It was the birthday of the Infanta. She
was just twelve years of age, and the sun was shining brightly in the gardens
of the palace.
Although she was a real Princess and the Infanta of Spain,
she had only one birthday every year, just like the children of quite poor
people, so it was naturally a matter of great importance to the whole country
that she should have a really line day for the occasion. And a really line day
it certainly was. The tall striped tulips stood straight up upon their stalks,
like long rows of soldiers, and looked defiantly across the grass at the roses,
and said: We are quite as splendid as you are now. The purple butterflies
fluttered about with gold dust on their wings, visiting each flower in turn;
the little lizards crept out of the crevices of the wall, and lay basking in
the white glare; and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat, and
showed their bleeding red hearts. Even the pale yellow lemons, that hung in
such profusion from the mouldering trellis and along the dim arcades, seemed to
have caught a richer colour from the wonderful sunlight, and the magnolia trees
opened their great globe-like blossoms of folded ivory, and filled the air with
a sweet heavy perfume.
The little Princess herself walked up and down the terrace
with her companions, and played at hide and seek round the stone vases and the
old moss-grown statues. On ordinary days she was only allowed to play with
children of her own rank, so she had always to play alone, but her birthday was
an exception, and the King had given orders that she was to invite any of her
young friends whom she liked to come and amuse themselves with her. There was a
stately grace about these slim Spanish children as they glided about, the boys
with their large-plumed hats and short fluttering cloaks, the girls holding up
the trains of their long brocaded gowns, and shielding the sun from their eyes
with huge fans of black and silver. But the Infanta was the most graceful of
all, and the most tastefully attired, after the somewhat cumbrous fashion of
the day. Her robe was of grey satin, the skirt and the wide puffed sleeves
heavily embroidered with silver, and the stiff corset studded with rows of fine
pearls. Two tiny slippers with big pink rosettes peeped out beneath her dress
as she walked. Pink and pearl was her great gauze fan, and in her hair, which
like an aureole of faded gold stood out stiffly round her pale little face, she
had a beautiful white rose.
From a window in the palace the sad melancholy King watched
them. Behind him stood his brother, Don Pedro of Aragon, whom he hated, and his
confessor, the Grand Inquisitor of Granada, sat by his side. Sadder even than
usual was the King, for as he looked at the Infanta bowing with childish
gravity to the assembling courtiers, or laughing behind her fan at the grim
Duchess of Albuquerque who always accompanied her, he thought of the young
Queen, her mother, who but a short time before - so it seemed to him - had come
from the gay country of France, and had withered away in the sombre splendour
of the Spanish court, dying just six months after the birth of her child, and
before she had seen the almonds blossom twice in the orchard, or plucked the
second year's fruit from the old gnarled fig-tree that stood in the centre of
the now grass-grown courtyard. So great had been his love for her that he had
not suffered even the grave to hide her from him. She had been embalmed by a
Moorish physician, who in return for this service had been granted his life,
which for heresy and suspicion of magical practices had been already forfeited,
men said, to the Holy Office, and her body was still lying on its tapestried
bier in the black marble chapel of the Palace, just as the monks had borne her
in on that windy March day nearly twelve years before. Once every month the
King, wrapped in a dark cloak and with a muffled lantern in his hand, went in
and knelt by her side, calling out, `Mi reina! Mi reina!' and sometimes
breaking through the formal etiquette that in Spain governs every separate
action of life, and sets limits even to the sorrow of a King, he would clutch
at the pale jewelled hands in a wild agony of grief, and try to wake by his mad
kisses the cold painted face.
To-day he seemed to see her again, as he had seen her first
at the Castle of Fontainebleau, when he was but fifteen years of age, and she
still younger. They had been formally betrothed on that occasion by the Papal
Nuncio in the presence of the French King and all the Court, and he had
returned to the Escurial bearing with him a little ringlet of yellow hair, and
the memory of two childish lips bending down to kiss his hand as he stepped
into his carriage. Later on had followed the marriage, hastily performed at
Burgos, a small town on the frontier between the two countries, and the grand
public entry into Madrid with the customary celebration of high mass at the
Church of La Atocha, and a more than usually solemn auto-da-fé, in which nearly three
hundred heretics, amongst whom were many Englishmen, had been delivered over to
the secular arm to be burned.
