The Complete Fairy Tales

  The girl before him had a freshness about her like new-fallen snow and, like the rhododendron, she was in bloom; she moved as gracefully as the chamois; and yet, surely, she had been created of Adam’s rib and, like Rudy, was a human being.

  He threw his arms around her and looked into her marvelous clear eyes for a second. Only for a second! And how is one to describe, to tell in words, what he saw in that fraction of a moment? What was it that overpowered him: a ghost? Or was it a bit of life that exists in death? Had he been lifted upward or had he been plunged into a deep, death-filled world of ice?

  He saw the blue-green glass walls and the bottomless chasm that surrounds them. He heard the sound of water dripping like a thousand bells, and each drop appeared like a tiny blue-white flame. The Ice Maiden kissed him, and the eternal coldness penetrated his backbone and touched his forehead. He cried out in pain. Tearing himself from her arms, he stumbled and fell. Night closed his eyes. But a moment later he opened them again. Evil’s performance was over.

  The girl was gone. The house was gone. Water was dripping down the cliff. He was lying in the snow, shivering with cold. His clothes were drenched and his ring was gone: his engagement ring that Babette had given him. Beside him lay his hunting rifle. He picked it up and pulled the trigger but it did not go off. Nearby in the cleft were heavy clouds that appeared as solid as snow. Inside them Vertigo sat and waited for some powerless prey. There was a noise; it sounded like a boulder falling from the top of the canyon to its bottom, carrying with it everything in its path.

  Down at the mill Babette sat crying. She had not seen Rudy for six days. Rudy, who was in the wrong and ought to come and ask for forgiveness, for she loved him with all her heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: IN THE MILLER’S HOUSE

  “What a terrible mess these humans make of their lives,” said the parlor cat to the kitchen cat. “The engagement between Babette and Rudy has been broken off. She cries all the time and he has probably forgotten her.”

  “That’s too bad,” replied the kitchen cat.

  “I agree with you.” The parlor cat licked her left front paw. “But I won’t spend my time mourning about it. After all, Babette can just as well get engaged to the one with the red sideburns. Though we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since the night he tried to climb up on the roof.”

  The powers of evil have their own rules; they can play with us and within us. This Rudy had learned while he was high up in the mountains, and he had not stopped wondering about it since. What had happened? Had the apparition been something he imagined because he had a high fever? He had never known fever or any illness before. But he had new insight into himself since the night he had judged Babette so harshly. He remembered how wildly his heart had been made to beat by jealousy; like a foehn wind, jealousy had swept through him. If only he could tell Babette his thoughts. If only he could confess to her his temptation and how it had become a deed. He had lost her ring, and because of that loss she had regained him.

  Would she make any confession to him? Every time that Rudy thought of Babette he feared that his heart was about to break. So many memories rushed into his mind. He saw her laughing like a happy child. He remembered all the sweet words she had spoken so innocently, so tenderly; and it was as if a ray of the sun had entered his breast and soon his whole heart was full of the sunshine of Babette.

  She would make a confession to him; she must!

  Down to the mill Rudy went; and the confession began with a kiss and ended with Rudy admitting that he was the sinner. His error had been that he had doubted Babette’s fidelity. Such lack of faith was almost unforgivable! Such mistrust was almost disgusting! And his violent passion might have caused a catastrophe for them both. About that there could be no doubt! And Babette preached a little sermon for him. She enjoyed the task very much, and she did it charmingly. On one point, though, she was in perfect agreement with Rudy: her godmother’s nephew was a conceited puppy. She would burn the book he had given her, for she wanted nothing ever to remind her of him.

  “Well, it is all over,” said the parlor cat. “Rudy has come back. They understand each other and they say that in understanding the greatest happiness is found.”

  “I heard the rats talking last night,” said the kitchen cat, “and they decided nothing could make you as happy as tallow candles, unless it was rancid lard. Who do you think is right: the rats or the lovers?”

