1. Cinder-Blower and the Wishing-Wand

2. The Crowned Adder

3. The Plaintive Song

4. Hans the Tailor and the Animals who Knew

5. Wavy Sunlight

6. Strong Godfrey

7. Godmother Toad

8. Soulless

9. The Ungrateful Son

10. The Farthing

11. The Black Count

12. Of the Boy who did not Want to Wash

13. The Tiny, Tiny Little Man

14. The Terrible Night-watch

15. The Hospitable Calf’s-Head

16. The Sharp Shears

17. The Brave Little Beggarman

18. Dwarves’ Caps

19. The Wandering Journeyman

20. The Knight of Our Lady

21. Of the Boy who wanted to learn Witchcraft

22. The Three Wishes

23. The Cow-herds

24. The Most Indispensable Thing

25. The King of the Fishes

26. The Snake with the Golden Key

27. The Golden Sheepfold

28. The Cursed Town

29. Scrub the Muzzle

30. The Talking Donkey

31. The Pious Knight

32. The Wandering Staff

33. The Wishing-Things

34. The Little Blue Flame

35. Ingratitude is the World’s Reward

36. Fat Lollus and Lean Lollus

37. The Eagles and the Ravens

38. Of a Hare and the Elephant-King

39. Of a Hare and a Bird

40. Of a Hermit and three Scoundrels

41. The Cunning Raven

42. The Thief and the Devil

43. The Transformed Mouse

44. The Raven’s Guile and Revenge

45. The Two Brothers

46. The Snake Family-Friend

47. The Snake’s Wet-Nurse

48. Clear-Moon

49. Sevenskin

50. Ducats-Angela

1. Cinder-Blower and the Wishing-Wand

Once upon a time there was a rich man, and he had a beautiful only daughter whom he loved beyond measure. His wife had died. The daughter was extraordinarily beautiful, and whatever she wished for, her father gave her, because he knew no greater happiness than giving pleasure to his little girl; also, perhaps, because she was a wish-maiden, whose every wish came to pass – “Give me a dress, father, that is made of silver, and I’ll give you a kiss for it!” the daughter said to her father one day, and she soon received the dress, and the father received his kiss.

“Give me a dress, dear father, that is made of gold!” the daughter said soon afterwards, “and I’ll give you two kisses.”

The father agreed to this pleasant barter too.

“Give me a dress that is made of diamonds, dearest father, and I’ll give you three kisses!” the daughter asked again, and her father told her, “You shall have it, but you’re making me poor.”

The father got the dress and his daughter gratefully threw her arms around his neck and kissed him three times and cried, “Now, beloved father, darling father, give me a Rod of Fortune, a Wishing-Wand, and I’ll always be your little darling and do everything to pleasure you!”

“My child,” said the father, “I do not have such a wand, and it will be hard to obtain; yet I will try my luck to make your happiness complete.”

Then the father went on a journey, taking the last of his fortune with him, and searched for a Wishing-Wand, but no merchant had such a thing for sale. So the man travelled far into a distant land, where an old sorcerer chanced to live, and heard tell that he possessed a Wishing-Wand. The all-too-good father sought out this sorcerer, presented his request to him, and asked what the wand would cost.

The old sorcerer spoke: “If people could buy Wishing-Wands with money then there would soon be no forests left on Earth, even if every little tree and every little branch were such a rod. He who receives such a wand gives up his soul and dies three days after he has handed it on, unless he gives it to someone who is willing to, and vows to, sacrifice his very soul for it. Then the first possessor’s soul goes free.”

“Fine,” said the father of that daughter. “For my child’s sake, I shall not shrink from the required sacrifice. Give me the wand!” – The old sorcerer had the man write his name in a book then fulfilled his request. The far journey for the wand had exhausted the last remnants of the rich man’s fortune – he had spent everything on his daughter – but it did not matter to him. Just seeing her made happy by the fulfilment of her every wish was his only thought and desire. It is well, he thought, that I die, for she would keep wishing for yet more, and if I were unable to fulfil any more of her wishes, I myself would be most unhappy.

With the greatest delight did the daughter receive from the hand of her father, whose return she had awaited with longing, the Wishing-Wand, and she did not know how to thank him.

But three days later the daughter had a new wish. She had heard tell of an exceedingly handsome Prince who lived in a faraway land and was very rich and worthy of all one’s love. She wanted him as her husband.

The father, however, said: “My beloved daughter, I have given you everything I own, and for your Wishing-Wand I gave up my life, even my soul. I must part from you; you procure for yourself this Prince whom you wish to marry, live happily, and remember me with love.” With these words the father bent his head and passed away. His daughter shed sincere and bitter tears over him and said: There never was a better father! – And she was very right about that.

Now, when the father of this daughter had been consigned to the grave, she had no relatives left, nor money nor possessions. So she put on a cloak of crow’s feathers for her everyday outfit, took her silver dress, her gold dress, and her diamond dress, and slung all three over her shoulder, then she picked up the Wishing-Wand and waved it, wishing herself near to the castle in which the renowned Prince lived. Then it was as if a wind were gently raising her, and borne by the air she floated speedily into distant parts, soon arriving in a park-forest, where she could see the Prince’s castle shimmering nearby through the thick oak-trunks. She struck the thickest of these oaks with her wand and wished that there was a wardrobe inside in which she could hang up her clothes, and a little room to change her clothes in; and all this came about straight away. She now disguised herself to look like a boy and walked, wearing the crow’s pelt, into the Prince’s castle. The aroma of choice dishes led her to the kitchen; there she offered her services to the cook as a parent- and homeless boy.

“Very well,” said the cook, “you shall be my cinder-blower, you’ll stoke the fire up early on, and keep it burning during the day, and see to it that no ashes fall out, and for that you can eat your fill every day. But you must also brush our Master the Prince’s coats and clean and polish his boots.” – The girl attended to her duties as a boy, and several days later she saw the Prince; having come back from the hunt, he strode along the kitchen passageway and threw a bird he had shot into the kitchen, that the same be roasted. The Prince was so handsome and splendid of figure and appearance that Cinder-Blower instantly fell violently in love with him. She would really have liked to approach him, but that would not have been seemly. Then she heard that a princely wedding was to be celebrated, over at a neighbouring castle, that would last for three days, and the Prince was to be the most distinguished guest, and he would travel over to dance there every day. All the local people, and those castle servants who were at all able, hurried over to see the splendour of the festivities. Then Cinder-Blower asked the cook to allow her to go over and watch the dance too, for the kitchen was all in order, with every fire extinguished, every spark dead, and the cinders kept. The cook allowed his servant to obtain the requested pleasure. Cinder-Blower hurried towards her oak, changed into the silver dress, and transformed her boy’s figure into her own, then she struck a stone with her Wishing-Wand and it became a gala-coach, and she touched a couple of dor beetles[1] which became fine-bodied pitch-black horses, and a grass frog became the coachman and a green tree-frog the liveried huntsman. Cinder-Blower took her seat in the coach and off they went, as fast as flight. Into the ballroom walked the stately maiden, and everyone was dazzled by her beauty. The Prince lost his heart to her at once and asked her to dance; she danced delightfully and was very happy, but after several rounds she disappeared from the ballroom, climbed into her coach, which was waiting for her outside, waved her wand, and cried:

“Darkness behind me, before me light,

The road I travel be lost to sight!”

And the road she travelled was indeed lost to sight. The Prince was very uneasy at the rapid disappearance of his beautiful dancing-partner, and as no one was able to give any information in response to all his questions – who was she? where was she from? – he passed the night with great restlessness, which in the morning transformed itself into a dreadful sullenness and that foul mood which can seize even Princes every now and then.

The cook brought the Prince’s boots into the kitchen and complained about his ill-humour while handing them over to Cinder-Blower to be cleaned and polished. She undertook this duty and polished the boots so beautifully that the tomcat looked at his reflection in them with great satisfaction and gave a kiss to his mirrored ego; and the shine disappeared from the spot the cat had kissed.

Now when Cinder-Blower walked into the Prince’s room in the figure of a boy, wearing the cloak of crow’s feathers, and put the boots down, the Prince saw the dull spot at once, and taking that boot he threw it at her head, shouting: “You rascally cinder-blower! Couldn’t you learn to polish boots properly?”

Cinder-Blower picked up the boot and again made it shine all over and kept silent.

In the evening the Prince drove to the dance again, and Cinder-Blower once more asked for leave. As Cinder-Blower had returned promptly the previous evening and not stayed out too long, as many domestics like to do, so the cook granted the request once again – and now Cinder-Blower went to her closet and little chamber in the oak-tree and put on the golden dress, procured herself a new coach, new horses, and new servants with her Wishing-Wand, and drove over to the castle. The Prince was already there, but out of humour. He found nothing pleasant, for she was not present. Then she walked in, radiant as a Queen. He rushed over to her and led her to the dance. Oh, how happy her fair smile, her intelligent conversation, her bright, mischievous inclination to tease made him! Today he had many questions to ask, among others – where was she from? Cinder-Blower replied with a laugh: “From Bootchuck!”

Cinder-Blower whiled away a brief hour at the dance – all of a sudden she had disappeared from the ballroom, and she quickly took her seat in her coach and spoke her spell:

“Darkness behind me, before me light,

The road I travel be lost to sight!”

The Prince’s gaze sought the beloved figure in vain. Asking after her, he turned to this one and that one of the wedding guests, but no one knew her. He asked his Privy Councillor, who had come with him as his attendant: “Pray tell me, my dear Privy Councillor, where the town or the castle Bootchuck is to be found?”

The Privy Councillor made a deep bow and replied: “Most serene Prince! May it please Your Highness to – Bootchuck – oh yes, it lies – it lies – in – in – how embarrassing, right this moment I cannot think where it lies. Is there really a village or a castle with that strange name? Where should said place lie, Your Highness?”

The Prince turned his back on the speaker and muttered angrily through his teeth: “I pay this Privy Councillor a salary of three thousand dollars every year, and now he does not even know where Bootchuck lies! – It is shocking!”

And so, it goes without saying that the Prince, when the sun rose rosily the next morning, was not in the rosiest of moods. He could find no rest, he wanted to go out very early, so he put on his coat, which Cinder-Blower had brushed clean, discovered a few specks of dust on it, called for a brush, and stamped his feet. Cinder-Blower hurriedly ran over in her crow’s pelt with the brush, but the Prince was so dreadfully angry that he tore the brush from her hand, threw it at her head, and shouted at her that she must brush better the next time.

On the last evening of the neighbouring wedding festivities, everyone again ran over to the castle, and the Prince drove there also. Then Cinder-Blower asked a third time for permission to go and watch, and the cook shook his head repeatedly at the youth’s great curiosity, but he thought: “Virtue is, in truth, seldom found in youth,” and he said: “Today’s the last day, run over!”

Cinder-Blower swiftly ran to the oak-tree in the park, put on the diamond dress, again conjured up coach and horses, coachman and lackeys for herself, and appeared at the feast like a living ray of beauty. The Prince danced with her above all, and only with her, and asked her tenderly what was her name? Cinder-Blower gave a mischievous smile and replied, “Cinerosa Brushathead.”

The first name, ending as it did with -rosa, the Prince found very beautiful, particularly as he knew no Latin, but the surname was odd – he had never yet heard mention of this undoubtedly rich and respected family; yet he said, compelled by love, while he slipped his ring onto her finger: “Whoever you may be, dearest Cinerosa! With this ring I betroth myself to you!” – With a deep flush of shame on her cheeks, Cinder-Blower looked down at the ground and trembled. Immediately afterwards she withdrew, when the Prince had turned his eyes elsewhere just for a second. In no time she was sitting in her coach, but the Prince just happened to have given the order for his coach to be driven up close behind hers, so he would be able to follow her. Cinder-Blower waved her wand and said:

“Darkness behind me, before me light,

The road I travel be lost to sight!”

And then she rolled away – the Prince swiftly sat down in his coach and rolled after her, and although her coach could no longer be seen, the rolling of its wheels could be heard, and so the Prince’s coach-driver followed this sound. This night of dancing had lasted the longest, and early morning was beginning to dawn; the hour had already arrived in which the kitchen-work began, so Cinder-Blower quickly conjured her coach and her servants away, but not having time to change her clothes, she hastily hid her diamond dress under the crow’s pelt and hurried into the kitchen. Now the Prince, who had followed the coach of the marvellous maiden, was amazed to find himself right in front of his own castle, and not knowing the meaning of it all, he was consequently very morose, and very unwell, and bleary-eyed to boot.

“Our Prince is not at all well!” the cook said to Cinder-Blower. He needs a nourishing broth or a hot chocolate – hurry and light a fire.” The morning collation was quickly prepared, Cinder-Blower threw the Prince’s ring into the cup, and the cook took it up to the Prince. He drank and found, to his astonishment, his ring at the bottom of the cup, and he hastily asked, “Who is in the kitchen at so early an hour?”

“Your Highness, no one but I and the cinder-blower,” replied the cook.

“Send that lad in to me this instant!” commanded the Prince, and when Cinder-Blower came, the Prince looked at him very keenly, but the cloak of crow’s feathers completely hid her beauty.

“Come here, step nearer, Cinder-Blower!” ordered the Prince. “Come, comb me, my hairdresser is still lying abed!”

Cinder-Blower obeyed: she walked up beside the Prince and raked an ivory comb through his soft, full hair. The Prince felt the cloak of crow’s feathers, which was worn in several places and therefore somewhat fragile and threadbare, and through the worn threads there came flashes, as sparkling clear as the morning dew – those were the shining diamonds of the sumptuous garment Cinder-Blower was wearing under the crowskin cloak.

“Now I know you, my love!” the Prince cried, full of inexpressible joy. “Now you are mine, now I am yours! For ever!” And he clasped his bride in his arms and kissed her.

Shortly before the wedding, the beautiful bride requested one more favour of her beloved bridegroom. The good cook, who had received Cinder-Blower so benevolently, and treated her so kindly and benignly, was knighted by the Prince and elevated to Hereditary Seneschal. That suited him down to the ground; he no longer needed to cook the food, as formerly, but was able to help to consume it, in peace, at the princely table; and when the wedding was celebrated with great magnificence, he then, in the full splendour of his new dignity, decorated with order and star, served the princely couple their dishes with his own hands.

2. The Crowned Adder

Old grandfathers and grandmothers have often told their grandchildren and great-grandchildren tales of beautiful snakes which bore little golden crowns on their head; the old ones called them by various names, such as Adder-King, Crown-Adder, Snake-Queen and suchlike, and they said that the possession of such a crown brings great good fortune.

A pious, kind-hearted maid was in the service of a miserly farmer, and in his cowshed there also lived a crowned adder, which could occasionally be heard singing quite enchantingly at night, for these adders have the gift of singing more beautifully than the best songbirds. Now when the faithful maid came into the shed and milked the cows or fed them or strewed their litter for them, which she did with great care, for her master’s cattle meant the world to her, then the snake, which was as white as the whitest of mice, would sometimes crawl out of the crack in the wall where it lived and look with intelligent eyes at the busy maid, and she always had the impression that the snake wanted something from her. And then she made it a habit to put some udder-warm cow’s milk in a saucer and lay it down for the snake, and it drank the milk with great relish while twisting and turning its little head, and its crown glittered like a diamond or a carbuncle, shining ever so brightly in the dark cowshed.

The good maid took great delight in the white snake, and she perceived that, ever since she had started to give it milk to drink, her master’s cows had visibly flourished, giving far more milk, always being healthy, and bringing adorable calves into the world – all of which she saw with the greatest pleasure.

Then one day, it so happened that the farmer walked into the cowshed just as the Crowned Adder was licking up the drop of milk that the good maid had put down for it, and because his stinginess and greed knew no bounds he flared up as furiously as if the poor maid had given away milk by the bucketful.

“You villainous good-for-nothing maid that you are!” yelled the angry farmer. “This is how you treat your master’s goods and chattels? Are you not ashamed of your sin, feeding such a venomous worm, which drains milk from the cows’ udders in the night in any case, and habituating it to the cowshed? Has anyone ever heard of the like? I could almost believe you’re a wicked witch, up to your devilish tricks with this worm of Satan!”

The poor maid could meet this stream of harsh reproaches only with a copious flood of tears; however, the farmer did not care a jot that she was weeping, but rather yelled and bickered more and more, working himself into a full fury, and forgetting all of the maid’s faithful service and all of her hard work, he continued to rail and rage: “Out the house, I say, out the house! And on the spot! I don’t need a snake as a boarder! I don’t need any milk-thieves or witch-girls! Pack your bundle this moment, this very moment! And see to it that you clear off out this village and never show your face here again, or I’ll report you to the authorities, and you’ll be imprisoned and get a proper whipping, you nefarious jezebel!”

At being so harshly scolded, the maid ran sobbing out of the cowshed, went up to her room, packed her clothes and tied up her bundle, and then walked out the house and passed over the yard. Then she felt a stab in her heart; she had heard her favourite cow lowing in the cowshed. – The farmer had gone on his way; she entered the cowshed one last time to secretly and tearfully bid farewell to her beloved cattle, for devout servants grow as fond of the cattle of their master and mistress as if they were their own: for which reason it is said that, in the first year of service a maid says, “My master’s cow,” in the second, “Our cow,” and in the third and every succeeding year, “My cow.”

And there stood the maid in the cowshed, crying her eyes out and stroking every cow one last time, and her favourite licked her hand one last time – and the snake with the crown came crawling up.

“Farewell, you poor worm, from now on no one will feed you.” Then the snake rose up as if it wanted to lay its head in her hand, and suddenly the adder’s crown fell into the girl’s hand and the snake glided out of the cowshed, which it had never done before; that was a sign that it too was leaving the house where it would thereafter be grudged even a little drop of milk.

Now the poor maid went on her way, not knowing how rich she was. She did not know the great virtue of the adder’s crown. Whoever possesses it and has it on their person will find that they prosper in everything they do, they will be pleasing in everyone’s eyes, and nothing but honour and joy will come their way.

Outside the village, the departing maid met the rich mayor’s son, whose father had recently died, the handsomest young lad in the village, and love for the maid instantly flamed up in his heart, and he greeted her and asked her: Whither was she going, and why had she left her service? After she had poured out her sorrows to him, he bid her go to his mother and just say that he had sent her. Now when the maid came to the old mayoress and delivered the message with which the mayor’s son had charged her, the woman put her trust in her at once and retained her in the house; and that evening, when the serving-lads and the maids of the rich farmers came to eat, the newly-engaged maid had to say grace, and it seemed to all present that the words of the prayer were flowing from the lips of a holy angel, and everyone was moved by a feeling of wondrous devotion and felt a great love for the maid. And when the meal was over, and the pious maid had spoken the evening-prayer, and the farmhands had left the parlour, the rich mayor’s son took the penniless maid’s hand, walked with her up to his mother, and said, “Mother, give me and her your blessing – for I shall take her to wife and none other. She has quite simply bewitched me!”

“She has bewitched us all,” replied the old Mayoress. “She is as pious as she is beautiful, and as humble as she is impeccable. I bless you and her in God’s name and am heartily glad to take her as my daughter-in-law.”

And so did the poor maid become the richest woman in the village, and, on top of that, a blissfully happy one.

But for that miserly farmer who had become so incensed about a few drops of milk and driven the most faithful of maids out of his house, things rapidly went to pot. All his good fortune had departed with the Crowned Adder. He had to sell first his cattle, then his fields; and everything was bought by the rich mayor’s son, and his wife led the dear cows, which were now her own, decorated with green wreaths into her cowshed, and stroked them and let them lick her hands again and milked and fed them with her own hands. While thus occupied she suddenly saw the white snake again. Then she quickly took out the little crown and said, “It is nice of you to come to me. Now you shall have fresh milk every day, as much as you want, and here is your crown, which you may take back with a thousand thanks for the great help it gave me. I need it no longer now, for I am rich and happy through love, through fidelity, and through diligence.”

Then the white snake took back its little crown and lived in the young woman’s cowshed, and over her whole estate there rested peace, happiness, and the blessing of the Lord.

3. The Plaintive Song

Once upon a time there was a King, and he died, leaving behind his wife, the Queen, and two children, a son and a daughter. But the daughter was a year older than the son. And one day the two royal children quarrelled over which of them was to become King, for the brother said, “I am a prince, and when there are princes, princesses do not come to power,” and the daughter contradicted: “I am the firstborn and eldest, so the precedence ought to be mine.” What the two children said, they said in all innocence, having simply picked up the words from the court servants without really understanding their meaning. Now as they could not resolve their dispute, they went together to their mother and asked her: “Tell us, dear mother, which of the two of us will become ruler one day?” This question saddened the mother, for through it there peeped the seed of thirst for power, which should not take root in the mind of a child, and she answered: “Dear children! Take a good look at this beautiful flower here, and then go into the forest and seek it. The one of you who finds this flower first will be King one day.” The children looked at the flower with their full attention; its stalk was shaped like a sceptre and ended in a half-open lily. And the children went into the forest together quite innocently and began to search, and as they were searching, they gradually separated, so that the one lost sight of the other. -And the little princess found the flower first, and she rejoiced, and she looked around for her brother but he was not there. And the child thought: he will surely come soon, I will wait for him here; and she lay down on the soft sward in the cool shadow of the trees, and it was so calm in the forest, with only the buzzing of beetles and bees, and the soft murmuring of a nearby spring, and the deep-blue sky peeped through the green treetops down at the green forest-lawn. The little princess had taken her flower in her hand and, because it was so calm and she was a little tired, she sank into sleep in God’s name.

It needed but a little while for the brother to come to the spot in the forest where his sister was sleeping; he had not found the flower he sought; and there he saw his sister lying on the ground in sweet slumber, and she had the flower in her hand.

Then dark thoughts rose up in the prince’s soul, and dreadful ones entered his mind.

I must be King, I! he thought, and my sister shall not be. I will rather kill her, and I’ll take the flower and go home with it, and then I’ll be King.

Ah, one may well say: no sooner thought than done. The prince murdered his innocent little sister in her sleep and buried her in the forest, and he covered the grave with earth, and the earth with grass; and not a soul learned anything of this evil deed, for when the prince arrived home he said his sister had left him in the forest and gone her own way. When he had found the flower, he had set off back home in the belief she would be there before him.

And many years have passed, and the old Queen has never ceased to mourn her lost daughter, for whom she bade the whole forest be combed, but in vain; and she has wished for death because she herself sent her beloved daughter away; and when her son reached the age of majority, he became King.

And after many, many years there came into that forest a shepherd boy, who kept watch over his flock there, and to pass the time and relieve his boredom he poked around in the grass with his crook, as shepherds often do, engraving many a heart and name and cross in the green sward; and by chance, he dug up a bone from the body of the murdered Princess, and it was as pure and white as snow. And the shepherd boy made a few holes in the bone, so it became a little flute, and he set it to his lips and blew. Then plaintive notes poured out of the bone, ah, so infinitely sadly, and it really was as if the voice of a weeping child were singing, so that the shepherd boy himself had to weep, and yet he could not stop playing. The plaintive song went thus:

“O shepherd mine, o shepherd mine,

You’re fluting on my dead white bone!

My brother slew me in a thicket.

He took from my hand,

The flower I found,

And said it was he who had picked it.

He smote me in sleep; his smite was severe,

He burrowed a grave, he buried me here,

My brother – he was young then.

Fluting on my bone,

You will make it known,

Bewailing to God and to men.”

And there was always only the one, always the one song to be brought forth from the bone flute, and the young shepherd played it always, and every time bright tears rolled down over his cheeks.

When the plaintive song resounded in the forest, all the birds stopped their song and became sad, and hung their heads and dropped their wings and were silent; and the beetles and bees buzzed no more, and even the murmuring of the splashing, garrulous spring was no more to be heard – the woods truly had, as the saying goes, the silence of the grave.

If the plaintive song sounded over a pasture, the beasts of the meadow hung their heads in sorrow, and none of them uttered a sound; and the dog barked no more and did not, as was his wont, leap merrily around, but cowered and whimpered in a tiny voice, for there was something in the plaintive song that cut all creatures to the quick. But the shepherd boy could never weary of fluting this song, until one day a knight came by the grove, heard the song and felt his eyes watering, and he halted and would not relent until the shepherd boy had sold him, the knight, the ownership of the little flute. And now the knight travelled all over the land and played the song, and with it he moved all the world to tears.

And so he came to the Court where there sat on the throne the young King of whom the song sang and complained, and where the old Queen Mother still lived; and she was brought tidings of the knightly minstrel who fluted a song with a melody that made every heart tremble and filled every soul with deep sorrow.

But the old Queen, who was ever sad, said: “What could there be in the world that were sadder than my sorrow? I know of nought; the minstrel’s plaintive song will not make me any sadder than I already am. Let him come all the same.”

The knightly minstrel came and played:

“O knight of mine, o knight of mine,

You’re fluting on my dead white bone!

My brother slew me in a thicket.”

No sooner did the old Queen hear these few words than a flood of tears poured from her eyes – but when the song flowed on:

“He took from my hand,

The flower I found,

And said it was he who had picked it.”

the Queen gave a piercing scream and fell into a deep swoon. The minstrel was startled and would have broken off, but he could not – once it had been begun, the song would that it be played to the end, every time, and when the last note trembled away into silence with a low plaintive cry, the Queen awoke from her swoon and cried: “Give me, me the flute! All my treasures for – this flute to me!”

And the knightly minstrel let the Queen have the bone flute, saying he desired no treasures – and accepted nothing and went on his way. And the Queen shut herself up all alone in her innermost chambers and played the song and wept until she had almost no tears left to shed.

Now the King had become a lusty and pleasure-loving lord, who took delight in music and song, liked to hold merry feasts, and lived life to the full. One day it so happened that he had decided to throw a feast, and numerous singers and minstrels had been bespoken and numerous guests invited. In accordance with custom, the young King had never failed to invite his mother to a single one of his feasts, but she had never attended, for she bore too much sorrow in her heart – as she bade her son be told, with her thanks. But when the invitation reached her this time, she sent word that she would attend. This surprised the King and disturbed him, and he did not know whether this were cause for celebration.

Now when all the guests were assembled in many-coloured splendour, and all the singers and minstrels were ready, and the court walked into the marvellously decorated Royal Hall in which the feast was being held, the sight of the old Queen in long, black, trailing mourning garments and a widow’s veil well-nigh gave rise to an anxious amazement – but the instruments broke out in exultation – harps and drums, flutes and cymbals – and the choral singers began, in sublime strains, a hymn in praise of the King.

But what is the old Queen doing? She does not sit down, she stands as rigid as a marble statue. What kind of strange little sceptre is she holding in her hand? Ah – it is not a sceptre, it is a bone from a corpse. And why is she raising this dead bone to her mouth? Why is she holding it just as minstrels hold their flutes?

Hark! One note – and all the drums and harps and cymbals fall silent – another note, and every singer’s mouth falls silent.

But there sits the King and looks, a monstrous dread running through his veins, with horror at his mother; and everyone, everyone, turns their gaze on the old Queen.

The old Queen is playing a solo on the flute.

“O mother mine, o mother mine,

You’re fluting on my dead white bone!”

And every heart is exalted and trembles, and no eye remains dry, but household and guests, singers and minstrels, all weep.

“My brother slew me in a thicket.”

“Ha!” shouts the King, and the sceptre falls from his grasp, and he reaches for his crown with both hands.

“He took from my hand

The flower I’d found

And said it was he who had picked it.”

Then the crown rolled down from the King’s head, fell onto the marble floor, and smashed to pieces. It sounded like a skull rattling on the marble.

“He smote me in sleep; his smite was so rude,

He burrowed a grave, for me in the wood”

Then the King himself crashed down off the throne and fell on his face and groaned and whimpered.

“My brother – he was young then.”

The King writhed in his death-throes and jerked – and screamed: “Stop it! Mother – stop it!”

But the old Queen could not of her own accord end the plaintive song; it sounded on:

“Fluting on my bone,

You will make it known,

Bewailing to God and to men.”

And while these words were heard, dreadful and crushing although not at all loud, all the guests, minstrels, singers and court servants fled out of the hall by every door – smashing many instruments and chairs to pieces and extinguishing the candles except for two; and when the song had sounded to its end, there was no one left in the wide hall but the old Queen in mourning garb and her dying son in his tinsel finery, richly trimmed with gold and studded with pearls. And she kneeled down beside her still prostrate son, and held his head in her hands, and bathed it with burning tears. Then one of the two candles which were still burning slowly went out.

The old Queen wept and prayed up to midnight – then, with her own hand, she snuffed out the last candle and shattered the flute so that never again would the plaintive song be heard.

4. Tailor Hans and the Animals who Knew

A shoemaker and a tailor once went out into the world together. The cobbler had money, but the tailor was a poor devil. Both were fond of one and the same girl, who was called Liese, and each one of them intended to marry her once he had earned a tidy sum of money and become a master. The cobbler, called Peter, was filled with malice and had a black heart; the tailor was good-natured and easy-going, and his name was Hans. At first, Hans had not wanted to travel together with Peter because he had no money, but Peter, whose mind had nought but malignity for Hans because Liese made eyes at him and not at himself, plotted the tailor’s ruin, saying: “Just come with me, I have pennies,[2] I’ll pay your expenses, even if we don’t find any work. We’ll heartily eat our fill and drink our fill three times a day every day. Doesn’t that sound good to you?”

“Well, I am a great one for eating my fill and drinking my fill!” replied Hans, and they both packed up their knapsacks and set out on their travels. For nine days they walked without finding any work, Peter in particular being unable to find anything; and even when Hans could have had work, he always enticed him not to accept it but to continue travelling with him instead. Now, at the end of these nine days, Peter said, “Hans, my money is diminishing, and for it to last a while longer we’ll have to eat and drink only twice a day from now on.”

“Alas!” sighed Hans, “Are we to have Hunger for our companion on the road so soon? I wish I hadn’t gone with you! I could go hungry at home! At least there I had something precious that would have taken the edge off my hunger!”

Peter, who always bought the food while they marched on their way, ate his bellyful in secret, for he had money enough to do so, but he gave food to Hans only twice a day, and it delighted him when his companion’s stomach rumbled and grumbled and, like in the proverb, beggar-boys bandied blows inside Hans’s body.

In this way did another nine days pass by, and there was still no work to be found; then Peter spoke: “Dear Hans, soon I won’t have two pennies to rub together – my money will really no longer suffice for four daily meals, two for you, two for me. My purse has galloping consumption. Have a look – it’s as thin as a roundworm. From now on, we can appease our hunger only once a day.”

“Oh, oh, Pete!” Hans lamented. “What misfortune have you brought upon me? I won’t be able to hold out! Just look at me, I’ve become so thin and transparent that I can barely cast a shadow. What’s going to be the end of all this?”

“Buckle on a belt!” laughed Peter. “Practise the virtue of abstemiousness. Enter a Moderation Society!”

“Enter? Some hope of that!” moaned the tailor. “I’d say we’re already up to our necks in moderation!”

But all this was no use; it had to be so, for better or worse; Hans steeled himself to go hungry, but as anyone can imagine, he did not increase in portliness. He became as thin as dry bones and his face took on the colour of twine. And still there was no work, and now there was no chance of any, for the masters said: “Go with God, Brother Moonlight! How can such a little fellow sew something to last when his own frame is coming apart at the seams? Tailors should be thin by nature, but only to the proper degree; they really should not be so thin that they could be threaded through a needle!”

On hearing such mischievous words, Hans cried bitterly, and wicked Peter gloated secretly and heartily, and when another nine days had passed, and Hans was well-nigh lying on the road from hunger, then false Peter spoke: “Brother dear – it hurts me, it cuts me to the quick, to have to say this, but my purse is now thoroughly emaciated, and our days of eating and drinking at the bakery and the inn are well and truly over.”

“Merciful heavens!” cried Hans. “Have nothing at all more to eat or drink? That really is the limit! Who could stand it? O woe, woe is me! Why did I follow you? Woe betide you for enticing me!”

“My word, how ready you are to fly off the handle, Hans!” cried Peter. “As if we didn’t have quite enough to drink!”

“Where? Where?” cried Hans, panting with his tongue out.

“Everywhere! Water, brother dear! Water!” laughed Peter. “Water is very healthy, it thins the blood and the humours; it cures most illnesses, it strengthens the limbs. Look, I have to drink water too.”

“But water isn’t food!” complained Hans. “I can’t live on thin air, so get me something to eat, or I’ll have to bite grass and chew earth. I must have something to sink my teeth into.”

“Well, I’ll go to the baker’s and buy a roll with the last of my money, I’ll share that equally with you!” said false Peter; and bidding Hans sit on a stone, he went to a baker’s, where he bought four rolls, ate three of them up straight away, and washed them down with a schnapps – then he returned to Hans.

“But Peter!” said the hungry tailor. “You’ve taken a very long time. Give me something to eat, I feel a fainting fit coming over me.”

“I had to wait for the bread to cool down,” Peter said in his defence, “warm bread isn’t good on an empty stomach. Here’s your half.” – “Peter, you smell of schnapps!” said Hans. “Indeed?” asked Peter. “It could be so, there was someone drinking inside, he bumped against me and clumsily spilled a few drops over my clothes.”

Hans wolfed down his half-roll, quenched his thirst with water, and journeyed on with his faithless companion. The two of them now exchanged barely a word.

When it became evening and they arrived in another village, Peter again went to the baker’s, ate his fill, and returned from the shop with a roll. Hans thought he would share the roll with him, but Peter shoved it into his pocket.

After a while, when they had left the village behind and were come into a forest, Hans said: “Now, Peter! Out with your roll! I’m famished.”

“I’m not,” Peter curtly replied.

“Not?” Hans cried in shock, and he stopped still, his legs trembling. “Monster that you are!”

“Glutton that you are!” sneered Peter. What I’ve always heard is very true of you: the skinnier the fellow, the bigger his appetite. The roll that I am carrying on my person is, as you very correctly observed, my roll, and you won’t get so much as a crumb of it because you said monster.”

“But then I’ll starve to death!” cried Hans in desperation.

“Die, in God’s name!” replied Peter. “The pall-bearers won’t strain themselves lifting you.”

“But I beg you, for God’s sake!” moaned Hans.

“What for?” asked Peter slyly.

“For half of your roll!” stammered Hans.

“Only death comes free – it cost me the very last of my money. How much money could I have now, if I hadn’t had to drag you around with me and feed you!” Peter declared.

“But really, you yourself talked me into going with you!” Hans interjected; yet vexation and hunger made it hard for him to disgorge the words. His tongue cleaved to his palate.

“You give to me, I’ll give to you,” said Peter. “My roll is as dear to me as my eyeballs, consequently, it is worth two eyeballs. Give me one of your eyeballs for half of it.”

“God in Heaven! How you are punishing me for following this one!” Hans whimpered, for the poor tailor was now too weak to cry out – yet he reached out his hand for the half roll and ate his fill, and then Peter gouged out one of his eyeballs.

On the next day all the sad events of the previous day repeated themselves with the two travelling companions. Peter again bought a roll and did not give Hans even a bite, and he demanded his other eye for half of it.

“But then I’ll be as blind as a bat!” the tailor wailed. “Then I won’t be able to work any more! I need at least one eye to thread a needle, don’t I!”

“He who is blind,” hard- and black-hearted Peter consoled with secret scorn, “has it good. He no longer sees how wicked, false, and faithless the world is; he no longer needs to work, for he has a valid excuse, and even the stingiest miser will feel compelled to make a donation to a poor blind man. You can even become rich, as a blind beggar, while I must wretchedly drag myself through the world. Should this occur, then I shall visit you, and you will bless me as your greatest benefactor and share your wealth with me, as I previously shared my poverty with you.”

Hans was utterly unable to make any reply to these diabolical words – offering no resistance, he relinquished to his faithless companion, only so as not to die of hunger, his other eyeball. And when this was done, and Hans was hoping that Peter would now lead and guide him, the latter said, “And so adieu, my dear, stupid Hans! I have you where I want you. This is where the beggarman turns round. Now I’ll go back home and marry our Liese. You lose! Look to yourself, and see where you end up!”

Off went Peter, and the agony in Hans’s body and soul was such that he grew quite faint for a time, so that he sank down to the ground and lay by the wayside as one dead.

Then three wanderers came along the road, but not two-legged ones – rather, as chance would have it, four-legged ones: a bear, a wolf, and a fox. They sniffed at the senseless figure and the bear growled: “This man-beast is dead! Do you want him? I don’t want him!”

“Just an hour ago I consumed a fresh sheep, so I’m not hungry right now; besides, the fellow is as scrawny and as hard as a tree-branch!” said the wolf. “I would be sorry for my teeth, which I can’t afford to lose.”

“This hero must have been a tailor!” the fox scoffed. “I would rather have a fat goose than a scrawny tailor. If he had been a furrier, I would bite his nose off – but he can lie as he is, that suits me down to the ground. He was blind, so he certainly never shot a fox.”

The poor tailor returned to his senses, noticed the company he was in, and held his breath as well as he could while the three beasts lay down at their ease in the grass, no distance from him at all.

“It is a great misfortune to be blind,” said the fox, “both for us noble beasts and for the foul two-legged monotremes who call themselves humans, and think they are so clever, but are so terribly stupid that they know nothing at all. If they knew what I know, there would be no more blind people.”

“Oho!” cried the wolf. “I too know what I know. If the man-beasts in the nearby royal capital knew it, they would not suffer the burning thirst they are suffering, and would not pay a crown for a small schnapps-glass of water.”

“Hmm, hmm!” the bear growled. “We ourselves are nobody’s fool either. I too have knowledge of a secret. If you tell me yours, I shall tell you mine, but none of us, on pain of death, shall betray the other.”

“No, we will not and shall not do that!” the fox vowed.

“Each of us must solemnly give the others his right paw on it!” affirmed the wolf.

“You’re on, it’s a deal!” said Bruin, and he held out his hairy paw, and when the others shook on it, the bear, for the fun of it, gave their paws such a squeezing and shaking that they howled out with pain, making the blind tailor fear for his life.

“I know,” the fox began, once the bear, after laughing at him for his sensitivity, had placated him again, “that today is a particularly holy night, in which a dew from Heaven will fall on grass and herb. Whoever is blind need only anoint his eyes with the dew and he will regain his sight; and even if he no longer has eyeballs, he will receive new ones.”

“That is a fine secret,” said the wolf, “but mine also is not to be despised. In the royal capital the water has dried up, and the people there are now living almost on spirit alone; at least, they say so, but if things go on this way just a while longer, they will have to give up the ghost. All the same, they have water in plenty under their feet; they just don’t know it. In the middle of the cobbles in the marketplace there lies a grey boulder, and once it is lifted up a spring of water will shoot up out of the ground as high as a steeple. Oh, how happy the dwellers in the royal capital would be, and how wholesome it would be to them, if they had water again. But let neither of you tell them this, or I’ll bite the tongues from your mouths!”

“Nothing will be told, Brother Isengrim!” said Bruin, growling. “What I know is this. For seven years the King’s only daughter has been ailing and no doctor can help her, for no one knows what is the matter with her, however brilliant they all imagine themselves to be. Many a suggestion has, up to now, been tendered in secret by the King’s Privy Counsellors, but nothing suitable has seen the light of day. The Princess’s illness has become so grave that the King has promised to give her in marriage to the man who helps her, just to see her kept alive; but no one can help her, who does not know what I know.”

“You’re arousing our curiosity, most gracious King Bruin!” said the wolf, and Bruin growled, “Just be patient, you’ll hear soon enough. You’ve learnt to wait a little, haven’t you?” Then the bear fetched a deep breath for starters, before continuing: “The Royal Princess was supposed to throw a gold coin into the offertory box in the church, but at that time she was still very young and bashful and timid, and she felt ashamed in front of the crowd of people in the church, so she threw the gold coin rather clumsily and it fell into a crack beside the box. After that, she was taken with her illness, which will not end until the gold coin is pulled out and cast into the slit of the offertory box. Such a cure is child’s play – someone needs only go there and seek the gold coin.”

When the animals had thus imparted their secrets to one another, they rose up from their resting-place and went on their way; as for Hans, he was overjoyed at what he had heard. He hurriedly rubbed his eye-sockets with the heavenly dew, which had fallen by this time, and new, clear eyeballs grew there, and he saw the golden stars twinkling in the sky and the dark tops of the forest trees. Soon the day broke and Hans could see highway and byway, and he walked down the road with renewed vigour. In several of the villages he passed through, he got by begging as much as he needed to still his reawakened hunger and thirst, and at length he arrived in a city where the water shortage was so severe that everyone drank wine and many kinds of schnapps which they called liqueurs. Hans had no money for liqueurs; he walked up to an innkeeper and asked her to give him a large glass of water. The innkeeper stared at him and chided: “Will you look at this rogue! Doesn’t even have the money to pay for a liqueur, and wants to quaff water! Does the monshure Lord Threadbare think that water just springs out of the ground like that, for nothing, for free? That it costs nothing? Oh, far from it! Wash your mouth out for talking about water; you can have wine or liqueur, but I can’t serve water, and certainly not such a big amount.”

“Is everyone here really so afflicted with hydromania as I’ve heard elsewhere?” asked Hans. “Honestly, what do you have aldermen and district councillors for? Is there no Moses in the city council to strike water from a rock? I shall soon cure your illness; I am a springs physician.”

These words were heard by several young municipal councillors who were drinking both liqueurs and champagne there. They did this solely because of the lack of water, for they would certainly not have done it otherwise, asking each other “What’s your poison?” and calling the champagne equinoxalic acid as they did[3]; surely no one would imbibe poison and such a kind of acid unless they were in the direst need. These young gentlemen crowded around Hans and hastily asked how he would begin to remedy the lack. “My most esteemed gentlemen,” said Hans, “if I am to put an end to the shortage in question here, then it is necessary that I first be engaged. Should I give you confidential counsel, then the allocation to me of a small Privy Counsellor’s salary to thank me – some four to six thousand dollars annually – would satisfy me. Then you gentlemen shall see that I will get something done, which is a boast not every Privy Counsellors can make.”

The young city councillors gave the tailor to understand that he must not make such cutting and needling remarks, they would not be tolerated in the spirited royal capital.

“Well I never!” Hans replied. “If a couturier may no longer make cutting or needling comments, that really takes the biscuit.”

The matter was now carefully deliberated in the district and the city council, and every voice was united in the cry: “Water at any price – before we wither altogether into sand!”

Hereupon the city council presented the dire situation of the city at large to the King, as well as the means to remedy the same, and asked His Majesty to be so gracious as to vouchsafe to have a Privy Council Decree drawn up for the foreign Springs Physician, whose pay would readily be defrayed from municipal funds. The King acceded, with paternal graciousness, to this petition and had the decree drawn up, however – made wiser by experience – with the reservation that it not come into force until sufficient water had been procured; anyway, it would not count for anything, for strangers had before now wandered into the city and made so many promises which had made water – like so many old ships. Hans now betook himself to the marketplace, accompanied by a quickly appointed Water Commission, saw the grey ashlar from a distance – told the Commission’s technicians: break up this stone, gentlemen! – and when this was done, a jet of spring water suddenly rushed up into the air, strong and powerful and steeple-high, and it poured out so much water that, in every merchant’s shop in the royal capital, the price of waterproof items doubled on the spot.

Loud did the praises of the water-doctor ring throughout the royal capital; the people came nigh to making him out to be a prophet, like the tailor Hans Bockhold of Leyden, and glorifying him in operas full of pomp and nonsense.[4]

On that same day, the new Lord Privy Counsellor, who had equipped himself in the intervening time with robes of state, a state carriage, and a body of servants, was called to Court, and he proudly drove to the Palace. The King spoke many cordial words to him and, in recognition of the service he had done the royal- and capital city, awarded him a handsome medal, to be worn on a moiré[5] ribbon. The conversation very soon turned towards the Princess’s illness, and the King asked the new Privy Counsellor if he, being a skilled water-doctor, perhaps considered a hot-springs treatment to be sanative for the Princess? “No, Your Majesty,” replied the Privy Counsellor. “I occupy myself with water once only – no more. If Your Majesty allows me to partake of the honour of seeing Your Magnificence’s daughter the Princess, I firmly believe that I shall discover the seat of her illness.” – The King was exceedingly pleased to hear this, and he took the doctor to the sick Princess himself. The doctor took her pulse and saw that she was very beautiful. Then he said, “High and Mighty King, if the most Serene Princess is to recover her health, then this cannot happen through any earthly medicine, but only through help from Heaven; may Your Illustrious Highnesses permit that we have the invalid carried to the Court Church; there she is sure to recover.” This suggestion was at once pronounced good by the King, for he was a very pious man, and he rejoiced to have gained such a pious new Privy Counsellor. In the church the physician had the Princess show him the offertory box, and looking around it, he found the gold coin in a crack. He gave this into the hand of the Illustrious Invalid and requested her to now throw it properly into the box. The Princess did this, and she instantly made a complete recovery and began to bloom like a rose. In such a state did the Privy Counsellor convey her to the King. Words cannot express the great delight that ensued. The Privy Counsellor rapidly became, one after the other, an Imperial Councillor, a mediatised Prince,[6] a Count, a Prince – and went from the last to a bridegroom for the recuperated Princess. After the wedding, the newlyweds went on a tour of the land, and one of the villages they passed through was the one the Prince had recently walked out of as Hans. In front of the inn there was a knife grinder, who was grinding while his wife turned the wheel for him – and it was Peter and Liese, who had positively refused Peter at first but accepted him in the end because he swore to her that Hans would never see her again. Hans recognised Peter straightaway by his false face and called to the coachman, “Stop!” then called to the other, “Peter!”

Peter pricked up his ears – and asked what the Lord commanded?

“I have no command to give, Peter,” said Hans, “but that you should recognise me as that Hans whom you have helped to such dizzying heights of fortune. There in the forest, I, poor and eyeless as I was – eyeless because of you – found Blind Fortune as many a blind pigeon finds its peas. There, under a tree where I lay, it visited me. Here is a heap of money for you from the blind beggar who regained his sight and became rich! Fare well, and drive on, coachman!”

Peter stood there as one fallen from the clouds and stared after the state carriage for a long time, then he gave his wife the money to keep and said, “I too must thither – must also find Blind Fortune.” And Peter got ready at once and walked as swiftly as his legs could carry him to the place where he had perpetrated the final faithless deed against Hans. A fox had been running ahead of him – it was standing at that place. Then a wolf came bounding up out of the distance. Peter rapidly turned around – and saw a bear trotting down the road towards him. Terror-stricken, Peter now climbed up the tree under which he had gouged out Hans’s remaining eyeball.

“Traitors! Traitors! Traitors that you are!” barked the fox, howled the wolf, growled the bear, and each one accused the others of having blabbed the secret which all three of them had given their paw to the others to keep; they were very waspish and gave one another unflattering titles. Finally, the bear and the fox sided against the wolf, who initially seemed to the traitor and was to be hanged for it, and the fox swiftly twisted a rope and a noose from a fir-branch, the bear held the wolf tight, and the fox threw the noose over the latter’s neck and drew the wriggling figure up into the air. The wolf stared upwards with glassy eyes, then he saw Peter sitting in the branches of the tree, and he howled: “O false, unjust world! He sits up there, he who betrayed our secrets!”

Now both the other animals looked up, letting the wolf drop to the ground, and the bear climbed up the tree and fetched Peter down. At the bottom he was received by the fox, who was so hopping mad that he instantly scratched out both his eyes. Then the wolf throttled him, and the bear squeezed him stone-dead, and finally the three of them gobbled him up, with not the least little bone of him left over.

5. Wavy Sunlight

A man was on his travels, and being devoid of provisions and of travelling monies, he did not know how he would pay his reckoning at the next inn. And then evil thoughts entered his mind – if someone appeared, carrying too heavy a load of money, he would be sure to lighten his burden for him. And in the thickest depths of the forest this traveller espied another traveller walking on ahead; quickening his steps, he soon caught up with him – and saw that the man he had caught up with was a Jew. He instantly thought: Jews always have money – and shouted at him, “Jew! Give me your money on the spot, or you’re a dead man.”

“God help me!” said the Jew, “I haven’t any more money than eight paltry farthings! What will you do with that? Will you commit a mortal sin before God and take a man’s life for eight farthings?”

“Jew, you’re lying! No Yid travels without money. Get your money out, or –!”

“Woe is me! Woe, I cry!” the Jew exclaimed in terror. “I haven’t any more than I told you!” – but the other traveller, in his rapacious frenzy, had stopped listening and he struck down the poor Jew, who cried as he sank to the ground: “I cry woe upon you, you murderer! The bright Sun will bring your misdeed to the light, the all-seeing Eye of the Firmament!”