Certainly he had loved her madly, and to the ruin, many
thought, of his country, then at war with England for the possession of the
empire of the New World. He had hardly ever permitted her to be out of his
sight: for her, he had forgotten, or seemed to have forgotten, all grave
affairs of State; and, with that terrible blindness that passion brings upon
its servants, he had failed to notice that the elaborate ceremonies by which he
sought to please her did but aggravate the strange malady from which she
suffered. When she died he was, for a time, like one bereft of reason. Indeed,
there is no doubt but that he would have formally abdicated and retired to the
great Trappist monastery at Granada, of which he was already titular Prior, had
he not been afraid to leave the little Infanta at the mercy of his brother,
whose cruelty, even in Spain, was notorious, and who was suspected by many of
having caused the Queen's death by means of a pair of poisoned gloves that he
had presented to her on the occasion of her visiting his castle in Aragon. Even
after the expiration of the three years of public mourning that he had ordained
throughout his whole dominions by royal edict, he would never suffer his
ministers to speak about any new alliance, and when the Emperor himself sent to
him, and offered him the hand of the lovely Archduchess of Bohemia, his niece,
in marriage, he bade the ambassadors tell their master that the King of Spain
was already wedded to Sorrow, and that though she was but a barren bride he
loved her better than Beauty; an answer that cost his crown the rich provinces
of the Netherlands, which soon after, at the Emperor's instigation, revolted
against him under the leadership of some fanatics of the Reformed Church.
His whole married life, with its fierce, fiery-coloured joys
and the terrible agony of its sudden ending, seemed to come back to him to-day
as he watched the Infanta playing on the terrace. She had all the Queen's
pretty petulance of manner, the same wilful way of tossing her head, the same
proud curved beautiful mouth, the same wonderful smile - vrai sourire de France indeed - as she glanced up now and
then at the window, or stretched out her little hand for the stately Spanish
gentlemen to kiss. But the shrill laughter of the children grated on his ears,
and the bright pitiless sunlight mocked his sorrow, and a dull odour of strange
spices, spices such as embalmers use, seemed to taint - or was it fancy? - the
clear morning air. He buried his face in his hands, and when the Infanta looked
up again the curtains had been drawn, and the King had retired.
She made a little moue of disappointment, and shrugged her
shoulders. Surely he might have stayed with her on her birthday. What did the
stupid State-affairs matter? Or had he gone to that gloomy chapel, where the
candles were always burning, and where she was never allowed to enter? How
silly of him, when the sun was shining so brightly, and everybody was so happy!
Besides, he would miss the sham bull-fight for which the trumpet was already
sounding, to say nothing of the puppet show and the other wonderful things. Her
uncle and the Grand Inquisitor were much more sensible. They had come out on
the terrace, and paid her nice compliments. So she tossed her pretty head, and
taking Don Pedro by the hand, she walked slowly down the steps towards a long
pavilion of purple silk that had been erected at the end of the garden, the
other children following in strict order of precedence, those who had the
longest names going first.
A procession of noble boys, fantastically dressed as toreadors, came out to meet her, and
the young Count of Tierra-Nueva, a wonderfully handsome lad of about fourteen
years of age, uncovering his head with all the grace of a born hidalgo and
grandee of Spain, led her solemnly in to a little gilt and ivory chair that was
placed on a raised da's above the arena. The children grouped themselves all
round, fluttering their big fans and whispering to each other, and Don Pedro
and the Grand Inquisitor stood laughing at the entrance. Even the Duchess - the
Camerera-Mayor as she was called - a thin, hard- featured woman with a yellow
ruff did not look quite so bad-tempered as usual, and something like a chill
smile flitted across her wrinkled face and twitched her thin bloodless lips.
It certainly was a marvellous bullfight, and much nicer, the
Infanta thought, than the real bull-fight that she had been brought to see at
Seville, on the occasion of the visit of the Duke of Parma to her father.
Some of the boys pranced about on
richly-caparisoned hobby-horses brandishing long javelins with gay streamers of
bright ribands attached to them; others went on foot waving their scarlet
cloaks before the bull, and vaulting lightly over the barrier when he charged
them; and as for the bull himself he was just like a live bull, though he was
only made of wicker-work and stretched hide, and sometimes insisted on running
round the arena on his hind legs, which no live bull ever dreams of doing. He
made a splendid fight of it too, and the children got so excited that they
stood up upon the benches, and waved their lace handkerchiefs and cried out: Bravo toro! Bravo toro! just as
sensibly as if they had been grown- up people. At last, however, after a
prolonged combat, during which several of the hobby-horses were gored through
and through, and their riders dismounted, the young Count of Tierra-Nueva
brought the bull to his knees, and having obtained permission from the Infanta
to give the coup de grâce,
he plunged his wooden sword into the neck of the animal with such violence that
the head came right off and disclosed the laughing face of little Monsieur de
Lorraine, the son of the French Ambassador at Madrid.
