In the olden times there lived a king who was worthy of the name. He
loved his people, and his people loved him in return. His kingdom must
have been large; at least it appears to be beyond doubt that it extended
a good way in different directions, for it was called the Kingdom of the
Four Orts, which, of course, as everybody knows, means that he had
possessions north, south, east, and west.
It was not so large, however, but that he was able to manage it well for
himself--that is to say, with certain help which I will tell you of. A
year never passed without his visiting every part of his dominions and
inquiring for himself into the affairs of his subjects. Perhaps--who can
say?--the world was not so big in those days; doubtless, however that
may have been, there were not so many folk living on it.
Many things were different in those times: many things existed which
nowadays would be thought strange and incredible. Human beings knew much
more than they do now about the other dwellers on the earth. For
instance, it was no uncommon case to find learned men who were able to
converse with animals quite as well as with each other. Fairies, of
course, were often visible to mortal eyes, and it was considered quite
natural that they should interfere for good--sometimes, perhaps, for
evil; as to that I cannot say--in human affairs. And good King
Brave-Heart was especially favored in this way. For the help which, as I
said, was his in governing his people was that of four very wise
counselors indeed--the four fairies of the North and the South, the East
and the West.
These sisters were very beautiful as well as very wise. Though older
than the world itself, they always looked young. They were very much
attached to each other, though they seldom met, and it must be confessed
that sometimes on such occasions there were stormy scenes, though they
made it up afterward. And the advice they gave was always to be relied
upon.
Now, King Brave-Heart was married. His wife was young and charming, and
devotedly fond of him. But she was of a rather jealous and exacting
disposition, and she had been much spoilt in her youth at her own home.
She was sweet and loving, however, which makes up for a good deal, and
always ready to take part in any scheme for the good of their people,
provided it did not separate her from her husband.
They had no children, though they had been married for some years; but
at last there came the hope of an heir, and the Queen's delight was
unbounded--nor was the King's joy less than hers.
It was late autumn, or almost winter, when a great trouble befell the
pretty Queen. The weather had grown suddenly cold, and a few snowflakes
even had fallen before their time. But Queen Claribel only clapped her
hands at the sight, for with the winter she hoped the baby would come,
and she welcomed the signs of its approach on this account. The King,
however, looked grave, and when the next morning the ground was all
white, the trees and the bushes covered with silvery foliage, he looked
graver still.
"Something is amiss," he said. "The Fairy of the North must be on her
way, and it is not yet time for her visit."
And that very afternoon the snow fell again, more heavily than before,
and the frost-wind whistled down the chimneys and burst open the doors
and windows, and all the palace servants went hurrying and scurrying
about to make great fires and hang up thick curtains and get everything
in order for the cold season, which they had not expected so soon.
"It will not last," said the King, quietly. "In a few days there will be
milder weather again." But, nevertheless, he still looked grave.
And early the next morning, as he was sitting with the Queen, who was
beginning to feel a little frightened at the continuance of the storm,
the double doors of her boudoir suddenly flew open, an icy blast filled
the room, and a tall, white-shrouded figure stood before them.
"I have come to fetch you, Brave-Heart," she said abruptly. "You are
wanted, sorely wanted, in my part of the world. The people are starving:
the season has been a poor one, and there has been bad faith. Some few
powerful men have bought up the grain, which was already scarce, and
refuse to let the poor folk have it. Nothing will save their lives or
prevent sad suffering but your own immediate presence. Are you ready?
You must have seen I was coming."
She threw off her mantle as she spoke and sank on to a couch. Strong as
she was, she seemed tired with the rate at which she had traveled, and
the warm air of the room was oppressive to her. Her clear, beautiful
features looked harassed; her gray eyes full of anxiety. For the moment
she took no notice of the Queen.
"Are you ready?" she repeated.
"Yes, I am ready!" said Brave-Heart, as he rose to his feet.
But the Queen threw herself upon him, with bitter crying and reproaches.
