little men in big white aprons kneaded cakes on crystal slabs, shone
ruby and sapphire butterflies.
But this was nothing to what I saw in the long low vault where the Dwarf
kept his treasures. At one end was a shimmering heap of pearls, some
larger than pigeons' eggs; at another, a conical mound of diamonds,
which threw out marvellous lights as the Dwarf stirred them gently with
one small hand.
"We know the properties of each stone," he said; "how some give
strength, and some wisdom and power to rule, while others still stir
up strife and envy, and make men merciless as beasts of prey. That
ruby you see has an evil history; a woman gave her soul for it, and
thousands were slain in her cause."
I picked up the beautiful, glowing gem, and fancied I saw the face of an
evil demon grinning at me from its depths. Dropping it quickly, I looked
instead at a pile of rings at the other side of the vault. One in
particular drew my attention; it was of beaten gold, with a curious
stone set deep in its centre. As I held it aloof and stared at it, I
caught a glimpse of a waving meadow, with a tiny path leading past a
brook.
"That is the ring which the Queen of Lombardy gave to her son, Otnit,"
said the Dwarf. "Come with me to the Court of Rest, and you shall hear
the story."
This was the loveliest place which I had yet seen in the palace. A
circle of orange trees in full bloom enclosed a space round a rippling
fountain, where from the gleaming beak of an opal bird a stream of water
splashed into an emerald basin. The invisible wind that stirred the
petals of the orange blossom brought with it the swish of the sea, and
somewhere, far off, a nightingale was singing.
The Dwarf seated himself on one of the velvet cushions strewn on the
ground, and motioning me to take another, began his tale.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Dwarf Elberich and the Emperor.
"Otnit, Emperor of Lombardy, was one of the greatest kings that ever
lived. By force of wisdom more than by might, he subdued the surrounding
nations, and his people looked up to him as to a god. When the time came
for him to wed, no maid in his wide dominions pleased his fancy, for
the wife he pictured in his dreams was sweet and simple, though of royal
birth, and quite unspoiled by praise and flattery. He told his ministers
this, and they shrugged their shoulders.
'His Majesty desires the impossible!' they whispered amongst themselves,
and so it seemed until the Emperor's Uncle Elias, the wild-bearded King
of the Russians, told him of a highborn maid who was as good as she was
beautiful, and had never yet been wooed by man.
'She shines o'er other women as bright roses do!' he cried, and Otnit
vowed to win her.
On the eve of his departure for Syria, where she dwelt with her father
the Soldan, Otnit's mother gave him the ring you held, bidding him take
his horse and ride toward Rome while gazing at the gem in the ring, that
what he saw there might direct his path. The Emperor smiled, but wishing
to humour her, did as she requested, and rode through the silver
starlight thinking of his fair maid. At early dawn, when the welkin rang
with the song of birds, he saw mirrored in the ring a narrow pathway
trodden in the green grass. Making his way by this fragrant road, he
reached a linden tree by a lake. Here he stayed his courser, and sprang
to the ground, peering beneath its boughs.
'Never yet from tree came so sweet-breathing a wind,' he laughed; for
lo! an infant lay on the grass, his fair white frock fringed with many
gems. Otnit found it all he could do to lift him, in spite of his
strength, but placing the little creature on the saddle, declared his
intention of taking him to the palace, and putting him in his mother's
care.
But this did not please Dwarf Elberich, who for his own purpose had
taken the form of an innocent babe. He offered Otnit such splendid
ransom of sword and shield to set him free, that the Emperor laid him
down again, and even allowed him to hold the magic ring, by the wearing
of which it had been possible for him to see what is usually hidden from
mortal sight.
Now it was Elberich's turn, and being once more invisible, he teased
the Emperor to his heart's content, dwelling on the anger of the
Queen-Mother should she find that her gift was lost. Not until the
Emperor was out of patience, and on the point of riding away did
Elberich restore the ring to him.
'And now, O Otnit,' he said, 'since I see you love well your mother,
whom I loved long ere you saw the light, I will help you to gain your
bride.'
And Otnit was glad, for he knew that the word of a Dwarf is ever as good
as his bond.
In the spring of the year, 'when all the birds were singing,' the
Emperor called his friends together and bade them embark their troops
with his in the ships at anchor in the harbour. The waters of the bay
gleamed as a field of gold as the stately vessels glided over them, and
for long the carols of the birds on shore went with them on the breeze.
Otnit's hopes were high as he paced the deck, though he grieved that the
Dwarf had not come to join him.
At length the fleet reached the Eastern coast of the Mediterranean,
and there King Otnit beheld a haven full of ships, far more in number
than his own. 'I would that Elberich were here, for he is skilled in
warfare,' he murmured uneasily, for his men looked askance at the fleet
before them. The words had barely left his lips when the sound of a
laugh came from aloft, and straightway the Dwarf displayed himself. He
had been in hiding amongst the rigging, and was now at hand to use his
Fairy powers in Otnit's service.
Elberich's gift of a small round stone, which he bade him thrust into
his cheek, conferred upon Otnit the gift of language, and enabled him
to impersonate a rich merchant with so much success that his ship was
allowed to drop anchor in the harbour. When dusk had fallen, and all
was quiet, the Emperor disembarked, encamping with his troops among the
rock-hewn burial places of the ancient Phoenicians, which abounded on
that coast. Here he abode for three whole days, while Elberich sought
the King of Syria, demanding his daughter's hand in marriage for his
royal master. It was refused point blank, and, more than this, the
Soldan ordered his unwelcome visitor to be put to death. But the
flashing blades of the guards cut the empty air, and Elberich jeered at
them finely.
[Illustration: Elberich had jeered him finely.]
[Illustration]
'Your daughter shall go to my lord of her own free will,' he cried to
the Soldan, 'and only so shall your skull be saved!' He then returned to
the Emperor, who bade his troops attack the city of Sidon.
A desperate battle with the heathen followed; for awhile the enemy's
numbers triumphed, but not for long. The Emperor's charge swept all
before him, and the Soldan's soldiers fell like corn before the scythe.
Then the Dwarf led the army to the Syrian capital; and red as had been
the field of Sidon, it was as nothing to that of Muntabur, where men's
blood flowed as a crimson river.
While yet the battle was at its height, Elberich made his way, unseen,
to an inner chamber of the Royal Palace, and though he had come to
rate the Princess for her father's obstinacy, words forsook him in her
presence. So fair a maid he had never seen; her mouth 'flamed like the
rose,' her flowing hair was the colour of rich red gold, and her lovely
eyes had the radiance of the moon. Elberich drew her to the window, and
by the aid of his power over space, showed her King Otnit in the thick
of the fight. The sun fell full on his upturned face, as, seated on his
white charger, he rallied his men for the final onslaught; he looked as
brave a knight as the Princess had ever seen, and she lowered her glance
as Elberich told her how she could save her father.
'Death alone can wean King Otnit's desire to wed you,' he said. 'His
love for you passes the love of man, and is withal as tender as that of
a woman for her child.'
Much more Elberich spake to her to the same purpose, and at close of day
she allowed him to lead her where he would. Together they passed through
a secret passage beneath the Palace, and so through the royal gardens,
to a path which wound down to the field of battle.
Fighting had ceased for awhile, for the heathen had been sore smitten;
and since his men had neither eaten nor slept for many long hours,
the Emperor must needs let them rest until dawn. Full of impatience at
the delay which kept him from storming the walls that held the lady of
his love, he paced his tent, and turned to find her standing before him.
Her mouth flamed red as the reddest rose; her eyes had the lustre of the
harvest moon, and her red-gold hair framed a snowy brow that was white
as the breast of a swan. Bending his knee, he touched with his lips the
hem of her gown, and when the Princess gave him her exquisite hand, he
could scarce breathe for rapture.
[Illustration: "'She is yours, O Otnit!' cried the Dwarf"]
'She is yours, O Otnit!' cried the Dwarf; and the Emperor lifted her on
to his charger, speaking to her with such tender and kindly words that
her fears were stilled. With Elberich perched on the horse's mane,
they straightway rode to the coast, where the sails of the Emperor's
vessel swelled roundly in the wind. On the summer seas of the blue
Mediterranean, they two were wed; and never had mortal man a sweeter
wife, or maid a more gallant husband."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter VIII
The Silver Horn.
When the Dwarf had come to the end of his story, he very politely bade
me goodbye, and bowed me out of his Castle. A week or two later we went
to Saltzburg, and there I had a real adventure.
The Professor with whom we were staying hadn't a single grandchild, and
as all his books were old and dusty, to say nothing of being written in
German, I should have found it rather dull if he had not lent me his
nephew's pony. I had learnt to ride as a little chap, when we lived in
the country. It was lovely there, but no one was ever ill, and Father
had so few patients that we could not stay.
The pony's name was Heinrich. He knew his way everywhere, the Professor
said, so Father didn't mind my riding him alone, and I had a ripping
time.
One day we went to the Wunderberg, a big hill on a wide bleak moor,
which was supposed to be quite hollow, and the favourite haunt of Wild
Women.
The ground was extremely bumpy, and several times I was almost thrown
out of the saddle. At last I got off, for I thought I would rather
walk.
It was a splendid morning, and I was glad that I wasn't the Professor's
nephew, away at school, as I lay on my back and looked up at the sky.
A small black beetle crawled over my hand, but I was so comfortable that
I scarcely stirred. It crossed my cuff and climbed a blade of grass; and
as I watched it a shadow fell between me and the sunlight.
A slender woman in a white gown was standing close to me. Her face was
thin, and very wistful, and over her shoulders, down to her very feet,
fell a mantle of glistening yellow hair.
"Are you hungry, child?" she asked gently, holding out to me a slice of
fine white bread.
"Not yet," I answered, for we had had _Sauerkraut_ for breakfast, and I
felt that I should not want anything more to eat for a long time. She
looked disappointed, and sighed as she threw the bread away. A bird
flew down and pecked it, but after a taste or two he left it where it
was.
