But that wasn’t all. Through the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens, the king learned that the royal astrologer had announced that it was time to slaughter the pigs. Since the conjunction of the stars proclaimed that this would be a favorable year for cold cuts, the king ordered a vast butchery of pigs in his farmyards. Stepping into his carriage, he now made the rounds personally, each visitor in turn. He was inviting all the kings and princes now staying in the capital to join him in a snack. He wanted to delight in their surprise at the sight of the outstanding meal that he was planning for them. Next, upon coming home, he had himself announced to the queen, and, approaching her, he spoke in a caressing tone that he was in the habit of employing to get what he wanted from her:
“Good, darling, you haven’t forgotten—have you?—how much I love blood pudding? You haven’t forgotten, have you?”
At the king’s very first word, she caught her husband’s drift. Indeed, with those insidious words, His Majesty quite simply meant that she was to devote herself, as she had so often done, to a very useful occupation. Her royal hands were to prepare the greatest possible number of sausages, chitterlings, and blood sausages. The queen therefore smiled at her husband’s declaration. For, while very honorably exercising the profession of queen, she was less sensitive to compliments about her dignity in holding the crown and the scepter than about her skill in making a pudding or a baba. She therefore contented herself with gracefully curtsying to her husband, while telling him that she was his servant in regard to a blood sausage and to everything else.
The Grand Treasurer was to deliver to the royal kitchens the gigantic vermilion cauldron and the enormous silver pots. Next, an immense sandalwood fire was kindled. The queen slipped into her kitchen apron, which was made of white damask, and soon the sweetest fragrances wafted out from the cauldron. These delicious aromas quickly spread through the corridors, swiftly filled all the chambers, and then reached the throne room, where the king was holding counsel.
The king was a gourmet, and so the fragrance made a vivid and pleasurable impression on him. However, since he was an earnest ruler, with a reputation for self-control, he at first resisted the attraction that was pulling him toward the kitchen. But finally, whatever his sway over his passions may have been, he had to yield to the inexpressible ecstasy he was experiencing.
“Gentlemen,” he cried out, saying: “With your permission, I’ll be right back. Wait for me!”
And dashing through chambers and corridors, the king raced to the kitchen, hugged his wife, stirred the contents of the cauldron with his gold scepter, licked it with the tip of his tongue, and, more tranquil though a bit distracted, he returned to the counsel and resumed the discussion where he had interrupted it.
The king had left the kitchen at the crucial moment when the bacon, chopped into small pieces, was about to be roasted on silver grills. The queen, encouraged by the praises she enjoyed, dedicated herself to that important occupation, and the first drops of grease sizzled as they fell on the coals—when suddenly a faint, tremulous voice piped up:
“Sister dear, do offer me a piece of bacon. Since I’m also a queen, I want to gorge myself! I seldom get any decent food, so I wish to have my share of that tasty morsel.”
The queen recognized the voice. It belonged to Lady Mouserink, who had been living in the palace for many long years. She claimed that she was related to the royal family and that she herself was a queen of the Mouse Kingdom. That was why she kept a large court under the kitchen hearth.
The queen was a very good and very gentle person. Out loud, she refused to recognize Lady Mouserink as queen and as sister. But when the queen murmured softly, she showed the lady a vast amount of complaisance and consideration. Her husband, who often reproached her for that, was more of an aristocrat than she, while she had a tendency to depart from custom. Thus we can readily understand why, in this solemn circumstance, the queen didn’t care to refuse to give her young friend what she asked for. Instead, she commanded:
“Advance, Lady Mouserink, advance fearlessly. I authorize it. Taste as much of my bacon as you wish!”
Lady Mouserink appeared merry and lively, and when she jumped into the fireplace, her little hand adroitly seized the pieces of bacon that the queen gave her one after another.
