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"The Princess and the Goblin"
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THE
PRINCESS'S KING-PAPA
THE weather
continued fine for weeks, and the little princess
went out every day. So long a period of fine weather
had indeed never been known upon that mountain. The
only uncomfortable thing was that her nurse was so
nervous and particular about being in before the sun
was down that often she would take to her heels when
nothing worse than a fleecy cloud crossing the sun
threw a shadow on the hillside; and many an evening
they were home a full hour before the sunlight had
left the weather-cock on the stables. If it had not
been for such odd behaviour Irene would by this time
have almost forgotten the goblins. She never forgot
Curdie, but him she remembered for his own sake, and
indeed would have remembered him if only because a
princess never forgets her debts until they are
paid.
One splendid
sunshiny day, about an hour after noon, Irene, who
was playing on a lawn in the garden, heard the
distant blast of a bugle. She jumped up with a cry
of joy, for she knew by that particular blast that
her father was on his way to see her. This part of
the garden lay on the slope of the hill and allowed
a full view of the country below. So she shaded her
eyes with her hand and looked far away to catch the
first glimpse of shining armour. In a few moments a
little troop came glittering round the [103]
shoulder of a hill. Spears and helmets were
sparkling and gleaming, banners were flying, horses
prancing, and again came the bugle-blast which was
to her like the voice of her father calling across
the distance: "Irene, I'm coming."
On and on they came until she could clearly
distinguish the king. He rode a white horse and was
taller than any of the men with him. He wore a
narrow circle of gold set with jewels around his
helmet, and as he came still nearer Irene
could discern the flashing of the stones in the sun.
It was a long time since he had been to see her, and
her little heart beat faster and faster as the
shining troop approached, for she loved her
king-papa very dearly and was nowhere so happy as in
his arms. When they reached a certain point, after
which she could see them no more from the garden,
she ran to the gate, and there stood till up they
came, clanging and stamping, with one more bright
bugle-blast which said: "Irene, I am come."
By this time the people of the house were all
gathered at the gate, but Irene stood alone in front
of them. When the horsemen pulled up she ran to the
side of the white horse and held up her arms. The
king stopped and took her hands. In an instant she
was on the saddle and clasped in his great strong
arms. I wish I could describe the king so that you
could see him in your mind. He had gentle, blue
eyes, but a nose that made him look like an eagle. A
long dark beard, streaked with silvery lines, flowed
from his mouth almost to his waist, and as Irene sat
on the saddle and hid her glad face upon his bosom
it mingled with the golden hair which her mother had
[105] given her, and the two together were like a
cloud with streaks of the sun woven through it.
After he had held her to his heart for a minute he
spoke to his white horse, and the great beautiful
creature, which had been prancing so proudly a
little while before, walked as gently as a lady—for
he knew he had a little lady on his back—through the
gate and up to the door of the house. Then the king
set her on the ground and, dismounting, took her
hand and walked with her into the great hall, which
was hardly ever entered except when he came to see
his little princess. There he sat down, with two of
his counsellors who had accompanied him, to have
some refreshment, and Irene sat on his right hand
and drank her milk out of a wooden bowl curiously
carved.
After the
king had eaten and drunk he turned to the princess
and said, stroking her hair:
"Now, my
child, what shall we do next?"
This was the
question he almost always put to her first after
their meal together; and Irene had been waiting for
it with some impatience, for now, she thought, she
should be able to settle a question which constantly
perplexed her.
"I should
like you to take me to see my great old
grandmother."
The king
looked grave and said:
"What does
my little daughter mean?"
"I mean the
Queen Irene that lives up in the tower—the very old
lady, you know, with the long hair of silver."
The king
only gazed at his little princess with a look which
she could not understand.
"She's got her crown in her bedroom," she went on;
"but I've not been in there yet. You know she's
there, don't you?"
"No," said
the king, very quietly.
"Then it
must all be a dream," said Irene. "I half thought it
was; but I couldn't be sure. Now I am sure of it.
Besides, I couldn't find her the next time I went
up."
At that
moment a snow-white pigeon flew in at an open window
and settled upon Irene's head. She broke into a
merry laugh, cowered a little, and put up her hands
to her head, saying—
"Dear dovey,
don't peck me. You'll pull out my hair with your
long claws if you don't mind."
The king
stretched out his hand to take the pigeon, but it
spread its wings and flew again through the open
window, when its Whiteness made one flash in the sun
and vanished. The king laid his hand on his
princess's head, held it back a little, gazed in her
face, smiled half a smile, and sighed half a sigh.
"Come, my
child; we'll have a walk in the garden together," he
said.
"You won't
come up and see my huge, great, beautiful
grandmother, then, king-papa?" said the princess.
"Not this
time," said the king very gently. "She has not
invited me, you know, and great old ladies like her
do not choose to be visited without leave asked and
given."
The garden
was a very lovely place. Being upon a Mountainside
there were parts in it where the rocks came through
in great masses, and all immediately about them
remained quite wild. Tufts of heather grew upon
them, and other hardy mountain plants and flowers,
while near them would be lovely roses and lilies and
all pleasant garden flowers. This mingling of the
wild mountain with the civilized garden was very
quaint, and it was impossible for any number of
gardeners to make such a garden look formal and
stiff.
Against one
of these rocks was a garden seat, shadowed from the
afternoon sun by the overhanging of the rock itself.
There was a little winding path up to the top of the
rock, and on top another seat; but they sat on the
seat at its foot because the sun was hot; and there
[109] they talked together of many things. At length
the king said:
"You were
out late one evening, Irene."
"Yes, papa.
It was my fault; and Lootie was very sorry."
"I must talk
to Lootie about it," said the king.
"Don't speak
loud to her, please, papa," said Irene. "She's been
so afraid of being late ever since! Indeed she has
not been naughty. It was only a mistake for once."
"Once might
be too often," murmured the king to himself, as he
stroked his child's head.
I can't tell
you how he had come to know. I am sure Curdie had
not told him. Someone about the palace must have
seen them, after all. He sat for a good while
thinking. There was no sound to be heard except that
of a little stream which ran merrily out of an
opening in the rock by where they sat, and sped away
down the hill through the garden. Then he rose and,
leaving Irene where she was, went into the house and
sent for Lootie, with whom he had a talk that made
her cry.
When in the
evening he rode away upon his great white
horse, he left six of his attendants behind him,
with orders that three of them should watch outside
the house every night, walking round and round it
from sunset to sunrise. It was clear he was not
quite comfortable about the princess.
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THE
OLD LADY'S BEDROOM
NOTHING more
happened worth telling for some time. The autumn
came and went by. There were no more flowers in the
garden. The wind blew strong, and howled among the
rocks. The rain fell, and drenched the few yellow
and red leaves that could not get off the bare
branches. Again and again there would be a glorious
morning followed by a pouring afternoon, and
sometimes, for a week together, there would be rain,
nothing but rain, all day, and then the most lovely
cloudless night, with the sky all out in full-blown
stars—not one missing. But the princess could not
see much of them, for she went to bed early. The
winter drew on, and she found things growing dreary.
When it was too stormy to go out, and she had got
tired of her toys, Lootie would take her about the
house, sometimes to the housekeeper's room, where
the housekeeper, who was a [112] good, kind old
woman, made much of her—sometimes to the servants'
hall or the kitchen, where she was not princess
merely, but absolute queen, and ran a great risk of
being spoiled. Sometimes she would run off herself
to the room where the men-at-arms whom the king had
left sat, and they showed her their arms and
accoutrements and did what they could to amuse her.
Still at times she found it very dreary, and often
and often wished that her huge great grandmother had
not been a dream.
One morning
the nurse left her with the housekeeper for a while.
To amuse her she turned out the contents of an old
cabinet upon the table. The little princess found
her treasures, queer ancient ornaments, and many
things the use of which she could not imagine, far
more interesting than her own toys, and sat playing
with them for two hours or more. But, at length, in
handling a curious old-fashioned brooch, she ran the
pin of it into her thumb, and gave a little scream
with the sharpness of the pain, but would have
thought little more of it had not the pain increased
and her thumb begun to swell. This alarmed the
housekeeper greatly. The nurse was [113] fetched;
the doctor was sent for; her hand was poulticed, and
long before her usual time she was put to bed. The
pain still continued, and although she fell asleep
and dreamed a good many dreams, there was the pain
always in every dream. At last it woke her UP.
The moon was
shining brightly into the room. The poultice had
fallen off her hand and it was burning hot. She
fancied if she could hold it into the moonlight that
would cool it. So she got out of bed, without waking
the nurse who lay at the other end of the room, and
went to the window. When she looked out she saw one
of the men-at-arms walking in the garden with the
moonlight glancing on his armour. She was just going
to tap on the window and call him, for she wanted to
tell him all about it, when she bethought herself
that that might wake Lootie, and she would put her
into her bed again. So she resolved to go to the
window of another room, and call him from there. It
was so much nicer to have somebody to talk to than
to lie awake in bed with the burning pain in her
hand. She opened the door very gently and went
through the nursery, which did not look into the
garden, to go to the other window. But when she came
to the foot of the old staircase there was the moon
shining down from some window high up, and making
the worm-eaten oak look very strange and delicate
and lovely. In a moment she was putting her little
feet one after the other in the silvery path up the
stair, looking behind as she went, to see the shadow
they made in the middle of the silver. Some little
girls would have been afraid to find [115]
themselves thus alone in the middle of the night,
but Irene was a princess.
As she went slowly up the stair, not quite sure that
she was not dreaming, suddenly a great longing woke
up in her heart to try once more whether she could
not find the old lady with the silvery hair.
"If she is a
dream," she said to herself, "then I am the likelier
to find her, if I am dreaming."
So up and up
she went, stair after stair, until she Came to the
many rooms—all just as she had seen them before.
Through passage after passage she softly sped,
comforting herself that if she should lose her way
it would not matter much, because when she woke she
would find herself in her own bed with Lootie not
far off. But, as if she had known every step of the
way, she walked straight to the door at the foot of
the narrow stair that led to the tower.
