A House of Pomegranates E-Book

Oscar Wilde

• Herausgeber: Mike Thomas
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Finally The New Revised Edition is Available!

A House of Pomegranates is a collection of whimisical short stories by Oscar Wilde. This collections includes the following tales: The Young King, The Birthday of the Infanta, The Fisherman and his Soul, and The Star-child. Readers of all ages will be delighted by these fanciful tales.

Leseprobe

A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES

OSCAR WILDE

CONTENTS

THE YOUNG KING

THE BIRTHDAY OF THE INFANTA

THE FISHERMAN AND HIS SOUL

THE STAR-CHILD

THE YOUNG KING

[TO MARGARET LADY BROOKE—THE RANEE OF SARAWAK]

It was the night before the day fixed for his coronation, and the

young King was sitting alone in his beautiful chamber. His

courtiers had all taken their leave of him, bowing their heads to

the ground, according to the ceremonious usage of the day, and had

retired to the Great Hall of the Palace, to receive a few last

lessons from the Professor of Etiquette; there being some of them

who had still quite natural manners, which in a courtier is, I need

hardly say, a very grave offence.

The lad—for he was only a lad, being but sixteen years of age—was

not sorry at their departure, and had flung himself back with a

deep sigh of relief on the soft cushions of his embroidered couch,

lying there, wild-eyed and open-mouthed, like a brown woodland

Faun, or some young animal of the forest newly snared by the

hunters.

And, indeed, it was the hunters who had found him, coming upon him

almost by chance as, bare-limbed and pipe in hand, he was following

the flock of the poor goatherd who had brought him up, and whose

son he had always fancied himself to be. The child of the old

King’s only daughter by a secret marriage with one much beneath her

in station—a stranger, some said, who, by the wonderful magic of

his lute-playing, had made the young Princess love him; while

others spoke of an artist from Rimini, to whom the Princess had

shown much, perhaps too much honour, and who had suddenly

disappeared from the city, leaving his work in the Cathedral

unfinished—he had been, when but a week old, stolen away from his

mother’s side, as she slept, and given into the charge of a common

peasant and his wife, who were without children of their own, and

lived in a remote part of the forest, more than a day’s ride from

the town. Grief, or the plague, as the court physician stated, or,

as some suggested, a swift Italian poison administered in a cup of

spiced wine, slew, within an hour of her wakening, the white girl

who had given him birth, and as the trusty messenger who bare the

child across his saddle-bow stooped from his weary horse and

knocked at the rude door of the goatherd’s hut, the body of the

Princess was being lowered into an open grave that had been dug in

a deserted churchyard, beyond the city gates, a grave where it was

said that another body was also lying, that of a young man of

marvellous and foreign beauty, whose hands were tied behind him

with a knotted cord, and whose breast was stabbed with many red

wounds.

Such, at least, was the story that men whispered to each other.

Certain it was that the old King, when on his deathbed, whether

moved by remorse for his great sin, or merely desiring that the

kingdom should not pass away from his line, had had the lad sent

for, and, in the presence of the Council, had acknowledged him as

his heir.

And it seems that from the very first moment of his recognition he

had shown signs of that strange passion for beauty that was

destined to have so great an influence over his life. Those who

accompanied him to the suite of rooms set apart for his service,

often spoke of the cry of pleasure that broke from his lips when he

saw the delicate raiment and rich jewels that had been prepared for

him, and of the almost fierce joy with which he flung aside his

rough leathern tunic and coarse sheepskin cloak. He missed,

indeed, at times the fine freedom of his forest life, and was

always apt to chafe at the tedious Court ceremonies that occupied

so much of each day, but the wonderful palace—Joyeuse, as they

called it—of which he now found himself lord, seemed to him to be

a new world fresh-fashioned for his delight; and as soon as he

could escape from the council-board or audience-chamber, he would

run down the great staircase, with its lions of gilt bronze and its

steps of bright porphyry, and wander from room to room, and from

corridor to corridor, like one who was seeking to find in beauty an

anodyne from pain, a sort of restoration from sickness.

Upon these journeys of discovery, as he would call them—and,

indeed, they were to him real voyages through a marvellous land, he

would sometimes be accompanied by the slim, fair-haired Court

pages, with their floating mantles, and gay fluttering ribands; but

more often he would be alone, feeling through a certain quick

instinct, which was almost a divination, that the secrets of art

are best learned in secret, and that Beauty, like Wisdom, loves the

lonely worshipper.

Many curious stories were related about him at this period. It was

said that a stout Burgo-master, who had come to deliver a florid

oratorical address on behalf of the citizens of the town, had

caught sight of him kneeling in real adoration before a great

picture that had just been brought from Venice, and that seemed to

herald the worship of some new gods. On another occasion he had

been missed for several hours, and after a lengthened search had

been discovered in a little chamber in one of the northern turrets

of the palace gazing, as one in a trance, at a Greek gem carved

with the figure of Adonis. He had been seen, so the tale ran,

pressing his warm lips to the marble brow of an antique statue that

had been discovered in the bed of the river on the occasion of the

building of the stone bridge, and was inscribed with the name of

the Bithynian slave of Hadrian. He had passed a whole night in

noting the effect of the moonlight on a silver image of Endymion.

