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diff --git a/5676-0.txt b/5676-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b5abaa --- /dev/null +++ b/5676-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4025 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Double Story, by George MacDonald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: A Double Story + +Author: George MacDonald + +Release Date: August 7, 2002 [eBook #5676] +[Most recently updated: April 8, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines. + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DOUBLE STORY *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +A Double Story + +by George MacDonald + +NEW YORK: + + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. + CHAPTER II. + CHAPTER III. + CHAPTER IV. + CHAPTER V. + CHAPTER VI. + CHAPTER VII. + CHAPTER VIII. + CHAPTER IX. + CHAPTER X. + CHAPTER XI. + CHAPTER XII. + CHAPTER XIII. + CHAPTER XIV. + + + + +A DOUBLE STORY + + + + +I. + + +There was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. For +instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or +whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. It was impossible to +say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he +was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross. + +In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of +uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower +of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it +fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good +for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a +dandelion at least;—while this splendid rain was falling, I say, with a +musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which hung +like Vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted +blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had +blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some +stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while +others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the +heavy warm drops;—while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean +from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had +escaped from their prisons during the long drought;—while it fell, +splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft +clashing—but stop! I am stealing, I find, and not that only, but with +clumsy hands spoiling what I steal:— + +“O Rain! with your dull twofold sound, +The clash hard by, and the murmur all round:” + + +—there! take it, Mr. Coleridge;—while, as I was saying, the lovely +little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own +channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their +banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up +on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous +flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the +bald head of a stone that never says, Thank you;—while the very sheep +felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through +the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog—I mean the one +with the longest spikes—came and spiked himself out to impale as many +of the drops as he could;—while the rain was thus falling, and the +leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the +hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something +happened. It was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a +coronation, but something more important than all those put together. +_A baby-girl was born;_ and her father was a king; and her mother was a +queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her +first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her +second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their +third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they +did not care to count. So the little girl was Somebody; and yet for all +that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. I told you it +was a strange country. + +As she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that +she was Somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it +that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it +for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident, +necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that _she was +Somebody_. And far be it from me to deny it. I will even go so far as +to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of +Somebodies. Indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and girl +in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was Somebody; and the +worst of it was that the princess never thought of there being more +than one Somebody—and that was herself. + +Far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak hill, +where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where were no +meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy slopes, covered +with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold, or moister, softer +broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great sweeps of purple +heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries, and cranberries—no, I +am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a few furze-blossoms; the +rest were all waiting behind their doors till they were called; and no +full, slow-gliding river with meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a +little brook here and there, that dashed past without a moment to say, +“How do you do?”—there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud +that was dropping down golden rain all about the queen’s new baby was +dashing huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force +that they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the +sheep’s wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their +sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they +bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when +they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little +fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them up +the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a +while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the +heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born, whom +the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a good +many of her kindred too, thought Somebody. She had not an uncle or an +aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin, that was +less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less than a +grocer, and they did not count farther. And yet (would you believe it?) +she too cried the very first thing. It _was_ an odd country! And, what +is still more surprising, the shepherd and shepherdess and the +dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser than the king and the +queen and the dukes and the marquises and the earls; for they too, one +and all, so constantly taught the little woman that she was Somebody, +that she also forgot that there were a great many more Somebodies +besides herself in the world. + +It was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours—so +different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when I add the +amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying the +things they had, were always wanting the things they had not, often +even the things it was least likely they ever could have. The grown men +and women being like this, there is no reason to be further astonished +that the Princess Rosamond—the name her parents gave her because it +means _Rose of the World_—should grow up like them, wanting every thing +she could and every thing she couldn’t have. The things she could have +were a great many too many, for her foolish parents always gave her +what they could; but still there remained a few things they couldn’t +give her, for they were only a common king and queen. They could and +did give her a lighted candle when she cried for it, and managed by +much care that she should not burn her fingers or set her frock on +fire; but when she cried for the moon, that they could not give her. +They did the worst thing possible, instead, however; for they pretended +to do what they could not. They got her a thin disc of brilliantly +polished silver, as near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; +and, for a time she was delighted. + +But, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon +was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark. Her +nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with it; and +instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished. Presently, +through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of the real moon, +far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if she had been there +all the time; and her rage increased to such a degree that if it had +not passed off in a fit, I do not know what might have come of it. + +As she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not +only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing almost +as soon as she had it. There was an accumulation of things in her +nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling. Her +mother’s wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were they with +things of which she never took any notice. When she was five years old, +they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set with diamonds and +rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems. In one of her little +tempers, as they called her hideously ugly rages, she dashed it against +the back of the chimney, after which it never gave a single tick; and +some of the diamonds went to the ash-pit. As she grew older still, she +became fond of animals, not in a way that brought them much pleasure, +or herself much satisfaction. When angry, she would beat them, and try +to pull them to pieces, and as soon as she became a little used to +them, would neglect them altogether. Then, if they could, they would +run away, and she was furious. Some white mice, which she had ceased +feeding altogether, did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white +mice. Their red eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins +gleaming, in every dark corner; but when it came to the king’s finding +a nest of them in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them +to be drowned. The princess heard of it, however, and raised such a +clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of +themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day till +then. Nothing that was the princess’s property, whether she cared for +it or not, was to be meddled with. + +Of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow +better. She became more and more peevish and fretful every +day—dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was +around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be different. +She found fault with every thing and everybody, and all that happened, +and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who had to do with +her. At last, when she had nearly killed her nurse, and had all but +succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from morning to night, +her parents thought it time to do something. + +A long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of pine-trees, +lived a wise woman. In some countries she would have been called a +witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she never did any thing +wicked, and had more power than any witch could have. As her fame was +spread through all the country, the king heard of her; and, thinking +she might perhaps be able to suggest something, sent for her. In the +dead of the night, lest the princess should know it, the king’s +messenger brought into the palace a tall woman, muffled from head to +foot in a cloak of black cloth. In the presence of both their +Majesties, the king, to do her honor, requested her to sit; but she +declined, and stood waiting to hear what they had to say. Nor had she +to wait long, for almost instantly they began to tell her the dreadful +trouble they were in with their only child; first the king talking, +then the queen interposing with some yet more dreadful fact, and at +times both letting out a torrent of words together, so anxious were +they to show the wise woman that their perplexity was real, and their +daughter a very terrible one. For a long while there appeared no sign +of approaching pause. But the wise woman stood patiently folded in her +black cloak, and listened without word or motion. At length silence +fell; for they had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any +thing more to add to the list of their child’s enormities. + +After a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak +dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff, +which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:— + +“All lilly white, withoutten spot or pride, +That seemd like silke and silver woven neare; +But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare.” + + +“How very badly you have treated her!” said the wise woman. “Poor +child!” + +“Treated her badly?” gasped the king. + +“She is a very wicked child,” said the queen; and both glared with +indignation. + +“Yes, indeed!” returned the wise woman. “She is very naughty indeed, +and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too.” + +“What!” stammered the king. “Haven’t we given her every mortal thing +she wanted?” + +“Surely,” said the wise woman: “what else could have all but killed +her? You should have given her a few things of the other sort. But you +are far too dull to understand me.” + +“You are very polite,” remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his +thin, straight lips. + +The wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and +queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. The +silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded her +cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon when a +great cloud comes over her. Yet another minute passed and the silence +endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen choked the +channels of their speech. Then the wise woman turned her back on them, +and so stood. At this, the rage of the king broke forth; and he cried +to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,— + +“How should such an old hag as that teach Rosamond good manners? She +knows nothing of them herself! Look how she stands!—actually with her +back to us.” + +At the word the wise woman walked from the room. The great folding +doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen were +quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her +departure. Before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the +early morning, in rushed Rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor little +white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which, only because +it would not come to her when she called it, she was pulling handfuls +of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing, pink-eared, red-eyed thing +to pieces. + +“Rosa, Rosa_mond!_” cried the queen; whereupon Rosamond threw the +rabbit in her mother’s face. The king started up in a fury, and ran to +seize her. She darted shrieking from the room. The king rushed after +her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the huge hall +was empty.—No: just outside the door, close to the threshold, with her +back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman, muffled in her dark +cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. As the king stood looking at +her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall, and walked away down the marble +staircase. The king called to her; but she never turned her head, or +gave the least sign that she heard him. So quietly did she pass down +the wide marble stair, that the king was all but persuaded he had seen +only a shadow gliding across the white steps. + +For the princess, she was nowhere to be found. The queen went into +hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. The king sent out messengers in +every direction, but in vain. + +In a short time the palace was quiet—as quiet as it used to be before +the princess was born. The king and queen cried a little now and then, +for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely fashioned; and +yet I am afraid the first movement of those very hearts would have been +a jump of terror if the ears above them had heard the voice of Rosamond +in one of the corridors. As for the rest of the household, they could +not have made up a single tear amongst them. They thought, whatever it +might be for the princess, it was, for every one else, the best thing +that could have happened; and as to what had become of her, if their +heads were puzzled, their hearts took no interest in the question. The +lord-chancellor alone had an idea about it, but he was far too wise to +utter it. + + + + +II. + + +The fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the +folds of the wise woman’s cloak. When she rushed from the room, the +wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around +her. The princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and +screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father, +standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a +movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. He was +indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his +daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the +passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. Hence, +unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble +stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside, +across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused +streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates +of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the +princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman +holding her tight. When at length she was too tired to struggle or +scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down; +and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. There +was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. City and palace had +disappeared. They were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch +on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat +surrounding the city. She cast up a terrified look into the wise +woman’s face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. Now the +princess did not in the least understand kindness. She always took it +for a sign either of partiality or fear. So when the wise woman looked +kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram: +but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when +the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze +statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head. +The wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak, +where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she +was still being carried on and on. + +When at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw +around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and +houseless. Here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her +terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable +countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. All she knew of the +world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise +woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her. + +I have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life, +such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over +her than kindness. She understood terror better far than tenderness. +When the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held +up her hands to her, crying,— + +“Oh, don’t eat me! don’t eat me!” + +Now this being the best _she_ could do, it was a sign she was a low +creature. Think of it—to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. But +the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart +and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. The +only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that +she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable +Somebody. + +Without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one +of Rosamond’s, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the +moonlight. Every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the +heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and +pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her +with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had +rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. And so +they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak +against the princess, she found them soft as her mother’s camel-hair +shawl. + +After a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the +princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low +dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the +trailing of the wise woman’s cloak, were the only sounds beside. + +And this is the song she sang:— + + Out in the cold, + With a thin-worn fold + Of withered gold + Around her rolled, +Hangs in the air the weary moon. + She is old, old, old; + And her bones all cold, + And her tales all told, + And her things all sold, +And she has no breath to croon. + + + Like a castaway clout, + She is quite shut out! + She might call and shout, + But no one about +Would ever call back, “Who’s there?” + There is never a hut, + Not a door to shut, + Not a footpath or rut, + Long road or short cut, +Leading to anywhere! + + + She is all alone + Like a dog-picked bone, + The poor old crone! + She fain would groan, +But she cannot find the breath. + She once had a fire; + But she built it no higher, + And only sat nigher + Till she saw it expire; +And now she is cold as death. + + + She never will smile + All the lonesome while. + Oh the mile after mile, + And never a stile! +And never a tree or a stone! + She has not a tear: + Afar and anear + It is all so drear, + But she does not care, +Her heart is as dry as a bone. + + + None to come near her! + No one to cheer her! + No one to jeer her! + No one to hear her! +Not a thing to lift and hold! + She is always awake, + But her heart will not break: + She can only quake, + Shiver, and shake: +The old woman is very cold. + + +As strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise +woman sung. At the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted +to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. For when people _will_ +be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to +like it. The princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,— + +“_You_ are the ugly old woman. I hate you!” + +Therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also, +perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a +step. But the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on +steadily, the same pace as before. Little Obstinate thought for certain +she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious to be +left behind. But on and on the wise woman went, until she had vanished +away in the dim moonlight. Then all at once the princess perceived that +she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her from the height +of her loneliness. She was horribly frightened, and began to run after +the wise woman, calling aloud. But the song she had just heard came +back to the sound of her own running feet,— + +All all alone, +Like a dog-picked bone! + + +and again,— + + She might call and shout, + And no one about +Would ever call back, “Who’s there?” + + +and she screamed as she ran. How she wished she knew the old woman’s +name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight! + +But the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running +feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. What with running and crying, +however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until +she fell right into her arms—and the same moment into a fresh rage; for +as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to begin +another. The wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on; while +the princess ran scolding and storming after her. She had to run till, +from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. Her heart gave way; she burst +into tears, and ran on silently weeping. + +A minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms, +folded her cloak around her. Instantly she fell asleep, and slept as +soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. She slept till +the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he +climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the +poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time +the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. And now they had +reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the +moonlight. + +At the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between +the folds of the wise woman’s cloak—a very ugly little owlet she +looked—saw that they were entering the wood. Now there is something +awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a +fir-wood is more awful than other woods. For one thing, it lets a +little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more +visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards +the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below +them—not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the +darkness even, look sheltering. So the princess is not to be blamed +that she was very much frightened. She is hardly to be blamed either +that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle +to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those +of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the +right and natural thing to do. The wrong in her was this—that she had +led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw +her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her +arms. + +Immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few +paces vanished among the trees. Then the cries of the princess rent the +air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little +needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. But there were +creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her +cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. They began to hearken +and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with +their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. In a +minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all +quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place +where she stood calling them, without knowing it. The noise she made +herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the +soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the +fallen fir needles and cones. + +One huge old wolf had outsped the rest—not that he could run faster, +but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries +came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his +lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. Terror silenced her. She +stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but +she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth +like a withered and frozen leaf. She could do nothing but stare at the +coming monster. And now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring +the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her, +when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she +had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in +his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. Then she +turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was +instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak. + +But now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around +them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against +the wise woman. But she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt +through the midst of them. Ever as they leaped against her cloak, they +dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. Others ever succeeded, +and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. For some time +she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack. +Suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the +forest. She neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking +on as before. + +In a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look +out. The firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland, +stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants +here and there. About the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking +in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven +crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking. +Presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a +whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. As they came nearer, she saw +that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown +green. It was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to +look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and +always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into +a dead sleep. Foolish and useless as she might by this time have known +it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once +more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the +back of the cottage, and saying only, “No one ever gets into my house +who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in,” disappeared round +the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the moon—two +white faces in the cone of the night. + + + + +III. + + +The moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon; +but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. And now +the question was between the moon and the cottage. The princess thought +she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the +cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. Strange, was it not, +that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know +_nothing_ about that cottage? As for the moon, she did not by any means +know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where +she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist +her face. + +But she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all +sorts of fresh fears. First of all, the soft wind blowing gently +through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells +raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of +serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long that she could +not in a great many things tell the good from the bad. Then nobody +could deny that there, all round about the heath, like a ring of +darkness, lay the gloomy fir-wood, and the princess knew what it was +full of, and every now and then she thought she heard the howling of +its wolves and hyenas. And who could tell but some of them might break +from their covert and sweep like a shadow across the heath? Indeed, it +was not once nor twice that for a moment she was fully persuaded she +saw a great beast coming leaping and bounding through the moonlight to +have her all to himself. She did not know that not a single evil +creature dared set foot on that heath, or that, if one should do so, it +would that instant wither up and cease. If an army of them had rushed +to invade it, it would have melted away on the edge of it, and ceased +like a dying wave.—She even imagined that the moon was slowly coming +nearer and nearer down the sky to take her and freeze her to death in +her arms. The wise woman, too, she felt sure, although her cottage +looked asleep, was watching her at some little window. In this, +however, she would have been quite right, if she had only imagined +enough—namely, that the wise woman was watching _over_ her from the +little window. But after all, somehow, the thought of the wise woman +was less frightful than that of any of her other terrors, and at length +she began to wonder whether it might not turn out that she was no +ogress, but only a rude, ill-bred, tyrannical, yet on the whole not +altogether ill-meaning person. Hardly had the possibility arisen in her +mind, before she was on her feet: if the woman was any thing short of +an ogress, her cottage must be better than that horrible loneliness, +with nothing in all the world but a stare; and even an ogress had at +least the shape and look of a human being. + +She darted round the end of the cottage to find the front. But, to her +surprise, she came only to another back, for no door was to be seen. +She tried the farther end, but still no door. She must have passed it +as she ran—but no—neither in gable nor in side was any to be found. + +A cottage without a door!—she rushed at it in a rage and kicked at the +wall with her feet. But the wall was hard as iron, and hurt her sadly +through her gay silken slippers. She threw herself on the heath, which +came up to the walls of the cottage on every side, and roared and +screamed with rage. Suddenly, however, she remembered how her screaming +had brought the horde of wolves and hyenas about her in the forest, +and, ceasing at once, lay still, gazing yet again at the moon. And then +came the thought of her parents in the palace at home. In her mind’s +eye she saw her mother sitting at her embroidery with the tears +dropping upon it, and her father staring into the fire as if he were +looking for her in its glowing caverns. It is true that if they had +both been in tears by her side because of her naughtiness, she would +not have cared a straw; but now her own forlorn condition somehow +helped her to understand their grief at having lost her, and not only a +great longing to be back in her comfortable home, but a feeble flutter +of genuine love for her parents awoke in her heart as well, and she +burst into real tears—soft, mournful tears—very different from those of +rage and disappointment to which she was so much used. And another very +remarkable thing was that the moment she began to love her father and +mother, she began to wish to see the wise woman again. The idea of her +being an ogress vanished utterly, and she thought of her only as one to +take her in from the moon, and the loneliness, and the terrors of the +forest-haunted heath, and hide her in a cottage with not even a door +for the horrid wolves to howl against. + +But the old woman—as the princess called her, not knowing that her real +name was the Wise Woman—had told her that she must knock at the door: +how was she to do that when there was no door? But again she bethought +herself—that, if she could not do all she was told, she could, at +least, do a part of it: if she could not knock at the door, she could +at least knock—say on the wall, for there was nothing else to knock +upon—and perhaps the old woman would hear her, and lift her in by some +window. Thereupon, she rose at once to her feet, and picking up a +stone, began to knock on the wall with it. A loud noise was the result, +and she found she was knocking on the very door itself. For a moment +she feared the old woman would be offended, but the next, there came a +voice, saying, + +“Who is there?” + +The princess answered, + +“Please, old woman, I did not mean to knock so loud.” + +To this there came no reply. + +Then the princess knocked again, this time with her knuckles, and the +voice came again, saying, + +“Who is there?” + +And the princess answered, + +“Rosamond.” + +Then a second time there was silence. But the princess soon ventured to +knock a third time. + +“What do you want?” said the voice. + +“Oh, please, let me in!” said the princess. + +“The moon will keep staring at me; and I hear the wolves in the wood.” + +Then the door opened, and the princess entered. She looked all around, +but saw nothing of the wise woman. + +It was a single bare little room, with a white deal table, and a few +old wooden chairs, a fire of fir-wood on the hearth, the smoke of which +smelt sweet, and a patch of thick-growing heath in one corner. Poor as +it was, compared to the grand place Rosamond had left, she felt no +little satisfaction as she shut the door, and looked around her. And +what with the sufferings and terrors she had left outside, the new kind +of tears she had shed, the love she had begun to feel for her parents, +and the trust she had begun to place in the wise woman, it seemed to +her as if her soul had grown larger of a sudden, and she had left the +days of her childishness and naughtiness far behind her. People are so +ready to think themselves changed when it is only their mood that is +changed! Those who are good-tempered because it is a fine day, will be +ill-tempered when it rains: their selves are just the same both days; +only in the one case, the fine weather has got into them, in the other +the rainy. Rosamond, as she sat warming herself by the glow of the +peat-fire, turning over in her mind all that had passed, and feeling +how pleasant the change in her feelings was, began by degrees to think +how very good she had grown, and how very good she was to have grown +good, and how extremely good she must always have been that she was +able to grow so very good as she now felt she had grown; and she became +so absorbed in her self-admiration as never to notice either that the +fire was dying, or that a heap of fir-cones lay in a corner near it. +Suddenly, a great wind came roaring down the chimney, and scattered the +ashes about the floor; a tremendous rain followed, and fell hissing on +the embers; the moon was swallowed up, and there was darkness all about +her. Then a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, so +terrified the princess, that she cried aloud for the old woman, but +there came no answer to her cry. + +Then in her terror the princess grew angry, and saying to herself, “She +must be somewhere in the place, else who was there to open the door to +me?” began to shout and yell, and call the wise woman all the bad names +she had been in the habit of throwing at her nurses. But there came not +a single sound in reply. + +Strange to say, the princess never thought of telling herself now how +naughty she was, though that would surely have been reasonable. On the +contrary, she thought she had a perfect right to be angry, for was she +not most desperately ill used—and a princess too? But the wind howled +on, and the rain kept pouring down the chimney, and every now and then +the lightning burst out, and the thunder rushed after it, as if the +great lumbering sound could ever think to catch up with the swift +light! + +At length the princess had again grown so angry, frightened, and +miserable, all together, that she jumped up and hurried about the +cottage with outstretched arms, trying to find the wise woman. But +being in a bad temper always makes people stupid, and presently she +struck her forehead such a blow against something—she thought herself +it felt like the old woman’s cloak—that she fell back—not on the floor, +though, but on the patch of heather, which felt as soft and pleasant as +any bed in the palace. There, worn out with weeping and rage, she soon +fell fast asleep. + +She dreamed that she was the old cold woman up in the sky, with no home +and no friends, and no nothing at all, not even a pocket; wandering, +wandering forever, over a desert of blue sand, never to get to +anywhere, and never to lie down or die. It was no use stopping to look +about her, for what had she to do but forever look about her as she +went on and on and on—never seeing any thing, and never expecting to +see any thing! The only shadow of a hope she had was, that she might by +slow degrees grow thinner and thinner, until at last she wore away to +nothing at all; only alas! she could not detect the least sign that she +had yet begun to grow thinner. The hopelessness grew at length so +unendurable that she woke with a start. Seeing the face of the wise +woman bending over her, she threw her arms around her neck and held up +her mouth to be kissed. And the kiss of the wise woman was like the +rose-gardens of Damascus. + + + + +IV. + + +The wise woman lifted her tenderly, and washed and dressed her far more +carefully than even her nurse. Then she set her down by the fire, and +prepared her breakfast. The princess was very hungry, and the bread and +milk as good as it could be, so that she thought she had never in her +life eaten any thing nicer. Nevertheless, as soon as she began to have +enough, she said to herself,— + +“Ha! I see how it is! The old woman wants to fatten me! That is why she +gives me such nice creamy milk. She doesn’t kill me now because she’s +going to kill me then! She _is_ an ogress, after all!” + +Thereupon she laid down her spoon, and would not eat another +mouthful—only followed the basin with longing looks, as the wise woman +carried it away. + +When she stopped eating, her hostess knew exactly what she was +thinking; but it was one thing to understand the princess, and quite +another to make the princess understand her: that would require time. +For the present she took no notice, but went about the affairs of the +house, sweeping the floor, brushing down the cobwebs, cleaning the +hearth, dusting the table and chairs, and watering the bed to keep it +fresh and alive—for she never had more than one guest at a time, and +never would allow that guest to go to sleep upon any thing that had no +life in it. All the time she was thus busied, she spoke not a word to +the princess, which, with the princess, went to confirm her notion of +her purposes. But whatever she might have said would have been only +perverted by the princess into yet stronger proof of her evil designs, +for a fancy in her own head would outweigh any multitude of facts in +another’s. She kept staring at the fire, and never looked round to see +what the wise woman might be doing. + +By and by she came close up to the back of her chair, and said, + +“Rosamond!” + +But the princess had fallen into one of her sulky moods, and shut +herself up with her own ugly Somebody; so she never looked round or +even answered the wise woman. + +“Rosamond,” she repeated, “I am going out. If you are a good girl, that +is, if you do as I tell you, I will carry you back to your father and +mother the moment I return.” + +The princess did not take the least notice. + +“Look at me, Rosamond,” said the wise woman. + +But Rosamond never moved—never even shrugged her shoulders—perhaps +because they were already up to her ears, and could go no farther. + +“I want to help you to do what I tell you,” said the wise woman. “Look +at me.” + +Still Rosamond was motionless and silent, saying only to herself, + +“I know what she’s after! She wants to show me her horrid teeth. But I +won’t look. I’m not going to be frightened out of my senses to please +her.” + +“You had better look, Rosamond. Have you forgotten how you kissed me +this morning?” + +But Rosamond now regarded that little throb of affection as a momentary +weakness into which the deceitful ogress had betrayed her, and almost +despised herself for it. She was one of those who the more they are +coaxed are the more disagreeable. For such, the wise woman had an awful +punishment, but she remembered that the princess had been very ill +brought up, and therefore wished to try her with all gentleness first. + +She stood silent for a moment, to see what effect her words might have. +But Rosamond only said to herself,— + +“She wants to fatten and eat me.” + +And it was such a little while since she had looked into the wise +woman’s loving eyes, thrown her arms round her neck, and kissed her! + +“Well,” said the wise woman gently, after pausing as long as it seemed +possible she might bethink herself, “I must tell you then without; only +whoever listens with her back turned, listens but half, and gets but +half the help.” + +“She wants to fatten me,” said the princess. + +“You must keep the cottage tidy while I am out. When I come back, I +must see the fire bright, the hearth swept, and the kettle boiling; no +dust on the table or chairs, the windows clear, the floor clean, and +the heather in blossom—which last comes of sprinkling it with water +three times a day. When you are hungry, put your hand into that hole in +the wall, and you will find a meal.” + +“She wants to fatten me,” said the princess. + +“But on no account leave the house till I come back,” continued the +wise woman, “or you will grievously repent it. Remember what you have +already gone through to reach it. Dangers lie all around this cottage +of mine; but inside, it is the safest place—in fact the only quite safe +place in all the country.” + +“She means to eat me,” said the princess, “and therefore wants to +frighten me from running away.” + +She heard the voice no more. Then, suddenly startled at the thought of +being alone, she looked hastily over her shoulder. The cottage was +indeed empty of all visible life. It was soundless, too: there was not +even a ticking clock or a flapping flame. The fire burned still and +smouldering-wise; but it was all the company she had, and she turned +again to stare into it. + +Soon she began to grow weary of having nothing to do. Then she +remembered that the old woman, as she called her, had told her to keep +the house tidy. + +“The miserable little pig-sty!” she said. “Where’s the use of keeping +such a hovel clean!” + +But in truth she would have been glad of the employment, only just +because she had been told to do it, she was unwilling; for there _are_ +people—however unlikely it may seem—who object to doing a thing for no +other reason than that it is required of them. + +“I am a princess,” she said, “and it is very improper to ask me to do +such a thing.” + +She might