Early one morning, after a stormy night, the workmen in a great seaport
found a little girl upon the shore. She was lying with nothing on but a
little shirt, dripping wet upon the sands, and gave no sign of life. At
some distance from the beach they saw the top of a mast rising from the
water. A large ship had gone down with all on board, and the waves had
brought to land only this one little girl.
A compassionate laborer took her up, wrapped her in his cotton blouse
and carried her quickly to the neighboring office of a tidewaiter,
where her wet shirt was removed. She was laid on a bench and covered
up. As soon as she grew warm, she opened her eyes, and began to cry.
Everybody in the office admired the child’s delicate form, beautiful
little rosy face, big blue eyes, and fair silken curls. The little
shirt was made of the finest cambric, and embroidered with a gold
coronet. Even without this mark it was evident that the child cast by
the shipwreck on a foreign shore was of aristocratic birth, and had
been carefully tended.
When the baby cried, the men standing around were very sorry, but they
did not know what to do, for they did not understand how to take care
of little children; and, besides, they did not have on hand what was
necessary to satisfy its wants. The child had not yet cut all its
teeth, and could only stammer a few words in an unknown tongue.
The men consulted together, and soon agreed that the baby must be
hungry and need, first of all, food and clothes. There was nothing in
the office except some horrible brandy. But close by there was a
sailors’ tavern, where they could get some milk and biscuits, which the
little girl ate readily. When she had had some food, she stopped crying
and fell asleep.
The tidewaiter was obliged to attend to his duties and could not stay
with the child. The kind laborer who had carried her into the office
also had to work, for he was a poor man, and if he lost a day’s work,
he and his family would have nothing to eat the next day. Yet he could
not make up his mind to leave the lovely little girl. Rolling up the
wet shirt, he put it carefully in his big blue calico handkerchief, and
slipped it into the wide pocket of his trousers. Then he again wrapped
the poor, naked little creature in his blouse and in a woollen blanket,
which the tidewaiter lent him, and went home with his precious burden
in his shirt sleeves, though he did not consider it quite the proper
thing for a respectable workingman and the father of a family.
“Hitherto you have given me children,” he said to his wife, as he
placed the little one in her hands, “now I will give you one.”
The woman gazed at the present with astonishment and no special
pleasure; she thought that her own five children were enough. But when
her husband told her how he had found the little girl, her mother heart
was touched with pity and she said: “Where five are fed, a sixth can
eat too. We will keep the little one, if no one claims her.”
So the little girl was adopted into the workman’s family, and the next
Sunday he went to report it. The magistrate pondered over the name that
should be given to the stranger child. A gale from the north had driven
her ship on the shore. It had probably come from the north. Yet the
child might have been born in the south. So he called her by a name
half Greek, which is a southern, and half Danish, which is a northern
language, Margarita Bölgebarn, that is, Pearl, the child of the waves,
and urged her foster-father to take great care of the little shirt,
with the tiny embroidered gold crown, in which she was found, as with
its help perhaps the child’s relatives might some day be discovered.
Many ships had been wrecked during that stormy night, and it was never
known which one had carried the child. No one appeared to claim it, so
it remained with the workman and grew up with his children. Rita—as
they called Margarita to shorten her name—grew finely, although she did
not fare well with him. It was very hard for the man to support himself
and his family. They were often on short commons, and when there was
not enough to eat for all, Rita had to wait until the others left
something for her, and frequently went without entirely. Her
foster-mother was not a bad woman, but poverty had made her hard, and
her own flesh and blood came nearer to her than the foundling whom she
had adopted. She did not grudge her a little place in the miserable
home, but she was not allowed to cost anything; for the father’s scanty
earnings did not permit it.
Rita slept in the same bed with the two youngest children, who pulled
the scanty coverlets over them and left Rita half uncovered, so that in
the winter nights she was bitterly cold, and nestled closely to her
foster-sisters to get some warmth from their bodies. She turned over
often, because this was the only way she could warm her right and left
side in turn; but this disturbed her bed-fellows, and they cuffed and
kicked her. She bore it, and only wept secretly, because it was still
dark, and no one could see her. She was dressed in the clothes of her
foster-sisters, after they could not or would not wear them any longer.
