TO BE READ FIRST
IN the book called “The Enchanted Forest” it is related— But I hope that you have read that book, or at least that you sincerely intend to do so as soon as you have time, but no matter; it is all about a Forest Kingdom, and a Great Forest that was enchanted by a witch, an irritable sort of person who— Not that she was to be blamed altogether, in my judgment, for she had been provoked to it by a page boy belonging to the King of the Forest, and I am personally not surprised that this young rogue was in consequence spirited away in the middle of the night, no one knew whither.
Another boy (quite a different sort) named Bilbo, son of one Bodad a woodchopper, managed to disenchant the forest and destroy the witch, and for this he was given, when he was old enough, the hand of the King’s daughter, the Princess Dorobel; and in course of time there came to them a little son, by name Bojohn.
This Bojohn, with his friend Bodkin, a fisherman’s boy, afterward discovered the lost page boy in a chamber beneath a forest pool, where the witch had placed him for his punishment; and in this chamber, with the page boy, was a company of enchanted men, also placed there by the witch, at various times, each for some offense against her, and each sitting there upright in a kind of cupboard in the wall, unable to speak or move. These men, and the page boy too, Prince Bojohn and his friend Bodkin set free, by means of a magical silver lamp.
In the audience room of the King’s dwelling, a noble castle in the midst of the forest, the entire court assembled to welcome the rescued men on the night of their arrival; and the King, after making a speech (which no power on earth could have prevented his doing), created the rescued men, without bothering to ask whether they wanted it or no, an order of knighthood, to be known as the Order of the Silver Lamp. This done, he addressed the new knights,—but here I may as well turn back to the book itself, which thus relates what then occurred:
“We are all anxious,” said the King, “to hear your stories; they are, I am sure, of the greatest interest. You, sir,” he said, addressing the oldest of the Knights of the Silver Lamp, who wore a faded spangled coat, of a period no one present could remember, “I beseech you to recount to us the story of your life, and in particular the adventure which brought you to so strange a pass.”
“Willingly, sire,” said the ancient man, so readily that it was apparent he had been waiting for this opportunity; and thereupon, with a considerable rustling and a good deal of whispering and nodding of heads, the assemblage composed itself to hear the story of the Old Man in the Spangled Coat.
Bojohn and Bodkin
The Teller of Tales
SOLARIO THE TAILOR
His Audience
Prince Bojohn, a boy, the King’s grandson
Bodkin, a fisherman’s boy, his friend
The Princess Dorobel, Bojohn’s mother
Prince Bilbo, her husband, Bojohn’s father
The King and Queen of the Great Forest, Bojohn’s grandfather and grandmother, and the Princess Dorobel’s parents
Mortimer the Executioner
The Encourager of the Interrupter
THE FIRST NIGHT
STORY OF THE OLD MAN IN THE SPANGLED COAT
YOU must know (began the old man) that I am a tailor, by name Solario. In the reign of the good King Fortmain the Ninth—
“Ah!” interrupted the King. “That was my great-grandfather. Bless my soul, master tailor, you must have been imprisoned under the forest pool nearly a hundred years ago. Hum! I dare say you know what you’re talking about, but—”
“My dear,” said the Queen, “I’m quite sure that the ninth Fortmain was your great-great-grandfather, and not your great-grandfather, though of course I may be mistaken; but it seems to me that it was the tenth Fortmain who was your great-grandfather, because the ninth had an oldest son who married into the Stiffish family, if I recollect the name correctly, or perhaps it was Standish, and at any rate he died without any children while his father was alive, and the younger son came into the—”
“Never mind, never mind,” said the King. “You mustn’t interrupt. Let the man go on with his story.”
You must know (began the old man again) that in the reign of the good King Fortmain the Ninth, I practised my art as a tailor in the city of Vernicroft, a thriving and busy city, located in a corner of the Great Forest remote from—
“Vernicroft!” said the King. “I don’t understand it. There’s no such busy city now. There’s nothing but a little ruined hamlet away over at the other side of the—”
“Well,” said the Queen, “perhaps at that time—”
“Don’t interrupt,” said the King. “Let the man go on.”
You must know (began the old man again) that I had risen to a considerable eminence in my profession. I do not pretend to say that I was the very best tailor in the kingdom, for I am far too modest to speak of my own merit; but the—er—the spangled coat in which you now see me was a creation of my own brain, and at the time it was thought to be—er—however, it speaks for itself.
“I think it’s a perfect sight,” whispered Bojohn to Bodkin.
It is true I was growing old, but I was very well satisfied; there was no one dependent on me, my clients were numerous and rich, and I enjoyed the respect due an artist and man of substance. I had saved a good deal of money, for I had never squandered any in foolish gifts, nor wasted any in ridiculous pleasures, nor—but I do not wish to boast.
“That’s a wonderful thing to brag about,” whispered Bodkin to Bojohn.
One morning, a balmy morning in spring, I was sitting cross-legged on my worktable at the rear of my shop, busily plying the needle, when a stranger, richly dressed, entered my open door from the street, and approached me, bowing courteously. He was a handsome man, wearing a short beard; and I remarked with surprise, by contrast with his beard, that he was utterly without eyebrows.
