Part 3

"I do not seek happiness; I seek Truth," said Strife, and began to climb the mountain. The longer he ascended the higher it seemed to grow; with immense exertion he climbed from rock to rock. Beneath him a precipice yawned continually, and threatened to destroy him. More than once he had to lay hold of the stones and pull himself up by them. A block broke and fell thundering into the deeps. From time to time it lightened and flashed up in the heights; that must be the palace of crystal which Strife had vowed to enter. After new exertions he reached a wondrous lovely forest dell, surrounded by tall, aspiring trees. Within was such scent of flowers, such murmur of water, such song of birds, that a strange sensation came over him, while straight in front, upon a polished rocky point, something shone like to the sun itself. That was the castle of rock crystal. Its thousand facets caught the light and sunbeams, and reflected them up and down in endless refractions. The pointed turrets reared themselves against the clear ether, like ice upon which snow has never fallen. It was as though light moved about in it of its own will and power, as though it came forth thence, and not from the Sun that stood behind the castle. When Strife shielded his eyes with his hand in order to endure the glare, a lovely maiden, clothed only in her own golden locks, came forth from the castle and down the hill. She had laid a huge green leaf across her shoulders to shelter her from the sun, and was thus flooded with gold-green light. In her hand she held a pitcher cut from a single topaz. In it the wood, the flowers, and her own graceful image were reflected. Strife watched her as she placed her small white feet upon the moss, walking so lightly that she left no trace. She had cast down her eyes as she neared the spring. Then Strife came close, and said as gently as he could--

"Give me to drink. I am thirsty."

She lifted her eyes with astonishment and looked at the strong, dark man. To him it seemed as though heaven looked at him, so deep blue, so clear and pure were her eyes. The long weary road, the fierce struggles, ay, even the goal that he would reach, vanished from his memory as he looked at this impressive beauty.

"Are you Truth?" he asked, at last. "If so I will worship you."

The rosy child-mouth opened.

"No, Truth is my mother; I am called Innocence. Do you wish to go to her?"

"Yes--no, no longer; I will stay with you, for you are more beautiful than all."

"Am I beautiful?" asked the girl with surprise; "my mother has never told me that. But you, you are beautiful, and you look so good, therefore you shall drink out of my pitcher."

When he had drunk the draught he was quite beside himself. He had only one thought, to win charming Innocence unto himself.

"Come, play with me, thou heavenly child," he said; "I can teach you quite new games, here, on this fair meadow."

And he made balls out of flowers and threw them at her, and watched her movements as she caught them laughing and shouting gleefully. Then he made her run and he ran after. Then he blindfolded his eyes with leaves, and she teased him till he caught her. At last she grew so wanton that she bound him round with creepers, upon which he made as though he could not stand, and let himself fall into the grass. She laughed merrily, and strewed him with flowers and leaves; but when she had nearly covered him, he shook himself free, sprang up, raised her high into the air, and ran with her to the wood.

"Mother, mother!" called the terrified maiden.

Then the sun sank and night covered all things.

Truth sat in her crystal castle and waited for her daughter. She wondered where the sweet child could have strayed, and tried to behold her as she saw all things. But fear for her own flesh and blood troubled her vision. She passed her hand before her eyes several times, but she clearly beheld the sun set and the moon rise so she could not be blind. When the moon shone down on her castle, she heard quite distinctly her child's voice crying in terror, "Mother, my mother!" and the next moment, with a fearful crash, the castle of crystal was rent in twain from top to bottom. Truth grew yet paler than the moon that was shining into her face. She rushed down the mountain. The stream sparkled in the moonlight, and there lay the topaz pitcher and a smell of crushed flowers filled the air. The mourning mother stood still and asked of Night where was her child, and all the flowers began to weep and drooped their heads in sorrow, and soon the whole meadow was wet with their tears.

