The Prince and The Pauper, Part 6. - Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)
THE PRINCE AND THE PAUPER
by Mark Twain
Part 6.
Chapter XVIII. The Prince with the tramps.
The troop of vagabonds turned out at early dawn, and set forward on their
march. There was a lowering sky overhead, sloppy ground under foot, and
a winter chill in the air. All gaiety was gone from the company; some
were sullen and silent, some were irritable and petulant, none were
gentle-humoured, all were thirsty.
The Ruffler put 'Jack' in Hugo's charge, with some brief instructions,
and commanded John Canty to keep away from him and let him alone; he also
warned Hugo not to be too rough with the lad.
After a while the weather grew milder, and the clouds lifted somewhat.
The troop ceased to shiver, and their spirits began to improve. They
grew more and more cheerful, and finally began to chaff each other and
insult passengers along the highway. This showed that they were awaking
to an appreciation of life and its joys once more. The dread in which
their sort was held was apparent in the fact that everybody gave them the
road, and took their ribald insolences meekly, without venturing to talk
back. They snatched linen from the hedges, occasionally in full view of
the owners, who made no protest, but only seemed grateful that they did
not take the hedges, too.
By-and-by they invaded a small farmhouse and made themselves at home
while the trembling farmer and his people swept the larder clean to
furnish a breakfast for them. They chucked the housewife and her
daughters under the chin whilst receiving the food from their hands, and
made coarse jests about them, accompanied with insulting epithets and
bursts of horse-laughter. They threw bones and vegetables at the farmer
and his sons, kept them dodging all the time, and applauded uproariously
when a good hit was made. They ended by buttering the head of one of the
daughters who resented some of their familiarities. When they took their
leave they threatened to come back and burn the house over the heads of
the family if any report of their doings got to the ears of the
authorities.
About noon, after a long and weary tramp, the gang came to a halt behind
a hedge on the outskirts of a considerable village. An hour was allowed
for rest, then the crew scattered themselves abroad to enter the village
at different points to ply their various trades--'Jack' was sent with
Hugo. They wandered hither and thither for some time, Hugo watching for
opportunities to do a stroke of business, but finding none--so he finally
said--
"I see nought to steal; it is a paltry place. Wherefore we will beg."
"WE, forsooth! Follow thy trade--it befits thee. But _I_ will not beg."
"Thou'lt not beg!" exclaimed Hugo, eyeing the King with surprise.
"Prithee, since when hast thou reformed?"
"What dost thou mean?"
"Mean? Hast thou not begged the streets of London all thy life?"
"I? Thou idiot!"
"Spare thy compliments--thy stock will last the longer. Thy father says
thou hast begged all thy days. Mayhap he lied. Peradventure you will
even make so bold as to SAY he lied," scoffed Hugo.
"Him YOU call my father? Yes, he lied."
"Come, play not thy merry game of madman so far, mate; use it for thy
amusement, not thy hurt. An' I tell him this, he will scorch thee finely
for it."
"Save thyself the trouble. I will tell him."
"I like thy spirit, I do in truth; but I do not admire thy judgment.
Bone-rackings and bastings be plenty enow in this life, without going out
of one's way to invite them. But a truce to these matters; _I_ believe
your father. I doubt not he can lie; I doubt not he DOTH lie, upon
occasion, for the best of us do that; but there is no occasion here. A
wise man does not waste so good a commodity as lying for nought. But
come; sith it is thy humour to give over begging, wherewithal shall we
busy ourselves? With robbing kitchens?"
The King said, impatiently--
"Have done with this folly--you weary me!"
Hugo replied, with temper--
"Now harkee, mate; you will not beg, you will not rob; so be it. But I
will tell you what you WILL do. You will play decoy whilst _I_ beg.
Refuse, an' you think you may venture!"
The King was about to reply contemptuously, when Hugo said, interrupting--
"Peace! Here comes one with a kindly face. Now will I fall down in a
fit. When the stranger runs to me, set you up a wail, and fall upon your
knees, seeming to weep; then cry out as all the devils of misery were in
your belly, and say, 'Oh, sir, it is my poor afflicted brother, and we be
friendless; o' God's name cast through your merciful eyes one pitiful
look upon a sick, forsaken, and most miserable wretch; bestow one little
penny out of thy riches upon one smitten of God and ready to perish!'
--and mind you, keep you ON wailing, and abate not till we bilk him of his
penny, else shall you rue it."
