And what of the travelling-cloak? What sort of cloak was it, and what
good did it do the Prince?
Stay, and I'll tell you all about it.
Outside it was the commonest-looking bundle imaginable--shabby and
small; and the instant Prince Dolor touched it, it grew smaller still,
dwindling down till he could put it in his trousers pocket, like a
handkerchief rolled up into a ball. He did this at once, for fear his
nurse should see it, and kept it there all day--all night, too. Till
after his next morning's lessons he had no opportunity of examining his
treasure.
When he did, it seemed no treasure at all; but a mere piece of
cloth--circular in form, dark green in colour, that is, if it had any
colour at all, being so worn and shabby, though not dirty. It had a
split cut to the centre, forming a round hole for the neck--and that
was all its shape; the shape, in fact, of those cloaks which in South
America are called _ponchos_--very simple, but most graceful and
convenient.
Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite of his
disappointment he examined it curiously; spread it out on the floor,
then arranged it on his shoulders. It felt very warm and comfortable;
but it was so exceedingly shabby--the only shabby thing that the Prince
had ever seen in his life.
[Illustration: "_Prince Dolor had never seen anything like it. In spite
of his disappointment he examined it curiously._"]
"And what use will it be to me?" said he sadly. "I have no need of
outdoor clothes, as I never go out. Why was this given me, I wonder?
and what in the world am I to do with it? She must be a rather funny
person, this dear godmother of mine."
Nevertheless, because she was his godmother, and had given him the
cloak, he folded it carefully and put it away, poor and shabby as it
was, hiding it in a safe corner of his toy-cupboard, which his nurse
never meddled with. He did not want her to find it, or to laugh at it,
or at his godmother--as he felt sure she would, if she knew all.
There it lay, and by-and-by he forgot all about it; nay, I am sorry
to say, that, being but a child, and not seeing her again, he almost
forgot his sweet old godmother, or thought of her only as he did of the
angels or fairies that he read of in his books, and of her visit as if
it had been a mere dream of the night.
There were times, certainly, when he recalled her; of early mornings
like that morning when she appeared beside him, and late evenings, when
the grey twilight reminded him of the colour of her hair and her pretty
soft garments; above all, when, waking in the middle of the night,
with the stars peering in at his window, or the moonlight shining
across his little bed, he would not have been surprised to see her
standing beside it, looking at him with those beautiful tender eyes,
which seemed to have a pleasantness and comfort in them different from
anything he had ever known.
But she never came, and gradually she slipped out of his memory--only
a boy's memory, after all; until something happened which made him
remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before.
Prince Dolor fell ill. He caught--his nurse could not tell how--a
complaint common to the people of Nomansland, called the doldrums,
as unpleasant as measles or any other of our complaints; and it made
him restless, cross, and disagreeable. Even when a little better, he
was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day long on his sofa,
fidgetting his nurse extremely--while, in her intense terror lest he
might die, she fidgetted him still more. At last, seeing he really was
getting well, she left him to himself--which he was most glad of, in
spite of his dulness and dreariness. There he lay, alone, quite alone.
[Illustration: "_Even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy
anything, but lay all day long on his sofa, fidgetting his nurse
extremely._"]
Now and then an irritable fit came over him, in which he longed to get
up and do something, or go somewhere--would have liked to imitate his
white kitten--jump down from the tower and run away, taking the chance
of whatever might happen.
Only one thing, alas! was likely to happen; for the kitten, he
remembered, had four active legs, while he----
"I wonder what my godmother meant when she looked at my legs and sighed
so bitterly? I wonder why I can't walk straight and steady like my
nurse--only I wouldn't like to have her great noisy, clumping shoes.
Still, it would be very nice to move about quickly--perhaps to fly,
like a bird, like that string of birds I saw the other day skimming
across the sky--one after the other."
These were the passage-birds--the only living creatures that ever
crossed the lonely plain; and he had been much interested in them,
wondering whence they came and whither they were going.
"How nice it must be to be a bird. If legs are no good, why cannot one
have wings? People have wings when they die--perhaps: I wish I was
dead, that I do. I am so tired, so tired; and nobody cares for me.
