"Once upon a time there was a king."
When we were children there was no need to know who the king in the
fairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or
Shaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made a
seven-year-old boy's heart go thump, thump with delight was this one
sovereign truth; this reality of all realities: "Once there was a king."
But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting.
When they hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical and
suspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze
and ask: "Which king?"
The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no
longer content with the old indefinite, "There was a king," but assume
instead a look of profound learning, and begin: "Once there was a king
named Ajatasatru,"
The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He
blinks at the author through his scientific spectacles, and asks again:
"Which Ajatasatru?"
"Every schoolboy knows," the author proceeds, "that there were three
Ajatasatrus. The first was born in the twentieth century B.C., and died
at the tender age of two years and eight months, I deeply regret that it
is impossible to find, from any trustworthy source, a detailed account
of his reign. The second Ajatasatru is better known to historians. If
you refer to the new Encyclopedia of History...."
By this time the modern reader's suspicions are dissolved. He feels he
may safely trust his author. He says to himself: "Now we shall have a
story that is both improving and instructive."
Ah! how we all love to be deluded! We have a secret dread of being
thought ignorant. And we end by being ignorant after all, only we have
done it in a long and roundabout way.
There is an English proverb; "Ask me no questions, and I will tell you
no lies." The boy of seven who is listening to a fairy story understands
that perfectly well; he withholds his questions, while the story is
being told. So the pure and beautiful falsehood of it all remains naked
and innocent as a babe; transparent as truth itself; limpid as afresh
bubbling spring. But the ponderous and learned lie of our moderns has
to keep its true character draped and veiled. And if there is discovered
anywhere the least little peep-hole of deception, the reader turns away
with a prudish disgust, and the author is discredited.
When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect
the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never
cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth. And
our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace of
Truth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write pages
of facts, while the truth is simply this:
"There was a king."
I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began.
The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was
flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope,
which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the veranda
looking down the lane, with a heart beating faster and faster. Every
minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to grow less
I prayed with all my might; "Please, God, send some more rain till
half-past seven is over." For I was quite ready to believe that there
was no other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy one
evening in one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his tutor.
If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser law
of physical nature, the rain did not give up.
But, alas! nor did my teacher.
Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approaching
umbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heart
collapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the crime after death,
then my tutor will be born again as me, and I shall be born as my tutor.
As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother's
room. My mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one another
playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flung
myself on the bed beside my mother, and said:
"Mother dear, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache;
couldn't I have no lessons today?"
I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story,
and I sincerely trust it will not be used in text-books or primers for
schools. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I received no punishment
whatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with success.
My mother said to me: "All right," and turning to the servant added:
"Tell the tutor that he can go back home."
It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious, as
she went on with her game as before, and took no further notice. And I
also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We
perfectly understood one another, my mother and I.
But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to
keep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute I
got hold of Grandmother, and said: "Grannie, do tell me a story."
I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards,
and took no notice. At last Mother said to me: "Child, don't bother.
Wait till we've finished our game." But I persisted: "Grannie, do tell
me a story." I told Mother she could finish her game to-morrow, but she
must let Grannie tell me a story there and then.
At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do what
he wants. I can't manage him." Perhaps she had it in her mind that she
would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged to
be back to those stupid lessons.
As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold
of her hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito
curtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands
in my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got a
little quieter, said: "Now, Grannie, let' s have the story!"
Grannie went on: "And the king had a queen." That was good to begin
with. He had only one.
It is usual for kings in fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. And
whenever we hear that there are two queens, our hearts begin to sink.
One is sure to be unhappy. But in Grannie's story that danger was past.
He had only one queen.
We next hear that the king had not got any son. At the age of seven I
didn't think there was any need to bother if a man had had no son. He
might only have been in the way. Nor are we greatly excited when we hear
that the king has gone away into the forest to practise austerities in
order to get a son. There was only one thing that would have made me go
into the forest, and that was to get away from my tutor!
But the king left behind with his queen a small girl, who grew up into a
beautiful princess.
Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practising austerities, and
never thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess has
reached the full bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed, but
the king does not return. And the queen pines away with grief and cries:
"Is my golden daughter destined to die unmarried? Ah me! What a fate is
mine."
Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to come
back for a single night and take one meal in the palace. And the king
consented.
The queen cooked with her own hand, and with the greatest care,
sixty-four dishes, and made a seat for him of sandal-wood, and arranged
the food in plates of gold and cups of silver. The princess stood behind
with the peacock-tail fan in her hand. The king, after twelve years'
absence, came into the house, and the princess waved the fan, lighting
up all the room with her beauty. The king looked in his daughter's face,
and forgot to take his food.
At last he asked his queen: "Pray, who is this girl whose beauty shines
as the gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she?"
The queen beat her forehead, and cried: "Ah, how evil is my fate! Do
you not know your own daughter?"
The king was struck with amazement. He said at last; "My tiny daughter
has grown to be a woman."
"What else?" the queen said with a sigh. "Do you not know that twelve
years have passed by?"
"But why did you not give her in marriage?" asked the king.
"You were away," the queen said. "And how could I find her a suitable
husband?"
The king became vehement with excitement. "The first man I see
to-morrow," he said, "when I come out of the palace shall marry her."
The princess went on waving her fan of peacock feathers, and the king
finished his meal.
The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of
a Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His
age was about seven or eight.