It was a curious instrument, a good deal like a guitar in shape; it had three strings, but only two pegs by which to tune them. The third string was never tuned at all, and thus added to the singular effect produced by the village girl’s music. And yet, oddly, the peardrum was not played by touching its strings, but by turning a little handle cunningly hidden on one side.
But the strange thing about the peardrum was not the music it made, or the strings, or the handle, but a little square box attached to one side. The box had a little flat lid that appeared to open by a spring. That was all the children could make out at first. They were most anxious to see inside the box, or to know what it contained, but they thought it might look curious to say so.
“It really is a most beautiful thing, is a peardrum,” the girl said, looking at it, and speaking in a voice that was almost affectionate.
“Where did you get it?” the children asked.
“I bought it,” the girl answered.
“Didn’t it cost a great deal of money?” they asked.
“Yes,” answered the girl slowly, nodding her head, “it cost a great deal of money. I am very rich,” she added.
And this the children thought a really remarkable statement, for they had not supposed that rich people dressed in old clothes, or went about without bonnets.
She might at least have done her hair, they thought; but they did not like to say so.
“You don’t look rich,” they said slowly, and in as polite a voice as possible.
“Perhaps not,” the girl answered cheerfully.
At this the children gathered courage, and ventured to remark, “You look rather shabby”—they did not like to say ragged.
“Indeed?” said the girl in the voice of one who had heard a pleasant but surprising statement. “A little shabbiness is very respectable,” she added in a satisfied voice. “I must really tell them this,” she continued. And the children wondered what she meant. She opened the little box by the side of the peardrum, and said, just as if she were speaking to someone who could hear her, “They say I look rather shabby; it is quite lucky, isn’t it?”
“Why, you are not speaking to anyone!” they said, more surprised than ever.
“Oh dear, yes! I am speaking to them both.”
“Both?” they said, wondering.
“Yes. I have here a little man dressed as a peasant, and wearing a wide slouch hat with a large feather, and a little woman to match, dressed in a red petticoat, and a white handkerchief pinned across her bosom. I put them on the lid of the box, and when I play they dance most beautifully. The little man takes off his hat and waves it in the air, and the little woman holds up her petticoat a little bit on one side with one hand, and with the other sends forward a kiss.”
“Oh! let us see; do let us see!” the children cried, both at once.
Then the village girl looked at them doubtfully.
“Let you see!” she said slowly. “Well, I am not sure that I can.Tell me, are you good?”
“Yes, yes,” they answered eagerly, “we are very good!”
“Then it’s quite impossible,” she answered, and resolutely closed the lid of the box.
They stared at her in astonishment.
“But we are good,” they cried, thinking she must have misunderstood them. “We are very good. Mother always says we are.”
“So you remarked before,” the girl said, speaking in a tone of decision.
Still the children did not understand.
“Then can’t you let us see the little man and woman?” they asked.
“Oh dear, no!” the girl answered. “I only show them to naughty children.”
“To naughty children!” they exclaimed.
“Yes, to naughty children,” she answered; “and the worse the children the better do the man and woman dance.”
She put the peardrum carefully under her ragged cloak, and prepared to go on her way.
“I really could not have believed that you were good,” she said, reproachfully, as if they had accused themselves of some great crime. “Well, good day.”
“Oh, but do show us the little man and woman,” they cried.
“Certainly not. Good day,” she said again.
“Oh, but we will be naughty,” they said in despair.
“I am afraid you couldn’t,” she answered, shaking her head. “It requires a great deal of skill, especially to be naughty well. Good day,” she said for the third time. “Perhaps I shall see you in the village tomorrow.”
And swiftly she walked away, while the children felt their eyes fill with tears, and their hearts ache with disappointment.
“If we had only been naughty, ”they said, “we should have seen them dance; we should have seen the little woman holding her red petticoat in her hand, and the little man waving his hat. Oh, what shall we do to make her let us see them?”
“Suppose,” said the Turkey, “we try to be naughty today; perhaps she would let us see them tomorrow.”
“But, oh!” said Blue-Eyes, “I don’t know how to be naughty; no one ever taught me.”
The Turkey thought for a few minutes in silence.
“I think I can be naughty if I try,” she said. “I’ll try to-night.”
And then poor Blue-Eyes burst into tears.
“Oh, don’t be naughty without me!” she cried. “It would be so unkind of you. You know I want to see the little man and woman just as much as you do. You are very, very unkind.” And she sobbed bitterly.
And so, quarrelling and crying, they reached their home.
Now, when their mother saw them, she was greatly astonished, and, fearing they were hurt, ran to meet them.
“Oh, my children, oh, my dear, dear children,” she said; “what is the matter?”
But they did not dare tell their mother about the village girl and the little man and woman, so they answered, “Nothing is the matter; nothing at all is the matter,” and cried all the more.
“But why are you crying?” she asked in surprise.
“Surely we may cry if we like,” they sobbed. “We are very fond of crying.”
