THE ICE MAIDEN

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                             THE ICE MAIDEN

                       by Hans Christian Andersen

                      I. LITTLE RUDY



WE will pay a visit to Switzerland, and wander through that

country of mountains, whose steep and rocky sides are overgrown with

forest trees. Let us climb to the dazzling snow-fields at their

summits, and descend again to the green meadows beneath, through which

rivers and brooks rush along as if they could not quickly enough reach

the sea and vanish. Fiercely shines the sun over those deep valleys,

as well as upon the heavy masses of snow which lie on the mountains.

During the year these accumulations thaw or fall in the rolling

avalance, or are piled up in shining glaciers. Two of these glaciers

lie in the broad, rocky cliffs, between the Schreckhorn and the

Wetterhorn, near the little town of Grindelwald. They are wonderful to

behold, and therefore in the summer time strangers come here from

all parts of the world to see them. They cross snow-covered mountains,

and travel through the deep valleys, or ascend for hours, higher and

still higher, the valleys appearing to sink lower and lower as they

proceed, and become as small as if seen from an air balloon. Over

the lofty summits of these mountains the clouds often hang like a dark

veil; while beneath in the valley, where many brown, wooden houses are

scattered about, the bright rays of the sun may be shining upon a

little brilliant patch of green, making it appear almost

transparent. The waters foam and dash along in the valleys beneath;

the streams from above trickle and murmur as they fall down the

rocky mountain's side, looking like glittering silver bands.

On both sides of the mountain-path stand these little wooden

houses; and, as within, there are many children and many mouths to

feed, each house has its own little potato garden. These children rush

out in swarms, and surround travellers, whether on foot or in

carriages. They are all clever at making a bargain. They offer for

sale the sweetest little toy-houses, models of the mountain cottages

in Switzerland. Whether it be rain or sunshine, these crowds of

children are always to be seen with their wares.

About twenty years ago, there might be seen occasionally, standing

at a short distance from the other children, a little boy, who was

also anxious to sell his curious wares. He had an earnest,

expressive countenance, and held the box containing his carved toys

tightly with both hands, as if unwilling to part with it. His

earnest look, and being also a very little boy, made him noticed by

the strangers; so that he often sold the most, without knowing why. An

hour's walk farther up the ascent lived his grandfather, who cut and

carved the pretty little toy-houses; and in the old man's room stood a

large press, full of all sorts of carved things- nut-crackers,

knives and forks, boxes with beautifully carved foliage, leaping

chamois. It contained everything that could delight the eyes of a

child. But the boy, who was named Rudy, looked with still greater

pleasure and longing at some old fire-arms which hung upon the

rafters, under the ceiling of the room. His grandfather promised him

that he should have them some day, but that he must first grow big and

strong, and learn how to use them. Small as he was, the goats were

placed in his care, and a good goat-keeper should also be a good

climber, and such Rudy was; he sometimes, indeed, climbed higher

than the goats, for he was fond of seeking for birds'-nests at the top

of high trees; he was bold and daring, but was seldom seen to smile,

excepting when he stood by the roaring cataract, or heard the

descending roll of the avalanche. He never played with the other

children, and was not seen with them, unless his grandfather sent

him down to sell his curious workmanship. Rudy did not much like

trade; he loved to climb the mountains, or to sit by his grandfather

and listen to his tales of olden times, or of the people in Meyringen,

the place of his birth.

"In the early ages of the world," said the old man, "these

people could not be found in Switzerland. They are a colony from the

north, where their ancestors still dwell, and are called Swedes."

This was something for Rudy to know, but he learnt more from other

sources, particularly from the domestic animals who belonged to the

house. One was a large dog, called Ajola, which had belonged to his

father; and the other was a tom-cat. This cat stood very high in

Rudy's favor, for he had taught him to climb.

"Come out on the roof with me," said the cat; and Rudy quite

understood him, for the language of fowls, ducks, cats, and dogs, is

as easily understood by a young child as his own native tongue. But it

must be at the age when grandfather's stick becomes a neighing

horse, with head, legs, and tail. Some children retain these ideas

later than others, and they are considered backwards and childish

for their age. People say so; but is it so?

"Come out on the roof with me, little Rudy," was the first thing

he heard the cat say, and Rudy understood him. "What people say

about falling down is all nonsense," continued the cat; "you will

not fall, unless you are afraid. Come, now, set one foot here and

another there, and feel your way with your fore-feet. Keep your eyes

wide open, and move softly, and if you come to a hole jump over it,

and cling fast as I do." And this was just what Rudy did. He was often

on the sloping roof with the cat, or on the tops of high trees. But,

more frequently, higher still on the ridges of the rocks where puss

never came.

"Higher, higher!" cried the trees and the bushes, "see to what

height we have grown, and how fast we hold, even to the narrow edges

of the rocks."

Rudy often reached the top of the mountain before the sunrise, and

there inhaled his morning draught of the fresh, invigorating

mountain air,- God's own gift, which men call the sweet fragrance of

plant and herb on the mountain-side, and the mint and wild thyme in

the valleys. The overhanging clouds absorb all heaviness from the air,

and the winds convey them away over the pine-tree summits. The

spirit of fragrance, light and fresh, remained behind, and this was

Rudy's morning draught. The sunbeams- those blessing-bringing

daughters of the sun- kissed his cheeks. Vertigo might be lurking on

the watch, but he dared not approach him. The swallows, who had not

less than seven nests in his grandfather's house, flew up to him and

his goats, singing, "We and you, you and we." They brought him

greetings from his grandfather's house, even from two hens, the only

birds of the household; but Rudy was not intimate with them.

Although so young and such a little fellow, Rudy had travelled a

great deal. He was born in the canton of Valais, and brought to his

grandfather over the mountains. He had walked to Staubbach- a little

town that seems to flutter in the air like a silver veil- the

glittering, snow-clad mountain Jungfrau. He had also been to the great

glaciers; but this is connected with a sad story, for here his

mother met her death, and his grandfather used to say that all

Rudy's childish merriment was lost from that time. His mother had

written in a letter, that before he was a year old he had laughed more

than he cried; but after his fall into the snow-covered crevasse,

his disposition had completely changed. The grandfather seldom spoke

of this, but the fact was generally known. Rudy's father had been a

postilion, and the large dog which now lived in his grandfather's

cottage had always followed him on his journeys over the Simplon to

the lake of Geneva. Rudy's relations, on his father's side, lived in

the canton of Valais, in the valley of the Rhone. His uncle was a

chamois hunter, and a well-known guide. Rudy was only a year old

when his father died, and his mother was anxious to return with her

child to her own relations, who lived in the Bernese Oberland. Her

father dwelt at a few hours' distance from Grindelwald; he was a

carver in wood, and gained so much by it that he had plenty to live

upon. She set out homewards in the month of June, carrying her

infant in her arms, and, accompanied by two chamois hunters, crossed

the Gemmi on her way to Grindelwald. They had already left more than

half the journey behind them. They had crossed high ridges, and

traversed snow-fields; they could even see her native valley, with its

familiar wooden cottages. They had only one more glacier to climb.

Some newly fallen snow concealed a cleft which, though it did not

extend to the foaming waters in the depths beneath, was still much

deeper than the height of a man. The young woman, with the child in

her arms, slipped upon it, sank in, and disappeared. Not a shriek, not

a groan was heard; nothing but the whining of a little child. More

than an hour elapsed before her two companions could obtain from the

nearest house ropes and poles to assist in raising them; and it was

with much exertion that they at last succeeded in raising from the

crevasse what appeared to be two dead bodies. Every means was used

to restore them to life. With the child they were successful, but

not with the mother; so the old grandfather received his daughter's

little son into his house an orphan,- a little boy who laughed more

than he cried; but it seemed as if laughter had left him in the cold

ice-world into which he had fallen, where, as the Swiss peasants

say, the souls of the lost are confined till the judgment-day.

The glaciers appear as if a rushing stream had been frozen in

its course, and pressed into blocks of green crystal, which,

balanced one upon another, form a wondrous palace of crystal for the

Ice Maiden- the queen of the glaciers. It is she whose mighty power

can crush the traveller to death, and arrest the flowing river in

its course. She is also a child of the air, and with the swiftness

of the chamois she can reach the snow-covered mountain tops, where the

boldest mountaineer has to cut footsteps in the ice to ascend. She

will sail on a frail pine-twig over the raging torrents beneath, and

spring lightly from one iceberg to another, with her long,

snow-white hair flowing around her, and her dark-green robe glittering

like the waters of the deep Swiss lakes. "Mine is the power to seize

and crush," she cried. "Once a beautiful boy was stolen from me by

man,- a boy whom I had kissed, but had not kissed to death. He is

again among mankind, and tends the goats on the mountains. He is

always climbing higher and higher, far away from all others, but not

from me. He is mine; I will send for him." And she gave Vertigo the

commission.

It was summer, and the Ice Maiden was melting amidst the green

verdure, when Vertigo swung himself up and down. Vertigo has many

brothers, quite a troop of them, and the Ice Maiden chose the

strongest among them. They exercise their power in different ways, and

everywhere. Some sit on the banisters of steep stairs, others on the

outer rails of lofty towers, or spring like squirrels along the ridges

of the mountains. Others tread the air as a swimmer treads the

water, and lure their victims here and there till they fall into the

deep abyss. Vertigo and the Ice Maiden clutch at human beings, as

the polypus seizes upon all that comes within its reach. And now

Vertigo was to seize Rudy.

"Seize him, indeed," cried Vertigo; "I cannot do it. That

monster of a cat has taught him her tricks. That child of the human

race has a power within him which keeps me at a distance; I cannot

possibly reach the boy when he hangs from the branches of trees,

over the precipice; or I would gladly tickle his feet, and send him

heels over head through the air; but I cannot accomplish it."

"We must accomplish it," said the Ice Maiden; "either you or I

must; and I will- I will!"

"No, no!" sounded through the air, like an echo on the mountain

church bells chime. It was an answer in song, in the melting tones

of a chorus from others of nature's spirits- good and loving

spirits, the daughters of the sunbeam. They who place themselves in

a circle every evening on the mountain peaks; there they spread out

their rose-colored wings, which, as the sun sinks, become more flaming

red, until the lofty Alps seem to burn with fire. Men call this the

Alpine glow. After the sun has set, they disappear within the white

snow on the mountain-tops, and slumber there till sunrise, when they

again come forth. They have great love for flowers, for butterflies,

and for mankind; and from among the latter they had chosen little

Rudy. "You shall not catch him; you shall not seize him!" they sang.

"Greater and stronger than he have I seized!" said the Ice Maiden.

Then the daughters of the sun sang a song of the traveller,

whose cloak had been carried away by the wind. "The wind took the

covering, but not the man; it could even seize upon him, but not

hold him fast. The children of strength are more powerful, more

ethereal, even than we are. They can rise higher than our parent,

the sun. They have the magic words that rule the wind and the waves,

and compel them to serve and obey; and they can, at last, cast off the

heavy, oppressive weight of mortality, and soar upwards." Thus sweetly

sounded the bell-like tones of the chorus.

And each morning the sun's rays shone through the one little

window of the grandfather's house upon the quiet child. The

daughters of the sunbeam kissed him; they wished to thaw, and melt,

and obliterate the ice kiss which the queenly maiden of the glaciers

had given him as he lay in the lap of his dead mother, in the deep

crevasse of ice from which he had been so wonderfully rescued.

