The Pobratim Part 37

One night, as he pressed the little animal to his breast, he felt his heart overflow with love for it, and in his unutterable fondness he begged the Almighty to change this dear little mouse into a girl; and lo, and behold! G.o.d granted his prayer, for, of course, he was a saintly man. The hermit pressed the girl to his heart, and then fell upon his knees and thanked the All-Merciful for His great goodness.

The girl grew up a beautiful maiden--tall, slender, and most graceful in her movements, with a soft skin, and twinkling, almost mischievous eyes.

Years pa.s.sed. The hermit now had grown to be a very old man; and in his last years his spirit was troubled, and his heart was full of care. He knew that he had pa.s.sed the time allotted to man here below, and he was loth to think that he would have to die and leave his daughter alone in the wilderness. Besides, she had reached marriageable age; and if it is no easy matter for a match-making mother to marry her daughter in a populous town, it was a difficult task to find a husband for her in that desert. Moreover, he did not exactly know how to broach the subject of matrimony to a girl who was so very ingenuous, and who thought that all the world was limited to the cave and the hill on which she lived. Still, he did not shrink from this duty; and, therefore, he told her what he had read in scientific books about the conjunctions of planets in the sky. Then he quoted the Scriptures, and said that it was not good for man to be alone, nor for woman either; that even widows should marry, if they cannot live in the holy state of celibacy.

The poor girl did not quite fathom all the depths of his speech, but said she would be guided by his wisdom.

"Very well," said the anchorite, "I shall soon find you a husband worthy of you."

"But," said the girl, ingenuously, "why do you not marry me yourself?"

"_I_ marry you? First, my dear, I am a hermit, and hermits never marry, for if they did, they might have a family, then--you understand--they wouldn't be hermits any more, would they?"

"But they needn't have a family, need they?"

"Well, perhaps not; besides, I can't marry you, because----"

"Because?"

"I," stammered the anchorite, blushing, "I'm too old."

"Ah, yes!" echoed the maid, sighing; "it's a fact, you are _very_ old."

That night, after the hermit and his adopted daughter had said their prayers, she, who was very sleepy, went off to bed, whilst he, who was as perplexed as any father having a dowerless daughter, went out of his cavern to meditate.

The full moon had just risen above the verge of the horizon, and her soft light silvered the sand of the desert, and made it look like newly fallen snow.

The old man stood on top of the hill, and stretching forth his arms to the Moon:

"Oh! thou mightiest of G.o.d's works, lovely Moon, take pity upon a perplexed father, and listen to my prayer. I have one fair daughter that has now reached marriageable age; she is of radiant beauty, and well versed in all the mysteries of our holy religion. Marry my daughter, O Moon!"

"Now," said Radonic, interrupting, "that's foolish; how could the old hermit expect the Moon to marry his daughter?"

"First, this is a parable, like one of those our blessed Saviour used to tell the people; therefore, being a parable, it's Gospel, and you must believe it as a true story, for it is the life of one of the holy Fathers of the Church."

"I see," quoth Radonic, although he did not see quite clearly.

Then the Moon replied:

"You are mistaken, old man; I am not the mightiest of G.o.d's creation.

The Sun, whose light I reflect, is the greatest of the Omnipotent's works; ask the Sun to be a husband to thy daughter."

The hermit sank on his knees and uttered lengthy prayers, till the light of the Moon grew pale and vanished, and the sky got to be of a saffron tint; soon afterwards, the first rays of the Sun flooded the desert, and trans.m.u.ted the sandy plain into one ma.s.s of glittering gold. When the old man saw the effulgent disc of the Sun, he stretched out his arms and apostrophised this planet as he had done the Moon. Then he rubbed his hands and thought:

"Well, if I only get the Sun for my son-in-law I'm a lucky man."

But the Morning Sun told the hermit that he was mistaken:

"I'm not the mightiest of the Creator's works," quoth the Sun. "You see yon cloudlet yonder. Well, soon that little weasel will get to be as big as a camel, then as a whale, then it'll spread all over the sky and will hide my face from the earth I love so well. That Cloud is mightier than I am."

Then the hermit waited on top of the hill until he saw the Cloud expand itself in the most fantastic shapes, and when it had covered up the face of the Morning Sun, the hermit stretched out his hands and offered to it his daughter in marriage. The Cloud, however, answered just as the Moon and the Sun had done, and it proposed the Simoon as a suitor to his daughter.

"Wait a bit," said the Cloud, "and you will see the might of the Simoon, that, howling, rises and not only drives us whithersoever he will, but scatters us in the four corners of the Earth."

No sooner had the Cloud done speaking than the Wind arose, lifting up clouds of dust from the earth. It seemed to cast the sand upwards in the face of the sky, and against the clouds; and the waters above dropped down in big tears, or fled from the wrath of the Wind.

Then the hermit stretched his hands towards the Simoon, and begged him, as the mightiest of the Creator's works, to marry his daughter.

But the Wind, howling, told him to turn his eyes towards a high mountain, the snowy summit of which was faintly seen far off in the distance. "That Mountain," said he, "is mightier by far than myself."

The hermit then went into the cavern and told his daughter that, as it was impossible to find a suitor for her in the desert, he was going on a journey, from which he would only return on the morrow.

"And will you bring me a husband when you come back?" she asked, merrily.

"I trust so, with G.o.d's grace," quoth the Hermit, "and one well worthy of you, my beloved daughter."

Then the hermit girded his loins, took up his staff, and journeyed in the direction of the setting sun. Having reached the foot of the Mountain when the gloaming tinged its flanks in blood, he stretched out his arms up to the summit of the Mount and begged it to marry his daughter.

"Alas," answered the Mountain, mournfully, "you are much mistaken. I am by no means the mightiest of G.o.d's works. A Rat that has burrowed a big hole at my feet is mightier by far than I am, for he nibbles and bites me and burrows in my bowels, and I can do nothing against it. Ask the Rat to marry thy daughter, for he is mightier by far than I am."

The hermit, after much ado, found out the Rat's hole, and likewise the Rat, who--like himself--was a hermit.

"Oh, mightiest of G.o.d's mighty works! I have one daughter, pa.s.sing fair, highly accomplished, and well versed in sacred lore; wilt thou--unless thou art already married--take this rare maiden as thy lawful wedded wife?"

"Hitherto, I have never contemplated marriage," retorted the Rat, "for 'sufficient to the day are the evils thereof'; still, where is your daughter?"

"She is at home, in the wilderness."

"Well, you can't expect me to marry a cat in a bag, can you?" he answered, squeaking snappishly.

"Oh, certainly not!" replied the anchorite, humbly; "still, that she is fair, you have my word on it; and I was a judge of beauty in past times"--thereupon he stopped, and humbly crossed himself--"that she is wise--well, she is my daughter."

"Pooh!" said the Rat; "every father thinks his child the fairest one on earth; you know the story of the owl, don't you?"

"I do," retorted the hermit, hastily.

"Then you wouldn't like me to tell it you, would you?"

"No, not I."

"Well, then, what about your daughter?"

"I'll take you to see her, if you like."

"Is it far?"

"A good day's walk."

"H'm, I don't think it's worth while going so far. Could you not bring her here for me to see her?"