Once upon a time there lived in an old palace by the sea a beautiful
young queen, who was richer and more powerful than any other, far or
near, in that region or across the water. She had many big ships, which
brought to her from the most distant quarters of the globe valuables of
every description. She possessed cities and castles, fields and flocks,
and everything that the heart can desire. Her mints stamped gold from
her mines, her mills ground wheat from her fields, her furnaces burned
wood from her forests, the materials of her clothes were woven from
silk from her silkworms and wool from her sheep, and, when she wanted
to be merry, she had fools enough in her own country at whom she could
laugh. Only one thing was lacking to make her happy: children, or at
least one child. For, though she had been married several years,
hitherto she had vainly longed for the joys of a mother.
When year after year passed away without the gift of a little one, the
beautiful young queen lost her cheerfulness, and became more and more
sorrowful. Her riches gave her no pleasure, she scarcely glanced at the
precious things her ships brought from the most distant countries. She
did not laugh at her jesters, no matter what funny things they might
say. Shutting herself up in her most distant tower, she played with the
dolls she had had when she was a little girl, dressed and undressed
them, washed and petted them, rocked them in her arms and sang them to
sleep, or ordered very young babies to be brought, treated them in the
same loving way, and covered them with kisses and tears before she
allowed them to be carried back to their mothers.
The queen no longer had her mother, but she had her nurse, a good and
wise woman. One day she asked her, “Tell me, nurse, does the stork
never come into my country?”
“Oh, yes, my beautiful queen,” replied the nurse; “he probably comes
every day and every night.”
“But why doesn’t he enter my palace?”
“That I do not know, my beloved queen, old as I am.”
“Don’t you think that I could have him caught as he is flying past the
palace?”
The nurse shook her head doubtfully. “I wouldn’t advise that. If the
stork is frightened, I have heard, he drops the child from his beak,
and the baby’s little limbs are broken, and it is found dead. Then you
will have nothing, and the mother who is expecting it will have no baby
either.”
The queen could say nothing in answer to this. Yet she could not give
up the thought of snatching a child from the stork, if he did not bring
her one voluntarily. She commanded her hunters to climb every night
with nets to the roofs of the houses and the tops of the steeples, to
the summits of the mountains and the branches of the trees, and seize a
stork carrying a child if he flew past within reach of their arms. But
they were strictly ordered not to frighten or injure the bird, and,
above all, to take care that the child was not hurt.
The hunters obeyed the queen’s orders, and, night after night, went to
their stations in the tree-tops, on the mountain peaks, towers, and
roofs. They saw, by the light of the moon and stars, plenty of storks
flying by with babies in their beaks, but they did not come near enough
to have the nets thrown over them, and the hunters were obliged to
leave their lofty posts with empty hands. The queen was very much
displeased with them for their lack of skill, but the storks, too, were
very angry. They complained to the fairy of the children, that they
could not go their way through the kingdom of the beautiful young queen
unmolested, but were startled by sudden shouts and throwing of nets, so
that they almost dropped the children intrusted to them. Besides, these
malicious attacks disturbed the children, who sometimes began to cry,
and they ought not to open their little mouths in the chill night air;
they might get sick.
The fairy of the children listened to the grievances of her messenger
birds with a frown, and determined to go to the bottom of the mischief.
She went with the storks, who set out after sunset, and, as soon as she
had crossed the frontiers of the beautiful young queen’s kingdom, she
saw at once, on the first wooded mountains, in the tops of the tallest
trees, a large number of hunters, with nets in their hands, watching
for the storks. Flying as swiftly as an eagle to one of them, she
grasped him by both shoulders, crying in a terrible voice, “Man! why
don’t you let my storks alone?”
The hunter jumped so that he would certainly have fallen from the tree
if the fairy had not held him. So he only dropped his net, and answered
trembling, “Because I was ordered to do it.”
In reply to other questions, the fairy of the children was told that
the hunters were acting by the commands of their queen, and that their
mistress was angry with them when, after watching vainly all night
long, they appeared at the palace in the morning without stork or
child.
The fairy of the children ordered the frightened hunter to leave his
post immediately, go home, and tell all his companions to let the
storks alone in the future if they valued their lives. He obeyed, but
the next morning, instead of the expected hunters, the fairy of the
children came to the palace, entered the young queen’s room, and,
without a word of greeting, said in a harsh voice, with a stern face,
“What does it mean that you have commanded your huntsmen to catch the
storks as they fly past carrying children?”