“Sir,” said he, “have I the pleasure of addressing the renowned Solario, whose genius has caused our city to be envied wherever art is prized?”
I confessed that I was the person.
“My master,” he went on, “is a nobleman, to whose ears the rumor of your skill and taste has penetrated, although he lives in retirement and hears not much of the outer world. I trust that you are at liberty to undertake a piece of work for him?”
I assured him that I was.
“My master,” he proceeded, “is, I must warn you, unable to satisfy himself, in the matter now in hand, with less than absolute perfection. Already he has been disappointed in some eight other tailors, and he has learned of your superlative excellence with much hope; and in order that he may assure himself how well his report of you is justified, he has commanded me to entrust to you a small commission; to wit, to sew on this button.”
I was greatly mortified at this lame conclusion of so promising a speech; I suspected that the stranger was making game of me; but his manner was so respectful that I held my peace, and watched him without a word while he took from under his short blue velvet cloak a package, and depositing it before me on my table proceeded to undo it.
“This old fellow talks like he was writing a composition,” whispered Bodkin to Bojohn.
“Oh, he’s a conceited pumpkin,” whispered Bojohn. “He loves to hear himself talk, and I bet you he’s thinking we’re thinking we never heard such fine language in our lives. That’s him, all over.”
The Doublet with the Missing Button
The package contained a doublet, of a material I had never seen before, very thin and glossy, of a texture like that of wasp’s nest but very tough. The doublet contained ten buttonholes, but only nine buttons; one button, and one only, was missing.
“I have here,” said my visitor coolly, “the missing button; and my master will be obliged if you will sew it on.”
Solario was sitting on his worktable busily plying the needle
He produced the button, a large ivory one, which, with the garment, he held up before me in his left hand.
“Please to hold out your left hand,” said he.
I did so, and with his own left hand he placed the garment and the button in mine.
“This doublet,” said he, “must not pass from one to another but by the left hand. Please to remember that. And now, adieu. I will return to-morrow. Meantime—”
He laid on my table a small purse, and bowing with sober courtesy he left the shop.
I turned up the purse, and a number of gold coins fell out, enough to pay for sewing on five hundred buttons. “Ah!” thought I. “At this rate I can well afford to gratify my new client’s whimsies.”
The next day the courteous stranger returned for the doublet. I delivered it with my left hand into his own left hand, the button being attached firmly in place. He thanked me, and departed; but on the morning after, he reappeared, to my surprise, and as he came in he smiled at me and shook his head at me waggishly.
“Fie! master Solario!” said he. “How could you have treated me so? And a mere button, too! Really, my good Solario!”
He produced the doublet, and showed me that it lacked a button in the same place as before. He held up in one hand the ivory button and in the other a length of thread. I was perplexed. The thread had not been cut, of that I was sure. It was the identical thread, and of the identical length.
“You will not blame my master,” said the stranger, “if he finds himself a little aggrieved. He had scarcely put on the doublet yesterday when the button came off in his hand. I was commanded to leave it with you once more, together with this trifling honorarium.”
So saying, he dropped a little purse on my table as before, and after putting the garment and its button into my left hand with his own left hand, bowed himself out. I turned up the purse in haste, and poured out a number of gold coins, as before, but this time twice as many. I put away the gold into my coffer, and sewed on the button once more, with special care.
I whipped the thread around itself under the button, sewed it through the goods, doubled it back through the button, wound it and knotted it and doubled it back, and altogether made such a job of it (however painful to me as an artist) as was perfect for security.
“I don’t see,” interrupted the King, “what all this business about a button has got to do with—”
“If your majesty will pardon me,” said the old tailor, “I have not yet reached the end of my story.”
“I’m well aware of it,” said the King. “But still I don’t see—”
“My dear!” said the Queen, sweetly, and the old man went on with his story.
Next morning the stranger returned for the doublet. I delivered it into his left hand with my left, and he turned to go. At the door he looked back at me smiling, and was about to bow himself out when he paused to try the button with his fingers. A slight frown came over his face; he pulled the button gently, and behold, there before my eyes,—I assure you I saw it with these very eyes,—the button came off into his hand!
He sighed, looked at me gravely, and held out the button in one hand and the doublet in the other.
“Alas, good master Solario!” said he. “You have not treated me very well. The hopes I entertained for your profit are at an end. It remains only for me to apologize for my intrusion, and for you to return to me the money which I left with you.”
This was too much. The idea of returning money which had once been locked safely in my coffer was more than I could bear. I sprang down from my table. “One moment!” I cried. “I beg of you! That I should not be able to sew on a miserable button—it is too ridiculous! Let me see your master myself, and prove to him what I can do! Take me to him at once! Let him assign me any task whatever, and I swear to you—”
“You wish to see my master?” said the stranger.
“At once!” I cried. “Do not carry back to him a report of me so unjust! I must see him myself!”
“Be careful what you say,” said the stranger. “You may be sorry.”
