Books: A House of Pomegranates
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Oscar Wilde >> A House of Pomegranates
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And his Soul answered him, 'Thou hast not forgotten that when thou
didst send me forth into the world thou gavest me no heart. Come,
let us go to another city, and make merry, for we have nine purses
of gold.'
But the young Fisherman took the nine purses of gold, and flung
them down, and trampled on them.
'Nay,' he cried, 'but I will have nought to do with thee, nor will
I journey with thee anywhere, but even as I sent thee away before,
so will I send thee away now, for thou hast wrought me no good.'
And he turned his back to the moon, and with the little knife that
had the handle of green viper's skin he strove to cut from his feet
that shadow of the body which is the body of the Soul.
Yet his Soul stirred not from him, nor paid heed to his command,
but said to him, 'The spell that the Witch told thee avails thee no
more, for I may not leave thee, nor mayest thou drive me forth.
Once in his life may a man send his Soul away, but he who receiveth
back his Soul must keep it with him for ever, and this is his
punishment and his reward.'
And the young Fisherman grew pale and clenched his hands and cried,
'She was a false Witch in that she told me not that.'
'Nay,' answered his Soul, 'but she was true to Him she worships,
and whose servant she will be ever.'
And when the young Fisherman knew that he could no longer get rid
of his Soul, and that it was an evil Soul and would abide with him
always, he fell upon the ground weeping bitterly.
And when it was day the young Fisherman rose up and said to his
Soul, 'I will bind my hands that I may not do thy bidding, and
close my lips that I may not speak thy words, and I will return to
the place where she whom I love has her dwelling. Even to the sea
will I return, and to the little bay where she is wont to sing, and
I will call to her and tell her the evil I have done and the evil
thou hast wrought on me.'
And his Soul tempted him and said, 'Who is thy love, that thou
shouldst return to her? The world has many fairer than she is.
There are the dancing-girls of Samaris who dance in the manner of
all kinds of birds and beasts. Their feet are painted with henna,
and in their hands they have little copper bells. They laugh while
they dance, and their laughter is as clear as the laughter of
water. Come with me and I will show them to thee. For what is
this trouble of thine about the things of sin? Is that which is
pleasant to eat not made for the eater? Is there poison in that
which is sweet to drink? Trouble not thyself, but come with me to
another city. There is a little city hard by in which there is a
garden of tulip-trees. And there dwell in this comely garden white
peacocks and peacocks that have blue breasts. Their tails when
they spread them to the sun are like disks of ivory and like gilt
disks. And she who feeds them dances for their pleasure, and
sometimes she dances on her hands and at other times she dances
with her feet. Her eyes are coloured with stibium, and her
nostrils are shaped like the wings of a swallow. From a hook in
one of her nostrils hangs a flower that is carved out of a pearl.
She laughs while she dances, and the silver rings that are about
her ankles tinkle like bells of silver. And so trouble not thyself
any more, but come with me to this city.'
But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but closed his lips
with the seal of silence and with a tight cord bound his hands, and
journeyed back to the place from which he had come, even to the
little bay where his love had been wont to sing. And ever did his
Soul tempt him by the way, but he made it no answer, nor would he
do any of the wickedness that it sought to make him to do, so great
was the power of the love that was within him.
And when he had reached the shore of the sea, he loosed the cord
from his hands, and took the seal of silence from his lips, and
called to the little Mermaid. But she came not to his call, though
he called to her all day long and besought her.
And his Soul mocked him and said, 'Surely thou hast but little joy
out of thy love. Thou art as one who in time of death pours water
into a broken vessel. Thou givest away what thou hast, and nought
is given to thee in return. It were better for thee to come with
me, for I know where the Valley of Pleasure lies, and what things
are wrought there.'
But the young Fisherman answered not his Soul, but in a cleft of
the rock he built himself a house of wattles, and abode there for
the space of a year. And every morning he called to the Mermaid,
and every noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake
her name. Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor
in any place of the sea could he find her though he sought for her
in the caves and in the green water, in the pools of the tide and
in the wells that are at the bottom of the deep.
And ever did his Soul tempt him with evil, and whisper of terrible
things. Yet did it not prevail against him, so great was the power
of his love.
And after the year was over, the Soul thought within himself, 'I
have tempted my master with evil, and his love is stronger than I
am. I will tempt him now with good, and it may be that he will
come with me.'
