The Victorian Fairy Tale Book (Pantheon Fairy Tale & Folklore Library)

by Hearn, Michael Patrick

  So they led the new-comer up to the room where Fiorimonde sat. He was wrapped in a thick cloak, but he flung it aside as he came in, and showed how rich was his silken clothing underneath; and so well was he disguised, that Fiorimonde never saw that it was Gervaise, but looked at him, and thought she had never seen him before.

  “You are most welcome, stranger prince, who has come through such lightning and thunder to find me,” said she. “Is it true, then, that you wish to be my suitor? What have you heard of me?”

  “It is quite true, Princess,” said Gervaise. “And I have heard that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “And is that true also?” asked the Princess. “Look at me now, and see.”

  Gervaise looked at her and in his heart he said, “It is quite true, oh wicked Princess! There never was woman as beautiful as you, and never before did I hate a woman as I hate you now”; but aloud he said:

  “No, Princess, that is not true; you are very beautiful, but I have seen a woman who is fairer than you for all that your skin looks ivory against your velvet dress, and your hair is like gold.”

  “A woman who is fairer than I?” cried Fiorimonde, and her breast began to heave and her eyes to sparkle with rage, for never before had she heard such a thing said. “Who are you who dares come and tell me of women more beautiful than I am?”

  “I am a suitor who asks to be your husband, Princess,” answered Gervaise, “but still I say I have seen a woman who was fairer than you.”

  “Who is she—where is she?” cried Fiorimonde, who could scarcely contain her anger. “Bring her here at once that I may see if you speak the truth.”

  “What will you give me to bring her to you?” said Gervaise. “Give me that necklace you wear on your neck, and then I will summon her in an instant”; but Fiorimonde shook her head.

  “You have asked,” said she, “for the only thing from which I cannot part,” and then she bade her maids bring her her jewel-casket, and she drew out diamonds, and rubies, and pearls, and offered them, all or any, to Gervaise. The lightning shone on them and made them shine and flash, but he shook his head.

  “No, none of these will do,” quoth he. “You can see her for the necklace, but for nothing else.”

  “Take it off for yourself then,” cried Fiorimonde, who now was so angry that she only wished to be rid of Gervaise in any way.

  “No, indeed,” said Gervaise, “I am no tire-woman, and should not know how to clasp and unclasp it”; and in spite of all Fiorimonde could say or do, he would not touch either her or the magic chain.

  At night the storm grew even fiercer, but it did not trouble the Princess. She waited till all were asleep, and then she opened her bedroom window and chirruped softly to the little brown bird, who flew down from the roof at her call. Then she gave him a handful of seeds as before, and he grew and grew and grew till he was as large as an ostrich, and she sat upon his back and flew out through the air, laughing at the lightning and thunder which flashed and roared around her. Away they flew till they came to the old witch’s cave, and here they found the witch sitting at her open door catching the lightning to make charms with.

  “Welcome, my dear,” croaked she, as Fiorimonde stepped from the bird; “here is a night we both love well. And how goes the necklace?—right merrily I see. Twelve beads already—but what is that twelfth?” and she looked at it closely.

  “Nay, that is one thing I want you to tell me,” said Fiorimonde, drying the rain from her golden hair. “Last night when I slept there were eleven, and this morning there are twelve; and I know not from whence comes the twelfth.”

  “It is no suitor,” said the witch, “but from some young maid, that that bead is made. But why should you mind? It looks well with the others.”

  “Some young maid,” said the Princess. “Then it must be Cicely or Marybel, or Yolande, who would have robbed me of my necklace as I slept. But what care I? The silly wench is punished now, and so may all others be, who would do the same.”

  “And when will you get the thirteenth bead, and where will he come from?” asked the witch.

  “He waits at the palace now,” said Fiorimonde, chuckling. “And this is why I have to speak to you”; and then she told the witch of the stranger who had come in the storm, and of how he would not touch her necklace, nor take the cord in his hand, and how he said also that he knew a woman fairer than she.

