"Oh, sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to shake the
tree twice, and but two apples fell."
"Begone, you fool!" cried Katinka, striking her sister, who ran away
crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten anything
so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How they regretted
not having any more!
[Illustration: TURNED OUT BY HER MOTHER, DOBRUNKA WENT UNHAPPILY INTO
THE FOREST]
"Mother," said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak. I will go to the forest
and find the tree, and whether I am permitted or not I will shake
it so hard that all the apples will be ours."
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to nothing.
Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood over her head,
and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath.
Katinka lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by pride and
covetousness. She spied a light in the distance. She climbed and
climbed till she reached the place, and found the Twelve Months each
seated on his stone, motionless and silent. Without asking their
permission, she approached the fire.
"Why have you come here? What do you want? Where are you going?" asked
old January, gruffly.
"What matters it to you, old fool?" answered Katinka. "It is none of
your business where I came from or whither I am going." She plunged
into the forest. January frowned and raised his staff above his head.
In the twinkling of an eye the sky was overcast, the fire went out,
the snow fell, and the wind blew. Katinka could not see the way before
her. She lost herself, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow
fell and the wind blew. She called her mother, she cursed her sister,
she cursed God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze, her
limbs stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell and the
wind still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the door, and from
the door to the window. The hours passed and Katinka did not return.
"I must go and look for my daughter," said she. "The child has
forgotten herself with those hateful apples." She took her fur cloak
and hood, and hastened to the mountain. Everything was covered with
snow; there was not even a footpath. She plunged into the forest,
calling her daughter. The snow fell and the wind blew. She walked on
with feverish anxiety, shouting at the top of her voice. The snow
still fell and the wind still blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no one
returned. In the morning she took her wheel and spun a whole distaff
full; there was still no news. "What can have happened?" said the
girl, weeping. The sun was shining through an icy mist and the ground
was covered with snow. Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They
did not return; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the
two corpses in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow, and the
garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining the house. But
when a good and pretty girl has a field under her window, the next
thing that follows is a young farmer who offers her his heart and
hand. Dobrunka was soon married. The Twelve Months did not abandon
their child. More than once, when the north wind blew fearfully and
the windows shook in their frames, old January stopped up all the
crevices of the house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this
peaceful abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy, having,
according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in the barn,
autumn in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
Swanda the Piper
_A Bohemian Tale_
[Illustration:]
Swanda, the Piper, was a jolly companion. Like every true musician, he
was born with an unquenchable thirst; besides, he was madly fond of
play, and would have risked his soul at strajak, the favorite game at
cards in Bohemia. When he had earned a little money he would throw
aside his pipes, and drink and play with the first comer till he
returned to his home as light in pocket as when he had left it. But he
was always so merry, witty, and good-natured that not a drinker ever
left the table while the piper was there, and his name still lives in
Bohemia as the prince of good fellows.
One day there was a festival at Mokran, and no merry-making was ever
complete without the piper. Swanda, after blowing his pipe till
midnight and earning twenty zwanzigers, determined to amuse himself on
his own account. Neither prayers nor promises could persuade him to
go on with his music; he was determined to drink his fill and to
shuffle the cards at his ease; but, for the first time in his life, he
found no one to play with him.
Swanda was not the man to quit the inn so long as he had a kreutzer in
his pocket, and on that day he had many of them. By dint of talking,
laughing, and drinking he took one of those fixed ideas which are not
uncommon among those who look too often in the bottom of their glass,
and determined to play at any price; but all his neighbors refused his
challenge. Furious at finding no partner, he rose with an unsteady
step, paid for what he had drank, and left the inn.
"I will go to Drazic," said he; "the schoolmaster and the bailiff
there are honest people who are not afraid of play, and I shall find
partners. Hurrah!"
The night was clear and the moon shone like a fish's eye. On reaching
a cross-road Swanda raised his eyes by chance, and stopped, mute and
motionless. A flock of ravens were croaking over his head, and in
front of him rose four posts, standing like pillars, and connected at
the top by cross-beams, from each of which swung a half-devoured
corpse. It was a robbers' gallows, a spectacle by no means amusing to
a less stoical spirit than that of Swanda.
