THE WITCHING STONE Merry banners were waving from the tower of the count’s castle, and from the surrounding villages re-echoed the sound of merry bells. Joy had come to be a guest within the castle walls, and both bond and free in that domain rejoiced in its coming. The young countess had given birth to an heir. The little lord was healthy and finely formed, made the walls resound with his strong voice, and vigorously kicked his feet, till his father’s eyes shone with delight. The day after his birth, when the child was taken to be baptized, the count dipped deeply into his treasure chest; all the servants received holiday clothes, and the poor in the land loudly praised their master’s generosity. Then it became quiet in the castle. The boy lay peacefully in his nursemaid’s arms, and his mother, Frau Gotelind, looked from her couch with a proud, blissful smile at the thriving child. She was a delicate lady, and her strength came back slowly; but it came, thanks to careful nursing and the appetizing broths made for her by old Crescenz. She was a wise woman, and well skilled in caring for the sick. Therefore the count had called her to the castle and intrusted to her the nursing of his wife. But the servants shook their heads thoughtfully when the old woman came in, for what people said of her was not good. Huntsmen and messengers had often met her in the moonlit wood, looking for herbs, and it was rumored that she could conjure up storms and dry the cows’ milk. Therefore the menservants and maids timidly avoided her, but scrupulously followed the orders which she gave. Frau Crescenz was sitting in the kitchen, paring vegetables. Near her stood her daughter Ortrud, whom she had brought with her to the castle, that she might help her in her work. The daughter was a tall, well-developed woman, with raven-black hair, but her forehead was low, and her nose as flat as a pig's. She had killed and plucked a chicken to make some strengthening broth for the countess, and was just cleaning it. “Look, mother,” she cried suddenly; “see what is in the chicken’s crop; he had swallowed a stone.” “Let me see,” said old Crescenz, with curiosity, and Ortrud handed what she had found to her mother. It was a white, sparkling stone, shaped like a bean. “Oh, you lucky child!” cried the mother; “that is a jewel more precious than a carbuncle (ruby) or a diamond.” Then she looked anxiously about her, fearing lest a third person might have been watching them, but, besides the two women, there was nobody in the kitchen. “Dearest daughter,” continued the old woman, — and her eyes shone like cats’ eyes, — “the stone will bring you good luck. Keep your mouth shut and tell no human being anything about the chicken’s stone. Conceal it well in your waist and guard it as the apple of your eye. The magic which the jewel contains will soon appear. And go to your room and put on your holiday gown; today you shall carry to the count his morning drink.” * * * Where the deadly nightshade grows, there flowers of noble birth must fade away. The countess had long since recovered, but she went about sadly, with downcast eyes. Her husband’s love had gone out in a night like a candle burnt to the end, and she knew, too, who had caused the sudden change. The dark Ortrud, who, by her husband’s command, had been made her stewardess, had captivated the count. She carried her head high, and gave commands boldly in the house, as though she were the mistress. Frau Gotelind sat silent and grieving in her chamber by the side of her little son’s cradle, and at night her pillow was wet with tears. But when the nursemaid gently reproved her, saying, “My lady, you will harm the child if you look at him with sorrowful eyes,” then the unhappy woman would compel herself to smile, and would sing in a low voice to the little one the old cradle song of the white and the black sheep. Thus passed a year of sorrow to the countess. But the boy thrived, and became a beautiful, sturdy child. One day his nursemaid was sitting with the little one in the castle garden, the boy was playing in the grass with a small wooden horse, and his mother was standing on the balcony and delighting in the sight of him. Suddenly the child rose and stood for the first time on his feet, and made an unaided attempt to step forward. Just then the stewardess Ortrud came along, and the boy bent toward her, and seeking a support, grasped a fold of her dress with his little hand. The maid gave the child a push with her foot, so that he fell on his back with a scream, and went on her way scolding. When the mother saw how the bold woman maltreated her child, her heart was convulsed with bitter anguish; but she was silent. She hastened down into the garden to her son, and soothed him with caresses. Then she sent the nursemaid under a pretext into the house, took the little one up, and, unnoticed, left the garden and the castle. The countess and her child were not missed till just as darkness was coming on. The count was much alarmed and sent out servants with torches to look for them in every direction. He himself mounted a horse and rode at random about the country. But master and servants returned without having found the lost ones. The search was kept up for two or three days longer; then the count put on mourning, and hung a black flag from the tower. It was