A Mother's Story

A mother sat there with her little child. She was so downcast, so afraid that it should die! It was so pale, the small eyes had closed themselves, and it drew its breath so softly, now and then, with a deep respiration, as if it sighed; and the mother looked still more sorrowfully on the little creature.

A mother sat there with her little child. She was so sad and afraid that the child would die! The child was so pale, with its little eyes closed. It breathed so softly, taking a deep breath now and then, as if sighing. The mother looked at the little creature with even greater sorrow.

Then a knocking was heard at the door, and in came a poor old man wrapped up as in a large horse-cloth, for it warms one, and he needed it, as it was the cold winter season! Everything out-of-doors was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so that it cut the face.

Then someone knocked at the door, and a poor old man came in. He was wrapped in something like a large horse blanket. It kept him warm, and he needed it in the cold winter! Outside, everything was covered with ice and snow, and the wind was so sharp it cut the face.

As the old man trembled with cold, and the little child slept a moment, the mother went and poured some ale into a pot and set it on the stove, that it might be warm for him; the old man sat and rocked the cradle, and the mother sat down on a chair close by him, and looked at her little sick child that drew its breath so deep, and raised its little hand.

The old man was trembling with cold, and the little child slept for a moment. The mother poured some ale into a pot and put it on the stove to warm it for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle. The mother sat on a chair close beside him and watched her sick child, who breathed deeply and raised a little hand.

“Do you not think that I shall save him?” said she. “Our Lord will not take him from me!”

“Don’t you think I can save him?” she said. “Our Lord won’t take him from me!”

And the old man—it was Death himself—he nodded so strangely, it could just as well signify yes as no. And the mother looked down in her lap, and the tears ran down over her cheeks; her head became so heavy—she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights; and now she slept, but only for a minute, when she started up and trembled with cold.

And the old man was Death himself. He nodded so strangely that it could have meant either yes or no. The mother looked down at her lap, and tears ran down her cheeks. Her head grew heavy. She had not closed her eyes for three days and nights. Now she fell asleep, but only for a minute. Then she startled awake, trembling with cold.

“What is that?” said she, and looked on all sides; but the old man was gone, and her little child was gone—he had taken it with him; and the old clock in the corner burred, and burred, the great leaden weight ran down to the floor, bump! and then the clock also stood still.

“What is that?” she said, looking all around. But the old man was gone, and so was her little child. He had taken the child with him. The old clock in the corner whirred and whirred. Its heavy lead weight fell to the floor with a bump, and then the clock stopped too.

But the poor mother ran out of the house and cried aloud for her child.

But the poor mother ran out of the house and cried out for her child.

Out there, in the midst of the snow, there sat a woman in long, black clothes; and she said, “Death has been in thy chamber, and I saw him hasten away with thy little child; he goes faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he takes!”

Out there in the snow sat a woman dressed in long, black clothes. She said, “Death has been in your room, and I saw him hurry away with your little child. He travels faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he takes!”

“Oh, only tell me which way he went!” said the mother. “Tell me the way, and I shall find him!”

“Oh, just tell me which way he went!” said the mother. “Tell me the way, and I’ll find him!”

“I know it!” said the woman in the black clothes. “But before I tell it, thou must first sing for me all the songs thou hast sung for thy child! I am fond of them. I have heard them before; I am Night; I saw thy tears whilst thou sang'st them!”

“I know it!” said the woman in black. “But before I tell you, you must first sing me all the songs you have sung to your child! I love them. I have heard them before. I am Night. I saw your tears while you sang them!”

“I will sing them all, all!” said the mother. “But do not stop me now—I may overtake him—I may find my child!”

“I will sing them all, all!” said the mother. “But do not stop me now. I may catch up with him. I may find my child!”

But Night stood still and mute. Then the mother wrung her hands, sang and wept, and there were many songs, but yet many more tears; and then Night said, “Go to the right, into the dark pine forest; thither I saw Death take his way with thy little child!”

But Night stood still and silent. Then the mother wrung her hands, sang, and wept. She sang many songs, but shed even more tears. Then Night said, “Go right, into the dark pine forest. I saw Death take your little child that way!”

The roads crossed each other in the depths of the forest, and she no longer knew whither she should go! then there stood a thorn-bush; there was neither leaf nor flower on it, it was also in the cold winter season, and ice-flakes hung on the branches.

The roads crossed deep in the forest, and she no longer knew which way to go. Then she saw a thornbush. It had neither leaves nor flowers, for it was the cold winter season, and flakes of ice hung from its branches.

“Hast thou not seen Death go past with my little child?” said the mother.