"Then surely you are thirsty, and will drink from my horn?" she pleaded,
showing me a silver vessel with curious scrolls and writings traced in
gold, which had been hidden by her beautiful hair. I took a sip from its
bevelled edge, and had scarcely swallowed the first drop when I felt
myself sinking through the hill, the Wild Woman still beside me.
"At last! At last!" she cried, clapping her shadowy hands as we stood in
a wide hall lit with amber light. "O sisters, rejoice with me! I have
found a child, and his eyes, his eyes are crystal clear."
She bent over me as she spoke, half smothering me with her silken
tresses, and I was so afraid that those sisters of hers would hug me
too, that I scrambled away and I took to my heels and _ran_.
But you couldn't get far in that place. It was a miniature town, with
silver streets and golden houses, and gorgeous palaces in between.
Every turn I took led to a wide square filled with rose trees, where
fountains of gold and silver water bubbled and sparkled in the
mysterious pale green light. A flock of brilliant humming birds whirred
their wings in my face so that I could not see where I was going, and
the Wild Women formed a circle round me and began to sing:
"Only once did mortal child,
By our silver horn beguiled,
Find a way to leave us;
Though they call us strange and wild,
Thou shalt find us soft and mild.
Stay, and do not grieve us."
Their voices were very sweet, but when they had sung that verse twice
over, I did not want to hear it again.
"I don't mind staying with you for an hour or two," I said, as they
stopped singing, "but I shouldn't care to live here. I am a Christmas
Child, and there are other Fairy Folk I want to see."
Then they looked at each other, and drew away.
"Since he is a Christmas Child," said one, "we cannot keep him. You
should have known better, Sister Snow-blossom, than to bring him here!"
"How could I tell," wailed Snow-blossom. "He seemed like any other boy,
and would just have fitted the green silk suit that I wove so long ago."
"Alas, alas!" the others sighed. "The longer he stays, the more it will
wring our hearts to part with him. Take him back to the hill at once,
dear Snow-blossom, and bid him hasten home."
But I didn't want to go just yet, for now that they did not wish to hug
me, I thought they were rather nice. Their faces were like pure marble,
so still and pale, and their light green eyes were very gentle. So I
asked if Snow-blossom might not show me round, as the Professors did
Father when he came to a strange town. Her sisters still urged her to
send me away at once, before she had time to grow fond of me, but she
would not listen.
"What do you want with a mortal child?" I said, when I had been all over
the empty golden houses, and had seen the tiny cathedral, the model of
the one at Saltzburg, set with pearls and rubies, and many other
precious stones of which I did not know the name.
"Because we are lonely," she answered; "so lonely, child. Our only
friends are the little people who guard our treasures in the centre of
the earth, and we would fain have mortals to bear us company. Once, long
ago, a goodly youth of noble birth was almost tempted to sip from our
silver horn, and had he done so his home would have known him no more.
Sweet Stella, the fairest Wild Woman who drew breath between the last
faint pulse of the night time and the glowing dawn of day, waylaid him
on the brow of the hill when he was heated in the chase, but although he
craved the cooling draught she offered him, he would not drink from her
hand; her exceeding beauty excited his suspicions, and he guessed that
she was no mortal maid.
'Let me see what your wine is like before I taste it!' he said warily,
taking the silver horn from her hands. He had no sooner grasped it,
than he sprang to his horse and rode away. For many years the horn was
kept amongst the treasures of the House of Oldenburg, to which he
belonged, but at last, after many generations, it came back to us. No
one but you and the little Karl has drunk from it since then."
We were under the rose trees in the great square, and I had found a seat
in a ruby and pearl pavillion, with queer golden faces staring down on
me from each corner. Snow-blossom hid her face in her hands when I asked
her who was Karl, and rocked herself to and fro; then she lifted her
head and looked at me, and I saw that she was crying.
"I will tell you," she said, "but first come close. For words have wings
in the Wunderberg, and I would not have my sisters know I am grieving
still."
I sat down beside her, and then she began, speaking very softly and
slowly, with deep sighs in between. The tears on her cheeks seemed to
shine like pearls, and her hair gleamed more golden than ever.
[Illustration]
The little Karl and the wild-woman.
"There was once a poor man named Henzel who should have been well
content, for his girl-wife, Gretchen, was good and sweet, and the black
bread he ate when his toil was over was pleasant to his taste. His bed
was warm, and his sleep was sound. What could a man want more?
But Henzel was ever full of complainings. His neighbour, Johann, had
married a rich woman, and now owned a well stocked farm with many herds.
Each time that he met him, Henzel sighed.
'I might have done better than he,' he grumbled, even when he heard that
Johann's wife was a great scold, and did not allow her husband a
moment's peace. He looked askance at his gentle Gretchen, who bore with
his rough moods tenderly, since once he had been her lover. But she
grieved in secret, for never a good word had he for her now, and her
flaxen hair lost its shimmer of satin, and her cheeks their dainty
bloom.
She was digging in the cottage garden, for Henzel would do no work at
home, when a very old man toiled slowly up the hill. His clothes were
dusty, and his staff was bent; he looked very weary, and his voice, as
he bade her 'Goodmorrow,' was faint and low. Gretchen's heart was filled
with pity; she invited him to enter her tidy kitchen, and put before him
the best she had. It was not much, but her strange guest thanked her
gratefully. While he rested, she went to the forest, to cut him a strong
oak sapling for a staff. The old man had vanished when she returned, and
in his place sat a little Dwarf, not more than twelve inches high.
[Illustration: In the old man's place sat a little Dwarf.]
[Illustration]
'I perceive that you have a kind disposition, Gretchen, which is better
than a rich dower,' he said, waving his hand for her to be seated also.
'You are already sufficiently blessed,' he went on, 'in being both
virtuous and patient, but I am willing to grant you your dearest wish.
Speak out, and tell me what you most desire.'
Gretchen bent her brows, and pondered deeply. If she asked the Dwarf for
gold, Henzel would rejoice, but she had lived with him long enough to
know that whatever he had, he would still want more. Should she ask for
another husband, then, since the one she had, had ceased to love her,
and threw her but scornful looks? Nay--that would be wrong, for whatever
happened she was Henzel's wife. And the flush on her girlish face became
yet deeper, for a very sweet thought had fluttered across her mind. She
would ask for a little child to lie on her breast, and bear her company
through the long nights and days.
When the Dwarf heard her whispered request, he smiled on her very
kindly.
'You are a true woman,' he said, and disappeared as Henzel crossed the
threshold.
'Who has been here?' he asked, scowling at the empty cup and platter.
'An old, old man, who was tired and hungry,' Gretchen replied,
and anxious to escape his further questioning, she turned to the
newly-kindled fire, and put on a saucepan of broth for him. But Henzel
was very curious, for strangers came that way but seldom, and before
long he had drawn the whole story from Gretchen's lips, with the
exception of the Dwarf's offer to grant her a wish.
'Did he not speak of rewarding you for your hospitality?' her husband
persisted, guessing that something had been kept back from him. And
Gretchen shyly told him for what she had asked.
Fierce was Henzel's anger at her neglect of this opportunity to make him
rich. He stormed and raved until poor Gretchen longed to hide, and when
at last his rage had spent itself, he was sullen as winter clouds. She
would have minded this more had it not been for the dear new hope that
filled her bosom, and early in the spring a little son was born to her.
What cared she then for Henzel's anger, so long as it did not touch her
child? It was joy enough to feel the wee thing's fingers straying over
her face, to see his limbs grow round and dimpled, and to hear him laugh
as she sang to him baby songs. Henzel went in and out, taking little
notice of either of them; his thoughts were all absorbed in schemes for
growing rich, for the love of money held him in its grip.
When little Karl was six years old his mother died. Instead of sorrowing
for her, Henzel was glad, for now he could marry the elderly widow in
the next town who was ready to exchange her wealth for a handsome
husband.
So Henzel, too, had now a well-stocked farm, but this brought him small
satisfaction. For his new wife was a greater scold even than Johann's,
and he dare not so much as cross the threshold without taking off his
boots. As to Karl, he was sent to mind the cattle on the Kugelmill close
by; the little lad was so ill-clad that his ragged tatters blew in the
winter wind. He was hungry also, for his stepmother grudged him the
simplest food, and but that he shared their berries with the birds, he
must have starved.
When the hawthorns were white with the snows of spring, and the daisies
showed their golden centres on the grassy slopes, we heard him crying
for his mother. Stella flew to his side, and gathered him in her arms.
Her lovely hair covered his shivering limbs, and the desolate child
clung close to her as she held the silver horn to his curved red lips.
His soft embrace set her woman-love on fire, and veiling him in her
golden tresses, she brought him here.
He was happy with us--as happy as the days were long. We wove for him
garments of silken sheen, and taught him to call us by the sweet name of
'Mother.' ... One day he begged us to let him play on the hill, so we
took him thither, hiding close by, that we might guard him from harm. He
was seen by some wood-cutters working near, and they took word to his
father; but before he could fetch him, we had spirited him away. Karl
never asked to play on the hill again, and all went well with us for
many years, till he sprang into a gallant youth, with his mother's eyes
and a lordly will, unlike her yielding way.
And then? Ah me! His love for our beautiful Stella grew fierce and
wild--the love of a mortal man for a maid. And since no Wild Woman may
wed, one night he bore her away from our hill to the evening star, which
is the sanctuary of lovers. Thence she sends glad dreams to motherless
children, and to lonely women who pine for love."
* * * * *
I did not stay much longer in the Wunderberg, for somehow the scented
air seemed to have grown chilly. When I said to Snow-blossom that I
must leave her, she wept again, and gave me a shining strand of hair to
guide me back to the moor. It turned into gossamer when I reached the
daylight, and floated softly away.
