“Think it over carefully,” she said. “Has this discovery hurt your love for me? Can you forget that I live with you in two shapes? Doesn’t the diminution of my form also diminish your love for me?”
I looked at her—she was more lovely than ever—and I thought to myself, “Is it such a misfortune to possess a woman who, from time to time, is so tiny that one can carry her in a casket? Wouldn’t it be much worse if, instead of becoming a pixie, she were to become gigantic, and put her man in a casket?” By this time my good humor had been restored, and I would not have let her go for anything in the world.
“Dear heart,” I said, “let all things remain as they are. Could two people be more blessed? Do whatever is best for yourself, and I promise you that all I shall do is carry the casket more carefully than ever. How could the prettiest little thing I have ever seen in my life make a bad impression on me? How happy all lovers would be if they could possess such a miniature of their beloved! For that’s what it is, a miniature, a most artful deception. You may test and tease me, but you shall see how staunch I shall be!”
“The situation is more serious than you realize,” she said, “but I am glad to see you take it so lightly, for things may still turn out happily for both of us. I am going to trust you and will do the best I can; only promise me never to think with reproach of what you have discovered. And I want to add one more, most urgent request—be more cautious than ever of wine and anger.”
I promised everything she asked and would have gone on protesting, but she changed the subject, and all things were as they had been before. There was no reason for us to move from where we were staying—the town was large, the sociabilities were varied, and the season was favorable for picnics and garden parties.
At all such festivities my lady was very popular; in fact, she was in demand. Her ingratiating behavior, her refinement, accompanied by a certain natural dignity, drew everyone to her. Moreover, she could play the lute beautifully and sing to her own accompaniment, and she graced all our nocturnal outings with her talents.
I have to admit that I was never one to enjoy music; in fact, it always impressed me unfavorably. My beautiful beloved had noticed this and therefore never tried to entertain me with music when we were alone. But when we were among people, she seemed to make up for it, in the course of which she attracted many admirers.
And now, why shouldn’t I admit that, despite my best intentions, our last conversation had not completely satisfied me? I could not throw the thing off; my reaction to it was strange without my actually being conscious of it, until one night, at a large gathering, my suppressed resentment burst forth with dreadful results for me.
As I look back, I must confess that I did love the charming creature much less after my unfortunate discovery, and now I was jealous of her, something that would never have occurred to me before. That evening at dinner, we were seated diagonally opposite each other and quite far apart. I was feeling very happy between two ladies whom I found most attractive. With jokes and foolish love-talk we were not sparing with the wine.
Meanwhile, two music-loving gentlemen had taken possession of my lady and were encouraging the others to sing—solos and in harmony—which didn’t suit me at all. I found the art-loving gentlemen forward, the singing irritated me, and when even I was asked to contribute a solo, I did nothing to hide my bad temper, but drained my glass and slammed it down again on the table, hard.
My neighbors’ charms soon pacified me somewhat, but anger once aroused is a pernicious thing. It continued to rage within me, although my surroundings should have kept me amused and had a conciliatory effect. But I only felt more vicious when someone brought my beautiful lady a lute, and she sang to her own accompaniment and to everyone’s delight. Unfortunately someone asked for absolute silence. So I wasn’t even to be allowed to talk! Her singing grated on my nerves. No wonder only a small spark was needed to set off an explosion!
She had just finished a song, the applause was tremendous, and she looked across at me with true affection in her eyes. Unfortunately, her glance failed to touch me. She could see me draining my glass and hear me demand that it be refilled. She shook a warning finger at me lovingly. “Don’t forget that it is wine,” she said, loudly enough for me to hear. “Water is for nixies!” I cried. She turned to the women sitting at my side and said, “Ladies, lace his goblet with your charms so that it isn’t emptied so often.”
“You’re not going to let yourself be ruled by her, are you?” one of them hissed in my ear, and I cried aloud, “What does my dwarf want of me?” and accompanied my words with such a violent motion of my arm that I knocked over my glass.
“You have upset much,” my beautiful lady said, and strummed her lute once, as if trying to attract the attention of those present from the disturbance back to herself. And she actually succeeded in doing so, especially when she stood up—which she did as if it were easier for her to play standing—and picked up the interrupted melody.
When I saw the red wine spill across the cloth, I came to my senses. Realizing what a terrible thing I had done, I was crushed. For the first time, music appealed to me. The first verse she sang was a friendly farewell to the company, who still felt united; with the next they gradually began to disassociate themselves from one another—every man for himself, apart; no one felt present any more. And what can I tell you about the last verse? It was aimed at me alone, the voice of love wounded, bidding farewell to all bad temper and bravado.
Silently I took her home, expecting the worst, but we had scarcely reached our room when she became very friendly and behaved enchantingly—she was even quite mischievous—and made me the happiest of men.
Next morning I said cheerfully and lovingly, “You have often sung when asked to do so at a gathering, as for instance last night, that touching farewell ballad. Sing just once for me now, a happy welcome to this morning hour, so that we may feel as if met for the first time.”
“I cannot do that, my friend,” she said seriously. “The ballad I sang last night was our farewell, and we must part at once. All I can tell you is that your offense against promise and vow has had the most dreadful consequences for both of us. You have frivolously thrown away all your chances of happiness, and I too must deny myself everything I desire.”
I begged, I implored her to explain herself. “I can do so now,” she said, “since I cannot remain with you any longer. So, hear what I would have liked to keep hidden from you forever! The shape and form in which you saw me in the casket is the way I was born; it is my natural shape. For I am of the race of King Eckwald, mighty prince of all pixies. Authentic history has much to tell of him. My people are still as active as they were in days of old and are therefore easily ruled.
But I don’t want you to think that they have remained backward in their activities. They used to be famed for making swords that pursued the enemy when hurled at him, invisible and secretly binding chains, impenetrable shields—things like that. But now they busy themselves mainly with objects that give man comfort and adorn him, and in this they surpass every race on earth. You would be amazed if you were to go through our workshops and storehouses. And all this would be well and good, if a certain condition did not prevail among us—especially in the royal family.” She paused for a moment, and I begged her to go on revealing her miraculous secret.
“It is well-known fact,” she continued, “that when God created the world, and the earth was dry, and the mountains stood powerful in their glory, He created the pixies first, before all living things—this is what I believe—so that there might be sensible creatures to admire His miracles in the earth’s interior as well, in the caverns and crevasses. It is, moreover, common knowledge that these little people rose up and tried to grasp the dominion of the earth for themselves, and that is why God created the dragons, to subdue the pixies.
But since dragons also liked to settle in great caves and fissures, and many of them spat fire and perpetrated other outrages, the pixies were sorely afflicted. They didn’t know what to do. They turned to Almighty God and humbly and beseechingly implored Him to destroy this wicked race of dragons. He could not bring Himself to destroy creatures whom He had created according to His wisdom, but the despair of the