However, drawn by the tiny cries of pleasure uttered by their queen, and especially by the succulent aroma of the grilled bacon, many visitors kept hopping and skipping. First came Lady Mouserink’s seven sons, then her relatives, then her kinfolk—all of them very wicked rascals. They were so terribly fond of their food, and they pounced so intently on the bacon, that the queen, albeit very hospitable, had to point out to them that, if they kept gobbling at that rate, no bacon would be left for the blood sausages. Still, however valid that protest, Lady Mouserink’s seven sons paid it no heed. Setting a poor example for their relatives, and ignoring the rebukes of their mother and queen, they gorged themselves on their aunt’s bacon.
This bacon was on the verge of disappearing altogether—when the cries of the queen, who could no longer manage to drive out her unwanted guests, drew the attention of the wife of the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens. She, in turn, summoned the head of the kitchens, who summoned the head of the scullions, who came racing, armed with canes, fans, switches, and brooms. And they succeeded in getting the whole Mouse folk back under the hearth.
But victory, though complete, came too soon. There remained scarcely one-fourth of the bacon necessary for cooking up sausages, chitterlings, and blood puddings. According to the indications of the Royal Mathematician, who had been hastily sent for, the residual bacon was scientifically divided between the grand cauldron for blood puddings and the two grand pots for chitterlings and sausages.
Half an hour later, the cannons boomed, the bugles and trumpets blared, and the guests arrived: all the potentates, all the crown princes, all the hereditary dukes, and all the pretenders, and all wearing their most magnificent garb. Some rode in crystal carriages, others were mounted on parade horses. The king awaited them on the perron of the palace, welcoming them with the most amiable courtesy and the most gracious cordiality. After conducting them to the dining hall, he sat down at the head of the table in his quality of suzerain. With his crown on his head and his scepter in his hand, he invited the other monarchs to settle each in the seat assigned by his rank amid the crowned heads, the crown princes, the hereditary dukes, and the pretenders.
The table was laden sumptuously, and everything went smoothly between the soup and the next course. But during the chitterlings course, they noticed that the king looked agitated. With the sausage course, he turned considerably pale. Finally, with the blood pudding course, he peered up at the heavens, sighs escaped his chest, and an agony seemed to rip his soul apart. Eventually, he leaned back in his chair and covered his face with both hands, despairing and sobbing so lamentably that the diners stood up from their places and surrounded him in extreme anxiety.
Indeed, the crisis seemed dreadfully grim. In vain did the Royal Surgeon check the pulse of the wretched monarch, who appeared to be under the brunt of the deepest, most appalling, most unbelievable of calamities. In the end, after the surgeon tried the most violent remedies—such as burned feathers, Epsom salts, and keys on his spine—the king seemed to be coming to somewhat. He half opened his lackluster eyes, and in a very feeble, almost inaudible voice, he stammered this brief phrase:
“Not enough bacon!…”
Now it was the queen who turned pale. She fell to her knees, exclaiming in a voice broken by sobs:
“Oh! My unhappy, unfortunate royal consort! What grief haven’t I caused you by disregarding your remonstrances so often? Now you see the culprit on her knees, and you can punish her as harshly as you wish.”
“What’s this all about?” asked the king. “What haven’t I been told?”
“Alas! Alas!” the queen responded. Her husband had never spoken so crudely to her. “Alas! Alas! It’s Lady Mouserink, with
her seven sons, with her nephews, her cousins, and her kinfolk, who has devoured all the bacon.”
The queen could talk no further. All her energy was sapped. She fell back in a faint.
The king rose furiously to his feet and he turned to the wife of the Superintendent of the Royal Kitchens: “Madame! What’s the meaning of this?”
The superintendent’s wife recounted whatever she knew. Upon hearing the queen’s cries, she had hurried over and she had found Her Majesty pitted against Lady Mouserink’s entire family. The superintendent’s wife had then called the kitchen head, who, with the help of his pots, had managed to dispatch all the pillagers back under the hearth. The king, seeing that a crime of lèse-majesté had been committed, gathered all his calm and all his dignity. Given the enormity of this heinous offense, the king ordered an immediate assembly of his cabinet, and the whole business was explained to his most skillful councilors.
