by Edith Nesbit
‘It’s not a cold,’ sniffed the Princess.
‘Then ... oh you dear ... were you crying because you thought I’d gone?’ he said.
‘I suppose so,’ said she.
He said, ‘You dear!’ again, and kissed her hands.
‘Why wouldn’t you be married on a Sunday?’ she asked.
‘It’s the curse, dearest,’ he explained, ‘I couldn’t tell any one but you. The fact is Malevola wasn’t asked to my christening so she doomed me to be ... well, she said “moderately good-looking all the week, and too ugly for words on Sundays.” So you see! You will be married on a week-day, won’t you?’
‘But I can’t,’ said the Princess, ‘because I’ve got a curse too — only I’m ugly all the week and pretty on Sundays.’
‘How extremely tiresome,’ said the Prince, ‘but can’t you be cured?’
‘Oh yes,’ said the Princess, and told him how. ‘And you,’ she asked, ‘is yours quite incurable?’
‘Not at all,’ he answered, ‘I’ve only got to stay under water for five minutes and the spell will be broken. But you see, beloved, the difficulty is that I can’t do it. I’ve practised regularly, from a boy, in the sea, and in the swimming bath, and even in my wash-hand basin — hours at a time I’ve practised — but I never can keep under more than two minutes.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the Princess, ‘this is dreadful.’
‘It is rather trying,’ the Prince answered.
‘You’re sure you like me,’ she asked suddenly, ‘now you know that I’m only pretty once a week?’
‘I’d die for you,’ said he.
‘Then I’ll tell you what. Send all your courtiers away, and take a situation as under-gardener here — I know we want one. And then every night I’ll climb down the jasmine and we’ll go out together and seek our fortune. I’m sure we shall find it.’
And they did go out. The very next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next, and the next. And they did not find their fortunes, but they got fonder and fonder of each other. They could not see each other’s faces, but they held hands as they went along through the dark.
And on the seventh night, as they passed by a house that showed chinks of light through its shutters, they heard a bell being rung outside for supper, a bell with a very loud and beautiful voice. But instead of saying —
‘Supper’s ready,’ as any one would have expected, the bell was saying —
Ding dong dell! I could tell Where you ought to go To break the spell.
Then some one left off ringing the bell, so of course it couldn’t say any more. So the two went on. A little way down the road a cow-bell tinkled behind the wet hedge of the lane. And it said — not, ‘Here I am, quite safe,’ as a cow-bell should, but —
Ding dong dell All will be well If you...
Then the cow stopped walking and began to eat, so the bell couldn’t say any more. The Prince and Princess went on, and you will not be surprised to hear that they heard the voices of five more bells that night. The next was a school-bell. The schoolmaster’s little boy thought it would be fun to ring it very late at night — but his father came and caught him before the bell could say any more than —
Ding a dong dell You can break up the spell By taking...
So that was no good.
Then there were the three bells that were the sign over the door of an inn where people were happily dancing to a fiddle, because there was a wedding. These bells said:
We are the Merry three Bells, bells, bells. You are two To undo Spells, spells, spells...
Then the wind who was swinging the bells suddenly thought of an appointment he had made with a pine forest, to get up an entertaining imitation of sea-waves for the benefit of the forest nymphs who had never been to the seaside, and he went off — so, of course, the bells couldn’t ring any more, and the Prince and Princess went on down the dark road.
There was a cottage and the Princess pulled her veil closely over her face, for yellow light streamed from its open door — and it was a Wednesday.
Inside a little boy was sitting on the floor — quite a little boy — he ought to have been in bed long before, and I don’t know why he wasn’t. And he was ringing a little tinkling bell that had dropped off a sleigh.
And this little bell said:
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I’m a little sleigh-bell, But I know what I know, and I’ll tell, tell, tell. Find the Enchanter of the Ringing Well, He will show you how to break the spell, spell, spell. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, I’m a little sleigh-bell, But I know what I know....