With these words the Jew passed away, and now the murderer searched through all his pockets, but he found only a lank little leather purse, and inside it there was, indeed, no more and no less than eight rusty farthings. And then he regretted having committed the base murder – and when he looked at the sun, he started, for it stood in the sky blood-red all over, and he ran away in haste – but in the forest robins gathered, and brought flowers, and laid them gently on the countenance of the slain man, so the horrors of mankind would not disturb the solemn peace of the forest. The murderer travelled as far away from that place as he possibly could, and no longer could he look at the sun. On the next morning it seemed to him like an evil, evil dream – but the dream followed him a long time, and the sun constantly reminded him of the dying cry of the Jew he had slain. At length, he became easier in his mind, applied himself to work, and, because he was a sensible fellow most of the time, and very quiet and self-effacing in his ways, he won the affections of a master’s daughter, with whom he lived in conjugal felicity for a while. He did not often think of his atrocious deed now; he just had a certain fear of the sun. Yet in the end he asked himself: “Well, how will she, the dear Sun, manage to bring it to light? The Jew is long forgotten, I am many miles distant from that land – the Sun cannot speak, nor can she write. All this time I have been worried and afraid of her for nothing.”

One morning, the wife brought her husband his cup of coffee; he poured part of it from the cup into the saucer, and the sun happening to shine brightly in, there formed from the rippling liquid, by way of reflection, undulating, quivering waves of light diagonally above on the parlour ceiling, and the man raised his eyes. Believing himself to be alone, he said, “Sun, do you think you can bring it to light by drawing quivering waves up there?”

“What is it the Sun wants to bring to light, husband?” his wife asked out loud – and the man gave a violent start. When he faltered and would not confess anything, she vigorously pressed him to tell her. And the wife did not rest satisfied until he, having received from her a solemn assurance of the utmost silence, told her how he had once slain a Jew in a forest, who had cried out as he was dying: “The bright Sun will bring your misdeed to light, the all-seeing Eye of the Firmament!” and yet the Sun had brought nothing to light; it could do nothing but shine and warm and make waves on the wall or on the ceiling.

His wife listened to this, shuddered, and held her tongue; but her heart was fit to burst from the unholy secret which perturbed her night and day, and ever the sun reminded her of it anew. No longer able to keep it to herself, she told it to her best friend under the most sacred seal of secrecy – her friend passed it on, and soon it came to the ears of the judges. Then the murderer was apprehended and he confessed everything straight away; he was truly happy now that his secret was out in the open, and after being condemned to be put to the sword, he received his death blow with equanimity. In that same hour his garrulous wife ran into the loft and hanged herself from a beam.

6. Godfrey the Strong

Once upon a time there was a rich lord of the manor who had a large body of farmhands, and one of them wanted to get married. Now when he asked his master for permission to wed, the latter said, “Marry away, in God’s name! I wish you a really strong son, and when you have such a one, I’ll willingly take him into my service for your sake.” So the farmhand married, and he became the father of a strapping son, to whom he gave the name Gottlieb. The father had not forgetten of his master’s promise, and he determined to take every care to make the boy as strong as an ox. To this end, the father thought it needful that his little one drink mother’s milk for as long as possible. So his mother first breast-fed him in her arms, then she let him sit on her lap, then little Gottlieb learned to walk; and when he wanted to drink, he brought along a footstool to step onto, for by this time he was too heavy for his mother’s lap, and he drank copiously, and drank mother’s milk for seven years, and grew big and strong. At the end of these seven years, the farmhand took his Gottlieb with him to the lord of the manor and said, “Behold, Sir, my capital boy! You would be surprised what he can do for his age.” In the garden where the father and son had found the lord of the manor there was a sapling, and the lord said, “Pull up this tree, Gottlieb!”

The boy tried his strength on the tree, but he was not able to pull it up, so the lord said, “The little one is still too young and too weak. It would be asking too much of him to do heavy work at this time.”

So the farmhand went away with his Gottlieb and had him drink mother’s milk for seven more years, and when these seven years were up, the father took his son back to the lord of the manor, who now considered Gottlieb to be big and strong enough to enter his service; he had therefore to serve for one day, as a trial. Now Gottlieb had become fearfully strong, naturally and through his mother’s milk, and for a proof of his strength he easily pulled quite a thick tree out of the ground with his little finger, causing a shudder to run through everyone, and in particular the lady of the manor, and they all took an instant aversion to him. Then the work began, which was mere child’s play to Gottlieb. Mealtime arrived; the maid served up a bowl full of potatoes with buttermilk and went to call the other hands. Gottlieb, who had finished his work first, was already there, and he began to eat alone in the meantime. He showed that he knew how to feed quite splendidly not only on mother’s milk but on buttermilk as well, and could fill up his stomach with potatoes. When the other farmhands arrived ready to eat, and grumbled that the food was not yet served, Gottlieb stepped forth from behind the stove, where he had been having a rest, and scratching behind his ears, he said: “There was some food here, but not much, I thought it was for me, and I ate it in the meantime.” – Then a feeling of dread at Gottlieb’s appetite crept over the other servants, and they cursed the companion who had emptied the bowl on his own instead of sharing the meal with them.

After the meal it was time to do the threshing. As a new arrival, Gottlieb was given a new flail by the lord, which in Gottlieb’s hands was as light as a feather; he threw it up in the air and caught it like little boys do with light sticks, and then he threw it far away, pulled up a tree and threshed away with it, very shortly making the grain into flour, and the straw as small as chaff, and beating everything into the ground. That was really beyond the pale for the lord of the manor – he was frightened of this dangerous servant and began to think of getting rid of him with a good grace. He therefore he asked Gottlieb what wages he would desire when he actually entered service? Gottlieb walked up close to the lord and whispered something in his ear. The lord reddened and said, “Very well, but don’t breathe a word about it” – and he took Gottlieb into his service, which did not please the other servants in the slightest.

When the lord of the manor was alone with his wife, she demanded to know what wages Gottlieb had stipulated; the lord reddened again and would not say at first, which led to his wife pressing him all the more strongly to come out with it. The lord of the manor was very parsimonious and was only too willing to pay as paltry a wage as possible, and Gottlieb had taken that into consideration, for it was by no means to his liking that he had been obliged to grow so strong in order to work and slave away for others. So the lord now said to his wife, rather sheepishly:

"You see, my dearest, it’s rather a unique case. I have never had so strong a labourer so cheap. Gottlieb wants no wages at all.”

“No wages at all? That is not humanly possible!” the lady cried in amazement. “There’s more to this than meets the eye! Husband, you’re lying to me!”

“Now just calm down, dear wife,” the lord said, mollifyingly, “he did ask for something, and I granted it him from the consideration that it will cost us nothing – but it must remain a secret between us.”

“Between us!” his wife replied. “Well then, I must know about it!”

“Gottlieb wants to give me something when his year is up,” the lord stammered.

“Give you? A likely story! What can a farmhand’s son give you?” the wife asked.

“He wants to give me,” her husband replied, “a sock.”[7]

“A sock? Husband, you’re lying, or you’re away with the fairies!” his wife cried, losing her temper. “Why on earth would he give you a sock?”

“Oh,” the lord replied, “they are easily found, indeed now and then it rains them – Gottlieb means a sock on the ear.”

The lord came dangerously close to receiving such a gift that very moment, but stark horror paralysed the noblewoman’s hand and mouth for several minutes – until at last she shrieked, “Oh, you simpleton! You are your avarice! You’ll rather let yourself be dishonoured than pay a farmhand wages. Gottlieb will strike you dead, for from what I’ve seen, no grass grows where he has threshed! No, to enter into such an agreement is outrageous. However, just leave it to me, I’ll avert that disaster from you – he must go – I can’t stand him!”

“If you can send him packing, dear wife,” the lord timidly replied, “I have no objections.”

The lady of the manor made a little plan at once. On the estate there was a mill which was haunted by a terrible hobgoblin. Many people had had their neck wrung in that mill by the spirit. Ugh – she thought – it can wring Gottlieb’s neck too while it’s at it, and then we’ll be rid of him.

“Gottlieb! Today, you’re to take a hundredweight[8] of grain to the mill and grind it!”

“Very good, Madam!” Gottlieb replied, and fetching a large two hundredweight sack, he filled it with a hundredweight or four of grain, flung it over his shoulder, and set forth, whistling the song:

“High up on yonder mountain,

There stands a golden mill.”[9]

When he arrived at the mill, its doors were bolted shut. Gottlieb knocked politely, once, twice, three times. But still no one opened up, so he gave the door a gentle kick, whereupon it burst open and split in two. In the middle of the path to the mill-gearing there lay a pile of millstones; Gottlieb softly shunted them to the left and right with his feet and so reached the machinery. Before he put the grain into the hopper[10] and started the mechanism, he kindled a little fire and boiled a breakfast soup, into which he threw a small ham to flavour it with fat. Then a big cat with fiery eyes appeared, opened her mouth wide, stared at Strong Gottlieb and screeched, “Meeow!” – “Scram, Kitty!” yelled Gottlieb, and he gave her a kick that made her about-turn pretty sharpish. Now he poured the grain into the hopper, started the mechanism, and consumed his breakfast. Very soon the cat was back, hissing, and again screeching “Meeow!” “Scram, Kitty!” Gottlieb shouted, and he threw the bone of the ham at her head, sending her twirling round and round, and she disappeared. All at once a dreadful giant was standing before Strong Gottlieb, and he bellowed: “Mealworm! Who said you could grind corn here?”

Suddenly Gottlieb picked up a millstone, threw it at the giant’s forehead, and shouted: “Millworm, who said you could blow your own horn here?” – Then the giant crashed over on his back and gave a roar that shook all the machinery. As for Gottlieb, he put the flour into one sack and the bran into a second sack he had brought along, hoisted one sack over each shoulder, and went home.

“Heaven help us!” the lady of the manor grumbled, “The lout is still alive, and he’s coming back!” – And she soon began to devise new malicious ruses.

“The draw-well needs to be cleaned!” the lady ordered on the following day. “The water tastes foul and muddy. Gottlieb can climb down.” And she secretly said to the other servants, “When he’s down at the bottom – take care that no stone from the rim of the well accidentally falls – on the head of the guzzler who devours all your food!” – They took the wicked hint and read it in the lady’s scornful smile. And when Gottlieb was down at the bottom of the well, they bent over the edge and pushed the upper stones down. Gottlieb’s father was not among them, having died shortly before. The stones thudded and crashed down into the deep well and fell on Strong Gottlieb, who cried up: “Stop fooling around up there! Who’s throwing sand into this inkwell? Just wait – when I come up, I’ll give you a leathering!” – Then the farmhands ran away from the rim of the well in terror and hid themselves, and Gottlieb climbed out like a sweep out of a chimney – not quite so dry, but with just as great a thirst.

Now the lady was at a loss to know how to manage Strong Gottlieb, or rather, how to manage things so that he left the manor. Then she remembered that there was a cursed castle nearby, which stood in ruins on the mountain which had the lord’s new castle at its food. This cursed castle – as the description indicates – was a truly eerie place: a spectre walked there, it was haunted by the ghost of an old giant who had lived there in ancient times and perpetrated no end of evil deeds, for which reason his spirit was cursed to be confined in the castle. One of the old giant’s vile and villainous deeds had been cheating the ancestors of the present lord of the manor, to whom he sold the estate, out of a large sum of money; and that was one of the reasons why the giant had to haunt the old castle so horribly.

The noblewoman summoned Gottlieb, and dissembling so as to hide her aversion to the servant, she said to him, “Listen, my dear Gottlieb! Sometime soon, our lord will give you a quite special reward for being so diligent and doing so much work; furthermore, he trusts you, and you alone. In the old castle up there, you know, there lives the old lord of the manor, whom my husband bought the estate from; he is a niggardly dog, who still owes us a great deal of money, but he does not do the agreeable thing and pay off his debt. So just you go up there, Gottlieb, and have some disagreeable words with the old ghost, for you are strong and brave – all the others are afraid, the chickens and scaredy-cats. If you bring us the money, you shall have a good share of it, and a just reward will also come your way.”

“I can manage that, Madam!” Gottlieb replied. “I’ll go straight away, and if there is money up there to be fetched, I’ll bring it to you, rest assured.”

Soon Gottlieb was up on the mountain summit, and he was astonished. He humphed a couple of times. “Down below they always said there was an old ruined castle on the peak, and so I never bothered to climb up here – but now I see a brand-new, beautiful building, far finer than the castle below. There’s sure to be plenty of money in there.”

Gottlieb came to the entrance of the splendid edifice, and there being no bell-pull, he knocked; but the door, like the one at the mill, stayed fast shut. – “Bother it!” grumbled Gottlieb. “Now I’ll have to be a locksmith again and make use of my picklock.” So he gave the gate a gentle push with his foot, but this shook the whole framework and the door burst open with a thunderous bang. However, when Gottlieb entered the interior, a legion of spirits instantly hovered around him, and at the forefront there stood the terrible giant at whose head Gottlieb had thrown a millstone in the mill.

“Ah-ha! An old acquaintance!” cried Gottlieb. “Are you by any chance Count Pinchpenny, who keeps other people’s money? Then cough it up! My lord needs it, and my lady, that is to say my lord’s lady, wants to have it!”

“Worm of a man!” roared the giant, grimacing horribly. “What do you dare to dare? Who is so impudent as to demand money from the owner of an old castle? What do I care about money? Take heed how I serve you out, you squirt!”

“Hilloa ho! Two can play at that game!” cried Gottlieb, and tearing off one half of the folding door, he hurled it at the giant’s forehead, where the graze from the millstone was still visible, and then the other half – and at this point the old giant hurriedly beat a retreat, throwing a sack of money at Gottlieb, who instantly snatched it up and humped it onto his shoulder. So he came back to the castle down below, and if Gottlieb’s arrival was not welcome to the noble lady, yet the arrival of the money was extremely welcome to the noble lord, and he praised Gottlieb with the words, “So intrepid a servant is rarely found.” But he secretly wished Gottlieb to the Devil, for his strength made the unavoidable sock on the ear a terrifying prospect. Therefore he conferred with a shepherd and made an agreement with him that the shepherd would, in return for a good sum of money, receive the aforesaid blow; then he called all his farmhands together, except for Gottlieb, and told them he would send them into the forest the next day to fetch wood; they should take care that they came back in good time, for whoever heaved in last would be given the old heave-ho. And he would not be unhappy to see Gottlieb bringing up the rear. And so it happened – everyone hurried to fetch wood, but no one woke Gottlieb, and when he finally appeared, still rather drowsy, and rubbed his eyes, his master shouted at him, “Oy, you lazy lad! Everyone has gone for wood, and he who comes home last will leave my service.”

“Ah!” Gottlieb cried, and he raised his arms up over his head, and stretched, and yawned, and said: “That’s news to me.”

“I thank you kindly for not devouring me when you open your trap so wide!” the lord of the manor scoffed. “News to you or not, that’s how it is.”

“Very well, time to go!” said Gottlieb, who took his axe and went towards the forest. His companions had already finished their work and he saw them in the distance walking towards him. Then he went to a large reservoir nearby, where a footbridge led over its outflow, and the road from the forest to the estate passed only and solely over this bridge; he tore open the sluices so that all the water poured forth into the wide spillways, then stamped the bridge into pieces and let the flood carry the beams away. Then he leisurely strolled towards his fellow farmhands, who were roaring with laughter at him, happy at the thought of seeing him chased out of service that very day; but he cried, “Don’t rush too much – wait a little while for me, I’ll soon be back!” and went towards the forest – but the others hurried as fast as their legs would carry them to reach the castle, only to come upon the roaring flood, which surged ever by, with no path or bridge; and if they walked around the reservoir, it would take them hours. So they had to await the return of Gottlieb, who had quickly and easily completed his day’s work in the course of a short hour. Now when he came, he brought with him a hay-pole which he fixed in the river like an athlete’s pole and then vaulted over to the far bank. Then he threw the hay-pole back over the river and shouted to his comrades, “Do as I did!” – but it took two of them just to lift the hay-pole, and so they had to stay put until the reservoir had sent past all of its water, which took over a day. The desire of the lord and lady of the manor to be rid of Gottlieb the Strong became ever more ardent, and so the lord suggested to him that Gottlieb give him his wages; he had a substitute sock-on-the-ear-receiver who would accept the payment, and then Gottlieb might go anywhere he fancied, and stay wherever he wished.

Gottlieb said, “Let’s put it to the proof; I was put to the proof myself.”

Now the shepherd came forward as the substitute, and Gottlieb regarded him with sympathetic yet mocking eyes, and said, “You? Truly, I pity you!” – seized him, easily lifted him up off his feet, like a nutcracker, and gave him such a mighty sock to the face that the shepherd flew up into the air like a boy’s ball, but he did not come back down at all. The lord and his lady crossed and blessed themselves, happy that he had not received this blow, and said, “Well, now you can go.”

“How now!” said Gottlieb. “Go? Well – I can’t do that. It wasn’t the right person; I made the bargain with you, Master. I don’t like chicory or mangel-wurzel instead of coffee, I’m no friend of surrogates. You said: I might go anywhere I fancy and stay wherever I wish. Did you not say so?”

“Yes, indeed, I said so –” the lord of the manor testily replied.

“Well –” rejoined Gottlieb, “then I’ll go to my bed, and stay here on the estate.”

Then the lord of the manor lost his temper and cried: “Then stay in the Devil’s name, you goblin! Then I’ll go! I won’t live with you and end up, like the poor shepherd, travelling through the heavens as a balloon or a shooting star. Take it all, and may the Evil One help you to keep house and run the estate!”

“Well, if you really wish it no other way, Sir!” Gottlieb said very meekly, “then I thank you oh so very much and wish you and the gracious lady all possible happiness and all the best! You may take your things with you, and I’ll have you driven to the next town in my coach and by my horses.”

“Drive yourself to Hell!” the former lord of the manor and his better half yelled, beside themselves with fury, and they hastened away. Gottlieb took the farmhands and maids into his service, and he had his old mother, who had suckled him for fourteen years, move into the castle, and gave her a golden bed with silken pillows and bedclothes, and the best wine to drink and all kinds of delicacies to eat every day.

A year later – the time for hay harvest had just arrived, and the farmhands and the maids were busy haymaking in the meadow – something came falling down from the sky; it was the shepherd, who had been twirling around on high all this time, and had flown over all the waters and all parts of the world. He was still alive, and he stayed alive, for he landed in a large haystack, which was very fortunate for him, for otherwise the old song would have been applicable to him – the one which begins:

“Cuckoo has fallen to his death.”[11]

7. Godmother Toad

Once a pretty country lass was walking past a pond when she saw a big fat toad sitting on the edge, and it was staring so very intently and hideously. “Well! I’m sure I’d like to stand godmother to your child!” the girl cried, filled with abhorrence. And the toad raised its right forefoot in the air, as if it wished to shake hands. This gave the girl the creeps, and she hurried on her way.

When the maiden stepped into her bedroom that evening, the toad was sitting squat in the middle of the floor. The girl screamed. “Don’t scream!” said the toad. “Didn’t you promise to stand godmother to my child? I am taking you at your word! Follow me, or you will not live to see the morrow!” In mortal fear, the young girl followed the toad as it hopped ahead, though the village, though the night, to the pond; there in the reeds was an opening with a flight of steps leading down. The toad hopped on ahead, and the girl followed. Down below, the toad turned into a beautiful woman and showed the astonished girl her godchild, a cute, pretty little nixie. “You will not regret this service!” she said. And then began a great and glorious feast in the rooms of the subterranean waterworld, and the young maid was highly honoured and served by the loveliest nixies, and she was shown around all the grottoes, which sparkled like pure ice and silver. Finally, she received from her godmother, the toad, three marvellous gifts, the possession of which brought her happiness for the rest of her life, then she was taken back home safe and sound; and if she had not seen the gifts, there before her, on awakening the next morning, she would have believed that everything had happened to her only in a dream. But in her remembrance, her delight was tempered by a secret horror, and never again in her life could she bring herself to walk past that pond.

8. Soulless

Once upon a time there was an ogre who dined on nothing with more delight than young maidens, and he was so mighty and feared in the land that no one dared to fight him and drive this appetite out; on the contrary, as soon as he had consumed one maiden, another had to be delivered to him, and in order to proceed impartially in the selection, all the young girls in the land up to a certain age (not over eighteen years) had to draw a lot, with no distinction made for the rank or social standing of their parents. For Soulless – such was the name of this girl-guzzling monster – always averred that, aside from the flesh of maidens, he loved equality above all else.

Now it happened that one day the lot was drawn, which was invariably a sad lot, literally and figuratively, for the poor maiden on whom it fell, and that this lot fell on the King’s daughter. Although the King sought to avert the fate that threatened his daughter through the offer of manifold treasures, yet Soulless said:

“No! What is right for the goose is proper for the gander. It’s all right by me that the lot fell on the King’s daughter, for I have never yet eaten a Princess, but I reckon that her flesh must be tender and good; and the King must find it proper that I do not rob him of his treasures but rather satisfy myself, honestly and honourably observing my principle of equality, with the flesh of his flesh.”

However, as the Princess did not have to be delivered up directly after the lot was drawn, the King had it announced that whoever saved his daughter from the dreadful fate that threatened her would have her to wife with half of his kingdom as dowry. But no one presented themselves, for it is a tricky business to handle people who are Soulless by name and nature, and no one wants to meddle with them, even if they are not necessarily ogres. Then a young soldier heard of the King’s proclamation, and he thought to himself: Hmm – in my service, I’ve seen so many soulless doings, and these have drummed so much valour into my veins, that I should think I have the courage to take on Lord Soulless. So he went to the King and requested the favour of being allowed to hazard his life against Soulless for him and the Princess. Thereupon the King gave him a substantial handsel and presented him with a sharp carving-knife, with which – if possible – to cut the Man of Equality up into pieces.

The courageous soldier set out and came to a meadow where a dead donkey lay sprawled on the ground, and around the donkey were sitting a lion, a bear, and an eagle, while a large bluebottle fly was sitting on its nose. Each one wanted to have his share of the donkey, and the four of them could not, as is so often the cause with divisions, reach an agreement about the division; and they appealed to the soldier, as a neutral party, to carry out the business of the division on condition that he not wish to have a share of the donkey himself, for in that case all four of them would fall upon him.

“No!” said the soldier, “I want no truck with living donkeys, let alone with dead ones! But I shall divide with justice and conviction, and by following the splendid saying: To each his own!” He took out his carving knife, stropped it nice and sharp on his sword-sling like a barber whetting his shearing-knife on a razor-strap, and began to carve up the donkey to his heart’s content.

“To you, Lion,” said the astute soldier, “is due above all the lion’s share – the donkey’s head, with its fine brain, because you yourself are the head and King of the Beasts; then the broad, powerful breast of the donkey, which always sends joyful and jubilant brays out into the distance and fills the world with its glory; together with a chine and two hams.

“To you, courageous, hot-blooded Eagle, the King of Birds, is due the donkey’s heart along with all the noble entrails, the strong lungs in particular and also the liver and kidneys; and a ham, a chine as well, and a loin roast.

“To you, Master Bruin, bold warrior of the North, mighty growler and a King of Beasts in northern climes, is due the third chine, the second loin roast, and the fourth ham, and whatever else you want. And finally, to you, blue-blown fly, little buzzer, is due the donkey’s tail, its legs, and everything that the three others do not want and may deign to do you the favour of leaving. You will content yourself with that all the more readily as you are far too delicate to eat scurvy donkey-meat, rather choosing to drink your fill of dew and the scents of flowers, and only require a little rotten meat for your eggs and future larvae.”

The four animals were extraordinarily satisfied with this division and paid the clever soldier the tribute of their gratitude. The bluebottle alighted on his hand, kissed it with his proboscis and fundament at the same time, and said: “Whenever you touch this spot with your finger, you will be able to change your misshapen and hulking great human form into just such a beautiful, delicate and admirable bluebottle, endowed with a talent for charming music, as I am.” The eagle pulled a quill from its right wing with its beak, proffered it to the soldier, and said, “By means of this feather, which you have but to turn, you can change yourself into an eagle and do great things as such; you can also cut it, and whatever you sign with it, and bind or have bound by a writ, will last and persist three days longer than time without end.”

“Capital fellow,” said the lion, “I must give you a friendly paw, it will strengthen you and make you high and mighty in the world!” and the bear said, “Noblest of nobles! Come to my heart, I must embrace you and give you a kiss!” – but the soldier replied, “I thank you both so much! You are far too kind! I have quite enough!” for he feared the sharp claws of the lion’s paw, also the bear’s embrace and its teeth being close to his nose. So he hurriedly turned the feather and became an eagle, as which he rapidly rose into the skies; from there, he cast around for the house of Master Soulless, and he discovered it very soon with his eagle eyes. That was certainly a big step in the right direction for the brave soldier; but he now had to devise a means of getting the better of Soulless, to whom the King’s daughter had been delivered up in the meantime, but who was keeping her prisoner for a little while longer. Now the soldier first changed himself back into a man, then pressed his finger on the bluebottle’s small memorial on his hand and turned into a fly; then he slipped through the window of the chamber in which the King’s daughter sat imprisoned, where he changed himself back into his human form; and he informed the Princess of his intention to rescue her if she might only tell him how he could possibly effect this, for he considered it a rare trick and a hard task to unsoul someone who was Soulless by name and by nature. At any rate, Master Soulless’s soul must be somewhere, and it was imperative that this where be discovered.

The King’s daughter was highly delighted that the brave soldier purposed to set her free, and she promised him to gather in information. Hereupon the soldier executed his transformation and departed; while Soulless, the ogre, came to the Princess, bringing her splendid dishes and drinks so she would feed herself well until he thought the time right to dine on her. She asked him at once where his soul was. But he answered her, “I’ll give it a miss, telling you that, for although I may be Soulless yet I am not brainless; and it could harm, if not my soul, at least my body, were I to entrust my greatest secret to you, a garrulous female.”

But the King’s daughter would not have done with her pleading until Soulless, in spite of himself, confided his secret to her, telling her that his soul was shut up in a small golden chest, this chest was on a glass rock, and the rock was in the middle of the Red Sea. An evil wizard had brought all this about, making him soulless and consequently nymphocarnivorous; he could not help it; if he received his soul back, then he would no longer slobber over young maidens but would regard them with diffident eyes.

The imprisoned King’s daughter repeated all of this to the soldier when he visited her again, and he instantly changed himself into an eagle and flew to the Castle of the Four Winds. The winds themselves had flown out but their mother was at home, and he asked the latter for lodging in her airy palace; and he told her his story, after which the Mother of the Winds was willing to give him assistance through her sons. Towards evening the South Wind and the East Wind returned home; the Mother of the Winds introduced the brave warrior to them both and presented him with a Flying-Wishing-Cap, which gave him the power to fly as fast as the wind. On the next morning, when the winds were quite rested, they rose afresh, and the soldier flew with them, and just as swiftly, in the form of an eagle, until he came to the coast of the Red Sea; on the way he had told the winds his intention, and so they did not pass over the sea, that it might stay calm. Then they commanded the fishes to seek the casket in which Master Soulless’s soul was to be found. And the fish did so, and they did indeed find the glass rock on which the small chest lay, but they could not climb up. Finally there came the crooked merling or whiting, which shot up and caught the chest in one leap, clenched it in its mouth, and brought it to the eagle. This bird beat its wings mightily, waggled its tail, and danced with joy, making the winds laugh heartily, for they had seen many sights but never before had they seen an eagle making comical jumps. Hereupon the eagle expressed his great sense of obligation and gratitude, first to the winds, then to the whiting; and with the Flying-Wishing-Cap still on its head, it flew back to its homeland, straight for the castle of Master Soulless, where it turned back into a man. He immediately had himself announced as a peddler from the Orient with a jewel to offer. Soulless took such an intrusive visit with very bad grace and allowed the announced visitor to enter only so he could cater for him with a course of invective, which he believed it was his right to serve any one at any time, equally; therefore, he approached him defiantly straight away, for a man without a soul cannot be otherwise than uncouth and snappish.

However, the peddler, or soldier in disguise, was not bothered by Master Soulless’s wrathful face or his jibes, but was all the more courteous the ruder his host became, whose behaviour expressed nothing other than a desire to devour him as well.

“I have a treasure that is of inestimable worth for Your Grace,” said the stranger, “and offer the same to you in exchange.”

“It’ll be a right piece of junk, your treasure!” grumbled Soulless. “What can a rogue like you offer me? Do you imagine that I couldn’t pay you in ready money, so you have the audacity to talk to me of an exchange? What could I have that is fit for the likes of you? Tell me at once!”
“May Your Grace deign to confer his most gracious favour!” the stranger replied. “Your Excellency has a jewel in his keeping, namely the beautiful Princess, and the piece of junk, to use Your Esteemed Grace’s own evaluation, which I venture to offer against this jewel, is Your Grace’s – gracious soul.”

“My soul!” cried Soulless in inexpressible amazement. “You have my soul? By my poor soul, lost to me and parted from me to my sorrow, I swear to you that were I holding a hundred princesses prisoner, you should receive every one of the hundred, had I only my soul again.”

“I’ll content myself with the one,” replied the peddler, “it’s safe to say that a hundred would be a bit much for me. But let us conclude the contract in writing!” With these words, the soldier pulled out a sheet of paper, on which everything was already written, briefly and succinctly, and he proffered Soulless the eagle’s feather to sign with, which Soulless did; then the latter had his beautiful prisoner brought in without further ado, and she was overjoyed to find the soldier with the ogre, who had already bidden the stranger sit down on the sofa, for the mere proximity of his soul had begun to tune him to a more human pitch. The King’s daughter had thought she was going to be taken into the kitchen to be slaughtered like a poor pigeon. Now the soldier took the little golden chest, which was bolted shut, out of his pocket, and placed it in Soulless’s hand. Soulless swiftly opened the bolt, held the opening to his mouth, and sucked his soul into his body with an agreeable sensation. And all of a sudden, the evil spell was broken. The King’s daughter was imprisoned no longer, and Soulless was soulless no longer, but rather in seventh heaven; he embraced the soldier in a stream of joyful tears, and would willingly have embraced the Princess as well had not a reverent diffidence held him back – the best proof that he had regained his soul; yet he asked both of them for their friendship. Hereupon the soldier departed with the Princess, was raised by the King, her father, to the princely rank, and, as a newly-made Prince, married the young Princess; and the man who was formerly soulless consumed no more young maidens, but rather became the most gallant gentleman in the world.

9. The Ungrateful Son

An old mother had a son who wanted to get married, and he asked her to be so good as to give him her house and land, for he and her future daughter-in-law would mean well by her, treat her as their nearest and dearest, and wait on her hand and foot, so to speak. The old mother had a good heart and a rather simple mind; she did not know the proverb ‘Do not get undressed before you go to bed,’ and she handed over everything she owned. By way of thanks, she was treated very badly, was no longer mistress over anything, and every morsel of bread she ate was first cut thin enough and then reckoned up before her, and every drop she drank made as bitter as gall; but the son and daughter-in-law made free and enjoyed themselves to the full.

One day these two were eating a roast turkey with their manservant and maid, without having invited their mother to join them; yet she happened to come, although she had to knock, the door being locked. “Hey! The old one’s coming, take the bird away! Put it in the oven for the time being and shut the door!” the son commanded the manservant, who executed the given order at once. Now the room door was flung open by the son and the poor old mother was scolded: “Well, what’s all this? Don’t tell me the old dragon is hungry again? Confound you! Here, take it, here’s some bread, and now be off with you!”

In tears the old mother tottered out of the room, with a dry morsel of bread; the wicked son slammed the door shut behind her with a loud bang and thundered: “You can’t enjoy a bite to eat in peace and free from vexation! I’d just like to know if the old one is going to live for ever?” “Bring the turkey back here!” the son’s wife ordered the manservant – he opened the oven-door and sprang three steps back with a horrified yell, and went very white.

“Well, what’s wrong with the witless fool? Has he gone mad?” cried the man, and he commanded the maid to take the turkey out of the oven. She went and put her hand into the oven then instantly screamed with terror, also leaping back. “What’s the meaning of this, you stupid bumpkins?” the master scolded. “And if the Devil himself were sitting inside, I wouldn’t raise such a commotion! You go, wife.” “I?” asked the wife, “I won’t do it, not for the world – thank you; I’m full up.” “So then, I’ll have to take a look myself, and I will, even if the Thunder-God is sitting in there!” cried the man. He got up and went to the oven – ugh! A snake, as thick as an arm and a fathom in length, shot out, and darted at him, and coiled itself around his neck, as cold as ice; and when he strove to take it off, the snake opened its jaws horribly wide, showing its fangs and forked tongue, and neither he nor anyone else might touch it; and when the others made as if to do it harm from a distance, it immediately pulled itself more tightly round his neck, putting the man in danger of suffocation, and he cried out in alarm that they must not touch or hurt the snake.

And the snake did not shift from him; with it around his neck he lay down to sleep, with it around his neck he rose in the morning. Before he could raise a beaker to his lips, the snake would draw the first draught; it licked every mouthful he ate, or bit chunks off, and oh! on top of that, when it opened its jaws there came such a terrible smell from its throat that the man was plunged into one faint after another, and no one could bear to be near him. The first person to run away from him – that was his wife, and yet it was she who bore the lion’s share of the blame for his carrying in his heart the snake of ingratitude towards his aged mother, a snake fouler and more fearful than that worm he now had to carry around his neck as a harrowing chastisement. The manservant and maid also ran away; the dog and the cat departed; the bird in the cage croaked it; moths and midges died, the spiders stole away, the mice fled as fast as they possibly could; the bugs marched slowly down the doorposts in long lines and slipped out between the door and hinges – not even the most miserable little louse showed ready devotion and fidelity to the ungrateful son whom the judgement of God had smitten severely – everything that lived fled from him – only one living being did not flee from him, but faithfully abided by him, and that was his poor old mother – she looked after him, she prayed to God for deliverance for her ungrateful son; and when this was not forthcoming, she finally grasped, without fear and with shaking but strong hands, the threatening, hissing, teeth-baring, poison-breathing snake; and the instant that the mother touched the snake, it fell off her son’s neck and – disappeared.

The son flung himself down at his mother’s feet and kissed them and the hem of her dress, and cried hot tears of repentance on his faithful mother’s hands; and from that time on he began a new life, one full of humility towards her, full of care, full of love, full of obedience, full of complaisance; and she lived long and happily, into extreme old age, with the son whom her strong maternal love had saved for her and for himself.

10. The Farthing

An unknown traveller entered a farmer’s house, where he found the whole family, the father with his wife and children, in a melancholy mood and dressed in mourning, for they had lost a dear and pretty child, a girl, only a few weeks before. The family let the stranger, who was actually a relative of theirs, partake of their midday meal. After grace was said, everyone sat down to table and the clock struck twelve. And with the last stroke the room door opened very quietly and a pale child came into the parlour. She did not greet anyone, nor look around her, nor speak a word, but passed with a floating motion into the bedroom. No one said a word, and the stranger asked no questions, but his blood ran chill in his veins.

Business detained the relative in that place, and with the family, who had taken him in as their guest, for the next day and the day after that; but he would rather have left, for on the second day the same apparition presented itself, the pale child coming in through the parlour door and passing silently into the bedroom – with the family seemingly oblivious to her presence. It happened again on the third day, and the stranger could contain himself no longer but asked: “Oh, pray tell me – what child is that who walks so silently through the parlour and into the bedroom every midday at the stroke of twelve?”

“I don’t know of any such child, I haven’t seen one,” the father replied, while the mother began to cry. Now the stranger walked to the bedroom door, opened it slightly, and looked into the room. There he discerned the child. She was sitting on the ground, very earnestly grubbing with her fingers in a gap between two floorboards, and while she burrowed she softly sighed, “Oh, the farthing! Oh, the farthing!” But when the bedroom door creaked a little the child started back in fear and vanished. Now the guest told the family what he had seen, and described the child’s appearance, and the mother cried out sobbing: “Oh God, oh God! That was our child, who we buried four weeks ago! Why, oh why can she not rest in the grave?” Now the guest advised them to prise up the floorboards, and when this was done, a paltry farthing was found underneath, which the child ought to have placed in the collection bag in church; however, she had kept it until she could gain possession of a second one, then she would buy herself a penny roll. But at home, the child had dropped the farthing and it had fallen into the gap between the floorboards. That was why the child could not rest in the grave. On the following day the child’s mother threw the farthing into the collection bag, and from that time on the child did not come again.

11. The Black Count

Once a knight was passing through a forest, his squire following him; night fell, yet the knight knew no fear. Disreputable was the region; avoided, the track through the wild wood that the knight rode with his squire. This track led the two riders past the castle of a knight, a friend, whose daughter chanced to be celebrating her wedding, and the travelling knight passed a short while there as a guest. His friends wanted to keep him longer – he and his squire should overnight in the bridal house – but haste drove the knight, and he declined all cordial invitations to stay. He was warned: he was told that in the forest he still had to journey through there lived the “Black Count,” a spectral knight who caused unspeakable terror in all whose paths he crossed. Even the bride wasted her entreaties on her father’s friend; she reminded him of the adage, “Night is friend to no man.” The guest pleaded unpostponable business and rode away. The way and the wood were very dark. For three hours had the knight and his squire been riding, and nothing had befallen them yet. The knight rode, steeled against attack from hostile subterranean powers by his valour and clear conscience; against an enemy onset of an earthly kind, he was shielded by his iron armour, his strong fist, and his naked sword.

Now the squire suddenly pushed his steed forward beside his lord’s and whispered anxiously, “Lord! Someone is riding behind us – the hoofbeats of his steed ring hollow – and look round, Lord – see the fiery foam dripping from its teeth, see the sparks flying from its nostrils.”

Very soon the black rider, who had been following them, was beside them both. “Hullo! Companions! Doughty fellows!” cried a deep, hollow voice.

“God be with you!” the knight replied, and the stranger’s black horse reared up high, snorting streams of fire from its nostrils – and the iron armour of the black knight glowed red in their light. “Devil thank you for such a greeting – the Hell I will!” the gigantic night-time companion furiously retorted, lashing savagely at his rearing horse. “But know this – you have lost your way! Come with me to my castle, it is no distance at all, why, you can see over there the gleam from the windows.”

“No thank you, I’ve no time to put up anywhere!” the knight answered – but the other cried in a voice of command: “Time will be found!” and he laughed in peals that rang far through the forest. A long black wall, in which was a half-dilapidated gate, stretched across the road – the road led straight in, and inside the encircling wall there stood the castle, a massive, many-towered building. Up in the tangle of towers and turrets, owls screeched. At the house door big-bellied stone dragons, their thin necks stretched far forward, twined themselves around the pillars. Only a few windows were illuminated – all the rest of the building loomed blackly upwards to the dark sky.

The Black Count leapt down from his horse – and it sank into the ground behind him.

“Follow me in!” shouted the Black Count to his forced guests.

“Not in there! In the name of God, not in there!” the loyal squire whispered into his lord’s ear.

“Be silent, knave!” the Black Count imperiously cried to him. “It is not the name of God which holds sway here, but my name! Be bound in illusion!”

Then the castle disappeared from the squire’s eyes, he was standing on a bleak and lonely heath, beside old, ruined walls, from which three towers rose up – it was no longer the Black Count’s castle, it was the house of another.

Full of courage, the knight followed his guide up the steps of a spiral staircase. From time to time a griffin’s claw stretched forth from the wall holding a burning candle, and the candles were black and white. The walls were black as coal. The Black Count’s armour was also entirely black, and entirely of an ancient kind, a coat of chain-mail covering him completely – only that on his head he wore a helmet of a strange form; the crest of this helmet was neither cast nor forged, it was alive, and was in the form of a small dragon, similar to a salamander, who kept the helmet tightly clamped in his claws, turned his head every now and then, and had glittering black eyes which flashed like the points of diamonds. The dragon’s tail hung down a long way from the helmet to the nape of the neck and swung now back, now forth. Up at the top of the flight of steps stood the Black Count, and he turned towards his guest. Pale was his countenance, pale and emaciated; his eyes lay deep in their sockets and there was murder in their look, they were without eyelashes, and over them curved no brows. The Black Count panted heavily and his breath glowed like the breath of the African desert, fiery-hot.

“Now follow me, and behold what I did and how I suffer!” the Black Count told the knight. “To everyone who rides my road at midnight must I show my misdeed. You do not need to pray for me, man! No repentance, no intercession, no prayer, can expiate my deed.”

The doors to a hall, decorated with fantastical sculptures, burst thunderously open – cold, icy breath, as from a glacier, blew from the hall towards them. The large and wide hall was also completely black and was completely empty – only in the middle – there was something, illuminated by a dull, dim lamp which hung down over it from the ceiling. And what was there, it was a coffin, and in the coffin lay a corpse, the corpse of a little old woman, dressed all in white, her hands placed against each other as if in prayer, but above her hands, from her breast, there rose the black handle of a dagger.

“Here – my mother!” cried the Black Count. “Here – her murderer!” he cried again, and a spine-chilling echo rang though the hall, and he sank to his knees before the coffin. Then all of a sudden, the corpse in the coffin rose up, and grew and grew, so gigantic – so monstrous, a terrible ghost, and it enveloped the Black Count and filled more and more of the room, and the knight shrank back until the wall checked him – the appalling figure became ever more atrocious, ever taller – her white countenance was by now as large as the full moon rising, and her gown billowed like mist – her hands burrowed into the Black Count’s breast and scooped out his heart.

The Knight’s head swam, as if in the swirling fog of a swoon. He drew his sword and shouted, “Fiend! Begone in the name of Christ on the Cross!” Then a dreadful scream shrilled through the air, the timbers creaked, the building shook, the coffin and walls sank, the Count and Countess sank, and the floor, together with the knight, sank deep, deep down into impenetrable night. Then the knight came to from his stupor. He was still holding his trusty sword in his hand. Black night was all around him, his feet stepped on marshy soil, his hands caught hold of masonry and moist grass, and night air fanned him, cooling him and making him shiver.

What was that? And where am I? the knight wondered, and his heart, usually so courageous, beat uneasily. In a loud voice he called out his squire’s name. Hark! An answering cry, but from the far distance. The knight called again – the squire came nearer; he was leading both their steeds by the reins.

“Lord, where are you?” cried the approaching squire from the distance.

“Here! Here on the moor, and among ruins,” cried the knight.

By tying the straps and traces together, the squire, with some difficulty, helped his master out of the marsh, over which dawn began to break – and now master and servant were gradually able to see where they were. On a marshy heath, beside a building in utter ruin at the end of a forest – and a distance away in the misty dawn was that structure at which the squire had rested – a circular gallows; what had appeared to be three towers were three tall stone pillars, the connecting beams having long since decayed and collapsed.

Cool blew the air from the east; damp settled the mist. In silence the knight and his squire rode on their way. The knight never forgot his eerie adventure and the castle of the Black Count.

12. Of the Boy who did not Want to Wash

Once upon a time there was a boy who, even as a tiny tot, never wanted to be washed, and when he became bigger, his horror of water knew no bounds, and he was more afraid of getting wet than he was of being burnt. And so the Unclean Spirit, the Devil, gained power over the boy, and told him he would take him to a place where he would not need to wash for as long as he lived; and if he served him for seven years, he would have a good life.

That was all right by the boy, and he went with the Devil, who took him away so that not a soul either heard or saw any more of him, and he was completely forgotten.

However, seven years later there appeared in the boy’s hometown a fellow who looked like the Devil’s sooty brother. His skin was black, his hair tangled and unkempt, and his temper reticent. But when he saw children, he warned them against uncleanliness and exhorted them to have themselves washed very thoroughly. Afterwards, it also happened that he recounted how he had had to keep watch at the Gates of Hell, in the service of the Unclean Spirit, because he himself had been so unclean, and he told the names of all those who had come through the gates from the village and the whole surrounding area. Now when the people heard from their children the tales the Devil’s former gatekeeper was telling, they called him a black fiend, ran to him in great numbers, and gave him lots of money to keep silent and not say whose father, grandfather, mother, sister, aunt, and every dear relation he had seen moving into Hell. Then he took the money, but when someone started to chide him again, he said, “I wash my hands of it, I can’t help it if your kith and kin strolled into Hell instead of into Heaven.” And he began to wash himself thoroughly, more than once in the day; and he earned much money by tying his tongue, while others have to earn it by plying their tongues.

13. The Tiny, Tiny Little Man

Once upon a time there were three merry companions, a blacksmith, a tailor, and a hunter, who were good friends to one another, often met up, and discussed going out into the world together, for their homeland was no longer so much to their liking. Now when they had executed their resolution and set forth, their road led them into a deep forest, but it did not lead them out; they lost their way and wandered around in the wood until night fell and they could see neither road nor path. Finally, the blacksmith climbed a tree and spotted a light some distance away, marked the direction, climbed down from the tree, and went towards the light with his companions. All three of them came to a house which stood open but was empty – at least, there was no one to be seen, yet there was a light shining inside.

“Whoever lives here won’t hold it against us if we spend the night here –we really can’t go any further!” the three said to one another, and each one of them laid himself down just where he could find a suitable place. The three companions slept the whole night through without any disturbance, and they woke up, when morning had dawned, in a happy and cheerful mood.

“It is pleasant in this house,” said the blacksmith. “I think we should not leave it so soon, so we may thank the owner for the hospitality we have appropriated.”

“Perhaps I can darn something for him,” said the tailor.

“I too am not averse to resting here,” said the hunter, “but if that is our intention, then we’ll need to have something to eat, because this house seems to have Mother Hubbard’s cupboards. Therefore, I propose that one of us stay here and the other two go into the forest and catch or shoot something for us to subsist on.”

“That is good counsel,” said the blacksmith. “Outside there is a well; let the one who stays at home light a fire in the meantime and set a pot of water on it, so we can cook ourselves a good soup afterwards.”

The blacksmith and the hunter went out and the tailor remained in the house, lit a fire, set the pot of water on it, then sat himself next to it. Then all of a sudden a tiny, tiny little man appeared and said:

“Tailor, tailor, have no doubt,

“I’ll blow your little fire out.”

“Yeah, just you dare!” the tailor cried boldly, for the little man was so tiny – but he went Phttt! and the fire was out and the little man had vanished.

Soon the hunter and the blacksmith returned, bringing a piece of game and tasty herbs; the tailor told them what had happened to him, and now they had to light the fire and set the water on all over again.

When the game was consumed, the blacksmith and the tailor went into the wood and the hunter kept the house; and he lit a lovely fire, set the pot of water on it, and sat himself beside it. Then the tiny, tiny little man came once more and whispered:

“Hunter, hunter, have no doubt,

I’ll put your little fire out.”

“Just you try it! I’ll break your neck!” cried the hunter, but – Phtt! – and the fire went out and the little man vanished.

When the comrades returned, they had no game and no fire; to be sure, the tailor, to whom the hunter had lent his rifle, boasted that he had almost shot a buck – but only almost, for the rifle was faulty and the bullet had flown to the left.

“Now I’ll have a go!” cried the strong blacksmith. “Just you watch – I’ll pay the little squirt out.” Now he stayed in the house and the hunter went hunting with the tailor.

The blacksmith had not been sitting long by the fire, which he had kindled after setting up a vice, when the tiny, tiny little man appeared for the third time and whispered:

“Blacksmith, blacksmith, have no doubt,

I’ll put your little fire out!”

But instead of answering, the blacksmith seized the little man by the collar, gave him a thorough shaking, and jammed him in the vice, at which he wriggled and howled wretchedly. But that did him no good, for the blacksmith worked him very palpably, and when the hunter and the tailor came back, the former gave the tiny little man a scouring, and the tailor delightedly handed him a good and proper cuffing.

The little magic man in the vice wailed most pitifully and said, “Let me go, and one of you go with me! I can and will make one of you happy. Tailor, you go with me!”

“Little man, I won’t go with you!” replied the tailor. – “Hunter, then you go with me!” besought the tiny, tiny little man. – “Ha, may the Devil go with you!” replied the hunter. – “Smith, smith, you go with me!” the little man begged so very miserably, and the blacksmith said, “Fine, I’ll go with you, but don’t think that I’ll let you loose, for you would lead me up the garden path. And the other two must follow a little way behind us.”

“If you like – I agree to everything!” the tiny, tiny little man whimpered. “Just let me out of this vice!”

The blacksmith did this, but he held the little man firmly by the collar, and now they passed through a door in the room and through a cellar corridor into a large, dimly lit vault. In this vault sat an ogre on an ivory chair, and behind him stood his wife, and she was combing his long, shaggy, tousled hair with a comb made of bone.

Now the ogre said, “Hey hey! There’s a smell of human flesh! Hey hey – human flesh,” and he snapped his mouth contentedly. “Oh,” his wife replied, “God knows what you smell!”

The blacksmith held the tiny little man doubly fast by the collar, for if he had released him, he would have delivered him and his companions up to the ogre – but being held, he led the blacksmith into a side passage, with the others following, and they came to a hole in the rock wall before which lay a large stone. Here the little man said, “Roll this stone away, then crawl out through the opening and cry, ‘Viva! I’m free!’”

“But I’ll need both my arms to roll this stone,” said the blacksmith; and he gave the wriggling little man to the hunter to hold fast by the collar, not wanting to entrust this task to the tailor, for he did not think him strong enough. The tailor helped to hold nevertheless; he kept a firm grip on both the little man’s legs. Now the blacksmith rolled the stone away; there was such a cracking and crashing in the vault as if the roof were caving in, but before them shone a dazzling light, the light of day, and before their eyes there lay a majestic castle. Swiftly, all three – actually, all four – of them crept out. First the blacksmith, then the hunter with the little man, and finally the tailor, who was holding the tiny little man’s legs, and every one of them shouted, “Viva, I’m free!”

