“One learns by practice, lady, even in the tending of swine,” he said, “and I—well—” But he could say no more. At this the Princess was grieved at heart, yet happy, and she willingly granted him this favour. Then with a scarf of gold tissue the Princess hid her eyes, while the swineherd went off to hide.
He hastened down and asked his friend the watchman in which of the dungeons of the palace he would be shut up if he failed—before, that is, his head was cut off. “Where did the other wretches lie groaning,” he asked him, “who had lost the one thing in the world I pine for and must have?”
The watchman looked at him, and seeing his young, simple face, pitied him; and himself led him down a staircase hewn out of the solid rock into the deepest of the King’s dungeons, where even the sun at noonday brought only a pallid bloom into its murk, and there he covered him up with straw.
In due time, and as she had promised, the Princess opened her eyes again. She looked out of the first window of her chamber: nobody there. She looked out of the second: nobody there either; and then from the third, and still found nothing. And so to the fourth and to the fifth. At each window her heart grew ever more glad. But at the seventh window she cast her glance downward, and with her eyes of witchery perceived the young man huddled up under the straw in the furthermost corner of the dungeon. And she sighed.
Nevertheless, though he had failed this first time, the swineherd was of good courage. On his journey back to his pigs in the forest he never stopped thinking, except when the lovely face of the Princess came between him and his thoughts. All that evening he spent swimming and diving in a clear green pool that lay under the beech-trees in the forest near his hovel; a pool in which, when its waters were still, every young silken green leaf on the boughs above its waters showed clear as in a looking-glass.
The next day he awoke before daybreak and returned at once to the pool. And at evening he came again to the palace. The Princess received him with an even gentler courtesy, and entreated him to dare no further. But this only put all other thoughts out of his mind, and this time he went out and, having first filled his lungs with by far the longest breath of his lifetime, he plunged into the deepest of the King’s fishponds. There he lay, deep down under the water-lilies, clinging to their writhen roots in the ooze of the pool. These were the longest minutes the swineherd had ever known—longer even than when he had lain huddled under the straw in the dungeon.
In due time the Princess looked out of her first window, and saw nought of him; and out of the second and still nought; and when she had come to the tenth and still had utterly failed to discover where the swineherd lay hidden, she rejoiced. But at the eleventh window, looking towards the south, her heart misgave her. For plain as in a dream she could see the young man cowering beneath the lilies in the ooze of their roots, and his cloak hidden under a bush of broom nearby. With all his craft he had failed; and she had triumphed. Yet she sighed, and then sighed again.
That evening the swineherd, trusting to his own wits no longer, went off into the forest to the abode of a certain Fox—a Fox that one winter’s morning a year or two before this he had saved from the snow. Sitting there in the dusky forest, he told the Fox his trouble, for this creature was known to all forest-folk as the wisest fox in the whole world, and one that knew wizardry.
The Fox listened in patience to his story, then stayed motionless, his nose pointing due north and his brush spread out behind him due south, while he debated within himself. At length his eyes blinked, his ears twitched. A plan had come into his wise head.
“Sleep here until morning,” he bade the swineherd, “and lie close to the westward of that bush, for soon the wind will be changing; and I’ll have speech with thee at dawn.”
At daybreak the Fox appeared again, and merrily greeted the swineherd, bidding him be of good cheer. “Stoop down, my friend,” said he; and when the swineherd had stooped low beside him, the Fox brushed him all over, head to heel, with his brush. There was a sweet strange breath in the air as of wild herbs, and there and then, the swineherd was changed by the Fox’s magic into a white mountain hare, of a fur soft as wool, and eyes blue as ice in the morning.
The Fox then brushed himself nose-tip to stern with his brush, and became the very similitude of an old man in a sheepskin. Then he took up the hare into his arms, and went into the town. It was market day and there was a fair. At some distance from the beating of the drums and the piping and the press of people, the Fox took up his station close to the entry of the market-place which was nearest to the King’s palace. Here he waited patiently in the posture of a blind man begging for alms, the mountain hare clasped close within his arms.
