The Canterville Ghost
The Young King
The Birthday of the Infanta
The Fisherman and His Soul
The Star Child
The Happy Prince
The Nightingale and the Rose
The Selfish Giant
The Devoted Friend
The Remarkable Rocket



The Canterville Ghost



I



When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase,
every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no
doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville
himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his
duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms.

"We have not cared to live in the place ourselves," said Lord
Canterville, "since my grandaunt, the Dowager Duchess of Bolton, was
frightened into a fit, from which she never really recovered, by two
skeleton hands being placed on her shoulders as she was dressing for
dinner, and I feel bound to tell you, Mr. Otis, that the ghost has been
seen by several living members of my family, as well as by the rector of
the parish, the Rev. Augustus Dampier, who is a Fellow of King's
College, Cambridge. After the unfortunate accident to the Duchess, none
of our younger servants would stay with us, and Lady Canterville often
got very little sleep at night, in consequence of the mysterious noises
that came from the corridor and the library."

"My Lord," answered the Minister, "I will take the furniture and the
ghost at a valuation. I have come from a modern country, where we have
everything that money can buy; and with all our spry young fellows
painting the Old World red, and carrying off your best actors and
prima-donnas, I reckon that if there were such a thing as a ghost in
Europe, we'd have it at home in a very short time in one of our public
museums, or on the road as a show."

"I fear that the ghost exists," said Lord Canterville, smiling, "though
it may have resisted the overtures of your enterprising impresarios. It
has been well known for three centuries, since 1584 in fact, and always
makes its appearance before the death of any member of our family."

"Well, so does the family doctor for that matter, Lord Canterville. But
there is no such thing, sir, as a ghost, and I guess the laws of Nature
are not going to be suspended for the British aristocracy."

"You are certainly very natural in America," answered Lord Canterville,
who did not quite understand Mr. Otis's last observation, "and if you
don't mind a ghost in the house, it is all right. Only you must remember
I warned you."

A few weeks after this, the purchase was concluded, and at the close of
the season the Minister and his family went down to Canterville Chase.
Mrs. Otis, who, as Miss Lucretia R. Tappan, of West 53d Street, had been
a celebrated New York belle, was now a very handsome, middle-aged woman,
with fine eyes, and a superb profile. Many American ladies on leaving
their native land adopt an appearance of chronic ill-health, under the
impression that it is a form of European refinement, but Mrs. Otis had
never fallen into this error. She had a magnificent constitution, and a
really wonderful amount of animal spirits. Indeed, in many respects, she
was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we
have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of
course, language. Her eldest son, christened Washington by his parents
in a moment of patriotism, which he never ceased to regret, was a
fair-haired, rather good-looking young man, who had qualified himself
for American diplomacy by leading the German at the Newport Casino for
three successive seasons, and even in London was well known as an
excellent dancer. Gardenias and the peerage were his only weaknesses.
Otherwise he was extremely sensible. Miss Virginia E. Otis was a little
girl of fifteen, lithe and lovely as a fawn, and with a fine freedom
in her large blue eyes. She was a wonderful Amazon, and had once raced
old Lord Bilton on her pony twice round the park, winning by a length
and a half, just in front of the Achilles statue, to the huge delight of
the young Duke of Cheshire, who proposed for her on the spot, and was
sent back to Eton that very night by his guardians, in floods of tears.
After Virginia came the twins, who were usually called "The Star and
Stripes," as they were always getting swished. They were delightful
boys, and, with the exception of the worthy Minister, the only true
republicans of the family.

As Canterville Chase is seven miles from Ascot, the nearest railway
station, Mr. Otis had telegraphed for a waggonette to meet them, and
they started on their drive in high spirits. It was a lovely July
evening, and the air was delicate with the scent of the pinewoods. Now
and then they heard a wood-pigeon brooding over its own sweet voice, or
saw, deep in the rustling fern, the burnished breast of the pheasant.
Little squirrels peered at them from the beech-trees as they went by,
and the rabbits scudded away through the brushwood and over the mossy
knolls, with their white tails in the air. As they entered the avenue of
Canterville Chase, however, the sky became suddenly overcast with
clouds, a curious stillness seemed to hold the atmosphere, a great
flight of rooks passed silently over their heads, and, before they
reached the house, some big drops of rain had fallen.

Standing on the steps to receive them was an old woman, neatly dressed
in black silk, with a white cap and apron. This was Mrs. Umney, the
housekeeper, whom Mrs. Otis, at Lady Canterville's earnest request, had
consented to keep in her former position. She made them each a low
curtsey as they alighted, and said in a quaint, old-fashioned manner,
"I bid you welcome to Canterville Chase." Following her, they passed
through the fine Tudor hall into the library, a long, low room, panelled
in black oak, at the end of which was a large stained glass window. Here
they found tea laid out for them, and, after taking off their wraps,
they sat down and began to look round, while Mrs. Umney waited on them.

Suddenly Mrs. Otis caught sight of a dull red stain on the floor just by
the fireplace, and, quite unconscious of what it really signified, said
to Mrs. Umney, "I am afraid something has been spilt there."

"Yes, madam," replied the old housekeeper in a low voice, "blood has
been spilt on that spot."

"How horrid!" cried Mrs. Otis; "I don't at all care for blood-stains in
a sitting-room. It must be removed at once."

The old woman smiled, and answered in the same low, mysterious voice,
"It is the blood of Lady Eleanore de Canterville, who was murdered on
that very spot by her own husband, Sir Simon de Canterville, in 1575.
Sir Simon survived her nine years, and disappeared suddenly under very
mysterious circumstances. His body has never been discovered, but his
guilty spirit still haunts the Chase. The blood-stain has been much
admired by tourists and others, and cannot be removed."

"That is all nonsense," cried Washington Otis; "Pinkerton's Champion
Stain Remover and Paragon Detergent will clean it up in no time," and
before the terrified housekeeper could interfere, he had fallen upon his
knees, and was rapidly scouring the floor with a small stick of what
looked like a black cosmetic. In a few moments no trace of the
blood-stain could be seen.

"I knew Pinkerton would do it," he exclaimed, triumphantly, as he
looked round at his admiring family; but no sooner had he said these
words than a terrible flash of lightning lit up the sombre room, a
fearful peal of thunder made them all start to their feet, and Mrs.
Umney fainted.

"What a monstrous climate!" said the American Minister, calmly, as he
lit a long cheroot. "I guess the old country is so overpopulated that
they have not enough decent weather for everybody. I have always been
of opinion that emigration is the only thing for England."

"My dear Hiram," cried Mrs. Otis, "what can we do with a woman who
faints?"

"Charge it to her like breakages," answered the Minister; "she won't
faint after that;" and in a few moments Mrs. Umney certainly came to.
There was no doubt, however, that she was extremely upset, and she
sternly warned Mr. Otis to beware of some trouble coming to the house.

"I have seen things with my own eyes, sir," she said, "that would make
any Christian's hair stand on end, and many and many a night I have not
closed my eyes in sleep for the awful things that are done here." Mr.
Otis, however, and his wife warmly assured the honest soul that they
were not afraid of ghosts, and, after invoking the blessings of Provi-
dence on her new master and mistress, and making arrangements for
an increase of salary, the old housekeeper tottered off to her own room.



II



The storm raged fiercely all that night, but nothing of particular note
occurred. The next morning, however, when they came down to breakfast,
they found the terrible stain of blood once again on the floor. "I don't
think it can be the fault of the Paragon Detergent," said Washington,
"for I have tried it with everything. It must be the ghost." He
accordingly rubbed out the stain a second time, but the second morning
it appeared again. The third morning also it was there, though the
library had been locked up at night by Mr. Otis himself, and the key
carried up-stairs. The whole family were now quite interested; Mr. Otis
began to suspect that he had been too dogmatic in his denial of the
existence of ghosts, Mrs. Otis expressed her intention of joining the
Psychical Society, and Washington prepared a long letter to Messrs.
Myers and Podmore on the subject of the Permanence of Sanguineous Stains
when connected with Crime. That night all doubts about the objective
existence of phantasmata were removed for ever.

The day had been warm and sunny; and, in the cool of the evening, the
whole family went out to drive. They did not return home till nine
o'clock, when they had a light supper. The conversation in no way turned
upon ghosts, so there were not even those primary conditions of
receptive expectations which so often precede the presentation of
psychical phenomena. The subjects discussed, as I have since learned
from Mr. Otis, were merely such as form the ordinary conversation of
cultured Americans of the better class, such as the immense superiority
of Miss Fanny Devonport over Sarah Bernhardt as an actress; the
difficulty of obtaining green corn, buckwheat cakes, and hominy, even in
the best English houses; the importance of Boston in the development of
the world-soul; the advantages of the baggage-check system in railway
travelling; and the sweetness of the New York accent as compared to the
London drawl. No mention at all was made of the supernatural, nor was
Sir Simon de Canterville alluded to in any way. At eleven o'clock the
family retired, and by half-past all the lights were out. Some time
after, Mr. Otis was awakened by a curious noise in the corridor, outside
his room. It sounded like the clank of metal, and seemed to be coming
nearer every moment. He got up at once, struck a match, and looked at
the time. It was exactly one o'clock. He was quite calm, and felt his
pulse, which was not at all feverish. The strange noise still continued,
and with it he heard distinctly the sound of footsteps. He put on his
slippers, took a small oblong phial out of his dressing-case, and opened
the door. Right in front of him he saw, in the wan moonlight, an old man
of terrible aspect. His eyes were as red burning coals; long grey hair
fell over his shoulders in matted coils; his garments, which were of
antique cut, were soiled and ragged, and from his wrists and ankles hung
heavy manacles and rusty gyves.

"My dear sir," said Mr. Otis, "I really must insist on your oiling those
chains, and have brought you for that purpose a small bottle of the
Tammany Rising Sun Lubricator. It is said to be completely efficacious
upon one application, and there are several testimonials to that effect
on the wrapper from some of our most eminent native divines. I shall
leave it here for you by the bedroom candles, and will be happy to
supply you with more, should you require it." With these words the
United States Minister laid the bottle down on a marble table, and,
closing his door, retired to rest.

For a moment the Canterville ghost stood quite motionless in natural
indignation; then, dashing the bottle violently upon the polished floor,
he fled down the corridor, uttering hollow groans, and emitting a
ghastly green light. Just, however, as he reached the top of the great
oak staircase, a door was flung open, two little white-robed figures
appeared, and a large pillow whizzed past his head! There was evidently
no time to be lost, so, hastily adopting the Fourth dimension of Space
as a means of escape, he vanished through the wainscoting, and the house
became quite quiet.

On reaching a small secret chamber in the left wing, he leaned up
against a moonbeam to recover his breath, and began to try and realize
his position. Never, in a brilliant and uninterrupted career of three
hundred years, had he been so grossly insulted. He thought of the
Dowager Duchess, whom he had frightened into a fit as she stood before
the glass in her lace and diamonds; of the four housemaids, who had gone
into hysterics when he merely grinned at them through the curtains on
one of the spare bedrooms; of the rector of the parish, whose candle he
had blown out as he was coming late one night from the library, and who
had been under the care of Sir William Gull ever since, a perfect martyr
to nervous disorders; and of old Madame de Tremouillac, who, having
wakened up one morning early and seen a skeleton seated in an armchair
by the fire reading her diary, had been confined to her bed for six
weeks with an attack of brain fever, and, on her recovery, had become
reconciled to the Church, and broken off her connection with that
notorious sceptic, Monsieur de Voltaire. He remembered the terrible
night when the wicked Lord Canterville was found choking in his
dressing-room, with the knave of diamonds half-way down his throat, and
confessed, just before he died, that he had cheated Charles James Fox
out of £50,000 at Crockford's by means of that very card, and swore that
the ghost had made him swallow it. All his great achievements came back
to him again, from the butler who had shot himself in the pantry because
he had seen a green hand tapping at the window-pane, to the beautiful
Lady Stutfield, who was always obliged to wear a black velvet band round
her throat to hide the mark of five fingers burnt upon her white skin,
and who drowned herself at last in the carp-pond at the end of the
King's Walk. With the enthusiastic egotism of the true artist, he went
over his most celebrated performances, and smiled bitterly to himself as
he recalled to mind his last appearance as "Red Reuben, or the Strangled
Babe," his début as "Guant Gibeon, the Blood-sucker of Bexley Moor,"
and the furore he had excited one lovely June evening by merely
playing ninepins with his own bones upon the lawn-tennis ground. And
after all this some wretched modern Americans were to come and offer him
the Rising Sun Lubricator, and throw pillows at his head! It was quite
unbearable. Besides, no ghost in history had ever been treated in this
manner. Accordingly, he determined to have vengeance, and remained till
daylight in an attitude of deep thought.



III



The next morning, when the Otis family met at breakfast, they discussed
the ghost at some length. The United States Minister was naturally a
little annoyed to find that his present had not been accepted. "I have
no wish," he said, "to do the ghost any personal injury, and I must say
that, considering the length of time he has been in the house, I don't
think it is at all polite to throw pillows at him,"--a very just remark,
at which, I am sorry to say, the twins burst into shouts of laughter.
"Upon the other hand," he continued, "if he really declines to use the
Rising Sun Lubricator, we shall have to take his chains from him. It
would be quite impossible to sleep, with such a noise going on outside
the bedrooms."

For the rest of the week, however, they were undisturbed, the only thing
that excited any attention being the continual renewal of the
blood-stain on the library floor. This certainly was very strange, as
the door was always locked at night by Mr. Otis, and the windows kept
closely barred. The chameleon-like colour, also, of the stain excited a
good deal of comment. Some mornings it was a dull (almost Indian) red,
then it would be vermilion, then a rich purple, and once when they came
down for family prayers, according to the simple rites of the Free
American Reformed Episcopalian Church, they found it a bright
emerald-green. These kaleidoscopic changes naturally amused the party
very much, and bets on the subject were freely made every evening. The
only person who did not enter into the joke was little Virginia, who,
for some unexplained reason, was always a good deal distressed at the
sight of the blood-stain, and very nearly cried the morning it was
emerald-green.

The second appearance of the ghost was on Sunday night. Shortly after
they had gone to bed they were suddenly alarmed by a fearful crash in
the hall. Rushing down-stairs, they found that a large suit of old
armour had become detached from its stand, and had fallen on the stone
floor, while seated in a high-backed chair was the Canterville ghost,
rubbing his knees with an expression of acute agony on his face. The
twins, having brought their pea-shooters with them, at once discharged
two pellets on him, with that accuracy of aim which can only be attained
by long and careful practice on a writing-master, while the United
States Minister covered him with his revolver, and called upon him, in
accordance with Californian etiquette, to hold up his hands! The ghost
started up with a wild shriek of rage, and swept through them like a
mist, extinguishing Washington Otis's candle as he passed, and so
leaving them all in total darkness. On reaching the top of the staircase
he recovered himself, and determined to give his celebrated peal of
demoniac laughter. This he had on more than one occasion found extremely
useful. It was said to have turned Lord Raker's wig grey in a single
night, and had certainly made three of Lady Canterville's French
governesses give warning before their month was up. He accordingly
laughed his most horrible laugh, till the old vaulted roof rang and
rang again, but hardly had the fearful echo died away when a door
opened, and Mrs. Otis came out in a light blue dressing-gown. "I am
afraid you are far from well," she said, "and have brought you a bottle
of Doctor Dobell's tincture. If it is indigestion, you will find it a
most excellent remedy." The ghost glared at her in fury, and began at
once to make preparations for turning himself into a large black dog, an
accomplishment for which he was justly renowned, and to which the family
doctor always attributed the permanent idiocy of Lord Canterville's
uncle, the Hon. Thomas Horton. The sound of approaching footsteps,
however, made him hesitate in his fell purpose, so he contented himself
with becoming faintly phosphorescent, and vanished with a deep
churchyard groan, just as the twins had come up to him.

On reaching his room he entirely broke down, and became a prey to the
most violent agitation. The vulgarity of the twins, and the gross
materialism of Mrs. Otis, were naturally extremely annoying, but what
really distressed him most was that he had been unable to wear the suit
of mail. He had hoped that even modern Americans would be thrilled by
the sight of a Spectre in armour, if for no more sensible reason, at
least out of respect for their natural poet Longfellow, over whose
graceful and attractive poetry he himself had whiled away many a weary
hour when the Cantervilles were up in town. Besides it was his own suit.
He had worn it with great success at the Kenilworth tournament, and had
been highly complimented on it by no less a person than the Virgin Queen
herself. Yet when he had put it on, he had been completely overpowered
by the weight of the huge breastplate and steel casque, and had fallen
heavily on the stone pavement, barking both his knees severely, and
bruising the knuckles of his right hand.

For some days after this he was extremely ill, and hardly stirred out of
his room at all, except to keep the blood-stain in proper repair.
However, by taking great care of himself, he recovered, and resolved to
make a third attempt to frighten the United States Minister and his
family. He selected Friday, August 17th, for his appearance, and spent
most of that day in looking over his wardrobe, ultimately deciding in
favour of a large slouched hat with a red feather, a winding-sheet
frilled at the wrists and neck, and a rusty dagger. Towards evening a
violent storm of rain came on, and the wind was so high that all the
windows and doors in the old house shook and rattled. In fact, it was
just such weather as he loved. His plan of action was this. He was to
make his way quietly to Washington Otis's room, gibber at him from the
foot of the bed, and stab himself three times in the throat to the sound
of low music. He bore Washington a special grudge, being quite aware
that it was he who was in the habit of removing the famous Canterville
blood-stain by means of Pinkerton's Paragon Detergent. Having reduced
the reckless and foolhardy youth to a condition of abject terror, he was
then to proceed to the room occupied by the United States Minister and
his wife, and there to place a clammy hand on Mrs. Otis's forehead,
while he hissed into her trembling husband's ear the awful secrets of
the charnel-house. With regard to little Virginia, he had not quite made
up his mind. She had never insulted him in any way, and was pretty and
gentle. A few hollow groans from the wardrobe, he thought, would be more
than sufficient, or, if that failed to wake her, he might grabble at the
counterpane with palsy-twitching fingers. As for the twins, he was quite
determined to teach them a lesson. The first thing to be done was, of
course, to sit upon their chests, so as to produce the stifling
sensation of nightmare. Then, as their beds were quite close to each
other, to stand between them in the form of a green, icy-cold corpse,
till they became paralyzed with fear, and finally, to throw off the
winding-sheet, and crawl round the room, with white, bleached bones and
one rolling eyeball, in the character of "Dumb Daniel, or the Suicide's
Skeleton," a rôle in which he had on more than one occasion produced a
great effect, and which he considered quite equal to his famous part of
"Martin the Maniac, or the Masked Mystery."

At half-past ten he heard the family going to bed. For some time he was
disturbed by wild shrieks of laughter from the twins, who, with the
light-hearted gaiety of schoolboys, were evidently amusing themselves
before they retired to rest, but at a quarter-past eleven all was still,
and, as midnight sounded, he sallied forth. The owl beat against the
window-panes, the raven croaked from the old yew-tree, and the wind
wandered moaning round the house like a lost soul; but the Otis family
slept unconscious of their doom, and high above the rain and storm he
could hear the steady snoring of the Minister for the United States. He
stepped stealthily out of the wainscoting, with an evil smile on his
cruel, wrinkled mouth, and the moon hid her face in a cloud as he stole
past the great oriel window, where his own arms and those of his
murdered wife were blazoned in azure and gold. On and on he glided, like
an evil shadow, the very darkness seeming to loathe him as he passed.
Once he thought he heard something call, and stopped; but it was only
the baying of a dog from the Red Farm, and he went on, muttering strange
sixteenth-century curses, and ever and anon brandishing the rusty dagger
in the midnight air. Finally he reached the corner of the passage that
led to luckless Washington's room. For a moment he paused there, the
wind blowing his long grey locks about his head, and twisting into
grotesque and fantastic folds the nameless horror of the dead man's
shroud. Then the clock struck the quarter, and he felt the time was
come. He chuckled to himself, and turned the corner; but no sooner had
he done so than, with a piteous wail of terror, he fell back, and hid
his blanched face in his long, bony hands. Right in front of him was
standing a horrible spectre, motionless as a carven image, and monstrous
as a madman's dream! Its head was bald and burnished; its face round,
and fat, and white; and hideous laughter seemed to have writhed its
features into an eternal grin. From the eyes streamed rays of scarlet
light, the mouth was a wide well of fire, and a hideous garment, like
to his own, swathed with its silent snows the Titan form. On its breast
was a placard with strange writing in antique characters, some scroll of
shame it seemed, some record of wild sins, some awful calendar of crime,
and, with its right hand, it bore aloft a falchion of gleaming steel.

Never having seen a ghost before, he naturally was terribly frightened,
and, after a second hasty glance at the awful phantom, he fled back to
his room, tripping up in his long winding-sheet as he sped down the
corridor, and finally dropping the rusty dagger into the Minister's
jack-boots, where it was found in the morning by the butler. Once in the
privacy of his own apartment, he flung himself down on a small
pallet-bed, and hid his face under the clothes. After a time, however,
the brave old Canterville spirit asserted itself, and he determined to
go and speak to the other ghost as soon as it was daylight. Accordingly,
just as the dawn was touching the hills with silver, he returned towards
the spot where he had first laid eyes on the grisly phantom, feeling
that, after all, two ghosts were better than one, and that, by the aid
of his new friend, he might safely grapple with the twins. On reaching
the spot, however, a terrible sight met his gaze. Something had
evidently happened to the spectre, for the light had entirely faded from
its hollow eyes, the gleaming falchion had fallen from its hand, and it
was leaning up against the wall in a strained and uncomfortable
attitude. He rushed forward and seized it in his arms, when, to his
horror, the head slipped off and rolled on the floor, the body assumed a
recumbent posture, and he found himself clasping a white dimity
bed-curtain, with a sweeping-brush, a kitchen cleaver, and a hollow
turnip lying at his feet! Unable to understand this curious
transformation, he clutched the placard with feverish haste, and there,
in the grey morning light, he read these fearful words:--

+------------------------------------+
| YE OTIS GHOSTE |
| Ye Onlie True and Originale Spook, |
| Beware of Ye Imitationes. |
| All others are counterfeite. |
+------------------------------------+

The whole thing flashed across him. He had been tricked, foiled, and
out-witted! The old Canterville look came into his eyes; he ground his
toothless gums together; and, raising his withered hands high above his
head, swore according to the picturesque phraseology of the antique
school, that, when Chanticleer had sounded twice his merry horn, deeds
of blood would be wrought, and murder walk abroad with silent feet.

Hardly had he finished this awful oath when, from the red-tiled roof of
a distant homestead, a cock crew. He laughed a long, low, bitter laugh,
and waited. Hour after hour he waited, but the cock, for some strange
reason, did not crow again. Finally, at half-past seven, the arrival of
the housemaids made him give up his fearful vigil, and he stalked back
to his room, thinking of his vain oath and baffled purpose. There he
consulted several books of ancient chivalry, of which he was
exceedingly fond, and found that, on every occasion on which this oath
had been used, Chanticleer had always crowed a second time. "Perdition
seize the naughty fowl," he muttered, "I have seen the day when, with my
stout spear, I would have run him through the gorge, and made him crow
for me an 'twere in death!" He then retired to a comfortable lead
coffin, and stayed there till evening.



IV



The next day the ghost was very weak and tired. The terrible excitement
of the last four weeks was beginning to have its effect. His nerves were
completely shattered, and he started at the slightest noise. For five
days he kept his room, and at last made up his mind to give up the point
of the blood-stain on the library floor. If the Otis family did not want
it, they clearly did not deserve it. They were evidently people on a
low, material plane of existence, and quite incapable of appreciating
the symbolic value of sensuous phenomena. The question of phantasmic
apparitions, and the development of astral bodies, was of course quite a
different matter, and really not under his control. It was his solemn
duty to appear in the corridor once a week, and to gibber from the large
oriel window on the first and third Wednesdays in every month, and he
did not see how he could honourably escape from his obligations. It is
quite true that his life had been very evil, but, upon the other hand,
he was most conscientious in all things connected with the supernatural.
For the next three Saturdays, accordingly, he traversed the corridor as
usual between midnight and three o'clock, taking every possible
precaution against being either heard or seen. He removed his boots,
trod as lightly as possible on the old worm-eaten boards, wore a large
black velvet cloak, and was careful to use the Rising Sun Lubricator for
oiling his chains. I am bound to acknowledge that it was with a good
deal of difficulty that he brought himself to adopt this last mode of
protection. However, one night, while the family were at dinner, he
slipped into Mr. Otis's bedroom and carried off the bottle. He felt a
little humiliated at first, but afterwards was sensible enough to see
that there was a great deal to be said for the invention, and, to a
certain degree, it served his purpose. Still in spite of everything he
was not left unmolested. Strings were continually being stretched across
the corridor, over which he tripped in the dark, and on one occasion,
while dressed for the part of "Black Isaac, or the Huntsman of Hogley
Woods," he met with a severe fall, through treading on a butter-slide,
which the twins had constructed from the entrance of the Tapestry
Chamber to the top of the oak staircase. This last insult so enraged
him, that he resolved to make one final effort to assert his dignity and
social position, and determined to visit the insolent young Etonians the
next night in his celebrated character of "Reckless Rupert, or the
Headless Earl."

He had not appeared in this disguise for more than seventy years; in
fact, not since he had so frightened pretty Lady Barbara Modish by means
of it, that she suddenly broke off her engagement with the present Lord
Canterville's grandfather, and ran away to Gretna Green with handsome
Jack Castletown, declaring that nothing in the world would induce her to
marry into a family that allowed such a horrible phantom to walk up and
down the terrace at twilight. Poor Jack was afterwards shot in a duel by
Lord Canterville on Wandsworth Common, and Lady Barbara died of a broken
heart at Tunbridge Wells before the year was out, so, in every way, it
had been a great success. It was, however an extremely difficult
"make-up," if I may use such a theatrical expression in connection with
one of the greatest mysteries of the supernatural, or, to employ a more
scientific term, the higher-natural world, and it took him fully three
hours to make his preparations. At last everything was ready, and he was
very pleased with his appearance. The big leather riding-boots that went
with the dress were just a little too large for him, and he could only
find one of the two horse-pistols, but, on the whole, he was quite
satisfied, and at a quarter-past one he glided out of the wainscoting
and crept down the corridor. On reaching the room occupied by the twins,
which I should mention was called the Blue Bed Chamber, on account of
the colour of its hangings, he found the door just ajar. Wishing to make
an effective entrance, he flung it wide open, when a heavy jug of water
fell right down on him, wetting him to the skin, and just missing his
left shoulder by a couple of inches. At the same moment he heard stifled
shrieks of laughter proceeding from the four-post bed. The shock to his
nervous system was so great that he fled back to his room as hard as he
could go, and the next day he was laid up with a severe cold. The only
thing that at all consoled him in the whole affair was the fact that he
had not brought his head with him, for, had he done so, the consequences
might have been very serious.

