Part 4

He returned to the great hall where he had had supper the night before, and found breakfast ready on a little table. He drank his chocolate, and then went out to look for his horse. As he was passing under an arbor of roses, he remembered Beauty’s request to him, and gathered a branch on which were several roses. Immediately he heard a loud roar, and saw stalking towards him so frightful a beast that he was ready to faint with fear.

“You are most ungrateful,” said the beast in a terrible voice. “I saved your life by admitting you to my palace, and in return you steal my roses, which I value more than anything in the world. But your insolence shall not go unpunished; you shall die for it.”

The poor merchant threw himself on his knees before the beast, and cried: “Pardon me, my lord. I had no intention of offending you by gathering a rose for one of my daughters, who desired me to bring her one.”

“I am not a lord, but a beast,” replied the monster. “I hate flattery and compliments; so do not fancy you can move me by your fine speeches. You say you have daughters; now I will spare you if you will give me one of your daughters. If not, promise that you will yourself return in three months.”

The merchant had no intention of sacrificing one of his daughters, but he knew that if he agreed to come back he should see his children once more. So he promised to return, and the beast told him he might set out when he pleased; “but,” he added, “you need not go empty-handed. Go back to the room in which you slept, and you will see a great empty chest; fill it with whatever you like best, and I will have it taken to your house for you.” Then the beast left him.

“Well,” said the good man to himself, “if I must die, I shall at least have the comfort of leaving my children provided for.”

He returned to the room, and found there heaps of gold pieces. With these he filled the chest. Then he went to the stable, took his horse, and left the palace in a far sadder mood than that in which he had entered it.

In a few hours he reached home, and his children came running out to meet him. Instead of embracing them with joy, he gazed at them sadly and, holding out the branch of roses he had in his hand, said, “Here, Beauty, take them; you little know how much they have cost your poor father.”

Then he told them all that had happened to him. The two eldest sisters began to lament loudly, and to reproach Beauty, saying that it was all her fault.

“See,” they said, “what comes from her pride. She would not ask for such things as we did, but wanted to seem wiser than we; so now she will be the death of our poor father, and yet she does not so much as shed a tear.”

“Why should I?” said Beauty. “It would be useless, for my father shall not suffer on my account. As the beast will accept one of the daughters, I will gladly give myself up in his stead.”

“No, indeed!” said her three brothers; “that shall not be. We will go and find the monster, and either kill him or perish in the attempt.”

“Do not imagine you can do any such thing,” said the merchant. “I have seen him and know that his power is too great. But I will not consent to Beauty’s offer. I am old, and have not long to live, so I can lose only a few years. I am only sorry for you, my children.”

But Beauty insisted, saying, “Indeed, father, you shall not go to the palace without me; you cannot hinder me from following you.”

The merchant was so distressed at the thought of losing his daughter that he quite forgot the chest filled with gold; but at night, when he retired to his room, he found, to his great surprise, the chest standing by his bedside. He decided to say nothing of his riches to his eldest daughters, for he knew they would want to return to town at once; but he told Beauty his secret, and she then told him that while he was away two gentlemen came and courted her sisters. She begged her father to consent to their marriage, and give them their portions, for she was so sweet-tempered that she wished them to be happy.

When the day came Beauty got ready to set out with her father for the home of the beast. The horse took the direct road to the palace, and they arrived there all too soon. As they approached they found the windows brilliantly lighted as before. The horse went at once to the stable of his own accord, and the merchant and his daughter went into the great hall, where they found a table loaded with every dainty and set with two plates. The merchant had no heart to eat, but Beauty, trying to appear cheerful, sat down and served both him and herself. After supper they heard a great noise, and the merchant began to bid his child a sad farewell. In a moment the beast entered. Beauty was terrified at the frightful form, but she tried not to show her fear.

“Good evening, Beauty,” said the beast. “Have you come here willingly?”

“Yes,” she faltered.

“You are very good, and I am greatly obliged to you,” he growled; and turning to the father, he added: “As for you, old man, you are to go your way to-morrow morning, and never to return here again. Good night, merchant. Good night, Beauty.”

“Good night, Beast,” she answered, and the monster withdrew.

Again the merchant tried to persuade Beauty to go back without him, but she would not hear to it. They went to bed, thinking they should not close their eyes all night; but as soon as they lay down they fell fast asleep. Beauty dreamed that a stately and beautiful lady came to her, and said: “I am very much pleased, dear Beauty, with the goodness you have shown in giving yourself to save your father. Do not be afraid; you shall be rewarded. Only do not trust to appearances.”

Beauty told this dream to her father in the morning; but though it comforted him a little, he wept bitterly when he took leave of his dear child, for he feared he might never see her again.

