Books: A Little Princess
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Frances Hodgson Burnett >> A Little Princess
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So Sara told her, and because her Magic helped her she made her
ALMOST see it all: the golden platters--the vaulted spaces--the
blazing logs--the twinkling waxen tapers. As the things were
taken out of the hamper--the frosted cakes--the fruits--the
bonbons and the wine--the feast became a splendid thing.
"It's like a real party!" cried Ermengarde.
"It's like a queen's table," sighed Becky.
Then Ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.
"I'll tell you what, Sara," she said. "Pretend you are a
princess now and this is a royal feast."
"But it's your feast," said Sara; "you must be the princess, and
we will be your maids of honor."
"Oh, I can't," said Ermengarde. "I'm too fat, and I don't know
how. YOU be her."
"Well, if you want me to," said Sara.
But suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty
grate.
"There is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!" she
exclaimed. "If we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a
few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire." She
struck a match and lighted it up with a great specious glow which
illuminated the room.
"By the time it stops blazing," Sara said, "we shall forget
about its not being real."
She stood in the dancing glow and smiled.
"Doesn't it LOOK real?" she said. "Now we will begin the
party."
She led the way to the table. She waved her hand graciously to
Ermengarde and Becky. She was in the midst of her dream.
"Advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream-voice, "and
be seated at the banquet table. My noble father, the king, who
is absent on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you." She
turned her head slightly toward the corner of the room. "What,
ho, there, minstrels! Strike up with your viols and bassoons.
Princesses," she explained rapidly to Ermengarde and Becky,
"always had minstrels to play at their feasts. Pretend there is
a minstrel gallery up there in the corner. Now we will begin."
They had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their
hands--not one of them had time to do more, when--they all three
sprang to their feet and turned pale faces toward the door--
listening--listening.
Someone was coming up the stairs. There was no mistake about
it. Each of them recognized the angry, mounting tread and knew
that the end of all things had come.
"It's--the missus!" choked Becky, and dropped her piece of cake
upon the floor.
"Yes," said Sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her
small white face. "Miss Minchin has found us out."
Miss Minchin struck the door open with a blow of her hand. She
was pale herself, but it was with rage. She looked from the
frightened faces to the banquet table, and from the banquet
table to the last flicker of the burnt paper in the grate.
"I have been suspecting something of this sort," she exclaimed;
"but I did not dream of such audacity. Lavinia was telling the
truth."
So they knew that it was Lavinia who had somehow guessed their
secret and had betrayed them. Miss Minchin strode over to Becky
and boxed her ears for a second time.
"You impudent creature!" she said. "You leave the house in the
morning!"
Sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler.
Ermengarde burst into tears.
"Oh, don't send her away," she sobbed. "My aunt sent me the
hamper. We're--only--having a party."
"So I see," said Miss Minchin, witheringly. "With the Princess
Sara at the head of the table." She turned fiercely on Sara.
"It is your doing, I know," she cried. "Ermengarde would never
have thought of such a thing. You decorated the table, I
suppose--with this rubbish." She stamped her foot at Becky.
"Go to your attic!" she commanded, and Becky stole away, her face
hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.
Then it was Sara's turn again.
"I will attend to you tomorrow. You shall have neither
breakfast, dinner, nor supper!"
"I have not had either dinner or supper today, Miss Minchin,"
said Sara, rather faintly.
"Then all the better. You will have something to remember.
Don't stand there. Put those things into the hamper again."
She began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself,
and caught sight of Ermengarde's new books.
"And you"--to Ermengarde--"have brought your beautiful new books
into this dirty attic. Take them up and go back to bed. You
will stay there all day tomorrow, and I shall write to your papa.
What would HE say if he knew where you are tonight?"
Something she saw in Sara's grave, fixed gaze at this moment
made her turn on her fiercely.
"What are you thinking of?" she demanded. "Why do you look at
me like that?"
"I was wondering," answered Sara, as she had answered that
notable day in the schoolroom.
"What were you wondering?"
It was very like the scene in the schoolroom. There was no
pertness in Sara's manner. It was only sad and quiet.