have judged it quite as suitable for a princess to sweep away +the dust as to sit the centre of a world of dirt. But just because she +ought, she wouldn’t. Perhaps she feared that if she gave in to doing +her duty once, she might have to do it always—which was true enough—for +that was the very thing for which she had been specially born. + +Unable, however, to feel quite comfortable in the resolve to neglect +it, she said to herself, “I’m sure there’s time enough for such a nasty +job as that!” and sat on, watching the fire as it burned away, the +glowing red casting off white flakes, and sinking lower and lower on +the hearth. + +By and by, merely for want of something to do, she would see what the +old woman had left for her in the hole of the wall. But when she put in +her hand she found nothing there, except the dust which she ought by +this time to have wiped away. Never reflecting that the wise woman had +told her she would find food there _when she was hungry_, she flew into +one of her furies, calling her a cheat, and a thief, and a liar, and an +ugly old witch, and an ogress, and I do not know how many wicked names +besides. She raged until she was quite exhausted, and then fell fast +asleep on her chair. When she awoke the fire was out. + +By this time she was hungry; but without looking in the hole, she began +again to storm at the wise woman, in which labor she would no doubt +have once more exhausted herself, had not something white caught her +eye: it was the corner of a napkin hanging from the hole in the wall. +She bounded to it, and there was a dinner for her of something +strangely good—one of her favorite dishes, only better than she had +ever tasted it before. This might surely have at least changed her mood +towards the wise woman; but she only grumbled to herself that it was as +it ought to be, ate up the food, and lay down on the bed, never +thinking of fire, or dust, or water for the heather. + +The wind began to moan about the cottage, and grew louder and louder, +till a great gust came down the chimney, and again scattered the white +ashes all over the place. But the princess was by this time fast +asleep, and never woke till the wind had sunk to silence. One of the +consequences, however, of sleeping when one ought to be awake is waking +when one ought to be asleep; and the princess awoke in the black +midnight, and found enough to keep her awake. For although the wind had +fallen, there was a far more terrible howling than that of the wildest +wind all about the cottage. Nor was the howling all; the air was full +of strange cries; and everywhere she heard the noise of claws +scratching against the house, which seemed all doors and windows, so +crowded were the sounds, and from so many directions. All the night +long she lay half swooning, yet listening to the hideous noises. But +with the first glimmer of morning they ceased. + +Then she said to herself, “How fortunate it was that I woke! They would +have eaten me up if I had been asleep.” The miserable little wretch +actually talked as if she had kept them out! If she had done her work +in the day, she would have slept through the terrors of the darkness, +and awaked fearless; whereas now, she had in the storehouse of her +heart a whole harvest of agonies, reaped from the dun fields of the +night! + +They were neither wolves nor hyenas which had caused her such dismay, +but creatures of the air, more frightful still, which, as soon as the +smoke of the burning fir-wood ceased to spread itself abroad, and the +sun was a sufficient distance down the sky, and the lone cold woman was +out, came flying and howling about the cottage, trying to get in at +every door and window. Down the chimney they would have got, but that +at the heart of the fire there always lay a certain fir-cone, which +looked like solid gold red-hot, and which, although it might easily get +covered up with ashes, so as to be quite invisible, was continually in +a glow fit to kindle all the fir-cones in the world; this it was which +had kept the horrible birds—some say they have a claw at the tip of +every wing-feather—from tearing the poor naughty princess to pieces, +and gobbling her up. + +When she rose and looked about her, she was dismayed to see what a +state the cottage was in. The fire was out, and the windows were all +dim with the wings and claws of the dirty birds, while the bed from +which she had just risen was brown and withered, and half its purple +bells had fallen. But she consoled herself that she could set all to +rights in a few minutes—only she must breakfast first. And, sure +enough, there was a basin of the delicious bread and milk ready for her +in the hole of the wall! + +After she had eaten it, she felt comfortable, and sat for a long time +building castles in the air—till she was actually hungry again, without +having done an atom of work. She ate again, and was idle again, and ate +again. Then it grew dark, and she went trembling to bed, for now she +remembered the horrors of the last night. This time she never slept at +all, but spent the long hours in grievous terror, for the noises were +worse than before. She vowed she would not pass another night in such a +hateful haunted old shed for all the ugly women, witches, and ogresses +in the wide world. In the morning, however, she fell asleep, and slept +late. + +Breakfast was of course her first thought, after which she could not +avoid that of work. It made her very miserable, but she feared the +consequences of being found with it undone. A few minutes before noon, +she actually got up, took her pinafore for a duster, and proceeded to +dust the table. But the wood-ashes flew about so, that it seemed +useless to attempt getting rid of them, and she sat down again to think +what was to be done. But there is very little indeed to be done when we +will not do that which we have to do. + +Her first thought now was to run away at once while the sun was high, +and get through the forest before night came on. She fancied she could +easily go back the way she had come, and get home to her father’s +palace. But not the most experienced traveller in the world can ever go +back the way the wise woman has brought him. + +She got up and went to the door. It was locked! What could the old +woman have meant by telling her not to leave the cottage? She was +indignant. + +The wise woman had meant to make it difficult, but not impossible. +Before the princess, however, could find the way out, she heard a hand +at the door, and darted in terror behind it. The wise woman opened it, +and, leaving it open, walked straight to the hearth. Rosamond +immediately slid out, ran a little way, and then laid herself down in +the long heather. + + + + +V. + + +The wise woman walked straight up to the hearth, looked at the fire, +looked at the bed, glanced round the room, and went up to the table. +When she saw the one streak in the thick dust which the princess had +left there, a smile, half sad, half pleased, like the sun peeping +through a cloud on a rainy day in spring, gleamed over her face. She +went at once to the door, and called in a loud voice, + +“Rosamond, come to me.” + +All the wolves and hyenas, fast asleep in the wood, heard her voice, +and shivered in their dreams. No wonder then that the princess +trembled, and found herself compelled, she could not understand how, to +obey the summons. She rose, like the guilty thing she felt, forsook of +herself the hiding-place she had chosen, and walked slowly back to the +cottage she had left full of the signs of her shame. When she entered, +she saw the wise woman on her knees, building up the fire with +fir-cones. Already the flame was climbing through the heap in all +directions, crackling gently, and sending a sweet aromatic odor through +the dusty cottage. + +“That is my part of the work,” she said, rising. “Now you do yours. But +first let me remind you that if you had not put it off, you would have +found it not only far easier, but by and by quite pleasant work, much +more pleasant than you can imagine now; nor would you have found the +time go wearily: you would neither have slept in the day and let the +fire out, nor waked at night and heard the howling of the beast-birds. +More than all, you would have been glad to see me when I came back; and +would have leaped into my arms instead of standing there, looking so +ugly and foolish.” + +As she spoke, suddenly she held up before the princess a tiny mirror, +so clear that nobody looking into it could tell what it was made of, or +even see it at all—only the thing reflected in it. Rosamond saw a child +with dirty fat cheeks, greedy mouth, cowardly eyes—which, not daring to +look forward, seemed trying to hide behind an impertinent nose—stooping +shoulders, tangled hair, tattered clothes, and smears and stains +everywhere. That was what she had made herself. And to tell the truth, +she was shocked at the sight, and immediately began, in her dirty +heart, to lay the blame on the wise woman, because she had taken her +away from her nurses and her fine clothes; while all the time she knew +well enough that, close by the heather-bed, was the loveliest little +well, just big enough to wash in, the water of which was always +springing fresh from the ground, and running away through the wall. +Beside it lay the whitest of linen towels, with a comb made of +mother-of-pearl, and a brush of fir-needles, any one of which she had +been far too lazy to use. She dashed the glass out of the wise woman’s +hand, and there it lay, broken into a thousand pieces! + +Without a word, the wise woman stooped, and gathered the fragments—did +not leave searching until she had gathered the last atom, and she laid +them all carefully, one by one, in the fire, now blazing high on the +hearth. Then she stood up and looked at the princess, who had been +watching her sulkily. + +“Rosamond,” she said, with a countenance awful in its sternness, “until +you have cleansed this room—” + +“She calls it a room!” sneered the princess to herself. + +“You shall have no morsel to eat. You may drink of the well, but +nothing else you shall have. When the work I set you is done, you will +find food in the same place as before. I am going from home again; and +again I warn you not to leave the house.” + +“She calls it a house!—It’s a good thing she’s going out of it anyhow!” +said the princess, turning her back for mere rudeness, for she was one +who, even if she liked a thing before, would dislike it the moment any +person in authority over her desired her to do it. + +When she looked again, the wise woman had vanished. + +Thereupon the princess ran at once to the door, and tried to open it; +but open it would not. She searched on all sides, but could discover no +way of getting out. The windows would not open—at least she could not +open them; and the only outlet seemed the chimney, which she was afraid +to try because of the fire, which looked angry, she thought, and shot +out green flames when she went near it. So she sat down to consider. +One may well wonder what room for consideration there was—with all her +work lying undone behind her. She sat thus, however, considering, as +she called it, until hunger began to sting her, when she jumped up and +put her hand as usual in the hole of the wall: there was nothing there. +She fell straight into one of her stupid rages; but neither her hunger +nor the hole in the wall heeded her rage. Then, in a burst of +self-pity, she fell a-weeping, but neither the hunger nor the hole +cared for her tears. The darkness began to come on, and her hunger grew +and grew, and the terror of the wild noises of the last night invaded +her. Then she began to feel cold, and saw that the fire was dying. She +darted to the heap of cones, and fed it. It blazed up cheerily, and she +was comforted a little. Then she thought with herself it would surely +be better to give in so far, and do a little work, than die of hunger. +So catching up a duster, she began upon the table. The dust flew about +and nearly choked her. She ran to the well to drink, and was refreshed +and encouraged. Perceiving now that it was a tedious plan to wipe the +dust from the table on to the floor, whence it would have all to be +swept up again, she got a wooden platter, wiped the dust into that, +carried it to the fire, and threw it in. But all the time she was +getting more and more hungry and, although she tried the hole again and +again, it was only to become more and more certain that work she must +if she would eat. + +At length all the furniture was dusted, and she began to sweep the +floor, which happily, she thought of sprinkling with water, as from the +window she had seen them do to the marble court of the palace. That +swept, she rushed again to the hole—but still no food! She was on the +verge of another rage, when the thought came that she might have +forgotten something. To her dismay she found that table and chairs and +every thing was again covered with dust—not so badly as before, +however. Again she set to work, driven by hunger, and drawn by the hope +of eating, and yet again, after a second careful wiping, sought the +hole. But no! nothing was there for her! What could it mean? + +Her asking this question was a sign of progress: it showed that she +expected the wise woman to keep her word. Then she bethought her that +she had forgotten the household utensils, and the dishes and plates, +some of which wanted to be washed as well as dusted. + +Faint with hunger, she set to work yet again. One thing made her think +of another, until at length she had cleaned every thing she could think +of. Now surely she must find some food in the hole! + +When this time also there was nothing, she began once more to abuse the +wise woman as false and treacherous;—but ah! there was the bed +unwatered! That was soon amended.—Still no supper! Ah! there was the +hearth unswept, and the fire wanted making up!—Still no supper! What +else could there be? She was at her wits’ end, and in very weariness, +not laziness this time, sat down and gazed into the fire. There, as she +gazed, she spied something brilliant,—shining even, in the midst of the +fire: it was the little mirror all whole again; but little she knew +that the dust which she had thrown into the fire had helped to heal it. +She drew it out carefully, and, looking into it, saw, not indeed the +ugly creature she had seen there before, but still a very dirty little +animal; whereupon she hurried to the well, took off her clothes, +plunged into it, and washed herself clean. Then she brushed and combed +her hair, made her clothes as tidy as might be, and ran to the hole in +the wall: there was a huge basin of bread and milk! + +Never had she eaten any thing with half the relish! Alas! however, when +she had finished, she did not wash the basin, but left it as it was, +revealing how entirely all the rest had been done only from hunger. +Then she threw herself on the heather, and was fast asleep in a moment. +Never an evil bird came near her all that night, nor had she so much as +one troubled dream. + +In the morning as she lay awake before getting up, she spied what +seemed a door behind the tall eight-day clock that stood silent in the +corner. + +“Ah!” she thought, “that must be the way out!” and got up instantly. +The first thing she did, however, was to go to the hole in the wall. +Nothing was there. + +“Well, I am hardly used!” she cried aloud. “All that cleaning for the +cross old woman yesterday, and this for my trouble,—nothing for +breakfast! Not even a crust of bread! Does Mistress Ogress fancy a +princess will bear that?” + +The poor foolish creature seemed to think that the work of one day +ought to serve for the next day too! But that is nowhere the way in the +whole universe. How could there be a universe in that case? And even +she never dreamed of applying the same rule to her breakfast. + +“How good I was all yesterday!” she said, “and how hungry and ill used +I am to-day!” + +But she would _not_ be a slave, and do over again to-day what she had +done only last night! _She_ didn’t care about her breakfast! She might +have it no doubt if she dusted all the wretched place again, but she +was not going to do that—at least, without seeing first what lay behind +the clock! + +Off she darted, and putting her hand behind the clock found the latch +of a door. It lifted, and the door opened a little way. By squeezing +hard, she managed to get behind the clock, and so through the door. But +how she stared, when instead of the open heath, she found herself on +the marble floor of a large and stately room, lighted only from above. +Its walls were strengthened by pilasters, and in every space between +was a large picture, from cornice to floor. She did not know what to +make of it. Surely she had run all round the cottage, and certainly had +seen nothing of this size near it! She forgot that she had also run +round what she took for a hay-mow, a peat-stack, and several other +things which looked of no consequence in the moonlight. + +“So, then,” she cried, “the old woman _is_ a cheat! I believe she’s an +ogress, after all, and lives in a palace—though she pretends it’s only +a cottage, to keep people from suspecting that she eats good little +children like me!” + +Had the princess been tolerably tractable, she would, by this time, +have known a good deal about the wise woman’s beautiful house, whereas +she had never till now got farther than the porch. Neither was she at +all in its innermost places now. + +But, king’s daughter as she was, she was not a little daunted when, +stepping forward from the recess of the door, she saw what a great +lordly hall it was. She dared hardly look to the other end, it seemed +so far off: so she began to gaze at the things near her, and the +pictures first of all, for she had a great liking for pictures. One in +particular attracted her attention. She came back to it several times, +and at length stood absorbed in it. + +A blue summer sky, with white fleecy clouds floating beneath it, hung +over a hill green to the very top, and alive with streams darting down +its sides toward the valley below. On the face of the hill strayed a +flock of sheep feeding, attended by a shepherd and two dogs. A little +way apart, a girl stood with bare feet in a brook, building across it a +bridge of rough stones. The wind was blowing her hair back from her +rosy face. A lamb was feeding close beside her; and a sheepdog was +trying to reach her hand to lick it. + +“Oh, how I wish I were that little girl!” said the princess aloud. “I +wonder how it is that some people are made to be so much happier than +others! If I were that little girl, no one would ever call me naughty.” + +She gazed and gazed at the picture. At length she said to herself, + +“I do not believe it is a picture. It is the real country, with a real +hill, and a real little girl upon it. I shall soon see whether this +isn’t another of the old witch’s cheats!” + +She went close up to the picture, lifted her foot, and stepped over the +frame. + +“I am free, I am free!” she exclaimed; and she felt the wind upon her +cheek. + +The sound of a closing door struck on her ear. She turned—and there was +a blank wall, without door or window, behind her. The hill with the +sheep was before her, and she set out at once to reach it. + +Now, if I am asked how this could be, I can only answer, that it was a +result of the interaction of things outside and things inside, of the +wise woman’s skill, and the silly child’s folly. If this does not +satisfy my questioner, I can only add, that the wise woman was able to +do far more wonderful things than this. + + + + +VI. + + +Meantime the wise woman was busy as she always was; and her business +now was with the child of the shepherd and shepherdess, away in the +north. Her name was Agnes. + +Her father and mother were poor, and could not give her many things. +Rosamond would have utterly despised the rude, simple playthings she +had. Yet in one respect they were of more value far than hers: the king +bought Rosamond’s with his money; Agnes’s father made hers with his +hands. + +And while Agnes had but few things—not seeing many things about her, +and not even knowing that there were many things anywhere, she did not +wish for many things, and was therefore neither covetous nor +avaricious. + +She played with the toys her father made her, and thought them the most +wonderful things in the world—windmills, and little crooks, and +water-wheels, and sometimes lambs made all of wool, and dolls made out +of the leg-bones of sheep, which her mother dressed for her; and of +such playthings she was never tired. Sometimes, however, she preferred +playing with stones, which were plentiful, and flowers, which were few, +or the brooks that ran down the hill, of which, although they were +many, she could only play with one at a time, and that, indeed, +troubled her a little—or live lambs that were not all wool, or the +sheep-dogs, which were very friendly with her, and the best of +playfellows, as she thought, for she had no human ones to compare them +with. Neither was she greedy after nice things, but content, as well +she might be, with the homely food provided for her. Nor was she by +nature particularly self-willed or disobedient; she generally did what +her father and mother wished, and believed what they told her. But by +degrees they had spoiled her; and this was the way: they were so proud +of her that they always repeated every thing she said, and told every +thing she did, even when she was present; and so full of admiration of +their child were they, that they wondered and laughed at and praised +things in her which in another child would never have struck them as +the least remarkable, and some things even which would in another have +disgusted them altogether. Impertinent and rude things done by _their_ +child they thought _so_ clever! laughing at them as something quite +marvellous; her commonplace speeches were said over again as if they +had been the finest poetry; and the pretty ways which every moderately +good child has were extolled as if the result of her excellent taste, +and the choice of her judgment and will. They would even say sometimes +that she ought not to hear her own praises for fear it should make her +vain, and then whisper them behind their hands, but so loud that she +could not fail to hear every word. The consequence was that she soon +came to believe—so soon, that she could not recall the time when she +did not believe, as the most absolute fact in the universe, that she +was _Somebody;_ that is, she became most immoderately conceited. + +Now as the least atom of conceit is a thing to be ashamed of, you may +fancy what she was like with such a quantity of it inside her! + +At first it did not show itself outside in any very active form; but +the wise woman had been to the cottage, and had seen her sitting alone, +with such a smile of self-satisfaction upon her face as would have been +quite