Part 13

But the man, instead of hanging up his trusty rifle on its pegs, sallied out very early one fine morning to shoot, if possible, this very creature, the white chamois, of which he had heard, but had never yet seen. It was still dark in the valley, when he started, but the man knew it would be bright light, by the time he should reach the peaks.

And so it was. Up over the rocks, and across the flowery meadows, that were more brilliant, with many colors, than any garden ever planted, or parlor carpet ever woven, the hunter made his way. When he came to the edge of a deep ravine, he slung his rifle over his back, and slid down. Then he climbed up to the top of a high ridge. Balancing himself on the edge of the rocks, he looked across the terrible, yawning chasm. With his telescope, he swept the field of view, but instead of discerning anything brown, with a black tail, he saw, very clearly, a white chamois.

“Now for a good shot,” he thought. “I’ll show these old grannies and silly dotards, down in the village, what fools they are.”

He unslung the rifle and then, for a moment only, looked down a thousand feet below, to the jagged rocks, wondering how he could get the body of the white chamois, if the bullet sped to its heart, and its carcass fell down.

But this was only for a second; for the bold fellow, familiar from his youth, with the mountains, laughed at any and all difficulties in his path. He was just about to level his weapon and take aim, when he heard a loud voice behind him, shouting:

“Erni, pull your cap down over your eyes.”

Astonished to hear his name called out at such a place, and struck with curiosity, he turned to see who and what it was.

There stood a dwarf, cap, beard, and all, with a stern look on his face. Pointing to the white chamois, he screamed:

“You had warning enough; down you go!”

Just then the hunter’s foot, with its hob-nailed shoe, slipped upon a fragment of rock, and he fell. Over the cliff, down, down, down, the cruel man tumbled. A few minutes later, the Alpine condors were quarreling over his corpse. Later, the wolves picked his bones, that lay long upon the bare rocks. An awful warning!

After this, the chamois mothers, during the summer season, reared their kids in peace and quiet and all was happy in the high places, where the dwarfs and the chamois dwell as friends together.

XXIII

THE SIREN OF THE RHINE

The Father of the Fairies, who used to live along and under the river Rhine, was not able always to control his daughters, after they had grown up. One of them, named Lorelei, a long time ago, used to appear above the current of the great stream, at the place where the water dashes over the rocks and foams high. It was very hard, in that place, or near it, for the sailors to steer their boats, so as not to have them dashed to pieces. Only with cool heads and strong arms could the boatmen get their vessels through in safety.

But if they should stop, to look at the pretty maidens, or to turn their heads to listen to the lovely music which they made, then, they were sure to lose their heads and have the boat go wrong and run upon the rocks. Then, of course, every one on board was thrown into the boiling waves, and drowned. The rocks are so sharp and jagged that, when the boat was upset, the poor people were thrown violently against these, and, even if spared by the waves, were sure to perish.

The fairy, named Lorelei, paid no attention to their cries, but only laughed at them, as they struggled in the water.

This Lorelei, the chief of the river fairies, was never seen during the day, for during the sunlight she loved to sit among her jeweled caves, and remain far down below in the cool depths of the waters. During daylight hours, if any mortal tried to catch even a glimpse of her, he sought in vain. It thus happened that some people, and even boatmen on their way down to Rotterdam, laughed at the idea of there being a Lorelei, or any other fairy among the rocks.

But when the moon was at its full and shone brightest, and its silvery beams seemed to turn into a fairy-like gauze, woven of mist and moonbeams, the Lorelei was in her happiest mood.

As soon as the sun was down and twilight fell on the earth above, she called for her maidens to dress and adorn her lovely form with jewels. They plaited part of her golden hair, braiding it up over the top of her head and around at the back. This made a pretty, cap-like arrangement, while behind, and down her back, the other tresses fell in ripples, so that, in the faint evening wind, it would float out, and gleam, and rise and fall fitfully, on the breezes, seemingly now silvery, and again golden, in the moon’s rays. A comb of gold, studded with rare gems, added to the glory of her headdress, which, in the dim light from the night skies, would glisten like a cluster of stars.

