{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_46262/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_46262","id":"gutenberg_46262","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46262","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Fiction","Short stories"],"text":"_Pilgrim Sorrow_\n\nA Cycle of Tales\n\nBY\n\n(CARMEN SYLVA)\n\n  _QUEEN ELISABETH\n  OF ROUMANIA_\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\n_HELEN ZIMMERN_\n\nNew-York\n\n_HENRY HOLT & COMPANY_\n\n1884.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                           PAGE\n\n  INTRODUCTION                3\n\n  THE CHILD OF THE SUN       15\n\n  SORROW                     35\n\n  THE REALM OF PEACE         49\n\n  EARTHLY POWERS             67\n\n  THE INEXORABLE             87\n\n  WILLI                     103\n\n  THE HERMIT                129\n\n  LOTTY                     145\n\n  MEDUSA                    187\n\n  HEAVENLY GIFTS            219\n\n  THE TREASURE SEEKERS      241\n\n  A LIFE                    251\n\n\n\n\n_PILGRIM SORROW._\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nRoumania, Bulgaria, Servia, and the other new countries situated in the\nfar East of Europe, are so apt to be associated in our minds with the\ntiresome and unanswered Eastern question, that we certainly give both\nland and people less attention than many of them deserve. And not least\ninteresting among them all is Roumania, which during the Turkish war\ngained for itself the respect, and admiration of its stronger brothers\nand sisters; and which has, in a graceful fairy tale, been described\nas \"the spoiled child of Europe\" by the lady who sits upon its throne.\nWriting fanciful stories, aphorisms, novelettes, and poems is this\nqueen's delight, and she has, within the short time since she began\nto publish, acquired for herself a name among German authors. For she\nwrites in German, which is her native tongue, and under the pseudonym\nof Carmen Sylva, in which she seeks some reminiscence of the forests\nthat were her earliest and dearest friends. It was amid the green woods\nand the vine-clad hills of the Rhine that her young intelligence was\nunfolded; she was born in this much-sung region, indeed in its fairest\npart, and has a true German's pride in that noble river. As a child she\nsat for hours upon the lap of the aged patriot-poet, E. M. Arndt, and\nhe stimulated in her that love of her native land which was also hers\nby birthright, for her princely forefathers had fought and suffered in\nthe cause of German liberation, and had never joined the Confederation\nof the Rhine.\n\nCarmen Sylva, or, more properly, Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, is the\nonly daughter of Prince Hermann of Wied Neu-Wied, a tiny principality\nsituated between Coblenz and Andernach; and here, surrounded by a\ndevoted, simple, and cultured family, she spent her girlhood, whose\nquiet, even course was only interrupted at rare intervals by visits to\nthe Berlin court and travels with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helena\nof Russia. Her parents were anxious she should be taken out of the\nmournful home surroundings, where Sorrow had taken up an abode she\nrarely quitted. Sickness and suffering among those around her had made\nPrincess Elizabeth early acquainted with pain.\n\nIn the last number of the present cycle the reader may notice that\nthe tone changes and becomes elegiac and subjective. Though slightly\nveiled, it is impossible to ignore that this is an autobiography, that\nthe soul of the queen is laid bare before us; and a fair and noble soul\nit is. Indeed, those who are best acquainted with the details of her\nlife, can best see how exactly they have been reproduced. There is,\nto begin with, her undaunted courage and desire to know, her love of\nmusic, in which she attained a certain proficiency under the tuition\nof Madame Schumann and Rubinstein, but whose execution she has had\nto abandon owing to weakened health, though the listening to music\nremains to her a source of keen delight and enthusiasm. The woods that\nsurrounded her castle home were, as we have seen, her earliest and\nmost intimate friends, to whom she confided all her childish griefs\nand aspirations, who alone were allowed to listen to the lyrics she\nsang and penned in secret, who told her fairy tales in the rustling\nof their leaves, and who comforted her sorrows. At the age of eleven\n(not two years, as the fable says) it was her lot to witness the nobly\nborne death struggles of a most gifted and lovable younger brother,\nwhose memory has remained to her a religion, and whose life she has\nwritten for her family, illustrated with over two hundred paintings\nfrom her own pencil. For five years after the boy's death her mother\nwas prostrated upon a couch of sickness, while the Prince, her father,\nwas a permanent invalid, suffering from chronic lung disease that grew\nyearly more hopeless. Her girlhood's friend, too, \"the fair maiden\nflower,\" she saw fade and die. No wonder her eyes grew weak with\nweeping! It was then she was sent traveling to distract her. While at\nSt. Petersburg she had a severe attack of typhus fever, and before\nshe was convalescent she was told that during her absence her beloved\nfather had been laid in the grave. Then she grew homesick for the old\nhouse in which she had seen so many die, and for a long time she was\nsad and weary of her life. \"Must every thing I love be borne to the\ngrave?\" she asks in a plaintive little song, written in her diary at\nthat time. In poetry she found her only outlet, her only consolation;\nbut as yet she did not publish; these utterances were for herself\nalone, to give herself relief and voice. Then at last she was aroused\nto work and duty by the claims of matrimony, which for a long while she\nhad resisted. Her desires had not been towards marriage, and she had\nonce playfully said that the only throne that could tempt her would\nbe that of Roumania; there she could find something for her hand to\ndo. In 1869 Prince Charles of Hohenzollern asked her to be his bride,\nand share with him that newly-founded throne. And here she did find\nthe work \"mountains high,\" of which Sorrow tells her; and how nobly,\nadmirably, wisely she has attacked these labors, what she has done and\ndoes towards civilizing and educating her half-barbarian subjects, that\nlives in their hearts, is repeated by their tongues, and has already\nfound echo in song and story.\n\nThere stands in the public place of Bucharest a statue representing the\nqueen in the act of giving a draught of water to a wounded soldier.\nIt was subscribed for by the wives of the officers of the Roumanian\narmy, and intended as an enduring testimonial of their gratitude to her\nwhom the popular voice names _muma rantilor_, that is, mother of the\nwounded. For what she did during the war of 1877-78 is unforgotten,\nunforgettable, by her subjects. She met every train of wounded that came\nfrom the battle-field, she organized hospitals and convalescent homes,\nshe was present at operations, she comforted the dying and wept with\nthe survivors. No wonder her people adore her, no wonder that it is\ngreatly due to her that King Charles is a popular sovereign although\nhe reigns over a people alien to him in blood and language. \"You will\nhave a noble mission,\" he said to her on the day of their betrothal;\n\"you must comfort tenderly when I have been too harsh, and you may\npetition for all.\"\n\nBut even after her marriage Sorrow did not depart from Carmen Sylva's\nside. She was to know the joy of being a mother; but not for many\nyears, as she says, was this high dignity to be hers. She had to see\nthe grave close over her child's golden head, and no other has ever\ncome to comfort her for this loss. Her greatest treasure, her greatest\nearthly happiness, and all her hopes were buried with this little girl.\nThe sorrow that sprung thence made her truly a poet and an author.\nShe translated and published the Roumanian nursery songs that had\nbeen beloved of her child, hoping that other children in her distant\nGerman home might love them too. She put into verse the delicate little\nsayings of her babe, but those have not been permitted to see the light\nof day; she poured into song the whole depth and agony of her grief.\nAnd after having years ago renounced all such hopes, she found that\nSorrow had made her an artist, and that the world cared to listen to\nher speech.\n\nSince 1878 the queen's pen has been most productive, although indeed\nwhat she has given to the public was not all written since that date.\nThe stones here reproduced in English dress quickly gained for her warm\nfriends upon the Continent, many of whom asked themselves, how comes\nit that a woman who occupies a throne beside a beloved husband; who\nis young, beautiful, and courted; who surely has beheld life only from\nits most brilliant side, can have looked so deep into the human soul,\nand learnt to know so well its woes and struggles? The answer lies in\nthe brief sketch I have above given of her life. She has drunk deep\nfrom the cup of suffering, and therefore she could write the tales of\n\"Pilgrim Sorrow.\"\n\nH.Z.\n\n _London_,\n  October, 1883._\n\n\n\n\n_THE CHILD OF THE SUN._\n\n\n\n\nThe Child of the Sun.\n\n\nLife was a radiant maiden, the daughter of the Sun, endowed with all\nthe charm and grace, all the power and happiness, which only such a\nmother could give to her child. Her hairs were sunbeams, her eyes\ngleaming stars. Flowers dropped from her hands, seeds sprang into life\nfrom beneath her footsteps; sweet scents and songs of birds floated\naround her; from her lips uncounted songs welled forth. Sounds like\nthe gurgling of a thousand streams were heard from out her garments,\nand yet they were only made of flower petals and covered with tender\nwebs, in which numberless dew-drops twinkled. Glow-worms encircled the\nroyal brow like a diadem; birds bore her train over rough paths. When\nher foot touched thorns they grew green and blossomed; when she laid\nher soft hand upon the bare rock it became covered with moss and fern.\nThe Sun had bestowed on her glorious child power over all things, and\nas companions and playfellows she had given to her Happiness and Love.\nIn those days there was much joy and blessedness on earth, and no pen\ncan recount, no pencil paint, how glorious it all was. It was just one\neternal May day, and the august mother looked down from afar upon her\ndaughter's glad games, and blessed the earth upon which her child was\nso happy.\n\nBut deep down in the earth there lived an evil spirit called Strife.\nThe Kobolds brought him news of all the beauty that was outside, and\nof the young sovereign who reigned so proudly and lovingly over the\nwhole world, and who played so sweetly with Happiness and Love. First\nhe was angry at the tidings, for he desired to be sole ruler of all\nthings; but after a while a great curiosity took hold of him--and\nsomething beside, something hot and wild, he knew not himself what.\nOnly he wanted to get outside at all costs. So he began to move a\nmighty rock from the center of the earth, and he cast it up on high.\nThen he kindled a great fire, so that all the rocks and the metals\nabove him melted and poured their glowing, scorching streams over the\nparadise of earth. And in the midst of these flames Strife rose up,\nclothed in dazzling armor, with flowing locks and contracted brows. In\nhis hands he held a great block of stone, and he peered around him with\nhis piercing black eyes, seeking what he should destroy first. But of\na sudden he let fall the rock, crossed his arms over his breast, and\nstared down upon the garden of earth, like one in a dream. He stood\nthus a long, long while, gazing down, silent with wonder, like to a\nstatue. Suddenly he struck his brow with his fist.\n\n\"What! I have lived down there, among cold stones, in the darkness, and\noutside is such beauty! What must the sovereign be like to whom all\nthis belongs?\"\n\nThe thought brought life once more into this Titanic figure. He stepped\nwith giant strides down into the blooming, scented world, treading\nthrough it like a storm-wind, stamping down the flowers, breaking down\nthe trees, without knowing it. He must find the mistress of all this\nfair earth. He even passed across the sea, making it pile up waves\ntower high, and once more he climbed a lofty mountain, in his hot\nimpatience to gain a survey. Then he saw upon a meadow-side that which\nhe sought so ardently. Resting her foot upon cloudy, silver-feathered\nflower seeds, her garments gathered up around her, Life was floating by\nupon her journey from flower to flower, singing as she went. Upon her\nshoulders twittered a pair of birds; upon her finger she bore a bee, to\nwhom she showed where the best honey lay hid. She had left Love behind\nher in a wood, busy building a nest, while Happiness was sleeping upon\na mossy bed beside a waterfall after having played antics innumerable.\nTherefore Life was floating forth alone, singing a morning carol to\nher mother the Sun. Of a sudden she beheld something gleam and glitter\nin front of her, and when she raised her eyes, she saw Strife planted\nbefore her, gazing at her fixedly. His bright armor reflected her\nglistening tresses. Life quailed at the sight of this mighty man with\nthe burning eyes, her foot slipped from its seed-cloud, which sped on\nwithout her. She would have fallen had she not grasped a birch branch\nand slid herself down by it upon a mossy rock.\n\n\"Aha!\" cried Strife, \"have I found you at last, you who dispute my\nempire, you who wield the scepter here on earth? Who are you, little\nmaiden, who venture upon such liberties?\"\n\nThese haughty words restored to Life all her pride and loftiness.\n\n\"I am the child of the Sun, and the earth is mine; it was given to me\nby my royal mother, and all bends before my power.\"\n\nSpeaking thus she threw back her fair head proudly, so that the Sun\nlighted up all her face. Strife saw it and was drunk with love.\n\n\"If I overcome you so that you are mine, then you and the earth will\nboth belong to me.\"\n\n\"Try,\" said Life, \"I am stronger than you.\"\n\n\"I am to wrestle with you, you tender flower! Well, if I do so I must\nput aside my armor, or I shall crush you.\"\n\nAnd he did so, laying his shield and armor upon the grass. Then he\nsprang at her to encircle her waist and to lift her into the air. But\nat that moment roses sprang forth from her girdle, and their thorns\npricked him so sharply that he had to let her go. He tried to catch her\nby the hair, but this scorched him. Then he tore off his golden chain\nand tried to bind her hands with it. She only bowed her head; then the\nchain melted in his grasp. Suddenly he felt his wrists clasped by her\ntender fingers. He tried to shake her off, but she would not let go.\nHe lifted her from the ground; she only floated but would not let him\nloose, and as often as she grew weary the Sun gave her new strength.\nThen he strove to draw her under the shade of the trees; but these\ninclined to one side that the Sun might protect her darling. A whole\nday did this wrestling last. At last Strife saw that the Sun inclined\ntowards setting, and though she lingered she had to depart. Then Life\nlost her strength, but Strife grew doubly strong. He shook her off and\nrushed upon her. Soon her garments lay torn upon the sward, her hair\nlost its scorching might, and before dawn broke the chaste maiden knelt\ntrembling and red with shame upon the earth, entreating forbearance and\nmercy with sobs and tears. At this Strife set up a laugh that made the\nearth quake, and the rocks re-echoed it like to pealing thunder.\n\nTerrified, Life sank to earth in a swoon. Strife raised her high in\nair in his mighty arms and bore her away. Her lovely head was bent\nback, her hair swept the ground, her lips were half opened as though\nno breath were in them, the wondrous limbs that had resisted him so\nlong hung faint and powerless, and wherever he bore her there the grass\nfaded, the leaves decayed and fell from off the trees, and there blew\na storm wind that froze the limbs of Life.\n\n\"Wait,\" said Strife, and he covered her with kisses; \"you shall warm at\nmy fires. Only I must hide you from the Sun or I shall lose you again.\"\n\nAnd he vanished with her into the mountains.\n\nThe whole earth grew barren and desolate, the birds sang no more, the\nflowers drooped, only on the spot where Life had sunk down fainting\nthere bloomed some crocuses; but even these could not endure. The Sun\ngrew pale with grief, and wept and beckoned with a white sheet that\nfell upon the earth and dispersed into thousands of tiny fragments,\nwhile the mountains upon which Strife's armor had lain became ice for\nall time.\n\nWhen Love and Happiness found that they had lost Life they began\nto roam the world in search of her, asking all things after their\nbeloved companion. They no longer recognized their earth garden in\nits changed form, and they wept bitterly. They wandered past hill and\ndale, alongside the rivers that lay frozen and ice-clad, and they\ncalled aloud for Life, for they deemed that they must find her. One day\nthey leant wearily against a tall rock, when of a sudden they heard a\nsound within it as of gurgling waters. Flushed with joy they looked at\none another and both exclaimed: \"Here she is, here; we hear sounds of\nLife,\" and they began to touch the rock and to call and listen round\nabout it, until they found an opening whence a spring gushed forth.\nSoftly they called \"Life,\" and there she stood before them, joyless,\ndowncast, with weary steps, laying her finger upon her lips.\n\n\"My lord slumbers, do not wake him,\" she whispered sadly.\n\n\"Dear Life, come out with us; your garden is bare, your mother is pale,\nand we have roamed so long in search of you. Oh, come forth once more.\"\n\nAnd they drew Life forth with them, and as she took the first step\noutside snowdrops peeped up, and at her next step violets bloomed, and\nas she laid her weary hand upon a tree the buds swelled and broke into\nleaf.\n\n\"Behold,\" cried Love and Happiness, \"you still have your old might. Oh,\ndo be joyous! Look up at the Sun that she, too, may laugh.\"\n\nBut when the Sun saw her child so weak and weary, she could not refrain\nfrom weeping, though she strove to smile and warm her daughter with\nher hot rays. Again and again she had to press her cloud-sheet before\nher eyes, and then her tears dropped down upon the earth. Life still\ncrept along, but wearily. Then came a swallow.\n\n\"Hold on to my wings, dear Life; I will bear you a bit;\" and thus she\nonce more floated through the blue air, until the swallow was tired.\nThen the stork came and said--\n\n\"Kneel on my back and put your arms round my neck; I will carry you\nfurther.\"\n\nAnd he bore her far, far, and wherever he alighted a babe was born, and\nLove and Happiness followed in their wake, and dwelt beside the child.\nAnd the whole earth grew green and bright. The birds sang again, and\nevery sunbeam gave new power to Life, so that once more she could stand\non the mountain tops, a blooming, splendid woman, full of grace and\nmajesty, with earnest eyes and serious mouth, her hands filled with the\nfruits that should make rich the world.\n\nBut deep down in the earth, Strife who had awoke long ago, sought for\nhis absent wife. He stormed out into the world, and every where he\nbeheld her traces, but herself he could not find. How many of her gifts\ndid he not destroy in his wild haste! Sometimes he would halt puzzled,\npiercing the distance with his stern looks. Ay, he was near despairing,\nfor she, from whom he could no longer live apart, fled from him ever.\nNow a tree hid her with his foliage, now a bird in his nest, now a\nflower beneath its leaves, now the mist in its veil; and if he came too\nnear to her an eagle would bear her on his pinions up to the Sun, until\nStrife had swept past below, when she returned endowed with new power\nand glory. But at last, at last, he did catch sight of her as she was\npressing a vine wreath upon the locks of Happiness, and sending a gleam\nfrom her forehead into the eyes of Love. Then he stepped before her,\nlooked at her and beckoned. He must have done something to her, for of\npride and resistance there was no longer a trace. He strode before her\nwithout looking round, and she bowed her lovely head and followed him;\nand when her comrades would have held her back, she only beckoned with\nher hand, and stepped after him silently, wrapped in robes of mist that\nswept the falling leaves, and was like to an echo of the gurgling that\nhad once sounded in her robes. She went into the mountain, bearing with\nher fruits and grapes, that the Kobolds pressed into wine with which\nthey made to themselves merry days.\n\nAnd she brought forth two children, a boy and a maid. Both were very\npale, and had large dark eyes. The boy had something wild about him,\nlike his father, the maid was tender like her mother; she was named\nSorrow, but he was called Death. Sorrow did not remain long in her\nrocky home. She had inherited from her mother a yearning for earth,\nand from her father a ceaseless unrest. So she wandered ever backwards\nand forwards upon the earth, and never returned to her home. The boy\nfollowed now his father, now his mother, now his sister, and he made\nall still and dead upon their paths; the birds grew still and dead,\nthe ears of corn grew empty, the children pale; still and dead all who\nstruggled and suffered.