  “Beware, Princess, beware,” cried the witch in a warning voice, as she listened. “Why should you heed tales of other women fairer than you? Have I not made you the most beautiful woman in the world, and can any others do more than I? Give no ear to what this stranger says or you shall rue it.” But still the Princess murmured, and said she did not love to hear any one speak of others as beautiful as she.

  “Be warned in time,” cried the witch, “or you will have cause to repeat it. Are you so silly or so vain as to be troubled because a prince says idly what you know is not true? I tell you do not listen to him, but let him be slung to your chain as soon as may be, and then he will speak no more.” And then they talked together of how Fiorimonde could make Gervaise grasp the fatal string.

  Next morning when the sun rose, Gervaise started off into the woods, and there he plucked acorns and haws, and hips, and strung them on to a string to form a rude necklace. This he hid in his bosom then, and went back to the palace without telling any one.

  When the Princess rose, she dressed herself as beautifully as she could, and braided her golden locks with great care, for this morning she meant her new suitor to meet his fate. After breakfast, she stepped into the garden, where the sun shone brightly, and all looked fresh after the storm. Here from the grass she picked up a golden ball, and began to play with it.

  “Go to our new guest,” cried she to her ladies, “and ask him to come here and play at ball with me.” So they went, and soon they returned bringing Gervaise with them.

  “Good morrow, Prince,” cried she. “Pray, come and try your skill at this game with me; and you,” she said to her ladies, “do not wait to watch our play, but each go your way, and do what pleases you best.” So they all went away, and left her alone with Gervaise.

  “Well, Prince,” cried she as they began to play, “what do you think of me by morning light? Yesterday when you came it was so dark, with thunder and clouds, that you could scarcely see my face, but now that there is bright sunshine, pray look well at me, and see if you do not think me as beautiful as any woman on earth,” and she smiled at Gervaise, and looked so lovely as she spoke, that he scarce knew how to answer her; but he remembered Yolande, and said:

  “Doubtless you are very beautiful; then why should you mind my telling you that I have seen a woman lovelier than you?”

  At this the Princess again began to be angry, but she thought of the witch’s words and said:

  “Then, if you think there is a woman fairer than I, look at my beads, and now, that you see their colours in the sun, say if you ever saw such jewels before.”

  “It is true I have never seen beads like yours, but I have a necklace here, which pleases me better”; and from his pocket he drew the haws and acorns, which he had strung together.

  “What is that necklace, and where did you get it? Show it to me!” cried Fiorimonde; but Gervaise held it out of her reach, and said:

  “I like my necklace better than yours, Princess; and, believe me, there is no necklace like mine in all the world.”

  “Why; is it a fairy necklace? What does it do? Pray give it to me!” cried Fiorimonde, trembling with anger and curiosity, for she thought, “Perhaps it has power to make the wearer beautiful; perhaps it was worn by the woman whom he thought more beautiful than I, and that is why she looked so fair.”

  “Come, I will make a fair exchange,” said Gervaise. “Give me your necklace and you shall have mine, and when it is round your throat I will truthfully say that you are the fairest woman in the world; but first I must have your necklace.”

  “T
ake it, then,” cried the Princess, who, in her rage and eagerness, forgot all else, and she seized the string of beads to lift it from her neck, but no sooner had she taken it in her hands than they fell with a rattle to the earth, and Fiorimonde herself was nowhere to be seen. Gervaise bent down over the necklace as it lay upon the grass, and, with a smile, counted thirteen beads; and he knew the thirteenth was the wicked Princess, who had herself met the evil fete she had prepared for so many others.

  “Oh, clever Princess!” cried he, laughing aloud, “you are not so very clever, I think, to be so easily outwitted.” Then he picked up the necklace on the point of the sword and carried it, slung thereon, into the council-chamber, where sat the King surrounded by statesmen and courtiers busy with state affairs.