When her father was out of sight poor Beauty could not help crying, but she had made up her mind to be brave, and she proceeded to explore the various rooms of the palace. What was her surprise when she came to a door over which was written, “BEAUTY’S ROOM.” She opened it in haste, and found a magnificently furnished room; but what delighted her most was a large library, a harpsichord, and several music books. She concluded that all this would not be provided for her if she had only a day to live, and she took courage. Her surprise increased when she opened one of the books and found on the first page, in letters of gold, these words:

“Welcome, Beauty! banish fear! You are queen and mistress here; Speak your wishes, speak your will,— You will find them granted still.”

“Alas!” said she, sighing, “there is nothing I wish so much as to see my father and know what he is doing.”

She happened to turn towards a large mirror that was hanging near her, and there she saw her father arriving sadly at home. Her sisters came out to meet him, and in spite of their efforts to look sorrowful, it was plain that in their hearts they were very glad to see him return alone. The picture disappeared, and Beauty felt very grateful to the beast for thus giving her her wish.

At noon she found dinner ready, and was entertained at table with music, though she could see no player. After dinner she found she was very sleepy, and went to lie down in her room. She fell asleep instantly, and dreamed that a handsome young Prince came to her, and said: “Beauty, you need not be so unhappy here as you expect. All your wishes will be granted. Only try to find me out, and love me as I love you, and above all do not trust to appearances.”

In the evening, as she was going to sit down to supper, the beast came and asked leave to sit with her at table. She was frightened, but tried not to show it, saying, “That is as you please.”

“No,” replied the beast, “you alone are mistress here. You need only tell me to go, if my presence troubles you, and I will withdraw at once. Everything here is yours, and I should be much distressed if you were not happy.”

Presently he inquired if she did not think him very ugly.

“Yes,” said Beauty, “but I think you are very kind, too.”

They talked for some time, and Beauty found her fear of him almost gone, when suddenly, just as they were leaving the table, the beast said, “Beauty, will you marry me?”

Beauty was so startled that she could hardly speak, but she faltered out, “Oh, no! Beast.”

“Then good night, Beauty,” said the beast, very sadly, and left the room.

Beauty felt very sorry for him, but she soon went to bed and dreamed of the unknown prince who had been in her mind all day. This time she thought he came and said to her: “Ah, Beauty! why are you so unkind to me? Must I be unhappy always?”

She could not understand it, but when she woke she thought that he must be in some way in the power of the beast, and began to wonder how she could help him.

The days passed quickly enough in the lovely palace. Every evening the beast came to her, and they had entertaining talks together. Beauty began to look forward to his visits, for she had become accustomed to his ugliness, and found him very kind and interesting. But one thing gave her great concern: every night, before he left her, the beast asked her to become his wife. One night she said to him: “Beast, you make me unhappy, for I can only offer you friendship. I cannot love you.”

He begged her at least to promise never to leave him; but Beauty had seen in the glass that day that her father was sick with grief at the loss of her. Her sisters were married and her brothers had gone into the army, so he was all alone. She had so great a longing to see him that she told the beast that she should die if he refused her leave.

“Indeed, I had rather die of grief for your absence,” replied the beast, “than that you should be unhappy. You shall be there to-morrow morning.”

Beauty promised to return in a week, and the beast told her that she had only to lay her ring on the table before she went to bed, when she wanted to come back, and she would find herself in the palace.

When she woke the next morning she found herself in her father’s cottage, and his delight at seeing her soon made him well again. He sent for her sisters, who came with their husbands. They were both unhappily married, one to a man who was so vain of his good looks that he cared nothing for his wife, the other to a man who was so sarcastic that he tired everybody out with his speeches, and teased his poor wife most of all. The sisters were so jealous at seeing Beauty so magnificently dressed, and hearing how kind the beast was to her, that they laid a plan to detain her longer than the week she had intended to stay, in hopes that this might make the beast angry, so that he would devour her. Accordingly, when the week was over, they affected such grief at her departure that Beauty was touched by their affection and agreed to stay longer. She could not help reproaching herself for staying, but she could not make up her mind to wish herself back when they urged her so strongly.

But on the night of the tenth day she dreamed that she saw the beast lying half-dead on the grass in the palace garden. Waking in tears, she reproached herself bitterly for her ingratitude, and rose, put her ring on the table, and then went back to bed, where she fell asleep again. When she woke the next morning she was overjoyed to find herself back at the palace. She put on one of her richest dresses to please him, and waited impatiently till evening; but nine o’clock struck, and still no beast appeared. Then Beauty remembered her dream and ran to the garden to search for him. At last she found the path she had seen in her dream, and there lay the poor beast senseless on the grass. Forgetting his ugliness, she threw herself on him in despair, and felt that his heart was still beating. Then she ran to fetch some water from the spring, and weeping, poured it on his head. The beast opened his eyes, and said faintly: “You forgot your promise, and I did not care to live without you, so I determined to starve myself; but since you are come, I shall die happy.”