Then immediately Hugo began to moan, and groan, and roll his eyes, and
reel and totter about; and when the stranger was close at hand, down he
sprawled before him, with a shriek, and began to writhe and wallow in the
dirt, in seeming agony.
"O, dear, O dear!" cried the benevolent stranger, "O poor soul, poor
soul, how he doth suffer! There--let me help thee up."
"O noble sir, forbear, and God love you for a princely gentleman--but it
giveth me cruel pain to touch me when I am taken so. My brother there
will tell your worship how I am racked with anguish when these fits be
upon me. A penny, dear sir, a penny, to buy a little food; then leave me
to my sorrows."
"A penny! thou shalt have three, thou hapless creature"--and he fumbled
in his pocket with nervous haste and got them out. "There, poor lad, take
them and most welcome. Now come hither, my boy, and help me carry thy
stricken brother to yon house, where--"
"I am not his brother," said the King, interrupting.
"What! not his brother?"
"Oh, hear him!" groaned Hugo, then privately ground his teeth. "He denies
his own brother--and he with one foot in the grave!"
"Boy, thou art indeed hard of heart, if this is thy brother. For shame!
--and he scarce able to move hand or foot. If he is not thy brother, who
is he, then?"
"A beggar and a thief! He has got your money and has picked your pocket
likewise. An' thou would'st do a healing miracle, lay thy staff over his
shoulders and trust Providence for the rest."
But Hugo did not tarry for the miracle. In a moment he was up and off
like the wind, the gentleman following after and raising the hue and cry
lustily as he went. The King, breathing deep gratitude to Heaven for his
own release, fled in the opposite direction, and did not slacken his pace
until he was out of harm's reach. He took the first road that offered,
and soon put the village behind him. He hurried along, as briskly as he
could, during several hours, keeping a nervous watch over his shoulder
for pursuit; but his fears left him at last, and a grateful sense of
security took their place. He recognised, now, that he was hungry, and
also very tired. So he halted at a farmhouse; but when he was about to
speak, he was cut short and driven rudely away. His clothes were against
him.
He wandered on, wounded and indignant, and was resolved to put himself in
the way of like treatment no more. But hunger is pride's master; so, as
the evening drew near, he made an attempt at another farmhouse; but here
he fared worse than before; for he was called hard names and was promised
arrest as a vagrant except he moved on promptly.
The night came on, chilly and overcast; and still the footsore monarch
laboured slowly on. He was obliged to keep moving, for every time he sat
down to rest he was soon penetrated to the bone with the cold. All his
sensations and experiences, as he moved through the solemn gloom and the
empty vastness of the night, were new and strange to him. At intervals
he heard voices approach, pass by, and fade into silence; and as he saw
nothing more of the bodies they belonged to than a sort of formless
drifting blur, there was something spectral and uncanny about it all that
made him shudder. Occasionally he caught the twinkle of a light--always
far away, apparently--almost in another world; if he heard the tinkle of
a sheep's bell, it was vague, distant, indistinct; the muffled lowing of
the herds floated to him on the night wind in vanishing cadences, a
mournful sound; now and then came the complaining howl of a dog over
viewless expanses of field and forest; all sounds were remote; they made
the little King feel that all life and activity were far removed from
him, and that he stood solitary, companionless, in the centre of a
measureless solitude.
He stumbled along, through the gruesome fascinations of this new
experience, startled occasionally by the soft rustling of the dry leaves
overhead, so like human whispers they seemed to sound; and by-and-by he
came suddenly upon the freckled light of a tin lantern near at hand. He
stepped back into the shadows and waited. The lantern stood by the open
door of a barn. The King waited some time--there was no sound, and
nobody stirring. He got so cold, standing still, and the hospitable barn
looked so enticing, that at last he resolved to risk everything and
enter. He started swiftly and stealthily, and just as he was crossing the
threshold he heard voices behind him. He darted behind a cask, within
the barn, and stooped down. Two farm-labourers came in, bringing the
lantern with them, and fell to work, talking meanwhile. Whilst they
moved about with the light, the King made good use of his eyes and took
the bearings of what seemed to be a good-sized stall at the further end
of the place, purposing to grope his way to it when he should be left to
himself. He also noted the position of a pile of horse blankets, midway
of the route, with the intent to levy upon them for the service of the
crown of England for one night.
