Books: A House of Pomegranates
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Oscar Wilde >> A House of Pomegranates
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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.
THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL
[TO H.S.H. ALICE, PRINCESS OF MONACO]
Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw
his nets into the water.
When the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little
at best, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves
rose up to meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish
came in from the deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he
took them to the market-place and sold them.
Every evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was
so heavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he
laughed, and said to himself, 'Surely I have caught all the fish
that swim, or snared some dull monster that will be a marvel to
men, or some thing of horror that the great Queen will desire,' and
putting forth all his strength, he tugged at the coarse ropes till,
like lines of blue enamel round a vase of bronze, the long veins
rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin ropes, and nearer and
nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net rose at last to
the top of the water.
But no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror,
but only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.
Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a
thread of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white
ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was
her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like
sea-shells were her ears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The
cold waves dashed over her cold breasts, and the salt glistened
upon her eyelids.
So beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was
filled with wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close
to him, and leaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And
when he touched her, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull, and
woke, and looked at him in terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and
struggled that she might escape. But he held her tightly to him,
and would not suffer her to depart.
And when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she
began to weep, and said, 'I pray thee let me go, for I am the only
daughter of a King, and my father is aged and alone.'
But the young Fisherman answered, 'I will not let thee go save thou
makest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and
sing to me, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-
folk, and so shall my nets be full.'
'Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?' cried
the Mermaid.
'In very truth I will let thee go,' said the young Fisherman.
So she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of
the Sea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she
sank down into the water, trembling with a strange fear.
Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called
to the Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him.
Round and round her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled
above her head.
And she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who
drive their flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves
on their shoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and
hairy breasts, and blow through twisted conchs when the King passes
by; of the palace of the King which is all of amber, with a roof of
clear emerald, and a pavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens
of the sea where the great filigrane fans of coral wave all day
long, and the fish dart about like silver birds, and the anemones
cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon in the ribbed yellow
sand. She sang of the big whales that come down from the north
seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the Sirens
who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop
their ears with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the
water and be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall masts,
and the frozen sailors clinging to the rigging, and the mackerel
swimming in and out of the open portholes; of the little barnacles
who are great travellers, and cling to the keels of the ships and
go round and round the world; and of the cuttlefish who live in the
sides of the cliffs and stretch out their long black arms, and can
make night come when they will it. She sang of the nautilus who
has a boat of her own that is carved out of an opal and steered
with a silken sail; of the happy Mermen who play upon harps and can
charm the great Kraken to sleep; of the little children who catch
hold of the slippery porpoises and ride laughing upon their backs;
of the Mermaids who lie in the white foam and hold out their arms
to the mariners; and of the sea-lions with their curved tusks, and
the sea-horses with their floating manes.
And as she sang, all the tunny-fish came in from the deep to listen
to her, and the young Fisherman threw his nets round them and
caught them, and others he took with a spear. And when 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.
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