The Tale of Despereaux

by Kate DiCamillo

He was ridiculously small. His ears were obscenely large. He had been born with his eyes open. And he was sickly. He coughed and sneezed so often that he carried a handkerchief in one paw at all times. He ran temperatures. He fainted at loud noises. Most alarming of all, he showed no interest in the things a mouse should show interest in.

couldn’t possibly,” said Despereaux, backing away from the book. “Why?” “Um,” said Despereaux. “It would ruin the story.”

Reader, you must know that an interesting fate (sometimes involving rats, sometimes not) awaits almost everyone, mouse or man, who does not conform.

“A king play music for a bug?”

Made me laugh

The princess smiled at Despereaux again, and this time, Despereaux smiled back. And then, something incredible happened: The mouse fell in love.

Love is ridiculous.

“HE CANNOT, he simply cannot be my son,” Lester said. He clutched his whiskers with his front paws and shook his head from side to side in despair.

“Royalty,” the king said, “has many responsibilities. And one of them is not becoming involved personally with even the distant relatives of one’s enemies. Put him down, Pea.”

“I honor you” was what the knight said to the fair maiden in the story that Despereaux read every day in the book in the library. Despereaux had muttered the phrase often to himself, but he had never before this evening had occasion to use it when speaking to someone else.

“Despereaux,” she said. He saw his name on her lips. “I honor you,” whispered Despereaux. “I honor you.” He put his paw over his heart. He bowed so low that his whiskers touched the floor. He was, alas, a mouse deeply in love.

Reader, can you imagine your own father not voting against your being sent to a dungeon full of rats? Can you imagine him not saying one word in your defense?

Reader, do you know what “perfidy” means? I have a feeling you do, based on the little scene that has just unfolded here. But you should look up the word in your dictionary, just to be sure.

I did LOL

spoken aloud, could make magic happen. “See here,” said Furlough out loud to himself. He looked at his brother and then looked away. “This is just the kind of thing I’m talking about. This is exactly the kind of thing. What’s he doing here for cripes’ sake? He’s not eating the paper. He’s talking to the paper. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“That’s right!” shouted a mouse in the crowd. “That’s the ticket.” The dungeon! The rats! Despereaux’s small heart sank all the way to the tip of his tail. There would be no light in the dungeon. No stained-glass windows. No library and no books. There would be no Princess Pea.

Despereaux marveled at his own bravery. He admired his own defiance. And then, reader, he fainted.

“A lovely princess, just so, like a fairy tale. And you love her, as a knight loves a maiden. You love her with a courtly love, a love that is based on bravery and courtesy and honor and devotion. Just so.”

Despereaux looked at his mother. He concentrated on standing before her without trembling. He concentrated on not being a disappointment.

But, reader, there is no comfort in the word “farewell,” even if you say it in French. “Farewell” is a word that, in any language, is full of sorrow. It is a word that promises absolutely nothing.

Despereaux shuddered. His own brother was delivering him to the dungeon.

He could not see it, and he had the truly alarming thought that perhaps he, Despereaux Tilling, did not even exist.

“Only Gregory and the rats can find their way through this maze. The rats because they know, because the way of it mirrors their own dark hearts. And Gregory because the rope is forever tied to his ankle to guide him back to the beginning.

Rats have a sense of humor. Rats, in fact, think that life is very funny. And they are right, reader. They are right.

“I traded my girl, my own daughter, for this red tablecloth and for a hen and for a handful of cigarettes.”

The rat, reader, invited himself to the party.

And not until he heard it from the mouth of the princess did Roscuro realize that he did not like being a rat, that he did not want to be a rat. This revelation hit Roscuro with such force, that it made him lose his grip on the chandelier.

“I am a rat, but I will have something beautiful. I will have a crown of my own.” He picked up the spoon. He put it on his head.

You can see, can’t you, how everything is related to everything else? You can see, quite clearly, how every action has a consequence.

And if a rat does not want to be found, reader, he will not be found.

“Yes. That is exactly what I intend to do. I will make the princess suffer for how she looked at me.”

Can you imagine your father selling you for a tablecloth, a hen, and a handful of cigarettes?

And hope is like love . . . a ridiculous, wonderful, powerful thing.

“Nevertheless. It is.” “What’ll we eat? And what’ll we eat it with?” “Cake,” suggested the soldier, “with a fork.” “And wouldn’t that be lovely,” said Uncle, “if we could afford to eat cake.”

Reader, do you think that it is a terrible thing to hope when there is really no reason to hope at all? Or is it (as the soldier said about happiness) something that you might just as well do, since, in the end, it really makes no difference to anyone but you?

Isn’t it ridiculous, after all, to think that a son could forgive his father for beating the drum that sent him to his death? Isn’t it ridiculous to think that a mouse could ever forgive anyone for such perfidy? But still, here are the words Despereaux Tilling spoke to his father. He said, “I forgive you, Pa.”

“I need the rest of it,” said Despereaux. “The rest of what? Your neck?” “The rest of the thread.”

And he was allowed to go back and forth from the darkness of the dungeon to the light of the upstairs. But, alas, he never really belonged in either place, the sad fate, I am afraid, of those whose hearts break and then mend in crooked ways.