By-and-by the men finished and went away, fastening the door behind them
and taking the lantern with them. The shivering King made for the
blankets, with as good speed as the darkness would allow; gathered them
up, and then groped his way safely to the stall. Of two of the blankets
he made a bed, then covered himself with the remaining two. He was a
glad monarch, now, though the blankets were old and thin, and not quite
warm enough; and besides gave out a pungent horsey odour that was almost
suffocatingly powerful.
Although the King was hungry and chilly, he was also so tired and
so drowsy that these latter influences soon began to get the
advantage of the former, and he presently dozed off into a state of
semi-consciousness. Then, just as he was on the point of losing himself
wholly, he distinctly felt something touch him! He was broad awake in a
moment, and gasping for breath. The cold horror of that mysterious touch
in the dark almost made his heart stand still. He lay motionless, and
listened, scarcely breathing. But nothing stirred, and there was no
sound. He continued to listen, and wait, during what seemed a long time,
but still nothing stirred, and there was no sound. So he began to drop
into a drowse once more, at last; and all at once he felt that mysterious
touch again! It was a grisly thing, this light touch from this noiseless
and invisible presence; it made the boy sick with ghostly fears. What
should he do? That was the question; but he did not know how to answer
it. Should he leave these reasonably comfortable quarters and fly from
this inscrutable horror? But fly whither? He could not get out of the
barn; and the idea of scurrying blindly hither and thither in the dark,
within the captivity of the four walls, with this phantom gliding after
him, and visiting him with that soft hideous touch upon cheek or shoulder
at every turn, was intolerable. But to stay where he was, and endure
this living death all night--was that better? No. What, then, was there
left to do? Ah, there was but one course; he knew it well--he must put
out his hand and find that thing!
It was easy to think this; but it was hard to brace himself up to try it.
Three times he stretched his hand a little way out into the dark,
gingerly; and snatched it suddenly back, with a gasp--not because it had
encountered anything, but because he had felt so sure it was just GOING
to. But the fourth time, he groped a little further, and his hand
lightly swept against something soft and warm. This petrified him,
nearly, with fright; his mind was in such a state that he could imagine
the thing to be nothing else than a corpse, newly dead and still warm.
He thought he would rather die than touch it again. But he thought this
false thought because he did not know the immortal strength of human
curiosity. In no long time his hand was tremblingly groping again
--against his judgment, and without his consent--but groping persistently
on, just the same. It encountered a bunch of long hair; he shuddered,
but followed up the hair and found what seemed to be a warm rope;
followed up the rope and found an innocent calf!--for the rope was not a
rope at all, but the calf's tail.
The King was cordially ashamed of himself for having gotten all that
fright and misery out of so paltry a matter as a slumbering calf; but he
need not have felt so about it, for it was not the calf that frightened
him, but a dreadful non-existent something which the calf stood for; and
any other boy, in those old superstitious times, would have acted and
suffered just as he had done.
The King was not only delighted to find that the creature was only a
calf, but delighted to have the calf's company; for he had been feeling
so lonesome and friendless that the company and comradeship of even this
humble animal were welcome. And he had been so buffeted, so rudely
entreated by his own kind, that it was a real comfort to him to feel that
he was at last in the society of a fellow-creature that had at least a
soft heart and a gentle spirit, whatever loftier attributes might be
lacking. So he resolved to waive rank and make friends with the calf.
While stroking its sleek warm back--for it lay near him and within easy
reach--it occurred to him that this calf might be utilised in more ways
than one. Whereupon he re-arranged his bed, spreading it down close to
the calf; then he cuddled himself up to the calf's back, drew the covers
up over himself and his friend, and in a minute or two was as warm and
comfortable as he had ever been in the downy couches of the regal palace
of Westminster.
Pleasant thoughts came at once; life took on a cheerfuller seeming. He
was free of the bonds of servitude and crime, free of the companionship
of base and brutal outlaws; he was warm; he was sheltered; in a word, he
was happy. The night wind was rising; it swept by in fitful gusts that
made the old barn quake and rattle, then its forces died down at
intervals, and went moaning and wailing around corners and projections
--but it was all music to the King, now that he was snug and comfortable:
let it blow and rage, let it batter and bang, let it moan and wail, he
minded it not, he only enjoyed it. He merely snuggled the closer to his
friend, in a luxury of warm contentment, and drifted blissfully out of
consciousness into a deep and dreamless sleep that was full of serenity
and peace. The distant dogs howled, the melancholy kine complained, and
the winds went on raging, whilst furious sheets of rain drove along the
roof; but the Majesty of England slept on, undisturbed, and the calf did
the same, it being a simple creature, and not easily troubled by storms
or embarrassed by sleeping with a king.
