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- Herausgeber: Hesperus Press Ltd.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Two boys from two different walks of life change places and alter their paths forever… An American classic from Mark Twain. London, 1547. Two young boys meet by chance and strike up a conversation at the gates of a palace. Tom Canty is a poor young boy with few prospects in life; his new friend happens to be Prince Edward VI, the Prince of Wales. The Prince and the Pauper could not be more different from one another: except for the small fact that they look identical. When Tom admires the Prince's fine garments, he and Prince Edward decide on the spur of the moment to swap clothes. But with cruel irony the Prince is mistaken for a poor beggar in Tom's rags and is kicked out of his own palace while Tom is taken to be the Prince by everyone he meets. Suddenly the Prince and the Pauper have swapped not only clothes but also their homes, families, lives and their very identities. While the boys are eager to learn about life in someone else's shoes, they ultimately want to return to their own homes and families. But this proves to be a tall order when nobody believes the prince's claims that he is really a Prince despite being clothed in rags… In this gripping tale of mistaken identity, we see Mark Twain venturing into historical fiction for children while displaying his typical flair for witty dialogue and incisive satire.
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the prince and the pauper
mark twain
Contents
foreword
When I was asked to write this introduction, I was so flattered I failed to confess that along with several other children’s classics that escaped me while I was busy pretending to write my own, I’d never read The Prince and the Pauper.
Having accepted the job, I panicked; what if I didn’t like it? Even worse, what if I didn’t understand it? I quit English Lit at A Level and this was an American author. Double whammy – it’s set in the sixteenth century and full of Ye Oldie dialogue. I got D for History. To quote Mark Twain: ‘I don’t have any right to criticise books and I don’t do it except when I hate them.’
Well, I’ve read it now and there is a lot to love about this novel. But don’t take my word for it. It might not have been Twain’s greatest hit when it was first published in 1882, but his story has passed the test of time with flying colours.
The theme about two boys – one rich and one poor – trading places to see how the other half lives is still universally popular. It has been translated into every medium from silent movies to numerous feature films to Pokemon. As well as a TV series made by the BBC, Walt Disney produced an animated version starring Mickey Mouse. Garfield the cat featured in A Tail Of TwoKitties and even Barbie got in on the act, sticking to the storyline but switching the gender in a film called The Princess and The Pauper. There’s even a Taiwanese video game – Xin Qui Gai Wang Zi or The New Beggar Prince.
It is easy to see why this book is still in print – it’s as relevant today as it’s always been. The aching divide between the haves and the have-nots has never gone away. We’re fascinated by people whose lives are different from ours, hence our love of soap operas and the rise of reality TV.
Watching the royal wedding, it’s only human for those of us without crowns to think that the grass might be greener on the other side of the palace. How many little girls fantasise about being princesses, believing that high status is the answer to all their prayers? Even as adults, as we put out the bins and worry about work and money, we daydream; if only we could swop places, we’d be as happy as kings.
Or would we? Twain exposes this to be a false assumption through the eyes and ears of his main characters, Tom Canty and Edward, Prince of Wales, who are from opposite ends of the social spectrum. Most importantly, they are young and innocent. Having had seven siblings, four of whom died in childhood, Twain believed in the innate goodness of children and their ability to see things as they truly are, unlike adults who are so often corrupted by prejudice.
He used children as his spokesmen in future novels for the same reason, notably Huckleberry Finn, where Huck regards Jim – a black slave – as his friend and equal in an era when this was regarded as totally unacceptable for reasons he failed to fathom. Having grown up in the slave state of Missouri, Twain was horrified by man’s cruelty to man. It became a common thread in his writing, never more so than in his description of poor Tom Canty, born during a period of history when the idea of a great family day out was watching a neighbour being hung, drawn and quartered.
Living in a hovel in Offal Court with his violent father, grandmother and terrified sisters and mother who looked like ‘animals habituated to harsh usage’, Tom is forced to beg, receives daily beatings and sleeps on a filthy bale of straw. The only person who is kind to him is Father Andrew, who teaches him to read and write and learn Latin. Little wonder Tom escapes from the grim reality of being a pauper by dreaming that he’s a prince. However, when he wakes up, ‘His dream had the usual effect – it had intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold.
