Текст книги "Страна Северного Ветра / At the Back of the North Wind"

Автор книги: Джордж МакДональд

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CHAPTER XXVIII. LITTLE DAYLIGHT

NO HOUSE of any pretension to be called a palace is in the least worthy

of the name, except it has a wood near it–very near it–and the nearer

the better. Not all round it–I don't mean that, for a palace ought to

be open to the sun and wind, and stand high and brave, with weathercocks

glittering and flags flying; but on one side of every palace there must

be a wood. And there was a very grand wood indeed beside the palace of

the king who was going to be Daylight's father; such a grand wood, that

nobody yet had ever got to the other end of it. Near the house it was

kept very trim and nice, and it was free of brushwood for a long way in;

but by degrees it got wild, and it grew wilder, and wilder, and wilder,

until some said wild beasts at last did what they liked in it. The king

and his courtiers often hunted, however, and this kept the wild beasts

far away from the palace.

One glorious summer morning, when the wind and sun were out together,

when the vanes were flashing and the flags frolicking against the blue

sky, little Daylight made her appearance from somewhere–nobody could

tell where–a beautiful baby, with such bright eyes that she might have

come from the sun, only by and by she showed such lively ways that she

might equally well have come out of the wind. There was great jubilation

in the palace, for this was the first baby the queen had had, and there

is as much happiness over a new baby in a palace as in a cottage.

But there is one disadvantage of living near a wood: you do not know

quite who your neighbours may be. Everybody knew there were in it

several fairies, living within a few miles of the palace, who always had

had something to do with each new baby that came; for fairies live

so much longer than we, that they can have business with a good many

generations of human mortals. The curious houses they lived in were well

known also,–one, a hollow oak; another, a birch-tree, though nobody

could ever find how that fairy made a house of it; another, a hut of

growing trees intertwined, and patched up with turf and moss. But there

was another fairy who had lately come to the place, and nobody even knew

she was a fairy except the other fairies. A wicked old thing she was,

always concealing her power, and being as disagreeable as she could,

in order to tempt people to give her offence, that she might have the

pleasure of taking vengeance upon them. The people about thought she was

a witch, and those who knew her by sight were careful to avoid offending

her. She lived in a mud house, in a swampy part of the forest.

In all history we find that fairies give their remarkable gifts to

prince or princess, or any child of sufficient importance in their eyes,

always at the christening. Now this we can understand, because it is

an ancient custom amongst human beings as well; and it is not hard to

explain why wicked fairies should choose the same time to do unkind

things; but it is difficult to understand how they should be able to

do them, for you would fancy all wicked creatures would be powerless on

such an occasion. But I never knew of any interference on the part of

the wicked fairy that did not turn out a good thing in the end. What a

good thing, for instance, it was that one princess should sleep for a

hundred years! Was she not saved from all the plague of young men who

were not worthy of her? And did she not come awake exactly at the right

moment when the right prince kissed her? For my part, I cannot help

wishing a good many girls would sleep till just the same fate overtook

them. It would be happier for them, and more agreeable to their friends.

Of course all the known fairies were invited to the christening. But the

king and queen never thought of inviting an old witch.

For the power of the fairies they have by nature; whereas a witch gets

her power by wickedness. The other fairies, however, knowing the danger

thus run, provided as well as they could against accidents from her

quarter. But they could neither render her powerless, nor could they

arrange their gifts in reference to hers beforehand, for they could not

tell what those might be.

Of course the old hag was there without being asked. Not to be asked

was just what she wanted, that she might have a sort of reason for doing

what she wished to do. For somehow even the wickedest of creatures likes

a pretext for doing the wrong thing.

Five fairies had one after the other given the child such gifts as each

counted best, and the fifth had just stepped back to her place in the

surrounding splendour of ladies and gentlemen, when, mumbling a laugh

between her toothless gums, the wicked fairy hobbled out into the middle

of the circle, and at the moment when the archbishop was handing the

baby to the lady at the head of the nursery department of state affairs,

addressed him thus, giving a bite or two to every word before she could

part with it:

“Please your Grace, I'm very deaf: would your Grace mind repeating the

princess's name?”

