VII.
Notwithstanding the differences between the two girls, which were,indeed, so many that most people would have said they were not in theleast alike, they were the same in this, that each cared more for herown fancies and desires than for any thing else in the world. But Iwill tell you another difference: the princess was like severalchildren in one--such was the variety of her moods; and in one mood shehad no recollection or care about any thing whatever belonging to aprevious mood--not even if it had left her but a moment before, and hadbeen so violent as to make her ready to put her hand in the fire to getwhat she wanted. Plainly she was the mere puppet of her moods, and morethan that, any cunning nurse who knew her well enough could call orsend away those moods almost as she pleased, like a showman pullingstrings behind a show. Agnes, on the contrary, seldom changed her mood,but kept that of calm assured self-satisfaction. Father nor mother hadever by wise punishment helped her to gain a victory over herself, anddo what she did not like or choose; and their folly in reasoning withone unreasonable had fixed her in her conceit. She would actually nodher head to herself in complacent pride that she had stood out againstthem. This, however, was not so difficult as to justify even the prideof having conquered, seeing she loved them so little, and paid solittle attention to the arguments and persuasions they used. Neither,when she found herself wrapped in the dark folds of the wise woman'scloak, did she behave in the least like the princess, for she was notafraid. "She'll soon set me down," she said, too self-important tosuppose that any one would dare do her an injury.
Whether it be a good thing or a bad not to be afraid depends on whatthe fearlessness is founded upon. Some have no fear, because they haveno knowledge of the danger: there is nothing fine in that. Some are toostupid to be afraid: there is nothing fine in that. Some who are noteasily frightened would yet turn their backs and run, the moment theywere frightened: such never had more courage than fear. But the man whowill do his work in spite of his fear is a man of true courage. Thefearlessness of Agnes was only ignorance: she did not know what it wasto be hurt; she had never read a single story of giant, or ogress orwolf; and her mother had never carried out one of her threats ofpunishment. If the wise woman had but pinched her, she would have shownherself an abject little coward, trembling with fear at every change ofmotion so long as she carried her.
Nothing such, however, was in the wise woman's plan for the curing ofher. On and on she carried her without a word. She knew that if she sether down she would never run after her like the princess, at least notbefore the evil thing was already upon her. On and on she went, neverhalting, never letting the light look in, or Agnes look out. She walkedvery fast, and got home to her cottage very soon after the princess hadgone from it.
But she did not set Agnes down either in the cottage or in the greathall. She had other places, none of them alike. The place she hadchosen for Agnes was a strange one--such a one as is to be foundnowhere else in the wide world.
It was a great hollow sphere, made of a substance similar to that ofthe mirror which Rosamond had broken, but differently compounded. Thatsubstance no one could see by itself. It had neither door, nor window,nor any opening to break its perfect roundness.
The wise woman carried Agnes into a dark room, there undressed her,took from her hand her knitting-needles, and put her, naked as she wasborn, into the hollow sphere.
What sort of a place it was she could not tell. She could see nothingbut a faint cold bluish light all about her. She could not feel thatany thing supported her, and yet she did not sink. She stood for awhile, perfectly calm, then sat down. Nothing bad could happen toHER--she was so important! And, indeed, it was but this: she had caredonly for Somebody, and now she was going to have only Somebody. Her ownchoice was going to be carried a good deal farther for her than shewould have knowingly carried it for herself.
After sitting a while, she wished she had something to do, but nothingcame. A little longer, and it grew wearisome. She would see whether shecould not walk out of the strange luminous dusk that surrounded her.
Walk she found she could, well enough, but walk out she could not. Onand on she went, keeping as much in a straight line as she might, butafter walking until she was thoroughly tired, she found herself nonearer out of her prison than before. She had not, indeed, advanced asingle step; for, in whatever direction she tried to go, the sphereturned round and round, answering her feet accordingly. Like a squirrelin his cage she but kept placing another spot of the cunninglysuspended sphere under her feet, and she would have been still only atits lowest point after walking for ages.