And so on, over and over, again and again, because the little boy was quite contented to go on shaking his sleigh-bell for ever and ever.
‘So now we know,’ said the Prince, ‘isn’t that glorious?’
‘Yes, very, but where’s the Enchanter of the Ringing Well?’ said the Princess doubtfully.
‘Oh, I’ve got his address in my pocket-book,’ said the Prince. ‘He’s my god-father. He was one of the references I gave your father.’
So the next night the Prince brought a horse to the garden, and he and the Princess mounted, and rode, and rode, and rode, and in the grey dawn they came to Wonderwood, and in the very middle of that the Magician’s Palace stands.
The Princess did not like to call on a perfect stranger so very early in the morning, so they decided to wait a little and look about them.
The castle was very beautiful, decorated with a conventional design of bells and bell ropes, carved in white stone.
Luxuriant plants of American bell-vine covered the drawbridge and portcullis. On a green lawn in front of the castle was a well, with a curious bell-shaped covering suspended over it. The lovers leaned over the mossy fern-grown wall of the well, and, looking down, they could see that the narrowness of the well only lasted for a few feet, and below that it spread into a cavern where water lay in a big pool.
‘What cheer?’ said a pleasant voice behind them. It was the Enchanter, an early riser, like Darwin was, and all other great scientific men.
They told him what cheer.
‘But,’ Prince Bellamant ended, ‘it’s really no use. I can’t keep under water more than two minutes however much I try. And my precious Belinda’s not likely to find any silly old bell that doesn’t ring, and can’t ring, and never will ring, and was never made to ring.’
‘Ho, ho,’ laughed the Enchanter with the soft full laughter of old age. ‘You’ve come to the right shop. Who told you?’
‘The bells,’ said Belinda.
‘Ah, yes.’ The old man frowned kindly upon them. ‘You must be very fond of each other?’
‘We are,’ said the two together.
‘Yes,’ the Enchanter answered, ‘because only true lovers can hear the true speech of the bells, and then only when they’re together. Well, there’s the bell!’
He pointed to the covering of the well, went forward, and touched some lever or spring. The covering swung out from above the well, and hung over the grass grey with the dew of dawn.
‘That?’ said Bellamant.
‘That,’ said his god-father. ‘It doesn’t ring, and it can’t ring, and it never will ring, and it was never made to ring. Get into it.’
‘Eh?’ said Bellamant forgetting his manners.
The old man took a hand of each and led them under the bell.
They looked up. It had windows of thick glass, and high seats about four feet from its edge, running all round inside.
‘Take your seats,’ said the Enchanter.
Bellamant lifted his Princess to the bench and leaped up beside her.
‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘sit still, hold each other’s hands, and for your lives don’t move.’
He went away, and next moment they felt the bell swing in the air. It swung round till once more it was over the well, and then it went down, down, down.
‘I’m not afraid, with you,’ said Belinda, because she was, dreadfully.
Down went t
he bell. The glass windows leaped into light, looking through them the two could see blurred glories of lamps in the side of the cave, magic lamps, or perhaps merely electric, which, curiously enough have ceased to seem magic to us nowadays. Then with a plop the lower edge of the bell met the water, the water rose inside it, a little, then not any more. And the bell went down, down, and above their heads the green water lapped against the windows of the bell.
‘You’re under water — if we stay five minutes,’ Belinda whispered.
‘Yes, dear,’ said Bellamant, and pulled out his ruby-studded chronometer.
‘It’s five minutes for you, but oh!’ cried Belinda, ‘it’s now for me. For I’ve found the bell that doesn’t ring, and can’t ring, and never will ring, and wasn’t made to ring. Oh Bellamant dearest, it’s Thursday. Have I got my Sunday face?’
She tore away her veil, and his eyes, fixed upon her face, could not leave it.
‘Oh dream of all the world’s delight,’ he murmured, ‘how beautiful you are.’
Neither spoke again till a sudden little shock told them that the bell was moving up again.
‘Nonsense,’ said Bellamant, ‘it’s not five minutes.’
