Part 9

“But I have done you no good, indeed rather harm,” Hulda went on, “for I have made you hope where there was no hope, and you have waited and expected that I should bring you back what you had lost, and I have not done it, and now I shall never hear you say my name ‘Hulda’ again,” and she wept so bitterly that the tears fell from her face, and dropped upon the snake which still she grasped. Othmar held out his hand, and tried to take her hand that he might kiss it, and as he did so, he touched the snake’s long tail, and it began to writhe and twist, and glisten more and more as the sun shone on it. And as he raised her hand to his mouth, Othmar tried to say her name “Hulda” with his poor dumb lips that could make no sound, and he breathed it on the snake, and it seemed as if the snake vibrated with the name, and suddenly it swelled and swelled, and shone still more brightly, and its mouth grew wide and burst Othmar’s hair which had bound it, and widened out till it was not a snake any more, but a curled golden trumpet, curled up as the snake had been, and like that which had been changed into the singing girl who stole Othmar’s voice. “Take it, Othmar, and blow,” cried Hulda, and he put it to his lips and cried “Hulda!” and Hulda heard her name echoing back in a burst of music from all around. At its sound the birds awoke in all the trees, and began their morning chorus, and the village folk ran to their windows to see what the trumpet’s peal had been, and saw Othmar standing with Hulda in his arms, and at their feet the bright trumpet which he had dropped. It lay on the ground, but as Othmar began to speak and to say, “Hulda, Hulda, you have brought it back, you have given me my voice again,” the trumpet broke into many pieces, and with every word crumbled, till there was nothing left but a little heap of shining golden sand, and from under it there glided out a dark green snake with yellow markings, and it slid away into the bushes and disappeared.

Then all the villagers rejoiced, and Hulda wept with happiness. And Othmar married Hulda, and his voice never left him again; but when long years after folk would tell him his voice was sweet and far more beautiful than the birds, he would say, “But it is not really my voice, it is my wife’s, Hulda’s, for I should have been dumb for ever if she had not sought it and brought it back to me.”

ONCE upon a time there lived a shepherd and his wife, who lived in a very lonely little cottage far from town or village, near some mountains. It was a wild neighbourhood, and the wind blew across the mountains fiercely, and the rain often fell so heavily that it seemed as if the cottage would be washed away. One evening when the shepherd was out, there came on a great storm of rain which beat against the doors and the windows violently. As the shepherd’s wife sat listening to it by the fire, it seemed to her as if it sounded louder than she had ever heard it before, and the raindrops sounded like the knock of a hand that was knocking to gain admittance. It went on for a little time, till the shepherd’s wife could bear to listen to it no longer, and she rose and went to the door to open it, though she knew that she would let the wind and rain into the room. As she opened the door a gust of rain was blown in her face, and then she saw that in the doorway stood a woman who had been knocking. She was a tall woman wrapped in a grey cloak with long hair falling down her back. “Thank you,” she said. And though her voice was very low, the shepherd’s wife could hear it plainly through all the storm. “Thank you for opening the door to me. Many would have let me stand outside. Now may I come into your cottage and rest?”

“How wet you must be!” cried the shepherd’s wife; “come in and rest, and let me give you food. Have you come from far?”

“No, I come from quite near,” said the woman, and she came into the cottage as she spoke, and sat down in a chair near the door. “And I want no food, only a glass of water. I must go on directly, but I have not far to go, and I shall be no wetter than I am now.”

The shepherd’s wife stared in surprise, for she saw that apparently the woman’s clothes were not wet at all. And what was stranger still, though she had thought she was only clad in a dull grey cloak, now she saw that she was covered with jewellery,—clear stones, like diamonds with many flashing colours; and she also saw that all her clothes were of the finest. She gave her a glass of water, and begged that as well she might give her other food, but the woman shook her head, and said no, water was all she needed. When she had drunk the water she gave back the glass to the shepherd’s wife, and said, “And so this is your home. Have you all that you want in life? Are you happy?”

“Ay, we are happy enough,” said the shepherd’s wife, “save indeed for one thing. Ten years ago my little baby girl died, and I have no other children. I long for one sorely, that I might take care of it and make it happy, while it is little, and then in turn, when I am old, it would love and care for me.”

“And if you had a little child,” said the woman, rising up and standing before the shepherd’s wife, “you think you would really love it better than anything in the world. Many women say that, but few do it. Before long a little child will be born to you, and as long as you love it better than anything in the world it will remain with you, but when you love anything else better than your little daughter and her happiness, it will go from you; so remember my words. Good-bye,” and the woman walked to the door and went quietly out into the rain, and the shepherd’s wife saw her disappearing, and the rain pelting around her, but her clothes were not blown about, neither did the rain seem to wet her.