"I was wondering," she said in a low voice, "what MY papa would
say if he knew where I am tonight."
Miss Minchin was infuriated just as she had been before and her
anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion.
She flew at her and shook her.
"You insolent, unmanageable child!" she cried. "How dare you!
How dare you!"
She picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back into
the hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into Ermengarde's arms,
and pushed her before her toward the door.
"I will leave you to wonder," she said. "Go to bed this
instant." And she shut the door behind herself and poor
stumbling Ermengarde, and left Sara standing quite alone.
The dream was quite at an end. The last spark had died out of
the paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the table was
left bare, the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and
the garlands were transformed again into old handkerchiefs,
scraps of red and white paper, and discarded artificial flowers
all scattered on the floor; the minstrels in the minstrel gallery
had stolen away, and the viols and bassoons were still. Emily
was sitting with her back against the wall, staring very hard.
Sara saw her, and went and picked her up with trembling hands.
"There isn't any banquet left, Emily," she said. "And there
isn't any princess. There is nothing left but the prisoners in
the Bastille." And she sat down and hid her face.
What would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and
if she had chanced to look up at the skylight at the wrong
moment, I do not know--perhaps the end of this chapter might have
been quite different--because if she had glanced at the skylight
she would certainly have been startled by what she would have
seen. She would have seen exactly the same face pressed against
the glass and peering in at her as it had peered in earlier in
the evening when she had been talking to Ermengarde.
But she did not look up. She sat with her little black head in
her arms for some time. She always sat like that when she was
trying to bear something in silence. Then she got up and went
slowly to the bed.
"I can't pretend anything else--while I am awake," she said.
"There wouldn't be any use in trying. If I go to sleep, perhaps
a dream will come and pretend for me."
She suddenly felt so tired--perhaps through want of food--that
she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.
"Suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of
little dancing flames," she murmured. "Suppose there was a
comfortable chair before it--and suppose there was a small table
near, with a little hot--hot supper on it. And suppose"--as she
drew the thin coverings over her--"suppose this was a beautiful
soft bed, with fleecy blankets and large downy pillows. Suppose--
suppose--" And her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes
closed and she fell fast asleep.
She did not know how long she slept. But she had been tired
enough to sleep deeply and profoundly--too deeply and soundly to
be disturbed by anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of
Melchisedec's entire family, if all his sons and daughters had
chosen to come out of their hole to fight and tumble and play.
When she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did not know
that any particular thing had called her out of her sleep. The
truth was, however, that it was a sound which had called her
back--a real sound--the click of the skylight as it fell in
closing after a lithe white figure which slipped through it and
crouched down close by upon the slates of the roof--just near
enough to see what happened in the attic, but not near enough to
be seen.
At first she did not open her eyes. She felt too sleepy and--
curiously enough--too warm and comfortable. She was so warm and
comfortable, indeed, that she did not believe she was really
awake. She never was as warm and cozy as this except in some
lovely vision.
"What a nice dream!" she murmured. "I feel quite warm. I--don't-
-want--to--wake--up."
Of course it was a dream. She felt as if warm, delightful
bedclothes were heaped upon her. She could actually FEEL
blankets, and when she put out her hand it touched something
exactly like a satin-covered eider-down quilt. She must not
awaken from this delight--she must be quite still and make it
last.
But she could not--even though she kept her eyes closed tightly,
she could not. Something was forcing her to awaken--something
in the room. It was a sense of light, and a sound--the sound of
a crackling, roaring little fire.
"Oh, I am awakening," she said mournfully. "I can't help it--I
can't."
Her eyes opened in spite of herself. And then she actually
smiled--for what she saw she had never seen in the attic before,
and knew she never should see.
"Oh, I HAVEN'T awakened," she whispered, daring to rise on her
elbow and look all about her. "I am dreaming yet." She knew it
MUST be a dream, for if she were awake such things could not--
could not be.
Do you wonder that she felt sure she had not come back to earth?
This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing
fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling;
spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the
fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the
chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white
cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer,
a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered
down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of
quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed
changed into fairyland--and it was flooded with warm light, for
a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.
She sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came short
and fast.
"It does not--melt away," she panted. "Oh, I never had such a
dream before." She scarcely dared to stir; but at last she
pushed the bedclothes aside, and put her feet on the floor with a
rapturous smile.
"I am dreaming--I am getting out of bed," she heard her own voice
say; and then, as she stood up in the midst of it all, turning
slowly from side to side--"I am dreaming it stays--real! I'm
dreaming it FEELS real. It's bewitched--or I'm bewitched. I
only THINK I see it all." Her words began to hurry themselves.
"If I can only keep on thinking it," she cried, "I don't care! I
don't care!"
She stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.
"Oh, it isn't true!" she said. "It CAN'T be true! But oh, how
true it seems!"
The blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and held out
her hands close to it--so close that the heat made her start
back.
"A fire I only dreamed wouldn't be HOT," she cried.
She sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went
to the bed and touched the blankets. She took up the soft
wadded dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and
held it to her cheek.
"It's warm. It's soft!" she almost sobbed. "It's real. It must
be!"
She threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the
slippers.
"They are real, too. It's all real!" she cried. "I am NOT--I
am NOT dreaming!"
She almost staggered to the books and opened the one which lay
upon the top. Something was written on the flyleaf--just a few
words, and they were these:
"To the little girl in the attic. From a friend."
When she saw that--wasn't it a strange thing for her to do-- she
put her face down upon the page and burst into tears.
"I don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a
little. I have a friend."
She took her candle and stole out of her own room and into
Becky's, and stood by her bedside.
"Becky, Becky!" she whispered as loudly as she dared. "Wake
up!"
When Becky wakened, and she sat upright staring aghast, her face
still smudged with traces of tears, beside her stood a little
figure in a luxurious wadded robe of crimson silk. The face she
saw was a shining, wonderful thing. The Princess Sara--as she
remembered her--stood at her very bedside, holding a candle in
her hand.
"Come," she said. "Oh, Becky, come!"
Becky was too frightened to speak. She simply got up and
followed her, with her mouth and eyes open, and without a word.
And when they crossed the threshold, Sara shut the door gently
and drew her into the warm, glowing midst of things which made
her brain reel and her hungry senses faint. "It's true! It's
true!" she cried. "I've touched them all. They are as real as
we are. The Magic has come and done it, Becky, while we were
asleep--the Magic that won't let those worst things EVER quite
happen."
16
The Visitor
Imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like. How
they crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so
much of itself in the little grate. How they removed the covers
of the dishes, and found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal
in itself, and sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both
of them. The mug from the washstand was used as Becky's tea cup,
and the tea was so delicious that it was not necessary to pretend
that it was anything but tea. They were warm and full-fed and
happy, and it was just like Sara that, having found her strange
good fortune real, she should give herself up to the enjoyment of
it to the utmost. She had lived such a life of imaginings that
she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that
happened, and almost to cease, in a short time, to find it
bewildering.
"I don't know anyone in the world who could have done it," she
said; "but there has been someone. And here we are sitting by
their fire--and--and--it's true! And whoever it is--wherever
they are--I have a friend, Becky--someone is my friend."
It cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing fire,
and ate the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a kind of
rapturous awe, and looked into each other's eyes with something
like doubt.
"Do you think," Becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think
it could melt away, miss? Hadn't we better be quick?" And she
hastily crammed her sandwich into her mouth. If it was only a
dream, kitchen manners would be overlooked.
"No, it won't melt away," said Sara. "I am EATING this muffin,
and I can taste it. You never really eat things in dreams. You
only think you are going to eat them. Besides, I keep giving
myself pinches; and I touched a hot piece of coal just now, on
purpose."
The sleepy comfort which at length almost overpowered them was a
heavenly thing. It was the drowsiness of happy, well-fed
childhood, and they sat in the fire glow and luxuriated in it
until Sara found herself turning to look at her transformed bed.
There were even blankets enough to share with Becky. The narrow
couch in the next attic was more comfortable that night than its
occupant had ever dreamed that it could be.
