“Oh, mother,” cried the little girl, “I am so hungry!”
“Be quiet, my darling, pray be quiet,” said the mother, trying to
soothe her.
“But, mother,” the child began again, after a short pause, “why don’t
we have something to eat?”
“Because there is no food,” was the answer. Then the little girl began
to sob bitterly, and her mother took her in her arms, and wept, too,
rocking and kissing the little one.
The mother was a beautiful young woman, whose husband had died a short
time before, leaving her alone in the world with her child. She had no
money, so she was obliged to work to earn a living for herself and her
little daughter. She was a good seamstress and very industrious; but
she could not always find work, and then they had a hard time. For the
baker and the butcher are not rich people; they can neither give nor
lend long, and if customers cannot pay them, they can get neither
coffee nor sugar, neither meat nor bread, neither potatoes nor lard,
neither coal for stoves and hearths nor oil for lamps.
Now another time without work had come, the last money the widow could
save had been spent, and for two days no fire had burned in the stove,
though it was winter and very cold; and no oil in the lamp, though it
grew dark early. The little girl had eaten nothing all day, and her
mother had tasted no food for two days.
“I can’t wait any longer,” said the child, in a faint voice. “If I
don’t have a piece of bread, I shall die.”
“No,” cried the mother, “you shall not die. Come, I’ll put you to bed,
so that you may keep warm, and then I’ll go and get you some bread.”
“Yes, do, dear mother,” whispered the little girl, while the mother was
undressing and putting her to bed. “Only soon, please.”
The mother went to the neighbor who lived in the second story. She was
a very rich woman, but hard-hearted and miserly. Besides, she envied
the young widow because, in spite of her poverty, she was far handsomer
and more elegant.
The rich woman listened impatiently, and answered sullenly: “I lend
nothing. If people were always giving, they would have nothing left for
themselves. And I have no work for you, either. Go, in heaven’s name.”
“Then must I leave my child to starve?” cried the mother, wringing her
hands.
“Why don’t you pawn or sell something?” asked the woman harshly.
“I have nothing more to pawn or sell,” was the answer.
“Indeed,” replied the neighbor, with a spiteful smile. “At least, you
have your long, fair braids. What does a poor beggar want with such a
quantity of hair? You can certainly get quite a little sum for it.”
The poor mother looked silently at her cruel neighbor a moment, then
she left the room without a word.
She really did have wonderfully beautiful hair, long, thick, soft as
silk, yellow as spun gold. When she let it down, it covered her like a
royal mantle; when she brushed it, sunbeams seemed to be playing around
the comb and her hand.
When the envious neighbor had told her to cut off her hair, her one
ornament, it cut her to the heart. But when she stood in the street,
and thought of her starving child up in a cold, dark, little garret
room, she quickly resolved to make the hard sacrifice.
At the street corner was a hairdresser’s shop, in whose show windows
were the wax busts of ladies with hair beautifully and elaborately
arranged, wigs of various colors, and oddly shaped bottles of perfume.
On the panes was pasted a notice bearing the words, “Women’s blond and
white hair bought here at the highest prices.”
To this shop the young mother went. At the door she hesitated, but not
long. Summoning all her courage, she entered.
“What do you wish?” asked the hairdresser, a little hunchbacked man
with sharp, black eyes.
“Excuse me, sir,” replied the poor mother, timidly, “but I think you
buy women’s blond hair?”
“Yes, certainly. Have you any to sell?”
“Mine, sir, if you want it.”
“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” said the little hunchback, fixing his sharp eyes
on her. “Let me see it.”
He took her into the back shop, and she quickly drew out her comb and
let the heavy braids fall. They hung to her feet.
The hairdresser uttered a cry of surprise. “What! Do you want to have
these braids cut off?”
She only nodded; her throat felt choked, so that she could not make a
sound, and she turned her head away to keep the little man from seeing
the tears which filled her eyes.
“Do you know that they will never grow so beautiful again?”
She only shrugged her shoulders.
“But why do you commit this sin against yourself?”
“Because I must,” she answered, and began to sob violently. “I have a
little child who is starving and freezing. I have neither money nor
work, and no one will help me. There is nothing else left.”