“Poor children!” the mother said to herself. “They are tired, and perhaps they are hungry; after tea they will be better. ”And she went back to the cottage, and made the fire blaze, until its reflection danced about on the tin lids upon the wall; and she put the kettle on to boil, and set the tea-things on the table, and opened the window to let in the sweet fresh air, and made all things look bright. Then she went to the little cupboard, hung up high against the wall, and took out some bread and put it on the table, and said in a loving voice, “Dear little children, come and have your tea; it is all quite ready for you. And see, there is the baby waking up from her sleep; we will put her in the high chair, and she will crow at us while we eat.”
But the children made no answer to the dear mother; they only stood still by the window and said nothing.
“Come, children,” the mother said again. “Come, Blue-Eyes, and come, my Turkey; here is nice sweet bread for tea.”
Then Blue-Eyes and the Turkey looked round, and when they saw the tall loaf, baked crisp and brown, and the cups all in a row, and the jug of milk, all waiting for them, they went to the table and sat down and felt a little happier; and the mother did not put the baby in the high chair after all, but took it on her knee, and danced it up and down, and sang little snatches of songs to it, and laughed, and looked content, and thought of the father far away at sea, and wondered what he would say to them all when he came home again. Then suddenly she looked up and saw that the Turkey’s eyes were full of tears.
“Turkey!” she exclaimed, “my dear little Turkey! what is the matter? Come to mother, my sweet; come to own mother.” And putting the baby down on the rug, she held out her arms, and the Turkey, getting up from her chair, ran swiftly into them.
“Oh, mother,” she sobbed, “oh, dear mother! I do so want to be naughty.”
“My dear child!” the mother exclaimed.<
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“Yes, mother,” the child sobbed, more and more bitterly. “I do so want to be very, very naughty.”
And then Blue-Eyes left her chair also, and, rubbing her face against the mother’s shoulder, cried sadly. “And so do I, mother. Oh, I’d give anything to be very, very naughty.”
“But, my dear children,” said the mother, in astonishment, “why do you want to be naughty?”
“Because we do; oh, what shall we do?” they cried together.
“I should be very angry if you were naughty. But you could not be, for you love me,” the mother answered.
“Why couldn’t we be naughty because we love you?” they asked.
“Because it would make me very unhappy; and if you love me you couldn’t make me unhappy.”
“Why couldn’t we?” they asked.
Then the mother thought a while before she answered; and when she did so they hardly understood, perhaps because she seemed to be speaking rather to herself than to them.
“Because if one loves well,” she said gently, “one’s love is stronger than all bad feelings in one, and conquers them. And this is the test whether love be real or false, unkindness and wickedness have no power over it.”
“We don’t know what you mean,” they cried; “and we do love you; but we want to be naughty.”
“Then I should know you did not love me,” the mother said.
“And what should you do?” asked Blue-Eyes.
“I cannot tell. I should try to make you better.”
“But if you couldn’t? If we were very, very, very naughty, and wouldn’t be good, what then?”
“Then,” said the mother sadly—and while she spoke her eyes filled with tears, and a sob almost choked her—“then,” she said, “I should have to go away and leave you, and to send home a new mother, with glass eyes and wooden tail.”
“You couldn’t,” they cried.
“Yes, I could,” she answered in a low voice; “but it would make me very unhappy, and I will never do it unless you are very, very naughty, and I am obliged.”
“We won’t be naughty,” they cried; “we will be good. We should hate a new mother; and she shall never come here.” And they clung to their own mother, and kissed her fondly.
But when they went to bed they sobbed bitterly, for they remembered the little man and woman, and longed more than ever to see them; but how could they bear to let their own mother go away, and a new one take her place?
II.
“Good day,” said the village girl, when she saw Blue-Eyes and the Turkey approach. She was again sitting by the heap of stones, and under her shawl the peardrum was hidden. She looked just as if she had not moved since the day before. “Good day,” she said, in the same cheerful voice in which she had spoken yesterday; “the weather is really charming.”
“Are the little man and woman there?” the children asked, taking no notice of her remark.
“Yes; thank you for inquiring after them,” the girl answered; “they are both here and quite well. The little man is learning how to rattle the money in his pocket, and the little woman has heard a secret—she tells it while she dances.”
“Oh, do let us see,” they entreated.
“Quite impossible, I assure you,” the girl answered promptly. “You see, you are good.”
“Oh!” said Blue-Eyes, sadly; “but mother says if we are naughty she will go away and send home a new mother, with glass eyes and a wooden tail.”
“Indeed,” said the girl, still speaking in the same unconcerned voice, “that is what they all say.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Turkey.
“They all threaten that kind of thing. Of course really there are no mothers with glass eyes and wooden tails; they would be much too expensive to make.”
And the common sense of this remark the children, especially the Turkey, saw at once, but they merely said, half crying—“We think you might let us see the little man and woman dance.”
“The kind of thing you would think,” remarked the village girl.