So she usually went barefoot, and wore shabby, patched, shapeless
garments. But though she looked like a scarecrow, every one who saw her
noticed her remarkable beauty. Her little bare feet, though sunburnt
and soiled by the mud of the streets, were as exquisite in form as if
chiselled by the hand of a skilful sculptor; her face was fair, rosy,
and lovely; her large blue eyes were soft and dreamy, and her silken
curls, carelessly as they were arranged, seemed like sunbeams playing
around her beautiful head. Wherever she went, people stood still in the
streets and looked after her. They thought she must be some
aristocratic girl, who, for a whim, had disguised herself as a beggar
child.
This did not escape the notice of her foster-sisters, and they envied
her for her beauty, and because she attracted attention wherever she
appeared. They made her feel more and more plainly that she was a
foundling living on their charity. Everybody vied in giving her orders,
and required her to obey them. Everybody made her serve as a
maid-servant waits upon strict employers. She had to sweep the rooms,
and once a week scrub and polish the floor. She had to light the fire
in the kitchen every morning, and every evening, until late at night,
clean the shoes of her foster-parents, her four foster-sisters, and
even her foster-brother. She was obliged to do all the errands, and if
there was no money in the house, let herself be scolded because she did
not pay the debts and beg them to let her have still more on credit.
She was so scantily dressed that the neighbors took pity on her and
gave her all sorts of things, some shoes, another a skirt, a third a
waist, a fourth a shawl, each one what she had and could spare. She
went hungry, too, and when they saw it, people secretly gave her in the
houses, the shops, and at school, a bit of bread and end of sausage, an
apple, or a piece of Dutch cheese. As she was always gentle and kind,
never spoke in a loud voice, never quarrelled, never uttered an
improper or a coarse word, her foster-sisters jeered at her and
scornfully called her the princess. For they all knew that she was
found in a fine little shirt with a small gold crown embroidered on it;
they had seen the pretty garment themselves, though their father kept
it carefully wrapped in paper in a drawer, and did not often bring it
out to show any one, and when they thought that perhaps Rita really was
a royal child, they were provoked, yet at the same time it gave them a
spiteful pleasure to have a princess subject to the children of a plain
workman, and obliged to do the most menial tasks for them.
From the time Rita was old enough to understand her position, she, too,
thought constantly about her origin, and busied herself waking and
sleeping about the secret of the little gold crown embroidered on her
shirt. She had an eager longing to see and touch the dainty linen; but
she did not dare to ask, for once, when she did so, her foster-father
roughly refused, saying harshly, “Don’t think about it; it would only
fill your head with silly notions.”
She had gradually learned where she had been found, and often went to
the shore, sat down on the sand, and gazed out over the sea to the spot
where the ship which had brought her here had sunk, and where perhaps
her parents were resting at the bottom of the water. Then deep sorrow
overwhelmed her, and tears filled her eyes. She felt as if she must
plunge into the waves, go down into the depths to her own kindred, and
never return to her poverty and toil. She did not long for wealth and
splendor, only for a mother’s love. How wonderfully delightful it must
be to be embraced by a mother’s arms, allowed to kiss and caress her,
and know that she was her own little girl! This joy she had never
known, and she envied her foster-sisters who, in other ways, had so
little for which to be envied.
When she was fourteen years old she had to begin to earn something. At
first she sewed jute coffee-bags, but after a few days the
superintendent herself said to her, “Rita, this labor is too coarse for
you, you can do something better,” and without consulting her
foster-family she sent her to a milliner, where Rita liked her work
very much, for there she had to make, of fine straw or lace, pretty
hats for women, with velvet and silk, ribbons, flowers, and feathers,
which she had much natural taste in arranging. They tried the hats on
her for customers to see, and as everything was becoming, and the most
expensive the most so, the ladies bought them very readily. She soon
received good wages, which she took home honestly to her foster-mother,
who in return treated her somewhat more kindly.
Rita was reserved and always liked to be alone. Her foster-sisters and
her companions in the workroom thought this was pride, and resented it.
She was only absorbed in her own thoughts, because her mind was
constantly dwelling upon the little gold crown, the ship at the bottom
of the sea, and those who were drowned in it. On Sundays and holidays
she either stayed in a corner of the room, dreaming, or went to walk
alone, usually on the shore, but often, too, in a little wood not far
from the city. The other members of the family did not trouble
themselves, but took their pleasure without her, and this suited her
exactly.
