Иллюстрации Е.Д. Шавиковой

Once when I was six years old I saw a magnificent picture in a book, called True Stories from Nature, about the primeval forest. It was a picture of a boa which was swallowing an animal. Here is a copy of the drawing:

In the book it said: “Boas swallow their prey whole, they do not chew it. After that they are not able to move, and they sleep through the six months that they need for digestion.”

I thought about it. And then I made my first drawing. My Drawing Number One. It looked like this:

I showed my masterpiece to the grown-ups, and asked them whether the drawing frightened them.

But they answered: “Frighten? Why can anyone be frightened by a hat?”

My drawing was not a picture of a hat. It was a picture of a boa which was digesting an elephant. But the grown-ups were not able to understand it. They always needed explanations. So I made another drawing: I drew the inside of the boa. This time the grown-ups could see it clearly. My Drawing Number Two looked like this:

The grown-ups advised me not to draw the boas from the inside or the outside, and study geography, history, arithmetic, and grammar. That is why, at the age of six, I stopped drawing. So I did not become a famous painter. I was disheartened by the failure of my Drawing Number One and my Drawing Number Two. Grown-ups never understand anything by themselves, and it is tiresome for children to explain things to them all the time.

So I chose another profession, and became a pilot. I flew over all parts of the world; and it is true that geography was very useful to me. Now I can distinguish China from Arizona.

I have met many people. I lived among grownups. I saw them intimately, and that did not improve my opinion of them.

When I met one of them who seemed clever enough to me, I tried to show him my Drawing Number One. I tried to learn, so, if this person had true understanding. But he—or she—always said,

“That is a hat.”

Then I did not talk to that person about boas, or forests, or stars. I talked to him about bridge, and golf, and politics, and ties.

So I lived my life alone and had no one to talk to, until I had an accident with my plane in the Desert of Sahara, six years ago. Something broke in my engine. And I had with me neither a mechanic nor any passengers. So I began to repair it all alone. It was a question of life or death for me: I had very little drinking water.

The first night, I went to sleep on the sand, a thousand miles away from any town. I was more isolated than a sailor on a raft in the middle of the ocean. Thus you can imagine my amazement, at sunrise, when I was awakened by an odd little voice. It said:

“Will you please draw me a sheep!”

“What!”

“Draw me a sheep!”

I jumped to my feet and looked carefully all around me. And I saw a most extraordinary small person who stood there. He was examining me with great seriousness.

Remember, I crashed in the desert a thousand miles from any town. The child did not seem hungry or thirsty or frightened. He was not looking like a child lost in the middle of the desert. When at last I was able to speak, I said to him:

“But—what are you doing here?”

And he repeated, very slowly:

“Will you please draw me a sheep.”

It was absurd: in danger of death he wanted me to draw a sheep! I could not disobey. I took out of my pocket a sheet of paper and my pen. But then I remembered that I was studying geography, history, arithmetic and grammar, and I told the boy that I did not know how to draw. He answered to me:

“That doesn’t matter[1]. Draw me a sheep.”

But I couldn’t. So I drew for him one of my drawings. It was the boa from the outside. And I was astounded to hear:

“No, no, no! I do not want an elephant inside a boa. A boa is very dangerous, and an elephant is very big. Where I live, everything is very small. What I need is a sheep. Draw me a sheep.”

So then I made a drawing.

He looked at it carefully, and then said:

“No. This sheep is very sickly. Make me another.”

So I made another drawing.

My friend smiled gently and indulgently.

“You see yourself,” he said, “that this is not a sheep. This is a ram. It has horns.”

So then I drew once more.

But it was rejected too, just like the others.

“This one is too old. I want a sheep that will live a long time.”

By this time my patience was exhausted, because I wanted to repair my engine. So I drew a simple box and explained:

“This is his box. Your sheep is inside.”

I was very surprised to see the face of my young judge:

“That is exactly what I wanted! Do you think that this sheep will need much grass?”

“Why?”

“Because where I live everything is very small.”

“There will be enough grass for him,” I said. “It is a very small sheep.”

He bent his head over the drawing.

“Not so small… Look! He went to sleep.”

And that is how I met the little prince.

It took me a long time[2] to understand where he came from. The little prince asked me many questions, but did not hear the questions I asked him.

The first time he saw my airplane, for instance (I shall not draw my airplane; it’s too complicated for me), he asked me:

“What is that object?”

“That is not an object. It flies. It is an airplane. It is my airplane.”

And I was proud to tell him that I could fly.

He cried out, then:

“What! You dropped down from the sky?”

“Yes,” I answered, modestly.

“Oh! That is funny!”

And the little prince began to laugh, which irritated me very much. Then he added:

“So you, too, come from the sky! Which planet is yours?”

At that moment I understood the mystery of his presence; and I demanded, abruptly:

“Do you come from another planet?”

But he did not reply. He tossed his head gently. He was looking at my plane:

“It is true that on that you can’t travel very far…”

You can imagine how my curiosity was aroused! I heard about the “other planets.” I tried to learn something more.

“My little man[3], where do you come from? What is this ‘where I live,’ of which you speak? Where do you want to take your sheep?”

