Then Snow-White told them her story, and of how her step-mother, the jealous Queen, had sent her into the forest, and how the huntsman had abandoned her. The dwarfs warned her against the Queen. The wicked, they said, are never at rest. “Hide with us here, and you are safe.”
So Snow-White became the housekeeper of the dwarfs. She made their beds, swept their room, prepared their pot of broth in the evening, and poured out for them their wild-fruit wine. They taught her how to knead dough for bread, and what green things are good for salad, and what roots and toadstools are fit for food. She was happy with the Seven Dwarfs, and sang over her work with such delight that the birds of the forest would flock there in a multitude and sing too, and she fed them with her crumbs and scraps.
Now one day it seemed to the Queen, as she looked into her magic glass, that a faint line of care or foreboding had begun to show itself in the smoothness of her forehead, and she whispered:
“Looking-glass, looking-glass on the wall,
Who is the fairest of women all?”
And the voice from within replied:
“Fair in sooth, art thou, O Queen;
But fairer than Snow-White is nowhere seen.
Happy she lives, beyond words to tell,
Where the dwarfs of the mountains of copper dwell.”
At this, the face looking back out of the glass at the Queen became so black and crooked with rage that she hardly knew herself. Next morning she questioned her women, and was told where the copper-mines were and in what mountains. Then she disguised herself and dressed herself up as a pedlar, and painted her cheeks, and put on a black wig and a cloak. In this disguise she came towards sunset to the house of the Seven Dwarfs, looking at it from out of the edge of the forest in its green hollow.
It chanced that Snow-White herself, having finished her day’s work, was sitting at an upper window with a piece of sewing. There the Queen saw her, so drew near, and at last from below called softly:
“Any knick-knacks? Any laces or ribbons? Buckles for your shoes?”
Now Snow-White had been so happy with the dwarfs that she had forgotten the promise she had made them never to open the door to any stranger; and she went down and opened the door. The Queen spoke her fair, and flattered her. She showed her pretty stay-laces, twisted of green and scarlet silk, and said craftily: “Let me lace you up, my dear, and you shall look as trim as a blackbird.”
But she laced her so swiftly and she laced her so tight, that poor Snow-White could scarcely breathe, and fell down on the threshold like one dead. There the dwarfs found her when they came home in the evening.
The first cried: “Our Snow-White is dead!” So, too, the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, and the sixth—all wailing, except the seventh, who, seeing how tightly her stays were laced, took his knife out of his belt and slit up the laces.
Sure enough, in a few moments the colour came stealing back into Snow-White’s pale cheeks, and she sat up and smiled at them. When she was able to talk again, she told them all that had happened, and the dwarfs begged and entreated her never again to open the door to any stranger.
Late that night, the Queen in the moonlight learnt of her magic looking-glass that Snow-White was still alive, and she began to be afraid. Seven days after she again disguised herself. This time she wore a bright green cloak and a red wig, and with her painted cheeks and lips looked almost young and comely. When she came to the house of the dwarfs, she tapped at the door.
Snow-White, who was at that moment making bread, paused in her kneading, listened and called: “Who’s there?”
Then the Queen looked in at her through the open window; and she was so changed in face and dress that Snow-White did not know or recognize her. So Snow-White came to the window and feasted her eyes on the pretty trinkets and gewgaws which the Queen had set out on a tray from the pack she carried. At last the Queen drew out from under her skirts, and showed Snow-White, a comb for the hair, clear as amber, and of gold and tortoiseshell.
She showed her pretty stay-laces.
But Snow-White said: “I cannot buy it; I haven’t money enough. Besides, I have promised.”
And the Queen said: “Why! but come closer, my dear, and I myself will fix the comb in your hair, and you can look at yourself in that copper pan over there. La! in all my days I never saw hair so fine and sleek and lovely. Take the comb for love, my pretty; and pay for it when you please.”
