



Produced by Charles Aldarondo.  HTML version by Al Haines.








A DOUBLE STORY


BY GEORGE MACDONALD.


NEW YORK:






A DOUBLE STORY



I.


There was a certain country where things used to go rather oddly. For
instance, you could never tell whether it was going to rain or hail, or
whether or not the milk was going to turn sour. It was impossible to
say whether the next baby would be a boy, or a girl, or even, after he
was a week old, whether he would wake sweet-tempered or cross.

In strict accordance with the peculiar nature of this country of
uncertainties, it came to pass one day, that in the midst of a shower
of rain that might well be called golden, seeing the sun, shining as it
fell, turned all its drops into molten topazes, and every drop was good
for a grain of golden corn, or a yellow cowslip, or a buttercup, or a
dandelion at least;--while this splendid rain was falling, I say, with
a musical patter upon the great leaves of the horse-chestnuts, which
hung like Vandyke collars about the necks of the creamy, red-spotted
blossoms, and on the leaves of the sycamores, looking as if they had
blood in their veins, and on a multitude of flowers, of which some
stood up and boldly held out their cups to catch their share, while
others cowered down, laughing, under the soft patting blows of the
heavy warm drops;--while this lovely rain was washing all the air clean
from the motes, and the bad odors, and the poison-seeds that had
escaped from their prisons during the long drought;--while it fell,
splashing and sparkling, with a hum, and a rush, and a soft
clashing--but stop! I am stealing, I find, and not that only, but with
clumsy hands spoiling what I steal:--

    "O Rain! with your dull twofold sound,
     The clash hard by, and the murmur all round:"

--there! take it, Mr. Coleridge;--while, as I was saying, the lovely
little rivers whose fountains are the clouds, and which cut their own
channels through the air, and make sweet noises rubbing against their
banks as they hurry down and down, until at length they are pulled up
on a sudden, with a musical plash, in the very heart of an odorous
flower, that first gasps and then sighs up a blissful scent, or on the
bald head of a stone that never says, Thank you;--while the very sheep
felt it blessing them, though it could never reach their skins through
the depth of their long wool, and the veriest hedgehog--I mean the one
with the longest spikes--came and spiked himself out to impale as many
of the drops as he could;--while the rain was thus falling, and the
leaves, and the flowers, and the sheep, and the cattle, and the
hedgehog, were all busily receiving the golden rain, something
happened. It was not a great battle, nor an earthquake, nor a
coronation, but something more important than all those put together. A
BABY-GIRL WAS BORN; and her father was a king; and her mother was a
queen; and her uncles and aunts were princes and princesses; and her
first-cousins were dukes and duchesses; and not one of her
second-cousins was less than a marquis or marchioness, or of their
third-cousins less than an earl or countess: and below a countess they
did not care to count. So the little girl was Somebody; and yet for all
that, strange to say, the first thing she did was to cry. I told you it
was a strange country.

As she grew up, everybody about her did his best to convince her that
she was Somebody; and the girl herself was so easily persuaded of it
that she quite forgot that anybody had ever told her so, and took it
for a fundamental, innate, primary, first-born, self-evident,
necessary, and incontrovertible idea and principle that SHE 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 <DW72>s, 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.




II.


The fact, as is plain, was, that the princess had disappeared in the
folds of the wise woman's cloak. When she rushed from the room, the
wise woman caught her to her bosom and flung the black garment around
her. The princess struggled wildly, for she was in fierce terror, and
screamed as loud as choking fright would permit her; but her father,
standing in the door, and looking down upon the wise woman, saw never a
movement of the cloak, so tight was she held by her captor. He was
indeed aware of a most angry crying, which reminded him of his
daughter; but it sounded to him so far away, that he took it for the
passion of some child in the street, outside the palace-gates. Hence,
unchallenged, the wise woman carried the princess down the marble
stairs, out at the palace-door, down a great flight of steps outside,
across a paved court, through the brazen gates, along half-roused
streets where people were opening their shops, through the huge gates
of the city, and out into the wide road, vanishing northwards; the
princess struggling and screaming all the time, and the wise woman
holding her tight. When at length she was too tired to struggle or
scream any more, the wise woman unfolded her cloak, and set her down;
and the princess saw the light and opened her swollen eyelids. There
was nothing in sight that she had ever seen before. City and palace had
disappeared. They were upon a wide road going straight on, with a ditch
on each side of it, that behind them widened into the great moat
surrounding the city. She cast up a terrified look into the wise
woman's face, that gazed down upon her gravely and kindly. Now the
princess did not in the least understand kindness. She always took it
for a sign either of partiality or fear. So when the wise woman looked
kindly upon her, she rushed at her, butting with her head like a ram:
but the folds of the cloak had closed around the wise woman; and, when
the princess ran against it, she found it hard as the cloak of a bronze
statue, and fell back upon the road with a great bruise on her head.
The wise woman lifted her again, and put her once more under the cloak,
where she fell asleep, and where she awoke again only to find that she
was still being carried on and on.

