Multimedia Mania/abacus-multimedia-mania.iso/dp/0144/01442.txt

Text File | 1993-07-27 | 13KB | 253 lines

$Unique_ID{bob01442}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Prince And The Pauper, The
Chapter XX}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Twain, Mark}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{king
now
hermit
thou
himself
shalt
am
archangel
face
yes}
$Date{1909}
$Log{}
Title:       Prince And The Pauper, The
Author:      Twain, Mark
Date:        1909

Chapter XX

The Prince And The Hermit

     The high hedge hid him from the house now; and so, under the impulse
of a deadly fright, he let out all his forces and sped toward a wood in the
distance.  He never looked back until he had almost gained the shelter of
the forest; then he turned and descried two figures in the distance.  That
was sufficient; he did not wait to scan them critically, but hurried on,
and never abated his pace till he was far within the twilight depths of the
wood.  Then he stopped; being persuaded that he was now tolerably safe.  He
listened intently, but the stillness was profound and solemn - awful, even,
and depressing to the spirits.  At wide intervals his straining ear did
detect sounds, but they were so remote, and hollow, and mysterious, that
they seemed not to be real sounds, but only the moaning and complaining
ghosts of departed ones.  So the sounds were yet more dreary than the
silence which they interrupted.

     It was his purpose, in the beginning, to stay where he was, the rest
of the day; but a chill soon invaded his perspiring body, and he was at
last obliged to resume movement in order to get warm.  He struck straight
through the forest, hoping to pierce to a road presently, but he was
disappointed in this.  He traveled on and on; but the farther he went, the
denser the wood became, apparently.  The gloom began to thicken, by and by,
and the king realized that the night was coming on.  It made him shudder to
think of spending it in such an uncanny place; so he tried to hurry faster,
but he only made the less speed, for he could not now see well enough to
choose his steps judiciously; consequently he kept tripping over roots and
tangling himself in vines and briers.

     And how glad he was when at last he caught the glimmer of a light!  He
approached it warily, stopping often to look about him and listen.  It came
from an unglazed window-opening in a little hut.  He heard a voice now, and
felt a disposition to run and hide; but he changed his mind at once, for
this voice was praying, evidently.  He glided to the one window of the hut,
raised himself on tiptoe, and stole a glance within.  The room was small;
its floor was the natural earth, beaten hard by use; in a corner was a bed
of rushes and a ragged blanket or two; near it was a pail, a cup, a basin,
and two or three pots and pans; there was a short bench and a three-legged
stool; on the hearth the remains of a fagot fire were smouldering; before a
shrine, which was lighted by a single candle, knelt an aged man, and on an
old wooden box at his side lay an open book and a human skull.  The man was
of large, bony frame; his hair and whiskers were very long and snowy white;
he was clothed in a robe of sheepskins which reached from his neck to his
heels.

     "A holy hermit!" said the king to himself; "now am I indeed
fortunate."

     The hermit rose from his knees; the king knocked.  A deep voice
responded:

     "Enter! - but leave sin behind, for the ground whereon thou shalt
stand is holy!"

     The king entered, and paused.  The hermit turned a pair of gleaming,
unrestful eyes upon him, and said:

     "Who art thou?"

     "I am the king," came the answer, with placid simplicity.

     "Welcome, king!" cried the hermit, with enthusiasm.  Then, bustling
about with feverish activity, and constantly saying "Welcome, welcome," he
arranged his bench, seated the king on it, by the hearth, threw some fagots
on the fire, and finally fell to pacing the floor, with a nervous stride.

     "Welcome!  Many have sought sanctuary here, but they were not worthy,
and were turned away.  But a king who casts his crown away, and despises
the vain splendors of his office, and clothes his body in rags, to devote
his life to holiness and the mortification of the flesh - he is worthy, he
is welcome! - here shall he abide all his days till death come." The king
hastened to interrupt and explain, but the hermit paid no attention to him
- did not even hear him, apparently, but went right on with his talk, with
a raised voice and a growing energy.  "And thou shalt be at peace here.
None shall find out thy refuge to disquiet thee with supplications to
return to that empty and foolish life which God hath moved thee to abandon.
Thou shalt pray here; thou shalt study the Book; thou shalt meditate upon
the follies and delusions of this world, and upon the sublimities of the
world to come; thou shalt feed upon crusts and herbs, and scourge thy body
with whips daily, to the purifying of thy soul.  Thou shalt wear a hair
shirt next thy skin; thou shalt drink water only; and thou shalt be at
peace; yes, wholly at peace; for whoso comes to seek thee shall go his way
again baffled; he shall not find thee, he shall not molest thee."

     The old man, still pacing back and forth, ceased to speak aloud, and
began to mutter.  The king seized this opportunity to state his case; and
he did it with an eloquence inspired by uneasiness and apprehension.  But
the hermit went on muttering, and gave no heed.  And still muttering, he
approached the king and said, impressively:

     "'Sh!  I will tell you a secret!" He bent down to impart it, but
checked himself, and assumed a listening attitude.  After a moment or two
he went on tiptoe to the window-opening, put his head out and peered around
in the gloaming, then came tip-toeing back again, put his face close down
to the king's and whispered:

     "I am an archangel!"

