A Little Princess, Part 7 of 15

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Good evening and welcome to the Sleepy Bookshelf where we put down our worries from the day and pick up a good book. I'm your host, Elizabeth. It is lovely to have you with us this evening. Tonight we are continuing with a little princess, but before that, let's take a moment to let go of the day. Get comfy where you are and start to feel rooted and safe. Close your eyes and take a deep breath in through your nose. And out through your mouth. Continue breathing at this slow pace. And as you inhale, imagine that you are breathing in calm. And as you exhale, imagine that you are breathing out stress. Feel more at peace with each exhale. And continue with this focus while I recap our last episode. The first night Sarah spent in the attic was a sleepless one. She was frightened of the noises of the rats and mice in the walls and on the floor. And the next morning, her seat at the breakfast table was taken by LaVenia. And Miss Mention ordered her to sit with the small children and make sure they behaved themselves. Her tasks from then mounted, from teaching the little girls to general errand running. Soon she was run ragged from morning till night, barely managing to say a word to Becky in the course of the day. Once the pupils were in bed, she was permitted to take a stack of old books to the schoolroom to continue her studies alone. Becky was a comfort to her, and though they didn't chat often, she still came silently every morning and night to help Sarah dress like a dutiful handmaid. Sarah's friend, Ermengard, was away from school for some weeks, and when she returned and saw Sarah in the hall, she awkwardly asked after her. And Sarah's pride got away with her. Some weeks later, after Sarah had actively avoided her, she found Ermengard waiting for her late one evening in her room. She had thought Sarah had fallen out with her, and once the misunderstanding had been corrected, Sarah's imagination burst into life again. She determined to imagine her attic room was in fact the Bastille, and that she and Becky were prisoners with mismention as the jailer, and she promised to tell Ermengard her stories every evening. Tonight we hear about the third comfort in Sarah's life. So just lie back and relax, as I turn to the next pages of A Little Princess. Chapter 9. Melchisedec The third person in the trio was Lottie. She was a small thing and did not know what adversity meant, and was much bewildered by the alteration she saw in her young, adopted mother. She had heard it rumoured that strange things had happened to Sarah, but she could not understand why she looked different, why she wore an old black frock, and came into the schoolroom only to teach, instead of to sit in her place of honour and learn lessons herself. There had been much whispering among the little ones, when it had been discovered that Sarah no longer lived in the rooms in which Emily had so long sat in state. Lottie's chief difficulty was that Sarah said so little when one asked her questions. At seven, mysteries must be made very clear if one is to understand them. Are you very poor now, Sarah? She had asked confidentially the first morning her friend took charge of the small French class. Are you as poor as a beggar? She thrust a fat hand into the slim one and opened round, tearful eyes. I don't want you to be as poor as a beggar. She looked as if she was going to cry, and Sarah hurriedly consoled her. Beggars have nowhere to live, she said courageously. I have a place to live in. Where do you live? persisted Lottie. The new girl sleeps in your room, and it isn't pretty anymore. I live in another room, said Sarah. Is it a nice one? inquired Lottie. I want to go and see it, you must not talk, said Sarah. Miss Mention is looking at us. She will be angry with me for letting you whisper. She had found out already that she was to be held accountable for everything which was objected to. If the children were not attentive, if they talked, if they were restless, it was she who would be reproved. But Lottie was a determined little person. If Sarah would not tell her where she lived, she would find out in some other way. She talked to her small companions and hung about the elder girls and listened when they were gossiping and acted upon certain information they had unconsciously let drop. She started late one afternoon on a voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never known the existence of, until she reached the attic floor. There she found two doors near each other, and opening one she saw her beloved Sarah standing upon an old table and looking out of a window. Sarah! she cried aghast. Mama Sarah! She was aghast because the attic was so bare and ugly and seemed so far away from all the world. Her short legs had seemed to have been mounting hundreds of stairs. Sarah turned round at the sound of her voice. It was her turn to be aghast. What would happen now? If Lottie began to cry and anyone chanced to hear, they were both lost. She jumped down from her table and ran to the child. Just don't cry and make a noise. She implored. I shall be scolded if you do, and I have been scolded all day. It's not such a bad room Lottie. Isn't it? Gasped Lottie. And as she looked round, she bit her lip. She was a spoiled child yet, but she was fond enough of her adopted parent to make an effort to control herself for her sake. Then, somehow, it was quite possible that any place in which Sarah lived might turn out to be nice. Why isn't it Sarah? She almost whispered. Sarah hugged her close and tried to laugh. There was a sort of comfort in the warmth of the plump, childish body. She