One Sunday, soon after Easter, she again went into the wood to enjoy
the early spring. A short time after leaving the road and passing under
the trees, she saw a squirrel playing merrily in the top of a tree,
jumping from branch to branch, peeping at her with its bright eyes, and
then leaping to the next tree. Rita followed, that she might enjoy his
graceful sport longer. The little creature sprang on before her, Rita
pursued, and without knowing it, still led by the squirrel, reached the
middle of the wood, a place where the trees grew very close together,
which she had not yet seen. Suddenly she no longer saw the squirrel,
and searched everywhere for him with her eyes, unable to imagine where
he could be. While turning her head in every direction, she saw at the
foot of a large beech a hole, half hidden by moss and large ferns. Rita
cautiously approached to peep in, when the treacherous covering of
plants gave way under her feet, and with a cry she slipped down the
opening. She closed her eyes and thought this would be the end of her.
She fell a long, long distance, till it seemed as if she was resting on
a warm bosom, and clasped by loving arms. Rita opened her eyes, and
what she saw astonished her so greatly that she thought she must be
dreaming.
She was standing on the threshold of a lofty, spacious hall, more
magnificent than anything she had ever seen or believed possible. The
walls were covered with white silk tapestry, countless chandeliers
filled the whole space with brilliant light, and she did not know which
to admire first: the huge mirrors, the gilded chairs with white silk
seats, the tables with mosaic tops inlaid with gems, or the throng of
people in glittering uniforms and magnificent costumes who filled the
hall. Rita had no time to inspect all this splendor. By her side stood
a tall lady with a very proud bearing and a wonderfully beautiful face,
dressed in a white silk gown, embroidered with silver threads, and a
veil fastened with a diadem on her golden hair, which fell over her
back to the edge of her skirt. This lady had caught Rita in her arms
when she fell into the depths. She bent the knee before her three times
in low curtseys, bowed her head, then rose, took Rita by the hand, and
led her into the hall.
At the moment she crossed the threshold, solemn music sounded, an
officer of gigantic height uttered a command, halberds were dropped
with a loud noise on the polished floor, and between two ranks of tall
soldiers of the guards in splendid uniforms, who stood like walls, Rita
walked slowly with her companion through the whole length of the hall
to a golden throne at the end, which stood on a platform covered with
cloth of gold beneath a purple canopy. The white-robed lady, by a wave
of her hand, invited Rita to ascend the three steps of the platform and
seat herself upon the throne. When the young girl had taken her place,
the music ceased, the lady lifted from a small table, which stood
beside the throne, a silk dress, embroidered with silver, which she put
on Rita, a blue velvet mantle, lined with ermine, which she threw over
her shoulders, and a crown of gold and diamonds the size of a pigeon’s
egg, which she set on her head. Then, again bending the knee before
her, she said in a voice which sounded like a silver bell, “Welcome to
your kingdom, royal mistress.”
She moved aside, and now ladies in rich court dresses, with long trains
and brilliant jewels, and gentlemen in uniforms covered with gold lace,
wearing swords by their sides and orders on their breasts, approached
and paid homage to Rita. The ladies kissed her hand, the gentlemen
pressed their lips to the edge of her ermine mantle. About a hundred or
more ladies and gentlemen greeted Rita in this submissive manner.
For a long time Rita did not dare to open her lips. At last, when the
courtiers had paid their homage, she turned to the white-robed lady
standing beside the throne and asked timidly: “Where am I? What does
all this mean?”
“You are in your kingdom, royal mistress,” replied the lady, “and your
loyal subjects are happy to be permitted to offer you their homage.”
“I don’t understand,” answered Rita, bewildered; “you are mistaken. I
am only a poor milliner—”
“Not so, royal mistress,” said the lady; “whatever you may be
considered in a foreign country does not matter. Here you are our
illustrious young empress, and at heart you know it perfectly well, and
have always known it.”
“Then the little gold crown on my shirt—”
“Is the sign of your rank, royal mistress.”
“But explain to me—what does it all mean—who are you?”
The lady made a sign, the guards with clanking steps drew back to the
walls of the hall, the courtiers formed a wide semicircle around the
room, the ladies in the front row, the gentlemen behind them, and in
the midst of a deep silence she began:—
“Royal mistress, I am the White Lady, the attendant fairy of your
illustrious family, whose duty it is to watch over all who are of your
royal blood. Do not believe that I have neglected this duty. But foes
who are more powerful than I have prevented me from performing it as I
ought and wished to do. Know that you are the daughter of the emperor
and empress of Thule, and their lawful heiress. Here are the portraits
of your noble parents. They welcome from their frames their lovely
descendant.”
