“No,” replied the Scholar, without fear; “how should I?”
“Then I will tell you,” cried the Spirit: “I must break your neck!”
“You should have told me that before,” returned the Scholar, “and then you should have stuck where you were; but my head will stick on my shoulders in spite of you, for there are several people’s opinions to be asked yet about that matter.”
“Keep your people out of my way,” rejoined the Spirit; “but your deserved reward you must receive. Do you suppose I have been shut up so long out of mercy? no; it was for my punishment: I am the mighty Mercury, and whoever lets me out, his neck must I break.”
“Softly, softly!” said the Scholar, “that is quicker said than done; I must first know really that you were in the bottle, and that you are truly a spirit; if I see you return into the bottle, I will believe, and then you may do with me what you please.”
Full of pride, the Spirit answered, “That is an easy matter,” and, drawing himself together, he became as thin as he had been at first, and soon crept through the same opening back again into the bottle. Scarcely was he completely in when the Scholar put the stopper back into the neck, and threw the bottle down among the oak-tree roots at the old place; so the Spirit was deceived.
After this the Scholar would have gone back to his Father, but the Spirit cried lamentably, “Oh, let me out! do let me out!”
“No,” replied the Scholar, “not a second time: he who tried to take away my life once I shall not let out in a hurry, when I have got him safe again.”
“If you will free me,” pleaded the Spirit, “I will give you as much as will serve you for your lifetime.”
“No, no!” rejoined the Scholar, “you will deceive me as you did at first.”
“You are fighting against your own fortune,” replied the Spirit; “I will do you no harm, but reward you richly.”
“Well, I will hazard it,” thought the Scholar to himself; “perhaps he will keep his word, and do me no injury;” and, so thinking, he took the stopper out of the bottle again, and the Spirit sprang out as before, stretched himself up, and became as big as a giant.
“Now you shall have your reward,” said the Spirit, reaching the Scholar a little piece of rag in shape like a plaster. “If you apply one end of this to a wound it shall heal directly, and, if you touch with the other steel or iron, either will be changed into silver.”
“That I must try first,” said the Scholar; and, going to a tree, he tore off a piece of the bark with his axe, and then touched it with the one end of the rag, and immediately the wound closed up as if nothing had been done. “Now it is all right,” said the Scholar, “now we can separate.” Then the Spirit thanked him for releasing him, and the Scholar thanked the Spirit for his present, and went back to his Father.
“Where have you been roaming to?” asked the Father; “why, you have quite forgotten your work. I said rightly that you would do nothing of this kind well.”
“Be contented, father; I will make up the time,” said the Son.
“Yes, you will make it up, truly,” broke in the Father angrily, “without an axe!”
“Now, see, father, I will cut down that tree at one blow!” and, so saying, the son took his rag, rubbed the axe with it, and gave a powerful blow, but because the axe was changed into silver the edge turned up. “Ah, father, do you see what an axe you have given me! it has no edge at all!” said the Son.
The Father was frightened and said, “Ah! what have you done? now I must pay for the axe, and I know not how; for it is the one which I borrowed for your work.”
“Don’t be angry; I will soon pay for the axe,” said the Son; but the Father exclaimed, “Why, you simpleton, how will you do that? you have nothing but what I give you: this is some student’s trick which is stuck in your head, but of woodcutting you know nothing at all!”
After a pause the Scholar said, “Father, I can work no more; let us make holiday now.”
“Eh? what?” was the answer, “do you think I can keep my hands in my pockets as you do? I must get on, but you can go home.” The Son replied he did not know the way, as it was his first time of being in the forest, and at last he persuaded his Father to accompany him home, his wrath being past away. When they arrived at their house, the Father told his son to go and sell the axe which was damaged, and the rest he must earn in order to pay his neighbour for it. So the Son took the axe, and carried it to a Goldsmith in the city, who, after proving it, laid it in his scales, and said, “It is worth four hundred dollars, and so much I have not by me in the house.”
“Give me what you have,” said the Scholar, “and I will trust you the remainder.” The Goldsmith gave him three hundred dollars and left the other as a debt, and thereupon the Scholar went home, and said to his Father, “Go, ask the neighbour what he will have for his axe; for I have got some money.”
“I know already,” answered his Father; “one dollar six groschen is the price.”
“Then give him two dollars and twelve groschen; that is double, and enough; see, here, I have money in abundance!” and he gave his Father one hundred dollars, saying, “You shall never want now; live at your ease.”
“My goodness!” said the man, “where have you procured this money?”
The Son told his Father all that had happened, and how he had made such a capital catch by trusting to his luck. With the rest of the money, however, he returned to the university, and learnt all that he could; and afterwards, because he could heal all wounds with his plaster, he became the most celebrated doctor in the whole world.
The Two Wanderers
It is certain that hills and valleys always meet, and it often happens on the earth that her children, both the good and the wicked, cross each other’s paths continually. So it once occurred that a Shoemaker and a Tailor fell together during their travels. Now, the Tailor was a merry little fellow, always making the best of everything; and, as he saw the Shoemaker approaching from the opposite road, and remarked by his knapsack what trade he was, he began a little mocking rhyme, singing:—
“Stitch, stitch away with your needle,
Pull away hard with your thread,
Rub it with wax to the right and the left,
And knock the old peg on the head!”
