The Princess and the Goblin by George MacDonald (best historical biographies txt) 📕

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’re 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 that will take you to 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 afterwards.”

He said this as he opened the door, which he left open, and, without another word, went down the stair. 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?” asked Irene, after a few moments’ silence.

“If I had been there, Curdie would have seen me well enough. But why should I be there rather than in this beautiful room?”

“I thought you would be spinning.”

“I’ve nobody to spin for just at present. I never spin without knowing for whom I am spinning.”

“That reminds me⁠—there is one thing that puzzles me,” said the princess: “how are you to get the thread out of the mountain again? Surely you won’t have to make another for me? That would be such a trouble!”

The lady set her down and rose and went to the fire. Putting in her hand, she drew it out again and held up the shining ball between her finger and thumb.

“I’ve got it now, you see,” she said, coming back to the princess, “all ready for you when you want it.”

Going to her cabinet, she laid it in the same drawer as before.

“And here is your ring,” she added, taking it from the little finger of her left hand and putting it on the forefinger of Irene’s right hand.

“Oh, thank you, grandmother! I feel so safe now!”

“You are very tired, my child,” the lady went on. “Your hands are hurt with the stones, and I have counted nine bruises on you. Just look what you are like.”

And she held up to her a little mirror which she had brought from the cabinet. The princess burst into a merry laugh at the sight. She was so draggled with the stream and dirty with creeping through narrow places, that if she had seen the reflection without knowing it was a reflection, she would have taken herself for some gipsy child whose face was washed and hair combed about once in a month. The lady laughed too, and lifting her again upon her knee, took off her cloak and nightgown. Then she carried her to the side of the room. Irene wondered what she was going to do with her, but asked no questions⁠—only starting a little when she found that she was going to lay her in the large silver bath; for as she looked into it, again she saw no bottom, but the stars shining miles away, as it seemed, in a great blue gulf. Her hands closed involuntarily on the beautiful arms that held her,