Part 6

He found it easy to obtain Duva's compliance with all his requests save one; but it was for long in vain that he besought her to leave her watery home. Many a time and oft they parted almost in anger, and the poor little sea-nymph more than once weepingly entreated him sooner to quit her for ever, and go back to his own kith and kind. But Eothwald always returned afresh to the charge, for, besides his real attachment to the gentle maid herself, he knew that could he but once behold her fair proportions near him in the cave, he could successfully finish his now nearly completed model; and, by imparting to it those life-like touches which alone it required, he would be enabled to give to the world for the first time the perfect image of a mermaiden. With true artistic fervour he forgot his mortal love in the eager pursuit of his immortal art, and, brought completely to a standstill by the harassing intensity of his longing to have the living form at hand to aid him in his work, he grew so unkind towards Duva that with saddened heart the poor child promised to comply with his prayer, and arranged to accompany him through the wood the following night, when the yellow harvest moon would reign in her fullest beauty.

Words cannot paint the overflowing sorrow that oppressed the pale mermaiden's heart that eventful day as she joined her parents and sisters, for what an inward voice told her, was the last time. Old Agir, her father, gathered her to his bosom, and pressed his little Duva to tell her trouble, but with a forced smile she first nestled closer to that protecting shoulder and then sprang half sobbing away, and they thought she grieved over the approaching bridals of Näcken and Himingläfa and the prospect of losing her favourite sister.

The wild young Kolga blew through her shell, and in her efforts to cheer Duva made such a bubbling amid the water, that people passing in boats far above the sea-king's palace, paused on their oars to watch the agitated surface and thought they had discovered a new ocean spring.

Häfring and Blodughadda caressed their little sister and playfully asked her to choose whether they should all wear coral or pearls at Himingläfa's wedding, but with trembling lip she turned away, unable to trust her voice in answer to their laughing affection, and for the first time they deemed their pet Duva was sullen. Ah! how little they knew the aching throbs of pain that strangled her sweet voice and silenced their sorrow-stricken playmate.

At last the hour of sunset drew near. Together, as usual, Himingläfa and Duva rose to the surface of the darkening ocean, and soon were greeted by the entrancing strains of Näcken's harp. Slowly Duva disengaged herself from her sister's embrace and lingered long near the companion, till now the sharer of every joy or care. But time's relentless wheel rolled on, and through the woods by the river's brink gleamed the golden radiance of the harvest moon, as the mermaiden at length approached the shore where her lover kept anxious watch. With joyful eagerness Eothwald greeted her, and in low trembling tones whispered loving thanks into her ear; even then Duva would have withdrawn her consent, but the impatient Eothwald, without pausing, threw his strong arms around her, raised his beloved burden from the glittering water, and bore her swiftly towards the cave.

A feeling of deadly sickness came over the little sea-maid as she was thus lifted from her native element, but the soothing words of her lover infused new life into her fainting frame, and in safety they reached the cave, where Eothwald joyfully deposited his lovely charge on the couch he had so long prepared for her use.

Uttering but scant welcome the sculptor flew rapidly to his work, for already fatigue and exhaustion clouded the sweet eyes, that were wont to sparkle so merrily, and spread a new languor over the limbs of his exquisite model. With passionate energy Eothwald moulded his plastic clay, completely forgetting in his ardour the unwonted position of the sea-king's daughter, and her need of watchful tenderness.

A stranger in a new and untried world--a timid maiden strayed for the first time far beyond the protecting care of parents and brethren, the little Duva reclined amazed upon her fragrant bed of leaves. Strange thrills were sent through her by the strong night perfumes exhaled on every side from earthly leaf, tree, and flower.

At last she was upon that land about which from childhood she had dreamed, with an eager desire to explore its forbidden mysteries. But she thought not of these things, her whole heart was absorbed in Eothwald. The young sculptor no longer gazed on her with the melting eye of love. By the flickering light of the torch which shed its ruddy glow over the cave, she could perceive the artist's glance now fixed on his clay figure, now turned upon herself with a searching look of restless dissatisfaction due in reality to the shortcomings of his own handiwork, but which chilled and saddened Duva's sensitive heart.