The Shoemaker, however, could not take a joke, and drew a long face as if he had been drinking vinegar, while he seemed inclined to lay hold of the Tailor by the collar. But the latter began to laugh, and handed his bottle to the other, saying, “It is not ill meant; just drink, and wash down the gall.” The Shoemaker thereupon took a long pull, and immediately the gathering storm vanished; and, as he gave the Tailor back his bottle, he said, “I should have spoken to you roughly, but one talks better after a great drinking than after long thirst. Shall we travel together now?” “Right willingly,” answered the Tailor, “if you have but a mind to go into some large town where work is not wanting to those who seek it.” “That is just the place I should like,” rejoined the Shoemaker; “in a little nest there is nothing to be earned, and the people in the country would rather go barefoot than buy shoes.” So they wandered away, setting always one foot before the other, like a weasel in the snow.
Time enough had both our heroes, but little either to bite or break. When they came to the first town, they went round requesting work, and because the Tailor looked so fresh and merry, and had such red cheeks, every one gave him what he could spare to do, and moreover he was so lucky that the master’s daughters, behind the shop, would give him a kiss as he passed. So it happened that, when he met again with his companion, his bundle was the better filled of the two. The fretful Shoemaker drew a sour face, and thought, “The greater the rogue the better the luck;” but the other began to laugh and sing, and shared all that he received with his comrade. For, if only a couple of groschen jingled in his pocket, he would out with them, throw them on the table with such force that the glasses danced, and cry out, “Lightly earned, lightly spent!”
After they had wandered about for some time they came to a large forest, through which the road passed to the royal city; but there were two ways, one of which was seven days long, and the other only two, but neither of the travellers knew which was the shorter. They, therefore, sat down under an oak-tree, to consult how they should manage, and for how many days they could take bread with them. The Shoemaker said, “One must provide for further than one goes, so I will take with me bread for seven days.”
“What!” cried the Tailor, “carry bread for seven days on your back like a beast of burden, so that you can’t look round! I shall commit myself to God, and care for nothing. The money which I have in my pocket is as good in summer as in winter, but the bread will get dry, and musty beside, in this hot weather. Why should we not find the right way? Bread for two days, and luck with it!” Thereupon each one bought his own bread, and then they started in the forest to try their fortune.
It was as quiet and still as a church. Not a breath of wind was stirring, not a brook bubbling, a bird singing, nor even a sunbeam shining through the thick leaves. The Shoemaker spoke never a word, for the heavy bread pressed upon his back so sorely that the sweat ran down over his morose and dark countenance. The Tailor, on the other hand, was as merry as a lark, jumping about, whistling through straws, or singing songs. Thus two days passed; but on the third, when no end was to be found to the forest, the Tailor’s heart fell a bit, for he had eaten all his bread: still he did not lose courage, but put his trust in God and his own luck. The third evening he lay down under a tree hungry, and awoke the next morning not less so. The fourth day was just the same, and when the Shoemaker sat down on an uprooted tree, and devoured his midday meal, nothing remained to the Tailor but to look on. He begged once a bit of bread, but the other laughed in his face, and said, “You are always so merry, and now you can try for once in your life how a man feels when he is sad; birds which sing too early in the morning are caught by the hawk in the evening.” In short, he was without pity for his companion. The fifth morning, however, the poor Tailor could not stand upright, and could scarcely speak from faintness: his cheeks, besides, were quite white and his eyes red. Then the Shoemaker said to him, “I will give you to-day a piece of bread, but I must put out your right eye for it.”
The unhappy Tailor, who still wished to preserve his life, could not help himself: he wept once with both eyes, and then the Shoemaker, who had a heart of stone, put out his right eye with a needle. Then the poor fellow recollected what his mother had once said to him when he had been eating in the store-room, “One may eat too much, but one must also suffer for it.” As soon as he had swallowed his dearly-purchased bread he got upon his legs again, forgot his misfortune, and comforted himself by reflecting that he had still one eye left to see with. But on the sixth day hunger again tormented him and his heart began to fail him. When evening came he sank down under a tree, and on the seventh morning he could not raise himself from faintness, for death sat on his neck. The Shoemaker said, “I will yet show you mercy and give you a piece of bread, but as a recompense I must put out your left eye.” The Tailor, remembering his past sinfulness, begged pardon of God, and then said to his companion, “Do what you will, I will bear what I must; but remember that our God watches every action; and that another hour will come when the wicked deed shall be punished which you have practised upon me, and which I have never deserved. In prosperous days I shared with you what I had. My business is one which requires stitch for stitch. If I have no longer sight, I can sew no more, and must go begging. Let me not, when I am blind, lie here all alone, or I shall perish.”
The Shoemaker, however, had driven all thoughts about God out of his heart, and he took the knife and put out the left eye of his comrade. Then he gave him a piece of bread to eat, reached him a stick, and led him behind him.