Now the Princess at this hour, as the Fox well knew, was sitting in her ebony and cherry-wood chamber, with its twelve windows of carved stone and crystal, and she was looking out towards the town. But the beauty of her face was now sad and downcast, and her thoughts were not with what she looked on; for her eyes were fixed like the eyes of a sleep-walker.
But at last, as she gazed on at the moving throng of busy and merry country folk with their children at the fair, hastening to and fro like ants in an ant-heap in the heat of summer, she became aware of this old man, standing motionless in his sheepskin, as heedless of the cries and bustle around him as if he were made of wood, and with the snow-white mountain hare couched in his arms.
He stood there stock-still as though he were alone in a wilderness; and the hare might have been of ivory, with eyes of emerald, in his arms. The Princess had never seen the like before. So she sent one of her waiting-women to enquire of the old man what he did there, and whence he had come. When the waiting-woman returned to the palace, she told the Princess that the old man was either dumb or could make no sense of her questionings, being, as it seemed, a stranger to her language; but that never had she seen a little creature more beautiful than the hare he had in his arms. “It has eyes blue as sapphires and fur softer than silk.”
At this, the Princess was filled with desire to possess the hare, and again sent out her waiting-woman, who bought the hare from the old man (for so he looked) for seven pieces of silver.
Now the day before, the swineherd had told the Princess that he would not himself appear before her again in her chamber, but would hide himself on the very stroke of three the next afternoon.
“For I think,” he said, “even if I trod softer than a shadow, the sound of my footsteps might be heard as I go down the staircase. Not even my heart stops beating a moment, lady, but you seem to know of it! Tomorrow, then, by your grace, I will not enter into the palace at all.”
The Princess had smiled at him and said: “Let that be so.” She entreated him, too, to hide himself with all the cunning, care and skill he could. “For this time is the last time,” she said; nor could she do otherwise, for such was the King’s decree. But the Fox, when he and the swineherd had sat talking and communing together in the early morning, had told the young man what to do.
Now a little before the hour agreed on between the swineherd and the Princess, she sat fondling the hare in her lap, nor would she now have parted with it for seventy times seven pieces of silver; and the hare (as the Fox had counselled it) presently crept up and concealed itself beneath the thick strands of her golden hair.
The Princess . . . bandaged her eyes with three silk scarves.
At three o’clock the Princess, having forgotten even that the little creature shared her secret chamber with her, bandaged her eyes with three silk scarves, one of gold, one of silver, and one bright blue; and she sealed up her ears lest even a whisper should reach them.
At last she rose and looked out of the first window. Nothing there. Then out of the second. Nothing there. Then out of the third. Nought there neither. And so on and on. At the eleventh window it seemed her heart would stop beating; and at last she came to the twelfth. One swift, keen, circling glance she cast about her out of her dark, clear eyes, but of the swineherd whom she so greatly feared to see she saw n
ot a trace. Then she sat down with joy in her chair and wept. For the one thing even eyes of witchery cannot do is to see behind them.
The little hare, not daring to stay even for an instant to comfort her, ran out into the forest, and the Fox, having with all haste and expedition brushed him over with his brush, changed him back into his own shape again.
Then the young swineherd thanked the Fox beyond measure, and gathered some bright, ripe, wild fruit in the forest and put it into a wicker basket with green leaves over it. Next he chose out of his young pigs the sleekest and the fattest, and with this under his arm and his basket in hand, he went back to the palace and to the Princess. The Princess laughed to see him and took the little pig on to her lap; and it squeaked, and she laughed again. Then she began to weep a little—for sheer joy—and turned away.
At this the King looked at the young man as if he would that he had twenty heads, and that he himself might have the pleasure of lopping every one of them off. But when he heard that the swineherd lived in the forest, and had no wish to carry off the Princess into a far country, he was greatly comforted.
