Chapter XIV: Part 14

As she stood on the top of the outside staircase, twisting it this way and that, there passed three deformed fairies. One was lame, and one squinted, [370] and one had her head all on one side, because she had a fish-bone stuck in her throat.

The three fairies called out to ask what she was doing, and when she said 'spinning,' the one who squinted laughed so much that her eyes came quite right, and the one who had a bone stuck in her throat laughed so much that the bone came out, and her head became straight again like other people's, and when the lame one saw the others laughing so much, she ran so fast to see what it was that her lameness was cured.

Then the three fairies said:

'Since she has cured us of our ailments, we must go in and do her a good turn.'

So they went in and took the hemp and span it, and wove it, and did as much in the six remaining days as any human being could have done in twenty years; moreover, they cleaned up everything, and made everything look spick-and-span new.

Then they gave her a bag of walnuts, saying, 'in half an hour your husband will be home; go to bed and put this bag of walnuts under your back. When he comes in say you have worked so hard that all your bones are out of joint; then move the bag of walnuts and they will make a noise, c-r-r-r-r, and he will think it is your bones which are loosened, and will say you must never work again.'

When the husband came home his mother went out to meet him, saying--

'I told you I did not think there was much work in your "treasure." When you go up you'll see what a fine mess the place is all in; and as to the hemp, you had better have left it locked up, for a fine mess she has made of that.'

But the husband went up and found the place all in shining order, and so much hemp spun and woven as could scarcely be got through in twenty years. But the wife was laid up in bed.

When the husband came near the bed she moved the bag of walnuts and they went c-r-r-r-r.

'You have done a lot of work indeed!' said the husband.

'Yes,' replied the wife; 'but I have put all my bones out of joint; only hear how they rumble!' and she moved the walnuts again, and they went c-r-r-r-r. 'It will be sometime before I am about again.'

'Oh, dear! oh, dear!' said the husband; 'only think of such a treasure of a wife being laid up by such marvellous diligence.'

And to his mother he said: 'A mother-in-law has never a good word for her daughter-in-law; what you told me was all pure invention.'

But to the wife he said: 'Mind I will never have you do any work again as long as you live.'

So from that day forth she had no work to do, but ate and drank and amused herself from morning till night.

2

THE GREEDY DAUGHTER. [371]

There was a mother who had a daughter so greedy that she did not know what to do with her. Everything in the house she would eat up. When the poor mother came home from work there was nothing left.

But the girl had a godfather-wolf. [372] The wolf had a frying-pan, and the girl's mother was too poor to possess such an article; whenever she wanted to fry anything she sent her daughter to the wolf to borrow his frying-pan, and he always sent a nice omelette in it by way of not sending it empty. But the girl was so greedy and so selfish that she not only always ate the omelette by the way, but when she took the frying-pan back she filled it with all manner of nasty things.

At last the wolf got hurt at this way of going on, and he came to the house to inquire into the matter.

Godfather-wolf met the mother on the step of the door, returning from work.

'How do you like my omelettes?' asked the wolf.

'I am sure they would be good if made by our godfather-wolf,' replied the poor woman; 'but I never had the honour of tasting them.'

'Never tasted them! Why, how many times have you sent to borrow my frying-pan?'

'I am ashamed to say how many times; a great many, certainly.'

'And every time I sent you an omelette in it.'

'Never one reached me.'

'Then that hussey of a girl must have eaten them by the way.'

The poor mother, anxious to screen her daughter, burst into all manner of excuses, but the wolf now saw how it all was. To make sure, however, he added: 'The omelettes would have been better had the frying-pan not always been full of such nasty things. I did my best always to clean it, but it was not easy.'

'Oh, godfather-wolf, you are joking! I always cleaned it, inside and out, as bright as silver, every time before I sent it back!'

The wolf now knew all, and he said no more to the mother; but the next day, when she was out, he came back.

When the girl saw him coming she was so frightened and self-convicted that she ran under the bed to hide herself.

But to the wolf it was as easy to go under a bed as anywhere else; so under he went, and he dragged her out and devoured her. And that was the end of the Greedy Daughter.

[In the Italian-Tirolese tales is one very similar to this, called 'Catarinetta.'

After the faults of the young, the sins of the old have their share of mocking. In the 'Russian Folk Tales,' pp. 46-50, is a miser story, but, for a wonder, not the least trace of similarity.

