The Goose-Girl at the Well

There was once upon a time a very old woman, who lived with her flock
of geese in a waste place among the mountains, and there had a little
house. The waste was surrounded by a large forest, and every morning
the old woman took her crutch and hobbled into it. There, however, the
dame was quite active, more so than any one would have thought,
considering her age, and collected grass for her geese, picked all the
wild fruit she could reach, and carried everything home on her back.
Any one would have thought that the heavy load would have weighed her
to the ground, but she always brought it safely home. If any one met
her, she greeted him quite courteously. "Good day, dear countryman, it
is a fine day. Ah! you wonder that I should drag grass about, but every
one must take his burthen on his back." Nevertheless, people did not
like to meet her if they could help it, and took by preference a
round-about way, and when a father with his boys passed her, he
whispered to them, "Beware of the old woman. She has claws beneath her
gloves; she is a witch." One morning, a handsome young man was going
through the forest. The sun shone bright, the birds sang, a cool breeze
crept through the leaves, and he was full of joy and gladness. He had
as yet met no one, when he suddenly perceived the old witch kneeling on
the ground cutting grass with a sickle. She had already thrust a whole
load into her cloth, and near it stood two baskets, which were filled
with wild apples and pears. "But, good little mother," said he, "how
canst thou carry all that away?" "I must carry it, dear sir," answered
she, "rich folk's children have no need to do such things, but with the
peasant folk the saying goes, don't look behind you, you will only see
how crooked your back is!"

"Will you help me?" she said, as he remained standing by her. "You have
still a straight back and young legs, it would be a trifle to you.
Besides, my house is not so very far from here, it stands there on the
heath behind the hill. How soon you would bound up thither." The young
man took compassion on the old woman. "My father is certainly no
peasant," replied he, "but a rich count; nevertheless, that you may see
that it is not only peasants who can carry things, I will take your
bundle." "If you will try it," said she, "I shall be very glad. You
will certainly have to walk for an hour, but what will that signify to
you; only you must carry the apples and pears as well?" It now seemed
to the young man just a little serious, when he heard of an hour's
walk, but the old woman would not let him off, packed the bundle on his
back, and hung the two baskets on his arm. "See, it is quite light,"
said she. "No, it is not light," answered the count, and pulled a
rueful face. "Verily, the bundle weighs as heavily as if it were full
of cobble stones, and the apples and pears are as heavy as lead! I can
scarcely breathe." He had a mind to put everything down again, but the
old woman would not allow it. "Just look," said she mockingly, "the
young gentleman will not carry what I, an old woman, have so often
dragged along. You are ready with fine words, but when it comes to be
earnest, you want to take to your heels. Why are you standing loitering
there?" she continued. "Step out. No one will take the bundle off
again." As long as he walked on level ground, it was still bearable,
but when they came to the hill and had to climb, and the stones rolled
down under his feet as if they were alive, it was beyond his strength.
The drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and ran, hot and cold,
down his back. "Dame," said he, "I can go no farther. I want to rest a
little." "Not here," answered the old woman, "when we have arrived at
our journey's end, you can rest; but now you must go forward. Who knows
what good it may do you?" "Old woman, thou art becoming shameless!"
said the count, and tried to throw off the bundle, but he laboured in
vain; it stuck as fast to his back as if it grew there. He turned and
twisted, but he could not get rid of it. The old woman laughed at this,
and sprang about quite delighted on her crutch. "Don't get angry, dear
sir," said she, "you are growing as red in the face as a turkey-cock!
Carry your bundle patiently. I will give you a good present when we get
home."