supposed that the countess and her child had become the prey of some wild beast in the forest. The maid Ortrud and her wicked mother carried their heads higher than ever, and the old woman said to the young one: “It is a good thing that she has gone off with her brat of her own free will; otherwise—” But she said no more. A short time after Ortrud took possession of the state-chamber of the vanished countess, and it was as good as decided that at the end of the year of mourning the count would make the stewardess his wife. But when the year was over, and the count wished to be married, the priest refused to unite the pair, because it was not proved that the countess was dead. So the count had the name of her who had disappeared posted up on the doors of three churches. Then after another year, if no news came about her, she might be considered as dead, according to the laws of the country, and the widower might take another wife. The second year too was drawing to an end, and nobody had heard anything from the lost wife. * * * But the countess was not dead, and her little son too was still alive. When, overcome by excessive grief, she had secretly left the castle, she had wandered off into the wild forest, not knowing where she was going. She walked the whole night long, carrying the sleeping child in her arms. Occasionally the eyes of a wolf shone out of the darkness of the firs, but it did the poor mother no harm. Towards morning, when the chilly wind blew through the trees, her tender feet, unused to travelling, would carry her no farther. She sank down on the wood moss and wept bitterly; now for the first time she realized that she had doomed herself and her child to destruction. Then there suddenly stood before the desperate mother a very old man, whose snow-white beard from his face fell down like a waterfall. In his right hand he carried a staff; in his left a bundle of herbs. The old man was a pious hermit, who had turned his back on the turmoil of the world and dwelt in the wilderness. He gave mother and child some food, and led them to his hermitage. The countess felt confidence in the hermit and told him who she was and why she had taken flight. And the old man comforted her and said, “Stay with me, and share with me my poverty.” So the countess and her child remained with the hermit. By means of a wall of wicker-work he divided his hut into two rooms, and prepared a couch of wood moss and soft fur for his guests. For food he gave them goat’s milk and whatever the woods afforded of berries and wild fruits. The life in the green forest agreed with the boy; he grew, and his limbs became strong and supple. The countess’ delicate frame, too, became stronger; but her heart was still filled with a secret grief, for she could not forget her husband, and thought of him day and night. Thus passed nearly two years. * * * One morning the little one was jumping about in the forest and playing with a hazel switch, when the hoarse cry of a raven fell on his ear; and when he went toward the sound, he saw on the ground a flock of the large black birds, who were attacking one of the number with their bills. When the boy ran toward them, the ravens flew away; but the one whom they had treated so badly could not lift himself into the air, but hopped painfully about on the ground, so that it was easy for the child to catch the bird. As he held his prisoner in his hand, he saw an arrow sticking in one of his wings. He removed it and carried the raven home. The hermit, who was skilled in the art of healing, put a salve on the wound, and the little one cared for the sick bird very faithfully; and child and raven became great friends. After some days, that bird was well again, and when he felt that his power to fly had been restored, he flapped his wings with a croak, flew out at the door, and alighted on a bough not far from the hut. The boy did not wish to lose the raven, and ran after him to catch him; but just as he thought he was going to seize the fugitive, he escaped from him, and the play continued till it grew dark, and the raven disappeared in the shadow of the trees. Now the child wanted to turn back home, but he had long since lost the hermit’s hut from sight, and did not know which way to turn. And he sat down under a tree and cried and called his mother, and he was hungry too. Suddenly the raven appeared again. He carried a piece of bread in his bill, and dropped it in front of the child. Then the little one was half comforted, ate, and fell asleep. The next morning he was awakened by the croaking of his companion; he arose and followed the bird who flew before him, for he hoped he would lead him back to the hermitage. But the wise raven had a very different design. After some hours of wearisome wandering, the forest began to grow light, and before the boy lay a shining castle, from the tower of which waved a gay banner. It was the castle in which he had been born, but he did not know it. The raven had disappeared, but the tired little fellow went up to the castle and sat down under a linden-tree near the gateway. The keeper with spear and helmet stepped up to him, and asked who he was, where he had come from, and what he wanted; but he could get no information. The servants gathered about the child, but they could learn nothing from him except that he came out of the