The King of the Golden River - John Ruskin (read novels website .txt) 📗
- Author: John Ruskin
- Performer: -
Book online «The King of the Golden River - John Ruskin (read novels website .txt) 📗». Author John Ruskin
afraid your beds are dampish. Perhaps you had better go to your
brother’s room; I’ve left the ceiling on there.”
They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck’s room,
wet through and in an agony of terror.
“You’ll find my card on the kitchen table,” the old gentleman
called after them. “Remember, the LAST visit.”
“Pray Heaven it may!” said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam
globe disappeared.
Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck’s
little window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass
of ruin and desolation. The inundation had swept away trees,
crops, and cattle, and left in their stead a waste of red sand
and gray mud. The two brothers crept shivering and horror-struck
into the kitchen. The water had gutted the whole first floor;
corn, money, almost every movable thing, had been swept away, and
there was left only a small white card on the kitchen table. On
it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the
words:
SOUTH WEST WIND, ESQUIRE
OF THE PROCEEDINGS OF THE THREE BROTHERS AFTER THE VISIT OF
SOUTHWEST WIND, ESQUIRE; AND HOW LITTLE GLUCK HAD AN INTERVIEW
WITH THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER
Southwest Wind, Esquire, was as good as his word. After the
momentous visit above related, he entered the Treasure Valley no
more; and, what was worse, he had so much influence with his
relations, the West Winds in general, and used it so effectually,
that they all adopted a similar line of conduct. So no rain fell
in the valley from one year’s end to another. Though everything
remained green and flourishing in the plains below, the
inheritance of the three brothers was a desert. What had once
been the richest soil in the kingdom became a shifting heap of
red sand, and the brothers, unable longer to contend with the
adverse skies, abandoned their valueless patrimony in despair, to
seek some means of gaining a livelihood among the cities and
people of the plains. All their money was gone, and they had
nothing left but some curious old-fashioned pieces of gold
plate, the last remnants of their ill-gotten wealth.
“Suppose we turn goldsmiths,” said Schwartz to Hans as they
entered the large city. “It is a good knave’s trade; we can put
a great deal of copper into the gold without anyone’s finding it
out.”
The thought was agreed to be a very good one; they hired a
furnace and turned goldsmiths. But two slight circumstances
affected their trade: the first, that people did not approve of
the coppered gold; the second, that the two elder brothers,
whenever they had sold anything, used to leave little Gluck to
mind the furnace, and go and drink out the money in the alehouse
next door. So they melted all their gold without making money
enough to buy more, and were at last reduced to one large
drinking mug, which an uncle of his had given to little Gluck,
and which he was very fond of and would not have parted with for
the world, though he never drank anything out of it but milk and
water. The mug was a very odd mug to look at. The handle was
formed of two wreaths of flowing golden hair, so finely spun that
it looked more like silk than metal, and these wreaths descended
into and mixed with a beard and whiskers of the same exquisite
workmanship, which surrounded and decorated a very fierce little
face, of the reddest gold imaginable, right in the front of the
mug, with a pair of eyes in it which seemed to command its whole
circumference. It was impossible to drink out of the mug without
being subjected to an intense gaze out of the side of these eyes,
and Schwartz positively averred that once, after emptying it,
full of Rhenish, seventeen times, he had seen them wink! When it
came to the mug’s turn to be made into spoons, it half broke poor
little Gluck’s heart; but the brothers only laughed at him,
tossed the mug into the melting pot, and staggered out to the
alehouse, leaving him, as usual, to pour the gold into bars when
it was all ready.
When they were gone, Gluck took a farewell look at his old friend
in the melting pot. The flowing hair was all gone; nothing
remained but the red nose and the sparkling eyes, which looked
more malicious than ever. “And no wonder,” thought Gluck, “after
being treated in that way.” He sauntered disconsolately to the
window and sat himself down to catch the fresh evening air and
escape the hot breath of the furnace. Now this window commanded
a direct view of the range of mountains which, as I told you
before, overhung the Treasure Valley, and more especially of the
peak from which fell the Golden River. It was just at the close
of the day, and when Gluck sat down at the window, he saw the
rocks of the mountain tops, all crimson and purple with the
sunset; and there were bright tongues of fiery cloud burning and
quivering about them; and the river, brighter than all, fell, in
a waving column of pure gold, from precipice to precipice, with
the double arch of a broad purple rainbow stretched across it,
flushing and fading alternately in the wreaths of spray.
“Ah!” said Gluck aloud, after he had looked at it for a little
while, “if that river were really all gold, what a nice thing it
would be.”
“No, it wouldn’t, Gluck,” said a clear, metallic voice close at
his ear.
“Bless me, what’s that?” exclaimed Gluck, jumping up. There was
nobody there. He looked round the room and under the table and a
great many times behind him, but there was certainly nobody
there, and he sat down again at the window. This time he didn’t
speak, but he couldn’t help thinking again that it would be very
convenient if the river were really all gold.
