The Big Book of Classic Fantasy
Page 44
She puzzled over this for some time, but at last a bright thought struck her. “Why, it’s a Looking-glass book, of course! And if I hold it up to a glass, the words will all go the right way again.”
This was the poem that Alice read.
JABBERWOCKY
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“It seems very pretty,” she said when she had finished it, “but it’s rather hard to understand!” (You see she didn’t like to confess, ever to herself, that she couldn’t make it out at all.) “Somehow it seems to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what they are! However, somebody killed something: that’s clear, at any rate—”
“But oh!” thought Alice, suddenly jumping up, “if I don’t make haste I shall have to go back through the Looking-glass, before I’ve seen what the rest of the house is like! Let’s have a look at the garden first!” She was out of the room in a moment, and ran down stairs—or, at least, it wasn’t exactly running, but a new invention of hers for getting down stairs quickly and easily, as Alice said to herself. She just kept the tips of her fingers on the hand-rail, and floated gently down without even touching the stairs with her feet; then she floated on through the hall, and would have gone straight out at the door in the same way, if she hadn’t caught hold of the door-post. She was getting a little giddy with so much floating in the air, and was rather glad to find herself walking again in the natural way.
Pauline Elisabeth Ottilie Luise zu Wied (1843–1916), known in the literary world as Carmen Sylva, was the queen consort of Romania. She began writing verse in her childhood and kept a secret diary full of her work. A compassionate woman, she founded schools, hospitals, and art galleries to help the cultural development of Romania. In 1881, Queen Elisabeth herself published Sylva’s first book of poetry, entitled Storms. Soon after, her collection of Romanian myths, legends, and folklore, From Carmen Sylva’s Kingdom (1883), came out. Sylva wrote poetry and short stories and even cowrote a few novels with her friend Madame Kremnitz under the pen names Idem and Ditto. It is through her stories that she first became known to the American public. “Furnica, or The Queen of the Ants,” first appeared in 1893 and is a tale that juxtaposes love and responsibility. It has been collected in numerous anthologies.
Furnica, or The Queen of the Ants
Carmen Sylva
Translated by Gio Clairval
THERE WAS ONCE A BEAUTIFUL GIRL named Viorica; she had hair like gold, eyes like the sky, cheeks like carnations, lips like cherries, and her body was as lithe as reeds. All men were glad just to glimpse the attractive young woman, but not so much because of her beauty as because of her industriousness. When she went to the spring with a jar balancing on her head, she also carried a distaff in her girdle and busied herself spinning. She could weave, too, and sew like a fay. Her shirts were the finest of the entire village, black and red and with large traditional embroideries stitched on the shoulders. She had embellished her skirt with flowers, and even the stockings she wore on Sundays. Those little hands could never rest. In field or pasture, she worked as much as in the house, and whenever the young men glanced at the beautiful Viorica, they dreamed of the marvelous housewife she would become. She ignored them all, though, refused to think about marriage. She had no time because her mother needed to be taken care of. Her mother frowned, opined that an able son-in-law would be of great help. These words saddened the young woman, who asked whether she had become useless, given that Mother insisted on having a man in the house. “Men,” she said, “just give us more work, as we must spin and weave and sew for them, too, and we can hardly find the time to work in the fields.”
The mother sighed, thinking of her dead son, for whom she had made so many fine shirts, which she washed so dazzlingly white that no young woman could pull her gaze away from him. She’d never minded the work, never found it tiring, but what wouldn’t a mother do?
The day came when Viorica had to admit that Mother had been right in wanting a son-in-law in the house, as if she had known that she wouldn’t be of this world for long. She took ill and all the love of her daughter could do nothing to keep her upon earth.
The beautiful young woman had to close her beloved mother’s eyes and sat alone in the little house. For the first time her hands lay idle in her lap. For whom would she work now? She had nobody left.
One day, as she sat in her doorway and gazed dewy-eyed, she saw something on the ground, long and black, moving toward her. She saw ants advance in endless columns. Impossible to know where they came from: the processions stretched back in the distance. Then the ants stopped to form a formidable arc, encircling Viorica. A few of them stepped forth and spoke: “We know you well, Viorica, and on several occasions we have admired your industriousness, which resembles our own and is so rare among human beings. We also know that you are alone, and we entreat you to accept to live with us and be our queen. We shall build a palace for you, and it will be finer and larger than any house you have ever seen. In exchange you must promise us that you will never return to the world of humans, but you will forever remain with us.”
“I shall gladly remain with you,” said Viorica, “because nothing holds me here any longer, save for my mother’s grave, and I must bring her flowers, cakes, and wine, and pray for her soul.”
“You will visit your mother’s grave, but you will speak to no one on the way. Should you be disloyal, the punishment will be terrible.”