\n\nHis mother could only behold him with a shudder; he inspired his father\nwith malicious joy, but only his sister loved him. She ever called him\nto her, and wept when he would not come. One day he said to Sorrow, \"I\nmust kill my mother; ay, if she only looks at me she is dead. But she\never turns aside from me.\"\n\nSorrow was terrified at these words, and did all in her power to turn\nthe mother's gaze from the son. But she ever felt his might, and could\nno longer play with Love and Happiness as formerly. They both, too,\nfeared Life's awful son even more than her grim spouse, for over him\nthey had learnt to exert a certain power; he grew quieter in their\npresence. But Death remained ever inexorable; his glance now scorching\nlike the simoon, now numbing like the north; even the Sun lost her\nstrength before this terrible boy, for he laid night upon all eyelids,\nand froze all things living.\n\nSince that time there is an end of the earth's paradise. That is\nwhy Life is no longer a radiant maiden, but a grave woman, full of\nuseful power, of stern demands on that which she has created. She\ncannot forget how fair all was once, and fain would see it thus again,\nnotwithstanding Strife and Sorrow and Death. She would fain be stronger\nthan all these three, and yet she must succumb and begin again anew, to\nsuccumb again, ever and ever.\n\n\n\n\n_SORROW._\n\n\n\n\nSorrow.\n\n\nSorrow was a lovely slender child, with dark hair that framed her pale\nface. Her delicate lips were nearly always closed, her black eyes\nlooked deadly weary, so that none could behold her without weeping. The\npoor child had no home, and wandered restlessly from place to place.\nNow she entered the hut of the poor, now the palace of the rich. She\nwas so silent and sad that all received her, but, strange to tell, all\nwho looked at her were attacked with a great woe. One lost his only\nchild, another his honor, his property, a third was pursued by enemies\nwithout a cause. Again, another knew but grief from his children, so\nthat he grew gray before his time. Or strife arose between married\nfolk, or one of the family fell prone upon a sick bed and did not arise\nthence for years. People looked at one another astounded whence came so\nmuch affliction, and knew not that they themselves opened the doors to\npale, silent Sorrow, and called her to their table. Sometimes the poor\nchild came back by the same road and learnt what terrible gifts she had\nbestowed. Then she avoided for a long time visiting at the same houses;\nbut she had grown to love some people, and longed to see them, and did\nnot notice that she visited them too often. So grief upon grief befell\nthem, until the sad child took up her staff and bade them farewell\nwith heavy heart and streaming eyes. She went on her road quietly, not\nin haste, not hurriedly, and yet her step was faster than the mountain\nstream, faster than the west wind, so that at last she came to lodge\nwith every human being. It was most terrible when she attached herself\nto children. Then the poor little things got long illnesses or even\nbecame orphans, and their pretty faces grew pale and delicate, like to\nSorrow's face, and their eyes as sad and heavy. When Sorrow saw this\nshe would weep bitterly, and for a long while would look at no child,\nay, even turn her head aside when children were at play.\n\nOne day she lay beneath an apple-tree, and saw how the little apples\nhad such merry red cheeks, that it made one glad to look at them.\n\n\"Oh, dear apple-tree,\" said Sorrow, \"give me such merry red cheeks,\nthen people will like better to look at me.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the apple-tree, \"if you had merry red cheeks, people would\nno longer harbor you from pity.\"\n\nShe got up sadly and pursued her road. Then she came to a garden hard\nby a river, in which there was such song of birds that it made one's\nheart leap for joy.\n\n\"Oh, you dear little birds,\" cried Sorrow, \"give me some of your lovely\nsong, that I may make mankind glad.\"\n\n\"No, dear child,\" twittered the birds; \"if you did not come so silently\nand go so quietly, men would not forget you so soon, and begin to\nnotice that you are Sorrow, and bring them grief.\"\n\nAnd yet further roamed poor Sorrow and came to a tall wood. Its scent\nwas delicious, and it was so pleasant to walk on the thick moss beneath\nthe trees. Here and there sun-gleams stole through the whispering\nfoliage, and trembled and danced upon the moss, gilding the faded\nleaves. It was beautiful! The child leant wearily against a tree.\n\n\"Here I may lodge and bring no grief; here I may rest, and no one look\nhimself ill at me.\"\n\nA sunbeam came leaping through the leaves, looked into the dim, lovely\neyes, sprang into them, illumined them brightly, and pierced down into\nSorrow's very heart. The whole wood saw the wonderful gleaming of that\ntender girlish face, and rustled for pleasure and admiration. Sorrow\ndid not know that she had grown more beautiful, but she felt the\nsunbeam tremble hot and joyous in her heart.\n\n\"Oh, dear wood,\" she cried, aloud, \"give me but a single one of all\nyour thousand sunbeams, and I shall be happy.\"\n\nOf a sudden all grew deadly still in the wood; the trees looked at one\nanother sadly, the sunbeam fled from Sorrow's eyes, touched a lustrous\nlizard, and then hid beneath tall ferns.\n\n\"You poor, poor child!\" said an old oak; \"a single sunbeam makes you\ntoo beautiful, men would call you too much and often, and then they\nwould have to bear pains far beyond their strength. You must remain\nwithout cheer or warmth.\"\n\nSlowly a hot tear fell upon the woodruff that grew at Sorrow's feet; it\nsent up sweet odors and whispered thanks for this dew.\n\nBut the restless maid went further, and she came to a large silent\nlake. Here nothing stirred, only Evening stepped across the waters,\nwrapped in shade, while round about him red rays darted through the\nlake, and here and there a star fell into it and remained unmoved on\nits quiet expanse. Sorrow dipped her hand into the waters and laid\nit on her brow. Evening came by and whispered, \"Good-night; sleep\ndreamlessly, forget thy woe.\" She looked after him long, and sighed\nsoftly--\n\n\"Once I found rest in the wood; once I forgot my woe when the sunbeam\nwas in my heart; but that is past.\"\n\nLost in dreams, the child gazed into the lake whence blew cool airs,\nwhile the nixes floated in mist across it.\n\nThen Sorrow perceived that a red light fell into the lake, larger,\nfiercer than the stars, and it continued to gleam far into the night.\nAs she lifted her eyes, she noticed that the light came from a\nhouse beside the water. It was thickly grown with ivy, and from its\nhigh-pointed window that stood open there shone this light.\n\n\"Strange,\" thought Sorrow, \"I have never entered here, and yet there is\nsome one watching yonder.\"\n\nShe made her way to the window. There sat a stately woman with\nsnow-white locks, wrapped in a long soft gown. A delicate kerchief was\nbound round her forehead. She wrote sedulously, with firm characters,\nin a large book. Her brow was marked with a deep stern furrow, but\nabout her delicate nostrils and lips there were signs of tender\nwomanliness and nobility of heart. Sorrow stood sunk in contemplation.\nThen two wondrous gray eyes were uplifted and looked at her calmly, and\na deep melodious voice said--\n\n\"Why do you not come in, child; I have waited for you long.\"\n\nSorrow entered amazed. She did not often hear this greeting. Of a\nsudden she found herself encircled by soft arms, and the wondrous woman\ntook her on her lap, kissed her, and said--\n\n\"Dear Sorrow, you had to find me; I might not seek you, for I never\ncome uncalled. I am Mother Patience, and I sit here and listen and\nwatch. The lake bears to me the voices of all those who call me. Often\nand often have I stepped in your footprints, but alas! not ever.\"\n\nThe furrow in her brow deepened as she spoke these last words. Sorrow\nlaid her head on this motherly breast.\n\n\"Oh, go with me, ever and ever,\" she craved, softly.\n\n\"No, child! when you call me then I will come, and when you are weary\nturn in here. I have to write the Book of Life; that gives me much to\ndo.\"\n\nPoor little Sorrow remained all night with the wise mother, and next\nmorning she went on her journey refreshed and strengthened. The whole\nearth was blooming and green, for it was harvest time. Sorrow looked at\nthe poppies and the corn flowers and thought--\n\n\"You poor things! now you are blooming so merrily and gleaming in the\nsunshine, and yet to-day you will all be mown down.\"\n\nThen she perceived a burly maiden, who stood alone in a field, and\nmowed as fast as three men.\n\n\"Good morning, pale one,\" she called to Sorrow, in roguish tones. \"Come\nhere, and help me.\"\n\nAnd so speaking she ran towards her, her locks flying and her blue eyes\nlaughing like sunshine.\n\n\"But who are you?\" she asked, amazed, when she saw Sorrow's dark eyes.\n\n\"I am Sorrow, and I must wander for ever. And who are you?\"\n\n\"I am Work; cannot you see that? Do you not see how healthy I am, and\nwhat strong arms I have.\"\n\nAnd with that she took up Sorrow like an infant upon her arms, and ran\nwith her all over the field, and laughed and shouted gleefully. A\nfaint tinge of red came over Sorrow's face as she said smiling--\n\n\"Come with me, do. I may never rest, and yet I am often so weary.\"\n\n\"That may not be, my little sister, for I must sleep in order to be\nfresh again in the day. But I am in all places, and must laugh, yet\nwhen I see your eyes my laughter is choked. But when you call me I\nwill come, and remain behind whence you depart, to make the faces glad\nagain.\"\n\nOnce more Sorrow stepped forth into the glittering morning and into\nthe wide wide world. But Work and Patience kept faith and became her\ntrusty companions. And many a time they met together of an evening in\nthe house by the lake, and read out of the Book of Life or wrote in its\npages.\n\n\n\n\n_THE REALM OF PEACE._\n\n\n\n\nThe Realm of Peace.\n\n\nPeace dwelt within a deep, silent mountain tarn that was unfathomable,\nyet reflected, notwithstanding, the sky's eternal blue. About it tall\ncliffs reared their heads, that shone at eve with rosy sheen, while\nbeyond it was protected by a dense forest in which an ax had never\nsounded. Neither Sorrow nor Strife had ever come in here; even the\nwind could find no entry, for the rocks had pushed themselves forward\nso protectingly that Winter also had to rest content with shaking in\nlightly quite a few of his flakes, for there were warm springs in the\ntarn, so Frost had no power over it. It was ever green and flowering\nround about the shore, and the song of birds filled the air. When Peace\nlay floating on the quiet surface of the tarn all the flowering and\nsinging streamed towards him. Then he would smile blissfully, and kiss\nthe sunbeams that darted their warm arms towards him; ay, he would\nencircle them and draw them under the water and play hide-and-seek\nwith them behind the trees and leaves. He was such a glorious youth\nthat all things loved him; they loved his blue eyes, fathomless like\nthe lake whence he arose, his ruddy lips, his wondrous voice, his\nhappy laughter. No wonder that the sunbeams sought him, that the moss\ntrembled with joy when he stepped lightly across it, that the leaf\ntrembled that touched his brow, that the deer gazed long into the\nstream wherein he had seen his image, that the elves and nixes could\nonly dream of him.\n\nBut one day a sound of weeping and sighing swept through the forest, as\nthough the trees made plaint, and from their leaves fell drops and woke\nthe fair sleeper whom the sunbeams had lulled to rest. Amazed, he gazed\naround him. A girlish figure came towards him, with pale face and long\ndark lashes and sad, sad eyes. She dragged her feet wearily across the\nmoss and sank down beside him.\n\n\"Who are you?\" he asked, astonished.\n\n\"I am Sorrow; Mother Patience sends me to you.\"\n\n\"Who is Mother Patience? and who is Sorrow? I have never heard of\nthem.\"\n\n\"There is much you have not heard of, for you do not know the world.\"\n\nPeace smiled. \"Do you know it, then?\"\n\nSorrow sighed and nodded her head.\n\n\"Look at me,\" she said, \"am I beautiful?\"\n\nPeace looked at her long, until he had read the whole history of the\nworld in the depths of her solemn eyes. Sorrow felt so blissful as she\ngazed at him, and every hour she spent with him the poor maiden felt\nwarmer about her heart, and love entered into it with all its power and\nmight. When evening came Peace had read every thing. He shuddered.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"you are not beautiful.\"\n\nSorrow felt her heart stand still. She said softly--\n\n\"Then you will not go with me?\"\n\nPeace trembled.\n\n\"Oh no,\" he said, \"not with you. It is so lovely here.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is beautiful, but the wisest of women bids me tell you that\nyour realm is too small; you are born to rule, and she has read in\nthe Book of Life that a time will come when you shall reign over all\nthings.\"\n\nPeace looked thoughtfully down into the tarn.\n\n\"But if I am satisfied with my kingdom here?\" he said. \"I am not\nambitious, I need no fame and no might, I have all I require.\"\n\n\"But if the whole world became like this holy spot, then it would be\nyet more beautiful, and you only need to show yourself as you are to\ncarry off the victory and make it so.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\" said Peace, and he looked at her again with his\nlovely eyes, in whose depths dwelt rest and purity. Sorrow's heart\nstood still until Peace looked away from her into the water and\ncontinued thoughtfully. \"I will go and see for myself whether the world\nwants me without having ever beheld my face. If she calls me I will\ncome, for I will not fight with her. Farewell, Sorrow. I will test the\nworld to see if I can found my kingdom in her.\"\n\nSorrow remained lost in wonder concerning him long after he had\nvanished from her gaze. A bird flew over her head towards the evening\nsky, flapping its wings as it went. Sorrow fell on her knees beside the\ntarn. The waters had grown dark, and through the forest went a sound as\nof sighs. The poor maid trembled like a leaf in the wind.\n\nHere, in the realm of Peace, none understood the woe that shook her\nbreast.\n\n\"You are not beautiful,\" were the words that sounded to her from all\nsides--out of the wood, the water, out of her own heart-beats. Night\ncame by gently, and sought her darling whom she had ever kissed asleep.\nShe only found Sorrow, and looked at her gloomily.\n\n\"What have you done to my Peace?\" she asked, in threatening tones.\n\n\"I have fetched him away,\" moaned Sorrow, and wrung her hands.\n\nNight frowned yet more darkly.\n\n\"In punishment,\" she said, \"you shall ever seek him and never find him.\nNow go!\"\n\nSorrow went forth like to a moaning wind that rushes through the trees.\nShe wanted to seek for Peace in the world. For a long, long while she\nnever visited Mother Patience, for she now only thought of one and had\nforgotten the good mother. Peace hovered over the world as a bird, and\nhe beheld how Strife and his children had devastated it. He saw bloody\nbattlefields, and at sight of the first corpse he grew so giddy that he\nwas near to fall down with awe. When he beheld murder his heart grew\nsore in his breast, as though he had himself been wounded, and he flew\non, away from the scene.\n\nHe flew over a great city. There he saw a light burning in an attic\nwindow. He looked in. A pale man sat there, and coughed and wrote with\nlong white fingers.\n\n\"And I, too, shall be great, ay, surely,\" he murmured to himself. \"I\nfeel it in my breast like fire; there is a light in my brain that\nshall illumine the world.\"\n\n\"Poor fool,\" thought Peace; \"Ambition is hunting you to death and you\ndo not know it.\"\n\nFrom out a vine-wreathed window there gazed a lovely girlish head.\n\nPeace thought--\"She is like my elves,\" and he flew in.\n\nBut how bitterly was he disenchanted. Flowers and dresses lay about in\ntardy confusion, and the fair one maintained that last evening she had\nexceeded in charm all others at the ball. Her sister scolded at all\nballs; ay, said the whole world was stupid.\n\n\"I wish I was that bird who has just come in,\" she added.\n\n\"He, oh, he will dirty every thing!\" said the other, and chased him out\nagain.\n\nIn a lonely house there sat an aged woman, and read out of a large\nBible. Deadly pale her youngest son rushed into her room. He was the\nonly one that remained to her this side the ocean, and he asked her for\nmoney; he must have money or he would shoot himself. The Bible fell\nfrom the old woman's hand, she could not help the reprobate any more;\nfor though he knew it not she had already sacrificed to him all her\nlittle wealth and even the very house she dwelt in.\n\nIn a beautiful garden a nobleman tended his sickly daughter who needed\nair and light, a very angel of patience and beauty; meanwhile her\ncallous mother preferred the idle pleasures of the drawing-room to the\ncare of her sick child.\n\nIn a field Peace saw a number of lads and maidens cutting corn. They\nlaughed and sang, and threw down their sickles and seated themselves\nbeneath an apple-tree to enjoy their midday meal and rest. Peace flew\nabove them and settled among the branches to listen to their prattle\nuntil the lads fell asleep, while the maidens continued to chatter\nsoftly. Then a man came across the field. He wore a broad brimmed hat,\nand under it loomed forth his dark, bad face. He woke the lads with\nkicks, he threatened the maidens with his stick, called them lazy and\ndrove them to their work.\n\nAgain, further on he beheld a lovely girl given to wife to a rich\nmonster, notwithstanding her pleadings and prayers. He saw sisters\nand brothers haggling over the coffin of a father; even among little\nchildren he witnessed strifes that showed him that they bore within\nthem the seeds of future passions.\n\nPeace flew towards the south, where lovely girls swung carelessly in\nhammocks, rocking themselves and torturing their slaves. He flew to\nthe north, and beheld a large city full of light-minded women and\nunfaithful men, who rushed from one amusement to another--now on\nthe ice, now in the ball-room, now in sledges, now on or behind the\nstage. He flew to the far west, and beheld a rushing and racing after\ngain--restless, endless. He flew to the east, and saw noble men and\nwomen working in exile like to day-laborers, heavy at heart with cold\nand home-sickness. He flew into the desert, and saw lonely travelers\nlanguishing for water. He flew all over and around the world, but every\nwhere he beheld the signs of pain and struggle. So he went back to his\nmountain tarn, and he resolved never to leave his little realm again.\nHow amazed was he to behold on its shores a great monastery, built of\nhuge solid stones, that made it appear as though it had stood there for\nages.\n\n\"I must have been long absent,\" thought Peace, as he entered into the\nconvent.\n\nHe stepped inside a wide stone cell, whose tall pointed windows looked\nout upon his lake and on the rosy shimmering cliffs beyond. A young\nmonk sat by an organ, playing and singing in heart-moving tones, as if\nhe would communicate to the walls the storm that shook his soul. An\nolder monk had risen from a table, on which, as also on the floor, lay\nstrewn open folios. He seated himself in the window-niche and covered\nhis face with his hands. Of a sudden the door was opened, and there\nentered an emaciated monk with flaming eyes. His fierce regard rested\nsternly on the younger man. Then he turned his haggard form towards the\nman in the window-niche, and pointing to the door he said--\n\n\"For you, my son, these sounds are noxious poison, which only strict\npenance can remedy.\"\n\nThe man addressed bowed his head and went out.\n\n\"And you, my son, sin daily by your song. Your life becomes enjoyment\nin lieu of penitence, and you lead astray your brethren also. From\nto-day forward song and organ are forbidden you.\"\n\nAnd he walked to the instrument, locked it, and, putting the key in\nhis pocket, he went away. The younger man fell upon his knees before\nthe organ and kissed it like a dead bride, and then went out into the\nchurch.\n\nPeace leant against a beech-tree and wept passionately. \"The whole\nworld is a struggle, and they have taken from me my only home.\nFarewell, my silent lake!\"\n\nAnd once more he went out into the world.\n\nHe came past a churchyard and went in, going from grave to grave till\nhe came to the chapel, where a woman knelt and sobbed.\n\n\"Not even here,\" said Peace, and turned to go further.\n\nThen he saw a neglected grave, all overgrown with trailing ivy. Cross\nand inscription had long vanished, the mound had sunk, only the ivy\nwound its arms lovingly over the forgotten spot.\n\n\"Here is my kingdom,\" said Peace, and he sank down among the leaves.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nBut Sorrow yet roams the world in search of Peace, for she can never\nforget him. Yet, wherever she asked, wherever she sought, nowhere could\nshe find him. Some had seen him go by, but none had been able to hold\nhim. She passed through the churchyard, and stepped by the new graves,\nonly the neglected one she did not visit.\n\n\n\n\n_EARTHLY POWERS._\n\n\n\n\nEarthly Powers.