He had not recovered from the first shudder when suddenly there
appeared before him a man dressed in black, with pale and hollow
cheeks, and eyes that glittered like carbuncles.
"Where are you going so late, friend Piper?" asked he, in a soft
voice.
"To Drazic, Mr. Black Coat," answered the intrepid Swanda.
"Would you like to earn something by your music?"
"I am tired of blowing," returned Swanda. "I have some silver in my
pocket, and wish to amuse myself."
"Who talks to you of silver? It is with gold that we pay."
Saying this, the stranger flashed before his eyes a handful of shining
ducats. The piper was the son of a thrifty mother; he knew not how to
resist such an invitation, and followed the black man and his gold.
How the time passed he never could remember. It is true that his head
was a little heavy. The only thing that he recollected was that the
black man warned him to accept whatever was offered him, whether gold
or wine, but never to return thanks except by saying "Good luck,
brother!"
Without knowing how he had entered, he found himself in a dark room
where three men, dressed in black like his guide, were playing at
strajak by no other light than their glittering eyes. On the table
were piles of gold, and a jug from which each one drank in his turn.
"Brothers," said the black man, "I bring you friend Swanda, whom you
have long known by reputation. I thought to please you on this
feast-day by giving you a little music."
"A good idea!" said one of the players. Then, taking the jug, he
handed it to Swanda, saying, "Here, piper, drink and play."
Swanda had some scruples; but, after all, it is impossible to have
charcoal without putting your finger into the ashes. The wine, though
rather warm, was not bad. He replaced the jug on the table, and
raising his hat, said, "Good luck, brother!" as he had been advised.
He began to play, and never had his music produced such an effect.
Each note made the players leap for joy. Their eyes shot forth flames;
they moved about uneasily in their chairs; they staked the ducats by
handfuls; they shouted and burst into loud fits of laughter without
stirring a muscle of their pallid faces. The jug passed from hand to
hand, always full, though replenished by no one.
As soon as Swanda finished an air they handed him the jug, from which
he never failed to drink deeply, and threw handfuls of gold into his
hat. "Good luck, brother!" he repeated, astounded at his
fortune--"good luck!"
The feast lasted a long time. At last, the piper having struck up a
polka, the black men, in a transport of mirth, quitted the table and
danced and waltzed with an ardor and frenzy which ill accorded with
their icy faces. One of the dancers gathered up all the gold that was
heaped on the table, and, pouring it into Swanda's hat, "Here," said
he, "take this for the pleasure that you have given us."
"God bless you, my good lords!" said the dazzled piper. Scarcely had
he spoken when men, room, and cards vanished.
In the morning a peasant on his way to the fields heard the sound of a
pipe as he approached the cross-road. "It is Swanda," said he. But
where was the piper? Seated on a corner of the gallows, he was blowing
with all his might, while the corpses of the robbers danced in the
wind to his music.
"Halloo, comrade!" cried the peasant. "How long have you been playing
the cuckoo up there?"
Swanda started, dropped his pipe, opened his eyes, and glided,
bewildered, down the gallows. His first thought, however, was for his
ducats. He rummaged his pockets and turned his hat inside out, but all
in vain; there was not even a kreutzer!
"My friend," said the peasant, making the sign of the cross, "God has
punished you by giving you the devil for a partner; you love cards too
well."
"You are right," said Swanda, trembling; "I will never touch them
again in my life."
[Illustration: HE BEGAN TO PLAY AND NEVER HAD HIS MUSIC PRODUCED SUCH
AN EFFECT.]
He kept his word; and, to thank Heaven for having preserved him
from such peril, he took the fatal pipe to which the devil had danced,
and suspended it as a votive offering in the church of Strakonic, his
birthplace, where it may be seen to this day. The pipe of Strakonic
has become a proverb, and it is even said that its sound is heard
every year at the day and hour when Swanda played for Satan and his
friends.
_The_ Gold Bread
_A Hungarian Tale_
[Illustration:]
Once upon a time there was a widow who had a beautiful daughter. The
mother was modest and humble; the daughter, Marienka, was pride
itself. She had suitors from all sides, but none satisfied her; the
more they tried to please her the more she disdained them.
One night, when the poor mother could not sleep, she took her beads
and began to pray for her dear child, who gave her more than one care.