No ordinary man could resist such a lure, for even apart from the entrancing music he would assuredly have the curiosity to see what this resplendent figure on the high rock could be.

So, when Lorelei was arrayed in her gorgeous apparel, that so heightened her beauty, this fairy would rise out of the current. Then, swimming over to the base of the loftiest rock that rose from near the river’s shore, she always had her harp with her. Perching aloft, on the top of the pinnacle, she would sweep the strings and make the most entrancing music.

Whenever she saw a boatful of mariners, coming up, or going down, the Rhine, she trilled her voice to particular sweetness. Then they could see her, among the moonbeams, with her long golden hair streaming out on the evening breeze, or lightly lifted and rippled, when the zephyrs were soft as a breath. It seemed as if her song music was loveliest, when the night wind was most faintly sighing.

No matter how vehemently even the most stout-hearted sailors might have promised, or even vowed, to pay no attention to anything they heard, while shooting the rapids, they were sure to drop oars and pole, to listen, when the melody floated through the air. Then, the man who steered and had been the loudest, in saying that he would clap his hand over his ears, and be deaf to any strains, however sweet, was always the first to weaken. He would stand still, as if shot through, with an arrow, and forget all about his duties at the rudder. Then, very quickly, the boat would strike against the rocks. In a moment more, the whole crew would be struggling, soon to sink under the waves, while the boat drifted along, bottom upwards. In their last moments, the drowning men heard the fairies laughing, as if they were enjoying good sport.

Now it is said that the only one who ever basked in the favor of the Lorelei, was a young and very good looking fisherman’s son, named Ulric. He was his mother’s darling and his father’s pride, yet none of his brothers were jealous of him.

Whenever he appeared at night, the Lorelei would get down from her rock throne, and walk along the river’s strand to welcome the handsome lad. He never, however he might seek diligently, or call loudly, could find her, or catch a single glimpse of her, by day; but the moment he met her at night he would be in raptures over her beauty.

Sometimes she would sing for him, so that he never knew how fast the hours sped away. It was often midnight, before Ulric reached home, and, once in a while, it was near daybreak in the east.

But, always before parting from him, Lorelei would point out to her lover the place in the river, where, on the next morning, the fish would be found most plentifully.

Ulric would then tell his father, and brothers, where to cast their nets, and then they always drew up a good boat load of fish. These they sold in the market at a high price, and so had nice clothes and plenty to eat. So they never asked Ulric where he had been, so long, the night before, and why he reached home after the household were all in bed, and only their faithful dog Fritz kept watch at the door.

His mother warned her youngest son not to go and see the Lorelei too often, but he only laughed, kissed her, and said he could stop going when he wanted to; which is the way many boys and girls talk, not knowing the power of habit, which binds like a chain.

But one night, the old fisherman’s son did not return, and in the morning, when his mother looked into his room, expecting to call and wake him, she found it empty. The bed was in perfect order, as if no one had slept in it. Putting her hand under the covers, she found no warmth.

At once, she gave the alarm to her husband and sons, who were then at their breakfast. Taking their faithful dog with them, they at once set out to find the lad. All day long, they searched among the reeds, along the river bank, along the rocks, and even in the woods and on the hills; but no sign of son and brother was found. It was believed that the siren Lorelei, madly in love with the handsome boy, and, though in the form of a pretty woman, having no human heart to feel for his mother, had dragged him down into her caves under the river and deep in the earth, to enjoy him as her companion forever.

Bye and bye, so many sailors having been drowned, and so large a number of merchants having lost their precious treasures, in the wrecked boats, it was determined to send a band of brave men to seize the Lorelei, and bind her as a prisoner. If she resisted, she was to be put to death. Thus a danger, to be dreaded more than jagged rocks, or treacherous currents, would be taken away. Then the merchants, in Cologne and Rotterdam, would be made happy, by piling up fortunes to enjoy and leave to their children.