He now gave up all hope of ever frightening this rude American family,
and contented himself, as a rule, with creeping about the passages in
list slippers, with a thick red muffler round his throat for fear of
draughts, and a small arquebuse, in case he should be attacked by the
twins. The final blow he received occurred on the 19th of September.
He had gone down-stairs to the great entrance-hall, feeling sure that
there, at any rate, he would be quite unmolested, and was amusing
himself by making satirical remarks on the large Saroni photographs of
the United States Minister and his wife which had now taken the place of
the Canterville family pictures. He was simply but neatly clad in a long
shroud, spotted with churchyard mould, had tied up his jaw with a strip
of yellow linen, and carried a small lantern and a sexton's spade. In
fact, he was dressed for the character of "Jonas the Graveless, or the
Corpse-Snatcher of Chertsey Barn," one of his most remarkable
impersonations, and one which the Cantervilles had every reason to
remember, as it was the real origin of their quarrel with their
neighbour, Lord Rufford. It was about a quarter-past two o'clock in
the morning, and, as far as he could ascertain, no one was stirring. As
he was strolling towards the library, however, to see if there were any
traces left of the blood-stain, suddenly there leaped out on him from a
dark corner two figures, who waved their arms wildly above their heads,
and shrieked out "BOO!" in his ear.

Seized with a panic, which, under the circumstances, was only natural,
he rushed for the staircase, but found Washington Otis waiting for him
there with the big garden-syringe, and being thus hemmed in by his
enemies on every side, and driven almost to bay, he vanished into the
great iron stove, which, fortunately for him, was not lit, and had to
make his way home through the flues and chimneys, arriving at his own
room in a terrible state of dirt, disorder, and despair.

After this he was not seen again on any nocturnal expedition. The twins
lay in wait for him on several occasions, and strewed the passages with
nutshells every night to the great annoyance of their parents and the
servants, but it was of no avail. It was quite evident that his feelings
were so wounded that he would not appear. Mr. Otis consequently resumed
his great work on the history of the Democratic Party, on which he had
been engaged for some years; Mrs. Otis organized a wonderful
clam-bake, which amazed the whole county; the boys took to lacrosse
euchre, poker, and other American national games, and Virginia rode
about the lanes on her pony, accompanied by the young Duke of Cheshire,
who had come to spend the last week of his holidays at Canterville
Chase. It was generally assumed that the ghost had gone away, and, in
fact, Mr. Otis wrote a letter to that effect to Lord Canterville, who,
in reply, expressed his great pleasure at the news, and sent his best
congratulations to the Minister's worthy wife.

The Otises, however, were deceived, for the ghost was still in the
house, and though now almost an invalid, was by no means ready to let
matters rest, particularly as he heard that among the guests was the
young Duke of Cheshire, whose grand-uncle, Lord Francis Stilton, had
once bet a hundred guineas with Colonel Carbury that he would play dice
with the Canterville ghost, and was found the next morning lying on the
floor of the card-room in such a helpless paralytic state that, though
he lived on to a great age, he was never able to say anything again but
"Double Sixes." The story was well known at the time, though, of course,
out of respect to the feelings of the two noble families, every attempt
was made to hush it up, and a full account of all the circumstances
connected with it will be found in the third volume of Lord Tattle's
Recollections of the Prince Regent and his Friends. The ghost, then,
was naturally very anxious to show that he had not lost his influence
over the Stiltons, with whom, indeed, he was distantly connected, his
own first cousin having been married en secondes noces to the Sieur de
Bulkeley, from whom, as every one knows, the Dukes of Cheshire are
lineally descended. Accordingly, he made arrangements for appearing to
Virginia's little lover in his celebrated impersonation of "The Vampire
Monk, or the Bloodless Benedictine," a performance so horrible that when
old Lady Startup saw it, which she did on one fatal New Year's Eve, in
the year 1764, she went off into the most piercing shrieks, which
culminated in violent apoplexy, and died in three days, after
disinheriting the Cantervilles, who were her nearest relations, and
leaving all her money to her London apothecary. At the last moment,
however, his terror of the twins prevented his leaving his room, and the
little Duke slept in peace under the great feathered canopy in the Royal
Bedchamber, and dreamed of Virginia.



V



A few days after this, Virginia and her curly-haired cavalier went out
riding on Brockley meadows, where she tore her habit so badly in getting
through a hedge that, on their return home, she made up her mind to go
up by the back staircase so as not to be seen. As she was running past
the Tapestry Chamber, the door of which happened to be open, she fancied
she saw some one inside, and thinking it was her mother's maid, who
sometimes used to bring her work there, looked in to ask her to mend
her habit. To her immense surprise, however, it was the Canterville
Ghost himself! He was sitting by the window, watching the ruined gold of
the yellowing trees fly through the air, and the red leaves dancing
madly down the long avenue. His head was leaning on his hand, and his
whole attitude was one of extreme depression. Indeed, so forlorn, and so
much out of repair did he look, that little Virginia, whose first idea
had been to run away and lock herself in her room, was filled with pity,
and determined to try and comfort him. So light was her footfall, and so
deep his melancholy, that he was not aware of her presence till she
spoke to him.

"I am so sorry for you," she said, "but my brothers are going back to
Eton to-morrow, and then, if you behave yourself, no one will annoy
you."

"It is absurd asking me to behave myself," he answered, looking round in
astonishment at the pretty little girl who had ventured to address him,
"quite absurd. I must rattle my chains, and groan through keyholes, and
walk about at night, if that is what you mean. It is my only reason for
existing."

"It is no reason at all for existing, and you know you have been very
wicked. Mrs. Umney told us, the first day we arrived here, that you had
killed your wife."

"Well, I quite admit it," said the Ghost, petulantly, "but it was a
purely family matter, and concerned no one else."

"It is very wrong to kill any one," said Virginia, who at times had a
sweet puritan gravity, caught from some old New England ancestor.

"Oh, I hate the cheap severity of abstract ethics! My wife was very
plain, never had my ruffs properly starched, and knew nothing about
cookery. Why, there was a buck I had shot in Hogley Woods, a magnificent
pricket, and do you know how she had it sent to table? However, it is
no matter now, for it is all over, and I don't think it was very nice of
her brothers to starve me to death, though I did kill her."

"Starve you to death? Oh, Mr. Ghost--I mean Sir Simon, are you hungry?
I have a sandwich in my case. Would you like it?"

"No, thank you, I never eat anything now; but it is very kind of you,
all the same, and you are much nicer than the rest of your horrid, rude,
vulgar, dishonest family."

"Stop!" cried Virginia, stamping her foot, "it is you who are rude, and
horrid, and vulgar, and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the
paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain
in the library. First you took all my reds, including the vermilion, and
I couldn't do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the
chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese
white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing
to look at, and not at all easy to paint. I never told on you, though I
was very much annoyed, and it was most ridiculous, the whole thing; for
who ever heard of emerald-green blood?"

"Well, really," said the Ghost, rather meekly, "what was I to do? It is
a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays, and, as your brother
began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I
should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of
taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest
in England; but I know you Americans don't care for things of this
kind."

"You know nothing about it, and the best thing you can do is to emigrate
and improve your mind. My father will be only too happy to give you a
free passage, and though there is a heavy duty on spirits of every kind,
there will be no difficulty about the Custom House, as the officers are
all Democrats. Once in New York, you are sure to be a great success. I
know lots of people there who would give a hundred thousand dollars to
have a grandfather, and much more than that to have a family ghost."

"I don't think I should like America."

"I suppose because we have no ruins and no curiosities," said Virginia,
satirically.

"No ruins! no curiosities!" answered the Ghost; "you have your navy and
your manners."

"Good evening; I will go and ask papa to get the twins an extra week's
holiday."

"Please don't go, Miss Virginia," he cried; "I am so lonely and so
unhappy, and I really don't know what to do. I want to go to sleep and I
cannot."

"That's quite absurd! You have merely to go to bed and blow out the
candle. It is very difficult sometimes to keep awake, especially at
church, but there is no difficulty at all about sleeping. Why, even
babies know how to do that, and they are not very clever."

"I have not slept for three hundred years," he said sadly, and
Virginia's beautiful blue eyes opened in wonder; "for three hundred
years I have not slept, and I am so tired."

Virginia grew quite grave, and her little lips trembled like rose-leaves.
She came towards him, and kneeling down at his side, looked up into
his old withered face.

"Poor, poor Ghost," she murmured; "have you no place where you can
sleep?"

"Far away beyond the pine-woods," he answered, in a low, dreamy voice,
"there is a little garden. There the grass grows long and deep, there
are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale
sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold crystal
moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the
sleepers."

Virginia's eyes grew dim with tears, and she hid her face in her hands.

"You mean the Garden of Death," she whispered.

"Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth,
with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have
no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at
peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's
house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death
is."

Virginia trembled, a cold shudder ran through her, and for a few moments
there was silence. She felt as if she was in a terrible dream.

Then the ghost spoke again, and his voice sounded like the sighing of
the wind.

"Have you ever read the old prophecy on the library window?"

"Oh, often," cried the little girl, looking up; "I know it quite well.
It is painted in curious black letters, and is difficult to read. There
are only six lines:

　　　　"'When a golden girl can win
　　　　Prayer from out the lips of sin,
　　　　When the barren almond bears,
　　　　And a little child gives away its tears,
　　　　Then shall all the house be still
　　　　And peace come to Canterville.'

"But I don't know what they mean."

"They mean," he said, sadly, "that you must weep with me for my sins,
because I have no tears, and pray with me for my soul, because I have no
faith, and then, if you have always been sweet, and good, and gentle,
the angel of death will have mercy on me. You will see fearful shapes in
darkness, and wicked voices will whisper in your ear, but they will not
harm you, for against the purity of a little child the powers of Hell
cannot prevail."

Virginia made no answer, and the ghost wrung his hands in wild despair
as he looked down at her bowed golden head. Suddenly she stood up, very
pale, and with a strange light in her eyes. "I am not afraid," she said
firmly, "and I will ask the angel to have mercy on you."

He rose from his seat with a faint cry of joy, and taking her hand bent
over it with old-fashioned grace and kissed it. His fingers were as cold
as ice, and his lips burned like fire, but Virginia did not falter, as
he led her across the dusky room. On the faded green tapestry were
broidered little huntsmen. They blew their tasselled horns and with
their tiny hands waved to her to go back. "Go back! little Virginia,"
they cried, "go back!" but the ghost clutched her hand more tightly,
and she shut her eyes against them. Horrible animals with lizard tails
and goggle eyes blinked at her from the carven chimneypiece, and
murmured, "Beware! little Virginia, beware! we may never see you again,"
but the Ghost glided on more swiftly, and Virginia did not listen. When
they reached the end of the room he stopped, and muttered some words
shev could not understand. She opened her eyes, and saw the wall slowly
fading away like a mist, and a great black cavern in front of her. A
bitter cold wind swept round them, and she felt something pulling at her
dress. "Quick, quick," cried the Ghost, "or it will be too late," and
in a moment the wainscoting had closed behind them, and the Tapestry
Chamber was empty.



VI



About ten minutes later, the bell rang for tea, and, as Virginia did not
come down, Mrs. Otis sent up one of the footmen to tell her. After a
little time he returned and said that he could not find Miss Virginia
anywhere. As she was in the habit of going out to the garden every
evening to get flowers for the dinner-table, Mrs. Otis was not at all
alarmed at first, but when six o'clock struck, and Virginia did not
appear, she became really agitated, and sent the boys out to look for
her, while she herself and Mr. Otis searched every room in the house. At
half-past six the boys came back and said that they could find no trace
of their sister anywhere. They were all now in the greatest state of
excitement, and did not know what to do, when Mr. Otis suddenly
remembered that, some few days before, he had given a band of gipsies
permission to camp in the park. He accordingly at once set off for
Blackfell Hollow, where he knew they were, accompanied by his eldest son
and two of the farm-servants. The little Duke of Cheshire, who was
perfectly frantic with anxiety, begged hard to be allowed to go too,
but Mr. Otis would not allow him, as he was afraid there might be a
scuffle. On arriving at the spot, however, he found that the gipsies had
gone, and it was evident that their departure had been rather sudden, as
the fire was still burning, and some plates were lying on the grass.
Having sent off Washington and the two men to scour the district, he
ran home, and despatched telegrams to all the police inspectors in the
county, telling them to look out for a little girl who had been kid-
napped by tramps or gipsies. He then ordered his horse to be brought
round, and, after insisting on his wife and the three boys sitting down
to dinner, rode off down the Ascot road with a groom. He had hardly,
however, gone a couple of miles, when he heard somebody galloping after
him, and, looking round, saw the little Duke coming up on his pony, with
his face very flushed, and no hat. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Otis," gasped
out the boy, "but I can't eat any dinner as long as Virginia is lost.
Please don't be angry with me; if you had let us be engaged last year,
there would never have been all this trouble. You won't send me back,
will you? I can't go! I won't go!"

The Minister could not help smiling at the handsome young scapegrace,
and was a good deal touched at his devotion to Virginia, so leaning down
from his horse, he patted him kindly on the shoulders, and said, "Well,
Cecil, if you won't go back, I suppose you must come with me, but I must
get you a hat at Ascot."

"Oh, bother my hat! I want Virginia!" cried the little Duke, laughing,
and they galloped on to the railway station. There Mr. Otis inquired of
the station-master if any one answering to the description of Virginia
had been seen on the platform, but could get no news of her. The
station-master, however, wired up and down the line, and assured him
that a strict watch would be kept for her, and, after having bought a
hat for the little Duke from a linen-draper, who was just putting up his
shutters, Mr. Otis rode off to Bexley, a village about four miles away,
which he was told was a well-known haunt of the gipsies, as there was a
large common next to it. Here they roused up the rural policeman, but
could get no information from him, and, after riding all over the common,
they turned their horses' heads homewards, and reached the Chase
about eleven o'clock, dead-tired and almost heart-broken. They found
Washington and the twins waiting for them at the gate-house with
lanterns, as the avenue was very dark. Not the slightest trace of
Virginia had been discovered. The gipsies had been caught on Brockley
meadows, but she was not with them, and they had explained their sudden
departure by saying that they had mistaken the date of Chorton Fair, and
had gone off in a hurry for fear they should be late. Indeed, they had
been quite distressed at hearing of Virginia's disappearance, as they
were very grateful to Mr. Otis for having allowed them to camp in his
park, and four of their number had stayed behind to help in the search.
The carp-pond had been dragged, and the whole Chase thoroughly gone
over, but without any result. It was evident that, for that night at any
rate, Virginia was lost to them; and it was in a state of the deepest
depression that Mr. Otis and the boys walked up to the house, the groom
following behind with the two horses and the pony. In the hall they
found a group of frightened servants, and lying on a sofa in the library
was poor Mrs. Otis, almost out of her mind with terror and anxiety, and
having her forehead bathed with eau de cologne by the old housekeeper.
Mr. Otis at once insisted on her having something to eat, and ordered up
supper for the whole party. It was a melancholy meal, as hardly any one
spoke, and even the twins were awestruck and subdued, as they were very
fond of their sister. When they had finished, Mr. Otis, in spite of the
entreaties of the little Duke, ordered them all to bed, saying that
nothing more could be done that night, and that he would telegraph in
the morning to Scotland Yard for some detectives to be sent down
immediately. Just as they were passing out of the dining-room, midnight
began to boom from the clock tower, and when the last stroke sounded
they heard a crash and a sudden shrill cry; a dreadful peal of thunder
shook the house, a strain of unearthly music floated through the air, a
panel at the top of the staircase flew back with a loud noise, and out
on the landing, looking very pale and white, with a little casket in her
hand, stepped Virginia. In a moment they had all rushed up to her. Mrs.
Otis clasped her passionately in her arms, the Duke smothered her with
violent kisses, and the twins executed a wild war-dance round the group.

"Good heavens! child, where have you been?" said Mr. Otis, rather
angrily, thinking that she had been playing some foolish trick on them.
"Cecil and I have been riding all over the country looking for you, and
your mother has been frightened to death. You must never play these
practical jokes any more."

"Except on the Ghost! except on the Ghost!" shrieked the twins, as they
capered about.

"My own darling, thank God you are found; you must never leave my side
again," murmured Mrs. Otis, as she kissed the trembling child, and
smoothed the tangled gold of her hair.

"Papa," said Virginia, quietly, "I have been with the Ghost. He is dead,
and you must come and see him. He had been very wicked, but he was
really sorry for all that he had done, and he gave me this box of
beautiful jewels before he died."

The whole family gazed at her in mute amazement, but she was quite grave
and serious; and, turning round, she led them through the opening in the
wainscoting down a narrow secret corridor, Washington following with a
lighted candle, which he had caught up from the table. Finally, they
came to a great oak door, studded with rusty nails. When Virginia touch-
ed it, it swung back on its heavy hinges, and they found themselves
in a little low room, with a vaulted ceiling, and one tiny grated win-
dow. Imbedded in the wall was a huge iron ring, and chained to it was
a gaunt skeleton, that was stretched out at full length on the stone
floor, and seemed to be trying to grasp with its long fleshless fingers
an old-fashioned trencher and ewer, that were placed just out of its
reach. The jug had evidently been once filled with water, as it was
covered inside with green mould. There was nothing on the trencher
but a pile of dust. Virginia knelt down beside the skeleton, and, folding
her little hands together, began to pray silently, while the rest of the
party looked on in wonder at the terrible tragedy whose secret was now
disclosed to them.

"Hallo!" suddenly exclaimed one of the twins, who had been looking out
of the window to try and discover in what wing of the house the room was
situated. "Hallo! the old withered almond-tree has blossomed. I can see
the flowers quite plainly in the moonlight."

"God has forgiven him," said Virginia, gravely, as she rose to her feet,
and a beautiful light seemed to illumine her face.

"What an angel you are!" cried the young Duke, and he put his arm round
her neck, and kissed her.



VII



Four days after these curious incidents, a funeral started from Can-
terville Chase at about eleven o'clock at night. The hearse was drawn
by eight black horses, each of which carried on its head a great tuft of
nodding ostrich-plumes, and the leaden coffin was covered by a rich
purple pall, on which was embroidered in gold the Canterville coat-
of-arms. By the side of the hearse and the coaches walked the ser-
vants with lighted torches, and the whole procession was wonderfully
impressive. Lord Canterville was the chief mourner, having come up
specially from Wales to attend the funeral, and sat in the first
carriage along with little Virginia. Then came the United States
Minister and his wife, then Washington and the three boys, and in the
last carriage was Mrs. Umney. It was generally felt that, as she had
been frightened by the ghost for more than fifty years of her life, she
had a right to see the last of him. A deep grave had been dug in the
corner of the churchyard, just under the old yew-tree, and the service
was read in the most impressive manner by the Rev. Augustus Dampier.
When the ceremony was over, the servants, according to an old custom
observed in the Canterville family, extinguished their torches, and, as
the coffin was being lowered into the grave, Virginia stepped forward,
and laid on it a large cross made of white and pink almond-blossoms. As
she did so, the moon came out from behind a cloud, and flooded with its
silent silver the little churchyard, and from a distant copse a
nightingale began to sing. She thought of the ghost's description of the
Garden of Death, her eyes became dim with tears, and she hardly spoke a
word during the drive home.

The next morning, before Lord Canterville went up to town, Mr. Otis had
an interview with him on the subject of the jewels the ghost had given
to Virginia. They were perfectly magnificent, especially a certain ruby
necklace with old Venetian setting, which was really a superb specimen
of sixteenth-century work, and their value was so great that Mr. Otis
felt considerable scruples about allowing his daughter to accept them.

"My lord," he said, "I know that in this country mortmain is held to
apply to trinkets as well as to land, and it is quite clear to me that
these jewels are, or should be, heirlooms in your family. I must beg
you, accordingly, to take them to London with you, and to regard them
simply as a portion of your property which has been restored to you
under certain strange conditions. As for my daughter, she is merely a
child, and has as yet, I am glad to say, but little interest in such
appurtenances of idle luxury. I am also informed by Mrs. Otis, who, I
may say, is no mean authority upon Art,--having had the privilege of
spending several winters in Boston when she was a girl,--that these gems
are of great monetary worth, and if offered for sale would fetch a tall
price. Under these circumstances, Lord Canterville, I feel sure that you
will recognize how impossible it would be for me to allow them to remain
in the possession of any member of my family; and, indeed, all such
vain gauds and toys, however suitable or necessary to the dignity of the
British aristocracy, would be completely out of place among those who
have been brought up on the severe, and I believe immortal, principles
of Republican simplicity. Perhaps I should mention that Virginia is very
anxious that you should allow her to retain the box, as a memento of
your unfortunate but misguided ancestor. As it is extremely old, and
consequently a good deal out of repair, you may perhaps think fit to
comply with her request. For my own part, I confess I am a good deal
surprised to find a child of mine expressing sympathy with mediævalism
in any form, and can only account for it by the fact that Virginia was
born in one of your London suburbs shortly after Mrs. Otis had returned
from a trip to Athens."

Lord Canterville listened very gravely to the worthy Minister's speech,
pulling his grey moustache now and then to hide an involuntary smile,
and when Mr. Otis had ended, he shook him cordially by the hand, and
said: "My dear sir, your charming little daughter rendered my unlucky
ancestor, Sir Simon, a very important service, and I and my family are
much indebted to her for her marvellous courage and pluck. The jewels
are clearly hers, and, egad, I believe that if I were heartless enough
to take them from her, the wicked old fellow would be out of his grave
in a fortnight, leading me the devil of a life. As for their being hei-
rlooms, nothing is an heirloom that is not so mentioned in a will or
legal document, and the existence of these jewels has been quite
unknown. I assure you I have no more claim on them than your butler,
and when Miss Virginia grows up, I dare say she will be pleased to have
pretty things to wear. Besides, you forget, Mr. Otis, that you took the
furniture and the ghost at a valuation, and anything that belonged to
the ghost passed at once into your possession, as, whatever activity
Sir Simon may have shown in the corridor at night, in point of law he
was really dead, and you acquired his property by purchase."

Mr. Otis was a good deal distressed at Lord Canterville's refusal, and
begged him to reconsider his decision, but the good-natured peer was
quite firm, and finally induced the Minister to allow his daughter to
retain the present the ghost had given her, and when, in the spring of
1890, the young Duchess of Cheshire was presented at the Queen's first
drawing-room on the occasion of her marriage, her jewels were the
universal theme of admiration. For Virginia received the coronet, which
is the reward of all good little American girls, and was married to her
boy-lover as soon as he came of age. They were both so charming, and
they loved each other so much, that every one was delighted at the
match, except the old Marchioness of Dumbleton, who had tried to catch
the Duke for one of her seven unmarried daughters, and had given no less
than three expensive dinner-parties for that purpose, and, strange to
say, Mr. Otis himself. Mr. Otis was extremely fond of the young Duke
personally, but, theoretically, he objected to titles, and, to use his
own words, "was not without apprehension lest, amid the enervating
influences of a pleasure-loving aristocracy, the true principles of
Republican simplicity should be forgotten." His objections, however,
were completely overruled, and I believe that when he walked up the
aisle of St. George's, Hanover Square, with his daughter leaning on his
arm, there was not a prouder man in the whole length and breadth of
England.

The Duke and Duchess, after the honeymoon was over, went down to
Canterville Chase, and on the day after their arrival they walked over
in the afternoon to the lonely churchyard by the pine-woods. There
had been a great deal of difficulty at first about the inscription on Sir
Simon's tombstone, but finally it had been decided to engrave on it
simply the initials of the old gentleman's name, and the verse from the
library window. The Duchess had brought with her some lovely roses,
which she strewed upon the grave, and after they had stood by it for
some time they strolled into the ruined chancel of the old abbey. There
the Duchess sat down on a fallen pillar, while her husband lay at her
feet smoking a cigarette and looking up at her beautiful eyes. Suddenly
he threw his cigarette away, took hold of her hand, and said to her,
"Virginia, a wife should have no secrets from her husband."

"Dear Cecil! I have no secrets from you."

"Yes, you have," he answered, smiling, "you have never told me what
happened to you when you were locked up with the ghost."

"I have never told any one, Cecil," said Virginia, gravely.

"I know that, but you might tell me."

"Please don't ask me, Cecil, I cannot tell you. Poor Sir Simon! I owe
him a great deal. Yes, don't laugh, Cecil, I really do. He made me see
what Life is, and what Death signifies, and why Love is stronger than
both."

The Duke rose and kissed his wife lovingly.

"You can have your secret as long as I have your heart," he murmured.

"You have always had that, Cecil."

"And you will tell our children some day, won't you?"

Virginia blushed.




THE YOUNG KING




IT was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the young
King was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His courtiers had all
taken their leave of him, bowing their heads to the ground, according to
the ceremonious usage of the day, and had retired to the Great Hall of
the Palace, to receive a few last lessons from the Professor of
Etiquette; there being some of them who had still quite natural manners,
which in a courtier is, I need hardly say, a very grave offence.

The lad—for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age—was not
sorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a deep sigh of
relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch, lying there,
wild-eyed and open-mouthed, like a brown woodland Faun, or some young
animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters.

And, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him, coming upon him almost
by chance as, bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following the flock of
the poor goatherd who had brought him up, and whose son he had always
fancied himself to be. The child of the old King’s only daughter by a
secret marriage with one much beneath her in station—a stranger, some
said, who, by the wonderful magic of his lute-playing, had made the young
Princess love him; while others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom
the Princess had shown much, perhaps too much honour, and who had
suddenly disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the Cathedral
unfinished—he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his
mother’s side, as she slept, and given into the charge of a common
peasant and his wife, who were without children of their own, and lived
in a remote part of the forest, more than a day’s ride from the town.
Grief, or the plague, as the court physician stated, or, as some
suggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of spiced wine,
slew, within an hour of her wakening, the white girl who had given him
birth, and as the trusty messenger who bare the child across his
saddle-bow stooped from his weary horse and knocked at the rude door of
the goatherd’s hut, the body of the Princess was being lowered into an
open grave that had been dug in a deserted churchyard, beyond the city
gates, a grave where it was said that another body was also lying, that
of a young man of marvellous and foreign beauty, whose hands were tied
behind him with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many
red wounds.

Such, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other. Certain
it was that the old King, when on his deathbed, whether moved by remorse
for his great sin, or merely desiring that the kingdom should not pass
away from his line, had had the lad sent for, and, in the presence of the
Council, had acknowledged him as his heir.

And it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he had
shown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was destined to have
so great an influence over his life. Those who accompanied him to the
suite of rooms set apart for his service, often spoke of the cry of
pleasure that broke from his lips when he saw the delicate raiment and
rich jewels that had been prepared for him, and of the almost fierce joy
with which he flung aside his rough leathern tunic and coarse sheepskin
cloak. He missed, indeed, at times the fine freedom of his forest life,
and was always apt to chafe at the tedious Court ceremonies that occupied
so much of each day, but the wonderful palace—Joyeuse, as they called
it—of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be a new world
fresh-fashioned for his delight; and as soon as he could escape from the
council-board or audience-chamber, he would run down the great staircase,
with its lions of gilt bronze and its steps of bright porphyry, and
wander from room to room, and from corridor to corridor, like one who was
seeking to find in beauty an anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration
from sickness.

Upon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them—and, indeed, they
were to him real voyages through a marvellous land, he would sometimes be
accompanied by the slim, fair-haired Court pages, with their floating
mantles, and gay fluttering ribands; but more often he would be alone,
feeling through a certain quick instinct, which was almost a divination,
that the secrets of art are best learned in secret, and that Beauty, like
Wisdom, loves the lonely worshipper.

* * * * *

Many curious stories were related about him at this period. It was said
that a stout Burgo-master, who had come to deliver a florid oratorical
address on behalf of the citizens of the town, hadcaught sight of him
kneeling in real adoration before a great picture that had just been
brought from Venice, and that seemed to herald the worship of some new
gods. On another occasion he had been missed for several hours, and
after a lengthened search had been discovered in a little chamber in one
of the northern turrets of the palace gazing, as one in a trance, at a
Greek gem carved with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the
tale ran, pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue
that had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the
building of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of the
Bithynian slave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in noting the
effect of the moonlight on a silver image of Endymion.

All rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for him,
and in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many merchants,
some to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of the north seas,
some to Egypt to look for that curious green turquoise which is found
only in the tombs of kings, and is said to possess magical properties,
some to Persia for silken carpets and painted pottery, and others to
India to buy gauze and stained ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade,
sandal-wood and blue enamel and shawls of fine wool.

But what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his
coronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown, and the
sceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was of this that
he was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his luxurious couch, watching
the great pinewood log that was burning itself out on the open hearth.
The designs, which were from the hands of the most famous artists of the
time, had been submitted to him many months before, and he had given
orders that the artificers were to toil night and day to carry them out,
and that the whole world was to be searched for jewels that would be
worthy of their work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar
of the cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and
lingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his dark
woodland eyes.

After some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the carved
penthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit room. The walls
were hung with rich tapestries representing the Triumph of Beauty. A
large press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and
facing the window stood a curiously wrought cabinet with lacquer panels
of powdered and mosaiced gold, on which were placed some delicate goblets
of Venetian glass, and a cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were
broidered on the silk coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from
the tired hands of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the
velvet canopy, from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like
white foam, to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing
Narcissus in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the
table stood a flat bowl of amethyst.

Outside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a
bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up and
down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an orchard, a
nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine came through the
open window. He brushed his brown curls back from his forehead, and
taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across the cords. His heavy
eyelids drooped, and a strange languor came over him. Never before had
he felt so keenly, or with such exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery
of beautiful things.

When midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and his
pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring rose-water
over his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A few moments after
that they had left the room, he fell asleep.

* * * * *

And as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the whir and
clatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in through the grated
windows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the weavers bending over
their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children were crouched on the huge
crossbeams. As the shuttles dashed through the warp they lifted up the
heavy battens, and when the shuttles stopped they let the battens fall
and pressed the threads together. Their faces were pinched with famine,
and their thin hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated
at a table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place. The air was foul
and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp.

The young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him and
watched him.

And the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, ‘Why art thou watching
me? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?’

‘Who is thy master?’ asked the young King.

‘Our master!’ cried the weaver, bitterly. ‘He is a man like myself.
Indeed, there is but this difference between us—that he wears fine
clothes while I go in rags, and that while I am weak from hunger he
suffers not a little from overfeeding.’

‘The land is free,’ said the young King, ‘and thou art no man’s slave.’

‘In war,’ answered the weaver, ‘the strong make slaves of the weak, and
in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to live, and
they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for them all day long,
and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our children fade away before
their time, and the faces of those we love become hard and evil. We
tread out the grapes, and another drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and
our own board is empty. We have chains, though no eye beholds them; and
are slaves, though men call us free.’

‘Is it so with all?’ he asked,

‘It is so with all,’ answered the weaver, ‘with the young as well as with
the old, with the women as well as with the men, with the little children
as well as with those who are stricken in years. The merchants grind us
down, and we must needs do their bidding. The priest rides by and tells
his beads, and no man has care of us. Through our sunless lanes creeps
Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close
behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning, and Shame sits with us at
night. But what are these things to thee? Thou art not one of us. Thy
face is too happy.’ And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle
across the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a
thread of gold.

And a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver, ‘What robe
is this that thou art weaving?’

‘It is the robe for the coronation of the young King,’ he answered; ‘what
is that to thee?’

And the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his own
chamber, and through the window he saw the great honey-coloured moon
hanging in the dusky air.

* * * * *

And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was being
rowed by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the master of the
galley was seated. He was black as ebony, and his turban was of crimson
silk. Great earrings of silver dragged down the thick lobes of his ears,
and in his hands he had a pair of ivory scales.

The slaves were naked, but for a ragged loin-cloth, and each man was
chained to his neighbour. The hot sun beat brightly upon them, and the
negroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with whips of hide.
They stretched out their lean arms and pulled the heavy oars through the
water. The salt spray flew from the blades.

At last they reached a little bay, and began to take soundings. A light
wind blew from the shore, and covered the deck and the great lateen sail
with a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild asses rode out and
threw spears at them. The master of the galley took a painted bow in his
hand and shot one of them in the throat. He fell heavily into the surf,
and his companions galloped away. A woman wrapped in a yellow veil
followed slowly on a camel, looking back now and then at the dead body.

As soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail, the negroes
went into the hold and brought up a long rope-ladder, heavily weighted
with lead. The master of the galley threw it over the side, making the
ends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the negroes seized the youngest
of the slaves and knocked his gyves off, and filled his nostrils and his
ears with wax, and tied a big stone round his waist. He crept wearily
down the ladder, and disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where
he sank. Some of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At
the prow of the galley sat a shark-charmer, beating monotonously upon a
drum.

After some time the diver rose up out of the water, and clung panting to
the ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes seized it from
him, and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep over their oars.

Again and again he came up, and each time that he did so he brought with
him a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them, and put
them into a little bag of green leather.

The young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to the
roof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. The negroes chattered
to each other, and began to quarrel over a string of bright beads. Two
cranes flew round and round the vessel.

Then the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl that he brought
with him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz, for it was shaped like
the full moon, and whiter than the morning star. But his face was
strangely pale, and as he fell upon the deck the blood gushed from his
ears and nostrils. He quivered for a little, and then he was still. The
negroes shrugged their shoulders, and threw the body overboard.

And the master of the galley laughed, and, reaching out, he took the
pearl, and when he saw it he pressed it to his forehead and bowed. ‘It
shall be,’ he said, ‘for the sceptre of the young King,’ and he made a
sign to the negroes to draw up the anchor.

And when the young King heard this he gave a great cry, and woke, and
through the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn clutching at
the fading stars.

* * * * *

And he fell asleep again, and dreamed, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was wandering through a dim wood, hung with strange
fruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders hissed at him as
he went by, and the bright parrots flew screaming from branch to branch.
Huge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud. The trees were full of apes
and peacocks.

On and on he went, till he reached the outskirts of the wood, and there
he saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a dried-up
river. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep pits in the
ground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the rocks with great
axes; others grabbled in the sand.

They tore up the cactus by its roots, and trampled on the scarlet
blossoms. They hurried about, calling to each other, and no man was
idle.

From the darkness of a cavern Death and Avarice watched them, and Death
said, ‘I am weary; give me a third of them and let me go.’ But Avarice
shook her head. ‘They are my servants,’ she answered.

And Death said to her, ‘What hast thou in thy hand?’

‘I have three grains of corn,’ she answered; ‘what is that to thee?’

‘Give me one of them,’ cried Death, ‘to plant in my garden; only one of
them, and I will go away.’

‘I will not give thee anything,’ said Avarice, and she hid her hand in
the fold of her raiment.

And Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of water,
and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great multitude,
and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her, and the
water-snakes ran by her side.

And when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she beat her
breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried aloud. ‘Thou hast
slain a third of my servants,’ she cried, ‘get thee gone. There is war
in the mountains of Tartary, and the kings of each side are calling to
thee. The Afghans have slain the black ox, and are marching to battle.
They have beaten upon their shields with their spears, and have put on
their helmets of iron. What is my valley to thee, that thou shouldst
tarry in it? Get thee gone, and come here no more.’

‘Nay,’ answered Death, ‘but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I
will not go.’

But Avarice shut her hand, and clenched her teeth. ‘I will not give thee
anything,’ she muttered.

And Death laughed, and took up a black stone, and threw it into the
forest, and out of a thicket of wild hemlock came Fever in a robe of
flame. She passed through the multitude, and touched them, and each man
that she touched died. The grass withered beneath her feet as she
walked.

And Avarice shuddered, and put ashes on her head. ‘Thou art cruel,’ she
cried; ‘thou art cruel. There is famine in the walled cities of India,
and the cisterns of Samarcand have run dry. There is famine in the
walled cities of Egypt, and the locusts have come up from the desert.
The Nile has not overflowed its banks, and the priests have cursed Isis
and Osiris. Get thee gone to those who need thee, and leave me my
servants.’

‘Nay,’ answered Death, ‘but till thou hast given me a grain of corn I
will not go.’

‘I will not give thee anything,’ said Avarice.

And Death laughed again, and he whistled through his fingers, and a woman
came flying through the air. Plague was written upon her forehead, and a
crowd of lean vultures wheeled round her. She covered the valley with
her wings, and no man was left alive.

And Avarice fled shrieking through the forest, and Death leaped upon his
red horse and galloped away, and his galloping was faster than the wind.

And out of the slime at the bottom of the valley crept dragons and
horrible things with scales, and the jackals came trotting along the
sand, sniffing up the air with their nostrils.

And the young King wept, and said: ‘Who were these men, and for what were
they seeking?’

‘For rubies for a king’s crown,’ answered one who stood behind him.

And the young King started, and, turning round, he saw a man habited as a
pilgrim and holding in his hand a mirror of silver.

And he grew pale, and said: ‘For what king?’

And the pilgrim answered: ‘Look in this mirror, and thou shalt see him.’

And he looked in the mirror, and, seeing his own face, he gave a great
cry and woke, and the bright sunlight was streaming into the room, and
from the trees of the garden and pleasaunce the birds were singing.

* * * * *

And the Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and made
obeisance to him, and the pages brought him the robe of tissued gold, and
set the crown and the sceptre before him.

And the young King looked at them, and they were beautiful. More
beautiful were they than aught that he had ever seen. But he remembered
his dreams, and he said to his lords: ‘Take these things away, for I will
not wear them.’

And the courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, for they thought
that he was jesting.

But he spake sternly to them again, and said: ‘Take these things away,
and hide them from me. Though it be the day of my coronation, I will not
wear them. For on the loom of Sorrow, and by the white hands of Pain,
has this my robe been woven. There is Blood in the heart of the ruby,
and Death in the heart of the pearl.’ And he told them his three dreams.

And when the courtiers heard them they looked at each other and
whispered, saying: ‘Surely he is mad; for what is a dream but a dream,
and a vision but a vision? They are not real things that one should heed
them. And what have we to do with the lives of those who toil for us?
Shall a man not eat bread till he has seen the sower, nor drink wine till
he has talked with the vinedresser?’

And the Chamberlain spake to the young King, and said, ‘My lord, I pray
thee set aside these black thoughts of thine, and put on this fair robe,
and set this crown upon thy head. For how shall the people know that
thou art a king, if thou hast not a king’s raiment?’

And the young King looked at him. ‘Is it so, indeed?’ he questioned.
‘Will they not know me for a king if I have not a king’s raiment?’

‘They will not know thee, my lord,’ cried the Chamberlain.

‘I had thought that there had been men who were kinglike,’ he answered,
‘but it may be as thou sayest. And yet I will not wear this robe, nor
will I be crowned with this crown, but even as I came to the palace so
will I go forth from it.’

And he bade them all leave him, save one page whom he kept as his
companion, a lad a year younger than himself. Him he kept for his
service, and when he had bathed himself in clear water, he opened a great
painted chest, and from it he took the leathern tunic and rough sheepskin
cloak that he had worn when he had watched on the hillside the shaggy
goats of the goatherd. These he put on, and in his hand he took his rude
shepherd’s staff.

And the little page opened his big blue eyes in wonder, and said smiling
to him, ‘My lord, I see thy robe and thy sceptre, but where is thy
crown?’

And the young King plucked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over
the balcony, and bent it, and made a circlet of it, and set it on his own
head.

‘This shall he my crown,’ he answered.

And thus attired he passed out of his chamber into the Great Hall, where
the nobles were waiting for him.

And the nobles made merry, and some of them cried out to him, ‘My lord,
the people wait for their king, and thou showest them a beggar,’ and
others were wroth and said, ‘He brings shame upon our state, and is
unworthy to be our master.’ But he answered them not a word, but passed
on, and went down the bright porphyry staircase, and out through the
gates of bronze, and mounted upon his horse, and rode towards the
cathedral, the little page running beside him.

And the people laughed and said, ‘It is the King’s fool who is riding
by,’ and they mocked him.

And he drew rein and said, ‘Nay, but I am the King.’ And he told them
his three dreams.

And a man came out of the crowd and spake bitterly to him, and said,
‘Sir, knowest thou not that out of the luxury of the rich cometh the life
of the poor? By your pomp we are nurtured, and your vices give us bread.
To toil for a hard master is bitter, but to have no master to toil for is
more bitter still. Thinkest thou that the ravens will feed us? And what
cure hast thou for these things? Wilt thou say to the buyer, “Thou shalt
buy for so much,” and to the seller, “Thou shalt sell at this price”? I
trow not. Therefore go back to thy Palace and put on thy purple and fine
linen. What hast thou to do with us, and what we suffer?’

‘Are not the rich and the poor brothers?’ asked the young King.

‘Ay,’ answered the man, ‘and the name of the rich brother is Cain.’

And the young King’s eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the
murmurs of the people, and the little page grew afraid and left him.

And when he reached the great portal of the cathedral, the soldiers
thrust their halberts out and said, ‘What dost thou seek here? None
enters by this door but the King.’

And his face flushed with anger, and he said to them, ‘I am the King,’
and waved their halberts aside and passed in.

And when the old Bishop saw him coming in his goatherd’s dress, he rose
up in wonder from his throne, and went to meet him, and said to him, ‘My
son, is this a king’s apparel? And with what crown shall I crown thee,
and what sceptre shall I place in thy hand? Surely this should be to
thee a day of joy, and not a day of abasement.’

‘Shall Joy wear what Grief has fashioned?’ said the young King. And he
told him his three dreams.

And when the Bishop had heard them he knit his brows, and said, ‘My son,
I am an old man, and in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil
things are done in the wide world. The fierce robbers come down from the
mountains, and carry off the little children, and sell them to the Moors.
The lions lie in wait for the caravans, and leap upon the camels. The
wild boar roots up the corn in the valley, and the foxes gnaw the vines
upon the hill. The pirates lay waste the sea-coast and burn the ships of
the fishermen, and take their nets from them. In the salt-marshes live
the lepers; they have houses of wattled reeds, and none may come nigh
them. The beggars wander through the cities, and eat their food with the
dogs. Canst thou make these things not to be? Wilt thou take the leper
for thy bedfellow, and set the beggar at thy board? Shall the lion do
thy bidding, and the wild boar obey thee? Is not He who made misery
wiser than thou art? Wherefore I praise thee not for this that thou hast
done, but I bid thee ride back to the Palace and make thy face glad, and
put on the raiment that beseemeth a king, and with the crown of gold I
will crown thee, and the sceptre of pearl will I place in thy hand. And
as for thy dreams, think no more of them. The burden of this world is
too great for one man to bear, and the world’s sorrow too heavy for one
heart to suffer.’

‘Sayest thou that in this house?’ said the young King, and he strode past
the Bishop, and climbed up the steps of the altar, and stood before the
image of Christ.

He stood before the image of Christ, and on his right hand and on his
left were the marvellous vessels of gold, the chalice with the yellow
wine, and the vial with the holy oil. He knelt before the image of
Christ, and the great candles burned brightly by the jewelled shrine, and
the smoke of the incense curled in thin blue wreaths through the dome.
He bowed his head in prayer, and the priests in their stiff copes crept
away from the altar.

And suddenly a wild tumult came from the street outside, and in entered
the nobles with drawn swords and nodding plumes, and shields of polished
steel. ‘Where is this dreamer of dreams?’ they cried. ‘Where is this
King who is apparelled like a beggar—this boy who brings shame upon our
state? Surely we will slay him, for he is unworthy to rule over us.’

And the young King bowed his head again, and prayed, and when he had
finished his prayer he rose up, and turning round he looked at them
sadly.

And lo! through the painted windows came the sunlight streaming upon him,
and the sun-beams wove round him a tissued robe that was fairer than the
robe that had been fashioned for his pleasure. The dead staff blossomed,
and bare lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed,
and bare roses that were redder than rubies. Whiter than fine pearls
were the lilies, and their stems were of bright silver. Redder than male
rubies were the roses, and their leaves were of beaten gold.

He stood there in the raiment of a king, and the gates of the jewelled
shrine flew open, and from the crystal of the many-rayed monstrance shone
a marvellous and mystical light. He stood there in a king’s raiment, and
the Glory of God filled the place, and the saints in their carven niches
seemed to move. In the fair raiment of a king he stood before them, and
the organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew upon their
trumpets, and the singing boys sang.

And the people fell upon their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed
their swords and did homage, and the Bishop’s face grew pale, and his
hands trembled. ‘A greater than I hath crowned thee,’ he cried, and he
knelt before him.

And the young King came down from the high altar, and passed home through
the midst of the people. But no man dared look upon his face, for it was
like the face of an angel.




THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA




IT was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of age,
and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.

Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain, she had only
one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor people, so
it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country that
she should have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine
day it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon
their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the
grass at the roses, and said: ‘We are quite as splendid as you are now.’
The purple butterflies fluttered about with gold dust on their wings,
visiting each flower in turn; the little lizards crept out of the
crevices of the wall, and lay basking in the white glare; and the
pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and showed their bleeding
red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion
from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have
caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia
trees opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled
the air with a sweet heavy perfume.

The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace with her
companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the old
moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with
children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her
birthday was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to
invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and amuse
themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these slim Spanish
children as they glided about, the boys with their large-plumed hats and
short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up the trains of their long
brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes with huge fans of
black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the
most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day.
Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves heavily
embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine
pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her
dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her
hair, which like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her
pale little face, she had a beautiful white rose.

From a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched them. Behind
him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his
confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even
than usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with
childish gravity to the assembling counters, or laughing behind her fan
at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought
of the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time before—so it seemed
to him—had come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in
the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months after
the birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds blossom twice
in the orchard, or plucked the second year’s fruit from the old gnarled
fig-tree that stood in the centre of the now grass-grown courtyard. So
great had been his love for her that he had not suffered even the grave
to hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who
in return for this service had been granted his life, which for heresy
and suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men said,
to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried bier
in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her
in on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month
the King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand,
went in and knelt by her side calling out, "Mi reina! Mi reina!" and
sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs
every separate action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a
King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of
grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the cold painted face.

To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first at the Castle
of Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she still
younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal
Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had
returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow
hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand
as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage,
hastily performed at Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two
countries, and the grand public entry into Madrid with the customary
celebration of high mass at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than
usually solemn auto-da-fé, in which nearly three hundred heretics, a-
mongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the sec-
ular arm to be burned.

Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many thought, of his
country, then at war with England for the possession of the empire of the
New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for
her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs of
State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon its
servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which
he sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which
she suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of
reason. Indeed, there is no doubt but that he would have formally
abdicated and retired to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of
which he was already titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the
little Infanta at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain,
was notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the Queen’s
death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had presented to her
on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even after the
expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained
throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his
ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself
sent to him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of
Bohemia, his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their
master that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that
though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty; an
answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands, which
soon after, at the Emperor’s instigation, revolted against him under the
leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.

His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the
terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as
he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen’s
pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the
same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile—vrai sourire
de France indeed—as she glanced up now and then at the window, or
stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss.
But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears, and the
bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange
spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint—or was it
fancy?—the clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when
the Infanta looked up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had
retired.

She made a little moue of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders.
Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the
stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where
the candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to
enter? How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and
everybody was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for
which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the puppet-show
and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were
much more sensible. They had come out on the terrace, and paid her nice
compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the
hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple
silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the other children
following in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names
going first.

* * * * *

A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as toreadors, came
out to meet her, and the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully
handsome lad of about fourteen years of age, uncovering his head with all
the grace of a born hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to
a little gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the
arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering their big
fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and the Grand Inquisitor
stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess—the Camerera-Mayor as
she was called—a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not
look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile
flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.

It certainly was a marvellous bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta
thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at
Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father.
Some of the boys pranced about on richly-caparisoned hobby-horses
brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands attached
to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks before the bull,
and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged them; and as for
the bull himself, he was just like a live bull, though he was only made
of wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running
round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of
doing. He made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so
excited that they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace
handkerchiefs and cried out: Bravo toro! Bravo toro! just as
sensibly as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after a
prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored
through and through, and, their riders dismounted, the young Count of
Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained
permission from the Infanta to give the coup de grâce, he plunged his
wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that the head
came right off, and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de
Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.

The arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the dead
hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow
and black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French
posture-master performed upon the tightrope, some Italian puppets
appeared in the semi-classical tragedy of Sophonisba on the stage of a
small theatre that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so
well, and their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of
the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed some
of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with sweetmeats,
and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected that he could not help
saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable that things made
simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically by wires,
should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes.

An African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered
with a red cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he
took from his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few
moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller and
shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange wedge-shaped
heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with the music as a plant
sways in the water. The children, however, were rather frightened at
their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were much more pleased
when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear
pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the
fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it
into a blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight
and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the
dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar, was charming.
The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes
place every year at Maytime in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and
in her honour; and indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered
the great cathedral of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to
have been in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a
poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known only by
hearsay of ‘Our Lady’s Dance,’ as it was called, and it certainly was a
beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned court dresses of white
velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were fringed with silver
and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the dazzling
whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight, being
still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair.
Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved
through the intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of
their slow gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their
performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she ac-
knowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made a vow that she
would send a large wax candle to the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in
return for the pleasure that she had given her.

A troop of handsome Egyptians—as the gipsies were termed in those
days—then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a
circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to
the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When
they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them
looked terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their
tribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place at Seville, but the pretty
Infanta charmed them as she leaned back peeping over her fan with her
great blue eyes, and they felt sure that one so lovely as she was could
never be cruel to anybody. So they played on very gently and just
touching the cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and
their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly,
with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don Pedro’s
hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their feet
and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and
chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then
at another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay
there quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound
that broke the silence. After that they had done this several times,
they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear
by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders some little Barbary apes.
The bear stood upon his head with the utmost gravity, and the wizened
apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to
be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and
went through a regular soldier’s drill just like the King’s own
bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.

But the funniest part of the whole morning’s entertainment, was
undoubtedly the dancing of the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the
arena, waddling on his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head
from side to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight,
and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was obliged to
remind her that although there were many precedents in Spain for a King’s
daughter weeping before her equals, there were none for a Princess of the
blood royal making so merry before those who were her inferiors in birth.
The Dwarf, however, was really quite irresistible, and even at the
Spanish Court, always noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible,
so fantastic a little monster had never been seen. It was his first
appearance, too. He had been discovered only the day before, running
wild through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have been
hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded the town,
and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a surprise for the
Infanta; his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner, being but too well
pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless a child. Perhaps the most
amusing thing about him was his complete unconsciousness of his own
grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed quite happy and full of the
highest spirits. When the children laughed, he laughed as freely and as
joyously as any of them, and at the close of each dance he made them
each the funniest of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was
really one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature,
in some humourous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at. As for the
Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not keep his eyes off
her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and when at the close of the
performance, remembering how she had seen the great ladies of the Court
throw bouquets to Caffarelli, the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope
had sent from his own chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King’s
melancholy by the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the
beautiful white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the
Camerera, threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he
took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower to his
rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and sank on one knee
before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with his little bright eyes
sparkling with pleasure.

This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on laughing long
after the little Dwarf had ran out of the arena, and expressed a desire
to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The
Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it
would be better that her Highness should return without delay to the
Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared for her,
including a real birthday cake with her own initials worked all over it
in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag waving from the top. The
Infanta accordingly rose up with much dignity, and having given orders
that the little dwarf was to dance again for her after the hour of
siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for
his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the children
following in the same order in which they had entered.