So he spake to the young Fisherman and said, 'I have told thee of
the joy of the world, and thou hast turned a deaf ear to me.
Suffer me now to tell thee of the world's pain, and it may be that
thou wilt hearken. For of a truth pain is the Lord of this world,
nor is there any one who escapes from its net. There be some who
lack raiment, and others who lack bread. There be widows who sit
in purple, and widows who sit in rags. To and fro over the fens go
the lepers, and they are cruel to each other. The beggars go up
and down on the highways, and their wallets are empty. Through the
streets of the cities walks Famine, and the Plague sits at their
gates. Come, let us go forth and mend these things, and make them
not to be. Wherefore shouldst thou tarry here calling to thy love,
seeing she comes not to thy call? And what is love, that thou
shouldst set this high store upon it?'
But the young Fisherman answered it nought, so great was the power
of his love. And every morning he called to the Mermaid, and every
noon he called to her again, and at night-time he spake her name.
Yet never did she rise out of the sea to meet him, nor in any place
of the sea could he find her, though he sought for her in the
rivers of the sea, and in the valleys that are under the waves, in
the sea that the night makes purple, and in the sea that the dawn
leaves grey.
And after the second year was over, the Soul said to the young
Fisherman at night-time, and as he sat in the wattled house alone,
'Lo! now I have tempted thee with evil, and I have tempted thee
with good, and thy love is stronger than I am. Wherefore will I
tempt thee no longer, but I pray thee to suffer me to enter thy
heart, that I may be one with thee even as before.'
'Surely thou mayest enter,' said the young Fisherman, 'for in the
days when with no heart thou didst go through the world thou must
have much suffered.'
'Alas!' cried his Soul, 'I can find no place of entrance, so
compassed about with love is this heart of thine.'
'Yet I would that I could help thee,' said the young Fisherman.
And as he spake there came a great cry of mourning from the sea,
even the cry that men hear when one of the Sea-folk is dead. And
the young Fisherman leapt up, and left his wattled house, and ran
down to the shore. And the black waves came hurrying to the shore,
bearing with them a burden that was whiter than silver. White as
the surf it was, and like a flower it tossed on the waves. And the
surf took it from the waves, and the foam took it from the surf,
and the shore received it, and lying at his feet the young
Fisherman saw the body of the little Mermaid. Dead at his feet it
was lying.
Weeping as one smitten with pain he flung himself down beside it,
and he kissed the cold red of the mouth, and toyed with the wet
amber of the hair. He flung himself down beside it on the sand,
weeping as one trembling with joy, and in his brown arms he held it
to his breast. Cold were the lips, yet he kissed them. Salt was
the honey of the hair, yet he tasted it with a bitter joy. He
kissed the closed eyelids, and the wild spray that lay upon their
cups was less salt than his tears.
And to the dead thing he made confession. Into the shells of its
ears he poured the harsh wine of his tale. He put the little hands
round his neck, and with his fingers he touched the thin reed of
the throat. Bitter, bitter was his joy, and full of strange
gladness was his pain.
The black sea came nearer, and the white foam moaned like a leper.
With white claws of foam the sea grabbled at the shore. From the
palace of the Sea-King came the cry of mourning again, and far out
upon the sea the great Tritons blew hoarsely upon their horns.
'Flee away,' said his Soul, 'for ever doth the sea come nigher, and
if thou tarriest it will slay thee. Flee away, for I am afraid,
seeing that thy heart is closed against me by reason of the
greatness of thy love. Flee away to a place of safety. Surely
thou wilt not send me without a heart into another world?'
But the young Fisherman listened not to his Soul, but called on the
little Mermaid and said, 'Love is better than wisdom, and more
precious than riches, and fairer than the feet of the daughters of
men. The fires cannot destroy it, nor can the waters quench it. I
called on thee at dawn, and thou didst not come to my call. The
moon heard thy name, yet hadst thou no heed of me. For evilly had
I left thee, and to my own hurt had I wandered away. Yet ever did
thy love abide with me, and ever was it strong, nor did aught
prevail against it, though I have looked upon evil and looked upon
good. And now that thou art dead, surely I will die with thee
also.'