The White Lady pointed with outstretched hand to the wall behind the
throne. Rita turned eagerly and saw at the right and left of the purple
canopy the life-size portraits of a handsome man in crown and imperial
mantle, and a woman who looked like a being from the heavenly world. At
the sight she began to weep bitterly, and the whole court sobbed with
her. The White Lady waited until she was calm again and then went on:—
“For ten long years your father had reigned gloriously in Thule, like
his father, his grandfather, and thirty-three ancestors before them for
a thousand years. Then one day the King of the Pole, without any cause,
declared war against him and with his army of ugly dwarfs invaded
Thule. The Pole King is a great magician, who reigns over the polar
bears and the whales, and when he chooses can produce such cold that
the air freezes and sends thunderbolts from the northern lights, which
kill every living creature. Our regiments could not withstand his
thunderbolts and polar bears, our ships could not resist his cold and
his whales. He conquered Thule, and your parents could do nothing
except fly with you, royal mistress, and their court on their last
ship. But even on the sea the wicked wizard pursued them, he conjured
up a terrible storm which struck them here, drove their ship on the
shore, and wrecked it. The waves swallowed all on board, I was
permitted by the higher powers to save only you, royal mistress. This
is the sorrowful history of your illustrious family.”
She was silent, and Rita, too, remained silent a long time, for she was
much excited by all she heard and saw. After some time she calmed
herself and asked: “What is to be done now? Will you not take me back
to my kingdom of Thule?”
“Alas!” replied the White Lady, “that is not possible. Between here and
your kingdom lie three seas and four broad countries, with soldiers and
fortresses on their frontiers, besides five ice mountains, six burning
deserts, and seven raging rivers. And even if we crossed all these
obstacles on the way to Thule, we should find there the King of the
Pole, who would do you some harm.”
“Then must I stay here always?” asked Rita, anxiously.
The White Lady sighed, and the whole court did the same.
Rita did not know what time it was, but she must have been a long while
in the throne room, for she began to feel hungry. At first she was
ashamed to ask for anything; but when the gnawing in her stomach grew
greater, she thought, “I am empress, and have a right to command.” So
she said: “Dear fairy, could not I have something to eat? I am very
hungry.”
“Royal mistress,” replied the White Lady, sadly, “we have nothing
here.”
“Not even a bit of bread?”
“Not even a bit of bread. Your courtiers and your guard need no food,
nor your attendant fairy either.”
“Then I must starve to death if I stay here.”
The White Lady lowered her eyes, as if ashamed, and remained silent.
“If this is so,” said Rita, sadly, “I suppose I must leave you.”
As she received no answer, she rose from the throne and slowly
descended the steps of the platform. As her foot touched the polished
floor, trumpets blared, shouts of command were heard, the guard marched
from the sides of the hall to the centre, dropped their halberds with a
thundering sound, and formed two motionless ranks, the music again
struck up the solemn imperial march, the White Lady clasped Rita by the
hand, court-marshals with white wands walked before them, court ladies
with long trains followed, and thus the magnificent procession moved
toward the entrance. Here all paused as if spellbound; the White Lady
let Rita’s hand fall and made three low curtseys before her.
“Will you all take leave of me?” asked Rita, anxiously.
“We must,” replied the White Lady.
“What! Will no one go with me? Must I return to my foster-parents all
alone?”
“Unfortunately we cannot change things,” answered the White Lady,
sorrowfully.
Rita sighed heavily, embraced the White Lady, who kissed her hair again
and again, while the ladies and gentlemen of the court, kneeling around
her, pressed their lips to the border of her mantle, and said, “Then
farewell to you all.” Tears streamed from her eyes, and she was
preparing to pass through the door, which two court-marshals held open
before her. At that moment the White Lady said gently, “Pardon me, your
Majesty,” and lifted the diamond crown from her head. Rita stopped in
astonishment, when she also unfastened the clasp of the ermine-lined
blue velvet mantle and removed it from her shoulders.
“You will not even leave me the signs of my rank?” cried Rita.
“It is the order, and we must obey,” replied the White Lady, removing
also the wonderful gown of white silk and silver, so that Rita again
stood in the plain Sunday clothes of a poor milliner.
“So the magnificence is all at an end,” lamented Rita. “I am no longer
an empress, but the foundling, Margarita Bölgebarn.”