Then came bitterness and heartbreak and tears.’ Hoping to see a real prince, Tom goes to the palace. To his excitement, Edward, Prince of Wales, is in the grounds, dressed in all his finery. A guard pulls Tom off the fence, but spotting a potential playfellow, the Prince invites him in ‘and the little prince of poverty passed in, in his fluttering rags, to join hands with the prince of limitless plenty’.
As well as sharing a birthday, the boys have much in common. Not only do they look alike and sound alike, they’re equally intelligent and kind-hearted. The prince is horrified to hear how Tom suffers, but when he mentions the fun he has larking in the mud with his friends, Edward envies his freedom and wants to be a commoner, just for a day. Likewise, Tom yearns to be a prince.
Looking in the mirror, they realise the only real difference between them is their clothes. For a joke, they swop. Tom puts on the prince’s robes, Edward steps into Tom’s rags; which boy is which? Their own mothers wouldn’t recognise them: ‘Fared we forth naked there is none could say which was you and which was the Prince of Wales,’ laughs Edward.
There the joke ends. Through a series of tightly plotted events, King Henry VIII believes that Tom is the real prince gone mad, despite his protests that he’s a pauper. Consequently, the royal household – including little Lady Jane Grey and Princess Elizabeth – are instructed to do everything they can to disguise his ‘madness’.
To Tom’s distress, the king wants him ‘installed in his princely dignity in due and ancient form’ before his subjects get wind of the fact that he’s ‘mad’ but this can only happen if the Duke of Norfolk is executed. This can’t be authorised without the Great Seal of England, which has gone missing. The prince had it last, but not being the prince, Tom doesn’t know where or what it is when asked – the king assumes memory loss is a symptom of his madness and thankfully, the execution is delayed.
Meanwhile, Edward in rags is mistaken by his own guard as ‘beggar spawn’. He is thrown out of the grounds and left to wander around London, mocked, bullied and beaten no matter how loudly he insists he’s the Prince of Wales. Heading for Offal Court, he is grabbed by Tom’s drunken father, John Canty, who, assuming he’s his son, drags him into the hovel and gives him a good battering. Hearing Edward ranting about the abuse, Mrs Canty fears her ‘darling boy’ has gone crazy and blames Father Andrew for educating him: ‘Foolish reading hath taken his wit away.’
From here on, the novel flicks back and forth between the two displaced boys to see how they are coping in their new roles. Twain is keen to point out that madness is treated very differently depending on the patient’s appearance; whoever wears the robes is loved and protected while the one in rags is reviled and attacked.
There’s plenty of satire here, especially when Tom struggles to get to grips with ridiculous royal protocol. Twain exaggerates this to comic effect and Tom is stunned to find that he has no fewer than 384 servants. He is allowed to do nothing for himself and when his nose itches, he suspects it might be someone else’s job to scratch it and dare not touch himself: ‘Alas, there was no hereditary scratcher.’
Dinner is a nightmare – not knowing any better, he drinks his finger bowl and declares, ‘It hath a pretty flavour but wanteth strength.’ No one dares to laugh – as far as they are aware, he’s the future king. While Tom relishes the lettuce and turnips – food that would never normally pass a pauper’s lips – he grows weary of the pomp, ceremony and lack of freedom and misses his mother and sisters terribly. Even so, he reads a book on etiquette, does his best to adjust and when the old king dies, his first act as new king is to save the duke. ‘Then shall the king’s law be a law of mercy, from this day and never more a law of blood! To the Tower and say the king decrees the Duke of Norfolk shall not die!’
It is ironic that a pauper acting as king should perform the first humanitarian act, but Twain always rooted for the underdog. In a speech to an important union, the Knights of Labour, he made this very clear: ‘Who are the oppressors? The few. The king, the capitalist and a handful of other overseers and superintendents. Who are the oppressed? The many; the nations of the earth. The valuable personages. The workers; they that make the bread that the soft-handed and idle eat.’
What we are witnessing in Edward’s downfall is the education of a good king as Twain would have it. Being forced to walk several miles in Tom Canty’s battered shoes, the little prince sees first-hand how his father’s cruel laws have affected the poor and vows to change things for the better if he ever gets his throne back.
