Transcribed from the 1915 Methuen and Co. edition by David
Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org

TO
CONSTANCE MARY WILDE

A HOUSE
OF POMEGRANATES

BY
OSCAR WILDE

METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON

Seventh
Edition

CONTENTS

p. 1THE
YOUNG KING

TO
MARGARET LADY BROOKE
[THE RANEE OF SARAWAK]

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, had caught 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.

p. 31THE
BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA

TO
MRS. WILLIAM H. GRENFELL
OF TAPLOW COURT
[LADY DESBOROUGH]

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,
amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to the
secular 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 acknowledged 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 beautiful 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 philosophical 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.

p. 73THE
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
his 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 howls 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 captain 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.  Nevertheless 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.

p. 147THE
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.