\n\n\n\"Where is Truth? I want to go to her,\" said Strife.\n\n\"She lives in a castle of rock crystal, high up above, on the highest\nmountain in the world, and looks out thence on all the lands, and knows\nevery thing, and whosoever attains thither finds everlasting rest; but\nI do not know the road.\"\n\nSo spoke a golden eagle, flapped his wings, and disappeared into\nimmeasurable heights.\n\nBut straight in front of Strife there stood of a sudden a little\nbeing, with turned-up nose, large, light, prominent eyes that only\nlooked outwards, and a half-opened mouth, as though she had just spoken.\n\n\"Whence come you?\" said Strife.\n\n\"I don't know.\"\n\n\"Whither are you going?\"\n\n\"I don't know either.\"\n\n\"What do you want in the world?\"\n\n\"I want to know, for my name is Query.\"\n\n\"Oh, you want to know? Then perhaps you know the road to Truth.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know it, and that is why I do not go on it, for I want to see\nthat which I do not know.\"\n\n\"But Truth knows all.\"\n\n\"Oh no; how can she know? She sits up there in her castle, while I run\nabout and ask and ask.\"\n\nAnd she skipped about restlessly as she spoke. Seeing a flower, she\nstooped down and asked--\n\n\"Why do you grow here?\"\n\n\"Bah,\" cried Strife, impatiently, and trod it down. \"What do I care\nabout that! You are to show me the road to Truth.\"\n\n\"That I will not,\" cried Query, and ran away.\n\nWith two long strides Strife caught her up, and seized her by the arm.\n\n\"I don't leave go of you till you have led me thither.\"\n\n\"But I don't know the whole way; I can only lead you as far as Doubt.\"\n\n\"Then lead me to Doubt.\"\n\n\"I will not,\" said Query, defiantly, and tugged at the arm that was\ncaptive.\n\nStrife grew enraged. He tore up stinging nettles, and lashed her with\nthem until she promised to do all that he desired. Then he slung his\ngolden chain round her body, and said--\n\n\"Now lead me and I will follow.\"\n\nThen she began to lead him astray, on rough paths, through shrubs\nand water, and over rocks, and across the desert. At last she stood\nstill and laughed at him scornfully, pointing out with a titter the\nspot whence they had set forth. At this Strife grew so furious that\neven impertinent little Query began to tremble. And she had reason to\ntremble, for he chained her to the nearest tree and lashed at her with\ncords until she could cry no more.\n\n\"Now,\" he said, \"explain to me how to reach as far as Doubt, for I will\nno longer go with you. But if you deceive me again I will strike you\ndead.\"\n\nShe pointed out the road to him, and he went away without looking\nback, leaving her tied to the tree. She begged and entreated and cried\nfor help in vain. His mighty form grew smaller and smaller, the sun\nscorched her hotter and hotter. Poor little Query nearly perished. But\nthe inquisitive swallows, who were her especial friends, saw her need,\nand brought her drops of water and crumbs of bread in their beaks.\nThis lasted until autumn came, and they set forth on their wanderings.\nIn her need she turned to the wind for aid. He began to blow stronger\nand stronger, till he had broken down the tree. Had little Query not\nbeen so lithe and supple, it would have cost her her life. At it was,\nshe fell to the ground numb with fear and cold. But she soon roused\nherself, loosed herself free from the stump, and ran off as fast as her\nfeet could bear her, to peer once more with curious eyes into the world.\n\nStrife had reached Doubt, who lived at the foot of the mountain where\nstood the castle of Truth. His house was surrounded by a large bog,\ninto which countless persons had sunk who had sought the road to Truth.\nStrife hewed down a whole forest and threw it into the bog, and then\nstepped across it to the dwelling of Doubt.\n\n\"Hold!\" cried Doubt. \"You don't escape from here without a struggle.\"\n\n\"That just suits me. I came here to wrestle with you.\"\n\nSo they began to tussle, and they fought together for the space of a\nwhole year. Winter came; they strove upon the ice. Summer came; they\nstill contended. The wood that Strife had thrown into the bog began to\nsink under the mighty bodies, and it sank deeper and deeper until it\nthreatened to engulf them. Then, at last, Doubt gave way, and said--\n\n\"Well go, but it will not be for your happiness.\"\n\n\"I do not seek happiness; I seek Truth,\" said Strife, and began to\nclimb the mountain. The longer he ascended the higher it seemed to\ngrow; with immense exertion he climbed from rock to rock. Beneath him\na precipice yawned continually, and threatened to destroy him. More\nthan once he had to lay hold of the stones and pull himself up by them.\nA block broke and fell thundering into the deeps. From time to time\nit lightened and flashed up in the heights; that must be the palace\nof crystal which Strife had vowed to enter. After new exertions he\nreached a wondrous lovely forest dell, surrounded by tall, aspiring\ntrees. Within was such scent of flowers, such murmur of water, such\nsong of birds, that a strange sensation came over him, while straight\nin front, upon a polished rocky point, something shone like to the sun\nitself. That was the castle of rock crystal. Its thousand facets caught\nthe light and sunbeams, and reflected them up and down in endless\nrefractions. The pointed turrets reared themselves against the clear\nether, like ice upon which snow has never fallen. It was as though\nlight moved about in it of its own will and power, as though it came\nforth thence, and not from the Sun that stood behind the castle. When\nStrife shielded his eyes with his hand in order to endure the glare, a\nlovely maiden, clothed only in her own golden locks, came forth from\nthe castle and down the hill. She had laid a huge green leaf across\nher shoulders to shelter her from the sun, and was thus flooded with\ngold-green light. In her hand she held a pitcher cut from a single\ntopaz. In it the wood, the flowers, and her own graceful image were\nreflected. Strife watched her as she placed her small white feet upon\nthe moss, walking so lightly that she left no trace. She had cast down\nher eyes as she neared the spring. Then Strife came close, and said as\ngently as he could--\n\n\"Give me to drink. I am thirsty.\"\n\nShe lifted her eyes with astonishment and looked at the strong, dark\nman. To him it seemed as though heaven looked at him, so deep blue,\nso clear and pure were her eyes. The long weary road, the fierce\nstruggles, ay, even the goal that he would reach, vanished from his\nmemory as he looked at this impressive beauty.\n\n\"Are you Truth?\" he asked, at last. \"If so I will worship you.\"\n\nThe rosy child-mouth opened.\n\n\"No, Truth is my mother; I am called Innocence. Do you wish to go to\nher?\"\n\n\"Yes--no, no longer; I will stay with you, for you are more beautiful\nthan all.\"\n\n\"Am I beautiful?\" asked the girl with surprise; \"my mother has never\ntold me that. But you, you are beautiful, and you look so good,\ntherefore you shall drink out of my pitcher.\"\n\nWhen he had drunk the draught he was quite beside himself. He had only\none thought, to win charming Innocence unto himself.\n\n\"Come, play with me, thou heavenly child,\" he said; \"I can teach you\nquite new games, here, on this fair meadow.\"\n\nAnd he made balls out of flowers and threw them at her, and watched\nher movements as she caught them laughing and shouting gleefully. Then\nhe made her run and he ran after. Then he blindfolded his eyes with\nleaves, and she teased him till he caught her. At last she grew so\nwanton that she bound him round with creepers, upon which he made as\nthough he could not stand, and let himself fall into the grass. She\nlaughed merrily, and strewed him with flowers and leaves; but when she\nhad nearly covered him, he shook himself free, sprang up, raised her\nhigh into the air, and ran with her to the wood.\n\n\"Mother, mother!\" called the terrified maiden.\n\nThen the sun sank and night covered all things.\n\nTruth sat in her crystal castle and waited for her daughter. She\nwondered where the sweet child could have strayed, and tried to behold\nher as she saw all things. But fear for her own flesh and blood\ntroubled her vision. She passed her hand before her eyes several times,\nbut she clearly beheld the sun set and the moon rise so she could not\nbe blind. When the moon shone down on her castle, she heard quite\ndistinctly her child's voice crying in terror, \"Mother, my mother!\" and\nthe next moment, with a fearful crash, the castle of crystal was rent\nin twain from top to bottom. Truth grew yet paler than the moon that\nwas shining into her face. She rushed down the mountain. The stream\nsparkled in the moonlight, and there lay the topaz pitcher and a smell\nof crushed flowers filled the air. The mourning mother stood still and\nasked of Night where was her child, and all the flowers began to weep\nand drooped their heads in sorrow, and soon the whole meadow was wet\nwith their tears.\n\nTruth went onward, petrified, following the traces of her child deep\ninto the wood, where the moon played with the shadows and conjured\nforth all sorts of shapes. She went on and on, till at last she heard\na sound of weeping, and the next moment she stood before her daughter,\nwho lay on her knees and stretched out her arms towards her. No one\nspoke a word, even Night held her breath; but the eyes of Truth began\nto glow like flames of fire. With one look she burnt her daughter's\nhair, with the next she dazzled Strife, who stood entranced and could\nonly stare at her. He felt the pain of it shoot through all his body,\nhe put his hand up to his eyes, he tottered and fell against a tree.\nHe wanted to see; he knew that Innocence was kneeling there in the\nmoonlight, but he was stone blind; no ray of light was ever again to\nilluminate his darkness. At last Truth spoke with deep resounding\nvoice--\n\n\"My child, you are torn from me for ever. Up here there is no longer\nroom for you. Oh why did you not obey? I had warned you against every\nstranger; you were to speak to none, to give no answers. Here, take my\ncloak; at the foot of the mountain you will find shelter.\"\n\nWith these words she turned and went away, and her sighs bent the\ncrowns of the trees, and grew to a great storm that raged through the\nworld like an everlasting plaint. Strife stormed down the mountain and\nhowled with pain and despair. Since that time he has grown yet more\nviolent, for he is blind, and rushes through the world senselessly,\ntrying to wreak vengeance on it for his eternal pain. Poor Innocence\nwrapped the cloak round her trembling limbs, and descended slowly into\nthe valley. Her feet were scratched by the rough stones, and her tears\nflowed ceaselessly. A few hours ago and she had been the most lovely\nflower on the heights, and now she was crushed and trodden down. She\ncame to the haunts of men, and knocked at their doors and asked for\nalms, but she got more abuse than alms. At last she came to the spot\nwhere Doubt dwelt, and one stormy night she passed with light foot\nover the bog, not knowing that death yawned under her feet. Doubt was\namazed when he heard a tap at his door. Who could have crossed the\nbog on such a night! There stood a pale tired woman, and begged for\nshelter, and said she would not stay long.\n\n\"Who are you?\" asked Doubt.\n\n\"I am called Innocence.\"\n\nDoubt laughed a hard short laugh.\n\n\"You will not make me believe that.\"\n\nBut as his words made her cry he grew very somber.\n\n\"Is it Strife that has brought you to this? Oh shame, oh everlasting\nshame! A curse on him and his search for Truth. It were better he had\nbeen drowned here.\"\n\nAnd Doubt received Innocence most kindly and kept her beside him, but\nhe could give her no comfort. Each of his words only made her heart\nheavier, until at last he told her that she would be a mother.\n\n\"Then I shall die,\" said Innocence.\n\nAt the moment her child was born it glided away like a snake, and\nhopped and danced like a will-o'-the-wisp across the bog of Doubt.\n\n\"Oh, my child,\" sighed Innocence, \"come to me, only once.\"\n\nThen she felt a burning and glowing at her breasts and a sucking that\ndrained her very life. And while the little being sucked it gained\ncharming form, and it had eyes that shone now black, now green.\nInnocence felt how it was draining from her all her heart's blood, and\nwith a soft sigh she inclined her lovely head in death. Doubt buried\nher in the silent bog that covered her with its dark waters. Then he\nlooked at the child.\n\n\"Shall I murder you, you horrid wretch? No; the world is ripe for you,\nyou shall live; go forth and avenge your mother!\"\n\nAnd so saying he threw her into the bog, across which she slid like\nan eel, and hopped out into the world to do as much mischief in it as\npossible.\n\nStrife was her special butt; she tempted and teased and provoked him\nincessantly, and often sent him into towering rages. Then he tried to\nwring her neck, for he knew not that she was his daughter. But she\nalways escaped, laughing, from the blind man, and mocked him.\n\nThe world was enchanted with her. It lay at her feet and adored her as\na goddess; and this goddess was Falsehood.\n\n\n\n\n_THE INEXORABLE._\n\n\n\n\nThe Inexorable.\n\n\nThe sea was running high and was black as night. Only the crests of\nthe endless waves glistened in the lightning that flashed across the\nheavens. The storm was raging towards the land and threw the ships\nupon the rocks, so that hundreds of human lives perished in the ocean.\nThen of a sudden it seemed as though the storm grew entangled among\nthe cliffs on the shore, and condensed into a form that reared up\ntall and pale against the mighty heavens. It was a grave youth with\nunflinching black eyes, who leaned upon a sickle and held an hour-glass\nin his hand. He gazed across the waters with an indifferent air, as\nthough the wrecks, and corpses beneath, concerned him as little as the\nsand in his glass, which trickled down evenly, steadily, regardless of\nthe blustering of the storm, or the sudden quiet. There was something\niron-like in the youth's features, in his eyes there lay a power that\ndestroyed all things they looked upon; even the ocean seemed to be\nnumbed by them, and to grow silent with fear. Day dawned, and flooded\nwith roseate hues from the rising sun. Sorrow came stepping over the\ncliffs. She stretched out her arms to the youth.\n\n\"Brother,\" she cried, \"brother, what have you done! You have raged\nterribly, and did not hear how I called you, ay, cried for you so\neagerly.\"\n\n\"I heard nothing,\" said Death. \"I felt myself too quiet, so I roused\nmyself. A few vessels were lost in the act.\"\n\n\"O pitiless one!\" said Sorrow.\n\n\"I do not comprehend your grief,\" answered the somber youth; and\nturning from her, he walked away. He paced silently through the sunny\nworld; it blew chill around him, and wherever he paused a silent\nshudder seized all things. He went by a house and looked in. There lay\na man tortured with pain who beheld him and called him imploringly; but\nhe only shook his head and went further. A lovely young woman stood in\nher garden surrounded by joyous children, her husband had just stepped\nup to her and kissed her. The pale wanderer laid his hand on her\nshoulder and beckoned to her; she followed him a few steps and sank\nlifeless to the ground.\n\nThen he came to a forest in which a pale man was pacing hither and\nthither, tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, crying--\n\n\"Dishonored, dishonored!\"\n\nHe saw the passer-by with the somber eyes, saw him lift his white hand\nand point to a tree. The despairing man understood the signal.\n\nHe passed a group of playing children, and softly mowed the grass\nbetween their feet with his scythe. Then they bowed their heads like\nbroken flowerets.\n\nThere an old man sat in an armchair, and was enjoying the warming\nsunbeams. Death raised his hour-glass and held it before his eyes--the\nlast sands were running down.\n\nHe halted by a stagnant pool. No water could be seen, for it was\ncovered with green. The rushes quivered under his cold breath, and\nthe toad that had been croaking grew silent. Then the reeds rustled\nand a lovely woman drew close to the water, took something from a\nhandkerchief and threw it down. It sank with a faint gurgle into the\ndepths. Twice she made a movement as though she would spring in after\nit, but each time Death extended his scythe towards her, and she fled\nterrified. He lifted his hour-glass in which the sand ran down quickly,\nhurriedly. Then something white came up between the green water-plants,\nand with wide-open eyes a little corpse appeared, gazing at the running\nsand.\n\nThen Death went further, and across a battle-field, where he mowed down\nmany fine men.\n\nAt last he came to a lovely valley in which autumn was reigning in all\nits glory. The trees were bathed in gleaming gold, the sward beneath\nwas a luscious green, strewn with tender flowers. A silvery laugh came\nfrom the branches through which a charming little figure was floating,\nnow hiding among the leaves, now jumping down upon the grass, and at\nlast running with lightsome step, and garments streaming in the breeze,\nto meet a stately man who stood leaning on a club beside a hillock.\n\n\"Come to me, fair Happiness,\" he cried aloud. \"You must go with me. You\nare mine, for I am Courage.\"\n\n\"Must I?\" said the sweet little form, and turned her back to him.\n\nAs she did so her eyes, full of beaming wantonness and measureless\nroguery, turned towards the pale pilgrim. He saw the dimples that\nplayed on her chin and cheeks, her neck and her arm. Her whole slender\nfigure was inwrapt by her light floating locks, which were moved by the\nsoftest breeze, and which looked in the sunshine like falling gold-dust.\n\n\"Yes,\" cried Courage, \"you must, for you love me. I have found that\nout.\"\n\n\"I love you in this fair valley, and that is why I give you smiles; but\nif you must go out into the world, you must go alone. There stands one\nwho has never yet spoken with me, and he looks as if he too needed the\ngift of smiling.\"\n\n\"You can't give it to him,\" said Courage. \"Do not try. You will only\nhurt yourself with his scythe.\"\n\nBut Happiness had already run up to the Inexorable.\n\n\"Shall I teach you how to smile, you serious youth? You seem to need\nit.\"\n\n\"Yes, I could use it, for all behold me unwillingly, and no one goes\nwith me unless he is obliged, and it is because I cannot smile.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Happiness, and she grew quite timid; \"but in order to teach\nyou smiling, I must kiss you. That does not seem to me so hard, only\nyour eyes terrify me.\"\n\n\"Then I will close them,\" said Death.\n\n\"No, no, you are so pale, I shall be still more afraid; and your\nscythe, too, is so sharp and cold.\"\n\n\"Then I will throw it from me.\"\n\nAnd he threw his scythe far away; it grazed the trees as it fell. Then\ntheir golden foliage fell to earth, and all the branches grew bare,\nand as the scythe sank into the grass it grew covered with rime, and\nthe flowers hung down their crowns.\n\n\"Oh, you have spoilt my garden with your ugly scythe,\" cried Happiness;\n\"and I was going to make you such a lovely present.\"\n\n\"I did not want to do it, but the scythe flew out of my hand, and now\nI am much sadder because I have grieved you. You can find new gardens,\nbut no one can teach me how to smile.\"\n\n\"You shall learn, notwithstanding,\" said the fair maiden, and she\nstepped close to him; but as often as her rosy lips approached him\nshe grew so cold that she fell back shuddering. Then he looked at her\nimploringly without raising his hand, as if he feared to hurt her by\na touch; but his gaze held her spellbound like a great power, and\nshe had to kiss him. But at the moment that her lips touched him his\ncold sank deep into her heart, and she fell dead to the earth. Courage\nsprang angrily at the pale youth.\n\n\"You have murdered my Happiness.\"\n\n\"Was she yours?\" asked Death, and sighed; \"then go after her; there she\nfloats.\"\n\nFollowing the indication of his hand, Courage saw how the soft breezes\nwere tenderly bearing away Happiness upon their wings, like to a light\ncloudlet. Courage hurried after them with powerful steps, keeping his\neyes ever fixed on that rosy cloud.\n\nDeath stood and gazed until he felt quite warm within, and a tear ran\nslowly down his pale cheeks. He had to learn for himself, what as yet\nhe knew not, how it hurts if we chase away Happiness.\n\nWhen nothing more could be seen but bare trees, faded grass, and\nwithered flowers, he lifted his scythe and looked sadly around the\nvalley, as though he expected it would all bloom again. But the earth\nremained dead and stark, so he turned once more to the sea. That was\nrolling its eternal tides upwards and downwards, as indifferent as\never. But he who stood above and looked down was no longer indifferent.\nHe thought of the maiden whom he had hurt, and his yearning was as\ngreat as the ocean at his feet. And this yearning transfigured him to\nwondrous beauty. Thus he was seen of a pale maiden with unkempt hair\nand torn garments. She fell at his feet; but he was terrified by her,\nand drew back a pace.\n\n\"Do you no longer know me?\" said the maiden. \"You used to know me well,\nand you knew that I perished for yearning after you. I am Despair.