startling to her, if she had ever been startled at any thing; for +through that smile she could see lying at the root of it the worm that +made it. For some smiles are like the ruddiness of certain apples, +which is owing to a centipede, or other creeping thing, coiled up at +the heart of them. Only her worm had a face and shape the very image of +her own; and she looked so simpering, and mawkish, and self-conscious, +and silly, that she made the wise woman feel rather sick. + +Not that the child was a fool. Had she been, the wise woman would have +only pitied and loved her, instead of feeling sick when she looked at +her. She had very fair abilities, and were she once but made humble, +would be capable not only of doing a good deal in time, but of +beginning at once to grow to no end. But, if she were not made humble, +her growing would be to a mass of distorted shapes all huddled +together; so that, although the body she now showed might grow up +straight and well-shaped and comely to behold, the new body that was +growing inside of it, and would come out of it when she died, would be +ugly, and crooked this way and that, like an aged hawthorn that has +lived hundreds of years exposed upon all sides to salt sea-winds. + +As time went on, this disease of self-conceit went on too, gradually +devouring the good that was in her. For there is no fault that does not +bring its brothers and sisters and cousins to live with it. By degrees, +from thinking herself so clever, she came to fancy that whatever seemed +to her, must of course be the correct judgment, and whatever she +wished, the right thing; and grew so obstinate, that at length her +parents feared to thwart her in any thing, knowing well that she would +never give in. But there are victories far worse than defeats; and to +overcome an angel too gentle to put out all his strength, and ride away +in triumph on the back of a devil, is one of the poorest. + +So long as she was left to take her own way and do as she would, she +gave her parents little trouble. She would play about by herself in the +little garden with its few hardy flowers, or amongst the heather where +the bees were busy; or she would wander away amongst the hills, and be +nobody knew where, sometimes from morning to night; nor did her parents +venture to find fault with her. + +She never went into rages like the princess, and would have thought +Rosamond—oh, so ugly and vile! if she had seen her in one of her +passions. But she was no better, for all that, and was quite as ugly in +the eyes of the wise woman, who could not only see but read her face. +What is there to choose between a face distorted to hideousness by +anger, and one distorted to silliness by self-complacency? True, there +is more hope of helping the angry child out of her form of selfishness +than the conceited child out of hers; but on the other hand, the +conceited child was not so terrible or dangerous as the wrathful one. +The conceited one, however, was sometimes very angry, and then her +anger was more spiteful than the other’s; and, again, the wrathful one +was often very conceited too. So that, on the whole, of two very +unpleasant creatures, I would say that the king’s daughter would have +been the worse, had not the shepherd’s been quite as bad. But, as I +have said, the wise woman had her eye upon her: she saw that something +special must be done, else she would be one of those who kneel to their +own shadows till feet grow on their knees; then go down on their hands +till their hands grow into feet; then lay their faces on the ground +till they grow into snouts; when at last they are a hideous sort of +lizards, each of which believes himself the best, wisest, and loveliest +being in the world, yea, the very centre of the universe. And so they +run about forever looking for their own shadows, that they may worship +them, and miserable because they cannot find them, being themselves too +near the ground to have any shadows; and what becomes of them at last +there is but one who knows. + +The wise woman, therefore, one day walked up to the door of the +shepherd’s cottage, dressed like a poor woman, and asked for a drink of +water. The shepherd’s wife looked at her, liked her, and brought her a +cup of milk. The wise woman took it, for she made it a rule to accept +every kindness that was offered her. + +Agnes was not by nature a greedy girl, as I have said; but self-conceit +will go far to generate every other vice under the sun. Vanity, which +is a form of self-conceit, has repeatedly shown itself as the deepest +feeling in the heart of a horrible murderess. + +That morning, at breakfast, her mother had stinted her in milk—just a +little—that she might have enough to make some milk-porridge for their +dinner. Agnes did not mind it at the time, but when she saw the milk +now given to a beggar, as she called the wise woman—though, surely, one +might ask a draught of water, and accept a draught of milk, without +being a beggar in any such sense as Agnes’s contemptuous use of the +word implied—a cloud came upon her forehead, and a double vertical +wrinkle settled over her nose. The wise woman saw it, for all her +business was with Agnes though she little knew it, and, rising, went +and offered the cup to the child, where she sat with her knitting in a +corner. Agnes looked at it, did not want it, was inclined to refuse it +from a beggar, but thinking it would show her consequence to assert her +rights, took it and drank it up. For whoever is possessed by a devil, +judges with the mind of that devil; and hence Agnes was guilty of such +a meanness as many who are themselves capable of something just as bad +will consider incredible. + +The wise woman waited till she had finished it—then, looking into the +empty cup, said: + +“You might have given me back as much as you had no claim upon!” + +Agnes turned away and made no answer—far less from shame than +indignation. + +The wise woman looked at the mother. + +“You should not have offered it to her if you did not mean her to have +it,” said the mother, siding with the devil in her child against the +wise woman and her child too. Some foolish people think they take +another’s part when they take the part he takes. + +The wise woman said nothing, but fixed her eyes upon her, and soon the +mother hid her face in her apron weeping. Then she turned again to +Agnes, who had never looked round but sat with her back to both, and +suddenly lapped her in the folds of her cloak. When the mother again +lifted her eyes, she had vanished. + +Never supposing she had carried away her child, but uncomfortable +because of what she had said to the poor woman, the mother went to the +door, and called after her as she toiled slowly up the hill. But she +never turned her head; and the mother went back into her cottage. + +The wise woman walked close past the shepherd and his dogs, and through +the midst of his flock of sheep. The shepherd wondered where she could +be going—right up the hill. There was something strange about her too, +he thought; and he followed her with his eyes as she went up and up. + +It was near sunset, and as the sun went down, a gray cloud settled on +the top of the mountain, which his last rays turned into a rosy gold. +Straight into this cloud the shepherd saw the woman hold her pace, and +in it she vanished. He little imagined that his child was under her +cloak. + +He went home as usual in the evening, but Agnes had not come in. They +were accustomed to such an absence now and then, and were not at first +frightened; but when it grew dark and she did not appear, the husband +set out with his dogs in one direction, and the wife in another, to +seek their child. Morning came and they had not found her. Then the +whole country-side arose to search for the missing Agnes; but day after +day and night after night passed, and nothing was discovered of or +concerning her, until at length all gave up the search in despair +except the mother, although she was nearly convinced now that the poor +woman had carried her off. + +One day she had wandered some distance from her cottage, thinking she +might come upon the remains of her daughter at the foot of some cliff, +when she came suddenly, instead, upon a disconsolate-looking creature +sitting on a stone by the side of a stream. + +Her hair hung in tangles from her head; her clothes were tattered, and +through the rents her skin showed in many places; her cheeks were +white, and worn thin with hunger; the hollows were dark under her eyes, +and they stood out scared and wild. When she caught sight of the +shepherdess, she jumped to her feet, and would have run away, but fell +down in a faint. + +At first sight the mother had taken her for her own child, but now she +saw, with a pang of disappointment, that she had mistaken. Full of +compassion, nevertheless, she said to herself: + +“If she is not my Agnes, she is as much in need of help as if she were. +If I cannot be good to my own, I will be as good as I can to some other +woman’s; and though I should scorn to be consoled for the loss of one +by the presence of another, I yet may find some gladness in rescuing +one child from the death which has taken the other.” + +Perhaps her words were not just like these, but her thoughts were. She +took up the child, and carried her home. And this is how Rosamond came +to occupy the place of the little girl whom she had envied in the +picture. + + + + +VII. + + +Notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were, +indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in the +least alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for her +own fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. But I +will tell you another difference: the princess was like several +children in one—such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood she +had no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to a +previous mood—not even if it had left her but a moment before, and had +been so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to get +what she wanted. Plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and more +than that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call or +send away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pulling +strings behind a show. Agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood, +but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. Father nor mother had +ever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, and +do what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning with +one unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. She would actually nod +her head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out against +them. This, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the pride +of having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid so +little attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. Neither, +when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman’s +cloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was not +afraid. “She’ll soon set me down,” she said, too self-important to +suppose that any one would dare do her an injury. + +Whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on what +the fearlessness is founded upon. Some have no fear, because they have +no knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. Some are too +stupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. Some who are not +easily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment they +were frightened: such never had more courage than fear. But the man who +will do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. The +fearlessness of Agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it was +to be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress or +wolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats of +punishment. If the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shown +herself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change of +motion so long as she carried her. + +Nothing such, however, was in the wise woman’s plan for the curing of +her. On and on she carried her without a word. She knew that if she set +her down she would never run after her like the princess, at least not +before the evil thing was already upon her. On and on she went, never +halting, never letting the light look in, or Agnes look out. She walked +very fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess had +gone from it. + +But she did not set Agnes down either in the cottage or in the great +hall. She had other places, none of them alike. The place she had +chosen for Agnes was a strange one—such a one as is to be found nowhere +else in the wide world. + +It was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that of +the mirror which Rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. That +substance no one could see by itself. It had neither door, nor window, +nor any opening to break its perfect roundness. + +The wise woman carried Agnes into a dark room, there undressed her, +took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she was +born, into the hollow sphere. + +What sort of a place it was she could not tell. She could see nothing +but a faint cold bluish light all about her. She could not feel that +any thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. She stood for a +while, perfectly calm, then sat down. Nothing bad could happen to +_her_—she was so important! And, indeed, it was but this: she had cared +only for Somebody, and now she was going to have only Somebody. Her own +choice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than she +would have knowingly carried it for herself. + +After sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothing +came. A little longer, and it grew wearisome. She would see whether she +could not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her. + +Walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. On +and on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, but +after walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself no +nearer out of her prison than before. She had not, indeed, advanced a +single step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphere +turned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. Like a squirrel +in his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunningly +suspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only at +its lowest point after walking for ages. + +At length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. It grew dreary and +drearier—in her, that is: outside there was no change. Nothing was +overhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the same +pale, faint, bluish glimmer. She wept at last, then grew very angry, +and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. It was +all the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. On and on +went the dreary hours—or did they go at all?—“no change, no pause, no +hope;”—on and on till she _felt_ she was forgotten, and then she grew +strangely still and fell asleep. + +The moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, and +laid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which she +received without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, just +ere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again. + +When first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of the +preceding day had been all a dream of the night. But they soon asserted +themselves as facts, for here they were!—nothing to see but a cold blue +light, and nothing to do but see it. Oh, how slowly the hours went by! +She lost all notion of time. If she had been told that she had been +there twenty years, she would have believed it—or twenty minutes—it +would have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her no +more. + +Another night came, and another still, during both of which the wise +woman nursed and fed her. But she knew nothing of that, and the same +one dreary day seemed ever brooding over her. + +All at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child was +seated beside her. But there was something about the child that made +her shudder. She never looked at Agnes, but sat with her chin sunk on +her chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. She was the color of +pale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for a +mouth. + +“How ugly she is!” thought Agnes. “What business has she beside me!” + +But it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with a +serpent, and put out her hand to touch her. She touched nothing. The +child, also, put out her hand—but in the direction away from Agnes. And +that was well, for if she had touched Agnes it would have killed her. +Then Agnes said, “Who are you?” And the little girl said, “Who are +you?” “I am Agnes,” said Agnes; and the little girl said, “I am Agnes.” +Then Agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, “You are ugly;” and +the little girl said, “You are ugly.” + +Then Agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the little +girl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tugging +at her own hair. She let go; and there was the little girl again! Agnes +was furious now, and flew at her to bite her. But she found her teeth +in her own arm, and the little girl was gone—only to return again; and +each time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. And now +Agnes hated her with her whole heart. + +The moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgust +that the child was not another, but her Self, her Somebody, and that +she was now shut up with her for ever and ever—no more for one moment +ever to be alone. In her agony of despair, sleep descended, and she +slept. + +When she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable, +staring at her own toes. All at once, the creature began to smile, but +with such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that Agnes felt ashamed +of seeing her. Then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her own +body, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction. +Agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-like +creature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only doing +outside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she could +remember, inside of her. + +She turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out of +existence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. By the +third day, Agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she had +hitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that she +had never seen the truth concerning herself before. + +The next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror had +vanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her. +She wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderly +did the great strong arms close around her. + +When she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into her +cottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in clean +garments, and gave her bread and milk. When she had eaten it, she +called her to her, and said very solemnly,— + +“Agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. That you are ashamed of +yourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. In +new circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, you +will be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. So +beware of yourself. I am going from home, and leave you in charge of +the house. Do just as I tell you till my return.” + +She then gave her the same directions she had formerly given +Rosamond—with this difference, that she told her to go into the +picture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against which +the clock no longer stood—and went away, closing the door behind her. + + + + +VIII. + + +As soon as she was left alone, Agnes set to work tidying and dusting +the cottage, made up the fire, watered the bed, and cleaned the inside +of the windows: the wise woman herself always kept the outside of them +clean. When she had done, she found her dinner—of the same sort she was +used to at home, but better—in the hole of the wall. When she had eaten +it, she went to look at the pictures. + +By this time her old disposition had begun to rouse again. She had been +doing her duty, and had in consequence begun again to think herself +Somebody. However strange it may well seem, to do one’s duty will make +any one conceited who only does it sometimes. Those who do it always +would as soon think of being conceited of eating their dinner as of +doing their duty. What honest boy would pride himself on not picking +pockets? A thief who was trying to reform would. To be conceited of +doing one’s duty is then a sign of how little one does it, and how +little one sees what a contemptible thing it is not to do it. Could any +but a low creature be conceited of not being contemptible? Until our +duty becomes to us common as breathing, we are poor creatures. + +So Agnes began to stroke herself once more, forgetting her late +self-stroking companion, and never reflecting that she was now doing +what she had then abhorred. And in this mood she went into the +picture-gallery. + +The first picture she saw represented a square in a great city, one +side of which was occupied by a splendid marble palace, with great +flights of broad steps leading up to the door. Between it and the +square was a marble-paved court, with gates of brass, at which stood +sentries in gorgeous uniforms, and to which was affixed the following +proclamation in letters of gold, large enough for Agnes to read:— + +“By the will of the King, from this time until further notice, every +stray child found in the realm shall be brought without a moment’s +delay to the palace. Whoever shall be found having done otherwise shall +straightway lose his head by the hand of the public executioner.” + + +Agnes’s heart beat loud, and her face flushed. + +“Can there be such a city in the world?” she said to herself. “If I +only knew where it was, I should set out for it at once. _There_ would +be the place for a clever girl like me!” + +Her eyes fell on the picture which had so enticed Rosamond. It was the +very country where her father fed his flocks. Just round the shoulder +of the hill was the cottage where her parents lived, where she was born +and whence she had been carried by the beggar-woman. + +“Ah!” she said, “they didn’t know me there. They little thought what I +could be, if I had the chance. If I were but in this good, kind, +loving, generous king’s palace, I should soon be such a great lady as +they never saw! Then they would understand what a good little girl I +had always been! And I shouldn’t forget my poor parents like some I +have read of. _I_ would be generous. _I_ should never be selfish and +proud like girls in story-books!” + +As she said this, she turned her back with disdain upon the picture of +her home, and setting herself before the picture of the palace, stared +at it with wide ambitious eyes, and a heart whose every beat was a +throb of arrogant self-esteem. + +The shepherd-child was now worse than ever the poor princess had been. +For the wise woman had given her a terrible lesson one of which the +princess was not capable, and she had known what it meant; yet here she +was as bad as ever, therefore worse than before. The ugly creature +whose presence had made her so miserable had indeed crept out of sight +and mind too—but where was she? Nestling in her very heart, where most +of all she had her company, and least of all could see her. The wise +woman had called her out, that Agnes might see what sort of creature +she was herself; but now she was snug in her soul’s bed again, and she +did not even suspect she was there. + +After gazing a while at the palace picture, during which her ambitious +pride rose and rose, she turned yet again in condescending mood, and +honored the home picture with one stare more. + +“What a poor, miserable spot it is compared with this lordly palace!” +she said. + +But presently she spied something in it she had not seen before, and +drew nearer. It was the form of a little girl, building a bridge of +stones over one of the hill-brooks. + +“Ah, there I am myself!” she said. “That is just how I used to do.