The Young King
By Oscar Wilde
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.
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