Produced by David Widger
By John Galsworthy
"Je vous dirai que l'exces est toujours un mal."
—ANATOLE FRANCE
Once upon a time the Prince of Felicitas had occasion to set forth on ajourney. It was a late autumn evening with few pale stars and a moon nolarger than the paring of a finger-nail. And as he rode through thepurlieus of his city, the white mane of his amber-coloured steed was allthat he could clearly see in the dusk of the high streets. His way ledthrough a quarter but little known to him, and he was surprised to findthat his horse, instead of ambling forward with his customary gentlevigour, stepped carefully from side to side, stopping now and then tocurve his neck and prick his ears—as though at some thing of fearunseen in the darkness; while on either hand creatures could be heardrustling and scuttling, and little cold draughts as of wings fanned therider's cheeks.
The Prince at last turned in his saddle, but so great was the darknessthat he could not even see his escort.
"What is the name of this street?" he said.
"Sire, it is called the Vita Publica."
"It is very dark." Even as he spoke his horse staggered, but, recoveringits foothold with an effort, stood trembling violently. Nor could all theincitements of its master induce the beast again to move forward.
"Is there no one with a lanthorn in this street?" asked the Prince.
His attendants began forthwith to call out loudly for any one who had alanthorn. Now, it chanced that an old man sleeping in a hovel on apallet of straw was, awakened by these cries. When he heard that it wasthe Prince of Felicitas himself, he came hastily, carrying his lanthorn,and stood trembling beside the Prince's horse. It was so dark that thePrince could not see him.
"Light your lanthorn, old man," he said.
The old man laboriously lit his lanthorn. Its pale rays fled out oneither hand; beautiful but grim was the vision they disclosed. Tallhouses, fair court-yards, and a palm grown garden; in front of thePrince's horse a deep cesspool, on whose jagged edges the good beast'shoofs were planted; and, as far as the glimmer of the lanthorn stretched,both ways down the rutted street, paving stones displaced, and smoothtesselated marble; pools of mud, the hanging fruit of an orange tree, anddark, scurrying shapes of monstrous rats bolting across from house tohouse. The old man held the lanthorn higher; and instantly bats flyingagainst it would have beaten out the light but for the thin protection ofits horn sides.
The Prince sat still upon his horse, looking first at the rutted spacethat he had traversed and then at the rutted space before him.
"Without a light," he said, "this thoroughfare is dangerous. What isyour name, old man?"
"My name is Cethru," replied the aged churl.
"Cethru!" said the Prince. "Let it be your duty henceforth to walk withyour lanthorn up and down this street all night and every night,"—and helooked at Cethru: "Do you understand, old man, what it is you have todo?"
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