Chapter XIX. The Prince with the peasants.
When the King awoke in the early morning, he found that a wet but
thoughtful rat had crept into the place during the night and made a cosy
bed for itself in his bosom. Being disturbed now, it scampered away.
The boy smiled, and said, "Poor fool, why so fearful? I am as forlorn as
thou. 'Twould be a sham in me to hurt the helpless, who am myself so
helpless. Moreover, I owe you thanks for a good omen; for when a king
has fallen so low that the very rats do make a bed of him, it surely
meaneth that his fortunes be upon the turn, since it is plain he can no
lower go."
He got up and stepped out of the stall, and just then he heard the sound
of children's voices. The barn door opened and a couple of little girls
came in. As soon as they saw him their talking and laughing ceased, and
they stopped and stood still, gazing at him with strong curiosity; they
presently began to whisper together, then they approached nearer, and
stopped again to gaze and whisper. By-and-by they gathered courage and
began to discuss him aloud. One said--
"He hath a comely face."
The other added--
"And pretty hair."
"But is ill clothed enow."
"And how starved he looketh."
They came still nearer, sidling shyly around and about him, examining him
minutely from all points, as if he were some strange new kind of animal,
but warily and watchfully the while, as if they half feared he might be a
sort of animal that would bite, upon occasion. Finally they halted
before him, holding each other's hands for protection, and took a good
satisfying stare with their innocent eyes; then one of them plucked up
all her courage and inquired with honest directness--
"Who art thou, boy?"
"I am the King," was the grave answer.
The children gave a little start, and their eyes spread themselves wide
open and remained so during a speechless half minute. Then curiosity
broke the silence--
"The KING? What King?"
"The King of England."
The children looked at each other--then at him--then at each other again
--wonderingly, perplexedly; then one said--
"Didst hear him, Margery?--he said he is the King. Can that be true?"
"How can it be else but true, Prissy? Would he say a lie? For look you,
Prissy, an' it were not true, it WOULD be a lie. It surely would be.
Now think on't. For all things that be not true, be lies--thou canst
make nought else out of it."
It was a good tight argument, without a leak in it anywhere; and it left
Prissy's half-doubts not a leg to stand on. She considered a moment,
then put the King upon his honour with the simple remark--
"If thou art truly the King, then I believe thee."
"I am truly the King."
This settled the matter. His Majesty's royalty was accepted without
further question or discussion, and the two little girls began at once to
inquire into how he came to be where he was, and how he came to be so
unroyally clad, and whither he was bound, and all about his affairs. It
was a mighty relief to him to pour out his troubles where they would not
be scoffed at or doubted; so he told his tale with feeling, forgetting
even his hunger for the time; and it was received with the deepest and
tenderest sympathy by the gentle little maids. But when he got down to
his latest experiences and they learned how long he had been without
food, they cut him short and hurried him away to the farmhouse to find a
breakfast for him.
The King was cheerful and happy now, and said to himself, "When I am come
to mine own again, I will always honour little children, remembering how
that these trusted me and believed in me in my time of trouble; whilst
they that were older, and thought themselves wiser, mocked at me and held
me for a liar."
The children's mother received the King kindly, and was full of pity; for
his forlorn condition and apparently crazed intellect touched her womanly
heart. She was a widow, and rather poor; consequently she had seen
trouble enough to enable her to feel for the unfortunate. She imagined
that the demented boy had wandered away from his friends or keepers; so
she tried to find out whence he had come, in order that she might take
measures to return him; but all her references to neighbouring towns and
villages, and all her inquiries in the same line went for nothing--the
boy's face, and his answers, too, showed that the things she was talking
of were not familiar to him. He spoke earnestly and simply about court
matters, and broke down, more than once, when speaking of the late King
'his father'; but whenever the conversation changed to baser topics, he
lost interest and became silent.