“With pleasure, my good woman,” said the archbishop, stooping to shout

in her ear: “the infant's name is little Daylight.”

“And little daylight it shall be,” cried the fairy, in the tone of a dry

axle, “and little good shall any of her gifts do her. For I bestow upon

her the gift of sleeping all day long, whether she will or not. Ha, ha!

He, he! Hi, hi!”

Then out started the sixth fairy, who, of course, the others had

arranged should come after the wicked one, in order to undo as much as

she might.

“If she sleep all day,” she said, mournfully, “she shall, at least, wake

all night.”

“A nice prospect for her mother and me!” thought the poor king; for they

loved her far too much to give her up to nurses, especially at night, as

most kings and queens do–and are sorry for it afterwards.

“You spoke before I had done,” said the wicked fairy. “That's against

the law. It gives me another chance.”

“I beg your pardon,” said the other fairies, all together.

“She did. I hadn't done laughing,” said the crone. “I had only got to

Hi, hi! and I had to go through Ho, ho! and Hu, hu! So I decree that if

she wakes all night she shall wax and wane with its mistress, the moon.

And what that may mean I hope her royal parents will live to see. Ho,

ho! Hu, hu!”

But out stepped another fairy, for they had been wise enough to keep two

in reserve, because every fairy knew the trick of one.

“Until,” said the seventh fairy, “a prince comes who shall kiss her

without knowing it.”

The wicked fairy made a horrid noise like an angry cat, and hobbled

away. She could not pretend that she had not finished her speech this

time, for she had laughed Ho, ho! and Hu, hu!

“I don't know what that means,” said the poor king to the seventh fairy.

“Don't be afraid. The meaning will come with the thing itself,” said

she.

The assembly broke up, miserable enough–the queen, at least, prepared

for a good many sleepless nights, and the lady at the head of the

nursery department anything but comfortable in the prospect before her,

for of course the queen could not do it all. As for the king, he made up

his mind, with what courage he could summon, to meet the demands of the

case, but wondered whether he could with any propriety require the First

Lord of the Treasury to take a share in the burden laid upon him.

I will not attempt to describe what they had to go through for some

time. But at last the household settled into a regular system–a very

irregular one in some respects. For at certain seasons the palace rang

all night with bursts of laughter from little Daylight, whose heart the

old fairy's curse could not reach; she was Daylight still, only a little

in the wrong place, for she always dropped asleep at the first hint of

dawn in the east. But her merriment was of short duration. When the moon

was at the full, she was in glorious spirits, and as beautiful as it was

possible for a child of her age to be. But as the moon waned, she faded,

until at last she was wan and withered like the poorest, sickliest child

you might come upon in the streets of a great city in the arms of a

homeless mother. Then the night was quiet as the day, for the little

creature lay in her gorgeous cradle night and day with hardly a motion,

and indeed at last without even a moan, like one dead. At first they

often thought she was dead, but at last they got used to it, and only

consulted the almanac to find the moment when she would begin to revive,

which, of course, was with the first appearance of the silver thread of

the crescent moon. Then she would move her lips, and they would give her

a little nourishment; and she would grow better and better and better,

until for a few days she was splendidly well. When well, she was always

merriest out in the moonlight; but even when near her worst, she seemed

better when, in warm summer nights, they carried her cradle out into

the light of the waning moon. Then in her sleep she would smile the

faintest, most pitiful smile.

For a long time very few people ever saw her awake. As she grew older

she became such a favourite, however, that about the palace there were

always some who would contrive to keep awake at night, in order to be

near her. But she soon began to take every chance of getting away from

her nurses and enjoying her moonlight alone. And thus things went on

until she was nearly seventeen years of age. Her father and mother had

by that time got so used to the odd state of things that they had ceased

to wonder at them. All their arrangements had reference to the state

of the Princess Daylight, and it is amazing how things contrive to

accommodate themselves. But how any prince was ever to find and deliver

her, appeared inconceivable.

As she grew older she had grown more and more beautiful, with the

sunniest hair and the loveliest eyes of heavenly blue, brilliant and

profound as the sky of a June day. But so much more painful and sad was

the change as her bad time came on. The more beautiful she was in the

full moon, the more withered and worn did she become as the moon waned.

