His lament did not satisfy the old woman’s curiosity. She was far more concerned with his material position than with his soul. She didn’t find out the name of his father or his kingdom. He stroked the hard little pug dog—who was warmed by the sunlight and the young man’s breast as if it were living—and asked a lot of questions about the man with the lamp, and the possible effect of the sacred light on his pitiful condition. He seemed to hope for some benefit from it.
They were still conversing when they could see the majestic span of a bridge in the distance, reaching from one shore to the other and shimmering marvelously in the sun’s glowing light. Both were astounded. They had never seen the span so effulgent. “What has happened?” cried the prince. “Wasn’t it beautiful enough when it stood before our eyes as if made of jasper and quartz? Shouldn’t one fear to cross it now that it seems to consist of emeralds, chrysoprase, and chrysolite?” Neither of them knew of the change that had come over the serpent—for it was the serpent who arched herself every noon across the river in the shape of a bold bridge. The wanderers stepped onto it reverently and crossed it in silence.
As soon as they reached the other side, the bridge began to sway and move. Soon it touched the surface of the water; the serpent, in her proper form, slithered on land and followed the wanderers. They had just finished thanking her for having allowed them to pass across the river on her back, when they noticed that, besides the three of them, others were present whom, however, they could not see; but they could hear a hissing at their sides and the serpent answering in a similar fashion. They listened and could finally make out the following: “We intend to look around the park of the Beautiful Lily first, incognito, and we would appreciate it if you would introduce us to this famous beauty at nightfall, as soon as we are presentable. You will find us at the edge of the big lake.”
“Very well,” replied the serpent, and a hissing sound was lost in the air.
Now the three travelers discussed in what order they should appear before the Beautiful Lily, for she could receive as many visitors as she liked, but they had to come and go singly or suffer considerable pain.
The woman, with the transformed dog in her basket, approached the garden first and looked for her benefactress, who was easy to find because she was singing to the harp. The lovely tones appeared first as rings on the still surface of the lake, then like zephyrs they set grass and bush in motion. There she sat, in a green enclosure, in the shade of a magnificent group of the most varied trees, enchanting the eyes, ears, and heart of the woman who approached, overjoyed and vowing that during her absence the Beautiful Lily had only grown more lovely. Already from a distance the good woman called out greeting and praise to the lovely girl. “What a blessing it is to look upon you! What heaven is spread by your presence! How charmingly the harp rests on your lap—your arms surround it so gently, it seems to yearn for your breast—and how lovely it sounds under your slender fingers! Oh thrice fortunate man who could take its place!”
With these words, she came closer. The Beautiful Lily raised her eyes, let her hands sink, and said, “Do not distress me with untimely praise. It only makes me feel my misfortune all the more strongly. Look—my poor canary, who used to accompany my singing so prettily, lies dead at my feet. He would perch on my harp and was carefully trained not to touch me. Today, when I awoke refreshed by sleep and raised my voice to sing a tranquil melody to the morn, and my little bird began to sing more harmoniously and brightly than ever before, a hawk swooped down over my head. In its fright, my poor little bird fled to my breast…at once, I could feel how the last twitching of life left it. I gave the bird of prey a look…you can see him down there, slinking helplessly beside the water. But of what use is his punishment to me? My darling is dead, and his grave will help only to augment the sad hedgerows of my garden.”
“Cheer up, Beautiful Lily!” cried the woman, drying the tears the unfortunate girl’s tale had caused her to shed. “Do not despair. My old man wants you to know that you are to restrain your grief and look upon the greatest misfortune as a harbinger of good luck, for the time is at hand. And truly, strange things are happening. Just look at my hand, how black it is, and it really is much smaller. I must hurry, or it will disappear completely. Oh, why did I promise favors to the will-o’-the-wisps? Why did I have to meet the giant and dip my hand into the river? Could you give me a cabbage, an artichoke, and an onion? I would bring them to the river and my hand would be so white again—I could almost compare it with yours.”