forest, was hungry, and wished that he was with his mother again. Then out of compassion they gave him food and drink, and went about their work. The servants had plenty to do, for on the next day the count was to be married to the swarthy Ortrud. The little one sat under the linden-tree and ate the food which had been brought to him. Then he heard the sound of wings. He looked up and saw the raven hovering above his head; he carried something that glistened in his bill, and now he let it fall into his lap. It was a fine gold chain from which hung a white, sparkling stone shaped like a bean. The boy examined the shining ornament with curiosity, and finally hid it in his dress. When the raven saw this he croaked with delight, and flew up to the pinnacle of the tower. * * * In the women’s apartments there was a great commotion. The count’s bride was behaving as though she had lost her mind, and at the same time old Crescenz was scolding at the top of her voice. Ortrud had been taking a bath, and when she went to dress herself again, the magical chicken-stone had disappeared. “Help me, mother!” cried Ortrud, in the greatest distress; “help me, so that at the last moment everything will not go to pieces.” “Help me!” said the old crone mockingly. “Did I not tell you to guard the stone as the apple of your eye? I decoyed the bird to the lime-pole for you; keeping him was your affair, you silly, heedless girl!” The daughter stamped her foot. “You shall help me!” she snarled. “Make use of your arts and brew me a love potion! What is the good of your being a witch?” The mother’s eyes shone green. She gave a leap, fastened her fingers in her daughter’s black hair, and threw her on the floor. “A witch, am I, you wicked vixen? That is the thanks I get for giving you a love-charm!” She stopped abruptly, for in the open doorway stood the count. He looked as pale as death. “Woman, what do you say about love-charms?” he cried. The women both trembled like aspen-leaves. The count, moreover, threatened them with his sword, and swore he would strike them to the ground unless they confessed. Then they threw themselves on the floor before him, begging for mercy, and acknowledged what they had done. And the count looked with loathing and horror at the woman who had ensnared him with magic art, and the charming form of the wife whom he had betrayed arose before him. He groaned aloud like a wounded stag, turned, and went out. The two women collected together as many of the jewels and splendid garments as they could carry, wrapt themselves in their cloaks, and fled from the castle like two gray spectres. At the very moment when the charm over the count was broken, bitter repentance and a yearning for what he had lost filled his heart. In order to banish his tormenting thoughts, he ordered his horse saddled, and took his hunting-gear to hunt in the forest. As he rode out at the gate, his eyes fell on the lost boy sitting under the linden-tree, and he felt a stab in his heart, for he thought of his little son who would be about the same age as the strange child if the wolves had not torn him to pieces. He drew up his horse, and looked at the child, and an irresistible power compelled him to jump from his saddle and caress the boy. And the boy threw his arms about the count’s neck and besought him in a tender, childish voice:— “Take me back to my mother!” “Where is your mother?” asked the count. “There!” said the boy, pointing with his index finger toward the fir forest. Then the raven came, and croaking, circled round the father and his son. And the boy cried:— “There is the birdy that led me here; he knows the way to my mother.” And the raven screamed “Krah!” and flew toward the forest; then sat down and turned his wise head towards those he had left behind him. Then the count said: “We will try to find your mother,” lifted the child on his horse, and rode into the fir woods. And the raven flew ahead of them. * * * In the hermitage there was great distress. All one night and all one day Frau Gotelind and the hermit had searched in the forest for the lost child, and at evening they both returned from different directions without him. The poor mother wrung her hands in despair, and the old hermit tried in vain to speak some comforting words. Then they heard the croaking of a raven and the sound of hoofs, and Frau Gotelind hastened out of the hut in anxious expectation. A stately knight came leaping along, holding on the saddle in front of him the lost child. “Mother!” cried the boy, still at a distance, stretching out his little arms. Frau Gotelind was about to hurry towards him, but she trembled so that she was obliged to hold on to the door-post, for the rider was well known to her. The count reined in his snorting steed, sprang down, and set the child on the ground. Then he turned his eyes towards the trembling lady, and with a loud cry threw himself down at her feet. She flung her arms about her husband’s neck, and clung to him laughing and crying. The sun had gone to rest, and the bright moon was wandering through the fir forest. By the hearth-fire in the hermitage sat the count and his wife, as happy as a bride and groom who have just been united. Then the boy, who had been a long time with the raven, came running to his mother, and laid the little chain, from which hung the white stone, in