In Scheible's 'Schaltjahr,' vol. i. pp. 169-71, is a very quaint miser story, bringing in also an instance of wolf-transformation, which is said to have happened 'in Italy,' to a certain Herr v. Schotenberg, on August 14, 1798. He had seized a poor peasant's only cow for a debt, and when, in punishment, all his own cows were struck dead, he accused the peasant's wife of bewitching them, and threatened to have her burnt. The peasant's wife answered that it was the judgment of God, not hers; and upon that he turned to the crucifix in the farmyard, saying: 'Oh, you did it, did you? then you may go and eat the carrion you have made, with the dogs.' Then he took out his pistol, shot an arm off the crucifix, and flung it on to the heap of dead cows, saying, 'Now one piece of carrion lies with the rest!' 'Albeit it was only a wooden image,' says the account, 'yet it was of God in Heaven that he spoke, who punished him on the spot by turning him into a dog.' The portrait which accompanies the story is quaint, too, having a human face, with wolfish, erect ears, and the rest of the body like a dog. He wore at the time a fur cloak, of pale yellow with black spots, and that is how the dog's fur appeared; and he had to eat carrion all his life, and follow his good wife about, wherever she went.]

THE OLD MISER. [373]

They say there was once an old man who had so much money he didn't know what to do with it. He had cellars and cellars, where all the floors were strewn with gold; but the house was all tumbling down, because he would not spend a penny in repairing it; and for all food he took nothing all day but a crust of bread and a glass of water.

He was always afraid lest some one should come to rob him of his wealth, so he seldom so much as spoke to anyone.

One day, however, a busy, talkative neighbour would have her say out with him, and among other things she said: 'How can you go on living in that ugly old house all alone now? Why don't you take a wife?'

'A wife!' replied the old miser; 'how can I take a wife? How am I to afford to keep a wife, I should like to know?'

'Nonsense!' persisted the loquacious neighbour; 'you've got plenty of money, you know. And how much better you'd be if you had a wife. Do you mean to tell me, now, you wouldn't be much better off with one? Now answer me fairly.'

'Well, if I must speak the truth, as you are so urgent for an answer,' replied the old miser, 'I don't mean to say I haven't often thought I should like a wife; but I am waiting till I find one who can live upon air.' [374]

'Well, maybe there might be such an one even as you say,' returned the busy neighbour; 'though she might not be easy to find.' And she said no more for that day.

She went, however, to a young woman who lived opposite, and said: 'If you want a rich husband I will find you one.'

'To be sure I should like a rich husband,' replied the young woman; 'who would not?'

'Very well, then,' continued the neighbour; 'I will tell you what to do. You have only, every day at dinner-time, to stand at the window and suck in the air, and move your lips as if you were eating. But eat nothing; take nothing into your mouth but air. The old miser who lives opposite wants a wife who can live on air; and if he thinks you can do this he will marry you. And when you are once installed it'll be odd if you don't find means, in the midst of so much money, to lay hold of enough to get a dinner every day without working for it.'

The young woman thanked her friend for the advice, and next day, when the bells rang at noon, she threw open the window and stood sucking in the air, and then moving her lips as if she was eating. This she did several days.

At last the old miser came across under the window, and said to her: 'What are you doing at the window there?'

'Don't you see it's dinner-time, and I'm taking my dinner? Don't interrupt me!' replied the young neighbour.

'But, excuse me, [375] I don't see you are eating anything, though your lips move.'

'O! I live upon air; I take nothing but air,' replied the young woman; and she went on with her mock munching.

'You live upon air, do you? Then you're just the wife I'm looking for. Will you come down and marry me?'

As this was just what she wanted she did not keep him waiting, and soon they were married and she was installed in the miser's house.

But it was not so easy to get at the money as she had thought. At first the miser would not let her go near his cellars; but as he spent so much time down there she said she could not be deprived of his company for so long, she must come down too.

All the time she was down with him the miser held both her hands in his, as if he was full of affection for her; but in reality it was to make sure she did not touch any of his money.

She, however, bought some pitch, and put it on the soles of her shoes, and as she walked about in the gold plenty of it stuck to her shoes; and when she came up again she took the gold off her shoes, and sent her maid to the trattoria [376] for the most delicious dinners. Shut up in a room apart they fared sumptuously--she and her maid. But every day at midday she let the miser see her taking her fancied dinner of air.

This went on for long, because the miser had so much gold that he never missed the few pieces that stuck to her shoes every day.

But at last there came a Carneval Thursday, [377] when the maid had brought home an extra fine dinner; and as they were an extra length of time over this extra number of dishes and glasses, the old miser, always suspicious, began to guess there must be something wrong; and to find it out he instituted a scrutiny into every room in the crazy house. Thus he came at last to the room where his wife and her maid were dining sumptuously.

'This is how you live on air, is it?' he roared, red with fury.

'Oh, but on Carneval Thursday,' replied the wife, 'one may have a little extra indulgence!'

'Will you tell me you have not had a private dinner every day?' shouted the excited miser.

'If I have,' replied the wife, not liking to tell a direct falsehood, 'how do you know it is not with my own money? Tell me, have you missed any of yours?'

The miser was only the more angry at her way of putting the question, because he could not say he had actually missed the money; yet he was convinced it was his money she had been spending.