Heinrich was still munching at the short grass, and stared at me very
hard when I caught his bridle. I suppose he thought I had been a long
while gone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter IX
The Little White Feather.
If you've ever tried to count the raindrops, you will know how I felt
when for three whole days it poured in torrents. I was alone in the
library, watching a hole in the wainscotting through which a mouse had
just poked her head, when some one said "_Guten Morgen_" in a piping
voice, and I knew this must be a Kobold. I was rather surprised that I
had not met one of these House-Spirits before.
He was sitting on the edge of a bookcase--a little brown man with a
wrinkled, good-natured face, and wearing no clothes. He chuckled when I
said that I would rather speak English if he did not mind, and remarked
that all languages were the same to him.
"I believe you have met some cousins of mine, the Brownies," he went
on affably, kissing his hand to the mouse, who popped back to her hole
as if he had shocked her. "They are good little chaps, but quiet and
humdrum. You always know what a Brownie will do, but as for us--mortals
can never tell what a Kobold will be up to next. We make ourselves quite
at home in their houses, and really own them, if the truth were known.
But excuse me--I should not appear before you in this undress."
In the twinkling of an eye the Kobold had changed himself into a
curly haired boy, with smooth pink cheeks and a red silk coat, and
knickerbockers of dark green velvet. "This is my best suit," he
explained proudly, turning himself from side to side. "I usually wear
it when I play with children who were born, like yourself, at the
blessed feast of Christmas-tide. It is only one of my many disguises,
however, though I seldom allow myself to be seen at all. I can even
hide in the cast-off coat of a harmless snake, and woe to him who lays
stick upon me or seeks to drive me away. The Heinzelmänchen, as we are
called, can be bitter foes as well as powerful friends, and 'twas an
evil day for the city of Köln when we marched out of it. It has never
prospered since."
"Why----" I began, and the Kobold held up his hand to stop me, puckering
his baby face into a dreadful frown.
"Why? Why? Why?" he mimicked. "How like the child of mortal man!
Everything has to tell its reason--you rob the peach of its velvet bloom
that you may find the secret of its ruddy splendour, and the fairy gems
on the grass at dawn are to you but water distilled from earth! You
would know how the tide finds a way to turn, why the light of the stars
transcends your rush-lights! Elves and Fairies and such-like things are
driven away by your curiosity, as the Heinzelmänchen were by Rosetta."
I was going to ask who Rosetta might be, but I remembered just in time
that this would be another question. The Kobold chose a more comfortable
seat, and told me of his own accord.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Sin of Rosetta.
"Toward the end of the eighteenth century," he began, "the
Heinzelmänchen, took up their abode in the city of Köln, where Johann
Farina distilled the sweet-scented waters now famous all over the world.
When first he blended the fragrant oils of bergamot, citron, orange and
rosemary, it was we who whispered to him in what proportion he should
mix them, and how to imprison their lasting perfume. Not only him did
we help, but wherever we came across a worthy fellow who was poor
but honest, we gave him a lift up; such was Rudolph the tailor, whom
we found when a lad on the steps of the great Cathedral, without a
_pfennig_ in his pocket, and with a wolf inside him big enough to
swallow a little pig. When we saw how readily he returned a _thaler_
that rolled to his feet to the feeble old woman who had dropped it,
though he might well have said he had not seen it fall, we took him to
our hearts, and swore to befriend him.
'So!' we said, one to the other. 'Rudolph is worthy to be our comrade.
He is a good lad, and henceforth we will see that he does not want.'
The first thing to be done was to procure him decent clothing, for no
one would employ him while he went in rags. We did this by pointing him
out to the wife of a rich merchant, who fancied she saw in his pinched
white face a likeness to the son she had lost long since.
Touched by the poor lad's poverty, she gave him a suit of clothes which
had lain by for many a day, and on finding he was an orphan, apprenticed
him to a tailor. The lad worked well. We took it in turns to sit beside
him, showing him just where to place his needle, so that his seams were
always neat, and guiding his scissors so that he cut the cloth to the
best advantage. So skilful did he become that, when his time was out,
his master begged him to stay on with him as head assistant, and gave
him a good wage.
A fine young spright was Rudolph now, with jet-black hair and eyes like
coals. His master's daughters, Euralie and Rosetta, both looked on him
with favour, and for a time it seemed that he knew not which to choose.
Euralie was small and slight, with eyes like a dove's; Rosetta was tall
and buxom, and had she been free from the vice of curiosity would have
made him a model wife. She was clever and industrious as well as witty,
and when Dark Rudolph passed by the gentle Euralie, and took Rosetta for
his betrothed, it was only the Heinzelmänchen who shook their heads.
Never was grander wedding feast than his. While he and Rosetta where
still in church, we brought to his house the finest drinking vessels
that we could lay our hands on, and pots and pans of beaten copper that
were the envy of every housewife bidden as a guest. There were fairy
cakes in the silver dishes, and luscious fruits such as grew in no
western lands; the wine in the ruby goblets was honeyed nectar, and
though his friends quaffed deeply, their heads remained quite clear. A
proud man was Rudolph as he drank to his bride, and she looked so happy
and gay and bright, that we resolved to take her, too, under our
protection.
And this we did. When her children came, we rocked the cradle and sang
them lullabies while she baked and brewed, and when they slept we
scrubbed and polished from garret to cellar, until her house was the
pride of the street. Often she would ask to be allowed to see us, but we
always refused, telling her to respect our wish, and be content. Still
she would not rest, and nothing that Dark Rudolph could say to her would
induce her to hold her peace.
He had now three shops instead of one, and counted lords and barons
among his customers. No one could fit as he could, for we were always at
hand to nip in here or let out there, and many a fine straight figure
was the result of our cunning skill. His fame spread far through the
neighbouring towns, and one spring a great noble travelled to Köln to
order some rich apparel for himself and his suite. Our busy tailor was
at his wit's end how to get it finished in time, for all his assistants
were working their hardest, and still they were behind.
'Have no fear! Dark Rudolph,' we cried, when we found him alone. 'Send
your men to rest, and leave it to us. When you wake in the morning you
shall find all done.'
We lost not a moment that livelong night--it was as if our needles had
wings. Just before cockcrow, the door of the workroom creaked softly
open, and there stood Rosetta in her white nightgown, with her hair in
two long plaits, peering round the corner to see if she could catch us
at work. We were justly enraged, but since we heard her in time to
render ourselves invisible, and also because we loved Dark Rudolph, we
decided to give her one more chance.
It was our custom to leave the lower part of the house at the hour of
midnight, no matter what we might be doing, and climb the steep stairs
that led to the bedrooms, to watch that the ghosts which were free to
roam till cockcrow might not ruffle the children's hair, or wake them
with their long-drawn sighs. Rosetta knew this, for she had often heard
us comforting the little Rudolph when his sleep was disturbed by a bad
dream, and with gross ingratitude she tried to be-fool us. One night,
she strewed dried peas on the top steps of the winding staircase, so
that when we came up we should lose our footing and fall to the bottom,
and thus she might see us struggling on the ground. We knew perfectly
well, however, why she had bought the peas, and stayed below. When she
rose next morning, she forgot the trap she had laid for us, and tumbled
headlong down the stairs. While she groaned and moaned over her broken
ankle, the Heinzelmänchen marched out of the town to stirring music,
which was heard by all the citizens. We sailed down the Rhine in a
phantom boat, which you may yet see floating on its waters if you look
for it at the right time. And Dark Rudolph and his Rosetta sighed for
our help in vain."
[Illustration]
The Kobold was a most entertaining little fellow, and stayed with me all
the morning, telling me of well known House Spirits of days gone by. One
of these tales was about
[Illustration]
The Little white Feather.
"Hinzelmann," said the Kobold solemnly, "was a Spirit who haunted the
castle of Hudemühlen, though it was not until late in the sixteenth
century that those who lived there were aware of his presence. He seemed
of so friendly a disposition that the servants became quite used to
him. They never saw him, but he would often talk with them while they
worked, telling them of what went on in the Underworld, and of the
mighty Giants of bye-gone days who had been created in order to protect
the Dwarfs from savage beasts, but had become themselves so savage in
the course of the ages that they had to be done away with. In time the
lord of the castle heard of his strange visitor, and sent him a message
saying he desired his presence at a certain hour.
'No need to wait until then, good Sir!' laughed Hinzelmann over his
shoulder. 'I assist each morning at your lordship's toilet, though you
do not perceive me, and I blunt your razors when you are out of temper.'
This displeased the lord of the castle, for he thought it unseemly to be
on terms of such familiar intimacy with a bodiless House-Spirit. When he
rebuked him for his presumption, Hinzelmann laughed more loudly still.
'Better men than you have to put up with my company, if I will!' he
cried, 'and, believe me, I do not intend to leave you!'
The nobleman grew more and more uneasy, for it disturbed him to feel
that he was never alone. Hinzelmann whistled and sang through the State
rooms, and when his lordship expressed irritation this was the
House-Spirit's favourite song:
'If thou here wilt let me stay,
Good luck shalt thou have alway.
But if hence thou dost me chase,
Luck will ne'er come near the place.'[1]
[Footnote 1: The Fairy Mythology]
He hummed this morning, noon, and night, until the lord of the castle
was sick of it. 'Since I cannot drive this fellow away,' he said at
last, 'I must e'en go myself;' and telling no one of his intentions, he
summoned his coach and set out for Hanover. On the way he noticed that
no matter how fast his horses went, a little white feather danced above
their heads. Although he wondered at this, he did not connect it with
the House-Spirit, and when he arrived at his chosen Inn, sought his
couch with a mind at ease.
'Thank heaven,' he muttered, as he turned him over and went to sleep, 'I
am free at last of this troublesome Hinzelmann. By the time I see fit
to return home, he may have gone elsewhere.'
[Illustration: A little white Feather danced above their heads.]
[Illustration]
Next morning he missed his fine gold chain, which was an heirloom, and,
greatly distressed, he haughtily demanded of the Innkeeper that his
servants should be searched.