As she went out of the room, Becky turned upon the threshold and
looked about her with devouring eyes.
"If it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, "it's been
here tonight, anyways, an' I shan't never forget it." She looked
at each particular thing, as if to commit it to memory. "The
fire was THERE", pointing with her finger, "an' the table was
before it; an' the lamp was there, an' the light looked rosy red;
an' there was a satin cover on your bed, an' a warm rug on the
floor, an' everythin' looked beautiful; an'"--she paused a
second, and laid her hand on her stomach tenderly--"there WAS
soup an' sandwiches an' muffins--there WAS." And, with this
conviction a reality at least, she went away.
Through the mysterious agency which works in schools and among
servants, it was quite well known in the morning that Sara Crewe
was in horrible disgrace, that Ermengarde was under punishment,
and that Becky would have been packed out of the house before
breakfast, but that a scullery maid could not be dispensed with
at once. The servants knew that she was allowed to stay because
Miss Minchin could not easily find another creature helpless and
humble enough to work like a bounden slave for so few shillings a
week. The elder girls in the schoolroom knew that if Miss
Minchin did not send Sara away it was for practical reasons of
her own.
"She's growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said
Jessie to Lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and Miss
Minchin knows she will have to work for nothing. It was rather
nasty of you, Lavvy, to tell about her having fun in the garret.
How did you find it out?"
"I got it out of Lottie. She's such a baby she didn't know she
was telling me. There was nothing nasty at all in speaking to
Miss Minchin. I felt it my duty"--priggishly. "She was being
deceitful. And it's ridiculous that she should look so grand,
and be made so much of, in her rags and tatters!"
"What were they doing when Miss Minchin caught them?"
"Pretending some silly thing. Ermengarde had taken up her
hamper to share with Sara and Becky. She never invites us to
share things. Not that I care, but it's rather vulgar of her to
share with servant girls in attics. I wonder Miss Minchin didn't
turn Sara out--even if she does want her for a teacher."
"If she was turned out where would she go?" inquired Jessie, a
trifle anxiously.
"How do I know?" snapped Lavinia. "She'll look rather queer when
she comes into the schoolroom this morning, I should think--
after what's happened. She had no dinner yesterday, and she's
not to have any today."
Jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly. She picked up
her book with a little jerk.
"Well, I think it's horrid," she said. "They've no right to
starve her to death."
When Sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook looked
askance at her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them
hurriedly. She had, in fact, overslept herself a little, and as
Becky had done the same, neither had had time to see the other,
and each had come downstairs in haste.
Sara went into the scullery. Becky was violently scrubbing a
kettle, and was actually gurgling a little song in her throat.
She looked up with a wildly elated face.
"It was there when I wakened, miss--the blanket," she whispered
excitedly. "It was as real as it was last night."
"So was mine," said Sara. "It is all there now--all of it.
While I was dressing I ate some of the cold things we left."
"Oh, laws! Oh, laws!" Becky uttered the exclamation in a sort
of rapturous groan, and ducked her head over her kettle just in
time, as the cook came in from the kitchen.
Miss Minchin had expected to see in Sara, when she appeared in
the schoolroom, very much what Lavinia had expected to see. Sara
had always been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never
made her cry or look frightened. When she was scolded she stood
still and listened politely with a grave face; when she was
punished she performed her extra tasks or went without her
meals, making no complaint or outward sign of rebellion. The
very fact that she never made an impudent answer seemed to Miss
Minchin a kind of impudence in itself. But after yesterday's
deprivation of meals, the violent scene of last night, the
prospect of hunger today, she must surely have broken down. It
would be strange indeed if she did not come downstairs with pale
cheeks and red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.
Miss Minchin saw her for the first time when she entered the
schoolroom to hear the little French class recite its lessons and
superintend its exercises. And she came in with a springing
step, color in her cheeks, and a smile hovering about the corners
of her mouth. It was the most astonishing thing Miss Minchin had
ever known. It gave her quite a shock. What was the child made
of? What could such a thing mean? She called her at once to her
desk.
"You do not look as if you realize that you are in disgrace," she
said. "Are you absolutely hardened?"
