CHAPTER IV.

When he woke he found himself still afloat upon the broad palm-leaf. He

was alone in the middle of a lake, with flowers and trees growing in

and out of it everywhere. The sun was just over the tree-tops. A drip

of water from the flowers greeted him with music; the mists were

dissolving away, and where the sunlight fell on the lake the water was

clear as glass. Casting his eyes downward, he saw, just beneath him,

far down at the bottom, Alice drowned, as he thought. He was in the act

of plunging in, when he saw her open her eyes, and at the same moment

begin to float up. He held out his hand, but she repelled it with

disdain, and swimming to a tree, sat down on a low branch, wondering

how ever the poor widow's son could have found his way into Fairyland.

She did not like it. It was an invasion of privilege.

"How did you come here, young Richard?" she asked, from six yards off.

"A goblin brought me."

"Ah! I thought so. A fairy brought me."

"Where is your fairy?"

"Here I am," said Peaseblossom, rising slowly to the surface just by

the tree on which Alice was seated.

"Where is your goblin?" retorted Alice.

"Here I am," bawled Toadstool, rushing out of the water like a salmon,

and casting a summersault in the air before he fell in again with a

tremendous splash. His head rose again close beside Peaseblossom, who

being used to such creatures only laughed.

"Isn't he handsome?" he grinned.

"Yes, very. He wants polishing, though."

"You could do that for yourself, you know. Shall we change?"

"I don't mind. You'll find her rather silly."

"That's nothing. The boy's too sensible for me."

He dived, and rose at Alice's feet. She shrieked with terror. The fairy

floated away like a water-lily towards Richard. "What a lovely

creature!" thought he; but hearing Alice shriek again, he said,

"Don't leave Alice; she's frightened at that queer creature.--I don't

think there's any harm in him, though, Alice."

"Oh, no! He won't hurt her," said Peaseblossom. "I'm tired of her. He's

going to take her to the court, and I will take you."

"I don't want to go."

"But you must. You can't go home again. You don't know the way."

"Richard! Richard!" cried Alice, in an agony.

Richard sprang from his boat, and was by her side in a moment.

"He pinched me," cried Alice.

Richard hit the goblin a terrible blow on the head; but it took no more

effect upon him than if his head had been a round ball of india-rubber.

He gave Richard a furious look, however, and bawling out, "You'll

repent that, Dick!" vanished under the water.

"Come along, Richard; make haste; he will murder you," cried the fairy.

"It is all your fault," said Richard. "I won't leave Alice."

Then the fairy saw it was all over with her and Toadstool; for they can

do nothing with mortals against their will. So she floated away across

the water in Richard's boat, holding her robe for a sail, and vanished,

leaving the two alone in the lake.

"You have driven away my fairy!" cried Alice. "I shall never get home

now. It is all your fault, you naughty young man."

"I drove away the goblin," remonstrated Richard.

"Will you please to sit on the other side of the tree? I wonder what my

papa would say if he saw me talking to you!"

"Will you come to the next tree, Alice?" said Richard, after a pause.

Alice, who had been crying all the time that Richard was thinking, said

"I won't." Richard, therefore, plunged into the water without her, and

swam for the tree. Before he had got half-way, however, he heard Alice

crying "Richard! Richard!" This was just what he wanted. So he turned

back, and Alice threw herself into the water. With Richard's help she

swam pretty well, and they reached the tree. "Now for the next!" said

Richard; and they swam to the next, and then to the third. Every tree

they reached was larger than the last, and every tree before them was

larger still. So they swam from tree to tree, till they came to one

that was so large that they could not see round it. What was to be

done? Clearly to climb this tree. It was a dreadful prospect for Alice,

but Richard proceeded to climb; and by putting her feet where he put his,

and now and then getting hold of his ankle, she managed to make

her way up. There were a great many stumps where branches had withered

off, and the bark was nearly as rough as a hill-side, so there was

plenty of foothold for them. When they had climbed a long time, and

were getting very tired indeed, Alice cried out, "Richard, I shall

drop--I shall. Why did you come this way?" And she began once more to

cry. But at that moment Richard caught hold of a branch above his head,

and reaching down his other hand got hold of Alice, and held her till

she had recovered a little. In a few moments more they reached the fork

of the tree, and there they sat and rested. "This is capital!" said

Richard, cheerily.

"What is?" asked Alice, sulkily.

"Why, we have room to rest, and there's no hurry for a minute or two.

I'm tired."

"You selfish creature!" said Alice. "If you are tired, what must I be!"

"Tired too," answered Richard. "But we've got on bravely. And look!

what's that?"

By this time the day was gone, and the night so near, that in the

shadows of the tree all was dusky and dim. But there was still light

enough to discover that in a niche of the tree sat a huge horned owl,

with green spectacles on his beak, and a book in one foot. He took no

heed of the intruders, but kept muttering to himself. And what do you

think the owl was saying? I will tell you. He was talking about the

book that he held upside down in his foot.

"Stupid book this-s-s-s! Nothing in it at all! Everything upside down!

Stupid ass-s-s-s! Says owls can't read! _I_ can read backwards!"

"I think that is the goblin again," said Richard, in a whisper.

"However, if you ask a plain question, he must give you a plain answer,

for they are not allowed to tell downright lies in Fairyland."

"Don't ask him, Richard; you know you gave him a dreadful blow."

"I gave him what he deserved, and he owes me the same.--Hallo! which is

the way out?"

He wouldn't say _if you please_, because then it would not have been a

plain question.

"Down-stairs," hissed the owl, without ever lifting his eyes from the

book, which all the time he read upside down, so learned was he.

"On your honour, as a respectable old owl?" asked Richard.

"No," hissed the owl; and Richard was almost sure that he was not

really an owl. So he stood staring at him for a few moments, when all

at once, without lifting his eyes from the book, the owl said, "I will

sing a song," and began:--

"Nobody knows the world but me.

When they're all in bed, I sit up to see

I'm a better student than students all,

For I never read till the darkness fall;

And I never read without my glasses,

And that is how my wisdom passes.

Howlowlwhoolhoolwoolool.

"I can see the wind. Now who can do that?

I see the dreams that he has in his hat;

I see him snorting them out as he goes--

Out at his stupid old trumpet-nose.

Ten thousand things that you couldn't think

I write them down with pen and ink.

Howlowlwhooloolwhitit that's wit.

"You may call it learning--'tis mother-wit.

No one else sees the lady-moon sit

On the sea, her nest, all night, but the owl,

Hatching the boats and the long-legged fowl.

When the oysters gape to sing by rote,

She crams a pearl down each stupid throat.

Howlowlwhitit that's wit, there's a fowl!"

And so singing, he threw the book in Richard's face, spread out his

great, silent, soft wings, and sped away into the depths of the tree.

When the book struck Richard, he found that it was only a lump of wet

moss.

While talking to the owl he had spied a hollow behind one of the

branches. Judging this to be the way the owl meant, he went to see, and

found a rude, ill-defined staircase going down into the very heart of

the trunk. But so large was the tree that this could not have hurt it

in the least. Down this stair, then, Richard scrambled as best he

could, followed by Alice--not of her own will, she gave him clearly to

understand, but because she could do no better. Down, down they went,

slipping and falling sometimes, but never very far, because the stair

went round and round. It caught Richard when he slipped, and he caught

Alice when she did. They had begun to fear that there was no end to the

stair, it went round and round so steadily, when, creeping through a

crack, they found themselves in a great hall, supported by thousands of

pillars of gray stone. Where the little light came from they could not

tell. This hall they began to cross in a straight line, hoping to reach

one side, and intending to walk along it till they came to some

opening. They kept straight by going from pillar to pillar, as they had

done before by the trees. Any honest plan will do in Fairyland, if you

only stick to it. And no plan will do if you do not stick to it.

It was very silent, and Alice disliked the silence more than the

dimness,--so much, indeed, that she longed to hear Richard's voice. But

she had always been so cross to him when he had spoken, that he thought

it better to let her speak first; and she was too proud to do that. She

would not even let him walk alongside of her, but always went slower

when he wanted to wait for her; so that at last he strode on alone. And

Alice followed. But by degrees the horror of silence grew upon her, and

she felt at last as if there was no one in the universe but herself.

The hall went on widening around her; their footsteps made no noise;

the silence grew so intense that it seemed on the point of taking

shape. At last she could bear it no longer. She ran after Richard, got

up with him, and laid hold of his arm.

He had been thinking for some time what an obstinate, disagreeable girl

Alice was, and wishing he had her safe home to be rid of her, when,

feeling a hand, and looking round, he saw that it was the disagreeable

girl. She soon began to be companionable after a fashion, for she began

to think, putting everything together, that Richard must have been

several times in Fairyland before now. "It is very strange," she said

to herself; "for he is quite a poor boy, I am sure of that. His arms

stick out beyond his jacket like the ribs of his mother's umbrella. And

to think of me wandering about Fairyland with _him_!"

