THE BAKER'S WIFE.
They were now passing through a lovely country of hill and dale and
rushing stream. The hills were abrupt, with broken chasms for
water-courses, and deep little valleys full of trees. But now and then
they came to a larger valley, with a fine river, whose level banks and
the adjacent meadows were dotted all over with red and white kine, while
on the fields above, that sloped a little to the foot of the hills, grew
oats and barley and wheat, and on the sides of the hills themselves
vines hung and chestnuts rose. They came at last to a broad, beautiful
river, up which they must go to arrive at the city of Gwyntystorm, where
the king had his court. As they went the valley narrowed, and then the
river, but still it was wide enough for large boats. After this, while
the river kept its size, the banks narrowed, until there was only room
for a road between the river and the great cliffs that overhung it. At
last river and road took a sudden turn, and lo! a great rock in the
river, which dividing flowed around it, and on the top of the rock the
city, with lofty walls and towers and battlements, and above the city
the palace of the king, built like a strong castle. But the
fortifications had long been neglected, for the whole country was now
under one king, and all men said there was no more need for weapons or
walls. No man pretended to love his neighbour, but every one said he
knew that peace and quiet behaviour was the best thing for himself, and
that, he said, was quite as useful, and a great deal more reasonable.
The city was prosperous and rich, and if anybody was not comfortable,
everybody else said he ought to be.
When Curdie got up opposite the mighty rock, which sparkled all over
with crystals, he found a narrow bridge, defended by gates and
portcullis and towers with loopholes. But the gates stood wide open, and
were dropping from their great hinges; the portcullis was eaten away
with rust, and clung to the grooves evidently immovable; while the
loopholed towers had neither floor nor roof, and their tops were fast
filling up their interiors. Curdie thought it a pity, if only for their
old story, that they should be thus neglected. But everybody in the city
regarded these signs of decay as the best proof of the prosperity of the
place. Commerce and self-interest, they said, had got the better of
violence, and the troubles of the past were whelmed in the riches that
flowed in at their open gates. Indeed there was one sect of philosophers
in it which taught that it would be better to forget all the past
history of the city, were it not that its former imperfections taught
its present inhabitants how superior they and their times were, and
enabled them to glory over their ancestors. There were even certain
quacks in the city who advertised pills for enabling people to think
well of themselves, and some few bought of them, but most laughed, and
said, with evident truth, that they did not require them. Indeed, the
general theme of discourse when they met was, how much wiser they were
than their fathers.
Curdie crossed the river, and began to ascend the winding road that led
up to the city. They met a good many idlers, and all stared at them. It
was no wonder they should stare, but there was an unfriendliness in
their looks which Curdie did not like. No one, however, offered them any
molestation: Lina did not invite liberties. After a long ascent, they
reached the principal gate of the city and entered.
The street was very steep, ascending towards the palace, which rose in
great strength above all the houses. Just as they entered, a baker,
whose shop was a few doors inside the gate, came out in his white apron,
and ran to the shop of his friend the barber on the opposite side of
the way. But as he ran he stumbled and fell heavily. Curdie hastened to
help him up, and found he had bruised his forehead badly. He swore
grievously at the stone for tripping him up, declaring it was the third
time he had fallen over it within the last month; and saying what was
the king about that he allowed such a stone to stick up for ever on the
main street of his royal residence of Gwyntystorm! What was a king for
if he would not take care of his people's heads! And he stroked his
forehead tenderly.
"Was it your head or your feet that ought to bear the blame of your
fall?" asked Curdie.
"Why, you booby of a miner! my feet, of course," answered the baker.
"Nay, then," said Curdie, "the king can't be to blame."
"Oh, I see!" said the baker. "You're laying a trap for me. Of course, if
you come to that, it was my head that ought to have looked after my
feet. But it is the king's part to look after us all, and have his
streets smooth."
"Well, I don't see," said Curdie, "why the king should take care of the
baker, when the baker's head won't take care of the baker's feet."
"Who are you to make game of the king's baker?" cried the man in a
rage.
