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CHAPTER 13
The Baker's Wife
They were now passing through a lovely country of hill and dale and
rushing stream. The hills were abrupt, with broken chasms for
watercourses, and deep little valleys full of trees. But now and
then they came to a larger valley, with a fine river, whose level
banks and the adjacent meadows were dotted all over with red and
white kine, while on the fields above, that sloped a little to the
foot of the hills, grew oats and barley and wheat, and on the sides
of the hills themselves vines hung and chestnuts rose.
They came at last to a broad, beautiful river, up which they must
go to arrive at the city of Gwyntystorm, where the king had his
court. As they went the valley narrowed, and then the river, but
still it was wide enough for large boats. After this, while the
river kept its size, the banks narrowed, until there was only room
for a road between the river and the great Cliffs that overhung it.
At last river and road took a sudden turn, and lo! a great rock in
the river, which dividing flowed around it, and on the top of the
rock the city, with lofty walls and towers and battlements, and
above the city the palace of the king, built like a strong castle.
But the fortifications had long been neglected, for the whole
country was now under one king, and all men said there was no more
need for weapons or walls. No man pretended to love his neighbour,
but every one said he knew that peace and quiet behaviour was the
best thing for himself, and that, he said, was quite as useful, and
a great deal more reasonable. The city was prosperous and rich,
and if everybody was not comfortable, everybody else said he ought
to be.
When Curdie got up opposite the mighty rock, which sparkled all
over with crystals, he found a narrow bridge, defended by gates and
portcullis and towers with loopholes. But the gates stood wide
open, and were dropping from their great hinges; the portcullis was
eaten away with rust, and clung to the grooves evidently immovable;
while the loopholed towers had neither floor nor roof, and their
tops were fast filling up their interiors. Curdie thought it a
pity, if only for their old story, that they should be thus
neglected. But everybody in the city regarded these signs of decay
as the best proof of the prosperity of the place. Commerce and
self-interest, they said, had got the better of violence, and the
troubles of the past were whelmed in the riches that flowed in at
their open gates.
Indeed, there was one sect of philosophers in it which taught that
it would be better to forget all the past history of the city, were
it not that its former imperfections taught its present inhabitants
how superior they and their times were, and enabled them to glory
over their ancestors. There were even certain quacks in the city
who advertised pills for enabling people to think well of
themselves, and some few bought of them, but most laughed, and
said, with evident truth, that they did not require them. Indeed,
the general theme of discourse when they met was, how much wiser
they were than their fathers.
Curdie crossed the river, and began to ascend the winding road that
led up to the city. They met a good many idlers, and all stared at
them. It was no wonder they should stare, but there was an
unfriendliness in their looks which Curdie did not like. No one,
however, offered them any molestation: Lina did not invite
liberties. After a long ascent, they reached the principal gate of
the city and entered.
The street was very steep, ascending toward the palace, which rose
in great strength above all the houses. just as they entered, a
baker, whose shop was a few doors inside the gate, came out in his
white apron, and ran to the shop of his friend, the barber, on the
opposite side of the way. But as he ran he stumbled and fell
heavily. Curdie hastened to help him up, and found he had bruised
his forehead badly. He swore grievously at the stone for tripping
him up, declaring it was the third time he had fallen over it
within the last month; and saying what was the king about that he
allowed such a stone to stick up forever on the main street of his
royal residence of Gwyntystorm! What was a king for if he would
not take care of his people's heads! And he stroked his forehead
tenderly.
'Was it your head or your feet that ought to bear the blame of your
fall?' asked Curdie.
'Why, you booby of a miner! My feet, of course,' answered
the baker.
'Nay, then,' said Curdie, 'the king can't be to blame.'
'Oh, I see!' said the baker. 'You're laying a trap for me. Of
course, if you come to that, it was my head that ought to have
looked after my feet. But it is the king's part to look after us
all, and have his streets smooth.'
'Well, I don't see, said Curdie, 'why the king should take care of
the baker, when the baker's head won't take care of the baker's
feet.'
'Who are you to make game of the king's baker?' cried the man in a
rage.