Falling among vagabonds, he hears a tale about a farmer who had his ears chopped off and was sold as a slave. Filled with compassion, he announces that as King, he decrees the end of the law that caused the terrible injustice. This is greeted by hoots of mirth from the tinkers and tramps who perch him on a barrel, put a tin bowl on his head and crown him ‘Foo Foo, First King of the Moon Calves’.
While Tom has been prevented from protesting about his real identity, Edward persists at every opportunity. Protected and befriended by a soldier, Miles Hendon, he insists that he’s treated like royalty and while Hendon doesn’t believe he’s the king for one second, he plays along like a kindly older brother: ‘Dear heart, he should have been born a king! He playeth the part to a marvel.’
He is amused when Edward dubs him a knight for looking after him, but is touched all the same, as it was given in love. ‘More honour to be held worthy to be a spectre-knight in his kingdom of dreams and shadows than to be held base enough to be an earl in some of the real kingdoms of this world.’ A sentiment Twain would agree with, despairing of the ruling classes as he did.
Having got Edward out of several scrapes, including a near-fatal stabbing at the hands of a genuinely mad hermit, Hendon goes home to Kent accompanied by Edward, only to have his wicked brother claim that he doesn’t recognise him. Hendon is arrested and put in the pillory. Incensed at his friend’s humiliation, Edward commands that he is set free and is almost thrashed for his ‘impertinence’. Being noble, he refuses to beg for mercy, but knowing it might kill the boy, Hendon offers to take twice the lashes on his behalf, saving his skin yet again.
Miles is sentenced to be banished, but indebted to him, Edward won’t hear of it; they must return to London, he says. He will reclaim his throne, clear Hendon’s name and restore the natural order of things.
Coronation Day arrives. Dripping with jewels and dressed in ermines, Tom is riding in a spectacular pageant, when suddenly, he sees his mother in the crowd. His hand flies up to his face, palm out, a unique gesture – ‘born of a forgotten episode and perpetrated by habit’. His mother sees through his disguise and embraces his leg, only to be denied by him: ‘I do not know you woman!’
Tom is filled with shame – how could he reject the woman he loves? Being king has momentarily turned his head. Deciding that royalty has lost its ‘grace and sweetness’ he cries to God to free him from captivity: ‘She was my mother!’
As the Archbishop of Canterbury is about to crown him, to Tom’s great relief, Edward returns and halts the ceremony: ‘I forbid you to set the crown of England upon that forfeited head! I am king!’
Proving it by revealing the whereabouts of the Great Seal, only to find that Tom had innocently removed it from its hiding place to use as nutcracker, he is finally believed – the pauper is an imposter! Against the Lord Protector’s wishes, Edward refuses to throw Tom in the Tower. Impressed by the way he ruled with such wisdom, the newly crowned king gives Tom’s mother and sisters sanctuary at Christ’s Hospital, grants him the title of King’s Ward and makes Hendon an Earl.
Finally, the whole charade is exposed for what it is; a childish game in which two boys were transformed into the best of men by experiencing the worst.
Long live the king of the Great American Novel.
the prince and the pauper
mark twain
I will set down a tale as it was told to me by one who had it of his father, which latter had it of his father, this last having in like manner had it of his father – and so on, back and still back, three hundred years and more, the fathers transmitting it to the sons and so preserving it. It may be history, it may be only a legend, a tradition. It may have happened, it may not have happened: but it could have happened. It may be that the wise and the learned believed it in the old days; it may be that only the unlearned and the simple loved it and credited it.
the birth of the prince and the pauper
In the ancient city of London, on a certain autumn day in the second quarter of the sixteenth century, a boy was born to a poor family of the name of Canty, who did not want him. On the same day another English child was born to a rich family of the name of Tudor, who did want him. All England wanted him too. England had so longed for him, and hoped for him, and prayed God for him, that, now that he was really come, the people went nearly mad for joy. Mere acquaintances hugged and kissed each other and cried. Everybody took a holiday, and high and low, rich and poor, feasted and danced and sang, and got very mellow; and they kept this up for days and nights together. By day, London was a sight to see, with gay banners waving from every balcony and housetop, and splendid pageants marching along. By night, it was again a sight to see, with its great bonfires at every corner, and its troops of revellers making merry around them. There was no talk in all England but of the new baby, Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, who lay lapped in silks and satins, unconscious of all this fuss, and not knowing that great lords and ladies were tending him and watching over him – and not caring, either. But there was no talk about the other baby, Tom Canty, lapped in his poor rags, except among the family of paupers whom he had just come to trouble with his presence.
tom’s early life
Let us skip a number of years.
