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Title: The dwarf's spectacles, and other fairy tales
Author: Max Simon Nordau
Illustrator: H. A. Hart
R. McGowan
F. P. Safford
Translator: Mary J. Safford
Release date: November 20, 2025 [eBook #77279]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: The Macmillan company, 1905
Credits: Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net/ for Project Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DWARF'S SPECTACLES, AND OTHER FAIRY TALES ***
THE DWARF’S SPECTACLES
AND
OTHER FAIRY TALES
TOLD BY
MAX NORDAU
TO HIS MAXA FROM HER FOURTH TO
HER SEVENTH BIRTHDAY
TRANSLATED BY
MARY J. SAFFORD
ILLUSTRATED BY
H. A. HART, F. P. SAFFORD, AND R. McGOWAN
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1905
All rights reserved
LIST OF TITLES
PAGE
Why the Rose-bush has Thorns 1
Last Year’s Fly 11
Like seeks Like 25
The Proud Doll 35
The Grateful Sparrows 53
The Six Little Glow-worms 71
The Dwarf’s Spectacles 87
The Golden Beetle that went on His Travels 111
The Gold Braids 133
The Cats that wouldn’t catch Mice 149
The Elf Child 171
The Rich Dog and the Poor Dog 199
The Little Girl who travelled in the Big Ship 219
The Naughty Brother and the Clever Sister 239
The Master 257
The Heart Thread 279
The Secret Empire 301
The Tame Lion 337
The Flower Prison 357
Life and Death 381
WHY THE ROSE-BUSH HAS THORNS
The rose-bush in the garden is beautiful. But the naughty thorns which
often pricked your fingers till they bled, when you wanted to pick a
bud! “The horrid rose-bush!” I suppose you said, and perhaps even
struck at it with a stick. Don’t say that, little girl. When you know
why the rose-bush is covered with thorns from top to bottom, you will
see that it is not horrid, but very good.
Do you remember how the nightingale sung during the May nights, when
the moon was shining brightly, and the roses were so sweet, and the
little glow-worms glittered in the grass? It sounded like a loud wail,
often almost like sobbing, so that you felt very sorrowful, and asked
us, “What is the matter with the little nightingale, that she sings so
mournfully?”
Now I will tell you, as the evening will be long and we have plenty of
time.
There was once a nightingale, the grandmamma of all the nightingales in
the country. She came from a hot province in Africa, because it was too
warm for her there, and she wanted to live here, where it is cool and
shady. She looked about in the woods and meadows, and in the great
gardens behind the houses, to find a tree or bush where she could build
her nest. All the trees were very kind, offered her a branch or a twig,
and promised that she should be well taken care of with them. Every one
would have been glad to have her for a guest, for she had sung merrily
as she flew around, so that they all admired her beautiful voice and
never wearied of listening to it.
The nightingale searched long and carefully, perched sometimes on one
tree, sometimes on another, found one thing here, and something else
there, which did not exactly suit her, and finally decided upon the
rose-bush. It was not too high and it was not too low, its foliage was
neither too thick nor too thin, no one lived there except a few neat
and quiet golden beetles, and, above all, it was wonderfully adorned
with its roses and completely surrounded by the most delicious
fragrance. At that time it had no thorns. Its stem was perfectly
smooth, so that you could have passed your hand up and down over it
without scratching yourself in the least.
The nightingale was very much pleased with her choice, and, in her joy
at having found such a beautiful, suitable dwelling, sang and trilled
so clearly that all the buds on the rose-bush opened from delight, and
it was covered in a single night with magnificent full-blown roses.
The nightingale at once began to build her nest, a beautiful little,
round nest, under a shady roof of light-green leaves, with big, pale
pink roses in front of the little windows, and, after it was well lined
with grass and soft down, she laid several tiny eggs, and brooded over
them until the nightingale children were hatched out,—dear little soft
things, with black eyes and yellow-gray rough little heads, and yellow
beaks, which were always open and always wanted to eat.
Mamma Nightingale was so happy that she hardly knew what to do with
herself, and nursed and fed her little ones—there were three of
them—and sang the sweetest lullabies. The neighbor birds came flying
from far and near, perched on the branches of the trees, listened to
the young mother’s singing, and flapped their wings,—that’s the way the
birds clap applause, because they haven’t any hands.
But the rose-bush stood near a house where a gray cat lived,—an ugly
creature with green eyes, a long, bristling mustache, and big sharp
claws. This cat was on bad terms with everybody on account of her
stealing and evil tricks. She dared not be seen in the day, because the
dogs would have chased her, and the washerwomen would have thrown hot
water on her. She always stayed in a dark cellar, and came out only at
night to do all sorts of mischief.
The wicked cat heard the nightingale singing and was angry, as wicked
people always are when they hear or see anything beautiful. The
squealing of the mice, before whose holes she watched for hours, seemed
to her much more musical than the joyous trilling and sweet lullabies
of the bird-mother. Stealing out of her dark cellar, she crept through
the grass and under the bushes to a place from which she could see the
rose-bush, looked up with her green eyes, and when she discovered the
nest and the three little birds with their busy mother, she said to
herself: “Oh! that rabble! Those miserable vagabonds! Screaming and
making a racket as if they were the only people in the world. Just
wait; I’ll teach you to wake respectable folks out of their afternoon
nap.” Waving the end of her tail to and fro, she crept back again to
her cellar and waited until it grew dark. Then she came out, walked
slowly and noiselessly to the rose-bush, and peered up at it.
The nightingale had just flown away for a short time, as was her
custom, to bring her little ones their supper, that is, a few soft
caterpillars, and little moths which only fly about after sunset.
Meanwhile the nightingale children were left alone, twittering happily
to one another, and rejoicing that mamma would soon come back with
something good to eat.
Suddenly over the edge of the nest appeared a terrible head, with
fierce green eyes and a frightful mustache. It was the wicked cat,
which, like a true thief, had climbed up the smooth stem of the
rose-bush, and now fell upon the poor defenceless brood. The little
downy birds were so frightened that they did not even find strength to
utter a feeble cry for help. At least their mortal terror did not last
long. Before one could count three, the wicked cat had seized the three
sisters by the neck, one after another, and killed them with a single
bite. She threw their little warm bodies out of the nest with her paws,
and then leaped after them, to eat them at the foot of the rose-bush.
Only a few crows in a neighboring linden tree had witnessed the murder.
It had been done so quickly that they could not prevent it. But now
they rushed with loud cries upon the murderess, and pecked her so
furiously with their beaks, that she left the little dead nightingales
lying on the ground and ran back to her cellar, where the crows could
not follow her.
Meantime the nightingale came back with her beak full, and put her head
through the roof of rose-leaves above her nest. She saw with terror
that it was empty. Dropping the worms and moths, she called so that her
voice echoed a long distance through the evening air: “My children!
Where are you? My children!”
The crows flew up sorrowfully, surrounded her, and told her as gently
as they could what a misfortune had befallen her. Her little heart
almost broke with despair. She let the crows take her to her children,
and covering them with her wings, mourned over them, and would not
leave them, until the beetles which are called grave-diggers carried
them to the grave. It was a beautiful funeral procession; all the ants,
many beetles, and most of the birds in the neighborhood followed in the
train, all mourning and lamenting. But this did not console the poor
mother, and when, after the burial, she sat alone in her deserted nest,
she sobbed aloud and asked the rose-bush in a half-stifled voice,
“Rose-bush, O Rose-bush, why did you allow it, why did you not guard my
little ones better?”
The rose-bush said nothing, but it was so troubled that all the petals
fell from its blossoms, and it thought and planned how in the future it
could better protect the beloved guest and her family. And then it had
a bright idea. All night long it worked softly, but busily, and when
day came, it was set from top to bottom with thorns, as sharp and
pointed and crooked as the claws of the wicked cat, and it said in a
soothing voice to the grieving nightingale: “Cheer up, dear, lovely
nightingale, lay more eggs, brood over them again, no harm will befall
them: you see, no wicked cat can attack your little ones. My thorns
will protect them and you.” The nightingale could not bear her
solitude. She laid more eggs, brooded over them, and when again several
sweet little round creatures in gray down filled her nest, she began to
sing once more, but the song was a different one. No joyous trilling,
no gay melodies, but the mournful, sobbing tones, which almost always
move you to tears. She cannot forget her first little ones, and she
still remembers them with sweet sadness, though she is very happy with
her new darlings.
Since that time the rose-bush has had thorns, and the nightingale sings
her mournful lament, but at least the cats cannot attack her nest when
she flies away for a little while, to get caterpillars and night-moths
for her babies.
LAST YEAR’S FLY
You know what becomes of the flies in autumn. As soon as it begins to
grow cold, they are weak, stay on the window-panes, don’t fly off even
when you touch them with your finger, and some morning they stick
motionless and are dead.
Now once upon a time there was a big brown fly, whose name was
Buzz-Buzz. One warm summer day, when the window stood open, she had
flown into the kitchen and did not leave it again; for it was a
comfortable place, and suited her very well. There were always grains
of sugar in the cupboard, and milk and dregs of coffee on the table, so
that she had plenty to eat and drink. When she was not licking and
nibbling, she was cleaning her wings and back with her fore-legs; and
when she was not making herself beautiful, she was watching, curious to
see what Marie was doing at the hearth, how she lighted the fire, put
on the pots, salted and spiced, stirred and beat, and tried to guess
what nice things there would be to taste that day.
When Marie was not in the kitchen, she chatted with the cricket that
lived in a crack of the chimney, with whom she had quickly made
friends. The cricket was a very lively creature, and never grew tired
of talking and gossiping, asking questions, and telling stories. There
were plenty of visitors, too. As soon as Marie opened the window in the
morning, whole swarms of flies flew in,—sisters, cousins, and
neighbors,—who told Buzz-Buzz all the news, while she politely offered
them coffee and cakes. She had them, and could easily do it. It was a
perpetual feast, and, before she knew it, summer had passed and autumn
came.
At first Buzz-Buzz did not notice it. She was too comfortable. Why
should she care, if the frost fell night after night outside? It was
pleasant in her warm kitchen. But she gradually found that some change
had taken place in the world. Marie opened the window more and more
seldom, and the relatives and acquaintances no longer came to call. If
a friend flew in now and then, she seemed strangely dull, scarcely
touched the dainties Buzz-Buzz offered, answered questions
indifferently, and sometimes, to the horror of Buzz-Buzz, suddenly
dropped down in the middle of a word and did not stir again.
Buzz-Buzz asked the cricket what this meant, but the cricket made no
answer. When Buzz-Buzz crawled to the crack and peeped in, she saw the
cricket lying stretched out, asleep. It slept all the time now, from
morning till night, and from night till morning. Buzz-Buzz could not
understand it and began to feel very uneasy. She waited till Marie went
out, and flew out with her, to look about a little and perhaps discover
why no more visitors came, and why the few who did were so dull and
feeble, why they so often grew sick and died while they were sitting in
the kitchen with her, drinking coffee.
Out of doors Buzz-Buzz came near faring very badly. She had scarcely
had time to notice how different everything looked from usual, when the
cold chilled every limb, her wings grew heavy, her legs became stiff,
darkness surrounded her, and she had barely enough strength left to
light on Marie’s cap, and let her carry her home. If Marie had not been
there, Buzz-Buzz would never have reached her kitchen alive.
It was some time before Buzz-Buzz recovered entirely. By degrees the
recollection of what she had and had not seen, during her brief flight,
came back to her. Why did it look so dreary out of doors? True, there
were no terrible swallows, always trying to kill the poor flies, but
there were no flies, no gnats, no butterflies, no sign of the usual gay
life of noonday. There was not even a patch of blue sky, not a sunbeam,
not a single green leaf. Bare trees, gray clouds, and an icy air, which
pierced through the unprotected body like a knife. How fortunate that
she had the warm kitchen! There the closed windows did not let the cold
enter, and it was as comfortable by the hearth as on the most beautiful
summer day, only one mustn’t go too near the fire. Buzz-Buzz took care
not to do that.
She had escaped a great danger. This Buzz-Buzz knew very well. She
rejoiced over it, and rubbed her fore-legs together with much
satisfaction. But she did not think only of herself. She remembered the
others,—the sisters, cousins, aunts, neighbors, friends, and
acquaintances with whom, in fair weather, she had spent so many
pleasant hours. They must all be dead. Otherwise, one or another would
surely come to visit her. But no one called. This made Buzz-Buzz very
sad, and though she herself was comfortable, she often sat still in a
corner, sighing and grieving for the dead. Perhaps she often wept, too;
but I can’t say so positively, because a fly’s tears are so small that
we cannot see them unless we watch very carefully.
Buzz-Buzz ate and drank well, and she slept well, too, only a little
too much, so that she grew fat and lazy, and would rather sit quiet or
crawl a little on the wall or ceiling than to fly. Flying was growing
too hard for her. She wondered why, after being so nimble, she was now
such a clumsy person, but gradually became used to it. People get used
to everything—even to loneliness. True, that is the hardest of all. The
winter was long and, though the days were short, Buzz-Buzz had more
than time enough to think over everything. Especially whether there
would ever again be flies in the world. To live all alone in the wide
world is surely worse than death. It would be altogether too terrible,
if she were always to be the only fly. True, she still had one dear
friend, the cricket. But the cricket just slept and slept, and she
could make nothing of it. Would the lively little creature ever wake up
again? Even if it did, though a beloved friend, the cricket was no
relation, and could not take the place of one’s own flesh and blood.
When she pondered over these sad thoughts, her heart grew heavy, and
even sugar cakes and coffee did not taste right. What is the use of
wealth, if we can share it with no one?
At last the winter was over, spring came, the sun again shone
brilliantly, and there was a shade of green on the dry branches of the
two trees in the garden.
Then one morning a strange thing happened. Marie threw the kitchen
window wide open, a cool, fragrant breeze blew in, which at first made
Buzz-Buzz shiver, but soon gave her new strength and vigor. After some
hesitation, she ventured to leave her corner between the wall and the
ceiling and fly to the open window—and lo! almost before she reached
it, she heard around her the beloved buzzing of her relatives, which
she had missed so long. A whole swarm of beautiful, glittering young
flies were whirling, dancing, and playing in the sunshine, and
Buzz-Buzz, wild with joy, rushed into the circle and, with outspread
wings, darted from one to another that were nearest, trying to clasp
and kiss them, exclaiming in a half-stifled voice: “Sisters, dear
sisters! Oh, how glad I am that I have lived to see you again!”
But the flies scattered, circling around at a distance, and staring at
her. Then one cried out, “Who is this scarecrow?” And another giggled,
“Look at the fat pigeon,” while a third called, “Madam, your wings
haven’t been brushed to-day.” Then they all laughed.
Buzz-Buzz was puzzled and offended. It was hard for her to stay in the
air so long, and she rested on the window-sill, saying mournfully: “Do
none of you know me? I am Buzz-Buzz.” And she named many sisters,
cousins, and friends who had been young and enjoyed life with her the
year before.
But the new generation of flies had no knowledge of these names, and
the more poor Buzz-Buzz mentioned, the more suspicious and unfriendly
the young flies became. They buzzed together, “Let us take care, she is
a swindler.”
“Oh, come! Do believe me!” Buzz-Buzz coaxed anxiously. “I had so many
sisters and friends last year. Then we were a great swarm, as you are
now. And I was the gayest one of all. But the autumn came and they all
died, and then the winter followed and I was left all alone, and
believed the world had gone to ruin. But now spring has returned and I
see my relatives again, and they are just as merry as ever. I am so
glad to see you, why are you so unkind, and keep away, and do not want
to own me for your sister?”
The young flies had come nearer, and listened with greater and greater
astonishment. They let her go on until her breath failed and she began
to cough. Then one fly, with gold and ruby eyes, that seemed to be the
sauciest of them all, answered: “Madam, you’re talking nonsense. You
think us more stupid than we are. We are not to be fooled. What do you
mean by last year? Every fly knows that the world began with us. There
was nothing before us. And no one ever saw a fly die, unless a swallow
or a sparrow ate it. Autumn and winter? Nobody ever heard of such
things. As far as flies can remember, everything has always been just
as it is now. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for trying to impose
upon us.”
The others buzzed approvingly, and one called loudly: “Don’t you see
that she is crazy? Let the silly chatterbox alone, and come back to our
dance.” They all waved their gleaming mother-of-pearl wings, and buzzed
away.
“Sisters! Dear sisters!” pleaded Buzz-Buzz, panting for breath, but not
a fly listened and, in an instant, she was alone on the window-sill,
and the others were far away whirling about in the golden sunshine.
Buzz-Buzz sat still a short time, as if she was dazed. She could not
understand why her young sisters were so unkind to her, when she had
been longing for them all winter. At last she determined to go back to
her kitchen and see whether the cricket was awake, so that she could
tell her adventures and bewail her troubles.
The cricket really was awake, but another cricket had called, and the
two were chirping busily to each other, so, when Buzz-Buzz came to the
chimney and put in her head, her friend called somewhat roughly: “What
do you want here? Don’t you see I have a visitor? I’ve no time for you
now!”
Buzz-Buzz, without saying a word, went back to her old corner between
the wall and the ceiling, and sat there quietly with drooping wings.
Something had again changed in the world, and it was full of new life.
But what did it avail poor Buzz-Buzz?
She had grown old and did not suit this new world. I ought to have died
in the autumn, like all my sisters, she thought sorrowfully, staring at
the thin column of smoke which rose from the fire, whirling upward
through the chimney out above the roof, above the house, into the sunny
air, to the blue sky. She gazed at the floating bluish pillar, and a
great longing seized her to mount upward with the smoke, and be borne
by its soft, warm breath out into the sunny air, to the blue sky. She
crept nearer and nearer. Suddenly she could resist no longer and, with
one bound, leaped into the midst of the pillar of smoke and
disappeared.
She did not know what had happened, she grew dazed, her senses failed,
she sank down, and the next moment was a little heap of ashes on the
burning coals. She had felt no pain, for she was senseless when she
fell into the fire.
The cricket in the chimney chirped secrets to the visitor, and outside
the open window danced the flies, sure that they would live forever,
unless a swallow ate them.
LIKE SEEKS LIKE
One birthday, a little girl, besides many other beautiful presents,
received from an uncle who always had queer ideas, the gift of a white
mouse. It was a dear little thing, with soft fur which shone like
silver, eyes like rubies, and a fine stiff mustache. It lived in a
pretty, roomy cage, where it had a soft, white cotton-wool bed, the
very best food,—that is, large grains of wheat and peeled hazel nuts in
two glass dishes,—and a wheel which could be turned from the inside or
outside, and on whose spokes it could ride.
The little girl was very much pleased with the white mouse, for she
loved all harmless animals. She was not even afraid of it, like other
children, who scream when they see a poor little mouse run across the
floor, but took it bravely in her hand and stroked it. The mouse was
forced to permit this, but seemed to find no pleasure in it, for the
little creature trembled in every limb, and its heart beat so quickly
with fright that one could not count the throbs.
“Come, don’t be afraid,” said the little girl. “I’m not a cat, and I
won’t eat you.” She put it back into the cage. “You are still shy, but
you’ll get used to me. I’ll love you dearly and treat you well; then
you will love me, too, and be my grateful little friend.”
She insisted upon taking care of her little mouse herself. Every day
she cleaned its cage, changed the cotton-wool, filled the glass dishes,
and, during the warm hours of the day, placed the cage on the
window-sill, covering the outside with a piece of green cloth so that
the sunshine should not make the mouse’s red eyes ache. While doing
this, she said all sorts of soothing words to it in a sweet, coaxing
voice. “You are well off, my little mouse,” she told it. “You need not
creep into small, dark holes, where it must be dirty and cold, and
where bugs and roaches live. Brrr!” She shivered with fear at the bare
thought. “You have a beautiful house; you are kept as warm and clean as
a princess; I give you dainties which you could not have unless you
stole them at the risk of your life—sweet grapes, raisins, nuts,
milk-bread, and bits of bacon. No cat can harm you. You need not be
afraid of any trap. You are a real favorite of fortune among the mice.”
But the mouse did not think so. It remained sulky, and showed no
gratitude for its mistress’s care and affection. When it thought no one
was looking, it played happily enough with the wheel or the cotton-wool
in its nest, or combed and brushed itself with its handlike fore paws
as carefully as a soldier before parade. But as soon as the little girl
went to its cage, it suddenly stopped its cleaning or its play, and
crept under the cotton-wool. When its mistress put her hand in the cage
to take it out and pet it, the mouse darted into every corner of its
house to escape the searching hand, and when it was caught, uttered a
terrified squeaking, and struggled as violently as its feeble strength
would permit.
“Foolish thing,” said the little girl, but she did not lose patience.
“You will see in time how kindly I mean by you.”
Whether the mouse really did see this, is hard to say. Perhaps it only
found out that it was of no use to resist. It struggled less when its
mistress touched it, and therefore seemed tamer. But it did not answer
to the name of Snow-White which the little girl had given it, obeyed no
call, and pressed close against the back of the cage if any one looked
through the grating of its house. In time it even lost its appetite, so
that it grew thin and miserable. At last it also gave up turning in its
wheel, crouched sadly in one corner, and became so weak that it could
scarcely drag itself about.
This grieved the little girl to the heart. She ran to her mother,
saying: “Oh, mamma, come and see what is the matter with Snow-White. It
doesn’t eat, it doesn’t play, and it is always cross. I can’t cheer it
up at all.”
Her mother smiled. “What do you do to cheer it up?”
“I stroke it, I talk to it, I even sing my prettiest songs, for which
you all kiss me. But Snow-White doesn’t take any notice of them at all.
The little thing is certainly ill. We must give it something.”
“That would do no good,” her mother answered. “I think your little
mouse is tired because it is always alone.”
“But it has me,” cried the little girl.
“You are not enough, apparently. It wants another mouse for company.”
The eccentric uncle was told how matters stood, and he immediately
brought a second mouse, which was put into little Snow-White’s house.
Snow-White received the newcomer in the most generous way. It made a
broad, comfortable place for the stranger in the very middle of the
cotton-wool nest, where it was softest and warmest, while mousie itself
was content with the narrowest edge; brought out the most delicious
dainties; and after the guest was rested and refreshed, went through
the house, showing everything, even the wheel, on which it performed
its tricks outside and inside; then, sitting down by the visitor, nosed
and licked it, as dogs nurse their puppies. Snow-White seemed
completely changed, no longer dull, but excited, moving about as
swiftly and busily as a housekeeper who suddenly receives a welcome
guest.
The little girl watched the pair happily, and, after a while, wanted to
join the two mice. As usual, she put her hand into the cage to catch
them. But the newcomer leaped out of the nest with one bound and sought
shelter in the wheel, and Snow-White was extremely angry, squeaked
furiously, and snapped at the hand. If the little girl had not drawn it
back quickly, the mouse would certainly have bitten her. At first the
child wanted to punish Snow-White. She had already seized her penholder
to beat the little creature’s white fur with it, but she controlled her
temper, let the animal run, and put down the stick which she had
already lifted for the first blow.
“Go, I’ll do you no harm,” she said. “You know no better. You are a
naughty, ungrateful thing, but that is probably only your stupidity, so
I’ll forgive you.”
She had scarcely uttered these words in a very low tone, when she
suddenly saw a wonderfully beautiful woman with fair hair and blue
eyes, in a light blue dress, on which glittered a great number of
silver stars. She had no time to wonder how the lovely lady could have
come in unseen, for she said to her in a voice like sweet music: “That
was right, dear child. We must always be kind and indulgent to the
weak. As a reward, you shall understand the language of the white
mice.”
“I suppose you are a fairy?” asked the little girl, timidly.
“Perhaps so,” replied the lovely lady, smiling. Then, bending down, she
kissed the child gently on the forehead, and suddenly disappeared,
though the little girl did not see her pass through the door. The child
thought she had been dreaming, but a delicious fragrance of roses,
which remained in the room, proved that she was awake, and really had
talked with the fairy.
She turned quickly to the cage to find out whether she actually did
understand the language of the mice. At first she heard nothing except
a very low humming, like the distant buzzing of flies, in which she
could catch no words. But when she listened longer and more intently,
her ears became accustomed to the faint noise, and, yes—after a few
minutes she heard more and more distinctly two little voices talking to
each other.
“My poor, poor friend!” said one voice.
“You are right to pity me,” replied the other. “I have had a hard time,
I can tell you; I’ve led a life here which I would not wish my worst
enemy.”
“Yet the food and lodging seem to be very good,” answered the first
voice.
“There is no reason to complain of them,” remarked the second, “if one
could only enjoy one’s life. But how is that possible, when one is
constantly tormented, and frightened, and abused?”
The little girl listened intently. Who could have tortured and
frightened and abused Snow-White?
The delicate little voice went on: “There is a frightful monster here,
even more terrible than a cat. Whenever this horrible creature comes
near my house, I think that my last hour has come. It is as big as a
mountain. You can’t even imagine it. It has paws in which we two, and
three or four sisters and cousins, would have plenty of room. Each toe
is as long as I am from my nose to my tail. The claws are as wide and
thick as the doors of a house. The monster grasps me with these huge
toes, so that I grow faint, and cannot help screaming with pain and
terror. But what is the use of my moaning? The monster has no heart. It
enjoys my suffering. It passes its huge paw down my back, and then I
feel as if a heavy wagon were rolling over me. I don’t understand how a
single bone in my body remains whole under this cruel torture. The
monster raises me to its head, which is misshapen,—round, and perfectly
flat in front, without a sign of a muzzle. It has no mustache, either,
only on the upper part of the skull a forest of thick yellow hair. Its
eyes are as big as my head. I really don’t exaggerate. And when it has
me close to these fierce, pitiless eyes, it opens a huge mouth, and
utters such a terrible roar that I feel as if the world were going to
ruin. After this torture, the monster puts me back in my house again,
but then I am more dead than alive, as you may suppose, and it is a
long time before I can recover. In a little while, the bone-breaking,
the thundering roar, and the terrible staring with the enormous eyes
begin once more, and I spend my life, with aching limbs, remembering
the last attack, and trembling at the thought of the next one.”
“But what does this monster want of you?” asked the first voice. “Does
it want to eat you?”
“I don’t think so,” answered the other, “or it would have done it
before now. It only wants to play with me. It takes a cruel pleasure in
tormenting me, in killing me by slow torture.”
“Oh, sister, how you frighten me!” said the first voice. “Must this be
my fate, too?”
“I don’t know,” replied the other; “but, at any rate, I now have you,
and you have me, and we can bear our misery more easily together.”
The little girl wanted to hear no more. Deeply grieved, she ran to her
mother, told her everything, complained of Snow-White’s ingratitude,
and exclaimed, “If I am a monster, if my fingers are like posts, and my
voice is a roar, I won’t trouble myself about her any longer.”
“That will be the best way,” said her mother. “Content yourself with
feeding the little creature. A mouse, even if it is a white one, cares
nothing for your society and your love. A mouse is always a mouse, and
people can be happy only with their equals.”
THE PROUD DOLL
Once upon a time there was a little girl named Aennchen. She was very
pretty and good-natured, but a little spoiled, and therefore capricious
and quick-tempered; for she was the only child of wealthy people, and
her parents gave her her own way in everything. From the time Aennchen
was a year old, she had been loaded with presents of all kinds at every
opportunity. First there were india-rubber animals, then little houses
and gardens with green trees, then small pails, sieves, cake shapes,
and shovels to work in the sand, then rocking-horses and big donkeys on
wheels, and finally dolls, small and large, fair and dark, unbreakable
wooden ones and very fragile china ones, simply and richly dressed. But
the one which was given to her by her aunt, on her fifth birthday, was
more beautiful than any she had ever had before.
This was a very aristocratic lady, almost as large as Aennchen herself,
and dressed like a princess. She had a satin cloak, a silk gown with
several flounces, gold buckles at her little waist, white leather
shoes, embroidered underclothes, and a magnificent velvet and lace hat,
with an ostrich plume. A mother-of-pearl fan hung from her belt, and
she carried in her hand a dainty sunshade. She wore bracelets, a
necklace, and earrings, the only things which Aennchen did not like;
for her mother had told her that only savages bore holes in the ears,
nose, and lips to hang jewels in them. The doll had long, silky light
hair, which was waved, braided, and artistically arranged with hairpins
and little tortoise-shell combs. When she was laid down, she instantly
shut her big blue eyes, and fell asleep. When she was lifted up, she
opened her eyes and was awake again at once. She could say Papa, Mamma,
and many other things distinctly, but usually maintained a well-bred
silence, and spoke only when she was invited to do so by a pressure on
her body. She did not come to Aennchen like a person who has nothing
except what she carries on her back, but brought with her a magnificent
outfit, a chest of clothes, a bureau full of under linen, a sideboard
supplied with china, glass, and metal dishes, and table damask. At
first Aennchen felt really embarrassed when her new playmate was
introduced to her. She could not take her in her arms and carry her
about, she was too large and too heavy. She was told that she must not
undress and dress her, lest she should spoil her beautiful clothes, and
undressing and dressing her doll is the greatest pleasure a little girl
takes in it. Aennchen admired her, but she did not really love her, and
did not grow intimate enough with her to speak to her familiarly. When
she first became better acquainted with her, she discovered a very
serious fault—the new doll was extremely proud.
Aennchen had wanted to call her Minna. This was the name of her nurse,
whom her parents had kept in the house after the child outgrew milk,
and to whom Aennchen was deeply attached. But the doll would not have
the name. She did not hear it. She did not turn her head, when Aennchen
called her by it, but remained sitting as stiffly as if she was made of
wood. And yet she had been manufactured of the finest, most pliable kid
and china, and her limbs moved at every joint. This obstinacy provoked
Aennchen so much that she struck the doll. Then the latter said dryly:
“Pardon me. People do not strike me.”
“If you don’t want to be struck,” replied Aennchen, angrily, “answer
when you are called by name.”
“Minna is no name for me,” replied the doll, coldly.
“What do you want to be called, then?” asked Aennchen, bewildered.
“At least Kunigunde,” answered the haughty doll.
At first Aennchen was greatly inclined to box her ears, and say: “A
name that is good enough for my dear nurse is far too good for a
stupid, puffed-up thing like you,” but the doll’s cool audacity awed
her. She yielded, and the doll received the name of Kunigunde.
Aennchen had trouble with Kunigunde in another way. She had three
favorite dolls. They were small and easily handled, simply dressed, and
very dear to the little girl, because she had had them a long time, and
because she was allowed to dress and undress them as much as she
wished. Their clothes were no longer perfectly fresh, and showed here
and there a ripped seam, a loose button, or even a rent, and their
faces and hands could not be considered exactly models of cleanliness,
though Aennchen, who was very fond of splashing in the water, often
scrubbed them with soap, sponge, and brushes.
She wanted to make Kunigunde acquainted with these three older dolls,
and invited her to a coffee party. She put Kunigunde’s handsomest
table-cloth on the table, set out her beautiful dishes, and brought out
the three dolls. When Kunigunde saw the little shabby figures, she sat
up as straight as a dart, and stared into vacancy with her big blue
eyes, taking no more notice of the three dolls than if they had been
empty air. Aennchen put her three friends into little chairs, and was
going to do the same for Kunigunde. But the latter refused to take the
place. “I am not used to sitting at the same table with common people,”
she said.
“May I at least have the honor of drinking coffee in your lofty
society?” asked Aennchen, scornfully.
“Yes,” replied Kunigunde, condescendingly, pretending not to notice the
jeer.
This was too much for Aennchen. Seizing Kunigunde violently, she was
going to press her by force into the chair. The conceited doll made
herself perfectly rigid, and said in a defiant, rattling voice, “You
can break me, if you are strong enough, but you cannot compel me to sit
at the same table with these people.”
“We will not force our company upon the lady,” said the three modest
dolls, rising at the same moment.
“Oh, nonsense,” cried Aennchen, “stay quietly here, children, we won’t
trouble ourselves any further about this puffed-up creature.” Grasping
Kunigunde by the arm, she threw her into the corner so hard that she
bounced.
“I thank you for your courteous treatment,” Kunigunde’s voice was heard
saying, after she had recovered a little from the fall. “I beg you not
to feel under the slightest restraint, but to use my coffee set just as
if it belonged to you.”
This was strong, so strong that it almost took away the three modest
dolls’ breath. No doll had ever before ventured to speak to her
mistress in such a way. Aennchen could not allow such lack of respect.
She hastened to Kunigunde, screaming: “Now my patience is gone. Your
coffee set belongs to me, and you belong to me, and if you don’t keep
quiet at once, you’ll fly out of the window. Then you can hunt in the
gutter for society that is good enough for you.”
Kunigunde now remained silent, but though she did not speak, she shut
her eyes to show that she wished to have nothing to do with anything
that was going on around her. Aennchen did not take any notice of her
defiant sulking, left her lying in the corner, and entertained the
three modest dolls with coffee and cakes, which they enjoyed, while
Kunigunde received neither drop nor crumb.
Just at that time Aennchen’s foster sister, her old nurse’s daughter,
had been very ill and was beginning to recover. While the sickness was
serious, Aennchen had not been allowed to see her. Now, after several
weeks, she was permitted to go into the sick room for the first time.
The two little girls threw their arms around each other’s necks, and
rejoiced that they could be together again.
The foster sister had heard, from her mother, that Aennchen had had a
wonderful doll on her birthday, and she was very curious to see it.
Aennchen instantly ran to her room and, with some difficulty, dragged
Kunigunde to the bedside. At the sight of her, the foster sister
uttered a little cry, exclaiming: “Oh, she really is too beautiful! I
never thought there were such lovely dolls.”
“Do you admire her so much?” asked Aennchen.
“More than I can tell,” replied her foster sister, her eyes wandering
from Kunigunde’s velvet and lace hat to her satin cloak, and from her
silk gown to her necklace.
“Would you like to have her?” Aennchen went on.
The foster sister did not dare to answer.
“Say whether you want her,” Aennchen urged.
“Oh,” replied the child in the bed softly, “surely you are not in
earnest. She is too elegant for me. And your mother will not let you.”
“My mamma lets me do everything I ask her,” cried Aennchen, and ran off
as fast as she could go to her mother, to tell her that she wanted to
give Kunigunde to her foster sister for a present on her recovery.
She received permission and, highly delighted, returned to the little
girl to give her the beautiful doll for her very own.
“You know,” she said, “she can open and shut her eyes, and say Papa and
Mamma, and all sorts of other things.” And she wanted to show her the
doll’s skill. But Kunigunde kept her eyes obstinately shut, and did not
utter a sound.
“Have you suddenly grown deaf and dumb?” cried Aennchen, impatiently,
after she had vainly laid her down and sat her up again, shaken and
jerked her, squeezed and thumped her.
Kunigunde groaned under this rough treatment, and at last made up her
mind to utter the words, “I am not to be given to any servant’s child.”
This provoking answer made Aennchen furious. “I’ll teach you to insult
my foster sister,” she cried, and threw the haughty doll on the floor
with all her strength. There was a rattling sound, the child in bed
screamed, Kunigunde squeaked, “Mamma!” The worst had happened. The
doll’s head was broken; small pieces, to which her beautiful fair hair
still clung, were lying on the floor, and the back of Kunigunde’s head
showed a large, gaping hole.
Aennchen was obliged to tell her mother of the misfortune. Her mother
was very angry and scolded her little daughter for her quick temper. As
a punishment, she should have no dessert that evening. Aennchen cried,
and was still more enraged against Kunigunde, on whose account she was
now punished. Her mother spoke of sending the severely wounded doll to
a doll surgeon for treatment, and having a new head put on. But
Aennchen would not hear of it. “Throw her away,” she said; “I don’t
want to see her any more.”
“It will be better so,” muttered Kunigunde, who, though stunned, had
heard everything. “I have nothing to expect here except vulgar abuse.”
Aennchen perceived that even the hole in her head had not yet taught
Kunigunde modesty. Instead of answering, she took her up, stripped off
her ornaments, her hat, her rich garments, and her underclothes and,
when the doll lay perfectly naked, she called her nurse and said,
“Throw this thing into the garbage can.”
The nurse hesitated, but Aennchen stamped her feet and screamed, “Throw
her into the garbage can, I tell you.” Then the nurse yielded to her
foster child’s whim and carried the doll out of her sight.
When Kunigunde again opened her eyes, which until then she had
obstinately kept closed, she found herself in a corner of the kitchen,
in the deep garbage can, among bones, refuse, and sweepings. This
humiliation gave her more pain than the hole in her head, and filled
her with great bitterness. She was certain that sharp injustice, a
terrible wrong, had been done her. She had been severely injured,
robbed of all her property, and thrown into the dirt. And why? Because
she would not give up her self-respect. “Very well,” she murmured, “you
can commit every violence and every crime upon me, for you are stronger
than I; but you have not yet been able to force me to associate with
people who are beneath me in rank.”
The next morning, before the garbage wagon drove by, the rag-picker and
his wife came, as usual, to rummage in the can. “Look here!” he
exclaimed, when he saw the big doll; “she is dirty and broken, it is
true, but the dealer will give something for her.”
His wife turned Kunigunde round, and then said: “What we can get for
her isn’t worth talking about. We’ll take the thing to our little one.”
They did so. Kunigunde was quickly thrown into the sack which the woman
carried on her back, and taken to the rag-picker’s hut. The bag, as
usual, was emptied on the floor, and the little daughter peeped
curiously at the contents. Kunigunde, it is true, felt the deepest
aversion to the people who had picked her out of the garbage can, the
horribly dirty hut in which she found herself, and the ragged, greasy
child, to whom she was now to be given; yet in her conceit she imagined
that the little girl would be so astonished and delighted at the sight
of her that she would not dare to come near her, and this thought
flattered her. So she was deeply offended and humbled, when she was
soon forced to see that she made no impression on the rag-picker’s
child at all. The little girl picked her up, turned her over and over,
noticed the hole in her head and the sweepings in the tangled hair
which still remained, and only said contemptuously, “I don’t care,”
when her mother asked if she would like to have the doll.
The child owned one doll, which she had made herself, certainly a very
odd one. It was a long cork from a claret bottle, which the little girl
had dressed in several pieces of cotton rags and scraps of newspaper,
tied on with a bit of string. On the piece which appeared above the
paper and the rags she had marked, with a lead pencil, two eyes, a
nose, and a mouth. This little monster she loved and petted, talked
tenderly to it, and pressed it to her heart. When she retired with
Kunigunde to a corner of the hut, she laid her on the floor, took out
her own cork-stopper doll, kissed it, and said: “Look at this long
string of a doll! How much prettier you are! I love you far, far
better. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give her to you for a servant. She is
big and strong. She shall carry you out to walk, and do everything that
you order her.”
She put Kunigunde down, and laid the little scarecrow in her arms. But
now it did not suit her that her darling’s servant should be naked, and
she prepared to dress her. She searched for rags and paper, but all the
scraps she found were far too small for the huge Kunigunde. After she
had worked in vain for a long time, she grew impatient and cried,
“There’s nothing to be done with the stupid thing.” As she spoke, she
struck her so violently against the wall that she broke both of her
legs. The child stared at her a moment, then she said: “Now she is
dead. We will bury her.”
Kunigunde thought that her last hour had come, and she was glad. “I
would rather lie under the ground than to be the maid of a horrible
cork-stopper,” she said to herself. She closed her eyes, that she might
not see the dirt and wretchedness surrounding her, and sought
consolation for her terrible fate in the remembrance of her former
beauty, the wealth of which she had been robbed, and her aristocratic
origin, which had really destined her to be the playmate of a princess.
Meantime, the rag-picker’s cruel child was preparing to dig a hole in a
heap of rubbish behind the hut with the sharp edge of an old sardine
box. Her older brother found her busy at this work, and when, in reply
to his question, he learned that she was making a grave for the
ill-treated doll, which lay with closed eyes and broken limbs, he said:
“You can’t dig so large a grave as this big creature needs. Come, we’ll
throw the ugly wretch into the water.”
They at once set off together for the bridge which crossed the river
near by. “One, two, three,” cried the boy, and flung Kunigunde far over
the railing. The little girl looked after her, pressed her cork-stopper
doll to her heart, and said lovingly, “I don’t want any doll except
you.”
Kunigunde had considered it a last happiness that she was not to be
buried alive, but drowned, for this seemed to her a quicker and
painless end. “Now all will be over. These good-for-nothing human
beings were not worthy to possess so noble a creature as I,” she
thought, as she fell into the water and sank nearly to the bottom.
But all was not over. She did not drown, but was borne to the surface
again and floated gently down the stream. She opened her eyes and, in
spite of the hole in her head, in spite of her broken limbs, in spite
of her beggary, her courage revived. Then she suddenly felt sharp teeth
seize her. A large water rat caught her by one foot and dragged her to
its nest, which was on the shore, close beside the water. In it was a
litter of young rats, who wanted to play with the doll drifting in the
river. They all came out of the hole and swarmed around the doll which
their mother had brought. The thought darted through Kunigunde’s broken
head, “I would not play with a servant’s child, and now I must serve
these vermin for a toy!” This thought gave her such anguish that she
grew unconscious and died.
Death came at the right time to spare her the worst suffering. The
young rats wanted to drag her into their hole, the entrance was too
small, and when the horrible animals had pulled her to and fro a long
time in vain, they grew angry and began to tear her to pieces with
their teeth. They ate all the parts of her which were made of kid and
filled with bran, and the china portions found their last resting place
on the bottom of the river.
