Part 9

Among the people who surround the warrior, just one glimpse has Rudolph, the Czar, of her who was once his mother, arrayed in garments the beauty of which is only surpassed by the beauty of her face, and her face surpasses in loveliness all that he ever imagined could be; just one glimpse, too, of another face he has known; then the people close about them and they are lost sight of; and while he reaches out his hands, crying, “Oh, my mother! Oh, my brother! Oh, my father!” the radiant throng moves backward up the valley and into one of those other valleys, and disappears, and the music grows fainter and fainter. As he lies weeping and listening to that faint, far melody, one from the valley, mantled in white and mounted upon a snowy steed, rides into the dark defile, and as he passes by where Rudolph, the Czar, lies, the latter questions:

“Where have they taken the warrior who entered just now?”

“They are leading him to the royal city, to receive from our King’s own hands the unfading crown of laurels which is given to the victors.”

“But I was once well acquainted with this one, and I never knew that he was a warrior, nor did I guess that he wore armor.”

“There are many who wear armor unsuspected, and fight their battles unseen.”

“But how did he procure his pass?”

“Hast thou not heard how our King sends forth spies into all lands to search for those who will make good, loyal subjects, ever willing to obey and carry out his commands? To all such are given passes, signed by the King himself, that when they come hither they may be allowed to enter. All others are excluded, lest, entering, they annoy the peaceful citizens, and stir up strife and discord.”

“But this warrior’s armor was unlike anything I have ever seen. Of what metal is it composed?”

“It is made of several different metals; the helmet of a mixture of two metals, called Truth and Honesty; the breastplate is also of two metals, Patience and Constancy; the sword, of the Hatred of all that is base and evil; and the shield, of the Hope of admission to our land; for this—to gain entrance here—is considered the highest privilege that can be granted to any mortal. But I ride on an errand for the King, and must not delay.”

“One moment more, O bright one! Is there no secret path by which I can gain entrance to this peaceful kingdom? Is this the only way?”

“This is the only way.”

“O bright one, return, I pray thee, to the King, and entreat him in my behalf that he will permit me to enter! for I am weary, oh! I am _so_ weary, and I can find no place where I may rest; and there, too, are all who love or care for me, and all I love or care for.”

But the messenger answers sorrowfully, “Thou hast no pass!” and rides away, and the snow-white mantle and the snow-white steed flit along through the brooding shadows till, in the distance, they are lost from view. And Rudolph, the Czar, straining his eyes to follow them, is suddenly startled by a loud, mocking laugh that rings weirdly up and down the dark defile; and, turning, he sees standing behind him the tall, gaunt personage in black; and the sight of that muffled figure so fills him with terror, that he rises and hastens away as fast as his feeble limbs can carry him.

And now there comes to him remembrance of a place where, when he was a boy, he rested well and slept undisturbed; and onward he journeys by land and sea, pausing not till he reaches his native town and has found the humble cottage where he used to dwell. He creeps softly to the window and peers in. It is all there, just as it used to be—the cupboard in this corner; the chintz-covered lounge in that; the simple brown paper on the wall; the window-curtains of muslin; the clock on the mantel; the clean, white floor; the polished stove; the vapor curling from the spout of the shining tea-kettle—all there, so comfortable, so cosy, so homelike! But the people are strangers. That is not little Karl playing on the floor; that is not the mother knitting in the rocking-chair. And Rudolph, the Czar, weeps again, remembering how the last words he had for them were harsh words, and that he is never to see them more.

At length he knocks at the door and explains to the master of the house—

“I am a feeble old man, in agony of weariness for lack of sleep; for I have traveled far and searched long, but have found no place where I might rest in peace. And I finally bethought me of a low room under a sloping roof, where, in my childhood, I rested well and undisturbed. The roof above is that same sloping roof, and beneath it is that chamber. And I will give to thee, good sir, all the gold in my purse—and there is much gold in it—if I may lodge there for one night only, and sleep once more as I slept when I was a lad.”

And the good man of the house bids him enter and welcome, but refuses the proffered gold. And Rudolph, the Czar, climbs up the narrow stairs to the low room under the sloping roof, and he lies down there, forgetting to look for the lifted sword, and he closes his weary eyes, and a delicious drowsiness steals over him, and there is no fear in his heart, and nothing molests him, and at last he sleeps, sleeps, sleeps.

* * * * *

What sound is that? A ringing of bells. It wakens Rudolph. He gazes about the room. On a stand in the corner a lamp is dimly burning. Some one is sitting here beside the bed. “Oh, go away, good sir, and leave me in peace!” he moans piteously. “Did I not offer thee all the gold in my purse? Why, then, dost thou trouble me? Do no murder, I beseech thee, for I am old and feeble, and I have not slept before in a hundred years.”