—No,” +she resumed, “it is not me. That snub-nosed little fright could never +be meant for me! It was the frock that made me think so. But it _is_ a +picture of the place. I declare, I can see the smoke of the cottage +rising from behind the hill! What a dull, dirty, insignificant spot it +is! And what a life to lead there!” + +She turned once more to the city picture. And now a strange thing took +place. In proportion as the other, to the eyes of her mind, receded +into the background, this, to her present bodily eyes, appeared to come +forward and assume reality. At last, after it had been in this way +growing upon her for some time, she gave a cry of conviction, and said +aloud,— + +“I do believe it is real! That frame is only a trick of the woman to +make me fancy it a picture lest I should go and make my fortune. She is +a witch, the ugly old creature! It would serve her right to tell the +king and have her punished for not taking me to the palace—one of his +poor lost children he is so fond of! I should like to see her ugly old +head cut off. Anyhow I will try my luck without asking her leave. How +she has ill used me!” + +But at that moment, she heard the voice of the wise woman calling, +“Agnes!” and, smoothing her face, she tried to look as good as she +could, and walked back into the cottage. There stood the wise woman, +looking all round the place, and examining her work. She fixed her eyes +upon Agnes in a way that confused her, and made her cast hers down, for +she felt as if she were reading her thoughts. The wise woman, however, +asked no questions, but began to talk about her work, approving of some +of it, which filled her with arrogance, and showing how some of it +might have been done better, which filled her with resentment. But the +wise woman seemed to take no care of what she might be thinking, and +went straight on with her lesson. By the time it was over, the power of +reading thoughts would not have been necessary to a knowledge of what +was in the mind of Agnes, for it had all come to the surface—that is up +into her face, which is the surface of the mind. Ere it had time to +sink down again, the wise woman caught up the little mirror, and held +it before her: Agnes saw her Somebody—the very embodiment of miserable +conceit and ugly ill-temper. She gave such a scream of horror that the +wise woman pitied her, and laying aside the mirror, took her upon her +knees, and talked to her most kindly and solemnly; in particular about +the necessity of destroying the ugly things that come out of the +heart—so ugly that they make the very face over them ugly also. + +And what was Agnes doing all the time the wise woman was talking to +her? Would you believe it?—instead of thinking how to kill the ugly +things in her heart, she was with all her might resolving to be more +careful of her face, that is, to keep down the things in her heart so +that they should not show in her face, she was resolving to be a +hypocrite as well as a self-worshipper. Her heart was wormy, and the +worms were eating very fast at it now. + +Then the wise woman laid her gently down upon the heather-bed, and she +fell fast asleep, and had an awful dream about her Somebody. + +When she woke in the morning, instead of getting up to do the work of +the house, she lay thinking—to evil purpose. In place of taking her +dream as a warning, and thinking over what the wise woman had said the +night before, she communed with herself in this fashion:— + +“If I stay here longer, I shall be miserable, It is nothing better than +slavery. The old witch shows me horrible things in the day to set me +dreaming horrible things in the night. If I don’t run away, that +frightful blue prison and the disgusting girl will come back, and I +shall go out of my mind. How I do wish I could find the way to the good +king’s palace! I shall go and look at the picture again—if it be a +picture—as soon as I’ve got my clothes on. The work can wait. It’s not +my work. It’s the old witch’s; and she ought to do it herself.” + +She jumped out of bed, and hurried on her clothes. There was no wise +woman to be seen; and she hastened into the hall. There was the +picture, with the marble palace, and the proclamation shining in +letters of gold upon its gates of brass. She stood before it, and gazed +and gazed; and all the time it kept growing upon her in some strange +way, until at last she was fully persuaded that it was no picture, but +a real city, square, and marble palace, seen through a framed opening +in the wall. She ran up to the frame, stepped over it, felt the wind +blow upon her cheek, heard the sound of a closing door behind her, and +was free. _Free_ was she, with that creature inside her? + +The same moment a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, wind and +rain, came on. The uproar was appalling. Agnes threw herself upon the +ground, hid her face in her hands, and there lay until it was over. As +soon as she felt the sun shining on her, she rose. There was the city +far away on the horizon. Without once turning to take a farewell look +of the place she was leaving, she set off, as fast as her feet would +carry her, in the direction of the city. So eager was she, that again +and again she fell, but only to get up, and run on faster than before. + + + + +IX. + + +The shepherdess carried Rosamond home, gave her a warm bath in the tub +in which she washed her linen, made her some bread-and-milk, and after +she had eaten it, put her to bed in Agnes’s crib, where she slept all +the rest of that day and all the following night. + +When at last she opened her eyes, it was to see around her a far poorer +cottage than the one she had left—very bare and uncomfortable indeed, +she might well have thought; but she had come through such troubles of +late, in the way of hunger and weariness and cold and fear, that she +was not altogether in her ordinary mood of fault-finding, and so was +able to lie enjoying the thought that at length she was safe, and going +to be fed and kept warm. The idea of doing any thing in return for +shelter and food and clothes, did not, however, even cross her mind. + +But the shepherdess was one of that plentiful number who can be wiser +concerning other women’s children than concerning their own. Such will +often give you very tolerable hints as to how you ought to manage your +children, and will find fault neatly enough with the system you are +trying to carry out; but all their wisdom goes off in talking, and +there is none left for doing what they have themselves said. There is +one road talk never finds, and that is the way into the talker’s own +hands and feet. And such never seem to know themselves—not even when +they are reading about themselves in print. Still, not being specially +blinded in any direction but their own, they can sometimes even act +with a little sense towards children who are not theirs. They are +affected with a sort of blindness like that which renders some people +incapable of seeing, except sideways. + +She came up to the bed, looked at the princess, and saw that she was +better. But she did not like her much. There was no mark of a princess +about her, and never had been since she began to run alone. True, +hunger had brought down her fat cheeks, but it had not turned down her +impudent nose, or driven the sullenness and greed from her mouth. +Nothing but the wise woman could do that—and not even she, without the +aid of the princess herself. So the shepherdess thought what a poor +substitute she had got for her own lovely Agnes—who was in fact equally +repulsive, only in a way to which she had got used; for the selfishness +in her love had blinded her to the thin pinched nose and the mean +self-satisfied mouth. It was well for the princess, though, sad as it +is to say, that the shepherdess did not take to her, for then she would +most likely have only done her harm instead of good. + +“Now, my girl,” she said, “you must get up, and do something. We can’t +keep idle folk here.” + +“I’m not a folk,” said Rosamond; “I’m a princess.” + +“A pretty princess—with a nose like that! And all in rags too! If you +tell such stories, I shall soon let you know what I think of you.” + +Rosamond then understood that the mere calling herself a princess, +without having any thing to show for it, was of no use. She obeyed and +rose, for she was hungry; but she had to sweep the floor ere she had +any thing to eat. + +The shepherd came in to breakfast, and was kinder than his wife. He +took her up in his arms and would have kissed her; but she took it as +an insult from a man whose hands smelt of tar, and kicked and screamed +with rage. The poor man, finding he had made a mistake, set her down at +once. But to look at the two, one might well have judged it +condescension rather than rudeness in such a man to kiss such a child. +He was tall, and almost stately, with a thoughtful forehead, bright +eyes, eagle nose, and gentle mouth; while the princess was such as I +have described her. + +Not content with being set down and let alone, she continued to storm +and scold at the shepherd, crying she was a princess, and would like to +know what right he had to touch her! But he only looked down upon her +from the height of his tall person with a benignant smile, regarding +her as a spoiled little ape whose mother had flattered her by calling +her a princess. + +“Turn her out of doors, the ungrateful hussy!” cried his wife. “With +your bread and your milk inside her ugly body, this is what she gives +you for it! Troth, I’m paid for carrying home such an ill-bred tramp in +my arms! My own poor angel Agnes! As if that ill-tempered toad were one +hair like her!” + +These words drove the princess beside herself; for those who are most +given to abuse can least endure it. With fists and feet and teeth, as +was her wont, she rushed at the shepherdess, whose hand was already +raised to deal her a sound box on the ear, when a better appointed +minister of vengeance suddenly showed himself. Bounding in at the +cottage-door came one of the sheep-dogs, who was called Prince, and +whom I shall not refer to with a _which_, because he was a very +superior animal indeed, even for a sheep-dog, which is the most +intelligent of dogs: he flew at the princess, knocked her down, and +commenced shaking her so violently as to tear her miserable clothes to +pieces. Used, however, to mouthing little lambs, he took care not to +hurt her much, though for her good he left her a blue nip or two by way +of letting her imagine what biting might be. His master, knowing he +would not injure her, thought it better not to call him off, and in +half a minute he left her of his own accord, and, casting a glance of +indignant rebuke behind him as he went, walked slowly to the hearth, +where he laid himself down with his tail toward her. She rose, +terrified almost to death, and would have crept again into Agnes’s crib +for refuge; but the shepherdess cried— + +“Come, come, princess! I’ll have no skulking to bed in the good +daylight. Go and clean your master’s Sunday boots there.” + +“I will not!” screamed the princess, and ran from the house. + +“Prince!” cried the shepherdess, and up jumped the dog, and looked in +her face, wagging his bushy tail. + +“Fetch her back,” she said, pointing to the door. + +With two or three bounds Prince caught the princess, again threw her +down, and taking her by her clothes dragged her back into the cottage, +and dropped her at his mistress’ feet, where she lay like a bundle of +rags. + +“Get up,” said the shepherdess. + +Rosamond got up as pale as death. + +“Go and clean the boots.” + +“I don’t know how.” + +“Go and try. There are the brushes, and yonder is the blacking-pot.” + +Instructing her how to black boots, it came into the thought of the +shepherdess what a fine thing it would be if she could teach this +miserable little wretch, so forsaken and ill-bred, to be a good, +well-behaved, respectable child. She was hardly the woman to do it, but +every thing well meant is a help, and she had the wisdom to beg her +husband to place Prince under her orders for a while, and not take him +to the hill as usual, that he might help her in getting the princess +into order. + +When the husband was gone, and his boots, with the aid of her own +finishing touches, at last quite respectably brushed, the shepherdess +told the princess that she might go and play for a while, only she must +not go out of sight of the cottage-door. + +The princess went right gladly, with the firm intention, however, of +getting out of sight by slow degrees, and then at once taking to her +heels. But no sooner was she over the threshold than the shepherdess +said to the dog, “Watch her;” and out shot Prince. + +The moment she saw him, Rosamond threw herself on her face, trembling +from head to foot. But the dog had no quarrel with her, and of the +violence against which he always felt bound to protest in dog fashion, +there was no sign in the prostrate shape before him; so he poked his +nose under her, turned her over, and began licking her face and hands. +When she saw that he meant to be friendly, her love for animals, which +had had no indulgence for a long time now, came wide awake, and in a +little while they were romping and rushing about, the best friends in +the world. + +Having thus seen one enemy, as she thought, changed to a friend, she +began to resume her former plan, and crept cunningly farther and +farther. At length she came to a little hollow, and instantly rolled +down into it. Finding then that she was out of sight of the cottage, +she ran off at full speed. + +But she had not gone more than a dozen paces, when she heard a growling +rush behind her, and the next instant was on the ground, with the dog +standing over her, showing his teeth, and flaming at her with his eyes. +She threw her arms round his neck, and immediately he licked her face, +and let her get up. But the moment she would have moved a step farther +from the cottage, there he was it front of her, growling, and showing +his teeth. She saw it was of no use, and went back with him. + +Thus was the princess provided with a dog for a private tutor—just the +right sort for her. + +Presently the shepherdess appeared at the door and called her. She +would have disregarded the summons, but Prince did his best to let her +know that, until she could obey herself, she must obey him. So she went +into the cottage, and there the shepherdess ordered her to peel the +potatoes for dinner. She sulked and refused. Here Prince could do +nothing to help his mistress, but she had not to go far to find another +ally. + +“Very well, Miss Princess!” she said; “we shall soon see how you like +to go without when dinner-time comes.” + +Now the princess had very little foresight, and the idea of future +hunger would have moved her little; but happily, from her game of romps +with Prince, she had begun to be hungry already, and so the threat had +force. She took the knife and began to peel the potatoes. + +By slow degrees the princess improved a little. A few more outbreaks of +passion, and a few more savage attacks from Prince, and she had learned +to try to restrain herself when she felt the passion coming on; while a +few dinnerless afternoons entirely opened her eyes to the necessity of +working in order to eat. Prince was her first, and Hunger her second +dog-counsellor. + +But a still better thing was that she soon grew very fond of Prince. +Towards the gaining of her affections, he had three advantages: first, +his nature was inferior to hers; next, he was a beast; and last, she +was afraid of him; for so spoiled was she that she could more easily +love what was below than what was above her, and a beast, than one of +her own kind, and indeed could hardly have ever come to love any thing +much that she had not first learned to fear, and the white teeth and +flaming eyes of the angry Prince were more terrible to her than any +thing had yet been, except those of the wolf, which she had now +forgotten. Then again, he was such a delightful playfellow, that so +long as she neither lost her temper, nor went against orders, she might +do almost any thing she pleased with him. In fact, such was his +influence upon her, that she who had scoffed at the wisest woman in the +whole world, and derided the wishes of her own father and mother, came +at length to regard this dog as a superior being, and to look up to him +as well as love him. And this was best of all. + +The improvement upon her, in the course of a month, was plain. She had +quite ceased to go into passions, and had actually begun to take a +little interest in her work and try to do it well. + +Still, the change was mostly an outside one. I do not mean that she was +pretending. Indeed she had never been given to pretence of any sort. +But the change was not in _her_, only in her mood. A second change of +circumstances would have soon brought a second change of behavior; and, +so long as that was possible, she continued the same sort of person she +had always been. But if she had not gained much, a trifle had been +gained for her: a little quietness and order of mind, and hence a +somewhat greater possibility of the first idea of right arising in it, +whereupon she would begin to see what a wretched creature she was, and +must continue until she herself was right. + +Meantime the wise woman had been watching her when she least fancied +it, and taking note of the change that was passing upon her. Out of the +large eyes of a gentle sheep she had been watching her—a sheep that +puzzled the shepherd; for every now and then she would appear in his +flock, and he would catch sight of her two or three times in a day, +sometimes for days together, yet he never saw her when he looked for +her, and never when he counted the flock into the fold at night. He +knew she was not one of his; but where could she come from, and where +could she go to? For there was no other flock within many miles, and he +never could get near enough to her to see whether or not she was +marked. Nor was Prince of the least use to him for the unravelling of +the mystery; for although, as often as he told him to fetch the strange +sheep, he went bounding to her at once, it was only to lie down at her +feet. + +At length, however, the wise woman had made up her mind, and after that +the strange sheep no longer troubled the shepherd. + +As Rosamond improved, the shepherdess grew kinder. She gave her all +Agnes’s clothes, and began to treat her much more like a daughter. +Hence she had a great deal of liberty after the little work required of +her was over, and would often spend hours at a time with the shepherd, +watching the sheep and the dogs, and learning a little from seeing how +Prince, and the others as well, managed their charge—how they never +touched the sheep that did as they were told and turned when they were +bid, but jumped on a disobedient flock, and ran along their backs, +biting, and barking, and half choking themselves with mouthfuls of +their wool. + +Then also she would play with the brooks, and learn their songs, and +build bridges over them. And sometimes she would be seized with such +delight of heart that she would spread out her arms to the wind, and go +rushing up the hill till her breath left her, when she would tumble +down in the heather, and lie there till it came back again. + +A noticeable change had by this time passed also on her countenance. +Her coarse shapeless mouth had begun to show a glimmer of lines and +curves about it, and the fat had not returned with the roses to her +cheeks, so that her eyes looked larger than before; while, more +noteworthy still, the bridge of her nose had grown higher, so that it +was less of the impudent, insignificant thing inherited from a certain +great-great-great-grandmother, who had little else to leave her. For a +long time, it had fitted her very well, for it was just like her; but +now there was ground for alteration, and already the granny who gave it +her would not have recognized it. It was growing a little liker +Prince’s; and Prince’s was a long, perceptive, sagacious nose,—one that +was seldom mistaken. + +One day about noon, while the sheep were mostly lying down, and the +shepherd, having left them to the care of the dogs, was himself +stretched under the shade of a rock a little way apart, and the +princess sat knitting, with Prince at her feet, lying in wait for a +snap at a great fly, for even he had his follies—Rosamond saw a poor +woman come toiling up the hill, but took little notice of her until she +was passing, a few yards off, when she heard her utter the dog’s name +in a low voice. + +Immediately on the summons, Prince started up and followed her—with +hanging head, but gently-wagging tail. At first the princess thought he +was merely taking observations, and consulting with his nose whether +she was respectable or not, but she soon saw that he was following her +in meek submission. Then she sprung to her feet and cried, “Prince, +Prince!” But Prince only turned his head and gave her an odd look, as +if he were trying to smile, and could not. Then the princess grew +angry, and ran after him, shouting, “Prince, come here directly.” Again +Prince turned his head, but this time to growl and show his teeth. + +The princess flew into one of her forgotten rages, and picking up a +stone, flung it at the woman. Prince turned and darted at her, with +fury in his eyes, and his white teeth gleaming. At the awful sight the +princess turned also, and would have fled, but he was upon her in a +moment, and threw her to the