               II. THE JOURNEY TO THE NEW HOME



Rudy was just eight years old, when his uncle, who lived on the

other side of the mountain, wished to have the boy, as he thought he

might obtain a better education with him, and learn something more.

His grandfather thought the same, so he consented to let him go.

Rudy had many to say farewell to, as well as his grandfather. First,

there was Ajola, the old dog.

"Your father was the postilion, and I was the postilion's dog,"

said Ajola. "We have often travelled the same journey together; I knew

all the dogs and men on this side of the mountain. It is not my

habit to talk much; but now that we have so little time to converse

together, I will say something more than usual. I will relate to you a

story, which I have reflected upon for a long time. I do not

understand it, and very likely you will not, but that is of no

consequence. I have, however, learnt from it that in this world things

are not equally divided, neither for dogs nor for men. All are not

born to lie on the lap and to drink milk: I have never been petted

in this way, but I have seen a little dog seated in the place of a

gentleman or lady, and travelling inside a post-chaise. The lady,

who was his mistress, or of whom he was master, carried a bottle of

milk,

of which the little dog now and then drank; she also offered him

pieces of sugar to crunch. He sniffed at them proudly, but would not

eat one, so she ate them herself. I was running along the dirty road

by the side of the carriage as hungry as a dog could be, chewing the

cud of my own thoughts, which were rather in confusion. But many other

things seemed in confusion also. Why was not I lying on a lap and

travelling in a coach? I could not tell; yet I knew I could not

alter my own condition, either by barking or growling.

This was Ajola's farewell speech, and Rudy threw his arms round

the dog's neck and kissed his cold nose. Then he took the cat in his

arms, but he struggled to get free.

"You are getting too strong for me," he said; "but I will not

use my claws against you. Clamber away over the mountains; it was I

who taught you to climb. Do not fancy you are going to fall, and you

will be quite safe." Then the cat jumped down and ran away; he did not

wish Rudy to see that there were tears in his eyes.

The hens were hopping about the floor; one of them had no tail;

a traveller, who fancied himself a sportsman, had shot off her tail,

he had mistaken her for a bird of prey.

"Rudy is going away over the mountains," said one of the hens.

"He is always in such a hurry," said the other; "and I don't

like taking leave," so they both hopped out.

But the goats said farewell; they bleated and wanted to go with

him, they were so very sorry.

Just at this time two clever guides were going to cross the

mountains to the other side of the Gemmi, and Rudy was to go with them

on foot. It was a long walk for such a little boy, but he had plenty

of strength and invincible courage. The swallows flew with him a

little way, singing, "We and you- you and we." The way led across

the rushing Lutschine, which falls in numerous streams from the dark

clefts of the Grindelwald glaciers. Trunks of fallen trees and

blocks of stone form bridges over these streams. After passing a

forest of alders, they began to ascend, passing by some blocks of

ice that had loosened themselves from the side of the mountain and lay

across their path; they had to step over these ice-blocks or walk

round them. Rudy crept here and ran there, his eyes sparkling with

joy, and he stepped so firmly with his iron-tipped mountain shoe, that

he left a mark behind him wherever he placed his foot.

The earth was black where the mountain torrents or the melted

ice had poured upon it, but the bluish green, glassy ice sparkled

and glittered. They had to go round little pools, like lakes, enclosed

between large masses of ice; and, while thus wandering out of their

path, they came near an immense stone, which lay balanced on the

edge of an icy peak. The stone lost its balance just as they reached

it, and rolled over into the abyss beneath, while the noise of its

fall was echoed back from every hollow cliff of the glaciers.

They were always going upwards. The glaciers seemed to spread

above them like a continued chain of masses of ice, piled up in wild

confusion between bare and rugged rocks. Rudy thought for a moment

of what had been told him, that he and his mother had once lain buried

in one of these cold, heart-chilling fissures; but he soon banished

such thoughts, and looked upon the story as fabulous, like many

other stories which had been told him. Once or twice, when the men

thought the way was rather difficult for such a little boy, they

held out their hands to assist him; but he would not accept their

assistance, for he stood on the slippery ice as firmly as if he had

been a chamois. They came at length to rocky ground; sometimes

stepping upon moss-covered stones, sometimes passing beneath stunted

fir-trees, and again through green meadows. The landscape was always

changing, but ever above them towered the lofty snow-clad mountains,

whose names not only Rudy but every other child knew- "The

Jungfrau," "The Monk and the Eiger."

Rudy had never been so far away before; he had never trodden on

the wide-spreading ocean of snow that lay here with its immovable

billows, from which the wind blows off the snowflake now and then,

as it cuts the foam from the waves of the sea. The glaciers stand here

so close together it might almost be said they are hand-in-hand; and

each is a crystal palace for the Ice Maiden, whose power and will it

is to seize and imprison the unwary traveller.

The sun shone warmly, and the snow sparkled as if covered with

glittering diamonds. Numerous insects, especially butterflies and

bees, lay dead in heaps on the snow. They had ventured too high, or

the wind had carried them here and left them to die of cold.

Around the Wetterhorn hung a feathery cloud, like a woolbag, and a

threatening cloud too, for as it sunk lower it increased in size,

and concealed within was a "fohn," fearful in its violence should it

break loose. This journey, with its varied incidents,- the wild paths,

the night passed on the mountain, the steep rocky precipices, the

hollow clefts, in which the rustling waters from time immemorial had

worn away passages for themselves through blocks of stone,- all

these were firmly impressed on Rudy's memory.

In a forsaken stone building, which stood just beyond the seas

of snow, they one night took shelter. Here they found some charcoal

and pine branches, so that they soon made a fire. They arranged

couches to lie on as well as they could, and then the men seated

themselves by the fire, took out their pipes, and began to smoke. They

also prepared a warm, spiced drink, of which they partook and Rudy was

not forgotten- he had his share. Then they began to talk of those

mysterious beings with which the land of the Alps abounds; the hosts

of apparitions which come in the night, and carry off the sleepers

through the air, to the wonderful floating town of Venice; of the wild

herds-man, who drives the black sheep across the meadows. These flocks

are never seen, yet the tinkle of their little bells has often been

heard, as well as their unearthly bleating. Rudy listened eagerly, but

without fear, for he knew not what fear meant; and while he

listened, he fancied he could hear the roaring of the spectral herd.

It seemed to come nearer and roar louder, till the men heard it also

and listened in silence, till, at length, they told Rudy that he

must not dare to sleep. It was a "fohn," that violent storm-wind which

rushes from the mountain to the valley beneath, and in its fury

snaps asunder the trunks of large trees as if they were but slender

reeds, and carries the wooden houses from one side of a river to the

other as easily as we could move the pieces on a chess-board. After an

hour had passed, they told Rudy that it was all over, and he might

go to sleep; and, fatigued with his long walk, he readily slept at the

word of command.

Very early the following morning they again set out. The sun on

this day lighted up for Rudy new mountains, new glaciers, and new

snow-fields. They had entered the Canton Valais, and found

themselves on the ridge of the hills which can be seen from

Grindelwald; but he was still far from his new home. They pointed

out to him other clefts, other meadows, other woods and rocky paths,

and other houses. Strange men made their appearance before him, and

what men! They were misshapen, wretched-looking creatures, with yellow

complexions; and on their necks were dark, ugly lumps of flesh,

hanging down like bags. They were called cretins. They dragged

themselves along painfully, and stared at the strangers with vacant

eyes. The women looked more dreadful than the men. Poor Rudy! were

these the sort of people he should see at his new home?

                        III. THE UNCLE



Rudy arrived at last at his uncle's house, and was thankful to

find the people like those he had been accustomed to see. There was

only one cretin amongst them, a poor idiot boy, one of those

unfortunate beings who, in their neglected conditions, go from house

to house, and are received and taken care of in different families,

for a month or two at a time.

Poor Saperli had just arrived at his uncle's house when Rudy came.

The uncle was an experienced hunter; he also followed the trade of a

cooper; his wife was a lively little person, with a face like a

bird, eyes like those of an eagle, and a long, hairy throat.

Everything was new to Rudy- the fashion of the dress, the manners, the

employments, and even the language; but the latter his childish ear

would soon learn. He saw also that there was more wealth here, when

compared with his former home at his grandfather's. The rooms were

larger, the walls were adorned with the horns of the chamois, and

brightly polished guns. Over the door hung a painting of the Virgin

Mary, fresh alpine roses and a burning lamp stood near it. Rudy's

uncle was, as we have said, one of the most noted chamois hunters in

the whole district, and also one of the best guides. Rudy soon

became the pet of the house; but there was another pet, an old

hound, blind and lazy, who would never more follow the hunt, well as

he had once done so. But his former good qualities were not forgotten,

and therefore the animal was kept in the family and treated with every

indulgence. Rudy stroked the old hound, but he did not like strangers,

and Rudy was as yet a stranger; he did not, however, long remain so,

he soon endeared himself to every heart, and became like one of the

family.

"We are not very badly off, here in the canton Valais," said his

uncle one day; "we have the chamois, they do not die so fast as the

wild goats, and it is certainly much better here now than in former

times. How highly the old times have been spoken of, but ours is

better. The bag has been opened, and a current of air now blows

through our once confined valley. Something better always makes its

appearance when old, worn-out things fail."

When his uncle became communicative, he would relate stories of

his youthful days, and farther back still of the warlike times in

which his father had lived. Valais was then, as he expressed it,

only a closed-up bag, quite full of sick people, miserable cretins;

but the French soldiers came, and they were capital doctors, they soon

killed the disease and the sick people, too. The French people knew

how to fight in more ways than one, and the girls knew how to

conquer too; and when he said this the uncle nodded at his wife, who

was a French woman by birth, and laughed. The French could also do

battle on the stones. "It was they who cut a road out of the solid

rock over the Simplon- such a road, that I need only say to a child of

three years old, 'Go down to Italy, you have only to keep in the

high road,' and the child will soon arrive in Italy, if he followed my

directions."

Then the uncle sang a French song, and cried, "Hurrah! long live

Napoleon Buonaparte." This was the first time Rudy had ever heard of

France, or of Lyons, that great city on the Rhone where his uncle

had once lived. His uncle said that Rudy, in a very few years, would

become a clever hunter, he had quite a talent for it; he taught the

boy to hold a gun properly, and to load and fire it. In the hunting

season he took him to the hills, and made him drink the warm blood

of the chamois, which is said to prevent the hunter from becoming

giddy; he taught him to know the time when, from the different

mountains, the avalanche is likely to fall, namely, at noontide or

in the evening, from the effects of the sun's rays; he made him

observe the movements of the chamois when he gave a leap, so that he

might fall firmly and lightly on his feet. He told him that when on

the fissures of the rocks he could find no place for his feet, he must

support himself on his elbows, and cling with his legs, and even

lean firmly with his back, for this could be done when necessary. He

told him also that the chamois are very cunning, they place

lookers-out on the watch; but the hunter must be more cunning than

they are, and find them out by the scent.