'How do I know it is not your money, do you ask?' he thundered; 'because if you had had any money of your own you would never have come to live here, you would not have married me.'

But weak as he was with his bread and water diet, the excitement was too much for him. As he said these words a convulsion seized him, and he fell down dead.

Thus all his riches came into possession of the wife.

THE MISERLY OLD WOMAN. [378]

There was an old woman who had three sons, and from her stinginess she could not bear that anyone should have anything to eat. One day the eldest son came to her and said he must take a wife.

'If you must, you must,' replied the miserly mother. 'But mind she is one who brings a great dowry, eats little, and can work all day long.'

The eldest son went his way and told the girl he was going to marry his mother's hard terms. As the girl loved him very much, she made no objection, and he married her, and brought her home. [379]

The first morning the mother-in-law came before it was light, and knocked at the door, and bid the bride get up and come down to her work.

'It is very hard for you,' said the young husband.

'Ah, well! I promised to submit to it before we married,' she replied. 'I won't break my promise.'

So she got up and went down and helped her mother-in-law to do the work of the house. By twelve o'clock she was very hungry; but the miserly mother-in-law only took out an apple and a halfpenny roll, and gave her half of each for all her food. She took it without a murmur; and so she went on every day, working hard, and eating little, and making no complaint.

By-and-by the second son came and told his mother that he was going to take a wife. The mother made the same conditions, and the wife submitted to them with equally good grace.

Then the third son came and said he too must take a wife. To him the old woman made the same terms; but he could not find a wife who would submit to them for his sake. The girl he wanted to marry, however, was very lively and spirited, and she said at last--

'Never mind the conditions; let's marry, and we'll get through the future somehow.'

Then they married. When her son brought home this wife, and the old woman found she had no dowry, she was in a great fury; but it was too late to help it.

The first morning, when she knocked at their door to wake her, she called out--

'Who's there?' though she knew well enough.

The mother-in-law answered, 'Time to get up!'

'Oibo!' exclaimed the young wife. 'Don't imagine I'm going to get up in the middle of the night like this! I shall get up when I please, and not before.' Then she turned to her husband, and said, 'Just for her bothering me like this I shan't get up till twelve o'clock.' Neither did she.

The house was now filled with the old woman's lamentations. 'This woman upsets everything! This woman will be the ruin of us all!' she kept exclaiming. But the third wife paid no heed, and dressed herself up smart, and amused herself, and did no work at all.

When supper-time came the old woman took out her apple and her halfpenny loaf, and cut them in four quarters, serving a bit all round.

'What's that?' said the third wife, stooping to look at it, as if she could not make it out, and without taking it in her hand.

'It's your supper,' replied the mother-in-law.

'My supper! do you think I've come to my second childhood, to be helped to driblets like that!' and she filliped it to the other end of the room.

Then she went to her husband and said--

'I'll tell you what we must do; we must have false keys made, and get into the store-closet [380] and take what we want.'

Though the mother-in-law was so miserly, there was good provision of everything in the store-closet; and so with the false keys she took flour and lard and ham, and they had plenty of everything. One day she had made a delicious cake of curdled sheep's milk, [381] and she gave a woman a halfpenny to take it to the baker's to bake, saying--

'Make haste, and bring it back, that we may get through eating it while the old woman is at mass.'

She was not quick enough, however, and the mother-in-law came in just about the same time that the cake came back from the baker's. The third son's wife to hide it from her caught it up and put it under her petticoats, but it burned her ankles, so that she was obliged to bring it out. Then the mother-in-law understood what had been going on, and went into such a fury, the house could not hold her.

Then the third son's wife sent the same woman to the chemist, saying, 'get me three pauls of quicksilver.' And she took the quicksilver, when the mother-in-law was asleep, and put it into her mouth and ears, so that she could not storm or scold any more. But after a time she died of vexation; and then they opened wide the store-room, and lived very comfortably.

[Here may follow a couple of stories of mixed folly and craft.]

THE BEGGAR AND THE CHICK-PEA. [382]

There was once a poor man who went about from door to door begging his bread. He came to the cottage of a poor peasant and said: 'Give me something, for the love of God.'

The peasant's wife said, 'Good man, go away; I have nothing.'

But the poor man said, 'Leave me out something against I come again.'

The peasant's wife answered, 'The most I can give you is a single chick-pea.' [383]

'Very well; that will do,' replied the poor man; 'only mind the hen doesn't eat it.'

The peasant's wife was as good as her word, and put out a chick-pea on the dresser against the beggar came by next time. While her back was turned, however, the hen came in and gobbled it up. Presently after the beggar came by.

'Where's the chick-pea you promised me?' he asked.

'Ah! I put it out for you, but the hen gobbled it up!'

At this he assumed an air of terrible authority, and said: 'Did I not tell you to beware lest the hen should eat it? Now, you must give me either the pea or the hen!'