  “Neither one of them,” answered the parlor cat. “If you don’t take anybody’s word for anything, then you never make a mistake.”

  The event that would bring Rudy and Babette their greatest happiness was not far off: the most beautiful day in their lives, their wedding day.

  The ceremony was not to take place in the church in Bex, or in the miller’s parlor. Babette’s godmother had requested that they be married in Montreux: the wedding celebration at her pension and the wedding itself in the beautiful little church in the town. The miller, who was the only one who knew what the English lady intended to give her godchild as a wedding present, said that he thought this was the least one could do; it was only a trifling inconvenience which the wedding gift would more than make up for. The day was decided upon, and the miller and the young couple planned to go to Villeneuve the night before, so that they could take the boat to Montreux early the next morning, for the two daughters of Babette’s godmother wanted to have time to dress the bride.

  “If there is to be no party when they come home, then I don’t give a meow for the whole wedding,” said the parlor cat.

  “Oh, but there is going to be a party! The larder is full. There are ducks and pigeons and a whole deer hanging out there. It makes my mouth water just to think of it all.” The kitchen cat licked her chops. “Tomorrow they are leaving.”

  Yes, tomorrow! And that evening Babette and Rudy would sit on the bench outside the mill for the last time as an engaged couple. There was a red glow above the mountains, the vesper bells began to peal. The sun’s rays, the daughters of the sun, were singing: “Everything that happens is always for the best!”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: VISIONS IN THE NIGHT

  The sun had set. The clouds rolled down into the valleys along the Rhone. The wind blew from the south: an African wind, a foehn wind that tore the clouds to bits and then was gone. In the stillness that followed, the shattered clouds re-formed themselves and floated between the forest-clad mountains and over the swift turbulent river in the most fantastic shapes; they looked like prehistoric animals: giant eagles and great leaping frogs. The clouds seemed to sail on the water rather than float in the air. A fir tree that had been uprooted by the storm was carried by the current. The water made whirling eddies in its wake. Vertigo and her sisters were turning and twisting in the on-rushing torrent. The moon casting its light on the snow-covered mountaintops, the dark forests, and the white clouds made everything appear ghostly; nature’s spirits were abroad. The mountain folk looking through their windows saw them. In great crowds these phantoms passed in homage before the Ice Maiden. She had come down from her glacier castle; a fir tree was her boat and the waters from the melting ice fields carried her downstream to the lake.

  “The wedding guests have come.” The message was sent through the air and could be heard in the water.

  Visions! Visions can be seen inside as well as out. Babette was having a strange dream.

  She was married to Rudy and had been for many years. He was in the mountains hunting chamois, she was at home in their living room; next to her sat the Englishman with the gilded sideburns. He was talking to her. His eyes were tender, his voice was soft. His words seemed to be casting a spell over her. He reached out his hand; she took it and followed him out of the house. They were going downward, ever downward!

  Babette felt that her heart was heavy with guilt. She had committed a sin against Rudy, a sin against God. Suddenly she was alone: abandoned. She had to make her way through hawthorn bushes whose thorns ripped her clothes. Her hair was gray. Painfully
she turned and looked upward. There on the edge of a cliff stood Rudy. She raised her arms toward him but she did not dare to call his name; nor would it have helped if she had, for what she was seeing was not Rudy but his hat and coat hanging on a cane: a trick the hunters used to fool the chamois.

  Babette wept in anguish. “It would have been better had I died on my wedding day—on that day that was the happiest of my life. My Lord … my God, it would have been merciful! It would have been a blessing.… It would have been best for Rudy and me. No one knows his future.” In front of her was an abyss; with infinite pain she threw herself into it. From the depths came a tone of sorrow, as if a string had snapped.

  Babette woke; the dream was over and forgotten. Only the memory of having dreamed something terrifying remained. She knew that the Englishman had been in the dream. She had neither seen nor thought about him for months. Would he be in Montreux? Would she have to see him at her wedding? A shadow fell across her delicate face. She wrinkled her brow. But soon she was smiling again and her eyes were bright with happiness. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining; and tomorrow was Rudy’s and her wedding day.