Again and again the gentle maiden nerved her voice to speak, but faintness overpowered her, and a dreamless sleep already fanned her with its over-shadowing wings. Eothwald's form swam magnified before her eyes, and then vanished altogether amid the mist of gathering tears. The cave grew dim--the little sea-child again beheld the palace of her father--her lovely sisters waved a mute welcome through the changing atmosphere. With the tremulous sigh of a repentant child that has erred, but returns with glad sorrow to fling itself on its mother's breast, Duva, forgetting all save that joyful vision, stretched forth her innocent arms with a low murmur of tenderness, and a gesture of delight.

"Can you not remain as I placed you?" impatiently muttered the sculptor, as the sudden movement of Duva's arms altered her whole position, and lost irretrievably the graceful attitude he was striving faithfully to immortalise. Even as he spoke, something about his beloved alarmed him; he rushed across the cave, but ere he could touch her, Duva's fair form had disappeared--she was gone!

The red torch flickered high, and suddenly expired. The moon's ray, cold and pale, penetrated within the cave, and lo! upon the spot so lately pressed by the enchanting figure of the poor little stranger, pure and transparent in the silvery light, glistened a white pearly shell, while a tiny rivulet stole silently from beneath it, and trickled into the moonlit glen without.

Eothwald threw himself wildly on his knees, and felt the couch all over in vain--in vain!--then in desperation he fled out into the wood and searched for his lost love, breathing her name in fondest accents through the silence of the night, but alas! awakening no response from the desolate solitudes around him. Wearied and heart-broken he returned at length from his fruitless errand, and sank into heavy slumber.

Hours had passed unheeded away, when with troubled recollection he awoke and sprang to his feet. Gradually he remembered that in his dreams Duva had again appeared to him. With bitter tears she sorrowfully told him that his own thoughtless actions had parted them. He first tempted her by mortal love to deceive and leave her fond parents and her beloved home; then as he moulded his clay from her beautiful form, in the self-abstraction of genius, he half forgot her sacrifice, and neglected her tender spirit. Wounded and unable to struggle against her altered condition of life without the comforting care of her mortal lover, she had fallen a victim to the law that ruled supreme over herself and her kindred, and lost her visible shape, which became again transformed into the water, whence it originally sprang. With streaming eyes she waved a long farewell, then, lovely as a morning dream, faded from his view.

Eothwald flew back to his work with fierce energy; he felt indeed a high soaring ambition. He yearned to represent worthily, to this and future generations, the fair lineaments, the tender immortal beauty of the sea-king's daughter, who had given him her simple young heart, and whose affection he had so rudely requited. A solemn inward voice told him he had no time to spend in useless remorse, or in unavailing lamentation. Death's shadowy finger already beckoned him to the "silent land." Grief had snapped the first chord of life's hitherto sweet melody, and his days on earth were numbered.

He returned in a short space to his native city. His half-finished work was slowly removed to the studio. There by day and by night he laboured almost ceaselessly, and wove into a wild poetical dream the young life of the fair Duva and her family, as she herself in days gone by had frequently, half romancing and half in earnest, described it to him.

He designed a lofty fountain, and upon its six sides placed in groups of wondrous imagery her parents, their nine lovely daughters, and the young river-god Näcken, whose strains had first led him to his beloved. As in his lonely studio he ceaselessly toiled, he wrote down at intervals this explanation of his labours--that to all futurity might be known the names and history of those whose divine beauty he thus strove to commemorate.[2]

[2] The description of the different groups represented on the fountain, is taken from a beautiful work of art, designed and executed by Molin, a young Swedish sculptor of great promise, now dead.

"Agir, the ocean god, who hates mankind, I represent in the prime of life, with a long flowing beard, which he holds back with one hand, in the other he grasps a sceptre. Enthroned on a gigantic shell, and planting his foot on a dolphin, his handsome features wear an expression of proud disdain.

