Another time, Matt asked if it was possible for a father to pass his intelligence on to his son when he was dying. Matt’s father, Stephen the Wise, had been very intelligent. And now here was Matt sitting on the same throne and wearing the same crown, but he had to learn everything from the very beginning. Would he ever know as much as his father had? But what if, along with the crown and the throne, he could have inherited his great-grandfather Paul the Conqueror’s courage, his great-grandmother’s piety, and all his father’s knowledge?
But that question did not meet with a friendly response, either.
For a long time, a very long time, Matt wondered if it was possible to get ahold of a Cap of Invisibility. Wouldn’t that be dandy—Matt would put on the cap, go wherever he liked, and no one would be able to see him. He would say that he had a headache. They would let him spend the day in bed so he could rest. Then at night he would put on the Cap of Invisibility and go into town, walk around his capital, look in all the store windows, and go to the theater.
Matt had been to the theater only once, to attend a gala performance when his mother and father were still alive; he remembered practically nothing about it because he had been very little then, but he knew that it had been very beautiful.
If Matt had a Cap of Invisibility, he would go from the gardens to the palace courtyard and make friends with Felek. And he could go everywhere in the palace, to the kitchen for a peek at how the food was prepared, to the stables to see the horses, and to all the other buildings he was not allowed to enter.
It may seem strange that so many things were forbidden to the king. And so I must explain that there is a very strict etiquette at royal courts. Etiquette tells how kings have always acted. A new king cannot do otherwise without losing his honor and without everyone ceasing to fear and respect him for not respecting his father the king, or his grandfather the king, or his great-grandfather the king. If the king wants to do something differently, then he must inquire of the master of ceremonies, who watches over court etiquette and knows what kings have always done.
I have already said that King Matt’s breakfast lasted sixteen minutes thirty-five seconds because that’s how long it took his grandfather and that there was no heat in the throne room because that’s what his great-grandmother, who had died a long time ago, had wanted and there was no way of asking her if the room could be heated now.
Once in a while a king could make little changes, but then there would be long meetings, as there had been when Matt wanted to take walks. And it was no fun to ask for something and then have to wait and wait.
King Matt was in a worse position than other kings because etiquette had been established for grownup kings and Matt was a child. And so there had to be certain little changes. Instead of tasty wine, Matt had to drink two glasses of cod-liver oil, which he didn’t like at all, and instead of reading the newspapers, he only looked at the pictures, because he still could not read very well.
Everything would have been different if Matt had had his father the king’s intelligence and a magical Cap of Invisibility. Then he would have really been a king, but now, as things stood, he often thought it might have been better to have been born an ordinary boy, to go to school, tear pages from his workbooks, and throw stones. One day Matt got an idea: when he learned how to write, he would write a letter to Felek, and maybe Felek would write back, and that would be almost like talking with Felek.
From that time on, King Matt worked hard at learning to write. He wrote for days on end, copying stories and poems from books. He would even have given up his time in the royal gardens and would have just written from morning to night, but this he could not do, because etiquette and court ceremony demanded that the king go straight from the throne to the gardens. And there were twenty footmen ready to open the doors which led from the hall to the gardens. If Matt had not gone to the gardens, those twenty footmen would not have had any work to do and would have been very bored.
Some people might say that opening doors is not really work. But those would be people who do not know court etiquette. So I must explain that these footmen had already worked five whole hours. Every morning they took a cold bath, then the barber combed out their hair and trimmed their mustaches and beards. Their clothes had to be extra-clean, without even a single speck of dust on them, because once, three hundred years ago, when Henryk the Hasty had been king, a flea had hopped from one of his footmen onto the king’s scepter. This had cost that careless man his head, and the marshal of the court barely escaped death. From then on, the overseer checked the cleanliness of the footmen, who bathed, dressed, and groomed themselves and then had to stand waiting in the corridor from seven minutes past eleven until seventeen past one to be inspected by the master of ceremonies himself. They had to be very careful, because the punishment for a button not buttoned was six years in prison; for poorly combed hair, four years at hard labor; for an insufficiently nimble bow, two months in jail on bread and water.
Matt knew a little about all these complications. He was worried that they might start rummaging through history and find some king who never left the palace. Then, of course, they’d say that this applied to Matt, too. And so why learn to write if he couldn’t pass Felek his letters through the garden gate?
Matt was intelligent and he had a strong will. He said: “I will write my first letter to Felek in a month.”
And, in spite of all the obstacles, he worked so hard that after one month, with no help from anyone, he wrote a letter to Felek.
Dear Felek,
For a long time I have been watching you have fun playing in the courtyard. I want to play, too, a lot. But I am the king and so I can’t. But I like you very much. Write and tell me about yourself because I want to get to know you. If your father is a soldier, maybe they will let you come to the royal gardens sometime.
King Matt
Matt’s heart was beating hard when he called to Felek through the gate and gave him the letter.
And his heart was beating very hard the next day when Felek handed him his reply through the gate.