This was the sorrowful end of the proud Kunigunde. Aennchen’s three
modest dolls, on the contrary, fared well with their friend. They
stayed with her until Aennchen became a tall, beautiful young lady, and
when she married and had a little girl herself, she gave her her three
faithful playmates, that they might afford the child as much pleasure
as they had the mother.
THE GRATEFUL SPARROWS
Once upon a time a little girl, who loved all animals and plants, lived
in a house in town with a small garden in front of it. Her older
brother was a wild, mischievous lad, like most boys. He liked to catch
flies and pull off their wings and legs, put pins through beetles, or
tie yarn, wrapped with bits of paper, to their legs, and let them fly
away with the burden. When his sister was there, she would not allow
such naughty tricks. Although she was the smaller of the two, he was
obliged to do what she wanted or she would not speak to him, and the
boy could not stand that. She would not let any animal be hurt. Her
brother was not even permitted to tread upon the ugly, hairy
caterpillars, though they ate the leaves off her bushes and flowers. He
had to put them in a piece of paper and carry them into the street.
“But they will die out there just the same,” the brother said.
“We need not take care of them,” his sister answered; “their parents
must do that, or they themselves. But we ought not to kill them.”
In the front garden stood four trees, in whose branches many sparrows
had built their nests. They could not be called pleasant neighbors.
They soiled the fence along the street, and the door, and the ground
under the trees, so that the maid-servant had hard work to keep the
entrance clean, and she scolded about the dirty sparrows, and often
threatened to beat down their nests with her broom stick. In the warm
season of the year, they woke very early, long before sunrise, and made
a deafening noise for an hour or more. There was such a hopping and
fluttering, and flying to and fro, such greeting and quarrelling,
chattering and scolding, that it seemed like a school of children at
recess. The father of the little girl and boy, who was a light sleeper,
was regularly roused by the noise made by the birds, and grew so angry
over it that he talked of buying a rifle and killing all the sparrows
without mercy. In the spring, when the grass and the flower-beds were
sowed, they ate the seeds out of the earth, so that there was the
greatest trouble in protecting the seed by scarecrows and threads woven
around short wooden pegs stuck into the ground. Everybody had some
grievance against the sparrows, and the poor birds had not a single
friend in the house except the little girl, who pleaded for them
whenever her father and the maid-servant wanted to vent their anger
upon them.
She did not rest satisfied with defending the sparrows against the just
indignation of the members of the household. She showed them other
favors. In the summer they fared well. Then they could find food
everywhere. They only needed to fly out into the street, or a
market-place, to fill their little stomachs with the nicest things. But
the winter was a hard time for them. Then they sometimes suffered such
bitter want that they came to the windows and pecked on the panes with
their beaks, begging piteously for a few crumbs. Ever since the little
girl had been large enough to understand what the birds wanted, when
they crowded around the windows in this way, she always fed them.
During the cold season, she swept the snow off the window-sill and
scattered bread crumbs and seeds, on holidays even bits of apple,
raisins, and sugar, then she closed the windows and pressed her little
nose against the panes, to see how her feathered guests liked the meal.
In time they grew used to thinking that the sill outside the little
girl’s room was their ever ready table, and did not hesitate to remind
their friend by pecking impatiently on the panes, if she delayed giving
them their breakfast.
Her brother thought this was very saucy. “The impudent sparrows,” he
said, “to act as if we owed them something.”
“We do owe them something,” answered the little sister, “for we are
rich and they are poor; we are strong and they are weak; we are big and
they are little.”
Her brother was not to be convinced. “They are good for nothing,” he
muttered.
“It’s fun to watch their merry play,” said his sister. “Besides, who
can tell whether they may not be good for something?”
She continued her kindness to her little protégés. She put bread
crumbs, soaked in milk, into the beak of a young sparrow which had left
the nest rather too early and stayed crouching in a corner of the
window-sill, because he could not fly away, and made a soft bed for him
with cotton-wool in a box, so that he would be comfortable until his
mother came and took the half-fledged runaway home. Another time the
house cat was watching on the wall under the window-sill, and, when the
sparrows came to be fed, she made a great leap and caught one of the
birds by the wing. The others scattered with cries of fright, the
captured sparrow peeped piteously in the cat’s mouth, and thought its
last hour had come. But the little girl had seen the whole from the
window, hastily seized a ruler which lay near, and gave the cat such a
blow on the paw, that she had to open her mouth to mew with pain. The
sparrow took advantage of it to fly away, and the cat, punished and
ashamed, could do nothing except steal off limping on one forefoot.
A third time a naughty boy in the street was throwing stones at the
birds’ nests in the trees behind the fence. The little girl ran down at
once, and reproached him for his bad behavior. But when he would not
listen to her, only mocked at her and went on throwing them, she
screamed so loudly for help that the maid-servant came out of the
kitchen, and even a policeman from the street, and drove the naughty
boy away.
As the little girl attended to the sparrows every day, watched them on
the window-sill, and listened while they chattered, jested, and
quarrelled with one another, she gradually learned to understand their
language. This is not so difficult as people suppose, because the
sparrows have only a few words, and they talk about very simple things,
which most grown-up persons have forgotten, but which a child knows
very well. The little girl could listen for hours while one mother
sparrow told tales about another, praised all her own children, made
fun of the wise old sparrows, and talked of the dainties they had
stolen from the fruit women in the market-place. She even tried to talk
the sparrow language herself, that she might share their conversation,
and ask all sorts of things; but she could not make the high tones of
their twittering and peeping, so she was obliged to be satisfied with
listening.
One day the whole family went to a fair, which was held in a meadow
outside of the city. There were a great many booths and side-shows, and
an enormous crowd of people, who pressed around the jugglers, clowns,
and merry-go-rounds. A dealer in a strange, perhaps Oriental costume
was loudly offering lozenges for sale. They were beautifully colored
and looked tempting enough, so the little girl begged for some, for she
was fond of sweets. Her mother did not want to buy them; she did not
like the dealer’s crafty brown face. “Who knows what the stuff is?” she
said. But the father answered, “You are over-anxious,” and bought a
lozenge for his little daughter, and one for his son, too, that he
might not be jealous.
The little girl was just putting the lozenge into her mouth, when a
sparrow suddenly darted down upon her, straight at her hand, so that
she was startled and dropped the candy. The bird caught it skilfully in
the air, and flew away with it. The little girl looked after it with
her mouth wide open, hardly knowing how it had been done. But her
brother laughed, saying: “Now you see! That’s the way with your dear
sparrows. Shameless thieves and nothing else.” But the little girl
would hear nothing against her protégés, and declared it was her own
fault—she had awkwardly dropped the lozenge out of her hand. She asked
for another, but it was impossible to reach the dealer, the crowd was
so great that they could not get through it. She looked ready to cry,
and her brother good-naturedly offered her his own lozenge. She took
it, but just as she was lifting it to her lips, a sparrow again darted
at her hand and pecked her forefinger so hard with its beak that she
uttered a cry of pain and opened her hand. The bird seized the lozenge
and vanished with it before the little girl and her relatives had
recovered from their astonishment.
The father was expressing his surprise at the extraordinary boldness of
city sparrows, when suddenly there was a great shouting and running to
and fro in the crowd. They asked what had happened, and, after some
time, learned that many children who had eaten the brown-skinned
dealer’s lozenges had been taken ill. The candy was colored with
poisonous things, and those who had eaten it were writhing in pain and
in danger of their lives. The crowd wanted to kill the rascally dealer,
but he took to flight. People pursued him with loud shouts, there was a
great tumult, and the little girl’s parents had the utmost trouble in
escaping with their children from the confusion. They hurried on along
the road, to find a free space where there were no more booths and the
throng was less dense; but the little girl could not keep step with her
father; she had to run, and, stumbling over a stone, fell on the
ground. Her mother sprang forward to lift her up, when, behind the
child lying in the road and her parents, cries of terror were heard,
and they saw a frightened horse come dashing toward them at full
gallop. The next instant the foaming animal must have trampled upon the
group. It seemed as if nothing could save them. At the last moment,
when the hot breath of the frantic creature was already fanning the
face of the terrified father, a sparrow flew suddenly straight at the
horse’s right eye with so much force that the animal neighed loudly
with pain, reared high in the air, and made such a spring aside, that
it lost its balance, rolled in the ditch, and was caught by the people
who came running up.
The little girl, in spite of her fright, had seen very well what the
sparrow had done, and said, “So the sparrows are good for something.”
But the others were so benumbed in every limb by fear that they did not
answer. All the pleasure of the fair had been destroyed by the
excitement, and they decided to go home. Unless they went a very long
way round, they were obliged to return past the booths, and enter the
crowd. The little girl stopped an instant to look at a big picture of
wild beasts, giraffes, and elephants, which hung in front of a show
where animals were exhibited, and when she looked around, she
discovered that she had been separated from her family by the throng.
She was very much frightened, and tried to run forward to overtake
them. But the crowd stood like a wall before her on every side, and she
could not pass. She pushed against the people among whom she was
wedged, the rough men pushed back, and the little girl began to cry
bitterly, partly because she was hurt, partly because it frightened her
to be all alone, among so many strangers. Then a hand clasped hers and
drew her quickly and skilfully out of the throng in front of the animal
show, where she was penned. She looked up and saw through her tears an
old dame with a brown face and rough gray hair, who resembled the
rascally lozenge seller, and said in a harsh voice and foreign accent:
“Come, little one, come with me quick. Don’t be afraid!”
“Where?” asked the little girl, timidly, trying to stop.
“Come, come,” repeated the old woman, who looked like a witch. “Away
from here. Out of the crowd. Then I will take you home. To your
parents.”
When the little girl heard of her parents, she followed willingly. Yet
it seemed to her that the old woman was not leading her toward the
city, but in the opposite direction.
“We don’t live there,” she said, “but on the other side!”
“I know, I know,” replied the old woman. “We are going to my cart. It’s
too far for you to walk home.”
In a few minutes they reached a cart, which stood by the side of the
road. It was a queer old vehicle, with a faded cover made of darned
linen, drawn by two little nags, which were so thin that their bones
seemed to be coming through their skins. The little girl would not get
in, so the brown witch seized her quickly round the waist, lifted her
like a light bundle, flung her into the cart, and jumped in after her.
The little girl called for help, but the cart was filled with men and
women, and little half-naked brown children, who all began to scream
louder still, so that her voice was not heard at all. At the same time
the old witch urged up the half-starved horses, and the rattling cart
rolled off in the midst of a cloud of dust with astonishing speed.
The little girl had fallen into the power of a band of gypsies, who
wanted to carry her away. When she began to cry bitterly, the old witch
said to her: “Keep still. No harm will befall you. You will fare well
with us. You shall have nice things to eat, and a gown with gold
spangles. You shall learn to dance and tell fortunes, and always have
plenty of fun. So be quiet.”
The little girl did not know what to do. Drawing back into the farthest
corner of the cart, she wept silently, thinking of her parents and her
brother, who were now searching for her so anxiously.
The gypsy band must have done a good business at the fair. Men and
women were drinking from big bottles of wine, singing, laughing, and
talking in a strange language. They soon stopped in a wood, where they
lighted a fire and prepared a camp for the night. They cooked in large
kettles an ample meal, and wanted to give the little girl some of it,
too; but, though she was very hungry, she refused with disgust.
After the wild, brown vagabonds had finished their supper, they all lay
down to sleep, some around the fire, others under the cart, the women
and children in it. The little girl was obliged to get in, too, and lie
beside the other children; but she kept awake, and when she saw that
all were in a sound slumber, she rose softly, climbed down from the
cart, slipped out of the circle of snoring gypsies, and began to run as
fast as her little legs would carry her, until she was so far from the
gypsy camp that she could no longer see the light of their camp-fire.
Then she stopped for breath and found herself in the midst of a dark
wood, where she did not know which way to turn. She dared not call out,
so she sat down in the thick moss at the foot of a tall tree and began
to cry piteously.
Suddenly she heard a small voice at her side, twittering in the
well-known sparrow language: “Don’t cry, friend. Come. Follow me.”
“Who are you?” asked the little girl, also in the sparrow language,
which she tried to speak as plainly as possible.
“Oh, how stupid you human beings are!” was the merry answer. “Don’t you
know me? I am your neighbor, and you feed me every day.”
“Indeed!” cried the little girl, joyously, putting out her hand to her
feathered friend.
But the sparrow fluttered quickly away. “Don’t touch me,” it chirped;
“we don’t like that. But now let us go home. I’ll fly very slowly. Keep
your eyes on me.”
The bird fluttered in front, just at the height of her head, and the
little girl followed trustfully. There were a few stumbles and falls in
the darkness, a few bumps and bruises, but, after half an hour’s walk,
she came out of the woods into the high-road, and then it was easy to
move forward. Near the city she met a policeman, who was very much
astonished to find a little girl alone on the road so late at night,
and questioned her. She told him the whole story, her name, and where
she lived, and the worthy man took her by the hand and led her home.
Her parents, who had been searching for her in vain for hours, and
notified the police without finding any trace of their missing child,
had not gone to bed, and were sitting in despair around the table,
vainly trying to comfort each other. When, long after midnight, the
policeman rang and brought back their little daughter, there was such
rejoicing that the whole neighborhood was roused. The sparrow which had
guided the girl back was perched on the window-sill, gazing through the
panes into the room, flapping its wings and twittering at the joy of
the parents, who could not stop kissing their recovered child, although
she was very tired and only wanted to go to bed.
The father was very grateful to the sparrows for having saved his
little daughter’s life three times in one day. The next morning he made
a regular feast for them. On every window-sill in the whole house he
spread cakes and raisins, fruit and honey, and the sparrows came and
banqueted, and invited their friends and relatives from far and near.
There was a great fluttering and chirping, twittering and screaming,
but nobody complained of it. And, from that time, food was always
scattered for the house sparrows and strangers, too, and human beings
and sparrows remained the best of friends to the end of their lives.
THE SIX LITTLE GLOW-WORMS
During the June nights the meadow at the edge of the forest was as
merry as a peasant wedding or a country fair. The nightingales sang,
the crickets chirped, the plover drummed, the night wind whistled, old
May and young June bugs lay in their taverns in the grass, the bushes,
and the foliage of the trees, and drank dew till they were full, and
even the sober ladybugs, which usually lead no gay lives, were
persuaded to share the lively meetings of the idlers. As soon as it
grew dark, the six little glow-worms that lived in the meadow crept out
of their tiny room in the earth and lighted their lanterns, so that the
place was brightly illuminated by their shining, bluish white light.
So, when the revellers broke up at as late an hour as possible, thanks
to their living lamps, they found their way as easily and safely as if
it had been noonday, without striking against roots and stones, or
falling into moleburrows. Then, standing in front of the glow-worms,
they cheered them with their hoarse throats, and sang this little
verse:—
“Little worm, that kindly lights
The reveller’s steps in the dark nights,
As to his home he gropes his way,
Our thanks we pay! Our thanks we pay!”
The little glow-worms said nothing, only let their light shine softly.
They were indulgent to the harmless gayety of the revellers, and
enjoyed the merry life which surrounded them during the short festival
season of the year.
Not far from the meadow, where there were such gay doings, stood an old
castle with a lofty tower. Here lived an aristocratic owl family, with
a numerous colony of bats for servants. The mistress of the house, an
owl of mature years, was a very learned lady, who had one son, whom she
urged to study. But the young gentleman was an idler and sluggard, who
would rather wander about than learn. Whenever he could, he stole away
from his books and slipped out of the tower, to rob nests, catch birds,
or, with the young noblemen from the owl-eyries in the neighborhood,
join in hunting hares and marmots.
This troubled his mother greatly, and she remonstrated earnestly with
him.
“The examination is close at hand, and you are not preparing yourself.
Do you mean to disgrace me by failing?”
The young owl obstinately remained silent and looked sulky.
“Answer me, you unmannerly scapegrace!” cried the owl, angrily. “What
am I to do with you? All your ancestors are lights of learning and
members of the academy. You alone wish to remain an idle, ignorant
blockhead. Are not you ashamed of yourself?”
“It isn’t my fault,” replied the owl nobleman, defiantly.
“Not your fault?” asked the owl in astonishment. “Whose fault is it,
then?”
“Why, Mamma,” cried the youth, boldly, “do have some consideration.
When am I really to study? During the day, as a member of a respectable
owl family, I must sleep, and at night it is so dark in this confounded
lumber room that I can’t see a line. I’m near-sighted already. If I
must strain my eyes over my books in this pitch-black darkness, I shall
be blind entirely.”
“What nonsense are you talking?” replied the owl, sternly. “We have
lived here a hundred years and more, and no one ever complained of our
home before. They all found it comfortable. On moonlight nights, it is
almost too light and, when the moon doesn’t shine, you have our roof
cat, by whose eyes you can read easily.”
The youth remained obstinate. “Pardon me, Mamma,” he said defiantly.
“There are so few clear moonlight nights that they don’t count, and our
cat’s eyes may have been enough for our ancestors, but in our days of
electricity it is no light at all. Besides, we have so much more to
learn now than you did in old times. So either give me some decent
light, or don’t complain if I cannot prepare for my examinations.”
And, without waiting for his mother’s answer, the rude youth vanished
through the tower window, to amuse himself with his companions in the
usual way and let study alone.
The owl called the oldest of her bats, and said anxiously: “There is no
living with the young people any longer. Hasn’t my good-for-nothing son
taken it into his head that it isn’t light enough here, and therefore
he cannot study?”
“Foolish talk, Mrs. Professor,” squeaked the bat.
“I know that just as well as you do,” answered the owl; “but I must not
let him have the excuse for his idling. What shall we do to get a
better light for the lazy fellow?”
“Our roof cat—” began the bat.
“Isn’t enough,” interrupted the owl. “Between ourselves: it really is a
dim light, and I wonder whether our eyes are not constantly growing
worse because, up to this time, we have been satisfied with our cat’s
light. We must find something else.”
The bat reflected a little while, then she said: “How would it do to
try glow-worms, Mrs. Professor? They give a good, steady light, do not
heat the head, and are not dangerous on account of fire.”
“A clever idea,” said the owl. “Bring some here as soon as possible.”
The bat obediently flew away and hurried to the meadow on the edge of
the forest, where the spring festival was in full course. From all the
tree-tops, bushes, and grasses echoed the notes of fiddles, the sound
of flutes, and merry drinking songs; everywhere there was dancing,
playing, and dew drinking, and the little glow-worms, with quiet
pleasure, held the light for these gay doings. Without troubling
herself in the least about the company, the owl’s faithful servant
seized one of the glow-worms with her teeth, and carried it in a swift
flight to the tower, where she put it on a beam. It was trembling in
every limb with fright, and in its terror almost let its lantern go
out.
The owl looked at the little creature closely, and said discontentedly,
“This light, too, is not enough.”
“No, Mrs. Professor,” replied the bat; “it shone far more brightly in
the meadow outside. These glow-worms are queer creatures. Alone they
are not good for much. There must be several of them together. Then the
rascals want to outshine one another, each tries to do his best, and
the result is something very acceptable.”
“Then get several,” ordered the owl.
The bat called her relatives, they went to the meadow together and
brought away the other five glow-worms. When all six sat side by side
on the beam in the tower, they were so glad that no harm had happened
to them, and that they were together again, that they quickly forgot
their fright, and let their lanterns shine with full brilliancy. The
walls of the tower chamber glittered and sparkled as if they were hung
with silver cloth and adorned for a royal festival. It was a very
beautiful sight, which pleased even the bat, though usually she cared
little for wealth and magnificence.
“Wonderfully pretty,” she said; “but too dazzling. I could not bear it
long.”
“Nor I, either,” answered the owl, sighing. “But what can we do? The
young folks will have it so.”
The six little glow-worms shone conscientiously until the approach of
dawn, then they turned off their light, crept close to one another on
the beam, fell asleep, tired out, and dreamed of the merry fair, from
which they had been stolen to serve in the owl tower.
When the first flush of dawn was appearing in the sky, the young owl
returned, laid a hare at his mother’s feet, and wished her a pleasant
sleep.
“Very well, you idler,” she muttered before she went to her bed. “You
shall have a surprise to-night.”
In fact, when darkness came, the owl went to the lie-a-bed and shouted
into his ear: “Get up, you sluggard. Up with you quick, and go to
work!”
The young owl opened his eyes, but instantly shut them again to escape
the glare which met him. The six little glow-worms had lighted their
lanterns, and were shining as brightly as they could.
“Now you can no longer tell me that you cannot see plainly enough,” the
owl went on. “I have given you a light which will make your eyes water.
Now bring your books, and study steadily.”
The young owl was obliged to get up, whether he liked it or not. He
made his toilet, ate something, and sat down with his books. But he had
no love for study, and only waited until his mother, accompanied by two
young bats, flew away to attend to some business. Then he went quickly
to the little glow-worms, and said in a subdued voice, yet very
impressively: “You vagabond lantern-bearers, what do you want here? Who
sent for you? If you don’t put out your worthless eye-spoilers, I’ll
break your bones for you.”
The little glow-worms were terribly frightened, and lowered their light
almost entirely, so that it only glimmered very faintly. But the bat,
who, in her corner, had seen and heard all this, shot out, hissing:
“Just wait, sir, I will tell your mother about this. And you glow-worms
will turn up your light again at once, or you’ll have to deal with me.”
The little glow-worms did not know what to do. The young owl threatened
their lives if they shone, and the bat if they put their light out. But
they understood that the young owl had more authority here than the
bat, and the bravest of them summoned courage to say to him, as he
stood before them with angry eyes and ruffled feathers: “My young lord,
we should be very glad to obey you, if we only could. We did not come
here voluntarily. Your servants dragged us by force from our home and
family. We would like nothing better than to return to our own people.
But how are we to get out of this terrible high tower, and reach the
earth? We can never do it alone. Help us, my young lord, and we will be
grateful to you all our lives.”
The young owl was a rough fellow, yet he had a kind heart. He pitied
the frightened glow-worms, and did not want to throw them out of the
tower window. Besides, he was afraid of his mother, who would certainly
ask where they were.
He drove the old bat rudely back into her corner, and said softly to
the trembling little glow-worms: “Now pay attention to me. When my
mother comes home, summon up your courage and declare a strike. My
mamma is a little severe in her language, but she will do you no harm.
She doesn’t eat things like you. I hope she will drive you away, and
then I will carry you home.”
Things happened just as the sly fellow had planned. When the owl came
back, she found the room perfectly dark, and the six little glow-worms
were visible only as faint, bluish sparks.
“What does this mean?” shrieked the owl, angrily. The bat was rushing
out of her corner, but the young owl flow to her side and whispered
fiercely, “Hold your tongue, or it will cost you your life!” then,
hurrying back to the glow-worms, he hissed: “Go on now! Be brave!”
The glow-worm which had spoken before again began, “Pardon us,
Baroness, we cannot shine.”
“Why not, you lazy rabble?” cried the owl, fiercely.
“Because we get nothing to eat and drink,” replied the glow-worm,
boldly.
“H’m,” said the owl rather perplexed. She had not thought of that
before, and could not deny that the glow-worm was right. “What do you
want?”
“Four meals a day, at each meal twelve fat plant-lice and a pint of
fresh dew. That is what we are used to. Then a soft moss bed with thyme
in the pillows, and permission to go out twice a week—or we can do
nothing.”
“You shall be choked first, you gluttons,” cried the owl, in the
greatest rage. “Here, Bat, break these blockheads’ necks! Eat them
all.”
“Out with your lights!” whispered the young owl to them quickly, while
the bat was flying as fast as possible to obey her mistress’s orders.
The little glow-worms instantly put out their lanterns, and were now
perfectly invisible in the dark room, so that even a sharper-sighted
creature than the half-blind bat could not have found them.
“Quick! Sit on my claws, each on one toe,” said the young owl, very
softly. They crawled and crept, as fast as they could, upon the owl’s
feet, which he had placed on the beam, and when he felt that they were
all clinging fast with their little thin, weak legs, he sailed
noiselessly out of the tower window.
Outside in the open air, when they knew that they were out of danger,
all the glow-worms lighted their lanterns and shone with all their
power, so that the young owl, in his flight, looked like a wonderful
shining constellation. On reaching the meadow at the edge of the
forest, the rough fellow shook his travelling companions from his claws
with a sudden movement, because it was disagreeable to him to feel
their little thin legs on his toes, and went off without any word of
farewell.
The glow-worms fell to the ground from a considerable distance, and
were somewhat bruised. But the pleasure of being again at home with
their relatives was greater than the pain. They were greeted with
universal rejoicing, for it had been very dull on the meadow since the
bats had carried away their living lanterns. The night festival had
been interrupted, all the revellers wanted to hurry home and, in doing
so, some had fallen into pools and were drowned, others had stumbled
over roots and stones, and broken their legs or even their necks, and
cries of pain and groans had followed the merry songs. When the
revellers now had their usual light once more, the fiddles and flutes
sounded gayly, old and young May and June beetles, crickets, and
grasshoppers, and even the sober ladybugs, danced around the six little
glow-worms, singing joyously:—
“How we have missed your shining spark,
When, wand’ring through the nights so dark,
We’ve broken limbs on paths astray,
And drowned in pools beside the way,
But now we have you here once more—
‘Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!’ we roar!”
After this trial the owl gave up her effort to make her son a learned
man. She let him become a hunter, and in this career, for which he had
inclination and talent, he advanced so far that his mother, after all,
was satisfied with him.
THE DWARF’S SPECTACLES
Michel was a good lad. He was the only son of a widow, who, after her
husband’s early death, was left alone with him and two little girls. By
great sacrifices she had brought up her three children, kept them warm
and clean, sent them to school, and educated them. Michel, from his
tenth year, had faithfully helped her. At first he had picked up dung
on the highway and caught cockchafers, for which the parish paid him a
few pennies a quart. Then he had tended sheep and helped to gather the
fruit at harvest time. When he was sixteen, he went into a farmer’s
service, and from that hour, he not only supported himself but also
aided his mother and sisters. Several years after, both the girls
married, one the village carpenter, the other the schoolmaster; for, in
spite of their poverty, they were known and respected by all the
villagers for their modesty, their beauty, and their clever brains.
One Sunday, soon after his younger sister’s marriage, Michel went to
his mother and said: “Mother, I am twenty-one years old, tall and
strong, and skilful in all farm work. Without praising myself, there is
not a farm hand for ten miles around who can make a straighter furrow
or build so good a hay-rick as I, to say nothing of mowing, threshing,
and cattle tending.”
“I know that, my boy,” replied the widow, somewhat surprised by this
speech; “but why do you tell me this?”
“Because I have determined to see a little of the world. I want to go
on my travels.”
“Stay in the country and support yourself honestly,” warned the mother.
“I can accomplish nothing here,” Michel answered. “In foreign countries
I shall learn all sorts of things, save something, and if I have good
luck, in time I shall rule as owner on my own farm.”
“That would be fine, surely,” murmured the mother; “but it is not
easy.”
“Nothing in this world is easy, at least for people like us,” said
Michel; “but I can try hard things, too; I have the bones for it.”
The mother could not help admitting that he was right, though it was
hard for her to part from her good son. In order not to be alone, she
moved into the house of her daughter, the carpenter’s wife, and Michel
promised always to send her money, whenever he had any to spare. His
master, the farmer, gave him three gold coins, his brother-in-law, the
schoolmaster, a knapsack and a hymn-book, his brother-in-law, the
carpenter, a stout knotted stick, and his mother her blessing, to take
with him on his way. Thus equipped, after a touching leave-taking with
his family, he left his village one sunny autumn morning and set forth
into the wide world. After some time a fellow joined him on the highway
and, when they had exchanged greetings, asked: “Where did you come
from, and where are you going? To what country do you belong? What is
your trade, and what is your name?”
Michel answered frankly, only he could not say where he should go. He
would follow his nose, he thought, and it would lead him somewhere. The
fellow laughed and replied: “Join me, then. I am a better guide than
your nose. I am a printer, have wandered over the world, and know
something about nearly everything. That comes from education, my dear
fellow. One learns more behind the compositor’s case than behind the
ox-plough.”
“All due respect to your education,” said Michel, raising his eyebrows,
“but I’m content with the plough. It can always stand beside your case
without shame.”
“You are right, Brother,” replied the printer; “the man who will have
nothing said against his trade is a fine fellow. Have you been in the
city yet?”
“No,” said Michel.
“That’s fine,” cried the printer, “I’m at home in the city and will
show you everything. You are lucky to have fallen in with me. For in
town one must open one’s eyes and keep a sharp watch, unless one wants
to be cheated at every corner. Tell me, Brother, have you any money?
For in the city you must pay well. There it’s nothing for nothing.”
Michel unsuspiciously took his three gold coins from his pocket and
showed them to the printer. The other hastily pulled out a few silver
pieces and dirty scraps of paper, held them before Michel’s face a
moment, and said, “This is my money; as you see, I am richer than you.”
The truth was that Michel had seen nothing distinctly, for he had no
skill in counting money. “Give me your yellow boys,” the printer went
on; “we will put our cash together and make one purse. Then you’ll be
sure that none of the city thieves will rob you.”
This suited Michel. He gave his three gold coins to the printer and the
two walked on, talking merrily, until they reached the city. Going into
a tavern, they drank what was good and dear. In the afternoon, the
printer showed Michel the sights of the city, and in the evening they
had a fine meal of beer and sausage. When it grew late, the printer
said: “Now we’ll stop work. I will take a separate room. You, I
suppose, are an early riser. I like to stay a long time in bed, if I am
not obliged to get up. You would wake me, if we slept in the same room.
So, good night, Brother Michel.”
The next morning, according to his habit, Michel rose with the cocks,
went to the coffee room, and said to the tavern-keeper, who was also
there, “I suppose my companion is still in bed?”
“Why, no,” replied the host, “he is earlier than you. He started half
an hour ago, and left his regards for you.”
“What!” cried Michel, startled. “He has gone?”
“Yes, indeed, bag and baggage!” answered the tavern-keeper.
“But my money?” shrieked Michel, turning pale.
The tavern-keeper knew nothing about it.
Michel told him how he had given his gold to the printer, and the
innkeeper grew almost angry at his story. “What a simpleton you are!”
he exclaimed, “it serves you just right; you are more stupid than a
new-born calf. You have paid your apprentice money. At least let it be
a warning to you for the future. But you can’t stay here, if you have
no money. I give nothing on credit.”
Michel was obliged to pack his knapsack, and leave the inn and the city
with an empty stomach.
As he wandered sorrowfully along the highway, he saw at some distance a
pear tree, full of ripe fruit, at whose foot a man sat on the ground,
with his back resting against the trunk, smacking his lips over the
juicy pears, a whole heap of which he had piled beside him.
This man was an ill-looking fellow. He was barefooted, very ragged,
uncombed, and unwashed. But Michel’s stomach was complaining, his mouth
watered, and he involuntarily stopped in front of him.
“Will you join me?” asked the barefooted fellow, grinning.
“Gladly, for I have had nothing to eat to-day,” replied Michel, taking
several pears.
“Where are you from, and what are you doing?” asked the shabby fellow.
Michel told him frankly his unfortunate adventure with the printer, who
had basely robbed him, and complained that he did not know how he was
to get on without money.
The tramp had pricked up his ears at Michel’s story, and eyed him
sharply with a side glance. “Money lost is nothing lost,” he said, when
the other had finished. “It happens so that we two can now become
equally rich. Do you see the poplar tree yonder?” He pointed to a very
tall tree, which grew a few steps farther down the road.
“Certainly! What of it?”
“Do you see the magpie’s nest in the highest boughs?”
Michel searched for a while with his eyes, and said, “Yes, I see that,
too.”
“Well, then, the magpie has stolen a large gold chain, set with
diamonds, somewhere. I saw her just now as she carried the jewel to her
nest. It is lying there still. I wanted to climb up at once and take it
away; but I have rheumatism in all my bones from sleeping on the ground
so many nights, and I can’t manage climbing. But it will be child’s
play for you. So up with you at once, and fetch the treasure out of the
nest.”
“Child’s play—that’s saying a great deal,” muttered Michel, measuring
with his eye the height of the tree. “And besides, the chain doesn’t
belong to us. We must give it back to the owner.”
“Of course,” cried the tramp. “Do I look like a thief? But, at any
rate, we can demand the reward, and that is something.”
Michel hesitated no longer. He took off his knapsack, rested his stick
against the pear tree, and was beginning to climb the poplar.
“Hold on,” said the tramp, “that won’t do. You must take off your coat
and boots, too, or you’ll never get to the top.”
Michel knew that this was true. He pulled off his handsome new boots,
removed his nice cloth coat, folded them neatly according to his
custom, laid both beside his knapsack, and said: “Take good care of
them for me. I have nothing else in the world.”
“Depend upon it, Brother, depend upon it,” cried the barefooted tramp,
rubbing his dirty hands together with a grin.
Michel began to climb the tall poplar. He was strong and skilful, but
it was a hard piece of work. At last, however, he reached the nest, and
peered in with the greatest curiosity. There were four half-fledged
magpies, which made a great outcry, flapped their wings violently, and
pecked his hand with their yellow beaks, as he felt for the necklace,
but there was no sign of a gold chain. He found a safe seat in a forked
branch, and called down: “Holloa—you must have dreamed about a gold
chain; there’s nothing here but downy feathers—no necklace.”
As he received no answer, he parted the branches and looked down. To
his horror, he saw that the tramp had disappeared, and with him his
knapsack, staff, boots, and coat. Gazing into the distance, he
discovered him with all the stolen clothes on running along the road
far away. “Stop thief!” shouted Michel at the top of his lungs,
slipping and jumping down the tree so fast that he ran the risk of
breaking his neck. But no living soul was in sight, no one heard his
calls for help, no one stopped the flying thief, and it was useless to
follow him, for he had a long start, and a bend in the road soon hid
him from Michel’s sight.
There stood poor Michel, now barefoot and in his shirt sleeves, with
nothing left, not even the cane and hymn-book which his brother-in-law
had given him, or the underclothes which his mother had packed in the
knapsack. He did not know what to do. Should he go on, or simply turn
back and again enter the service of his master, the farmer? But he was
too much ashamed to go home in such a plight, after just starting out
into the world with such proud hopes, so he determined to try to get
work as he was.
He walked sadly on until he came to a broad and tolerably swift stream,
across which was a ford. When he went down the bank and was preparing
to roll up his trousers and step into the water, he suddenly heard loud
weeping, as if from a child. He looked around in surprise, but saw
nothing. Yet the crying did not stop, and Michel had too kind a heart
not to wish to find the cause of the trouble. He followed the sounds,
which seemed to come from a thick clump of willows, and after some
searching, discovered a queer little man, with a gray beard, who was
trying to hide from him in the moss. Taking up the tiny creature
carefully, that he might not hurt him, he said kindly: “Don’t be
afraid, I will do you no harm. What is the matter, that you are
grieving so? Tell me whether I can help you?”
The little man hastily took from a case which hung on his back a pair
of horn spectacles, with round blue glasses, as big as he was himself,
held them before his eyes, for he could not put them on because his
nose was far too small, and gazed intently at Michel. The examination
seemed to satisfy him. He folded up the spectacles, put them carefully
back in the case again, and said in a weak little voice: “I must cross
the river, and I can’t, for it is too deep.”
Michel’s curiosity was roused, and he asked, “What have you to seek on
the other side?”
“It would be too long a story to tell you,” replied the little man. “In
a few words, I can give only this: I belong to a race of dwarfs, which,
until now, lived in this neighborhood. But men have grown too wicked,
and we cannot stay here any longer. My people have gone and taken their
boats with them. I was delayed because I wanted to help a poor woman,
who has been kind to me, in gathering some healing herbs. They have
left me behind all alone, and now I don’t know what will become of me.”
“It seems to me,” said Michel, “that your dwarf brothers are at least
as wicked as men, since they did not trouble themselves about you.”
“It is my own fault,” wailed the dwarf; “a whole nation cannot wait for
one person.”
“Shall I carry you across the water?” asked Michel.
“Ah, if you only would do it! Then I should be saved, for on the other
shore I could overtake my people.”
“Come then, little fellow,” said Michel, rolled up his trousers above
his knees, took the dwarf in his hand, and waded carefully through the
roaring river. When he had reached the opposite bank, he asked the
little man: “Shall I carry you farther? You are not heavy.”
“No,” replied the dwarf, hastily, “just put me on the ground, I can
find my way alone now.”
Michel obeyed the dwarf’s wish. The little fellow took from his back
the case with the spectacles, laid it in Michel’s hand, and said: “I
want to show you my gratitude. We dwarfs have no money. But I will give
you these spectacles. When you put them on, you can read the thoughts
of men in their heads. You already know how useful that is.”
Michel hesitated to accept the gift. “You will need them yourself,” he
said.
“Take them, take them,” replied the dwarf, “we are going to a distant
country, where we shall live among ourselves. We dwarfs say what we
think, and think what we say. There we shall no longer need the
spectacles for reading thoughts. I thank you. Farewell.”
Before Michel knew it, the dwarf had vanished, and Michel, who would
gladly have talked with him a little longer, searched for him in vain.
So he put the blue spectacles into his pocket, and continued his way in
a very sorrowful mood. After walking some time, he came to a field of
turnips separated from the road by a fence. Before this fence several
men, who looked like field laborers, were standing, and behind it a
stout man, with the perspiration streaming down his face, was digging
up the turnips. The workmen appeared to be laughing at the fat fellow,
and the fat fellow was toiling as if he wanted to vent his rage on the
earth and the turnips. Michel, curious to see what was going on,
stopped, and the fat man called: “Holloa! do you want to earn a penny
instead of staring at these gaping idlers? Then come. There is work
enough here for every man.”
Michel noticed that the laborers looked at him angrily, and he thought,
“something is wrong here.” It occurred to him that this was a good
chance to try the dwarf’s spectacles, and he put them on his nose. The
glasses were scarcely before his eyes when the heads of the people
appeared to become as transparent as crystal, and he could read their
thoughts as plainly as in a book of clear, large type.
In the fat man’s head he read: “You seem to be a strong fellow, and
very poor; come, work for me, I will pay you as little as possible, and
this gang, which refuses to work for my wages, and leaves me in the
lurch in the middle of the harvest, will pull long faces. The rascals
will probably break your bones because you are spoiling their game, but
that’s your affair, not mine.”
Michel was troubled and turned to the laborers, who were closing round
him threateningly. There he read: “What! Does a tramp like you mean to
work cheaper here, and serve the rich skinflint for a song? We had
brought him to a point where he would be obliged to add a little, and
now you cross our plans, and help the rich extortioner against us.
May—”
Michel knew enough. “If there is plenty of work here for everybody,” he
said to the fat man, “then these people have more right to it than I.”
With these words he turned to go.
“Idler!” shouted the fat man, furiously.
“What!” Michel answered, “you want to rob me of my day’s work, and yet
call me an idler? For shame, you penny-squeezer!”
The laborers burst into a loud laugh, and one held out his hand to him:
“Clasp hands, you are a good fellow. Come and drink a glass of beer
with us.”
“Willingly,” replied Michel, and they all left the fat man standing in
his turnip field, and went on together until they came to an inn by the
roadside, which they entered. On the way they told him that they were
engaged in a struggle about wages with the fat man, who was the richest
landowner in the neighborhood, and Michel answered that he needed the
day’s wages greatly, but he would not take the bread out of their
mouths. They now made him tell them how it happened that he was
wandering about the world barefoot, and in his shirt sleeves, and
pitied him for having been twice outwitted by rascals. So they offered
to get him a coat and boots on credit, and obtain work in the
neighborhood. Michel was greatly delighted over it, the more so, as he
saw through his blue spectacles that their thoughts were sincere, and
they meant honestly by him.
In the tavern the laborers ordered food and drink to be set before
Michel, and clothed him out of the landlord’s chests and trunks, so
that he no longer looked like a tramp. When he was fitted out and had
eaten, he glanced around the room. In one corner he saw at a table
three fellows, who sat there silently, pledging each other from time to
time in large glasses of brandy. One had squint eyes, the second a nose
twisted completely on one side, the third was disfigured by a hare-lip.
They looked so evil, that Michel was horrified, and quickly seized the
dwarf’s spectacles. He was curious to learn what kind of thoughts
lurked behind such ugly faces. What he read in their heads made him
shudder. They were all three thinking of nothing except that that night
they would break into an old castle near the inn, murder the old
countess, her young daughter, and two maid-servants, who were living
there alone, while the old count was in attendance at court, and steal
all their gold and silver. Behind these thoughts, which he saw with
terrible distinctness, he read others a little less clearly. The
squint-eyed man was imagining how he would stab the women with his
dagger, while they knelt before him begging for mercy. The
crooked-nosed man fancied he had a pile of gold, into which he was
plunging his blood-stained hands. The hare-lipped man meant to attack
his two comrades in their sleep, after the crime had been committed,
kill them, and rob them of their share of the booty.
Michel asked himself in horror what he could do to prevent the crime
and deliver the wicked fellows to punishment. Tell the laborers what he
read in the heads of the three monsters? They would not believe him and
perhaps think he was crazy. Go to the police and denounce the
scoundrels? But how could he prove what they meant to do? If they
denied it, he would stand there like a simpleton, and the police would
perhaps take him for a rascal who wanted to fool them. After thinking
over the matter for a long time, it seemed to him that he could do
nothing except deal with the three rogues all alone.
He agreed to meet the laborers the next morning, at the same inn, to go
with them to a place to work, took leave of them, and hurried off in
the direction that he supposed the castle stood. After questioning all
the shepherds and market women he met on the way, he at last reached a
thick forest, and there, in a clearing, was the old castle with its
solid walls and small windows.
