Bambi

by Felix Salten

  But when the north wind blew, Bambi found out what cold is. It wasn’t much help to nestle close to his mother. Of course at first he thought it was wonderful to lie there and keep one side warm at least. But the north wind raged through the forest all day and all night long. It seemed to be driven to madness by some incomprehensible ice-cold fury, as though it wanted to tear up the forest by its roots or annihilate it somehow. The trees groaned in stubborn resistance, they struggled mightily against the wind’s fierce onslaught. You could hear their long-drawn moans, their sighlike creakings, the loud snap when their strong limbs split, the angry cracking when now and again a trunk broke and the vanquished tree seemed to shriek from every wound in its rent and dying body. Nothing else could be heard, for the storm swooped down still more fiercely on the forest, and its roaring drowned all lesser noises.

  Then Bambi knew that want and hardship had come. He saw how much the rain and wind had changed the world. There was no longer a leaf on tree or shrub. But all stood there as though violated, their bodies naked for all to see. And they lifted their bare brown limbs to the sky for pity. The grass on the meadow was withered and shortened, as if it had sunk into the earth. Even the glade seemed wretched and bare. Since the leaves had fallen it was no longer possible to lie so well hidden as before. The glade was open on all sides.

  One day, as a young magpie flew over the meadow, something cold and white fell in her eye. Then it fell again and again. She felt as if a little veil were drawn across her eye while the small, pale, blinding white flakes danced around her. The magpie hesitated in her flight, fluttered a little, and then soared straight up into the air. In vain. The cold white flakes were everywhere and got into her eyes again. She kept flying straight up, soaring higher.

  “Don’t put yourself out so much, dearie,” a crow who was flying above her in the same direction called down; “don’t put yourself out so much. You can’t fly high enough to get outside these flakes. This is snow.”

  “Snow!” cried the magpie in surprise, struggling against the drizzle.

  “That’s about the size of it,” said the crow, “it’s winter, and this is snow.”

  “Excuse me,” the magpie replied, “but I only left the nest in May. I don’t know anything about winter.”

  “There are plenty in the same boat,” the crow remarked, “but you’ll soon find out.”

  “Well,” said the magpie, “if this is snow I guess I’ll sit down for a while.” She perched on an elder and shook herself. The crow flew awkwardly away.

  At first Bambi was delighted with the snow. The air was calm and mild while the white snow stars whirled down and the world looked completely different. It had grown lighter, gayer, Bambi thought, and whenever the sun came out for a little while everything shone and the white covering flashed and sparkled so brightly that it blinded you.

  But Bambi soon stopped being pleased with the snow. For it grew harder and harder to find food. He had to paw the snow away with endless labor before he could find one withered little blade of grass. The snow crust cut his legs and he was afraid of cutting his feet. Gobo had already cut his. Of course Gobo was the kind who couldn’t stand anything and was a constant source of trouble to his mother.

  The deer were always together now and were much more friendly than before. Ena brought her children constantly. Lately Marena, a half-grown doe, had joined the circle. But old Nettla really contributed most to their entertainment. She was quite a self-sufficient person and had her own ideas about everything. “No,” she would say, “I don’t bother with children any more. I’ve had enough of that particular joke.”

  Faline asked, “What difference does it make, if they’re a joke?” And Nettla would act as if she were angry, and say, “They’re a bad joke, though, and I’ve had enough of them.”

  They got along perfectly together. They would sit side by side gossiping. The young ones had never had a chance to hear so much.

  Even one or another of the Princes would join them now. At first things went somewhat stiffly, especially since the children were a little shy. But that soon changed, and they got along very well together. Bambi admired Prince Ronno, who was a stately lord, and he passionately loved the handsome young Karus. They had dropped their horns and Bambi often looked at the two slate-gray round spots that showed smooth and shimmering with many delicate points on the Princes’ heads. They looked very noble.

  It was terribly interesting whenever one of the Princes talked about Him. Ronno had a thick hide-­covered swelling on his left forefoot. He limped on that foot and used to ask sometimes, “Can you really see that I limp?” Everyone would hasten to assure him that there was not the trace of a limp. That was what Ronno wanted. And it really was hardly noticeable.

  “Yes,” he would go on. “I saved myself from a tight corner that time.” And then Ronno would tell how He had surprised him and hurled His fire at him. But it had only struck his leg. It had driven him nearly mad with pain, and no wonder, since the bone was shattered. But Ronno did not lose his head. He was up and away on three legs. He pressed on in spite of his weakness for he saw that he was being pursued. He ran without stopping until night came. Then he gave himself a rest. But he went on the next morning until he felt he was in safety. Then he took care of himself, living alone in hiding, waiting for his wound to heal. At last he came out again and was a hero. He limped, but he thought no one noticed it.

  They were often together now for long periods and told many stories. Bambi heard more about Him than ever before. They told how terrible He was to look at. No one could bear to look at His pale face. Bambi knew that already from his own experience. They spoke too about His smell, and again Bambi could have spoken if he had not been too well brought up to mix in his elders’ conversation. They said that His smell differed each time in a hundred subtle ways and yet you could tell it in an instant, for it was always exciting, unfathomable, mysterious and terrible.