“Not so, your Majesty,” answered the White Lady, quickly. “Empress you
are, and empress you will remain; no one can rob you of your royal
rank. True, you will live among the people of this country
unrecognized; but whenever you choose to come here among your faithful
subjects, all the honors due your rank will be shown you, and your own
eyes will convince you that you are our beloved and revered sovereign.”
Rita still lingered at the door. It seemed to her very hard to leave
the brilliantly lighted hall; but she had no choice. Unless she wanted
to starve, she must go. So, summoning all her resolution, she crossed
the threshold. At the same moment an invisible power seized her like a
whirlwind and bore her up with the speed of an arrow. A moment later
she was standing under the sunset sky at the edge of the hole at the
foot of the great beech tree, and saw on one of its lowest branches the
squirrel, which again hopped merrily from tree to tree before her, and
led her out of the wood.
It was already dark when she reached home. Though usually they did not
trouble themselves much about her, this time they had been anxious, and
her foster-mother asked her harshly where she had been roving about so
long. Rita excused her absence with gentle words. She thought of her
royal rank, and could not help secretly smiling at the poor woman, who,
in her ignorance, treated her so rudely. She remembered her throne
room, her courtiers, her body-guard, her diamond crown, and found it
amusing that she was obliged to sit in a poor workman’s room at a table
without a cloth, to a scanty meal of cold sauer-kraut, with peas, black
bread, and water, and then go to rest on a straw bed, which she now had
for herself, since she richly earned it.
After the secret of her birth and rank had been revealed to her, a
change took place in her which even the dull people who surrounded her
could not fail to notice. She was even more quiet and reserved than
before, yet kind and cordial to every one in a way that her
foster-family had never seen among the people of her class. At first
her unvarying graciousness vexed her uneducated companions; for they
considered it affectation, and answered Rita’s pleasant words
scornfully or roughly. But as this did not disturb her, and her manner
remained equally gentle and kind, the others were gradually impressed
by it and began to regard her with a certain shyness. In the
milliner-shop, too, the workwomen and customers noticed Rita’s
dignified manner, and the ladies often said to the proprietor, half in
jest and half in earnest, that there was something so queenly about the
young lady who tried on the bonnets that they scarcely dared to ask her
to wait on them.
Rita no longer, in her leisure hours, went down to the shore where the
workmen had found her when she was a little girl, but into the wood to
the old beech tree. Sitting on the edge of the hole hidden by the moss
and ferns, she shut her eyes and let herself slip down. She knew now
that two soft arms would carefully catch her. The solemn imperial march
always sounded at her appearance, and her courtiers welcomed her with
joy. She sat in her magnificent robes, with her diamond crown upon her
head, an hour or two on her golden throne among her subjects, while the
White Lady told her a thousand things she longed to know: first about
her parents, especially her mother, who had been a princess of Swan
Land, then of her ancestors, of her country of Thule, its people,
manners, and customs. The court ladies sang to her old songs of the
greatness of her race, their wisdom in peace and heroic courage in war.
Learned chamberlains repeated to her the history of Thule; she was
shown dolls in the costume of the people, and pictures of her
ancestors’ palace, their castles, cities, and the most beautiful
landscapes in her kingdom, till at last she knew everything about Thule
as thoroughly as if she had always lived there and knew nothing else.
It no longer seemed to her hard to leave her throne and return to the
city as a poor milliner. In spirit she always lived in her empire, on
Sundays and holidays she was an acknowledged empress amid the splendor
of her court, and she bore with a patient smile the life she led during
the week, when, plainly clad and unnoticed, she lived among the common
people as if she were one of themselves.
Her foster-family gradually remarked that she left them on Sundays
directly after dinner, and did not return until the evening, with a
reflection of secret joy upon her face like one who has been happy
several hours. Her foster-sisters put their heads together and
whispered, making all sorts of guesses, which did little honor to Rita.
They wanted to find out the secret of her lonely walks, and her
foster-brother undertook to follow her unseen. He did follow at some
distance into the forest as far as the hole at the foot of the old
beech. He did not see the squirrel that sprang before her from bough to
bough, for his eyes were fixed upon Rita. Suddenly she vanished, and
when he came to the place where he had lost her, he discovered the hole
under the moss and ferns. He did not doubt that she had slipped down
this hole, but at first he did not think it advisable to go after her.
So he sat down on the moss and waited. When, however, an hour, then two
hours passed, without any sign of life, he plucked up courage and began
to climb down the dark opening. But the sides were very steep, the
clumps of grass and moss to which he clung tore away, and amid a hail
of clods of earth and stones he fell into the depths.