And behold, the tiny little man shouted with them, and disappeared from out of their hands. Out from the castle stepped a sumptuously attired music corps playing a beautiful dance, then three majestic princesses came dancing towards the blacksmith, the hunter, and the tailor; and then a little man, but attired like a King, with a sceptre and crown in a purple robe trimmed with ermine, and his features were those of the tiny little man. “Thank you for setting us free!” said the little King with solemn dignity. “We thank and reward you!”

Hereupon the King raised each of the three merry companions to the dignity of a Prince, and they were married to the three beautiful Princesses; they all lived happily together in the beautiful castle, waited on by a host of court servants, and never again did any of them have his little fire blown out.

14. The Terrible Night-watch

Once upon a time there was a landlady who was a worthless hussy: she gave false weight, she gave false measure, she fibbed and fiddled. No one who entered her house emerged unfleeced. All her thoughts turned to money; for money, she would have sold her soul to the Evil One, if he had wanted it.

Many an abominable deed was committed in this landlady’s house which did not come to light. At last, the measure of her sins was filled up.

A gentleman rode by and wished to spend the night. He ate and drank, and before going to bed he said to the waitress, “Someone must keep watch before my door; I shall pay them a hundred florins and more. Would you like to earn them, waitress?”

“No!” the waitress replied. “At night I sleep, during the day I’m vigilant, and in the evening I’m tired enough. But I’ll tell the madam she needs to procure someone to stand night-watchman for the gentleman.”

“Just think, madam!” the waitress said to the landlady. “The foreign gentleman will pay a hundred florins and more if someone keeps watch before his door. I told him no thank you.” “Indeed?” said the landlady. “Well, off you go to bed, I’ll procure someone easily enough.”

But the landlady would not suffer that same guard-duty fee to go to anyone other than herself. She went to the stranger and told him, “There’s no one here who’ll keep watch for you, so I’ll just have to do it myself; however, you’ll have to lay out something extra.”

“All right, dear hostess! I shall lay out something extra. Just keep careful watch.” – Then he locked his door and the landlady remained outside in the vestibule, keeping watch, and already counting in her mind the easily earned pile of money. -Around midnight the waitress thought she heard a whimpering groan in the hall, but it gave her the creeps, and she stayed nicely put under the bedclothes.

When day dawned, the landlady was sitting before the stranger’s door and had a purse full of money in her hand; but she was a sorry sight, and the servants saw to their horror that only the clothes and the skin of the landlady were still there. Everything else had been taken away by the Devil.

15. The Hospitable Calf’s Head

A married couple had three sons, and two of them were bright, or at least imagined themselves to be, while the third one, the youngest, Hans, was the stupid one; but he was also the mother’s favourite, and consequently the common object of his brothers’ envy. When the latter were quite grown up, they decided to see the world together and make their fortune abroad, so they said to their father: “Father, give us ten dollars each, we want to go out into the world, we want to see foreign cities and countries and make our fortune.” And to their mother they said, “Mother, give us a knapsack full of bread and bacon, we want to go on a far journey.”

“It’s good for the boys to go away and learn about the world, we should let them go!” said the mother to the father, and so the brothers’ wish was granted.

Hans saw his brothers making the preparations for their journey, and when he heard their resolution, he said: “I want to go too! I want ten dollars, I want a knapsack full of bacon and bread too! I want to see the world too!” – “A fat lot you’ll see and earn out there, stupid Hans!” grumbled the father, and the mother cried out, “Oh, my pet! Stay at home and earn an honest keep!”

But Hans wanted to go, that was that, and no amount of persuasion was any use; he received what the brothers had received and set out with them on their journey.

“There can be nothing more stupid than stupid Hans saddling us with his person! He really could have stayed at home! Some useful experiences he’s going to have! We’ll stride away lustily so he can’t keep up with us, then he’ll turn back of his own accord,” the brothers said to each other while walking along, when Hans, the youngest, was already a little way behind them, he not being able to take such big strides as his two elder brothers.

Hans let his brothers walk on for a stretch. Suddenly he shouted, “Ho! Hey! What’s this? What’s lying there? Oh, it’s treasure!”

The brothers, hearing Hans call out in this way, stopped in their tracks, looked round, saw their brother stooping and exhibiting signs of amazement over something lying on the ground, and said to one another: “Look, Hans has found something which we walked past while engrossed in conversation – back, at the double!”

Speedily did the elder brothers run back to their Hans and look towards the treasure he had found – however, nothing lay there but a lump of glass gall that flashed in the sun.

“Simple-minded, stupid Hans!” the disappointed brothers scolded. “My God!” said Hans, “it isn’t a diamond? I’m sorry!”

A while later, the brothers had again stridden a good distance ahead of Hans, who was smaller and weaker, and he could not keep up because, as an idle mummy’s boy, he had never particularly made a habit of walking. Then he shouted once again, “Wow! Hey! Now this is something! Hey! Come here, one and all! Oh, how splendid! Oh, how splendid!” – and he leapt for joy around one spot.

The brothers believed that Hans really had found something this time and ran back to him. But when they reached the place, it was a large swarm of rose-chafers which lay there, agglomerated on the one spot quite by chance – and they chided Hans even more severely. – Hans, however, made his stupidest face and said, “I thought it was a pile of cudats.[12] So it’s nothing? I’m sorry.” – But both times he had called out only to be with his brothers again without having to double his steps to catch them up.

Unfortunately, this trick, having been tried twice, could not be continued. When they had walked another stretch and Hans had been left behind once more, in a forest, and again came to a halt by a supposed find and shouted, his brothers behaved as if they did not hear him – and both of them went on their way, and soon they were lost to their brother’s sight behind the trees of the forest.

“Run on!” said Hans, “then I can rest all the better!” – And he sat down on a stone and opened his knapsack, and ate bread and bacon, and had a drink, for his mother had slipped a full flask into the knapsack by way of precaution; then he laid the satchel on a comfortable spot and, resting his head on it, had a snooze. As Hans was not used to walking abroad and had become very tired, so his snooze lasted rather a long while; and by the time he finally awoke, evening was approaching.

‘Alas, alas!’ thought Hans. – ‘Is it so late already? Where am I to go now, at night in the forest? Robbers could come and take my ten dollars from me. Wolves could come and eat what bread and bacon I have left, and me to boot afterwards. That won’t do. Hans, Hans! If only you had stayed at home with your mother!’

It quickly became dark and Hans was afraid to go on. ‘Where I am right now, there is no one but me,’ he said to himself – ‘and I am no danger to myself. But if I go on, I could run into someone who would do me harm. There’s a thick oak here – I’ll shin up and take a seat up in the branches; no robber will seek me there, and wolves don’t climb.’

No sooner thought than done. Hans climbed up the tree, and once up he looked around a little. Behold, he caught sight of a stately house very close by, whose rooms were lit up.

“Oh, stupid Hans that I am!” cried Hans. “Could I not take a few steps further and stop at the handsome inn? Good heavens! When a man has ten dollars in his pocket, does he need to seek a bed for the night up a forest-tree?” – Hans hurriedly climbed back down the tree and strode towards the house, whose lights soon shone out towards him. Before long he was standing in front of the house; it was light and large, but there no signs of life to be seen. Hans found the doors open, everything was brightly lit by burning candles, the doors of a suite of rooms also stood open, but there was not a soul anywhere, nor a dog, nor a cat. However, in one of the rooms there was a set table, on which were placed a bottle full of wine and dishes full of white bread, pancakes, cold meats, butter, cheese, and so forth. In a room right next to that one was a lovely cradle; and in the cradle lay a c – no, no child, but a very pretty calf’s head, on silk cushions. Hans stole a glance at it and murmured, “A splendid calf’s head! Shame that it isn’t roasted. It would go down very well right now.” Then the calf’s head opened its eyes and Hans gave a start; he had not thought it to be alive.

“A very good evening to you,” said the calf’s head – and Hans stammered, scared out of his wits, “Thanks a lot!”

He was still so little acquainted with the world, our good Hans, that he had never yet heard a calf’s head speak.

“You are most welcome!” the calf’s head said further. “My days are so terribly tedious. Sit down, eat, drink, make yourself at home – over there is a four-poster bed where you can sleep, and when you have awoken then you can tell me what is going on in the outside world.”

‘I?’ thought Hans, startled anew. ‘I am to tell about the world? Some affecting tales they will be! If I know nothing, the thing will end up doing something bad to me. I wonder if it is a whole calf or only a head? I wonder if it can leap out of the cradle? I don’t think it will bite – it looks too good-natured for that.’

Hans sat down and ate, tucking in with a will, yet while eating he was plagued by thoughts, which had never been the case with him before.

‘How do I go about it’ – thought Hans – ‘so I don’t offend against politeness? How do I address the calf’s head? I cannot tell if it’s a he or a she. Is it already married or still single? It seems to be still quite young. Should I say to him or to her: Sir or Madam? I’m sure to do something stupid either way.’

In spite of these hard thoughts, Hans shovelled down his food with extraordinary relish; and when the meal was over, there was no evening chat between him and the head, for Hans was tired again, and he lay down in the four-poster bed and slept into the next day. The calf’s head did not take this amiss; it had admirable patience. The following morning, Hans found that his clothes had been cleaned, and then he found his breakfast beside the cradle of the calf’s head, who bid him a friendly good morning, moving its ears very gracefully. But now it was time for Hans to talk, and he made the attempt, and behold – it went better than he had expected. He spoke about himself first of all, for every man is the centre of his world, about his mother, about his father, his brothers, his aunts and uncles and their children; about his parents’ house, their livestock, how many goats, ducks, hens they had, how many songbirds; then about the garden, its trees, vegetable patches, and flowers.

In the calf’s head, Hans had the most amiable listener. Every now and then it seemed to Hans that a tear was glistening in its large, pale-blue eyes, and that it was breathing more deeply, almost like a human sighing. One word led to another; the conversation never faltered. Hans described, right down to the last detail, the village in which his parents’ house stood, the houses, the church, the school, the graveyard, the gravestones, the priest, the mayor, then the village meadows, the stream, and the neighbouring mountains.

Hans was amazed at himself, at his knowing so much. Many a day passed in this fashion. Then he thought of all the fairy-tales which he had been told by his grandmother when she was still alive and he but a little boy, and then by his mother – of enchanted princes and princesses, of sorceresses and wizards, of cursed castles and glass mountains. The calf’s head listened to all of this with great pleasure, and it seemed particularly delighted when the fairy-tales described how the enchanted princes and princesses found their deliverance. And all this time the calf’s head was most assiduous in ensuring that Hans never lacked for food or drink, and that he did not overtax himself or his memory with all too much narration. More and more came to Hans’ mind: he told of the ghosts in existence, of Fire Spirits and will-o’-the-wisps, of the Wild Hunter and the gnome, of the nixie in the stream and the White Lady on the old castle hill near his village. Finally, Hans remembered that he was really quite musical as well and had with him an instrument that he knew how to play to give splendid entertainment. Hans unpacked this musical instrument, which had been carefully stowed in his knapsack – it was a Jew’s harp – and when Hans struck up the first notes, the calf’s head opened its eyes wide and expressed silent applause by wiggling its blonde ears.

For a long time did Hans enjoy the hospitality of the calf’s head, and of the house-servants who always remained invisible, and he thought: it’s a good thing I see nothing of the servants, I won’t need to give a tip when I leave – for Hans was gradually coming to have thoughts of leaving. He knew no other world than that little one of his home village; it filled his soul and the circle of his ideas, and as every day his speech was only of it, and all his thoughts lived only in it, then it was no wonder that a quiet longing for home rose in Hans’s heart.

The calf’s head possessed much more psychological perspicacity than know-it-all humans will, on the whole, credit calves’ heads with, or concede that they are capable of; and so one day, when Hans was again talking about his home, making a miserable face the while, it spoke these considerate words: “My good guest,” it said, “you long to go home; I comprehend this feeling, and I honour it. Travel home, I shall provide you with what is needful – but come back. Over there is a staff – strike that chest with it and take the finest of the garments that lie inside – behind that door over there is the stable. Open it with the staff and take the best steed. In that chest over there is money and a magic whistle; if you lose your bearings, blow it, then animals will come bounding up and will run before you to show you the right way.”

Hans was astonished and did as he was bid.

In a hunting-page’s outfit trimmed with gold braid, on a magnificent white horse, with a splendid bayonet and rifled gun, Hans rode away, all his pockets full of money, and the whistle hanging on a golden string around his neck. Hans promised the calf’s head by all that was holy that he would return to it. Whether or not Hans gave the hospitable calf’s head a kiss at parting is not quite known for certain.

How had Hans’s clever brothers fared in the meantime? They were very glad that stupid Hans did not bother them any more; they ate heartily for as long as the bread and bacon in their knapsacks lasted and for as long as the ten dollars of each of them sufficed in the inns, which came in fact to about eight days. But then they said to one another: “The world is indeed too big for us to get to know it all. How would it be if we were to turn back? After all, there is nowhere any better than home. In these eight days we’ve seen quite a number of foreign towns and even more lands, and one land looks very much like another. We haven’t made any particular fortune, admittedly, but we could perhaps have found something. Our not meeting with any good fortune out here is proof of the old truth that the true treasure of a man’s happiness lies only in his homeland. Let’s make haste to revisit this treasure.”

When the brothers came home, the father glowered at them and said, “What true heroes you are, you vagabonds! You damned wastrels! You’ve run through twenty dollars and torn ten dollars’ worth of clothes and shoes. Now work for it! I won’t give you a groat until you’ve made up the money I threw down the drain for you!”

And the mother cried, “You good-for-nothing scamps! What have you done with my Hans, my dear child? How on earth could you dare to cross our threshold without my Hans?”

The brothers had a very hard time making their raging mother understand that Hans had kept behind them on purpose, most certainly to go his separate way.

The brothers had to work terribly hard, for thirty dollars take some earning.

A while later, a small commotion arose in the village towards evening. A noble squire, attired like a Prince, was riding through. The people thought it was the King himself, travelling incognito without any servants.

Everyone ran to their windows or out their doors, and a great number ran after the rider. Then shining guilders fell onto the road – so it was the King, and everyone shouted Viva! and fought over the coins. The spruce young rider halted in front of the house of Hans’s parents and dismounted. A whole horde of boys jostled over to serve the supposed Prince in the capacity of equerry or groom.

Hans’s parents stepped reverently out of their house. What could the unknown lord want with them? The brothers came from their work, looking more like mudlarks than goldcrests.[13] They stood open-mouthed with amazement as the stranger threw his arms first around their mother, then around their father, and hugged and kissed them; and afterwards cried, “Come, Michel! Come, Velt![14] Give me your hand! Perhaps you all don’t know your Hans any more?” and he held out them his hands to them.

It was Hans – no Prince, no King. “Stupid Hans is back, he’s got rich and throws money around him, Hans the Fool!” ran the rumour through the village. The old couple rejoiced; the brothers, squinting with envy, led Hans’s handsome horse into the stable and whispered to each other, “We have to work ourselves to death to pay our father back those paltry thirty dollars, while Hans, the lucky beggar, who doesn’t have a clue about managing money, scatters it over the street. Tonight we’ll take the money from him, it’s no use to him, is it? In any case, it’s not easy to understand why such an idiot is walking the earth.”

In the night the brothers entered the bedroom where Hans slept. However, Hans was not so stupid as his brothers thought. When the thieves broke into his bedroom, he fired a small bullet into the fat flesh of one of them and cut a pretty circumflex in the other with his hunting-knife. This caused a commotion and the father got out of bed, and when he saw what had happened, he furiously seized his whip and lashed at the wounded knaves, beating the living daylights out of them and making them howl, and they did not show their faces before their brother again.

Hans made merry and feasted with his parents, and yet he no longer felt quite happy at home; so, showering his parents with presents, he saddled his horse himself and rode away. He wanted to go back to the house in the forest, to the hospitable calf’s head, where there was no envy, no covetousness, no being undervalued, no rapacity, but quite enough to eat and drink, and good conversation, for the calf’s head also knew how to talk, and what is more, it expressed itself in extraordinarily refined language, from which Hans inferred that it must have received a very good education.

Hans rode out into the blue, and soon he no longer recognized the road, but the whistle was a tremendous help. One blow on it, and there came a hare or a fox, or a bird, which ran or flew before his horse; and when he had reached the forest, frisky deer sprang ahead, and so Hans made it back to the castle without danger or adventure. The calf’s head cried a heartfelt “Welcome!” to Hans when he entered, and expressed its joy at seeing Hans again.

“You come in the nick of time, my worthy friend!” said the calf’s head. “I have expected you with ardent longing, for if the favourable hour I am awaiting had elapsed unseized, you would not have found me again, and all my hopes would have been shattered.”

Hans pricked up his ears at these, to him, so mysterious words, and the calf’s head continued: “Pay precise attention to what I tell you, for my happiness, and perhaps your happiness also, depends on these directions. Go now into the kitchen, where you will find a chopping block, and in the adjoining pantry lies a well-ground axe. Take this axe and lay it on the chopping-block – then come back in to me.”

Hans followed this behest precisely. ‘If I have nothing further to do,’ he thought, ‘there’s really nothing to worry about.’ He soon carried out the command and walked back into the room that the calf’s head inhabited. “My good friend,” it cried to him, “that was a very easy stroke of work, was it not? But now comes something more difficult.

“Take now this cradle in which I lie, and carry it, with me, into the kitchen, and place it beside the chopping block.”

“I’ll do that too, with pleasure!” said Hans, and he carried the cradle into the kitchen. It was indeed rather heavier than Hans had expected from its appearance, but Hans was strong.

“But now, best of friends,” the calf’s head continued, “now comes the hardest stroke – now do not be shocked. Uncover me now.”

Hans cleared away the silk cushions – oh, the pity of it – the neck of the calf’s head ended in a snake’s body as thick as an arm; it hung from the head like a hideous excrescence and was blue, like an intestine full of blood.

“Now lift me out of the cradle onto the block, and use the axe to chop off this loathsome serpentine pigtail which hangs from me.”

Hans shuddered and stammered, “Am I then to kill you, you good, unique calf’s head? Your like will never be found in the world again!”

“Just make haste and don’t waver!” the calf’s head replied. “You will be well rewarded.”

Hans obeyed, not without fear and apprehension. He laid the head down, he raised the axe, he took careful aim, he swung it down – and behold, not a drop of blood flowed, the snake’s body disappeared, the calf’s head turned into the countenance of a lovely girl, and she rose up from the cradle, a fairy figure of captivating grace, and stepped out, and threw her arms around Hans. “You have released me, you good man, you pure man, you true man! Now take whatever you will! The castle and its treasures, and me as well, if I please you.”

Now the castle was teeming with servants; all of them had been enchanted, all of them rejoiced at being given life anew.

“My gracious Princess!” said Hans in amazement. “Even as a calf’s head you appeared very alluring to me, but I like you a thousand times more as you are now. I’ll take you!”

Hans was very happy – he endowed his parents, forgave his brothers, married the beautiful Princess he had set free, and lived with her in joyful and pleasurable seclusion – neither he nor his wife yearned for the so-called high society, and should it be the case that the two of them have not died, then it may be supposed, with some likelihood, that they are still alive today.

16. The Sharp Shears

In a small town there once lived an honest tailor who attended to his work most assiduously, plying his needle and thimble, and iron and shears, from morning to evening; but he never got anywhere and never found the path to success. All that one could say about his lot was: this tailor passably and honestly made ends meet. His family, consisting of a wife and several children who needed to be supported, the hard times and the many cares they caused, drew many a sigh from the tailor. He would have liked to be somewhat better-off, but he did not know how to go about it; he would have liked to work even more, but he really could not do more than he was commissioned to, and he could not conjure up new customers, wish as hard and as often as he might.

But the times became ever worse, and it reached the stage where the poor tailor could no longer keep even a single journeyman, and when his last apprentice had been released from his articles and had packed up his things in his knapsack and gone abroad in search of work, no other boy applied to be apprentice, for it was said of the tailor that he was nothing more than a jobber, a word which basically signifies: a scoundrel.

Then one day, towards dusk, a tailor’s journeyman finally came knocking at the door, applied to the master for relief, and asked for work. The poor master at once poured out his sorrows to him and said that he would give him work with all his heart if he only had some. The tailor’s journeyman replied that the master should just take him on; wherever he worked, there was luck, there was plenty to do.

“Well then! You shall have an eight-day trial,” said the tailor, who easily drew hope even if there were only a thimbleful. Several things still to be darned were found, and the next morning the work began: Master and journeyman sat opposite one another, and the former’s needle stopped still when he saw how nimbly and skilfully the new journeyman sewed. His needle flew so fast that one could hardly see the hand at work.

Now the master took a closer look at his new journeyman, and was amazed at his figure. He was almost as thin as a thread; the tailor, who was far from being portly, was to him what a thick trunk is to a thin riding crop; the master did not find the journeyman’s face agreeable: it was the spitting image of a billy-goat’s physiognomy, and in addition, the journeyman appended to everything he said a strange, giggling laugh, that sounded exactly like a bleat.

No sooner had the work begun than there was a knock at the door and in walked an unknown gentleman, who ordered a new garment and laid the money for the cloth on the workbench straight away. Trembling with joy, the tailor hopped around the stranger and took his measurements. Oh, it was so long since he had last felt the bliss that a tailor experiences when taking measurements for a brand-new garment. The stranger recommended haste and left, and the master’s wife, who had to hurry to a draper’s to fetch the cloth, could not get dressed quickly enough.

“Does Master see that I was right?” asked the journeyman. “Luck enters a house with me, meh-eh-eh-eh!”

“I’m pleased, I’m very pleased!” the tailor replied with a self-satisfied smile.

“Did the gentleman leave ten dollars for the cloth?” the journeyman asked further. “Then we send eight to the draper’s and we keep two – meh-eh-eh-eh!”

“God forbid, and Heaven preserve me!” cried the tailor, horrified. “No, that would be a sin, that would be stolen goods, that would give no increase!”

“May Master not talk to me of – and sin; I don’t know such words – meheheheh!” the journeyman replied with a tremendously scornful expression on his face, working diligently all the while. “Master is redolent of the paltry little town in which we find ourselves – Master should live in a big city and see if he could have a customer as stupid as ours, paying the money for the cloth in advance! There, you would need to keep a good five of the ten dollars because so very many other customers never, ever pay for the cloth the tailors make into garments, and the outlay together with the making-up charge goes to the – the Devil – meh-eh-eh-eh!”

The pious tailor threaded a new thread in his needle, stretched it out very long, held it under the journeyman’s nose and said, “Look, monshure! Honesty is best in the long run!”[15]

“A fine reckoning, which takes you far!” scoffed the journeyman with his constant, insupportable bleating laugh.

The cloth was brought, it was fine and good; the tailor sharpened his chalk and got ready to cut out. The journeyman looked in the camera obscura, which is kept on tailor’s workbenches to receive scraps of cloth, lining and suchlike, and pawed around in it with his foot, but there was absolutely nothing inside other than a few fibres from the last darning job – then the journeyman followed every movement of the tailor’s hands with furtive glances – then he said, “Well, Master! Your eldest urgently needs a little coat, or the Mistress could well do with a Sunday jacket. Cut out nice and sensibly – throw the spare pieces of cloth here – in the hell – meh-eh-eh-eh!”

“Hell is with the Devil – not with me! I won’t keep even a little patch for a bonnet-frill for my wife!” the honest tailor retorted.

“Pah!” the journeyman cried, twisting his billy-goat face into a grimace and horribly baring his teeth. “Then why is the hell there? What does it have an opening for – meh-eh-eh-eh?”

“Actually, it is not called a hell at all, it is called a hole, because it is a dark, hollow space – no honest tailor has anything to do with Hell,” replied the garment-maker as he cut out the cloth with great conscientiousness.

“Schoolmaster! Oh, German-language teacher!” the journeyman scoffed, throwing a look full of the most furious derision at the honest man. But the tailor was not put out of countenance and the new job was begun. In the course of the same day yet more orders came in – one after another; there was already enough work to fill a week.

The master-tailor did not like his new journeyman at all; he would gladly have given him the elbow as early as the morning of the first day of work, but he had taken him on for a week-long trial, and that was that; and the journeyman did, in fact, seem to have brought luck along, and if he sent him packing, he could not finish all his orders in two weeks on his own. And a second worker like this journeyman was simply not to be found.

On the next day, the work was busily continued, with many a dialogue, with many a derisive remark, and many a goatie laugh mocking the master – who, however, minded it little. He thought: Mock and scoff without cease, make as many cutting remarks as you wish, just keep on working as you do; your mockery does not bite me, your derision does not sting me – the hot pressing-iron of your tongue does not burn me.

And so the tailor made much better progress, through patience and a clear conscience, than he would if he had continually quarrelled and squabbled with the journeyman.

Between the working days there now fell a Sunday. The master and mistress slept an hour longer, it being of course a day of rest. On the previous evening, the mistress had swept out and scrubbed down the workshop so it was all spick and span; she was therefore not a little astonished when, looking in on Sunday morning, she saw scraps of cloth, pieces of yarn, and shreds of lining lying all over the floor, and the journeyman sitting on his seat, hard at work; he had on a clean shirt that was open at the front, and the mistress perceived, to her horror, that the journeyman’s chest was completely covered with black hairs.

She withdrew and expressed to her husband her astonishment that he had made the journeyman work on the Lord’s day, which was a downright sin – and after she had swept the workshop so clean just the evening before, too!

“What? He’s working?” the master asked in utter amazement. “I would never have dreamt of ordering him to do that. He shall stop it right this minute!”

The master walked rapidly into the workshop. “And a very good morning to you! Now what is the meaning of this? Don’t you know today is Sunday?”

“Thanks very much, Master! Well, meh-eh-eh-eh!”

“Listen! Stop your stupid laughter! I won’t have it!” said the master, puffing out his chest. “Today is Sunday, today there is – once and for all – no tailoring done. Sun-day is Rest-day!”

“May Master not take my work in bad part!” the journeyman defended himself with ostensible humility. “Whom am I working for, exactly? For you or for myself? Why, for you, without doubt. I am used to constant activity, that’s just how it is, I must always have something to do – I know no rest and no idleness. Do you not know the pretty proverb: an idle brain is the Devil’s workshop, and the Devil finds work for idle hands? Meh-eh…”

“That may be –” replied the master, somewhat bewildered. “Stop working now. Have your breakfast and get dressed. You’d also do well to have a shave – just take a look in the mirror – why, you have a beard just like a billy-goat.”

“Meh-eh-eh-eh!” the journeyman burst out laughing. “May Master forgive me – I have to laugh – meh-eh-eh-eh! at you using such a comparison. Well, your will be done.”

The journeyman went into his chamber, shaved and dressed, and with his beard, which he had left untouched, he looked like a living satyre on the entire commendable Guild of Tailors.

He had on a coal-black tail-coat of shiny summer material with tails that hung down to the ground, and there was something concealed in one of the tail-pockets, as if there were a long snake cucumber inside, presumably a tobacco-pipe, for a kind of black tassel hung out. Under the tail-coat the tailor’s journeyman wore a waistcoat of flame-coloured barracan, and his inexpressibles were of pure nankeen. Instead of a hat, the journeyman possessed only a dashing little cap of black velvet, similar to a biretta, which was red-rimmed and burnished with gold braid. In his hand he carried a strangely knaggy stick of juniper-wood, the handle of which formed a kind of dragon’s head, this having grown so as a freak of nature.

“Hey – you’re dressed to the nines, Schwarzburger!” the master cried to the journeyman, who, as the latter’s passport[16] revealed, came from Schwarzburg.[17] “Only your beard does not please me; and nor does your cap, it has such strange corners at the front, just as if there were a pair of goat’s horns inside!”

“Oh, stop getting my goat, Master!” cried the journeyman. “First I have a goat’s beard, poor devil that I am, then even goat’s horns! Know that if you carry on like this, I can down tools, I can call it a day.”

“Peace on Sunday, the blessed holy-day!” the master commanded. “Let us not lock horns. Here, journeyman, have a hymnbook – we’re going to church.”

In vain did the master hold the book out to his apprentice – the latter did not touch it – and gave an embarrassed laugh:

“Meh-eh-eh-eh, Master! Put it away – put it away – I must – yes, to my shame, I must confess to you – I cannot – I cannot read.”

“Hm! Hm!” the tailor murmured in amazement, and he said: “It surprises me that, with the countless excellent educational institutions which Germany enjoys, and with the superabundance of teachers who disseminate true education and enlightenment all around, there should be a place where the instruction were still of so defective a nature that a German tailor could not read – however, just take the book, put it down before you in church, and pretend to be looking in it – that is what many thousands of people do, who can read very well. It looks like reverence.”

“I truly cannot, may Master spare me that!” the journeyman resolutely refused. “I cannot enter a church – the cool air oppresses my weak breast – I will take a little stroll, Nature is my temple – and this is a lovely region, is it not, Master?”

“Oh yes,” the mistress interposed in the conversation. “After you go out the lower gate, the road sharp left leads to a rocky valley; this road is called the Dragon’s Ditch, and further on, at the end, there’s a splendid boulder which is called the Devil’s Pulpit.”[18]

“Ah! That’s nice! I’ll go there! I kiss your hand, Mistress! I wish good devotions all round! Meh-eh-eh-eh!”

On Sunday, following vespers,[19] the respectable tailor went for a stroll with his family; the weather was very inviting, and a nearby place of amusement, where good beer was to be had, became very crowded. The children found playmates, the mistress found friends and gossips, and the master found a clergyman who was well disposed towards him, and with whom he took the air a little in agreeable converse, in the vicinity of the pleasure garden. There they encountered the journeyman.

“My! What kind of a character is that? I have not seen him here before!” said the clergyman. “Look, Master, at that queer figure, that ghastly physiognomy, and how the fellow limps!”

“He limps, it is true; I hadn’t noticed that at all!” replied the tailor.

“What? You know him, Master?”

“He is my new journeyman,” answered, with a certain self-importance and emphasis, the tailor; for it did flatter him to be the man who kept a journeyman. This journeyman, however, took a byway and turned off to the left so as not to encounter the two men, who were speaking of him.

The clergyman seemed to be as curious as he was suspicious; he directed question after question to the master, so that the good man, who was too honest to want to have a hell, was given Hell nonetheless. “What is all this you are telling me, Master?” cried the clergyman. “He looks like a goat – bleats like a goat – seems to have horns under his cap – limps – will not take the hymnbook – cannot stand the air in church? Oh, you silly-billy, you scapegoat! You goat of all goats! Master, for Heaven’s sake, how you acted the goat by taking this goat into your Christian house! Thank Heaven which let you find me here today. Your journeyman – it is the very Devil!”

The tailor gave a cry and came close to fainting – yes – yes – all became clear to him – the sudden accumulation of work, the wicked, tempting advice to keep the money for the cloth, to throw enough cloth for whole jackets into the hell – the journeyman’s scorn which he invariably expressed for everything that was sacred and holy; now it was all – fearfully – connected. While grace was being said, the journeyman had nosebleeds and ran out the door – he had not taken salt, neither for his meat nor his potatoes, the thing in his long coat-pocket had twitched very strangely every now and then, as if an eel were wriggling inside, and the tassel, which sometimes dangled out, was not of black mohair – it was hairs.

“Master!” the clergyman began anew, very gravely. “You have been chosen for a great deed, one such as no tailor ever yet performed – if you accomplish it, you will win eternal glory; if you fail to accomplish it, then you are lost, body and soul, with your wife and children, in both this world and the world to come. You now have the Black One in your house, he is serving you on speculation of corrupting your soul, the soul-snatcher. Pay attention to how we shall exorcise him and make him averse to returning, for you know fine well that a cat never revisits a house in which it has had its tail hacked off or its ears cut off. Have the grinder sharpen your shears and have them to hand – then I’ll tell you the further particulars, never fear.”

That evening, in the place of amusement close by the little town in which the tailor was resident, terrible blows were exchanged between tailors’ journeymen and shoemakers’ journeymen. A shoemaker’s journeyman had poked fun at the misshapen boots which the foreign tailor’s journeyman was wearing; first, witty words, then offensive ones, flew around, then blows fell thick as hail, first with sticks, then with chair-legs, and never before had there been so many shattered nasal-bones, bumps, holes in heads, and suchlike. Everyone agreed in opining that all Hell had been let loose.

On the following day no journeyman went to work. The whole body of journeymen was agitated and no one wanted to work, so, keeping Saint Monday,[20] they passed through the town smoking and singing, arm in arm, walking the width of the street; the tailors’ were joined by the barbers’, turners’, glaziers’, drapers’, and dyers’ journeymen, the shoemakers’ by the tanners’, joiners’, smiths’, masons’, and carpenters’ journeymen. The Schwarzburger was the leader of the first-mentioned party – he had stuck a red cock’s feather in his cap, and when the Battle of the Journeymen flared up that evening, which everyone had duly prepared for by drinking many a glass of spirits throughout the day, a great deal of blood flowed, and – this happened once in a blue moon – the tailors’ party held the field; all the same, on the evening of this Saint Monday, rare indeed was the journeyman who was not black-and-blue or bloody when he returned home.

Only the Schwarzburger showed no trace of a wound, nor any fatigue, but was working, brisk and sprightly as ever, early on Tuesday; however, he pulled a very wry face when that clergyman walked into the workshop and shuffled restlessly to and fro. The master received the man of the cloth with great reverence and pointed behind the journeyman’s back at the freshly whetted sharp shears; and the clergyman began to direct all kinds of questions at the journeyman, such as: “What is your Christian name?” – Trouble was brewing. “I was not baptised,” the journeyman replied.

“Then you are perhaps a Jew?” the clergyman asked.

“I am not a Jew.”

“Or a Turk? Or a pagan?” the questioning continued.

The journeyman pretended not to hear very well and replied, “Yes, I am a tailor. Meh-eh-eh-eh!”

“You are the Devil, unclean Spirit!” the clergyman thundered. “Exorciso te, creatura daemonica!”

Then the Devil began to shake, and he got cramp in his skinny calves, and in the meantime the tailor had stooped under the Devil’s seat and sighted the proper place; he now reached boldly out and – rip! – clean snipped off the tail the Devil had guarded so carefully up to that time. The Devil roared like hell and leapt up and away and never returned. He left his tail where it fell, and the clergyman picked it up to place it beside the other rarities of nature and art that were kept in the reliquary chamber.

The tailor was fêted as a hero; he received many commissions and ended up with twelve journeymen and six apprentices. But he would not suffer any of them to throw good, large pieces of cloth into the hell. The sharp shears were never used for any other work but remained a family keepsake and treasure, and when the tailor had passed away with the name of a pious Christian, a true likeness of them was chiselled into his gravestone, and this was built into the outer wall of the church, just at the place where the reliquary chamber lay inside.

Since that time the Devil has gone around without a tail, and the great service the tailor thought to have done the world with his bold snip is seriously called into question today; for when the Devil still had his tail, which he was only too happy to let trail here, there, and everywhere, it was easier to give him a wide berth than it is nowadays, when he struts around tailless. Since he began to appear so modish with his tail docked so short, the name Buck has arisen for those men who present themselves all prinked and primped and prettified, who puff themselves up, snootily and haughtily – and yet, for all that, are nothing more than poor or stupid devils.

17. The Brave Little Beggarman

Once upon a time there was a very poor devil who was one of the closest kin to the universally known Mr. Have-Nothing, and was a godfather to Mr. Do-Nothing; and he hated work with a vengeance. The only thing he did was this: he liked to read fine books of fairy tales, in which there are so many tales of people becoming rich without any effort, and the road is described that leads to the Land of Cockaigne. But the tale that the poor devil liked most of all was “The Brave Little Tailor.” Such a hero, he thought, he could be too – what were the odds? – if only the proper opportunity presented itself. And lo and behold – that same opportunity did present itself. The young beggar, walking through a region of high mountains, came upon a herdsman’s hut, where he begged for alms. What could the Alpine pasture give him? There are no pennies or kreutzer there, no breadrolls and no wieners. A piece of green cheese – that was all he received, with a few amiable expressions, perhaps by way of a makeweight, such as: young wastrel, good-for-nothing, vagrant, ne’er-do-well – there were so many of these that the beggar was positively shaking when he left the Alpine hut.

When the young ambulator came down from the herdsman’s hut, he said: “It’s Fasting Farm up there, ten horses wouldn’t take me back up!” Then he took out the piece of cheese, laid it on a stone beside him, sat down to rest, and observed the world with his mouth wide open, as if he were waiting for a roasted pigeon to come flying up and straight into the hole.[21] This pigeon failed to materialise, but on the cheese there settled, attracted by the good smell, a crowd of flies, and this made the little beggarman think of the apple and the flies in the tale of the Brave Little Tailor – he took his hat, slapped it down – and at once cried out in delight, “’I’ve done it, I’ve done it! Seven at a stroke.”

Straight away he wrote on a card, in large letters and in elegant, High German script, just as the Brave Little Tailor had done, “Seven at a stroke!”, fastened the card to his hat, and strutted into the first village he came upon. In this village there was great perplexity and fear. There lived a dreadfully large, strong, and savage bear in the neighbouring forest, which wreaked havoc on the cattle and on the beehives, and which no one had been able to catch or kill. And now, all of a sudden, a hero was passing through the village, bearing on his hat the boastful writing: “Seven at a stroke!”

“What do you bet that he’s our man, hero, saviour, and liberator?” said the brave peasants. “Seven with one stroke? Then he can fell one, namely a bear, with seven strokes, and he can do it any way he pleases.” And they offered the beggarman a handsome sum of money if he prevailed over the bear, and its skin would be his as well, and he might eat his share of the bear-steaks.

“Perfectly fine by me!” said the beggar lad. “I’ll make short work of the beast. Whish! Whoosh! And he’s dead.”

The peasants were astonished at the hero’s courage and showed him the way to the forest, but were very careful not to accompany him in. But the hero sweated a cold sweat when he found himself utterly alone in the dark forest, and his heart sank into his boots when he heard a growling in the distance which did not allow the shadow of a doubt that it might not be the growling of the bear.

Good gracious, what a turn of speed! How the chicken-hearted little fly-killer made his way through thick and thin in anxious, panting flight, while Bruin leisurely trotted along behind him, completely unable to comprehend why that man up ahead of him was running so frightfully fast. There was a hut by the way, into which the beggar ran, then he pressed himself tight against the door, which he left open – the very next moment the bear also entered and ran towards the opposite wall – like a shot, the beggar at the door ran back out, slammed the hut door shut, took out the key, made sure that the bear could not escape through a window, and returned to the village.

The peasants, who saw him in the distance swaggering towards them, said amongst themselves: “Look, the bear hasn’t eaten him, now that’s a good sign. None of us would have come back. But did he kill it? That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

Soon the little beggarman was surrounded, and throwing out his chest like a mob orator, he cleared his throat and said: “Rejoice, friends – the victory is ours! I have captured the savage monster, in the event that you wish to give him dancing lessons and then exhibit him for money; so you will pay me suitable indemnification for the promised skin.”

“What the – dancing lessons? Exhibit him for money? We want to see him killed!” cried the peasants; and after arming themselves, they advanced, under the leadership of the brave little beggarman, towards the forest hut in which Bruin was kept captive, and from which his powerful growling bore witness to an exceedingly evil mood, giving all the peasants goose-pimples. They did not know, nor could they think of, a way to proceed, for if they unlocked the door and went in, the bear would bite them to death, and if they did not go in the bear would come out, and the old trouble would start all over again.

“Some heroes you are!” scoffed the brave little beggarman, and calling for a shotgun with both bores loaded, he shot the bear dead through the window – whereupon all the peasants shouted:

“Viva! Long may he live! Not Bruin of course, but our hero, saviour, and liberator.”

When the little beggarman had his money and his bearskin, which he sold on without further ado to a rich layabout in the village, the peasants remembered something else, and they said: “Valiant hero, saviour, and liberator! There is one more affliction that weighs heavily on us. Up there in the mountains lives a wild man with a wild Fangga,[22] his wife. They plague us too grievously all the time, and we must pay them taxes and tithes far beyond what is reasonable, and if we fail to do so, they throw millstones down onto our rooves and visit us with thunderous avalanches and torrents and mudslides, making us a thousand times worse off than before.”

Then the brave little beggarman quickly made an angry face and yelled at the peasants like a provincial judge: “Why didn’t you tell me in the first place? Good God! Then I wouldn’t have needed to first spend my time on that miserable bear, whom I caught with my bare hands – child’s play for me – and dragged by the ears into the forest hut. Such a giant, such a wild man – ha! That’s duck soup for me. You’ll see how I let him have it, along with his wild Fangga, the rotten strumpet!”

The peasants were almost frightened by the little beggarman’s excessive courage; they doffed their caps before him and stood reverentially around the grandee. They deliberated, then stated that, if he liberated them from the wild man and the foul Fangga, they would buy him a farmstead from the communal funds and would present him with the right to settle in the village, and elect him as mayor for life, and he would never have to remove from there. Was he satisfied with that – was it enough for him?

“Yes, I’m well satisfied with that, and it’s enough for me!” the beggarman replied. “And now let’s go! May God have mercy on the giant when I get my hands on him!”

The peasants showed their hero the nearest footpath up into the mountains, and he strode bravely onwards, and was happy when he was alone, with nobody else around him. “God rot you and your giants!”[23] he cried. “I’ve enough money on me from the capture of the bear and from the bearskin. I’m going over the mountains, you’ll never see me again!”

But the hero did not go over the mountains, for on those heights where the last forest came to an end he ran into the wild man. Oh, how anxious and afraid he was; how bravery and heroism fell by the wayside! Swift feet, that was the only help. The little beggarman rapidly doubles back, with the wild man in pursuit. When the giant is running at full speed, the lad turns around and, before the giant realises what is happening, he passes through his legs; then the giant tumbles down and plunges, measuring his length, into a rocky gorge, and cannot get back out. Then he cries to the lad: “I won’t do anything to harm you – just run up to my wife and have her give you a wedge!” – “Right away –” says the lad, and he runs to the wild Fangga and asks for the money-sack: that was her husband’s order. The Fangga does not believe this and shouts down into the gorge, “Should I give it?” – “Of course! And be quick about it!” shouts the giant, so the Fangga gives the money-sack to the little beggar lad, and he makes off with it over the hills.

The wild man is still roaring – the Fangga comes and frees him, and receives many clouts, her handing over the money-bag instead of a wedge having driven a wedge between them; and then the giant runs after the robber. He has, in the meantime, arrived among shepherds, taken a lamb, hidden it under his shirt, and, while running, cut open the lamb’s stomach and flung out its intestines – which latter action the shepherds watched with horror.

Now the wild man arrives and asks the herdsmen if they had not seen a man running past? – “Oh, indeed,” they said, “he plunged a knife into his stomach and flung out his intestines so he could run all the faster.”

“I should have been the one who knew that trick!” roared the wild man, and he drew his knife, cut open his stomach, ran forward, and crashed to the ground, quite dead. The little man was standing not far away and saw him fall. Now he went back to the peasants, still covered in blood, waved his knife and cried: “That was a hard victory! It was a struggle to the death. He lies up there! With this little knife, I’ve slit his whole body open.” – The peasants rejoiced and cried one “Viva!” after another for their hero, saviour, and liberator.

18. Dwarves’ Caps

Once upon a time there was a miller who had three sons and a daughter. He loved his daughter dearly but simply could not stand his sons; he was always dissatisfied with them and made their lives a misery, for they could never do anything right for him. This greatly distressed the brothers, and they wished they were far away from their paternal home, and often sat together lamenting and sighing, and did not know what they should do.

One day, when the three brothers were sitting sorrowfully together, one of them sighed: “Oh, if only we had a dwarf’s cap, that would be a boon to all of us!”

“What’s that?” asked one of the two other brothers.

“The dwarves who live in the green mountains,” explained the brother, “have caps, which are also called Caps of Darkness, and you can make yourself invisible with them if you put one on your head. That’s a fine thing indeed, dear brothers; you can keep out of the way of people who could not care less about you and from whom you never receive a kind word. You can go wherever you want, take whatever you want, and no one will see you, so long as you are wearing the dwarf’s cap.”

“But how does one obtain so rare a cap?” asked the third and youngest of the brothers.

“The dwarves,” replied the eldest, “are a droll little people who like to play. So they take great pleasure in throwing their caps up into the air every now and then. Presto! and they’re visible; Presto! and they catch the cap, put it on, and are invisible once more. Now all you have to do is watch out for a dwarf throwing his cap into the air, then you swiftly grab him and quickly catch the cap yourself. Then the dwarf has to remain visible, and you become master of the whole tribe of dwarves. Now you can either keep the cap and use it to make yourself invisible or demand so much from the dwarves that you have enough for the rest of your life, for they have power over all the metals in the earth, they know all the secrets and miraculous powers of nature; they can also, through their teaching, make the stupid clever, the laziest student an erudite professor, a barber a doctor, and a notary a minister.”

“Well, how about that!” cried one of the brothers. “Then be so good as to go and obtain those caps for you and us, or at least one for yourself, and then help up to get away from here!”

“I’ll do that,” said the elder brother, and soon he was on his way to the green mountains. It was rather a long way, so it was around evening by the time the good youth reached the dwarves’ mountains. There he lay himself down on the green grass at a place where the squiggly tracks of the dwarves’ dances could be seen in the grass in the moonlight; and after a while he saw several dwarves tumbling over one another, throwing caps, and amusing themselves with sundry quaint diversions very close to him. Soon, one of these caps fell down beside him, he snatched at it – but the dwarf whom the cap belonged to was much quicker than he was; it caught its cap itself and screamed, “Thief! Thief!” At this cry the whole host of dwarves threw themselves on the poor lad, and it was like an army of ants crawling around a beetle; he could not fend off the horde, and he was unable to prevent himself being taken prisoner by the dwarves, and being taken by them deep down into their subterranean dwellings, from which they are called and named Subterraneans.

Now when the eldest brother did not return, the two younger brothers were sorely worried and saddened, and the daughter felt sorry too, for she was gentle and good, and it often distressed her that their father was so harsh and curmudgeonly to her brothers and favoured her alone. But the old miller grumbled: “The gallows-bird of a boy may have gone to the Devil – what do I care? That’s one useless boarder and greedyguts less in the house. He’ll come back, you’ll see – he’s used to his bread! Ill weeds grow apace.”

But day after day passed and the boy did not come back, and the father became ever surlier and harsher to the two boys left behind. So both brothers often lamented together, and the middle one said: “Do you know what, brother? I shall now start out myself for the green mountains, perhaps I can obtain a dwarf’s cap. To my mind, the matter can only be as follows: our brother obtained one of these caps and went out into the wide world to make his fortune, and in so doing he has forgotten us. I will certainly come back if I am successful; but if I do not return, then I have not been successful, and if that should be the case, farewell for ever.”

The brothers took a sorrowful leave of one another, and the middle one wandered off to the green mountains. There he fared, in every particular, precisely as his brother had fared. He saw the dwarves, snatched at a cap, but the dwarf was faster than he was and screamed, “Thief! Thief!” and the whole horde of Subterraneans pounced on and all over the boy, bound him all over with cords so that he could not move a muscle, and took him deep down to their subterranean dwellings.

At home in the mill, the youngest brother waited for his brother’s return with the most eager impatience, but in vain; and then he became very sad, for now he knew for certain that his middle brother had not been successful, and his sister also became sad; but the father remained indifferent, saying only: “What’s done is done. If anyone is unhappy at home, may he travel. The world is large and wide. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out. When the donkey is too well-off, he walks onto ice, dances, and breaks a leg. Let the dandy run around in the world, why should you grieve over the devil? I’m happy he’s out of my sight. Out of sight, out of mind!”

Up to this time, the youngest brother had borne shared sorrow, and so found the consolation that such sharing affords, but now that both his elder brothers were gone, he found his situation quite unbearable and said to his sister: “Dear sister, now I too will go away, and I am hardly likely to return if I fare like our brothers. Father simply does not love me, and I can’t do anything about that. The invectives which previously fell on the three of us now fall on me alone, and I really think it is too heavy a burden for me to bear. Farewell, and may fortune smile on you!”

At first, the sister did not want to let her youngest brother go, for he was the one she held dearest of all; but he left the mill nonetheless, in secret, and on the way he very carefully considered how he would go about procuring himself a dwarves’ cap. When he arrived at the Green Mountains, he soon recognized the place of the dwarves’ nocturnal dances, and their area for sport and play, from the green circles in the grass; and he lay down at dusk and waited for the dwarves to come, play, dance, and throw caps.

One of these came up very close to him and threw his cap, but the clever lad did not reach for it. I’ve plenty of time, he thought. Before that, I need to make the little men feel perfectly secure and make them tractable. The dwarf picked up its cap, which had fallen right beside the lad. In no time at all, a second cap fell beside him – Well, thought the lad, it’s raining caps – but he did not reach for it, until finally a third one landed on his very hand: presto! he held it tight and swiftly sprang to his feet. “Thief! Thief! Thief!” screamed the dwarf to whom the cap belonged in a high, shrill voice that went through bone and marrow, and then the whole tribe of dwarves swarmed over, but the boy disappeared from their sight, for he had the cap, and they could not hurt so much as a hair on his head. And in a body, they raised a lamentable whining and wailing about the cap – he should hand it back over at any price.

