Part 5

The next morning, however, he waked betimes, and turned eagerly to the window. Clear and splendid rose the palace in the frosty air; stern and sad stood the lonely tree,--but, that shrub at its foot! How blind he had been! It was the perfect and graceful figure of a young girl,--her long hair hanging about her, her gossamer looking robe and scarf fluttering in the morning air. She seemed looking down at something lying at the foot of the old fir, something quite as vague to Claude, however, as the girl herself had been when he first saw her.

Full of delight, he bounded from his bed, and rushed to the window to examine more closely this new figure in the strange frost picture; but, when he reached it, look as he might, he could see nothing but a rugged mountain, a tree, and a bush.

Sad and disappointed, Claude crept back to bed, but comforted himself by thinking,--“Somewhere, somewhere in this world, stands that palace,--lives that maiden. In a few years I shall be a man, and then I will go and find them.”

Again he turned his eyes upon the window, through which the sun’s first rays were streaming. Under their influence the picture began to disappear; but for one moment first, they stood out, clear and distinct as over,--the palace and the maiden.

Many mornings came and went. Often the enchanted palace greeted Claude’s wakening eyes, but there were also long intervals in which he saw nothing, or only the shapeless mountain.

Still the idea grew in his mind, that somewhere he should find the palace, the tree, and the maiden who waited beneath it,--waited, perhaps, for him.

Years rolled away. Claude left his home, and travelled in many countries.

He found himself in glowing southern lands, with pictures all around him,--pictures painted by men, which thrilled his heart as he gazed at them; pictures in the trees and flowers, such as he had known and loved at home; beautiful women and beautiful palaces; but none ever contented him or held him long; still he whispered to himself,--

“Here is not _my_ palace or _my_ maiden,” and then he wandered on.

At last he left this warm and glowing land, and found himself in a frozen, wintry region, where on every side rose steep and snow-clad mountains, upon whose summits the foot of man had never rested.

Here Claude felt more content, and looked eagerly around him for the mountain he had known so many years.

No, it was not here; and still he wandered on.

On, through level, fertile plains, over which he hastened impatiently; on, through cities and over seas, ever looking, ever longing.

At last he reached a frozen country, where people hardly dared breathe the cutting, icy air; and where no trees and flowers grew, except the strongest and bravest of their kind.

On wandered Claude, a wild impatience burning in his heart; a feeling as if what he so long had sought was close at hand,--almost within his grasp.

Late one night he reached a lonely hut, far beyond all towns and farms, where dwelt an old man with his old wife. They welcomed the youth, gave him of their reindeer’s milk and coarse bread, and then spread a couch of lichens in the corner of the hut, where Claude slept soundly till morning light. Then, springing up, he bade the aged couple good-by with many thanks, and was leaving the hut, when the old man said kindly,--

“But, my son, where will you go? Beyond here lies only the country of King Frost; a country in which no man can live a day.”

“Stay with us till summer comes, or else go back from whence you came; you are too young and too beautiful to die in the cold grasp of the frost-king.”

A glad smile came upon Claude’s pale face, and he said suddenly,--

“I know it now. It is to King Frost’s palace that I am going. Farewell, father.”

And before the old man could say another word, the youth was far beyond the sound of his feeble voice.

All day Claude hastened on, although the cold became so terrible that it seemed to fetter his limbs with icy chains.

At last, just at sunset, he found himself upon a wide plain, covered with hard, frozen snow. No shelter was at hand, nothing to protect him from the cutting wind, which began to rise; but stop,--yes, there is one tree, an aged fir, standing in the centre of the plain.

Toward it Claude staggered feebly, hoping to find some slight relief from his suffering by interposing its gnarled trunk between him and the biting wind.

He reached it, and sunk upon the snow, his eyes closing with a sense of drowsiness.

As they did so, Claude half saw before him a low, broad mountain covered with snow, which glittered in the rays of the setting sun.

He started with a sudden thought, opened his eyes, and looked about him.