'They have robbed me,' he cried, 'and they shall suffer for it! Cannot
one sleep at your house without meeting with knaves and thieves?'
At this the Innkeeper was very angry. Instead of condoling with the
nobleman on his loss, and offering to make it good, he roundly rebuked
him for taking away the character of honest men without due proof. The
noble was leaving the Inn in much haste when a soft voice asked him why
he was troubled.
'If it be on account of the bauble upon which you set such store,' it
continued, 'look under your pillow and you will find it. You cannot get
on without Hinzelmann after all!'
'I would I had never known you, base spirit!' stormed the nobleman. 'You
have put me greatly in the wrong with all these men, and my journey has
been for nought, since you are here. If you do not quit me I will leave
this country; it is not wide enough to hold us both.'
Then Hinzelmann spoke to him with much reason, pointing out that he
wished him no harm, and that it was impossible to shake him off, since
wherever the lord went, he could follow.
'It was I who flew as a little white feather in front of your coach,' he
concluded. 'You played the part of a poltroon when you fled from what
you believed to be evil, instead of fighting it on your own ground. Come
back with me, and if you give me your friendship, I will work but good
to you and yours.'
So the nobleman went back to his castle, and Hinzelmann lived there with
him. A little room was set aside for his use in an upper story, and here
they placed, by the nobleman's orders, a small round table, and a tiny
bed. No one could ever make out if he slept on this, but once when the
cook entered very quickly, to take him the dish of new milk and wheaten
crumbs which was placed each morn on his table, she saw a shallow
depression on the down pillow, as if something very small and soft had
rested there.
When the time came for Hinzelmann to leave the castle, he presented its
lord with three fairy gifts, the last of these being a leather glove
richly wrought with pearls in a curious pattern of snails and scrolls.
So long as this glove was in possession of his house, he told him, so
long would his race flourish. And thus he requited the kindness which
had been shown him. There is nothing that we like better than to help
our friends."
"I know," I said, nodding my head. And the House Spirit smiled as if
this pleased him.
"We need take no credit for this," he remarked, "since the Dwarf King
himself sets us the example. His rescue of the poor old couple at
Schillingsdorf is but one of many instances of the way in which he
gladly helps those who show hospitality to him or his.
Caught in a storm, he wandered from door to door, entreating each person
who answered his knock to let him enter and warm himself. One and all
they refused, for his green velvet garments were stained and draggled,
and they had not the wit to see that in spite of his dripping clothes
and dishevelled beard he was still every whit a king. At last he came to
the hut of an ancient shepherd, whose little old wife was as thin as he,
for food had been very scarce. The moment she saw the wanderer, her
heart went out to him.
'Come in and welcome, you poor little fellow!' she said, setting wide
her door. 'Our fire is not much to boast of, but 'tis better than none
on a night like this.' And the shepherd hobbled to the inner room that
he might bring his Sunday coat, and place this round their visitor's
shoulders while his own lay drying on the hearth. Then the old woman
spread a white cloth on the table, and gave the Dwarf her share of the
coarse black bread which was all her cupboard contained.
'I thank you, my friends,' he said, breaking the bread into two
fragments. As he did so, one became a fine white loaf, and the other a
noble cheese. The Dwarf laughed at the old couple's amazement, and bade
them feast to their heart's content.
'So long as you leave on the platter a crust of bread and an inch of
cheese,' he said, 'so long will a fresh loaf and a fresh cheese spring
from these fragments during the night; but if ever a beggar entreats
your help, and you refuse him, they will turn to dust and ashes. Now I
bid you farewell, but ere long we shall meet again.'
So saying, he went out in the rain, despite their entreaties that he
would at least stay with them until the storm was over.
Little sleep did they have that night, for wind and rain swept through
the valley. Torrents roared down the mountain side, flooding the wooden
houses, and even worse befell at daybreak. An enormous rock snapped off
from a topmost peak, and carrying with it great masses of stones and
uprooted firs, crashed down on the little village. All living things
were buried beneath its weight except the shepherd and his wife, whose
cottage yet was spared. Tremblingly they stood on the threshold, for
they thought their last hour had come.
'Thou hast been a good wife, my dear one,' breathed the shepherd, as he
drew her frail form close to him.
'It is well that we should go together, since thou hast lain by my side
for nigh sixty years,' she whispered, hiding her face against his
breast.
'How now?' cried a reassuring voice. 'Dost despair so easily?' And
looking up they saw their friend the Dwarf riding on a rough raft in
the centre of the stream, and steering before him the trunk of an
immense pine. This he proceeded to fix crosswise in front of their
little garden, so as to form a dam. The torrent now passed by the
cottage, leaving it undisturbed, and the voice of the wind was hushed.
The sun came out, and the birds sang; but the only people alive in
Schillingsdorf were the shepherd and his old wife."
[Illustration: "'How now?' cried a reassuring voice."]
[Illustration]
Chapter X
The Wild Huntsman.
The forest paths were dappled with sunlight as Father and I strolled
down its winding glades, and all the wood things were chirping and
chattering with joy. Now and then something brown and furry scuttled
across our path, and once I all but trod on a tiny mouse, who had hidden
herself under last year's leaves.
"You clumsy boy!" said a tiny voice, and I turned in time to catch sight
of a wee pink Elf as she sprang from the flower Father wore in his
button hole upon a bright blue butterfly which had been hovering above
her for some time, and now darted swiftly away.
After a while we came to an open space where the woodmen had been
felling timber. Several great trees still lay on the ground; one was
particularly straight and round, and I noticed three wide crosses cut
deep into the bark. I thought I would like to carve my name there too,
for my knife had been most beautifully sharp since the _Nain Rouge_
touched it, so when Father sat down soon afterward to read his letters,
I went straight back to the spot. As I reached it I heard the distant
baying of hounds; the sound came nearer and nearer, and mingling with
it were shouts in a strange deep voice, which almost frightened me.
As I looked up, my knife was jerked out of my hand by a little woman
dressed in green, who pushed me breathlessly aside and sat down,
sobbing bitterly, on the middle cross. I was still staring at her when
there flashed through the air a huntsman on a fiery horse, followed by
many hounds. Their hurrying feet knocked off my cap and rumpled all my
hair. They had passed in a second, and next moment I heard their
baying far away.
The little woman in green sobbed still, but she seemed to be growing
calmer. Her hair and eyes were a soft light grey, and her frock was most
prettily trimmed with tufts of moss.
"Aha!" I thought when I noticed this, "you are one of the Moss-women,
I've no doubt." For I knew that these were supposed to haunt the forests
of Southern Germany.
"That was the Wild Huntsman," said the little thing, looking at me
trustfully. "But for the kindness of the woodcutters who make these
marks in the trees they fell, I should have fallen to his bow and
spear. When we can find three crosses we are safe, for he dare not touch
us then."
I waited to hear what else she would say, for I thought of the Kobold's
"_Why? Why? Why?_" and did not like to ask her questions. In a little
while her lips were smiling, and swaying to and fro, as a tree sways in
the wind, she began to sing. I knew I had heard that song before, but I
could not think where until I remembered that the pines which rustled
against the windows of my night nursery had often sung it when I was
small.
"It's the song of the wind," she told me, "and the very first sound we
hear. We are born in the roots of the tree which is to be our home, and
when this dies, we must die too. So long as the sap runs through its
branches, and the bark is not cut or injured, we are safe and sound in
our snug recess, but at certain times we are bound to leave it, to seek
for food, or to attend our lords. It is then that we are in such grave
danger--and all because Elfrida tried her witcheries on a stranger."
"What did she do?" I could not help asking.
"I will tell you," said the Moss-woman sadly, "and then you will
understand why even the youngest of us has now grey hair."
[Illustration]
The Wild Huntsman.
"Elfrida was the fairest of our race," she sighed, "and her palace the
tallest and straightest pine that ever raised its boughs to Heaven.
When she left its shelter at early dawn to bathe in some sparkling
stream, or seek for sweet berries in the thickets, the Flower-Elves
flocked to greet her; wild roses gave her their bloom for her oval
cheeks, and the violets scented her sunny hair. Wherever she passed, the
moss grew a brighter green, and she had but to breathe on a gnarled old
trunk, and the softest feathery fronds came to hide its ugliness. The
creatures of the forest were all her friends, and took pride, as we did,
in her loveliness.
'Have a care, Elfrida--a stranger comes!' cried a squirrel one summer
morning, staying his dancing feet to warn her. His up-cocked ears had
caught the thud of some well-shod charger's swift approach, and he
guessed he would not be riderless.
'Go back to thy palace, dear child!' cooed a motherly pigeon who had
reared many broods of snowy fledglings, and misdoubted the sparkle in
Elfrida's pale green eyes.
'Haste thee home, Elfrida!' cried the stream as it gurgled over the
stones; 'haste thee home, and hide thy face from the sunlight.' But
Elfrida pretended not to hear as she shook out the crystal drops from
her gorgeous hair.
The horse and his rider were close to her now; the huntsman blew his
golden horn, and in the excitement of the chase might have passed her
by, unseeing, but for his hounds. In a moment they had surrounded her,
baying like hungry wolves, and Elfrida sprang to a branch that overhung
the water, where her white limbs gleamed against its green. The huntsman
sent the dogs to heel, and dismounting from his horse, entreated the
maiden to come down to him. Nothing loth, Elfrida coyly descended, and
the huntsman was amazed anew at her perfect form. He sat at her feet
through the hush of noonday, and at even he was there still. When the
moon turned the glades to silver, Elfrida left him, but she promised to
meet him again next day, and he could not sleep for thinking of her.
But although she smiled on him sweetly as she lay on the banks of the
stream, and listened with languid pleasure to his fond fierce wooing,
which passed for her many an idle hour, she would not consent to be his
wife.
