in anguish.
“You, my son? What have you to do with this?” said his father, never
taking his eyes from the burning city.
“It’s my work!” cried the boy. “But I never dreamed of this! I set fire
to the shop, our shop, before I left,--to burn up all the black secrets
in my father’s house, and to kill Goolk the Spider, to kill him, kill
him, so that he would never get the Blind Bowler, nor any one else! So
that all the old riches and wickedness might be burned up forever! And
now, and now, I haven’t destroyed the Eyebrow, and I’ve burned up the
city! Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?”
“My son, my son,” said Babadag, quietly, never taking his eyes from the
burning city.
I recalled now the spark of fire I had seen through the window as we
had left the tailor’s shop that night.
The flames of the furnace below us shot higher and higher, and spread
wider and wider in every direction.
“The Book of the Shavian Magic,” said Babadag, as if to himself. “That
must be saved.”
He ran down the steps and started across the park.
“Father! father! where are you going?” cried Figli, but his father paid
no attention. The boy sped after him, and we others followed.
_The Tailor’s Son Follows Him into the Burning City_
Out at the park gate and down the hill ran Babadag, and straight into
the blazing ruin which was once his city. Nothing could stop him.
Flames roared on both sides of him; sparks showered around him; walls
toppled behind him; smoke swallowed him; but he kept on. We paused in
terror; only his little boy continued to follow him, calling to him to
come back.
A wall of flame shot out behind the running boy, and a house fell
crashing behind him into the street; and father and boy were no longer
to be seen.
I turned away, and leaving the eight tailors wailing, I made my way
with my daughter and my friend back to the palace; and there, on the
palace steps, we sat all night long, watching the great fire burn
itself out.
The sun rose on a city of smoking ruins; and with its first rays there
came plodding in through the park gate a blind man, who called aloud as
he reached the steps. It was the Blind Bowler.
“I am here,” said I, “Figli’s friend; and my daughter too, and the
governor whom once you tried to help. What news?”
“Ten strikes still lacking!” said the Blind Bowler. “But it makes no
difference now. Figli has saved me, and all the rest of us too. Come
with me.”
He led us out into the street and down into the city, where the
homeless people were standing as if bewildered. We came into the street
where once had been the shop of Babadag the Tailor. It was there no
longer; but by some chance there yet remained the wall which held the
doorway, and above it the yardstick and the shears; and across the sill
lay Figli, on his face.
_The Boy Is Found on the Sill of His Ruined Home, Alive_
My daughter ran to him and put her arm about him. He was alive, and he
shook his head and moaned, “I want my father. I want my father.”
“Yes,” said she, “your father. Is he--?”
“In there,” he whispered.
“Ah! He is--”
“Under the wall. I saw it fall on him. He is in there.”
“Oh, my poor boy!”
“I killed him. And all I wanted was to make him good.”
She put her arm under him and raised him, and he stood up.
“Come with me, dear boy,” said she.
“I can’t go away. I can’t leave him in there. Can’t you help me to see
him?”
“Not now, but later, perhaps. Come with me now, and we will talk of him
together.”
“He loved me, too. He did, didn’t he? And I killed him.”
“Yes, he did, he did. But you mustn’t say that you--”
“It wasn’t because I meant to harm him, was it? I wouldn’t have harmed
him, would I?”
“No, no. It was just because you loved him, that was all.”
“Yes, that was it. That was all it was.”
He suffered her to lead him away, and he said nothing more, but
repeated to himself, once or twice, “That was all it was.”
On my part, I spoke at length to the Blind Bowler, and gave him many
directions; and he, having received at my hands a purse of gold, for
use as I had instructed him, went his way; and we others then walked
slowly back to the palace, where we rested on the steps, waiting, and
Figli fell asleep with his head on my daughter’s shoulder.
When the sun was high in the east, people began to come in at the park
gate, and the Blind Bowler, his first duty done, joined us on the
palace steps. More people came, and the park began to be filled with
them; they came before long in a steady stream, and at length the park
was crowded with a great multitude, from the steps to the gate.
At a signal from myself, my party on the steps arose, and I addressed
the people of Oogh. I told them who I was, and how my skin had come to
be black; I told them that I was going away, and that their governor
was resolved to go with me; that I meant to leave a governor who would
help them rebuild their city, and lead them in the ways of goodness and
mercy; that the person whom I had selected for that office was the boy
known as Figli Babadag, whose soundness of heart was worth to them more
than the wisdom of years; and that such wisdom as was necessary would
be supplied by him who was called the Blind Bowler, a man who had known
how to be cheerful under affliction. And I asked them to say whether
they would have the boy Figli for their governor, and the Blind Bowler
for his aide.