Soiled with dirt, his whole body covered with bruises and bumps, and
his clothes torn, he struck against the door, which flew open at the
shock, and rolled into the middle of the throne room. The commander of
the body-guard rushed up to him and ordered his soldiers to seize the
intruder. But Rita, who recognized the fellow, called loudly, “Halt!”
The marshal of the court explained that he had forfeited his life, but
Rita repeated: “Not a hair of his head shall be harmed! Obey your
empress!” Then she said to her foster-brother, who was rubbing his
aching limbs and staring stupidly around him: “It was very impertinent
to follow me. This time I will forgive you. But don’t do it again; my
guards would not let you go a second time.” She motioned to the White
Lady, who gave an order to the officer of the guard. The soldiers
seized the youth, flung him out of the throne room, and left him lying
outside of the door. He began with great difficulty to climb up, but
the steep walls of earth gave his hands and feet no support, and he
always slid down again. At last the White Lady took pity on him, and
when he made another attempt to climb, she raised her whirlwind, which
seized him and bore him up into the woods.
The youth limped along groaning, lost his way several times, and did
not reach the direct road to the city until twilight was closing in.
When he reached home, Rita had been there a long time. She had told
nothing about the adventure, and was somewhat anxious to hear what he
would say of it to the family. When he saw her, he only grinned and
said nothing. Was he unwilling to tell the story in her presence? But
his mother noticed his soiled and torn clothes and the bloody scratches
on his hands, and cried out: “Boy! How you look! What has happened?
Have you been fighting?”
“No,” replied the youth, sulkily, “it’s only our dear Rita and her
queer taste that are to blame. I wanted to see where she is always
running. Now I know. She goes into the woods and jumps down into a deep
hole. This leads into a large cave. I leaped after her, but she seems
to be more skilful than I am. I fared badly. I almost broke my limbs.
The cave appears to get some light through a chink in the rocks on the
top. But it is dark, cold, and damp. Rita walks up and down, talking to
herself. I think she is playing some kind of a farce, in which she is a
princess or empress, and wants no listeners, for they would laugh at
her. Don’t worry, Rita, I won’t disturb you again in your fool tricks.”
“That will be better,” replied Rita, smiling and gentle as ever. So her
foster-brother had seen nothing—neither the magnificent hall nor the
courtiers, neither her imperial robes nor the throne. This surprised
her, it is true, but she was glad. It was better that she should remain
unrecognized, since she must earn her living as a poor milliner.
Behind her back, her foster-brother told the others that Rita was
evidently a little crazy, for he had heard her say plainly, in her
cave, that she was an empress, had guards, and similar silly nonsense.
The foster-mother replied that it came from the little gold crown
embroidered on her shirt, but as her craziness did not seem dangerous,
they all thought it would do no one any harm if she was allowed to go
on with her folly, and they closed their eyes to her queer fancies.
So Rita lived for several years, during the week a poor workingwoman,
on Sundays a great empress, and it did not trouble her at all that she
alone knew her secret. She was just twenty-one years old when one day
it happened that a handsome young man, whom she had often met on her
way from the house to her shop, but without noticing him, came up to
her in the street, raised his hat, and said, “Miss Rita, will you allow
me to say a few words to you?”
Rita blushed and answered more sternly than was her custom: “I don’t
know you. Leave me alone,” and continued her way. The young man stood
still, looking after her sorrowfully. She could not help thinking of
him all the morning, and though it vexed her that he should have spoken
to her in the street, she would have liked to know what he wanted to
say to her.
When she went home at noon, she saw, to her astonishment, the young man
sitting in her house with her foster-mother. She stood hesitating on
the threshold, and the workman’s wife called to her, while the young
man respectfully rose from his chair: “Come in, the gentleman won’t eat
you. He means fairly.”
The young man now spoke. “Miss Rita,” he said, “I have known you for
many months. I have followed you daily, without your noticing it. I
ventured to speak to you in the street, because I thought that would be
the easiest way. But you did perfectly right to reprove me, for it was
not proper. I ought to have done first what I did not think of until
later; that is, introduce myself to your parents.”
“But what do you want?” asked Rita, bewildered.
“Miss Rita,” replied the young man, “I love you, and would like to
marry you. Will you give me your hand?”