He knocked at the heavy oak door until it slowly opened a little, and
in the crack appeared an aged maid-servant, who asked what he wanted.
He begged to see the countess, for whom he had an important message.
He was kept waiting a long while outside the door, but at last the maid
came back and sulkily invited him to follow her. Michel went behind her
to a little tower room, where the old countess received him. Beside her
sat her daughter, a young girl, as beautiful as an angel, whose blue
eyes were as friendly as the bright day. Michel felt his heart grow as
warm as if sunbeams had entered it, and he could not make up his mind
to frighten this lovely creature by his story. He told the countess
that he must speak to her alone, and, after a little hesitation, she
sent her daughter and the servant out and ordered Michel to deliver his
message at once.
“Your ladyship,” he said, “three murderers intend to attack your castle
to-night, kill you all, and steal your treasures.” Seeing her turn
pale, he added quickly: “Have no fear, I will remain to defend you and,
so long as I have a drop of blood in my body, no one shall harm a hair
of your heads.”
“One against three—” sighed the countess, anxiously.
“I would fight with five, if I only had weapons.”
“There is no lack of arms here,” said the countess. “But would it not
be wiser for us to fly to the city at once?”
“The road is long, it is almost dark, and the forest is not safe,”
replied Michel. “Besides, your flight would not prevent the robbery of
the castle.”
The countess saw this. She was naturally a brave woman, and Michel’s
presence somewhat soothed her. She gave him from her husband’s weapons
a gun, two pistols, and a dagger, ordered a dainty supper to be served
for him, sent her daughter and the two maids to bed early, and then
kept watch with him in the castle hall. No persuasion from Michel could
induce her to go into her tower and protect herself behind locks and
bolts. “If I am warned, I can defend myself,” she said firmly, and so
it was settled. Just before midnight the countess and Michel, who were
listening behind the oak door, heard soft, stealing steps approaching
and whispering voices consulting about the best way of breaking into
the castle. Various plans were refused, and at last they agreed that
the most nimble robber should climb, by projecting stones, to a window
on the second story, fasten a rope wound about his waist to the
cross-bars, and drag the others up.
“Now we have the rascals,” Michel whispered into the countess’s ear,
and ran before her up the stairs into the room whose window the
scoundrel meant to enter. With his gun ready to fire, he waited in the
dark until a head appeared above the sill, and then pressed the
trigger. A flash, a report, a shriek, a fall, followed one another in
an instant. The two robbers who had remained below saw, with terror,
their comrade drop at their feet, and turned to fly. Michel and the
countess fired at the same time, and saw both fall.
“Hurrah!” shouted Michel, joyously, and, without listening to the
countess’s warning, he ran down the stairs, seized a lantern, unbolted
the door, and rushed out. At the foot of the castle wall he saw the man
with a crooked nose lying with a broken skull, and the one with a
hare-lip had a bleeding wound in his breast. The squint-eyed man was
not dead. He had received a bullet in the leg, and had fallen, but rose
again, and was limping off. Michel pursued him like the wind. But the
vagabond suddenly turned and struck fiercely at him with a knife.
Michel fired a pistol which stretched the murderer in the grass; then
he, too, with the blade in his breast, fell to the earth.
Meanwhile the countess’s daughter and the two maids, roused from their
sleep by the firing, came hurrying down. The countess called to them
that the danger was over, and all four carried the wounded Michel into
the castle, without heeding the three ruffians, who lay dead or
senseless.
Michel, too, became unconscious after the four women had laid him on a
couch. When he came to himself again, many hours had passed since the
adventure of the night. A maid had brought a doctor from the city at
dawn, and now the count, who had been informed by a messenger of what
had happened, also arrived. Michel heard the doctor tell the count that
he would recover, and the countess speak with the highest praise of his
courage, to which they all owed their lives. He wanted to raise himself
and say that he did not deserve so much honor, but they all ordered him
in the same breath to say nothing and keep quiet.
It was many days before Michel’s wound healed. The countess and her
daughter nursed him tenderly, and he was always happy whenever he saw
the lovely girl beside his bed. His eyes rested constantly upon her,
and when they met hers, a faint flush mounted into her cheeks. He
longed to know what was passing through her little head, and asked for
his blue spectacles. The countess and her daughter wondered at this
desire, and wished to know what use he could have for blue spectacles
in a darkened sick room. But he only repeated the request, until they
yielded and brought the spectacles. He hastily seized them, put them on
with trembling hands, and gazed with all his soul at the white brow of
the young countess. He read: “Why does he stare at me so strangely? Has
the poor young fellow gone crazy?” And beyond were many half-distinct
thoughts, which were something like, “That would be a great pity, for
he is such a dear, brave fellow, and I am so fond of him that I wish he
would stay here with me till the end of my life.”
When he had read this, tears filled his eyes. He took off the glasses,
which were dimmed, and did not utter a word. But when the countess left
him alone with her daughter, he suddenly seized the lovely girl’s hand
and said in a trembling voice: “Beautiful Countess, I am only a poor
peasant boy, but I love you very, very dearly, and I know that you love
me, too, so I dare to ask you, Will you be my wife?”
“Yes, I will,” she answered softly, sinking into his arms. So the
countess found the young couple when she entered. At first she was very
angry, and would not consent to have her only daughter marry a peasant
lad. But the young lady said: “I will have him or no one. And if you
will not let me marry him, it will break my heart.” Then, whether
willing or not, the mother was obliged to consent, and even beg the
count to give his blessing to the union. Michel was now almost well, so
he was again allowed to talk, and the count inquired how he had
discovered the plans of the three murderers, two of whom were dead and
buried, and the third lay wounded in prison. Michel did not wish to
have any secrets from his future father-in-law. He told him about his
meeting with the dwarf, who had given him the blue spectacles, and what
power these spectacles possessed. The count wanted to try their
wonderful magic himself, and was convinced that Michel had not
attempted to deceive him.
“You must show the dwarf’s spectacles to the king,” said the count and,
when Michel was allowed to rise, he took him to court with him and
presented him to the king, who heard his story with amazement. He, too,
put on the spectacles, and looked a long while at the courtiers who
surrounded his throne.
“Your most gracious Majesty, I will gladly give you the dwarf’s
spectacles, if you will accept them from me.”
The king slowly shook his head, took them off, and returned them to
Michel. “No,” he said, “I do not want them. I would rather not be
compelled to read the thoughts of men. It does not give happiness. I
will even try to forget what I have read. I will appoint you the chief
judge of my kingdom. Then you can apply the dwarf’s spectacles to a
useful purpose.”
Michel was now a person of importance, whom even a count would
willingly accept for a son-in-law. He brought his mother from the
carpenter’s home in the village, married the beautiful young countess,
moved into a splendid palace in the capital, and performed his duties
as chief justice, with the blue spectacles on his nose.
Nobody among the people knew their power, but soon all trembled before
it. For through them Michel read the truth in the head of the most
hardened criminal and most skilful sharper; no lie could stand before
him, and no injustice remained concealed. No innocent person was
condemned, and no guilty one escaped punishment; henceforward law and
justice reigned throughout the kingdom. Michel was feared by the bad,
honored by the good, and praised by all as the wisest man in the whole
country, and so it remained to the end of his long life.
THE GOLDEN BEETLE THAT WENT ON HIS TRAVELS
Once upon a time there lived in Brazil an Atlas butterfly that was far
more beautiful than any which had ever been seen before. Her large
wings shimmered with green and pale blue, and when she was flying about
in the sunshine one could not tell whether it was a wonderful flower, a
jewel set with precious stones and pearls, or the flame of a
will-o’-the-wisp fluttering through the air.
In the same forest there lived also brilliant little humming-birds,
magnificent large beetles, and friendly parrots. They formed a very
haughty society, and associated only with one another and the most
aristocratic orchids, around which they daily gathered for a little
gossip with the most delicious refreshments. Among them was also a
golden beetle of the richest species, that seemed to be made entirely
of the precious metal. This golden beetle had been a playmate of the
Atlas butterfly, a young lady of noble birth, from her childhood. The
two had loved each other very dearly, flew about with each other a
great deal, danced together in the sunshine, and charmed every one who
saw them by their brilliancy and play of colors. It was generally
believed in the forest that the golden beetle and the Atlas butterfly
were engaged to each other and would be married some day, and there was
only one opinion about it,—that they would make a glorious pair.
Then one day it happened that a European appeared in the primeval
forest, searching for rare orchids. In his rambles he, too, saw the
Atlas butterfly, and at sight of her he neglected the valuable flowers
and had eyes only for the marvellously beautiful butterfly. He was on
the watch for her at all hours of the day, and eagerly pursued her when
he saw her flying by. The monkeys noticed and chattered about it; it
came also to the ears of the parrots, who shook their heads, saying
that the matter would come to no good end. The humming-birds thought it
advisable to warn the Atlas butterfly that she might be on her guard.
But they delayed too long; one noon the butterfly was missing from the
meeting; the golden beetle at once flew to the palm tree where the
beauty lived, but did not find her at home; all the animals in the
forest helped him search, but all was in vain—the Atlas butterfly had
vanished.
The golden beetle was not to be comforted. He withdrew into a hollow
tree, would neither eat nor drink, and saw no one. The humming-birds
came and, to rouse him from his grief, told him that all sorts of
things were being said in the forest. It was reported that the Atlas
butterfly had eloped with the European orchid hunter, so he need not
grieve for the vain creature. The humming-birds meant kindly. They
thought such speeches would console his sorrow, but they only increased
his grief. “You lie!” cried the golden beetle violently; “my bride is
as good and true as she is beautiful. She would never have left me of
her own free will. A scoundrel has certainly captured and dragged her
away by force, perhaps even killed her. You are slandering her. Go! I
wish to be alone.”
An honest but rough Hercules beetle had heard all this. “You are a weak
fellow,” said the rude giant to the delicate golden beetle. “If you
care for your betrothed bride and believe in her faithfulness, don’t
creep into your hole. Stir yourself. Do something. Search for your
Atlas butterfly. Perhaps you will find her.”
These words roused the golden beetle a little from his depression. At
the next meeting of the fashionable society of the forest, he again
appeared, and received proofs of sympathy for his misfortune from all
sides. He told a clever parrot what the Hercules beetle had said, and
asked what he thought of it.
“The rude fellow is right,” said the parrot; “there is really no sense
in giving yourself up idly to your despair. You are young, you have
your life before you, you are immensely rich; if you make a proper use
of your advantages, you can recover your happiness again.”
“What is the use of my wealth?” complained the golden beetle; “I cannot
buy with my gold my Atlas butterfly if I have lost her.”
“No,” replied the parrot; “but you can search the world, follow the
traces of your betrothed bride, and become united to her again. I’ll
tell you something. One of our handsomest lories is soon going to
Europe. He has obtained a splendid position in one of the zoölogical
gardens of the Old World. Put yourself into communication with him.
Perhaps you can travel with him. When you are once over there, the rest
will take care of itself.”
According to the custom of all talkative people, the parrot had
considerably exaggerated the truth. The lory had no brilliant position,
but had simply been captured and placed in a cage, to be sold to a
European zoölogical garden. This bird-cage was hung in the porch of a
farm-house at the edge of the forest, until there should be an
opportunity to send the valuable bird to the nearest seaport. The
golden beetle easily found him, and creeping through the wires of the
cage, he asked if he would take him to Europe as a travelling
companion?
The lory consented with great pleasure, for now he would have a
countryman with whom he could talk all day long. But he advised him to
travel incognito, to avoid the plundering to which he would certainly
be exposed if he displayed his wealth. The advice was good, though the
parrot had given it solely from vanity. He was afraid that the
magnificence of the golden beetle would cast his own rich colors into
the shade. The golden beetle cared nothing for appearances. He bought
from a spider a gray overcoat, which covered him from his feelers to
the end of his body, and allowed no glimpse of his shining gold to be
seen. In this plain travelling costume he was perfectly unpretending
and attracted no one’s eyes. When the lory was taken to the seaport in
its cage, it was not noticed that he had a travelling companion, and
even the sailors who carried the cage with the gay-plumaged, chattering
bird to the ship and stowed it away under the deck, did not notice or
did not see the beetle sitting modestly in a corner.
On the journey he fared badly. He was terribly seasick, and a seasick
beetle is a sorry spectacle, even if he is a golden beetle. The ship
was swarming with cockroaches, which made their way into the cage,
carried on the most careless housekeeping in it, and, in spite of his
proud reserve, treated the golden beetle with the most unpleasant
familiarity, as if he were one of themselves. But he patiently endured
the vulgarity of the coarse, dirty brown, evil-smelling fellows,
thinking constantly of his beautiful Atlas butterfly, for whose sake he
exposed himself to all this discomfort.
The sea voyage lasted three weeks, then the steamer ran into the
harbor, the parrot was taken out and carried to the zoölogical garden,
where henceforth, with a thin metal chain fastened to one foot,
attached to a shining brass ring, he was to live in the midst of a
noisy throng of lories, cockatoos, and other parrots. When he was taken
out of his cage, the lory said to the golden beetle: “Now we must take
leave of each other, for I shall enter upon the duties of my new
office. You are now in Europe and can set out on the search for your
betrothed bride. I wish you much success in it. And if you need advice
or anything else, come to this garden, and ask for the Brazilian
ambassador in the parrot-house.”
The golden beetle left his countryman and continued his search alone.
At first he liked the foreign country very well. He had left his
Brazilian forest in the winter, and supposed it was now winter in
Europe. So he was surprised to find himself in the midst of summer, for
he did not know that it is summer in Europe when it is winter in
Brazil, and vice versa. He wandered about on the soft turf in the
garden for a while, until he met a running beetle.
“Holloa, comrade,” he called to him; “are there any golden beetles
around here?”
The running beetle was in a hurry as usual. Without stopping in his
career, he called over his shoulder: “Look for the rose-bushes. But
nothing will be given there to-day,” for he thought the gray-coated
stranger was a tramp seeking alms from the rich.
The golden beetle followed the directions, and after some little
search, found the rose-bushes. He was going to make his way through the
branches, still covered with thick leaves, when a stag beetle met him
and with his horns raised threateningly, shouted roughly: “Halt! Where
do you want to go?”
“I want to pay my respects to the golden beetles and make their
acquaintance.”
“Oho!” replied the stag beetle, insolently, “do you suppose that a
shabby fellow like you can be introduced to their lordships, the golden
beetles, so unceremoniously? Move on.”
“But I am a relative of the golden beetles, a near relative,” said the
golden beetle, much embarrassed.
“Of course,” sneered the stag beetle; “rich gentlemen have a great many
relatives. Off with you, and quickly, or I’ll make you find your legs!”
As the golden beetle lingered, the stag beetle seized him roughly with
his horns, to throw him out. The gray overcoat tore under the rude
grasp, and an end of the shining gold cover of his wings appeared. The
stag beetle let him go in astonishment, stared at him with his big
black eyes, shook his feelers doubtfully, and said: “If you will kindly
excuse me—I could not know—I will announce your lordship at once—”
after which he hurried away.
The golden beetle perceived that he must make it easy for his kinsmen
to recognize him, and stripped off his spider-web overcoat entirely.
When several of the golden beetles, summoned by the stag beetle,
appeared to welcome their cousin, they stood still, fairly dazzled.
Never had they seen such magnificence. The European golden beetles were
small, and had only a few modest gold spots, streaks, and rings on
their backs and wings, while this South American cousin was probably
four times as large, and his whole body, without a single break, was
covered with glistening gold. In Europe they were considered immensely
rich, but, in comparison with this American millionaire, they seemed to
themselves poor. He aroused their secret envy, but they did not allow
it to be seen, received him very cordially, begged him to come in, set
rose dew before him, and inquired about, his affairs.
He told them that he had come from the Brazilian forest to Europe to
find his future wife, who had been stolen from him by a wicked
European. Perceiving very clearly that the European relatives, in
comparison with him, were very plain people, he did not want to mortify
them by a description of his palm palaces, his aristocratic
acquaintances, his humming-birds, orchids, parrots, and Hercules
beetles; but his bride he described in all the magnificence of her
breadth of wings and shining blue and green enamel, and asked the
cousins if they had not seen her or heard something about her.
The golden beetles looked at one another. Although their eyes convinced
them of their transatlantic cousin’s wealth, they believed he was
exaggerating the charms of his bride. “If the young lady is so
remarkably beautiful and richly adorned, as you say, Cousin,” replied
the most distinguished of the group, “she would probably have been
noticed here. But we have heard nothing of her. Yet, for greater
certainty, we will ask the butterflies.”
The whole party climbed to the top branches of the rose-bushes, around
which some butterflies were always hovering, and called them. They were
only common white butterflies, yellow ones and fox faces, who felt
honored to have the golden beetles condescend to enter into
conversation with them. They were fairly stupefied with astonishment
and admiration when they saw the gold-clad Brazilian. The latter spoke
to them kindly and sadly, asking if they had not seen a wonderfully
beautiful large butterfly, which glittered with the most brilliant
colors, and looked as if it was set with pearls and precious stones.
“Oh, yes, I know whom you mean,” cried a pert common white butterfly,
either to make itself important or from stupidity.
“What, dear young lady, you have seen the one whom I am seeking? Quick!
Where is she, that I may rush to her?” urged the golden beetle.
“One moment, sir,” replied the white butterfly. “I only want to
announce you.”
The butterfly hastily flew away and went straight to a neighboring
blackberry hedge, where a peacock eye was sunning itself. He imagined
that the golden beetle’s description suited this butterfly, the most
beautiful one he knew in the whole neighborhood.
“Ah, Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle,” cried the butterfly, as he approached
the peacock eye, “an American prince has come, who has heard of your
beauty, and wants to ask your hand.”
“An American prince?” asked the peacock eye, surprised and flattered,
beginning to flutter her richly adorned wings.
“Yes, Mademoiselle, a prince, entirely covered with glittering gold,
and so large, so stately, so handsome a creature I have never seen in
forest or field. May I bring him to you?”
“Yes, bring him to me, my dear friend,” said the peacock eye, settling
herself so that her colors appeared to the best advantage.
The white butterfly quickly returned to the rose-bush, and while still
at a distance called to the golden beetle that was waiting impatiently,
“Come, sir, come, the young lady will be happy to receive you.”
The message surprised the golden beetle, for he would have expected his
bride to fly to him at once, when she was informed of his presence; but
he followed the white butterfly fluttering before him. All the moths
and a number of golden beetles joined them, and the Brazilian
approached the blackberry hedge with a numerous train, which the
peacock eye saw flying toward her from quite a long distance. When the
white butterfly stopped close in front of the beautiful creature, the
golden beetle, without noticing her, glancing impatiently in all
directions, asked: “Where is she? Where?”
“She is sitting directly in front of you, sir; don’t you see her?”
replied the white butterfly in surprise, while the peacock eye made
pretty little movements to attract the attention of the aristocratic,
gold-mailed suitor.
The golden beetle now saw the peacock eye and cried in a disappointed
tone, “What put this into your mind; the young lady certainly is not
she.”
“I thought you wished to be introduced to me,” said the peacock eye,
sharply.
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” replied the golden beetle, “it is a mistake.
I hoped to find here my betrothed bride, an Atlas butterfly from my
home, the most glorious, the most exquisite creature that ever
glittered in the sun.”
“Of course I cannot be compared with your Atlas butterfly,” remarked
the peacock eye, snappishly.
“You certainly cannot,” answered the golden beetle with thoughtless
sincerity.
“Brazilian princes are really delightfully civil,” retorted the peacock
eye deeply offended, turned her back upon the golden beetle and his
companions, and flew away.
The butterflies and golden beetles left the American alone. They
disapproved of his lack of politeness. “Our most aristocratic moths are
not good enough for him!” “What does the dandy think he is!” “He might
at least have been more courteous!” they buzzed to one another, and
nobody defended him, no one honored his fidelity to his lost bride.
But the peacock butterfly, whom he had offended, vowed vengeance upon
him. Flying to the guard room of the bombardier beetles, at the foot of
an ancient hollow oak, she told them that a foreign millionaire was
visiting the golden beetles in the rose-bush—a millionaire who carried
vast treasures with him. They must seize him, then they would all be
rich.
The bombardier beetles were a disorderly company. They were always
lying in wait, ready for any evil deed. The whole gang set off at once,
marched to the rose-bush and surrounded it. They saw the golden beetle,
whose magnificent glitter betrayed him. He had settled on a branch and
was sorrowfully thinking what he should do now. Suddenly a crashing
noise began below him, and missiles whizzed around his head. Startled
by the attack, he looked around and discovered the bombardier beetle’s,
who were raging around the foot of the rose-bush, firing at him. He
could not understand the assault, but realized that his life was at
stake and flew away as fast as possible, to get out of range of the
bandits.
But where should he go now? Back to the kind lory, to tell him of his
troubles? He found his countryman engaged in a loud, shrill
conversation with a whole group of aras, cockatoos, and other parrots,
who were all swinging in their big metal rings, talking together with
vehement screams. The lory was gossiping so fast, that he did not see
the golden beetle. But the attendant in the zoölogical garden, who was
just entering the parrot-house with food for the birds, noticed him,
flung the sack he held in his hand on the ground, threw his heavy cap
at the golden beetle, which struck and knocked him down and, with a
shout of joy, seized him. The beetle, stunned by the blow and the fall,
did not move in the hand of the attendant, who hurried with his prize
to the superintendent of the garden, and silently placed it on the
table before him.
“A Brazilian golden beetle!” cried the superintendent in joyful
astonishment. “It probably came with our new lory. We often have these
pleasant surprises with our consignments from across the sea. We will
put it with our Atlas butterfly.”
When the golden beetle heard the words “Atlas butterfly,” he instantly
recovered his senses. He forgot his present situation, he did not think
that he was a prisoner, perhaps in danger of his life; he only repeated
with secret joy that he should see his Atlas butterfly again. He did
not move a limb, a wing, or a feeler when the superintendent laid him
in the hollow of his hand, and went with him to the Museum of Natural
History, which was connected with the zoölogical garden. Entering the
great hall, he went to a glass case and opened it. The golden beetle
glanced in—Oh, rapture! Oh, bliss! There sat his Atlas butterfly with
outspread wings, though she was strangely motionless. At this sight the
golden beetle made a sudden effort, and, before the astonished
superintendent could shut his hand over him, flew away like a flash of
lightning. Instantly a wild chase began, the superintendent and the
attendant in the zoölogical garden ran here and there, but dared not
throw anything at the golden beetle, for fear that they might break the
cases, or damage the animals outside. He easily escaped, in his swift
flight, the butterfly nets they waved frantically to and fro, so they
could only look on, while the golden beetle, buzzing loudly, flew in
wide circles around the ceiling of the lofty hall, far beyond the reach
of their arms.
Meantime, the glass case that held the Atlas butterfly was left open.
In order not to injure the beautiful creature, they had not fastened
her with a pin, but glued her down lightly with a thin varnish. They
thought that she was dead, but it was not so. And as, just before, the
mere mention of the Atlas butterfly’s name had roused the golden beetle
from his stupor, now the well-known loud buzzing of the golden beetle
waked the butterfly from her unconsciousness. She slowly recovered her
senses, saw at first, as if in a confused dream, then more and more
clearly, what was passing around her, heard the noise of the chase,
suddenly recognized high up at the ceiling her beloved golden beetle,
and with fresh courage began to make violent efforts to tear her legs
from the varnish in which they were stuck. Unnoticed by the
superintendent and his servant, whose eyes were fixed upon the escaped
beetle, the butterfly pulled and strained and jerked until she
succeeded in freeing herself. True, she left a leg in the varnish; but
she had no thought now for pain and wounds. Up she flew, straight to
the golden beetle, and before the wondering eyes of the two men, the
faithful pair from Brazil were once more united.
With the speed of an arrow, both flew out of the open door into the
garden and alighted on the top of a tall tree. The golden beetle could
not contain his joy, as he stroked and petted the Atlas butterfly. But
she said: “Alas, how I look! My wings have lost their brightness, and I
was obliged to leave a leg with those wicked men. Now I am so ugly and
you are so handsome.”
“Don’t grieve about that,” replied the golden beetle. “Your wound will
heal and your wings will shine again, and you will be now as always
more beautiful than any other creature in the world.” At the same
moment, he began with zeal and strength to brush the gold from his own
wings, and to scatter it over his bride’s. Soon she was completely
covered with glistening gold, and again as magnificent to behold as a
jewel, but the golden beetle was as plain and colorless as on the
journey, when he hid his splendor under the spider-web overcoat.
A starling, whose nest was in the tree, had seen and heard everything.
Perching beside the couple on the bough, he soothed them in regard to
his intentions, and begged them to tell him their story. They did so,
and the starling was so touched by it, that he flew around the garden,
relating to all the birds and free animals the incidents of the cruel
separation, and the wonderful reunion of the two faithful Brazilians.
Birds, squirrels, butterflies, and beetles came flying from all
directions, brought the foreigners the best honey that could be had
from the modest autumn flowers of Europe, and advised them to have
their wedding.
But they did not want to marry until they had returned home. It was too
cold for them here, and they were homesick for the forest and the
humming-birds, and orchids, and parrots, and monkeys. Their new friends
put their heads together and discussed what they could do for the
beautiful creatures. The starling undertook to carry them to the
nearest seaport, and put them on a ship sailing for South America.
True, the young couple would be obliged to hide in the dark hold, and
be annoyed by the intrusive, vulgar cockroaches; but after what they
had experienced, this was a small annoyance, easily endured, which they
would bear with firmness till they reached the end of their journey.
The golden beetle, meanwhile, had covered himself with new gold, and
the Atlas butterfly had regained her former magnificent colors, only
even more beautiful from the gold scattered over them, so when they
again appeared in the forest they were more glorious than ever. Every
one welcomed them with the greatest joy; they remained from that time
united, without ever separating, and in the hours of gossip with the
lories over the honey, the company never grew tired of hearing repeated
again and again the story of their sorrowful journey to Europe and
happy return.
THE GOLD BRAIDS
“Oh, mother,” cried the little girl, “I am so hungry!”
“Be quiet, my darling, pray be quiet,” said the mother, trying to
soothe her.
“But, mother,” the child began again, after a short pause, “why don’t
we have something to eat?”
“Because there is no food,” was the answer. Then the little girl began
to sob bitterly, and her mother took her in her arms, and wept, too,
rocking and kissing the little one.
The mother was a beautiful young woman, whose husband had died a short
time before, leaving her alone in the world with her child. She had no
money, so she was obliged to work to earn a living for herself and her
little daughter. She was a good seamstress and very industrious; but
she could not always find work, and then they had a hard time. For the
baker and the butcher are not rich people; they can neither give nor
lend long, and if customers cannot pay them, they can get neither
coffee nor sugar, neither meat nor bread, neither potatoes nor lard,
neither coal for stoves and hearths nor oil for lamps.
Now another time without work had come, the last money the widow could
save had been spent, and for two days no fire had burned in the stove,
though it was winter and very cold; and no oil in the lamp, though it
grew dark early. The little girl had eaten nothing all day, and her
mother had tasted no food for two days.
“I can’t wait any longer,” said the child, in a faint voice. “If I
don’t have a piece of bread, I shall die.”
“No,” cried the mother, “you shall not die. Come, I’ll put you to bed,
so that you may keep warm, and then I’ll go and get you some bread.”
“Yes, do, dear mother,” whispered the little girl, while the mother was
undressing and putting her to bed. “Only soon, please.”
The mother went to the neighbor who lived in the second story. She was
a very rich woman, but hard-hearted and miserly. Besides, she envied
the young widow because, in spite of her poverty, she was far handsomer
and more elegant.
The rich woman listened impatiently, and answered sullenly: “I lend
nothing. If people were always giving, they would have nothing left for
themselves. And I have no work for you, either. Go, in heaven’s name.”
“Then must I leave my child to starve?” cried the mother, wringing her
hands.
“Why don’t you pawn or sell something?” asked the woman harshly.
“I have nothing more to pawn or sell,” was the answer.
“Indeed,” replied the neighbor, with a spiteful smile. “At least, you
have your long, fair braids. What does a poor beggar want with such a
quantity of hair? You can certainly get quite a little sum for it.”
The poor mother looked silently at her cruel neighbor a moment, then
she left the room without a word.
She really did have wonderfully beautiful hair, long, thick, soft as
silk, yellow as spun gold. When she let it down, it covered her like a
royal mantle; when she brushed it, sunbeams seemed to be playing around
the comb and her hand.
When the envious neighbor had told her to cut off her hair, her one
ornament, it cut her to the heart. But when she stood in the street,
and thought of her starving child up in a cold, dark, little garret
room, she quickly resolved to make the hard sacrifice.
At the street corner was a hairdresser’s shop, in whose show windows
were the wax busts of ladies with hair beautifully and elaborately
arranged, wigs of various colors, and oddly shaped bottles of perfume.
On the panes was pasted a notice bearing the words, “Women’s blond and
white hair bought here at the highest prices.”
To this shop the young mother went. At the door she hesitated, but not
long. Summoning all her courage, she entered.
“What do you wish?” asked the hairdresser, a little hunchbacked man
with sharp, black eyes.
“Excuse me, sir,” replied the poor mother, timidly, “but I think you
buy women’s blond hair?”
“Yes, certainly. Have you any to sell?”
“Mine, sir, if you want it.”
“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” said the little hunchback, fixing his sharp eyes
on her. “Let me see it.”
He took her into the back shop, and she quickly drew out her comb and
let the heavy braids fall. They hung to her feet.
The hairdresser uttered a cry of surprise. “What! Do you want to have
these braids cut off?”
She only nodded; her throat felt choked, so that she could not make a
sound, and she turned her head away to keep the little man from seeing
the tears which filled her eyes.
“Do you know that they will never grow so beautiful again?”
She only shrugged her shoulders.
“But why do you commit this sin against yourself?”
“Because I must,” she answered, and began to sob violently. “I have a
little child who is starving and freezing. I have neither money nor
work, and no one will help me. There is nothing else left.”
“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” he said again, fixing his keen eyes on her, as if
he was trying to read her thoughts. He seemed to reflect a short time;
then he suddenly said, harshly: “If you have decided to do it, I am
satisfied. Sit down. How much do you ask?”
“I don’t know the value of it. I depend upon you.”
“Well, we’ll see.” He rummaged a short time among the scissors and
razors that lay on the marble-topped table; but, instead of taking any
of them, pulled out a drawer and seized something which the young widow
could not see very distinctly, though it looked like a long leather
case. “Shut your eyes,” said the hunchback, authoritatively. She
obeyed. But even through the closed lids she saw a sudden light—like a
flash of lightning a flame appeared to glide over her head. She
screamed and fainted. When she recovered, the little man was sprinkling
her with cologne, muttering: “What nonsense! Do be sensible.”
She raised both hands to her head. It was perfectly bare. Her two
braids were lying on the marble table. Light seemed to flicker from
them. The hairdresser placed them in a scale and put silver coins into
the other until the two balanced exactly. He used twenty-eight thalers,
for the hair weighed more than a pound.
“Live and let live,” he said when he had finished. “These braids really
ought to be outweighed with gold, instead of silver, but I must earn
something, too.”
He counted the money into her hand, then took back one coin, saying
with a queer smile, “I am deducting this piece—you will learn for
what.”
When the mother went out into the street again, her head was as
confused as if she had just waked from a dream. But she felt the heavy
silver in her pocket, and knew it was not that.
Now she was rich, and at least could do something for her child.
Running into the nearest shops, she bought not only bread and coal,
coffee and sugar, but also cakes, butter, and an egg. She was in such a
hurry that she did not notice how people stared at her shaved head.
Then, laden with her packages, and followed by a man carrying coal, she
rushed up the stairs to her room. Her rich neighbor stood at the
threshold of her door, watching her spitefully. She saw at once that
the young widow had lost her magnificent hair, and cried, with a
malicious smile: “You have taken my advice. That was right. In future
you will lose no time in combing it.”
The mother did not stop to answer. But when she reached her door at the
top of the stairs, she put her packages on the floor and tied her shawl
around her head, that the little girl might not notice anything.
The child had not gone to sleep. Hunger had kept her awake. Her first
words, when her mother came in, were, “Mother, have you brought the
bread?”
“Yes, my darling,” cried the mother, and in an instant she was beside
the bed, covering the child with kisses, “and cakes, and butter, and
many other good things. There.” She gave her a slice of bread, which
the little girl bit eagerly; then she made a fire in the stove, lighted
the lamp, boiled the coffee, and cooked the egg, and it was bright and
warm and cosey in the little attic room, and the child was happy and
laughed and talked. So the mother no longer grieved because she had
sacrificed her beautiful hair. When they had eaten until they were
fully satisfied, the little girl fell asleep at once, and the mother
lay down by her side. The next morning she was roused by her child’s
clear voice, exclaiming in surprise, “Mother, why didn’t you braid your
hair last night?” She started—yes, her hair, long, thick, and soft as
silk, was spread over the pillows and falling on the coverlet. She
sprang out of bed, but she did not need to go to the little dim mirror
on the wall to perceive that she really did have her hair again; for
when she stood on the floor, it fell around her in the usual way,
veiling her from head to foot like a royal mantle of spun gold. She
swiftly braided it, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hairdresser.
“Mr. Barber, what does this mean? Are you a juggler? Or a magician?”
“Don’t be troubled,” said the little hunchbacked man, and his keen gaze
seemed to pierce her through and through. “There is no witchcraft here.
I make a preparation for the hair, which has not its equal anywhere.
The hair grows out in one night, only thicker and more beautiful than
before. I washed your head with it when you fainted, and that is why I
deducted the money. Do you understand?”
“How shall I thank you?” said the mother, softly, trying to take his
hand to kiss it.
“What are you thinking of!” cried the hairdresser, harshly, drawing
back a step. “Go away. I have no time.”
But when she had reached the door, he called her back. “One thing more,
my good woman. If you should be badly off again, you need not sell your
braids. Just cut a piece a finger wide from the end—not a bit more, do
you hear?—and carry it to the nearest goldsmith. He’ll buy it of you,
for it is spun gold. It will grow again, too. But you must do all this
only if you really need it, and can obtain help in no other way. Mark
this. And now, farewell.”
As she went home, lost in thought, she met in the entry her greedy
neighbor who was just getting into her carriage to take a drive, as she
did every day. The envious woman stood as if she were rooted to the
ground, opened her eyes in amazement, and cried: “Why, my good woman,
what ails you? Didn’t you have your braids cut off last evening?”
“Yes, they were,” replied the young widow, “but they grew again in the
night.”
“You are making fun of me,” snarled the hard-hearted rich woman. “How
could that be possible?”
“The barber washed my shaven head with a wonderfully strong tonic, and
it made the hair grow out so quickly again, only still thicker and
longer than before.”
The angry miser did not say a word, but cast a spiteful glance at her
neighbor, who was again so much more beautiful than she, left her
standing in the entry, and ran straight to the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Will you buy my hair?” she asked, after entering the shop without any
greeting.
The little hunchback looked at her angrily with his sharp, black eyes,
and answered: “Your hair isn’t worth anything. I can give you nothing
for it.”
She controlled her rage, and said: “No matter. I will give it to you.
Only cut it off.”
“But why?” he asked.
“Because I want it to grow out much longer and thicker, like my
neighbor, the seamstress’s. It isn’t right that such a needy wretch
should be more beautiful than a wealthy, aristocratic lady like me.”
“Oho?” growled the little hunchback. “Well, as you please.”
He told her to sit down in a chair, but did not take the mysterious
case out of the drawer. Instead, he seized a pair of scissors which lay
on the marble top of the table, and grasped her little thin braid,
whose color was a dull, brownish black. Snip, snap, and he held the rat
tail in his hand and flung it contemptuously into the corner. Snip,
snap, and her skull was shaved so smooth that no one who looked at her
could help laughing.
“I’ve finished,” he said roughly. “You can go.”
“But the hair tonic?”
“What hair tonic?”
“The one which makes the hair grow out again so quickly, only more
beautiful than before.”
“It costs eighty-one marks,” he said.
“No matter,” she answered haughtily. “I have it.”
He took the money, then opened a bottle, and sprinkled over her head a
few drops of liquid, which smelled like pitch and sulphur. It itched
and burned horribly, but she stifled the pain. “One can suffer a little
for the sake of being beautiful,” she thought, and went off very well
pleased, while the hairdresser, smiling scornfully, shut the shop door
behind her.
When she reached home, and her husband and servants saw her, they
clasped their hands in horror. “Just wait,” she said, and going to her
chamber, she lay down in bed like a sick person. She remained there
patiently all day long, and fell asleep late in the evening, firmly
believing that her discomfort would be over the next morning. She woke
very early, for her impatience would not allow her to sleep longer. The
first thing she did was to seize her head with both hands—alas! it was
as bare as when it left the hands of the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Perhaps it doesn’t grow so fast,” she thought, and stayed in bed
twenty-four hours longer. But the next day she was just as bald as
before. Then, in a rage, she hurried on her clothes, wrapped her head
in a veil and hat, and rushed off to the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Man, you have cheated me!” she screamed.
“That is not so. How?” he answered roughly.
“Your tonic is a swindle. The hair does not grow out again.”
“Have you children? Or at least one child?”
“No.”
“Well, my tonic helps only mothers. You ought to have known that. Leave
my shop.”
It was of no use. If she did not wish to remain as ugly and ridiculous
as a scarecrow, she was obliged to buy a wig, and as her hair never
grew out again, she had to wear this wig to the end of her life. But
the young mother fared better and better. She had plenty of work, so
she was soon able to leave her attic room and move to the second story.
She never needed to cut off an end of her gold braids. She brought up
her little daughter, and when the daughter was a beautiful, educated,
charming girl twenty years old, she married a fine young man; they had
a large family of children, and if they are not dead, they are living
still.
THE CATS THAT WOULDN’T CATCH MICE
In an old library there once lived a cat, kept to protect the books and
their leather bindings from the teeth of the mice. She was descended
from a long line of ancestors, who had all held the same office, and
she was the mother of five charming kittens: a black one named Miese, a
white one named Lise, a black and white one called Purr, one spotted
with brown and yellow named Murr, and one striped with black and gray,
called Hinz. Purr, Murr, and Hinz were tom-cats, the other two were
pussies. The brothers and sisters were old enough to study, and had an
hour’s lesson from their mother every day. They could already purr,
spit, and mew, make velvet paws, clean their fur, and wash their faces
with their wet paws. Now their mother began to introduce them to the
higher knowledge, that is, she taught them to catch mice. This was not
at all easy. Behind and under the book shelves were a number of holes,
which the mice used for hiding-places and refuges, where no grown cat
and not even a kitten could possibly reach them. The chase could only
be successful in the clear open space in the centre of the library. So
it was necessary to watch patiently until a mouse ventured out, and
then catch it at one spring, before it had time to slip back into its
hole. The kittens were obliged to decide quickly and to act at once. If
they hesitated even a second, their prey escaped.
One morning the lesson was in full course. Mother and children had
chased a mouse, but it had darted past fat Purr and slipped under a
book shelf before the clumsy fellow could stop it. For this awkwardness
his mother cuffed his ears several times, and his sisters Miese and
Lise laughed at him for being such a blockhead. After some time a
mouse, the same one or another, put its sharp nose out from under a
book shelf, and looked around it. The mother and teacher instantly saw
it with her keen eyes, and motioned to her children to keep quiet. As
everything remained still, the mouse, from imprudence or bravado, came
out entirely. Like a flash of lightning the old cat was between the
mouse and the book shelf, cutting off its retreat. A wild running and
leaping began. The mouse, which could do nothing else, ran up the
books, the kittens followed, and so eagerly that they upset a pile of
books which had been carelessly arranged. It fell to the floor with a
great clatter, and behind it appeared a mouse’s nest, where ten
half-grown mice were tumbling over one another, vainly trying to escape
by flight. The mother stunned them by swift blows with her paws, and
gave them, struggling, to her kittens, that they might play with them
before killing them with teeth and claws. Hearing the squeaking of the
little mice in their pain and terror, their mother came out from the
rows of books still standing on the shelves. She could only scream with
fright, but could not help her little ones. Yet, when she was obliged
to watch the massacre, the horrible spectacle was more than she could
bear. Rushing as if crazed to the nearest little mouse, which Purr was
cuffing right and left with his clumsy paws, she ran straight into the
old cat’s claws. There was a joyful mew, a blow of the paw, and the
mouse mother lay dead beside her ten dead children.
The cat put them all in a row, called the librarian, to show him her
prey, and then dismissed her children to take a long nap.
The kittens did not follow their mother’s example. Instead of going to
rest, they gathered in a corner of the library, where Miese began:
“Those poor mice! They are really very pretty little creatures!”
“Nonsense!” growled Purr. “How can people think mice pretty!”
“You are a cannibal!” hissed Miese, angrily. “Didn’t you feel sorry for
the mother who came so bravely to help her little ones?”
Purr was silent in confusion, and Murr muttered: “That’s true. The
mother was a little heroine. I’m sorry for her.”
“I must say,” remarked Hinz, “that I am not at all proud of what we
have done. It’s really a cowardly thing for us, who are so big and
strong and active, besides being so terribly armed with teeth and
claws, to attack the weak, defenceless creatures.”
“We ought to be ashamed of ourselves,” said Lise.
“We all saw it,” said Miese. “The spectacle will haunt me a long time.