But, instead of answering, Curdie went up to the bump on the street
which had repeated itself on the baker's head, and turning the
hammer end of his mattock, struck it such a blow that it flew wide
in pieces. Blow after blow he struck until he had levelled it with
the street.
But out flew the barber upon him in a rage.
'What do you break my window for, you rascal, with your pickaxe?'
'I am very sorry,' said Curdie. 'It must have been a bit of stone
that flew from my mattock. I couldn't help it, you know.'
'Couldn't help it! A fine story! What do you go breaking the rock
for - the very rock upon which the city stands?'
'Look at your friend's forehead,' said Curdie. 'See what a lump he
has got on it with falling over that same stone.'
'What's that to my window?' cried the barber. 'His forehead can
mend itself; my poor window can't.'
'But he's the king's baker,' said Curdie, more and more surprised
at the man's anger.
'What's that to me? This is a free city. Every man here takes
care of himself, and the king takes care of us all. I'll have the
price of my window out of you, or the exchequer shall pay for it.'
Something caught Curdie's eye. He stooped, picked up a piece of
the stone he had just broken, and put it in his pocket.
'I suppose you are going to break another of my windows with that
stone!' said the barber.
'Oh no,' said Curdie. 'I didn't mean to break your window, and I
certainly won't break another.'
'Give me that stone,' said the barber.
Curdie gave it him, and the barber threw it over the city wall.
'I thought you wanted the stone,' said Curdie.
'No, you fool!' answered the barber. 'What should I want with a
stone?'
Curdie stooped and picked up another.
'Give me that stone,' said the barber.
'No,' answered Curdie. 'You have just told me YOU don't want a
stone, and I do.'
The barber took Curdie by the collar.
'Come, now! You pay me for that window.'
'How much?' asked Curdie.
The barber said, 'A crown.' But the baker, annoyed at the
heartlessness of the barber, in thinking more of his broken window
than the bump on his friend's forehead, interfered.
'No, no,' he said to Curdie; 'don't you pay any such sum. A little
pane like that cost only a quarter.'
'Well, to be certain,' said Curdie, 'I'll give a half.' For he
doubted the baker as well as the barber. 'Perhaps one day, if he
finds he has asked too much, he will bring me the difference.'
'Ha! ha!' laughed the barber. 'A fool and his money are soon
parted.'
But as he took the coin from Curdie's hand he grasped it in
affected reconciliation and real satisfaction. In Curdie's, his
was the cold smooth leathery palm of a monkey. He looked up,
almost expecting to see him pop the money in his cheek; but he had
not yet got so far as that, though he was well on the road to it:
then he would have no other pocket.
'I'm glad that stone is gone, anyhow,' said the baker. 'It was the
bane of my life. I had no idea how easy it was to remove it. Give
me your pickaxes young miner, and I will show you how a baker can
make the stones fly.'
He caught the tool out of Curdie's hand, and flew at one of the
foundation stones of the gateway. But he jarred his arm terribly,
scarcely chipped the stone, dropped the mattock with a cry of pain,
and ran into his own shop. Curdie picked up his implement, and,
looking after the baker, saw bread in the window, and followed him
in. But the baker, ashamed of himself, and thinking he was coming
to laugh at him, popped out of the back door, and when Curdie
entered, the baker's wife came from the bakehouse to serve him.
Curdie requested to know the price of a certain good-sized loaf.
Now the baker's wife had been watching what had passed since first
her husband ran out of the shop, and she liked the look of Curdie.
Also she was more honest than her husband. Casting a glance to the
back door, she replied:
'That is not the best bread. I will sell you a loaf of what we
bake for ourselves.' And when she had spoken she laid a finger on
her lips. 'Take care of yourself in this place, MY son,' she
added. 'They do not love strangers. I was once a stranger here,
and I know what I say.' Then fancying she heard her husband, 'That
is a strange animal you have,' she said, in a louder voice.
'Yes,' answered Curdie. 'She is no beauty, but she is very good,
and we love each other. Don't we, Lina?'
Lina looked up and whined. Curdie threw her the half of his loaf,
which she ate, while her master and the baker's wife talked a
little. Then the baker's wife gave them some water, and Curdie
having paid for his loaf, he and Lina went up the street together.
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