So Snow-White came close to the window, and the Queen thrust the comb into her hair, and the poison with which the Queen had prepared the comb was so potent that Snow-White swooned away at the window. Then the Queen—her face dark with malice and hatred—looked in upon her and thought to herself that now at last she was safe and that her mind could be at rest.
But once again when the dwarfs came home that evening, the seventh, who was the youngest of them and nimblest of wit, after eyeing her closely, at once drew out the tortoiseshell comb from her hair. And though Snow-White lay in a swoon for some hours longer, by midnight her senses had come back to her. She smiled out into the world again, and the dwarfs were so happy to have their beloved housekeeper safely back again, they hadn’t the heart to chide her.
It was midnight when the Queen once more looked into her glass. She whispered in triumph:
“Looking-glass, looking-glass on the wall,
Who is the fairest of women all?”
Then the voice from within it replied:
“Thy journey was in vain, O Queen,
Lovelier than Snow-White is nowhere seen.”
At these words the Queen gnashed her teeth at the glass, and there and then she stole down from her bedchamber to a little secret closet where she kept dangerous herbs and dyes and unguents, and with all her craft and skill she made a poisonous apple, rosy red on one side, green on the other. The very sight of it made her mouth water, and she smiled to herself as she looked at it and thought: “This is the end.”
For the third time she dressed up and disguised herself, but now as a very old woman, hunched and ragged, with a grey wig under her peaked hat. When a little before sunset she came to the house of the dwarfs, Snow-White was drawing water from the well, and as she stooped to pick up the bucket she heard the quavering voice of the pedlar. She ran in at once and drew the wooden bolt across the door; then went upstairs and peeped out of a window ajar. The Queen spied her up there, peering down from the window, and cackled softly:
“Ripe apples, ripe apples! Who’ll buy my ripe apples?”
And Snow-White, peeping, saw the apple in the old woman’s hand; and riper, fairer apple she had never seen. But she shook her head, and the Queen said:
“Many more where these came from, dainty lady. Perhaps the seven little gentlemen would like an apple to their supper. See, I will cut this one in half, and you shall eat the rosy half, and I will have the green.”
So saying, she cut the apple in half, and threw the rosy half up to the window. And Snow-White, thinking what pleasure such fruits as these would give the dwarfs, couldn’t resist it, but caught the piece of apple, and lifted it to her nose to smell its sweetness. Then she took a bite, but before she could swallow it she fell down on the floor, and lay there, to all seeming, cold, leaden, and dead.
Yet again that midnight the Queen stole catlike to her looking-glass and whispered:
“Looking-glass, looking-glass on the wall,
Who is the fairest of women all?”
The voice within cried hollowly: “Thou, O Queen!” But no more.
When the Seven Dwarfs came home that evening, their hearts were sad and dismal indeed. Nothing they could do brought any tinge of colour back into Snow-White’s cheeks, or warmth to her fingers. She remained cold and mute and lifeless.
Yet they could not bear to think of hiding her away in the dark, cold ground, so, working all of them together, they made a coffin of glass, and put up a wooden bench not far from the house, and rested the glass coffin on it, mantling it with garlands o
f green leaves and flowers. The birds that Snow-White used to feed with her crumbs and scraps, seeing her lying there, safe, and close in their company, now sang louder than ever. But there never came any sign that Snow-White heard. And the dwarfs marvelled at her beauty, for she lay still and cold as snow, and her hair black as ebony, though her cheeks were colourless as wax.
One fresh morning, when early summer was in the forest again, a Prince came riding with his huntsmen, and seeing this strange glass coffin on the bench, dismounted from his horse, and, pushing the green garlands aside, looked in at Snow-White lying there. His heart misgave him at sight of her, for he had never seen a face so lovely or so wan. He called to her, but she made no answer. Then he bade his huntsmen sound their horns, but she never stirred. He waited there, with his huntsmen, until evening.
