A House of Pomegranates by Oscar Wilde (free ebook novel .txt) 📖
- Author: Oscar Wilde
- Performer: -
Book online «A House of Pomegranates by Oscar Wilde (free ebook novel .txt) 📖». Author Oscar Wilde
that made no matter, for they put their heads on one side, and
looked wise, which is quite as good as understanding a thing, and
very much easier.
The Lizards also took an immense fancy to him, and when he grew
tired of running about and flung himself down on the grass to rest,
they played and romped all over him, and tried to amuse him in the
best way they could. ‘Every one cannot be as beautiful as a
lizard,’ they cried; ‘that would be too much to expect. And,
though it sounds absurd to say so, he is really not so ugly after
all, provided, of course, that one shuts one’s eyes, and does not
look at him.’ The Lizards were extremely philosophical by nature,
and often sat thinking for hours and hours together, when there was
nothing else to do, or when the weather was too rainy for them to
go out.
The Flowers, however, were excessively annoyed at their behaviour,
and at the behaviour of the birds. ‘It only shows,’ they said,
‘what a vulgarising effect this incessant rushing and flying about
has. Well-bred people always stay exactly in the same place, as we
do. No one ever saw us hopping up and down the walks, or galloping
madly through the grass after dragon-flies. When we do want change
of air, we send for the gardener, and he carries us to another bed.
This is dignified, and as it should be. But birds and lizards have
no sense of repose, and indeed birds have not even a permanent
address. They are mere vagrants like the gipsies, and should be
treated in exactly the same manner.’ So they put their noses in
the air, and looked very haughty, and were quite delighted when
after some time they saw the little Dwarf scramble up from the
grass, and make his way across the terrace to the palace.
‘He should certainly be kept indoors for the rest of his natural
life,’ they said. ‘Look at his hunched back, and his crooked
legs,’ and they began to titter.
But the little Dwarf knew nothing of all this. He liked the birds
and the lizards immensely, and thought that the flowers were the
most marvellous things in the whole world, except of course the
Infanta, but then she had given him the beautiful white rose, and
she loved him, and that made a great difference. How he wished
that he had gone back with her! She would have put him on her
right hand, and smiled at him, and he would have never left her
side, but would have made her his playmate, and taught her all
kinds of delightful tricks. For though he had never been in a
palace before, he knew a great many wonderful things. He could
make little cages out of rushes for the grasshoppers to sing in,
and fashion the long jointed bamboo into the pipe that Pan loves to
hear. He knew the cry of every bird, and could call the starlings
from the tree-top, or the heron from the mere. He knew the trail
of every animal, and could track the hare by its delicate
footprints, and the boar by the trampled leaves. All the wild-dances he knew, the mad dance in red raiment with the autumn, the
light dance in blue sandals over the corn, the dance with white
snow-wreaths in winter, and the blossom-dance through the orchards
in spring. He knew where the wood-pigeons built their nests, and
once when a fowler had snared the parent birds, he had brought up
the young ones himself, and had built a little dovecot for them in
the cleft of a pollard elm. They were quite tame, and used to feed
out of his hands every morning. She would like them, and the
rabbits that scurried about in the long fern, and the jays with
their steely feathers and black bills, and the hedgehogs that could
curl themselves up into prickly balls, and the great wise tortoises
that crawled slowly about, shaking their heads and nibbling at the
young leaves. Yes, she must certainly come to the forest and play
with him. He would give her his own little bed, and would watch
outside the window till dawn, to see that the wild horned cattle
did not harm her, nor the gaunt wolves creep too near the hut. And
at dawn he would tap at the shutters and wake her, and they would
go out and dance together all the day long. It was really not a
bit lonely in the forest. Sometimes a Bishop rode through on his
white mule, reading out of a painted book. Sometimes in their
green velvet caps, and their jerkins of tanned deerskin, the
falconers passed by, with hooded hawks on their wrists. At
vintage-time came the grape-treaders, with purple hands and feet,
wreathed with glossy ivy and carrying dripping skins of wine; and
the charcoal-burners sat round their huge braziers at night,
watching the dry logs charring slowly in the fire, and roasting
chestnuts in the ashes, and the robbers came out of their caves and
made merry with them. Once, too, he had seen a beautiful
procession winding up the long dusty road to Toledo. The monks
went in front singing sweetly, and carrying bright banners and
crosses of gold, and then, in silver armour, with matchlocks and
pikes, came the soldiers, and in their midst walked three
barefooted men, in strange yellow dresses painted all over with
wonderful figures, and carrying lighted candles in their hands.
