Bambi

I

He came into the world in the middle of the thicket, in one of those little, hidden forest glades which seem to be entirely open, but are really screened in on all sides. There was very little room in it, scarcely enough for him and his mother.

He stood there, swaying unsteadily on his thin legs and staring vaguely in front of him with clouded eyes which saw nothing. He hung his head, trembled a great deal, and was still completely stunned.

“What a beautiful child,” cried the magpie.

She had flown past, attracted by the deep groans the mother uttered in her labor. The magpie perched on a neighboring branch. “What a beautiful child,” she kept repeating. Receiving no answer, she went on talkatively, “How amazing to think that he should be able to get right up and walk! How interesting! I’ve never seen the like of it before in all my born days. Of course, I’m still young, only a year out of the nest, you might say. But I think it’s wonderful. A child like that, hardly a minute in this world, and beginning to walk already! I call that remarkable. Really, I find that everything you deer do is remarkable. Can he run, too?”

“Of course,” replied the mother softly. “But you must pardon me if I don’t talk with you now. I have so much to do, and I still feel a little faint.”

“Don’t put yourself out on my account,” said the magpie. “I have very little time myself. But you don’t see a sight like this every day. Think what a care and bother such things mean to us. The children can’t stir once they are out of the egg but lie helpless in the nest and require an attention, an attention, I repeat, of which you simply can’t have any comprehension. What a labor it is to feed them, what a trouble to watch them. Just think for a moment what a strain it is to hunt food for the children and to have to be eternally on guard lest something happen to them. They are helpless if you are not with them. Isn’t it the truth? And how long it is before they can move, how long it is before they get their feathers and look like anything at all.”

“Pardon,” replied the mother, “I wasn’t listening.”

The magpie flew off. “A stupid soul,” she thought to herself, “very nice, but stupid.”

The mother scarcely noticed that she was gone. She continued zealously washing her newly-born. She washed him with her tongue, fondling and caressing his body in a sort of warm massage.

The slight thing staggered a little. Under the strokes of her tongue, which softly touched him here and there, he drew himself together and stood still. His little red coat, that was still somewhat tousled, bore fine white spots, and on his vague baby face there was still a deep, sleepy expression.

Round about grew hazel bushes, dogwoods, blackthorns and young elders. Tall maples, beeches and oaks wove a green roof over the thicket and from the firm, dark-brown earth sprang fern fronds, wood-vetch and sage. Underneath, the leaves of the violets, which had already bloomed, and of the strawberries, which were just beginning, clung to the ground. Through the thick foliage, the early sunlight filtered in a golden web. The whole forest resounded with myriad voices, was penetrated by them in a joyous agitation. The wood-thrush rejoiced incessantly, the doves cooed without stopping, the blackbirds whistled, finches warbled, the titmice chirped. Through the midst of these songs the jay flew, uttering its quarrelsome cry, the magpie mocked them, and the pheasants cackled loud and high. At times the shrill exulting of a woodpecker rose above all the other voices. The call of the falcon shrilled, light and piercing, over the treetops, and the hoarse crow chorus was heard continuously.

The little fawn understood not one of the many songs and calls, not a word of the conversations. He did not even listen to them. Nor did he heed any of the odors which blew through the woods. He only heard the soft licking against his coat that washed him and warmed him and kissed him. And he smelled nothing but his mother’s body near him. She smelled good to him and, snuggling closer to her, he hunted eagerly around and found nourishment for his life.

While he suckled, the mother continued to caress her little one. “Bambi,” she whispered. Every little while she raised her head and, listening, snuffed the wind. Then she kissed her fawn again, reassured and happy.

“Bambi,” she repeated. “My little Bambi.”

II

In early summer the trees stood still under the blue sky, held their limbs outstretched and received the direct rays of the sun. On the shrubs and bushes in the undergrowth, the flowers unfolded their red, white and yellow stars. On some the seed pods had begun to appear again. They perched innumerable on the fine tips of the branches, tender and firm and resolute, and seemed like small, clenched fists. Out of the earth came whole troops of flowers, like motley stars, so that the soil of the twilit forest floor shone with a silent, ardent, colorful gladness. Everything smelled of fresh leaves, of blossoms, of moist clods and green wood. When morning broke, or when the sun went down, the whole woods resounded with a thousand voices, and from morning till night, the bees hummed, the wasps droned, and filled the fragrant stillness with their murmur.

