Part 2

“Come, don’t be afraid,” said the little girl. “I’m not a cat, and I won’t eat you.” She put it back into the cage. “You are still shy, but you’ll get used to me. I’ll love you dearly and treat you well; then you will love me, too, and be my grateful little friend.”

She insisted upon taking care of her little mouse herself. Every day she cleaned its cage, changed the cotton-wool, filled the glass dishes, and, during the warm hours of the day, placed the cage on the window-sill, covering the outside with a piece of green cloth so that the sunshine should not make the mouse’s red eyes ache. While doing this, she said all sorts of soothing words to it in a sweet, coaxing voice. “You are well off, my little mouse,” she told it. “You need not creep into small, dark holes, where it must be dirty and cold, and where bugs and roaches live. Brrr!” She shivered with fear at the bare thought. “You have a beautiful house; you are kept as warm and clean as a princess; I give you dainties which you could not have unless you stole them at the risk of your life—sweet grapes, raisins, nuts, milk-bread, and bits of bacon. No cat can harm you. You need not be afraid of any trap. You are a real favorite of fortune among the mice.”

But the mouse did not think so. It remained sulky, and showed no gratitude for its mistress’s care and affection. When it thought no one was looking, it played happily enough with the wheel or the cotton-wool in its nest, or combed and brushed itself with its handlike fore paws as carefully as a soldier before parade. But as soon as the little girl went to its cage, it suddenly stopped its cleaning or its play, and crept under the cotton-wool. When its mistress put her hand in the cage to take it out and pet it, the mouse darted into every corner of its house to escape the searching hand, and when it was caught, uttered a terrified squeaking, and struggled as violently as its feeble strength would permit.

“Foolish thing,” said the little girl, but she did not lose patience. “You will see in time how kindly I mean by you.”

Whether the mouse really did see this, is hard to say. Perhaps it only found out that it was of no use to resist. It struggled less when its mistress touched it, and therefore seemed tamer. But it did not answer to the name of Snow-White which the little girl had given it, obeyed no call, and pressed close against the back of the cage if any one looked through the grating of its house. In time it even lost its appetite, so that it grew thin and miserable. At last it also gave up turning in its wheel, crouched sadly in one corner, and became so weak that it could scarcely drag itself about.

This grieved the little girl to the heart. She ran to her mother, saying: “Oh, mamma, come and see what is the matter with Snow-White. It doesn’t eat, it doesn’t play, and it is always cross. I can’t cheer it up at all.”

Her mother smiled. “What do you do to cheer it up?”

“I stroke it, I talk to it, I even sing my prettiest songs, for which you all kiss me. But Snow-White doesn’t take any notice of them at all. The little thing is certainly ill. We must give it something.”

“That would do no good,” her mother answered. “I think your little mouse is tired because it is always alone.”

“But it has me,” cried the little girl.

“You are not enough, apparently. It wants another mouse for company.”

The eccentric uncle was told how matters stood, and he immediately brought a second mouse, which was put into little Snow-White’s house.

Snow-White received the newcomer in the most generous way. It made a broad, comfortable place for the stranger in the very middle of the cotton-wool nest, where it was softest and warmest, while mousie itself was content with the narrowest edge; brought out the most delicious dainties; and after the guest was rested and refreshed, went through the house, showing everything, even the wheel, on which it performed its tricks outside and inside; then, sitting down by the visitor, nosed and licked it, as dogs nurse their puppies. Snow-White seemed completely changed, no longer dull, but excited, moving about as swiftly and busily as a housekeeper who suddenly receives a welcome guest.

The little girl watched the pair happily, and, after a while, wanted to join the two mice. As usual, she put her hand into the cage to catch them. But the newcomer leaped out of the nest with one bound and sought shelter in the wheel, and Snow-White was extremely angry, squeaked furiously, and snapped at the hand. If the little girl had not drawn it back quickly, the mouse would certainly have bitten her. At first the child wanted to punish Snow-White. She had already seized her penholder to beat the little creature’s white fur with it, but she controlled her temper, let the animal run, and put down the stick which she had already lifted for the first blow.

“Go, I’ll do you no harm,” she said. “You know no better. You are a naughty, ungrateful thing, but that is probably only your stupidity, so I’ll forgive you.”

She had scarcely uttered these words in a very low tone, when she suddenly saw a wonderfully beautiful woman with fair hair and blue eyes, in a light blue dress, on which glittered a great number of silver stars. She had no time to wonder how the lovely lady could have come in unseen, for she said to her in a voice like sweet music: “That was right, dear child. We must always be kind and indulgent to the weak. As a reward, you shall understand the language of the white mice.”