There before us was the peaceful nest. The ten brothers and sisters
were lying comfortably together enjoying their young lives. Their
mother’s love watched over them. Suddenly destruction came. We killed
and slaughtered. Now the mother and children are gone; the nest is torn
to pieces. Why do we commit such cruelties? By what right? For what
purpose?”
“Bravo! You speak from the soul!” cried the vivacious Hinz. He admired
his sister very much. She was the brightest, most eloquent, and best
educated of them all. She had not been born and brought up in a library
for nothing; she did not boast in vain of an endless line of learned
ancestors. She stood high above the ordinary roof and cellar cats, and
promised to be an ornament to the cat family.
“I could cry when I think of those little mice,” said Lise.
“I won’t do it again,” Hinz declared resolutely.
“But if mother orders us,” objected Purr.
“We are no longer children,” replied Miese, vehemently; “we ought to
and must act according to our own views. We will tell mother so
frankly.”
In fact, when the old cat called her children in the afternoon to take
their lesson, Miese stood boldly before her and said, “Mother, we have
determined not to catch any more mice.”
The cat could hardly believe her ears. Putting them back angrily, she
answered: “You have determined? Why, that sounds very fine! True, it is
more comfortable to be lazy. Now begin, or you’ll have your ears
cuffed.”
Miese did not allow herself to be frightened. “It isn’t for the sake of
laziness. Only we will not again commit the crime of murdering an
innocent family of little mice.”
“Mur-der-ing!” repeated the old cat, fairly stammering in her
amazement. “Have you gone crazy?”
“I think I have never been more sensible than I am now,” said Miese,
quietly but firmly. “We have agreed to keep peace with the mice in the
future. Their lives and property shall be sacred to us.”
The cat could not yet understand. “Are you my children or changelings?
No true cat ever talked so before. We are here to catch mice, and that
you will do too, or I’ll punish you.”
“I deny that we are here for that,” replied Miese, boldly. “We are here
to love one another. The mice, too, are our brothers, like everything
that lives and enjoys life.”
“What! The mice must be my brothers? Stop all this.” The cat was not
patient. She made a spring at Miese, to punish her, but the kitten
escaped the threatening paw, ran into the corner, and cried defiantly:
“Long live justice! Long live brotherhood!”
The mother tried persuasion and entreaties. “Children, this foolish
jest has lasted long enough. Let us lose no more time. To work. I will
train you to be capable cats. You must become good mousers, like your
mother and all your ancestors back to time immemorial.”
“What do we care what our ancestors have done!” replied Miese,
obstinately. “We will break with the humdrum old ways. We are
progressive cats.”
The brothers purred approvingly.
The old cat cast furious glances at them. “Progressive cats! The word
seems to please you, simpletons. No doubt you think yourselves far more
clever than your narrow-minded old mother. Have you asked yourselves
how you are to live, if you don’t catch mice?”
“We don’t eat the mice,” retorted Hinz, pertly.
“No, because we have other food. But why are we fed? Because we catch
mice. If we no longer caught mice, people would no longer feed us, or
even let us stay in our library. Then we should see how we could
manage.”
“There is food for everybody in the wide world,” said Lise.
“That’s enough!” screamed the cat, furiously. “Begin—or woe be unto
you!”
The five kittens did not stir. Their mother sprang upon them, but they
all ran through the open door, and kept on till the old cat stopped
chasing them.
They rested in a meadow near a farm-house.
“We will begin a new life, a more beautiful, more just, and better
one,” said Miese, when she had recovered her breath a little.
“Very well,” said Purr; “but meanwhile I am hungry, and would like to
have my supper.”
“You never think of anything but eating,” replied Lise, reproachfully.
Murr came to his brother’s support. “I will gladly live for fraternity
and justice. I will gladly be a progressive cat; but the stomach wants
its rights, too.”
“You are right,” said Miese. “Only have a little patience. You’ll see
that your virtue will not fail to have its reward. I have confidence in
our good cause. Follow me.”
She had seen a barn in the meadow, and quickly led her brothers and
sisters to it. They entered without any trouble through an open window.
Inside was a perfect mountain of wheat, over which countless mice were
swarming. At the sudden entrance of the five cats, they scattered,
squeaking with fright, and vanished under, behind, and within the
mountain of wheat, in mouse holes, and between the beams of the roof.
Purr looked after them with sparkling eyes, Murr made a movement to
follow, but Hinz stopped him with a sharp “Mew.” Miese climbed slowly
up the wheat mountain, and when she had reached the top, solemnly
began: “Honored mice! Dear fellow-creatures! You have fled from us. We
can understand this, after the experiences you have had with our race.
But we come without any hostile designs upon you. We are no mouse
hunters. We are progressive cats. We lament all the evil which our
relatives have done you, and would like to atone for their wickedness
during thousands of years. Dear mice, let us be brothers. We offer you
the paw of friendship. Clasp it. Join hands. A bond of love shall unite
us in the future, and we will work together until there is light in the
world, till the innocent blood no longer flows, till cats and mice
beautify each other’s short lives according to their powers.”
During Miese’s speech many mice had put their sharp noses out of their
hiding places and listened with increasing astonishment. When she had
finished, all was still for a time. At last an old mouse spoke. “I have
lived a long while and had many experiences,” she said; “but I have
never heard such words from the mouth of a cat. If we could only
believe you.”
“Your distrust is unfair,” replied Miese. “Why should we pretend to
feelings we do not possess?”
“Why?” answered the old mouse. “To lull us into security, so that you
can eat us comfortably when we are so stupid as to obey your call.”
“Dear brothers,” said Miese, “you are doing us grave injustice. Our
hearts are full of love for you, and we only wish there might be an
opportunity to show it in other ways than by mere words.” There was so
much warmth in her voice, that it made an impression upon the mouse.
“Do you speak in the name of the whole cat people?” asked the old
mouse.
“For the present we can speak only in our own name,” replied Miese.
“There is still much prejudice among us. Our old people will not give
up their wicked customs. But the young ones are with us. I am sure of
that. The future will be ours. We will set an example, which all our
race will soon follow enthusiastically. Come, brothers, come, dear
mice! Let us embrace one another. Let us celebrate the festival of
peace and fraternity.”
The mice began to whisper and mutter. Some wanted to accept Miese’s
invitation, others hesitated. Suddenly a young mouse squeaked: “I’ll
risk it! Fraternity is so grand a thought that I will gladly stake my
life to learn whether the progressive cat means honestly.” And, in
spite of the anxious squeaking of the timid ones, it came boldly out of
its hole. Miese went very gently up, that she might not startle it by
hasty movements, stroked its back with a velvet paw, licked its nose
with her rough tongue, and said, “Come to my heart, brother, this is
the happiest day of my life.”
The mouse was terribly frightened, but did not show it, and bravely
endured the caresses of the cat, even timidly returned them. At this
sight the mice burst into cheers, and a large number of them boldly
approached the cats. A few minutes later old and young mice were
crowding eagerly around the cats, exchanging embraces and kisses with
them, racing merrily through the barn, and calling to the more timid
ones, who were cautiously watching this new spectacle from their holes:
“Out with you all, cowards! The cats are our best friends! You will
offend them by your reserve! Long live the cats! Hurrah for
fraternity!”
This went on for some time, then a young mouse began: “Dear brothers
and sisters! Love for love! Faith for faith! Since the cats have seen
their injustice, we will forgive them without reserve. We will bear
them no grudge and, in future, we will be one heart and one soul. Let
us appoint them honorary mice. Let the difference in parentage be
forgotten. Let us never reproach them for their origin. We will always
treat our honorary mice like brothers, and admit them to the full
rights of citizenship among us.”
Purr and Murr looked at each other in bewilderment, but Miese cried
enthusiastically, “We will always try to show ourselves worthy of the
name of honorary mice.” An old mouse protested against undue haste, and
asked that the honorary mice should have their claws gnawed off, before
they were admitted to citizenship in the mouse nation; but the young
mice cried down the old fogy slow coach, reproached him for his
distrust, told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, the mouse nation
must not be outdone in generosity by the cats, and the motion to bestow
the rights of citizenship upon the cats was passed by a very large
majority.
“And now,” cried several young mice, “we will celebrate this historic
hour by a great festival. Come, dear honorary mice, we will share what
we have fraternally with you.”
This invitation greatly pleased the cats, especially Purr, whose
stomach was complaining, for it was long after his usual hour for
eating. He looked eagerly around, switched his tail to and fro, and
asked earnestly, “Where is there anything to nibble?”
The mice squeaked merrily, and one answered: “Don’t you see it? You
certainly have plenty of everything before you.”
Purr sniffed and peered around in all directions, then he answered
angrily, “I smell nothing, and I see nothing.”
“Is it possible?” replied the mouse. “You are standing in front of a
whole mountain of the finest wheat; you see how our whole people are
feasting, and you find nothing to satisfy your hunger?”
Purr looked provoked and began to spit. “I suppose you take me for a
fool,” he growled.
Miese interposed. “Dear fellow-citizens,” she said to the mouse, “we
can do nothing with your wheat. It is no food for us.”
“See the despisers of our fare!” cried a saucy mouse. “You don’t know
what is good,” exclaimed another. “What would you like? Probably a
young mouse?” shouted a third, snappishly. But other mice reproved them
for these unfriendly speeches, and turning to the cats, said: “Forgive
this rudeness, and don’t be offended by it. All sensible mice condemn
them. We do not yet know your taste. What do you eat, if you cannot
take wheat?”
“Could we perhaps have some beef liver?” asked Miese.
The mice looked at each other, and answered: “Beef liver? What’s that?
We don’t know it.”
“Or a little milk?” said Lise.
“Mice do not drink. There is no milk here,” was the reply. “Would you
perhaps like nuts? They are the most delicious food there is; we
haven’t many of them, but we will give them to you gladly.”
“Nuts? No,” answered Hinz; “people play with nuts, but they don’t eat
them.”
The mice smiled, and one of them said, “Perhaps, if you prefer bacon—”
“Bacon! Capital! Bring it out!” cried all five of the kittens at once,
joyously holding their tails straight up in the air.
The mice eagerly collected a few scraps of bacon, on which the cats
sprang with such haste that the mice were startled, and ran into their
holes. In an instant it was devoured, and Purr cried, “More!”
The mice, who had looked on in horror, answered: “Is it possible! That
was our whole supply for the winter. And you have eaten it at one
meal!”
“Hold your tongues, you louts!” cried Murr in a rage.
Miese soothed him and, turning to the mice, said: “No offence. We are
somewhat hungry after our long walk. And, to tell the truth, we are
still. If you could perhaps tell us where this nice bacon is—”
For a long time there was no reply. The mice put their heads together
and whispered. At last an old one said, “In the farm-house over yonder
is a garret filled with flitches of bacon.”
“Quick! Let us run over there!” cried Purr.
“Gently,” replied the old mouse, “that won’t do. You can’t get in, for
the door is locked. We have dug a passage into the room, but it is too
narrow for you.”
“Then do us the favor to go over yourselves and bring us some bacon,”
said Miese.
“We’ll take precious good care not to do that,” cried several mice at
once. “There are two abominable cats in the garret, and we can only
venture in when these two bloodthirsty murderers have gone out.”
The cats made wry faces when they heard their relatives spoken of in
this way. A mouse noticed it, and said quickly: “You see, we are doing
you the honor of considering you entirely as mice. A harsh word against
cats cannot offend you, for you certainly have nothing more in common
with those miserable bandits.”
“That is true,” said Miese. “But I thought that, for our sakes, you
would think somewhat more kindly of the cats and admit that they are
not all miserable bandits.”
“Surely you would not wish to defend the horrible cat tribe—you, whom
we have just made honorary mice?” screamed several mice, excitedly.
Miese saw that the conversation threatened to take a bad turn, and
remained silent. Meanwhile the mice had finished their banquet and,
going back to their holes well satisfied, bade the cats good night.
They were left alone in the barn and, looking at each other in
perplexity, made all sorts of unpleasant reflections.
Hinz was the first to break the silence, “Well, dear honorary mouse,”
he asked Miese, “how do you like our new countrymen?”
“Pretty fellows,” replied Lise in the same subdued tones; “I would like
to eat them.”
Purr laughed grimly, “So would I.” And Murr added, “Miese, you are the
most clever one of us all; but to-day, I’m afraid, you have done a very
foolish thing.”
“Let me alone,” Miese spit angrily. “Of course, the old humdrum way is
easier than the bold, progressive one. We are treading entirely new
paths. We have undertaken a great educational work. So we must have
patience, and bear some discomfort without grumbling. The poor mice are
not lacking in good-will. If some of them still doubt the purity of our
intentions, we must not wonder at it. This will soon pass away.”
“But just now my stomach is hollow,” growled Purr.
“We will learn to eat wheat,” said Miese, and resolutely taking some
grains in her mouth began to chew them. But, in spite of the most
desperate efforts, she could not swallow them, and secretly spit them
out. Meanwhile there was no quiet in the holes of the mice. In every
passage and room they put their heads together, talking in low but
eager tones about the great event. Some said, “This will come to no
good end,” others, “Cats will be cats, even if we appoint them honorary
mice,” and others added, “Perhaps they are spies.”
A young mouse defended the new friends and said, “The leader of the
progressive cats is really a noble creature,” but was interrupted by
cries from all sides, “If she isn’t a swindler, if she isn’t sneaking
in among us with evil designs, she is surely crazy.”
Several voices added: “Her brothers have regular murderers’ faces. They
are tramps, who want us to feed them. All our bacon is gone already; if
we could only get rid of them pleasantly.”
But the mice finally fell asleep; for they were tired and in a safe
place. The five hungry cats on their hard beds found the night very
long. All thought of their mother’s warm fur and their ample meals, and
Miese asked herself if the whole mouse nation was worth so much
privation and hardship.
When day dawned, the rested mice came out of their holes and began to
attend to their business, without troubling themselves about the five
sulky kittens. Some were peeling grains of wheat for breakfast, others
were cleaning themselves, others still were playing. Lise watched the
bustle awhile, then she asked impatiently: “What does this mean? Are we
to have no breakfast?”
A mouse answered rudely: “I suppose we ought to feed you with pap, poor
little things?” The others laughed.
“Pardon me,” said Miese, gently. “We belong to you. You cannot let us
starve to death.”
“You bore us!” screamed a mouse. “If you won’t eat wheat, steal some
meat from the farmer, or catch birds on the trees and roofs.”
“You are not in earnest,” replied Miese. “To kill birds would be a
crime. Surely we want to have fraternity, love, and virtue reign in the
world.”
All the mice laughed. “To kill mice is murder; but to catch birds is
earning one’s living honestly.”
“Bravo!” shouted Hinz, in a terrible voice, sprang with a single bound
upon the mouse which had made this remark, killed it with one bite, and
devoured it in an instant, before Miese could prevent him. The mice
scattered in terror, pursued by Purr and Murr, who each seized a victim
before they could escape into their holes. Scarcely were they safe when
they all began to shriek: “Traitors! Murderers! Bandits! Robbers! May
you all break your necks! May you be drowned! Vagabond rabble!
Pestilent pack!”
This was too much for Miese, and she dashed furiously toward the holes,
but could not catch a single mouse. “Let us go,” she said, turning to
her brothers and sister; “nothing sensible can be done with these
uneducated creatures.”
They set out on the way to their library, and, after a long walk,
reached home weary, ashamed, starved, and downcast. The old cat
received them on the threshold with the exclamation: “Why, here come
the runaways! Have you converted the world to your reforms already?”
“Mother, give us something to eat; we are almost starved,” said Miese,
humbly. “The world is not yet ripe for our grand thoughts. And the
mice, especially, are an infamous set of wretches, who must be
exterminated. We will catch them again to your heart’s content.”
THE ELF CHILD
Once upon a time there was a large clearing in the midst of a thick
beechwood, and in the middle of this clearing was a big, deep pond, on
whose shores grew rushes, and on whose surface floated water-lilies. In
this pond lived many elves, who slept all through the day on a bed of
fine sand and soft plants, but in the evening came up to breathe the
air of the upper world. Then they sat down on the grass in the glade,
parted and braided their golden hair, wrapped themselves in
rainbow-colored veils, adorned themselves with pearls and precious
stones from little mother-of-pearl caskets, ate fruit and honey, drank
dew and sweet flower juices, and played forfeits and blindman’s-buff.
During the weeks when the nightingale sang and also at other times,
when there was a full moon, they formed into a large ring and danced
until the cock crowed. The gnomes, too, often came from the neighboring
mountains, and if they were very well behaved, and the elves were in a
good humor, they were allowed to dance and play with them until the
gray dawn drove them home, too. In the meadow where the elves held
their summer festivals, the grass grew more luxuriantly and more
beautiful, flowers bloomed in the places where their silver-white feet
had floated in dancing. The inhabitants of the wood knew that the glade
was used by the elves of the pond for a playground, and timidly avoided
it; for they were aware that the beautiful water women, though they did
not usually trouble themselves about mortals, and did them no harm,
grew very angry if they were impertinently watched, or even surprised
by accident at their games.
Now it happened that there lived in the village at the edge of the wood
a young fellow, who thought of nothing but mischievous tricks and
practical jokes. When he was a little boy he used to let loose in the
school-room and church, beetles, to whose legs he had tied bits of
paper with pieces of thread. When he grew larger, he sawed the back
legs of the schoolmaster’s chair three-quarters through, so that it
broke down when the teacher sat in it. When he was a half-grown lad, he
tied dogs and cats together by their tails, and laughed maliciously
when the poor animals fought furiously with one another. Of course such
a fellow always robbed birds’ nests, and stole fruit from the trees.
This rascal had often heard of the elves of the pond in the forest
meadow, their dances in the moonlight summer nights, and their sports
with the gnomes, and he could not rest until he had seen the merry
pastime with his own eyes. One warm June evening, when the moon was
full, he stole through the forest and across the glade to a spot on the
shore of the pond, where the rushes grew thick, and, hidden among them,
waited with some little anxiety for what would happen.
During the first hours after sunset he heard nothing except the
croaking of the frogs near by, and the bell-like tones of the more
distant bullfrogs, and saw in the twilight owls and bats flying
noiselessly hither and thither. Just after midnight the moon rose, the
pond and the woodland meadow were lighted almost as brilliantly as day,
and suddenly the impudent scoundrel cowering among the rushes started,
almost frightened to death. Close beside his hiding place a silvery
laugh rang out and, at the same moment, a young elf rose from the water
and clapped her hands loudly. Instantly dozens of other elves appeared
in the pond, surrounded the first one, shouted joyously, splashed the
water till it foamed, dashed drops and streams into one another’s
faces, and at last swam swiftly, in a long line, to the shore. There
they had apparently concealed clothes and jewels in the bushes, or in
holes in the ground, for in a short time they glided out of the reeds,
clad in shimmering, floating veils, and glittering with gems, and
frolicked about on the meadow.
The first elves were young girls. After them came young mothers with
little elf children, many of whom could already walk alone; others fell
down when they tried to stand on their small fat legs, and not a few
were still on pillows. The mothers who had children at the breast
nursed them, rocked them in their arms till they fell asleep, laid them
in the tall grass on the shore, and hurried back to their companions to
join their games and ring dancing. One baby in long clothes was laid by
its mother among the rushes so near the spy that he could almost touch
it with his outstretched hand. It was as beautiful as the angels in the
pictures of Paradise, more beautiful than any mortal child he had ever
seen. But he did not look at it long, for the scene in the meadow
attracted his attention far more strongly. Some were playing
blindman’s-buff, others tag, others still were dancing or striking
shuttlecocks, then they all joined in songs with choruses, which
sounded so sweet that even the hardened rascal in the reeds felt his
eyes fill with tears, and finally they sat down in the grass and amid
jests and laughter began to feast. At this part of the nocturnal
festival the gnomes appeared, queer little men with long beards, who
came tripping along laden with all sorts of dainties, and were received
by the elves with shouts of joy. They were allowed to sit on the grass
beside them and share their banquet, to which they contributed sweet
fruit juices and delicious fruit. The water and mountain folk talked
together for several hours, during which time an elf mother ran once or
twice to the baby that lay near the rascal, to see if it was sleeping.
Then the gnomes turned up their noses, beckoned to each other, pointed
to the sky, where the first dim light of dawn was appearing in the
east, took leave of the elves with many bows, and skipped hastily off
to the forest, in which they vanished. The elves, too, felt the morning
air and prepared to depart. Just at that moment the young rascal was
possessed by the idea that he would play them a trick. At first he had
had such a dread and horror of them that it almost stifled his breath.
But after he had watched them awhile, and found them so beautiful and
merry, so delicate and dainty, all fear had vanished and he did not
believe that they could do him any harm. So, yielding to his natural
spitefulness, he crept gently to the elf child, which was sleeping
sweetly near him with its little fists tightly shut, hastily picked it
up, and ran with it as fast as he could out of the rushes, across the
clearing to the edge of the wood.
The elves saw him as soon as he stood up, and uttered a loud cry. Some
sprang nimbly into the pond, others hastened to their children to
protect them. A shriek of horror told the fugitive that the young elf
mother had discovered the theft of her child. He turned his head and
saw that several elves were pursuing him. Laughing scornfully, he
increased his speed in order to reach the forest. Then there was a
rushing noise in the air, fierce shouts echoed through the glade and
across the pond, a strange whistling and hissing were heard, the rascal
looked back again, and now he saw a large number of terrible serpents,
which dashed out of the water and chased him with tremendous bounds.
Terror seized him, he dropped the stolen child, and ran as if Satan and
all his imps were at his heels.
Though the little elf fell softly on the moss, it was waked by the
shock, and began to cry piteously. At the same moment a lively cock
began to crow in the distant village, a heart-rending shriek answered
him from the woodland meadow, then all was still. The wicked youth ran
on with all his might, and did not stop until he had come out of the
forest and saw his village before him. He was glad that he had escaped
from the serpents, and did not trouble himself at all about the elf
child whom he had left in the woods.
The cock’s crow had risen on the morning air before the mother had
reached it, and the elf, in spite of her despair, was obliged to return
to the pond without her child. The baby remained all alone on its bed
of moss, weeping loudly, the forest animals came running from every
direction to guard it, warm it, and lull it to sleep again. The hares
sat close about it, the roes surrounded it in close ranks, the
squirrels fanned the flies away from it, even a few lynxes which were
left in the wood forgot their usual bloodthirstiness against the other
forest creatures, passed their rough tongues tenderly over the child’s
little face, that they might not hurt its silken-soft skin, and kept
guard against foxes and badgers, which they would not allow to come
near the infant. A hind gave the little elf its milk to drink, and
after it was satisfied, it fell asleep.
The sky gradually brightened and began to glow with the hues of dawn,
as two dogs, barking violently, ran up to the slumbering child. The
animals that were lying and standing around it ran away from the
baying, and were pursued for some distance by the dogs, until a shout
brought them to a stand. A young forester, who had come into the wood
with them before daybreak, called them back, for it was mating time and
against the law to hunt game. The dogs returned and found the elf
child, before which they stood a long time, snuffing it, and then, with
uplifted forepaw, from time to time, giving a loud “wuff.”
The forester thought that they had found some kind of game, hurried to
them, and was greatly surprised to see a sleeping child in the moss. He
hoped at first that its mother was near, and had the neighborhood
searched by his dogs. But, after circling around for a long distance,
the intelligent animals returned without having discovered any human
creature, so the forester took the child in his arms and carried it
carefully to the forest house, five miles away.
“What sort of prey are you bringing there?” cried the chief forester in
astonishment, when his assistant entered his room with the child. The
young man told him that he had found it in the forest, near the elf
pond, and asked what he should do with the foundling.
The chief forester, who had a sickly wife, numerous children, and a
small house, looked troubled, and said: “It is certainly a beautiful
baby, and I would gladly rear it, but that won’t do; there are plenty
of us here already. The child must be taken to the orphan asylum.”
As soon as he spoke, he had his carriage brought, drove to the city
with the child, and left it at the asylum. He had not looked at it on
the way, that his heart might not be too heavy when he was obliged to
part with it.
At the orphan asylum they found that the baby was a little girl.
Everybody admired its beautiful little face, its dainty limbs, its fine
coverlet, pillow, and clothes, and supposed it belonged to an
aristocratic family. No distinction was made between the children in
the institution, all were treated alike. The elf child was named Irene,
for the saint of the day on which she was found, the garments which
looked as if they had been woven from moonbeams were taken from it, a
little shirt and jacket made of coarse, brownish yellow cloth, woollen
socks, and a small cap were put on, and she was laid in a very hard bed
with another child.
Irene felt the harsh touch of the coarse clothes on her tender skin,
and began to cry violently. But no one came to her. The children were
allowed to cry until they were tired and fell asleep. So Irene soon saw
that it was useless to grieve, and gradually became used to the rubbing
of the hard cloth. She was obliged to grow used to many other things
besides: to the bottle which she received, instead of her mother’s
breast, to being washed rarely and not thoroughly, to being left alone
for hours, to having no loving arms clasp, carry, and rock her, or
tender glances meet her blue eyes, when she gazed around seeking
something, she herself did not know what.
Weeks, months, and years passed away. Irene grew in the usual way. She
could soon stand, walk, and run, in doing which she often fell down,
bumped her forehead, and made her little nose bleed. She learned to
talk, and to make dolls out of rags and shavings; for there were no
playthings in the orphan asylum, and, before she was five years old,
she was obliged to do regularly light tasks, such as picking over
coffee beans, shelling peas, and washing vegetables.
The nurses, teachers, and children in the asylum had always noticed
that Irene’s eyes sparkled strangely, as if blue flames were blazing in
them; but they thought it was a disease, and had the oculist of the
institution examine them. He gazed a long time into the shining blue
eyes, shook his head, prescribed a harmless eye wash and said it would
pass away in time; the child would outgrow the trouble.
Irene, of course, had not the slightest remembrance of her origin; for
she had been too small when the wicked rascal dragged her away. She did
not know what it was to rest on a mother’s breast, to be embraced by a
mother’s arms, to feel the kisses of a mother’s lips. But when on fine
days, at recess, she was in the courtyard of the orphan asylum, and
went to the fence which separated it from the street, she saw little
girls passing by holding their mothers’ hands, and such a longing
seized upon her that her little heart quivered, and tears ran down her
cheeks. The other children who were there called her a cry-baby, and
the matron threatened not to let her go outdoors any more if she wept
in that way without any reason; for people in the street would think
that the orphan children were badly treated, and the institution would
get an ill name.
Something else was noticed, which brought many scoldings and even
punishment upon Irene. As soon as she went outside of the door, either
to breathe the fresh air in the courtyard or to walk in a long, dreary
line with the other orphans, the birds of the sky flew from every
direction,—sparrows, swallows, doves, singing birds, crows, even the
most timid little birds of prey, such as hawks, sparrow-hawks, and
kites, fluttered around her head with low cries, swept past her ears as
if they wanted to whisper something quickly to her in their flight, and
would not be driven away from her. The throng of birds frightened the
other children, so that they scattered screaming. The matron reproved
Irene for the disturbance, for she was certain that the child did
something to draw the birds, and did not believe her when she protested
that it was not her fault. She was considered a sneak and a liar, who,
in some unknown way, had learned sly, secret arts; and one day the
superintendent of the institution said that Irene was probably a
gypsy’s child, who was obeying the promptings of her nature; they must
keep a sharp eye on her, or she would never amount to anything good;
the teachers distrusted her, the children shyly avoided her and, in
spite of her gentle disposition and her beauty, she was eyed askance by
everybody in the institution and always left to herself.
Lonely, unhappy, and silent, she had nearly reached her eighth year
when one day a little girl of her own age, who in a great railway
accident had lost father, mother, brothers, and sisters, and was the
only one of her family left, was brought to the asylum.
Little Elizabeth—this was the poor child’s name—was already wise enough
to understand fully her cruel fate. She had been the spoiled darling of
her parents, and now she met with nothing but indifference. She had
lived in comfort, and now learned the meaning of poverty. Instead of
her pretty clothes, she wore the coarse, shapeless uniform of the
institution. Instead of being dressed and undressed by her loving
mother, she was obliged to do this for herself, and was scolded if she
was clumsy at it. She wept quietly and constantly, until it almost
broke Irene’s heart. Timid and reserved as she was to others, she went
to little Elizabeth, spoke gently to her, and begged her to cheer up.
But Elizabeth only shook her head, sobbing: “Oh, I cannot, I cannot!
Why wasn’t I killed, too? Then I would now be with my mother. I cannot
live without my mother.”
“Yes, you can,” replied Irene; “see, I have never known my mother; I
believe I never had any. Yet I live.”
“If you have had no mother,” said Elizabeth, through her streaming
tears, “then you do not know what it is to lie in her arms, or how it
feels when she is gone.”
“No, I do not know,” replied Irene, sadly.
“But I know,” cried Elizabeth, with a fresh outburst of grief, “and I
cannot live without my mother. What is the use of living, if nobody
loves me?”
“I will love you,” said Irene, earnestly. Elizabeth looked at her with
her wet eyes, and threw herself impetuously into her arms.
This had happened in the dormitory, before the children went to bed.
Others had seen how the two hugged each other, and the next day at
recess they went to Elizabeth, took her aside, and warned her against
intimate friendship with Irene. Some called her the little girl with
the diseased eyes, others the bird witch, a third the gypsy child. All
said that she was a queer, unsocial creature, whom the teachers and
matron did not like. Elizabeth, it is true, did not allow herself to be
misled by the little slanderers, but she repeated everything to her new
friend. Irene took the evil gossip and the enmity of her companions so
much to heart that she could neither eat nor sleep, and was constantly
in tears, which prevented her from doing neatly the sewing on which she
was now engaged. In punishment the matron locked her up in a dark room.
Elizabeth would not be separated from her, and wept and screamed so
violently that she was whipped and also locked up in a room. When she
was let out again, she was forbidden to walk or talk with Irene in the
future, and threatened with severe punishment if she did not obey.
Irene met Elizabeth for the first time after her release from the dark
room in the dormitory. When she rushed up to her and threw herself into
her arms, Elizabeth whispered in her ear: “We must take care, the
teacher has forbidden me to talk or walk with you or I shall be
punished. But I will not give you up, even if I am.”
“You shall not be punished on my account,” said Irene, and went away
from her, weeping silently. Both children were unable to sleep that
night from sorrow. When all the others were in a sound slumber,
Elizabeth rose softly from her hard bed, stole to Irene’s, and saw that
she, too, was lying awake.
“I can bear it no longer,” said Elizabeth, in a low tone.
“Nor I,” replied Irene, in the same voice.
“Irene, let us get up and go away.”
“But where, Elizabeth?”
“Wherever our feet may carry us, sister; any place is better than
this.”
“Now? This very moment? In the dark night?”
“No. The house is locked now. We cannot get out. But early to-morrow
morning when we are dressed. Then it will be light, and the door will
be opened and we can run away. Directly after breakfast. Will you,
Irene?”
“I will, Elizabeth,” said Irene. The two children hugged each other
affectionately. Elizabeth went back to bed comforted; Irene was
somewhat consoled, too, and both fell asleep.
Little attention was paid in the morning to the children who were large
enough to dress themselves alone, so it was not difficult for Irene and
Elizabeth to slip unnoticed out of the wash room, beside the dormitory,
into the courtyard, and from there into the street. When they were
outside, they began to run, and kept on straight ahead until they were
completely out of breath. Dogs chased them barking; but when they
reached Irene, they snuffed at her, wagged their tails, and turned
back. The two little girls had left the city behind them, and found
themselves in the open fields. Seeing that no one was pursuing them,
they went more slowly in order to recover their breath.
“Oh, dear Irene,” said Elizabeth, “how hungry I am!”
“I cannot give you your breakfast, sister,” replied Irene, sadly.
They were just under a tall tree, where many crows had built their
nests. Irene had scarcely spoken when the whole flock of crows flew up
screaming and vanished in the direction of the city. The children had
not gone much farther when they heard above them a great rustling of
wings and loud bird calls. It was the crows, which, returning from the
city, dropped all sorts of things before the children and flew back to
their tree again with the speed of lightning. Elizabeth stooped and
picked up in paper horns small cakes and juicy cherries. She did not
stop long to wonder, but divided lovingly with Irene, and both ate till
they were satisfied. Then they walked on and on, the sun rose higher in
the heavens, it was almost noon, and Elizabeth again began to complain,
“Oh, dear Irene, I am so warm!”
“So am I, sister,” answered Irene.
“And I am so hungry and tired!” Elizabeth went on.
“So am I,” answered Irene.
“I can go no farther, Irene.”
“I see a wood over there, Elizabeth; let us go to it. We shall find
shade, and can rest a little while.”
Irene held out her hand to her little friend and, with her help, she
dragged herself to the edge of the wood, where they threw themselves
down in the soft moss under the shade of the first tree. Irene sat down
by her side, exclaiming, “If the crows would only come back now, and
bring us more little horns of cakes and cherries!”
She had hardly spoken the words when there was a cracking and rustling
in the underbrush, the bushes parted, and a hind sprang out and stood
beside Elizabeth. The child started up with a cry of terror; but Irene
said soothingly: “Don’t be frightened, sister, the animals will do us
no harm. They have kinder hearts than human beings.”
In truth, the hind licked Elizabeth’s face with her big tongue, lay
down by her side on the ground, and showed her full udder, from which
drops of milk were trickling. Then Elizabeth understood that the kind
animal wanted to feed her, and she began to suck the teat. When she was
satisfied, Irene followed her example. Refreshed by the milk, and
wearied by the unusually long walk, the heat, and the wakeful night,
the two children lay down on the moss, and in a few minutes were sound
asleep.
When they opened their eyes again, they saw the hind, which had kept
faithful watch beside them all the time, and now knelt before Irene,
turned her head toward her, and seemed to be inviting her to get upon
her back.
“The dear friend wants to carry us,” said Irene; “we will ride a
little, Elizabeth.” She helped the little girl to mount the hind. Irene
climbed up behind her, and when the animal felt the children on its
back, it rose and trotted carefully, that they might not lose their
balance, into the forest.
“Oh, this is nice,” said Elizabeth, sighing; “I could not have walked
any farther. My legs ache so, and my feet are so sore.”
They had slept many hours without knowing it, and now the sun was low,
and the summer day was drawing to a close. The hind pressed farther and
farther into the forest, the air grew cooler, the shadows became
darker, and suddenly the children reached the wide clearing, where lay
the broad pond as smooth as a mirror. The hind knelt down on the shore,
shook herself a little, so that the children could not help sliding
gently from her back into the grass, then sprang up, and in a few
bounds was again in the forest, where she vanished.
“What shall we do now?” asked Elizabeth, anxiously.
“I don’t know,” replied Irene, softly.
“I am so frightened,” Elizabeth added, hiding her face on her little
friend’s breast.
“Why?” asked Irene, stroking her hair caressingly.
“It’s so still and lonely here, and the mists are rising from the
water. Night will soon come, and then we shall be all alone in the wild
woods. What will become of us? Who will give us anything to eat
to-morrow? And where shall we find a house and a bed?”
“Don’t be troubled, sister. Perhaps I am really a gypsy child, as our
naughty companions called me. I am not afraid in the forest. We shall
find our way through it, and the kind animals will help us do so.”
But Elizabeth shuddered and began to cry. “I am too miserable, sister,”
she said, “and life is too hard. I wish I was with my mother.”
“Where you want to be, I want to be, too,” replied Irene, embracing her
warmly.
Owls and bats began to fly noiselessly over the children, and the
bell-like tones of the bullfrogs were heard.
“Irene,” said Elizabeth, “I will not suffer any longer. Look, the water
before us is deep and cool. I shall sleep well at the bottom. I want to
go down there.”
“Then I will go with you,” answered Irene.
The two little girls rose, kissed each other, clasped hands, and let
themselves slip from the shore into the pond.
Just at this moment the sun set, and at the same time countless elves
rose with loud shouts from the still water, caught the two children in
their arms, and carried them to the shore.
“An elf child!” cried one, when she had looked into the sparkling eyes
of Irene, who was gazing at her in timid surprise. “Your lost little
one, Woglinde,” exclaimed a second. Then Woglinde, with a piercing cry,
rushed forward, cast one glance at Irene, clasped her impetuously in
her arms, and, laughing and weeping, covered her with a thousand
kisses.
Irene now learned for the first time how a child feels in its mother’s
arms. It was so warm! It was so soft! It was so happy! And it was so
sweet to feel her mother’s kisses on cheeks and lips, eyes and hair,
and to return them. She understood poor little Elizabeth’s grief at
losing this joy, after she had once known it; and after the first
exchange of caresses with her new-found mother, she gently released
herself from her arms, saying, “Beautiful mother, let me go to my
sister Elizabeth, she is all alone.”
The child was sitting on the shore, dripping wet and trembling, weeping
quietly. Several elves were standing near, staring at her, and not
knowing exactly what to do with the little girl. Irene made her way
between them, hurried to Elizabeth, embraced her, and said, “Ah,
Elizabeth, I am so happy; just think, I have found my mother in the
water.”
“Why did not I, too?” wailed Elizabeth, weeping still more violently.
“Be calm, sister,” replied Irene, trying to comfort her. “My mother
will take you, too, and then she will have two children.”
The elf Woglinde smiled, patted the wet cheeks of the mortal child, and
was preparing to take off her dripping garments, as well as her
Irene’s, clothe them in the glittering elf veils, adorn them with
pearls and rubies, and refresh them with sweet juices. The nightingales
were singing, the crickets chirped, the elves stood watching curiously,
and the gnomes also came up, shaking their bearded heads in
astonishment and dissatisfaction at this strange adventure.
Meanwhile the elf queen had also risen from the pond with her little
gold crown in her hair, and while her subjects were dressing her and
adorning her with jewels, they told her that Woglinde’s stolen child
had returned and, with her, a little mortal.
The queen ordered the two little girls to be brought before her, kissed
Irene kindly, and said to her in her silver-toned voice: “Welcome to
your home, little daughter. We will keep you in the palace below until
you have lost the unpleasant human odor. But you must send this little
mortal child back to her relatives; for we will have no human beings
with us.”
When Elizabeth heard this, she clung to Irene and whispered in her ear:
“I will go back into the water again. That is the best place for me.”
But Irene threw her arm around her neck, and said to the queen: “I will
not leave my Elizabeth. If she cannot stay here, I will go with her.
And you will come with us, won’t you, beautiful Mother?”
Woglinde flushed and paled, struggled with herself, and suddenly threw
herself at the elf queen’s feet. “Queen Mother,” she entreated, “be
gracious, make an exception for once. Permit the mortal child to live
among us.”
“That I cannot do,” replied the queen, raising Woglinde. “It is against
the law of nature, which is our law. No mortal can live among us. Your
little daughter has the choice of parting from her playmate, or giving
up her elfin rank.”
“I will give it up,” cried Irene, firmly.
“And so will I,” said Woglinde, clasping both children in her arms.
A great wailing and lamenting arose among the elves, and a murmur of
disapproval among the gnomes. No one thought that night of dancing,
games, and banquets. The elf queen tried to change Woglinde’s
resolution; but when she saw that the elf would not lose her child for
the second time, she ordered the gnomes to provide her with an outfit.
They obediently hurried away, and instantly returned with a large
quantity of gold and gems, handsome new mortal clothes, a carriage, and
two splendid horses. The treasures were packed on the carriage,
Woglinde entered it with the two children, the elf queen, after having
taken leave of her, gave her permission to come to her sisters’ summer
night festivals, but without the mortal child, and, just before dawn,
all the elves kissed Woglinde and Irene for the last time, and went
sorrowfully back into the pond. At the first cock crow the wise horses
started, and, when the sun rose, they were outside of the wood with the
carriage and its inmates. They needed neither curb nor whip, but
trotted straight to the city and stopped in front of a beautiful house,
with a fine garden, which was just for sale. Woglinde bought it with
her gold, and, when she moved into it, all the birds in the garden flew
up and greeted her as their mistress. The kitchen tenants, too,—the
mice and other vermin,—came timidly and wanted to pay their respects to
her; but as Elizabeth was afraid of these creeping, swarming creatures,
Woglinde ordered them to leave the house, which they humbly did at
once.
The gnomes’ treasures had made Woglinde a rich lady and, as she was so
beautiful and looked so aristocratic, the neighbors thought she was
some foreign countess who had moved to their city, invited her to their
houses and tried to become acquainted with her. She was soon the most
courted lady in the city, was presented at court, and one of the king’s
courtiers wanted to marry her. But she only smiled at it, and replied
that she did not wish to marry again, but desired to devote herself to
the education of her children.
She used her connections and her influence, however, to discover the
malicious rascal, who, years before, had stolen her child. And she
succeeded. The youth, meantime, had grown to manhood, and continued to
do all the mischief that was possible in the village. Woglinde
determined to punish him as he deserved. Going alone to the forest
meadow one night, she begged the queen for more gold. The gnomes again
brought a load of it, and Woglinde placed it in the garden of a widow,
who was said to be the most spiteful, quarrelsome, shrewish woman in
the village. This hateful creature found the treasure in the morning,
and rejoiced loudly over it. Everybody learned, with the speed of
lightning, that she had grown enormously rich in a single night, and
several fearless young men hastened, in spite of her evil reputation,
to sue for her hand. Among them was the good-for-nothing, who thought,
“I can probably manage you.” She preferred him to the others, married
him, and then he was soon made to see that he could not cope with her.
