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- Herausgeber: e-artnow Collections
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
High Society & Low Magic – 3 Classic Ironic Fiction Novels is a masterful anthology that brings together three seminal works of ironic fiction, offering a rich tapestry of wit, satire, and societal critique. This collection explores themes of class disparity, social conventions, and the whimsical intersections of magic and reality. Each narrative, while maintaining its unique style, skillfully balances humor and criticism, encouraging readers to reflect on the absurdities and pretenses of high society. Through the diverse styles and tones, ranging from the astute observations of Victorian life to playful fantastical elements, the anthology underscores its literary significance as a reflection on the timeless nature of societal norms and human folly. The anthology unites the brilliant minds of William Makepeace Thackeray, F. Anstey, and Edmund Gosse—authors who have indelibly shaped the landscape of ironic fiction. Rooted in the Victorian era's complex social milieu, these authors draw from personal and historical experiences, crafting narratives that both entertain and provoke introspection. Their collective voices resonate across the works, each contributing to the overarching theme of societal critique through their distinctive perspectives. The anthology aligns with the broader literary movement of satire, offering readers a nuanced understanding of societal structures, enhanced by the contrasting styles of these iconic writers. In High Society & Low Magic readers are invited to savor a delightful confluence of literary styles and themes within a single, compelling volume. This anthology offers an unparalleled opportunity to explore the interplay of high society's conventions and the fantastical diversions through the eyes of literary stalwarts. It serves not only as an engaging read but also as a profound educational resource, encouraging dialogue about social constructs and literary expression. Whether approached for its humor, its social insights, or its stylistic variety, this collection stands as a testament to the enduring power of irony in literature. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - An Introduction draws the threads together, discussing why these diverse authors and texts belong in one collection. - Historical Context explores the cultural and intellectual currents that shaped these works, offering insight into the shared (or contrasting) eras that influenced each writer. - A collective Analysis highlights common themes, stylistic variations, and significant crossovers in tone and technique, tying together writers from different backgrounds. - Reflection questions encourage readers to compare the different voices and perspectives within the collection, fostering a richer understanding of the overarching conversation.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
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High Society & Low Magic – 3 Classic Ironic Fiction Novels
Table of Contents
Introduction
High Society & Low Magic brings together three works whose titles alone suggest a distinctive common enterprise: the encounter between polished social worlds and forms of wonder that are comic, unruly, or deliberately diminished. William Makepeace Thackeray’s The Rose and the Ring, Edmund Gosse’s Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island, an Ironic Fantasy, and F. Anstey’s The Brass Bottle each promise some version of the marvelous, yet each does so under the sign of irony. Read together, they form a small tradition of fiction in which enchantment is not an escape from social life but a means of exposing its vanity, absurdity, and stubborn theatricality.
What unifies these works most strongly is their shared refusal to treat magic as solemn revelation. The very phrasing of their titles suggests that the supernatural will be handled with wit, distance, and an alertness to incongruity. A ring, island gods, and a brass bottle all belong to old imaginative repertoires, yet in this company such emblems seem poised to enter worlds shaped by manners, ambitions, and status. The result is a characteristic tension between elevated forms and deflating treatment. Fantasy becomes a satiric instrument, and the marvelous is made answerable to ordinary appetites, pretensions, and social arrangements.
The texts also converse through recurring dilemmas about power and desire. Magical objects and divine presences imply the possibility of transformation, advantage, or wish fulfilled, but irony suggests that these promises will be complicated by human folly. Such fiction often turns on the mismatch between what people imagine they want and what any extraordinary intervention actually brings into view. In that sense, the supernatural is less a solution than a test. It reveals how fragile self-knowledge can be, how quickly decorum gives way under pressure, and how social aspiration remains entangled with vanity even when touched by the impossible.
At the same time, the collection gains range from the different kinds of imaginative space announced by the three titles. The Rose and the Ring evokes the compact emblematic world of tale and token, where objects condense desire and identity. Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island opens outward toward a more expansive mythic terrain, suggesting contact between a local social order and larger, older powers. The Brass Bottle implies a more contained but no less disruptive mechanism: wonder sealed within an artifact, ready to intrude upon everyday life. Together these forms stage varying scales of collision between custom and enchantment.
These differences in scale are matched by productive contrasts in tone and perspective. Thackeray’s title carries a courtly brightness that sits naturally beside irony, Gosse’s announces a self-conscious fusion of classical grandeur and fantasy, and Anstey’s suggests a domestic or material comedy built around an object with legendary associations. Without collapsing their distinctiveness, the collection shows how ironic fiction can move from fairy-tale elegance to mythological play to sharper comic intrusion. In each mode, fantasy does not abolish the social world; it sharpens its outlines. Rank, taste, habit, and self-importance become more visible when the impossible enters the room.
The contemporary resonance of these works lies in that sharpening power. Modern culture remains intensely occupied by surfaces of prestige, systems of belonging, and fantasies of sudden transformation. Fiction that joins high society to low magic speaks directly to those concerns because it treats aspiration and enchantment as neighboring forms of illusion. It reminds readers that institutions, reputations, and myths alike depend upon performance and belief. Such writing also anticipates enduring artistic pleasures: the remixing of inherited folklore and classical material, the comic testing of authority, and the use of speculative premises to illuminate rather than evade the pressures of collective life.
Taken together, these three works offer more than a sequence of amusing fantasies. They trace a coherent imaginative argument about the uses of irony when old magical forms enter cultivated or hierarchical settings. The supernatural here is neither merely decorative nor purely sublime; it is a tool for measuring the distance between ideals and conduct. By placing Thackeray, Gosse, and Anstey in conversation, the collection reveals a durable literary pattern: wonder made social, satire made playful, and comedy made intellectually alert. That pattern gives the volume its unity and its continuing vitality as a portrait of civilized life under comic enchantment.
Historical Context
Socio-Political Landscape
William Makepeace Thackeray’s The Rose and the Ring emerged from a mid-Victorian Britain governed by constitutional monarchy, aristocratic prestige, and expanding middle-class influence. Public life was shaped by debates over reform, patronage, and the moral authority of rulers, while print culture encouraged satiric scrutiny of courtly display. Thackeray’s fairy-tale kingdoms compress these concerns into comic miniature, exposing how rank can depend upon accident, ceremony, and vanity rather than virtue. Behind the whimsical surface stands a recognizably modern skepticism about inherited power. The novel reflects a society fascinated by royalty yet increasingly willing to laugh at dynastic pretension and theatrical statecraft.
