Fairy Tales & Fantasy: George MacDonald Collection (With Complete Original Illustrations). George MacDonaldЧитать онлайн книгу.
I do. But my father and mother will be so anxious about me, I must make haste—first up the mountain to tell my mother, and then down into the mine again to acquaint my father."
"Very well, Curdie; but you can't get out without coming this way, and I will take you through the house, for that is nearest."
They met no one by the way, for indeed, as before, the people were here and there and everywhere searching for the princess. When they got in, Irene found that the thread, as she had half expected, went up the old staircase, and a new thought struck her. She turned to Curdie and said—
"My grandmother wants me. Do come up with me, and see her. Then you will know that I have been telling you the truth. Do come—to please me, Curdie. I can't bear you should think I say what is not true."
"I never doubted you believed what you said," returned Curdie. "I only thought you had some fancy in your head that was not correct."
"But do come, dear Curdie."
The little miner could not withstand this appeal, and though he felt shy in what seemed to him such a huge grand house, he yielded, and followed her up the stair.
CHAPTER XXII
THE OLD LADY AND CURDIE
UP the stair then they went, and the next and the next, and through the long rows of empty rooms, and up the little tower stairs, Irene growing happier and happier as she ascended. There was no answer when she knocked at length at the door of the workroom, nor could she hear any sound of the spinning-wheel, and once more her heart sank within her—but only for one moment, as she turned and knocked at the other door.
"Come in," answered the sweet voice of her grandmother, and Irene opened the door and entered, followed by Curdie.
"You darling!" cried the lady, who was seated by a fire of red roses mingled with white—"I've been waiting for you, and indeed getting a little anxious about you, and beginning to think whether I had not better go and fetch you myself."
As she spoke she took the little princess in her arms and placed her upon her lap. She was dressed in white now, and looking if possible more lovely than ever.
"I've brought Curdie, grandmother. He wouldn't believe what I told him, and so I've brought him."
"Yes—I see him. He is a good boy, Curdie, and a brave boy. Aren't you glad you have got him out?"
"Yes, grandmother. But it wasn't very good of him not to believe me when I was telling him the truth."
"People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it."
"Ah! yes, grandmother, I daresay. I'm sure you are right. But he'll believe now."
"I don't know that," replied her grandmother.
"Won't you, Curdie?" said Irene, looking round at him as she asked the question.
He was standing in the middle of the floor, staring, and looking strangely bewildered. This she thought came of his astonishment at the beauty of the lady.
"Make a bow to my grandmother, Curdie," she said.
"I don't see any grandmother," answered Curdie, rather gruffly.
"Don't see my grandmother when I'm sitting in her lap!" exclaimed the princess.
"No I don't," said Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Don't you see the lovely fire of roses—white ones amongst them this time?" asked Irene almost as bewildered as he.
"No I don't," answered Curdie, almost sulkily.
"Nor the blue bed? Nor the rose-colored counterpane? Nor the beautiful light, like the moon, hanging from the roof?"
"You're making game of me, your royal Highness; and after what we have come through together this day, I don't think it is kind of you," said Curdie, feeling very much hurt.
"Then what do you see?" asked Irene, who perceived at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe her.
"I see a big, bare garret-room—like the one in mother's cottage, only big enough to take the cottage itself in, and leave a good margin all round," answered Curdie.
"And what more do you see?"
"I see a tub, and a heap of musty straw, and a withered apple and a ray of sunlight coming through a hole in the middle of the roof, and shining on your head, and making all the place look a curious dusky brown. I think you had better drop it, princess, and go down to the nursery, like a good girl."
"But don't you hear my grandmother talking to me?" asked Irene, almost crying.
"No. I hear the cooing of a lot of pigeons. If you won't come down, I will go without you. I think that will be better anyhow, for I'm sure nobody who met us would believe a word we said to them. They would think we made it all up. I don't expect anybody but my own father and mother to believe me. They know I wouldn't tell a story."
"And yet you won't believe me, Curdie?" expostulated the princess, now fairly crying with vexation, and sorrow at the gulf between her and Curdie.
"No. I can't, and I can't help it," said Curdie, turning to leave the room.
"What shall I do, grandmother?" sobbed the princess, turning her face round upon the lady's bosom, and shaking with suppressed sobs.
"You must give him time," said her grandmother; "and you must be content not to be believed for a while. It is very hard to bear; but I have had to bear it, and shall have to bear it many a time yet. I will take care of what Curdie thinks of you in the end. You must let him go now."
"You are not coming, are you?" asked Curdie.
"No, Curdie; my grandmother says I must let you go. Turn to the right when you get to the bottom of all the stairs, and in that way you will arrive safely at the hall where the great door is."
"Oh! I don't doubt I can find my way—without you, princess, or your old grannie's thread either," said Curdie, quite rudely.
"Oh, Curdie! Curdie!"
"I wish I had gone home at once. I'm very much obliged to you, Irene, for getting me out of that hole, but I wish you hadn't made a fool of me afterward."
He said this as he opened the door, which he left open, and, without another word, went down the stairs. Irene listened with dismay to his departing footsteps. Then turning again to the lady—
"What does it all mean, grandmother?" she sobbed, and burst into fresh tears.
"It means, my love, that I did not mean to show myself. Curdie is not yet able to believe some things. Seeing is not believing—it is only seeing. You remember I told you that if Lootie were to see me, she would rub her eyes, forget the half she saw, and call the other half nonsense."
"Yes; but I should have thought Curdie—"
"You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie, and you will see what will come of it. But in the meantime, you must be content, I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary."
"What is that, grandmother?"
"To understand other people."
"Yes, grandmother. I must be fair—for if I'm not fair to other people, I'm not worth being understood myself I see. So as Curdie can't help it, I will not be vexed with him, but just wait."
"There's my own dear child," said her grandmother, and pressed her close to her bosom.
"Why weren't you in your workroom, when we came up, grandmother?"