The Little Prince (8 page)

Chapter XXII

"Good morning," said the little prince.

"Good morning," said the railway switchman.

"What do you do here?" the little prince asked.

"I sort out travellers, in bundles of a thousand," said the switchman.  "I send off the trains that carry them; now to the right, now to the left."

And a brilliantly lighted express train shook the switchman's cabin as it rushed by with a roar like thunder.

"They are in a great hurry," said the little prince.  "What are they looking for?"

"Not even the locomotive engineer knows that," said the switchman.

And a second brilliantly lighted express thundered by, in the opposite direction.

"Are they coming back already?" demanded the little prince.

"These are not the same ones," said the switchman.  "It is an exchange."

"Were they not satisfied where they were?" asked the little prince.

"No one is ever satisfied where he is," said the switchman.

And they heard the roaring thunder of a third brilliantly lighted express.

"Are they pursuing the first travellers?" demanded the little prince.

"They are pursuing nothing at all," said the switchman.  "They are asleep in there, or if they are not asleep they are yawning.  Only the children are flattening their noses against the windowpanes."

"Only the children know what they are looking for," said the little prince.  "They waste their time over a rag doll and it becomes very important to them; and if anybody takes it away from them, they cry..."

"They are lucky," the switchman said.

Chapter XXIII

"Good morning," said the little prince.

"Good morning," said the merchant.  This was a merchant who sold pills that had been invented to quench thirst.  You need only swallow one pill a week, and you would feel no need of anything to drink.

"Why are you selling those?" asked the little prince.

"Because they save a tremendous amount of time," said the merchant.  "Computations have been made by experts.  With these pills, you save fifty-three minutes in every week."

"And what do I do with those fifty-three minutes?"

"Anything you like..."

"As for me," said the little prince to himself, "if I had fifty-three minutes to spend as I liked, I should walk at my leisure toward a spring of fresh water."

Chapter XXIV

It was now the eighth day since I had had my accident in the desert, and I had listened to the story of the merchant as I was drinking the last drop of my water supply.

"Ah," I said to the little prince, "these memories of yours are very charming; but I have not yet succeeded in repairing my plane; I have nothing more to drink; and I, too, should be very happy if I could walk at my leisure toward a spring of fresh water!"

"My friend the fox--" the little prince said to me.

"My dear little man, this is no longer a matter that has anything to do with the fox!"

"Why not?"

"Because I am about to die of thirst..."

He did not follow my reasoning, and he answered me:

"It is a good thing to have had a friend, even if one is about to die.  I, for instance, am very glad to have had a fox as a friend..."

"He has no way of guessing the danger," I said to myself.  "He has never been either hungry or thirsty.  A little sunshine is all he needs..."

But he looked at me steadily, and replied to my thought:

"I am thirsty, too.  Let us look for a well..."

I made a gesture of weariness.  It is absurd to look for a well, at random, in the immensity of the desert.  But nevertheless we started walking.

When we had trudged along for several hours, in silence, the darkness fell, and the stars began to come out.  Thirst had made me a little feverish, and I looked at them as if I were in a dream.  The little prince's last words came reeling back into my memory:

"Then you are thirsty, too?"  I demanded.

But he did not reply to my question.  He merely said to me:

"Water may also be good for the heart..."

I did not understand this answer, but I said nothing.  I knew very well that it was impossible to cross-examine him.

He was tired.  He sat down.  I sat down beside him.  And, after a little silence, he spoke again: "The stars are beautiful, because of a flower that cannot be seen."

I replied, "Yes, that is so."  And, without saying anything more, I looked across the ridges of sand that were stretched out before us in the moonlight.

"The desert is beautiful," the little prince added.

And that was true.  I have always loved the desert.  One sits down on a desert sand dune, sees nothing, hears nothing.  Yet through the silence something throbs, and gleams...

"What makes the desert beautiful," said the little prince, "is that somewhere it hides a well..."

I was astonished by a sudden understanding of that mysterious radiation of the sands. When I was a little boy I lived in an old house, and legend told us that a treasure was buried there.  To be sure, no one had ever known how to find it; perhaps no one had ever even looked for it.  But it cast an enchantment over that house.  My home was hiding a secret in the depths of its heart...

"Yes," I said to the little prince.  "The house, the stars, the desert-- what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible!"

"I am glad," he said, "that you agree with my fox."

