Hello dear listeners and welcome to Drift Off.
I'm your host Joanne and I'm so glad you're here.
Tonight we continue with a very special story,
A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett.
This beautiful classic follows the journey of a young girl named Sarah Crew as she navigates life with imagination,
Kindness and quiet strength.
I'll be reading just a few chapters at a time over the coming weeks to give you something gentle to look forward to as you unwind.
Now before we begin,
Let's take a quiet moment to ease into stillness.
Take a long slow breath in and gently let it go.
Invite your body to begin unwinding from the day.
Feel your shoulders drop,
Your jaw loosen and your hands come to rest by your sides.
With each breath,
Feel yourself sinking more deeply into calm,
Into comfort.
Let your thoughts drift by like clouds in a peaceful sky without needing to follow them.
There's nothing you need to do right now.
Just allow yourself to relax and be carried by the story.
And when you're ready,
We'll begin.
Chapter 3.
Ermengarde On that first morning,
When Sarah sat at Miss Minchin's side,
Aware that the whole school room was devoting itself to observing her,
She had noticed very soon one little girl about her own age who looked at her very hard with a pair of light,
Rather dull blue eyes.
She was a fat child who did not look as if she were in the least clever,
But she had a good-natured pouting mouth.
Her flaxen hair was braided in a tight pigtail,
Tied with a ribbon,
And she had pulled this pigtail around her neck and was biting the end of the ribbon,
Resting her elbows on the desk as she stared wonderingly at the new pupil.
When Monsieur Dufarge began to speak to Sarah,
She looked a little frightened,
And when Sarah stepped forward and,
Looking at him with the innocent,
Appealing eyes,
Answered him without any warning in French,
The fat little girl gave a startled jump and grew quite red in her awed amazement.
Having wept hopeless tears for weeks in her efforts to remember la mère meant the mother and le père the father,
One would spoke sensible English.
It was almost too much for her suddenly to find herself listening to a child her own age who seemed not only quite familiar with these words,
But apparently knew any number of others and could mix them up with verbs as if they were mere trifles.
She stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so fast that she attracted the attention of Miss Minchin,
Who,
Feeling extremely cross at the moment,
Immediately pounced upon her.
Miss St.
John,
She exclaimed severely,
What do you mean by such conduct?
Remove your elbows,
Take your ribbon out of your mouth,
Sit up at once.
Upon which Miss St.
John gave another jump,
And when Lavinia and Jessie tittered she became redder than ever,
So red indeed that she almost looked as if tears were coming into her poor,
Dull,
Childish eyes,
And Sarah saw her and was so sorry for her that she began rather to like her and wanted to be her friend.
It was a way of hers always to want to spring into any fray in which someone was made uncomfortable or unhappy.
If Sarah had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago,
Her father used to say,
She would have gone about the country with her sword drawn,
Rescuing and defending everyone in distress.
She always wants to fight when she sees people in trouble.
So she took rather a fancy to fat,
Slow little Miss John and kept glancing toward her through the morning.
She saw that the lessons were no easy matter to her and that there was no danger of her ever being spoiled by being treated as a show pupil.
Her French lesson was a pathetic thing.
Her pronunciation made even Monsieur Dufarge smile in spite of himself,
And Lavinia and Jessie and the more fortunate girls either giggled or looked at her in wondering disdain.
But Sarah did not laugh.
She tried to look as if she did not hear when Miss St.
John called le bon pain,
Le bong pang.
She had a fine hot little temper of her own,
And it made her feel rather savage when she heard the titters and saw the poor,
Stupid,
Distressed child's face.
It isn't funny really,
She said between her teeth as she bent over her book.
They ought not to laugh.
When lessons were over and the pupils gathered together in groups to talk,
Sarah looked for Miss St.
John,
And finding her bundled rather sadly in a window seat,
She walked over to her and spoke.
She only said the kind of thing little girls always say to each other by way of beginning an acquaintance,
But there was something friendly about Sarah,
And people always felt it.
What is your name?
She said.
To explain Miss St.
