There was once on a time a hora[2] at Sinaia, the like of which had never been seen before; for it was upon a great holiday, and the monks in the neighbouring cloister had distributed food to every one, heaping bowls of it, so that all the villagers had eaten their fill. The folk had gathered from far and near, from Isvor and Poeana Zapului, from Comarnic and Predeal, and from the other side of the mountains. The sun shone down so warm into the valley that the maidens took the kerchiefs from their heads, and the lads pushed their flower-bedecked hats from their brows, so hot had the dancing made them. The mothers stood round about upon the green, suckling their children; their shimmering veils showed afar off, as white and soft as spring blossoms.

What a stamping and shouting there were amid the merry dancers! The maidens seemed to hover in the air, as though their dainty feet, peeping out from the narrow petticoat, never touched the ground. Their shifts were gaily and richly embroidered, and glittered with gold, like the coins that hung on their necklets. The dance moved on, in circles both great and small; ceaselessly it moved, to the ceaseless music of the lute-players, like the pulsation of a vein, or an undulating wave. A little to one side, a handsome shepherd stood leaning upon his staff and watched the hora with his dark eyes, dark as blackberries. His form was slender, like a young pine-tree; his hair fell in black locks upon his shoulders from under his cap of white lambskin. His shirt was grey, fastened about the hips with a broad leather girdle, and he wore sandals upon his feet. Only for a moment had his eyes glanced uncertainly around; now they had discovered what they sought, and their sparkling gaze was fixed upon a maiden, who did not seem to notice him at all. The maiden was fair—fair as the most beautiful flower; nay, lovelier far than the gentian or the Alpine rose, more delicate than the edelweiss. In each of her eyes shone two points of light, one in the black pupil and the other in the brown circle surrounding it. Her teeth flashed white every time the coral lips parted; her hair was as black as the abyss from whose depths a gleam of water shoots up, and the wreath of flowers upon her head did not fade; it was as though she gave it freshness and life. Such a slender body she had, one might have thought a man could break it with a turn of his hand; and yet the people told tales of her wondrous strength. Yes, Irina was fair, very fair, and Jonel, the young shepherd, gazed upon her ceaselessly. At last he too drew near the circle and grasped her hand. The maidens looked at one another and laughed, and Irina grew crimson. Now of a sudden the lute-players stopped upon a shrill, high note, the lads each turned their partners round under their arms and once about, and then Jonel drew Irina’s hand downwards with a firm grasp. There was deep significance in this, but Irina only shrugged her shoulders and laughed.

“Irina,” he whispered, “dost thou see the golden leaves on yonder beech? It is time—I must go down with my sheep into the valley, down into the Baragan, perhaps as far as the Dobrudgea, and I shall see thee no more till spring-time. Give me a good word, that my heart may have no cause to tremble when I think of thee looking upon the other lads!”

“What wouldst have me say? Thou dost not love me truly, and I shall soon be forgotten.”

“I will die ere I forget thee, Irina.”

“These be but words—these I do not believe.”

“What must I do, then, that thou mayst believe me?”

Irina’s eyes sparkled as she gave him a sidelong glance and answered, “That which thou canst never do.”

“I can do anything,” said Jonel slowly, as though he scarcely knew that he spoke.

“Nay, thou canst not bide without thy sheep; thou wouldst sooner do without me than them.”

“Without my sheep,” repeated Jonel, and sighed.

“Dost see,” laughed Irina, “the only thing which I require of thee, that thou shouldst stay on yonder mountain-top without thy sheep, that thou canst not do! Words, nought but words!”

“And what if I do it?” said Jonel. He grew pale and clenched his teeth as he spoke.

The youths and maidens had gathered about the pair and were listening. “Do it not!” “Do it!” cried one and another.

Then an old shepherd with silver locks and overhanging brows laid his hand on Jonel’s shoulder.

“Let the maidens be,” he said roughly; “they will but break thy heart and then laugh thee to scorn. Dost thou not know that the shepherd who forsakes his sheep must die?” He shook his clenched fist at Irina: “And thou dost think, because thou art fair, that thou canst dare all, and that nothing shall quell thy mischievous spirit? But the evil thou dost work, to thine own self dost thou work it!”

Irina did but laugh again. “He need not go,” said she, “nor do I need him either.” And turning, she ran off to drink from the spring that rises beside the cloister.

