What Is in a Name?
For a time that seemed to them long, the two men stood waiting, while
still the Mother of Light did not return. So long was she absent that
they began to grow anxious: how were they to find their way from the
natural hollows of the mountain crossed by goblin paths, if their lamps
should go out? To spend the night there would mean to sit and wait
until an earthquake rent the mountain, or the earth herself fell back
into the smelting furnace of the sun whence she had issued--for it was
all night and no faintest dawn in the bosom of the world.
So long did they wait unrevisited, that, had there not been two of
them, either would at length have concluded the vision a home-born
product of his own seething brain. And their lamps were going out, for
they grew redder and smokier! But they did not lose courage, for there
is a kind of capillary attraction in the facing of two souls, that
lifts faith quite beyond the level to which either could raise it
alone: they knew that they had seen the lady of emeralds, and it was to
give them their own desire that she had gone from them, and neither
would yield for a moment to the half doubts and half dreads that awoke
in his heart.
And still she who with her absence darkened their air did not return.
They grew weary, and sat down on the rocky floor, for wait they
would--indeed, wait they must. Each set his lamp by his knee, and
watched it die. Slowly it sank, dulled, looked lazy and stupid. But
ever as it sank and dulled, the image in his mind of the Lady of Light
grew stronger and clearer. Together the two lamps panted and
shuddered. First one, then the other went out, leaving for a moment a
great, red, evil-smelling snuff. Then all was the blackness of
darkness up to their very hearts and everywhere around them. Was it?
No. Far away--it looked miles away--shone one minute faint point of
green light--where, who could tell? They only knew that it shone. It
grew larger, and seemed to draw nearer, until at last, as they watched
with speechless delight and expectation, it seemed once more within
reach of an outstretched hand. Then it spread and melted away as
before, and there were eyes--and a face--and a lovely form--and lo! the
whole cavern blazing with lights innumerable, and gorgeous, yet soft
and interfused--so blended, indeed, that the eye had to search and see
in order to separate distinct spots of special colour.
The moment they saw the speck in the vast distance they had risen and
stood on their feet. When it came nearer they bowed their heads. Yet
now they looked with fearless eyes, for the woman that was old yet
young was a joy to see, and filled their hearts with reverent delight.
She turned first to Peter.
'I have known you long,' she said. 'I have met you going to and from
the mine, and seen you working in it for the last forty years.'
'How should it be, madam, that a grand lady like you should take notice
of a poor man like me?' said Peter, humbly, but more foolishly than he
could then have understood.
'I am poor as well as rich,' said she. 'I, too, work for my bread, and
I show myself no favour when I pay myself my own wages. Last night
when you sat by the brook, and Curdie told you about my pigeon, and my
spinning, and wondered whether he could believe that he had actually
seen me, I heard what you said to each other. I am always about, as
the miners said the other night when they talked of me as Old Mother
Wotherwop.'
The lovely lady laughed, and her laugh was a lightning of delight in
their souls.
'Yes,' she went on, 'you have got to thank me that you are so poor,
Peter. I have seen to that, and it has done well for both you and me,
my friend. Things come to the poor that can't get in at the door of
the rich. Their money somehow blocks it up. It is a great privilege
to be poor, Peter--one that no man ever coveted, and but a very few
have sought to retain, but one that yet many have learned to prize.
You must not mistake, however, and imagine it a virtue; it is but a
privilege, and one also that, like other privileges, may be terribly
misused. Had you been rich, my Peter, you would not have been so good
as some rich men I know. And now I am going to tell you what no one
knows but myself: you, Peter, and your wife both have the blood of the
royal family in your veins. I have been trying to cultivate your
family tree, every branch of which is known to me, and I expect Curdie
to turn out a blossom on it. Therefore I have been training him for a
work that must soon be done. I was near losing him, and had to send my
pigeon. Had he not shot it, that would have been better; but he
repented, and that shall be as good in the end.'
She turned to Curdie and smiled.
'Ma'am,' said Curdie, 'may I ask questions?'
'Why not, Curdie?'
'Because I have been told, ma'am, that nobody must ask the king
questions.'
'The king never made that law,' she answered, with some displeasure.
'You may ask me as many as you please--that is, so long as they are
sensible. Only I may take a few thousand years to answer some of them.
But that's nothing. Of all things time is the cheapest.'
'Then would you mind telling me now, ma'am, for I feel very confused
about it--are you the Lady of the Silver Moon?'
'Yes, Curdie; you may call me that if you like. What it means is true.'
'And now I see you dark, and clothed in green, and the mother of all
the light that dwells in the stones of the earth! And up there they
call you Old Mother Wotherwop! And the Princess Irene told me you were
her great-great-grandmother! And you spin the spider threads, and take
care of a whole people of pigeons; and you are worn to a pale shadow
with old age; and are as young as anybody can be, not to be too young;
and as strong, I do believe, as I am.'
