A wise old philosopher was walking through the park with a young man
and his true love when they came upon a beautiful statue of a Nereid.
"Come here," he said to the youth, "and touch this statue." The young
man put his hand on the statue's arm and felt of it closely, though
he did not seem surprised at what he found. "Now the girl," the old
man continued; so the lover also felt of his girlfriend's arm, in the
same way. "And now," the man said, "tell me what you have learned."
"I'm not sure," the young man began. "The statue is hard and cold;
the girl is warm and soft. Her flesh yields when I press; the marble
does not."
"You have learned well," concluded the philosopher, "and if each of
you remembers and lives by these truths, you will have a happy
life together."
How Sir Philo Married a Beautiful Princess
Instead of the Woman He Loved
Once upon a time--and it had to be pretty long ago, as you will
see--there lived a bunch of people in a little inland kingdom. The
king, Cleon the Modest, was basically a good fellow, though he was
not known for his brilliance in government. Instead, he was known
chiefly for his glowing and nubile daughter, Jennifrella, a girl,
though proud and a trifle petulant, so freighted with beauty and
charms that pretty much every bachelor--and not a few married
men--in the kingdom dreamed about her, whether awake or asleep.
Truly, she maketh my pen tremble even as I write this.
Now Cleon was desirous of marrying off this legendary beauty as soon
as possible so that he could be free of the constant entreaties for
her hand, free of the frequent bills for supplying her dressing table,
and free to spend more time in his rose garden, which he truly loved.
The king would have had little trouble choosing the richest suitor in
the kingdom for his daughter, except that there were no exceptionally
wealthy bachelors in the realm, and those of modest wealth all had
castles and money boxes of essentially similar dimensions.
For her part, the Princess Jennifrella was repletely enamored of Sir
Fassade, a handsome, dashing, suave, carefree young knight who most
people, when they faced reality, agreed would almost certainly become
her husband and therefore the next king.
King Cleon, however, was desirous of exercising his regal authority
in having a say in who would follow him on the throne. And faced
with what he clearly saw was an impossible number of choices, he
therefore sought the opinion of his favorite advisor, the young Sir
Philo. Now, persons of a cynical bent might begin to think that Sir
Philo, an eligible bachelor himself and not at all impervious to
feminine gorgeousness, would argue craftily that he himself was the
most suitable and worthy candidate. This might have been so but for
two equally powerful reasons. First, Sir Philo, brave, skilled, and
thoughtful, was a man of integrity who would never abuse his position
as the king's advisor to advance his own interests, even in a matter
so emotionally and biologically compelling as that before us. The
other reason is that Sir Philo was already in love with another. It
was a gentle love, like a deep river, quiet and calm on the surface
but fully substantial and powerful in its flow.
His happiness, the Lady Lucinda, though not of outward visage the
equal of Jennifrella, was handsome enough for the young knight's
daydreams. When asked what attracted him to Lucinda, he would answer
ambiguously or mutter something about the light in her eyes. What
joy he got sitting with her under a tree in the bright spring, gazing
upon her and dallying with her fingers or brushing a love-sick gnat
from her collar. But what really twirled Sir Philo's cuff links was
Lucinda's wit, her laugh, her playfulness. He relished taking the
sprightly maid hand in hand on long walks, listening to the music of
her voice and to the sentiments accompanying the music. How he loved
to play with her tresses, or when her hair was up, to steal up behind
her and kiss her unexpectedly on the back of the neck: for she would
invariably produce a little shriek of surprise and delight and
embarrassment, and then turning to him, her cheeks glowing
irresistibly, attempt to glare and call him "monster," only to spoil
her mock anger by bursting into giggles or even outright laughter.
She would chide him and call him "rogue," and "impertinent," and he
would say something like, "I'll put a stop to this abuse," and then
their lips, who were old friends by now, would once again meet for
fellowship. Of course, Lucinda would struggle just enough to
enhance the enjoyment, until laughter or an unexpected visitor broke
their embrace.
Well, enough mush. The point is that an unspoken understanding had
developed between them so that only a few months after the rest of
the kingdom knew it, they realized that they would one day wed and
together laugh and cry through the years until death should wake them.
But to return to the weightier problem of King Cleon. Upon being
asked for his advice, Sir Philo recommended that the king choose from
among the following options. One, his majesty could choose the wisest
and most just suitor for Jennifrella, for such a man would not only
make a good king, but he would most likely be a decent husband, too.
Or secondly, the king might seek a foreign alliance and marry his
daughter to another king's son. This was an alternative which Sir
Philo did not recommend, but mentioned only for the sake of
completeness. And finally, the last possibility would be to let
Jennifrella choose for herself--in which case, everyone knew that
Sir Fassade would be the next king, and he, opined Sir Philo, would
be "acceptable," producing a government no worse than the current
one. (Since I have already described the king's advisor as
"thoughtful," I shall now add "tactful" and note that the final
participial phrase of the previous sentence was thought but not
uttered by the knight.) As for the kind of husband Sir Fassade would
make, the princess would have no one to blame but herself.
King Cleon thought the matter over not quite long enough and decided
to hold an archery contest, the winner of which would marry his
daughter. The degree of Sir Philo's consternation is not recorded
in the annals from which I am plagiarizing, but one may suppose that
it was substantial, for reasons which will hereinafter appear.
Needless to say (except to make the story longer and extend the
reader's pleasure), Sir Philo made energetic protests, which
eventually descended to rather pathetic entreaties, all in a
futile attempt to change the king's mind. But King Cleon would
not be dissuaded, and so the news was soon heralded throughout the
kingdom, and, as you might suppose, arrow sales shot up immediately
and remarkably.