She ruled the house, kept him under strict discipline, beat him with
fists and cane, and tormented him day and night till he was often tired
of life. This was his punishment for all the miserable tricks which he
had played in his youth.
But Irene and Elizabeth grew up into beautiful girls, and, when they
were twenty years old, the elf child married a great artist and
Elizabeth a prince, and though Woglinde often longed for the fairy
palace at the bottom of the pond, she was on the whole happy in the
happiness of her children, both of whom had become equally dear to her.
THE RICH DOG AND THE POOR DOG
He was called Rough-leg, and he deserved the name.
He was probably the very ugliest dog that ever was seen: long-legged,
rough-haired, with pointed ears lopping down a little at the ends, a
long nose, and yellow eyes. Nobody could have told to what breed he
belonged. He had the head of a wolf, the legs of a hound, the body of a
bull-dog, the hair of a Spitz, the bushy tail of a setter, and the
color of a badger dog. He was thin as a herring, and as dirty as a
sewer cleaner. Matted tufts of hair hung from his body like the rags of
a tramp. His torn ears told tales of many a fierce fight. The violence
and perseverance with which he bit and scratched showed what an
unpleasant multitude of hopping brown guests he had in his dirty hide.
But under this ugly hide Rough-leg had excellent qualities. He was as
strong as a bear and as brave as a lion, but he was also faithful as a
good dog ought to be, and good-natured, even though he fared very
badly, and had every reason to complain of his fate.
Fortune certainly did not favor him. He belonged to an old
scissors-grinder, who went with his cart from village to village. He
had to help drag the things for him, and his master gave him very
little to eat, because he usually had nothing himself, but plenty of
kicks and blows when he wanted to vent on somebody his rage for earning
so little.
Yet Rough-leg always forgave his master for everything. When the old
fellow was drunk,—and that happened every time he had a few pennies to
buy a drop of something strong,—he was kind to Rough-leg, patted him,
and talked to him like a sensible, beloved companion. And when he had
poured out his heart to him, he lay down wherever he was, in the grass,
the moss in the forest, or in the ditch by the road, and began to
snore, while Rough-leg stretched himself beside him, and watched his
sleep and the cart, which was everything in the world that his master
could call his own.
One evening the old scissors-grinder, after a carouse, again fell
asleep in the ditch, and did not wake any more, for he was dead.
Rough-leg perceived that there was something strange about his master,
when he no longer heard him snore. He snuffed at him, licked his face,
pushed him with his muzzle, scratched his breast with his paws, and
when the old man, in spite of everything, still lay silent and
motionless and began to grow cold, Rough-leg set up such a terrible
howling that all the dogs for miles around answered, and very early in
the morning people came running up, who saw that the old man had died
in the night.
They wanted to take away the body and the cart, but Rough-leg thought
he must not allow it, and rushed furiously at everybody who came near.
The constable drew his sword, and would certainly have killed him if he
had not jumped away from his blows and thrusts. But he did not escape
the sticks and stones of the peasants, who beat him unmercifully until
he saw that he could do nothing against them. So he no longer tried to
prevent their taking the body away, and dragged himself off a short
distance, badly hurt, whining and moaning as they carried his master to
the village churchyard.
There was not much ceremony over the poor scissors-grinder. After a few
official inquiries, and a little writing, he was put into a grave, and
then nobody thought any more about him. Rough-leg had dragged himself
to the churchyard, and watched behind a tombstone, as they laid his
master in the earth and filled up the grave. When all the people had
gone, he crept out of his hiding place, went to the fresh mound, and
began with the greatest energy to dig his master out. He had already
made quite a large hole when the grave-digger saw him and ran forward
with uplifted shovel and loud shouts. Rough-leg saw that he could do
nothing against the angry armed man, so he limped out of the
churchyard, and the grave-digger locked it. It was impossible to jump
over the wall again, it was too high. He could not stay with his
master’s body, so he went back to the place where he had died, and lay
down on the edge of the ditch, determined not to leave the spot.
Near by was a castle with a large garden in front, separated from the
road by a fence. Here, surrounded by her servants, lived an old
countess, who had a pug-dog, of which she was extravagantly fond. His
name was Darling; he was yellow, with a black face, and a little short,
stubby figure. He was a very aristocratic dog. His hair looked well
kept, for he was bathed, perfumed, brushed, and combed every day. On
his left forepaw he wore a gold bracelet, around his neck a white
collar with a light blue border, and when he went out, he had a fine
cloth blanket with a silk lining, on one corner of which a coronet was
embroidered. If it had rained before his walk, he wore rubber shoes to
keep his paws from being wet or muddy.
He was very handsome in his rich clothes and costly jewelry, but all
these fine things gave him no pleasure. They were only troublesome. How
gladly he would have run barefoot through the puddles, and trotted
along in the dust. How gladly he would have shaken off the heavy
clothes and, with nothing but his smooth skin, raced about like the
other dogs, whom he envied when he watched them through the fence of
the castle courtyard running, jumping, rolling, and romping with each
other to their hearts’ content. He was not allowed to join them. A
servant of his own constantly watched to prevent his having any
acquaintance with strange dogs. His prison was his mistress’s room.
Only twice a day would she let him go out a short time in the castle
yard, under the care of a man, usually on a leash, to get a little
exercise, breathe the fresh air, etc. These walks were so tiresome that
he preferred to stay with the old countess. From lack of exercise, and
an oversupply of dainties and rich food, he became a shapeless lump of
fat, grew short-breathed, gouty, and had a perpetual itching of the
skin, so that, though he was kept so clean, he was obliged to scratch
as often and as hard as poor Rough-leg, who had never made acquaintance
with brush and comb, warm bath or soap.
The discovery of the dead scissors-grinder in the ditch had brought a
great crowd before the castle fence, and the castle servants had also
run out to look. Darling was there, too, pressing his black face, with
its snub nose and short muzzle, against the rails to see what was going
on. When the people set upon Rough-leg with clubs and swords, and
almost broke his bones, the pug was furious, and barked as loud as his
short breath would permit. The human beings did not understand, but he
knew Rough-leg’s faithful heart, and would have gone to help the dead
man’s friend, whom they so unjustly abused, if he had only been able.
Lying on his dark blue velvet cushion in his mistress’s room, he
thought all day long of the scene which he had witnessed the day
before. The dog outside there was shamefully abused; he was apparently
of the most humble origin, he was certainly ill-bred, rough, not even
clean; he was dirty and ragged. But he was much better than he, the
aristocratic pug, the trained and wealthy pet.
The strange fellow owed his master nothing, for he had not even fed
him, his leanness showed that. And yet he was faithful to him unto
death; he would not leave his lifeless body; he would rather endure the
most cruel treatment than to neglect his duty as guard. Would he,
Darling, have been capable of such heroic steadfastness? He perceived
with shame that it was doubtful. His mistress spoiled him. She was rich
and titled. Her rank made every one treat her with respect, and on her
account he, too, received the honor due to the pug of a lady of
quality. She fed him with cake and roast beef. And yet, if she should
die, he would not show his teeth at everybody who came near, and he
would not expose himself to any special danger of being beaten with
swords and clubs. These thoughts filled him with self-reproach and, at
the same time, with admiration for the ugly cur on the high-road, who
seemed to him a model of faithful duty.
When Darling, attended by his servant, was allowed to go out again into
the castle courtyard that evening, he waddled to the fence as fast as
his fat and shortness of breath would let him. He at once saw
Rough-leg, who had returned from the churchyard, and was lying in the
ditch with closed eyes, his nose between his forepaws, moaning.
“Here! You! Come over to the fence!” called Darling. Rough-leg took no
notice.
“You are a brave dog! You have my full respect and friendship!” Darling
went on. “I must have a chance to press your paw. Unluckily I can’t get
out to you.”
He was so unused to talking loud, that it made him cough and at the
same time the itching began, which tortured him so much that he fairly
writhed, because his fine blanket and handsome collar and harness
prevented him from scratching to his heart’s content.
Rough-leg now raised his head, opened his eyes, and blinked at him.
“Does anything ail you?” he asked in his hoarse voice.
“Oh, dear, I am so miserable!” replied Darling, piteously, when he had
recovered his breath. He took no offence at plebeian Rough-leg’s
familiarity. “But don’t let us talk about me, but you. I suppose you
loved your master very much?”
“I had no one but him, and he had no one but me in the whole world. I
will not outlive him.”
“Listen to reason, my dear fellow,” cried Darling, in horror. “Surely
you don’t mean to kill yourself?”
Rough-leg made no answer.
“Your master was a poor tramp,” Darling continued.
“Like me,” interrupted Rough-leg, growling.
“Well, then, surely you owe him nothing. He has not been able to do
anything for you. He is dead. You can’t change that. Now think of
yourself. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. I shall stay here.”
“In the night? On the bare ground? Under the open sky?”
“I’m used to it.”
“You have no rheumatism and no asthma, like me. I should die. And who
will give you your food?”
“Nobody. I want to starve to death.”
Darling pitied the despairing fellow more and more. “Be sensible, dear
friend and cousin,” he said. “We must learn how to find comfort. What
would become of us if people took everything so much to heart? I pity
you. I’ll do what I can for you. Wait, I’ll bring you something to eat
presently.” He waddled away from the fence, back into the castle, and
up to his old countess, from whom he begged. She gave him, as usual,
with many pats and loving words, a piece of nice cake. He scarcely
thanked her by a hasty lick of the hand and a quick wag of the tail,
and hurried back to the fence, which he reached panting for breath.
“Here, friend, I have something good for you. But you must come into
the courtyard to me. I can’t get out,” he called to Rough-leg, who was
still lying just where he had left him.
Rough-leg rose and came slowly forward. Darling’s sympathy cheered him
a little in his loneliness. When he reached the fence, Darling pushed
the bit of cake under it and wagged his tail eagerly. He was rejoicing
to think how nice the dainty would taste to the poor, starved fellow.
Rough-leg drew it out with his paw, snuffed at it, and then left it.
“Who can eat such stuff as that?” he growled.
“But that’s cake, my dear fellow!” cried Darling, in astonishment;
“that’s the very nicest thing there is!”
“I don’t know anything about it. It’s not fit for sensible dogs. If you
have a bone, I should like it. If not, leave me alone.”
Darling shook his head, but went back into the castle, looked into the
garbage pail, which he usually was not allowed to meddle with, and
found a big bone, which he dragged to the fence. “Here is a bone, since
you want it,” he said; “but I can’t understand how you can do anything
with this dry, hard thing.”
Rough-leg made no reply. He raked the bone out from under the fence
with his strong paws, broke it in two with one bite, cracked and
splintered it, and, in the shortest possible time, reduced it to very
small pieces and swallowed it. Darling watched the work of his new
friend’s powerful wolf jaws with mingled admiration and horror. When
the latter had finished, he turned toward the fence, licked Darling’s
muzzle with his big tongue, and muttered: “Thank you. You are a good
fellow.”
Darling’s heart leaped with joy. “Ah, if I could only get out to you!”
“Come, then,” answered Rough-leg.
“I dare not,” whined Darling, looking round anxiously for his servant
who, luckily for him, was just talking with one of the countess’s
coachmen, without noticing the pug placed in his care.
“Are you not ashamed to be such a timid fellow?” cried Rough-leg. “The
idea of a dog’s allowing himself to be forbidden a little run.” He
turned as if to go away.
“Don’t go,” called Darling. “I will try to slip out.”
He went cautiously to the gate, which was only ajar, and, seeing that
the servant was still talking, he ventured to steal out.
“Now run,” said Rough-leg, breaking into a long, swift trot. Darling
tried with all his might to keep up with him. But he could not do it.
After a few minutes he fell breathless on the ground and writhed there
panting and moaning. Rough-leg looked at him a moment scornfully, and
yet compassionately, seized him by the skin of the neck, and carried
him along in his mouth, as a mother dog does her puppies. It seemed to
give him no more trouble than if Darling had been a feather. He ran on
until the castle was entirely out of sight, then set him on the ground
and wagged his tail kindly.
“How good you are,” sighed Darling, who had recovered his breath while
in his friend’s mouth. But now the excitement brought on the itching
again, and he scratched piteously, yet without success, on account of
the cloth blanket and other things he had on his body.
“Booby,” growled Rough-leg, after watching him awhile.
He rushed upon Darling so violently that he frightened him and, with a
few bites, tore the fine blanket and collar from his body in ribbons,
broke the bracelet from his paw with one snap, and said, “There, now
you look like a decent dog again, and I need not be ashamed of being
seen in your company.”
Darling had never felt so comfortable since he could remember. He could
scratch himself to his heart’s content, and already the itching was
less because he was entirely undressed and the fresh air blew freely
all around him. Yet, glad as he was, he thought with a few pangs of
conscience of his old mistress, and murmured—“What will they say at the
castle?”
“You can go back there, if you repent,” replied Rough-leg, harshly,
moving as if he were going to trot along.
“Don’t go away,” Darling begged anxiously. “Don’t leave me alone, I
shall be lost without you.”
“Then hold your tongue, and come.”
It had grown dark. Rough-leg’s bones still ached from the beating he
had had, he was tired out, and he saw that his companion was exhausted.
So leading him to a hay-rick in a ploughed field, he said, “We’ll spend
the night here.” He dug out a hole in the hay, pushed the tender
Darling in, and lay down before him. Darling slept better than he had
ever done before. It was very different lying on the hay from being on
a velvet cushion in a curtained, closed apartment. He scarcely felt
even the pains in his limbs, because his friend had warmed him with his
big, strong body.
When he woke early in the morning, he felt like another dog. “You are a
wonderful fellow, Rough-leg,” he said, licking his long, rough muzzle
gratefully. “But I don’t know what ails me—I feel so queer around my
stomach—”
“You are hungry, simpleton, and so am I,” replied Rough-leg.
Hungry! That was a feeling which Darling had never known, or had
forgotten long ago. It gnawed very sharply, but it was far, far
pleasanter than the repugnance which his rich, costly food at the
castle had inspired.
“Where shall we find anything to eat?” asked Darling.
“You must go and look,” was the short answer. He snuffed a little
around the hay-rick, then suddenly made a spring and drew out of a
hidden sparrow’s nest a peeping young bird, which he killed with one
bite and tossed to the wondering Darling.
“There, eat it,” he cried, and himself devoured the rest of the brood,
which still remained in the nest.
Then the two went to a neighboring farm-house, and Rough-leg began to
rummage in the dung-heap.
Darling was just going to follow his example, when out rushed the house
dog, barking furiously, and threw himself on the pug, which with a cry
of terror, fell on the ground under the shock. In an instant Rough-leg
was by his side, and a fierce fight began, in which the farm dog was
soon beaten. Off he ran with bleeding ears and lips, howling piteously.
“You have saved my life,” groaned Darling, as they hurried out of the
yard.
“Nonsense!” said Rough-leg, but he ran his tongue tenderly over the
pug’s black face.
A new life, which he had never known before, began for Darling. He
could do just as he pleased, he was always in the open air, he trotted
until he was tired, and lay down to rest wherever he happened to be. He
often fared badly in regard to food. He had to take just what he could
get! in the best case boiled turnips some cow had dropped from her
trough; in the worst, bones picked up on some dung-heap. But this poor
and scanty living, from which he would formerly have turned aside with
loathing, seemed excellent, and even dainty, because he saw how much
Rough-leg enjoyed it. The two friends were often obliged to fight the
village curs; but this no longer frightened Darling, for he knew that
he could depend on Rough-leg. His health daily improved. His rheumatism
and the intolerable itching disappeared, he lost flesh, and, with the
extra flesh, his shortness of breath vanished; he could vie with
Rough-leg in running, and soon made such progress that, to his joyful
surprise, he could help a shepherd, who was driving a flock of sheep
over a cross-road, as well as his nimble Pomeranian, which could not
manage the work alone. The shepherd wanted to keep him, but this did
not suit Darling. “When I want to enter service, I will go back to my
mistress,” he said, and went off with Rough-leg. In the castle the
people were inconsolable over Darling’s disappearance, the servant who
had not watched him properly was dismissed at once, and the countess
advertised that she would pay a large reward to any one who returned
her pug. But no one brought him, because he was not recognized from the
description which mentioned his fine blanket, collar, and bracelet. But
Darling thought of the old countess, and Rough-leg of his dead master,
and, after about a fortnight, the pug said one morning, “Suppose we
should go and see how things are at the castle.”
“Very well,” Rough-leg answered, and the two trotted straight toward
the castle. They were obliged to run many hours before they reached it.
When they arrived, the gate stood open, and Darling walked boldly in.
The servants did not recognize him, for he was as slender and active as
a greyhound, and as dirty as a pig which had just come out of the mire.
But his eyes were bright, his nose was moist, and his bark was as loud
and long as the alarm bell in the steeple. They tried to drive him
away, but he rushed upstairs to the old countess’s room and scratched
at her door. When she heard the familiar sound, she uttered a cry of
joy, started up, and opened it as quick as she could. Darling jumped up
on her and, barking loudly in his delight, licked her face. But she
pushed him away in horror, for he smelled so badly and was so terribly
neglected. She called for perfume and a warm bath, but Darling ran
swiftly away. He would not have them any more, nor his fine clothes,
gingerbread, and velvet cushions.
Rough-leg was lying outside in the ditch, waiting to see whether his
rich friend would forget him or come back to him. In a few minutes
Darling returned. “Won’t you go into the castle with me?” he cried
joyously.
“Yes, so that they can break my limbs or chain me up,” growled
Rough-leg.
“They must kill me first,” answered Darling, urging him along.
At first the people in the courtyard wanted to ill-treat the ugly tramp
dog. But Darling covered him with his body, and they saw that he was
his friend. The case was reported to the countess, who looked out of
her window at the ugly, strong, strange dog; the affection her pug
showed him touched her, and she ordered the servants to let him stay
with Darling. The pug was obliged to allow himself to be thoroughly
cleaned, but he would not lead his former life. So he was permitted to
wander about the courtyard and high-road with Rough-leg, and only came
for a quarter of an hour every morning and evening to the countess,
who, however, could not bear his smell, and in spite of his caresses,
was glad when he went away again. Darling and Rough-leg always remained
the best of friends, and the former often said: “I, the insolent rich
dog, owe to you, the poor fellow, health and life. If the rich would
only always make the poor their friends!”
“It would be a good thing for both,” growled Rough-leg, in his deep
voice.
THE LITTLE GIRL WHO TRAVELLED IN THE BIG SHIP
Once upon a time a steamer was going from Hamburg to South America. The
ship was as large as a street of sixty houses. Hundreds of people were
in her: sailors and stokers, poor emigrants, and rich ladies and
gentlemen. Among them, too, was a little girl about five years old,
with the dearest little round face and two short braids. Her name was
Rieke, and she was the child of a young couple, who had not been very
well off at home in Mecklenburg, and were going to Argentina. The
father was sitting on a coil of rope in one corner of the ship, where
he was out of the way of the sailors moving to and fro, studying
Spanish, and the mother was busy nursing a very little sister of Rieke.
During the first two or three days after leaving the Elbe, Rieke stayed
with her mother. She did not yet feel at home on the ship, and was a
little afraid of the engines, the various things she had never seen
before, and all the strangers. Besides, she had been a little seasick,
and was obliged to keep quiet, that she might not be ill. When she felt
better and the cargo was stowed away, everything in order, and the
steamer far out in the open sea, she ventured to leave her mother’s
side and look about on board.
Climbing carefully up the iron stairs, she reached the deck. In the
bow, that is, at the front end, she stood still and let her bright blue
eyes wander curiously from the water to the sky, and from the masts to
the wheel. The sailors did not trouble themselves about her, for they
had other things to do. Only one old man suddenly noticed her, fixed
his eyes sharply upon her, and cried, “Hello, little girl, what are you
doing here?”
“I am travelling, and this is my ship,” she answered fearlessly.
The man burst into a loud laugh, slapped his thigh with the palm of his
hand till it smacked, and cried over and over again: “Just look at the
Hop-o’-my-Thumb! Such a little girl needs such a big ship to travel
in!”
Then, taking her by the arm, he led her to the foremast to measure her.
Rieke did not even reach to the iron ring which surrounds it near the
foot. She was no taller than the leg of a riding-boot.
“It’s enough to make one laugh till one is crooked,” said the old
sailor. And the mast, which had looked on, really began to laugh itself
crooked and rocked to and fro, creaking and groaning, and the flag
which waved at the top, that is, at the masthead, also shook with
merriment, and both of them, in their rustling, squeaking language,
told the wheel about the little girl who was travelling in the big
ship. The wheel laughed till it turned and rolled so that two steersmen
could hardly keep it steady, and it told the news to the davits,—the
curved iron rods from which the life-boats hang over the edge of the
ship,—and the davits told the boats which they carried, and the boats
told the fat, merry porpoises which were swimming beside the ship to
snap up any scraps, and the porpoises gossiped about it, and so it was
talked over far and wide in the sea, till the merman and his daughters
heard of it too; and they were all curious to see the funny little girl
who was travelling in the big ship. But they had to wail till night,
for so long as it is light, they cannot come up, because they don’t
wish to be seen by grown people. They don’t mind children.
Meantime, little Rieke had no idea that there was so much talking about
her on the ship, in the air, and in the water. So she left the old
sailor, who laughed heartily as he looked after her, to continue her
voyage of discovery on board. She gazed in astonishment at the
smoke-stacks, which looked as wide and as high as towers; she peeped
timidly down the engine shaft, where huge steel rods were moving
noisily up and down; glanced at the bridge, and at last reached a
staircase in the middle of the ship—a staircase with a costly carpet,
and shining gilt railings on both sides.
Rieke hesitated a moment, then she boldly went down the steps and into
a large room, more beautiful than any she had ever seen in all her
life. Mirrors and pictures hung on the walls; a thick carpet, into
which the feet sank as if it were soft moss, covered the floor. Ladies
and gentlemen were sitting in easy chairs or on sofas talking together,
or reading books and newspapers. Rieke was standing near the door,
gazing at all the splendid things she had never seen before, when a man
in uniform, apparently a servant, came up and asked roughly, “Whom do
you want here?”
“Nobody,” replied Rieke, shyly.
“Then be off. No one is allowed here except the first-cabin
passengers.” The man saw very plainly that the little girl was not
travelling first-class, for she wore poor, shabby, though clean,
clothes.
Rieke did not instantly understand what the cross servant wanted her to
do, so she made no movement to leave the cabin. The rough man seized
her rudely by the arm to lead her out. Rieke was not used to such
treatment; for she was so pretty and gentle and polite that people were
always kind to her. She began to cry, and said, “Let me go, you hurt
me.”
An elderly lady, sitting on the sofa, had seen all that had happened,
and called to the child, “Come to me, little one.”
Now the servant had to release her. Rieke went to the lady, who patted
her fair little head, wiped her eyes and cheeks with a fine lace
handkerchief, and questioned her about her home and her parents. Rieke
was not at all shy, but answered plainly and sensibly. Other passengers
came up, and, pleased with the brightness of the beautiful child, they
all wanted to talk with and pet her. Among them was an Argentine
landowner, who was going home with his wife. Their only child had died,
and they went to Europe to try to escape from their sad thoughts.
“It is strange,” said the gentleman to his wife, who wore deep
mourning, “that poor people have such beautiful, healthy children, and
we rich ones such delicate, frail darlings, whom we cannot bring up.”
The lady in mourning made no answer, but she thought of her dead child,
her eyes filled with tears, and, drawing the little one to her side,
she kissed her again and again.
An hour passed. Rieke’s parents became anxious because she did not come
back, and her father went to look for her. He asked here and there if
any one had seen her, and, after many questions, he found out that she
was in the first cabin. He knew that a poor steerage passenger, like
himself, would not be allowed to enter it, so he asked a sailor to
bring his little girl. The sailor told the cross servant, and the cross
servant went into the cabin and said to Rieke, “You must come to your
father, he is waiting for you outside.”
“Oh, what a pity!” murmured the old lady who had first noticed the
child.
“Come back again very soon, directly after dinner,” added the lady in
mourning.
“The little girl mustn’t come in; it is strictly forbidden,” answered
the servant, sharply. His words caused a great uproar, especially among
the ladies. “We won’t allow it!” cried one. “We will have the child
here!” exclaimed a second. “Three weeks without a single child is far
too long,” said a third.
“Then you must go into the steerage, or speak to the captain,” replied
the man, trying to lead Rieke away.
“Let her go,” said the Argentine landowner, and, taking Rieke by the
hand, he went upstairs where her father was waiting. He wanted to see
him. He found a respectably-dressed young man who pleased him at once.
Entering into conversation with him, he perceived that he had to deal
with a modest, sensible, well-educated person.
“What are you?” he asked.
“I am a farmer.”
“And what do you want to do in Argentina?”
“I shall look for a position as manager of an estate. If I prosper, and
make a little money, I shall perhaps later buy or lease a farm of my
own.”
“That’s the very thing,” said the landowner. “I want a capable manager,
and I prefer a German. If you suit me, you can do well in my employ.”
The little girl’s father gladly accepted the offer. It relieved him
from all anxiety, especially as the Argentine gentleman promised a
larger salary than he had hoped to receive, and proposed to have a
written agreement made at once. He wanted to hurry off to his wife to
tell her the good news, but the landowner stopped him.
“One thing more. My wife wants to have your little girl with her while
we are on the ship. But we do not wish to separate her from her
parents. So you must all move over to us. You will permit me to make
your little Rieke a present of the necessary tickets?”
The change was quietly arranged with the captain, the little girl’s
parents were moved to a largo, airy stateroom, with a round window
looking out upon the sea, and at dinner sat like princes at the
first-cabin table, Rieke beside the lady in mourning, who put the
daintiest morsels on her plate and gave her almost too much, so that
her mother was obliged to watch carefully, that she might not be made
ill.
After dinner all the passengers amused themselves with the child, who
went from one to the other, talking with everybody whose language she
understood. Among them was the head of a museum of ethnology, who had
come to Europe to buy curiosities for his collections. He invited the
whole company into his stateroom to show them his treasures. He
explained the weapons, utensils, and ornaments of the ancient and
modern peoples; but modestly confessed that he also had many things
whose use he did not know. Taking up an oddly shaped bit of ivory,
covered with carved lines, he said: “Look, I don’t know what this is.
Probably it may be a porridge spoon; but perhaps it is the badge of
some unknown rank.”
Rieke began to laugh, exclaiming, “Why, that’s a shoe-horn.”
“A shoe-horn?” replied the scholar in astonishment. “That is
impossible. The people who made this article probably wore no shoes.”
“But it is a shoe-horn,” Rieke persisted, and the ladies all agreed
with her. The director, shaking his head, examined the article again
very carefully, and saw in one corner a drawing which he had not
noticed before. It represented a savage, with feathers in his hair and
shoes on his feet, which probably could not have been put on without
the help of a horn.
“You are right, little one,” he said. “And since you are so clever,
perhaps you can tell me what this one is, too.” He gave her, with a
smile, a wooden object which looked like an ordinary cross.
“That’s a cross,” remarked a passenger, who was standing near.
“It can’t be,” replied the scientist, “for it is a thousand years older
than Christianity.”
Rieke took the mysterious article in her hand, looked at it a moment,
and said:—
“That is a winder.”
“What is a winder?”
“Don’t you know? It’s the cross people wind yarn on to make a ball.
Else how can you knit?”
“Be polite,” her mother said; but the scholar cried joyfully, “Never
mind, the child is perfectly right to laugh at me a little because I am
so ignorant.” And, turning to Rieke, he added, “I thank you, little
girl; I have learned from you gladly.”
After supper Rieke and her parents went back to their stateroom, where
it was so much more pleasant than in the steerage. As the sea was calm,
and the weather warm, Rieke’s mother let her open the little round
window and put out her head. As soon as her face appeared, a voice
outside called, “There is the little girl who travels in the big ship.”
She looked around curiously, and saw the merman with his long beard
calling his daughters out of the water, that they might see the little
girl, too. Three, four, five girls’ heads appeared, shaking back long,
wet, green hair; their hands came above the surface of the sea, too,
and clapped, and the mermaids cried, “Look at the pretty little girl
who travels in the big ship.”
“We’ll give her something,” said the merman.
“Yes, yes, yes,” screamed the mermaids, diving down so quickly that the
water gurgled. The next minute they were back again, and handed their
father all sorts of things, which he passed up to the window on the
forked end of a long piece of coral.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “take them for a keepsake from my
daughters. They were once little girls like you.”
The first one gave her a mother-of-pearl shell, the second a branch of
red coral, the third a pearl, the fourth a long, curved narwhale tooth,
and the fifth a soft, wet, shapeless thing, which at first she did not
want to touch. But the merman pushed it quickly through the window with
his coral staff; then there was loud laughing outside by many voices,
after which all became still, and nothing more was heard of the merman
and his daughters.
Rieke’s father pulled the wet thing into the window, and, looking at
it, saw that it was the rolled-up skin of some unknown creature. He
opened it, and was astonished at its great length and width. It had
queer green and black spots, long spines on the back, a red crest on
the neck, and the head ended in a snout like a turtle’s. He rolled it
up again, intending to show it to his fellow-passengers.
The next day, when they heard that the merman had talked with the
little girl the night before and given her all sorts of beautiful
things, everybody wanted to see the presents. The ladies particularly
admired the pearl, but when the snakeskin was unrolled, a young man
fairly leaped into the air, exclaiming:—
“The sea-serpent! The famous sea-serpent, in which people would not
believe. Now we have it! Hurrah! We have the sea-serpent!” This young
man was a naturalist, on his way to South America to try to make some
discovery in the vast forests. He wanted to become a professor, so that
he could marry a young girl, whose father would not give his consent
because the lover was not a famous man, and had neither office nor
title. The young naturalist told Rieke’s father this, and begged him to
sell him the sea-serpent’s skin. For if he could describe and make a
picture of it, and have a book published about it, he would become
famous at once, and would certainly be a professor, and could marry the
girl to whom he was engaged.
“Take the serpent’s skin,” said Rieke’s father; “I will give it to you,
and may it bring you good fortune.”
The young man insisted upon paying for it, until Rieke’s father grew
almost angry. “I will not sell the skin for money. Every one ought to
help his neighbor as he can.”
The young man already saw himself sure to win his bride, and could not
keep his happiness secret. He told every one of the change in his fate,
and what he owed the little girl who was travelling with them. A
gentleman who had been very silent and did not join the others, drew
Rieke to his side, smoothed her fair hair, and said:—
“Tell me, what shall I do to get a little girl just like you?”
“Haven’t you any?” answered Rieke.
“No,” said the gentleman.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not married.”
“Well, then, get married,” cried Rieke, so loud that everybody heard
her and began to laugh.
“Yes, but whom shall I marry?”
Rieke looked around, pointed to a young lady sitting modestly in a
corner, and said: “Marry her. She is beautiful and good.”
The young lady blushed, the passengers laughed, and the gentleman went
up to her and begged her pardon for having unintentionally embarrassed
her. In this way they became acquainted. It turned out that the
gentleman was a very rich man who had nothing to do, and did not know
how to dispose of all his money, so he went travelling over the world
to pass away the time. The young lady was an orphan, going to an aunt
in Brazil, so that she might not have to live alone. When they had
talked together, and become better acquainted, they liked each other,
and, three days later, the gentleman called the little girl and said:
“Well, Rieke, I have taken your advice. I am going to marry the
beautiful, good young lady.” Rieke ran joyfully to her parents and told
them the news, so everybody heard of the engagement, in whose honor the
gentleman gave the sailors a great feast, with singing and dancing, so
that pleasure reigned through the steamer, and people said, “It’s very
plain that there is a little girl travelling on the big ship.”
The elderly lady who had first taken little Rieke’s part when the cross
servant tried to put her out of the cabin continued to be her best
friend, and wanted to have her always near, so that the lady in
mourning really grew jealous and said very seriously: “You must let me
have the little girl part of the time. Her company consoles me a little
for the child I have lost.”
“I have lost my only child, too,” replied the old lady, sadly.
The wife of the Argentine landowner wished to hear about it, but at
first the other would not speak freely. At last, however, she was
persuaded to tell the whole story. She had an only child, a grown
daughter. And she had lost her, but not by death. The daughter had
married, against her mother’s will, a man whom she did not want for a
son-in-law. In punishment for such disobedience, she would have nothing
more to do with her, and told every one that she no longer had a child.
But she knew very well that this was not right, and she secretly longed
for her only daughter, whom she had treated so harshly. True, she would
receive no letters from her nor hear anything else about her, yet she
had learned that she had a little girl with fair hair and blue eyes.
The child must now be just about Rieke’s age, and doubtless quite as
pretty and amusing. The old lady could not help thinking constantly
about this grandchild, when Rieke was playing by her side and talking
with her, and whenever she embraced and kissed the child, which she did
very often, she fancied she clasped her own little grandchild in her
arms.
When the lady in black had heard this story, she urged her to forgive
her daughter at once; and Rieke, who had heard everything that was
said, and understood most of it, exclaimed at the same time: “Yes, yes,
you must forgive your daughter and let your grandchild come here. I
want to see her and play with her. I’ll give her something, too,—my
shell, or my pearl, or my coral, or whatever she wants. Only not my
narwhale tooth. I suppose that’s too big for her.”
Tears filled the old lady’s eyes, and, clasping Rieke in her arms, she
said: “You are right, dear. I will do what you ask.”
“But this very minute!” said Rieke.
“That cannot be,” replied the lady, smiling through her tears, “but as
soon as we land.”
Rieke was satisfied, and the lady in mourning congratulated the old
lady because she would now find her lost daughter and have a dear
little grandchild, too. The story of the mother’s forgiveness of her
only daughter became known among the passengers, and the gentleman who
was engaged to the orphan said: “Rieke, you are surely the angel of
peace. Suppose you try to make peace for some one else.”
“Whom?” asked the child.
“Do you see those two gentlemen over there, one in the right corner and
the other in the left?”
Rieke looked and answered, “Yes.” She had known them a long time, and
had noticed that they never spoke to each other, never went near each
other, and always managed to have the whole length or width of the
cabin between them.
“Well, those two gentlemen are the presidents of two South American
republics.”
“What is that?” asked Rieke.
“It would take too much time to explain it,” said the gentleman. “The
countries of those two presidents have been enemies a long while, many
years, and people say that they want to make war on each other. Then a
great many men will be wounded and killed.”
“Little girls, too?” asked Rieke, in terror.
“Little girls, too,” replied the gentleman. “So go and beg the two
presidents not to make war, but be friends with each other.”
Rieke did not wait to be asked twice. She went to the younger one, who
looked more good-natured and had smiled at her once, and told him how
terrible it would be to wound and kill people, especially little girls,
and he ought not to make war. Rieke spoke German, and the gentleman
understood nothing but Spanish, so he listened, smiling, and asked his
neighbors what the pretty child wanted. An interpreter was at once
found, who faithfully translated the little girl’s words. Then the
gentleman patted Rieke’s cheeks, saying, “Tell all that to my colleague
over there.”
Rieke seized the president’s hand and, though at first he resisted, she
drew him with her to the other corner, and repeated to the second
gentleman her entreaty for peace. The second gentleman was old, and
looked gloomy. At first he frowned when the little girl’s words were
repeated to him. But as the first gentleman had bowed politely when he
came up, he was obliged to return it, and Rieke would not go until she
had received some kind of a reply. The eyes of all the passengers were
fixed upon him, and unless he wanted them to take him for a very rude
fellow, he could do nothing except stroke Rieke’s hair, too, and say
with rather a sour smile, “Little girls don’t understand such things.”
“Yes, yes,” Rieke persisted, taking hold of the gloomy man’s hand and
putting it into the other president’s. The two began to talk together,
at first stiffly, then more and more cordially, and, after some time,
they both went to the older one’s stateroom. From that hour they were a
great deal in each other’s company, sat side by side at table, and
after several days the good news spread through the steamer that the
two presidents had become friends, and there would be no war between
their countries. The captain ordered a salute to be fired in honor of
the event, the crew had another feast and more presents, and everybody
on board, both passengers and sailors, perceived that the little girl
was the most important person on the big ship.
The carpenters hammered and carved for the little girl in the big ship
a small ship with a big girl in it, and when, a few days after, the
steamer reached South America, they gave it to her for a remembrance of
her first sea voyage, on which she had won the good-will of the merman
and his daughters, obtained a good place for her father, explained to
the director of a museum the use of his ancient things, helped a
scholar to secure fame, a professorship, and a wife, aided an old
bachelor to become engaged to a beautiful orphan girl, persuaded a
mother to forgive her daughter, and made peace between two hostile
countries. Was not that a voyage well worth remembering?
THE NAUGHTY BROTHER AND THE CLEVER SISTER
Once upon a time there were two children, a little boy and a little
girl, who belonged to poor people, a locksmith, who worked in a
machine-shop, and his wife, who attended to her housekeeping and took
in washing. The father was never at home, except on Sundays and
holidays, and the mother had too much to do to look after the children.
So they were usually left to themselves, and grew up like nettles on a
refuse heap. The boy was wild and careless, and would not do as he was
told. He wandered far outside of the city, and did not come home at
meal times. He climbed trees and tore his trousers. He joined street
urchins, fought with them, and came back with his nose bleeding and his
body covered with black-and-blue spots. Who knows what might have
happened to him, how often village curs would have bitten him, gypsies
stolen him, or automobiles run over him, if he had not had his little
sister.
True, she was a year younger than he, but she was far more sensible,
always stayed with him, and prevented him from doing too much mischief.
As he loved her dearly, he usually obeyed her, though not always, and
thus was saved from worse injuries.
One summer day the brother again invited his little sister to ramble
with him through the fields and woods. The little sister did not want
to go, because their mother had forbidden them to stray far from home.
“Well, if you won’t come with me, I’ll go alone,” said the sly fox,
pretending to set off. He knew very well that she would not let him.
“You are a regular ne’er-do-weel,” she replied, but she went with him.
They walked gayly along, soon left the city behind them and were on the
high-road, among farms and hedges, running in the meadows through the
tall grass and clover, picking cherries, gathering flowers, and
catching white and blue butterflies. So, still playing and walking
happily on, they reached a wood, passed through it, and at last came to
the bank of a rushing river, where they could walk no farther.
“Now we will turn back,” said the little sister.
“No,” replied the brother; “it is too beautiful here.” He took his
little sister by the hand, and drew her along by the water. At a bend
in the shore he suddenly saw a little boat, tied to an old willow.
Shouting with delight, he instantly sprang into the skiff, which began
to rock dangerously.
“You must get out at once,” screamed the little girl in terror.
“I’ve no idea of it,” replied the rascal; “it rocks so gloriously that
I feel like a bird in the air. Jump in quick, little sister, we will
have a row.”
“I won’t do it,” said the little girl; “the boat doesn’t belong to us.
If the owner catches you, he will box your ears. And mother always
forbids us to go on the water.”
“Mother won’t see; come with me, come,” said the naughty boy, untying
the boat. Unless the little sister wanted to stay alone on the bank,
she was obliged to follow him, whether she liked it or not.
She timidly put first one foot and then the other in the boat,
trembling a little as it rocked. Her brother laughed at her, pulled her
down on the seat, and pushed the oar against the shore. The skiff moved
off, at first slowly, then faster and faster. Before the children were
aware of it, they were in the middle of the river, where the current
was the strongest, shooting along with the utmost speed. The banks
fairly flew past them. Each bend in the stream showed them new
pictures: at first flowery meadows, then dark woods, finally lofty
mountains, which constantly drew nearer together and cast gloomier
shadows over the surface of the water. The stream flowed with
tremendous force through a narrow ravine between high cliffs, its waves
dashing against the rocks with a thundering roar.
“It frightens me,” said the little sister, softly.
“I’m not afraid,” replied the brother; “it is so wild here, and the
water sings so merrily.”
“But where are we going?” asked the little sister.
“I don’t know, and that’s just the beautiful part of it,” the boy
answered; “we will shut our eyes and let ourselves go—we shall land
somewhere.”
The little girl did so, for she was afraid of the mountains, towering
so close at hand, and the raging river. Again the stream curved sharply
around a projecting cliff, and both brother and sister screamed with
fright. They had felt a violent shock, and were flung headlong into the
bottom of the boat.
Opening their eyes quickly, they saw that an invisible power had jerked
their boat out of the water and was lifting it high in the air. They
raised themselves as well as they could, and now saw that the boat was
in a huge net as thick as one’s arm, hanging from a pole as big as a
tree. This pole was held by a terrible giant, who sat on the top of one
of the high, steep cliffs that lined the shore, dangling legs ten times
as long as a man’s. In a trice the net was drawn up and thrown on the
rock so roughly that every seam in the boat creaked. A hand so large
that there was plenty of room in the palm for the little skiff reached
in for it, disentangled it from the confusion of meshes, and held it
before two eyes as big as cart wheels. A mouth like a barn-door opened,
and a voice which echoed through the river valley like thunder said: “A
good catch at last! My old woman will be pleased with it.” The hand
closed around the boat, and the two children saw between the fingers,
as if looking through the chinks in the rafters of a steeple, that the
giant rose, shouldered his net, and began to walk away. His head
towered above the tallest trees, and his walk was faster than the
swiftest railroad train.
The brother was half dead with fright, he howled at the top of his
lungs and stammered almost unintelligibly: “Oh, dear! Oh, dear! It’s
all over with us.”
The little sister, too, did not feel very comfortable; but she kept up
her courage and reproached her brother for his useless whining. “You
have brought us into the scrape,” she said, “now at least keep quiet.