“At any price?” the clever boy asked the dwarves. “That would be fine by me! A deal could certainly be done. But first I want to see and hear what your ‘any’ consists of. For the time being I’ll ask this: Where are my two brothers?”

“They are down there, in the bowels of the Green Mountain!” replied the dwarf to whom the cap had belonged. – “And what do they do there?” – “They serve.”

“Indeed? They serve – and now you serve me. Up! Let us go down to my brothers! Their service is over, and yours is beginning!”

The Subterreaneans were obliged to follow the orders of the earthly man because he had gained power over them through the cap. The power that resides in and under many hats and caps is quite indescribable.

The dismayed and distressed dwarves now led their master to a place where there was a crack in the Green Mountain; it opened with a clang and they went quickly in and down. Down in the depths there were magnificent and immeasurably spacious rooms, and large halls and little rooms and chambers, according to the dwarf-folk’s requirements; and now the lad asked again, before he looked round at anything else, for his brothers. They were brought to him, and the youngest saw that they were dressed in servants’ garb; and they cried to him despondently, “Oh, have you come here too, dear, good brother, our youngest! So the three of us are together again, but in the power of these Subterraneans, and never again shall we see the heavenly light, the green wood, and the golden fields!”

“Dear brothers,” replied the youngest, “Just wait; I think the tables are about to be turned.”

“Lordly clothes and stately garments for my brothers and me!” he imperiously ordered the dwarves; but he very wisely kept a firm grip on the valuable cap while the changing of clothes took place, his command being instantly obeyed. Now the master of the dwarves gave the order for a table with select dishes and choice wines, then song and the music of strings with ballets and pantomimes as well, in which arts the dwarves give the greatest performance you will ever see, then luxurious beds to rest in, then the illumination of the entire underground realm, then a glass coach drawn by majestic horses to drive all over the Green Mountains and have a close look at everything worth seeing. Then the three brothers drove through all the jewelled grottoes and saw the most marvellous mechanical fountains; they saw metallic flowers blooming, silver lilies, golden sunflowers, copper roses, and everything radiated brilliance and splendour and magnificence. Then the master began negotiations with the dwarves about the return of the cap, and he laid down hard terms. First of all, a potion distilled from the finest healing herbs, the dwarves being only too well acquainted with them and their curative powers, for his father’s sick heart, that he change his ways and come to love his three sons. Secondly, a bridal treasure, as rich as a Princess’s, for his beloved sister. Thirdly, a coach filled with jewels and artistic devices, such as only the dwarves know how to manufacture, a coach filled with minted money, for the proverb says, “Ready money is a ready remedy,” and the brothers were very keen to be cured, and finally, one more coach for the three brothers, fitted out for the utmost comfort, with glass windows, and all the essentials for these three coaches – coachmen, horses, harness and straps.

The dwarves twisted and squirmed at these demands and behaved so piteously that they would have moved a stone to pity, if a stone had a human heart; but all their whining availed them nought.

“If you will not agree,” said the master, “then that is fine by me, we shall stay here; indeed, it is very pleasant here with you; I shall take your caps from every one of you; then see what becomes of you when people see you – you’ll be beaten to death wherever a single one of you shows himself. There’s more! I’ll travel to the upper world and collect toads, then I’ll give them to you, one each, before you go to sleep, to share your bed with.”

When the master uttered the word toads, all the dwarves fell on their knees and cried: “Mercy! Mercy! Not that! Anything in the world – but not that!” for toads are abhorrent, and deadly, to dwarves.

“You fools!” the master scolded. “I am by no means asking for ‘anything in the world’, I have placed the most modest of demands before you; I could, you know, ask for infinitely more, but I am an extremely kind lad. Why, I could take everything from you, and hold the cap and dominion over you in perpetuity; for, as long as I had the cap, I would not die, as you well know. So, you agree to grant my three little conditions? Don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, noble Lord and Master!” the dwarves sighed, and they set to work to produce all that was desired and to carry out every command.

Up above, the mill of the horrid old miller was not a good place to be. When the youngest brother had also left, the miller grouched: “Well – he’s gone, too – run out on me, like the water in the conduit-pipes – that’s the way it goes – that’s your reward for raising children – they turn their backs on you. Now only the girl remains here, the apple of my eye, my favourite.”

The favourite sat there and began to weep.

“You’re weeping again?” the old man grumbled. “Am I to believe, do you think, that you’re weeping over your brothers? You’re weeping over the gawk - your lover, who wants to wed you. He’s as empty and floppy as a flour-sack – he has nothing, you have nothing, I have nothing, all three of us have nothing. Can you hear a clacking? I hear nothing. The mill stands still; the worst thing that can befall a mill is for it to fall still. I can’t grind, you can’t get married, or it’s a Beggarman’s Wedding we’ll be celebrating. Well?” Such speeches did the daughter have to listen to every day, and she almost died from silent sorrow.

Then, one fine morning, coaches came driving up – one, two, three – and stopped before the mill, driven by small coachmen; small lackeys leapt down from the footboards and opened the door of the first coach, and three handsome young gentlemen got out, dressed as elegantly as Princes.

Servants swarmed around the other coaches, unloading, unwrapping, unfastening, chests, crates, caskets, closets, heavy coffers, and they carried everything into the mill. The miller and his daughter stood dumbstruck and astounded.

“Good morning, father! Good morning, sister! We’ve come back!” cried the three brothers. Father and sister stared at them in amazement.

“Drink a cup to welcome us back, dear father!” the eldest cried, and taking a bottle from a servant’s hand, he handed over a golden cup, worked with extraordinary artistry, that was full of a noble draught, and bid his father drink. He drank and passed on the cup, and everyone drank. Warmth streamed into the old man’s cold heart, and the warmth became fire, the fire of love. He wept and fell into his sons’ arms and kissed them and blessed them. And then the daughter’s beloved came too, and he was allowed to drink with them and to kiss as well.

At this, the mill wheels, which had been standing still for so long, began to turn rapidly for joy, round and round, round and round.

19. The Wandering Journeyman

There was once a butcher’s widow who had only the one son, and he had already begun to learn the family trade when his father died. The mother had her son complete his apprenticeship and then she sent him out into foreign parts, where he was to travel for three years, take a look at the world, and learn something that would stand him in good stead. She fitted her son out as well as her means allowed and gave him her best dog, who was called Gripper, to take along.

While on his travels, the young butcher’s journeyman came into a dense forest where robbers had their haunt, and they attacked him with the intent of robbing – even killing – him. But the young journeyman defended himself stoutly, and his Gripper stood by him valiantly and wounded the robbers with furious bites, sending one of them into such a rage that he shot faithful Gripper dead. However, the young butcher escaped the robbers and ran ever deeper into the forest, which was immense, and he completely lost his way and his bearings. Finally he espied, in the distance, a little cottage in the depths of the forest, which he hurried towards and, after knocking, entered. A grey-haired old grandma was sitting inside, who did not shift nor stir, but the young journeyman frankly told the old woman everything that had befallen him, and he asked her to show him the way out of this forest; at the same time, he sorely lamented poor Gripper, whom the robbers had shot dead. Then the old woman said, “I’ve fine dogs too, you can choose one and take him with you.” And she called, “Gripandrip!”

At this call, a large dog entered the cottage at this call, and the old woman asked, “Do you like him?”

“That is a fine dog,” the journeyman replied, “but mine was finer.”

Then the old woman called out again: “Burstallbonds!” And then an even larger and even finer dog came in, and the old woman asked, “How do you like him?”

“I like him very much,” the young butcher replied, “but I liked mine more, that’s all.”

Then the old woman called out once again: “Fastandfleet!” and now an extremely large and mettlesome, very finely-built hound leapt in – and the journeyman did not even wait for the old woman to ask him if he liked this dog – he rather cried out at once, “Now that’s the hound I want! My dog looked exactly like him, and if they had not shot good Gripper dead before my very eyes, I would have sworn that this was he.”

“I have something to say to you, my young wanderer,” the old woman began, “I’ll give you all three excellent dogs, but in the future, once you are beholden to them for your good fortune, you must remember this poor old forest-woman and not be ashamed of my poverty.”

As the young lad made this promise, the old woman pulled out a whistle and gave it to him, with the words: “Look after this whistle very carefully, for with it you can call the three dogs to your aid, wherever they may happen to be; that will be essential when you find yourself in trouble.”

Leaving the cottage, the wandering journeyman parted from the good old woman with many thanks, and he cheerfully took the path she had pointed out to him to be the right one, and the three sterling dogs bounded briskly now before, now behind him, and chased and played with one another, to the journeyman’s great delight.

When the evening began to darken, the traveller arrived with his three dogs at a secluded inn, which yet lay within the great forest that really seemed to be never-ending. In front of the house the butcher found a young maid who was scouring wooden vessels, and when she caught sight of the handsome young journeyman she seemed to be alarmed, and she made a repulsing gesture to him: she motioned to him, so it seemed, to turn back and not enter here. Indeed, she was opening her mouth to cry out a warning when the door opened and the innkeeper stepped out, and he invited the benighted traveller to be so good as to stay the night at his inn, all the more so because he, the host, was a butcher too.

A suspicious feeling began to stir in the youth’s heart, but he was there now, he was hungry and thirsty, and night was near. He consequently took a seat in the parlour and his three dogs settled down around him, and then he ordered something to eat. He did not have long to wait before a large chunk of meat in a thick broth was brought in, and there was good bread to go with it.

The wandering journeyman ate, and the innkeeper, who had sat down on the fireside bench, watched to see how his solitary guest liked the food, there being no other travellers in the house.

But it was not to the guest’s liking, the innkeeper could see, and he said, “Companion, I think you don’t like the food! I suppose you’re used to eating nothing but roasts back home?”

“It’s not that, master,” the guest replied. “But I have eaten pork before, and this meat in my bowl is none of that; I have eaten mutton, and this is none; I have eaten beef and veal, and this is neither. I also know the taste of every kind of game, and this is none. Nor is it from any variety of bird – it seems to me quite a peculiar food!”

The innkeeper laughed and replied, “My dear journeyman, in your life you will come to hear, see, smell, taste, and feel a great deal that you have never yet heard, seen, smelt, tasted, or felt. The strangest things come to pass in this world.”

After receiving this instruction, the journeyman continued his meal in silence, although he ate with distaste; and as he ladled himself some broth, a bone fell out from the spoon, and when he looked at it closely, he saw it was a finger. Then the youth was frightened to death, and this repast made him feel very sick; and just then the door opened and the innkeeper’s wife walked in carrying a plate with pieces of bread and dripping on it, perhaps her own supper, and the innkeeper stood up from the bench and spoke quietly with his wife. Then the journeyman quickly set down his plate and his bowl of meat for his dogs, who rapidly cleared everything.

"I trust that went down well?" the hostess asked the journeyman, and he replied, “Many thanks, mine hostess, it went down,” but it will not stay down, he added in thought.

“Now we’ll show you your bedroom!” the hostess said, giving her husband a light. “The dogs will go to the stable.”

“I’d like my dogs to stay with me,” the young butcher rejoined.

“That will sort itself out,” the hostess replied.

The innkeeper now opened the door to an adjoining room and led the way with the light, while his wife walked behind the guest, still carrying the three pieces of bread and dripping, which she surreptitiously showed to the stranger’s dogs to rouse their desire for this bread.

They entered a room whose walls were hung all over with weapons, rifles, pistols, carbines, sabres, hunting knives etc., beside which there also hung chains, ropes, handcuffs, and more such things that render people defenceless.

“What a load of weapons you have!” the guest remarked in amazement.

"Yes, we live so alone here in the forest," the innkeeper pointed out, "we have to take precautions; I also have my servants, and they know how to handle these weapons.”

While he was speaking the innkeeper opened a second door and strode on ahead through it, but his wife threw one of the pieces of bread on the ground. Gripandrip snapped at it, but while the dog was eating the bread the hostess slammed the door shut and Gripandrip was locked inside the Weapons Chamber.

The second room was magnificently furnished, and the single light which the innkeeper was carrying did not nearly suffice to fully illuminate its splendour: it contained barrels full of money, and sumptuous clothes were hung on the walls, and there were glass cabinets stuffed with jewellery, with golden and silver utensils, and with precious stones. The young butcher had never seen the like, and he simply could not stop wondering about it, nor figure out how all this came to be here in this isolated forest inn. The innkeeper now unlocked a third chamber, and his wife threw down the second piece of bread, which Burstallbonds hastily snapped at, and while he was chewing it the hostess slammed the door shut and Burstallbonds was trapped in the Treasure Chamber. The master of the three dogs, however, did not notice that only one of the three was still with him. Curious to see yet more wonders, he followed the innkeeper into the third chamber, but it was utterly abominable and ghastly to behold. The walls were bespattered with blood; in the centre of the room there was a block with a sharp butcher’s axe lying on top; severed human limbs could be seen lying around, inflated entrails for sausage filling hung on the walls, and there were chopping knives and copper filling funnels in readiness for this work – and the journeyman shuddered. The innkeeper said in a harsh voice, “Young man, here is the workshop. Here you will make your masterpiece, and stay with me; if not, you need to know that you yourself will be slaughtered here. Either you hack to pieces here and cut crackling and chop, or you yourself will be hacked up, cut up, and chopped into sausages.”

The poor journeyman was shaken to the core at the choice allowed him, yet he plucked up courage and said, “I’d rather die than be your companion!”

“As you wish!” said the innkeeper. “Follow me!” – And he opened another door, and now his wife threw down the third piece of bread, Fastandfleet hastily and hungrily fell on it, and slam! the door was shut and the good dog trapped in the Bloody Chamber, while the innkeeper entered a gloomy hall with the journeyman, to whom he said: “Now we are in the slaughterhouse, and now make yourself ready, my journeyman, for a far journey into the world beyond.”

The journeyman was alarmed, for he clearly saw that the innkeeper was not joking, and he looked around for his three dogs, but not a single one of them was there, and he was alone and helpless.

“Will you die standing up or lying down?” asked the innkeeper, and he raised a flashing, heavy axe. The journeyman answered, “I want to die standing; grant me just enough time to say the Lord’s Prayer.”

“As you wish – pray away!” the evil innkeeper callously replied.

And the journeyman prayed with true devotion, and then, in the midst of his prayer, he remembered the whistle that had been given him by the good old woman who had made him a present of the three dogs and said that, in time of need, if the dogs were not by him, he had but to blow the whistle – and so he did not shilly-shally but blew the whistle, to the astonishment of the innkeeper and his wife.

“Do you call that praying, boy?” yelled the innkeeper in a fury, and he raised his murderous axe – but before he could deal the deadly stroke Fastandfleet, who had flown into the slaughterhouse like a flash of lightning, had seized him by the nape and pulled him to the ground, and now Burstallbonds and Gripandrip were there as well, and the three of them tore the innkeeper into a thousand pieces.

His wife fell to her knees and cried, “God be praised! God be praised! Now I am free!”

“No, woman!” the journeyman angrily cried. “Your hour has also struck, abettor of the butcher of men, who secretly trapped my dogs so I would be defenceless and in your power, you firebrand from Hell!”

“O have mercy!” the hostess implored. “I had no choice but to do the will of that brute, who captured me, too, long ago, and held me here as a perpetual prisoner. O let me live! I’ll give you a golden snuffbox!”

“Thanks all the same, I don’t take snuff!” the journeyman retorted.

“And you don’t need to,” the hostess replied. “But anyone who takes snuff from this box after you have turned the lid to the right must stay as they are, standing, lying, or sitting, powerless to move, until such time as you turn the lid back to the left. Spare my life, good journeyman, for God’s sake and for your own, for you are not yet out of all danger. Only I know the retreat of my husband’s companions, a whole band of robbers, murderers, and cannibals, whom you would not be safe from in spite of your dogs.”

“Very well, I’ll spare your life, Mistress!” said the youth, “but mind that you don’t try to deceive me!”

In truth, the hostess did not think of deceiving the young journeyman, for she really owed her liberation to him, she and her servants, who were likewise delighted to no longer have to bear the dreadful burden of being subservient to butchers of men. The lady of the house now showed her liberator the entrance to the secret hiding-place of the band of murderers, which was reached by means of a trap-door. The young butcher opened the trapdoor and let in his three dogs, who were irresistible, and they bit through the throats of every member of the Society for Robbery and Murder, thus re-emerging with very bloody muzzles. The journeyman now manifested himself as the master and regarded the forest inn as his conquest. He gave some of the treasures to the servants, in particular to the compassionate maid who had warned him, sent a serving-lad with costly gifts to the old woman in the forest who had gifted him with the three dogs, and sent just as much home to his mother; the hostess he let take whatever and however much she wanted, while he had the trap-door to the murderers’ den walled up and the forest inn burned to the ground; then he took his leave of the hostess and went on his way with his three dogs. He could actually have turned his steps homewards, for he had goods and money in abundance, and he had forsworn the butcher’s trade for the rest of his life – but he had promised his mother to wander around foreign parts for three years, and besides, he wanted to see more of the world and learn something that would stand him in good stead.

Now as the good journeyman was walking along the road with his three dogs, Gripandrip, Burstallbonds, and Fastandfleet, having wandered a fair way into foreign lands, he met one day a carriage entirely covered with black crêpe, with the coachman in the same state and the horses likewise – a very sad sight to behold. And so the wandering journeyman stopped, and his heart was moved with sorrow, and he mused: what could his meeting such a vehicle possibly signify? Now the coachman was an insolent clod and he called to the journeyman: “Well, you rascal, what are you gawping at? Why don’t you clear out of the way when a Princess comes driving along?” – This impolite salutation vexed the good journeyman, and he called on Fastandfleet to teach the coachman some mores (that is, good manners). Then Fastandfleet, whom no man, not even the strongest, could withstand, sprang up onto the boxseat, caught the coachman by the collar, shook him like a coney, tore him down from the seat, and dunked every inch of him in a large puddle by the roadside, making him filthy and dripping wet, and then neatly placed him back on the boxseat. After this, the coachman was as pliant as an earwig, and he would have readily raised his gold-braided hat to the journeyman were this article not was lying down below in the yellow puddle. The journeyman now gave the coachman a short speech on the rules of polite behaviour, which people of his kind should not and must not disregard when speaking to persons who go by foot, for one or the other person of this kind might possibly hold his own against a – against ten coachmen, and actually it was only fitting that every coachman’s curse be met with such a bath in a puddle besides some palpable thumps in the ribs. When this speech had been made, which did not in the least meet with the coachman’s approbation, full of meaning though it had been, the journeyman looked into the glass-coach draped with crêpe and saw a Princess dressed all in black sitting inside. She had been weeping profusely, and as he asked her very humbly, the Princess told him her fateful history.

"I am," the black-clad lady began, "the daughter of the King of this land, which the Devil has stricken with a great dearth and famine, and when he was asked if there were not some condition on which he would remove both of these from the land, he made the condition that I be his. Now, as my father loves his land and his people more than he loves me or himself, so did he agree to this dreadful condition, and you find me, the most wretched of girls, on a road going straight to the Devil.”

“But fair Princess, in that case, why are you so utterly alone?” asked the travelling journeyman.

“Well, my good youth,” the Princess replied, “the reason for that is no one wanting to accompany me, even though my servants had constantly avouched devotion to me unto death; that was nothing but empty talk. Only the coachman was willing to drive me, because he already belongs to the Devil.”

“I noticed that from his boorishness, fair Princess,” the journeyman said, “and your good father, if you will allow me to make this observation, is not quite in his right mind, other people would not do such a thing. But if you will allow me to accompany you, for the sake of propriety, as a chamberlain in attendance, I just may, in truth, be able to do you the best service of all by freeing you from the Devil’s clutches.”

“Oh, I’m very happy to hear that!” the Princess replied. “Yes, you shall be my dear chamberlain, now climb in and join me; in any case, it is better to travel in a pair than alone.”

Then the travelling journeyman took his seat in the black coach with the fair Princess and entertained her well, and made her laugh, and they rode very merrily together to the Devil. Who was sitting on a wooden block, having been waiting for some time, and was astonished to see that the Princess did not come alone. The youth said, “Highly esteemed Lord Devil, I trust you will permit me to speak reasonably with you. I feel very sorry for this poor, fair Princess – set her free and take my soul instead.”

The Devil swung his tail about him, several times to the right and several times to the left, as though trying to flick the gnats away, and said: “This once, that can be managed,” but he was thinking to himself, ‘A year from now, I’ll get the Princess in any event’ – “so, done!”

“Done!” said the journeyman. “And as there is nothing to drink here, let us take snuff on it!” Saying which, he took out his golden snuffbox, turned the lid to the right, flipped it with his finger, opened the box, and offered it to the Devil.

“I don’t typically take snuff!” said the Devil.

“Well, take a pinch untypically! It is Fijne Rotterdammer!” replied the journeyman, and his heart leapt with delight when the Devil really put his hairy claw into the box and took a substantial pinch.

“Now, dear Devil!” the journeyman spoke again, closing the lid of the box and putting it into his pocket, “We can have a reasonable discussion, now that you are a perfectly staid man.”

“Staid? How is that?” asked the Devil.

“Because you have to stay where you are, and you cannot stand up again until I choose that you should,” he received by way of reply.

“That really is the limit! You blockhead!” yelled the Devil, and he tried to start up and go for the speaker’s neck, but he could not; he had to remain sitting fast, as if nailed to the wooden block.

“And how long are you going to keep up this stupid joke?” the Devil asked in an extraordinarily ill temper. “I’ve had quite enough of sitting. Make it quick – the Devil put up with this – if he can!”[24]

“I have something to say to you, but be steadfast, Your Right-Honourable Satanic Majesty!” the journeyman scoffed. “Help is at hand for you. You will give this Princess her liberty – that goes without saying; you will also give me my liberty and renounce your claim to my soul; you will promise to never again bring about and instigate dearth, famine and turmoil or suchlike devilish doings in the realm of this fair Princess’s father, and never again to demand a soul in ransom, but rather to content yourself with the souls that come running to you into the jaws of Hell voluntarily and of their own accord. Finally, you will give me all of this in person, in writing – for let the Devil trust the Devil – and ensure that I never clap eyes on you again.”

The Devil moaned and groaned, and sweated and squirmed, but none of this did him any good. Always accustomed to being on the loose, he found it terribly tormenting to be, for once, rooted to the spot, and so he resigned himself to agreeing to the demands made by the Princess’s liberator, whereupon the latter took out the golden snuffbox once again, turned the lid to the left, and politely asked: “Would you care for another pinch? It’s Morocco.” But the Devil gave a blow that sent all the snuff flying into the air, and rising from his wooden block, he stormed away like a tempest.

Then the Princess and her liberator climbed into her coach again, and the Princess was so brimming with gratitude that she said to her companion, “Now listen, I want to marry you, because you saved me!”

“That is very pleasing to hear,” the youth replied, “I would only wish to wait a little while beforehand, for first I must see the world and learn something out there that will stand me in good stead. So release me for now, my fair Princess; I shall return in several years’ time, you may depend on that.”

Well, the Princess had to agree to this, although it was not at all agreeable to her, and when they came to the first crossroads her liberator got out, gave her his hand and kissed hers, and said, “We are betrothed, and so we shall remain! Keep firm faith, fair Princess, in your bridegroom.”

The coachman who drove the Princess had seen everything, and he had looked on disgruntled and peeved. He had an utterly worthless soul. He would most have liked to see the King dead, and would have liked to become King himself; however, as coachmen are not made into Kings, even though they pride themselves on being able to drive the finest state coaches so beautifully, so his black heart had rejoiced that at least the innocent Princess was to perish; and when this did not come to pass, he thought of his own advantage, if nothing else, so he stopped the coach, climbed down off the boxseat, opened the coach door and spoke to the Princess inside:

“Most gracious Princess! Since and because Your Highness is now liberated, I too have a small request, therefore please do not take it amiss if I just burst out with it: I would love to get married!”

“I have absolutely no objections to that, my dear coachman. So does someone want you, then?”

“The estimable person whom I wish to marry has told me she has no objections!” the coachman replied.

“All right, then take her!” retorted the Princess.

“All right, then I’ll take you!” the coachman replied.

“Take who?” asked the Princess.

“You, of course! Didn’t you say it?” the coachman rejoined.

“I do believe you’re mad!” cried the Princess, beside herself with horror.

“Ha, Heaven forbid!” retorted the coachman. “On the contrary, Princessie, I don’t believe that in the slightest. What need for many words? At home you will say it was I who liberated you, and marry me! If you will not do that, I won’t drive you home, but back to the Devil. And that’s that!”

Then the poor Princess gave in and cried and was driven back home. The jubilation at her homecoming was boundless, and when it became generally known that the coachman had freed the Princess and she would wed him to show her gratitude, then the jubilation really knew no bounds. Never yet had there been a Princess so accommodating and with such a common touch; neither ancient nor modern, neither sacred nor secular history furnished a counterpart to such an alliance – palaces and huts were illuminated, there was no end of Vivas! and many passengers in coaches were overturned at that time, because all the coachmen were intoxicated with joy and had got themselves so pie-eyed that they took curbstones to be smooth carriage tracks.

Now the preparations were made for the wedding, which the Princess, however, kept postponing from one time to the next. She spoiled her bridal outfit, she fell ill, she had to observe pious vows, she was waiting for an item of jewellery that was to come from the Orient someday soon – and she hoped with a longing soul, ever and ever more ardently, for the return of her beloved, true bridegroom. The coachman became very impatient and frequently cracked his whip from frustration. At last a day for the wedding really had to be appointed, and its eve came, but the travelling journeyman did not come. Heartache and lamentation. The Princess had the moving drama Lenore[25] performed in the Court theatre, and her tears poured forth at the heartbreaking song:

“Upon the altar burning,

The candles feyly flare;

The bride waits, wreathed and yearning –

Why is the groom not there?”

But while this heart-rending song was being sung the true bridegroom did come, stopping at first-class inn in the capital accompanied by his three dogs, not, admittedly, as a first-class guest, but rather as a ragged beggar and vagabond; and the innkeeper was almost of a mind to have his waiters kick him out the door when the ostensible beggar placed a ducat on the table and whispered to his host: “My friend, I am a wedding guest! Find me a tonsor and a tailor. On the wedding-day tomorrow I hope, God willing, to have the honour of drinking a glass of wine with the young queen.” The innkeeper’s eyes took the measure of the Lumpazivagabundus[26] before him, from head to toe, and he said, “No offence, dear friend! You seem to me to come from a land where no dog taxes need to be paid, and where the dogs live on air. I will not venture to crack a bad joke and say that you have really gone to the dogs. All the same, your paltry ducat does not bribe me; God knows in which green pasture you may have found it; however, it will suffice for a cold supper for you and the three dogs, as well as a bed for the night. But tomorrow you will drink as little wine with the royal Princess bride as will I – indeed, you will drink much less, for I am the Court’s wine supplier, you see, so I can drink the said wine sooner – and I will wager all my worldly goods on it, together with my inn and privilege to sell liquors.”

“Innkeeper, do not prattle on so! Just run along and attend to my orders! The bet stands!” the guest said very curtly, and after demanding vellum-paper and the finest sealing-wax, he quickly wrote and sealed a letter to the Princess, held the superscription up before the astonished innkeeper’s eyes, tucked the letter into a newspaper, and put this in between the teeth of Fastandfleet, who shot away with it at once.

Now the barber and the tailor arrived. The stranger had himself shaved clean and washed, and dressed in velvet and silk by the tailor, and he placed coins on the table, all of them gold, with an unspoken intimation that each man was free to take whatever he thought to be his due. The tailor thought he deserved a large amount, so he took a large amount, whereas the barber wanted to give change for the gold coin, but he had none; and then the guest motioned again, this time that he should just keep the change. The following morning, the whole royal capital was abuzz with the news that a gentleman was lodging in the best inn who was much more free-handed than the King – which (be it said strictly in confidence) required very little effort.

How happy the good Princess had been when she saw Fastandfleet bound into the hall and lay a letter in her lap, while everyone else shrank back from the huge and strange letter courier, particularly the wrong bridegroom, the coachman! He thought to himself: if he is here, his master will not be far away; so he very quietly withdrew, and it was well that he did so, for otherwise the dog would have torn him to shreds.

The next morning, a royal coach came to a halt before the inn; a court lackey opened the coach-door, a star-studded chamberlain climbed out and asked for the foreign gentleman who had arrived on the previous day – and the innkeeper’s heart fell into his boots, for he had wagered away all his worldly goods as well as his privilege to sell liquors. The foreign gentleman rode to Court in the coach, sitting on the chamberlain’s right.

Delight now reigned at the Court; the true bridegroom pleased the King with the common touch still more than the coachman had, as he knew how to comport himself properly, and he had already acquitted himself in the best possible way by liberating the Princess. In consequence, the wedding proceeded without any disturbance. The happy bridegroom waived the wager that the innkeeper had lost to him, and the coachman, whom he could very easily have had caught and fetched by Gripandrip, Burstallbonds, and Fastandfleet, a journey that would have left him much the worse for wear, the noble bridegroom allowed to run away.

He bestowed further opulent gifts on the old forest-woman, and he had his mother brought to him in a golden coach and kept her with him until the end of her days. When everything had come to a happy conclusion, the three dogs disappeared, and no one knew whither they had gone; the whistle also vanished, so that no one would ever be able to call the dogs back – which was indeed not necessary, as no devil would ever again meddle with the land of the Old King and the Young.

20. The Knight of Our Lady

In days of yore there lived a doughty, pious knight who had made choice of the Blessed Virgin Mary for his patron saint, and he served her with a devout heart at all times.

One day the King had a great tournament announced, and the whole body of knighthood of the land betook themselves thither to break spears and lances and to win prizes. So the pious knight travelled to this tourney, and his way took him past a minster which was dedicated to the Virgin Mary and lay but a short distance from the plain where the tournament would be held and was soon to begin. Trumpets could already be heard blaring out in the distance. In the minster, many of the high clergy had assembled and High Mass was being celebrated, so the knight dismounted, gave his horse to his squire to hold, and said, “It better behoves me to commend myself to the Virgin Mary’s protection, so her hand may help me to an honourable victory” – then he took off his helmet and entered the House of God. One mass had been said almost to the end, but then another was begun, which the pious knight wished to hear in its entirety; and then another new one began, and the knight would not interrupt any of the masses, but he heard every one with reverence and prayed along in silence, and crossed himself.

And in this way, in such a state of reverence, did half of the day go by; the tournament had commenced long since and progressed so far that the tilting, the jousting, and many other knightly wargames were over by now; yet the time he had tarried in the minster seemed but a very short while to the knight, and he thought the day was yet young and he would still arrive in good time. However, when he arrived there he saw only a little of the buhurt, which is the last contest: in this, many knights contend on horseback with many others, and they fight one another with short swords or with maces until the heralds blow blasts of their trumpets to signal that the buhurt is at an end.

Now when the pious knight came to the lists, the joyous acclamation of many spectators rang out around him, just as if for the hero of the day; his friends offered him their hands in congratulation, others gave him rings and jewels which they had come to owe him, they said, for the tilts; and everyone loudly extolled him as a manly warrior whose like had never before been seen in the jousts (that is, in tilting) and in the ‘forest’[27] (that is, the prize-contest); and the heralds approached him, greeted him with reverence, and escorted him to the throne on which the King’s beautiful daughter was seated, dispensing the prizes; and with sweet words full of high praise, she allotted him the First Prize.

The knight did not know what was happening, and he plainly said that he deserved neither praise nor prizes. He had just this moment arrived, and by tarrying in the church, he had missed the tournament. But the knights and the young squires all swore he had been present, had overcome them all, and had carried the prize in all kinds of contests at the tourney.

Then the knight began to be sensible of the miracle that the Virgin Mary had worked for him while he was honouring her in the minster. And he rode thence to the monastery that was built next to the Minster of Our Lady and said, “I shall henceforth be knight to none other than the Virgin Mary, with constant prayer and with constant devotion.”

Praise be to Our Blessed Lady, the Queen of Heaven!

21. Of the Boy who Wanted to Learn Witchcraft

Once upon a time there was a boy who had heard a great deal about witchcraft and was keen to learn it. However, everyone he asked about this told him that they did not know and could not practice that art, and they also did not want to know anything about it. So the boy went into a dark forest all alone and cried out, more than once, in a very loud voice: “Who will teach me the craft of witches?” – and from several parts of the deep forest the echo rang like an answer: “Witches! Witches!”

And after a while an ancient little woman came creeping through the bushes who had not a tooth left in her mouth, and whose eyes were terribly red. Her back was bent, her hair was white, and it hung down wildly all around her head and blew about in the wind. Her voice sounded like the voice of the Little Owl when he calls, “Come along!” and just so did the old woman call to the boy; and she signalled him to follow, she would teach him witchcraft. The boy followed her and she led him ever deeper into the forest and finally onto a marshy alder moor, where there was a grey, unprepossessing, dilapidated forest-hut. The walls were built of peat sods and papered with moss; the roof was covered with reeds. In the forest-hut there was no one but a pretty young girl who was called Liese, but the old woman did not say if she were her daughter or her granddaughter; apart from her, there were only three large toads inside, and over the low stove there hung a cauldron with a soup bubbling inside, which looked like goose-giblets cooked in blood, or jugged hare, or some other blood soup including meat bones. The old woman placed one toad before the threshold to stand guard, the second toad she sent up to the loft to prepare a bed for the boy, and the third toad she placed on the table to give light. This toad did its best to shine, but however hard its eyes blazed with a greenish glow, it still barely managed to shine as brightly as a glow-worm – whence comes the hatred that the toads feel for the glow-worms. Now the old woman and Liese ate their evening meal from the cauldron, and the boy was supposed to eat also, but he shuddered at the thought, for it seemed to him that the bones were the fingers and toes of children. He complained of being very tired, and he was directed to his straw-bed, where he soon fell asleep with the thought that his apprenticeship in witchcraft would begin on the next morning, and it would be very nice if little Liese were to give him instruction in it. But the old witch whispered to the girl, “Another one caught! A fine roast – tomorrow, wake me first thing, before the sun rises, then we’ll slaughter him, and what we don’t roast at once, we can salt.”

Now the two of them also went to bed, but Liese found no sleep, she felt so very sorry for the handsome boy because he too was to die; and she got up from her bed and walked to his, and saw how beautifully red his little cheeks were, and how blond his curly hair – and his eyes being as blue as forget-me-nots, Liese had not forgotten that. And she was appalled at herself, for being compelled to serve the evil old witch who had, long ago, when she was just a very little girl, abducted her from her parents and dragged her into the depths of the forest; and she had been made to learn witchery, how to dart through the air as fast as an arrow, how to make yourself invisible, how to turn yourself into other forms – and now, as Liese’s heart was stirred with affection for the boy, the girl decided to save him if possible. So she woke him very quietly and whispered to him, “Dear boy, rise and follow me! Here only death awaits you.”

“Am I not then to learn witchcraft here?” asked the boy, whose name was Friedel.

“It’s better for you never to learn it; besides, you have time enough for that yet,” replied Liese. “Do not tarry now – flee, and I’ll flee with you.”

“I’ll happily go with you, dear girl,” said the boy, “and I do not want to stay with the ugly old woman and her nasty toads.”

“Then come!” said Liese, and she softly opened the door and had a look to see if the old woman was sleeping – she was asleep, for it was but midnight and long before daybreak.

Now Liese walked out of the house with Friedel, and she spat on the threshold, after which they both hurried away from that place. However, the opening and closing of the door had produced a slight noise, and old people being very light sleepers, the witch awoke and called, “Liese! Get up! I think it will soon be day.” Then the spittle on the threshold cried, by means of a witch’s spell that Liese had laid, “I’m already up! Just rest awhile until I’ve swept the hut and gathered wood and leaves for the fire.” Now the old woman lay in bed a while longer, while the fugitives hurried away without stopping; but she could not get back to sleep and called out once again, “Liese, is the fire burning?”

Once again, the spittle on the threshold answered, “It isn’t burning yet; the leaves are damp – the wood is smoking – just rest a while longer until I’ve blown up the fire.”

The old woman rested a short time longer, while the fugitives put ever more distance between themselves and her hut. In the meantime the sun rose, and the old woman, who had nodded off a little, jumped out of bed with both feet at once and shouted, “Child of Satan! The sun is rising and you have not woken me. Where have you got to?”

The old woman received no answer to this question, for the sun had dried up the spittle on the threshold, and now the witch went through the house like a whirlwind. The boy was gone, and Liese was gone, and the hut was not swept, there were no leaves, no wood on the stove. The old woman was furious. She grabbed a broomstick and ran out of the house. She struck the door with the broom and the house became invisible; she stepped on a puffball, and a cloud swelled up; then she sat down on her broomstick and rose up into the air as a cloud. Soon she saw which direction the fugitives were fleeing in, and the cloud flew after them with the speed of the wind. But Liese was constantly looking round while she fled, for she knew the arts of the old witch, and she now said to Friedel: “You see the brown cloud there, high up in the sky? That’s the witch following us – we can flee no further; she will soon catch us up. Now let me use my skill. I will become a thornbush and bear you as a sloe.” Suddenly Liese was a blackthorn, bearing an abundance of fruit and growing on a slope, and the lowest berry of all, that was Friedel.

The witch became very thirsty on her journey through the air, and when she saw the blackthorn bush filled with fruit, she said to herself: “The air is dry and saps your strength – I must descend and eat a sloe or two.” – And that is what she did, picking one berry after another, and she said: “A sharp and sour bite / Whets your appetite.” Now the berries had all been consumed down to the last one, which was Friedel, and the evil old woman knew this fine well; she clawed at it repeatedly, and the thornbush gave her long, skinny fingers a good pricking – however, she did not mind this, but did her utmost to grab the last sloe, completely concealed in thorns though it was; and then the sloe fell off and rolled down the slope, and the thornbush suddenly became a lake, and the berry a small drake, all through Liese’s magic arts which she had learned from the old woman. Then the witch threw one of her slippers into the air and it instantly became a large bird of prey which swooped down on the drake; the latter quickly dived under, and the moment the bird of prey’s beak touched the water a wave rose up which caught and drowned it, whereupon the drake came back to the surface. Furiously, the old woman threw her second slipper into the water and it became a crocodile and shot towards the drake to snap it up; then the drake flew up into the air and alighted on another part of the lake, but the water which flowed into the crocodile’s jaws turned to stone, and the crocodile became so heavy that it sank straight down. Now the old witch lay down flat at the water’s edge, intending to drink it up, for without the lake the enchanted drake would be stranded. The moment he touched the land, this drake would have to reassume his original form. But the old woman had not been drinking long when the water in her body turned into fire, and then there was a bang, as loud as if Hell were exploding. The witch had burst, the drake was the handsome boy again, the fire became Liese, and then the two of them plighted their troth. When the boy asked Liese if she would teach him witchcraft, she laughed and said, “Why, you know it already – you’ve bewitched me, haven’t you?”

22. The Three Wishes

In the days when the good Lord would visibly wander around the world every now and then to test mankind – and no one knows if He does not still do this today – He once came, in the form of a poor, old, and infirm man, to a village, and before the house of a rich man, and He asked for a little food and drink and a place to sleep, for evening had come and night was not far off, and it was wild and stormy weather.

Then the rich man came scornfully out of his stately house and said to the dear Lord: “You’re not stupid, old man? You’ve studied at a university, perhaps? You think this is an inn, or I keep a cook-shop, or do you think this is a poor-house? Perhaps you think this is a hostel for beggarmen? No, let me tell you, this is where beggarmen turn back. Allons, be off with you! Get out of my courtyard this instant, or I’ll whistle my dog here, you old wastrel, you rogue, you vagabond, and don’t ever dare set foot in my courtyard again!”

With a sigh the poor man turned away from the house of the rich, miserly, and hard-hearted man, and tottered on. Then a man’s voice called to him from a little house on the other side of the road, “Now, old one! Where are you heading?” asked the cottager in a tone full of compassion, and the poor man answered, “Oh, to Nohome! I have no home to go to! And I’m hungry and I’m thirsty, and I am weary to death!”

“Then come over here, old man, to me!” the cottager cried. “What my neighbour over yonder has given you will not be heavy to carry. I’m a poor fellow, admittedly, but I still have a bit of bread, and you can have a drop of schnaps as well, and a sack filled with wood-moss as your bed for the night, if you’ll be content with that!”

“That’s very kind of you! I accept, and God bless you for it!” said the good Lord, and he crept over to the cottager and ate with him, and drank with him, and rested, and because it was not yet time to sleep both men sat down in front of the house; for the good Lord had made the wild weather quickly blow over and had created a clear, mild, moonlit night, and made the firmament shine and his hosts of stars, which praise him to eternity, wander in resplendence over the dark Earth.

And so the two men, the old one and the young one, the good, bountiful Lord and the poor cottager, sat together on the stone bench before the little house, talking to one another.

But over the way, in shadow, the rich man looked out of his window, gave a puff from an immense tobacco-pipe, and muttered peevishly, “So the rogue over there, my neighbour, really has taken the old rascal in and given him quarters, even though he himself doesn’t know where his next meal is coming from. Did you ever see such a fool? But as I always say: Birds of a feather flock together; six of the one, half a dozen of the other. Actually, it’s simply not done, taking in a vagrant who foots his way to you, for one never knows he’s up to, or if such a tramp might not set the village aflame so his gang can burst out of the forest and plunder it. How they are chattering, those two good-for-nothings! I think I’ll listen in, just a little.”

“You are such a good, pious man,” the good Lord said to his host, “you deserve that it be your lot, as it was that of many a pious man in ages past, to be allowed to make three wishes for your own good and for the good of your soul. But you must by no means forget the latter, or you will fare like the Smith of Juterbog.”

“And how did he fare?” asked the cottager.

“Don’t you know the fairy-tale?” the good Lord asked back. “The Holy Apostle Peter came riding to this smith and asked him to shoe his donkey with new iron, and in return he would be able to make three wishes. So the smith wished that his schnaps-bottle would never be empty; further, what whoever sat up his pear-tree would have to sit there until such time as the smith allowed him to climb down; and finally, that no one might enter his parlour, without permission, any other way than through the keyhole. With these, the smith did win a long life from Death, because he tricked him into sitting up his pear-tree, and he did make the Devil suffer when the Evil One whisked through the keyhole into the smith’s room – but the best wish, that for eternal bliss, the smith had failed to make; and so he did not die, and Saint Peter would not let him into Heaven, and the Devil was afraid of him and snapped the gates of Hell shut in his face and bolted them on the inside – and now the smith must wander around on his ill-starred way for all eternity.”

“Oh, my Lord!” cried the cottager, not knowing who was sitting beside him. “That is bad – that was a mistake – I’m sure I would have wished more sensibly – if so holy a Helper or apostle came to me! But that will never be!”

“One cannot know that,” the guest replied. “Only the person must not wish foolishly, like that married couple who were visited by the Angel of God and granted three wishes.”

“What happened there?” asked the cottager.

“A husband and wife,” the guest narrated, “lived in great poverty and implored God night and day to relieve their poverty and help them. Now, because they were pious and honest, God was willing to hear their pleas, and He sent them His angel. The angel said: ‘You may make three wishes for your own good, but they must not include a wish for money and property, for if these were destined for you, and were useful and beneficial to you, you would have possessed them a long time ago; and so this wish is denied you, according to the wise will of God.’ The man said, ‘What help will three wishes be to me if I may not wish for that which seems to promote my happiness? What is a man without money? It is said that he is just like a bad penny: worthless.’ To which the angel replied, “Well then, make your wishes in God’s name, but be ready to shoulder the blame if you wish disaster on yourself.’ Now the man discussed with his wife how the two of them should properly consider their wishes. ‘What shall we wish for?’ he asked his wife. ‘What do we need first? I’d say a whole mountain of gold, with a thick wall around it so no cattle graze on it and no thief burrows after it – or rather an Inexhaustible Chest, which we can continually take money out of, just as much as we need.’ – ‘I thought,’ his wife began, ‘that first and foremost you would be so kind as to give or leave one of the three wishes to me, for I have sighed for this often enough and my knees are sore with praying; then you will still be free to wish for whatever you want.’ – ‘Very well,’ answered the husband, ‘Women are often cleverer than men, so make your wish.’

‘I wish,’ said the wife, ‘for myself, the most beautiful of dresses, the like of which no woman in the world has ever worn, more beautiful than the dress of the greatest Empress!’ No sooner had the wife expressed this wish than she was attired in the most magnificent dress, which was so lavishly studded with diamonds and pearls and trimmed with gold and silver that the material itself was quite covered.

‘Isn’t that a stupid, rash wish!’ the husband cried in deep displeasure. ‘With that, you could have wished for garments for all women, then the needy would have called down blessings from Heaven on your head thousandfold, but you just made a wish out of haughty and arrogant self-interest!’

‘That for you!’ shouted the wife. ‘Fie upon you, husband, for scolding me so! If you don’t like me in this lovely dress, then I daresay that other men will like me all the better! Run along, you tomfool!’

‘Buffoon!’ yelled the enraged husband. ‘May the dress go into your haughty body!’

‘Woe is me!’ screamed the wife – for in an instant the dress that had covered her disappeared and moved into her body, hurting her so that she howled and ran through the village, telling her grievance to every peasant, how she had to suffer so terribly on account of her husband. Thereupon the peasants ran to the husband in their dozens and shouted menacingly to him that he must deliver his wife from her pain or they would kill him on the spot. And then they drew their knives and swords at him.

When the man saw the great and ferocious fury of the peasants, and saw how his wife was suffering, he said: ‘I wish in God’s name that she be released from her pain.’

The wife was delighted and all her pain was gone, the third wish having now been made; but the dress never appeared again, and the husband never spent another happy hour on Earth, and was the laughing-stock of all the world, and died soon enough from grief and sorrow. So take careful note, my worthy host, when you make wishes, that you do not walk the ways of fools.”

“And what ways do you mean?” asked the cottager.

“The custom of fools,” said the cottager’s guest, “is to desire what is wrong, to strive for what is wrong, and to lament the loss of what is wrong. There are three kinds of fool. Fools, who know nothing and can do nothing; fools, who do not want to know anything, who despise knowledge and skill; and fools, who are knowing and capable and yet do not do the right thing, even though they should know what it is, and save their souls.”

“Well then, if I were able to wish,” said the cottager, “then I would wish for myself first, before all other treasures, eternal bliss; afterwards, health and contentment until my dying day; and then – if it did not go against God’s will – I would like to wish that my little house, which is threatened with collapse, be restored to a good condition.” “These wishes of yours are pleasing to God,” said the guest, “and I shall add for you the chief wish that all three be fulfilled!”

After this pleasant conversation, both men, the poor old man and the poor cottager, left their stone seat and went into the cottage, said their bedtime prayers, and laid them down to rest.

The rich man over the way had heard every word they had spoken, and he made snide comments about them. “One would not think,” he grumbled to himself, “that so old a man would still bring up such childish nonsense, such silly fairy-tale poppycock, but of course, old age makes us childish, and old age is no protection against stupidity. O you wish-worshipping fools!”

Now the rich man was just about to retire to his bed when he perceived a strange shimmering light flooding around the poor man’s house, while all the other houses lay there in darkness; and yet it was not firelight, nor the effect of moonlight, but a pure ethereal lustre – then it seemed that bright figures were hovering around the house, and there were more and more of them, moving in a wondrous manner, up and down, as if floating on invisible ladders; they glided around the roof and the walls, and a deep, solemn silence reigned.

This gave the rich man the creeps – thinking they were ghosts, he crossed himself and sought his bed, but he found precious little sleep that night; and early the next morning, at the very crack of dawn, an inner restlessness drove him back to the window – where he saw the poor old man walking past his house, clearly having made an early start.

“Hmm!” the rich man muttered, “He’s up and about very early – this is a mysterious business. And he’s carrying a sack – he didn’t have one yesterday. No doubt he has swiped some things from over yonder and is absconding whilst my neighbour still sleeps. And it serves my neighbour right! What do I care?”

In the course of these observations it became lighter outside, and the rich man’s wife had also got up and was looking out the window at the weather; the mist dispersed, and the two of them could not believe their eyes when they saw a splendid new farmhouse standing opposite, which certainly had the same form as the old house but was larger and finer in all its parts. “Am I dreaming or am I waking?” the rich man asked. “Has his wish really been fulfilled… So who was the old man? Heaven help us! It was surely Saint Peter, or even the good Lord Himself. Idiot that I was, to turn him away so disdainfully yesterday!”

“You’re right – you’re an idiot!” cried his wife. “Make haste, ride after him, beg his pardon, speak fair to him. O Heaven, what a bad way we are in, all those of us who have so stupid a husband!”

“Hey! Groom! Saddle the horse! I’m going riding!” the rich man shouted impetuously, and filling his pockets with money and provisions, he galloped through the village and along the road, and he caught up with the old man soon enough, but gave no indication of having seen him the day before.