At the time at which my story has now arrived, she looked, when the moon

was small or gone, like an old woman exhausted with suffering. This was

the more painful that her appearance was unnatural; for her hair and

eyes did not change. Her wan face was both drawn and wrinkled, and had

an eager hungry look. Her skinny hands moved as if wishing, but unable,

to lay hold of something. Her shoulders were bent forward, her chest

went in, and she stooped as if she were eighty years old. At last she

had to be put to bed, and there await the flow of the tide of life. But

she grew to dislike being seen, still more being touched by any hands,

during this season. One lovely summer evening, when the moon lay all but

gone upon the verge of the horizon, she vanished from her attendants,

and it was only after searching for her a long time in great terror,

that they found her fast asleep in the forest, at the foot of a silver

birch, and carried her home.

A little way from the palace there was a great open glade, covered with

the greenest and softest grass. This was her favourite haunt; for here

the full moon shone free and glorious, while through a vista in the

trees she could generally see more or less of the dying moon as it

crossed the opening. Here she had a little rustic house built for her,

and here she mostly resided. None of the court might go there without

leave, and her own attendants had learned by this time not to be

officious in waiting upon her, so that she was very much at liberty.

Whether the good fairies had anything to do with it or not I cannot

tell, but at last she got into the way of retreating further into the

wood every night as the moon waned, so that sometimes they had great

trouble in finding her; but as she was always very angry if she

discovered they were watching her, they scarcely dared to do so. At

length one night they thought they had lost her altogether. It was

morning before they found her. Feeble as she was, she had wandered into

a thicket a long way from the glade, and there she lay–fast asleep, of

course.

Although the fame of her beauty and sweetness had gone abroad, yet as

everybody knew she was under a bad spell, no king in the neighbourhood

had any desire to have her for a daughter-in-law. There were serious

objections to such a relation.

About this time in a neighbouring kingdom, in consequence of the

wickedness of the nobles, an insurrection took place upon the death of

the old king, the greater part of the nobility was massacred, and

the young prince was compelled to flee for his life, disguised like a

peasant. For some time, until he got out of the country, he suffered

much from hunger and fatigue; but when he got into that ruled by the

princess's father, and had no longer any fear of being recognised, he

fared better, for the people were kind. He did not abandon his disguise,

however. One tolerable reason was that he had no other clothes to put

on, and another that he had very little money, and did not know where to

get any more. There was no good in telling everybody he met that he

was a prince, for he felt that a prince ought to be able to get on like

other people, else his rank only made a fool of him. He had read of

princes setting out upon adventure; and here he was out in similar case,

only without having had a choice in the matter. He would go on, and see

what would come of it.

For a day or two he had been walking through the palace-wood, and had

had next to nothing to eat, when he came upon the strangest little

house, inhabited by a very nice, tidy, motherly old woman. This was one

of the good fairies. The moment she saw him she knew quite well who

he was and what was going to come of it; but she was not at liberty to

interfere with the orderly march of events. She received him with the

kindness she would have shown to any other traveller, and gave him bread

and milk, which he thought the most delicious food he had ever tasted,

wondering that they did not have it for dinner at the palace sometimes.

The old woman pressed him to stay all night. When he awoke he was amazed

to find how well and strong he felt. She would not take any of the money

he offered, but begged him, if he found occasion of continuing in the

neighbourhood, to return and occupy the same quarters.

“Thank you much, good mother,” answered the prince; “but there is little

chance of that. The sooner I get out of this wood the better.”

“I don't know that,” said the fairy.

“What do you mean?” asked the prince.

“Why, how should I know?” returned she.

“I can't tell,” said the prince.

“Very well,” said the fairy.

“How strangely you talk!” said the prince.

“Do I?” said the fairy.

“Yes, you do,” said the prince.

“Very well,” said the fairy.

The prince was not used to be spoken to in this fashion, so he felt a

little angry, and turned and walked away. But this did not offend the

fairy. She stood at the door of her little house looking after him till

the trees hid him quite. Then she said “At last!” and went in.

