literary transcript

 

9 September 1900

 

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 Indian Sea.  Alabaster pillars curiously engraved, and furnishings made of the green stone which is to be found in Egyptian tombs, completed the effect.  In the young prince's chamber, alas, were the most beautiful objects in the world - a statue of Apollo so finely woven from the finest silk which pictured the true history of Endymion - who slept not out of enchantment but because he feared old age.  There were great Venetian paintings hanging on the walls, which in their subtle tints and shades turned the smoke of battle into a mist and great armies into the figures of a reverie; and, in a little bookcase made of ivory taken from the unicorn, were to be found the first editions of perfect sonnets, of so intricate a structure and such purity of diction that all who read them felt themselves in love.

      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.