Marienka was asleep by her side. As the mother gazed lovingly at her
beautiful daughter, Marienka laughed in her sleep.
"What a beautiful dream she must have to laugh in this way!" said the
mother. Then she finished her prayer, hung her beads on the wall, laid
her head on the same pillow with her daughter, and fell asleep.
"My dear child," said she in the morning, "what did you dream last
night that you laughed so?"
"What did I dream, mamma? I dreamed that a nobleman came here for me
in a copper coach, and that he put a ring on my finger set with a
stone that sparkled like the stars. And when I entered the church the
people had eyes for no one but the blessed Virgin and me."
"My daughter, my daughter, that was a proud dream!" said the mother,
shaking her head. But Marienka went out singing.
The same day a wagon entered the yard. A handsome young farmer in good
circumstances came to ask Marienka to share a peasant's bread with
him. The mother was pleased with the suitor, but the proud Marienka
refused him, saying, "Though you should come in a copper coach, and
put a ring on my finger set with a stone that sparkled like the stars,
I would not have you for a husband." And the farmer went away storming
at Marienka's pride.
The next night the mother waked, took her beads, and prayed still more
earnestly for her daughter, when, behold! Marienka laughed again as
she was sleeping.
"I wonder what she is dreaming," said the mother, who prayed, unable
to sleep.
"My dear child," she said the next morning, "what did you dream last
night that you laughed aloud?"
"What did I dream, mamma? I dreamed that a nobleman came here for me
in a silver coach, and that he offered me a golden diadem. And when I
entered the church the people looked at me more than they did at the
blessed Virgin."
"Hush! you are blaspheming. Pray, my daughter, pray that you may not
fall into temptation."
But Marienka ran away to escape her mother's sermon.
The same day a carriage entered the yard. A young lord came to entreat
Marienka to share a nobleman's bread with him.
"It is a great honor," said the mother; but vanity is blind.
"Though you should come in a silver coach," said Marienka to the new
suitor, "and should offer me a golden diadem, I would not have you for
a husband."
"Take care, my child," said the poor mother; "pride is a device of the
Evil One."
"Mothers never know what they are saying," thought Marienka, and she
went out shrugging her shoulders.
The third night the mother could not sleep for anxiety. As she lay
awake, praying for her daughter, behold! Marienka burst into a loud
fit of laughter.
"Oh!" said the mother, "what can the unhappy child be dreaming now?"
And she continued to pray till daylight.
"My dear child," said she in the morning, "what did you dream last
night?"
"You will be angry again if I tell you," answered Marienka.
"No, no," replied the mother. "Tell me."
"I dreamed that a noble lord, with a great train of attendants, came
to ask me in marriage. He was in a golden coach, and he brought me a
dress of gold lace. And when I entered the church, the people looked
at nobody but me."
The mother clasped her hands. Marienka, half dressed, sprang from the
bed and ran into the next room, to avoid a lecture that was tiresome
to her.
The same day three coaches entered the yard, one of copper, one of
silver, and one of gold; the first drawn by two horses, the second by
four, and the third by eight, all caparisoned with gold and pearls.
From the copper and silver coaches alighted pages dressed in scarlet
breeches and green jackets and cloaks, while from the golden coach
stepped a handsome nobleman all dressed in gold. He entered the house,
and, bending one knee on the ground, asked the mother for her
daughter's hand.
"What an honor!" thought the mother.
"My dream has come to pass," said Marienka. "You see, mother, that, as
usual, I was right and you were wrong."
She ran to her chamber, tied the betrothal knot, and offered it
smilingly as a pledge of her faith to the handsome lord, who, on his
side, put a ring on her finger set with a stone that sparkled like the
stars, and presented her with a golden diadem and a dress of gold
lace.
The proud girl ran to her room to dress for the ceremony, while the
mother, still anxious, said to the bridegroom, "My good sir, what
bread do you offer my daughter?"
"Among us," said he, "the bread is of copper, silver, and gold. She
can take her choice."
"What does this mean?" thought the mother. But Marienka had no
anxiety; she returned as beautiful as the sun, took her lover's arm,
and set out for the church without asking her mother's blessing. The
poor woman was left to pray alone on the threshold; and when Marienka
returned and entered the carriage she did not even turn round to look
at her mother or to bid her a last farewell.
