THE OLD LADY AND CURDIE
UP the stair then they went, and the next and the next, and through the
long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stairs, Irene growing
happier and happier as she ascended. There was no answer when she
knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any
sound of the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within
her--but only for one moment, as she turned and knocked at the other
door.
"Come in," answered the sweet voice of her grandmother, and Irene opened
the door and entered, followed by Curdie.
"You darling!" cried the lady, who was seated by a fire of red roses
mingled with white--"I've been waiting for you, and indeed getting a
little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether I had not
better go and fetch you myself."
As she spoke she took the little princess in her arms and placed her
upon her lap. She was dressed in white now, and looking if possible more
lovely than ever.
"I've brought Curdie, grandmother. He wouldn't believe what I told him,
and so I've brought him."
"Yes--I see him. He is a good boy, Curdie, and a brave boy. Aren't you
glad you have got him out?"
"Yes, grandmother. But it wasn't very good of him not to believe me when
I was telling him the truth."
"People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not
be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed
it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it."
"Ah! yes, grandmother, I daresay. I'm sure you are right. But he'll
believe now."
"I don't know that," replied her grandmother.
"Won't you, Curdie?" said Irene, looking round at him as she asked the
question.
He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring, and looking
strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his astonishment at the
beauty of the lady.
"Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie," she said.
"I don't see any grandmother," answered Curdie, rather gruffly.
"Don't see my grandmother when I'm sitting in her lap!" exclaimed the
princess.
"No I don't," said Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Don't you see the lovely fire of roses--white ones amongst them this
time?" asked Irene almost as bewildered as he.
"No I don't," answered Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-colored counterpane? Nor the beautiful
light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?"
"You're making game of me, your royal Highness; and after what we have
come through together this day, I don't think it is kind of you," said
Curdie, feeling very much hurt.
"Then what _do_ you see?" asked Irene, who perceived at once that for
her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe
her.
"I see a big, bare garret-room--like the one in mother's cottage, only
big enough to take the cottage itself in, and leave a good margin all
round," answered Curdie.
"And what more do you see?"
"I see a tub, and a heap of musty straw, and a withered apple and a ray
of sunlight coming through a hole in the middle of the roof, and shining
on your head, and making all the place look a curious dusky brown. I
think you had better drop it, princess, and go down to the nursery, like
a good girl."
"But don't you hear my grandmother talking to me?" asked Irene, almost
crying.
"No. I hear the cooing of a lot of pigeons. If you won't come down, I
will go without you. I think that will be better anyhow, for I'm sure
nobody who met us would believe a word we said to them. They would think
we made it all up. I don't expect anybody but my own father and mother
to believe me. They _know_ I wouldn't tell a story."
"And yet _you_ won't believe _me_, Curdie?" expostulated the princess,
now fairly crying with vexation, and sorrow at the gulf between her and
Curdie.
"No. I _can't_, and I can't help it," said Curdie, turning to leave the
room.
"What _shall_ I do, grandmother?" sobbed the princess, turning her face
round upon the lady's bosom, and shaking with suppressed sobs.
"You must give him time," said her grandmother; "and you must be content
not to be believed for a while. It is very hard to bear; but I have had
to bear it, and shall have to bear it many a time yet. I will take care
of what Curdie thinks of you in the end. You must let him go now."
"You are not coming, are you?" asked Curdie.
"No, Curdie; my grandmother says I must let you go. Turn to the right
when you get to the bottom of all the stairs, and in that way you will
arrive safely at the hall where the great door is."
"Oh! I don't doubt I can find my way--without you, princess, or your old
grannie's thread either," said Curdie, quite rudely.
"Oh, Curdie! Curdie!"
"I wish I had gone home at once. I'm very much obliged to you, Irene,
for getting me out of that hole, but I wish you hadn't made a fool of me
afterward."
He said this as he opened the door, which he left open, and, without
another word, went down the stairs. Irene listened with dismay to his
departing footsteps. Then turning again to the lady--
"What does it all mean, grandmother?" she sobbed, and burst into fresh
tears.
"It means, my love, that I did not mean to show myself. Curdie is not
yet able to believe some things. Seeing is not believing--it is only
seeing. You remember I told you that if Lootie were to see me, she would
rub her eyes, forget the half she saw, and call the other half
nonsense."