He called down from his horse very affably, “God be with you, old man! How are you? Do you still have a spring in your step? Where are you off to so early? What are you carrying in that sack?”

“Thanks for the greeting! To God’s End!” the wanderer answered.

“You must be a really poor devil. Here’s some money for you!”

“Thank you! Thank you!”

“But I’d like to know what you’re carrying in that sack!”

“Oh,” said the old man in seeming jest, “It is a load of cares, dear Sir; I took it from a poor devil.”

“Indeed, indeed!” the rider laughed. “I do not want to know what’s inside – I just wish –”

“Aha! You too are a wishing-man,” the poor man interrupted. “That is most convenient – in this sack I am carrying precisely three wishes, which will be fulfilled for the man who makes them. But he must take the sack with him.”

“Give it here! Give it here!” the rich man greedily cried, and he reached for the sack. “Here – there’s a piece of bread for you, and a whole sausage! You see that I am no miser, as my enemies and enviers proclaim me to be. I am an upstanding man who cares about order and is careful with his money, but I readily give to those poor who are deserving of gifts. One certainly cannot help everyone!”

“Everyone? – No, that is impossible, even for God!” said the old man.

“Yet I have always heard it said,” countered the rich man, who already had the sack in his hand, “that nothing is impossible for God, and it is His will that everyone be helped.”

“O my dear sir,” the poor man replied, “that is to be understood in a spiritual sense, not a material one!”

The rich man wheeled his horse around and thundered back home. His head was filled with thoughts of wishes which whirred around like windmill sails. What things should he wish for? He did not actually need money, he had quite enough of that, and could consequently live the good life in abundance; he was likewise healthy and contented – oh, wishing contentment for himself did not seem to him to be worth the trouble, for man is never contented – so he thought, riding headlong all the while and spurring his horse, which had begun to pant; and now it stumbled, almost throwing its rider.

“Oh, I wish you’d break your neck! You cursed carrion!” the rich man angrily cried – and alas, the horse’s legs doubled up beneath it and it crashed down and broke its neck. One wish was gone, and the rich man was furious. He unbuckled the saddle and gear from the dead animal, and carried it for a distance, but not a long one by any means, for it grew too heavy for him, and he became terribly hot, and he wished again: If only this damned baggage were at home and my wife, who advised me to go on this ride, were sitting in the saddle!”

Two wishes were done; the saddle and bridle with the bit and stirrup and saddlecloth – everything had gone – and the miser breathed more freely; and it was fortunate, both that he did not make another wish and that his wife was no wish-maiden, for there she was at home, sitting stuck fast in the saddle with the riding-whip in her hand, not knowing what was going on, and wishing her husband, his nag, and his saddlery, to the Devil.

Whether the rich man wanted to or not, he had to wish his wife at liberty, and so the third wish was done.

His neighbour’s brand-new house stood over the way brightly shining in the sunlight, and it was the finest in the village.

In his curiosity, the rich man opened the sack – if only he had not. In the sack there was – his neighbour’s poverty, which now came upon him as an armed man.[28]

23. The Cowherds

Once a wanderer was crossing a meadow when he heard, in the distance, a strange hollow cry in the reed-bed, with one cry sounding after another, as if an ox were bellowing; and he was at a loss to explain what animal the sound was issuing from or what it signified. After a while the wanderer came upon two old cowherds who were watching their herds, as neighbours, on the wide meadow. The wanderer asked them what the sound meant.

One of the old cowherds answered, “I’ll tell you. What’s calling like that in those reeds, it’s the bittern, or mire-drum as it’s also called.”

“Oh, he has no end of names,” the other old cowherd added. “He also goes by First Cow, Moorcow, and Mosscow. In ancient times this same boomer was a shepherd boy, but a dreadfully lazy one, so he was changed into a bird; and this annoys him so much that he booms all the time, but particularly in the night, when he thrusts his bill into the water and bellows like a bull, so loud you can hear him a league away, and that’s how he announces rain.”

“Selt’s right,” the first cowherd spoke again, “but there’s another tale about the boy. There were two cowherds, like there are two of us, but the two of them weren’t together. The one watched his cows in the fertile green meadows in the vale, the other on a high, barren mountain. As a result, the first one’s cows on the flowery meadow became very bright and brisk and yielded milk aplenty, but the cows of the cowherd on the mountain, where the Lord does make grass to grow, but takes His time about it – as that schoolmaster sang in the collect[29] – and where the wind plays with sand more than with flowers, they became very weak and very skinny and gave little milk, and all of that was sky-blue, as they had seen more blue sky than green grass.

“One evening, when both cowherds wanted to drive their herds home, the bright and brisk cows in the fertile meadow had no desire to go home, and among their number there was a many-hued cow who ran away in the opposite direction, and the other cows all followed her, so the cowherd cried at the top of his voice: “Huey, come! Huey, come!” but all his shouting was of no use. Now, as for the skinny cows of the cowherd up on the mountain, they had lain themselves down from hunger and exhaustion and did not want to get up or, in fine, they couldn’t, so the cowherd shouted with all his might: “Hup! hup! hup! hup!” meaning that they should rise, but they did not get up, because they could not; and now the cowherd down below and the one up above were shouting, as if to see who could shout the loudest, the one “Huey, come! Huey, come!” and the other, “hup! hup! hup!” night and day, and day and night, until the breath left their bodies and their souls passed out from their throats, and then they both became birds: the meadow-herd became a bittern and the mountain-herd a hoopoe, and they continue their cries to this day.”

Such a tale did the cowherd tell the wanderer, and he now knew the meaning of the rumbling in the reed-bed, and when he heard the cry hup! hup! hup! sounding down from a mountain, he also knew what kind of bird was calling in this way, one that already has a bad reputation, namely the devil’s lackey and devil’s verger, that bird called the hoopoe.

24. The Most Indispensable Thing

In days of yore there lived a King, and he had three good and fair daughters whom he loved very much, and they loved him dearly too. He had no sons, but it was the custom in his kingdom for the line of succession to also pass to wives and daughters, and as the King’s wife was no longer alive, he was free to choose one of the three Princesses to be the heir to his throne, and it did not necessarily have to be the eldest. Now, because this King loved all three of his daughters equally well, he found the decision a hard one to make, and after communing with his heart, he resolved to choose the one who revealed the greatest sagacity. This decision he imparted to his three daughters, and he fixed upon his approaching birthday as the day of judgement. Whoever brought him “The most indispensable thing,” she would become Queen.

Now each one of the Princesses pondered over this – what could the most indispensable thing possibly be? And when the King’s birthday arrived, the eldest approached him first, bearing a fine purple garment, and said: “The Lord God made men to come naked into the world, but He closed the gates of Paradise to them, so garments and raiment are indispensable to man.”

The second daughter brought a loaf of fresh bread she had baked herself, laid across the top of a golden goblet filled to the brim, and said: “The most indispensable thing to men born from dust is food and drink, for he is not able to live without these; that is why God created the fruits of the earth, fruit and berries and grapes, and taught mankind how to make bread and wine, the holy symbols of his love.”

The youngest daughter offered, on a little wooden plate, a small heap of salt and said: “The most indispensable things, my father, I deem to be salt and wood. That is why ancient peoples paid divine honours to trees and held salt to be sacred.”

The King was filled with wonder at these gifts and became thoughtful; then he said, “The most indispensable thing to a King is the Purple, for if he has that, he has everything else, but if he loses it he is King no more, and is merely a common man, like to other men. And so, for your having discerned that fact, my beloved eldest daughter, the Royal Purple shall adorn you after me; come to my heart, receive my thanks and my blessing!”

Now when the King had kissed and blessed his eldest daughter, he said to the second eldest: “Eating and drinking are not always necessary, my good child, and they drag us down all too much to what is common. They indicate, as it were, the mediocre masses, the common herd. If you take pleasure therein, I cannot prevent it, just as I cannot thank you for your ill-chosen gift; but you shall be blessed for your good intentions.” And the King blessed his daughter, but he did not kiss her.

Then he turned to the third Princess, who stood pale and trembling and had a foreboding, after what she had seen and heard, of what was about to come.

“You do indeed have salt on your wooden plate, my daughter,” said the King, “but you have none in your brain, yet you live; and consequently, salt is not indispensable. We do not need salt. You have shown me a peasant’s sense with your salt, not the sense of a King, and I take no pleasure in stiff wooden objects. Therefore I cannot thank you and cannot bless you. Go from me, as far as your feet may carry you, go to the stupid and crude peoples who worship old blocks of wood and tree-trunks instead of the living God and hold your contemptible salt to be sacred!”

Then the youngest king’s daughter turned away in tears from her harsh father and walked out of the court, and out of the royal capital, far, far away, as far as her feet could carry her.

And she came to an inn, where she offered her services to the landlady, and the landlady was moved by her humility, innocence, youth, and beauty, and took her on as a maid in the house. And when the King’s daughter proved herself to be very able in domestic affairs, the landlady said, “It’ll be a shame if the girl doesn’t learn a proper trade – I’ll teach her how to cook.” And the King’s daughter learned how to cook there, and grasped it very easily; and soon she was cooking a good many dishes which were even better and even tastier than those of her teacher. As a result, the inn enjoyed a considerable increase in custom, simply because its meals were so superbly made, and the reputation of the good chef, who was so young and withal so beautiful, spread throughout the land.

Now it came to pass that the eldest Princess, daughter of this cook’s father, was to marry, and a regal wedding was to be arranged; and the decision was reached to summon the far-famed cook to the Court, that she might crown the feast with her skill, for the lords at the Royal Court – marshals, hereditary cupbearers, hereditary carvers, masters of ceremonies, chamberlains and other excellencies – did not all share that view once expressed by their most gracious master, the King, that eating and drinking are not always necessary, and drag one down among the common herd; rather, good feasts with fine wines were what they liked, and they paid homage, at least in secret, to the true old proverb: Eating and drinking hold body and soul together.

The wedding feast was prepared with all magnificence, and the King’s favourite dish, which the express carver had especially ordered, was not lacking; and when it was time for the meal, one dish after another arrived on the table, and received high praise.

And at last there came the King’s favourite food, which was offered to him first of all. But when he tasted it, he found it utterly insipid; his cheerful expression faded and his face darkened, and he spoke to the First Chamberlain, who was standing behind his golden armchair: “This dish is completely ruined! That is most – calamitous, do not pass the bowl on, and call the cook here to me!”

The cook walked into the majestic hall and the King accosted her indignantly: “You have ruined my favourite dish, you have put the kibosh on my joy because you did not put even the slightest smattering of salt on my favourite food!”

Then the cook fell at the King’s feet and humbly said: “Practise mercy, Majesty, my royal master, and forgive me! How could I have dared to mix salt in your food? After all, I once heard, from the mouth of a mighty King himself, the words: ‘We do not need salt, salt is not indispensable! Salt shows only a peasant’s sense, not the sense of a King!’”

The King ashamedly recognised these words as his own, and his daughter in the cook; and he raised her from the ground on which she was kneeling and held her to his breast. He told the tale to all his wedding guests and had his youngest daughter sit by his side once again. And now the wedding celebrations began in earnest, and the King was happy once more in the love of his daughters.

Salt is sacred.

25. The King of the Fishes

All children know the fairy-tale that tells how the birds wished to choose one of their number to be King, how he should be King who could fly the highest, and how the heron flew highest, but that little joker, the wren, had perched on the heron’s back, and when the heron had flown the highest and could fly no higher, then the wren used its own wings for the first time, soaring up and proclaiming itself King: “I’m the King! I’m the King!”

They also know how that sorely vexed all the big birds, who wanted to bring him back down to earth, and they said: he should be King who fell the deepest; and the wren fell down through the air and into a mousehole, from out of which he cheeped, “I’m the King! I’m the King!” – and afterwards the birds, by way of mockery, called him Kinglet.

The clever choice of King of the Frogs is also universally known, and likewise the lion being the King of the four-legged animals, and bees and ants having Queens.

But the fishes once having lit upon the idea of choosing a King, that is less well-known, and this is principally because the fishes – at least to the human ear – are dumb, do not make a fuss, and do not start up any idle prattle when they choose Emperors or Kings.

The fishes were all assembled, and they cried in their language: “When we have a look round the bustling world, we perceive both to our right and to our left that everything has a King and is ruled over, animals and birds, insects and amphibians. Only we still do not have a sovereign! Let us therefore choose one who will dispense justice among us and help the weak against the strong, and let us choose the one who is the fastest and most skilful swimmer.

“Whoever is ahead of all others has the natural right to be our King not only in name but also in fact.”

This proposal pleased the majority of fishes; almost all of them agreed that whoever swam the fastest should be King of the Fishes in name and fact. The finishing line was fixed, and the spectators cleared a long lane to let the competing swimmers go past, while the sword- and sawfishes swam hurriedly up and down and kept order; anyone who pressed too far forward was given a slap on the chops with the flat of their blades.

The flying fishes shot up into the air to watch the race to be King with a bird’s-eye view, but always fell back plump! into the water. The armour-clad knifefishes lined up on parade to cry a Viva to the victor and pay homage to him, which a powerful choir of gurnards and armour-plated bullheads attempted to accompany with a grunting fanfare. The stargazers, also a species of fish, prophesied that the royal election, like so many in the world of men, would have no brilliant consequences; the trunkfishes and striped seabream remained aloof and were of the opinion that a King was quite unnecessary, and they had to disapprove exceedingly of his manner of rule in advance, no matter how he might govern. Lastly, the small sticklebacks cracked bad jokes about all parties and parodied, among themselves, the swift swimming with great good humour.

Now an old electric ray lashed his electric tail to give the signal, perceptible to everyone at once, for the race to begin, and then the fishes shot forward, pike and tench, perch and carp, salmon and turbot, plaice and lamprey, all in a muddle – the plaice initially stayed behind the others, saying, “Why bother? Even a slow pace takes you far.” Ahead of all others was the pike, who was shooting forward like an arrow when a mocking voice beside him suddenly cried, “More haste, less speed, good pike!” and a small fish darted past him like lightning – and was the first to reach the royal finishing line.

Now everyone shouted, “The herring is first! The herring is first! Three cheers! Long live the herring! Viva!”

Then the knifefishes presented arms and the gurnards peed in parade step.

There was great joy among the fish-folk, but the plaice, who was swimming very slowly behind the shoal, did not hear very clearly who was being proclaimed as victor and King so far up ahead; and he asked a flounder, who was keeping him company in his slowswim: “What are they shouting? – Who is first?”

“They are shouting, ‘The herring is first!’” cried the halibut or the flounder, somewhat loudly in the plaice’s ear, whereupon she retorted, pulling a wry face from sheer anger and resentment: “Hey now, don’t shout like that; I can hear, you know! – So, the naked herring? The rogue, the naked herring!” And ever since that time, the plaice has had a crooked mouth.

But the stargazers had been right: governance was made very difficult for the new King, and he could not quite assert himself– there are far too many Kingfishers.

26. The Snake with the Golden Key

In a village there served an honest maid, who tended her cattle most diligently and faithfully; but in the shed where her master’s cows lived there also dwelt an unke, as snakes or adders are called in many places. A good many people believe that they suck milk from cows and kill them, but others hold them in reverence and believe that they bring good luck and blessings – at least to the cow.

One day, the snake came crawling out and began to speak: “Maiden, you are pious and good, and free from gross sins. You can set me free, and if you do, you will bring great happiness to yourself as you will to me.”

“What can I do, what should I do, to set you free?” asked the maid.

“When you come back to the cowshed in three days’ time,” the snake replied, “you will find me to have grown to a very great length, and you must not be frightened of me but rather bend down so I may coil myself around your neck three times; and I will put a little golden key in your mouth, you must keep a grip of it with your lips, and you must not try to shake me off, or all will miscarry and my hopes shall have been vain.”

Everything happened just as the snake had said – unfortunately, so did its last words. On the third day, the maid came into the cowshed, where the unke was dreadfully thick and long; it crept around her neck twice and it was so heavy and icy-cold, and so revolting – the maid, who really had shown courage at first, was overcome with horror – and she gave a loud scream and shook the snake, which had a little golden key in its mouth, off her. The golden key immediately fell out and the snake said: “Unhappy girl! You have deprived me of my deliverance, and yourself of your good fortune. Now I must live as an unke in the cowshed for another hundred years, and the great riches I guard, which would have been bestowed upon you, are lost to you.” Sadly did the snake creep away, and the timid maid wept.

27. The Golden Sheepfold

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young maiden called Ilsa, the only daughter of a rough knight, and she loved the forest with its birdsong, its fragrant flowers and trickling streams, and delighted to go for strolls with her old wet-nurse, the only carer of her childhood years – Ilsa’s mother having died young – or to stroll alone, for no danger threatened her, and she feared none, not knowing the meaning of the word. Now one day Ilsa took the air all alone in the green grove that girded her father’s castle, and in which ancient trees alternated, here with picturesque rock-faces embellished with tall fern stalks, and there with rare plants and flowers, in the most charming manner; and the youthful maiden came to a grotto in the rocks which was new to her: she could not recall having ever seen it before, or having come near it. From inside the grotto there sounded a melodic humming, as of wind harps, and this lured Ilsa to walk ever deeper into the dry cave passage, even though it became narrower and narrower and, consequently, darker and darker as well. But just at the place where the grotto passage was at its narrowest and gloomiest, there appeared through a cleft a soft radiance, and many a glittering light, and Ilsa did not resist the urge to follow this glow – she squeezed through the cleft in the rock and suddenly, to her amazement, found herself in a completely different world. The sounds swelled and resounded in her ears with greater resonance, the glow became brighter, and the air was lit up with the radiance of flowers; but all the flowers were glittering gems, and the leaves were other green stones of manifold shades. Small beings, two feet high at the most, swarmed over a meadow – an innumerable people – and Ilsa shortly found herself surrounded and bid welcome by a host of them, for the little creatures drew near to her in a trusting, one might even say an importunate, manner.

“Who are you?” Ilsa asked, completely astonished. “Never have I seen you, never have I heard of you!”

“We are the mountain folk, the Crickets!” one of the cutest beings answered in a clear, shrilling voice, that really did resemble the chirrup of a cricket. “Do not be surprised that you do not know us. Our grottoes are not open every day, nor even every hour of that day on which human eyes are able to perceive them.”

“I have never heard of a mountain folk, never heard of Crickets,” said Ilsa, who stood as one caught in a dream.

“Get to know us, and you will love us!” replied the speaker for those underground beings. “And if you love us, then you will become one of us, perhaps our Queen!”

“Queen!” – how this word flashed through Ilsa’s young girl’s heart. Ilsa had of course heard about queens in her father’s castle, that they were very rich and mostly also very beautiful, that everyone served and obeyed them – yes, her wet nurse had told her many tales about them. Why should not, why could not Ilsa also become a queen? – And so she willingly let her cute, mischievous new acquaintances conduct her, and she walked with them through the underground realm which encompassed her with magic, dazzled her with its resplendence, and filled her soul with rapture through its melodic strains. And then, the soft murmuring of rolling streams, the distant roaring of waterfalls, whose waters pushed their way towards the light of the upper world, the gentle twilight, brighter than moonlight and yet not so bright as sunlight – everything enthralled Ilsa’s mind, for she was, after all, still half a child; and the friendliness of the Crickets, who were the most delightful playmates, as Ilsa believed – everything aroused in her the wish to stay forever in this underground realm, for there was no love to draw her to the upper world. Her father was a rough and grim knight, who had never particularly cared for her, and her wet nurse was old and could die soon, then Ilsa would have to mope away her days utterly alone and joyless in her father’s lonely castle which all other people shunned.

And these thoughts were joined by the enticing whispering and purring of the Crickets: “Stay with us, and you will never grow old! You will bloom with the gleam of youth evermore. Every day will be a new delight for you! – Whatever you wish for – the best shall be yours!”

Captivated and enraptured, Ilsa now caught sight of a flock of sheep, which were admittedly no larger than lambs, but every one of them had a golden fleece; and even the lively little dog which bounded around this flock had golden hair. Ilsa did not descry a shepherd, but there was a shepherd’s crook lying on the ground.

And then there stirred in Ilsa the desire to watch this flock, and she thought, You have the chance to put the Crickets to the test right now, and she said: “So if I were to stay with you, good Crickets, and I wished this golden flock to be mine, and I myself to be allowed to watch over it – do you think you would grant and satisfy my wish?”

Then “Yes, yes!” rang out from many hundreds of soft little voices, and the Crickets stipulated only this: that Ilsa never again set foot in the upper world, and she oversee the golden sheepfold with care so that not one of the priceless sheep be lost. Then they presented her with the golden shepherd’s crook, decorated it with silver ribbons, and, amidst great jubilation, welcomed her as henceforth one of their own.

Ilsa, in the realm of her underground world of innocence, saw nothing more of the days, months and years that glided past in the upper world, of the changes of the seasons and the mighty shifts of Providence that move the hearts of men. Up above, she was missed, given up for lost, mourned, and then forgotten – her wet nurse had died, her father had fallen in a feud, and his enemies had devastated and destroyed his castle; the latter now jutted up as merely a solitary ruin on the vertex of the hill that the green grove encircled. But the old grove was long gone; all of its trees had been chopped down and now a new forest was greening, the trunks of its trees being already quite strong. Ilsa continued to watch over her golden flock, played with the childlike Crickets, and learnt from them many secrets of nature and of the underground realm; and the remembrance of another world, in which she had formerly lived, was as a dream to her. Yet this remembrance did not die, but rather began to awaken and gain force – to become a yearning. Ilsa had gradually perceived that a Cricket here and a Cricket there had dealings in the upper world, while she had been strictly forbidden all contact with it – and she gradually came to revolve thoughts in her mind that wrecked the innocent happiness she had hitherto enjoyed.

What good is my flock to me? Ilsa thought. I watch over it, but it is not mine; I cannot do anything with it. I was to become a Queen of the Crickets – so I was led to believe – but I have become the sheer opposite of this, a poor shepherdess. Everything thrusts upwards, to the beautiful, glorious sunlight! Roots only gather sap in the bowels of the earth so they can push it upwards and drive it into the topmost crowns of trees. The springs, the subterranean streams, they all press towards the world outside, impetuously forging a way. Where has the blue sky gone which I used to see? Where are the stirring spring breezes? Where is the festive ringing of church bells? The Crickets have no God, no Church, and no Heaven. But I want to see the heavens again – I want to, I want to!

And now Ilsa revealed her desires to the Crickets. They hung their little heads sadly; they had a foreboding of all that would come to pass.

“You promised us you’d want to stay with us always!” the Crickets objected.

“You promised me that all my wishes would be fulfilled,” Ilsa retorted.

“But we made it the first condition that you not return to the world above,” the Crickets reminded her.

“And I do not want to return to it!” said Ilsa; “I only want to see it again, the world and its blue sky, and breathe its wondrous spring scents.”

“Then you will no longer be one of us,” the Crickets protested. “If the zephyrs of the upper world so much as touch you, then you will fall victim to the lot of mortal men, who pass away like the wind; you will lose your bloom, you will grow old and die. Only in our realm does eternal youth blossom.”

Ilsa said no more – but she grieved – her yearning became ever stronger – she paid no more heed to her golden sheep, nothing could give her pleasure any more, she spoke no more to the Crickets, and they lamented: “She is lost to us, one way or the other – therefore let us grant her wish.”

Ilsa walked into the high-lying grotto, which she had passed through to enter the realm of the underground folk, and towards the sunny light of a fine day on earth. Ah, how powerful were its rays! Her eyes delightedly flew over that part of the district where her father’s castle towered up – yet she soon began to feel uneasy. Rays of sunlight quivered golden-green through the tree-tops, the sky smiled down through them in sapphire-blue; the old rocks were the old ones still, but the trees were not the old trees any more – the paved path that had once led Ilsa to the grotto was no more; the forest-floor of the grove was all one sward covered with tall grass.

Ilsa looked up to the heights where she knew her imposingly built paternal home to stand, with battlements, towers, and oriels – and she started, for there was nothing, absolutely nothing to be seen there but the remains of the exterior wall, with a tall grey watchtower rising above it, around whose crumbling battlements kestrels hovered and screeched.

“What is this?” Ilsa mused. “Did it not seem to me that I dwelt down there for only a very short while – yet so much time has gone by! How old am I now, I wonder?”

Ilsa looked further away: she saw newly arisen villages and new castles in the distance; and others, whose location she remembered precisely, were no more.

Ilsa did not dare to take another step forward. She remained in the grotto, for she had promised this to the Crickets when she had finally, and reluctantly, been permitted to see the upper world again, and she tarried there many a day, grave and brooding. She was allowed to take the golden flock out to graze on the mountain meadow before the grotto, but only on certain days and at certain hours; on the first day of May, on Ascension Day, on Whit Sunday, on Trinity Sunday, and on Midsummer’s Day, at noon, when the Sun stood at its zenith, or in the midnight hours of the eve of these consecrated feast days. On these days, a number of the inhabitants of that region liked to walk on the mountain heights, a custom dating back to old heathen days, seeking healing herbs and digging up roots with magical powers. Then it would come to pass, every now and then, that Ilsa would be espied by these people – she who had grown a stranger to mankind, a pale, calm, and grave apparition, in a snow-white dress that never showed signs of aging; and many of them also saw her golden flock, but they were never able to catch one of the sheep, as much as they would have liked to, for the dog was very vigilant in guarding the sheep with the golden fleeces, and the moment he made the faintest sound, Ilsa would raise her golden shepherd’s crook – and dog and flock were instantaneously lost to sight.

When good and pure people espied Ilsa and fearlessly approached her, she did give them answers to the questions they directed at her, but only to serious ones which had a serious object in view; and her answers would at whiles sound ambiguous, or admonitory and dehortative, or prophetic; and the people recalled that in the dim and distant past soothsaying priestesses had lived in time-honoured groves of the gods, and they called Ilsa by their common name: an Alruna.[30] All those white maidens who, according to old legends, wander around ruined castles and in the groves of castle hills hoping for deliverance, were such Alrunae. Ilsa also hoped to be delivered from the spell and enchantment of the underground world and the sinister Crickets to which she had voluntarily yielded herself; but she did not know that her release from this spell was tied to almost inconceivable conditions.

One day, when Ilsa was again sitting in her rocky grotto in the twilight and letting her flock graze before it, a mortal woman walked over the mountain meadow. She was a Bilwis[31] or wicked witch, a woman who used secret magical charms to do mischief to man and beast. She called to Ilsa, asking: “Why do you dwell everlastingly alone, up here in your cave, High Alruna? Come, join the human race again! Feel with a human heart, and share pleasure and pain with others! Love and be loved!” Ilsa sorrowfully replied, “My word binds me – or I would gladly pass though the district with my flock!”

“You need only wish to! You have the power!” cried the Bilwis. “Simply make the sign of the cross with your shepherd’s crook against the cleft at the back of your grotto, and it will instantly snap shut for ever. None of the Crickets will be able to follow you, and you will be completely free.”

Ilsa, remembering her promise, was still hesitant to practice this magic when a youth of great beauty appeared and addressed her: “Entrust yourself to me, beauteous maiden! You shall sit enthroned up there, in your father’s castle, which I shall build anew. You shall rule, at my side, over all of this thriving district. This woman who spoke to you is my mother, and great is our power.” Ilsa made the sign of the cross against the cleft in the cave. From the other side the sound of soft strains ceased and was replaced by a whimpering lament from the Crickets, who had been cheated out of their golden flock. The Bilwis gave a revoltingly shrill cry of jubilation and her son tempestuously rushed at Ilsa to take her in his arms. Such behaviour was alien to Ilsa – she solemnly pointed her crook at the Bilwis’s son and made the sign of the cross at him – the magic was broken and he collapsed, exhibiting ugly, abominable facial features, he who had appeared so handsome. And the Bilwis also crashed down to the ground, broke into convulsions, and was clearly revealed to be a nasty, ghastly witch.

“Just you wait for your reward, you miscreant girl! Just you wait!” screamed the Bilwis, furiously picking herself up from the ground; and running past Ilsa to the back of the grotto, she held some moonwort to the cleft in the rock. It instantly opened out once more to the realm of the underground folk, and the Bilwis yelled: “Come out, you Crickets! Take your flock back, punish this perfidious and faithless girl! Punish her with eternal longing and eternal disappointment.”

By now the Crickets were swarming around Ilsa in droves, and a numberless host pressed in between her and the Bilwis and her son.

“Ours you are, and ours you shall remain!” said the eldest of the Crickets. “On that day when no bell any longer peals, no church any longer stands, and evil people like this Bilwis are no more, then will the hour of your deliverance strike – no sooner! Wait and watch your sheep until that time. Till then, you shall not see days on earth again, except for once every seven years! At those times you may show yourself outside our mountain with your flock.”

And so did it come to be: to this very day, once every seven years, at the midday hour, this so cruelly cursed maiden can be seen with her flock, lonely, pale, and sad, in a snow-white dress. Evil people still walk the earth, and church bells still summon the faithful to the temples of the Lord.

28. The Cursed Town

High up in the Alps there lay a large, flourishing town, surrounded by towering, jagged mountain peaks which were blanketed with perpetual snow. The town, however, lay on a vast and spacious sunny meadow on which countless cattle grazed, for the people who inhabited that Alpine town were pastoral people, living in almost total isolation from the inhabitants of the lower regions. Seldom did a traveller or a sumpter-horse tread the mountain path which led over those high Alps to Italy; seldom did the inhabitants of that mountain town see a stranger.

One day, however, they saw an unknown wayfarer striding through their town, a tall, grave figure; his face was a brownish colour, but pale, with a long beard; his hair black, mixed with grey; his garment was a long brown talar, girded with a cord; his footwear strong shoes, fastened with straps around the ankles. The man seemed weary and sorely in need of rest, but he bore a curse: he could not sit down and tarry until someone bid him be seated and stay awhile. The inhabitants of the high mountain town looked at the unknown man with a singular timidity, and he instilled a peculiar aversion in them. And the man went from house to house, and stood before every door, and waited for someone to say to him, “Sit down and rest,” but no one spoke such words; instead, more and more people gathered, and gaped at him, full of curiosity. And the weary man stood and sighed.

Then the Town Elder, who was also a priest, walked up to him and said: “Listen, you stranger, we know who you are, we can tell by looking at you. You are none other than the Wandering Jew. You are damned to wander to the end of time because you refused the Saviour of the World, on his way to a bitter death on the Cross, a short rest on the stone bench in front of your house in Jerusalem – and so, hie thee hence out of our town, you cannot tarry and may not tarry in this place, and we cannot and shall not succour and shelter you to our own detriment. Go with God!”

Then the Wandering Jew parted his pale lips and said: “I will depart now and you will remain, but you will depart this life and I will remain. When I will return to this place, I will find a site here, not a town – and when I will come a third time, I will find not even the site which your town stood on.”

Everyone who heard these words was alarmed, and they stepped timidly aside when the grim man shook his stick and strode through their crowded ranks; and he walked with weary gait out of the town, high up into the inhospitable mountains. None of them saw him again.

From that day on, no new house was constructed in that town – no herd multiplied – no baby was born – many families soon died out – after a number of years many houses stood deserted and falling into disrepair.

Avalanches came rushing down from the mountains and shattered the houses to pieces. Landslides occurred, and massive boulders now lay where erstwhile the streets of the town had been filled with bustling and joyous activity. Fifty years hence, the large, extensive town was an Alpine village with houses lying scattered and far apart, with meagre sustenance, emaciated herds, ailing inhabitants. They no longer descended to the lower-lying villages, and no one from these latter climbed up to them – and so, in the end, everything there above became without form, and void – and there was no grave mound to arch over the last ones to die, but the collapsing houses buried them under rubble, then that rubble was buried in turn by rockslides, which are called muren in Alpine country, or rivers of mud poured down from the mountain peaks and covered everything.

After a hundred years, the wayfarer returned; he recognised the site from the location of the jagged peaks, tall trees had grown up from the ruins, and here and there still stood a fragment of wall; but it was no longer possible to tell for certain whether they were rocks or the work of human hands. Mighty bushes with colourful Alpine flowers had sprouted up where streets had been of yore, and there was grass where once the peaceful dwellings of men had been.

And the Wandering Jew sighed and said: “What did David, King over Israel, erewhile sing? He sang: ‘Thou shalt look for the place of the wicked, and it shall not be.’”

And he lifted his foot and walked on without rest or respite over the high mountains.

And the site of the town did not remain as it was, but became ever more desolate, more barren, more uncanny; yet quite gradually, and so slowly, year by year. The bushes of Alpine flowers died, the grass withered, no more rain fell in this high mountain region, it was only snow that fell, and there came a time when it did not melt away, even when the summer sun was at its highest. The springs which had formerly roared down from the higher mountain peaks as delightful waterfalls froze over, and developed covers of greenish ice; they became glaciers, and these glaciers grew larger and larger, and nosed forward over more and more of the Alpine meadows, once so gloriously green and sunny, until they covered them completely.

And when the restless wanderer, after another hundred years had passed, came up the mountains again, he could no longer find nor recognise the site where the flourishing town had once been, and he opened his mouth and said: “Fulfilled is the Word of the King of Kings, which he spoke through the mouth of the prophet, his servant: ‘I shall stretch out my hand upon them, and make the land desolate.’”[32]

So spake he, and wandered on.

29. Scrub the Muzzle

In a large German city there was once a princely wedding which was celebrated in splendid style; there were parades and festivities of every description and immense numbers of travelling entertainers and tumblers and beggars. Among the last-named was a beggar who asked for alms as one pursuing a regular profession; nevertheless, on this day of the festival he had no particular luck, for everyone was preoccupied; people ran, people rushed, people pushed and were pushed, pressed and were pressed, looked and gawped, and had no time to pull out their purse; and this movement was not at all recommended, for if a forward hand were to snatch the purse away, that would be the end of it. It rankled exceedingly with the beggar that on this very day when he had expected a large yield of alms to hail down into his hat, he had received nothing at all, and he indignantly grumbled to himself: “Has the whole city then become like Meagre Manor? Hell’s Bells, the Devil must be in it! Oh, I’d rather ask the Devil for alms than you pinchpennies and starvelings! How many prayers have I said today alone, how many litanies spluttered out, and I’ve not even had the opportunity to say: ‘I kiss Your Grace’s hand, God bless you!’”

While the beggar grumbled in this wise, a small man with a limp and dressed in a short coat of green velvet walked past him. He was wearing a black Spanish hat with a red feather on top, and he half looked round towards the beggar, thereby opening to view a keenly flashing eye and a very imposing, sharply hooked Roman nose. The beggar instantly forgot his resolution not to address another soul that day and strode after Little Greencoat, pressed up close to him, held his slouch-hat out before him, and began his begging sermon in the form of an ejaculatory prayer. Greencoat made a furious face and shouted at the beggar in a hoarse voice: “Shut your mouth this instant, you rogue! You’ll gain nothing from me using such expressions. You don’t know whom you are asking for alms, even though this is what you promised to do a short while ago!”

With these words Greencoat walked into a street corner, where there was room to breathe, for the throng of people surged past down the street unceasingly, and the beggar followed him, because seeing the Green Man reach into his pocket, he speculated it might be to take out a little something for him. And the man did indeed do this, taking out a small iron rasp with a short wooden handle, and he said: “This little tool can and will put a permanent end to your want, if you care to follow my advice. You need only stroke it once over your lips and say, ‘Scrub the muzzle,’ and a gold coin will fall from your mouth. However, nothing comes for free in this world except death, according to the proverb – a proverb, by the way, that is a lie, for death costs life – so you will find it only fair that I also crave something from you.”

“Whatever Your Grace may command! At your service!” cried the beggar, trembling with joy, and he looked steadfastly at the new iron rasp.

“First of all, you must not say any more prayers, must henceforth on no account either pray or beg, must not enter a church, must not wed, and after seven years your soul must be mine. If anyone directs insults at you, if a judge passes an unfavourable sentence on you, if someone says something to you that displeases you, just pull this rasp out from your pocket and say, without raising it to your lips, ‘Scrub the muzzle,’ and it will give the mouth of your ill-wisher and such a working over as a local magistrate who is always in the right gives to a poor farmer, and they will then assuredly keep said mouth shut.”

Although the beggar now realised who this particular Greencoat was, and the knowledge gave him gooseflesh all over, yet the offer did not after all seem so bad to him, for he valued money above all else and had never especially concerned himself about his soul. Avoiding prayer and churchgoing was also no hardship to him, for he had never meant anything by the prayers he mechanically recited while begging, and his place in church had always been outside, before the church doors. He therefore accepted, and Greencoat said he would come to him and bring the note of hand along for his signature the next morning – one never knows when one will die – for he must have something red on white, and if the beggar did not scrupulously stick to the pact, then his soul would instantly be forfeited to the Green Man. “The trick with ‘Scrub the muzzle’ to obtain money,” the Green Man added, “can be practised only once a day, and that only in the morning, before you break your fast.”

Greencoat limped away and was soon lost in the teeming crowd, while the beggar kept his hand constantly on his left trouser-pocket, in which the former had put the rasp, so that the likes of a pickpocket would not swipe it; contrary to habit, he did not go to an inn that evening, and he could not get a wink of sleep all night for expectation. He had wrapped the rasp in a handkerchief and bound it round his neck, so as not to lose it.

He was up at the crack of dawn, when he fetched a bowl, took out the rasp, passed it over his wide mouth and said, “Scrub the muzzle!” – Clang! a brand spanking new Kremnitz ducat fell clinking into the bowl – however, some skin fell from his lip at the same time. But the rascal paid no heed to the pain; he worked at his mouth like a locksmith with his file, “Scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle!” The rasp went at a brisk pace, and there really did fall a golden shower, as in the fable of the heathen gods when Zeus paid his respects to Danaë – only, scholars are not, unfortunately, able to say with any certainty if it rained Kremnitz ducats at that time also, or if it was perhaps a rainbow cup.[33]

Now the rasp-master’s mouth was bleeding quite badly when Greencoat arrived with a roll of parchment and a quill that was freshly-cut – but cut the wrong way – which he dipped into his man’s bleeding lips as into a red inkpot, and the other had to sign his name on the parchment – whereupon the Green Man suddenly disappeared, taking the pact with him, but leaving behind a tin of lip-pomade, which smelt of sulphur rather than attar of roses, to heal the small wounds; and he added the warning not to make too very frequent use of the rasp, or the rasper would always have a bad mouth, and this alone was enough to make someone suspicious in the eyes of the police and put him in their bad books.

On the following day, Kremnitz Goldmouth had a horrible scab on his lips, but he did not, in his opinion, have nearly enough ducats, so he began to scrub his muzzle anew, till coins fairly rattled into the bowl; he suffered abominable pains, admittedly, and his lips swelled up like two brown sausages which had partly burst in the frying, but he did gain a great deal of gold. He could not go out without a bandage on his mouth, but he went to a tavern that evening all the same and released some of his little golden birds, carousing and living it up with his former brothers-in-alms. Yet they ridiculed him for his boar’s snout, saying he must have kissed the Devil’s grandmother! – and because this vexed him, he took out the rasp and said, softly and secretly, “Scrub the muzzle,” and in a trice the rasp was dancing invisibly all over the lips of the compotator who had cracked the joke, but without any gold falling down, making him yell out in pain; after which the rasper withdrew, swearing to himself to henceforth avoid such low company. He now had the rasp work busily around his mouth, as much as he could possibly bear, and began the construction of a new house, which he prosecuted ardently. He had the words, “At the Scrubbed Muzzle” written above the door, and he adopted the noble name Chrysostomus, which is Goldmouth in English.

Lord Chrysostomus at the Scrubbed Muzzle became ever richer and richer – it was just a shame that he always went around with his mouth bandaged, which caused the tale to spread among the people that his mouth was not a mouth but a small pig’s snout, yet made of gold, which he was continually abrading, and that was the source of his wealth. Now, because he did not give anything to the poor, there was born the expression, which afterwards spread throughout the whole German Empire, by which every miserly rich man was called a skinflint.

Lord Chrysostomus at the Scrubbed Muzzle lived a life of luxury and ease; if anyone did or spoke anything against him, he had the rasp give them a thorough working over, with the result that they all held their tongue then and there; and even the police, the first time they tried to fall upon him because of his loose tongue, were so well and truly rasped that they never again ventured to lay hands on Lord Chrysostomus at the Scrubbed Muzzle.

So the seven years went by and Greencoat returned, intending to receive the lapsed soul. The doorkeeper of His Excellency the Count Chrysostomus of and at the Scrubbed Muzzle did not want to admit the Green Man to his master because he held him to be some itinerant hunter, but Little Greencoat tripped the big doorkeeper up, who fell down with a thud like a sack of nuts.

His Lordship the Count reposed[34] on the sofa, perusing the newspaper, with several bottles of Hungarian wine lined up beside him, and smoking Turkish tobacco, when the Greencoat stepped into the magnificently decorated mirrored room.

“What is it? What’s all this about?” the Count enquired, in an evil temper at someone daring to enter unannounced. “Apply to the valet!”

“I have to talk with you, worthy sir!” replied the Greencoat. “Your time is up! Here is the pact. Up, quick march! Instead of shaving off, it’s time to shove off!”

His Lordship the Count of and at the Scrubbed Muzzle whisked a square lorgnette, which was appended to a ribbon, up to his right eye, and squinted through it at Greencoat, then His Excellency executed a yawn and said, “What? Time? Pact? Quick march? Scrub the muzzle – Idiocy!”

No sooner had His Lordship the Count articulated the words, “Scrub the muzzle” than the rasp flew at Greencoat’s mouth and rasped it until he well-nigh lost his senses. The stupid Devil – Greencoat was none other – had forgotten to give this muzzle-scrubber a property that could not be exercised on everyone – the Count drummed a Highland reel in two-four time on the table with the fingers of his left hand, humming along:

“Scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle! Ha-ha-ha!

Scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle, scrub the muzzle! Tra-la-la!”

and the Devil became sick and sore from this dance; he screamed so loud that the whole house At the Scrubbed Muzzle shuddered, and at last he dropped to his knees and implored His Illustrious Grace the Count for mercy and an end of it.

His Lordship the Count exhaled a cloud of Turkish tobacco-smoke into the Devil’s face and outstretched his hand, without altering his recumbent posture, pronouncing only these two words: “My pact!” whereupon the Devil handed it over. The Count dispelled his doubts that it was the right one and not, perhaps, a supposititious document, then His Excellency very leisurely tore the parchment with its red signature in sunder and enounced, “Let that be the end of it! Be so good as to wipe your mouth and find the exit. As for the rasp, you will leave it to me as a keepsake, our exemplary police will feel –” – “Shut your mouth, you stupid fool!” the Devil interrupted, “you needed to say that earlier. The pact is torn up, and the rasp is mine again.

“With such an invaluable tool as this, I shall receive souls entirely different from yours, you rogue! O that I could get my hands on you! But just you wait, and woe betide you if you do come to me in the end – then, in that place of wailing and gnashing of teeth,[35] I too shall say, ‘Scrub the muzzle.’”

30. The Talking Donkey

In a range of high and thickly-forested mountains there lived a mighty mountain-spirit[36] who liked to tease people: he often tormented the wicked and played all sorts of unpleasant pranks on them, but he was helpful to good people, even if his help had a peculiar tang and all kinds of frights or fears preceded its arrival. And so a poor trader was walking one day down the mountains towards the valley, carrying a great deal of glassware he had purchased from a glassworks up in the mountains for resale; and he was calculating, like the milkmaid in the fable,[37] the profit he would reap from his glassware. So much from the flasks and retorts an apothecary had ordered, who was to pay twice the first cost; so much from the round lightbulbs for the shoemakers’ workshops; so much from the bottles for wine and water that innkeepers require – and this came to a tidy amount of profit; the glass-dealer was also wiser than that milk-maiden, for he did not leap up into the air at the thought of his profit, but paid attention to his path, which was quite steep and uneven, and to his load, which was not light.

The mountain-spirit invisibly accompanied the glass merchant and heard the thoughts he spoke out loud in soliloquy; now, as the man was thinking of rather more profit than was really his due, so the spirit made a snap decision to play a prank on him and make him shake in his shoes. A little distance up ahead, he made himself visible and transformed himself into an old, smoothly sawed-off tree-stump at the bottom of a very steep stretch of the path, which could with justice be called a knee-breaker - into a stump that stood close by the path, so very inviting to rest. The glass-man walked carefully down the steep slope, and this descent with his load was much more arduous for him than ascending the mountain would have been; therefore, he needed to rest a little, and catching sight of the old tree-stump, he sat down on it with his dosser[38] of glassware. In an instant, the mountain-spirit (transformed into the stump) disappeared, and the glass merchant crashed down on the ground together with his load, and the latter shattered into a thousand pieces. Not one item remained intact.

“Oh God! Oh God!” yelled the glass merchant, quite beside himself. What a shock, what a loss! The man behaved as if he were about to put a period to his life. He could not fetch any other glass, for he had no money left, and they gave nothing on credit at the glassworks, and his hard-earned little sum of money which he had laid out on new glassware – here it lay, in pieces.

Then a young journeyman came riding down from the mountain on a donkey, whistling and singing, and he came upon the wailing man and asked him why he was crying and lamenting so. The merchant told him about the disaster that had befallen him, and the wanderer asked him how high he estimated his loss and damage.

“Oh, assuredly eight to nine dollars, together with what I could have earned upon the shattered wares!” he calculated with a sigh. “I would like to help you, poor devil,” said the donkey-driver, “but I have no money myself. Yet – I’ll tell you what – down below in the valley there lives a miller who is both a rogue and an innkeeper; he fleeces his customers without mercy, and in just as unchristian a manner does he fleece and diddle all those who stop off at his inn. He is covetousness and avarice made flesh, and by way of punishment, he shall replace your glass for you.”

“How is it possible that a miserly and covetous man do this of his own free will?” asked the glass dealer while he walked on beside the rider, obligingly taking the donkey by the bridle wherever the descent became steep.

“Of his own free will?” the traveller asked with a scornful smile. “No, my good companion! The miller won’t do it of his own free will, I’m certain of that. But he must do it nonetheless. We shall sell him my donkey, which – between friends – is worth ten to twelve dollars, and so if he gets the donkey for nine dollars he’ll joyfully shake on the deal and give us food and drink on the house into the bargain.”

“Yes – but – dear sir,” the glass-man asked meekly, “You’re not going to – your donkey – for my sake?”

“Sell to the miller?” the rider completed. “Well, and whyever not, my good companion? That is no matter to me; I can find other donkeys.”

The glass-man did not immediately surrender to belief in the prospect of good fortune that was held out to him. It seemed to him quite incredible that a man who, by his own admission, had no money, should deprive himself of a valuable donkey to do him a kindness – he, of course, did not know that the donkey’s owner was none other than that puckish mountain-spirit who had made him fall and caused his loss in the first place.

They soon reached the mill, and there was the miller standing at the door, pleased to see strangers approaching, and also eyeing with satisfaction the fine-bodied, exceedingly well-fed donkey. The donkeys in his stable looked nowhere near as sleek and strong as this one. The guests ordered bread and sausages and beer, one word led to another, the glass-merchant recounted his misfortune, and it seemed as if the miller would die laughing from malignant joy; he laughed so hard that he had to hold his barrel-shaped stomach, and he positively shook.

This irritated and annoyed the glass-merchant beyond measure, but a glance from the traveller gave him to understand that he should keep perfectly calm.

When the miller had laughed his fill, the stranger’s donkey, which was tethered outside before the door, gave a bray, whereupon the miller directly steered the conversation towards it. “A handsome fellow, in truth, your donkey! How old?”

“Four years!” – “How much?” – “Not for sale!”

“Shame! I could have used him; last week one died on me.”

“You must have been feeding him too well, miller!” the stranger jibed.

“Oho – quite the opposite!” the miller let slip.

“Indeed? Then I would feel sorry for my donkey were he to come into your hands. My donkey is used to eating well.”

“Yes, of course!” the miller corrected himself. “And he won’t want for anything with me. I just meant to say that mine went off his food, and that’s why he perished. I’ll give you seven dollars.”

“Oho! What more could I possibly ask for?” the donkey-owner jeered. “Whatever are you thinking of, miller? Seven dollars for such a splendid donkey? Out upon you! I wouldn’t sell him for twelve dollars.”

Inside the miller a real donkeymania was aroused. “I’ll give eight dollars!” he cried, plunging his hand into his pocket and jingling his coins.

“Give eleven, and it’s a done deal!”

“No! Nine!” shrieked the miller. “That’s my last word.”

“And my last word is ten, and I won’t budge from that, and food and drink on the house!” said the donkey-owner.

The miller scratched behind his ears and would have continued chaffering, but the stranger was firm as a rock. “Free fare and ten dollars, not a groat, not a penny, not a farthing less!”

“You’re a man of stone!” the miller wailed.

“Oh yes – you might rather say, a man of the mountains!” scoffed the stranger.