"When the winter has passed (as our Northern poets have sung) and the May sun melts the ice, the ships in the harbour lift their anchors ready to sail, and only the wind is wanting. Thereupon Agir (who delights in punishing the pride of mankind by robbing them of their treasures--taking husbands from their homes, their wives, and their children, and drowning the mourners in floods of bitter tears) calls to his youngest daughter Kolga to begin the sport.

"In the next shell-like division of the fountain, I place Kolga, who, with short rough hair and hoydenish action, distends to the full her rosy cheeks as she blows through the valves of her shell a soft, seductive wind, sufficient to swell the sails, and tempt the ill-fated ships to sea. Above her, shrouded in her long veil, is the mysterious and majestic Ran (Agir's princely consort, and the anxious mother of his many children). She encourages Rönn, her second youngest, who gently and dreamingly along the blue ripples stirs the first breath on the calm waters. Häfring, Unn, and Bylgia, with the little water-elves and sprites, help to raise the swelling seas until the waves are mountains high.

"Then the hard-hearted and vindictive Boara (once scorned and deserted by a mortal lover) crushes the prows to atoms. She delights in the destruction of human handiwork, and is therefore portrayed with a sternly beautiful though cruel countenance. Next Agir calls on Blodughadda, enveloped in her long flowing tresses, to descend through the deeper waters and secure the ships' rich treasures, for no lock or key any longer protects them.

"But the fond father misses his favourite children, Himingläfa and Duva; he loudly calls on Ran to tell him where they are. 'Alas,' answers his queen, 'our daughters are held captive in the web of Näcken; up there, on the fresh water-stream, they float, like one charmed, listening to his melodious song. I have begged and threatened, but all in vain. Methinks one or both of them is befooled by first love.'

"Then Agir arose in fearful rage, calling upon his remaining daughters to entice Näcken forth from the precincts of his grotto (which, being in fresh water, was beyond the sea-king's domain) into the deep ocean, there to take him captive, and deliver their sisters from his thraldom.

"So they all float on, displaying their charms like roses and lilies playing on the waters: their beautiful dishevelled hair, their graceful forms, their coral chains, their strings of pearls, triumphantly making sure of enticing the hapless youth into the salt waters. But no sooner have they reached the entrance to the grotto, than behold! a youth, divinely beautiful, is seen. Harp in hand, he sings a soft, melancholy strain with the purest of voices. The beauteous sisters, scarce moving, tarry on the heaving waters, and listen, entranced, to his heart-thrilling song.

"Awakening from his own love-dreams as he marks the approach of Himingläfa's lovely sisters, the young river-god sings of his happy youth, when amid green meadows, and under verdant trees, he listened to the melodies of birds, and learnt from them the sweet art of song--until, restless and eager for change, he wandered forth from his early home into the wide world, with endless longing for the unattainable. To punish his presumption, he was at length condemned only to exist in water, and became the genius of running streams. Thus he pours out his lament in strains so moving, that even the wild swan is arrested in her flight, and the daughters of Agir, deeply enthralled, heedless of their parents' call to action, remain motionless before the grotto, allowing ships and mariners to sail by in perfect calm.

"At length, Agir and Ran, angry and impatient, hasten towards them, when, enchanted like their children, by Näcken's exquisite lay, they also remain to listen, forgetful of the time and of the passing hours, till daylight breaks suddenly upon them. The relentless laws of fate forbidding their escape (if found within fresh water at sunrise), they all then become spell-bound."

Such was the description Eothwald wrote of his wondrous fountain, on which Näcken still dreams on, harp in hand, singing of the days of yore. The beautiful Himingläfa leans forward, modestly drawing her long tresses across her white shoulders, drinking in, with downcast eyes, every intonation of her betrothed. The child-like Duva, adorned as when the sculptor first beheld her, with long strands of priceless pearls intertwined on hair, neck, and bosom, raises herself from the water in the attitude he had studied a thousand times, and half surrounds her beloved sister with her arm, listening intently, as on that well-remembered evening, to Näcken's heart-thrilling music. No shadow of future sorrow clouds Duva's fair brow; but moulded in all the fresh innocence of her dewy youth, she remains to this hour the loveliest mermaiden that ever gladdened mortal eye.