As it was impossible for the peasant's wife now to give him the pea, she was obliged to give him the hen.

The beggar, therefore, took the hen, and went to another cottage.

'Good woman,' he said to the peasant's wife; 'can you be so good as to take care of this hen for me?'

'Willingly enough!' said the peasant's wife.

'Here it is then,' said the beggar; 'but mind the pig doesn't get it.'

'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the poor man went his way.

Next day the beggar came back and claimed his hen.

'Oh, dear me!' said the peasant's wife, 'while my back was turned, the pig gobbled it up!'

Assuming an air of terrible authority, the man said: 'Didn't I warn you to beware lest the pig gobbled it up? Now, you must give me either the hen or the pig.'

As the peasant's wife couldn't give him the hen, she was obliged to give him the pig. So the poor man took the pig and went his way.

He came now to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife: 'Good woman, can you take care of this pig a little space for me?'

'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put him in the yard.'

'Mind the calf doesn't get at him,' said the man.

'Never fear,' said the peasant's wife, and the beggar went his way.

The next day he came back and claimed his pig.

'Oh, dear!' answered the peasant's wife; 'while I wasn't looking, the calf got at the pig, and seized it by the throat, and killed it, and trampled it all to pieces.'

Assuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did I not warn you to beware lest the calf got at it? Now you must give me the pig or the calf.'

As the poor woman could not give him the pig, she was forced to give him the calf. The beggar took the calf and went away.

He went on to another cottage, and said to the peasant's wife: 'Good woman, can you take care of this calf for me?'

'Willingly!' said the peasant's wife; 'put it in the yard.'

The poor man put the calf in the yard; but he said: 'I see you have a sick daughter there in bed; mind she doesn't desire the calf.'

'Never fear!' said the peasant's wife; and the man went his way.

He was no sooner gone, however, than the sick daughter arose, and saying, 'Little heart! little heart! [384] I must have you,' she went down into the yard and killed the calf, and took out its heart and ate it.

The next day the beggar man came back and claimed the calf.

'Oh, dear!' said the peasant's wife, 'while I wasn't looking, my sick daughter got up and killed the calf, and ate its heart.'

Assuming an air of terrible authority, the beggar said: 'Did not I warn you not to let the sick daughter get at the calf? Now, either calf or maiden I must have; make haste with your choice; calf or maiden, one or the other!' [385]

But the poor woman could not get back the calf, seeing it was dead, and she was resolved not to give up her daughter. So she said: 'I can't give you the calf, because it is dead. So I must give you my daughter, only if I went to take her now while she's awake, she would make such a fuss you would never get her along; so leave me your sack, that while she's asleep I may put her in it, and then when you come back you can have her.'

So the beggar left his sack and went away. As soon as he was gone the peasant's wife took the sack and put some stones at the bottom, to make it heavy, and thrust in a ferocious mad dog; then having made fast the mouth of the sack, she stood it up against the wall.

Next day the beggar came back and asked for his sack.

'There it is against the wall,' said the peasant's wife.

So the beggar put it on his shoulder and went away.

As soon as he got home, he opened the sack to take out the maiden; but the ferocious mad dog rushed out upon him and killed him.

DOCTOR GRILLO.

Doctor Grillo was a physician who had made himself a great name throughout his whole country, so that he was sent for and consulted from far and wide, and everybody looked up to him as a very wise man, whose word was final on any question of medicine. The discovery that 'no man is a hero to his valet' was made long before the idea so found expression in the seventeenth century; Doctor Grillo had a man-servant who chose to entertain a very different notion of his merits and powers from that of the rest of the world; and in time, from undervaluing his attainments, he came to conceive the belief that he could himself do just as well as his master.

One day, when the Doctor was out, this serving-man took into his head to roll up into a great bundle his doctor's gown and cap, [386] a number of prescriptions, and a quantity of bottles, and with these he stole away and betook himself to a far country, where he gave himself out for the famed Doctor Grillo.

Just at the time he arrived, the queen of the country was in great suffering, nor could any native professor of medicine succeed in benefiting her. Naturally the services of the great Doctor Grillo were put in request in her behalf, as soon as his cunning servant had given himself out as the owner of his world-wide reputation, and fortune favoured him in his two earliest attempts. Suffice it to say, he succeeded in satisfying her requirements by a kind of luck and from that day forward his fortune was made, justifying the Italian saying, 'An ounce of good fortune furthers one more than a pound of knowledge.' [387] Everywhere he was now called in, and though he prescribed his remedies all higgledypiggledy, without science or experience, not more of his patients died than those of other mediciners. The people were, therefore, quite satisfied that when Doctor Grillo had prescribed the best had been done that human skill could afford.

By-and-by it came to the ears of the real Doctor Grillo that a quack and impostor was wearing his laurels; nor did he sooner hear the news than he set out to confront him.