When, as of old, the dwarfs came home, he questioned them and asked them how long Snow-White had so lain in the glass coffin. They told him, and he said:
“My father, the King, has a leech who is wondrously skilled in magic herbs. Give me leave to carry off this coffin, and I promise you that, whether he is able to work a marvel or not, your Snow-White, if you wish it, shall come back to you alive and well, or sleeping on as she sleeps now.”
The dwarfs talked together in grief and dismay at the thought of losing Snow-White, even though only for a few days. But having given the Prince of their bread and wine, they agreed at last that this should be so.
It was dark night when the huntsmen were drawing near the palace of the King, and one of them stumbled over the jutting root of a tree. By this sudden jarring of her glass coffin, the morsel of poisonous apple that was stuck in Snow-White’s throat became dislodged. She lifted her head from her green pillow, coughed out the morsel, and cried: “God help me!”
The Prince, hearing her cry, looked in on her in the starlight, and took off the lid of the coffin. Then Snow-White sat up, and gazed at him as if ages and ages ago she had known him of old, but could not remember his name, for as yet he seemed but part of her long dreaming. She put out her hand and touched him.
The Prince rejoiced with all his heart, and sent back two of his huntsmen, who with their horns roused the dwarfs before daybreak, and gave them the glad news that Snow-White had come alive again; and that their master, the Prince, had bidden them all to the King’s palace, for Snow-White, before falling into a deep sleep again, had talked only of them.
The King and Queen, having heard Snow-White’s story, rejoiced with their son the Prince, and gave a banquet to welcome her; and the Seven Dwarfs sat at a table on stools of ebony, their napkins white as snow, and their wine red as blood. And Snow-White herself poured out wine for them just as she used to do.
As for the murderous Queen, hated and feared by all around her, she had become lean and haggard and dreaded even the thought of her magic looking-glass. In time she fell mortally sick, and was haunted continually, waking and dreaming, by remembrance of Snow-White, who, she supposed, was long ago dead and forgotten. At last, in the dead of night she summoned one of her waiting-women and bade her take down the looking-glass from the wall, and bring it to the bedside. Then she drew close the curtains round her bed, and whispered:
“Looking-glass, looking-glass on the wall,
Who is the fairest of women all?”
And the voice within replied:
“Fair, in sooth, wert thou, I ween,
But Snow-White too is now a Queen.
Fairer than she is none, I vow.
Look at thyself! Make answer! Thou!”
At this, the looking-glass slipped out of her hand, and was dashed to pieces on the floor. Her blood seemed to curdle to ice in her body, and she fell back upon her pillows. There her ladies found her in the morning. But few Queens as evil as she was have died in their beds.
The Twelve Windows
Once upon a time there was a Princess who was so dear to her father that he had but one care in his mind—the fear and foreboding that some day she would get married and leave him. Seeing how this continually haunted and troubled the King’s mind—for the Princess loved him no less truly—she made him a vow. She vowed that she would never marry, not even a Prince of the Indies or a magician of Cathay, except only on one condition: that any suitor for her hand, whosoever he might be, must first so hide himself in her father’s palace that within one single hour she would not be able to discover where.
Now this might not seem to be a very hard matter. In the King’s palace there were rooms without number, not to speak of galleries, corridors, lofts, watching-nooks; bakehouse, buttery, chandlery, spicery; his kitchens, pantries, cellars, vaults, coffers, wardrobes, chests, ovens and wells. His park and gardens and orchards were green and shady with a multitude of mighty forest trees and flowering bushes in which the birds of the air, of every feather and song, might all be perched yet none be seen.
This being so, how could any mortal creature, with but two eyes to see with, hope within one single hour to discover a hider’s hiding-place? But this Princess was not like other princesses, for she had eyes with the witching power of being able to spy out and detect everything within the circuit of the royal palace—a creeping snail under a wall, an ant with its egg, or a queen bee among her maidens. In order that she might practise these witching eyes of hers, a marvellous chamber had been made, its walls of cherry-wood and ebony. This chamber was built high aloft above the topmost roof of the palace, and in it were twelve windows of carved stone and crystal. From these the Princess could look out on all sides of her to the very outskirts of the world, to the far, high mountains in the east, and to the low, flat, blue sea to the west.