After a while he answered:

“It is very good that you gave me the box. The sheep can use it as his house.”

“That is so. And if you are good I will give you a string, too, so that you can tie him during the day, and a post to tie him to.”

But the little prince seemed shocked:

“Tie him! What a queer idea!”

“But if you don’t tie him,” I said, “he will wander off[4] somewhere, and get lost[5].”

My friend laughed loudly:

“But where do you think he can go?”

“Anywhere. Straight ahead of him.”

Then the little prince said, earnestly:

“That doesn’t matter. Where I live, everything is so small!”

And, with sadness, he added:

“Straight ahead of him, nobody can go very far.”

Thus I learned an important fact: the little prince’s planet was no larger than a house!

But that did not really surprise me much. I knew very well that in addition to the great planets to which we gave names—such as the Earth, Jupiter, Mars, Venus—there are also hundreds of others. Some of them are very small. It’s hard to see them even through the telescope. When an astronomer discovers one of these he does not give it a name, but only a number. He might call it, for example, “Asteroid 325”.

I have serious reason to believe that the planet from which the little prince came is the asteroid known as B-612. This asteroid was seen through the telescope only once, by a Turkish astronomer, in 1909. He had presented it to the International Astronomical Congress. But he was in Turkish costume, and so nobody believed what he said.

Grown-ups are like that.

Fortunately, however, in 1920 the astronomer gave his presentation again, dressed in European costume. And this time everybody accepted his report.

Why do I tell you these details about the asteroid? Because I want to talk about the grown-ups. When you tell them that you have a new friend, they never ask you any important questions. They never say to you, “What does his voice sound like? What games does he like? Does he collect butterflies?” Instead, they demand: “How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from these figures they think they learn anything about him.

If you say to the grown-ups: “I saw a beautiful house made of rosy brick, with geraniums in the windows and doves on the roof,” they won’t have any idea of that house at all. You must say: “I saw a house that cost $20,000.” Then they will exclaim: “Oh, what a pretty house that is!”

Just so, you may say to them: “The proof that the little prince existed is: he was charming, he laughed, and he was looking for a sheep. If anybody wants a sheep, that is a proof that they exist.” And what will they do? They will shrug their shoulders, and say that you are a child. But if you say to them: ““The planet he came from is Asteroid B-612,” then they will be convinced.

They are like that. Children must always show great forbearance toward grown-up people.

But certainly, for us—who understand life—figures are very important. I shall begin this story like a fairy-tale. I want to say: “Once upon a time[6] there was a little prince. He lived on a planet that was very small and he needed a sheep.”

To those who understand life, that will seem like a true story. Because I do not want anyone to read my book carelessly. I suffered much to write down these memories. Six years passed since my friend went away from me, with his sheep. And I try to describe him here, because I do not want to forget him. To forget a friend is sad. Not every one has a friend. And if I forget him, I may become like the grownups who are not interested in anything but figures.

It is for that purpose that I bought a box of paints and some pencils. It is hard to draw again at my age. I never made any pictures except those of the boa from the outside and the boa from the inside. I made these drawings when I was six. I shall certainly try to make my portraits as true as possible. But I am not sure of success. I make some errors, too, in the little prince’s height: in one place he is too tall and in another too short. And I feel some doubts about the colour of his costume.

In certain more important details I shall make mistakes, also. But that is something that will not be my fault. My friend never explained anything to me. He thought, perhaps, that I was like himself. But I, alas, do not know how to see sheep through the walls of boxes. Perhaps I am a little like the grown-ups. Maybe I grew old[7].

As each day passed I learned, in our talk, something about the little prince’s planet and his departure from it, his journey. The information came very slowly. On the third day I heard about the catastrophe of the baobabs.

This time, once more, I thanked the sheep for it. For the little prince asked me abruptly:

“It is true, isn’t it, that sheep eat little bushes?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Ah! I am glad!”

I did not understand why it was so important that sheep can eat little bushes. But the little prince added:

“Do they also eat baobabs?”

I noted that baobabs were not little bushes, but, on the contrary, were trees as big as castles; and that even if he takes a whole herd of elephants away with him, the herd cannot eat up one single baobab.

The idea of the herd of elephants made the little prince laugh.

“We will put them one on top of the one another[8],” he said.

But then he made a wise comment:

“Before they grow so big, the baobabs are little.”

“That is correct,” I said. “But why will the sheep eat the little baobabs?”

He answered me at once, “Oh, come, come![9]” And I made a great mental effort to solve this problem, without any assistance.

Indeed, as I learned, that on the planet where the little prince lived there were—as on all planets—good plants and bad plants. So there were good seeds from good plants, and bad seeds from bad plants. But the seeds were invisible. They sleep deep in the heart of the earth’s darkness, until a little seed desires to wake. Then this little seed will stretch itself and begin—timidly at first—to push a little sprig upward toward the sun. If it is only a sprout of radish or the sprig of a rose-bush, let it grow. But when it is a bad plant, one must destroy it as soon as possible[10].

