she went straight to the bed, and taking rosamond in her arms, sat down with her by the fire.
“my poor child!” she said. “two terrible failures! and the more the harder! they get stronger and stronger. what is to be done?”
“couldn’t you help me?” said rosamond piteously.
“perhaps i could, now you ask me,” answered the wise woman. “when you are ready to try again, we shall see.”
“i am very tired of myself,” said the princess. “but i can’t rest till i try again.”
“that is the only way to get rid of your weary, shadowy self, and find your strong, true self. come, my child; i will help you all i can, for now i can help you.”
yet again she led her to the same door, and seemed to the princess to send her yet again alone into the room. she was in a forest, a place half wild, half tended. the trees were grand, and full of the loveliest birds, of all glowing gleaming and radiant colors, which, unlike the brilliant birds we know in our world, sang deliciously, every one according to his color. the trees were not at all crowded, but their leaves were so thick, and their boughs spread so far, that it was only here and there a sunbeam could get straight through. all the gentle creatures of a forest were there, but no creatures that killed, not even a weasel to kill the rabbits, or a beetle to eat the snails out of their striped shells. as to the butterflies, words would but wrong them if they tried to tell how gorgeous they were. the princess’s delight was so great that she neither laughed nor ran, but walked about with a solemn countenance and stately step.
“but where are the flowers?” she said to herself at length.
they were nowhere. neither on the high trees, nor on the few shrubs that grew here and there amongst them, were there any blossoms; and in the grass that grew everywhere there was not a single flower to be seen.
“ah, well!” said rosamond again to herself, “where all the birds and butterflies are living flowers, we can do without the other sort.”
still she could not help feeling that flowers were wanted to make the beauty of the forest complete.
suddenly she came out on a little open glade; and there, on the root of a great oak, sat the loveliest little girl, with her lap full of flowers of all colors, but of such kinds as rosamond had never before seen. she was playing with them—burying her hands in them, tumbling them about, and every now and then picking one from the rest, and throwing it away. all the time she never smiled, except with her eyes, which were as full as they could hold of the laughter of the spirit—a laughter which in this world is never heard, only sets the eyes alight with a liquid shining. rosamond drew nearer, for the wonderful creature would have drawn a tiger to her side, and tamed him on the way. a few yards from her, she came upon one of her cast-away flowers and stooped to pick it up, as well she might where none grew save in her own longing. but to her amazement she found, instead of a flower thrown away to wither, one fast rooted and quite at home. she left it, and went to another; but it also was fast in the soil, and growing comfortably in the warm grass. what could it mean? one after another she tried, until at length she was satisfied that it was the same with every flower the little girl threw from her lap.
she watched then until she saw her throw one, and instantly bounded to the spot. but the flower had been quicker than she: there it grew, fast fixed in the earth, and, she thought, looked at her roguishly. something evil moved in her, and she plucked it.
“don’t! don’t!” cried the child. “my flowers cannot live in your hands.”
rosamond looked at the flower. it was withered already. she threw it from her, offended. the child rose, with difficulty keeping her lapful together, picked it up, carried it back, sat down again, spoke to it, kissed it, sang to it—oh! such a sweet, childish little song!—the princess never could recall a word of it—and threw it away. up rose its little head, and there it was, busy growing again!
rosamond’s bad temper soon gave way: the beauty and sweetness of the child had overcome it; and, anxious to make friends with her, she drew near, and said:
“won’t you give me a little flower, please, you beautiful child?”
“there they are; they are all for you,” answered the child, pointing with her outstretched arm and forefinger all round.
“but you told me, a minute ago, not to touch them.”
“yes, indeed, i did.”
“they can’t be mine, if i’m not to touch them.”
“if, to call them yours, you must kill them, then they are not yours, and never, never can be yours. they are nobody’s when they are dead.”
“but you don’t kill them.”
“i don’t pull them; i throw them away. i live them.”
“how is it that you make them grow?”
“i say, ‘you darling!’ and throw it away and there it is.”
“where do you get them?”
“in my lap.”
“i wish you would let me throw one away.”
“have you got any in your lap? let me see.”
“no; i have none.”
“then you can’t throw one away, if you haven’t got one.”