And his Soul besought him to depart, but he would not, so great was
his love. And the sea came nearer, and sought to cover him with
its waves, and when he knew that the end was at hand he kissed with
mad lips the cold lips of the Mermaid, and the heart that was
within him brake. And as through the fulness of his love his heart
did break, the Soul found an entrance and entered in, and was one
with him even as before. And the sea covered the young Fisherman
with its waves.
And in the morning the Priest went forth to bless the sea, for it
had been troubled. And with him went the monks and the musicians,
and the candle-bearers, and the swingers of censers, and a great
company.
And when the Priest reached the shore he saw the young Fisherman
lying drowned in the surf, and clasped in his arms was the body of
the little Mermaid. And he drew back frowning, and having made the
sign of the cross, he cried aloud and said, 'I will not bless the
sea nor anything that is in it. Accursed be the Sea-folk, and
accursed be all they who traffic with them. And as for him who for
love's sake forsook God, and so lieth here with his leman slain by
God's judgment, take up his body and the body of his leman, and
bury them in the corner of the Field of the Fullers, and set no
mark above them, nor sign of any kind, that none may know the place
of their resting. For accursed were they in their lives, and
accursed shall they be in their deaths also.'
And the people did as he commanded them, and in the corner of the
Field of the Fullers, where no sweet herbs grew, they dug a deep
pit, and laid the dead things within it.
And when the third year was over, and on a day that was a holy day,
the Priest went up to the chapel, that he might show to the people
the wounds of the Lord, and speak to them about the wrath of God.
And when he had robed himself with his robes, and entered in and
bowed himself before the altar, he saw that the altar was covered
with strange flowers that never had been seen before. Strange were
they to look at, and of curious beauty, and their beauty troubled
him, and their odour was sweet in his nostrils. And he felt glad,
and understood not why he was glad.
And after that he had opened the tabernacle, and incensed the
monstrance that was in it, and shown the fair wafer to the people,
and hid it again behind the veil of veils, he began to speak to the
people, desiring to speak to them of the wrath of God. But the
beauty of the white flowers troubled him, and their odour was sweet
in his nostrils, and there came another word into his lips, and he
spake not of the wrath of God, but of the God whose name is Love.
And why he so spake, he knew not.
And when he had finished his word the people wept, and the Priest
went back to the sacristy, and his eyes were full of tears. And
the deacons came in and began to unrobe him, and took from him the
alb and the girdle, the maniple and the stole. And he stood as one
in a dream.
And after that they had unrobed him, he looked at them and said,
'What are the flowers that stand on the altar, and whence do they
come?'
And they answered him, 'What flowers they are we cannot tell, but
they come from the corner of the Fullers' Field.' And the Priest
trembled, and returned to his own house and prayed.
And in the morning, while it was still dawn, he went forth with the
monks and the musicians, and the candle-bearers and the swingers of
censers, and a great company, and came to the shore of the sea, and
blessed the sea, and all the wild things that are in it. The Fauns
also he blessed, and the little things that dance in the woodland,
and the bright-eyed things that peer through the leaves. All the
things in God's world he blessed, and the people were filled with
joy and wonder. Yet never again in the corner of the Fullers'
Field grew flowers of any kind, but the field remained barren even
as before. Nor came the Sea-folk into the bay as they had been
wont to do, for they went to another part of the sea.
THE STAR-CHILD
[TO MISS MARGOT TENNANT--MRS. ASQUITH]
Once upon a time two poor Woodcutters were making their way home
through a great pine-forest. It was winter, and a night of bitter
cold. The snow lay thick upon the ground, and upon the branches of
the trees: the frost kept snapping the little twigs on either side
of them, as they passed: and when they came to the Mountain-
Torrent she was hanging motionless in air, for the Ice-King had
kissed her.
So cold was it that even the animals and the birds did not know
what to make of it.
'Ugh!' snarled the Wolf, as he limped through the brushwood with
his tail between his legs, 'this is perfectly monstrous weather.
Why doesn't the Government look to it?'
'Weet! weet! weet!' twittered the green Linnets, 'the old Earth is
dead and they have laid her out in her white shroud.'
'The Earth is going to be married, and this is her bridal dress,'
whispered the Turtle-doves to each other. Their little pink feet
were quite frost-bitten, but they felt that it was their duty to
take a romantic view of the situation.
