Part 6

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.”