The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (novel24 txt) 📕

have bread and shelter only, but also teachings out of books; for a full

belly is little worth where the mind is starved, and the heart. I will

keep this diligently in my remembrance, that this day’s lesson be not

lost upon me, and my people suffer thereby; for learning softeneth the

heart and breedeth gentleness and charity.” {1}

The lights began to twinkle, it came on to rain, the wind rose, and a raw

and gusty night set in. The houseless prince, the homeless heir to the

throne of England, still moved on, drifting deeper into the maze of

squalid alleys where the swarming hives of poverty and misery were massed

together.

Suddenly a great drunken ruffian collared him and said—

“Out to this time of night again, and hast not brought a farthing home, I

warrant me! If it be so, an’ I do not break all the bones in thy lean

body, then am I not John Canty, but some other.”

The prince twisted himself loose, unconsciously brushed his profaned

shoulder, and eagerly said—

“Oh, art HIS father, truly? Sweet heaven grant it be so—then wilt thou

fetch him away and restore me!”

“HIS father? I know not what thou mean’st; I but know I am THY father,

as thou shalt soon have cause to—”

“Oh, jest not, palter not, delay not!—I am worn, I am wounded, I can

bear no more. Take me to the king my father, and he will make thee rich

beyond thy wildest dreams. Believe me, man, believe me!—I speak no lie,

but only the truth!—put forth thy hand and save me! I am indeed the

Prince of Wales!”

The man stared down, stupefied, upon the lad, then shook his head and

muttered—

“Gone stark mad as any Tom o’ Bedlam!”—then collared him once more, and

said with a coarse laugh and an oath, “But mad or no mad, I and thy

Gammer Canty will soon find where the soft places in thy bones lie, or

I’m no true man!”

With this he dragged the frantic and struggling prince away, and

disappeared up a front court followed by a delighted and noisy swarm of

human vermin.

Chapter V. Tom as a patrician.

Tom Canty, left alone in the prince’s cabinet, made good use of his

opportunity. He turned himself this way and that before the great

mirror, admiring his finery; then walked away, imitating the prince’s

high-bred carriage, and still observing results in the glass. Next he

drew the beautiful sword, and bowed, kissing the blade, and laying it

across his breast, as he had seen a noble knight do, by way of salute to

the lieutenant of the Tower, five or six weeks before, when delivering

the great lords of Norfolk and Surrey into his hands for captivity. Tom

played with the jewelled dagger that hung upon his thigh; he examined the

costly and exquisite ornaments of the room; he tried each of the

sumptuous chairs, and thought how proud he would be if the Offal Court

herd could only peep in and see him in his grandeur. He wondered if they

would believe the marvellous tale he should tell when he got home, or if

they would shake their heads, and say his overtaxed imagination had at

last upset his reason.

At the end of half an hour it suddenly occurred to him that the prince

was gone a long time; then right away he began to feel lonely; very soon

he fell to listening and longing, and ceased to toy with the pretty

things about him; he grew uneasy, then restless, then distressed.

Suppose some one should come, and catch him in the prince’s clothes, and

the prince not there to explain. Might they not hang him at once, and

inquire into his case afterward? He had heard that the great were prompt

about small matters. His fear rose higher and higher; and trembling he

softly opened the door to the antechamber, resolved to fly and seek the

prince, and, through him, protection and release. Six gorgeous

gentlemen-servants and two young pages of high degree, clothed like

butterflies, sprang to their feet and bowed low before him. He stepped

quickly back and shut the door. He said—

“Oh, they mock at me! They will go and tell. Oh! why came I here to

cast away my life?”

He walked up and down the floor, filled with nameless fears, listening,

starting at every trifling sound. Presently the door swung open, and a

silken page said—

“The Lady Jane Grey.”

The door closed and a sweet young girl, richly clad, bounded toward him.

But she stopped suddenly, and said in a distressed voice—

“Oh, what aileth thee, my lord?”

Tom’s breath was nearly failing him; but he made shift to stammer out—

“Ah, be merciful, thou! In sooth I am no lord, but only poor Tom Canty

of Offal Court in the city. Prithee let me see the prince, and he will

of his grace restore to me my rags, and let me hence unhurt. Oh, be thou

merciful, and save me!”

By this time the boy was on his knees, and supplicating with his eyes and

uplifted hands as well as with his tongue. The young girl seemed horror-stricken. She cried out—

“O my lord, on thy knees?—and to ME!”

Then she fled away in fright; and Tom, smitten with despair, sank down,

murmuring—

“There is no help, there is no hope. Now will they come and take me.”

Whilst he lay there benumbed with terror, dreadful tidings were speeding

through the palace. The whisper—for it was whispered always—flew from

menial to menial, from lord to lady, down all the long corridors, from

story to story, from saloon to saloon, “The prince hath gone mad, the

prince hath gone mad!” Soon every saloon, every marble hall, had its

groups of glittering lords and ladies, and other groups of dazzling

lesser folk, talking earnestly together in whispers, and every face had

in it dismay. Presently a splendid official came marching by these

groups, making solemn proclamation—

“IN THE NAME OF THE KING!