The queen looked in astonishment at the tall stranger in the blue robe,
with the sparkling eyes and the little white lace cap on her gray hair,
and answered with dignity: “You evidently do not know to whom you are
speaking. Or you would not dare—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted the fairy of the children; “these high and
mighty airs are out of place with me. I know very well that you are the
queen of this kingdom, but no sovereign is of any account in my
presence. I hold the most sacred office. The future of the human race
is confided to me. I watch over the rising generation. I am the fairy
of the children, who sends the storks to the mothers, and I forbid
you—”
The fairy of the children could say no more. Scarcely had the queen
heard who stood before her when, forgetting all pride, she threw
herself at the fairy’s feet, clasped her knees, and pleaded, “Dear,
good fairy of the children, give me a little child.”
The fairy looked at her thoughtfully a short time, then raised her
kindly, saying in a far more gentle voice, “No, dear queen; I cannot
grant your request.”
“But why not, dear fairy? Why should a happiness which the humblest
mother among my subjects may enjoy be denied to me?”
“Children bestow not only happiness, but sorrow, too, dear queen.”
“I will gladly take the sorrow into the bargain, dear fairy.”
“You don’t know what you wish to undertake, good little queen. A child
falls ill easily and often, then the mother watches in terrible anxiety
through nights of pain beside its little bed. A child often dies very
young, and then the mother will never again enjoy her life. And, even
if the child grows up, it finally marries and leaves the mother alone
in her old age.”
“All this does not frighten me, dear fairy. Only give me a little
child, I beseech you from my heart. I will nurse it if it is sick; I
will not survive it if it dies; I will rejoice in its happiness if it
marries; but give me a little child, dear fairy of the children.”
The fairy reflected a little while. “Wait,” she said. “I will see if I
can do anything for you.” Going very close to the queen, she looked at
her sharply, murmuring: “Why! she really has the heart thread. I have
not often found it in queens.”
“What is the heart thread?” asked the queen, very curiously and rather
anxiously.
“Have you never seen it?” replied the fairy of the children.
“No,” said the queen. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Then the fairy grasped something and held it before the queen’s eyes,
and the queen saw with surprise a long thread, as fine as the finest
cobweb, which looked as if it had been spun from gold. Seizing it, she
pulled it somewhat hastily, and felt a sudden pain in her heart, so
that she uttered a little scream. She now perceived that the thread
grew from her bosom, and she asked the fairy of the children if she had
had it long.
“You have always had it,” answered the fairy of the children; “but you
did not notice it, and therefore did not see it. I will now send you a
child, which will have a heart thread, too. Fasten it to yours, then
nothing and no one can part you.”
The queen began to weep for joy, but, before she could express her
gratitude, the fairy of the children had flown out of the window and
was floating through the air like a blue cloud. The queen called her
nurse, and told her joyously that the stork was going to come to her.
Instantly there were great preparations in the palace; forty skilful
seamstresses sewed on the child’s clothing, twelve jewellers made a
cradle of gold, silver, and gems, a young nurse was summoned from the
mountains, and, when all was ready and in order, they waited eagerly.
They did not wait long. The evening after the nurse reached the palace,
a clattering was heard at the tower window. They hurried to open it and
a big stork dropped a little child into the nurse’s arms, and flew off
like an arrow. The nurse ran with the baby into the chamber of the
queen, who, with a cry of joy, clasped it in her arms and covered it
with kisses. The child was a wonderfully beautiful little girl, white
and rosy, with round limbs, golden hair, and blue eyes. The queen
looked at it quickly. Yes, from the little bosom grew a marvellously
fine thread like gold, which seemed so delicate that a breath must tear
it; but it was so strong that the queen could not separate the tiniest
end, either with all the strength of her hands or with the scissors.
Unnoticed by her women, she knotted the child’s heart thread to her
own, and felt a gentle warmth streaming from the little heart into
hers, which filled her with delight.
From that time the beautiful young queen was always with her little
girl, whom she named Hilda. At first the two knotted heart strings were
so short that the mother could scarcely go a few arms’ lengths from her
child. Hilda was obliged to follow the queen wherever she went, and if
the nurse, who carried the child, did not move quickly enough, it
pulled so painfully at her heart that she stopped with a scream. But as
the child grew larger, the heart thread lengthened too. When Hilda
began to run, it had become long enough for her to trot and creep
through all the halls in the palace, without disturbing the queen; and
when she was two years old, it reached from the farthest end of the
palace park, so that Hilda could frolic on the grass without hurting
her mother; and when she had gained her fifteenth year, the length of
the heart thread allowed her to drive three hours in a carriage drawn
by spirited horses, without pulling the hearts of the mother and child.
But Hilda did not exceed this distance, for if the heart thread grew
tight, it hurt her little heart, and she impetuously insisted on being
taken back to her mother.