* * * * *

Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a second time before
the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud that he ran
out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of
pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.

The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude into their beau-
tiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the walks, and
waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could
not restrain their feelings any longer.

‘He is really far too ugly to be allowed to play in any place where we
are,’ cried the Tulips.

‘He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand years,’ said
the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.

‘He is a perfect horror!’ screamed the Cactus. ‘Why, he is twisted and
stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs.
Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will
sting him with my thorns.’

‘And he has actually got one of my best blooms,’ exclaimed the White
Rose-Tree. ‘I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday
present, and he has stolen it from her.’ And she called out: ‘Thief,
thief, thief!’ at the top of her voice.

Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves airs, and
were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up in
disgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that
though he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they
retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and
that there was no reason why one should admire a person because he was
incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets themselves felt that the
ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost ostentatious, and that he would
have shown much better taste if he had looked sad, or at least pensive,
instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing himself into such
grotesque and silly attitudes.

As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable individual, and
had once told the time of day to no less a person than the Emperor
Charles V. himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf’s
appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his
long shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white
Peacock, who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that every one
knew that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children of
charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd to pretend
that it wasn’t so; a statement with which the Peacock entirely agreed,
and indeed screamed out, ‘Certainly, certainly,’ in such a loud, harsh
voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the basin of the cool splashing
fountain put their heads out of the water, and asked the huge stone
Tritons what on earth was the matter.

But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in the forest,
dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the
hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They
did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself,
who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon
leaned down to listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides,
he had been kind to them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when
there were no berries on the trees, and the ground was as hard as iron,
and the wolves had come down to the very gates of the city to look for
food, he had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs
out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them whatever
poor breakfast he had.

So they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek with their
wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little Dwarf
was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white
rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him
because she loved him.

They did not understand a single word of what he was saying, but that
made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and looked wise,
which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and very much easier.

The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew tired of
running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest, they played
and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the best way they
could. ‘Every one cannot be as beautiful as a lizard,’ they cried; ‘that
would be too much to expect. And, though it sounds absurd to say so, he
is really not so ugly after all, provided, of course, that one shuts one’s
eyes, and does not look at him.’ The Lizards were extremely philoso-
phical by nature, and often sat thinking for hours and hours together,
when there was nothing else to do, or when the weather was too
rainy for them to go out.

The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour,
and at the behaviour of the birds. ‘It only shows,’ they said, ‘what a
vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about has. Well-
bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we do. No one
ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping madly through the
grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change of air, we send for the
gardener, and he carries us to another bed. This is dignified, and as it
should be. But birds and lizards have no sense of repose, and indeed
birds have not even a permanent address. They are mere vagrants like the
gipsies, and should be treated in exactly the same manner.’ So they put
their noses in the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted
when after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the
grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.

‘He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural life,’
they said. ‘Look at his hunched back, and his crooked legs,’ and they
began to titter.

But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds and
the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the most
marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the Infanta, but
then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and she loved him, and
that made a great difference. How he wished that he had gone back with
her! She would have put him on her right hand, and smiled at him, and he
would have never left her side, but would have made her his playmate, and
taught her all kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been
in a palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could make
little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in, and fashion
the long jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to hear. He knew
the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings from the tree-top, or
the heron from the mere. He knew the trail of every animal, and could
track the hare by its delicate footprints, and the boar by the trampled
leaves. All the wild-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with
the autumn, the light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with
white snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards
in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and once
when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up the young
ones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in the cleft of a
pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed out of his hands
every morning. She would like them, and the rabbits that scurried about
in the long fern, and the jays with their steely feathers and black
bills, and the hedgehogs that could curl themselves up into prickly
balls, and the great wise tortoises that crawled slowly about, shaking
their heads and nibbling at the young leaves. Yes, she must certainly
come to the forest and play with him. He would give her his own little
bed, and would watch outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild
horned cattle did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the
hut. And at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they
would go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a
bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his white
mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their green velvet
caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the falconers passed by, with
hooded hawks on their wrists. At vintage-time came the grape-treaders,
with purple hands and feet, wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying
dripping skins of wine; and the charcoal-burners sat round their huge
braziers at night, watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and
roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves
and made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful procession
winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks went in front
singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and crosses of gold, and
then, in silver armour, with matchlocks and pikes, came the soldiers, and
in their midst walked three barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses
painted all over with wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in
their hands. Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest,
and when she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or
carry her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was
not tall. He would make her a necklace of red bryony berries, that would
be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her dress, and
when she was tired of them, she could throw them away, and he would find
her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and dew-drenched anemones, and
tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.

But where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no answer.
The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the shutters had not been
closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows to keep out the
glare. He wandered all round looking for some place through which he
might gain an entrance, and at last he caught sight of a little private
door that was lying open. He slipped through, and found himself in a
splendid hall, far more splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was
so much more gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great
coloured stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But
the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues that
looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank eyes and
strangely smiling lips.

At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black velvet,
powdered with suns and stars, the King’s favourite devices, and broidered
on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding behind that? He
would try at any rate.

So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only
another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he had
just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras of
needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some Flemish
artists who had spent more than seven years in its composition. It had
once been the chamber of Jean le Fou, as he was called, that mad King
who was so enamoured of the chase, that he had often tried in his
delirium to mount the huge rearing horses, and to drag down the stag on
which the great hounds were leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and
stabbing with his dagger at the pale flying deer. It was now used as the
council-room, and on the centre table were lying the red portfolios of
the ministers, stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms
and emblems of the house of Hapsburg.

The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to
go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so swiftly through the
long glades without making any noise, seemed to him like those terrible
phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-burners speaking—the
Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if they meet a man, turn him into
a hind, and chase him. But he thought of the pretty Infanta, and took
courage. He wanted to find her alone, and to tell her that he too loved
her. Perhaps she was in the room beyond.

He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No! She
was not here either. The room was quite empty.

It was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign ambassadors, when
the King, which of late had not been often, consented to give them a
personal audience; the same room in which, many years before, envoys had
appeared from England to make arrangements for the marriage of their
Queen, then one of the Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor’s
eldest son. The hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt
chandelier with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the
black and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on
which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed pearls,
stood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black velvet studded
with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with silver and pearls. On
the second step of the throne was placed the kneeling-stool of the
Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver tissue, and below that
again, and beyond the limit of the canopy, stood the chair for the Papal
Nuncio, who alone had the right to be seated in the King’s presence on
the occasion of any public ceremonial, and whose Cardinal’s hat, with its
tangled scarlet tassels, lay on a purple tabouret in front. On the
wall, facing the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in
hunting dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip
II. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of the
other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet, inlaid with
plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein’s Dance of Death had
been graved—by the hand, some said, of that famous master himself.

But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He would
not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor one white
petal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted was to see the
Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to ask her to come away
with him when he had finished his dance. Here, in the Palace, the air
was close and heavy, but in the forest the wind blew free, and the
sunlight with wandering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside.
There were flowers, too, in the forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the
flowers in the garden, but more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths
in early spring that flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and
grassy knolls; yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the
gnarled roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and
irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and the
foxgloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted cells.
The chestnut had its spires of white stars, and the hawthorn its pallid
moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come if he could only find her!
She would come with him to the fair forest, and all day long he would
dance for her delight. A smile lit up his eyes at the thought, and he
passed into the next room.

Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful. The
walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned with
birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture was of
massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging Cupids; in
front of the two large fire-places stood great screens broidered with
parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of sea-green onyx, seemed
to stretch far away into the distance. Nor was he alone. Standing under
the shadow of the doorway, at the extreme end of the room, he saw a
little figure watching him. His heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from
his lips, and he moved out into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure
moved out also, and he saw it plainly.

The Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had ever
beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but hunchbacked,
and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of black hair. The
little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned also. He laughed, and it
laughed with him, and held its hands to its sides, just as he himself was
doing. He made it a mocking bow, and it returned him a low reverence.
He went towards it, and it came to meet him, copying each step that he
made, and stopping when he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement,
and ran forward, and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster
touched his, and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his
hand across, and the monster’s hand followed it quickly. He tried to
press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of the
monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror. He brushed
his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at it, and it returned blow
for blow. He loathed it, and it made hideous faces at him. He drew back,
and it retreated.

What is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest of the
room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its double in this
invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for picture was repeated,
and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that lay in the alcove by the
doorway had its twin brother that slumbered, and the silver Venus that
stood in the sunlight held out her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.

Was it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had
answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked the
voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world? Could the
shadows of things have colour and life and movement? Could it be that—?

He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he
turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own, petal
for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and pressed it to its
heart with horrible gestures.

When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and fell
sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and hunchbacked,
foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the monster, and it was at
him that all the children had been laughing, and the little Princess who
he had thought loved him—she too had been merely mocking at his ugliness,
and making merry over his twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in
the forest, where there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was?
Why had his father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame?
The hot tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to
pieces. The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint
petals in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at
it, it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he
should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled, like
some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.

And at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions
through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf lying on
the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands, in the most
fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into shouts of happy
laughter, and stood all round him and watched him.

‘His dancing was funny,’ said the Infanta; ‘but his acting is funnier
still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of course not
quite so natural.’ And she fluttered her big fan, and applauded.

But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and
fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his side.
And then he fell back again, and lay quite still.

‘That is capital,’ said the Infanta, after a pause; ‘but now you must
dance for me.’

‘Yes,’ cried all the children, ‘you must get up and dance, for you are as
clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.’ But the little
Dwarf made no answer.

And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who was
walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some despatches that
had just arrived from Mexico, where the Holy Office had recently been
established. ‘My funny little dwarf is sulking,’ she cried, ‘you must
wake him up, and tell him to dance for me.’

They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped down,
and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered glove. ‘You must
dance,’ he said, ‘petit monsire. You must dance. The Infanta of Spain
and the Indies wishes to be amused.’

But the little Dwarf never moved.

‘A whipping master should be sent for,’ said Don Pedro wearily, and he
went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and he knelt
beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart. And after a few
moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and having made a low
bow to the Infanta, he said—

‘Mi bella Princesa, your funny little dwarf will never dance again. It
is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King smile.’

‘But why will he not dance again?’ asked the Infanta, laughing.

‘Because his heart is broken,’ answered the Chamberlain.

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in pretty
disdain. ‘For the future let those who come to play with me have no
hearts,’ she cried, and she ran out into the garden.




THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL


TO H.S.H.
ALICE, PRINCESS
OF MONACO



EVERY evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw his
nets into the water.

When the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little at
best, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves rose up
to meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish came in from
the deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he took them to the
market-place and sold them.

Every evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was
so heavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he laughed, and
said to himself, ‘Surely I have caught all the fish that swim, or snared
some dull monster that will be a marvel to men, or some thing of horror
that the great Queen will desire,’ and putting forth all his strength, he
tugged at the coarse ropes till, like lines of blue enamel round a vase
of bronze, the long veins rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin
ropes, and nearer and nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net
rose at last to the top of the water.

But no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror, but
only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.

Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a thread
of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white ivory, and her
tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was her tail, and the
green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like sea-shells were her
ears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The cold waves dashed over her
cold breasts, and the salt glistened upon her eyelids.

So beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was filled
with wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close to him, and
leaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And when he touched
her, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull, and woke, and looked at him
in terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and struggled that she might
escape. But he held her tightly to him, and would not suffer her to
depart.

And when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she began to
weep, and said, ‘I pray thee let me go, for I am the only daughter of a
King, and my father is aged and alone.’

But the young Fisherman answered, ‘I will not let thee go save thou
makest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and sing to
me, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-folk, and so
shall my nets be full.’

‘Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?’ cried the
Mermaid.

‘In very truth I will let thee go,’ said the young Fisherman.

So she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of the
Sea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she sank down
into the water, trembling with a strange fear.

* * * * *

Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called to
the Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him. Round and
round her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled above her head.

And she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who drive
their flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves on their
shoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and hairy breasts,
and blow through twisted conchs when the King passes by; of the palace of
the King which is all of amber, with a roof of clear emerald, and a
pavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens of the sea where the great
filigrane fans of coral wave all day long, and the fish dart about like
silver birds, and the anemones cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon
in the ribbed yellow sand. She sang of the big whales that come down
from the north seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the
Sirens who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop
their ears with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the water
and be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall masts, and the
frozen sailors clinging to the rigging, and the mackerel swimming in and
out of the open portholes; of the little barnacles who are great
travellers, and cling to the keels of the ships and go round and round
the world; and of the cuttlefish who live in the sides of the cliffs and
stretch out their long black arms, and can make night come when they will
it. She sang of the nautilus who has a boat of her own that is carved
out of an opal and steered with a silken sail; of the happy Mermen who
play upon harps and can charm the great Kraken to sleep; of the little
children who catch hold of the slippery porpoises and ride laughing upon
their backs; of the Mermaids who lie in the white foam and hold out their
arms to the mariners; and of the sea-lions with their curved tusks, and
the sea-horses with their floating manes.

And as she sang, all the tunny-fish came in from the deep to listen to
her, and the young Fisherman threw his nets round them and caught them,
and others he took with a spear. And when hi6s boat was well-laden, the
Mermaid would sink down into the sea, smiling at him.

Yet would she never come near him that he might touch her. Oftentimes he
called to her and prayed of her, but she would not; and when he sought to
seize her she dived into the water as a seal might dive, nor did he see
her again that day. And each day the sound of her voice became sweeter
to his ears. So sweet was her voice that he forgot his nets and his
cunning, and had no care of his craft. Vermilion-finned and with eyes of
bossy gold, the tunnies went by in shoals, but he heeded them not. His
spear lay by his side unused, and his baskets of plaited osier were
empty. With lips parted, and eyes dim with wonder, he sat idle in his
boat and listened, listening till the sea-mists crept round him, and the
wandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver.

And one evening he called to her, and said: ‘Little Mermaid, little
Mermaid, I love thee. Take me for thy bridegroom, for I love thee.’

But the Mermaid shook her head. ‘Thou hast a human soul,’ she answered.
‘If only thou wouldst send away thy soul, then could I love thee.’

And the young Fisherman said to himself, ‘Of what use is my soul to me?
I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it. Surely I will
send it away from me, and much gladness shall be mine.’ And a cry of joy
broke from his lips, and standing up in the painted boat, he held out his
arms to the Mermaid. ‘I will send my soul away,’ he cried, ‘and you
shall be my bride, and I will be thy bridegroom, and in the depth of the
sea we will dwell together, and all that thou hast sung of thou shalt
show me, and all that thou desirest I will do, nor shall our lives be
divided.’

And the little Mermaid laughed for pleasure and hid her face in her
hands.

‘But how shall I send my soul from me?’ cried the young Fisherman. ‘Tell
me how I may do it, and lo! it shall be done.’

‘Alas! I know not,’ said the little Mermaid: ‘the Sea-folk have no
souls.’ And she sank down into the deep, looking wistfully at him.

* * * * *

Now early on the next morning, before the sun was the span of a man’s
hand above the hill, the young Fisherman went to the house of the Priest
and knocked three times at the door.

The novice looked out through the wicket, and when he saw who it was, he
drew back the latch and said to him, ‘Enter.’

And the young Fisherman passed in, and knelt down on the sweet-smelling
rushes of the floor, and cried to the Priest who was reading out of the
Holy Book and said to him, ‘Father, I am in love with one of the
Sea-folk, and my soul hindereth me from having my desire. Tell me how I
can send my soul away from me, for in truth I have no need of it. Of
what value is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do
not know it.’

And the Priest beat his breast, and answered, ‘Alack, alack, thou art
mad, or hast eaten of some poisonous herb, for the soul is the noblest
part of man, and was given to us by God that we should nobly use it.
There is no thing more precious than a human soul, nor any earthly thing
that can be weighed with it. It is worth all the gold that is in the
world, and is more precious than the rubies of the kings. Therefore, my
son, think not any more of this matter, for it is a sin that may not be
forgiven. And as for the Sea-folk, they are lost, and they who would
traffic with them are lost also. They are as the beasts of the field
that know not good from evil, and for them the Lord has not died.’

The young Fisherman’s eyes filled with tears when he heard the bitter
words of the Priest, and he rose up from his knees and said to him,
‘Father, the Fauns live in the forest and are glad, and on the rocks sit
the Mermen with their harps of red gold. Let me be as they are, I
beseech thee, for their days are as the days of flowers. And as for my
soul, what doth my soul profit me, if it stand between me and the thing
that I love?’

‘The love of the body is vile,’ cried the Priest, knitting his brows,
‘and vile and evil are the pagan things God suffers to wander through His
world. Accursed be the Fauns of the woodland, and accursed be the
singers of the sea! I have heard them at night-time, and they have
sought to lure me from my beads. They tap at the window, and laugh.
They whisper into my ears the tale of their perilous joys. They tempt me
with temptations, and when I would pray they make mouths at me. They are
lost, I tell thee, they are lost. For them there is no heaven nor hell,
and in neither shall they praise God’s name.’

‘Father,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘thou knowest not what thou sayest.
Once in my net I snared the daughter of a King. She is fairer than the
morning star, and whiter than the moon. For her body I would give my
soul, and for her love I would surrender heaven. Tell me what I ask of
thee, and let me go in peace.’

‘Away! Away!’ cried the Priest: ‘thy leman is lost, and thou shalt be
lost with her.’

And he gave him no blessing, but drove him from his door.

And the young Fisherman went down into the market-place, and he walked
slowly, and with bowed head, as one who is in sorrow.

And when the merchants saw him coming, they began to whisper to each
other, and one of them came forth to meet him, and called him by name,
and said to him, ‘What hast thou to sell?’

‘I will sell thee my soul,’ he answered. ‘I pray thee buy it of me, for
I am weary of it. Of what use is my soul to me? I cannot see it. I may
not touch it. I do not know it.’

But the merchants mocked at him, and said, ‘Of what use is a man’s soul
to us? It is not worth a clipped piece of silver. Sell us thy body for
a slave, and we will clothe thee in sea-purple, and put a ring upon thy
finger, and make thee the minion of the great Queen. But talk not of the
soul, for to us it is nought, nor has it any value for our service.’

And the young Fisherman said to himself: ‘How strange a thing this is!
The Priest telleth me that the soul is worth all the gold in the world,
and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.’
And he passed out of the market-place, and went down to the shore of the
sea, and began to ponder on what he should do.

* * * * *

And at noon he remembered how one of his companions, who was a gatherer
of samphire, had told him of a certain young Witch who dwelt in a cave at
the head of the bay and was very cunning in her witcheries. And he set
to and ran, so eager was he to get rid of his soul, and a cloud of dust
followed him as he sped round the sand of the shore. By the itching of
her palm the young Witch knew his coming, and she laughed and let down
her red hair. With her red hair falling around her, she stood at the
opening of the cave, and in her hand she had a spray of wild hemlock that
was blossoming.

‘What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack?’ she cried, as he came panting up the
steep, and bent down before her. ‘Fish for thy net, when the wind is
foul? I have a little reed-pipe, and when I blow on it the mullet come
sailing into the bay. But it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price.
What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack? A storm to wreck the ships, and wash
the chests of rich treasure ashore? I have more storms than the wind
has, for I serve one who is stronger than the wind, and with a sieve and
a pail of water I can send the great galleys to the bottom of the sea.
But I have a price, pretty boy, I have a price. What d’ye lack? What
d’ye lack? I know a flower that grows in the valley, none knows it but
I. It has purple leaves, and a star in its heart, and its juice is as
white as milk. Shouldst thou touch with this flower the hard lips of the
Queen, she would follow thee all over the world. Out of the bed of the
King she would rise, and over the whole world she would follow thee. And
it has a price, pretty boy, it has a price. What d’ye lack? What d’ye
lack? I can pound a toad in a mortar, and make broth of it, and stir the
broth with a dead man’s hand. Sprinkle it on thine enemy while he
sleeps, and he will turn into a black viper, and his own mother will slay
him. With a wheel I can draw the Moon from heaven, and in a crystal I
can show thee Death. What d’ye lack? What d’ye lack? Tell me thy
desire, and I will give it thee, and thou shalt pay me a price, pretty
boy, thou shalt pay me a price.’

‘My desire is but for a little thing,’ said the young Fisherman, ‘yet
hath the Priest been wroth with me, and driven me forth. It is but for a
little thing, and the merchants have mocked at me, and denied me.
Therefore am I come to thee, though men call thee evil, and whatever
be thy price I shall pay it.’

‘What wouldst thou?’ asked the Witch, coming near to him.

‘I would send my soul away from me,’ answered the young Fisherman.

The Witch grew pale, and shuddered, and hid her face in her blue mantle.
‘Pretty boy, pretty boy,’ she muttered, ‘that is a terrible thing to do.’

He tossed his brown curls and laughed. ‘My soul is nought to me,’ he
answered. ‘I cannot see it. I may not touch it. I do not know it.’

‘What wilt thou give me if I tell thee?’ asked the Witch, looking down at
him with her beautiful eyes.

‘Five pieces of gold,’ he said, ‘and my nets, and the wattled house where
I live, and the painted boat in which I sail. Only tell me how to get
rid of my soul, and I will give thee all that I possess.’

She laughed mockingly at him, and struck him with the spray of hemlock.
‘I can turn the autumn leaves into gold,’ she answered, ‘and I can weave
the pale moonbeams into silver if I will it. He whom I serve is richer
than all the kings of this world, and has their dominions.’

‘What then shall I give thee,’ he cried, ‘if thy price be neither gold
nor silver?’

The Witch stroked his hair with her thin white hand. ‘Thou must dance
with me, pretty boy,’ she murmured, and she smiled at him as she spoke.

‘Nought but that?’ cried the young Fisherman in wonder and he rose to his
feet.

‘Nought but that,’ she answered, and she smiled at him again.

‘Then at sunset in some secret place we shall dance together,’ he said,
‘and after that we have danced thou shalt tell me the thing which I
desire to know.’

She shook her head. ‘When the moon is full, when the moon is full,’ she
muttered. Then she peered all round, and listened. A blue bird rose
screaming from its nest and circled over the dunes, and three spotted
birds rustled through the coarse grey grass and whistled to each other.
There was no other sound save the sound of a wave fretting the smooth
pebbles below. So she reached out her hand, and drew him near to her and
put her dry lips close to his ear.

‘To-night thou must come to the top of the mountain,’ she whispered. ‘It
is a Sabbath, and He will be there.’

The young Fisherman started and looked at her, and she showed her white
teeth and laughed. ‘Who is He of whom thou speakest?’ he asked.

‘It matters not,’ she answered. ‘Go thou to-night, and stand under the
branches of the hornbeam, and wait for my coming. If a black dog run
towards thee, strike it with a rod of willow, and it will go away. If an
owl speak to thee, make it no answer. When the moon is full I shall be
with thee, and we will dance together on the grass.’

‘But wilt thou swear to me to tell me how I may send my soul from me?’ he
made question.

She moved out into the sunlight, and through her red hair rippled the
wind. ‘By the hoofs of the goat I swear it,’ she made answer.

‘Thou art the best of the witches,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘and I
will surely dance with thee to-night on the top of the mountain. I would
indeed that thou hadst asked of me either gold or silver. But such as
thy price is thou shalt have it, for it is but a little thing.’ And he
doffed his cap to her, and bent his head low, and ran back to the town
filled with a great joy.

And the Witch watched him as he went, and when he had passed from her
sight she entered her cave, and having taken a mirror from a box of
carved cedarwood, she set it up on a frame, and burned vervain on lighted
charcoal before it, and peered through the coils of the smoke. And after
a time she clenched her hands in anger. ‘He should have been mine,’ she
muttered, ‘I am as fair as she is.’

* * * * *

And that evening, when the moon had risen, the young Fisherman climbed up
to the top of the mountain, and stood under the branches of the hornbeam.
Like a targe of polished metal the round sea lay at his feet, and the
shadows of the fishing-boats moved in the little bay. A great owl, with
yellow sulphurous eyes, called to him by his name, but he made it no
answer. A black dog ran towards him and snarled. He struck it with a
rod of willow, and it went away whining.

At midnight the witches came flying through the air like bats. ‘Phew!’
they cried, as they lit upon the ground, ‘there is some one here we know
not!’ and they sniffed about, and chattered to each other, and made
signs. Last of all came the young Witch, with her red hair streaming in
the wind. She wore a dress of gold tissue embroidered with peacocks’
eyes, and a little cap of green velvet was on her head.

‘Where is he, where is he?’ shrieked the witches when they saw her, but
she only laughed, and ran to the hornbeam, and taking the Fisherman by
the hand she led him out into the moonlight and began to dance.

Round and round they whirled, and the young Witch jumped so high that he
could see the scarlet heels of her shoes. Then right across the dancers
came the sound of the galloping of a horse, but no horse was to be seen,
and he felt afraid.

‘Faster,’ cried the Witch, and she threw her arms about his neck, and her
breath was hot upon his face. ‘Faster, faster!’ she cried, and the earth
seemed to spin beneath his feet, and his brain grew troubled, and a great
terror fell on him, as of some evil thing that was watching him, and at
last he became aware that under the shadow of a rock there was a figure
that had not been there before.

It was a man dressed in a suit of black velvet, cut in the Spanish
fashion. His face was strangely pale, but his lips were like a proud red
flower. He seemed weary, and was leaning back toying in a listless
manner with the pommel of his dagger. On the grass beside him lay a
plumed hat, and a pair of riding-gloves gauntleted with gilt lace, and
sewn with seed-pearls wrought into a curious device. A short cloak lined
with sables hang from his shoulder, and his delicate white hands were
gemmed with rings. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes.

The young Fisherman watched him, as one snared in a spell. At last their
eyes met, and wherever he danced it seemed to him that the eyes of the
man were upon him. He heard the Witch laugh, and caught her by the
waist, and whirled her madly round and round.

Suddenly a dog bayed in the wood, and the dancers stopped, and going up
two by two, knelt down, and kissed the man’s hands. As they did so, a
little smile touched his proud lips, as a bird’s wing touches the water
and makes it laugh. But there was disdain in it. He kept looking at the
young Fisherman.