The moment she touched his arm, they saw an arch of blackness before

them. They had walked straight to a door--not a very inviting one, for

it opened upon an utterly dark passage. Where there was only one door,

however, there was no difficulty about choosing. Richard walked

straight through it; and from the greater fear of being left behind,

Alice faced the lesser fear of going on. In a moment they were in total

darkness. Alice clung to Richard's arm, and murmured, almost against

her will, "Dear Richard!" It was strange that fear should speak like

love; but it was in Fairyland. It was strange, too, that as soon as she

spoke thus, Richard should fall in love with her all at once. But what

was more curious still was, that, at the same moment, Richard saw her

face. In spite of her fear, which had made her pale, she looked very

lovely.

"Dear Alice!" said Richard, "how pale you look!"

"How can you tell that, Richard, when all is as black as pitch?"

"I can see your face. It gives out light. Now I see your hands. Now I

can see your feet. Yes, I can see every spot where you are going

to--No, don't put your foot there. There is an ugly toad just there."

The fact was, that the moment he began to love Alice, his eyes began to

send forth light. What he thought came from Alice's face, really came

from his eyes. All about her and her path he could see, and every

minute saw better; but to his own path he was blind. He could not see

his hand when he held it straight before his face, so dark was it. But

he could see Alice, and that was better than seeing the way--ever so

much.

At length Alice too began to see a face dawning through the darkness.

It was Richard's face; but it was far handsomer than when she saw it

last. Her eyes had begun to give light too. And she said to

herself--"Can it be that I love the poor widow's son?--I suppose that

must be it," she answered herself, with a smile; for she was not

disgusted with herself at all. Richard saw the smile, and was glad. Her

paleness had gone, and a sweet rosiness had taken its place. And now

she saw Richard's path as he saw hers, and between the two sights they

got on well.

They were now walking on a path betwixt two deep waters, which never

moved, shining as black as ebony where the eyelight fell. But they saw

ere long that this path kept growing narrower and narrower. At last, to

Alice's dismay, the black waters met in front of them.

"What is to be done now, Richard?" she said.

When they fixed their eyes on the water before them, they saw that it

was swarming with lizards, and frogs, and black snakes, and all kinds

of strange and ugly creatures, especially some that had neither heads,

nor tails, nor legs, nor fins, nor feelers, being, in fact, only living

lumps. These kept jumping out and in, and sprawling upon the path.

Richard thought for a few moments before replying to Alice's question,

as, indeed, well he might. But he came to the conclusion that the path

could not have gone on for the sake of stopping there; and that it must

be a kind of finger that pointed on where it was not allowed to go

itself. So he caught up Alice in his strong arms, and jumped into the

middle of the horrid swarm. And just as minnows vanish if you throw

anything amongst them, just so these wretched creatures vanished, right

and left and every way.

He found the water broader than he had expected; and before he got

over, he found Alice heavier than he could have believed; but upon a

firm, rocky bottom, Richard waded through in safety. When he reached

the other side, he found that the bank was a lofty, smooth,

perpendicular rock, with some rough steps cut in it. By and by the

steps led them right into the rock, and they were in a narrow passage

once more, but, this time, leading up. It wound round and round, like

the thread of a great screw. At last, Richard knocked his head against

something, and could go no farther. The place was close and hot. He put

up his hands, and pushed what felt like a warm stone: it moved a

little.

"Go down, you brutes!" growled a voice above, quivering with anger.

"You'll upset my pot and my cat, and my temper too, if you push that

way. Go down!"

Richard knocked very gently, and said: "Please let us out."

"Oh, yes, I dare say! Very fine and soft-spoken! Go down, you goblin

brutes! I've had enough of you. I'll scald the hair off your ugly heads

if you do that again. Go down, I say!"

Seeing fair speech was of no avail, Richard told Alice to go down a

little, out of the way; and, setting his shoulders to one end of the

stone, heaved it up; whereupon down came the other end, with a pot, and

a fire, and a cat which had been asleep beside it. She frightened Alice

dreadfully as she rushed past her, showing nothing but her green

lamping eyes.

Richard, peeping up, found that he had turned a hearth-stone upside

down. On the edge of the hole stood a little crooked old man,

brandishing a mop-stick in a tremendous rage, and hesitating only where

to strike him. But Richard put him out of his difficulty by springing

up and taking the stick from him. Then, having lifted Alice out, he

returned it with a bow, and, heedless of the maledictions of the old

man, proceeded to get the stone and the pot up again. For puss, she got

out of herself.

Then the old man became a little more friendly, and said: "I beg your

pardon, I thought you were goblins. They never will let me alone. But

you must allow, it was rather an unusual way of paying a morning call."

And the creature bowed conciliatingly.

"It was, indeed," answered Richard. "I wish you had turned the door to

us instead of the hearth-stone." For he did not trust the old man.

"But," he added, "I hope you will forgive us."

"Oh, certainly, certainly, my dear young people! Use your freedom. But

such young people have no business to be out alone. It is against the

rules."

"But what is one to do--I mean two to do--when they can't help it?"

"Yes, yes, of course; but now, you know, I must take charge of you. So

you sit there, young gentleman; and you sit there, young lady."

He put a chair for one at one side of the hearth, and for the other at

the other side, and then drew his chair between them. The cat got upon

his hump, and then set up her own. So here was a wall that would let

through no moonshine. But although both Richard and Alice were very

much amused, they did not like to be parted in this peremptory manner.

Still they thought it better not to anger the old man any more--in his

own house, too.

But he had been once angered, and that was once too often, for he had

made it a rule never to forgive without taking it out in humiliation.

It was so disagreeable to have him sitting there between them, that

they felt as if they were far asunder. In order to get the better of

the fancy, they wanted to hold each other's hand behind the dwarf's

back. But the moment their hands began to approach, the back of the cat

began to grow long, and its hump to grow high; and, in a moment more,

Richard found himself crawling wearily up a steep hill, whose ridge

rose against the stars, while a cold wind blew drearily over it. Not a

habitation was in sight; and Alice had vanished from his eyes. He felt,

however, that she must be somewhere on the other side, and so climbed

and climbed to get over the brow of the hill, and down to where he

thought she must be. But the longer he climbed, the farther off the top

of the hill seemed; till at last he sank quite exhausted, and--must I

confess it?--very nearly began to cry. To think of being separated from

Alice all at once, and in such a disagreeable way! But he fell

a-thinking instead, and soon said to himself: "This must be some trick

of that wretched old man. Either this mountain is a cat or it is not.

If it is a mountain, this won't hurt it; if it is a cat, I hope it

will." With that, he pulled out his pocket-knife, and feeling for a

soft place, drove it at one blow up to the handle in the side of the

mountain.

A terrific shriek was the first result; and the second, that Alice and

he sat looking at each other across the old man's hump, from which the

cat-a-mountain had vanished. Their host sat staring at the blank

fireplace, without ever turning round, pretending to know nothing of

what had taken place.

"Come along, Alice," said Richard, rising. "This won't do. We won't

stop here."

Alice rose at once, and put her hand in his. They walked towards the

door. The old man took no notice of them. The moon was shining brightly

through the window; but instead of stepping out into the moonlight when

they opened the door, they stepped into a great beautiful hall, through

the high gothic windows of which the same moon was shining. Out of this

hall they could find no way, except by a staircase of stone which led

upwards. They ascended it together. At the top Alice let go Richard's

hand to peep into a little room, which looked all the colours of the

rainbow, just like the inside of a diamond. Richard went a step or two

along a corridor, but finding she had left him, turned and looked into

the chamber. He could see her nowhere. The room was full of doors; and

she must have mistaken the door. He heard her voice calling him, and

hurried in the direction of the sound. But he could see nothing of her.

"More tricks," he said to himself. "It is of no use to stab this one. I

must wait till I see what can be done." Still he heard Alice calling

him, and still he followed, as well as he could. At length he came to a

doorway, open to the air, through which the moonlight fell. But when he

reached it, he found that it was high up in the side of a tower, the

wall of which went straight down from his feet, without stair or

descent of any kind. Again he heard Alice call him, and lifting his

eyes, saw her, across a wide castle-court, standing at another door

just like the one he was at, with the moon shining full upon her.

"All right, Alice!" he cried. "Can you hear me?"

"Yes," answered she.

"Then listen. This is all a trick. It is all a lie of that old wretch

in the kitchen. Just reach out your hand, Alice dear."

Alice did as Richard asked her; and, although they saw each other many

yards off across the court, their hands met.

