Part 14

Maxa, in her distress, turned to the master, who stood with folded arms, gazing sadly at her and the complaining girl. “Master, dear master, help me just this once. I will never be disobedient again. I cannot bear to have the creature I have made so unhappy. Help me, or kill us both.” The master made no reply, but paced up and down the studio several times, absorbed in thought. Some minutes passed in this way, while Maxa followed him anxiously with her eyes. At last he stopped and said, “Your girl must remain as she is, but I will do what I can to make her happy.” Going to the canvas, he began to paint. He made a young prince, handsome as the day, slender as a fir tree, with kindly eyes and smiling face, who stretched both hands toward the girl and gazed at her tenderly. And there, too, stood the young prince in reality, stretching both hands toward the girl as he did in the picture. Then the master said: “He loves you, and will marry you, and always be your faithful husband. He cannot speak, but you can talk enough for both. If you like him, give him your hand.”

The young girl, blushing, rose and went slowly toward the prince. She limped slightly, but the prince did not seem to notice it. Gazing joyously into her sparkling gray eyes, which she cast down, he clasped her in his arms. The negro maids clapped their hands in delight and danced around the pair. The easel stalked along shakily, the paint-box jumped merrily, but Maxa said mournfully:—

“What good will all this do? The lover won’t make the girl more beautiful.”

“You don’t understand,” said the master. “When one loves anybody with all one’s heart, one thinks her more beautiful than anything else in the whole wide world. Ask the bride what she says about it.” Maxa cast a searching glance at the young girl, who nestled closely to her prince, saying with a happy smile:—

“His love is true beyond compare; Just as I am he finds me fair. His heart is now my happiness; I need not beauty life to bless.”

The prince nodded and kissed his future bride.

“Well, then,” said Maxa, “if you are both satisfied, I will be, too, and I thank you, master, for having made everything turn out for the best.”

But the artist answered: “I could help once, but never again. Let this be a lesson to you. Great power is given to the artist. But woe betide him if he uses it recklessly! Farewell. I can teach you nothing more.”

Before she could speak a word, he had vanished, and with him the lovers, the black maid-servants, the easel, and the paint-box; but the studio and all its contents remained, including the picture with the prince and the girl. Whenever Maxa saw it afterward, her heart grew both sad and joyous—sad because the girl she had created had disappeared, and joyous because she felt that she must be happy with her prince. Maxa herself grew up into a tall, beautiful girl, whom everybody recognized as a Sunday child. She continued to paint, but no longer with a magic brush, and this was well for her.

Who can be sure that his work will always succeed?—and it is far too dangerous to make a mistake when, for each error, a living being must suffer all through life.

THE HEART THREAD

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.”