Bambi

by Felix Salten

  The old stag gave a barely perceptible nod and his eyes rested on Bambi more kindly than ever before.

  “But why?” Bambi said, “I don’t understand it.”

  “It’s enough that you feel it. You will understand it later,” the old stag said. “Goodbye.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  EVERYBODY SOON SAW THAT GOBO had habits which seemed strange and suspicious to the rest of them. He slept at night when the others were awake. But in the daytime, when the rest of them were looking for places to sleep in, he was wide awake and went walking. When he felt like it he would even go out of the thicket without any hesitation and stand with perfect peace of mind in the bright sunshine on the meadow.

  Bambi found it impossible to keep silent any ­longer. “Don’t you ever think of the danger?” he asked.

  “No,” Gobo said simply, “there isn’t any for me.”

  “You forget, my dear Bambi,” Gobo’s mother broke in, “you forget that He’s a friend of Gobo’s. Gobo can take chances that the rest of you cannot take.” She was very proud.

  Bambi did not say anything more.

  One day Gobo said to him, “You know, it seems strange to me to eat when and where I like.”

  Bambi did not understand. “Why is it strange, we all do it,” he said.

  “Oh, you do,” said Gobo superiorly, “but I’m a little different. I’m accustomed to having my food brought to me or to being called when it’s ready.”

  Bambi stared pityingly at Gobo. He looked at Faline and Marena and Aunt Ena. But they were all smiling and admiring Gobo.

  “I think it will be hard for you to get accustomed to the winter, Gobo,” Faline began; “we don’t have hay or turnips or potatoes in the winter time.”

  “That’s true,” answered Gobo reflectively, “I hadn’t thought about that yet. I can’t even imagine how it would feel. It must be dreadful.”

  Bambi said quietly, “It isn’t dreadful. It’s only hard.”

  “Well,” Gobo declared grandly, “if it gets too hard for me I’ll simply go back to Him. Why should I go hungry? There’s no need for that.”

  Bambi turned away without a word and walked off.

  When Gobo was alone again with Marena he began to talk about Bambi. “He doesn’t understand me,” he said. “Poor old Bambi thinks I’m still the silly little Gobo that I once was. He can never get used to the fact that I’ve become something unusual. Danger! . . . What does he mean by danger? He means well enough by me, but danger is something for him and the likes of him, not for me.”

  Marena agreed with him. She loved him and Gobo loved her and they were both very happy.

  “Well,” he said to her, “nobody understands me the way you do. But anyhow I can’t complain. I’m respected and honored by everybody. But you understand me best of all. When I tell the others how good He is, they listen and they don’t think I’m lying, but they stick to their opinion that He’s dreadful.”

  “I’ve always believed in Him,” said Marena dreamily.

  “Really?” Gobo replied airily.

  “Do you remember the day when they left you lying in the snow?” Marena went on. “I said that day that sometime He’d come to the forest to play with us.”

  “No,” Gobo replied yawning, “I don’t remember that.”

  A few weeks passed, and one morning Bambi and Faline, Gobo and Marena were standing together again in the old familiar hazel thicket. Bambi and Faline were just returning from their wanderings, intending to look for their hiding place, when they met Gobo and Marena. Gobo was about to go out on the meadow.

  “Stay with us instead,” said Bambi, “the sun will soon be rising and then nobody will go out in the open.”

  “Nonsense,” said Gobo, scornfully, “if nobody else will go, I will.”

  He went on, Marena following him.

  Bambi and Faline had stopped. “Come along,” said Bambi angrily to Faline, “come along. Let him do what he pleases.”

  They were going on, but suddenly the jay screamed loudly from the far side of the meadow. With a bound Bambi had turned and was running after Gobo. Right by the oak he caught up with him and Marena.

  “Did you hear that?” he cried to him.

  “What?” asked Gobo, puzzled.

  Again the jay screamed on the far side of the meadow.

  “Did you hear that?” Bambi repeated.

