Part 7

“Oh, mother,” cried the little girl, “I am so hungry!”

“Be quiet, my darling, pray be quiet,” said the mother, trying to soothe her.

“But, mother,” the child began again, after a short pause, “why don’t we have something to eat?”

“Because there is no food,” was the answer. Then the little girl began to sob bitterly, and her mother took her in her arms, and wept, too, rocking and kissing the little one.

The mother was a beautiful young woman, whose husband had died a short time before, leaving her alone in the world with her child. She had no money, so she was obliged to work to earn a living for herself and her little daughter. She was a good seamstress and very industrious; but she could not always find work, and then they had a hard time. For the baker and the butcher are not rich people; they can neither give nor lend long, and if customers cannot pay them, they can get neither coffee nor sugar, neither meat nor bread, neither potatoes nor lard, neither coal for stoves and hearths nor oil for lamps.

Now another time without work had come, the last money the widow could save had been spent, and for two days no fire had burned in the stove, though it was winter and very cold; and no oil in the lamp, though it grew dark early. The little girl had eaten nothing all day, and her mother had tasted no food for two days.

“I can’t wait any longer,” said the child, in a faint voice. “If I don’t have a piece of bread, I shall die.”

“No,” cried the mother, “you shall not die. Come, I’ll put you to bed, so that you may keep warm, and then I’ll go and get you some bread.”

“Yes, do, dear mother,” whispered the little girl, while the mother was undressing and putting her to bed. “Only soon, please.”

The mother went to the neighbor who lived in the second story. She was a very rich woman, but hard-hearted and miserly. Besides, she envied the young widow because, in spite of her poverty, she was far handsomer and more elegant.

The rich woman listened impatiently, and answered sullenly: “I lend nothing. If people were always giving, they would have nothing left for themselves. And I have no work for you, either. Go, in heaven’s name.”

“Then must I leave my child to starve?” cried the mother, wringing her hands.

“Why don’t you pawn or sell something?” asked the woman harshly.

“I have nothing more to pawn or sell,” was the answer.

“Indeed,” replied the neighbor, with a spiteful smile. “At least, you have your long, fair braids. What does a poor beggar want with such a quantity of hair? You can certainly get quite a little sum for it.”

The poor mother looked silently at her cruel neighbor a moment, then she left the room without a word.

She really did have wonderfully beautiful hair, long, thick, soft as silk, yellow as spun gold. When she let it down, it covered her like a royal mantle; when she brushed it, sunbeams seemed to be playing around the comb and her hand.

When the envious neighbor had told her to cut off her hair, her one ornament, it cut her to the heart. But when she stood in the street, and thought of her starving child up in a cold, dark, little garret room, she quickly resolved to make the hard sacrifice.

At the street corner was a hairdresser’s shop, in whose show windows were the wax busts of ladies with hair beautifully and elaborately arranged, wigs of various colors, and oddly shaped bottles of perfume. On the panes was pasted a notice bearing the words, “Women’s blond and white hair bought here at the highest prices.”

To this shop the young mother went. At the door she hesitated, but not long. Summoning all her courage, she entered.

“What do you wish?” asked the hairdresser, a little hunchbacked man with sharp, black eyes.

“Excuse me, sir,” replied the poor mother, timidly, “but I think you buy women’s blond hair?”

“Yes, certainly. Have you any to sell?”

“Mine, sir, if you want it.”

“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” said the little hunchback, fixing his sharp eyes on her. “Let me see it.”

He took her into the back shop, and she quickly drew out her comb and let the heavy braids fall. They hung to her feet.

The hairdresser uttered a cry of surprise. “What! Do you want to have these braids cut off?”

She only nodded; her throat felt choked, so that she could not make a sound, and she turned her head away to keep the little man from seeing the tears which filled her eyes.

“Do you know that they will never grow so beautiful again?”

She only shrugged her shoulders.

“But why do you commit this sin against yourself?”

“Because I must,” she answered, and began to sob violently. “I have a little child who is starving and freezing. I have neither money nor work, and no one will help me. There is nothing else left.”

“Yes, yes—h’m, h’m,” he said again, fixing his keen eyes on her, as if he was trying to read her thoughts. He seemed to reflect a short time; then he suddenly said, harshly: “If you have decided to do it, I am satisfied. Sit down. How much do you ask?”

“I don’t know the value of it. I depend upon you.”

