THE FAIRIES OF PESTH

An old poet walked alone in a quiet valley. His heart was heavy, and the
voices of Nature consoled him. His life had been a lonely and sad one.
Many years ago a great grief fell upon him, and it took away all his joy
and all his ambition. It was because he brooded over his sorrow, and
because he was always faithful to a memory, that the townspeople deemed
him a strange old poet; but they loved him and they loved his songs, -- in
his life and in his songs there was a gentleness, a sweetness, a pathos
that touched every heart. "The strange, the dear old poet," they called
him. [1]

Evening was coming on. The birds made no noise; only the whip-poor-will
repeated over and over again its melancholy refrain in the marsh beyond
the meadow. The brook ran slowly, and its voice was so hushed and tiny
that you might have thought that it was saying its prayers before going to
bed.

The old poet came to the three lindens. This was a spot he loved, it was
so far from the noise of the town. The grass under the lindens was fresh
and velvety. The air was full of fragrance, for here amid the grass grew
violets and daisies and buttercups and other modest wild-flowers. Under
the lindens stood old Leeza, the witchwife.

"Take this," said the poet to old Leeza, the witchwife; and he gave her a
silver piece.

"You are good to me, master poet," said the witchwife. "You have always
been good to me. I do not forget, master poet, I do not forget."

"Why do you speak so strangely? " asked the old poet. "You mean more than
you say. Do not jest with me; my heart is heavy with sorrow."

"I do not jest," answered the witchwife. "I will show you a strange thing.
Do as I bid you; tarry here under the lindens, and when the moon rises,
the Seven Crickets will chirp thrice; then the Raven will fly into the
west, and you will see wonderful things, and beautiful things you will
hear."

Saying this much, old Leeza, the witch-wife, stole away, and the poet
marvelled at her words. He had heard the townspeople say that old Leeza
was full of dark thoughts and of evil deeds, but he did not heed these
stories.

"They say the same of me, perhaps," he thought. "I will tarry here beneath
the three lindens and see what may come of this whereof the witch wife
spake."

The old poet sat amid the grass at the foot of the three lindens, and
darkness fell around him. He could see the lights in the town away off;
they twinkled like the stars that studded the sky. The whip-poor-will told
his story over and over again in the marsh beyond the meadow, and the
brook tossed and talked in its sleep, for it had played too hard that day.

"The moon is rising," said the old poet. "Now we shall see."

The moon peeped over the tops of the far-off hills. She wondered whether
the world was fast asleep. She peeped again. There could be no doubt; the
world was fast asleep, -- at least so thought the dear old moon. So she
stepped boldly up from behind the distant hills. The stars were glad that
she came, for she was indeed a merry old moon.

The Seven Crickets lived in the hedge. They were brothers, and they made
famous music. When they saw the moon in the sky they sang "chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," three times, just as old Leeza, the witchwife,
said they would.

"Whir-r-r! " It was the Raven flying out of the oak-tree into the west.
This, too, was what the old witchwife had foretold. "Whir-r-r" went the
two black wings, and then it seemed as if the Raven melted into the night.
Now, this was strange enough, but what followed was stranger still.

Hardly had the Raven flown away, when out from their habitations in the
moss, the flowers, and the grass trooped a legion of fairies, -- yes, right
there before the old poet's eyes appeared, as if by magic, a mighty troop
of the dearest little fays in all the world.

Each of these fairies was about the height of a cambric needle. The lady
fairies were, of course, not so tall as the gentleman fairies, but all
were of quite as comely figure as you could expect to find even among real
folk. They were quaintly dressed; the ladies wearing quilted silk gowns
and broadbrim hats with tiny feathers in them, and the gentlemen wearing
curious little knickerbockers, with silk coats, white hose, ruffled
shirts, and dainty cocked hats.

"If the witchwife had not foretold it I should say that I dreamed,"
thought the old poet. But he was not frightened. He had never harmed the
fairies, therefore he feared no evil from them.

One of the fairies was taller than the rest, and she was much more richly
attired. It was not her crown alone that showed her to be the queen. The
others made obeisance to her as she passed through the midst of them from
her home in the bunch of red clover. Four dainty pages preceded her,
carrying a silver web which had been spun by a black-and-yellow garden
spider of great renown. This silver web the four pages spread carefully
over a violet leaf, and thereupon the queen sat down. And when she was
seated the queen sang this little song:

"From the land of murk and mist
Fairy folk are coming
To the mead the dew has kissed,
And they dance where'er they list
To the cricket's thrumming.