In Edmund Gosse’s Hypolympia; Or, The Gods in the Island, an Ironic Fantasy, late nineteenth-century imperial confidence forms an essential background. Britain’s educated classes imagined the Mediterranean and classical past through travel, archaeology, and cultural possession, often treating ancient worlds as material for modern interpretation. Gosse’s island setting draws on that habit while gently unsettling it, staging encounters between contemporary sensibility and revived divine authority. The book reflects an age negotiating secular governance, residual reverence, and imperial self-assurance. Its irony addresses not revolutionary politics but the complacency of cultivated observers who expect to classify myth, belief, and foreignness from a position of effortless superiority.
F. Anstey’s The Brass Bottle belongs to the urban, commercially dynamic Britain of the 1890s, when professional identities, suburban respectability, and consumer aspiration shaped everyday life. Political authority here appears less as monarchy than as the diffuse power of convention: employers, family expectations, marriage prospects, and the pressure to appear rational and dependable. The genie fantasy tests those structures by introducing disruptive, extravagant agency into a world organized by paperwork, reputation, and cautious advancement. The novel captures anxieties of a society proud of order yet vulnerable to sudden embarrassment, where miraculous intervention threatens not state stability so much as the fragile discipline of bourgeois self-management.
Intellectual & Aesthetic Currents
Thackeray’s tale draws upon Victorian realism and satiric moral inquiry even while adopting the apparatus of nursery fantasy. Rather than using marvels to affirm enchantment, he uses them to expose social illusion, aligning the book with a broader nineteenth-century taste for parody and reflexive storytelling. The narrative voice remains alert to performance, literary convention, and the discrepancy between appearance and merit. That combination of fairy-tale motifs with worldly irony reflects an aesthetic climate in which children’s forms could be repurposed for adult social criticism. The work therefore stands at a junction where romance is preserved as style but continuously punctured by wit, observation, and anti-sentimental judgment.
Hypolympia reflects fin-de-siècle classicism filtered through irony. Gosse wrote in a period when Hellenic subjects carried both scholarly prestige and aesthetic allure, yet could no longer be approached with untroubled certainty. Comparative religion, evolutionary thought, and historical criticism had weakened literal belief while intensifying interest in myth as cultural residue and imaginative resource. The novel stages this unstable condition by presenting gods not as solemn truths but as figures through which modern consciousness measures its own disenchantment. Its tone shares with late Victorian aestheticism a delight in cultivated allusion, but it resists pure reverence, testing whether beauty, antiquity, and myth retain authority once modern irony has entered the scene.
The Brass Bottle is shaped by late Victorian comic fantasy, theatrical timing, and a fascination with collisions between the ordinary and the impossible. Anstey adapts Eastern tale machinery for a modern metropolitan setting, less to explore distant wonder than to reveal the absurdities of contemporary common sense. The novel belongs to a moment that enjoyed ingenious premise-driven fiction and increasingly self-aware humor, often energized by journalism, stage comedy, and fast-moving urban prose. Its irony depends on contrast: ancient magical abundance versus modern restraint, grandiose wishes versus practical inconvenience. In that regard, it translates fantasy into a study of social embarrassment, linguistic misunderstanding, and the limits of utilitarian thinking.
Legacy & Reassessment Across Time
Across time, The Rose and the Ring has been read both as an entertaining fairy satire and as a compact statement of Thackeray’s broader distrust of pretension. Later readers have emphasized how deftly it unsettles the moral simplifications often associated with children’s literature, without abandoning accessibility. Its afterlife has depended less on doctrinal interpretation than on admiration for its tonal balance, where playfulness coexists with social bite. Scholars and general audiences alike have returned to it as evidence that Victorian fantasy could be knowingly artificial, politically alert, and formally agile. The work has thus remained a touchstone for ironic uses of the fairy-tale mode.
Hypolympia has generally occupied a more specialized place, attracting renewed attention when critics reexamined fin-de-siècle engagements with classicism, secularization, and mythic afterlives. What may once have seemed a minor jeu d’esprit has been reconsidered as a revealing document of late Victorian cultural self-consciousness. Modern scholarship has valued its ambivalent treatment of Greek antiquity, noting how it neither simply revives paganism nor dismisses it, but uses irony to register a divided modern sensibility. This reassessment situates Gosse’s fantasy within broader discussions of how nineteenth-century writers negotiated belief after religious certainty had weakened, and how classical forms persisted through parody, hesitation, and aesthetic transformation.
The Brass Bottle has enjoyed perhaps the most visible popular afterlife of the three works, owing to the durability of its central premise and its adaptability to performance. Readers have repeatedly recognized in it a prototype for modern comic fantasies about wishes gone wrong, where supernatural power magnifies rather than solves social problems. Critical reassessment has also highlighted its place within late Victorian humor, appreciating Anstey’s control of escalation and his satire of respectable domestic life. Over time, the novel has come to seem less a light curiosity than a significant example of how fantasy could modernize itself by entering offices, drawing rooms, and marriage negotiations.
Taken together, these three novels have increasingly been viewed as a compact history of ironic fantasy across the Victorian and fin-de-siècle period. Reassessment has stressed their shared interest in exposing the artificiality of status, belief, and everyday rationality, even though each approaches the task through a different imaginative framework: fairy tale, classical revival, and genie comedy. Modern readers often value the collection less for escapism than for its disciplined skepticism, its ability to preserve delight while interrogating power and perception. In anthology form, the works clarify one another, showing how irony became a crucial means for reworking inherited magical forms within modern literary culture.
High Society & Low Magic – 3 Classic Ironic Fiction Novels
Satire of High Society and Human Foibles
Low Magic and Fantastic Intrusion as Ironic Device
William Makepeace Thackeray
The Rose and the Ring
I. SHOWS HOW THE ROYAL FAMILY SATE DOWN TO BREAKFAST
This is Valoroso XXIV., King of Paflagonia, seated with his Queen and only child at their royal breakfast-table, and receiving the letter which announces to His Majesty a proposed visit from Prince Bulbo, heir of Padella, reigning King of Crim Tartary. Remark the delight upon the monarch’s royal features. He is so absorbed in the perusal of the King of Crim Tartary’s letter, that he allows his eggs to get cold, and leaves his august muffins untasted.
