A Little Princess

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Summary: Sara Crewe, a student at Miss Minchin's London boarding school, is left penniless when her father dies. She is later rescued by a mysterious benefactor.

Contents

1. Sara
2. A French Lesson
3. Ermengarde
4. Lottie
5. Becky
6. The Diamond Mines
7. The Diamond Mines Again
8. In the Attic
9. Melchisedec
10. The Indian Gentleman
11. Ram Dass
12. The Other Side of the Wall
13. One of the Populace
14. What Melchisedec Heard and Saw
15. The Magic
16. The Visitor
17. "It Is the Child"
18. "I Tried Not to Be"
19. Anne

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1. Sara

One dark winter day in London, a thick yellow fog hung so heavily over the streets that the lamps had been lit and shop windows glowed with gaslight, even though it was still daytime. Through this gloom, a cab moved slowly along one of the city's busy main streets. Inside sat an odd-looking little girl and her father.

She sat with her feet tucked beneath her, leaning against her father, who held her close. She gazed out the window at the passing crowds, her big eyes holding a thoughtful, almost old-fashioned expression—unusual for someone so young. Such a look might have suited a twelve-year-old, but Sara Crewe was only seven. Still, she was always daydreaming and turning strange ideas over in her mind. She couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been puzzling over grown-ups and the wide world they lived in. In her own mind, she felt as though she'd already lived a very long time.

Just then, she was thinking back on the voyage she and her father, Captain Crewe, had just completed from Bombay. She remembered the great ship, the Lascars—Indian sailors—moving silently back and forth across the deck, the children playing in the heat, and the young officers' wives who used to coax her into talking, laughing at the clever things she said.

Mostly, though, she was turning over a strange puzzle: how could it be that at one moment she'd been in India under a blazing sun, then in the middle of an ocean, and now riding through unfamiliar streets in the middle of the day that looked as dark as night? The mystery of it made her scoot closer to her father.

"Papa," she said, her voice low and almost a whisper, "papa."

"What is it, darling?" Captain Crewe answered, pulling her nearer and looking down at her. "What is Sara thinking about?"

"Is this the place?" Sara whispered, snuggling in tighter. "Is it, papa?"

"Yes, little Sara, it is. We've reached it at last." Young as she was, Sara could tell from his voice that saying this made him sad.

It felt to her as though years had passed since he'd first begun preparing her for "the place," as she always called it. Her mother had died when Sara was born, so she'd never known her and had never missed her. Her father—young, handsome, wealthy, and endlessly affectionate—seemed to be her only family in the world. They had always been playmates and devoted to one another. She knew he was rich only because she'd overheard adults saying so when they thought she wasn't listening, and she'd also heard them say that she herself would be wealthy once she grew up. She didn't fully understand what being rich meant, though. She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, surrounded by servants who bowed to her and called her "Missee Sahib," giving her whatever she wanted. She'd had toys, pets, and a nurse (called an ayah) who adored her, and from all this she had slowly gathered that this was simply what it meant to have money. That was the extent of her understanding.

Only one thing had ever troubled her short life: the thought of "the place" she would eventually be sent to. The climate in India was considered unhealthy for children, so as soon as they were old enough, they were shipped off—usually to England, to school. Sara had watched other children leave this way and had heard the grown-ups discussing the letters that came back from them. She knew she, too, would have to go eventually. Sometimes her father's stories about the voyage and the new country ahead had excited her, but she was always troubled by one thought: he could not stay there with her.

"Couldn't you come to that place with me, papa?" she had asked when she was five. "Couldn't you go to school too? I would help you with your lessons."

"But you won't be there very long, little Sara," he always told her. "You'll go live in a nice house with a lot of other little girls, and you'll play together, and I'll send you plenty of books. You'll grow up so quickly that it'll feel like hardly a year has passed before you're big enough and smart enough to come home and take care of your papa."

She liked imagining that future. Keeping house for her father, riding beside him, sitting at the head of his table during dinner parties, talking with him and reading his books—that was what she wanted most in the world. And if going away to "the place" in England was the price of it, then she would simply have to accept it. She didn't care much for other children, but she thought that if she had enough books, she could manage well enough on her own. She loved books more than almost anything, and she was always inventing stories in her head—beautiful, elaborate tales she told herself. Sometimes she shared them with her father, who enjoyed them every bit as much as she did.

"Well, papa," she said softly, "if we're here, I suppose we must be resigned to it."

He laughed at her old-fashioned way of speaking and kissed her. In truth, he was not resigned to it at all, though he was careful to keep that hidden. His quirky little Sara had been a wonderful companion to him, and he knew he would feel the loneliness sharply once he returned to India and walked into his empty bungalow, no longer expecting to see her small figure in a white dress running to greet him. So he held her tightly as the cab rolled into the large, gray square where the building that was their destination stood.