Truth went onward, petrified, following the traces of her child deep into the wood, where the moon played with the shadows and conjured forth all sorts of shapes. She went on and on, till at last she heard a sound of weeping, and the next moment she stood before her daughter, who lay on her knees and stretched out her arms towards her. No one spoke a word, even Night held her breath; but the eyes of Truth began to glow like flames of fire. With one look she burnt her daughter's hair, with the next she dazzled Strife, who stood entranced and could only stare at her. He felt the pain of it shoot through all his body, he put his hand up to his eyes, he tottered and fell against a tree. He wanted to see; he knew that Innocence was kneeling there in the moonlight, but he was stone blind; no ray of light was ever again to illuminate his darkness. At last Truth spoke with deep resounding voice--

"My child, you are torn from me for ever. Up here there is no longer room for you. Oh why did you not obey? I had warned you against every stranger; you were to speak to none, to give no answers. Here, take my cloak; at the foot of the mountain you will find shelter."

With these words she turned and went away, and her sighs bent the crowns of the trees, and grew to a great storm that raged through the world like an everlasting plaint. Strife stormed down the mountain and howled with pain and despair. Since that time he has grown yet more violent, for he is blind, and rushes through the world senselessly, trying to wreak vengeance on it for his eternal pain. Poor Innocence wrapped the cloak round her trembling limbs, and descended slowly into the valley. Her feet were scratched by the rough stones, and her tears flowed ceaselessly. A few hours ago and she had been the most lovely flower on the heights, and now she was crushed and trodden down. She came to the haunts of men, and knocked at their doors and asked for alms, but she got more abuse than alms. At last she came to the spot where Doubt dwelt, and one stormy night she passed with light foot over the bog, not knowing that death yawned under her feet. Doubt was amazed when he heard a tap at his door. Who could have crossed the bog on such a night! There stood a pale tired woman, and begged for shelter, and said she would not stay long.

"Who are you?" asked Doubt.

"I am called Innocence."

Doubt laughed a hard short laugh.

"You will not make me believe that."

But as his words made her cry he grew very somber.

"Is it Strife that has brought you to this? Oh shame, oh everlasting shame! A curse on him and his search for Truth. It were better he had been drowned here."

And Doubt received Innocence most kindly and kept her beside him, but he could give her no comfort. Each of his words only made her heart heavier, until at last he told her that she would be a mother.

"Then I shall die," said Innocence.

At the moment her child was born it glided away like a snake, and hopped and danced like a will-o'-the-wisp across the bog of Doubt.

"Oh, my child," sighed Innocence, "come to me, only once."

Then she felt a burning and glowing at her breasts and a sucking that drained her very life. And while the little being sucked it gained charming form, and it had eyes that shone now black, now green. Innocence felt how it was draining from her all her heart's blood, and with a soft sigh she inclined her lovely head in death. Doubt buried her in the silent bog that covered her with its dark waters. Then he looked at the child.

"Shall I murder you, you horrid wretch? No; the world is ripe for you, you shall live; go forth and avenge your mother!"

And so saying he threw her into the bog, across which she slid like an eel, and hopped out into the world to do as much mischief in it as possible.

Strife was her special butt; she tempted and teased and provoked him incessantly, and often sent him into towering rages. Then he tried to wring her neck, for he knew not that she was his daughter. But she always escaped, laughing, from the blind man, and mocked him.

The world was enchanted with her. It lay at her feet and adored her as a goddess; and this goddess was Falsehood.

_THE INEXORABLE._

The Inexorable.

The sea was running high and was black as night. Only the crests of the endless waves glistened in the lightning that flashed across the heavens. The storm was raging towards the land and threw the ships upon the rocks, so that hundreds of human lives perished in the ocean. Then of a sudden it seemed as though the storm grew entangled among the cliffs on the shore, and condensed into a form that reared up tall and pale against the mighty heavens. It was a grave youth with unflinching black eyes, who leaned upon a sickle and held an hour-glass in his hand. He gazed across the waters with an indifferent air, as though the wrecks, and corpses beneath, concerned him as little as the sand in his glass, which trickled down evenly, steadily, regardless of the blustering of the storm, or the sudden quiet. There was something iron-like in the youth's features, in his eyes there lay a power that destroyed all things they looked upon; even the ocean seemed to be numbed by them, and to grow silent with fear. Day dawned, and flooded with roseate hues from the rising sun. Sorrow came stepping over the cliffs. She stretched out her arms to the youth.