A shout of approval went up from the multitude.
“And will you,” said I, turning to Figli, “lead these people in the
ways of goodness and mercy, and help them to forget?”
“If you think I can,” said Figli, standing up very straight, “I will
try.”
“And will you,” said I to the Blind Bowler, “keep faithfully at his
right hand, and never fail him?”
“That I will!” said the Blind Bowler. “Keep everlastingly at it, that’s
the motto!”
“The great King, my father,” said I, turning again to the people,
“will build your city ten times fairer than it was. I have given
directions for your help already, and food and shelter will soon be at
hand. Farewell! I leave you in the care of a blind man and a child! A
sound heart and a cheerful mind, my friends, are better than an army.
Farewell!”
The multitude shouted back farewell, and my friend Urban and myself
each kissed Figli on the cheek; but my daughter kissed him on both
cheeks and hugged him to her heart; and then we went down the steps,
leaving the pale and beautiful boy and the blind man alone, and passed
out across the park through a lane opened in the crowd, down into the
city toward the city gate.
_The Eight Tailors Stand Before Them in a Row_
As we came to the last street corner before reaching the city wall, my
daughter pulled forth a handful of figs from her pocket and divided
them laughingly with Urban and myself; and at that moment a party of
eight men filed solemnly from around the corner, and came to a stop
before us in a row. It was the eight tailors. They bowed gravely, and
the first one of them said:
“Excellency, we implore you to take pity upon us. Our master is gone,
our occupation is gone, we are friendless and alone; we can live no
longer in the city of Oogh.”
“What do you wish me to do?” said I.
“We beseech you to take us with you, to be your servants, your slaves,
anything. We can sew, we can knit, we can--”
“But I am going into exile,” said I. “I am going to hide my hideous
face from the eyes of the world.”
“Listen, most merciful one! It is known to us that the missing button
needs only to be sewn on the doublet by a tailor, with the proper
thread, in order that your skin may be white again. Nine tailors are
allowed for the trial, and here are eight!”
“But I have neither the button nor the thread.”
“No matter! We will search until we find them, or else turn black
ourselves in the trial. Have pity upon us, Prince!”
“Oh, father,” said my daughter, “do let the poor things come along with
us.”
“Very well,” said I, whereupon we walked on, and the eight tailors gave
a faint cheer and fell into line behind us.
_They Meet the Three Blind Ballad Singers for the Last Time_
As we passed through the city gate, a loud singing struck up just
outside the wall, and we beheld the three blind ballad singers, in
the midst of a dozen idlers, prancing up and down in their ridiculous
dance. They were shouting out one of their ballads, as follows:
“The peddler came, the peddler went, the peddler lost his pack,
He came in honest walnut brown, he went away in black,
And ‘Oh!’ said the peddler, ‘I cannot come again,
For out of buttons ten, oh! only nine remain,
Only nine remain,’--”
My daughter laughed aloud, and at the sound of her voice one of the
ballad singers cried out, “Ho! master blackface! Ballads or buttons,
what will you buy?”
The idlers laughed, and the other two vagabonds sang out:
“Ballads or buttons! Buy, master blackface! Ballads or buttons!”
“What will you give for a button?” shouted the first, and he held up in
my view a large ivory button, the identical one, beyond a doubt, which
was missing from the doublet.
“A fig for a button!” I said, and held out one of the figs in my hand.
“A button for a fig! A bargain!” cried the first ballad singer, and
taking the fig from me placed the button in my hand.
The idlers laughed at this nonsense, and we turned to go.
“Farewell, farewell!” cried the first ballad singer. “What do we say to
the breaker of hearts who forgets her promise to marry?” The other two
laughed, and began to sing.
We moved on down the road, followed by the tailors marching by fours,
and as we departed we heard behind us the voices of the blind ballad
singers for the last time, shouting out a song in this wise:
“She said that she wanted to marry all three,
Fiddle-de-dee! Fiddle-de-dee!
And it broke her heart that it could not be,
But ‘Oh!’ said she, ‘you must all agree
On one who shall be the fortunate he,
For only one can I marry!’
But oh! she would not wait to see,
And oh! she would not tarry,
For all that she said to the artless three
Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee,
Ah me!
Was nothing but fiddle-de-dee!”
