The king who had fleas
Mon 10 Dec 2001
In a land far away and long ago, there lived a king who had fleas. Other people in his kingdom had fleas, but those who knew they had them generally tried to get rid of them. Only the king was content with his fleas. There was and remains a reason for this…
Which came about one Saturday afternoon, as the king was walking in the palace picture gallery with his oldest daughter. The sun shone beams of dusty light through the tall windows and lit up the cracked surfaces of paintings, many of which had been there so long that not only the names of the artists but the very cities they had lived in were gone and forgotten. The king and his daughter talked about the future, for she was to be married to the prince of a neighboring country and life (as it always does) was about to change.
For no particular reason, they halted in front of a picture. Bright sun warmed their backs as they looked at it, and they were sleepy and relaxed in each other’s company. While they walked the formal gold and jeweled clothes they wore made them remember to be royal, but when they stopped the fabric was so stiff it supported its own weight. Motionless, the king and his daughter felt weightless and free, as if they wore the light rags of simple village people by the ocean shore.
By chance they stopped before a painting of a man with a dog. They were standing at the edge of a dark wood and the sky above was heavy with clouds. The man had his hand on the dog’s neck and they were both looking towards the trees. There was an ominous feeling about the wood, though it was painted as nothing more or less than trees, but you could tell this from the shadows, and the way the man and the dog were standing and watching.
The king and his daughter studied the painting. They did not speak for a while, as they had only just been in animated conversation and had nothing else to say for the moment. It was more important for each to be, and let the other be, in peace and silence at that peaceful time of afternoon.
But after a minute had passed the king said “Tell me, my most lovely and wisest child, what you think of this work. I have seen it many times and yet have never, until this time in your company, considered it as it deserves. How does it strike you?”
His daughter put her head to one side. If there had been lines on her face they would have deepened (but there were no lines on her face.) “I see a man and his dog looking into a wood,” she said.
Her father knew better than to say anything to this. It was how she always began things, with no more than the truth.
“They are companions,” she added. “My feeling is that they have been with each other a long time. Yet… they do not see what is in front of them the same way.”
The king looked again at the painting. He saw no more than he had before his daughter spoke.
“How so?” he asked.
“By the way they are standing. The man is tense, like he does not know what awaits him under the dark branches and is not sure if he is prepared. The dog is also still but assured, as if he too does not know what is to come but is ready in himself for whatever may happen.”
The king studied the figures. He realized it was as his daughter said. “Tell me more,” he said, curious.
The girl looked at the painting a while longer. “They do not see the future the same way,” she said.
“Ah,” said the king.
“The man sees it as something to train for, like war. He anticipates many situations; each could be defined and written down precisely. He prepares for each one, but knows he can never foresee them all… The dog by contrast makes himself the finest he can as a dog and nothing more, and is ready that way, by being the best dog he knows how. The man gains strength from outside himself, the dog from inside.”
Lines of sunlight shifted on the stone walls. It was warm in the gallery. Looking around, the king saw an old padded bench behind them. He touched his daughter’s elbow to draw it to her attention, and they sat down, still looking at the painting. Their clothes rustled for a while as the heavy fabrics settled around them.
“Does the forest in this painting represent the future?” asked the king.
“It is whatever one sees it to be at the time. That is what art is – in my opinion, great king,” she added, for she was sensible enough to be respectful as well as forthright. “When the future is so much in our thoughts, that is how we see a painted forest. At another time, it might be a person or a situation. Other people might see it as representing challenge, anticipation, or competition.”
The king thought about this, absently scratching his arm. “So in your view art functions as a mirror, one that reflects us both inside and out?”
“A mirror with a message,” said the girl. “For no surface, even if that is the maker’s intent, can reflect perfectly. There is always color and distortion in the image. Equally, a fine painting allows one to examine and appreciate one’s mood as in a looking glass, but through the human filter of the artist’s character, perception, and experiences, which all affect the choice and treatment of the subject.”
“By that argument good people make the best art,” said the king. “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“I did not say those characters and experiences had to be good to create art that means something to others. From my brief and foolish study of artists I would even suggest the reverse is true. Only an artist’s perception has to be fine – the reason they are indeed an artist. But fine perception or not, a contented person is unlikely to be driven to create, which I have heard is a means of healing, or at least of dulling, pain.”
The king nodded, feeling both the pain and the pleasure of realizing his child now surpassed his own subtlety of insight and judgment. A moment later an old man’s laziness overtook the feeling. He scratched his knee absently. “Tell me, do you see yourself in either of these two? Or me?”
The princess laughed, her serious mood gone in an instant. “Oh, both of us in both of them. Sometimes I think we worry too much about the future, at other times too little. Maybe what we need to learn from this painting is that each way, the dog’s and the man’s, is good, but that the two combined are better. The future is always uncertain, but it need not be feared. Without change there is no life and life is always to be relished. We need only see a rock to know the alternative.”
The king thought back through the years of his reign, of his training and youth, and then further to when he had been a child. “True,” he said. “Nothing is so bad – or so good – that it lasts forever.”
They looked at the picture again, seeing more the longer they looked and took pleasure in pointing out new found details to each other.
“This is a fine painting,” said the king at last. “I have not appreciated its presence and properties before, yet it has been in this gallery all my life. I need to look at what surrounds me now there is time to do so. Daughter, do you want to take something here to your new home? Name anything in the palace.”
The girl thought, then shook her head. “I would not move one thing from its place at this instant. All I will take are happy memories of everything and everyone exactly as they are.”
“Then we will share them,” said her father.
The princess did not appear to have heard him. She was looking again at the painting. “For some, I have heard, their ambition is to create as many pleasurable memories as possible within the fastest time. But for others… a few recollections, even of single hours spent in perfect company, can last and fill a lifetime’s reflection.” She smiled at her father, and he saw from the clock behind her that it was precisely one hour since they had entered that gallery and that other duties pressed upon them.
They rose, and moved through the gallery to the rooms where the princess’ packing was being completed. She was to start within the hour. Again, the king rubbed his arm, where an itch was troubling him.
“Fleas?” said the king, the next morning. “I have fleas?”
“I regret so, your Majesty,” said the doctor. “The finest fleas, and naturally of royal blood… but undoubtedly fleas. From what you describe of recent events it is clear what happened. I have ordered that the benches in the royal picture gallery be thoroughly cleaned. We can kill those on your royal person at once”
The king thought how the fleas were simply being what they were. This reminded him of the dog in the painting and of what his daughter, now further away each minute, had said. “Do they harm us?” he asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I do not believe so, Majesty. They take a little blood and cause an itch while doing so, but on the whole… no.” He brought out a glass jar of white powder from his bag. “Now if you will allow me to dust this on your clothes they and even their memory will soon be gone.”
The king hesitated, then rose and paced for a minute. Finally he stopped and faced the physician. “No,” he said. “For a while at least, I will keep my fleas.”
“Keep them?” The doctor stared, until he remembered who his patient was, and lowered his eyes.
“Yes, physician. From this day until I decide otherwise they will serve to remind me of that which I often forget. They will be my… companions. However, send the jar to my daughter should she need it.”
As it turned out, she did not. But from that day forth the king began to relax his requirements and regulations. He became more forgiving, known throughout the seven lands as one who would accept people for what they were and nothing more. In ever increasing numbers the creative, the dutiful, the wild, and the enterprising flocked to his cities, which prospered mightily. And the king reigned contentedly over them for many more years, occasionally scratching