One day, when Rudy went out hunting with his uncle, he hung a coat

and hat on an alpine staff, and the chamois mistook it for a man, as

they generally do. The mountain path was narrow here; indeed it was

scarcely a path at all, only a kind of shelf, close to the yawning

abyss. The snow that lay upon it was partially thawed, and the

stones crumbled beneath the feet. Every fragment of stone broken off

struck the sides of the rock in its fall, till it rolled into the

depths beneath, and sunk to rest. Upon this shelf Rudy's uncle laid

himself down, and crept forward. At about a hundred paces behind him

stood Rudy, upon the highest point of the rock, watching a great

vulture hovering in the air; with a single stroke of his wing the bird

might easily cast the creeping hunter into the abyss beneath, and make

him his prey. Rudy's uncle had eyes for nothing but the chamois,

who, with its young kid, had just appeared round the edge of the rock.

So Rudy kept his eyes fixed on the bird, he knew well what the great

creature wanted; therefore he stood in readiness to discharge his

gun at the proper moment. Suddenly the chamois made a spring, and

his uncle fired and struck the animal with the deadly bullet; while

the young kid rushed away, as if for a long life he had been

accustomed to danger and practised flight. The large bird, alarmed

at the report of the gun, wheeled off in another direction, and Rudy's

uncle was saved from danger, of which he knew nothing till he was told

of it by the boy.

While they were both in pleasant mood, wending their way

homewards, and the uncle whistling the tune of a song he had learnt in

his young days, they suddenly heard a peculiar sound which seemed to

come from the top of the mountain. They looked up, and saw above them,

on the over-hanging rock, the snow-covering heave and lift itself as a

piece of linen stretched on the ground to dry raises itself when the

wind creeps under it. Smooth as polished marble slabs, the waves of

snow cracked and loosened themselves, and then suddenly, with the

rumbling noise of distant thunder, fell like a foaming cataract into

the abyss. An avalanche had fallen, not upon Rudy and his uncle, but

very near them. Alas, a great deal too near!

"Hold fast, Rudy!" cried his uncle; "hold fast, with all your

might."

Then Rudy clung with his arms to the trunk of the nearest tree,

while his uncle climbed above him, and held fast by the branches.

The avalanche rolled past them at some distance; but the gust of

wind that followed, like the storm-wings of the avalanche, snapped

asunder the trees and bushes over which it swept, as if they had

been but dry rushes, and threw them about in every direction. The tree

to which Rudy clung was thus overthrown, and Rudy dashed to the

ground. The higher branches were snapped off, and carried away to a

great distance; and among these shattered branches lay Rudy's uncle,

with his skull fractured. When they found him, his hand was still

warm; but it would have been impossible to recognize his face. Rudy

stood by, pale and trembling; it was the first shock of his life,

the first time he had ever felt fear. Late in the evening he

returned home with the fatal news,- to that home which was now to be

so full of sorrow. His uncle's wife uttered not a word, nor shed a

tear, till the corpse was brought in; then her agony burst forth.

The poor cretin crept away to his bed, and nothing was seen of him

during the whole of the following day. Towards evening, however, he

came to Rudy, and said, "Will you write a letter for me? Saperli

cannot write; Saperli can only take the letters to the post."

"A letter for you!" said Rudy; "who do you wish to write to?"

"To the Lord Christ," he replied.

"What do you mean?" asked Rudy.

Then the poor idiot, as the cretin was often called, looked at

Rudy with a most touching expression in his eyes, clasped his hands,

and said, solemnly and devoutly, "Saperli wants to send a letter to

Jesus Christ, to pray Him to let Saperli die, and not the master of

the house here."

Rudy pressed his hand, and replied, "A letter would not reach

Him up above; it would not give him back whom we have lost."

It was not, however, easy for Rudy to convince Saperli of the

impossibility of doing what he wished.

"Now you must work for us," said his foster-mother; and Rudy

very soon became the entire support of the house.

BABETTE

                        IV. BABETTE



Who was the best marksman in the canton Valais? The chamois knew

well. "Save yourselves from Rudy," they might well say. And who is the

handsomest marksman? "Oh, it is Rudy," said the maidens; but they

did not say, "Save yourselves from Rudy." Neither did anxious

mothers say so; for he bowed to them as pleasantly as to the young

girls. He was so brave and cheerful. His cheeks were brown, his

teeth white, and his eyes dark and sparkling. He was now a handsome

young man of twenty years. The most icy water could not deter him from

swimming; he could twist and turn like a fish. None could climb like

he, and he clung as firmly to the edges of the rocks as a limpet. He

had strong muscular power, as could be seen when he leapt from rock to

rock. He had learnt this first from the cat, and more lately from

the chamois. Rudy was considered the best guide over the mountains;

every one had great confidence in him. He might have made a great deal

of money as guide. His uncle had also taught him the trade of a

cooper; but he had no inclination for either; his delight was in

chamois-hunting, which also brought him plenty of money. Rudy would be

a very good match, as people said, if he would not look above his

own station. He was also such a famous partner in dancing, that the

girls often dreamt about him, and one and another thought of him

even when awake.

"He kissed me in the dance," said Annette, the schoolmaster's

daughter, to her dearest friend; but she ought not to have told

this, even to her dearest friend. It is not easy to keep such secrets;

they are like sand in a sieve; they slip out. It was therefore soon

known that Rudy, so brave and so good as he was, had kissed some one

while dancing, and yet he had never kissed her who was dearest to him.

"Ah, ah," said an old hunter, "he has kissed Annette, has he? he

has begun with A, and I suppose he will kiss through the whole

alphabet."

But a kiss in the dance was all the busy tongues could accuse

him of. He certainly had kissed Annette, but she was not the flower of

his heart.

Down in the valley, near Bex, among the great walnut-trees, by the

side of a little rushing mountain-stream, lived a rich miller. His

dwelling-house was a large building, three storeys high, with little

turrets. The roof was covered with chips, bound together with tin

plates, that glittered in sunshine and in the moonlight. The largest

of the turrets had a weather-cock, representing an apple pierced by

a glittering arrow, in memory of William Tell. The mill was a neat and

well-ordered place, that allowed itself to be sketched and written

about; but the miller's daughter did not permit any to sketch or write

about her. So, at least, Rudy would have said, for her image was

pictured in his heart; her eyes shone in it so brightly, that quite

a flame had been kindled there; and, like all other fires, it had

burst forth so suddenly, that the miller's daughter, the beautiful

Babette, was quite unaware of it. Rudy had never spoken a word to

her on the subject. The miller was rich, and, on that account, Babette

stood very high, and was rather difficult to aspire to. But said

Rudy to himself, "Nothing is too high for a man to reach: he must

climb with confidence in himself, and he will not fail." He had learnt

this lesson in his youthful home.

It happened once that Rudy had some business to settle at Bex.

It was a long journey at that time, for the railway had not been

opened. From the glaciers of the Rhone, at the foot of the Simplon,

between its ever-changing mountain summits, stretches the valley of

the canton Valais. Through it runs the noble river of the Rhone, which

often overflows its banks, covering fields and highways, and

destroying everything in its course. Near the towns of Sion and St.

Maurice, the valley takes a turn, and bends like an elbow, and

behind St. Maurice becomes so narrow that there is only space enough

for the bed of the river and a narrow carriage-road. An old tower

stands here, as if it were guardian to the canton Valais, which ends

at this point; and from it we can look across the stone bridge to

the toll-house on the other side, where the canton Vaud commences. Not

far from this spot stands the town of Bex, and at every step can be

seen an increase of fruitfulness and verdure. It is like entering a

grove of chestnut and walnut-trees. Here and there the cypress and

pomegranate blossoms peep forth; and it is almost as warm as an

Italian climate. Rudy arrived at Bex, and soon finished the business

which had brought him there, and then walked about the town; but not

even the miller's boy could be seen, nor any one belonging to the

mill, not to mention Babette. This did not please him at all.

Evening came on. The air was filled with the perfume of the wild thyme

and the blossoms of the lime-trees, and the green woods on the

mountains seemed to be covered with a shining veil, blue as the sky.

Over everything reigned a stillness, not of sleep or of death, but

as if Nature were holding her breath, that her image might be

photographed on the blue vault of heaven. Here and there, amidst the

trees of the silent valley, stood poles which supported the wires of

the electric telegraph. Against one of these poles leaned an object so

motionless that it might have been mistaken for the trunk of a tree;

but it was Rudy, standing there as still as at that moment was

everything around him. He was not asleep, neither was he dead; but

just as the various events in the world- matters of momentous

importance to individuals- were flying through the telegraph wires,

without the quiver of a wire or the slightest tone, so, through the

mind of Rudy, thoughts of overwhelming importance were passing,

without an outward sign of emotion. The happiness of his future life

depended upon the decision of his present reflections. His eyes were

fixed on one spot in the distance- a light that twinkled through the

foliage from the parlor of the miller's house, where Babette dwelt.

Rudy stood so still, that it might have been supposed he was

watching for a chamois; but he was in reality like a chamois, who will

stand for a moment, looking as if it were chiselled out of the rock,

and then, if only a stone rolled by, would suddenly bound forward with

a spring, far away from the hunter. And so with Rudy: a sudden roll of

his thoughts roused him from his stillness, and made him bound forward

with determination to act.

"Never despair!" cried he. "A visit to the mill, to say good

evening to the miller, and good evening to little Babette, can do no

harm. No one ever fails who has confidence in himself. If I am to be

Babette's husband, I must see her some time or other."

Then Rudy laughed joyously, and took courage to go to the mill. He

knew what he wanted; he wanted to marry Babette. The clear water of

the river rolled over its yellow bed, and willows and lime-trees

were reflected in it, as Rudy stepped along the path to the miller's

house. But, as the children sing-

          "There was no one at home in the house,

           Only a kitten at play."



The cat standing on the steps put up its back and cried "mew." But

Rudy had no inclination for this sort of conversation; he passed on,

and knocked at the door. No one heard him, no one opened the door.

"Mew," said the cat again; and had Rudy been still a child, he would

have understood this language, and known that the cat wished to tell

him there was no one at home. So he was obliged to go to the mill

and make inquiries, and there he heard that the miller had gone on a

journey to Interlachen, and taken Babette with him, to the great

shooting festival, which began that morning, and would continue for

eight days, and that people from all the German settlements would be

there.

Poor Rudy! we may well say. It was not a fortunate day for his

visit to Bex. He had just to return the way he came, through St.

Maurice and Sion, to his home in the valley. But he did not despair.

When the sun rose the next morning, his good spirits had returned;

indeed he had never really lost them. "Babette is at Interlachen,"

said Rudy to himself, "many days' journey from here. It is certainly a

long way for any one who takes the high-road, but not so far if he

takes a short cut across the mountain, and that just suits a

chamois-hunter. I have been that way before, for it leads to the

home of my childhood, where, as a little boy, I lived with my

grandfather. And there are shooting matches at Interlachen. I will go,

and try to stand first in the match. Babette will be there, and I

shall be able to make her acquaintance."

Carrying his light knapsack, which contained his Sunday clothes,

on his back, and with his musket and his game-bag over his shoulder,

Rudy started to take the shortest way across the mountain. Still it

was a great distance. The shooting matches were to commence on that

day, and to continue for a whole week. He had been told also that

the miller and Babette would remain that time with some relatives at

Interlachen. So over the Gemmi Rudy climbed bravely, and determined to

descend the side of the Grindelwald. Bright and joyous were his

feelings as he stepped lightly onwards, inhaling the invigorating

mountain air. The valley sunk as he ascended, the circle of the

horizon expanded. One snow-capped peak after another rose before

him, till the whole of the glittering Alpine range became visible.