Yes! The mountain, the tree, the plain! It was, at last, the long-sought picture; but, sinking back, he murmured with a bitter sigh,--

“It was only a mountain, after all!”

Once more he unclosed his eyes, and gazed steadfastly before him.

As he did so, he started upright; the warm blood tingling again in his frozen veins.

It was the palace! The palace of his boyish dreams! The palace of King Frost!

Eagerly he strove to move toward it, but his limbs refused to obey him; he sunk exhausted upon the snow, his eyes fixed upon the fairy palace.

At that moment the great doors were thrown wide open, the guards ranged themselves upon either hand, and between them appeared a light and graceful figure, her white robes floating back as she came swiftly toward him.

The stiffening eyelids fell over Claude’s weary eyes. With an effort he raised them once more, and she stood over him, looking down, as he had seen her in the frost picture; a tall and slender maiden, with eyes blue as the winter sky, and bright as the stars in a frosty night; her long, waving hair, pale as the rays of the setting sun which shone upon her; her brow and cheeks pure and pale as the new-fallen snow.

Lovingly she looked down at him, and earnestly Claude tried to return her gaze; but the heavy lids closed over his eyes in spite of every effort. The frost-maiden knelt beside him and took his hand in hers. A feeling of delicious repose stole over Claude’s senses, and he slept, while in a low, whispering voice, the maiden murmured in his ear,--

“You have come, my darling, you have come! Long have I waited and watched, since the night I first peeped in at your casement, while I drew the pictures that you love; since I showed you my father’s palace, and this tree, and my own image; long have you wandered, long have you sought, my poor Claude! Did you think to find the frost-maiden in that burning south where you have been so long? I should die, my beloved, if I even hovered over that scorching land,--die, and fall in tears, which men call rain. No, here is my home; and here shall you dwell ever with me, my Claude! The walls of my father’s palace are covered with pictures such as mortals never saw; and when we tire of them, the frost-sprites which wait upon us shall draw other and more beautiful ones.

“Then, together we will roam over sea and land, borne upon the broad wings of the north wind, and, passing by the curtained, shuttered windows of the rich, we will draw our fairest pictures on the lowly casement where dwell those who have none save those we give them. We will touch with flying feet the surface of the lake and brook, and spread a glittering roof over the Naiads far below; we will breathe, as we pass by, upon the withering leaves, and clothe their death with beauty; we will fringe the cottage eaves with pendant jewels, such as no queen wears; we will open the chestnut burrs that the squirrels may feast, and kiss the cheeks of merry children till they bloom like winter roses. All this, and more will we do, dear Claude. Come, then, to the home of the frost-maiden,--come, come, come!”

Singing the last words in a low, sighing voice, the frost-maiden breathed upon Claude’s face. Immediately a light vapor rose into the air above where he lay, and rapidly took form and shape; it was Claude, yet not Claude. He was changed to a frost-sprite, and no longer could suffer pain in the kingdom of the Frost King.

He seized the maiden’s hand, together they entered the palace, and the great gates closed slowly behind them.

* * * * *

So now every child who sees in the morning his window covered with pictures, will know that while he slept, Claude and the frost-maiden have been at work.

UNDER THE SEA

In the middle of the ocean, thousands of miles from any land, a great ship lay becalmed. It was a passenger ship, bound to the East Indies, and there were a good many families on board, and a still larger number of young men who had left their friends behind, and were going out to see if they could gather some of the famous “riches of the Indies” into their own pockets. Among these young men was one called Ernest, who not only had no relatives or near friends on board the ship, but, so far as he knew, in the wide world. Ever since he could remember he had been alone, and very lonely; nor did he feel less so now among all these persons, who each seemed to have some one to love or take an interest in them, except himself; and so still he was alone.