The woman was mightily puzzled; but she did not give up. As she
proceeded with her cooking, she set herself to contriving devices to
surprise the boy into betraying his real secret. She talked about
cattle--he showed no concern; then about sheep--the same result: so her
guess that he had been a shepherd boy was an error; she talked about
mills; and about weavers, tinkers, smiths, trades and tradesmen of all
sorts; and about Bedlam, and jails, and charitable retreats: but no
matter, she was baffled at all points. Not altogether, either; for she
argued that she had narrowed the thing down to domestic service. Yes,
she was sure she was on the right track, now; he must have been a house
servant. So she led up to that. But the result was discouraging. The
subject of sweeping appeared to weary him; fire-building failed to stir
him; scrubbing and scouring awoke no enthusiasm. The goodwife touched,
with a perishing hope, and rather as a matter of form, upon the subject
of cooking. To her surprise, and her vast delight, the King's face
lighted at once! Ah, she had hunted him down at last, she thought; and
she was right proud, too, of the devious shrewdness and tact which had
accomplished it.
Her tired tongue got a chance to rest, now; for the King's, inspired by
gnawing hunger and the fragrant smells that came from the sputtering pots
and pans, turned itself loose and delivered itself up to such an eloquent
dissertation upon certain toothsome dishes, that within three minutes the
woman said to herself, "Of a truth I was right--he hath holpen in a
kitchen!" Then he broadened his bill of fare, and discussed it with such
appreciation and animation, that the goodwife said to herself, "Good
lack! how can he know so many dishes, and so fine ones withal? For these
belong only upon the tables of the rich and great. Ah, now I see! ragged
outcast as he is, he must have served in the palace before his reason
went astray; yes, he must have helped in the very kitchen of the King
himself! I will test him."
Full of eagerness to prove her sagacity, she told the King to mind the
cooking a moment--hinting that he might manufacture and add a dish or
two, if he chose; then she went out of the room and gave her children a
sign to follow after. The King muttered--
"Another English king had a commission like to this, in a bygone time--it
is nothing against my dignity to undertake an office which the great
Alfred stooped to assume. But I will try to better serve my trust than
he; for he let the cakes burn."
The intent was good, but the performance was not answerable to it, for
this King, like the other one, soon fell into deep thinkings concerning
his vast affairs, and the same calamity resulted--the cookery got burned.
The woman returned in time to save the breakfast from entire destruction;
and she promptly brought the King out of his dreams with a brisk and
cordial tongue-lashing. Then, seeing how troubled he was over his
violated trust, she softened at once, and was all goodness and gentleness
toward him.
The boy made a hearty and satisfying meal, and was greatly refreshed and
gladdened by it. It was a meal which was distinguished by this curious
feature, that rank was waived on both sides; yet neither recipient of the
favour was aware that it had been extended. The goodwife had intended to
feed this young tramp with broken victuals in a corner, like any other
tramp or like a dog; but she was so remorseful for the scolding she had
given him, that she did what she could to atone for it by allowing him to
sit at the family table and eat with his betters, on ostensible terms of
equality with them; and the King, on his side, was so remorseful for
having broken his trust, after the family had been so kind to him, that
he forced himself to atone for it by humbling himself to the family
level, instead of requiring the woman and her children to stand and wait
upon him, while he occupied their table in the solitary state due to his
birth and dignity. It does us all good to unbend sometimes. This good
woman was made happy all the day long by the applauses which she got out
of herself for her magnanimous condescension to a tramp; and the King was
just as self-complacent over his gracious humility toward a humble
peasant woman.
When breakfast was over, the housewife told the King to wash up the
dishes. This command was a staggerer, for a moment, and the King came
near rebelling; but then he said to himself, "Alfred the Great watched
the cakes; doubtless he would have washed the dishes too--therefore will
I essay it."
He made a sufficiently poor job of it; and to his surprise too, for the
cleaning of wooden spoons and trenchers had seemed an easy thing to do.
It was a tedious and troublesome piece of work, but he finished it at
last. He was becoming impatient to get away on his journey now; however,
he was not to lose this thrifty dame's society so easily. She furnished
him some little odds and ends of employment, which he got through with
after a fair fashion and with some credit. Then she set him and the
little girls to paring some winter apples; but he was so awkward at this
service that she retired him from it and gave him a butcher knife to
grind. Afterwards she kept him carding wool until he began to think he
had laid the good King Alfred about far enough in the shade for the
present in the matter of showy menial heroisms that would read
picturesquely in story-books and histories, and so he was half-minded to
resign. And when, just after the noonday dinner, the goodwife gave him a
basket of kittens to drown, he did resign. At least he was just going to
resign--for he felt that he must draw the line somewhere, and it seemed
to him that to draw it at kitten-drowning was about the right thing--when
there was an interruption. The interruption was John Canty--with a
peddler's pack on his back--and Hugo.