The lady stooped toward a large green stone bedded in the rock of the
floor, and looking like a well of grassy light in it. She laid hold of
it with her fingers, broke it out, and gave it to Peter. 'There!' cried
Curdie. 'I told you so. Twenty men could not have done that. And
your fingers are white and smooth as any lady's in the land. I don't
know what to make of it.'
'I could give you twenty names more to call me, Curdie, and not one of
them would be a false one. What does it matter how many names if the
person is one?'
'Ah! But it is not names only, ma'am. Look at what you were like last
night, and what I see you now!'
'Shapes are only dresses, Curdie, and dresses are only names. That
which is inside is the same all the time.'
'But then how can all the shapes speak the truth?'
'It would want thousands more to speak the truth, Curdie; and then they
could not. But there is a point I must not let you mistake about. It
is one thing the shape I choose to put on, and quite another the shape
that foolish talk and nursery tale may please to put upon me. Also, it
is one thing what you or your father may think about me, and quite
another what a foolish or bad man may see in me. For instance, if a
thief were to come in here just now, he would think he saw the demon of
the mine, all in green flames, come to protect her treasure, and would
run like a hunted wild goat. I should be all the same, but his evil
eyes would see me as I was not.'
'I think I understand,' said Curdie.
'Peter,' said the lady, turning then to him, 'you will have to give up
Curdie for a little while.'
'So long as he loves us, ma'am, that will not matter--much.'
'Ah! you are right there, my friend,' said the beautiful princess. And
as she said it she put out her hand, and took the hard, horny hand of
the miner in it, and held it for a moment lovingly.
'I need say no more,' she added, 'for we understand each other--you and
I, Peter.'
The tears came into Peter's eyes. He bowed his head in thankfulness,
and his heart was much too full to speak.
Then the great old, young, beautiful princess turned to Curdie.
'Now, Curdie, are you ready?' she said.
'Yes, ma'am,' answered Curdie.
'You do not know what for.'
'You do, ma'am. That is enough.'
'You could not have given me a better answer, or done more to prepare
yourself, Curdie,' she returned, with one of her radiant smiles. 'Do
you think you will know me again?'
'I think so. But how can I tell what you may look like next?'
'Ah, that indeed! How can you tell? Or how could I expect you should?
But those who know me well, know me whatever new dress or shape or name
I may be in; and by and by you will have learned to do so too.'
'But if you want me to know you again, ma'am, for certain sure,' said
Curdie, 'could you not give me some sign, or tell me something about
you that never changes--or some other way to know you, or thing to know
you by?'
'No, Curdie; that would be to keep you from knowing me. You must know
me in quite another way from that. It would not be the least use to
you or me either if I were to make you know me in that way. It would be
but to know the sign of Me--not to know me myself. It would be no
better than if I were to take this emerald out of my crown and give it
to you to take home with you, and you were to call it me, and talk to
it as if it heard and saw and loved you. Much good that would do you,
Curdie! No; you must do what you can to know me, and if you do, you
will. You shall see me again in very different circumstances from
these, and, I will tell you so much, it may be in a very different
shape. But come now, I will lead you out of this cavern; my good Joan
will be getting too anxious about you. One word more: you will allow
that the men knew little what they were talking about this morning,
when they told all those tales of Old Mother Wotherwop; but did it
occur to you to think how it was they fell to talking about me at all?
It was because I came to them; I was beside them all the time they were
talking about me, though they were far enough from knowing it, and had
very little besides foolishness to say.'
As she spoke she turned and led the way from the cavern, which, as if a
door had been closed, sank into absolute blackness behind them. And
now they saw nothing more of the lady except the green star, which
again seemed a good distance in front of them, and to which they came
no nearer, although following it at a quick pace through the mountain.
Such was their confidence in her guidance, however, and so fearless
were they in consequence, that they felt their way neither with hand
nor foot, but walked straight on through the pitch-dark galleries.
When at length the night of the upper world looked in at the mouth of
the mine, the green light seemed to lose its way among the stars, and
they saw it no more.
Out they came into the cool, blessed night. It was very late, and only
starlight. To their surprise, three paces away they saw, seated upon a
stone, an old country-woman, in a cloak which they took for black.
When they came close up to it, they saw it was red.
'Good evening!' said Peter.
'Good evening!' returned the old woman, in a voice as old as herself.
But Curdie took off his cap and said:
'I am your servant, Princess.'
The old woman replied:
'Come to me in the dove tower tomorrow night, Curdie--alone.'
'I will, ma'am,' said Curdie.
So they parted, and father and son went home to wife and mother--two
persons in one rich, happy woman.