A year passed away, and the shepherd’s wife had a tiny daughter, a lovely little baby with the bluest eyes and the softest skin; the evening she was born the wind howled and the rain fell as fiercely as on the night when the grey woman had come into the shepherd’s cottage. The shepherd and his wife both loved their little daughter very dearly, as well they might, as no fairer child was ever seen. But as she grew older, some things about her frightened her mother, and she had some ways of which she could not cure her.

She would never go near a fire, however cold she was, neither did she love the sunshine, but always ran from it and crept into the shade; but when she heard the rain pattering against the window-panes she would cry, “Listen, mother, listen to my brothers and sisters dancing,” and then she would begin to dance too in the cottage, her little feet pattering upon the boards; or, if she possibly could, she would run out on to the moor and dance, with the rain falling upon her, and her mother had much ado to get her to come back into the cottage, yet she never seemed to get very wet, nor did she catch cold.

A river ran near the cottage, and by it she would go and sit for hours dabbling her feet in the water, and singing sweet little songs to herself.

Still, in all other ways she was a good, affectionate girl, and did all that her mother told her, and seemed to love both her parents tenderly, and the shepherd’s wife would say to herself, “My only trouble is that when she is grown up, she will want to marry, and leave me, and I shall have to do without her.” Time passed, and the old shepherd died, but his wife and daughter still lived on in the little cottage, and the daughter grew to be a most beautiful young maiden. Her eyes were clear light-blue, like the colour of the far-off sea, but it was difficult to say what was the colour of her hair, save that it was very light, and hung in heavy masses over her brow and shoulders. Once or twice her mother felt sorely frightened about her; it was when spring showers were falling, and the young girl had gone into the little garden in front of the cottage to let the rain fall upon her head and face, as she loved to do, in spite of all her mother could say. Then she began to dance, as she always did when the rain fell, and as she danced the sun came out while the rain was yet falling. Her mother watched her from the cottage-window, but while she watched her it seemed to her as if her daughter was covered with jewels of every colour, clear and bright; they hung around her in chains, and made her look more like a king’s daughter than a shepherd’s girl. “Come in, child, come in,” called the shepherd’s wife, and when the young girl came in the cottage all traces of the jewels had gone, and when her mother upbraided her for going out to dance in the rain, she only answered, “It hurts no one, my mother, and it pleases me, why should you stop me?”

A little way from the cottage on the mountain-side stood an old castle, where formerly the Kings of the land used to come and stay, but which now had not been used for very many years. One day, however, the shepherd’s wife saw great preparations were being made to beautify and adorn it, and she knew that the King and his son were coming to stay there again. Soon after they had arrived, the shepherd’s daughter went down to the river, as was her wont, and sat on the bank, dipping her feet in the ripples. Presently there came up a boat, and it was a grand young man dressed all in velvet and gold who leaned over the side to fish.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” cried the shepherd’s daughter, for she was afraid of no one.

“I am the King’s son,” said he, “and I am coming here to fish. Who are you, and where do you come from, for I have never seen such a beautiful maiden in my life?” and he looked at her and could scarce speak, so beautiful did she seem to him.

“It is cruel to take the fishes out of the water,” cried the shepherd’s daughter, “leave them alone, and come and dance on the bank with me,” and she went under the shade of a large tree, and began to dance, and the King’s son watched her, and again he thought so beautiful a maid there had never been.

Day after day he came down to the river to fish, and day after day he left the line and tackle to sit and watch the shepherd’s daughter, and each time found her more enchanting. Once he tried to kiss her hand, but she sprang from him and left him sitting in his boat alone. At last a day came when the Prince said to his father, “My father, you want me to wed so that I may have an heir to the throne, but there is only one woman that can ever be my wife, and that is the daughter of the poor woman who lives in the little cottage out yonder.”

At first the old King was very wroth, but he loved his son well, and knew that nothing would shake him from his word, so he told him that if he would bring home his bride, he too would rejoice and love her as his daughter even though she be a beggar-maid. Then the young Prince rode down to the cottage, and went in and told the shepherd’s wife how he had seen her daughter, and loved her and wished to make her his wife, so that she would be Queen of the country.

The shepherd’s wife went nearly wild with joy. “To think that my daughter should be the Queen,” she said to herself, and when her daughter came into the cottage she did not know how to contain herself, but folded her in her arms and kissed her, crying and declaring that never was woman so blessed.

“Why, what has happened, my mother? and what has pleased you so?” said her daughter, while still the shepherd’s wife rejoiced and wept for joy.

“It is the King’s son, my girl, the King’s own son, and he has just been here, and he loves you because you are so beautiful, and he will marry you and make you Queen of all the land. Was there ever such luck for a poor woman?”