John's amazement,
One must recall that a new pupil is,
For a short time,
A somewhat uncertain thing,
And of this new pupil,
The entire school had talked the night before,
Until it fell asleep,
Quite exhausted by excitement and contradictory stories.
A new pupil with a carriage and a pony and a maid,
And a voyage from India to discuss,
Was not an ordinary acquaintance.
My name is Ermengarde St.
John,
She answered.
Mine is Sarah Crewe,
Said Sarah.
Yours is very pretty.
It sounds like a story book.
Do you like it?
Fluttered Ermengarde.
I like yours.
Miss St.
John's chief trouble in life was that she had a clever father.
Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity.
If you have a father who knows everything,
Who speaks seven or eight languages,
And has thousands of volumes which he has apparently learned by heart,
He frequently expects you to be familiar with the contents of your lesson books at least,
And it is not improbable that he will feel you ought to be able to remember a few incidents of history and to write a French exercise.
Ermengarde was a severe trial to Mr.
St.
John.
He could not understand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakably dull creature who never shone in anything.
Good heavens,
He had said more than once,
As he stared at her.
There are times when I think she's as stupid as her Aunt Eliza.
If her aunt had been slow to learn and quick to forget a thing entirely when she had learned it,
Ermengarde was strikingly like her.
She was the monumental dunce of the school,
And it could not be denied.
She must be made to learn,
Her father said to Miss Minchin.
Consequently,
Ermengarde spent the greater part of her life in disgrace or in tears.
She learned things and forgot them,
Or,
If she remembered them,
She did not understand them.
So it was natural that,
Having made Sarah's acquaintance,
She should sit and stare at her with profound admiration.
You can speak French,
Can't you?
She said respectfully.
Sarah got on the window seat,
Which was a big,
Deep one,
And,
Tucking up her feet,
Sat with her hands clasped round her knees.
I can speak it,
Because I've heard it all my life,
She answered.
You could speak it if you had always heard it.
Oh no,
I couldn't,
Said Ermengarde.
I never could speak it.
Why?
Inquired Sarah,
Curiously.
Ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.
You heard me just now,
She said.
I'm always like that.
I can't say the words.
They're so strange.
She paused a moment,
And then added with a touch of awe in her voice.
You are clever,
Aren't you?
Sarah looked out of the window into the dingy square,
Where the sparrows were hopping and twittering on the wet iron railings and the sooty branches of the trees.
She reflected a few moments.
She had heard it said very often that she was clever,
And she wondered if she was,
And if she was,
How it happened.
I don't know,
She said.
I can't tell.
Then,
Seeing a mournful look on the round,
Chubby face,
She gave a little laugh and changed the subject.
Would you like to see Emily?
She inquired.
Who is Emily?
Ermengarde asked,
Just as Miss Minchin had done.
Come up to my room and see,
Said Sarah,
Holding out her hand.
They jumped down from the window seat together and went upstairs.
Is it true?
Ermengarde whispered as they went through the hall.
Is it true that you have a playroom all to yourself?
Yes,
Sarah answered.
Papa asked Miss Minchin to let me have one because,
Well,
It was because when I play I make up stories and tell them to myself,
And I don't like people to hear me.
It spoils it if I think people listen.
They had reached the passage leading to Sarah's room by this time,
And Ermengarde stopped short,
Staring and quite losing her breath.
You make up stories?
She gasped.
Can you do that as well as speak French?
Can you?
Sarah looked at her in simple surprise.
Why,
Anyone can make up things,
She said.
Have you never tried?
She put her hand warningly on Ermengarde's.
Let us go very quietly to the door,
She whispered,
And then I will open it quite suddenly.
Perhaps we may catch her.
She was half laughing,
But there was a touch of mysterious hope in her eyes which fascinated Ermengarde,
Though she had not the remotest idea what it meant,
Or whom it was she wanted to catch,
Or why she wanted to catch her.
Whatsoever she meant,
Ermengarde was sure it was something delightfully exciting.
So,
Quite thrilled with expectation,
She followed her on tiptoe along the passage.