The shell she left upon the couch of leaves, the artist introduced again and again in his labour of love, and indeed took from its shape the designs for the six sides of his fountain, the figures on which were the size of life.

At last the story of Duva's early life was given. Raised from ocean, cavern, and grotto by Eothwald's genius, her family were immortalized by his art. The sculptor's task was completed. In a paroxysm of agony, he fell on his knees as he realized that though instinct with life his inspired work arose in all its chill perfection before him, yet the living, loving, lovely mermaiden would never more greet him with her warm, shy smile, and her low, tender voice.

At daybreak the old housekeeper came to light the studio fire; for it was now winter-time, and the snow lay thick upon the ground. By the first dim ray of light she descried Eothwald kneeling before his finished sculpture. Her heart misgave her; he was her foster-child--dear to her as her own. She stumbled forward and touched his arm; it was cold and motionless as his own marble figures. Then a loud cry of grief told the tale of death. Eothwald was no more. His immortal spirit had fled. Whether in the regions of the unknown invisible world he may once more meet and clasp his Duva to his breast by the blessed waters of Paradise, we cannot tell, but such may be the merciful will of that loving Father who watches unceasingly over the creatures of his hand, and feels a divine sympathy in their sorrows.

One of Eothwald's hands rested on the word Duva, which he had finished chiselling beneath his beauteous beloved. In his other hand was found, fast clasped--so fast indeed that they could not remove it from his stiffened fingers--a gleaming white pearly shell.

FIDO AND FIDUNIA.

Once within a deep and gloomy forest there dwelt a lonely maiden. She had never known any companionship but that of nature, animate and inanimate. She loved the birds, the shy playful squirrels, and all the various animals, which having always known her there, friendly and harmless, regarded her in their turn, with trustful affection.

It made no difference in their feelings towards the young girl that she was not beautiful. Her thick sandy hair hung in coarse straight elf locks on her shoulders. Her skin looked rough, and her features were not prepossessing. But these poor ignorant creatures only noticed that her voice was low and exceeding sweet. When she stooped to fondle the frolicsome rabbits, or perchance to bind up the leg of some wounded hare, they thought her tender fingers wondrous soft, and her warm cheek felt very smooth to them as she pressed it against their furry coats, and pettingly coaxed them to linger a moment on her lap.

Strange to say, though the little maid had no distinct remembrance of human fellowship, yet she spoke in silvery tones a language which you or I, dear children, should very well understand.

She dwelt in the hollow of an old tree, and few were the wants of her simple life. A clear spring, bubbling up among the rocks near at hand, in the centre of an open grassy space, formed a natural bath, where every morning, undisturbed by fear of man, she bathed herself, and wrung the water from her dripping tresses.

In summer time she often slept high up between the forked branches of a mighty cedar-pine, where with sticks and long grass she had woven herself a sort of nest. From hence also she could contemplate the stars, between whom and herself there ever seemed a link of sympathy. To her untaught imagination it appeared that the heavenly luminaries were happy in being among others of their kind. Whereas, had she but known it, each one of those seemingly tiny lights glowed myriads of miles apart from its nearest neighbour.

Fidunia dwelt serene, content with her lot; yet it was only natural that in her maturing bosom the yearning instincts of womanhood should awake, and that she longed, with an intensity of which she herself was hardly aware, for some creature to whom she could recount, and with whom she could share, the pleasures and pains of her solitary life.

In the forest where she had her home there were no great alternations of heat and cold, nor was the length of the days so different as we find it in our own more northerly climate. Still it was spring-time in this land of which I speak. The fair soft tread of summer already sent a reviving thrill through the woods and glades, and Fidunia's thoughts turned anew to her forlorn condition.