Would he leave _her_, and at such a time, a prey to all kinds of
terrible anxiety? Then she turned to the fairy and upbraided her in
unmeasured language. But the spirit of the North glanced at her with
calm pity.
"Poor child!" she said, "I had almost forgotten you. The sights I have
seen of late have been so terrible that they absorb me. Take courage,
Claribel! Show yourself a queen. Think of the suffering mothers and
their little ones whom your husband hastens to aid. All will be well
with you, believe me. But you, too, must be brave and unselfish."
It was no use. All she said but made the Queen more indignant. She would
scarcely bid her husband farewell: she turned her back to the fairy with
undignified petulance.
"Foolish child," said the Northern spirit. "She will learn better some
day."
Then she gave all her attention to the matter she had come about,
explaining to the King as they journeyed exactly the measures he must
take and the difficulties to be overcome. But though the King had the
greatest faith in her advice, and never doubted that it was his duty to
obey, his heart was sore, as you can understand.
Things turned out as he had said. The severe weather disappeared again
as if by magic, and some weeks of unusually mild days followed. And when
the winter did set in for good at last, it was with no great rigor. From
time to time news reached the palace of the King's welfare. The tidings
were cheering. His presence was effecting all that the fairy had hoped.
So Queen Claribel ought to have been happy. But she was determined not
to be. She did nothing but cry and abuse the fairy, declaring that she
would never see her dear Brave-Heart again, and that if ever her baby
came she was sure it would not live, or that there would be something
dreadful the matter with it.
"It is not fair," she kept saying, "it is a shame that I should suffer
so."
And even when on Christmas Eve a beautiful little girl was born, as
pretty and lively and healthy as could be wished, and even though the
next day brought the announcement of the King's immediate return,
Claribel still nursed her resentment, though in the end it came to be
directed entirely against the fairy. For when she saw Brave-Heart again,
his tender affection and his delight in his little daughter made it
impossible for her not to "forgive him," as she expressed it, though she
could not take any interest in his accounts of his visit to the north
and all he had been able to do there.
A great feast was arranged in honor of the christening of the little
Princess. All the grand people of the neighborhood were bidden to it,
nor, you may be sure, did the good King forget the poorer folk. The four
fairies were invited, for it was a matter of course that they should be
the baby's godmothers. And though the Queen would gladly have excluded
the Northern fairy, she dared not even hint at such a thing.
But she resolved in her own mind to do all in her power to show that she
was not the welcome fairy.
On such occasions, when human beings were honored by the presence of
fairy visitors, these distinguished guests were naturally given
precedence of all others, otherwise very certainly they would never have
come again. Even among fairies themselves there are ranks and
formalities, and the Queen well knew that the first place was due to the
Northern spirit. But she gave instructions that this rule should be
departed from, and the Snow fairy, as she was sometimes called, found
herself placed at the King's left hand, separated from him by her sister
of the West, instead of next to him on the right, which seat, on the
contrary, was occupied by the fairy of the South. She glanced round her
calmly, but took no notice; and the King, imagining that by her own
choice perhaps, she had chosen the unusual position, made no remark. And
the feast progressed with the accustomed splendor and rejoicing.
But at the end, when the moment arrived at which the four godmothers
were expected to state their gifts to the baby, the Queen's spite could
be no longer concealed.
"I request," she exclaimed, "that for reasons well known to herself, to
the King, and to myself, the Northern fairy's gift may be the last in
order instead of the first."
The King started and grew pale. The beautiful, soft-voiced fairy of the
South, in her glowing golden draperies, would fain have held back, for
her affection for her sterner sister was largely mingled with awe. But
the Snow fairy signed to her imperiously to speak.
"I bestow upon the Princess Sweet-Heart," she said, half tremblingly,
"the gift of great beauty."
"And I," said the spirit of the East, who came next, her red robes
falling majestically around her, her dark hair lying smoothly in its
thick masses on her broad, low forehead, "I give her great powers of
intellect and intelligence."
"And I," said the Western fairy, with a bright, breezy flutter of her
sea-green garments, "health--perfect health and strength of body, as my
gift to the pretty child."
