A House of Pomegranates - Oscar Wilde (reading in the dark .txt) 📗

white stars, and the

hawthorn its pallid moons of beauty. Yes: surely she would come

if he could only find her! She would come with him to the fair

forest, and all day long he would dance for her delight. A smile

lit up his eyes at the thought, and he passed into the next room.

 

Of all the rooms this was the brightest and the most beautiful.

The walls were covered with a pink-flowered Lucca damask, patterned

with birds and dotted with dainty blossoms of silver; the furniture

was of massive silver, festooned with florid wreaths, and swinging

Cupids; in front of the two large fire-places stood great screens

broidered with parrots and peacocks, and the floor, which was of

sea-green onyx, seemed to stretch far away into the distance. Nor

was he alone. Standing under the shadow of the doorway, at the

extreme end of the room, he saw a little figure watching him. His

heart trembled, a cry of joy broke from his lips, and he moved out

into the sunlight. As he did so, the figure moved out also, and he

saw it plainly.

 

The Infanta! It was a monster, the most grotesque monster he had

ever beheld. Not properly shaped, as all other people were, but

hunchbacked, and crooked-limbed, with huge lolling head and mane of

black hair. The little Dwarf frowned, and the monster frowned

also. He laughed, and it laughed with him, and held its hands to

its sides, just as he himself was doing. He made it a mocking bow,

and it returned him a low reverence. He went towards it, and it

came to meet him, copying each step that he made, and stopping when

he stopped himself. He shouted with amusement, and ran forward,

and reached out his hand, and the hand of the monster touched his,

and it was as cold as ice. He grew afraid, and moved his hand

across, and the monster’s hand followed it quickly. He tried to

press on, but something smooth and hard stopped him. The face of

the monster was now close to his own, and seemed full of terror.

He brushed his hair off his eyes. It imitated him. He struck at

it, and it returned blow for blow. He loathed it, and it made

hideous faces at him. He drew back, and it retreated.

 

What is it? He thought for a moment, and looked round at the rest

of the room. It was strange, but everything seemed to have its

double in this invisible wall of clear water. Yes, picture for

picture was repeated, and couch for couch. The sleeping Faun that

lay in the alcove by the doorway had its twin brother that

slumbered, and the silver Venus that stood in the sunlight held out

her arms to a Venus as lovely as herself.

 

Was it Echo? He had called to her once in the valley, and she had

answered him word for word. Could she mock the eye, as she mocked

the voice? Could she make a mimic world just like the real world?

Could the shadows of things have colour and life and movement?

Could it be that—?

 

He started, and taking from his breast the beautiful white rose, he

turned round, and kissed it. The monster had a rose of its own,

petal for petal the same! It kissed it with like kisses, and

pressed it to its heart with horrible gestures.

 

When the truth dawned upon him, he gave a wild cry of despair, and

fell sobbing to the ground. So it was he who was misshapen and

hunchbacked, foul to look at and grotesque. He himself was the

monster, and it was at him that all the children had been laughing,

and the little Princess who he had thought loved him—she too had

been merely mocking at his ugliness, and making merry over his

twisted limbs. Why had they not left him in the forest, where

there was no mirror to tell him how loathsome he was? Why had his

father not killed him, rather than sell him to his shame? The hot

tears poured down his cheeks, and he tore the white rose to pieces.

The sprawling monster did the same, and scattered the faint petals

in the air. It grovelled on the ground, and, when he looked at it,

it watched him with a face drawn with pain. He crept away, lest he

should see it, and covered his eyes with his hands. He crawled,

like some wounded thing, into the shadow, and lay there moaning.

 

And at that moment the Infanta herself came in with her companions

through the open window, and when they saw the ugly little dwarf

lying on the ground and beating the floor with his clenched hands,

in the most fantastic and exaggerated manner, they went off into

shouts of happy laughter, and stood all round him and watched him.

 

‘His dancing was funny,’ said the Infanta; ‘but his acting is

funnier still. Indeed he is almost as good as the puppets, only of

course not quite so natural.’ And she fluttered her big fan, and

applauded.

 

But the little Dwarf never looked up, and his sobs grew fainter and

fainter, and suddenly he gave a curious gasp, and clutched his

side. And then he fell back again, and lay quite still.

 

‘That is capital,’ said the Infanta, after a pause; ‘but now you

must dance for me.’

 

‘Yes,’ cried all the children, ‘you must get up and dance, for you

are as clever as the Barbary apes, and much more ridiculous.’ But

the little Dwarf made no answer.

 

And the Infanta stamped her foot, and called out to her uncle, who

was walking on the terrace with the Chamberlain, reading some

despatches that had just arrived from Mexico, where the Holy Office

had recently been established. ‘My funny little dwarf is sulking,’

she cried, ‘you must wake him up, and tell him to dance for me.’