\nHave you forgotten that you promised to kiss me, to give me one single\nkiss? It would be happiness for ever.\"\n\nThe youth's eyes grew dark as night, and his voice sounded stern as he\nsaid--\n\n\"And you dare to speak of happiness? Do you know what happiness is? If\nyou come near it only once may you be turned to stone!\"\n\n\"And if I were to turn to stone, yet I implore for a kiss from your\nmouth.\"\n\nThe youth shuddered and thought of the lips that had touched his and\ntaught him to smile, and as he thought of them he smiled. When the\nmaiden at his feet saw this, she threw her arms about his neck, and\nlaid her head on his breast. She did not see the hate and loathing that\nflashed from his eyes, but the next moment a hideous skeleton grinned\nat her, and nearly crushed her in his bony arms, and a death's-head\nkissed her.\n\nThen the earth trembled and opened. Cities vanished, fire streamed\nforth from mountains, forests were uprooted, rocks flew through the\nair, the sky was on fire, and the sea rolled in upon the land. When all\nwas still again, Despair reared above the waters, an image of stone.\nDeath rushed away as a storm wind to pursue the rosy cloud under this\ndisguise.\n\n\n\n\n_WILLI._\n\n\n\n\nWilli.\n\n\nMother Patience was once again sitting by her window writing. She had\noften been called that day, and had much to confide to her mighty\nfolios, much too that was good and pleasant; that is why an air of\ncheerful calm rested on her features. The whole room was filled with\nthe scent of lovely flowers, and on the hearth there burnt a bright\nfire that threw magic lights and shades upon the industrious scribe.\nWithout it was blowing cold, and like sharp needlepoints the frozen\nsnow flew against the window panes. A light covering of ice lay over\nthe lake, firm enough to hold the ravens. The distant road resounded\nhard and dry under the quick steps of shivering wanderers, the wind\nsang melancholy tunes round the lonely little house, as though he\nwould recount to Mother Patience all the misery of the earth. He shook\nand tussled at the ivy that tenderly inwrapt the house. Suddenly she\nstopped to listen; a light, well-known footstep had passed her window,\nand the next moment Sorrow knelt at her feet, breathless, trembling\nlike a hunted deer.\n\n\"Mother,\" she said, \"mother, how terrible. Why were you not there, then\nthat awful woman would not have gone with me, and it all would not have\nhappened.\"\n\nSo speaking Sorrow looked behind her fearfully, as though that pursued\nher that had alarmed her so.\n\n\"Calm yourself, child, no awful people come hither. Tell me what has\noccurred.\"\n\n\"It was my fault,\" wailed Sorrow; \"I did it. Oh, why am I in the world?\nwhy am I not there, deep down in the lake where the frozen water would\nbury me safely?\"\n\n\"Be quiet, child, quiet; do not murmur, do not complain, for you bow\ndown the haughty and soften the hardhearted.\"\n\n\"No, mother, that is just it; I harden the hearts, and those who love\nknow each other no more. You must hear my tale.\n\n\"Two years ago I turned in on a prosperous farm; it was called The\nHolt. Wherever you looked you saw evidences of full rich life. The\ncattle were well fed and tended like horses, the barns were full, the\nmaids and men in noisy activity. A splendid boy with blue eyes and\nbrown locks was cracking his whip in the yard. He wanted to chase the\ncalves that were going to drink. A slender pretty girl with laughing\nbrown eyes and a coronet of fair plaits came out upon the doorstep.\n\n\"'Johnnie, Johnnie!' she cried; 'you rogue, you naughty boy; will you\nleave the calves alone.'\n\n\"The boy laughed and cracked his whip louder than ever, but swift as\nlightning the girl ran out, and with a curious stern look about her\nmouth wrenched the whip from him before he was aware of it, and held\nit high in the air so that he could not reach it, though he jumped and\ntried. It was a charming picture,--the boy impetuously defiant, the\ngirl so firm and lithe. I looked at both with pleasure. But there was\nanother looking at them, he seemed to be the bailiff. When the girl\nlooked round she grew quite red at the gaze that rested on her, and\ncalled out--\n\n\"'Why do you stand like that? Could you not hinder him?'\n\n\"'Oh, yes; but then Willi would not have flown out like a little demon.\nI only waited to see her come out and make her stern face.'\n\n\"'Get along with you,' she said, and threatened him with the whip.\n\n\"The bell rang for supper. I was called in and allowed to sit among the\nmaids. There stood the Holt farmer, stately and strong. He had just\nsuch brown eyes as his daughter, and the same stern look about the\nmouth, only in him it was more marked. His wife had blue eyes like\nthe boy, but her air was depressed, as if she could not hold herself\nagainst the strong wills around her.\n\n\"'Johnnie, say grace,' said the farmer.\n\n\"Johnnie was cross and mumbled--\n\n\"'Come, Lord Jesus, sit down among us, and give me back my whip.'\n\n\"'But, Johnnie!' thundered the voice of the farmer, who tried thus to\noverpower the tittering that went round the table.\n\n\"The tone was a merry one. Johnnie was much teased, and he swallowed\ndown his vexation with his hot soup. The bailiff sat opposite Willi,\nand they often exchanged secret glances.\n\n\"'Johnnie is my crown prince,' said the farmer; 'and he will once reign\nover all this domain, while Willi will have all the money and wed the\nRaven farmer.'\n\n\"'That I will not,' said the girl, without looking up from her plate,\nand again that stern look came into her face; 'I do not like that man.'\n\n\"'She does not want to be a raven mother,'[1] the head-maid whispered\nto the bailiff, and all began to laugh.\n\n\"'What is all this whispering?' asked the farmer, frowning darkly.\n\n\"No one would reply. At last Johnnie called out--\n\n\"'Willi does not want to be a raven mother.'\n\n\"Then the laughter knew no bounds. Willi threw a censuring look at her\nbrother; the farmer said dryly--\n\n\"'I do not like these silly jokes, and if I say a thing it must be.'\n\n\"Willi was silent, but under her fair plaits the same resolve remained.\n\n\"Now hear the terrible part. In the same night that I slept there\nJohnnie got ill with fever. The doctor was sent for in haste; the\nwhole house was upset, and before I could leave the village that I was\nleisurely pacing, little Johnnie grew pale and still, the whole farm\nsilent as the grave, and only the sobs of women were heard through the\nopen window as they laid the boy in his coffin. The farmer's wife was\nquite broken down, she wept and moaned incessantly; the farmer bit his\nteeth together in wild grief. Willi did her work, but often passed her\nhands across her eyes; only whenever the bailiff would come near her,\nshe turned her back and went away.\n\n\"It was long before I went that road again; I could not look at the\npoor things. Only now have I passed once more. I wanted so much to know\nwhat the people were doing, and whether Willi had married the Raven\nfarmer to comfort her father, since his pride, his darling, his crown\nprince lay in the grave. Oh, mother, mother, had I not brought them\nmisfortune enough! There they stood, all three, upon the threshold, and\nthe north wind howled around them. The old woman was holding her apron\nbefore her eyes; the father was angry like a wild bull. He shook Willi\nand turned her adrift with the words--\n\n\"'Away from my house, wench; I know you not.'\n\n\"Willi's face was pale as death, but unmoved. No sound crossed her\nlips, no prayers, no complaint. The door of her home fell sounding into\nits lock, and Willi, wrapped in a shawl, stood outside in the north\nwind. But under her shawl something moved, which she shielded tenderly,\nand that soon began to cry for its mother's breast. Then her face grew\nrather softer, and she looked anxiously at the little creature with\nwhom she was thus left alone this wintry night--she, the daughter of\nthe rich farmer of The Holt. She did not seem strong on her feet and\nhad often to stop by the roadside, now to rest, now to quiet the child.\nThus she went on all night along the high road till she reached a\nstrange village. There she sought shelter from the wind under a porch,\nseated herself on the stone steps and fell asleep. But scarcely had day\ndawned before she was chased away by the maid who had come to sweep,\nand who threw hard words at her. The wind had abated a little, but she\nwas so numbed that she tottered on her feet.\n\n\"After a while she managed to walk again, and thus she passed through\nthe whole large village, over the hard frozen ground, under the gray\nleaden sky that grew darker, more glowering as the day advanced. The\nchild would no longer be quieted, and cried often and long. So poor\nWilli went from house to house and begged for work.\n\n\"'We want no maid with a child,' was the hard reply she received every\nwhere, or 'What can we do with the little screamer?'\n\n\"Then she begged for a little milk for the babe, for her own was\ndiminishing from hour to hour. But no one would give her any, and she\nwandered on. I went after her, for I could no longer lose hold of her.\nSuddenly I saw some one come up behind me--a terrible woman, with stony\nface and wild hair. She came nearer, ever nearer, and as she was close\nupon me she laughed hoarsely--\n\n\"'You have done your work well. It is my turn now, for I am Despair.'\n\n\"The wind was howling anew, and a snow storm began that even took away\nmy breath. Willi thought she had walked away, but in the dead of the\nnight she found herself once more at the entrance of the same village.\nShe seated herself in a hedge half dead with cold and hunger. The babe\nin her arms whimpered unceasingly, only from time to time it cried\naloud. In the morning she roused herself with an effort, and once more\nbegged for a drop of milk at various doors. She was scolded anew. Once\na boy gave her a piece of bread, she could not eat it. She tried twice,\nthree times, to swallow the hard, cold pieces. Then the child whined\nagain. She shook her head and threw the bread into the snow. Slowly she\ndragged herself onwards, till she came near the river, already covered\nwith a thin crust of ice, on which lay the fresh fallen snow. The wind\nhad lulled, but the sky was still leaden gray and a new snowstorm\nthreatened. The fearful woman stepped past me towards Willi, who now\nstood on the bridge staring down abstractedly. She laid her hand upon\nher shoulder. Willi turned her head slowly; but when she saw the stony\neyes she shrieked and the child fell out of her arms. I heard the ice\ncrack and crackle, and then there was nothing more. Willi lay on the\nground unconscious, and people who were just passing the bridge peeped\ndown, shook their heads and raised her up. I do not know where they\ntook her, beautiful Willi with her wild shock of fair hair and her\nbright brown eyes. Oh, mother, what have I done! Can you not help?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Patience, and looked dreamingly in front of her, \"but I\nshall help when it is time.\"\n\nWinter was past, the world began to stir anew, the tomtits and\nblackbirds twittered, in the fields there was merry life, when Willi\nstood before her judges accused of infanticide. She was white as a\nsheet, her eyes gleamed unnaturally from out of dark hollows, and to\nall questions she only replied by a shake of the head. Brow and lips\nhad a strange expression. Was it the reflection of that terrible face\nthat had stared at her on the bridge, or of the thoughts with which she\nhad wrestled in prison?\n\nIn the whole assembly there reigned breathless silence and strained\nexpectation. The judge's voice grew momentarily sharper, more incisive.\n\n\"Do you not know, then, that your life is in danger if you give no\nanswer?\" was sounding from his lips, when there arose a commotion in\nthe assembly.\n\nAll turned towards the door, by which entered the Holt farmer. He was\nbowed down, his hair was white and there were deep furrows in his face.\nWhen Willi saw him her hand clutched into a fist, which she raised\nthreateningly. Of a sudden she let it sink. She knew not what came to\nher, but something soft laid itself round her heart that seemed to melt\nits ice. Invisible to all, behind the farmer, some one else had stepped\ninto court; it was Mother Patience. She saw with a glance that things\nwere not well for Willi. Like a soft, tender air of spring, she passed\nby all assembled, touched Willi's hard brow, whispered some words to\nher counsel, began to dictate questions to the judge, and stretched out\nher hand to support the farmer.\n\nThe whole aspect of the room was changed. Even the pale youth Death,\nwho stood behind Willi and waited for her, retired a few steps. It\nwould seem as if this time she would escape him.\n\n\"Tell me, my child,\" said the judge, quite gently, \"were you long on\nthe high roads?\"\n\nWilli answered firmly--\n\n\"I no longer know.\"\n\n\"Were you out at night?\"\n\n\"Yes; I was out at night--two nights, I think, in a snowstorm.\"\n\n\"Did you ask none for alms?\"\n\nWilli gnashed her teeth.\n\n\"I went from house to house, and begged for milk for the--for\nthe--fainting child; but none, none gave me aught. They scolded me, and\ncalled me bad names, but gave me not one drop.\"\n\nA murmur ran through the assemblage. People from the village were\ncalled in who stated that a person had begged from them for two days,\nand had then disappeared.\n\n\"She wandered in the snowstorm with a new-born babe,\" said the judge,\nsternly; \"and you gave her nothing?\"\n\n\"We thought she was a bad woman,\" answered the people.\n\nThe judge shrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"And then you came to a bridge, and leant against it to look into the\nwater. What happened after?\"\n\nWilli shuddered.\n\n\"I looked down, and wanted to jump in, but I was so frozen I could not\nlift my feet, and then--then, some one touched me, and when I turned\nround I saw a terrible woman, with a face of stone, with wild hair,\nand then--then I heard the ice crack below me, and then I knew nothing\nmore.\"\n\nThe Holt farmer groaned aloud; the listeners looked at one another;\nthe counsel began to speak with great eloquence, and bandied the word\n\"Hallucination.\"\n\nWilli listened amazed.\n\n\"So that is the name of that terrible woman,\" she thought.\n\nOnce she gazed at her father. He looked so broken that her eyes grew\nmoist and damp, and a tear rolled slowly down her emaciated face and\nfell upon her hand. She did not perceive that silent, pale Death\nretreated from her, as little as she had felt his proximity. She only\nlooked with weary eyes towards the door that closed behind the jury.\nWhat to her were Life and Death? But another tear rolled forth as she\nlooked at her father, who also gazed at the closed door, as if there\nwould issue thence a thunderbolt that could kill him. At last, at last,\nthe men came out and spoke solemnly and earnestly--\n\n\"Not guilty.\"\n\nImpossible to describe the commotion in the court. No one was calm\nsave Willi, who leaned stunned against the wall, and only opened her\neyes when she felt her head resting against a beating heart, and two\narms flung around her neck, as they had often been flung when she was\na small, weak child. The Holt farmer whispered softly into the ear of\nhis rescued child, words that sank into her heart, as though no curious\ncrowd surrounded her. When at last she found words she stammered with\ndry lips--\n\n\"Mother, where is mother?\"\n\nThen there flashed a look like sheet lightning across the old man's\nface.\n\n\"Mother is ill, very, very ill; perhaps we shall no longer find her.\"\n\n\"Oh, come, father; quick, let us go,\" said Willi, and she drew him away\nso eagerly the old man could hardly follow.\n\nOn the threshold of the farm they stood still a second; Willi laid her\nhand on her heart, but it would not be calmed.\n\n\"Father,\" she whispered, \"father, I am afraid.\"\n\n\"I, too,\" he said softly, from his inmost soul.\n\nWilli re-entered her home trembling, trembling she stood in the dear\nold room. There lay her mother, deadly still, pale as marble; but\nMother Patience had kissed her at the last, and that was why her white\nmouth smiled. Willi knelt by the bed, and her whole body shook with\nsuppressed sobs.\n\nThe farmer stood leaning on his stick in the doorway; the tears ran\ndown his face. He knew it, he had himself closed those eyes that had at\nlast ceased from weeping. Then he went out, he could look no longer.\n\nSorrow was in the room; she laid her arm round Willi and murmured--\n\n\"My sister!\"\n\nMother Patience was there too. She stroked Willi's locks and poured\npeace into her weary soul, so that at last she could bear to look at\nher dead mother, ay, could even touch the cold hands with her lips.\nThen Patience pointed the way to her father outside, to whom she\nremained as sole comfort and support. Ay, Willi was a strong soul. She\nbegan a hard, weary life with a broken heart and a weakened body. She\nhad often need to call upon Mother Patience, when her strength was at\nan end, and her father, old and crabbed, demanded too much from her;\nwhen the farm-servants obeyed her reluctantly and morosely; when the\nvillagers avoided her at the church door.\n\nShe became a mother to the poor, and quietly did more good than all the\nvillagers together. Yet all were somewhat in awe of the grave, stern\nwoman, who was never hard or angry, but never cheerful. She will not\nmarry, least of all the man who brought her to shame and deserted her\nin her need; her property she will leave to the orphaned.\n\nYes, yes, Mother Patience, you can work miracles.\n\n[Footnote 1: A German idiom. A \"raven mother\" means a bad, unnatural\nmother.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE HERMIT._\n\n\n\n\nThe Hermit.\n\n\nSorrow wanted to rest, so one hot midsummer's day she climbed lightly\ninto the high mountains, amid the ancient forests, high, high up, into\nthe region of quiet, solemn solitude. Only here and there a streamlet\ntrickled, or a dry branch that lay upon the thick moss broke under her\nfootsteps. From time to time the leaves swayed, as though the trees\nbreathed; then a sunbeam would creep through and slide across the\nfallen mossy giant trunks upon which younger life was disporting;\nlittle firs and beeches, strawberries and ants in dense confusion. Of a\nsudden there was an opening, and Sorrow found herself stepping upon a\nnarrow path, beneath towering rocks, at her feet a yawning precipice.\nAfter a while the space grew a little wider, and she came to a tiny\nhouse attached to the rock like to an eagle's eyrie. Beside it, in a\nniche cut in the living rock, sat a man with long white beard, leaning\non his stick, and staring with somber dark eyes down into the valleys\nthat opened out from all sides.\n\nAs far as the eye could reach there was only mountain and forest. Two\neagles hovered almost immovable in the trembling summer air, and then\nflew after each other in slow circles.\n\n\"I am weary,\" said Sorrow, and seated herself in the thyme at the feet\nof the hermit, who looked at her slowly from top to toe.\n\n\"Is that all that you bring?\" he asked, grimly. \"You had promised you\nwould sometime bring me Rest, but I see no one.\"\n\n\"I think she is coming after me,\" said Sorrow, dreamily; \"the forest is\ngetting so quiet; but I will not let her come if you do not keep your\npromise to me and tell me your history.\"\n\nOnce again a somber look from out those black eyes was fixed on Sorrow;\nthen they looked nervously, searchingly out into the wood; then the\nwhite beard trembled a little, and dull, muffled tones issued from the\nman's chest.\n\n\"The price is heavy, but Rest is sweet. In my youth I was poor and\nnever looked at the girls, for I did not want to create misery about\nme, and I knew hunger and thirst too well to ask them of my own accord\nto dwell in my hut. I was strong as a lion, and industrious, so I\nslowly earned a good piece of bread and a house that I had almost built\nby myself. Then it occurred to me that, as youth was nearly past, I\nmust make haste if I wanted to marry. I knew a lovely girl, with eyes\nlike a deer, whom a youth in the village had long desired, but she had\nrefused him several times, until at last he saw that she would have\nnothing to say to him. Then he had a mind to drown, but he thought\nbetter of it and went to foreign parts, and nothing more was heard of\nhim. The same day I wooed Marie, and nearly fainted for joy when, in\nanswer to my timid question, 'If I am not too old for you, I should\nlike to have you to wife, will you be mine?' she answered with glad\neyes, quite softly, 'Most willingly.' I believe that if one begins to\nlove young, one does not know what such happiness means. But if one\nhas been alone for years, and then comes home and there by the hearth\nstands a young, beautiful woman who laughs at one roguishly, it makes\none hot about the heart and head, and one takes up one's happiness in\none's arms and runs about with it like one demented. You even cavil\nwith the wind if it blows on your wife, and you hardly like to suffer\nthe sun to shine on her. Yes, I was quite beside myself with love and\nhappiness; and when next year she presented me with a son, I really had\nto tear myself away to go to my work. And the child had just such eyes\nas hers, so beaming and merry. Soon it could stretch out its little\nhands and pull my beard, and then we laughed. Six years passed thus\nhappily; every day the boy grew more beautiful and clever, and my Marie\nremained merry and young in our little house by the mountain. True I\nwas passionate sometimes, but then she would always send me our boy and\nI grew quiet at once, for no one could look into his eyes and be angry,\nso angelic was that face with its golden curls.