her lap. “Where did you get this ornament?” asked the mother. “The raven gave it to me when I was sitting in front of the castle, under the tree.” The hermit looked at the stone, took it in his hand, examined it closely, and said:— “It is the Alectorius stone, of whose power old wise people tell wonderful things. It grows in a cockerel’s crop, and fastens the man with magic power to the woman who wears the jewel concealed about her person. Believe me, my daughter, this stone has been the cause of your sorrow.” Then the count seized the chain, threw it on the floor, and raised his foot in order to crush the Alectorius stone. But the raven was too quick for him, snatched the chain with his bill, and flew out of the window with it. Whether he carried the ornament to his nest to enjoy its brilliancy, or whether he tried the stone’s magic power on some coy raven damsel, the one who relates this tale has never been able to find out.
THE CHRISTMAS ROSE SCHNEEWITCHEN, Snow White, wrapped in white sheets, was asleep in her glassy coffin, and the cold, wicked step-mother ruled in the land. She is terrible in her fury, but when she has her good days, and lets her diamond crown shine benignantly in the sun, then mortals may venture to approach her ice-palace unmolested. She has innumerable castles, but the most beautiful one stands on the Hochgebirg, and there she prefers to hold her court. The primeval mountains stand like venerable court-marshalls, with stiff necks and powdered wigs, around the throne, on which the queen sits, and the nixies of the mountain lakes, like trembling waiting-maids, hold the crystal mirror before their exacting mistress. She looks at her snow-white face and says: “I am the most beautiful in all the land,” and not one among the people of the court dares to dissent. Others think and speak otherwise. The blue titmice, and the golden pheasants who, hungry and cold, hop through the snow-covered branches of the fir-trees, chirping low, tell about the king’s son, who will waken the sleeping Snow White with a kiss; the rude raven croaks disrespectfully about the wicked queen, and the gypsy tribe of sparrows give vent to their discontent in loud abuse. The little brown wren who creeps through the dry bushes like a mouse, sings a mocking song about the severe mistress. He has made a discovery in the forest path. On yonder slope, where the midday sun eats up the snow, there is already a sign of life. Last night the Christmas rose broke through the sparkling covering, and with bended head greets the rising sun. Do you know the Christmas rose? In flat countries it never grows, but among the mountains it is known to every child. In some places it is the snow-rose, in others hellebore, and it is called the Christmas rose because it blooms about Yule-tide. Its open calyx, which is about as large as the hundred-leafed rose, is snow-white, sometimes overspread with a delicate red, like a mountain snow-field at sunset; and one unacquainted with the blossom’s native soil would take it for the child of some far-off zone, so wonderfully beautiful it is. But the snow-rose has beside a virtue of its own, and whoever would know its origin must pay attention. In a fruitful Alpine valley, through which a river fed with the milk of the glaciers rolled its foaming waters, there stood on a hill in ancient times a castle with a tower and encircling walls. Farther down on the river pious monks had built a cloister, and between the castle and the monastery lay a farm. Today the castle lies in ruins, the monastery still stands, and the farm has grown in the course of time to a market town. It was near Christmas-time, many, many years ago, and it was even more lonely and silent in the valley than usual, for all who could carry sword and lance had gone with the count, to whom the castle and land belonged, across the mountains to Italy. The farmer too, as one of the count’s people, had been obliged to leave his home; and although he was always ready for battle, yet this time his going away was very hard, for he had to leave behind him a blooming young wife and a little three-year-old girl. The Christmas festival was at hand. In the hall of the farmhouse the hearth-fire was crackling, and busy maids in linen aprons were mixing and kneading the dough for the holiday sweetcakes. Frau Walpurga, the mistress of the household, was not present. She was sitting with her heart heavy with anxiety by the bed of her child who was restlessly tossing about her little head burning with fever. On the opposite side of the sick-bed stood a monk with a shining bald crown and gray beard. It was Father Celestin from the monastery, a pious man, experienced in the art of healing. He scrutinized the sick child, shook his head, and began to mix a drink from the medicines he had brought with him. Heavy footsteps were heard outside in the hall, and an old man, wearing a mantle of coarse material, entered the sick-room; in his left hand he held a broad-brimmed hat, and in his right, a lamb carved out of wood. The man was the shepherd of the farm. He looked darkly at the monk, then stepped up to the little bed, and held the lamb before the child. He had made two coal-black eyes for it with pine soot, and with the juice of berries, a red mouth; but the child did not notice the plaything. The mother sighed, and the