'I like best the gems that I find on the lilies at daybreak,' she said,
when he vowed that the richest jewels that the earth could give should
deck her fair white arms. 'You must offer me something rarer than these
if I am to forsake my kindred to go with you.'
Then the huntsman swore that he would give her all he had; only his
honour would he hold back, for he was sick with love and longing.
Now behind Elfrida's loveliness dwelt a spirit of malice and wanton
cruelty, and though she loved not this wild Huntsman, and had no
intention of being his bride, she wished to see how far her power over
him could go. So she asked of him these three things: the crest of his
House cut in the stone over his castle gates, where it had stood for
centuries; the leaf from his dead mother's Bible, whereon she had
written the date of her marriage day, with the names of the children
born to her; and his father's sword.
[Illustration: He entreated the Maiden to come down.]
[Illustration]
'Nay, Sweetheart!' cried the Huntsman. 'Ask me for aught else in the
world, but not for these things, since they touch my honour!'
'These will I have, and nothing less,' said Elfrida wilfully, looking at
him through her long gold lashes until his soul went out from him. His
face was white as milk as he rode away, and the creatures of the forest
cringed with shame. For they knew she had asked what was unseemly; and
they ceased to attend her when she went to the stream at dawn.
When the moon was at her full the Huntsman returned with the three
gifts, and now he thought to take Elfrida in his arms. But she thrust
him from her with bitter words, tearing the leaf from the sacred Book
into a thousand shreds, and tossing the crest and sword into the running
stream.
'What!' she cried, and her scornful laugh rang through the woodland,
'shall I, Elfrida, be the sport of a man who holds the honour of his
house as something less than a maiden's whim? I will have none of
you--get you gone!' And she flung out her arms to the strong North Wind,
who caught her to him and bore her off. But not to her high pine palace
did he take her, for he was angry because of her cruelty; and far away
at the grim North Pole, she shivers yet under the thickest ice. Her
green eyes shine through the frost-bound floes, and light the depths of
the Northern seas."
"And the Huntsman?" I questioned.
"He died in his rage, where Elfrida left him!" said the Moss-woman
mournfully, "and his spirit seeks still to avenge his wrongs. To the
last of our race it will pursue us, until none of our kindred lives."
"Chris! Chris! where are you?"
It was Father's voice, and the Moss-woman vanished. Father wanted to
read me a funny letter from the Locust, who complained a lot of being
called up at night by patients who had no money, and wouldn't have paid
him even if they had. This was the way they often treated Father, but he
said "Poor beggars!" and then forgot it, while the Locust was very
cross.
Next day I went back to the forest, hoping to find the Moss-woman again,
but she was not there. I found instead an Elf who was almost too small
to be seen. She told me that she and her sisters lived in the cells
which make leaves so green, and mixed things they drew in from the air
and sunlight with the water that came through the roots, turning these
into sugar to feed the tree. It sounded like magic, and I was so much
interested that I almost forgot to ask about the Moss-women.
"Poor little things!" said the Leaf-Elf kindly, when I said I had seen
one. "It is well that the woodcutters are their friends, or they would
fare badly. Many a meal did they have from them in past times, and even
Hans the Unlucky never grudged them what he gave. They paid him back for
it, never fear, for they do not forget a kindness."
"Who was he?" I asked. And this is what she told me.
[Illustration]
The Luck of Hans.
"Of all the unlucky mortals, Hans was surely the most to be pitied, for
though he was honest and frugal, nothing he touched seemed to prosper.
The farm had done well in his father's lifetime, but after he died there
was not one good season for three bad ones. Far from being idle, Hans
was up before dawn, and still hard at work at sundown. His mother sent
away her maids, since she could not pay them their wages, and kept the
house straight herself; where could you find a worthier pair? But Hans'
affairs went from bad to worse, and when (at the busiest time of the
year) his mother lost her sight and became quite blind it was clear he
was born to be unlucky.
The farm went to rack and ruin, and there came a time when Hans was
forced to go off to the forest to fell a tree that his poor old mother
might have fuel to warm her. When the sun was high, he drew out his
lunch, and a poor little Moss-woman stole out from the undergrowth to
beg a few crumbs for her hungry children.
'Take it all!' he cried, thrusting his bread into her tiny hands. 'It is
waste of good food for a man to eat who is as unlucky as I.'
'I cannot repay you in kind, friend Hans,' said the Moss-woman, 'but I
will give you some good advice. In the house by the mill lives a sweet
young girl, with a face tinged with pink like a daisy's. She has loved
you long, for you are her mate. Take her to wife, and your luck will
turn.'
Hans flushed deep crimson beneath his tan, and the veins on his forehead
grew tense and hard.
'You--you--' he stammered; 'you must mean Elsa? And Elsa, you say, Elsa
cares for _me_? It can't--it can't--be true.'
'A woman's heart goes where it will,' answered the Moss-woman. 'Try your
luck, friend Hans, and lose no time. Life is short, and the days are
flying.'
Hans went at once to the house by the mill, for had he not gazed at it
time and again as the casket which held his treasure?
When Elsa saw him coming with that look upon his face, she twisted a
ribbon, blue as her eyes, in the pale gold plait that crowned her head,
and went shyly down to meet him.
[Illustration: "Went shyly down to meet him"]
Hans said not a word, but he found a way to make her understand, and his
eyes spoke, though his lips were dumb.
They were betrothed and married within the month, and little cared sweet
Elsa that her friends marvelled at her choice. She comforted the sad
blind dame, whose son was now her husband, as a happy woman comforts one
who fears she has lost all, and behold! the old woman smiled again. As
to Hans, the neighbours scarcely recognised him when they met him in
the markets; she trimmed his beard, did Elsa, with her own hands, and
mothered him as if he were a child of seven. His fields grew green, and
then golden with harvest; his scanty flocks increased and multiplied.
'Hans' luck has changed!' the neighbours said, and they scoffed at him
no more.
But good luck itself does not last for ever, and after three years of
plenty came a bad one for all in those parts. There was a long and
unusual drought, followed by so much rain that the roots rotted in the
ground, and sickness spread amongst sheep and oxen. Hans lost all that
he had re-gained, and to add to his misfortunes, he chopped his hand
instead of a log of wood, and could do no work for weeks. He was in
despair, and the old blind woman beside his hearth wept and wailed from
morn till eve.
'I would I were dead,' she moaned. 'I am a useless burden, for I cannot
even knit. My store of wool is exhausted, and we have no money to buy
more.'
'Dear Mother,' said Elsa tenderly, 'who has a greater right than you to
the last penny that Hans possesses? You carried him on your breast when
he was small and helpless, and have loved him faithfully all these
years!'
But the mother turned her face to the wall and wrung her idle hands.
Then Elsa sold the ring that had been her lover's gift in order to buy
for her soft white bread and warming cordials, and wool wherewith to ply
her needles. As she returned home with her basket, grieving to think of
the pain of those she loved, a Moss-woman accosted her in the forest.
'I have nought for my children to eat,' she said. And Elsa, pitying her
the more that she herself was hungry, gave her a share of what she had,
even to a skein of the wool, that she might weave a coat for her crying
babe.
'Wait for me here!' cried the Moss-woman earnestly, and Elsa leaned
sadly against a tree, too weary to be surprised. In a moment or two the
Moss-woman returned, carrying a grey ball of wool and some chips of
wood.
'Give the wool to the old crone who weeps by your hearth,' said the
little thing, 'and the chips to Hans. He is lucky in his wife, if in
nought else!'
So saying, she disappeared, and Elsa went quickly home. Thinking to
win a laugh from her husband, she opened her apron to show him the
Moss-woman's gifts, and, to her amazement, found that the chips had
turned to yellow gold, and the little grey ball of wool into a large one
of fleecy whiteness, so soft and thick that it felt like velvet! The
golden chips stocked the farm again, for they were of pure metal, and
weighty, and the ball of white wool was never exhausted during the old
woman's life time. She knitted away until her hundredth year, and when,
long afterward, the summons came also for Hans and Elsa, in their turn,
their children had good cause to bless the name of the Moss-woman."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Chapter XI
The White Princess.
It was to Italy we travelled next, to stay with the Signor, who had
lived in England once, and was a patient of Father's.
It was fearfully hot when we arrived, and most English people had gone
away; but Father and I could bear a lot of sunshine, and we did not go
out in the middle of the day.
In the early mornings I went off to explore while Father was still
asleep. Sometimes I made for the hills, but often I chose the city,
for I liked to wander through the streets and make friends with the
chattering children. They were jolly little beggars, with bare brown
feet and thick dark hair that fell over their faces. My favourites were
Giovanni and Mariannina; their mother worked for a grand Contessa
who lived not far from the Signor. Giovanni was thin as a reed, but
Mariannina, whose curly head did not reach her brother's shoulders, was
as plump as a partridge, and her cheeks were red instead of brown.
Adelina, the Signor's housekeeper, told me their names, and that
Mariannina was the pride and torment of Giovanni's life.
"He adores her," she said, "but she is surely bewitched. She runs
from him like a squirrel, and is an imp for mischief. Ah, the poor
Giovanni--he has his hands full!"
After this I often met them, and if Mariannina were in a good humour she
would smile at me through her lashes, while if she were cross she would
frown like a Witch, and even shake her tiny fist. At this, Giovanni
would look quite shocked, and would beg me in broken English not to be
hurt at '_la sorellina's_' unkindness.
"She so ver' small!" he pleaded wistfully, and this was always his
excuse for her.
One day she took it into her head to run away from him, and darted into
the middle of the road, almost under the heels of some prancing horses.
I happened to be close by, and seized her red skirt just in time to drag
her back. Panting with terror, Giovanni took her from me, and when he
found she was not hurt, for the first time in his life he shook her. And
then he tried to kiss my hands; I almost wished I had left Mariannina to
be run over. Before I could get away from him, he had thrust upon me
the small gilt cage he always carried about with him, and had but just
now tossed on the ground. It held his cherished '_grillo_,' or cricket,
a curious pet of which all his playmates seemed very fond.
