Once upon a time in a great glittering castle there lived a young Prince whose beauty outshone even the rarest of diamonds. His hair was like spun gold, his skin was white and smooth as cream, and his eyes looked like bright stones when he stood in the light. This Prince was already fashionably tall, but delicate, and because he was of royal blood, he could always afford to be outfitted in the latest styles and most flattering materials. He received an education befitting his standing -- sundry lessons in literature and etiquette, all containing only pleasant things, so as not to spoil his supper. And speaking of which meals in the palace were lavish, as were furnishings, upholsteries, and bed-clothes. Indeed, there was nothing in the world the young Prince could have wanted for.
Years passed like dreams in the castle, and the Prince became a young man. He grew even taller and more beautiful, and was assigned a company of servants and a second tailor to assure that he looked his best at all times. His face became sharper and cleverer, his hands and limbs even longer and more finely formed. The lords and ladies of the court would lose their breath as he strode by, which the Prince pretended not to notice, but secretly enjoyed. Surely, everyone agreed, theirs was the most beautiful monarch in the kingdom’s history.
The Prince became of age, and was brought many suitors, but he did not care for any of them, and had them sent away in droves. “Surely,” he told himself, “if I am the most beautiful Prince in the kingdom’s history, I should not have to settle for a suitor who does not truly love me, and is ugly besides.” And so the Prince remained without a lover. “He shall pass his prime,” everyone said, but with each passing year the Prince grew more beautiful than ever.
The Prince had finished his education, and quickly became very bored in the palace without lessons to occupy his time. Many entertainers were sent in, musicians and performers and story-tellers. The Prince was amused by them for varying but always brief lengths of time, and much like his suitors, these entertainers were always shuffling in and out of the castle, dejected after the Prince had dismissed them.
One dreary day when the Prince was bored nearly to tears, a Poet came to the castle. This poet was not flashy and brightly-coloured like the rest of the entertainers. He was dressed very plainly, and his hose had been darned around the knees. There were scuffs on his sensible shoes, and he hid his soft hair beneath a hat that had long since gone out of season. His face was very sad and drawn, and in fact the only point of colour on his entire personage was his lips, which were red as wine. He presented such a grim picture as he entered the hall that the courtiers all laughed in derisive discomfit as they minced over to meet him, but the Prince sat up straighter in morbid interest : he had never seen anyone so tragically undecorated.
In a very low and trembling voice, the Poet explained to the courtiers that he had been sent by the Prince’s own father ( who lived in a remote and far more glorious castle with the Queen ) to become the bard for the court. No-one in the company believed it at first, but the shabby Poet presented a letter from the King, which was deemed authentic.
“I suppose you must meet the Prince,” said one of the courtiers, for they were still standing at the opposite end of the long hall -- quite far from the Prince, who was straining to hear and see.
The Poet ( who was very nearsighted and had not been able to see the Prince at all when he first came in ) was led down the soft carpet to the base of the throne, where he bowed very deeply. The Prince glanced down at him with practised disinterest. Pink roses appeared in the Poet’s cheeks.
“Who are you ?” the Prince asked, pretending he had not been observing the previous goings-on.
“I am to be the resident bard at your castle,” the Poet said, in a quavery voice. “I am sent by your father the King, who thinks you will enjoy my poetry.”
“Then let us hear a poem,” said the Prince, who was only good at appearing detached if it did not require him to exercise patience.
The Poet’s drawn face turned pinker still, but he pulled a tattered piece of writing out of his hose’s back pocket, and said a poem, referencing the paper occasionally. It jittered in his unsteady hands. Everyone was silent.
After he had finished reading tears were streaming down the courtiers’ faces and creating a large enough puddle to wet the Poet’s sensible shoes. The Prince was not crying.
“Very nice,” the Prince said after a long while, and the Poet swooned so that the courtiers had to catch him. The Prince found this quite funny, and had to stifle his giggles in his hand when the Poet came to.
“I suppose you shall be a good court Poet,” the Prince said once the Poet had quite recovered. The Poet blushed again, but managed to stay standing. “My courtiers will put you up in a bed-room, and you shall have a desk for writing, if you wish it.” He gestured to the company. “You may come back to-morrow, and read to us some more.”
They all departed, pulling the dazed Poet behind them, leaving the Prince alone in the throne-room. After that he saw a juggler and an animal-handler and two comediens, but he did not pay them much attention. He was still thinking of the silly, shabby Poet, and how he had actually fainted during his audience with royalty.
