Once upon a time there lived two sisters—Prete the younger and Paresse the older—born to parents of modest means and gentle temperament. The sisters grew up the best of friends, always generous and kind toward one another in all things.
Though the sisters came from humble beginnings, they were quite extraordinary in one regard: their voices were exceptional, clear and bright as summer stars. Indeed, both girls could sing so beautifully that no nightingale would nest within a thousand fathoms, for envy.
All day long, the sisters would compose little songs which they sang to one another, and to their parents. Nothing gave them greater joy than to put their talent to such delightful use, and wistful were the travelers who heard such a happy home as they passed by.
Alas, the time came for the poor sisters to go out into the world and seek their fortunes. They had few possessions to pack, but their mother and father sent them off with enough food to start their journey and enough love to keep them warm forever.
At least that’s what they thought, those fairy-tale parents. You and I know that love can’t mend a sock, or fill a belly, or patch a leaky roof. Neither can music, for that matter. You and I know that in the real world, only firewood feeds the fire. So learned the two sisters, who all too soon found themselves with nothing but a hunger no song of theirs could soothe.
“Let us stop there,” cried Paresse, seeing candlelight in the window of an innkeeper. “Surely they’ll take pity on us, give us something to eat and beds for the night!”
The younger sister hesitated. “We’ve relied on the kindness of others too long already,” she said, thinking of their parents. “The village is close. We must go there, learn a useful trade, and earn our way properly.”
But the older sister was persistent, and she persuaded the younger girl to join her in begging at the inn.
“After we eat, we’ll treat them to one of our songs,” said Paresse. “They’ll be quite grateful, I’m sure.”
The sisters were met warmly by the innkeeper and his wife, who fed them well and then led them to a cozy attic to sleep. But when offered the gift of the sisters’ singing, the couple declined, tired from their long day’s work.
The next morning, the sisters continued on their way, refreshed and humming a cheerful tune. It wasn’t long before they came upon the village, bustling with shops and tradespeople of all sorts. There were tailors and seamstresses, bakers and cobblers, fruit-sellers and ironsmiths. There were maids and ladies-in-waiting on errands from their mistresses. All around were the trappings of commerce, and the sisters stared in wonder. Here was the world where they must make their fortunes, for better or for worse.
“Well,” said the younger sister bravely, “I suppose we should see what we can do!” And before her older sister could say a word, she grabbed her hand to pull her into the nearest shop.
As it happened, the sisters had stepped into the shop of an old tailor. He was a clever fellow, and had devised an ingenious way of getting more light into the little shop, with a roof that could be moved through a series of pulleys and levers. But even more fascinating was the tailor’s work itself. All around the sisters were bolts of fabric, jars of buttons, and plump pincushions stuck through with shiny silver needles. Wondrous, colorful things that were nevertheless hard to connect to the finished dresses and stately suits that hung throughout the shop.
“We’ve come to the village to learn a trade,” said the younger sister, offering the old tailor a deep curtsey. “Pray tell, good sir, what is the life of a tailor like?”
“Hmmm,” grumbled the old man. “The life of a tailor, you ask. Well, it’s stuck thumbs, for one. It’ll be years before you’re proper handy with the thimble. And your back will trouble you sorely, what with hunching over your work day in and day out. Oh and your eyesight will go, no doubt, from all the squinting at seams. And—”
“Enough!” cried the older sister, who pulled Prete back outside roughly. “Bloody fingers and blindness? Surely there must be something better!”
The two walked on a bit until they reached a pleasant little shack, ablaze with the light of a dozen ovens. The delicious scent of fresh bread came wafting through its open windows. Peering inside, the sisters could see a woman kneading dough. Her apron and arms were dusty with flour and her face was deeply flushed.
“Look, Paresse!” cried Prete. “A bakery! Wouldn’t it be lovely to make cakes all day? You’d never be hungry again!”
“Or cool,” shuddered Paresse. “Those ovens must be scorching! Sweating morning, noon, and night? What a dreadful life that must be!”
And so it went all day. As they walked through the village, Prete asked questions of the shopkeepers and tradeswomen, exploring their workshops and examining their wares. Everyone she met was eager for help, and she knew that she and Paresse had only to choose. But Paresse merely followed mutely, silently wishing she didn’t have to work at all.
