“Happy as a king.” How far kings are happy I cannot say, no more than
could Prince Dolor, though he had once been a king himself. But he
remembered nothing about it, and there was nobody to tell him, except
his nurse, who had been forbidden upon pain of death to let him know
anything about his dead parents, or the king his uncle, or indeed any
part of his own history.
Sometimes he speculated about himself, whether he had had a father and
mother as other little boys had what they had been like, and why he
had never seen them. But, knowing nothing about them, he did not miss
them--only once or twice, reading pretty stories about little children
and their mothers, who helped them when they were in difficulty and
comforted them when they were sick, he feeling ill and dull and lonely,
wondered what had become of his mother and why she never came to see
him.
Then, in his history lessons, of course he read about kings and princes,
and the governments of different countries, and the events that happened
there. And though he but faintly took in all this, still he did take
it in a little, and worried his young brain about it, and perplexed
his nurse with questions, to which she returned sharp and mysterious
answers, which only set him thinking the more.
He had plenty of time for thinking. After his last journey in the
traveling-cloak, the journey which had given him so much pain, his
desire to see the world somehow faded away. He contented himself with
reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening
to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and
never left him again.
True, it kept out of the way; and though his nurse sometimes dimly heard
it, and said “What is that horrid noise outside?” she never got the
faintest chance of making it into a lark pie. Prince Dolor had his pet
all to himself, and though he seldom saw it, he knew it was near him,
and he caught continually, at odd hours of the day, and even in the
night, fragments of its delicious song.
All during the winter--so far as there ever was any difference between
summer and winter in Hopeless Tower--the little bird cheered and amused
him. He scarcely needed anything more--not even his traveling-cloak,
which lay bundled up unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its innumerable
knots.
Nor did his godmother come near him. It seemed as if she had given these
treasures and left him alone--to use them or lose them, apply them or
misapply them, according to his own choice. That is all we can do with
children when they grow into big children old enough to distinguish
between right and wrong, and too old to be forced to do either.
Prince Dolor was now quite a big boy. Not tall--alas! he never could be
that, with his poor little shrunken legs, which were of no use, only an
encumbrance. But he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders,
and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost like
a monkey. As if in compensation for his useless lower limbs, Nature
had given to these extra strength and activity. His face, too, was very
handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his
childhood--his mother's own face.
How his mother would have liked to look at him! Perhaps she did--who
knows?
The boy was not a stupid boy either. He could learn almost anything he
chose--and he did choose, which was more than half the battle. He never
gave up his lessons till he had learned them all--never thought it a
punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of
trouble sometimes.
“But,” thought he, “men work, and it must be so grand to be a man--a
prince too; and I fancy princes work harder than anybody--except kings.
The princes I read about generally turn into kings. I wonder”--the
boy was always wondering--“Nurse,”--and one day he startled her with a
sudden question,--“tell me--shall I ever be a king?”
The woman stood, perplexed beyond expression. So long a time had passed
by since her crime--if it were a crime--and her sentence, that she now
seldom thought of either. Even her punishment--to be shut up for life in
Hopeless Tower--she had gradually got used to. Used also to the little
lame Prince, her charge--whom at first she had hated, though she
carefully did everything to keep him alive, since upon him her own life
hung.
But latterly she had ceased to hate him, and, in a sort of way, almost
loved him--at least, enough to be sorry for him--an innocent child,
imprisoned here till he grew into an old man, and became a dull,
worn-out creature like herself. Sometimes, watching him, she felt more
sorry for him than even for herself; and then, seeing she looked a less
miserable and ugly woman, he did not shrink from her as usual.
He did not now. “Nurse--dear nurse,” said he, “I don't mean to vex you,
but tell me what is a king? shall I ever be one?”
When she began to think less of herself and more of the child, the
woman's courage increased. The idea came to her--what harm would it be,
even if he did know his own history? Perhaps he ought to know it--for
there had been various ups and downs, usurpations, revolutions, and
restorations in Nomansland, as in most other countries. Something might
happen--who could tell? Changes might occur. Possibly a crown would
even yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls--which she began to think
prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary coronet upon them.
She sat down, considering whether her oath, never to “say a word” to
Prince Dolor about himself, would be broken if she were to take a
pencil and write what was to be told. A mere quibble--a mean, miserable
quibble. But then she was a miserable woman, more to be pitied than
scorned.
After long doubt, and with great trepidation, she put her fingers to her
lips, and taking the Prince's slate--with the sponge tied to it, ready
to rub out the writing in a minute--she wrote:
“You are a king.”
Prince Dolor started. His face grew pale, and then flushed all over; he
held himself erect. Lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be
a king.
“Hush!” said the nurse, as he was beginning to speak. And then, terribly
frightened all the while,--people who have done wrong always are
frightened,--she wrote down in a few hurried sentences his history. How
his parents had died--his uncle had usurped his throne, and sent him to
end his days in this lonely tower.
“I, too,” added she, bursting into tears. “Unless, indeed, you could get
out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man. And fight for
me also, my Prince, that I may not die in this desolate place.”
“Poor old nurse!” said the boy compassionately. For somehow, boy as he
was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man--like a
king--who could afford to be tender because he was strong.
He scarcely slept that night, and even though he heard his little lark
singing in the sunrise, he barely listened to it. Things more serious
and important had taken possession of his mind.
“Suppose,” thought he, “I were to do as she says, and go out in the
world, no matter how it hurts me--the world of people, active people, as
that boy I saw. They might only laugh at me--poor helpless creature that
I am; but still I might show them I could do something. At any rate, I
might go and see if there were anything for me to do. Godmother, help
me!”
It was so long since he had asked her help that he was hardly surprised
when he got no answer--only the little lark outside the window sang
louder and louder, and the sun rose, flooding the room with light.