  He was already up and waiting for her when she came downstairs. In a little while they would be on their way to Villeneuve. How happy they were. And so was the miller. He smiled and joked; he was a good father and a thoroughly honest man.

  “Now we are masters of the house!” said the parlor cat

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: THE END

  It was still afternoon when the three happy travelers reached Villeneuve. After they had eaten, the miller lighted his pipe and made himself comfortable in an easy chair. Soon he was asleep. The young couple went for a walk, arm in arm, out into the town. They followed the main road; on one side were cliffs covered with greenery, and on the other the deep, blue-green lake. The heavy walls and towers of the gloomy castle of Chillon were reflected in the clear water. They saw the little island with the three acacia trees not far away. It lay like a bouquet on the water.

  “It must be beautiful over there.” Babette felt again the same wish to visit the little island, and this time it was easy to fulfill. There at the water’s edge was a small rowboat. There was no one about, so they could not find out to whom it belonged. They would borrow it anyway. The mooring was easily untied and Rudy knew how to row.

  The oars slid through the yielding water like the fins of a fish. Water is so strong and yet so pliant; it has a back that can carry great weights, a mouth that can swallow and smile gently. It can portray perfect serenity and yet it has the most horrifying power to destroy. In the wake of the boat was a track of foam. Within minutes they reached the island, which was only just big enough for two to dance upon.

  Rudy whirled Babette into the air three times, and then they sat down on the little bench under the acacia trees to hold hands and look into each other’s eyes. The setting sun gave a brilliance to everything about them. The pine forest on the mountainside became lavender, as if it were a field of heather in bloom, and higher up, the naked rocks seemed almost transparent. The clouds appeared to screen a fire, and the lake itself was like the petal of a rose. As the shadows from the valleys crept farther and farther up the sides of the snow-clad mountains they became blue-black, while their peaks were still as red as lava. For a moment the scene was like a picture of the Creation, when the crust of the earth—still burning—rose to form the mountains. Never had Rudy or Babette seen such a sunset. The snow-covered Dent du Midi shone like the full moon when it rises above the horizon.

  “There is so much beauty and so much happiness,” one said to the other.

  Rudy in a burst of passion exclaimed, “The world has no more to give me. An evening like this is a whole life. And this is not the first time that I have felt like this; and then, too, I have thought: ‘Were my life to end now, how good a life it would have been!’ The world is good. This day is over. But a new one will come, and it will be even more beautiful. How great and good God is, Babette!”

  “I am so happy,” she said, looking at him.

  “The world has no more it can give me,” Rudy repeated.

  The vesper bells rang from the mountains of Savoy and from the mountains of Switzerland. To the west, framed in gold, were the blue-black Jura Mountains.

  “May God give you all that is beautiful, everything that you ask for!” she exclaimed.

  “He will!” Rudy replied. “Tomorrow you are mine, all mine: my own little, beautiful wife.”

  “The boat!” screamed Babette.

  The little rowboat had loosened its moorings and was drifting away from the island.

  “I’ll get it,” Rudy said. Hurriedly he took off his jacket and his boots, then he dove into the lake and started swimming.

  Cold and deep was the blue-green water. It had come from the melting glaciers. Rudy looked down into it. He saw a shining round object roll, twinkle, and wink, as if it were playing. “It must be my engagement ring,” he thought, “the one I lost.” The ring grew larger and larger until it was a glittering circle and in the center of it was a glacier.

  Deep gorges gaped around him. The dripping water played a carillon, while each drop burned with a blue-white flame; and in a single glance he saw a vision that I must use much space and many words to describe. He saw young hunters and young girls: men and women who had been swallowed by the glacier appeared before him alive; their eyes were wide open and they were smiling. He heard church bells chiming from far below, from towns and villages that had long since been buried. People were kneeling in a great church, and mountain streams played the organ, whose pipes were huge icicles. The Ice Maiden sat on the smooth, transparent floor. She rose to welcome Rudy, then she bent down and kissed his feet. A deathly ice-cold quiver like an electric shock passed through him. Ice and fire! From a single touch you cannot tell the difference.