“My dear sister,” said Prete gently, pulling Paresse under a nearby tree. “If I cannot convince you to join me in some apprenticeship, if nothing appeals to you, then I fear we must part ways. We promised Mother and Father that we would do our best, and I cannot beg another meal from the good innkeepers.”
“Oh, Prete,” wailed Paresse, finally confessing her true thoughts. “I wish we could have stayed children forever. I wish instead of stitching or cooking or cleaning we could just sing our pretty songs!” And with that, she collapsed in a tearful heap against the trunk of the tree. Her younger sister pulled her close, and for a time the two girls sat together, each lost in her own ideas and worries.
Now, it just so happened that at this very moment, perched in the tree above them was a sleek black crow. Only, the crow was really a witch who had disguised herself so she could come to the village and see what evil could be done. And when she heard Paresse, the witch knew exactly what that would be.
With a caw! caw! of wicked delight, she jumped from the tree into the bush, to hide her next transformation. When she stepped in front of the two sisters a moment later, they saw a woman with raven-black hair and a magnificent black velvet cloak. Her eyes glinted formidably, and the sisters felt compelled to bow before what they could only assume was a noblewoman.
“My dear,” said the witch, addressing Paresse. “I could not help but overhear you just then. Am I to understand you are great songstress? If so, that is a wonderful coincidence indeed, as I have been searching for just such a thing!”
At these words—indeed, at the very sight of this striking presence—Paresse was so shocked she couldn’t utter a word.
“Well…m’lady,” stammered Prete. “We….I…my sister…we’ve come to the village to—”
“Yes!” cried Paresse, having found her voice. “Yes, I am! I am indeed a songstress! I can sing song after song after song, as you wish. As can my sister! We can show you, if you like.”
The cunning witch suppressed a smile. “Is that so?” she asked, now addressing Prete. Prete nodded, though somewhat hesitantly.
“Well then, doubly lucky am I today. I shall take you both,” she declared matter-of-factly. “You shall sing songs for me every day, when and as I wish. Happy songs, sad songs—whatever I command, however many I command. Les deux chanteuses. ”
Beside her, Prete heard Paresse gasp. She, too, was amazed by what she heard. But young Prete was sensible, so she summoned the courage to be bold. “By your leave, good lady,” she replied, “could you kindly tell us more? Are you from the royal court? Does the king seek entertainment? Are we to live at the palace?”
The witch’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “No…” she began slowly. “It is not the king who requires music. Indeed it is of no consequence who does. You shall live by your songs, that is all that matters. Or perhaps…” and here she shifted her gaze meaningfully to Paresse. “Perhaps you would be happier in a scullery? Scrubbing pots and pans is good, honest work for girls such as yourselves…” The witch let her words trail heavily, with just a touch of scorn.
Paresse stepped forward. “No, m’lady. We…I—”
“How much?” Prete broke in. The terrible witch narrowed her dark eyes dangerously, but the young girl pressed on. “How much, for a song?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t wish to put a price on the beauty of music,” said the witch lightly, glancing away. “I only ask that you sing…” (and here she paused to look back at the sisters) “...all day. As I imagine you have done all your lives, no?”
Paresse nodded eagerly, but Prete remained silent.
“It is your very favorite thing in the whole world, is it not?” Again Paresse nodded. “Then how,” she smiled and spread her hands, “could you possibly ever grow tired of it?”
Prete and Paresse looked at one another, each thinking something very different.
“I will leave you now to consider, but I’ll return at midnight to this very spot. Should you wish to accept my offer, meet me here then.” And in a flash of black, she was gone.
Now, I’ve told you already how much the two sisters loved one another, how in all ways they were devoted to the other. And you’ve seen for yourselves a bit of each girl’s character and nature so far. So I’ve no need to tell you about the argument that ensued between them, and how the division in their hearts pained them both. Suffice to say they were of two wholly different minds by the time midnight approached.
At the appointed hour, the witch appeared, even more dazzling in the moonlight. The sisters embraced and bade one another farewell. And in an instant, Paresse and the black-hearted witch were gone.
Many years passed. So many, in fact, that by the time they saw one another again, the two sisters had lived longer apart than together. But see one another again they did…
to be continued