“you are mocking me!” cried the princess.
“i am not mocking you,” said the child, looking her full in the face, with reproach in her large blue eyes.
“oh, that’s where the flowers come from!” said the princess to herself, the moment she saw them, hardly knowing what she meant.
then the child rose as if hurt, and quickly threw away all the flowers she had in her lap, but one by one, and without any sign of anger. when they were all gone, she stood a moment, and then, in a kind of chanting cry, called, two or three times, “peggy! peggy! peggy!”
a low, glad cry, like the whinny of a horse, answered, and, presently, out of the wood on the opposite side of the glade, came gently trotting the loveliest little snow-white pony, with great shining blue wings, half-lifted from his shoulders. straight towards the little girl, neither hurrying nor lingering, he trotted with light elastic tread.
rosamond’s love for animals broke into a perfect passion of delight at the vision. she rushed to meet the pony with such haste, that, although clearly the best trained animal under the sun, he started back, plunged, reared, and struck out with his fore-feet ere he had time to observe what sort of a creature it was that had so startled him. when he perceived it was a little girl, he dropped instantly upon all fours, and content with avoiding her, resumed his quiet trot in the direction of his mistress. rosamond stood gazing after him in miserable disappointment.
when he reached the child, he laid his head on her shoulder, and she put her arm up round his neck; and after she had talked to him a little, he turned and came trotting back to the princess.
almost beside herself with joy, she began caressing him in the rough way which, not-withstanding her love for them, she was in the habit of using with animals; and she was not gentle enough, in herself even, to see that he did not like it, and was only putting up with it for the sake of his mistress. but when, that she might jump upon his back, she laid hold of one of his wings, and ruffled some of the blue feathers, he wheeled suddenly about, gave his long tail a sharp whisk which threw her flat on the grass, and, trotting back to his mistress, bent down his head before her as if asking excuse for ridding himself of the unbearable.
the princess was furious. she had forgotten all her past life up to the time when she first saw the child: her beauty had made her forget, and yet she was now on the very borders of hating her. what she might have done, or rather tried to do, had not peggy’s tail struck her down with such force that for a moment she could not rise, i cannot tell.
but while she lay half-stunned, her eyes fell on a little flower just under them. it stared up in her face like the living thing it was, and she could not take her eyes off its face. it was like a primrose trying to express doubt instead of confidence. it seemed to put her half in mind of something, and she felt as if shame were coming. she put out her hand to pluck it; but the moment her fingers touched it, the flower withered up, and hung as dead on its stalks as if a flame of fire had passed over it.
then a shudder thrilled through the heart of the princess, and she thought with herself, saying—“what sort of a creature am i that the flowers wither when i touch them, and the ponies despise me with their tails? what a wretched, coarse, ill-bred creature i must be! there is that lovely child giving life instead of death to the flowers, and a moment ago i was hating her! i am made horrid, and i shall be horrid, and i hate myself, and yet i can’t help being myself!”
she heard the sound of galloping feet, and there was the pony, with the child seated betwixt his wings, coming straight on at full speed for where she lay.
“i don’t care,” she said. “they may trample me under their feet if they like. i am tired and sick of myself—a creature at whose touch the flowers wither!”
on came the winged pony. but while yet some distance off, he gave a great bound, spread out his living sails of blue, rose yards and yards above her in the air, and alighted as gently as a bird, just a few feet on the other side of her. the child slipped down and came and kneeled over her.
“did my pony hurt you?” she said. “i am so sorry!”
“yes, he hurt me,” answered the princess, “but not more than i deserved, for i took liberties with him, and he did not like it.”
“oh, you dear!” said the little girl. “i love you for talking so of my peggy. he is a good pony, though a little playful sometimes. would you like a ride upon him?”
“you darling beauty!” cried rosamond, sobbing. “i do love you so, you are so good. how did you become so sweet?”
“would you like to ride my pony?” repeated the child, with a heavenly smile in her eyes.
“no, no; he is fit only for you. my clumsy body would hurt him,” said rosamond.
“you don’t mind me having such a pony?” said the child.
“what! mind it?” cried rosamond, almost indignantly. then remembering certain thoughts that had but a few moments before passed through her mind, she looked on the ground and was silent.