As the little prince dropped off to sleep, I took him in my arms and set out walking once more.  I felt deeply moved, and stirred.  It seemed to me that I was carrying a very fragile treasure.  It seemed to me, even, that there was nothing more fragile on all Earth. In the moonlight I looked at his pale forehead, his closed eyes, his locks of hair that trembled in the wind, and I said to myself: "What I see here is nothing but a shell. What is most important is invisible..."

As his lips opened slightly with the suspicious of a half-smile, I said to myself, again: "What moves me so deeply, about this little prince who is sleeping here, is his loyalty to a flower-- the image of a rose that shines through his whole being like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep..."  And I felt him to be more fragile still.  I felt the need of protecting him, as if he himself were a flame that might be extinguished by a little puff of wind...

And, as I walked on so, I found the well, at daybreak.

Chapter XXV

"Men," said the little prince, "set out on their way in express trains, but they do not know what they are looking for.  Then they rush about, and get excited, and turn round and round..."

And he added: "It is not worth the trouble..."

The well that we had come to was not like the wells of the Sahara.  The wells of the Sahara are mere holes dug in the sand.  This one was like a well in a village.  But there was no village here, and I thought I must be dreaming...

"It is strange," I said to the little prince.  "Everything is ready for use: the pulley, the bucket, the rope..."

He laughed, touched the rope, and set the pulley to working.  And the pulley moaned, like an old weathervane, which the wind has long since forgotten.

"Do you hear?" said the little prince.  "We have wakened the well, and it is singing..."

I did not want him to tire himself with the rope.

"Leave it to me," I said.  "It is too heavy for you."

I hoisted the bucket slowly to the edge of the well and set it there-- happy, tired as I was, over my achievement.  The song of the pulley was still in my ears, and I could see the sunlight shimmer in the still trembling water.

"I am thirsty for this water," said the little prince.  "Give me some of it to drink..."

And I understood what he had been looking for.

I raised the bucket to his lips.  He drank, his eyes closed.  It was as sweet as some special festival treat.  This water was indeed a different thing from ordinary nourishment. Its sweetness was born of the walk under the stars, the song of the pulley, and the effort of my arms.  It was good for the heart, like a present.  When I was a little boy, the lights of the Christmas tree, the music of the Midnight Mass, the tenderness of smiling faces, used to make up, so, the radiance of the gifts I received.

"The men where you live," said the little prince, "raise five thousand roses in the same garden-- and they do not find in it what they are looking for."

"They do not find it," I replied.

"And yet what they are looking for could be found in one single rose, or in a little water."

"Yes, that is true," I said.

And the little prince added:

"But the eyes are blind.  One must look with the heart..."

I had drunk the water.  I breathed easily.  At sunrise the sand is the colour of honey. And that honey colour was making me happy, too.  What brought me, then, this sense of grief?

"You must keep your promise," said the little prince, softly, as he sat down beside me once more.

"What promise?"

"You know-- a muzzle for my sheep... I am responsible for this flower..."

I took my rough drafts of drawings out of my pocket.  The little prince looked them over, and laughed as he said:

"Your baobabs-- they look a little like cabbages."

"Oh!"

I had been so proud of my baobabs!

"Your fox-- his ears look a little like horns; and they are too long."

And he laughed again.

"You are not fair, little prince," I said.  "I don't know how to draw anything except boa constrictors from the outside and boa constrictors from the inside."

"Oh, that will be all right," he said, "children understand."

So then I made a pencil sketch of a muzzle.  And as I gave it to him my heart was torn.

"You have plans that I do not know about," I said.

But he did not answer me.  He said to me, instead:

"You know-- my descent to the earth... Tomorrow will be its anniversary."

Then, after a silence, he went on:

"I came down very near here."

And he flushed.

And once again, without understanding why, I had a queer sense of sorrow.  One question, however, occurred to me:

"Then it was not by chance that on the morning when I first met you-- a week ago-- you were strolling along like that, all alone, a thousand miles from any inhabited region?  You were on the your back to the place where you landed?"

The little prince flushed again.

And I added, with some hesitancy:

"Perhaps it was because of the anniversary?"

The little prince flushed once more.  He never answered questions-- but when one flushes does that not mean "Yes"?

"Ah," I said to him, "I am a little frightened--"

But he interrupted me.

"Now you must work.  You must return to your engine.  I will be waiting for you here. Come back tomorrow evening..."

But I was not reassured.  I remembered the fox.   One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets himself be tamed...