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Blind Rage Letters to Helen Keller 1st Edition Georgina
Kleege Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Georgina Kleege
ISBN(s): 9781563683718, 1563683717
Edition: 1st
File Details: PDF, 2.62 MB
Year: 2006
Language: english
 Blind Rage

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 Georgina Kleege

Blind Rage
Letters to Helen Keller

Gallaudet University Press

Washington, D.C.

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 Gallaudet University Press
Washington, D.C. 20002
http://gupress.gallaudet.edu
© 2006 by Gallaudet University

All rights reserved

Published in 2006
Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 1-56368-295-8

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kleege, Georgina, 1956–

   Blind rage : letters to Helen Keller / Georgina Kleege.
    p. cm.
   isbn 1-56368-295-8 (alk. paper)
   1. Keller, Helen, 1880–1968—Miscellanea. 2. Kleege, Georgina, 1956–
—Correspondence. 3. Blind-deaf women—United States—Biography—
Miscellanea. 4. Blind—Psychology—Miscellanea.
I. Title.
hv1624.k4a3 2006
362.4'1092—dc22
[B] 2006014539

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of

American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for
Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

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 As always, for Nick

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00 kleege fm i-xiv.indd 6 6/29/06 1:10:23 PM
 Contents

A Note to Readers ix

Acknowledgments xi

part one
Consciousness on Trial 1

part two
Full Body Contact 45

part three
Working the Pump 93

part four
The Hand’s Memory 157

A Note on Sources 209

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00 kleege fm i-xiv.indd 8 6/29/06 1:10:24 PM
 A Note to Readers

I wrote this book to exorcize a personal demon named Helen Keller. While
most people revere Keller as a symbol of human fortitude in the face of
adversity, to me she always represented an example I could not hope to
emulate. She was both totally blind and profoundly deaf but managed to
graduate from Radcliffe College, to publish numerous books and articles,
and to travel the world as an international spokesperson for the blind. I am
blind too, but not as blind as she was, and I have enjoyed many educational
opportunities and employment advantages that were only dreams for her.
Since I was a child, I have heard her name invoked as a reminder that I
should be grateful for how lucky I was. I resented her for this, and sus-
pected that her life, especially versions that appeared in my school books
and in popular entertainments like The Miracle Worker, were too good to
be true.
As an adult, I began to investigate her story more fully. I read her auto-
biographical writings and the many biographies published about her. I dis-
covered many events and relationships that seemed at odds with what I
had always been led to believe. But there was also something missing. It
was as if her need to be an inspirational icon made it impossible for her
ever to express any rage, fear or sorrow, even when her experiences would
have prompted these emotions in anyone else. By turns, this baffled and
infuriated me. I found myself conducting lengthy interior dialogues where
I would question her at length about the thoughts and feelings I sensed she
must have had while these events transpired. I describe them as dialogues,
when in fact no answer ever came back from her. But she had become a very
real presence in my imagination, defiant of my attempts to put words in her
mouth, and eloquent in her silence.
This book re-creates these conversations through a series of letters. It
is a one-sided correspondence that invites the reader to inhabit Keller’s

ix

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   A Note to Readers

consciousness and respond in her stead to what I depict as some of the

key moments of her life. Although based on facts, this is not a conven-
tional biography or historical novel because those genres would keep her
at too great a distance. Instead, I have written letters to her that allow for
some intimacy between us, some exploration of our shared experiences and
sensibilities.