'Beware good people! What are you doing?' was his say. 'This man knows no more of medicine than one of yourselves; you will all die if you trust to him. He is no Doctor Grillo. I am Doctor Grillo.'

But all the people laughed in his face, filled as they were with the prepossession of their first impressions, and they began to drive him out of their midst; but he protested so loudly, 'I am Doctor Grillo,' that a wiseacre [388] in the crowd thought to win for himself a reputation for discernment by insisting that he should have a trial.

It happened that the daughter of the Chief Judge was at that time stricken with fever, and as he had observed in the language and manners of the new Doctor Grillo more traces of learning and refinement [389] than in the first arrived of the name, he willingly agreed that the case should be submitted to him for treatment. His wife had, however, just before sent for the false Doctor Grillo, so that both arrived in the sick-room at the same moment; and loud and long was the dispute between husband wife, master and servant, as to which doctor should approach the patient. By the time the husband had carried his point, and the real physician entered upon his functions, the fever had got such hold of the sufferer that no medicine more availed, and the girl succumbed to the consequences of the delay in administering the most ordinary remedies.

Nevertheless, it was in the hands of the real Doctor Grillo that she had died. The one proof of his identity which had been granted had gone against him, and the popular mind was quite satisfied that it was he was the impostor. As the pompous funeral of the Judge's daughter brought all the circumstances to the minds of the people, the feeling against him gathered and grew; and when at last one more mischievous and malicious than the rest proposed that he should be driven out of the community, the idea met with such a ready response that he would certainly not have escaped with his life from the yells and stone-throwing [390] of the infuriated populace, had not his retreat been protected by the more peaceably disposed citizens.

But the false Doctor Grillo remained thenceforward in undisturbed possession of the fame and fortune attaching to the name he had filched.

[This is probably a filtering of one of the many stories about Theophrastus Paracelsus. I think there was something very like it in a little book of popular legends about him given me at Salzburg, but I have not got it at hand to refer to. Zingerle, 'Sagen aus Tirol,' p. 417, tells a story of his servant prying into the wise man's penetralia, and getting a worse punishment for his pains than Gehazi.]

NINA.

There was a miller who got into difficulties, and could not pay his rent. The landlord sent to him a great many times to say that if he could not pay his rent he must go out; but as he paid no attention to the notice, the landlord went himself at last, and told him he must go. The miller pleaded that his difficulties were only temporary, and that if he would give him but a little time he would make it all straight. The landlord, however, was pitiless, and said he had waited long enough, and now he had come to put an end to it; adding, 'Mind, this is my last word: If you do not go out to-night peaceably, I shall send some one to-morrow to turn you out by force.'

As he turned to leave, after pronouncing this sentence, he met the miller's daughter coming back from the stream where she had been washing. 'Who is this buxom lass?' inquired the landlord.

'That is my daughter Nina,' answered the miller.

'A fine girl she is too,' replied the landlord. 'And I tell you what, miller, listen to me; give Nina to me, and I will not only forgive you the debt, but will make over the mill and the homestead to you, to be your own property for ever.'

'Give me a proper document to that effect, duly signed by your own hand,' replied the miller, with a twinkle in his eye, 'and I will give you "Nina."'

The landlord went back into the house, and taking two sheets of paper drew up first a formal quittance of the back rent, and then a conveyance of the mill and homestead absolutely to the miller and to his heirs for ever. These he handed to the miller; and then he said, 'To-night, an hour before sundown, I will send for "Nina."'

'All right,' said the miller; 'you shall have "Nina,"' and so they parted.

'An hour before sundown a servant came with a carriage to fetch "Nina"'

'Where's "Nina"?' said the servant. 'Master has sent me to fetch "Nina."'

'In the stable--take her!' answered the miller.

In the stable was nothing to be seen but a very lean old donkey.

'There's nothing here but an old donkey,' exclaimed the servant.

'All right, that's "Nina," so take her,' replied the miller.

'But this can't be what master meant me to fetch!' expostulated the servant.

'What have you got to say to it?' replied the miller. 'Your master told you to fetch "Nina;" we always call our donkey "Nina;" so take her, and be off.'

The servant saw there was nothing to be gained by disputing, so he took the donkey and went home. When he got back, his master had got company with him, so he did not know what to say about the donkey. But his master seeing he was come back, took it for granted the business was done; and calling him to him privately said, 'Take "Nina" upstairs into the best bedroom and light a fire, and give her some supper.'

'Take her [391] upstairs into the best bedroom!' exclaimed the man.

'Yes! do what you're told, and don't repeat my words.'

The servant could not venture to say any more; so he took the donkey up into the best bedroom, and lit a fire, and put some supper there. As soon as his company was gone, the master called the servant--

'Is "Nina" upstairs?' asked he.

'Si, Signore; she's lying before the fire,' answered the servant.

