King Midas was nothing special, as kings go. He hadnât got a particularly large kingdom, just a small one, and it wasnât either rich or poor. Just ordinary, really. Like the King himself, until a certain day in his life, on which everything changed.
But until that day, things jogged along for him quite normally. Of course, you might not think it normal to live in a small but charming palace surrounded by beautiful grounds, to have to sign papers all the time, wear a heavy crown quite often, and to have dozens of servants running around to do your bidding. But thatâs normal for a king, and King Midas was quite used to it and thought nothing of it.
He hadnât got a queen.
Heâd had one, once, but sadly, sheâd died. The King was terribly grieved. She had been so beautiful â a shining golden beauty that made the sun and the stars come out for him. He kept a lock of her hair, the colour of summer pollen, in a locket round his neck, and would take it out and smooth it in his fingers to keep it shiny and alive-looking.
But he had something better than that left from his happy younger days: a little daughter called Delia.
She looked rather like her mother â the same bright brown eyes and sun-spun golden hair, and lively, loving ways. King Midas simply adored her, and made a great fuss of her, giving her most of what she asked for and thinking of all kinds of lovely surprises for her.
But oddly enough, she wasnât spoilt. She went to school in the village near the palace, like other children, and was quite ordinary, too, in a way. Of course, a princess can never be entirely ordinary, but there was one nice thing about her â she never boasted or gave herself airs. She was a very nice girl, really, which made what happened to her all the worse. She simply didnât deserve it.
As to whether the King deserved to be the cause of this awful thing that happened to his beloved child, thatâs another matter. Thereâs no denying that he had a fault. Who hasnât? But this one was bad enough to lead him into the most dire trouble.
He allowed to grow in him a great desire, which came to rule his whole life.
He thought nobody knew about it. But little things gave him away to those quick-witted enough to understand.
For instance, one day some large oil paintings that heâd ordered from abroad arrived in big flat packing-cases. He was very excited and as soon as they were unpacked, he called Delia.
âYou must see my new paintings, my darling,â he cried cheerfully. âYouâve got such an eye, I canât wait to hear what you think of them!â
Delia had no more âeyeâ than most people, but she did like paintings. She loved making up stories about them. So she hurried after her father to one of the long galleries in the palace.
âI must supervise the hanging,â said the King importantly.
âDaddy, you know youâve done away with capital punishment!â teased Delia.
The King laughed uproariously. He was in a very good mood.
There were already several servants up ladders, and several more below, with the first great canvas in their hands, ready to hand it up to those above. The King, who had arrived beaming with pleasure, took one look at the picture and flew into one of his rare, but alarming, rages.
âTake them away!â he roared. âI wonât have them! I donât want them â not like that!â
One of his personal servants called Biffpot, the only one who dared speak to him when he was angry, murmured, âBut Sire, the paintings are very fine!â
âThe paintings? The PAINTINGS? Whoâs talking about the paintings? Itâs the FRAMES I canât abide! GET THOSE FRAMES OUT OF MY SIGHT!â
âBut Daddy, whatâs wrong with the frames?â Delia exclaimed anxiously. âTheyâre beautiful, all carved and gilded ââ
âGilded! Precisely, my darling! You have put your finger on it! They are gilded! I would rather, far rather, have plain wooden ones than these â these â these pretenders! I tell you I will not be lied to â not even by a picture frame!â
And he stormed away, leaving the servants agape and Delia close to tears.
Later, in the servantsâ hall, there was much gossip, and not for the first time.
âThe Kingâs got this thing about fakes,â the butler remarked knowingly. âWhat they call a fixation.â
âNo,â said the manservant who had been trying to hang up the picture. âHeâs got a thing about lies. And I believe itâs called an obsession.â
But Biffpot, who was closer to the King than the others, being his personal valet, shook his head sadly.