"There! I thought so!" exclaimed Richard triumphantly. "Now, Alice, I

don't believe it is more than a foot or two down to the court below,

though it looks like a hundred feet. Keep fast hold of my hand, and

jump when I count three." But Alice drew her hand from him in sudden

dismay; whereupon Richard said, "Well, I will try first," and jumped.

The same moment his cheery laugh came to Alice's ears, and she saw him

standing safe on the ground, far below.

"Jump, dear Alice, and I will catch you," said he.

"I can't; I am afraid," answered she.

"The old man is somewhere near you. You had better jump," said Richard.

Alice sprang from the wall in terror, and only fell a foot or two into

Richard's arms. The moment she touched the ground, they found

themselves outside the door of a little cottage which they knew very

well, for it was only just within the wood that bordered on their

village. Hand in hand they ran home as fast as they could. When they

reached a little gate that led into her father's grounds, Richard bade

Alice good-bye. The tears came in her eyes. Richard and she seemed to

have grown quite man and woman in Fairyland, and they did not want to

part now. But they felt that they must. So Alice ran in the back way,

and reached her own room before anyone had missed her. Indeed, the last

of the red had not quite faded from the west.

As Richard crossed the market-place on his way home, he saw an

umbrella-man just selling the last of his umbrellas. He thought the man

gave him a queer look as he passed, and felt very much inclined to

punch his head. But remembering how useless it had been to punch the

goblin's head, he thought it better not.

In reward of their courage, the Fairy Queen sent them permission to

visit Fairyland as often as they pleased; and no goblin or fairy was

allowed to interfere with them.

For Peaseblossom and Toadstool, they were both banished from court, and

compelled to live together, for seven years, in an old tree that had

just one green leaf upon it.

Toadstool did not mind it much, but Peaseblossom did.

THE SHADOWS

Old Ralph Rinkelmann made his living by comic sketches, and all but

lost it again by tragic poems. So he was just the man to be chosen king

of the fairies, for in Fairyland the sovereignty is elective.

It is no doubt very strange that fairies should desire to have a mortal

king; but the fact is, that with all their knowledge and power, they

cannot get rid of the feeling that some men are greater than they are,

though they can neither fly nor play tricks. So at such times as there

happens to be twice the usual number of sensible electors, such a man

as Ralph Rinkelmann gets to be chosen.

They did not mean to insist on his residence; for they needed his

presence only on special occasions. But they must get hold of him

somehow, first of all, in order to make him king. Once he was crowned,

they could get him as often as they pleased; but before this ceremony

there was a difficulty. For it is only between life and death that the

fairies have power over grown-up mortals, and can carry them off to

their country. So they had to watch for an opportunity.

Nor had they to wait long. For old Ralph was taken dreadfully ill; and

while hovering between life and death, they carried him off, and

crowned him king of Fairyland. But after he was crowned, it was no

wonder, considering the state of his health, that he should not be able

to sit quite upright on the throne of Fairyland; or that, in

consequence, all the gnomes and goblins, and ugly, cruel things that

live in the holes and corners of the kingdom, should take advantage of

his condition, and run quite wild, playing him, king as he was, all

sorts of tricks; crowding about his throne, climbing up the steps, and

actually scrambling and quarrelling like mice about his ears and eyes,

so that he could see and think of nothing else. But I am not going to

tell anything more about this part of his adventures just at present.

By strong and sustained efforts, he succeeded, after much trouble and

suffering, in reducing his rebellious subjects to order. They all

vanished to their respective holes and corners; and King Ralph, coming

to himself, found himself in his bed, half propped up with pillows.

But the room was full of dark creatures, which gambolled about in the

firelight in such a strange, huge, though noiseless fashion, that he

thought at first that some of his rebellious goblins had not been

subdued with the rest, but had followed him beyond the bounds of

Fairyland into his own private house in London. How else could these

mad, grotesque hippopotamus-calves make their ugly appearance in Ralph

Rinkelmann's bed-room? But he soon found out that although they were

like the underground goblins, they were very different as well, and

would require quite different treatment. He felt convinced that they

were his subjects too, but that he must have overlooked them somehow at

his late coronation--if indeed they had been present; for he could not

recollect that he had seen anything just like them before. He resolved,

therefore, to pay particular attention to their habits, ways, and

characters; else he saw plainly that they would soon be too much for

him; as indeed this intrusion into his chamber, where Mrs. Rinkelmann,

who must be queen if he was king, sat taking some tea by the fireside,

evidently foreshadowed. But she, perceiving that he was looking about

him with a more composed expression than his face had worn for many

days, started up, and came quickly and quietly to his side, and her

face was bright with gladness. Whereupon the fire burned up more

cheerily; and the figures became more composed and respectful in their

behaviour, retreating towards the wall like well-trained attendants.

Then the king of Fairyland had some tea and dry toast, and leaning back

on his pillows, nearly fell asleep; but not quite, for he still watched

the intruders.

Presently the queen left the room to give some of the young princes and

princesses their tea; and the fire burned lower, and behold, the

figures grew as black and as mad in their gambols as ever! Their

favourite games seemed to be _Hide and Seek_; _Touch and Go_; _Grin and

Vanish_; and many other such; and all in the king's bed-chamber, too;

so that it was quite alarming. It was almost as bad as if the house had

been haunted by certain creatures which shall be nameless in a fairy

story, because with them Fairyland will not willingly have much to do.

"But it is a mercy that they have their slippers on!" said the king to

himself; for his head ached.

As he lay back, with his eyes half shut and half open, too tired to pay

longer attention to their games, but, on the whole, considerably more

amused than offended with the liberties they took, for they seemed

good-natured creatures, and more frolicsome than positively

ill-mannered, he became suddenly aware that two of them had stepped

forward from the walls, upon which, after the manner of great spiders,

most of them preferred sprawling, and now stood in the middle of the

floor at the foot of his majesty's bed, becking and bowing and ducking

in the most grotesquely obsequious manner; while every now and then

they turned solemnly round upon one heel, evidently considering that

motion the highest token of homage they could show.

"What do you want?" said the king.

"That it may please your majesty to be better acquainted with us,"

answered they. "We are your majesty's subjects."

"I know you are. I shall be most happy," answered the king.

"We are not what your majesty takes us for, though. We are not so

foolish as your majesty thinks us."

"It is impossible to take you for anything that I know of," rejoined

the king, who wished to make them talk, and said whatever came

uppermost;--"for soldiers, sailors, or anything: you will not stand

still long enough. I suppose you really belong to the fire brigade; at

least, you keep putting its light out."

"Don't jest, please your majesty." And as they said the words--for they

both spoke at once throughout the interview--they performed a grave

somerset towards the king.

"Not jest!" retorted he; "and with you? Why, you do nothing but jest.

What are you?"

"The Shadows, sire. And when we do jest, sire, we always jest in

earnest. But perhaps your majesty does not see us distinctly."

"I see you perfectly well," returned the king.

"Permit me, however," rejoined one of the Shadows; and as he spoke he

approached the king; and lifting a dark forefinger, he drew it lightly

but carefully across the ridge of his forehead, from temple to temple.

The king felt the soft gliding touch go, like water, into every hollow,

and over the top of every height of that mountain-chain of thought. He

had involuntarily closed his eyes during the operation, and when he

unclosed them again, as soon as the finger was withdrawn, he found that

they were opened in more senses than one. The room appeared to have

extended itself on all sides, till he could not exactly see where the

walls were; and all about it stood the Shadows motionless. They were

tall and solemn; rather awful, indeed, in their appearance,

notwithstanding many remarkable traits of grotesqueness, for they

looked just like the pictures of Puritans drawn by Cavaliers, with long

arms, and very long, thin legs, from which hung large loose feet, while

in their countenances length of chin and nose predominated. The

solemnity of their mien, however, overcame all the oddity of their

form, so that they were very _eerie_ indeed to look at, dressed as they

all were in funereal black. But a single glance was all that the king

was allowed to have; for the former operator waved his dusky palm

across his vision, and once more the king saw only the fire-lighted

walls, and dark shapes flickering about upon them. The two who had

spoken for the rest seemed likewise to have vanished. But at last the

king discovered them, standing one on each side of the fireplace. They

kept close to the chimney-wall, and talked to each other across the

length of the chimney-piece; thus avoiding the direct rays of the fire,

which, though light is necessary to their appearing to human eyes, do

not agree with them at all--much less give birth to them, as the king

was soon to learn. After a few minutes they again approached the bed,

and spoke thus:--

"It is now getting dark, please your majesty. We mean, out of doors in

the snow. Your majesty may see, from where he is lying, the cold light

of its great winding-sheet--a famous carpet for the Shadows to dance

upon, your majesty. All our brothers and sisters will be at church now,

before going to their night's work."

"Do they always go to church before they go to work?"

"They always go to church first."

"Where is the church?"