Jonel would listen to no one, but with pale cheeks and set mouth took his way toward the mountain. He passed Irina by, and only made a gesture of farewell to her with his hand.

“Do it not!” she called after him, and laughed with the other maidens. And the Pelesch stream, as it rushed by, re-echoed the words, “Do it not! do it not!” But Jonel did not hear it, and went on climbing higher and higher in the noontide sun, over the smooth uplands, beneath the giant pines—whose trunks six men can scarcely span—and through the shady beech-woods, up to the shepherd’s hut round which his flock was lying, and whence his dogs ran forth to meet him, barking for joy. He passed his hand caressingly over their rough coats, and then called his “Mioritza,” or the ewe that led his flock. “Brr, brr, Oitza,”[3] he called; “brr, come hither.” She came trotting up with her little lamb, and suffered him to thrust the carnation that he had stolen from Irina into her fleece. Then he begged the other shepherds to take his flock with them, saying that he would follow later, but must first accomplish a vow that he had taken. They all looked at him in wonder. “And if I return no more,” he ended, “ye shall say that Yearning hath bidden me to the marriage-feast.”

He took his Alp-horn in his hand, and climbed on and on to the very summit of the mountain, whence he could look away across the Danube to the Balkans. There he stood still, and putting his horn to his lips, sent forth a wailing note whose echoes spread far around. But at the call his faithful dog rushed in pursuit, and was soon springing round him, whining for joy; then, seizing his master’s shirt between his teeth, he tried to drag him away toward the valley, so that Jonel scarce knew how to resist, and was obliged at last, with tears in his eyes, to speak roughly to the poor beast and drive him away with stones. And now he had turned away his last friend, and was alone in those desolate mountain wilds. Two eagles circled in the air beneath him; save for this, all was motionless and silent.

He stretched himself upon the turf and sighed so deeply that his breast seemed nigh to bursting. At last he fell asleep, from sheer heart-ache and longing. When he awoke the clouds were rolling above his head and gathering nearer and nearer; first they moved rapidly, then a sudden calm seemed to fall upon them, and finally they closed about him in a mist so dense that he could not see one step before his face. All at once they appeared to take distinct form, and to be gliding round him in the likeness of wondrously beautiful women, clad in shimmering, snow-white garments, and holding one another by the hand. He rubbed his eyes, for he thought he still dreamed; but presently he heard that they were singing, a song so soft and low that it sounded as from afar off; and[Pg 45]
[Pg 46]
[Pg 47] now they stretched lily-white arms towards him, while from every side came the cry, “Thou goodly youth, be mine, be mine! Come with me!”

But he shook his head.

“Do not despise us,” cried one; “we will give thee such happiness as shall make thee forget the valley for ever!” She parted the mist with her hand, and there appeared before him a mountain meadow, carpeted with flowers as he had never seen one before, and upon the meadow stood a shepherd’s hut built of rose-leaves, and beside it was a spring, whose pearly drops gushed out over the fresh green moss.

“Come, we will dwell there together!” called the fair one in silvery tones. “Nay, come to me!” cried another, and before his very eyes she built out of the mist a house that shone like a rainbow when the sunbeams fell upon it. Inside it was as downy as though floor and walls alike were of the softest wool; from the roof fell rainbow drops, and no sooner did they touch the earth than grass and flowers sprang up there. “We will dwell here,” cried the lovely maiden. “See, I will adorn thee, even as I am adorned;” and she cast wreaths and chains of the glittering drops about his head and his neck. But he shook them off again. “One only may deck me,” he said, with a darkening brow; “only my bride.”

“Then I will be thy bride!” exclaimed a third maiden. “See, here is my dower!” And rolling the mist into balls, she made sheep of it, ever more and more sheep, till the whole mountain—nay, all the mountains and the sky itself were full of them. They were dazzling white, with silver and gold bells about their necks, and everywhere fresh green sprang up beneath their feet. For a moment the face of the lonely shepherd cleared, but anon he waved the tempting picture aside. “I have but one flock,” he said, “my own, and I desire no other.”