‘Come! let us worship,’ whispered the Witch, and she led him up, and a
great desire to do as she besought him seized on him, and he followed
her. But when he came close, and without knowing why he did it, he made
on his breast the sign of the Cross, and called upon the holy name.

No sooner had he done so than the witches screamed like hawks and flew
away, and the pallid face that had been watching him twitched with a
spasm of pain. The man went over to a little wood, and whistled. A
jennet with silver trappings came running to meet him. As he leapt upon
the saddle he turned round, and looked at the young Fisherman sadly.

And the Witch with the red hair tried to fly away also, but the Fisherman
caught her by her wrists, and held her fast.

‘Loose me,’ she cried, ‘and let me go. For thou hast named what should
not be named, and shown the sign that may not be looked at.’

‘Nay,’ he answered, ‘but I will not let thee go till thou hast told me
the secret.’

‘What secret?’ said the Witch, wrestling with him like a wild cat, and
biting her foam-flecked lips.

‘Thou knowest,’ he made answer.

Her grass-green eyes grew dim with tears, and she said to the Fisherman,
‘Ask me anything but that!’

He laughed, and held her all the more tightly.

And when she saw that she could not free herself, she whispered to him,
‘Surely I am as fair as the daughters of the sea, and as comely as those
that dwell in the blue waters,’ and she fawned on him and put her face
close to his.

But he thrust her back frowning, and said to her, ‘If thou keepest not
the promise that thou madest to me I will slay thee for a false witch.’

She grew grey as a blossom of the Judas tree, and shuddered. ‘Be it so,’
she muttered. ‘It is thy soul and not mine. Do with it as thou wilt.’
And she took from her girdle a little knife that had a handle of green
viper’s skin, and gave it to him.

‘What shall this serve me?’ he asked of her, wondering.

She was silent for a few moments, and a look of terror came over her
face. Then she brushed her hair back from her forehead, and smiling
strangely she said to him, ‘What men call the shadow of the body is not
the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul. Stand on the
sea-shore with thy back to the moon, and cut away from around thy feet
thy shadow, which is thy soul’s body, and bid thy soul leave thee, and it
will do so.’

The young Fisherman trembled. ‘Is this true?’ he murmured.

‘It is true, and I would that I had not told thee of it,’ she cried, and
she clung to his knees weeping.

He put her from him and left her in the rank grass, and going to the edge
of the mountain he placed the knife in his belt and began to climb down.

And his Soul that was within him called out to him and said, ‘Lo! I have
dwelt with thee for all these years, and have been thy servant. Send me
not away from thee now, for what evil have I done thee?’

And the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Thou hast done me no evil, but I have
no need of thee,’ he answered. ‘The world is wide, and there is Heaven
also, and Hell, and that dim twilight house that lies between. Go
wherever thou wilt, but trouble me not, for my love is calling to me.’

And his Soul besought him piteously, but he heeded it not, but leapt from
crag to crag, being sure-footed as a wild goat, and at last he reached
the level ground and the yellow shore of the sea.

Bronze-limbed and well-knit, like a statue wrought by a Grecian, he stood
on the sand with his back to the moon, and out of the foam came white
arms that beckoned to him, and out of the waves rose dim forms that did
him homage. Before him lay his shadow, which was the body of his soul,
and behind him hung the moon in the honey-coloured air.

And his Soul said to him, ‘If indeed thou must drive me from thee, send
me not forth without a heart. The world is cruel, give me thy heart to
take with me.’

He tossed his head and smiled. ‘With what should I love my love if I
gave thee my heart?’ he cried.

‘Nay, but be merciful,’ said his Soul: ‘give me thy heart, for the world
is very cruel, and I am afraid.’

‘My heart is my love’s,’ he answered, ‘therefore tarry not, but get thee
gone.’

‘Should I not love also?’ asked his Soul.

‘Get thee gone, for I have no need of thee,’ cried the young Fisherman,
and he took the little knife with its handle of green viper’s skin, and
cut away his shadow from around his feet, and it rose up and stood before
him, and looked at him, and it was even as himself.

He crept back, and thrust the knife into his belt, and a feeling of awe
came over him. ‘Get thee gone,’ he murmured, ‘and let me see thy face no
more.’

‘Nay, but we must meet again,’ said the Soul. Its voice was low and
flute-like, and its lips hardly moved while it spake.

‘How shall we meet?’ cried the young Fisherman. ‘Thou wilt not follow me
into the depths of the sea?’

‘Once every year I will come to this place, and call to thee,’ said the
Soul. ‘It may be that thou wilt have need of me.’

‘What need should I have of thee?’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘but be it
as thou wilt,’ and he plunged into the waters and the Tritons blew their
horns and the little Mermaid rose up to meet him, and put her arms around
his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

And the Soul stood on the lonely beach and watched them. And when they
had sunk down into the sea, it went weeping away over the marshes.

* * * * *

And after a year was over the Soul came down to the shore of the sea and
called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep, and said,
‘Why dost thou call to me?’

And the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I
have seen marvellous things.’

So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head
upon his hand and listened.

* * * * *

And the Soul said to him, ‘When I left thee I turned my face to the East
and journeyed. From the East cometh everything that is wise. Six days I
journeyed, and on the morning of the seventh day I came to a hill that is
in the country of the Tartars. I sat down under the shade of a tamarisk
tree to shelter myself from the sun. The land was dry and burnt up with
the heat. The people went to and fro over the plain like flies crawling
upon a disk of polished copper.

‘When it was noon a cloud of red dust rose up from the flat rim of the
land. When the Tartars saw it, they strung their painted bows, and
having leapt upon their little horses they galloped to meet it. The
women fled screaming to the waggons, and hid themselves behind the felt
curtains.

‘At twilight the Tartars returned, but five of them were missing, and of
those that came back not a few had been wounded. They harnessed their
horses to the waggons and drove hastily away. Three jackals came out of
a cave and peered after them. Then they sniffed up the air with their
nostrils, and trotted off in the opposite direction.

‘When the moon rose I saw a camp-fire burning on the plain, and went
towards it. A company of merchants were seated round it on carpets.
Their camels were picketed behind them, and the negroes who were their
servants were pitching tents of tanned skin upon the sand, and making a
high wall of the prickly pear.

‘As I came near them, the chief of the merchants rose up and drew his
sword, and asked me my business.

‘I answered that I was a Prince in my own land, and that I had escaped
from the Tartars, who had sought to make me their slave. The chief
smiled, and showed me five heads fixed upon long reeds of bamboo.

‘Then he asked me who was the prophet of God, and I answered him
Mohammed.

‘When he heard the name of the false prophet, he bowed and took me by the
hand, and placed me by his side. A negro brought me some mare’s milk in
a wooden dish, and a piece of lamb’s flesh roasted.

‘At daybreak we started on our journey. I rode on a red-haired camel by
the side of the chief, and a runner ran before us carrying a spear. The
men of war were on either hand, and the mules followed with the
merchandise. There were forty camels in the caravan, and the mules were
twice forty in number.

‘We went from the country of the Tartars into the country of those who
curse the Moon. We saw the Gryphons guarding their gold on the white
rocks, and the scaled Dragons sleeping in their caves. As we passed over
the mountains we held our breath lest the snows might fall on us, and
each man tied a veil of gauze before his eyes. As we passed through the
valleys the Pygmies shot arrows at us from the hollows of the trees, and
at night-time we heard the wild men beating on their drums. When we came
to the Tower of Apes we set fruits before them, and they did not harm us.
When we came to the Tower of Serpents we gave them warm milk in bowls
of brass, and they let us go by. Three times in our journey we came to the
banks of the Oxus. We crossed it on rafts of wood with great bladders of
blown hide. The river-horses raged against us and sought to slay us.
When the camels saw them they trembled.

‘The kings of each city levied tolls on us, but would not suffer us to
enter their gates. They threw us bread over the walls, little maize-
cakes baked in honey and cakes of fine flour filled with dates. For
every hundred baskets we gave them a bead of amber.

‘When the dwellers in the villages saw us coming, they poisoned the wells
and fled to the hill-summits. We fought with the Magadae who are born
old, and grow younger and younger every year, and die when they are
little children; and with the Laktroi who say that they are the sons of
tigers, and paint themselves yellow and black; and with the Aurantes who
bury their dead on the tops of trees, and themselves live in dark caverns
lest the Sun, who is their god, should slay them; and with the Krimnians
who worship a crocodile, and give it earrings of green glass, and feed it
with butter and fresh fowls; and with the Agazonbae, who are dog-faced;
and with the Sibans, who have horses’ feet, and run more swiftly than
horses. A third of our company died in battle, and a third died of want.
The rest murmured against me, and said that I had brought them an evil
fortune. I took a horned adder from beneath a stone and let it sting me.
When they saw that I did not sicken they grew afraid.

‘In the fourth month we reached the city of Illel. It was night-time
when we came to the grove that is outside the walls, and the air was
sultry, for the Moon was travelling in Scorpion. We took the ripe
pomegranates from the trees, and brake them, and drank their sweet
juices. Then we lay down on our carpets, and waited for the dawn.

‘And at dawn we rose and knocked at the gate of the city. It was wrought
out of red bronze, and carved with sea-dragons and dragons that have
wings. The guards looked down from the battlements and asked us our
business. The interpreter of the caravan answered that we had come from
the island of Syria with much merchandise. They took hostages, and told
us that they would open the gate to us at noon, and bade us tarry till
then.

‘When it was noon they opened the gate, and as we entered in the people
came crowding out of the houses to look at us, and a crier went round the
city crying through a shell. We stood in the market-place, and the
negroes uncorded the bales of figured cloths and opened the carved chests
of sycamore. And when they had ended their task, the merchants set forth
their strange wares, the waxed linen from Egypt and the painted linen
from the country of the Ethiops, the purple sponges from Tyre and the
blue hangings from Sidon, the cups of cold amber and the fine vessels of
glass and the curious vessels of burnt clay. From the roof of a house a
company of women watched us. One of them wore a mask of gilded leather.

‘And on the first day the priests came and bartered with us, and on the
second day came the nobles, and on the third day came the craftsmen and
the slaves. And this is their custom with all merchants as long as they
tarry in the city.

‘And we tarried for a moon, and when the moon was waning, I wearied and
wandered away through the streets of the city and came to the garden of
its god. The priests in their yellow robes moved silently through the
green trees, and on a pavement of black marble stood the rose-red house
in which the god had his dwelling. Its doors were of powdered lacquer,
and bulls and peacocks were wrought on them in raised and polished gold.
The tilted roof was of sea-green porcelain, and the jutting eaves were
festooned with little bells. When the white doves flew past, they struck
the bells with their wings and made them tinkle.

‘In front of the temple was a pool of clear water paved with veined onyx.
I lay down beside it, and with my pale fingers I touched the broad
leaves. One of the priests came towards me and stood behind me. He had
sandals on his feet, one of soft serpent-skin and the other of birds’
plumage. On his head was a mitre of black felt decorated with silver
crescents. Seven yellows were woven into his robe, and his frizzed hair
was stained with antimony.

‘After a little while he spake to me, and asked me my desire.

‘I told him that my desire was to see the god.

‘“The god is hunting,” said the priest, looking strangely at me with his
small slanting eyes.

‘“Tell me in what forest, and I will ride with him,” I answered.

‘He combed out the soft fringes of his tunic with his long pointed nails.
“The god is asleep,” he murmured.

‘“Tell me on what couch, and I will watch by him,” I answered.

‘“The god is at the feast,” he cried.

‘“If the wine be sweet I will drink it with him, and if it be bitter I
will drink it with him also,” was my answer.

‘He bowed his head in wonder, and, taking me by the hand, he raised me
up, and led me into the temple.

‘And in the first chamber I saw an idol seated on a throne of jasper
bordered with great orient pearls. It was carved out of ebony, and in
stature was of the stature of a man. On its forehead was a ruby, and
thick oil dripped from its hair on to its thighs. Its feet were red with
the blood of a newly-slain kid, and its loins girt with a copper belt
that was studded with seven beryls.

‘And I said to the priest, “Is this the god?” And he answered me, “This
is the god.”

‘“Show me the god,” I cried, “or I will surely slay thee.” And I touched
his hand, and it became withered.

‘And the priest besought me, saying, “Let my lord heal his servant, and I
will show him the god.”

‘So I breathed with my breath upon his hand, and it became whole again,
and he trembled and led me into the second chamber, and I saw an idol
standing on a lotus of jade hung with great emeralds. It was carved out
of ivory, and in stature was twice the stature of a man. On its forehead
was a chrysolite, and its breasts were smeared with myrrh and cinnamon.
In one hand it held a crooked sceptre of jade, and in the other a round
crystal. It ware buskins of brass, and its thick neck was circled with a
circle of selenites.

‘And I said to the priest, “Is this the god?”

‘And he answered me, “This is the god.”

‘“Show me the god,” I cried, “or I will surely slay thee.” And I touched
his eyes, and they became blind.

‘And the priest besought me, saying, “Let my lord heal his servant, and I
will show him the god.”

‘So I breathed with my breath upon his eyes, and the sight came back to
them, and he trembled again, and led me into the third chamber, and lo!
there was no idol in it, nor image of any kind, but only a mirror of
round metal set on an altar of stone.

‘And I said to the priest, “Where is the god?”

‘And he answered me: “There is no god but this mirror that thou seest,
for this is the Mirror of Wisdom. And it reflecteth all things that are
in heaven and on earth, save only the face of him who looketh into it.
This it reflecteth not, so that he who looketh into it may be wise. Many
other mirrors are there, but they are mirrors of Opinion. This only is
the Mirror of Wisdom. And they who possess this mirror know everything,
nor is there anything hidden from them. And they who possess it not have
not Wisdom. Therefore is it the god, and we worship it.” And I looked
into the mirror, and it was even as he had said to me.

‘And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a valley
that is but a day’s journey from this place have I hidden the Mirror of
Wisdom. Do but suffer me to enter into thee again and be thy servant,
and thou shalt be wiser than all the wise men, and Wisdom shall be thine.
Suffer me to enter into thee, and none will be as wise as thou.’

But the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Love is better than Wisdom,’ he cried,
‘and the little Mermaid loves me.’

‘Nay, but there is nothing better than Wisdom,’ said the Soul.

‘Love is better,’ answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the
deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.

* * * * *

And after the second year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of
the sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep
and said, ‘Why dost thou call to me?’

And the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I
have seen marvellous things.’

So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head
upon his hand and listened.

And the Soul said to him, ‘When I left thee, I turned my face to the
South and journeyed. From the South cometh everything that is precious.
Six days I journeyed along the highways that lead to the city of Ashter,
along the dusty red-dyed highways by which the pilgrims are wont to go
did I journey, and on the morning of the seventh day I lifted up my eyes,
and lo! the city lay at my feet, for it is in a valley.

‘There are nine gates to this city, and in front of each gate stands a
bronze horse that neighs when the Bedouins come down from the mountains.
The walls are cased with copper, and the watch-towers on the walls are
roofed with brass. In every tower stands an archer with a bow in his
hand. At sunrise he strikes with an arrow on a gong, and at sunset he
blows through a horn of horn.

‘When I sought to enter, the guards stopped me and asked of me who I was.
I made answer that I was a Dervish and on my way to the city of Mecca,
where there was a green veil on which the Koran was embroidered in silver
letters by the hands of the angels. They were filled with wonder, and
entreated me to pass in.

‘Inside it is even as a bazaar. Surely thou shouldst have been with me.
Across the narrow streets the gay lanterns of paper flutter like large
butterflies. When the wind blows over the roofs they rise and fall as
painted bubbles do. In front of their booths sit the merchants on silken
carpets. They have straight black beards, and their turbans are covered
with golden sequins, and long strings of amber and carved peach-stones
glide through their cool fingers. Some of them sell galbanum and nard,
and curious perfumes from the islands of the Indian Sea, and the thick
oil of red roses, and myrrh and little nail-shaped cloves. When one
stops to speak to them, they throw pinches of frankincense upon a
charcoal brazier and make the air sweet. I saw a Syrian who held in his
hands a thin rod like a reed. Grey threads of smoke came from it, and
its odour as it burned was as the odour of the pink almond in spring.
Others sell silver bracelets embossed all over with creamy blue turquoise
stones, and anklets of brass wire fringed with little pearls, and tigers’
claws set in gold, and the claws of that gilt cat, the leopard, set in
gold also, and earrings of pierced emerald, and finger-rings of hollowed
jade. From the tea-houses comes the sound of the guitar, and the
opium-smokers with their white smiling faces look out at the passers-by.

‘Of a truth thou shouldst have been with me. The wine-sellers elbow
their way through the crowd with great black skins on their shoulders.
Most of them sell the wine of Schiraz, which is as sweet as honey. They
serve it in little metal cups and strew rose leaves upon it. In the
market-place stand the fruitsellers, who sell all kinds of fruit: ripe
figs, with their bruised purple flesh, melons, smelling of musk and
yellow as topazes, citrons and rose-apples and clusters of white grapes,
round red-gold oranges, and oval lemons of green gold. Once I saw an
elephant go by. Its trunk was painted with vermilion and turmeric, and
over its ears it had a net of crimson silk cord. It stopped opposite one
of the booths and began eating the oranges, and the man only laughed.
Thou canst not think how strange a people they are. When they are glad
they go to the bird-sellers and buy of them a caged bird, and set it free
that their joy may be greater, and when they are sad they scourge
themselves with thorns that their sorrow may not grow less.

‘One evening I met some negroes carrying a heavy palanquin through the
bazaar. It was made of gilded bamboo, and the poles were of vermilion
lacquer studded with brass peacocks. Across the windows hung thin
curtains of muslin embroidered with beetles’ wings and with tiny
seed-pearls, and as it passed by a pale-faced Circassian looked out and
smiled at me. I followed behind, and the negroes hurried their steps and
scowled. But I did not care. I felt a great curiosity come over me.

‘At last they stopped at a square white house. There were no windows to
it, only a little door like the door of a tomb. They set down the
palanquin and knocked three times with a copper hammer. An Armenian in a
caftan of green leather peered through the wicket, and when he saw them
he opened, and spread a carpet on the ground, and the woman stepped out.
As she went in, she turned round and smiled at me again. I had never
seen any one so pale.

‘When the moon rose I returned to the same place and sought for the
house, but it was no longer there. When I saw that, I knew who the woman
was, and wherefore she had smiled at me.

‘Certainly thou shouldst have been with me. On the feast of the New Moon
the young Emperor came forth from his palace and went into the mosque to
pray. His hair and beard were dyed with rose-leaves, and his cheeks were
powdered with a fine gold dust. The palms of his feet and hands were
yellow with saffron.

‘At sunrise he went forth from his palace in a robe of silver, and at
sunset he returned to it again in a robe of gold. The people flung
themselves on the ground and hid their faces, but I would not do so. I
stood by the stall of a seller of dates and waited. When the Emperor saw
me, he raised his painted eyebrows and stopped. I stood quite still, and
made him no obeisance. The people marvelled at my boldness, and
counselled me to flee from the city. I paid no heed to them, but went
and sat with the sellers of strange gods, who by reason of their craft
are abominated. When I told them what I had done, each of them gave me a
god and prayed me to leave them.

‘That night, as I lay on a cushion in the tea-house that is in the Street
of Pomegranates, the guards of the Emperor entered and led me to the
palace. As I went in they closed each door behind me, and put a chain
across it. Inside was a great court with an arcade running all round.
The walls were of white alabaster, set here and there with blue and green
tiles. The pillars were of green marble, and the pavement of a kind of
peach-blossom marble. I had never seen anything like it before.

‘As I passed across the court two veiled women looked down from a balcony
and cursed me. The guards hastened on, and the butts of the lances rang
upon the polished floor. They opened a gate of wrought ivory, and I
found myself in a watered garden of seven terraces. It was planted with
tulip-cups and moonflowers, and silver-studded aloes. Like a slim reed
of crystal a fountain hung in the dusky air. The cypress-trees were like
burnt-out torches. From one of them a nightingale was singing.

‘At the end of the garden stood a little pavilion. As we approached it
two eunuchs came out to meet us. Their fat bodies swayed as they walked,
and they glanced curiously at me with their yellow-lidded eyes. One of
them drew aside the captain of the guard, and in a low voice whispered to
him. The other kept munching scented pastilles, which he took with an
affected gesture out of an oval box of lilac enamel.

‘After a few moments the captain of the guard dismissed the soldiers.
They went back to the palace, the eunuchs following slowly behind and
plucking the sweet mulberries from the trees as they passed. Once the
elder of the two turned round, and smiled at me with an evil smile.

‘Then the captain of the guard motioned me towards the entrance of the
pavilion. I walked on without trembling, and drawing the heavy curtain
aside I entered in.

‘The young Emperor was stretched on a couch of dyed lion skins, and a
gerfalcon perched upon his wrist. Behind him stood a brass-turbaned
Nubian, naked down to the waist, and with heavy earrings in his split
ears. On a table by the side of the couch lay a mighty scimitar of
steel.

‘When the Emperor saw me he frowned, and said to me, “What is thy name?
Knowest thou not that I am Emperor of this city?” But I made him no
answer.

‘He pointed with his finger at the scimitar, and the Nubian seized it,
and rushing forward struck at me with great violence. The blade whizzed
through me, and did me no hurt. The man fell sprawling on the floor, and
when he rose up his teeth chattered with terror and he hid himself behind
the couch.

‘The Emperor leapt to his feet, and taking a lance from a stand of arms,
he threw it at me. I caught it in its flight, and brake the shaft into
two pieces. He shot at me with an arrow, but I held up my hands and it
stopped in mid-air. Then he drew a dagger from a belt of white leather,
and stabbed the Nubian in the throat lest the slave should tell of his
dishonour. The man writhed like a trampled snake, and a red foam bubbled
from his lips.

‘As soon as he was dead the Emperor turned to me, and when he had wiped
away the bright sweat from his brow with a little napkin of purfled and
purple silk, he said to me, “Art thou a prophet, that I may not harm
thee, or the son of a prophet, that I can do thee no hurt? I pray thee
leave my city to-night, for while thou art in it I am no longer its
lord.”

‘And I answered him, “I will go for half of thy treasure. Give me half
of thy treasure, and I will go away.”

‘He took me by the hand, and led me out into the garden. When the cap-
tain of the guard saw me, he wondered. When the eunuchs saw me, their
knees shook and they fell upon the ground in fear.

‘There is a chamber in the palace that has eight walls of red porphyry,
and a brass-sealed ceiling hung with lamps. The Emperor touched one of
the walls and it opened, and we passed down a corridor that was lit with
many torches. In niches upon each side stood great wine-jars filled to
the brim with silver pieces. When we reached the centre of the corridor
the Emperor spake the word that may not be spoken, and a granite door
swung back on a secret spring, and he put his hands before his face lest
his eyes should be dazzled.

‘Thou couldst not believe how marvellous a place it was. There were
huge tortoise-shells full of pearls, and hollowed moonstones of great
size piled up with red rubies. The gold was stored in coffers of
elephant-hide, and the gold-dust in leather bottles. There were opals
and sapphires, the former in cups of crystal, and the latter in cups of
jade. Round green emeralds were ranged in order upon thin plates of
ivory, and in one corner were silk bags filled, some with turquoise-
stones, and others with beryls. The ivory horns were heaped
with purple amethysts, and the horns of brass with chalcedonies and
sards. The pillars, which were of cedar, were hung with strings of
yellow lynx-stones. In the flat oval shields there were carbuncles, both
wine-coloured and coloured like grass. And yet I have told thee but a
tithe of what was there.

‘And when the Emperor had taken away his hands from before his face
he said to me: “This is my house of treasure, and half that is in it is
thine, even as I promised to thee. And I will give thee camels and camel
drivers, and they shall do thy bidding and take thy share of the treasure
to whatever part of the world thou desirest to go. And the thing shall
be done to-night, for I would not that the Sun, who is my father, should
see that there is in my city a man whom I cannot slay.”

‘But I answered him, “The gold that is here is thine, and the silver also
is thine, and thine are the precious jewels and the things of price. As
for me, I have no need of these. Nor shall I take aught from thee but
that little ring that thou wearest on the finger of thy hand.”

‘And the Emperor frowned. “It is but a ring of lead,” he cried, “nor has
it any value. Therefore take thy half of the treasure and go from my
city.”

‘“Nay,” I answered, “but I will take nought but that leaden ring, for I
know what is written within it, and for what purpose.”

‘And the Emperor trembled, and besought me and said, “Take all the
treasure and go from my city. The half that is mine shall be thine
also.”

‘And I did a strange thing, but what I did matters not, for in a cave
that is but a day’s journey from this place have, I hidden the Ring of
Riches. It is but a day’s journey from this place, and it waits for thy
coming. He who has this Ring is richer than all the kings of the world.
Come therefore and take it, and the world’s riches shall be thine.’

But the young Fisherman laughed. ‘Love is better than Riches,’ he cried,
‘and the little Mermaid loves me.’

‘Nay, but there is nothing better than Riches,’ said the Soul.

‘Love is better,’ answered the young Fisherman, and he plunged into the
deep, and the Soul went weeping away over the marshes.

* * * * *

And after the third year was over, the Soul came down to the shore of the
sea, and called to the young Fisherman, and he rose out of the deep and
said, ‘Why dost thou call to me?’

And the Soul answered, ‘Come nearer, that I may speak with thee, for I
have seen marvellous things.’

So he came nearer, and couched in the shallow water, and leaned his head
upon his hand and listened.

And the Soul said to him, ‘In a city that I know of there is an inn that
standeth by a river. I sat there with sailors who drank of two
different-coloured wines, and ate bread made of barley, and little salt
fish served in bay leaves with vinegar. And as we sat and made merry,
there entered to us an old man bearing a leathern carpet and a lute that
had two horns of amber. And when he had laid out the carpet on the
floor, he struck with a quill on the wire strings of his lute, and a girl
whose face was veiled ran in and began to dance before us. Her face was
veiled with a veil of gauze, but her feet were naked. Naked were her
feet, and they moved over the carpet like little white pigeons. Never
have I seen anything so marvellous; and the city in which she dances is
but a day’s journey from this place.’