Rudy knew each ice-clad peak, and he continued his course towards

the Schreckhorn, with its white powdered stone finger raised high in

the air. At length he had crossed the highest ridges, and before him

lay the green pasture lands sloping down towards the valley, which was

once his home. The buoyancy of the air made his heart light. Hill

and valley were blooming in luxuriant beauty, and his thoughts were

youthful dreams, in which old age or death were out of the question.

Life, power, and enjoyment were in the future, and he felt free and

light as a bird. And the swallows flew round him, as in the days of

his childhood, singing "We and you- you and we." All was overflowing

with joy. Beneath him lay the meadows, covered with velvety green,

with the murmuring river flowing through them, and dotted here and

there were small wooden houses. He could see the edges of the

glaciers, looking like green glass against the soiled snow, and the

deep chasms beneath the loftiest glacier. The church bells were

ringing, as if to welcome him to his home with their sweet tones.

His heart beat quickly, and for a moment he seemed to have

foregotten Babette, so full were his thoughts of old recollections. He

was, in imagination, once more wandering on the road where, when a

little boy, he, with other children, came to sell their curiously

carved toy houses. Yonder, behind the fir-trees, still stood his

grandfather's house, his mother's father, but strangers dwelt in it

now. Children came running to him, as he had once done, and wished

to sell their wares. One of them offered him an Alpine rose. Rudy took

the rose as a good omen, and thought of Babette. He quickly crossed

the bridge where the two rivers flow into each other. Here he found

a walk over-shadowed with large walnut-trees, and their thick

foliage formed a pleasant shade. Very soon he perceived in the

distance, waving flags, on which glittered a white cross on a red

ground- the standard of the Danes as well as of the Swiss- and

before him lay Interlachen.

"It is really a splendid town, like none other that I have ever

seen," said Rudy to himself. It was indeed a Swiss town in its holiday

dress. Not like the many other towns, crowded with heavy stone houses,

stiff and foreign looking. No; here it seemed as if the wooden

houses on the hills had run into the valley, and placed themselves

in rows and ranks by the side of the clear river, which rushes like an

arrow in its course. The streets were rather irregular, it is true,

but still this added to their picturesque appearance. There was one

street which Rudy thought the prettiest of them all; it had been built

since he had visited the town when a little boy. It seemed to him as

if all the neatest and most curiously carved toy houses which his

grandfather once kept in the large cupboard at home, had been

brought out and placed in this spot, and that they had increased in

size since then, as the old chestnut trees had done. The houses were

called hotels; the woodwork on the windows and balconies was curiously

carved. The roofs were gayly painted, and before each house was a

flower garden, which separated it from the macadamized high-road.

These houses all stood on the same side of the road, so that the

fresh, green meadows, in which were cows grazing, with bells on

their necks, were not hidden. The sound of these bells is often

heard amidst Alpine scenery. These meadows were encircled by lofty

hills, which receded a little in the centre, so that the most

beautifully formed of Swiss mountains- the snow-crowned Jungfrau-

could be distinctly seen glittering in the distance. A number of

elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies from foreign lands, and

crowds of country people from the neighboring cantons, were

assembled in the town. Each marksman wore the number of hits he had

made twisted in a garland round his hat. Here were music and singing

of all descriptions: hand-organs, trumpets, shouting, and noise. The

houses and bridges were adorned with verses and inscriptions. Flags

and banners were waving. Shot after shot was fired, which was the best

music to Rudy's ears. And amidst all this excitement he quite forgot

Babette, on whose account only he had come. The shooters were

thronging round the target, and Rudy was soon amongst them. But when

he took his turn to fire, he proved himself the best shot, for he

always struck the bull's-eye.

"Who may that young stranger be?" was the inquiry on all sides.

"He speaks French as it is spoken in the Swiss cantons."

"And makes himself understood very well when he speaks German,"

said some.

"He lived here, when a child, with his grandfather, in a house

on the road to Grindelwald," remarked one of the sportsmen.

And full of life was this young stranger; his eyes sparkled, his

glance was steady, and his arm sure, therefore he always hit the mark.

Good fortune gives courage, and Rudy was always courageous. He soon

had a circle of friends gathered round him. Every one noticed him, and

did him homage. Babette had quite vanished from his thoughts, when

he was struck on the shoulder by a heavy hand, and a deep voice said

to him in French, "You are from the canton Valais."

Rudy turned round, and beheld a man with a ruddy, pleasant face,

and a stout figure. It was the rich miller from Bex. His broad, portly

person, hid the slender, lovely Babette; but she came forward and

glanced at him with her bright, dark eyes. The rich miller was very

much flattered at the thought that the young man, who was acknowledged

to be the best shot, and was so praised by every one, should be from

his own canton. Now was Rudy really fortunate: he had travelled all

this way to this place, and those he had forgotten were now come to

seek him. When country people go far from home, they often meet with

those they know, and improve their acquaintance. Rudy, by his

shooting, had gained the first place in the shooting-match, just as

the miller at home at Bex stood first, because of his money and his

mill. So the two men shook hands, which they had never done before.

Babette, too, held out her hand to Rudy frankly, and he pressed it

in his, and looked at her so earnestly, that she blushed deeply. The

miller talked of the long journey they had travelled, and of the

many towns they had seen. It was his opinion that he had really made

as great a journey as if he had travelled in a steamship, a railway

carriage, or a post-chaise.

"I came by a much shorter way," said Rudy; "I came over the

mountains. There is no road so high that a man may not venture upon

it."

"Ah, yes; and break your neck," said the miller; "and you look

like one who will break his neck some day, you are so daring."

"Oh, nothing ever happens to a man if he has confidence in

himself," replied Rudy.

The miller's relations at Interlachen, with whom the miller and

Babette were staying, invited Rudy to visit them, when they found he

came from the same canton as the miller. It was a most pleasant visit.

Good fortune seemed to follow him, as it does those who think and

act for themselves, and who remember the proverb, "Nuts are given to

us, but they are not cracked for us." And Rudy was treated by the

miller's relations almost like one of the family, and glasses of

wine were poured out to drink to the welfare of the best shooter.

Babette clinked glasses with Rudy, and he returned thanks for the

toast. In the evening they all took a delightful walk under the

walnut-trees, in front of the stately hotels; there were so many

people, and such crowding, that Rudy was obliged to offer his arm to

Babette. Then he told her how happy it made him to meet people from

the canton Vaud,- for Vaud and Valais were neighboring cantons. He

spoke of this pleasure so heartily that Babette could not resist

giving his arm a slight squeeze; and so they walked on together, and

talked and chatted like old acquaintances. Rudy felt inclined to laugh

sometimes at the absurd dress and walk of the foreign ladies; but

Babette did not wish to make fun of them, for she knew there must be

some good, excellent people amongst them; she, herself, had a

godmother, who was a high-born English lady. Eighteen years before,

when Babette was christened, this lady was staying at Bex, and she

stood godmother for her, and gave her the valuable brooch she now wore

in her bosom.

Her godmother had twice written to her, and this year she was

expected to visit Interlachen with her two daughters; "but they are

old-maids," added Babette, who was only eighteen: "they are nearly

thirty." Her sweet little mouth was never still a moment, and all that

she said sounded in Rudy's ears as matters of the greatest importance,

and at last he told her what he was longing to tell. How often he

had been at Bex, how well he knew the mill, and how often he had

seen Babette, when most likely she had not noticed him; and lastly,

that full of many thoughts which he could not tell her, he had been to

the mill on the evening when she and her father has started on their

long journey, but not too far for him to find a way to overtake

them. He told her all this, and a great deal more; he told her how

much he could endure for her; and that it was to see her, and not

the shooting-match, which had brought him to Interlachen. Babette

became quite silent after hearing all this; it was almost too much,

and it troubled her.

And while they thus wandered on, the sun sunk behind the lofty

mountains. The Jungfrau stood out in brightness and splendor, as a

back-ground to the green woods of the surrounding hills. Every one

stood still to look at the beautiful sight, Rudy and Babette among

them.

"Nothing can be more beautiful than this," said Babette.

"Nothing!" replied Rudy, looking at Babette.

"To-morrow I must return home," remarked Rudy a few minutes

afterwards.

"Come and visit us at Bex," whispered Babette; "my father will

be pleased to see you."

                       V. ON THE WAY HOME



Oh, what a number of things Rudy had to carry over the

mountains, when he set out to return home! He had three silver cups,

two handsome pistols, and a silver coffee-pot. This latter would be

useful when he began housekeeping. But all these were not the heaviest

weight he had to bear; something mightier and more important he

carried with him in his heart, over the high mountains, as he

journeyed homeward.

The weather was dismally dark, and inclined to rain; the clouds

hung low, like a mourning veil on the tops of the mountains, and

shrouded their glittering peaks. In the woods could be heard the sound

of the axe and the heavy fall of the trunks of the trees, as they

rolled down the slopes of the mountains. When seen from the heights,

the trunks of these trees looked like slender stems; but on a nearer

inspection they were found to be large and strong enough for the masts

of a ship. The river murmured monotonously, the wind whistled, and the

clouds sailed along hurriedly.

Suddenly there appeared, close by Rudy's side, a young maiden;

he had not noticed her till she came quite near to him. She was also

going to ascend the mountain. The maiden's eyes shone with an

unearthly power, which obliged you to look into them; they were

strange eyes,- clear, deep, and unfathomable.

"Hast thou a lover?" asked Rudy; all his thoughts were naturally

on love just then.

"I have none," answered the maiden, with a laugh; it was as if she

had not spoken the truth.

"Do not let us go such a long way round," said she. "We must

keep to the left; it is much shorter."

"Ah, yes," he replied; "and fall into some crevasse. Do you

pretend to be a guide, and not know the road better than that?"

"I know every step of the way," said she; "and my thoughts are

collected, while yours are down in the valley yonder. We should

think of the Ice Maiden while we are up here; men say she is not

kind to their race."

"I fear her not," said Rudy. "She could not keep me when I was a

child; I will not give myself up to her now I am a man."

Darkness came on, the rain fell, and then it began to snow, and

the whiteness dazzled the eyes.

"Give me your hand," said the maiden; "I will help you to

mount." And he felt the touch of her icy fingers.

"You help me," cried Rudy; "I do not yet require a woman to help

me to climb." And he stepped quickly forwards away from her.

The drifting snow-shower fell like a veil between them, the wind

whistled, and behind him he could hear the maiden laughing and

singing, and the sound was most strange to hear.

"It certainly must be a spectre or a servant of the Ice Maiden,"

thought Rudy, who had heard such things talked about when he was a

little boy, and had stayed all night on the mountain with the guides.

The snow fell thicker than ever, the clouds lay beneath him; he

looked back, there was no one to be seen, but he heard sounds of

mocking laughter, which were not those of a human voice.

When Rudy at length reached the highest part of the mountain,

where the path led down to the valley of the Rhone, the snow had

ceased, and in the clear heavens he saw two bright stars twinkling.

They reminded him of Babette and of himself, and of his future

happiness, and his heart glowed at the thought.