When at length the wise woman again stopped and set her down, she saw
around her a bright moonlit night, on a wide heath, solitary and
houseless. Here she felt more frightened than before; nor was her
terror assuaged when, looking up, she saw a stern, immovable
countenance, with cold eyes fixedly regarding her. All she knew of the
world being derived from nursery-tales, she concluded that the wise
woman was an ogress, carrying her home to eat her.

I have already said that the princess was, at this time of her life,
such a low-minded creature, that severity had greater influence over
her than kindness. She understood terror better far than tenderness.
When the wise woman looked at her thus, she fell on her knees, and held
up her hands to her, crying,--

"Oh, don't eat me! don't eat me!"

Now this being the best SHE could do, it was a sign she was a low
creature. Think of it--to kick at kindness, and kneel from terror. But
the sternness on the face of the wise woman came from the same heart
and the same feeling as the kindness that had shone from it before. The
only thing that could save the princess from her hatefulness, was that
she should be made to mind somebody else than her own miserable
Somebody.

Without saying a word, the wise woman reached down her hand, took one
of Rosamond's, and, lifting her to her feet, led her along through the
moonlight. Every now and then a gush of obstinacy would well up in the
heart of the princess, and she would give a great ill-tempered tug, and
pull her hand away; but then the wise woman would gaze down upon her
with such a look, that she instantly sought again the hand she had
rejected, in pure terror lest she should be eaten upon the spot. And so
they would walk on again; and when the wind blew the folds of the cloak
against the princess, she found them soft as her mother's camel-hair
shawl.

After a little while the wise woman began to sing to her, and the
princess could not help listening; for the soft wind amongst the low
dry bushes of the heath, the rustle of their own steps, and the
trailing of the wise woman's cloak, were the only sounds beside.

And this is the song she sang:--

        Out in the cold,
        With a thin-worn fold
        Of withered gold
        Around her rolled,
    Hangs in the air the weary moon.
        She is old, old, old;
        And her bones all cold,
        And her tales all told,
        And her things all sold,
    And she has no breath to croon.

        Like a castaway clout,
        She is quite shut out!
        She might call and shout,
        But no one about
    Would ever call back, "Who's there?"
        There is never a hut,
        Not a door to shut,
        Not a footpath or rut,
        Long road or short cut,
    Leading to anywhere!

        She is all alone
        Like a dog-picked bone,
        The poor old crone!
        She fain would groan,
    But she cannot find the breath.
        She once had a fire;
        But she built it no higher,
        And only sat nigher
        Till she saw it expire;
    And now she is cold as death.

        She never will smile
        All the lonesome while.
        Oh the mile after mile,
        And never a stile!
    And never a tree or a stone!
        She has not a tear:
        Afar and anear
        It is all so drear,
        But she does not care,
    Her heart is as dry as a bone.

        None to come near her!
        No one to cheer her!
        No one to jeer her!
        No one to hear her!
    Not a thing to lift and hold!
        She is always awake,
        But her heart will not break:
        She can only quake,
        Shiver, and shake:
    The old woman is very cold.

As strange as the song, was the crooning wailing tune that the wise
woman sung. At the first note almost, you would have thought she wanted
to frighten the princess; and so indeed she did. For when people WILL
be naughty, they have to be frightened, and they are not expected to
like it. The princess grew angry, pulled her hand away, and cried,--

"YOU are the ugly old woman. I hate you!"

Therewith she stood still, expecting the wise woman to stop also,
perhaps coax her to go on: if she did, she was determined not to move a
step. But the wise woman never even looked about: she kept walking on
steadily, the same pace as before. Little Obstinate thought for
certain she would turn; for she regarded herself as much too precious
to be left behind. But on and on the wise woman went, until she had
vanished away in the dim moonlight. Then all at once the princess
perceived that she was left alone with the moon, looking down on her
from the height of her loneliness. She was horribly frightened, and
began to run after the wise woman, calling aloud. But the song she had
just heard came back to the sound of her own running feet,--

    All all alone,
    Like a dog-picked bone!

and again,--

        She might call and shout,
        And no one about
    Would ever call back, "Who's there?"

and she screamed as she ran. How she wished she knew the old woman's
name, that she might call it after her through the moonlight!

But the wise woman had, in truth, heard the first sound of her running
feet, and stopped and turned, waiting. What with running and crying,
however, and a fall or two as she ran, the princess never saw her until
she fell right into her arms--and the same moment into a fresh rage;
for as soon as any trouble was over the princess was always ready to
begin another. The wise woman therefore pushed her away, and walked on;
while the princess ran scolding and storming after her. She had to run
till, from very fatigue, her rudeness ceased. Her heart gave way; she
burst into tears, and ran on silently weeping.

A minute more and the wise woman stooped, and lifting her in her arms,
folded her cloak around her. Instantly she fell asleep, and slept as
soft and as soundly as if she had been in her own bed. She slept till
the moon went down; she slept till the sun rose up; she slept till he
climbed the topmost sky; she slept till he went down again, and the
poor old moon came peaking and peering out once more: and all that time
the wise woman went walking on and on very fast. And now they had
reached a spot where a few fir-trees came to meet them through the
moonlight.