“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” he said again, fixing his keen eyes on her, as if
he was trying to read her thoughts. He seemed to reflect a short time;
then he suddenly said, harshly: “If you have decided to do it, I am
satisfied. Sit down. How much do you ask?”
“I don’t know the value of it. I depend upon you.”
“Well, we’ll see.” He rummaged a short time among the scissors and
razors that lay on the marble-topped table; but, instead of taking any
of them, pulled out a drawer and seized something which the young widow
could not see very distinctly, though it looked like a long leather
case. “Shut your eyes,” said the hunchback, authoritatively. She
obeyed. But even through the closed lids she saw a sudden light—like a
flash of lightning a flame appeared to glide over her head. She
screamed and fainted. When she recovered, the little man was sprinkling
her with cologne, muttering: “What nonsense! Do be sensible.”
She raised both hands to her head. It was perfectly bare. Her two
braids were lying on the marble table. Light seemed to flicker from
them. The hairdresser placed them in a scale and put silver coins into
the other until the two balanced exactly. He used twenty-eight thalers,
for the hair weighed more than a pound.
“Live and let live,” he said when he had finished. “These braids really
ought to be outweighed with gold, instead of silver, but I must earn
something, too.”
He counted the money into her hand, then took back one coin, saying
with a queer smile, “I am deducting this piece—you will learn for
what.”
When the mother went out into the street again, her head was as
confused as if she had just waked from a dream. But she felt the heavy
silver in her pocket, and knew it was not that.
Now she was rich, and at least could do something for her child.
Running into the nearest shops, she bought not only bread and coal,
coffee and sugar, but also cakes, butter, and an egg. She was in such a
hurry that she did not notice how people stared at her shaved head.
Then, laden with her packages, and followed by a man carrying coal, she
rushed up the stairs to her room. Her rich neighbor stood at the
threshold of her door, watching her spitefully. She saw at once that
the young widow had lost her magnificent hair, and cried, with a
malicious smile: “You have taken my advice. That was right. In future
you will lose no time in combing it.”
The mother did not stop to answer. But when she reached her door at the
top of the stairs, she put her packages on the floor and tied her shawl
around her head, that the little girl might not notice anything.
The child had not gone to sleep. Hunger had kept her awake. Her first
words, when her mother came in, were, “Mother, have you brought the
bread?”
“Yes, my darling,” cried the mother, and in an instant she was beside
the bed, covering the child with kisses, “and cakes, and butter, and
many other good things. There.” She gave her a slice of bread, which
the little girl bit eagerly; then she made a fire in the stove, lighted
the lamp, boiled the coffee, and cooked the egg, and it was bright and
warm and cosey in the little attic room, and the child was happy and
laughed and talked. So the mother no longer grieved because she had
sacrificed her beautiful hair. When they had eaten until they were
fully satisfied, the little girl fell asleep at once, and the mother
lay down by her side. The next morning she was roused by her child’s
clear voice, exclaiming in surprise, “Mother, why didn’t you braid your
hair last night?” She started—yes, her hair, long, thick, and soft as
silk, was spread over the pillows and falling on the coverlet. She
sprang out of bed, but she did not need to go to the little dim mirror
on the wall to perceive that she really did have her hair again; for
when she stood on the floor, it fell around her in the usual way,
veiling her from head to foot like a royal mantle of spun gold. She
swiftly braided it, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hairdresser.
“Mr. Barber, what does this mean? Are you a juggler? Or a magician?”
“Don’t be troubled,” said the little hunchbacked man, and his keen gaze
seemed to pierce her through and through. “There is no witchcraft here.
I make a preparation for the hair, which has not its equal anywhere.
The hair grows out in one night, only thicker and more beautiful than
before. I washed your head with it when you fainted, and that is why I
deducted the money. Do you understand?”
“How shall I thank you?” said the mother, softly, trying to take his
hand to kiss it.
“What are you thinking of!” cried the hairdresser, harshly, drawing
back a step. “Go away. I have no time.”