"Brother," she cried, "brother, what have you done! You have raged terribly, and did not hear how I called you, ay, cried for you so eagerly."

"I heard nothing," said Death. "I felt myself too quiet, so I roused myself. A few vessels were lost in the act."

"O pitiless one!" said Sorrow.

"I do not comprehend your grief," answered the somber youth; and turning from her, he walked away. He paced silently through the sunny world; it blew chill around him, and wherever he paused a silent shudder seized all things. He went by a house and looked in. There lay a man tortured with pain who beheld him and called him imploringly; but he only shook his head and went further. A lovely young woman stood in her garden surrounded by joyous children, her husband had just stepped up to her and kissed her. The pale wanderer laid his hand on her shoulder and beckoned to her; she followed him a few steps and sank lifeless to the ground.

Then he came to a forest in which a pale man was pacing hither and thither, tearing his hair and gnashing his teeth, crying--

"Dishonored, dishonored!"

He saw the passer-by with the somber eyes, saw him lift his white hand and point to a tree. The despairing man understood the signal.

He passed a group of playing children, and softly mowed the grass between their feet with his scythe. Then they bowed their heads like broken flowerets.

There an old man sat in an armchair, and was enjoying the warming sunbeams. Death raised his hour-glass and held it before his eyes--the last sands were running down.

He halted by a stagnant pool. No water could be seen, for it was covered with green. The rushes quivered under his cold breath, and the toad that had been croaking grew silent. Then the reeds rustled and a lovely woman drew close to the water, took something from a handkerchief and threw it down. It sank with a faint gurgle into the depths. Twice she made a movement as though she would spring in after it, but each time Death extended his scythe towards her, and she fled terrified. He lifted his hour-glass in which the sand ran down quickly, hurriedly. Then something white came up between the green water-plants, and with wide-open eyes a little corpse appeared, gazing at the running sand.

Then Death went further, and across a battle-field, where he mowed down many fine men.

At last he came to a lovely valley in which autumn was reigning in all its glory. The trees were bathed in gleaming gold, the sward beneath was a luscious green, strewn with tender flowers. A silvery laugh came from the branches through which a charming little figure was floating, now hiding among the leaves, now jumping down upon the grass, and at last running with lightsome step, and garments streaming in the breeze, to meet a stately man who stood leaning on a club beside a hillock.

"Come to me, fair Happiness," he cried aloud. "You must go with me. You are mine, for I am Courage."

"Must I?" said the sweet little form, and turned her back to him.

As she did so her eyes, full of beaming wantonness and measureless roguery, turned towards the pale pilgrim. He saw the dimples that played on her chin and cheeks, her neck and her arm. Her whole slender figure was inwrapt by her light floating locks, which were moved by the softest breeze, and which looked in the sunshine like falling gold-dust.

"Yes," cried Courage, "you must, for you love me. I have found that out."

"I love you in this fair valley, and that is why I give you smiles; but if you must go out into the world, you must go alone. There stands one who has never yet spoken with me, and he looks as if he too needed the gift of smiling."

"You can't give it to him," said Courage. "Do not try. You will only hurt yourself with his scythe."

But Happiness had already run up to the Inexorable.

"Shall I teach you how to smile, you serious youth? You seem to need it."

"Yes, I could use it, for all behold me unwillingly, and no one goes with me unless he is obliged, and it is because I cannot smile."

"Yes," said Happiness, and she grew quite timid; "but in order to teach you smiling, I must kiss you. That does not seem to me so hard, only your eyes terrify me."

"Then I will close them," said Death.

"No, no, you are so pale, I shall be still more afraid; and your scythe, too, is so sharp and cold."

