Parable

There was once a King who had two sons. Throughout their boyhood he set tutors over them, who instructed them in rules of decorum, the natural sciences, the history of their country, and the truths of ancient philosophy. The eldest boy was obedient and sharp-witted. At the age of ten he knew seven languages; at fifteen he had mastered mathematics and knew the name and nature of every creature in earth, sea and air, and beneath the earth; by the time of his majority his voice carried weight in his father’s council, for no youth had a graver presence or could unravel so well the problems of State policy. At tournaments and in the hunting-field none was swifter than he; yet he was modest, listened to everyone, and weighed equally the words of peasant and noble. His younger brother was a different lad entirely – the despair of his tutors, he wandered through tavern and marketplace and even, it was said, the red light district. If a brawl began, he would be watching – not joining in the fight, but shouting to the by-standers who was up and who was down. In his father’s council he sat by the wall and played knucklebones with a favourite page. He liked best the company of fishermen; he even dressed like one of them and learnt their songs and sailed with them when his father did not forbid it. The only extraordinary gift he had was in the making of verses – some to women, some satirising public men, all with a note of insolent rebellion. His father did not restrain him from this, though some doubted his judgment on this account.

The time came when the King fell sick. He called the two lads to his bedside. The elder came and knelt gravely by the bed; the younger stood by the door, but there were tears in his eyes for he had loved the old man dearly.

‘My dear child,’ said the dying man to his elder son, ‘you will reign after me. All men respect your judgment, and I have no fear for the kingdom in your hands. But one thing I must say to you before my tongue is silent for ever. Turn now, and look at your younger brother.’

The King’s heir turned with some reluctance to look at his scapegrace brother. They had never been close companions and much of the younger man’s satire had been thinly veiled in its personal references.

‘Look well,’ said the King, ‘for while he lives your kingdom is secure. To him I leave nothing but his liberty, and the love which I bear equally towards you both. You will be content in high office and the possession of a good conscience. He will never be content this side of the grave, for the spirit of turbulence in his heart will reject every custom, law and institution, asking from man and nature an impossible harmony. Yet his songs are the fruit of that harmony, which he knows best by the pain of its absence. He will always jerk against your yoke; and you will always find him hard to bear. But without either of you my kingdom would not be complete and my lovepage 318 would lack its true object.’ Saying this, the old King turned his own face to the wall.

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