"What if I
should realreality-really find my beautiful old
grandmother up there!" she said to herself as she
crept up the steep steps.
When she
reached the top she stood a moment listening in the
dark, for there was no moon there. Yes! it was! it
was the hum of the spinning-wheel! What a
diligent grandmother to work both day and night!
She tapped
gently at the door.
"Come in,
Irene," said the sweet voice.
The princess
opened the door and entered. There was the moonlight
streaming in at the window, and in the middle of the
moonlight sat the old lady in her black dress with
the white lace, and her silvery hair mingling with
the moonlight, so that you could not have told which
was which.
"Come in,
Irene," she said again. "Can you tell me what I am
spinning?"
"She
speaks," thought Irene, "just as if she had seen me
five minutes ago, or yesterday at the farthest.
—No," she answered; "I don't know what you are
spinning. Please, I thought you were a dream. Why
couldn't I find you before,
great-great-grandmother?"
"That you
are hardly old enough to understand. But you would
have found me sooner if you hadn't come to think I
was a dream. I will give you one reason though why
you couldn't find me. I didn't want you to find me."
"Why,
please?"
"Because I
did not want Lootie to know I was here."
"But you
told me to tell Lootie."
"Yes. But I
knew Lootie would not believe you. If she were to
see me sitting spinning here, she wouldn't believe
me, either."
"Why?"
"Because she
couldn't. She would rub her eyes, and go away and
say she felt queer, and forget half of it and more,
and then say it had been all a dream."
"Just like
me," said Irene, feeling very much ashamed of
herself.
"Yes, a good
deal like you, but not just like you; for you've
come again; and Lootie wouldn't have come again. She
would have said, No, no—she had had enough of such
nonsense."
"Is it
naughty of Lootie, then?"
"It would be
naughty of you. I've never done anything for
Lootie."
"And you did
wash my face and hands for me," said Irene,
beginning to cry.
The old lady
smiled a sweet smile and said—
"I'm not
vexed with you, my child—nor with Lootie either. But
I don't want you to say anything more to Lootie
about me. If she should ask you, you must just be
silent. But I do not think she will ask you."
All the time
they talked the old lady kept on spinning.
"You haven't
told me yet what I am spinning," she said.
"Because I
don't know. It's very pretty stuff."
It was
indeed very pretty stuff. There was a good bunch of
it on the distaff attached to the spinning-wheel,
and in the moonlight it shone like—what shall i say
it was like? It was not white enough for silver—yes,
it was like silver, but shone grey rather than
white, and glittered only a little. And the thread
the old lady drew out from it was so fine that Irene
could hardly see it.
"I am
spinning this for you, my child."
"For me!
What am I to do with it, please?"
"I will tell
you by and by. But first I will tell you what it is.
It is spider-web—of a particular kind. My pigeons
bring it me from over the great sea. There is only
one forest where the spiders live who make this
particular kind—the finest and strongest of
any. I have nearly finished my present job. What is
on the rock now will be enough. I have a week's work
there yet, though," she added, looking at the bunch.
"Do you work
all day and all night, too, great-great-
great-great-grandmother?" said the princess,
thinking to be very polite with so many greats.
"I am not
quite so great as all that," she answered, smiling
almost merrily. "If you call me grandmother, that
will do.—No, I don't work every night—only moonlit
nights, and then no longer than the moon shines upon
my wheel. I shan't work much longer to-night."
"And what
will you do next, grandmother?"
"Go to bed.
Would you like to see my bedroom?"
"Yes, that I
should."
"Then I
think I won't work any longer tonight. I shall be in
good time."
The old lady
rose, and left her wheel standing just as it was.
You see there was no good in putting it away, for
where there was not any furniture there was no
danger of being untidy.
Then she
took Irene by the hand, but it was her bad hand and
Irene gave a little cry of pain. "My child!" said
her grandmother, "what is the matter?"
Irene held
her hand into the moonlight, that the old lady might
see it, and told her all about it, at which she
looked grave. But she only said— "Give me your other
hand"; and, having led her out upon the little dark
landing, opened the door on the opposite side of it.
What was Irene's surprise to see the loveliest room
she had ever seen in her life! It was large and
lofty, and dome-shaped. From the centre hung a lamp
as round as a ball, shining as if with the brightest
moonlight, which made everything visible in the
room, though not so clearly that the princess could
tell what many of the things were. A large oval bed
stood in the middle, with a coverlid of rose colour,
and velvet curtains all round it of a lovely pale
blue. The walls were also blue—spangled all over
with what looked like stars of silver.
The old lady
left her and, going to a strange-looking cabinet,
opened it and took out a curious silver casket. Then
she sat down on a low chair, [121] and calling
Irene, made her kneel before her while she looked at
her hand. Having examined it, she opened the casket,
and took from it a little ointment. The sweetest
odour filled the room—like that of roses and
lilies—as she rubbed the ointment gently all over
the hot swollen hand. Her touch was so pleasant and
cool that it seemed to drive away the pain and heat
wherever it came.
"Oh,
grandmother! it is so nice!" said Irene. "Thank you;
thank you."
Then the old
lady went to a chest of drawers, and took out a
large handkerchief of gossamer-like cambric, which
she tied round her hand.
"I don't
think I can let you go away tonight," she said. "Do
you think you would like to sleep with me?"
"Oh, yes,
yes, dear grandmother," said Irene, and would have
clapped her hands, forgetting that she could not.
"You won't
be afraid, then, to go to bed with such an old
woman?"
"No. You are
so beautiful, grandmother."
"But I am
very old."
"And I
suppose I am very young. You won't mind sleeping
with such a very young woman, grandmother?"
"You sweet
little pertness!" said the old lady, and drew her
towards her, and kissed her on the forehead and the
cheek and the mouth.
Then she got
a large silver basin, and having poured some water
into it made Irene sit on the chair, and washed her
feet. This done, she was ready for bed. And oh, what
a delicious bed it was into which her grandmother
laid her! She hardly could have told she was lying
upon anything: she felt nothing but the softness.
The old lady having undressed herself lay down
beside her.
"Why don't
you put out your moon?" asked the princess.
"That never
goes out, night or day," she answered. "In the
darkest night, if any of my pigeons are out on a
message, they always see my moon and know where to
fly to."
"But if
somebody besides the pigeons were to see it—somebody
about the house, I mean—they would come to look what
it was and find you."
"The better
for them, then," said the old lady. "But it does not
happen above five times in a [123] hundred years
that anyone does see it.
The greater
part of those who do take it for a meteor, wink
their eyes, and forget it again. Besides, nobody
could find the room except I pleased. Besides,
again—I will tell you a secret—if that light were to
go out you would fancy yourself lying in a bare
garret, on a heap of old straw, and would not see
one of the pleasant things round about you all the
time."
"I hope it
will never go out," said the princess.
"I hope not.
But it is time we both went to sleep. Shall I take
you in my arms?"
The little
princess nestled close up to the old lady, who took
her in both her arms and held her close to her
bosom.
"Oh, dear!
this is so nice!" said the princess. "I didn't know
anything in the world could be so comfortable. I
should like to lie here for ever."
"You may if
you will," said the old lady. "But I must put you to
one trial-not a very hard one, I hope. This night
week you must come back to me. If you don't, I do
not know when you may find me again, and you Will
soon want me very much."
"Oh! please,
don't let me forget."
"You shall
not forget. The only question is whether you will
believe I am anywhere—whether you will believe I am
anything but a dream. You may be sure I will do all
I can to help you to come. But it will rest with
yourself, after all. On the night of next Friday,
you must come to me. Mind now."
"I will
try," said the princess.
"Then good
night," said the old lady, and kissed the forehead
which lay in her bosom.
In a moment
more the little princess was dreaming in the midst
of the loveliest dreams—of summer seas and moonlight
and mossy springs and great murmuring trees, and
beds of wild flowers with such odours as she had
never smelled before. But, after all, no dream could
be more lovely than what she had left behind when
she fell asleep.
In the
morning she found herself in her own bed. There was
no handkerchief or anything else on her hand, only a
sweet odour lingered about it. The swelling had all
gone down; the prick of the brooch had vanished—in
fact, her hand was perfectly well.
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A
SHORT CHAPTER ABOUT CURDIE
CURDIE spent
many nights in the mine. His father and he had taken
Mrs. Peterson into the secret, for they knew mother
could hold her tongue, which was more than could be
said of all the miners' wives. But Curdie did not
tell her that every night he spent in the mine, part
of it went in earning a new red petticoat for her.
Mrs.
Peterson was such a nice good mother! All mothers
are nice and good more or less, but Mrs. Peterson
was nice and good all more and no less. She made and
kept a little heaven in that poor cottage on the
high hill-side—for her husband and son to go home to
out of the low and rather dreary earth in which they
worked. I doubt if the princess was very much
happier even in the arms of her huge
great-grandmother than Peter and Curdie were in the
arms of Mrs. Peterson. True, her hands were hard,
and chapped, and [126] large, but it was with work
for them; and therefore, in the sight of the angels,
her hands were so much the more beautiful. And if
Curdie worked hard to get her a petticoat, she
worked hard every day to get him comforts which he
would have missed much more than she would a new
petticoat even in winter. Not that she and Curdie
ever thought of how much they worked for each other:
that would have spoiled everything.
