Everybody was very kind to the poor little Prince. I think people
generally are kind to motherless children, whether princes or peasants.
He had a magnificent nursery, and a regular suite of attendants, and
was treated with the greatest respect and state. Nobody was allowed to
talk to him in silly baby language, or dandle him, or above all to kiss
him, though, perhaps, some people did it surreptitiously, for he was
such a sweet baby that it was difficult to help it.
It could not be said that the Prince missed his mother; children of
his age cannot do that; but somehow after she died everything seemed
to go wrong with him. From a beautiful baby he became sickly and pale,
seeming to have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which
had been so fat and strong. But after the day of his christening they
withered and shrank; he no longer kicked them out either in passion or
play, and when, as he got to be nearly a year old, his nurse tried to
make him stand upon them, he only tumbled down.
This happened so many times that at last people began to talk about it.
A prince, and not able to stand on his own legs! What a dreadful thing!
what a misfortune for the country!
Rather a misfortune to him also, poor little boy! but nobody seemed to
think of that. And when, after a while, his health revived, and the
old bright look came back to his sweet little face, and his body grew
larger and stronger, though still his legs remained the same, people
continued to speak of him in whispers, and with grave shakes of the
head. Everybody knew, though nobody said it, that something, impossible
to guess what, was not quite right with the poor little Prince.
Of course, nobody hinted this to the King his father: it does not do to
tell great people anything unpleasant. And besides, his Majesty took
very little notice of his son, or of his other affairs, beyond the
necessary duties of his kingdom. People had said he would not miss the
Queen at all, she having been so long an invalid: but he did. After
her death he never was quite the same. He established himself in her
empty rooms, the only rooms in the palace whence one could see the
Beautiful Mountains, and was often observed looking at them as if he
thought she had flown away thither, and that his longing could bring
her back again. And by a curious coincidence, which nobody dared to
inquire into, he desired that the Prince might be called, not by any
of the four-and-twenty grand names given him by his godfathers and
godmothers, but by the identical name mentioned by the little old woman
in grey,--Dolor, after his mother Dolorez.
Once a week, according to established state custom, the Prince, dressed
in his very best, was brought to the King his father for half-an-hour,
but his Majesty was generally too ill and too melancholy to pay much
heed to the child.
Only once, when he and the Crown Prince, who was exceedingly attentive
to his royal brother, were sitting together, with Prince Dolor playing
in a corner of the room, dragging himself about with his arms rather
than his legs, and sometimes trying feebly to crawl from one chair to
another, it seemed to strike the father that all was not right with his
son.
"How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to the nurse.
"Two years, three months, and five days, please your Majesty."
[Illustration: _"How old is his Royal Highness?" said he suddenly to
the nurse._]
"It does not please me," said the King with a sigh. "He ought to be far
more forward than he is now, ought he not, brother? You, who have so
many children, must know. Is there not something wrong about him?"
"Oh, no," said the Crown Prince, exchanging meaning looks with the
nurse, who did not understand at all, but stood frightened and
trembling with the tears in her eyes. "Nothing to make your Majesty at
all uneasy. No doubt his Royal Highness will outgrow it in time."
"Outgrow--what?"
"A slight delicacy--ahem!--in the spine; something inherited, perhaps,
from his dear mother."
"Ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweetest woman that ever
lived. Come here, my little son."
And as the Prince turned round upon his father a small, sweet, grave
face--so like his mother's--his Majesty the King smiled and held out
his arms. But when the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but
wriggling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance clouded
over.
"I ought to have been told of this. It is terrible--terrible! And for a
prince, too! Send for all the doctors in my kingdom immediately."
They came, and each gave a different opinion, and ordered a different
mode of treatment. The only thing they agreed in was what had been
pretty well known before: that the prince must have been hurt when he
was an infant--let fall, perhaps, so as to injure his spine and lower
limbs. Did nobody remember?