“Didn't you see Death go past with my little child?” said the mother.

“Yes,” said the thorn-bush; “but I will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou wilt first warm me up at thy heart. I am freezing to death; I shall become a lump of ice!”

“Yes,” said the thorn-bush, “but I won’t tell you which way he went unless you first warm me against your heart. I’m freezing to death. I’ll become a lump of ice!”

And she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thornbush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of the afflicted mother was so warm; and the thorn-bush told her the way she should go.

And she pressed the thornbush firmly to her breast to warm it thoroughly. The thorns pierced her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops. But the thornbush put out fresh green leaves and flowers on that cold winter night because the grieving mother's heart was so warm. And the thornbush told her which way to go.

She then came to a large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat. The lake was not frozen sufficiently to bear her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child! Then she lay down to drink up the lake, and that was an impossibility for a human being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen nevertheless.

She then came to a large lake, where there was no ship or boat. The ice was not thick enough to support her. The lake was not free of ice or shallow enough for her to wade through. Yet she had to cross it if she wanted to find her child! So she lay down to drink up the lake. That was impossible for a human being, but the grieving mother thought a miracle might still happen.

“Oh, what would I not give to come to my child!” said the weeping mother; and she wept still more, and her eyes sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two precious pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she flew in the rocking waves to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests and caverns, or if it were built up; but the poor mother could not see it; she had wept her eyes out.

“Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!” said the weeping mother. She wept even more, and her eyes sank deep into the water and became two precious pearls. But the water held her up as if she were sitting in a swing. The rocking waves carried her swiftly to the opposite shore. There stood a strange house, a mile wide. No one could tell whether it was a mountain with forests and caves or a building. But the poor mother could not see it. She had wept her eyes out.

“Where shall I find Death, who took away my little child?” said she.

“Where can I find Death, who took away my little child?” she said.

“He has not come here yet!” said the old grave woman, who was appointed to look after Death's great greenhouse! “How have you been able to find the way hither? And who has helped you?”

“He has not come here yet!” said the solemn old woman in charge of Death's great greenhouse. “How did you find your way here? And who helped you?”

“OUR LORD has helped me,” said she. “He is merciful, and you will also be so! Where shall I find my little child?”

“Our Lord has helped me,” she said. “He is merciful, and you will be merciful too! Where can I find my little child?”

“Nay, I know not,” said the woman, “and you cannot see! Many flowers and trees have withered this night; Death will soon come and plant them over again! You certainly know that every person has his or her life's tree or flower, just as everyone happens to be settled; they look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart. Children's hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know your child's; but what will you give me if I tell you what you shall do more?”

“No, I don't know,” said the woman, “and you can't see! Many flowers and trees have withered tonight. Death will soon come and plant them again! You know that everyone has a tree or flower for their life, depending on their circumstances. These look like other plants, but they have heartbeats. Children's hearts can beat too. Follow your heart, and perhaps you will recognize your child's. But what will you give me if I tell you what else to do?”

“I have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother, “but I will go to the world's end for you!”

“I have nothing to give,” said the grieving mother, “but I will go to the ends of the earth for you!”

“Nay, I have nothing to do there!” said the woman. “But you can give me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that I like! You shall have my white hair instead, and that's always something!”

“No, I have nothing to do there!” said the woman. “But you can give me your long black hair. You know how beautiful it is, and I like it! You can have my white hair instead, and that’s something, at least!”

“Do you demand nothing else?” said she. “That I will gladly give you!” And she gave her her fine black hair, and got the old woman's snow-white hair instead.

“Don't you want anything else?” she asked. “I'll gladly give you that!” She gave the old woman her beautiful black hair and received the old woman's snow-white hair in return.

So they went into Death's great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another. There stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. There stood beautiful palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering thyme: every tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a human life, the human frame still lived—one in China, and another in Greenland—round about in the world. There were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed. But the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her child's.

So they went into Death's great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another. Fine hyacinths stood under glass bells, and peonies stood on strong stems. Water plants grew there too, some very healthy and others half sick. Water snakes lay on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks. Beautiful palm trees, oaks, and plantains grew there, along with parsley and flowering thyme. Every tree and flower had a name. Each one was a human life, and the person it represented was still alive somewhere in the world. One lived in China, another in Greenland. Some large trees stood in small pots. Their growth was stunted, and they were ready to burst their pots. Elsewhere, a small, dull flower grew in rich soil, with moss around it, lovingly tended and cared for. But the distressed mother bent over all the smallest plants and heard a human heart beating within each one. Among millions, she recognized her child's.

“There it is!” cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.