Before starting on the expedition to capture the siren, every man was taken into the cathedral, and, before the altar, made to cross himself on the breast, and swear not to listen to the Lorelei’s song. All of them wore helmets, with thick padded ear muffs, coming down over their ears, and tied tight. All the orders of the captain were to be given by signs without his speaking a word.

But what availed arrows, swords, and spears, helmets and armor, and what were the strong muscles of brave men, against a beautiful fairy? When the company had landed, silently, on the shore, without endangering their boats, by going near the rocks, they suddenly found that they could not move; for the Lorelei had cast a spell over them, so that not one could lift hand or foot. All night long, the captain and his soldiers stood upright and motionless, as if made of wax and in a museum, while the moonbeams were reflected from their helmets, weapons and armor.

Yet during all these night hours, they had the power of eyesight. They saw all that was going on, and this was what they witnessed.

Just as the first gleams of the upcoming sun were beginning to streak the midnight blue of the skies, with light, and make rosy the east, but while, at the same time, the moon cast a pale light on the strange scene, they discerned plainly the Lorelei. She was standing on the highest pointed rock that rose out of the Rhine. There, the beautiful creature was, as if in a waiting attitude, before a mirror, and about to retire to her bed for sleep. She took off all her ornaments and jewels. She unbound the bands of her shining hair, and unplaited the braids, until her tresses fell, in one glorious mass, like a cataract of gold. She threw away, one by one, her comb, her girdle, her splendid robes, and each of her pearls and gems, into the foaming waters. Then she chanted a spell, to draw the waters up to the very top of the rock, until the wavelets rolled over her shining feet.

At this moment, two white horses, with long flowing manes, rose up, pawing and snorting, out of the flood. In golden harness, they drew a chariot, made of a single emerald, with sapphire wheels. She mounted within the vehicle and at a word from the siren, the steeds drove away, with the swiftness of a lightning flash, and disappeared.

Gradually the river subsided to its usual low level. Minute by minute passed, and the spell over the soldiers was gradually broken. First, they could move their toes; then, their fingers; and, after a while, their arms and legs. When at last, by a sign, the captain gave the order to march, they faced about, towards the river. Embarking on their boats, they rowed down the Rhine to Basel and Cologne, and told their weird story.

Never again was the Lorelei seen by man. The people, who live around the old place of moonlight music, say that the siren felt insulted at this invasion of her domain. In her view, what were the lives of a few sailors, and the loss of one fisherman’s son, for a lover, compared with such music as she gave so freely?

So, to punish foolish men, she has never again left her shining caves, under the Rhine, to appear on earth. Yet, inspired by her example, the musicians have continued her sweet music, while the poets never weary of telling her story in their rhymes and stanzas.

XXIV

THE ASS THAT SAW THE ANGEL

In that part of the Swiss Republic, called the Grisons, there is a sharp mountain, thin and round, like a horn. Because it is red, its name has always been Rothhorn, or Red Peak.

In one of the towns near by, lived a proud man, named Gruntli, who scouted the idea of there being any fairies, or Santa Claus. To his view, there was no intelligence, or virtue, in dumb brutes. He did not believe in anything but what he could see, taste, smell, hear, or handle with his ten fingers. This was what he called “science.”

This old fellow, Gruntli, boasted of being “a man of science.” He considered that everything belonging to religion was superstition. Mule drivers, cow milkers, cheese makers, and such folk, whom he called “the ignorant common people,” might have faith in such things, but not he.

Gruntli was rich. He had a large house, with one room full of books, but not one of these contained any poetry, or stories, or novels, or romances. He sneered at anybody who said they believed in Santa Claus, and he openly insulted people who loved to think that William Tell, their national hero, ever lived. As for the exploits of Joan of Arc, or of Arnold of Winkelried, he used to say that what was told of them was only the same as nursery stories.

Nobody loved Gruntli, for he was a hard master with his servants. Though he called himself “a man of science,” and sneered at the village folks, when they went to church on Sunday, he did nothing to help the poor people of the valley.