When left
alone in the mine Curdie always worked on for an
hour or two at first, following the lode which,
according to Glump, would lead at last into the
deserted habitation. After that, he would set out on
a reconnoitring expedition. In order to manage this,
or rather the return from it, better than the first
time, he had bought a huge ball of fine string,
having learned the trick from Hop-o'-my-Thumb, whose
history his mother had often told him. Not that
Hop-o'-my-Thumb had ever used a ball of string—I
should be sorry to be supposed so far out in my
classics—but the principle was the same as that of
the pebbles. The end of this string he fastened to
his pickaxe, which figured no bad anchor, and then,
with the ball in his hand, unrolling it as he went,
set out in the dark through the natural gangs of the
goblins' territory. The first night or two he came
upon nothing worth remembering; saw only a little of
the home-life of the cobs in the various caves they
called houses; failed in coming upon anything to
cast light upon the foregoing design which kept the
inundation for the present in the background. But at
length, I think on the third or fourth night, he
found, partly guided by the noise of their
implements, a company of evidently the best sappers
and miners amongst them, hard at work. What were
they about? It could not well be the inundation,
seeing that had in the meantime been postponed to
something else. Then what was it? He lurked and
watched, every now and then in the greatest risk of
being detected, but without success. He had again
and again to retreat in haste, a proceeding rendered
the more difficult that he had to gather up his
string as he returned upon its course. It was not
that he was afraid of the goblins, but that he was
afraid of their finding out that they were watched,
which might have prevented the discovery at which he
aimed. Sometimes his haste had to be such that, when
he reached home towards morning, his string, for
lack of time to wind it up as he "dodged the cobs",
would be in what seemed most hopeless entanglement;
but after a good sleep, though a short one, he
always found his mother had got it right again.
There it was, wound in a most respectable ball,
ready for use the moment he should want it!
"I can't
think how you do it, mother," he would say.
"I follow
the thread," she would answer—"just as you do in the
mine."
She never
had more to say about it; but the less clever she
was with her words, the more clever she was with her
hands; and the less his mother said, the more Curdie
believed she had to say.
But still he
had made no discovery as to what the goblin miners
were about.
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THE COBS' CREATURES
ABOUT this time the gentlemen whom the king had left
behind him to watch over the princess had each
occasion to doubt the testimony of his own eyes, for
more than strange were the objects to which they
would bear witness. They were of one
sort—creatures—but so grotesque and misshapen as to
be more like a child's drawings upon his slate than
anything natural. They saw them only at night, while
on guard about the house. The testimony of the man
who first reported having seen one of them was that,
as he was walking slowly round the house, while yet
in the shadow, he caught sight of a creature
standing on its hind legs in the moonlight, with its
forefeet upon a window-ledge, staring in at the
window. Its body might have been that of a dog or
wolf—he thought, but he declared on his honour that
its head was twice the size it ought to have been
for the size of its body, and as round as a
ball, while the face, which it turned upon him as it
fled, was more like one carved by a boy upon the
turnip inside which he is going to put a candle than
anything else he could think of. It rushed into the
garden. He sent an arrow after it, and thought he
must have struck it; for it gave an unearthly howl,
and he could not find his arrow any more than the
beast, although he searched all about the place
where it vanished. They laughed at him until
he was driven to hold his tongue, and said he must
have taken too long a pull at the ale-jug. But
before two nights were over he had one to side with
him, for he, too, had seen something strange, only
quite different from that reported by the other. The
description the second man gave of the creature he
had seen was yet more grotesque and unlikely. They
were both laughed at by the rest; but night after
night another came over to their side, until at last
there was only one left to laugh at all his
companions. Two nights more passed, and he saw
nothing; but on the third he came rushing from the
garden to the other two before the house, in such an
agitation that they declared—for it was their turn
now—that the band of his helmet was cracking under
his chin with the rising of his hair inside it.
Running with him into that part of the garden which
I have already described, they saw a score of
creatures, to not one of which they could give a
name, and not one of which was like another, hideous
and ludicrous at once, gambolling on the lawn in the
moonlight. The supernatural or rather subnatural
ugliness of their faces, the length of legs and
necks in some, the apparent absence of both or
either in others, made the spectators, although in
one consent as to what they saw, yet doubtful, as I
have said, of the evidence of their own eyes—and
ears as well; for the noises they made, although not
loud, were as uncouth and varied as their forms, and
could be described neither as grunts nor squeaks nor
roars nor howls nor barks nor yells nor screams nor
croaks nor hisses nor mews nor shrieks, but only as
something like all of them mingled in one horrible
dissonance. Keeping in the shade, the watchers had a
few moments to recover themselves before the hideous
assembly suspected their presence; but all at once,
as if by common consent, they scampered off in the
direction of a great rock, and vanished before the
men had come to themselves sufficiently to think of
following them.
My readers will suspect what these were; but I will
now give them full information concerning them. They
were, of course, household animals belonging to the
goblins, whose ancestors had taken their ancestors
many centuries before from the upper regions of
light into the lower regions of darkness. The
original stocks of these horrible creatures were
very much the same as the animals now seen
about farms and homes in the country, with the
exception of a few of them, which had been wild
creatures, such as foxes, and indeed wolves and
small bears, which the goblins, from their
proclivity towards the animal creation, had caught
when cubs and tamed. But in the course of time all
had undergone even greater changes than had passed
upon their owners. They had altered—that is, their
descendants had altered—into such creatures as I
have not attempted to describe except in the vaguest
manner—the various parts of their bodies assuming,
in an apparently arbitrary and self-willed manner,
the most abnormal developments. Indeed, so little
did any distinct type predominate in some of the
bewildering results, that you could only have
guessed at any known animal as the original, and
even then, what likeness remained would be more one
of general expression than of definable
conformation. But what increased the gruesomeness
tenfold was that, from constant domestic, or indeed
rather family association with the goblins, their
countenances had grown in grotesque resemblance to
the human. No one understands animals who does not
see that every one of them, even amongst the
fishes, it may be with a dimness and vagueness
infinitely remote, yet shadows the human: in the
case of these the human resemblance had greatly
increased: while their owners had sunk towards them,
they had risen towards their owners. But the
conditions of subterranean life being equally
unnatural for both, while the goblins were worse,
the creatures had not improved by the approximation,
and its result would have appeared far more
ludicrous than consoling to the warmest lover of
animal nature. I shall now explain how it was that
just then these animals began to show themselves
about the king's country house.
The goblins,
as Curdie had discovered, were mining on—at work
both day and night, in divisions, urging the scheme
after which he lay in wait. In the course of their
tunnelling they had broken into the channel of a
small stream, but the break being in the top of it,
no water had escaped to interfere with their work.
Some of the creatures, hovering as they often did
about their masters, had found the hole, and had,
with the curiosity which had grown to a passion from
the restraints of their unnatural circumstances,
proceeded to explore the channel. The stream was the
same which ran out by the seat on which Irene and
her king-papa had sat as I have told, and the goblin
creatures found it jolly fun to get out for a romp
on a smooth lawn such as they had never seen in all
their poor miserable lives. But although they had
partaken enough of the nature of their owners to
delight in annoying and alarming any of the people
whom they met on the mountain, they were, of course,
incapable of designs of their own, or of
intentionally furthering those of their masters.
For several
nights after the men-at-arms were at length of one
mind as to the fact of the visits of some horrible
creatures, whether bodily or spectral they could not
yet say, they watched with special attention that
part of the garden where they had last seen them.
Perhaps indeed they gave in consequence too little
attention to the house. But the creatures were too
cunning to be easily caught; nor were the watchers
quick-eyed enough to descry the head, or the keen
eyes in it, which, from the opening whence the
stream issued, would watch them in turn, ready, the
moment they should leave the lawn, to report the
place clear.
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THAT NIGHT WEEK
DURING the
whole of the week Irene had been thinking every
other moment of her promise to the old lady,
although even now she could not feel quite sure that
she had not been dreaming. Could it really be that
an old lady lived up in the top of the house, with
pigeons and a spinning-wheel, and a lamp that never
went out? She was, however, none the less
determined, on the coming Friday, to ascend the
three stairs, walk through the passages with the
many doors, and try to find the tower in which she
had either seen or dreamed her grandmother.
Her nurse
could not help wondering what had come to the
child—she would sit so thoughtfully silent, and even
in the midst of a game with her would so suddenly
fall into a dreamy mood. But Irene took care to
betray nothing, whatever efforts Lootie might make
to get at her thoughts. [137] And Lootie had to say
to herself: "What an odd child she is!" and give it
up.
At length
the longed-for Friday arrived, and lest Lootie
should be moved to watch her, Irene endeavoured to
keep herself as quiet as possible. In the afternoon
she asked for her doll's house, and went on
arranging and rearranging the various rooms and
their inhabitants for a whole hour. Then she gave a
sigh and threw herself back in her chair. One of the
dolls would not sit, and another would not stand,
and they were all very tiresome. Indeed, there was
one would not even lie down, which was too bad. But
it was now getting dark, and the darker it got the
more excited Irene became, and the more she felt it
necessary to be composed.
"I see you
want your tea, princess," said the nurse: "I will go
and get it. The room feels close: I will open the
window a little. The evening is mild: it won't hurt
you."
"There's no
fear of that, Lootie," said Irene, wishing she had
put off going for the tea till it was darker, when
she might have made her attempt with every
advantage.
I fancy
Lootie was longer in returning than she had
intended; for when Irene, who had been lost in
thought, looked up, she saw it was nearly dark, and
at the same moment caught sight of a pair of eyes,
bright with a green light, glowering at her through
the open window. The next instant something leaped
into the room. It was like a cat, with legs as long
as a horse's, Irene said, but its body no bigger and
its legs no thicker than those of a cat. She was too
frightened to cry out, but not too frightened to
jump from her chair and run from the room.
It is plain
enough to every one of my readers what she ought to
have done—and indeed,Irene thought of it herself;
but when she came to the foot of the old stair, just
outside the nursery door, she imagined the creature
running up those long ascents after her, and
pursuing her through the dark passages—which, after
all, might lead to no tower! That thought was too
much. Her heart failed her, and, turning from the
stair, she rushed along to the hall, whence, finding
the front door open, she darted into the court
pursued—at least she thought so—by the creature. No
one happening to see her, on she ran, unable to
think for fear, and ready to run anywhere to [139]
elude the awful creature with the stilt-legs. Not
daring to look behind her, she rushed straight out
of the gate and up the mountain. It was foolish
indeed—thus to run farther and farther from all who
could help her, as if she had been seeking a fit
spot for the goblin creature to eat her in his
leisure; but that is the way fear serves us: it
always sides with the thing we are afraid of.