But, instead of answering, Curdie went up to the bump on the street
which had repeated itself on the baker's head, and turning the hammer
end of his mattock, struck it such a blow that it flew wide in pieces.
Blow after blow he struck, until he had levelled it with the street.
But out flew the barber upon him in a rage.
"What do you break my window for, you rascal, with your pickaxe?"
"I am very sorry," said Curdie. "It must have been a bit of stone that
flew from my mattock. I couldn't help it, you know."
"Couldn't help it! A fine story! What do you go breaking the rock
for--the very rock upon which the city stands?"
"Look at your friend's forehead," said Curdie. "See what a lump he has
got on it with falling over that same stone."
"What's that to my window?" cried the barber. "His forehead can mend
itself; my poor window can't."
"But he's the king's baker," said Curdie, more and more surprised at the
man's anger.
"What's that to me? This is a free city. Every man here takes care of
himself, and the king takes care of us all. I'll have the price of my
window out of you, or the exchequer shall pay for it."
Something caught Curdie's eye. He stooped, picked up a piece of the
stone he had just broken, and put it in his pocket.
"I suppose you are going to break another of my windows with that
stone!" said the barber.
"Oh no," said Curdie. "I didn't mean to break your window, and I
certainly won't break another."
"Give me that stone," said the barber.
Curdie gave it to him, and the barber threw it over the city wall.
"I thought you wanted the stone," said Curdie.
"No, you fool!" answered the barber. "What should I want with a stone?"
Curdie stooped and picked up another.
"Give me that stone," said the barber.
"No," answered Curdie. "You have just told me you don't want a stone,
and I do."
The barber took Curdie by the collar.
"Come, now! you pay me for that window."
"How much?" asked Curdie.
The barber said, "A crown." But the baker, annoyed at the heartlessness
of the barber, in thinking more of his broken window than the bump on
his friend's forehead, interfered.
"No, no," he said to Curdie; "don't you pay any such sum. A little pane
like that cost only a quarter."
"Well, to be certain," said Curdie, "I'll give him a half." For he
doubted the baker as well as the barber. "Perhaps one day, if he finds
he has asked too much, he will bring me the difference."
"Ha! ha!" laughed the barber. "A fool and his money are soon parted."
But as he took the coin from Curdie's hand he grasped it in affected
reconciliation and real satisfaction. In Curdie's, his was the cold
smooth leathery palm of a monkey. He looked up, almost expecting to see
him pop the money in his cheek; but he had not yet got so far as that,
though he was well on the road to it: then he would have no other
pocket.
"I'm glad that stone is gone, anyhow," said the baker. "It was the bane
of my life. I had no idea how easy it was to remove it. Give me your
pickaxe, young miner, and I will show you how a baker can make the
stones fly."
He caught the tool out of Curdie's hand, and flew at one of the
foundation stones of the gateway. But he jarred his arm terribly,
scarcely chipped the stone, dropped the mattock with a cry of pain, and
ran into his own shop. Curdie picked up his implement, and looking after
the baker, saw bread in the window, and followed him in. But the baker,
ashamed of himself, and thinking he was coming to laugh at him, popped
out of the back door, and when Curdie entered, the baker's wife came
from the bakehouse to serve him. Curdie requested to know the price of a
certain good-sized loaf.
Now the baker's wife had been watching what had passed since first her
husband ran out of the shop, and she liked the look of Curdie. Also she
was more honest than her husband. Casting a glance to the back door, she
replied,--
"That is not the best bread. I will sell you a loaf of what we bake for
ourselves." And when she had spoken she laid a finger on her lips. "Take
care of yourself in this place, my son," she added. "They do not love
strangers. I was once a stranger here, and I know what I say." Then
fancying she heard her husband,--"That is a strange animal you have,"
she said, in a louder voice.
"Yes," answered Curdie. "She is no beauty, but she is very good, and we
love each other. Don't we, Lina?"
Lina looked up and whined. Curdie threw her the half of his loaf, which
she ate while her master and the baker's wife talked a little. Then the
baker's wife gave them some water, and Curdie having paid for his loaf,
he and Lina went up the street together.