London was fifteen hundred years old, and was a great town – for that day. It had a hundred thousand inhabitants – some think double as many. The streets were very narrow, and crooked, and dirty, especially in the part where Tom Canty lived, which was not far from London Bridge. The houses were of wood, with the second storey projecting over the first, and the third sticking its elbows out beyond the second. The higher the houses grew, the broader they grew. They were skeletons of strong criss-cross beams, with solid material between, coated with plaster. The beams were painted red or blue or black, according to the owner’s taste, and this gave the houses a very picturesque look. The windows were small, glazed with little diamond-shaped panes, and they opened outward, on hinges, like doors.
The house which Tom’s father lived in was up a foul little pocket called Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane. It was small, decayed, and rickety, but it was packed full of wretchedly poor families. Canty’s tribe occupied a room on the third floor. The mother and father had a sort of bedstead in the corner; but Tom, his grandmother, and his two sisters, Bet and Nan, were not restricted – they had all the floor to themselves, and might sleep where they chose. There were the remains of a blanket or two, and some bundles of ancient and dirty straw, but these could not rightly be called beds, for they were not organised; they were kicked into a general pile, mornings, and selections made from the mass at night, for service.
Bet and Nan were fifteen years old – twins. They were good-hearted girls, unclean, clothed in rags, and profoundly ignorant. Their mother was like them. But the father and the grandmother were a couple of fiends. They got drunk whenever they could; then they fought each other or anybody else who came in the way; they cursed and swore always, drunk or sober; John Canty was a thief, and his mother a beggar. They made beggars of the children, but failed to make thieves of them. Among, but not of, the dreadful rabble that inhabited the house, was a good old priest whom the King had turned out of house and home with a pension of a few farthings, and he used to get the children aside and teach them right ways secretly. Father Andrew also taught Tom a little Latin, and how to read and write; and would have done the same with the girls, but they were afraid of the jeers of their friends, who could not have endured such a queer accomplishment in them.
All Offal Court was just such another hive as Canty’s house. Drunkenness, riot and brawling were the order, there, every night and nearly all night long. Broken heads were as common as hunger in that place. Yet little Tom was not unhappy. He had a hard time of it, but did not know it. It was the sort of time that all the Offal Court boys had, therefore he supposed it was the correct and comfortable thing. When he came home empty-handed at night, he knew his father would curse him and thrash him first, and that when he was done the awful grandmother would do it all over again and improve on it; and that away in the night his starving mother would slip to him stealthily with any miserable scrap or crust she had been able to save for him by going hungry herself, notwithstanding she was often caught in that sort of treason and soundly beaten for it by her husband.
No, Tom’s life went along well enough, especially in summer. He only begged just enough to save himself, for the laws against mendicancy were stringent, and the penalties heavy; so he put in a good deal of his time listening to good Father Andrew’s charming old tales and legends about giants and fairies, dwarfs and genii, and enchanted castles, and gorgeous kings and princes. His head grew to be full of these wonderful things, and many a night as he lay in the dark on his scant and offensive straw, tired, hungry, and smarting from a thrashing, he unleashed his imagination and soon forgot his aches and pains in delicious picturings to himself of the charmed life of a petted prince in a regal palace. One desire came in time to haunt him day and night: it was to see a real prince, with his own eyes. He spoke of it once to some of his Offal Court comrades; but they jeered him and scoffed him so unmercifully that he was glad to keep his dream to himself after that.
He often read the priest’s old books and got him to explain and enlarge upon them. His dreamings and readings worked certain changes in him, by and by. His dream-people were so fine that he grew to lament his shabby clothing and his dirt, and to wish to be clean and better clad. He went on playing in the mud just the same, and enjoying it, too; but, instead of splashing around in the Thames solely for the fun of it, he began to find an added value in it because of the washings and cleansings it afforded.