"And you," said the Queen bitterly, "you, cold-hearted fairy, who have
done your best to kill me with misery, who came between my husband and
me, making him neglect me as he never would have done but for your
influence--what will _you_ give my child? Will you do something to make
amends for the suffering you caused? I would rather my pretty baby were
dead than that she lived to endure what I have of late endured."
"Life and death are not mine to bestow or to withhold," said the
Northern spirit calmly, as she drew her white garments more closely
round her with a majestic air. "So your rash words, foolish woman,
fortunately for you all, cannot touch the child. But something--much--I
can do, and I will. She shall not know the suffering you dread for her
with so cowardly a fear. She shall be what you choose to fancy _I_ am.
And instead of the name you have given her, she shall be known for what
she is--Princess Ice-Heart."
She turned to go, but the King on one hand, her three sisters on the
other, started forward to detain her.
"Have pity!" exclaimed the former.
"Sister, bethink you," said the latter; the Western fairy adding
beseechingly, the tears springing in her blue eyes, which so quickly
changed from bright to sad, "Say something to soften this hard fate.
Undo it you cannot, I know. Or, at least, allow me to mitigate it if I
can."
The Snow fairy stopped; in truth, she was far from hard-hearted or
remorseless, and already she was beginning to feel half sorry for what
she had done.
"What would you propose?" she said coldly.
The fairy of the West threw back her auburn hair with a gesture of
impatience.
"I would I knew!" she said. "'Tis a hard knot you have tied, my sister.
For that which would mend the evil wrought seems to me impossible while
the evil exists--the cure and the cessation of the disease are one. How
could the heart of ice be melted till tender feelings warm it, and how
can tender feelings find entrance into a feelingless heart? Alas! alas!
I can but predict what sounds like a mockery of your trouble," she went
on, turning to the King, though indeed by this time she might have
included the Queen in her sympathy, for Claribel stood, horrified at the
result of her mad resentment, as pale as Brave-Heart himself. "Hearken!"
and her expressive face, over which sunshine and showers were wont to
chase each other as on an April day--for such, as all know, is the
nature of the changeful, lovable spirit of the West--for once grew still
and statue-like, while her blue eyes pierced far into the distance. "The
day on which the Princess of the Icy Heart shall shed a tear, that heart
shall melt--but then only."
The Northern fairy murmured something under her breath, but what the
words were no one heard, for it was not many that dared stand near to
her, so terribly cold was her presence. The graceful spirit of the South
fluttered her golden locks, and with a little sigh drew her radiant
mantle round her, and kissed her hand in farewell, while the
thoughtful-eyed, mysterious Eastern fairy linked her arm in that of her
Western sister, and whispered that the solution of the problem should
have her most earnest study. And the green-robed spirit tried to smile
through her tears in farewell as she suffered herself to be led away.
So the four strange guests departed; but their absence was not followed
by the usual outburst of unconstrained festivity. On the contrary, a
sense of sorrow and dread hung over all who remained, and before long
everyone not immediately connected with the palace respectfully but
silently withdrew, leaving the King and Queen to their mysterious
sorrow.
Claribel flew to the baby's cradle. The little Princess was sleeping
soundly; she looked rosy and content--a picture of health. Her mother
called eagerly to the King.
"She seems just as usual," she exclaimed. "Perhaps--oh! perhaps after
all I have done no harm."
For, strange to say, her resentment against the Northern fairy had died
away. She now felt nothing but shame and regret for her own wild temper.
"Perhaps," she went on, "it was but to try me, to teach me a lesson,
that the Snow fairy uttered those terrible words."
Brave-Heart pitied his wife deeply, but he shook his head.
"I dare not comfort you with any such hopes," he said, "my poor
Claribel. The fairy is true--true as steel--if you could but have
trusted her! Had you seen her, as I have done--full of tenderest pity
for suffering--you could never have so maligned her."