What could he do? He was obliged to submit to his fate, and crawl along
patiently behind the old woman. She seemed to grow more and more
nimble, and his burden still heavier. All at once she made a spring,
jumped on to the bundle and seated herself on the top of it; and
however withered she might be, she was yet heavier than the stoutest
country lass. The youth's knees trembled, but when he did not go on,
the old woman hit him about the legs with a switch and with
stinging-nettles. Groaning continually, he climbed the mountain, and at
length reached the old woman's house, when he was just about to drop.
When the geese perceived the old woman, they flapped their wings,
stretched out their necks, ran to meet her, cackling all the while.
Behind the flock walked, stick in hand, an old wench, strong and big,
but ugly as night. "Good mother," said she to the old woman, "has
anything happened to you, you have stayed away so long?" "By no means,
my dear daughter," answered she, "I have met with nothing bad, but, on
the contrary, with this kind gentleman, who has carried my burthen for
me; only think, he even took me on his back when I was tired. The way,
too, has not seemed long to us; we have been merry, and have been
cracking jokes with each other all the time." At last the old woman
slid down, took the bundle off the young man's back, and the baskets
from his arm, looked at him quite kindly, and said, "Now seat yourself
on the bench before the door, and rest. You have fairly earned your
wages, and they shall not be wanting." Then she said to the goose-girl,
"Go into the house, my dear daughter, it is not becoming for thee to be
alone with a young gentleman; one must not pour oil on to the fire, he
might fall in love with thee." The count knew not whether to laugh or
to cry. "Such a sweetheart as that," thought he, "could not touch my
heart, even if she were thirty years younger." In the meantime the old
woman stroked and fondled her geese as if they were children, and then
went into the house with her daughter. The youth lay down on the bench,
under a wild apple-tree. The air was warm and mild; on all sides
stretched a green meadow, which was set with cowslips, wild thyme, and
a thousand other flowers; through the midst of it rippled a clear brook
on which the sun sparkled, and the white geese went walking backwards
and forwards, or paddled in the water. "It is quite delightful here,"
said he, "but I am so tired that I cannot keep my eyes open; I will
sleep a little. If only a gust of wind does not come and blow my legs
off my body, for they are as rotten as tinder."

When he had slept a little while, the old woman came and shook him till
he awoke. "Sit up," said she, "thou canst not stay here; I have
certainly treated thee hardly, still it has not cost thee thy life. Of
money and land thou hast no need, here is something else for thee."
Thereupon she thrust a little book into his hand, which was cut out of
a single emerald. "Take great care of it," said she, "it will bring
thee good fortune." The count sprang up, and as he felt that he was
quite fresh, and had recovered his vigor, he thanked the old woman for
her present, and set off without even once looking back at the
beautiful daughter. When he was already some way off, he still heard in
the distance the noisy cry of the geese.

For three days the count had to wander in the wilderness before he
could find his way out. He then reached a large town, and as no one
knew him, he was led into the royal palace, where the King and Queen
were sitting on their throne. The count fell on one knee, drew the
emerald book out of his pocket, and laid it at the Queen's feet. She
bade him rise and hand her the little book. Hardly, however, had she
opened it, and looked therein, than she fell as if dead to the ground.
The count was seized by the King's servants, and was being led to
prison, when the Queen opened her eyes, and ordered them to release
him, and every one was to go out, as she wished to speak with him in
private.

When the Queen was alone, she began to weep bitterly, and said, "Of
what use to me are the splendours and honours with which I am
surrounded; every morning I awake in pain and sorrow. I had three
daughters, the youngest of whom was so beautiful that the whole world
looked on her as a wonder. She was as white as snow, as rosy as
apple-blossom, and her hair as radiant as sun-beams. When she cried,
not tears fell from her eyes, but pearls and jewels only. When she was
fifteen years old, the King summoned all three sisters to come before
his throne. You should have seen how all the people gazed when the
youngest entered, it was just as if the sun were rising! Then the King
spoke, "My daughters, I know not when my last day may arrive; I will
to-day decide what each shall receive at my death. You all love me, but
the one of you who loves me best, shall fare the best." Each of them
said she loved him best. "Can you not express to me," said the King,
"how much you do love me, and thus I shall see what you mean?" The
eldest spoke. "I love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar." The
second, "I love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress." But the
youngest was silent. Then the father said, "And thou, my dearest child,
how much dost thou love me?" "I do not know, and can compare my love
with nothing." But her father insisted that she should name something.
So she said at last, "The best food does not please me without salt,
therefore I love my father like salt." When the King heard that, he
fell into a passion, and said, "If thou lovest me like salt, thy love
shall also be repaid thee with salt." Then he divided the kingdom
between the two elder, but caused a sack of salt to be bound on the
back of the youngest, and two servants had to lead her forth into the
wild forest. We all begged and prayed for her, said the Queen, "but the
King's anger was not to be appeased. How she cried when she had to
leave us! The whole road was strewn with the pearls which flowed from
her eyes. The King soon afterwards repented of his great severity, and
had the whole forest searched for the poor child, but no one could find
her. When I think that the wild beasts have devoured her, I know not
how to contain myself for sorrow; many a time I console myself with the
hope that she is still alive, and may have hidden herself in a cave, or
has found shelter with compassionate people. But picture to yourself,
when I opened your little emerald book, a pearl lay therein, of exactly
the same kind as those which used to fall from my daughter's eyes; and
then you can also imagine how the sight of it stirred my heart. You
must tell me how you came by that pearl." The count told her that he
had received it from the old woman in the forest, who had appeared very
strange to him, and must be a witch, but he had neither seen nor hear
anything of the Queen's child. The King and the Queen resolved to seek
out the old woman. They thought that there where the pearl had been,
they would obtain news of their daughter.