     The king started violently, and said to himself, "Would God I were
with the outlaws again; for lo, now am I the prisoner of a madman!" His
apprehensions were heightened, and they showed plainly in his face.  In a
low, excited voice, the hermit continued:

     "I see you feel my atmosphere!  There's awe in your face!  None may be
in this atmosphere and not be thus affected; for it is the very atmosphere
of heaven.  I go thither and return, in the twinkling of an eye.  I was
made an archangel on this very spot, it is five years ago, by angels sent
from heaven to confer that awful dignity.  Their presence filled this place
with an intolerable brightness.  And they knelt to me, king!  yes, they
knelt to me!  for I was greater than they.  I have walked in the courts of
heaven, and held speech with the patriarchs.  Touch my hand - be not afraid
- touch it.  There - now thou hast touched a hand which has been clasped by
Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob!  For I have walked in the golden courts, I
have seen the Deity face to face!" He paused, to give this speech effect;
then his face suddenly changed, and he started to his feet again, saying,
with angry energy, "Yes, I am an archangel; a mere archangel! - I that
might have been pope!  It is verily true.  I was told it from heaven in a
dream, twenty years ago; ah, yes, I was to be pope! - and I should have
been pope, for Heaven had said it - but the king dissolved my religious
house, and I, poor obscure unfriended monk, was cast homeless upon the
world, robbed of my mighty destiny!" Here he began to mumble again, and
beat his forehead in futile rage, with his fist; now and then articulating
a venomous curse, and now and then a pathetic "Wherefore I am nought but an
archangel - I that should have been pope!"

     So he went on for an hour, while the poor little king sat and
suffered.  Then all at once the old man's frenzy departed, and he became
all gentleness.  His voice softened, he came down out of his clouds, and
fell to prattling along so simply and so humanely, that he soon won the
king's heart completely.  The old devotee moved the boy nearer to the fire
and made him comfortable; doctored his small bruises and abrasions with a
deft and tender hand; and then set about preparing and cooking a supper -
chatting pleasantly all the time, and occasionally stroking the lad's cheek
or patting his head, in such a gently caressing way that in a little while
all the fear and repulsion inspired by the archangel were changed to
reverence and affection for the man.

     This happy state of things continued while the two ate the supper;
then, after a prayer before the shrine, the hermit put the boy to bed, in a
small adjoining room, tucking him in as snugly and lovingly as a mother
might; and so, with a parting caress, left him and sat down by the fire,
and began to poke the brands about in an absent and aimless way Presently
he paused; then tapped his forehead several times with his fingers, as if
trying to recall some thought which had escaped from his mind.  Apparently
he was unsuccessful.  Now he started quickly up, and entered his guest's
room, and said:

     "Thou art king?"

     "Yes," was the response, drowsily uttered

     "What king?"

     "Of England."

     "Of England.  Then Henry is gone!"

     "Alack, it is so.  I am his son."

     A black frown settled down upon the hermit's face, and he clenched his
bony hands with a vindictive energy.  He stood a few moments, breathing
fast and swallowing repeatedly, then said in a husky voice:

     "Dost know it was he that turned us out into the world houseless and
homeless?"

     There was no response.  The old man bent down and scanned the boy's
reposeful face and listened to his placid breathing.  "He sleeps - sleeps
soundly;" and the frown vanished away and gave place to an expression of
evil satisfaction.  A smile flitted across the dreaming boy's features.
The hermit muttered, "So - his heart is happy;" and he turned away.  He
went stealthily about the place, seeking here and there for something; now
and then halting to listen, now and then jerking his head around and
casting a quick glance toward the bed; and always muttering, always
mumbling to himself.  At last he found what he seemed to want - a rusty old
butcher knife and a whetstone.  Then he crept to his place by the fire, sat
himself down, and began to whet the knife softly on the stone, still
muttering, mumbling, ejaculating.  The winds sighed around the lonely
place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by out of the distances.
The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out at the old man
from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt, absorbed, and
noted none of these things.

     At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and
nodded his head with satisfaction.  "It grows sharper," he said; "yes, it
grows sharper."

     He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on,
entertaining himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in
articulate speech:

     "His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us - and is gone down into
the eternal fires!  Yes, down into the eternal fires!  He escaped us - but
it was God's will, yes it was God's will, we must not repine.  But he hath
not escaped the fires!  no, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming,
unpitying, remorseless fires - and they are everlasting!"

     And so he wrought; and still wrought; mumbling - chuckling a low
rasping chuckle at times - and at times breaking again into words:

     "It was his father that did it all.  I am but an archangel - but for
him, I should be pope!"

     The king stirred.  The hermit sprang noiselessly to the bedside, and
went down upon his knees, bending over the prostrate form with his knife
uplifted.  The boy stirred again; his eyes came open for an instant, but
there was no speculation in them, they saw nothing; the next moment his
tranquil breathing showed that his sleep was sound once more.

     The hermit watched and listened for a time, keeping his position and
scarcely breathing; then he slowly lowered his arm, and presently crept
away, saying:

     "It is long past midnight - it is not best that he should cry out,
lest by accident some one be passing."

     He glided about his hovel, gathering a rag here, a thong there, and
another one yonder; then he returned, and by careful and gentle handling he
managed to tie the king's ankles together without waking him.  Next he
essayed to tie the wrists; he made several attempts to cross them, but the
boy always drew one hand or the other away, just as the cord was ready to
be applied; but at last, when the archangel was almost ready to despair,
the boy crossed his hands himself, and the next moment they were bound.
Now a bandage was passed under the sleeper's chin and brought up over his
head and tied fast - and so softly, so gradually, and so deftly were the
knots drawn together and compacted, that the boy slept peacefully through
it all without stirring.