The prince wandered and wandered, and got nowhere. The sun sank and sank

and went out of sight, and he seemed no nearer the end of the wood than

ever. He sat down on a fallen tree, ate a bit of bread the old woman had

given him, and waited for the moon; for, although he was not much of an

astronomer, he knew the moon would rise some time, because she had risen

the night before. Up she came, slow and slow, but of a good size, pretty

nearly round indeed; whereupon, greatly refreshed with his piece of

bread, he got up and went–he knew not whither.

After walking a considerable distance, he thought he was coming to the

outside of the forest; but when he reached what he thought the last of

it, he found himself only upon the edge of a great open space in it,

covered with grass. The moon shone very bright, and he thought he had

never seen a more lovely spot. Still it looked dreary because of its

loneliness, for he could not see the house at the other side. He sat

down, weary again, and gazed into the glade. He had not seen so much

room for several days.

All at once he spied something in the middle of the grass. What could it

be? It moved; it came nearer. Was it a human creature, gliding across–a

girl dressed in white, gleaming in the moonshine? She came nearer and

nearer. He crept behind a tree and watched, wondering. It must be some

strange being of the wood–a nymph whom the moonlight and the warm

dusky air had enticed from her tree. But when she came close to where

he stood, he no longer doubted she was human–for he had caught sight of

her sunny hair, and her clear blue eyes, and the loveliest face and form

that he had ever seen. All at once she began singing like a nightingale,

and dancing to her own music, with her eyes ever turned towards the

moon. She passed close to where he stood, dancing on by the edge of the

trees and away in a great circle towards the other side, until he could

see but a spot of white in the yellowish green of the moonlit grass. But

when he feared it would vanish quite, the spot grew, and became a figure

once more. She approached him again, singing and dancing, and waving her

arms over her head, until she had completed the circle. Just opposite

his tree she stood, ceased her song, dropped her arms, and broke out

into a long clear laugh, musical as a brook. Then, as if tired, she

threw herself on the grass, and lay gazing at the moon. The prince was

almost afraid to breathe lest he should startle her, and she should

vanish from his sight. As to venturing near her, that never came into

his head.

She had lain for a long hour or longer, when the prince began again to

doubt concerning her. Perhaps she was but a vision of his own fancy. Or

was she a spirit of the wood, after all? If so, he too would haunt the

wood, glad to have lost kingdom and everything for the hope of being

near her. He would build him a hut in the forest, and there he would

live for the pure chance of seeing her again. Upon nights like this at

least she would come out and bask in the moonlight, and make his soul

blessed. But while he thus dreamed she sprang to her feet, turned her

face full to the moon, and began singing as she would draw her down from

the sky by the power of her entrancing voice. She looked more beautiful

than ever. Again she began dancing to her own music, and danced away

into the distance. Once more she returned in a similar manner; but

although he was watching as eagerly as before, what with fatigue and

what with gazing, he fell fast asleep before she came near him. When he

awoke it was broad daylight, and the princess was nowhere.

He could not leave the place. What if she should come the next night! He

would gladly endure a day's hunger to see her yet again: he would buckle

his belt quite tight. He walked round the glade to see if he could

discover any prints of her feet. But the grass was so short, and her

steps had been so light, that she had not left a single trace behind

her. He walked half-way round the wood without seeing anything to

account for her presence. Then he spied a lovely little house, with

thatched roof and low eaves, surrounded by an exquisite garden, with

doves and peacocks walking in it. Of course this must be where the

gracious lady who loved the moonlight lived. Forgetting his appearance,

he walked towards the door, determined to make inquiries, but as he

passed a little pond full of gold and silver fishes, he caught sight of

himself and turned to find the door to the kitchen. There he knocked,

and asked for a piece of bread. The good-natured cook brought him in,

and gave him an excellent breakfast, which the prince found nothing the

worse for being served in the kitchen. While he ate, he talked with

his entertainer, and learned that this was the favourite retreat of

the Princess Daylight. But he learned nothing more, both because he was

afraid of seeming inquisitive, and because the cook did not choose to be

heard talking about her mistress to a peasant lad who had begged for his

breakfast.

