Chương Chương 166 · The Goose-Girl at the Well

. The Goose-Girl at the Well

There was once upon a time a very old woman, who lived with her flock

of geese in a waste place among the mountains, and there had a little

house. The waste was surrounded by a large forest, and every morning

the old woman took her crutch and hobbled into it. There, however, the

dame was quite active, more so than any one would have thought,

considering her age, and collected grass for her geese, picked all the

wild fruit she could reach, and carried everything home on her back.

Any one would have thought that the heavy load would have weighed her

to the ground, but she always brought it safely home. If any one met

her, she greeted him quite courteously. “Good day, dear countryman, it

is a fine day. Ah! you wonder that I should drag grass about, but every

one must take his burthen on his back.” Nevertheless, people did not

like to meet her if they could help it, and took by preference a

round-about way, and when a father with his boys passed her, he

whispered to them, “Beware of the old woman. She has claws beneath her

gloves; she is a witch.” One morning, a handsome young man was going

through the forest. The sun shone bright, the birds sang, a cool breeze

crept through the leaves, and he was full of joy and gladness. He had

as yet met no one, when he suddenly perceived the old witch kneeling on

the ground cutting grass with a sickle. She had already thrust a whole

load into her cloth, and near it stood two baskets, which were filled

with wild apples and pears. “But, good little mother,” said he, “how

canst thou carry all that away?” “I must carry it, dear sir,” answered

she, “rich folk’s children have no need to do such things, but with the

peasant folk the saying goes, don’t look behind you, you will only see

how crooked your back is!”

“Will you help me?” she said, as he remained standing by her. “You have

still a straight back and young legs, it would be a trifle to you.

Besides, my house is not so very far from here, it stands there on the

heath behind the hill. How soon you would bound up thither.” The young

man took compassion on the old woman. “My father is certainly no

peasant,” replied he, “but a rich count; nevertheless, that you may see

that it is not only peasants who can carry things, I will take your

bundle.” “If you will try it,” said she, “I shall be very glad. You

will certainly have to walk for an hour, but what will that signify to

you; only you must carry the apples and pears as well?” It now seemed

to the young man just a little serious, when he heard of an hour’s

walk, but the old woman would not let him off, packed the bundle on his

back, and hung the two baskets on his arm. “See, it is quite light,”

said she. “No, it is not light,” answered the count, and pulled a

rueful face. “Verily, the bundle weighs as heavily as if it were full

of cobble stones, and the apples and pears are as heavy as lead! I can

scarcely breathe.” He had a mind to put everything down again, but the

old woman would not allow it. “Just look,” said she mockingly, “the

young gentleman will not carry what I, an old woman, have so often

dragged along. You are ready with fine words, but when it comes to be

earnest, you want to take to your heels. Why are you standing loitering

there?” she continued. “Step out. No one will take the bundle off

again.” As long as he walked on level ground, it was still bearable,

but when they came to the hill and had to climb, and the stones rolled

down under his feet as if they were alive, it was beyond his strength.

The drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and ran, hot and cold,

down his back. “Dame,” said he, “I can go no farther. I want to rest a

little.” “Not here,” answered the old woman, “when we have arrived at

our journey’s end, you can rest; but now you must go forward. Who knows

what good it may do you?” “Old woman, thou art becoming shameless!”

said the count, and tried to throw off the bundle, but he laboured in

vain; it stuck as fast to his back as if it grew there. He turned and

twisted, but he could not get rid of it. The old woman laughed at this,

and sprang about quite delighted on her crutch. “Don’t get angry, dear

sir,” said she, “you are growing as red in the face as a turkey-cock!

Carry your bundle patiently. I will give you a good present when we get

home.”

What could he do? He was obliged to submit to his fate, and crawl along

patiently behind the old woman. She seemed to grow more and more

nimble, and his burden still heavier. All at once she made a spring,

jumped on to the bundle and seated herself on the top of it; and

however withered she might be, she was yet heavier than the stoutest

country lass. The youth’s knees trembled, but when he did not go on,

the old woman hit him about the legs with a switch and with

stinging-nettles. Groaning continually, he climbed the mountain, and at

length reached the old woman’s house, when he was just about to drop.

