The Princess Idleways: A Fairy Story — Context and Discussion

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Hays, Helen Ashe Project Gutenberg 2010
Fairy tales; Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction; Fairies -- Juvenile fiction; Magic -- Juvenile fiction; Princesses -- Juvenile fiction; Wealth -- Juvenile fiction; Elves -- Juvenile fiction Readers of public-domain and historical texts
Project Gutenberg digital edition en

Edition facts

Words: 19,893
Reading time: 87 min
Text sections: 3
In this 1879 fairy tale, young Princess Laura Idleways leaves her luxurious castle to perform a charitable errand, encountering elves and magical tests that contrast her privileged upbringing with the hardships of the poor.
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The opening chapter of The Princess Idleways introduces Laura as a girl of high birth, but immediately undercuts the expected grandeur: she is “only a little lovely girl named Laura.” The narrator compares her family to roses that have been carefully cultivated, yet reminds readers that “roses, as you know, have thorns.” This tension between inherited wealth and personal character sets the stage for a story that repeatedly tests Laura’s ability to move beyond her protected life. The castle itself mirrors this duality—partly a ruin with wild vines, partly a luxurious home filled with crimson silk, Persian rugs, and golden cages. Laura’s world is one of comfort and beauty, but the narrative hints that such ease may come with hidden prickles.

A Castle of Contrasts

The description of Laura’s home is deliberately split between decay and opulence. The ancient castle has been allowed to fall into partial ruin: “the stones to fall, and would not have them touched.” Yet the inhabited wing is a showcase of wealth, with “heavy folds of crimson silk,” “superb paintings,” and “low divans of rich and soft material.” The juxtaposition is not merely decorative; it suggests a family that values heritage but also indulges in modern luxury. Laura’s father, a soldier rarely at home, has chosen not to repair the crumbling sections, letting nature reclaim them. This decision gives the castle an air of romantic decay, but also hints at neglect. The wild vines that drape the fallen stones are described as “a beautiful drapery,” turning ruin into ornament—a pattern that may reflect how the story treats hardship as something to be aestheticized rather than fully confronted.

Bargaining with an Elf

In the forest, Laura encounters a mischievous elf who demands her knife in exchange for her lost staff. The negotiation reveals Laura’s growing resourcefulness. She controls her “vexation and alarm,” deciding she “must control herself and not let this mischievous creature know how she felt.” She offers to teach him to waltz, then uses the knife as bait. The elf’s behavior is erratic—he “started on a run, whooping and hallooing,” making “queer grimaces.” Laura, by contrast, remains focused on her goal: recovering the staff she needs for her charitable errand. The scene is a small moral drama in which politeness and cunning are both required. Laura does not defeat the elf through force or magic, but through patience and a willingness to trade. The elf’s final disappearance, “shouldering the knife as if it had been a great bludgeon,” leaves the encounter unresolved, suggesting that the forest’s dangers are capricious rather than evil.

The Empty Cottage

When Laura finally reaches the cottage she has been seeking, she finds it “poor and bare” yet “neat and order as if unused.” The bed of straw looks “as if no one had slept on it.” This moment of anticlimax is striking: after a day of difficult travel, the expected recipients of her charity are absent. The narrative does not explain why the cottage is empty, nor does it show Laura’s immediate reaction beyond disappointment. Instead, a “light footfall” announces a new figure—the fig—whose appearance cuts the scene short. The incomplete state of the excerpt leaves the reader uncertain whether Laura’s errand will succeed. The cottage’s emptiness echoes the earlier contrast between the castle’s luxury and the forest’s wildness, suggesting that the story’s moral landscape is one where help may arrive too late or miss its mark entirely.

Readers should pay attention to how the narrator addresses the audience directly—the opening line, “You must not suppose,” establishes a confiding tone that recurs throughout. The story’s moral lessons are embedded in small transactions and physical objects: a staff, a knife, a rabbit-skin. These items carry weight beyond their utility, functioning as tokens of trust, temptation, and exchange. The incomplete excerpts leave many questions open, but the pattern of contrasts—wealth and ruin, control and mischief, expectation and absence—offers a clear entry point into the tale’s design.

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