At length she cried aloud; but there was no answer. It grew dreary anddrearier--in her, that is: outside there was no change. Nothing wasoverhead, nothing under foot, nothing on either hand, but the samepale, faint, bluish glimmer. She wept at last, then grew very angry,and then sullen; but nobody heeded whether she cried or laughed. It wasall the same to the cold unmoving twilight that rounded her. On and onwent the dreary hours--or did they go at all?--"no change, no pause, nohope;"--on and on till she FELT she was forgotten, and then she grewstrangely still and fell asleep.
The moment she was asleep, the wise woman came, lifted her out, andlaid her in her bosom; fed her with a wonderful milk, which shereceived without knowing it; nursed her all the night long, and, justere she woke, laid her back in the blue sphere again.
When first she came to herself, she thought the horrors of thepreceding day had been all a dream of the night. But they soon assertedthemselves as facts, for here they were!--nothing to see but a coldblue light, and nothing to do but see it. Oh, how slowly the hours wentby! She lost all notion of time. If she had been told that she had beenthere twenty years, she would have believed it--or twenty minutes--itwould have been all the same: except for weariness, time was for her nomore.
Another night came, and another still, during both of which the wisewoman nursed and fed her. But she knew nothing of that, and the sameone dreary day seemed ever brooding over her.
All at once, on the third day, she was aware that a naked child wasseated beside her. But there was something about the child that madeher shudder. She never looked at Agnes, but sat with her chin sunk onher chest, and her eyes staring at her own toes. She was the color ofpale earth, with a pinched nose, and a mere slit in her face for amouth.
"How ugly she is!" thought Agnes. "What business has she beside me!"
But it was so lonely that she would have been glad to play with aserpent, and put out her hand to touch her. She touched nothing. Thechild, also, put out her hand--but in the direction away from Agnes.And that was well, for if she had touched Agnes it would have killedher. Then Agnes said, "Who are you?" And the little girl said, "Who areyou?" "I am Agnes," said Agnes; and the little girl said, "I am Agnes."Then Agnes thought she was mocking her, and said, "You are ugly;" andthe little girl said, "You are ugly."
Then Agnes lost her temper, and put out her hands to seize the littlegirl; but lo! the little girl was gone, and she found herself tuggingat her own hair. She let go; and there was the little girl again! Agneswas furious now, and flew at her to bite her. But she found her teethin her own arm, and the little girl was gone--only to return again; andeach time she came back she was tenfold uglier than before. And nowAgnes hated her with her whole heart.
The moment she hated her, it flashed upon her with a sickening disgustthat the child was not another, but her Self, her Somebody, and thatshe was now shut up with her for ever and ever--no more for one momentever to be alone. In her agony of despair, sleep descended, and sheslept.
When she woke, there was the little girl, heedless, ugly, miserable,staring at her own toes. All at once, the creature began to smile, butwith such an odious, self-satisfied expression, that Agnes felt ashamedof seeing her. Then she began to pat her own cheeks, to stroke her ownbody, and examine her finger-ends, nodding her head with satisfaction.Agnes felt that there could not be such another hateful, ape-likecreature, and at the same time was perfectly aware she was only
doingoutside of her what she herself had been doing, as long as she couldremember, inside of her.
She turned sick at herself, and would gladly have been put out ofexistence, but for three days the odious companionship went on. By thethird day, Agnes was not merely sick but ashamed of the life she hadhitherto led, was despicable in her own eyes, and astonished that shehad never seen the truth concerning herself before.
The next morning she woke in the arms of the wise woman; the horror hadvanished from her sight, and two heavenly eyes were gazing upon her.She wept and clung to her, and the more she clung, the more tenderlydid the great strong arms close around her.
When she had lain thus for a while, the wise woman carried her into hercottage, and washed her in the little well; then dressed her in cleangarments, and gave her bread and milk. When she had eaten it, shecalled her to her, and said very solemnly,--
"Agnes, you must not imagine you are cured. That you are ashamed ofyourself now is no sign that the cause for such shame has ceased. Innew circumstances, especially after you have done well for a while, youwill be in danger of thinking just as much of yourself as before. Sobeware of yourself. I am going from home, and leave you in charge ofthe house. Do just as I tell you till my return."
She then gave her the same directions she had formerly givenRosamond--with this difference, that she told her to go into thepicture-hall when she pleased, showing her the entrance, against whichthe clock no longer stood--and went away, closing the door behind her.