              VI. THE VISIT TO THE MILL



"What beautiful things you have brought home!" said his old

foster-mother; and her strange-looking eagle-eyes sparkled, while

she wriggled and twisted her skinny neck more quickly and strangely

than ever. "You have brought good luck with you, Rudy. I must give you

a kiss, my dear boy."

Rudy allowed himself to be kissed; but it could be seen by his

countenance that he only endured the infliction as a homely duty.

"How handsome you are, Rudy!" said the old woman.

"Don't flatter," said Rudy, with a laugh; but still he was

pleased.

"I must say once more," said the old woman, "that you are very

lucky."

"Well, in that I believe you are right," said he, as he thought of

Babette. Never had he felt such a longing for that deep valley as he

now had. "They must have returned home by this time," said he to

himself, "it is already two days over the time which they fixed

upon. I must go to Bex."

So Rudy set out to go to Bex; and when he arrived there, he

found the miller and his daughter at home. They received him kindly,

and brought him many greetings from their friends at Interlachen.

Babette did not say much. She seemed to have become quite silent;

but her eyes spoke, and that was quite enough for Rudy. The miller had

generally a great deal to talk about, and seemed to expect that

every one should listen to his jokes, and laugh at them; for was not

he the rich miller? But now he was more inclined to hear Rudy's

adventures while hunting and travelling, and to listen to his

descriptions of the difficulties the chamois-hunter has to overcome on

the mountain-tops, or of the dangerous snow-drifts which the wind

and weather cause to cling to the edges of the rocks, or to lie in the

form of a frail bridge over the abyss beneath. The eyes of the brave

Rudy sparkled as he described the life of a hunter, or spoke of the

cunning of the chamois and their wonderful leaps; also of the powerful

fohn and the rolling avalanche. He noticed that the more he described,

the more interested the miller became, especially when he spoke of the

fierce vulture and of the royal eagle. Not far from Bex, in the canton

Valais, was an eagle's nest, more curiously built under a high,

over-hanging rock. In this nest was a young eagle; but who would

venture to take it? A young Englishman had offered Rudy a whole

handful of gold, if he would bring him the young eagle alive.

"There is a limit to everything," was Rudy's reply. "The eagle

could not be taken; it would be folly to attempt it."

The wine was passed round freely, and the conversation kept up

pleasantly; but the evening seemed too short for Rudy, although it was

midnight when he left the miller's house, after this his first visit.

While the lights in the windows of the miller's house still

twinkled through the green foliage, out through the open skylight came

the parlor-cat on to the roof, and along the water-pipe walked the

kitchen-cat to meet her.

"What is the news at the mill?" asked the parlor-cat. "Here in the

house there is secret love-making going on, which the father knows

nothing about. Rudy and Babette have been treading on each other's

paws, under the table, all the evening. They trod on my tail twice,

but I did not mew; that would have attracted notice."

"Well, I should have mewed," said the kitchen-cat.

"What might suit the kitchen would not suit the parlor," said

the other. "I am quite curious to know what the miller will say when

he finds out this engagement."

Yes, indeed; what would the miller say? Rudy himself was anxious

to know that; but to wait till the miller heard of it from others

was out of the question. Therefore, not many days after this visit, he

was riding in the omnibus that runs between the two cantons, Valais

and Vaud. These cantons are separated by the Rhone, over which is a

bridge that unites them. Rudy, as usual, had plenty of courage, and

indulged in pleasant thoughts of the favorable answer he should

receive that evening. And when the omnibus returned, Rudy was again

seated in it, going homewards; and at the same time the parlor-cat

at the miller's house ran out quickly, crying,-

"Here, you from the kitchen, what do you think? The miller knows

all now. Everything has come to a delightful end. Rudy came here

this evening, and he and Babette had much whispering and secret

conversation together. They stood in the path near the miller's

room. I lay at their feet; but they had no eyes or thoughts for me.

"'I will go to your father at once,' said he; 'it is the most

honorable way.'

"'Shall I go with you?' asked Babette; 'it will give you courage.'

"'I have plenty of courage,' said Rudy; 'but if you are with me,

he must be friendly, whether he says Yes or No.'

"So they turned to go in, and Rudy trod heavily on my tail; he

certainly is very clumsy. I mewed; but neither he nor Babette had

any ears for me. They opened the door, and entered together. I was

before them, and jumped on the back of a chair. I hardly know what

Rudy said; but the miller flew into a rage, and threatened to kick him

out of the house. He told him he might go to the mountains, and look

after the chamois, but not after our little Babette."

"And what did they say? Did they speak?" asked the kitchen-cat.

"What did they say! why, all that people generally do say when

they go a-wooing- 'I love her, and she loves me; and when there is

milk in the can for one, there is milk in the can for two.'

"'But she is so far above you,' said the miller; 'she has heaps of

gold, as you know. You should not attempt to reach her.'

"'There is nothing so high that a man cannot reach, if he will,'

answered Rudy; for he is a brave youth.

"'Yet you could not reach the young eagle,' said the miller,

laughing. 'Babette is higher than the eagle's nest.'

"'I will have them both,' said Rudy.

"'Very well; I will give her to you when you bring me the young

eaglet alive,' said the miller; and he laughed till the tears stood in

his eyes. 'But now I thank you for this visit, Rudy; and if you come

to-morrow, you will find nobody at home. Good-bye, Rudy.'

"Babette also wished him farewell; but her voice sounded as

mournful as the mew of a little kitten that has lost its mother.

"'A promise is a promise between man and man,' said Rudy. 'Do

not weep, Babette; I shall bring the young eagle.'

"'You will break your neck, I hope,' said the miller, 'and we

shall be relieved from your company.'

"I call that kicking him out of the house," said the parlor-cat.

"And now Rudy is gone, and Babette sits and weeps, while the miller

sings German songs that he learnt on his journey; but I do not trouble

myself on the matter,- it would be of no use."

"Yet, for all that, it is a very strange affair," said the

kitchen-cat.

                    VII. THE EAGLE'S NEST



From the mountain-path came a joyous sound of some person

whistling, and it betokened good humor and undaunted courage. It was

Rudy, going to meet his friend Vesinaud. "You must come and help,"

said he. "I want to carry off the young eaglet from the top of the

rock. We will take young Ragli with us."

"Had you not better first try to take down the moon? That would be

quite as easy a task," said Vesinaud. "You seem to be in good

spirits."

"Yes, indeed I am. I am thinking of my wedding. But to be serious,

I will tell you all about it, and how I am situated."

Then he explained to Vesinaud and Ragli what he wished to do,

and why.

"You are a daring fellow," said they; "but it is no use; you

will break your neck."

"No one falls, unless he is afraid," said Rudy.

So at midnight they set out, carrying with them poles, ladders,

and ropes. The road lay amidst brushwood and underwood, over rolling

stones, always upwards higher and higher in the dark night. Waters

roared beneath them, or fell in cascades from above. Humid clouds were

driving through the air as the hunters reached the precipitous ledge

of the rock. It was even darker here, for the sides of the rocks

almost met, and the light penetrated only through a small opening at

the top. At a little distance from the edge could be heard the sound

of the roaring, foaming waters in the yawning abyss beneath them.

The three seated themselves on a stone, to await in stillness the dawn

of day, when the parent eagle would fly out, as it would be

necessary to shoot the old bird before they could think of gaining

possession of the young one. Rudy sat motionless, as if he had been

part of the stone on which he sat. He held his gun ready to fire, with

his eyes fixed steadily on the highest point of the cliff, where the

eagle's nest lay concealed beneath the overhanging rock.

The three hunters had a long time to wait. At last they heard a

rustling, whirring sound above them, and a large hovering object

darkened the air. Two guns were ready to aim at the dark body of the

eagle as it rose from the nest. Then a shot was fired; for an

instant the bird fluttered its wide-spreading wings, and seemed as

if it would fill up the whole of the chasm, and drag down the

hunters in its fall. But it was not so; the eagle sunk gradually

into the abyss beneath, and the branches of trees and bushes were

broken by its weight. Then the hunters roused themselves: three of the

longest ladders were brought and bound together; the topmost ring of

these ladders would just reach the edge of the rock which hung over

the abyss, but no farther. The point beneath which the eagle's nest

lay sheltered was much higher, and the sides of the rock were as

smooth as a wall. After consulting together, they determined to bind

together two more ladders, and to hoist them over the cavity, and so

form a communication with the three beneath them, by binding the upper

ones to the lower. With great difficulty they contrived to drag the

two ladders over the rock, and there they hung for some moments,

swaying over the abyss; but no sooner had they fastened them together,

than Rudy placed his foot on the lowest step.

It was a bitterly cold morning; clouds of mist were rising from

beneath, and Rudy stood on the lower step of the ladder as a fly rests

on a piece of swinging straw, which a bird may have dropped from the

edge of the nest it was building on some tall factory chimney; but the

fly could fly away if the straw were shaken, Rudy could only break his

neck. The wind whistled around him, and beneath him the waters of

the abyss, swelled by the thawing of the glaciers, those palaces of

the Ice Maiden, foamed and roared in their rapid course. When Rudy

began to ascend, the ladder trembled like the web of the spider,

when it draws out the long, delicate threads; but as soon as he

reached the fourth of the ladders, which had been bound together, he

felt more confidence,- he knew that they had been fastened securely by

skilful hands. The fifth ladder, that appeared to reach the nest,

was supported by the sides of the rock, yet it swung to and fro, and

flapped about like a slender reed, and as if it had been bound by

fishing lines. It seemed a most dangerous undertaking to ascend it,

but Rudy knew how to climb; he had learnt that from the cat, and he

had no fear. He did not observe Vertigo, who stood in the air behind

him, trying to lay hold of him with his outstretched polypous arms.

When at length he stood on the topmost step of the ladder, he

found that he was still some distance below the nest, and not even

able to see into it. Only by using his hands and climbing could he

possibly reach it. He tried the strength of the stunted trees, and the

thick underwood upon which the nest rested, and of which it was

formed, and finding they would support his weight, he grasped them

firmly, and swung himself up from the ladder till his head and

breast were above the nest, and then what an overpowering stench

came from it, for in it lay the putrid remains of lambs, chamois,

and birds. Vertigo, although he could not reach him, blew the

poisonous vapor in his face, to make him giddy and faint; and beneath,

in the dark, yawning deep, on the rushing waters, sat the Ice

Maiden, with her long, pale, green hair falling around her, and her

death-like eyes fixed upon him, like the two barrels of a gun. "I have

thee now," she cried.

In a corner of the eagle's nest sat the young eaglet, a large

and powerful bird, though still unable to fly. Rudy fixed his eyes

upon it, held on by one hand with all his strength, and with the other

threw a noose round the young eagle. The string slipped to its legs.

Rudy tightened it, and thus secured the bird alive. Then flinging

the sling over his shoulder, so that the creature hung a good way down

behind him, he prepared to descend with the help of a rope, and his

foot soon touched safely the highest step of the ladder. Then Rudy,

remembering his early lesson in climbing, "Hold fast, and do not

fear," descended carefully down the ladders, and at last stood

safely on the ground with the young living eaglet, where he was

received with loud shouts of joy and congratulations.