Now there were some terrible seeds on the planet that was the home of the little prince; and these were the seeds of the baobab. The soil of that planet was infested with them. A baobab is something you will never, never be able to get rid of[11] if you see it too late. It spreads over the entire planet. And if the planet is too small, and the baobabs are too many, they split it in pieces.

“It is a question of discipline,” the little prince said to me. “When you finish your own toilet in the morning, then it is time to attend to the toilet of your planet, just so, with the greatest care. You must check all the baobabs regularly. It is very tedious work,” the little prince added, “but very easy.”

And one day he said to me: “You must make a beautiful drawing. The children where you live must see exactly how all this is. That will be very useful to them. Baobabs always mean a catastrophe. I knew a planet, a lazy man lived there. He neglected three little bushes.”

So the little prince described it to me. And I made a drawing of that planet. I do not want to be a moralist, but very few people understand the danger of the baobabs. So, children—watch out for the baobabs![12]

Oh, little prince! I understand the secrets of your sad little life. For a long time your only entertainment was looking at the sunset. I learned that new detail on the morning of the fourth day, when you said to me:

“I am very fond[13] of sunsets. Come, let us go look at a sunset now.”

“But we must wait,” I said.

“Wait? For what?”

“For the sunset. We must wait until it is time.”

At first you were very much surprised. And then you laughed to yourself. You said to me:

“I always think that I am at home!”

Just so. Everybody knows that when it is noon in the United States the sun is setting over France.

If you fly to France in one minute, you will go straight into the sunset, right from noon. Unfortunately, France is too far away for that. But on your tiny planet, my little prince, you can just move your chair a few steps. You can see the day end and the twilight whenever you like.

“One day,” you said to me, “I saw the sunset forty-four times!”

And later you added:

“You know—one loves the sunset, when one is so sad.”

“Were you so sad, then?” I asked, “On the day of the forty-four sunsets?”

But the little prince made no reply.

On the fifth day—again, as always, thanks to the sheep—the secret of the little prince’s life was revealed to me. Abruptly he demanded:

“A sheep—if it eats little bushes, does it eat flowers, too?”

“A sheep,” I answered, “eats anything.”

“Even flowers that have thorns?”

“Yes, even flowers that have thorns.”

“Then the thorns—what use are they?[14]”

I did not know. At that moment I was very busy: I was trying to unscrew a bolt in my engine. I was very much worried; the breakdown of my plane was extremely serious. And I had so little drinking water.

“The thorns—what use are they?” The little prince insisted. As for me, I was upset over that bolt. And I answered with the first thing that came into my head:

“The thorns are of no use at all. Flowers have thorns just for spite![15]”

“Oh!”

There was a moment of complete silence. Then the little prince said:

“I don’t believe you! Flowers are weak creatures. They are naive. They believe that their thorns are terrible weapons.”

I did not answer. At that instant I was saying to myself: “If this bolt still won’t turn, I am going to knock it out with the hammer.” Again the little prince disturbed my thoughts:

“And you actually believe that the flowers—”

“Oh, no!” I cried. “No, no, no! I don’t believe anything. I answered you with the first thing that came into my head. Don’t you see—I am very busy with matters of consequence[16]!”

He looked at me, thunderstruck.

“Matters of consequence!”

He looked at me there, with my hammer in my hand, my fingers black with engine-grease.

“You talk just like the grown-ups!”

I was a little ashamed. But he went on, relentlessly:

“I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He never smelled a flower. He never looked at a star. He never loved anyone. He never does anything in his life, he just adds up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: ‘I am busy with matters of consequence!’ And he is very proud. But he is not a man—he is a mushroom!”

“A what?”

“A mushroom!”

The little prince was now white with rage.

“The flowers have thorns. It lasts for million years. And they eat them all the time. And is it not a matter of consequence to try to understand why the flowers have so much trouble to grow thorns which are never of any use to them? Is the war between the sheep and the flowers not important? Is this not more important than a fat red-faced gentleman’s sums? And if I know—I, myself—one flower which is unique in the world, which grows nowhere but on my planet, but which one little sheep can destroy some morning—Oh! You think that is not important!”

His face turned from white to red. He continued:

“If someone loves a flower, it is enough to make him happy just to look at the stars. He can say to himself, ‘Somewhere, my flower is there.’ But if the sheep eats the flower, in one moment all his stars will be darkened. And you think that is not important!”

He did not say anything more. He began to sob.

The night came. My tools dropped from my hands. What does it matter—my hammer, my bolt, or thirst, or death? On one star, one planet, my planet, the Earth, there was a little prince. I took him in my arms. I said to him:

“The flower that you love is not in danger. I will draw you a muzzle for your sheep. I will draw you a railing for your flower. I will—”

I did not know what to say to him. I felt awkward. It is such a secret place, the land of tears.

I soon knew this flower better. On the little prince’s planet flowers were very simple. They had only one ring of petals; they were a trouble to nobody. One morning they appeared in the grass, and at night they faded away peacefully. But one day, from a seed, a new flower came up; and the small sprout was not like any other small sprouts on his planet.

The shrub soon stopped to grow, and began to produce a flower. And the flower was preparing her beauty in the shelter of her green chamber. She chose her colours with the greatest care. She dressed herself slowly. She adjusted her petals one by one. She wished to appear in the full radiance of her beauty. Oh, yes! She was a coquettish creature!