“You might possibly still find cabbages and onions, but artichokes you will seek in vain. None of the plants in my garden blossom or bear fruit, but everything I break off and plant on the grave of a beloved greens and shoots up at once. Alas, I have seen all these dales, bushes, and thickets grow. This umbrella of pines, these obelisks of cypresses, these colossal oaks and beeches—all were little sprigs planted by my hand as a sad memorial in otherwise unfruitful earth.”
The old woman had paid little heed to this speech. She had been watching her hand, which seemed to grow blacker and smaller from minute to minute in the presence of the Beautiful Lily. The woman wanted to pick up her basket and hurry off, but then she remembered that she had forgotten the best thing of all. She lifted the transformed dog out of the basket and laid him on the grass, not far from the beautiful girl. “My husband sends you this token,” she said. “You know that you can bring this precious stone to life by touching it. The good, bright little animal will surely bring you much joy, and my distress over losing him will be dispelled by the thought that you own him.”
The Beautiful Lily looked at the little animal with pleasure and, it seemed, with some astonishment. “Many signs come together to give me new hope,” she said. “But alas, isn’t it natural to delude ourselves by imagining that good things are on the way when much misfortune is heaped upon us?
“What solace can good omen bring to me?
My sweet bird’s death, the black hand of my friend,
The jeweled dog—however precious he may be,
Whom Lamp, to comfort me, did send…
“Far, far removed from every human pleasure,
My dire grief the only thing I know…
Oh, when will temple stand on bank of river?
Oh, when will bridge on shores of river grow?”
This song, which the Beautiful Lily accompanied charmingly on her harp, delighted everyone except the old woman, who listened to it with impatience. She was about to take her departure but was interrupted again, this time by the appearance of the serpent, who had heard the last two lines of the song and at once tried to encourage the Beautiful Lily.
“The prophecy of the bridge has been fulfilled,” she cried. “Just ask this good woman here how magnificent the span is. What was formerly jasper and quartz, and let the light gleam through only around the edges, has become transparent gem. Beryl is not so clear nor can emeralds be said to have such beautiful color.”
“My congratulations,” said the Lily, “and may it bring you good luck, but you will forgive me if I do not consider the prophecy fulfilled yet. People can pass across your bridge only on foot, but we were promised that horse and carriage and all types of passengers would be able to cross back and forth on it at the same time. And didn’t the prophecy speak of huge pillars that would rise up out of the river itself?”
The old woman, who hadn’t taken her eyes off her shrinking hand, now interrupted the conversation to say farewell. “Stay one moment longer,” said the Beautiful Lily, “and take my poor canary with you. Beg the lamp to turn the little thing into a beautiful topaz. Then I will restore him by touching him and, with your dear little pug dog, he will be my favorite playmate. But hurry as fast as you can, for when the sun sets, it will begin to decay horribly, and the lovely unity of its body will be forever destroyed.”
The old woman laid the dead bird on some delicate leaves in her basket and hurried off.
“Be that as it may,” said the serpent, c
ontinuing the interrupted conversation, “the temple has been built.”
“But it does not stand on the banks of the river,” said the Beautiful Lily.
“It still rests in the deeps of the earth,” said the serpent, “but I have seen the kings and spoken to them.”
“And when will they arise?” asked the Lily.
The serpent replied, “I heard the words echo through the temple…the time is at hand!”
A sweet expression of joy suffused the beautiful girl’s features. “So I hear those happy words today for the second time! Oh, when will the day come when I shall hear them spoken thrice?”
She rose, and at once a pretty young girl stepped out of the bushes and took her harp. She was followed by a second girl, who collapsed the carved-ivory outdoor chair on which the Beautiful Lily had been sitting and took away the silver cushion under her arm. A third, carrying a huge parasol embroidered with pearls, appeared next and waited to see if the Beautiful Lily needed her to accompany her on a walk. These three girls were indescribably beautiful; still their beauty served only to heighten the Beautiful Lily’s, which everyone had to admit was incomparable.