"It is yours, it is yours!" he cried, and seemed so grieved when I tried
to give it back to him that I was obliged to keep it.
The cricket was a merry little creature, with a very loud voice for his
size. "_Cree-cree-cree!_" he chirped, as I carried him to the villa, and
he never once stopped all day. I believe that he sang the whole night
through, for I heard him in my dreams; and when I woke I determined to
set him free.
I carried the little gilt cage up the slope of a hill before I
opened the door. No sooner had he hopped on the grass, when his
"_Cree-cree-cree_" was taken up by hundreds of other crickets, who
gathered round him in great excitement, chirping with all their might.
As I put my fingers into my ears, a little old woman appeared from
nowhere, and with a wave of her hand sent them all away.
"Many mouths make a small noise great," she said, "and you are not the
first to be wearied by the crickets' song. The Sorcerer of the Seven
Heads[2] liked it as little as you did, and the White Princess owes her
happiness to this. I say what I know, for I am her Fairy Godmother."
[Footnote 2: Crane's Italian Fairy Tales]
"Why, they told me there were no Fairies in Italy!" I cried. And then I
was sorry that I had spoken, for the little old woman grew pale with
rage.
"No Fairies?" she exclaimed. "Ah, foolish ones, worse than blind! Had
you not believed them you had seen countless Witches and Fays ere this,
for Ascension Day has come and gone, and they are all set free. Besides
these, there are Goblins and Spirits, and fearsome Incubas, and shadowy
Fates who sway men's destinies. All these abound in our sunny Italy for
those who have eyes to see; and there are also Fairy Godmothers, such as
I. The maidens for whom I stand sponsor comb jewels out of their hair;
diamonds and pearls, rubies, and shining turquoise. But the White
Princess' were always pearls; and pearls often turn to tears."
Then, drawing close to me, as I sat in the long grass, she told me of
[Illustration]
The White Princess.
"The fates had dowered Queen Catherine with gifts; but though her
husband was devoted to her, and the kingdom was blessed by a long spell
of peace, she sighed unceasingly. One boon alone had been denied her,
and without this she did not care to live.
'Let her have her way!' cried the Fates at last, weary of her
complainings. So one summer dawn a babe was found in the bed of lilies
beneath her window, and now her mourning was turned into joy. For a
daughter had been her heart's desire.
The little Princess was christened Fiorita, but from the day of her
birth she was known as the White Princess. Her skin was as purely pale
as the petals of her guardian flowers, and the yellow gold of their
stamens was the colour of her hair. But out of her eyes looked a spirit
that boded sorrow--the spirit that would fain know all.
The White Princess grew lovelier day by day, smiling but seldom, and
staring for hours at the distant line of the far horizon, where the
hills kept watch for ever over the land Beyond. The Queen looked on with
delight at the unfolding of this tender blossom, but her happiness did
not bring strength, and when in due time the sweet coral lips lisped the
soft word 'Mother,' her soul broke the bonds which held it, and sped
away.
Fiorita was now twice orphaned, for her father, the King, would scarcely
look at her, since he connected her coming with the death of his beloved
wife. In order that the sight of her might not continually remind him
of his sorrow, he built a fine tower of gold and crystal, and here,
surrounded by all her ladies, the White Princess grew into womanhood.
Lovely as snow crystals, and cold as the arctic wastes, Fiorita made
few friends, and spoke to none of her inmost thoughts. The Kings of the
Earth who came to woo her were abashed by her strange white beauty, and
only the Prince Fiola remained to ask her hand.
He was brave as a lion, and gentle as a woman, as true knights are to
this very day. The sound of his voice as he spake of his love stirred
the Princess' heart to a secret joy; but him, too, she sent away
with but a glance from her blue-grey eyes. And though I, her Fairy
Godmother, scolded her well and entreated her to say him yea, she
would not be persuaded.
[Illustration: "Lowered herself from her window by means of a rope of
pearls"]
'First I must see what lies hid in the land Beyond,' she said, and that
very night, when the Crystal Tower shone wanly in the moon-light, and
all her ladies were sleeping, the Princess covered her snow-white robe
with a gossamer cloak of clouded grey, and lowered herself from her
window by means of a rope of pearls, passing through her gardens and
into the forest, which lay between her and the land Beyond. All fearless
in her virgin purity, she listened neither to the Goblins who eyed her
hungrily from the shapeless trees and besought her to show them favour,
nor to the warnings of compassionate Fays who bade her return to the
Crystal Tower.
'I seek the land Beyond,' she cried, not knowing that she could never
reach it except on spirit wings.
Now the Prince Fiola could not sleep for love of her, and this night he
stayed his restless wanderings in the Palace grounds by the waters of a
placid lake, for the fancy came to him that therein dwelt some kindly
Sprite who, perchance, would give him counsel and further his suit.
Clear shone the moon above, making the smooth surface into a fairy
mirror which reflected the swaying trees and the mysteries of forest
depths; and as he looked, the Prince descried the shape of a slim white
form which seemed to be hurrying onward amidst a forest. The poise of
the head was Fiorita's; hers, too, was the queenly gait. But thinking
her to be safely sleeping, the Prince believed that his eyes were
cheating him, and moodily resumed his walk. When morning came, however,
he hastened to the Crystal Tower. He found it in great commotion. Doors
were opened and shut in rapid succession, and scared attendants ran in
and out like ants.
'The Princess is not in her chamber!' her ladies told him, wringing
their hands. 'Her bed has not been slept on, and her silken wrapper is
still in its broidered case.'
As the Prince stood bewildered, the King came up. The remembrance of his
lack of love was heavy upon him, and he strove to stifle his remorse by
loud threatenings of dire punishment to all if his daughter were not
speedily recovered.
As he stood quietly aside in the midst of the commotion, Prince Fiola
remembered the vision of the lake, and bidding a groom go fetch him
a horse, he mounted and rode straightway to the forest. Two paths
stretched out before him; his horse would have taken that on the right,
but the Prince urged it along the other, for he thought that he caught a
glimpse of his love's white gown at the end of a woodland glade.
It was only the feather of a dove, however, and he pressed on, barely
slackening his pace for hours. Darkness fell, but there was still no
sign of Fiorita, and when he reached the borders of the forest, and yet
had found no trace of her, his heart was sick at the thought of her
peril. He could not stop, so with only the stars to guide him, he
essayed to cross the waste that lay beyond, and at dawn was still riding
wearily on. By the following noon both horse and rider were exhausted.
The burning sun blazed down on their heads, smiting them as a sword, and
though the Prince had no pity on himself, he grieved that his horse
should suffer. Dismounting, he led it on until he came to a great rock,
down the side of which flowed a stream of water. When he and his dumb
companion had quenched their thirst, he took off its bridle and set it
free, for he knew that the faithful creature could carry him no further.
'Make your way home, good friend,' he said, as he patted its glossy
mane. 'I cannot return without my Princess, though I fear me 'twill be
many a day before I find her.'
And now began the most toilsome part of his journey. With the land
Beyond always before him, he trudged on and on, turning aside for
nothing; and so passed another day and night. Now the long road wound
uphill; stones blocked his way, and thorns tore his hands and face;
still he pressed on, for his love was stronger than hunger and thirst,
and pain had no terrors for him. Nevertheless, he had lost all hope,
when a turn in the path disclosed a sight which made him for the moment
forget his trouble.
A bent old woman, crooked and frail, staggered beneath a load of sticks,
and dancing along at either side of her, were two rough boys, who mocked
at her lameness, calling her a Witch. The Prince overtook them with
rapid strides, and knowing that the power of gentleness is more lasting
than that of anger, he suppressed his wrath as he spoke to them, though
withal he reproved them sternly.
'Know you not,' he said, 'that only cowards persecute those who are
weaker than themselves? 'Tis a woman whom you call 'mother,' and if only
for this, you should hold all women in reverence. Now go--and remember
what I have said. Here is something to purchase a gift for your parents.
See that you are more worthy of their care.' And with other words to the
same effect, he gave each a silver coin.
Won alike by his kindness and the justice of his rebuke, the boys asked
pardon for their rudeness, and scampered off with glowing faces, while
the old woman blessed the Prince for thus befriending her. Disclaiming
her thanks, he lifted her load to his own shoulders, when it immediately
became as light as air. The next moment it fell from him altogether; and
he turned in great astonishment to meet her serious gaze.
'_Bel giavone!_' she exclaimed, 'I pray you think me not intrusive, but
I know by your voice that your heart is heavy as the load I carried
awhile ago. Tell me your grief, that if the Fates so will, I may in my
turn help you.'
'In truth, good mother,' said the Prince, 'no mortal can aid me now
except by telling me where I may find the White Princess, whom I seek
day and night in anguish, since she is my dear love.'
'Even that can I do!' cried the old woman, straightening her bent figure
until she stood before him tall and queenly, her squalid rags changing
into flowing robes of purple velvet. 'I am the Witch Lucretia, and my
spells are a match for those of the Sorcerer with the Seven Heads. You
have travelled far from your White Princess, for the Sorcerer lurks in
the forest through which you passed, and Fiorita is his prisoner. No man
yet has entered his castle to leave it alive, but I will show you how
this may be done, if you are willing to change your shape and become one
of Earth's humblest creatures.'
The Prince feared nothing so that he might once reach the side of
Fiorita, and gladly submitted himself to the enchantments of the Witch.
Lucretia lifted the silver wand that was hid in the fold of her gown,
and at its touch the Prince became a cricket, just such another as the
one which you lately restored to liberty.
'You will find no difficulty now,' she said, 'in entering the Sorcerer's
castle, for the pitfalls he has prepared for man are as nought to they
who traverse the air. And that you may be one of many, and so a match
for his spells, I will summon my Witches and Fairies to protect you.'