The old woman was sitting in that lonely place at her spinning-wheel,
spinning. It was already dusk, and a log which was burning on the
hearth gave a scanty light. All at once there was a noise outside, the
geese were coming home from the pasture, and uttering their hoarse
cries. Soon afterwards the daughter also entered. But the old woman
scarcely thanked her, and only shook her head a little. The daughter
sat down beside her, took her spinning-wheel, and twisted the threads
as nimbly as a young girl. Thus they both sat for two hours, and
exchanged never a word. At last something rustled at the window, and
two fiery eyes peered in. It was an old night-owl, which cried, "Uhu!"
three times. The old woman looked up just a little, then she said,
"Now, my little daughter, it is time for thee to go out and do thy
work." She rose and went out, and where did she go? Over the meadows
ever onward into the valley. At last she came to a well, with three old
oak-trees standing beside it; meanwhile the moon had risen large and
round over the mountain, and it was so light that one could have found
a needle. She removed a skin which covered her face, then bent down to
the well, and began to wash herself. When she had finished, she dipped
the skin also in the water, and then laid it on the meadow, so that it
should bleach in the moonlight, and dry again. But how the maiden was
changed! Such a change as that was never seen before! When the gray
mask fell off, her golden hair broke forth like sunbeams, and spread
about like a mantle over her whole form. Her eyes shone out as brightly
as the stars in heaven, and her cheeks bloomed a soft red like
apple-blossom.

But the fair maiden was sad. She sat down and wept bitterly. One tear
after another forced itself out of her eyes, and rolled through her
long hair to the ground. There she sat, and would have remained sitting
a long time, if there had not been a rustling and cracking in the
boughs of the neighbouring tree. She sprang up like a roe which has
been overtaken by the shot of the hunter. Just then the moon was
obscured by a dark cloud, and in an instant the maiden had put on the
old skin and vanished, like a light blown out by the wind.

She ran back home, trembling like an aspen-leaf. The old woman was
standing on the threshold, and the girl was about to relate what had
befallen her, but the old woman laughed kindly, and said, "I already
know all." She led her into the room and lighted a new log. She did
not, however, sit down to her spinning again, but fetched a broom and
began to sweep and scour, "All must be clean and sweet," she said to
the girl. "But, mother," said the maiden, "why do you begin work at so
late an hour? What do you expect?" "Dost thou know then what time it
is?" asked the old woman. "Not yet midnight," answered the maiden, "but
already past eleven o'clock." "Dost thou not remember," continued the
old woman, "that it is three years to-day since thou camest to me? Thy
time is up, we can no longer remain together." The girl was terrified,
and said, "Alas! dear mother, will you cast me off? Where shall I go? I
have no friends, and no home to which I can go. I have always done as
you bade me, and you have always been satisfied with me; do not send me
away." The old woman would not tell the maiden what lay before her. "My
stay here is over," she said to her, "but when I depart, house and
parlour must be clean: therefore do not hinder me in my work. Have no
care for thyself, thou shalt find a roof to shelter thee, and the wages
which I will give thee shall also content thee." "But tell me what is
about to happen," the maiden continued to entreat. "I tell thee again,
do not hinder me in my work. Do not say a word more, go to thy chamber,
take the skin off thy face, and put on the silken gown which thou hadst
on when thou camest to me, and then wait in thy chamber until I call
thee."