These were the earliest days of Bambi’s life. He walked behind his mother on a narrow track that ran through the midst of the bushes. How pleasant it was to walk there. The thick foliage stroked his flanks softly and bent supplely aside. The track appeared to be barred and obstructed in a dozen places and yet they advanced with the greatest ease. There were tracks like this everywhere, running crisscross through the whole woods. His mother knew them all, and if Bambi sometimes stopped before a bush as if it were an impenetrable green wall, she always found where the path went through, without hesitation or searching.

Bambi questioned her. He loved to ask his mother questions. It was the pleasantest thing for him to ask a question and then to hear what answer his mother would give. Bambi was never surprised that question after question should come into his mind continually and without effort. He found it perfectly natural, and it delighted him very much. It was very delightful, too, to wait expectantly till the answer came. If it turned out the way he wanted, he was satisfied. Sometimes of course, he did not understand, but that was pleasant also because he was kept busy picturing what he had not understood, in his own way. Sometimes he felt very sure that his mother was not giving him a complete answer, was intentionally not telling him all she knew. And, at first, that was very pleasant, too. For then there would remain in him such a lively curiosity, such suspicion, mysteriously and joyously flashing through him, such anticipation, that he would become anxious and happy at the same time, and grow silent.

Once he asked, “Whom does this trail belong to, Mother?”

His mother answered, “To us.”

Bambi asked again, “To you and me?”

“Yes.”

“To us two?”

“Yes.”

“Only to us two?”

“No,” said his mother, “to us deer.”

“What are deer?” Bambi asked, and laughed.

His mother looked at him from head to foot and laughed too. “You are a deer and I am a deer. We’re both deer,” she said. “Do you understand?”

Bambi sprang into the air for joy. “Yes, I understand,” he said. “I’m a little deer and you’re a big deer, aren’t you?”

His mother nodded and said, “Now you see.”

But Bambi grew serious again. “Are there other deer besides you and me?” he asked.

“Certainly,” his mother said. “Many of them.”

“Where are they?” cried Bambi.

“Here, everywhere.”

“But I don’t see them.”

“You will soon,” she said.

“When?” Bambi stood still, wild with curiosity.

“Soon.” The mother walked on quietly. Bambi followed her. He kept silent for he was wondering what “soon” might mean. He came to the conclusion that “soon” was certainly not “now.” But he wasn’t sure at what time “soon” stopped being “soon” and began to be a “long while.” Suddenly he asked, “Who made this trail?”

“We,” his mother answered.

Bambi was astonished. “We? You and I?”

The mother said, “We, we … we deer.”

Bambi asked, “Which deer?”

“All of us,” his mother said sharply.

They walked on. Bambi was in high spirits and felt like leaping off the path, but he stayed close to his mother. Something rustled in front of them, close to the ground. The fern fronds and wood-lettuce concealed something that advanced in violent motion. A threadlike, little cry shrilled out piteously; then all was still. Only the leaves and the blades of grass shivered back into place. A ferret had caught a mouse. He came slinking by, slid sideways, and prepared to enjoy his meal.

“What was that?” asked Bambi excitedly.

“Nothing,” his mother soothed him.

“But,” Bambi trembled, “but I saw it.”

“Yes, yes,” said his mother. “Don’t be frightened. The ferret has killed a mouse.” But Bambi was dreadfully frightened. A vast, unknown horror clutched at his heart. It was long before he could speak again. Then he asked, “Why did he kill the mouse?”

“Because,” his mother hesitated. “Let us walk faster,” she said as though something had just occurred to her and as though she had forgotten the question. She began to hurry. Bambi sprang after her.

A long pause ensued. They walked on quietly again. Finally Bambi asked anxiously, “Shall we kill a mouse, too, sometime?”