‘What! that wicked, brave, delightful Prince Bulbo!’ cries Princess Angelica; ‘so handsome, so accomplished, so witty—the conqueror of Rimbombamento, where he slew ten thousand giants!’
‘Who told you of him, my dear?’ asks His Majesty.
‘A little bird,’ says Angelica.
‘Poor Giglio!’ says mamma, pouring out the tea.
‘Bother Giglio!’ cries Angelica, tossing up her head, which rustled with a thousand curl-papers.
‘I wish,’ growls the King—‘I wish Giglio was…’
‘Was better? Yes, dear, he is better,’ says the Queen. ‘Angelica’s little maid, Betsinda, told me so when she came to my room this morning with my early tea.’
‘You are always drinking tea,’ said the monarch, with a scowl.
‘It is better than drinking port or brandy and water;’ replies Her Majesty.
‘Well, well, my dear, I only said you were fond of drinking tea,’ said the King of Paflagonia, with an effort as if to command his temper. ‘Angelica! I hope you have plenty of new dresses; your milliners’ bills are long enough. My dear Queen, you must see and have some parties. I prefer dinners, but of course you will be for balls. Your everlasting blue velvet quite tires me: and, my love, I should like you to have a new necklace. Order one. Not more than a hundred or a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’
‘And Giglio, dear?’ says the Queen.
‘GIGLIO MAY GO TO THE—’
‘Oh, sir,’ screams Her Majesty. ‘Your own nephew! our late King’s only son.’
‘Giglio may go to the tailor’s, and order the bills to be sent in to Glumboso to pay. Confound him! I mean bless his dear heart. He need want for nothing; give him a couple of guineas for pocket-money, my dear; and you may as well order yourself bracelets while you are about the necklace, Mrs.V.’
Her Majesty, or MRS. V., as the monarch facetiously called her (for even royalty will have its sport, and this august family were very much attached), embraced her husband, and, twining her arm round her daughter’s waist, they quitted the breakfast-room in order to make all things ready for the princely stranger.
When they were gone, the smile that had lighted up the eyes of the HUSBAND and FATHER fled—the pride of the KING fled—the MAN was alone. Had I the pen of a G. P. R. James, I would describe Valoroso’s torments in the choicest language; in which I would also depict his flashing eye, his distended nostril—his dressing-gown, pocket-handkerchief, and boots. But I need not say I have NOT the pen of that novelist; suffice it to say, Valoroso was alone.
He rushed to the cupboard, seizing from the table one of the many egg-cups with which his princely board was served for the matin meal, drew out a bottle of right Nantz or Cognac, filled and emptied the cup several times, and laid it down with a hoarse ‘Ha, ha, ha! now Valoroso is a man again!’
‘But oh!’ he went on (still sipping, I am sorry to say), ‘ere I was a king, I needed not this intoxicating draught; once I detested the hot brandy wine, and quaffed no other fount but nature’s rill. It dashes not more quickly o’er the rocks than I did, as, with blunderbuss in hand, I brushed away the early morning dew, and shot the partridge, snipe, or antlered deer! Ah! well may England’s dramatist remark, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!” Why did I steal my nephew’s, my young Giglio’s—? Steal! said I? no, no, no, not steal, not steal. Let me withdraw that odious expression. I took, and on my manly head I set, the royal crown of Paflagonia; I took, and with my royal arm I wield, the sceptral rod of Paflagonia; I took, and in my outstretched hand I hold, the royal orb of Paflagonia! Could a poor boy, a snivelling, drivelling boy—was in his nurse’s arms but yesterday, and cried for sugarplums and puled for pap—bear up the awful weight of crown, orb, sceptre? gird on the sword my royal fathers wore, and meet in fight the tough Crimean foe?’
And then the monarch went on to argue in his own mind (though we need not say that blank verse is not argument) that what he had got it was his duty to keep, and that, if at one time he had entertained ideas of a certain restitution, which shall be nameless, the prospect by a CERTAIN MARRIAGE of uniting two crowns and two nations which had been engaged in bloody and expensive wars, as the Paflagonians and the Crimeans had been, put the idea of Giglio’s restoration to the throne out of the question: nay, were his own brother, King Savio, alive, he would certainly will the crown from his own son in order to bring about such a desirable union.
Thus easily do we deceive ourselves! Thus do we fancy what we wish is right! The King took courage, read the papers, finished his muffins and eggs, and rang the bell for his Prime Minister. The Queen, after thinking whether she should go up and see Giglio, who had been sick, thought ‘Not now. Business first; pleasure afterwards. I will go and see dear Giglio this afternoon; and now I will drive to the jeweller’s, to look for the necklace and bracelets.’ The Princess went up into her own room, and made Betsinda, her maid, bring out all her dresses; and as for Giglio, they forgot him as much as I forget what I had for dinner last Tuesday twelve-month.
II. HOW KING VALOROSO GOT THE CROWN, AND PRINCE GIGLIO WENT WITHOUT
Paflagonia, ten or twenty thousand years ago, appears to have been one of those kingdoms where the laws of succession were not settled; for when King Savio died, leaving his brother Regent of the kingdom, and guardian of Savio’s orphan infant, this unfaithful regent took no sort of regard of the late monarch’s will; had himself proclaimed sovereign of Paflagonia under the title of King Valoroso XXIV., had a most splendid coronation, and ordered all the nobles of the kingdom to pay him homage. So long as Valoroso gave them plenty of balls at Court, plenty of money and lucrative places, the Paflagonian nobility did not care who was king; and as for the people, in those early times, they were equally indifferent. The Prince Giglio, by reason of his tender age at his royal father’s death, did not feel the loss of his crown and empire. As long as he had plenty of toys and sweetmeats, a holiday five times a week and a horse and gun to go out shooting when he grew a little older, and, above all, the company of his darling cousin, the King’s only child, poor Giglio was perfectly contented; nor did he envy his uncle the royal robes and sceptre, the great hot uncomfortable throne of state, and the enormous cumbersome crown in which that monarch appeared from morning till night. King Valoroso’s portrait has been left to us; and I think you will agree with me that he must have been sometimes RATHER TIRED of his velvet, and his diamonds, and his ermine, and his grandeur. I shouldn’t like to sit in that stifling robe with such a thing as that on my head.