Then the mist grew thicker and darker again; he was soon surrounded by black clouds once more, and from their midst the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled dreadful and near. And in the thunder a voice spoke: “Rash son of Earth, thou that hast dared despise us, to destruction art thou doomed!” Then a fresh peal of thunder seemed to rend the very mountain, and as it rolled on toward the valley, snowflakes began to fall around Jonel, first lightly, then thicker and thicker, till all the mountain-top was covered, and his cloak, his hair and his eyebrows were frosted over. And, ’mid the soft patter of the descending snow, the sweet voices rang out again in rich harmony, the sound of shepherds’ pipes and Alpine horns mingled with their song, and a palace built by unseen hands rose before him—a palace of snow so dazzling in its radiance that now and again he had to shield his eyes from it. And lo! when he looked up, the moon and the stars had assembled in the palace, and illuminated it so that the walls shone quite transparent. The moon sat enthroned on high upon a downy couch and watched the stars, that were holding one another by the hand and dancing a hora. The blacker the heavens became, the more stars flocked into the palace, and whenever the moon beckoned, another little star left the sky and hurried in. There were quite tiny stars, like children, that rolled about with one another, and laughed and played at the feet of the moon. Others marched in majestically, wearing a long train—a train as long as the whole Bucegi, that swept over all the mountain-tops and was borne by a host of little stars, all in shining dresses and decked with wreaths and crowns of wondrous brightness. The gates of the palace opened wider of their own accord as these mighty stars appeared. And one of these commanded the moon to come down from her seat and do obeisance. Then that star beckoned to Jonel and said, “Come, child of man, be thou my consort; with me thou shalt range over the universe, my little stars shall be thy servants, and thou thyself shalt bathe, a shining star, in a flood of radiance!”

Jonel, without knowing it, had drawn close to the gateway, and was listening to these entrancing tones, while the other stars all sang together in soft accompaniment. Then the moon raised her head and looked at him, and she was so like Irina that Jonel clutched at his heart and cried out, “Nay, were the whole world at my feet, I would but offer it to Irina!”

Then there arose a rustling, roaring sound, that ended in a fearful crash—the stars swept by towards heaven, in an endless, mighty train—the palace fell, burying Jonel in its ruins—and the moon gazed down pale and sad upon the desolate snow-drifts.

But the dwarfs, who had heard the fearful crash overhead, now climbed painfully forth from the recesses of the mountain to see whether their roof were in danger. And so they discovered the vast heap of precious stones of which the palace had been built, and began in great glee to collect this costly treasure, and to drag it down into the fastnesses of the mountain, where they heaped it up in their mighty vaults. Thus they came upon poor Jonel, and since there was still some life left in him, and he was so fair to look upon—far more so, certainly, than any of themselves—they dragged him down too, with much trouble, and laid him upon a couch of their softest moss. They drew water from both hot and cold springs, washed and bathed him, and then carried him to the great underground lake that feeds all earthly springs. After they had plunged him once into those waters he awoke healed of all pain, and looked about him in astonishment.

“Where am I?” he exclaimed at last. And well might he be amazed. For above him vaults of shimmering rock rose to giddy heights and were lost in darkness; and at his feet a lake stretched forth, so far, so far, that it seemed as though it must fill up the whole earth within, and it too was lost in dark distance. All around thousands of gnomes were standing, running, or climbing; they wore long beards, and carried lights, some in their girdles, some upon their heads. Countless hosts of them were busy carrying jewels to the lake, washing them in its water—whereby their radiance was greatly enhanced—and storing and arranging them in chambers or upon heaps. Many of the gnomes came in upon rafts, bringing treasure of hitherto unknown stones with them; others loaded up rafts for a far voyage and pushed off from shore.

There was such a stir and din of lights and voices in the great vault that Jonel was fairly bewildered. Yet all seemed to understand their business quite clearly, save those who surrounded him, and they did not appear to know what they should do with him. But a sudden longing seized him to journey away into the unknown, dark distance, and he hurried towards a raft that was just about to put off. Then there arose from the waves a beautiful woman; she was as like to Irina as though she had been her sister, and she stretched out her arms towards Jonel. With a great cry of “Irina!” he would have flung himself down to her, but that twenty strong arms held him back, and twenty others as strong began to rain blows upon him. He made resistance, for the beautiful woman still beckoned to him from the water; but his captors would not let go their hold, and even began to stone him in their anger.

