Once there was a little girl to whom the touch of the world was unendurable. Bright lights and loud music left her tired and despairing; nothing in her tiny home could be the merest hint out of place, lest it make her weep; the very clothes she wore itched against her skin.
The little girl thought on this, and she said, obviously that is because I am a princess; everyone knows that princesses are delicate and easily damaged. Everyone knows that they can feel a single pea through fifty featherbeds. It is not that I am too sensitive for the world; instead it is that the world is too coarse for me.
Very well, said the wind, who had overheard, you are a princess, and it is right and proper that a princess should do as you do and feel as you feel. But remember, princesses must be perfect. Anything that was so very fragile, and imperfect, would be worthless. And, of course, you must grow up to be a queen.
And the little girl agreed that this was very fair.
The little girl grew older, and she noticed that speech pained her more than most. She flinched from jesting and mockery, even the most kindly-inclined, and a single harsh word would stay upon her thoughts for years. She shrank backward from people, knowing they all possessed a power to hurt her far beyond what they ever intended.
Well, said the girl, that is probably also because I am a princess; everyone knows that princesses are elegant and refined, and that their great courtesy leads them to find greater cruelty in insult. If I am very quiet and proper in response to whoever talks to me, presently they will understand, and be ashamed.
Naturally, said the wind, you are still a princess, and it is right and proper that a princess should be so versed in etiquette. But remember, princesses must be perfect; for if you are careless once, they will use it as an excuse for everything they do to you forever after. And, of course, you must grow up to be a queen.
And the little girl agreed that this was very fair.
At length the little girl grew old enough, and convinced enough that the world was coarse and terrible, that she went to build a kingdom of her own, in fulfillment of her promise that she would someday be a queen. She blanketed a world in quiet dark, and she coaxed roses all of ice to grow up from the earth. She set them in perfectly ordered beds, around fountains stilled in time, and she did not care for how the shards of her domain grew up slowly around her heart.
And the wind said, very well, majesty, this shall be your kingdom then. But remember, it must be perfect. Anything that was so fragile, and imperfect, would be worthless. And the queen said, I know.