The crow's-nest

by Sara Jeannette Duncan

Then the Princess passes on, leaving you smiling. I have seen people continue to smile in a lower key for twenty minutes after the Princess has gone by, as water will go on reflecting a glow long after the sunlight has left it. The effect is quite involuntary, and of course it looks a little foolish, but it is agreeable to feel, and nobody, positively nobody, can produce it but the Princess. Indeed the power to produce it would be a capital test for princesses.

If I were in any way in a position to submit princesses to tests, I should offer that of the single pea and the twenty feather beds with confidence to ours. Which is a pride and a pleasure to be able to say in these days, when ladies thus entitled are so apt to disguise themselves in strong minds or blunt noses or irritating clothes. It is delightful to be assured that, in spite of this tendency, the Princess has not yet vanished, the Princess of the fairy tales, the real Princess, from among us, that such a one is sitting at the moment in her castle, not ten minutes’ walk from here, eating marmalade with a golden spoon, or whatever she likes better than marmalade, and bringing to life day after day that delight in living which you must have, or there’s no use in being a princess. It is possible that she may not put on her diadem every morning; there is no necessity for that, since you could not imagine her without it; and if she prefers reading her Browning to watching her gold-fish, it is not in any way my affair. Indeed, although she occupies a public position, there is no one who more readily accedes her right to a private life than I, though, of course, with the rest of her subjects, I would prefer that she had as little of it as possible. It is said that the Roy-Regent, knowing what would be expected of her, was not content until he had found the most beautiful and agreeable Princess there was; and I can well believe that he sailed over seas and seas to find her, though it is probably only a tradition that they met at George Washington’s country seat where the Princess was looking for trailing arbutus,—another lovely thing whose habitat is the banks of the Potomac. And an improbable tradition, as George Washington never encouraged princesses.

Last night there was an entertainment at the castle and among the guests a chief of one of those smaller Indias that cluster about the great one. He wore his own splendid trappings, and he was a handsome fellow, well set up; and above his keen dark face, in front of the turban, set round with big irregular pearls, was fastened a miniature of the Queen-Empress who holds his fealty in her hand. To him the Princess, all in filmy lace with her diadem flashing, spoke kindly. They sat upon gold-backed chairs a little way apart, and as she leaned to confer her smile and he to receive it, I longed to frame the picture and make perpetual the dramatic moment, the exquisite odd chance. “Surely,” thought I, “the world has never been so graciously bridged before.” Talking of George Washington, if the good man could have seen that, I think he might have melted toward princesses; I do not think, from all we know of him, that he would have had the heart to turn coldly away and disclaim responsibility for this one. I wish he could have seen it; yes, and Martha too, though if anybody thought necessary to make trouble and talk about sacred principles of democracy, it would have been Martha. Martha, she would have been the one. Her great and susceptible husband would have taken a philosophic pinch of snuff and toasted posterity.

I see that I have already admitted it, I have slipped in the path of virtuous resolution and lofty indifference; I have gone back, just for a minute, into the world. The reason I have neglected every flower in the garden this morning to write about the Princess is that I have been dining with her. It is so difficult to be unmoved and firm when you know the band will play and there will be silver soup-plates, to say nothing of the Roy-Regent smiling and pleased to see you, and the Roman punch in the middle of the menu. At home, one so seldom has Roman punch in the middle of the menu. Besides, now that I think of it, it was a “command” invitation, and I did not go for any of these reasons, or even to see the Princess, but because I had to; a lofty compulsion of State was upon me, and nobody would place her loyalty in question on account of a possible draught. If there had been a draught and I had taken cold I should have felt an added nobility to-day; somewhat the virtue, I suppose, of the elderly statesman who contracts a fatal influenza at a distinguished interment, and so creates a vicious circle of funerals; but there was no draught.

The Princess lives in splendid isolation. If it were not for the Roy-Regent and the babies, and the Commander-in-Chief and his family, she would die of loneliness. And of course the Bishop, though I can’t understand in what way one would depend much upon a bishop, except to ask a blessing when he came to dinner. Kind and human as the Princess is she lives in another world, with an A.D.C. always going in front to tell people to get up, “Their Excellencies are coming.” You cannot ask after the Princess’s babies as you would ask after the babies of a person like yourself; you must say, “How are Your Excellency’s babies?” and this at once removes them far beyond the operation of your affectionate criticism. When it is impossible even to take babies for granted the difficulties of the situation may be imagined. The situation is glorious but troubling, your ideas often will not flow freely in it, and is there anything more dreadful at a supreme moment than to have your ideas stick? You find yourself saying the same thing you said the last time you had the honour, which is the most mortifying thing that can happen in any conversation.