  They told how He used only two legs to walk with and they spoke of the amazing strength of His two hands. Some of them did not know what hands were. But when it was explained, old Nettla said, “I don’t see anything so surprising in that. A squirrel can do everything you tell about just as well, and every little mouse can perform the same wonders.” She turned away her head disdainfully.

  “Oh no,” cried the others, and they gave her to understand that those were not the same things at all. But old Nettla was not to be cowed. “What about the falcon?” she exclaimed. “And the buzzard? And the owl? They’ve got only two legs and when they want to catch something they simply stand on one leg and grab with the other. That’s much harder and He certainly can’t do that.”

  Old Nettla was not at all inclined to admire anything connected with Him. She hated Him with all her heart. “He is loathsome!” she said, and she stuck to that. Besides, nobody contradicted her, since nobody liked Him.

  But the talk grew more complicated when they told how He had a third hand, not two hands merely, but a third hand.

  “That’s an old story,” Nettla said curtly. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Is that so?” Ronno broke in. “Then what did He shatter my leg with? Can you tell me that?”

  Old Nettla answered carelessly, “That’s your affair, my dear, He’s never shattered any of mine.”

  Aunt Ena said, “I’ve seen a good deal in my time, and I think there’s something in the story that He has a third hand.”

  “I agree with you,” young Karus said politely. “I have a friend, a crow . . .” He paused, embarrassed for a moment, and looked around at them, one after the other, as though he were afraid of being laughed at. But when he saw that they were listening attentively to him he went on. “This crow is unusually well informed, I must say that. Surprisingly well informed. And she says that He really has three hands, but not always. The third hand is the bad one, the crow says. It isn’t attached like the other two, but He carries i
t hanging over His shoulder. The crow says that she can always tell exactly when He, or anyone like Him, is going to be dangerous. If He comes without the third hand He isn’t dangerous.”

  Old Nettla laughed. “Your crow’s a blockhead, my dear Karus,” she said. “Tell her so for me. If she were as clever as she thinks she is, she’d know that He’s always dangerous, always.” But the others had different objections.

  Bambi’s mother said, “Some of Them aren’t dangerous; you can see that at a glance.”

  “Is that so?” old Nettla asked. “I suppose you stand still till They come up to you and wish you a good day?”

  Bambi’s mother answered gently. “Of course I don’t stand still; I run away.”

  And Faline broke in with, “You should always run away.” Everybody laughed.

  But when they talked about the third hand they became serious and fear grew on them gradually. For whatever it might be, a third hand or something else, it was terrible and they did not understand it. They only knew of it from others’ stories; few of them had ever seen it for themselves. He would stand still, far off, and never move. You couldn’t explain what He did or how it happened, but suddenly there would be a crash like thunder, fire would shoot out and far away from Him you would drop down dying with your breast torn open. They all sat bowed while they talked about Him, as though they felt the presence of some dark, unknown power controlling them.

  They listened curiously to the many stories that were always horrible, full of blood and suffering. They listened tirelessly to everything that was said about Him, tales that were certainly invented, all the stories and sayings that had come down from their fathers and great-grandfathers. In each one of them they were unconsciously seeking for some way to propitiate this dark power, or some way to escape it.

  “What difference does it make,” young Karus asked despondently, “how far away He is when He kills you?”

  “Didn’t your clever crow explain that to you?” old Nettla mocked.

  “No,” said Karus with a smile. “She says that she’s often seen Him but no one can explain Him.”

  “Yes, He knocks the crows out of the trees, too, when He wants to,” Ronno observed.

  “And He brings down the pheasant on the wing,” Aunt Ena added.

  Bambi’s mother said, “He throws His hand at you, my grandmother told me so.”

  “Is that so?” asked old Nettla. “What is it that bangs so terribly then?”

  “That’s when He tears His hand off,” Bambi’s mother explained. “Then the fire flashes and the thunder cracks. He’s all fire inside.”

  “Excuse me,” said Ronno. “It’s true that He’s all fire inside. But that about His hand is wrong. A hand couldn’t make such wounds. You can see that for yourself. It’s much more likely that it’s a tooth He throws at us. A tooth would explain a great many things, you know. You really die from His bite.”

  “Will He never stop hunting us?” young Karus sighed.

  Then Marena spoke, the young half-grown doe. “They say that sometime He’ll come to live with us and be as gentle as we are. He’ll play with us then and the whole forest will be happy, and we’ll be friends with Him.”

  Old Nettla burst out laughing. “Let Him stay where He is and leave us in peace,” she said.

  Aunt Ena said reprovingly, “You shouldn’t talk that way.”

  “And why not?” old Nettla replied hotly; “I really don’t see why not. Friends with Him! He’s murdered us ever since we can remember, every one of us, our sisters, our mothers, our brothers! Ever since we came into the world He’s given us no peace, but has killed us wherever we showed our heads. And now we’re going to be friends with Him. What nonsense!”

  Marena looked at all of them out of her big, calm, shining eyes. “Love is no nonsense,” she said. “It has to come.”

  Old Nettla turned away. “I’m going to look for something to eat,” she said, and trotted off.