"In Iceland. Would your majesty like to see it?"

"How can I go and see it, when, as you know very well, I am ill in bed?

Besides, I should be sure to take cold in a frosty night like this,

even if I put on the blankets, and took the feather-bed for a muff."

A sort of quivering passed over their faces, which seemed to be their

mode of laughing. The whole shape of the face shook and fluctuated as

if it had been some dark fluid; till by slow degrees of gathering calm,

it settled into its former rest. Then one of them drew aside the

curtains of the bed, and the window-curtains not having been yet drawn,

the king beheld the white glimmering night outside, struggling with the

heaps of darkness that tried to quench it; and the heavens full of

stars, flashing and sparkling like live jewels. The other Shadow went

towards the fire and vanished in it.

Scores of Shadows immediately began an insane dance all about the room;

disappearing, one after the other, through the uncovered window, and

gliding darkly away over the face of the white snow; for the window

looked at once on a field of snow. In a few moments, the room was quite

cleared of them; but instead of being relieved by their absence, the

king felt immediately as if he were in a dead-house, and could hardly

breathe for the sense of emptiness and desolation that fell upon him.

But as he lay looking out on the snow, which stretched blank and wide

before him, he spied in the distance a long dark line which drew nearer

and nearer, and showed itself at last to be all the Shadows, walking in

a double row, and carrying in the midst of them something like a bier.

They vanished under the window, but soon reappeared, having somehow

climbed up the wall of the house; for they entered in perfect order by

the window, as if melting through the transparency of the glass.

They still carried the bier or litter. It was covered with richest

furs, and skins of gorgeous wild beasts, whose eyes were replaced by

sapphires and emeralds, that glittered and gleamed in the fire and snow

light. The outermost skin sparkled with frost, but the inside ones were

soft and warm and dry as the down under a swan's wing. The Shadows

approached the bed, and set the litter upon it. Then a number of them

brought a huge fur robe, and wrapping it round the king, laid him on

the litter in the midst of the furs. Nothing could be more gentle and

respectful than the way in which they moved him; and he never thought

of refusing to go. Then they put something on his head, and, lifting

the litter, carried him once round the room, to fall into order. As he

passed the mirror he saw that he was covered with royal ermine, and

that his head wore a wonderful crown of gold, set with none but red

stones: rubies and carbuncles and garnets, and others whose names he

could not tell, glowed gloriously around his head, like the

salamandrine essence of all the Christmas fires over the world. A

sceptre lay beside him--a rod of ebony, surmounted by a cone-shaped

diamond, which, cut in a hundred facets, flashed all the hues of the

rainbow, and threw coloured gleams on every side, that looked like

Shadows too, but more ethereal than those that bore him. Then the

Shadows rose gently to the window, passed through it, and sinking

slowing upon the field of outstretched snow, commenced an orderly

gliding rather than march along the frozen surface. They took it by

turns to bear the king, as they sped with the swiftness of thought, in

a straight line towards the north. The pole-star rose above their heads

with visible rapidity; for indeed they moved quite as fast as sad

thoughts, though not with all the speed of happy desires. England and

Scotland slid past the litter of the king of the Shadows. Over rivers

and lakes they skimmed and glided. They climbed the high mountains, and

crossed the valleys with a fearless bound; till they came to

John-o'-Groat's house and the Northern Sea. The sea was not frozen; for

all the stars shone as clear out of the deeps below as they shone out

of the deeps above; and as the bearers slid along the blue-gray

surface, with never a furrow in their track, so pure was the water

beneath that the king saw neither surface, bottom, nor substance to it,

and seemed to be gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven, with

the stars above him, and the stars below him, and between the stars and

him nothing but an emptiness, where, for the first time in his life,

his soul felt that it had room enough.

At length they reached the rocky shores of Iceland. There they landed,

still pursuing their journey. All this time the king felt no cold; for

the red stones in his crown kept him warm, and the emerald and sapphire

eyes of the wild beasts kept the frosts from settling upon his litter.

Oftentimes upon their way they had to pass through forests, caverns,

and rock-shadowed paths, where it was so dark that at first the king

feared he should lose his Shadows altogether. But as soon as they

entered such places, the diamond in his sceptre began to shine and

glow, and flash, sending out streams of light of all the colours that

painter's soul could dream of; in which light the Shadows grew livelier

and stronger than ever, speeding through the dark ways with an all but

blinding swiftness. In the light of the diamond, too, some of their

forms became more simple and human, while others seemed only to break

out into a yet more untamable absurdity. Once, as they passed through a

cave, the king actually saw some of their eyes--strange shadow-eyes; he

had never seen any of their eyes before. But at the same moment when he

saw their eyes, he knew their faces too, for they turned them full upon

him for an instant; and the other Shadows, catching sight of these,

shrank and shivered, and nearly vanished. Lovely faces they were; but

the king was very thoughtful after he saw them, and continued rather

troubled all the rest of the journey. He could not account for those

faces being there, and the faces of Shadows, too, with living eyes.

But he soon found that amongst the Shgadows a man must learn never to

be surprised at anything; for if he does not, he will soon grow quite

stupid, in consequence of the endless recurrence of surprises.

At last they climbed up the bed of a little stream, and then, passing

through a narrow rocky defile, came out suddenly upon the side of a

mountain, overlooking a blue frozen lake in the very heart of mighty

hills. Overhead, the _aurora borealis_ was shivering and flashing like

a battle of ten thousand spears. Underneath, its beams passed faintly

over the blue ice and the sides of the snow-clad mountains, whose tops

shot up like huge icicles all about, with here and there a star

sparkling on the very tip of one. But as the northern lights in the sky

above, so wavered and quivered, and shot hither and thither, the

Shadows on the surface of the lake below; now gathering in groups, and

now shivering asunder; now covering the whole surface of the lake, and

anon condensed into one dark knot in the centre. Every here and there

on the white mountains might be seen two or three shooting away towards

the tops, to vanish beyond them, so that their number was gradually,

though not visibly, diminishing.

"Please your majesty," said the Shadows, "this is our church--the

Church of the Shadows."

And so saying, the king's body-guard set down the litter upon a rock,

and plunged into the multitudes below. They soon returned, however, and

bore the king down into the middle of the lake. All the Shadows came

crowding round him, respectfully but fearlessly; and sure never such a

grotesque assembly revealed itself before to mortal eyes. The king had

seen all kind of gnomes, goblins, and kobolds at his coronation; but

they were quite rectilinear figures compared with the insane

lawlessness of form in which the Shadows rejoiced; and the wildest

gambols of the former were orderly dances of ceremony beside the

apparently aimless and wilful contortions of figure, and metamorphoses

of shape, in which the latter indulged. They retained, however, all the

time, to the surprise of the king, an identity, each of his own type,

inexplicably perceptible through every change. Indeed this preservation

of the primary idea of each form was more wonderful than the

bewildering and ridiculous alterations to which the form itself was

every moment subjected.

"What are you?" said the king, leaning on his elbow, and looking around

him.

"The Shadows, your majesty," answered several voices at once.

"What Shadows?"

"The human Shadows. The Shadows of men, and women, and their children."

"Are you not the shadows of chairs and tables, and pokers and tongs,

just as well?"

At this question a strange jarring commotion went through the assembly

with a shock. Several of the figures shot up as high as the aurora, but

instantly settled down again to human size, as if overmastering their

feelings, out of respect to him who had roused them. One who had

bounded to the highest visible icy peak, and as suddenly returned, now

elbowed his way through the rest, and made himself spokesman for them

during the remaining part of the dialogue.

"Excuse our agitation, your majesty," said he. "I see your majesty has

not yet thought proper to make himself acquainted with our nature and

habits."

"I wish to do so now," replied the king.

"We are the Shadows," repeated the Shadow solemnly.

"Well?" said the king.

"We do not often appear to men."

"Ha!" said the king.

"We do not belong to the sunshine at all. We go through it unseen, and

only by a passing chill do men recognize an unknown presence."

"Ha!" said the king again.

"It is only in the twilight of the fire, or when one man or woman is

alone with a single candle, or when any number of people are all

feeling the same thing at once, making them one, that we show

ourselves, and the truth of things."

"Can that be true that loves the night?" said the king.

"The darkness is the nurse of light," answered the Shadow.

"Can that be true which mocks at forms?" said the king.

"Truth rides abroad in shapeless storms," answered the Shadow.

"Ha! ha!" thought Ralph Rinkelmann, "it rhymes. The Shadow caps my

questions with his answers. Very strange!" And he grew thoughtful

again.

The Shadow was the first to resume.

"Please your majesty, may we present our petition?"

"By all means," replied the king. "I am not well enough to receive it

in proper state."

"Never mind, your majesty. We do not care for much ceremony; and indeed

none of us are quite well at present. The subject of our petition

weighs upon us."