  “Pray, King,” said Gervaise, “send some one to seek for Princess Fiorimonde. A moment ago she played with me at ball in the garden, and now she is nowhere to be seen.”

  The King desired that servants should seek her Royal Highness; but they came back saying she was not to be found.

  “Then let me see if I cannot bring her to you; but first let those who have been longer lost than she, come and tell their own tale.” And, so saying, Gervaise let the necklace slip from his sword on to the floor, and taking from his breast a sharp dagger, proceeded to cut the golden thread on which the beads were strung, and as he clave it in two there came a mighty noise like a clap of thunder.

  “Now,” cried he, “look, and see King Pierrot who was lost,” and as he spoke he drew from the cord a bead, and King Pierrot, in his royal clothes, with his sword at his side, stood before them.

  “Treachery!” he cried, but ere he could say more Gervaise had drawn off another bead, and King Hildebrandt appeared, and after him came Adrian, and Sigbert, and Algar, and Cenred, and Pharamond, and Raoul, and last of the princes, Gervaise’s own dear master Florestan, and they all denounced Princess Fiorimonde and her wickedness.

  “And now,” cried Gervaise, “here is she who has helped to save you all,” and he drew off the twelfth bead, and there stood Yolande in her red dress; and when he saw her Gervaise flung away his dagger and took her in his arms, and they wept for joy.

  The King and all the courtiers sat pale and trembling, unable to speak for fear and shame. At length the King said with a deep groan:

  “We owe you deep amends, O noble kings and princes! What punishment do you wish to prepare for our most guilty daughter?” but here Gervaise stopped him, and said:

  “Give her no other punishment than what she has chosen for herself. See, here she is, the thirteenth bead upon the string; let no one dare to draw it off, but let this string be hung up where all people can see it and see the one bead, and know the wicked Princess is punished for her sorcery, so it will be a warning to others who would do like her.”

  So they lifted the golden thread with great care and hung it up outside the town hall, and there the one bead glittered and gleamed in the sunlight, and all who saw it knew that it was the wicked Princess Fiorimonde who had justly met her fate.

  Then all the kings and princes thanked Gervaise and Yolande, and loaded them with presents, and each went to his own land.

  And Gervaise married Yolande, and they went back with Prince Florestan to their home, and all lived happily to the end of their lives.

  1880

  The Golden Key

  GEORGE MACDONALD

  There was a boy who used to sit in the twilight and listen to his great-aunt’s stories.

  She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.

  “And what is the key for?” the boy would ask. “What is it the key of? What will it open?”

  “That nobody knows,” his aunt would reply. “He has to find that out.”

  “I suppose, being gold,” the boy once said, thoughtfully, “that I could get a good deal of money for it if I sold it.”

  “Better never find it than sell it,” returned his aunt.

  And then the boy went to bed and dreamed about the golden key.

  Now all that his great-aunt told the boy about the golden key would have been nonsense, had it not been that their little house stood on the borders of Fairyland. For it is perfectly well known that out of Fairyland nobody ever can find where the rainbow stands. The creature takes such good care of its golden key, always flitting from place to place, lest any one should find it! But in Fairyland it is quite different. Things that look real in this country look very thin indeed in Fairyland, while some of the things that here cannot stand still for a moment, will not move there. So it was not in the least absurd of the old lady to tell her nephew such things about the golden key.

  “Did you ever know anybody find it?” he asked, one evening.

  “Yes. Your father, I believe, found it.”

  “And what did he do with it, can you tell me?”

  “He never told me.”

  “What was it like?”

  “He never showed it to me.”

  “How does a new key come there always?”

  “I don’t know. There it is.”

  “Perhaps it is the rainbow’s egg.”

  “Perhaps it is. You will be a happy boy if you find the nest.”

  “Perhaps it comes tumbling down the rainbow from the sky.”

  “Perhaps it does.”