Claribel did not answer, but her tears dropped on the baby's face. The
little Princess seemed annoyed by them. She put up her tiny hand and,
with a fretful expression, brushed them off.
And that very evening the certainty came.
The head nurse sent for the Queen while she was undressing the child,
and the mother hastened to the nursery. The attendants were standing
round in the greatest anxiety, for, though the baby looked quite well
otherwise, there was the strangest coldness over her left side, in the
region of the heart. The skin looked perfectly colorless, and the soft
cambric and still softer flannel of the finest which had covered the
spot were stiff, as if they had been exposed to a winter night's frost.
"Alas!" exclaimed Claribel, but that was all. It was no use sending for
doctors--no use doing anything. Her own delicate hand when she laid it
on the baby's heart was, as it were, blistered with cold. The next
morning she found it covered with chilblains.
But the baby did not mind. She flourished amazingly, heart or no heart.
She was perfectly healthy, ate well, slept well, and soon gave signs of
unusual intelligence. She was seldom put out, but when angry she
expressed her feelings by loud roars and screams, though with never a
tear! At first this did not seem strange, as no infant sheds tears
during the earliest weeks of its life. But when she grew to six months
old, then to a year, then to two and three, and was near her fourth
birthday without ever crying, it became plain that the prediction was
indeed to be fulfilled.
And the name "Ice-Heart" clung to her. In spite of all her royal
parents' commands to the contrary, "Princess Ice-Heart" she was called
far and near. It seemed as if people could not help it. "Sweet-Heart we
cannot name her, for sweet she is not," was murmured by all who came in
contact with her.
And it was true. Sweet she certainly was not. She was beautiful and
healthy and intelligent, but she had no feeling. In some ways she gave
little trouble. Her temper, though occasionally violent, was, as a rule,
placid; she seemed contented in almost all circumstances. When her good
old nurse died, she remarked coolly that she hoped her new attendant
would dress her hair more becomingly; when King Brave-Heart started on
some of his distant journeys she bade him good-bye with a smile,
observing that if he never came home again it would be rather amusing,
as she would then reign instead of him, and when she saw her mother
break into sobs at her unnatural speech she stared at her in blank
astonishment.
And so things went on until Ice-Heart reached her seventeenth year. By
this time she was, as regarded her outward appearance, as beautiful as
the fondest of parents could desire; she was also exceedingly strong and
healthy, and the powers of her mind were unusual. Her education had been
carefully directed, and she had learnt with ease and interest. She could
speak in several languages, her paintings were worthy of admiration, as
they were skillful and well executed; she could play with brilliancy on
various instruments. She had also been taught to sing, but her voice was
metallic and unpleasing. But she could discuss scientific and
philosophical subjects with the sages of her father's kingdom like one
of themselves.
And besides all this care bestowed upon her training, no stone had been
left unturned in hopes of awakening in the unfortunate girl some
affection or emotion. Every day the most soul-stirring poetry was read
aloud to her by the greatest elocutionists, the most exciting and moving
dramas were enacted before her; she was taken to visit the poor of the
city in their pitiable homes; she was encouraged to see sad sights from
which most soft-hearted maidens would instinctively flee. But all was in
vain. She would express interest and ask intelligent questions with
calm, unmoved features and dry eyes. Even music, from which much had
been hoped, was powerless to move her to aught but admiration of the
performers' skill or curiosity as to the construction of their
instruments. There was but one peculiarity about her, which sometimes,
though they could not have explained why, seemed to Ice-Heart's unhappy
parents to hint at some shadowy hope. The sight of tears was evidently
disagreeable to her. More certainly than anything else did the signs of
weeping arouse one of her rare fits of anger--so much so that now and
then, for days together, the poor Queen dared not come near her child,
and tears were to her a frequent relief from her lifelong regrets.
So beautiful and wealthy and accomplished a maiden was naturally not
without suitors; and from this direction, too, at first, Queen Claribel
trusted fondly that cure might come.
"If she could but fall in love," she said, the first time the idea
struck her.
