I am something more than a goose-girl, it would not be right or proper.”
And reluctantly she turned her back and looked in the other direction.
She would have been surprised, perhaps, had she known what the Swineherd was thinking.
He too, for lack of a looking-glass, made use of the little river. And when it reflected his dark curls, and the curve of his chin and his well-shaped ears, he grieved for the whole human race, thinking of all it was missing. And especially he grieved for the Goose-girl.
“Undoubtedly,” he told himself, “she is dying of loneliness – sitting there in her shabby dress, braiding her yellow hair. It is very pretty hair too, and – but for the fact that I am who I am – I would willingly speak a word to her and while away the time.”
And reluctantly he turned his back and looked in the other direction.
What a coincidence, you will say! But there’s more to the story than that. Not only the Goose-girl and the Swineherd, but every creature in that place was thinking the same thoughts.
The geese, as they nibbled the buttercups and flattened the grass into star-like shapes, were convinced – and they made no secret of it – they were something more than geese.
And the swine would have laughed at any suggestion that they were merely pigs.
And so it was with the grey Ass who pulled the Swineherd’s cart to market; and the Toad who lived beside the stream, under one of the stepping-stones; and the barefoot Boy with the Toy Monkey who played on the bridge every day.
Each believed that his real self was infinitely greater and grander than the one to be seen with the naked eye.
Around his little shaggy body, the Ass was confident, a lordlier, finer, sleeker shape kicked its hooves in the daisies.
To the Toad, however, his true self was smaller than his outward shape, and very gay and green. He would gaze for hours at his reflection, but, ugly as it truly was, the sight never depressed him.
“That’s only my outside,” he would say, nodding at his wrinkled skin and yellow bulging eyes. But he kept his outside out of sight when the Boy was on the bridge. For he dreaded the curses that greeted him if he showed as much as a toe.
“Heave to!” the ferocious voice would cry. “Enemy sighted to starboard! A bottle of rum and a new dagger to the man who rips him apart!”
For the Boy was something more than a boy – as you’ll probably have guessed. Inside, he knew the Straits of Magellan as you know the nose on your face. Honest mariners paled at his fame, his deeds were a byword in seven seas. He could sack a dozen ships in a morning and bury the treasure so cleverly that even he could not find it.
To a passer-by it might have seemed that the Boy had two good eyes. But in his own private opinion, he was only possessed of one. He had lost the other in a hand-to-hand fight somewhere off Gibraltar. His everyday name always made him smile when people called him by it. “If they knew who I really am,” he would say, “they wouldn’t look so cheerful!”
As for the Monkey, he believed he was nothing like a monkey.
“This old fur coat,” he assured himself, “is simply to keep me warm. And I swing by my tail for the fun of it, not because I must.”
Well, there they all were, one afternoon, full of their fine ideas. The sun spread over them like a fan, very warm and cosy. The meadow flowers hung on their stems, bright as newly-washed china. Up in the sky the larks were singing – on and on, song without end, as though they were all wound up.
The Goose-girl sat among her geese, the Swineherd with his swine. The Ass in his field, and the Toad in his hole, were nodding sleepily. And the Boy and his Monkey lolled on the bridge discussing their further plans for bloodshed.
Suddenly the Ass snorted and his ear gave a questioning twitch. Larks were above and the brook beneath, but he heard among these daily sounds the echo of a footstep.
Along the path that led to the stream a ragged man was lounging. His tattered clothes were so old that you couldn’t find one bit of them that wasn’t tied with string. The brim of his hat framed a face that was rosy and mild in the sunlight, and through the brim his hair stuck up in tufts of grey and silver. His steps were alternately light and heavy, for one foot wore an old boot and the other a bedroom slipper. You would have to look for a long time to find a shabbier man.
But his shabbiness seemed not to trouble him – indeed he appeared to enjoy it. For he wandered along contentedly, eating a crust and a pickled onion and whistling between mouthfuls. Then he spied the group in the meadow, and stared, and his tune broke off in the middle.
“A beautiful day!” he said politely, plucking the hat-brim from his head and bowing to the Goose-girl.
She gave him a haughty, tossing glance, but the Tramp did not seem to notice it.
“You two been quarrelling?” he asked, jerking his head at the Swineherd.
The Goose-girl laughed indignantly. “Quarrelling? What a silly remark! Why, I do not even know him!”
“Well,” said the Tramp, with a cheerful smile, “would you like me to introduce you?”
“Certainly not!” She flung up her head. “How could I associate with a Swineherd? I’m a princess in disguise.”
“Indeed?” said the Tramp, looking very surprised. “If that is the case, I must not detain you. I expect you want to be back at the Palace, getting on with your work.”
“Work? What work?” The Goose-girl stared.
It was now her turn to look surprised. Surely princesses sat upon cushions, with slaves to perform their least command.
“Why, spinning and weaving. And etiquette! Practising patience and cheerfulness while unsuitable suitors beg for your hand. Trying to look as if you liked it when you hear, for the hundred-thousandth time, the King’s three silly riddles! Not many princesses – as you must know – have leisure to sit all day in the sun among a handful of geese!”
“But what about wearing a pearly crown? And dancing till dawn with the Sultan’s son?”
“Dancing? Pearls? Oh, my! Oh, my!” A burst of laughter broke from the Tramp, as he took from his sleeve a piece of sausage.
“Those crowns are as heavy as lead or iron. You’d have a ridge in your head in no time. And a princess’s duty – surely you know? – is to dance with her father’s old friends first. Then the Lord Chamberlain. Then the Lord Chancellor. And, of course, the Keeper of the Seal. By the time you get round to the Sultan’s son, it’s late and he’s had to go home.”
The Goose-girl pondered the Tramp’s words. Could he really be speaking the truth? All the goose-girls in all the stories were princesses in disguise. But oh, how difficult it sounded! What did one say to Lord Chamberlains? “Come here!” “Go there!” as one would to a goose? Spinning and weaving! Etiquette!
Perhaps, taking everything into account, it might be better, the Goose-girl thought, simply to be a goose-girl.
“Well, away to the Palace!” the Tramp advised her. “You’re wasting your time sitting here, you know! Don’t you agree?” he called to the Swineherd, who was listening from his side of the stream.
“Agree with what?” said the Swineherd quickly, as though he hadn’t heard a word. “I never concern myself with goose-girls,” he added untruthfully. “It would not be fitting or suitable. I am a prince in disguise!”
“You are?” cried the Tramp admiringly. “Then you’re occupying your time, I suppose, in getting up muscle to fight the Dragon.”
The Swineherd’s damask cheek grew pale. “What dragon?” he asked in a stifled voice.
“Oh, any that you chance to meet. All princes, as you yourself must know, have to fight