It was a big, gloomy brick house, identical to every other house on the block, except that a brass plate on the front door bore the engraved words:

MISS MINCHIN,
Select Seminary for Young Ladies

"Here we are, Sara," said Captain Crewe, forcing his voice to sound bright. He lifted her down from the cab, and together they climbed the steps and rang the bell. Sara later thought the house was strangely similar to Miss Minchin herself—proper, well-furnished, but ugly in every detail. Even the armchairs seemed stiff and unwelcoming. In the front hall, everything gleamed and looked hard to the touch—even the painted red cheeks of the moon-faced clock in the corner had a stern, polished look. The sitting room they were shown into had a carpet patterned in squares, square-backed chairs, and a heavy marble clock resting on an equally heavy marble mantel.

Sitting down in one of the stiff mahogany chairs, Sara glanced quickly around the room.

"I don't like it here, papa," she said. "But I suppose even brave soldiers don't exactly enjoy marching into battle."

Captain Crewe burst out laughing. He was young, fun-loving, and never tired of Sara's odd little remarks.

"Oh, little Sara," he said. "Whatever will I do without you to say such serious things to me? No one else is nearly as solemn as you."

"But why do serious things make you laugh so much?" Sara asked.

"Because you're so amusing when you say them," he answered, laughing harder still. Then, all at once, he pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her firmly, his laughter fading, his eyes suddenly looking almost as though tears might come.

It was at that moment that Miss Minchin entered the room. To Sara, she looked just like her house: tall, dull, respectable, and unattractive. She had large, cold eyes—flat and fish-like—and a large, cold smile to match. That smile widened considerably at the sight of Sara and Captain Crewe. She had already heard many favorable things about the young army officer from the lady who had recommended her school to him—among them, that he was a wealthy father, more than willing to spend generously on his daughter.

"It will be such a privilege to have charge of so beautiful and promising a child, Captain Crewe," she said, taking Sara's hand and stroking it. "Lady Meredith has told me all about her remarkable cleverness. A clever child is a true treasure in a school like mine."

Sara stood quietly, watching Miss Minchin's face, already turning over one of her odd little thoughts.

Why does she call me beautiful? she wondered. I'm not beautiful at all. Colonel Grange's daughter, Isobel—now she's beautiful. She has dimples, rosy cheeks, and long golden hair. My hair is short and black, and my eyes are green. Besides, I'm thin and not fair-skinned in the least. I might be one of the plainest children there is. She's already telling a lie.

She was mistaken, though, in believing herself plain. She looked nothing like Isobel Grange, who had indeed been the prettiest child in her father's regiment, but Sara had a charm entirely her own. She was slim and graceful, tall for her age, with an intense, striking little face. Her hair was thick and black, curling only at the very ends; her eyes, though greenish-gray—a color she herself disliked—were large and captivating, framed by long dark lashes, and many people found them lovely. Even so, Sara remained convinced she was an unattractive child, and Miss Minchin's flattery did nothing to change her mind.

I'd be lying if I called her beautiful, she thought, and I'd know it while I said it. I think I'm just as plain as she is—in my own way. Why would she say such a thing?

Later, once she knew Miss Minchin better, Sara understood exactly why: the headmistress said the very same thing to every mother and father who brought a child to her school.

Sara stood close to her father, listening as he and Miss Minchin talked business. She had been brought to this particular school because Lady Meredith's two daughters had been educated there, and Captain Crewe trusted Lady Meredith's judgment completely. Sara was to be enrolled as what was called a "parlor boarder"—a student granted special privileges beyond those of ordinary boarders. She would have her own pretty bedroom and private sitting room, her own pony and carriage, and a personal maid to replace the ayah who had cared for her back in India.

"I have no worries at all about her education," Captain Crewe said with his usual cheerful laugh, patting Sara's hand. "If anything, the challenge will be keeping her from learning too much, too quickly. She's forever burying her little nose in books. She doesn't just read them, Miss Minchin—she devours them, like a hungry little wolf rather than a proper little girl. She's always starving for more, and she wants grown-up books, mind you—thick, serious ones, in French and German as well as English—history, biography, poetry, anything she can get her hands on. You'll need to pull her away from her books now and then. Send her out to ride her pony, or take her shopping for a new doll. She really ought to spend more time playing with dolls."

"But papa," Sara said, "if I got a new doll every few days, I'd end up with far more than I could ever truly love. Dolls should be close friends, not just possessions. Emily is going to be my closest friend."

Captain Crewe glanced at Miss Minchin, and Miss Minchin glanced back at him.

"And who is Emily?" she asked.

"Go on, tell her, Sara," said Captain Crewe, smiling.

Sara's green-gray eyes turned solemn and soft as she answered.

"She's a doll I don't have yet," she explained. "Papa is going to buy her for me. We're going out together to find her. I've already decided to call her Emily. She is g—"