“Well, we’ll see.” He rummaged a short time among the scissors and razors that lay on the marble-topped table; but, instead of taking any of them, pulled out a drawer and seized something which the young widow could not see very distinctly, though it looked like a long leather case. “Shut your eyes,” said the hunchback, authoritatively. She obeyed. But even through the closed lids she saw a sudden light—like a flash of lightning a flame appeared to glide over her head. She screamed and fainted. When she recovered, the little man was sprinkling her with cologne, muttering: “What nonsense! Do be sensible.”

She raised both hands to her head. It was perfectly bare. Her two braids were lying on the marble table. Light seemed to flicker from them. The hairdresser placed them in a scale and put silver coins into the other until the two balanced exactly. He used twenty-eight thalers, for the hair weighed more than a pound.

“Live and let live,” he said when he had finished. “These braids really ought to be outweighed with gold, instead of silver, but I must earn something, too.”

He counted the money into her hand, then took back one coin, saying with a queer smile, “I am deducting this piece—you will learn for what.”

When the mother went out into the street again, her head was as confused as if she had just waked from a dream. But she felt the heavy silver in her pocket, and knew it was not that.

Now she was rich, and at least could do something for her child. Running into the nearest shops, she bought not only bread and coal, coffee and sugar, but also cakes, butter, and an egg. She was in such a hurry that she did not notice how people stared at her shaved head. Then, laden with her packages, and followed by a man carrying coal, she rushed up the stairs to her room. Her rich neighbor stood at the threshold of her door, watching her spitefully. She saw at once that the young widow had lost her magnificent hair, and cried, with a malicious smile: “You have taken my advice. That was right. In future you will lose no time in combing it.”

The mother did not stop to answer. But when she reached her door at the top of the stairs, she put her packages on the floor and tied her shawl around her head, that the little girl might not notice anything.

The child had not gone to sleep. Hunger had kept her awake. Her first words, when her mother came in, were, “Mother, have you brought the bread?”

“Yes, my darling,” cried the mother, and in an instant she was beside the bed, covering the child with kisses, “and cakes, and butter, and many other good things. There.” She gave her a slice of bread, which the little girl bit eagerly; then she made a fire in the stove, lighted the lamp, boiled the coffee, and cooked the egg, and it was bright and warm and cosey in the little attic room, and the child was happy and laughed and talked. So the mother no longer grieved because she had sacrificed her beautiful hair. When they had eaten until they were fully satisfied, the little girl fell asleep at once, and the mother lay down by her side. The next morning she was roused by her child’s clear voice, exclaiming in surprise, “Mother, why didn’t you braid your hair last night?” She started—yes, her hair, long, thick, and soft as silk, was spread over the pillows and falling on the coverlet. She sprang out of bed, but she did not need to go to the little dim mirror on the wall to perceive that she really did have her hair again; for when she stood on the floor, it fell around her in the usual way, veiling her from head to foot like a royal mantle of spun gold. She swiftly braided it, dressed hurriedly, and ran to the hairdresser.

“Mr. Barber, what does this mean? Are you a juggler? Or a magician?”

“Don’t be troubled,” said the little hunchbacked man, and his keen gaze seemed to pierce her through and through. “There is no witchcraft here. I make a preparation for the hair, which has not its equal anywhere. The hair grows out in one night, only thicker and more beautiful than before. I washed your head with it when you fainted, and that is why I deducted the money. Do you understand?”

“How shall I thank you?” said the mother, softly, trying to take his hand to kiss it.

“What are you thinking of!” cried the hairdresser, harshly, drawing back a step. “Go away. I have no time.”

But when she had reached the door, he called her back. “One thing more, my good woman. If you should be badly off again, you need not sell your braids. Just cut a piece a finger wide from the end—not a bit more, do you hear?—and carry it to the nearest goldsmith. He’ll buy it of you, for it is spun gold. It will grow again, too. But you must do all this only if you really need it, and can obtain help in no other way. Mark this. And now, farewell.”

As she went home, lost in thought, she met in the entry her greedy neighbor who was just getting into her carriage to take a drive, as she did every day. The envious woman stood as if she were rooted to the ground, opened her eyes in amazement, and cried: “Why, my good woman, what ails you? Didn’t you have your braids cut off last evening?”

“Yes, they were,” replied the young widow, “but they grew again in the night.”

“You are making fun of me,” snarled the hard-hearted rich woman. “How could that be possible?”

“The barber washed my shaven head with a wonderfully strong tonic, and it made the hair grow out so quickly again, only still thicker and longer than before.”

The angry miser did not say a word, but cast a spiteful glance at her neighbor, who was again so much more beautiful than she, left her standing in the entry, and ran straight to the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Will you buy my hair?” she asked, after entering the shop without any greeting.

The little hunchback looked at her angrily with his sharp, black eyes, and answered: “Your hair isn’t worth anything. I can give you nothing for it.”