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 Acknowledgments

Sections of this book appeared in slightly different form in Gendering

Disability (Bonnie G. Smith and Beth Hutchison, eds.), The Michigan
Quarterly Review, and Southwest Review. I am especially grateful to Willard
Spiegelman whose publication of the first fragment of this book, also titled
“Blind Rage,” gave me the confidence to continue.
Maureen Novak and Beth Ina were my reading and research assistants
for this project. They read me all of Keller’s work and a great deal of sec-
ondary material. Their mingled voices remain in my mind’s ear, imbuing
Keller’s writing with their intelligence and energy.
I am thankful to Melanie Rae Thon for her early encouragement of
this project. Brenda Brueggemann has been a tireless source of ideas and
friendship.
Many other friends and colleagues have read or heard portions of
this book and offered insights and inspiration. Among them, I especially
want to thank: Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, Catherine Kudlick, Kim
Nielsen, Tom Couser, Anne Finger, Simi Linton, Sue Schweik, Katherine
Sherwood, Paul Longmore, Corbett O’Toole, Lynn Bloom, Mark Willis,
Jean Stewart, Laurie Block, and Harilyn Rousso.
Ivey Wallace and Deirdre Mullervy at Gallaudet University Press have
managed the publication process with efficiency and grace.
Finally, this book would not have been written without the support and
love of my husband, Nick Howe. He had the generosity to share our life with
Helen Keller, and helped me to pursue my obsession at home and on the road.

xi

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 Blind Rage

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00 kleege fm i-xiv.indd 14 6/29/06 1:10:24 PM
 part one

Consciousness on Trial

February 3
Dear Helen Keller:
Allow me to introduce myself. I am a writer and part-time English profes-
sor. I am American, married, middle-aged, middle class. Like you, I am
blind, though not deaf. But the most important thing you need to know
about me, and the reason for my letter, is that I grew up hating you. Sorry
to be so blunt, especially on such short acquaintance, but one of the advan-
tages of writing to a dead person is there’s no need to stand on ceremony.
And you should know the truth from the start. I hated you because you
were always held up to me as a role model, and one who set such an impos-
sibly high standard of cheerfulness in the face of adversity. “Why can’t you
be more like Helen Keller?” people always said to me. Or that’s what it felt
like whenever your name came up. “Count your blessings,” they told me.
“Yes, you’re blind, but poor little Helen Keller was blind and deaf, and no
one ever heard her complain.”
I am not alone in this. Many disabled people think you did our cause a
lot of harm. Your life story inscribes the idea that disability is a personal
tragedy to be overcome through an individual’s fortitude and pluck, rather
than a set of cultural practices and assumptions, affecting many individu-
als that could be changed through collective action. Lately, for reasons I
can’t entirely explain, my feelings about you have mellowed. It occurred to
me that I should not hold you responsible for the use others made of your
life story. This led me to dip into your autobiographical writing for the first
time. Even more surprising, it led me to take a road trip to visit your child-
hood home, Ivy Green, in Tuscumbia, Alabama. And I thought you’d like
to know what I found there.
I went with my husband Nick, who is almost always up for a road trip.
We took the house tour, which was standard fare for a local-hero museum.


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  Blind Rage

The guide was a woman pushing sixty, probably a volunteer, apparently

reciting a script. She rattled off a number of facts about the town, the
region, and antebellum architecture—all the predictable stuff.
Then, in one of the downstairs rooms, she pointed out a carpet on
the floor that had been woven especially for you by I forget whom. She
explained all this, then said, “Isn’t it lovely?” We murmured agreement.
Then she said, “Too bad Helen Keller never saw it.” Her voice had a throaty
throb as she delivered the line. I realized that the statement was supposed
to catch us up short, jar us out of our complacency, remind us that you were
deaf and blind. We were supposed to feel grateful and lucky, and intone a
private prayer of gratitude: “I wake each day and thank the Lord I was not
born Helen Keller.”
I should have expected nothing less. Where better to deliver the “Why
can’t you be more like Helen Keller” message than in your childhood home?
I should have steeled myself against it, but the resentment I feel about the
message is so old and deep, it’s like a knee-jerk reflex. And on this occasion,
I turned my resentment on the woman pointing out the carpet that poor
little you never saw. I said, “But she could touch it.”
“What?” the guide said. “She what?”
“She could touch it,” I said. “She had the sense of touch. One of the
pleasures of a nice carpet is texture. She could feel it. She could walk on it
barefoot. She had an imagination. Someone could describe it to her, and
she could imagine it.”
I was talking like a crank. There’s a certain vibration that comes into a
person’s voice when they’re going off the deep end, and I had it. I could feel
the guide eyeing me askance. Was this how I was going to be? I was spoil-
ing her spiel. I could feel the rest of the tour group—a van load of Baptists
from Tennessee—looking away.
In any case, I quieted down and we moved on. I felt the guide was leery
of me. As she pointed out the pump organ in the parlor, she paused briefly.
I sensed she was supposed to say something about how you never heard its
beautiful music, but since she had a crank in the crowd today, she dropped
the line.
As we surveyed each room from the doorway, our guide was at pains to
tell us which pieces of furniture actually belonged to your family, which
were of the period, and which were merely reproductions. I’ve been on
enough such house tours to know authenticity is always an issue. I wished

