The King of the Golden River, John Ruskin [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗
- Author: John Ruskin
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wicked brothers renders me willing to serve you; therefore,
attend to what I tell you. Whoever shall climb to the top of
that mountain from which you see the Golden River issue, and
shall cast into the stream at its source three drops of holy
water, for him and for him only the river shall turn to gold.
But no one failing in his first can succeed in a second attempt,
and if anyone shall cast unholy water into the river, it will
overwhelm him and he will become a black stone.” So saying, the
King of the Golden River turned away and deliberately walked into
the center of the hottest flame of the furnace. His figure
became red, white, transparent, dazzling,—a blaze of intense
light,—rose, trembled, and disappeared. The King of the Golden
River had evaporated.
“Oh!” cried poor Gluck, running to look up the chimney after him,
“O dear, dear, dear me! My mug! my mug! my mug!”
HOW MR. HANS SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER, AND
HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN
The King of the Golden River had hardly made the extraordinary
exit related in the last chapter, before Hans and Schwartz came
roaring into the house very savagely drunk. The discovery of
the total loss of their last piece of plate had the effect of
sobering them just enough to enable them to stand over Gluck,
beating him very steadily for a quarter of an hour; at the
expiration of which period they dropped into a couple of chairs
and requested to know what he had got to say for himself. Gluck
told them his story, of which, of course, they did not believe a
word. They beat him again, till their arms were tired, and
staggered to bed. In the morning, however, the steadiness with
which he adhered to his story obtained him some degree of
credence; the immediate consequence of which was that the two
brothers, after wrangling a long time on the knotty question,
which of them should try his fortune first, drew their swords and
began fighting. The noise of the fray alarmed the neighbors,
who, finding they could not pacify the combatants, sent for the
constable.
Hans, on hearing this, contrived to escape, and hid himself; but
Schwartz was taken before the magistrate, fined for breaking the
peace, and, having drunk out his last penny the evening before,
was thrown into prison till he should pay.
When Hans heard this, he was much delighted, and determined to
set out immediately for the Golden River. How to get the holy
water was the question. He went to the priest, but the priest
could not give any holy water to so abandoned a character. So
Hans went to vespers in the evening for the first time in his
life and, under pretense of crossing himself, stole a cupful and
returned home in triumph.
Next morning he got up before the sun rose, put the holy water
into a strong flask, and two bottles of wine and some meat in a
basket, slung them over his back, took his alpine staff in his
hand, and set off for the mountains.
On his way out of the town he had to pass the prison, and as he
looked in at the windows, whom should he see but Schwartz
himself peeping out of the bars and looking very disconsolate.
“Good morning, brother,” said Hans; “have you any message for the
King of the Golden River?”
Schwartz gnashed his teeth with rage and shook the bars with all
his strength, but Hans only laughed at him and, advising him to
make himself comfortable till he came back again, shouldered his
basket, shook the bottle of holy water in Schwartz’s face till
it frothed again, and marched off in the highest spirits in the
world.
It was indeed a morning that might have made anyone happy, even
with no Golden River to seek for. Level lines of dewy mist lay
stretched along the valley, out of which rose the massy
mountains, their lower cliffs in pale gray shadow, hardly
distinguishable from the floating vapor but gradually ascending
till they caught the sunlight, which ran in sharp touches of
ruddy color along the angular crags, and pierced, in long, level
rays, through their fringes of spearlike pine. Far above shot up
red, splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered
into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of
sunlit snow traced down their chasms like a line of forked
lightning; and far beyond and far above all these, fainter than
the morning cloud but purer and changeless, slept, in the blue
sky, the utmost peaks of the eternal snow.
The Golden River, which sprang from one of the lower and snowless
elevations, was now nearly in shadow—all but the uppermost jets
of spray, which rose like slow smoke above the undulating line of
the cataract and floated away in feeble wreaths upon the morning
wind.
On this object, and on this alone, Hans’s eyes and thoughts were
fixed. Forgetting the distance he had to traverse, he set off at
an imprudent rate of walking, which greatly exhausted him before
he had scaled the first range of the green and low hills. He
was, moreover, surprised, on surmounting them, to find that a
large glacier, of whose existence, notwithstanding his previous
knowledge of the mountains, he had been absolutely ignorant, lay
between him and the source of the Golden River. He entered on it
with the boldness of a practiced mountaineer, yet he thought he
had never traversed so strange or so dangerous a glacier in his
life. The ice was excessively slippery, and out of all its
chasms came wild sounds of gushing water—not monotonous or low,
but changeful and loud, rising occasionally into drifting
passages of wild melody, then breaking off into short, melancholy
tones or sudden shrieks resembling those of human voices in
distress or pain. The ice was broken into thousands of confused
shapes, but none, Hans thought, like the ordinary forms of
splintered ice. There seemed a curious EXPRESSION about all
their outlines—a perpetual resemblance to living features,
distorted and scornful. Myriads of deceitful shadows and lurid
lights played and floated about and through the pale blue
pinnacles, dazzling and confusing the sight of the traveler,
while his ears grew dull and his head giddy with the constant
gush and roar of the concealed waters. These painful
circumstances increased upon him as he advanced; the ice crashed
and yawned into fresh chasms at his feet, tottering spires nodded
around him and fell thundering across his path; and though he had
repeatedly faced these dangers on the most terrific glaciers and
in the wildest weather, it was with a new and oppressive feeling
of panic terror that he leaped the last chasm and flung himself,
exhausted and shuddering, on the firm turf of the mountain.