Hilda grew finely, the heart thread constantly lengthened, the mother
and child were one, and yet independent of each other, when one day it
happened that the queen was sitting in her tower chamber, while Hilda
and her nurse were walking on the seashore. Suddenly the queen felt a
pain in her heart such as she had not had for a long, long time.
Shrieking, she rushed out on the balcony, to look for her child; for
from there she could get a view of the whole palace park, the shore,
and the sea. She instantly discovered the nurse, who was running up and
down the beach screaming and wringing her hands, and saw on the sea a
ship moving swiftly away with all her sails spread. The queen knew, by
the way the ship was built, that she was a pirate craft. Pirates had
come, seized the Princess Hilda, and were now carrying her to their
distant country.
The queen called despairingly for her admirals, sailors, and soldiers.
When they came hurrying in the greatest consternation, she commanded
them to put to sea at once with the strongest warship in her navy. The
hasty preparations did not occupy much time, it is true; but when the
vessel weighed anchor, the pirates were no longer in sight. The queen
had sailed too. She stood beside the helmsman, and as she felt
distinctly and painfully where the pull at her heart was, she could
tell him the exact direction in which to steer the ship.
The queen’s man-of-war was larger, stronger, and swifter than the
pirate craft. After a chase of two hours, the pursued vessel hove in
sight. The queen urged her men to set every sail, her ship cut swiftly
through the water, the distance between the two constantly lessened,
the pull at the queen’s heart diminished, her pain ceased, and she soon
came so near the pirate vessel that she could see Hilda, guarded by two
pirates, sitting on the forward deck, weeping.
“Yield!” the queen commanded her captain to shout through the speaking
trumpet to the pirate, “yield, and we will show you mercy.”
But the pirates only laughed scornfully, and sailed on as fast as they
could, to escape their pursuers. But the queen’s ship came nearer and
nearer, and already they could calculate how soon they would be
overtaken.
When the queen’s man-of-war was within a few cable lengths of the
pirates, they seized the Princess Hilda and threw her overboard. The
queen’s people uttered a cry of horror. Only the queen herself remained
calm. She stood erect beside the railing of the ship, moving her arms
and hands, as if she was drawing something invisible. The sailors
thought that the queen was practising some magic; for they did not see
what she was pulling. But she drew quickly and strongly on the heart
thread, and the Princess Hilda followed it and soon reached the side of
the ship, where the sailors could fish her out of the water and place
her in her mother’s arms. The pursuit of the pirates was continued with
double zeal, the pirate craft was soon overtaken and sunk in the sea
with all on board, so that from that time the shore of the queen’s
kingdom was safe from their attacks.
When the queen returned to her palace with her rescued child, she
ordered a great banquet to be prepared for her admirals, soldiers, and
sailors. But the fright, excitement, and plunge into the cold sea had
made Princess Hilda ill, so that she had to go to bed. Her mother
remained by her side to nurse her. During the night she fell asleep
from weariness, and then Death came stealing softly in to take Hilda.
He was already stretching his bony arms toward the little girl when he
saw the heart thread which went from her to her mother, and shone like
dull gold in the light of the night lamp. He hesitated, cautiously
grasped the thread, and tried to break it in two. But it resisted, and
Death accomplished nothing by his struggle except to wake the mother
and child, and be seen by them.
Princess Hilda hid her head under the bedclothes, but the queen seized
her heavy gold sceptre, which stood in the corner, and struck Death
with all her might, screaming, “Begone, monster, begone!”
Death was ordered to bring only Hilda, not the queen. As he could not
get one without the other, he was obliged to be off with his errand
unfinished. Tearing himself away from the queen’s blows, which almost
broke his rattling bones, he vanished in the darkness. Hilda recovered
and continued to grow until she became a beautiful, tall young lady,
and the queen’s old nurse said that the princess ought to marry. But
the queen would not hear of it, saying impatiently, “There is plenty of
time, nurse, there is plenty of time.”
It happened, however, that a prince from a neighboring country came to
visit the palace, saw Hilda, and, dazzled by her beauty, exclaimed,
“This lovely princess must become my wife; she or no one.” He pleased
Hilda, too, and when he asked her if she would make him happy by giving
him her hand, she answered, “Yes.”
The young pair went to the queen and begged for her consent to the
marriage, but the queen said, “No, it cannot be.”
“Why not?” asked Hilda, bursting into tears.
Her mother clasped her in her arms, kissed her tenderly, and answered
gently: “Don’t ask why; only believe me, it cannot be. Stay quietly
with me. Nowhere can you be happier than with your mother.”