Prince Dolor sprang out of bed, and began dressing himself, which was
hard work, for he was not used to it--he had always been accustomed to
depend upon his nurse for everything.
“But I must now learn to be independent,” thought he. “Fancy a king
being dressed like a baby!”
So he did the best he could,--awkwardly but cheerily,--and then he
leaped to the corner where lay his traveling-cloak, untied it as before,
and watched it unrolling itself--which it did rapidly, with a hearty
good-will, as if quite tired of idleness. So was Prince Dolor--or felt
as if he were. He jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was
out through the skylight immediately.
“Good-by, pretty lark!” he shouted, as he passed it on the wing, still
warbling its carol to the newly risen sun. “You have been my pleasure,
my delight; now I must go and work. Sing to old nurse till I come back
again. Perhaps she'll hear you--perhaps she won't--but it will do her
good all the same. Good-by!”
But, as the cloak hung irresolute in air, he suddenly remembered that he
had not determined where to go--indeed, he did not know, and there was
nobody to tell him.
“Godmother,” he cried, in much perplexity, “you know what I want,--at
least, I hope you do, for I hardly do myself--take me where I ought to
go; show me whatever I ought to see--never mind what I like to see,”
as a sudden idea came into his mind that he might see many painful and
disagreeable things. But this journey was not for pleasure as before. He
was not a baby now, to do nothing but play--big boys do not always play.
Nor men neither--they work. Thus much Prince Dolor knew--though very
little more.
As the cloak started off, traveling faster than he had ever known it to
do,--through sky-land and cloud land, over freezing mountain-tops, and
desolate stretches of forest, and smiling cultivated plains, and great
lakes that seemed to him almost as shoreless as the sea,--he was often
rather frightened. But he crouched down, silent and quiet; what was the
use of making a fuss? and, wrapping himself up in his bear-skin, waited
for what was to happen.
After some time he heard a murmur in the distance, increasing more
and more till it grew like the hum of a gigantic hive of bees. And,
stretching his chin over the rim of his cloak, Prince Dolor saw--far,
far below him, yet, with his gold spectacles and silver ears on, he
could distinctly hear and see--what?
Most of us have some time or other visited a great metropolis--have
wandered through its network of streets--lost ourselves in its crowds
of people--looked up at its tall rows of houses, its grand public
buildings, churches, and squares. Also, perhaps, we have peeped into its
miserable little back alleys, where dirty children play in gutters all
day and half the night--even young boys go about picking pockets, with
nobody to tell them it is wrong except the policeman, and he simply
takes them off to prison. And all this wretchedness is close behind the
grandeur--like the two sides of the leaf of a book.
An awful sight is a large city, seen any how from any where. But,
suppose you were to see it from the upper air, where, with your eyes
and ears open, you could take in everything at once? What would it look
like? How would you feel about it? I hardly know myself. Do you?
Prince Dolor had need to be a king--that is, a boy with a kingly
nature--to be able to stand such a sight without being utterly overcome.
But he was very much bewildered--as bewildered as a blind person who is
suddenly made to see.
He gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his
eyes.
“I can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful--so dreadful. And I
don't understand it--not one bit. There is nobody to tell me about it. I
wish I had somebody to speak to.”
“Do you? Then pray speak to me. I was always considered good at
conversation.”
The voice that squeaked out this reply was an excellent imitation of the
human one, though it came only from a bird. No lark this time, however,
but a great black and white creature that flew into the cloak, and began
walking round and round on the edge of it with a dignified stride, one
foot before the other, like any unfeathered biped you could name.
“I haven't the honor of your acquaintance, sir,” said the boy politely.
“Ma'am, if you please. I am a mother bird, and my name is Mag, and I
shall be happy to tell you everything you want to know. For I know a
great deal; and I enjoy talking. My family is of great antiquity; we
have built in this palace for hundreds--that is to say, dozens of years.
I am intimately acquainted with the king, the queen, and the little
princes and princesses--also the maids of honor, and all the inhabitants
of the city. I talk a good deal, but I always talk sense, and I daresay
I should be exceedingly useful to a poor little ignorant boy like you.”
“I am a prince,” said the other gently.
“All right. And I am a magpie. You will find me a most respectable
bird.”
“I have no doubt of it,” was the polite answer--though he thought in his
own mind that Mag must have a very good opinion of herself. But she was
a lady and a stranger, so of course he was civil to her.
She settled herself at his elbow, and began to chatter away, pointing
out with one skinny claw, while she balanced herself on the other, every
object of interest, evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants
did, that there was no capital in the world like the great metropolis of
Nomansland.
I have not seen it, and therefore cannot describe it, so we will just
take it upon trust, and suppose it to be, like every other fine city,
the finest city that ever was built. Mag said so--and of course she
knew.
Nevertheless, there were a few things in it which surprised Prince
Dolor--and, as he had said, he could not understand them at all. One
half the people seemed so happy and busy--hurrying up and down the full
streets, or driving lazily along the parks in their grand carriages,
while the other half were so wretched and miserable.
“Can't the world be made a little more level? I would try to do it if I
were a king.”
“But you're not the king: only a little goose of a boy,” returned the
magpie loftily. “And I'm here not to explain things, only to show them.
Shall I show you the royal palace?”
It was a very magnificent palace. It had terraces and gardens,
battlements and towers. It extended over acres of ground, and had in
it rooms enough to accommodate half the city. Its windows looked in all
directions, but none of them had any particular view--except a small
one, high up toward the roof, which looked out on the Beautiful
Mountains. But since the queen died there it had been closed, boarded
up, indeed, the magpie said. It was so little and inconvenient that
nobody cared to live in it. Besides, the lower apartments, which had no
view, were magnificent--worthy of being inhabited by the king.
“I should like to see the king,” said Prince Dolor.