"Then I will throw it from me."

And he threw his scythe far away; it grazed the trees as it fell. Then their golden foliage fell to earth, and all the branches grew bare, and as the scythe sank into the grass it grew covered with rime, and the flowers hung down their crowns.

"Oh, you have spoilt my garden with your ugly scythe," cried Happiness; "and I was going to make you such a lovely present."

"I did not want to do it, but the scythe flew out of my hand, and now I am much sadder because I have grieved you. You can find new gardens, but no one can teach me how to smile."

"You shall learn, notwithstanding," said the fair maiden, and she stepped close to him; but as often as her rosy lips approached him she grew so cold that she fell back shuddering. Then he looked at her imploringly without raising his hand, as if he feared to hurt her by a touch; but his gaze held her spellbound like a great power, and she had to kiss him. But at the moment that her lips touched him his cold sank deep into her heart, and she fell dead to the earth. Courage sprang angrily at the pale youth.

"You have murdered my Happiness."

"Was she yours?" asked Death, and sighed; "then go after her; there she floats."

Following the indication of his hand, Courage saw how the soft breezes were tenderly bearing away Happiness upon their wings, like to a light cloudlet. Courage hurried after them with powerful steps, keeping his eyes ever fixed on that rosy cloud.

Death stood and gazed until he felt quite warm within, and a tear ran slowly down his pale cheeks. He had to learn for himself, what as yet he knew not, how it hurts if we chase away Happiness.

When nothing more could be seen but bare trees, faded grass, and withered flowers, he lifted his scythe and looked sadly around the valley, as though he expected it would all bloom again. But the earth remained dead and stark, so he turned once more to the sea. That was rolling its eternal tides upwards and downwards, as indifferent as ever. But he who stood above and looked down was no longer indifferent. He thought of the maiden whom he had hurt, and his yearning was as great as the ocean at his feet. And this yearning transfigured him to wondrous beauty. Thus he was seen of a pale maiden with unkempt hair and torn garments. She fell at his feet; but he was terrified by her, and drew back a pace.

"Do you no longer know me?" said the maiden. "You used to know me well, and you knew that I perished for yearning after you. I am Despair. Have you forgotten that you promised to kiss me, to give me one single kiss? It would be happiness for ever."

The youth's eyes grew dark as night, and his voice sounded stern as he said--

"And you dare to speak of happiness? Do you know what happiness is? If you come near it only once may you be turned to stone!"

"And if I were to turn to stone, yet I implore for a kiss from your mouth."

The youth shuddered and thought of the lips that had touched his and taught him to smile, and as he thought of them he smiled. When the maiden at his feet saw this, she threw her arms about his neck, and laid her head on his breast. She did not see the hate and loathing that flashed from his eyes, but the next moment a hideous skeleton grinned at her, and nearly crushed her in his bony arms, and a death's-head kissed her.

Then the earth trembled and opened. Cities vanished, fire streamed forth from mountains, forests were uprooted, rocks flew through the air, the sky was on fire, and the sea rolled in upon the land. When all was still again, Despair reared above the waters, an image of stone. Death rushed away as a storm wind to pursue the rosy cloud under this disguise.

_WILLI._

Willi.

Mother Patience was once again sitting by her window writing. She had often been called that day, and had much to confide to her mighty folios, much too that was good and pleasant; that is why an air of cheerful calm rested on her features. The whole room was filled with the scent of lovely flowers, and on the hearth there burnt a bright fire that threw magic lights and shades upon the industrious scribe. Without it was blowing cold, and like sharp needlepoints the frozen snow flew against the window panes. A light covering of ice lay over the lake, firm enough to hold the ravens. The distant road resounded hard and dry under the quick steps of shivering wanderers, the wind sang melancholy tunes round the lonely little house, as though he would recount to Mother Patience all the misery of the earth. He shook and tussled at the ivy that tenderly inwrapt the house. Suddenly she stopped to listen; a light, well-known footstep had passed her window, and the next moment Sorrow knelt at her feet, breathless, trembling like a hunted deer.