But when they looked at the ruby-studded chronometer, it was nearly three-quarters of an hour. But then, of course, the well was enchanted!
‘Magic? Nonsense,’ said the old man when they hung about him with thanks and pretty words. ‘It’s only a diving-bell. My own invention.’
* * * * *
So they went home and were married, and the Princess did not wear a veil at the wedding. She said she had had enough veils to last her time.
* * * * *
And a year and a day after that a little daughter was born to them.
‘Now sweetheart,’ said King Bellamant — he was king now because the old king and queen had retired from the business, and were keeping pigs and hens in the country as they had always planned to do—’dear sweetheart and life’s love, I am going to ring the bells with my own hands, to show how glad I am for you, and for the child, and for our good life together.’
So he went out. It was very dark, because the baby princess had chosen to be born at midnight.
The King went out to the belfry, that stood in the great, bare, quiet, moonlit square, and he opened the door. The furry-pussy bell-ropes, like huge caterpillars, hung on the first loft. The King began to climb the curly-wurly stone stair. And as he went up he heard a noise, the strangest noises, stamping and rustling and deep breathings.
He stood still in the ringers’ loft where the pussy-furry caterpillary bell-robes hung, and from the belfry above he heard the noise of strong fighting, and mixed with it the sound of voices angry and desperate, but with a noble note that thrilled the soul of the hearer like the sound of the trumpet in battle. And the voices cried:
Down, down — away, away,
When good has come ill may not stay,
Out, out, into the night,
The belfry bells are ours by right!
And the words broke and joined again, like water when it flows against the piers of a bridge. ‘Down, down —— .’ ‘Ill may not stay —— .’ ‘Good has come —— .’ ‘Away, away —— .’ And the joining came like the sound of the river that flows free again.
Out, out, into the night,
The belfry bells are ours by right!
And then, as King Bellamant stood there, thrilled and yet, as it were, turned to stone, by the magic of this conflict that raged above him, there came a sweeping rush down the belfry ladder. The lantern he carried showed him a rout of little, dark, evil people, clothed in dust and cobwebs, that scurried down the wooden steps gnashing their teeth and growling in the bitterness of a deserved defeat. They passed and there was silence. Then the King flew from rope to rope pulling lustily, and from above, the bells answered in their own clear beautiful voices — because the good Bell-folk had driven out the usurpers and had come to their own again.
Ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring! Ring, bell!
A little baby comes on earth to dwell. Ring, bell!
Sound, bell! Sound! Swell!
Ring for joy and wish her well!
May her life tell
No tale of ill-spell!
Ring, bell! Joy, bell! Love, bell! Ring!
* * * * *
‘But I don’t see,’ said King Bellamant, when he had told Queen Belinda all about it, ‘how it was that I came to hear them. The Enchanter of the Ringing Well said that only lovers could hear what the bells had to say, and then only when they were together.’
‘You silly dear boy,’ said Queen Belinda, cuddling the baby princess close under her chin, ‘we are lovers, aren’t we? And you don’t suppose I wasn’t with you when you went to ring the bells for our baby — my heart and soul anyway — all of me that matters!’
‘Yes,’ said the King, ‘of course you were. That accounts!’
JUSTNOWLAND
‘Auntie! No, no, no! I will be good. Oh, I will!’ The little weak voice came from the other side of the locked attic door.
‘You should have thought of that before,’ said the strong, sharp voice outside.
‘I didn’t mean to be naughty. I didn’t, truly.’
‘It’s not what you mean, miss, it’s what you do. I’ll teach you not to mean, my lady.’
The bitter irony of the last words dried the child’s tears. ‘Very well, then,’ she screamed, ‘I won’t be good; I won’t try to be good. I thought you’d like your nasty old garden weeded. I only did it to please you. How was I to know it was turnips? It looked just like weeds.’ Then came a pause, then another shriek. ‘Oh, Auntie, don’t! Oh, let me out — let me out!’