"Circling here and circling there,
Light as thought and free as air,
Hear them cry, 'Oho, oho,'
As they round the rosey go.

"Appleblossom, Summerdew,
Thistleblow, and Ganderfeather!
Join the airy fairy crew
Dancing on the swaid together!
Till the cock on yonder steeple
Gives all faery lusty warning,
Sing and dance, my little people, --
Dance and sing 'Oho' till morning! "

The four little fairies the queen called to must have been loitering. But
now they came scampering up, -- Ganderfeather behind the others, for he was
a very fat and presumably a very lazy little fairy.

"The elves will be here presently," said the queen, "and then, little
folk, you shall dance to your heart's content. Dance your prettiest
to-night, for the good old poet is watching you."

"Ah, little queen," cried the old poet, "you see me, then? I thought to
watch your revels unbeknown to you. But I meant you no
disrespect, -- indeed, I meant you none, for surely no one ever loved the
little folk more than I."

"We know you love us, good old poet," said the little fairy queen, "and
this night shall give you great joy and bring you into wondrous fame."

These were words of which the old poet knew not the meaning; but we, who
live these many years after he has fallen asleep, -- we know the meaning of
them.

Then, surely enough, the elves came trooping along. They lived in the
further meadow, else they had come sooner. They were somewhat larger than
the fairies, yet they were very tiny and very delicate creatures. The elf
prince had long flaxen curls, and he was arrayed in a wonderful suit of
damask web, at the manufacture of which seventy-seven silkworms had
labored for seventy-seven days, receiving in payment therefor as many
mulberry leaves as seven blue beetles could carry and stow in seven times
seven sunny days. At his side the elf prince wore a sword made of the
sting of a yellow-jacket, and the hilt of this sword was studded with the
eyes of unhatched dragon-flies, these brighter and more precious than the
most costly diamonds.

The elf prince sat beside the fairy queen. The other elves capered around
among the fairies. The dancing sward was very light, for a thousand and
ten glowworms came from the marsh and hung their beautiful lamps over the
spot where the little folk were assembled. If the moon and the stars were
jealous of that soft, mellow light, they had good reason to be.

The fairies and elves circled around in lively fashion. Their favorite
dance was the ring-round-a-rosey which many children nowadays dance. But
they had other measures, too, and they danced them very prettily.

"I wish," said the old poet, "I wish that I had my violin here, for then I
would make merry music for you."

The fairy queen laughed. "We have music of our own," she said, "and it is
much more beautiful than even you, dear old poet, could make."

Then, at the queen's command, each gentleman elf offered his arm to a lady
fairy, and each gentleman fairy offered his arm to a lady elf, and so, all
being provided with partners, these little people took their places for a
waltz. The fairy queen and the elf prince were the only ones that did not
dance; they sat side by side on the violet leaf and watched the others.
The hoptoad was floor manager; the green burdock badge on his breast
showed that.

"Mind where you go -- don't jostle each other," cried the hoptoad, for he
was an exceedingly methodical fellow, despite his habit of jumping at
conclusions.

Then, when all was ready, the Seven Crickets went "chirp-chirp,
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," three times, and away flew that host of little
fairies and little elves in the daintiest waltz imaginable: --

The old poet was delighted. Never before had he seen such a sight; never
before had he heard so sweet music. Round and round whirled the sprite
dancers; the thousand and ten glowworms caught the rhythm of the music
that floated up to them, and they swung their lamps to and fro in time
with the fairy waltz. The plumes in the hats of the cunning little ladies
nodded hither and thither, and the tiny swords of the cunning little
gentlemen bobbed this way and that as the throng of dancers swept now
here, now there. With one tiny foot, upon which she wore a lovely shoe
made of a tanned flea's hide, the fairy queen beat time, yet she heard
every word which the gallant elf prince said. So, with the fairy queen
blushing, the mellow lamps swaying, the elf prince wooing, and the throng
of little folk dancing hither and thither, the fairy music went on and
on: --

"Tell me, my fairy queen," cried the old poet, "whence comes this fairy
music which I hear? The Seven Crickets in the hedge are still, the birds
sleep in their nests, the brook dreams of the mountain home it stole away
from yester morning. Tell me, therefore, whence comes this wondrous fairy
music, and show me the strange musicians that make it."