“No,” replied his mother.

“Never?” asked Bambi.

“Never,” came the answer.

“Why not?” asked Bambi, relieved.

“Because we never kill anything,” said his mother simply.

Bambi grew happy again.

Loud cries were coming from a young ash tree which stood near their path. The mother went along without noticing them, but Bambi stopped inquisitively. Overhead two jays were quarreling about a nest they had plundered.

“Get away, you murderer!” cried one.

“Keep cool, you fool,” the other answered, “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Look for your own nests,” the first one shouted, “or I’ll break your head for you.” He was beside himself with rage. “What vulgarity!” he chattered, “what vulgarity!”

The other jay had spied Bambi and fluttered down a few branches to shout at him. “What are you gawking at, you freak?” he screamed.

Bambi sprang away terrified. He reached his mother and walked behind her again, frightened and obedient, thinking she had not noticed his absence.

After a pause he asked, “Mother, what is vulgarity?”

“I don’t know,” said his mother.

Bambi thought a while; then he began again. “Why were they both so angry with each other, Mother?” he asked.

“They were fighting over food,” his mother answered.

“Will we fight over food, too, sometime?” Bambi asked.

“No,” said his mother.

Bambi asked, “Why not?”

“Because there is enough for all of us,” his mother replied.

Bambi wanted to know something else. “Mother,” he began.

“What is it?”

“Will we be angry with each other sometime?” he asked.

“No, child,” said his mother, “we don’t do such things.”

They walked along again. Presently it grew light ahead of them. It grew very bright. The trail ended with the tangle of vines and bushes. A few steps more and they would be in the bright open space that spread out before them. Bambi wanted to bound forward, but his mother had stopped.

“What is it?” he asked impatiently, already delighted.

“It’s the meadow,” his mother answered.

“What is a meadow?” asked Bambi insistently.

His mother cut him short. “You’ll soon find out for yourself,” she said. She had become very serious and watchful. She stood motionless, holding her head high and listening intently. She sucked in deep breathfuls of air and looked very severe.

“It’s all right,” she said at last, “we can go out.”

Bambi leaped forward, but his mother barred the way.

“Wait till I call you,” she said. Bambi obeyed at once and stood still. “That’s right,” said his mother, to encourage him, “and now listen to what I am saying to you.” Bambi heard how seriously his mother spoke and felt terribly excited.

“Walking on the meadow is not so simple,” his mother went on. “It’s a difficult and dangerous business. Don’t ask me why. You’ll find that out later on. Now do exactly as I tell you to. Will you?”

“Yes,” Bambi promised.

“Good,” said his mother, “I’m going out alone first. Stay here and wait. And don’t take your eyes off me for a minute. If you see me run back here, then turn round and run as fast as you can. I’ll catch up with you soon.” She grew silent and seemed to be thinking. Then she went on earnestly, “Run anyway as fast as your legs will carry you. Run even if something should happen … even if you should see me fall to the ground. … Don’t think of me, do you understand? No matter what you see or hear, start running right away and just as fast as you possibly can. Do you promise me to do that?”

“Yes,” said Bambi softly. His mother spoke so seriously.

She went on speaking. “Out there if I should call you,” she said, “there must be no looking around and no questions, but you must get behind me instantly. Understand that. Run without pausing or stopping to think. If I begin to run, that means for you to run too, and no stopping until we are back here again. You won’t forget, will you?”

“No,” said Bambi in a troubled voice.

“Now I’m going ahead,” said his mother, and seemed to become calmer.

She walked out. Bambi, who never took his eyes off her, saw how she moved forward with slow, cautious steps. He stood there full of expectancy, full of fear and curiosity. He saw how his mother listened in all directions, saw her shrink together, and shrank together himself, ready to leap back into the thickets. Then his mother grew calm again. She stretched herself. Then she looked around satisfied and called, “Come!”

Bambi bounded out. Joy seized him with such tremendous force that he forgot his worries in a flash. Through the thicket he could see only the green treetops overhead. Once in a while he caught a glimpse of the blue sky.