Tom could always find something going on around the Maypole in Cheapside, and at the fairs; and now and then he and the rest of London had a chance to see a military parade when some famous unfortunate was carried prisoner to the Tower, by land or boat. One summer’s day he saw poor Anne Askew and three men burned at the stake in Smithfield, and heard an ex-bishop preach a sermon to them which did not interest him. Yes, Tom’s life was varied and pleasant enough, on the whole.
By and by Tom’s reading and dreaming about princely life wrought such a strong effect upon him that he began to act the prince, unconsciously. His speech and manners became curiously ceremonious and courtly, to the vast admiration and amusement of his intimates. But Tom’s influence among these young people began to grow now, day by day; and in time he came to be looked up to, by them, with a sort of wondering awe, as a superior being. He seemed to know so much! and he could do and say such marvellous things! and withal, he was so deep and wise! Tom’s remarks, and Tom’s performances, were reported by the boys to their elders; and these, also, presently began to discuss Tom Canty, and to regard him as a most gifted and extraordinary creature. Full-grown people brought their perplexities to Tom for solution, and were often astonished at the wit and wisdom of his decisions. In fact he was become a hero to all who knew him except his own family – these, only, saw nothing in him.
Privately, after a while, Tom organised a royal court! He was the prince; his special comrades were guards, chamberlains, equerries, lords and ladies in waiting, and the royal family. Daily the mock prince was received with elaborate ceremonials borrowed by Tom from his romantic readings; daily the great affairs of the mimic kingdom were discussed in the royal council, and daily his mimic highness issued decrees to his imaginary armies, navies, and viceroyalties.
After which, he would go forth in his rags and beg a few farthings, eat his poor crust, take his customary cuffs and abuse, and then stretch himself upon his handful of foul straw, and resume his empty grandeurs in his dreams.
And still his desire to look just once upon a real prince, in the flesh, grew upon him, day by day, and week by week, until at last it absorbed all other desires, and became the one passion of his life.
One January day, on his usual begging tour, he tramped despondently up and down the region round about Mincing Lane and Little East Cheap, hour after hour, barefooted and cold, looking in at cook-shop windows and longing for the dreadful pork pies and other deadly inventions displayed there – for to him these were dainties fit for the angels; that is, judging by the smell, they were – for it had never been his good luck to own and eat one. There was a cold drizzle of rain; the atmosphere was murky; it was a melancholy day. At night Tom reached home so wet and tired and hungry that it was not possible for his father and grandmother to observe his forlorn condition and not be moved – after their fashion; wherefore they gave him a brisk cuffing at once and sent him to bed. For a long time his pain and hunger, and the swearing and fighting going on in the building, kept him awake; but at last his thoughts drifted away to far, romantic lands, and he fell asleep in the company of jewelled and gilded princelings who live in vast palaces, and had servants salaaming before them or flying to execute their orders. And then, as usual, he dreamed that he was a princeling himself.
All night long the glories of his royal estate shone upon him; he moved among great lords and ladies, in a blaze of light, breathing perfumes, drinking in delicious music, and answering the reverent obeisances of the glittering throng as it parted to make way for him, with here a smile, and there a nod of his princely head.
And when he awoke in the morning and looked upon the wretchedness about him, his dream had had its usual effect – it had intensified the sordidness of his surroundings a thousandfold. Then came bitterness, and heartbreak, and tears.
tom’s meeting with the prince
Tom got up hungry, and sauntered hungry away, but with his thoughts busy with the shadowy splendours of his night’s dreams. He wandered here and there in the city, hardly noticing where he was going, or what was happening around him. People jostled him, and some gave him rough speech; but it was all lost on the musing boy. By and by he found himself at Temple Bar, the farthest from home he had ever travelled in that direction. He stopped and considered a moment, then fell into his imaginings again, and passed on outside the walls of London. The Strand had ceased to be a country road then, and regarded itself as a street, but by a strained construction; for, though there was a tolerably compact row of houses on one side of it, there were only some scattered great buildings on the other, these being palaces of rich nobles, with ample and beautiful grounds stretching to the river – grounds that are now closely packed with grim acres of brick and stone.