As he rose to take his leave, it occurred to him that he might not be

so far from the old woman's cottage as he had thought, and he asked the

cook whether she knew anything of such a place, describing it as well as

he could. She said she knew it well enough, adding with a smile–

“It's there you're going, is it?”

“Yes, if it's not far off.”

“It's not more than three miles. But mind what you are about, you know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“If you're after any mischief, she'll make you repent it.”

“The best thing that could happen under the circumstances,” remarked the

prince.

“What do you mean by that?” asked the cook.

“Why, it stands to reason,” answered the prince “that if you wish to do

anything wrong, the best thing for you is to be made to repent of it.”

“I see,” said the cook. “Well, I think you may venture. She's a good old

soul.”

“Which way does it lie from here?” asked the prince.

She gave him full instructions; and he left her with many thanks.

Being now refreshed, however, the prince did not go back to the cottage

that day: he remained in the forest, amusing himself as best he could,

but waiting anxiously for the night, in the hope that the princess would

again appear. Nor was he disappointed, for, directly the moon rose, he

spied a glimmering shape far across the glade. As it drew nearer, he saw

it was she indeed–not dressed in white as before: in a pale blue like

the sky, she looked lovelier still. He thought it was that the blue

suited her yet better than the white; he did not know that she was

really more beautiful because the moon was nearer the full. In fact the

next night was full moon, and the princess would then be at the zenith

of her loveliness.

The prince feared for some time that she was not coming near his

hiding-place that night; but the circles in her dance ever widened as

the moon rose, until at last they embraced the whole glade, and she

came still closer to the trees where he was hiding than she had come the

night before. He was entranced with her loveliness, for it was indeed a

marvellous thing. All night long he watched her, but dared not go near

her. He would have been ashamed of watching her too, had he not become

almost incapable of thinking of anything but how beautiful she was. He

watched the whole night long, and saw that as the moon went down she

retreated in smaller and smaller circles, until at last he could see her

no more.

Weary as he was, he set out for the old woman's cottage, where he

arrived just in time for her breakfast, which she shared with him. He

then went to bed, and slept for many hours. When he awoke the sun was

down, and he departed in great anxiety lest he should lose a glimpse

of the lovely vision. But, whether it was by the machinations of the

swamp-fairy, or merely that it is one thing to go and another to return

by the same road, he lost his way. I shall not attempt to describe his

misery when the moon rose, and he saw nothing but trees, trees, trees.

She was high in the heavens before he reached the glade. Then indeed

his troubles vanished, for there was the princess coming dancing towards

him, in a dress that shone like gold, and with shoes that glimmered

through the grass like fireflies. She was of course still more beautiful

than before. Like an embodied sunbeam she passed him, and danced away

into the distance.

Before she returned in her circle, the clouds had begun to gather about

the moon. The wind rose, the trees moaned, and their lighter branches

leaned all one way before it. The prince feared that the princess would

go in, and he should see her no more that night. But she came dancing on

more jubilant than ever, her golden dress and her sunny hair streaming

out upon the blast, waving her arms towards the moon, and in the

exuberance of her delight ordering the clouds away from off her face.

The prince could hardly believe she was not a creature of the elements,

after all.

By the time she had completed another circle, the clouds had gathered

deep, and there were growlings of distant thunder. Just as she passed

the tree where he stood, a flash of lightning blinded him for a moment,

and when he saw again, to his horror, the princess lay on the ground.

He darted to her, thinking she had been struck; but when she heard him

coming, she was on her feet in a moment.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon. I thought–the lightning” said the prince,

hesitating.

“There's nothing the matter,” said the princess, waving him off rather

haughtily.

The poor prince turned and walked towards the wood.

“Come back,” said Daylight: “I like you. You do what you are told. Are

you good?”

“Not so good as I should like to be,” said the prince.

“Then go and grow better,” said the princess.

Again the disappointed prince turned and went.

“Come back,” said the princess.

He obeyed, and stood before her waiting.

“Can you tell me what the sun is like?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. “But where's the good of asking what you know?”

“But I don't know,” she rejoined.

“Why, everybody knows.”

“That's the very thing: I'm not everybody. I've never seen the sun.”

“Then you can't know what it's like till you do see it.”

“I think you must be a prince,” said the princess.