The princess
was soon out of breath with running uphill; but she
ran on, for she fancied the horrible creature just
behind her, forgetting that, had it been after her
such long legs as those must have overtaken her long
ago. At last she could run no longer, and fell,
unable even to scream, by the roadside, where she
lay for some time half dead with terror. But finding
nothing lay hold of her, and her breath beginning to
come back, she ventured at length to get half up and
peer anxiously about her. It was now so dark she
could see nothing. Not a single star was out. She
could not even tell in what direction the house lay,
and between her and home she fancied the dreadful
creature lying ready to pounce upon her. She saw now
that she ought to have run up [140] the stairs at
once. It was well she did not scream; for, although
very few of the goblins had come out for weeks, a
stray idler or two might have heard her. She sat
down upon a stone, and nobody but one who had done
something wrong could have been more miserable. She
had quite forgotten her promise to visit her
grandmother. A raindrop fell on her face. She looked
up, and for a moment her terror was lost in
astonishment. At first she thought the rising moon
had left her place, and drawn nigh to see what could
be the matter with the little girl, sitting alone,
without hat or cloak, on the dark bare mountain; but
she soon saw she was mistaken, for there was no
light on the ground at her feet, and no shadow
anywhere. But a great silver globe was hanging in
the air; and as she gazed at the lovely thing, her
courage revived. If she were but indoors again, she
would fear nothing, not even the terrible creature
with the long legs! But how was she to find her way
back? What could that light be? Could it be—? No, it
couldn't. But what if it should be—yes—it must
be—her great-great-grandmother's lamp, which guided
her pigeons home through the darkest night! She
jumped up: she had but to keep that light in view
and she must find the house.
Her heart
grew strong. Speedily, yet softly, she walked down
the hill, hoping to pass the watching creature
unseen. Dark as it was, there was little danger now
of choosing the wrong road. And—which was most
strange—the light that filled her eyes from the
lamp, instead of blinding them for a moment to the
object upon which they next fell, enabled her for a
moment to see it, despite the darkness. By looking
at the lamp and then dropping her eyes, she could
see the road for a yard or two in front of her, and
this saved her from several falls, for the road was
very rough. But all at once, to her dismay, it
vanished, and the terror of the beast, which had
left her the moment she began to return, again laid
hold of her heart. The same instant, however, she
caught the light of the windows, and knew exactly
where she was. It was too dark to run, but she made
what haste she could, and reached the gate in
safety. She found the house door still open, ran
through the hall, and, without even looking into the
nursery, bounded straight up the stair, and the
next, and the next; then turning to the right, ran
through the long avenue of silent rooms, and found
her way at once to the door at the foot of the tower
stair.
When first the nurse missed her, she fancied she was
playing her a trick, and for some time took no
trouble about her; but at last, getting frightened,
she had begun to search; and when the princess
entered, the whole household was hither and thither
over the house, hunting for her. A few seconds after
she reached the stair of the tower they had even
begun to search the neglected rooms, in which they
would never have thought of looking had they not
already searched every other place they could think
of in vain. But by this time she was knocking at the
old lady's door.
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WOVEN AND THEN SPUN
"COME in,
Irene," said the silvery voice of her grandmother.
The princess
opened the door and peeped in. But the room was
quite dark and there was no sound of the
spinning-wheel. She grew frightened once more,
thinking that, although the room was there, the old
lady might be a dream after all. Every little girl
knows how dreadful it is to find a room empty where
she thought somebody was; but Irene had to fancy for
a moment that the person she came to find was
nowhere at all. She remembered, however, that at
night she spun only in the moonlight, and concluded
that must be why there was no sweet, bee-like
humming: the old lady might be somewhere in the
darkness. Before she had time to think another
thought, she heard her voice again, saying as
before—
"Come in,
Irene."
From the
sound, she understood at once that she was not in
the room beside her. Perhaps she was in her bedroom.
She turned across the passage, feeling her way to
the other door. When her hand fell on the lock,
again the old lady spoke—
"Shut the
other door behind you, Irene. I always close the
door of my workroom when I go to my chamber."
Irene
wondered to hear her voice so plainly through the
door: having shut the other, she opened it and went
in. Oh, what a lovely haven to reach from the
darkness and fear through which she had come! The
soft light made her feel as if she were going into
the heart of the milkiest pearl; while the blue
walls and their silver stars for a moment perplexed
her with the fancy that they were in reality the sky
which she had left outside a minute ago covered with
rainclouds.
"I've lighted a fire for you, Irene: you're cold and
wet," said her grandmother.
Then Irene
looked again, and saw that what she had taken for a
huge bouquet of red roses on a low stand against the
wall was in fact a fire which burned in the shapes
of the loveliest and reddest roses, glowing
gorgeously between the heads and wings of two
cherubs of shining silver. And when she came nearer,
she found that the smell of roses with which the
room was filled came from the fire-roses on the
hearth. Her grandmother was dressed in the loveliest
pale blue velvet, over which her hair, no longer
white, but of a rich golden colour, streamed like a
cataract, here falling in dull gathered heaps, there
rushing away in smooth shining falls. And ever as
she looked, the hair seemed pouring down from her
head and vanishing in a golden mist ere it reached
the floor. It flowed from under the edge of a circle
of shining silver, set with alternated pearls and
opals. On her dress was no ornament whatever,
neither was there a ring on her hand, or a necklace
or carcanet about her neck. But her slippers
glimmered with the light of the Milky Way, for they
were covered with seed-pearls and opals in one mass.
Her face was that of a woman of three-and-twenty.
The princess
was so bewildered with astonishment and admiration
that she could hardly thank her, and drew nigh with
timidity, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. The lady
was seated on a low chair by the side of the fire,
with hands outstretched to take her, but the
princess hung back with a troubled smile.
"Why, what's the matter?" asked her grandmother.
"You haven't been doing anything wrong—I know that
by your face, though it is rather miserable. What's
the matter, my dear?"
And she
still held out her arms.
"Dear
grandmother," said Irene, "I'm not so sure that I
haven't done something wrong. I ought to have run up
to you at once when the long-legged cat came in at
the window, instead of running out on the mountain
and making myself such a fright."
"You were
taken by surprise, my child, and you are not so
likely to do it again. It is when people do wrong
things wilfully that they are the more likely to do
them again. Come."
And still
she held out her arms.
"But,
grandmother, you're so beautiful and grand with your
crown on; and I am so dirty with mud and rain!—I
should quite spoil your beautiful blue dress."
With a merry
little laugh the lady sprung from her chair, more
lightly far than Irene herself could, caught the
child to her bosom, and, kissing the tear-stained
face over and over, sat down with her in her lap.
"Oh,
grandmother! You'll make yourself such a mess!"
cried Irene, clinging to her.
"You
darling! do you think I care more for my dress than
for my little girl? Beside—look here."
As she spoke
she set her down, and Irene saw to her dismay that
the lovely dress was covered with the mud of her
fall on the mountain road. But the lady stooped to
the fire, and taking from it, by the stalk in her
fingers, one of the burning roses, passed it once
and again and a third time over the front of her
dress; and when Irene looked, not a single stain was
to be discovered.
"There!"
said her grandmother, "you won't mind coming to me
now?"
But Irene
again hung back, eying the flaming rose which the
lady held in her hand.
"You're not
afraid of the rose—are you?" she said, about to
throw it on the hearth again.
"Oh! don't,
please!" cried Irene. "Won't you hold it to my frock
and my hands and my face? And I'm afraid my feet and
my knees want it too."
"No,
answered her grandmother, smiling a little sadly, as
she threw the rose from her; "it is too hot for you
yet. It would set your frock in a flame. Besides, I
don't want to make you clean tonight. I want your
nurse and the rest of the people to see you as you
are, for you will have to tell them how you ran away
for fear of [150] the long-legged cat. I should like
to wash you, but they would not believe you then. Do
you see that bath behind you?"
The princess
looked, and saw a large oval tub of silver, shining
brilliantly in the light of the wonderful lamp.
"Go and look
into it," said the lady.
Irene went,
and came back very silent with her eyes shining.
"What did
you see?" asked her grandmother.
"The sky,
and the moon and the stars," she answered. "It
looked as if there was no bottom to it."
The lady
smiled a pleased satisfied smile, and was silent
also for a few moments. Then she said—
"Any time
you want a bath, come to me. I know YOU have a bath
every morning, but sometimes you want one at night,
too."
"Thank you,
grandmother; I will—I will indeed," answered Irene,
and was again silent for some moments thinking. Then
she said: "How was it, grandmother, that I saw your
beautiful lamp—not the light of it only—but the
great round silvery lamp itself, hanging alone in
the [151] great open air, high up? It was your lamp
I saw—wasn't it?"
"Yes, my
child—it was my lamp."
"Then how
was it? I don't see a window all round."
"When I
please I can make the lamp shine through the
walls—shine so strong that it melts them away from
before the sight, and shows itself as you saw it.
But, as I told you, it is not everybody can see it."
"How is it
that I can, then? I'm sure I don't know."
"It is a
gift born with you. And one day I hope everybody
will have it."
"But how do
you make it shine through the walls?"
"Ah! that
you would not understand if I were to try ever so
much to make you—not yet—not yet. But," added the
lady, rising, "you must sit in my chair while I get
you the present I have been preparing for you. I
told you my spinning was for you. It is finished
now, and I am going to fetch it. I have been keeping
it warm under one of my brooding pigeons."
Irene sat
down in the low chair, and her gramother left her,
shutting the door behind her. The child sat gazing,
now at the rose fire, now at the starry walls, now
at the silver light; and a great quietness grew in
her heart. If all the long-legged cats in the world
had come rushing at her then she would not have been
afraid of them for a moment. How this was she could
not tell—she only knew there was no fear in her, and
everything was so right and safe that it could not
get in.
She had been
gazing at the lovely lamp for some minutes fixedly:
turning her eyes, she found the wall had vanished,
for she was looking out on the dark cloudy night.