The cabinet met and, by a majority of votes, it decided that Lady Mouserink had to stand trial. She was accused of eating the bacon that was meant for the king’s sausages, blood puddings, and chitterlings, and if she was found guilty, she would be exiled forever from the kingdom, she and her entire race, and whatever she owned, all her goods, estates, castles, palaces, royal residences—they would all be confiscated.
However, the king pointed out to his Privy Council and to his dexterous councilors that, during the period of the trial, Lady Mouserink and her family would have lots of time to keep eating her bacon. This would expose the king to affronts like the ones he had just endured in the presence of six crowned heads, not to mention the crown princes, the hereditary dukes, and the pretenders. The king therefore requested a discretionary power in regard to Lady Mouserink and her family. The council, as we can imagine, voted pro forma, granting the monarch the discretionary power he had asked for.
Next, the king dispatched one of his finest coaches, preceding it by a courier to hasten the trip. The monarch was sending for an excellent technician who lived in the town of Nuremberg. His name was Christian-Elias Drosselmayer. The king promptly summoned him to his palace for an urgent matter.
Drosselmayer obeyed instantly, for he was a true artist, who never doubted that such a renowned monarch would summon him to create a masterpiece. The technician mounted the coach, which sped day and night until he was in the king’s presence. Drosselmayer had dashed so quickly that he hadn’t had time to don a suit. Instead, he wore his habitual yellow frock coat. But rather than being angry at this breach of etiquette, the king was grateful. For if the illustrious technician had made a mistake, it meant that he would have been following His Majesty’s orders without delay.
The king, receiving Drosselmayer in his study, described the situation. He had decided to set a great example by purging his entire kingdom of the Mouse race. Alerted by the technician’s vast renown, the king had singled him out to be the executor of his justice. The monarch had only one fear: namely, that no matter how adroit, the technician might see insurmountable difficulties in the project conceived by the royal anger.
But Drosselmayer reassured the king, promising him that by the end of a week, there wouldn’t be a mouse left anywhere in the kingdom.
That same day, the technician started constructing small, oblong, ingenious boxes. Inside each box, he attached a piece of bacon at the end of a wire. By pulling the bacon, the thief, whoever he might be, dropped the door behind him, thus making him a prisoner. In less than a week, one hundred such boxes had been crafted, and they were placed not only beneath the hearth, but also in all the garrets and all the cellars of the palace.
Lady Mouserink was infinitely too wise and too shrewd not to expose Master Drosselmayer’s ruse at first blush. She therefore assembled her seven sons, her nephews, and her cousins, to warn them of the ambushes lying in wait for them. But after seeming to listen because of the respect they owed her rank and the gracious condescendence commanded by her age, the mice retreated, laughing at those terrors. Drawn by the aroma of the roasted bacon, a fragrance headier than any possible protests, they figured they would take advantage of the windfall, which arrived without their knowing from where.
By the end of twenty-four hours, Lady Mouserink’s seven sons, eighteen of her nephews, fifty of her cousins, and two hundred thirty-five of her relatives of different degrees, not counting thousands of her subjects, were caught in the mousetraps, and were shamefully executed.
Lady Mouserink, together with the remnants of her court and the relics of her people, resolved to abandon these places that were stained with the blood of her homeland massacres. The rumors about her resolution transpired and they reached the king. His Majesty congratulated himself, and the court poets produced many sonnets on his victory, while the courtiers compared him to Sesostris, to Julius Caesar, to Alexander the Great.
Only the queen was sad and nervous. She knew Lady Mouserink, and she suspected that the lady would not leave her sons and her kinfolk unavenged. Now, in order to make the king forget her mistake, the queen was preparing, with her own hands, the chopped liver that he loved so much. Suddenly, Lady Mouserink emerged before her and she said to her:
Killed by your spouse without remorse or fear,
Dead are my sons, my nephews, and my cousins dear.
But tremble, tremble, Your Majesty!
The child you carry in your womb today,
Soon the object of your love,
It’s now the object of your hate.
Your spouse has forts, cannons, soldiers,
Technicians, state councilors,
Cabinet ministers, mousetraps,
Mouse Queen has none of these things,
But heaven gave her the teeth that you see!
