Once upon a time a steamer was going from Hamburg to South America. The
ship was as large as a street of sixty houses. Hundreds of people were
in her: sailors and stokers, poor emigrants, and rich ladies and
gentlemen. Among them, too, was a little girl about five years old,
with the dearest little round face and two short braids. Her name was
Rieke, and she was the child of a young couple, who had not been very
well off at home in Mecklenburg, and were going to Argentina. The
father was sitting on a coil of rope in one corner of the ship, where
he was out of the way of the sailors moving to and fro, studying
Spanish, and the mother was busy nursing a very little sister of Rieke.
During the first two or three days after leaving the Elbe, Rieke stayed
with her mother. She did not yet feel at home on the ship, and was a
little afraid of the engines, the various things she had never seen
before, and all the strangers. Besides, she had been a little seasick,
and was obliged to keep quiet, that she might not be ill. When she felt
better and the cargo was stowed away, everything in order, and the
steamer far out in the open sea, she ventured to leave her mother’s
side and look about on board.
Climbing carefully up the iron stairs, she reached the deck. In the
bow, that is, at the front end, she stood still and let her bright blue
eyes wander curiously from the water to the sky, and from the masts to
the wheel. The sailors did not trouble themselves about her, for they
had other things to do. Only one old man suddenly noticed her, fixed
his eyes sharply upon her, and cried, “Hello, little girl, what are you
doing here?”
“I am travelling, and this is my ship,” she answered fearlessly.
The man burst into a loud laugh, slapped his thigh with the palm of his
hand till it smacked, and cried over and over again: “Just look at the
Hop-o’-my-Thumb! Such a little girl needs such a big ship to travel
in!”
Then, taking her by the arm, he led her to the foremast to measure her.
Rieke did not even reach to the iron ring which surrounds it near the
foot. She was no taller than the leg of a riding-boot.
“It’s enough to make one laugh till one is crooked,” said the old
sailor. And the mast, which had looked on, really began to laugh itself
crooked and rocked to and fro, creaking and groaning, and the flag
which waved at the top, that is, at the masthead, also shook with
merriment, and both of them, in their rustling, squeaking language,
told the wheel about the little girl who was travelling in the big
ship. The wheel laughed till it turned and rolled so that two steersmen
could hardly keep it steady, and it told the news to the davits,—the
curved iron rods from which the life-boats hang over the edge of the
ship,—and the davits told the boats which they carried, and the boats
told the fat, merry porpoises which were swimming beside the ship to
snap up any scraps, and the porpoises gossiped about it, and so it was
talked over far and wide in the sea, till the merman and his daughters
heard of it too; and they were all curious to see the funny little girl
who was travelling in the big ship. But they had to wail till night,
for so long as it is light, they cannot come up, because they don’t
wish to be seen by grown people. They don’t mind children.
Meantime, little Rieke had no idea that there was so much talking about
her on the ship, in the air, and in the water. So she left the old
sailor, who laughed heartily as he looked after her, to continue her
voyage of discovery on board. She gazed in astonishment at the
smoke-stacks, which looked as wide and as high as towers; she peeped
timidly down the engine shaft, where huge steel rods were moving
noisily up and down; glanced at the bridge, and at last reached a
staircase in the middle of the ship—a staircase with a costly carpet,
and shining gilt railings on both sides.
Rieke hesitated a moment, then she boldly went down the steps and into
a large room, more beautiful than any she had ever seen in all her
life. Mirrors and pictures hung on the walls; a thick carpet, into
which the feet sank as if it were soft moss, covered the floor. Ladies
and gentlemen were sitting in easy chairs or on sofas talking together,
or reading books and newspapers. Rieke was standing near the door,
gazing at all the splendid things she had never seen before, when a man
in uniform, apparently a servant, came up and asked roughly, “Whom do
you want here?”
“Nobody,” replied Rieke, shyly.
“Then be off. No one is allowed here except the first-cabin
passengers.” The man saw very plainly that the little girl was not
travelling first-class, for she wore poor, shabby, though clean,
clothes.
Rieke did not instantly understand what the cross servant wanted her to
do, so she made no movement to leave the cabin. The rough man seized
her rudely by the arm to lead her out. Rieke was not used to such
treatment; for she was so pretty and gentle and polite that people were
always kind to her. She began to cry, and said, “Let me go, you hurt
me.”
An elderly lady, sitting on the sofa, had seen all that had happened,
and called to the child, “Come to me, little one.”
Now the servant had to release her. Rieke went to the lady, who patted
her fair little head, wiped her eyes and cheeks with a fine lace
handkerchief, and questioned her about her home and her parents. Rieke
was not at all shy, but answered plainly and sensibly. Other passengers
came up, and, pleased with the brightness of the beautiful child, they
all wanted to talk with and pet her. Among them was an Argentine
landowner, who was going home with his wife. Their only child had died,
and they went to Europe to try to escape from their sad thoughts.