But though she heard the wind blowing, none of it
blew upon her. In a moment more the clouds
themselves parted, or rather vanished like the wall,
and she looked straight into the starry herds,
flashing gloriously in the dark blue. It was but for
a moment. The clouds gathered again and shut out the
stars; the wall gathered again and shut out the
clouds; and there stood the lady beside her with the
loveliest smile on her face, and a shimmering ball
in her hand, about the size of a pigeon's egg.
"There,
Irene; there is my work for you!" she said, holding
out the ball to the princess.
She took it
in her hand, and looked at it all over. It sparkled
a little, and shone here and there, but not much. It
was of a sort of grey-whiteness, something like spun
glass.
"Is this all
your spinning, grandmother?" she asked.
"All since
you came to the house. There is more there than you
think."
"How pretty
it is! What am I to do with it, please?"
"That I will
now explain to you," answered the lady, turning from
her and going to her cabinet.
She came
back with a small ring in her hand. Then she took
the ball from Irene's, and did something with the
ring—Irene could not tell what.
"Give me
your hand," she said.
Irene held
up her right hand.
"Yes, that
is the hand I want," said the lady, and put the ring
on the forefinger of it.
"What a
beautiful ring!" said Irene. "What is the stone
called?"
"It is a
fire-opal."
"Please, am
I to keep it?"
"Always."
"Oh, thank
you, grandmother! It's prettier than anything I ever
saw, except those—of all colours-in your—Please, is
that your crown?"
"Yes, it is
my crown. The stone in your ring is of the same
sort—only not so good. It has only red, but mine
have all colours, you see."
"Yes,
grandmother. I will take such care of it!—But—" she
added, hesitating.
"But what?"
asked her grandmother.
"What am I
to say when Lootie asks me where I got it?"
"You will
ask her where you got it," answered the lady
smiling.
"I don't see
how I can do that."
"You will,
though."
"Of course I
will, if you say so. But, you know, I can't pretend
not to know."
"Of course
not. But don't trouble yourself about it. You will
see when the time comes."
So saying,
the lady turned, and threw the little ball into the
rose fire.
"Oh,
grandmother!" exclaimed Irene; "I thought you had
spun it for me."
"So I did,
my child. And you've got it."
"No; it's
burnt in the fire!"
The lady put
her hand in the fire, brought out the ball,
glimmering as before, and held it towards her. Irene
stretched out her hand to take it, but the lady
turned and, going to her cabinet, opened a drawer,
and laid the ball in it.
"Have I done
anything to vex you, grandmother?" said Irene
pitifully.
"No, my
darling. But you must understand that no one ever
gives anything to another properly and really
without keeping it. That ball is yours."
"Oh! I'm not
to take it with me! You are going to keep it for
me!"
"You are to
take it with you. I've fastened the end of it to the
ring on your finger."
Irene looked
at the ring.
"I can't see
it there, grandmother," she said.
"Feel—a
little way from the ring—towards the cabinet," said
the lady.
"Oh! I do
feel it!" exclaimed the princess. "But I can't see
it," she added, looking close to her outstretched
hand.
"No. The
thread is too fine for you to see it. You can only
feel it. Now you can fancy how much spinning that
took, although it does seem such a little ball."
"But what
use can I make of it, if it lies in your cabinet?"
"That is
what I will explain to you. It would be of no use to
you—it wouldn't be yours at all if it did not lie in
my cabinet. Now listen. If ever you find yourself in
any danger—such, for example, as you were in this
same evening—you must take off your ring and put it
under the pillow of your bed. Then you must lay your
finger, the same that wore the ring, upon the
thread, and follow the thread wherever it leads
you."
"Oh, how
delightful! It will lead me to you, grandmother, I
know!"
"Yes. But,
remember, it may seem to you a very roundabout way
indeed, and you must not doubt the thread. Of one
thing you may be sure, that while you hold it, I
hold it too."
"It is very
wonderful!" said Irene thoughtfully. Then suddenly
becoming aware, she jumped up, crying—"Oh,
grandmother! here have I been sitting all this time
in your chair, and you standing! I beg your pardon."
The lady
laid her hand on her shoulder, and said:
"Sit down
again, Irene. Nothing pleases me better than to see
anyone sit in my chair. I am only too glad to stand
so long as anyone will sit in it."
"How kind of
you!" said the princess, and sat down again.
"It makes me
happy," said the lady.
"But," said
Irene, still puzzled, "won't the thread get in
somebody's way and be broken, if the one end is fast
to my ring, and the other laid in your cabinet?"
"You will
find all that arrange itself. I am afraid it is time
for you to go."
"Mightn't I
stay and sleep with you tonight, grandmother?"
"No, not
tonight. If I had meant you to stay tonight, I
should have given you a bath; but you know everybody
in the house is miserable about you, and it would be
cruel to keep them so all night. You must go
downstairs."
"I'm so
glad, grandmother, you didn't say Go home, for this
is my home. Mayn't I call this my home?"
"You may, my
child. And I trust you will always think it your
home. Now come. I must take you back without anyone
seeing you."
"Please, I
want to ask you one question more," said Irene. "Is
it because you have your crown on that you look so
young?"
"No, child,"
answered her grandmother; "it is because I felt so
young this evening that I put my crown on. And I
thought you would like to see your old grandmother
in her best."
"Why do you
call yourself old? You're not old, grandmother."
"I am very
old indeed. It is so silly of people—I don't mean
you, for you are such a tiny, and couldn't know
better—but it is so silly of people to fancy that
old age means crookedness and witheredness and
feebleness and sticks and spectacles and rheumatism
and forgetfulness! It is so silly! Old age has
nothing whatever to do with all that. The right old
age means strength and beauty and mirth and courage
and clear eyes and strong painless limbs. I am older
than you are able to think, and—"
"And look at
you, grandmother!" cried Irene, jumping up and
flinging her arms about her neck. "I won't be so
silly again, I promise you. At least—I'm rather
afraid to promise—but if I am, I promise to be sorry
for it—I do. I wish I were as old as you,
grandmother. I don't think you are ever afraid of
anything."
"Not for
long, at least, my child. Perhaps by the time I am
two thousand years of age, I shall, indeed, never be
afraid of anything. But I confess I have sometimes
been afraid about my children—sometimes about you,
Irene."
"Oh, I'm so
sorry, grandmother!—To-night, I suppose, you mean."
"Yes—a
little to-night; but a good deal when you had all
but made up your mind that I was a dream, and no
real great-great-grandmother. You must not suppose I
am blaming you for that. I dare say you could not
help it."
"I don't
know, grandmother," said the princess, beginning to
cry. "I can't always do myself as I should like. And
I don't always try.—I'm very sorry anyhow."
The lady
stooped, lifted her in her arms, and sat down with
her in her chair, holding her close to her bosom. In
a few minutes the princess had sobbed herself to
sleep. How long she slept I do not know. When she
came to herself she was sitting in her own high
chair at the nursery table, with her doll's house
before her.
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THE
RING
THE same
moment her nurse came into the room, sobbing. When
she saw her sitting there she started back with a
loud cry of amazement and joy. Then running to her,
she caught her in her arms and covered her with
kisses.
"My precious
darling princess! where have you been? What has
happened to you? We've all been crying our eyes out,
and searching the house from top to bottom for you."
"Not quite
from the top," thought Irene to herself; and she
might have added, "not quite to the bottom",
perhaps, if she had known all. But the one she would
not, and the other she could not say.
"Oh, Lootie!
I've had such a dreadful adventure!" she replied,
and told her all about the cat with the long legs,
and how she ran out upon the mountain, and came back
again. But she said nothing of her grandmother or
her lamp.
"And there
we've been searching for you all over the house for
more than an hour and a half!" exclaimed the nurse.
"But that's no matter, now we've got you! Only,
princess, I must say," she added, her mood changing,
"what you ought to have done was to call for your
own Lootie to come and help you, instead of running
out of the house, and up the mountain, in that
wild—I must say, foolish fashion."
"Well,
Lootie," said Irene quietly, "perhaps if you had a
big cat, all legs, running at you, you might not
exactly know what was the wisest thing to do at the
moment."
"I wouldn't
run up the mountain, anyhow," returned Lootie.
"Not if you
had time to think about it. But when those creatures
came at you that night on the mountain, you were so
frightened yourself that you lost your way home."
This put a
stop to Lootie's reproaches. She had been on the
point of saying that the long-legged cat must have
been a twilight fancy of the princess's, but the
memory of the horrors of that night, and of the
talking-to which the king had given her in
consequence, prevented her from saying what after
all she did not half believe—having a strong
suspicion that the cat was a goblin; for she knew
nothing of the difference between the goblins and
their creatures: she counted them all just goblins.
Without
another word she went and got some fresh tea and
bread and butter for the princess. Before she
returned, the whole household, headed by the
housekeeper, burst into the nursery to exult over
their darling. The gentlemen-at-arms followed, and
were ready enough to believe all she told them about
the long-legged cat. Indeed, though wise enough to
say nothing about it, they remembered, with no
little horror, just such a creature amongst those
they had surprised at their gambols upon the
princess's lawn. In their own hearts they blamed
themselves for not having kept better watch. And
their captain gave orders that from this night the
front door and all the windows on the ground floor
should be locked immediately the sun set, and opened
after upon no pretence whatever. The men-at-arms
redou- [164] bled their vigilance, and for some time
there was no further cause of alarm.
When the
princess woke the next morning, her nurse was
bending over her. "How your ring does glow this
morning, princess!—just like a fiery rose!" she
said.
"Does it,
Lootie?" returned Irene. "Who gave me the ring,
Lootie? I know I've had it a long time, but where
did I get it? I don't remember."
"I think it
must have been your mother gave it you, princess;
but really, for as long as you have worn it, I don't
remember that ever I heard," answered her nurse.
"I will ask
my king-papa the next time he comes," said Irene.
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SPRING-TIME
THE spring
so dear to all creatures, young and old, came at
last, and before the first few days of it had gone,
the king rode through its budding valleys to see his
little daughter. He had been in a distant part of
his dominions all the winter, for he was not in the
habit of stopping in one great city, or of visiting
only his favourite country houses, but he moved from
place to place, that all his people might know him.