Day after day passed, and the ship lay becalmed, until the motionless heat became very oppressive. One night Ernest, strolling languidly up and down the deck, stopped, and, looking over the taffrail near the stern of the vessel, saw a little boat, which had been let down that one of the officers might bathe from it, and which still lay rocking gently on the little waves; so Ernest, thinking it would be a pleasant place to lie and dream, clambered down the side of the great ship, and, stretching himself upon a cloak in the bottom of the boat, soon fell fast asleep.

Some hours passed, and then Ernest awoke with a start, for a great wave had broken over his little skiff and drenched him with water. Sitting upright, he looked about him in silent amazement. During the night the wind had suddenly risen, and in a few hours increased to a gale. On board the ship, the sailors who were keeping watch had set the great sails, glad enough to see them fill once more. But no one had remembered or noticed the little boat towing astern, which, after following quietly on for awhile, pulling harder and harder upon the slender line which held it to the ship, suddenly snapped it in two, and in a moment was left far behind.

So now, when Ernest sat up and looked about him, he saw nothing but water; on every side, great black waves with white, foamy crests, came rolling angrily toward him, as if they would swallow him up; and some of them, like the one which had awakened him, even broke into the little boat, so that for some time Ernest was too busy in baling out the water to have time even to be frightened.

The rest of the night passed in this manner; but just before sunrise the wind died away to little and less, until, as the first level rays shot across the ocean, the calm was as intense as it had been the day before.

The waves continued restless some hours longer; but before noon they too had sunk to sleep, and the little boat with the lonely youth remained motionless, the centre of a great, round water-plain extending on every side to where the burning sky dipped down, trying in vain to cool itself.

For many hours Ernest had suffered terribly from heat and thirst, and now that the utter calm increased both, he thought he must surely die. Wrapping himself again in the thick cloak, and covering his head from the blistering rays of the sun, he lay many hours motionless in a sort of swoon. When he recovered consciousness, night had come again; the fierce sun had given way to the cool, pitying moon, which, round and full, beamed kindly down upon him; and a little breath of air, not enough to make the gentlest breeze, just rippled the surface of the water, and gave a faint, delightful motion to the little boat.

Ernest, faint and exhausted, sat up and looked about him. The scene was delightful, but he hardly knew it, his sufferings from thirst and fever were so intense; he looked toward the east and shuddered,--a few hours more and the sun would rise, burning and scorching all before him, and Ernest felt that then he must die.

With a low moan he stretched himself again in the bottom of the boat, and lay there still, with half-closed eyes, listening to the soft ripple of the tiny wavelets upon the side, and soothed by the faint motion of the little skiff.

Suddenly he perceived that this motion had increased; that it had become a gentle, regular rocking, although the noise of the water against the side was rather less than more. Raising his languid eyes, what was Ernest’s astonishment to see a row of little white hands clasping the edge of the boat on each side, and rocking it as if it were a cradle. Softly putting out his own hand, Ernest cautiously touched one of those nearest to him; yes, they were real fingers,--cool, white, and soft.

Rising upon his elbow, the young man peeped over the gunwale of his boat. Oh, what a singular picture met his view! The world beneath the sea had come up to visit the world above the sea. Strange, beautiful fishes, such as no man’s eye ever saw before, glittered and swam on every side; great whales, white as milk, too cautious ever to appear by day, moved in stately measure beneath the moon; the sea-serpent undulated his miles of glossy length, coiling himself up, and suddenly whirling into the air and down again in a great, gleaming arch to the water; far away in lonely grandeur, vast, white, and motionless, lay the great Kraken, that mysterious, traditional inhabitant of the sea, only known to men through the wild stories which ancient mariners will sometimes tell around the evening fire. Wonderful enough it was to see all these; but Ernest hardly glanced at them,--for, close about his boat on every side crowded beautiful forms, with fair, childlike faces and long, golden hair, which floated and glittered upon the moon-lit waves, as they swam gracefully hither and thither. Ernest knew them at once; they were the mer-maidens, the children of the sea, of whom he had often heard, and for whom he had often vainly gazed across the midnight ocean.