"Go on," said the king.

"Sire," began the Shadow, "our very existence is in danger. The various

sorts of artificial light, both in houses and in men, women, and

children, threaten to end our being. The use and the disposition of

gaslights, especially high in the centres, blind the eyes by which

alone we can be perceived. We are all but banished from towns. We are

driven into villages and lonely houses, chiefly old farm-houses, out of

which, even, our friends the fairies are fast disappearing. We

therefore petition our king, by the power of his art, to restore us to

our rights in the house itself, and in the hearts of its inhabitants."

"But," said the king, "you frighten the children."

"Very seldom, your majesty; and then only for their good. We seldom

seek to frighten anybody. We mostly want to make people silent and

thoughtful; to awe them a little, your majesty."

"You are much more likely to make them laugh," said the king.

"Are we?" said the Shadow.

And approaching the king one step, he stood quite still for a moment.

The diamond of the king's sceptre shot out a vivid flame of violet

light, and the king stared at the Shadow in silence, and his lip

quivered. He never told what he saw then; but he would say:

"Just fancy what it might be if _some_ flitting thoughts were to

persist in staying to be looked at."

"It is only," resumed the Shadow, "when our thoughts are not fixed upon

any particular object, that our bodies are subject to all the vagaries

of elemental influences. Generally, amongst worldly men and frivolous

women, we only attach ourselves to some article of furniture or of

dress; and they never doubt that we are mere foolish and vague results

of the dashing of the waves of the light against the solid forms of

which their houses are full. We do not care to tell them the truth, for

they would never see it. But let the worldly man--or the frivolous

woman--and then--"

At each of the pauses indicated, the mass of Shadows throbbed and

heaved with emotion; but they soon settled again into comparative

stillness. Once more the Shadow addressed himself to speak. But

suddenly they all looked up, and the king, following their gaze, saw

that the aurora had begun to pale.

"The moon is rising," said the Shadow. "As soon as she looks over the

mountains into the valley, we must be gone, for we have plenty to do by

the moon; we are powerful in her light. But if your majesty will come

here to-morrow night, your majesty may learn a great deal more about

us, and judge for himself whether it be fit to accord our petition; for

then will be our grand annual assembly, in which we report to our

chiefs the things we have attempted, and the good or bad success we

have had."

"If you send for me," returned the king, "I will come."

Ere the Shadow could reply, the tip of the moon's crescent horn peeped

up from behind an icy pinnacle, and one slender ray fell on the lake.

It shone upon no Shadows. Ere the eye of the king could again seek the

earth after beholding the first brightness of the moon's resurrection,

they had vanished; and the surface of the lake glittered gold and blue

in the pale moonlight.

There the king lay, alone in the midst of the frozen lake, with the

moon staring at him. But at length he heard from somewhere a voice that

he knew.

"Will you take another cup of tea, dear?" said Mrs. Rinkelmann.

And Ralph, coming slowly to himself, found that he was lying in his own

bed.

"Yes, I will," he answered; "and rather a large piece of toast, if you

please; for I have been a long journey since I saw you last."

"He has not come to himself quite," said Mrs. Rinkelmann, between her

and herself.

"You would be rather surprised," continued Ralph, "if I told you where

I had been."

"I dare say I should," responded his wife.

"Then I will tell you," rejoined Ralph.

But at that moment, a great Shadow bounced out of the fire with a

single huge leap, and covered the whole room. Then it settled in one

corner, and Ralph saw it shaking its fist at him from the end of a

preposterous arm. So he took the hint, and held his peace. And it was

as well for him. For I happen to know something about the Shadows too;

and I know that if he had told his wife all about it just then, they

would not have sent for him the following evening.

But as the king, after finishing his tea and toast, lay and looked

about him, the Shadows dancing in his room seemed to him odder and more

inexplicable than ever. The whole chamber was full of mystery. So it

generally was, but now it was more mysterious than ever. After all that

he had seen in the Shadow-church, his own room and its Shadows were yet

more wonderful and unintelligible than those.

This made it the more likely that he had seen a true vision; for

instead of making common things look commonplace, as a false vision

would have done, it had made common things disclose the wonderful that

was in them.

"The same applies to all arts as well," thought Ralph Rinkelmann.

The next afternoon, as the twilight was growing dusky, the king lay

wondering whether or not the Shadows would fetch him again. He wanted

very much to go, for he had enjoyed the journey exceedingly, and he

longed, besides, to hear some of the Shadows tell their stories. But

the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the shadows did not come. The

cause was, that Mrs. Rinkelmann sat by the fire in the gloaming; and

they could not carry off the king while she was there. Some of them

tried to frighten her away by playing the oddest pranks on the walls,

and floor, and ceiling; but altogether without effect; the queen only

smiled, for she had a good conscience. Suddenly, however, a dreadful

scream was heard from the nursery, and Mrs. Rinkelmann rushed upstairs

to see what was the matter. No sooner had she gone than the two warders

of the chimney-corners stepped out into the middle of the room, and

said, in a low voice,--

"Is your majesty ready?"

"Have you no hearts?" said the king; "or are they as black as your

faces? Did you not hear the child scream? I must know what is the

matter with her before I go."

"Your majesty may keep his mind easy on that point," replied the

warders. "We had tried everything we could think of to get rid of her

majesty the queen, but without effect. So a young madcap Shadow, half

against the will of the older ones of us, slipped upstairs into the

nursery; and has, no doubt, succeeded in appalling the baby, for he is

very lithe and long-legged.--Now, your majesty."

"I will have no such tricks played in my nursery," said the king,

rather angrily. "You might put the child beside itself."

"Then there would be twins, your majesty. And we rather like twins."

"None of your miserable jesting! You might put the child out of her

wits."

"Impossible, sire; for she has not got into them yet."

"Go away," said the king.

"Forgive us, your majesty. Really, it will do the child good; for that

Shadow will, all her life, be to her a symbol of what is ugly and bad.

When she feels in danger of hating or envying anyone, that Shadow will

come back to her mind and make her shudder."

"Very well," said the king. "I like that. Let us go."

The Shadows went through the same ceremonies and preparations as

before; during which, the young Shadow before-mentioned contrived to

make such grimaces as kept the baby in terror, and the queen in the

nursery, till all was ready. Then with a bound that doubled him up

against the ceiling, and a kick of his legs six feet out behind him, he

vanished through the nursery door, and reached the king's bed-chamber

just in time to take his place with the last who were melting through

the window in the rear of the litter, and settling down upon the snow

beneath. Away they went as before, a gliding blackness over the white

carpet. And it was Christmas-eve.

When they came in sight of the mountain-lake, the king saw that it was

crowded over its whole surface with a changeful intermingling of

Shadows. They were all talking and listening alternately, in pairs,

trios, and groups of every size. Here and there large companies were

absorbed in attention to one elevated above the rest, not in a pulpit,

or on a platform, but on the stilts of his own legs, elongated for the

nonce. The aurora, right overhead, lighted up the lake and the sides of

the mountains, by sending down from the zenith, nearly to the surface

of the lake, great folded vapours, luminous with all the colours of a

faint rainbow.

Many, however, as the words were that passed on all sides, not a shadow

of a sound reached the ears of the king: the shadow-speech could not

enter his corporeal organs. One of his guides, however, seeing that the

king wanted to hear and could not, went through a strange manipulation

of his head and ears; after which he could hear perfectly, though still

only the voice to which, for the time, he directed his attention. This,

however, was a great advantage, and one which the king longed to carry

back with him to the world of men.

The king now discovered that this was not merely the church of the

Shadows, but their news exchange at the same time. For, as the shadows

have no writing or printing, the only way in which they can make each

other acquainted with their doings and thinkings, is to meet and talk

at this word-mart and parliament of shades. And as, in the world,

people read their favourite authors, and listen to their favourite

speakers, so here the Shadows seek their favourite Shadows, listen to

their adventures, and hear generally what they have to say.

Feeling quite strong, the king rose and walked about amongst them,

wrapped in his ermine robe, with his red crown on his head, and his

diamond sceptre in his hand. Every group of Shadows to which he drew

near, ceased talking as soon as they saw him approach; but at a nod

they went on again directly, conversing and relating and commenting, as

if no one was there of other kind or of higher rank than themselves. So

the king heard a good many stories. At some of them he laughed, and at

some of them he cried. But if the stories that the Shadows told were

printed, they would make a book that no publisher could produce fast

enough to satisfy the buyers. I will record some of the things that the

king heard, for he told them to me soon after. In fact, I was for some

time his private secretary.

"I made him confess before a week was over," said a gloomy old Shadow.

"But what was the good of that?" rejoined a pert young one. "That could

not undo what was done."

"Yes, it could."