But I must once more tell of the King and Queen, who had journeyed
forth with the count in order to seek out the old woman in the
wilderness. The count had strayed away from them in the wood by night,
and had to walk onwards alone. Next day it seemed to him that he was on
the right track. He still went forward, until darkness came on, then he
climbed a tree, intending to pass the night there, for he feared that
he might lose his way. When the moon illumined the surrounding country
he perceived a figure coming down the mountain. She had no stick in her
hand, but yet he could see that it was the goose-girl, whom he had seen
before in the house of the old woman. "Oho," cried he, "there she
comes, and if I once get hold of one of the witches, the other shall
not escape me!" But how astonished he was, when she went to the well,
took off the skin and washed herself, when her golden hair fell down
all about her, and she was more beautiful than any one whom he had ever
seen in the whole world. He hardly dared to breathe, but stretched his
head as far forward through the leaves as he dared, and stared at her.
Either he bent over too far, or whatever the cause might be, the bough
suddenly cracked, and that very moment the maiden slipped into the
skin, sprang away like a roe, and as the moon was suddenly covered,
disappeared from his eyes. Hardly had she disappeared, before the count
descended from the tree, and hastened after her with nimble steps. He
had not been gone long before he saw, in the twilight, two figures
coming over the meadow. It was the King and Queen, who had perceived
from a distance the light shining in the old woman's little house, and
were going to it. The count told them what wonderful things he had seen
by the well, and they did not doubt that it had been their lost
daughter. They walked onwards full of joy, and soon came to the little
house. The geese were sitting all round it, and had thrust their heads
under their wings and were sleeping, and not one of them moved. The
King and Queen looked in at the window, the old woman was sitting there
quite quietly spinning, nodding her head and never looking round. The
room was perfectly clean, as if the little mist men, who carry no dust
on their feet, lived there. Their daughter, however, they did not see.
They gazed at all this for a long time, at last they took heart, and
knocked softly at the window. The old woman appeared to have been
expecting them; she rose, and called out quite kindly, "Come in,--I know
you already." When they had entered the room, the old woman said, "You
might have spared yourself the long walk, if you had not three years
ago unjustly driven away your child, who is so good and lovable. No
harm has come to her; for three years she has had to tend the geese;
with them she has learnt no evil, but has preserved her purity of
heart. You, however, have been sufficiently punished by the misery in
which you have lived." Then she went to the chamber and called, "Come
out, my little daughter." Thereupon the door opened, and the princess
stepped out in her silken garments, with her golden hair and her
shining eyes, and it was as if an angel from heaven had entered.

She went up to her father and mother, fell on their necks and kissed
them; there was no help for it, they all had to weep for joy. The young
count stood near them, and when she perceived him she became as red in
the face as a moss-rose, she herself did not know why. The King said,
"My dear child, I have given away my kingdom, what shall I give thee?"
"She needs nothing," said the old woman. "I give her the tears that she
has wept on your account; they are precious pearls, finer than those
that are found in the sea, and worth more than your whole kingdom, and
I give her my little house as payment for her services." When the old
woman had said that, she disappeared from their sight. The walls
rattled a little, and when the King and Queen looked round, the little
house had changed into a splendid palace, a royal table had been
spread, and the servants were running hither and thither.

The story goes still further, but my grandmother, who related it to me,
had partly lost her memory, and had forgotten the rest. I shall always
believe that the beautiful princess married the count, and that they
remained together in the palace, and lived there in all happiness so
long as God willed it. Whether the snow-white geese, which were kept
near the little hut, were verily young maidens (no one need take
offence,) whom the old woman had taken under her protection, and
whether they now received their human form again, and stayed as
handmaids to the young Queen, I do not exactly know, but I suspect it.
This much is certain, that the old woman was no witch, as people
thought, but a wise woman, who meant well. Very likely it was she who,
at the princess's birth, gave her the gift of weeping pearls instead of
tears. That does not happen now-a-days, or else the poor would soon
become rich.