“I suppose you are a fairy?” asked the little girl, timidly.

“Perhaps so,” replied the lovely lady, smiling. Then, bending down, she kissed the child gently on the forehead, and suddenly disappeared, though the little girl did not see her pass through the door. The child thought she had been dreaming, but a delicious fragrance of roses, which remained in the room, proved that she was awake, and really had talked with the fairy.

She turned quickly to the cage to find out whether she actually did understand the language of the mice. At first she heard nothing except a very low humming, like the distant buzzing of flies, in which she could catch no words. But when she listened longer and more intently, her ears became accustomed to the faint noise, and, yes—after a few minutes she heard more and more distinctly two little voices talking to each other.

“My poor, poor friend!” said one voice.

“You are right to pity me,” replied the other. “I have had a hard time, I can tell you; I’ve led a life here which I would not wish my worst enemy.”

“Yet the food and lodging seem to be very good,” answered the first voice.

“There is no reason to complain of them,” remarked the second, “if one could only enjoy one’s life. But how is that possible, when one is constantly tormented, and frightened, and abused?”

The little girl listened intently. Who could have tortured and frightened and abused Snow-White?

The delicate little voice went on: “There is a frightful monster here, even more terrible than a cat. Whenever this horrible creature comes near my house, I think that my last hour has come. It is as big as a mountain. You can’t even imagine it. It has paws in which we two, and three or four sisters and cousins, would have plenty of room. Each toe is as long as I am from my nose to my tail. The claws are as wide and thick as the doors of a house. The monster grasps me with these huge toes, so that I grow faint, and cannot help screaming with pain and terror. But what is the use of my moaning? The monster has no heart. It enjoys my suffering. It passes its huge paw down my back, and then I feel as if a heavy wagon were rolling over me. I don’t understand how a single bone in my body remains whole under this cruel torture. The monster raises me to its head, which is misshapen,—round, and perfectly flat in front, without a sign of a muzzle. It has no mustache, either, only on the upper part of the skull a forest of thick yellow hair. Its eyes are as big as my head. I really don’t exaggerate. And when it has me close to these fierce, pitiless eyes, it opens a huge mouth, and utters such a terrible roar that I feel as if the world were going to ruin. After this torture, the monster puts me back in my house again, but then I am more dead than alive, as you may suppose, and it is a long time before I can recover. In a little while, the bone-breaking, the thundering roar, and the terrible staring with the enormous eyes begin once more, and I spend my life, with aching limbs, remembering the last attack, and trembling at the thought of the next one.”

“But what does this monster want of you?” asked the first voice. “Does it want to eat you?”

“I don’t think so,” answered the other, “or it would have done it before now. It only wants to play with me. It takes a cruel pleasure in tormenting me, in killing me by slow torture.”

“Oh, sister, how you frighten me!” said the first voice. “Must this be my fate, too?”

“I don’t know,” replied the other; “but, at any rate, I now have you, and you have me, and we can bear our misery more easily together.”

The little girl wanted to hear no more. Deeply grieved, she ran to her mother, told her everything, complained of Snow-White’s ingratitude, and exclaimed, “If I am a monster, if my fingers are like posts, and my voice is a roar, I won’t trouble myself about her any longer.”

“That will be the best way,” said her mother. “Content yourself with feeding the little creature. A mouse, even if it is a white one, cares nothing for your society and your love. A mouse is always a mouse, and people can be happy only with their equals.”

THE PROUD DOLL

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Aennchen. She was very pretty and good-natured, but a little spoiled, and therefore capricious and quick-tempered; for she was the only child of wealthy people, and her parents gave her her own way in everything. From the time Aennchen was a year old, she had been loaded with presents of all kinds at every opportunity. First there were india-rubber animals, then little houses and gardens with green trees, then small pails, sieves, cake shapes, and shovels to work in the sand, then rocking-horses and big donkeys on wheels, and finally dolls, small and large, fair and dark, unbreakable wooden ones and very fragile china ones, simply and richly dressed. But the one which was given to her by her aunt, on her fifth birthday, was more beautiful than any she had ever had before.

