THE forest gorge was full of the sound of trickling and running waters. A streamlet skipped from rock to rock. Through the dense foliage a sunbeam crept here and there, and changed into a rainbow in the embraces of the waters. Here and there dark little pools formed, upon whose surface floated a withered leaf, until it came too close to the current and vanished, whirling over the nearest waterfall. Huge tree trunks had fallen across the gorge. They were used as bridges by the mosses and climbing plants that overgrew them with exuberant vitality, and hung down from their sides as though they would drink of the waters that murmured beneath. There of a sudden a wondrously white arm stretched forth from out of the climbing plants. In its delicate hand it held a staff of rock crystal with a diamond knob, that flashed and glistened strangely, as though the sun had stepped down to behold itself in the mountain stream. Then fair curls came to view over the confusion of plants that covered the tree trunk; then a rosy face, with large dreamy eyes, now black, now dark blue in color, according to the thoughts that swayed under the cover of its curls. Anon the charming being knelt, and one could see the golden girdle that held the soft garment which clung about her tender form, and her other hand that held a spindle cut from a single emerald, which she twirled in the air as though she would that it outshine the green of the beech leaves.

"Oh, MÄrchen,[2] MÄrchen," the brook began to sing, "will you not bathe to-day? Put by your staff and spindle and dip down to me. I have not kissed you to-day."

The fair head peeped down and looked into the wood. No, there was no one there, not even a deer. So MÄrchen laid distaff and spindle among the moss of the tree trunk, twisted her hair into a knot, let fall her linen garment, and, seizing hold of two twigs, let herself glide down to the surface of the brook, and then began to swing merrily to and fro, her feet touching the water as she swung. But the brook did not cease from singing, and from imploring her to come down into him. Then she let go the twigs, and fell, like a shower of spring blossoms, into its wavelets.

Far from here was a lonely gorge. Rock towered upon rock, and a torrent forced its way through with difficulty. There a grave man leaned and looked down into the waterfall. His brow was thoughtful; the hand that rested upon the stones was delicate, almost suffering. A pencil had fallen from its grasp. Suddenly there sounded a wondrous singing from out the waterfall, and the man's brow grew clearer as he listened. That was the moment when MÄrchen had touched the waters, and it sang and sounded and was full of lovely forms and sweet songs and many fair things that attracted that lonely man. He listened enraptured, and his soul expanded with the things he heard. The brook itself hardly knew what it babbled; it still trembled from having felt MÄrchen's touch, and it sang for sheer joy. The lonely man departed with lightened brow and airy steps as though the air bore him. He had not long gone before MÄrchen appeared upon one of the highest rocks, swung her distaff in the air, and filled it with gossamer that glistened in the dew. Then she skipped down, broke a branch from a blossoming wild rose-bush and encircled the distaff with it in lieu of a ribbon, put it into her belt, and, jumping from stone to stone, crossed the brook and went far into the forest. The birds flew about her and chirped to her news of the east and west, the north and south. Squirrels slid out of the trees, seated themselves at her feet, looked at her with their sage eyes, and recounted all that had happened in the wood. The deer and does came about her; even the blind worms reared their heads and chattered with their sharp tongues. MÄrchen stood still and listened; and from time to time she touched her distaff as though she would say, "Remember."

The forest grew ever denser, the flowers that sent out their scent to MÄrchen more luxurious. At last she had to bend the branches apart in order to penetrate further. There stood a dream-like castle with tall gabled windows, into which grew the tree branches, and from out which tumbled creeping plants. Roof and walls had vanished beneath the roses that grew over all things, and out of the castle sounded a thousand songs of birds. MÄrchen stepped to the open door and entered the wide hall, whose floor and walls were of jewels, and in whose midst a tall fountain played. Round about stood hundreds of Kobolds. They had brought with them little stools of pure gold, and waited to see if their sweet queen be content. She smiled approvingly, and thanked her friends. In midst of all this shimmering splendor fair MÄrchen stood like a reviving sunbeam.