As when a child pounds the ground near an anthill, causing a good
many of the residents instantly to surface and run around in massed
panic, so on the day of the contest the world arrived in a swarm at
the castle of Cleon the Modest and prepared to be a witness, if not
the victor, in the winning of Jennifrella.
There were several dozen contenders in the contest, some quite
accomplished archers, some more or less dilettantish, and quite a
few whose skills put the spectators at random hazard. Amid the
noise and enthusiasm on this day stood a grim and silent Sir Philo,
deeply troubled about the proceedings for three reasons. First,
strictly from a philosophical standpoint, a shooting contest was
a completely irrational method of choosing either a spouse or a
future king, and irrationality like this always troubled the
young knight.
Second, though Sir Fassade was a very good shot, capable of
satisfactorily humiliating most of the other contestants, he was no
match for Sir Bargle. If they used the word then, I would have to
exaggerate only slightly to say that Sir Bargle was, as they say in
French, or maybe don't, a jerque. He punctuated nearly every
sentence with an oath or a belch, constantly leered at the ladies
in waiting (who knew all too well to keep a safe distance from him),
and those who attended carefully to his speech noted that the word
he used more than any other was "me." In a word (or fourteen,
actually), Sir Bargle was a man unlikely to put his personal
appetites in second place. The prospect of this knight nuzzling
the hair or nibbling the earlobes of Jennifrella was in itself
sufficiently revulsive to Sir Philo; the prospect of his becoming
king was absolutely unthinkable.
The third reason that the king's advisor was grieved about the
"score ahead and wed" method of selecting the princess' groom was
that the only person in all the realm who could outshoot Sir Bargle
was--Sir Philo.
Prithee, talk not to me about psychic conflict--nay, psychic trauma,
for I have seen it here, and it is not gentle. Sir Philo traced and
retraced many steps around the castle grounds, without thought of
direction or destination, the movement of his feet and the tension
on his face reflecting the turmoil in his soul. At length, in his
anxiety, the brave knight turned to his lady love for succor and
advice, and she, with a swiftness that surprised him and a nobility
that made him love her more deeply than ever, told him that of course
he must put the interest of the kingdom above his personal happiness.
She then flew into his arms and burst into inconsolable sobbing for
longer than we have time to look in on.
The contest began and proceeded remarkably well, with only the loss
of a too-curious cow and a few luckless birds at the hands of the
less accomplished suitors. Sir Fassade shot well that day, achieving
a personal best. As each arrow hit, closer and closer toward the
middle of the target, it made the princess clap a little louder and
leap with joy a little higher. A smirk of self-congratulation soon
decorated Sir Fassade's handsome face.
A loud belch and a louder laugh announced the commencement of Sir
Bargle's shooting. As predicted by Sir Philo, Sir Bargle was an
excellent shot. As each arrow landed a good handbreadth closer to
the center of the target than any of those of Sir Fassade, the smiles
on the faces of the princess and her favorite knight grew less and
less until they had been completely replaced by somber looks on the
knight and what might be described as silent hysteria on the face of
the princess. The look on Sir Bargle's face at the conclusion of his
shooting is a little too carnal for me to describe.
As he shot his set of arrows, Sir Philo was forced more than once,
after he had fully drawn his bow, to pause, and to wait until a
little tremble--attributed by the crowd to nervousness and eagerness
to win Jennifrella--left his hands. As each arrow hit the target,
remarkably near the middle, it also pierced the very center of
Lucinda's heart. The young knight thought more than once about
letting an arrow fly wide of the target, but he did his duty,
though it brought grief to himself and devastation to the woman
he treasured.
Sir Philo's smile as he took the hand of the princess was obviously
forced, but no one noticed because Jennifrella was now bawling so
spectacularly that the crowd, though not at all wishing to be unkind,
found it, frankly, entertaining.
As it does for us all, time passed and life went on.
After a peculiar three years' delay, Lucinda finally made her choice
from among several good offers and moved with her new husband to a
remote part of the kingdom where it was reported that she was content,
though some said that the cooler climate had somewhat subdued her
well-known effervescence.
In the fullness of time, Sir Philo exchanged his sword for a crown
and ascended the throne. He ruled wisely and justly, and the kingdom
prospered. Hero that he was, he had mostly adjusted to the princess'
personality, reminding himself as occasion required (and occasion did
require), that not only had he acted for the good of the kingdom, but
he had wed great beauty and, eventually, personal power. He further
reminded himself that Jennifrella had made an adequate wife, even
after her face wrinkled and her tummy pudged, and that she had proved
to be a reasonable mother to his children. Whenever, in a moment of
inattention, he discovered himself pining to enjoy a witty remark or
some unguarded laughter, he quoted, hoping that it was true, the old
proverb that "we grow most not when something is given but when
something is taken away."
All in all, it was a reasonable life with much to be thankful for.
Jennifrella's joy was that Sir Philo, now King Philo, remained a
generous and loving husband even as her beauty faded; her only
regret was that Sir Fassade had married her younger and more amiable
sister, and both of them appeared to be altogether too happy.
Lucinda's joy was in her two lovely children, whom she took, once or
twice, to see the new king as he made a royal progress through their
village. Her only regret was that she could reveal only half her
heart as she told them what a good man he was. Sir Philo's joy was
that he had acted virtuously and now enjoyed a mostly pleasant life,
dispensing justice and mercy with care and humanity. His only regret
was that he had learned to shoot arrows.