Training the King

On the morning of the fourth day, when it was just sunrise, and we had been tramping an hour in the chill dawn, I came to a resolution: the king must be drilled; things could not go on so, he must be taken in hand and deliberately and conscientiously drilled, or we couldn’t ever venture to enter a dwelling; the very cats would know this masquerader for a humbug and no peasant. So I called a halt and said:

On the morning of the fourth day, just as the sun was rising, we had been walking through the chilly dawn for an hour. I came to a decision: the king must be trained. Things could not go on like this. I had to take charge of him and train him deliberately and thoroughly, or we could never dare enter a house. Even the cats would know he was a fraud pretending to be a peasant. So I stopped us and said:

“Sire, as between clothes and countenance, you are all right, there is no discrepancy; but as between your clothes and your bearing, you are all wrong, there is a most noticeable discrepancy. Your soldierly stride, your lordly port—these will not do. You stand too straight, your looks are too high, too confident. The cares of a kingdom do not stoop the shoulders, they do not droop the chin, they do not depress the high level of the eye-glance, they do not put doubt and fear in the heart and hang out the signs of them in slouching body and unsure step. It is the sordid cares of the lowly born that do these things. You must learn the trick; you must imitate the trademarks of poverty, misery, oppression, insult, and the other several and common inhumanities that sap the manliness out of a man and make him a loyal and proper and approved subject and a satisfaction to his masters, or the very infants will know you for better than your disguise, and we shall go to pieces at the first hut we stop at. Pray try to walk like this.”

“Sire, your clothes match your face. There is no mismatch there. But your clothes do not match the way you carry yourself. The difference is very noticeable. Your soldierly stride and your noble bearing will not do. You stand too straight, and you look too proud and confident. The cares of a kingdom do not make a man stoop or lower his chin and his gaze. They do not fill his heart with doubt and fear, or show themselves in a slouch and an uncertain step. It is the grim cares of the lowborn that do these things. You must learn the trick. You must copy the marks of poverty, misery, oppression, insult, and the other common cruelties. These drain the manliness from a man. They make him a loyal, proper, and approved subject who satisfies his masters. Otherwise, even infants will see that you are above your disguise. We shall be found out at the first hut we stop at. Please try to walk like this.”

The king took careful note, and then tried an imitation.

The king watched carefully, then tried to imitate what he had seen.

“Pretty fair—pretty fair. Chin a little lower, please—there, very good. Eyes too high; pray don’t look at the horizon, look at the ground, ten steps in front of you. Ah—that is better, that is very good. Wait, please; you betray too much vigor, too much decision; you want more of a shamble. Look at me, please—this is what I mean.... Now you are getting it; that is the idea—at least, it sort of approaches it.... Yes, that is pretty fair. But! There is a great big something wanting, I don’t quite know what it is. Please walk thirty yards, so that I can get a perspective on the thing.... Now, then—your head’s right, speed’s right, shoulders right, eyes right, chin right, gait, carriage, general style right—everything’s right! And yet the fact remains, the aggregate’s wrong. The account don’t balance. Do it again, please.... Now I think I begin to see what it is. Yes, I’ve struck it. You see, the genuine spiritlessness is wanting; that’s what’s the trouble. It’s all amateur—mechanical details all right, almost to a hair; everything about the delusion perfect, except that it don’t delude.”

“Pretty good, pretty good. Chin a little lower, please. There, very good. Your eyes are too high. Please don’t look at the horizon. Look at the ground ten steps in front of you. Ah, that’s better, very good. Wait, please. You’re showing too much energy, too much determination. You need more of a shuffle. Look at me, please. This is what I mean.... Now you’re getting it. That’s the idea, or at least it’s getting close.... Yes, that’s pretty good. But! There’s something really big missing, though I don’t quite know what it is. Please walk thirty yards so I can see the whole effect.... Now, then, your head is right, speed is right, shoulders are right, eyes are right, chin is right. Your walk, posture, and overall style are right. Everything is right! And yet the whole thing is wrong. The figures don’t add up. Do it again, please.... Now I think I’m beginning to see what it is. Yes, I’ve got it. You see, what’s missing is a genuine lack of spirit. That’s the trouble. It’s all amateur. The mechanical details are almost exactly right. Everything about the illusion is perfect, except that it doesn’t fool anyone.”

“What, then, must one do, to prevail?”

“What, then, must one do to succeed?”