  “No,” said Gobo calmly.

  “That means danger,” Bambi persisted.

  A magpie began to chatter loudly and, immediately after her, another and then a third. Then the jay screamed again and far overhead the crows gave warning.

  Faline began to plead. “Don’t go out there, Gobo! It’s dangerous.”

  Even Marena begged, “Stay here. Stay here today, beloved one. It’s dangerous.”

  Gobo stood there, smiling in his superior way. “Dangerous! dangerous! What has that to do with me?” he asked.

  His pressing need gave Bambi an idea. “At least let Marena go first,” he said, “so we can find out . . .”

  He hadn’t finished before Marena had slipped out.

  All three stood and looked at her. Bambi and Faline breathlessly, Gobo with obvious patience, as if to let the others enjoy their foolish whims.

  They saw how Marena walked across the meadow step by step, with hesitant feet, her head up. She peered and snuffed in all directions. Suddenly she turned like a flash with one high bound and, as though a cyclone had struck her, rushed back into the thicket.

  “It’s He, He,” she whispered, her voice choking with terror. She was trembling in every limb. “I, I saw Him,” she stammered, “it’s He. He’s standing over by the alders.”

  “Come,” cried Bambi, “come quickly.”

  “Come,” Faline pleaded. And Marena, who could hardly speak, whispered, “Please come now, Gobo, please.”

  But Gobo remained unmoved. “Run as much as you like,” he said, “I won’t stop you. If He’s there I want to talk with Him.”

  Gobo could not be dissuaded.

  They stood and watched how he went out. They stayed there, moved by his great confidence, while at the same time a terrible fear for him gripped them.

  Gobo was standing boldly on the meadow looking around for the alders. Then he seemed to see them and to have discovered Him. Then the thunder crashed.

  Gobo leaped into the air at the report. He suddenly turned around and fled back to the thicket, staggering as he came.

  They still stood there, petrified with terror, while he came on. They heard him gasping for breath. And as he did not stop but bounded wildly forward, they turned and surrounded him and all took flight.

  But poor Gobo dropped to the ground. Marena stopped close to him, Bambi and Faline a little farther off, ready to flee.

  Gobo lay with his bloody entrails oozing from his torn flank. He lifted his head with a feeble twisting motion.

  “Marena,” he said with an effort, “Marena. . . .” He did not recognize her. His voice failed.

  There was a loud careless rustling in the bushes by the meadow. Marena bent her head toward Gobo. “He’s coming,” she whispered frantically, “Gobo, He’s coming! Can’t you get up and come with me?”

  Gobo lifted his head again feebly with a writhing motion, beat convulsively with his hoofs and then lay still.

  With a crackling, snapping and rustling He parted the bushes and stepped out.

  Marena saw Him from quite near. She slunk slowly back, disappearing through the nearest bushes, and hastened to Bambi and Faline.

  She looked back once again and saw how He was bending over and seizing the wounded deer.

  Then they heard Gobo’s wailing death shriek.

  Chapter Twenty

  BAMBI WAS ALONE. HE WALKED beside the water that ran swiftly among the reeds and swamp willows.


  He went there more and more often now that he was staying by himself. There were few trails there, and he hardly ever met any of his friends. That was just what he wanted. For his thoughts had grown serious and his heart heavy. He did not know what was happening within him. He did not even think about it. He merely recalled things aimlessly, and his whole life seemed to have become darker.

  He used to stand for hours on the bank. The current, that flowed round a gentle bend there, occupied his entire thought. The cool air from the ripples brought him strange, refreshing, acrid smells that aroused forgetfulness and a sense of trust in him.

  Bambi would stand and watch the ducks paddling companionably together. They talked endlessly to one another in a friendly, serious, capable way.

  There were a couple of mother ducks, each with a flock of young ones around her. They were constantly teaching their young ones things. And the little ones were always learning them. Sometimes one or the other of the mothers would give a warning. Then the young ducks would dash off in all directions. They would scatter and glide away perfectly noiselessly. Bambi saw how the smallest ones, who could not fly yet, would paddle among the thicket rushes without moving a stem that might betray them by swaying. He would see the small dark bodies creep here and there among the reeds. Then he could see nothing more.