"My poor dear!" replied the King, "to see, you must have eyes; to love,
you must have a heart."
"But a heart she has," persisted the mother. "It is only, as it were,
asleep--frozen, like the winter stream which bursts forth again into
ever fresh life and movement with the awaking spring."
So lovers were invited, and lovers came and were made welcome by the
dozen. Lovers of every description--rich and poor, old and young,
handsome and ugly--so long as they were of passable birth and fair
character, King Brave-Heart was not too particular--in the forlorn hope
that among them one fortunate wight might rouse some sentiment in the
lovely statue he desired to win. But all in vain. Each prince, or duke,
or simple knight, duly instructed in the sad case, did his best: one
would try poetry, another his lute, a third sighs and appeals, a fourth,
imagining he had made some way, would attempt the bold stroke of telling
Ice-Heart that unless she could respond to his adoration he would drown
himself. She only smiled, and begged him to allow her to witness the
performance--she had never seen anyone drown. So, one by one, the troupe
of aspirants--some in disgust, some in strange fear, some in
annoyance--took their departure, preferring a more ordinary spouse than
the bewitched though beautiful Princess.
And she saw them go with calmness, though, in one or two cases she had
replied to her parents that she had no objection to marry Prince
So-and-so, or Count Such-another, if they desired it--it would be rather
agreeable to have a husband if he gave her plenty of presents and did
all she asked. "Though a sighing and moaning lover, or a man who is
always twiddling a fiddle or making verses I could not stand," she would
add contemptuously.
So King Brave-Heart thought it best to try no such experiment. And in
future no gentleman was allowed to present himself except with the
understanding that he alone who should succeed in making Princess
Ice-Heart shed a tear would be accepted as her betrothed.
This proclamation diminished at once the number of suitors. Indeed,
after one or two candidates had failed, no more appeared--so well did it
come to be known that the attempt was hopeless.
And for more than a year Princess Ice-Heart was left to herself--very
much, apparently, to her satisfaction.
But all this time the mystic sisters were not idle or forgetful. Several
of the aspirants to Ice-Heart's hand had been chosen by them and
conveyed to the neighborhood of the palace by their intermediacy from
remote lands. And among these, one of the few who had found some slight
favor in the maiden's eyes was a special protege of the Western
fairy--the young and spirited Prince Francolin.
He was not one of the sighing or sentimental order of swains; he was
full of life and adventure and brightness, and his heart was warm and
generous. He admired the beautiful girl, but he pitied her still more,
and this pity was the real motive which made him yield to the fairy's
proposal that he should try again.
"You pleased the poor child," she said, when she arrived one day at the
Prince's home to talk over her new idea. "You made her smile by your
liveliness and fun. For I was there when you little knew it. The girl
has been overdosed with sentimentality and doleful strains. I believe we
have been on a wrong track all this time."
"What do you propose?" said Francolin, gravely, for he could be serious
enough when seriousness was called for. "She did not actually dislike
me, but that is the most that can be said; and however I may feel for
her, however I may admire her beauty and intelligence, nothing would
induce me to wed a bride who could not return my affection. Indeed, I
could scarcely feel any for such a one."
"Ah no! I agree with you entirely," said the fairy. "But listen--my
power is great in some ways. I am well versed in ordinary enchantment,
and am most willing to employ my utmost skill for my unfortunate
god-daughter."
She then unfolded to him her scheme, and obtained his consent to it.
"Now is your time," she said, in conclusion. "I hear on the best
authority that Ice-Heart is feeling rather dull and bored at present. It
is some time since she has had the variety of a new suitor, and she will
welcome any distraction."
And she proceeded to arrange all the details of her plan.
So it came to pass that very shortly after the conversation I have
related there was great excitement in the capital city of the Kingdom of
the Four Orts. After an interval of more than a year a new suitor had at
length presented himself for the hand of the Princess Ice-Heart. Only
the King and Queen received the news with melancholy indifference.