Dear King,
My dad is the platoon leader of the palace guard and he is a soldier and I would very much like to come to the royal gardens. I am loyal to you, my King, and ready to follow you through fire and water to defend you to the last drop of my blood. Anytime you need help, just whistle and I will come at your first call.
Felek
Matt put this letter at the very bottom of his drawer, under his books, and then gave all his energy to teaching himself to whistle. Matt was careful. He did not want to give himself away. If he demanded that Felek be allowed in the gardens, that would immediately cause lots of meetings. They would ask why, how he had learned Felek’s name, and how they had made friends. Felek was just a platoon leader’s son. If only his father were a lieutenant . . .
“I better wait a while,” decided Matt. “In the meantime, I’ll teach myself to whistle.”
It’s not easy to learn to whistle if there’s no one to show you how. But Matt had a strong will and he worked at it.
He started whistling.
One day, Matt whistled to test out his ability and see if he really could. How astonished he was when, a moment later, Felek was standing in front of him, stiff as a ramrod.
“How did you get in here?”
“I climbed over the fence.”
There were thick raspberry bushes in the royal gardens. So King Matt and his friend hid there to talk things over.
“LISTEN, FELEK, I am a very unhappy king. Since I learned to write, I have been signing all the papers, and they say that I am ruling the whole country. But all I’m really doing is what they tell me to. And they tell me to do the most boring things, and they forbid me to do anything that’s fun.”
“And who is forbidding Your Royal Highness and giving you orders?”
“The ministers,” said Matt. “When my dad was alive, I did what he told me, too.”
“Of course, back then yo
u were a royal prince and the heir to the throne and your dad was the Royal Highness, the king. But now—”
“But now it’s a hundred times worse. There’s no end to these ministers.”
“Are they soldiers or civilians?”
“Only one is a soldier, the Minister of War.”
“And the rest are civilians?”
“I don’t know what ‘civilians’ means.”
“Civilians are people who don’t wear uniforms or carry swords.”
“Yes, they’re civilians.”
Felek put a handful of raspberries into his mouth and began thinking seriously. Then he asked slowly and with a certain hesitation: “Are there any cherry trees in the royal gardens?”
This question surprised Matt, but he trusted Felek, and so he told him that there were cherry trees and pear trees in the royal gardens. Matt promised that he would give Felek cherries and pears through the fence whenever he wanted them.
“All right, then,” said Felek, “we can’t see each other too often, because they might find out about it. We’ll pretend we don’t know each other at all. We’ll write each other letters. We can hide the letters on the fence and use cherries to mark the spot. When Your Royal Highness leaves me a secret message, you can whistle and I’ll come get it.”
“And when you write back to me, you whistle, too,” said Matt happily.
“A person doesn’t whistle at a king,” said Felek passionately. “I’ll make a sound like a cuckoo. I’ll stand far away and make the sound.”
“Good,” agreed King Matt. “But when will you come again?”
Felek thought for a long minute and finally answered: “I can’t come here without permission. My father is a platoon leader and he has very sharp eyes. My father won’t even let me go near the fence around the royal gardens. He told me many times: ‘Felek, I’m warning you, don’t get any ideas about climbing up the cherry tree in the royal gardens. And remember, as your own born father I’m telling you—if you’re ever caught over there, I’ll skin you alive.’ “
Matt was worried.
That would be terrible. It had been so hard to find a friend. And it would be Matt’s fault if his friend was skinned alive. No, that really was too dangerous.
“And so how will you get back home now?” asked Matt anxiously.
“Your Royal Highness should go first. I’ll figure something out.”
Realizing that this was good advice, Matt slipped out of the bushes. Just in time, too, for Matt’s foreign tutor, worried by the king’s absence, was searching for him in the royal gardens.
Now Matt and Felek were a team, even though they were separated by the fence. Matt sighed frequently in the presence of the doctor, who weighed and measured him every week to be sure that the little king was growing. Matt complained of loneliness and once even mentioned to the Minister of War that he would very much like to learn military drill.
“Perhaps, Mr. Minister, you know some platoon leader who would be able to give me lessons.”
“Of course, Your Royal Majesty’s desire to acquire military knowledge is praiseworthy. But why does it have to be a platoon leader?”
“Perhaps it could even be the son of a platoon leader,” said Matt in good spirits.
The Minister of War frowned and made a note of the king’s desire.
Matt sighed; he already knew what the answer would be: “I will bring Your Royal Majesty’s request to the very next session of the council of ministers.”
Nothing would come of it; they’d probably send him some old general.
Things, however, took a different turn.
At the next session of the council of ministers, there was only one subject under discussion.
Three countries had declared war on King Matt all at the same time.
War!
Matt was the great-grandson of the brave Paul the Conqueror, and his blood was up.
Oh, if only he had a magnifying glass to blow up the enemy’s ammunition from far away, and a Cap of Invisibility, too.
