At the Back of the North Wind

I have been asked to tell you about the back of the north wind. An old Greek writer mentions a people who lived there, and were so comfortable that they could not bear it any longer, and drowned themselves. My story is not the same as his. I do not think Herodotus had got the right account of the place. I am going to tell you how it fared with a boy who went there.

He lived in a low room over a coach-house; and that was not by any means at the back of the north wind, as his mother very well knew. For one side of the room was built only of boards, and the boards were so old that you might run a penknife through into the north wind. And then let them settle between them which was the sharper! I know that when you pulled it out again the wind would be after it like a cat after a mouse, and you would know soon enough you were not at the back of the north wind. Still, this room was not very cold, except when the north wind blew stronger than usual: the room I have to do with now was always cold, except in summer, when the sun took the matter into his own hands. Indeed, I am not sure whether I ought to call it a room at all; for it was just a loft where they kept hay and straw and oats for the horses.

There was, in fact, a little corner of the paper loose, and through that, as from a mouth in the wall, the voice came.

“What do you mean, little boy⁠—closing up my window?”

“What window?” asked Diamond.

“You stuffed hay into it three times last night. I had to blow it out again three times.”

“You can’t mean this little hole! It isn’t a window; it’s a hole in my bed.”

“I did not say it was a window: I said it was my window.”

“But it can’t be a window, because windows are holes to see out of.”

“Well, that’s just what I made this window for.”

“But you are outside: you can’t want a window.”

“You are quite mistaken. Windows are to see out of, you say. Well, I’m in my house, and I want windows to see out of it.”

“But you’ve made a window into my bed.”

“Well, your mother has got three windows into my dancing room, and you have three into my garret.”

“But I heard father say, when my mother wanted him to make a window through the wall, that it was against the law, for it would look into Mr. Dyves’s garden.”

The voice laughed.

“The law would have some trouble to catch me!” it said.

“But if it’s not right, you know,” said Diamond, “that’s no matter. You shouldn’t do it.”

“I am so tall I am above that law,” said the voice.

“You must have a tall house, then,” said Diamond.

“Yes; a tall house: the clouds are inside it.”

The instant he said the word, a tremendous blast of wind crashed in a board of the wall, and swept the clothes off Diamond. He started up in terror. Leaning over him was the large, beautiful, pale face of a woman. Her dark eyes looked a little angry, for they had just begun to flash; but a quivering in her sweet upper lip made her look as if she were going to cry. What was the most strange was that away from her head streamed out her black hair in every direction, so that the darkness in the hayloft looked as if it were made of her hair; but as Diamond gazed at her in speechless amazement, mingled with confidence⁠—for the boy was entranced with her mighty beauty⁠—her hair began to gather itself out of the darkness, and fell down all about her again, till her face looked out of the midst of it like a moon out of a cloud. From her eyes came all the light by which Diamond saw her face and her hair; and that was all he did see of her yet. The wind was over and gone.

“Will you go with me now, you little Diamond? I am sorry I was forced to be so rough with you,” said the lady.

“I will; yes, I will,” answered Diamond, holding out both his arms. “But,” he added, dropping them, “how shall I get my clothes? They are in mother’s room, and the door is locked.”

“Oh, never mind your clothes. You will not be cold. I shall take care of that. Nobody is cold with the north wind.”

“I thought everybody was,” said Diamond.

Suddenly Diamond espied a little girl coming along a street. She was dreadfully blown by the wind, and a broom she was trailing behind her was very troublesome. It seemed as if the wind had a spite at her⁠—it kept worrying her like a wild beast, and tearing at her rags. She was so lonely there!

“Oh! please, North Wind,” he cried, “won’t you help that little girl?”

“No, Diamond; I mustn’t leave my work.”

“But why shouldn’t you be kind to her?”

“I am kind to her. I am sweeping the wicked smells away.”

“But you’re kinder to me, dear North Wind. Why shouldn’t you be as kind to her as you are to me?”

“There are reasons, Diamond. Everybody can’t be done to all the same. Everybody is not ready for the same thing.”

“But I don’t see why I should be kinder used than she.”

“Do you think nothing’s to be done but what you can see, Diamond, you silly! It’s all right. Of course you can help her if you like. You’ve got nothing particular to do at this moment; I have.”

“Oh! do let me help her, then. But you won’t be able to wait, perhaps?”

“No, I can’t wait; you must do it yourself. And, mind, the wind will get a hold of you, too.”

“Don’t you want me to help her, North Wind?”

“Not without having some idea what will happen. If you break down and cry, that won’t be much of a help to her, and it will make a goose of little Diamond.”

Of course the old hag was there without being asked. Not to be asked was just what she wanted, that she might have a sort of reason for doing what she wished to do. For somehow even the wickedest of creatures likes a pretext for doing the wrong thing.

Five fairies had one after the other given the child such gifts as each counted best, and the fifth had just stepped back to her place in the surrounding splendour of ladies and gentlemen, when, mumbling a laugh between her toothless gums, the wicked fairy hobbled out into the middle of the circle, and at the moment when the archbishop was handing the baby to the lady at the head of the nursery department of state affairs, addressed him thus, giving a bite or two to every word before she could part with it:

“Please your Grace, I’m very deaf: would your Grace mind repeating the princess’s name?”

“With pleasure, my good woman,” said the archbishop, stooping to shout in her ear: “the infant’s name is little Daylight.”

“And little daylight it shall be,” cried the fairy, in the tone of a dry axle, “and little good shall any of her gifts do her. For I bestow upon her the gift of sleeping all day long, whether she will or not. Ha, ha! He, he! Hi, hi!”