When the geese perceived the old woman, they flapped their wings,

stretched out their necks, ran to meet her, cackling all the while.

Behind the flock walked, stick in hand, an old wench, strong and big,

but ugly as night. “Good mother,” said she to the old woman, “has

anything happened to you, you have stayed away so long?” “By no means,

my dear daughter,” answered she, “I have met with nothing bad, but, on

the contrary, with this kind gentleman, who has carried my burthen for

me; only think, he even took me on his back when I was tired. The way,

too, has not seemed long to us; we have been merry, and have been

cracking jokes with each other all the time.” At last the old woman

slid down, took the bundle off the young man’s back, and the baskets

from his arm, looked at him quite kindly, and said, “Now seat yourself

on the bench before the door, and rest. You have fairly earned your

wages, and they shall not be wanting.” Then she said to the goose-girl,

“Go into the house, my dear daughter, it is not becoming for thee to be

alone with a young gentleman; one must not pour oil on to the fire, he

might fall in love with thee.” The count knew not whether to laugh or

to cry. “Such a sweetheart as that,” thought he, “could not touch my

heart, even if she were thirty years younger.” In the meantime the old

woman stroked and fondled her geese as if they were children, and then

went into the house with her daughter. The youth lay down on the bench,

under a wild apple-tree. The air was warm and mild; on all sides

stretched a green meadow, which was set with cowslips, wild thyme, and

a thousand other flowers; through the midst of it rippled a clear brook

on which the sun sparkled, and the white geese went walking backwards

and forwards, or paddled in the water. “It is quite delightful here,”

said he, “but I am so tired that I cannot keep my eyes open; I will

sleep a little. If only a gust of wind does not come and blow my legs

off my body, for they are as rotten as tinder.”

When he had slept a little while, the old woman came and shook him till

he awoke. “Sit up,” said she, “thou canst not stay here; I have

certainly treated thee hardly, still it has not cost thee thy life. Of

money and land thou hast no need, here is something else for thee.”

Thereupon she thrust a little book into his hand, which was cut out of

a single emerald. “Take great care of it,” said she, “it will bring

thee good fortune.” The count sprang up, and as he felt that he was

quite fresh, and had recovered his vigor, he thanked the old woman for

her present, and set off without even once looking back at the

beautiful daughter. When he was already some way off, he still heard in

the distance the noisy cry of the geese.

For three days the count had to wander in the wilderness before he

could find his way out. He then reached a large town, and as no one

knew him, he was led into the royal palace, where the King and Queen

were sitting on their throne. The count fell on one knee, drew the

emerald book out of his pocket, and laid it at the Queen’s feet. She

bade him rise and hand her the little book. Hardly, however, had she

opened it, and looked therein, than she fell as if dead to the ground.

The count was seized by the King’s servants, and was being led to

prison, when the Queen opened her eyes, and ordered them to release

him, and every one was to go out, as she wished to speak with him in

private.

When the Queen was alone, she began to weep bitterly, and said, “Of

what use to me are the splendours and honours with which I am

surrounded; every morning I awake in pain and sorrow. I had three

daughters, the youngest of whom was so beautiful that the whole world

looked on her as a wonder. She was as white as snow, as rosy as

apple-blossom, and her hair as radiant as sun-beams. When she cried,

not tears fell from her eyes, but pearls and jewels only. When she was

fifteen years old, the King summoned all three sisters to come before

his throne. You should have seen how all the people gazed when the

youngest entered, it was just as if the sun were rising! Then the King

spoke, “My daughters, I know not when my last day may arrive; I will

to-day decide what each shall receive at my death. You all love me, but

the one of you who loves me best, shall fare the best.” Each of them

said she loved him best. “Can you not express to me,” said the King,

“how much you do love me, and thus I shall see what you mean?” The

eldest spoke. “I love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar.” The

second, “I love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress.” But the

youngest was silent. Then the father said, “And thou, my dearest child,

how much dost thou love me?” “I do not know, and can compare my love

with nothing.” But her father insisted that she should name something.

