Next morning, when they sat at breakfast, he told his wife all he had heard and seen in the big town, and then he added, “And all the very fine ladies there have now the funniest fashion.”
“And what is that?” asked his wife; “pray tell me, for I love to hear the new fashions.”
“Why,” said the ploughman, “ ’tis with their hair. Instead of wearing it long, they have it cut quite close all round their heads, because they say it looks smarter now.”
“Well, I do call that a silly fashion,” said the wife; “they can’t have had much hair to consent to have had it cut off.”
“No, indeed,” said her husband, “and yet with some of them, they look very smart and pretty with their little curly heads.”
“Much like boys, I should think,” said the wife scornfully.
“No, not quite that, either,” said the ploughman, “more like the pictures of angels in the old churches, and they say it is the great thing for it to curl up all round the head, and when it does that of itself, they are very proud of it.”
“Well, then, some of them might be very proud of mine,” said the wife, “for it’s as curly as may be, and if I were to cut it short would be all in tiny curls.”
When her husband had gone to his work, the ploughman’s wife could do nothing but think of the strange new fashion of which her husband had told her. “I wonder how it would suit me,” she thought, and when he came in to dinner she said to him—
“Husband, is it really true that all those fine ladies looked very pretty and smart with their hair short?”
“Ay, that they did,” he said; “I was quite surprised to see them, and I heard they said ’twas a wonderful saving of trouble, and that their hair could never grow untidy.”
“That is true,” said the wife, “yet I should be sorry to cut mine off.”
“No need that you should,” said the ploughman, “and there are not many folks up here to see if we are in the fashion or not. All the same, you are sure to look prettier than the town ladies anyway, whichever way your hair is done, for your face is prettier.”
But when her husband had gone away again the wife went to her glass with the scissors in her hand. “As my husband says,” she quoth, “it would be a wonderful saving of trouble, and then it would be very nice to let all the women round see that I could be in the fashion before they. I wonder how it would look?” and she snipped off a big bit. “Here goes,” she cried; “after all ’tis best to follow the fashions, whatever they are,” and she went on cutting till, when her husband came in, he found her with her hair all cut off beside her.
“There, husband,” cried she, “do I look like the smart ladies in town?”
“Ay, that you do,” he answered, “only ten times prettier; but as for all that beautiful hair, you must just give it to me, for it is so beautiful I would not let it be lost for anything,” and he took up all the heap of fine gold hair and tied it together with a bright ribbon.
The wife looked at herself in the glass, and thought she really looked very nice with little curls all round her head, and though the ploughman grieved over it in his heart, yet he was glad he had got her hair, and thought, “Now at last that miserable little gnome will be content, and leave me alone.” So that evening, when his wife was gone to bed, he took the bunch of hair and laid it near the hole, and it disappeared, and he knew the gnome had it.
So for a time all went on quietly with the ploughman, and he hoped he should not hear more of the gnome, but one evening, after his wife had gone to bed and he was in the kitchen smoking his pipe alone, he heard the hated voice shouting, “Stop! I am coming up,” and then he saw the little black thing like a black beetle coming through the hole, and all happened just as before.
“Well, what do you want now?” cried the ploughman when he saw the ugly little woman in front of him. “I have given you my wife’s hair, and surely you ought to be content.”
“Not at all,” said the gnome, “for I have tried on her hair, and I find it does not suit my complexion. I have never seen her myself, and I don’t think you any judge, but I heard you telling her that her face was prettier than any of the town ladies. In that case you have no right to keep it for yourself. I must have your wife’s face.”
“My wife’s face!” screamed the ploughman, “I think you must be mad. How can I give you my wife’s face? And what would you do with it?”
“Wear it,” answered the gnome; “and all you have to do is to fetch your wife in here this day week, and tell her what I wish; and I will come up and scrape off as much of her face as I want.”
“Why, it would kill her,” cried the ploughman.
“Not at all,” said the gnome, “neither would it hurt her, for she would scarcely feel my little knife; the only thing is, that when I have done, her skin will be rather black and shrivelled like my own, but as mine has been good enough for me all these years, it will surely be good enough for a common human woman. Anyhow, now you know. I must have your wife’s complexion to wear with her hair, or else I go at once. And as it will be you who have broken the compact, I shall take all your wealth with me.” And repeating