shepherd left the room as quietly as he could. The monk gave the healing drink to the child, spoke some words of comfort, and went out. Mother and child were alone. The physician’s remedy seemed to do good to the feverish little girl. She fell into a deep sleep, and slept all day. But as the sun was going down, the child grew restless again; her forehead burned like fire, and she spoke incoherent words. All of a sudden the little one lifted herself from her pillow and said: “See, mother, see the beautiful lady and all the little children, and the lady gives me roses, white roses!” Then she fell back again, and closed her eyes. But Frau Walpurga knelt down, sobbing softly. — “The child has seen the angels of heaven; she must die.” The mother did not long give way to her distress. She hastened to the door, and called the servants to send a messenger for Father Celestin. But both men-servants and maids had all gone to the monastery church to hear the Christmas service. Only one old lame woman had been left behind to tend the hearth-fire. Frau Walpurga commanded her to put out the fire, and stay by the child. She wrapped her cloak about her, left the house, and went in all haste to the monastery. The sun had already set: only the mountain tops still gleamed a ruddy gold; in the valley the twilight had spread her gray garment of mist over the snow-fields. No living creature was to be seen, except two rooks flying towards the forest, slowly flapping their wings. In the far distance a light flickered through the mist; it came from the lighted windows of the monastery church; and the mother, with her heart full of anguish, hastened over the creaking snow in the direction of the light. Suddenly her feet stopped, and her breath failed her. Out of the forest came a long procession of misty forms, led by a beautiful, tall, serious lady, in a broad, full cloak, and behind her tripped a crowd of little children with pale faces, clad in white. The trembling mother concealed herself behind the trunk of a tree, and let the procession pass by. At the very end came a child who could hardly follow the others, for she was constantly stepping on her dress, which dragged on the ground. Then Frau Walpurga forgot her distress, and overcame her dread. She stepped toward the child, and tucked up her little frock so that she could keep pace with the other children. And the beautiful pale lady turned her face toward the helper, smiled at her, and pointed with her forefinger to the ground at her feet. At this moment the sound of monastery bells trembled through the air, the procession disappeared like mist scattered by the wind, and Frau Walpurga stood in the twilight alone on the snow-covered plain. With timid steps she approached the spot to which the woman had pointed, and her heart leaped for joy. Out of the ice-covered earth was growing a bush, bearing green leaves and white roses. “Those are the roses my child saw in her dream!” exclaimed Frau Walpurga; then she plucked three of the blossoms, and hurried as fast as she could go back to the farmhouse. Besides the maid she found the old shepherd by the sick-bed. He had little regard for the skill of the monks, and therefore he himself had made a drink out of juniper berries, and had given it
to the little sick girl. Frau Walpurga stepped up to the bed, laid the three roses on the spread, and watched the child with anxious expectation. She seized the flowers with her little, trembling hands, held them to her face, and sneezed loud and strong. “God bless her!” cried mother, shepherd, and maid. Then the child asked for a drink, turned her head on one side, and fell asleep. “Now the fever is broken,” said the shepherd. “My drink and the sneeze have saved the child. But where did you get those roses, Frau?” Frau Walpurga quietly told the old man what had happened to her. “That was none other than Frau Berchta with the cricket folk,” explained the shepherd. “She wanders about every evening from Christmas Eve till Twelfth Night, and my father has seen them too. Formerly she dwelt up in the Frauenstein, but when the monks built their house of stone she departed, and only shows herself during the twelve nights after Christmas, and blesses the land. It was lucky for you, Frau Walpurga, that you helped the cricket. Frau Berchta is a gentle lady, and rewards every service that has been rendered her.” And then the old shepherd told what he knew about Frau Berchta, and he would have talked on till the cockerels crowed, if Frau Walpurga had not brought him out of the sick-room with friendly words. Once more she was sitting alone by her child’s bed. The little one held the three roses in her closed hand, and she breathed peacefully and easily. Only once she murmured in her sleep, when the sound of the organ and the monks’ song of praise, Gloria in Excelsis, were heard from the monastery. And the mother knelt down and was long at prayer. When Father Celestin came the next day to see the sick child she was sitting up in bed, playing with the lamb which the shepherd had carved for her. “Frau Walpurga,” said the delighted physician, “the fever has disappeared. But it was a costly drink that I prepared for the child. I hope you will show your gratitude to the monastery.” But Frau Walpurga drew the monk aside and told him confidentially what had befallen her on