So she said at last, “The best food does not please me without salt,

therefore I love my father like salt.” When the King heard that, he

fell into a passion, and said, “If thou lovest me like salt, thy love

shall also be repaid thee with salt.” Then he divided the kingdom

between the two elder, but caused a sack of salt to be bound on the

back of the youngest, and two servants had to lead her forth into the

wild forest. We all begged and prayed for her, said the Queen, “but the

King’s anger was not to be appeased. How she cried when she had to

leave us! The whole road was strewn with the pearls which flowed from

her eyes. The King soon afterwards repented of his great severity, and

had the whole forest searched for the poor child, but no one could find

her. When I think that the wild beasts have devoured her, I know not

how to contain myself for sorrow; many a time I console myself with the

hope that she is still alive, and may have hidden herself in a cave, or

has found shelter with compassionate people. But picture to yourself,

when I opened your little emerald book, a pearl lay therein, of exactly

the same kind as those which used to fall from my daughter’s eyes; and

then you can also imagine how the sight of it stirred my heart. You

must tell me how you came by that pearl.” The count told her that he

had received it from the old woman in the forest, who had appeared very

strange to him, and must be a witch, but he had neither seen nor hear

anything of the Queen’s child. The King and the Queen resolved to seek

out the old woman. They thought that there where the pearl had been,

they would obtain news of their daughter.

The old woman was sitting in that lonely place at her spinning-wheel,

spinning. It was already dusk, and a log which was burning on the

hearth gave a scanty light. All at once there was a noise outside, the

geese were coming home from the pasture, and uttering their hoarse

cries. Soon afterwards the daughter also entered. But the old woman

scarcely thanked her, and only shook her head a little. The daughter

sat down beside her, took her spinning-wheel, and twisted the threads

as nimbly as a young girl. Thus they both sat for two hours, and

exchanged never a word. At last something rustled at the window, and

two fiery eyes peered in. It was an old night-owl, which cried, “Uhu!”

three times. The old woman looked up just a little, then she said,

“Now, my little daughter, it is time for thee to go out and do thy

work.” She rose and went out, and where did she go? Over the meadows

ever onward into the valley. At last she came to a well, with three old

oak-trees standing beside it; meanwhile the moon had risen large and

round over the mountain, and it was so light that one could have found

a needle. She removed a skin which covered her face, then bent down to

the well, and began to wash herself. When she had finished, she dipped

the skin also in the water, and then laid it on the meadow, so that it

should bleach in the moonlight, and dry again. But how the maiden was

changed! Such a change as that was never seen before! When the gray

mask fell off, her golden hair broke forth like sunbeams, and spread

about like a mantle over her whole form. Her eyes shone out as brightly

as the stars in heaven, and her cheeks bloomed a soft red like

apple-blossom.

But the fair maiden was sad. She sat down and wept bitterly. One tear

after another forced itself out of her eyes, and rolled through her

long hair to the ground. There she sat, and would have remained sitting

a long time, if there had not been a rustling and cracking in the

boughs of the neighbouring tree. She sprang up like a roe which has

been overtaken by the shot of the hunter. Just then the moon was

obscured by a dark cloud, and in an instant the maiden had put on the

old skin and vanished, like a light blown out by the wind.