Now when the young Fisherman heard the words of his Soul, he remembered
that the little Mermaid had no feet and could not dance. And a great
desire came over him, and he said to himself, ‘It is but a day’s journey,
and I can return to my love,’ and he laughed, and stood up in the shallow
water, and strode towards the shore.

And when he had reached the dry shore he laughed again, and held out his
arms to his Soul. And his Soul gave a great cry of joy and ran to meet
him, and entered into him, and the young Fisherman saw stretched before
him upon the sand that shadow of the body that is the body of the Soul.

And his Soul said to him, ‘Let us not tarry, but get hence at once, for
the Sea-gods are jealous, and have monsters that do their bidding.’

* * * * *

So they made haste, and all that night they journeyed beneath the moon,
and all the next day they journeyed beneath the sun, and on the evening
of the day they came to a city.

And the young Fisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she
dances of whom thou didst speak to me?’

And his Soul answered him, ‘It is not this city, but another. Nevertheless
let us enter in.’ So they entered in and passed through the streets, and
as they passed through the Street of the Jewellers the young Fisherman
saw a fair silver cup set forth in a booth. And his Soul said to him, ‘Take
that silver cup and hide it.’

So he took the cup and hid it in the fold of his tunic, and they went
hurriedly out of the city.

And after that they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman
frowned, and flung the cup away, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou
tell me to take this cup and hide it, for it was an evil thing to do?’

But his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’

And on the evening of the second day they came to a city, and the young
Fisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she dances of whom
thou didst speak to me?’

And his Soul answered him, ‘It is not this city, but another. Neverthe-
less let us enter in.’ So they entered in and passed through the streets,
and as they passed through the Street of the Sellers of Sandals, the
young Fisherman saw a child standing by a jar of water. And his Soul
said to him, ‘Smite that child.’ So he smote the child till it wept, and
when he had done this they went hurriedly out of the city.

And after that they had gone a league from the city the young Fisherman
grew wroth, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou tell me to smite the
child, for it was an evil thing to do?’

But his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’

And on the evening of the third day they came to a city, and the young
Fisherman said to his Soul, ‘Is this the city in which she dances of whom
thou didst speak to me?’

And his Soul answered him, ‘It may be that it is in this city, therefore
let us enter in.’

So they entered in and passed through the streets, but nowhere could the
young Fisherman find the river or the inn that stood by its side. And
the people of the city looked curiously at him, and he grew afraid and
said to his Soul, ‘Let us go hence, for she who dances with white feet is
not here.’

But his Soul answered, ‘Nay, but let us tarry, for the night is dark and
there will be robbers on the way.’

So he sat him down in the market-place and rested, and after a time there
went by a hooded merchant who had a cloak of cloth of Tartary, and bare a
lantern of pierced horn at the end of a jointed reed. And the merchant
said to him, ‘Why dost thou sit in the market-place, seeing that the
booths are closed and the bales corded?’

And the young Fisherman answered him, ‘I can find no inn in this city,
nor have I any kinsman who might give me shelter.’

‘Are we not all kinsmen?’ said the merchant. ‘And did not one God make
us? Therefore come with me, for I have a guest-chamber.’

So the young Fisherman rose up and followed the merchant to his house.
And when he had passed through a garden of pomegranates and entered into
the house, the merchant brought him rose-water in a copper dish that he
might wash his hands, and ripe melons that he might quench his thirst,
and set a bowl of rice and a piece of roasted kid before him.

And after that he had finished, the merchant led him to the guest-chamber,
and bade him sleep and be at rest. And the young Fisherman gave him
thanks, and kissed the ring that was on his hand, and flung himself down
on the carpets of dyed goat’s-hair. And when he had covered himself
with a covering of black lamb’s-wool he fell asleep.

And three hours before dawn, and while it was still night, his Soul waked
him and said to him, ‘Rise up and go to the room of the merchant, even to
the room in which he sleepeth, and slay him, and take from him his gold,
for we have need of it.’

And the young Fisherman rose up and crept towards the room of the
merchant, and over the feet of the merchant there was lying a curved
sword, and the tray by the side of the merchant held nine purses of gold.
And he reached out his hand and touched the sword, and when he touched it
the merchant started and awoke, and leaping up seized himself the sword
and cried to the young Fisherman, ‘Dost thou return evil for good, and
pay with the shedding of blood for the kindness that I have shown thee?’

And his Soul said to the young Fisherman, ‘Strike him,’ and he struck him
so that he swooned and he seized then the nine purses of gold, and fled
hastily through the garden of pomegranates, and set his face to the star
that is the star of morning.

And when they had gone a league from the city, the young Fisherman beat
his breast, and said to his Soul, ‘Why didst thou bid me slay the merchant
and take his gold? Surely thou art evil.’

But his Soul answered him, ‘Be at peace, be at peace.’

‘Nay,’ cried the young Fisherman, ‘I may not be at peace, for all that
thou hast made me to do I hate. Thee also I hate, and I bid thee tell me
wherefore thou hast wrought with me in this wise.’

And his Soul answered him, ‘When thou didst send me forth into the world
thou gavest me no heart, so I learned to do all these things and love
them.’

‘What sayest thou?’ murmured the young Fisherman.

‘Thou knowest,’ answered his Soul, ‘thou knowest it well. Hast thou
forgotten that thou gavest me no heart? I trow not. And so trouble not
thyself nor me, but be at peace, for there is no pain that thou shalt not
give away, nor any pleasure that thou shalt not receive.’

And when the young Fisherman heard these words he trembled and said to
his Soul, ‘Nay, but thou art evil, and hast made me forget my love, and
hast tempted me with temptations, and hast set my feet in the ways of
sin.’

And his Soul answered him, ‘Thou hast not forgotten that when thou didst
send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart. Come, let us go to
another city, and make merry, for we have nine purses of gold.’

But the young Fisherman took the nine purses of gold, and flung them
down, and trampled on them.

‘Nay,’ he cried, ‘but I will have nought to do with thee, nor will I
journey with thee anywhere, but even as I sent thee away before, so will
I send thee away now, for thou hast wrought me no good.’ And he turned
his back to the moon, and with the little knife that had the handle of
green viper’s skin he strove to cut from his feet that shadow of the body
which is the body of the Soul.

Yet his Soul stirred not from him, nor paid heed to his command, but said
to him, ‘The spell that the Witch told thee avails thee no more, for I
may not leave thee, nor mayest thou drive me forth. Once in his life may
a man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth back his Soul must keep it
with him for ever, and this is his punishment and his reward.’

And the young Fisherman grew pale and clenched his hands and cried, ‘She
was a false Witch in that she told me not that.’

‘Nay,’ answered his Soul, ‘but she was true to Him she worships, and
whose servant she will be ever.’

And when the young Fisherman knew that he could no longer get rid of his
Soul, and that it was an evil Soul and would abide with him always, he
fell upon the ground weeping bitterly.

* * * * *

And when it was day the young Fisherman rose up and said to his Soul, ‘I
will bind my hands that I may not do thy bidding, and close my lips that
I may not speak thy words, and I will return to the place where she whom
I love has her dwelling. Even to the sea will I return, and to the
little bay where she is wont to sing, and I will call to her and tell her
the evil I have done and the evil thou hast wrought on me.’

And his Soul tempted him and said, ‘Who is thy love, that thou shouldst
return to her? The world has many fairer than she is. There are the
dancing-girls of Samaris who dance in the manner of all kinds of birds
and beasts. Their feet are painted with henna, and in their hands they
have little copper bells. They laugh while they dance, and their
laughter is as clear as the laughter of water. Come with me and I will
show them to thee. For what is this trouble of thine about the things of
sin? Is that which is pleasant to eat not made for the eater? Is there
poison in that which is sweet to drink? Trouble not thyself, but come
with me to another city. There is a little city hard by in which there
is a garden of tulip-trees. And there dwell in this comely garden white
peacocks and peacocks that have blue breasts. Their tails when they
spread them to the sun are like disks of ivory and like gilt disks. And
she who feeds them dances for their pleasure, and sometimes she dances
on her hands and at other times she dances with her feet. Her eyes are
coloured with stibium, and her nostrils are shaped like the wings of a
swallow. From a hook in one of her nostrils hangs a flower that is
carved out of a pearl. She laughs while she dances, and the silver rings
that are about her ankles tinkle like bells of silver. And so trouble
not thyself any more, but come with me to this city.’

But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but closed his lips with
the seal of silence and with a tight cord bound his hands, and journeyed
back to the place from which he had come, even to the little bay where
his love had been wont to sing. And ever did his Soul tempt him by the
way, but he made it no answer, nor would he do any of the wickedness that
it sought to make him to do, so great was the power of the love that was
within him.

And when he had reached the shore of the sea, he loosed the cord from
his hands, and took the seal of silence from his lips, and called to the
little Mermaid. But she came not to his call, though he called to her
all day long and besought her.

And his Soul mocked him and said, ‘Surely thou hast but little joy out of
thy love. Thou art as one who in time of death pours water into a broken
vessel. Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought is given to thee in
return. It were better for thee to come with me, for I know where the
Valley of Pleasure lies, and what things are wrought there.’

But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but in a cleft of the rock
he built himself a house of wattles, and abode there for the space of a
year. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he
called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did
she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he
find her though he sought for her in the caves and in the green water, in
the pools of the tide and in the wells that are at the bottom of the
deep.

And ever did his Soul tempt him with evil, and whisper of terrible
things. Yet did it not prevail against him, so great was the power of
his love.

And after the year was over, the Soul thought within himself, ‘I have
tempted my master with evil, and his love is stronger than I am. I will
tempt him now with good, and it may be that he will come with me.’

So he spake to the young Fisherman and said, ‘I have told thee of the joy
of the world, and thou hast turned a deaf ear to me. Suffer me now to
tell thee of the world’s pain, and it may be that thou wilt hearken. For
of a truth pain is the Lord of this world, nor is there any one who
escapes from its net. There be some who lack raiment, and others who
lack bread. There be widows who sit in purple, and widows who sit in
rags. To and fro over the fens go the lepers, and they are cruel to each
other. The beggars go up and down on the highways, and their wallets are
empty. Through the streets of the cities walks Famine, and the Plague
sits at their gates. Come, let us go forth and mend these things, and
make them not to be. Wherefore shouldst thou tarry here calling to thy
love, seeing she comes not to thy call? And what is love, that thou
shouldst set this high store upon it?’

But the young Fisherman answered it nought, so great was the power of
his love. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every noon he
called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name. Yet never did
she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place of the sea could he
find her, though he sought for her in the rivers of the sea, and in the
valleys that are under the waves, in the sea that the night makes purple,
and in the sea that the dawn leaves grey.

And after the second year was over, the Soul said to the young Fisherman
at night-time, and as he sat in the wattled house alone, ‘Lo! now I have
tempted thee with evil, and I have tempted thee with good, and thy love
is stronger than I am. Wherefore will I tempt thee no longer, but I pray
thee to suffer me to enter thy heart, that I may be one with thee even as
before.’

‘Surely thou mayest enter,’ said the young Fisherman, ‘for in the days
when with no heart thou didst go through the world thou must have much
suffered.’

‘Alas!’ cried his Soul, ‘I can find no place of entrance, so compassed
about with love is this heart of thine.’

‘Yet I would that I could help thee,’ said the young Fisherman.

And as he spake there came a great cry of mourning from the sea, even
the cry that men hear when one of the Sea-folk is dead. And the young
Fisherman leapt up, and left his wattled house, and ran down to the
shore. And the black waves came hurrying to the shore, bearing with them
a burden that was whiter than silver. White as the surf it was, and like
a flower it tossed on the waves. And the surf took it from the waves,
and the foam took it from the surf, and the shore received it, and lying
at his feet the young Fisherman saw the body of the little Mermaid. Dead
at his feet it was lying.

Weeping as one smitten with pain he flung himself down beside it, and he
kissed the cold red of the mouth, and toyed with the wet amber of the
hair. He flung himself down beside it on the sand, weeping as one
trembling with joy, and in his brown arms he held it to his breast. Cold
were the lips, yet he kissed them. Salt was the honey of the hair, yet
he tasted it with a bitter joy. He kissed the closed eyelids, and the
wild spray that lay upon their cups was less salt than his tears.

And to the dead thing he made confession. Into the shells of its ears
he poured the harsh wine of his tale. He put the little hands round his
neck, and with his fingers he touched the thin reed of the throat.
Bitter, bitter was his joy, and full of strange gladness was his pain.

The black sea came nearer, and the white foam moaned like a leper. With
white claws of foam the sea grabbled at the shore. From the palace of
the Sea-King came the cry of mourning again, and far out upon the sea
the great Tritons blew hoarsely upon their horns.

‘Flee away,’ said his Soul, ‘for ever doth the sea come nigher, and if
thou tarriest it will slay thee. Flee away, for I am afraid, seeing that
thy heart is closed against me by reason of the greatness of thy love.
Flee away to a place of safety. Surely thou wilt not send me without a
heart into another world?’

But the young Fisherman listened not to his Soul, but called on the
little Mermaid and said, ‘Love is better than wisdom, and more precious
than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of men. The fires
cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it. I called on thee at
dawn, and thou didst not come to my call. The moon heard thy name, yet
hadst thou no heed of me. For evilly had I left thee, and to my own hurt
had I wandered away. Yet ever did thy love abide with me, and ever was
it strong, nor did aught prevail against it, though I have looked upon
evil and looked upon good. And now that thou art dead, surely I will die
with thee also.’

And his Soul besought him to depart, but he would not, so great was his
love. And the sea came nearer, and sought to cover him with its waves,
and when he knew that the end was at hand he kissed with mad lips the
cold lips of the Mermaid, and the heart that was within him brake. And
as through the fulness of his love his heart did break, the Soul found an
entrance and entered in, and was one with him even as before. And the
sea covered the young Fisherman with its waves.

* * * * *

And in the morning the Priest went forth to bless the sea, for it had
been troubled. And with him went the monks and the musicians, and the
candle-bearers, and the swingers of censers, and a great company.

And when the Priest reached the shore he saw the young Fisherman lying
drowned in the surf, and clasped in his arms was the body of the little
Mermaid. And he drew back frowning, and having made the sign of the
cross, he cried aloud and said, ‘I will not bless the sea nor anything
that is in it. Accursed be the Sea-folk, and accursed be all they who
traffic with them. And as for him who for love’s sake forsook God, and
so lieth here with his leman slain by God’s judgment, take up his body
and the body of his leman, and bury them in the corner of the Field of
the Fullers, and set no mark above them, nor sign of any kind, that none
may know the place of their resting. For accursed were they in their
lives, and accursed shall they be in their deaths also.’

And the people did as he commanded them, and in the corner of the Field
of the Fullers, where no sweet herbs grew, they dug a deep pit, and laid
the dead things within it.

And when the third year was over, and on a day that was a holy day, the
Priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people the wounds
of the Lord, and speak to them about the wrath of God.

And when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and bowed
himself before the altar, he saw that the altar was covered with strange
flowers that never had been seen before. Strange were they to look at,
and of curious beauty, and their beauty troubled him, and their odour was
sweet in his nostrils. And he felt glad, and understood not why he was
glad.

And after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the monstrance
that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people, and hid it again
behind the veil of veils, he began to speak to the people, desiring to
speak to them of the wrath of God. But the beauty of the white flowers
troubled him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils, and there came
another word into his lips, and he spake not of the wrath of God, but of
the God whose name is Love. And why he so spake, he knew not.

And when he had finished his word the people wept, and the Priest went
back to the sacristy, and his eyes were full of tears. And the deacons
came in and began to unrobe him, and took from him the alb and the
girdle, the maniple and the stole. And he stood as one in a dream.

And after that they had unrobed him, he looked at them and said, ‘What
are the flowers that stand on the altar, and whence do they come?’

And they answered him, ‘What flowers they are we cannot tell, but they
come from the corner of the Fullers’ Field.’ And the Priest trembled,
and returned to his own house and prayed.

And in the morning, while it was still dawn, he went forth with the monks
and the musicians, and the candle-bearers and the swingers of censers,
and a great company, and came to the shore of the sea, and blessed the
sea, and all the wild things that are in it. The Fauns also he blessed,
and the little things that dance in the woodland, and the bright-eyed
things that peer through the leaves. All the things in God’s world he
blessed, and the people were filled with joy and wonder. Yet never again
in the corner of the Fullers’ Field grew flowers of any kind, but the
field remained barren even as before. Nor came the Sea-folk into the bay
as they had been wont to do, for they went to another part of the sea.




THE STAR-CHILD


TO
MISS MARGOT TENNANT
[MRS. ASQUITH]



ONCE upon a time two poor Woodcutters were making their way home
through a great pine-forest. It was winter, and a night of bitter cold. The
snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of the trees: the
frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side of them, as they
passed: and when they came to the Mountain-Torrent she was hanging
motionless in air, for the Ice-King had kissed her.

So cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know what to
make of it.

‘Ugh!’ snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with his tail
between his legs, ‘this is perfectly monstrous weather. Why doesn’t the
Government look to it?’

‘Weet! weet! weet!’ twittered the green Linnets, ‘the old Earth is dead
and they have laid her out in her white shroud.’

‘The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress,’
whispered the Turtle-doves to each other. Their little pink feet were
quite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to take a
romantic view of the situation.

‘Nonsense!’ growled the Wolf. ‘I tell you that it is all the fault of
the Government, and if you don’t believe me I shall eat you.’ The Wolf
had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss for a good
argument.

‘Well, for my own part,’ said the Woodpecker, who was a born philosopher,
‘I don’t care an atomic theory for explanations. If a thing is so, it is
so, and at present it is terribly cold.’

Terribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived inside
the tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other’s noses to keep themselves
warm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their holes, and did not
venture even to look out of doors. The only people who seemed to enjoy
it were the great horned Owls. Their feathers were quite stiff with
rime, but they did not mind, and they rolled their large yellow eyes, and
called out to each other across the forest, ‘Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! Tu-whit!
Tu-whoo! what delightful weather we are having!’

On and on went the two Woodcutters, blowing lustily upon their fingers,
and stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the caked snow. Once
they sank into a deep drift, and came out as white as millers are, when
the stones are grinding; and once they slipped on the hard smooth ice
where the marsh-water was frozen, and their faggots fell out of their
bundles, and they had to pick them up and bind them together again; and
once they thought that they had lost their way, and a great terror seized
on them, for they knew that the Snow is cruel to those who sleep in her
arms. But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches
over all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at
last they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in the
valley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they dwelt.

So overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed aloud, and
the Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and the Moon like a
flower of gold.

Yet, after that they had laughed they became sad, for they remembered
their poverty, and one of them said to the other, ‘Why did we make merry,
seeing that life is for the rich, and not for such as we are? Better
that we had died of cold in the forest, or that some wild beast had
fallen upon us and slain us.’

‘Truly,’ answered his companion, ‘much is given to some, and little is
given to others. Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is there
equal division of aught save of sorrow.’

But as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange thing
happened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful star. It
slipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other stars in its
course, and, as they watched it wondering, it seemed to them to sink
behind a clump of willow-trees that stood hard by a little sheepfold no
more than a stone’s-throw away.

‘Why! there is a crook of gold for whoever finds it,’ they cried, and
they set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold.

And one of them ran faster than his mate, and outstripped him, and forced
his way through the willows, and came out on the other side, and lo!
there was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow. So he hastened
towards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon it, and it was a
cloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with stars, and wrapped in many
folds. And he cried out to his comrade that he had found the treasure
that had fallen from the sky, and when his comrade had come up, they sat
them down in the snow, and loosened the folds of the cloak that they
might divide the pieces of gold. But, alas! no gold was in it, nor
silver, nor, indeed, treasure of any kind, but only a little child who
was asleep.

And one of them said to the other: ‘This is a bitter ending to our hope,
nor have we any good fortune, for what doth a child profit to a man? Let
us leave it here, and go our way, seeing that we are poor men, and have
children of our own whose bread we may not give to another.’

But his companion answered him: ‘Nay, but it were an evil thing to leave
the child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor as thou
art, and have many mouths to feed, and but little in the pot, yet will I
bring it home with me, and my wife shall have care of it.’

So very tenderly he took up the child, and wrapped the cloak around it to
shield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill to the
village, his comrade marvelling much at his foolishness and softness of
heart.

And when they came to the village, his comrade said to him, ‘Thou hast
the child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meet that we should
share.’

But he answered him: ‘Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor thine, but
the child’s only,’ and he bade him Godspeed, and went to his own house
and knocked.

And when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had returned
safe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, and took
from his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the snow off his boots,
and bade him come in.

But he said to her, ‘I have found something in the forest, and I have
brought it to thee to have care of it,’ and he stirred not from the
threshold.

‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘Show it to me, for the house is bare, and we
have need of many things.’ And he drew the cloak back, and showed her
the sleeping child.

‘Alack, goodman!’ she murmured, ‘have we not children of our own, that
thou must needs bring a changeling to sit by the hearth? And who knows
if it will not bring us bad fortune? And how shall we tend it?’ And she
was wroth against him.

‘Nay, but it is a Star-Child,’ he answered; and he told her the strange
manner of the finding of it.

But she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke angrily, and
cried: ‘Our children lack bread, and shall we feed the child of another?
Who is there who careth for us? And who giveth us food?’

‘Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them,’ he
answered.

‘Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?’ she asked. ‘And is it
not winter now?’

And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold.

And a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door, and made
her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: ‘Wilt thou not close the
door? There cometh a bitter wind into the house, and I am cold.’

‘Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a bitter
wind?’ he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but crept closer to
the fire.

And after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes were
full of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child in her arms,
and she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed where the youngest of
their own children was lying. And on the morrow the Woodcutter took the
curious cloak of gold and placed it in a great chest, and a chain of
amber that was round the child’s neck his wife took and set it in the
chest also.

* * * * *

So the Star-Child was brought up with the children of the Woodcutter, and
sat at the same board with them, and was their playmate. And every year
he became more beautiful to look at, so that all those who dwelt in the
village were filled with wonder, for, while they were swarthy and
black-haired, he was white and delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were
like the rings of the daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of
a red flower, and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water,
and his body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not.

Yet did his beauty work him evil. For he grew proud, and cruel, and
selfish. The children of the Woodcutter, and the other children of the
village, he despised, saying that they were of mean parentage, while he
was noble, being sprang from a Star, and he made himself master over
them, and called them his servants. No pity had he for the poor, or for
those who were blind or maimed or in any way afflicted, but would cast
stones at them and drive them forth on to the highway, and bid them beg
their bread elsewhere, so that none save the outlaws came twice to that
village to ask for alms. Indeed, he was as one enamoured of beauty, and
would mock at the weakly and ill-favoured, and make jest of them; and
himself he loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie
by the well in the priest’s orchard and look down at the marvel of his
own face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness.

Often did the Woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say: ‘We did not
deal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left desolate, and have
none to succour them. Wherefore art thou so cruel to all who need pity?’

Often did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the love of
living things, saying to him: ‘The fly is thy brother. Do it no harm.
The wild birds that roam through the forest have their freedom. Snare
them not for thy pleasure. God made the blind-worm and the mole, and
each has its place. Who art thou to bring pain into God’s world? Even
the cattle of the field praise Him.’

But the Star-Child heeded not their words, but would frown and flout, and
go back to his companions, and lead them. And his companions followed
him, for he was fair, and fleet of foot, and could dance, and pipe, and
make music. And wherever the Star-Child led them they followed, and
whatever the Star-Child bade them do, that did they. And when he pierced
with a sharp reed the dim eyes of the mole, they laughed, and when he
cast stones at the leper they laughed also. And in all things he ruled
them, and they became hard of heart even as he was.

* * * * *

Now there passed one day through the village a poor beggar-woman. Her
garments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from the rough
road on which she had travelled, and she was in very evil plight. And
being weary she sat her down under a chestnut-tree to rest.

But when the Star-Child saw her, he said to his companions, ‘See! There
sitteth a foul beggar-woman under that fair and green-leaved tree. Come,
let us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-favoured.’

So he came near and threw stones at her, and mocked her, and she looked
at him with terror in her eyes, nor did she move her gaze from him. And
when the Woodcutter, who was cleaving logs in a haggard hard by, saw what
the Star-Child was doing, he ran up and rebuked him, and said to him:
‘Surely thou art hard of heart and knowest not mercy, for what evil has
this poor woman done to thee that thou shouldst treat her in this wise?’

And the Star-Child grew red with anger, and stamped his foot upon the
ground, and said, ‘Who art thou to question me what I do? I am no son of
thine to do thy bidding.’

‘Thou speakest truly,’ answered the Woodcutter, ‘yet did I show thee pity
when I found thee in the forest.’

And when the woman heard these words she gave a loud cry, and fell into a
swoon. And the Woodcutter carried her to his own house, and his wife had
care of her, and when she rose up from the swoon into which she had
fallen, they set meat and drink before her, and bade her have comfort.

But she would neither eat nor drink, but said to the Woodcutter, ‘Didst
thou not say that the child was found in the forest? And was it not ten
years from this day?’

And the Woodcutter answered, ‘Yea, it was in the forest that I found him,
and it is ten years from this day.’

‘And what signs didst thou find with him?’ she cried. ‘Bare he not upon
his neck a chain of amber? Was not round him a cloak of gold tissue
broidered with stars?’

‘Truly,’ answered the Woodcutter, ‘it was even as thou sayest.’ And he
took the cloak and the amber chain from the chest where they lay, and
showed them to her.

And when she saw them she wept for joy, and said, ‘He is my little son
whom I lost in the forest. I pray thee send for him quickly, for in
search of him have I wandered over the whole world.’

So the Woodcutter and his wife went out and called to the Star-Child, and
said to him, ‘Go into the house, and there shalt thou find thy mother,
who is waiting for thee.’

So he ran in, filled with wonder and great gladness. But when he saw her
who was waiting there, he laughed scornfully and said, ‘Why, where is my
mother? For I see none here but this vile beggar-woman.’

And the woman answered him, ‘I am thy mother.’

‘Thou art mad to say so,’ cried the Star-Child angrily. ‘I am no son of
thine, for thou art a beggar, and ugly, and in rags. Therefore get thee
hence, and let me see thy foul face no more.’