She controlled her rage, and said: “No matter. I will give it to you. Only cut it off.”

“But why?” he asked.

“Because I want it to grow out much longer and thicker, like my neighbor, the seamstress’s. It isn’t right that such a needy wretch should be more beautiful than a wealthy, aristocratic lady like me.”

“Oho?” growled the little hunchback. “Well, as you please.”

He told her to sit down in a chair, but did not take the mysterious case out of the drawer. Instead, he seized a pair of scissors which lay on the marble top of the table, and grasped her little thin braid, whose color was a dull, brownish black. Snip, snap, and he held the rat tail in his hand and flung it contemptuously into the corner. Snip, snap, and her skull was shaved so smooth that no one who looked at her could help laughing.

“I’ve finished,” he said roughly. “You can go.”

“But the hair tonic?”

“What hair tonic?”

“The one which makes the hair grow out again so quickly, only more beautiful than before.”

“It costs eighty-one marks,” he said.

“No matter,” she answered haughtily. “I have it.”

He took the money, then opened a bottle, and sprinkled over her head a few drops of liquid, which smelled like pitch and sulphur. It itched and burned horribly, but she stifled the pain. “One can suffer a little for the sake of being beautiful,” she thought, and went off very well pleased, while the hairdresser, smiling scornfully, shut the shop door behind her.

When she reached home, and her husband and servants saw her, they clasped their hands in horror. “Just wait,” she said, and going to her chamber, she lay down in bed like a sick person. She remained there patiently all day long, and fell asleep late in the evening, firmly believing that her discomfort would be over the next morning. She woke very early, for her impatience would not allow her to sleep longer. The first thing she did was to seize her head with both hands—alas! it was as bare as when it left the hands of the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Perhaps it doesn’t grow so fast,” she thought, and stayed in bed twenty-four hours longer. But the next day she was just as bald as before. Then, in a rage, she hurried on her clothes, wrapped her head in a veil and hat, and rushed off to the hunchbacked hairdresser.

“Man, you have cheated me!” she screamed.

“That is not so. How?” he answered roughly.

“Your tonic is a swindle. The hair does not grow out again.”

“Have you children? Or at least one child?”

“No.”

“Well, my tonic helps only mothers. You ought to have known that. Leave my shop.”

It was of no use. If she did not wish to remain as ugly and ridiculous as a scarecrow, she was obliged to buy a wig, and as her hair never grew out again, she had to wear this wig to the end of her life. But the young mother fared better and better. She had plenty of work, so she was soon able to leave her attic room and move to the second story. She never needed to cut off an end of her gold braids. She brought up her little daughter, and when the daughter was a beautiful, educated, charming girl twenty years old, she married a fine young man; they had a large family of children, and if they are not dead, they are living still.

THE CATS THAT WOULDN’T CATCH MICE

In an old library there once lived a cat, kept to protect the books and their leather bindings from the teeth of the mice. She was descended from a long line of ancestors, who had all held the same office, and she was the mother of five charming kittens: a black one named Miese, a white one named Lise, a black and white one called Purr, one spotted with brown and yellow named Murr, and one striped with black and gray, called Hinz. Purr, Murr, and Hinz were tom-cats, the other two were pussies. The brothers and sisters were old enough to study, and had an hour’s lesson from their mother every day. They could already purr, spit, and mew, make velvet paws, clean their fur, and wash their faces with their wet paws. Now their mother began to introduce them to the higher knowledge, that is, she taught them to catch mice. This was not at all easy. Behind and under the book shelves were a number of holes, which the mice used for hiding-places and refuges, where no grown cat and not even a kitten could possibly reach them. The chase could only be successful in the clear open space in the centre of the library. So it was necessary to watch patiently until a mouse ventured out, and then catch it at one spring, before it had time to slip back into its hole. The kittens were obliged to decide quickly and to act at once. If they hesitated even a second, their prey escaped.