"See how I have filled my distaff to-day," she said, genially. "I believe a magnet lives in your crystal, to which all things fly. Will you not fill it yet fuller?"

The Kobolds frowned, which made them look very comic, and one said—

"We have resolved to tell you nothing more, because you let it flow from you like the water that tumbles yonder. We have watched you. When you go forth at eve, you go to our enemies, the mortals—those wretched thieves that rob our treasures, and you tell them our secrets."

"No," said MÄrchen, "I do not go to all mortals; only to some—your friends, who love you as I do; and I only tell them as much as they deserve. Will you not go on trusting me?"

They pushed a golden stool near to the fountain and began to recount to MÄrchen, whose eyes gleamed like the ocean. When she had heard enough, and given it to the distaff to guard, she nodded to her little guests, who hurried away. She then passed into the nearest chamber. There stood such a wealth of flowers that one could not tell where first to rest one's eyes. The walls were covered with all the wonders of the tropics; from the ceiling hung orchids; the floor was overgrown with soft green moss, from which peeped crocuses, hyacinths, violets, primroses, and lilies of the valley. Hummingbirds and nightingales greeted their queen joyously, while from the flower crowns elves uprose and stretched out their arms in love.

MÄrchen seated herself on the grass and let them talk to her, toyed with the fair flower-children and began to sing in unison with the birds. Then she entered the next room, whose walls were pure rock crystal, that reflected MÄrchen many hundred times. In its center, under mighty palm fans, was a large basin, studded with rubies, into which foamed a waterfall. The nixes lay around it upon couches, and waited for the beauty whom as yet they had not seen that day. But MÄrchen wanted to hear no more; she had, like a true queen, given ear to so many that she was overpowered with fatigue, and craved rest. So she passed into the next room, that was a single little bower of rushes and bindweeds; the ground was strewn with poppy flowers, and in its midst stood the fairest couch eye has seen—one single, large rose—into which MÄrchen laid herself, and that closed its leaves above her.

Now the rushes began to rustle like an echo of distant singing, and the bindweeds tolled their bells, and the poppies gave forth their faint odor, and MÄrchen slumbered deep and sweet until the evening.

When the sun was sinking, and gazed like a large, glowing eye between the trunks of the forest, so that all the leaves looked golden, MÄrchen awoke, placed her distaff in her girdle, put the spindle beside it, and stepped outside.

Twilight was creeping up mysteriously and dreamily and spreading its wings over the forest. The birds grew still; only the toads in the watery gorge began their one-toned song. A gentle murmur ran through the leaves and across the parched grass, for all wanted to look on MÄrchen and aspired towards her. Now the moon rose and threw bright lights hither and thither and haunted the trees. He wanted to kiss MÄrchen and entice her forth to play upon the forest meadow.

"The elves await you," he called after MÄrchen, who would not listen, but floated on airily, as though the evening breezes bore her. A mill stood beside the brook in the shadow of the beeches. A fire gleamed within it, around which people sat gathered. MÄrchen entered, and called the children. They flew towards her and drew her to the fireside, brought her a stool to sit upon, and gazed with large, eager eyes at her full distaff.

MÄrchen caressed the dear, fair heads, drew forth the spindle, knotted the yarn, and began to spin. And while the spindle floated up and down, swirling, she told them what she beheld in the yarn, until from sheer listening the children's eyes fell to, and they never knew next day whether they had really seen MÄrchen or only in their sleep. She herself slipped out and glided between the trees till she came to a meadow shimmering in evening mist. Hundreds of butterflies hung upon the myriad flowers, two and three on one blossom, and slept so deep and sound that the heads of the sleepy flowers hung deep down under the weight of so many guests. Only the large night-moth floated about darkly and watched over the whole.

"I wonder if the butterflies dream," thought MÄrchen, as she knelt down beside the flowers and approached her ear.