Having muttered an incantation, she blew thrice on an opalescent shell
which dangled from her waist upon a ruby chain; and troops of Fays and
Witches came hurrying down the road. Some were slender and stately, with
faces as fair as dreamland; some were twisted and bent, and some so
small that a dozen could hide in the cup of a flower. With a second wave
of her silver wand, Lucretia transformed them into a myriad crickets.
Hailing Fiola as their king, she placed him at their head, and reminding
him solemnly that persistence conquers where force must fail, bade him
lead them back to the forest.
In an incredibly short time this aerial army arrived at the castle of
the Sorcerer with the Seven heads. It stood in the midst of a dense
thicket, surrounded by a moat, the lurking place of demons with long
forked tongues, and eyes that shot evil fires. Undaunted by their
snarls, the crickets flew over the draw-bridge, and finding a way into
the castle through the close-barred windows, swarmed round the
Sorcerer's head. A cauldron swung from the domed ceiling, over a
quenchless fire, and in this the wretch was even then concocting a
potion by which he should overcome Fiorita. Her purity had hitherto
protected her, and though he had bound her body with chains, he could
not fetter her spirit.
[Illustration: He tickled the Monster's Nose.]
[Illustration]
'How dare you disturb me?' he roared, lunging at the crickets vainly
with a long and glittering knife.
Fiola would fain have slain him where he stood, but when, forgetting his
impotence, he hurled himself forward at the monster, he only tickled his
nose.
'Leave him to us!' cried his cricket friends; and then they began their
witch-song of '_Cree-cree-cree_.'
Now the Sorcerer having seven heads--Greed, Envy, Spite, Malice,
Passion, Jealousy, and Despair, each of which would have instantly
sprung forth again had Fiola been able to chop it off--he had naturally
fourteen ears, and these were so extraordinarily sensitive to noise that
he had destroyed all the woodpeckers in the forest that he might not
hear their tap-tap on the trees as they searched the bark for insects.
You can judge, then, of his disgust when on his refusal to obey
Lucretia's command, and break the bonds which held Fiorita, this host of
crickets swarmed round his head, and filled the air with discord. Each
pitched his voice in a different key, and the din of battle was as
nothing to that which now pervaded the castle.
These were the words of the witch-song:
'_Cree-cree-cree-cree_
Set Fiola's Princess free.
Sorcerer thou, but Witches we--
Cricket-Witches, from grass and ditches.
_Cree-cree-cree-cree!_
Peace thine ears no more shall know
Till thou bidst the lady go.
_Cree-cree-cree-cree!_
Sorcerer, set the lady free!'[3]
[Footnote 3: Crane's Italian Fairy Tales]
Over and over again they chanted this lay, and every cricket, far and
near, joined in the maddening chorus. They sang until the Sorcerer with
the Seven Heads felt that his senses were leaving him; pallid with rage,
he severed the White Princess's chains. By the power of Lucretia, who
had clearly foreseen his discomforture, the moment that the chains fell
from her Fiorita immediately became a cricket also, and gladly did she
fly to the side of the Prince, who greeted her with rapture.
All would now have been well had they straightway left the castle, for
Lucretia waited outside to restore to them their human form. As Fiorita
passed the great cauldron which still swung over the lamp, she could not
resist the temptation to lean over and peep inside, and the fumes from
the potion being very strong, she straightway fainted, falling into the
midst of the blood-red liquid. Before it could wholly cover her, the
Cricket King seized her wings in his mouth; he carried her thus into the
open air, where she speedily revived. Great was Lucretia's concern,
however, when she heard from Fiola what had happened.
'Alas,' she sighed, 'not even I, who am mistress of spells and
enchantments, can avert from Fiorita the consequences of her delay.
Since the Sorcerer's potion touched her, for six months each year she
must be a cricket, even as now; for the rest, she will be the White
Princess, to dwell with you where you will.'
Then Fiorita was sad indeed, for she had lost her longing to see the
land Beyond, and desired nothing better than to wed the Prince. But now
that he knew she loved him, no spell could dampen Fiola's joy.
'While you are a cricket,' he said, 'I will be one too, for so long as
you are beside me--what matters else?' And the Fays and Witches, who
reverence all true love, elected to share their banishment.
And so it was, and is to this present time. For half the year Fiola is
the Cricket King, and Fiorita, more than content, his Queen. But as
Ascension day comes round, the spell is broken, and they take their
accustomed places at the Court. It is hard to say when they are the
happier; for love is as much at home in the humblest corner of Mother
Earth as it is in a lordly Palace."
[Illustration]
Chapter XII
The Favourite of the Fates.
One night there was not a breath of air, and I could not sleep. I
tossed this way and that for hours, and directly the birds began to
twitter, I put on my things and slipped back the bolt of the grand hall
door. Once outside, it was beautifully fresh and cool, and the clouds in
the sky were like wreaths of pink flowers on a turquoise sea, arched
over with gleaming gold. They changed every moment, and while I watched
them I forgot to look where I was going. When I stopped at last I found
myself in the middle of the market place, where I had been with Father
the day before.
It was empty now, for no one was yet awake but me.
Among the quaint old wooden houses I noticed one that I had not seen
before; at first it seemed to be indistinct, but the longer I stared at
it, the clearer it grew. Over the door of the tiny shop was the figure
of a hen cut into the stone, and while I was wondering who had carved
it, the wings fluttered gently toward me. The bird moved its head, and
its wings were lifted; it flew to the ground, and a lovely white hen was
at my feet. It looked at me wistfully, and flew away; when I turned to
the little house once again, it was not there. But beside me stood the
Fairy Godmother.
"Come and sit in the shade," she said, when I asked her what had become
of the hen, "and I will tell you all about her. She is seeking
Furicchia, whom she served so well, not knowing that she is a shadow
too."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Enchanted Hen.
"Furicchia," said the Fairy Godmother, "was a very poor woman who owned
a hen which an innkeeper greatly coveted. The shape of the bird was
perfect; it had a most melodious voice, and its feathers were glossy and
white as snow.
'Come now, good dame,' the man cried, persuasively, 'I will give you
double the market value of your little hen, for I wish to make a present
of her to the widow Ursula, whom I intend to espouse.'
'But the widow might kill and eat her!' said Furicchia, looking lovingly
at the little hen, which she had brought up by hand from a tiny chick.
It had slept beneath her best silk 'kerchief, and taken its food from
her lips.
'That is as may be,' he replied. 'Come, Furicchia, I make you a handsome
offer. Give me the hen, and you shall fare well next feast day.'
But Furicchia would not listen, in spite of the sad fact that her
cupboard was as empty as her netted purse. The little hen was dear to
her, though as yet it had lain no eggs, and she would not sacrifice her
to her needs.
Ere evening came, Coccodé was clucking gaily under the kitchen table,
and Furicchia found, not one egg, but three, all a rich coffee brown,
and polished like porcelain. Having joyfully exchanged one with a
neighbour for a dish of broth, she broke the second into it, and
prudently saving the third for next day, thankfully made a good meal.
When morning came, she found eggs to the number of a round dozen strewn
about her tiny room, and from being almost on the verge of starvation,
she had plenty now and to spare. For Coccodé, the grateful creature,
laid eggs by the score, and not only were they of exquisite flavour and
very large, but it was noticed that if sick folk ate them, they
straightway returned to health.
Furicchia was now a famous egg-wife, and the more eggs she sold, the
more eggs Coccodé laid. The little hen was both willing and industrious,
and loved her kind mistress so dearly that she was never so happy as
when helping to make her fortune. Her pride in Furicchia's first silk
gown was comical to witness; she rustled her wings against its handsome
folds, and clucked so loudly that the neighbours heard, and came to see
what was the matter.
This silken gown it was that roused the anger of the Signora, a wealthy
woman who had much, and knew no better than to want more. Hearing of the
prodigious number of eggs which Furicchia supplied, though no one had
ever seen her with other than a single hen, she set afoot much scandal
concerning her, ending by declaring her to be an evil Witch. At this,
Furicchia's neighbours began to look askance at her; but the eggs were
so good, and so moderate in price, that on second thoughts they decided
to treat the Signora's hints with the contempt which they deserved.
This made the lady still more angry; she resolved to find out
Furicchia's secret, and ruin her if she could, so that she might obtain
her customers for her own eggs. Coccodé was quite aware of what was
going on, and before her mistress went out one morning she bade her
fetch certain herbs that grew on a corner of barren land, and put these
on the fire in a pot of wine.
'And now, dear mistress,' she continued, when all had been done as she
said, 'do you go out and trust your luck to Coccodé.'
Furicchia had not long been gone, when the Signora's crafty face peeped
slyly round the door. Finding the room apparently empty, she hurried in,
delighted at such an opportunity for prying. First she peered here, and
then she peered there, ransacking Furicchia's chests, and even turning
over the leaves of her holy books, that she might see if an incantation
to Witches had been written therein. Finally, she raised the latch of
the inner chamber, where she had heard Coccodé clucking.
'I have found out Furicchia's secret now,' she thought with glee. 'Her
little white hen is under a spell, and she and it shall be burnt as
Witches.'
Coccodé was sitting on a pile of eggs that reached almost up to the
ceiling, and even as she clucked she was laying more. The Signora drew
close to her, and listened with all her ears, for she had distinguished
words amidst her cluckings, and immediately jumped to the conclusion
that Coccodé believed herself to be addressing her mistress. This is
what she heard:
'Coccodé! now there are nine!
Bring me quickly the warm red wine.
Coccodé! take them away
Many more for thee will I lay.