had had a hard day and had been staring out of the window with hot eyes. You can see all sorts of things you can't see downstairs? She said. What sorts of things? Demanded Lottie with that curiosity Sarah could always awaken, even in bigger girls. With chimneys, quite close to us, with smoke curling up in wreaths and clouds and going up into the sky. And sparrows, hopping about and talking to each other just as if they were people. And other attic windows, where heads may pop out at any minute and you can wonder who they belong to. And it all feels as high up as if it was another world. Oh, let me see it. cried Lottie. Lift me up. Sarah lifted her up and they stood on the old table together and leaned on the edge of the flat window in the roof and looked out. Anyone who has not done this does not know what a different world they saw. The slates spread out on either side of them and slanted down into the rain gutter pipes. The sparrows being at home there, twittered and hopped about quite without fear. Two of them perched on the chimney top nearest and quarreled with each other fiercely until one pecked the other and drove him away. The garret window next to theirs was shut because the house next door was empty. I wish someone lived there. Sarah said. It is so close that if there was a little girl in the attic, you could talk to each other through the windows and climb over to see each other if we were not afraid of falling. The skies seemed so much nearer than when one saw it from the street that Lottie was enchanted. From the attic window among the chimney pots, the things which were happening in the world below seemed almost unreal. One scarcely believed in the existence of Miss Mention and Miss Emilia and the schoolroom, and the roll of wheels in the square seemed like a sound belonging to another existence. Oh, Sarah! cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. I like this attic. I like it. It is nicer than downstairs. Look at that sparrow. Whispers Sarah. I wish I had some crumbs to throw to him. I have some. Came in a little shriek from Lottie. I have part of a bun in my pocket. I bought it with my penny yesterday and I saved a bit. When they threw out a few crumbs, the sparrow jumped and flew away to an adjacent chimney top. He was evidently not accustomed to inmates in attics and unexpected crumbs startled him. But when Lottie remained quite still and Sarah chirped very softly, almost as if she were a sparrow herself, he saw that the thing which had alarmed him represented hospitality after all. He put his head on one side and from his perch on the chimney looked down at the crumbs with twinkling eyes. Will he come? Will he come? She whispered. His eyes look as if he would. Sarah whispered back. He's thinking and thinking whether he dare. Yes, he will. Yes, he is coming. He flew down and hopped toward the crumbs. But stopped a few inches away from them, putting his head on one side again, as if reflecting on the chances that Sarah and Lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump on him. At last, his heart told him that they were really nicer than they looked. Sarah and Lottie were very nice. At last, his heart told him that they were really nicer than they looked. And he hopped, nearer and nearer, darted at the biggest crumb with a lightning peck, seized it and carried it away to the other side of his chimney. Now he knows, said Sarah, and he will come back for others. He did come back and even brought a friend. And the friend went away and brought a relative. And among them, they made a hearty meal over which they twittered and chatted and exclaimed, stopping every now and then to put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and Sarah. Lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first, shocked impression of the attic. In fact, when she was lifted down from the table and returned to earthly things as it were, Sarah was able to point out to her many beauties in the room, which she herself would not have suspected the existence of. It is so little and so high above everything, she said, that it is almost like a nest in a tree. The slanting ceiling is so funny. See, you can scarcely stand up at this end of the room, and when the morning begins to come, I can lie in bed and look right up into the sky through that flat window in the roof. Which is like a square patch of light. If the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and I feel as if I could touch them. And if it rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something nice. Then, if there are stars, you can lie and try to count how many go into the patch. It takes such a lot. And just look at that tiny rusty grate in the corner. If it was polished and there was a fire in it, just think how nice it would be. You see, it's really a beautiful little room. She was walking around the small place, holding Glottie's hand, and making gestures which described all the beauties she was making herself see. She quite made Glottie see them too. Glottie could always believe in the things Sarah made pictures of. You see, she said, there could be a thick, soft, blue Indian rug on the floor. And in that corner, there could be a soft little sofa with cushions to curl up on. And just over it could be a shelf full of books so that one could reach them easily. And there could be a fur rug before the fire and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash and pictures. There would have to be little ones, but they could be beautiful. And there could be a lamp with a deep rose-colored shade and a table in the middle with things to have tea with and a little fat copper kettle sitting on the hob. And the bed could be