But Hilda did not see this, and when the prince urged her to fly with
him to his kingdom and marry him there, she allowed herself to be
persuaded, mounted his horse at nightfall, and dashed away with him.
For several hours they rode at full gallop, without Hilda’s repenting
her disobedience. But long as the heart thread was, it was not endless,
and toward midnight, when she had almost reached the frontiers of her
mother’s kingdom, it grew tight, and would stretch no farther. Hilda
felt a violent pull at her heart, and began to suffer intense pain. Yet
her love for the prince was so strong that she bravely bore her torture
and rode on with him, though at every step of the horse she suffered
cruelly.
But the queen in her castle also felt the pulling of the heart thread,
and knew by it that her child had fled. So, in the midst of the dark
night, she prepared for pursuit as quickly as possible; she could not
bear the pain in her breast. She rode like the wild huntsman, she rode
like the wind, she rode like the lightning, and in the gray dawn of
morning she reached the pair, who could not go forward as quickly,
because it was hard for the horse to carry two. “Stop, stop!” called
the queen, and when she had overtaken the fugitives she said
reproachfully: “Hilda, you have left your mother. Your mother could
never have brought herself to desert you.”
“It is the way of the world,” replied the prince; “we were sure that
you would forgive us, your Majesty.”
Hilda dismounted from the horse, hid her face on her mother’s bosom,
and said softly: “My heart gave me great pain, and drew me violently
back to you. But I cannot leave the prince.”
The queen embraced her and answered tenderly: “We two must not part.
You will not wish me to leave my kingdom and follow you into a foreign
land. Turn back, both of you. You shall marry the prince, and after my
death he shall become monarch of my kingdom.”
Then the prince and Hilda joyously embraced each other and kissed the
good queen’s hand, and they all went back, and the inhabitants of the
country crowded around their carriage, rejoicing. When they were again
in the palace, festivals were held for the court, the servants, and the
subjects, which lasted three weeks; then Hilda and the prince were
married, and when Princess Hilda stood at the altar in her bridal veil,
she threw her arms around her mother’s neck and whispered in her ear,
“Though I have a husband, I will never, never leave you.”
And she never did leave the queen, who always loved her just as dearly
as when she was a little child in her arms. The heart thread remained
so fine that no one except the queen could see it; it was so long that
Princess Hilda never felt it when she was in the kingdom; but if she
travelled in foreign countries, her mother always went with her, so
that the heart thread was never pulled.
Years passed away, the queen grew older and older, till at last she was
so aged that life became a burden. Now she herself called Death, whom
she had once driven away, and when he appeared before her somewhat
timidly, said to him: “Friend Death, you can take me now. I am ready.”
“But the heart thread?” Death objected. “I cannot tear it, and I have
no instructions to take the princess with me.”
Then the weary queen thought of again appealing to the fairy of the
children, who had so kindly aided her a long, long time ago. She went
up on the tower of her palace after sunset, and when the storks
carrying the children began to fly past, she called one and begged him
to tell the fairy of the children that the queen earnestly desired to
speak to her.
The stork delivered the message on his return home, and the next day
the fairy of the children appeared before the queen. The fairy had not
changed at all. She still had the same tall figure, sparkling eyes, and
gray hair, was robed in blue, with a little white lace cap on her noble
head; but the queen was no longer the beautiful young woman of former
days, but a shrivelled old dame, with dull eyes and snow-white hair.
The fairy gazed compassionately at her a little while, then she stroked
her white head and wrinkled cheeks, asking gently, “What do you want of
me, dear child?”
“Dear fairy of the children,” pleaded the queen in a faint voice, “the
heart thread has lasted well, but now it is time to break it. You alone
can do it. Please part it, that Death may lead me to rest. For I am
tired.”
“My child,” replied the fairy of the children, “the heart thread no one
can unbind, I no better than Death. But you need have no anxiety on
that account. Go trustfully to rest, and rely on me. Your child shall
have no discomfort from it.”
“I do trust you,” said the queen, kissing the kind hand of the fairy of
the children. The fairy pressed a kiss upon her forehead, nodded, and
vanished from her sight.
About midnight Death appeared again, and said curtly: “It is all
arranged. You can come with me.” In the morning the queen was found
dead in her bed. The Princess Hilda, who was now queen, grieved very
deeply, but was gradually comforted, as children always are when they
lose their parents. Yet from that time she could never resolve to leave
her kingdom, for if she crossed the frontiers, her heart began to ache
strangely and drew her back to her mother’s marble tomb, which she
visited daily. And when she, too, grew very old, and at last died, she
was buried in the same grave beside her mother, and the gold heart
thread, unseen by human beings, extended forever from the heart of the
dead mother to the heart of the dead daughter.