No doubt, the Queen must have been lovely in her youth; for though she grew rather stout in after life, yet her features, as shown in her portrait, are certainly PLEASING. If she was fond of flattery, scandal, cards, and fine clothes, let us deal gently with her infirmities, which, after all, may be no greater than our own. She was kind to her nephew; and if she had any scruples of conscience about her husband’s taking the young Prince’s crown, consoled herself by thinking that the King, though a usurper, was a most respectable man, and that at his death Prince Giglio would be restored to his throne, and share it with his cousin, whom he loved so fondly.
The Prime Minister was Glumboso, an old statesman, who most cheerfully swore fidelity to King Valoroso, and in whose hands the monarch left all the affairs of his kingdom. All Valoroso wanted was plenty of money, plenty of hunting, plenty of flattery, and as little trouble as possible. As long as he had his sport, this monarch cared little how his people paid for it: he engaged in some wars, and of course the Paflagonian newspapers announced that he had gained prodigious victories: he had statues erected to himself in every city of the empire; and of course his pictures placed everywhere, and in all the print-shops: he was Valoroso the Magnanimous, Valoroso the Victorious, Valoroso the Great, and so forth;—for even in these early times courtiers and people knew how to flatter.
This royal pair had one only child, the Princess Angelica, who, you may be sure, was a paragon in the courtiers’ eyes, in her parents’, and in her own. It was said she had the longest hair, the largest eyes, the slimmest waist, the smallest foot, and the most lovely complexion of any young lady in the Paflagonian dominions. Her accomplishments were announced to be even superior to her beauty; and governesses used to shame their idle pupils by telling them what Princess Angelica could do. She could play the most difficult pieces of music at sight. She could answer any one of Mangnall’s Questions. She knew every date in the history of Paflagonia, and every other country. She knew French, English, Italian, German, Spanish, Hebrew, Greek, Latin, Cappadocian, Samothracian, Aegean, and Crim Tartar. In a word, she was a most accomplished young creature; and her governess and lady-in-waiting was the severe Countess Gruffanuff.
Would you not fancy, from this picture, that Gruffanuff must have been a person of highest birth? She looks so haughty that I should have thought her a princess at the very least, with a pedigree reaching as far back as the Deluge. But this lady was no better born than many other ladies who give themselves airs; and all sensible people laughed at her absurd pretensions. The fact is, she had been maid-servant to the Queen when Her Majesty was only Princess, and her husband had been head footman; but after his death or DISAPPEARANCE, of which you shall hear presently, this Mrs.Gruffanuff, by flattering, toadying, and wheedling her royal mistress, became a favourite with the Queen (who was rather a weak woman), and Her Majesty gave her a title, and made her nursery governess to the Princess.
And now I must tell you about the Princess’s learning and accomplishments, for which she had such a wonderful character. Clever Angelica certainly was, but as IDLE as POSSIBLE. Play at sight, indeed! she could play one or two pieces, and pretend that she had never seen them before; she could answer half a dozen Mangnall’s Questions; but then you must take care to ask the RIGHT ones. As for her languages, she had masters in plenty, but I doubt whether she knew more than a few phrases in each, for all her presence; and as for her embroidery and her drawing, she showed beautiful specimens, it is true, but WHO DID THEM?
This obliges me to tell the truth, and to do so I must go back ever so far, and tell you about the FAIRY BLACKSTICK.
III. TELLS WHO THE FAIRY BLACKSTICK WAS, AND WHO WERE EVER SO MANY GRAND PERSONAGES BESIDES
Between the kingdoms of Paflagonia and Crim Tartary, there lived a mysterious personage, who was known in those countries as the Fairy Blackstick, from the ebony wand or crutch which she carried; on which she rode to the moon sometimes, or upon other excursions of business or pleasure, and with which she performed her wonders.
When she was young, and had been first taught the art of conjuring by the necromancer, her father, she was always practicing her skill, whizzing about from one kingdom to another upon her black stick, and conferring her fairy favours upon this Prince or that. She had scores of royal godchildren; turned numberless wicked people into beasts, birds, millstones, clocks, pumps, boot jacks, umbrellas, or other absurd shapes; and, in a word, was one of the most active and officious of the whole College of fairies.
But after two or three thousand years of this sport, I suppose Blackstick grew tired of it. Or perhaps she thought, ‘What good am I doing by sending this Princess to sleep for a hundred years? by fixing a black pudding on to that booby’s nose? by causing diamonds and pearls to drop from one little girl’s mouth, and vipers and toads from another’s? I begin to think I do as much harm as good by my performances. I might as well shut my incantations up, and allow things to take their natural course.
‘There were my two young goddaughters, King Savio’s wife, and Duke Padella’s wife, I gave them each a present, which was to render them charming in the eyes of their husbands, and secure the affection of those gentlemen as long as they lived. What good did my Rose and my Ring do these two women? None on earth. From having all their whims indulged by their husbands, they became capricious, lazy, ill-humoured, absurdly vain, and leered and languished, and fancied themselves irresistibly beautiful, when they were really quite old and hideous, the ridiculous creatures! They used actually to patronise me when I went to pay them a visit—ME, the Fairy Blackstick, who knows all the wisdom of the necromancers, and could have turned them into baboons, and all their diamonds into strings of onions, by a single wave of my rod!’ So she locked up her books in her cupboard, declined further magical performances, and scarcely used her wand at all except as a cane to walk about with.
So when Duke Padella’s lady had a little son (the Duke was at that time only one of the principal noblemen in Crim Tartary), Blackstick, although invited to the christening, would not so much as attend; but merely sent her compliments and a silver papboat for the baby, which was really not worth a couple of guineas. About the same time the Queen of Paflagonia presented His Majesty with a son and heir; and guns were fired, the capital illuminated, and no end of feasts ordained to celebrate the young Prince’s birth. It was thought the fairy, who was asked to be his godmother, would at least have presented him with an invisible jacket, a flying horse, a Fortunatus’s purse, or some other valuable token of her favour; but instead, Blackstick went up to the cradle of the child Giglio, when everybody was admiring him and complimenting his royal papa and mamma, and said, ‘My poor child, the best thing I can send you is a little MISFORTUNE’; and this was all she would utter, to the disgust of Giglio’s parents, who died very soon after, when Giglio’s uncle took the throne, as we read in Chapter I.