Then one morning, exactly at sunrise, she suddenly showed herself. She yawned and said:

“Ah! I am scarcely awake. I think that you will excuse me. My petals are still all disarranged.”

But the little prince could not restrain his admiration:

“Oh! How beautiful you are!”

“Am I not?” the flower responded, sweetly. “And I was born at the same moment as the sun.”

The little prince guessed easily that she was not very modest. But how exciting she was!

“I think it is time for breakfast,” she added an instant later.

And the little prince, completely abashed, brought a sprinkling-can[17] of fresh water. So, he watered the flower.

So, too, she began very quickly to torment him with her vanity. One day, for instance, when she was speaking of her four thorns, she said to the little prince:

“Let the tigers come with their claws!”

“There are no tigers on my planet,” the little prince objected. “And, anyway, tigers do not eat weeds.”

“I am not a weed,” the flower replied, sweetly.

“Please excuse me.”

“I am not at all afraid of tigers,” she went on, “but I have a horror of drafts[18]. I suppose you have a screen for me?”

“A horror of drafts—that is bad luck, for a plant,” remarked the little prince, and added to himself, “This flower is a very complex creature.”

“At night, please put me under a glass globe. It is very cold where you live. In the place I came from—”

But she interrupted herself at that point. She came in the form of a seed. She did not know anything of any other worlds. Embarassed, she coughed two or three times.

“So, the screen?”

“I was just going to look for it when you spoke to me.”

So the little prince, in spite of all the good will, soon came to doubt her. He took seriously words which were without importance, and it made him very unhappy.

“There was no need to listen to her,” he told me one day. “No need to listen to the flowers. One can simply look at them and breathe their fragrance. My flowers perfumed all my planet. But I did not know how to enjoy her grace.”

And he continued his confidences:

“The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything! Judge by deeds[19] and not by words[20]. She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. But I ran away from her. Flowers are so inconsistent! I was too young to know how to love her.”

The little prince decided to travel with a flock of wild birds. On the morning of his departure he put his planet in perfect order. He carefully cleaned out his active volcanoes. He had two active volcanoes; and they were very convenient to heat his breakfast in the morning. He also had one volcano that was extinct. But, as he said, “One never knows!” So he cleaned out the extinct volcano, too. If they are well cleaned out, volcanoes burn slowly and steadily, without any eruptions. Volcanic eruptions are like fires in a chimney.

On our earth we are too small to clean out our volcanoes. That is why they bring us so much trouble.

The little prince also pulled up the last little shoots of the baobabs. He did not want to return. And he watered the flower for the last time, and prepared to place her under the shelter of her glass globe.

“Goodbye,” he said to the flower.

But she made no answer.

“Goodbye,” he said again.

The flower coughed. But it was not because she had a cold.

“I was silly,” she said to him, at last. “Forgive me. Try to be happy.”

He was surprised. He stood there bewildered. He did not understand.

“Of course I love you,” the flower said to him. “It is my fault that you don’t know it. But this is not important. But you—you are as foolish as I. Try to be happy. Take the glass globe. I don’t want it any more.”

“But the wind—”

“My cold is not so bad. The cool night air will do me good[21]. I am a flower.”

“But the animals—”

“Well, I must meet two or three caterpillars if I wish to see the butterflies. It seems that they are very beautiful. And if not the butterflies—and the caterpillars—who will come to me? You will be far away. As for the large animals—I am not at all afraid of any of them. I have my claws.”

And she showed her four thorns. Then she added:

“Don’t hesitate. You decided to go away. Now go!”

She was a proud flower.

He found himself[22] in the neighborhood of the asteroids 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, and 330. He began, therefore, to visit them.

The first of them was inhabited by a king. The king was in royal purple and ermine, and was sitting upon a throne which was at the same time both simple and majestic.

“Ah! Here is a subject[23],” exclaimed the king, when he saw the little prince.

And the little prince asked himself:

“How does he recognize me?”

He did not know how the world is simple for kings. To them, all men are subjects.

“Approach, so that I may see you better,” said the king. He was very proud to be a king over somebody.

The little prince looked everywhere to find a place to sit down; but the entire planet was obstructed by the king’s magnificent robe. So he was standing upright, and, since he was tired, he yawned.

“It is contrary to etiquette to yawn in the presence of a king,” the monarch said to him. “I forbid you to do so.”

“Sorry, I can’t stop myself,” replied the little prince, embarrassed. “I came on a long journey, and I had no sleep.”

“Ah, then,” the king said. “I order you to yawn. Come, now! Yawn again! It is an order.”

“That frightens me. I cannot yawn any more,” murmured the little prince.

“Hum! Hum!” replied the king. “Then I—I order you sometimes to yawn and sometimes to—”

He seemed vexed. The king hated disobedience. He was an absolute monarch. But, because he was a very good man, he made his orders reasonable.

“If I ordered a general,” he said, “if I order a general to change himself into a bird, and if the general does not obey me, that is not the fault of the general. It is my fault.”

“May I sit down?” came a timid inquiry from the little prince.