“Let me think... I can’t seem to quite get at it. In fact, there isn’t anything that can right the matter but practice. This is a good place for it: roots and stony ground to break up your stately gait, a region not liable to interruption, only one field and one hut in sight, and they so far away that nobody could see us from there. It will be well to move a little off the road and put in the whole day drilling you, sire.”

“Let me think... I can’t quite figure it out. In fact, nothing but practice can fix the problem. This is a good place to practice. The roots and rocky ground will disrupt your stately walk. We’re unlikely to be interrupted here. There’s only one field and one hut in sight, and both are too far away for anyone there to see us. We should move a little way off the road and spend the whole day practicing, sire.”

After the drill had gone on a little while, I said:

After the drill had gone on for a little while, I said:

“Now, sire, imagine that we are at the door of the hut yonder, and the family are before us. Proceed, please—accost the head of the house.”

“Now, sire, imagine we are at the door of that hut, with the family in front of us. Please go ahead and speak to the head of the household.”

The king unconsciously straightened up like a monument, and said, with frozen austerity:

The king straightened up like a monument without realizing it and said, with icy sternness:

“Varlet, bring a seat; and serve to me what cheer ye have.”

“Servant, bring me a seat and serve me whatever food and drink you have.”

“Ah, your grace, that is not well done.”

“Oh, your grace, that was not right.”

“In what lacketh it?”

“What does it lack?”

“These people do not call each other varlets.”

“These people do not call each other scoundrels.”

“Nay, is that true?”

“No, is that true?”

“Yes; only those above them call them so.”

“Yes, only those above them call them that.”

“Then must I try again. I will call him villein.”

“Then I must try again. I’ll call him a peasant.”

“No-no; for he may be a freeman.”

“No, no, because he may be a free man.”

“Ah—so. Then peradventure I should call him goodman.”

“Ah, I see. Then perhaps I should call him Goodman.”

“That would answer, your grace, but it would be still better if you said friend, or brother.”

“That would work, your grace, but it would be even better if you said friend or brother.”

“Brother!—to dirt like that?”

“Brother! To dirt like that?”

“Ah, but we are pretending to be dirt like that, too.”

“Ah, but we are pretending to be dirt like that, too.”

“It is even true. I will say it. Brother, bring a seat, and thereto what cheer ye have, withal. Now ’tis right.”

“It is indeed true. I will say it. Brother, bring a seat and whatever food and drink you have. Now that’s right.”

“Not quite, not wholly right. You have asked for one, not us—for one, not both; food for one, a seat for one.”

“Not quite, not entirely right. You asked for one person, not us. You asked for one, not both: food for one, a seat for one.”

The king looked puzzled—he wasn’t a very heavy weight, intellectually. His head was an hour-glass; it could stow an idea, but it had to do it a grain at a time, not the whole idea at once.

The king looked puzzled. He wasn’t exactly an intellectual heavyweight. His head was an hourglass. It could hold an idea, but only one grain at a time, not the whole idea at once.

“Would you have a seat also—and sit?”

“Would you like a seat too, and sit down?”

“If I did not sit, the man would perceive that we were only pretending to be equals—and playing the deception pretty poorly, too.”

“If I didn't sit down, the man would see that we were only pretending to be equals, and doing a pretty poor job of it, too.”

“It is well and truly said! How wonderful is truth, come it in whatsoever unexpected form it may! Yes, he must bring out seats and food for both, and in serving us present not ewer and napkin with more show of respect to the one than to the other.”

“That is well and truly said! How wonderful truth is, no matter what unexpected form it takes! Yes, he must bring seats and food for both of us. When he serves us, he must offer the pitcher and napkin with equal respect to each of us.”

“And there is even yet a detail that needs correcting. He must bring nothing outside; we will go in—in among the dirt, and possibly other repulsive things,—and take the food with the household, and after the fashion of the house, and all on equal terms, except the man be of the serf class; and finally, there will be no ewer and no napkin, whether he be serf or free. Please walk again, my liege. There—it is better—it is the best yet; but not perfect. The shoulders have known no ignobler burden than iron mail, and they will not stoop.”

“There is still one detail to correct. He must bring nothing outside. We will go inside, among the dirt and possibly other disgusting things. We will eat with the household, in the way they eat, and all as equals, unless the man is a serf. Finally, there will be no water pitcher or napkin, whether he is a serf or a free man. Please walk again, my king. There, that is better. It is the best yet, but not perfect. Your shoulders have never carried a burden less noble than chain mail, and they will not stoop.”