The arena was then cleared amidst much applause, and the
dead hobby-horses dragged solemnly away by two Moorish pages in yellow and
black liveries, and after a short interlude, during which a French posture-master
performed upon the tight rope, some Italian puppets appeared in the
semi-classical tragedy of Sophonisba on the stage of a small theatre that
had been built up for the purpose. They acted so well, and their gestures were
so extremely natural, that at the close of the play the eyes of the Infanta
were quite dim with tears. Indeed some of the children really cried, and had to
be comforted with sweetmeats, and the Grand Inquisitor himself was so affected
that he could not help saying to Don Pedro that it seemed to him intolerable
that things made simply out of wood and coloured wax, and worked mechanically
by wires, should be so unhappy and meet with such terrible misfortunes. An
African juggler followed, who brought in a large flat basket covered with a red
cloth, and having placed it in the centre of the arena, he took from his turban
a curious reed pipe, and blew through it. In a few moments the cloth began to
move, and as the pipe grew shriller and shriller two green and gold snakes put
out their strange wedge- shaped heads and rose slowly up, swaying to and fro
with the music as a plant sways in the water. The children, however, were
rather frightened at their spotted hoods and quick darting tongues, and were
much more pleased when the juggler made a tiny orange-tree grow out of the sand
and bear pretty white blossoms and clusters of real fruit; and when he took the
fan of the little daughter of the Marquess de Las-Torres, and changed it into a
blue bird that flew all round the pavilion and sang, their delight and
amazement knew no bounds. The solemn minuet, too, performed by the dancing boys
from the church of Nuestra Señora Del Pilar, was charming. The Infanta had
never before seen this wonderful ceremony which takes place every year at
May-time in front of the high altar of the Virgin, and in her honour; and
indeed none of the royal family of Spain had entered the great cathedral of
Saragossa since a mad priest, supposed by many to have been in the pay of
Elizabeth of England, had tried to administer a poisoned wafer to the Prince of
the Asturias. So she had known only by hearsay of `Our Lady's Dance,' as it was
called, and it certainly was a beautiful sight. The boys wore old-fashioned
court dresses of white velvet, and their curious three-cornered hats were
fringed with silver and surmounted with huge plumes of ostrich feathers, the
dazzling whiteness of their costumes, as they moved about in the sunlight,
being still more accentuated by their swarthy faces and long black hair.
Everybody was fascinated by the grave dignity with which they moved through the
intricate figures of the dance, and by the elaborate grace of their slow
gestures, and stately bows, and when they had finished their performance and
doffed their great plumed hats to the Infanta, she acknowledged their reverence
with much courtesy, and made a vow that she would send a large wax candle to
the shrine of Our Lady of Pilar in return for the pleasure that she had given
her.
A troop of handsome Egyptians - as the gipsies were termed
in those days - then advanced into the arena, and sitting down cross-legs, in a
circle, began to play softly upon their zithers, moving their bodies to the
tune, and humming, almost below their breath, a low dreamy air. When they
caught sight of Don Pedro they scowled at him, and some of them looked
terrified, for only a few weeks before he had had two of their tribe hanged for
sorcery in the marketplace at Seville, but the pretty Infanta charmed them as
she leaned back peeping over her fan with her great blue eyes, and they felt
sure that one so lovely as she was could never be cruel to anybody. So they
played on very gently and just touching the cords of the zithers with their
long pointed nails, and their heads began to nod as though they were falling asleep.
Suddenly, with a cry so shrill that all the children were startled and Don
Pedro's hand clutched at the agate pommel of his dagger, they leapt to their
feet and whirled madly round the enclosure beating their tambourines, and
chaunting some wild love-song in their strange guttural language. Then at
another signal they all flung themselves again to the ground and lay there
quite still, the dull strumming of the zithers being the only sound that broke
the silence. After that they had done this several times, they disappeared for
a moment and came back leading a brown shaggy bear by a chain, and carrying on
their shoulders some little Barbary apes. The bear stood upon his head with the
utmost gravity, and the wizened apes played all kinds of amusing tricks with two
gipsy boys who seemed to be their masters, and fought with tiny swords, and
tired off guns, and went t!trough a regular soldier's drill just like the
King's own bodyguard. In fact the gipsies were a great success.