But the daughter only said, “But I don’t want to marry the King’s son, mother, or any one. I will never be the wife of any man; I will stay with you and nurse you when you are old and sick, for I can live in no house but this cottage, and have no friend but my mother.”

On hearing this the shepherd’s wife became very angry, and told her daughter that she must be mad, and that she must wait for a day or two, and she would be only too thankful for the love of the King’s son, and for the honour he was going to do her in making her his Queen. But still the daughter shook her head, and said quite quietly, “I will never be the wife of the King’s son.” The shepherd’s wife did not dare tell the King’s son what her daughter had said, but told him that he had better speak to her himself if he wished to make her his wife. Then when he was again sitting in the boat on the river, and the maiden on the bank, the King’s son told her how much he loved her, and that he would share with her all that he had in this world. But the shepherd’s daughter only shook her head and said, “I will never live at the palace, and I will never be a Queen.”

The old King had ordered great preparations to be made for the wedding, which was to take place immediately, and all sorts of fine clothes were ordered for the shepherd’s daughter, that she might appear properly as the wife of the Prince, but for the few days just before the wedding, the rain fell as it had never been known to have fallen; it beat through the roofs of the cottages, and the river swelled and overflowed its banks; everyone was frightened, save indeed the shepherd’s daughter, who went out into the wet and danced as was her wont, letting the torrents fall upon her head and shoulders.

But the evening before the wedding-day she knelt beside her mother’s side. “Dear mother,” she said, “let me stop with you and nurse you when you are old. Do not send me away to the palace to live with the King’s son.”

Then the mother was very angry, and told her daughter that she was very ungrateful, and she ought to be thankful that such luck had come in her way, and who was she, the daughter of a poor shepherd, that she should object to marrying the King’s son?

All night long the rain fell in torrents, and when next day the shepherd’s daughter was dressed in all her finery, it was through pools on the ground that she had to step into the grand carriage which the King had sent to fetch her, and while the marriage-service was being read, the priest’s voice could scarcely be heard for the pattering of the drops upon the roof, and when they went into the castle to the banquet, the water burst through the doors opened to receive them, so that the King and the wedding guests had hard ado to keep dry. It was a grand feast, and the King’s son sat at one end of the table, and his young wife was beside him dressed in white and gold. All the courtiers and all the fine guests declared that surely the world had never contained such a beautiful young woman as their future Queen. But just when the goblets were filled with wine, to drink to the health of the bride and bridegroom, there came a cry, “The floods! the floods!” and the servants ran into the hall, crying out that the waters were pouring in, and in one moment the rooms were filled with water, and no one thought of anything but to save themselves. When the hurricane had subsided, and the waters gone down, they looked around for the Prince’s wife, who was nowhere to be found. Every one said that she had been swept away by the torrents, and that she had been drowned in all her youth and beauty; only the shepherd’s wife wept alone, and remembered the words of the woman who came to her on the night of the storm: “When you love aught on earth better than your daughter and her happiness, she will go from you.”

The King’s son mourned his wife, and for long would not be comforted; but when many years had passed, he married a beautiful Princess, and with her lived very happily; only when the rain fell in torrents and beat against the window-panes it would seem to him as if he heard the sound of dancing feet, and a voice that called out, “Come and dance with me, come and dance with me and my brothers and sisters, oh, King’s son, and feel our drops upon your face.”

A YOUNG ploughman was following his plough in a field one morning when suddenly the horses stopped, and do what he would he could not make them stir. Then he tried to push the plough himself, but he could not move it one hair’s-breadth. He stooped down to see what could be stopping it, when a deep voice cried, “Stop, I am coming up.” The voice was so loud that the ploughman shook with fear, but though he looked all around him, he could see no one from whom it could come. But presently it spoke again (only this time it was a little lower), and called out, “Have patience, and I shall be up in a moment.” The ploughman quaked in every limb, and stood quite still, and the voice began again (but this time it was no louder than most folks’), and it said—“If you will only not be in such a hurry, I will tell you what I want. Look in front of your horse’s right foot, and pick me up.”

He bent down and looked on the ground, and there in the earth, just in front of his horse’s right foot, he saw what he thought was a little black lizard. He touched it very cautiously, and started back with surprise when the voice spoke again, and he found it came from this tiny creature.

“Yes,” it said, “that is quite right. You can pick me up in your hand if you like, but I think I must grow a little bigger, as I am really uncomfortably small,” and while he held it on the palm of his hand, the ploughman saw that it was beginning to grow larger, and it swelled so fast that in a few seconds it was near a foot high, and he had to take both hands to hold it. Then he saw that it was not a lizard, but a little black woman with a face that looked as though it were made of india-rubber, and ugly little black hands.