He has fallen in love with me, the Prince idly realised, and as soon as he thought of it, it did indeed make sense. The Prince knew that many people in the kingdom loved him, but he could not think of anyone else who was in love with him. He quite liked the idea, the Prince decided. Having someone who was utterly devoted to him could be really quite fun, like a servant of the heart. The Prince paid no more attention to the entertainers, instead amusing himself with images of the Poet pining away for him. A couple of times he actually laughed out loud in delight, causing the comediens to stop short in confusion, as they had not yet reached the points of their sentences. The next day the Poet was awoken by a courtier with a message that the tailor had arrived.
“But I did not order a tailor,” said the Poet, “and I have no money to pay him with,” for poets are hardly paid anything, you see.
“He is sent by the Prince,” the courtier said back, impatiently, “and it shall be paid for by the Crown. Though I don’t see why,” he added, for he did not hold with what he perceived as favouritism.
The Poet’s face turned red, and he found that he was unable to say anything for the next while, which really didn’t matter anyway, as his new suits of clothes would be made according to the Prince’s specifications, and he did not need to tell the tailor a thing.
When the Poet came back to the throne-room, he was outfitted in velvets and silks, and a fair bit of colour had come into his pale face due to the very hearty palace food. The Prince thought he looked almost lovely, which would have to do -- at least he was no longer beset with an admirer who was totally poor and ugly. The Prince was not used to making do, but he thought he was adapting to it rather gracefully.
“Do you have any more poems for me ?” he asked the Poet, who really did look all right, especially with his hair framing his face.
“I have dozens and dozens,” the Poet stammered back, trembling and fumbling with his papers.
“Well, then read them to me,” said the Prince. “And do not stand so strangely. I want you to sit on the steps at my feet.”
The Poet did so, even more pinkness creeping into his face. The Prince angled his head slightly so that he was displaying his face at its best angle.
“This is a love-poem,” the Poet said, cautiously. The Prince crossed and un-crossed his legs in order to draw attention to his slim ankles.
The Poet began to read, averting his eyes from the Prince on purpose. The Prince pursed his lips and tossed his head until the Poet looked back, and choked on the end of a couplet.
“Is that the end ?” the Prince asked.
“No,” the Poet whispered, and resumed reading.
When he had finished, the Prince smiled almost shrewishly ( although the expression was gorgeous on him ). He had been somewhat pre-occupied with posing and turning his head to catch the light correctly, but he had certainly heard the Poet refer to milk-white skin and flaxen hair. “That was very lovely,” he told the Poet in his sweetest and most even voice, and the courtiers applauded accordingly. The Poet bowed his head in thanks, but his face remained solemn, which irritated the Prince slightly. His admirer should not be so morose in his presence.
“Have you any more poems for us ?” the Prince asked, and the Poet flushed with pleasure, and, at the gentle coaxing of the Prince and courtiers, entertained the whole company for the following half-an-hour with various sonnets and ditties ; and the Prince smiled and cooed so much over each one that before too long, a happy brightness had come into the Poet’s face, and the corners of his red mouth curved up.
He really was not too shabby of an admirer at all, the Prince decided, especially when he did not look so gloomy. He would have to assign someone the task of keeping the Poet happy ; it was far too much work for him to do himself.
The Poet coughed, and the courtiers all hurried to be the first to fetch him water. The Prince did his best smile down at the Poet. “Surely you must rest for a while. I insist,” he added, before the Poet could protest. “Poetry must be difficult work,” the Prince continued, although he could not see why it would be ; after all it was only words on a page. “You must not tire your self out.”
The Poet nodded, the happiness still shining on his face. The Prince pulled at a lock of his golden hair, a habit he had cultivated because it drew eyes. He wanted to ask the Poet who his sonnets were about, and hear him say it, and have the entire court know that the Poet was his admirer. But he needs must be coy, the Prince resolved. That is how the admired behave.
That evening the Poet dined with the rest of the court, and the Prince caused a great upset among the courtiers because he shifted the seating arrangement to place the Poet beside him -- on his right, which was his best angle. The Prince ensured that the Poet was given the finest food available and plenty of wine. He took especial care in looking glamourous while he ate, and in maintaining witty conversation with his courtiers ( who were all rather surprised, for usually the Prince spent dinner sulking in elegant silence ). The Poet seemed appropriately dazzled, and he did also seem to keep his eyes on the Prince for a good portion of the dinner. Both of these things satisfied the young royal immensely, and he was very merry, calling for more and more wine, and even allowing himself to laugh out loud, despite it wrinkling his fore-head. When supper was at last over, the Prince said good-night to the Poet, and the Poet bowed deep to the Prince, and they each went to sleep in soft feather beds and dreamed of more or less the same thing.