Now he saw the whole heaven stretching far and wide and he rejoiced without knowing why. In the forest he had seen only a stray sunbeam now and then, or the tender, dappled light that played through the branches. Suddenly he was standing in the blinding hot sunlight whose boundless power was beaming upon him. He stood in the splendid warmth that made him shut his eyes but which opened his heart.

Bambi was as though bewitched. He was completely beside himself with pleasure. He was simply wild. He leaped into the air three, four, five times. He had to do it. He felt a terrible desire to leap and jump. He stretched his young limbs joyfully. His breath came deeply and easily. He drank in the air. The sweet smell of the meadow made him so wildly happy that he had to leap into the air.

Bambi was a child. If he had been a human child he would have shouted. But he was a young deer, and deer cannot shout, at least not the way human children do. So he rejoiced with his legs and with his whole body as he flung himself into the air. His mother stood by and was glad. She saw that Bambi was wild. She watched how he bounded into the air and fell again awkwardly, in one spot. She saw how he stared around him, dazed and bewildered, only to leap up over and over again. She understood that Bambi knew only the narrow deer tracks in the forest and how his brief life was used to the limits of the thicket. He did not move from one place because he did not understand how to run freely around the open meadow.

So she stretched out her forefeet and bent laughingly towards Bambi for a moment. Then she was off with one bound, racing around in a circle so that the tall grass stems swished.

Bambi was frightened and stood motionless. Was that a sign for him to run back to the thicket? His mother had said to him, “Don’t worry about me no matter what you see or hear. Just run as fast as you can.” He was going to turn around and run as she had commanded him to, but his mother came galloping up suddenly. She came up with a wonderful swishing sound and stopped two steps from him. She bent towards him, laughing as she had at first and cried, “Catch me.” And in a flash she was gone.

Bambi was puzzled. What did she mean? Then she came back again running so fast that it made him giddy. She pushed his flank with her nose and said quickly, “Try to catch me,” and fled away.

Bambi started after her. He took a few steps. Then his steps became short bounds. He felt as if he were flying without any effort on his part. There was a space under his hoofs, space under his bounding feet, space and still more space. Bambi was beside himself with joy.

The swishing grass sounded wonderful to his ears. It was marvelously soft and as fine as silk where it brushed against him. He ran round in a circle. He turned and flew off in a new circle, turned around again and kept running.

His mother was standing still, getting her breath again. She kept following Bambi with her eyes. He was wild.

Suddenly the race was over. He stopped and came up to his mother, lifting his hoofs elegantly. He looked joyfully at her. Then they strolled contentedly side by side.

Since he had been in the open, Bambi had felt the sky and the sun and the green meadow with his whole body. He took one blinding, giddy glance at the sun, and he felt its rays as they lay warmly on his back.

Presently he began to enjoy the meadow with his eyes also. Its wonders amazed him at every step he took. You could not see the tiniest speck of earth the way you could in the forest. Blade after blade of grass covered every inch of the ground. It tossed and waved luxuriantly. It bent softly aside under every footstep, only to rise up unharmed again. The broad green meadow was starred with white daisies, with the thick, round red and purple clover blossoms and bright, golden dandelion heads.

“Look, look, Mother!” Bambi exclaimed. “There’s a flower flying.”

“That’s not a flower,” said his mother, “that’s a butterfly.”

Bambi stared at the butterfly, entranced. It had darted lightly from a blade of grass and was fluttering about in its giddy way. Then Bambi saw that there were many butterflies flying in the air above the meadow. They seemed to be in a hurry and yet moved slowly, fluttering up and down in a sort of game that delighted him. They really did look like gay flying flowers that would not stay on their stems but had unfastened themselves in order to dance a little. They looked, too, like flowers that come to rest at sundown but have no fixed places and have to hunt for them, dropping down and vanishing as if they really had settled somewhere, yet always flying up again, a little way at first, then higher and higher, and always searching farther and farther because all the good places have already been taken.