[Illustration]
THE FOURTH NIGHT
THE RAGPICKER AND THE PRINCESS
_The Queen said, “Domino!” very sweetly, and smiled at the Second Lady
in Waiting, who was much chagrined._
_“I don’t see how I could have been so stupid,” said the Second Lady in
Waiting._
_“Indeed, my dear,” said the Queen, kindly, “I don’t think you were
nearly so stupid as usual.”_
_At this moment the Princess Dorobel, with Prince Bilbo and their son
Bojohn, and the latter’s friend Bodkin, came in from the throne room,
and the Princess Dorobel, standing behind the Queen’s chair, said:_
_“Mother, we are going to hear a story, and Bojohn insists that you--”_
_“Yes, grandmother!” said Bojohn. “We are going to ask Solario for
another story, and you must come along too.”_
_“Dear me,” said the Queen. “I must put away the dominoes first.”_
_She stacked them neatly in the box, one by one, and when this was done
she rose, and Bojohn took her arm and led her through the throne room
where the King was engaged at chess with the Lord Chamberlain._
_“My dear,” said the Queen to the King, “you had better come with us.
We are going to--”_
_“It makes no difference to me,” said the King. “You can have the
bishop if you want him. But I’ve got your queen! How do you like that?
It’s your move! Go on, why don’t you move?”_
_“It’s no use, grandmother,” said Bojohn. “Come along.”_
_They left the King at his game, and proceeded to the room of Solario
the Tailor in the tower. They were admitted by Solario himself._
_In the center of the room stood Mortimer the Executioner. He was
wearing an unfinished garment without any sleeves, fastened together
with pins, and basted with white thread along the seams. He looked
extremely foolish._
_“Oh!” said Solario, covered with confusion. “Pray come in, come in!
Her majesty herself! This is indeed an honor! I will find more chairs
in the next room. I am overpowered by this honor. Pray be seated, your
majesty. Mortimer, the fitting is postponed. Pray be seated, your
majesty. I do not know when I have received the honor of such a visit.
Pray be seated. Mortimer, bring in some chairs. I beg your majesty to
take the other chair; it is far more comfortable. Mortimer, divest
yourself; divest yourself.”_
_Mortimer, red with embarrassment, took off the unfinished garment and
put on his old one. Solario ran from chair to chair, assisting each of
the party to a seat._
_“We have come for a story,” said Prince Bilbo, “and I hope that you
will be so good as to--”_
_“We want to hear about Montesango’s Cave!” cried Bojohn._
_“Or the Blind Giant!” said Bodkin._
_“I beg your pardon,” said Solario, “perhaps her majesty would deign
to--”_
_“Ask him for Montesango’s Cave, grandmother!” cried Bojohn._
_“Dear me,” said the Queen, “I hardly know what to-- It’s a very
pleasant room you have here, Solario; do you ever play dominoes here?
Dear me!”_
_“I’ll tell you what I should like,” said the Princess Dorobel. “I
should like to hear how the goldsmith’s son won the Princess. Bojohn
has been telling us about Alb and the Princess Hyla, and I understand
there is a story, a love story--you know I dearly like love stories.”_
_“It isn’t precisely a love story,” said Solario, “but if her majesty
will permit me, I will--”_
_“Dear me, yes,” said the Queen. “A very comfortable room it is, to be
sure.”_
_Solario, after receiving the Queen’s permission to be seated, sat
himself cross-legged on his table, and all of the others, Mortimer the
Executioner, Bodkin, Prince Bilbo, Bojohn, the Princess Dorobel, and
the Queen, drew up their chairs before him in a row._
_“I will relate to you, seeing that you wish it,” said Solario, “the
story told me by Alb, the goldsmith’s son, regarding the winning of the
Princess Hyla. Shall I proceed?”_
_“I wish I had brought my knitting,” said the Queen, “but never mind.”_
_Solario picked up his shears, and gazing at them thoughtfully for a
moment, cleared his throat._
_“This, then,” said he, “is the story told me by Alb, regarding_
“THE RAGPICKER AND THE PRINCESS.”
When I was sixteen years old (said Alb the Fortunate) and my dear
Princess Hyla fourteen, the King, her father, sojourned for a time at
his castle of Ventamere, beside the sea; and you may be sure that the
Princess was with him there, for he could never bear to be parted from
her for a single day.
My father followed in the King’s train, and I, on my part, was not to
be left behind; and we lodged together, my father and myself, in the
town hard by the castle, where I saw the Princess every day, and daily
grew in favor with her father.
The windows of the King’s castle looked out across the Great Sea, and
beneath the windows of the Princess’s room the tide washed up and down
against the wall.