The eight horses set off at a gallop, and did not stop till they
reached a huge rock in which there was a hole as large as the gate of
a city. The horses plunged into the darkness, the earth trembled, and
the rock cracked and crumbled. Marienka seized her husband's hand.
"Don't be alarmed, my fair one; in a moment it will be light."
All at once a thousand lights waved in the air. The dwarfs of the
mountain, each with a torch in his hand, came to salute their lord,
the King of the Mines. Marienka learned for the first time her
husband's name. Whether he was a spirit of good or of evil, at least
he was so rich that she did not regret her choice.
[Illustration: AS THE MOTHER GAZED LOVINGLY AT HER BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER,
MARIENKA LAUGHED IN HER SLEEP]
They emerged from the darkness, and advanced through bleached
forests and mountains that raised their pale and gloomy summits to the
skies. Firs, beeches, birches, oaks, rocks, all were of lead. At the
end of the forest stretched a vast meadow the grass of which was of
silver; and at the bottom of the meadow was a castle of gold, inlaid
with diamonds and rubies. The carriage stopped before the door, and
the King of the Mines offered his hand to his bride, saying, "My fair
one, all that you see is yours."
Marienka was delighted. But it is impossible to make so long a journey
without being hungry; and it was with pleasure, therefore, that she
saw the mountain dwarfs bring in a table, everything on which
glittered with gold, silver, and precious stones. The dishes were
marvelous--side-dishes of emeralds, and roasts of gold on silver
salvers. Every one ate heartily except the bride, who begged her
husband for a little bread.
"Bring the copper bread," said the King of the Mines.
Marienka could not eat it.
"Bring the silver bread," said he.
Marienka could not eat it.
"Bring the gold bread," said he, at length.
Marienka could not eat it.
"My fair one," said the King of the Mines, "I am very sorry; but what
can I offer you? We have no other bread."
The bride burst into tears. Her husband laughed aloud; his heart was
of metal, like his kingdom.
"Weep, if you like," he cried; "it will do you no good. What you
wished for you possess. Eat the bread that you have chosen."
It was thus that the rich Marienka lived in her castle, dying of
hunger, and seeking in vain for a root to allay the torture that was
consuming her. God had humbled her by granting her prayer.
Three days in the year, the Rogation Days, when the ground half opens
to receive the fruitful rain sent by the Lord, Marienka returns to the
earth. Dressed in rags, pale and wrinkled, she begs from door to door,
too happy when any one throws her a few crusts, and when she receives
as alms from the poor what she lacks in her palace of gold--a little
bread and a little pity.
The Story _of the Noses_
_A Bohemian Tale_
[Illustration:]
At Dewitz, in the neighborhood of Prague, there once lived a rich and
whimsical old farmer who had a beautiful daughter. The students of
Prague, of whom there were at that time twenty-five thousand, often
walked in the direction of Dewitz, and more than one of them offered
to follow the plow in hopes of becoming the son-in-law of the farmer.
The first condition that the cunning peasant set on each new servant
was this: "I engage you," he would say, "for a year--that is, till the
cuckoo sings the return of spring; but if, from now till then, you say
once that you are not satisfied, I will cut off the end of your nose.
I give you the same right over me," he added, laughing. And he did as
he said. Prague was full of students with the ends of their noses
glued on, which did not prevent an ugly scar, and, still less, bad
jokes. To return from the farm disfigured and ridiculed was well
calculated to cool the warmest passion.
A young man by the name of Coranda, somewhat ungainly in manner, but
cool, adroit, and cunning, which are not bad aids in making one's
fortune, took it in his head to try the adventure. The farmer received
him with his usual good nature, and, the bargain made, sent him to the
field to work. At breakfast-time the other servants were called, but
good care was taken to forget Coranda. At dinner it was the same.
Coranda gave himself no trouble about it. He went to the house, and
while the farmer's wife was feeding the chickens unhooked an enormous
ham from the kitchen rafters, took a huge loaf from the cupboard, and
went back to the fields to dine and take a nap.
"Are you satisfied?" cried the farmer, when he returned at night.