The miller had to have the donkey, so he counted ten dollars out on the table with many moans and groans, yet not, by any means, in good, round dollar coins, but rather in nothing but groats and thin, mouldy two-groat coins, so-called tin-caps,[39] which were covered with flour and verdigris. The stranger contentedly swept up the money, after it had been counted through several times, then put it into a little leather purse which he placed in his companion’s hand, the miller having by this time delightedly run out to lead his donkey into the stable. The glass-merchant was astonished at the gift – was about to give his thanks – but the stranger spoke: “Save your thanks. I owed you nine dollars; take the tenth one for the shock you sustained. Now go into the stable and see what the miller is up to, and farewell! When the miller asks where I’ve gone, just tell him I’m over the hills.”

The delighted glass-merchant hoisted his dosser of fragments onto his back and proceeded over the yard towards the stable, where the newly purchased donkey was already standing unbridled at the manger; the miller had made a litter of fresh heather for it with his own hand, and he was now carrying under his arm a large sheaf of soft, fragrant mountain-hay, which he spread out in the manger for the donkey.

But how amazed was the glass-merchant, and how violently did the miller start, when the donkey fixed the latter with an ineffable look, shook its head, waggled its long ears doubtfully, snorted hotly, and finally opened its wide mouth to say in a deep voice: “Jew of a man, Jew of a miller – I’m sorry, but I eat no hee-haw-hay! I eat only bree-braw-bread and mee-maw-meat!”

Utterly horrified, the miller dashed out of the stable, almost knocking the glass-merchant at the door head over heels, and yelled: “The Devil’s in the stable! Where’s the good-for-nothing character who sold me a hobgoblin?”

“He’s over the hills!” cried the glass-merchant, now laughing as heartily as the miller had previously laughed at him.

The miller called all his servants together and kept yelling about a talking donkey, for not having travelled far in the world, and not numbering among the companions of an earlier age, it was something quite incredible for him to hear a donkey speak; but his servants thought he was off his rocker. Now he led them all to the stable to show them the donkey, but behold – in its place there hung, from the halter in front of the donkeys’ manger, a truss of straw; and the miller now solemnly averred that he was a beaten ass.

And the glass-merchant went on his way, blessing the mountain-spirit and conceding, with all his heart, the loss and vexation he had suffered to that miller who rejoiced in others’ misfortune.

31. The Pious Knight

Once upon a time there was a valiant knight who was honourable and pious, manly in combat, and godly at home. Whenever he rode out from his castle, or rode back home, the road took him over a large graveyard where the heathens of ancient days had burnt all their dead from that district and then inhumed their ashes in high mounds; later a battle had been fought there, and those who fell in the fight were likewise buried on that spot; in Christian times a God’s Acre Church had been built there, and a number of neighbouring village parishes had interred their deceased close to the church, also under the road that led to the knight’s castle. – Every time that the pious Knight rode to war, or returned home, he would say a prayer, as he passed by the Church of the Dead, for the repose of the departed.

Thus he rode, fearlessly and full of faith in God, over the silent graveyard at all times of the day or night, in the dark of night or in the clear moonlight which brightly illumined the white gravestones and cast a silver shimmer over the age-old colossal green mounds which lay along the side.

One day the pious Knight had set out and had attended to some affairs, and on his way home, around evening, a troop of enemies, who had been lying in ambush, suddenly attacked him in force. Although he was not in the least afraid, drawing his trusty blade and defending himself stoutly against his adversaries, yet he was but one man and they were many, so he had no other recourse than flight, to which end he swiftly turned his faithful steed around. But the whole troop of his pursuers was soon at his heels, savagely yelling and raging, and the fleeing Knight had to ride for his life; it was a Wild Hunt. Then the fugitive reached the field of the dead, riding over which he had so often uttered the prayer, “Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord!”, the words of the one hundred and thirtieth Psalm, which is said so the dead may rest in peace, and for the forgiveness of sins. This time, however, the Knight was not able to say all of the Psalm; in his fear he could say only, “Out of the depths – out of the depths –” And behold, there rose from the depths – from the human graves – in droves, pale skeletons, mighty giants, the departed, and they raised weaponed arms and stood between the fleeing Knight and his enemies and pursuers, a wall of bones; and the pursuers felt a shuddering in their souls, while their horses shied and sprang back rearing.

The pious Knight came safely home to his strong castle, and never again did his enemies dare to lie in wait for him. The dead, for whom he had prayed, had gratefully, and faithfully, been his shield.

32. The Wandering Staff

Into an inn on a desolate northern heath there walked one day a man of solemn appearance. His face was wan and ashen-grey, and his garb was the brown of soil from a freshly-dug grave. In his hand he bore a staff of solid dark wood. He laid this staff in a corner of the common room. In the inn there lived only an old woman with a boy of around fourteen years of age, together with a serving-lad and a maid. These two were busy outside; there was no one in the lounge but the innkeeper and her young son.

The sombre wanderer called for a light refreshment, and the landlady went to bring it. The wanderer was left alone with the boy but he took no notice of him, walking instead to a window that faced the east, and he sighed, and stood there a long time, staring out over the dreary expanse of heathland.

Meanwhile the boy was looking, intrigued, at the stranger’s staff. On the handle of this staff silver pins had been hammered in to form the figure of a cross:

These pins gleamed very brightly, like new, and this stick attracted the boy; his inquisitiveness changed into acquisitiveness. Cautiously, he threw a glance at the stranger, who was standing motionless at the window – cautiously, Jacob, as the landlady’s young son was called, reached out his hand for the staff. Directly beside it stood a tall old wall clock with a carved brown case. Softly, Jacob turned the door-handle of the clock-case; softly, he opened its door; softly, he took hold of the staff, and it made his hand tremble when he touched it – but he took it, and put it inside the clock-case, and closed the door again. The staff was gone.

Now the innkeeper, Jacob’s mother, came in, bringing what the stranger had requested. Jacob slipped out of the room behind her.

“So – here it is!” the innkeeper said to her only guest. “God bless you! Do sit down!” – The stranger inclined his head in token of gratitude, took the glass, wet his pallid lips, but he did not sit down. Dread of the man crept over the old woman; outside, dusk had already begun to fall.

The innkeeper did not want the stranger to tarry under her roof, nevertheless she asked: “Do you wish to pass the night here? It’s nearly evening! You do not sit down – are you not tired?”

“Cannot stay, must go on, must wander – who asks if I am tired? Oh!” came the gloomy answer.

The innkeeper’s dread deepened. The stranger laid a coin on the table – the innkeeper did not reach for it.

Now he walked towards the door, reached into the corner and asked: “Where is my walking staff?”

“Did you have a staff?” the innkeeper asked.

“I had a staff, and I put it in this corner!” the tall dark man replied in a hollow voice.

“My God! Then where could it have gone?” cried the startled woman. “Look for it – perhaps you are mistaken? You put the staff somewhere else?”

“It has gone. It will bring no happiness to the hand that took it!” replied the man in a dull, choked voice. “Took?” the innkeeper vehemently exclaimed. “Who could have taken it? Why, there was no one here except you and I and –” here she broke off.

“And your son!” the stranger completed.

“God in Heaven!” the woman cried out – and she instantly ran out the room, crying in a voice that rang through the whole house: “Jacob! Jacob!”

Jacob did not answer – he had concealed himself; he knew why his mother was calling for him and he was afraid.

She returned out of breath and said: “There is neither sight nor sound of the boy – I don’t know, did he do it or didn’t he? But stay just a moment more!”

The innkeeper went into her chamber and came back straight afterwards with a staff that was old, indeed, but beautiful, and she handed it to the stranger. “There – take, in the meantime, the walking-stick of my late husband – you will no doubt call here again one day! If yours is found, then return this to me in exchange.”

“Thank you, hostess!” the stranger said, and he left. It was already very dark and mist hung over the stretches of heath – the pale wanderer strode into it.

The innkeeper’s heart felt lighter once this uncanny guest had left her house. She took the money he had left behind – it was a small, ancient silver coin. The woman knew neither the writing nor the stamp; she could not know that the coin had been struck during the reign of the Roman Emperor Tiberius, the same Emperor who destroyed Jerusalem.[40]

Now the door quietly opened – Jacob shyly sidled into the room. “Ill-starred son!” his mother shrieked at him. “Speak, did you take the stranger’s staff?”

Jacob was silent – half from defiance, and half from fear of his mother’s anger and her severe punishment.

“You’re silent – so you did take it, you godless rogue!” the innkeeper scolded. “Where is the stick? Where did you drag it to? Take it this instant and run with it after the stranger, and have him return to you your late father’s Sunday stick which he went to church with, and which I lent to the stranger so he would not say he had been robbed in my house, robbed by my child!”

Jacob was a stubborn boy – he stayed silent, he did not move a muscle, he did not say a word, let his mother scold as much as she wished, and at last she lost her temper, beat him soundly, and sent him to bed without supper.

The next day, when the innkeeper was busy in the kitchen, Jacob turned the bolt-handle of the clock-case, opened the door, and reached in and pulled out the staff. He regarded it with pleasure but with fear also, for the seven silver pins twinkled so very oddly, and the staff was as icy-cold as a rigid snake, and yet it was as if the staff were alive. Jacob was drawn, against his will, to walk with this staff, and he walked with it and walked – and walked – far, far away – out over the moors – it was long since he had last seen his parental home. The staff stirred restlessly in Jacob’s hand – against his will – and deadly shudders crept over his body. Whither, whither was the staff leading him, whither was it compelling him? He had to walk, walk on and on, for he could neither rest nor relax, at no spot, at no spring.

Finally, when the day was drawing to a close, when mist once again hung over the bleak, desolate moors, there stood before Jacob’s eyes, almost ghostly in the grey misty twilight, a dismal farmstead; he walked towards it and at length became aware, to his great astonishment, that he was back home.

His mother received him badly and in an ill-humour; she had thought he had run away, had been deeply alarmed, and had sent out the serving-lad and the maid to look for him, and almost a whole day’s work had been lost. In an industrious household, no one likes to see such a waste. But Jacob was so tired, oh so tired; he staggered to his bed and fell down on it, half-fainting; the staff slipped from his hand without Jacob noticing, but his mother did not pick the staff up – she had a horror of it.

A week passed; the staff stood still in the case of the old wall-clock. Jacob could not recollect having hidden it in there a second time, and he took especial care not to touch it again; yet he looked at it from time to time, and shivers ran down his spine at the sight. In the darkness of the brown casing the seven points that formed the cross shone as brightly as diamonds.

It was a Friday, like that day on which Jacob had secretly taken and hidden the strange wanderer’s staff, and behold – all of a sudden the staff was in Jacob’s hand, without his having stretched out for it, and Jacob had to wander again, wander like the previous time, without rest, without repose, until the stars began to shine in the sky. And then Jacob came back home dead on his feet, weak and shaking, and pale of visage; and he did not speak. And when he did speak, his words chilled the spine. He had passed through villages, and just by looking at the people he met in them, he could instantly tell whether they would die or no that same year; he could tell that houses would be consumed by conflagrations sometime soon; that meadows would be battered by hail.

Every Friday Jacob had to wander – the staff compelled him – he had to see all the impending woe and misfortune in every place to which the staff took him, and then at home he disclosed it to his mother, the maid, and the serving-lad, and they disclosed it to the guests who stopped in.

Jacob stood by a rushing stream. Ha, now I’ve got it! Jacob thought, delighted – and the staff flew from the path into the rolling water. It seemed to wriggle in the stream like a brown snake.

“It won’t be running after me again!” cried Jacob, and he returned home with a lightened heart.

Jacob’s heart was not light for long; only until he saw, in the darkness of the clock-case, the seven stars of the cross uncannily flashing and twinkling.

Now the maid – for Jacob’s misfortune was discussed more and more – gave a piece of advice. “Nail up that shabby old case,” she advised, “then the spook’ll be scuppered. It’s all one whether the clock works or not.”

That was a really good piece of advice; it’s just a pity that it was in vain. When the next Friday arrived, the staff was in Jacob’s hand, and he simply did not know how. But he had to wander – wander – wander – from morning until evening – and came back home, more tired and more wretched than ever before.

“If such a witch’s trick befell me,” said Walt, the clever serving-lad, “I know what I’d do, all right. I’d chop the stick into smithereens, and that’s flat!”

This advice was also attempted, in case it might pass the test. Unfortunately, it did not – something certainly shattered into pieces, however it was not the staff, but rather the axe with which Jacob struck blows upon the former; and his hand fell as if paralysed, feebly letting the axe-handle drop to the ground.

To wander, to wander! Every and every Friday which God brought into being – weak in body, sick at soul, close to despair. To wander and foresee the full excess of human misery, which an all-wise divinity beneficently keeps otherwise hidden from mortal eyes. Bands of warriors who devastated the towns, rivers which inundated them, herds whose corpses the plague left to fertilise the meadows – every atrocity the very near future was to bring, Jacob foresaw. One day he came to a village in which a fire was blazing; house after house was engulfed in the flames, which leapt from one roof to the next. Once again, an idea flashed through Jacob’s mind. Into the blazing flames with the staff! And then the staff flew through the air – it caught on a burning rafter and became red-hot, then white-hot, and the silver pins of the cross blazed with a bluish light. Jacob went home without the staff.

And the wall-clock creaked, and the door opened by itself, making mock of the nails with which it was fastened shut – there was the staff – unscathed. Jacob sank unconscious into his mother’s arms – he was utterly crushed; and the dear burden, which she was unable to keep upright, made her sink down onto her knees, and she prayed fervently and ardently, and screamed and wailed to the heavens.

Jacob wandered, had to wander, but he could no longer wander far – his strength was exhausted, the feeble spring of his life began to languish.

Fifty-two times had Jacob had to wander – had to, whether he was standing up or lying down, the staff tore him from thence; if he was weary to death, unable to move a muscle the whole week through – on Friday wandering ensued. Yet the staff was merciful, taking him on shorter and ever shorter ways around his parental home; in the end, Jacob was so utterly exhausted that he needed a whole day for a walk of one hour, for dragging himself along more quickly was impossible for him. He was like a trembling geriatric of ninety years of age, and the colour of his countenance was like ash.

Jacob believed that he would die in the end, and his mother and all who saw him believed the same; and Jacob hoped so.

Then, on the day before the fifty-third Friday, a dream came to Jacob. He saw most vividly, as if it were really happening, the door of the old wall-clock open, the staff come out, and walk to the bed where Jacob lay.

And then the staff began to speak.

“Jacob,” it said, “I am a very old staff. The patriarch whom you are named after passed over the Jordan with me in his hand. I lay in the hand of Moses when Moses spoke with God, and became a snake, then a staff again. I lay in Aaron’s hand and became a snake once more and devoured the serpent-staves of Pharaoh’s sorcerers. And I was raised again by the hand of Moses and the Red Sea parted beneath me. Twice did Moses strike the barren rock with me, and a stream burst out of the rock in the desert, giving water to all who were dying of thirst, both men and beasts. Whose staff I am now, you, boy, cannot understand. You committed a great sin when you secretly purloined from the poor wanderer his staff and his support, and for that you have had to walk through the valley of the shadow of death and taste of the bitterness of life. But henceforth the Lord shall refresh your soul and lead you on in the paths of righteousness, for the sake of His name. The stick and staff of the Lord shall comfort you.”

When the staff had spoken thus, it was as if angels’ wings fanned Jacob with heavenly peace. He felt no more fatigue, he fell into a slumber, and he awoke as one reborn.

Then Friday morning dawned – it was a Good Friday. Jacob thought he would have to begin wandering again at any moment, but the staff did not come into his hand.

Towards evening Jacob spoke softly and piously with his mother of exalted and divine things which children are too young to understand. Then the door opened and a tall dark wanderer walked in and gave the greeting: “Peace be with you!”

Shudders ran through mother and son; they both knew this wanderer. And then the door of the house-clock case opened, and the staff floated out and into the stranger’s hand. The cross on the staff shone brightly through the evening gloom. The stranger said once more, “Peace be with you!”, turned, and departed. A holy peace passed into the souls of mother and son. The woes of the staff had been taken from them.

33. The Wishing-Things

Once upon a time, by a northern sea, there was a Sea King who was lord over a large swathe of land and a great navy, and he had three sons who had reached their years of adolescence and were now to put to sea, do brave deeds, put their courage to the proof, and acquire riches. So the King gave order that three new, large and stately ships be built, well manned and well equipped; and after presenting one of these ships to each of his sons, he asked the eldest son: “What do you propose to do with the ship I have given you?”

“With that, my Father,” the Sea-King’s eldest son replied, “I propose to sail far over the sea to the east and win treasures from distant coasts and islands.”

“Well done!” the King remarked. “Go now, and Fortune go with you!”

Then he asked his second son: “What do you propose to do with the ship I gave you?”

“With that, my Father,” the Sea-King’s middle son replied, “I propose to sail far over the sea to the west to discover new lands and islands, and bring a sizable share of their treasures home.”

“Well done!” the King remarked to this son also. “Go you now too, and Fortune go with you!”

Now the King turned to his third son and asked: “What do you propose to do with the ship I have given you?”

“I propose, my gracious King, lord and father,” the Sea-King’s youngest son replied, “to set out in search of adventure, and prove myself worthy of your noble name and your love wherever my vessel may take me, and ever and always.”

This answer surprised the King, for it was not what he had expected to hear; yet there was nothing to be said against it, so he remarked: “That’s delightful! Go now, and Fortune go with you!”

Now a farewell banquet was held, after which the three Princes put to sea. For a time they sailed their three ships in company, but when they came out into the open sea they separated – to the east, the west, and the south. The one who sailed to the east reached the Land of Silver, where it rained roubles, and he filled his ship with as much silver as it was able to carry. The second son, who had sailed to the west, had a much longer journey but reached the Land of Gold, which is called Eldorado, and he was able to load his ship full to the gunnels with as much gold as it could carry. Both brothers, the one with his ship of silver, the other with his ship of gold, voyaged homewards to their father’s castle, where they arrived safe and sound and were joyfully received.

The third brother, who had steered his ship southwards, found neither a Land of Silver nor a Land of Gold, and almost no land whatsoever, and the provisions on his ship were beginning to run out. At last, he perceived a small dark point in the distance, which he headed for, with high hopes of finding at least a Land of Bread there; but when he came closer, he saw that it was a desolate island surrounded by coral reefs and full of sheer, precipitous cliffs and inhospitable rocks. It was the Land of the Starvelings – which might not have been its real name (for it did not seem to be inhabited by a single soul, nor was it on any map or sea-chart), yet that was the name the Prince gave to this inhospitable island after he had wandered around it for three days in search of food for himself and his crew but found nothing. On the third day, he collapsed from hunger and lay in a swoon. When he came to, he saw a fair maiden standing before him, regarding him with sympathetic eyes, and she asked him: “Whoever are you, and however did you come here?”

“Ah!” the King’s son groaned, “If only I had not come here. I am a Prince who has nothing to eat, and I’m starving to death!”

“Well, if there’s nothing else that you need, I can certainly do something about that! Follow me, my Prince!” said the maiden, and these words were like music to the Prince’s ears.

His young guide brought him to a cottage, which they entered; inside an old spinner was sitting, busy with her distaff, and the maiden said to the old woman: “Dear mother, here is a young Prince, and he’s hungry; let us give him to eat and to drink!”

“By no means – don’t think of it!” the old one objected. “The Wishing-Cloth is safely locked away in the reliquary. Won’t take it out, won’t take it!”

But then the old woman’s daughter began to cry and bitterly lament, exclaiming: “But I promised him! I must keep my word to him! Please, please, pretty please, take out the Wishing-Cloth!” – At this, the old woman unlocked a reliquary and took out a linen tablecloth that was embroidered with wondrous artistry in an ancient manner and had stitched fringes. The old woman spread it over the table and murmured the words:

“Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

Supply a man with food and wine.”

No sooner had she said this than the Wishing-Cloth was covered with bread and salt, marinated roasts and other meats, boiled red cabbage and other crucifers, and a bottle of wine with a glass, and a knife and fork. – Even in his father’s castle, the King’s son had never enjoyed a meal as delicious as this one. When he was full up, he drank to the health of his two benefactresses with words of gratitude and walked towards his ship, to continue his journey as soon as possible. The young maiden ran after him, crying: “Take me with you – I’ll die without you!” But he replied, “Dear, good child – I cannot take you with me, I would lead you to ruin; but if I see happy days again, I shall come back for you.”

“Well, keep your word!” the maiden said, “and take the Wishing-Cloth to remember me by, and use it as you have seen my mother use it! Take good care of it, and do not forget me!”

The King’s son received the precious Wishing-Thing with great delight and boarded his ship, where the crew were pulling pitiful faces from sheer starvation, and they had begun to murmur about casting lots and transforming one of their number into roasts and chunks of boiled venison. But the King’s son laughed, had a large table brought onto the deck, spread the cloth over it, and said:

“Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

Supply my men with food and wine.”

The crew stared wide-eyed as the table filled with pork roasts and other roasts, garden salad and cucumber salad, cow’s cheese and other cheeses, port wine and other wines. It was a real banquet, and they put back out to sea in a merry mood. Towards evening, they landed on another island, which the Prince explored like the previous one. He found it to be just as uninhabited and inhospitable, and becoming hungry and weary from roaming around, he sat down at a suitable place on the grass, spread out his Wishing-Cloth, and partook of a meal. All of a sudden a man came walking along, who stopped dead in his tracks in amazement, and said: “What’s this? Here you are, eating your fill, while I, I who was cast up by a storm on this Isle of Hunger, am about to keel over from starvation any moment!”

“Be my guest!” the King’s son amiably said, and after bidding the cloth spread itself with new provisions, he told the man how he had come into possession of the same.

“Oh yes,” the stranger remarked, “such Wishing-Things do exist, but they do not all help us much. Look at my staff here – it too is a Wishing-Thing. If I twist the knob off and say: A hundred – or A thousand – or A hundred thousand men, foot or horse, then they appear and will do whatever I want; and if I screw the knob back on, they disappear. But what have I got out of this? What use are armies to me when I cannot feed them? Soldiers want to live too – and when you have nothing for yourself, what then? Such a worthy Wishing-Cloth, now that’s to my liking, and I’d give the Wishing-Staff for it at the drop of a hat.”

“Well, we could certainly swap, if that were alright by you!” said the King’s son.

“Indeed, you have second-guessed my secret desire, my noble friend!” the stranger cried with delight, and the exchange ensued on the spot, whereupon they went their separate ways. But a little while later the King’s son twisted the knob of the staff off and cried: “A hundred men on horseback!” And the riders clattered up to him. “Fetch me my Wishing-Cloth at once!” the King’s son ordered, and the troops executed his command as fast as the wind, and they came back as fast as the wind, brandishing the tablecloth as a standard. Then the Prince spread out the precious item and exclaimed:

“Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

Give five score men their food and wine.”

and he bid the men eat their fill and drink their fill, for which they gave him three cheers, and another three, and yet another three. Hereupon the Prince expressed his thanks most graciously, then he screwed the knob back on the staff and the men instantly disappeared.

After this, the fortunate possessor of the two Wishing-Things betook himself back to his ship and voyaged onwards, and on the next day he landed on a third island, which he also wandered around in search of adventure. On this island he met an old woman who was wrapped in a many-coloured cloak that was nothing but patches of cloth stitched together, and who looked very wretched, and groaned: “Ah, I’m ready to collapse from hunger and thirst, I haven’t eaten anything for two days. Do you perhaps have any bread on you?”

“No, grandma,” the Prince replied. “I have no truck with bread. Would you not like some other fare? I can give you whatever you wish!”

“Goodness me!” cried the woman. “If I could only have a small bowl of coffee! I’m really too empty inside!”

Then the King’s son produced his precious cloth, spread it out, and said:

“Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

For breakfast for two, with coffee and wine.”

Then the cloth was covered with cups and plates, with coffee-pots, cream-jugs and milk-jugs, all warm; with rolls and cakes, bread-cake and sponge cake, with cane sugar and rock candy, with butter and honey, with Westphalian ham and Pomeranian goose-breast, with wine from Malaga and wine from Cyprus. Then the old woman was all smiles and she nibbled the candies for all she was worth, became very merry, and threw her cloak up into the air; and all the patches of cloth flew apart and fell down all over the island, and where a yellow or red patch landed it became a splendid castle or a villa, the ground where a green one lay became a park, and a blue one turned into a beautiful lake. Thus was the desert island transformed all at once into a paradise. On seeing this, the Prince was tickled pink, and he said to the woman: “I could truly envy you such a treasure as this cloak of yours.”

“Yes, yes – it is very pretty,” the old woman replied, “but what use to me is the most beautiful lake if it has nothing more in it than water, what use is the biggest park if the game inside is not cooked, and what use is the most magnificent castle if you cannot get any coffee there or anything to nibble? In sooth, I think I’d rather have your Wishing-Cloth.”

“Then let us swap the Wishing-Things!” the Prince suggested, and the old woman agreed at once. She clapped her hands, and the castles, the parks and the lakes all became colourful patches again, and they came together to form a cloak; the woman placed it in the Prince’s hand and delightedly received the Wishing-Cloth from him.

She had not gone far before he again unscrewed the knob from his Wishing-Staff, summoned a hundred men, and ordered his tablecloth back; and his command was executed right away. Hereupon the King’s son betook himself back to his ship and sailed on. On the next day another southern island was discovered, which the Prince roamed around. He found no treasures there but kept walking until he was weary, and then he fell into a slumber at a picturesque place in a small forest.

He was woken by the supremely beautiful sound of violin strings, and, rising to his feet, he saw a violinist sitting on a rock above him, whom he greeted and wholeheartedly applauded. The violinist accepted the Prince’s appreciation very urbanely as an act of well-deserved homage. He said, “I am very pleased that you have such correct judgement and such good taste. The violin is the queen of all instruments; he who cannot fiddle is a rogue; I, on the other hand, am the King of all Violinists; every fiddler in the whole wide world is a mere bungler beside me; I merely have to stroke a single string – the G-string, it is called – and people go into frenzies and ecstasies, close their eyes, fall down and pass out. But when I stroke the A-string, they come back to their senses and all cry out, “Ah! Ah!” and start raving from rapture and folly, and behave as if the earth and the entire human race could not bring forth anything nobler, greater, and more sublime than this little titillation of the ears and the senses; and that is why I hold all these fools in deep contempt, and, after I had been showered with gold and treasures by the ignorant crowd, I retreated to this wasteland where I live only for myself, listen to myself, and worship myself, for I am actually a god; at least, that word was frequently screamed at me when I played before the people, particularly by enraptured women, who did not know that my violin is a Wishing-Violin, on which whatever I have in my mind – the most sublime, the most audacious, the most tender, the most fantastic, the craziest conceit – plays itself the instant I but make the wish.”

“That sounds well in every regard!” said the Prince. “In truth, I revere you and your violin, yet I would owe you a heavy debt of gratitude if you would give me a bite to eat; I am hungry and thirsty, and I have not found a single thing on this island to satisfy my appetite.”

“O man of the mundane world!” cried the violinist. “So you have no appetite for my melodies? They did not satisfy you? Your thoughts and desires are given wholly to earthly pleasures? Truly I pity you. There is barely enough to eat and drink here to satisfy the requirements of my own weak, earthly body. Only too readily would I drink, once again, a glass of champagne, which used to flow in streams at my Artist’s Table when those who entertained me idolized me – that is out of the question here.”

“Hm, hm!” the King’s son hemmed. “Then it is a good thing, is it not, that there are other fine arts apart from yours, for virtuosi may feast their fill on melodies but mankind most certainly may not. I, for example, am a culinary artist, a cook, and as you are suffering a lack of dainties here, and you have refreshed me so delightfully, so I shall now let you see my art, and invite you to be my guest.”

“Oh? Where?” asked the violinist. “On this very spot!” replied the Prince, and producing his precious cloth, he spread it out and said:

“Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

And give two artists breakfast with the best wine.”

Then the cloth displayed its power like never before: there appeared on the table salmon and caviar, sardines and anchovies, Bremen lampreys and fresh soused herrings, lobsters and oysters, and Sillery champagne, the finest burgundy, sherry and Syracusan wine; and they both tucked in with great gusto, and the violinist became very merry, poured his glass so full of champagne that it bubbled and poured over, clinked glasses with the Prince, and jubilantly cried: “Long life to you, cook! You shall be my brother – Brother! – You too are a god!”

“I can have this every day,” laughed the King’s son. “Every day?” the virtuoso slurred. “Listen – brother – let us ex- exchange, give me the Wishing-Cloth – I’ll give you my violin for it – shake on it, dear brother! Every day! Yippee! Every day – a god! Living like a god!”

The King’s son agreed to the exchange, took the violin, gave the tablecloth, and left. The violinist took the cloth, mistook it, in his divine blissfulness, for a handkerchief, blew his nose into it, stumbled, fell down and fell asleep; and the one man that the King’s son sent to fetch the cloth back from him was enough.

And now the Prince decided to begin his homeward journey. This passed entirely without mishap, and after a long voyage the coast appertaining to the Sea-King’s realm was reached, and the Prince arrived in the vicinity of his father’s castle. However, night having fallen by this time, he did not wish to occasion any disturbance and so sought a pleasant place in the game park near the castle, where he laid himself down and slept.

On the next morning the King had arranged a hunt in the game park to shoot a stag, some fallow deer, and some pheasants, which had multiplied to excess, for his table. The hounds scented a stranger in the park and dashed, barking and baying, towards the tree under which the stranger lay, but when they approached they could instantly tell from his scent that he was the Prince – a knack unique to canine noses – and they wagged their tails, turned somersaults of delight, rolled in the grass, and cut all kinds of crazy capers. The King heard the noise the dogs were making and came in person to the tree, and he found his youngest Prince there, rising from his slumber, and being welcomed by the hounds in the most joyous manner. But the King was not at all pleased with the appearance of his youngest Prince; rather, he said, “Well look, here you are back again, and you look like something the cat dragged in. I do not suppose that you have acquired any treasures and brought them with you; hitherto, I had, you know, lived in the happy hope that you – with your eldest brother arriving in the Land of Silver, and the middle one in the Land of Gold – had reached the Land of Diamonds and would return from it with a rich cargo, which would have given me great joy and been of use to the Kingdom, for I am embroiled in an infamous war with the neighbour to my realm; he is pressing me hard and has already destroyed many of my towns and castles. All the silver and all the gold that your elder brothers brought home with them has gone on the arming and upkeep of my army, and this army has already been defeated in several battles, so the immediate prospect is none other than our enemy conquering all of my realm and chasing us from our throne and our land.”

“That will not be, my gracious King, father, and master!” the youngest Prince replied. “We shall give a new turn to these affairs, just let us set out at once for the enemy’s camp, without any men!”

“Indeed?” said the King and his elder sons. “We are to deliver ourselves into the lion’s maw? I take it that you sailed below the meridian and the equatorial sun scorched your brain? You have, at any rate, become just a little deranged.”

“We shall see about that,” said the youngest Prince. Meanwhile there came couriers with the tidings that the enemy had invaded with powerful forces from three sides simultaneously and was rapidly advancing at present, and so the King and his two elder Princes thought that, this being the case, they had no alternative but to flee by way of the fourth side. The youngest Prince, however, would not hear of that, but rather asked them not to be in such a hurry; and unscrewing the knob of his stick, he commanded: “A hundred thousand men horse and foot! Rout the enemy and destroy him like snuff.” Then the whole area was overrun with armed troops, to the unending astonishment of the King, and one hour later, not only was there no enemy left in the land, but the land of the antagonistic neighbour had been utterly vanquished to boot. Hereupon the King’s son spread out his Wishing-Cloth and said, “Now let us enjoy the victory feast!

Spread yourself, O Wishing-Cloth mine,

Give a hundred thousand food and wine.”

Once again everyone fell to with great gusto, and the blood of grapes flowed in rivers. “If you ask me, a festive mood should have music!” cried the Prince. “Let a large concert be arranged – I shall popularise myself, and make my bow as a musician, giving my right arm for the poor!” This came to pass: the Prince regaled his audience with a violin solo, first playing a usual piece, which won him usual applause, then something exceptional, which excited quite exceptional applause for him; then on the G-string, making everyone pass out, then on the A-string, causing everyone to shout ah! and bravo. The King, his elder Princes and his entire household were too astonished and amazed to come off cloud nine. All the more did the young Prince keep his feet on the ground; he said, “Let us restore everything that the enemy destroyed in our land, but to a more beautiful state; let us maintain our brave army in readiness for war, let us put our minds to beautifying our land, by this means shall we help the realm to flourish!” – And he pulled out the wishing-cloak and threw it up into the air, and the whole land was filled with new castles and villas and parks and lakes, and then some of the castles were made into handsome barracks; the soldiers entered these, the colonels and captains moved in to the villas, and then everything else sorted itself out. With the Wishing-Cloth, the Prince gave the land food and prosperity; with the Wishing-Staff, which he named the General Staff, he secured for himself an assertive power and, at the same time, respect on the part of his neighbours; with the Wishing-Cloak, he carpeted the land with flowers, promoted luxury, and thereby trade and industry, and thereby a prosperous bourgeoisie; and with the violin he fostered the fine arts and elevated the aesthetic sense of the people by putting a stop to the bad taste of the drum-bangers and the harpers on the same string at one and the same time. He also set sail, fetched from that lonely isle the maiden who had extended so much kindness and help to him, and made her his wife, saying: “She kept her word to me, and it is only right that I keep my word to her.” – Oh, if only all Princes possessed such Wishing-Things, and, in the event that they did, made such good use of them as this exemplary son of a Sea-King! – What a shame that this same Prince was not the son of a Land-King!

34. The Little Blue Flame

Once a single old gentleman lived in an ancient house where he could seldom keep a domestic staff for long, and all the servants he had employed said that the house gave them the creeps: they had heard spectres crashing around, had seen flames in dark places, and had been terrified by sprites in sundry other ways. Now it happened that yet another new maid entered this gentleman’s service, and her name was Anna; and after the first night the gentleman asked his servant how she had slept – for he was afraid he would yet again have to hear complaints about apparitions in the house. But the cheerful maid told him she had slept very well. The same answer to the same question ensued on the second morning. But on the third morning the maid overslept, and then she was embarrassed, and she said, “All night it seemed to me that a little blue light was dancing around my bed, and it whispered continually, ‘Go Ann, Go Ann!” so that I couldn’t fall asleep before morning, at first cockcrow.”

Now as this disturbance continued for several consecutive nights, the girl showed an inclination to leave the service she had recently entered; the gentleman was sorry about this, and he said to Anna, “You know what, Anna, you should have a word with the priest about this, perhaps he can give you some good advice!”

The clergyman told Anna, when she asked for his guidance, “If the blue light is a spirit and it calls you, then quickly get dressed and follow it, but be constantly on your guard: do not accept anything from it, do not take anything it offers you, do not do anything it bids you, and always let it lead the way. If you follow my advice exactly, it may make your fortune.”

In the evening the maid had no sooner got into her bed than the little blue flame was dancing around it and whispering again, “Go Ann, go Ann!” “If that’s how it must be,” said Anna, getting out of bed and quickly into her clothes, “then let us go.”

“Go Ann!” whispered the flame. “You go ahead!” said Anna, and the flame flickered before her as it passed along a corridor and down the stairs, right up to the cellar door. There the little flame whispered again, “Unlock, Ann!”

“You unlock!” said Anna, “I have no key.”

Then the little flame seemed to gain the form of a little white woman who breathed against the keyhole, and the cellar door swung open. Now the bluishly shimmering figure floated down the cellar steps in front of Anna, towards the hindmost corner of the cellar. There a pickaxe was leaning against the wall, and the woman, whose bluish shimmer made the cellar passably light, pointed to the tool and whispered, “Hack a hole here, Ann!” “You hack a hole!” said Anna, “I don’t need one.”

And then the woman actually grasped the pickaxe and set to work with a will; after a short while a cauldron came into sight, in which there lay all sorts of beautiful things, old gold coins and jewellery with fine pearls and gems. “Lift, Ann! Lift it out, Ann!” whispered the ghost, but Anna said, quite calmly: “You lift it out, I might do myself an injury.” So the woman lifted the cauldron up off the ground and set it down before Anna, so that all the gold and silver which lay heaped inside chinked and clinked.

“Carry ’tup Ann, to your chamber!” whispered the woman – but Anna said, “Carry ’tup yourself. It’s too heavy for me.” So the woman lifted the pot and whispered again, “Go Ann, go Ann!” but Anna replied, “That’s not on! The one with the light leads the way!” And so the woman did go on ahead, back up the steps, but slowly, for she had a job carrying the cauldron, and she moaned and groaned up every step and stair to Anna’s bedchamber. There she put the cauldron down and Anna lay back down in her bed, and the bluish light danced around the bed once more. Then Anna made the sign of the cross and said, “If you have helped me, then may you be helped by God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost in the Eternal Kingdom of Heaven, Amen!”

Then the white woman was standing before Anna once again, but distinctly outlined, and her face shone with the light of purest joy – then she suddenly disappeared. Anna slipped smoothly into sleep, and when the awoke the next morning, she thought it had all been just a dream. But behold – the cauldron was still there, and she was mistress of a considerable fortune. Never again did a ghost haunt the old gentleman’s house.

35. Ingratitude is the World’s Reward

Once upon a time there was a poor baker’s journeyman who came into conflict with his master because he always made the rolls and Lenten cracknel too big for the master’s liking, the master always wanting them to be unchristianly small. The journeyman was the most upright and honest fellow in the world, and he had procured many new customers for his master through his cheerfulness and through his diligence, but all of that availed him nought, and the master said: “I am the Master here; you may be King outside.” The lad sighed, “Aye, aye, Master!

It’s small the rolls will bide,

And I’ll be King outside.”

And he tied up his bundle and went on his way.

When the baker’s journeyman had wandered for a while, he saw a traveller approaching him with heavy steps and a stooped gait, so he greeted him and asked him what he was and whither he was heading. The traveller was frank enough to openly admit what so many men would not acknowledge of themselves for all the tea in China, saying: “Ah, friend! I am a poor old ass. For a long time did I faithfully serve my master, a miller, lugging heavy sack after heavy sack, grain into the mill, flour out of the mill, receiving many blows here and many blows there, and in course of this I grew old and feeble, and because of that, the miller chased me away, for: Ingratitude is the World’s Reward.”

“I fared but little better than you, poor Long-Ears!” said the baker’s journeyman. “Come, let us travel together, Miller’s-Lion. Bakers and millers belong together, and a trouble shared is a trouble halved.”

The two travelling companions had not gone far together when they met with a dog who was whimpering pitifully, for he was cold and hungry at the same time. He lay by the wayside, barely able to rise to his feet, and looked at the two wanderers through dull but sincere eyes.

“It seems that you, too, are not living the best of times, Old Sultan, or whatever your name may be – you seem in truth to be an invalid; you look as if you’ve eaten your last loaf!” the baker said to the dog.

“Oh, if only you were speaking the truth!” sighed the dog, “if only a little piece of bread were baked for me, even if it were my last, to at least save me from dying of hunger! – For many years did I guard my master’s house and home, I saved his life, at the risk of my own, from the hands of a murdering robber; but now that my voice has grown weak and hoarse from years of barking, and my teeth are blunt, and I no longer catch the worm, but only Zs, my master has driven me away from his house and home with blows, for: Ingratitude is the World’s Reward.”

“You poor dog, you poor devil!” the baker’s journeyman commiserated with the dog, handing him a piece of bread. “Come, join our company, for birds of a feather flock together.”

Its strength revived by the bread, the dog joined the two wanderers.

Now as the three of them journeyed on, they espied on a side road, which ran from another village towards the main road, into which it came out, a strange couple coming walking along, and all three stopped dead in their tracks in amazement. They were an old cat and an old cock who had barely a feather left in his tail. Both travellers were very weary and unable to walk quickly.

When the three travellers had exchanged suitably courteous greetings with the two who had fallen in their way, the cat, which looked very scrawny, and appearances did not lie, for it really was extremely scrawny, complained that it had caught all the mice in a woman’s house with tremendous activity, bursting with diligence and zeal, but now that the mice were all gone and she, the cat, had grown old, the woman had got hold of the idea that a cat always lives on mousing alone and had not given her the least little bite to eat. And when she – the cat – had risked the attempt to nibble a little something in the milk-pan, driven solely by hunger and a dreadful thirst, whereupon, being caught in the aforementioned attempt by the woman, she had, in her terror and wholly unintentionally, knocked over the milk-pan, then the woman had fallen upon her, the poor, innocent cat, like a fury, and had hit out at her, first with the broom, and afterwards with the toasting-fork and the iron fire-tongs, so that Moggie had been able to save her life only by breaking through a window-pane, terribly lacerating her nose, ears and feet on the glass in the process. “Ah!” the cat concluded with a deep sigh, “Ingratitude is the World’s Reward!”

Now when the cat had finished the narration of her sad ultimate fate, the cock began to speak, relating how he had been always awake and watchful as well as courageous, fearless and faithful in his farmyard, but because the henfolk no longer wished to lay eggs properly, from laziness and a hankering to rebel, and through no fault of his, the cock’s, own, and because the lazy farmhands had put the blame on him whenever they overslept, saying he no longer awakened them with his crowing for he himself slept too long, a young cock full of strength and spirit and fire had been procured who had promptly bitten him out of the yard and away from the hens, and the cook had said, “We can slaughter the old cock now; his flesh is indeed not fit to be eaten, being too tough, but he will at least be good for a tasty chicken soup.” – “When I heard that,” the cock mournfully concluded his narration, “I decided to go wandering, and not far from the village where I lived, I ran into my companion, the cat. We lamented our common sorrows to one another and often said with a sigh: Ingratitude is the World’s Reward!”

The good baker’s journeyman was very much moved by the sad fate of these animals, which bore some similarity to his, and he decided to hold fast to their company and see if he might perhaps have the opportunity to test if animals were not more grateful than humans, for he had once read a fairy-tale, entitled ‘The Grateful Beasts’, which he still remembered very clearly, and which had depicted the gratitude of several animals as opposed to that of man.

Now as the smaller animals were very unsure on their feet, the cock never, as a spurred rider, having gone on long hikes, the cat feeling intense pain in his lacerated paws, in which some splinters of glass still stuck, and the dog hurting in every bone in his body, so the baker asked the ass kindly if he might not let the dog ride on him, and the ass said, “Hee-haw – if you like. The dog is nowhere near as heavy as three sacks of grain, and not even so heavy as one; also, my master the miller always boasted, when he had a hangover in the early morning after having drunk too much the evening before, that you had to take the hair of the dog – the hair of the dog was most salutary.”

Thus spoke the ass; the dog clambered onto his back, seated himself firmly, and laughed for the first time in a long while, saying:

“At home I always slept next to the horse, so now the proverb is true of me: He has come from the horse to the ass.”[41]

“And now you will carry the cat,” the baker’s journeyman said to the dog, who was not so keen on the idea; he scraped behind his left ear with his right forepaw and replied:

“Are you not afraid that we shall agree like cat and dog?”

“No!” the baker’s journeyman said. “The two of you must behave nice and properly, for the proverb says: The cat gets on (with) the dog.” Then the cat took two leaps, one onto the donkey and the second onto the dog, and exclaimed with a laugh: “As the saying goes, If you can get over the dog (days), you can get over anything!”[42]

Now the cock also wanted to mount – the cat – but she arched her back horribly and said, “Nowhere is that written, and there is moreover no proverb in existence that connects the cock with the cat.”

“Just do it, and – if only for my sake!” the baker urged.

“Fine, I will do so, but under the following three conditions of peace: First of all, he must comport himself with the utmost propriety, for I am an animal who loves cleanliness above all; secondly, he must not claw me, or I shall claw him back, for it is written: As you do unto me, I shall do unto you. Thirdly, he must not take it into his head to crow, for his song offends my delicacy and wounds my nerves. It would be a completely different kettle of fish if he, the cock, knew how to sing as delightfully and beautifully as I, particularly on moonlit nights in March and May, on which even the nightingales, praised to the skies though they are, fall silent and listen to me lost in admiration – which is a universally known fact.”

“Hee-haw!” cried the ass. “That is quite correct. Anch’ io sono – I too am a singing virtuoso, but the nightingale is an envious bird, as a famous German poet by the name of Bürger has previously declared, for he wrote:

Now, many asses think, I’ve found,

That nightingales should cart around

The sacks that donkeys tote each day.

So are they right? It’s hard to say.

But nightingales – of this one thing

I’m sure – don’t think an ass should sing.

And they will undoubtedly think the same way of the cats.”

After these dialogues, the peace treaty was established, following the proverb: Union is strength – to the effect that the ass should carry the dog, the dog the cat, and the cat the cock, but only on their backs, not on their heads, and it was amusing to see how the four conducted themselves with one accord.

In the meantime, night came; hunger and thirst had come to the travelling companions long before, but far and wide there was no sign of any hospitable roof offering sojourn and refreshment; the road led through an inhospitable forest. Finally, the cat pricked up her ears and cried: “I hear a noise in the distance that almost sounds like the merriment of a feast.” Then the dog snuffed, its nose in the air, and said, “Yes, I can smell the roast!” and the ass chimed in: “I can already taste the delicious evening meal and the sweetness of the night’s rest!” – “Friends!” exclaimed the baker’s journeyman, “That is all fine and good, I strongly feel your pleasant sensations, but the cat’s hearing, the dog’s smell, the ass’s presentient taste and my feeling are no use to use if we do not see whither we should turn our steps.”

When the cock heard these words, he flew off the cat’s back onto a tree, and glad to be allowed to crow again, he crowed lustily. “Cock-a-doodle-doo! I see a house in which all the windows are brightly lit, and in which a feast is surely being held! Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

“Very well!” cried the baker’s journeyman, “We shall turn our steps thither!” and the cock quickly occupied once more the high position it had previously claimed on the cat’s arched back, like an ape on a camel, and Master Baldwin, the ass, trotted gently with his animal pyramid towards the house that the cock had seen, which lay in the heart of a deep and desolate wasteland, surrounded by rugged forest and steep cliffs – a grim and eerie place.

This house was a lonely forest-inn, inhabited only by an innkeeper, and inside one knew what one sometimes does not know quite exactly, namely who is the cook and who the waiter, because the innkeeper united both of these dignities in his own person.

But when someone is seriously hungry, he does not care whether a house is creepy or cosy, but walks on straight towards it. Now, a feast really was being celebrated in this house: the foxes were holding a wedding there and were having a high old time of it; there was no lack of roast meats, of all kinds, or of other tasty treats, or of merriment all round. But what a fright ensued when the company of wanderers suddenly entered the banquet-hall, right in the midst of the general assembly of sojourners at the wedding-feast! – Everyone took to their heels, through doors and windows; even the host fled, for he thought that the Devil himself had come in the form of a grotesque monster or fabulous creature, and the foxes took the baker’s man to be a wild huntsman.

Behind the house was a truly horrid place where the foxes generally wished one another good night, and they did so again this night, but with a quite particular sadness of spirit, and dispersed among the bushes; the innkeeper, however, had no idea what to do with himself outside his house – but all the better did his five uninvited guests know what to do with themselves inside, namely, to eat to their hearts’ content and make themselves quite at home, and when they had drunk and eaten to satiety, each guest sought a sleeping place that was suited to him. The baker’s journeyman lay down in the innkeeper’s bed, the cat chose the hearth, the dog the threshold of the chamber in which his guardian was sleeping, the cock climbed up the henhouse steps, and the donkey trotted deliberately towards the open stable; and every one of them, in his particular place, was very comfortable indeed.

But now the innkeeper came creeping up, wanting to see the state of his house, if it was actually still standing, and if an agreement and understanding could not be reached with the Evil One, who had taken it into possession. However, when the innkeeper stepped into his yard, the cock crowed; this awoke the dog, and when the host walked into the hallway, the former bit him good and deep in the leg; the innkeeper took flight into the parlour, where the cat leapt at him, hissing, and scratched him – the host hurriedly fled and sought refuge in the stable, where the ass let fly behind him and caught the innkeeper, hurting him badly, so he ran away again and bewailed his lot to the last foxes who remained in the vicinity of his house.

Now when day had dawned, the baker woke up, and the animals told him what kind of a rumpus there had been in the night with them and the innkeeper, and how badly treated he had been by them. The baker censured this hostile behaviour towards the rightful proprietor of the house in the forest, and he dispatched the dog to seek the innkeeper and bring him over. Now when the host appeared, shaking and trembling, the baker’s journeyman politely apologised for all that had occurred, saying he had come with his animals without the slightest hostile intention and no one had needed to run away. The baker was to be answerable for the innkeeper continuing to run the quiet forest-inn, but, for the sake of the cock, the latter must henceforth forbid the house to the foxes, for the cock must remain completely undisturbed and be free to crow or not crow according to his fancy, as a duly appointed emeritus. The ass was to receive an allowance of hay and an allowance of oats in the stable, and good straw for litter in case he wished to roll around, and also a green meadow for walking in. The cat was to keep mice and rats, by means of her dignified manner, at a suitably respectful distance from the house, and dine on bread rolls and milk every day. As for the dog, he was to, he had to, lie in the Sun and speak with the Moon for as long as he liked. The baker would work for everyone, baking the bread, helping the host to brew beer and to drink beer, as well as tending the kitchen garden and handling the cooking. All parties involved were well satisfied with this. To commemorate their journey and the newly-concluded alliance, the baker’s journeyman planted in the house- and kitchen garden reed mace and spoonwort, cockscomb, cat’s foot, hound’s tongue, and donkey-ear,[43] and from that time on they all lived happily together and forgot the world’s base reward – base ingratitude.