One evening, as it was growing dusk, and the moon was beginning to
tinge a wave here and there with silver, the Princess was leaning out
from her window and looking across the sea-- But what I am now to tell
you I did not know at the time, as you will understand, but only later.
Night fell, and still the Princess leaned upon her hand and gazed
out across the sea. I do not know whether she was thinking of me,
but--However. In the town of Ventamere near by, where the shore curved
inward in a bay, lights began to glimmer, but the castle was dark, for
the King, intending to commence at daybreak his journey back to his
capital, was already a-bed.
_The Princess Hears a Voice from the Waves Beneath Her Window_
The Princess, beginning to be drowsy, reached out her hand to close
the casement of her window; and as she did so she heard a voice, a
melancholy voice, not loud, as of a young man singing to himself,
directly beneath her window. She started in astonishment and looked
down, but she could see no one. The moonlight glittered on the sea
to the very base of her wall; there was no foothold anywhere for a
human foot; but the voice rose nevertheless from just below her in the
restless waters, and it was singing a kind of lament, pausing once to
put in a few spoken words, in this wise:
“O quivering seas that sever,
O quivering severing sea!
And I would I could sing forever
The sorrows that sleep in me,--
The soundless sundering sorrows,
The shuddering secret sorrows,
The sorrows secret and soundless,
That sleep in the soul of me.
And O! the vain endeavor!
The silence and the pain!
The silence that now shall never
Sink into the sea again!
(That’s a very good line, though,
about silence sinking into the sea.
It sounds a good deal like real
poetry. Anyway--)
Of such would I sing forever,
And sighing forever sing,
But alas, I never was clever
At all that sort of thing,
And though I would chant forever
By quivering seas that sever
And severing seas that quiver
A ceaseless sorrowing song,
I cannot sing forever,
For that would be too long.”
The Princess waited, and the voice began again. It seemed farther out
on the water now, as if the singer were moving out to sea. The words
appeared to her to be so strange that she never forgot them, and I am
able to repeat them to you precisely as she gave them to me afterward.
“O weary the sea’s commotion,
And weary the sea tides’ fret,
The fretful tides of the ocean
How weary and how wet!
The humid hateful ocean
The hideous heedless ocean,
The ocean huge and humid,
That always will be wet!
(If I could only once get thoroughly
dry, just for a single day! It makes
me weary, the way they go on about a
life on the ocean wave. I only wish
_they_ had to live in it all the time.)
And O! for a seat on the settle
Beside the ingle nook!
And O! for the steaming kettle!
And O! for a human cook!
I hear, on the soft breeze sighing,
The sorrowful soft breeze dying,
I hear, as it sighs and rustles,
The music of bacon frying,
And O, I long to be free!
(If I could only get ashore on two
feet, for just one hour, I know where
I’d go. I know a good warm tavern
where--)
O dear! could I only be free!
For a diet of fish and mussels,
Of cold raw fish and mussels,
Did never agree with me.”
The voice moved off across the sea, and died away in the distance.
_“Dear me!” said the Queen. “What an extraordinary song! And so sad,
too.”_
_“Never mind, grandmother,” said Bojohn. “Please let him go on with his
story.”_
_“Yes, yes, of course,” said the Queen, “let the poor man go on with
his story. I wonder how he remembers all those words. I’m sure I never
could have remembered them. I’ve a very poor memory for songs, myself.
It’s different with the King; I declare he never forgets anything. I
remember there was a minstrel came to the castle once, and after he was
gone the King repeated word for word--_”
_“Please, grandmother,” said Bojohn._
_“What is it, my dear?”_
_“Solario is waiting to go on with his story.”_
_“So he is,” said the Queen. “I think it’s a very pretty story indeed.
I wonder how it ends!”_
_“Go on!” cried Bojohn, and Solario proceeded._
The Princess lingered, hoping to hear the voice again, but it came no
more. She turned back into her room and lit the lamp which hung from
the center of the ceiling. She stood before her mirror, with the lamp
at her back, and as she raised her hand to unfasten the pearl necklace
which she wore, she glanced at the wall beside the mirror. Her shadow,
thrown by the lamp, stood upright against the wall. And at that moment
she saw something which caused her to stiffen with terror.
_The Princess Sees the Shadow of an Old Woman_
Through the crack of her closed door at the right of her shadow,
another shadow was oozing in and spreading itself out across the wall
toward her own. It took shape, and paused for a moment; it was the
shadow of a bent old woman, stooping under a heavy bag, and holding out
in one hand a kind of poker with a hook at the end.