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 Consciousness on Trial 

she would let me walk around the rooms and touch something. This was
not the most blind-friendly museum I’ve ever visited. At Louis Braille’s
house in France, they let you put your hands on anything that’s not in a
case. But perhaps fewer blind people visit your house.
As if to confirm this, our guide spent a lot of time talking about the pho-
tographs on the walls of the central hallway. Although I have some residual
vision, I don’t see photographs well. Nick told me what I was looking at
and read me the labels. There was one of you at about age seven, around
the time Anne Sullivan, your teacher, came into your life. The guide said,
“Wasn’t she a lovely child?” Then she shook her head. To be accurate, I
don’t know if she shook her head or not. But her tone was that of someone
shaking her head at the waste of it all. As if it would be less tragic if you had
been homely.
I swallowed the urge to make this comment aloud. I am so used to this
attitude, it hardly even registers anymore. “What a pretty girl,” people say.
“Too bad she’s blind.” Apparently, beauty is wasted on us because we can’t
see the reflection in the mirror, can’t see men’s heads turn when we enter a
room. In this picture, you’re wearing a dress with a lot of ruffles, and your
hair is an elaborate arrangement of ringlets. Do you look pretty? Nick told
me that there’s a certain set to your lower lip, which makes it sound like
your expression must be at odds with the prettiness of your dress and hair.
He said you look posed and a bit uncertain about it. What could a photo-
graph mean to you at that age? Later, you got the hang of it. In other pho-
tographs around the place, you’re always wearing a big smile and have your
eyes aimed directly at the lens.
Next to this photo, there was one of Anne Sullivan—“Teacher,” as you
always called her—taken at about the same time. The guide said, “Wasn’t
she pretty?” with that same “such a pity” tone. Only the pity in her case is
not that she was blind or deaf or anything else. The pity in her case is that
she sacrificed her life to be your companion and helpmate, when she was
pretty enough to get herself a man and have a normal life. Again, I could
have argued otherwise. But I didn’t.
“Is she pretty?” I asked Nick. He told me she was intense looking, at
once frail and fiery. I have no idea what that looks like, but the description
fits what I know about her personality, so I took him at his word.
Up until this point, the house tour followed the predictable course.
Yes, there was that crack about the carpet, but I admit most people

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  Blind Rage

probably wouldn’t have noticed it. But once we got to the dining room,
things got strange. The guide called it the “famous dining room” where all
your “famous battles took place.” She called you “a regular little hellion,”
and narrated the struggle Teacher had getting you to eat with a fork and
fold your napkin. As she was talking, I realized suddenly that she took
The Miracle Worker as gospel. Outside the house, we found “the famous
pump house,” a sort of fenced-in gazebo around the famous pump that is
the central prop in the climatic scene of that play. But the ultimate weird-
ness was farther back, behind some outbuildings, where there was a per-
manent stage set and bleachers. There, in the summer, they stage nightly
performances of The Miracle Worker.
Here is where I began to articulate something, Helen. Mind if I call you
Helen? My problem with all this, Helen, is not that the play is inaccurate.
The playwright William Gibson drew those scenes from the letters and
journals Teacher kept during her first few weeks at Ivy Green. In fact, as
the play depicts, one day at the end of March 1887, Teacher pumped water
over one of your hands while spelling the word water into your other, and
you suddenly, miraculously, discovered language. You dropped the mug
you’d been holding, said “wa-wa,” a baby-talk word you’d retained from
before the illness that left you deaf and blind. Then you went on to learn
to communicate with the manual alphabet, to read, to write, to speak, and
generally to triumph over adversity in all the laudable ways that made you
famous.
Part of what disturbed me was not that this event was enshrined in your
home, but that it is reenacted there. Where else in the world are events
from a person’s life ritualistically re-created in this way? Jerusalem springs
to mind, The Way of the Cross. And while you may find the impulse to
beatify, even deify you, flattering, it comes at such a high cost, Helen, par-
ticularly for the generations of disabled people who follow you.
But the main thing that disturbed me as I walked around the stage in
your backyard was that The Miracle Worker is Teacher’s story, not yours.
She was the one who worked the miracle and triumphed over adversity. You
were the adversity she overcame. You were the site of miracles. And while I
admire Teacher’s accomplishment, the play distorts things a little.
You were, in part, responsible for this. Throughout your life, you were
always quick to give Teacher the lion’s share of credit for your education.

