by E. Nesbit
There was one more spell to lay, and Benevola laid it. It was on the people, so that they should not seek to find or to bring back their King and Queen. She laid a spell to make them all Republicans for a hundred years, when they should become loyal again the moment the King awoke—which was really quite a good idea, and met every possible difficulty.
So a year went by, and the seasons changed the face of the country from brown to green, and from green to yellow, and from yellow to russet, and from russet to white. But in the garden within the ring of the wood nothing changed at all. There it was always high midsummer, and the roses flamed in the sunshine, and the jasmine flowers shone like stars in the twilight. And the years went on and on, and people were born and grew up, and married, and died, and still all was summer and sleep and silence in the palace in the wood.
And at long last the hundred years were all but accomplished. There remained but one day of all their many, many, many days.
And on that day a prince came riding through the town. He stopped in the market-place, and said:
“Where is the country palace of your king?”
“We have no king,” a stout grazier answered him; “we’re a free and happy Republic, we are.”
“But you had a king once,” said the Prince. “Where was his country palace?”
“I’ve heard Granfer tell it was out yonder,” said the grazier, “beyond the wood that no man can pass.”
So the Prince went on, and by asking his way of all the old people he met on the country road he came at last to the wood that no man could pass.
“It ain’t no good, master,” said an old shepherd, who could just remember hearing that there was a palace inside there; “you’ll never get through. What’s set you on finding out a place that’s dead and gone, and clean forgot?”
“I dreamed,” said the Prince, “three happy nights I dreamed that within your king’s country palace I should find the light of my eyes and the desire of my heart.”
“And what are they?” the shepherd asked.
“I do not know yet,” said the Prince, “but I shall know.”
“I’d turn back and get me home along, if I was you,” said the shepherd. “Why, suppose it was lions inside there, or dragons? There’d be a pretty how-de-do!”
“I can’t turn back,” said the Prince; “my dream is calling me, and I must follow. You take my horse and be good to him. If I come back safe to my own kingdom, I will pay you. If not, then you have a good horse for your pains.”
So saying, he dismounted, drew his sword, and went forward to the wood.
“You’ll never get through,” said the old shepherd. “A many’s tried that. Why, the boys is always at it. They never gets nothing but scratched faces and torn hands to show for it. What do you expect to get?”
“I don’t know,” said the Prince again; “but I shall know.”
And he struck with his sword at the great twisted branches interwoven with briars and thick honeysuckle and thorny eglantine. And though they were so hard and thorny, at the touch of his sword they grew soft as dandelion stalks, so that he cut his way through them as easily as a man mows young grass with a scythe.
“Well, if ever I did!” said the old shepherd.
The Prince went on deeper and deeper to find the heart of the wood, and when he found the heart it was a green garden, all bright and fair and orderly, with rolled grass plots and smooth paths, and roses of all the colours there are, and starry tangles of jasmine. And in the middle of the wood’s heart was the palace of his dreams. The garden was so still that it seemed to him as though he might even yet be dreaming, so he plucked a red rose, and smelt it, and knew that it all was real, and no dream.
On he went, up the terraces and through the hall, where, at the table, and at their service, King, Queen and courtiers slept, looking like life-sized figures in wax. At the end of the hall were golden curtains, and it was from behind them that his dream beckoned to him. He parted the curtains and went in. There on the carved ebony bed lay the Princess, between the silver cloth curtains, covered with cloth of gold, and with the veil of white gauze laid over her from head to feet. He turned down the veil, and set his red rose beside the others that lay at her breast, fresh and dewy as when they had been plucked a hundred years ago.
“Waken,” he said softly, “oh, waken! Light of my eyes! Desire of my heart!”
But the Princess did not awake. Then he put his hand on the silver cloth pillow, and leaned over and kissed her softly, and she put up her arm sleepily round his neck, and kissed him back.
Then she woke, and jumped up, throwing back the golden coverlet.
“Oh, is it you?” she cried. “What a long time you’ve been! I’ve been dreaming about you for a hundred years!”
Then they went out into the hall, hand in hand, to tell the King and Queen that they were engaged to be married. And of course the King and Queen were awake, and the courtiers. The page finished filling the cup, the butler set the fruit on the table; down at the kennels the huntsman went on feeding the hounds; the cat scratched herself and yawned; and the pigeons circled round the little turrets that were like pepper-pots.
“Mother dear,” said Princess Benevola, running up to the Queen and whispering in her ear, “this is my dear Prince who came and woke me up—and I’m going to marry him, and we’ve never been introduced, and I don’t even know his name!”
So they were married, and all the people in the country forgot their Republican dream, and woke up as loyal as ever, and all the bells were set a-ringing, and all the children scattered roses of all the colours there are for the bride to walk on as she came out of church.
And when Malevola heard of it she lay down and died of sheer spite to think that anyone in the world was so happy as the Prince, and his bride who had been for a hundred years the Sleeping Beauty in the wood!