ground, and there she lay. + +It was evening when she came to herself. A cool twilight wind, that +somehow seemed to come all the way from the stars, was blowing upon +her. The poor woman and Prince, the shepherd and his sheep, were all +gone, and she was left alone with the wind upon the heather. + +She felt sad, weak, and, perhaps, for the first time in her life, a +little ashamed. The violence of which she had been guilty had vanished +from her spirit, and now lay in her memory with the calm morning behind +it, while in front the quiet dusky night was now closing in the loud +shame betwixt a double peace. Between the two her passion looked ugly. +It pained her to remember. She felt it was hateful, and _hers_. + +But, alas, Prince was gone! That horrid woman had taken him away! The +fury rose again in her heart, and raged—until it came to her mind how +her dear Prince would have flown at her throat if he had seen her in +such a passion. The memory calmed her, and she rose and went home. +There, perhaps, she would find Prince, for surely he could never have +been such a silly dog as go away altogether with a strange woman! + +She opened the door and went in. Dogs were asleep all about the +cottage, it seemed to her, but nowhere was Prince. She crept away to +her little bed, and cried herself asleep. + +In the morning the shepherd and shepherdess were indeed glad to find +she had come home, for they thought she had run away. + +“Where is Prince?” she cried, the moment she waked. + +“His mistress has taken him,” answered the shepherd. + +“Was that woman his mistress?” + +“I fancy so. He followed her as if he had known her all his life. I am +very sorry to lose him, though.” + +The poor woman had gone close past the rock where the shepherd lay. He +saw her coming, and thought of the strange sheep which had been feeding +beside him when he lay down. “Who can she be?” he said to himself; but +when he noted how Prince followed her, without even looking up at him +as he passed, he remembered how Prince had come to him. And this was +how: as he lay in bed one fierce winter morning, just about to rise, he +heard the voice of a woman call to him through the storm, “Shepherd, I +have brought you a dog. Be good to him. I will come again and fetch him +away.” He dressed as quickly as he could, and went to the door. It was +half snowed up, but on the top of the white mound before it stood +Prince. And now he had gone as mysteriously as he had come, and he felt +sad. + +Rosamond was very sorry too, and hence when she saw the looks of the +shepherd and shepherdess, she was able to understand them. And she +tried for a while to behave better to them because of their sorrow. So +the loss of the dog brought them all nearer to each other. + + + + +X. + + +After the thunder-storm, Agnes did not meet with a single obstruction +or misadventure. Everybody was strangely polite, gave her whatever she +desired, and answered her questions, but asked none in return, and +looked all the time as if her departure would be a relief. They were +afraid, in fact, from her appearance, lest she should tell them that +she was lost, when they would be bound, on pain of public execution, to +take her to the palace. + +But no sooner had she entered the city than she saw it would hardly do +to present herself as a lost child at the palace-gates; for how were +they to know that she was not an impostor, especially since she really +was one, having run away from the wise woman? So she wandered about +looking at every thing until she was tired, and bewildered by the noise +and confusion all around her. The wearier she got, the more was she +pushed in every direction. Having been used to a whole hill to wander +upon, she was very awkward in the crowded streets, and often on the +point of being run over by the horses, which seemed to her to be going +every way like a frightened flock. She spoke to several persons, but no +one stopped to answer her; and at length, her courage giving way, she +felt lost indeed, and began to cry. A soldier saw her, and asked what +was the matter. + +“I’ve nowhere to go to,” she sobbed. + +“Where’s your mother?” asked the soldier. + +“I don’t know,” answered Agnes. “I was carried off by an old woman, who +then went away and left me. I don’t know where she is, or where I am +myself.” + +“Come,” said the soldier, “this is a case for his Majesty.” + +So saying, he took her by the hand, led her to the palace, and begged +an audience of the king and queen. The porter glanced at Agnes, +immediately admitted them, and showed them into a great splendid room, +where the king and queen sat every day to review lost children, in the +hope of one day thus finding their Rosamond. But they were by this time +beginning to get tired of it. The moment they cast their eyes upon +Agnes, the queen threw back her head, threw up her hands, and cried, +“What a miserable, conceited, white-faced little ape!” and the king +turned upon the soldier in wrath, and cried, forgetting his own decree, +“What do you mean by bringing such a dirty, vulgar-looking, pert +creature into my palace? The dullest soldier in my army could never for +a moment imagine a child like _that_, one hair’s-breadth like the +lovely angel we lost!” + +“I humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon,” said the soldier, “but what was I +to do? There stands your Majesty’s proclamation in gold letters on the +brazen gates of the palace.” + +“I shall have it taken down,” said the king. “Remove the child.” + +“Please your Majesty, what am I to do with her?” + +“Take her home with you.” + +“I have six already, sire, and do not want her.” + +“Then drop her where you picked her up.” + +“If I do, sire, some one else will find her and bring her back to your +Majesties.” + +“That will never do,” said the king. “I cannot bear to look at her.” + +“For all her ugliness,” said the queen, “she is plainly lost, and so is +our Rosamond.” + +“It may be only a pretence, to get into the palace,” said the king. + +“Take her to the head scullion, soldier,” said the queen, “and tell her +to make her useful. If she should find out she has been pretending to +be lost, she must let me know.” + +The soldier was so anxious to get rid of her, that he caught her up in +his arms, hurried her from the room, found his way to the scullery, and +gave her, trembling with fear, in charge to the head maid, with the +queen’s message. + +As it was evident that the queen had no favor for her, the servants did +as they pleased with her, and often treated her harshly. Not one +amongst them liked her, nor was it any wonder, seeing that, with every +step she took from the wise woman’s house, she had grown more +contemptible, for she had grown more conceited. Every civil answer +given her, she attributed to the impression she made, not to the desire +to get rid of her; and every kindness, to approbation of her looks and +speech, instead of friendliness to a lonely child. Hence by this time +she was twice as odious as before; for whoever has had such severe +treatment as the wise woman gave her, and is not the better for it, +always grows worse than before. They drove her about, boxed her ears on +the smallest provocation, laid every thing to her charge, called her +all manner of contemptuous names, jeered and scoffed at her +awkwardnesses, and made her life so miserable that she was in a fair +way to forget every thing she had learned, and know nothing but how to +clean saucepans and kettles. + +They would not have been so hard upon her, however, but for her +irritating behavior. She dared not refuse to do as she was told, but +she obeyed now with a pursed-up mouth, and now with a contemptuous +smile. The only thing that sustained her was her constant contriving +how to get out of the painful position in which she found herself. +There is but one true way, however, of getting out of any position we +may be in, and that is, to do the work of it so well that we grow fit +for a better: I need not say this was not the plan upon which Agnes was +cunning enough to fix. + +She had soon learned from the talk around her the reason of the +proclamation which had brought her hither. + +“Was the lost princess so very beautiful?” she said one day to the +youngest of her fellow-servants. + +“Beautiful!” screamed the maid; “she was just the ugliest little toad +you ever set eyes upon.” + +“What was she like?” asked Agnes. + +“She was about your size, and quite as ugly, only not in the same way; +for she had red cheeks, and a cocked little nose, and the biggest, +ugliest mouth you ever saw.” + +Agnes fell a-thinking. + +“Is there a picture of her anywhere in the palace?” she asked. + +“How should I know? You can ask a housemaid.” + +Agnes soon learned that there was one, and contrived to get a peep of +it. Then she was certain of what she had suspected from the description +given of her, namely, that she was the same she had seen in the picture +at the wise woman’s house. The conclusion followed, that the lost +princess must be staying with her father and mother, for assuredly in +the picture she wore one of her frocks. + +She went to the head scullion, and with humble manner, but proud heart, +begged her to procure for her the favor of a word with the queen. + +“A likely thing indeed!” was the answer, accompanied by a resounding +box on the ear. + +She tried the head cook next, but with no better success, and so was +driven to her meditations again, the result of which was that she began +to drop hints that she knew something about the princess. This came at +length to the queen’s ears, and she sent for her. + +Absorbed in her own selfish ambitions, Agnes never thought of the risk +to which she was about to expose her parents, but told the queen that +in her wanderings she had caught sight of just such a lovely creature +as she described the princess, only dressed like a peasant—saying, +that, if the king would permit her to go and look for her, she had +little doubt of bringing her back safe and sound within a few weeks. + +But although she spoke the truth, she had such a look of cunning on her +pinched face, that the queen could not possibly trust her, but believed +that she made the proposal merely to get away, and have money given her +for her journey. Still there was a chance, and she would not say any +thing until she had consulted the king. + +Then they had Agnes up before the lord chancellor, who, after much +questioning of her, arrived at last, he thought, at some notion of the +part of the country described by her—that was, if she spoke the truth, +which, from her looks and behavior, he also considered entirely +doubtful. Thereupon she was ordered back to the kitchen, and a band of +soldiers, under a clever lawyer, sent out to search every foot of the +supposed region. They were commanded not to return until they brought +with them, bound hand and foot, such a shepherd pair as that of which +they received a full description. + +And now Agnes was worse off than before. For to her other miseries was +added the fear of what would befall her when it was discovered that the +persons of whom they were in quest, and whom she was certain they must +find, were her own father and mother. + +By this time the king and queen were so tired of seeing lost children, +genuine or pretended—for they cared for no child any longer than there +seemed a chance of its turning out their child—that with this new hope, +which, however poor and vague at first, soon began to grow upon such +imaginations as they had, they commanded the proclamation to be taken +down from the palace gates, and directed the various sentries to admit +no child whatever, lost or found, be the reason or pretence what it +might, until further orders. + +“I’m sick of children!” said the king to his secretary, as he finished +dictating the direction. + + + + +XI. + + +After Prince was gone, the princess, by degrees, fell back into some of +her bad old ways, from which only the presence of the dog, not her own +betterment, had kept her. She never grew nearly so selfish again, but +she began to let her angry old self lift up its head once more, until +by and by she grew so bad that the shepherdess declared she should not +stop in the house a day longer, for she was quite unendurable. + +“It is all very well for you, husband,” she said, “for you haven’t her +all day about you, and only see the best of her. But if you had her in +work instead of play hours, you would like her no better than I do. And +then it’s not her ugly passions only, but when she’s in one of her +tantrums, it’s impossible to get any work out of her. At such times +she’s just as obstinate as—as—as”— + +She was going to say “as Agnes,” but the feelings of a mother overcame +her, and she could not utter the words. + +“In fact,” she said instead, “she makes my life miserable.” + +The shepherd felt he had no right to tell his wife she must submit to +have her life made miserable, and therefore, although he was really +much attached to Rosamond, he would not interfere; and the shepherdess +told her she must look out for another place. + +The princess was, however, this much better than before, even in +respect of her passions, that they were not quite so bad, and after one +was over, she was really ashamed of it. But not once, ever since the +departure of Prince had she tried to check the rush of the evil temper +when it came upon her. She hated it when she was out of it, and that +was something; but while she was in it, she went full swing with it +wherever the prince of the power of it pleased to carry her. Nor was +this all: although she might by this time have known well enough that +as soon as she was out of it she was certain to be ashamed of it, she +would yet justify it to herself with twenty different arguments that +looked very good at the time, but would have looked very poor indeed +afterwards, if then she had ever remembered them. + +She was not sorry to leave the shepherd’s cottage, for she felt certain +of soon finding her way back to her father and mother; and she would, +indeed, have set out long before, but that her foot had somehow got +hurt when Prince gave her his last admonition, and she had never since +been able for long walks, which she sometimes blamed as the cause of +her temper growing worse. But if people are good-tempered only when +they are comfortable, what thanks have they?—Her foot was now much +better; and as soon as the shepherdess had thus spoken, she resolved to +set out at once, and work or beg her way home. At the moment she was +quite unmindful of what she owed the good people, and, indeed, was as +yet incapable of understanding a tenth part of her obligation to them. +So she bade them good by without a tear, and limped her way down the +hill, leaving the shepherdess weeping, and the shepherd looking very +grave. + +When she reached the valley she followed the course of the stream, +knowing only that it would lead her away from the hill where the sheep +fed, into richer lands where were farms and cattle. Rounding one of the +roots of the hill she saw before her a poor woman walking slowly along +the road with a burden of heather upon her back, and presently passed +her, but had gone only a few paces farther when she heard her calling +after her in a kind old voice— + +“Your shoe-tie is loose, my child.” + +But Rosamond was growing tired, for her foot had become painful, and so +she was cross, and neither returned answer, nor paid heed to the +warning. For when we are cross, all our other faults grow busy, and +poke up their ugly heads like maggots, and the princess’s old dislike +to doing any thing that came to her with the least air of advice about +it returned in full force. + +“My child,” said the woman again, “if you don’t fasten your shoe-tie, +it will make you fall.” + +“Mind your own business,” said Rosamond, without even turning her head, +and had not gone more than three steps when she fell flat on her face +on the path. She tried to get up, but the effort forced from her a +scream, for she had sprained the ankle of the foot that was already +lame. + +The old woman was by her side instantly. + +“Where are you hurt, child?” she asked, throwing down her burden and +kneeling beside her. + +“Go away,” screamed Rosamond. “_You_ made me fall, you bad woman!” + +The woman made no reply, but began to feel her joints, and soon +discovered the sprain. Then, in spite of Rosamond’s abuse, and the +violent pushes and even kicks she gave her, she took the hurt ankle in +her hands, and stroked and pressed it, gently kneading it, as it were, +with her thumbs, as if coaxing every particle of the muscles into its +right place. Nor had she done so long before Rosamond lay still. At +length she ceased, and said:— + +“Now, my child, you may get up.” + +“I can’t get up, and I’m not your child,” cried Rosamond. “Go away.” + +Without another word the woman left her, took up her burden, and +continued her journey. + +In a little while Rosamond tried to get up, and not only succeeded, but +found she could walk, and, indeed, presently discovered that her ankle +and foot also were now perfectly well. + +“I wasn’t much hurt after all,” she said to herself, nor sent a single +grateful thought after the poor woman, whom she speedily passed once +more upon the road without even a greeting. + +Late in the afternoon she came to a spot where the path divided into +two, and was taking the one she liked the look of better, when she +started at the sound of the poor woman’s voice, whom she thought she +had left far behind, again calling her. She looked round, and there she +was, toiling under her load of heather as before. + +“You are taking the wrong turn, child.” she cried. + +“How can you tell that?” said Rosamond. “You know nothing about where I +want to go.” + +“I know that road will take you where you won’t want to go,” said the +woman. + +“I shall know when I get there, then,” returned Rosamond, “and no +thanks to you.” + +She set off running. The woman took the other path, and was soon out of +sight. + +By and by, Rosamond found herself in the midst of a peat-moss—a flat, +lonely, dismal, black country. She thought, however, that the road +would soon lead her across to the other side of it among the farms, and +went on without anxiety. But the stream, which had hitherto been her +guide, had now vanished; and when it began to grow dark, Rosamond found +that she could no longer distinguish the track. She turned, therefore, +but only to find that the same darkness covered it behind as well as +before. Still she made the attempt to go back by keeping as direct a +line as she could, for the path was straight as an arrow. But she could +not see enough even to start her in a line, and she had not gone far +before she found herself hemmed in, apparently on every side, by +ditches and pools of black, dismal, slimy water. And now it was so dark +that she could see nothing more than the gleam of a bit of clear sky +now and then in the water. Again and again she stepped knee-deep in +black mud, and once tumbled down in the shallow edge of a terrible +pool; after which she gave up the attempt to escape the meshes of the +watery net, stood still, and began to cry bitterly, despairingly. She +saw now that her unreasonable anger had made her foolish as well as +rude, and felt that she was justly punished for her wickedness to the +poor woman who had been so friendly to her. What would Prince think of +her, if he knew? She cast herself on the ground, hungry, and cold, and +weary. + +Presently, she thought she saw long creatures come heaving out of the +black pools. A toad jumped upon her, and she shrieked, and sprang to +her feet, and would have run away headlong, when she spied in the +distance a faint glimmer. She thought it was a Will-o’-the-wisp. What +could he be after? Was he looking for her? She dared not run, lest he +should see and pounce upon her. The light came nearer, and grew +brighter and larger. Plainly, the little fiend was looking for her—he +would torment her. After many twistings and turnings among the pools, +it came straight towards her, and she would have shrieked, but that +terror made her dumb. + +It came nearer and nearer, and lo! it was borne by a dark figure, with +a burden on its back: it was the poor woman, and no demon, that was +looking for her! She gave a scream of joy, fell down weeping at her +feet, and clasped her knees. Then the poor woman threw away her burden, +laid down her lantern, took the princess up in her arms, folded her +cloak around her, and having taken up her lantern again, carried her +slowly and carefully through the midst of the black pools, winding +hither and thither. All night long she carried her thus, slowly and +wearily, until at length the darkness grew a little thinner, an +uncertain hint of light came from the east, and the poor woman, +stopping on the brow of a little hill, opened her cloak, and set the +princess down. + +“I can carry you no farther,” she said. “Sit there on the grass till +the light comes. I will stand here by you.” + +Rosamond had been asleep. Now she rubbed her eyes and looked, but it +was too dark to see any thing more than that there was a sky over her +head. Slowly the light grew, until she could see the form of the poor +woman standing in front of her; and as it went on growing, she began to +think she had seen her somewhere before, till all at once she thought +of the wise woman, and saw it must be she. Then she was so ashamed that +she bent down her head, and could look at her no longer. But the poor +woman spoke, and the voice was that of the wise woman, and every word +went deep into the heart of the princess. + +“Rosamond,” she said, “all this time, ever since I carried you from +your father’s palace, I have been doing what I could to make you a +lovely creature: ask yourself how far I have succeeded.” + +All her past story, since she found herself first under the wise +woman’s cloak, arose, and glided past the inner eyes of the princess, +and she saw, and in a measure understood, it all. But she sat with her +eyes on the ground, and made no sign. + +Then said the wise woman:— + +“Below there is the forest which surrounds my house. I am going home. +If you pledge to come there to me, I will help you, in a way I could +not do now, to be good and lovely. I will wait you there all day, but +if you start at once, you may be there long before noon. I shall have +your breakfast waiting for you. One thing more: the beasts have not yet +all gone home to their holes; but I give you my word, not one will +touch you so long as you keep coming nearer to my house.” + +She ceased. Rosamond sat waiting to hear something more; but nothing +came. She looked up; she was alone. + +Alone once more! Always being left alone, because she would not yield +to what was right! Oh, how safe she had felt under the wise woman’s +cloak! She had indeed been good to her, and she had in return behaved +like one of the hyenas of the awful wood! What a wonderful house it was +she lived in! And again all her own story came up into her brain from +her repentant heart. + +“Why didn’t she take me with her?” she said. “I would have gone +gladly.” And she wept. But her own conscience told her that, in the +very middle of her shame and desire to be good, she had returned no +answer to the words of the wise woman; she had sat like a tree-stump, +and done nothing. She tried to say there was nothing to be done; but +she knew at once that she could have told the wise woman she had been +very wicked, and asked her to take her with her. Now there was nothing +to be done. + +“Nothing to be done!” said her conscience. “Cannot you rise, and walk +down the hill, and through the wood?” + +“But the wild beasts!” + +“There it is! You don’t believe the wise woman yet! Did she not tell +you the beasts would not touch you?” + +“But they are so horrid!” + +“Yes, they are; but it would be far better to be eaten up alive by them +than live on—such a worthless creature as you are. Why, you’re not fit +to be thought about by any but bad ugly creatures.” + +This was how herself talked to her. + + + + +XII. + + +All at once she jumped to her feet, and ran at full speed down the hill +and into the wood. She heard howlings and yellings on all sides of her, +but she ran straight on, as near as she could judge. Her spirits rose +as she ran. Suddenly she saw before her, in the dusk of the thick wood, +a group of some dozen wolves and hyenas, standing all together right in +her way, with their green eyes fixed upon her staring. She faltered one +step, then bethought her of what the wise woman had promised, and +keeping straight on, dashed right into the middle of them. They fled +howling, as if she had struck them with fire. She was no more afraid +after that, and ere the sun was up she was out of the wood and upon the +heath, which no bad thing could step upon and live. With the first peep +of the sun above the horizon, she saw the little cottage before her, +and ran as fast as she could run towards it, When she came near it, she +saw that the door was open, and ran straight into the outstretched arms +of the wise woman. + +The wise woman kissed her and stroked her hair, set her down by the +fire, and gave her a bowl of bread and milk. + +When she had eaten it she drew her before her where she sat, and spoke +to her thus:— + +“Rosamond, if you would be a blessed creature instead of a mere wretch, +you must submit to be tried.” + +“Is that something terrible?” asked the princess, turning white. + +“No, my child; but it is something very difficult to come well out of. +Nobody who has not been tried knows how difficult it is; but whoever +has come well out of it, and those who do not overcome never do come +out of it, always looks back with horror, not on what she has come +through, but on the very idea of the possibility of having failed, and +being still the same miserable creature as before.” + +“You will tell me what it is before it begins?” said the princess. + +“I will not tell you exactly. But I will tell you some things to help +you. One great danger is that perhaps you will think you are in it +before it has really begun, and say to yourself, ‘Oh! this is really +nothing to me. It may be a trial to some, but for me I am sure it is +not worth mentioning.’ And then, before you know, it will be upon you, +and you will fail utterly and shamefully.” + +“I will be very, very careful,” said the princess. “Only don’t let me +be frightened.” + +“You shall not be frightened, except it be your own doing. You are +already a brave girl, and there is no occasion to try you more that +way. I saw how you rushed into the middle of the ugly creatures; and as +they ran from you, so will all kinds of evil things, as long as you +keep them outside of you, and do not open the cottage of your heart to +let them in. I will tell you something more about what you will have to +go through. + +“Nobody can be a real princess—do not imagine you have yet been any +thing more than a mock one—until she is a princess over herself, that +is, until, when she finds herself unwilling to do the thing that is +right, she makes herself do it. So long as any mood she is in makes her +do the thing she will be sorry for when that mood is over, she is a +slave, and no princess. A princess is able to do what is right even +should she unhappily be in a mood that would make another unable to do +it. For instance, if you should be cross and angry, you are not a whit +the less bound to be just, yes, kind even—a thing most difficult in +such a mood—though ease itself in a good mood, loving and sweet. +Whoever does what she is bound to do, be she the dirtiest little girl +in the street, is a princess, worshipful, honorable. Nay, more; her +might goes farther than she could send it, for if she act so, the evil +mood will wither and die, and leave her loving and clean.—Do you +understand me, dear Rosamond?” + +As she spoke, the wise woman laid her hand on her head and looked—oh, +so lovingly!—into her eyes. + +“I am not sure,” said the princess, humbly. + +“Perhaps you will understand me better if I say it just comes to this, +that you must _not do_ what is wrong, however much you are inclined to +do it, and you must _do_ what is right, however much you are +disinclined to do it.” + +“I understand that,” said the princess. + +“I am going, then, to put you in one of the mood-chambers of which I +have many in the house. Its mood will come upon you, and you will have +to deal with it.” + +She rose and took her by the hand. The princess trembled a little, but +never thought of resisting. + +The wise woman led her into the great hall with the pictures, and +through a door at the farther end, opening upon another large hall, +which was circular, and had doors close to each other all round it. Of +these she opened one, pushed the princess gently in, and closed it +behind her. + +The princess found herself in her old nursery. Her little white rabbit +came to meet her in a lumping canter as if his back were going to +tumble over his head. Her nurse, in her rocking-chair by the chimney +corner, sat just as she had used. The fire burned brightly, and on the +table were many of her wonderful toys, on which, however, she now +looked with some contempt. Her nurse did not seem at all surprised to +see her, any more than if the princess had but just gone from the room +and returned again. + +“Oh! how different I am from what I used to be!” thought the princess +to herself, looking from her toys to her nurse. “The wise woman has +done me so much good already! I will go and see mamma at once, and tell +her I am very glad to be at home again, and very sorry I was so +naughty.” + +She went towards the door. + +“Your queen-mamma, princess, cannot see you now,” said her nurse. + +“I have yet to learn that it is my part to take orders from a servant,” +said the princess with temper and dignity. + +“I beg your pardon, princess,” returned her nurse, politely; “but it is +my duty to tell you that your queen-mamma is at this moment engaged. +She is alone with her most intimate friend, the Princess of the Frozen +Regions.” + +“I shall see for myself,” returned the princess, bridling, and walked +to the door. + +Now little bunny, leap-frogging near the door, happened that moment to +get about her feet, just as she was going to open it, so that she +tripped and fell against it, striking her forehead a good blow. She +caught up the rabbit in a rage, and, crying, “It is all your fault, you +ugly old wretch!” threw it with violence in her nurse’s face. + +Her nurse caught the rabbit, and held it to her face, as if seeking to +sooth its fright. But the rabbit looked very limp and odd, and, to her +amazement, Rosamond presently saw that the thing was no rabbit, but a +pocket-handkerchief. The next moment she removed it from her face, and +Rosamond beheld—not her nurse, but the wise woman—standing on her own +hearth, while she herself stood by the door leading from the cottage +into the hall. + +“First trial a failure,” said the wise woman quietly. + +Overcome with shame, Rosamond ran to her, fell down on her knees, and +hid her face in her dress. + +“Need I say any thing?” said the wise woman, stroking her hair. + +“No, no,” cried the princess. “I am horrid.” + +“You know now the kind of thing you have to meet: are you ready to try +again?” + +“_May_ I try again?” cried the princess, jumping up. “I’m ready. I do +not think I shall fail this time.” + +“The trial will be harder.” + +Rosamond drew in her breath, and set her teeth. The wise woman looked +at her pitifully, but took her by the hand, led her to the round hall, +opened the same door, and closed it after her. + +The princess expected to find herself again in the nursery, but in the +wise woman’s house no one ever has the same trial twice. She was in a +beautiful garden, full of blossoming trees and the loveliest roses and +lilies. A lake was in the middle of it, with a tiny boat. So delightful +was it that Rosamond forgot all about how or why she had come there, +and lost herself in the joy of the flowers and the trees and the water. +Presently came the shout of a child, merry and glad, and from a clump +of tulip trees rushed a lovely little boy, with his arms stretched out +to her. She was charmed at the sight, ran to meet him, caught him up in +her arms, kissed him, and could hardly let him go again. But the moment +she set him down he ran from her towards the lake, looking back as he +ran, and crying “Come, come.” + +She followed. He made straight for the boat, clambered into it, and +held out his hand to help her in. Then he caught up the little +boat-hook, and pushed away from the shore: there was a great white +flower floating a few yards off, and that was the little fellow’s goal. +But, alas! no sooner had Rosamond caught sight of it, huge and glowing +as a harvest moon, than she felt a great desire to have it herself. The +boy, however, was in the bows of the boat, and caught it first. It had +a long stem, reaching down to the bottom of the water, and for a moment +he tugged at it in vain, but at last it gave way so suddenly, that he +tumbled back with the flower into the bottom of the boat. Then +Rosamond, almost wild at the danger it was in as he struggled to rise, +hurried to save it, but somehow between them it came in pieces, and all +its petals of fretted silver were scattered about the boat. When the +boy got up, and saw the ruin his companion had occasioned, he burst +into tears, and having the long stalk of the flower still in his hand, +struck her with it across the face. It did not hurt her much, for he +was a very little fellow, but it was wet and slimy. She tumbled rather +than rushed at him, seized him in her arms, tore him from his +frightened grasp, and flung him into the water. His head struck on the +boat as he fell, and he sank at once to the bottom, where he lay +looking up at her with white face and open eyes. + +The moment she saw the consequences of her deed she was filled with +horrible dismay. She tried hard to reach down to him through the water, +but it was far deeper than it looked, and she could not. Neither could +she get her eyes to leave the white face: its eyes fascinated and fixed +hers; and there she lay leaning over the boat and staring at the death +she had made. But a voice crying, “Ally! Ally!” shot to her heart, and +springing to her feet she saw a lovely lady come running down the grass +to the brink of the water with her hair flying about her head. + +“Where is my Ally?” she shrieked. + +But Rosamond could not answer, and only stared at the lady, as she had +before stared at her drowned boy. + +Then the lady caught sight of the dead thing at the bottom of the +water, and rushed in, and, plunging down, struggled and groped until +she reached it. Then she rose and stood up with the dead body of her +little son in her arms, his head hanging back, and the water streaming +from him. + +“See what you have made of him, Rosamond!” she said, holding the body +out to her; “and this is your second trial, and also a failure.” + +The dead child melted away from her arms, and there she stood, the wise +woman, on her own hearth, while Rosamond found herself beside the +little well on the floor of the cottage, with one arm wet up to the +shoulder. She threw herself on the heather-bed and wept from relief and +vexation both. + +The wise woman walked out of the cottage, shut the door, and left her +alone. Rosamond was sobbing, so that she did not hear her go. When at +length she looked up, and saw that the wise woman was gone, her misery +returned afresh and tenfold, and she wept and wailed. The hours passed, +the shadows of evening began to fall, and the wise woman entered. + + + + +XIII. + + +She went straight to the bed, and taking Rosamond in her arms, sat down +with her by the fire. + +“My poor child!” she said. “Two terrible failures! And the more the +harder! They get stronger and stronger. What is to be done?” + +“Couldn’t you help me?” said Rosamond piteously. + +“Perhaps I could, now you ask me,” answered the wise woman. “When you +are ready to try again, we shall see.” + +“I am very tired of myself,” said the princess. “But I can’t rest till +I try again.” + +“That is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find +your strong, true self. Come, my child; I will help you all I can, for +now I _can_ help you.” + +Yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to +send her yet again alone into the room. She was in a forest, a place +half wild, half tended. The trees were grand, and full of the loveliest +birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the +brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one +according to his color. The trees were not at all crowded, but their +leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only +here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. All the gentle +creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not +even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of +their striped shells. As to the butterflies, words would but wrong them +if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. The princess’s delight +was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a +solemn countenance and stately step. + +“But where are the flowers?” she said to herself at length. + +They were nowhere. Neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs +that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in +the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be +seen. + +“Ah, well!” said Rosamond again to herself, “where all the birds and +butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort.” + +Still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the +beauty of the forest complete. + +Suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of +a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of +flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as Rosamond had never before +seen. She was playing with them—burying her hands in them, tumbling +them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and +throwing it away. All the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, +which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit—a +laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight +with a liquid shining. Rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature +would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. A few +yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped +to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own +longing. But to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown +away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. She left it, and +went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing +comfortably in the warm grass. What could it mean? One after another +she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with +every flower the little girl threw from her lap. + +She watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to +the spot. But the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast +fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. +Something evil moved in her, and she plucked it. + +“Don’t! don’t!” cried the child. “My flowers cannot live in your +hands.” + +Rosamond looked at the flower. It was withered already. She threw it +from her, offended. The child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful +together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, +kissed it, sang to it—oh! such a sweet, childish little song!—the +princess never could recall a word of it—and threw it away. Up rose its +little head, and there it was, busy growing again! + +Rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the +child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew +near, and said: + +“Won’t you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?” + +“There they are; they are all for you,” answered the child, pointing +with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round. + +“But you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them.” + +“Yes, indeed, I did.” + +“They can’t be mine, if I’m not to touch them.” + +“If, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, +and never, never can be yours. They are nobody’s when they are dead.” + +“But you don’t kill them.” + +“I don’t pull them; I throw them away. I live them.” + +“How is it that you make them grow?” + +“I say, ‘You darling!’ and throw it away and there it is.” + +“Where do you get them?” + +“In my lap.” + +“I wish you would let me throw one away.” + +“Have you got any in your lap? Let me see.” + +“No; I have none.” + +“Then you can’t throw one away, if you haven’t got one.” + +“You are mocking me!” cried the princess. + +“I am not mocking you,” said the child, looking her full in the face, +with reproach in her large blue eyes. + +“Oh, that’s where the flowers come from!” said the princess to herself, +the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant. + +Then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers +she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. When +they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting +cry, called, two or three times, “Peggy! Peggy! Peggy!” + +A low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, +out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting +the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, +half-lifted from his shoulders. Straight towards the little girl, +neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread. + +Rosamond’s love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at +the vision. She rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although +clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, +plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to +observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. When +he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, +and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction +of his mistress. Rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable +disappointment. + +When he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she +put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a +little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess. + +Almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough +way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of +using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to +see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the +sake of his mistress. But when, that she might jump upon his back, she +laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, +he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw +her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down +his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the +unbearable. + +The princess was furious. She had forgotten all her past life up to the +time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and +yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. What she might have +done, or rather tried to do, had not Peggy’s tail struck her down with +such force that for a moment she could not rise, I cannot tell. + +But while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just +under them. It stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and +she could not take her eyes off its face. It was like a primrose trying +to express doubt instead of confidence. It seemed to put her half in +mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. She put out +her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower +withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had +passed over it. + +Then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she +thought with herself, saying—“What sort of a creature am I that the +flowers wither when I touch them, and the ponies despise me with their +tails? What a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature I must be! There is +that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a +moment ago I was hating her! I am made horrid, and I shall be horrid, +and I hate myself, and yet I can’t help being myself!” + +She heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the +child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for +where she lay. + +“I don’t care,” she said. “They may trample me under their feet if they +like. I am tired and sick of myself—a creature at whose touch the +flowers wither!” + +On came the winged pony. But while yet some distance off, he gave a +great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards +above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet +on the other side of her. The child slipped down and came and kneeled +over her. + +“Did my pony hurt you?” she said. “I am so sorry!” + +“Yes, he hurt me,” answered the princess, “but not more than I +deserved, for I took liberties with him, and he did not like it.” + +“Oh, you dear!” said the little girl. “I love you for talking so of my +Peggy. He is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. Would you +like a ride upon him?” + +“You darling beauty!” cried Rosamond, sobbing. “I do love you so, you +are so good. How did you become so sweet?” + +“Would you like to ride my pony?” repeated the child, with a heavenly +smile in her eyes. + +“No, no; he is fit only for you. My clumsy body would hurt him,” said +Rosamond. + +“You don’t mind me having such a pony?” said the child. + +“What! mind it?” cried Rosamond, almost indignantly. Then remembering +certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her +mind, she looked on the ground and was silent. + +“You don’t mind it, then?” repeated the child. + +“I am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a +you has got such a pony,” said Rosamond, still looking on the ground. +“But I do wish the flowers would not die when I touch them. I was cross +to see you make them grow, but now I should be content if only I did +not make them wither.” + +As she spoke, she stroked the little girl’s bare feet, which were by +her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek +on them and kissed them. + +“Dear princess!” said the little girl, “the flowers will not always +wither at your touch. Try now—only do not pluck it. Flowers ought never +to be plucked except to give away. Touch it gently.” + +A silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her +reach. Timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. The flower +trembled, but neither shrank nor withered. + +“Touch it again,” said the child. + +It changed color a little, and Rosamond fancied it grew larger. + +“Touch it again,” said the child. + +It opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed +and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold. + +Rosamond gazed motionless. When the transfiguration of the flower was +perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very +ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child. + +“Did you never see me before, Rosamond?” she asked. + +“No, never,” answered the princess. “I never saw any thing half so +lovely.” + +“Look at me,” said the child. + +And as Rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow +larger. Quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she +stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; +for hers was the old age of everlasting youth. + +Rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or +movement until she could endure no more delight. Then her mind +collapsed to the thought—had the pony grown too? She glanced round. +There was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest—but +the cottage of the wise woman—and before her, on the hearth of it, the +goddess-child, the only thing unchanged. + +She gasped with astonishment. + +“You must set out for your father’s palace immediately,” said the lady. + +“But where is the wise woman?” asked Rosamond, looking all about. + +“Here,” said the lady. + +And Rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her +long dark cloak. + +“And it was you all the time?” she cried in delight, and kneeled before +her, burying her face in her garments. + +“It always is me, all the time,” said the wise woman, smiling. + +“But which is the real you?” asked Rosamond; “this or that?” + +“Or a thousand others?” returned the wise woman. “But the one you have +just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just +yet—but—. And that me you could not have seen a little while ago.