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 Consciousness on Trial 

And you narrated the same events—the dining room battles, the pump
scene—in your own memoirs.
But I went to your house to find something else, another story. As we
walked around the stage and back to the house, I scuffed the ground to raise
a dust. I inhaled it. I guess I was hoping there might still be a few molecules
of you left there, the you before language, the pre-Teacher you. I wanted to
feel you there somewhere. I imagined you, age five or six, crouching in the
shadows under the back steps. Your hair was a wad of tangles. Your face
and hands were sticky with some sweet you filched from the pantry. Your
pinafore was crumpled and stained. Your feet were shoeless, caked with
mud. As I conjured your presence, I felt energy emanating from you, which
was both curious and hostile. But not fearful, never fearful. I knew that if
I bent down to touch you, you would catch hold of my hand. Your touch
would not be gentle. You would smear your hand around my face to check
if I was someone you knew. You would pat my pockets, looking for candy.
Finding none, you might thrust my hand away, slapping at me, kicking at
my legs with your calloused heels. Then you would scramble away from me,
scoot backward into the darkness.
That was the child I went there to find, not the “lovely child” of the
photographs, the paragon of cheerfulness and industry. In your adult writ-
ings when you attempted to re-create your pre-linguistic experiences, you
called that child “Phantom.” I wish you’d found a different name. Phantom
is too ghostly, too wispy, when my sense of that child is solidly corporeal, a
dense tangle of physical needs and desires. And that child had a language
of sorts. Before Teacher came, you were able to communicate with gestures
and signs, some of them quite elaborate. You had signs for every member
of your family, all the servants, and the regular visitors to your home. Your
sign for your mother was to pat your cheek. Your sign for your favorite aunt
was to tie imaginary bonnet strings under your chin. Your sign for your
father was to put on imaginary eyeglasses and read an imaginary news-
paper. And you had signs for things as well, typically food, since as for
most young children, food loomed large in your concerns. If you wanted
bread and butter, you would saw at the air with the edge of your hand then
make deft, buttering motions with your finger. If you wanted ice cream, you
would turn the crank of an imaginary freezer, then hug yourself and shiver.
The people around you understood these signs and could generally give you

01 kleege 1-44.indd 5 6/29/06 1:08:29 PM

Other documents randomly have
different content
 So Bulbo went back to the ball-room, and the wretched Padella
ate his solitary supper in silence and tears.

