Part 15

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.