In like manner, when CAVOLFIORE, King of Crim Tartary, had a christening of his only child, ROSALBA, the Fairy Blackstick, who had been invited, was not more gracious than in Prince Giglio’s case. Whilst everybody was expatiating over the beauty of the darling child, and congratulating its parents, the Fairy Blackstick looked very sadly at the baby and its mother, and said, ‘My good woman (for the Fairy was very familiar, and no more minded a Queen than a washerwoman)—my good woman, these people who are following you will be the first to turn against you; and as for this little lady, the best thing I can wish her is a LITTLE MISFORTUNE.’ So she touched Rosalba with her black wand, looked severely at the courtiers, motioned the Queen an adieu with her hand, and sailed slowly up into the air out of the window.
When she was gone, the Court people, who had been awed and silent in her presence, began to speak. ‘What an odious Fairy she is (they said)—a pretty Fairy, indeed! Why, she went to the King of Paflagonia’s christening, and pretended to do all sorts of things for that family; and what has happened—the Prince, her godson, has been turned off his throne by his uncle. Would we allow our sweet Princess to be deprived of her rights by any enemy? Never, never, never, never!’
And they all shouted in a chorus, ‘Never, never, never, never!’
Now, I should like to know, and how did these fine courtiers show their fidelity? One of King Cavolfiore’s vassals, the Duke Padella just mentioned, rebelled against the King, who went out to chastise his rebellious subject. ‘Any one rebel against our beloved and august Monarch!’ cried the courtiers; ‘any one resist HIM? Pooh! He is invincible, irresistible. He will bring home Padella a prisoner, and tie him to a donkey’s tail, and drive him round the town, saying, “This is the way the Great Cavolfiore treats rebels.”’
The King went forth to vanquish Padella; and the poor Queen, who was a very timid, anxious creature, grew so frightened and ill that I am sorry to say she died; leaving injunctions with her ladies to take care of the dear little Rosalba.—Of course they said they would. Of course they vowed they would die rather than any harm should happen to the Princess. At first the Crim Tartar Court Journal stated that the King was obtaining great victories over the audacious rebel: then it was announced that the troops of the infamous Padella were in flight: then it was said that the royal army would soon come up with the enemy, and then—then the news came that King Cavolfiore was vanquished and slain by His Majesty, King Padella the First!
At this news, half the courtiers ran off to pay their duty to the conquering chief, and the other half ran away, laying hands on all the best articles in the palace; and poor little Rosalba was left there quite alone—quite alone; and she toddled from one room to another, crying, ‘Countess! Duchess!’ (Only she said ‘Tountess, Duttess,’ not being able to speak plain) ‘bring me my mutton sop; my Royal Highness hungy! Tountess! Duttess!’ And she went from the private apartments into the throne-room and nobody was there;—and thence into the ballroom and nobody was there;—and thence into the pages’ room and nobody was there;—and she toddled down the great staircase into the hall and nobody was there;—and the door was open, and she went into the court, and into the garden, and thence into the wilderness, and thence into the forest where the wild beasts live, and was never heard of any more!
A piece of her torn mantle and one of her shoes were found in the wood in the mouths of two lionesses’ cubs whom KING PADELLA and a royal hunting party shot—for he was King now, and reigned over Crim Tartary. ‘So the poor little Princess is done for,’ said he; ‘well, what’s done can’t be helped. Gentlemen, let us go to luncheon!’ And one of the courtiers took up the shoe and put it in his pocket. And there was an end of Rosalba!
IV. HOW BLACKSTICK WAS NOT ASKED TO THE PRINCESS ANGELICA’S CHRISTENING
When the Princess Angelica was born, her parents not only did not ask the Fairy Blackstick to the christening party, but gave orders to their porter absolutely to refuse her if she called. This porter’s name was Gruffanuff, and he had been selected for the post by their Royal Highnesses because he was a very tall fierce man, who could say ‘Not at home’ to a tradesman or an unwelcome visitor with a rudeness which frightened most such persons away. He was the husband of that Countess whose picture we have just seen, and as long as they were together they quarrelled from morning till night. Now this fellow tried his rudeness once too often, as you shall hear. For the Fairy Blackstick coming to call upon the Prince and Princess, who were actually sitting at the open drawing-room window, Gruffanuff not only denied them, but made the most ODIOUS VULGAR SIGN as he was going to slam the door in the Fairy’s face! ‘Git away, hold Blackstick!’ said he. ‘I tell you, Master and Missis ain’t at home to you;’ and he was, as we have said, GOING to slam the door.
But the Fairy, with her wand, prevented the door being shut; and Gruffanuff came out again in a fury, swearing in the most abominable way, and asking the Fairy ‘whether she thought he was a going to stay at that there door hall day?’
‘You ARE going to stay at that door all day and all night, and for many a long year,’ the Fairy said, very majestically; and Gruffanuff, coming out of the door, straddling before it with his great calves, burst out laughing, and cried, ‘Ha, ha, ha! this is a good un! Ha—ah—what’s this? Let me down—O—o—H’m!’ and then he was dumb!
For, as the Fairy waved her wand over him, he felt himself rising off the ground, and fluttering up against the door, and then, as if a screw ran into his stomach, he felt a dreadful pain there, and was pinned to the door; and then his arms flew up over his head; and his legs, after writhing about wildly, twisted under his body; and he felt cold, cold, growing over him, as if he was turning into metal; and he said, ‘O—o—H’m!’ and could say no more, because he was dumb.
He WAS turned into metal! He was, from being BRAZEN, BRASS! He was neither more nor less than a knocker! And there he was, nailed to the door in the blazing summer day, till he burned almost red-hot; and there he was, nailed to the door all the bitter winter nights, till his brass nose was dropping with icicles. And the postman came and rapped at him, and the vulgarest boy with a letter came and hit him up against the door. And the King and Queen (Princess and Prince they were then) coming home from a walk that evening, the King said, ‘Hullo, my dear! you have had a new knocker put on the door. Why, it’s rather like our porter in the face! What has become of that boozy vagabond?’ And the house-maid came and scrubbed his nose with sandpaper; and once, when the Princess Angelica’s little sister was born, he was tied up in an old kid glove; and, another night, some LARKING young men tried to wrench him off, and put him to the most excruciating agony with a turn screw. And then the Queen had a fancy to have the colour of the door altered; and the painters dabbed him over the mouth and eyes, and nearly choked him, as they painted him pea-green. I warrant he had leisure to repent of having been rude to the Fairy Blackstick!
As for his wife, she did not miss him; and as he was always guzzling beer at the public-house, and notoriously quarrelling with his wife, and in debt to the tradesmen, it was supposed he had run away from all these evils, and emigrated to Australia or America. And when the Prince and Princess chose to become King and Queen, they left their old house, and nobody thought of the porter any more.