Christmas Eve. The Father knit his brow. “You were dreaming,” he said, “or else the snow blinded your eyes. Take good care that none of your idle talk comes to the ears of our abbot; it might cost you a heavy penance.” But when Frau Walpurga showed him the marvellous roses, the like of which the botanical doctor had never seen before, he grew thoughtful, and he finally said:— “Woman, you have been highly favored. You have with your bodily eyes beheld the Queen of Heaven and the blessed angels in her company. Our Dear Lady it was who gave you the three roses, the mother of our Lord, and not the dreadful sorceress, whose name no Christian may bring to his lips. Be assured of that, woman. And now Iisten to me further. The Madonna above the side-altar in our church is in need of a new robe as well as a crown. Show your gratitude to the Mother of God, and provide her with new apparel. Will you promise me that?” And Frau Walpurga, frightened by the monk’s warning, said, “Yes, it shall be as you wish.” Thereupon she had a side of bacon, two fat geese, a pot of lard, and a bottle of red wine placed in a basket, and ordered a maid to take it and follow after Father Celestin to the monastery. And Father Celestin, with a smirk, blessed mother and child, servants and house, and went away, followed by the panting maid. But the old shepherd muttered to himself, “There again, one carries away the thanks which belong to another”; and by “another” he meant himself. Frau Walpurga thought the same, but she said nothing. She gave the shepherd a handsome present; and the Madonna in the monastery received a silver crown and a new robe, on which lace and spangles were not used sparingly. But the flower which grew up in the footprints of the heavenly queen — or was it, after all, Frau Berchta? — bore seeds and multiplied in the land, and according to trustworthy witnesses has in later times worked many a miracle.
THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL
Easter morning dawned. Twilight still lingered over the village, and the mist stretched over the mountain slope. A cool wind blew through the branches of the trees, stirred the white May lilies, and rustled through the dry reeds, so that it sounded like the low tones of a harp. Then the mountain tops grew red, and the firs creaked and shook their branches, as if they were just awaking from sleep. The sun rose and scattered gold over the tips of the fir-trees, and the woodbirds flapped their wings, raised their voices, and sang their Easter songs. But the forgotten bell hung sad and silent under the roof in the chapel. At the same hour a young man was walking along the highway which led through the forest. He wore a huntsman’s leather jacket and a gray hawk’s feather in his hat. By his left side hung a broad hunting-knife, with a handle of a stag’s horn; but instead of fire-arms, he carried a heavily packed knapsack of badger’s skin. This and a cane of buckthorn with iron mountings, which he swung in his right hand, led one to suppose that the huntsman was not after game, but was making a journey; and so it was. At the place where a path which led to a mill struck off from the road, the young fellow stopped, and seemed undecided whether to keep on the road or to take the meadow path. But he did not linger long. He cast a gloomy look in the direction of the mill, threw his head back haughtily, and gave a hunting-cry that made the fir-woods resound. Then as he went along, he sang:— “Farewell, green jocund forest home! Thee must I leave behind me, Throughout the weary world to roam Till Fortune’s favors find me. As hunter lad My joy I’ve had The noble stag in chasing; But now my way Leads to the fray Where death I shall be facing. “A gray hawk sat upon the height, Enchained by evil magic; In sadness pined he day and night, His mood was grim and tragic. He would exchange For freedom’s range The forests’ wide dominions; On high, on high, Thou wild bird, fly, And spread thy noble pinions.” But the last words stuck in the young man’s throat, and the half-suppressed sigh at the end ill accorded with the huntsman’s joyous manner. Suddenly the youth left the broad road, and went diagonally through the forest, straight to the deserted hermitage. By the spring, which had its source near the house he stopped, bent down, and filled a wooden cup with the cool water. He drank it slowly, and sprinkled the last drops on the moss. “Well,” he said, “now it is all over.” The water was clear and cold, but it could not cool the hot blood of the one who drank it. The young huntsman sat down on the threshold of the hermitage and covered his face with both hands. The summer before, after a long absence, he had returned to the country, and entered the service of the old forester. He had seen something of the world; in the Kaiser’s hunting-train, he had chased the chamois and the steinbock in the high mountains; he had followed his master to the merry hunting-boxes and to the splendid residence in the capital; and everywhere he had carried with him his love for the miller’s fair-haired daughter in his native valley. He had come back with a generous sum of money and many sweet hopes, but they had melted away to nothing, and now he was on the point of leaving the country and enlisting as a soldier. It was near the hermitage in the forest where he had found his