All was now joy in King Giglio’s circle. Dancing, feasting, fun,
illuminations, and jollifications of all sorts ensued. The people
through whose villages they passed were ordered to illuminate their
cottages at night, and scatter flowers on the roads during the day.
They were requested, and I promise you they did not like to refuse,
to serve the troops liberally with eatables and wine; besides, the
army was enriched by the immense quantity of plunder which was
found in King Padella’s camp, and taken from his soldiers; who (after
they had given up everything) were allowed to fraternise with the
conquerors; and the united forces marched back by easy stages
towards King Giglio’s capital, his royal banner and that of Queen
Rosalba being carried in front of the troops. Hedzoff was made a
Duke and a Field-Marshal. Smith and Jones were promoted to be
Earls; the Crim Tartar Order of the Pumpkin and the Paflagonian
decoration of the Cucumber were freely distributed by their
Majesties to the army. Queen Rosalba wore the Paflagonian Ribbon
of the Cucumber across her riding-habit, whilst King Giglio never
appeared without the grand Cordon of the Pumpkin. How the people
cheered them as they rode along side by side! They were
pronounced to be the handsomest couple ever seen: that was a
matter of course; but they really were very handsome, and, had
they been otherwise, would have looked so, they were so happy!
Their Majesties were never separated during the whole day, but
breakfasted, dined and supped together always, and rode side by
side, interchanging elegant compliments, and indulging in the most
delightful conversation. At night, Her Majesty’s ladies of honor (who
had all rallied round her the day after King Padella’s defeat) came
and conducted her to the apartments prepared for her; whilst King
Giglio, surrounded by his gentlemen, withdrew to his own royal
quarters. It was agreed they should be married as soon as they
reached the capital, and orders were despatched to the Archbishop
of Blombodinga, to hold himself in readiness to perform the
interesting ceremony. Duke Hedzoff carried the message, and gave
instructions to have the Royal Castle splendidly refurnished and
painted afresh. The Duke seized Glumboso, the Ex-Prime Minister,
and made him refund that considerable sum of money which the old
scoundrel had secreted out of the late King’s treasure. He also
clapped Valoroso into prison (who, by the way, had been dethroned
for some considerable period past), and when the Ex-Monarch
weakly remonstrated, Hedzoff said, “A soldier, sir, knows but his
duty; my orders are to lock you up along with the Ex-King Padella,
whom I have brought hither a prisoner under guard.” So these two
Ex-Royal personages were sent for a year to the House of
Correction, and thereafter were obliged to become monks of the
severest Order of Flagellants, in which state, by fasting, by vigils, by
flogging (which they administered to one another, humbly but
resolutely), no doubt they exhibited a repentance for their past
misdeeds, usurpations, and private and public crimes.
As for Glumboso, that rogue was sent to the galleys, and never
had an opportunity to steal any more.