One morning the lesson was in full course. Mother and children had chased a mouse, but it had darted past fat Purr and slipped under a book shelf before the clumsy fellow could stop it. For this awkwardness his mother cuffed his ears several times, and his sisters Miese and Lise laughed at him for being such a blockhead. After some time a mouse, the same one or another, put its sharp nose out from under a book shelf, and looked around it. The mother and teacher instantly saw it with her keen eyes, and motioned to her children to keep quiet. As everything remained still, the mouse, from imprudence or bravado, came out entirely. Like a flash of lightning the old cat was between the mouse and the book shelf, cutting off its retreat. A wild running and leaping began. The mouse, which could do nothing else, ran up the books, the kittens followed, and so eagerly that they upset a pile of books which had been carelessly arranged. It fell to the floor with a great clatter, and behind it appeared a mouse’s nest, where ten half-grown mice were tumbling over one another, vainly trying to escape by flight. The mother stunned them by swift blows with her paws, and gave them, struggling, to her kittens, that they might play with them before killing them with teeth and claws. Hearing the squeaking of the little mice in their pain and terror, their mother came out from the rows of books still standing on the shelves. She could only scream with fright, but could not help her little ones. Yet, when she was obliged to watch the massacre, the horrible spectacle was more than she could bear. Rushing as if crazed to the nearest little mouse, which Purr was cuffing right and left with his clumsy paws, she ran straight into the old cat’s claws. There was a joyful mew, a blow of the paw, and the mouse mother lay dead beside her ten dead children.

The cat put them all in a row, called the librarian, to show him her prey, and then dismissed her children to take a long nap.

The kittens did not follow their mother’s example. Instead of going to rest, they gathered in a corner of the library, where Miese began: “Those poor mice! They are really very pretty little creatures!”

“Nonsense!” growled Purr. “How can people think mice pretty!”

“You are a cannibal!” hissed Miese, angrily. “Didn’t you feel sorry for the mother who came so bravely to help her little ones?”

Purr was silent in confusion, and Murr muttered: “That’s true. The mother was a little heroine. I’m sorry for her.”

“I must say,” remarked Hinz, “that I am not at all proud of what we have done. It’s really a cowardly thing for us, who are so big and strong and active, besides being so terribly armed with teeth and claws, to attack the weak, defenceless creatures.”

“We ought to be ashamed of ourselves,” said Lise.

“We all saw it,” said Miese. “The spectacle will haunt me a long time. There before us was the peaceful nest. The ten brothers and sisters were lying comfortably together enjoying their young lives. Their mother’s love watched over them. Suddenly destruction came. We killed and slaughtered. Now the mother and children are gone; the nest is torn to pieces. Why do we commit such cruelties? By what right? For what purpose?”

“Bravo! You speak from the soul!” cried the vivacious Hinz. He admired his sister very much. She was the brightest, most eloquent, and best educated of them all. She had not been born and brought up in a library for nothing; she did not boast in vain of an endless line of learned ancestors. She stood high above the ordinary roof and cellar cats, and promised to be an ornament to the cat family.

“I could cry when I think of those little mice,” said Lise.

“I won’t do it again,” Hinz declared resolutely.

“But if mother orders us,” objected Purr.

“We are no longer children,” replied Miese, vehemently; “we ought to and must act according to our own views. We will tell mother so frankly.”

In fact, when the old cat called her children in the afternoon to take their lesson, Miese stood boldly before her and said, “Mother, we have determined not to catch any more mice.”

The cat could hardly believe her ears. Putting them back angrily, she answered: “You have determined? Why, that sounds very fine! True, it is more comfortable to be lazy. Now begin, or you’ll have your ears cuffed.”

Miese did not allow herself to be frightened. “It isn’t for the sake of laziness. Only we will not again commit the crime of murdering an innocent family of little mice.”

“Mur-der-ing!” repeated the old cat, fairly stammering in her amazement. “Have you gone crazy?”

“I think I have never been more sensible than I am now,” said Miese, quietly but firmly. “We have agreed to keep peace with the mice in the future. Their lives and property shall be sacred to us.”

The cat could not yet understand. “Are you my children or changelings? No true cat ever talked so before. We are here to catch mice, and that you will do too, or I’ll punish you.”

“I deny that we are here for that,” replied Miese, boldly. “We are here to love one another. The mice, too, are our brothers, like everything that lives and enjoys life.”

“What! The mice must be my brothers? Stop all this.” The cat was not patient. She made a spring at Miese, to punish her, but the kitten escaped the threatening paw, ran into the corner, and cried defiantly: “Long live justice! Long live brotherhood!”

The mother tried persuasion and entreaties. “Children, this foolish jest has lasted long enough. Let us lose no more time. To work. I will train you to be capable cats. You must become good mousers, like your mother and all your ancestors back to time immemorial.”

“What do we care what our ancestors have done!” replied Miese, obstinately. “We will break with the humdrum old ways. We are progressive cats.”

The brothers purred approvingly.

The old cat cast furious glances at them. “Progressive cats! The word seems to please you, simpletons. No doubt you think yourselves far more clever than your narrow-minded old mother. Have you asked yourselves how you are to live, if you don’t catch mice?”

“We don’t eat the mice,” retorted Hinz, pertly.