Curdie and His Mother Curdie went up the mountain neither whistling nor singing, for he was vexed with Irene for taking him in, as he called it; and he was vexed with himself for having spoken to her so angrily.His mother gave a cry of joy when she saw him, and at once set about getting him something to eat, asking him questions all the time, which he did not answer so cheerfully as usual.When his meal was ready, she left him to eat it, and hurried to the mine to let his father know he was safe.When she came back, she found him fast asleep upon her bed; nor did he wake until his father came home in the evening.
'Now, Curdie,' his mother said, as they sat at supper, 'tell us the whole story from beginning to end, just as it all happened.'
Curdie obeyed, and told everything to the point where they came out upon the lawn in the garden of the king's house.
'And what happened after that?' asked his mother.'You haven't told us all.You ought to be very happy at having got away from those demons, and instead of that I never saw you so gloomy.There must be something more.Besides, you do not speak of that lovely child as I should like to hear you.She saved your life at the risk of her own, and yet somehow you don't seem to think much of it.'
'She talked such nonsense' answered Curdie, 'and told me a pack of things that weren't a bit true; and I can't get over it.'
'What were they?' asked his father.'Your mother may be able to throw some light upon them.'
Then Curdie made a clean breast of it, and told them everything.
They all sat silent for some time, pondering the strange tale.At last Curdie's mother spoke.
'You confess, my boy,' she said, 'there is something about the whole affair you do not understand?'
'Yes, of course, mother,' he answered.'I cannot understand how a child knowing nothing about the mountain, or even that I was shut up in it, should come all that way alone, straight to where I was;and then, after getting me out of the hole, lead me out of the mountain too, where I should not have known a step of the way if it had been as light as in the open air.'
'Then you have no right to say what she told you was not true.She did take you out, and she must have had something to guide her: why not a thread as well as a rope, or anything else? There is something you cannot explain, and her explanation may be the right one.'
'It's no explanation at all, mother; and I can't believe it.'
'That may be only because you do not understand it.If you did, you would probably find it was an explanation, and believe it thoroughly.I don't blame you for not being able to believe it, but I do blame you for fancying such a child would try to deceive you.Why should she? Depend upon it, she told you all she knew.
Until you had found a better way of accounting for it all, you might at least have been more sparing of your judgement.'
'That is what something inside me has been saying all the time,'
said Curdie, hanging down his head.'But what do you make of the grandmother? That is what I can't get over.To take me up to an old garret, and try to persuade me against the sight of my own eyes that it was a beautiful room, with blue walls and silver stars, and no end of things in it, when there was nothing there but an old tub and a withered apple and a heap of straw and a sunbeam! It was too bad! She might have had some old woman there at least to pass for her precious grandmother!'
'Didn't she speak as if she saw those other things herself, Curdie?'
'Yes.That's what bothers me.You would have thought she really meant and believed that she saw every one of the things she talked about.And not one of them there! It was too bad, I say.'
'Perhaps some people can see things other people can't see, Curdie,' said his mother very gravely.'I think I will tell you something I saw myself once - only Perhaps You won't believe me either!'
'Oh, mother, mother!' cried Curdie, bursting into tears; 'I don't deserve that, surely!'
'But what I am going to tell you is very strange,' persisted his mother; 'and if having heard it you were to say I must have been dreaming, I don't know that I should have any right to be vexed with you, though I know at least that I was not asleep.'
'Do tell me, mother.Perhaps it will help me to think better of the princess.'
'That's why I am tempted to tell you,' replied his mother.'But first, I may as well mention that, according to old whispers, there is something more than common about the king's family; and the queen was of the same blood, for they were cousins of some degree.
There were strange stories told concerning them - all good stories - but strange, very strange.What they were I cannot tell, for Ionly remember the faces of my grandmother and my mother as they talked together about them.There was wonder and awe - not fear -in their eyes, and they whispered, and never spoke aloud.But what I saw myself was this: Your father was going to work in the mine one night, and I had been down with his supper.It was soon after we were married, and not very long before you were born.He came with me to the mouth of the mine, and left me to go home alone, for I knew the way almost as well as the floor of our own cottage.It was pretty dark, and in some parts of the road where the rocks overhung nearly quite dark.But I got along perfectly well, never thinking of being afraid, until I reached a spot you know well enough, Curdie, where the path has to make a sharp turn out of the way of a great rock on the left-hand side.When I got there, I was suddenly surrounded by about half a dozen of the cobs, the first Ihad ever seen, although I had heard tell of them often enough.One of them blocked up the path, and they all began tormenting and teasing me in a way it makes me shudder to think of even now.'
'If I had only been with you!' cried father and son in a breath.
The mother gave a funny little smile, and went on.