quite different. It could be made soft and covered with a lovely silk coverlet. It could be beautiful. And perhaps we could coax the sparrows until we made such friends with them that they would come and peck at the window and ask to be let in. Oh, Sarah! cried Glottie. I should like to live here. When Sarah had persuaded her to go downstairs again and after setting her on her way had come back to her attic. She stood in the middle of it and looked about her. The enchantment of her imaginings for Lottie had died away. The bed was hard and covered with its dingy quilt. The whitewashed wall showed its broken patches. The floor was cold and bare. And the grate was broken and rusty. And the battered footstorm tilted sideways on its injured leg. The only seat in the room. She sat down on it for a few minutes and let her head drop in her hands. The mere fact that Lottie had come and gone away again made things seem a little worse. Just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more desolate after visitors come and go. Leaving them behind. It's a lonely place. She said. Sometimes it's the loneliest place in the world. She was sitting in this way when her attention was attracted by a slight sound near her. She lifted her head to see where it came from. And if she had been a nervous child, she would have left her seat on the battered footstorm in a great hurry. A large rat was sitting up on his hind quarters and sniffing the air in an interested manner. Some of Lottie's crumbs had dropped on the floor and their scent had drawn him out of his hole. He looked so queer and so like a gray-whiskered dwarf or gnome that Sarah was rather fascinated. He looked at her with his bright eyes as if he were asking a question. He was evidently so doubtful that one of the child's queer thoughts came into her mind. Dare say it is rather hard to be a rat. She mused. Nobody likes you. People jump and run away and scream out, oh, a horrid rat. I shouldn't like people to scream and jump and say, oh, a horrid Sarah the moment they saw me. And set traps for me and pretend they were dinner. It's so different to be a sparrow. But nobody asked this rat if he wanted to be a rat when he was made. Nobody said, wouldn't you rather be a sparrow? She had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take courage. He was very much afraid of her. But perhaps he had a heart like the sparrow and it told him that she was not a thing which pounced. He was very hungry. He had a wife and a large family in the wall. And they had had frightfully bad luck for several days. He had left the children crying bitterly and felt he would risk a good deal for a few crumbs. So he cautiously dropped upon his feet. Come on, said Sarah. I'm not a trap. You can have them poor things. Prisoners in the Bastille used to make friends with rats. Suppose I make friends with you. How it is that animals understand things I do not know. But it is certain that they do understand. Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words. And everything is given to you. Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything. And it can always speak, but without making a sound to another soul. But whatsoever was the reason the rat knew from that moment that he was safe. Even though he was a rat, he knew that this young man was safe. He knew that he was safe. He knew that he was safe. He knew that he was safe. Even though he was a rat, he knew that this young human being sitting on the red footstorm would not jump up and terrify him with wild, sharp noises. Or throw heavy objects at him, which, if they did not fall and crush him, would send him limping in his scurry back to his hole. He was really a very nice rat and did not mean the least harm. When he had stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air with his bright eyes fixed on Sarah, he had hoped that she would understand this and would not begin by hating him as an enemy. When the mysterious thing which speaks without saying any words told him that she would not, he went softly towards the crumbs and began to eat them. As he did it, he glanced every now and then at Sarah, just as the sparrows had done. And his expression was so very apologetic that it touched her heart. She sat and watched him without making any movement. One crumb was very much larger than the others. In fact, it would scarcely be called a crumb. It was evident that he wanted that piece very much, but it lay quite near the footstool and he was still rather timid. I believe he wants to carry it to his family in the wall, Sarah thought. If I do not stir at all, perhaps he will come and get it. She scarcely allowed herself to breathe. She was so deeply interested. The rat shuffled a little nearer and ate a few more crumbs. Then he stopped and sniffed delicately, giving a side glance at the occupant of the footstool. Then he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the sudden boldness of the sparrow and the instant he had possession of it, fled back to the wall. Slipped down a crack in the skirting board and was gone. I knew he wanted it for his children, said Sarah. I do believe I could make friends with him. A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when Ermengard found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on the door with the tips of her fingers. Sarah did not come to her for two or three minutes. It was indeed such a silence in the room at first that Ermengard wondered if she could have fallen asleep. Then, to her surprise, she heard her utter a little low love and to speak coaxingly to someone. There, Ermengard heard her say, Take it, go home, Marcus Sadek. Go home to your wife. Almost immediately, Sarah