“It is strange,” said the gentleman to his wife, who wore deep
mourning, “that poor people have such beautiful, healthy children, and
we rich ones such delicate, frail darlings, whom we cannot bring up.”
The lady in mourning made no answer, but she thought of her dead child,
her eyes filled with tears, and, drawing the little one to her side,
she kissed her again and again.
An hour passed. Rieke’s parents became anxious because she did not come
back, and her father went to look for her. He asked here and there if
any one had seen her, and, after many questions, he found out that she
was in the first cabin. He knew that a poor steerage passenger, like
himself, would not be allowed to enter it, so he asked a sailor to
bring his little girl. The sailor told the cross servant, and the cross
servant went into the cabin and said to Rieke, “You must come to your
father, he is waiting for you outside.”
“Oh, what a pity!” murmured the old lady who had first noticed the
child.
“Come back again very soon, directly after dinner,” added the lady in
mourning.
“The little girl mustn’t come in; it is strictly forbidden,” answered
the servant, sharply. His words caused a great uproar, especially among
the ladies. “We won’t allow it!” cried one. “We will have the child
here!” exclaimed a second. “Three weeks without a single child is far
too long,” said a third.
“Then you must go into the steerage, or speak to the captain,” replied
the man, trying to lead Rieke away.
“Let her go,” said the Argentine landowner, and, taking Rieke by the
hand, he went upstairs where her father was waiting. He wanted to see
him. He found a respectably-dressed young man who pleased him at once.
Entering into conversation with him, he perceived that he had to deal
with a modest, sensible, well-educated person.
“What are you?” he asked.
“I am a farmer.”
“And what do you want to do in Argentina?”
“I shall look for a position as manager of an estate. If I prosper, and
make a little money, I shall perhaps later buy or lease a farm of my
own.”
“That’s the very thing,” said the landowner. “I want a capable manager,
and I prefer a German. If you suit me, you can do well in my employ.”
The little girl’s father gladly accepted the offer. It relieved him
from all anxiety, especially as the Argentine gentleman promised a
larger salary than he had hoped to receive, and proposed to have a
written agreement made at once. He wanted to hurry off to his wife to
tell her the good news, but the landowner stopped him.
“One thing more. My wife wants to have your little girl with her while
we are on the ship. But we do not wish to separate her from her
parents. So you must all move over to us. You will permit me to make
your little Rieke a present of the necessary tickets?”
The change was quietly arranged with the captain, the little girl’s
parents were moved to a largo, airy stateroom, with a round window
looking out upon the sea, and at dinner sat like princes at the
first-cabin table, Rieke beside the lady in mourning, who put the
daintiest morsels on her plate and gave her almost too much, so that
her mother was obliged to watch carefully, that she might not be made
ill.
After dinner all the passengers amused themselves with the child, who
went from one to the other, talking with everybody whose language she
understood. Among them was the head of a museum of ethnology, who had
come to Europe to buy curiosities for his collections. He invited the
whole company into his stateroom to show them his treasures. He
explained the weapons, utensils, and ornaments of the ancient and
modern peoples; but modestly confessed that he also had many things
whose use he did not know. Taking up an oddly shaped bit of ivory,
covered with carved lines, he said: “Look, I don’t know what this is.
Probably it may be a porridge spoon; but perhaps it is the badge of
some unknown rank.”
Rieke began to laugh, exclaiming, “Why, that’s a shoe-horn.”
“A shoe-horn?” replied the scholar in astonishment. “That is
impossible. The people who made this article probably wore no shoes.”
“But it is a shoe-horn,” Rieke persisted, and the ladies all agreed
with her. The director, shaking his head, examined the article again
very carefully, and saw in one corner a drawing which he had not
noticed before. It represented a savage, with feathers in his hair and
shoes on his feet, which probably could not have been put on without
the help of a horn.
“You are right, little one,” he said. “And since you are so clever,
perhaps you can tell me what this one is, too.” He gave her, with a
smile, a wooden object which looked like an ordinary cross.
“That’s a cross,” remarked a passenger, who was standing near.
“It can’t be,” replied the scientist, “for it is a thousand years older
than Christianity.”
Rieke took the mysterious article in her hand, looked at it a moment,
and said:—
“That is a winder.”
“What is a winder?”
“Don’t you know? It’s the cross people wind yarn on to make a ball.
Else how can you knit?”
“Be polite,” her mother said; but the scholar cried joyfully, “Never
mind, the child is perfectly right to laugh at me a little because I am
so ignorant.” And, turning to Rieke, he added, “I thank you, little
girl; I have learned from you gladly.”
