The Tale of Despereaux

by Kate DiCamillo

“There is somebody who loves me,” said Despereaux. “And I love her and that is the only thing that matters to me.”

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.

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

His rat soul longed inexplicably for it; he began to think that light was the only thing that gave life meaning, and he despaired that there was so little of it to be had.

Because, Roscuro, thankfully there is evil in the world. And the presence of evil guarantees the existence of prisoners.”

Suffering is not the answer. Light is the answer.”

Rat. He had never before been aware of what an ugly word it was.

Rat. A curse, an insult, a word totally without light. 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.

As he crawled across the tablecloth, he remembered the words of the prisoner in the dungeon, his regret that he did not look back at his daughter as he left her. And so, Roscuro turned. He looked back. And he saw that the princess was glaring at him. Her eyes were filled with disgust and anger. “Go back to the dungeon” was what the look she gave him said. “Go back into the darkness where you belong.” This look, reader, broke Roscuro’s heart. Did you think that rats do not have hearts? Wrong. All living things have a heart. And the heart of any living thing can be broken. If the rat had not looked over his shoulder, perhaps his heart would not have broken.

“Yes,” said Roscuro. “I will have something beautiful. And I will have revenge. Both things. Somehow.”

“Ah, child, and what does it matter what you are wanting?”

“Lord, child,” her father said, “and who is asking you what you want?

The less Mig heard, the less she understood. The less she understood, the more things she did wrong; and the more things she did wrong, the more clouts to the ear she received, and the less she heard.

But then, as you know, what Miggery Sow wanted had never been of much concern to anyone.

“We will hear no more talk of princesses. Besides, who ever asked you what you wanted in this world, girl?” The answer to that question, reader, as you well know, was absolutely no one.

“Might just as well be happy, seeing as it doesn’t make a difference to anyone but you if you are or not,”

He was sitting on a bag of flour high atop a shelf in the pantry, crying for what he had lost.

So Despereaux wept with joy and with pain and with gratitude. He wept with exhaustion and despair and hope. He wept with all the emotions a young, small mouse who has been sent to his death and then been delivered from it in time to save his beloved can feel. Reader, the mouse wept.

“Tell me who you are!” Despereaux shouted. The knight stopped swinging his sword. He looked at Despereaux. “You know me,” he said. “No,” said Despereaux, “I don’t.” “You do,” said the knight. He slowly took the armor off his head and revealed . . . nothing, no one. The suit of armor was empty. “No, oh no,” said Despereaux. “There is no knight in shining armor; it’s all just make-believe, like happily ever after.” And in his sleep, reader, the small mouse began to cry.

Like most hearts, it was complicated, shaded with dark and dappled with light.

Forgiveness, reader, is, I think, something very much like hope and love, a powerful, wonderful thing. And a ridiculous thing, too. 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.” And he said those words because he sensed that it was the only way to save his own heart, to stop it from breaking in two. Despereaux, reader, spoke those words to save himself.

Despereaux stood before the Mouse Council, and he realized that he was a different mouse than he had been the last time he faced them. He had been to the dungeon and back up out of it. He knew things that they would never know; what they thought of him, he realized, did not matter, not at all.

“I’ll have to do it myself,” said the mouse. “I will be the knight in shining armor. There is no other way. It has to be me.”

“I will tell myself a story,” said Despereaux. “I will make some light.

“No one,” said Roscuro, “cares what you want.” As you know, reader, Miggery Sow had heard this sentiment expressed many times in her short life. But now, in the dungeon, it hit her full force: The rat was right. No one cared what she wanted. No one had ever cared. And perhaps, worst of all, no one ever would care.

“What do you want, Miggery Sow?!” the princess shouted.

Reader, nothing is sweeter in this sad world than the sound of someone you love calling your name. Nothing.

That is, Pea was aware suddenly of how fragile her heart was, how much darkness was inside it, fighting, always, with the light.

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.

I would like it very much if you thought of me as a mouse telling you a story, this story, with the whole of my heart, whispering it in your ear in order to save myself from the darkness, and to save you from the darkness, too.

she wants to be a princess so badly and she thinks that this is the way. Poor, poor Mig.” Why does Pea feel empathy for Mig? How would you