"He may try as the others have done," said Brave-Heart to the messenger
announcing the arrival of the stranger at the gates, accompanied by a
magnificent retinue; "but it is useless." For the poor King was fast
losing all hope of his daughter's case; he was growing aged and
care-worn before his time.
"Does he know the terms attached to his acceptance?" inquired the Queen.
Yes, the messenger from the unknown candidate for the hand of the
beautiful Ice-Heart had been expressly charged to say that the Prince
Jocko--such was the new-comer's name--was fully informed as to all
particulars, and prepared to comply with the conditions.
The Princess' parents smiled somewhat bitterly. They had no hope, but
still they could not forbid the attempt.
"Prince Jocko?" said the King, "not a very prince-like name. However, it
matters little."
A few hours later the royal pair and their daughter, with all their
attendants, in great state and ceremony, were awaiting their guest. And
soon a blast of trumpets announced his approach. His retinue was indeed
magnificent; horsemen in splendid uniforms, followed by a troop of white
mules with negro riders in gorgeous attire, then musicians, succeeded by
the Prince's immediate attendants, defiled before the great marble steps
in front of the palace, at the summit of which the King, with the Queen
and Princess, was seated in state.
Ice-Heart clapped her hands.
"'Tis as good as a show," she said, "but where is the Prince?"
As she said the word the cortege halted. A litter, with closely drawn
curtains, drew up at the foot of the steps.
"Gracious!" exclaimed the Princess, "I hope he is not a molly-coddle;"
but before there was time to say more the curtains of the litter were
drawn aside, and in another moment an attendant had lifted out its
occupant, who forthwith proceeded to ascend the steps.
The parents and their daughter stared at each other and gasped.
Prince Jocko was neither more nor less than a monkey!
But such a monkey as never before had been seen. He was more comical
than words can express, and when at last he stood before them, and
bowed to the ground, a three-cornered hat in his hand, his sword
sticking straight out behind, his tail sweeping the ground, the effect
was irresistible. King Brave-Heart turned his head aside. Queen Claribel
smothered her face in her handkerchief. Princess Ice-Heart opened her
pretty mouth wide and forgot to close it again, while a curious
expression stole into her beautiful eyes.
Was it a trick?
No; Prince Jocko proceeded to speak.
He laid his little brown paw on his heart, bowed again, coughed,
sneezed, and finally began an oration. If his appearance was too funny,
his words and gestures were a hundred times more so. He rolled his eyes,
he declaimed, he posed and pirouetted like a miniature dancing-master,
and his little cracked voice rose higher and higher as his own fine
words and expressions increased in eloquence.
And at last a sound--which never before had been heard, save
faintly--made everyone start. The Princess was laughing as if she could
no longer contain herself. Clear, ringing, merry laughter, which it did
one's heart good to hear. And on she went, laughing ever, till--she
flung herself at her mother's feet, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Oh, mamma!" she exclaimed, "I never--" and then she went off again.
But Prince Jocko suddenly grew silent. He stepped up to Ice-Heart and,
respectfully raising her hand to his lips, gazed earnestly, beseechingly
into her face, his own keen sharp eyes gradually growing larger and
deeper in expression, till they assumed the pathetic, wistful look of
appeal one often sees in those of a noble dog.
"Ah, Princess!" he murmured.
And Ice-Heart stopped laughing. She pressed her hand to her side.
"Father! mother!" she cried, "help me! help me! Am I dying? What has
happened to me?" And, with a strange, long drawn sigh she sank fainting
to the ground.
There was great excitement in the palace, hurrying to and fro, fetching
of doctors, and much alarm. But when the Princess had been carried
indoors and laid on a couch, she soon revived. And who can describe the
feelings of the King and Queen when she turned to them with a smile such
as they had never seen on her face before.
"Dearest father, dearest mother," she said, "how I love you! Those
strange warm drops that filled my eyes seem to have brought new life to
me," and as the Queen passed her arm round the maiden she felt no chill
of cold such as used to thrill her with misery every time she embraced
her child.
"Sweet-Heart! my own Sweet-Heart!" she whispered.