XVIII
HOW THEY ALL JOURNEYED BACK TO THE CAPITAL

The Fairy Blackstick, by whose means this young King and Queen
had certainly won their respective crowns back, would come not
unfrequently, to pay them a little visit—as they were riding in their
triumphal progress towards Giglio’s capital—change her wand into a
pony, and travel by their Majesties’ side, giving them the very best
advice. I am not sure that King Giglio did not think the Fairy and her
advice rather a bore, fancying it was his own valor and merits which
had put him on his throne, and conquered Padella: and, in fine, I
fear he rather gave himself airs towards his best friend and
patroness. She exhorted him to deal justly by his subjects, to draw
mildly on the taxes, never to break his promise when he had once
given it—and in all respects to be a good King.
 “A good King, my dear Fairy!” cries Rosalba. “Of course he will.
Break his promise! can you fancy my Giglio would ever do anything
so improper, so unlike him? No! never!” And she looked fondly
towards Giglio, whom she thought a pattern of perfection.
“Why is Fairy Blackstick always advising me, and telling me how to
manage my government, and warning me to keep my word? Does
she suppose that I am not a man of sense, and a man of honor?”
asks Giglio testily. “Methinks she rather presumes upon her position.”
“Hush! dear Giglio,” says Rosalba. “You know Blackstick has been
very kind to us, and we must not offend her.” But the Fairy was not
listening to Giglio’s testy observations, she had fallen back, and was
trotting on her pony now, by Master Bulbo’s side, who rode a
donkey, and made himself generally beloved in the army by his
cheerfulness, kindness, and good-humor to everybody. He was eager
to see his darling Angelica. He thought there never was such a
charming being. Blackstick did not tell him it was the possession of
the magic rose that made Angelica so lovely in his eyes. She brought
him the very best accounts of his little wife, whose misfortunes and
humiliations had indeed very greatly improved her; and, you see,
she could whisk off on her wand a hundred miles in a minute, and
be back in no time, and so carry polite messages from Bulbo to
Angelica, and from Angelica to Bulbo, and comfort that young man
upon his journey.
When the Royal party arrived at the last stage before you reach
Blombodinga, who should be in waiting, in her carriage there with
her lady of honor by her side, but the Princess Angelica! She rushed
into her husband’s arms, scarcely stopping to make a passing
curtsey to the King and Queen. She had no eyes but for Bulbo, who
appeared perfectly lovely, to her on account of the fairy ring which
he wore; whilst she herself, wearing the magic rose in her bonnet,
seemed entirely beautiful to the enraptured Bulbo.
A splendid luncheon was served to the Royal party, of which the
Archbishop, the Chancellor, Duke Hedzoff, Countess Gruffanuff, and
all our friends partook, the Fairy Blackstick being seated on the left
of King Giglio, with Bulbo and Angelica beside her. You could hear
the joy-bells ringing in the capital, and the guns which the citizens
were firing off in honor of their Majesties.
“What can have induced that hideous old Gruffanuff to dress
herself up in such an absurd way? Did you ask her to be your
bridesmaid, my dear?” says Giglio to Rosalba. “What a figure of fun
Gruffy is!”
Gruffy was seated opposite their Majesties, between the
Archbishop and the Lord Chancellor, and a figure of fun she certainly
was, for she was dressed in a low white silk dress, with lace over, a
wreath of white roses on her wig, a splendid lace veil, and her
yellow old neck was covered with diamonds. She ogled the King in
such a manner that His Majesty burst out laughing.
“Eleven o’clock!” cries Giglio, as the great Cathedral bell of
Blombodinga tolled that hour. “Gentlemen and ladies, we must be
starting. Archbishop, you must be at church, I think, before twelve?”
“We must be at church before twelve,” sighs out Gruffanuff in a
languishing voice, hiding her old face behind her fan.
“And then I shall be the happiest man in my dominions,” cries
Giglio, with an elegant bow to the blushing Rosalba.
“Oh, my Giglio! Oh, my dear Majesty!” exclaims Gruffanuff; “and
can it be that this happy moment at length has arrived—”
“Of course it has arrived,” says the King.
“—And that I am about to become the enraptured bride of my
adored Giglio!” continues Gruffanuff. “Lend me a smelling-bottle,
somebody. I certainly shall faint with joy.”
“You my bride?” roars out Giglio.
“You marry my Prince?” cried poor little Rosalba.
“Pooh! Nonsense! The woman’s mad!” exclaims the King. And all
the courtiers exhibited by their countenances and expressions,
marks of surprise, or ridicule, or incredulity, or wonder.
 “I should like to know who else is going to be married if I am
not?” shrieks out Gruffanuff. “I should like to know if King Giglio is a
gentleman, and if there is such a thing as justice in Paflagonia? Lord
Chancellor! my Lord Archbishop! will your Lordships sit by and see a
poor, fond, confiding, tender creature put upon? Has not Prince
Giglio promised to marry his Barbara? Is not this Giglio’s signature?
Does not this paper declare that he is mine, and only mine?” And
she handed to his Grace the Archbishop the document which the
Prince signed that evening when she wore the magic ring, and Giglio
drank so much champagne. And the old Archbishop, taking out his
eyeglasses, read—“This is to give notice, that I, Giglio, only son of
Savio, King of Paflagonia, hereby promise to marry the charming
Barbara Griselda, Countess Gruffanuff, and widow of the late Jenkins
Gruffanuff, Esq.’”
“H’m,” says the Archbishop, “the document is certainly a—a
document.”
“Phoo!” says the Lord Chancellor, “the signature is not in His
Majesty’s handwriting.” Indeed, since his studies at Bosforo, Giglio
had made an immense improvement in caligraphy.
“Is it your handwriting, Giglio?” cries the Fairy Blackstick, with an
awful severity of countenance.
“Y—y—y—es,” poor Giglio gasps out, “I had quite forgotten the
confounded paper: she can’t mean to hold me by it. You old wretch,
what will you take to let me off? Help the Queen, some one—Her
Majesty has fainted.”

