T
was the birthday of the Infanta. She was just twelve years of
age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens of the palace.
Although she was a real Princess
and the Infanta of Spain, she had only one birthday every year,
just like the children of quite poor people, so it was naturally
a matter of great importance to the whole country that she should
have a really fine day for the occasion. And a really fine day
it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon
their stalks, like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly
across the grass at the roses, and said: 'We are quite as splendid
as you are now.' The purple butterflies fluttered about with
gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn; the little
lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking
in the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with
the heat, and showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale
yellow lemons, that hung in such profusion from the mouldering
trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to have caught a richer
colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees opened
their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the
air with a sweet heavy perfume.
The little Princess herself walked
up and down the terrace with her companions, and played at hide
and seek round the stone vases and the old moss-grown statues.
On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with children of
her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday
was an exception, and the King had given orders that she was
to invite any of her young friends whom she liked to come and
amuse themselves with her. There was a stately grace about these
slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys with their
large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding
up the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the
sun from their eyes with huge fans of black and silver. But the
Infanta was the most graceful of all, and the most tastefully
attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of the day. Her
robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves
heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded
with rows of fine pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes
peeped out beneath her dress as she walked. Pink and pearl was
her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which like an aureole of
faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she
had a beautiful white rose.
From a window in the palace the
sad melancholy King watched them. Behind him stood his brother,
Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his confessor, the Grand
Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even than usual
was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with childish
gravity to the assembling counters, or laughing behind her fan
at the grim Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her,
he thought of the young Queen, her mother, who but a short time
before so it seemed to him had
come from the gay country of France, and had withered away in
the sombre splendour of the Spanish court, dying just six months
after the birth of her child, and before she had seen the almonds
blossom twice in the orchard, or plucked the second year's fruit
from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood in the centre of the
now grass-grown courtyard. So great had been his love for her
that he had not suffered even the grave to hide her from him.
She had been embalmed by a Moorish physician, who in return for
this service had been granted his life, which for heresy and
suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited, men
said, to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its
tapestried bier in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just
as the monks had borne her in on that windy March day nearly
twelve years before. Once every month the King, wrapped in a
dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand, went in and
knelt by her side calling out, 'Mi reina! Mi reina!' and
sometimes breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain
governs every separate action of life, and sets limits even to
the sorrow of a King, he would clutch at the pale jewelled hands
in a wild agony of grief, and try to wake by his mad kisses the
cold painted face.
Today he seemed to see her again,
as he had seen her first at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when
he was but fifteen years of age, and she still younger. They
had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal Nuncio
in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he
had returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet
of yellow hair, and the memory of two childish lips bending down
to kiss his hand as he stepped into his carriage. Later on had
followed the marriage, hastily performed at Burgos, a small town
on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand public
entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass
at the Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn auto-da-fé,
in which nearly three hundred heretics, amongst whom were many
Englishmen, had been delivered over to the secular arm to be
burned.
Certainly he had loved her madly,
and to the ruin, many thought, of his country, then at war with
England for the possession of the empire of the New World. He
had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his sight; for her,
he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave affairs
of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings
upon its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate
ceremonies by which he sought to please her did but aggravate
the strange malady from which she suffered. When she died he
was, for a time, like one bereft of reason. Indeed, there is
no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired
to the great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already
titular Prior, had he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta
at the mercy of his brother, whose cruelty, even in Spain, was
notorious, and who was suspected by many of having caused the
Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he had
presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in
Aragon. Even after the expiration of the three years of public
mourning that he had ordained throughout his whole dominions
by royal edict, he would never suffer his ministers to speak
about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to
him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia,
his niece, in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master
that the King of Spain was already wedded to Sorrow, and that
though she was but a barren bride he loved her better than Beauty;
an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces of the Netherlands,
which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted against
him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.
His whole married life, with
its fierce, fiery-coloured joys and the terrible agony of its
sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day as he watched
the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's pretty
petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head,
the same proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile
vrai sourire de France indeed as she glanced
up now and then at the window, or stretched out her little hand
for the stately Spanish gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter
of the children grated on his ears, and the bright pitiless sunlight
mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange spices, spices
such as embalmers use, seemed to taint or was
it fancy? the clear morning air. He buried his
face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked up again the curtains
had been drawn, and the King had retired.
She made a little moue
of disappointment, and shrugged her shoulders. Surely he might
have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the stupid State-affairs
matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the candles
were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter?
How silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody
was so happy! Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for
which the trumpet was already sounding, to say nothing of the
puppet-show and the other wonderful things. Her uncle and the
Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on
the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her
pretty head, and taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly
down the steps towards a long pavilion of purple silk that had
been erected at the end of the garden, the other children following
in strict order of precedence, those who had the longest names
going first.
A procession of noble boys, fantastically
dressed as toreadors, came out to meet her, and the young
Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen
years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born
hidalgo and grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little
gilt and ivory chair that was placed on a raised dais above the
arena. The children grouped themselves all round, fluttering
their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro and
the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the
Duchess the Camerera-Mayor as she was called
a thin, hard-featured woman with a yellow ruff, did not look
quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill smile
flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless
lips.
It certainly was a marvellous
bull-fight, and much nicer, the Infanta thought, than the real
bull-fight that she had been brought to see at Seville, on the
occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father. Some
of the boys pranced about on richly- caparisoned hobby-horses
brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of bright ribands
attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet cloaks
before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he
charged them; and as for the bull himself, he was just like a
live bull, though he was only made of wicker-work and stretched
hide, and sometimes insisted on running round the arena on his
hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He made a
splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that
they stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs
and cried out: Bravo toro! Bravo toro! just as sensibly
as if they had been grown-up people. At last, however, after
a prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses
were gored through and through, and, their riders dismounted,
the young Count of Tierra-Nueva brought the bull to his knees,
and having obtained permission from the Infanta to give the coup
de grace, he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the
animal with such violence that the head came right off, and disclosed
the laughing face of little Monsieur de Lorraine, the son of
the French Ambassador at Madrid.
The arena was then cleared amidst
much applause, and the dead hobbyhorses dragged solemnly away
by two Moorish pages in yellow and black liveries, and after
a short interlude, during which a French posture-master performed
upon the tightrope, some Italian puppets appeared in the semi-classical
tragedy of Sophonisba on the stage of a small theatre
that had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and
their gestures were so extremely natural, that at the close of
the play the eyes of the Infanta were quite dim with tears. Indeed
some of the children really cried, and had to be comforted with
sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected
that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to
him intolerable that things made simply out of wood and coloured
wax, and worked mechanically by wires, should be so unhappy and
meet with such terrible misfortunes.
An African juggler followed,
who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red cloth,
and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from
his turban a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few
moments the cloth began to move, and as the pipe grew shriller
and shriller two green and gold snakes put out their strange
wedge-shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro with
the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however,
were rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting
tongues, and were much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny
orange-tree grow out of the sand and bear pretty white blossoms
and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the fan of the little
daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a
blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight
and amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed
by the dancing boys from the church of Nuestra Senora Del Pilar,
was charming. The Infanta had never before seen this wonderful
ceremony which takes place every year at Maytime in front of
the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and indeed none
of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral
of Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been
in the pay of Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a
poisoned wafer to the Prince of the Asturias. So she had known
only by hearsay of 'Our Lady's Dance,' as it was called, and
it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned
court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered
hats were fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes
of ostrich feathers, the dazzling whiteness of their costumes,
as they moved about in the sunlight, being still more accentuated
by their swarthy faces and long black hair. Everybody was fascinated
by the grave dignity with which they moved through the intricate
figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow
gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their
performance and doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta,
she acknowledged their reverence with much courtesy, and made
a vow that she would send a large wax candle to the shrine of
Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given
her.
A troop of handsome Egyptians
as the gipsies were termed in those days then
advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a circle,
began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies
to the tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy
air. When they caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him,
and some of them looked terrified, for only a few weeks before
he had had two of their tribe hanged for sorcery in the market-place
at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as she leaned
back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they
felt sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel
to anybody. So they played on very gently and just touching the
cords of the zithers with their long pointed nails, and their
heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep. Suddenly,
with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and
Don Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger,
they leapt to their feet and whirled madly round the enclosure
beating their tambourines, and chaunting some wild love-song
in their strange guttural language. Then at another signal they
all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there quite
still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound
that broke the silence. After that they had done this several
times, they disappeared for a moment and came back leading a
brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on their shoulders
some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the
utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing
tricks with two gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and
fought with tiny swords, and fired off guns, and went through
a regular soldier's drill just like the King's own bodyguard.
In fact the gipsies were a great success.