Part of the wealth, of this hard-hearted man, consisted in mules, of which he had twenty or more. These were sumpters, or pack animals, that carried the milk, butter, cheese, and produce of the valley, to be sold in the nearest large city, and to bring back what was needed.

Gruntli’s favorite animal for the saddle was a pure-blooded white ass, which his father had given him, when a boy, so that he and the dumb brute were well acquainted with each other. Large in size and imposing in appearance, this animal was named Julius Cæsar; or, for short, “Gulick,” for that was the way the great Roman conqueror’s name was pronounced in the local dialect.

People used to say that this donkey was the only living creature for which Gruntli cared, or had any affection; or, that he even treated decently. Occasionally, his master would allow this, his favorite beast, to be ridden by his overseer, or chief clerk—a privilege on which this head man set great store. The sure-footed creature carried its rider over the most dangerous passes. It seemed almost a miracle, the way in which, along narrow ledges of rock, the ass moved as if on a well-paved road.

Gulick seemed to measure with its eye, and gauge the width necessary, even making allowance for its load, for the pack saddle, or for the knees of the rider; so that, though a dumb beast, its reputation for safety was great in all the region. Muleteers often used to scold their stubborn animals, by calling them “rabbit-eared fools,” and “not worth one hoof of Gulick,” the paragon among long eared animals.

Nevertheless, there were times, when the donkey, Gulick, showed that it had a mind of its own. Then it could be stubborn, too. But this was what men thought, and not the animal’s own opinion of itself. This usually took place, when it saw that the path ahead, or the ledge of rock, over which it was expected to pass, with a pack load, or a stout lady in the saddle, or a big fat fellow, with both legs far out and taking up the room, between the ass and the rock.

Then, no amount of scolding, yelling, bad temper, hard names, or even beating, could move the creature. The only thing to do was to get off and unload. In fact, the ass had a very poor opinion of some human beings. He even pitied them, because they had only two legs, while donkeys had four.

Not once, in all its long life, did Gulick lose its way, slip, fall down, or have an accident. In fact, its master could go to sleep, while riding home. When, as was often the case, the man was too full of strong wine, to sit up straight, this was a good thing; for a sober donkey has more brains than a drunken man.

Some people, who believed in fairies, even thought that Gulick was really a human being who, for doing something wicked, in another world, had been changed, by a fairy, into this creature with the shaggy hide, ropy tail and ears like a jack rabbit’s.

An event, that seemed to furnish a fresh foundation for the common belief, took place near the village of Plurs. Then, the general idea, that a man had, somehow, got into an ass’s skin, was confirmed.

One night, Gruntli’s overseer was returning from Zurich. He reached the village of Plurs, late at night. There, the wine being good and the stabling cheap, he expected to make his stay, until next morning. So, stepping into the wine room, and calling for the hostler, he sat down before the table, thinking that all was right, according to the usual way of beasts and man, until morning.

But when the stable boy went outdoors, he found the line of mules was some distance up the road, and that Gulick was leading them.

Running after the train, he brought the animals back, to the inn; but when, for a moment, being at the end of the line, he left the beasts, to open the stable door, off trotted Gulick and all the donkeys after their leader.

So the boy had another run and was in very bad temper. He seized the bridle of Gulick, and gave such a jerk, in his anger, that he nearly broke the strap, and pained the animal’s jaw.

Nevertheless, for a third time, the sagacious beast ran away. When the stable boy, out of patience, rushed into the wine room, and told the overseer of the strange behavior of his donkey, Gulick, the man had sense enough to follow the mule train.

Well for him and his master, that he did so, for, when hearing a frightful noise, he looked behind him, from the top of the hill, he saw a landslide, from the mountain flank, wipe out the whole town, leaving the houses, people and cattle buried under one white pall of earth, rock and snow.

After this, one would suppose that the owner of Gulick would fully trust the animal’s wonderful instinct and unerring vision, as well as his sure footedness.

