The Ice Maiden
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
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
“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!”
“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
“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
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
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 “föhn,”1
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
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
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.
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
“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,”
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
“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
“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
“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
“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
“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
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
“‘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,
“The young eaglet!” cried the miller.
Babette screamed, and started back, while her eyes wandered from Rudy to the bird
“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
“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
“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
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
“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
“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
“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
“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
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
“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
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.