‘Nay, but thou art indeed my little son, whom I bare in the forest,’ she
cried, and she fell on her knees, and held out her arms to him. ‘The
robbers stole thee from me, and left thee to die,’ she murmured, ‘but I
recognised thee when I saw thee, and the signs also have I recognised,
the cloak of golden tissue and the amber chain. Therefore I pray thee
come with me, for over the whole world have I wandered in search of thee.
Come with me, my son, for I have need of thy love.’

But the Star-Child stirred not from his place, but shut the doors of his
heart against her, nor was there any sound heard save the sound of the
woman weeping for pain.

And at last he spoke to her, and his voice was hard and bitter. ‘If in
very truth thou art my mother,’ he said, ‘it had been better hadst thou
stayed away, and not come here to bring me to shame, seeing that I
thought I was the child of some Star, and not a beggar’s child, as thou
tellest me that I am. Therefore get thee hence, and let me see thee no
more.’

‘Alas! my son,’ she cried, ‘wilt thou not kiss me before I go? For I
have suffered much to find thee.’

‘Nay,’ said the Star-Child, ‘but thou art too foul to look at, and rather
would I kiss the adder or the toad than thee.’

So the woman rose up, and went away into the forest weeping bitterly, and
when the Star-Child saw that she had gone, he was glad, and ran back to
his playmates that he might play with them.

But when they beheld him coming, they mocked him and said, ‘Why, thou art
as foul as the toad, and as loathsome as the adder. Get thee hence, for
we will not suffer thee to play with us,’ and they drave him out of the
garden.

And the Star-Child frowned and said to himself, ‘What is this that they
say to me? I will go to the well of water and look into it, and it shall
tell me of my beauty.’

So he went to the well of water and looked into it, and lo! his face was
as the face of a toad, and his body was sealed like an adder. And he
flung himself down on the grass and wept, and said to himself, ‘Surely
this has come upon me by reason of my sin. For I have denied my mother,
and driven her away, and been proud, and cruel to her. Wherefore I will
go and seek her through the whole world, nor will I rest till I have
found her.’

And there came to him the little daughter of the Woodcutter, and she put
her hand upon his shoulder and said, ‘What doth it matter if thou hast
lost thy comeliness? Stay with us, and I will not mock at thee.’

And he said to her, ‘Nay, but I have been cruel to my mother, and as a
punishment has this evil been sent to me. Wherefore I must go hence,
and wander through the world till I find her, and she give me her
forgiveness.’

So he ran away into the forest and called out to his mother to come to
him, but there was no answer. All day long he called to her, and, when
the sun set he lay down to sleep on a bed of leaves, and the birds and
the animals fled from him, for they remembered his cruelty, and he was
alone save for the toad that watched him, and the slow adder that crawled
past.

And in the morning he rose up, and plucked some bitter berries from the
trees and ate them, and took his way through the great wood, weeping
sorely. And of everything that he met he made inquiry if perchance they
had seen his mother.

He said to the Mole, ‘Thou canst go beneath the earth. Tell me, is my
mother there?’

And the Mole answered, ‘Thou hast blinded mine eyes. How should I know?’

He said to the Linnet, ‘Thou canst fly over the tops of the tall trees,
and canst see the whole world. Tell me, canst thou see my mother?’

And the Linnet answered, ‘Thou hast clipt my wings for thy pleasure. How
should I fly?’

And to the little Squirrel who lived in the fir-tree, and was lonely, he
said, ‘Where is my mother?’

And the Squirrel answered, ‘Thou hast slain mine. Dost thou seek to slay
thine also?’

And the Star-Child wept and bowed his head, and prayed forgiveness of
God’s things, and went on through the forest, seeking for the
beggar-woman. And on the third day he came to the other side of the
forest and went down into the plain.

And when he passed through the villages the children mocked him, and
threw stones at him, and the carlots would not suffer him even to sleep
in the byres lest he might bring mildew on the stored corn, so foul was
he to look at, and their hired men drave him away, and there was none who
had pity on him. Nor could he hear anywhere of the beggar-woman who was
his mother, though for the space of three years he wandered over the
world, and often seemed to see her on the road in front of him, and would
call to her, and run after her till the sharp flints made his feet to
bleed. But overtake her he could not, and those who dwelt by the way did
ever deny that they had seen her, or any like to her, and they made sport
of his sorrow.

For the space of three years he wandered over the world, and in the world
there was neither love nor loving-kindness nor charity for him, but it
was even such a world as he had made for himself in the days of his great
pride.

* * * * *

And one evening he came to the gate of a strong-walled city that stood by
a river, and, weary and footsore though he was, he made to enter in. But
the soldiers who stood on guard dropped their halberts across the
entrance, and said roughly to him, ‘What is thy business in the city?’

‘I am seeking for my mother,’ he answered, ‘and I pray ye to suffer me to
pass, for it may be that she is in this city.’

But they mocked at him, and one of them wagged a black beard, and set
down his shield and cried, ‘Of a truth, thy mother will not be merry when
she sees thee, for thou art more ill-favoured than the toad of the marsh,
or the adder that crawls in the fen. Get thee gone. Get thee gone. Thy
mother dwells not in this city.’

And another, who held a yellow banner in his hand, said to him, ‘Who is
thy mother, and wherefore art thou seeking for her?’

And he answered, ‘My mother is a beggar even as I am, and I have treated
her evilly, and I pray ye to suffer me to pass that she may give me her
forgiveness, if it be that she tarrieth in this city.’ But they would
not, and pricked him with their spears.

And, as he turned away weeping, one whose armour was inlaid with gilt
flowers, and on whose helmet couched a lion that had wings, came up and
made inquiry of the soldiers who it was who had sought entrance. And
they said to him, ‘It is a beggar and the child of a beggar, and we have
driven him away.’

‘Nay,’ he cried, laughing, ‘but we will sell the foul thing for a slave,
and his price shall be the price of a bowl of sweet wine.’

And an old and evil-visaged man who was passing by called out, and said,
‘I will buy him for that price,’ and, when he had paid the price, he took
the Star-Child by the hand and led him into the city.

And after that they had gone through many streets they came to a little
door that was set in a wall that was covered with a pomegranate tree.
And the old man touched the door with a ring of graved jasper and it
opened, and they went down five steps of brass into a garden filled with
black poppies and green jars of burnt clay. And the old man took then
from his turban a scarf of figured silk, and bound with it the eyes of
the Star-Child, and drave him in front of him. And when the scarf was
taken off his eyes, the Star-Child found himself in a dungeon, that was
lit by a lantern of horn.

And the old man set before him some mouldy bread on a trencher and said,
‘Eat,’ and some brackish water in a cup and said, ‘Drink,’ and when he
had eaten and drunk, the old man went out, locking the door behind him
and fastening it with an iron chain.

* * * * *

And on the morrow the old man, who was indeed the subtlest of the
magicians of Libya and had learned his art from one who dwelt in the
tombs of the Nile, came in to him and frowned at him, and said, ‘In a
wood that is nigh to the gate of this city of Giaours there are three
pieces of gold. One is of white gold, and another is of yellow gold, and
the gold of the third one is red. To-day thou shalt bring me the piece
of white gold, and if thou bringest it not back, I will beat thee with a
hundred stripes. Get thee away quickly, and at sunset I will be waiting
for thee at the door of the garden. See that thou bringest the white
gold, or it shall go ill with thee, for thou art my slave, and I have
bought thee for the price of a bowl of sweet wine.’ And he bound the
eyes of the Star-Child with the scarf of figured silk, and led him
through the house, and through the garden of poppies, and up the five
steps of brass. And having opened the little door with his ring he set
him in the street.

* * * * *

And the Star-Child went out of the gate of the city, and came to the wood
of which the Magician had spoken to him.

Now this wood was very fair to look at from without, and seemed full of
singing birds and of sweet-scented flowers, and the Star-Child entered it
gladly. Yet did its beauty profit him little, for wherever he went harsh
briars and thorns shot up from the ground and encompassed him, and evil
nettles stung him, and the thistle pierced him with her daggers, so that
he was in sore distress. Nor could he anywhere find the piece of white
gold of which the Magician had spoken, though he sought for it from morn
to noon, and from noon to sunset. And at sunset he set his face towards
home, weeping bitterly, for he knew what fate was in store for him.

But when he had reached the outskirts of the wood, he heard from a
thicket a cry as of some one in pain. And forgetting his own sorrow he
ran back to the place, and saw there a little Hare caught in a trap that
some hunter had set for it.

And the Star-Child had pity on it, and released it, and said to it, ‘I am
myself but a slave, yet may I give thee thy freedom.’

And the Hare answered him, and said: ‘Surely thou hast given me freedom,
and what shall I give thee in return?’

And the Star-Child said to it, ‘I am seeking for a piece of white gold,
nor can I anywhere find it, and if I bring it not to my master he will
beat me.’

‘Come thou with me,’ said the Hare, ‘and I will lead thee to it, for I
know where it is hidden, and for what purpose.’

So the Star-Child went with the Hare, and lo! in the cleft of a great
oak-tree he saw the piece of white gold that he was seeking. And he was
filled with joy, and seized it, and said to the Hare, ‘The service that I
did to thee thou hast rendered back again many times over, and the
kindness that I showed thee thou hast repaid a hundred-fold.’

‘Nay,’ answered the Hare, ‘but as thou dealt with me, so I did deal with
thee,’ and it ran away swiftly, and the Star-Child went towards the city.

Now at the gate of the city there was seated one who was a leper. Over
his face hung a cowl of grey linen, and through the eyelets his eyes
gleamed like red coals. And when he saw the Star-Child coming, he struck
upon a wooden bowl, and clattered his bell, and called out to him, and
said, ‘Give me a piece of money, or I must die of hunger. For they have
thrust me out of the city, and there is no one who has pity on me.’

‘Alas!’ cried the Star-Child, ‘I have but one piece of money in my
wallet, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me, for I am his
slave.’

But the leper entreated him, and prayed of him, till the Star-Child had
pity, and gave him the piece of white gold.

* * * * *

And when he came to the Magician’s house, the Magician opened to him, and
brought him in, and said to him, ‘Hast thou the piece of white gold?’
And the Star-Child answered, ‘I have it not.’ So the Magician fell upon
him, and beat him, and set before him an empty trencher, and said, ‘Eat,’
and an empty cup, and said, ‘Drink,’ and flung him again into the
dungeon.

And on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, ‘If to-day thou
bringest me not the piece of yellow gold, I will surely keep thee as my
slave, and give thee three hundred stripes.’

So the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the
piece of yellow gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at sunset he sat
him down and began to weep, and as he was weeping there came to him the
little Hare that he had rescued from the trap.

And the Hare said to him, ‘Why art thou weeping? And what dost thou seek
in the wood?’

And the Star-Child answered, ‘I am seeking for a piece of yellow gold
that is hidden here, and if I find it not my master will beat me, and
keep me as a slave.’

‘Follow me,’ cried the Hare, and it ran through the wood till it came to
a pool of water. And at the bottom of the pool the piece of yellow gold
was lying.

‘How shall I thank thee?’ said the Star-Child, ‘for lo! this is the
second time that you have succoured me.’

‘Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,’ said the Hare, and it ran away
swiftly.

And the Star-Child took the piece of yellow gold, and put it in his
wallet, and hurried to the city. But the leper saw him coming, and ran
to meet him, and knelt down and cried, ‘Give me a piece of money or I
shall die of hunger.’

And the Star-Child said to him, ‘I have in my wallet but one piece of
yellow gold, and if I bring it not to my master he will beat me and keep
me as his slave.’

But the leper entreated him sore, so that the Star-Child had pity on him,
and gave him the piece of yellow gold.

And when he came to the Magician’s house, the Magician opened to him,
and brought him in, and said to him, ‘Hast thou the piece of yellow gold?’
And the Star-Child said to him, ‘I have it not.’ So the Magician fell
upon him, and beat him, and loaded him with chains, and cast him again
into the dungeon.

And on the morrow the Magician came to him, and said, ‘If to-day thou
bringest me the piece of red gold I will set thee free, but if thou
bringest it not I will surely slay thee.’

So the Star-Child went to the wood, and all day long he searched for the
piece of red gold, but nowhere could he find it. And at evening he sat
him down and wept, and as he was weeping there came to him the little
Hare.

And the Hare said to him, ‘The piece of red gold that thou seekest is in
the cavern that is behind thee. Therefore weep no more but be glad.’

‘How shall I reward thee?’ cried the Star-Child, ‘for lo! this is the
third time thou hast succoured me.’

‘Nay, but thou hadst pity on me first,’ said the Hare, and it ran away
swiftly.

And the Star-Child entered the cavern, and in its farthest corner he
found the piece of red gold. So he put it in his wallet, and hurried to
the city. And the leper seeing him coming, stood in the centre of the
road, and cried out, and said to him, ‘Give me the piece of red money, or
I must die,’ and the Star-Child had pity on him again, and gave him the
piece of red gold, saying, ‘Thy need is greater than mine.’ Yet was his
heart heavy, for he knew what evil fate awaited him.

* * * * *

But lo! as he passed through the gate of the city, the guards bowed down
and made obeisance to him, saying, ‘How beautiful is our lord!’ and a
crowd of citizens followed him, and cried out, ‘Surely there is none so
beautiful in the whole world!’ so that the Star-Child wept, and said to
himself, ‘They are mocking me, and making light of my misery.’ And so
large was the concourse of the people, that he lost the threads of his
way, and found himself at last in a great square, in which there was a
palace of a King.

And the gate of the palace opened, and the priests and the high officers
of the city ran forth to meet him, and they abased themselves before him,
and said, ‘Thou art our lord for whom we have been waiting, and the son
of our King.’

And the Star-Child answered them and said, ‘I am no king’s son, but the
child of a poor beggar-woman. And how say ye that I am beautiful, for I
know that I am evil to look at?’

Then he, whose armour was inlaid with gilt flowers, and on whose helmet
crouched a lion that had wings, held up a shield, and cried, ‘How saith
my lord that he is not beautiful?’

And the Star-Child looked, and lo! his face was even as it had been, and
his comeliness had come back to him, and he saw that in his eyes which he
had not seen there before.

And the priests and the high officers knelt down and said to him, ‘It was
prophesied of old that on this day should come he who was to rule over
us. Therefore, let our lord take this crown and this sceptre, and be in
his justice and mercy our King over us.’

But he said to them, ‘I am not worthy, for I have denied the mother who
bare me, nor may I rest till I have found her, and known her forgiveness.
Therefore, let me go, for I must wander again over the world, and may not
tarry here, though ye bring me the crown and the sceptre.’ And as he
spake he turned his face from them towards the street that led to the
gate of the city, and lo! amongst the crowd that pressed round the
soldiers, he saw the beggar-woman who was his mother, and at her side
stood the leper, who had sat by the road.

And a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he ran over, and kneeling down
he kissed the wounds on his mother’s feet, and wet them with his tears.
He bowed his head in the dust, and sobbing, as one whose heart might
break, he said to her: ‘Mother, I denied thee in the hour of my pride.
Accept me in the hour of my humility. Mother, I gave thee hatred. Do
thou give me love. Mother, I rejected thee. Receive thy child now.’
But the beggar-woman answered him not a word.

And he reached out his hands, and clasped the white feet of the leper,
and said to him: ‘Thrice did I give thee of my mercy. Bid my mother
speak to me once.’ But the leper answered him not a word.

And he sobbed again and said: ‘Mother, my suffering is greater than I can
bear. Give me thy forgiveness, and let me go back to the forest.’ And
the beggar-woman put her hand on his head, and said to him, ‘Rise,’ and
the leper put his hand on his head, and said to him, ‘Rise,’ also.

And he rose up from his feet, and looked at them, and lo! they were a
King and a Queen.

And the Queen said to him, ‘This is thy father whom thou hast succoured.’

And the King said, ‘This is thy mother whose feet thou hast washed with
thy tears.’ And they fell on his neck and kissed him, and brought him
into the palace and clothed him in fair raiment, and set the crown upon
his head, and the sceptre in his hand, and over the city that stood by
the river he ruled, and was its lord. Much justice and mercy did he show
to all, and the evil Magician he banished, and to the Woodcutter and his
wife he sent many rich gifts, and to their children he gave high honour.
Nor would he suffer any to be cruel to bird or beast, but taught love and
loving-kindness and charity, and to the poor he gave bread, and to the
naked he gave raiment, and there was peace and plenty in the land.

Yet ruled he not long, so great had been his suffering, and so bitter the
fire of his testing, for after the space of three years he died. And he
who came after him ruled evilly.




THE HAPPY PRINCE




High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy
Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes
he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his
sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock,"
remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for
having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing
lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her
little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams
of crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered
a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came
out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean
white pinafores.

"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master, "you have never seen
one."

"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the
Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not
approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a little Swallow. His friends had
gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he
was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the
spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had
been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to
her.

"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at
once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,
touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was
his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has
no money, and far too many relations;" and indeed the river was quite
full of Reeds. Then, when the autumn came they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.
"She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a
coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly,
whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys.
"I admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love travelling,
and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also."

"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook
her head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.
Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where
shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of
fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round,
and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head
under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious
thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are
quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north
of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that
was merely her selfishness."

Then another drop fell.

"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said;
"I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,
and saw-- Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were
running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the
moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite
drenched me."

"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did
not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci,
where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my
companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the
Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared
to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful.
My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if
pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead
they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all
the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot
choose but weep."

"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too
polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a
little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and
through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and
worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she
is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for
the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honour to wear at the next
Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying
ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing
to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little
Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet
are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up
and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they
will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there
himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and
embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade,
and his hands are like withered leaves."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and
the mother so sad."

"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I
was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons,
who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course;
we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family
famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.
"It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one
night, and be your messenger."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword,
and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were
sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing.
A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful
the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of
love!"

"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she
answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it;
but the seamstresses are so lazy."

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of
the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining
with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he
came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on
his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he
hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble.
Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his
wings. "How cool I feel!" said the boy, "I must be getting better;"
and he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had
done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although
it is so cold."

"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the
little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always
made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a
remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was
passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long
letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full
of so many words that they could not understand.

"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits
at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long
time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows
chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!"
so he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any
commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me one night longer?"

"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends
will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among
the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All
night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he
utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions
come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green
beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across
the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk
covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of
withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a
pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a
play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any
more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."

"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really
had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I
have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of
India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He
will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his
play."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to
weep.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the
student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in
the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man
had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the
bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire
lying on the withered violets.

"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great
admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast
of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the
hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up.
"I am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when
the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay
with me one night longer?"

"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be
here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the
crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are
building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves
are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave
you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back
two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby
shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as
the great sea."

"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little
match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all
spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money,
and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is
bare. Pluck out my other eye and give it to her, and her father will not
beat her."

"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot
pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command
you."

So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He
swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her
hand. "What a lovely bit of glass!" cried the little girl; and she ran
home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said,
"so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the
Prince's feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories
of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises,
who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch gold-fish in
their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives
in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly
by the side of their camels and carry amber beads in their hands; of the
King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and
worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm
tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the
pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at
war with the butterflies.

"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvellous
things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of
women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little
Swallow, and tell me what you see there."

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry
in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates.
He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children
looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a
bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try and keep
themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie
here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince, "you must take it off,
leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold
can make them happy."

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy
Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he
brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they
laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets
looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and
glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves
of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore
scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave
the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the
baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself
warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to
fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!"
he murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"

"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said
the Prince, "you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the
lips, for I love you."

"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to
the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his
feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if
something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped
right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in
company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked
up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.

"How shabby, indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with
the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is
golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a
beggar!"

"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.

"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor. "We
must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die
here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer
beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the
University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting
of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We
must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue
of myself."

"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.
When I last heard of them they were quarrelling still.

"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.
"This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it
away." So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead Swallow was also
lying.

"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of
His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead
bird.

"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this
little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy
Prince shall praise me."


* * * * *



THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE ROSE




"She said that she would dance with me if I brought her red roses,"
cried the young Student; "but in all my garden there is no red rose."

From her nest in the holm-oak tree the Nightingale heard him, and she
looked out through the leaves, and wondered.

"No red rose in all my garden!" he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled
with tears. "Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have
read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of
philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made
wretched."

"Here at last is a true lover," said the Nightingale. "Night after night
have I sung of him, though I knew him not: night after night have I told
his story to the stars, and now I see him. His hair is dark as the
hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but
passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal
upon his brow."

"The Prince gives a ball to-morrow night," murmured the young Student,
"and my love will be of the company. If I bring her a red rose she will
dance with me till dawn. If I bring her a red rose, I shall hold her in
my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will
be clasped in mine. But there is no red rose in my garden, so I shall
sit lonely, and she will pass me by. She will have no heed of me, and my
heart will break."

"Here indeed is the true lover," said the Nightingale. "What I sing of,
he suffers: what is joy to me, to him is pain. Surely Love is a
wonderful thing. It is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine
opals. Pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the
market-place. It may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be
weighed out in the balance for gold."

"The musicians will sit in their gallery," said the young Student,
"and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the
sound of the harp and the violin. She will dance so lightly that her
feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses
will throng round her. But with me she will not dance, for I have no red
rose to give her;" and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried
his face in his hands, and wept.

"Why is he weeping?" asked a little Green Lizard, as he ran past him
with his tail in the air.

"Why, indeed?" said a Butterfly, who was fluttering about after a
sunbeam.

"Why, indeed?" whispered a Daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.

"He is weeping for a red rose," said the Nightingale.

"For a red rose?" they cried; "how very ridiculous!" and the little
Lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.

But the Nightingale understood the secret of the Student's sorrow, and
she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of Love.

Suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
across the garden.

In the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful Rose-tree,
and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are white," it answered; "as white as the foam of the sea, and
whiter than the snow upon the mountain. But go to my brother who grows
round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing round the
old sun-dial.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are yellow," it answered; "as yellow as the hair of the
mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil
that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe. But go
to my brother who grows beneath the Student's window, and perhaps he
will give you what you want."

So the Nightingale flew over to the Rose-tree that was growing beneath
the Student's window.

"Give me a red rose," she cried, "and I will sing you my sweetest song."

But the Tree shook its head.

"My roses are red," it answered, "as red as the feet of the dove,
and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the
ocean-cavern. But the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has
nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and I shall have
no roses at all this year."

"One red rose is all I want," cried the Nightingale, "only one red rose!
Is there no way by which I can get it?"

"There is a way," answered the Tree; "but it is so terrible that I dare
not tell it to you."

"Tell it to me," said the Nightingale, "I am not afraid."

"If you want a red rose," said the Tree, "you must build it out of music
by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart's-blood. You must sing to
me with your breast against a thorn. All night long you must sing to me,
and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into
my veins, and become mine."

"Death is a great price to pay for a red rose," cried the Nightingale,
"and Life is very dear to all. It is pleasant to sit in the green wood,
and to watch the Sun in his chariot of gold, and the Moon in her chariot
of pearl. Sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the
bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the
hill. Yet Love is better than Life, and what is the heart of a bird
compared to the heart of a man?"

So she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
She swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed
through the grove.

The young Student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him,
and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.

"Be happy," cried the Nightingale, "be happy; you shall have your red
rose. I will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my
own heart's-blood. All that I ask of you in return is that you will be a
true lover, for Love is wiser than Philosophy, though he is wise, and
mightier than Power, though he is mighty. Flame-coloured are his wings,
and coloured like flame is his body. His lips are sweet as honey, and
his breath is like frankincense."

The Student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not
understand what the Nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the
things that are written down in books.

But the Oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the
little Nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.

"Sing me one last song," he whispered; "I shall feel very lonely when
you are gone."

So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water
bubbling from a silver jar.

When she had finished her song, the Student got up, and pulled a
note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.

"She has form," he said to himself, as he walked away through the
grove--"that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling?
I am afraid not. In fact, she is like most artists; she is all style
without any sincerity. She would not sacrifice herself for others. She
thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish.
Still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her
voice. What a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any
practical good!" And he went into his room, and lay down on his little
pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell
asleep.

And when the Moon shone in the heavens the Nightingale flew to the
Rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn. All night long she sang
with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal Moon leaned down
and listened. All night long she sang and the thorn went deeper and
deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.

She sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
And on the top-most spray of the Rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous
rose, petal following petal, as song followed song. Pale was it, at
first, as the mist that hangs over the river--pale as the feet of the
morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn. As the shadow of a rose in
a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the
rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the Tree.

But the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
"Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will
come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and
louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul
of a man and a maid.

And a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the
flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the
bride. But the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose's heart
remained white, for only a Nightingale's heart's-blood can crimson the
heart of a rose.

And the Tree cried to the Nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
"Press closer, little Nightingale," cried the Tree, "or the Day will
come before the rose is finished."

So the Nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn
touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her. Bitter,
bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang
of the Love that is perfected by Death, of the Love that dies not in the
tomb.

And the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern
sky. Crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the
heart.

But the Nightingale's voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to
beat, and a film came over her eyes. Fainter and fainter grew her song,
and she felt something choking her in her throat.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she
forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and
it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold
morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke
the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds
of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.

"Look, look!" cried the Tree, "the rose is finished now;" but the
Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass,
with the thorn in her heart.

And at noon the Student opened his window and looked out.

"Why, what a wonderful piece of luck!" he cried; "here is a red rose!
I have never seen any rose like it in all my life. It is so beautiful
that I am sure it has a long Latin name;" and he leaned down and
plucked it.

Then he put on his hat, and ran up to the Professor's house with the
rose in his hand.

The daughter of the Professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue
silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.

"You said that you would dance with me if I brought you a red rose,"
cried the Student. "Here is the reddest rose in all the world. You will
wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell
you how I love you."

But the girl frowned. "I am afraid it will not go with my dress," she
answered; "and, besides, the Chamberlain's nephew has sent me some real
jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers."

"Well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful," said the Student angrily;
and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter,
and a cart-wheel went over it.

"Ungrateful!" said the girl. "I tell you what, you are very rude; and,
after all, who are you? Only a Student. Why, I don't believe you have
even got silver buckles to your shoes as the Chamberlain's nephew has;"
and she got up from her chair and went into the house.