At the same time the princess awaked, and popping her head out between
the folds of the wise woman's cloak--a very ugly little owlet she
looked--saw that they were entering the wood. Now there is something
awful about every wood, especially in the moonlight; and perhaps a
fir-wood is more awful than other woods. For one thing, it lets a
little more light through, rendering the darkness a little more
visible, as it were; and then the trees go stretching away up towards
the moon, and look as if they cared nothing about the creatures below
them--not like the broad trees with soft wide leaves that, in the
darkness even, look sheltering. So the princess is not to be blamed
that she was very much frightened. She is hardly to be blamed either
that, assured the wise woman was an ogress carrying her to her castle
to eat her up, she began again to kick and scream violently, as those
of my readers who are of the same sort as herself will consider the
right and natural thing to do. The wrong in her was this--that she had
led such a bad life, that she did not know a good woman when she saw
her; took her for one like herself, even after she had slept in her
arms.

Immediately the wise woman set her down, and, walking on, within a few
paces vanished among the trees. Then the cries of the princess rent the
air, but the fir-trees never heeded her; not one of their hard little
needles gave a single shiver for all the noise she made. But there were
creatures in the forest who were soon quite as much interested in her
cries as the fir-trees were indifferent to them. They began to hearken
and howl and snuff about, and run hither and thither, and grin with
their white teeth, and light up the green lamps in their eyes. In a
minute or two a whole army of wolves and hyenas were rushing from all
quarters through the pillar like stems of the fir-trees, to the place
where she stood calling them, without knowing it. The noise she made
herself, however, prevented her from hearing either their howls or the
soft pattering of their many trampling feet as they bounded over the
fallen fir needles and cones.

One huge old wolf had outsped the rest--not that he could run faster,
but that from experience he could more exactly judge whence the cries
came, and as he shot through the wood, she caught sight at last of his
lamping eyes coming swiftly nearer and nearer. Terror silenced her. She
stood with her mouth open, as if she were going to eat the wolf, but
she had no breath to scream with, and her tongue curled up in her mouth
like a withered and frozen leaf. She could do nothing but stare at the
coming monster. And now he was taking a few shorter bounds, measuring
the distance for the one final leap that should bring him upon her,
when out stepped the wise woman from behind the very tree by which she
had set the princess down, caught the wolf by the throat half-way in
his last spring, shook him once, and threw him from her dead. Then she
turned towards the princess, who flung herself into her arms, and was
instantly lapped in the folds of her cloak.

But now the huge army of wolves and hyenas had rushed like a sea around
them, whose waves leaped with hoarse roar and hollow yell up against
the wise woman. But she, like a strong stately vessel, moved unhurt
through the midst of them. Ever as they leaped against her cloak, they
dropped and slunk away back through the crowd. Others ever succeeded,
and ever in their turn fell, and drew back confounded. For some time
she walked on attended and assailed on all sides by the howling pack.
Suddenly they turned and swept away, vanishing in the depths of the
forest. She neither slackened nor hastened her step, but went walking
on as before.

In a little while she unfolded her cloak, and let the princess look
out. The firs had ceased; and they were on a lofty height of moorland,
stony and bare and dry, with tufts of heather and a few small plants
here and there. About the heath, on every side, lay the forest, looking
in the moonlight like a cloud; and above the forest, like the shaven
crown of a monk, rose the bare moor over which they were walking.
Presently, a little way in front of them, the princess espied a
whitewashed cottage, gleaming in the moon. As they came nearer, she saw
that the roof was covered with thatch, over which the moss had grown
green. It was a very simple, humble place, not in the least terrible to
look at, and yet, as soon as she saw it, her fear again awoke, and
always, as soon as her fear awoke, the trust of the princess fell into
a dead sleep. Foolish and useless as she might by this time have known
it, she once more began kicking and screaming, whereupon, yet once
more, the wise woman set her down on the heath, a few yards from the
back of the cottage, and saying only, "No one ever gets into my house
who does not knock at the door, and ask to come in," disappeared round
the corner of the cottage, leaving the princess alone with the
moon--two white faces in the cone of the night.




III.


The moon stared at the princess, and the princess stared at the moon;
but the moon had the best of it, and the princess began to cry. And now
the question was between the moon and the cottage. The princess thought
she knew the worst of the moon, and she knew nothing at all about the
cottage, therefore she would stay with the moon. Strange, was it not,
that she should have been so long with the wise woman, and yet know
NOTHING about that cottage? As for the moon, she did not by any means
know the worst of her, or even, that, if she were to fall asleep where
she could find her, the old witch would certainly do her best to twist
her face.

But she had scarcely sat a moment longer before she was assailed by all
sorts of fresh fears. First of all, the soft wind blowing gently
through the dry stalks of the heather and its thousands of little bells
raised a sweet rustling, which the princess took for the hissing of
serpents, for you know she had been naughty for so long