Many, however, as the words were that passed on all sides, not a shadow of a sound reached the ears of the king: the shadow-speech could not enter his corporeal organs. One of his guides, however, seeing that the king wanted to hear and could not, went through a strange manipulation of his head and ears; after which he could hear perfectly, though still only the voice to which, for the time, he directed his attention. This, however, was a great advantage, and one which the king longed to carry back with him to the world of men.
The king now discovered that this was not merely the church of the Shadows, but their news exchange at the same time. For, as the shadows have no writing or printing, the only way in which they can make each other acquainted with their doings and thinkings, is to meet and talk at this word-mart and parliament of shades. And as, in the world, people read their favourite authors, and listen to their favourite speakers, so here the Shadows seek their favourite Shadows, listen to their adventures, and hear generally what they have to say.
Feeling quite strong, the king rose and walked about amongst them, wrapped in his ermine robe, with his red crown on his head, and his diamond sceptre in his hand. Every group of Shadows to which he drew near, ceased talking as soon as they saw him approach; but at a nod they went on again directly, conversing and relating and commenting, as if no one was there of other kind or of higher rank than themselves. So the king heard a good many stories. At some of them he laughed, and at some of them he cried. But if the stories that the Shadows told were printed, they would make a book that no publisher could produce fast enough to satisfy the buyers. I will record some of the things that the king heard, for he told them to me soon after. In fact, I was for some time his private secretary.
“I made him confess before a week was over,” said a gloomy old Shadow.
“But what was the good of that?” rejoined a pert young one. “That could not undo what was done.”
“Yes, it could.”
“What! bring the dead to life?”
“No; but comfort the murderer. I could not bear to see the pitiable misery he was in. He was far happier with the rope round his neck, than he was with the purse in his pocket. I saved him from killing himself too.”
“How did you make him confess?”
“Only by wallowing on the wall a little.”
“How could that make him tell?”
“He knows.”
The Shadow was silent; and the king turned to another, who was preparing to speak.
“I made a fashionable mother repent.”
“How?” broke from several voices, in whose sound was mingled a touch of incredulity.
“Only by making a little coffin on the wall,” was the reply.
“Did the fashionable mother confess too?”
“She had nothing more to confess than everybody knew.”
“What did everybody know then?”
“That she might have been kissing a living child, when she followed a dead one to the grave.—The next will fare better.”
“I put a stop to a wedding,” said another.
“Horrid shade!” remarked a poetic imp.
“How?” said others. “Tell us how.”
“Only by throwing a darkness, as if from the branch of a sconce, over the forehead of a fair girl.—They are not married yet, and I do not think they will be. But I loved the youth who loved her. How he started! It was a revelation to him.”
“But did it not deceive him?”
“Quite the contrary.”
“But it was only a shadow from the outside, not a shadow coming through from the soul of the girl.”
“Yes. You may say so. But it was all that was wanted to make the meaning of her forehead manifest—yes, of her whole face, which had now and then, in the pauses of his passion, perplexed the youth. All of it, curled nostrils, pouting lips, projecting chin, instantly fell into harmony with that darkness between her eyebrows. The youth understood it in a moment, and went home miserable. And they’re not married yet.”
“I caught a toper alone, over his magnum of port,” said a very dark Shadow; “and didn’t I give it him! I made delirium tremens first; and then I settled into a funeral, passing slowly along the length of the opposite wall. I gave him plenty of plumes and mourning coaches. And then I gave him a funeral service, but I could not manage to make the surplice white, which was all the better for such a sinner. The wretch stared till his face passed from purple to grey, and actually left his fifth glass only, unfinished, and took refuge with his wife and children in the drawing-room, much to their surprise. I believe he actually drank a cup of tea; and although I have often looked in since, I have never caught him again, drinking alone at least.”
“But does he drink less? Have you done him any good?”
“I hope so; but I am sorry to say I can’t feel sure about it.”
“Humph! Humph! Humph!” grunted various shadow throats.
“I had such fun once!” cried another. “I made such game of a young clergyman!”
“You have no right to make game of anyone.”
“Oh yes, I have—when it is for his good. He used to study his sermons—where do you think?”
“In his study, of course. Where else should it be?”
“Yes and no. Guess again.”
“Out amongst the faces in the streets.”
“Guess again.”
“In still green places in the country?”
“Guess again.”
“In old books?”
“Guess again.”
“No, no. Tell us.”
“In the looking glass. Ha! ha! ha!”
“He was fair game; fair shadow game.”
“I thought