Perhaps all giants do not eat human beings.”
“Why did he fish us out of the water, unless he meant to eat us?”
wailed the boy.
“He is carrying us home to his wife,” said the little sister,
soothingly; “we will beg the giantess very prettily to let us go home
to our mother. I don’t believe a woman would do children any harm, even
if she is a giantess.”
The brother was only half comforted; he nestled close to his sister,
threw both arms around her neck, and sobbed: “Oh, little sister, help
just this time. I will never be naughty again.”
It was not long before the giant reached his house, built on a high,
wooded mountain, and larger than the largest church that the children
had ever seen. Before the door stood the giantess, smiling at her
husband.
“I’m bringing you something!” he shouted in his thundering voice, while
still at a long distance, waving the hand that held the boat to and fro
before his face, till the children grew dizzy.
“What can it be?” asked the giantess, curiously, and went quickly into
the sitting room.
The giant followed her, set the boat on the table, took the boy between
his thumb and forefinger, and held him up before his wife’s face: “Just
look at this little Hop-o’-my-Thumb! He was floating along very happily
with this other pygmy on our water, in a little nutshell, and I fished
out the whole cargo of food.”
The boy struggled with all his might in the fingers that held him,
roared as if he were being put on the spit, and twisted his face into
such ugly shapes that his little sister cried out, “Don’t behave so,
little brother, the master and mistress are not eating you yet.”
“Not yet, little Miss Pert, not yet,” said the giant, and began to
laugh loudly.
The giantess took the struggling boy out of his hand, put him on the
table, where he again fell on his little sister’s neck and hid his face
in her bosom, and scrutinized the little pair. Her eyes, in spite of
their size, looked kind, and her face was mild and gentle, which the
little sister noticed very plainly. The giantess had no children
herself, and her heart grew soft when she saw these two little human
creatures so near her.
“I haven’t tasted any human flesh for a long time,” cried the giant.
“Prepare the little ones for my supper. I’ll have them baked.”
“No,” replied the giantess, quickly, covering the children with her
hand. “They are too small. Both wouldn’t make you a mouthful. We must
fatten them first. We have four roebucks for to-night, besides two
pecks of potatoes and a hundred weight of cherries. Let me have the
children awhile for playthings.”
“Well, for aught I care,” growled the giant, and went out to put away
his fishing tackle.
The giantess, when she was left alone with the children, sat down
before the table, looked at the two a long time in silence, then as the
boy was the larger, leaned nearer to him, and said in a voice which she
tried to make very gentle: “Don’t be frightened, little mouse. I will
do you no harm if you are very good and sensible. Will you be?”
“Oh, Lady Giantess,” replied the boy, whining, and trembling from head
to foot, “I’ll do my best. But my sister is much nicer and more
sensible than I am.”
“Is this true, little one?” asked the giantess.
“We ought not to praise ourselves, Lady Giantess,” answered the little
sister, making a pretty courtesy.
The reply and the little girl’s manner greatly pleased the giantess.
She smiled and said: “We will see presently which of you two is the
smarter. I will ask you three questions, and if you answer them
correctly, you shall have your liberty.”
The little sister clapped her hands, and, taking one of the huge
fingers of the kind giantess, pressed a kiss on the tip. True, it
seemed as if she had kissed the end of a log, but it pleased the
giantess.
“Now pay attention,” she said. “You too, boy. Why do we eat fruit for
dessert, and not at the beginning of the meal?”
“Because fruit is so good,” replied the brother, quickly.
The giantess shook her head. “The fruit is just as good at the
beginning of the meal as it is at dessert. A bad answer. Do you know
any better, little one?”
The little sister nodded, saying, “Because we could eat nothing more if
the fruit did not give us fresh appetite.”
“There’s something in that,” said the giantess. “So go on. Why is there
a cock instead of a hen on the top of the church steeple?”
“Because the cock is bigger,” replied the boy, “so it can be seen
better.”
The giantess shook her head again. “The hen can be made as large as we
desire. A bad answer. Do you know a better one, little girl?”
The little sister said without hesitation: “A hen cannot be on the top
of the steeple. If she lays eggs, they would fall down, and be broken
into a thousand pieces.”
“Rather good,” said the giantess. “Now for the third question. Collect
your thoughts, boy. Why do women have long hair and men short, or none
at all?”
“I needn’t collect my thoughts much for that,” replied the boy, boldly;
“because the men have their hair cut, and the women don’t.”
The giantess shook her head for the third time. “You would have done
wisely to think the matter over. Why do not women have their hair cut?
That is just the question. You have answered badly. We will see whether
your sister can do better.”
The little sister remembered an exclamation which she had often heard
from her sorely tried mother, and said precociously, “Women must have
long hair so that they can tear it out when the men commit follies.”
The giantess burst into a loud laugh, ran to her husband, called him
in, and told the little girl to repeat her answer. The little sister
did so bravely, and now the giant laughed, too, till he had to hold his
sides. “A woman will be a woman,” he shouted, “whether she is as small
as a mouse or as big as a house.”
When the kind giantess saw that her husband was in a good humor, she
said, “We will let the little ones go; there is really nothing to them
yet.”
“I caught them for you; do what you please with them,” replied the
giant, shrugging his shoulders, and he went back to his work.
He had scarcely left the room when the giantess took the brother and
little sister by the hand, went quickly out of the house and into the
wood with them, and when she had reached the foot of the mountain she
put them on the ground, saying: “Get away before my husband changes his
mind. And since you are such a clever child, little girl, I will give
you something.”
Drawing out of her pocket a small silk purse, she handed it to the
little sister. “Take this, and keep it carefully. Whenever you have a
clever idea, you will find a gold piece in it. I think you will be a
rich girl.”
The little sister wanted to thank her, but the giantess hurried off
with her huge strides and was out of sight in an instant.
The children were now free; that was certainly delightful, but they
were all alone in the deep forest, saw no path, and did not know where
they were or which way they ought to go. The brother sat down in the
moss, and again began to weep bitterly. “Oh, dear, little sister, what
is to become of us! How shall we ever get home to mother!”
The little sister sat down by his side and tried to encourage him; but
she herself was on the point of crying, and was wondering whether the
wolves might not eat them, now that they had so fortunately escaped
from the giants.
Just at this moment she saw a stork flying high above them. “Stork!
Hey! Stork!” she called as loud as she could, started up, and beckoned
with all her might. An idea had flashed through her brain. At the same
moment she felt something hard in the soft little purse which she held
in her hand. She opened it, a glittering gold coin shone before her. So
she had had a good idea.
The stork flew slowly down, alighted on the bough of a neighboring
tree, and clapped: “What is it? What do you want?”
“Stork,” said the little sister, “you have already brought us to our
mother once. Take us to her again. We are lost and cannot find our way
home.”
“We never take a child to its mother twice,” clattered the bird,
preparing to fly away.
“But surely you will not leave us here to die,” screamed the little
sister in terror. “Please, please, be kind, we will love, you very,
very dearly.”
The stork reflected, as is its custom, then it said: “You are too heavy
for me. I’ll bring a companion.”
Off it flew with the speed of an arrow, but in a few minutes the
children heard a great rustling in the air, and saw seven storks, which
swooped straight down to them. Four seized the brother by the arms and
legs, three took the little sister by the sleeves and belt, and away
they went, up and down, through the blue air, over forest, and field,
mountain and valley, so swiftly that the children closed their eyes,
that they might not grow dizzy. This lasted for some time; the children
did not know how long, then suddenly there was a crashing, a fall, a
rushing noise. They opened their eyes quickly and found themselves
lying in their mother’s bed, while the storks were soaring out of the
open window.
Their mother, who had been very anxious about them, screamed with joy
when she saw them, and forgot to punish them as she had intended when
they did not come home to dinner. She forgave them fully when the
little girl told her about the giants and showed her the giantess’s
costly gift, and the gold piece which had rewarded her first bright
idea.
“Now we shall be rich,” said the boy, who admired his little sister
more than ever; “you will have lots of good ideas every day.”
“I think so, too,” replied the little sister, with a touch of conceit.
She now devoted herself to finding good ideas. She made all sorts of
smart, affected speeches, which seemed to her very clever; and whenever
she thought she had said something extremely bright, she secretly felt
for the little silk purse in her pocket. Only, to her surprise and
anger, she found no gold piece there, and she consoled herself by
thinking that the giantess had fooled her. Yet she had once found a
gold piece in the purse, so it could not be a mere hoax on the part of
the giantess. She thought about the matter a long time, and suddenly
the idea darted through her head, “What if all the smart sayings, of
which I have been so vain, were not clever ideas at all, but stupid
nonsense?”
At the same moment she felt something hard in her pocket, opened the
purse with a trembling hand, and there was another beautiful glittering
gold piece. So this was her first good idea since the one with the
stork. From this she learned to be modest and natural, no longer
struggled to force herself to think up bright ideas, which, however,
now came of themselves,—sometimes many, sometimes only a few,—but
always some, so she never lacked shining gold coins; and her father no
longer had to go to the machine-shop, but could build a factory of his
own; and her mother no longer needed to take in washing; and her
brother became a fine, well-educated young fellow, and they were all
happy and remained so as long as they lived.
THE MASTER
Once upon a time there was a little girl whose name was Maxa. She was a
pretty child, always happy, and very inquisitive. The word which people
heard Maxa say more often than any other was “Why?” She wanted to know
where everything came from, and who made everything,—the flowers, the
birds, the golden beetles, and the gay butterflies. When she saw a
violet on which a ladybug rested, or a rose-bush with a butterfly
fluttering about it, she exclaimed, “Oh, if I could only make something
like that!” But her mother said, “Human beings cannot make such
things.”
One spring day, Maxa was playing in the garden alone. She drove her
hoop to the fence that separated it from the next meadow. There she
suddenly saw a man sitting on a little folding stool, with his back
against the fence. Before him was an easel, supporting an unframed
canvas on which he was painting. She did not feel afraid, for she was
in the garden and he in the meadow, with a thick hedge between them;
and, besides, he did not notice her or trouble himself about her. So
she stood still, rested the hoop against the fence, kept as quiet as a
little mouse, and watched. The meadow was very large and rather marshy,
with a low, white wall at the far end. Neither man nor beast was
visible, and buttercups were almost the only flower that covered the
brown earth. The canvas before the artist was still blank. He was just
preparing to paint the sky. Under his brush appeared a beautiful
expanse of blue, on which floated several fleecy white clouds.
“Oh,” thought Maxa, “that isn’t right. The sky is perfectly clear.” And
she looked up to compare them. But behold—the heavens, which had just
been cloudless, now showed here and there a few thin cloudlets, just as
the artist had painted them.
He worked on industriously with his nimble brush. Maxa saw the meadow
appear, but at its end in the picture, instead of the white wall, there
was a green river, from which the sunshine was reflected. She glanced
quickly in that direction—what did it mean? The well-known white wall
had vanished, and in its place flowed a stream which she had never seen
there.
The little girl wondered and watched even more eagerly than before. Now
the man was painting a row of tall poplar trees along the river bank.
Yes, there in the distance rose the poplars. He scattered over his
canvas red and blue flowers which she had never seen. A swift glance at
the meadow showed her that everywhere, among the yellow buttercups, the
strange blue and red flowers had sprung in great numbers from the brown
earth. Maxa watched still more closely, and when the artist painted in
one corner of his canvas a flock of shining sheep and lambs, in whose
midst was a shepherd with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a
black dog with a white head, and in the meadow also appeared a shepherd
with a broad-brimmed hat and long staff, and a lively dog with a flock
of sheep and lambs, she could contain herself no longer, and cried out,
“Why, everything you paint grows out of the earth!”
The artist turned quickly and looked at her. She wanted to run away,
but she could not do it. She was forced to stay; she did not know why.
Maxa had already noticed that he wore long hair. Now she saw that he
had a long beard, and blue eyes which sparkled like the brightest stars
at night.
“What! Do you see that everything I paint grows out of the earth?” he
asked.
“Of course I see it. Why shouldn’t I?” replied Maxa.
“Then you are a Sunday child,” said the artist.
“So I am,” Maxa answered. She knew this, for her mother had often told
her that the stork had brought her one Sunday afternoon.
“Yes, yes,” the artist murmured, his eyes resting kindly on the
beautiful little girl. “Sunday children see what forever remains
invisible to others.”
“And you,” asked Maxa, who had grown familiar,—“what are you?”
“I am an artist.”
“What is an artist? A painter?”
He laughed. “Not every artist is a painter, and not every painter is an
artist. I am an artist who paints.”
“But you don’t merely paint—you make a river, and trees, and little
white lambs, and even a shepherd with a hat and cane and a dog. Is all
this real, too?”
“It is real, since you see it.”
“Then you are the one who makes the flowers and the birds, the golden
beetles and the butterflies?”
“I am not the only one who makes them, but I make them too. The artist
makes whatever he wishes, and what he makes is really there, whether it
is things or flowers, animals or human beings.”
“And do they live?”
“They live if there is anything living in them, and they live much
longer than what nature has created, and always remain as young and
beautiful as the artist has formed them.”
Then Maxa clapped her hands, crying: “Oh, if I could only make them
too! Won’t you teach me, dear artist?”
The man with the long beard looked thoughtfully at her a little while
with his sparkling blue eyes, then he said: “Every one cannot learn.
But you are a Sunday child, and you have bright eyes. Perhaps I can
teach you. Come, child, we will go to your mother, and ask if she will
allow you.”
“But how can you get over the hedge? It is so thick, and it pricks so
terribly.”
“Don’t be troubled,” replied the artist, as he rose from his stool and
waved his hand. The hedge parted and let him pass through; his stool,
easel, and paint-box followed like dogs, and when they were all in the
garden, the hedge closed again. So they went to the house together,—the
tall man walking in front with the little girl, the easel striding
stiffly along on its three legs, the folding-chair hobbling before, and
the paint-box jumping in short hops like a toad. On the way the
thrushes, wrens, and blackbirds, whose nests were in the garden, flew
about them, singing a joyous greeting to the artist, which he answered
with a friendly nod, and the acacias and horse-chestnuts scattered
blossoms on his long hair as he passed under their boughs. The cat,
however, which was sunning herself on the door-step, ran hastily away.
She knew nothing about art, and was afraid of the easel, and
folding-chair, and paint-box, which she thought were hostile animals.
The little girl ran on before and told her mother about the stranger,
as well as the easel, folding-chair, and paint-box, which had come
shambling and hopping with them. But the artist left them all outside,
and went in alone. He told the mother that her little daughter wanted
to learn to paint; she seemed to have the right eyes for it, and she
was a Sunday child, too, so she would probably succeed. He was ready to
teach her until she knew as much as he did. Her mother did not object,
only there must be no expense. The artist relieved her economical mind
on that score, and it was settled that Maxa should become his pupil.
“Where will you have your studio?” the mother asked.
“Wherever you wish,” replied the artist; “in your garden.”
“In the open air, then?”
“No. If you will allow it, I’ll build a little house.”
The mother looked troubled. “H’m,” she said, “that will take months,
and all the masons, carpenters, and locksmiths, with their noise and
dirt.”
“Nothing of the sort,” interrupted the painter. “Don’t be afraid of
either dirt or disorder. Everything will be finished in an hour, and I
can invite you to inspect the building.”
The artist went away, and Maxa followed him. She wanted to know how he
would manage to build a house in an hour.
He found a sunny, grass-grown spot near the hedge, without trees, sat
down on his folding-chair, took from his paint-box a small, new canvas,
put it on the easel, reflected a moment, and then began to paint a
wonderfully pretty house, which looked like a jewel box. The walls were
marble, pillars stood at the right and left of the entrance, the roof
was made of green copper, and through the clear panes of the large
windows gleamed yellow silk curtains. And what the artist painted on
the canvas actually appeared; so when the house in the picture was
finished, it was also ready in the garden, and taking Maxa by the hand,
the painter went in with her, sat down again, and began to paint
suitable furniture, beautiful old tapestries of silk and gold threads,
Turkish carpets in soft, faded hues, low, broad sofas, light gilded
chairs, tall, carved, ebony wardrobes, and, for the corners and niches,
coats of mail, bronze statues, and large porcelain vases. He did not
forget his little friend either. For her he painted six dolls, each one
in a different costume, and the prettiest of all was a fair-haired
Swiss, with a silver chain on her bodice. When Maxa saw her, she fairly
shouted for joy, ran to her, and, clasping her in her arms, exclaimed,
“I want to show her to mamma.”
“No,” said the artist, “you must carry nothing out. You can only play
with your dolls here in the studio, and when your mother comes, she
will see them.”
But he had not yet finished. When the room was magnificently furnished,
he painted two young negro women in striped silk gowns, with red
kerchiefs on their heads. After the last stroke of the brush, they
stood alive in the studio, approached the artist, and bowed low before
him and Maxa. “They are to do the work here,” said the painter. “They
will obey you if you order anything sensible. But they will answer only
with their eyes, for they are dumb.”
“Can’t you make them speak, too?” asked Maxa.
“No,” he answered, “I can’t do that. I should have to beg other
artists, the poets, to help me. But, for these negro girls, it isn’t
necessary.”
The hour was not over by several minutes when the painter went back to
Maxa’s mother and invited her to visit his house in the garden. The
mother was very much astonished to see the charming little marble
palace, the costly furniture, the black maid-servants in their gay silk
gowns, and Maxa’s six dolls, and said: “You are a clever man. I will
trust my Maxa to you. She will learn something worth knowing.”
Maxa came to the studio every morning. If the day was cloudy, or the
master in a bad humor, he sent her away. If he was in a good mood, and
the weather was sunshiny, he gave her a lesson. She went to work
eagerly, and wanted to paint with brush and colors on the canvas at
once. But the artist would not allow this. “You must first learn to
draw well,” he said, and gave her ordinary paper and a lead pencil. She
drew with an untrained hand all sorts of crooked marks, looking up
eagerly from the board to see whether what she was scrawling on the
paper would actually appear. But nothing came. Then she threw the
pencil down, exclaiming impatiently: “If I can’t make anything real, it
isn’t worth while. You must teach me your art, and nothing else.”
The artist looked at her gravely, and replied: “Art cannot be learned
in a day. People must work long and patiently.”
“Even a Sunday child?”
“Even a Sunday child. A person who is not cannot learn it at all. You
must begin at the beginning, as we have all done. You must not open the
paint-box until you know how to use the pencil perfectly. Just think,
child, if I should allow you to paint before you were able to draw
faultlessly, and you should make a monster, when the unfortunate
creature stood alive before you, crooked, misshapen, and crippled, what
would you say then?”
“I should be very sorry,” said Maxa, sadly.
“That wouldn’t help the poor cripple. So you are strictly forbidden to
touch the paint-box until you can draw perfectly.”
Maxa was a sensible child, and saw that the master was right. She drew
diligently, though at first it wearied her, and soon gained a taste for
it. She wanted to reach quickly the point where she could use the
paint-box; but the master was strict, and nothing except what was
perfectly correct, the very best, would satisfy him. Many months passed
before she had made so much progress that he said one day, “It will do
now.” Maxa blushed with pleasure, and asked, “May I have the
paint-box?”
The artist looked at her for a while silently and thoughtfully, then he
said: “Very well. We will try.”
Maxa, in great delight, sprang up to bring the paint-box from the
corner, but the master stopped her and beckoned. The easel stalked
forward, the paint-box hopped to its side, and the negro girls brought
a mahl-stick, a canvas, and a new palette, and set everything in order.
The little girl took the magic brush from the box, squeezed a few bits
of color from the tubes upon the palette, and stepped before the
canvas. Her hand trembled, her little heart beat violently, and her
eyes grew dim. It was a great moment. Now, for the first time, she was
to accomplish, as a real artist, the miracle of creation.
She was just touching the brush to the canvas when the artist caught
her arm.
“Stop, child. No hurry. What do you want to paint?”
“A little girl,” she answered firmly.
The master smiled and shook his head. “No, not yet. That is too
difficult. Try something lifeless first.”
“But I want to make a living creature!” cried Maxa, stamping her foot
impatiently.
“No one must do that until he is perfectly sure of himself,” replied
the master. “Try something lifeless first.”
A mischievous idea darted into the child’s head. With a few swift
strokes of the brush she painted in the middle of the canvas a gray
cloud of smoke. Instantly a thick vapor filled the room, and the two
black maids began to cough pitifully. The master laughed and quickly
painted the cloud over with the ground color, the smoke vanished as
suddenly as it had come, and the artist said reprovingly: “No nonsense,
child, or I shall take away the paint-box. Art is too lofty for sorry
jests.”
She begged forgiveness, promised to be good and sensible, and now began
to work earnestly. “I’ll paint a doll,” she said, and the master
consented. Oh, wonder! The Alsatian peasant girl, with the big
butterfly bow on her fair hair, which she began to paint, grew before
her on the floor of the studio, just as it did under her brush. When
she saw the doll’s head and body lying there, she wanted to throw down
the painting implements and rush to it, to convince herself by feeling
that it was real. Again the artist sternly reproved her.
“Keep on, you restless butterfly. What has been begun must be finished.
First complete the doll, then you can play with her.”
Maxa added the arms and legs, but she did it rather carelessly, and
they were incomplete. She would not take the time to paint shoes and
stockings, so the poor Alsatian remained barefooted. The master shook
his head, but did not prevent her running to the doll and lifting it
tenderly in her arms. Maxa would not notice that the limbs were
strangely crooked and pitifully thin, and it was by no means as pretty
as the six dolls which the artist had made for her. She liked it
better, because she had created it herself.
The artist let her play with the work of her hands, locked away the
brush and palette, sent the paint-box back to its corner, and said:
“Now you know how an artist feels when he has created something.
Whoever has done it once will do it again. But I forbid you to touch
the paint-box in my absence. You can use it only when I am here.”
Maxa came to the studio even more eagerly every day, and was happy when
permitted to paint with the magic pencil. She never grew tired of
filling the room with the works of her imagination. First, she made
toys of every description; then vases, china figures, and bronze busts;
then she ventured upon foliage, plants, and flowers; and finally even
on all sorts of flying and creeping things, gay caterpillars, ladybugs,
little beetles, and butterflies of the most magnificent colors; and
when the beetles ran over the leaves, and the butterflies were hovering
in the air, she exclaimed: “See what I can do! Now I want to paint some
living people.”
“Not yet,” said the master. “Beware of pride; it is the greatest foe of
the artist.”
Maxa would not understand, and begged and coaxed him to let her paint
human beings. But he would not permit it. This vexed her, and she
thought: “Just wait! I’ll give him a surprise.” She watched in the
garden until the master went out, slipped into the studio, and seized
the paint-box. The negro girls hastily placed themselves in front of
it, warning her by gestures not to disobey the master’s command; but
Maxa cried, “Begone, you black creatures, or I’ll paint a dog that will
bite you.” Then the mute maid-servants drew back in terror, while Maxa
opened the paint-box, placed a large new canvas on the easel, thought
for a moment, and then resolutely began to paint a young girl.
She had long been planning what she desired to make—just the girl she
wished to be herself, tall and beautiful, with loose golden hair and
shining gray eyes, in a pink dress with a long train.
The first strokes of the brush she made boldly, without hesitation. She
began with the head, and was completely absorbed in the work. But when
it was successfully finished and looked out at her from the canvas with
shining gray eyes, she could not refrain from glancing into the studio
beside the easel to see what was being done. Her eyes instantly met two
sparkling gray ones, gazing at her with an unspeakably loving, longing
expression.
This look was an electric shock, and confused her so that she did not
venture to glance there again, but hastily painted on. But she no
longer had her former sure touch. Now she had seen it: what her brush
painted became actual life, and every stroke was part of a living
creature—if it failed, the creature was injured. Maxa’s hand trembled,
and she felt inclined to throw down the brush. But dared she do that?
She could not leave unfinished what she had commenced—how terrible it
would be to have half a human being lying in the studio! She trembled
with fear at the bare thought, and painted on hurriedly. The master
might come back at any moment. Only let her finish—quick—quick—
But alas! Nothing perfect can be accomplished by over haste. The young
girl’s body would not succeed like the head. It was crooked and
misshapen, the shoulders were uneven, and the folds of the pink dress
with the long train showed that the material covered very ill-formed
limbs. Maxa perceived, with increasing fear, that she had bungled, and
she was just going to try to correct some of the most faulty lines in
the sketch when the door suddenly opened and the master entered.
Maxa screamed and ran behind a curtain to hide. The artist saw at once
what had happened: the picture with the beautiful head and the
miserable body, the poor crippled girl in the studio, the negro maids
who stood in the corner as if paralyzed by fear, and he called in a
terrible voice, “Maxa, what have you done?”
Maxa came out of her hiding place, clasped her hands, and pleaded:—
“Forgive me, master, I could not help it. I had to do it.”
“Look at your work, you disobedient child! All that lives for you is a
monster, with a pretty face and crippled limbs.”
“Make amends for what I have done,” Maxa begged, beginning to cry.
“I cannot do that,” said the master, sadly. “Your creation lives. It
belongs to you alone. Will you destroy it, and make another?”
“No!” shrieked Maxa in horror, hurrying to the girl as if to save her
from destruction. The young girl knelt before her, laid her head in her
lap, and looked at her very mournfully. Maxa, being a Sunday child,
was, without knowing it, a poetess, so she could give the mute girl
speech, and she began to say in sorrowful tones:—
“Little mother dear, why
Crooked, ugly, am I,
Not pretty like you?
Since thou madest me live,
Why didst thou not give
Joy and loveliness, too?”
Maxa hugged and kissed her, and tried to comfort her. She was not ugly,
she whispered into her ear, but beautiful as the day; no one could help
loving her, and she would give her the handsomest clothes and the most
splendid jewels. But the young girl, shaking her head, answered:—
“Gems bright and rare,
Silk and velvet fair,
No joy bestow.
Little mother, I pray, leave me not so.”
Maxa, in her distress, turned to the master, who stood with folded
arms, gazing sadly at her and the complaining girl. “Master, dear
master, help me just this once. I will never be disobedient again. I
cannot bear to have the creature I have made so unhappy. Help me, or
kill us both.” The master made no reply, but paced up and down the
studio several times, absorbed in thought. Some minutes passed in this
way, while Maxa followed him anxiously with her eyes. At last he
stopped and said, “Your girl must remain as she is, but I will do what
I can to make her happy.” Going to the canvas, he began to paint. He
made a young prince, handsome as the day, slender as a fir tree, with
kindly eyes and smiling face, who stretched both hands toward the girl
and gazed at her tenderly. And there, too, stood the young prince in
reality, stretching both hands toward the girl as he did in the
picture. Then the master said: “He loves you, and will marry you, and
always be your faithful husband. He cannot speak, but you can talk
enough for both. If you like him, give him your hand.”
The young girl, blushing, rose and went slowly toward the prince. She
limped slightly, but the prince did not seem to notice it. Gazing
joyously into her sparkling gray eyes, which she cast down, he clasped
her in his arms. The negro maids clapped their hands in delight and
danced around the pair. The easel stalked along shakily, the paint-box
jumped merrily, but Maxa said mournfully:—
“What good will all this do? The lover won’t make the girl more
beautiful.”
“You don’t understand,” said the master. “When one loves anybody with
all one’s heart, one thinks her more beautiful than anything else in
the whole wide world. Ask the bride what she says about it.” Maxa cast
a searching glance at the young girl, who nestled closely to her
prince, saying with a happy smile:—
“His love is true beyond compare;
Just as I am he finds me fair.
His heart is now my happiness;
I need not beauty life to bless.”
The prince nodded and kissed his future bride.
“Well, then,” said Maxa, “if you are both satisfied, I will be, too,
and I thank you, master, for having made everything turn out for the
best.”
But the artist answered: “I could help once, but never again. Let this
be a lesson to you. Great power is given to the artist. But woe betide
him if he uses it recklessly! Farewell. I can teach you nothing more.”
Before she could speak a word, he had vanished, and with him the
lovers, the black maid-servants, the easel, and the paint-box; but the
studio and all its contents remained, including the picture with the
prince and the girl. Whenever Maxa saw it afterward, her heart grew
both sad and joyous—sad because the girl she had created had
disappeared, and joyous because she felt that she must be happy with
her prince. Maxa herself grew up into a tall, beautiful girl, whom
everybody recognized as a Sunday child. She continued to paint, but no
longer with a magic brush, and this was well for her.
Who can be sure that his work will always succeed?—and it is far too
dangerous to make a mistake when, for each error, a living being must
suffer all through life.
THE HEART THREAD
Once upon a time there lived in an old palace by the sea a beautiful
young queen, who was richer and more powerful than any other, far or
near, in that region or across the water. She had many big ships, which
brought to her from the most distant quarters of the globe valuables of
every description. She possessed cities and castles, fields and flocks,
and everything that the heart can desire. Her mints stamped gold from
her mines, her mills ground wheat from her fields, her furnaces burned
wood from her forests, the materials of her clothes were woven from
silk from her silkworms and wool from her sheep, and, when she wanted
to be merry, she had fools enough in her own country at whom she could
laugh. Only one thing was lacking to make her happy: children, or at
least one child. For, though she had been married several years,
hitherto she had vainly longed for the joys of a mother.
When year after year passed away without the gift of a little one, the
beautiful young queen lost her cheerfulness, and became more and more
sorrowful. Her riches gave her no pleasure, she scarcely glanced at the
precious things her ships brought from the most distant countries. She
did not laugh at her jesters, no matter what funny things they might
say. Shutting herself up in her most distant tower, she played with the
dolls she had had when she was a little girl, dressed and undressed
them, washed and petted them, rocked them in her arms and sang them to
sleep, or ordered very young babies to be brought, treated them in the
same loving way, and covered them with kisses and tears before she
allowed them to be carried back to their mothers.
The queen no longer had her mother, but she had her nurse, a good and
wise woman. One day she asked her, “Tell me, nurse, does the stork
never come into my country?”
“Oh, yes, my beautiful queen,” replied the nurse; “he probably comes
every day and every night.”
“But why doesn’t he enter my palace?”
“That I do not know, my beloved queen, old as I am.”
“Don’t you think that I could have him caught as he is flying past the
palace?”
The nurse shook her head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t advise that. If the
stork is frightened, I have heard, he drops the child from his beak,
and the baby’s little limbs are broken, and it is found dead. Then you
will have nothing, and the mother who is expecting it will have no baby
either.”
The queen could say nothing in answer to this. Yet she could not give
up the thought of snatching a child from the stork, if he did not bring
her one voluntarily. She commanded her hunters to climb every night
with nets to the roofs of the houses and the tops of the steeples, to
the summits of the mountains and the branches of the trees, and seize a
stork carrying a child if he flew past within reach of their arms. But
they were strictly ordered not to frighten or injure the bird, and,
above all, to take care that the child was not hurt.
The hunters obeyed the queen’s orders, and, night after night, went to
their stations in the tree-tops, on the mountain peaks, towers, and
roofs. They saw, by the light of the moon and stars, plenty of storks
flying by with babies in their beaks, but they did not come near enough
to have the nets thrown over them, and the hunters were obliged to
leave their lofty posts with empty hands. The queen was very much
displeased with them for their lack of skill, but the storks, too, were
very angry. They complained to the fairy of the children, that they
could not go their way through the kingdom of the beautiful young queen
unmolested, but were startled by sudden shouts and throwing of nets, so
that they almost dropped the children intrusted to them. Besides, these
malicious attacks disturbed the children, who sometimes began to cry,
and they ought not to open their little mouths in the chill night air;
they might get sick.
The fairy of the children listened to the grievances of her messenger
birds with a frown, and determined to go to the bottom of the mischief.
She went with the storks, who set out after sunset, and, as soon as she
had crossed the frontiers of the beautiful young queen’s kingdom, she
saw at once, on the first wooded mountains, in the tops of the tallest
trees, a large number of hunters, with nets in their hands, watching
for the storks. Flying as swiftly as an eagle to one of them, she
grasped him by both shoulders, crying in a terrible voice, “Man! why
don’t you let my storks alone?”
The hunter jumped so that he would certainly have fallen from the tree
if the fairy had not held him. So he only dropped his net, and answered
trembling, “Because I was ordered to do it.”
In reply to other questions, the fairy of the children was told that
the hunters were acting by the commands of their queen, and that their
mistress was angry with them when, after watching vainly all night
long, they appeared at the palace in the morning without stork or
child.
The fairy of the children ordered the frightened hunter to leave his
post immediately, go home, and tell all his companions to let the
storks alone in the future if they valued their lives. He obeyed, but
the next morning, instead of the expected hunters, the fairy of the
children came to the palace, entered the young queen’s room, and,
without a word of greeting, said in a harsh voice, with a stern face,
“What does it mean that you have commanded your huntsmen to catch the
storks as they fly past carrying children?”
The queen looked in astonishment at the tall stranger in the blue robe,
with the sparkling eyes and the little white lace cap on her gray hair,
and answered with dignity: “You evidently do not know to whom you are
speaking. Or you would not dare—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted the fairy of the children; “these high and
mighty airs are out of place with me. I know very well that you are the
queen of this kingdom, but no sovereign is of any account in my
presence. I hold the most sacred office. The future of the human race
is confided to me. I watch over the rising generation. I am the fairy
of the children, who sends the storks to the mothers, and I forbid
you—”
The fairy of the children could say no more. Scarcely had the queen
heard who stood before her when, forgetting all pride, she threw
herself at the fairy’s feet, clasped her knees, and pleaded, “Dear,
good fairy of the children, give me a little child.”
The fairy looked at her thoughtfully a short time, then raised her
kindly, saying in a far more gentle voice, “No, dear queen; I cannot
grant your request.”
“But why not, dear fairy? Why should a happiness which the humblest
mother among my subjects may enjoy be denied to me?”
“Children bestow not only happiness, but sorrow, too, dear queen.”
“I will gladly take the sorrow into the bargain, dear fairy.”
“You don’t know what you wish to undertake, good little queen. A child
falls ill easily and often, then the mother watches in terrible anxiety
through nights of pain beside its little bed. A child often dies very
young, and then the mother will never again enjoy her life. And, even
if the child grows up, it finally marries and leaves the mother alone
in her old age.”
“All this does not frighten me, dear fairy. Only give me a little
child, I beseech you from my heart. I will nurse it if it is sick; I
will not survive it if it dies; I will rejoice in its happiness if it
marries; but give me a little child, dear fairy of the children.”
The fairy reflected a little while. “Wait,” she said. “I will see if I
can do anything for you.” Going very close to the queen, she looked at
her sharply, murmuring: “Why! she really has the heart thread. I have
not often found it in queens.”
“What is the heart thread?” asked the queen, very curiously and rather
anxiously.
“Have you never seen it?” replied the fairy of the children.
“No,” said the queen. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Then the fairy grasped something and held it before the queen’s eyes,
and the queen saw with surprise a long thread, as fine as the finest
cobweb, which looked as if it had been spun from gold. Seizing it, she
pulled it somewhat hastily, and felt a sudden pain in her heart, so
that she uttered a little scream. She now perceived that the thread
grew from her bosom, and she asked the fairy of the children if she had
had it long.
“You have always had it,” answered the fairy of the children; “but you
did not notice it, and therefore did not see it. I will now send you a
child, which will have a heart thread, too. Fasten it to yours, then
nothing and no one can part you.”
The queen began to weep for joy, but, before she could express her
gratitude, the fairy of the children had flown out of the window and
was floating through the air like a blue cloud. The queen called her
nurse, and told her joyously that the stork was going to come to her.
Instantly there were great preparations in the palace; forty skilful
seamstresses sewed on the child’s clothing, twelve jewellers made a
cradle of gold, silver, and gems, a young nurse was summoned from the
mountains, and, when all was ready and in order, they waited eagerly.
They did not wait long. The evening after the nurse reached the palace,
a clattering was heard at the tower window. They hurried to open it and
a big stork dropped a little child into the nurse’s arms, and flew off
like an arrow. The nurse ran with the baby into the chamber of the
queen, who, with a cry of joy, clasped it in her arms and covered it
with kisses. The child was a wonderfully beautiful little girl, white
and rosy, with round limbs, golden hair, and blue eyes. The queen
looked at it quickly. Yes, from the little bosom grew a marvellously
fine thread like gold, which seemed so delicate that a breath must tear
it; but it was so strong that the queen could not separate the tiniest
end, either with all the strength of her hands or with the scissors.
Unnoticed by her women, she knotted the child’s heart thread to her
own, and felt a gentle warmth streaming from the little heart into
hers, which filled her with delight.
From that time the beautiful young queen was always with her little
girl, whom she named Hilda. At first the two knotted heart strings were
so short that the mother could scarcely go a few arms’ lengths from her
child. Hilda was obliged to follow the queen wherever she went, and if
the nurse, who carried the child, did not move quickly enough, it
pulled so painfully at her heart that she stopped with a scream. But as
the child grew larger, the heart thread lengthened too. When Hilda
began to run, it had become long enough for her to trot and creep
through all the halls in the palace, without disturbing the queen; and
when she was two years old, it reached from the farthest end of the
palace park, so that Hilda could frolic on the grass without hurting
her mother; and when she had gained her fifteenth year, the length of
the heart thread allowed her to drive three hours in a carriage drawn
by spirited horses, without pulling the hearts of the mother and child.
But Hilda did not exceed this distance, for if the heart thread grew
tight, it hurt her little heart, and she impetuously insisted on being
taken back to her mother.
Hilda grew finely, the heart thread constantly lengthened, the mother
and child were one, and yet independent of each other, when one day it
happened that the queen was sitting in her tower chamber, while Hilda
and her nurse were walking on the seashore. Suddenly the queen felt a
pain in her heart such as she had not had for a long, long time.
Shrieking, she rushed out on the balcony, to look for her child; for
from there she could get a view of the whole palace park, the shore,
and the sea. She instantly discovered the nurse, who was running up and
down the beach screaming and wringing her hands, and saw on the sea a
ship moving swiftly away with all her sails spread. The queen knew, by
the way the ship was built, that she was a pirate craft. Pirates had
come, seized the Princess Hilda, and were now carrying her to their
distant country.
The queen called despairingly for her admirals, sailors, and soldiers.
When they came hurrying in the greatest consternation, she commanded
them to put to sea at once with the strongest warship in her navy. The
hasty preparations did not occupy much time, it is true; but when the
vessel weighed anchor, the pirates were no longer in sight. The queen
had sailed too. She stood beside the helmsman, and as she felt
distinctly and painfully where the pull at her heart was, she could
tell him the exact direction in which to steer the ship.
The queen’s man-of-war was larger, stronger, and swifter than the
pirate craft. After a chase of two hours, the pursued vessel hove in
sight. The queen urged her men to set every sail, her ship cut swiftly
through the water, the distance between the two constantly lessened,
the pull at the queen’s heart diminished, her pain ceased, and she soon
came so near the pirate vessel that she could see Hilda, guarded by two
pirates, sitting on the forward deck, weeping.
“Yield!” the queen commanded her captain to shout through the speaking
trumpet to the pirate, “yield, and we will show you mercy.”
But the pirates only laughed scornfully, and sailed on as fast as they
could, to escape their pursuers. But the queen’s ship came nearer and
nearer, and already they could calculate how soon they would be
overtaken.
When the queen’s man-of-war was within a few cable lengths of the
pirates, they seized the Princess Hilda and threw her overboard. The
queen’s people uttered a cry of horror. Only the queen herself remained
calm. She stood erect beside the railing of the ship, moving her arms
and hands, as if she was drawing something invisible. The sailors
thought that the queen was practising some magic; for they did not see
what she was pulling. But she drew quickly and strongly on the heart
thread, and the Princess Hilda followed it and soon reached the side of
the ship, where the sailors could fish her out of the water and place
her in her mother’s arms. The pursuit of the pirates was continued with
double zeal, the pirate craft was soon overtaken and sunk in the sea
with all on board, so that from that time the shore of the queen’s
kingdom was safe from their attacks.
When the queen returned to her palace with her rescued child, she
ordered a great banquet to be prepared for her admirals, soldiers, and
sailors. But the fright, excitement, and plunge into the cold sea had
made Princess Hilda ill, so that she had to go to bed. Her mother
remained by her side to nurse her. During the night she fell asleep
from weariness, and then Death came stealing softly in to take Hilda.
He was already stretching his bony arms toward the little girl when he
saw the heart thread which went from her to her mother, and shone like
dull gold in the light of the night lamp. He hesitated, cautiously
grasped the thread, and tried to break it in two. But it resisted, and
Death accomplished nothing by his struggle except to wake the mother
and child, and be seen by them.
Princess Hilda hid her head under the bedclothes, but the queen seized
her heavy gold sceptre, which stood in the corner, and struck Death
with all her might, screaming, “Begone, monster, begone!”
Death was ordered to bring only Hilda, not the queen. As he could not
get one without the other, he was obliged to be off with his errand
unfinished. Tearing himself away from the queen’s blows, which almost
broke his rattling bones, he vanished in the darkness. Hilda recovered
and continued to grow until she became a beautiful, tall young lady,
and the queen’s old nurse said that the princess ought to marry. But
the queen would not hear of it, saying impatiently, “There is plenty of
time, nurse, there is plenty of time.”
It happened, however, that a prince from a neighboring country came to
visit the palace, saw Hilda, and, dazzled by her beauty, exclaimed,
“This lovely princess must become my wife; she or no one.” He pleased
Hilda, too, and when he asked her if she would make him happy by giving
him her hand, she answered, “Yes.”