“you don’t mind it, then?” repeated the child.
“i am very glad there is such a you and such a pony, and that such a you has got such a pony,” said rosamond, still looking on the ground. “but i do wish the flowers would not die when i touch them. i was cross to see you make them grow, but now i should be content if only i did not make them wither.”
as she spoke, she stroked the little girl’s bare feet, which were by her, half buried in the soft moss, and as she ended she laid her cheek on them and kissed them.
“dear princess!” said the little girl, “the flowers will not always wither at your touch. try now—only do not pluck it. flowers ought never to be plucked except to give away. touch it gently.”
a silvery flower, something like a snow-drop, grew just within her reach. timidly she stretched out her hand and touched it. the flower trembled, but neither shrank nor withered.
“touch it again,” said the child.
it changed color a little, and rosamond fancied it grew larger.
“touch it again,” said the child.
it opened and grew until it was as large as a narcissus, and changed and deepened in color till it was a red glowing gold.
rosamond gazed motionless. when the transfiguration of the flower was perfected, she sprang to her feet with clasped hands, but for very ecstasy of joy stood speechless, gazing at the child.
“did you never see me before, rosamond?” she asked.
“no, never,” answered the princess. “i never saw any thing half so lovely.”
“look at me,” said the child.
and as rosamond looked, the child began, like the flower, to grow larger. quickly through every gradation of growth she passed, until she stood before her a woman perfectly beautiful, neither old nor young; for hers was the old age of everlasting youth.
rosamond was utterly enchanted, and stood gazing without word or movement until she could endure no more delight. then her mind collapsed to the thought—had the pony grown too? she glanced round. there was no pony, no grass, no flowers, no bright-birded forest—but the cottage of the wise woman—and before her, on the hearth of it, the goddess-child, the only thing unchanged.
she gasped with astonishment.
“you must set out for your father’s palace immediately,” said the lady.
“but where is the wise woman?” asked rosamond, looking all about.
“here,” said the lady.
and rosamond, looking again, saw the wise woman, folded as usual in her long dark cloak.
“and it was you all the time?” she cried in delight, and kneeled before her, burying her face in her garments.
“it always is me, all the time,” said the wise woman, smiling.
“but which is the real you?” asked rosamond; “this or that?”
“or a thousand others?” returned the wise woman. “but the one you have just seen is the likest to the real me that you are able to see just yet—but—. and that me you could not have seen a little while ago.—but, my darling child,” she went on, lifting her up and clasping her to her bosom, “you must not think, because you have seen me once, that therefore you are capable of seeing me at all times. no; there are many things in you yet that must be changed before that can be. now, however, you will seek me. every time you feel you want me, that is a sign i am wanting you. there are yet many rooms in my house you may have to go through; but when you need no more of them, then you will be able to throw flowers like the little girl you saw in the forest.”
the princess gave a sigh.
“do not think,” the wise woman went on, “that the things you have seen in my house are mere empty shows. you do not know, you cannot yet think, how living and true they are.—now you must go.”
she led her once more into the great hall, and there showed her the picture of her father’s capital, and his palace with the brazen gates.
“there is your home,” she said. “go to it.”
the princess understood, and a flush of shame rose to her forehead. she turned to the wise woman and said:
“will you forgive all my naughtiness, and all the trouble i have given you?”
“if i had not forgiven you, i would never have taken the trouble to punish you. if i had not loved you, do you think i would have carried you away in my cloak?”
“how could you love such an ugly, ill-tempered, rude, hateful little wretch?”
“i saw, through it all, what you were going to be,” said the wise woman, kissing her. “but remember you have yet only begun to be what i saw.”
“i will try to remember,” said the princess, holding her cloak, and looking up in her face.
“go, then,” said the wise woman.
rosamond turned away on the instant, ran to the picture, stepped over the frame of it, heard a door close gently, gave one glance back, saw behind her the loveliest palace-front of alabaster, gleaming in the pale-yellow light of an early summer-morning, looked again to the eastward, saw the faint outline of her father’s city against the sky, and ran off to reach it.
it looked much further off now than when it seemed a picture, but the sun was not yet up, and she had the whole of a summer day before her.