Wherever he journeyed, he kept a constant look-out
for the ablest and best men to put into office; and
wherever he found himself mistaken, and those he had
appointed incapable or unjust, he removed them at
once. Hence you see it was his care of the people
that kept him from seeing his princess so often as
he would have liked. You may wonder why he did not
take her about with him; but there were several
reasons against his doing [166] so, and I suspect
her great-great-grandmother had had a principal hand
in preventing it. Once more Irene heard the
bugle-blast, and once more she was at the gate to
meet her father as he rode up on his great white
horse.
After they
had been alone for a little while, she thought of
what she had resolved to ask him.
"Please,
king-papa," she said, "Will you tell me where I got
this pretty ring? I can't remember."
The king
looked at it. A strange beautiful smile spread like
sunshine over his face, and an answering smile, but
at the same time a questioning one, spread like
moonlight over Irene's.
"It was your
queen-mamma's once," he said.
"And why
isn't it hers now?" asked Irene.
"She does
not want it now," said the king, looking grave.
"Why doesn't
she want it now?"
"Because
she's gone where all those rings are made."
"And when
shall I see her?" asked the princess.
"Not for
some time yet," answered the king, and the tears
came into his eyes.
Irene did
not remember her mother and did not know why her
father looked so, and why the tears came in his
eyes; but she put her arms round his neck and kissed
him, and asked no more questions.
The king was
much disturbed on hearing the report of the
gentlemen-at-arms concerning the creatures they had
seen; and I presume would have taken Irene with him
that very day, but for what the presence of the ring
on her finger assured him of. About an hour before
he left, Irene saw him go up the old stair; and he
did not come down again till they were just ready to
start; and she thought with herself that he had been
up to see the old lady. When he went away he left
other six gentlemen behind him, that there might be
six of them always on guard.
And now, in
the lovely spring weather, Irene was out on the
mountain the greater part of the day. In the warmer
hollows there were lovely primroses, and not so many
that she ever got tired of them. As often as she saw
a new one opening an eye of light in the blind
earth, she would clap her hands with gladness, and
unlike some children I know, instead of pulling it,
would touch it as tenderly as if it had been a new
baby, and, having made its acquaintance, would leave
it as happy as she found it. She treated the plants
on which they grew like birds' nests; every fresh
flower was like a new little bird to her. She would
pay visits to all the flower-nests she knew,
remembering each by itself. She would go down on her
hands and knees beside one and say: "Good morning!
Are you all smelling very sweet this morning?
Good-bye!" and then she [169] would go to another
nest, and say the same. It was a favourite amusement
with her. There were many flowers up and down, and
she loved them all, but the primroses were her
favourites.
"They're not too shy, and they're not a bit
forward," she would say to Lootie.
There were
goats too about, over the mountain, and when the
little kids came she was as pleased with them as
with the flowers. The goats belonged to the miners
mostly—a few of them to Curdie's mother; but there
were a good many wild ones that seemed to belong to
nobody. These the goblins counted theirs, and it was
upon them partly that they lived. They set snares
and dug pits for them; and did not scruple to take
what tame ones happened to be caught; but they did
not try to steal them in any other manner, because
they were afraid of the dogs the hill-people kept to
watch them, for the knowing dogs always tried to
bite their feet. But the goblins had a kind of sheep
of their own—very queer creatures, which they drove
out to feed at night, and the other goblin creatures
were wise enough to keep good watch over them, for
they knew they should have their bones by and by.
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CURDIE'S CLUE
CURDIE was
as watchful as ever, but was almost getting tired of
his ill success. Every other night or so he followed
the goblins about, as they went on digging and
boring, and getting as near them as he could,
watched them from behind stones and rocks; but as
yet he seemed no nearer finding out what they had in
view. As at first, he always kept hold of the end of
his string, while his pickaxe, left just outside the
hole by which he entered the goblins' country from
the mine, continued to serve as an anchor and hold
fast the other end. The goblins, hearing no more
noise in that quarter, had ceased to apprehend an
immediate invasion, and kept no watch.
One night,
after dodging about and listening till he was nearly
falling asleep with weariness, he began to roll up
his ball, for he had resolved to go home to bed. It
was not long, however, before he began to feel
bewildered. One after another he passed goblin
houses, caves, that is, occupied by goblin families,
and at length was sure they were many more than he
had passed as he came. He had to use great caution
to pass unseen—they lay so close together. Could his
string have led him wrong? He still followed winding
it, and still it led him into more thickly populated
quarters, until he became quite uneasy, and indeed
apprehensive; for although he was not afraid of the
cobs, he was afraid of not finding his way out. But
what could he do? It was of no use to sit down and
wait for the morning—the morning made no difference
here. It was dark, and always dark; and if his
string failed him he was helpless. He might even
arrive within a yard of the mine and never know it.
Seeing he could do nothing better he would at least
find where the end of his string was, and, if
possible, how it had come to play him such a trick.
He knew by the size of the ball that he was getting
pretty near the last of it, when he began to feel a
tugging and pulling at it. What could it mean?
Turning a sharp corner, he thought he heard strange
sounds. These grew, as he went on, [172] to a
scuffling and growling and squeaking; and the noise
increased, until, turning a second sharp corner, he
found himself in the midst of it, and the same
moment tumbled over a wallowing mass, which he knew
must be a knot of the cobs' creatures. Before he
could recover his feet, he had caught some great
scratches on his face and several severe bites on
his legs and arms. But as he scrambled to get up,
his hand fell upon his pickaxe, and before the
horrid beasts could do him [173] any serious harm,
he was laying about with it right and left in the
dark. The hideous cries which followed gave him the
satisfaction of knowing that he had punished some of
them pretty smartly for their rudeness, and by their
scampering and their retreating howls, he perceived
that he had routed them. He stood for a little,
weighing his battle-axe in his hand as if it had
been the most precious lump of metal—but indeed no
lump of gold itself could have been so precious at
the time as that common tool—then untied the end of
the string from it, put the ball in his pocket, and
still stood thinking. It was clear that the cobs'
creatures had found his axe, had between them
carried it off, and had so led him he knew not
where. But for all his thinking he could not tell
what he ought to do, until suddenly he became aware
of a glimmer of light in the distance. Without a
moment's hesitation he set out for it, as fast as
the unknown and rugged way would permit. Yet again
turning a corner, led by the dim light, he spied
something quite new in his experience of the
underground regions—a small irregular shape of
something shining. Going up to it, he found it was a
piece of mica, [174] or Muscovy glass, called
sheep-silver in Scotland, and the light flickered as
if from a fire behind it. After trying in vain for
some time to discover an entrance to the place where
it was burning, he came at length to a small chamber
in which an opening, high in the wall, revealed a
glow beyond. To this opening he managed to scramble
up, and then he saw a strange sight.
Below sat a little group of goblins around a fire,
the smoke of which vanished in the darkness far
aloft. The sides of the cave were full of shining
minerals like those of the palace hall; and the
company was evidently of a superior order, for every
one wore stones about head, or arms, or waist,
shining dull gorgeous colours in the light of the
fire. Nor had Curdie looked long before he
recognized the king himself, and found that he had
made his way into the inner apartment of the royal
family. He had never had such a good chance of
hearing something. He crept through the hole as
softly as he could, scrambled a good way down the
wall towards them without attracting attention, and
then sat down and listened. The king, evidently the
queen, and probably the crown prince and the Prime
Minister were talking together. He was sure of the
queen by her shoes, for as she warmed her feet at
the fire, he saw them quite plainly.
"That will
be fun!" said the one he took for the crown prince.
It was the first whole sentence he heard.
"I don't see
why you should think it such a grand affair!" said
his stepmother, tossing her head backward.
"You must
remember, my spouse," interposed His Majesty, as if
making excuse for his son, "he has got the same
blood in him. His mother—"
"Don't talk
to me of his mother! You positively encourage his
unnatural fancies. Whatever belongs to that mother
ought to be cut out of him."
"You forget
yourself, my dear!" said the king.
"I don't,"
said the queen, "nor you either. If you expect me to
approve of such coarse tastes, you will find
yourself mistaken. I don't wear shoes for nothing."
"You must
acknowledge, however," the king said, with a little
groan, "that this at least is no [176] whim of
Harelip's, but a matter of State policy. You are
well aware that his gratification comes purely from
the pleasure of sacrificing himself to the public
good. Does it not, Harelip?"
"Yes,
father; of course it does. Only it will be nice to
make her cry. I'll have the skin taken off between
her toes, and tie them up till they grow together.
Then her feet will be like other people's, and there
will be no occasion for her to wear shoes."
"Do you mean
to insinuate I've got toes, you unnatural wretch?"
cried the queen; and she moved angrily towards
Harelip. The councillor, however, who was betwixt
them, leaned forward so as to prevent her touching
him, but only as if to address the prince.
"Your Royal
Highness," he said, "possibly requires to be
reminded that you have got three toes yourself—one
on one foot, two on the other."
"Ha! ha!
ha!" shouted the queen triumphantly.
The
councillor, encouraged by this mark of favour, went
on.
"It seems to
me, Your Royal Highness, it would greatly endear you
to your future people, [177] proving to them that
you are not the less one of themselves that you had
the misfortune to be born of a sun-mother, if you
were to command upon yourself the comparatively
slight operation which, in a more extended form, you
so wisely meditate with regard to your future
princess."
"Ha! ha!
ha!" laughed the queen louder than before, and the
king and the minister joined in the laugh. Harelip
growled, and for a few moments the others continued
to express their enjoyment of his discomfiture.
The queen
was the only one Curdie could see with any
distinctness. She sat sideways to him, and the light
of the fire shone full upon her face. He could not
consider her handsome. Her nose was certainly
broader at the end than its extreme length, and her
eyes, instead of being horizontal, were set up like
two perpendicular eggs, one on the broad, the other
on the small end. Her mouth was no bigger than a
small buttonhole until she laughed, when it
stretched from ear to ear—only, to be sure, her ears
were very nearly in the middle of her cheeks.