This was a very aristocratic lady, almost as large as Aennchen herself, and dressed like a princess. She had a satin cloak, a silk gown with several flounces, gold buckles at her little waist, white leather shoes, embroidered underclothes, and a magnificent velvet and lace hat, with an ostrich plume. A mother-of-pearl fan hung from her belt, and she carried in her hand a dainty sunshade. She wore bracelets, a necklace, and earrings, the only things which Aennchen did not like; for her mother had told her that only savages bore holes in the ears, nose, and lips to hang jewels in them. The doll had long, silky light hair, which was waved, braided, and artistically arranged with hairpins and little tortoise-shell combs. When she was laid down, she instantly shut her big blue eyes, and fell asleep. When she was lifted up, she opened her eyes and was awake again at once. She could say Papa, Mamma, and many other things distinctly, but usually maintained a well-bred silence, and spoke only when she was invited to do so by a pressure on her body. She did not come to Aennchen like a person who has nothing except what she carries on her back, but brought with her a magnificent outfit, a chest of clothes, a bureau full of under linen, a sideboard supplied with china, glass, and metal dishes, and table damask. At first Aennchen felt really embarrassed when her new playmate was introduced to her. She could not take her in her arms and carry her about, she was too large and too heavy. She was told that she must not undress and dress her, lest she should spoil her beautiful clothes, and undressing and dressing her doll is the greatest pleasure a little girl takes in it. Aennchen admired her, but she did not really love her, and did not grow intimate enough with her to speak to her familiarly. When she first became better acquainted with her, she discovered a very serious fault—the new doll was extremely proud.

Aennchen had wanted to call her Minna. This was the name of her nurse, whom her parents had kept in the house after the child outgrew milk, and to whom Aennchen was deeply attached. But the doll would not have the name. She did not hear it. She did not turn her head, when Aennchen called her by it, but remained sitting as stiffly as if she was made of wood. And yet she had been manufactured of the finest, most pliable kid and china, and her limbs moved at every joint. This obstinacy provoked Aennchen so much that she struck the doll. Then the latter said dryly: “Pardon me. People do not strike me.”

“If you don’t want to be struck,” replied Aennchen, angrily, “answer when you are called by name.”

“Minna is no name for me,” replied the doll, coldly.

“What do you want to be called, then?” asked Aennchen, bewildered.

“At least Kunigunde,” answered the haughty doll.

At first Aennchen was greatly inclined to box her ears, and say: “A name that is good enough for my dear nurse is far too good for a stupid, puffed-up thing like you,” but the doll’s cool audacity awed her. She yielded, and the doll received the name of Kunigunde.

Aennchen had trouble with Kunigunde in another way. She had three favorite dolls. They were small and easily handled, simply dressed, and very dear to the little girl, because she had had them a long time, and because she was allowed to dress and undress them as much as she wished. Their clothes were no longer perfectly fresh, and showed here and there a ripped seam, a loose button, or even a rent, and their faces and hands could not be considered exactly models of cleanliness, though Aennchen, who was very fond of splashing in the water, often scrubbed them with soap, sponge, and brushes.

She wanted to make Kunigunde acquainted with these three older dolls, and invited her to a coffee party. She put Kunigunde’s handsomest table-cloth on the table, set out her beautiful dishes, and brought out the three dolls. When Kunigunde saw the little shabby figures, she sat up as straight as a dart, and stared into vacancy with her big blue eyes, taking no more notice of the three dolls than if they had been empty air. Aennchen put her three friends into little chairs, and was going to do the same for Kunigunde. But the latter refused to take the place. “I am not used to sitting at the same table with common people,” she said.

“May I at least have the honor of drinking coffee in your lofty society?” asked Aennchen, scornfully.

“Yes,” replied Kunigunde, condescendingly, pretending not to notice the jeer.

This was too much for Aennchen. Seizing Kunigunde violently, she was going to press her by force into the chair. The conceited doll made herself perfectly rigid, and said in a defiant, rattling voice, “You can break me, if you are strong enough, but you cannot compel me to sit at the same table with these people.”

“We will not force our company upon the lady,” said the three modest dolls, rising at the same moment.

“Oh, nonsense,” cried Aennchen, “stay quietly here, children, we won’t trouble ourselves any further about this puffed-up creature.” Grasping Kunigunde by the arm, she threw her into the corner so hard that she bounced.

“I thank you for your courteous treatment,” Kunigunde’s voice was heard saying, after she had recovered a little from the fall. “I beg you not to feel under the slightest restraint, but to use my coffee set just as if it belonged to you.”

This was strong, so strong that it almost took away the three modest dolls’ breath. No doll had ever before ventured to speak to her mistress in such a way. Aennchen could not allow such lack of respect. She hastened to Kunigunde, screaming: “Now my patience is gone. Your coffee set belongs to me, and you belong to me, and if you don’t keep quiet at once, you’ll fly out of the window. Then you can hunt in the gutter for society that is good enough for you.”

