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WAS SOMEBODY. And far be it from me to deny it. I will even go so
far as to assert that in this odd country there was a huge number of
Somebodies. Indeed, it was one of its oddities that every boy and
girl in it, was rather too ready to think he or she was Somebody;
and the worst of it was that the princess never thought of there
being more than one Somebody--and that was herself.
Far away to the north in the same country, on the side of a bleak
hill, where a horse-chestnut or a sycamore was never seen, where
were no meadows rich with buttercups, only steep, rough, breezy
slopes, covered with dry prickly furze and its flowers of red gold,
or moister, softer broom with its flowers of yellow gold, and great
sweeps of purple heather, mixed with bilberries, and crowberries,
and cranberries--no, I am all wrong: there was nothing out yet but a
few furze-blossoms; the rest were all waiting behind their doors
till they were called; and no full, slow-gliding river with
meadow-sweet along its oozy banks, only a little brook here and
there, that dashed past without a moment to say, "How do you
do?"--there (would you believe it?) while the same cloud that was
dropping down golden rain all about the queen's new baby was dashing
huge fierce handfuls of hail upon the hills, with such force that
they flew spinning off the rocks and stones, went burrowing in the
sheep's wool, stung the cheeks and chin of the shepherd with their
sharp spiteful little blows, and made his dog wink and whine as they
bounded off his hard wise head, and long sagacious nose; only, when
they dropped plump down the chimney, and fell hissing in the little
fire, they caught it then, for the clever little fire soon sent them
up the chimney again, a good deal swollen, and harmless enough for a
while, there (what do you think?) among the hailstones, and the
heather, and the cold mountain air, another little girl was born,
whom the shepherd her father, and the shepherdess her mother, and a
good many of her kindred too, thought Somebody. She had not an uncle
or an aunt that was less than a shepherd or dairymaid, not a cousin,
that was less than a farm-laborer, not a second-cousin that was less
than a grocer, and they did not count farther. And yet (would you
believe it?) she too cried the very first thing. It WAS an odd
country! And, what is still more surprising, the shepherd and
shepherdess and the dairymaids and the laborers were not a bit wiser
than the king and the queen and the dukes and the marquises and the
earls; for they too, one and all, so constantly taught the little
woman that she was Somebody, that she also forgot that there were a
great many more Somebodies besides herself in the world.
It was, indeed, a peculiar country, very different from ours--so
different, that my reader must not be too much surprised when I add
the amazing fact, that most of its inhabitants, instead of enjoying
the things they had, were always wanting the things they had not,
often even the things it was least likely they ever could have. The
grown men and women being like this, there is no reason to be
further astonished that the Princess Rosamond--the name her parents
gave her because it means Rose of the World--should grow up like
them, wanting every thing she could and every thing she couldn't
have. The things she could have were a great many too many, for her
foolish parents always gave her what they could; but still there
remained a few things they couldn't give her, for they were only a
common king and queen. They could and did give her a lighted candle
when she cried for it, and managed by much care that she should not
burn her fingers or set her frock on fire; but when she cried for
the moon, that they could not give her. They did the worst thing
possible, instead, however; for they pretended to do what they could
not. They got her a thin disc of brilliantly polished silver, as
near the size of the moon as they could agree upon; and, for a time
she was delighted.
But, unfortunately, one evening she made the discovery that her moon
was a little peculiar, inasmuch as she could not shine in the dark.
Her nurse happened to snuff out the candles as she was playing with
it; and instantly came a shriek of rage, for her moon had vanished.
Presently, through the opening of the curtains, she caught sight of
the real moon, far away in the sky, and shining quite calmly, as if
she had been there all the time; and her rage increased to such a
degree that if it had not passed off in a fit, I do not know what
might have come of it.
As she grew up it was still the same, with this difference, that not
only must she have every thing, but she got tired of every thing
almost as soon as she had it. There was an accumulation of things in
her nursery and schoolroom and bedroom that was perfectly appalling.
Her mother's wardrobes were almost useless to her, so packed were
they with things of which she never took any notice. When she was
five years old, they gave her a splendid gold repeater, so close set
with diamonds and rubies, that the back was just one crust of gems.
In one of her little tempers, as they called her hideously ugly
rages, she dashed it against the back of the chimney, after which it
never gave a single tick; and some of the diamonds went to the
ash-pit. As she grew older still, she became fond of animals, not in
a way that brought them much pleasure, or herself much satisfaction.
When angry, she would beat them, and try to pull them to pieces, and
as soon as she became a little used to them, would neglect them
altogether. Then, if they could, they would run away, and she was
furious. Some white mice, which she had ceased feeding altogether,
did so; and soon the palace was swarming with white mice. Their red
eyes might be seen glowing, and their white skins gleaming, in every
dark corner; but when it came to the king's finding a nest of them
in his second-best crown, he was angry and ordered them to be
drowned. The princess heard of it, however, and raised such a
clamor, that there they were left until they should run away of
themselves; and the poor king had to wear his best crown every day
till then. Nothing that was the princess's property, whether she
cared for it or not, was to be meddled with.
