Part 14

For years and years, the Fairy Ship plied up and down the lovely blue lake, stopping here and there. A moonlight night was the best time for catching a glimpse of it. Many old folks, still living, like to tell about the craft of good fortune, and also what they then wished for, when they were so happy as to see it coming, or sailing past them.

But bye and bye, when the black smoke of steamboats poisoned the air, and set the fairies sneezing and coughing, and roughened the throats of the swans, so that they could not sing any more, the Fairy Queen gave up her pleasure trips on the lake and ordered the snow fairies back to their mountains.

But, first, the mountain fairies had their visit to Geneva, where they saw the pretty shops and streets, and there these fairies still live, in the hearts of the children. Although nobody ever sees them nowadays, the old folks love to talk about them, and tell of the lovely times they had when children.

It is certain that the fairies left their blessing behind them, for to this day, on the great Genevan holiday, in the confectionery shops, on birthday greetings, and on Christmas and New Year’s cards, you may see a picture of the Fairy Ship, with its brightly colored lateen sails, inscribed with “Good Luck,” or “Happy New Year,” or “Many Joyful Returns of the Day.” Sometimes, they who receive these cards feel as happy as if they had seen the Fairy Ship.

XXII

THE WHITE CHAMOIS

The dwarfs and chamois have always been good friends. This is chiefly because they are so much like each other, in being small. The short dwarfs look like little men. They have beards, and wear caps and clothes, but they are hardly as high as a yard stick, and measure up, only to the heads of quite small boys. In weight, some of them scarcely reach up to a calf. Occasionally, you find a little fellow that could be packed in a band box, or carried in a suit case. As for the baby dwarfs, one of them could be wrapped up in a napkin, and be dropped into a man’s overcoat pocket.

Now the chamois is like the dwarf in this, that he is too small to be a goat, and not big enough to be a deer. He is a funny fellow to look at. His horns are only as long as from your elbow to your hand, and are turned around and backwards at the ends, so that they look like a pair of big, black fish hooks. He has a yellow head, with a dark band on it, and on each cheek is a strip of black, as if he were held in, with bridles and bit. His coat of hair is brown, but his funny little tail is also black, and, oh, how bright his eyes are!

But when it comes to leaping, from rock to rock, the chamois is the Johnny Jump Up, among all animals, for he will skip over a chasm fifteen feet wide. Then, he will land on a tiny ledge of rock, so narrow that one could hardly imagine a cat could hold itself on. Putting his hind legs first, it gets a good footing, and then bounds forward.

These creatures are so agile, that one almost expects to see the strongest of them climb up trees, by hooking their horns on the branches, but they do not. They cut many capers, but not this one. The wonderful thing is that the females, as well as the males, have horns also.

These chamois ladies, and the little folks of the family, that is, the doe and fawn, generally live down among the lower forests, while the daddies and strong young bucks stay, most of the time, up among the high rocks and peaks. They all eat the lovely flowers, grasses, mosses and aromatic herbs, that have a hot taste, and which keep them warm inside.

The very old chamois, with beards, often live alone and off by themselves. So the dwarfs and chamois are much alike, in this respect, that they are both chin choppers, in having hair growing, like a tuft, under their chins, and both are able to whistle. For, when a hunter comes near and the wind blows from him to them, the sentinel, or watchman of the herd gives the alarm, by means of a short shrill sound. Then the whole party scampers far away.

Many thousands of stuffed heads of chamois, mounted, with their hooked horns and bright, artificial eyes, are seen on the walls of Swiss hotels and houses. After the invention of the rifle, so many chamois were killed, that laws were passed which forbade any one hunter to shoot more than one hundred during his lifetime. Then, when the herds of chamois went further and further away, men put telescopes on their long-range rifles, and were thus able to kill at a great distance—even a mile off.

Now among these four footed inhabitants of the high places near the sky, the white chamois is the king of the herds and the pet of the dwarfs. No hunter can kill this leader, for he is the property of the fairies. After a man has shot his hundredth animal, the white chamois appears, to give him warning to stop killing his fellow creatures. This king of the hook-horns can leap, as if it were flying, over chasms. It moves through the deep snows far faster than the strongest man in the land.

To the good people, the white chamois is a messenger of joy, telling of the safety of the herds, announcing also that there will be much sport for the brave hunter, and plenty of meat for the people, next summer, and for years to come; but, for the bad hunter who breaks the law and shoots over a hundred, whether bucks or does, or both, the white chamois is the messenger of death.

Now there was a very bad man, a hunter named Erni, who only said, “pooh pooh,” and “fudge,” when an old man informed him that a white chamois had been seen near the village, as if he had braved danger, in coming so near houses, in order to give warning.

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.