\n\n\"One day the rejected wooer returned to the village; we saw him as\nwe went to church, and it gave me a pang to see that Marie grew pale\nand red and could not cease from looking at him. It is true that she\nlaughed at me for this, and said that she was quite proud that I could\neven be jealous of the past.\n\n\"But I could not forget his look, and why had she grown red? All the\nvillagers had noticed it and smiled, and as it was the younger men\nwere jealous of me. Nor was there an end with this first meeting. He\ninsisted on his old acquaintanceship and visited us often, and as he\nhad nothing to do, he sometimes came when my wife was alone at home. I\nbegan to be vexed at this, especially since a horrid old woman, with\na fair young girl, that was as like you as pea to pea, turned in at\nour house one day and warmed themselves by our fire. She let all sorts\nof words fall, about evil tongues, about an old man and a young wife\nand an ancient lover, and while she jabbered the girl looked at me\npiteously, like you look now--I can never forget that look. My wife was\nin the bedroom putting our boy to sleep, and as she was not there to\ncheer me with her dear presence, the poison sank deep into my heart.\nFrom that hour I grew irritable and passionate towards her, which made\nher lose her cheerful calmness and look nervous whenever the uninvited\nguest appeared. I wanted to show him the door, but she would not allow\nit, saying wisely: 'Do you want him to tell the whole village that you\nare jealous of him, and that you mistrust your wife?'\n\n\"How many bitter hours he cost us both! Whenever he had been I scolded\nMarie till far into the night. It was her fault; if she were not so\npleasant to him he would certainly not come again. And I, who formerly\nwould have let her tread on me, if that could spare her aught, could\nnow look on coldly when she wept for hours. Her joyous laughter ceased,\nand she always looked at me terrified. I wanted that she too should\nfeel some of the misery that gnawed at my heart, for was it not her\nfault? The bad old woman often came through the forest where I hewed\ndown trees and said--\n\n\"'Go home, you will find him there.'\n\n\"And I did find him once or twice, and at last I said: 'Marie, if I\nfind him once more, there will happen mischief; I forewarn you.'\n\n\"And yet again one evil day that old woman came tramping through the\ndeep snow, and laughed maliciously and said--\n\n\"'Go home! go home!'\n\n\"I shouldered my ax and ran home. There stood my wife, and she was red\nand angry, and was scolding that man. He only laughed. I seized him by\nthe breast and swung the ax over his head. Marie seized me by the arm\nand cried--\n\n\"'Think of your son. He shall not have a murderer for his father!'\n\n\"My arm sank. I ran out of the door, far into the wood. There lay the\nstems and trunks I had hewn down, a crust of ice covered the snow,\nbeneath ran the path that my enemy must tread to return to the village.\nI stretched out my arm and began to arrange the blocks in such a manner\nthat they would slowly roll down. One must hit him, I thought, and then\nhe will be dead, and I shall be no murderer.\n\n\"At the first footsteps I heard below I threw the trunks down, and\nthey followed thick as hail. I did not look down. Suddenly a cry that\npierced my very marrow rang upon the air. It was the cry of a child.\nI grew dizzy. True I sprang with lightning speed to the spot whence\nthe cry had come. There lay the golden curls of my boy pressed in the\nsnow; out of his open mouth there trickled blood, and his deer-like\neyes looked at me solemnly. I called him by name; I pressed him to me;\nI breathed into his mouth; in vain--he was dead, dead! I took him in my\narms and bore him home; kicked open the door with my foot, and gave him\nto his mother with the words--\n\n\"'There you have your boy! The tree that was destined for your friend\nhit him.'\n\n\"She did not cry; she did not moan; she shed no tears; only her lips\ngrew ashy. She held the boy for two days on her lap and spoke no word\nsave a soft--\n\n\"'My child! my child!'\n\n\"It had to be taken from her forcibly to bury it. We did not speak\nagain to one another. The friend had vanished, and the bad old woman,\ntoo, did not come again. Other people soon kept away, as I was so\ngruff and my wife so silent. So the days passed, and the weeks and the\nmonths. I might not enter her room. She begged me to leave her alone.\nI think she sat all night long beside the bed of the child and pressed\nkisses on his pillow. Day by day she faded. I did not notice it. It\nnever occurred to me to send for a doctor. I wanted no human being to\nbehold our misery.\n\n\"One evening she called me with a weak voice to her bedside, and said\ncalmly--\n\n\"'To-night I must die, but before I do I want to confess myself to you.\nI have hated you since the hour you killed my joy, and much though I\nhave struggled, and greatly though I desired to have pity on you, yet\nhate was stronger.'\n\n\"'The greater your love for that other,' I hissed forth.\n\n\"She raised her hand in oath.\n\n\"'Never; I was your faithful wife until the end. I thank you for all\nthe happiness of those first years, and I forgive you the misery of the\nlast. Kiss me, I love you once more.'\n\n\"For the first time I wept and craved her pardon for all I had done to\nher. She laid her hand once more on my brow, sighed a deep sigh, and\nwas dead.\n\n\"Then I ran away into the mountains and could look at no human being.\nI wanted never to speak again, never to hear the sound of voices. I\nsought for Rest in the woods, in the rocks, with the eagles and bears,\nand yet I have not found her. My suffering is so great, I believe the\nvery stars have pity on me. And old as I am, I cannot forget that I\nmyself murdered my happiness.\"\n\nThe Hermit had done speaking. All the hot passions of his past life\nhad been reflected by his features. Sorrow's eyes had looked at him\nfixedly, calmly, pityingly, sympathetically.\n\nNow she beckoned towards the mountains behind which the sun was about\nto sink. On large broad pinions Rest came floating onwards, looked into\nthe old man's eyes until they drooped, closed them with gentle hand,\nbreathed over his rigid features till all traces of bitterness vanished\nthence, and the mouth, that was closed for ever, looked almost gentle.\nSorrow had already vanished. She descended into the valley and wandered\nall night. For as often as she desired to turn the handle of a door,\nshe drew it back, and thought of the Hermit and his fate.\n\n\n\n\n_LOTTY._\n\n\n\n\nLotty.\n\n\nIt was Christmas Eve. The snow was whirling in dense masses outside,\nand the wind was so strong that it swept one side of the street quite\nclean, and piled up whole mountains of snow across the way. Through\nall the windows there gleamed the bright light of the merry Christmas\ntrees, and the voices of hundreds of happy children were heard. Alone\nand softly Sorrow crept along in the snowstorm. She turned her eyes\nneither to right nor left, that she might throw no shadow over these\nChristmas gayeties; she was making for a house where there was no joy\nto destroy. She passed two children--a girl in thin outgrown clothes,\nand a little boy who wanted to see all the lovely things that were\ninside the houses. His sister raised him up with all her strength, so\nthat he could grapple hold of the window-sill, and with enchantment he\nlooked at all the wonders within. But lifting her arms had made her\npoor old dress crack, and a sleeve came out of its seam. A tear ran\ndown her face; it froze on her cheek. Sorrow stroked her head with her\nhand.\n\n\"I was coming to you,\" she said; \"how go things at home?\"\n\nThe girl shrugged her shoulders.\n\nThe little one coughs and can barely breathe, and the older sister\nsays the pains in her legs are so bad with this wind.\n\n\"Won't you come home with me?\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" said the boy, \"it is so beautiful in there, so bright. Do you\nhear how they laugh?\"\n\nSorrow did not look up but went further, and did not notice that\nEnvy was creeping behind her, with his thin lips and sharp nose and\nsquinting eyes. He came up to the children and whispered to them--\n\n\"Yes, it is beautiful in the homes of the rich, is it not? What have\nyou got, you poor things? Is it not Christmas too for you?\"\n\n\"Hu, how cold it is!\" the boy said suddenly. \"Come, it is no longer\npretty here.\"\n\nAnd they ran home.\n\nAs they opened the door a haggard woman called out sharp and\nimpatiently--\n\n\"Quick, shut the door, or all the snow will come in.\"\n\nThey cowered into a corner behind the hearth; the woman walked up and\ndown, carrying a child in her arms that coughed and choked and gasped\nfor air. In the only bed lay a feverish girl, emaciated, with unkempt\nhair and large restless eyes. Sorrow sat on the edge of the couch and\nheld her hand; the girl talked incessantly, softly and quickly--\n\n\"You see it is Christmas, once that was so beautiful, when things\nstill went well with us. Then we always had a tree and apples and\ngingerbread, and I had a doll that had clothes like a princess. I liked\nsewing them for my dolly; I don't like it now for other people.\"\n\nShe smiled.\n\n\"What a pity you can't see the little dress I made for this evening,\nwhite and red, with cords and pink bows.\"\n\nThen the crack of the door opened and Envy pushed himself in softly,\ninvisibly. It grew markedly colder in the room. The mother's face\nbecame gloomy, the feverish girl more restless.\n\n\"Oh,\" she cried, impatiently, \"always sewing, always sewing. Why do the\nothers, who were poor, drive about in fine carriages, and wear soft\nclothes and laugh so merrily! If they are wicked, well, then it must be\nnice to be wicked. What does my labor bring me?--hunger and pain!\"\n\nThe mother did not hear her daughter's rapid words, for the child\nin her arms was wrestling with death. Outside the wind howled. The\ntwo other children had fallen asleep in their corner, hungry and\nexhausted, and in their dreams Envy had no more power over them, and\nthey only saw the beautiful Christmas tree shimmering. It was a long\nnight in which the lamp of life flickered up and down in that little\nhouse, and a young soul fought at the hand of Sorrow the fight for life\nand death.\n\nTowards morning the wrestling of both was ended. The child lay dead\nin its mother's lap, the young girl slumbered restlessly. The storm\nwas over. The glittering snow lay piled up high, looking blue in the\nshadows of the houses, and softly tinted with red where the rising sun\nmet it. Then the bells began to peal for merry Christmas. That woke the\ntwo children, who stared aghast at the little corpse. The young girl\nraised herself, and saw that her mother wept, but from her eyes there\ncame no tears--she envied the dead child its rest.\n\nA merry sound of sledge bells sounded, and like a lovely dream two\nbeautiful young girls flew past in a sledge, wrapped snugly in rich\nfurs. Their cheeks and eyes sparkled with joy in the beautiful\nsunshine. It passed like lightning, this vision, but all in the little\nhouse were dazzled by it. The sick girl drew her thin hands through her\nblack hair, the poor woman bit her teeth together, and the two children\nsaid--\n\n\"Mother, were those angels?\"\n\n\"No,\" she uttered harshly; \"they were human beings like ourselves, only\nrich and happy, who are not hungry, and have warm clothes.\"\n\nSorrow touched her arm--\n\n\"If you desire it, I will bring them here, into your home; but at one\nprice--they will suffer pain and misery, and their joy will vanish. Do\nyou want that?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the woman, \"I do. Why should not they watch and weep as we\ndo?\"\n\nSorrow sighed.\n\n\"Shall I fetch them?\" she asked once again.\n\n\"Go, go; do you not see that my children starve? What do other people's\nchildren concern me?\"\n\nSorrow neared the young girl's bed.\n\n\"Farewell for the present,\" she said; \"be brave and reasonable, and\ntake care of yourself, that I may not have to come to you again to\npunish.\"\n\nShe kissed the children. \"I send you the angels and a good Christmas,\nhave patience.\"\n\nThen she softly lifted the door latch and was gone. Envy slid after\nher; and in her place, on the first sunbeam that smote the rows of\nhouses, Hope floated into the room and made it light. Mother and\nchildren looked out expectantly. The girl pushed back her hair from her\nbrow, and the bad thoughts retreated.\n\nSorrow paced so lightly across the snow that she scarcely left a\ntrace, as though she were borne by the sharp east wind, whose pungent\ntongue mocked the fine winter morning. She went through the most\naristocratic streets, and vanished into one of the stateliest houses;\nentering so softly that no one noticed her, not even the servants, who\nwere stretching themselves on red cushioned divans in the entrance\nhall; not even the parrot that always cried, \"Canaille! Canaille!\"\nand made a wise face. She went up the broad stairs, where everything\nwas perfumed of fir-trees, straight towards a high door, whence the\nlaughter of youthful voices resounded. Unnoticed she stood in the high\nlarge room through whose many windows the sun streamed, touching the\nwhite-covered, long tables, on which still lay all the presents given\nthe night before. At one end of the room stood three tall fir-trees,\ntheir branches bent under a gay weight, and round about the room some\nthirty smaller ones. The six huge chandeliers were encircled with\ngarlands of fir and chains of glass balls, and from one to the other\nhung rows of colored paper lamps. It must have looked quite fairy-like\nin the evening with all the candles alight. Amidst this glory two tall\nslim, supple figures, in dark, close-fitting, cloth dresses, were\nplaying battledore and shuttlecock. Every movement was of rare grace,\nand the delicate profiles with the dark arched eyebrows, stood out\nwell against the somber firs. The gold brown hair of the one hung in\nvoluptuous waves over her shoulders, only held together by a ribbon;\na weight of fair plaits hung down the neck of the other. Their heads\nthrown backwards revealed faultlessly set necks and laughing rows of\npearly teeth. It was a sight for gods, and the young man who looked\non thought so, as he sat in Olympian calm carelessly reading in an\narmchair, dressed in an elegant morning suit, a cigarette in his\nring-covered hand. From time to time, in a powerful baritone, he hummed\nsome rather frivolous songs that each time drew down on him a storm of\nlaughing reproaches.\n\n\"I beg my stern cousins to remark,\" he said, \"that the ball has now\nfallen fourteen times to the ground, and that I consequently regret\nthat my proposal was negatived that each such miss should be punished\nwith a kiss.\"\n\nThe girls laughed, but suddenly they noticed Sorrow, who looked on\nseriously at their merriment, like a distant hail-cloud at a harvest\nhome.\n\n\"Who are you?\" both girls asked at once, approaching their strange\nguest.\n\nSorrow would fain have cast down her eyes that she might not look at\nthe three young heads in that room; but she saw them, and felt herself\nspellbound. She looked at all three, and then said in her soft, deep\ntones--\n\n\"I have just come from a house where since yesterday no one has eaten,\nwhere this night a child has died, and a girl lies sick in bed; two\nother children I found out in the snowstorm as they were admiring a\nChristmas tree. Can you not help?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, at once,\" cried the one with the gold brown locks. \"Albert,\nbe so good as to order the sledge. Cara, do you run to mother and ask\nher for money. I will get food and clothes.\"\n\nWith all imaginable speed every thing was got ready. After a brief\nhalf-hour the sledge stood before the door laden with wood and baskets,\nand one of the Christmas trees. There was barely room for the three\nyoung people to squeeze in. The mother, a stately, elegant woman, with\nwise eyes, restrained the eldest girl, Doris, for a second, to say\nsomething to her very earnestly, upon which she kissed both her hands.\nThen she, too, flew downstairs after the others, and as fast as the\nwind they trotted to the house of the poor people.\n\n\"Mother, the angels have come,\" cried the children.\n\nThey got out and brought in the tree. Cara knelt down by the hearth and\nmade a fire, and Doris placed the tree by the bedside of the sufferer,\ndarkened the room and lighted it. She gave the children bread and cake,\nand then the two lovely girls stood by the sick girl's bedside and sang\na Christmas carol. The little boy, with folded hands, looked now at the\nlights, now at the angels, and large tears rolled over his pale face.\nAlbert did not quite know what to do with himself; but now that the\ntwo girls helped the mother to warm some soup and cut up meat for the\nchildren, he neared the bed, and looked with scrutiny into the black\neyes that glowed and reflected with uncanny fire the lights of the\nChristmas tree.\n\n\"What is your name?\" he asked kindly with his pleasant voice.\n\nThe girl looked at him long and earnestly; she felt the gaze of his\nbeautiful blue eyes burn into her heart. Then she grew red, cast down\nher eyes, and said: \"Lotty.\"\n\nSoon an animated conversation sprang up between the two. Albert took\nout his pocket-book, wrote a few lines, and sent off the servant with\norders to bring the doctor back in the sledge. They would wait till he\ncame. Doris's eyes rested for an instant on her cousin, who had seated\nhimself on the edge of the bed and talked eagerly to Lotty. Scarcely\nwas the sledge gone than she said--\n\n\"There, that will do for to-day; I will walk home. We will come again\nin a few days, till then you have provision.\"\n\nAnd so speaking she walked out of the house, regardless of her cousin's\nremonstrances.\n\nNext day all looked bright and cheerful in the little room, but grief\nand pain had entered the palace. Cara had fallen on the ice while\nskating, and lay in bed maimed in all her limbs, and suffering keenly.\nHer snow-white hands lay quiescent beside her plaits upon the coverlet.\nHer father patted them, and the tears ran down his cheeks. Then Cara\nsmiled, but her eyes looked out dim and deep from their hollows, and\nround her lips there quivered a suppressed sigh. Wearily she dragged on\nher life for weeks and weeks; but if any one asked Cara how she was,\nshe would always answer kindly--\n\n\"I think I am much better.\"\n\nBut pain had pinched her face and emaciated her body, and her hands\nand feet remained paralyzed. Her only recreation were Albert's visits.\nHe told her all manner of things, and sang her merry songs. Doris grew\npale and thin with continued nursing, so that at last her mother had to\nforce her to go out. She bethought her of Lotty, and went to call on\nher. How amazed was she to find the little house transformed, and Lotty\nchanged more than all! Graceful, rounded in all her limbs, she stepped\ntowards her, and the slight limp that remained from her illness only\ngave her an added grace. Her eyes had learned to laugh, and her whole\nbeing had gained something attractive and bright.\n\n\"But, Lotty, how well you look! I was afraid you would think we had\nforgotten you.\"\n\n\"How could I think that,\" said Lotty, \"when your brother always came to\nsee us!\"\n\n\"He is not my brother,\" Doris said shortly, and grew scarlet.\n\nThen ensued an awkward silence, interrupted by Doris, who asked to\nsee the children's school-books, which, superintended by Lotty, bore\ninspection well. They had gained good instruction in the time that had\npassed.\n\nA few days after Albert went away on a journey. It was a hard parting\nfor the two girls. At the last he kissed Doris's hand, and looked at\nher earnestly, deep down into her eyes. They filled with large tears.\nShe wanted to say something more, but could not bring forth a sound.\n\n\"I shall come back in the summer,\" he said, and was gone.\n\nLotty was soon so well that she could walk and call on Cara, who was\nso pleased to see her that she did not want to let her go. So she was\nengaged as companion and nurse for Cara, and soon grew indispensable to\nher.\n\nIn the spring the family moved to their castle in the country, where\nthe poor invalid could lie all day under tall trees. Albert soon came\nthere too, and Doris took long rides with him through the park, or\nthey sat for hours chatting with Cara. Yet he always found time and\nopportunity to see Lotty alone. At first she was distant with him, but\nwith his heart-winning ways he soon recovered the empire he had had in\nthe little house in the town; and she was happy when he said that the\nparents insisted on marrying Doris to him, but that he did not think\nof it for she did not please him at all. Cara noticed that there was\nsomething amiss with her Lotty, but she never dreamed what a fight\nthe girl was fighting with her heart, that impetuously demanded love\nand happiness, and her conscience that recalled to her her duties and\nstrove to calm her.\n\nDoris guessed nothing. She was entirely absorbed in the joy of having\nher adored Albert beside her.