The truth is that when one is still a child--or even if one is
grown up--and has been well fed, and has slept long and softly
and warm; when one has gone to sleep in the midst of a fairy
story, and has wakened to find it real, one cannot be unhappy or
even look as if one were; and one could not, if one tried, keep a
glow of joy out of one's eyes. Miss Minchin was almost struck
dumb by the look of Sara's eyes when she made her perfectly
respectful answer.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Minchin," she said; "I know that I am in
disgrace."
"Be good enough not to forget it and look as if you had come
into a fortune. It is an impertinence. And remember you are to
have no food today."
"Yes, Miss Minchin," Sara answered; but as she turned away her
heart leaped with the memory of what yesterday had been. "If the
Magic had not saved me just in time," she thought, "how horrible
it would have been!"
"She can't be very hungry," whispered Lavinia. "Just look at
her. Perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast"--
with a spiteful laugh.
"She's different from other people," said Jessie, watching Sara
with her class. "Sometimes I'm a bit frightened of her."
"Ridiculous thing!" ejaculated Lavinia.
All through the day the light was in Sara's face, and the color
in her cheek. The servants cast puzzled glances at her, and
whispered to each other, and Miss Amelia's small blue eyes wore
an expression of bewilderment. What such an audacious look of
well-being, under august displeasure could mean she could not
understand. It was, however, just like Sara's singular obstinate
way. She was probably determined to brave the matter out.
One thing Sara had resolved upon, as she thought things over.
The wonders which had happened must be kept a secret, if such a
thing were possible. If Miss Minchin should choose to mount to
the attic again, of course all would be discovered. But it did
not seem likely that she would do so for some time at least,
unless she was led by suspicion. Ermengarde and Lottie would be
watched with such strictness that they would not dare to steal
out of their beds again. Ermengarde could be told the story and
trusted to keep it secret. If Lottie made any discoveries, she
could be bound to secrecy also. Perhaps the Magic itself would
help to hide its own marvels.
"But whatever happens," Sara kept saying to herself all day--
"WHATEVER happens, somewhere in the world there is a heavenly
kind person who is my friend--my friend. If I never know who it
is--if I never can even thank him--I shall never feel quite so
lonely. Oh, the Magic was GOOD to me!"
If it was possible for weather to be worse than it had been the
day before, it was worse this day--wetter, muddier, colder.
There were more errands to be done, the cook was more irritable,
and, knowing that Sara was in disgrace, she was more savage. But
what does anything matter when one's Magic has just proved
itself one's friend. Sara's supper of the night before had given
her strength, she knew that she should sleep well and warmly,
and, even though she had naturally begun to be hungry again
before evening, she felt that she could bear it until breakfast-
time on the following day, when her meals would surely be given
to her again. It was quite late when she was at last allowed to
go upstairs. She had been told to go into the schoolroom and
study until ten o'clock, and she had become interested in her
work, and remained over her books later.
When she reached the top flight of stairs and stood before the
attic door, it must be confessed that her heart beat rather
fast.
"Of course it MIGHT all have been taken away," she whispered,
trying to be brave. "It might only have been lent to me for just
that one awful night. But it WAS lent to me--I had it. It was
real."
She pushed the door open and went in. Once inside, she gasped
slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back against it
looking from side to side.
The Magic had been there again. It actually had, and it had
done even more than before. The fire was blazing, in lovely
leaping flames, more merrily than ever. A number of new things
had been brought into the attic which so altered the look of it
that if she had not been past doubting she would have rubbed her
eyes. Upon the low table another supper stood--this time with
cups and plates for Becky as well as herself; a piece of bright,
heavy, strange embroidery covered the battered mantel, and on it
some ornaments had been placed. All the bare, ugly things which
could be covered with draperies had been concealed and made to
look quite pretty. Some odd materials of rich colors had been
fastened against the wall with fine, sharp tacks--so sharp that
they could be pressed into the wood and plaster without
hammering. Some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were
several large cushions, big and substantial enough to use as
seats. A wooden box was covered with a rug, and some cushions
lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa.
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