sweetheart for the first time after their separation. She had come to draw water; and when the hunter recognized the beautiful, slender form, as she bent over the well, his joy was so great that he leaped from his hiding-place with a wild shout, and threw his arms around the frightened maiden. But she had pushed him roughly away from her, so that he fell backwards, and then she turned her back and went away. Later on, the huntsman had tried once more to approach the miller’s daughter. It was at the time of the harvest festival, when young and old march in bands to the dancing-ground. There the huntsman had waylaid the beautiful girl, and had come to meet her with a friendly greeting and a bouquet of pink carnations. But when she saw the youth coming towards her, she had turned around and gone back to the mill, and the hunter, in his anger, had thrown the bunch of pinks into the mill brook. The coy maid had fished the flowers out of the water near the dam, dried them, and laid them away in her chest, but he knew nothing about that. Then perversity came over the huntsman. “If you go to the left, I will go to the right,” he thought; and lest she might imagine that he took the matter to heart, he joined a company of gay fellows, drank, sang, and carried on so madly that the wild youth was in everybody’s mouth for seven miles around. That went on through the whole winter. Then one evening a bright light, which took the form of a sword, was seen in the sky, and shortly after the news came that in the spring there would be war in Italy. It was not long before the beating of drums was heard in the land, and the roads swarmed with travelling people, who were all going to join the imperial army. Then the huntsman gave notice that he was going to leave the forester’s service, gave his drinking-companions a generous parting cup, and followed the rest, to forget on the field his sorrow and distress. And he had already really come as far as the hermitage in the forest. He was now sitting on the door-stone, sadly hanging his head. A soft, distant rustling in the underbrush fell on the young fellow’s sharp ear. The huntsman was awake in him, and his sharp eye looked about for the cause of the sound. But it was no shifting game that was coming through the bushes. Between the trunks of the fir-trees gleamed something light, like a woman’s garments, and the hunter slipped noiselessly, but with loud-beating heart, behind the wall of the house, for through the forest came walking her whom he would fain forget, but could not forget. The maiden came slowly nearer. Now and then she bent down to add a flower to the nosegay which she carried in her hand, and each time her long flaxen braids would fall forward and touch the ground. When she reached the well, she filled a little earthen jug with the water and placed the nosegay in it. Then she went into the chapel, placed the flowers before the image of the Virgin, and knelt down on the moss-covered step. In a low voice she repeated the angel’s greeting, and then began to pour out her heart to the queen of heaven. It was a prayer full of self-accusation and repentance. “I have driven him from me,” she bemoaned, “driven him out into danger and death, and yet I love him so! more dearly than the light of my eyes! Still there is time to change everything by a word of reconciliation, if I knew that he still loved me. Easter is the time of miracles. Give me, oh, heaven, a sign, if he still thinks of me lovingly and faithfully, and I will run after him to the end of the world, and bring him back. Give me a sign!” Then above her softly sounded the bell. It was only a single tone, but it rang through the heart of the grieved maiden like a joyful song of jubilee. She lifted her eyes and looked up questioningly at the Madonna. Then the bell sounded for the second time, and louder and more joyful, and when the maiden turned, there stood in the entrance of the chapel the young huntsman, stretching out his arms to his beloved. And this time she did not run away. She threw her arms about the wild hunter’s sun-burned neck, and stammered words of love. The titmice, and the golden-crested wrens which lived in the branches of the fir-trees, fluttered along, and the wood-mouse put his head out at the door of his house, and everything looked curiously at the pair in the chapel. The two remained in each others’ embrace for a long time. Then the huntsman grasped the rope of the bell and called up to it: “Bell, you have brought us together; now tell our joy to the forest!” And the little bell under the chapel roof began to gleam with joy in the warm sunshine, and swing tirelessly to and fro and let her clear voice sound through the forest. From the towers in the surrounding villages came the sounds of famous church bells. They had returned the night before from their visit to Rome, and had seen many wonderful sights. But not one of them sang her Easter song so joyfully as the little forgotten bell in the forest.
Rudolph Baumbach, the author, is a poet. He was born in Thuringia, and now (in the 1890s) lives in Leipsic (sic), where he is a favorite both as a writer and in society. Most of his works have been written in verse, which is spontaneous, full of melody, and as witty as Heine, but perfectly free from bitterness. He draws his inspiration largely from the Alps.