“I order you to do so,” the king answered him.

But the little prince was wondering. The planet was tiny. Over what did this king really rule?

“Your majesty,” he said to him, “may I ask you a question—”

“I order you to ask me a question,” the king assured him.

“Your majesty, over what do you rule?”

“Over everything,” said the king, with magnificent simplicity.

“Over everything?”

The king made a gesture, which pointed at his planet, the other planets, and all the stars.

“Over all that?” asked the little prince.

“Over all that,” the king answered.

For his rule was not only absolute: it was also universal.

“And the stars obey you?”

“Certainly they do,” the king said. “They obey instantly. I do not permit insubordination.”

Such power was marveling. “If I am so powerful,” the little prince thought, “I will be able to watch the sunset, not forty-four times in one day, but seventy-two, or even a hundred, or even two hundred times.” And because he remembered his little planet, he asked the king a favor:

“I want to see a sunset. Do me that kindness. Order the sun to set.”

“If I order a general to fly from one flower to another like a butterfly, or to write a tragic drama, or to change himself into a bird, and if the general does not carry out the order[24], which one of us is wrong?” the king demanded. “The general, or myself?”

“You,” said the little prince firmly.

“Exactly. One must require from each one the duty which each one can perform,” the king said. “If you order your people to go and throw themselves into the sea[25], they will make a revolution. My orders are reasonable.”

“And what about my sunset?” the little prince reminded him.

“You will have your sunset. I shall command it. But I shall wait until conditions are favorable.”

“When will that be?” inquired the little prince.

“Hum! Hum!” replied the king; and he consulted a bulky almanac. “Hum! Hum! That will be about—about—that will be this evening about twenty minutes to eight!”

The little prince yawned. He was already a little bored.

“I have nothing more to do here,” he said to the king. “So I shall go away.”

“Do not go,” said the king, because wanted to have a subject. “Do not go. I will make you a Minister!”

“Minister of what?”

“Minister of—of Justice!”

“But there is nobody here to judge!”

“We do not know that,” the king said to him. “I did not make a complete tour of my kingdom. I am very old. And it is difficult for me to walk.”

“Oh, but I looked already!” said the little prince, He turned around to look at the other side of the planet. On that side, there was nobody at all.

“Then you will judge yourself,” the king answered. “that is the most difficult thing of all. It is much more difficult to judge oneself than to judge others. If you can judge yourself rightly, then you are indeed a man of true wisdom.”

“Yes,” said the little prince, “but I can judge myself anywhere. I do not need to live on this planet.”

“Hum! Hum!” said the king. “I believe that somewhere on my planet there is an old rat. I hear him at night. You can judge this old rat. From time to time you can condemn him to death[26]. Thus his life will depend on your justice. But you will pardon him. We don’t have any more rats.”

“I,” replied the little prince, “do not like to condemn anyone to death. And now I think I will go on my way.”

“No,” said the king.

But the little prince had no wish to grieve the old monarch.

“If Your Majesty wishes,” he said, “you can give me a reasonable order. It seems to me that conditions are favorable.”

As the king made no answer, the little prince hesitated a moment. Then, with a sigh, he went away.

“I make you my Ambassador,” the king shouted, hastily.

“The grown-ups are very strange,” the little prince said to himself, as he continued on his journey.

The second planet was inhabited by a conceited man[27].

“Ah! Ah! This is my admirer!” he exclaimed from afar, when he saw the little prince.

Because, to conceited men, everyone is an admirer.

“Good morning,” said the little prince. “That is a queer hat you are wearing.”

“It is a hat for salutes,” the conceited man replied. “It is to raise in salute when people acclaim me. Unfortunately, nobody at all ever passes this way.”

“Yes?” said the little prince, who did not understand what the conceited man was talking about.

“Clap your hands,” the conceited man now directed him.

The little prince clapped his hands. The conceited man raised his hat in a modest salute.

“This is more entertaining than the visit to the king,” the little prince said to himself. And he began again to clap his hands. The conceited man again raised his hat in salute.

After five minutes of this exercise the little prince was tired.

“And what must one do to make the hat come down?” he asked.

But the conceited man did not hear him. Conceited people never hear anything but praise.

“Do you really admire me very much?” he demanded of the little prince.

“What does that mean—‘admire’?”

“To admire means that you regard me as the handsomest, the best-dressed, the richest, and the most intelligent man on this planet.”

“But you are the only man on your planet!”

“Do me this kindness. Admire me!”

“I admire you,” said the little prince, “but what is there in that to interest you so much?”

And the little prince went away.

“The grown-ups are certainly very odd,” he said to himself, as he continued on his journey.

The next planet was inhabited by a tippler. This was a very short visit, but it made the little prince very sad.

“What are you doing there?” he said to the tippler. The tippler was sitting in silence before a collection of empty bottles and also a collection of full bottles.

“I am drinking,” replied the tippler.

“Why are you drinking?” demanded the little prince.

“So that I may forget,” replied the tippler.

“Forget what?” inquired the little prince, who already was sorry for him.

“Forget that I am ashamed,” the tippler answered.

“Ashamed of what?” insisted the little prince, who wanted to help him.