No, nobody. Indignantly, all the nurses denied that any such accident
had happened, was possible to have happened, until the faithful country
nurse recollected that it really had happened, on the day of the
christening. For which unluckily good memory all the others scolded her
so severely that she had no peace of her life, and soon after, by the
influence of the young lady nurse who had carried the baby that fatal
day, and who was a sort of connection of the Crown Prince, being his
wife's second cousin once removed, the poor woman was pensioned off,
and sent to the Beautiful Mountains, from whence she came, with orders
to remain there for the rest of her days.
But of all this the King knew nothing, for, indeed, after the first
shock of finding out that his son could not walk, and seemed never
likely to walk, he interfered very little concerning him. The whole
thing was too painful, and his Majesty had never liked painful things.
Sometimes he inquired after Prince Dolor, and they told him his Royal
Highness was going on as well as could be expected, which really was
the case. For after worrying the poor child and perplexing themselves
with one remedy after another, the Crown Prince, not wishing to offend
any of the differing doctors, had proposed leaving him to nature; and
nature, the safest doctor of all, had come to his help, and done her
best. He could not walk, it is true; his limbs were mere useless
additions to his body; but the body itself was strong and sound. And
his face was the same as ever--just his mother's face, one of the
sweetest in the world!
Even the King, indifferent as he was, sometimes looked at the little
fellow with sad tenderness, noticing how cleverly he learned to crawl,
and swing himself about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he
was as active in motion as most children of his age.
"Poor little man! he does his best, and he is not unhappy; not half
so unhappy as I, brother," addressing the Crown Prince, who was more
constant than ever in his attendance upon the sick monarch. "If
anything should befall me, I have appointed you as Regent. In case of
my death, you will take care of my poor little boy?"
"Certainly, certainly; but do not let us imagine any such misfortune. I
assure your Majesty--everybody will assure you--that it is not in the
least likely."
He knew, however, and everybody knew, that it was likely, and soon
after it actually did happen. The King died, as suddenly and quietly
as the Queen had done--indeed, in her very room and bed; and Prince
Dolor was left without either father or mother--as sad a thing as could
happen, even to a Prince.
He was more than that now, though. He was a king. In Nomansland, as in
other countries, the people were struck with grief one day and revived
the next. "The king is dead--long live the king!" was the cry that rang
through the nation, and almost before his late Majesty had been laid
beside the queen in their splendid mausoleum, crowds came thronging
from all parts of the royal palace, eager to see the new monarch.
They did see him--the Prince Regent took care they should--sitting
on the floor of the council-chamber, sucking his thumb! And when
one of the gentlemen-in-waiting lifted him up and carried him--fancy,
carrying a king!--to the chair of state, and put the crown on his head,
he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncomfortable. Sliding down
to the foot of the throne, he began playing with the golden lions that
supported it, stroking their paws and putting his tiny fingers into
their eyes, and laughing--laughing as if he had at last found something
to amuse him.
"There's a fine king for you!" said the first lord-in-waiting, a friend
of the Prince Regent's (the Crown Prince that used to be, who, in the
deepest mourning, stood silently beside the throne of his young nephew.
He was a handsome man, very grand and clever looking). "What a king!
who can never stand to receive his subjects, never walk in processions,
who, to the last day of his life, will have to be carried about like a
baby. Very unfortunate!"
"Exceedingly unfortunate," repeated the second lord. "It is always bad
for a nation when its king is a child; but such a child--a permanent
cripple, if not worse."
"Let us hope not worse," said the first lord in a very hopeless tone,
and looking towards the Regent, who stood erect and pretended to
hear nothing. "I have heard that these sort of children with very
large heads and great broad foreheads and staring eyes, are----well,
well, let us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst. In the
meantime----"
"I swear," said the Crown Prince, coming forward and kissing the hilt
of his sword--"I swear to perform my duties as regent, to take all
care of his Royal Highness--his Majesty, I mean," with a grand bow to
the little child, who laughed innocently back again. "And I will do
my humble best to govern the country. Still, if the country has the
slightest objection----" But the Crown Prince being generalissimo, and
having the whole army at his beck and call, so that he could have begun
a civil war in no time; the country had, of course, not the slightest
objection.