“Chop her head off!” }

exclaim the impetuous Hedzoff, the
“Smother the old witch!” }
ardent Smith, and the faithful Jones.
“Pitch her into the river!” }

But Gruffanuff flung her arms round the Archbishop’s neck, and
bellowed out, “Justice, justice, my Lord Chancellor!” so loudly, that
her piercing shrieks caused everybody to pause. As for Rosalba, she
was borne away lifeless by her ladies; and you may imagine the look
of agony which Giglio cast towards that lovely being, as his hope, his
joy, his darling, his all in all, was thus removed, and in her place the
horrid old Gruffanuff rushed up to his side, and once more shrieked
out, “Justice, justice!”
“Won’t you take that sum of money which Glumboso hid?” says
Giglio; “two hundred and eighteen thousand millions, or
thereabouts. It’s a handsome sum.”
“I will have that and you too!” says Gruffanuff.
“Let us throw the crown jewels into the bargain,” gasps out Giglio.
“I will wear them by my Giglio’s side!” says Gruffanuff.
“Will half, three-quarters, five-sixths, nineteen-twentieths, of my
kingdom do, Countess?” asks the trembling monarch.
“What were all Europe to me without you, my Giglio?” cries Gruff,
kissing his hand.
“I won’t, I can’t, I shan’t—I’ll resign the crown first,” shouts Giglio,
tearing away his hand; but Gruff clung to it.
“I have a competency, my love,” she says, “and with thee and a
cottage thy Barbara will be happy.”
Giglio was half mad with rage by this time. “I will not marry her,”
says he. “Oh, Fairy, Fairy, give me counsel?” And as he spoke he
looked wildly round at the severe face of the Fairy Blackstick.
“‘Why is Fairy Blackstick always advising me, and warning me to
keep my word? Does she suppose that I am not a man of honor?’”
said the Fairy, quoting Giglio’s own haughty words. He quailed under
the brightness of her eyes; he felt that there was no escape for him
from that awful inquisition.
“Well, Archbishop,” said he in a dreadful voice, that made his
Grace start, “since this Fairy has led me to the height of happiness
but to dash me down into the depths of despair, since I am to lose
Rosalba, let me at least keep my honor. Get up, Countess, and let us
be married; I can keep my word, but I can die afterwards.”
 “Oh, dear Giglio,” cries Gruffanuff, skipping up, “I knew, I knew I
could trust thee—I knew that my Prince was the soul of honor. Jump
into your carriages, ladies and gentlemen, and let us go to church at
once; and as for dying, dear Giglio, no, no:—thou wilt forget that
insignificant little chambermaid of a Queen—thou wilt live to be
consoled by thy Barbara! She wishes to be a Queen, and not a
Queen Dowager, my gracious Lord!” And hanging upon poor Giglio’s
arm, and leering and grinning in his face in the most disgusting
manner, this old wretch tripped off in her white satin shoes, and
jumped into the very carriage which had been got ready to convey
Giglio and Rosalba to church.
The cannons roared again, the bells pealed triple-bobmajors, the
people came out flinging flowers upon the path of the royal bride
and bridegroom, and Gruff looked out of the gilt coach window and
bowed and grinned to them. Phoo! the horrid old wretch!