The young pair went to the queen and begged for her consent to the
marriage, but the queen said, “No, it cannot be.”
“Why not?” asked Hilda, bursting into tears.
Her mother clasped her in her arms, kissed her tenderly, and answered
gently: “Don’t ask why; only believe me, it cannot be. Stay quietly
with me. Nowhere can you be happier than with your mother.”
But Hilda did not see this, and when the prince urged her to fly with
him to his kingdom and marry him there, she allowed herself to be
persuaded, mounted his horse at nightfall, and dashed away with him.
For several hours they rode at full gallop, without Hilda’s repenting
her disobedience. But long as the heart thread was, it was not endless,
and toward midnight, when she had almost reached the frontiers of her
mother’s kingdom, it grew tight, and would stretch no farther. Hilda
felt a violent pull at her heart, and began to suffer intense pain. Yet
her love for the prince was so strong that she bravely bore her torture
and rode on with him, though at every step of the horse she suffered
cruelly.
But the queen in her castle also felt the pulling of the heart thread,
and knew by it that her child had fled. So, in the midst of the dark
night, she prepared for pursuit as quickly as possible; she could not
bear the pain in her breast. She rode like the wild huntsman, she rode
like the wind, she rode like the lightning, and in the gray dawn of
morning she reached the pair, who could not go forward as quickly,
because it was hard for the horse to carry two. “Stop, stop!” called
the queen, and when she had overtaken the fugitives she said
reproachfully: “Hilda, you have left your mother. Your mother could
never have brought herself to desert you.”
“It is the way of the world,” replied the prince; “we were sure that
you would forgive us, your Majesty.”
Hilda dismounted from the horse, hid her face on her mother’s bosom,
and said softly: “My heart gave me great pain, and drew me violently
back to you. But I cannot leave the prince.”
The queen embraced her and answered tenderly: “We two must not part.
You will not wish me to leave my kingdom and follow you into a foreign
land. Turn back, both of you. You shall marry the prince, and after my
death he shall become monarch of my kingdom.”
Then the prince and Hilda joyously embraced each other and kissed the
good queen’s hand, and they all went back, and the inhabitants of the
country crowded around their carriage, rejoicing. When they were again
in the palace, festivals were held for the court, the servants, and the
subjects, which lasted three weeks; then Hilda and the prince were
married, and when Princess Hilda stood at the altar in her bridal veil,
she threw her arms around her mother’s neck and whispered in her ear,
“Though I have a husband, I will never, never leave you.”
And she never did leave the queen, who always loved her just as dearly
as when she was a little child in her arms. The heart thread remained
so fine that no one except the queen could see it; it was so long that
Princess Hilda never felt it when she was in the kingdom; but if she
travelled in foreign countries, her mother always went with her, so
that the heart thread was never pulled.
Years passed away, the queen grew older and older, till at last she was
so aged that life became a burden. Now she herself called Death, whom
she had once driven away, and when he appeared before her somewhat
timidly, said to him: “Friend Death, you can take me now. I am ready.”
“But the heart thread?” Death objected. “I cannot tear it, and I have
no instructions to take the princess with me.”
Then the weary queen thought of again appealing to the fairy of the
children, who had so kindly aided her a long, long time ago. She went
up on the tower of her palace after sunset, and when the storks
carrying the children began to fly past, she called one and begged him
to tell the fairy of the children that the queen earnestly desired to
speak to her.
The stork delivered the message on his return home, and the next day
the fairy of the children appeared before the queen. The fairy had not
changed at all. She still had the same tall figure, sparkling eyes, and
gray hair, was robed in blue, with a little white lace cap on her noble
head; but the queen was no longer the beautiful young woman of former
days, but a shrivelled old dame, with dull eyes and snow-white hair.
The fairy gazed compassionately at her a little while, then she stroked
her white head and wrinkled cheeks, asking gently, “What do you want of
me, dear child?”
“Dear fairy of the children,” pleaded the queen in a faint voice, “the
heart thread has lasted well, but now it is time to break it. You alone
can do it. Please part it, that Death may lead me to rest. For I am
tired.”
“My child,” replied the fairy of the children, “the heart thread no one
can unbind, I no better than Death. But you need have no anxiety on
that account. Go trustfully to rest, and rely on me. Your child shall
have no discomfort from it.”
“I do trust you,” said the queen, kissing the kind hand of the fairy of
the children. The fairy pressed a kiss upon her forehead, nodded, and
vanished from her sight.
About midnight Death appeared again, and said curtly: “It is all
arranged. You can come with me.” In the morning the queen was found
dead in her bed. The Princess Hilda, who was now queen, grieved very
deeply, but was gradually comforted, as children always are when they
lose their parents. Yet from that time she could never resolve to leave
her kingdom, for if she crossed the frontiers, her heart began to ache
strangely and drew her back to her mother’s marble tomb, which she
visited daily. And when she, too, grew very old, and at last died, she
was buried in the same grave beside her mother, and the gold heart
thread, unseen by human beings, extended forever from the heart of the
dead mother to the heart of the dead daughter.
THE SECRET EMPIRE
Early one morning, after a stormy night, the workmen in a great seaport
found a little girl upon the shore. She was lying with nothing on but a
little shirt, dripping wet upon the sands, and gave no sign of life. At
some distance from the beach they saw the top of a mast rising from the
water. A large ship had gone down with all on board, and the waves had
brought to land only this one little girl.
A compassionate laborer took her up, wrapped her in his cotton blouse
and carried her quickly to the neighboring office of a tidewaiter,
where her wet shirt was removed. She was laid on a bench and covered
up. As soon as she grew warm, she opened her eyes, and began to cry.
Everybody in the office admired the child’s delicate form, beautiful
little rosy face, big blue eyes, and fair silken curls. The little
shirt was made of the finest cambric, and embroidered with a gold
coronet. Even without this mark it was evident that the child cast by
the shipwreck on a foreign shore was of aristocratic birth, and had
been carefully tended.
When the baby cried, the men standing around were very sorry, but they
did not know what to do, for they did not understand how to take care
of little children; and, besides, they did not have on hand what was
necessary to satisfy its wants. The child had not yet cut all its
teeth, and could only stammer a few words in an unknown tongue.
The men consulted together, and soon agreed that the baby must be
hungry and need, first of all, food and clothes. There was nothing in
the office except some horrible brandy. But close by there was a
sailors’ tavern, where they could get some milk and biscuits, which the
little girl ate readily. When she had had some food, she stopped crying
and fell asleep.
The tidewaiter was obliged to attend to his duties and could not stay
with the child. The kind laborer who had carried her into the office
also had to work, for he was a poor man, and if he lost a day’s work,
he and his family would have nothing to eat the next day. Yet he could
not make up his mind to leave the lovely little girl. Rolling up the
wet shirt, he put it carefully in his big blue calico handkerchief, and
slipped it into the wide pocket of his trousers. Then he again wrapped
the poor, naked little creature in his blouse and in a woollen blanket,
which the tidewaiter lent him, and went home with his precious burden
in his shirt sleeves, though he did not consider it quite the proper
thing for a respectable workingman and the father of a family.
“Hitherto you have given me children,” he said to his wife, as he
placed the little one in her hands, “now I will give you one.”
The woman gazed at the present with astonishment and no special
pleasure; she thought that her own five children were enough. But when
her husband told her how he had found the little girl, her mother heart
was touched with pity and she said: “Where five are fed, a sixth can
eat too. We will keep the little one, if no one claims her.”
So the little girl was adopted into the workman’s family, and the next
Sunday he went to report it. The magistrate pondered over the name that
should be given to the stranger child. A gale from the north had driven
her ship on the shore. It had probably come from the north. Yet the
child might have been born in the south. So he called her by a name
half Greek, which is a southern, and half Danish, which is a northern
language, Margarita Bölgebarn, that is, Pearl, the child of the waves,
and urged her foster-father to take great care of the little shirt,
with the tiny embroidered gold crown, in which she was found, as with
its help perhaps the child’s relatives might some day be discovered.
Many ships had been wrecked during that stormy night, and it was never
known which one had carried the child. No one appeared to claim it, so
it remained with the workman and grew up with his children. Rita—as
they called Margarita to shorten her name—grew finely, although she did
not fare well with him. It was very hard for the man to support himself
and his family. They were often on short commons, and when there was
not enough to eat for all, Rita had to wait until the others left
something for her, and frequently went without entirely. Her
foster-mother was not a bad woman, but poverty had made her hard, and
her own flesh and blood came nearer to her than the foundling whom she
had adopted. She did not grudge her a little place in the miserable
home, but she was not allowed to cost anything; for the father’s scanty
earnings did not permit it.
Rita slept in the same bed with the two youngest children, who pulled
the scanty coverlets over them and left Rita half uncovered, so that in
the winter nights she was bitterly cold, and nestled closely to her
foster-sisters to get some warmth from their bodies. She turned over
often, because this was the only way she could warm her right and left
side in turn; but this disturbed her bed-fellows, and they cuffed and
kicked her. She bore it, and only wept secretly, because it was still
dark, and no one could see her. She was dressed in the clothes of her
foster-sisters, after they could not or would not wear them any longer.
So she usually went barefoot, and wore shabby, patched, shapeless
garments. But though she looked like a scarecrow, every one who saw her
noticed her remarkable beauty. Her little bare feet, though sunburnt
and soiled by the mud of the streets, were as exquisite in form as if
chiselled by the hand of a skilful sculptor; her face was fair, rosy,
and lovely; her large blue eyes were soft and dreamy, and her silken
curls, carelessly as they were arranged, seemed like sunbeams playing
around her beautiful head. Wherever she went, people stood still in the
streets and looked after her. They thought she must be some
aristocratic girl, who, for a whim, had disguised herself as a beggar
child.
This did not escape the notice of her foster-sisters, and they envied
her for her beauty, and because she attracted attention wherever she
appeared. They made her feel more and more plainly that she was a
foundling living on their charity. Everybody vied in giving her orders,
and required her to obey them. Everybody made her serve as a
maid-servant waits upon strict employers. She had to sweep the rooms,
and once a week scrub and polish the floor. She had to light the fire
in the kitchen every morning, and every evening, until late at night,
clean the shoes of her foster-parents, her four foster-sisters, and
even her foster-brother. She was obliged to do all the errands, and if
there was no money in the house, let herself be scolded because she did
not pay the debts and beg them to let her have still more on credit.
She was so scantily dressed that the neighbors took pity on her and
gave her all sorts of things, some shoes, another a skirt, a third a
waist, a fourth a shawl, each one what she had and could spare. She
went hungry, too, and when they saw it, people secretly gave her in the
houses, the shops, and at school, a bit of bread and end of sausage, an
apple, or a piece of Dutch cheese. As she was always gentle and kind,
never spoke in a loud voice, never quarrelled, never uttered an
improper or a coarse word, her foster-sisters jeered at her and
scornfully called her the princess. For they all knew that she was
found in a fine little shirt with a small gold crown embroidered on it;
they had seen the pretty garment themselves, though their father kept
it carefully wrapped in paper in a drawer, and did not often bring it
out to show any one, and when they thought that perhaps Rita really was
a royal child, they were provoked, yet at the same time it gave them a
spiteful pleasure to have a princess subject to the children of a plain
workman, and obliged to do the most menial tasks for them.
From the time Rita was old enough to understand her position, she, too,
thought constantly about her origin, and busied herself waking and
sleeping about the secret of the little gold crown embroidered on her
shirt. She had an eager longing to see and touch the dainty linen; but
she did not dare to ask, for once, when she did so, her foster-father
roughly refused, saying harshly, “Don’t think about it; it would only
fill your head with silly notions.”
She had gradually learned where she had been found, and often went to
the shore, sat down on the sand, and gazed out over the sea to the spot
where the ship which had brought her here had sunk, and where perhaps
her parents were resting at the bottom of the water. Then deep sorrow
overwhelmed her, and tears filled her eyes. She felt as if she must
plunge into the waves, go down into the depths to her own kindred, and
never return to her poverty and toil. She did not long for wealth and
splendor, only for a mother’s love. How wonderfully delightful it must
be to be embraced by a mother’s arms, allowed to kiss and caress her,
and know that she was her own little girl! This joy she had never
known, and she envied her foster-sisters who, in other ways, had so
little for which to be envied.
When she was fourteen years old she had to begin to earn something. At
first she sewed jute coffee-bags, but after a few days the
superintendent herself said to her, “Rita, this labor is too coarse for
you, you can do something better,” and without consulting her
foster-family she sent her to a milliner, where Rita liked her work
very much, for there she had to make, of fine straw or lace, pretty
hats for women, with velvet and silk, ribbons, flowers, and feathers,
which she had much natural taste in arranging. They tried the hats on
her for customers to see, and as everything was becoming, and the most
expensive the most so, the ladies bought them very readily. She soon
received good wages, which she took home honestly to her foster-mother,
who in return treated her somewhat more kindly.
Rita was reserved and always liked to be alone. Her foster-sisters and
her companions in the workroom thought this was pride, and resented it.
She was only absorbed in her own thoughts, because her mind was
constantly dwelling upon the little gold crown, the ship at the bottom
of the sea, and those who were drowned in it. On Sundays and holidays
she either stayed in a corner of the room, dreaming, or went to walk
alone, usually on the shore, but often, too, in a little wood not far
from the city. The other members of the family did not trouble
themselves, but took their pleasure without her, and this suited her
exactly.
One Sunday, soon after Easter, she again went into the wood to enjoy
the early spring. A short time after leaving the road and passing under
the trees, she saw a squirrel playing merrily in the top of a tree,
jumping from branch to branch, peeping at her with its bright eyes, and
then leaping to the next tree. Rita followed, that she might enjoy his
graceful sport longer. The little creature sprang on before her, Rita
pursued, and without knowing it, still led by the squirrel, reached the
middle of the wood, a place where the trees grew very close together,
which she had not yet seen. Suddenly she no longer saw the squirrel,
and searched everywhere for him with her eyes, unable to imagine where
he could be. While turning her head in every direction, she saw at the
foot of a large beech a hole, half hidden by moss and large ferns. Rita
cautiously approached to peep in, when the treacherous covering of
plants gave way under her feet, and with a cry she slipped down the
opening. She closed her eyes and thought this would be the end of her.
She fell a long, long distance, till it seemed as if she was resting on
a warm bosom, and clasped by loving arms. Rita opened her eyes, and
what she saw astonished her so greatly that she thought she must be
dreaming.
She was standing on the threshold of a lofty, spacious hall, more
magnificent than anything she had ever seen or believed possible. The
walls were covered with white silk tapestry, countless chandeliers
filled the whole space with brilliant light, and she did not know which
to admire first: the huge mirrors, the gilded chairs with white silk
seats, the tables with mosaic tops inlaid with gems, or the throng of
people in glittering uniforms and magnificent costumes who filled the
hall. Rita had no time to inspect all this splendor. By her side stood
a tall lady with a very proud bearing and a wonderfully beautiful face,
dressed in a white silk gown, embroidered with silver threads, and a
veil fastened with a diadem on her golden hair, which fell over her
back to the edge of her skirt. This lady had caught Rita in her arms
when she fell into the depths. She bent the knee before her three times
in low curtseys, bowed her head, then rose, took Rita by the hand, and
led her into the hall.
At the moment she crossed the threshold, solemn music sounded, an
officer of gigantic height uttered a command, halberds were dropped
with a loud noise on the polished floor, and between two ranks of tall
soldiers of the guards in splendid uniforms, who stood like walls, Rita
walked slowly with her companion through the whole length of the hall
to a golden throne at the end, which stood on a platform covered with
cloth of gold beneath a purple canopy. The white-robed lady, by a wave
of her hand, invited Rita to ascend the three steps of the platform and
seat herself upon the throne. When the young girl had taken her place,
the music ceased, the lady lifted from a small table, which stood
beside the throne, a silk dress, embroidered with silver, which she put
on Rita, a blue velvet mantle, lined with ermine, which she threw over
her shoulders, and a crown of gold and diamonds the size of a pigeon’s
egg, which she set on her head. Then, again bending the knee before
her, she said in a voice which sounded like a silver bell, “Welcome to
your kingdom, royal mistress.”
She moved aside, and now ladies in rich court dresses, with long trains
and brilliant jewels, and gentlemen in uniforms covered with gold lace,
wearing swords by their sides and orders on their breasts, approached
and paid homage to Rita. The ladies kissed her hand, the gentlemen
pressed their lips to the edge of her ermine mantle. About a hundred or
more ladies and gentlemen greeted Rita in this submissive manner.
For a long time Rita did not dare to open her lips. At last, when the
courtiers had paid their homage, she turned to the white-robed lady
standing beside the throne and asked timidly: “Where am I? What does
all this mean?”
“You are in your kingdom, royal mistress,” replied the lady, “and your
loyal subjects are happy to be permitted to offer you their homage.”
“I don’t understand,” answered Rita, bewildered; “you are mistaken. I
am only a poor milliner—”
“Not so, royal mistress,” said the lady; “whatever you may be
considered in a foreign country does not matter. Here you are our
illustrious young empress, and at heart you know it perfectly well, and
have always known it.”
“Then the little gold crown on my shirt—”
“Is the sign of your rank, royal mistress.”
“But explain to me—what does it all mean—who are you?”
The lady made a sign, the guards with clanking steps drew back to the
walls of the hall, the courtiers formed a wide semicircle around the
room, the ladies in the front row, the gentlemen behind them, and in
the midst of a deep silence she began:—
“Royal mistress, I am the White Lady, the attendant fairy of your
illustrious family, whose duty it is to watch over all who are of your
royal blood. Do not believe that I have neglected this duty. But foes
who are more powerful than I have prevented me from performing it as I
ought and wished to do. Know that you are the daughter of the emperor
and empress of Thule, and their lawful heiress. Here are the portraits
of your noble parents. They welcome from their frames their lovely
descendant.”
The White Lady pointed with outstretched hand to the wall behind the
throne. Rita turned eagerly and saw at the right and left of the purple
canopy the life-size portraits of a handsome man in crown and imperial
mantle, and a woman who looked like a being from the heavenly world. At
the sight she began to weep bitterly, and the whole court sobbed with
her. The White Lady waited until she was calm again and then went on:—
“For ten long years your father had reigned gloriously in Thule, like
his father, his grandfather, and thirty-three ancestors before them for
a thousand years. Then one day the King of the Pole, without any cause,
declared war against him and with his army of ugly dwarfs invaded
Thule. The Pole King is a great magician, who reigns over the polar
bears and the whales, and when he chooses can produce such cold that
the air freezes and sends thunderbolts from the northern lights, which
kill every living creature. Our regiments could not withstand his
thunderbolts and polar bears, our ships could not resist his cold and
his whales. He conquered Thule, and your parents could do nothing
except fly with you, royal mistress, and their court on their last
ship. But even on the sea the wicked wizard pursued them, he conjured
up a terrible storm which struck them here, drove their ship on the
shore, and wrecked it. The waves swallowed all on board, I was
permitted by the higher powers to save only you, royal mistress. This
is the sorrowful history of your illustrious family.”
She was silent, and Rita, too, remained silent a long time, for she was
much excited by all she heard and saw. After some time she calmed
herself and asked: “What is to be done now? Will you not take me back
to my kingdom of Thule?”
“Alas!” replied the White Lady, “that is not possible. Between here and
your kingdom lie three seas and four broad countries, with soldiers and
fortresses on their frontiers, besides five ice mountains, six burning
deserts, and seven raging rivers. And even if we crossed all these
obstacles on the way to Thule, we should find there the King of the
Pole, who would do you some harm.”
“Then must I stay here always?” asked Rita, anxiously.
The White Lady sighed, and the whole court did the same.
Rita did not know what time it was, but she must have been a long while
in the throne room, for she began to feel hungry. At first she was
ashamed to ask for anything; but when the gnawing in her stomach grew
greater, she thought, “I am empress, and have a right to command.” So
she said: “Dear fairy, could not I have something to eat? I am very
hungry.”
“Royal mistress,” replied the White Lady, sadly, “we have nothing
here.”
“Not even a bit of bread?”
“Not even a bit of bread. Your courtiers and your guard need no food,
nor your attendant fairy either.”
“Then I must starve to death if I stay here.”
The White Lady lowered her eyes, as if ashamed, and remained silent.
“If this is so,” said Rita, sadly, “I suppose I must leave you.”
As she received no answer, she rose from the throne and slowly
descended the steps of the platform. As her foot touched the polished
floor, trumpets blared, shouts of command were heard, the guard marched
from the sides of the hall to the centre, dropped their halberds with a
thundering sound, and formed two motionless ranks, the music again
struck up the solemn imperial march, the White Lady clasped Rita by the
hand, court-marshals with white wands walked before them, court ladies
with long trains followed, and thus the magnificent procession moved
toward the entrance. Here all paused as if spellbound; the White Lady
let Rita’s hand fall and made three low curtseys before her.
“Will you all take leave of me?” asked Rita, anxiously.
“We must,” replied the White Lady.
“What! Will no one go with me? Must I return to my foster-parents all
alone?”
“Unfortunately we cannot change things,” answered the White Lady,
sorrowfully.
Rita sighed heavily, embraced the White Lady, who kissed her hair again
and again, while the ladies and gentlemen of the court, kneeling around
her, pressed their lips to the border of her mantle, and said, “Then
farewell to you all.” Tears streamed from her eyes, and she was
preparing to pass through the door, which two court-marshals held open
before her. At that moment the White Lady said gently, “Pardon me, your
Majesty,” and lifted the diamond crown from her head. Rita stopped in
astonishment, when she also unfastened the clasp of the ermine-lined
blue velvet mantle and removed it from her shoulders.
“You will not even leave me the signs of my rank?” cried Rita.
“It is the order, and we must obey,” replied the White Lady, removing
also the wonderful gown of white silk and silver, so that Rita again
stood in the plain Sunday clothes of a poor milliner.
“So the magnificence is all at an end,” lamented Rita. “I am no longer
an empress, but the foundling, Margarita Bölgebarn.”
“Not so, your Majesty,” answered the White Lady, quickly. “Empress you
are, and empress you will remain; no one can rob you of your royal
rank. True, you will live among the people of this country
unrecognized; but whenever you choose to come here among your faithful
subjects, all the honors due your rank will be shown you, and your own
eyes will convince you that you are our beloved and revered sovereign.”
Rita still lingered at the door. It seemed to her very hard to leave
the brilliantly lighted hall; but she had no choice. Unless she wanted
to starve, she must go. So, summoning all her resolution, she crossed
the threshold. At the same moment an invisible power seized her like a
whirlwind and bore her up with the speed of an arrow. A moment later
she was standing under the sunset sky at the edge of the hole at the
foot of the great beech tree, and saw on one of its lowest branches the
squirrel, which again hopped merrily from tree to tree before her, and
led her out of the wood.
It was already dark when she reached home. Though usually they did not
trouble themselves much about her, this time they had been anxious, and
her foster-mother asked her harshly where she had been roving about so
long. Rita excused her absence with gentle words. She thought of her
royal rank, and could not help secretly smiling at the poor woman, who,
in her ignorance, treated her so rudely. She remembered her throne
room, her courtiers, her body-guard, her diamond crown, and found it
amusing that she was obliged to sit in a poor workman’s room at a table
without a cloth, to a scanty meal of cold sauer-kraut, with peas, black
bread, and water, and then go to rest on a straw bed, which she now had
for herself, since she richly earned it.
After the secret of her birth and rank had been revealed to her, a
change took place in her which even the dull people who surrounded her
could not fail to notice. She was even more quiet and reserved than
before, yet kind and cordial to every one in a way that her
foster-family had never seen among the people of her class. At first
her unvarying graciousness vexed her uneducated companions; for they
considered it affectation, and answered Rita’s pleasant words
scornfully or roughly. But as this did not disturb her, and her manner
remained equally gentle and kind, the others were gradually impressed
by it and began to regard her with a certain shyness. In the
milliner-shop, too, the workwomen and customers noticed Rita’s
dignified manner, and the ladies often said to the proprietor, half in
jest and half in earnest, that there was something so queenly about the
young lady who tried on the bonnets that they scarcely dared to ask her
to wait on them.
Rita no longer, in her leisure hours, went down to the shore where the
workmen had found her when she was a little girl, but into the wood to
the old beech tree. Sitting on the edge of the hole hidden by the moss
and ferns, she shut her eyes and let herself slip down. She knew now
that two soft arms would carefully catch her. The solemn imperial march
always sounded at her appearance, and her courtiers welcomed her with
joy. She sat in her magnificent robes, with her diamond crown upon her
head, an hour or two on her golden throne among her subjects, while the
White Lady told her a thousand things she longed to know: first about
her parents, especially her mother, who had been a princess of Swan
Land, then of her ancestors, of her country of Thule, its people,
manners, and customs. The court ladies sang to her old songs of the
greatness of her race, their wisdom in peace and heroic courage in war.
Learned chamberlains repeated to her the history of Thule; she was
shown dolls in the costume of the people, and pictures of her
ancestors’ palace, their castles, cities, and the most beautiful
landscapes in her kingdom, till at last she knew everything about Thule
as thoroughly as if she had always lived there and knew nothing else.
It no longer seemed to her hard to leave her throne and return to the
city as a poor milliner. In spirit she always lived in her empire, on
Sundays and holidays she was an acknowledged empress amid the splendor
of her court, and she bore with a patient smile the life she led during
the week, when, plainly clad and unnoticed, she lived among the common
people as if she were one of themselves.
Her foster-family gradually remarked that she left them on Sundays
directly after dinner, and did not return until the evening, with a
reflection of secret joy upon her face like one who has been happy
several hours. Her foster-sisters put their heads together and
whispered, making all sorts of guesses, which did little honor to Rita.
They wanted to find out the secret of her lonely walks, and her
foster-brother undertook to follow her unseen. He did follow at some
distance into the forest as far as the hole at the foot of the old
beech. He did not see the squirrel that sprang before her from bough to
bough, for his eyes were fixed upon Rita. Suddenly she vanished, and
when he came to the place where he had lost her, he discovered the hole
under the moss and ferns. He did not doubt that she had slipped down
this hole, but at first he did not think it advisable to go after her.
So he sat down on the moss and waited. When, however, an hour, then two
hours passed, without any sign of life, he plucked up courage and began
to climb down the dark opening. But the sides were very steep, the
clumps of grass and moss to which he clung tore away, and amid a hail
of clods of earth and stones he fell into the depths.
Soiled with dirt, his whole body covered with bruises and bumps, and
his clothes torn, he struck against the door, which flew open at the
shock, and rolled into the middle of the throne room. The commander of
the body-guard rushed up to him and ordered his soldiers to seize the
intruder. But Rita, who recognized the fellow, called loudly, “Halt!”
The marshal of the court explained that he had forfeited his life, but
Rita repeated: “Not a hair of his head shall be harmed! Obey your
empress!” Then she said to her foster-brother, who was rubbing his
aching limbs and staring stupidly around him: “It was very impertinent
to follow me. This time I will forgive you. But don’t do it again; my
guards would not let you go a second time.” She motioned to the White
Lady, who gave an order to the officer of the guard. The soldiers
seized the youth, flung him out of the throne room, and left him lying
outside of the door. He began with great difficulty to climb up, but
the steep walls of earth gave his hands and feet no support, and he
always slid down again. At last the White Lady took pity on him, and
when he made another attempt to climb, she raised her whirlwind, which
seized him and bore him up into the woods.
The youth limped along groaning, lost his way several times, and did
not reach the direct road to the city until twilight was closing in.
When he reached home, Rita had been there a long time. She had told
nothing about the adventure, and was somewhat anxious to hear what he
would say of it to the family. When he saw her, he only grinned and
said nothing. Was he unwilling to tell the story in her presence? But
his mother noticed his soiled and torn clothes and the bloody scratches
on his hands, and cried out: “Boy! How you look! What has happened?
Have you been fighting?”
“No,” replied the youth, sulkily, “it’s only our dear Rita and her
queer taste that are to blame. I wanted to see where she is always
running. Now I know. She goes into the woods and jumps down into a deep
hole. This leads into a large cave. I leaped after her, but she seems
to be more skilful than I am. I fared badly. I almost broke my limbs.
The cave appears to get some light through a chink in the rocks on the
top. But it is dark, cold, and damp. Rita walks up and down, talking to
herself. I think she is playing some kind of a farce, in which she is a
princess or empress, and wants no listeners, for they would laugh at
her. Don’t worry, Rita, I won’t disturb you again in your fool tricks.”
“That will be better,” replied Rita, smiling and gentle as ever. So her
foster-brother had seen nothing—neither the magnificent hall nor the
courtiers, neither her imperial robes nor the throne. This surprised
her, it is true, but she was glad. It was better that she should remain
unrecognized, since she must earn her living as a poor milliner.
Behind her back, her foster-brother told the others that Rita was
evidently a little crazy, for he had heard her say plainly, in her
cave, that she was an empress, had guards, and similar silly nonsense.
The foster-mother replied that it came from the little gold crown
embroidered on her shirt, but as her craziness did not seem dangerous,
they all thought it would do no one any harm if she was allowed to go
on with her folly, and they closed their eyes to her queer fancies.
So Rita lived for several years, during the week a poor workingwoman,
on Sundays a great empress, and it did not trouble her at all that she
alone knew her secret. She was just twenty-one years old when one day
it happened that a handsome young man, whom she had often met on her
way from the house to her shop, but without noticing him, came up to
her in the street, raised his hat, and said, “Miss Rita, will you allow
me to say a few words to you?”
Rita blushed and answered more sternly than was her custom: “I don’t
know you. Leave me alone,” and continued her way. The young man stood
still, looking after her sorrowfully. She could not help thinking of
him all the morning, and though it vexed her that he should have spoken
to her in the street, she would have liked to know what he wanted to
say to her.
When she went home at noon, she saw, to her astonishment, the young man
sitting in her house with her foster-mother. She stood hesitating on
the threshold, and the workman’s wife called to her, while the young
man respectfully rose from his chair: “Come in, the gentleman won’t eat
you. He means fairly.”
The young man now spoke. “Miss Rita,” he said, “I have known you for
many months. I have followed you daily, without your noticing it. I
ventured to speak to you in the street, because I thought that would be
the easiest way. But you did perfectly right to reprove me, for it was
not proper. I ought to have done first what I did not think of until
later; that is, introduce myself to your parents.”
“But what do you want?” asked Rita, bewildered.
“Miss Rita,” replied the young man, “I love you, and would like to
marry you. Will you give me your hand?”
Rita’s heart beat faster, and she lowered her eyes in confusion. “That
cannot be done so quickly,” she said, “I do not know you at all—”
“Don’t refuse,” interrupted her foster-mother; “the gentleman is a fine
man and a poet.”
“You are a poet?” cried Rita, wonderingly.
“At least I think so,” answered the young man, modestly. “I write poems
and have them printed. People buy them, and tell me that life seems
easier and the world more beautiful to them when they have read them.”
As Rita grew thoughtful and made no reply, he drew a little book from
the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to her, adding: “Please accept
this from me, Miss Rita. It contains my verses. Let them speak for me,
and permit me to come to-morrow for your answer.”
When with a courteous bow he left the room, the foster-mother told Rita
that she ought to accept this handsome and elegant young man; it was a
piece of good luck for her, and she would never find anything better.
Rita said she must have time to think over so important a matter, and
retiring into a corner began to read the poems. They sang of spring and
sunshine, of blossoming flowers and nightingales, of human beings who
loved each other and would remain faithful in joy and sorrow, of all
great and noble things which make the happiness of good people. And as
Rita read on, she fancied she heard the old songs of her court singers,
and the wise words of her White Lady, and her eyes grew dim till at
last she could no longer see the letters plainly.
She thought of the poet all day, and at night she could not sleep. When
the next noon he came for his answer, the others went out to leave the
two alone, and Rita said: “I have read your poems, and I like them very
much. You are really a poet. But do you know who I am?”
“You are the sweetest, most beautiful girl my eyes ever beheld,” he
answered warmly, “and if you would become my wife, I should be the
happiest man on earth, and would never cease to sing and utter my joy
in verse.”
“I am a foundling, and no one knows who my parents were.”
“Your parents were what they were, and you are what you are.”
“I am a poor workingwoman, and shall bring you nothing except what I
have on my back.”
“You are yourself a treasure, which no gold in the world can outweigh.
We will work and shall not lack the necessaries of life.”
“Give me a little more time to think,” she said gently. “So important a
resolve cannot be made in an instant.”
“That is true,” replied the poet; “but meanwhile may I at least see you
daily?”
“Yes, you may,” said Rita. Then he kissed her hand and gave her a sheet
of paper on which, since the day before, he had written new poems for
her, more beautiful than any of the first ones.
Contradictory feelings were struggling in Rita’s soul. She liked the
poet, and it seemed to her a happy lot to become his wife. But she
thought she ought not to promise him her hand without asking the advice
of the White Lady, her only friend in the wide world, and without
telling him her secret. She was so impatient that she could not wait
for Sunday, but went at once to her wood, without even stopping at the
shop to ask permission for an afternoon’s absence. She was in such a
hurry that she did not look around once on the way. So she did not see
that the poet, as had been his habit for months, had come after dinner
into the neighborhood of her house to follow her to the shop and enjoy
all the way the sight of her lovely figure. He saw with astonishment
that she did not go toward the shop, and that she was walking much
faster than usual, so he hastily pursued to find out what she meant to
do. Thus he tracked her into the wood, to the old beech tree and the
hole half hidden by moss and ferns, where she vanished from his eyes.
When he saw her suddenly disappear down the hole, his only thought was
that she had met with an accident, and with a cry of terror he ran
forward and without hesitation leaped after her. He fell on his feet at
the bottom, without doing himself any harm, and saw before him, in the
dim light, tall gilded folding doors, from beyond which he heard the
clank of arms and solemn music. He resolutely pushed open the door and
found himself in the throne room, just at the moment that Rita had
taken her seat upon the throne, and the White Lady was clothing and
crowning her as an empress. When he saw this, he rushed through the
ranks of the guards to the steps of the throne, knelt, and touched his
forehead to the floor.
Rita had been unable to keep back a low cry of surprise when she saw
the poet. This time, too, the guards seized him, but Rita waved her
hand and commanded them to release him. Descending the steps, she
raised the poet. He did not dare to look at her, and only murmured: “I
always suspected it. You are of royal birth. Graciously forgive my
presumption in having dared to love you.”
“So you see my throne and my crown, my hall and my courtiers?” asked
Rita.
The poet looked at her in astonishment, and replied: “Why shouldn’t I?
The splendor dazzles me, it is true, but it does not wholly blind me.”
Rita, turning to the White Lady, said: “He is a poet, and he wants to
marry me. What do you advise me to do?”
“Your Majesty,” replied the faithful fairy, “he is of a good race. He
has the eagle eyes, which see secret things. He is an aristocrat, for
he is a poet. If you love him as he does you, marry him.”
Rita blushed deeply and cast down her eyes, the White Lady took her
hand and laid it in the poet’s, the courtiers burst into loud cheers,
the music struck up a joyous march, and the portraits of the emperor
and empress of Thule, on both sides of the throne, began to shine
wonderfully. The court-marshal bent the knee before the poet and said,
“Your Highness, by your engagement to our illustrious imperial
mistress, you become Prince Consort, and have a right to the highest
honors.” He gave a low order to a page, and instantly several court
lackeys appeared with purple velvet cushions, on which lay a gold
embroidered uniform, the ribbon of an order, a sword, and gold spurs,
and placed them all on the floor at the foot of the throne. Rita asked,
smiling, “Will you put these on?”
“I dare not—the honor is too great—not to-day,” answered the poet in
bewilderment. Then in a lower tone he added, “Your Majesty—beloved
Rita—since you are willing to give me the greatest happiness—since I am
your betrothed husband—I will venture to make one request—”
“What is it?” asked Rita, kindly.
“Send your courtiers away—let us be a moment alone—that I may embrace
you for the first time as my bride.”
“There is no solitude for an empress,” said Rita; “let us go.”
Rising, she walked, leaning on her future husband’s arm, amid the usual
honors, to the door, left her imperial robes in the hands of the White
Lady, and a moment later, with the poet, was at the entrance of the
hole. Here, under the rustling branches of the old beech, seen only by
the faithful squirrel, Rita was clasped in her lover’s arms and
exchanged the first kiss.
The poet was dazed by all he had seen and experienced, but he did not
venture to question his bride. Rita guessed what was passing in his
mind, and on their way home told him all. Only she begged him to keep
it secret, for if he repeated the story, people would merely laugh at
them.
The betrothal was celebrated at the foster-parents’, and the wedding
soon followed, with two celebrations,—one in the secret empire, and one
among ordinary mortals. Rita left her work place and opened a
milliner’s shop herself, and the poet, in his happiness, wrote the most
beautiful poems and became very famous. During the first year of their
marriage, they often went to the wood, and the young husband found
great pleasure in sitting in his princely robes upon the golden throne,
beside his imperial consort. But at the end of a year the stork brought
a little child, and for some time Rita could not go out, and her poet
did not know whether he could appear at court alone. After a month Rita
went to the wood again for the first time, taking with her her baby, on
which she had put the little shirt with the gold crown, which her
foster-father had given to her on her wedding day, and descended to the
secret empire to present her child to the courtiers. There was great
rejoicing and paying of homage, and the White Lady took the little one
in her arms, caressed it, and whispered ardent wishes for its
happiness. When her faithful subjects had grow calm again, Rita
addressed them in a very grave tone: “Noble lords and ladies,” she
said, “we shall see each other to-day for the last time. My work, my
child, my husband, claim all my hours, and I no longer have any
half-days of leisure to spend in your midst. Your loyalty touches me,
but unfortunately it is of no use. Return to Thule, make your peace
with the King of the Pole, and remember me faithfully, as I shall
always remember you. And now, farewell.”
The ladies and gentlemen fell upon their knees. All were sobbing. Tears
rolled down the cheeks of even the old guards. The White Lady, weeping
softly, clasped Rita in her arms and would not let her go. She gently
released herself, took up her little child again, gave her hand kindly
to all, and slowly approached the door. Here she cast one last look at
the court, the hall, her crown, and her royal robes, kissed the White
Lady for the last time, and in an instant was in the upper world.
At the foot of the old beech, Rita said sadly to her husband: “The
sacrifice is made. The imperial splendor is over forever.”
“No,” replied the poet, bending the knee before her. “To me you are and
always will be the empress, as I felt and recognized you before you had
revealed yourself to me in your magnificence, and so you always will be
to your children also, now and forever.”
And so it was. Wreaths were afterward bestowed on the poet, which he
laid at the feet of his wife. They became prosperous and distinguished,
had numerous children, reared them to be excellent men and women, whom
they taught that they must be better and more competent than ordinary
people; and though no one of them became an emperor or an empress, they
were all such estimable citizens, that, after many, many years, when
Rita was dead, the grateful city placed a monument on the spot upon the
shore where little Margarita Bölgebarn had been found.
THE TAME LION
Once upon a time there lived in the Levant, in a castle surrounded by
palm groves, a wealthy nobleman. He was very fond of hunting, and often
went out to chase gazelles and boars. But in the wooded mountains which
surrounded his estate there were often also tracks of great beasts of
prey: bears, panthers, and even lions, and then he could not rest until
he had driven away or killed them, and thus rid the country of them.
One day lions had again appeared in the neighborhood and destroyed the
farmers’ cows and sheep. They came running to the castle with cries of
grief, begging for help. The nobleman at once organized a hunt. He soon
discovered numerous tracks, which showed that there was a family,
perhaps a whole troop of lions. After a sharp pursuit, they succeeded
in surrounding the robbers in a valley. There were a terribly large and
fierce lion, his lioness, three cubs, and another full-grown lion,
perhaps a brother or a friend of the family. When the huge lion saw
himself driven into a corner, he said to his wife: “Save yourself and
the little ones. I will face the men until you are safe. Then I will
follow. If I should fall, remember me, and bring up the cubs to be
capable lions.”
“I will stay with you,” cried the other lion, standing, eager for
battle, at his side.
“No,” commanded the father of the family. “Cover the retreat of my wife
and children. I will fight my battle with the men alone.”
Springing from the bushes with a terrible roar, he dashed at the
hunters, thus attracting to himself all the arrows and spears, and the
whole pack of dogs also rushed upon him. His companion took advantage
of this to lead the lioness and her three cubs out of the valley in the
opposite direction. The few beaters who were stationed there moved
aside in terror, and when the flying lions had the beaters behind them,
they hurried with long leaps up the mountain, on whose other side they
would be safe.
The lion which had made the stand had struck down with heavy blows of
his mighty paws the first dogs which ventured to rush upon him; but,
pierced by numerous wounds, soon fell himself. He yielded up his life
with one last roar, which thundered through the valley like a farewell
to his fleeing family. Not until he lay dead in his blood on the ground
did the hunters look after the other lions, and discovered them on the
top of the mountain which they had already reached. Instantly a new and
eager chase began, with shouts, winding of horns, and barking of dogs.
The lioness and her companions had a considerable start, and could
easily have escaped their enemies, but the three cubs could not keep up
with them, and fell behind. The hunters and the pack came nearer and
nearer, arrows were already whizzing around them, the little ones
uttered a whine of fear, and their mother stopped.
“Forward! forward!” roared her companion, sternly.
“I will not leave my children to fall into the hands of human beings,”
replied the lioness. Then she quickly but tenderly licked their eyes
and noses, saying, “We must carry them, they cannot keep up.”