The Princess held her breath. The stooping shadow stole slowly along
the wall, and touched the Princess’s shadow with its poker. Instantly
the Princess’s shadow began to move toward the other, and the other
began to back away. The strange shadow reached the door and slipped
into the crack; the Princess’s shadow followed, and slipped into the
crack after it. They were gone, and only the blank surface of the wall
remained.
The Princess tried to move, but she could not stir; she tried to cry
out, but she could not speak. She stood there in the lamplight before
her mirror, with one hand upraised as if to unfasten her necklace; the
minutes passed, and she did not move. She heard the splashing of the
tide outside; a clock struck the hour; there was no other sound. Hours
passed, and still she stood with hand raised to her neck, before the
mirror. She heard the clock strike twelve; and on the twelfth stroke
her door swung slowly open.
_A Midnight Visit from a One-Armed Old Man_
In the doorway stood an old man; a spare old man, with long white hair
and beard, and bright blue eyes in a rosy face. His blue gown,
spangled with silver stars, lacked one sleeve, the right; he had only
one arm, and that the left. The Princess felt somehow that she was glad
he had come.
[Illustration: The shadow of a Ragpicker oozed in through the door]
He stepped quickly to her side and smiling kindly took down her hand
from her neck. She felt a pleasant warmth at his touch, and she sighed
with relief. He kept her hand in his, and drew her toward the door.
She had no wish to resist him. She followed quietly, and together they
passed out of the room into the dark hall....
At daybreak, when the King was ready to depart, there was a great
to-do. The Princess was nowhere to be found. Her lamp was still
burning, and her bed had not been slept in. The King was beside
himself, and the castle was in a turmoil. Searchers were sent in every
direction, all the bells in the town were set to ringing, and cryers
went about the streets proclaiming a reward.
My father and myself hastened to the castle, and I knelt before the
King and begged his special leave to seek the Princess on my own
account. I knew nothing, save that she had vanished in the night, but I
resolved that I would find her, and I did not doubt of my success.
“Go,” said the King, “and good fortune attend you. If you bring her
back, no reward will I refuse you, even to the hand of my dear child
herself. Make haste, and do not return alone.”
_Alb, Seeking the Princess, Sits Down by the Seashore_
All that morning I ran about the town, seeking her in every quarter;
but nowhere was any trace of her to be found. I came back in the
afternoon to the seashore near the castle, there to ponder what I had
best do next. Trudging along a strip of sand under a bluff beside the
sea, I came to a large rock which rose up out of the water at the
beach’s edge, and climbing up on it I seated myself on a narrow shelf
and bared my head to the breeze.
I had sat thus only a moment when I heard a voice from the other side
of the rock, a melancholy voice, not loud, as of a young man singing to
himself; and it was singing a mournful song, pausing now and then to
speak in ordinary tones. I remember the words very well, and they were
these.
“I dream in my deep-sea cavern
Of many a bosky copse,
I dream of a cosy tavern
And a couple of mutton chops,--
For even the storks have gruel,
And even the sheep have corn,
But me!--it is too, too cruel!
Alas, that I ever was born.
(It’s too cruel, that’s what it is. It isn’t
right. There’s no justice in it, and I’m
sick of it, that’s what I am.)
O sorrow too deep to utter!
O midnight hour of the soul!
If there only were bread and butter,
Or something warm in a bowl,--
(I don’t care what. I’m so sick of raw
fish, I believe I could even stand stewed
rhubarb.)
O sea, so ceaselessly sloshing,
O emblem of peace and hope!--
But it’s utterly useless for washing,
And O! how I yearn for soap.
I seek, in my cavern’s enclosure,
To talk with the fishes, but they,
Maintaining the strictest composure,
Have simply nothing to say.
Proud heart, you are left unheeded
Alone with your grief and your ache,
When all that is really needed
Is just a mere trifle of cake.
(Not fish cake. Not that. Chocolate
cake, three layers, with walnuts on top
and in between.)
Sing on, proud heart, though breaking
With every harmonious strain,
And physic be not worth the taking
For your description of pain,
Sing on, though it be not forever,
Forever and a day,--
(Not that there’s any sense in adding
on a day to forever. It’s long enough,
in all conscience, without that. However--)
I wish I could sing forever
To pass the dull time away;
And could I be endlessly clever
And make me an endless song,
I would sing of my sorrow forever,
I would,--were it not so long.”
The voice gave a great sigh, and the singing ceased.