Matt waited until evening; the next day, he waited until noon. Not a word. It had been Felek who told him about the war. Before then, Felek had only made the cuckoo sound three times, but that day he must have made it a hundred times. Matt realized Felek’s letter would contain unusual news. But he had no idea just how unusual that news would be. There had not been a war for a long time, because Stephen the Wise had somehow been able to get along with his neighbors. And so, even though there was no great friendship among them, they always managed to avoid war.
It was clear that Matt’s enemies were taking advantage of his youth and inexperience. But this only strengthened Matt’s resolve to show them they were mistaken, and that, though he was little, King Matt was able to defend his country.
Felek’s letter read: “Three countries have declared war on Your Royal Highness. My father always promised that if war broke out he would get drunk from joy. I am waiting for that to happen because we must see each other.”
Matt was waiting, too: he thought he would be summoned to a special session of the council that very day, and that now he, Matt, the lawful king, would begin to run the government. There was a meeting that night, but Matt was not summoned.
The next day his foreign tutor gave him his lesson as usual.
Matt knew court etiquette and was aware that the king was not allowed to pout, be stubborn, or get angry, and especially at a moment like this, he did not want to lower his dignity or royal honor in any way. He just kept frowning and furrowing his brow, and when, during his lesson, he’d glance in the mirror, he’d think to himself: I almost look like Henryk the Hasty.
Matt was waiting for the hour of the audience.
But when the master of ceremonies announced that the audience had been called off, Matt, calm but very pale, said decisively: “It is my absolute wish that the Minister of War be summoned to the throne room.”
Matt said the word “war” with such emphasis that the master of ceremonies realized at once that Matt already knew about everything.
“The Minister of War is in a meeting.”
“Then I will attend that meeting, too,” responded King Matt, and started to leave the room.
“If Your Royal Highness would deign to wait just one moment. Have pity on me, Your Royal Highness. I am not allowed to bring you there. I will be held responsible if I do.”
And the old man began weeping out loud.
Matt felt sorry for the old man, who knew precisely what the king could do and what would not be suitable. They had often sat together on long evenings by the fireplace, and Matt had enjoyed hearing the old man’s interesting stories about his father the king and his mother the queen, court etiquette, foreign balls, gala performances in the theaters, and the military maneuvers in which the king had taken part.
Matt’s conscience was bothering him. Writing letters to the son of a platoon leader had been a great blunder, and stealing cherries and raspberries for Felek tormented Matt most of all. In fact, the gardens belonged to him; in fact, he had not stolen the fruit for himself but as a gift; but he had done it sneakily, and who knows, perhaps he had stained the knightly honor of his great ancestors.
Besides, it was no accident that Matt was the great-grandson of saintly Anna the Pious. Matt had a good heart, and he had been moved by the old man’s tears. Then Matt almost committed another mistake by letting his feelings show, but he caught himself in time and only furrowed his brow deeply and said coldly: “I will wait ten minutes.”
The master of ceremonies ran out. The royal palace was in an uproar.
“How did Matt find out?” cried the Minister of Internal Affairs, who was quite vexed.
“What does that snot-nosed kid have in mind?” the Prime Minister shouted in excitement.
Finally, the Minister of Justice called him to order: “Mr. Prime Minister, the law forbids the king to be spoken of in such fashion at official meetings. In private you can say what you like, but this is an official mee
ting. And you are only free to think, not to speak.”
“This meeting’s been interrupted,” said the Prime Minister, who was frightened and trying to defend himself.
“There has to be an announcement that you are breaking off the meeting. You, however, did not do that.”
“Please excuse me, I forgot.”
The Minister of War glanced at his watch. “Gentlemen, the king has given us ten minutes. Four minutes have passed, so let’s not quarrel . . . I am a soldier and I must obey the king’s express command.”
The poor Prime Minister had reason to be afraid; on the table was the sheet of paper on which he had clearly written with the blue end of his pencil: “Fine, let there be war.”
Back then, it had been easy to pretend to be brave, but now it would be hard to answer for those careless words. Besides, what would he say when the king asked why he had written that? And of course it had all started when they didn’t want to elect Matt after the death of the old king.
All the ministers knew this and were even a little glad about it. They did not like the Prime Minister, because he gave too many orders and acted too important.
No one wanted to offer advice. All they cared about was avoiding the king’s wrath for hiding such important information.
“One minute left,” said the Minister of War. He buttoned his jacket, straightened his medals, twirled his mustache, took his revolver from the table, and a minute later was standing at attention in front of the king.
“So it’s war?” asked Matt softly.
“It is, Your Highness.”
That was a load off Matt’s shoulders, for I must add that Matt, too, had spent those ten minutes in great anxiety, wondering if Felek had only made the whole thing up. Maybe it wasn’t true? Maybe Felek had just been joking?
Those two little words, “It is,” relieved all Matt’s doubts. It was war, and a big one, too. The ministers had wanted to deal with it without him, but Matt had discovered their secret.
An hour later the newsboys were yelling at the top of their lungs: “Extra, extra, read all about it! Crisis in the ministry!”
King Matt the First Page 3