What is more, the swineherd answered the King’s questions with such modesty and good sense, and his manners were so simple and open and free, that, taking him all in all, the King was heartily pleased with him.
So he led the young man by the hand, and presented him to the Princess. At which the little pig squeaked for the third time; but the swineherd said nothing, for he could think of nothing to say.
Clever Grethel
There was once a cook, and her name was Grethel. She wore shoes with red rosettes on them, and when she went walking in these shoes she would turn herself this way and that, saying: “Well I never, you are a handsome creature!”
At night as she combed her hair in the glass she would say: “My! so there you are!” And they called her “clever Grethel.”
Whenever after a walk she came home to her master’s house again, she would always take a little sippet of wine. “You see, Grethel, my dear, it makes the tongue able to taste better,” she would say. “And what’s a cook without a tongue?” In fact, Grethel kept her tongue very busy, nibbling and tasting.
Now one day her master said to her: “I have a guest coming this evening, Grethel, and a guest that knows what’s what, and I want you to roast us a pair of fowls for supper. Two, mind you, young and tender. And I want ’em roasted to a turn.”
Grethel said: “Why, yes, master. They shall taste so good you won’t know what you’re eating.”
So she killed two fowls, scalded and plucked them, tucked in their legs with a little bit of liver in between, stuffed them with stuffing, and towards evening put them down to a clear, red fire to roast. She basted and basted them, and when they were done to a turn and smelt sweet as Arabia, and their breasts were a rich, clear, delicate brown, Grethel called out to her master:
“Well I never, you are a handsome creature!”
“If that guest of yours don’t come soon, master, I shall have to take the fowls away from the fire. And I warn you, they will be utterly spoilt, for they are just at their juiciest.”
Her master said: “So, so! I will run out and see if he is coming.”
As soon as her master had turned his back, Grethel thought to herself she would have another sip of something to drink. Having had one sip, she took another sip, and then another. Then she basted the fowls again, and twisted the spit. She puffed with the heat, the fire blazing in her face. Suddenly, as she stood looking at the fowls, she thought to herself: “Now cooking’s cooking! I shouldn’t wonder if them birds taste as good as they smell. Oh, oh, oh! It’s a sin. It’s a shame!”
Then she looked out of the window; and when she saw that nobody was coming, she said to herself: “There! what did I tell you? And lawks! one of the wings is burning.” So she cut off the wing with a twist of her sharp knife, and holding it between her finger and thumb, ate every scrap of it up, to the very bone.
Then, “Dear me,” she sighed to herself, looking at the chicken, “that one wing left looks like another wing missing!” So she ate up the other. Then she took another sip of wine, and once more looked at the fowls.
“Now think what a sad thing,” she said. “Once those two poor hens were sisters, and you couldn’t tell ’em apart. But now look at them: one whole and the other nowt but legs!” So she gobbled up the wings of the other chicken to make the pair look more alike. And still her master did not come. Then said she to herself:
“Lor’, Grethel, my dear, why worry? There won’t be any guest to-night. He has forgotten all about it. And master can have some nice dry bread and cheese.” With that she ate up completely one of the chickens, skin, stuffing, gravy and all, and then, seeing how sad and lonely the other looked all by itself with its legs sticking up in the air and both its wings gone, she finished off that too.
She was picking the last sweet morsel off its wishbone when her master came running into the kitchen, and cried: “Quick, Grethel! Dish up! dish up! Our guest has just turned the corner.”
At this moment she was standing in front of the fire in her fine shoes and great cooking apron, and she looked over her shoulder at her master. But he at once rushed out to see if the table was ready, and the wine on it; snatched up the great carving-knife, and began to sharpen it on the doorstep.