“Thou art dreaming, Rudolph. There is nothing to fear.”

“Thou, my father!” and he seizes the two toil-hardened hands, covering them with kisses and with tears. “How camest thou here? I feared I should never behold thy face again! And where are my mother and my brother?”

“The dear mother and our little Karl will see thee in the morning to wish thee a ‘Happy New Year.’”

A Happy New Year! Rudolph puts his hand to his forehead, as if to smooth out some knot there underneath. “Truly, I do not know,” he murmurs, “it all seemed so real. Have I been dreaming, dear father?”

And then the father explains how he heard wailing and shrieking in the night, and came to learn the cause, but, fearing a fever, staid to watch awhile.

“It is hard, dear father, that after thou hast been working all the day thou must needs watch all the night.”

“I would do much more than that for Rudolph, although he is ‘only the son of a carpenter.’”

“Alas, that I talked in my sleep!”

Hark, the bells! once more they clang together—all the bells in the town. So it is, so it is the New Year! They are ringing in the New Year. And these New-Year days—standing like mile-stones all along the highway of Time—who gave them to the world for holidays? Was it not “the carpenter’s son”? Rudolph, trying to smooth out the kink in his brain, finds that thought entangled with it, somehow. After awhile he exclaims, with face aglow:

“It is good that this is the first day of the year! That is the grand time to turn over a new leaf—no, to put on a new suit of armor! For I have learned something from my dream, father; it is this—thou art a Hero. And I mean to be another, just like thee!”

And the father looks down into Rudolph’s eyes, and sees that the demon has departed.

QUEEN MABEL.

“Green, green are the meadows, And blue, blue is the sky, And glad, glad is the morning, And happy and gay am I. Tirra-la-la, la, la, la! And happy and gay am I.

“White, white are the daisies Blossoming everywhere, And red, red are the roses, And sweet, sweet is the air!

“And sweet is the burnie’s music, And the music of bee and bird— Ha, ha! the sweetest music That ever and ever you heard!

“Gold, golden the sunbeams, And bright, bright is the day, And the bees, and the birds, and Mabel, Little of care have they!

“Oh! and over the meadows, Oh! and under the sky, And all in the dewy morning, Happy and gay am I! Tirra-la-la, la, la, la! Happy and gay am I!”

The queen passed by in her carriage, And little Mabel’s song, By a roving zephyr wafted, She heard as she rode along. “Ah, child!” she sighed as she listened, A shadow upon her brow— “With the birds, and the bees, and the blossoms How happy and gay art thou!”

Standing knee-deep in clover, Mabel looked up and saw The glitter and royal splendor, And her voice was hushed with awe; And the light from her sweet eyes faded, And the song died out of her heart; “O queen!” she sighed in her envy, “How happy and grand thou art!”

And the glee was gone from the morning, The gladness gone from the day, As through the tangle of clover She wearily took her way. “What a wretched place to live in!” She paused at a cottage door. “How lowly and plain and humble! I never noticed before!” And over her work she muttered, “Little the queen of the land

With the soot and grime of the kitchen Needs ever to soil her hand!” And over her simple sewing, As the afternoon went by, Often she fell to musing, Often she breathed a sigh; And often she thus would murmur— “I doubt if ever the queen Would deign, with her jeweled fingers, To sew an inch of a seam.” And wearily on her pillow At even she laid her head; “I never shall be a queen,” she sobbed, “And I wish that I were dead!”

But presently came a message, Reading—oh, was it true?— “Arise and come to me, Mabel; I, the queen, have sent for you.” Then quick to the royal palace She rode in the carriage grand, And they led her through halls of marble To the queen of all the land; And the queen arose, and laying Her crown at Mabel’s feet, “I go to be free and happy, And play in the meadows sweet,” She said, and to all her people— “Farewell!” and “farewell!” she said; And the people took up the golden crown And put it on Mabel’s head. And oh! it was heavy, heavy! Heavy, heavy as lead!

To a gilded throne they brought her, In purple and ermine clad. “Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel!” They shouted with voices glad; And “Hail to thee, fair queen Mabel!” Rang in her ears all day, Till, weary, herself she questioned, “Is it right, is it right to stay? To drive the cows from the pasture Is Mabel’s task alone; And my father at work since morning, He will soon be coming home.

“He will miss his little Mabel, For there is no one but me To toast the bread for his supper And make him a cup of tea. But no! am I not a lady? It is no care of mine To worry about the supper And the milking of the kine!”

So she dwelt in the marble palace, And dined from a golden plate, And slept in a silken chamber, And sat in the chair of state. And whenever she went riding The people with cheers would greet, And maidens and little children With blossoms would strew the street.