THE WHITE CAT
THERE WAS ONCE a king who attended very thoroughly to all his duties, and took a great pleasure and interest in the business of kingship. He brought up his sons very carefully, and had them trained by the best masters, so that when he should be tired of the cares of state his sons should be able to take up the burden, and rule the land as wisely as their father had done. And everything turned out as he wished. When their education was completed they were three as promising princes as any Prime Minister could wish to do business with. The only drawback was that the King still wished to do business with his Prime Ministers himself. Children do grow up so quickly, and when the princes were of an age to become kings the King himself was not nearly so tired as he expected to be, and did not at all want to retire from trade. And his trade—kingship—was the only trade his sons had learned. And it is not good for anyone, even princes, not to work at some trade or other. The King knew this as well as you or I do; but he could not make up his mind to retire. So he called his sons into his counting-house one day, and said:
“My dear boys, you have worked very hard, and passed all your exams with the utmost brilliancy and distinction. I am very pleased with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” said all the princes, and waited to hear that their brilliancy and distinction were to be rewarded with a share in the government of the kingdom.
No such thing.
“You must all be very tired,” said the King, “after working so hard all these years. You need a holiday. So I propose to make each of you a little present of a nice convenient castle, a thousand men-at-arms, and a duenna to receive your girl friends, so that you can have dances and banquets and festivities of all sorts. And here are ten sacks of gold for each of you. So now run away and play. Be good boys, and enjoy yourselves. Youth’s the season for enjoyment, and the old man’s good for a few more years yet.”
The two elder sons, who in fairy tales are always much more silly than the youngest, were delighted. They thanked their father warmly; so did the youngest, because he was both polite and affectionate. Then they all retired from the presence, and the King breathed a sigh of
relief, and, taking the royal pen from the royal ear, plunged once more into the joyous labyrinth of the royal accounts. Artemesius and Demetrius set off at once for their castles, and did exactly as their father had told them, enjoying themselves in every luxurious way possible to clever, handsome young men with more money than they could spend. But Hyacinth, the youngest son, did otherwise. He went to his castle, sent a large order to his bookseller, and divided his time between study, sport, and the management of his estates. He found out everything about all his tenants, reduced rents when they were too high, rethatched the labourers’ cottages, rebuilt the barns and stables, saw to it that everyone on his land had work to do, and good wages for his work, so that in a short time everyone on his estate was busy and happy, and wherever he went he met only loving and contented faces.
Demetrius and Artemesius did not make their retainers contented. They were not even contented themselves. In spite of all the pleasures, they were always grumbling, and saying that it was time the old man gave up business and let them be kings. And of course there were plenty of ill-natured gossips to carry the news of their discontent to their father. There were good-natured gossips too, and they brought the tale of the youngest son’s doings.
Then the King thought, “If I give up my kingdom and divide it among my three sons, two-thirds of it will be ill-governed and neglected”—he was always good at arithmetic, this king—”and I can’t give the whole kingdom to Hyacinth, though I should like to, because if I did the other two would be really annoyed. Let me put on my considering cap.”
He got it out of the drawer where it always lay, wrapped in tissue paper, so that the gold embroidery on it should not tarnish, put it on, and sat thinking till thinking grew into sleep. When he woke up he instantly wrote to his three boys to come home.
Of course they came. And when they had all had supper he said:
“My dear boys, it seems a pity to divide up a handsome kingdom like this. And unsportsmanlike. I should prefer to put all my money on one horse, as they say in circles in which I have not moved. Now, do you agree to this? The one who brings me the nicest little dog within a year shall have the kingdom, and the other two shall have the nice castles they’ve got already.”
Hyacinth agreed, he was always ready to please his father. The other two agreed because each in his greedy heart wanted the whole kingdom, and hoped by this means to get it.
The two eldest went back to their castles, and paid men to travel into all the countries of the world looking for pretty little dogs. But Hyacinth went himself to look for the kind of little dog his father wanted. He did not find it. Instead he found himself lost in a dark wood on a rainy night. His horse, frightened by the sudden whirr of a cock pheasant, who was frightened too, bolted, and Hyacinth was swept from his saddle by the bough of a tree. Bruised, muddy, wet, breathless, and extremely uncomfortable, he heard his horse’s hoofs splashing along the wet path, fainter and fainter, and perceived that, for the first time in his life, he was alone, with no friends, no servants, no horse, no map, and no matches. It was a dismal moment. But he did not lose courage.
“Well,” he told himself, “if I keep on walking I shall certainly get somewhere”; and that, as you know, is usually the case with all of us, even if we are not princes. And it happened just as he expected. When he had been walking for three hours and three-quarters through the dripping-wet wood he saw a light, and, with the intelligence that marks the youngest son in fairy stories, made for it. It grew brighter and brighter, and presently he came out of the thick wood into a broad park-like place, and then he saw the light came from the many windows of a great building.