'Did you take some supper up? I'll have my supper up there with "Nina."'

'Si, Signore,' replied the servant, and he turned away to laugh, for he thought his master had gone mad.

The landlord went upstairs; but it had now grown dark, so he groped his way to the fireplace, and there sure enough was 'Nina,' the donkey, lying down, and as he stroked her he said, 'What fine soft hair you've got, Nina!'

Presently the servant brought the lights; and when he saw the dirty old worn-out donkey, and understood what a trick the miller had played off on him, it may be imagined how furious he was.

The next day, as soon as the courts were opened, he went before the judge, and told all the tale. Then the miller came too, and told his; but the judge examined the documents, and pronounced that the miller was in the right; for his part of the contract was that he was to deliver over 'Nina,' and he had delivered over 'Nina.' There was no evidence that any other 'Nina' was intended but 'Nina' the donkey, and so the miller remained in undisputed possession of the mill.

And that is the truth, for it actually happened as I have told you.

THE GOOD GRACE OF THE HUNCHBACK. [392]

A mother and daughter lived alone in a cottage. The mother was old and came to die; the daughter was turned out of house and home. [393] An ugly hunchback, who was a tailor, came by and said--

'What is your name, my pretty girl?'

'They call me la Buona Grazia,' [394] answered the girl.

'Well, la Buona Grazia, I've got twenty scudi a month, will you come with me and be my wife?'

The girl was starving, and didn't know where to set her foot, so she thought she could not afford to refuse; but she went along with a very bad grace, for she did not feel at all happy at the idea of marrying the ugly old hunchback.

When the hunchback saw how unhappy she was, he thought, 'This will never do. She's too young and too pretty to care for me. I must keep her locked up, and then when she sees no one else at all, she will at last be glad even of my company.' So he went all the errands himself, and never let her go out except to Mass, and then he took her to the church, and watched her all the time, and brought her back himself. The windows he whitened all over, so that she couldn't see out into the street, and there he kept her with the door locked on her, and she was very miserable.

So it went on for three years. But there was a dirty little window of a lumber room which, as it only gave a look out on to the court, [395] he had not whitened. As she happened to look out here one day a stranger stood leaning on the balcony of the court, for part of the house was an inn, and he had just arrived.

'What are you looking for, my pretty girl?' said the stranger.

'O! nothing particular; only I'm locked up here, and I just looked out for a change.'

'Locked up! who has locked you up?' asked the stranger.

'An old hunchback, who's going to marry me,' said the girl, almost crying.

'You don't seem much pleased at the idea of being married,' answered the stranger.

'It is not likely that I should, to such a husband!' returned the girl.

'Would you like to get away from him?' asked the stranger.

'Shouldn't I!' heartily exclaimed the girl; 'but it's impossible to manage that, as I'm locked in,' she added sorrowfully.

'It's not so difficult as you think,' rejoined the stranger. 'Most likely there's some picture or other on your wall.'

'Oh, yes! a great big one with the fair Giuditta just ready with her pouch [396] to put Lofferno's head in,' answered the girl.

'All right. You make a big hole behind the picture on your side, and when I hear by the sound where you are, I'll make one on mine. And when our two holes meet, you can come through.'

'Yes, that's a capital plan; but the hunchback will soon come after me.'

'Never mind, I will see to that; let's make the hole first?'

'Very well, I rely upon you, and will set to work immediately.'

'Tell me first how I am to call you?'

'They always call me Buona Grazia.'

'A very nice name. Good-bye, and we'll set to work.'

La Buona Grazia ran and unhooked the picture, and set to work to make a hole with all the available tools she could find; and the stranger, as soon as he had ascertained by the noise where she was at work, set to also. It turned out to be only a partition, [397] and not a regular wall, and the hole was soon cut.

'What fun!' said the girl, as she jumped through. 'Oh, how nice to be free! But,' she added, 'I can't travel with you in these poor clothes.'

'No,' said the stranger. 'I'll have a travelling dress made for you, by the hunchback himself.'

'Oh, take care!' cried the girl, earnestly.

'Don't be afraid,' answered the stranger; 'and above all don't look frightened.'

Then he sent his servant to call the hunchback, and when he came he said--

'I want a travelling dress made directly for my wife here, so please take her measure.'

The hunchback started when he saw who it was he had to measure.

'Why, she's exactly like my Buona Grazia!' exclaimed he.

'Very likely. I have always observed there was a sort of likeness between the inhabitants of a town. She too is a Roman, though I am a stranger. But make haste and take the measure, I didn't call you here to make remarks.'

The hunchback got frightened at the stranger's authoritative tone, and took the measure without saying any more; and the stranger then gave him something to go and have a breakfast at the caffé to give the girl time to get back and set the picture in its place again.

When he came up into the room all looked right, and nothing seemed to have been moved.