  Later one of the mothers would give a short call and in a flash they would all flock around her again. In an instant they would reassemble their flotilla and go on cruising quietly about as before. Bambi marveled anew at it each time. It was a constant source of wonder to him.

  After one such alarm, Bambi asked one of the mothers, “What was it? I was looking closely and I didn’t see anything.”

  “It was nothing at all,” answered the duck.

  Another time one of the children gave the signal, turning like a flash and staring through the reeds. Presently he came out on the bank where Bambi was standing.

  “There wasn’t anything,” the young one replied, shaking its tail feathers in a grown-up way and carefully putting the tips of its wings in place. Then it ­paddled through the water again.

  Nevertheless Bambi had faith in the ducks. He came to the conclusion that they were more watchful than he, that they heard and saw things more quickly. When he stood watching them, that ceaseless tension that he felt within himself at other times relaxed a little.

  He liked to talk with the ducks, too. They didn’t talk the nonsense that he so often heard from the ­others. They talked about the broad skies and the wind and about distant fields where they feasted on choice ­tidbits.

  From time to time Bambi saw something that looked like a fiery streak in the air beside the brook. “Srrrri!” the hummingbird would cry softly, darting past like a tiny whirring speck. There was a gleam of green, a glow of red, as he flashed by and was gone. Bambi was thrilled and wanted to see the bright stranger near to. He called to him.

  “Don’t bother calling him,” the sedge hen said to Bambi from among the reed clumps, “don’t bother calling. He’ll never answer you.”

  “Where are you?” asked Bambi, peering among the reeds.

  But the sedge hen only laughed loudly from an entirely different place, “Here I am. That cranky ­creature you just called to won’t talk to anyone. It’s useless to call him.”

  “He’s so handsome,” said Bambi.

  “But bad,” the sedge hen retorted from still another place.

  “What makes you think him bad?” Bambi inquired.

  The sedge hen answered from an altogether different place, “He doesn’t care for anything or anybody. Let anything happen that wants to, he won’t speak to anybody and never thanked anybody for speaking to him. He never gives anybody warning when there’s danger. He’s never said a word to a living soul.”

  “The poor . . .” said Bambi.

  The sedge hen went on talking, and her cheery, piping voice sounded from the far side again. “He probably thinks that people are jealous of his silly markings and doesn’t want them to get too good a look at him.”

  “Certain other people don’t let you get a good look at them either,” said Bambi.

  In a twinkling the sedge hen was standing in front of him. “There’s nothing to look at in my case,” she said simply. Small and gleaming with water, she stood there in her sleek feathers, her trim figure restless, animated and satisfied. In a flash she was gone again.

  “I don’t understand how people can stand so long in one spot,” she called from the water. And added from the far side, “It’s tiresome and dangerous to stay so long in one spot.” Then from the other side she cried gaily once or twice. “You have to keep moving,” she cried happily, “you’ve got to keep moving if you want to keep whole and hearty.”

  A soft rustling in the grass startled Bambi. He looked around. There was a reddish flash among the bushes. It disappeared in the reeds. At the same time a sharp warm smell reached his nostrils. The fox had slunk by.

  Bambi wanted to cry out and stamp on the ground as a warning. But the sedges rustled as the fox parted them in quick leaps. The water splashed and a duck screamed desperately. Bambi heard her wings flapping and saw her white body flash through the leaves. He saw how her wings beat the fox’s face with sharp blows. Then it grew still.

  At the same moment the fox came out of the bushes holding the duck in his jaws. Her neck hung down limply, her wings were still moving, but the fox paid no attention to that. He looked sidewise at Bambi with sneering eyes and crept slowly into the thicket.

  Bambi stood motionless.