Kunigunde now remained silent, but though she did not speak, she shut her eyes to show that she wished to have nothing to do with anything that was going on around her. Aennchen did not take any notice of her defiant sulking, left her lying in the corner, and entertained the three modest dolls with coffee and cakes, which they enjoyed, while Kunigunde received neither drop nor crumb.

Just at that time Aennchen’s foster sister, her old nurse’s daughter, had been very ill and was beginning to recover. While the sickness was serious, Aennchen had not been allowed to see her. Now, after several weeks, she was permitted to go into the sick room for the first time. The two little girls threw their arms around each other’s necks, and rejoiced that they could be together again.

The foster sister had heard, from her mother, that Aennchen had had a wonderful doll on her birthday, and she was very curious to see it. Aennchen instantly ran to her room and, with some difficulty, dragged Kunigunde to the bedside. At the sight of her, the foster sister uttered a little cry, exclaiming: “Oh, she really is too beautiful! I never thought there were such lovely dolls.”

“Do you admire her so much?” asked Aennchen.

“More than I can tell,” replied her foster sister, her eyes wandering from Kunigunde’s velvet and lace hat to her satin cloak, and from her silk gown to her necklace.

“Would you like to have her?” Aennchen went on.

The foster sister did not dare to answer.

“Say whether you want her,” Aennchen urged.

“Oh,” replied the child in the bed softly, “surely you are not in earnest. She is too elegant for me. And your mother will not let you.”

“My mamma lets me do everything I ask her,” cried Aennchen, and ran off as fast as she could go to her mother, to tell her that she wanted to give Kunigunde to her foster sister for a present on her recovery.

She received permission and, highly delighted, returned to the little girl to give her the beautiful doll for her very own.

“You know,” she said, “she can open and shut her eyes, and say Papa and Mamma, and all sorts of other things.” And she wanted to show her the doll’s skill. But Kunigunde kept her eyes obstinately shut, and did not utter a sound.

“Have you suddenly grown deaf and dumb?” cried Aennchen, impatiently, after she had vainly laid her down and sat her up again, shaken and jerked her, squeezed and thumped her.

Kunigunde groaned under this rough treatment, and at last made up her mind to utter the words, “I am not to be given to any servant’s child.”

This provoking answer made Aennchen furious. “I’ll teach you to insult my foster sister,” she cried, and threw the haughty doll on the floor with all her strength. There was a rattling sound, the child in bed screamed, Kunigunde squeaked, “Mamma!” The worst had happened. The doll’s head was broken; small pieces, to which her beautiful fair hair still clung, were lying on the floor, and the back of Kunigunde’s head showed a large, gaping hole.

Aennchen was obliged to tell her mother of the misfortune. Her mother was very angry and scolded her little daughter for her quick temper. As a punishment, she should have no dessert that evening. Aennchen cried, and was still more enraged against Kunigunde, on whose account she was now punished. Her mother spoke of sending the severely wounded doll to a doll surgeon for treatment, and having a new head put on. But Aennchen would not hear of it. “Throw her away,” she said; “I don’t want to see her any more.”

“It will be better so,” muttered Kunigunde, who, though stunned, had heard everything. “I have nothing to expect here except vulgar abuse.”

Aennchen perceived that even the hole in her head had not yet taught Kunigunde modesty. Instead of answering, she took her up, stripped off her ornaments, her hat, her rich garments, and her underclothes and, when the doll lay perfectly naked, she called her nurse and said, “Throw this thing into the garbage can.”

The nurse hesitated, but Aennchen stamped her feet and screamed, “Throw her into the garbage can, I tell you.” Then the nurse yielded to her foster child’s whim and carried the doll out of her sight.

When Kunigunde again opened her eyes, which until then she had obstinately kept closed, she found herself in a corner of the kitchen, in the deep garbage can, among bones, refuse, and sweepings. This humiliation gave her more pain than the hole in her head, and filled her with great bitterness. She was certain that sharp injustice, a terrible wrong, had been done her. She had been severely injured, robbed of all her property, and thrown into the dirt. And why? Because she would not give up her self-respect. “Very well,” she murmured, “you can commit every violence and every crime upon me, for you are stronger than I; but you have not yet been able to force me to associate with people who are beneath me in rank.”

The next morning, before the garbage wagon drove by, the rag-picker and his wife came, as usual, to rummage in the can. “Look here!” he exclaimed, when he saw the big doll; “she is dirty and broken, it is true, but the dealer will give something for her.”