‘I’ll not let you out till I’ve broken your spirit, my girl; you may rely on that.’
The sharp voice stopped abruptly on a high note; determined feet in strong boots sounded on the stairs — fainter, fainter; a door slammed below with a dreadful definiteness, and Elsie was left alone, to wonder how soon her spirit would break — for at no less a price, it appeared, could freedom be bought.
The outlook seemed hopeless. The martyrs and heroines, with whom Elsie usually identified herself, their spirit had never been broken; not chains nor the rack nor the fiery stake itself had even weakened them. Imprisonment in an attic would to them have been luxury compared with the boiling oil and the smoking faggots and all the intimate cruelties of mysterious instruments of steel and leather, in cold dungeons, lit only by the dull flare of torches and the bright, watchful eyes of inquisitors.
A month in the house of ‘Auntie’ self-styled, and really only an unrelated Mrs. Staines, paid to take care of the child, had held but one interest — Foxe’s Book of Martyrs. It was a horrible book — the thick oleographs, their guarding sheets of tissue paper sticking to the prints like bandages to a wound.... Elsie knew all about wounds: she had had one herself. Only a scalded hand, it is true, but a wound is a wound, all the world over. It was a book that made you afraid to go to bed; but it was a book you could not help reading. And now it seemed as though it might at last help, and not merely sicken and terrify. But the help was frail, and broke almost instantly on the thought—’They were brave because they were good: how can I be brave when there’s nothing to be brave about except me not knowing the difference between turnips and weeds?’
She sank down, a huddled black bunch on the bare attic floor, and called wildly to some one who could not answer her. Her frock was black because the one who always used to answer could not answer any more. And her father was in India, where you cannot answer, or even hear, your little girl, however much she cries in England.
‘I won’t cry,’ said Elsie, sobbing as violently as ever. ‘I can be brave, even if I’m not a saint but only a turnip-mistaker. I’ll be a Bastille prisoner, and tame a mouse!’ She dried her eyes, though the bosom of the black frock still heaved like the sea after a storm, and looked about for a mouse to tame. One could not begin too soon. But unfortunately there seem
ed to be no mouse at liberty just then. There were mouse-holes right enough, all round the wainscot, and in the broad, time-worn boards of the old floor. But never a mouse.
‘Mouse, mouse!’ Elsie called softly. ‘Mousie, mousie, come and be tamed!’
Not a mouse replied.
The attic was perfectly empty and dreadfully clean. The other attic, Elsie knew, had lots of interesting things in it — old furniture and saddles, and sacks of seed potatoes, — but in this attic nothing. Not so much as a bit of string on the floor that one could make knots in, or twist round one’s finger till it made the red ridges that are so interesting to look at afterwards; not even a piece of paper in the draughty, cold fireplace that one could make paper boats of, or prick letters in with a pin or the tag of one’s shoe-laces.
As she stooped to see whether under the grate some old match-box or bit of twig might have escaped the broom, she saw suddenly what she had wanted most — a mouse. It was lying on its side. She put out her hand very slowly and gently, and whispered in her softest tones, ‘Wake up, Mousie, wake up, and come and be tamed.’ But the mouse never moved. And when she took it in her hand it was cold.
‘Oh,’ she moaned, ‘you’re dead, and now I can never tame you’; and she sat on the cold hearth and cried again, with the dead mouse in her lap.
‘Don’t cry,’ said somebody. ‘I’ll find you something to tame — if you really want it.’
Elsie started and saw the head of a black bird peering at her through the square opening that leads to the chimney. The edges of him looked ragged and rainbow-coloured, but that was because she saw him through tears. To a tearless eye he was black and very smooth and sleek.
‘Oh!’ she said, and nothing more.
‘Quite so,’ said the bird politely. ‘You are surprised to hear me speak, but your surprise will be, of course, much less when I tell you that I am really a Prime Minister condemned by an Enchanter to wear the form of a crow till ... till I can get rid of it.’
‘Oh!’ said Elsie.