Certainly there was a great deal to look at in the forest, and when
she was tired he would find a soft bank of moss for her, or carry
her in his arms, for he was very strong, though he knew that he was
not tall. He would make her a necklace of red bryony berries, that
would be quite as pretty as the white berries that she wore on her
dress, and when she was tired of them, she could throw them away,
and he would find her others. He would bring her acorn-cups and
dew-drenched anemones, and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale
gold of her hair.
But where was she? He asked the white rose, and it made him no
answer. The whole palace seemed asleep, and even where the
shutters had not been closed, heavy curtains had been drawn across
the windows to keep out the glare. He wandered all round looking
for some place through which he might gain an entrance, and at last
he caught sight of a little private door that was lying open. He
slipped through, and found himself in a splendid hall, far more
splendid, he feared, than the forest, there was so much more
gilding everywhere, and even the floor was made of great coloured
stones, fitted together into a sort of geometrical pattern. But
the little Infanta was not there, only some wonderful white statues
that looked down on him from their jasper pedestals, with sad blank
eyes and strangely smiling lips.
At the end of the hall hung a richly embroidered curtain of black
velvet, powdered with suns and stars, the King’s favourite devices,
and broidered on the colour he loved best. Perhaps she was hiding
behind that? He would try at any rate.
So he stole quietly across, and drew it aside. No; there was only
another room, though a prettier room, he thought, than the one he
had just left. The walls were hung with a many-figured green arras
of needle-wrought tapestry representing a hunt, the work of some
Flemish artists who had spent more than seven years in its
composition. It had once been the chamber of Jean le Fou, as he
was called, that mad King who was so enamoured of the chase, that
he had often tried in his delirium to mount the huge rearing
horses, and to drag down the stag on which the great hounds were
leaping, sounding his hunting horn, and stabbing with his dagger at
the pale flying deer. It was now used as the council-room, and on
the centre table were lying the red portfolios of the ministers,
stamped with the gold tulips of Spain, and with the arms and
emblems of the house of Hapsburg.
The little Dwarf looked in wonder all round him, and was half-afraid to go on. The strange silent horsemen that galloped so
swiftly through the long glades without making any noise, seemed to
him like those terrible phantoms of whom he had heard the charcoal-burners speaking—the Comprachos, who hunt only at night, and if
they meet a man, turn him into a hind, and chase him. But he
thought of the pretty Infanta, and took courage. He wanted to find
her alone, and to tell her that he too loved her. Perhaps she was
in the room beyond.
He ran across the soft Moorish carpets, and opened the door. No!
She was not here either. The room was quite empty.
It was a throne-room, used for the reception of foreign
ambassadors, when the King, which of late had not been often,
consented to give them a personal audience; the same room in which,
many years before, envoys had appeared from England to make
arrangements for the marriage of their Queen, then one of the
Catholic sovereigns of Europe, with the Emperor’s eldest son. The
hangings were of gilt Cordovan leather, and a heavy gilt chandelier
with branches for three hundred wax lights hung down from the black
and white ceiling. Underneath a great canopy of gold cloth, on
which the lions and towers of Castile were broidered in seed
pearls, stood the throne itself, covered with a rich pall of black
velvet studded with silver tulips and elaborately fringed with
silver and pearls. On the second step of the throne was placed the
kneeling-stool of the Infanta, with its cushion of cloth of silver
tissue, and below that again, and beyond the limit of the canopy,
stood the chair for the Papal Nuncio, who alone had the right to be
seated in the King’s presence on the occasion of any public
ceremonial, and whose Cardinal’s hat, with its tangled scarlet
tassels, lay on a purple tabouret in front. On the wall, facing
the throne, hung a life-sized portrait of Charles V. in hunting
dress, with a great mastiff by his side, and a picture of Philip
II. receiving the homage of the Netherlands occupied the centre of
the other wall. Between the windows stood a black ebony cabinet,
inlaid with plates of ivory, on which the figures from Holbein’s
Dance of Death had been graved—by the hand, some said, of that
famous master himself.
But the little Dwarf cared nothing for all this magnificence. He
would not have given his rose for all the pearls on the canopy, nor
one white petal of his rose for the throne itself. What he wanted
was to see the Infanta before she went down to the pavilion, and to
ask her to come away with him when he had finished his dance.
Here, in the Palace, the air was close and heavy, but in the forest
the wind blew free, and the sunlight with wandering hands of gold
moved the tremulous leaves aside. There were flowers, too, in the
forest, not so splendid, perhaps, as the flowers in the garden, but
more sweetly scented for all that; hyacinths in early spring that
flooded with waving purple the cool glens, and grassy knolls;
yellow primroses that nestled in little clumps round the gnarled
roots of the oak-trees; bright celandine, and blue speedwell, and
irises lilac and gold. There were grey catkins on the hazels, and
the foxgloves drooped with the weight of their dappled bee-haunted
cells. The chestnut had its spires of
Comments (0)