“No, you shall not die, dear Beast!” cried Beauty; “for I love you, and want you to be my husband.”

She had scarcely spoken these words when a blaze of light streamed from the palace windows, fireworks were displayed, and triumphant strains of music sounded. Beauty turned to the beast to inquire what had happened, but he had disappeared, and in his place stood the Prince of her dreams, whom she had loved so long. He thanked her for having broken his enchantment.

“But where is my poor beast?” asked Beauty, anxiously.

“I am he,” replied the Prince. “A wicked fairy condemned me to remain in that form till some beautiful maiden should love me and consent to marry me in spite of my ugliness.”

The Prince conducted Beauty to the palace, where they were welcomed by the stately lady of her dream, who was the mother of the Prince, and who thanked her for restoring her son to his proper form. She found her father there, too. The young couple were married the very next day, and the Prince and his beautiful bride were heartily welcomed by his subjects, who had long mourned his absence. Beauty and the Prince reigned happily for many, many, long years.

THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER

There were once five and twenty tin soldiers. They were brothers, for they had all been made out of the same old tin spoon. They all shouldered their muskets and looked straight before them. Their uniforms were very smart—red and blue—and very splendid. The first thing they heard in the world, when the lid was taken off the box in which they lay, was the words, “Tin soldiers!” These words were spoken by a little boy, who clapped his hands for joy. The soldiers had been given him because it was his birthday, and now he was setting them out on the table.

Each was exactly like the rest, except one, who had but one leg. He had been cast last of all, and there had not been quite enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly on his one leg as the others on their two, and it was he whose fortunes became so remarkable.

On the table on which the tin soldiers were being set out were many other toys, but the nicest of all was a pretty little castle made of cardboard. Through its tiny windows one could see right into the rooms. In front of the castle stood little trees, clustering round a small mirror which was meant to represent a transparent lake. Waxen swans swam on its surface, and it reflected their images.

All this was very pretty, but prettiest of all was a little lady who stood at the open door of the castle. She, too, was cut out of cardboard; but she had on a dress of the finest gauze, with a narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders like a scarf, fastened in the middle with a shining tinsel rose. The little lady was stretching out both her arms (for she was a dancer), and was lifting one leg so high that the soldier could see nothing of it. He thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.

“That would be just the wife for me,” thought he, “if she were not so grand; but she lives in a castle, while I have only a box, and there are five and twenty of us in that. It would be no place for her. Still, I must try to make her acquaintance.”

And so he lay down at full length behind a snuffbox on the table, where he could easily watch the dainty little lady, who continued to stand on one leg without losing her balance.

When the evening came, all the other tin soldiers were put away in their box, and the people of the house went to bed. Now the playthings began to play in their turn. They visited, fought battles, and gave balls. The tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they wanted to join the rest; but they could not lift the lid. The nutcrackers turned somersaults, and the slate-pencil ran about on the slate. There was such a din that the canary woke and began to speak, and in verse, too. The only ones who did not stir from their places were the Tin Soldier and the Lady Dancer. She still stood on tiptoe with outstretched arms, and he was just as persevering on his one leg; he never once turned his eyes away from her.

Twelve o’clock struck—crash! up sprang the lid of the snuffbox. There was no snuff in it, but a little black goblin. You see it was not a real snuffbox but a Jack-in-the-box.

“Tin soldier,” said the Goblin, “keep thine eyes to thyself. Don’t stare at what does not concern thee!”

But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear.

“Very well, you just wait till to-morrow,” said the Goblin.

Next morning, when the children got up, the Tin Soldier was placed on the window-ledge. Whether it was the Goblin or the wind that did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Tin Soldier fell head foremost from the third story to the street below. It was a tremendous fall. Over and over he turned in the air, till he landed at last on his head, with his bayonet sticking fast between two paving-stones, while his one leg stood upright in the air.

The maidservant and the little boy ran down to look for him; but though they nearly trod on him, they could not find him. If the Soldier had only called out “Here I am!” they might easily enough have found him; but he did not think it becoming to cry out for help, because he was in uniform.

Now it began to rain. Faster and faster came the drops, till it became a regular downpour. When it was over, two street boys came by.

“Look here!” said one, “here lies a tin soldier. He shall have a sail in a boat.”

So they made a boat out of an old newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the middle of it, and away he sailed down the gutter, while the two boys ran along by his side, clapping their hands.

Goodness! how the waves rocked that paper boat, and how swift the current was! The Tin Soldier became quite giddy, the boat veered round so quickly; still he moved not a muscle, but looked straight before him, and held his bayonet firmly.

All at once the boat passed into a drain, and it became as dark as his own old home in the box.