opened the door and when she did so, she found Ermengard standing with alarmed eyes upon the threshold. Who, who you talk to Sarah? She gasped out. Sarah drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if something pleased and amused her. You must promise not to be frightened, not to scream the least bit or I can't tell you. She answered. Ermengard felt almost inclined to scream on the spot, but managed to control herself. She looked all round the attic and saw no one, and yet Sarah had certainly been speaking to someone. She thought of ghosts. Is it something that will frighten me? She asked, timorously. Some people are afraid of them, said Sarah. I was at first, but I'm not now. Was it a ghost? Quaked Ermengard. No, said Sarah, laughing. It was my rat. Ermengard made one bound and landed in the middle of the dingy little bed. She tucked her feet under her nightgown and the red shawl. She did not scream, but she gasped with fright. She cried under her breath. A rat, a rat! I was afraid you would be frightened. Said Sarah. But you needn't be. I'm making him tame. He actually knows me and comes out when I call him. You too frightened to want to see him? The truth was that, as the days had gone on and with the aid of scraps brought up from the kitchen, her curious friendship had developed. She had gradually forgotten that the timid creature she was becoming familiar with was a mere rat. At first, Ermengard was too much alarmed to do anything but huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her feet. But the sight of Sarah's composed little countenance, and the story of Melchisedec's first appearance began at last to rouse her curiosity. And she leaned forward over the edge of the bed and watched Sarah go and kneel down by the hole in the skirting board. Heek! He won't run out quickly and jump on the bed will he? She said, she would not. Heek! He won't run out quickly and jump on the bed will he? She said, no, answered Sarah. He's as polite as we are. It's just like a person. Now watch. She began to make a low whistling sound, so low and coaxing that it could only have been heard in entire stillness. She did it several times, looking entirely absorbed in it. Ermengard thought she looked as if she were working a spell. And at last, evidently in response to the sound of the bell, she was looking as if she were working a spell. And at last, evidently in response to it, a grey-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the hole. Sarah had some crumbs in her hand. She dropped them, and Melchisedec came quietly forth and ate them. A piece of larger size than the rest, he took and carried in the most business-like manner back to his home. You see? said Sarah. That is for his wife and children. He's very nice. He only eats the little bits. After he goes back, I can always hear his family squeaking for joy. There are three kinds of squeaks. One kind is the children's, and one is Mrs Melchisedec, and one is Melchisedec's own. Ermengard began to laugh. Come, Sarah! she said. You are queer, but you are nice. I know I am queer. admitted Sarah cheerfully, and I tried to be nice. She rubbed her forehead with her little brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came to her face. Papa always laughed at me, she said. But I liked it. He thought I was queer, but he liked me to make up things. I can't help making up things. If I didn't, I don't believe I could live. She paused and glanced around the attic. I'm sure I couldn't live here. She added in a low voice. Ermengard was interested, as she always was. When you talk about things, she said. They seem as if they grew real. You talk about Melchisedec as if he was a person. He is a person, said Sarah. He gets hungry and frightened just as we do, and he is married and has children. How do we know he doesn't think things just as we do? His eyes look as if he was a person, and his eyes look as if he was a person. That was why I gave him a name. She sat down on the floor in her favourite attitude, holding her knees. Besides, she said, he's a Bastille rat, sent to be my friend. I can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is quite enough to support him. Is it the Bastille yet? She asked Ermengard, eagerly, do you always pretend that it is the Bastille? Nearly always, answered Sarah. Sometimes I try to pretend it is another kind of place, but the Bastille is generally easiest, particularly when it's cold. Just at that moment, Ermengard almost jumped off the bed. She was so startled by a sound she heard. It was like two distinct knocks on the wall. What is that? She exclaimed. Sarah got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically. It is the prisoner in the next cell. Becky, cried Ermengard, enraptured. Yes, said Sarah. Listen, the two knocks meant, prisoner, are you there? She knocked three times on the wall herself, as if in answer. That means, yes I am here, and all is well. Four knocks came from Becky's side of the wall. That means, explained Sarah. Then fellow sufferer, we will sleep in peace, good night. Ermengard quite beamed with delight. Oh, Sarah! She whispered joyfully. It is like a story. It is a story, said Sarah. Everything's a story. You are a story. I'm a story. Miss Mention is a story. And she sat down again and talked until Ermengard forgot that she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself. And had to be reminded by Sarah that she could not remain in the Bastille all night. But must steal, noiselessly downstairs again. And creep back into her room. Noiselessly downstairs again. And creep back into her deserted bed. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again. Noiselessly downstairs again.