“Do I look like one?” said the prince.

“I can't quite say that.”

“Then why do you think so?”

“Because you both do what you are told and speak the truth.–Is the sun

so very bright?”

“As bright as the lightning.”

“But it doesn't go out like that, does it?”

“Oh, no. It shines like the moon, rises and sets like the moon, is much

the same shape as the moon, only so bright that you can't look at it for

a moment.”

“But I would look at it,” said the princess.

“But you couldn't,” said the prince.

“But I could,” said the princess.

“Why don't you, then?”

“Because I can't.”

“Why can't you?”

“Because I can't wake. And I never shall wake until–”

Here she hid her face in her hands, turned away, and walked in the

slowest, stateliest manner towards the house. The prince ventured to

follow her at a little distance, but she turned and made a repellent

gesture, which, like a true gentleman-prince, he obeyed at once. He

waited a long time, but as she did not come near him again, and as the

night had now cleared, he set off at last for the old woman's cottage.

It was long past midnight when he reached it, but, to his surprise, the

old woman was paring potatoes at the door. Fairies are fond of doing odd

things. Indeed, however they may dissemble, the night is always their

day. And so it is with all who have fairy blood in them.

“Why, what are you doing there, this time of the night, mother?” said

the prince; for that was the kind way in which any young man in his

country would address a woman who was much older than himself.

“Getting your supper ready, my son,” she answered.

“Oh, I don't want any supper,” said the prince.

“Ah! you've seen Daylight,” said she.

“I've seen a princess who never saw it,” said the prince.

“Do you like her?” asked the fairy.

“Oh! don't I?” said the prince. “More than you would believe, mother.”

“A fairy can believe anything that ever was or ever could be,” said the

old woman.

“Then are you a fairy?” asked the prince.

“Yes,” said she.

“Then what do you do for things not to believe?” asked the prince.

“There's plenty of them–everything that never was nor ever could be.”

“Plenty, I grant you,” said the prince. “But do you believe there could

be a princess who never saw the daylight? Do you believe that now?”

This the prince said, not that he doubted the princess, but that he

wanted the fairy to tell him more. She was too old a fairy, however, to

be caught so easily.

“Of all people, fairies must not tell secrets. Besides, she's a

princess.”

“Well, I'll tell you a secret. I'm a prince.”

“I know that.”

“How do you know it?”

“By the curl of the third eyelash on your left eyelid.”

“Which corner do you count from?”

“That's a secret.”

“Another secret? Well, at least, if I am a prince, there can be no harm

in telling me about a princess.”

“It's just the princes I can't tell.”

“There ain't any more of them–are there?” said the prince.

“What! you don't think you're the only prince in the world, do you?”

“Oh, dear, no! not at all. But I know there's one too many just at

present, except the princess–”

“Yes, yes, that's it,” said the fairy.

“What's it?” asked the prince.

But he could get nothing more out of the fairy, and had to go to bed

unanswered, which was something of a trial.

Now wicked fairies will not be bound by the law which the good fairies

obey, and this always seems to give the bad the advantage over the good,

for they use means to gain their ends which the others will not. But it

is all of no consequence, for what they do never succeeds; nay, in the

end it brings about the very thing they are trying to prevent. So

you see that somehow, for all their cleverness, wicked fairies are

dreadfully stupid, for, although from the beginning of the world they

have really helped instead of thwarting the good fairies, not one of

them is a bit wiser for it. She will try the bad thing just as they all

did before her; and succeeds no better of course.

The prince had so far stolen a march upon the swamp-fairy that she

did not know he was in the neighbourhood until after he had seen the

princess those three times. When she knew it, she consoled herself by

thinking that the princess must be far too proud and too modest for any

young man to venture even to speak to her before he had seen her six

times at least. But there was even less danger than the wicked fairy

thought; for, however much the princess might desire to be set free, she

was dreadfully afraid of the wrong prince. Now, however, the fairy was

going to do all she could.

She so contrived it by her deceitful spells, that the next night the

prince could not by any endeavour find his way to the glade. It would

take me too long to tell her tricks. They would be amusing to us, who

know that they could not do any harm, but they were something other than