\n\nAlbert really loved Lotty, but he did not want to lose the rich\nmarriage with Doris; so he was full of little delicate attentions to\nher, which in quiet hours were counted up and talked over with Cara.\nLotty knew herself to be beloved, therefore her jealousy of Doris knew\nno bounds. Every kind look, every unconscious little joke of Doris's\nwas gall and wormwood to her. She had to help Doris adorn herself,\nand see how she looked into the glass with beaming eyes, certain of\nvictory, full of hope. She had to suffer that her adored Cara did all\nto make her sister appear in the best light to Albert. Many an evening\nin the park there ensued angry scenes in which Lotty broke forth into\nwild reproaches, and Albert made passionate love protestations. Lotty\nwas proud; she would be his wife, and at last he promised her that he\nwould marry her as soon as he had found a post that insured enough for\nthem both. He was soon to go abroad to join an embassy.\n\nLotty demanded that he should say openly at the house that he meant to\nmarry her, but this she could not attain.\n\nOnce more Lotty thought--\n\n\"If only I were rich, like the others.\"\n\nMany a long night she tossed about her black locks on the pillow,\nand next day her eyes glowed like coals, so that Albert grew almost\nafraid, and feared she might make things uncomfortable for him. He\nhurried forward his parting preparations. On the last evening he was\nin the park with Doris, and began to speak to her of his future, and\nthat he should come back a made man. Then he would woo her, and he\nhoped he should not be refused. At the last he put a bracelet round\nher wrist, encircled her with his arm and pressed a kiss on her lips.\nDoris flushed all over, ran off to Cara, fell on her knees beside the\nbed, kissed her hands, her hair, her eyes, and was so wildly happy that\nit grew almost too much for the poor invalid. When Albert wanted to\nleave the park Lotty stood before him and looked at him so sphinx-like\nthat he grew afraid. He hoped she had heard nothing, and took a\nstep forward. But she struck him in the face with her fist. Then she\nvanished. She ran as fast as she could into her room, and raved all\nnight long, bit her pillow, and thought to die of rage and despair.\n\nAlbert, who slept little, could not see Lotty again and extort from her\na promise of silence. Twice he knocked at her door, but she kept quiet\ntill he had gone and then she muttered curses after him. Next morning\nhe departed without having seen her. Doris waved her hand after him\nlong, long after he was out of sight, and wept blissful tears. But Cara\nwas alarmed when she saw Lotty. A complete alteration had come to her\nface; it was as though something had snapped. She had to endure hearing\nAlbert talked of incessantly. Towards Doris she felt a veritable\nhatred.\n\nAt first there came letters from Albert, but they grew rarer and\nbriefer. After a year there came none. Doris had been radiantly\nhappy some time and developed to rare beauty. At her side Hope stood\nshimmering, rosy, like peach blossoms. By Cara's bed sat Mother\nPatience, invisible to all, and transfigured the pale face with her\ncalm presence. Beside Lotty strode Envy and Hate, and tugged at her\nwith all their might night and day. In the second year Hope vanished\nfrom beside Doris; in the third, the girl crept wearily through the\nhouse as though each step were leaden. Lotty revived; yes, Doris even\nnoted that when Lotty combed her hair she could see in the glass how\nher black eyes sparkled maliciously, and seemed to search her weary\nface. Doris's parents grew old and gray during these years of waiting.\nAlbert's name was never breathed, it was as though he was blotted out\nof all their memories, and yet all thought only of him.\n\nOne morning Doris was sitting at breakfast with her parents. Cara was\nstill in bed, she was never carried down till later in the day. The\nfather read out of his paper, his wife rested her chin on her slender\nfingers. Countless fine lines had become graven into her face, Care was\nher daily guest; yet she looked kindly from under her gray hairs and\nher elegant cap. Secretly her glance sought the face of her daughter,\nwho had leaned back wearily in her chair, toying with a flower and\ngazing out vacantly into space.\n\nSometimes she would look out of the window, and watch with heavy\neyelids the falling of the faded autumn leaves, which sank to earth\nin the thick mist. A fire burnt in the chimney; it was the only lively\nthing in the room. Then a letter was brought in and given to Doris's\nfather. He twirled it between his fingers and looked at the address and\nseal. Doris had glanced up indifferently. Suddenly every muscle of her\nface trembled, and she rested large, flashing eyes upon her father, her\nnostrils quivered, and her breath came short and fast.\n\n\"Oh, father, read, read quickly!\"\n\nHe read long, long, without speaking one word. At last he folded up the\nletter. Doris's torture was at an end, she was near to faint.\n\n\"Albert is coming,\" he said gravely, and would have gone on speaking,\nbut from Doris's breast there came a cry of mingled joy and sobbing.\nShe sprang up, embraced her mother and rushed out of the room and up\nthe stairs to Cara.\n\n\"Cara, he is coming, is coming,\" she cried, and covered her sister with\nkisses.\n\nLotty rushed to the bedside; it was as though a fallen angel looked at\nthe happy girl. At last harshly and roughly she muttered--\n\n\"Who knows what he has become.\"\n\nDoris felt the poisoned dart, but before she could answer her mother\ncalled her down. As she entered the room she saw her father pacing up\nand down restlessly. He did not notice her. Her mother sat in a little\narmchair beside the fire, staring into the embers. Doris noticed every\nthing at a glance. It was as though something heavy and cold fell upon\nher heart.\n\n\"Come here, dear child,\" said her mother; \"kneel down here, I have\nsomething to say to you. You have always trusted us, have you not, my\nchild? You always believed that we have felt your sufferings too, and\nhave felt them the more that we could not help you?\"\n\nDoris could not speak, she kissed her mother's hand and looked at her\nagain with large, glowing eyes.\n\n\"If, then, I tell you that Albert is not worthy of you, my child will\nbelieve it, will she not? He has not kept good; it is said he has\ngambled away his fortune, and we should not like him to ask the hand of\nour daughter merely in order to pay his debts. I know you will be proud\nand meet him as it becomes your maidenly dignity. You will let him see\nnothing of your soul's combat and woe, but meet him as he deserves.\"\n\n\"When will he come?\" said Doris, curtly. Her voice was hard.\n\n\"In a few days; we cannot forbid him the house for his mother's sake.\nI count on you, my child.\"\n\nDoris's eyes flashed. She raised herself and stood her full height;\nshe seemed to have grown, and looked defiant, ready for fight. Without\na word she went outside into the mist. She paced the park for hours,\nheedless of the paths and ways; she painted to her mind that meeting,\nhow cold and proud she would be. She snapped off the twigs as she\npassed, and crunched them with her white teeth. It seemed to her as\nthough she never could go home, as though she must thus rove the wood\nfor ever. When she came back to the house at last, her hair, dress, and\neyebrows were covered with glistening drops. She looked into the glass\nthat reflected her hard-drawn face.\n\n\"The wood,\" she said, \"has had pity on me; those are its tears.\"\n\nShe could not make up her mind to go in to Cara; she felt as though she\ncould not bear her affection. Cara wept in her father's arms. He dried\nthe tears she was shedding for her sister, and spoke to her tenderly.\nLotty clenched her fists.\n\n\"She shall not have him as long as I live.\"\n\nHenceforward Doris went often into the wood, especially along the path\nbeside the old willow-trees. The sun still shone warmly there, and that\ndid good to Doris, who could not get rid of a feeling of cold. Once she\nleaned exhausted against a mighty trunk; she had laid her hand upon her\naching heart, and closed her eyes. Suddenly she heard a voice close by\nher, whose tone made her shrink together as a flower does in spring\nrain--\n\n\"Doris.\"\n\nAnd there stood Albert, with the same lovely eyes, the same charm of\nmovement, and yet how changed. He held out his hand towards her. She\nlaid her icy fingertips into his; but when she wanted to draw back her\nhand he retained it.\n\n\"Am I to be condemned unheard?\" he asked gently, and smiled so sweetly\nthat Doris could not be as distant and cold as she had resolved.\n\nHe did not wait for an answer, but spoke eagerly and earnestly, accused\nand defended himself at the same time, reminded her of their sweet love\nthat could not possibly be vanished and fled; ay, he read it in her\nface that she had thought of him, while poor Doris, now red, now pale,\ncould merely look at him. When he turned to go to the house and greet\nhis aunt, she remained outside, for an awkward friend, Conscience, told\nher that she had not been all that her parents expected.\n\nThey did not repeat their injunction, and the meetings in the park grew\nmore and more frequent; a correspondence even ensued that was intrusted\nto a hollow willow. Doris's mother noticed a strange, wild look in\nthe girl's eyes, but she put this down to the struggle her child was\nundergoing.\n\nOften Doris would have opened her lips to confess, but always closed\nthem again. Daily she grew more irritable, spoke in hollow tones, and\nlaughed at every thing. Lotty knew exactly all that went on. She bided\nher time, ready to spring like a cat whenever the hour should be ripe.\nOne day Doris could not get out, and so begged Lotty, in a seemingly\nindifferent tone, to carry a letter to the tree. Lotty held the letter\nbetween her fingers and looked now at it, now at Doris.\n\n\"Well,\" said Doris, sharply, but without looking up, \"is it\ninconvenient to you?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lotty, carelessly, went towards the door, and then came back\nbeside Doris.\n\n\"I shall only carry that letter,\" she said, \"after I have told you what\nmanner of man your lover is.\"\n\nLotty looked so fierce that Doris shuddered.\n\n\"He loved me, me, long before he loved you: me he has kissed many\nhundred times in this very park ere ever he gave you the one that made\nyou so happy; me he promised to wed. It is me he called his dear heart,\nhis love, all the soft names he has called you; and on the evening you\nwere betrothed to him, I hit him in his face, and now he is so vile\nthat no decent girl would wish to have him; and you, you carry on a\nsecret love affair with him.\"\n\nDoris grew giddy; but before she had taken in the full sense of these\nwords, Lotty had left the room and did not re-appear.\n\nThe following evening, when Lotty had just got into bed, Doris stood\nbefore her like a ghost. She shook her arms and said--\n\n\"Come!\"\n\nShe followed Doris into her room. The girl shut and locked the door,\nand pocketed the key.\n\n\"Now tell it me all again,\" she said, speaking with effort.\n\nLotty no longer felt the satisfaction she had experienced that first\nmoment. She was ashamed of her weakness, and told her tale with\nhesitation and with reserve. While she did so she had ever to look\nat Doris, who grew momentarily more haggard, and who bent herself\ntwice, thrice; whether in physical or mental pain Lotty did not know.\nSuppressing a low moan, she drew a small roll of paper from her pocket,\nand smiled with trembling lips.\n\n\"You have avenged yourself on me; now is your turn with him; you owe\nme this, for you should have spared me this agony. To-morrow morning\nyou go to town and give him this; you yourself must give it to him; I\ndemand it.\"\n\nScarcely had Doris uttered these words than she began to moan\npiteously, and now followed a night during which Lotty was terrified by\nthe sufferings of her young mistress. Constantly she tried to get the\nkey and call the family; Doris would not let her.\n\n\"No,\" she said; \"we two must pass this night alone together.\"\n\nOnly when consciousness began to leave her, Lotty succeeded in\nwrenching the key from her clenched hands. She called up the parents,\nwho arrived but in time to receive their daughter's last breath.\nShe opened her eyes once again, knew her mother, kissed each of her\nfingertips and whispered--\n\n\"Farewell, mother; farewell, forgive me.\"\n\nThen a last terrible spasm shook her, and when the sun rose she was\na corpse. While the parents were with Cara, trying to break the news\ngently to the poor invalid, Lotty slipped away into her own room. There\nshe unrolled the paper and read--\n\n\"Could I have believed in you, I should have lived.--DORIS.\"\n\nThen she set out for the town and sought out Albert, who was still in\nbed sleeping restlessly. Lotty looked at him long and severely. Her\ngaze was so savage that a feeling of fear shot through him and woke\nhim. He started up.\n\n\"What is it?\" he cried aghast.\n\nLotty handed him the paper without speaking a word, and before he had\nunfolded it she had gone.\n\nHe threw on his clothes and hurried after her, but he could not find\nher. He ran about all day: he hovered round the castle, he chased\nthrough the park. He looked as though the Furies pursued him. At last\nhe went home, sat down to his desk, and began to turn over a pile of\ndirty papers. Great drops stood on his brow. In the evening he went to\nsee a friend, and gambled the whole night. In a short time he had won\nlarge sums, but then a few days after he lost them all again, those\nand much more besides. One morning he tottered into his room, loaded a\npistol and shot himself.\n\nLotty got home unnoticed as she had gone out; but as she entered Sorrow\nstood in front of her, and her eyes were so terrible that Lotty fell\ndown before her on the earth and covered her face with her hands. But\nwhen Sorrow began to speak, Lotty was seized with trembling at the\nstern words that fell upon her like hammer blows; she writhed on the\nground like a worm, but Sorrow was inexorable.\n\n\"You have done your work well,\" she said; \"you have avenged yourself.\nBut on whom? On those who have done you kindness from the first hour\nwhen they raised you out of misery and wretchedness, those to whom\nyou owe all--your life, your health--who have treated you as a child\nand a sister. They were happy before I brought them to your house, and\nwhat are they now? I know you want to throw yourself into the water,\nbut I will not suffer it, for you need a whole long life to make good\nthe thoughts that have poisoned your youth. You must give up your whole\nstrength to poor Cara, beside whose bed you will yet often see me, and\ntake care that you need not tremble before my face, as you must to-day.\nCara needs you, for her parents are broken down, and only through\nboundless self-sacrifice may you dare to hope for forgiveness. As yet I\ncannot accord it.\"\n\nOnce more it was Christmas Eve. A beautiful tree was alight in the\nlittle house. Lotty had brought it there in Cara's name. The children\nhad red cheeks and shouted joyously. The mother too had grown to look\nyounger and smiled often. Only Lotty was pale as death and dark as\nremorse.\n\n\"Here my mother looks at me,\" she thought; \"and thinks Lotty has grown\nbad; and there Doris's mother looks at me and thinks, 'Had you but\ncalled me we could have saved the child.' Oh that I had starved to\ndeath!\"\n\nIn the castle a shaded lamp burnt beside Cara's bed. Her father was\nreading to her with weary voice, the mother sat by, stroked the girl's\nhands, and dried the heavy, slow-falling tears that rolled down her\nchild's face with a soft handkerchief. Cara had not spoken all the\nevening. Only once she asked--\n\n\"Is not this Christmas Eve?\"\n\n\n\n\n_MEDUSA._\n\n\n\n\nMedusa.\n\n\nThe waters tossed and foamed through the huge rocks that were pressed\nso close together that up amid the heights a strip of blue sky was\nscarcely to be seen. Upon a narrow slippery path, alongside the oozy\nrocky walls, ran Sorrow, as fast as though the path were sure and the\nsurroundings a flowery meadow. The rushing waters threatened every\nmoment to ingulf her. Their thunder, repeated by a thousand echoes,\nseemed to grow yet louder, and sounded so menacing as though the\naudacious pilgrim must turn back before them. But with burning cheeks\nSorrow hurried onwards, and her long black hair floated behind her like\na somber cloud. Her nostrils quivered, her lips opened and shut, with\noutstretched arms she whispered or called something, but the sound died\naway before it was spoken. Her eyes stared into space as though she\nwould search the depths, and yet they had fain be cast down, for the\ngorge narrowed and the last trace of a path was inundated by the water.\nBeneath her surged a whirlpool, above her rushed the water, rushed down\nin ever new masses; now it sounded like song, now like moaning voices,\nnow like pealing thunder. One moment she halted, then she raised her\nthin skirts and began to wade through the water where the rocks had\nquieted it a little and scooped out a place large enough for her\nsmall feet. With one hand she held herself against the rocky wall and\nlooked from time to time into the depths where yawned the opening of a\ncavern. At the risk of death she reached the entrance and stood still\na second, breathing deeply. Once more her gaze eagerly swept the sides\nof the cliffs; there was no projection on which to gain a footing, no\nbird could have stood there. Out of the cavern's mouth there gushed\nwater, and it too offered no road. One more look did she cast back,\nthen she resolutely entered the cave and groped through it in the dark,\nalong the wet stones. Often she sank deep into the waters. When she\nlost sight of the last sheen of daylight she resolved to wade, and did\nnot feel in the icy cold of the water how the stones cut her feet. At\nlast a red spot gleamed. She thought it was the daylight outside the\ncavern. Then the space enlarged. In this impenetrable darkness there\nwas a huge vault adorned with columns and capitals and ornaments of\nall kinds. Darting lights and shades quivered through the hall, which\nre-echoed with the sound of weeping and moaning. It was a confusion\nof sobbing women, whimpering children, groaning, sighing men, and\nevery flash of light seemed to increase the misery. Sorrow pressed her\nhands upon her breast and panted. She was so dazzled that at first she\ncould not see whence these lightnings came; the horrible sounds about\nher made her giddy. She leaned against one of the shining columns and\nshading her eyes with her hand, sought to follow the water-course and\nso discover the exit. There she beheld a colossal man, as tall, rough,\nand angular as the columns around. His ardent eyes were fixed on her.\nIn his hand he held the lightnings, which from time to time he threw\nacross the cave like fiery arrows or blue snakes.\n\n\"Come here, little Sorrow,\" he called in a voice of thunder. \"Have you\nfound your way to me? Come here, for you are mine.\"\n\nSorrow clung to the pillar against which she leaned and seized one\nof its pendent points. Pale as death, she glared at the monster who\nbeckoned to her.\n\n\"I will not come to you,\" she said at last. \"I do not know you. I seek\nfor Peace whom I saw go in here, and I am hurrying after him. Oh,\" she\ncried, and wrung her hands; \"oh, have you hidden him here, or perchance\nkilled him, you terrible man?\"\n\n\"I am Pain. Peace is not here, but beyond this cave, in the happy\nvalley.\"\n\n\"Show me the exit that I may follow him;\" and Sorrow sank down on her\nknees imploringly.\n\nThe fearful man laughed, and his laughter was louder than the rushing\nand thundering of the waters, more terrible than the sound of moaning\nround about.\n\n\"No, child; you and I, we do not belong to the happy valley, and the\nexit thither is barred to us by the weepers who fill this cave, and who\nare our victims. We two belong together. You shall be my wife, and we\nwill seek a spot to fix our dwelling.\"\n\n\"Your wife!\"\n\nThe words came from Sorrow's breast like a cry, but they were drowned\nin laughter. Then she darted up and turned to fly. But her arm was\nseized in such a grip that she thought it would break, and Pain swung\nhis lightnings over her head.\n\n\"If ever you flee from me,\" he roared, \"one of these shall fall on you,\nand what you will then feel will be so horrible that crushed, burnt,\ntortured, you will scarcely be able to moan like these wretches. I will\nshow them to you.\"\n\nHe lifted the hand that held the lightnings and illuminated the whole\nspace. No human words can tell what fearful forms filled it. Of every\nage and sex stricken ones lay around. They wound themselves in agony,\nthey lacerated themselves with their fists, they clawed the stones\nand with the nails of their hands and feet tried to raise themselves.\nHorrid wounds were held under the falling drops to cool them. Women\nwrithed in eternal birth-throes and could not bring forth; children\nbeat their heads sore against the rocky walls to overpower the pain\nthat gnawed their entrails. Many lay on their knees and wrung their\nhands and beat their breasts in unextinguishable remorse. Others lay\nmotionless, as though dead, only their eyes moved slowly in their\nsockets, following the direction of the light. Sorrow veiled her face\nand tottered; Pain caught her in his arms and pressed her to his breast.