'Nonsense!' growled the Wolf. 'I tell you that it is all the fault
of the Government, and if you don't believe me I shall eat you.'
The Wolf had a thoroughly practical mind, and was never at a loss
for a good argument.
'Well, for my own part,' said the Woodpecker, who was a born
philosopher, 'I don't care an atomic theory for explanations. If a
thing is so, it is so, and at present it is terribly cold.'
Terribly cold it certainly was. The little Squirrels, who lived
inside the tall fir-tree, kept rubbing each other's noses to keep
themselves warm, and the Rabbits curled themselves up in their
holes, and did not venture even to look out of doors. The only
people who seemed to enjoy it were the great horned Owls. Their
feathers were quite stiff with rime, but they did not mind, and
they rolled their large yellow eyes, and called out to each other
across the forest, 'Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo! what
delightful weather we are having!'
On and on went the two Woodcutters, blowing lustily upon their
fingers, and stamping with their huge iron-shod boots upon the
caked snow. Once they sank into a deep drift, and came out as
white as millers are, when the stones are grinding; and once they
slipped on the hard smooth ice where the marsh-water was frozen,
and their faggots fell out of their bundles, and they had to pick
them up and bind them together again; and once they thought that
they had lost their way, and a great terror seized on them, for
they knew that the Snow is cruel to those who sleep in her arms.
But they put their trust in the good Saint Martin, who watches over
all travellers, and retraced their steps, and went warily, and at
last they reached the outskirts of the forest, and saw, far down in
the valley beneath them, the lights of the village in which they
dwelt.
So overjoyed were they at their deliverance that they laughed
aloud, and the Earth seemed to them like a flower of silver, and
the Moon like a flower of gold.
Yet, after that they had laughed they became sad, for they
remembered their poverty, and one of them said to the other, 'Why
did we make merry, seeing that life is for the rich, and not for
such as we are? Better that we had died of cold in the forest, or
that some wild beast had fallen upon us and slain us.'
'Truly,' answered his companion, 'much is given to some, and little
is given to others. Injustice has parcelled out the world, nor is
there equal division of aught save of sorrow.'
But as they were bewailing their misery to each other this strange
thing happened. There fell from heaven a very bright and beautiful
star. It slipped down the side of the sky, passing by the other
stars in its course, and, as they watched it wondering, it seemed
to them to sink behind a clump of willow-trees that stood hard by a
little sheepfold no more than a stone's-throw away.
'Why! there is a crook of gold for whoever finds it,' they cried,
and they set to and ran, so eager were they for the gold.
And one of them ran faster than his mate, and outstripped him, and
forced his way through the willows, and came out on the other side,
and lo! there was indeed a thing of gold lying on the white snow.
So he hastened towards it, and stooping down placed his hands upon
it, and it was a cloak of golden tissue, curiously wrought with
stars, and wrapped in many folds. And he cried out to his comrade
that he had found the treasure that had fallen from the sky, and
when his comrade had come up, they sat them down in the snow, and
loosened the folds of the cloak that they might divide the pieces
of gold. But, alas! no gold was in it, nor silver, nor, indeed,
treasure of any kind, but only a little child who was asleep.
And one of them said to the other: 'This is a bitter ending to our
hope, nor have we any good fortune, for what doth a child profit to
a man? Let us leave it here, and go our way, seeing that we are
poor men, and have children of our own whose bread we may not give
to another.'
But his companion answered him: 'Nay, but it were an evil thing to
leave the child to perish here in the snow, and though I am as poor
as thou art, and have many mouths to feed, and but little in the
pot, yet will I bring it home with me, and my wife shall have care
of it.'
So very tenderly he took up the child, and wrapped the cloak around
it to shield it from the harsh cold, and made his way down the hill
to the village, his comrade marvelling much at his foolishness and
softness of heart.
And when they came to the village, his comrade said to him, 'Thou
hast the child, therefore give me the cloak, for it is meet that we
should share.'
But he answered him: 'Nay, for the cloak is neither mine nor
thine, but the child's only,' and he bade him Godspeed, and went to
his own house and knocked.
And when his wife opened the door and saw that her husband had
returned safe to her, she put her arms round his neck and kissed
him, and took from his back the bundle of faggots, and brushed the
snow off his boots, and bade him come in.