'I've got to work hard to-day,' said the hunchback, 'to get a travelling dress ready for the wife of a gentleman staying in the inn, who is exactly like you.'

'Are they going to travel, then?' asked la Buona Grazia.

'Yes, the gentleman said they should start as soon as the dress is done.'

'Oh, do let me see them drive off!' said la Buona Grazia, coaxingly. 'I should so like to see a lady who looked like me wearing a dress you had made.'

'Nonsense, nonsense!' said the hunchback; 'get on with your work.'

And she did get on with her work, and stitched away, for she was anxious enough to help him to get the dress done; but she went on teazing him all the while to let her go to the window to see the gentleman and the lady, 'who looked so like her,' drive off, that at last the hunchback consented for that only day to take the whiting off the windows and let her look out.

The travelling dress was finished and taken home; and while the hunchback was taking it up by the stairs, la Bella Grazia was getting in by the hole behind the picture; but she had first made a great doll, [398] and dressed it just like herself, and stuck it in the window. The gobbo, who stood down below to see the gentry drive off, looked up and saw her, as he thought, at the window, and made signs for her not to stay there too long.

Presently the stranger and his lady came down; the hunchback was standing before the carriage door, as I have said, and two stablemen were standing by also.

'You give me your good grace?' [399] asked the stranger.

'Yes, yes!' readily responded the hunchback, delighted to find a rich gentleman so civil to him.

'You say it sincerely, with all your heart?' again asked the stranger.

'Yes, yes, yes! with all my heart,' answered the hunchback.

'Then give me your hand upon it.'

And the hunchback, more and more delighted, put out his hand, the two stablemen standing by looking on attentively all the time.

As soon as the carriage had driven away, the hunchback's first care was to look up at the window to see if the girl had gone in; but the doll was still there.

'Go in! go in!' he cried, waving his hand. But the figure remained unmoved. Indignant, he took a stick and ran up to punish the girl for her disobedience, and when the blows fell thick and fast and no cries came, he discovered the trick that had been played.

Without loss of time he ran off to the Court and laid a complaint before the judge, demanding that soldiers should be called out and sent after the fugitives; but the stablemen had their orders, and were there before him, and deposed that they were witnesses to his having given 'his Good Grace' up to the gentleman 'with all his heart,' and given him his hand upon the bargain.

'You see you have given her up of your own accord; there is nothing to be done!' said the judge. So he got no redress.

THE VALUE OF SALT.

They say there was a king who had three daughters. He was very anxious to know which of them loved him most; he tried them in various ways, and it always seemed as if the youngest daughter came out best by the test. Yet he was never satisfied, because he was prepossessed with the idea that the elder ones loved him most.

One day he thought he would settle the matter once for all, by asking each separately how much she loved him. So he called the eldest by herself, and asked her how much she loved him.

'As much as the bread we eat,' ran her reply; and he said within himself, 'She must, as I thought, love me the most of all; for bread is the first necessary of our existence, without which we cannot live. She means, therefore, that she loves me so much she could not live without me.'

Then he called the second daughter by herself, and said to her, 'How much do you love me?'

And she answered, 'As much as wine!'

'That is a good answer too,' said the king to himself. 'It is true she does not seem to love me quite so much as the eldest; but still, scarcely can one live without wine, [400] so that there is not much difference.'

Then he called the youngest by herself, and said to her, 'And you, how much do you love me?'

And she answered, 'As much as salt!'

Then the king said, 'What a contemptible comparison! She only loves me as much as the cheapest and commonest thing that comes to table. This is as much as to say, she doesn't love me at all. I always thought it was so. I will never see her again.'

Then he ordered that a wing of the palace should be shut up from the rest, where she should be served with everything belonging to her condition in life, but where she should live by herself apart, and never come near him.

Here she lived, then, all alone. But though her father fancied she did not care for him, she pined so much at being kept away from him, that at last she was worn out, [401] and could bear it no longer.

The room that had been given her had no windows on to the street, that she might not have the amusement of seeing what was going on in the town, but they looked upon an inner court-yard. Here she sometimes saw the cook come out and wash vegetables at the fountain.

'Cook! cook!' she called one day, as she saw him pass thus under the window.

The cook looked up with a good-natured face, which gave her encouragement.

'Don't you think, cook, I must be very lonely and miserable up here all alone?'

'Yes, Signorina!' he replied; 'I often think I should like to help you to get out; but I dare not think of it, the king would be so angry.'

'No, I don't want you to do anything to disobey the king,' answered the princess; 'but would you really do me a favour, which would make me very grateful indeed?'

'O! yes, Signorina, anything which I can do without disobeying the king,' replied the faithful servant.

'Then this is it,' said the princess. 'Will you just oblige me so far as to cook papa's dinner to-day without any salt in anything? Not the least grain in anything at all. Let it be as good a dinner as you like, but no salt in anything. Will you do that?'