These it were, who, grasping with white fingers the little boat, had rocked it softly to the cadence of an inarticulate song. As the youth arose and looked at them, they gently loosed their hold, and sunk beneath the water; but in an instant he heard them again behind him, and, turning suddenly, saw them surrounding a great sea-shell, white without, and of an exquisite pink within, which they were softly moving on across the water toward his own boat, while they sung in unison their mysterious, wordless song. But Ernest neither looked nor listened to the mer-maidens, for within the shell, robed in the rich abundance of her own golden hair, reclined the loveliest creature that the youth had ever seen, with fair, pale face and great, dreamy eyes, blue as the sea itself. Upon her head was set a crown, and about her neck and arms were strings of enormous pearls, perfect in form and color, and yet no whiter or rounder than the throat and arms which they encircled.

In her hands she carried a little golden harp, and when she had approached within a few feet of Ernest’s boat, gently motioning her maidens to pause, she raised it and swept her tiny hand across the strings; a faint, sweet sound, like summer wind sighing through summer woods, met the young man’s ear, and then in a soft, low voice she sung. The words were in the same unknown tongue with which the mer-maidens had chanted his lullaby, but as Ernest listened they shaped themselves into meaning in his mind; and this was the song of the sea-princess:--

Come with me! Come with me! To the world beneath the sea. There live we, with mirth and glee, Oh, ’tis pleasant there to be!

Pearls so rare, jewels fair, Gather we to deck our hair; Toil nor care, dwell not there, Come then, mortal, if thou dare!

The song was repeated over and over, and each moment Ernest longed more to go and dwell in this fair world beneath the sea. At last the shell-boat was pushed close to his own; and all the little white hands of the mer-maidens, clasping one side of his skiff, tipped it more and more, until half unconsciously he slid from his own to the boat of the beautiful maiden, who clasped him in her arms, murmuring her soft song dreamily into his ear, while the great pink shell began first slowly, then more and more swiftly, to spin round and round, sinking at the same time until it was countless fathoms beneath the sea.

Ernest awoke as from a dream, to find himself laid upon a couch of soft, many colored sea-mosses, heaped high in the centre of a grotto-like chamber, whose walls of red and white coral were curiously cut, by the labor of the sword-fish employed as decorator in the royal palace, into the delicate and fanciful images of all the beautiful flowers and leaves which grow far beneath the sea, and are never seen by men. A cool, green light diffused itself through the chamber, and showed to Ernest the figure of the princess seated beside him, and gazing at him with loving eyes.

“What is your name, fair queen?” asked the young man softly.

“I am the Princess Su-le-mair, daughter of the great King Maro,” replied the maiden, a little proudly; but added, in a more tender voice, “And you, beautiful mortal,--what do they call you, above there?”

“My name is Ernest; but no mortal will ever call me so again, for I will live here always with you, beautiful Sulemair,” and the youth timidly kissed the rose-red lips of the fair sea-maiden.

“Then come with me and see our palace,--your home, now,” said Sulemair, bashfully drawing back, but holding out her cool, white hand to take that of her lover.

So Ernest went, guided by the princess, from one curious and beautiful room to another, until he had seen all the wonders of the palace in which he was now to dwell. Then Sulemair proposed that he should come with her to see her father and mother, who lived at some distance; for each of the princes and princesses had a palace to themselves; and as the royal family was very large, the king was obliged to keep a large corps of sword-fish coral-cutters constantly at work.

The young couple found that King Maro was just presiding at his council table, so that he could not receive them; but Queen Nymphia, Sulemair’s mother, professed herself very much pleased with their visit, and welcomed Ernest to the kingdom under the sea very warmly and gracefully.

After this, it being dinner time, the two returned to their own palace, and spent the rest of the day very happily in telling each other the history of their previous lives.