Rita’s heart beat faster, and she lowered her eyes in confusion. “That
cannot be done so quickly,” she said, “I do not know you at all—”
“Don’t refuse,” interrupted her foster-mother; “the gentleman is a fine
man and a poet.”
“You are a poet?” cried Rita, wonderingly.
“At least I think so,” answered the young man, modestly. “I write poems
and have them printed. People buy them, and tell me that life seems
easier and the world more beautiful to them when they have read them.”
As Rita grew thoughtful and made no reply, he drew a little book from
the pocket of his overcoat and gave it to her, adding: “Please accept
this from me, Miss Rita. It contains my verses. Let them speak for me,
and permit me to come to-morrow for your answer.”
When with a courteous bow he left the room, the foster-mother told Rita
that she ought to accept this handsome and elegant young man; it was a
piece of good luck for her, and she would never find anything better.
Rita said she must have time to think over so important a matter, and
retiring into a corner began to read the poems. They sang of spring and
sunshine, of blossoming flowers and nightingales, of human beings who
loved each other and would remain faithful in joy and sorrow, of all
great and noble things which make the happiness of good people. And as
Rita read on, she fancied she heard the old songs of her court singers,
and the wise words of her White Lady, and her eyes grew dim till at
last she could no longer see the letters plainly.
She thought of the poet all day, and at night she could not sleep. When
the next noon he came for his answer, the others went out to leave the
two alone, and Rita said: “I have read your poems, and I like them very
much. You are really a poet. But do you know who I am?”
“You are the sweetest, most beautiful girl my eyes ever beheld,” he
answered warmly, “and if you would become my wife, I should be the
happiest man on earth, and would never cease to sing and utter my joy
in verse.”
“I am a foundling, and no one knows who my parents were.”
“Your parents were what they were, and you are what you are.”
“I am a poor workingwoman, and shall bring you nothing except what I
have on my back.”
“You are yourself a treasure, which no gold in the world can outweigh.
We will work and shall not lack the necessaries of life.”
“Give me a little more time to think,” she said gently. “So important a
resolve cannot be made in an instant.”
“That is true,” replied the poet; “but meanwhile may I at least see you
daily?”
“Yes, you may,” said Rita. Then he kissed her hand and gave her a sheet
of paper on which, since the day before, he had written new poems for
her, more beautiful than any of the first ones.
Contradictory feelings were struggling in Rita’s soul. She liked the
poet, and it seemed to her a happy lot to become his wife. But she
thought she ought not to promise him her hand without asking the advice
of the White Lady, her only friend in the wide world, and without
telling him her secret. She was so impatient that she could not wait
for Sunday, but went at once to her wood, without even stopping at the
shop to ask permission for an afternoon’s absence. She was in such a
hurry that she did not look around once on the way. So she did not see
that the poet, as had been his habit for months, had come after dinner
into the neighborhood of her house to follow her to the shop and enjoy
all the way the sight of her lovely figure. He saw with astonishment
that she did not go toward the shop, and that she was walking much
faster than usual, so he hastily pursued to find out what she meant to
do. Thus he tracked her into the wood, to the old beech tree and the
hole half hidden by moss and ferns, where she vanished from his eyes.
When he saw her suddenly disappear down the hole, his only thought was
that she had met with an accident, and with a cry of terror he ran
forward and without hesitation leaped after her. He fell on his feet at
the bottom, without doing himself any harm, and saw before him, in the
dim light, tall gilded folding doors, from beyond which he heard the
clank of arms and solemn music. He resolutely pushed open the door and
found himself in the throne room, just at the moment that Rita had
taken her seat upon the throne, and the White Lady was clothing and
crowning her as an empress. When he saw this, he rushed through the
ranks of the guards to the steps of the throne, knelt, and touched his
forehead to the floor.
Rita had been unable to keep back a low cry of surprise when she saw
the poet. This time, too, the guards seized him, but Rita waved her
hand and commanded them to release him. Descending the steps, she
raised the poet. He did not dare to look at her, and only murmured: “I
always suspected it. You are of royal birth. Graciously forgive my
presumption in having dared to love you.”
“So you see my throne and my crown, my hall and my courtiers?” asked
Rita.
The poet looked at her in astonishment, and replied: “Why shouldn’t I?
The splendor dazzles me, it is true, but it does not wholly blind me.”
Rita, turning to the White Lady, said: “He is a poet, and he wants to
marry me. What do you advise me to do?”