“Ashamed of drinking!” The tippler brought his speech to an end.

And the little prince went away, puzzled.

“The grown-ups are certainly very, very odd,” he said to himself, as he continued on his journey.

The fourth planet belonged to a businessman. This man was so busy that he did not even raise his head at the little prince’s arrival.

“Good morning,” the little prince said to him. “Your cigarette went out.”

“Three and two make five. Five and seven make twelve. Twelve and three make fifteen. Good morning. Fifteen and seven make twenty-two. Twenty-two and six make twenty-eight. I have no time to light it again. Twenty-six and five make thirty-one. Phew![28] Then that makes five-hundred-and-one million, six-hundred-twenty-two-thousand, seven-hundred-thirty-one.”

“Five hundred million what?” asked the little prince.

“Eh? Are you still there? Five-hundred-and-one million—I can’t stop. I have so much to do! I am concerned with matters of consequence. I hate balderdash. Two and five make seven.”

“Five-hundred-and-one million what?” repeated the little prince.

The businessman raised his head.

“During the fifty-four years I was disturbed only three times. The first time was twenty-two years ago, when a cockchafer fell down. He made the most frightful noise that resounded all over the place, and I made four mistakes in my addition. The second time, eleven years ago, I was disturbed by an attack of rheumatism. I don’t get enough exercise. I have no time. The third time—well, this is it! I was saying, then, five-hundred-and-one millions—”

“Millions of what?”

Finally the businessman answered this question.

“Millions of those little objects,” he said, “which one sometimes sees in the sky.”

“Flies?”

“Oh, no. Little golden objects.”

“Bees?”

“Oh, no. Little glittering objects that set lazy men to idle dreaming. As for me, I am concerned with matters of consequence. There is no time for idle dreaming in my life.”

“Ah! You mean the stars?”

“Yes, that’s it. The stars.”

“And what do you do with five-hundred millions of stars?”

“Five-hundred-and-one million, six-hundred-twenty-two thousand, seven-hundred-thirty-one. I am concerned with matters of consequence: I am accurate.”

“And what do you do with these stars?”

“What do I do with them?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing. I own them.”

“You own the stars?”

“Yes.”

“But I have already seen a king who—”

“Kings do not own, they reign over. It is a very different matter.”

“And what good does it do you to own the stars?”

“I am rich because of it.”

“And what good does it do you to be rich?”

“It makes it possible for me to buy more stars.”

“This man,” the little prince said to himself, “is like my poor tippler.”

Nevertheless, he had more questions.

“How is it possible for one to own the stars?”

“To whom do they belong?” the businessman retorted, peevishly.

“I don’t know. To nobody.”

“Then they belong to me, because I was the first person to think of it.”

“Is that all that is necessary?”

“Certainly. When you find a diamond that belongs to nobody, it is yours. When you discover an island that belongs to nobody, it is yours. When you get an idea before any one else, you write a patent: it is yours. So with me: I own the stars, because nobody else before me ever thought of them.”

“Yes, that is true,” said the little prince. “And what do you do with them?”

“I administer them,” replied the businessman. “I count them and recount them. It is difficult. But I am a man who is naturally interested in matters of consequence.”

The little prince was still not satisfied.

“If I own a silk scarf,” he said, “I can put it around my neck and take it away with me. If I own a flower, I can pluck that flower and take it away with me. But you cannot pluck the stars from heaven.”

“No. But I can put them in the bank.”

“Whatever does that mean?”

“That means that I write the number of my stars on a little paper. And then I put this paper in a drawer and lock it with a key.”

“And that is all?”

“That is enough,” said the businessman.

“It is entertaining,” thought the little prince. “It is rather poetic. But it is not serious.”

The little prince’s ideas were very different from those of the grown-ups.

“I myself own a flower,” he continued his conversation with the businessman, “which I water every day. I own three volcanoes, which I clean out every week (I also clean out the one that is extinct; one never knows). It is good for my volcanoes, and it is good for my flower, I really own them. But there is no good for your stars.”

The businessman opened his mouth, but he found nothing to say in answer. And the little prince went away.

“The grown-ups are certainly extraordinary,” he said simply as he continued on his journey.

The fifth planet was very strange. It was the smallest of all. There was just enough room on it for a street lamp and a lamplighter. The little prince was not able to reach any explanation of the use of a street lamp and a lamplighter, somewhere in the heavens, on a planet which had no people, and not one house. But he said to himself, nevertheless:

“Maybe this man is absurd. But he is not so absurd as the king, the conceited man, the businessman, and the tippler. For at least his work has some meaning. When he lights his street lamp, it is as if he brings one more star to life, or one flower. When he puts out his lamp, he sends the flower, or the star, to sleep. That is a beautiful occupation. And since it is beautiful, it is truly useful.”

When he arrived on the planet he respectfully saluted the lamplighter.

“Good morning. Why did you put out your lamp?”

“Those are the orders,” replied the lamplighter. “Good morning.”

“What are the orders?”

“The orders are that I put out my lamp. Good evening.”

And he lighted his lamp again.

“But why did you light it again?”

“Those are the orders,” replied the lamplighter.