"What! bring the dead to life?"

"No; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see the pitiable

misery he was in. He was far happier with the rope round his neck, than

he was with the purse in his pocket. I saved him from killing himself

too."

"How did you make him confess?"

"Only by wallowing on the wall a little."

"How could that make him tell?"

"_He_ knows."

The Shadow was silent; and the king turned to another, who was

preparing to speak.

"I made a fashionable mother repent."

"How?" broke from several voices, in whose sound was mingled a touch of

incredulity.

"Only by making a little coffin on the wall," was the reply.

"Did the fashionable mother confess too?"

"She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew."

"What did everybody know then?"

"That she might have been kissing a living child, when she followed a

dead one to the grave.--The next will fare better."

"I put a stop to a wedding," said another.

"Horrid shade!" remarked a poetic imp.

"How?" said others. "Tell us how."

"Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a sconce, over

the forehead of a fair girl.--They are not married yet, and I do not

think they will be. But I loved the youth who loved her. How he

started! It was a revelation to him."

"But did it not deceive him?"

"Quite the contrary."

"But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow coming through

from the soul of the girl."

"Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted to make the

meaning of her forehead manifest--yes, of her whole face, which had now

and then, in the pauses of his passion, perplexed the youth. All of it,

curled nostrils, pouting lips, projecting chin, instantly fell into

harmony with that darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood

it in a moment, and went home miserable. And they're not married

_yet_."

"I caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port," said a very dark

Shadow; "and didn't I give it him! I made _delirium tremens_ first; and

then I settled into a funeral, passing slowly along the length of the

opposite wall. I gave him plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And

then I gave him a funeral service, but I could not manage to make the

surplice white, which was all the better for such a sinner. The wretch

stared till his face passed from purple to grey, and actually left his

fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge with his wife and

children in the drawing-room, much to their surprise. I believe he

actually drank a cup of tea; and although I have often looked in since,

I have never caught him again, drinking alone at least."

"But does he drink less? Have you done him any good?"

"I hope so; but I am sorry to say I can't feel sure about it."

"Humph! Humph! Humph!" grunted various shadow throats.

"I had such fun once!" cried another. "I made such game of a young

clergyman!"

"You have no right to make game of anyone."

"Oh yes, I have--when it is for his good. He used to study his

sermons--where do you think?"

"In his study, of course. Where else should it be?"

"Yes and no. Guess again."

"Out amongst the faces in the streets."

"Guess again."

"In still green places in the country?"

"Guess again."

"In old books?"

"Guess again."

"No, no. Tell us."

"In the looking glass. Ha! ha! ha!"

"He was fair game; fair shadow game."

"I thought so. And I made such fun of him one night on the wall! He had

sense enough to see that it was himself, and very like an ape. So he

got ashamed, turned the mirror with its face to the wall, and thought a

little more about his people, and a little less about himself. I was

very glad; for, please your majesty,"--and here the speaker turned

towards the king--"we don't like the creatures that live in the

mirrors. You call them ghosts, don't you?"

Before the king could reply, another had commenced. But the story about

the clergyman had made the king wish to hear one of the shadow-sermons.

So he turned him towards a long Shadow, who was preaching to a very

quiet and listening crowd. He was just concluding his sermon.

"Therefore, dear Shadows, it is the more needful that we love one

another as much as we can, because that is not much. We have no such

excuse for not loving as mortals have, for we do not die like them. I

suppose it is the thought of that death that makes them hate so much.

Then again, we go to sleep all day, most of us, and not in the night,

as men do. And you know that we forget everything that happened the

night before; therefore, we ought to love well, for the love is short.

Ah! dear Shadow, whom I love now with all my shadowy soul, I shall not

love thee to-morrow eve, I shall not know thee; I shall pass thee in

the crowd and never dream that the Shadow whom I now love is near me

then. Happy Shades! for we only remember our tales until we have told

them here, and then they vanish in the shadow-churchyard, where we bury

only our dead selves. Ah! brethren, who would be a man and remember?

Who would be a man and weep? We ought indeed to love one another, for

we alone inherit oblivion; we alone are renewed with eternal birth; we

alone have no gathered weight of years. I will tell you the awful fate

of one Shadow who rebelled against his nature, and sought to remember

the past. He said, 'I _will_ remember this eve.' He fought with the

genial influences of kindly sleep when the sun rose on the awful dead

day of light; and although he could not keep quite awake, he dreamed of

the foregone eve, and he never forgot his dream. Then he tried again

the next night, and the next, and the next; and he tempted another

Shadow to try it with him. But at last their awful fate overtook them;

for, instead of continuing to be Shadows, they began to cast shadows,

as foolish men say; and so they thickened and thickened till they

vanished out of our world. They are now condemned to walk the earth, a

man and a woman, with death behind them, and memories within them. Ah,

brother Shades! let us love one another, for we shall soon forget. We

are not men, but Shadows."

The king turned away, and pitied the poor Shadows far more than they

pitied men.

"Oh! how we played with a musician one night!" exclaimed a Shadow in

another group, to which the king had first directed a passing thought,

and then had stopped to listen.--"Up and down we went, like the hammers

and dampers on his piano. But he took his revenge on us. For after he

had watched us for half an hour in the twilight, he rose and went to

his instrument, and played a shadow-dance that fixed us all in sound

for ever. Each could tell the very notes meant for him; and as long as

he played, we could not stop, but went on dancing and dancing after the

music, just as the magician--I mean the musician--pleased. And he

punished us well; for he nearly danced us all off our legs and out of

shape into tired heaps of collapsed and palpitating darkness. We won't

go near him for some time again, if we can only remember it. He had

been very miserable all day, he was so poor; and we could not think of

any way of comforting him except making him laugh. We did not succeed,

with our wildest efforts; but it turned out better than we had

expected, after all; for his shadow-dance got him into notice, and he

is quite popular now, and making money fast.--If he does not take care,

we shall have other work to do with him by and by, poor fellow!"

"I and some others did the same for a poor play-writer once. He had a

Christmas piece to write, and [not] being an original genius, it was

not so easy for him to find a subject as it is for most of his class. I

saw the trouble he was in, and collecting a few stray Shadows, we

acted, in dumb-show of course, the funniest bit of nonsense we could

think of; and it was quite successful. The poor fellow watched every

motion, roaring with laughter at us, and delight at the ideas we put

into his head. He turned it all into words, and scenes, and actions;

and the piece came off with a splendid success."

"But how long we have to look for a chance of doing anything worth

doing," said a long, thin, especially lugubrious Shadow. "I have only

done one thing worth telling ever since we met last. But I am proud of

that."

"What was it? What was it?" rose from twenty voices.

"I crept into a dining-room, one twilight, soon after Christmas-day. I

had been drawn thither by the glow of a bright fire shining through red

window-curtains. At first I thought there was no one there, and was on

the point of leaving the room, and going out again into the snowy

street, when I suddenly caught the sparkle of eyes. I found that they

belonged to a little boy who lay very still on a sofa. I crept into a

dark corner by the sideboard, and watched him. He seemed very sad, and

did nothing but stare into the fire. At last he sighed out,--'I wish

mamma would come home.' 'Poor boy!' thought I, 'there is no help for

that but mamma.' Yet I would try to while away the time for him. So out

of my corner I stretched a long shadow arm, reaching all across the

ceiling, and pretended to make a grab at him. He was rather frightened

at first; but he was a brave boy, and soon saw that it was all a joke.

So when I did it again, he made a clutch at me; and then we had such

fun! For though he often sighed and wished mamma would come home, he

always began again with me; and on we went with the wildest games. At

last his mother's knock came to the door, and starting up in delight,

he rushed into the hall to meet her, and forgot all about poor black

me. But I did not mind that in the least; for when I glided out after

him into the hall, I was well repaid for my trouble by hearing his

mother say to him,--'Why, Charlie, my dear, you look ever so much

better since I left you!' At that moment I slipped through the closing

door, and as I ran across the snow, I heard the mother say,--'What

shadow can that be, passing so quickly?' And Charlie answered with a

merry laugh,--'Oh! mamma, I suppose it must be the funny shadow that

has been playing such games with me all the time you were out.' As soon

as the door was shut, I crept along the wall and looked in at the

dining-room window. And I heard his mamma say, as she led him into the

room, 'What an imagination the boy has!' Ha! ha! ha! Then she looked at

him, and the tears came in her eyes; and she stooped down over him, and

I heard the sounds of a mingling kiss and sob."