“Give me, then, the bag. I will learn the spirit that goeth with burdens that have not honor. It is the spirit that stoopeth the shoulders, I ween, and not the weight; for armor is heavy, yet it is a proud burden, and a man standeth straight in it.... Nay, but me no buts, offer me no objections. I will have the thing. Strap it upon my back.”

“Then give me the bag. I will learn what it feels like to carry a burden that brings no honor. I think it is the feeling that makes a man stoop, not the weight. For armor is heavy, yet it is a proud burden, and a man stands straight in it.... No, no buts. Do not object. I insist on having it. Strap it onto my back.”

He was complete now with that knapsack on, and looked as little like a king as any man I had ever seen. But it was an obstinate pair of shoulders; they could not seem to learn the trick of stooping with any sort of deceptive naturalness. The drill went on, I prompting and correcting:

With the knapsack on, his outfit was complete. He looked as little like a king as any man I had ever seen. But his shoulders were stubborn. They just couldn't learn to stoop naturally enough to fool anyone. The practice continued, with me prompting and correcting him:

“Now, make believe you are in debt, and eaten up by relentless creditors; you are out of work—which is horse-shoeing, let us say—and can get none; and your wife is sick, your children are crying because they are hungry—”

“Now, imagine you are in debt and being hounded by relentless creditors. Let’s say you shoe horses for a living, but you are out of work and can’t find any. Your wife is sick, and your children are crying because they are hungry...”

And so on, and so on. I drilled him as representing in turn all sorts of people out of luck and suffering dire privations and misfortunes. But lord, it was only just words, words—they meant nothing in the world to him, I might just as well have whistled. Words realize nothing, vivify nothing to you, unless you have suffered in your own person the thing which the words try to describe. There are wise people who talk ever so knowingly and complacently about “the working classes,” and satisfy themselves that a day’s hard intellectual work is very much harder than a day’s hard manual toil, and is righteously entitled to much bigger pay. Why, they really think that, you know, because they know all about the one, but haven’t tried the other. But I know all about both; and so far as I am concerned, there isn’t money enough in the universe to hire me to swing a pickaxe thirty days, but I will do the hardest kind of intellectual work for just as near nothing as you can cipher it down—and I will be satisfied, too.

And so on, and so on. I had him imagine himself as all sorts of people, each down on their luck and suffering terrible hardships and misfortunes. But lord, they were only words, words. They meant nothing in the world to him. I might as well have whistled. Words make nothing real or vivid to you unless you have suffered the thing they describe yourself. Some wise people talk so knowingly and smugly about “the working classes.” They convince themselves that a day of hard mental work is much harder than a day of hard physical labor. They also believe it deserves much higher pay. Why, they really think that, you know, because they know all about one kind of work but haven't tried the other. But I know all about both. As far as I'm concerned, there isn't enough money in the universe to hire me to swing a pickaxe for thirty days. Yet I'll do the hardest kind of mental work for as close to nothing as you can calculate. And I'll be satisfied, too.

Intellectual “work” is misnamed; it is a pleasure, a dissipation, and is its own highest reward. The poorest paid architect, engineer, general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, advocate, legislator, actor, preacher, singer is constructively in heaven when he is at work; and as for the musician with the fiddle-bow in his hand who sits in the midst of a great orchestra with the ebbing and flowing tides of divine sound washing over him—why, certainly, he is at work, if you wish to call it that, but lord, it’s a sarcasm just the same. The law of work does seem utterly unfair—but there it is, and nothing can change it: the higher the pay in enjoyment the worker gets out of it, the higher shall be his pay in cash, also. And it’s also the very law of those transparent swindles, transmissible nobility and kingship.

Intellectual “work” is wrongly named. It is a pleasure, an indulgence, and its own greatest reward. Even the lowest-paid architect, engineer, general, author, sculptor, painter, lecturer, lawyer, legislator, actor, preacher, or singer is practically in heaven while working. And consider the musician sitting in a great orchestra, fiddle bow in hand, as waves of divine sound wash over him. Why, certainly, he is working, if you want to call it that. But lord, it’s a sarcastic name for it just the same. The law of work does seem utterly unfair, but there it is, and nothing can change it. The more enjoyment a worker gets from the work, the more money he will be paid for it, too. And that is also the very law behind those obvious swindles, inherited titles and kingship.