V. HOW PRINCESS ANGELICA TOOK A LITTLE MAID
One day, when the Princess Angelica was quite a little girl, she was walking in the garden of the palace, with Mrs.Gruffanuff, the governess, holding a parasol over her head, to keep her sweet complexion from the freckles, and Angelica was carrying a bun, to feed the swans and ducks in the royal pond.
They had not reached the duck-pond, when there came toddling up to them such a funny little girl! She had a great quantity of hair blowing about her chubby little cheeks, and looked as if she had not been washed or combed for ever so long. She wore a ragged bit of a cloak, and had only one shoe on.
‘You little wretch, who let you in here?’ asked Mrs.Gruffanuff.
‘Div me dat bun,’ said the little girl, ‘me vely hungy.’
‘Hungry! what is that?’ asked Princess Angelica, and gave the child the bun.
‘Oh, Princess!’ says Mrs.Gruffanuff, ‘how good, how kind, how truly angelical you are! See, Your Majesties,’ she said to the King and Queen, who now came up, along with their nephew, Prince Giglio, ‘how kind the Princess is! She met this little dirty wretch in the garden—I can’t tell how she came in here, or why the guards did not shoot her dead at the gate!—and the dear darling of a Princess has given her the whole of her bun!’
‘I didn’t want it,’ said Angelical
‘But you are a darling little angel all the same,’ says the governess.
‘Yes; I know I am,’ said Angelical ‘Dirty little girl, don’t you think I am very pretty?’ Indeed, she had on the finest of little dresses and hats; and, as her hair was carefully curled, she really looked very well.
‘Oh, pooty, pooty!’ says the little girl, capering about, laughing, and dancing, and munching her bun; and as she ate it she began to sing, ‘Oh, what fun to have a plum bun! how I wis it never was done!’ At which, and her funny accent, Angelica, Giglio, and the King and Queen began to laugh very merrily.
‘I can dance as well as sing,’ says the little girl. ‘I can dance, and I can sing, and I can do all sorts of ting.’ And she ran to a flower-bed, and pulling a few polyanthuses, rhododendrons, and other flowers, made herself a little wreath, and danced before the King and Queen so drolly and prettily, that everybody was delighted.
‘Who was your mother—who were your relations, little girl?’ said the Queen.
The little girl said, ‘Little lion was my brudder; great big lioness my mudder; neber heard of any udder.’ And she capered away on her one shoe, and everybody was exceedingly diverted.
So Angelica said to the Queen, ‘Mamma, my parrot flew away yesterday out of its cage, and I don’t care any more for any of my toys; and I think this funny little dirty child will amuse me. I will take her home, and give her some of my old frocks.’
‘Oh, the generous darling!’ says Mrs.Gruffanuff.
‘Which I have worn ever so many times, and am quite tired of,’ Angelica went on; ‘and she shall be my little maid. Will you come home with me, little dirty girl?’
The child clapped her hands, and said, ‘Go home with you—yes! You pooty Princess!—Have a nice dinner, and wear a new dress!’
And they all laughed again, and took home the child to the palace, where, when she was washed and combed, and had one of the Princess’s frocks given to her, she looked as handsome as Angelica, almost. Not that Angelica ever thought so; for this little lady never imagined that anybody in the world could be as pretty, as good, or as clever as herself. In order that the little girl should not become too proud and conceited, Mrs.Gruffanuff took her old ragged mantle and one shoe, and put them into a glass box, with a card laid upon them, upon which was written, ‘These were the old clothes in which little BETSINDA was found when the great goodness and admirable kindness of Her Royal Highness the Princess Angelica received this little outcast.’ And the date was added, and the box locked up.
For a while little Betsinda was a great favourite with the Princess, and she danced, and sang, and made her little rhymes, to amuse her mistress. But then the Princess got a monkey, and afterwards a little dog, and afterwards a doll, and did not care for Betsinda any more, who became very melancholy and quiet, and sang no more funny songs, because nobody cared to hear her. And then, as she grew older, she was made a little lady’s-maid to the Princess; and though she had no wages, she worked and mended, and put Angelica’s hair in papers, and was never cross when scolded, and was always eager to please her mistress, and was always up early and to bed late, and at hand when wanted, and in fact became a perfect little maid. So the two girls grew up, and, when the Princess came out, Betsinda was never tired of waiting on her; and made her dresses better than the best milliner, and was useful in a hundred ways. Whilst the Princess was having her masters, Betsinda would sit and watch them; and in this way she picked up a great deal of learn ing; for she was always awake, though her mistress was not, and listened to the wise professors when Angelica was yawning or thinking of the next ball. And when the dancing-master came, Betsinda learned along with Angelica; and when the music-master came, she watched him, and practiced the Princess’s pieces when Angelica was away at balls and parties; and when the drawing-master came, she took note of all he said and did; and the same with French, Italian, and all other languages—she learned them from the teacher who came to Angelica. When the Princess was going out of an evening she would say, ‘My good Betsinda, you may as well finish what I have begun.’ ‘Yes, miss,’ Betsinda would say, and sit down very cheerful, not to FINISH what Angelica began, but to DO it.
For instance, the Princess would begin a head of a warrior, let us say, and when it was begun it was something like this—
But when it was done, the warrior was like this—
(only handsomer still if possible), and the Princess put her name to the drawing; and the Court and King and Queen, and above all poor Giglio, admired the picture of all things, and said, ‘Was there ever a genius like Angelica?’ So, I am sorry to say, was it with the Princess’s embroidery and other accomplishments; and Angelica actually believed that she did these things herself, and received all the flattery of the Court as if every word of it was true. Thus she began to think that there was no young woman in all the world equal to herself, and that no young man was good enough for her. As for Betsinda, as she heard none of these praises, she was not puffed up by them, and being a most grateful, good-natured girl, she was only too anxious to do everything which might give her mistress pleasure. Now you begin to perceive that Angelica had faults of her own, and was by no means such a wonder of wonders as people represented Her Royal Highness to be.