Nobody ever did care for me, except perhaps my godmother. Godmother,
dear, have you quite forsaken me?"
He stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, and dropped his
head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him at the
back of his neck, and turning, found that he was resting, not on the
sofa-pillows, but on a warm shoulder--that of the little old woman
clothed in grey.
How glad he was to see her! How he looked into her kind eyes, and felt
her hands, to see if she were all real and alive! then put both his
arms round her neck, and kissed her as if he would never have done
kissing!
"Stop, stop!" cried she, pretending to be smothered, "I see you have
not forgotten my teachings. Kissing is a good thing--in moderation.
Only, just let me have breath to speak one word."
"A dozen!" he said.
"Well, then, tell me all that has happened to you since I saw you--or
rather, since you saw me, which is a quite different thing."
"Nothing has happened--nothing ever does happen to me," answered the
Prince dolefully.
"And are you very dull, my boy?"
"So dull, that I was just thinking whether I could not jump down to the
bottom of the tower like my white kitten."
"Don't do that, being not a white kitten."
"I wish I were!--I wish I were anything but what I am!"
"And you can't make yourself any different, nor can I do it either. You
must be content to stay just what you are."
The little old woman said this--very firmly, but gently, too--with her
arms round his neck, and her lips on his forehead. It was the first
time the boy had ever heard any one talk like this, and he looked up in
surprise--but not in pain, for her sweet manner softened the hardness
of her words.
"Now, my prince--for you are a prince, and must behave as such--let us
see what we can do; how much I can do for you, or show you how to do
for yourself. Where is your travelling-cloak?"
Prince Dolor blushed extremely. "I--I put it away in the cupboard; I
suppose it is there still."
"You have never used it; you dislike it?"
He hesitated, not wishing to be impolite. "Don't you think it's--just a
little old and shabby, for a prince?"
The old woman laughed--long and loud, though very sweetly.
"Prince, indeed! Why, if all the princes in the world craved for it,
they couldn't get it, unless I gave it them. Old and shabby! It's the
most valuable thing imaginable! Very few ever have it; but I thought I
would give it to you, because--because you are different from other
people."
"Am I?" said the Prince, and looked first with curiosity, then with a
sort of anxiety, into his godmother's face, which was sad and grave,
with slow tears beginning to steal down.
She touched his poor little legs. "These are not like those of other
little boys."
"Indeed!--my nurse never told me that."
"Very likely not. But it is time you were told; and I tell you, because
I love you."
"Tell me what, dear godmother?"
"That you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, or play--that
your life will be quite different to most people's lives: but it may be
a very happy life for all that. Do not be afraid."
"I am not afraid," said the boy; but he turned very pale, and his lips
began to quiver, though he did not actually cry--he was too old for
that, and, perhaps, too proud.
Though not wholly comprehending, he began dimly to guess what his
godmother meant. He had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen
pictures of them; running and jumping; which he had admired and tried
hard to imitate, but always failed. Now he began to understand why he
failed, and that he always should fail--that, in fact, he was not like
other little boys; and it was of no use his wishing to do as they did,
and play as they played, even if he had had them to play with. His was
a separate life, in which he must find out new work and new pleasures
for himself.
The sense of _the inevitable_, as grown-up people call it--that we
cannot have things as we want them to be, but as they are, and that we
must learn to bear them and make the best of them--this lesson, which
everybody has to learn soon or late--came, alas! sadly soon, to the
poor boy. He fought against it for a while, and then, quite overcome,
turned and sobbed bitterly in his godmother's arms.
She comforted him--I do not know how, except that love always comforts;
and then she whispered to him, in her sweet, strong, cheerful
voice--"Never mind!"
"No, I don't think I do mind--that is, I _won't_ mind," replied he,
catching the courage of her tone and speaking like a man, though he was
still such a mere boy.
"That is right, my prince!--that is being like a prince. Now we know
exactly where we are; let us put our shoulders to the wheel and----"
"We are in Hopeless Tower" (this was its name, if it had a name), "and
there is no wheel to put our shoulders to," said the child sadly.