They made not the least noise until they reached the door.
Then Sarah suddenly turned the handle and threw it wide open.
Its opening revealed the room quite neat and quiet,
A fire gently burning in the grate,
And a wonderful doll sitting in a chair by it.
Apparently reading a book.
Oh,
She got back to her seat before we could see her,
Sarah explained.
Of course they always do.
They're as quick as lightning.
Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.
Can she walk?
She asked breathlessly.
Yes,
Answered Sarah.
At least I believe she can.
At least I pretend I believe she can.
And that makes it seem as if it were true.
Have you never pretended things?
No,
Said Ermengarde.
Never.
I.
.
.
Tell me about it.
She was so bewitched by this odd new companion that she actually stared at Sarah instead of at Emily,
Notwithstanding that Emily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen.
Let us sit down,
Said Sarah,
And I will tell you.
It's so easy that when you begin,
You can't stop.
You just go on and on,
Doing it always.
And it's beautiful.
Emily,
You must listen.
This is Ermengarde St.
John,
Emily.
Ermengarde,
This is Emily.
Would you like to hold her?
Oh,
May I,
Said Ermengarde.
May I really?
She's beautiful,
And Emily was put into her arms.
Never in her dull,
Short life had Miss St.
John dreamed of such an hour as the one she spent with this strange new pupil before they heard the lunch bell ring and were obliged to go downstairs.
Sarah sat upon the hearth rug and told her strange things.
She sat rather huddled up,
And her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed.
She told stories of a voyage and stories of India,
But what fascinated Ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were out of the room,
But who must keep their powers a secret and so flew back to their places like lightning when people returned to the room.
We couldn't do it,
Said Sarah seriously.
You see,
It's a kind of magic.
Once,
When she was relating the story of the search for Emily,
Ermengarde saw her face suddenly change.
A cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her shining eyes.
She drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny,
Sad little sound,
And then she shut her lips and held them tightly closed,
As if she was determined either to do or not to do something.
Ermengarde had an idea that if she had been like any other little girl,
She might have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying,
But she did not.
Have you,
Uh,
A pain,
Ermengarde ventured.
Yes,
Sarah answered,
After a moment's silence.
But it is not in my body.
Then she added something in a low voice,
Which she tried to keep quite steady,
And it was this.
Do you love your father more than anything else in the whole world?
Ermengarde's mouth fell open a little.
She knew that it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you could love your father,
That you would do anything desperate to avoid being left alone in his society for ten minutes.
She was,
Indeed,
Greatly embarrassed.
I,
I scarcely ever see him,
She stammered.
He's always in the library,
Reading things.
I love mine more than all the world ten times over,
Sarah said.
That is what my pain is.
He has gone away.
She put her head quietly down on her little huddled up knees and sat very still for a few minutes.
She's going to cry out loud,
Thought Ermengarde fearfully.
But she did not.
Her short black locks tumbled about her ears,
And she sat still.
Then she spoke without lifting her head.
I promised him I would bear it,
She said,
And I will.
You have to bear things.
Think what soldiers bear.
Papa is a soldier.
If there was a war,
He would have to bear marching and thirstiness and perhaps deep wounds,
And he would never say a word.
Not a word.
Ermengarde could only gaze at her,
But she felt that she was beginning to adore her.
She was so wonderful and different from anyone else.
Presently,
She lifted her face and shook back her black locks with an odd little smile.
If I go on talking and talking,
She said,
And telling you things about pretending,
I shall bear it better.
You don't forget,
But you bear it better.
Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat,
And her eyes felt as if tears were in them.
Lavinia and Jessie are best friends,
She said rather huskily.
I wish we could be best friends.
Would you have me for yours?
You're clever,
And I'm the stupidest child in the school,
But I,
Oh,
I do so like you.
I'm glad of that,
Said Sarah.
It makes you thankful when you're liked.
Yes,
We will be friends,
And I'll tell you what,
A sudden gleam lightening her face.
I can help you with your French lessons.
Sweet dreams,
My friend.
Sleep well.