“If it’s an inn,” he told himself, “I can get a bed and a supper. If it’s a king’s palace I shall have a welcome, and luxury. If it’s a lunatic asylum—which is what it looks like—what place more suited to a prince who lets his horse rub him off against the branches of trees? And if it’s a museum they can’t refuse me shelter as a natural curiosity—a prince who knows when he’s made an idiot of himself!”
So he went on boldly.
The park ended in a great avenue of quiet trees; the avenue ended in a garden of dripping rose alleys, and the garden ended at a marble terrace, from which marble steps led up to a very grand front door. It was shut.
“What shall I do now?” Hyacinth asked himself. And himself answered with some common-sense, “Ring the front-door bell.” So he did.
And immediately the front door opened; and before the Prince could say, “Please, is your master at home?” he saw that there was no ear there to hear him. There was no ear, but there were hands, twelve pairs of them, with little blue clouds at the part where the wrist turns into the arm in ordinary people. And, without saying a word—for they did not seem to know the deaf-and-dumb language—the hands caught hold of him, pulled him in, and shut the door.
“This is a magic castle,” said Hyacinth, who was not without intelligence. “I’ve read of such things, of course, but I’ve never seen one. How interesting!”
The hands led him through the warm, softly lighted hall, into a bath-room, where they undressed him, just as they do the poor men who have to go into workhouses—only much more gently. They pushed him into the water, which was warm and scented, and filled a silver bath sunk below the level of the marble floor. And when he was warm and clean these kind hands fetched him clean, soft new clothes, which fitted perfectly, brushed his hair for him, gave him a clean pocket-handkerchief, and took him straight away into a beautiful banqueting hall, built of carved spar that glittered like diamonds in the light of a thousand candles. A little round table was laid ready for dinner.
“Now,” said Hyacinth, “I shall see my host, the wicked magician.” He was not afraid of wicked magicians, because he carried the only amulet that has power against them—a clear-as-crystal heart.
The hands put a chair for him, and pushed it in behind him so decidedly that he sat down with great suddenness. Then a door at the end of the hall, where the dais was, opened suddenly, and a little person, about eighteen inches high, veiled in black lace, walked with slow dignity towards him. This little person was attended, not by courtiers or men-at-arms, but by cats, dressed as maids-of-honour or as cavaliers; and when it came close to him, and raised its veil, Hyacinth saw that it too was a cat—a beautiful blue-eyed, white cat.
He got up and bowed. It was the only thing he could think of. It would never have done, he felt, to stroke this cat, who was, from the manner of her courtiers, quite plainly the mistress of the house, or to call her “Poor pussy then!”
She returned his bow, and then, to his amazement, spoke.
“I am very pleased to see you,” she said. “Do sit down, and we will have dinner.”
“Thank you very much,” said the Prince, trying to conceal his surprise. “It is very kind of you to make a stranger so welcome.”
So they sat down and had dinner.
“This,” said the White Cat, “is a dish of stewed field-mice, and this——”
“Oh, thank you so much,” said the Prince hastily. “I don’t know how it is—it’s a curious thing, but somehow I’m not hungry.”
“Did you really think,” said the White Cat gently, “that I should feed you on mice? The second dish is roasted pigeons; and you may be quite sure that everything that is offered you at my table will be real Prince’s food, not cat’s food.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Hyacinth, in confusion. “I might have known.”
When you have been waited on by armless hands, and have had a short conversation with a cat, nothing can surprise you much. All your surprisedness seems to be used up. So Hyacinth was hardly astonished at all to find, as dinner went on, that the White Cat had read all the books that he had read and more besides, that she loved good music, and had seen all the beautiful pictures in all the fine picture galleries of the world. Her conversation was wise and witty, and full of gentle fun; also she seemed to be one of those people who make you trust them, so that yo
u tell them things that you never meant to tell anyone; and long before the evening was over Hyacinth had told her the whole story of his life, his hopes, his dreams, his ambitions, as well as the fact that he was just now on a journey looking for the smallest and handsomest dog in the world. And the cat said:
“Do you trust me?”
And Hyacinth said, “Yes,” which was quite true.
And then the White Cat promised that if he would stay a year at her castle she would give him at the end of that time exactly the dog he wanted.
Then they talked again of all sorts of things, as people do whose minds are in accord, and when at last it was time to say good-night Hyacinth told himself that never in all his life had he spent so pleasant an evening.
The next morning brought clear blue sky, and the trees and grass that had been drenched in last night’s rain sparkled and glistened in the fresh sunlight. Hyacinth awoke with the feeling that he had something very pleasant to look forward to. He laughed at himself when he remembered that what he was looking forward to was the companionship of a white cat!
The morning was spent in hunting. Hyacinth rode a clockwork horse, that carried him across country as gaily as any horse in the King’s stables could have done, and the White Cat rode a big monkey. They had very good sport, and brought home plenty of game, both cat-game and prince-game. The evening passed in conversation and the music of an invisible orchestra, and the whole day seemed shorter than an hour. And as time went on the weeks were as short as days, and the months as short as weeks; and the year came to an end only too soon.