36. Fat Lollus and Lean Lollus

A rich man died, leaving behind two sons and a handsome fortune and inheritance. The first of the sons chose a spiritual life, in particular, the life of a monk, while the second one chose a very worldly profession – he became an innkeeper or guest-giver; in fact, he gave his guests as little as possible and took from them as much as he could for it. He married for money and strove incessantly for money. He borrowed his brother’s portion of the inheritance, the latter, as a monk, not requiring any money, and practiced usury with it – not, however, to his brother’s profit but to his own. His beer-measures were short, and he had his wine-bottles blown so small at the glassworks that anyone who saw a whole bottle became very doubtful that it was not a half-bottle, and all of his half-bottles seemed to be gravitating towards the slender physical shape of a matchstick, for which reason the guests of this innkeeper invariably called them “matches”. After the stable-lad had poured out the oats for a traveller’s horse, the innkeeper would walk to the crib when he thought no one was watching, snitch whole handfuls of oats away from the poor beast’s mouth, and shove them into his pocket. He said to himself that the crib got its name from people being able to crib from it. He was a crafty rogue, this innkeeper, and it was not his fault that he did not become rich, for he had the aptitude to do so – but the biblical verse does not speak to no purpose, which states: They that will be rich fall into temptation and snares.[44] The innkeeper did not prosper in his doings. What did it avail him to steal a few handfuls of oats from the fodder of strangers’ horses – when one of his own horses croaked? To slowly, gradually gain through his too short measures, an anker of wine, when the carelessness of his servants, whom he left unsupervised, spilled a whole ohm[45] in his cellar? He did not get ahead, this busy innkeeper, but he took backward steps in all matters, save his swindling and avarice, which became ever worse and worse, until guests stayed away and the taproom stood empty, the cards and dice lay untouched, the oven stayed cold, and the chimney left off smoking.

When the innkeeper’s retrogression had reached this point, he was shaken in every limb by a new shock: his brother, the pious monk, arrived and said to him, “Dear brother, give me back the capital I lent you; I have pledged a sumptuous altar with splendid artwork, wood-carvings and gilding to my patron saint, and I shall use that money to have it made; what is left over – if anything be left over – will be used to endow requiem masses for our beloved parents, and for you and me, in perpetuity.”

“Good God!” cried the innkeeper. “Brother, what nonsensical behaviour is this? I cannot return your money to you now because I do not have it – I am ruined; and if you insist on payment, then house and home will be put up for sale, I’ll have to go begging with my wife and children, and you’ll be certain to receive nothing, and your patron saint will not receive any new altars. Listen to me and be reasonable, my dear, devout brother! Let me hold on to the money, allow me time to recover! You know that we have gone through a difficult time in which no one could thrive or prosper except for the farmers, who feathered their nests and are now laughing at us. Your saint was, without doubt, a philanthropist of a noble cast of mind, and if he has not had a deluxe altar in your monastery church over the last few centuries, then it will not matter to him if he receives such a one a few years sooner or later. The Lord God knows that I have spared no pains – I slave away unremittingly to earn money – but it’s no good – I get nowhere.”

“I am truly sorry to hear you say that, dear brother,” the monk said sympathetically. “You have taken into your inn the worst guest there can be.”

“Who would that be?” the innkeeper asked.

“It is Fat Lollus!” the monk replied.

“Fat Lollus?” the innkeeper asked in amazement. “Either you’re joking, brother, or you’re drivelling. There is no guest with such a name in my guestbook, and I have never heard that name mentioned, truly, never in all my days!”

“That may well be,” said the monk, “yet this wicked guest is here, and he is the sole cause of your fortune falling to ruin and your always returning to square one.”

“I’d like to see him! I’d –” the innkeeper burst out angrily.

“You won’t get the better of him just yet, dear brother,” the monk said with a smile, “you have faithfully nourished and cherished him all too long – yet you shall see him, this Fat Lollus. He is to be found in your cellar; let us go down there.”

Astonished, the innkeeper took the cellar-key and a lamp, thinking: “Aha, my brother means the wine – he’s intimating that I am my own best guest, but he’s sorely mistaken.”

In the cellar the monk bid his brother set the lamp down on a barrel, so that its light shone into an empty corner, and then step behind him; and pulling out a little black book, he murmured an incantation from it while facing the corner. Then the ground heaved, a fat shape rose up out of it, a pair of fiery eyes glowed, and the innkeeper’s blood ran cold in his veins from fear and horror.

“Lolle, show yourself entirely!” cried the monk, and as the badly-swollen head rose up it was followed by a misshapen fat body, and short, ungainly feet smacked on the cellar floor, and a deformed, hideous beast, whose skin glistened as fatty and greasy as that of a seal, was crouching in the corner.

“Do you see your esteemed guest, my brother?” the monk asked very gravely, now turned towards him. “I think he has gorged himself pretty well in your inn! You see, brother – each and every fruit of your deception has benefitted not you but this Lollus. What you have extorted from guests and their animals has nourished him; the wine and other drinks you have deceitfully gained through too short measures and too small bottles – Lollus has guzzled it all – Ill-gotten gains do not prosper and ill designs are worst to the contriver. If things are to improve for you and your household, then do not cheat anyone any more, do not swindle anyone, do not diddle anyone. Ask for what is right, for what is right is praised by God. Keep honest and correct weights and measures, look to your tasks yourself, every day, every hour, from the cellar to the corn-loft. Serve, as much as possible, your guests yourself, do not depend too much on the head waiter and the under-skinker, on the house-servant and the stable-lad, on the cook and the cooper. The more servants you have, the fatter Lollus feeds himself.”

After this warning the innkeeper became very thoughtful, and he said: “I thank you, my brother; I shall follow the advice you have given me.” Then the monk conjured Lollus again, saying: “Lolle, creep back,” and Lollus crept heavily backwards down into the ground again, and the corner of the cellar was as empty and smooth as before.

“I shall leave my money with you for four more years,” said the monk, “but then my word to my saint must be kept.” And he took his leave of his brother.

The innkeeper zealously followed his brother’s faithful advice and completely changed his management of the inn, putting everything in better order, saving in the right places, and misappropriating no more. His wife had to personally see that everything was as it should be in the kitchen, which she had not done before – correct measures were established, proper and complete wine bottles were blown at the glassworks and the little Lilliputian ones disappeared. As a result, the guests who had disappeared came back, the oven was cold no longer, and the chimney smoked again – almost night and day, rivalling a German Professor.

The innkeeper’s affairs improved in every way; his prosperity visibly increased with his rectitude; his good reputation and that of his inn spread far and wide, and the innkeepers in the neighbouring towns began to envy him because travellers preferred to ride a few more hours through the night just to reach the good inn, and it was not unusual for it to be so overcrowded with guests that the cheerful host had to adopt a sad expression and turn the surplus guests away.

When, after the passing of four years, the monk, the innkeeper’s brother, returned to ask for his share of the inheritance, the host received him in the friendliest fashion, placed before him a resplendent wine of the loveliest hue with all kinds of palatable confectionery, nun’s puffs and suchlike, and laid long rolls of coins on the table for him, saying: “Here, dear brother, with my heartfelt gratitude, is your capital together with all the interest, honestly calculated down to the last farthing.” But the monk said, “Dear brother, I will not take the interest, for not only does it ill become me as a man of God, but it is also written: Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother.[46] But I am glad that you are rid of the fat Lollus and now have only the lean one.”

“Indeed?” said the innkeeper. “Does he live in the cellar, too? I’d like to see him.”

“You shall see him!” the monk answered, and he bid the host lead the way down to the cellar, where he once again began his incantation. Then at the back, in the corner, the earth moved very slowly and, inch by inch, a thin little head peeped out with lustreless eyes.

“Lolle, show yourself entirely!” said the monk. Then Lollus writhed his way up, feebly and laboriously, from the ground, and he appeared emaciated in the extreme; his skin no longer glistened like grease but was crumpled and shrivelled like tree-bark, and looked exceedingly frail. “Now it is done; I am happy!” said the monk. “Lolle, creep back!” – So Lollus crept backwards, quite slowly, back into the cellar floor, and in the corner there was nothing to be seen.

“Take heed, brother!” said the monk, “if you continue as you are now, then Lollus will not stay with you another quarter; he will either perish or go on to the next house in search of a master who will feed him better than you do.” The innkeeper was pleased beyond measure at these comforting words, and he blessed his wise brother’s advice a thousandfold.

37. The Eagles and the Ravens

In a large mountain range, two wide forests lay as neighbours opposite each other, far away from the regions inhabited by man, and in one of these forests only eagles had made their eyries, while in the other nothing but ravens had their nests, and each of these species of birds was subordinate to a King of the same line, who ruled over his subjects as an autocrat.

Then it happened that ancient hatred of the ravens stirred anew among the eagles, and one night the King of the Eagles rose with a company of his followers, flew over to the forest of the ravens and fell on them while they were asleep and not expecting any hostile attack, and killed a great number of them, without the King of the Ravens learning anything of this raid until the next morning when he awoke and rose from his nest. Then he heard with grave distress of the injury done to, and the great loss of, his subjects, and he assembled all his counsellors, intending to discuss with them how this faithless deed on the part of the eagles could and should best be avenged. Ravens being, as natural history teaches us, noticeably good speakers, their King also was not lacking in true eloquence, and he spoke to his assembled council as follows:

“My dear, trusty followers! It has been made known to you how, without prior notice and declaration of war, contrary to all international laws, the eagles, our neighbours, secretly invaded us in the watches of the night and murdered many of our number, without our having been able to learn, as of yet, why they committed such an act. If we countenance this and let it pass without reprisal, it will happen many more times, therefore let us deliberate as to the ways in which we shall do what is best for us and for our State. Do not be overhasty with your counsel, but consider it well, for the weal or woe of all of us depends on whether we find a wise or an unwise expedient. Let each one of you ponder a good while over the outrageous attack which disturbs the prosperity our Kingdom has hitherto enjoyed, indeed, threatens it with annihilation if we do not find means to stay the hostile conduct of the eagles.”

This speech of the King was followed by a secret sitting behind closed doors, at which only the five Privy Counsellors to the King were present, with the King at their head. These ravens were for the most part quite grey with age; some even had feathers that had turned white, many a one had a completely bald head, and almost every one of them walked along bowed under the burden of his years, which, when added up, came to a considerable sum. The King was far younger than all of them. Now when the King had opened the council, the foremost among them, the Chairman of the Privy Council, spoke first as Minister-President, saying, “Great and mighty Lord and King! The wise men of old pronounced that which I make so bold as to advise: If an enemy is superior to you in power, and you are not able to resist him, then yield to him, and do not presume to fight him with a vain and proud heart, or you will incur yet more harm from him than you have already suffered.”

The King grasped the meaning of this speech perfectly well but did not express his opinion, turning instead to his second Privy Counsellor and asking, “What say you?”

“Most gracious Lord and King!” replied the questionee, “in my inconsequential opinion, I cannot concur with the intention of my honoured friend who has just spoken. Would it be well done if we declared ourselves vanquished just like that, and surrendered our homeland without the slightest attempt at defence? No, let us be united and ready for manful resistance, armed to defend ourselves, and everywhere vigilant. Let us send out watchers and scouts who will apprise us of all they observe of the eagles’ schemes; and if they return as enemies on the attack, then let us bravely advance to meet them with all our might. They will perhaps flee when they perceive that we are ready to pay them back in their own coin. We would be disgraced were we to flee with our wives and children, abandoning this forest and domicile of ours which was hallowed by our forefathers. Let us assert our right to it and defend it with our lives; there will be time yet for humiliating flight should we suffer defeat in battle.”

The King listened to this advice in silence also and then gave the third of his Privy Counsellors the floor. This one raised his solemnly bowed head with dignity and opened his beak deliberately. “Most gracious Lord and King! The Honourable previous speakers have certainly spoken according to their individual, albeit opposing, convictions. It seems to me to be difficult to fight against the eagles with any hope of victory, for they are clearly stronger, more warlike, and more powerful, but I also do not advise disgraceful flight and voluntary exile. Send, O King, a wise, eloquent man who enjoys your trust over to the eagles to ask their King in your name, as your envoy, if he had knowledge of the attack, what the reason for it was, and what we had done to deserve it. Perhaps what occurred will be mutually agreed to have been a mere misunderstanding and amicably settled by means of negotiations. Perhaps peace with the eagles can be bought by our side, so that we may remain in peace and quiet in the bosom of our homeland; for in the words of the wise men of old: Peace is better than war, and it is no disgrace to pay tribute to an invincible enemy!”

The speaker fell silent, and the King silently gave the fourth counsellor the floor. This one, not as greatly advanced in years as the previous speakers, raised his head with a bold motion and spoke with manly force. “Not one of the Honourable Counsellors has spoken of that which may truly avail us! I vote against the total surrender and abandonment of our native domicile, I vote against the unequal fight which would end only with our ignominious defeat and subjugation, I vote against negotiating with those despicable eagles, and, above all, I vote against a tribute, which would, as it were, subordinate us to them. My advice – which I but tender – is to retreat for a time, win ourselves confederates outside, and then suddenly return with a great host to do to the eagles as they did to us, and win back our domicile for ourselves. The wise men of old said: ‘The man who makes himself submissive to his enemy helps him against himself.’”

The King slowly and thoughtfully shook his head; he grasped and weighed in his mind the sense of all the words he had heard, and signalled to the fifth of his counsellors to speak. This one began: “According to my opinion, none of all the counsels given up to now will entirely avail us. I likewise can by no means vote for fighting against an enemy that is our superior. I fear the lords of the skies. No one should hold his enemy in all too little regard! However, I also cannot advise disgraceful flight, just as little as I can disgraceful tribute, and even less would I like to see the eagles done the honour of a legation on our part, for they would surely hold any such up to ridicule. The wise men of old give the advice: Let no one approach his enemy unless he perceive his own advantage thereby. My advice and recommendation is that we wait with cunning and caution to see what will be further undertaken against us on the part of the eagles, and that we show no fear, but also give no provocation, and show no signs of humiliation, nor of arrogance. A wise man foresees his harm and protects himself from it before it comes near him. For disaster, once it has come nigh us, is irrevocable. With the gentle force of ruse and reasoning, we will perhaps avoid war and subjugation.”

Now the King spoke, questioning, “What do you mean by that? Which ruse will you employ against the eagles? Tell us what you have in mind, and leave nothing out.”

The speaker replied, “Listen to me, my Lord and King! When a King consults his counsellors, whom he knows to be wise men, and who possess knowledge of all things, then his Kingdom will endure and his power will be augmented and fortified. However, if a King scorns the counsel of his sages and follows only his own will and intention, even if he is not personally lacking in intelligence and insight, he will seldom see a happy end to his decisions, and his kingdom will not come into full flower. Let us consider and sagely think through our every suggestion for as long as we need to find what is best for one and all. My advice is this: First of all, that we rid ourselves of the impression that the shock of the unexpected hostile attack poured into our hearts, and make resolutions with fortified courage of mind. Secondly, that we become completely clear in our minds about the cause of the attack and the hostility of the eagles towards us, a cause which has its roots in historical ground. Without our knowing and carefully considering this cause, a decision made on our part in accordance with reason is not possible.”

“But how are we to discover this cause?” asked the King.

“It is discovered; I know it, my King,” replied the speaker.

“Then tell it!” the King commanded.

“It is a secret, my royal master!” the sagacious adviser replied. The wise men of old fashioned the fine riddle: What is too little for one, sufficient for two, and too much for three? A secret – and what I have to say to you is suitable only for two tongues and for four ears. However wise many a ruler may be, he cannot know everything; the ruler’s confidential counsellors are called Privy for the very reason that he confides his secret matters to them and they in turn communicate to him that which not everyone else needs to know.”

At these words the King dismissed the sitting of his Privy Council members and bid the wise counsellor follow him to an isolated apartment, where he asked him: “What do you know about the cause of the eagles’ hatred for us, which has now manifested itself?”

“The whole cause has its roots in a speech, my King, which a raven once made,” the Privy Counsellor replied.

“Sit down and tell me about it!” said the King, and he likewise seated himself, to listen attentively; and the counsellor began his tale.

38. Of the Hare and the Elephant-King

“Once upon a time all the species of birds came together to commonly elect a new King, for their previous sovereign had died, and they had already agreed to choose the eagle as King. The election was about to ensue and be confirmed when the assembly saw, in the distance, the raven, who was late, flying towards them, and then some of those assembled said: ‘It is good that the raven joins us, so we may hear his counsel as well.’ And when the raven alighted, they said to him, ‘It is proper that you come to exercise your right to vote, as each of us is authorized and appointed to do; we shall be pleased to hear your opinion, yet most votes are for the eagle to be our future King.’ Thereupon the raven replied, ‘If the election is already decided, then I remain in the minority and am outvoted from the outset; nonetheless, I give my Nay to this decision of yours. And even if there were no longer any noble species among us birds, no king vultures, peregrine falcons, herons or sacred ibises, swans or birds of paradise but only pigeons, sparrows, night-owls and bitterns and the like, I would nevertheless not vote for the eagle to be our common leader, for he is a slave to bad habits, his colour is an undecided, spotted and striped brown, he carries his tongue all awry in his mouth, and he is utterly unable to make the eloquent speeches we wise ravens do – and yet it matters, so terribly much, that a sovereign know how to speak well and make fine speeches. The eagle is half a fool – in all his behaviour and his every gesture there is no nobility, none of what we call a noble port. He possesses absolutely no understanding, and so is all the more given to wrath and cruelty, sudden anger, and merciless, pitiless tyranny. His entire race has always been notorious; has constantly plotted wicked acts and turned its cunning, malicious hearts to thoughts of injuring others – it is so full of iniquity that I am utterly incapable of putting its wickedness into words. Therefore I say to you, choose no eagle for your King, but seek yourselves another, even though he be less clever and clear-sighted; a disposition of noble simplicity is better than quick, all-outwitting intelligence. For when one becomes King who is of rather limited understanding, if he at any rate have wise ministers and pious counsellors and citizens, his Kingdom will endure, as we see from the example of the King of the Hares. He was not particularly clever or wise, but he followed wise advice and benefitted as a result.’

“At these words all the birds, who had been listening just as attentively as you now are to me, my most gracious King and Master,” the wise adviser continued his narration, “asked what the King of the Hares had done and designed. Whereupon the raven answered, ‘Once upon a time there was a year of excessive dearth, and it was so dry withal that the fruits of the earth withered and all the well-springs ran dry; all beasts found this very hard to bear, but it was hardest for those ones who require a great quantity of plant-food, consequently the larger and the largest ones – namely, the elephants. They assembled and poured out their great distress to their King, saying, ‘We lack ever more water and pasture by the day. If it were agreeable to you, we would like to send out messengers to search for another habitation, that we may keep ourselves alive.’ – ‘I have no objection to that – do as you advise and please!’ replied the Elephant-King. After that, the elephants appointed a committee and sent out its members to scout around in search of where a better place for living and pasture, one abounding in water, might be available. Several of them reached the Kingdom of the Hares; it was a pleasant place, with a fountain that was sacred to the moon, just as hares were sacred to the moon in ancient times. There, around the fountain, were the subterranean caves of the hares. The place and the situation were all too pleasing to the scouts on their mission; they returned home and rendered an account of the new abode. They had not perceived the existence of the hares, for the small animal fears the large one, and the sages assert that it is best for the small not to tangle with the mighty. At this good news the whole elephant race, together with their King, set out and trampled the poor hares’ dwellings, caves, and residences into the ground, together with a number of the timid animals. Then there was lamentation without end, and the hares ran in droves to their King and poured out their heartache to him, and wanted counsel and help from him. But it was a grievous extremity, and help was far to be found, for what can the weak hare do against the mighty elephant? But the King of the Hares summoned his counsellors nonetheless and said to them, ‘I am well aware that I am not wise enough to help my trampled Kingdom, and so you must advise me what it becomes us to do, honestly and faithfully, for the greater good of me and you and the whole of harekind.’ Then there spoke an old hare, who was wise and learned and held in high esteem: ‘If it so please you, then send me, my King, and another one of your faithful followers, who will hear my supplication and report on it to you, to the Elephant-King.’

The King replied to these words: ‘It seems to me that you are sufficiently faithful and wise, I have no suspicion of you whatsoever, and I trust you to go on your own. Carry out the mission and report what you have achieved. Also present my compliments to the Elephant-King, and say in addition whatever you think to be good, for a messenger must know how to conduct himself, and must observe everything, and employ whatever appears to him to be useful.’ – Hereupon the old hare set out on a bright night, when a full moon was shining, and went to the fountain of the moon, yet he prudently reflected that his body and limbs were of a delicate constitution, and he thought of the old proverbs: “Who wilfully exposes himself to danger will perish therein,” and, “Who walks with the wild beasts will be devoured by them. I shall climb this mountain and hold communion with the Elephant-King.”

The old hare did as he had said he would, and came before the Elephant-King, and said to him, ‘To you, most puissant Lord and King, I am sent by my master the Moon, ruler of the night. In your wisdom, listen to the embassy he sends through me and do not make me pay for any part of it that may displease you, for an envoy is but a tool.’

The Elephant-King said, ‘Pray tell me what it is that the Moon wishes and commands,’ and the old hare replied:

‘The Moon sends word to you through my mouth as follows: The mighty lord who has trust in his might is easily moved by it to fight against one who is even mightier and stronger, and his pugnacity soon becomes a rope around his feet. You, O King, do not let yourself be satisfied with being the mightiest and greatest of all beasts, no, you have undertaken a campaign against my poor people, the hares; you and your people have crushed underfoot their and their innocent little children’s meadow, and my and their fountain. Do this no more, get you and your people gone from here, go elsewhere, or I will blear your eyes – so speaks the Moon – and make you depart hence through my furious wrath. -And should you, O King, not believe my words, then I am to show you the Moon’s wrathful countenance.’

The Elephant-King was alarmed and went with the hare to the Fountain of the Moon, and the latter bade him look into the water and said: ‘Touch down there with your long nose, and you will touch the Moon.’ The elephant plunged his trunk into the Fountain of the Moon, and straight away the water was troubled and the reflected clear countenance of the moon became contorted. ‘You see – O mighty King!’ cried the hare, ‘how wrathfully the Moon looks at you, how his expression announces to you the fullness of his fury at the evil you have done to him and to his people!’

And the Elephant-King said, ‘O Lord Moon! Never again will I, or shall one of mine, trespass against you and yours! We shall willingly retire from your sanctuary.’ And he did this, withdrawing with his people far away from the Fountain of the Moon, and the hares took back possession and built their dwellings anew, and they live there in peace to this day.

‘This,” said the raven who was addressing the congregation of birds, ‘have I told you as a warning, that you may choose a King who has understanding, who, like that King of the Hares, pays heed to sensible advice, and does not always wish to be an autocrat above all others like the eagle, persisting in the fallacies of a clever head; or who, because he lacks wisdom like the Elephant-King, is easy to outwit. Additionally, it is entirely against the Constitution of the entire Kingdom of Birds for everyone to have one common leader. May the eagles choose an eagle for King, there is nothing to be said against that; the vultures their Vulture-King, and the pied bush chats their kinglet – each to his own, that is why the species differ. What is the point – to give you only one example – of the race of pigeons having an eagle as King? He will bathe his claws in their blood and devour them. Truly, a race which chooses a foreign master for itself and places trust in a false stranger will meet the just fate of the hare and the bird, who chose one unknown to them to be judge of their dispute.’ ‘What was that?’ asked the birds. ‘I shall, with your permission, recite the tale to you,’ replied the raven, the speaker in the feathered National Assembly.”

39. Of a Hare and a Bird

“‘I once had,’ said the raven,” – the wise adviser of the Raven-King narrated – “to the birds gathered around him, who were listening attentively, ‘a good friend, also a bird; his name is of no matter. When this friend left his nest, which was situated in the vicinity of mine in a rocky cleft, he would habitually stay away for a very long while, so that many was the time I thought he must have met with misfortune or died, or been caught, in foreign parts, or had made himself a home elsewhere. Then it so happened that a hare found that cleft in the rock, and the soft, warm bird’s nest inside it, and made its bed there. I did not hold it to be wise to meddle in others’ affairs, and thought to myself: Why should you deny the hare the residence when, after all, the bird may not return? Suddenly I heard the sound of quarrelling under me, for the tree that bore my nest stood close by the cliff. My neighbour, the bird, had come back, and he was sitting before the hole in the rock, squawking: ‘That’s my nest! Clear off out of it at once!’ But the hare sat inside and cried, ‘I am in possession of this residence, and have been for some time. Anyone who took a fancy to it could come and say, Move out!’

‘You’re a shameless, wicked hare!’ screamed the bird. ‘You’re a robber! The nest is mine and you will vacate it!’

‘No – I will not vacate it!’ replied the hare. ‘You can curse and chatter as much as you like! If you believe you have right on your side, then bring a suit against me! I will justify myself to you before a judge – not here.’

Hereupon the hare secured his door and withdrew into the recesses of the cleft.

Some time afterwards, the bird returned and said to the hare: ‘I know a pious, honest elder who shall dispense justice between you and me! Follow me to him.’ – ‘Who is it? What is his name?’ asked the hare. – ‘I have not yet spoken with him,’ replied the bird. ‘He has not lived in this region for long, he is a pious hermit who fasts and prays the whole day through and shows himself to be a thoroughly respectable character. It is said that he used to be a mouser, but he has long since renounced his feline nature, all of the world’s luxuries, and all base devouring of mice. He sheds no blood, but lives on roots, grass, and herbs, and his drink is only clear water. He will certainly pronounce impartial judgement on our case.’

‘A cat? An old mouser?’ the hare asked suspiciously. ‘I do not particularly trust him. The proverb says: The cat never leaves off mousing.’

But the bird did not cease urging the hare, and in the end it went along. I followed at a distance to see how things would turn out. The cat, actually a large, savage tom, was sitting in front of his residence, as I saw from afar, sunning himself, and he leisurely stretched, licked his paws, and stroked his beard; suddenly, on seeing the bird and the hare approaching, he darted into his chamber, and when the two companions entered his home, they found him wrapped in a penitent’s hairshirt and lying on his knees in an attitude of prayer. Then the hare was reassured and rejoiced to make the acquaintance of so holy a soul, and now each vied with the other in apologizing for disturbing his devotions, and besought him to lend a sympathetic ear to their pressing case.

‘Dear friends!’ said the mouser in a quiet, hoarse voice, while he rolled his eyes in affected piety, ‘I am old, my eyesight is dull and dark, my hearing is in a very bad way – come over close to me and speak very loudly, so I can hear everything correctly.’

Now the bird and the hare related how they had fallen into dispute and discord with one another about the nest, left by the one and taken possession of by the other, but had both agreed to submit to his impartial judgement. When they had both fallen silent, the savage mouser spoke, again quite hoarsely: ‘I understand you well, dear children, understand you well. I will give you good counsel and show you the ways of justice. O, let the light of Heaven shine upon me, so I may pronounce a just and correct judgement in this so exceedingly important matter of yours, and find the truth in this difficult case! For it is better that a case be lost through illumination with the Torch of Truth than it be falsely won through lies and deceit and untruth. Oh – oh! What is it that we have here below? No permanent home! We take only the one thing with us when we pass into the future world, the works we have performed to the salvation or to the damnation of our souls. If only each one of us here below would wish his neighbour well! Do not hesitate to step closer, dear children, and rest yourselves, while I beseech, in prayer, enlightenment in your case.’

The hare and the bird trusted these hypocritical words of the false, insidious, savage tom, but I, who had flown up close and heard every word, now heard only the cat slamming his door shut and the pitiful screaming of the bird inside. The faithless beast had throttled the bird and the hare, and he ate them both up, and then he moved into that deserted residence which was better situated and appointed than the mouser’s miserable home – whereupon I emigrated from that place without delay.

You see here an example of how the blind trust that is placed in strangers, who, like the eagles, use their guile and malice to approach us, carries its own punishment with it. The eagle is among the birds precisely what the wolf is among the four-footed beasts. And I hold fast to my conviction, and repeat to you urgently and warningly – yes, warningly – never choose the eagle for your King!’

“With raised voice,” the old raven Privy Counsellor continued his tale to the King, “did the skilful public speaker end his lecture, and what was the result? No bird would now have the eagle for King, the entire royal election came to nought, and the raven’s gift for oratory celebrated a glorious victory; it needed but little for him to be proclaimed King.”

“And what did the eagle say to that?” asked the King.

“My gracious King and Master shall learn that this very instant,” replied the Privy Counsellor. “The eagle said to the raven, ‘Tell me, raven, what harm have I ever done you? For what reason do you heap so much ignominy on me? I have never been guilty of any wrong towards you, yet you, with your poisonous and slanderous words, have today robbed me of a magnificent crown, just when I could feel it floating right above my head! But in very truth, I swear to you, by all that is sacred and dear to me, you slanderous tatler: a tree which a man hews into with an axe grows together again, and a sword-wound through flesh and bone may heal again. But the wounds which the tongue inflicts, they do not heal, and the harm never reaches an end. Your words are a burning sword to me that will rage in my flesh evermore. Fire may be extinguished with water, and the flames of discord with silence; the venomous bite of the snake is healed with theriac, and the wounds of sadness with hope. But the fire of enmity, onto which the tongue pours oil, that burns without end. Today have you, O wise orator Raven, planted a thornbush between your people and my people which shall endure and blossom from generation to generation, through our and our childrens’ and our last descendants’ lifetimes, and it shall bring forth for you the bitter fruit of hate! I swear this to you by Jove’s thunderbolt!’

When the birds heard the eagle’s furious words they were frightened, and they raised their wings and flew away to the four winds, and the eagle also flew away, and no one said another word; and the raven sat forlorn and forsaken on the stone which had served him as a pulpit, and he became very thoughtful and said to himself: ‘Now I have had my say. It would have been wiser had I held my tongue. The sages of old said: Speech is silver, silence is golden. I have now, through my warning, called the everlasting hatred of the lords of the skies down on me and my race. The eagle shattered me with forcible words, and not one of the other birds so much as opened its beak to speak support of me, in spite of their earlier wild jubilation. They were clever, they discovered the gold that is silence; they did not feel inclined to burn their tongues as I did, old fool and stupid chatterer that I am. They were thinking of the future; I had my eye only on the present. Let no wise man rely upon his wisdom, and no strong man on his strength, and let him not burden himself with enmity in his efforts to be of use to others, or he is the fool who partakes of poison to afterwards thwart its effects with theriac; such an action can easily miscarry. From today on and for evermore, I must hold myself to be the least wise and by far the most stupid of all birds. Why could I not have borne in mind what the sages of old said: The most injurious loss is the one incurred through one’s words – before I and my stupid beak kindled the everlasting enmity of the eagles against my people!’

Thus did the raven lament, and he took his unwise words so much to heart that he soon afterwards fell ill and died.

You see, my King,” the Privy Counsellor ended his communication, “that is the cause of the eagles’ hatred for us.”

“Alas!” sighed the King. “I would to Heaven that that unwise raven had never crept out of the egg, instead of bringing this misery on our heads. Now our teeth will be set on edge by the sour grapes our fathers have eaten. But now speak on – what shall it be, what should we do?”

40. Of a Hermit and Three Scoundrels

“Through discernment and judicious resolve, a clever man will accomplish that which many a stronger man will fail to achieve,” said the wise raven, the counsellor to the Raven-King, to his lord. “This brings to my mind those scoundrels who used their artfulness and guile to so deceive a hermit that he no longer believed what he saw with his own eyes.”

“How did that happen?” asked the King, and the raven answered:

“Once upon a time there was a hermit who went and bought himself a nanny goat so he could keep it at his hut and drink its milk. This was observed from a distance by three thieves, who discussed among themselves how they might, without the use of force, swindle the pilgrim out of his goat. Soon afterwards they split up, so that they would encounter the hermit one after the other, with short intervals in between. The first one to come to him bid him good-day and said mockingly, ‘Pilgrim! You are worried, no doubt, that thieves intend to rob you of your precious things, so you have bought yourself a dog. What do you mean to do with your dog?’ – ‘It is no dog, it is a goat!’ the hermit calmly said, but the other stubbornly insisted that it was a dog, until the second scoundrel came on the scene, and gave a greeting also, and likewise asked what the pious pilgrim was doing with a dog. ‘A holy man,’ he said, ‘must have no truck with such an unclean beast; I would certainly rid myself of it, without delay. The barking of a dog disturbs prayers and devotions, and nowhere is it written that the Holy Apostles walked dogs or would even suffer the presence of such creatures!’

Now the third rogue came along, while the three men were still arguing about the alleged dog, and said, ‘I see! You’re holding a dog-market here! What’s the asking price for the cur? I’m looking to buy a brute just like this one.’

Now the hermit believed in all seriousness that his goat was a dog, and the man who had sold it to him had betrayed him, and he cast the goat from him in anger, and hurried away to his hermitage where he washed and purified himself. Meanwhile, the three scoundrels took the goat, led it home, slaughtered and roasted it, and savoured the roast, laughing all the while at the hermit’s simple-mindedness.

“I have told you this, my King,” the wise raven continued, “so that you will bear in mind that, however clever and mighty the eagles may be, we can nonetheless rid ourselves of them through artfulness and guile.

And now, O King, it is time that I tell you my real secret, for the cause of the enmity between the eagles and the ravens is known to many, and having been passed down to us by our fathers, it still lives in the memory of many an old raven. The advice I give you now must remain the deepest of secrets between you and me. Firstly, shower me with the ostensible bowls of your wrath and disfavour in front of others; act as if I had given you false and perfidious advice, peck at me before the whole Court, wound me and leave me lying on the ground; then rise up with all your people, fly so far away that no raven is anywhere to be seen, and quietly stay at that place until such time as I return to you announcing good tidings.”

The King of the Ravens followed this advice. And when the spies of the eagles perceived that the whole body of ravens, together with the King, had decamped, they came to the raven-forest in hordes with their King and destroyed the ravens’ nests; and one of them saw the wounded raven lying under a tree, and flew down to him.

41. The Cunning Raven

The eagle which had flown to the raven, as it lay there on the ground, seemingly a picture of misery, asked him at once, “Who are you? How did you come hither? Whither have your brothers gone?”

In a faint voice the raven answered, “Why do you torment me with questions? Don’t you see my wretched condition? Let me lie and die in peace! I cannot tell you anything, but if I could speak a word with your King, no harm would come to him from it.” Then the eagle called his King over, and when the latter cast eyes on the raven, he said, “I know this one well! He is the Raven-King’s close Privy Counsellor and a descendant of that wretched chatterer who cost my ancestor the Imperial Crown for the entire plumed race. I am extremely surprised that we find him in such a state.”

Then the King of the Skies asked the old raven, “Tell me, what brought such adversity upon you?” – “Oh, most puissant Lord and King!” replied the raven, “Bad advice and foolish understanding!”

“How so?” asked the eagles – and he answered: “After you did to the ravens what you did, killing a great number, our King summoned his Privy Council and asked us, his counsellors, if he should fight you? So I said: ‘It seems to me that you should not by any means fight against the noble Lords of the Skies, for they are more powerful than we are, and more courageous of heart. My advice is that we be reconciled with them, to live in peace and quiet; and, instead of showing ourselves to be refractory, we rather pay them a yearly tribute to place ourselves under their protection’ – but my words were received very badly, for every other counsellor advised our King to wage war against you and to fight to the death, let it turn out for the better or for the worse. I, however, remained resolute in my opinion and cried: ‘No one is more easily freed from his enemy’s hand than he who makes himself submissive to him. Look at the seedlings in the field and the stalks of the meadow-grasses, how they bend before the wind. The wind snaps the crown off the tall and stiff tree because the tree supposes it ought not to yield and sway, but the slender, fragile reed remains unbroken because it has learned humility. Modesty saves us from misery!’ As I talked in this way, all who heard me yelled, ‘You are a faithless counsellor! You support the host of our enemies! You are promoting our detriment to earn yourself favour over there, dishonourable traitor that you are!’ – and they fell upon me and beat me, bit me, scratched me, and kicked me, so that I am left lying here half-dead, and the only wonder is that I still breathe.”

At these words the Eagle-King turned to his First Privy Counsellor with the question, “What do you think it advisable to do with this raven?”

“I think nothing advisable, my King,” the Premier replied, “but that we throttle this raven on the spot, for he is incomparably cleverer than us, he is one of the most cunning and sly of the whole race of ravens; by exterminating him, we will work the most appreciable loss to the Raven-King and the ravens while making ourselves immeasurably more secure, for they have no other who is so able to devise well considered, clever and shrewd advice as is this one here. The wise men of old said: He to whom God gives something great and good in his hands, and then loses it, will seldom find it again; and he who has an enemy whom Fortune has sent into his hands, and yet does not heed this but lets the enemy escape, he is a fool whom all the wisdom in the world may not avail.”

“What do you think?” the Eagle-King asked his Second Privy Counsellor after these words. This latter was less sanguinary and said, “My advice is that you do not have the raven killed. It is proper to show mercy to the humble and the helpless. Even if this raven is our enemy, he is nevertheless our defenceless prisoner at the same time. We have not seized him in battle against us, it is his misfortune that has delivered him into our hands and power. Many a one has found help from his enemy that was refused him by his friend and, as a result, become his enemy’s friend and his friend’s enemy.”

“What do you say to this?” the eagle now asked his Third Privy Counsellor, who replied, “I also, my most gracious King and Master, cannot vote for the killing of this, our prisoner; my advice would rather be that we make good use of him. His friends and his King have maltreated him and ignominiously abandoned him in his distress. He can, and he will, reveal to us all the secrets of our enemies, and it can only be to our benefit when one of our enemies is at odds with his people. To set one’s enemies at variance and then triumph over them was declared by the sages of old to be the best stratagem for waging war and for ruling, as happened with the thief, the Devil, and the hermit.”

“What happened with them?” asked the Eagle-King, and his Third Privy Counsellor recounted the following tale.

42. The Thief and the Devil

“Once upon a time there was a hermit to whom a pious man gave a cow, out of mercy and for the sake of God. A thief heard about this and decided to appropriate this cow. When he was making his way by night towards the retreat of the hermit, who gave lodging to several pilgrims – which the thief also knew – he ran into a man who was pacing up and down on the same road. The thief suspected him to be another thief with the same intention as himself, and he asked, “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here? What’s your game?” The other replied, “If you must know, I’ll tell you. I am the Devil and I’m going to break the hermit’s neck this night, for I have long hated him, and now, today, I have finally gained power over him, for this very night he is housing a malefactor. That is why I am waiting here until he and his companions have lain down to sleep. And what are you doing here?” – “I?” asked the thief. “I do not have so dark a design as you. Such evil plans, I would never hatch. I’ll only take a cow away from the hermit, out of compassion, for her bellowing disturbs the pious man’s devotions, and besides, he does not know how to handle a cow and she could harm him with her horns.”

So the thief and the Devil went together to the hermit’s retreat; he had tethered his cow and laid himself down to rest. Now the thief thought to himself: You must make haste to obtain the cow first, for when the Devil gets to the hermit and starts to throttle him, he will wake up and scream, at which the pilgrims will wake up as well and want to help him, and then in the end they will find and seize you. So it’s better to be on the safe side – first the cow, then the neck. He therefore spoke to the Devil: “Hearken and heed my words. Let me fetch my cow first, afterwards do with the hermit what you will.” “By no means!” said the Devil. “First I throttle him, then you take anything you please.”

“Not so!” the thief countered. “I must enter the hermitage first.”

“Do you dare bid defiance to me?” the Devil softly hissed, his glowing eyes rolling wildly in his head.

“I have never yet been afraid of a stupid devil!” replied the thief. Then the Devil clawed at his neck – and the thief yelled, “Murder! Murder! Hermit! Hey! The Devil is after our necks! Help! Help!” – This roused the hermit from sleep, and the pilgrims also awoke, and the hermit rushed out of his retreat with a crucifix – the Devil ran away from it post-haste; and the pilgrims brought their long, hard sticks, which filled the thief with fear, so he ran away as fast as his legs could carry him. Thus the hermit saved his neck and his cow because his two enemies had fallen out. Therefore, that man is wise who makes use of his enemies’ discord and exploits it to his advantage.”

After these words of the Eagle-King’s Third Counsellor, the First Counsellor began to speak again: “Do not trust, O King, this speaker and his smooth words, unless you want to lose yourself and all that is yours. Follow my advice and have this raven killed, for I fear that if he remains alive and among us, our end will be a shameful one. A sensible man does not allow himself to be deceived by words when God has given him his enemy in his hand. A fool, however, is deluded and deceived by flattering words. Do not, I pray, believe the words of the wounded raven, for there is no good faith in him; he comes from a false, thievish race. Up to now the ravens have never outwitted us, but what will happen from now on, and whether the society of this raven will be useful and beneficial to us, cannot be foreseen; I, however, think it exceedingly doubtful that he happened to turn up here for our welfare or advantage. I repeat my advice: Kill him! You know that I have never feared the ravens, but this one arouses in me an anxious foreboding that he will hatch disaster for us all.”

The Eagle-King heard these words, but he felt his heart swelling with kingly magnanimity; furthermore, he wanted to show that it was he who ruled and his counsellors were not Regents of the Realm, although many a one might believe himself to be such: so he said, “I grant mercy to the unfortunate one; he shall live. Let him be well attended to and taken care of, and let his wounds be tended.”

Deeply pained, the faithful warner of the Eagle-King held his peace and kept his own opinion. As for the raven, who was gifted with a high intelligence and was as skilled in speech as his ancestor, but, better than the latter, was versed in the art of knowing when to speak and when to hold his tongue, soon earned for himself favour and patronage at the King’s Court, and most of all from the King himself. Full many a pretty tale he knew how to recount, which served for instruction as for amusement; he knew to jest with finesse and do homage with grace. He had to give lessons to the Eagle-King’s young Princes and Princesses and deliver lectures to them; the King appointed him as chamberlain and liked to have him always by his side. In return, the raven incessantly assured the King of his loyalty and his hatred for the ravens, and in an assembly he boldly proclaimed, “I would to God that I could become an eagle, even if I had to pay for the change with a painful death in flames, like that bird the phoenix! How I would then avenge myself on my enemies and cool my revenge in their blood!” Then the old and stern First Counsellor of the Eagle-King said, “O you dissembler! You acrid vinegar in our golden goblet! And if you burned yourself a thousand times, and another bird was born from you – if that were possible – yet every single time would you become an ugly, false, malicious raven, as happened to that mouse, of whom a tale from India speaks.” At these words the eagles desired to hear the tale, and the perspicacious eagle began his narration.

43. The Transformed Mouse

“Once upon a time there was a pious man who served the Supreme Being with prayers and penitence in a wilderness, and for his devoutness and immaculate virtue God was so gracious to him as to hear and grant every wish the penitent made. One day the godly man was sitting on the bank of a stream immersed in reverent thoughts when a sparrowhawk flew over his head, carrying in its claws a mouse it had caught; but the mouse wriggled and slipped from the sparrowhawk’s clutch, and fell down into the pious man’s lap. He took pity on the mouse, gently tied a little cloth around it, and carried it to his home, to care for and raise it there. But then he thought that his servants would take offence if he, the pure man, were to be familiar with an unclean beast, and would shun him; and so he besought God to be so good as to turn the mouse into a girl. And behold – God heard the request and at once turned the mouse into a lovely girl. The pious man now joyfully took her to his house, where he raised her and took a fatherly pleasure in her; and his servants believed that their master had found her in the wilderness, or she had been entrusted to his care by relatives. Now when the girl, who was regarded as the pious man’s daughter, had come of age, he thought of marrying her to a good man, and he asked the girl if she had an inclination to marry, and what kind of husband she would like to have. But the maiden was of a haughty and imperious mind, and she answered, ‘Yes – but only the greatest ruler!’

Her foster-father replied, ‘The greatest ruler, my child, that is the mighty Sun; he rules over all the world, illuminating and warming it with his rays; I will ask him to unite himself to you, and then people will call you Lady Sun.’ – The pious man purified himself through prayer and ablution, and presented his request to the Sun; but the latter said, ‘Willingly would I obey you, whose every wish the Supreme Being grants, O pious penitent! But I am not the mightiest. Look – the Director of the Clouds is mightier than me; one breath from him becomes a cloud, which takes my light from me so that darkness covers the Earth.’ So the penitent went to the shore of the sea from which the clouds rise up and asked their mighty director what he had asked the Sun. Then the Director of the Clouds rose up on his Cloud-Throne out of the bosom of the sea, rising like a great smoke, and said: ‘O pious and devout man! The Supreme Being has indeed given me more power than even the angels in His Heaven, yet there is still one who is mightier than I am. That is the Father of the Winds. When he arises and blows hard, then my clouds are scattered and fade away into an insubstantial nothingness, or fly and flee before him and his fury from one end of the world to the other; and I am nothing compared to him, and I am unable to resist him.’

So the penitent made his way to the Father of the Winds, who lived in a large, wide mountain cave where he kept the winds confined, only at times permitting one or the other to blow – and now presented his request to him. But the Father of the Winds also explained that he could not deem himself to be the mightiest ruler. ‘Look, O pious, pure, and flawless one,’ he said, ‘at this mighty mountain, how he stands there in silent pride! Let me and all of mine rage and roar as violently as ever we can or will, he remains unshaken, neither shrinking nor swaying before my fury, and for that reason, he is mightier than I, and for that reason, you should turn to him.’

After that, the faithful penitent headed towards the Mountain and expressed his wish to him, and the Mountain spoke: ‘You call me the mightiest, and it is certainly true that I am large and mighty, the Sun serves me and makes my vertex green, the clouds have to water my meadows and woods with dew and rain, and the wind fans me, like a slave his master; but in the end, the mightiest can only be he who has nothing to endure. I will show you someone who is mightier than I, for I have to suffer him, whether I will or no.’

‘Who could that be?’ the penitent asked in total amazement.

‘It is,’ said the mountain, ‘a tiny little grey mannikin who burrows into me and digs, and builds himself a home and chambers, and does not ask me for permission to do this.’

‘What kind of tiny little grey mannikin would that be?’ asked the pious man. – ‘It is the mouse!’ replied the Mountain. Hereupon the penitent carried his wish and request to the mouse, who replied: ‘I am the one indicated by the mountain’s words. But could I, even if I wished to, wed a female human and take her in to my low dwelling? See if you yourself can devise a wise expedient, devout one!’ – Now the hermit went back to his daughter and said to her, ‘I have long sought the mightiest for your husband, and if you want him, then I must beseech the Supreme Being to make you into a mouse again, as you have been once already, then your will shall be fulfilled.’ And as the daughter persisted in her wish, because her guardian had explained to her how one mighty sovereign after another had directed him to one even mightier, so she was turned, at his entreaty, back into a mouse, and given to the male mouse for wife – for birds of a feather flock together, what is minted as a penny will never be a pound, and from a treacherous raven there will never rise a phoenix, even were he to be consumed by fire like this miraculous bird. But come now, give yourself to the flames, traitor, and let us see what rises up out of your ashes.”

The Eagle-King and his entourage heard these words not without serious consideration, and several shared the opinion of the faithful counsellor; but the raven artfully mocked his vehement adversary, saying:

“Pray bring wood, O noble one, for my funeral pyre! Stack it up with eagle fern, and fan the sparks into blazing flames with your own wings. You will then win immortal fame, and you will long be glorified in epic lays as a raven-killer.”

“You shall not burn!” said the Eagle-King, “neither shall you become one of us, for we ourselves have power enough to avenge you on your and our enemies; nor do we wish to avenge ourselves on you. Hold your peace!”

44. The Raven’s Guile and Ravens’ Revenge

Long did the old raven live at the Court of the Eagle-King; he became a member of the Privy Cabinet and heard all the resolutions the eagles passed against the ravens, and he overhead all the secrets of the first in the kingdom. As for the Eagle-King’s First Counsellor, he retired from his position; he tendered his demission because, he said, “He who cannot be advised cannot be helped. He who chooses to be blind with seeing eyes, let him be so. I have spoken and given warning in all faithfulness and have saved my soul. O beguiled King, credulous King! How you will remember my warning when it is too late!” And he departed, and flew to distant mountains to end his days in peace in a quiet country seat, far from the strife of the King’s Court.

The King of the Ravens quietly and patiently awaited his faithful follower, while his entourage believed him to be dead long since, for the King carefully guarded his secret from everyone, not giving the slightest inkling of it even to his closest confidants. Then one evening the raven came flying towards them, and they were all astonished and greatly amazed, and did not know if they should believe their eyes, when the King, who had heaped marks of disfavour on this raven in front of everyone, and indeed violently maltreated him, received him in such a friendly – even an affectionate – manner.

The wise old raven spoke to his King: “I bring good tidings and proclaim victory and glee! Heaven has placed our enemies in our hands. The eagles have now discovered a cleft in an unscalable crag, and they all sleep together inside, for it is wide and spacious, airy and dry, and protected from the rain and the burning sun; but the entrance is narrow and without guards, because neither men nor beasts can come near. We, however, can approach them, and so up! my King, up! all you brave and trusty ravens! Let everyone grab a stick of dry wood, as large as he can carry with his beak and claws, and I shall take a firebrand and fly at the head.”