So did Viorica set forth with the ants until they found a place that seemed suitable for building a palace. Viorica saw that the ants were more skillful than she ever was. She could never have built such a building so quickly. There were galleries, one above the other, which opened onto vast spaces, deeper and deeper, to the innermost reaches dug out for the pupae, which would be transported to the surface to sunbathe and then quickly carried back to their quarters, sheltered from the rain. The chambers were decorated in the most graceful manner, petals held in place on the walls with fir needles. Viorica learned to spin spidersilk to fashion dais and blankets.
The building rose higher and higher. Viorica’s bedroom was so enchanting she had never imagined anything like it, not even in a dream. Many galleries led to her quarters, so that she could be reached quickly by her subjects, at all times. The floors of the passageways were decked with poppy-petals, so that the queen’s feet would tread on purple only. The doors were made of rose petals and the hinges were spider threads, to ensure that the doors would close and open noiselessly. The floor of her chamber was edelweiss, a thick, soft carpet in which Viorica’s rosy toe
s sank—she needed no shoes there; they would have been too hard on the flower carpet. The walls were artistically woven of carnations, lilies of the valleys and forget-me-nots, and the flowers were continuously renewed, so that the decoration would retain freshness and scent. A canopy stretched out to form a ceiling of lily petals. The diligent ants had worked weeks to build the bed mattress with pollen of the softest kind and a spidersilk coverlet was spread over it. When she lay there asleep she was so beautiful the stars wished they could fall to earth and see her better. But the jealous ants guarded their queen well in the deepest recess of the castle-mound, hardly daring glance at her as she slept.
Life in the anthill could not have been more agreeable than it was. The ants, doing everything in their power to serve their industrious queen, vied for her approval. Each command was carried out at lightning speed, for she didn’t give many orders, and none unreasonable; she would rather speak with a soft voice and her commands sounded like friendly advice or gentle hints; she thanked her subjects with a glance as warm as a kiss from the sun.
Often the ants would say that sunshine dwelled in their house, and they praised their good luck. They had built a terrace especially for her to enjoy fresh air and daylight, whenever her chamber grew too narrow and confined. From her vantage point she could follow the progress of the construction, which was already as high as a mountain.
Every day she sat in her quarters, sewing butterflies’ wings on a dress with silk threads spun by a caterpillar the ants had hauled in for her. Only her delicate fingers could accomplish such a fine work. But that day a loud scream resounded, a commotion of voices could be heard everywhere on the mountain. In a heartbeat, the small realm was roused and her subjects, breathless, came to circle around their queen. “They are destroying our house! Evil men are stomping all over us. Two, no, three galleries have caved in, and others will follow. What shall we do?”
“Is that all?” said Viorica in a calm voice. “I will bid them to go their way and in one or two days the galleries will be up again.”
She dashed through the nearest exit into the maze of passageways and soon appeared onto her terrace. From there she spied a magnificent young man who had dismounted from his horse and endeavored with his retinue to upturn the anthill with swords and peaks. Upon her appearance they all stopped. The handsome youngster held a hand up to shield his eyes and observed the light-framed silhouette draped in shimmery garments. Viorica’s golden locks flew around her, down to the tips of her feet, a gentle blush colored her cheeks, and her eyes gleamed like stars. She lowered her gaze before the young man’s stare, but she soon looked up and through her pink lips she spoke with a strong, resounding voice.
“Who are you, whose hand is committing such outrage upon my queendom?”
“Forgiveness, my fair young lady!” cried the young man. “For if it is true that I am a knight and a king’s son, I shall be your fervent defender! How could I guess that a goddess, or a fay, ruled over this realm?”
“I thank you,” said Viorica, “but I need no servants other than my loyal subjects and I only demand that no human beings trample on my domain.”
With these words, she disappeared as if the mountain had swallowed her, and those outside could not see the droves of ants kissing her feet and carrying her in triumph to her chambers, where she calmly resumed her work, as if nothing had happened. And outside, at the foot of the mountain, the king’s son stood as if lost in a dream and for hours refused to mount on his horse, in the hope that the fair queen would reappear, even if proffering hard words and darting a reproachful stare, for he at least would see her again! He saw only ants, and more ants, in endless columns, efficiently striving to repair what he and his retinue, in their youthful mischief, had wrecked. In his anger and impatience, he could have crushed them under his boots, because the creatures didn’t seem to understand his questions, or didn’t even hear his words, instead scurrying boldly around, in their newfound sense of security. In the end, a sad prince mounted his steed, and began to plot and plan how to win the loveliest young woman he’d ever seen, riding on and on into the night, to his retinue’s vast discontent, who wished both anthill and lady in Hell, as they thought of the supper table and pitchers of wine that had been long awaiting them.