To devour the heiresses.
Then she disappeared, and no one had laid eyes on her again. However, the queen had realized a few days ago that she was indeed pregnant. She was so terrified by Lady Mouserink’s prediction that she dropped the chopped liver into the fire.
Thus Lady Mouserink had, for a second time, deprived the king of one of his favorite dishes. He hit the roof, and he applauded himself all the more for the coup that he had so happily committed.
Needless to say, Christian-Elias Drosselmayer was sent home with a splendid reward, and he entered Nuremberg in triumph.
Despite all the precautions taken by the queen, Lady Mouserink carries out her threat in regard to Princess Pirlipat
Now, my dear children, you know as well as I do—don’t you?—why the queen so tightly guarded the miraculous little princess. She feared Lady Mouserink’s revenge. According to what the lady had said, the point was no worse, for the heiress to the happy little nameless kingdom, than the loss of her life, or at least the loss of her beauty—which, we are assured, is far worse for a woman.
What increased, above all, the agitation of the tender mother was that Master Drosselmayer’s devices could do absolutely nothing against the experience with Lady Mouserink.
It is true that the court astrologer, who was also the Grand Augur and the Grand Astrologer, was scared that he might be discharged for being useless if he didn’t stick his nose into this whole business. He now claimed he had definitively read in the stars that only the family of the illustrious Tomcat Murr was able to defend the cradle against the approach of Lady Mouserink. That was why each of the six ladies-in-waiting was forced to keep a male feline of that kingdom incessantly in her lap. Furthermore, that family was attached to the court in their quality of private legation secretaries—cats—whereby a delicate and prolonged scratching was meant to soften these young diplomats, sweeten the laborious service they performed for the state.
But one evening (as you know, my children, there are days when you wake up fast asleep), one evening, the six ladies-in-waiting were sitting around the room as usual, each lady with a cat in her lap. Those six ladies, plus the two intimate ones sitting at the head of the bed, felt gradually sleepier and sleepier despite their efforts to stay awake.
Now
each lady kept her feelings to herself, refusing to confide them in her companions and hoping they wouldn’t notice her lack of vigilance. They would thereby watch over her place while she slept. As a result, their eyes closed successively, their hands stopped scratching the cats, and the cats took advantage of the circumstance to doze off.
We couldn’t tell you how long this bizarre slumber lasted, but around midnight one of the intimate ladies woke up with a start. All the persons around her seemed to have fallen into a lethargy. Not the slightest snoring could be heard. Not the faintest breath. The chamber was filled with a deathly hush, in the midst of which nothing could be perceived aside from the worm chewing through the wood. And what happened to the intimate lady-in-waiting upon her seeing a huge and horrible mouse who, standing on her hind legs, had plunged her head into Princess Pirlipat’s cradle and seemed engrossed in gnawing the infant’s face? What happened? The lady-in-waiting stood up and shrieked in terror. Everyone else awoke.
Lady Mouserink—for that’s who it was—dashed toward one of the corners of the chamber. The “private legation councilor” (the cat) raced after her. Alas! He was too late! Lady Mouserink had escaped through a crack in the floor. That same moment, the princess, aroused by all the hubbub, burst into tears. The ladies-in-waiting and the intimate ladies responded with cries of joy. “Praise the Lord!” they exclaimed. Since the princess had exclaimed something, she couldn’t be dead.
And they hurried over to the cradle. But imagine their despair when they saw what had ensued for that charming and delicate creature! That white and rosy face, that small head with golden hair, that mirror of the sky, those azure eyes had been supplanted by an immense and deformed head thrust upon a misshapen and shriveled body. Her two lovely eyes had lost their celestial color and, green, fixed, and haggard, they had blossomed on head level. Her little lips were extended from ear to ear, and her chin was covered with a crisp and fluffy beard that was altogether suitable for an old Punchinello but hideous for a young princess.
Nutcracker and Mouse King and The Tale of the Nutcracker Page 15
