I have another story.
There was once a young prince, soon to become king of a great land and
so powerful that his courtiers did not allow him to leave his palace. 'There is nothing there to interest your
Highness,' said the Lord Chamberlain, 'only your subjects.' The young prince's tutor, who agreed on
principle with everything the Lord Chamberlain said, explained to him that all
the authorities disparaged travel as a way of seeing the world.
This tutor
also had very advanced ideas about education, and the young prince's room,
which was at the top of the highest tower of the palace, had nothing within it
which was not beautiful or harmonious.
The floor was of porphyry polished to the brightness of a star, and across
it had been placed carpets from Tartary and rugs
woven with pearls taken from the silent floors of the
All these
exquisite objects the young prince contemplated with wonder: he would gaze for
hours at the tapestry of Endymion and marvel at the
mystery of Beauty which grows more sacred in sleep, and he would gently touch
the figure of Apollo as a blind man might touch the lips of his beloved;
sometimes he would read the sonnets of love and feel the holy breath of the
poet upon his face.
And yet the
most wonderful effect in this room of wonderful things was the window through
which the young prince could look down upon his kingdom; it was made not of
glass but of precious stones, a blend of sardonyx, chrysoberyl and azerodrach which
had been fused together over a period of many years. It was such a window that all who looked
through it saw objects brighter than the day and yet the subtle commingling of
jewels gave out a mysterious light in which the seasons never changed: there
was no gleam of frost here and no harshness of sunlight. Day followed night on quiet feet, and the
shadows were like the bruise which touches a peach. 'We cannot,' said the tutor, 'allow His
Highness to be affected by worldly things.
If he heard that the seasons change, he would lose all confidence in his
own authority.' And, as always, the Lord
Chamberlain agreed with the tutor.
And so the
boy who was to become king spent many hours gazing out of this wonderful
window. He could see the ornamental
gardens of the palace where storks cried and flowers sang - and, behind the
gardens, he could see the jade-green fields of his dominion. Spring fled from summer and autumn bowed its
head before winter, but it was always quiet here, the light so calm and clear
that the young prince would often fall into a gentle sleep.
And then
one day - it was his thirteenth birthday - he fell asleep and dreamed a strange
dream. He was taken from his chamber by
a masked guide and led into the streets of a great city; he suddenly found
himself alone, in a mean alley where a lonely boy was writing 'I am' upon a
wall. Here were children in rags,
huddled together for warmth. An old man
begged for coins and was scoffed at by all those who passed. A young woman screamed for help and found
none. 'This,' his guide said, 'is
Poverty and Sorrow. Learn of them.'
When the
young prince awoke, he was afraid for he did not understand what he had
seen. And so he called for his Lord
Chamberlain and his tutor, and he questioned them: 'What are these things I have
dreamed of, Poverty and Sorrow?' The
courtiers were quite astounded, since they could not imagine how he had
discovered such things in his beautiful chamber. 'They are vulgarisms, your Highness,' the
Lord Chamberlain replied, 'invented by the common people. They are not known in Society.' 'They are simply words,' the tutor said, 'but
they have been quite disproven by the best
philosophers and artists.' The young
prince, although much troubled, accepted their answers and returned to his
violet couch by the window: he watched the fruits of his garden blossoming and
falling untasted, and he saw the flowers give out
their scent and, in the evening, hide their faces.
And then he
dreamed again. This is what he
dreamed. His guide took him from his
palace and into the streets of a great city.
He found himself in a mean alley but it was evening now, and harsh
lights cast strange shadows. Young men
jostled each other and made much noise, and young girls were involved in
curious games with cards and pebbles.
There were men and women who danced together on a rough stone floor to
the sound of rude instruments, and there were others who sat together in dark
corners whispering. There was laughter,
and wine was spilt upon the ground.
'This is Passion and Joy,' the guide said. 'Learn of them.'
And, when
the young prince awoke, he was filled with a strange fear and he called out to
the Lord Chamberlain and his tutor 'What are Passion and Joy?' he asked
them. 'For I have seen such things as
these and they have troubled me.' And
the courtiers were astonished. 'They are
curious, savage words, your Highness, ' the tutor told him. 'They have not been used in polite speech for
many years.' 'They are not known in
Society,' the Lord Chamberlain added, 'I have been a member of it for sixty
years and to my recollection they have never once been mentioned.'
But the
young prince was troubled still. And he
went to his window and gazed out at the beautiful, unchanging world which it
fashioned for him. And then he saw what
he had never seen before: in the distance, across one of the verdigris meadows, a troupe of jugglers and dancers rode by
on horses and, in the window's precious light, they seemed clearer than the
images in his dreams. They were to
perform that evening in the great city, but of course the prince knew nothing
of that. But he heard their shouts and
their laughter, and they reminded him of his dreams. The young prince waved and called to them but
they were engaged in quarrelling among themselves and
could not hear him. And then the young
prince beat his fists against the window which had the fragility of all
beautiful things, in order that they might notice him. But by now the troupe of circus people had
passed over the horizon.
And the
young prince was mournful. The beautiful
paintings in his room no longer seemed beautiful to him, Endymion
was lifeless merely, and the intricate statue of Apollo a made thing, a
fabrication. The books also displeased
him for they did not contain the words Passion or Joy, or the words Pain and
Sorrow. And the elaborate furnishings of
his chamber oppressed the prince; they weighed heavily upon his spirits and he
could no longer sleep. Each morning he
gazed out of the window to see if the troupe might return and, when they did
not come, each day the young prince grew paler and more fretful.
His
courtiers grew worried. 'It is quite
obvious to me,' said the tutor to the Lord Chamberlain, 'that it is the strain
of the bills and proclamations which you give him to sign.' 'I blame it all upon the lessons in
mathematics which you insist on giving him,' the Lord Chamberlain replied. 'They have made him quite unwell.' Of course the young prince heard nothing of
this because the courtiers never spoke in his presence unless he spoke to them
first. But the prince had nothing to say
now.
He grew
worse as the days passed; and then, on the seventh day, at the end of the
city's festivities, the circus people passed through the malachite fields once
more in order to return to their own country.
The prince saw them, and his joy was so great that he could not contain
it. He waved and cried to them - 'please
stop, please come to me, with your bright harnesses and your coloured robes!' -
but they could not hear him, and they continued
riding. In desperation, the prince took
the statue of Apollo and hurled it through the window of jewels. 'Wait for me!' he called. 'I am coming!' But already they had travelled far into the
distance, and not one of them looked back at the palace, which was known as
Sans Souci.
And then
the prince experienced a sorrow greater than any he had felt in his dreams, and a pain more terrible than any which the guide
had shown to him. He found a jagged
splinter from the window of sardonyx and chrysoberyl and, finding his breast beneath his richly
woven doublet, plunged the jewel into his heart.
The circus
troupe heard a faint noise in the distance.
'What was that?' one minstrel asked the dwarf who rode beside him. 'It sounded like a glass breaking, or perhaps
a wave crashing against a shore,' the dwarf replied. 'You are too absurd,' and the minstrel
laughed, and the troupe rode on.