  One evening, in summer, he went into his own room, and stood at the lattice-window, and gazed into the forest which fringed the outskirts of Fairyland. It came close up to his great-aunt’s garden, and, indeed, sent some straggling trees into it. The forest lay to the east, and the sun, which was setting behind the cottage, looked straight into the dark wood with his level red eye. The trees were all old, and had few branches below, so that the sun could see a great way into the forest; and the boy, being keen-sighted, could see almost as far as the sun. The trunks stood like rows of red columns in the shine of the red sun, and he could see down aisle after aisle in the vanishing distance. And as he gazed into the forest he began to feel as if the trees were all waiting for him, and had something they could not go on with till he came to them. But he was hungry, and wanted his supper. So he lingered.

  Suddenly, far among the trees, as far as the sun could shine, he saw a glorious thing. It was the end of a rainbow, large and brilliant. He could count all the seven colours, and could see shade after shade beyond the violet; while before the red stood a colour more gorgeous and mysterious still. It was a colour he had never seen before. Only the spring of the rainbow-arch was visible. He could see nothing of it above the trees.

  “The golden key!” he said to himself, and darted out of the house, and into the wood.

  He had not gone far before the sun set. But the rainbow only glowed the brighter. For the rainbow of Fairyland is not dependent upon the sun as ours is. The trees welcomed him. The bushes made way for him. The rainbow grew larger and brighter; and at length he found himself within two trees of it.

  It was a grand sight, burning away there in silence, with its gorgeous, its lovely, its delicate colours, each distinct, all combining. He could now see a great deal more of it. It rose high into the blue heavens, but bent so little that he could not tell how high the crown of the arch must reach. It was still only a small portion of a huge bow.

  He stood gazing at it till he forgot himself with delight—even forgot the key which he had come to seek. And as he stood it grew more wonderful still. For in each of the colours, which was as large as the column of a church, he could faintly see beautiful forms slowly ascending as if by the steps of a winding stair. The forms appeared irregularly—now one, now many, now several, now none—men and women and children—all different, all beautiful.

  He drew nearer to the rainbow. It vanished. He started back a step in dismay. It was there again, as beautiful as ever. So he contented himself with standing as near it as he might, and watching the forms that ascended the glorious colours towards the unknown height of the arch, which did not e
nd abruptly, but faded away in the blue air, so gradually that he could not say where it ceased.

  When the thought of the golden key returned, the boy very wisely proceeded to mark out in his mind the space covered by the foundation of the rainbow, in order that he might know where to search, should the rainbow disappear. It was based chiefly upon a bed of moss.

  Meantime it had grown quite dark in the wood. The rainbow alone was visible by its own light. But the moment the moon rose the rainbow vanished. Nor could any change of place restore the vision to the boy’s eyes. So he threw himself down upon the mossy bed, to wait till the sunlight would give him a chance of finding the key. There he fell fast asleep.

  When he woke in the morning the sun was looking straight into his eyes. He turned away from it, and the same moment saw a brilliant little thing lying on the moss within a foot of his face. It was the golden key. The pipe of it was plain gold, as bright as gold could be. The handle was curiously wrought and set with sapphires. In a terror of delight he put out his hand and took it, and had it.

  He lay for a while, turning over and over, and feeding his eyes upon its beauty. Then he jumped to his feet, remembering that the pretty thing was of no use to him yet. Where was the lock to which the key belonged? It must be somewhere, for how could anybody be so silly as make a key for which there was no lock? Where should he go to look for it? He gazed about him, up into the air, down to the earth, but saw no keyhole in the clouds, in the grass, or in the trees.

  Just as he began to grow disconsolate, however, he saw something glimmering in the wood. It was a mere glimmer that he saw, but he took it for a glimmer of rainbow, and went towards it.—And now I will go back to the borders of the forest.

  Not far from the house where the boy had lived, there was another house, the owner of which was a merchant, who was much away from home. He had lost his wife some years before, and had only one child, a little girl, whom he left to the charge of two servants, who were very idle and careless. So she was neglected and left untidy, and was sometimes ill-used besides.