"Yes; but I should have thought Curdie--"
"You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie, and you will see
what will come of it. But in the meantime, you must be content, I say,
to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be
understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much
more necessary."
"What is that, grandmother?"
"To understand other people."
"Yes, grandmother. I must be fair--for if I'm not fair to other people,
I'm not worth being understood myself I see. So as Curdie can't help it,
I will not be vexed with him, but just wait."
"There's my own dear child," said her grandmother, and pressed her close
to her bosom.
"Why weren't you in your workroom, when we came up, grandmother?" asked
Irene, after a few moments' silence.
"If I had been there, Curdie would have seen me well enough. But why
should I be there rather than in this beautiful room?"
"I thought you would be spinning."
"I've nobody to spin for just at present. I never spin without knowing
for whom I am spinning."
"That reminds me--there is one thing that puzzles me," said the
princess: "how are you to get the thread out of the mountain again?
Surely you won't have to make another for me! That would be such a
trouble!"
The lady set her down, and rose, and went to the fire. Putting in her
hand, she drew it out again, and held up the shining ball between her
finger and thumb.
"I've got it now, you see," she said, coming back to the princess, "all
ready for you when you want it."
Going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same drawer as before.
"And here is your ring," she added, taking it from the little finger of
her left hand, and putting it on the forefinger of Irene's right hand.
"Oh, thank you, grandmother. I feel so safe now!"
"You are very tired, my child," the lady went on. "Your hands are hurt
with the stones, and I have counted nine bruises on you. Just look what
you are like."
And she held up to her a little mirror which she had brought from the
cabinet. The princess burst into a merry laugh at the sight. She was so
draggled with the stream, and dirty with creeping through narrow places,
that if she had seen the reflection without knowing it was a reflection,
she would have taken herself for some gypsy-child whose face was washed
and hair combed about once in a month. The lady laughed too, and lifting
her again upon her knee, took off her cloak and night-gown. Then she
carried her to the side of the room. Irene wondered what she was going
to do with her, but asked no questions--only starting a little when she
found that she was going to lay her in the large silver bath; for as she
looked into it, again she saw no bottom, but the stars shining miles
away as it seemed in a great blue gulf. Her hands closed involuntarily
on the beautiful arms that held her, and that was all.
The lady pressed her once more to her bosom, saying--
"Do not be afraid, my child."
"No, grandmother," answered the princess, with a little gasp; and the
next instant she sank in the clear cool water.
When she opened her eyes, she saw nothing but a strange lovely blue over
and beneath and all about her. The lady and the beautiful room had
vanished from her sight, and she seemed utterly alone. But instead of
being afraid, she felt more than happy--perfectly blissful. And from
somewhere came the voice of the lady, singing a strange sweet song, of
which she could distinguish every word; but of the sense she had only a
feeling--no understanding. Nor could she remember a single line after it
was gone. It vanished, like the poetry in a dream, as fast as it came.
In after years, however, she would sometimes fancy that snatches of
melody suddenly rising in her brain, must be little phrases and
fragments of the air of that song; and the very fancy would make her
happier, and abler to do her duty.
How long she lay in the water she did not know. It seemed a long
time--not from weariness, but from pleasure. But at last she felt the
beautiful hands lay hold of her, and through the gurgling waters she was
lifted out into the lovely room. The lady carried her to the fire, and
sat down with her in her lap, and dried her tenderly with the softest
towel. It was so different from Lootie's drying! When the lady had done,
she stooped to the fire, and drew from it her night-gown, as white as
snow.
"How delicious!" exclaimed the princess. "It smells of all the roses in
the world, I think."
When she stood up on the floor, she felt as if she had been made over
again. Every bruise and all weariness were gone, and her hands were soft
and whole as ever.
"Now I am going to put you to bed for a good sleep," said her
grandmother.
"But what will Lootie be thinking? And what am I to say to her when she
asks me where I have been?"
"Don't trouble yourself about it. You will find it all come right," said
her grandmother, and laid her into the blue bed, under the rosy
counterpane.
"There is just one thing more," said Irene. "I am a little anxious about
Curdie. As I brought him into the house, I ought to have seen him safe
on his way home."
"I took care of all that," answered the lady. "I told you to let him go,
and therefore I was bound to look after him. Nobody saw him, and he is
now eating a good dinner in his mother's cottage, far up the mountain."
"Then I will go to sleep," said Irene, and in a few minutes, she was
fast asleep.