He had been compelled to abandon his basket of food, which became
a perilous incumbrance on the glacier, and had now no means of
refreshing himself but by breaking off and eating some of the
pieces of ice. This, however, relieved his thirst; an hour’s
repose recruited his hardy frame, and with the indomitable spirit
of avarice he resumed his laborious journey.
His way now lay straight up a ridge of bare red rocks, without a
blade of grass to ease the foot or a projecting angle to afford
an inch of shade from the south sun. It was past noon and the
rays beat intensely upon the steep path, while the whole
atmosphere was motionless and penetrated with heat. Intense
thirst was soon added to the bodily fatigue with which Hans was
now afflicted; glance after glance he cast on the flask of water
which hung at his belt. “Three drops are enough,” at last thought
he; “I may, at least, cool my lips with it.”
He opened the flask and was raising it to his lips, when his eye
fell on an object lying on the rock beside him; he thought it
moved. It was a small dog, apparently in the last agony of
death from thirst. Its tongue was out, its jaws dry, its limbs
extended lifelessly, and a swarm of black ants were crawling
about its lips and throat. Its eye moved to the bottle which
Hans held in his hand. He raised it, drank, spurned the animal
with his foot, and passed on. And he did not know how it was,
but he thought that a strange shadow had suddenly come across the
blue sky.
The path became steeper and more rugged every moment, and the
high hill air, instead of refreshing him, seemed to throw his
blood into a fever. The noise of the hill cataracts sounded like
mockery in his ears; they were all distant, and his thirst
increased every moment. Another hour passed, and he again looked
down to the flask at his side; it was half empty, but there was
much more than three drops in it. He stopped to open it, and
again, as he did so, something moved in the path above him. It
was a fair child, stretched nearly lifeless on the rock, its
breast heaving with thirst, its eyes closed, and its lips parched
and burning. Hans eyed it deliberately, drank, and passed on.
And a dark gray cloud came over the sun, and long, snakelike
shadows crept up along the mountain sides. Hans struggled on.
The sun was sinking, but its descent seemed to bring no coolness;
the leaden height of the dead air pressed upon his brow and
heart, but the goal was near. He saw the cataract of the Golden
River springing from the hillside scarcely five hundred feet
above him. He paused for a moment to breathe, and sprang on to
complete his task.
At this instant a faint cry fell on his ear. He turned, and saw
a gray-haired old man extended on the rocks. His eyes were sunk,
his features deadly pale and gathered into an expression of
despair. “Water!” he stretched his arms to Hans, and cried
feebly, “Water! I am dying.”
“I have none,” replied Hans; “thou hast had thy share of life.”
He strode over the prostrate body and darted on. And a flash of
blue lightning rose out of the East, shaped like a sword; it
shook thrice over the whole heaven and left it dark with one
heavy, impenetrable shade. The sun was setting; it plunged
towards the horizon like a redhot ball. The roar of the Golden
River rose on Hans’s ear. He stood at the brink of the chasm
through which it ran. Its waves were filled with the red glory
of the sunset; they shook their crests like tongues of fire, and
flashes of bloody light gleamed along their foam. Their sound
came mightier and mightier on his senses; his brain grew giddy
with the prolonged thunder. Shuddering he drew the flask from
his girdle and hurled it into the center of the torrent. As he
did so, an icy chill shot through his limbs; he staggered,
shrieked, and fell. The waters closed over his cry, and the
moaning of the river rose wildly into the night as it gushed over
THE BLACK STONE
HOW MR. SCHWARTZ SET OFF ON AN EXPEDITION TO THE GOLDEN RIVER,
AND HOW HE PROSPERED THEREIN
Poor little Gluck waited very anxiously, alone in the house, for
Hans’s return. Finding he did not come back, he was terribly
frightened and went and told Schwartz in the prison all that had
happened. Then Schwartz was very much pleased and said that
Hans must certainly have been turned into a black stone and he
should have
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