But this man, Gruntli was, as he called himself, “too much of a man of science” to consider such an affair, as that of Gulick and the landslide, as anything but an accident, a coincidence, or, as an example of “the doctrine of averages.”

Wishing, however, to see the ruin wrought by the landslide, he mounted Gulick, clapped his ankles against the animal’s sides, and was off. Gruntli wore spurs, more for show than for use, for Gulick instantly obeyed the pull of his master’s bridle, or the clap of his foot, and never was known to need urging. So there never had been any blood on the points of Gruntli’s spurs.

But this day, the master was in very bad humor, because seven of his houses, which he owned in the village, were now destroyed. Much of his income was thus lost, for he could no longer collect rents from the people who had been his tenants.

Now, as they were jogging along, and approached near the scene of yesterday’s horror, the ass suddenly stopped with a jerk, that threw its master forward, and nearly off the saddle.

There, in front of the animal in the middle of the road, stood an angel holding a naked sword. Of course, Gruntli could not see anything, for his soul had nearly shriveled up, and Gulick had never before met such a being. Yet the ass, even though it was a dumb brute, had enough sense to know that it dare not, and ought not, to rush up against the apparition, whatever it might be. Had it been rock, stone, ice, a mountain path, a chamois, or anything usual, the Swiss donkey would have known what to do. But before such an unusual sight, Gulick stood still.

As for Gruntli, he, being a self-styled “man of science,” without any faith, and very little imagination, could see nothing. So, when Gulick, to get out of the way, turned aside and out of the road, to make its way through the field, Gruntli, getting very angry, beat the animal and in his bad temper, even laid on several blows with his whip handle.

At this unusual action of his master, the ass was so surprised, that he actually stopped. He turned round, gave a rebuking glance at Gruntli, and then tried to go on, but in vain.

Then the man, in a worse temper than ever, not only beat the dumb brute again, but he drove his spurs into the sides of the faithful beast, until little drops of blood dropped on the ground.

At this, even patient Gulick lost his donkey temper, and lifting one of his hind legs tried to kick the man’s heels.

This enraged Gruntli still further, and he cried out:

“You stupid beast! If you want to climb up into the saddle and ride yourself, I’ll jump off.”

Then he clutched his whip more tightly, expecting to get down and thrash the animal with all his strength.

But Gulick moved on, the road narrowing down, between rocks, as many bridle paths in Switzerland do. Yet no sooner had the intelligent beast entered into the shadow, than again a shining angel appeared in the path in front of them, but this time in a threatening manner, and waving his glittering sword.

Startled at the sight, the ass again stopped, hoping its master would treat his own beast more kindly and see what was the matter.

But angry men are nearly always blind, and sometimes half insane, or even wholly so. Gruntli once more drove his already bloody spurs into Gulick’s side.

At this, stung with pain, and fearing to rush against the angel, the beast dashed sideways against the rocky wall.

Maddened, almost to insanity, at this action, and smarting with a crushed ankle, Gruntli beat the ass with repeated and cruel blows.

In spite of such inhuman treatment, and even more awed by the apparition, than by the agony it was suffering, the ass lay down flat under its rider, though without hurting him. It turned its head around and looked at him, as if in stern rebuke, at this treating an old friend, that had ever served faithfully.

Unmoved by the beseeching look in the eyes of what had been his pet, since childhood, Gruntli, in a fresh fury of rage, bellowed out:

“I just wish I had a sword to kill you,” and he rained blow upon blow on his faithful brute.

Then he jumped off the saddle, and, leaving Gulick in the rocky path, walked forward a few rods. All the time he was wondering what had so disturbed and checked the brute.

One look, as he turned away to the brow of the mountain, revealed to him a scene of frightful desolation. Rocks, gravel, ice, snow, and general débris, covered what had been his seven houses, and tenants and their cattle. Looking up, he noticed that the face of the mountain, whence the mass of earth had slipped down, was greatly changed in form.