Meanwhile the Beautiful Lily had been looking down at the wonderful pug dog, and the sight of him seemed to please her. She bent down and touched him—immediately he leaped to his feet, looked about him brightly, ran back and forth, then rushed up to his benefactress and greeted her in the friendliest fashion.
She took the little animal in her arms and pressed him to her. “You are cold,” she murmured, “and only half alive, yet you are welcome. I shall love you tenderly, play nicely with you, stroke you with affection, and press you to my heart.” Then she let him go, chased him away, called him back, and played on the grass with him so gaily and with such innocence that it was a joy to watch her, and everyone present participated in her pleasure, just as a short while ago her grief had made every heart feel compassion.
Her enchanting play was interrupted by the arrival of the sad young man. He appeared on the scene as we already know him, but the heat of the day seemed to have exhausted him still further, and in the presence of his beloved, he grew paler with every passing minute. He was carrying the hawk on his hand. The bird sat there, quiet as a dove, its wings drooping.
“It is not friendly of you,” the Beautiful Lily cried as he approached, “to bring that hateful animal before me, the monster that killed my little songbird.”
“Do not rail against this unfortunate bird,” replied the youth. “Rail rather against yourself and your fate, and permit me to associate with the companion of my misery.”
Meanwhile, the pug dog had never ceased to gambol around his beautiful mistress, and she continued to cater to her little admirer. She clapped her hands to drive him off, then ran after him to bring him back; she tried to catch him when he fled, and chased him off when he came too close. The youth watched their play, taciturn and miserable. But when she took the ugly little thing in her arms—he found the animal repulsive—and pressed it to her heart and kissed its little black nose with her heavenly lips, he lost all patience and cried out in his despair, “Must I see with my own eyes how you may play with such a freak of nature, how it attracts you and enjoys your embrace? I, who by a miserable fate must live in a present that is ever separate from you, perhaps forever? I, who have lost everything through you—even myself—how much longer am I to come and go, pacing off the sad circle that takes me back and forth across the river? No—a spark of the old heroic courage still flickers in my breast. Let it rise up now in one last flame! If stone may rest against your bosom, then may I be turned to stone! If your touch spells death, then let me die at your hands!”
He made a violent gesture, and the hawk flew from his hand as he ran up to the Beautiful Lily. She stretched out her hands to stop him, thus only touching him sooner. He lost consciousness. Horrified, she could feel his dead weight on her breast. With a scream, she stepped back, and the youth sank expired from her arms to the ground.
A tragedy had taken place. The Beautiful Lily stood motionless, staring fixedly at the dead body. It was as if her heart had stopped beating, and her eyes were void of tears. The little dog tried in vain to wrest some affection from her—for her the whole world had died with her friend. In silent despair she did not look up for help—she knew there was no help.
But the serpent became more alert than ever. Her mind seemed bent on salvation and her strange behavior actually did prevent the most imminent dread effect of the disaster. With her supple body, she drew a wide circle around the lifeless form, took her tail between her teeth, and remained lying there, perfectly still.
Soon one of the Lily’s beautiful handmaidens stepped forward, brought back the ivory collapsible chair, and with a compassionate gesture begged the Beautiful Lily to be seated. Then the second one came with a fiery-colored scarf; with it she adorned rather than covered her mistress’ head. The third girl gave her the harp, and she had scarcely pressed the magnificent instrument to her and played a few notes, when the first girl came back with a bright, round mirror and took up a stand opposite the Beautiful Lily, catching her mistress’ glance in the mirror, and presented her with the most pleasing picture to be found in all nature. Pain heightened the lovely girl’s beauty, the scarf enhanced her charm, and the harp her grace. Although everyone hoped to see her unhappy condition changed, they could not but wish to see her image held fast as it was now.
Looking into the mirror, silently, she at first evoked melting tones on the strings, but soon her pain seemed to grow, and the instrument responded powerfully to her grief. Once or twice her lips parted as if she would sing, but her voice failed her. Soon, however, her agony was dissolved in tears, and two of the girls came to her aid and grasped her under the arm. The harp sank on her lap. The third girl was just able to catch it and lay it aside.