Life in the palace was far more exciting for the Prince now, what with having an admirer he saw every day. He demanded that his team of servants be increased ten-fold, enlisted another tailor as well as a designer from the big city, and invested probably too much money in various potions and powders to enhance beauty ( none of which he really needed anyway ). He began to read again for the first time since his lessons ended ( or at least to carry books with him while he did other things ), which he thought the Poet would find attractive, being a man of letter himself. He spent hours in front of his looking-glass practising sensitive and thoughtful facial expressions to adopt when the Poet read to him, and he lay awake at night wracking his brain for intelligent comments that he could make on his work when he saw him next. All of this thinking and personal grooming made him more attractive than ever, and with the addition of his newly buoyant personality, the Prince was positively radiant. More and more suitors tried their luck with him, but the Prince would not see a single one : no one could love him as the Poet did.
“I must say,” ventured his courtiers, “ever since the Poet has come to the castle, you have seemed in much better spirits, Your Highness.” And the Prince smiled in the bashful way he had practised.
Over time the Prince began to extend more and more special privileges to the Poet. He was allowed to accompany the Prince to all manner of conferences and soirees where his services as a bard were not even needed. Instead of being made to sit at the Prince’s feet, he was given a little chair that brought him almost to his elbow. And he was even allowed into the Prine’s private bed-chambers to read to him before he fell asleep. The Prince became more and more delighted in having an admirer. He did not know how he wad lived before without the Poet’s wine-red lips singing his praises,or the sweet light in his round sad eyes when the Prince complimented his writing. Every day the Poet’s voice seemed sweeter and softer, his drawn face infused with new light and colour.
It must be the good effects of his ardour for me, the Prince decided, smiling at the Poet with his lips parted just so.
News had spread through the kingdom of the Poet and the miraculous happy effect he had had on the entire court, and nobles and commoners alike sought entry to the castle to hear a sonnet or two. The poet seemed far too anxious to read to so many people, but the Prince encouraged him. “You are a genius. You must show everyone your work. I insist,” he added, before the Poet could protest. And so the Poet read his poems to the whole kingdom, or thereabouts, and the entire land was happier, though none so much as the Prince.
After a while the Prince had given the Poet so many beautiful things, and so many heaps of praise, that he determined it was time to start coyly asking questions.
“What qualities would prompt you to write about someone ?” the Prince asked one day, after the Poet had presented a particularly tender ballad.
The Poet paused. “I suppose if he had bright eyes and a good heart,” he said at last.
The Prince was very satisfied. He had been told many times that his eyes were bright as jewels, and being royal meant that every part of him was fine and good.
“Who is that poem about ?” he asked the Poet a few days later after hearing a set of couplets praising somebody’s beauty.
The Poet smiled. “Someone most wonderful,” he said.
The Prince was once again pleased. ‘Wonderful’ was the chief adjective his courtiers used to describe him.
“Poet, you write so many beautiful words about love,” the Prince said after an unbearable period of waiting. “Who is your love ?”
The Poet’s face tinged scarlet, and his eyes brightened with a wondrous light. “That,” he said, smiling slightly, “is a secret.”
The Prince was triumphant ; surely the genteel Poet was desperately in love with him, only he was far too bashful to announce his affections in front of the whole hall.
The Prince tossed and turmed excitedly in his bed that evening. He could not fall asleep for visions of the Poet kissing him with his wine-red lips. But he must be aloof, the Prince resolved. He must wait until the perfect moment to allow the Poet to confess to him.
Over the following weeks the Prince made preparations. He ordered seven new suits of clothes, was fitted for new shoes in the latest fashion, and applied countless creams, powders, and salves to his face and hair.
“You look lovelier than ever, Your Highness,” the courtiers all said, but the Prince paid no one any attention, except for the Poet.
Finally, almost a month had passed, and the Prince was truly in his prime, almost buried in fine fabrics with his face and hair shining like the sun. At last, the Prince decided, trembling with anticipation, it was time.
He assured that the light in the throne-room was sufficient to illuminate his loevely face, dismissed his courtiers, and called the Poet into the hall for a private audience.
When the Poet entered, the Prince actually felt a rush of fondness. He was really quite smart in the suit of clothing the Prince had ordered for him, and his red lips were curved gently into a smile.
When the Poet saw that there was no one else in the hall, he was very confused. “Where are the rest of the people I must read to ?”
“It is only you and I,” the Prince replied, giving the Poet a soft smile. The latter blinked in confusion.
The Prince regarded the sweet little figure of the Poet in front of him for a while, and then he said, “You have had to hide your feelings for too long, Poet.”
The Poet tipped his head charmingly, looking perplexed. The Prince decided to elucidate. “It is all right. I can tell how you feel.” He tossed his golden head. “You have no reason to be ashamed.”
The Poet smiled in confusion. “I must confess I do not understand.”
“I know,” said the Prince, displaying his most winsome expression yet, “that you are in love with me.”
The Poet went scarlet and stood very still.