And thou shalt be a lady grand,
As fine as any in the land,
And should it happen that any one
Drinks of the wine as I have done,
Eggs like me she shall surely lay;
This is the secret, this is the way,
Coccodé! Coccodé!'[4]
[Footnote 4: Leyland's 'Legends of Florence']
'Aha!' said the Signora joyfully, 'now I have it!' And running back to
the outer room, she lifted the wine off the fire and drank it, every
drop, though it scalded her throat and made her choke. As it coursed
through her veins she felt a most extraordinary sensation, and hurried
home as quickly as she could. A meal was laid on the table, but she
found great difficulty in taking her usual place, and could eat nothing
but some brown bread, which she pecked at in a most curious manner. As
the charm began to work, her legs grew thinner and thinner, and her feet
so large that she had to cut off her boots. Next, her brown silk dress
became a bundle of draggled feathers, while her nose turned into a
beak, and her voice into a discordant cluck; in short, she was just a
scraggy brown hen, and her friends held up their hands in horror. Eggs
she laid by the score, but before she could sit on them they turned to
mice and ran away. So she had nothing for all her trouble; and though
she possessed a handsome house, she could only perch in a barn.
This is what comes of greed and envy, and of meddling with other
people's business."
Just at this moment a girl darted out of a doorway opposite, followed by
an elderly woman who loudly reproved her for refusing to do her share in
some household task. Shrugging her shoulders, she came to a sudden end,
as if she knew that her breath was wasted, and the girl disappeared with
a peal of laughter.
"She is off to gossip instead of work," said the Fairy Godmother
disapprovingly. "She will pay for it later, will pretty Ursula, for the
Fates are not likely to interfere on her behalf as they did for Pepita."
I had to coax her to tell me this story, for she said she had much to
do, and could not stay. But when she heard that the very next day
Father and I were leaving Italy, she refused no more. We sat down on the
step of a splendid church, and no one seemed to notice us.
[Illustration]
The Favourite of the Fates.
"Troubles rolled off Pepita as water from a duck's back. So lighthearted
and full of good humour was she that nought ever seemed to vex her, and
no one living had ever heard an unkind word fall from her rosy lips.
Even the three grim Fates, who rule over mortal destinies, relaxed their
stern brows as they looked down on her, and smiled indulgently.
Pepita was slender as a swallow, with a warm red flush on her olive
cheeks, and dainty hands that looked far too delicate and small for even
the lighter household tasks. These, indeed, Pepita seldom attempted,
singing instead from morn to eve, and charming her mother with soft
caresses when she hardened her heart and tried to scold her.
But Pepita could spin. Ah yes, she could spin, and as no other maiden
had ever been known to do since Arachne was changed into a spider.
The snowy flax flew from under her fingers as though her distaff were
enchanted; which, indeed, was the case, for the wayward Fates had
bestowed upon her a magic gift, and having given her this, not even they
could take it away from her.
Pepita's mother was often wroth with her, for the dame had much work on
her hands, and sighed that her only daughter should give her so little
help. Were the maiden sent to wash clothes in the stream, ten chances to
one they would go floating down the current while she twisted flowers in
her hair. Were she set to make sweet little chestnut cakes, she would
forget to put a cool green leaf at the bottom of each round baking dish,
and when they were taken out of the ashes, behold, they would be all
burnt!
'You are a good-for-nothing!' her mother would cry angrily; but this was
not true, for Pepita could spin.
One feast day, while her mother went to the fair, she was told to watch
the _pentola_, and to stir it carefully if it boiled too fast. It was
made of rice and good fresh meat, with vegetables from the little
garden; and it smelt so delicious that Pepita's small nostrils quivered
like the petals of a rose on a windy day.
'I will taste it to see that all is well,' she murmured, and drawing
back the iron pot, she helped herself to a liberal portion.
The _pentola_ was good; Pepita tasted it yet again, for she had been up
early to go to Mass, and had sung herself hungry on the way home. Soon
there was no meat left.
'Ah, what shall I do?' she sighed, 'My mother will scold me terribly,
and will tell the Padre that I am greedy.'
She was sighing still when her eyes fell on an old leather shoe which
had been cast away behind the door. Her face all dimpled with mischief,
Pepita soused this under a tap, and threw it into the soup.
'They will but think that the meat is tough!' she cried with a burst of
laughter; but as the shoe fell into the boiling liquid her mother
crossed the threshold.
'What have you done?' demanded she, peering into the pot. '_Madonnamia!_
Was ever an honest woman cursed with such a daughter?' And breathing out
angry hopes that an Ogre would come and take her, she drove Pepita out
of the house.
At that moment a rich young merchant was strolling by, and Pepita
unwittingly rushed into his arms. A thing such as this had never
happened to him before, and since he scarce knew what to do, he clasped
her tightly while he considered. By the time he released her, Pepita's
face was pink as apple blossom, and the tears that sparkled on it were
for all the world like dewdrops on the petals of a flower. Something
stirred in his breast, and he blushed even more than she; for when a man
falls suddenly in love he knows not where he stands. Looking from one to
the other, the wrath of Pepita's mother suddenly cooled.
[Illustration: Pepita rushed into his Arms.]
[Illustration]
'Take her to wife,' she said, 'and you'll not get a bad bargain. True,
she is nought in the house, but she can spin. And with all her faults
she is not a scold.'
'One wants more in a wife than that!' said the merchant shrewdly, though
the last of her statements went far with him, since his mother had a
tongue. Looking into Pepita's eyes, which were heavenly blue, and sweet
as an angel's, he lost his last qualm of doubt, and lifted her hand to
his lips. Then he turned once more to the elder woman. 'I have vowed to
my mother I will not wed without her free consent, but if your daughter
meets with her approval, I will gladly do as you say.'
Guido's mother was in her seventieth year, and though she had never
beheld a face more winning than merry Pepita's, it did not please her,
and she gave her mind to finding a task which would prove beyond her
powers.
'The garden paths are green with weeds,' she quavered; 'they have been
sadly neglected since Pietro fell ill. Take the hoe, and root them up;
leave not a single one.'
'Nay, mother! I seek not a gardener for my wife!' her son protested
hotly, for Pepita's small hands could barely lift the hoe, and he had
set his heart on her.
'Unless the paths be clear of weeds ere the sun sets, I will not give
thee my consent,' said the old woman obstinately; and there was nothing
left for Pepita to do but to hoe up the weeds as best she could.
No sooner had Guido's mother ceased watching her from the window, than
Pepita whistled gently, and swift at her call came the birds she had
fed with crumbs when the fields were bare. Pointing to the weeds, she
made signs to them to destroy them, and by the time the old mother awoke
from her nap, not one was left behind. This vexed her instead of giving
her pleasure, for she did not wish her son to marry, and telling her
maids they might have a holiday, she commanded Pepita to prepare the
evening meal.
The maiden was now in much perplexity, for she knew not how to cook, and
her experience that morning with the _pentola_ had taught her little.
But the Brownies who dwelt behind the hearth, and love to see a fair
young face bending over the pots and pans, bade her be not discouraged,
for they would stand her friends.
Then the nimble little men flew hither and thither, fetching garlic and
oil and meat and rice in just the proportions that Guido loved, and
adding certain secret flavours of their own until the smell of the broth
made the old woman's mouth water, and she could not but praise Pepita's
cooking. When it came to the time to test her skill at spinning, she was
completely reconciled to her son's choice, and put no obstacles in the
way of the wedding.
And now Pepita sang more blithely than ever, for though he was less well
favoured, and slower of speech than many a young man who had wooed her,
she adored her husband. She was as happy as the day was long until,
wishing to have the biggest bank account as well as the prettiest wife
in the neighbourhood, he took it into his head to turn her talent for
spinning to account, and kept her beside her distaff from morn till eve.
'I shall soon, at this rate, be richer even than the notary,' he
thought, as he looked delighted at his stores of flax; and Pepita
besought him in vain to give her a little rest, for he could be as
obstinate as his mother.
It was now that the Fates interfered on her behalf, though many more
worthy than she are left to shift for themselves.
'She has lost her bloom!' sighed one grim sister.
'Her cheeks are hollow!' observed the second.
'Her songs are sad ones!' said the third with a dreadful frown. And then
they put their heads together, and formed a plan whereby Guido might be
outwitted.
As he sat in the doorway that evening while Pepita span, denying himself
the sight of her in order that her work might not be disturbed, there
came up the garden path a hideous old hag, who besought him to give her
alms.
'Look at me, Signor!' she groaned, lifting her head so that he saw the
wrinkled folds that lapped her chin. 'Once I was fair as your Pepita,
but I sat so long at my spinning wheel, that all my comeliness left me.'
Guido hastily gave her a coin, and urged her to begone; for he did not
want Pepita to see her, or to hear what she had to say.
Next eve came a second old woman, uglier, if possible, than the last,
and bent like some brutish beast. She had the same story to tell him of
bygone loveliness, and Guido sped her down the hill with even more haste
than before.
The next night a third old woman appeared, so dread of aspect that he
was obliged to avert his gaze. Against his wish, he felt himself
constrained to enquire the cause of her terrible affliction.
'I sat at my wheel, good master,' was the reply, 'until beauty and sight
both left me, and my skin became even as you see.'
Now thoroughly alarmed, he dismissed her quickly with a handful of
coins, and calling Pepita to him, gazed at her long and searchingly.
When the flush that his now unaccustomed touch had brought to her sweet
face faded, he saw she was pale and thin. Her mouth drooped sadly, and
purple shadows brooded round her eyes. With a cry of remorse he drew her
to his breast, and kissed her tenderly.
'You shall spin no longer, my Pepita,' he said, 'for I would rather have
you as you are than be rich as Satan himself!'"
* * * * *
And this was the very last story I heard. We started for home next
morning, and I went to school at the half term--a ripping school where
there was any amount of cricket, and so many other games that I had no
time to think of Fairies.
But some day I'm going to find the Peri, and those other wonderful
Sprites and Goblins of which Titania told me when I met her in the wood
that Christmas day.
[Illustration]
Printed by W. W. Curtis, Ltd., Cheylesmore Press, Coventry.
[Illustration]
Transcriber's note: A few obvious printer's errors were corrected.
Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were preserved.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Fairies and the Christmas Child, by Lilian Gask
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