Swiftly was this advice followed on the King’s giving his consent; the entire flock of ravens flew after the leader, everyone one threw his wood into the exit of the eagles’ cavern, and the old raven laid his glowing wood in the pile. Then they vigorously beat their wings and soon the wood was brightly ablaze.

A deadly terror seized the eagles, along with their King, who had imagined themselves to be safe, when they awoke from their first sleep. They rushed all over pell-mell, bumped into each other, they screeched in despair; the boldest ones flew through the flames, only to drop down dead outside, while inside the smoke and the heat intensified, so that one after the other sank down dying with twitching beats of their wings, including the King with all his family, and he cried out the lament: “What a fool is the man who shields the stranger and scorns the true admonisher!”

In this way did the Kingdom of the Lords of the Skies and the enmity between it and the ravens come to a conclusion, and if that wise adviser had not withdrawn with his family to those mountains, then there would be no more eagles at all; their kind has become rare, while the ravens have multiplied, have spread everywhere, are great speakers to this day, and hate the eagles still.

45. The Two Brothers

Once upon a time there were two brothers, one of whom was clever while the other was foolish, and they were both shepherds, who watched the sheep of a rich butcher on alternate days. Every time when one of them was keeping watch over the flock, the other would stay at home, see to the food, and carry it out to the sheep pasture, where they would consume their meal together.

Now one day the turn to keep watch fell to the clever brother, and that to cook to the stupid one; and after the latter had cooked the food, he carried it out to his brother in the pasture. But on the way there he came to a rickety old bridge which crossed a stream, and it had many cracks, under which the water flowed along, and so the fool thought to himself: This is a dangerous bridge, the time may come when a sheep or a man will fall through it; as it’s hard to go over the bridge, you’d better mend it. And then the fool began to fill the cracks with the dumplings he had made – and they were hard enough, in any case – and he plugged the narrow gaps with sauerkraut, then he walked confidently over the bridge, which now looked thoroughly firm and durable, and when his brother asked him, “Well, where’s the food?” the fool laughed and replied, “I haven’t any food, but I had a clever idea; I’ve repaired the footbridge so it will hold firm. I stuffed the dumplings in the cracks and the sauerkraut in the gaps, so we and our sheep don’t fall through.”

“Well, what a crafty devil you are!” the clever brother said scoffingly to the stupid one. “It’s a good job that you’ll be keeping watch tomorrow and I’ll be cooking, or we’d be fasting two days running. But let me tell you this: when you keep watch over the flock tomorrow, be so good as not to have any more of your brand of clever ideas. You need not concern yourself with anything other than the sheep lying down nice and orderly. If you do that, you won’t do anything stupid.”

“I’ll do that,” said the fool.

On the next day, when the clever brother stayed at home and cooked, and the stupid one drove the sheep to pasture, the sheep would not lie down in order, and the fool had no end of trials and tribulations with them, until in the end he grew waxy and yelled: “Just you wait – I’ll – if you won’t do what I tell you!” and he took a club and beat them all stone-dead, and laid them neatly beside each other in rows. Now when his brother came with the pot full of food, he was surprised to see the sheep lying in so very neat a fashion, and he exclaimed:

“Why, they’re lying in splendid order!”

“Aren’t they just?” replied the fool with great self-satisfaction. “At first they didn’t want to, admittedly, and I had trouble enough; I struck them dead, the woollybacks, now none of them will defy me again.”

“For Heaven’s sake!” shouted the wise brother. “What have you done? Now we’re both lost!”

“Oh, go on with you,” the fool replied, as cool as a cucumber. “Lost? And if we were? Whoever finds us is sure to be an honest finder, he’ll take us back.”

“Idiot!” his brother roared in a rage. “The butcher will strike us dead like you struck his sheep dead! Get packing! We must flee right away!”

And the two brothers fled, running as fast as their legs could carry them, and they came into a dense, dark forest; and when night fell they climbed up a tree, to sleep in its branches, and they took their pot up with them, which still had their food inside – broth and pieces of bread – for they had lost their appetites from shock and fear and intended to eat in the treetop that night.

But then two robbers came along, with a sack full of nuts and a sack full of money, and they hauled both sacks under the tree in which the two brothers were sitting, then they sat down ready to divide the money. Then some of the contents of the pot sloshed over and one of the robbers said to the other, “Hey – it’s spitting!” and then grains of pearl barley and pieces of bread fell out of the splish-splashing pot, and the other robber cried, “Hey – it’s sleeting and hailing!”

The brothers up above trembled with fear, and they were unable to keep hold of the pot, which would not stay still on the round branch – and then the whole pot tumbled down. – “God above! A cloudburst! The sky’s falling in! Hear the thunder drumming! That’s pretty music!” the robbers cried out, and they ran away, leaving their sack of money and their sack of nuts behind.

The brothers climbed down the tree and found the sacks, and the clever brother said to the stupid one, “Look, there are two sacks: one is full of hard things and is small, the other is big and has nuts inside. Now the question is, which sack do you want, for you are the elder and so you have the lead.”

“That’s right!” the fool replied. “I have the lead, the big sack is my due, the one with the nuts. I can eat the nuts, but the hard things can’t be eaten.”

So each of them took his sack and they wandered on together. The fool ate nut after nut from his sack, and also gave his brother a few, so that he had ever a lighter load to carry, until the sack was quite empty; but it seemed to the other brother that his sack of money was becoming heavier and heavier, and in the end he was unable to carry it any further.

“Now you can carry my sack for a stretch!” said the clever brother to the stupid one. “It’s getting far too heavy for me.”

“Nah! That’s not part of the deal!” the fool answered. “You haven’t carried my sack, have you? And another thing – I’ve given you nuts, but you’ve given me nothing. If you want to have it easy, let’s share and share alike, as brothers should – half of the hard things to you, and half to me, then neither of us will have to carry too much.”

At first the clever one would not hear of it; he had a go to see if he could not after all carry the sack of money by himself, but it was beyond his power to do this. And so they shared the money, and bought themselves sheep with it, and kept watch over them, and started all over again.

46. The Snake Family-Friend

Once upon a time there was an old married couple who were very poor, for all their hard work, and the husband fed himself and his wife, with whom he lived in a little house close to the forest, through forestry work. He helped to fell trees, house wood, and saw up and chop the wood, and so he was able to collect in the forest the wood he needed for his own use, which he took home on a handcart once or several times a week. However, according to the Forestry Laws, this may be done only with wood that has dried up; poor people must not chop fresh, greening wood off the trees or strip it off with their scythes, or they will be charged with breach of forest-law and punished; and that is a very wise law, for without it, verdant forests would have long since disappeared. Now when the poor woodcutter came into the forest one day, he saw from a distance, to his great delight, that a strong gale in the night had broken off and cast down a large, withered branch from a stately oak, and he intended to take possession of this branch without further ado. But as the man approached, he was horrified to see a large snake wriggling from the tree towards the branch, so he moved off to the side and collected other wood. On the following day the man went into the forest again, intending to take the branch back with him this time, but the snake had coiled itself around the branch many times, and it raised its small head on its slender neck towards him quite gaily, as if it felt no fear of him and wished to make his acquaintance. The man could have killed the snake easily – indeed, all he had to do was cut off its head with the sharp wood-axe he carried with him – but this man was one of those few sensible countryfolk who, in their simplicity of mind, deem it a sin to kill one of God’s creatures without need or necessity, out of pure wantonness and delight in killing, as so many people do out of ignorance and – what is much worse and much more wicked – out of malice. He chose to give up the branch and gather smaller, wind-fallen wood.

Now when the man came home with his bundle of twigs, he said to his wife, who was helping out in the yard, as he threw off the wood: “Unfortunately, I have not brought back the fine branch I told you about yesterday, the snake had curled all of its body around it.”

“Don’t talk to me about your snake!” said the woman. “I’m glad I didn’t see it, it would have been the death of me.”

No sooner had the woodcutter’s wife said this than she uttered a piercing scream and sprang back appalled, for the snake had suddenly crept out of the faggot, and the sight of it put the woman into a mortal terror.

“But dear wife!” cried the man. “How you do over-react! What are you afraid of? Why, it is not a poisonous snake, it is a harmless house-snake which eats frogs and mice. People say that an unke brings luck to a house, perhaps this one will bring it to us; it wouldn’t be before time, for we’ve seen enough days of affliction. There are also examples of men being transformed into lindworms like this, men who had buried treasure and were then obliged to guard the glistening gold in serpent form; perhaps such a treasure will be granted us, so let us not do the snake any harm.”

His wife kept shaking in every limb, and she was barely able to speak a word in reply to her husband, for there has been an aversion to snakes on the part of womankind ever since the beginning of days; as for the snake, it had straight away slipped into the house, and there in the front hall it had come across the cat and bid her good day. The cat had arched its back up high and begun to hiss; the snake had hissed and opened its jaws out wide, which dissuaded the cat from taking any hostile measures against it. “What do you eat?” asked the snake. “I eat mice,” the cat replied.

“I eat mice too,” the snake remarked.

This delicate touch of concurring tendencies placated the cat, and she now asked the snake, “What do you drink?”

“I drink milk, when I can have some!” answered the snake.

“Why, I drink milk too!” cried the cat. “This is just splendid! We are really very well suited.”

After that, the cat and the snake concluded peace and friendship with one another, and the housewife gradually grew accustomed to the latter; and when she gave the cat milk, the snake, which needed very little, drank with the cat out of a little bowl, and between them they caught all the mice – the snake those in the barn and in the cellar, and the cat those in the loft and in the parlour.

Blessings entered the little house in the forest after the snake moved in with the old couple and was suffered to stay: the husband’s daily wage was raised, while the forest-berries, edible mushrooms and healing herbs which the wife gathered and took to town to sell fetched a far higher price than usual; and so the poor people lived in happy contentment, which was of greater benefit to them than the sudden acquisition of wealth would have been. In the evening, when work was done for the day, the two old ones would sometimes sit before the door, in summer, or by the warm stove, in winter, and the wife span while the cat sat beside her and span also – not thread, unfortunately – and the snake came along up secret passageways the mice had hollowed out, and then husband and wife listened in as the two animals told each other stories in which cats or snakes always played the leading roles. The snake in particular, being quite old and very experienced, had a great deal to relate, partly what it had experienced itself, and partly what it had heard from its mother and grandmother.

“I do not know if you are familiar with the story of the woman,” said the snake to her friend the cat one evening, “who bore a snake at her breast for a long time?”

“No, I do not know it; I would be very grateful to you if you told me it,” the cat replied, stroking her head with her right paw, whereupon the snake recounted the following fairy-tale:

47. The Snake’s Wet-Nurse

“Once upon a time there was a poor woman,” the snake narrated, “who went one morning to a meadow to mow grass, and she took her little baby along, who still drank from her breast. After she had breast-fed the baby and it had fallen asleep, she laid it gently down on a grassy slope, where she softly and carefully made it a bed in the shade of an old and hollow willow-tree. But in the trunk of this willow there lived a snake.

The woman diligently attended to her work until the midday hour, when she laid down her scythe and went over to her beloved child to feed him again, and to enjoy her own simple meal as well. When she had finished the latter, she placed the baby to her breast and hummed it a lullaby; and as the day was very hot, and the labour of mowing had tired the woman, she fell into a slumber herself, and the baby let go of its mother’s breast and fell asleep in her arms.

All this had been observed by the little snake which lived in the trunk of the old willow, because it had crept forth to sun itself and to bask in the hot midday air; and because we snakes like to drink milk, it crept softly over, attached itself to the young mother’s breast, and drank the sweet mother’s milk with relish. But great was the horror felt by that woman when she awoke from her slumber and perceived what kind of uninvited guest she was feeding. Then the old enmity between womankind and snakes was aroused to the highest pitch, but the snake was only too happy where it was, and the woman could not tear it off, for at the very first attempt the snake clung on so tightly that it hurt, and so the young mother had to expect that the snake would bite her if she offered it any violence.

Now there remained to the woman only the one breast for her baby, while the snake claimed the other, and it did not let go, particularly as the milk helped it to grow wondrously; and the baby was not harmed in the slightest by having a snake for a milk-sister, but rather thrived likewise and competed with the snake in growth. The woman could have been quite satisfied, for where snakes live, good fortune and blessings come calling, had it not been for the mindless preconception and the fear that the snake would bite her, as if we snakes had a sting in our mouths. Humans also call us ugly while believing themselves to be beautiful, and their understanding is so narrow that they are unable to see that the whole of creation cannot show forth another creature of such perfect beauty as a snake: we have curvature and fullness of form, free from the indecency of ugly hairs and bristles; there is grace in our every movement, and full vigour in the irreproachable sinuosity of our bodies, which are not disfigured by angular, taloned limbs or stumps. Now, that woman continued to pine away, and the snake continued to feed from her, having already attained to the thickness of a human arm, and then it was time for the child to be weaned. But the snake would not let itself be weaned; it grew and grew, and the woman had to make a suspensory in which she carried the snake’s heavy body while its jaws remained firmly fixed to her breast. To make matters worse, the woman had to suffer the derision of her neighbours, who conferred on her the name, ‘Snake Wet-Nurse’.

For ten months that woman had been carrying the snake, when a stranger happened to come to the village, and hearing the tale that was on everyone’s lips, he went to the woman and saw her guest, and how she was wasting away, and how miserable she was because the snake would not leave her – and he said to her, ‘Woman, I will assuredly rid you of this snake if you trust me and follow me into the forest, and will not be afraid when you see yet more snakes. None of them will do you harm, I guarantee it.’

This man was a snake-charmer, and the woman trustingly followed him into the nearby forest, where he described a circle with his staff in a treeless place and gave piercing whistles on a small pipe. Then there was a swishing and a rustling through the grass and the forest leaves and the bushes, and snakes appeared from all directions, large ones and small ones, so that fear and anguish took hold of the woman, and she wanted to jump out of the circle – but the conjuror signalled to her, intimating that she stand still; and he kept blowing, and then all the snakes began to raise up their heads and upper bodies into the air, as straight as a taper, and to dance; and all of a sudden the snake at the woman’s breast became restless, its body made gentle movements, its head let go of her breast, and it swiftly slipped out of the pouch, slid down to the ground, and wriggled towards the other snakes to dance with them while the conjuror played lively pieces on his pipe.

And so the woman was free all at once, and she was delighted; she could now work unhindered again, she was no longer the object of an unreasonable repulsion on the part of her fellow-beings, who believed the poor woman was compelled to carry the lindworm around because she had committed goodness knows what sin, and she raised her lively child with loving care.

When the child was several years old, he ran one day into the nearby forest with the neighbours’ children to look for berries. It was now almost evening but the children had not yet come back home. The mother sat with her work at her door, looking every now and then towards the exit from the forest. Suddenly she heard, coming from that direction, children screaming horribly all at once, and she saw a bunch of them hurtling out of the wood, fleeing as precipitately as they could towards the village, but her own little child, who could not yet run like the bigger ones, was not among them. And then a boy yelled: ‘A wolf! A wolf!’ and a second yelled, ‘A bear! A big bear!’ and a third, ‘A snake, a horrible snake!’ and the mother’s heart filled with terror and she leapt to her feet and hurried towards the forest.

In vain did she ask the children who ran past her in feverish haste about her own child; no one would answer her, fear drove all of them past her and away. Directly afterwards, the woman saw a large wolf which was making some peculiar leaps but then collapsed before her eyes and gave up the ghost. Horrified, the woman rushed past the wolf and reached the edge of the forest, where a dreadful sight presented itself to her eyes. A roaring bear was rearing up, not towards the woman, but in a struggle with a large snake which had tightly coiled itself around him and was constricting his throat – and no sooner had she seen him standing upright than he crashed down, and beside the place where he lay on the ground, throwing out his breath and thrashing – oh miracle! – there lay, unscathed and sweetly slumbering, the woman’s child, and she flung herself at him with a loud cry of joy. Now the snake uncoiled itself from the neck and body of the bear, and a wave of cold horror swept over the woman anew – she knew this snake. But the snake said to her, ‘You do not need to fear me. Snakes do not play false and are not ungrateful, as you humans imagine and persuade yourselves, stamping us as symbols of your own hatred. It was you who suckled me so big and strong that I was able to exanimate the wolf and the bear who threatened danger to your child. I have returned good for good! Farewell!’ – And it wriggled into the bushes.”

48. Clear Moon

The cat listened with pleasure to the tale of her friend the snake, and when it had finished she said, “No animal species has to suffer so much from human ingratitude as we poor cats. As these humans make you snakes into symbols of falseness, ingratitude, and malignity, so do they with us, and therefore the two of us act wisely in sticking together and maintaining friendship with one another. People always say, ‘copycat’ and ‘hellcat,’[47] and more such honorary titles are bestowed on us. One of their numerous vices – theft – humans have called mousing[48] after our profession, our food instinct, that was placed in us by the Creator, of catching mice, which is just downright disgraceful of them; and finally, they have conceived the tall tale that their evil witch-women and Devil’s-confederates were able to transform themselves into such a noble and beautiful creature as a cat; this has led to many people taking every cat to be a witch, through which saintly simplicity many thousands of our species have suffered the cruellest of deaths. I could tell you such tales, in which we are supposed to have played a role as witches, to my dying day, and still I would not have made an end of them.

I shall tell you only one such tale, which does not have such cruel touches as the hacking off of paws or heads that so many others do, but in which mention is rather made of our gift for beautiful song and our delight in contemplating the star-studded heavens. I firmly believe that the Sirens of Antiquity were merely singing cats who lived in seas or meres, and so were genuine merecats,[49] whereas spiteful mankind has conferred the name of a beautiful animal that is no longer extant on a kind of mongoose. It is also a well-known tradition and truth among us that the gleam of our eyes at night is nothing other than starlight, which we imbibe from the very first opening of our eyes; that is why we can also see at night, and for us, the most favoured creatures on the face of the earth, there is no darkness; and although we slink through the night, yet we never slink in the dark, and it is just as fatuous of humans to designate us as symbols of spiritual darkness as it is when they do this with owls, who share with us that blessing of constant clear sight. But far be it from me to praise myself and my kind; in truth, I have no need of self-applause. My tale is this:

Once upon a time there lived a man whose house had a fine, spacious balcony, from which one could enjoy a splendid prospect of the town in which he lived and of the whole surrounding area. Close to this balcony was the man’s summer bedchamber, and glass doors led out from it on to a belvedere decorated with flowerpots and small trees in wooden tubs.

One glorious summer’s night, when the full moon was shining with a brilliant light and the sky was thick with stars, the man was awakened by heavenly melodies which were sounding very near at hand. He rose from his bed and looked out onto his balcony through a pane of the glass window, and he was greatly astonished to perceive a large party of beautiful ladies, some dressed in white, some in coloured or dark clothes, but all of the most agreeable appearance, sitting around the table that ordinarily stood on the balcony and singing, with the most delightful voices, a refrain which ran:

‘We’re drinking sweeter wine tonight

Than Burgundy wine,

Than wine of Champagne,

We’re drinking the clear moonlight!’

Be that as it may, this delicate company seemed not to disdain bodily refreshment; at least, the man saw that the company of women in question were also savouring earthly wine and exquisite dishes. As he was a confirmed bachelor and lived in the house quite alone but for some old servants, he had absolutely no idea who all these Madams and Misses were, or where in the world they had come from, or why they had come to him of all people. In the end, it seemed to him to be a lovely dream, but his feeling vividly awake argued against this, and so he thought to himself: ‘I am, after all, the master of this house, I have a right to enter this company, where I shall soon hear what strange occasion has led them to me.’ So the man unlatched the glass door and walked out towards the ladies quite at his ease and with a friendly greeting. At sight of him, they all immediately rose from their seats, and a very charming young girl in a snow-white dress, with blond hair and rose-red little mouth and little hands, walked up to him and said, ‘Your gracious forgiveness, noble Sir, for the liberty we have taken of celebrating this beautiful, blissful May night on your balcony, and do not take it amiss if our song has perchance disturbed your slumber. Join us, have a seat, have some cakes, have some wine!’

The man did not know what to make of it all; the lovely little maiden’s charming prattle had stopped all the questions on his lips, he sat down with the company at the round table, and showed no disinclination to accept a proffered glass of champagne; and as he was drinking with them, the ladies now sang a slightly altered version of their ditty:

‘We’re drinking the choicest wines tonight,

Burgundy wine!

Wine of Champagne!

And the clear, the clear, moonlight!’

The white-clad maiden snuggled up to the man so very confidingly, like a young daughter to a father whom she loves, and offered him some cake; he took some of this also, but it did not quite please his palate – there was something missing – so he said, ‘Ladies! Might I possibly ask you in God’s name for a pinch of salt?’

No sooner were these words spoken than the man suddenly heard, in place of the delightful singing, an uproarious hubbub of cats’ voices, to whose delicate, melodic and incomparable euphony the ears of coarse humans are completely deaf, and for which they have no inherent sense – and just so did he see the entire company become cats, including his own, which had only a moment before been the beautiful lady in white who was celebrating her natal day. The man saw the cats leap from all sides of the balcony up on to the roof, run quickly along the ridges, and before he could say Jack Robinson they had all vanished, along with glasses, plates, wine and cake – everything but the little piece of cake that he held in his hand, and which was nothing but a bit of stale matzo. His own cat had fled through the window of the balcony-door into his bedchamber, which he strode back into in a rage, and he reached for a rattan cane to repay with ingratitude the hospitality he had been so kindly shown. Now when the man swept under the bed with his cane, the white cat hissed and yowled fearfully, sprang out from under the bed and through the window again, smashing a second pane into shards, out onto the balcony, onto the roof – and never came back. As the man frequently told his friends what had befallen him with the cats, singing the refrain to them on each occasion and swearing that he would extirpate catkind, so his friends had a good laugh at him and mockingly named him Clear Moon and Herod-of-the-Cats until the end of his days.”

49. Sevenskin

When the cat had finished narrating her fairy-tale, the wife of the woodcutter, who had been attentively listening along, spoke up: “I know plenty of such stories. Whether they are all true, I cannot say. And with regard to your story, my good snake, about a woman who fed and reared one of your relatives at her breast, I know a far finer one, of a woman who even brought a snake into the world and had to nurse it as her child.” The cat and the snake were eager to hear this story, and they asked the woman to tell it to them.

“Once upon a time there was a Count,” the woman began thereupon, “who was very rich and had a very beautiful and affectionate wife, who loved him tenderly, but they were without child, and because of that, the Count loved his wife much less than she loved him; and besides, his manners were somewhat rough and ready, even if he did not really mean any harm. And so he constantly called his wife, who strove to keep in his good books through congeniality, humility, and close-lipped demeanour, an eelskin, a toady, a slippery snake, and the like; and every now and then the woman would weep at this and say, ‘You sin when you liken me to a snake – may God refrain from punishing you for that one day!’ And the Count laughed.

Then it happened, some years later, that the prospect of a child came the way of the couple, whereupon the Count behaved like a changed man who overwhelmed his wife with kindness – but then a hard fate fell upon them both – the Countess brought into the world not a child but – a snake. The Count was beside himself with rage and fury, and his wife was near to death. ‘Are you a snake now, Snake-mother, or are you not?’ he roared. ‘You are a witch, a Devil’s paramour, a purring dissembler! You must die, and the snakeskin brat you bore must die with you!’ – However, through pleas and entreaties the Countess brought it about that he did not have her and the snake killed, and the horror with which she looked at the snake was now mingled with a mother’s love. However, the Count scarcely concerned himself with her and no longer regarded her as his wife; she was not allowed to leave her isolated chambers and no one was allowed in to her except for the most essential servants. In her seclusion, the Countess put the snake to her breast and nursed it with her milk, and she gradually grew accustomed to it and came to love it as a child. She also had the same recurring dream over and again: the snake was a handsome boy who had taken on the form of a serpent because of all the times she had wept with dismay when her husband had called her a snake. Therefore, she looked after the snake carefully and faithfully, and at length she saw, to her joy, that it had grown large and prospered; now it would sit quietly on her lap, now it would raise its slender neck with the little head and the clever flashing eyes to her mouth and brush against it, as with a kiss, and it always sent a shudder of delight running through her when the snake, just for an instant, let its quick tongue slide between her lips; and now it would blithely wriggle around the room making dancing movements like a happy child at play.

Time passed, monotonously enough, for the confined Countess; a full twenty years had now gone by, the snake had long attained to its full growth, and the Countess gave serious thought to her death – and what would then become of the snake? Then one evening, the snake, who had never yet uttered a word in all these long years, opened its mouth and said, to the unspeakable surprise of the Countess: ‘Dearest mother! I have now passed the twentieth year of my life, and I would wish to get married. You would place me under an obligation of the deepest gratitude, were you to procure a bride for me; from which social station is all the same to me, just as long as she is steadfast and worthy.’ The Countess promised to fulfil her son’s wish and sent out marriage emissaries, but from all quarters she received answers which declined, and often derided, her proposal. Lithe suitors, it was said, were seen with pleasure, but a slithering suitor was not the order of the day. Such a union was really all too unequal – one would not be unhappy to have a golden snake-ring on one’s finger, or a golden snake as a bracelet, but a snake around one’s whole body – that was not to be borne. This greatly distressed the Countess, and as a wedding-match could not be found at all, yet her son repeated his supplication, so the Countess thought of her henkeeper, a brisk young girl, and tried to persuade her to the union. But the maid said, ‘What use can a lounger be to me? Such a one only eats and never works! I trust myself to find me a suitor who has hands and feet!’

But the Countess gave her to understand that there need be no more talk of work if she married the Count’s son, that she would become rich and be able to parade around in clothes of gold. If she showed the wisdom of snakes, she would accept the snake; and if she wished to stay with the hens, then she was a silly goose.

A little coaxing can go a long way – says the proverb – and the henkeeper said she would think the matter over and sleep on it. Good advice would come by night. And it did come. After a pious evening-prayer the maid fell asleep and at once had a dream in which an angel appeared and whispered to her, ‘Take him, take him, you won’t find a better! You’re the one appointed to release him.’ And it whispered to her what she should do on the wedding evening. The girl took careful note of everything, and the next morning she announced to the Countess her decision to comply with her fervent wish. The snake’s mother was delighted to hear this and made all the preparatory arrangements, yet the wedding was to be – for good reasons – celebrated privately. Now when the young couple were together, the snake said to the bride, ‘Get undressed!’ – ‘No!’ said the bride, ‘you get undressed first!’ Then the snake gave a hop, wound itself into a circle, bit its tail, and shot out of its skin; but the one underneath was far lovelier, for the old one had been brown and the new one was green; and the snake spoke, ‘I hope! Now get undressed!’ – ‘No, you get undressed!’ cried the bride. Then the snake did as on the previous occasion, and slipping out of the green skin so it appeared sky-blue, it said, ‘I trust! Now get undressed!’

‘No, you get undressed!’ cried the bride, for that was the secret the angel had confided to her in dream, and once again the snake obeyed, thereby evincing the most hopeful signs of becoming a good, compliant husband. The blue skin fell from it, and a new rosy-red one emerged, and the snake spoke, ‘I love you, and now get undressed!’

‘No, you get undressed!’ said the bride.

‘You demand a great deal, my child!’ the snake replied, but it sloughed its skin for the fourth time and now appeared silver all over. ‘My heart is pure, like silver! Now get undressed!’ said the snake, but the bride again refused to do this, saying once more, ‘No! You get undressed!’

Thereupon the snake shed its silver skin and crept out of it with a gloriously refulgent golden skin, saying, ‘My heart is true, like gold! Now, finally, get undressed!’

‘No! You get undressed!’ the bride said for the sixth time, and once again the snake obeyed, and it came out of the golden skin, which it cast off, like a living rainbow, glittering and glowing in all colours, with a brilliancy that eyes could hardly bear. ‘Peace be with you and me,’ cried the snake, ‘but I beg you, get undressed now!’

‘No, you get undressed!’ the bride said inexorably. Then the snake shot up high into the air, and in what skin did it appear now? Have a guess.”

“I cannot guess that,” said the snake. “I slough only once a year.”

“And I even less often,” the cat added; “I never shed my skin, I only shed hair.”

“Pah! Into a human skin!” cried the narrator. “And it changed at the same time into a human form, and into a handsome and young one at that, and he took his bride in his arms and kissed her and cried, ‘Thank you, you have released me!’

And that was what the angel had whispered to the bride in her dream: seven times must she refuse his importunities and turn them back on him, and now he stood before her as the most benevolent of Count’s sons, as the most handsome of knights, and she sank, moved by love, on his breast. That the Countess was delighted at the transformation; that her husband became reconciled with her and took pleasure in his son – that all goes without saying.”

And so they told tales, one after the other, the inhabitants of that house in the forest: now the woman, and now the man, or the snake, or the cat; and the husband and wife lived only happy days, reached a ripe old age, and died the one shortly after the other. After that the cat also died, and the snake left the house in which it had felt so much at home.

50. Ducats-Angela

Once upon a time there were three sisters who lived in the countryside, and one of them, by the name of Frannie, was very clever, but the second sister was foolish and the third one was still a very little child. The clever sister had gone to school and learned various things; the foolish one had, indeed, also gone to school, but had learned nothing, and it had not been possible to drum anything into her head. Therefore, their parents no longer being alive, the clever sister took care of the small household, cooking and washing, and the foolish one had to serve her, washing up, scouring, chopping wood, running errands, carrying the child around, and being Cinderella in all things – except the prospect of becoming a Princess.

One day, the clever sister sent the foolish one to the neighbouring town and gave her money to buy bread. Now the town was holding its fair just at that time, and the foolish girl, never having visited a fair in her life, wandered around between all the stalls filled with the delights of the fair with gaping mouth and staring eyes, and so she came to a stall that was crammed and overflowing with dolls and dollies and doll’s heads and doll’s bodies, each doll more beautiful than the last – oh, how the girl would have loved to have a couple, or at least but one, of the dollies – and then the seller cried out very kindly, “Now, my dear, pretty child! Come closer! Take a doll for yourself! Pick out the prettiest one!”

“That’s what I call a kind woman!” thought the foolish girl, “For allowing me to take one,” and picking up a very pretty doll, she thanked the woman and made to leave, but the seller held her by the coat and cried, “Well! And what’s this? The nerve, indeed! That’s not part of the deal, my honest maiden! People pay when they buy, or are you perhaps a fingersmith who finds what no one has lost? Cough up! Or I’ll call the police!”

At these stern words, the foolish girl felt a fear deeper than any she had felt in all her life, and in her fright she handed over all the money she was supposed to use to buy bread with, and the doll-seller took the money and screeched: “Hey! This junk isn’t nearly enough!” and she tore the pretty doll from Nannie’s hand – by this name was the foolish girl mockingly called, because she was short and stocky and resembled an old nana – and gave her another, far inferior, one, which was old and had barely been cleaned up, shouting: “Such as is the money, so are the wares! Like saint, like offering![50] Run, little brat! Be off with you! Be happy that you’ve got such a pretty doll for your couple of shabby farthings!”

In spite of this ill-treatment on the part of the market-woman, poor little Nannie was happy to have a dolly, and she hugged it and kissed it and called it “Angela” – that is, Little Angel – and “my kiddie, my kiddie!” But oh, when Nannie came home from the fair bringing a doll instead of bread, Frannie became very angry and hit poor Nannie, making her cry bitterly, and did not speak another word to her all the rest of the day. Yet Nannie still had her Angela to comfort her, and she petted her, and took her to bed with her, laid her down beside her, and soon fell into a deep and sound sleep, for she was tired from the journey, tired from the blows, and weak with hunger: Frannie, as a further punishment, had not given her any food. Beside Nannie’s bed stood the little bed of the youngest sister, who was called Annie, and Frannie’s bed stood against the opposite wall.

Now, in the middle of the night – there was bright moonlight – the clever sister was awakened by a strange voice which came from her sister’s bed opposite, saying: “Mummy eggy! Mummy eggy!” and Frannie realised that this voice must come from the little puppet, for it was different from her sisters’ voices. Now as the foolish sister was fast asleep and did not hear anything, Frannie called over to the little child, “Annie! Wake Nannie up! Angela wants to lay an eggy!”[51]

Little Annie roused herself at this call and woke up Nannie, who got up, took her Angela, and placed her on a little bowl.

Suddenly there was a clinking and tinkling in the bowl, and when Nannie lifted Angela back down from it, the latter had laid a golden egg that looked as like a ducat as one pea resembles another.

There was great joy among the sisters; the clever one was friends with the foolish one again, and they all kissed and hugged their good Angela, and wrapped her in pieces of silken cloth, and with the ducat they bought bread and cakes, sugar and coffee, and all kinds of tasty delights. And the biggest delight of all was this: every night Angela cried, “Mummy, eggy!” and every night she laid a golden egg. Then the clever sister bought pretty clothes little by little and had the house she lived in with her sisters newly tiled, and its exterior painted anew, and inside she had the parlour wallpapered; and she bought hens, geese, ducks and pigeons for the yard and purchased a goat, then later a cow, and a little prammy for Annie, which Nannie would push while Annie had Angela on her lap, and a little lambkin, which was called Lammie, ran along beside her wearing a red ribbon with a tinkling little bell around its neck. Now the neighbours were amazed that the sisters were so well-off, and were becoming better-off with each passing day, and they could not comprehend where or what this prosperity came from. For although the clever sister was very industrious, they well knew that honest industry does not lead to rapid riches.

Now among the near neighbours of the sisters was a married couple, and they themselves were rich, but it was this very couple who envied the sisters the most, and husband and wife discussed them together: “If only we knew how in the world Frannie and Nannie with their Annie over yonder have become so very rich! Where do they get the money from? There’s something strange going on!”

“Wait, dear husband!” said the wife. “I’ll soon find it out and bring it to light; I’ll ask stupid Nannie, she’s so simple-minded that she’s bound to tell me everything.”

So a short while after this, when Nannie was taking Annie with her Angela for a walk in the pram, with Lammie running tinkling along at her side, the neighbouring wife blocked their way, saying: “Well, a very good day to you, dear Nannikins! And how is everyone? How is my dear Frannikins? I’m sure she’s working her socks off at home! Oh, the dear, good girl! And darling little Annikins here! Oh, the little angel! Well – and what a pretty doll she has there on her lap! And lovely Lambie! How he frisks! And the little golden bell, how it tinkles! And the clean little pram, painted in such pretty colours! Yes, we see the truth of the proverb: Beautiful people have beautiful things! O you delightful little treasures that you are!”

With this ostensibly so friendly and amiable prattle, the neighbour beguiled Nannie, who said: “Indeed, good neighbour,[52] we’re doing all right, and we’re content.”

“We’re so happy about that, my husband and I, dearest Nannie!” the wife flattered. “You are all very good, too good, too worthy, and deserve to have it good, for the proverb says: Everyone receives his just deserts. Oh, to have it as good as you! But the proverb says: God gives blessings to his beloved in sleep!”[53]

“Certainly, good neighbour,” foolish Nannie replied. “The dear Lord gives to us every night! A golden ducat every night.”

“Oh my goodness me! Oh Lordy! Oh – where from, you charming, darling girl, you good, dear, clever Nannie that you are?” the wily neighbour coaxingly cried.

“Angela does it, what’s there in Annie’s lap!” simple Nannie blurted out. “Every night she cries, ‘Mummy poo-poo!’ and I sit her down on a little bowl, and then the ducat drops in.”

“I don’t believe it!” the neighbour cried, quite beside herself, and she reached out to snatch the dolly away, but Annie held it tight with both hands and started to shriek like a stuck pig and kick out.

“Now then, little fool, keep your doll! I won’t take it off you! I don’t need one!” the neighbour said soothingly, and desisted. “Little children don’t whine when you do their will, the proverb says. That’s true for big children too! Well, adyoo, farewell, good Nannie! Give my fondest regards to dear Frannie, and you and Annie and Lammie all stay nice and healthy” – (stupid heifer,[54] you muttonhead!) she added in thought – and she joyfully hastened to her husband and arranged a plan with him how she could, using deception and duplicity, ask to be admitted to the sisters’ house for one night and make off with the sisters’ good and useful dolly, Ducats-Angela.

When night had fallen and it was time to go to bed, the children heard a terrible racket in the neighbours’ house over the way. There was a slapping and smacking, a thumping and thwacking, and a crashing and banging all over, and they could hear the wife howling pitifully and the husband dreadfully cursing and scolding, but it was all just a ruse and pretence; and finally the front door over the way flew open and the wife came out wringing her hands, her hair flying all over, in a state of undress, and she headed straight for the sisters’ house, screaming incessantly, “Oh Lord have mercy! Oh the wicked man! Oh, oh, oh! Ah, ah, ah! Oh, oh, oh! Ah, ah, ah!” and she was not to be pacified. In the end she uttered the lie – with simulated tears and many sobs – that her cruel husband had given her an almighty beating and thrown her out of the house, and she would not go back over, not for love nor money, and the sisters might like, for God’s sake, to put her up for this night only, for it was already dark; at the crack of dawn the next day she would set out on her way back to her home village and her parents.

The good-natured sisters took pity on the false woman and prepared a bed for her in their own bedchamber, for the little house had no guest room or guest bedroom to offer. Now when everyone had retired to bed, the neighbour took Ducats-Angela out of sleeping Nannie’s bed, opened the window, climbed out, leapt into the garden in front of the house, trod the sisters’ fairest flowers underfoot, and hurried over to her house, where her husband received her at the open door, and they were both as exultant as witches on Walpurgis Night[55] and laughed their heads off at the easy success of the robbery.

And the moment the two of them entered the parlour, Angela said: “Mummy eggy! Mummy eggy!” which filled the wife’s heart with joy, and instead of a little bowl she took the tureen, placed it under Angela, and said: “Don’t hold back; don’t do it so singly! Make a good pile, for the proverb says: Means make the Master, and the more the merrier!” And Angela did her utmost after this encouragement, yet there was no tinkling clink in the tureen, but rather a squishing squelch, and when the husband saw this benefaction he thought his wife was making a fool of him, and now he became as angry in earnest as he had pretended to be shortly before, and taking the tureen and the doll, he threw them both out the window onto the dung heap, after which he grabbed a stick and beat the living daylights out of his wife, so she screamed blue murder in earnest: “Oh oh oh! Ow ow ow! Oh my giddy aunt! Oh my stars!” and the husband yelled, “I’ll give you giddy – I’ll beat the falling sickness into you! Can you see anything yet? Can you see those stars?[56] The proverb says: The more the merrier! Just wait, I’ll teach you to be merry!”[57] and he rained blow after blow on her until she could barely raise a squeak.

The next morning, the sisters noticed that Angela had gone, and she had not wanted to go to the bowl the night before, and they were sorely distressed.

In the meantime the doll, Angela, lay on the dung-heap, and the tureen lay over her, with only a small strip of her colourful coat peeping out from under the brim; then a rag-and-bone man came by, and seeing the strip of cloth, he pushed the tureen aside with his stick and was delighted to find a doll; deciding at once to take it back to his little girl, he picked it up, and it not being very clean, as a result of circumstances, he went to the nearest well and washed Angela until she was spotless. Meanwhile, quite by chance, Nannie came to the well to fetch water, as she habitually did, and seeing her doll in the stranger’s hand she cried out in delight, “Hey, my Angela! Where have you been?” and the doll immediately cried, “Mummy poo-poo! Mummy eggy!” and gave the man’s hand a fillip, thereby hopping out of it onto Nannie’s neck and slipping under her neckerchief, and because she urgently needed to go, she swiftly laid an egg that once again looked as like to a ducat as one pea to another. Nannie took this ducat and gave it to the rag-and-bone man, saying: “Dear man, this puppet, wherever you may have found it, belongs to me. But here you have, for a finder’s reward, a pretty tip, a ducat, because you found my Angela and washed her so nice and clean!” – and she quickly ran back home and delightedly showed Angela to her sisters and hugged and kissed her, and the elder sister and the younger, Frannie and Annie, rejoiced at Nannie bringing Angela into the house a second time, and they were mightily glad and hopped for joy – and Lammie hopped along –, and roasted double-brewed coffee and baked waffles.

And Angela kept her magic power and continued to lay her little yellow egg with a tinkling clink in the little bowl every night. This made the sisters very rich, but they remained on good terms and lived in peace with one another, and they brought Annie up and had her taught what was right and proper, for it comes to pass exceedingly rarely that little girls who have learned nothing and are foolish, like Nannie, find a Ducats-Angela. As the proverb says: You have as much chance of finding one as of landing an angel.[58]

End of New Book of German Fairy Tales.

---

[1] In German, “Roßkäfer” (literally “horse-beetle”).

[2] “Batzen”. 1 batzen = 4 Kreutzers, or approximately one-and-a-half pence in the mid-19^th century.

[3] The original has the unique compound, “Äquinoktialsäure” (equinoctial acid). In the 19^th century, imitation champagne was made from rhubarb stalks, which are rich in oxalic acid. -The SAGE Encyclopedia of Food Issues ed. Ken Albala (Los Angeles: SAGE Publications, 2015), p. 1097.

[4] A reference to Le Prophète (1849), an opera by Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791-1864) about the Anabaptist leader John of Leiden (Johan Beukelszoon, 1509-36). Bechstein would seem to be in the minority in his judgement; the opera was a great popular and critical success, like many of Meyerbeer’s productions in the 19^th century.

[5] A fabric, originally silk, with a rippled or “watered” appearance.

[6] A Prince of the Holy Roman Empire whose sovereignty was purely nominal, having had his principality annexed to a more powerful one, but who retained his rank and some rights.

[7] The German has “Feige” which means “fig” and is also short for “Ohrfeige” (“box on the ear.”)

[8] “ein halbes Malter” – “half a Malter.” A Malter was a measure of four bushels of corn (with variations from region to region), or 100kg / 212lb.

[9] A parody of the song “Müllers Abschied” (“Miller’s Parting”) which appeared in the 1806 collection of old songs and poems, Des Knaben Wunderhorn. The second line reads, “Da steht ein goldnes Haus”; Bechstein changes the golden house to “ein Mühlenrad” (“mill-wheel”).

[10] An inverted cone or pyramid (originally with a hopping motion) through which grain passes in a mill (Concise OED).

[11] Another song from Des Knaben Wunderhorn (“Ablösung im Sommer” or “The Changing of the Summer Guard”), in which the cuckoo is presumed dead because he has fallen silent after heralding the summer.

[12] Hans says “Kudaten” instead of “Dukaten” (“ducats”).

[13] The German has “Mistfinken” and “Goldammern” or “Bramblings” and “Yellow Buntings” respectively. “Mistfink” (literally: “manure finch”) also has the meaning “filthy person, dirty so-and-so, dunghill,” a reference to the brothers’ appearance as a result of their work.

[14] As the name Hans, so familiar to English readers, was retained in this story, so the other names were not Anglicised into Michael and Walt.

[15] Literally, “Honesty lasts longest.”

[16] “Wanderbuch” – “a police-book for a travelling journeyman, in which his name, conduct & c. is written, and which serves as a passport from station to station” – Hilpert’s dictionary. Both a passport and a journal, it would include information on his place of birth, profession, age, height, hair, facial features (including the chin), and any other distinguishing features.

[17] Historically, either of two principalities (Schwarzburg-Sondershausen and Schwarzburg- Rudolstadt) in the Holy Roman Empire, located in present-day Thuringia).

[18] “Teufelskanzel”: “kanzel” means both “pulpit” and “spur, promontory.”

[19] Here, referring to the late afternoon, not the evening.

[20] “blauen Montag feiern” (literally: celebrate Blue Monday) refers to craftsmen taking the Monday off work because of a hangover.

[21] A reference to the old poem about Schlaraffenland (The Land of Cockaigne, The Land of Milk and Honey) “Von dem allerbesten Land so auff Erden ligt” (1671), which formed the basis of a tale in Bechstein’s Deutsches Märchenbuch. In his dictionary, Ebers (1796: I, 910) translates “gebratene Tauben fliegen keinem ins Maul” as “you must not expect that Fortune comes a Wooing to you; or roast Larks are not found on Hedges.” As we would say nowadays: Do not simply wait for Fortune to fall into your lap.

[22] In the Tyrol (from where this story originates), the Fangga is a fearsome, hairy giantess with a huge mouth who devours children or triturates them against dead trees. (Claude Lecouteux, Dictionnaire de mythologie germanique, 4^th ed. Paris: Imago, 2014.)

[23] “Krieg’ die Kränk” – literally, “Get epilepsy.”

[24] The expression, “Das halte der Teufel aus!” has the sense, “Let the devil put up with it (because I sure as hell won’t / because I’m damned if I will).”

[25] An 1828 drama by Karl von Holtei, based on the extremely influential ballad “Lenore” (1773) by Gottfried August Bürger.

[26] A shabby vagabond – the titular hero of a play by the Austrian actor and dramatist Johann Nestroy, “Der böse Geist Lumpazivagabundus oder Das Liederliche Kleeblatt” (1833; The Evil Spirit Lumpazivagabundus, or the Roguish Trio)

[27] It seems that in the ‘forest’ a knight would challenge others to single combat, to prove through force of arms that his lady merited the prize for beauty.

[28] Proverbs 6:11.

[29] This is an allusion to Karl Gottlieb Cramer’s novel, Leben und Schicksale des ehrlichen Septimus Storax, eines Kreuzbruders des Erasmus Schleicher (Leipzig 1809, p. 33). The Lord making “grass to grow” on the mountain refers to Psalm 147: 8. Here, “collect” is used in its ecclesiastical sense: a short prayer in Christian liturgy.

[30] The “Wise Women” or “Inspired Women” of the ancient Germans, who were regarded as sorceresses after the tribes converted to Christianity.

[31] The Bilwis (“Bilbze”) was also corn demon, having originally been a benevolent grain spirit.

[32] Ezekiel 6:14.

[33] Celtic gold or silver coins found in a ploughed field after heavy rain and popularly believed to have been left by a rainbow.

[34] Bechstein playfully uses the plural form of the verb with a singular subject, a practice reserved for reigning princes (and other dignitaries when they are addressed). The attempt has been made to approximate this effect in English by the use of more formal verbs.

[35] Matthew 13:42.

[36] Rübezahl (called “Number Nip” by early English translators) lived, according to legend, in the Giant Mountains, between Bohemia (the Czech Republic) and Silesia (Poland).

[37] “The Milkmaid and her Pail.”

[38] A basket for carrying objects on the back.

[39] Blechkappen, also called Ephraimiten (Ephraimits) after Veitel Heine Ephraim, who minted these inferior coins, in which copper replaced silver (up to 70%), for Frederick the Great, to help to finance the Seven Years’ War (1756-63).

[40] It was Titus, son of the Emperor Vespasian, who destroyed Jerusalem in AD 70, not Tiberius (d. AD 37).

[41] He has come down in the world; He has gone from midshipman to powder-monkey.

[42] Kommt man über den Hund, so kommt man auch über den Schwanz =It is idle to swallow the cow and choke on the tail; Who can do more can do less. The meaning is: When you have accomplished the most difficult part of a task, what remains is plain sailing; or, When you have accomplished the most difficult part of a task, there is no point in not seeing it through to the end.

[43] The puns in the original have been preserved without injury to the meaning, with the exception of the final example: “Eselsgurken” (Lit: donkey cucumber) is “squirting cucumber,” not “donkey-ear.”

[44] Timothy 6:9.

[45] An anker is around 35 litres or nearly 10 gallons; an ohm (or ahm) is 4 ankers.

[46] Deuteronomy 23:19.

[47] The German has “falsche Katze” and “Katzenfalschheit” which mean “two-faced” and “deceitfulness,” and were usually applied to women.

[48] The German verb “mausen” means both “to catch mice” and “to filch.”

[49] Bechstein makes a cruel pun on “Meerkatze,” which literally means “sea-cat” but is actually a guenon – the ugliest kind of monkey, according to the original text.

[50] “Nachdem der Mann, nachdem brät man die Wurst” (Literally: “as is the man, so does one fry the sausage”).

[51] “eine Gackele legen” – Gackele is nursery language for “Eichen” (“little egg”).

[52] “Frau Nachbarin” – the equivalent “goody” is archaic, and “neighbour” sounds too abrupt.

[53] “Den seinen gibt’s der liebe Gott im Schlafe” – one interpretation of Psalm 127:2.

[54] “dummes Hammele, du Schaf!” (“stupid wether, you sheep!”) – a rhyming play on the girl’s name, which is Mammele in the original.

[55] The night of April 30 when, according to legend, witches held a kind of conference on the summit of the Brocken, in the Harz Mountains, with the Devil as the Keynote Speaker and all kinds of diabolical revels on the agenda.

[56] Here there is an extended pun on the word “Ei!” (“Ow!” “egg”).

[57] Yet more wordplay: “viel hilft viel ... ich will dir helfen” (“much helps much … I’ll help you”). The second phrase has the idiomatic sense, “I’ll teach you.”

[58] “da hat sich was zu angeln” = “They cannot (simply) be fished for.” The final word is a pun.