“Not at all, my boy,” said the same voice, louder than before.
“Bless me!” said Gluck again, “what is that?” He looked again
into all the corners and cupboards, and then began turning round
and round as fast as he could, in the middle of the room,
thinking there was somebody behind him, when the same voice
struck again on his ear. It was singing now, very merrily, “Lala-lira-la”—no words, only a soft, running, effervescent melody,
something like that of a kettle on the boil. Gluck looked out of
the window; no, it was certainly in the house. Upstairs and
downstairs; no, it was certainly in that very room, coming in
quicker time and clearer notes every moment: “Lala-lira-la.” All
at once it struck Gluck that it sounded louder near the furnace.
He ran to the opening and looked in. Yes, he saw right; it
seemed to be coming not only out of the furnace but out of the
pot. He uncovered it, and ran back in a great fright, for the
pot was certainly singing! He stood in the farthest corner of
the room, with his hands up and his mouth open, for a minute or
two, when the singing stopped and the voice became clear and
pronunciative.
“Hollo!” said the voice.
Gluck made no answer.
“Hollo! Gluck, my boy,” said the pot again.
Gluck summoned all his energies, walked straight up to the
crucible, drew it out of the furnace, and looked in. The gold
was all melted and its surface as smooth and polished as a river,
but instead of reflecting little Gluck’s head, as he looked in he
saw, meeting his glance from beneath the gold, the red nose and
sharp eyes of his old friend of the mug, a thousand times redder
and sharper than ever he had seen them in his life.
“Come, Gluck, my boy,” said the voice out of the pot again, “I’m
all right; pour me out.”
But Gluck was too much astonished to do anything of the kind.
“Pour me out, I say,” said the voice rather gruffly.
Still Gluck couldn’t move.
“WILL you pour me out?” said the voice passionately. “I’m too
hot.”
By a violent effort Gluck recovered the use of his limbs, took
hold of the crucible, and sloped it, so as to pour out the gold.
But instead of a liquid stream there came out, first a pair of
pretty little yellow legs, then some coat tails, then a pair of
arms stuck akimbo, and finally the well-known head of his friend
the mug—all which articles, uniting as they rolled out, stood up
energetically on the floor in the shape of a little golden dwarf
about a foot and a half high.
“That’s right!” said the dwarf, stretching out first his legs and
then his arms, and then shaking his head up and down and as far
round as it would go, for five minutes without stopping,
apparently with the view of ascertaining if he were quite
correctly put together, while Gluck stood contemplating him in
speechless amazement. He was dressed in a slashed doublet of
spun gold, so fine in its texture that the prismatic colors
gleamed over it as if on a surface of mother-of-pearl; and over
this brilliant doublet his hair and beard fell full halfway to
the ground in waving curls, so exquisitely delicate that Gluck
could hardly tell where they ended; they seemed to melt into air.
The features of the face, however, were by no means finished with
the same delicacy; they were rather coarse, slightly inclining to
coppery in complexion, and indicative, in expression, of a very
pertinacious and intractable disposition in their small
proprietor. When the dwarf had finished his self-examination,
he turned his small, sharp eyes full on Gluck and stared at him
deliberately for a minute or two. “No, it wouldn’t, Gluck, my
boy,” said the little man.
This was certainly rather an abrupt and unconnected mode of
commencing conversation. It might indeed be supposed to refer
to the course of Gluck’s thoughts, which had first produced the
dwarf’s observations out of the pot; but whatever it referred to,
Gluck had no inclination to dispute the dictum.
“Wouldn’t it, sir?” said Gluck very mildly and submissively
indeed.
“No,” said the dwarf, conclusively, “no, it wouldn’t.” And with
that the dwarf pulled his cap hard over his brows and took two
turns, of three feet long, up and down the room, lifting his
legs up very high and setting them down very hard. This pause
gave time for Gluck to collect his thoughts a little, and, seeing
no great reason to view his diminutive visitor with dread, and
feeling his curiosity overcome his amazement, he ventured on a
question of peculiar delicacy.
“Pray, sir,” said Gluck, rather hesitatingly, “were you my mug?”
On which the little man turned sharp round, walked straight up to
Gluck, and drew himself up to his full height. “I,” said the
little man, “am the King of the Golden River.” Whereupon he
turned about again and took two more turns, some six feet long,
in order to allow time for the consternation which this
announcement produced in his auditor to evaporate. After which
he again walked up to Gluck and stood still, as if expecting some
comment on his communication.
Gluck determined to say something at all events. “I hope your
Majesty is very well,” said Gluck.
“Listen!” said the little man, deigning no reply to this polite
inquiry. “I am the king of what you mortals call the Golden
River. The shape you saw me in was owing to the malice of a
stronger king, from whose enchantments you have this instant
freed me. What I
Comments (0)