“There, that will do,” said the strange little gnome. “That is a nice useful size. Oh dear, how tiring growing is! I don’t think I’ll be any bigger just yet. Now be sure you don’t drop me, and handle me very carefully, for I do not like to be roughly touched. I have not slept nearly as long as I meant to. I wanted a hundred years’ nap, and it cannot be more than fifty, but now that I am awake I think I will keep so for a bit. You seem to be rather a nice civil young man. How would you like to take me for a lodger?”

“A lodger!” gasped the ploughman. “Why, what should I do with you?”

“I should give no trouble,” said the gnome. “But are there any women in your house?”

“No,” said the ploughman, “for I have no wife, and I am too poor to keep a servant.”

“So much the better,” said the gnome. “For though I am a woman myself, I detest women, and only get on with men.”

“You a woman!” cried the ploughman, and he laughed outright.

“Of course I am a woman,” said the creature. “Come, say quickly, do you like to have me for a lodger or not? Of course you will have to agree to my terms.”

“And what are your terms?” asked the ploughman.

“Only this. Whatever comes into the house, you must always give the best of it to me. I will choose where I shall live for myself, when I see the house, but of all the food you have, you must save the best and give it to me. Not much of it, but the very best pieces. As you are a man I cannot wear your clothes, but you can give me some of their material, and of everything else that comes into the house of any sort, tobacco, or carpets, or furniture, I must have some of the best. And at meals I must always be helped first. If you agree to this, I may stay with you for a very long time.”

“Oh, oh,” said the ploughman, “and pray what shall I get by it? It seems to me as if you wanted to get the best of everything and give nothing in return.”

“On the contrary,” replied the gnome, “I shall give a very great deal. For as long as I remain in your house, all things will go well with you. You are a poor man now, but you will soon be a rich one. If you sow seeds they will give twice as much crop as other people’s. All your animals will do well, and in a little time, instead of being a poor ploughman, you will be the richest farmer in the countryside.”

“Well,” quoth the ploughman, “I don’t mind trying. I think it would rather amuse me to take you to my cottage; but if you don’t keep your part of the bargain, and I don’t find things are going very well with me, I warn you I’ll pretty soon turn you out.”

“Agreed,” said the gnome; “but remember, if you fail in your compact with me, I shall go by myself. Now carry me home and let me choose where I will live.”

The ploughman carried the odd little figure back to his cottage, gaping with astonishment; there he put it down on the kitchen-table in the little kitchen. It looked all round it, and twisted about its little black head.

“That will do nicely,” it said at last; “there is a little hole in that corner, down which I can go, and near that hole you must place all your daintiest bits, and remember that I must always be helped first at all your meals.” And without a word it leaped from the table, and scuttled away down a big hole that the rats had made, and was no more to be seen.

But when in the evening the ploughman came in to eat his meal, before he began it he took the very best bit of meat and the nicest of the vegetable, and laid them down near the hole. Then he watched eagerly to see what would happen, but while he looked there they remained. Suddenly, however, the door shut with a bang, and he turned his head for a moment to see what caused it, and when he looked back the food had disappeared. Every day it was much the same. He put some of the best food on the table down near the hole, but as long as he watched there it remained, but when he took his eyes off for a moment it had disappeared. In the same way when he had new clothes, he took a choice bit of material and laid it near the hole, and it vanished also. And of whatever came into the house he took some of the best and did the same with it.

Meantime things began to improve very much with him. He had only a little bit of land round his cottage, but this year the vegetables and fruit he had planted there grew so well that he had a large quantity to send to market, and he sold them for such good prices, that soon he was able to get more land and buy his own animals, and in a little while had a farm of his own, and had grown to be quite a rich man, while all his neighbours said his luck was extraordinary. Meantime he saw or heard nothing more of the little black gnome, and except when he put the food and other thing’s near the hole almost forgot all about her.

Time passed, and the time came when the ploughman began to think he would like to take a wife; he made up his mind to marry a very pretty girl in the next village, who was said to be the prettiest girl in all the neighbourhood. Many of the young men would have liked to marry her, but the ploughman was a handsome, cheery young fellow, and she preferred him to all of the others, and so they were married, and she came home to live at the farm. The evening after their wedding they had a fine fat fowl for supper, and the ploughman before he helped his wife cut off the choicest slice from the breast and took it as usual to the hole.

“Husband,” cried the wife, “have you gone mad that you should give the best of the food to the rats and the mice?”

“I am not mad at all,” said the ploughman, “but my grandfather loved nothing in the world so well as rats and mice, and he made me promise before he died that they should always be well cared for in my house, and have of the best.”