 

They smiled at each other, and sauntered in, and Don Pedro stooped

down, and slapped the Dwarf on the cheek with his embroidered

glove. ‘You must dance,’ he said, ‘petit monsire. You must dance.

The Infanta of Spain and the Indies wishes to be amused.’

 

But the little Dwarf never moved.

 

‘A whipping master should be sent for,’ said Don Pedro wearily, and

he went back to the terrace. But the Chamberlain looked grave, and

he knelt beside the little dwarf, and put his hand upon his heart.

And after a few moments he shrugged his shoulders, and rose up, and

having made a low bow to the Infanta, he said -

 

‘Mi bella Princesa, your funny little dwarf will never dance again.

It is a pity, for he is so ugly that he might have made the King

smile.’

 

‘But why will he not dance again?’ asked the Infanta, laughing.

 

‘Because his heart is broken,’ answered the Chamberlain.

 

And the Infanta frowned, and her dainty rose-leaf lips curled in

pretty disdain. ‘For the future let those who come to play with me

have no hearts,’ she cried, and she ran out into the garden.

THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL

[TO H.S.H. ALICE, PRINCESS OF MONACO]

 

Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and threw

his nets into the water.

 

When the wind blew from the land he caught nothing, or but little

at best, for it was a bitter and black-winged wind, and rough waves

rose up to meet it. But when the wind blew to the shore, the fish

came in from the deep, and swam into the meshes of his nets, and he

took them to the market-place and sold them.

 

Every evening he went out upon the sea, and one evening the net was

so heavy that hardly could he draw it into the boat. And he

laughed, and said to himself, ‘Surely I have caught all the fish

that swim, or snared some dull monster that will be a marvel to

men, or some thing of horror that the great Queen will desire,’ and

putting forth all his strength, he tugged at the coarse ropes till,

like lines of blue enamel round a vase of bronze, the long veins

rose up on his arms. He tugged at the thin ropes, and nearer and

nearer came the circle of flat corks, and the net rose at last to

the top of the water.

 

But no fish at all was in it, nor any monster or thing of horror,

but only a little Mermaid lying fast asleep.

 

Her hair was as a wet fleece of gold, and each separate hair as a

thread of fine gold in a cup of glass. Her body was as white

ivory, and her tail was of silver and pearl. Silver and pearl was

her tail, and the green weeds of the sea coiled round it; and like

sea-shells were her ears, and her lips were like sea-coral. The

cold waves dashed over her cold breasts, and the salt glistened

upon her eyelids.

 

So beautiful was she that when the young Fisherman saw her he was

filled with wonder, and he put out his hand and drew the net close

to him, and leaning over the side he clasped her in his arms. And

when he touched her, she gave a cry like a startled sea-gull, and

woke, and looked at him in terror with her mauve-amethyst eyes, and

struggled that she might escape. But he held her tightly to him,

and would not suffer her to depart.

 

And when she saw that she could in no way escape from him, she

began to weep, and said, ‘I pray thee let me go, for I am the only

daughter of a King, and my father is aged and alone.’

 

But the young Fisherman answered, ‘I will not let thee go save thou

makest me a promise that whenever I call thee, thou wilt come and

sing to me, for the fish delight to listen to the song of the Sea-folk, and so shall my nets be full.’

 

‘Wilt thou in very truth let me go, if I promise thee this?’ cried

the Mermaid.

 

‘In very truth I will let thee go,’ said the young Fisherman.

 

So she made him the promise he desired, and sware it by the oath of

the Sea-folk. And he loosened his arms from about her, and she

sank down into the water, trembling with a strange fear.

 

Every evening the young Fisherman went out upon the sea, and called

to the Mermaid, and she rose out of the water and sang to him.

Round and round her swam the dolphins, and the wild gulls wheeled

above her head.

 

And she sang a marvellous song. For she sang of the Sea-folk who

drive their flocks from cave to cave, and carry the little calves

on their shoulders; of the Tritons who have long green beards, and

hairy breasts, and blow through twisted conchs when the King passes

by; of the palace of the King which is all of amber, with a roof of

clear emerald, and a pavement of bright pearl; and of the gardens

of the sea where the great filigrane fans of coral wave all day

long, and the fish dart about like silver birds, and the anemones

cling to the rocks, and the pinks bourgeon in the ribbed yellow

sand. She sang of the big whales that come down from the north

seas and have sharp icicles hanging to their fins; of the Sirens

who tell of such wonderful things that the merchants have to stop

their ears with wax lest they should hear them, and leap into the

water and be drowned; of the sunken galleys with their tall