Part 16

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.