"I always look for nurseries full of children," said another; "and this

winter I have been very fortunate. I am sure children belong especially

to us. One evening, looking about in a great city, I saw through the

window into a large nursery, where the odious gas had not yet been

lighted. Round the fire sat a company of the most delightful children I

had ever seen. They were waiting patiently for their tea. It was too

good an opportunity to be lost. I hurried away, and gathering together

twenty of the best Shadows I could find, returned in a few moments; and

entering the nursery, we danced on the walls one of our best dances. To

be sure it was mostly extemporized; but I managed to keep it in harmony

by singing this song, which I made as we went on. Of course the

children could not hear it; they only saw the motions that answered to

it; but with them they seemed to be very much delighted indeed, as I

shall presently prove to you. This was the song:--

'Swing, swang, swingle, swuff,

Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff!

Thus we go,

To and fro;

Here and there,

Everywhere,

Born and bred;

Never dead,

Only gone.

'On! Come on.

Looming, glooming,

Spreading, fuming,

Shattering, scattering,

Parting, darting,

Settling, starting,

All our life

Is a strife,

And a wearying for rest

On the darkness' friendly breast.

'Joining, splitting,

Rising, sitting,

Laughing, shaking,

Sides all aching,

Grumbling, grim, and gruff.

Swingle, swangle, swuff!

'Now a knot of darkness;

Now dissolved gloom;

Now a pall of blackness

Hiding all the room.

Flicker, flacker, fluff!

Black, and black enough!

'Dancing now like demons;

Lying like the dead;

Gladly would we stop it,

And go down to bed!

But our work we still must do,

Shadow men, as well as you.

'Rooting, rising, shooting,

Heaving, sinking, creeping;

Hid in corners crooning;

Splitting, poking, leaping,

Gathering, towering, swooning.

When we're lurking,

Yet we're working,

For our labour we must do,

Shadow men, as well as you.

Flicker, flacker, fling, fluff!

Swing, swang, swingle, swuff!'

"'How thick the Shadows are!' said one of the children--a thoughtful

little girl.

"'I wonder where they come from,' said a dreamy little boy.

"'I think they grow out of the wall,' answered the little girl; 'for I

have been watching them come; first one and then another, and then a

whole lot of them. I am sure they grow out of the walls.'

"'Perhaps they have papas and mammas,' said an older boy, with a smile.

"'Yes, yes; and the doctor brings them in his pocket,' said another, a

consequential little maiden.

"'No; I'll tell you,' said the older boy: 'they're ghosts.'

"'But ghosts are white.'

"'Oh! but these have got black coming down the chimney.'

"'No,' said a curious-looking, white-faced boy of fourteen, who had

been reading by the firelight, and had stopped to hear the little ones

talk; 'they're body ghosts; they're not soul ghosts.'

"'A silence followed, broken by the first, the dreamy-eyed boy, who

said,--

"'I hope they didn't make me;' at which they all burst out laughing.

Just then the nurse brought in their tea, and when she proceeded to

light the gas, we vanished."

"I stopped a murder," cried another.

"How? How? How?"

"I will tell you. I had been lurking about a sick-room for some time,

where a miser lay, apparently dying. I did not like the place at all,

but I felt as if I should be wanted there. There were plenty of

lurking-places about, for the room was full of all sorts of old

furniture, especially cabinets, chests, and presses. I believe he had

in that room every bit of the property he had spent a long life in

gathering. I found that he had gold and gold in those places; for one

night, when his nurse was away, he crept out of bed, mumbling and

shaking, and managed to open one of his chests, though he nearly fell

down with the effort. I was peeping over his shoulder, and such a gleam

of gold fell upon me, that it nearly killed me. But hearing his nurse

coming, he slammed the lid down, and I recovered.

"I tried very hard, but I could not do him any good. For although I

made all sorts of shapes on the walls and ceiling, representing evil

deeds that he had done, of which there were plenty to choose from, I

could make no shapes on his brain or conscience. He had no eyes for

anything but gold. And it so happened that his nurse had neither eyes

nor heart for anything else either.

"'One day, as she was seated beside his bed, but where he could not see

her, stirring some gruel in a basin, to cool it from him, I saw her

take a little phial from her bosom, and I knew by the expression of her

face both what it was and what she was going to do with it. Fortunately

the cork was a little hard to get out, and this gave me one moment to

think.

"The room was so crowded with all sorts of things, that although there

were no curtains on the four-post bed to hide from the miser the sight

of his precious treasures, there was yet but one small part of the

ceiling suitable for casting myself upon in the shape I wished to

assume. And this spot was hard to reach. But having discovered that

upon this very place lay a dull gleam of firelight thrown from a

strange old dusty mirror that stood away in some corner, I got in front

of the fire, spied where the mirror was, threw myself upon it, and

bounded from its face upon the oval pool of dim light on the ceiling,

assuming, as I passed, the shape of an old stooping hag, who poured

something from a phial into a basin. I made the handle of the spoon

with my own nose, ha! ha!" And the shadow-hand caressed the shadow-tip

of the shadow-nose, before the shadow-tongue resumed.

"The old miser saw me: he would not taste the gruel that night,

although his nurse coaxed and scolded till they were both weary. She

pretended to taste it herself, and to think it very good; but at last

retired into a corner, and after making as if she were eating it, took

good care to pour it all out into the ashes."

"But she must either succeed, or starve him, at last," interposed a

Shadow.

"I will tell you."

"And," interposed a third, "he was not worth saving."

"He might repent," suggested another who was more benevolent.

"No chance of that," returned the former. "Misers never do. The love of

money has less in it to cure itself than any other wickedness into

which wretched men can fall. What a mercy it is to be born a Shadow!

Wickedness does not stick to us. What do we care for gold!--Rubbish!"

"Amen! Amen! Amen!" came from a hundred shadow-voices.

"You should have let her murder him, and so you would have been quit of

him."

"And besides, how was he to escape at last? He could never get rid of

her, you know."

"I was going to tell you," resumed the narrator, "only you had so many

shadow-remarks to make, that you would not let me."

"Go on; go on."

"There was a little grandchild who used to come and see him

sometimes--the only creature the miser cared for. Her mother was his

daughter; but the old man would never see her, because she had married

against his will. Her husband was now dead, but he had not forgiven her

yet. After the shadow he had seen, however, he said to himself, as he

lay awake that night--I saw the words on his face--'How shall I get rid

of that old devil? If I don't eat I shall die; and if I do eat I shall

be poisoned. I wish little Mary would come. Ah! her mother would never

have served me so.' He lay awake, thinking such things over and over

again, all night long, and I stood watching him from a dark corner,

till the dayspring came and shook me out. When I came back next night,

the room was tidy and clean. His own daughter, a sad-faced but

beautiful woman, sat by his bedside; and little Mary was curled up on

the floor by the fire, imitating us, by making queer shadows on the

ceiling with her twisted hands. But she could not think how ever they

got there. And no wonder, for I helped her to some very unaccountable

ones."

"I have a story about a granddaughter, too," said another, the moment

that speaker ceased.

"Tell it. Tell it."

"Last Christmas-day," he began, "I and a troop of us set out in the

twilight to find some house where we could all have something to do;

for we had made up our minds to act together. We tried several, but

found objections to them all. At last we espied a large lonely

country-house, and hastening to it, we found great preparations making

for the Christmas dinner. We rushed into it, scampered all over it, and

made up our minds in a moment that it would do. We amused ourselves in

the nursery first, where there were several children being dressed for

dinner. We generally do go to the nursery first, your majesty. This

time we were especially charmed with a little girl about five years

old, who clapped her hands and danced about with delight at the antics

we performed; and we said we would do something for her if we had a

chance. The company began to arrive; and at every arrival we rushed to

the hall, and cut wonderful capers of welcome. Between times we scudded

away to see how the dressing went on. One girl about eighteen was

delightful. She dressed herself as if she did not care much about it,

but could not help doing it prettily. When she took her last look at

the phantom in the glass, she half smiled to it.--But _we_ do not like

those creatures that come into the mirrors at all, your majesty. We

don't understand them. They are dreadful to us.--She looked rather sad

and pale, but very sweet and hopeful. So we wanted to know all about

her, and soon found out that she was a distant relation and a great

favourite of the gentleman of the house, an old man, in whose face

benevolence was mingled with obstinacy and a deep shade of the

tyrannical. We could not admire him much; but we would not make up our

minds all at once: Shadows never do.

"The dinner-bell rang, and down we hurried. The children all looked

happy, and we were merry. But there was one cross fellow among the

servants, and didn't we plague him! and didn't we get fun out of him!

When he was bringing up dishes, we lay in wait for him at every corner,

and sprang upon him from the floor, and from over the banisters, and

down from the cornices. He started and stumbled and blundered so in

consequence, that his fellow-servants thought he was tipsy. Once he

dropped a plate, and had to pick up the pieces, and hurry away with

them; and didn't we pursue him as he went! It was lucky for him his

master did not see how he went on; but we took care not to let him get

into any real scrape, though he was quite dazed with the dodging of the

unaccountable shadows. Sometimes he thought the walls were coming down

upon him; sometimes that the floor was gaping to swallow him; sometimes

that he would be knocked to pieces by the hurrying to and fro, or be

smothered in the black crowd.