“But will you if we are naughty?” they asked in despair.
“I fear you could not be naughty—that is, really—even if you tried,” she said scornfully.
“Oh, but we will try; we will indeed,” they cried; “so do show them to us.”
“Certainly not beforehand,” answered the girl, getting up and preparing to walk away.
“But if we are very naughty to-night, will you let us see them to-morrow?”
“Questions asked to-day are always best answered to-morrow,” the girl said, and turned round as if to walk on. “Good day,” she said blithely; “I must really go and play a little to myself; good day,” she repeated, and then suddenly she began to sing:
“Oh, sweet and fair’s the lady-bird,
And so’s the bumble-bee,
But I myself have long preferred
The gentle chimpanzee,
The gentle chimpanzee-e-e,
The gentle chim—”
“I beg your pardon,” she said, stopping, and looking over her shoulder; “it’s very rude to sing without leave before company. I won’t do it again.”
“Oh, do go on,” the children said.
“I’m going,” she said, and walked away.
“No, we meant go on singing,” they explained, “and do let us just hear you play,” they entreated, remembering that as yet they had not heard a single sound from the peardrum.
“Quite impossible,” she called out as she went along. “You are good, as I remarked before. The pleasure of goodness centres in itself; the pleasures of naughtiness are many and varied. Good day,” she shouted, for she was almost out of hearing.
For a few minutes the children stood still looking after her, then they broke down and cried. “She might have let us see them,” they sobbed.
The Turkey was the first to wipe away her tears.
“Let us go home and be very naughty,” she said; “then perhaps she will let us see them to-morrow.”
“But what shall we do?” asked Blue-Eyes, looking up. Then together all the way home they planned how to begin being naughty. And that afternoon the dear mother was sorely distressed, for, instead of sitting at their tea as usual with smiling happy faces, and then helping her to clear away and doing all she told them, they broke their mugs and threw their bread and butter on the floor, and when the mother told them to do one thing they carefully went and did another, and as for helping her to put away, they left her to do it all by herself, and only stamped their feet with rage when she told them to go upstairs until they were good.
“We won’t be good,” they cried. “We hate being good, and we always mean to be naughty. We like being naughty very much.”
“Do you remember what I told you I should do if you were very very naughty?” she asked sadly.
“Yes, we know, but it isn’t true,” they cried. “There is no mother with a wooden tail and glass eyes, and if there were we should just stick pins into her and send her away; but there is none.”
Then the mother became really angry at last, and sent them off to bed, but instead of crying and being sorry at her anger they laughed for joy, and when they were in bed they sat up and sang merry songs at the top of their voices.
The next morning quite early, without asking leave from the mother, the children got up and ran off as fast as they could over the fields towards the bridge to look for the village girl. She was sitting as usual by the heap of stones with the peardrum under her shawl.
“Now please show us the little man and woman,” they cried, “and let us hear the peardrum. We were very naughty last night.” But the girl kept the peardrum carefully hidden. “We were very naughty,” the children cried again.
“Indeed,” she said in precisely the same tone in which she had spoken yesterday.
“But we were,” they repeated; “we were indeed.”
“So you say,” she answered. “You were not half naughty enough.”
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��Why, we were sent to bed!”
“Just so,” said the girl, putting the other corner of the shawl over the peardrum. “If you had been really naughty you wouldn’t have gone; but you can’t help it, you see. As I remarked before, it requires a great deal of skill to be naughty well.”
“But we broke our mugs, we threw our bread and butter on the floor, we did everything we could to be tiresome.”
“Mere trifles,” answered the village girl scornfully. “Did you throw cold water on the fire, did you break the clock, did you pull all the tins down from the walls, and throw them on the floor?”
“No!” exclaimed the children, aghast, “we did not do that.”
“I thought not,” the girl answered. “So many people mistake a little noise and foolishness for real naughtiness; but, as I remarked before, it wants skill to do the thing properly. Well, good day,” and before they could say another word she had vanished.
“We’ll be much worse,” the children cried, in despair. “We’ll go and do all the things she says”; and then they went home and did all these things.
They threw water on the fire; they pulled down the baking-dish and the cake-tin, the fish-slice and the lid of the saucepan they had never seen, and banged them on the floor; they broke the clock and danced on the butter; they turned everything upside down; and then they sat still and wondered if they were naughty enough. And when the mother saw all that they had done she did not scold them as she had the day before or send them to bed, but she just broke down and cried, and then she looked at the children and said sadly:
“Unless you are good to-morrow, my poor Blue-Eyes and Turkey, I shall indeed have to go away and come back no more, and the new mother I told you of will come to you.”
They did not believe her; yet their hearts ached when they saw how unhappy she looked, and they thought within themselves that when they once had seen the little man and woman dance, they would be good to the dear mother for ever afterwards; but they could not be good now till they had heard the sound of the peardrum, seen the little man and woman dance, and heard the secret told—then they would be satisfied.
The Treasury Of The Fantastic Page 34