Not only had she vowed she would never marry any suitor unless he could hide himself where she could not find him; but that if he failed to do so, he should lose his head.
Nevertheless, this Princess was so renowned for her beauty that noble young men from far countries, and wise ones of the East, daring the fate decreed, had journeyed to her father’s kingdom hoping to win her in marriage. But none yet had hidden where she had been unable to find him, and none had returned to the place from which he had set out.
Now, there was a young swineherd that kept pigs in the forest a league or two from the King’s palace; and the high-road through the forest ran not far away from the hut in which he lay at night. Ever and again he would watch these Princes from afar come proudly riding in their fine raiment and with their retinue of servants around them in all the colours of the rainbow, on their way to the palace. But not one of these had he ever seen return.
His forefathers had been keepers of pigs in the great forest for hundreds of years before him. And living alone with his pigs (which are by nature knowing, crafty, and clever creatures), and sitting for hours together with only his own thoughts for company, this young swineherd had grown wise for his age, and was as brave and bold as he was wise.
This chamber was built high aloft above the topmost roof of the palace.
He had asked questions, too, of every traveller that came his way, and had been told that it was no matter whether a man was of noble or common blood, good looks or bad, blind or lame or rich or poor. Let him but hide himself so cunningly that the Princess from her chamber with the twelve windows should be unable to discover him, his reward should be the lovely one herself.
What wonder, then, as he sat alone by his fire in the forest when the nights were cold, he would dream of her beauty, and pine to try his luck! Better no head at all, he would think to himself, than a heart in terror of losing it.
So having at last made up his mind, he left his pigs and set off at once to the palace. But when he came to the watchman at the gates of the palace and told him what he had come for, the watchman burst out laughing. Princes and soothsayers and noblemen he knew of old, but this young swineherd in his ragged clothes, his face roasted by the sun, with his thick thatch of hair—he had never seen his like before.
None the less, the watchman had been given orders that it mattered no
t who might come on this bold quest, he should be brought instantly into the Princess’s presence. In spite, too, of the swineherd’s rags and his broken shoes and unkempt hair, there was a look in his face, and something in the way he spoke, that took the liking of the watchman. When too he found that all his attempts to dissuade him from his folly only made him the more eager and resolved, he said no more.
“Pity it is, young man,” he told him, “to lose your head before it has become used to being on your shoulders. But keep up your courage, and I’ll help you all I can.”
So he dressed the swineherd in an old cloak of scarlet and green, that had belonged to his son who was killed in the wars. He gave him a hood of squirrel’s fur to cover his head, and shoes of fine leather to put on his feet. Then he took the swineherd to the Princess.
The Princess looked at the swineherd with her clear, shining eyes and spied out instantly the rags beneath his cloak of green and scarlet, and the thick, tousled hair tucked under his hood. But he, having gazed but a moment into her eyes, turned his own away. Yet she had seen the wild blue light in them, and heard his heart knocking on his ribs; and of all the strangers who had come to the palace in hope to win her love, this swineherd was the first the Princess had ever pitied for his own sake alone.
“Indeed,” she thought to herself, “this young man who seems by his looks to have come straight out of the greenwood, and always to have been alone with the sun and the wild deer and the stars, must have a rare courage to attempt to win what even mighty princes and wizards of the East have paid for so dearly.”
Then she looked at him again out of her clear, shining eyes, and spoke gently to him: “Would it not be a sad and miserable mischance,” she asked him, “to die after having lived for so few years, for the vow I have made is one that cannot be broken?” He heard, but shook his head.
Indeed at sound of her voice the young man could scarcely believe his ears, it was so sweet and clear. It was like water at summertime in a well. And seeing how gently she had spoken to him, he made bold to ask her a favour, which was this:—That he should be allowed to make not one, but three attempts to hide himself, and each of these on three different days.
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