Curdie's Father and Mother
The eyes of the fathers and mothers are quick to read their children's
looks, and when Curdie entered the cottage, his parents saw at once
that something unusual had taken place. When he said to his mother, 'I
beg your pardon for being so late,' there was something in the tone
beyond the politeness that went to her heart, for it seemed to come
from the place where all lovely things were born before they began to
grow in this world. When he set his father's chair to the table, an
attention he had not shown him for a long time, Peter thanked him with
more gratitude than the boy had ever yet felt in all his life. It was
a small thing to do for the man who had been serving him since ever he
was born, but I suspect there is nothing a man can be so grateful for
as that to which he has the most right.
There was a change upon Curdie, and father and mother felt there must
be something to account for it, and therefore were pretty sure he had
something to tell them. For when a child's heart is all right, it is
not likely he will want to keep anything from his parents. But the
story of the evening was too solemn for Curdie to come out with all at
once. He must wait until they had had their porridge, and the affairs
of this world were over for the day.
But when they were seated on the grassy bank of the brook that went so
sweetly blundering over the great stones of its rocky channel, for the
whole meadow lay on the top of a huge rock, then he felt that the right
hour had come for sharing with them the wonderful things that had come
to him. It was perhaps the loveliest of all hours in the year. The
summer was young and soft, and this was the warmest evening they had
yet had--dusky, dark even below, while above, the stars were bright and
large and sharp in the blackest blue sky. The night came close around
them, clasping them in one universal arm of love, and although it
neither spoke nor smiled, seemed all eye and ear, seemed to see and
hear and know everything they said and did. It is a way the night has
sometimes, and there is a reason for it. The only sound was that of
the brook, for there was no wind, and no trees for it to make its music
upon if there had been, for the cottage was high up on the mountain, on
a great shoulder of stone where trees would not grow.
There, to the accompaniment of the water, as it hurried down to the
valley and the sea, talking busily of a thousand true things which it
could not understand, Curdie told his tale, outside and in, to his
father and mother. What a world had slipped in between the mouth of
the mine and his mother's cottage! Neither of them said a word until
he had ended.
'Now what am I to make of it, Mother? it's so strange!' he said, and
stopped.
'It's easy enough to see what Curdie has got to make of it, isn't it,
Peter?' said the good woman, turning her face toward all she could see
of her husband's.
'It seems so to me,' answered Peter, with a smile which only the night
saw, but his wife felt in the tone of his words. They were the
happiest couple in that country, because they always understood each
other, and that was because they always meant the same thing, and that
was because they always loved what was fair and true and right better,
not than anything else, but than everything else put together.
'Then will you tell Curdie?' said she.
'You can talk best, Joan,' said he. 'You tell him, and I will
listen--and learn how to say what I think,' he added.
'I,' said Curdie, 'don't know what to think.'
'It does not matter so much,' said his mother. 'If only you know what
to make of a thing, you'll know soon enough what to think of it. Now I
needn't tell you, surely, Curdie, what you've got to do with this?'
'I suppose you mean, Mother,' answered Curdie, 'that I must do as the
old lady told me?'
'That is what I mean: what else could it be? Am I not right, Peter?'
'Quite right, Joan,' answered Peter, 'so far as my judgement goes. It
is a very strange story, but you see the question is not about
believing it, for Curdie knows what came to him.'
'And you remember, Curdie,' said his mother, 'that when the princess
took you up that tower once before, and there talked to her
great-great-grandmother, you came home quite angry with her, and said
there was nothing in the place but an old tub, a heap of straw--oh, I
remember your inventory quite well!--an old tub, a heap of straw, a
withered apple, and a sunbeam. According to your eyes, that was all
there was in the great, old, musty garret. But now you have had a
glimpse of the old princess herself!'
'Yes, Mother, I did see her--or if I didn't--' said Curdie very
thoughtfully--then began again. 'The hardest thing to believe, though
I saw it with my own eyes, was when the thin, filmy creature that
seemed almost to float about in the moonlight like a bit of the silver
paper they put over pictures, or like a handkerchief made of spider
threads, took my hand, and rose up. She was taller and stronger than
you, Mother, ever so much!--at least, she looked so.'
'And most certainly was so, Curdie, if she looked so,' said Mrs
Peterson.
'Well, I confess,' returned her son, 'that one thing, if there were no
other, would make me doubt whether I was not dreaming, after all, wide
awake though I fancied myself to be.'
'Of course,' answered his mother, 'it is not for me to say whether you
were dreaming or not if you are doubtful of it yourself; but it doesn't
make me think I am dreaming when in the summer I hold in my hand the
bunch of sweet peas that make my heart glad with their colour and
scent, and remember the dry, withered-looking little thing I dibbled
into the hole in the same spot in the spring. I only think how
wonderful and lovely it all is. It seems just as full of reason as it
is of wonder. How it is done I can't tell, only there it is! And
there is this in it, too, Curdie--of which you would not be so ready to
think--that when you come home to your father and mother, and they find
you behaving more like a dear, good son than you have behaved for a
long time, they at least are not likely to think you were only
dreaming.'
'Still,' said Curdie, looking a little ashamed, 'I might have dreamed
my duty.'
'Then dream often, my son; for there must then be more truth in your
dreams than in your waking thoughts. But however any of these things
may be, this one point remains certain: there can be no harm in doing
as she told you. And, indeed, until you are sure there is no such
person, you are bound to do it, for you promised.'
'It seems to me,' said his father, 'that if a lady comes to you in a
dream, Curdie, and tells you not to talk about her when you wake, the
least you can do is to hold your tongue.'
'True, Father! Yes, Mother, I'll do it,' said Curdie.
Then they went to bed, and sleep, which is the night of the soul, next
took them in its arms and made them well.