She remarked, as was her wont, the habits of the brute-world around. Every bird had its mate. The sober rooks perambulated the green sward in pairs. The thrush wooed his love in songs of gushing melody. The tender turtle-doves cooed ceaselessly to each other. The very mole that burrowed by the fountain side, brought a sable bride to enjoy with him the hidden comforts of his subterranean dwelling.

Fidunia sat and pondered over these things. Again and again she tried, like Narcissus, to see her image in the crystal spring. But kind nature, careful to spare the little maid a needless pang, ruffled the translucent surface so perpetually, that the young girl's face only cast a dancing shadow on the bubbling water amid the rocks.

Baffled in her hopes of even a shadowy companion, Fidunia, with a tear in her eye, murmured "Alone, ever alone! Ah, cruel fate! How I sigh for something really to love me."

Awhile she remained motionless, gazing moodily into the troubled spring, but anon her quick ear caught the pattering sound of little feet upon the dead beech-leaves that formed a rich carpet near at hand. She thought it was the squirrels, yet theirs was a bounding lighter tread. She turned--and, lo! running towards her across the open space, she saw a beautiful dog. In colour he was almost golden; his silky hair fell soft as feathery down on either side of his little body. His tail and ears of darker chestnut tinge imparted piquancy to his shape. His paws were exquisitely clean, and covered with lovely hair. His brilliant dark brown eyes shone with extraordinary intelligence--at least, so Fidunia thought--as the little fellow slowly trotted up and stood before her, wagging his bushy tail.

"Art thou come to be my companion?" the maiden joyfully cried. In answer to her question, the small quadruped came nearer still, and very very gently laid himself down at her feet. His mute gesture was most expressive.

Fidunia surveyed him carefully, she thought she saw the marks of sadness in his wistful countenance--he gambolled not around her, nor attempted to lick her hand, but fixing on her his large anxious eyes, seemed to implore permission to remain by her side. Naturally fearless and fond of animals, Fidunia drew him upon her knee, and gently stroking the while his silky coat she asked him "whence he came, where his home, and what his name." The little creature could not reply in human tongue, but he continued to wag his eloquent tail, and to gaze earnestly in her face.

"If you are going to be my companion, I must know what to call you," said the wondering maiden. "My name is Fidunia," added she dreamily--but at this last word the dog sprang from her lap to the ground, and assumed a begging attitude in front of the little damsel. "Nay, nay, my dear doggie, I cannot call you Fidunia," cried she, but, after a moment's reflection, "would not 'Fido' do as well?"

Hardly had this name dropped from her lips than the wise animal bounded into the air, and then ran round and round in a manner most expressive of joy. Fidunia delighted, clapped her hands, and as at this well-known signal all her feathered and furred friends came trooping around to enquire her will, she at once introduced Fido to their notice, and an alliance offensive and defensive was forthwith agreed upon between the community at large, and their mistress's new favourite.

Ere long Fidunia discovered that her comrade was both active and playful, and though he could not speak her language nor she understand his, and she therefore never discovered his previous history, yet she surmised that he must have been separated from some one he dearly loved. For this reason she bore patiently with his occasional fits of low spirits. Soothed and cheered by her gentle companionship and thoughtful sympathy, Fido, before very long forgot his sorrows, and became the gayest of the gay.

Echoes hitherto unknown to Fidunia in the solemn forest, were roused by his shrilly bark of joy, as capering round his young mistress, they wandered together far adown those sylvan glades. Fidunia could now indeed venture farther from home, as however long they roamed abroad, the dog's wondrous instinct always led them back to the gnarled tree, the crystal fountain, and the green velvety lawn, for so many years the little maiden's happy abode.

She soon discovered that Fido was very accomplished in various ways--and she fancied also that he understood all she said to him--he watched so keenly every word that fell from her lips.

About this time strange dreams began to haunt the young girl. Night after night she wandered in regions such as she never remembered to have seen in her waking hours.