VI. HOW PRINCE GIGLIO BEHAVED HIMSELF
And now let us speak about Prince Giglio, the nephew of the reigning monarch of Paflagonia. It has already been stated, in page seven, that as long as he had a smart coat to wear, a good horse to ride, and money in his pocket, or rather to take out of his pocket, for he was very good-natured, my young Prince did not care for the loss of his crown and sceptre, being a thoughtless youth, not much inclined to politics or any kind of learning. So his tutor had a sinecure. Giglio would not learn classics or mathematics, and the Lord Chancellor of Paflagonia, SQUARETOSO, pulled a very long face because the Prince could not be got to study the Paflagonian laws and constitution; but, on the other hand, the King’s gamekeepers and huntsmen found the Prince an apt pupil; the dancing-master pronounced that he was a most elegant and assiduous scholar; the First Lord of the Billiard Table gave the most flattering reports of the Prince’s skill; so did the Groom of the Tennis Court; and as for the Captain of the Guard and Fencing Master, the VALIANT and VETERAN Count KUTASOFF HEDZOFF, he avowed that since he ran the General of Crim Tartary, the dreadful Grumbuskin, through the body, he never had encountered so expert a swordsman as Prince Giglio.
I hope you do not imagine that there was any impropriety in the Prince and Princess walking together in the palace garden, and because Giglio kissed Angelica’s hand in a polite manner. In the first place they are cousins; next, the Queen is walking in the garden too (you cannot see her, for she happens to be behind that tree), and Her Majesty always wished that Angelica and Giglio should marry: so did Giglio: so did Angelica sometimes, for she thought her cousin very handsome, brave, and good-natured: but then you know she was so clever and knew so many things, and poor Giglio knew nothing, and had no conversation. When they looked at the stars, what did Giglio know of the heavenly bodies? Once, when on a sweet night in a balcony where they were standing, Angelica said, ‘There is the Bear.’ ‘Where?’ says Giglio. ‘Don’t be afraid, Angelica! if a dozen bears come, I will kill them rather than they shall hurt you.’ ‘Oh, you silly creature!’ says she; ‘you are very good, but you are not very wise.’ When they looked at the flowers, Giglio was utterly unacquainted with botany, and had never heard of Linnaeus. When the butterflies passed, Giglio knew nothing about them, being as ignorant of entomology as I am of algebra. So you see, Angelica, though she liked Giglio pretty well, despised him on account of his ignorance. I think she probably valued HER OWN LEARNING rather too much; but to think too well of one’s self is the fault of people of all ages and both sexes. Finally, when nobody else was there, Angelica liked her cousin well enough.
King Valoroso was very delicate in health, and withal so fond of good dinners (which were prepared for him by his French cook Marmitonio), that it was supposed he could not live long. Now the idea of anything happening to the King struck the artful Prime Minister and the designing old lady-in-waiting with terror. For, thought Glumboso and the Countess, ‘when Prince Giglio marries his cousin and comes to the throne, what a pretty position we shall be in, whom he dislikes, and who have always been unkind to him. We shall lose our places in a trice; Mrs.Gruffanuff will have to give up all the jewels, laces, snuff-boxes, rings, and watches which belonged to the Queen, Giglio’s mother; and Glumboso will be forced to refund two hundred and seventeen thousand millions nine hundred and eighty-seven thousand four hundred and thirty-nine pounds, thirteen shillings, and sixpence halfpenny, money left to Prince Giglio by his poor dear father.’
So the Lady of Honour and the Prime Minister hated Giglio because they had done him a wrong; and these unprincipled people invented a hundred cruel stories about poor Giglio, in order to influence the King, Queen, and Princess against him; how he was so ignorant that he could not spell the commonest words, and actually wrote Valoroso Valloroso, and spelt Angelica with two l’s; how he drank a great deal too much wine at dinner, and was always idling in the stables with the grooms; how he owed ever so much money at the pastry-cook’s and the haberdasher’s; how he used to go to sleep at church; how he was fond of playing cards with the pages. So did the Queen like playing cards; so did the King go to sleep at church, and eat and drink too much; and, if Giglio owed a trifle for tarts, who owed him two hundred and seventeen thousand millions nine hundred and eighty-seven thousand four hundred and thirty-nine pounds, thirteen shillings, and sixpence halfpenny, I should like to know? Detractors and tale-bearers (in my humble opinion) had much better look at HOME. All this backbiting and slandering had effect upon Princess Angelica, who began to look coldly on her cousin, then to laugh at him and scorn him for being so stupid, then to sneer at him for having vulgar associates; and at Court balls, dinners, and so forth, to treat him so unkindly that poor Giglio became quite ill, took to his bed, and sent for the doctor.
His Majesty King Valoroso, as we have seen, had his own reasons for disliking his nephew; and as for those innocent readers who ask why?—I beg (with the permission of their dear parents) to refer them to Shakespeare’s pages, where they will read why King John disliked Prince Arthur. With the Queen, his royal but weak-minded aunt, when Giglio was out of sight he was out of mind. While she had her whist and her evening parties, she cared for little else.
I dare say TWO VILLAINS, who shall be nameless, wished Doctor Pildrafto, the Court Physician, had killed Giglio right out, but he only bled and physicked him so severely that the Prince was kept to his room for several months, and grew as thin as a post.
Whilst he was lying sick in this way, there came to the Court of Paflagonia a famous painter, whose name was Tomaso Lorenzo, and who was Painter in Ordinary to the King of Crim Tartary, Paflagonia’s neighbour. Tomaso Lorenzo painted all the Court, who were delighted with his works; for even Countess Gruffanuff looked young and Glumboso good-humoured in his pictures. ‘He flatters very much,’ some people said. ‘Nay!’ says Princess Angelica, ‘I am above flattery, and I think he did not make my picture handsome enough. I can’t bear to hear a man of genius unjustly cried down, and I hope my dear papa will make Lorenzo a knight of his Order of the Cucumber.’
The Princess Angelica, although the courtiers vowed Her Royal Highness could draw so BEAUTIFULLY that the idea of her taking lessons was absurd, yet chose to have Lorenzo for a teacher, and it was wonderful, AS LONG AS SHE PAINTED IN HIS STUDIO, what beautiful pictures she made! Some of the performances were engraved for the Book of Beauty: others were sold for enormous sums at Charity Bazaars. She wrote the SIGNATURES under the drawings, no doubt, but I think I know who-did the pictures—this artful painter, who had come with other designs on Angelica than merely to teach her to draw.
One day, Lorenzo showed the Princess a portrait of a young man in armour, with fair hair and the loveliest blue eyes, and an expression at once melancholy and interesting.
‘Dear Signor Lorenzo, who is this?’ asked the Princess.
‘I never saw anyone so handsome,’ says Countess Gruffanuff (the old humbug).
