Prevod

Do you remember that ailing princess, the daughter of the king of Magna, whom an old man cured as if by magic by showing her a certain very lovely panorama? Well, you must know that, many years later, the sceptre of Magna passed to a son of this princess, and this son, under the name of Basilio XXVII, reigned gloriously for more than a quarter of a century. The traces of his time upon the throne survive in several grand and venerable monuments, which archaeologists today study with particular interest, debating whether the distinctive style of these buildings was an invention belonging exclusively to the twenty-seventh Basilio, or whether it arose from his mother’s influence, and perhaps even went back to his grandfather’s. Twelve bulky books and some sixty exceedingly learned monographs have been written on this point.—What particularly set the scholars knocking their heads against the wall were certain imposing ruins known in popular tradition as the Cold Palace. Until quite recently, no one had managed to discover the origin of this name, which contrasts so strangely with the appearance of what remains standing.

Indeed, the palace, whose surviving galleries, halls, and chambers are adorned with remnants of rich woods and precious marbles and jaspers, seems to have been built by the mother of Basilio XXVII as a haven for happy married love; and its design, its ornamentation, its whole character, in short, are distinctly gracious and cheerful, with the gaiety of a sovereign happiness, splendid and triumphant. Its site, its southern aspect, its position on the most open ground, commanding the loveliest view over the bay and set among little groves of orange, lemon, and pomegranate trees perpetually in bloom, likewise offered no clue as to why it should have been called cold, a name that seems to suggest solemnity and sadness.—The riddle of this tradition came to occupy the mind of Dr. Herr Julius Tiefenlehrer, a German professor of prodigious learning, who resolved to decipher it at all costs. With the unhurried patience of a man who does not begrudge his time, he took up residence in the ruins themselves; and by scraping here, digging there, rummaging in one place and peering into another, he managed to unearth, at the foot of a column in the crypt beneath what had once been the throne room, a small iron chest containing a roll of manuscripts. Dr. Tiefenlehrer very nearly went mad with joy at this priceless discovery, for the manuscripts were nothing less than a set of most elaborate instructions in Basilio XXVII’s own hand, intended for his heirs and successors, to school them in the proper governance of the state and the conduct befitting a monarch. But what above all sent Herr Julius into transports was that, by way of example, Basilio recounted there in detail the history of the Cold Palace. And we, in translating it from the enormous German volume in which the learned professor published it, enriching it with every sort of document, gloss, caution, reference, note, commentary, plan, and comparative study of other traditions of Magna and all the other nations of the world, shall swiftly abridge it and give only the bare account of the strange occurrence that caused the palace of Basilio XXVII to be called cold.

It so happened that when the young Basilio inherited the crown, he found himself in a state of mind resembling the fervour of those entering a religious order, and began to ponder how he ought to conduct himself in order to fulfil his duties and perform to perfection the lofty and arduous task allotted him by destiny. Imbued with a sense of the greatness and even the sanctity of his office, he asked God for light and strength, that his name might pass into history with the halo and prestige of those kings who know how to wield supreme power for the benefit and honour of their country. Yet these excellent intentions foundered upon one difficulty: the king desired the good, but did not know where it lay, what it consisted of, or how he was to go about discovering it.

Such was the state of affairs when, as Basilio pondered how to choose the right course, he began to notice an astonishing phenomenon: inside his palace—that delightful palace built by a queen in love as a dwelling place for happiness, and set in an oasis in the finest part of a country blessed with a naturally mild climate—it was cold, very cold, cruelly cold. The sensation of this cold, at first subtle and almost imperceptible, grew steadily stronger and more penetrating. No one will doubt that the king at once resorted to the usual remedies for a fall in temperature; and the first was to wrap himself up in winter clothes. From the quilted silk greatcoat to the mantle of fine polar-rat fur, a living quilt that creates a soft, warm atmosphere around the body; from the velvet coat with its half-inch pile to the satin covering stuffed with wild-duck down; from the shaggy fleece of a white lamb to the thick woollen blanket, Basilio tried everything he thought might warm him, yet that peculiar cold would not disperse, but grew ever more intense. Despairing now of keeping himself warm with clothing, he hastened to heat the palace. From that time date the splendid, spacious fireplaces that adorn it on every side, in which, night and day, a whole forest of dry wood burned, sending up a thousand tongues and shreds of flame. No other system of heating was known in those days; but this was more than enough to dispel any natural cold that could be explained in human terms. Nevertheless, the cold continued, sharpened, redoubled, penetrating to the very marrow of the king, whose teeth chattered at all hours.

When Basilio XXVII asked his ministers and grandees and the thousand flatterers who swarm around the powerful whether they felt that strange cold as he did, he was driven to despair by hearing them vaguely reply that they did, while at the same time seeing them go about without cloaks and fan themselves as he huddled up, his teeth chattering. The courtiers noticed their sovereign’s displeasure and wished to humour him, and it was a most comical sight to see them pretend that they too were freezing, dressed for the depths of winter and sweating like pigs. And the young king, whose spirit was sincere and loyal, was indignant at this playacting, and regarded his courtiers with profound contempt when he saw that, in so plain and evident a matter, they lied to him and deceived him without fear. Assailed by gloomy misgivings, and seeking the truth from science, Basilio summoned a physician and asked him whether the terrible cold from which he alone suffered might be due to some fatal illness. The learned man reflected, then wished to know whether the king felt the same cold everywhere. Opening a window, he begged Basilio to lean out; and though the king expected to shiver and freeze to death, he found, on the contrary, that the outside air warmed and greatly revived him.

“The solution to this problem does not lie with medicine,” declared the doctor. “Your Majesty is not ill. Consult not me, but your conscience and God; and since you are cold in here and not out there, go out, go out at all hours; live outside this fatal palace.”

And Basilio did indeed go out, fleeing the splendid dwelling where his blood froze, where the marble seemed like blocks of ice and the gilding like sunlight shimmering on the walls of some icehouse. He took to the streets at all hours, delighting in the mild air—and little by little he began to take an interest in his surroundings, studying and coming to understand his subjects’ concerns and needs.—He saw with astonishment that the world was not as his courtiers painted it, and it seemed to him that cobwebs were being swept from his eyes, that his mind was clearing and his wits awakening. A thousand questions he had not understood became clear and transparent; he learned of the people’s needs, heard their grievances, absorbed their aspirations, made their wishes and struggles his own, and entered so fully into the lives of his subjects that his heart came to beat in perfect unison with the great heart of his country, as though the same blood flowed through both, and the same joys and sorrows made them swell and contract. Basilio was enraptured; the only thing that still troubled him was that, whenever he returned to the palace, the cold assailed him once more. And in a moment of inspiration, it occurred to him that, since it was warm outside, perhaps the palace might grow warmer if its doors and windows were thrown wide open to let in the air from outside, the breezes from the streets, and even the people from the streets, the humble folk. He therefore gave the order, and the doors of the royal palace were opened to his subjects. And as the people, respectful and full of love for their good monarch, passed through the magnificent rooms, the miracle came to pass: the ice melted, the air grew soft and mild; the little birds in their aviaries sang, the potted plants burst into bloom, and the sweet breath of spring smiled.—The riddle was solved. Basilio XXVII was never cold in his palace again.