  Chapter Ten

  WINTER DRAGGED ON. Sometimes it was warmer, but then the snow would fall again and lie deeper and deeper, so that it became impossible to scrape it away. It was worse when the thaws came and the melted snow water froze again in the night. Then there was a thin slippery film of ice. Often it broke in pieces and the sharp splinters cut the deer’s tender fetlocks till they bled.

  A heavy frost had set in several days before. The air was purer and rarer than it had ever been, and full of energy. It began to hum in a very fine high tone. It hummed with the cold.

  It was silent in the woods, but something horrible happened every day. Once the crows fell upon Friend Hare’s small son who was lying sick, and killed him in a cruel way. He could be heard moaning pitifully for a long while. Friend Hare was not at home, and when he heard the sad news he was beside himself with grief.

  Another time the squirrel raced about with a great wound in his neck where the ferret had caught him. By a miracle the squirrel had escaped. He could not talk because of the pain, but he ran up and down the branches. Everyone could see him. He ran like mad. From time to time he stopped, sat down, raised his forepaws desperately and clutched his head in terror and agony while the red blood oozed on his white chest. He ran about for an hour, then suddenly ­crumpled up, fell across a branch, and dropped dead in the snow. A ­couple of magpies flew down at once to begin their meal.

  Another day a fox tore to pieces the strong and handsome pheasant who had enjoyed such general respect and popularity. His death aroused the sympathies of a wide circle who tried to comfort his disconsolate widow.

  The fox had dragged the pheasant out of the snow, where he was buried, thinking himself well hidden. No one could have felt safer than the pheasant for it all happened in broad daylight. The terrible hardship that seemed to have no end spread bitterness and brutality. It destroyed all their memories of the past, their faith in each other, and ruined every good custom they had. There was no longer either peace or mercy in the ­forest.

  “It’s hard to believe that it will ever be better,” ­Bambi’s mother sighed.

  Aunt Ena sighed too. “It’s hard to believe that it was ever any better,” she said.

  “And yet,” Marena said, looking in front of her, “I always think how beautiful it was before.”

  “Look,” old Nettla said to Aunt Ena, “your little one is trembling.” She pointed to Gobo. “Does he always tremble like that?”

  “Yes,” Aunt Ena answered gravely, “he’s shivered that way for the last few days.”

  “Well,” said old Nettla in her frank way, “I’m glad that I have no more children. If that little one were mine I’d wonder if he’d last out the winter.”

  The future really didn’t look very bright for Gobo. He was weak. He had always been much more delicate than Bambi or Faline and remained smaller than either of them. He was growing worse from day to day. He could not eat even the little food there was. It made his stomach ache. And he was quite exhausted by the cold, and by the horrors around him. He shivered more and more and could hardly stand up. Everyone looked at him sympathetically.

  Old Nettla went up to him and nudged him good-naturedly. “Don’t be so sad,” she said encouragingly, “that’s no way for a little prince to act, and besides it’s unhealthy.” She turned away so that no one could see how moved she was.

  Ronno, who had settled himself a little to one side in the snow, suddenly sprang up. “I don’t know what it is,” he mumbled and gazed around.

  Everyone grew watchful. “What is it?” they asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ronno repeated. “But I’m restless. I suddenly felt restless as if something were wrong.”

  Karus was snuffing the air. “I don’t smell anything strange,” he declared.

  They all stood still, listening and snuffing the ai
r. “It’s nothing, there’s absolutely nothing to smell,” they agreed one after another.

  “Nevertheless,” Ronno insisted, “you can say what you like, something is wrong.”

  Marena said, “The crows are calling.”

  “There they go calling again,” Faline added quickly, but the others had already heard them.

  “They are flying,” said Karus and the others.

  Everybody looked up. High above the treetops a flock of crows flapped by. They came from the farthest edge of the forest, the direction from which danger always came, and they were complaining to one another. Apparently something unusual had happened.

  “Wasn’t I right?” asked Ronno. “You can see that something is happening.”

  “What shall we do?” Bambi’s mother whispered anxiously.

  “Let’s get away,” Aunt Ena urged in alarm.

  “Wait,” Ronno commanded.

  “But the children,” Aunt Ena replied, “the children. Gobo can’t run.”

  “Go ahead,” Ronno agreed, “go off with your children. I don’t think there’s any need for it, but I don’t blame you for going.” He was alert and serious.

  “Come, Gobo. Come, Faline. Softly now, go slowly. And keep behind me,” Aunt Ena warned them. She slipped away with the children.

  Time passed. They stood still, listening and trembling.

  “As if we hadn’t suffered enough already,” old ­Nettla began. “We still have this to go through. . . .” She was very angry. Bambi looked at her, and he felt that she was thinking of something horrible.

  Three or four magpies had already begun to chatter on the side of the thicket from which the crows had come. “Look out! Look out, out, out!” they cried. The deer could not see them, but could hear them calling and warning each other. Sometimes one of them, and sometimes all of them together, would cry, “Look out, out, out!” Then they came nearer. They fluttered in terror from tree to tree, peered back and fluttered away again in fear and alarm.