“Who will go and get us the man with the lamp before sundown?” the serpent hissed softly, but quite clearly.
The girls looked at each other, but the Beautiful Lily’s tears only flowed faster. Just then the woman with the basket came back, all out of breath. “I am lost and a cripple!” she cried. “Look how my hand has almost completely disappeared! Neither the ferryman nor the giant will put me across the water because I am still a debtor to the river. I have offered it one hundred cabbages and one hundred onions—in vain. All it wants is the three artichokes—and there isn’t an artichoke to be found in the entire region!”
“Forget your troubles,” said the serpent, “and try to help us here. Perhaps you will be helped at the same time. Hurry as fast as you can to find the will-o’-the-wisps. It is still too light to see them, but you may be able to hear them laugh and flutter. If you hurry, the giant can still put you across the river, and you can find the man with the lamp and send him to us.”
The woman hastened as fast as she could and the serpent seemed to wait for her return with her husband just as impatiently as the Beautiful Lily. Unfortunately the rays of the setting sun were already gilding the crowns of the trees in the glade and long shadows were falling on lake and meadow. The serpent became restless and the Beautiful Lily was again dissolved in tears.
In their dilemma the serpent never ceased looking around her, for she feared that the sun might go down at any moment and that decay would penetrate the magic circle—then nothing would be able to deter its attacking the handsome youth. Suddenly she saw the hawk high up in the sky, its wings purple-red as the last rays of the sun fell on its breast. She shook herself with joy at the good omen and she was not deceived, for soon they could see the man with the lamp gliding across the lake as if on skates.
The serpent didn’t change her position, but the Lily rose and cried out to him, “What good spirit sends you to us just at this moment, when we have sent for you and are in such need of your aid?”
“The spirit of my lamp impels me,” said the old man, “and the hawk led me here. The lamp sputters when I am needed, and I look for signs only in the air. Birds
and meteors show me in what direction to turn. Be calm, beautiful maiden! I don’t know if I can help. One man alone doesn’t help, but only he who unites with many at the right time. What we have to do is delay and hope. Keep your circle closed,” he went on, turning to the serpent as he sat down beside her on a little hummock and cast the rays of his lamp on the dead body. “Bring the good little canary here, too, and lay him down in the circle.” The handmaidens took the little body out of the basket, which the old woman had put down, and obeyed the man.
Meanwhile the sun had set, and as the darkness increased, not only the serpent and the man’s lamp glowed, each in its own fashion, but the Lily’s scarf gave off a gentle light that colored her pale cheeks and her white garment with infinite loveliness, like the roseate hues of dawn. All of them looked at one another in a silent exchange of contemplation, their anxiety and sorrow eased by certain hope.
The appearance of the old woman, accompanied by the two scintillating lights, was therefore most welcome. The will-o’-the-wisps gave every evidence of having lived extravagantly in the meantime, for they were very thin, but this did not seem to detract in the least from their good behavior toward the princess and the other maidens. They spoke about quite ordinary things with assurance and vivacity and seemed to be particularly fascinated by the enchantment the glowing scarf cast upon the Lily and her girls. The latter lowered their eyes modestly, and the praise of their beauty served only to heighten it. Everyone was pleased and calm except the old woman. Despite the assurances of her husband that her hand could not shrink further as long as his lamp was shining on it, she declared several times that, if things went on like this, her noble limb would have disappeared completely before midnight.
The man with the lamp had been following the conversation of the will-o’-the-wisps attentively and was delighted that the Lily was distracted and cheered by it. And truly, midnight came, no one knew how. The old man looked up at the stars and spoke. “We are assembled here at a most fortunate hour. If everyone stays at his post and does his duty, a universal happiness will resolve our individual pain, just as a universal disaster can destroy individual joy.”
The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings Page 26