    VIII. WHAT FRESH NEWS THE PARLOR-CAT HAD TO TELL



"There is what you asked for," said Rudy, as he entered the

miller's house at Bex, and placed on the floor a large basket. He

removed the lid as he spoke, and a pair of yellow eyes, encircled by a

black ring, stared forth with a wild, fiery glance, that seemed

ready to burn and destroy all that came in its way. Its short,

strong beak was open, ready to bite, and on its red throat were

short feathers, like stubble.

"The young eaglet!" cried the miller.

Babette screamed, and started back, while her eyes wandered from

Rudy to the bird in astonishment.

"You are not to be discouraged by difficulties, I see," said the

miller.

"And you will keep your word," replied Rudy. "Each has his own

characteristic, whether it is honor or courage."

"But how is it you did not break your neck?" asked the miller.

"Because I held fast," answered Rudy; "and I mean to hold fast

to Babette."

"You must get her first," said the miller, laughing; and Babette

thought this a very good sign.

"We must take the bird out of the basket," said she. "It is

getting into a rage; how its eyes glare. How did you manage to conquer

it?"

Then Rudy had to describe his adventure, and the miller's eyes

opened wide as he listened.

"With your courage and your good fortune you might win three

wives," said the miller.

"Oh, thank you," cried Rudy.

"But you have not won Babette yet," said the miller, slapping

the young Alpine hunter on the shoulder playfully.

"Have you heard the fresh news at the mill?" asked the

parlor-cat of the kitchen-cat. "Rudy has brought us the young eagle,

and he is to take Babette in exchange. They kissed each other in the

presence of the old man, which is as good as an engagement. He was

quite civil about it; drew in his claws, and took his afternoon nap,

so that the two were left to sit and wag their tails as much as they

pleased. They have so much to talk about that it will not be

finished till Christmas." Neither was it finished till Christmas.

The wind whirled the faded, fallen leaves; the snow drifted in the

valleys, as well as upon the mountains, and the Ice Maiden sat in

the stately palace which, in winter time, she generally occupied.

The perpendicular rocks were covered with slippery ice, and where in

summer the stream from the rocks had left a watery veil, icicles large

and heavy hung from the trees, while the snow-powdered fir-trees

were decorated with fantastic garlands of crystal. The Ice Maiden rode

on the howling wind across the deep valleys, the country, as far as

Bex, was covered with a carpet of snow, so that the Ice Maiden could

follow Rudy, and see him, when he visited the mill; and while in the

room at the miller's house, where he was accustomed to spend so much

of his time with Babette. The wedding was to take place in the

following summer, and they heard enough of it, for so many of their

friends spoke of the matter.

Then came sunshine to the mill. The beautiful Alpine roses

bloomed, and joyous, laughing Babette, was like the early spring,

which makes all the birds sing of summer time and bridal days.

"How those two do sit and chatter together," said the

parlor-cat; "I have had enough of their mewing."

                    IX. THE ICE MAIDEN



The walnut and chestnut trees, which extend from the bridge of St.

Maurice, by the river Rhone, to the shores of the lake of Geneva, were

already covered with the delicate green garlands of early spring, just

bursting into bloom, while the Rhone rushed wildly from its source

among the green glaciers which form the ice palace of the Ice

Maiden. She sometimes allows herself to be carried by the keen wind to

the lofty snow-fields, where she stretches herself in the sunshine

on the soft snowy-cushions. From thence she throws her far-seeing

glance into the deep valley beneath, where human beings are busily

moving about like ants on a stone in the sun. "Spirits of strength, as

the children of the sun call you," cried the Ice Maiden, "ye are but

worms! Let but a snow-ball roll, and you and your houses and your

towns are crushed and swept away." And she raised her proud head,

and looked around her with eyes that flashed death from their

glance. From the valley came a rumbling sound; men were busily at work

blasting the rocks to form tunnels, and laying down roads for the

railway. "They are playing at work underground, like moles," said she.

"They are digging passages beneath the earth, and the noise is like

the reports of cannons. I shall throw down my palaces, for the

clamor is louder than the roar of thunder." Then there ascended from

the valley a thick vapor, which waved itself in the air like a

fluttering veil. It rose, as a plume of feathers, from a steam engine,

to which, on the lately-opened railway, a string of carriages was

linked, carriage to carriage, looking like a winding serpent. The

train shot past with the speed of an arrow. "They play at being

masters down there, those spirits of strength!" exclaimed the Ice

Maiden; "but the powers of nature are still the rulers." And she

laughed and sang till her voice sounded through the valley, and people

said it was the rolling of an avalanche. But the children of the sun

sang in louder strains in praise of the mind of man, which can span

the sea as with a yoke, can level mountains, and fill up valleys. It

is the power of thought which gives man the mastery over nature.

Just at this moment there came across the snow-field, where the

Ice Maiden sat, a party of travellers. They had bound themselves

fast to each other, so that they looked like one large body on the

slippery plains of ice encircling the deep abyss.

"Worms!" exclaimed the Ice Maiden. "You, the lords of the powers

of nature!" And she turned away and looked maliciously at the deep

valley where the railway train was rushing by. "There they sit,

these thoughts!" she exclaimed. "There they sit in their power over

nature's strength. I see them all. One sits proudly apart, like a

king; others sit together in a group; yonder, half of them are asleep;

and when the steam dragon stops, they will get out and go their way.

The thoughts go forth into the world," and she laughed.

"There goes another avalanche," said those in the valley beneath.

"It will not reach us," said two who sat together behind the steam

dragon. "Two hearts and one beat," as people say. They were Rudy and

Babette, and the miller was with them. "I am like the luggage," said

he; "I am here as a necessary appendage."

"There sit those two," said the Ice Maiden. "Many a chamois have I

crushed. Millions of Alpine roses have I snapped and broken off; not a

root have I spared. I know them all, and their thoughts, those spirits

of strength!" and again she laughed.

"There rolls another avalanche," said those in the valley.

                     X. THE GODMOTHER



At Montreux, one of the towns which encircle the northeast part of

the lake of Geneva, lived Babette's godmother, the noble English lady,

with her daughters and a young relative. They had only lately arrived,

yet the miller had paid them a visit, and informed them of Babette's

engagement to Rudy. The whole story of their meeting at Interlachen,

and his brave adventure with the eaglet, were related to them, and

they were all very much interested, and as pleased about Rudy and

Babette as the miller himself. The three were invited to come to

Montreux; it was but right for Babette to become acquainted with her

godmother, who wished to see her very much. A steam-boat started

from the town of Villeneuve, at one end of the lake of Geneva, and

arrived at Bernex, a little town beyond Montreux, in about half an

hour. And in this boat, the miller, with his daughter and Rudy, set

out to visit her godmother. They passed the coast which has been so

celebrated in song. Here, under the walnut-trees, by the deep blue

lake, sat Byron, and wrote his melodious verses about the prisoner

confined in the gloomy castle of Chillon. Here, where Clarens, with

its weeping-willows, is reflected in the clear water, wandered

Rousseau, dreaming of Heloise. The river Rhone glides gently by

beneath the lofty snow-capped hills of Savoy, and not far from its

mouth lies a little island in the lake, so small that, seen from the

shore, it looks like a ship. The surface of the island is rocky; and

about a hundred years ago, a lady caused the ground to be covered with

earth, in which three acacia-trees were planted, and the whole

enclosed with stone walls. The acacia-trees now overshadow every

part of the island. Babette was enchanted with the spot; it seemed

to her the most beautiful object in the whole voyage, and she

thought how much she should like to land there. But the steam-ship

passed it by, and did not stop till it reached Bernex. The little

party walked slowly from this place to Montreux, passing the sun-lit

walls with which the vineyards of the little mountain town of Montreux

are surrounded, and peasants' houses, overshadowed by fig-trees,

with gardens in which grow the laurel and the cypress.

Halfway up the hill stood the boarding-house in which Babette's

godmother resided. She was received most cordially; her godmother

was a very friendly woman, with a round, smiling countenance. When a

child, her head must have resembled one of Raphael's cherubs; it was

still an angelic face, with its white locks of silvery hair. The

daughters were tall, elegant, slender maidens.

The young cousin, whom they had brought with them, was dressed

in white from head to foot; he had golden hair and golden whiskers,

large enough to be divided amongst three gentlemen; and he began

immediately to pay the greatest attention to Babette.

Richly bound books, note-paper, and drawings, lay on the large

table. The balcony window stood open, and from it could be seen the

beautiful wide extended lake, the water so clear and still, that the

mountains of Savoy, with their villages, woods, and snow-crowned

peaks, were clearly reflected in it.

Rudy, who was usually so lively and brave, did not in the least

feel himself at home; he acted as if he were walking on peas, over a

slippery floor. How long and wearisome the time appeared; it was

like being in a treadmill. And then they went out for a walk, which

was very slow and tedious. Two steps forward and one backwards had

Rudy to take to keep pace with the others. They walked down to

Chillon, and went over the old castle on the rocky island. They saw

the implements of torture, the deadly dungeons, the rusty fetters in

the rocky walls, the stone benches for those condemned to death, the

trap-doors through which the unhappy creatures were hurled upon iron

spikes, and impaled alive. They called looking at all these a

pleasure. It certainly was the right place to visit. Byron's poetry

had made it celebrated in the world. Rudy could only feel that it

was a place of execution. He leaned against the stone framework of the

window, and gazed down into the deep, blue water, and over to the

little island with the three acacias, and wished himself there, away

and free from the whole chattering party. But Babette was most

unusually lively and good-tempered.

"I have been so amused," she said.

The cousin had found her quite perfect.

"He is a perfect fop," said Rudy; and this was the first time Rudy

had said anything that did not please Babette.

The Englishman had made her a present of a little book, in

remembrance of their visit to Chillon. It was Byron's poem, "The

Prisoner of Chillon," translated into French, so that Babette could

read it.

"The book may be very good," said Rudy; "but that finely combed

fellow who gave it to you is not worth much."

"He looks something like a flour-sack without any flour," said the

miller, laughing at his own wit. Rudy laughed, too, for so had he

appeared to him.

                      XI. THE COUSIN



When Rudy went a few days after to pay a visit to the mill, he

found the young Englishman there. Babette was just thinking of

preparing some trout to set before him. She understood well how to

garnish the dish with parsley, and make it look quite tempting. Rudy

thought all this quite unnecessary. What did the Englishman want

there? What was he about? Why should he be entertained, and waited

upon by Babette? Rudy was jealous, and that made Babette happy. It

amused her to discover all the feelings of his heart; the strong

points and weak ones. Love was to her as yet only a pastime, and she

played with Rudy's whole heart. At the same time it must be

acknowledged that her fortune, her whole life, her inmost thoughts,

her best and most noble feelings in this world were all for him. Still

the more gloomy he looked, the more her eyes laughed. She could almost

have kissed the fair Englishman, with the golden whiskers, if by so

doing she could have put Rudy in a rage, and made him run out of the

house. That would have proved how much he loved her. All this was

not right in Babette, but she was only nineteen years of age, and

she did not reflect on what she did, neither did she think that her

conduct would appear to the young Englishman as light, and not even

becoming the modest and much-loved daughter of the miller.