"You little matter-of-fact goose! Well for you that you have a
godmother called----"
"What?" he eagerly asked.
"Stuff-and-nonsense."
"Stuff-and-nonsense! What a funny name!"
"Some people give it me, but they are not my most intimate friends.
These call me--never mind what," added the old woman, with a soft
twinkle in her eyes. "So as you know me, and know me well, you may give
me any name you please; it doesn't matter. But I am your godmother,
child. I have few godchildren; those I have love me dearly, and find me
the greatest blessing in all the world."
"I can well believe it," cried the little lame Prince, and forgot
his troubles in looking at her--as her figure dilated, her eyes grew
lustrous as stars, her very raiment brightened, and the whole room
seemed filled with her beautiful and beneficent presence like light.
He could have looked at her for ever--half in love, half in awe; but
she suddenly dwindled down into the little old woman all in grey, and
with a malicious twinkle in her eyes, asked for the travelling-cloak.
"Bring it out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the dust off
it, quick!" said she to Prince Dolor, who hung his head, rather
ashamed. "Spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes
and the edges turn up like a rim all round. Then go and open the
sky-light--mind, I say _open the skylight_--set yourself down in the
middle of it, like a frog on a water-lily leaf; say 'Abracadabra, dum
dum dum,' and--see what will happen!"
The prince burst into a fit of laughing. It all seemed so exceedingly
silly; he wondered that a wise old woman like his godmother should talk
such nonsense.
"Stuff-and-nonsense, you mean," said she, answering, to his great
alarm, his unspoken thoughts. "Did I not tell you some people called me
by that name? Never mind; it doesn't harm me."
And she laughed--her merry laugh--as child-like as if she were the
prince's age instead of her own, whatever that might be. She certainly
was a most extraordinary old woman.
"Believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said she. "Here is the cloak:
when you want to go travelling on it, say _Abracadabra, dum dum dum_;
when you want to come back again, say _Abracadabra, tum tum ti_. That's
all; good-bye."
A puff of pleasant air passing by him, and making him feel for the
moment quite strong and well, was all the Prince was conscious of. His
most extraordinary godmother was gone.
"Really now, how rosy your Royal Highness's cheeks have grown! You seem
to have got well already," said the nurse, entering the room.
"I think I have," replied the Prince very gently--he felt kindly and
gently even to his grim nurse. "And now let me have my dinner, and go
you to your sewing as usual."
The instant she was gone, however, taking with her the plates
and dishes, which for the first time since his illness he had
satisfactorily cleared, Prince Dolor sprang down from his sofa, and
with one or two of his frog-like jumps, not graceful but convenient, he
reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for
his travelling-cloak.
Alas! it was not there.
While he was ill of the doldrums, his nurse, thinking it a good
opportunity for putting things to rights, had made a grand clearance
of all his "rubbish," as she considered it: his beloved headless
horses, broken carts, sheep without feet, and birds without wings--all
the treasures of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with.
Though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to feel they were
there.
They were all gone! and with them the travelling-cloak. He sat down on
the floor, looking at the empty shelves, so beautifully clean and tidy,
then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break.
But quietly--always quietly. He never let his nurse hear him cry. She
only laughed at him, as he felt she would laugh now.
"And it is all my own fault," he cried. "I ought to have taken better
care of my godmother's gift. O, godmother, forgive me! I'll never be so
careless again. I don't know what the cloak is exactly, but I am sure
it is something precious. Help me to find it again. Oh, don't let it be
stolen from me--don't, please!"
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed a silvery voice. "Why, that travelling-cloak is
the one thing in the world which nobody can steal. It is of no use to
anybody except the owner. Open your eyes, my prince, and see what you
shall see."
His dear old godmother, he thought, had turned eagerly round. But no;
he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, all dust and cobwebs,
his precious travelling-cloak.
Prince Dolor darted towards it, tumbling several times on the way,--as
he often did tumble, poor boy! and pick himself up again, never
complaining. Snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it,
cobwebs and all, as if it had been something alive. Then he began
unrolling it, wondering each minute what would happen. But what did
happen was so curious that I must leave it for another chapter.