After supper Rieke and her parents went back to their stateroom, where
it was so much more pleasant than in the steerage. As the sea was calm,
and the weather warm, Rieke’s mother let her open the little round
window and put out her head. As soon as her face appeared, a voice
outside called, “There is the little girl who travels in the big ship.”
She looked around curiously, and saw the merman with his long beard
calling his daughters out of the water, that they might see the little
girl, too. Three, four, five girls’ heads appeared, shaking back long,
wet, green hair; their hands came above the surface of the sea, too,
and clapped, and the mermaids cried, “Look at the pretty little girl
who travels in the big ship.”
“We’ll give her something,” said the merman.
“Yes, yes, yes,” screamed the mermaids, diving down so quickly that the
water gurgled. The next minute they were back again, and handed their
father all sorts of things, which he passed up to the window on the
forked end of a long piece of coral.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said; “take them for a keepsake from my
daughters. They were once little girls like you.”
The first one gave her a mother-of-pearl shell, the second a branch of
red coral, the third a pearl, the fourth a long, curved narwhale tooth,
and the fifth a soft, wet, shapeless thing, which at first she did not
want to touch. But the merman pushed it quickly through the window with
his coral staff; then there was loud laughing outside by many voices,
after which all became still, and nothing more was heard of the merman
and his daughters.
Rieke’s father pulled the wet thing into the window, and, looking at
it, saw that it was the rolled-up skin of some unknown creature. He
opened it, and was astonished at its great length and width. It had
queer green and black spots, long spines on the back, a red crest on
the neck, and the head ended in a snout like a turtle’s. He rolled it
up again, intending to show it to his fellow-passengers.
The next day, when they heard that the merman had talked with the
little girl the night before and given her all sorts of beautiful
things, everybody wanted to see the presents. The ladies particularly
admired the pearl, but when the snakeskin was unrolled, a young man
fairly leaped into the air, exclaiming:—
“The sea-serpent! The famous sea-serpent, in which people would not
believe. Now we have it! Hurrah! We have the sea-serpent!” This young
man was a naturalist, on his way to South America to try to make some
discovery in the vast forests. He wanted to become a professor, so that
he could marry a young girl, whose father would not give his consent
because the lover was not a famous man, and had neither office nor
title. The young naturalist told Rieke’s father this, and begged him to
sell him the sea-serpent’s skin. For if he could describe and make a
picture of it, and have a book published about it, he would become
famous at once, and would certainly be a professor, and could marry the
girl to whom he was engaged.
“Take the serpent’s skin,” said Rieke’s father; “I will give it to you,
and may it bring you good fortune.”
The young man insisted upon paying for it, until Rieke’s father grew
almost angry. “I will not sell the skin for money. Every one ought to
help his neighbor as he can.”
The young man already saw himself sure to win his bride, and could not
keep his happiness secret. He told every one of the change in his fate,
and what he owed the little girl who was travelling with them. A
gentleman who had been very silent and did not join the others, drew
Rieke to his side, smoothed her fair hair, and said:—
“Tell me, what shall I do to get a little girl just like you?”
“Haven’t you any?” answered Rieke.
“No,” said the gentleman.
“Why not?”
“Because I am not married.”
“Well, then, get married,” cried Rieke, so loud that everybody heard
her and began to laugh.
“Yes, but whom shall I marry?”
Rieke looked around, pointed to a young lady sitting modestly in a
corner, and said: “Marry her. She is beautiful and good.”
The young lady blushed, the passengers laughed, and the gentleman went
up to her and begged her pardon for having unintentionally embarrassed
her. In this way they became acquainted. It turned out that the
gentleman was a very rich man who had nothing to do, and did not know
how to dispose of all his money, so he went travelling over the world
to pass away the time. The young lady was an orphan, going to an aunt
in Brazil, so that she might not have to live alone. When they had
talked together, and become better acquainted, they liked each other,
and, three days later, the gentleman called the little girl and said:
“Well, Rieke, I have taken your advice. I am going to marry the
beautiful, good young lady.” Rieke ran joyfully to her parents and told
them the news, so everybody heard of the engagement, in whose honor the
gentleman gave the sailors a great feast, with singing and dancing, so
that pleasure reigned through the steamer, and people said, “It’s very
plain that there is a little girl travelling on the big ship.”
The elderly lady who had first taken little Rieke’s part when the cross
servant tried to put her out of the cabin continued to be her best
friend, and wanted to have her always near, so that the lady in
mourning really grew jealous and said very seriously: “You must let me
have the little girl part of the time. Her company consoles me a little
for the child I have lost.”
“I have lost my only child, too,” replied the old lady, sadly.