The mill at Bex stood in the highway, which passed under the

snow-clad mountains, and not far from a rapid mountain-stream, whose

waters seemed to have been lashed into a foam like soap-suds. This

stream, however, did not pass near enough to the mill, and therefore

the mill-wheel was turned by a smaller stream which tumbled down the

rocks on the opposite side, where it was opposed by a stone

mill-dam, and obtained greater strength and speed, till it fell into a

large basin, and from thence through a channel to the mill-wheel. This

channel sometimes overflowed, and made the path so slippery that any

one passing that way might easily fall in, and be carried towards

the mill wheel with frightful rapidity. Such a catastrophe nearly

happened to the young Englishman. He had dressed himself in white

clothes, like a miller's man, and was climbing the path to the

miller's house, but he had never been taught to climb, and therefore

slipped, and nearly went in head-foremost. He managed, however, to

scramble out with wet sleeves and bespattered trousers. Still, wet and

splashed with mud, he contrived to reach Babette's window, to which he

had been guided by the light that shone from it. Here he climbed the

old linden-tree that stood near it, and began to imitate the voice

of an owl, the only bird he could venture to mimic. Babette heard

the noise, and glanced through the thin window curtain; but when she

saw the man in white, and guessed who he was, her little heart beat

with terror as well as anger. She quickly put out the light, felt if

the fastening of the window was secure, and then left him to howl as

long as he liked. How dreadful it would be, thought Babette, if Rudy

were here in the house. But Rudy was not in the house. No, it was much

worse, he was outside, standing just under the linden-tree. He was

speaking loud, angry words. He could fight, and there might be murder!

Babette opened the window in alarm, and called Rudy's name; she told

him to go away, she did not wish him to remain there.

"You do not wish me to stay," cried he; "then this is an

appointment you expected- this good friend whom you prefer to me.

Shame on you, Babette!"

"You are detestable!" exclaimed Babette, bursting into tears.

"Go away. I hate you."

"I have not deserved this," said Rudy, as he turned away, his

cheeks burning, and his heart like fire.

Babette threw herself on the bed, and wept bitterly. "So much as I

loved thee, Rudy, and yet thou canst think ill of me."

Thus her anger broke forth; it relieved her, however: otherwise

she would have been more deeply grieved; but now she could sleep

soundly, as youth only can sleep.

                       XII. EVIL POWERS



Rudy left Bex, and took his way home along the mountain path.

The air was fresh, but cold; for here amidst the deep snow, the Ice

Maiden reigned. He was so high up that the large trees beneath him,

with their thick foliage, appeared like garden plants, and the pines

and bushes even less. The Alpine roses grew near the snow, which lay

in detached stripes, and looked like linen laid out to bleach. A

blue gentian grew in his path, and he crushed it with the butt end

of his gun. A little higher up, he espied two chamois. Rudy's eyes

glistened, and his thoughts flew at once in a different direction; but

he was not near enough to take a sure aim. He ascended still higher,

to a spot where a few rough blades of grass grew between the blocks of

stone and the chamois passed quietly on over the snow-fields. Rudy

walked hurriedly, while the clouds of mist gathered round him.

Suddenly he found himself on the brink of a precipitous rock. The rain

was falling in torrents. He felt a burning thirst, his head was hot,

and his limbs trembled with cold. He seized his hunting-flask, but

it was empty; he had not thought of filling it before ascending the

mountain. He had never been ill in his life, nor ever experienced such

sensations as those he now felt. He was so tired that he could

scarcely resist lying down at his full length to sleep, although the

ground was flooded with the rain. Yet when he tried to rouse himself a

little, every object around him danced and trembled before his eyes.

Suddenly he observed in the doorway of a hut newly built under the

rock, a young maiden. He did not remember having seen this hut before,

yet there it stood; and he thought, at first, that the young maiden

was Annette, the schoolmaster's daughter, whom he had once kissed in

the dance. The maiden was not Annette; yet it seemed as if he had seen

her somewhere before, perhaps near Grindelwald, on the evening of

his return home from Interlachen, after the shooting-match.

"How did you come here?" he asked.

"I am at home," she replied; "I am watching my flocks."

"Your flocks!" he exclaimed; "where do they find pasture? There is

nothing here but snow and rocks."

"Much you know of what grows here," she replied, laughing. "not

far beneath us there is beautiful pasture-land. My goats go there. I

tend them carefully; I never miss one. What is once mine remains

mine."

"You are bold," said Rudy.

"And so are you," she answered.

"Have you any milk in the house?" he asked; "if so, give me some

to drink; my thirst is intolerable."

"I have something better than milk," she replied, "which I will

give you. Some travellers who were here yesterday with their guide

left behind them a half a flask of wine, such as you have never

tasted. They will not come back to fetch it, I know, and I shall not

drink it; so you shall have it."

Then the maiden went to fetch the wine, poured some into a

wooden cup, and offered it to Rudy.

"How good it is!" said he; "I have never before tasted such

warm, invigorating wine." And his eyes sparkled with new life; a

glow diffused itself over his frame; it seemed as if every sorrow,

every oppression were banished from his mind, and a fresh, free nature

were stirring within him. "You are surely Annette, the

schoolmaster's daughter," cried he; "will you give me a kiss?"

"Yes, if you will give me that beautiful ring which you wear on

your finger."

"My betrothal ring?" he replied.

"Yes, just so," said the maiden, as she poured out some more wine,

and held it to his lips. Again he drank, and a living joy streamed

through every vein.

"The whole world is mine, why therefore should I grieve?"

thought he. "Everything is created for our enjoyment and happiness.

The stream of life is a stream of happiness; let us flow on with it to

joy and felicity."

Rudy gazed on the young maiden; it was Annette, and yet it was not

Annette; still less did he suppose it was the spectral phantom, whom

he had met near Grindelwald. The maiden up here on the mountain was

fresh as the new fallen snow, blooming as an Alpine rose, and as

nimble-footed as a young kid. Still, she was one of Adam's race,

like Rudy. He flung his arms round the beautiful being, and gazed into

her wonderfully clear eyes,- only for a moment; but in that moment

words cannot express the effect of his gaze. Was it the spirit of life

or of death that overpowered him? Was he rising higher, or sinking

lower and lower into the deep, deadly abyss? He knew not; but the

walls of ice shone like blue-green glass; innumerable clefts yawned

around him, and the water-drops tinkled like the chiming of church

bells, and shone clearly as pearls in the light of a pale-blue

flame. The Ice Maiden, for she it was, kissed him, and her kiss sent a

chill as of ice through his whole frame. A cry of agony escaped from

him; he struggled to get free, and tottered from her. For a moment all

was dark before his eyes, but when he opened them again it was

light, and the Alpine maiden had vanished. The powers of evil had

played their game; the sheltering hut was no more to be seen. The

water trickled down the naked sides of the rocks, and snow lay thickly

all around. Rudy shivered with cold; he was wet through to the skin;

and his ring was gone,- the betrothal ring that Babette had given him.

His gun lay near him in the snow; he took it up and tried to discharge

it, but it missed fire. Heavy clouds lay on the mountain clefts,

like firm masses of snow. Upon one of these Vertigo sat, lurking after

his powerless prey, and from beneath came a sound as if a piece of

rock had fallen from the cleft, and was crushing everything that stood

in its way or opposed its course.

But, at the miller's, Babette sat alone and wept. Rudy had not

been to see her for six days. He who was in the wrong, and who ought

to ask her forgiveness; for did she not love him with her whole heart?

                      XIII. AT THE MILL



"What strange creatures human beings are," said the parlor-cat

to the kitchen-cat; "Babette and Rudy have fallen out with each other.

She sits and cries, and he thinks no more about her."

"That does not please me to hear," said the kitchen-cat.

"Nor me either," replied the parlor-cat; "but I do not take it

to heart. Babette may fall in love with the red whiskers, if she

likes, but he has not been here since he tried to get on the roof."

The powers of evil carry on their game both around us and within

us. Rudy knew this, and thought a great deal about it. What was it

that had happened to him on the mountain? Was it really a ghostly

apparition, or a fever dream? Rudy knew nothing of fever, or any other

ailment. But, while he judged Babette, he began to examine his own

conduct. He had allowed wild thoughts to chase each other in his

heart, and a fierce tornado to break loose. Could he confess to

Babette, indeed, every thought which in the hour of temptation might

have led him to wrong doing? He had lost her ring, and that very

loss had won him back to her. Could she expect him to confess? He felt

as if his heart would break while he thought of it, and while so

many memories lingered on his mind. He saw her again, as she once

stood before him, a laughing, spirited child; many loving words, which

she had spoken to him out of the fulness of her love, came like a

ray of sunshine into his heart, and soon it was all sunshine as he

thought of Babette. But she must also confess she was wrong; that

she should do.

He went to the mill- he went to confession. It began with a

kiss, and ended with Rudy being considered the offender. It was such a

great fault to doubt Babette's truth- it was most abominable of him.

Such mistrust, such violence, would cause them both great unhappiness.

This certainly was very true, she knew that; and therefore Babette

preached him a little sermon, with which she was herself much

amused, and during the preaching of which she looked quite lovely. She

acknowledged, however, that on one point Rudy was right. Her

godmother's nephew was a fop: she intended to burn the book which he

had given her, so that not the slightest thing should remain to remind

her of him.

"Well, that quarrel is all over," said the kitchen-cat. "Rudy is

come back, and they are friends again, which they say is the

greatest of all pleasures."

"I heard the rats say one night," said the kitchen-cat, "that

the greatest pleasure in the world was to eat tallow candles and to

feast on rancid bacon. Which are we to believe, the rats or the

lovers?"

"Neither of them," said the parlor-cat; "it is always the safest

plan to believe nothing you hear."

The greatest happiness was coming for Rudy and Babette. The

happy day, as it is called, that is, their wedding-day, was near at

hand. They were not to be married at the church at Bex, nor at the

miller's house; Babette's godmother wished the nuptials to be

solemnized at Montreux, in the pretty little church in that town.

The miller was very anxious that this arrangement should be agreed to.

He alone knew what the newly-married couple would receive from

Babette's godmother, and he knew also that it was a wedding present

well worth a concession. The day was fixed, and they were to travel as

far as Villeneuve the evening before, to be in time for the steamer

which sailed in the morning for Montreux, and the godmother's

daughters were to dress and adorn the bride.

"Here in this house there ought to be a wedding-day kept," said

the parlor-cat, "or else I would not give a mew for the whole affair."

"There is going to be great feasting," replied the kitchen-cat.

"Ducks and pigeons have been killed, and a whole roebuck hangs on

the wall. It makes me lick my lips when I think of it."

"To-morrow morning they will begin the journey."

Yes, to-morrow! And this evening, for the last time, Rudy and

Babette sat in the miller's house as an engaged couple. Outside, the

Alps glowed in the evening sunset, the evening bells chimed, and the

children of the sunbeam sang, "Whatever happens is best."

                   XIV. NIGHT VISIONS



The sun had gone down, and the clouds lay low on the valley of the

Rhone. The wind blew from the south across the mountains; it was an

African wind, a wind which scattered the clouds for a moment, and then

suddenly fell. The broken clouds hung in fantastic forms upon the

wood-covered hills by the rapid Rhone. They assumed the shapes of

antediluvian animals, of eagles hovering in the air, of frogs

leaping over a marsh, and then sunk down upon the rushing stream and

appeared to sail upon it, although floating in the air. An uprooted

fir-tree was being carried away by the current, and marking out its

path by eddying circles on the water. Vertigo and his sisters were

dancing upon it, and raising these circles on the foaming river. The

moon lighted up the snow on the mountain-tops, shone on the dark

woods, and on the drifting clouds those fantastic forms which at night

might be taken for spirits of the powers of nature. The

mountain-dweller saw them through the panes of his little window. They

sailed in hosts before the Ice Maiden as she came out of her palace of

ice. Then she seated herself on the trunk of the fir-tree as on a

broken skiff, and the water from the glaciers carried her down the

river to the open lake.