"When the blazing plum-pudding was carried in we made a perfect

shadow-carnival about it, dancing and mumming in the blue flames,

like mad demons. And how the children screamed with delight!

"The old gentleman, who was very fond of children, was laughing his

heartiest laugh, when a loud knock came to the hall-door. The fair

maiden started, turned paler, and then red as the Christmas fire. I saw

it, and flung my hands across her face. She was very glad, and I know

she said in her heart, 'You kind Shadow!' which paid me well. Then I

followed the rest into the hall, and found there a jolly, handsome,

brown-faced sailor, evidently a son of the house. The old man received

him with tears in his eyes, and the children with shouts of joy. The

maiden escaped in the confusion, just in time to save herself from

fainting. We crowded about the lamp to hide her retreat, and nearly put

it out; and the butler could not get it to burn up before she had

glided into her place again, relieved to find the room so dark. The

sailor only had seen her go, and now he sat down beside her, and,

without a word, got hold of her hand in the gloom. When we all

scattered to the walls and the corners, and the lamp blazed up again,

he let her hand go.

"During the rest of the dinner the old man watched the two, and saw

that there was something between them, and was very angry. For he was

an important man in his own estimation, and they had never consulted

him. The fact was, they had never known their own minds till the sailor

had gone upon his last voyage, and had learned each other's only this

moment.--We found out all this by watching them, and then talking

together about it afterwards.--The old gentleman saw, too, that his

favourite, who was under such obligation to him for loving her so much,

loved his son better than him; and he grew by degrees so jealous that

he overshadowed the whole table with his morose looks and short

answers. That kind of shadowing is very different from ours; and the

Christmas dessert grew so gloomy that we Shadows could not bear it, and

were delighted when the ladies rose to go to the drawing-room. The

gentlemen would not stay behind the ladies, even for the sake of the

well-known wine. So the moody host, notwithstanding his hospitality,

was left alone at the table in the great silent room. We followed the

company upstairs to the drawing-room, and thence to the nursery for

snap-dragon; but while they were busy with this most shadowy of games,

nearly all the Shadows crept downstairs again to the dining-room, where

the old man still sat, gnawing the bone of his own selfishness. They

crowded into the room, and by using every kind of expansion--blowing

themselves out like soap-bubbles--they succeeded in heaping up the

whole room with shade upon shade. They clustered thickest about the

fire and the lamp, till at last they almost drowned them in hills of

darkness.

"Before they had accomplished so much, the children, tired with fun and

frolic, had been put to bed. But the little girl of five years old,

with whom we had been so pleased when first we arrived, could not go to

sleep. She had a little room of her own; and I had watched her to bed,

and now kept her awake by gambolling in the rays of the night-light.

When her eyes were once fixed upon me, I took the shape of her

grandfather, representing him on the wall as he sat in his chair, with

his head bent down and his arms hanging listlessly by his sides. And

the child remembered that that was just as she had seen him last; for

she had happened to peep in at the dining-room door after all the rest

had gone upstairs. 'What if he should be sitting there still,' thought

she, 'all alone in the dark!' She scrambled out of bed and crept down.

"Meantime the others had made the room below so dark, that only the

face and white hair of the old man could be dimly discerned in the

shadowy crowd. For he had filled his own mind with shadows, which we

Shadows wanted to draw out of him. Those shadows are very different

from us, your majesty knows. He was thinking of all the disappointments

he had had in life, and of all the ingratitude he had met with. And he

thought far more of the good he had done, than the good others had got.

'After all I have done for them,' said he, with a sigh of bitterness,

'not one of them cares a straw for me. My own children will be glad

when I am gone!'--At that instant he lifted up his eyes and saw,

standing close by the door, a tiny figure in a long night-gown. The

door behind her was shut. It was my little friend, who had crept in

noiselessly. A pang of icy fear shot to the old man's heart, but it

melted away as fast, for we made a lane through us for a single ray

from the fire to fall on the face of the little sprite; and he thought

it was a child of his own that had died when just the age of her

child-niece, who now stood looking for her grandfather among the

Shadows. He thought she had come out of her grave in the cold darkness

to ask why her father was sitting alone on Christmas-day. And he felt

he had no answer to give his little ghost, but one he would be ashamed

for her to hear. But his grandchild saw him now, and walked up to him

with a childish stateliness, stumbling once or twice on what seemed her

long shroud. Pushing through the crowded shadows, she reached him,

climbed upon his knee, laid her little long-haired head on his

shoulders, and said,--'Ganpa! you goomy? Isn't it your Kissy-Day too,

ganpa?'

"A new fount of love seemed to burst from the clay of the old man's

heart. He clasped the child to his bosom, and wept. Then, without a

word, he rose with her in his arms, carried her up to her room, and

laying her down in her bed, covered her up, kissed her sweet little

mouth unconscious of reproof, and then went to the drawing-room.

"As soon as he entered, he saw the culprits in a quiet corner alone. He

went up to them, took a hand of each, and joining them in both his,

said, 'God bless you!' Then he turned to the rest of the company, and

'Now,' said he, 'let's have a Christmas carol.'--And well he might; for

though I have paid many visits to the house, I have never seen him

cross since; and I am sure that must cost him a good deal of trouble."

"We have just come from a great palace," said another, "where we knew

there were many children, and where we thought to hear glad voices, and

see royally merry looks. But as soon as we entered, we became aware

that one mighty Shadow shrouded the whole; and that Shadow deepened and

deepened, till it gathered in darkness about the reposing form of a

wise prince. When we saw him, we could move no more, but clung heavily

to the walls, and by our stillness added to the sorrow of the hour. And

when we saw the mother of her people weeping with bowed head for the

loss of him in whom she had trusted, we were seized with such a longing

to be Shadows no more, but winged angels, which are the white shadows

cast in heaven from the Light of Light, so as to gather around her, and

hover over her with comforting, that we vanished from the walls, and

found ourselves floating high above the towers of the palace, where we

met the angels on their way, and knew that our service was not needed."

By this time there was a glimmer of approaching moonlight, and the king

began to see several of those stranger Shadows, with human faces and

eyes, moving about amongst the crowd. He knew at once that they did not

belong to his dominion. They looked at him, and came near him, and

passed slowly, but they never made any obeisance, or gave sign of

homage. And what their eyes said to him, the king only could tell. And

he did not tell.

"What are those other Shadows that move through the crowd?" said he to

one of his subjects near him.

The Shadow started, looked round, shivered slightly, and laid his

finger on his lips. Then leading the king a little aside, and looking

carefully about him once more,--

"I do not know," said he in a low tone, "what they are. I have heard of

them often, but only once did I ever see any of them before. That was

when some of us one night paid a visit to a man who sat much alone, and

was said to think a great deal. We saw two of those sitting in the room

with him, and he was as pale as they were. We could not cross the

threshold, but shivered and shook, and felt ready to melt away. Is not

your majesty afraid of them too?"

But the king made no answer; and before he could speak again, the moon

had climbed above the mighty pillars of the church of the Shadows, and

looked in at the great window of the sky.

The shapes had all vanished; and the king, again lifting up his eyes,

saw but the wall of his own chamber, on which flickered the Shadow of a

Little Child. He looked down, and there, sitting on a stool by the

fire, he saw one of his own little ones, waiting to say good-night to

his father, and go to bed early, that he might rise early too, and be

very good and happy all Christmas-day.

And Ralph Rinkelmann rejoiced that he was a man, and not a Shadow.

But as the Shadows vanished they left the sense of song in the king's

brain. And the words of their song must have been something like

these:--

"Shadows, Shadows, Shadows all!

Shadow birth and funeral!

Shadow moons gleam overhead;

Over shadow-graves we tread.

Shadow-hope lives, grows, and dies.

Shadow-love from shadow-eyes

Shadow-ward entices on

To shadow-words on shadow-stone,

Closing up the shadow-tale

With a shadow-shadow-wail.

"Shadow-man, thou art a gloom

Cast upon a shadow-tomb

Through the endless shadow air,

From the shadow sitting there,

On a moveless shadow-throne,

Glooming through the ages gone;

North and south, and in and out,

East and west, and all about,

Flinging Shadows everywhere

On the shadow-painted air

Shadow-man, thou hast no story;

Nothing but a shadow-glory."

But Ralph Rinkelmann said to himself,--

"They are but Shadows that sing thus; for a Shadow can see but Shadows.

A man sees a man where a Shadow sees only a Shadow."

And he was comforted in himself.

End of Project Gutenberg's Cross Purposes and The Shadows, by George MacDonald