“There it is!” she cried, stretching her hands over a little blue crocus that drooped sickly to one side.

“Don't touch the flower!” said the old woman. “But place yourself here, and when Death comes—I expect him every moment—do not let him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same with the others. Then he will be afraid! He is responsible for them to OUR LORD, and no one dares to pluck them up before HE gives leave.”

“Don't touch the flower!” said the old woman. “But stand here and wait for Death. I expect him any moment. When he comes, don't let him pluck the flower. Instead, threaten to pluck the others. Then he will be afraid! He is responsible for them to OUR LORD, and no one dares to pluck them until he gives permission.”

All at once an icy cold rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was Death that came.

Suddenly, an icy chill swept through the great hall. The blind mother could feel that Death had come.

“How hast thou been able to find thy way hither?” he asked. “How couldst thou come quicker than I?”

“How did you find your way here?” he asked. “How did you get here faster than I did?”

“I am a mother,” said she.

“I am a mother,” she said.

And Death stretched out his long hand towards the fine little flower, but she held her hands fast around his, so tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell down powerless.

Death stretched his long hand toward the beautiful little flower. But she held his hand tightly in hers, afraid she might touch one of the leaves. Then Death blew on her hands. His breath felt colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell, powerless.

“Thou canst not do anything against me!” said Death.

“You can’t do anything against me!” said Death.

“But OUR LORD can!” said she.

“But OUR LORD can!” she said.

“I only do His bidding!” said Death. “I am His gardener, I take all His flowers and trees, and plant them out in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land; but how they grow there, and how it is there I dare not tell thee.”

“I only do what he asks!” said Death. “I am his gardener. I take all his flowers and trees and plant them in the great garden of Paradise, in the unknown land. But I dare not tell you how they grow there, or what it is like there.”

“Give me back my child!” said the mother, and she wept and prayed. At once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to Death, “I will tear all thy flowers off, for I am in despair.”

“Give me back my child!” said the mother, weeping and pleading. At once, she grabbed two beautiful flowers nearby, one in each hand. She cried out to Death, “I will tear off all your flowers, because I am desperate.”

“Touch them not!” said Death. “Thou say'st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy.”

“Don't touch them!” said Death. “You say you are so unhappy, and now you want to make another mother just as unhappy.”

“Another mother!” said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers.

“Another mother!” said the poor woman, and immediately let go of both flowers.

“There, thou hast thine eyes,” said Death; “I fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; I knew not they were thine. Take them again, they are now brighter than before; now look down into the deep well close by; I shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life—their whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy.”

“There, here are your eyes,” said Death. “I fished them out of the lake because they shone so brightly. I didn’t know they were yours. Take them back. They are brighter now than before. Now look down into the deep well nearby. I will tell you the names of the two flowers you were about to pull up. You will see their whole future lives, their entire human existence. And you will see what you were about to disturb and destroy.”

And she looked down into the well; and it was a happiness to see how the one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywhere. And she saw the other's life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness.

And she looked down into the well. She was happy to see how one became a blessing to the world, bringing happiness and joy everywhere. And she saw the other’s life, which was full of sorrow, distress, horror, and misery.

“Both of them are God's will!” said Death.

“Both are God's will!” said Death.

“Which of them is Misfortune's flower and which is that of Happiness?” asked she.

“Which of them is Misfortune's flower, and which is Happiness's?” she asked.

“That I will not tell thee,” said Death; “but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own child! it was thy child's fate thou saw'st—thy own child's future life!”

“I will not tell you that,” said Death. “But I will tell you this: one of the flowers was your own child! You saw your child's fate, your own child's future life!”

Then the mother screamed with terror, “Which of them was my child? Tell it me! Save the innocent! Save my child from all that misery! Rather take it away! Take it into God's kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that I have done!”

Then the mother screamed in terror, “Which of them was my child? Tell me! Save my innocent child! Save my child from all that misery! Take my child away instead! Take my child into God's kingdom! Forget my tears, forget my prayers, and forget all that I have done!”

“I do not understand thee!” said Death. “Wilt thou have thy child again, or shall I go with it there, where thou dost not know!”

“I don't understand you!” said Death. “Do you want your child back, or shall I take your child to a place you don't know?”

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our Lord: “Oh, hear me not when I pray against Thy will, which is the best! hear me not! hear me not!”

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell to her knees, and prayed to the Lord: “Oh, do not listen to me when I pray against your will, for your will is best! Do not listen to me! Do not listen to me!”

And she bowed her head down in her lap, and Death took her child and went with it into the unknown land.

She bowed her head into her lap, and Death took her child and went with the child into the unknown land.