Of course, as she grew, she grew worse; for she never tried to grow
better. She became more and more peevish and fretful every
day--dissatisfied not only with what she had, but with all that was
around her, and constantly wishing things in general to be
different. She found fault with every thing and everybody, and all
that happened, and grew more and more disagreeable to every one who
had to do with her. At last, when she had nearly killed her nurse,
and had all but succeeded in hanging herself, and was miserable from
morning to night, her parents thought it time to do something.
A long way from the palace, in the heart of a deep wood of
pine-trees, lived a wise woman. In some countries she would have
been called a witch; but that would have been a mistake, for she
never did any thing wicked, and had more power than any witch could
have. As her fame was spread through all the country, the king heard
of her; and, thinking she might perhaps be able to suggest
something, sent for her. In the dead of the night, lest the princess
should know it, the king's messenger brought into the palace a tall
woman, muffled from head to foot in a cloak of black cloth. In the
presence of both their Majesties, the king, to do her honor,
requested her to sit; but she declined, and stood waiting to hear
what they had to say. Nor had she to wait long, for almost instantly
they began to tell her the dreadful trouble they were in with their
only child; first the king talking, then the queen interposing with
some yet more dreadful fact, and at times both letting out a torrent
of words together, so anxious were they to show the wise woman that
their perplexity was real, and their daughter a very terrible one.
For a long while there appeared no sign of approaching pause. But
the wise woman stood patiently folded in her black cloak, and
listened without word or motion. At length silence fell; for they
had talked themselves tired, and could not think of any thing more
to add to the list of their child's enormities.
After a minute, the wise woman unfolded her arms; and her cloak
dropping open in front, disclosed a garment made of a strange stuff,
which an old poet who knew her well has thus described:--
"All lilly white, withoutten spot or pride,
That seemd like silke and silver woven neare;
But neither silke nor silver therein did appeare."
"How very badly you have treated her!" said the wise woman. "Poor
child!"
"Treated her badly?" gasped the king.
"She is a very wicked child," said the queen; and both glared with
indignation.
"Yes, indeed!" returned the wise woman. "She is very naughty indeed,
and that she must be made to feel; but it is half your fault too."
"What!" stammered the king. "Haven't we given her every mortal thing
she wanted?"
"Surely," said the wise woman: "what else could have all but killed
her? You should have given her a few things of the other sort. But
you are far too dull to understand me."
"You are very polite," remarked the king, with royal sarcasm on his
thin, straight lips.
The wise woman made no answer beyond a deep sigh; and the king and
queen sat silent also in their anger, glaring at the wise woman. The
silence lasted again for a minute, and then the wise woman folded
her cloak around her, and her shining garment vanished like the moon
when a great cloud comes over her. Yet another minute passed and the
silence endured, for the smouldering wrath of the king and queen
choked the channels of their speech. Then the wise woman turned her
back on them, and so stood. At this, the rage of the king broke
forth; and he cried to the queen, stammering in his fierceness,--
"How should such an old hag as that teach Rosamond good manners? She
knows nothing of them herself! Look how she stands!--actually with
her back to us."
At the word the wise woman walked from the room. The great folding
doors fell to behind her; and the same moment the king and queen
were quarrelling like apes as to which of them was to blame for her
departure. Before their altercation was over, for it lasted till the
early morning, in rushed Rosamond, clutching in her hand a poor
little white rabbit, of which she was very fond, and from which,
only because it would not come to her when she called it, she was
pulling handfuls of fur in the attempt to tear the squealing,
pink-eared, red-eyed thing to pieces.
"Rosa, RosaMOND!" cried the queen; whereupon Rosamond threw the
rabbit in her mother's face. The king started up in a fury, and ran
to seize her. She darted shrieking from the room. The king rushed
after her; but, to his amazement, she was nowhere to be seen: the
huge hall was empty.--No: just outside the door, close to the
threshold, with her back to it, sat the figure of the wise woman,
muffled in her dark cloak, with her head bowed over her knees. As
the king stood looking at her, she rose slowly, crossed the hall,
and walked away down the marble staircase. The king called to her;
but she never turned her head, or gave the least sign that she heard
him. So quietly did she pass down the wide marble stair, that the
king was all but persuaded he had seen only a shadow gliding across
the white steps.
For the princess, she was nowhere to be found. The queen went into
hysterics; and the rabbit ran away. The king sent out messengers in
every direction, but in vain.
In a short time the palace was quiet--as quiet as it used to be
before the princess was born. The king and queen cried a little now
and then, for the hearts of parents were in that country strangely
fashioned; and yet I am afraid the first movement of those very
hearts would have been a jump of terror if the ears above them had
heard the voice of Rosamond in one of the corridors. As for the rest
of the household, they could not have made up a single tear amongst
them. They thought, whatever it might be for the princess, it was,
for every one else, the best thing that could have happened; and as
to what had become of her, if their heads were puzzled, their hearts
took no interest in the question. The lord-chancellor alone had an
idea about it, but he was far too wise to utter it.
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