  “Mine! Mine!” The cry came from all about him, and within himself. “I kissed you when you were a child. Kissed your mouth. Now I kiss you on your toe and your heel. Now you are mine!”

  Silence. The church bells had stopped ringing. The last tone disappeared in the fading rose color of the clouds.

  “You are mine!” came the cry from the depths of the lake. “You are mine!” came the cry from the boundless heights.

  It is lovely to fly from love to love, from earth into heaven.

  A string snapped. A mournful tone was heard. Death’s kiss of ice was victorious against corruption. The prologue was over, now the drama of life could begin; discord was absorbed into harmony.

  Do you think it was a tragic story?

  Poor Babette! Nothing could have been more terrifying, more horrible, than those hours she spent on the island alone. No one knew where the young couple had gone. The evening grew darker. Desperate, she stood sobbing, while above the Jura Mountains a storm was gathering.

  Lightning flashed over the mountains and could be seen in Switzerland and in Savoy, one bolt after another. The thunderclaps came so close to each other that one became part of the next. The lightning was as bright as light from the sun, and for brief moments everything was as light as midday and you could see the individual vines in the vineyard. Then came the darkness and it was doubly dark. The lightning came in ribbons, in zigzags, in balls of fire, making strange patterns in the air as it was drawn by the water of the lake. Lightning came from all sides, and the peals of thunder were made louder by their own echoes. On the shore, people were busily pulling their boats up on land. The rain came and everything that could move searched for shelter.

  “Where are Rudy and Babette in this terrible weather?” the miller asked.

  Babette was sitting with her hands folded and her head bent. Now she was silent, made mute by sorrow, from the screams and moans she had uttered. Inside her a voice said, “Rudy is in the water: deep down as if he were under a glacier.” She recalled what she had been told about his mother’s death and his own rescue. How Rudy was thought to have been dead when he was carried out of the crevasse
in the glacier. “The Ice Maiden has taken him back,” she whispered.

  Suddenly there was a flash of lightning as blindingly white as snow when the sun shines upon it. Babette looked about her. The lake seemed to be raising itself; its water looked for a moment like a glacier. And she saw the Ice Maiden, standing majestically in shimmering blue-white. At her feet lay the body of Rudy. “Mine!” she cried. And again there was only darkness and the murmuring waters were black.

  “It is too cruel,” Babette moaned. “Why should he die, just as our day of happiness had come? God, help me to understand! Make my heart lighter. I do not know Your ways. I grope in darkness. I am too weak. I need Your wisdom.”

  God did lighten her heart. He sent her a thought, a ray of grace. In that moment she relived the dream she had had the night before. She remembered the words she had spoken and what she had wished for Rudy’s sake and her own.

  “Woe is me! Was the seed of sin in my heart? Would my dream have been my future, had not the string been snapped for my sake? Oh, how wretched I am!”

  In the gloom-filled darkness she sat lamenting. In the deep silence of nature, she thought she heard again Rudy say, “The world has no more it can give me.” The words had been shouted in joy and now they were echoed in pain.

  A few years have gone by. The lake is smiling and its shores are smiling; the vines are heavy with grapes. The steamship, with its many flags flying, sails by, and the sailing ships, like white butterflies, play on the mirror of the lake. The railroad has come. It goes past Chillon and far up and down the Rhone Valley. At every station are foreigners carrying red leather-bound guidebooks under their arms, and when they sit down in the train they read about what they have already seen. They visit the castle of Chillon and, looking out over the lake, they notice the tiny island with the acacia trees. They look it up in their books. They read about a young betrothed couple who, one spring evening in 1856, rowed out to the island; and how the young man met his death. “It was not until the following morning that people on the shore heard the bride’s despairing, fearful screams.”