\n\n\"As great as are these agonies, so great is my love,\" he said.\n\nSorrow wept passionately.\n\n\"How could you think Peace could be yours. You have nothing in common\nwith him. You are mine; you belong to me. I have loved you in your\ndeeds without beholding you; your traces delighted my eyes.\"\n\nHe drew her hands away from her face and kissed her. Sorrow closed her\neyes that she might not see him, but under her dark lids tears welled\nforth, which he kissed away.\n\n\"Weep, weep, my little maid; your tears are dew, far fairer than your\nlaughter, they refresh and cheer me.\"\n\nShe tried to get loose from him, but he held her with his iron grasp.\n\n\"If you are afraid here,\" he said, \"I will bear you to a sweet spot and\nwin you there with violence.\"\n\nHe hastily raised the trembling maiden in his arms, threw a lightning\nin front of him that traced a line of light along the whole dark\npassage, and wading through the waters that seemed to retreat from\nhis feet, he hurried to the cavern's mouth. He bore her past the\nwaterfall, and when he let her glide to earth, he took hold of her\nhand, as though he feared she would escape him. She often looked back\nand tried to think of the happy valley, but to her mental vision there\never appeared only the cave with its desperate inhabitants. She hoped\nthe terrible man might grow weary, and then if sleep overcame him, she\ncould flee; therefore she complained of fatigue. But Pain was never\nweary; he instantly carried her again, and went onwards yet faster.\n\n\"Be happy,\" he said, \"for now at least some one carries you.\"\n\nShe turned her head away from his gleaming eyes. Then a great sense of\nweakness came over her, and it seemed to her as though they were going\nbackwards, as though the rushing of the river came ever nearer, as\nthough his eyes pierced her breast. Powerless to speak or move, she\nlay in the arms of Pain. Oh, where--where was her brother Death, who\ncould have freed her? Where her father Strife? He would have wrestled\nwith her captor. Or was he too powerless against this all-mighty Pain?\nShe would have prayed the river, the trees, the grasses to help her,\nbut they did not see her need. At last she lost consciousness, and when\nshe woke she lay under a rock amid deep hot sand--no tree, no song of\nbird, no murmur of waters; only sand, yellow burning sand and golden\nair that quivered in the heat.\n\n\"My wife,\" said Pain, and his eyes burnt like the sand and the air, and\nseemed to drain Sorrow's life blood. Her tears began to flow anew.\n\n\"Oh! how thirsty I am,\" she moaned.\n\nPain looked at her with satisfaction.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, \"was it not beautiful in that cool gorge, so near to\nthe cold foaming river? Do you recall how clear it was, and how it\ngushed out of the rocks? It came from the happy valley, that is so full\nof luscious fruits, fruits such as you have never beheld. Shall I show\nit you?\"\n\nAt his words Sorrow's eyes had grown ever bigger, her lips more parched.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" she panted, and behold, away, across the sand, there\nshimmered in the air a broad stream, and beside it were shady trees\nladen with fruits. Without knowing what she did, Sorrow sprang up and\nran to the river as fast as she could, through the deep sand, under\nthe scorching sunbeams. But the river seemed to retreat ever further\nfrom her, and at last it had vanished. At the same moment Pain laughed\nbehind her, and it sounded as though the whole desert laughed.\n\n\"Do you now see that you are wholly in my power; you can even only\nthink as I will. Here is water.\"\n\nHe showed her a few trees that overshadowed a well. Sorrow fell down\nbeside it and drank eager draughts. Then she sank into a deep sleep.\nWhen she woke the trees were withered, the well dried up, and there was\nagain nothing but sand as far as the eye could reach.\n\n\"Do you see,\" said Pain, \"we are stronger than the sun and the desert\nwind; all must vanish before our might. Wherever we have passed\npestilence has broken out, towns and villages are burnt; and where we\nset up our dwelling the earth grows a desert.\"\n\nSorrow wrung her hands. She sprang up and hurried forward. A whole long\nday she sped on, on, and did not see that he followed. At evening he\ncame towards her and laughed, and laughed so long that the whole desert\ngrew noisy, and hyenas and jackals began to howl, and lions approached\nroaring. But Pain held them in check with his look of fire, so that\nthey only walked round them from afar off all the night. When day\ndawned the wild beasts withdrew.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Sorrow, \"I die of fear. Take me away from here, wherever you\nwill, only away from this heat, these horrid beasts.\"\n\n\"Do you want coolness, love? You shall have it.\"\n\nHe took her in his arms and bore her fast as the wind towards the\nnorth, ever further, past the homes of men, past fields and cities,\nacross the ocean, which he waded through, up to the North. There lay\na lovely islet, and birches shook their tender foliage in the fresh\nbreezes.\n\n\"Here we will found our happy valley,\" said Pain, and beckoned.\n\nAnd as he beckoned the wind blew colder and sharper, the grass crackled\nunder his feet as it withered and froze, and from the ocean there\nneared crystal mountains that came closer and closer to the land, and\nthe wind that drove them to shore howled dismally. Soon the whole air\nwas filled with snow that whirled from above, from below, from all\nsides, choking like fine sand. Ice-blocks were piled upon ice-blocks,\nthere was much thundering and crackling, but at last all was still,\nwrapped in snow and awful silence. The transparent rocks stared up to\nthe heavens like frozen joy. Pain flung a lightning dart into the ice.\nIt bored a blue-green glistening cave in which he laid Sorrow.\n\n\"Do you stay here and rest,\" he said; \"I will search for a verdant\nspot. But do not stir from here, for out of the ice-fields you will\nnever find your road back to the happy valley.\"\n\nScarcely had he gone than Sorrow felt her frozen blood revive, and the\nterrible woe in her breast seemed to yield. First she leaned on her\nhand and peeped out, then she knelt and breathed on her numbed fingers,\nthen she stepped outside. There towered blocks of ice; here snow was\nspread in endless extent. She knew that the snow covered the island\nand the ice-blocks the sea, and it was over the ice-blocks she must\nwander, for otherwise she could not get across it. She began to slip\nthrough the cracks and crevices, to jump from one block to another,\nfollowing the sunbeams that alone marked a track for her. She did not\nrest when night came for fear she should be pursued. Twice she went\nround the island without knowing it, in her senseless fear; but at\nlast the sun led her out of the ice-bound world and across the first\ngreen blades of grass. Then she sank down for very weariness. How she\nfound her road back to the mountain gorge she never knew. She entered\nit trembling. If he was already here, he from whom she had fled, then\nshe was lost. After her wanderings upon the ice, this road seemed to\nbe quite easy, and her fearful glances around were not directed to\nthe masses of water that poured down yet more wildly than when she had\nfirst come here, and which seemed to threaten her tender form at every\nmoment, as though they would sweep her away like a leaf. Trembling in\nevery limb, and with chattering teeth, Sorrow entered the dreadful cave.\n\nIt was dark, and the confusion of voices sounded painfully through the\nvaults. Suddenly she felt herself surrounded on all sides, and held by\nher hands and clothes.\n\n\"I will not let you go before you liberate me,\" a voice sounded at her\near.\n\n\"Give me back happiness,\" moaned another.\n\n\"Make me well again,\" cried a third.\n\n\"We are but echoes of the woes of earth,\" they cried; \"but you shall\nhear us, though you stay here forever.\"\n\n\"But I cannot help you,\" wailed Sorrow.\n\n\"Yes,\" they shrieked; \"you can bring woe, but you will not free us.\nRevenge! revenge!\"\n\nAnd Sorrow felt herself pressed against the angular columns, and in the\nnoise that clamored round her, she heard--\n\n\"Bind her, bind her, tear out her heart. Blind the eyes of her who has\nbrought so much woe.\"\n\nIn her fear she cried--\n\n\"Beware what you do, Pain comes behind me, and terrible will be his\nrevenge if you hurt a hair of my head.\"\n\nThen she forced a road for herself and ran on, on to the spot where\nshe fancied was the outlet She groped a long while along the dripping\nwalls, but just as she had found it, she felt herself held anew, and a\nvoice said--\n\n\"And what will Pain do to you if you flee thither? Kiss me, or I will\nbetray you.\"\n\n\"Do not kiss him, his face is quite mutilated,\" called another voice.\n\n\"I will betray you,\" was whispered into her ear. \"I will hold you fast\nuntil Pain comes. Kiss me.\"\n\nSorrow bent down trembling, and touched a hideous mass with her\ndelicate lips; then she freed herself shuddering, and fled on again\nalong the dark passage. She had to bend nearly double, it grew so low.\nShe dipped her hand in the water and washed her face. It seemed to her\nas if she never advanced, as if she would never reach the end. At last\nthere shone a bright spot that slowly grew larger. There, yes, there,\ngleamed the dear sun; there must be the happy valley. But how, if\nPeace, whom she had sought in vain over the whole earth, were there no\nlonger! But if he were not, she could at least follow in his footsteps,\nand rest there where he had passed.\n\nNow the outlet of the cave yawned, and Sorrow stood still dazzled.\nWhatever there was that was fair on earth, whatever could be pictured\nof power and beauty, was all collected in that valley--luscious\ngreenery, wealth of flowers that covered the earth or crept along the\ngiant trees in lovely garlands, trees that no ax had ever touched, and\na singing of birds like heavenly music. A deep green lake reflected all\nthis beauty; deer and gazelles stood around it and drank.\n\nAt Sorrow's feet shone strawberries in rich red masses, above her head\nhovered a bird of paradise, the tip of his golden tail touched her\nhair.\n\nSuddenly Sorrow heard a voice, at whose tones it seemed to her as\nthough her heart leapt from her mouth. At first it sounded so soft, so\nfull and gentle, like purest melody; then it seemed to retreat. Sorrow\nheld her breath. Now again it came nearer, and at last she could hear\nthe words.\n\n\"You are the only maid on earth whom I can love, and you will not stay\nwith me! Is it not fair enough here to please you?\"\n\nTo whom were these words spoken, for whom the caressing sound of that\nvoice? Sorrow bent back a branch and beheld Peace with his heavenly\neyes, calm like a deep lake, and his radiant face of blooming youth.\nSorrow was so sunk in contemplation that she forgot herself, her\nexistence, and the sufferings she had endured. Her soul was in her eyes\nand quaffed eagerly this first refreshment. Then another face came to\nview. Sorrow at once recognized Work by her bright blue eyes and the\nwaving of her golden locks. She was blushing and tending her sweet lips\nto Peace. How lovely they both were under the green half shadows of the\nbroad leaves! Sorrow held her breath, the branch trembled in her hand.\n\n\"Do not go back to earth,\" Peace pleaded; \"you know what that is like.\"\n\n\"I must, I must,\" said Work. \"I am the comforter in all need, I have\ndried the tears of even Sorrow herself.\"\n\n\"Oh do not speak of Sorrow here.\"\n\n\"Have you ever beheld her?\"\n\n\"I have beheld her!\" and Peace's eyes grew veiled; \"and she destroyed\nmy heaven with her ugly eyes. I have fled from her across the whole\nworld and hidden here from her sight, for through that awful cave she\nwill not come. Her victims will not let her pass, if ever she sets foot\nin it.\"\n\nAt that instant the poor listener felt herself seized in an iron grasp,\nand the cry that would have issued from her was stifled by a strong\nhand. She reeled back through the dark passage, into the cavern in\nwhich lightning flamed. Now she was forcibly bound and before her stood\nPain in towering passion.\n\n\"What shall I do to you, faithless one?\" he gnashed.\n\n\"Revenge, revenge!\" resounded from all sides, and a rain of stones hit\nthe defenseless one.\n\nSorrow sank on her knees, but Pain raised her.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"she is not to be given over to you, for she must return\nto earth; but I will return her to earth in such a manner that she\nshall with unconcern do yet more mischief than heretofore.\"\n\nHe seized Sorrow by her hair and drew her forth relentlessly, away from\nthe howls of the cave which pursued her long.\n\nIt was twilight outside; under the rocks it was already night. Sorrow\nwas dragged onwards, she knew not how, she knew not whither. Now she\nflew up the mountain sides, ever higher, higher, dragged, when her\ntottering knees would no longer bear her, across bare stones and\nthrough thorn-bushes. A fearful storm raged. At last she reached a high\nmountain top on which there was only room for her foot. Here she stood\na second above the dark-threatening mountain forest lashed by the\nwind, high and free, above the mountains and the clefts, above the firs\nand the waters, alone in the world. She no longer felt, she did not see\nPain who cowered near to her on a rocky ledge and waited. Now he raised\nhis hand and cast lightning upon lightning towards her. From her crown\nto her feet she felt herself torn and penetrated by these glowing rays.\n\nShe silently extended her arms and turned round slowly. As she did so,\nthe last lightning dart pierced through her eyes into her heart, and\nshe fell down, down, deep into the yawning precipice. Pain listened\nuntil he heard her fall, and then laughed terribly. The mountains\nanswered his laugh with thundrous voice, the firs bent and broke, the\nwaters stood still a second for fear.\n\nHow long Sorrow lay in that abyss none knew, for none asked after her.\nThe firs alone kept watch over the sleeper and whispered dreams to her\nthat she did not hear.\n\nOne day strong steps broke the silence, and Courage, his club upon his\nshoulder, came singing by. He beheld Sorrow as she lay there, her head\non a stone, her feet in the water, encircled with her long black hair\nthat had been bathed in blood. He raised the body and rubbed her numb\nhands.\n\n\"Have I got you at last?\" he said, \"I wanted to find you. You may not\ndie, you must be alive again.\"\n\nHe warmed her in his arms, he revived her with his breath until she\nopened her eyes.\n\n\"Why do you seek me?\" she asked in tuneless voice. \"I am dead.\"\n\n\"The world misses you, you must wander again. Sin reigns unchecked\nsince you have vanished.\"\n\n\"Let her keep her empire,\" said Sorrow, and closed her eyes.\n\nCourage shook her.\n\n\"It must not be, little sister, you must wander again.\"\n\n\"But I am dead, do you not see? Do you not see that I am burnt?--my\nbrain, my eyes, my heart; leave me alone.\"\n\n\"That does not concern the world whether you wander through it dead or\nalive, but wander you must. I will not let you go till you do.\"\n\nHe raised her on her feet. She turned and looked at him. He grew pale.\nHer face was stony, her eyes stony, her hair hung round her rigid and\ndead.\n\n\"Shall I go?\" she said, without moving her lips.\n\n\"Go,\" said Courage, \"for you all pains are past; you will gaze into the\nworld indifferently, a fearful enemy to Sin.\"\n\nSorrow swept her hair from off her marble brow, and tried to collect\nherself. As memory stirred, her eyes began to flash again; but their\nlight died down almost immediately. Yes, she had grown terrible, as\nterrible as Pain had desired in his fierce vengeance, as terrible as\nshe needed to be to put a curb on Sin. Poor little Sorrow!\n\n\n\n\n_HEAVENLY GIFTS._\n\n\n\n\nHeavenly Gifts.\n\n\nThe forest gorge was full of the sound of trickling and running waters.\nA streamlet skipped from rock to rock. Through the dense foliage\na sunbeam crept here and there, and changed into a rainbow in the\nembraces of the waters. Here and there dark little pools formed, upon\nwhose surface floated a withered leaf, until it came too close to\nthe current and vanished, whirling over the nearest waterfall. Huge\ntree trunks had fallen across the gorge. They were used as bridges\nby the mosses and climbing plants that overgrew them with exuberant\nvitality, and hung down from their sides as though they would drink of\nthe waters that murmured beneath. There of a sudden a wondrously white\narm stretched forth from out of the climbing plants. In its delicate\nhand it held a staff of rock crystal with a diamond knob, that flashed\nand glistened strangely, as though the sun had stepped down to behold\nitself in the mountain stream. Then fair curls came to view over the\nconfusion of plants that covered the tree trunk; then a rosy face, with\nlarge dreamy eyes, now black, now dark blue in color, according to the\nthoughts that swayed under the cover of its curls. Anon the charming\nbeing knelt, and one could see the golden girdle that held the soft\ngarment which clung about her tender form, and her other hand that\nheld a spindle cut from a single emerald, which she twirled in the air\nas though she would that it outshine the green of the beech leaves.\n\n\"Oh, M\u00e4rchen,[2] M\u00e4rchen,\" the brook began to sing, \"will you not bathe\nto-day? Put by your staff and spindle and dip down to me. I have not\nkissed you to-day.\"\n\nThe fair head peeped down and looked into the wood. No, there was no\none there, not even a deer. So M\u00e4rchen laid distaff and spindle among\nthe moss of the tree trunk, twisted her hair into a knot, let fall her\nlinen garment, and, seizing hold of two twigs, let herself glide down\nto the surface of the brook, and then began to swing merrily to and\nfro, her feet touching the water as she swung. But the brook did not\ncease from singing, and from imploring her to come down into him. Then\nshe let go the twigs, and fell, like a shower of spring blossoms, into\nits wavelets.\n\nFar from here was a lonely gorge. Rock towered upon rock, and a torrent\nforced its way through with difficulty. There a grave man leaned and\nlooked down into the waterfall. His brow was thoughtful; the hand that\nrested upon the stones was delicate, almost suffering. A pencil had\nfallen from its grasp. Suddenly there sounded a wondrous singing from\nout the waterfall, and the man's brow grew clearer as he listened.\nThat was the moment when M\u00e4rchen had touched the waters, and it sang\nand sounded and was full of lovely forms and sweet songs and many fair\nthings that attracted that lonely man. He listened enraptured, and his\nsoul expanded with the things he heard. The brook itself hardly knew\nwhat it babbled; it still trembled from having felt M\u00e4rchen's touch,\nand it sang for sheer joy. The lonely man departed with lightened brow\nand airy steps as though the air bore him. He had not long gone before\nM\u00e4rchen appeared upon one of the highest rocks, swung her distaff in\nthe air, and filled it with gossamer that glistened in the dew. Then\nshe skipped down, broke a branch from a blossoming wild rose-bush and\nencircled the distaff with it in lieu of a ribbon, put it into her\nbelt, and, jumping from stone to stone, crossed the brook and went\nfar into the forest. The birds flew about her and chirped to her\nnews of the east and west, the north and south. Squirrels slid out of\nthe trees, seated themselves at her feet, looked at her with their\nsage eyes, and recounted all that had happened in the wood. The deer\nand does came about her; even the blind worms reared their heads and\nchattered with their sharp tongues. M\u00e4rchen stood still and listened;\nand from time to time she touched her distaff as though she would say,\n\"Remember.\"\n\nThe forest grew ever denser, the flowers that sent out their scent to\nM\u00e4rchen more luxurious. At last she had to bend the branches apart\nin order to penetrate further. There stood a dream-like castle with\ntall gabled windows, into which grew the tree branches, and from out\nwhich tumbled creeping plants. Roof and walls had vanished beneath\nthe roses that grew over all things, and out of the castle sounded a\nthousand songs of birds. M\u00e4rchen stepped to the open door and entered\nthe wide hall, whose floor and walls were of jewels, and in whose midst\na tall fountain played. Round about stood hundreds of Kobolds. They\nhad brought with them little stools of pure gold, and waited to see if\ntheir sweet queen be content. She smiled approvingly, and thanked her\nfriends. In midst of all this shimmering splendor fair M\u00e4rchen stood\nlike a reviving sunbeam.\n\n\"See how I have filled my distaff to-day,\" she said, genially. \"I\nbelieve a magnet lives in your crystal, to which all things fly. Will\nyou not fill it yet fuller?\"\n\nThe Kobolds frowned, which made them look very comic, and one said--\n\n\"We have resolved to tell you nothing more, because you let it flow\nfrom you like the water that tumbles yonder. We have watched you. When\nyou go forth at eve, you go to our enemies, the mortals--those wretched\nthieves that rob our treasures, and you tell them our secrets.