But the funniest part of the
whole morning's entertainment, was undoubtedly the dancing of
the little Dwarf. When he stumbled into the arena, waddling on
his crooked legs and wagging his huge misshapen head from side
to side, the children went off into a loud shout of delight,
and the Infanta herself laughed so much that the Camerera was
obliged to remind her that although there were many precedents
in Spain for a King's daughter weeping before her equals, there
were none for a Princess of the blood royal making so merry before
those who were her inferiors in birth. The Dwarf, however, was
really quite irresistible, and even at the Spanish Court, always
noted for its cultivated passion for the horrible, so fantastic
a little monster had never been seen. It was his first appearance,
too. He had been discovered only the day before, running wild
through the forest, by two of the nobles who happened to have
been hunting in a remote part of the great cork-wood that surrounded
the town, and had been carried off by them to the Palace as a
surprise for the Infanta; his father, who was a poor charcoal-burner,
being but too well pleased to get rid of so ugly and useless
a child. Perhaps the most amusing thing about him was his complete
unconsciousness of his own grotesque appearance. Indeed he seemed
quite happy and full of the highest spirits. When the children
laughed, he laughed as freely and as joyously as any of them,
and at the close of each dance he made them each the funniest
of bows, smiling and nodding at them just as if he was really
one of themselves, and not a little misshapen thing that Nature,
in some humourous mood, had fashioned for others to mock at.
As for the Infanta, she absolutely fascinated him. He could not
keep his eyes off her, and seemed to dance for her alone, and
when at the close of the performance, remembering how she had
seen the great ladies of the Court throw bouquets to Caffarelli,
the famous Italian treble, whom the Pope had sent from his own
chapel to Madrid that he might cure the King's melancholy by
the sweetness of his voice, she took out of her hair the beautiful
white rose, and partly for a jest and partly to tease the Camerera,
threw it to him across the arena with her sweetest smile, he
took the whole matter quite seriously, and pressing the flower
to his rough coarse lips he put his hand upon his heart, and
sank on one knee before her, grinning from ear to ear, and with
his little bright eyes sparkling with pleasure.
This so upset the gravity of
the Infanta that she kept on laughing long after the little Dwarf
had ran out of the arena, and expressed a desire to her uncle
that the dance should be immediately repeated. The Camerera,
however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it
would be better that her Highness should return without delay
to the Palace, where a wonderful feast had been already prepared
for her, including a real birthday cake with her own initials
worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely silver flag
waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much
dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to
dance again for her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her
thanks to the young Count of Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception,
she went back to her apartments, the children following in the
same order in which they had entered.
Now when the little Dwarf heard
that he was to dance a second time before the Infanta, and by
her own express command, he was so proud that he ran out into
the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of pleasure,
and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.
The Flowers were quite indignant
at his daring to intrude into their beautiful home, and when
they saw him capering up and down the walks, and waving his arms
above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could not restrain
their feelings any longer.
'He is really far too ugly to
be allowed to play in any place where we are,' cried the Tulips.
'He should drink poppy-juice,
and go to sleep for a thousand years,' said the great scarlet
Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.
'He is a perfect horror!' screamed
the Cactus. 'Why, he is twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely
out of proportion with his legs. Really he makes me feel prickly
all over, and if he comes near me I will sting him with my thorns.'
'And he has actually got one
of my best blooms,' exclaimed the White Rose-Tree. 'I gave it
to the Infanta this morning myself, as a birthday present, and
he has stolen it from her.' And she called out: 'Thief, thief,
thief!' at the top of her voice.
Even the red Geraniums, who did
not usually give themselves airs, and were known to have a great
many poor relations themselves, curled up in disgust when they
saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though he
was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they
retorted with a good deal of justice that that was his chief
defect, and that there was no reason why one should admire a
person because he was incurable; and, indeed, some of the Violets
themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was almost
ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste
if he had looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping
about merrily, and throwing himself into such grotesque and silly
attitudes.
As for the old Sundial, who was
an extremely remarkable individual, and had once told the time
of day to no less a person than the Emperor Charles V. himself,
he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf's appearance, that
he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long shadowy
finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock,
who was sunning herself on the balustrade, that every one knew
that the children of Kings were Kings, and that the children
of charcoal-burners were charcoal-burners, and that it was absurd
to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with which the Peacock
entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, 'Certainly, certainly,'
in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in
the basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out
of the water, and asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth
was the matter.
But somehow the Birds liked him.
They had seen him often in the forest, dancing about like an
elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up in the hollow of
some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They
did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale
herself, who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that
sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen, was not much to look
at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to them, and during
that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the
trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had
come down to the very gates of the city to look for food, he
had never once forgotten them, but had always given them crumbs
out of his little hunch of black bread, and divided with them
whatever poor breakfast he had.
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 monstre. 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
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Oscar Wilde Collection