There was once a little man
mother made him a beautiful suit of clothes. It was green and gold and
woven so that I cannot describe how delicate and fine it was, and there
was a tie of orange fluffiness that tied up under his chin. And the buttons
in their newness shone like stars. He was proud and pleased by his suit
beyond measure, and stood before the long looking-glass when first he put
it on, so astonished and delighted with it that he could hardly turn himself
He wanted to wear it everywhere and show it to all
sorts of people. He thought over all the places he had ever visited and
all the scenes he had ever heard described, and tried to imagine what the
feel of it would be if he were to go now to those scenes and places wearing
his shining suit, and he wanted to go out forthwith into the long grass
and the hot sunshine of the meadow wearing it. Just to wear it! But his
mother told him, "No." She told him he must take great care of his suit,
for never would he have another nearly so fine; he must save it and save
it and only wear it on rare and great occasions. It was his wedding suit,
she said. And she took his buttons and twisted them up with tissue paper
for fear their bright newness should be tarnished, and she tacked little
guards over the cuffs and elbows and wherever the suit was most likely
to come to harm. He hated and resisted these things, but what could he
do? And at last her warnings and persuasions had effect and he consented
to take off his beautiful suit and fold it into its proper creases and
put it away. It was almost as though he gave it up again. But he was always
thinking of wearing it and of the supreme occasion when some day it might
be worn without the guards, without the tissue paper on the buttons, utterly
and delightfully, never caring, beautiful beyond measure.
One night when he was dreaming of it, after his habit,
he dreamed he took the tissue paper from one of the buttons and found its
brightness a little faded, and that distressed him mightily in his dream.
He polished the poor faded button and polished it, and if anything it grew
duller. He woke up and lay awake thinking of the brightness a little dulled
and wondering how he would feel if perhaps when the great occasion (whatever
it might be) should arrive, one button should chance to be ever so little
short of its first glittering freshness, and for days and days that thought
remained with him, distressingly. And when next his mother let him wear
his suit, he was tempted and nearly gave way to the temptation just to
fumble off one little bit of tissue paper and see if indeed the buttons
were keeping as bright as ever.
He went trimly along on his way to church full of
this wild desire. For you must know his mother did, with repeated and careful
warnings, let him wear his suit at times, on Sundays, for example, to and
fro from church, when there was no threatening of rain, no dust nor anything
to injure it, with its buttons covered and its protections tacked upon
it and a sunshade in his hand to shadow it if there seemed too strong a
sunlight for its colours. And always, after such occasions, he brushed
it over and folded it exquisitely as she had taught him, and put it away
Now all these restrictions his mother set to the
wearing of his suit he obeyed, always he obeyed them, until one strange
night he woke up and saw the moonlight shining outside his window. It seemed
to him the moonlight was not common moonlight, nor the night a common night,
and for a while he lay quite drowsily with this odd persuasion in his mind.
Thought joined on to thought like things that whisper warmly in the shadows.
Then he sat up in his little bed suddenly, very alert, with his heart beating
very fast and a quiver in his body from top to toe. He had made up his
mind. He knew now that he was going to wear his suit as it should be worn.
He had no doubt in the matter. He was afraid, terribly afraid, but glad,
He got out of his bed and stood a moment by the window
looking at the moonshine-flooded garden and trembling at the thing he meant
to do. The air was full of a minute clamor of crickets and murmurings,
of the infinitesimal shouting of little living things. He went very gently
across the creaking boards, for fear that he might wake the sleeping house,
to the big dark clothes-press wherein his beautiful suit lay folded, and
he took it out garment by garment and softly and very eagerly tore off
its tissue-paper covering and its tacked protections, until there it was,
perfect and delightful as he had seen it when first his mother had given
it to him--a long time it seemed ago. Not a button had tarnished, not a
thread had faded on this dear suit of his; he was glad enough for weeping
as in a noiseless hurry he put it on. And then back he went, soft and quick,
to the window and looked out upon the garden and stood there for a minute,
shining in the moonlight, with his buttons twinkling like stars, before
he got out on the sill and, making as little of a rustling as he could,
clambered down to the garden path below. He stood before his mother's house,
and it was white and nearly as plain as by day, with every window-blind
but his own shut like an eye that sleeps. The trees cast still shadows
like intricate black lace upon the wall.
The garden in the moonlight was very different from
the garden by day; moonshine was tangled in the hedges and stretched in
phantom cobwebs from spray to spray. Every flower was gleaming white or
crimson black, and the air was aquiver with the thridding of small crickets
and nightingales singing unseen in the depths of the trees.
There was no darkness in the world, but only warm,
mysterious shadows; and all the leaves and spikes were edged and lined
with iridescent jewels of dew. The night was warmer than any night had
ever been, the heavens by some miracle at once vaster and nearer, and spite
of the great ivory-tinted moon that ruled the world, the sky was full of
The little man did not shout nor sing for all his
infinite gladness. He stood for a time like one awe-stricken, and then,
with a queer small cry and holding out his arms, he ran out as if he would
embrace at once the whole warm round immensity of the world. He did not
follow the neat set paths that cut the garden squarely, but thrust across
the beds and through the wet, tall, scented herbs, through the night stock
and the nicotine and the clusters of phantom white mallow flowers and through
the thickets of southern-wood and lavender, and knee-deep across a wide
space of mignonette. He came to the great hedge and he thrust his way through
it, and though the thorns of the brambles scored him deeply and tore threads
from his wonderful suit, and though burs and goosegrass and havers caught
and clung to him, he did not care. He did not care, for he knew it was
all part of the wearing for which he had longed. "I am glad I put on my
suit," he said; "I am glad I wore my suit."
Beyond the hedge he came to the duck-pond, or at
least to what was the duck-pond by day. But by night it was a great bowl
of silver moonshine all noisy with singing frogs, of wonderful silver moonshine
twisted and clotted with strange patternings, and the little man ran down
into its waters between the thin black rushes, knee-deep and waist-deep
and to his shoulders, smiting the water to black and shining wavelets with
either hand, swaying and shivering wavelets, amid which the stars were
netted in the tangled reflections of the brooding trees upon the bank.
He waded until he swam, and so he crossed the pond and came out upon the
other side, trailing, as it seemed to him, not duckweed, but very silver
in long, clinging, dripping masses. And up he went through the transfigured
tangles of the willow-herb and the uncut seeding grass of the farther bank.
And so he came glad and breathless into the highroad. "I am glad," he said,
"beyond measure, that I had clothes that fitted this occasion."
The highroad ran straight as an arrow flies, straight
into the deep blue pit of sky beneath the moon, a white and shining road
between the singing nightingales, and along it he went, running now and
leaping, and now walking and rejoicing, in the clothes his mother had made
for him with tireless, loving hands. The road was deep in dust, but that
for him was only soft whiteness, and as he went a great dim moth came fluttering
round his wet and shimmering and hastening figure. At first he did not
heed the moth, and then he waved his hands at it and made a sort of dance
with it as it circled round his head. "Soft moth!" he cried, "dear moth!
And wonderful night, wonderful night of the world! Do you think my clothes
are beautiful, dear moth? As beautiful as your scales and all this silver
vesture of the earth and sky?"
And the moth circled closer and closer until at last
its velvet wings just brushed his lips . . . . .
And next morning they found him dead with his neck
broken in the bottom of the stone pit, with his beautiful clothes a little
bloody and foul and stained with the duckweed from the pond. But his face
was a face of such happiness that, had you seen it, you would have understood
indeed how that he had died happy, never knowing the cool and streaming
silver for the duckweed in the pond.
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