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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

Linnet.

"The what?" screamed the Water-rat.

"The moral."

"Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?"

"Certainly," said the Linnet.

"Well, really," said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, "I think you

should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I

certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said 'Pooh,'

like the critic. However, I can say it now"; so he shouted out "Pooh" at

the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his

hole.

"And how do you like the Water-rat?" asked the Duck, who came

paddling up some minutes afterwards. "He has a great many good points,

but for my own part I have a mother's feelings, and I can never look at a

confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes."

"I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him," answered the Linnet.

"The fact is, that I told him a story with a moral." "Ah! that is always a

very dangerous thing to do," said the Duck.

And I quite agree with her.

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

THE REMARKABLE ROCKET

The King's son was going to be married, so there were general

rejoicings. He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had

arrived. She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from

Finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a

great golden swan, and between the swan's wings lay the little Princess

herself. Her long ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her

head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow

Palace in which she had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove

through the streets all the people wondered. "She is like a white rose!"

they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.

At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had

dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he

sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.

"Your picture was beautiful," he murmured, "but you are more

beautiful than your picture"; and the little Princess blushed.

"She was like a white rose before," said a young Page to his neighbour,

"but she is like a red rose now"; and the whole Court was delighted.

For the next three days everybody went about saying, "White rose,

Red rose, Red rose, White rose"; and the King gave orders that the Page's

salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not of

much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly

published in the Court Gazette.

When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a

magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand

under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then

there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and

Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips

touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.

"It's quite clear that they love each other," said the little Page, "as clear

as crystal!" and the King doubled his salary a second time. "What an

honour!" cried all the courtiers.

After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom

were to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play

the flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so,

because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never

quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for,

whatever he did, everybody cried out, "Charming! charming!"

The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to

be let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a

firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal

Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.

"What are fireworks like?" she had asked the Prince, one morning, as

she was walking on the terrace.

"They are like the Aurora Borealis," said the King, who always

answered questions that were addressed to other people, "only much more

natural. I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are

going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You

must certainly see them."

So at the end of the King's garden a great stand had been set up, and as

soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the

fireworks began to talk to each other.

"The world is certainly very beautiful," cried a little Squib. "Just look

at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could not be

lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the mind

wonderfully, and does away with all one's prejudices."

"The King's garden is not the world, you foolish squib," said a big

Roman Candle; "the world is an enormous place, and it would take you

three days to see it thoroughly."

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

"Any place you love is the world to you," exclaimed a pensive

Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life,

and prided herself on her broken heart; "but love is not fashionable any

more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody

believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I

remember myself once - But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of

the past."

"Nonsense!" said the Roman Candle, "Romance never dies. It is like

the moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance,

love each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a

brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as

myself, and knew the latest Court news." But the Catherine Wheel shook

her head. "Romance is dead, Romance is dead, Romance is dead," she

murmured. She was one of those people who think that, if you say the

same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.

Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.

It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the

end of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation,

so as to attract attention.

"Ahem! ahem!" he said, and everybody listened except the poor

Catherine Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring,

"Romance is dead."

"Order! order!" cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician,

and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew

the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.

"Quite dead," whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to

sleep.

As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time

and began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was

dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person

to whom he was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.

"How fortunate it is for the King's son," he remarked, "that he is to be

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had been

arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but,

Princes are always lucky."

"Dear me!" said the little Squib, "I thought it was quite the other way,

and that we were to be let off in the Prince's honour."

"It may be so with you," he answered; "indeed, I have no doubt that it

is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come

of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine

Wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she

made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before

she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven

pink stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the

very best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French

extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would

never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly

disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden

rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering

terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic art."

"Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean," said a Bengal Light; "I know it

is Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister."

"Well, I said Pylotechnic," answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of

voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully

the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some

importance.

"I was saying," continued the Rocket, "I was saying - What was I

saying?"

"You were talking about yourself," replied the Roman Candle.

"Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I

was so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind,

for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive

as I am, I am quite sure of that."

"What is a sensitive person?" said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

"A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other

people's toes," answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the

Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.

"Pray, what are you laughing at?" inquired the Rocket; "I am not

laughing."

"I am laughing because I am happy," replied the Cracker.

"That is a very selfish reason," said the Rocket angrily. "What right

have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you

should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I

expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy.

It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose, for

instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would

be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy again,

their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I know he

would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the importance

of my position, I am almost moved to tears."

"If you want to give pleasure to others," cried the Roman Candle, "you

had better keep yourself dry."

"Certainly," exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits;

"that is only common sense."

"Common sense, indeed!" said the Rocket indignantly; "you forget that

I am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have

common sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have

imagination, for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of

them as being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is

evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature.

Fortunately for myself, I don't care. The only thing that sustains one

through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody

else, and this is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you

have any hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the

Prince and Princess had not just been married."

"Well, really," exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, "why not? It is a most

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The Happy Prince and Other Tales

joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the stars all

about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about the pretty

bride."

"Ah! what a trivial view of life!" said the Rocket; "but it is only what I

expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why,

perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there is

a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired

boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps some day he may

go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under

a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river

and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor people, to lose their

only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall never get over it."

"But they have not lost their only son," said the Roman Candle; "no

misfortune has happened to them at all."

"I never said that they had," replied the Rocket; "I said that they might.

If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything

more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk. But when

I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very much

affected."

"You certainly are!" cried the Bengal Light. "In fact, you are the