As the sun was setting they got out of the forest, and before them in a field stood a gallows. The Shoemaker led the blind Tailor to it, left him lying there, and went his way. From weariness, pain, and hunger, the poor fellow slept the whole night long, and when he awoke at daybreak he knew not where he was. Upon the gallows hung two poor sinners, and upon each of their heads sat a Crow, one of which said to the other, “Brother, are you awake?” “Yes, I am,” replied the second. “Then I will tell you something,” said the first Crow. “The dew which has fallen over us this night from the gallows will give sight to him who needs it if he but wash himself with it. If the blind knew this, how many are there who would once more be able to see who now think it impossible!”
When the Tailor heard this he took his handkerchief, spread it on the grass, and as soon as it was soaked with dew he washed his eyeballs therewith. Immediately the words of the Crow were fulfilled, and he saw as clearly as ever. In a short while afterwards the Tailor saw the sun rise over the mountains, and before him in the distance lay the King’s city, with its magnificent gates and hundred towers, over which the spires and pinnacles began to glisten in the sunbeams. He discerned every leaf upon the trees, every bird which flew by, and the gnats which danced in the air. He took a needle out of his pocket, and, when he found he could pass the thread through the eye as easily as ever, his heart leaped for joy. He threw himself upon his knees and thanked God for the mercy shown to him, and while he said his morning devotions he did not forget to pray for the two poor sinners who swung to and fro in the wind like the pendulum of a clock. Afterwards he took his bundle upon his back, and, forgetting his past sorrows and troubles, he jogged along singing and whistling.
The first thing he met was a brown Filly, which was running about in the fields at liberty. The Tailor caught it by its mane, and would have swung himself on its back to ride into the city, but the Filly begged for its liberty, saying, “I am still too young; even a light Tailor like you would break my back; let me run about till I am stronger; a time, perhaps, will come when I can reward you.”
“Run away then,” replied the Tailor; “I see you are still a romp!” and with these words he gave it a cut with a switch which made it lift its hind legs for joy, and spring away over a hedge and ditch into a field.
But the Tailor had eaten nothing since the previous day, and he thought to himself, “The sun certainly fills my eyes, but the bread does not fill my mouth. The first thing which meets me now must suffer, if it be at all eatable.” Just then a Stork came walking very seriously over the meadow. “Stop, stop!” cried the Tailor, catching it by the leg, “I don’t know if you are fit to eat, but my hunger will not admit of choice; so I must chop off your head and roast you.” “Do it not,” answered the Stork; “I am a sacred bird, to whom nobody offers an injury, and I bring great profit to man. Leave me alone, and then I can recompense you at some future time.” “Be off, Cousin Long-legs,” said the Tailor; and the Stork, raising itself from the ground, flew gracefully away, with its long legs hanging downwards. “What will come of this?” said the Tailor to himself, “my hunger grows ever stronger, and my stomach yet more empty: what next crosses my path is lost.” As he spoke he saw a pair of young Ducks swimming upon a pond. “You have come just when you were called,” cried he, and, seizing one by the neck, he was about to twist it round, when an old bird which was hid among the reeds began to quack loudly, and swam with open bill up to the Tailor, begging him pitifully to spare her dear child. “Think what your poor mother would say if one fetched you away and put an end to your life!” “Be quiet!” replied the good-natured Tailor, “you shall have your child again;” and he put the prisoner back into the water. As soon as he turned round again he perceived the old hollow tree, and the wild bees flying in and out. “Here at last I shall find the reward of my good deed,” said the Tailor; “the honey will refresh me.” But scarcely had he spoken when the Queen Bee flew out, and thus addressed him, “If you touch my people, and disturb my nest, our stings shall pierce your skin like ten thousand red-hot needles. Leave us in peace, and go your own way, and perhaps at a future time you shall receive a reward for it.”
The Tailor perceived at once that nothing was to be had there. “Three empty dishes and nothing in the fourth is a bad meal,” thought he to himself; and, trudging on, he soon got into the city, where, as it was about noon, he found a dinner ready cooked in the inn, and gladly sat down to table. When he was satisfied he determined to go and seek work, and, as he walked around the city, he soon found a master, who gave him a good welcome. Since, however, he knew his business thoroughly, it very soon happened that he became quite famed, and everybody would have his new coat made by the little Tailor. Every day added to his consequence, and he said to himself, “I can get no higher in my art, and yet every day trade gets brisker.” At length he was appointed court tailor.
But how things do turn out! The same day his former comrade was made court shoemaker; and when he saw the Tailor, and remarked that his eyes were as bright and good as ever, his conscience pricked him. But he thought to himself, “Before he revenges himself on me I must lay a snare for him.” Now, he who digs a pit for another often falls into it himself. In the evening, when the Shoemaker had left off work, and it was become quite dark, he slipped up to the King and whispered, “May it please your Majesty, this Tailor is a high-minded fellow, and has boasted that he can procure again the crown which has been lost so long.”
Grimm's Fairy Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 40