She ran back home, trembling like an aspen-leaf. The old woman was

standing on the threshold, and the girl was about to relate what had

befallen her, but the old woman laughed kindly, and said, “I already

know all.” She led her into the room and lighted a new log. She did

not, however, sit down to her spinning again, but fetched a broom and

began to sweep and scour, “All must be clean and sweet,” she said to

the girl. “But, mother,” said the maiden, “why do you begin work at so

late an hour? What do you expect?” “Dost thou know then what time it

is?” asked the old woman. “Not yet midnight,” answered the maiden, “but

already past eleven o’clock.” “Dost thou not remember,” continued the

old woman, “that it is three years to-day since thou camest to me? Thy

time is up, we can no longer remain together.” The girl was terrified,

and said, “Alas! dear mother, will you cast me off? Where shall I go? I

have no friends, and no home to which I can go. I have always done as

you bade me, and you have always been satisfied with me; do not send me

away.” The old woman would not tell the maiden what lay before her. “My

stay here is over,” she said to her, “but when I depart, house and

parlour must be clean: therefore do not hinder me in my work. Have no

care for thyself, thou shalt find a roof to shelter thee, and the wages

which I will give thee shall also content thee.” “But tell me what is

about to happen,” the maiden continued to entreat. “I tell thee again,

do not hinder me in my work. Do not say a word more, go to thy chamber,

take the skin off thy face, and put on the silken gown which thou hadst

on when thou camest to me, and then wait in thy chamber until I call

thee.”

But I must once more tell of the King and Queen, who had journeyed

forth with the count in order to seek out the old woman in the

wilderness. The count had strayed away from them in the wood by night,

and had to walk onwards alone. Next day it seemed to him that he was on

the right track. He still went forward, until darkness came on, then he

climbed a tree, intending to pass the night there, for he feared that

he might lose his way. When the moon illumined the surrounding country

he perceived a figure coming down the mountain. She had no stick in her

hand, but yet he could see that it was the goose-girl, whom he had seen

before in the house of the old woman. “Oho,” cried he, “there she

comes, and if I once get hold of one of the witches, the other shall

not escape me!” But how astonished he was, when she went to the well,

took off the skin and washed herself, when her golden hair fell down

all about her, and she was more beautiful than any one whom he had ever

seen in the whole world. He hardly dared to breathe, but stretched his

head as far forward through the leaves as he dared, and stared at her.

Either he bent over too far, or whatever the cause might be, the bough

suddenly cracked, and that very moment the maiden slipped into the

skin, sprang away like a roe, and as the moon was suddenly covered,

disappeared from his eyes. Hardly had she disappeared, before the count

descended from the tree, and hastened after her with nimble steps. He

had not been gone long before he saw, in the twilight, two figures

coming over the meadow. It was the King and Queen, who had perceived

from a distance the light shining in the old woman’s little house, and

were going to it. The count told them what wonderful things he had seen

by the well, and they did not doubt that it had been their lost

daughter. They walked onwards full of joy, and soon came to the little

house. The geese were sitting all round it, and had thrust their heads

under their wings and were sleeping, and not one of them moved. The

King and Queen looked in at the window, the old woman was sitting there

quite quietly spinning, nodding her head and never looking round. The

room was perfectly clean, as if the little mist men, who carry no dust

on their feet, lived there. Their daughter, however, they did not see.

They gazed at all this for a long time, at last they took heart, and

knocked softly at the window. The old woman appeared to have been

expecting them; she rose, and called out quite kindly, “Come in,—I know

you already.” When they had entered the room, the old woman said, “You

might have spared yourself the long walk, if you had not three years

ago unjustly driven away your child, who is so good and lovable. No

harm has come to her; for three years she has had to tend the geese;

with them she has learnt no evil, but has preserved her purity of

heart. You, however, have been sufficiently punished by the misery in

which you have lived.” Then she went to the chamber and called, “Come

out, my little daughter.” Thereupon the door opened, and the princess

stepped out in her silken garments, with her golden hair and her

shining eyes, and it was as if an angel from heaven had entered.

She went up to her father and mother, fell on their necks and kissed

them; there was no help for it, they all had to weep for joy. The young

count stood near them, and when she perceived him she became as red in

the face as a moss-rose, she herself did not know why. The King said,

“My dear child, I have given away my kingdom, what shall I give thee?”

“She needs nothing,” said the old woman. “I give her the tears that she

has wept on your account; they are precious pearls, finer than those

that are found in the sea, and worth more than your whole kingdom, and

I give her my little house as payment for her services.” When the old

woman had said that, she disappeared from their sight. The walls

rattled a little, and when the King and Queen looked round, the little

house had changed into a splendid palace, a royal table had been

spread, and the servants were running hither and thither.