"Look to the grass and the flowers," said the fairy queen. "In every blade
and in every bud lie hidden notes of fairy music. Each violet and daisy
and buttercup, -- every modest wild-flower (no matter how hidden) gives glad
response to the tinkle of fairy feet. Dancing daintily over this quiet
sward where flowers dot the green, my little people strike here and there
and everywhere the keys which give forth the harmonies you hear."

Long marvelled the old poet. He forgot his sorrow, for the fairy music
stole into his heart and soothed the wound there. The fairy host swept
round and round, and the fairy music went on and on.

"Why may I not dance? " asked a piping voice. "Please, dear queen, may I
not dance, too?"

It was the little hunchback that spake, -- the little hunchback fairy who,
with wistful eyes, had been watching the merry throng whirl round and
round.

"Dear child, thou canst not dance," said the fairy queen, tenderly; "thy
little limbs are weak. Come, sit thou at my feet, and let me smooth thy
fair curls and stroke thy pale cheeks."

"Believe me, dear queen," persisted the little hunchback, "I can dance,
and quite prettily, too. Many a time while the others made merry here I
have stolen away by myself to the brookside and danced alone in the
moonlight, -- alone with my shadow. The violets are thickest there. 'Let thy
halting feet fall upon us, Little Sorrowful,' they whispered, 'and we
shall make music for thee. ' So there I danced, and the violets sang their
songs for me. I could hear the others making merry far away, but I was
merry, too; for I, too, danced, and there was none to laugh."

"If you would like it, Little Sorrowful," said the elf prince, "I will
dance with you."

"No, brave prince," answered the little hunchback, "for that would weary
you. My crutch is stout, and it has danced with me before. You will say
that we dance very prettily, -- my crutch and I, -- and you will not laugh, I
know."

Then the queen smiled sadly; she loved the little hunchback and she pitied
her.

"It shall be as you wish," said the queen. The little hunchback was
overjoyed.

"I have to catch the time, you see," said she, and she tapped her crutch
and swung one little shrunken foot till her body fell into the rhythm of
the waltz.

Far daintier than the others did the little hunchback dance; now one tiny
foot and now the other tinkled on the flowers, and the point of the little
crutch fell here and there like a tear. And as she danced, there crept
into the fairy music a tenderer cadence, for (I know not why) the little
hunchback danced ever on the violets, and their responses were full of the
music of tears. There was a strange pathos in the little creature's grace;
she did not weary of the dance: her cheeks flushed, and her eyes grew
fuller, and there was a wondrous light in them. And as the little
hunchback danced, the others forgot her limp and felt only the heart-cry
in the little hunchback's merriment and in the music of the voiceful
violets.

Now all this saw the old poet, and all this wondrously beautiful music he
heard. And as he heard and saw these things, he thought of the pale face,
the weary eyes, and the tired little body that slept forever now. He
thought of the voice that had tried to be cheerful for his sake, of the
thin, patient little hands that had loved to do his bidding, of the
halting little feet that had hastened to his calling.

"Is it thy spirit, O my love? " he wailed, "Is it thy spirit, O dear, dead
love?"

A mist came before his eyes, and his heart gave a great cry.

But the fairy dance went on and on. The others swept to and fro and round
and round, but the little hunchback danced always on the violets, and
through the other music there could be plainly heard, as it crept in and
out, the mournful cadence of those tenderer flowers.

And, with the music and the dancing, the night faded into morning. And all
at once the music ceased and the little folk could be seen no more. The
birds came from their nests, the brook began to bestir himself, and the
breath of the new-born day called upon all in that quiet valley to awaken.

So many years have passed since the old poet, sitting under the three
lindens half a league the other side of Pesth, saw the fairies dance and
heard the fairy music, -- so many years have passed since then, that had the
old poet not left us an echo of that fairy waltz there would be none now
to believe the story I tell.

Who knows but that this very night the elves and the fairies will dance in
the quiet valley; that Little Sorrowful will tinkle her maimed feet upon
the singing violets, and that the little folk will illustrate in their
revels, through which a tone of sadness steals, the comedy and pathos of
our lives? Perhaps no one shall see, perhaps no one else ever did see,
these fairy people dance their pretty dances; but we who have heard old
Robert Volkmann's waltz know full well that he at least saw that strange
sight and heard that wondrous music.

And you will know so, too, when you have read this true story and heard
old Volkmann's claim to immortality.

1887.

End of title

THE FAIRIES OF PESTH

Eugene Field

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