“Your Majesty,” replied the faithful fairy, “he is of a good race. He
has the eagle eyes, which see secret things. He is an aristocrat, for
he is a poet. If you love him as he does you, marry him.”
Rita blushed deeply and cast down her eyes, the White Lady took her
hand and laid it in the poet’s, the courtiers burst into loud cheers,
the music struck up a joyous march, and the portraits of the emperor
and empress of Thule, on both sides of the throne, began to shine
wonderfully. The court-marshal bent the knee before the poet and said,
“Your Highness, by your engagement to our illustrious imperial
mistress, you become Prince Consort, and have a right to the highest
honors.” He gave a low order to a page, and instantly several court
lackeys appeared with purple velvet cushions, on which lay a gold
embroidered uniform, the ribbon of an order, a sword, and gold spurs,
and placed them all on the floor at the foot of the throne. Rita asked,
smiling, “Will you put these on?”
“I dare not—the honor is too great—not to-day,” answered the poet in
bewilderment. Then in a lower tone he added, “Your Majesty—beloved
Rita—since you are willing to give me the greatest happiness—since I am
your betrothed husband—I will venture to make one request—”
“What is it?” asked Rita, kindly.
“Send your courtiers away—let us be a moment alone—that I may embrace
you for the first time as my bride.”
“There is no solitude for an empress,” said Rita; “let us go.”
Rising, she walked, leaning on her future husband’s arm, amid the usual
honors, to the door, left her imperial robes in the hands of the White
Lady, and a moment later, with the poet, was at the entrance of the
hole. Here, under the rustling branches of the old beech, seen only by
the faithful squirrel, Rita was clasped in her lover’s arms and
exchanged the first kiss.
The poet was dazed by all he had seen and experienced, but he did not
venture to question his bride. Rita guessed what was passing in his
mind, and on their way home told him all. Only she begged him to keep
it secret, for if he repeated the story, people would merely laugh at
them.
The betrothal was celebrated at the foster-parents’, and the wedding
soon followed, with two celebrations,—one in the secret empire, and one
among ordinary mortals. Rita left her work place and opened a
milliner’s shop herself, and the poet, in his happiness, wrote the most
beautiful poems and became very famous. During the first year of their
marriage, they often went to the wood, and the young husband found
great pleasure in sitting in his princely robes upon the golden throne,
beside his imperial consort. But at the end of a year the stork brought
a little child, and for some time Rita could not go out, and her poet
did not know whether he could appear at court alone. After a month Rita
went to the wood again for the first time, taking with her her baby, on
which she had put the little shirt with the gold crown, which her
foster-father had given to her on her wedding day, and descended to the
secret empire to present her child to the courtiers. There was great
rejoicing and paying of homage, and the White Lady took the little one
in her arms, caressed it, and whispered ardent wishes for its
happiness. When her faithful subjects had grow calm again, Rita
addressed them in a very grave tone: “Noble lords and ladies,” she
said, “we shall see each other to-day for the last time. My work, my
child, my husband, claim all my hours, and I no longer have any
half-days of leisure to spend in your midst. Your loyalty touches me,
but unfortunately it is of no use. Return to Thule, make your peace
with the King of the Pole, and remember me faithfully, as I shall
always remember you. And now, farewell.”
The ladies and gentlemen fell upon their knees. All were sobbing. Tears
rolled down the cheeks of even the old guards. The White Lady, weeping
softly, clasped Rita in her arms and would not let her go. She gently
released herself, took up her little child again, gave her hand kindly
to all, and slowly approached the door. Here she cast one last look at
the court, the hall, her crown, and her royal robes, kissed the White
Lady for the last time, and in an instant was in the upper world.
At the foot of the old beech, Rita said sadly to her husband: “The
sacrifice is made. The imperial splendor is over forever.”
“No,” replied the poet, bending the knee before her. “To me you are and
always will be the empress, as I felt and recognized you before you had
revealed yourself to me in your magnificence, and so you always will be
to your children also, now and forever.”
And so it was. Wreaths were afterward bestowed on the poet, which he
laid at the feet of his wife. They became prosperous and distinguished,
had numerous children, reared them to be excellent men and women, whom
they taught that they must be better and more competent than ordinary
people; and though no one of them became an emperor or an empress, they
were all such estimable citizens, that, after many, many years, when
Rita was dead, the grateful city placed a monument on the spot upon the
shore where little Margarita Bölgebarn had been found.