Gobbolino the Witch's Cat

She ran so fast and so far she mistook her way and lost the path. Soon she was floundering waist-deep in brambles that clutched at her frock and tore great rents in the beautiful gold material that she carried.

She had no time to stop and cry about this, she was so far from home, and when she tried to find the path she fell into a swamp and nearly drowned herself. When she struggled out again the mud had stained the beautiful gold stuff black, and the woodcutter’s granddaughter was soaked to the skin.

The moon rose, but shed no light into the inky forest; the stars twinkled, but hid their faces behind the dancing branches of the trees.

Small twigs reached out to scratch at her, twisted roots tripped her up, and the beautiful gold satin she had bought from the pedlar-woman had become a handful of muddy shreds.

When at last she reached the cottage door she was in a fever, and the woodcutter, who had been nearly mad with anxiety, put her straight to bed.

She was ill for many days, and when she recovered, her grandfather had burned the shreds of her dress in the fire, taking it for a bundle of rags.

So there she was with no dress and no Gobbolino and no silver piece, and nobody to be sorry for her either.

The woodcutter thought his cat had run away, and his granddaughter was wise enough not to tell him the truth of the adventure.

15

Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat

Meanwhile Gobbolino was travelling the roads with the pedlar-woman, tied up in a velvet bag.

“After all, who am I to grumble at my fate?” he said to himself. “A witch’s cat I was born, and here I am a witch’s cat again. If only I can escape from harming people, I will do my best to serve my mistress well, but make the innocent unhappy I never will.”

And he was so meek and quiet that before long the pedlar-woman let him out of the velvet bag, and allowed him to trot along at her heels along the highway. She asked him about his home, his mother, and his little sister Sootica and encouraged him to perform his tricks whenever a crowd of children collected.

She taught him too to tell fortunes, but here Gobbolino soon got into trouble.

When a pretty young girl approached him, an old woman, or a handsome young man in love, he could not bring himself to chase away their smiles or their hopeful glances by telling them bad fortunes.

“Hope enough, and all you wish for will come true!” he whispered in their ears.

The pedlar-woman was very angry with him.

“You must tell them of sorrow first, and ill luck, and distress!” she told him. “Then they will be so cast down and dispirited they will come to me for a better fortune! Then I shall say you were wrong and tell them a little better fortune, but still your cruel words will ring in their ears, and they will come back again and again! Every time they do this I will tell them something a little better and something a little sadder, at the same time. And so our pockets will be full of silver!”

But Gobbolino had not the heart to bring sorrow to anyone, however false. At the sight of their distress his beautiful blue eyes filled with tears, and he told them: “Indeed, indeed, it is not true!” although his mistress beat him every time he did so.

And he did not like to see the pretty girls bringing their hard-earned pence to the pedlar-woman to exchange for ribbons, satins, and pieces of silk. He knew that the first time they tied up their hair with the ribbons, and met their lovers decked out in their new silk dresses, the ribbons would rot to shreds, and the dresses fall into fragments, for such was the witch’s treachery.

“Don’t buy! Don’t buy!” he entreated them, but few would listen to him, and when she heard him at it the pedlar-woman boxed his ears.

At last their travels brought them to the foot of a high mountain range which the pedlar-woman told him would have to be crossed.

It seemed very high and dangerous to Gobbolino, but the donkey, who seldom spoke a word, assured him that there was a zig-zag path leading to the summit and down again the other side, and on the top there was a cave belonging to another witch, where they would probably spend the night.

Gobbolino looked forward rather fearfully to spending a night in another witch’s cavern.

“But after all,” he said to himself, “what else can I expect? Who am I to expect anything different? How ungrateful I am! – and how wicked! It comes of being born a witch’s cat, I suppose. I had better spend the rest of my life being a proper one.”

But nothing could make him harm people willingly, and the savage blackness of the mountains, the icy torrents, and the dark cavern filled him with dread.

Up and up they climbed, the pedlar-woman first, leading the little donkey, and Gobbolino last, on his three black paws, limping slightly on the white one that he had bruised with a stone.

“Perhaps one day we shall see the green fields and sunshine again!” he told himself. “And oh! How welcome they will be after this dreary witch-country!”