Then on a sudden there appeared before him a dwarf who wore a crown upon his head, and who, commanding the others to desist, said, “Thou art mistaken, Jonel; thy bride is not here; she waits for thee in the valley. This is my appointed bride, and for her I have tarried many a long year.” At this an angry look, that yet only enhanced her charm, crossed the fair woman’s face, and with a threatening gesture she dived beneath the waves.

The little king sighed, and Jonel sighed, and all the dwarfs, being good, faithful subjects, sighed too; yet they still held their stones in readiness, lest perchance Jonel should be condemned to die. But the king gazed pityingly at the goodly shepherd-lad, and bade his people wash him once more in the waters of the healing spring, since he was bleeding from many wounds. With youth and beauty thus renewed, he was escorted, by the king’s orders, to the mountain-top where they had found him, and as the little monarch bade him farewell he added, “Thou art surely to blame, Jonel; thou hast forgotten thy duty for the sake of a fair woman. Thy faithfulness to her is beautiful and great, but thine unfaithfulness to thy duty is greater; and though I may understand the feeling that overmastered thee, I cannot avert the punishment that awaits thee.”

With a heavy heart did Jonel take his stand once more upon the lonely peak, around which the storm was still raging.

Its violence increased with every moment, as though it would fain have cast down the solitary mortal from the height whereon he stood, to dash him into a thousand pieces. Jonel took firm hold of a projection in the rock, and glanced wildly about him, expecting to see new enemies, new dangers and temptations, rise up on every side. He felt as though the storm were crushing him to the earth, as though it were tearing and dragging at his heart, as though he were dying of his agony and grief. He clung yet more closely to the rock, that seemed to reel beneath the pressure.

And amid the raging and the din round about him he caught sounds, now as of many voices, and again as of one voice alone, calling, enticing, threatening; then there was a blare of trumpets, that seemed to cleave his very brain; and suddenly his love for Irina changed into bitter, burning hate, since it was she who with laughing lips had sent him to his death. Yea, he would wait out his time here, unshaken to the end; but in spring he would go down and take leave of her with scorn, for ever! No woman should possess his heart; that should be for his flock alone, the flock he had shamefully forsaken.

Then there rang forth from the rock a deep and mighty voice: “Nay, lad! thou art mine, in my power, irrevocably and for ever!” and in a moment the rock changed into a giant woman’s form, that embraced Jonel with stony arms and kissed him with lips of stone. In horror he strove to free himself from her, and could not. “Who art thou?” he cried. “Have all the powers of hell conspired together against me? Who art thou—unless thou be Velva?”

But the woman had turned to rock again, and through the storm these words echoed: “I am the Spirit of Yearning, and thou art mine—mine the last lips thou shalt ever kiss.”

Then a great silence fell upon the place, and the sun broke forth from behind the clouds. It shone upon a pale man, who stood leaning upon his Alpine horn and gazing into the valley, and far away to the Danube. He neither sighed nor moved, and the beating of his heart did not stir his arms, which were folded upon his breast.

Save for the languid motion of his eyelids no one could have told that he still lived. Anon the surrounding world began to awake to life. Ice and snow melted and ran down in streams to the valley, while young green crept forth upon the spots the snow had covered. But Jonel never moved. The forest shook off its withered leaves and the new buds began to swell. But Jonel never seemed to heed them. Up the mountain slopes came the voices of twittering birds, and the sound of the woodland streams rushing on under the warm rain. But Jonel did not hear. It seemed as though all things living had drawn near to awaken him, yet in vain; he only gazed forth toward the Danube, as though he were turned to stone. Then all at once his face awoke to life, his eyes shone, a faint colour came upon his cheek, and with open arms and outstretched neck, he stood listening as the sound of barking dogs and tinkling bells drew nearer. Now he could plainly see the white fleeces of his flock, and he put his horn to his lips to sound a welcome. But even as he did so he clutched at his heart, and wailing forth the words “I die!” he sank upon the earth.

In vain did his dogs lick him lovingly on hands and face, in vain did his mioritza stand bleating beside him and his fellow-shepherds call him by name; he lay still, with a happy smile upon his wan face, and gave answer to none. The Alpine horn, whose voice his breath had so lately stirred, lay broken beside him, and nought around him bore witness to the battles the young warrior had fought. They buried him where he lay, and named the mountain VÎrful cu Dor—“the Peak of Yearning.” Often have I been up there and seen his grave, and the sheep love to browse upon it still.