Pretty soon after, the guest came to the door and knocked. Grethel ran softly out, caught him by the sleeve, pushed him out of the porch, pressed her finger on her lips, and whispered: “Ssh! Ssh! on your life! Listen, now, and be off, I beseech you! My poor master has gone clean out of his senses at your being so late. Mad! mad! If he catches you, he will cut your ears off. Hark now! He is sharpening his knife on the doorstep!”
At this the guest turned pale as ashes, and hearing the steady rasping of the knife on the stone, ran off down the street as fast as his legs could carry him. As soon as he was out of sight, Grethel hastened back to her master.
“La, master!” she said, “you’ve asked a nice fine guest to supper!”
“Why,” says he, looking up with the knife in his hand, “what’s wrong with him?”
“Wrong!” says she. “Why, he had scarce put his nose in at the door, when he gives a sniff. ‘What! chicken!’ says he, ‘roast chicken!’ And away he rushed into the kitchen, snatched up my two poor beeootiful birds, and without even waiting for the dish or the gravy, ran off with them down the street.”
“Hi, there! Stop! Stop! . . . Just one! Only one!”
“What, now?” said her master.
“This very minute!” said Grethel. “Both?” said her master. “Both,” said she.
“Heaven save us!” said her master. “Then I shall have nothing for supper!” And off he ran in chase of his guest, as fast as he could pelt, crying out as he did so:
“Hi, there! Stop! Stop! Hi! Just one! Just one! Only one!”
But the guest, hearing these words, and supposing that the madman behind him with his long knife meant one of his ears, ran on faster than ever into the darkness of the night.
And Grethel sat down, happy and satisfied. She gave one deep sigh, looked solemnly at the two bright red rosettes on her shoes, and had another sip or two of wine.
Rumplestiltskin
Once upon a time there was a poor miller who had a beautiful daughter. He loved her dearly, and was so proud of her he could never keep from boasting of her beauty. One morning—and it was all showers and sunshine and high, bright, coasting clouds—a stranger came to the mill with a sack of corn to be ground, and he saw the miller’s daughter standing by the clattering mill-wheel in the sunshine. He looked at her, and said he wished he had a daughter as beautiful as she. The miller rubbed his mealy hands together, and looked at her too; and, seeing the sunbeams glinting in her hair, answered almost without thinking:
“Ay! She’s a lass in a thousand. She can spin straw into gold.”
Now this saying was quickly spread abroad, and at last reached the ears of the King,
who, in astonishment at such a wonder, at once sent for the miller, and bade him bring his daughter with him.
“It has been told me,” said the King, “this maid here can spin straw into gold. So she shall. But if she fails, then look to it! You shall hang from your own mill.”
The miller was so shaken with fear of the King that his tongue stuck in his throat, and he could make no answer.
She sat there weeping.
Then the King went in secret and led the miller’s daughter into a byre, where his cows were housed, and in which lay two or three bundles of straw. He looked at the miller’s daughter and smiled. “There,” said he, “you have straw enough. Spin that into gold before morning.” Having said this, with his own hand he locked the door, and left her to herself.
She looked at the spinning-wheel, and she looked at the straw; and at thought of what would happen on the morrow, she cried, “O Father! Father!” and burst into tears. And as she sat there weeping, there was a rustling, and again a rustling, and out from under the straw there came and appeared a little midget of a man, with a peaked hat on his head, long lean shanks, a red nose, and a rusty-coloured beard that swept down even below his belt.
“What’s all this crying about?” he asked angrily. “I can’t get a minute’s peace for it.”
She was so surprised at sight of him that she stopped crying and told him all.
He jeered at her. “Spin straw, forsooth! That’s no matter. But what will you give me if I spin for you?”
The miller’s daughter gazed at the dwarf through her tears. She had never before seen so odd and ugly a little man. But he looked back at her out of his needle-sharp eyes with such cunning that she half believed he could do what he said. She promised to give him her coral necklace. With that, he flicked his fingers in the air, took off his hat, sat down on the three-legged milking-stool in front of the wheel, put his foot on the treadle and began to spin.
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