“Impossible!” said I. “Take me to him at once!”
The stranger looked at me thoughtfully. “If I take you,” said he, “swear that you will never blame me for what may happen.”
“I swear it!” I cried.
“You will remember that I warned you?”
“On my own head be it! Let us go at once!”
“Very well, then. The decision is yours, not mine; remember that. I will return for you to-night, and you will then, if you are still of the same mind, be ready to accompany me to my master.”
He tucked the doublet with its button under his cloak, and in another moment he was gone.
That night, after dark, as I was putting up my shutters, a splendid coach and pair, driven by a black man in a rich but somber livery, stopped at my door, and the smiling stranger descended. I ran into the shop and put on my best attire. Some time before, I had designed and executed the coat in which you now see me; it had been much admired; I put it on, and hastened out to the stranger, who bowed me politely into the carriage.
During our journey, my companion exerted himself to be agreeable; and I, on my part, fairly unloosed the rein of conversation,—an art in which, I confess, I had always taken the greatest pleasure. On this occasion I surpassed myself; I drew upon the mysteries of our noble craft for his entertainment; I was by turns humorous and grave; I was at my best; it would not be too much to say that I sparkled; and in short, when the carriage stopped, I realized that I had taken no note of our route.
We drew up in a street which was unfamiliar to me. As we alighted, I observed before me a high wall, extending in either direction as far as I could see; and immediately at hand a little door in the wall, toward which my companion led me. He pulled a bell-rope, and we were at once admitted by a second black man, in the livery I had already seen. I was aware, in spite of the darkness, that we were in a garden, or rather park, of immense dimensions.
The Dark Mansion in the Walled Park
I could see the dark outline of what appeared to be a great mansion. There were no lights anywhere. The air was heavy with the perfume of flowers, a cloying perfume, oppressively sweet. We came, after a considerable walk, to the house. At my companion’s knock, a door was opened by a servant, black like the other two.
We entered a narrow hall, and at the end of this hall we reached a door, which was opened by a fourth man-servant, black like the others; and after ascending a flight of stairs, and traversing several spacious apartments, we came to a pause in a small but elegant room, where my companion left me.
In a moment he returned, and beckoned me to come with him. He opened a door, gently pushed me through, closed the door behind me, and left me, as he advanced, blinking under the light of a hundred candles in a room more superb than any I had ever seen. The colored tiles of the floor, the thick rugs, the curious vases, the pictured tapestries on the walls,—I took them all in at a glance; and I was aware at the same time of an aroma like that of the flowers in the garden, but very faint.
The Tailor Meets the Tall Black Man and His Fair Daughter
At one end of the apartment was a table, loaded with fruit and flowers and wine. At the other end, on a divan, sat a tall and majestic man, dressed in the most exquisite taste. His skin was ebony black. He wore drooping black mustaches, and his hair was long and black; but I observed that he was, like the Courteous Stranger, totally without eyebrows.
At his feet, on a cushion, sat a lady, young and beautiful, a lady divinely beautiful, more beautiful than any I had ever seen or dreamed of. Her complexion! it was all cream and roses. Her eyes! they were blue of the blueness of violets, and they were merry and soft together. Her hair!—I swear I can see her at this moment. Her hair was of the— But I must not allow myself to think of her. The black man and the wonderful lady rose, and my companion presented me.
“You are welcome, Solario,” said the tall black man, smiling graciously. “You have wished to see me, as I hear, and to give me proof of your skill. But we can converse better while we refresh ourselves. You observe that the table is set for four. My daughter has, as you see, already counted upon your company. I hope you will consent to accept our poor hospitality.”
We seated ourselves at the table. My host clapped his hands four times, and four serving men entered, bearing the first course. They were black, like the four I had already seen. They were without eyebrows, and I seemed to remember the same defect in the other four. Eight men servants, all black, and all without eyebrows! I was puzzled; and when I looked from the fair face of the lady opposite me to the black face of her father, I was completely mystified. As for my stranger, he scarcely took his eyes from the damsel; and from the manner in which she now and then returned his gaze, I could see that they were on a footing of tenderness.
When we were at the end of our repast, and were trifling with our grapes and wine, my black host addressed himself directly to me. I was in a mellow mood; I felt that I could scarcely have denied him anything; and as for his daughter, if she had bade me run for her sake to the ends of the— Well, the wine was excellent; I sniffed in it the same aroma I had noticed twice before; and I was in consequence of it in that state of peace which in other circumstances would have preceded slumber. My host leaned toward me in the friendliest attitude.
The Black Prince Tells His Story
“My dear Solario,” said he, “you are asking yourself, all this while, who I am. I am a Prince, heir to the throne of the distant kingdom of Wen. My skin was formerly white, like my daughter’s. It was changed, as you see it now, by the power of an enemy, and I am awaiting here, in exile, with my daughter and my friend, the release which day and night I dream of. If you are not too weary, I will relate to you the adventure which brought me here and changed my skin.”
“With all my heart,” said I; whereupon, without further preamble, he commenced