“I do not understand,” said the little prince.

“There is nothing to understand,” said the lamplighter. “Orders are orders. Good morning.”

And he put out his lamp.

Then he mopped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“My profession is terrible. In the old days it was reasonable. I put the lamp out in the morning, and in the evening I lighted it again. I had the rest of the day for relaxation and the rest of the night for sleep.”

“And the orders were changed?”

“The orders were not changed,” said the lamplighter. “That is the tragedy! From year to year the planet turns more rapidly and the orders are not changed!”

“Then what?” asked the little prince.

“Then—the planet now makes a complete turn every minute, and I no longer have a single second for repose. Once every minute I must light my lamp and put it out!”

“That is very funny! A day lasts only one minute, here where you live!”

“It is not funny at all!” said the lamplighter. “While we were talking together a month passed by.”

“A month?”

“Yes, a month. Thirty minutes. Thirty days. Good evening.”

And he lighted his lamp again.

As the little prince watched him, he felt that he loved this lamplighter who was so faithful to his orders. He wanted to help him.

“You know,” he said, “I can tell you how you can rest whenever you want to.”

“I always want to rest,” said the lamplighter.

For it is possible for a man to be faithful and lazy at the same time.

The little prince went on with his explanation:

“Your planet is very small. To be always in the sunshine, you need only walk along rather slowly. When you want to rest, you will walk—and the day will last as long as you like.”

“That is impossible,” said the lamplighter. “The one thing I love in life is to sleep.”

“Then you’re unlucky,” said the little prince.

“I am unlucky,” said the lamplighter. “Good morning.”

And he put out his lamp.

“That man,” said the little prince to himself, as he continued farther on his journey, “that man will be scorned by all the others[29]: by the king, by the conceited man, by the tippler, by the businessman. Nevertheless he is the only one of them all who does not seem to me ridiculous. Perhaps because he is thinking of something else besides himself.”

He said to himself, again:

“That man is the only one of them all whom I can make my friend. But his planet is indeed too small. There is no room on it for two people.”

The little prince was sorry to leave this planet, because every day it was possible to watch 1440 sunsets!

The sixth planet was ten times larger than the last one. It was inhabited by an old gentleman who wrote voluminous books.

“Oh, look! Here is an explorer!” he exclaimed to himself when he saw the little prince. The little prince sat down on the table. He traveled so much and so far!

“Where do you come from?” the old gentleman said to him.

“What is that big book?” said the little prince. “What are you doing?”

“I am a geographer,” said the old gentleman.

“What is a geographer?” asked the little prince.

“A geographer is a scholar who knows the location of all the seas, rivers, towns, mountains, and deserts.”

“That is very interesting,” said the little prince. “Here at last is a man who has a real profession!” And he cast a look around him at the planet of the geographer. It was the most magnificent planet.

“Your planet is very beautiful,” he said. “Has it any oceans?”

“I can’t tell you,” said the geographer.

“Ah!” The little prince was disappointed. “Has it any mountains?”

“I can’t tell you,” said the geographer.

“And towns, and rivers, and deserts?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“But you are a geographer!”

“Exactly,” the geographer said. “But I am not an explorer. I haven’t a single explorer on my planet. It is not the geographer who goes out to count the towns, the rivers, the mountains, the seas, the oceans, and the deserts. The geographer is a very important person to loaf about. He does not leave his desk. But he receives the explorers in his study. He asks them questions, and he notes down what they say. And anyone among them seems interesting to him, the geographer inquires into that explorer’s character.”

“Why is that?”

“Because an explorer who lies will bring disaster on the books of the geographer. So will an explorer who drinks too much.”

“Why is that?” asked the little prince.

“Because intoxicated men see double. Then the geographer will note down two mountains in a place where there is only one.”

“I know someone,” said the little prince, “who will be a bad explorer.”

“That is possible. Then, when the character is good, one inquiries into his discovery.”

“One goes to see it?”

“No. That is too complicated. But one requires proofs. For example, if the discovery is a large mountain, one requires large stones from it.”

The geographer was suddenly excited.

“But you—you come from far away! You are an explorer! You will describe your planet to me!”

The geographer opened his big register, and sharpened his pencil.

“Well?” said the geographer expectantly.

“Oh, where I live,” said the little prince, “it is not very interesting. It is all so small. I have three volcanoes. Two volcanoes are active and the other is extinct. But one never knows.”

“One never knows,” said the geographer.

“I have also a flower.”

“We do not record flowers,” said the geographer.

“Why is that? The flower is the most beautiful thing on my planet!”

“We do not record them,” said the geographer, “because they are ephemeral.”

“What does that mean—‘ephemeral’?”

“Geographies,” said the geographer, “are the books which, of all books, are most concerned with matters of consequence. They never become old-fashioned. It is very rarely that a mountain changes its position. It is very rarely that an ocean empties itself of its waters. We write of eternal things.”

“But extinct volcanoes may come to life again,” the little prince interrupted. “What does that mean—‘ephemeral’?”

“Whether volcanoes are extinct or alive, it is the same thing for us,” said the geographer. “The thing that matters to us is the mountain. It does not change.”