“Where am I going now?” thought he. “Yes, to be sure, it must be all that Goblin’s doing. Ah, if the little lady were but sailing with me in the boat, I would not care if it were twice as dark!”

Just then a great water-rat, that lived under the drain, came out.

“Have you a passport?” asked the rat. “Where is your passport?”

But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and only held his bayonet tighter than ever. The boat sailed on, but the rat followed. Whew! how he gnashed his teeth, and shouted to the sticks and straws, “Stop him! stop him! He hasn’t paid toll! he hasn’t shown his passport!”

But the current became swifter and swifter. Already the Tin Soldier could see the daylight at the point where the tunnel ended; but at the same time he heard a rushing, roaring noise, at which a bolder man might well have trembled. Think! where the tunnel ended, the drain widened into a great canal. It was as dangerous for the Soldier as sailing down a mighty waterfall would be for us.

He was now so near it that he could not stop. The boat dashed on, and the Tin Soldier held himself so stiff and straight that no one might say of him that he so much as winked an eye. Three or four times the boat whirled round and round; it was full of water to the brim, and must certainly sink.

The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water. Deeper and deeper sank the boat, and softer and softer grew the paper; and now the water closed over the Soldier’s head. He thought of the pretty little dancer whom he should never see again, and in his ears rang the words of the song,

Fare thee well, thou valiant stranger; Thou goest into mortal danger.

The paper boat parted in the middle, and the Tin Soldier fell down, down—but at that moment he was swallowed by a great fish.

Oh, how dark it was inside the fish! darker even than it had been in the drain, and so narrow! But the Tin Soldier retained his courage; he lay at full length, shouldering his bayonet as before.

To and fro swam the fish; then he made the strangest movements and became quite still.

Something like a flash of lightning passed through him, and a voice said, “Tin Soldier!”

The fish had been caught, taken to market, sold, and bought, and taken to the kitchen, where the cook had cut it open with a large knife. She seized the Tin Soldier between her finger and thumb and carried him into the room where the family sat, and where all were eager to see the wonderful man who had traveled about in the stomach of a fish; but the Tin Soldier remained unmoved. He was not at all proud.

They set him upon a table there. But how could so curious a thing happen,—the Soldier was in the very same room in which he had been before? He saw the same children; the same toys stood upon the table, and among them was the castle with the pretty little dancing maiden. She was still balancing herself on one leg. She, too, was steadfast. That touched the Tin Soldier’s heart. He could have wept tin tears, but that would not have been proper. He looked at her, and she looked at him, but neither spoke a word.

And now one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and threw him into the stove. He gave no reason for doing so, but no doubt the Goblin in the snuffbox had something to do with it.

The Tin Soldier stood now in a blaze of red light. The heat he felt was terrible: but whether it proceeded from the fire, or from the love in his heart, he did not know. He saw that the colors were quite gone from his uniform; but whether that happened on his journey, or had been caused by grief, no one could say. He looked at the little Lady, she looked at him, and he felt himself melting; still he stood firm, with his bayonet on his shoulder. Then suddenly a door flew open, the draft caught the Dancer, and she flew straight into the stove to the Tin Soldier, flashed up in a flame, and was gone! Then the Tin Soldier melted down into a little lump, and in the ashes the maid found him next day, in the shape of a little tin heart; while of the Dancer nothing remained save the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black as a coal.

HOP-O’-MY-THUMB

Once upon a time there was a fagot-maker and his wife who had seven children, all boys. The eldest was but ten years old, the youngest only seven.

They were very poor, and their seven children were a great burden to them, because not one of them was able to earn his own living. What worried them still more was that the youngest was a delicate little fellow, who hardly ever spoke a word. They took for stupidity this silence, which was really a sign of good sense. He was tiny, too; when he was born he was no bigger than a man’s thumb, so they called him Hop-o’-my-Thumb.

The poor child was the drudge of the whole household, and always bore the blame for everything that went wrong. However, he was really the cleverest and brightest of all the brothers, and if he spoke little, he heard and thought the more.

There came now a very bad year, and the famine was so great that these poor people felt obliged to get rid of their children. One evening, when the children had gone to bed and the fagot-maker was sitting with his wife at the fire, he said to her, with his heart ready to burst with grief: “You see plainly that we can no longer give our children food, and I cannot bear to see them die of hunger before my eyes. I am resolved to lose them in the forest to-morrow. This may very easily be done, for while they are amusing themselves in tying up fagots we have only to slip away and leave them without their taking any notice.”

“Ah!” cried out his wife; “do you think you could really take out your children and lose them?”

In vain did her husband remind her of their extreme poverty, she would not consent to it; she was poor, but she was their mother. At last, when she reflected what a grief it would be to her to see them die of hunger, she consented, and went weeping to bed.