But when she had reached the door, he called her back. “One thing more,
my good woman. If you should be badly off again, you need not sell your
braids. Just cut a piece a finger wide from the end—not a bit more, do
you hear?—and carry it to the nearest goldsmith. He’ll buy it of you,
for it is spun gold. It will grow again, too. But you must do all this
only if you really need it, and can obtain help in no other way. Mark
this. And now, farewell.”
As she went home, lost in thought, she met in the entry her greedy
neighbor who was just getting into her carriage to take a drive, as she
did every day. The envious woman stood as if she were rooted to the
ground, opened her eyes in amazement, and cried: “Why, my good woman,
what ails you? Didn’t you have your braids cut off last evening?”
“Yes, they were,” replied the young widow, “but they grew again in the
night.”
“You are making fun of me,” snarled the hard-hearted rich woman. “How
could that be possible?”
“The barber washed my shaven head with a wonderfully strong tonic, and
it made the hair grow out so quickly again, only still thicker and
longer than before.”
The angry miser did not say a word, but cast a spiteful glance at her
neighbor, who was again so much more beautiful than she, left her
standing in the entry, and ran straight to the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Will you buy my hair?” she asked, after entering the shop without any
greeting.
The little hunchback looked at her angrily with his sharp, black eyes,
and answered: “Your hair isn’t worth anything. I can give you nothing
for it.”
She controlled her rage, and said: “No matter. I will give it to you.
Only cut it off.”
“But why?” he asked.
“Because I want it to grow out much longer and thicker, like my
neighbor, the seamstress’s. It isn’t right that such a needy wretch
should be more beautiful than a wealthy, aristocratic lady like me.”
“Oho?” growled the little hunchback. “Well, as you please.”
He told her to sit down in a chair, but did not take the mysterious
case out of the drawer. Instead, he seized a pair of scissors which lay
on the marble top of the table, and grasped her little thin braid,
whose color was a dull, brownish black. Snip, snap, and he held the rat
tail in his hand and flung it contemptuously into the corner. Snip,
snap, and her skull was shaved so smooth that no one who looked at her
could help laughing.
“I’ve finished,” he said roughly. “You can go.”
“But the hair tonic?”
“What hair tonic?”
“The one which makes the hair grow out again so quickly, only more
beautiful than before.”
“It costs eighty-one marks,” he said.
“No matter,” she answered haughtily. “I have it.”
He took the money, then opened a bottle, and sprinkled over her head a
few drops of liquid, which smelled like pitch and sulphur. It itched
and burned horribly, but she stifled the pain. “One can suffer a little
for the sake of being beautiful,” she thought, and went off very well
pleased, while the hairdresser, smiling scornfully, shut the shop door
behind her.
When she reached home, and her husband and servants saw her, they
clasped their hands in horror. “Just wait,” she said, and going to her
chamber, she lay down in bed like a sick person. She remained there
patiently all day long, and fell asleep late in the evening, firmly
believing that her discomfort would be over the next morning. She woke
very early, for her impatience would not allow her to sleep longer. The
first thing she did was to seize her head with both hands—alas! it was
as bare as when it left the hands of the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Perhaps it doesn’t grow so fast,” she thought, and stayed in bed
twenty-four hours longer. But the next day she was just as bald as
before. Then, in a rage, she hurried on her clothes, wrapped her head
in a veil and hat, and rushed off to the hunchbacked hairdresser.
“Man, you have cheated me!” she screamed.
“That is not so. How?” he answered roughly.
“Your tonic is a swindle. The hair does not grow out again.”
“Have you children? Or at least one child?”
“No.”
“Well, my tonic helps only mothers. You ought to have known that. Leave
my shop.”
It was of no use. If she did not wish to remain as ugly and ridiculous
as a scarecrow, she was obliged to buy a wig, and as her hair never
grew out again, she had to wear this wig to the end of her life. But
the young mother fared better and better. She had plenty of work, so
she was soon able to leave her attic room and move to the second story.
She never needed to cut off an end of her gold braids. She brought up
her little daughter, and when the daughter was a beautiful, educated,
charming girl twenty years old, she married a fine young man; they had
a large family of children, and if they are not dead, they are living
still.