So the king and queen slept together in peace, and Prince Dolor reigned
over the land--that is, his uncle did; and everybody said what a
fortunate thing it was for the poor little Prince to have such a clever
uncle to take care of him. All things went on as usual; indeed, after
the Regent had brought his wife and her seven sons, and established
them in the palace, rather better than usual. For they gave such
splendid entertainments and made the capital so lively, that trade
revived, and the country was said to be more flourishing than it had
been for a century.
Whenever the Regent and his sons appeared, they were received with
shouts--"Long live the Crown Prince!" "Long live the Royal family!"
And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole seven of them,
and made a great show when they rode out together on seven beautiful
horses, one height above another, down to the youngest, on his tiny
black pony, no bigger than a large dog.
[Illustration: "_And, in truth, they were very fine children, the whole
seven of them._"]
[Illustration: "_They made a great show when they rode out together on
seven beautiful horses._"]
As for the other child, his Royal Highness Prince Dolor--for somehow
people soon ceased to call him his Majesty, which seemed such a
ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple, with
only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of--he was seen very seldom
by anybody.
Sometimes, people daring enough to peer over the high wall of the
palace garden, noticed there, carried in a footman's arms, or drawn in
a chair, or left to play on the grass, often with nobody to mind him, a
pretty little boy, with a bright intelligent face, and large melancholy
eyes--no, not exactly melancholy, for they were his mother's, and she
was by no means sad-minded, but thoughtful and dreamy. They rather
perplexed people, those childish eyes; they were so exceedingly
innocent and yet so penetrating. If anybody did a wrong thing, told
a lie for instance, they would turn round with such a grave silent
surprise--the child never talked much--that every naughty person in the
palace was rather afraid of Prince Dolor.
He could not help it, and perhaps he did not even know it, being no
better a child than many other children, but there was something about
him which made bad people sorry, and grumbling people ashamed of
themselves, and ill-natured people gentle and kind. I suppose, because
they were touched to see a poor little fellow who did not in the least
know what had befallen him, or what lay before him, living his baby
life as happy as the day was long. Thus, whether or not he was good
himself, the sight of him and his affliction made other people good,
and, above all, made everybody love him. So much so, that his uncle the
Regent began to feel a little uncomfortable.
Now, I have nothing to say against uncles in general. They are usually
very excellent people, and very convenient to little boys and girls.
Even the "cruel uncle" of "The Babes in the Wood" I believe to be quite
an exceptional character. And this "cruel uncle" of whom I am telling
was, I hope, an exception too.
He did not mean to be cruel. If anybody had called him so, he would
have resented it extremely: he would have said that what he did was
done entirely for the good of the country. But he was a man who
had been always accustomed to consider himself first and foremost,
believing that whatever he wanted was sure to be right, and, therefore,
he ought to have it. So he tried to get it, and got it too, as people
like him very often do. Whether they enjoy it when they have it, is
another question.
Therefore, he went one day to the council-chamber, determined on making
a speech and informing the ministers and the country at large that
the young King was in failing health, and that it would be advisable
to send him for a time to the Beautiful Mountains. Whether he really
meant to do this; or whether it occurred to him afterwards that there
would be an easier way of attaining his great desire, the crown of
Nomansland, is a point which I cannot decide.
But soon after, when he had obtained an order in council to send the
King away--which was done in great state, with a guard of honour
composed of two whole regiments of soldiers--the nation learnt, without
much surprise, that the poor little Prince--nobody ever called him king
now--had gone on a much longer journey than to the Beautiful Mountains.
He had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours; at least, so
declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent
to take care of him. They brought his coffin back in great state, and
buried it in the mausoleum with his parents.
So Prince Dolor was seen no more. The country went into deep mourning
for him, and then forgot him, and his uncle reigned in his stead. That
illustrious personage accepted his crown with great decorum, and wore
it with great dignity, to the last. But whether he enjoyed it or not,
there is no evidence to show.