The wife of the Argentine landowner wished to hear about it, but at
first the other would not speak freely. At last, however, she was
persuaded to tell the whole story. She had an only child, a grown
daughter. And she had lost her, but not by death. The daughter had
married, against her mother’s will, a man whom she did not want for a
son-in-law. In punishment for such disobedience, she would have nothing
more to do with her, and told every one that she no longer had a child.
But she knew very well that this was not right, and she secretly longed
for her only daughter, whom she had treated so harshly. True, she would
receive no letters from her nor hear anything else about her, yet she
had learned that she had a little girl with fair hair and blue eyes.
The child must now be just about Rieke’s age, and doubtless quite as
pretty and amusing. The old lady could not help thinking constantly
about this grandchild, when Rieke was playing by her side and talking
with her, and whenever she embraced and kissed the child, which she did
very often, she fancied she clasped her own little grandchild in her
arms.
When the lady in black had heard this story, she urged her to forgive
her daughter at once; and Rieke, who had heard everything that was
said, and understood most of it, exclaimed at the same time: “Yes, yes,
you must forgive your daughter and let your grandchild come here. I
want to see her and play with her. I’ll give her something, too,—my
shell, or my pearl, or my coral, or whatever she wants. Only not my
narwhale tooth. I suppose that’s too big for her.”
Tears filled the old lady’s eyes, and, clasping Rieke in her arms, she
said: “You are right, dear. I will do what you ask.”
“But this very minute!” said Rieke.
“That cannot be,” replied the lady, smiling through her tears, “but as
soon as we land.”
Rieke was satisfied, and the lady in mourning congratulated the old
lady because she would now find her lost daughter and have a dear
little grandchild, too. The story of the mother’s forgiveness of her
only daughter became known among the passengers, and the gentleman who
was engaged to the orphan said: “Rieke, you are surely the angel of
peace. Suppose you try to make peace for some one else.”
“Whom?” asked the child.
“Do you see those two gentlemen over there, one in the right corner and
the other in the left?”
Rieke looked and answered, “Yes.” She had known them a long time, and
had noticed that they never spoke to each other, never went near each
other, and always managed to have the whole length or width of the
cabin between them.
“Well, those two gentlemen are the presidents of two South American
republics.”
“What is that?” asked Rieke.
“It would take too much time to explain it,” said the gentleman. “The
countries of those two presidents have been enemies a long while, many
years, and people say that they want to make war on each other. Then a
great many men will be wounded and killed.”
“Little girls, too?” asked Rieke, in terror.
“Little girls, too,” replied the gentleman. “So go and beg the two
presidents not to make war, but be friends with each other.”
Rieke did not wait to be asked twice. She went to the younger one, who
looked more good-natured and had smiled at her once, and told him how
terrible it would be to wound and kill people, especially little girls,
and he ought not to make war. Rieke spoke German, and the gentleman
understood nothing but Spanish, so he listened, smiling, and asked his
neighbors what the pretty child wanted. An interpreter was at once
found, who faithfully translated the little girl’s words. Then the
gentleman patted Rieke’s cheeks, saying, “Tell all that to my colleague
over there.”
Rieke seized the president’s hand and, though at first he resisted, she
drew him with her to the other corner, and repeated to the second
gentleman her entreaty for peace. The second gentleman was old, and
looked gloomy. At first he frowned when the little girl’s words were
repeated to him. But as the first gentleman had bowed politely when he
came up, he was obliged to return it, and Rieke would not go until she
had received some kind of a reply. The eyes of all the passengers were
fixed upon him, and unless he wanted them to take him for a very rude
fellow, he could do nothing except stroke Rieke’s hair, too, and say
with rather a sour smile, “Little girls don’t understand such things.”
“Yes, yes,” Rieke persisted, taking hold of the gloomy man’s hand and
putting it into the other president’s. The two began to talk together,
at first stiffly, then more and more cordially, and, after some time,
they both went to the older one’s stateroom. From that hour they were a
great deal in each other’s company, sat side by side at table, and
after several days the good news spread through the steamer that the
two presidents had become friends, and there would be no war between
their countries. The captain ordered a salute to be fired in honor of
the event, the crew had another feast and more presents, and everybody
on board, both passengers and sailors, perceived that the little girl
was the most important person on the big ship.
The carpenters hammered and carved for the little girl in the big ship
a small ship with a big girl in it, and when, a few days after, the
steamer reached South America, they gave it to her for a remembrance of
her first sea voyage, on which she had won the good-will of the merman
and his daughters, obtained a good place for her father, explained to
the director of a museum the use of his ancient things, helped a
scholar to secure fame, a professorship, and a wife, aided an old
bachelor to become engaged to a beautiful orphan girl, persuaded a
mother to forgive her daughter, and made peace between two hostile
countries. Was not that a voyage well worth remembering?