She seized two in her mouth by the skin at the back of the neck, the
devoted friend took the third in the same way, and they continued their
flight. The lioness, whose strength was doubled by her maternal love,
dashed forward with tremendous bounds. But the male lion was not used
to carrying a cub in his mouth, the burden delayed him, and he could
not follow the lioness. The hunters were close at his heels, he lost
his presence of mind and dropped the cub intrusted to his care, that he
might fly faster. This cowardly forgetfulness of duty did not save him.
He was struck by several spears, and fell dying. The cub, which was
vainly trying with its little soft paws to run after its mother, who
was already far away, was instantly surrounded by the pack, which would
have made short work of it if their master had not jumped into the
middle of the barking, howling, snapping circle and driven the dogs
back. Seizing the spitting, scratching little lion, he put it in a bag,
and gave the signal with the horn that the hunt was over; for he saw
that the lioness had escaped, and he was very well satisfied with
having killed two grown lions and captured a lion cub alive. When the
lioness saw that the hunters were no longer following her, she lay down
with her two rescued little ones to rest and wait for her companion
with the third. As he did not come, she bravely set out, after several
hours, to look for him, but found only his skinned carcass and no trace
of the third little one. She burst into a piercing wail of grief and
dragged herself slowly back to the two cubs she had left. This day’s
hunt had robbed her of a husband and a child, without counting the
friend. Her lamentations for the dead filled all the animals in the
desert with terror all night long.
Meanwhile the little lion had been taken to the castle, where all the
members of the household gathered around him to admire him. He was the
dearest little creature, no larger than a big cat, with fine yellow
fur, and a heavy tassel at the end of his tail. At first he behaved
badly, biting and scratching everybody who wanted to pat him. But
gradually he grew quiet and became trusting and tame. At his age people
forget quickly and easily accommodate themselves to changes. His mother
and brothers, and the free life in the forests and desert, soon
vanished from his memory; he knew only the human beings who fed him
liberally and treated him kindly; he willingly allowed himself to be
petted, thanking them for it by loud purring and licking with his
little rough tongue, and became a favorite with everybody. He slept in
his master’s room on soft rugs, played and tussled with the children of
the family in the castle courtyard, and ran after the nobleman in his
walks like a dog. He had been given the name of Samson, and came
obediently when he was called. He considered himself a member of the
family and clung to the persons whom he regarded as his relatives with
all the warmth of his lion heart.
He was by no means popular with the other domestic animals. The horses
snorted and kicked if he put his head into their stable or came near
them in the meadow behind the castle, the dogs growled and showed their
teeth, the fowls scattered before him, flapping their wings and
squawking. He was friendly to them all, but they all repulsed him
unkindly. Only the cat was gracious from the beginning and persistently
sought his society. She treated him respectfully and addressed him in
the tone of an inferior. When he grew larger and became a sensible
young lion, she made remarks upon his manner to the other animals. “You
ought not to be too familiar with the rabble of horses and dogs,” she
said.
“Why not?” asked the lion. “Don’t we all live under the same roof? Are
we not companions and friends?”
“No,” replied the cat, “you are a prince, and the others are a race of
slaves. You are a lion, and the others are mares and curs. You treat
them as your equals, and their gratitude is to hate you. They would
gladly kill you.”
“I don’t believe it, cat,” cried the lion, indignantly.
“Yet it is so,” the cat insisted. “To human beings, too, you ought to
be more mindful of your dignity as the son of a king. Do not give your
heart to them. They will reward your love with ingratitude.”
“Now listen,” growled the lion. “I will not allow you to speak ill of
my master and his family. I belong to them and they belong to me; we
are one flesh and blood; I have my recognized place in the household,
and nothing can separate us.”
The cat bowed humbly and stole sadly away, for the lion turned his back
upon her.
Samson grew up to the full size and strength of his species. Yet his
disposition did not change; he remained affectionate to the lord of the
castle and his wife and children, his playmates, and friendly to all
the domestic animals. But gradually they began to treat him
differently. The mistress complained that he smelt badly and would not
allow him to remain in her room. In order not to hurt his feelings, he
was told that he had now grown up, and it was not proper for him to
have his bed at night in his mistress’s room. He was given a sleeping
place in the kennels; but the dogs declared that he was a stranger and
an intruder; they refused to let him stay among them, and to prevent a
riot in the pack, they were obliged to assign a special barn to the
lion. The nobleman’s children no longer wanted to play with him; for
although he submitted to everything from them and lovingly stroked and
licked them when they cuffed and pulled him, they were secretly afraid
of him. If he asked them to romp with him, according to their custom,
in the castle courtyard, they sent him word by a servant that they had
no time, they were busy with their teachers. It became uncomfortable
for the neighboring landowners to meet him roaming freely about, when
they came to the castle, and they accused the owner of carelessness.
“Such beasts can never be trusted,” they said; “sooner or later their
nature will break out.” They repeated this so often that he at last
became uneasy and ordered Samson to be chained. When the servants
prepared to obey this direction, the lion uttered a roar, which made
them start back as fast as possible. They told their master that Samson
rebelled against being confined, and the nobleman went down into the
courtyard himself and said, “Be good, Samson, let us adorn you with
this little chain.”
“But why?” the lion complained. “What have I done to deserve
punishment?”
“It is no punishment,” replied the nobleman soothingly, caressingly
placing, as he spoke, the thick, heavy chain around his neck; “it is a
distinction. You shall ornament my courtyard by day, and be free at
night.”
Samson hung his head and submitted quietly to his master’s will. Now he
was a prisoner, scorned and mocked at by all the occupants of the
courtyard. The horse kicked out at him as it passed, the dogs barked at
him, and did all sorts of naughty things just beyond the reach of his
paws, and even the fowls scratched and cackled boldly close in front of
his terrible jaws. Samson would not notice it. He made himself believe
that all these things were unintentional. “Horses kick because it is
their nature,” he said to himself; “it is the nature of dogs to be
dirty, and the hens show their touching confidence in me by going on
with their affairs just under my nose.”
At night he was always released from his chain and walked around the
castle walls, as a tireless watcher, until the morning. Neither enemy
nor evil-doer dared to come near when he saw on the top of the wall, or
behind the battlements of the tower, in the moonlight, his huge figure
outlined against the dark sky, or on moonless nights heard the thunder
of his voice. On hunting days, too, the lord of the castle unfastened
Samson’s chain and took him with him. Then the lion conquered for him
boars, aurochs, and bears, dragged the prey in his mouth to the castle,
and did work which otherwise would have required twenty brave and
strong huntsmen. And when it was all over, he patiently let the chain
be put on again, licked the aching wounds which he had received in the
battle with the strongest and most dangerous animals in the wilderness,
and rejoiced that he had again been able to be useful to his master.
Then the house cat stole up to him and whispered in his ear: “Prince,
now you see how they treat you! You ought not to submit to this
unworthy fate any longer!”
“Unworthy fate? That, adorned with a magnificent chain, I am placed
beside the gate as the most beautiful ornament of the castle?”
“Ah, Prince, you do not believe that yourself. Use the liberty which is
given you; they want to profit by your strength in hunting! Stay in the
forest! Remember that your home is there, that there you are master!”
But the lion started up and answered fiercely: “Not another word, or
I’ll break your neck. My home is here in the castle. I am the kinsman
and companion of its owners, and will not listen to your senseless
tattle.”
Meanwhile his mother had never forgotten him. She mourned him for years
and always remained in the neighborhood, because she hoped some time to
learn what had happened to him after he had fallen into the hands of
human beings. When the rumor began to spread among the animals of the
woods and the wilderness that the lord of the castle was using a lion
to help him in hunting, a lion, which, contrary to all justice and
custom, attacked the sons of the desert and wrought more havoc among
them than twenty men, it finally reached her ears also, and she
rejoiced loudly, though the monkeys, peacocks, and gazelles brought the
story to her in perplexity and anger. Her mother heart instantly
suspected that the hunting lion of the castle lord was her own lost
son, and she bade one of the two sons who had remained with her to make
inquiries, and to try whether he could not approach his brother and
bring him back to his family.
The lion set out one dark night, trotted swiftly over the desert,
across the mountains, and through the forest to the palm grove, stole
cautiously through it to the wall around the castle, and was just
preparing, by the exertion of all his strength, to leap over it, when a
terrible voice from above thundered, “Who goes there?” At the same
instant he saw two large, fiery eyes glaring at him from the darkness.
The voice, which would have filled any other living creature with
fright, made his heart throb joyfully, for he recognized it as that of
one of his own kin. “A good friend!” he called back in a subdued tone;
“come down to me, if you are free, and, if not, I will come up to you
and set you at liberty.”
“Of course I am free,” replied the lion on the top of the wall,
proudly; “but who are you?”
“I am a lion like yourself; more, I am your brother, your own flesh and
blood. I have come to take you back to our mother, from whom men stole
you when you were very small, and who has never ceased to mourn for
you.”
“You lie!” the lion called back from the wall. “I am no lion, but an
inhabitant of the castle; my brothers are the sons of the lord and lady
of the castle. I have no others. Begone, or it will be the worse for
you!”
The blood of the lion at the foot of the wall began to boil with rage.
“Scoundrel!” he shouted angrily. “You have no lion soul. You have
become a cowardly slave of man. Once more: will you return to us, or
shall we finally thrust you out of our community?”
Samson uttered a roar, which echoed horribly from the distant
mountains, “Begone, if you value your life!” His thundering voice waked
all the inmates of the castle, the dogs began to bark furiously, people
began to move about in all the rooms, weapons clanked, doors banged;
the lion outside heard these threatening noises and thought it
advisable to retreat. He hastened back through the forests and across
the mountains to his mother in the desert, and reported the failure of
his mission.
The lioness listened to his story with deep feeling. “I know now that
my child is living. That is the main thing. We must not wonder that he
is estranged from us. The cunning of men has poisoned his young mind.
But it cannot be difficult to make the voice of blood speak. You did
not understand how to manage him. I will go and talk with him myself.
You shall see that I will bring you a brother who will be glad to have
found his relatives again.”
She scarcely waited for night to close in before she set out for the
castle. Her two sons and several neighbors and friends followed at a
short distance, to aid her in case of danger. The lion was keeping
watch that night even more carefully than usual, saw her coming a long
distance off, and shouted a fierce “Halt!” before she had reached the
foot of the castle wall.
The lioness’s strong heart trembled when she heard the challenge. She
recognized the father’s voice in the son’s. “Your mother has come to
take you home. My son, come down! Let me lick your dear face.”
“You are talking nonsense,” replied the lion, roughly. “I don’t know
you. I am Samson, the comrade of men, and have nothing in common with
such people as you. If you were not a woman, I would show you that I am
not to be insulted with impunity.”
“Is this the way you speak to your mother, who has mourned you for
years?”
“The devil is your son, not I,” Samson answered.
“Is it possible,” groaned the lioness, “you deny your own blood, you
forget your origin, you shame the memory of your glorious father, who
died for you? You cast off your mother, you serve the men who killed
your father, and are your worst enemies—”
Samson’s only answer was to roar: “Loose the dogs! Send out the
archers! The foe!”
The lioness saw that further efforts were useless, and she went back to
the wilderness in bitter grief.
The next morning, when the lord of the castle put on Samson’s chain, as
usual, he scolded him sharply.
“You must be crazy to make such a terrible racket as you have done for
the last two nights. You roused us all out of our sleep.”
“Forgive me, master,” replied Samson, humbly; “there were lions around
the castle with evil designs. I was obliged to do my duty as watchman.”
“Lions?” asked the nobleman, looking at Samson, suspiciously.
“Yes, my lord,” answered Samson; “and I advise you to arrange a great
hunt without delay to destroy the band of robbers.”
The lord of the castle went out of the gate, searched in the
neighborhood of the walls, and soon found numerous lion tracks on the
ground. He called the neighbors together, they appeared with their
packs of hounds in the castle courtyard, and set out with great tumult,
shouting, and barking of dogs for the hunt. Samson waited vainly to be
set free from his chain. When the lord of the castle passed him, he
cried: “And I? Am I not going with you?”
“We shall hunt lions to-day,” replied the lord of the castle.
“That is just why I want to go,” said Samson.
“But they are your relatives,” observed the nobleman, “and it might be
painful for you—”
Samson, deeply offended, interrupted: “My relatives? Have I deserved
this from you? Do I no longer belong to you? What have I in common with
the lion rabble? I beg you to let me share the hunt. You must not
refuse me.”
“As you choose,” muttered the castle lord, and reluctantly unfastened
the chain.
Samson was no sooner free than he sprang out of the gate with
tremendous bounds and rushed to the head of the hunters. Always far in
advance of all the others, he followed with impatient haste for hours
the tracks leading through the desert, until he had overtaken the
lions. When he saw the troop of fugitives, fresh ardor for battle
seemed to seize upon him, and he dashed forward with such fierce
eagerness that the dogs and the hunters could not keep up with him. He
reached the lions almost alone, and with open jaws and a tremendous
roar sprang with a mighty bound into the very midst of their group.
They instantly surrounded him, fiercely attacked him, struck him to the
earth with heavy blows from their paws, and tore his body with teeth
and claws, while his brothers shouted in fury, “Death to the traitor!”
But before they could wound him dangerously, his mother was at his side
roaring to his assailants, “Back! back!” Then she turned to Samson, who
lay bleeding on the ground with foaming jaws: “Go back to your men, if
you find your happiness with them. I lose you to-day for the second
time. Go! go!” Without a single glance behind she continued her flight,
the other lions followed her, and all soon disappeared beyond the
mountains.
Meanwhile the pack had reached Samson, who was left alone. In the heat
of the chase, they either did not recognize him or pretended not to do
so, and pressed upon him thirsting for blood. He was still dazed by the
recent battle, and the sudden attack of his hunting companions so
astonished him, that he made no movement to defend himself. In an
instant ten bloodhounds were hanging to each paw, six to his tail,
eight to his ears, mane, and lips. He could only utter one piteous call
for help, then he died under the bites of countless greedy teeth. His
mother heard his death-cry at a long distance and returned without
delay to help him. She came too late to save her son and could only
share his fate. When the lord of the castle reached the spot, both
lions were dead. He could do nothing but drive away the dogs, that they
might not tear them to pieces and spoil their skins.
The nobleman had these made into a cover for his bed and a rug, and
when afterward he had guests who were strangers, he proudly showed them
the magnificent skins, and told them all the details of the history of
the lions, one of which, amid great peril, he had captured partly with
his own hand and made his chained slave, and the other he had killed in
battle. Then the listeners admired his courage and praised him for his
brave deeds.
THE FLOWER PRISON
Once upon a time a student took a summer journey through Switzerland.
As a good gymnast, he was a bold and skilful mountain climber, who
liked to scale the steepest cliffs and the highest peaks. In many ways
he was an excellent young fellow; but he had no regard for animals and
plants, which enjoy their lives as well as we, and do not harm human
beings. This was very strange because he was a forester’s son, and
people who live in the woods are usually fond of everything that blooms
and runs and flies, except toadstools and beasts of prey. When he lived
at his father’s house, the student shot squirrels and crows, often even
cuckoos and thrushes, which enliven the silent forest with their calls
and songs.
In Switzerland he would have liked to kill chamois and marmots; but he
did not see these pretty creatures except in the zoölogical garden,
where they were safe from his murderous gun. So he vented his love of
destruction on the poor, defenceless flowers. If he came to an Alpine
meadow, he behaved like a savage. He gathered all the blossoms he could
reach, not a few to put in his hat, not to dry one or another to keep
as a memento of the beautiful days of travel, not even to give to
beloved friends or acquaintances, but from pure wantonness. He pulled
them by dozens, by hundreds, till he had an immense bunch, which he
carried for a while until he grew tired, and then merely threw it away.
He was especially fond of plucking Alpine roses and edelweiss, not only
because they are particularly beautiful, but because they grow in
places very hard to climb, so it needs much strength, skill, and
courage to reach them.
One day he had again climbed the mountains with alpenstock and
knapsack, and came to the border line of the perpetual snow. Below him
lay the dark pine woods and the sunny pastures, on which cows with
tinkling bells were grazing. He could only hear the distant sound, but
did not see the cattle, the meadow, and the huts of the herdsmen, for
he was far above the clouds and they concealed everything below. Before
him was a steep field, completely covered with Alpine roses. Here and
there an edelweiss raised its velvety, star-shaped blossom above the
green grass. The student tore up all the flowers he saw, the single
ones, those growing in bunches, the full-blown blossoms, the partly
opened ones, and the buds. All were stuffed into his knapsack, which
was soon filled. After spending an hour in this way, there were no more
flowers to pick. The field, which had looked like a carpet richly
embroidered with gold and silver, was now entirely green.
He looked around to try to discover a few more victims, and saw at some
distance above him a large rock, which projected like a huge nose from
the precipice. This boulder was completely covered with the most
beautiful edelweiss. He had never seen so many of these wonderful
blossoms in one place. It seemed as though they had fled there to find
a refuge where they would be safe from the pursuit of hostile men, for
it was almost impossible to reach them. The overhanging rock was
connected with the mountain only by a narrow ridge like a bridge, and
even this was so steep and rough that it would have been difficult even
for a chamois to cross it.
“Aha, there’s something for me!” cried the student, joyously, and at
once prepared to risk the dangerous crossing and reach the rock, where
he meant to seize the edelweiss. But he had scarcely touched the narrow
ridge, where he could only move forward on his hands and knees, when he
suddenly saw a woman’s figure. Raising her finger in warning, she
called loudly, “Stop!”
He stood up and stared at her in astonishment. Where could she have
come from? he wondered. Had she perhaps been lying in the tall grass so
that he did not see her? Her appearance was rather unlike other women.
She was dainty, delicate rather than strong, small rather than large.
She wore a full white silk gown over a green petticoat, and her little
silvery white feet were bare. In her golden hair was a wreath of the
most beautiful flowers of every color. In spite of her anger, her face
was very lovely, and she was surrounded by a delicious perfume like the
fragrance of roses, lilies, violets, and carnations, which could be
noticed at a considerable distance.
The student quickly recovered from his surprise and took a step
forward. But the stranger cried a second time: “Stop! No farther!”
“Why not?” he asked insolently. “Does this mountain belong to you?”
“Back!” she called, without answering his question, “you have nothing
to do here.”
“You are very familiar,” he replied scornfully; “perhaps we know each
other?”
“I know you,” said the stranger. “You are a wicked man. You are a
murderer of the flowers. Look at your knapsack! It is filled with
blossoms which you have cruelly killed. But you shall at least leave me
these edelweiss. Why do you pursue them here? Cannot they be safe, even
thus high above the world, from your designs?”
“I will not answer you in the same familiar way,” replied the student,
merrily; “for it is my habit to be courteous to young ladies. But I
shall not turn back for your sermon, excellent as it is. The flowers
are for human beings. I want these edelweiss, and I shall do whatever I
choose with them.”
He again began to climb and creep forward. The stranger drew back
before him, exclaiming, “You will repent it.” He only laughed and soon
reached the projecting rock. The white-robed girl was standing in the
midst of the edelweiss, which were turning their silvery stars toward
her from every direction as if imploring her aid.
“Let me warn you for the last time,” she cried; “do not sin against me
and my flowers!”
The young man’s only answer was to break off a number of the finest
edelweiss and offer the bouquet, with a mocking bow, to the beautiful,
angry girl. She dealt him a light blow on the hand. It was as if a
butterfly had brushed him with its wings in passing; but a shock darted
like lightning through fingers and arm to the shoulder, and he was
obliged to drop the flowers as if paralyzed.
“You have pronounced your own sentence. Go; before the day is over your
punishment will overtake you,” she said solemnly, and before he could
make any reply she had vanished.
Fear suddenly seized him, and he hurried as fast as he could away from
the mysterious rock with the edelweiss, down to the pasture where the
cows with the tinkling bells were grazing. He felt relieved when he saw
the herdsman, asked for a drink of milk, and told him the strange
adventure he had just had.
The herdsman listened intently, and said: “Do you know who that was? It
was the Flower Queen.”
“What? Have you a Flower Queen in free Switzerland?” asked the student,
forcing a jesting tone.
“Don’t mock,” replied the herdsman, very gravely. “She is powerful, and
it is not wise to make her angry.”
The student wished to inquire still farther, and went on: “Queer that
the royal lady runs about barefoot! Doesn’t she catch cold up here? Or
is she trying the Kneipp cure?”
The herdsman cast a sullen look at him, turned his back, and went into
his hut, whose door he banged loudly behind him. The student said no
more and continued his way down the mountain.
True, he did not exactly believe the story of the Flower Queen and her
power, yet he could not conquer a feeling of anxiety, and was much more
careful in climbing than usual. He reached the little town at the foot
of the mountains without accident, went to his hotel, flung the
knapsack with the Alpine flowers carelessly into a corner of his room,
and dressed for dinner.
When he opened his door to go to the dining room, he suddenly stood
still in astonishment. In the corridor was a dense mass of flowers,
which formed a ring around him. There were Alpine roses and edelweiss,
gentians, rhododendrons, and violets, such as he had gathered in his
love of destruction in the meadow above. And not only these, but tall,
proud lilies and irises, modest forget-me-nots and primroses, fragrant
jasmines and scentless corn-flowers and poppies, which he was in the
habit of tearing up or breaking with his cane in his walks through the
fields and meadows. He rubbed his eyes. His senses must be deceiving
him. He had never seen these flowers in the passage before. To convince
himself of their reality, he stepped forward and stretched his hand
toward them. The flowers drew back the same distance, and were beyond
his reach. He turned toward the side—the same thing happened. The
flowers moved away before him and followed behind. Not until he almost
struck the wall with his nose did the blossoms vanish before him; but
wherever there was room for them on the floor to remain at the proper
distance, they stood in close ranks about him. The flower circle moved
with him, swiftly or slowly, as he walked quickly or slowly, stopped
when he stopped, kept always at the same distance, and opened only when
it met a wall or some similar obstruction.
“Hocus-pocus,” he muttered, turning on his heel to convince himself
that he was shut in on all sides. After a moment’s thought, he shrugged
his shoulders, thinking: “What harm will it do me? On the contrary, it
is very amusing to be accompanied by a guard of flowers.”
He now went downstairs to the dining hall, where many other persons had
gathered. He had secretly hoped that he was the only person who saw the
ring of flowers, and it would be invisible to every one else. But he
found at once that this was by no means the case. He had scarcely
entered, surrounded by his moving circle of blossoms, when all the
guests stopped eating and stared at him. Some half rose from their
seats to see better, others even left them and came nearer. One little
girl cried out, “Oh, look at the lovely flowers which are moving near
us!” ran to the ring, and tried to gather a lily. But her hand grasped
only the empty air, and running back to her mother, she hid her face in
the folds of her gown, afraid of these queer flowers which the eye saw,
yet the fingers could not touch.
The student pretended not to notice the stir in the dining room, and
rapped for the waiter. The man came, started at the sight of the
flowers which surrounded the guest and his table, and at first seemed
to wish to climb over them. After a short hesitation, he changed his
mind, and without heeding the student’s impatient calls he went quickly
to the head waiter to tell him the extraordinary thing which he had
just seen. The head waiter told the proprietor of the hotel, and the
latter went himself to the student, toward whom all eyes were turned.
“Sir,” said the landlord, “we cannot have any jugglery here. I beg you
to stop this trick.”
“I won’t allow you to say such things to me,” cried the student,
excitedly. “I’m no juggler, I am a student.”
“Then put a stop to this flower show,” ordered the hotel keeper,
sternly.
The student only shrugged his shoulders, muttering impatiently, “I
cannot.”
“In that case,” replied the hotel-keeper, “I must ask you to leave my
house at once.”
“Very well,” answered the student, “I’ll go early to-morrow morning.
But give me something to eat now, for I’ve been climbing among the
mountains all day and am hungry.”
“No, you’ll get nothing here, and I can’t keep you till to-morrow,”
said the hotel-keeper, resolutely.
The student could do nothing but rise and leave the dining room, still
surrounded by his flower ring, which steadily kept pace with him. When
he reached his chamber and began to pack, he found his knapsack empty.
All the flowers with which he had filled it had disappeared.
He was obliged to carry his baggage himself, for no hotel servant or
porter would be seen in the street with him and his moving circle of
flowers. Children and grown people ran after him with shouts, and at
every hotel where he went with his escort of flowers and yelling
street-urchins he was refused admittance. He could get neither a warm
supper nor a bed, and had nothing to do except, late in the evening, to
take a train and leave the inhospitable little city.
He had scarcely entered the station when the flowers vanished. He
uttered a sigh of relief, for he thought he was freed from his flower
prison. The Flower Queen, he believed gleefully, probably only had
power in her mountain and in the valley at its foot. It went no
farther. But he was very much mistaken, as he was soon to discover. The
flowers had disappeared only because, in the narrow space, whose walls
he could reach everywhere by stretching out his hands and feet, there
was no room for their circle. But he had scarcely gone out after a very
uncomfortable night, scarcely set foot on the broad steps of the
station, when the ring closed around him and moved on at the same pace.
Fury seized him and he hurled his long alpenstock into the midst of the
thick, fresh blossoms. Like lightning they swayed far apart, though
without separating, and the staff did not touch them. When, grinding
his teeth, he picked it up, the gap closed, and the circle was as
regular as before. He saw that it would do no good to act like a crazy
man. The flower prison was securely fastened. He could not escape from
it. All the running, leaping, striking, and throwing missiles was
useless. The flowers were more nimble than he, and the distance between
him and the wide hedge of living flowers never changed.
He actually hated the bright blossoms, whose beauty seemed to mock him,
and shut his eyes so that he could not see them. But he could smell
their perfume, and the delicious fragrance would not let him forget
them for a moment. To escape, he took the only way which had proved
possible. Amid the stares of all the people in the railroad station, he
went on the first train and travelled without stopping home to his
father, the forester.
When the forester saw his son surrounded by his guard of rare and
common flowers, mountain and field blossoms, he remained motionless
with amazement, and could scarcely find words to ask, “Boy, what does
this mean?”
The student told him how the ring had suddenly sprung up around him,
and had left him only in the railroad station; but did not mention his
destruction of the Alpine blossoms and his meeting with the Flower
Queen.
“Oh, father,” he pleaded, after he had finished his story, “help me,
tell me how I can escape from this flower prison. If I don’t get rid of
it, it will be impossible for me to live among human beings.”
The forester thought a long time, then he said: “I have never seen such
a thing, and don’t understand it. But so far as I know, flowers don’t
bloom here in the winter. It will soon be autumn. Stay in the house
till the frost comes. That will probably kill your blossoms, unless all
the laws of nature fail.”
This was a happy thought. The student threw his arms around his wise
father’s neck. He was obliged to interrupt his studies, for he could
not return to the university. But he tried to have patience. Four
months would soon be over, then Christmas would come, and his misery
would be ended.
To shut out the unbearable sight of the flowers, he locked himself into
an attic room, which was almost as small as a closet. No prison could
be so uncomfortable as this tiny chamber. But he preferred to be
surrounded by board walls, rather than by the moving circle of flowers.
He ventured out of his hiding place only on dark nights to stretch his
stiff limbs a trifle by a walk through the forest, and to breathe a
little fresh air. He did not mind running against trees and stumbling
over stumps and roots. He preferred anything, even bruises, bumps, and
aching limbs, to his prison of flowers. Yet even during the darkest
nights they did not remain wholly invisible; for besides the fragrance,
a faint light came from the blossoms, and they shone around him like an
army of glow-worms.
He found the time very long, but it gradually passed, and Christmas
came. The winter proved unusually severe. The snow lay heaped
breast-high, and in the December nights one could hear the boughs,
outside cracking in the forest. After a very cold night, the student
ventured out into the forest early in the morning. He had scarcely
passed the door of the house when the circle of flowers closed around
him. He waded through the deep snow, muttering grimly, “Just wait a
little while, this will finish you.” He stayed in the woods until he
was almost frozen. His nose was blue, his ears were stiff, his fingers
like ice; but the flowers did not seem to be injured by the cold, and
were as fresh and fragrant on the snow as if it were the loveliest May
day. So, after several hours of suffering, the student went back to the
forest house, and with chattering teeth said, “Father, the frost will
kill me before it harms those hateful flowers.”
“Yes, my poor boy,” replied his father, sadly, “and now my knowledge is
over. Think for yourself till you find some way to break this magic
spell.”
The student shut himself up again in his tiny garret room, and thought
of his misfortune and how he could escape from it. At last he had an
idea. Perhaps his father was right; the cold must surely kill the
flowers, only the frost was not severe enough here. Suppose he should
go to the north pole, or as near it as he could get? He would see
whether the blossoms would stand it there too.
No sooner was this plan thought of than it was done. His preparations
were soon made, and that very evening he left his home to go through
the fog and darkness to take the train in the nearest city. For several
days he travelled without stopping straight toward the north, as far as
the railroad went, then he went on board a whaler, which carried him
far up into the icy seas, and did not leave the vessel until the frozen
water would allow no farther passage. But he had scarcely set his foot
upon the boundless plain of ice when the whole circlet of flowers
sprang up on it and moved along with him as gayly as ever, blossoming
as brightly about him as if the mildest spring breeze was stirring
their petals.
This time the student determined to defy them. He set forth, dragging
after him a little sledge loaded with provisions, thinking spitefully
how much the blossoms would suffer in the fierce winter cold. The
northern lights alone brightened the gloomy, pathless wilderness of
ice; the polar bears often trotted up to him, but stopped when they saw
the unknown flowers, and dared not cross their circle. For a week the
young man bore all the discomforts of the polar night; the cold, and
the tiresome tramping over the rough ice; then he saw that the flowers
were not harmed in the least, and discouraged and disheartened he gave
up the trial. Now he attempted to find a ship again. It was not easy,
and when, after many anxious days, he at last discovered one, he sailed
back, always keeping shut in his cabin, to Hamburg.
What was to be done next? The flowers could bear the most severe cold
without injury; he knew that. Perhaps drought and a hot sun would be
worse for them. He determined to go at once to the desert of Sahara,
where no plant can live. Over land and sea, in cars and ships, he
hastened to Africa, and made his way into the wilderness as fast as he
could. When the camels saw his ring of flowers, they dashed madly up to
feed on them. But they only bit the empty air, and looked so
disappointed and astonished that the student would have laughed
heartily if he had felt inclined to be merry. The Bedouins, too,
gathered around the stranger, staring in wonder at the magnificent
flowers on the burning yellow sand, where they had never seen even a
blade of grass or a tiny green leaf. Then they threw themselves in the
dust before him, believing that he must be some great magician. They
invited him into their tents, entertained him with milk and dates, and
made him understand that they wanted him to be their chief.
The flowers throve in the heat of the desert just as well as in the ice
at the pole. The student soon saw this. But here they attracted
flattering notice, and instead of making him miserable brought him
dignity and honor. He became accustomed to the thought of spending his
life among the Bedouins as their lord and ruler. Under such pleasant
circumstances his flower prison did not trouble him, and he snapped his
fingers at the Flower Queen. It was hard to give up his home; but he
was still young, and who could tell what might happen.
But his comfort did not last long. The former ruler, whom the Bedouins
had removed on his account, plotted to ruin his successor. He persuaded
the oldest men of the tribe to ask the Father of the Flowers, as they
called the student, for a perpetually flowing spring and frequent rain
for their oasis. They followed the crafty Bedouin’s advice. The
student, though he could not understand a word of Arabic, knew very
well what they wanted, and replied that he could not fulfil their wish.
They did not believe it, for a magician who could make a thick, fresh
hedge of flowers grow out of the sand of the desert must surely be able
to give them a spring and rain if he only would. His refusal was
nothing but sheer malice, for which they would punish him. They agreed
to kill him in the night. A Bedouin woman, who pitied the young
foreigner, warned him in time, and with her help he escaped in the
twilight.
The glory of ruling and the pleasant life were again over. In despair
he returned to Europe, and when he reached the coast of the
Mediterranean, he asked himself whether it would not be the wisest
thing he could do to jump into the sea and end his imprisonment by
death. But when he was preparing for this wicked act, a secret voice
said: “Perhaps I can soothe the Flower Queen. She looked so young and
lovely. She cannot be pitiless.”
He summoned fresh courage and again travelled day and night, over sea
and land, until he reached Switzerland and the foot of the mountain
chain, where the misfortune had overtaken him. Still surrounded by the
circle of flowers, he climbed with his knapsack to the pine-wood and
the pasture up above the clouds to the steep hillside, saw the
projecting rock, with the dense growth of edelweiss, and with a
throbbing heart climbed across the narrow ridge to the overhanging
boulder. He had scarcely stepped on it when the Flower Queen stood
before him, looked sternly at him, and exclaimed, “Are you here again?”
At the same moment his ring of blossoms scattered, all the flowers
hastened to their Queen, surrounding and nestling closely to her, and
for the first time in many months he was free from his prison, even in
the open air.
Kneeling before the Flower Queen, he raised his hands beseechingly and
said humbly: “Fair Queen, be content with my punishment. Forgive the
crime I committed against you and your flowers, and which I deeply
repent.”
She was silent a short time, and then replied, “Repentance is not
enough; I demand atonement.”
“What shall I do to atone?” he asked anxiously.
“Look at this slope below us. It resembled a gay carpet. Now it is
wholly green, not a single blossom adorns it. You must plant it with
flowers again. When you have made it as gay as it was before, the
punishment shall be taken from you.”
The student wanted to ask her how he should set to work, but she
disappeared, and his flower prison, which had separated, once more
closed around him. He went back to the field, sat down on the grass,
and wondered how he should begin to plant flowers here. Suddenly a
thought darted through his brain. He started up and stretched his hand
toward the circle of flowers. Lo!—it did not move back, his hand did
not grasp the air, but seized a beautiful clump of Alpine violets,
which quietly allowed him to hold them. He pulled gently—the violets,
with all their delicate roots, remained in his hand. True, there was no
gap in the ring, another flower sprang up in the place of the clump of
violets. Digging a hole in the ground with his penknife and his
fingers, he planted the violets and moved away several steps. His ring
of flowers followed, but the violets remained.
Now he knew enough. He hurried down to the little city, bought, amid
the stares of the people, gardening tools and provisions enough to last
for some time, and went back to the field above the clouds. From dawn
till twilight he worked with the greatest industry, dug hole after
hole, took flower after flower from his ring, planted them, watered
them abundantly from a neighboring spring, and scarcely allowed himself
fifteen minutes rest for his scanty meals.
Three or four weeks passed, a large portion of the field was again gay
with beautiful flowers growing thickly together, when to his intense
joy he noticed that the flowers which he still drew from his ring were
no longer replaced with others. The circular hedge first grew narrower,
then gaps appeared, then one-quarter, one-half, three-quarters
vanished, and one day he put the last blossom in the earth, and there
was nothing more left of the ring. He knelt again and called aloud,
“Oh, Queen, are you satisfied with my work?”
But the Flower Queen did not appear, only a strange movement ran
through the countless blossoms in the field, as though they were all
nodding their lovely little heads.
The student picked up his knapsack and went down to the valley. He cast
stolen glances around him on the way, but no flower followed. He was
really free from his prison of blossoms, and could again live with
other men.
But while planting the Alpine meadow he had gained such a taste for
gardening that he resolved to devote himself to this profession. So he
became a very famous florist, and several beautiful varieties of
flowers, which he introduced from foreign countries, still bear his
name.
LIFE AND DEATH
At the foot of a giant mountain, with a snow-capped head, lay a quiet
valley, through which flowed a swift little stream. Its waves bathed
the roots of an ancient oak, which was reflected in the water. Under
the shadow of the tree grew masses of blue gentians and other flowers,
and in its top a very wise old raven had built a nest.
It was a midsummer day, the gentians were in bloom, and their petals
began to droop in the heat. Then one blossom, whose neighbor had
already lost half its leaves, began to complain: “How miserable we poor
flowers are, and what a sad fate we have! We enjoy our lives only
during one short spring. A few kisses from the sun, a few beautiful
nights under the dew and the moonbeams, a few caresses from the evening
breeze, a few visits from the moths and pretty gold beetles, a few bird
songs, then all the pleasure is over, and it never comes back again.
Before we fairly have time to enjoy our lives, they are ended. How much
happier is this oak, whose branches rustle above us! It has seen
thousands of generations of gentians bloom and fade away, yet it still
lives and perhaps will enjoy the pleasures of spring a thousand years
more.”
She paused and hung her little head sorrowfully. But a roaring noise
passed through the boughs of the old oak, and the tree in a dry,
grating voice answered:—
“Little fool, you talk as you understand. Yes, I live longer than you
do. But you are very much mistaken if you imagine that I am to be
envied on that account. The spring sun kisses you awake, as a mother
rouses her child. You grow without any troubles, and your life is all
pleasure. You know nothing except the joy of spring and the happiness
of summer, you do not have to bear the sorrows of autumn. You have no
enemies, you don’t know what it is to struggle and to suffer, you see
nothing in the world except beauty and pleasure. But I—all through my
youth I had to defend myself against numberless enemies who wanted to
take my life. I was attacked by grubs and worms, caterpillars and
beetles, the greedy teeth of grazing animals, and the poison of tiny
fungi. After I had escaped all these perils and grew up, what was my
fate? Storms vented their fury on me, tossed me about, and even broke
my branches. The lightning tore my bark in long strips from my body,
and gave me cruel wounds. Look at me—I am completely covered with
scars.
“Autumn plucked off all my leaves every year, and winter pierced me to
my inmost heart with cold. Long after you were sunning yourselves
happily in the spring, I was scarcely thawed out, and still felt the
pricking of the sap as it began to ascend into the frozen boughs. Even
during the few pleasant weeks that my scanty blossoms adorned me, I
could not help thinking anxiously of the coming winter and its
tortures. So what do I gain by living longer than you? I have already
been here a thousand years, and when I look back, it seems but a single
day. The moments of happiness were rare, and all the rest was trouble,
toil, and suffering. If I loved a bird that built its nest in my
branches, or a flower that grew at my foot, I saw them disappear and
had to mourn them. Now I am old, my trunk is hollow, worms are gnawing
my roots, my branches are dying. Bit by bit my mouldering body will
fall into ruin, until pitiless time has entirely destroyed me. I envy
you the unvarying beauty and happiness of your life and its swift, easy
end. If we must die, it makes no difference whether it is a little
sooner or a little later. Ah, if we never grew old, if we could live
forever like the mountain giant above us! If you wish a different lot,
wish for his, not mine.”
All was still for a time, then the mountain shook with rumbling,
groaning noises, and in deep, yawning sounds it spoke slowly, in short
sentences, interrupted by long pauses:—
“Oak, oak, have you no more sense than the blue thing yonder, the
little gentian? Nonsense about my eternity. I, too, shall some day
perish. Nothing in the world is eternal. The earth itself is not—nor
the sun. The air and the water both gnaw at me. They wear me away
continually. You are growing. I am constantly becoming smaller. Some
day there will be nothing left. Then it will be as if I never had
existed, even though I have lasted so long. True, I feel no sorrow over
it. What does it matter whether I live a long or a short time? There is
no pleasure in my existence. Here I stand year after year, staring out
into the world. Everything is the same to me, summer and winter, day
and night. Nothing stirs within me. I feel nothing. I hope for nothing.
I am afraid of nothing. I do not grow as you do. I do not draw up
joyously, with thirsty roots, the juices of the earth. I put forth no
leaves and blossoms. I ripen no fruits. No descendants spring up around
me. I experience nothing pleasant, and nothing unpleasant.
“I think little, I dream dully, am terribly bored, and scarcely notice
what is going on around me. Everything is stupid and uninteresting. How
gladly I would change places with you! Or even with the gentians that
live only one summer. You feel something. I—nothing.”
At this moment the raven in the top of the tree croaked loudly. “Look
there!” he called to the mountain, the oak, and the flowers, pointing
with his beak and wings to the brook which rippled through the valley.
Above the little stream rose countless tiny, winged creatures, which
hovered over it like a thick cloud. It was a swarm of ephemeræ. They
spread their delicate, transparent wings, breathed the fresh air,
bathed their dainty bodies in the warm sunbeams. Intoxicated by the
light and the warmth, the sweet air, thrilling in every nerve with joy
and excitement, they began to dance: singly, in couples, in bands. They
darted to and fro, swung in circles, whirled around hither and thither,
up and down, with twitching legs and beating wings. Their eyes shone
with pleasure. Their shrill buzzing expressed the greatest joy. They
felt neither hunger nor thirst, but feasted on the air and sunshine.
They did not think of what might be before them. They did not puzzle
their brains about what might happen after. The present hour was
theirs, and that was enough. They were alive now, they were enjoying
all the pleasures of the summer world, they were perfectly happy.
The sun reached his noonday height and sank toward the west, but the
ephemeræ did not heed it. They went on dancing, absorbed in their wild
whirl, rejoicing in their mutual happiness, until the day was nearly
over and the evening shadows began to gather in the valley. Then a
delightful weariness stole over them, a pleasant, drowsy feeling
destroyed their joy in dancing and dulled their senses. They drew up
their legs, folded their wings, and sank down from the air upon the
brook. The wonderful memories of the happy day, which filled their
little heads, grew less distinct, everything around them became misty,
and they fell asleep sweetly, like children who have played until they
are tired. But they were not asleep. They were dead.
When their little bodies covered the surface of the stream, the wise
raven said to the mountain, the oak, and the gentian: “A long life, a
short life, matters nothing. A beautiful life. That is happiness.”
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