‘That,’ said the painter, ‘that, Madam, is the portrait of my august young master, his Royal Highness Bulbo, Crown Prince of Crim Tartary, Duke of Acroceraunia, Marquis of Poluphloisboio, and Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Pumpkin. That is the order of the Pumpkin glittering on his manly breast, and received by His Royal Highness from his august father, His Majesty King PADELLA I., for his gallantry at the battle of Rimbombamento, when he slew with his own princely hand the King of Ograria and two hundred and eleven giants of the two hundred and eighteen who formed the King’s bodyguard. The remainder were destroyed by the brave Crim Tartar army after an obstinate combat, in which the Crim Tartars suffered severely.’
What a Prince! thought Angelica: so brave—so calm-looking—so young—what a hero!
‘He is as accomplished as he is brave,’ continued the Court Painter. ‘He knows all languages perfectly: sings deliciously: plays every instrument: composes operas which have been acted a thousand nights running at the Imperial Theatre of Crim Tartary, and danced in a ballet there before the King and Queen; in which he looked so beautiful, that his cousin, the lovely daughter of the King of Circassia, died for love of him.’
‘Why did he not marry the poor Princess?’ asked Angelica, with a sigh.
‘Because they were FIRST COUSINS, Madam, and the clergy forbid these unions,’ said the Painter. ‘And, besides, the young Prince had given his royal heart ELSEWHERE.’
‘And to whom?’ asked Her Royal Highness.
‘I am not at liberty to mention the Princess’s name,’ answered the Painter.
‘But you may tell me the first letter of it,’ gasped out the Princess.
‘That Your Royal Highness is at liberty to guess,’ said Lorenzo.
‘Does it begin with a Z?’ asked Angelica.
The Painter said it wasn’t a Z; then she tried a Y; then an X; then a W, and went so backwards through almost the whole alphabet.
When she came to D, and it wasn’t D, she grew very excited; when she came to C, and it wasn’t C, she was still more nervous; when she came to B, AND IT WASN’T B, ‘O dearest Gruffanuff,’ she said, ‘lend me your smelling-bottle!’ and, hiding her head in the Countess’s shoulder, she faintly whispered, ‘Ah, Signor, can it be A?’
‘It was A; and though I may not, by my Royal Master’s orders, tell Your Royal Highness the Princess’s name, whom he fondly, madly, devotedly, rapturously loves, I may show you her portrait,’ says this slyboots: and leading the Princess up to a gilt frame, he drew a curtain which was before it.
O goodness! the frame contained A LOOKING-GLASS! and Angelica saw her own face!
VII. HOW GIGLIO AND ANGELICA HAD A QUARREL
The Court Painter of His Majesty the King of Crim Tartary returned to that monarch’s dominions, carrying away a number of sketches which he had made in the Paflagonian capital (you know, of course, my dears, that the name of that capital is Blombodinga); but the most charming of all his pieces was a portrait of the Princess Angelica, which all the Crim Tartar nobles came to see. With this work the King was so delighted, that he decorated the Painter with his Order of the Pumpkin (sixth class) and the artist became Sir Tomaso Lorenzo, K.P., thenceforth.
King Valoroso also sent Sir Tomaso his Order of the Cucumber, besides a handsome order for money, for he painted the King, Queen, and principal nobility while at Blombodinga, and became all the fashion, to the perfect rage of all the artists in Paflagonia, where the King used to point to the portrait of Prince Bulbo, which Sir Tomaso had left behind him, and say ‘Which among you can paint a picture like that?’
It hung in the royal parlour over the royal sideboard, and Princess Angelica could always look at it as she sat making the tea. Each day it seemed to grow handsomer and handsomer, and the Princess grew so fond of looking at it, that she would often spill the tea over the cloth, at which her father and mother would wink and wag their heads, and say to each other, ‘Aha! we see how things are going.’
In the meantime poor Giglio lay upstairs very sick in his chamber, though he took all the doctor’s horrible medicines like a good young lad; as I hope YOU do, my dears, when you are ill and mamma sends for the medical man. And the only person who visited Giglio (besides his friend the captain of the guard, who was almost always busy or on parade), was little Betsinda the housemaid, who used to do his bedroom and sitting-room out, bring him his gruel, and warm his bed.
When the little housemaid came to him in the morning and evening, Prince Giglio used to say, ‘Betsinda, Betsinda, how is the Princess Angelica?’
And Betsinda used to answer, ‘The Princess is very well, thank you, my Lord.’ And Giglio would heave a sigh, and think, if Angelica were sick, I am sure I should not be very well.
Then Giglio would say, ‘Betsinda, has the Princess Angelica asked for me today?’ And Betsinda would answer, ‘No, my Lord, not today’; or, ‘she was very busy practicing the piano when I saw her’; or, ‘she was writing invitations for an evening party, and did not speak to me’; or make some excuse or other, not strictly consonant with truth: for Betsinda was such a good-natured creature that she strove to do everything to prevent annoyance to Prince Giglio, and even brought him up roast chicken and jellies from the kitchen (when the Doctor allowed them, and Giglio was getting better), saying, ‘that the Princess had made the jelly, or the bread-sauce, with her own hands, on purpose for Giglio.’
When Giglio heard this he took heart and began to mend immediately; and gobbled up all the jelly, and picked the last bone of the chicken—drumsticks, merry-thought, sides’-bones, back, pope’s nose, and all—thanking his dear Angelica; and he felt so much better the next day, that he dressed and went downstairs, where, whom should he meet but Angelica going into the drawing-room? All the covers were off the chairs, the chandeliers taken out of the bags, the damask curtains uncovered, the work and things carried away, and the handsomest albums on the tables. Angelica had her hair in papers: in a word, it was evident there was going to be a party.
‘Heavens, Giglio!’ cries Angelica: ‘YOU here in such a dress! What a figure you are!’
‘Yes, dear Angelica, I am come downstairs, and feel so well today, thanks to the FOWL and the JELLY.’
‘What do I know about fowls and jellies, that you allude to them in that rude way?’ says Angelica.
‘Why, didn’t—didn’t you send them, Angelica dear?’ says Giglio.
‘I send them indeed! Angelica dear! No, Giglio dear,’ says she, mocking him, ‘I was engaged in getting the rooms ready for His Royal Highness the Prince of Crim Tartary, who is coming to pay my papa’s Court a visit.’
‘The—Prince—of—Crim—Tartary!’ Giglio said, aghast.