All rare and costly materials had certainly a great fascination for

him, and in his eagerness to procure them he had sent away many

merchants, some to traffic for amber with the rough fisher-folk of

the north seas, some to Egypt to look for that curious green

turquoise which is found only in the tombs of kings, and is said to

possess magical properties, some to Persia for silken carpets and

painted pottery, and others to India to buy gauze and stained

ivory, moonstones and bracelets of jade, sandal-wood and blue

enamel and shawls of fine wool.

But what had occupied him most was the robe he was to wear at his

coronation, the robe of tissued gold, and the ruby-studded crown,

and the sceptre with its rows and rings of pearls. Indeed, it was

of this that he was thinking to-night, as he lay back on his

luxurious couch, watching the great pinewood log that was burning

itself out on the open hearth. The designs, which were from the

hands of the most famous artists of the time, had been submitted to

him many months before, and he had given orders that the artificers

were to toil night and day to carry them out, and that the whole

world was to be searched for jewels that would be worthy of their

work. He saw himself in fancy standing at the high altar of the

cathedral in the fair raiment of a King, and a smile played and

lingered about his boyish lips, and lit up with a bright lustre his

dark woodland eyes.

After some time he rose from his seat, and leaning against the

carved penthouse of the chimney, looked round at the dimly-lit

room. The walls were hung with rich tapestries representing the

Triumph of Beauty. A large press, inlaid with agate and lapis-lazuli, filled one corner, and facing the window stood a curiously

wrought cabinet with lacquer panels of powdered and mosaiced gold,

on which were placed some delicate goblets of Venetian glass, and a

cup of dark-veined onyx. Pale poppies were broidered on the silk

coverlet of the bed, as though they had fallen from the tired hands

of sleep, and tall reeds of fluted ivory bare up the velvet canopy,

from which great tufts of ostrich plumes sprang, like white foam,

to the pallid silver of the fretted ceiling. A laughing Narcissus

in green bronze held a polished mirror above its head. On the

table stood a flat bowl of amethyst.

Outside he could see the huge dome of the cathedral, looming like a

bubble over the shadowy houses, and the weary sentinels pacing up

and down on the misty terrace by the river. Far away, in an

orchard, a nightingale was singing. A faint perfume of jasmine

came through the open window. He brushed his brown curls back from

his forehead, and taking up a lute, let his fingers stray across

the cords. His heavy eyelids drooped, and a strange languor came

over him. Never before had he felt so keenly, or with such

exquisite joy, the magic and the mystery of beautiful things.

When midnight sounded from the clock-tower he touched a bell, and

his pages entered and disrobed him with much ceremony, pouring

rose-water over his hands, and strewing flowers on his pillow. A

few moments after that they had left the room, he fell asleep.

And as he slept he dreamed a dream, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was standing in a long, low attic, amidst the

whir and clatter of many looms. The meagre daylight peered in

through the grated windows, and showed him the gaunt figures of the

weavers bending over their cases. Pale, sickly-looking children

were crouched on the huge crossbeams. As the shuttles dashed

through the warp they lifted up the heavy battens, and when the

shuttles stopped they let the battens fall and pressed the threads

together. Their faces were pinched with famine, and their thin

hands shook and trembled. Some haggard women were seated at a

table sewing. A horrible odour filled the place. The air was foul

and heavy, and the walls dripped and streamed with damp.

The young King went over to one of the weavers, and stood by him

and watched him.

And the weaver looked at him angrily, and said, ‘Why art thou

watching me? Art thou a spy set on us by our master?’

‘Who is thy master?’ asked the young King.

‘Our master!’ cried the weaver, bitterly. ‘He is a man like

myself. Indeed, there is but this difference between us—that he

wears fine clothes while I go in rags, and that while I am weak

from hunger he suffers not a little from overfeeding.’

‘The land is free,’ said the young King, ‘and thou art no man’s

slave.’

‘In war,’ answered the weaver, ‘the strong make slaves of the weak,

and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We must work to

live, and they give us such mean wages that we die. We toil for

them all day long, and they heap up gold in their coffers, and our

children fade away before their time, and the faces of those we

love become hard and evil. We tread out the grapes, and another

drinks the wine. We sow the corn, and our own board is empty. We

have chains, though no eye beholds them; and are slaves, though men

call us free.’

‘Is it so with all?’ he asked,

‘It is so with all,’ answered the weaver, ‘with the young as well

as with the old, with the women as well as with the men, with the

little children as well as with those who are stricken in years.

The merchants grind us down, and we must needs do their bidding.

The priest rides by and tells his beads, and no man has care of us.

Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and

Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us

in the morning, and Shame sits with us at night. But what are

these things to thee? Thou art not one of us. Thy face is too

happy.’ And he turned away scowling, and threw the shuttle across

the loom, and the young King saw that it was threaded with a thread

of gold.

And a great terror seized upon him, and he said to the weaver,

‘What robe is this that thou art weaving?’

‘It is the robe for the coronation of the young King,’ he answered;

‘what is that to thee?’

And the young King gave a loud cry and woke, and lo! he was in his

own chamber, and through the window he saw the great honey-coloured

moon hanging in the dusky air.

And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was lying on the deck of a huge galley that was

being rowed by a hundred slaves. On a carpet by his side the

master of the galley was seated. He was black as ebony, and his

turban was of crimson silk. Great earrings of silver dragged down

the thick lobes of his ears, and in his hands he had a pair of

ivory scales.

The slaves were naked, but for a ragged loin-cloth, and each man

was chained to his neighbour. The hot sun beat brightly upon them,

and the negroes ran up and down the gangway and lashed them with

whips of hide. They stretched out their lean arms and pulled the

heavy oars through the water. The salt spray flew from the blades.

At last they reached a little bay, and began to take soundings. A

light wind blew from the shore, and covered the deck and the great

lateen sail with a fine red dust. Three Arabs mounted on wild

asses rode out and threw spears at them. The master of the galley

took a painted bow in his hand and shot one of them in the throat.

He fell heavily into the surf, and his companions galloped away. A

woman wrapped in a yellow veil followed slowly on a camel, looking

back now and then at the dead body.

As soon as they had cast anchor and hauled down the sail, the

negroes went into the hold and brought up a long rope-ladder,

heavily weighted with lead. The master of the galley threw it over

the side, making the ends fast to two iron stanchions. Then the

negroes seized the youngest of the slaves and knocked his gyves

off, and filled his nostrils and his ears with wax, and tied a big

stone round his waist. He crept wearily down the ladder, and

disappeared into the sea. A few bubbles rose where he sank. Some

of the other slaves peered curiously over the side. At the prow of

the galley sat a shark-charmer, beating monotonously upon a drum.

After some time the diver rose up out of the water, and clung

panting to the ladder with a pearl in his right hand. The negroes

seized it from him, and thrust him back. The slaves fell asleep

over their oars.

Again and again he came up, and each time that he did so he brought

with him a beautiful pearl. The master of the galley weighed them,

and put them into a little bag of green leather.

The young King tried to speak, but his tongue seemed to cleave to

the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused to move. The negroes

chattered to each other, and began to quarrel over a string of

bright beads. Two cranes flew round and round the vessel.

Then the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl that he

brought with him was fairer than all the pearls of Ormuz, for it

was shaped like the full moon, and whiter than the morning star.

But his face was strangely pale, and as he fell upon the deck the

blood gushed from his ears and nostrils. He quivered for a little,

and then he was still. The negroes shrugged their shoulders, and

threw the body overboard.

And the master of the galley laughed, and, reaching out, he took

the pearl, and when he saw it he pressed it to his forehead and

bowed. ‘It shall be,’ he said, ‘for the sceptre of the young

King,’ and he made a sign to the negroes to draw up the anchor.

And when the young King heard this he gave a great cry, and woke,

and through the window he saw the long grey fingers of the dawn

clutching at the fading stars.

And he fell asleep again, and dreamed, and this was his dream.

He thought that he was wandering through a dim wood, hung with

strange fruits and with beautiful poisonous flowers. The adders

hissed at him as he went by, and the bright parrots flew screaming

from branch to branch. Huge tortoises lay asleep upon the hot mud.

The trees were full of apes and peacocks.

On and on he went, till he reached the outskirts of the wood, and

there he saw an immense multitude of men toiling in the bed of a

dried-up river. They swarmed up the crag like ants. They dug deep

pits in the ground and went down into them. Some of them cleft the

rocks with great axes; others grabbled in the sand.

They tore up the cactus by its roots, and trampled on the scarlet

blossoms. They hurried about, calling to each other, and no man

was idle.

From the darkness of a cavern Death and Avarice watched them, and

Death said, ‘I am weary; give me a third of them and let me go.’

But Avarice shook her head. ‘They are my servants,’ she answered.

And Death said to her, ‘What hast thou in thy hand?’

‘I have three grains of corn,’ she answered; ‘what is that to

thee?’

‘Give me one of them,’ cried Death, ‘to plant in my garden; only

one of them, and I will go away.’

‘I will not give thee anything,’ said Avarice, and she hid her hand

in the fold of her raiment.

And Death laughed, and took a cup, and dipped it into a pool of

water, and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the great

multitude, and a third of them lay dead. A cold mist followed her,

and the water-snakes ran by her side.

And when Avarice saw that a third of the multitude was dead she

beat her breast and wept. She beat her barren bosom, and cried