Anxious to
hear everything they might say, Curdie ventured to
slide down a smooth part of the rock just under him,
to a projection below, upon which he thought to
rest. But whether he was not careful enough, or the
projection gave way, down he came with a rush on the
floor of the cavern, bringing with him a great
rumbling shower of stones.
The goblins jumped from their seats in more anger
than consternation, for they had never yet seen
anything to be afraid of in the palace. But when
they saw Curdie with his pick in his hand their rage
was mingled with fear, for they took him for the
first of an invasion of miners. The king
notwithstanding drew himself up to his full height
of four feet, spread himself to his full breadth of
three and a half, for he was the handsomest and
squarest of all the goblins, and strutting up to
Curdie, planted himself with outspread feet before
him, and said with dignity:
"Pray what
right have you in my palace?"
"The right
of necessity, Your Majesty," answered Curdie. "I
lost my way and did not know where I was wandering
to."
"How did you
get in?"
"By a hole
in the mountain."
"But you are
a miner! Look at your pickaxe!"
Curdie did
look at it, answering:
"I came upon
it lying on the ground a little way from here. I
tumbled over some wild beasts who were playing with
it. Look, Your Majesty." And Curdie showed him how
he was scratched and bitten.
The king was
pleased to find him behave more politely than he had
expected from what his peo- [180] ple had told him
concerning the miners, for he attributed it to the
power of his own presence; but he did not therefore
feel friendly to the intruder.
"You will
oblige me by walking out of my dominions at once,"
he said, well knowing what a mockery lay in the
words.
"With
pleasure, if Your Majesty will give me a guide,"
said Curdie.
"I will give
you a thousand," said the king with a scoffing air
of magnificent liberality.
"One will be
quite sufficient," said Curdie.
But the king
uttered a strange shout, half halloo, half roar, and
in rushed goblins till the cave was swarming. He
said something to the first of them which Curdie
could not hear, and it was passed from one to
another till in a moment the farthest in the crowd
had evidently heard and understood it. They began to
gather about him in a way he did not relish, and he
retreated towards the wall. They pressed upon him.
"Stand
back," said Curdie, grasping his pickaxe tighter by
his knee.
They only
grinned and pressed closer. Curdie bethought himself
and began to rhyme.
"Ten,
twenty, thirty—
You're all
so very dirty!
Twenty,
thirty, forty—
You're all
so thick and snorty!
"Thirty,
forty, fifty—
You're all
so puff-and-snifty!
Forty,
fifty, sixty—
Beast and
man so mixty!
"Fifty,
sixty, seventy—
Mixty, maxty,
leaventy—
Sixty,
seventy, eighty—
All your
cheeks so slaty
"Seventy,
eighty, ninety,
All your
hands so flinty!
Eighty,
ninety, hundred,
Altogether
dundred!"
The goblins
fell back a little when he began, and made horrible
grimaces all through the rhyme, as if eating
something so disagreeable that it set their teeth on
edge and gave them the creeps; but whether it was
that the rhyming words were most of them no words at
all, for, a new rhyme being considered the more
efficacious, Curdie had made it on the spur of the
moment, or whether it was that the presence of the
king and queen gave them courage, I cannot tell; but
the moment the rhyme was over they crowded on him
again, and out shot a hundred long arms, with a
multitude of thick nailless fingers at the ends of
them, to lay hold upon him. Then Curdie heaved up
his axe. But being as gentle as courageous and not
wishing to kill any of them, he turned the end which
was square and blunt like a hammer, and with that
came down a great blow on the head of the goblin
nearest him. Hard as the heads of all goblins are,
he thought he must feel that. And so he did, no
doubt; but he only gave a horrible cry, and sprung
at Curdie's throat. Curdie, however, drew back in
time, and just at that critical moment remembered
the vulnerable part of the goblin body. He made a
sudden rush at the king and stamped with all his
might on His Majesty's feet. The king gave a most
unkingly howl and almost fell into the fire. Curdie
then rushed into the crowd, stamping right and left.
The goblins drew back, howling on every side as he
approached, but they were so crowded that few of
those he attacked could escape his tread; and the
shrieking and roaring that filled the cave would
have appalled Curdie but for the good hope it gave
him. They were tumbling over each other in heaps in
their eagerness to rush from the cave, when a new
assailant suddenly faced him—the queen, with flaming
eyes and expanded nostrils, her hair standing half
up from her head, rushed at him. She trusted in her
shoes: they were of granite—hollowed like French
sabots. Curdie would have endured much rather than
hurt a woman, even if she was a goblin; but here was
an affair of life and death: forgetting her shoes,
he made a great stamp on one of her feet. But she
instantly returned it with very different effect,
causing him frightful pain, and almost disabling
him. His only chance with her would have been to
attack the granite shoes with his pickaxe, but
before he could think of that she had caught him up
in her arms and was rushing with him across the
cave. She dashed him into a hole in the wall, with a
force that almost stunned him. But although he could
not move, he was not too far gone to hear her great
cry, and the rush of multitudes of soft feet,
followed by the sounds of something heaved up
against the rock; after which came a multitudinous
patter of stones falling near him. The last had not
ceased when he grew very faint, [184] for his head
had been badly cut, and at last insensible.
When he came
to himself there was perfect silence about him, and
utter darkness, but for the merest glimmer in one
tiny spot. He crawled to it, and found that they had
heaved a slab against the mouth of the hole, past
the edge of which a poor little gleam found its way
from the fire. He could not move it a hairbreadth,
for they had piled a great heap of stones against
it. He crawled back to where he had been lying, in
the faint hope of finding his pickaxe, But after a
vain search he was at last compelled to acknowledge
himself in an evil plight. He sat down and tried to
think, but soon fell fast asleep.
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GOBLIN COUNSELS
HE must have
slept a long time, for when he awoke he felt
wonderfully restored—indeed almost well—and very
hungry. There were voices in the outer cave.
Once more,
then, it was night; for the goblins slept during the
day and went about their affairs during the night.
In the
universal and constant darkness of their dwelling
they had no reason to prefer the one arrangement to
the other; but from aversion to the sun-people they
chose to be busy when there was least chance of
their being met either by the miners below, when
they were burrowing, or by the people of the
mountain above, when they were feeding their sheep
or catching their goats. And indeed it was only when
the sun was away that the outside of the mountain
was sufficiently like their own dismal regions to be
endurable to [186] their mole eyes, so thoroughly
had they become unaccustomed to any light beyond
that of their own fires and torches.
Curdie
listened, and soon found that they were talking of
himself.
"How long
will it take?" asked Harelip.
"Not many
days, I should think," answered the king. "They are
poor feeble creatures, those sun-people, and want to
be always eating. We can go a week at a time without
food, and be all the better for it; but I've been
told they eat two or three times every day! Can you
believe it? They must be quite hollow inside—not at
all like us, nine-tenths of whose bulk is solid
flesh and bone. Yes—I judge a week of starvation
will do for him."
"If I may be
allowed a word," interposed the queen,—"and I think
I ought to have some voice in the matter—"
"The wretch
is entirely at your disposal, my spouse,"
interrupted the king. "He is your property. You
caught him yourself.We should never have done it."
The queen
laughed. She seemed in far better humour than the
night before.
"I was about
to say," she resumed, "that it does seem a pity to
waste so much fresh meat."
"What are
you thinking of, my love?" said the king. "The very
notion of starving him implies that we are not going
to give him any meat, either salt or fresh."
"I'm not
such a stupid as that comes to," returned Her
Majesty. "What I mean is that by the time he is
starved there will hardly be a picking upon his
bones."
The king
gave a great laugh.
"Well, my
spouse, you may have him when you like," he said. "I
don't fancy him for my part. I am pretty sure he is
tough eating."
"That would
be to honour instead of punish his insolence,"
returned the queen. "But why should our poor
creatures be deprived of so much nourishment? Our
little dogs and cats and pigs and small bears would
enjoy him very much."
"You are the
best of housekeepers, my lovely queen!" said her
husband. "Let it be so by all means. Let us have our
people in, and get him out and kill him at once. He
deserves it. The mischief he might have brought upon
us, now that he had penetrated so far as our most
retired [188] citadel, is incalculable. Or rather
let us tie him hand and foot, and have the pleasure
of seeing him torn to pieces by full torchlight in
the great hall."
"Better and
better!" cried the queen and the prince together,
both of them clapping their hands. And the prince
made an ugly noise with his hare-lip, just as if he
had intended to be one at the feast.
"But," added
the queen, bethinking herself, "he is so
troublesome. For poor creatures as they are, there
is something about those sun-people that is very
troublesome. I cannot imagine how it is that with
such superior strength and skill and understanding
as ours, we permit them to exist at all. Why do we
not destroy them entirely, and use their cattle and
grazing lands at our pleasure? Of course we don't
want to live in their horrid country! It is far too
glaring for our quieter and more refined tastes. But
we might use it as a sort of outhouse, you know.
Even our creatures' eyes might get used to it, and
if they did grow blind that would be of no
consequence, provided they grew fat as well. But we
might even keep their great cows and [189] other
creatures, and then we should have a few more
luxuries, such as cream and cheese, which at present
we only taste occasionally, when our brave men have
succeeded in carrying some off from their farms."
"It is worth
thinking of," said the king; "and I don't know why
you should be the first to suggest it, except that
you have a positive genius for conquest. But still,
as you say, there is something very troublesome
about them; and it would be better, as I understand
you to suggest, that we should starve him for a day
or two first, so that he may be a little less frisky
when we take him out."
"Once there
was a goblin
Living in a
hole;
Busy he was
cobblin'
A shoe
without a sole.
"By came a
birdie:
'Goblin,
what do you do?'
'Cobble at a
sturdie
Upper
leather shoe.'
"'What's the
good o' that, Sir?'
Said the
little bird.
"Why it's
very pat, sir—
Plain
without a word.
