A Little Princess
parent to make an effort to control herself for her sake. Then,
somehow, it was quite possible that any place in which Sara lived might
turn out to be nice. "Why isn't it, Sara?" she almost whispered.
Sara 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 windows with hot eyes.
"You can see all sorts of things you can't see downstairs," she said.
"What sort of things?" demanded Lottie, with that curiosity Sara could
always awaken even in bigger girls.
"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 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!"
Sara 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 quarrelled 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," Sara said. "It is so close that if there
was a little girl in the attic, we could talk to each other through the
windows and climb over to see each other, if we were not afraid of
falling."
The sky 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 Minchin and
Miss Amelia and the schoolroom, and the roll of wheels in the square
seemed a sound belonging to another existence.
"Oh, Sara!" cried Lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm. "I like this
attic--I like it! It is nicer than downstairs!"
"Look at that sparrow," whispered Sara. "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 intimates in
attics, and unexpected crumbs startled him. But when Lottie remained
quite still and Sara 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. Lottie could scarcely keep still.
"Will he come? Will he come?" she whispered.
"His eyes look as if he would," Sara whispered back. "He is 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 Sara and Lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump
on him. At last his heart told him 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 Sara. "And he will come back for the 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 chattered and exclaimed, stopping every now
and then to put their heads on one side and examine Lottie and Sara.
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, Sara 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. It 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 round the small place, holding Lottie's hand and making
gestures which described all the beauties she was making herself see.
She quite made Lottie see them, too. Lottie could always believe in
the things Sara 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. They 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 singing 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, Sara!" cried Lottie. "I should like to live here!"
When Sara 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, the grate was broken and rusty, and the battered footstool,
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 footstool 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 upon 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
Sara 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.
"I 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 Sara!'
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 Sara; "I'm not a trap. You can have them, poor thing!
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 in the world understands it. Perhaps
there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without
even 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 human being sitting on the red footstool
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 Sara, 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 toward the crumbs
and began to eat them. As he did it he glanced every now and then at
Sara, 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 could 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 it to carry to his family in the wall," Sara
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 Sara. "I do believe I
could make friends with him."
A week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when Ermengarde found
it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on the door with the
tips of her fingers Sara did not come to her for two or three minutes.
There was, indeed, such a silence in the room at first that Ermengarde
wondered if she could have fallen asleep. Then, to her surprise, she
heard her utter a little, low laugh and speak coaxingly to someone.
"There!" Ermengarde heard her say. "Take it and go home, Melchisedec!
Go home to your wife!"
Almost immediately Sara opened the door, and when she did so she found
Ermengarde standing with alarmed eyes upon the threshold.