Tom discovered Charing Village presently, and rested himself at the beautiful cross built there by a bereaved king of earlier days; then idled down a quiet, lovely road, past the great cardinal’s stately palace, toward a far more mighty and majestic palace beyond – Westminster. Tom stared in glad wonder at the vast pile of masonry, the wide-spreading wings, the frowning bastions and turrets, the huge stone gateway, with its gilded bars and its magnificent array of colossal granite lions, and other the signs and symbols of English royalty. Was the desire of his soul to be satisfied at last? Here, indeed, was a king’s palace. Might he not hope to see a prince now – a prince of flesh and blood, if Heaven were willing?
At each side of the gilded gate stood a living statue – that is to say, an erect and stately and motionless man-at-arms, clad from head to heel in shining steel armour. At a respectful distance were many country folk, and people from the city, waiting for any chance glimpse of royalty that might offer. Splendid carriages, with splendid people in them and splendid servants outside, were arriving and departing by several other noble gateways that pierced the royal enclosure.
Poor little Tom, in his rags, approached, and was moving slowly and timidly past the sentinels, with a beating heart and a rising hope, when all at once he caught sight through the golden bars of a spectacle that almost made him shout for joy. Within was a comely boy, tanned and brown with sturdy outdoor sports and exercises, whose clothing was all of lovely silks and satins, shining with jewels; at his hip a little jewelled sword and dagger; dainty buskins on his feet, with red heels; and on his head a jaunty crimson cap, with drooping plumes fastened with a great sparkling gem. Several gorgeous gentlemen stood near – his servants, without a doubt. Oh! he was a prince – a prince, a living prince, a real prince – without the shadow of a question; and the prayer of the pauper-boy’s heart was answered at last.
Tom’s breath came quick and short with excitement, and his eyes grew big with wonder and delight. Everything gave way in his mind instantly to one desire: that was to get close to the prince, and have a good, devouring look at him. Before he knew what he was about, he had his face against the gate-bars. The next instant one of the soldiers snatched him rudely away, and sent him spinning among the gaping crowd of country gawks and London idlers. The soldier said –
‘Mind thy manners, thou young beggar!’
The crowd jeered and laughed; but the young prince sprang to the gate with his face flushed, and his eyes flashing with indignation, and cried out –
‘How dar’st thou use a poor lad like that? How dar’st thou use the King my father’s meanest subject so? Open the gates, and let him in!’
You should have seen that fickle crowd snatch off their hats then. You should have heard them cheer, and shout, ‘Long live the Prince of Wales!’
The soldiers presented arms with their halberds, opened the gates, and presented again as the little Prince of Poverty passed in, in his fluttering rags, to join hands with the Prince of Limitless Plenty.
Edward Tudor said –
‘Thou lookest tired and hungry: thou’st been treated ill. Come with me.’
Half a dozen attendants sprang forward to – I don’t know what; interfere, no doubt. But they were waved aside with a right royal gesture, and they stopped stock-still where they were, like so many statues. Edward took Tom to a rich apartment in the palace, which he called his cabinet. By his command a repast was brought such as Tom had never encountered before except in books. The prince, with princely delicacy and breeding, sent away the servants, so that his humble guest might not be embarrassed by their critical presence; then he sat nearby, and asked questions while Tom ate.
‘What is thy name, lad?’
‘Tom Canty, an’ it please thee, sir.’
‘’Tis an odd one. Where dost live?’
‘In the city, please thee, sir. Offal Court, out of Pudding Lane.’
‘Offal Court! Truly ’tis another odd one. Hast parents?’
‘Parents have I, sir, and a grand-dam likewise that is but indifferently precious to me, God forgive me if it be offence to say it – also twin sisters, Nan and Bet.’
‘Then is thy grand-dam not over kind to thee, I take it?’
‘Neither to any other is she, so please your worship. She hath a wicked heart, and worketh evil all her days.’
‘Doth she mistreat thee?’
‘There be times that she stayeth her hand, being asleep or overcome with drink; but when she hath her judgement clear again, she maketh it up to me with goodly beatings.’
A fierce look came into the little prince’s eyes, and he cried out –
‘What! Beatings?’
‘Oh, indeed, yes, please you, sir.’
‘Beatings! – and thou so frail and little. Hark ye: before the night come, she shall hie her to the Tower. The King my father –’
‘In sooth, you forget, sir, her low degree. The Tower is for the great alone.’
‘True, indeed. I had not thought of that. I will consider of her punishment. Is thy father kind to thee?’