Let none list to this false and foolish matter, upon pain of death, nor

discuss the same, nor carry it abroad. In the name of the King!”

The whisperings ceased as suddenly as if the whisperers had been stricken

dumb.

Soon there was a general buzz along the corridors, of “The prince! See,

the prince comes!”

Poor Tom came slowly walking past the low-bowing groups, trying to bow in

return, and meekly gazing upon his strange surroundings with bewildered

and pathetic eyes. Great nobles walked upon each side of him, making him

lean upon them, and so steady his steps. Behind him followed the court-physicians and some servants.

Presently Tom found himself in a noble apartment of the palace and heard

the door close behind him. Around him stood those who had come with him.

Before him, at a little distance, reclined a very large and very fat man,

with a wide, pulpy face, and a stern expression. His large head was very

grey; and his whiskers, which he wore only around his face, like a frame,

were grey also. His clothing was of rich stuff, but old, and slightly

frayed in places. One of his swollen legs had a pillow under it, and was

wrapped in bandages. There was silence now; and there was no head there

but was bent in reverence, except this man’s. This stern-countenanced

invalid was the dread Henry VIII. He said—and his face grew gentle as

he began to speak—

“How now, my lord Edward, my prince? Hast been minded to cozen me, the

good King thy father, who loveth thee, and kindly useth thee, with a

sorry jest?”

Poor Tom was listening, as well as his dazed faculties would let him, to

the beginning of this speech; but when the words ‘me, the good King’ fell

upon his ear, his face blanched, and he dropped as instantly upon his

knees as if a shot had brought him there. Lifting up his hands, he

exclaimed—

“Thou the KING? Then am I undone indeed!”

This speech seemed to stun the King. His eyes wandered from face to face

aimlessly, then rested, bewildered, upon the boy before him. Then he

said in a tone of deep disappointment—

“Alack, I had believed the rumour disproportioned to the truth; but I

fear me ‘tis not so.” He breathed a heavy sigh, and said in a gentle

voice, “Come to thy father, child: thou art not well.”

Tom was assisted to his feet, and approached the Majesty of England,

humble and trembling. The King took the frightened face between his

hands, and gazed earnestly and lovingly into it awhile, as if seeking

some grateful sign of returning reason there, then pressed the curly head

against his breast, and patted it tenderly. Presently he said—

“Dost not know thy father, child? Break not mine old heart; say thou

know’st me. Thou DOST know me, dost thou not?”

“Yea: thou art my dread lord the King, whom God preserve!”

“True, true—that is well—be comforted, tremble not so; there is none

here would hurt thee; there is none here but loves thee. Thou art better

now; thy ill dream passeth—is’t not so? Thou wilt not miscall thyself

again, as they say thou didst a little while agone?”

“I pray thee of thy grace believe me, I did but speak the truth, most

dread lord; for I am the meanest among thy subjects, being a pauper born,

and ‘tis by a sore mischance and accident I am here, albeit I was therein

nothing blameful. I am but young to die, and thou canst save me with one

little word. Oh speak it, sir!”

“Die? Talk not so, sweet prince—peace, peace, to thy troubled heart—

thou shalt not die!”

Tom dropped upon his knees with a glad cry—

“God requite thy mercy, O my King, and save thee long to bless thy land!”

Then springing up, he turned a joyful face toward the two lords in

waiting, and exclaimed, “Thou heard’st it! I am not to die: the King

hath said it!” There was no movement, save that all bowed with grave

respect; but no one spoke. He hesitated, a little confused, then turned

timidly toward the King, saying, “I may go now?”

“Go? Surely, if thou desirest. But why not tarry yet a little? Whither

would’st go?”

Tom dropped his eyes, and answered humbly—

“Peradventure I mistook; but I did think me free, and so was I moved to

seek again the kennel where I was born and bred to misery, yet which

harboureth my mother and my sisters, and so is home to me; whereas these

pomps and splendours whereunto I am not used—oh, please you, sir, to let

me go!”

The King was silent and thoughtful a while, and his face betrayed a

growing distress and uneasiness. Presently he said, with something of

hope in his voice—

“Perchance he is but mad upon this one strain, and hath his wits unmarred

as toucheth other matter. God send it may be so! We will make trial.”

Then he asked Tom a question in Latin, and Tom answered him lamely in the

same tongue. The lords and doctors manifested their gratification also.

The King said—

“‘Twas not according to his schooling and ability, but showeth that his

mind is but diseased, not stricken fatally. How say you, sir?”

The physician addressed bowed low, and replied—

“It jumpeth with my own conviction, sire, that thou hast divined aright.”