steady his crown, he now stood up. He looked to be of medium height. The long red robe concealed the particulars of his body, but there could be no doubt that he was very corpulent.
“Shall we go to lunch,” he said, without the implication of a question mark. Lifting the robe slightly, so that the hem would not trip him up, he descended the stairs. When he stood beside me I saw that he was not nearly so tall as I had supposed when viewing him from a lower level: the eminence and the long robe had created an illusion. In reality he was much shorter than I. Which is not, however, to say he lacked that mysterious presence called royal.
A liveried lackey preceded us to the dining room, which was not so far distant from the throne room as I should have supposed, given the size of the palace. The dining room itself was enormous, with a table long enough to have fed dozens. A little army of formally dressed servitors was lined up in silent ranks.
An aged man, festooned with gold chains and keys, shuffled up to meet his sovereign. But what he had to say was reproving. “You shouldn’t be wearing that crown. It’s not at all the thing to wear at table, it really isn’t.”
“You old fool,” Sebastian said, “it’s my crown and I’ll wear it when I please. Don’t interfere or I’ll have you flayed.” So much for the words: his delivery, uncertain and even a bit fearful, was at odds with them.
The old man came forward then and, putting out his tremulous hands, took the crown from the prince’s head. “Now, you just eat your lunch like a good boy, and we’ll say no more about it.” He gestured to one of the servingpeople, a young man with large ears, and gave him the crown, which was golden and encrusted with bright gems. It was the first I had ever seen in use, and frankly it did not altogether escape vulgarity: the jewels looked synthetic.
Sebastian made no resistance, but he stamped his foot once his head was bare. “I did so want to wear it for once while eating. You are a withered old person, a feebleminded dotard.” His short dark hair showed the impress of the crown.
Immune to the abuse, the old man limped to the head of the table, pulled out the stately chair there, and said, “You just sit down and have your ice cream, young man, and no more nonsense.”
I was amazed to see the prince promptly do as told, though he was still muttering peevishly.
He said to me, “I suppose you wonder why I tolerate the insolence of this wretched old thing, but he’s been my personal retainer since childhood. There’s no one else I can trust, you see.”
I had not been told where to sit, and not wanting to call attention to myself—it’s strange how the presence of royalty makes bad taste of what would otherwise be routine—I shyly slid out the chair on Sebastian’s right and sat down.
The prince picked up a large soup spoon and began to bang it on the tabletop. This sort of infantile demonstration was familiar to me from visits to my married sister, whose daughter, my niece, was an unusually disagreeable baby as well as one of the ugliest children I had ever seen, a dead ringer for my jawless, flap-eared brother-in-law.
“Ice cream!” Sebastian was shouting. “I want my ice cream.” These complaints went on for some time, no doubt because Rupert moved so slowly. But at last the old retainer wheeled up to the table a trolley on which, embedded in a tank full of crushed ice, was what would appear to be a canister of vanilla ice cream of the capacity of several gallons. Amidst the chains with which he was hung, Rupert found a golden spoon. He plunged this implement into the container and carefully gathered some ice cream within its bowl. He brought the spoon up but did not taste its contents before inhaling the aroma with quivering nostrils. At last he took the spoon’s burden between his desiccated lips, chewed awhile, rheumy eyes rolling, and then brought up from behind him, in his left hand, a shallow
“Shall we go to lunch,” he said, without the implication of a question mark. Lifting the robe slightly, so that the hem would not trip him up, he descended the stairs. When he stood beside me I saw that he was not nearly so tall as I had supposed when viewing him from a lower level: the eminence and the long robe had created an illusion. In reality he was much shorter than I. Which is not, however, to say he lacked that mysterious presence called royal.
A liveried lackey preceded us to the dining room, which was not so far distant from the throne room as I should have supposed, given the size of the palace. The dining room itself was enormous, with a table long enough to have fed dozens. A little army of formally dressed servitors was lined up in silent ranks.
An aged man, festooned with gold chains and keys, shuffled up to meet his sovereign. But what he had to say was reproving. “You shouldn’t be wearing that crown. It’s not at all the thing to wear at table, it really isn’t.”
“You old fool,” Sebastian said, “it’s my crown and I’ll wear it when I please. Don’t interfere or I’ll have you flayed.” So much for the words: his delivery, uncertain and even a bit fearful, was at odds with them.
The old man came forward then and, putting out his tremulous hands, took the crown from the prince’s head. “Now, you just eat your lunch like a good boy, and we’ll say no more about it.” He gestured to one of the servingpeople, a young man with large ears, and gave him the crown, which was golden and encrusted with bright gems. It was the first I had ever seen in use, and frankly it did not altogether escape vulgarity: the jewels looked synthetic.
Sebastian made no resistance, but he stamped his foot once his head was bare. “I did so want to wear it for once while eating. You are a withered old person, a feebleminded dotard.” His short dark hair showed the impress of the crown.
Immune to the abuse, the old man limped to the head of the table, pulled out the stately chair there, and said, “You just sit down and have your ice cream, young man, and no more nonsense.”
I was amazed to see the prince promptly do as told, though he was still muttering peevishly.
He said to me, “I suppose you wonder why I tolerate the insolence of this wretched old thing, but he’s been my personal retainer since childhood. There’s no one else I can trust, you see.”
I had not been told where to sit, and not wanting to call attention to myself—it’s strange how the presence of royalty makes bad taste of what would otherwise be routine—I shyly slid out the chair on Sebastian’s right and sat down.
The prince picked up a large soup spoon and began to bang it on the tabletop. This sort of infantile demonstration was familiar to me from visits to my married sister, whose daughter, my niece, was an unusually disagreeable baby as well as one of the ugliest children I had ever seen, a dead ringer for my jawless, flap-eared brother-in-law.
“Ice cream!” Sebastian was shouting. “I want my ice cream.” These complaints went on for some time, no doubt because Rupert moved so slowly. But at last the old retainer wheeled up to the table a trolley on which, embedded in a tank full of crushed ice, was what would appear to be a canister of vanilla ice cream of the capacity of several gallons. Amidst the chains with which he was hung, Rupert found a golden spoon. He plunged this implement into the container and carefully gathered some ice cream within its bowl. He brought the spoon up but did not taste its contents before inhaling the aroma with quivering nostrils. At last he took the spoon’s burden between his desiccated lips, chewed awhile, rheumy eyes rolling, and then brought up from behind him, in his left hand, a shallow
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