“It is all right,” the Prince smiled. “I think it is quite charming. You may kiss me.” And he tipped his head and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, it was because the Poet was laughing softly.
“What is it ?” the Prince asked, suddenly feeling unsure.
“Your Highness,” said the Poet, very gently, “I am not in love with you.” The Prince’s heart dropped in his chest. “My heart belongs to a boy in my village.” The Poet presented a tiny portrait to the Prince, with a tenderness the latter had never seen before. “I have come to the palace to make my fortune, as I cannot marry him without a dowry.”
The Prince bent to inspect the portrait. The boy in it was indeed very lovely, but in an uncomplicated manner that the Price would never have been able to achieve. And, the Prince noticed with a jolt, he had milk-white skin, and flaxen hair.
When the Prince raised his head again he saw a sparkle of happiness in the Poet’s blue eyes that he had not seen previously. And when he looked at the Poet’s whole face properly, the Prince saw that he was really too lovely to bear.
A tiny spark of anger pricked the Prince’s chest. He took a breath in and the wind of it fed the spark until it became a twisted and towering flame. He looked the Poet dead in the eyes and struck him hard across the face.
The Poet, who was very small and frail, went sprawling onto the shiny marble floor. His tiny portrait flew away, and he searched for it desperately.
The Prince rose from his thronw, strode across the carpet, and planted an elegant boot in the center of the Poet’s chest. “Guards ! Every one !” the Prince called out.
The courtiers came rushing back into the hall, followed by a formidable line of soldiers. The Poet trembled when he saw them.
“If your eyes cannot appreciate my beauty,” said the Prince to the Poet, without looking at him, “then they shall not appreciate anything again.” He pressed his heel into the Poet’s narrow chest, making him cry out. “And if your tongue will not sing my praises, then it shall not sing anything at all.” The Prince gestured to his guards.
The soldiers picked the Poet up gently and held him in the air so that his feet no longer touched the ground. The captain of the guard pulled a little dagger out of his belt, and held it over a lit match, and then he used it to put out the Poet’s tongue and his eyes. The soldiers were all very sorry to have to do such a thing, as they often listened to his poems from behind the door, and they all had tears running down their faces and glittering on their silver medals. The courtiers were weeping as well. One of the ladies tried to offer the Poet her hand-kerchief so that he could get some of the blood off his chin, but the Prince slapped it away.
“Take him out to the middle of a great field, and leave him alone there,” the Prince ordered the soldiers. Then he touched the Poet’s soft face. “Good-by, little Poet.”
The Poet could not say anything back, and so he only wept from his ruined eyes as the soldiers led him gently out of the hall. They reached the great field and the soldiers all embraced the Poet by way of apology, and the captain of the guard pressed something into his hand. Of course the Poet could not see what it was, but he could feel with his fingers that it was the portrait of his love.
The soldiers marched out of the field, and then the Poet was alone.
The Poet found his way out of the field by luck and into a village by sound. There he stumbled from person to person, displaying the picture of his love to see if anyone recognised him. But the people in the village were horrified by his missing eyes and bloody lips, and they chased him out again. The Poet died of hunger and heart-break in the middle of a flowering meadow a few days later. His body was found by a travelling theatre company, led by a boy with hair bright as fire. The Poet’s wine-red mouth was full of flies, and his soft hair was stiff with blood, but the troupe could see that he had indeed been lovely in life. They were very sorry for him, but they still took off his fine clothes and sensible shoes to have for themselves. You really could not blame them, as recent and unhappy incident had put them out of work for the next while. But when the red-headed leader saw the tiny picture of the flaxen-haired boy clutched in the Poet’s bloodless hand, he was struck with sadness. So, the troupe covered the Poet’s body up with a sack-cloth and buried him as best they could, and they marked his grave with a smooth, round stone in the middle of the meadow. And then they packed up their caravan and resumed the Poet’s mission to find somebody who would recognise the portrait.
At last they came to a tiny village where a young girl pointed them towards a little house. The flaxen-haired boy was inside, and when the leader of the troupe told him, hesitantly, what had happened to his love, he fainted dead away. When he awoke again, it was in the arms of the fiery-haired boy, who dried off his tears, and told him that the had just lost a love as well. They were both very fragile, you see, and in their broken states they thought they loved each other. They had a sort of a life together for a little while, each whispering the names of other boys as they slept, and then the troupe leader came home one day and discovered the flaxen-haired boy hanging off of a rafter in the ceiling.
And the Prince ? Well, the Prince lived out the rest of his days in the castle, surrounded by fine things and beautiful people, growing more handsome and distinguished with every passing year. But he could not bring himself to see any suitors, and he never fell in love. In fact, he did not feel strongly about very many things, except when he woke in the twilight from one of his frequent dreams of the wine-red lips of the silly little Poet.