—But, +my darling child,” she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her +bosom, “you must not think, because you have seen me once, that +therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. No; there are many +things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. Now, +however, you will seek me. Every time you feel you want me, that is a +sign I am wanting you. There are yet many rooms in my house you may +have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be +able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest.” + +The princess gave a sigh. + +“Do not think,” the wise woman went on, “that the things you have seen +in my house are mere empty shows. You do not know, you cannot yet +think, how living and true they are.—Now you must go.” + +She led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the +picture of her father’s capital, and his palace with the brazen gates. + +“There is your home,” she said. “Go to it.” + +The princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. She +turned to the wise woman and said: + +“Will you forgive _all_ my naughtiness, and _all_ the trouble I have +given you?” + +“If I had not forgiven you, I would never have taken the trouble to +punish you. If I had not loved you, do you think I would have carried +you away in my cloak?” + +“How could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little +wretch?” + +“I saw, through it all, what you were going to be,” said the wise +woman, kissing her. “But remember you have yet only _begun_ to be what +I saw.” + +“I will try to remember,” said the princess, holding her cloak, and +looking up in her face. + +“Go, then,” said the wise woman. + +Rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over +the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw +behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the +pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the +eastward, saw the faint outline of her father’s city against the sky, +and ran off to reach it. + +It looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the +sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her. + + + + +XIV. + + +The soldiers sent out by the king, had no great difficulty in finding +Agnes’s father and mother, of whom they demanded if they knew any thing +of such a young princess as they described. The honest pair told them +the truth in every point—that, having lost their own child and found +another, they had taken her home, and treated her as their own; that +she had indeed called herself a princess, but they had not believed +her, because she did not look like one; that, even if they had, they +did not know how they could have done differently, seeing they were +poor people, who could not afford to keep any idle person about the +place; that they had done their best to teach her good ways, and had +not parted with her until her bad temper rendered it impossible to put +up with her any longer; that, as to the king’s proclamation, they heard +little of the world’s news on their lonely hill, and it had never +reached them; that if it had, they did not know how either of them +could have gone such a distance from home, and left their sheep or +their cottage, one or the other, uncared for. + +“You must learn, then, how both of you can go, and your sheep must take +care of your cottage,” said the lawyer, and commanded the soldiers to +bind them hand and foot. + +Heedless of their entreaties to be spared such an indignity, the +soldiers obeyed, bore them to a cart, and set out for the king’s +palace, leaving the cottage door open, the fire burning, the pot of +potatoes boiling upon it, the sheep scattered over the hill, and the +dogs not knowing what to do. + +Hardly were they gone, however, before the wise woman walked up, with +Prince behind her, peeped into the cottage, locked the door, put the +key in her pocket, and then walked away up the hill. In a few minutes +there arose a great battle between Prince and the dog which filled his +former place—a well-meaning but dull fellow, who could fight better +than feed. Prince was not long in showing him that he was meant for his +master, and then, by his efforts, and directions to the other dogs, the +sheep were soon gathered again, and out of danger from foxes and bad +dogs. As soon as this was done, the wise woman left them in charge of +Prince, while she went to the next farm to arrange for the folding of +the sheep and the feeding of the dogs. + +When the soldiers reached the palace, they were ordered to carry their +prisoners at once into the presence of the king and queen, in the +throne room. Their two thrones stood upon a high dais at one end, and +on the floor at the foot of the dais, the soldiers laid their helpless +prisoners. The queen commanded that they should be unbound, and ordered +them to stand up. They obeyed with the dignity of insulted innocence, +and their bearing offended their foolish majesties. + +Meantime the princess, after a long day’s journey, arrived at the +palace, and walked up to the sentry at the gate. + +“Stand back,” said the sentry. + +“I wish to go in, if you please,” said the princess gently. + +“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the sentry, for he was one of those dull people +who form their judgment from a person’s clothes, without even looking +in his eyes; and as the princess happened to be in rags, her request +was amusing, and the booby thought himself quite clever for laughing at +her so thoroughly. + +“I am the princess,” Rosamond said quietly. + +“_What_ princess?” bellowed the man. + +“The princess Rosamond. Is there another?” she answered and asked. + +But the man was so tickled at the wondrous idea of a princess in rags, +that he scarcely heard what she said for laughing. As soon as he +recovered a little, he proceeded to chuck the princess under the chin, +saying— + +“You’re a pretty girl, my dear, though you ain’t no princess.” + +Rosamond drew back with dignity. + +“You have spoken three untruths at once,” she said. “I am _not_ pretty, +and I _am_ a princess, and if I were dear to you, as I ought to be, you +would not laugh at me because I am badly dressed, but stand aside, and +let me go to my father and mother.” + +The tone of her speech, and the rebuke she gave him, made the man look +at her; and looking at her, he began to tremble inside his foolish +body, and wonder whether he might not have made a mistake. He raised +his hand in salute, and said— + +“I beg your pardon, miss, but I have express orders to admit no child +whatever within the palace gates. They tell me his majesty the king +says he is sick of children.” + +“He may well be sick of me!” thought the princess; “but it can’t mean +that he does not want me home again.—I don’t think you can very well +call me a child,” she said, looking the sentry full in the face. + +“You ain’t very big, miss,” answered the soldier, “but so be you say +you ain’t a child, I’ll take the risk. The king can only kill me, and a +man must die once.” + +He opened the gate, stepped aside, and allowed her to pass. Had she +lost her temper, as every one but the wise woman would have expected of +her, he certainly would not have done so. + +She ran into the palace, the door of which had been left open by the +porter when he followed the soldiers and prisoners to the throne-room, +and bounded up the stairs to look for her father and mother. As she +passed the door of the throne-room she heard an unusual noise in it, +and running to the king’s private entrance, over which hung a heavy +curtain, she peeped past the edge of it, and saw, to her amazement, the +shepherd and shepherdess standing like culprits before the king and +queen, and the same moment heard the king say— + +“Peasants, where is the princess Rosamond?” + +“Truly, sire, we do not know,” answered the shepherd. + +“You ought to know,” said the king. + +“Sire, we could keep her no longer.” + +“You confess, then,” said the king, suppressing the outbreak of the +wrath that boiled up in him, “that you turned her out of your house.” + +For the king had been informed by a swift messenger of all that had +passed long before the arrival of the prisoners. + +“We did, sire; but not only could we keep her no longer, but we knew +not that she was the princess.” + +“You ought to have known, the moment you cast your eyes upon her,” said +the king. “Any one who does not know a princess the moment he sees her, +ought to have his eyes put out.” + +“Indeed he ought,” said the queen. + +To this they returned no answer, for they had none ready. + +“Why did you not bring her at once to the palace,” pursued the king, +“whether you knew her to be a princess or not? My proclamation left +nothing to your judgment. It said _every child_.” + +“We heard nothing of the proclamation, sire.” + +“You ought to have heard,” said the king. “It is enough that I make +proclamations; it is for you to read them. Are they not written in +letters of gold upon the brazen gates of this palace?” + +“A poor shepherd, your majesty—how often must he leave his flock, and +go hundreds of miles to look whether there may not be something in +letters of gold upon the brazen gates? We did not know that your +majesty had made a proclamation, or even that the princess was lost.” + +“You ought to have known,” said the king. + +The shepherd held his peace. + +“But,” said the queen, taking up the word, “all that is as nothing, +when I think how you misused the darling.” + +The only ground the queen had for saying thus, was what Agnes had told +her as to how the princess was dressed; and her condition seemed to the +queen so miserable, that she had imagined all sorts of oppression and +cruelty. + +But this was more than the shepherdess, who had not yet spoken, could +bear. + +“She would have been dead, and _not_ buried, long ago, madam, if I had +not carried her home in my two arms.” + +“Why does she say her _two_ arms?” said the king to himself. “Has she +more than two? Is there treason in that?” + +“You dressed her in cast-off clothes,” said the queen. + +“I dressed her in my own sweet child’s Sunday clothes. And this is what +I get for it!” cried the shepherdess, bursting into tears. + +“And what did you do with the clothes you took off her? Sell them?” + +“Put them in the fire, madam. They were not fit for the poorest child +in the mountains. They were so ragged that you could see her skin +through them in twenty different places.” + +“You cruel woman, to torture a mother’s feelings so!” cried the queen, +and in her turn burst into tears. + +“And I’m sure,” sobbed the shepherdess, “I took every pains to teach +her what it was right for her to know. I taught her to tidy the house +and”— + +“Tidy the house!” moaned the queen. “My poor wretched offspring!” + +“And peel the potatoes, and”— + +“Peel the potatoes!” cried the queen. “Oh, horror!” + +“And black her master’s boots,” said the shepherdess. + +“Black her master’s boots!” shrieked the queen. “Oh, my white-handed +princess! Oh, my ruined baby!” + +“What I want to know,” said the king, paying no heed to this maternal +duel, but patting the top of his sceptre as if it had been the hilt of +a sword which he was about to draw, “is, where the princess is now.” + +The shepherd made no answer, for he had nothing to say more than he had +said already. + +“You have murdered her!” shouted the king. “You shall be tortured till +you confess the truth; and then you shall be tortured to death, for you +are the most abominable wretches in the whole wide world.” + +“Who accuses me of crime?” cried the shepherd, indignant. + +“I accuse you,” said the king; “but you shall see, face to face, the +chief witness to your villany. Officer, bring the girl.” + +Silence filled the hall while they waited. The king’s face was swollen +with anger. The queen hid hers behind her handkerchief. The shepherd +and shepherdess bent their eyes on the ground, wondering. It was with +difficulty Rosamond could keep her place, but so wise had she already +become that she saw it would be far better to let every thing come out +before she interfered. + +At length the door opened, and in came the officer, followed by Agnes, +looking white as death and mean as sin. + +The shepherdess gave a shriek, and darted towards her with arms spread +wide; the shepherd followed, but not so eagerly. + +“My child! my lost darling! my Agnes!” cried the shepherdess. + +“Hold them asunder,” shouted the king. “Here is more villany! What! +have I a scullery-maid in my house born of such parents? The parents of +such a child must be capable of any thing. Take all three of them to +the rack. Stretch them till their joints are torn asunder, and give +them no water. Away with them!” + +The soldiers approached to lay hands on them. But, behold! a girl all +in rags, with such a radiant countenance that it was right lovely to +see, darted between, and careless of the royal presence, flung herself +upon the shepherdess, crying,— + +“Do not touch her. She is my good, kind mistress.” + +But the shepherdess could hear or see no one but her Agnes, and pushed +her away. Then the princess turned, with the tears in her eyes, to the +shepherd, and threw her arms about his neck and pulled down his head +and kissed him. And the tall shepherd lifted her to his bosom and kept +her there, but his eyes were fixed on his Agnes. + +“What is the meaning of this?” cried the king, starting up from his +throne. “How did that ragged girl get in here? Take her away with the +rest. She is one of them, too.” + +But the princess made the shepherd set her down, and before any one +could interfere she had run up the steps of the dais and then the steps +of the king’s throne like a squirrel, flung herself upon the king, and +begun to smother him with kisses. + +All stood astonished, except the three peasants, who did not even see +what took place. The shepherdess kept calling to her Agnes, but she was +so ashamed that she did not dare even lift her eyes to meet her +mother’s, and the shepherd kept gazing on her in silence. As for the +king, he was so breathless and aghast with astonishment, that he was +too feeble to fling the ragged child from him, as he tried to do. But +she left him, and running down the steps of the one throne and up those +of the other, began kissing the queen next. But the queen cried out,— + +“Get away, you great rude child!—Will nobody take her to the rack?” + +Then the princess, hardly knowing what she did for joy that she had +come in time, ran down the steps of the throne and the dais, and +placing herself between the shepherd and shepherdess, took a hand of +each, and stood looking at the king and queen. + +Their faces began to change. At last they began to know her. But she +was so altered—so lovelily altered, that it was no wonder they should +not have known her at the first glance; but it was the fault of the +pride and anger and injustice with which their hearts were filled, that +they did not know her at the second. + +The king gazed and the queen gazed, both half risen from their thrones, +and looking as if about to tumble down upon her, if only they could be +right sure that the ragged girl was their own child. A mistake would be +such a dreadful thing! + +“My darling!” at last shrieked the mother, a little doubtfully. + +“My pet of pets?” cried the father, with an interrogative twist of +tone. + +Another moment, and they were half way down the steps of the dais. + +“Stop!” said a voice of command from somewhere in the hall, and, king +and queen as they were, they stopped at once half way, then drew +themselves up, stared, and began to grow angry again, but durst not go +farther. + +The wise woman was coming slowly up through the crowd that filled the +hall. Every one made way for her. She came straight on until she stood +in front of the king and queen. + +“Miserable man and woman!” she said, in words they alone could hear, “I +took your daughter away when she was worthy of such parents; I bring +her back, and they are unworthy of her. That you did not know her when +she came to you is a small wonder, for you have been blind in soul all +your lives: now be blind in body until your better eyes are unsealed.” + +She threw her cloak open. It fell to the ground, and the radiance that +flashed from her robe of snowy whiteness, from her face of awful +beauty, and from her eyes that shone like pools of sunlight, smote them +blind. + +Rosamond saw them give a great start, shudder, waver to and fro, then +sit down on the steps of the dais; and she knew they were punished, but +knew not how. She rushed up to them, and catching a hand of each said— + +“Father, dear father! mother dear! I will ask the wise woman to forgive +you.” + +“Oh, I am blind! I am blind!” they cried together. “Dark as night! +Stone blind!” + +Rosamond left them, sprang down the steps, and kneeling at her feet, +cried, “Oh, my lovely wise woman! do let them see. Do open their eyes, +dear, good, wise woman.” + +The wise woman bent down to her, and said, so that none else could +hear, “I will one day. Meanwhile you must be their servant, as I have +been yours. Bring them to me, and I will make them welcome.” + +Rosamond rose, went up the steps again to her father and mother, where +they sat like statues with closed eyes, half-way from the top of the +dais where stood their empty thrones, seated herself between them, took +a hand of each, and was still. + +All this time very few in the room saw the wise woman. The moment she +threw off her cloak she vanished from the sight of almost all who were +present. The woman who swept and dusted the hall and brushed the +thrones, saw her, and the shepherd had a glimmering vision of her; but +no one else that I know of caught a glimpse of her. The shepherdess did +not see her. Nor did Agnes, but she felt her presence upon her like the +beat of a furnace seven times heated. + +As soon as Rosamond had taken her place between her father and mother, +the wise woman lifted her cloak from the floor, and threw it again +around her. Then everybody saw her, and Agnes felt as if a soft dewy +cloud had come between her and the torrid rays of a vertical sun. The +wise woman turned to the shepherd and shepherdess. + +“For you,” she said, “you are sufficiently punished by the work of your +own hands. Instead of making your daughter obey you, you left her to be +a slave to herself; you coaxed when you ought to have compelled; you +praised when you ought to have been silent; you fondled when you ought +to have punished; you threatened when you ought to have inflicted—and +there she stands, the full-grown result of your foolishness! She is +your crime and your punishment. Take her home with you, and live hour +after hour with the pale-hearted disgrace you call your daughter. What +she is, the worm at her heart has begun to teach her. When life is no +longer endurable, come to me. + +“Madam,” said the shepherd, “may I not go with you now?” + +“You shall,” said the wise woman. + +“Husband! husband!” cried the shepherdess, “how are we two to get home +without you?” + +“I will see to that,” said the wise woman. “But little of home you will +find it until you have come to me. The king carried you hither, and he +shall carry you back. But your husband shall not go with you. He cannot +now if he would.” + +The shepherdess looked and saw that the shepherd stood in a deep sleep. +She went to him and sought to rouse him, but neither tongue nor hands +were of the slightest avail. + +The wise woman turned to Rosamond. + +“My child,” she said, “I shall never be far from you. Come to me when +you will. Bring them to me.” + +Rosamond smiled and kissed her hand, but kept her place by her parents. +They also were now in a deep sleep like the shepherd. + +The wise woman took the shepherd by the hand, and led him away. + +And that is all my double story. How double it is, if you care to know, +you must find out. If you think it is not finished—I never knew a story +that was. I could tell you a great deal more concerning them all, but I +have already told more than is good for those who read but with their +foreheads, and enough for those whom it has made look a little solemn, +and sigh as they close the book. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DOUBLE STORY *** + +***** This file should be named 5676-0.txt or 5676-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/5/6/7/5676/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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