Viorica had lain down to rest later than any of her subjects. She ordinarily visited the pupae every evening, to test the softness of their cots with her fingers; so she ambled down the passageways, lifting one flower-curtain after the other, a firefly perched on her fingertip, and looked after the young brood with tenderness. Now she went back to her quarters and dismissed all the glowing beetles that shed light over her long hours of needlework. Only one single glow-worm remained alongside her, while she undressed. She was used to falling at once into the deepest sleep, but that night she tossed and turned in her bed, twirled strands of hair around her finger, rose from bed and then lay down again, all along feeling so hot, so hot. She had never thought that her palace held so little fresh air but now she would have gladly hastened outside, only fearing that her wandering would be discovered, and that by her bad example she might corrupt others. Urged on by her councilors, she had passed many a harsh sentence, banishing a few because of their forbidden wanderings. She had also condemned others to death, and had to watch with a bleeding heart as the merciless stabbings were carried on.
The next morning she was up before everyone else and surprised her subjects by showing them a new gallery she had built all by herself.
Surely she was unaware of the many glances she had cast in the direction of the forest, and of the many times she had stood still, listening. No sooner had she regained her chambers than a few ants ran to her in terror. “The evil man has returned, and he is riding again around our mountain!”
“Let him be,” replied Queen Viorica in utter calm. “He will do us no more harm.”
But Viorica, our sweet young woman, heard her heart beating so loud she let out a deep sigh.
A peculiar unrest had come upon her. She wandered about much more than she used to, and she seemed to think that the pupae weren’t getting enough sunshine; she often carried a few of them outside, only to bring them back again, and she gave contradictory orders. The ants didn’t understand what was happening to her, and doubled their efforts to do everything perfectly, and they even tried to surprise her with a new splendid vaulted hall, at which she glanced in an absentminded way, scantily praising it. The sound of horse hooves roaming all over the mountain could be heard at any hour, but Viorica for many days didn’t allow herself to be seen.
A longing for the companionship of other human beings, a sentiment she had never known before, had now seized hold of her heart. She recalled her village, the Hora dance, the hamlets, Mother and her grave, which she had never visited since her departure.
After a few days, she announced to her subjects that she was thinking of visiting her mother’s grave, to which the ants, alarmed, asked whether her reminiscing meant that she could no longer find happiness with them. “Oh, no,” said Viorica. “I will be away only for a few hours, and I’ll be back among you before nightfall.”
She refused all escort, but a few ants followed her nonetheless, while endeavoring not to be seen.
Everything seemed different from what she remembered, and she realized that she must have spent a much longer time in the company of the ants than she had thought. Her subjects, she reckoned, had needed more than a few days to build the immense palace in which they lived. Maybe years had passed. Her mother’s grave was impossible to find as weed and brambles had grown all over the place, and Viorica, weeping, wandered about the churchyard, which now seemed foreign to her. Evening approached, and she was still looking for the grave she could not find. Then the voice of the King’s son reached her, close by. She wanted to flee, but the young man held her fast while he told her of his great love with so soft and so poignant words that she remained still, head bowed, and le
t herself listen. It was so sweet, to hear human speech again, and to hear words of love and friendship. Not until darkness had fallen did the thought strike her that she was a queen neglecting her duties, not an abandoned orphan, and that the ants had prohibited her from returning to the society of men. Viorica, running on swift feet, broke free from the king’s son. He pursued her with caressing words not far from her mountain, where she implored him to leave her be. Finally he accepted to depart upon the promise that she would come to meet him again the following evening.
Viorica glided inside the anthill without making the faintest sound, feeling her way down the galleries, fearfully glancing over her shoulder. More than once she thought she had heard the scurrying of tiny feet, voices whispering around her. No doubt it was her heart beating too fast, for as soon as she halted silence enveloped her. At last she found her chamber and sank in exhaustion upon her bed, but no sleep came to soothe her. She couldn’t help thinking that she had broken her promise, and that no one would respect her, now that her word was no longer sacred. She turned and tossed on her couch. Her pride balked at the idea of concealing her treason, and she knew the ants anyway, their implacable hatred and their cruel retribution. She often half rose, resting on her elbow to listen, and each time she had the impression that thousands of minuscule feet dashed in every direction, as if the entire mountain shuddered into life.
When morning felt near, she lifted one of the curtains of rose petals to hurry out in the open, but, to her amazement, she found the doorway filled with fir needles. She tried another, and then a third, until she had made the tour of all the passages. She called at the top of her lungs, and lo! through tiny, invisible openings did the ants enter, in droves. “Let me out!” she said with a strong voice. “In the open.”
“No,” said the ants. “We will not let you out. If we let you go out in the open, we would lose you.”
“You won’t obey my orders any longer?”