And royally thus lived Mabel, Her only task—to command; Servants, unnumbered, ready To move at the wave of her hand; And alway about her lingered Gay courtiers, a dazzling throng; And the blithe hours swiftly flitted With story, and dance, and song. But often herself she questioned, As she sat on the gilded throne, “How is it with them, I wonder— How is it with them at home?”

As the palace with mirth and music Echoed and rang, one night, The people peered through the windows, Watching the festive sight: And a beggar in rags and tatters, Listening, shook his fist; “What right have they to be merry When my little ones starve?” he hissed. And the people his words repeated: “What right, to be sure?” they said, “Flaunting in silks and diamonds While our little ones cry for bread.”

And ever, as thus they murmured, Louder their voices grew, Till, all in a red-hot anger, To the palace doors they flew. And the sentinels, at each entrance, Quickly they put to flight, And hurried with cries and clamor Into the halls so bright— Into the halls of marble, With clubs and with axes armed, Till the sound of their shouts and curses The courtiers hearing, alarmed, Fled in their silks and diamonds, Leaving the queen alone. On rushed the riotous rabble, Making its way to the throne, And they who had “Hail Queen Mabel!” Shouted with loyal will, Now aloft their cruel weapons Brandished, intent to kill.

Then she shrieked for help in her terror, Never a friend came nigh. So, as the crowd drew nearer, Sudden she turned to fly; And casting aside the purple robe And the heavy golden crown, Away and away she hastened, To the meadows she wandered down; Down to the meadows wandered, Hastened away and away, Till the birds and the dewy blossoms Were roused by the dawning day.

But the world it was sad and silent, Clouded and gray the morn, As wearily on she wandered, Wearily and forlorn. The burnie it went complaining, Fretting its way along, Making no pleasant music, Singing no pleasant song; And ever as in the hedges She came to a sweet wild rose, At the touch of her queenly fingers The petals would sadly close. Once did she call, “Sing, birdies!” But the little birds were dumb: “Come to me as you used to!” But they, fearing, would not come.

“What a cosy place to live in!” She paused at a cottage door. “Not a palace half so lovely Is there the country o’er!” Within sat a woman knitting— A woman aged and blind; And ever she dropped the stitches, Trying in vain to find. “Grandmother, let me help thee,” Mabel held out her hand. “Nay,” said the gray-haired woman, “Thou art the queen of the land!”

Just at that moment entered A workingman—quick she cried “Father, oh, dost thou know me?” Sorrowfully he sighed, “Oh, queen and gracious lady, Tell me if thou dost know Aught of our little Mabel, Who was lost long years ago? On a sunny summer morning She strayed from the meadows green. Tell me if thou hast seen her— Tell me, oh, gracious queen!”

“Alas, they, too, have forgotten!” Bowing her head, she wept— And the weeping queen awakened, And found she had only slept. Safe in her low-ceiled chamber, Flooded with rosy light, Only the little Mabel, The Mabel of yesternight! Then aloud rejoicing sang she The song of the day gone by “Glad, glad is the morning, And happy and gay am I!”

PRINCESS GERDA.

I.

The King came home from battle, He came in triumph proud; Before, the heralds flying, With trumpets pealing loud, Ten thousand warriors followed, With gleaming spear and shield, A goodly store of trophies Brought from the bloody field, A forest bright of banners Unfurled like tongues of flame, And clanking ranks of captives To swell the mighty train.

Beneath the arching gateway And up the stony street, To time of martial music, Passed on the trampling feet; But ever chief and foremost The King in triumph rode; His armor flashed in sunlight, Gay-plumed his helmet glowed, High stepped his coal-black charger, Impatient of the rein, And curved the sleek neck proudly And shook the rippling mane.

More proud than he the rider— In look and mien more proud; Before, the heralds speeding And trumpeting aloud How Eric, the invader— Long time a dreaded foe— Lay with the gory corses Upon the plain below; And how of his great army A paltry little band In hopeless rout Had turned about And fled to their own land.

Quick, at the cry of herald And clattering of hoof, From door and wall and window, From balcony and roof, Black hung the crowd; with praises Did all the city ring— With praises for the warriors, With praises for the King:— So loud, the infant Gerda Was wakened from her sleep, And, writhing in her cradle, Forsooth began to weep, The while they praised her father Till all the air did ring, The while the people shouted, “Forever live the King!”

II.

All day it rained. The white doves Came not at Gerda’s call, To flock about the casement High up the palace wall, To coo ’neath her caresses, And plume their wings of snow, And pick the crumbs she scattered Upon the ledge below.