"The wedding guests are coming," sounded from air and sea. These

were the sights and sounds without; within there were visions, for

Babette had a wonderful dream. She dreamt that she had been married to

Rudy for many years, and that, one day when he was out chamois

hunting, and she alone in their dwelling at home, the young Englishman

with the golden whiskers sat with her. His eyes were quite eloquent,

and his words possessed a magic power; he offered her his hand, and

she was obliged to follow him. They went out of the house and

stepped downwards, always downwards, and it seemed to Babette as if

she had a weight on her heart which continually grew heavier. She felt

she was committing a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. Suddenly she

found herself forsaken, her clothes torn by the thorns, and her hair

gray; she looked upwards in her agony, and there, on the edge of the

rock, she espied Rudy. She stretched out her arms to him, but she

did not venture to call him or to pray; and had she called him, it

would have been useless, for it was not Rudy, only his hunting coat

and hat hanging on an alpenstock, as the hunters sometimes arrange

them to deceive the chamois. "Oh!" she exclaimed in her agony; "oh,

that I had died on the happiest day of my life, my wedding-day. O my

God, it would have been a mercy and a blessing had Rudy travelled

far away from me, and I had never known him. None know what will

happen in the future." And then, in ungodly despair, she cast

herself down into the deep rocky gulf. The spell was broken; a cry

of terror escaped her, and she awoke.

The dream was over; it had vanished. But she knew she had dreamt

something frightful about the young Englishman, yet months had

passed since she had seen him or even thought of him. Was he still

at Montreux, and should she meet him there on her wedding day? A

slight shadow passed over her pretty mouth as she thought of this, and

she knit her brows; but the smile soon returned to her lip, and joy

sparkled in her eyes, for this was the morning of the day on which she

and Rudy were to be married, and the sun was shining brightly. Rudy

was already in the parlor when she entered it, and they very soon

started for Villeneuve. Both of them were overflowing with

happiness, and the miller was in the best of tempers, laughing and

merry; he was a good, honest soul, and a kind father.

"Now we are masters of the house," said the parlor-cat.

                      XV. THE CONCLUSION



It was early in the afternoon, and just at dinner-time, when the

three joyous travellers reached Villeneuve. After dinner, the miller

placed himself in the arm-chair, smoked his pipe, and had a little

nap. The bridal pair went arm-in-arm out through the town and along

the high road, at the foot of the wood-covered rocks, and by the deep,

blue lake.

The gray walls, and the heavy clumsy-looking towers of the

gloomy castle of Chillon, were reflected in the clear flood. The

little island, on which grew the three acacias, lay at a short

distance, looking like a bouquet rising from the lake. "How delightful

it must be to live there," said Babette, who again felt the greatest

wish to visit the island; and an opportunity offered to gratify her

wish at once, for on the shore lay a boat, and the rope by which it

was moored could be very easily loosened. They saw no one near, so

they took possession of it without asking permission of any one, and

Rudy could row very well. The oars divided the pliant water like the

fins of a fish- that water which, with all its yielding softness, is

so strong to bear and to carry, so mild and smiling when at rest,

and yet so terrible in its destroying power. A white streak of foam

followed in the wake of the boat, which, in a few minutes, carried

them both to the little island, where they went on shore; but there

was only just room enough for two to dance. Rudy swung Babette round

two or three times; and then, hand-in-hand, they sat down on a

little bench under the drooping acacia-tree, and looked into each

other's eyes, while everything around them glowed in the rays of the

setting sun.

The fir-tree forests on the mountains were covered with a purple

hue like the heather bloom; and where the woods terminated, and the

rocks became prominent, they looked almost transparent in the rich

crimson glow of the evening sky. The surface of the lake was like a

bed of pink rose-leaves.

As the evening advanced, the shadows fell upon the snow-capped

mountains of Savoy painting them in colors of deep blue, while their

topmost peaks glowed like red lava; and for a moment this light was

reflected on the cultivated parts of the mountains, making them appear

as if newly risen from the lap of earth, and giving to the

snow-crested peak of the Dent du Midi the appearance of the full

moon as it rises above the horizon.

Rudy and Babette felt that they had never seen the Alpine glow

in such perfection before. "How very beautiful it is, and what

happiness to be here!" exclaimed Babette.

"Earth has nothing more to bestow upon me," said Rudy; "an evening

like this is worth a whole life. Often have I realized my good

fortune, but never more than in this moment. I feel that if my

existence were to end now, I should still have lived a happy life.

What a glorious world this is; one day ends, and another begins even

more beautiful than the last. How infinitely good God is, Babette!"

"I have such complete happiness in my heart," said she.

"Earth has no more to bestow," answered Rudy. And then came the

sound of the evening bells, borne upon the breeze over the mountains

of Switzerland and Savoy, while still, in the golden splendor of the

west, stood the dark blue mountains of Jura.

"God grant you all that is brightest and best!" exclaimed Babette.

"He will," said Rudy. "He will to-morrow. To-morrow you will be

wholly mine, my own sweet wife."

"The boat!" cried Babette, suddenly. The boat in which they were

to return had broken loose, and was floating away from the island.

"I will fetch it back," said Rudy; throwing off his coat and

boots, he sprang into the lake, and swam with strong efforts towards

it.

The dark-blue water, from the glaciers of the mountains, was icy

cold and very deep. Rudy gave but one glance into the water beneath;

but in that one glance he saw a gold ring rolling, glittering, and

sparkling before him. His engaged ring came into his mind; but this

was larger, and spread into a glittering circle, in which appeared a

clear glacier. Deep chasms yawned around it, the water-drops glittered

as if lighted with blue flame, and tinkled like the chiming of

church bells. In one moment he saw what would require many words to

describe. Young hunters, and young maidens- men and women who had sunk

in the deep chasms of the glaciers- stood before him here in

lifelike forms, with eyes open and smiles on their lips; and far

beneath them could be heard the chiming of the church bells of

buried villages, where the villagers knelt beneath the vaulted

arches of churches in which ice-blocks formed the organ pipes, and the

mountain stream the music.

On the clear, transparent ground sat the Ice Maiden. She raised

herself towards Rudy, and kissed his feet; and instantly a cold,

deathly chill, like an electric shock, passed through his limbs. Ice

or fire! It was impossible to tell, the shock was so instantaneous.

"Mine! mine!" sounded around him, and within him; "I kissed thee

when thou wert a little child. I once kissed thee on the mouth, and

now I have kissed thee from heel to toe; thou art wholly mine." And

then he disappeared in the clear, blue water.

All was still. The church bells were silent; the last tone floated

away with the last red glimmer on the evening clouds. "Thou art mine,"

sounded from the depths below: but from the heights above, from the

eternal world, also sounded the words, "Thou art mine!" Happy was he

thus to pass from life to life, from earth to heaven. A chord was

loosened, and tones of sorrow burst forth. The icy kiss of death had

overcome the perishable body; it was but the prelude before life's

real drama could begin, the discord which was quickly lost in harmony.

Do you think this a sad story? Poor Babette! for her it was

unspeakable anguish.

The boat drifted farther and farther away. No one on the

opposite shore knew that the betrothed pair had gone over to the

little island. The clouds sunk as the evening drew on, and it became

dark. Alone, in despair, she waited and trembled. The weather became

fearful; flash after flash lighted up the mountains of Jura, Savoy,

and Switzerland, while peals of thunder, that lasted for many minutes,

rolled over her head. The lightning was so vivid that every single

vine stem could be seen for a moment as distinctly as in the

sunlight at noon-day; and then all was veiled in darkness. It

flashed across the lake in winding, zigzag lines, lighting it up on

all sides; while the echoes of the thunder grew louder and stronger.

On land, the boats were all carefully drawn up on the beach, every

living thing sought shelter, and at length the rain poured down in

torrents.

"Where can Rudy and Babette be in this awful weather?" said the

miller.

Poor Babette sat with her hands clasped, and her head bowed

down, dumb with grief; she had ceased to weep and cry for help.

"In the deep water!" she said to herself; "far down he lies, as if

beneath a glacier."

Deep in her heart rested the memory of what Rudy had told her of

the death of his mother, and of his own recovery, even after he had

been taken up as dead from the cleft in the glacier.

"Ah," she thought, "the Ice Maiden has him at last."

Suddenly there came a flash of lightning, as dazzling as the

rays of the sun on the white snow. The lake rose for a moment like a

shining glacier; and before Babette stood the pallid, glittering,

majestic form of the Ice Maiden, and at her feet lay Rudy's corpse.

"Mine!" she cried, and again all was darkness around the heaving

water.

"How cruel," murmured Babette; "why should he die just as the

day of happiness drew near? Merciful God, enlighten my

understanding, shed light upon my heart; for I cannot comprehend the

arrangements of Thy providence, even while I bow to the decree of

Thy almighty wisdom and power." And God did enlighten her heart.

A sudden flash of thought, like a ray of mercy, recalled her dream

of the preceding night; all was vividly represented before her. She

remembered the words and wishes she had then expressed, that what

was best for her and for Rudy she might piously submit to.

"Woe is me," she said; "was the germ of sin really in my heart?

was my dream a glimpse into the course of my future life, whose thread

must be violently broken to rescue me from sin? Oh, miserable creature

that I am!"

Thus she sat lamenting in the dark night, while through the deep

stillness the last words of Rudy seemed to ring in her ears. "This

earth has nothing more to bestow." Words, uttered in the fulness of

joy, were again heard amid the depths of sorrow.

Years have passed since this sad event happened. The shores of the

peaceful lake still smile in beauty. The vines are full of luscious

grapes. Steamboats, with waving flags, pass swiftly by.

Pleasure-boats, with their swelling sails, skim lightly over the

watery mirror, like white butterflies. The railway is opened beyond

Chillon, and goes far into the deep valley of the Rhone. At every

station strangers alight with red-bound guide-books in their hands, in

which they read of every place worth seeing. They visit Chillon, and

observe on the lake the little island with the three acacias, and then

read in their guide-book the story of the bridal pair who, in the year

1856, rowed over to it. They read that the two were missing till the

next morning, when some people on the shore heard the despairing cries

of the bride, and went to her assistance, and by her were told of

the bridegroom's fate.

But the guide-book does not speak of Babette's quiet life

afterwards with her father, not at the mill- strangers dwell there

now- but in a pretty house in a row near the station. On many an

evening she sits at her window, and looks out over the

chestnut-trees to the snow-capped mountains on which Rudy once roamed.

She looks at the Alpine glow in the evening sky, which is caused by

the children of the sun retiring to rest on the mountain-tops; and

again they breathe their song of the traveller whom the whirlwind

could deprive of his cloak but not of his life. There is a rosy tint

on the mountain snow, and there are rosy gleams in each heart in which

dwells the thought, "God permits nothing to happen, which is not the

best for us." But this is not often revealed to all, as it was

revealed to Babette in her wonderful dream.

                        THE END

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