I often wonder whether the Princess does not look at our little mud houses and wish sometimes that she could come in. The thought is a reckless one but I do entertain it. If you take a kind and friendly interest in people as the Princess does in us all, you cannot be entirely satisfied merely to add them up as population and set them a good example. Nor can it be very interesting to look at the little mud houses and observe only that they have chimneys, and not to know how the mantelpieces are done or whether there is a piano, or if anybody else’s sweet-peas are earlier than yours. In my dreams I sometimes invite the Princess to tea. An A.D.C. always comes behind her carrying the diadem on a red silk cushion, but at my earnest prayer he is made to stay outside on the verandah. We have the best china; and in one dream the Princess broke a cup and we wept together. On another occasion she gave me a recipe for pickled blackberries and told me of a way—I always forget the way—of getting rid of frowns. There is generally something to spoil a dream, and the thing that spoils this one is the A.D.C., who will look in at the window. All the same we have a lovely time, the Princess ignoring all her prerogatives, unless I say something about the state of the country, when she instantly, royally, changes the subject....

Chapter XI

IF you choose to live on the top of one of the Himalayas there are some things you must particularly pay for. One of them is earth. Your mountain, if it is to be depended upon, is mostly made of rock and I have already mentioned how radically it slopes. So a garden is not at all a thing to be taken for granted. Sometimes you have a garden and sometimes only a shaly ledge, or you may have a garden to-day which to-morrow has slid down the hill and superimposed itself upon your neighbour below. That occurs in the rains; it is called a “slip.” It has never been our experience because the shelf is fairly flat; but it has happened to plenty of people. I suppose such a garden is recoverable, if you are willing to take the trouble, but it could never be quite the same thing. The most permanent plot, however, requires all kinds of attention, and one of the difficulties is to keep it up to its own level. Queer sinkings and fallings away are always taking place in the borders. Atma professes to find them quite reasonable; he says the flowers eat the earth and of course it disappears. The more scientific explanation appears to me to be that the gnomes of the mountain who live inside, have been effecting repairs, and naturally the top falls in. It may be said that gnomes are not as a rule so provident; but very little has yet been established about the Himalayan kind; they might be anything; they probably are.

This whole morning Atma and I have been patching the garden. At home when you buy a piece of land you expect that enough earth will go with it for ordinary purposes, but here you buy the land first and the earth afterwards, as you want it, in basketfuls. There is plenty in the jungle, beautiful leaf-mould, but it is against the law to collect it there for various reasons, all of them excellent and tiresome; you must buy it instead from the Town Council, and it costs fourpence a basket. Tiglath-Pileser says it is the smallest investment in land he ever heard of, but it takes a great many baskets, and when the bill comes in I shall be glad to know if he is still of that opinion. Meanwhile coolie after coolie dumps his load and I have heard of no process that more literally improves the property. You will imagine whether, when anything is pulled up, we do not shake the roots.

How far a sharp contrast will carry the mind! I never shake a root in these our limited conditions without thinking of the long loamy stretches of the Canadian woods where there was leaf-mould enough for a continent of gardens, and of the plank “sidewalk” that half-heartedly wandered out to them from the centre of what was a country town in my day, adorned perhaps at some remote and unfenced corner by a small grocery shop where hickory nuts in a half-pint measure were exposed for sale in the window. I am no longer passionately addicted to hickory nuts—you got the meat out with infinite difficulty and a pin, and if it was obstinate you sucked it—but nothing else, except perhaps the smell in the cars of the train-boy’s oranges, will ever typify to me so completely the liberal and stimulating opportunities of a new country. The town when I was there last had grown into a prosperous city, and there were no hickory nuts in its principal stores, but at the furthest point of a suburban sidewalk I found the little grocery still tempting the school children of the neighbourhood with this unsophisticated product and the half-pint measure in the window. I resisted the temptation to buy any, but I stood and looked so long that the proprietress came curious to the door. And along that sidewalk you might have taken a ton of leaf-mould before anybody made it his business to stop you.