"What a silly thing Love is!" said the Student as he walked away. "It is
not half as useful as Logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is
always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making
one believe things that are not true. In fact, it is quite unpractical,
and, as in this age to be practical is everything, I shall go back to
Philosophy and study Metaphysics."

So he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began
to read.


* * * * *



THE SELFISH GIANT




Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to
go and play in the Giant's garden.

It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over
the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve
peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of
pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the
trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in
order to listen to them. "How happy we are here!" they cried to each
other.

One day the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish
ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years
were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was
limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived
he saw the children playing in the garden.

"What are you doing here?" he cried in a very gruff voice, and the
children ran away.

"My own garden is my own garden," said the Giant; "any one can
understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself."
So he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.

------------
TRESPASSERS
WILL BE
PROSECUTED
------------

He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children had now nowhere to play. They tried to play on the
road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did
not like it. They used to wander round the high wall when their lessons
were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. "How happy we
were there!" they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little
blossoms and little birds. Only in the garden of the Selfish Giant it
was still winter. The birds did not care to sing in it as there were no
children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put
its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so
sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and
went off to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and
the Frost. "Spring has forgotten this garden," they cried, "so we will
live here all the year round." The Snow covered up the grass with her
great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they
invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in
furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots
down. "This is a delightful spot," he said, "we must ask the Hail on a
visit." So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the
roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran
round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in
grey, and his breath was like ice.

"I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming," said the
Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white
garden; "I hope there will be a change in the weather."

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit
to every garden, but to the Giant's garden she gave none. "He is too
selfish," she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind
and the Hail, and the Frost, and the Snow danced about through the
trees.

One morning the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely
music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the
King's musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing
outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in
his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the
world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind
ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open
casement. "I believe the Spring has come at last," said the Giant;
and he jumped out of bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the
children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the
trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child. And the
trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered
themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the
children's heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with
delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and
laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter.
It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a
little boy.

He was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree,
and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was
still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing
and roaring above it. "Climb up! little boy," said the Tree, and it bent
its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant's heart melted as he looked out. "How selfish I have
been!" he said; "now I know why the Spring would not come here. I will
put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then I will knock
down the wall, and my garden shall be the children's playground for ever
and ever." He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went
out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so
frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.
Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that
he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and
took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree
broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the
little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the Giant's
neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the
Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came
the Spring. "It is your garden now, little children," said the Giant,
and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people
were going to market at twelve o'clock they found the Giant playing with
the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to
bid him good-bye.

"But where is your little companion?" he said: "the boy I put into the
tree." The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

"We don't know," answered the children; "he has gone away."

"You must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow," said the Giant.
But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had
never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with
the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again.
The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first
little friend, and often spoke of him. "How I would like to see him!"
he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not
play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the
children at their games, and admired his garden. "I have many beautiful
flowers," he said; "but the children are the most beautiful flowers of
all."

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He
did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the Spring
asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder and looked and looked. It
certainly was a marvellous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden
was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms. Its branches were
all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it
stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He
hastened across the grass, and came near to the child. And when he came
quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, "Who hath dared
to wound thee?" For on the palms of the child's hands were the prints of
two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

"Who hath dared to wound thee?" cried the Giant; "tell me, that I might
take my big sword and slay him."

"Nay!" answered the child; "but these are the wounds of Love."

"Who art thou?" said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he
knelt before the little child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him, "You let me play
once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which
is Paradise."

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying
dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.


* * * * *



THE DEVOTED FRIEND




One morning the old Water-rat put his head out of his hole. He had
bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long
bit of black india-rubber. The little ducks were swimming about in the
pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who
was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand
on their heads in the water.

"You will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your
heads," she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them
how it was done. But the little ducks paid no attention to her. They
were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in
society at all.

"What disobedient children!" cried the old Water-rat; "they really
deserve to be drowned."

"Nothing of the kind," answered the Duck, "every one must make a
beginning, and parents cannot be too patient."

"Ah! I know nothing about the feelings of parents," said the Water-rat;
"I am not a family man. In fact, I have never been married, and I never
intend to be. Love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much
higher. Indeed, I know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or
rarer than a devoted friendship."

"And what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?" asked
a green Linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had
overheard the conversation.

"Yes, that is just what I want to know," said the Duck; and she swam
away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give
her children a good example.

"What a silly question!" cried the Water-rat. "I should expect my
devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course."

"And what would you do in return?" said the little bird, swinging upon a
silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.

"I don't understand you," answered the Water-rat.

"Let me tell you a story on the subject," said the Linnet.

"Is the story about me?" asked the Water-rat. "If so, I will listen to
it, for I am extremely fond of fiction."

"It is applicable to you," answered the Linnet; and he flew down, and
alighting upon the bank, he told the story of The Devoted Friend.

"Once upon a time," said the Linnet, "there was an honest little fellow
named Hans."

"Was he very distinguished?" asked the Water-rat.

"No," answered the Linnet, "I don't think he was distinguished at all,
except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face. He
lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his
garden. In all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his.
Sweet-william grew there, and Gilly-flowers, and Shepherds'-purses, and
Fair-maids of France. There were damask Roses, and yellow Roses, lilac
Crocuses and gold, purple Violets and white. Columbine and Ladysmock,
Marjoram and Wild Basil, the Cowslip and the Flower-de-luce, the
Daffodil and the Clove-Pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order
as the months went by, one flower taking another flower's place, so that
there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to
smell.

"Little Hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of
all was big Hugh the Miller. Indeed, so devoted was the rich Miller to
little Hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over
the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or
filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.

"'Real friends should have everything in common,' the Miller used to
say, and little Hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a
friend with such noble ideas.

"Sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich
Miller never gave little Hans anything in return, though he had a
hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and
a large flock of woolly sheep; but Hans never troubled his head about
these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to
all the wonderful things the Miller used to say about the unselfishness
of true friendship.

"So little Hans worked away in his garden. During the spring, the sum-
mer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and
he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good
deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper
but a few dried pears or some hard nuts. In the winter, also, he was
extremely lonely, as the Miller never came to see him then.

"'There is no good in my going to see little Hans as long as the snow
lasts,' the Miller used to say to his wife, 'for when people are in
trouble they should be left alone and not be bothered by visitors. That
at least is my idea about friendship, and I am sure I am right. So I
shall wait till the spring comes, and then I shall pay him a visit, and
he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses, and that will
make him so happy.'

"'You are certainly very thoughtful about others,' answered the Wife,
as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire;
'very thoughtful indeed. It is quite a treat to hear you talk about
friendship. I am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful
things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear
a gold ring on his little finger.'

"'But could we not ask little Hans up here?' said the Miller's youngest
son. 'If poor Hans is in trouble I will give him half my porridge, and
show him my white rabbits.'

"'What a silly boy you are!' cried the Miller; 'I really don't know what
is the use of sending you to school. You seem not to learn anything.
Why, if little Hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good
supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy
is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody's nature. I certainly
will not allow Hans' nature to be spoiled. I am his best friend, and I
will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temp-
tations. Besides, if Hans came here, he might ask me to let him have
some flour on credit, and that I could not do. Flour is one thing and
friendship is another, and they should not be confused. Why, the words
are spelt differently, and mean quite different things. Everybody can
see that.'

"'How well you talk!' said the Miller's Wife, pouring herself out a
large glass of warm ale; 'really I feel quite drowsy. It is just like
being in church.'

"'Lots of people act well,' answered the Miller; 'but very few people
talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of
the two, and much the finer thing also'; and he looked sternly across
the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung
his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea.
However, he was so young that you must excuse him."

"Is that the end of the story?" asked the Water-rat.

"Certainly not," answered the Linnet, "that is the beginning."

"Then you are quite behind the age," said the Water-rat. "Every good
story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the
beginning, and concludes with the middle. That is the new method.
I heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round
the pond with a young man. He spoke of the matter at great length, and I
am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald
head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered
'Pooh!' But pray go on with your story. I like the Miller immensely.
I have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great
sympathy between us."

"Well," said the Linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other,
"as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their
pale yellow stars, the Miller said to his wife that he would go down and
see little Hans.

"'Why, what a good heart you have!' cried his Wife; 'you are always
thinking of others. And mind you take the big basket with you for the
flowers.'

"So the Miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong
iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.

"'Good morning, little Hans,' said the Miller.

"'Good morning,' said Hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear
to ear.

"'And how have you been all the winter?' said the Miller.

"'Well, really,' cried Hans, 'it is very good of you to ask, very good
indeed. I am afraid I had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring
has come, and I am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.'

"'We often talked of you during the winter, Hans,' said the Miller, 'and
wondered how you were getting on.'

"'That was kind of you,' said Hans; 'I was half afraid you had
forgotten me.'

"'Hans, I am surprised at you,' said the Miller; 'friendship never
forgets. That is the wonderful thing about it, but I am afraid you don't
understand the poetry of life. How lovely your primroses are looking,
by-the-bye!'

"'They are certainly very lovely,' said Hans, 'and it is a most lucky
thing for me that I have so many. I am going to bring them into the
market and sell them to the Burgomaster's daughter, and buy back my
wheelbarrow with the money.'

"'Buy back your wheelbarrow? You don't mean to say you have sold it?
What a very stupid thing to do!'

"'Well, the fact is,' said Hans, 'that I was obliged to. You see the
winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to
buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat,
and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at
last I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again
now.'

"'Hans,' said the Miller, 'I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in
very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong
with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I know
it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me
extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the
world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, be-
sides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your
mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.'

"'Well, really, that is generous of you,' said little Hans, and his
funny round face glowed all over with pleasure. 'I can easily put it in
repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.'

"'A plank of wood!' said the Miller; 'why, that is just what I want for
the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will
all get damp if I don't stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is
quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given
you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of
course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true
friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I
will set to work at my barn this very day.'

"'Certainly,' cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged
the plank out.

"'It is not a very big plank,' said the Miller, looking at it, 'and I am
afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won't be any left for
you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault.
And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to
give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it
quite full.'

"'Quite full?' said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a
very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no
flowers left for the market, and he was very anxious to get his silver
buttons back.

"'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'as I have given you my wheel-
barrow, I don't think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers.
I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true
friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.'

"'My dear friend, my best friend,' cried little Hans, 'you are welcome
to all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good
opinion than my silver buttons, any day;' and he ran and plucked all his
pretty primroses, and filled the Miller's basket.

"'Good-bye, little Hans,' said the Miller, as he went up the hill with
the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.

"'Good-bye,' said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily,
he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.

"The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when
he heard the Miller's voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped
off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.

"There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.

"'Dear little Hans,' said the Miller, 'would you mind carrying this sack
of flour for me to market?'

"'Oh, I am so sorry,' said Hans, 'but I am really very busy to-day.
I have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water,
and all my grass to roll.'

"'Well, really,' said the Miller, 'I think that, considering that I am
going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to
refuse.'

"'Oh, don't say that,' cried little Hans, 'I wouldn't be unfriendly for
the whole world;' and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the
big sack on his shoulders.

"It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans
had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down
and rest. However, he went on bravely, and at last he reached the
market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour
for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was
afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the
way.

"'It has certainly been a hard day,' said little Hans to himself as he
was going to bed, 'but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is
my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.'

"Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his
sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.

"'Upon my word,' said the Miller, 'you are very lazy. Really, con-
sidering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you
might work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don't like
any of my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking
quite plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were
not your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say
exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to
please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things,
and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he
prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.'

"'I am very sorry,' said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off
his night-cap, 'but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for
a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I
always work better after hearing the birds sing?'

"'Well, I am glad of that,' said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the
back, 'for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed
and mend my barn-roof for me.'

"Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his
flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse
the Miller as he was such a good friend to him.

"'Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?' he
inquired in a shy and timid voice.

"'Well, really,' answered the Miller, 'I do not think it is much to ask
of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of
course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.'

"'Oh! on no account,' cried little Hans; and he jumped out of bed,
and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.

"He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller
came to see how he was getting on.

"'Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?' cried the
Miller in a cheery voice.

"'It is quite mended,' answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.

"'Ah!' said the Miller, 'there is no work so delightful as the work one
does for others.'

"'It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,' answered little
Hans, sitting down and wiping his forehead, 'a very great privilege.
But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.'

"'Oh! they will come to you,' said the Miller, 'but you must take more
pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you
will have the theory also.'

"'Do you really think I shall?' asked little Hans.

"'I have no doubt of it,' answered the Miller, 'but now that you have
mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to
drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.'

"Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next
morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans
started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get
there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to
sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.

"'What a delightful time I shall have in my garden!' he said, and he
went to work at once.

"But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his
friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long
errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much
distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had
forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the
Miller was his best friend. 'Besides,' he used to say, 'he is going to
give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.'

"So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all
kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a
notebook, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good
scholar.

"Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his
fireside when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night,
and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at
first he thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and
then a third, louder than any of the others.

"'It is some poor traveller,' said little Hans to himself, and he ran to
the door.

"There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in
the other.

"'Dear little Hans,' cried the Miller, 'I am in great trouble. My little
boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the
Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it
has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead
of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so it is only
fair that you should do something for me in return.'

"'Certainly,' cried little Hans, 'I take it quite as a compliment your
coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your
lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the
ditch.'

"'I am very sorry,' answered the Miller, 'but it is my new lantern and
it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.'

"'Well, never mind, I will do without it,' cried little Hans, and he
took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a
muffler round his throat, and started off.

"What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans
could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely
stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking
about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor's house, and knocked at the
door.

"'Who is there?' cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom
window.

"'Little Hans, Doctor.'

"'What do you want, little Hans?'

"'The Miller's son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself,
and the Miller wants you to come at once.'

"'All right!' said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big
boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the
direction of the Miller's house, little Hans trudging behind him.

"But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and
little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse.
At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very
dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little
Hans was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds,
floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the
cottage.

"Everybody went to little Hans' funeral, as he was so popular, and the
Miller was the chief mourner.

"'As I was his best friend,' said the Miller, 'it is only fair that I should
have the best place;' so he walked at the head of the procession
in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a
big pocket-handkerchief.

"'Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,' said the
Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated
comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.

"'A great loss to me at any rate,' answered the Miller, 'why, I had as
good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don't know what to
do with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair
that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take
care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being
generous.'"

"Well?" said the Water-rat, after a long pause.

"Well, that is the end," said the Linnet.

"But what became of the Miller?" asked the Water-rat.

"Oh! I really don't know," replied the Linnet; "and I am sure that I
don't care."

"It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,"
said the Water-rat.

"I am afraid you don't quite see the moral of the story," remarked the
Linnet.

"The what?" screamed the Water-rat.

"The moral."

"Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?"

"Certainly," said the Linnet.

"Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you
should have told me that before you began. If you had done so,
I certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said
'Pooh,' like the critic. However, I can say it now;" so he shouted out
"Pooh" at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went
back into his hole.

"And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came paddling
up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points, but for my
own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed
bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes."

"I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet.
"The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral."

"Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.


* * * * *



THE REMARKABLE ROCKET




The King's son was going to be married, so there were general
rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she
had arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from
Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a
great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess
herself. Her long ermine cloak reached right down to her feet, on her
head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow
Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove
through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!"
they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had
dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he
sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.

"Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more beautiful
than your picture;" and the little Princess blushed.

"She was like a white rose before," said a young page to his neighbour,
"but she is like a red rose now;" and the whole Court was delighted.

For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose, Red
rose, Red rose, White rose;" and the King gave orders that the Page's
salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not
of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly
published in the Court Gazette.

When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a
magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand
under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then
there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and
Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of
clear crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if
false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.

"It is quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page,
"as clear as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time.

"What an honour!" cried all the courtiers.

After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were
to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the
flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so,
because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never
quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for,
whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!"

The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be
let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a
firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal
Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.

"What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she
was walking on the terrace.

"They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always answered
questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more natural.
I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to
appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must
certainly see them."

So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as
soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place,
the fireworks began to talk to each other.

"The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just
look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real Crackers they could
not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the
mind wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices."

"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish Squib," said a big
Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you
three days to see it thoroughly."

"Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed the pensive
Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life,
and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any
more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody
believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent.
I remember myself once---- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing
of the past."

"Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like the
moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love
each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a
brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as
myself, and he knew the latest Court news."

But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is
dead, Romance is dead," she murmured. She was one of those people who
think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times,
it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.

It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the
end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation,
so as to attract attention.

"Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine
Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, "Romance is dead."

"Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician,
and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew
the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.

"Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.

As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time
and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was
dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person
to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.

"How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be
married on the very day on which I am to be let off! Really, if it had
been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him;
but Princes are always lucky."

"Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way,
and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour."

"It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it
is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come
of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel
of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her
great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went
out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink
stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very
best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French
extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would
never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly
disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden
rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering
terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic
art."

"Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it is
Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister."

"Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of
voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to
bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of
some importance.

"I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying---- What was I
saying?"

"You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle.

"Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was
so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind,
for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive
as I am, I am quite sure of that."

"What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.

"A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other
people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the
Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.

"Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not
laughing."

"I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker.

"That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right
have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you
should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I
expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy.
It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose,
for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that
would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy
again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King,
I know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the
importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears."

"If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle,
"you had better keep yourself dry."

"Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits;
"that is only common sense."

"Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that I
am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common
sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination,
for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them
as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently
no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately
for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one through life
is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and
this is a feeling I have always cultivated. But none of you have any
hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and
Princess had not just been married."

"Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most
joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the
stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about
the pretty bride."

"Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what
I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why,
perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there
is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little
fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps
some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may
go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may
fall into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune!
Poor people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall
never get over it."

"But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle;
"no misfortune has happened to them at all."

"I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they
might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying
anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk.
But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am
much affected."

"You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the most
affected person I ever met."

"You are the rudest person I ever met," said the Rocket, "and you cannot
understand my friendship for the Prince."

"Why, you don't even know him," growled the Roman Candle.

"I never said I knew him," answered the Rocket. "I dare say that if I
knew him I should not be his friend at all. It is a very dangerous thing
to know one's friends."

"You had really better keep yourself dry," said the Fire-balloon. "That
is the important thing."

"Very important for you, I have no doubt," answered the Rocket, "but I
shall weep if I choose;" and he actually burst into real tears, which
flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little
beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were
looking for a nice dry spot to live in.

"He must have a truly romantic nature," said the Catherine Wheel, "for
he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about;" and she heaved a
deep sigh and thought about the deal box.

But the Roman Candle and the Bengal Light were quite indignant, and
kept saying, "Humbug! humbug!" at the top of their voices. They were
extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called
it humbug.

Then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began
to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.

The Prince and Princess were leading the dance. They danced so
beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and
watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat
time.

Then ten o'clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the
last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the King
sent for the Royal Pyrotechnist.

"Let the fireworks begin," said the King; and the Royal Pyrotechnist
made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden. He had six
attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of
a long pole.

It was certainly a magnificent display.

Whizz! Whizz! went the Catherine Wheel, as she spun round and round.
Boom! Boom! went the Roman Candle. Then the Squibs danced all over the
place, and the Bengal Lights made everything look scarlet. "Good-bye,"
cried the Fire-balloon as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks.
Bang! Bang! answered the Crackers, who were enjoying themselves
immensely. Every one was a great success except the Remarkable Rocket.
He was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all. The best
thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it
was of no use. All his poor relations, to whom he would never speak,
except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers
with blossoms of fire. Huzza! Huzza! cried the Court; and the little
Princess laughed with pleasure.

"I suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion," said the
Rocket; "no doubt that is what it means," and he looked more
supercilious than ever.

The next day the workmen came to put everything tidy. "This is evidently
a deputation," said the Rocket; "I will receive them with becoming
dignity": so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as
if he were thinking about some very important subject. But they took no
notice of him at all till they were just going away. Then one of them
caught sight of him. "Hallo!" he cried, "what a bad rocket!" and he
threw him over the wall into the ditch.

"BAD Rocket? BAD Rocket?" he said, as he whirled through the air;
"impossible! GRAND Rocket, that is what the man said. BAD and GRAND
sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same;" and he fell
into the mud.

"It is not comfortable here," he remarked, "but no doubt it is some
fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my
health. My nerves are certainly very much shattered, and I require
rest."

Then a little Frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat,
swam up to him.

"A new arrival, I see!" said the Frog. "Well, after all there is nothing
like mud. Give me rainy weather and a ditch, and I am quite happy. Do
you think it will be a wet afternoon? I am sure I hope so, but the sky
is quite blue and cloudless. What a pity!"

"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket, and he began to cough.

"What a delightful voice you have!" cried the Frog. "Really it is quite
like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the
world. You will hear our glee-club this evening. We sit in the old duck
pond close by the farmer's house, and as soon as the moon rises we
begin. It is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us.
In fact, it was only yesterday that I heard the farmer's wife say to her
mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us.
It is most gratifying to find oneself so popular."

"Ahem! ahem!" said the Rocket angrily. He was very much annoyed that he
could not get a word in.

"A delightful voice, certainly," continued the Frog; "I hope you will
come over to the duck-pond. I am off to look for my daughters. I have
six beautiful daughters, and I am so afraid the Pike may meet them. He
is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off
them. Well, good-bye: I have enjoyed our conversation very much,
I assure you."

"Conversation, indeed!" said the Rocket. "You have talked the whole time
yourself. That is not conversation."

"Somebody must listen," answered the Frog, "and I like to do all the
talking myself. It saves time, and prevents arguments."

"But I like arguments," said the Rocket.

"I hope not," said the Frog complacently. "Arguments are extremely
vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions.
Good-bye a second time; I see my daughters in the distance;" and the
little Frog swam away.

"You are a very irritating person," said the Rocket, "and very ill-bred.
I hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to
talk about oneself, as I do. It is what I call selfishness, and
selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my
temperament, for I am well known for my sympathetic nature. In fact, you
should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model.
Now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for I
am going back to Court almost immediately. I am a great favourite at
Court; in fact, the Prince and Princess were married yesterday in my
honour. Of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a
provincial."

"There is no good talking to him," said a dragon-fly, who was sitting on
the top of a large brown bulrush; "no good at all, for he has gone
away."

"Well, that is his loss, not mine," answered the Rocket. "I am not going
to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention. I like
hearing myself talk. It is one of my greatest pleasures. I often have
long conversations all by myself, and I am so clever that sometimes I
don't understand a single word of what I am saying."

"Then you should certainly lecture on Philosophy," said the Dragon-fly,
and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.

"How very silly of him not to stay here!" said the Rocket. "I am sure
that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind. However,
I don't care a bit. Genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some
day;" and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.

After some time a large White Duck swam up to him. She had yellow legs,
and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her
waddle.

"Quack, quack, quack," she said. "What a curious shape you are! May I
ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?"

"It is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,"
answered the Rocket, "otherwise you would know who I am. However,
I excuse your ignorance. It would be unfair to expect other people to be
as remarkable as oneself. You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I
can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain."

"I don't think much of that," said the Duck, "as I cannot see what use
it is to any one. Now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or
draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog,
that would be something."

"My good creature," cried the Rocket in a very haughty tone of voice,
"I see that you belong to the lower orders. A person of my position is
never useful. We have certain accomplishments, and that is more than
sufficient. I have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least
of all with such industries as you seem to recommend. Indeed, I have
always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who
have nothing whatever to do."

"Well, well," said the Duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition,
and never quarrelled with any one, "everybody has different tastes.
I hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here."

"Oh! dear no," cried the Rocket. "I am merely a visitor, a distinguished
visitor. The fact is that I find this place rather tedious. There is
neither society here, nor solitude. In fact, it is essentially suburban.
I shall probably go back to Court, for I know that I am destined to make
a sensation in the world."

"I had thoughts of entering public life once myself," remarked the Duck;
"there are so many things that need reforming. Indeed, I took the chair
at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning
everything that we did not like. However, they did not seem to have much
effect. Now I go in for domesticity, and look after my family."

"I am made for public life," said the Rocket, "and so are all my rela-
tions, even the humblest of them. Whenever we appear we excite great
attention. I have not actually appeared myself, but when I do so it will
be a magnificent sight. As for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and
distracts one's mind from higher things."

"Ah! the higher things of life, how fine they are!" said the Duck; "and
that reminds me how hungry I feel:" and she swam away down the stream,
saying, "Quack, quack, quack."

"Come back! come back!" screamed the Rocket, "I have a great deal to say
to you;" but the Duck paid no attention to him. "I am glad that she has
gone," he said to himself, "she has a decidedly middle-class mind;" and
he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the
loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came
running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.

"This must be the deputation," said the Rocket, and he tried to look
very dignified.

"Hallo!" cried one of the boys, "look at this old stick! I wonder how it
came here;" and he picked the Rocket out of the ditch.

"OLD Stick!" said the Rocket, "impossible! GOLD Stick, that is what he
said. Gold Stick is very complimentary. In fact, he mistakes me for one
of the Court dignitaries!"

"Let us put it into the fire!" said the other boy, "it will help to boil
the kettle."

So they piled the faggots together, and put the Rocket on top, and lit
the fire.

"This is magnificent," cried the Rocket, "they are going to let me off
in broad daylight, so that everyone can see me."

"We will go to sleep now," they said, "and when we wake up the kettle
will be boiled;" and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.

The Rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn. At last,
however, the fire caught him.

"Now I am going off!" he cried, and he made himself very stiff and
straight. "I know I shall go much higher than the stars, much higher
than the moon, much higher than the sun. In fact, I shall go so high
that----"

Fizz! Fizz! Fizz! and he went straight up into the air.

"Delightful," he cried, "I shall go on like this for ever. What a
success I am!"

But nobody saw him.

Then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.

"Now I am going to explode," he cried. "I shall set the whole world on
fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else
for a whole year." And he certainly did explode. Bang! Bang! Bang! went
the gunpowder. There was no doubt about it.

But nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound
asleep.

Then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the
back of a Goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.

"Good heavens!" cried the Goose. "It is going to rain sticks;" and she
rushed into the water.

"I knew I should create a great sensation," gasped the Rocket, and he
went out.

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