‘Not more than Gammer Canty, sir.’
‘Fathers be alike, mayhap. Mine hath not a doll’s temper. He smiteth with a heavy hand, yet spareth me: he spareth me not always with his tongue, though, sooth to say. How doth thy mother use thee?’
‘She is good, sir, and giveth me neither sorrow nor pain of any sort. And Nan and Bet are like to her in this.’
‘How old be these?’
‘Fifteen, an’ it please you, sir.’
‘The Lady Elizabeth, my sister, is fourteen, and the Lady Jane Grey, my cousin, is of mine own age, and comely and gracious withal; but my sister the Lady Mary, with her gloomy mien and – Look you: do thy sisters forbid their servants to smile, lest the sin destroy their souls?’
‘They? Oh, dost think, sir, that they have servants?’
The little prince contemplated the little pauper gravely a moment, then said –
‘And prithee, why not? Who helpeth them undress at night? Who attireth them when they rise?’
‘None, sir. Would’st have them take off their garment, and sleep without – like the beasts?’
‘Their garment! Have they but one?’
‘Ah, good your worship, what would they do with more? Truly they have not two bodies each.’
‘It is a quaint and marvellous thought! Thy pardon, I had not meant to laugh. But thy good Nan and thy Bet shall have raiment and lackeys enow, and that soon, too: my cofferer shall look to it. No, thank me not; ’tis nothing. Thou speakest well; thou hast an easy grace in it. Art learned?’
‘I know not if I am or not, sir. The good priest that is called Father Andrew taught me, of his kindness, from his books.’
‘Know’st thou the Latin?’
‘But scantly, sir, I doubt.’
‘Learn it, lad: ’tis hard only at first. The Greek is harder; but neither these nor any tongues else, I think, are hard to the Lady Elizabeth and my cousin. Thou should’st hear those damsels at it! But tell me of thy Offal Court. Hast thou a pleasant life there?’
‘In truth, yes, so please you, sir, save when one is hungry. There be Punch-and-Judy shows, and monkeys – oh such antic creatures! and so bravely dressed! – and there be plays wherein they that play do shout and fight till all are slain, and ’tis so fine to see, and costeth but a farthing – albeit ’tis main hard to get the farthing, please your worship.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘We lads of Offal Court do strive against each other with the cudgel, like to the fashion of the ’prentices, sometimes.’
The prince’s eyes flashed. Said he –
‘Marry, that would not I mislike. Tell me more.’
‘We strive in races, sir, to see who of us shall be fleetest.’
‘That would I like also. Speak on.’
‘In summer, sir, we wade and swim in the canals and in the river, and each doth duck his neighbour, and splatter him with water, and dive and shout and tumble and –’
‘’Twould be worth my father’s kingdom but to enjoy it once! Prithee go on.’
‘We dance and sing about the Maypole in Cheapside; we play in the sand, each covering his neighbour up; and times we make mud pastry – oh the lovely mud, it hath not its like for delightfulness in all the world! – we do fairly wallow in the mud, sir, saving your worship’s presence.’
‘Oh, prithee, say no more, ’tis glorious! If that I could but clothe me in raiment like to thine, and strip my feet, and revel in the mud once, just once, with none to rebuke me or forbid, meseemeth I could forego the crown!’
‘And if that I could clothe me once, sweet sir, as thou art clad – just once –’
‘Oho, would’st like it? Then so shall it be. Doff thy rags, and don these splendours, lad! It is a brief happiness, but will be not less keen for that. We will have it while we may, and change again before any come to molest.’
A few minutes later the little Prince of Wales was garlanded with Tom’s fluttering odds and ends, and the little Prince of Pauperdom was tricked out in the gaudy plumage of royalty. The two went and stood side by side before a great mirror, and lo, a miracle: there did not seem to have been any change made! They stared at each other, then at the glass, then at each other again. At last the puzzled princeling said, ‘What dost thou make of this?’
‘Ah, good your worship, require me not to answer. It is not meet that one of my degree should utter the thing.’
‘Then will I utter it. Thou hast the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice and manner, the same form and stature, the same face and countenance that I bear. Fared we forth naked, there is none could say which was you, and which the Prince of Wales. And, now that I am clothed as thou wert clothed, it seemeth I should be able the more nearly to feel as thou didst when the brute soldier – Hark ye, is not this a bruise upon your hand?’