  A few of the old ducks had flown up with a rush of wings and were flying around in helpless fright. The sedge hen was crying warnings from all directions. The titmice chirped excitedly in the bushes. And the young orphaned ducks splashed about the sedge, crying with soft voices.

  The hummingbird flew along the bank.

  “Please tell us,” the young ducks cried, “please tell us, have you seen our mother?”

  “Srrri,” cried the hummingbird shrilly, and flew past sparkling, “what has she got to do with me?”

  Bambi turned and went away. He wandered through a whole sea of goldenrod, passed through a grove of young beeches, crossed through old hazel thickets until he reached the edge of the deep ditch. He roamed around it, hoping to meet the old stag. He had not seen him for a long while, not since Gobo’s death.

  Then he caught a glimpse of him from afar and ran to meet him. For a while they walked together in silence; then the old stag asked: “Well, do they still talk about him the way they used to?”

  Bambi understood that he referred to Gobo and replied, “I don’t know. I’m nearly alone now.” He hesitated. “But I think of him very often.”

  “Really,” said the old stag, “are you alone now?”

  “Yes,” said Bambi expectantly, but the old stag remained silent.

  They went on. Suddenly the old stag stopped. “Don’t you hear anything?” he asked.

  Bambi listened. He didn’t hear anything.

  “Come,” cried the old stag and hurried forward. Bambi followed him. The stag stopped again. “Don’t you hear anything yet?” he asked.

  Then Bambi heard a rustling that he did not understand. It sounded like branches being bent down and repeatedly springing up again. Something was beating the earth dully and irregularly.

  Bambi wanted to flee but the old stag cried, “Come with me,” and ran in the direction of the noise. Bambi, at his side, ventured to ask, “Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “It’s terribly dangerous,” the old stag answered mysteriously.

  Soon they saw branches being pulled and tugged at from below and shaken violently. They went nearer and saw that a little trail ran through the middle of the bushes.

  Friend Hare was lying on the ground. He flung himself from side to side and writhed. Then he lay still and writhed agai
n. Each of his motions pulled at the branches over him.

  Bambi noticed a dark threadlike leash. It ran right from the branch to Friend Hare and was twisted around his neck.

  Friend Hare must have heard someone coming, for he flung himself wildly into the air and fell to the ground. He tried to escape and rolled, jerking and writhing in the grass.

  “Lie still,” the old stag commanded. Then sympathetically, with a gentle voice that went to Bambi’s heart, he repeated in his ear, “Be easy, Friend Hare, it’s I. Don’t move now. Lie perfectly still.”

  The Hare lay motionless, flat on the ground. His throttled breath rattled softly in his throat.

  The old stag took the branch between his teeth, and twisted it. He bent it down. Then he walked around putting his weight cunningly against it. He held it to the earth with his hoof and snapped it with a single blow of his antlers.

  Then he nodded encouragingly to the Hare. “Lie still,” he said, “even if I hurt you.”

  Holding his head on one side, he laid one prong of his antlers close to the Hare’s neck, and pressed into the fur behind his ear. He made an effort and nodded. The Hare began to writhe.

  The old stag immediately drew back. “Lie still,” he commanded, “it’s a question of life and death for you.” He began over again. The Hare lay still gasping. Bambi stood close by, speechless with amazement.

  One of the old stag’s antlers, pressing against the Hare’s fur, had slipped under the noose. The old stag was almost kneeling and twisted his head as though he were charging. He drove his antlers deeper and deeper under the noose, which gave at last and began to loosen.

  The Hare could breathe again and his terror and pain burst from him instantly. “E-e-eh!” he cried bitterly.

  The old stag stopped. “Keep quiet!” he cried, reproaching him gently, “keep quiet!” His mouth was close to the Hare’s shoulder, his antlers lay with a prong between the spoonlike ears. It looked as if he had spitted the Hare.

  “How can you be so stupid as to cry at this time?” he grumbled gently. “Do you want the fox to come? Do you? I thought not. Keep quiet then.”