So the days went dreamily on. Sometimes Sulemair sung to her golden harp love-songs, or ballads of sea-life; sometimes she and her maidens danced with Ernest, who soon learned their strange and fanciful figures, while a band of conchs, carefully graduated in tone, played each on his own shell; sometimes the princess, or one of the maidens, told strange stories of wonderful sights and romantic adventures in their own country, to which Ernest replied with stories of the world above the sea, which made the mer-maidens open their blue eyes wide with astonishment.

These and other amusements filled the day; yet sometimes Ernest would find time to wonder if matters went on above as they had done in his own time, and to wish occasionally that he and Sulemair could make a little visit to earth, just to see how it looked once more. He never mentioned this fancy to his beautiful bride, however, lest she should think him discontented; but keeping it to himself, he dwelt upon it more and more, until at last he thought of hardly any thing else, and at times was so absent and dreamy that he forgot to listen to the songs and stories, or to dance when it was his turn to do so.

Sulemair was not slow to notice and to suspect the cause of this alteration in her beloved Ernest, and she, too, grew silent, thoughtful, and abstracted. At last, one day, Ernest, rousing suddenly from a reverie, found the princess seated beside him gazing into his face, while great tears, rolling down her cheeks and dropping off her chin, fell in round, white pearls at her feet.

“Dearest, sweetest, what is the matter?” asked Ernest, anxiously; for he had never seen the princess cry before.

“It is--it is, that Ernest wishes to leave me,” sobbed the poor little sea-nymph.

“Leave you! leave my Sulemair!” exclaimed Ernest, kissing her over and over; “I never dreamed of such a thing. But if you and I together, dearest, could make just a little visit up above,--eh, Susu?”

“Listen, dear,” said the princess, sitting up, and wiping her eyes; “for I have something to tell you. I never can visit the world above and return here--never. But I have one chance to exchange this life for that, if I choose, though I never thought of wishing it before. Are you sure, very sure, dear Ernest, that you wish me to come too? Will it not be enough if you can return alone? Perhaps, after a while, you would grow tired of your poor Sulemair, and then what should she do, all alone in a strange world?”

It required several words and a great many kisses to convince the princess of the absurdity of this idea; but at last she continued:--

“We daughters of the royal house have a privilege not shared by any other of the maidens of the sea. On the night we are sixteen (our birthdays always come in the full moon), if we can by any means persuade a mortal maiden to leap into the sea, and catch her in our arms as she falls, we are able to change conditions with her,--she becoming a mer-maiden, and we a child of earth. This is possible, but rarely attempted by us; partly because we love our own natures so well we do not care to change, and partly from the difficulty of inducing any earthly maiden to make the exchange. Sometimes, however, one of us has done it; my eldest sister did. She ascended to the upper waters on her birth-night, and found herself near a ship moving slowly through the sea; floating quietly about it she perceived a beautiful girl leaning over the side, and looking sadly into the water. My sister, who had a harp like mine, began to play and sing softly, and the maiden, fixing her eyes upon the spot where my sister’s hair, floating behind her, looked like what the sailors call a moon-glade, drooped lower and lower over the side of the vessel, until Neria, holding out her arms, the maiden sunk into them, and in the next moment floated away a mer-maiden, while my sister clambered into the ship and took her place.”

“But did they look alike?” asked Ernest.

“Oh, the two change faces as well as forms, you understand.”

“But then you would not be my Sulemair any more,” said Ernest, discontentedly.

“Foolish boy, you will find some one so much more beautiful to take my place, that you will be glad to make the change,” said the princess, laughing merrily.

“_I_ shall find, little Susu? What does that mean?” asked the lover.

“Why, my plan is, that you shall return immediately to the earth, and spend the time from now to my birthday, which will not be for ten more full moons, in trying to find a maiden (a beautiful one, mind--I won’t change with an ugly one), who will leap into the sea of her own freewill. I don’t think it right to charm one, as Neria did, although I dare say I could”--

“As you charmed me,” suggested Ernest.

“No, I didn’t charm you, I only sung to you,” replied Sulemair innocently.

“All the same; but go on with your little plan, darling.”