Yes, they dreamed of the journeys they had taken that day; they dreamed they had gained far fairer colors: just such green, blue, and red hues like the flowers and leaves. Even the plainest gray one dreamt of colors brighter than the gayest parrot. The flowers dreamt that a warm wind touched them, and gave to them far sweeter scents than they had ever owned—quite intoxicatingly luscious. It was MÄrchen's breath which they had felt in their sleep.

Soon MÄrchen came to a pretty house beside a gurgling stream. The water formed a quiet little pool, in which the moon and the ivy-grown house were reflected. The beeches dipped the tips of their branches into it, and a nightingale sang lonesomely into the night. Up in the house burnt a solitary light, like to a glowworm. MÄrchen entered the house as though it were most familiar to her, opened a door softly, and stepped within a little room. In a deep armchair, beside a writing-table, sat a handsome, pale, agitated man. His head was sunk in his palm, and he gazed with lightless eyes across the table, on which Sorrow was resting both her hands.

"See," he said, "this morning, beside the mountain stream, I was glad for a moment. Pictures filled my brain, but now all is empty and dead, and I am so weary—so weary. I wish to die. I cannot forgive my body that it still lives on, and yet a heavenly gift dwells within me that keeps me alive and makes me believe I could still create. But I do nothing more. Fatigue has grown stronger than aught else in this ugly world. Would that I had never been born, for I am a man who must reflect the whole world in its pain and suffering and falsehood. I love men too much, and therefore they have no faces for me. I only see their souls, and these are beautiful notwithstanding all wickedness and misery. Now I grow miserable with them. I should like to hide before my own eyes, for I am worth nothing—nothing. All that I do is vain, and will vanish unheard; all I think others know much better. A fire burns in me that consumes me in lieu of warming my fellow-men. I feel like one that is drowning, to whom no saving hand is extended. I should be a man and save myself, but my strength is at an end. I have lived too much. I have lived through all that which others have felt, and borne my own woes besides. Now it is too much, do you see—too much; and I can no longer give to the world what I fain would have given it—all the new, great, lovely things that dwell in my brain. But it had no time to listen to me. And perhaps there is, after all, no value in these things, though to my small mind they seemed so great. Yet they cannot bear the light. I am weary. I want to die."

Sorrow listened, and never took her eyes from him; but her pitying gaze made him yet more irritable and desperate. Suddenly MÄrchen stood before him, with glittering distaff, with shining teeth and beaming eyes; dimples in her cheeks, and the distaff of promise in her hands. He looked at her and was dazzled.

"I wanted to help," said Sorrow, "but he grew ever worse."

"You help him!"

MÄrchen laughed.

"Go your ways and leave him to me; I will manage him. I know all. You are once more weary of the world and want to die, and have no talent, and men are all bad, very wicked indeed, and faithless, and have deserted you, and do not believe in you. Oh, you poor, poor human soul! Why do you not become a butterfly and sleep on a flower? He knows that he has wings, and that his flower has scent, and that his meadow is quite full of blossoms. What does he care whether the others see it since he sees it! And now look here; I have come back, although you scarcely deserve it, you doubter. Look at this heavy laden distaff, that is for you, only for you, if you will listen to me."

And MÄrchen began to spin and sing and narrate all night long, and her friend wrote and wrote, without knowing that his pencil moved; he thought he had only heard and listened. He wrote down thoughts and songs and poems; they streamed like living fire from under his hand. And what he wrote moved the world. Men thought his thoughts after him, and sang his songs, and wept over his stories, and knew not that the poet who had given them all these things was sad unto death, misunderstood of all, and that Sorrow visited him far oftener than MÄrchen.

[Pg 239-240]

They called him a child of the gods and a genius, and knew not that he was a man for whose soul Sorrow and MÄrchen struggled ceaselessly, and who had suffered so much grief and seen so many wonders that his strength was broken. Ay, the children of the gods must suffer much on earth, and MÄrchen only visits those that have been proved, and ever departs from them if they have made themselves unworthy of her. Once she told at parting the tale which follows:—