"'Where 'tis
all a hole, Sir,
Never can be
holes:
Why should
their shoes have soles, Sir,
When they've
got no souls?'"
"What's that
horrible noise?" cried the queen, shuddering from
pot-metal head to granite shoes.
"I declare,"
said the king with solemn indignation, "it's the
sun-creature in the hole!"
"Stop that
disgusting noise!" cried the crown prince valiantly,
getting up and standing in front of the heap of
stones, with his face towards Curdie's prison.—"Do
now, or I'll break your head."
"Break
away," shouted Curdie, and began singing again—
"Once there
was a goblin
Living in a
hole—"
"I really
cannot bear it," said the queen. "If I could only
get at his horrid toes with my slippers again!"
"I think we
had better go to bed," said the king.
"It's not
time to go to bed," said the queen.
"I would if
I was you," said Curdie.
"Impertinent
wretch!" said the queen, with the utmost scorn in
her voice.
"An
impossible if," said His Majesty with dignity.
"Quite,"
returned Curdie, and began singing again—
"Go to bed,
Goblin, do.
Help the
queen
Take off her
shoe.
"If you do,
It will
disclose
A horrid set
Of sprouting
toes."
"What a
lie!" roared the queen in a rage.
"By the way,
that reminds me," said the king, "that for as long
as we have been married, I have never seen your
feet, queen. I think you might take off your shoes
when you go to bed! They positively hurt me
sometimes."
"I will do
as I like," retorted the queen sulkily.
"You ought
to do as your own hubby wishes you," said the king.
"I will
not," said the queen.
"Then I
insist upon it," said the king.
Apparently
His Majesty approached the queen for the purpose of
following the advice given by [192] Curdie, for the
latter heard a scuffle, and then a great roar from
the king.
"Will you be
quiet, then?" said the queen wickedly.
"Yes, yes,
queen. I only meant to coax you."
"Hands off!"
cried the queen triumphantly. "I'm going to bed. You
may come when you like. But as long as I am queen I
will sleep in my shoes. It is my royal privilege.
Harelip, go to bed."
"I'm going,"
said Harelip sleepily.
"So am I,"
said the king.
"Come along,
then," said the queen; "and mind you are good, or
I'll—"
"Oh, no, no,
no!" screamed the king in the most supplicating of
tones.
Curdie heard
only a muttered reply in the distance; and then the
cave was quite still.
They had
left the fire burning, and the light came through
brighter than before. Curdie thought it was time to
try again if anything could be done. But he found he
could not get even a finger through the chink
between the slab and the rock. He gave a great rush
with his shoulder against the slab, but it yielded
no more than if it [193] had been part of the rock.
All he could do was to sit down and think again.
By and by he
came to the resolution to pretend to be dying, in
the hope they might take him out before his strength
was too much exhausted to let him have a chance.
Then, for the creatures, if he could but find his
axe again, he would have no fear of them; and if it
were not for the queen's horrid shoes, he would have
no fear at all.
Meantime,
until they should come again at night, there was
nothing for him to do but forge new rhymes, now his
only weapons. He had no intention of using them at
present, of course; but it was well to have a stock,
for he might live to want them, and the manufacture
of them would help to while away the time.
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IRENE'S CLUE
THAT same
morning early, the princess woke in a terrible
fright. There was a hideous noise in her
room—creatures snarling and hissing and rocketing
about as if they were fighting. The moment she came
to herself, she remembered something she had never
thought of again—what her grandmother told her to do
when she was frightened. She immediately took off
her ring and put it under her pillow. As she did so
she fancied she felt a finger and thumb take it
gently from under her palm. "It must be my
grandmother!" she said to herself, and the thought
gave her such courage that she stopped to put on her
dainty little slippers before running from the room.
While doing this she caught sight of a long cloak of
sky-blue, thrown over the back of a chair by the
bedside. She had never seen it before but it was
evidently waiting for her. She put it on, and
then, feeling with the forefinger of her right hand,
soon found her grandmother's thread, which she
proceeded at once to follow, expecting it would lead
her straight up the old stair. When she reached the
door she found it went down and ran along the floor,
so that she had almost to crawl in order to keep a
hold of it. Then, to her surprise, and somewhat to
her dismay, she found that instead of leading her
towards the stair it turned in quite the opposite
direction. It led her through certain narrow
passages towards the kitchen, turning aside ere she
reached it, and guiding her to a door which
communicated with a small back yard. Some of the
maids were already up, and this door was standing
open. Across the yard the thread still ran along the
ground, until it brought her to a door in the wall
which opened upon the Mountainside. When she had
passed through, the thread rose to about half her
height, and she could hold it with ease as she
walked. It led her straight up the mountain.
The cause of
her alarm was less frightful than she supposed. The
cook's great black cat, pursued by the housekeeper's
terrier, had bounced against her bedroom door,
which had not been properly fastened, and the two
had burst into the room together and commenced a
battle royal. How the nurse came to sleep through it
was a mystery, but I suspect the old lady had
something to do with it.
It was a
clear warm morning. The wind blew deliciously over
the Mountainside. Here and there she saw a late
primrose but she did not stop to call upon them. The
sky was mottled with small clouds.
The sun was
not yet up, but some of their fluffy edges had
caught his light, and hung out orange and gold-coloured
fringes upon the air. The dew lay in round drops
upon the leaves, and hung like tiny diamond
ear-rings from the blades of grass about her path.
"How lovely
that bit of gossamer is!" thought the princess,
looking at a long undulating line that shone at some
distance from her up the hill. It was not the time
for gossamers though; and Irene soon discovered that
it was her own thread she saw shining on before her
in the light of the morning. It was leading her she
knew not whither; but she had never in her life been
out before sunrise, and everything was so fresh and
cool and lively and full of something coming, that
she felt too happy to be afraid of anything.
After
leading her up a good distance, the thread turned to
the left, and down the path upon which she and
Lootie had met Curdie. But she never thought of
that, for now in the morning light, with its far
outlook over the country, no path could have been
more open and airy and cheerful. She could see the
road almost to the horizon, along which she had so
often watched her king-papa and his troop come
shining, with the bugle- blast cleaving the air
before them; and it was like a companion to her.
Down and down the path went, then up, and then down
and then up again, getting rugged and more rugged as
it went; and still along the path went the silvery
thread, and still along the thread went Irene's
little rosy-tipped forefinger. By and by she came to
a little stream that jabbered and prattled down the
hill, and up the side of the stream went both path
and thread. And still the path grew rougher and
steeper, and the mountain grew wilder, till Irene
began to think she was going a very long way from
home; and when she turned to look back she saw that
the level country had vanished and the rough bare
mountain had closed in about her. But still on went
the thread, and on went the princess. Everything
around her was getting brighter and brighter as the
sun came nearer; till at length his first rays all
at once alighted on the top of a rock before her,
like some golden creature fresh from the sky. Then
she saw that the little stream ran out of a hole in
that rock, that the path did not go past the rock,
and that the thread was leading her straight up to
it. A shudder ran through her from head to foot when
she found that the thread was actually taking her
into the hole out of which the stream ran. It ran
out babbling joyously, but she had to go in.
She did not
hesitate. Right into the hole she went, which was
high enough to let her walk without stooping. For a
little way there was a brown glimmer, but at the
first turn it all but ceased, and before she had
gone many paces she was in total darkness. Then she
began to be frightened indeed. Every moment she kept
feeling the thread backwards and forwards, and as
she went farther and farther into the darkness of
the great hollow mountain, she kept thinking more
and more about her grandmother, and all that she had
said to her, and how kind she had been, and how
beautiful she was, and all about her lovely room,
and the fire of roses, and the great lamp that sent
its light through stone walls. And she became more
and more sure that the thread could not have gone
there of itself, and that her grandmother must have
sent it. But it tried her dreadfully when the path
went down very steep, and especially When she came
to places where she had to go down rough stairs, and
even sometimes a ladder. Through one narrow
passage after another, over lumps of rock and sand
and clay, the thread guided her, until she came to a
small hole through which she had to creep. Finding
no change on the other side—"Shall I ever get back?"
she thought, over and over again, wondering at
herself that she was not ten times more frightened,
and often feeling as if she were only walking in the
story of a dream. Sometimes she heard the noise of
water, a dull gurgling inside the rock. By and by
she heard the sounds of blows, which came nearer and
nearer; but again they grew duller, and almost died
away. In a hundred directions she turned, obedient
to the guiding thread.
At last she spied a dull red shine, and came up to
the mica window, and thence away and round about,
and right, into a cavern, where glowed the red
embers of a fire. Here the thread began to rise. It
rose as high as her head and higher still. What
should she do if she lost her hold? She was pulling
it down: She might break it! She could see it far
up, glowing as red as her fire-opal in the light of
the embers.
But
presently she came to a huge heap of stones, piled
in a slope against the wall of the cavern. On
these she climbed, and soon recovered the level of
the thread only however to find, the next moment,
that it vanished through the heap of stones, and
left her standing on it, with her face to the solid
rock. For one terrible moment she felt as if her
grandmother had forsaken her. The thread which the
spiders had spun far over the seas, which her
grandmother had sat in the moonlight and spun again
for her, which she had tempered in the rose-fire and
tied to her opal ring, had left her—had gone where
she could no longer follow it—had brought her into a
horrible cavern, and there left her! She was
forsaken indeed!
"When shall
I wake?" she said to herself in an agony, but the
same moment knew that it was no dream. She threw
herself upon the heap, and began to cry. It was well
she did not know what creatures, one of them with
stone shoes on her feet, were lying in the next
cave. But neither did she know who was on the other
side of the slab.
At length
the thought struck her that at least she could
follow the thread backwards, and thus get out of the
mountain, and home. She rose at [202] once, and
found the thread. But the instant she tried to feel
it backwards, it vanished from her touch. Forwards,
it led her hand up to the heap of stones—backwards
it seemed nowhere. Neither could she see it as
before in the light of the fire. She burst into a
wailing cry, and again threw herself down on the
stones.
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