\"\n\n\"No,\" said M\u00e4rchen, \"I do not go to all mortals; only to some--your\nfriends, who love you as I do; and I only tell them as much as they\ndeserve. Will you not go on trusting me?\"\n\nThey pushed a golden stool near to the fountain and began to recount to\nM\u00e4rchen, whose eyes gleamed like the ocean. When she had heard enough,\nand given it to the distaff to guard, she nodded to her little guests,\nwho hurried away. She then passed into the nearest chamber. There stood\nsuch a wealth of flowers that one could not tell where first to rest\none's eyes. The walls were covered with all the wonders of the tropics;\nfrom the ceiling hung orchids; the floor was overgrown with soft green\nmoss, from which peeped crocuses, hyacinths, violets, primroses, and\nlilies of the valley. Hummingbirds and nightingales greeted their queen\njoyously, while from the flower crowns elves uprose and stretched out\ntheir arms in love.\n\nM\u00e4rchen seated herself on the grass and let them talk to her, toyed\nwith the fair flower-children and began to sing in unison with the\nbirds. Then she entered the next room, whose walls were pure rock\ncrystal, that reflected M\u00e4rchen many hundred times. In its center,\nunder mighty palm fans, was a large basin, studded with rubies, into\nwhich foamed a waterfall. The nixes lay around it upon couches, and\nwaited for the beauty whom as yet they had not seen that day. But\nM\u00e4rchen wanted to hear no more; she had, like a true queen, given ear\nto so many that she was overpowered with fatigue, and craved rest.\nSo she passed into the next room, that was a single little bower of\nrushes and bindweeds; the ground was strewn with poppy flowers, and\nin its midst stood the fairest couch eye has seen--one single, large\nrose--into which M\u00e4rchen laid herself, and that closed its leaves above\nher.\n\nNow the rushes began to rustle like an echo of distant singing, and the\nbindweeds tolled their bells, and the poppies gave forth their faint\nodor, and M\u00e4rchen slumbered deep and sweet until the evening.\n\nWhen the sun was sinking, and gazed like a large, glowing eye between\nthe trunks of the forest, so that all the leaves looked golden,\nM\u00e4rchen awoke, placed her distaff in her girdle, put the spindle beside\nit, and stepped outside.\n\nTwilight was creeping up mysteriously and dreamily and spreading its\nwings over the forest. The birds grew still; only the toads in the\nwatery gorge began their one-toned song. A gentle murmur ran through\nthe leaves and across the parched grass, for all wanted to look on\nM\u00e4rchen and aspired towards her. Now the moon rose and threw bright\nlights hither and thither and haunted the trees. He wanted to kiss\nM\u00e4rchen and entice her forth to play upon the forest meadow.\n\n\"The elves await you,\" he called after M\u00e4rchen, who would not listen,\nbut floated on airily, as though the evening breezes bore her. A\nmill stood beside the brook in the shadow of the beeches. A fire\ngleamed within it, around which people sat gathered. M\u00e4rchen entered,\nand called the children. They flew towards her and drew her to the\nfireside, brought her a stool to sit upon, and gazed with large, eager\neyes at her full distaff.\n\nM\u00e4rchen caressed the dear, fair heads, drew forth the spindle, knotted\nthe yarn, and began to spin. And while the spindle floated up and\ndown, swirling, she told them what she beheld in the yarn, until from\nsheer listening the children's eyes fell to, and they never knew next\nday whether they had really seen M\u00e4rchen or only in their sleep. She\nherself slipped out and glided between the trees till she came to a\nmeadow shimmering in evening mist. Hundreds of butterflies hung upon\nthe myriad flowers, two and three on one blossom, and slept so deep\nand sound that the heads of the sleepy flowers hung deep down under\nthe weight of so many guests. Only the large night-moth floated about\ndarkly and watched over the whole.\n\n\"I wonder if the butterflies dream,\" thought M\u00e4rchen, as she knelt down\nbeside the flowers and approached her ear.\n\nYes, they dreamed of the journeys they had taken that day; they dreamed\nthey had gained far fairer colors: just such green, blue, and red\nhues like the flowers and leaves. Even the plainest gray one dreamt\nof colors brighter than the gayest parrot. The flowers dreamt that a\nwarm wind touched them, and gave to them far sweeter scents than they\nhad ever owned--quite intoxicatingly luscious. It was M\u00e4rchen's breath\nwhich they had felt in their sleep.\n\nSoon M\u00e4rchen came to a pretty house beside a gurgling stream. The water\nformed a quiet little pool, in which the moon and the ivy-grown house\nwere reflected. The beeches dipped the tips of their branches into it,\nand a nightingale sang lonesomely into the night. Up in the house burnt\na solitary light, like to a glowworm. M\u00e4rchen entered the house as\nthough it were most familiar to her, opened a door softly, and stepped\nwithin a little room. In a deep armchair, beside a writing-table, sat\na handsome, pale, agitated man. His head was sunk in his palm, and he\ngazed with lightless eyes across the table, on which Sorrow was resting\nboth her hands.\n\n\"See,\" he said, \"this morning, beside the mountain stream, I was glad\nfor a moment. Pictures filled my brain, but now all is empty and\ndead, and I am so weary--so weary. I wish to die. I cannot forgive my\nbody that it still lives on, and yet a heavenly gift dwells within me\nthat keeps me alive and makes me believe I could still create. But I\ndo nothing more. Fatigue has grown stronger than aught else in this\nugly world. Would that I had never been born, for I am a man who must\nreflect the whole world in its pain and suffering and falsehood. I\nlove men too much, and therefore they have no faces for me. I only see\ntheir souls, and these are beautiful notwithstanding all wickedness and\nmisery. Now I grow miserable with them. I should like to hide before my\nown eyes, for I am worth nothing--nothing. All that I do is vain, and\nwill vanish unheard; all I think others know much better. A fire burns\nin me that consumes me in lieu of warming my fellow-men. I feel like\none that is drowning, to whom no saving hand is extended. I should be\na man and save myself, but my strength is at an end. I have lived too\nmuch. I have lived through all that which others have felt, and borne\nmy own woes besides. Now it is too much, do you see--too much; and I\ncan no longer give to the world what I fain would have given it--all\nthe new, great, lovely things that dwell in my brain. But it had no\ntime to listen to me. And perhaps there is, after all, no value in\nthese things, though to my small mind they seemed so great. Yet they\ncannot bear the light. I am weary. I want to die.\"\n\nSorrow listened, and never took her eyes from him; but her pitying\ngaze made him yet more irritable and desperate. Suddenly M\u00e4rchen stood\nbefore him, with glittering distaff, with shining teeth and beaming\neyes; dimples in her cheeks, and the distaff of promise in her hands.\nHe looked at her and was dazzled.\n\n\"I wanted to help,\" said Sorrow, \"but he grew ever worse.\"\n\n\"_You_ help him!\"\n\nM\u00e4rchen laughed.\n\n\"Go your ways and leave him to me; I will manage him. I know all. You\nare once more weary of the world and want to die, and have no talent,\nand men are all bad, very wicked indeed, and faithless, and have\ndeserted you, and do not believe in you. Oh, you poor, poor human soul!\nWhy do you not become a butterfly and sleep on a flower? He knows that\nhe has wings, and that his flower has scent, and that his meadow is\nquite full of blossoms. What does he care whether the others see it\nsince he sees it! And now look here; I have come back, although you\nscarcely deserve it, you doubter. Look at this heavy laden distaff,\nthat is for you, only for you, if you will listen to me.\"\n\nAnd M\u00e4rchen began to spin and sing and narrate all night long, and\nher friend wrote and wrote, without knowing that his pencil moved; he\nthought he had only heard and listened. He wrote down thoughts and\nsongs and poems; they streamed like living fire from under his hand.\nAnd what he wrote moved the world. Men thought his thoughts after\nhim, and sang his songs, and wept over his stories, and knew not that\nthe poet who had given them all these things was sad unto death,\nmisunderstood of all, and that Sorrow visited him far oftener than\nM\u00e4rchen.\n\nThey called him a child of the gods and a genius, and knew not that\nhe was a man for whose soul Sorrow and M\u00e4rchen struggled ceaselessly,\nand who had suffered so much grief and seen so many wonders that his\nstrength was broken. Ay, the children of the gods must suffer much on\nearth, and M\u00e4rchen only visits those that have been proved, and ever\ndeparts from them if they have made themselves unworthy of her. Once\nshe told at parting the tale which follows:--\n\n[Footnote 2: I have been forced to keep the German word, as no English\none covers that peculiar type of German fanciful stories that are known\nunder this appellation. _M\u00e4rchen_ are something more than fairy tales;\nsomething deeper, wider, richer, and more varied. The queen calls the\npresent book a cycle of _M\u00e4rchen_.--TRANSLATOR.]\n\n\n\n\n_THE TREASURE SEEKERS._\n\n\n\n\nThe Treasure Seekers.\n\n\nThe Philosopher and the Poet set out together on a pilgrimage, to\nseek after the hidden treasure of cognition[1] and to raise it. They\nhad been told that it lay buried there where the rainbow touches the\nearth, and that it was quite easy to find. The Philosopher dragged\ninstruments with him, and began accurate measurements, and as often\nas he saw a rainbow he carefully measured the distance, determined the\nspot with mathematical accuracy, hurried thither and began to dig.\nThe Poet, meanwhile, laid himself in the grass and laughed and toyed\nwith the sunbeams. They played about his happy brow, they told to him\nbright fairy tales of dreamland, and showed him the life and working\nof nature. He grew familiar with all plants and creatures, he learnt\nto know their speech, and he became versed in their secret whisperings\nand sighs. Ay, all created things came to have faces for him, from the\ntenderest plant and the most insignificant beast, and before his eyes\nwere unrolled deeds full of woe and joy.\n\nWhen at last the Philosopher, with solemn look, torn hands, and weary\nback, rose from his shaft back into daylight, laden with some new\nstones, he marveled when he saw the Poet's face radiant, as though he\nhad heard wonders.\n\n\"How transfigured you are, you lazy one!\" he said angrily.\n\n\"Who tells you that I am lazy?\"\n\n\"You always remain here on the surface while I go into the depths.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the surface, too, offers some solutions, and perchance I read\nthese.\"\n\n\"What can the surface offer? One must penetrate into the depths. I have\nas yet not found the right spot in which the promised treasure lies,\nbut I have made some most important discoveries, though never yet the\nright ones, those that I apprehend.\"\n\n\"Let us seek further,\" said the Poet.\n\nSuddenly he held his friend by the arm, and pointed with breathless\ndelight.\n\n\"Another rainbow!\" cried the Philosopher, and began his measurements.\n\nBut the Poet had seen behind the sun-glittering rainbow a wondrous\nform with black hair and large, sad eyes. She seemed to wait for him;\nthen she turned away slowly. As though demented, the Poet rushed after\nher; he forgot the aim of his pilgrimage, forgot his friend, who had\ndescended into a new shaft. He only hurried after that wondrous being\nwhose eyes had sunk into his soul. Over hill and dale, from house to\nhouse he followed the fair form. He saw the world and its agonies,\nwherever he looked he beheld woe, for in his own heart dwelt the\ngreatest woe, the gnawing pangs of love. He ever thought he must attain\nto his enchantress, who stepped in front of him so calmly, through\nthe fallen autumn leaves, across the soft snow, in the bitter north\nwind--north, south, east, and west, ever unapproachable. Once or twice\nshe looked round after him, and her gaze only increased his yearning.\n\nAt last Spring neared on the wings of the wind. At the spot whence the\nPoet had set out the fair form halted. Now he should reach it. But at\nthat moment a hurricane broke loose that shook the world. Forests were\nuprooted, and all the sluices of heaven seemed opened. The Poet crossed\nthe foaming mountain stream at the peril of his life, and came up to\nher who stood calm amid all this uproar, and only gazed at him. He\nseized her hand.\n\n\"You are mistaken in me,\" she said, sadly. \"I wanted to flee from you\nbecause I love you, for I bring you no happiness. I am Sorrow, and\nmust leave you a heavy heart and serious thoughts. Farewell! You have\nfound your treasure; now you need me no longer.\"\n\nSo speaking she vanished.\n\nThe hurricane had changed into a fine, drizzling rain, through which\nthe Spring sunbeams pierced to the Poet. At that moment the Philosopher\nrose out of the earth richly laden. He let all his burden fall, folded\nhis hands, and cried--\"Why, you lucky wight, you stand in the very\nmidst of the rainbow, straight upon the treasure.\"\n\n\"Who? I?\" said the Poet, waking from his stupor. Then he threw himself\nto earth and wept aloud and cried--\n\n\"Oh that I had never been born! I suffer unspeakable torture.\"\n\nThe Philosopher shrugged his shoulders and began to dig anew.\n\n\"There stands one right upon his treasure,\" he said, \"and does not know\nit; and when I tell him he weeps. Oh these poets!\"\n\n[Footnote 3: _Erkenntniss_ is the German word. The tree of knowledge\nof good and evil is called in German \"der baum der Erkenntniss.\" The\nclumsy philosophical term \"cognition\" alone seems to me to embrace all\nthe author would include in her meaning.--TRANSLATOR.]\n\n\n\n\n_A LIFE._\n\n\n\n\nA Life.\n\n\nI wanted to find Truth. Then Sorrow took me by the hand, and said--\n\n\"Come with me, I will lead you to Truth, but you must not faint or fear\nby the way.\"\n\n\"I! I fear nothing; and I am so strong I could carry mountains.\"\n\nSorrow looked at me pityingly, and gave no answer, but led me into a\nhall that was vast and high and airy, filled with wondrous strains\nof music, glorious pictures, and statues. I wandered among them\nbewildered. There was nothing to fear here.\n\n\"See,\" said Sorrow, \"here live the Arts; you may choose one of them.\nBut of your own accord you must select that which suits you; and it\nwill help you on the road to Truth.\"\n\nThen I laid my hand on an instrument--\n\n\"Music tempts me,\" I said; \"I will sing and play like a god, and it\ncost me my life and my happiness.\"\n\nWith what ardor, what fire did I begin to play! I followed music like\nan adored mistress. I besought her to lead me to Truth. But she ever\nwent too fast or soared above my head, while I played till my hands\nfailed me. Song sounded weak and small in my throat, instead of sobbing\nand storming. Then I ran into the Wood in my distress, and it comforted\nme.\n\nOne day Sorrow touched my shoulder.\n\n\"You still play badly, you still sing feebly; let us go further: you\nare no artist.\"\n\nI laid aside my instrument and wept.\n\n\"Hush!\" said Sorrow; \"you wanted to carry a mountain.\"\n\nAnd she led me into a large, solemn, dimly lit room, that was full of\nbooks from floor to ceiling.\n\n\"Here is food for your spirit,\" said Sorrow; \"seek, seek; in Science\nlives Truth.\"\n\nI seated myself in a tall, worn armchair, and began to learn. But I\ncould only study slowly, for ever my thoughts would wander their own\nways. Now the fire burned too brightly and told me fairy tales; now the\nwind howled round the old house, so that I thought I must away, and the\nletters grew dim to my eyes. I strove to check this hapless fantasy\nthat held me back on the road to Truth; but it was stronger than I.\nSometimes it pressed a pencil into my hand, and then I wrote secretly\npoor little verses, which I hid from the very books, from the very air\nof the room. At last I threw myself back in the chair and cried--\n\n\"Wisdom, too, is not for me. She seems to me dead and dusty, and I--I\ndesire to live.\"\n\n\"Do you want that?\" said Sorrow. \"But then you must not fear.\"\n\n\"I do not fear, I want to live.\"\n\nThen I stood beside a sick bed, where a lovely gifted boy struggled\nwith Death. His sufferings exceeded the measure of the endurable, yet\nSorrow would not quit him. But Courage, too, remained at his side. Two\nyears the terrible struggle lasted, and I asked--\n\n\"Where is Truth? Is this to live?\"\n\nWhen he died I trembled, for the first time, for fear. Then Sorrow took\nme from one deathbed to another. How many fair maiden flowers that had\ngrown up beside and with me did I see fade! And I wept till my eyes\nwere dim.\n\n\"Is this to live?\" I asked again.\n\nThen Sorrow took me with her on long journeys to the North, South,\nEast, and West. I saw all men, all arts, all treasures, the mighty sea,\nand the petty towns, till I grew homesick for the old house in which I\nhad seen so many die, in which my father had now closed his eyes. For\nwhen I came back I found his armchair empty. Then I was ready to die of\ngrief.\n\n\"What,\" said Sorrow, \"die already? And you could carry a mountain? Why,\nyou have not lived yet, for you have not loved.\"\n\nWhile she said this she laid her hand on my heart, and like a mighty\nstream love entered in with song and rejoicing. Only the Wood saw it,\nand it rejoiced with me, and yet more secretly I wrote now and again a\nlittle poem.\n\nBut Truth was not in love, neither was it in renunciation, for I\nmurmured and knew not why I should renounce. Sorrow's hand lay heavy on\nmy arm, and for a long time my steps were weak and slow. I no longer\nsought after Truth. But at last I seemed to see that she must lie in\nWork, in great, rich Work. When Sorrow heard me say this, she raised my\ndrooping head and pointed before me.\n\n\"Here stands a good man, and waits for you. Will you love him your\nlife long? Here is your path, it is rough and stony, and leads past\nprecipices to steep heights. Will you walk on it? And there lies work\nfor you, mountains high. Will you carry it?\"\n\n\"I will,\" I said.\n\nThen Sorrow led me into marriage, and made me a mother, and laid great\nrich labors upon my shoulders. I groped about to find the right path,\nand we had to meet with mistrust and misunderstanding, and on the steep\npath stood hate and strife. But I did not fear, for I was a mother.\nBut not many years was this high dignity mine, my child's fair eyes\nclosed, and I laid his curly head in the grave. Yet I stood erect,\nnotwithstanding the fire in my breast, and I asked of Sorrow--\n\n\"Where is Truth? Now that all earthly joy, all earthly hopes have been\nborne to the grave, there remains for me nothing but Truth; I have a\nright to find her.\"\n\nThen Sorrow pressed into my hand a pencil, and said--\"Seek.\"\n\nAnd I wrote and wrote, and knew not that I exercised an art, for years\nsince, I had with heavy heart renounced being an artist. I sought to do\ngood where I could. I learnt to understand men and to think myself into\ntheir innermost being; but I did not find Truth. My steps once more\ngrew heavy and weary, until at last, conquered by sickness, I had to\nlie down. And during this long illness I tasted all life's bitterness,\nall chagrin and despair that can reside in one poor human breast, and I\ndesired to die. But Sorrow taught me to be well again, and ever faster\nflew my pencil, ever richer streamed my thoughts, ever wider grew my\nfield of labor, ever sterner the care for others' weal.\n\nThen the ground beneath our feet trembled and War drew nigh with\nhis companions. His breath was thunder, his eye fire, his hand the\nlightning. The cloak that infolded him wrapped the whole heavens in\nblack night. We staked life and wealth and honor, and our heart's blood\nfell to earth in the terrible struggle, from which our trusty ones, who\nstood by us as firmly as we stood by them, issued victorious. It was\nmy part to heal the wounds and soften the sufferings. But neither was\nTruth here. True, we came forth from the strife fearless and purified,\nbut already envy and jealousy lurked on our path, and made it slippery\nand unsafe.\n\n\"Oh, Truth, Truth,\" I cried, \"my youth is past; I have fought the\nhardest fights and I still live, but I have not yet seen Truth.\"\n\n\"There she stands,\" said Sorrow, and when I raised my eyes I saw in\nthe distance, besides a silent water, a little child whose eyes gleamed.\n\n\"Is that child Truth?\" I asked.\n\nSorrow nodded.\n\n\"She is not to be feared, is she?\"\n\nBut while Sorrow spoke thus, the child grew taller and taller, until\nshe held the whole earth in her hand, and embraced the whole heavens.\n\n\"Do you see Truth,\" said Sorrow. \"And now look within yourself; she is\nthere too.\"\n\nAnd as I gazed within, I cried--\n\n\"Wherefore have I suffered and fought? she was ever there, about me,\nand in me, and now I will die.\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Sorrow.\n\nThen it grew misty before my eyes, and I saw nothing more. But Sorrow\ntook me by the hand, and led me further.\n\n\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n  Transcriber's Note:\n\n  Italic text is denoted by _underscores_\n\n  Punctuation errors and typos have been standardised.","title":"Pilgrim Sorrow: A Cycle of Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":31089}