But he said to her, 'I have found something in the forest, and I
have brought it to thee to have care of it,' and he stirred not
from the threshold.
'What is it?' she cried. 'Show it to me, for the house is bare,
and we have need of many things.' And he drew the cloak back, and
showed her the sleeping child.
'Alack, goodman!' she murmured, 'have we not children of our own,
that thou must needs bring a changeling to sit by the hearth? And
who knows if it will not bring us bad fortune? And how shall we
tend it?' And she was wroth against him.
'Nay, but it is a Star-Child,' he answered; and he told her the
strange manner of the finding of it.
But she would not be appeased, but mocked at him, and spoke
angrily, and cried: 'Our children lack bread, and shall we feed
the child of another? Who is there who careth for us? And who
giveth us food?'
'Nay, but God careth for the sparrows even, and feedeth them,' he
answered.
'Do not the sparrows die of hunger in the winter?' she asked. 'And
is it not winter now?'
And the man answered nothing, but stirred not from the threshold.
And a bitter wind from the forest came in through the open door,
and made her tremble, and she shivered, and said to him: 'Wilt
thou not close the door? There cometh a bitter wind into the
house, and I am cold.'
'Into a house where a heart is hard cometh there not always a
bitter wind?' he asked. And the woman answered him nothing, but
crept closer to the fire.
And after a time she turned round and looked at him, and her eyes
were full of tears. And he came in swiftly, and placed the child
in her arms, and she kissed it, and laid it in a little bed where
the youngest of their own children was lying. And on the morrow
the Woodcutter took the curious cloak of gold and placed it in a
great chest, and a chain of amber that was round the child's neck
his wife took and set it in the chest also.
So the Star-Child was brought up with the children of the
Woodcutter, and sat at the same board with them, and was their
playmate. And every year he became more beautiful to look at, so
that all those who dwelt in the village were filled with wonder,
for, while they were swarthy and black-haired, he was white and
delicate as sawn ivory, and his curls were like the rings of the
daffodil. His lips, also, were like the petals of a red flower,
and his eyes were like violets by a river of pure water, and his
body like the narcissus of a field where the mower comes not.
Yet did his beauty work him evil. For he grew proud, and cruel,
and selfish. The children of the Woodcutter, and the other
children of the village, he despised, saying that they were of mean
parentage, while he was noble, being sprang from a Star, and he
made himself master over them, and called them his servants. No
pity had he for the poor, or for those who were blind or maimed or
in any way afflicted, but would cast stones at them and drive them
forth on to the highway, and bid them beg their bread elsewhere, so
that none save the outlaws came twice to that village to ask for
alms. Indeed, he was as one enamoured of beauty, and would mock at
the weakly and ill-favoured, and make jest of them; and himself he
loved, and in summer, when the winds were still, he would lie by
the well in the priest's orchard and look down at the marvel of his
own face, and laugh for the pleasure he had in his fairness.
Often did the Woodcutter and his wife chide him, and say: 'We did
not deal with thee as thou dealest with those who are left
desolate, and have none to succour them. Wherefore art thou so
cruel to all who need pity?'
Often did the old priest send for him, and seek to teach him the
love of living things, saying to him: 'The fly is thy brother. Do
it no harm. The wild birds that roam through the forest have their
freedom. Snare them not for thy pleasure. God made the blind-worm
and the mole, and each has its place. Who art thou to bring pain
into God's world? Even the cattle of the field praise Him.'
But the Star-Child heeded not their words, but would frown and
flout, and go back to his companions, and lead them. And his
companions followed him, for he was fair, and fleet of foot, and
could dance, and pipe, and make music. And wherever the Star-Child
led them they followed, and whatever the Star-Child bade them do,
that did they. And when he pierced with a sharp reed the dim eyes
of the mole, they laughed, and when he cast stones at the leper
they laughed also. And in all things he ruled them, and they
became hard of heart even as he was.
Now there passed one day through the village a poor beggar-woman.
Her garments were torn and ragged, and her feet were bleeding from
the rough road on which she had travelled, and she was in very evil
plight. And being weary she sat her down under a chestnut-tree to
rest.
But when the Star-Child saw her, he said to his companions, 'See!
There sitteth a foul beggar-woman under that fair and green-leaved
tree. Come, let us drive her hence, for she is ugly and ill-
favoured.'
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