Part 11

A new life, which he had never known before, began for Darling. He could do just as he pleased, he was always in the open air, he trotted until he was tired, and lay down to rest wherever he happened to be. He often fared badly in regard to food. He had to take just what he could get! in the best case boiled turnips some cow had dropped from her trough; in the worst, bones picked up on some dung-heap. But this poor and scanty living, from which he would formerly have turned aside with loathing, seemed excellent, and even dainty, because he saw how much Rough-leg enjoyed it. The two friends were often obliged to fight the village curs; but this no longer frightened Darling, for he knew that he could depend on Rough-leg. His health daily improved. His rheumatism and the intolerable itching disappeared, he lost flesh, and, with the extra flesh, his shortness of breath vanished; he could vie with Rough-leg in running, and soon made such progress that, to his joyful surprise, he could help a shepherd, who was driving a flock of sheep over a cross-road, as well as his nimble Pomeranian, which could not manage the work alone. The shepherd wanted to keep him, but this did not suit Darling. “When I want to enter service, I will go back to my mistress,” he said, and went off with Rough-leg. In the castle the people were inconsolable over Darling’s disappearance, the servant who had not watched him properly was dismissed at once, and the countess advertised that she would pay a large reward to any one who returned her pug. But no one brought him, because he was not recognized from the description which mentioned his fine blanket, collar, and bracelet. But Darling thought of the old countess, and Rough-leg of his dead master, and, after about a fortnight, the pug said one morning, “Suppose we should go and see how things are at the castle.”

“Very well,” Rough-leg answered, and the two trotted straight toward the castle. They were obliged to run many hours before they reached it. When they arrived, the gate stood open, and Darling walked boldly in. The servants did not recognize him, for he was as slender and active as a greyhound, and as dirty as a pig which had just come out of the mire. But his eyes were bright, his nose was moist, and his bark was as loud and long as the alarm bell in the steeple. They tried to drive him away, but he rushed upstairs to the old countess’s room and scratched at her door. When she heard the familiar sound, she uttered a cry of joy, started up, and opened it as quick as she could. Darling jumped up on her and, barking loudly in his delight, licked her face. But she pushed him away in horror, for he smelled so badly and was so terribly neglected. She called for perfume and a warm bath, but Darling ran swiftly away. He would not have them any more, nor his fine clothes, gingerbread, and velvet cushions.

Rough-leg was lying outside in the ditch, waiting to see whether his rich friend would forget him or come back to him. In a few minutes Darling returned. “Won’t you go into the castle with me?” he cried joyously.

“Yes, so that they can break my limbs or chain me up,” growled Rough-leg.

“They must kill me first,” answered Darling, urging him along.

At first the people in the courtyard wanted to ill-treat the ugly tramp dog. But Darling covered him with his body, and they saw that he was his friend. The case was reported to the countess, who looked out of her window at the ugly, strong, strange dog; the affection her pug showed him touched her, and she ordered the servants to let him stay with Darling. The pug was obliged to allow himself to be thoroughly cleaned, but he would not lead his former life. So he was permitted to wander about the courtyard and high-road with Rough-leg, and only came for a quarter of an hour every morning and evening to the countess, who, however, could not bear his smell, and in spite of his caresses, was glad when he went away again. Darling and Rough-leg always remained the best of friends, and the former often said: “I, the insolent rich dog, owe to you, the poor fellow, health and life. If the rich would only always make the poor their friends!”

“It would be a good thing for both,” growled Rough-leg, in his deep voice.

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO TRAVELLED IN THE BIG SHIP

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.