"Mother," she said, "mother, how terrible. Why were you not there, then that awful woman would not have gone with me, and it all would not have happened."

So speaking Sorrow looked behind her fearfully, as though that pursued her that had alarmed her so.

"Calm yourself, child, no awful people come hither. Tell me what has occurred."

"It was my fault," wailed Sorrow; "I did it. Oh, why am I in the world? why am I not there, deep down in the lake where the frozen water would bury me safely?"

"Be quiet, child, quiet; do not murmur, do not complain, for you bow down the haughty and soften the hardhearted."

"No, mother, that is just it; I harden the hearts, and those who love know each other no more. You must hear my tale.

"Two years ago I turned in on a prosperous farm; it was called The Holt. Wherever you looked you saw evidences of full rich life. The cattle were well fed and tended like horses, the barns were full, the maids and men in noisy activity. A splendid boy with blue eyes and brown locks was cracking his whip in the yard. He wanted to chase the calves that were going to drink. A slender pretty girl with laughing brown eyes and a coronet of fair plaits came out upon the doorstep.

"'Johnnie, Johnnie!' she cried; 'you rogue, you naughty boy; will you leave the calves alone.'

"The boy laughed and cracked his whip louder than ever, but swift as lightning the girl ran out, and with a curious stern look about her mouth wrenched the whip from him before he was aware of it, and held it high in the air so that he could not reach it, though he jumped and tried. It was a charming picture,--the boy impetuously defiant, the girl so firm and lithe. I looked at both with pleasure. But there was another looking at them, he seemed to be the bailiff. When the girl looked round she grew quite red at the gaze that rested on her, and called out--

"'Why do you stand like that? Could you not hinder him?'

"'Oh, yes; but then Willi would not have flown out like a little demon. I only waited to see her come out and make her stern face.'

"'Get along with you,' she said, and threatened him with the whip.

"The bell rang for supper. I was called in and allowed to sit among the maids. There stood the Holt farmer, stately and strong. He had just such brown eyes as his daughter, and the same stern look about the mouth, only in him it was more marked. His wife had blue eyes like the boy, but her air was depressed, as if she could not hold herself against the strong wills around her.

"'Johnnie, say grace,' said the farmer.

"Johnnie was cross and mumbled--

"'Come, Lord Jesus, sit down among us, and give me back my whip.'

"'But, Johnnie!' thundered the voice of the farmer, who tried thus to overpower the tittering that went round the table.

"The tone was a merry one. Johnnie was much teased, and he swallowed down his vexation with his hot soup. The bailiff sat opposite Willi, and they often exchanged secret glances.

"'Johnnie is my crown prince,' said the farmer; 'and he will once reign over all this domain, while Willi will have all the money and wed the Raven farmer.'

"'That I will not,' said the girl, without looking up from her plate, and again that stern look came into her face; 'I do not like that man.'

"'She does not want to be a raven mother,'[1] the head-maid whispered to the bailiff, and all began to laugh.

"'What is all this whispering?' asked the farmer, frowning darkly.

"No one would reply. At last Johnnie called out--

"'Willi does not want to be a raven mother.'

"Then the laughter knew no bounds. Willi threw a censuring look at her brother; the farmer said dryly--

"'I do not like these silly jokes, and if I say a thing it must be.'

"Willi was silent, but under her fair plaits the same resolve remained.

"Now hear the terrible part. In the same night that I slept there Johnnie got ill with fever. The doctor was sent for in haste; the whole house was upset, and before I could leave the village that I was leisurely pacing, little Johnnie grew pale and still, the whole farm silent as the grave, and only the sobs of women were heard through the open window as they laid the boy in his coffin. The farmer's wife was quite broken down, she wept and moaned incessantly; the farmer bit his teeth together in wild grief. Willi did her work, but often passed her hands across her eyes; only whenever the bailiff would come near her, she turned her back and went away.