It rained all day. The sunbeams Were weak and wan and rare— The beams that seven summers Had played with Gerda’s hair. All day it rained unceasing. The quaint old lofty room, For lack of bird and sunbeam, Was drear and full of gloom; And left among the shadows, The while the raindrops beat, With restless little fingers, With restless little feet, Went Princess Gerda roaming The quaint old room around, And thus behind the tapestry, It chanced, a picture found— A painting blurred and faded: Two men had fought, and one Lay vanquished, while the other, With foot his neck upon, A murd’rous weapon brandished Above the prostrate head. “Thou hateful, hateful fellow!” In anger Gerda said, And clenched her small fist straightway And smote the lifted hand. Lo! backward swung the picture, As tho’ a fairy’s wand Obeying; and before her, There in the masonry, Black space and then a stairway— So much did Gerda see. “Where does it go?” she wondered, And, no one being nigh, Into the darkness ventured, Nor waited for reply.

Down, down, and ever downward, The granite steps led on; With now and then a winding, With ever and anon A pause, a narrow landing, But never ray of light. On, on, went little Gerda, And downward thro’ the night, Recalling wondrous stories The good nurse Hedvig told Of a strange realm and dreamlike, All paved and ceiled with gold, Where ruled the merry elf-king— A realm far underground, That a few favored mortals By patient search had found.

So, on and on went Gerda, And downward through the night. At length in maze of passages That led to left and right, The stony staircase ended; And, searching in the dark, She wandered hither, thither: The elf-land, where? But hark! What sound was that? She listened. A moaning somewhere near! Again, again, a moaning! She fled away in fear. From right to left she hurried; She hurried to and fro; She called: “O good nurse Hedvig, Come to me here below!”

Came never word of answer. She could not find the way. In terror trembling, sobbing, Still onward did she stray. “Who weeps?” Again she listened. The voice was low and kind. “’Tis I—’tis Princess Gerda; The way I cannot find.”

“Fear not, O Princess Gerda! If thou wilt turn the key, How gladly will I offer To be a guide for thee.”

Her little fingers feeling The slimy stones along, Found out the door of iron— The iron door so strong: And standing there on tip-toe, With all her might and main, She, reaching, tried the rusty key, But tried and tried in vain.

“Once more, once more, O Princess!” At that she tried once more; The hinges grated harshly, And open flew the door; And one came forth whose features And form she could not see For the deep darkness round her; But never aught cared she, Because the voice was pleasant And drove away all fear— The voice that softly questioned, “How happened Gerda here?” “Down, down the longest stairway That ever yet was found, I came to hunt for fairies That dwell beneath the ground.”

“Now tell me, sweetest Gerda, If I will show the way, And lead thee from the darkness Far up into the day, Wilt never of thy venture, Nor ever of thy guide, To any speak? Wilt promise?” She eagerly replied, “Oh, yes, yes, yes! I promise!” And, hand in hand, the two The dank and dismal corridors Went searching through and through.

A narrow length of passage, Low-ceiled, at last they gained, And midway in this passage A narrow doorway framed; And winding from this doorway Stone steps, a narrow flight, They found and followed—followed Far up out of the night.

But when the little Gerda, Safe in the dim old room, That now seemed full of sunlight After the greater gloom— When quick she turned to see him Who led—the pictured wall, The overhanging tapestry She saw—and that was all.

And many days she marveled, And many nights did dream Of that good guide and gentle, Who came and went unseen. But never more the stairway, So long and dark, she tried. She told not of her venture, She told not of her guide.

The dungeon-keeper, bringing The daily drink and bread, The iron doors found open! The prisoners had fled! In doubt and wonder gazing, He paled with sudden fear: “Alack! the King will hear it! Alack! the King will hear!”

Down fell the bread and water— With flaming torch he sought A narrow length of passage Deep through the rough rock wrought; And there for miles he wandered, Lit by the torch’s ray, Nor guessed how lately other feet Had traveled the same way. At last he reached a country Beside the western sea— A fair and goodly country. There now in peace dwelt he.

III.

The years have passed, and Gerda, Now grown a maiden tall, Looks from the latticed casement High up the palace wall; But not for flash and flutter Of snowy wings looks she— Thro’ rain or sun No longer come The white doves merrily; For peace and they have flown afar, And all the land is red with war.

Great Ivar, dreaded Ivar, Who rules the northern coast, Across his rocky borders Has led a conquering host; And smiling field and hamlet Despoiling as they came, Five months before the city walls The savage hordes have lain. The glimmer of their camp-fires The Princess Gerda sees, Their tents, their hostile ensigns A-floating in the breeze. She looks forth from her window With eyes grown used to tears; And as she looks she listens— What sound is that she hears?

A crash, a shriek, a shouting— A battlement gives way; Swift thro’ the breach come rushing The foe in dire array, And sudden as a thunder-storm Sweeps o’er the smiling day, The air is dark and clamorous And wild with deadly fray.

But calm and clear Does Gerda hear His orders ring, As the brave King, Unfaltering, Keeps the fierce foe at bay.