"Perfectly satisfied," said Coranda; "I have dined better than you
have."
At that instant the farmer's wife came rushing in, crying that her ham
was gone. Coranda laughed, and the farmer turned pale.
"Are you not satisfied?" asked Coranda.
"A ham is only a ham," answered his master. "Such a trifle does not
trouble me." But after that time he took good care not to leave the
student fasting.
Sunday came. The farmer and his wife seated themselves in the wagon to
go to church, saying to Coranda, "It is your business to cook the
dinner. Cut up the piece of meat you see yonder, with onions, carrots,
leeks, and parsley, and boil them all together in the great pot over
the kitchen fire."
"Very well," answered Coranda.
There was a little pet dog at the farm-house by the name of Parsley.
Coranda killed him, skinned him, cut him up with the meat and
vegetables, and put the whole to boil over the kitchen fire. When the
farmer's wife returned she called her favorite; but, alas! she saw
nothing but a bloody skin hanging by the window.
"What have you done?" said she to Coranda.
"What you ordered me, mistress. I have boiled the meat, onions,
carrots, and leeks, and parsley in the bargain."
"Wicked wretch!" cried the farmer, "had you the heart to kill the
innocent creature that was the joy of the house?"
"Are you not satisfied?" said Coranda, taking his knife from his
pocket.
"I did not say that," returned the farmer. "A dead dog is nothing but
a dead dog." But he sighed.
A few days after, the farmer and his wife went to market. Fearing
their terrible servant, they said to him, "Stay at home and do exactly
what you see others do."
"Very well," said Coranda.
There was an old shed in the yard the roof of which was falling to
pieces. The carpenters came to repair it, and began, as usual, by
tearing down the roof. Coranda took a ladder and mounted the roof of
the house, which was quite new. Shingles, lath, nails, and tiles, he
tore off everything, and scattered them all to the winds. When the
farmer returned the house was open to the sky.
"Villain!" said he, "what new trick have you played me?"
"I have obeyed you, master," answered Coranda. "You told me to do
exactly what I saw others do. Are you not satisfied?" And he took out
his knife.
"Satisfied!" returned the farmer; "why should I not be satisfied? A
few shingles more or less will not ruin me." But he sighed.
Night came, the farmer and his wife said to each other that it was
high time to get rid of this incarnate demon. As is always the case
with sensible people, they never did anything without consulting their
daughter, it being the custom in Bohemia to think that children always
have more wit than their parents.
"Father," said Helen, "I will hide in the great pear-tree early in the
morning, and call like the cuckoo. You can tell Coranda that the year
is up, since the cuckoo is singing; pay him and send him away."
Early in the morning the plaintive cry of the cuckoo was heard through
the fields. The farmer seemed surprised. "Well, my boy, spring is
come," said he. "Do you hear the cuckoo singing yonder? I will pay you
and we will part good friends."
[Illustration: HE RAN TO THE TREE AND SHOOK IT WITH ALL HIS MIGHT,
WHEN, BEHOLD! A YOUNG GIRL FELL FROM THE BRANCHES]
"A cuckoo!" said Coranda; "that is a bird which I have always wanted
to see."
He ran to the tree and shook it with all his might, when, behold! a
young girl fell from the branches, fortunately more frightened than
hurt.
"Villain!" cried the farmer.
"Are you not satisfied?" said Coranda, opening his knife.
"Wretch! you kill my daughter and you think that I ought to be
satisfied! I am furious. Begone, if you would not die by my hand!"
"I will go when I have cut off your nose," said Coranda. "I have kept
my word. Do you keep yours."
"Stop!" cried the farmer, putting his hand before his face. "You will
surely let me redeem my nose?"
"It depends on what you offer," said Coranda.
"Will you take ten sheep for it?"
"No."
"Ten cows?"
"No; I would rather cut off your nose." And he sharpened his knife on
the door-step.
"Father," said Helen, "the fault was mine; it belongs to me to repair
it. Coranda, will you take my hand instead of my father's nose?"
"Yes," replied Coranda.
"I make one condition," said the young girl. "We will make the same
bargain; the first one of us that is not satisfied after marriage
shall have his nose cut off by the other."
"Good," replied Coranda. "I would rather it was the tongue; but that
will come next."