This so upset the gravity of the Infanta that she kept on
laughing long after the little Dwarf had run out of the arena, and expressed a
desire to her uncle that the dance should be immediately repeated. The
Camerera, however, on the plea that the sun was too hot, decided that it would
be better that her Highness should return without delay to the Palace, where a
wonderful feast had been already prepared for her, including a real birthday
cake with her own initials worked all over it in painted sugar and a lovely
silver flag waving from the top. The Infanta accordingly rose up with much
dignity, and having given orders that the little dwarf was to dance again for
her after the hour of siesta, and conveyed her thanks to the young Count of
Tierra-Nueva for his charming reception, she went back to her apartments, the
children following in the same order in which they had entered.
Now when the little Dwarf heard that he was to dance a
second time before the Infanta, and by her own express command, he was so proud
that he ran out into the garden, kissing the white rose in an absurd ecstasy of
pleasure, and making the most uncouth and clumsy gestures of delight.
The Flowers were quite indignant at his daring to intrude
into their beautiful home, and when they saw him capering up and down the
walks, and waving his arms above his head in such a ridiculous manner, they could
not restrain their feelings any longer.
`He is really far too ugly to be
allowed to play in any place where we are,' cried the Tulips.
`He should drink poppy-juice, and go to sleep for a thousand
years,' said the great scarlet Lilies, and they grew quite hot and angry.
`He is a perfect horror!' screamed the Cactus. `Why, he is
twisted and stumpy, and his head is completely out of proportion with his legs.
Really he makes me feel prickly all over, and if he comes near me I will sting
him with my thorns.'
`And he has actually got one of my best blooms,' exclaimed
the White Rose-Tree. `I gave it to the Infanta this morning myself as a
birthday present, and he has stolen it from her.' And she called out: `Thief
thief thief!' at the top of her voice.
Even the red Geraniums, who did not usually give themselves
airs, and were known to have a great many poor relations themselves, curled up
in disgust when they saw him, and when the Violets meekly remarked that though
he was certainly extremely plain, still he could not help it, they retorted
with a good deal of justice that that was his chief defect, and that there was
no reason why one should admire a person because he was incurable; and, indeed,
some of the Violets themselves felt that the ugliness of the little Dwarf was
almost ostentatious, and that he would have shown much better taste if he had
looked sad, or at least pensive, instead of jumping about merrily, and throwing
himself into such grotesque and silly attitudes.
As for the old Sundial, who was an extremely remarkable
individual, and had once told the time of day to no less a person than the
Emperor Charles V himself, he was so taken aback by the little Dwarf's
appearance, that he almost forgot to mark two whole minutes with his long
shadowy finger, and could not help saying to the great milk-white Peacock, who
was sunning herself on the balustrade, that everyone knew that the children of
Kings were Kings, and that the children of charcoal-burners were charcoal-
burners, and that it was absurd to pretend that it wasn't so; a statement with
which the Peacock entirely agreed, and indeed screamed out, `Certainly,
certainly,' in such a loud, harsh voice, that the gold-fish who lived in the
basin of the cool splashing fountain put their heads out of the water, and
asked the huge stone Tritons what on earth was the matter.
But somehow the Birds liked him. They had seen him often in
the forest, dancing about like an elf after the eddying leaves, or crouched up
in the hollow of some old oak-tree, sharing his nuts with the squirrels. They
did not mind his being ugly, a bit. Why, even the nightingale herself, who sang
so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to
listen, was not much to look at after all; and, besides, he had been kind to
them, and during that terribly bitter winter, when there were no berries on the
trees, and the ground was as hard as iron, and the wolves had come down to the
very gates of the city to look for food, he had never once forgotten them, but
had always given them crumbs out of his little hunch of black bread, and
divided with them whatever poor breakfast he had.
So they flew round and round him, just touching his cheek
with their wings as they passed, and chattered to each other, and the little
Dwarf was so pleased that he could not help showing them the beautiful white
rose, and telling them that the Infanta herself had given it to him because she
loved him.
They did not understand a single word of what he was saying,
but 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 wind-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 dovecote 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 riot 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. Under-neath 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 fox-gloves drooped with the weight of their
dappled bee-haunted cells. The chestnut had its spires of 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 shadow
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 hint, rather that 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 never moved.
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 monstre. 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.