Bambi gazed at them all. He would have loved to see one close by. He wanted to see one face to face but he was not able to. They sailed in and out continually. The air was aflutter with them.

When he looked down at the ground again he was delighted with the thousands of living things he saw stirring under his hoofs. They ran and jumped in all directions. He would see a wild swarm of them, and the next moment they had disappeared in the grass again.

“Who are they, Mother?” he asked.

“Those are ants,” his mother answered.

“Look,” cried Bambi, “see that piece of grass jumping. Look how high it can jump!”

“That’s not grass,” his mother explained, “that’s a nice grasshopper.”

“Why does he jump that way?” asked Bambi.

“Because we’re walking here,” his mother answered, “he’s afraid we’ll step on him.”

“O,” said Bambi, turning to the grasshopper who was sitting on a daisy; “O,” he said again politely, “you don’t have to be afraid; we won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid,” the grasshopper replied in a quavering voice; “I was only frightened for a moment when I was talking to my wife.”

“Excuse us for disturbing you,” said Bambi shyly.

“Not at all,” the grasshopper quavered. “Since it’s you, it’s perfectly all right. But you never know who’s coming and you have to be careful.”

“This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever been on the meadow,” Bambi explained; “my mother brought me. …”

The grasshopper was sitting with his head lowered as though he were going to butt. He put on a serious face and murmured, “That doesn’t interest me at all. I haven’t time to stand here gossiping with you. I have to be looking for my wife. Hopp!” And he gave a jump.

“Hopp!” said Bambi in surprise at the high jump with which the grasshopper vanished.

Bambi ran to his mother. “Mother, I spoke to him,” he cried.

“To whom?” his mother asked.

“To the grasshopper,” Bambi said, “I spoke to him. He was very nice to me. And I like him so much. He’s so wonderful and green and you can see through his sides. They look like leaves, but you can’t see through a leaf.”

“Those are his wings,” said his mother.

“O,” Bambi went on, “and his face is so serious and wise. But he was very nice to me anyhow. And how he can jump! ‘Hopp!’ he said, and he jumped so high I couldn’t see him any more.”

They walked on. The conversation with the grasshopper had excited Bambi and tired him a little, for it was the first time he had ever spoken to a stranger. He felt hungry and pressed close to his mother to be nursed.

Then he stood quietly and gazed dreamily into space for a little while with a sort of joyous ecstasy that came over him every time he was nursed by his mother. He noticed a bright flower moving in the tangled grasses. Bambi looked more closely at it. No, it wasn’t a flower, but a butterfly. Bambi crept closer.

The butterfly hung heavily to a grass stem and fanned its wings slowly.

“Please sit still,” Bambi said.

“Why should I sit still? I’m a butterfly,” the insect answered in astonishment.

“O, please sit still, just for a minute,” Bambi pleaded, “I’ve wanted so much to see you close to. Please.”

“Well,” said the butterfly, “for your sake I will, but not for long.”

Bambi stood in front of him. “How beautiful you are!” he cried fascinated; “how wonderfully beautiful, like a flower!”

“What?” cried the butterfly, fanning his wings, “did you say like a flower? In my circle it’s generally supposed that we’re handsomer than flowers.”

Bambi was embarrassed. “O, yes,” he stammered, “much handsomer, excuse me, I only meant …”

“Whatever you meant is all one to me,” the butterfly replied. He arched his thin body affectedly and played with his delicate feelers.

Bambi looked at him enchanted. “How elegant you are!” he said. “How elegant and fine! And how splendid and white your wings are!”

The butterfly spread his wings wide apart, then raised them till they folded together like an upright sail.

“O,” cried Bambi, “I know that you are handsomer than the flowers. Besides, you can fly and the flowers can’t because they grow on stems, that’s why.”

The butterfly spread his wings. “It’s enough,” he said, “that I can fly.” He soared so lightly that Bambi could hardly see him or follow his flight. His wings moved gently and gracefully. Then he fluttered into the sunny air.

“I only sat still that long on your account,” he said balancing in the air in front of Bambi. “Now I’m going.”

That was how Bambi found the meadow.