The story goes still further, but my grandmother, who related it to me,

had partly lost her memory, and had forgotten the rest. I shall always

believe that the beautiful princess married the count, and that they

remained together in the palace, and lived there in all happiness so

long as God willed it. Whether the snow-white geese, which were kept

near the little hut, were verily young maidens (no one need take

offence,) whom the old woman had taken under her protection, and

whether they now received their human form again, and stayed as

handmaids to the young Queen, I do not exactly know, but I suspect it.

This much is certain, that the old woman was no witch, as people

thought, but a wise woman, who meant well. Very likely it was she who,

at the princess’s birth, gave her the gift of weeping pearls instead of

tears. That does not happen now-a-days, or else the poor would soon

become rich.

180 Eve’s Various Children

When Adam and Eve were driven out of Paradise, they were compelled to

build a house for themselves on unfruitful ground, and eat their bread

in the sweat of their brow. Adam dug up the land, and Eve span. Every

year Eve brought a child into the world; but the children were unlike

each other, some pretty, and some ugly. After a considerable time had

gone by, God sent an angel to them, to announce that he was coming to

inspect their household. Eve, delighted that the Lord should be so

gracious, cleaned her house diligently, decked it with flowers, and

strewed reeds on the floor. Then she brought in her children, but only

the beautiful ones. She washed and bathed them, combed their hair, put

clean raiment on them, and cautioned them to conduct themselves

decorously and modestly in the presence of the Lord. They were to bow

down before him civilly, hold out their hands, and to answer his

questions modestly and sensibly. The ugly children were, however, not

to let themselves be seen. One hid himself beneath the hay, another

under the roof, a third in the straw, the fourth in the stove, the

fifth in the cellar, the sixth under a tub, the seventh beneath the

wine-cask, the eighth under an old fur cloak, the ninth and tenth

beneath the cloth out of which she always made their clothes, and the

eleventh and twelfth under the leather out of which she cut their

shoes. She had scarcely got ready, before there was a knock at the

house-door. Adam looked through a chink, and saw that it was the Lord.

Adam opened the door respectfully, and the Heavenly Father entered.

There, in a row, stood the pretty children, and bowed before him, held

out their hands, and knelt down. The Lord, however, began to bless

them, laid his hands on the first, and said, “Thou shalt be a powerful

king;” and to the second, “Thou a prince,” to the third, “Thou a

count,” to the fourth, “Thou a knight,” to the fifth, “Thou a

nobleman,” to the sixth, “Thou a burgher,” to the seventh, “Thou a

merchant,” to the eighth, “Thou a learned man.” He bestowed upon them

also all his richest blessings. When Eve saw that the Lord was so mild

and gracious, she thought, “I will bring hither my ill-favoured

children also, it may be that he will bestow his blessing on them

likewise.” So she ran and brought them out of the hay, the straw, the

stove, and wherever else she had concealed them. Then came the whole

coarse, dirty, shabby, sooty band. The Lord smiled, looked at them all,

and said, “I will bless these also.” He laid his hands on the first,

and said to him, “Thou shalt be a peasant,” to the second, “Thou a

fisherman,” to the third, “Thou a smith,” to the fourth, “Thou a

tanner,” to the fifth, “Thou a weaver,” to the sixth, “Thou a

shoemaker,” to the seventh, “Thou a tailor,” to the eighth, “Thou a

potter,” to the ninth, “Thou a waggoner,” to the tenth, “Thou a

sailor,” to the eleventh, “Thou an errand-boy,” to the twelfth, “Thou a

scullion all the days of thy life.”

When Eve had heard all this she said, “Lord, how unequally thou

dividest thy gifts! After all they are all of them my children, whom I

have brought into the world, thy favours should be given to all alike.”

But God answered, “Eve, thou dost not understand. It is right and

necessary that the entire world should be supplied from thy children;

if they were all princes and lords, who would grow corn, thresh it,

grind and bake it? Who would be blacksmiths, weavers, carpenters,

masons, labourers, tailors and seamstresses? Each shall have his own

place, so that one shall support the other, and all shall be fed like

the limbs of one body.” Then Eve answered, “Ah, Lord, forgive me, I was

too quick in speaking to thee. Have thy divine will with my children.”