‘Yes; but it is a slight thing, and your worship knoweth that the poor man-at-arms –’
‘Peace! It was a shameful thing and a cruel!’ cried the little prince, stamping his bare foot. ‘If the King – Stir not a step till I come again! It is a command!’
In a moment he had snatched up and put away an article of national importance that lay upon a table, and was out at the door and flying through the palace grounds in his bannered rags, with a hot face and glowing eyes. As soon as he reached the great gate, he seized the bars, and tried to shake them, shouting –
‘Open! Unbar the gates!’
The soldier that had maltreated Tom obeyed promptly; and as the prince burst through the portal, half-smothered with royal wrath, the soldier fetched him a sounding box on the ear that sent him whirling to the roadway, and said –
‘Take that, thou beggar’s spawn, for what thou got’st me from his Highness!’
The crowd roared with laughter. The prince picked himself out of the mud, and made fiercely at the sentry, shouting –
‘I am the Prince of Wales, my person is sacred; and thou shalt hang for laying thy hand upon me!’
The soldier brought his halberd to a present-arms and said mockingly –
‘I salute your gracious Highness.’ Then angrily – ‘Be off, thou crazy rubbish!’
Here the jeering crowd closed round the poor little prince, and hustled him far down the road, hooting him, and shouting –
‘Way for his Royal Highness! Way for the Prince of Wales!’
the prince’s troubles begin
After hours of persistent pursuit and persecution, the little prince was at last deserted by the rabble and left to himself. As long as he had been able to rage against the mob, and threaten it royally, and royally utter commands that were good stuff to laugh at, he was very entertaining; but when weariness finally forced him to be silent, he was no longer of use to his tormentors, and they sought amusement elsewhere. He looked about him, now, but could not recognise the locality. He was within the city of London – that was all he knew. He moved on, aimlessly, and in a little while the houses thinned, and the passers-by were infrequent. He bathed his bleeding feet in the brook which flowed then where Farringdon Street now is; rested a few moments, then passed on, and presently came upon a great space with only a few scattered houses in it, and a prodigious church. He recognised this church. Scaffoldings were about, everywhere, and swarms of workmen; for it was undergoing elaborate repairs. The prince took heart at once – he felt that his troubles were at an end, now. He said to himself, ‘It is the ancient Grey Friars’ Church, which the king my father hath taken from the monks and given for a home for ever for poor and forsaken children, and new-named it Christ’s Church. Right gladly will they serve the son of him who hath done so generously by them – and the more that that son is himself as poor and as forlorn as any that be sheltered here this day, or ever shall be.’
He was soon in the midst of a crowd of boys who were running, jumping, playing at ball and leap-frog, and otherwise disporting themselves, and right noisily, too. They were all dressed alike, and in the fashion which in that day prevailed among serving-men and ’prentices – that is to say, each had on the crown of his head a flat black cap about the size of a saucer, which was not useful as a covering, it being of such scanty dimensions, neither was it ornamental; from beneath it the hair fell, unparted, to the middle of the forehead, and was cropped straight around; a clerical band at the neck; a blue gown that fitted closely and hung as low as the knees or lower; full sleeves; a broad red belt; bright yellow stockings, gartered above the knees; low shoes with large metal buckles. It was a sufficiently ugly costume.
The boys stopped their play and flocked about the prince, who said with native dignity –
‘Good lads, say to your master that Edward Prince of Wales desireth speech with him.’
A great shout went up at this, and one rude fellow said –
‘Marry, art thou his grace’s messenger, beggar?’
The prince’s face flushed with anger, and his ready hand flew to his hip, but there was nothing there. There was a storm of laughter, and one boy said –
‘Didst mark that? He fancied he had a sword – belike he is the prince himself.’
This sally brought more laughter. Poor Edward drew himself up proudly and said –
‘I am the prince; and it ill beseemeth you that feed upon the king my father’s bounty to use me so.’
This was vastly enjoyed, as the laughter testified. The youth who had first spoken, shouted to his comrades –
‘Ho, swine, slaves, pensioners of his grace’s princely father, where be your manners? Down on your marrow bones, all of ye, and do reverence to his kingly port and royal rags!’