XIX
AND NOW WE COME TO THE LAST SCENE IN THE PANTOMIME

The many ups and downs of her life had given the Princess
Rosalba prodigious strength of mind, and that highly principled
young woman presently recovered from her fainting-fit, out of which
Fairy Blackstick, by a precious essence which the Fairy always
carried in her pocket, awakened her. Instead of tearing her hair,
crying, and bemoaning herself, and fainting again, as many young
women would have done, Rosalba remembered that she owed an
example of firmness to her subjects; and though she loved Giglio
more than her life, was determined, as she told the Fairy, not to
interfere between him and justice, or to cause him to break his royal
word.
“I cannot marry him, but I shall love him always,” says she to
Blackstick; “I will go and be present at his marriage with the
Countess, and sign the book, and wish them happy with all my
heart. I will see, when I get home, whether I cannot make the new
Queen some handsome presents. The Crim Tartary crown diamonds
are uncommonly fine, and I shall never have any use for them. I will
live and die unmarried like Queen Elizabeth, and, of course, I shall
leave my crown to Giglio when I quit this world. Let us go and see
them married, my dear Fairy, let me say one last farewell to him;
and then, if you please, I will return to my own dominions.”
So the Fairy kissed Rosalba with peculiar tenderness, and at once
changed her wand into a very comfortable coach-and-four, with a
steady coachman, and two respectable footmen behind, and the
Fairy and Rosalba got into the coach, which Angelica and Bulbo
entered after them. As for honest Bulbo, he was blubbering in the
most pathetic manner, quite overcome by Rosalba’s misfortune.
She was touched by the honest fellow’s sympathy, promised to
restore to him the confiscated estates of Duke Padella his father, and
created him, as he sat there in the coach, Prince, Highness, and First
Grandee of the Crim Tartar Empire. The coach moved on, and, being
a fairy coach, soon came up with the bridal procession.
Before the ceremony at the church it was the custom in
Paflagonia, as it is in other countries, for the bride and bridegroom
to sign the Contract of Marriage, which was to be witnessed by the
Chancellor, Minister, Lord Mayor, and principal officers of state. Now,
as the royal palace was being painted and furnished anew, it was
not ready for the reception of the King and his bride, who proposed
at first to take up their residence at the Prince’s palace, that one
which Valoroso occupied when Angelica was born, and before he
usurped the throne.
So the marriage party drove up to the palace: the dignitaries got
out of their carriages and stood aside: poor Rosalba stepped out of
her coach, supported by Bulbo, and stood almost fainting up against
the railings so as to have a last look of her dear Giglio.
As for Blackstick, she, according to her custom, had flown out of
the coach window in some inscrutable manner, and was now
standing at the palace door.
 Giglio came up the steps with
his horrible bride on his arm,
looking as pale as if he was
going to execution. He only
frowned at the Fairy Blackstick—
he was angry with her, and
thought she came to insult his
misery.
“Get out of the way, pray,”
says Gruffanuff haughtily. “I
wonder why you are always
poking your nose into other people’s affairs?”
“Are you determined to make this poor young man unhappy?”
says Blackstick.
“To marry him, yes? What business is it of yours? Pray, madam,
don’t say ‘you’ to a Queen,” cried Gruffanuff.
“You won’t take the money he offered you?”
“No.”
“You won’t let him off his bargain, though you know you cheated
him when you made him sign the paper?”
“Impudence! Policemen, remove this woman!” cries Gruffanuff.
And the policemen were rushing forward, but with a wave of her
wand the Fairy struck them all like so many statues in their places.
“You won’t take anything in exchange for your bond, Mrs.
Gruffanuff,” cries the Fairy, with awful severity. “I speak for the last
time.”
“No!” shrieks Gruffanuff, stamping with her foot. “I’ll have my
husband, my husband, my husband!”
“You Shall have your Husband!” the Fairy Blackstick cried; and
advancing a step, laid her hand upon the nose of the Knocker.
 As she touched it, the brass nose seemed to elongate, the open
mouth opened still wider, and uttered a roar which made everybody
start. The eyes rolled wildly; the arms and legs uncurled themselves,
writhed about, and seemed to lengthen with each twist; the Knocker
expanded into a figure in yellow livery, six feet high; the screws by
which it was fixed to the door unloosed themselves, and Jenkins
Gruffanuff once more trod the threshold off which he had been lifted
more than twenty years ago!
“Master’s not at home,” says Jenkins, just in his old voice; and
Mrs. Jenkins, giving a dreadful youp, fell down in a fit, in which
nobody minded her.
For everybody was shouting, “Huzzay! Huzzay!” “Hip, hip, hurray!”
“Long live the King and Queen!”
“Were such things ever seen?” “No, never, never, never!” “The
Fairy Blackstick for ever!”
The bells were ringing double peals, the guns roaring and banging
most prodigiously. Bulbo was embracing everybody; the Lord
Chancellor was flinging up his wig and shouting like a madman;
Hedzoff had got the Archbishop round the waist, and they were
dancing a jig for joy; and as for Giglio, I leave you to imagine what
he was doing, and if he kissed Rosalba once, twice—twenty
thousand times, I’m sure I don’t think he was wrong.
So Gruffanuff opened the hall door with a low bow, just as he had
been accustomed to do, and they all went in and signed the book,
and then they went to church and were married, and the Fairy
Blackstick sailed away on her cane, and was never more heard of in
Paflagonia.

AND HERE ENDS THE FIRESIDE PANTOMIME.

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