'I see!' replied the cook, with a knowing nod. 'Yes, depend on me, I will do it.'

That day at dinner the king had no salt in the soup, no salt in the boiled meat, no salt in the roast, no salt in the fried.

'What is the meaning of this?' said the king, as he pushed dish after dish away from him. 'There is not a single thing I can eat to-day. I don't know what they have done to everything, but there is not a single thing that has got the least taste. Let the cook be called.'

So the cook came before him.

'What have you done to the victuals to-day?' said the king, sternly. 'You have sent up a lot of dishes, and no one alive can tell one from another. They are all of them exactly alike, and there is not one of them can be eaten. Speak!'

The cook answered:

'Hearing your Majesty say that salt was the commonest thing that comes to table, and altogether so worthless and contemptible, I considered in my mind whether it was a thing that at all deserved to be served up to the table of the king; and judging that it was not worthy, I abolished it from the king's kitchen, and dressed all the meats without it. Barring this, the dishes are the same that are sent every day to the table of the king.'

Then the king understood the value of salt, and he comprehended how great was the love of his youngest child for him; so he sent and had her apartment opened, and called her to him, never to go away any more.

THE PRINCESS AND THE GENTLEMAN.

There was a princess whose mother had died of vexation because she was in love with a simple gentleman of the chamber, and would not hear of marrying anyone else, nor would she look at any prince who came to sue for her hand.

The king, not only vexed at her perversity, but still more at the loss of his wife, determined to devise a punishment to cure them both. He had two suites of apartments walled up, therefore; in one he had the princess imprisoned, and in the other the gentleman of the chamber with whom she was in love. The latter, he commanded, should see no one, thinking thereby to weary him out; the former he allowed only to see such persons as he should appoint, these persons being the princes one or other of whom he wished her to marry; for he thought that in her weariness at being so shut up, she would welcome the hand of anyone who would be her deliverer. It was not so, however. When the cook came in to the princess with her dinner, she begged him to give her a chicken that had been killed several days, and kept till it had a bad smell.

When her father now sent any prince to visit her she said, 'It is no use my father sending you here, the reason why I cannot marry anyone is that I have a great defect; my breath smells so bad that it is not pleasant for anyone to live with me.'

As the bad smell from the chicken was readily to be perceived in the room, they all believed her words and went away. There was one, indeed, who was so much pleased with her seeming candour that he thought he would excuse her defect, but on a second visit the smell of the dead chicken drove him away too.

The cooks in the kitchen talked together after the manner of cooks, and thus the cook who waited on the princess told what had happened to the cook who waited on the other prisoner, and thus it came round to his ears also, what the princess had done for love of him. Her stratagem then suggested another to him. Accordingly he sent to crave urgently an audience of the king.

When the king came in to him he said:

'Sire, closely as I have been confined and guarded, yet something of what goes on in the outer world has reached my ears, and the fact which has the greatest interest for me has naturally been told to me. I now learn that the reason why your daughter has refused the suit of all the princes is not as we thought, her love for me, but a certain personal defect, which in politeness I will not name more particularly. But that being so, my desire to marry her is, of course, cured like that of others; so if your majesty will give me my liberty I will go away to a far country, and your majesty would never hear of me any more.'

The king was delighted to get rid of him, for he believed that if he were at a distance the great obstacle to his daughter's happiness would be removed. As he knew nothing about the chicken, he thought that all the suitors had believed the princess's representations upon her simple word; and as he very well knew she had no defect, he thought the time would come when some prince should please her, whom she also should please. Therefore, he very willingly gave the gentleman his liberty, and bid him godspeed on his journey.

The gentleman, however, before setting out, went to his friend the cook, and, giving him three hundred scudi, begged him to house him for a few nights, while he dug out an underground passage between the garden and the apartment where the princess was imprisoned.

In the garden was a handsome terrace, all set out with life-sized statues; under one of these the gentleman worked his way, till he had reached the princess's chamber.

'You here!' exclaimed the princess in great astonishment, as soon as he had made his way through.

'Yes; I have come to fetch you,' he replied.

She did not wait for a second injunction to escape from prison, but gathering all the money and jewels she had at command, she followed him through the underground way he had made.

As soon as they had reached the free air, the gentleman replaced the statue, and no one could guess by which way they had passed. Then they went to a church to be married, and, after that, to a city a long way off, as the gentleman had promised the king he would.

For a long time they lived very happily on the money and jewels each had brought from home; but, by-and-by, these came to an end, and neither durst write for more, for fear of betraying where they were. So at last, having no means of living, they engaged themselves to a rich lady who had a large mansion; [402] the one as butler, [403] and the other as nurse. [404] Here they were well content to live at peace; and the lady was well content to have two such faithful and intelligent dependents, and they might have lived here till the end of their lives, but for a coincidence [405] which strangely disconcerted them, as you shall hear, as well as what came of it.