“But what does that mean—‘ephemeral’?” repeated the little prince.

“It means, ‘that, which will disappear fast.’”

“Will my flower disappear fast?”

“Certainly.”

“My flower is ephemeral,” the little prince said to himself, “and she has only four thorns to defend herself against the world. And I left her on my planet, all alone!”

That was his first moment of regret.

“What place will you advise me to visit now?” he asked.

“The planet Earth,” replied the geographer. “It has a good reputation.”

And the little prince went away.

So then the seventh planet was the Earth.

The Earth is not an ordinary planet! One can count, there, 111 kings, 7000 geographers, 900,000 businessmen, 7,500,000 tipplers, 311,000,000 conceited men—that is to say, about 2,000,000,000 grown-ups.

To give you an idea of the size of the Earth, I will tell you that before the invention of electricity it was necessary to maintain, over the whole of the six continents, a veritable army of 462,511 lamplighters for the street lamps.

That made a splendid spectacle. First came the lamplighters of New Zealand and Australia. Next, the lamplighters of China and Siberia entered for their steps in the dance. After that came the lamplighters of Russia and India; then those of Africa and Europe; then those of South America; then those of North America. And they never made a mistake in the order of their entry upon the stage. It was magnificent.

Only the man who lighted the lamp at the North Pole, and his colleague who lighted the lamp at the South Pole—only these two were free from toil and care: they were busy twice a year.

When one wishes to play the wit[30], he sometimes lies. I was not honest in what I told you about the lamplighters. And I realize that I can give a false idea of our planet to those who do not know it. Men occupy a very small place upon the Earth. All humanity can be piled up on a small Pacific islet.

The grown-ups, of course, will not believe you when you tell them that. They imagine that they are very important. They fancy themselves as important as the baobabs. You can advise them, then, to make their own calculations. They adore figures, and that will please them. But do not waste your time on this extra task. It is unnecessary. You have, I know, confidence in me.

When the little prince arrived on the Earth, he was very much surprised not to see any people. He was afraid that he came to the wrong planet, when a coil of gold, the colour of the moonlight, flashed across the sand.

“Good evening,” said the little prince courteously.

“Good evening,” said the snake.

“What planet is this?” asked the little prince.

“This is the Earth; this is Africa,” the snake answered.

“Ah! Then there are no people on the Earth?”

“This is the desert. There are no people in the desert. The Earth is large,” said the snake.

The little prince sat down on a stone, and raised his eyes toward the sky.

“Look at my planet,” he said, “It is right there above us. But how far away it is!”

“It is beautiful,” the snake said. “What brought you here?”

“I had some trouble with a flower,” said the little prince.

“Ah!” said the snake.

And they were both silent.

“Where are the men?” the little prince at last asked. “It is a little lonely in the desert.”

“It is also lonely among men,” the snake said.

The little prince gazed at him for a long time.

“You are a funny animal,” he said at last. “You are no thicker than a finger.”

“But I am more powerful than the finger of a king,” said the snake.

The little prince smiled.

“You are not very powerful. You haven’t even any feet. You cannot travel.”

“I can carry you farther than any ship can take you,” said the snake.

He twined himself around the little prince’s ankle, like a golden bracelet.

“Whomever I touch, I send back to the earth from whence he came,” the snake spoke again. “But you are innocent and true, and you come from a star.”

The little prince made no reply.

“You are so weak on this Earth made of granite,” the snake said. “I can help you, some day, if you are homesick for your own planet. I can—”

“Oh! I understand you very well,” said the little prince. “But why do you always speak in riddles?”

“I solve them all,” said the snake.

And then they were both silent.

The little prince crossed the desert and met with only one flower. It was a flower with three petals.

“Good morning,” said the little prince.

“Good morning,” said the flower.

“Where are the men?” the little prince asked, politely.

“Men?” she echoed. “I think there are six or seven of them. I saw them, several years ago. But one never knows where to find them. The wind blows them away. They have no roots, and that makes their life very difficult.”

“Goodbye,” said the little prince.

“Goodbye,” said the flower.

After that, the little prince climbed a high mountain. The only mountains he knew were the three volcanoes, which came up to his knees[31]. And he used the extinct volcano as a stool. “From a mountain as high as this one,” he said to himself, “I shall see the whole planet, and all the people.”

But he saw nothing, save peaks of rock, like needles.

“Good morning,” he said courteously.

“Good morning—Good morning—Good morning,” answered the echo.

“Who are you?” said the little prince.

“Who are you—Who are you—Who are you?” answered the echo.

“Be my friends. I am all alone,” he said.

“I am all alone—all alone—all alone,” answered the echo.

“What a queer planet!” he thought. “It is dry, and pointed[32], and harsh and forbidding. And the people have no imagination. They repeat whatever one says to them. On my planet I had a flower; she always spoke first.”

The little prince was walking for a long time through sand, and rocks, and snow, and at last came upon a road. And all roads lead to the men.

“Good morning,” he said.

He was standing before a garden with roses.

“Good morning,” said the roses.

The little prince gazed at them. They all looked like his flower.

“Who are you?” he demanded, thunderstruck.

“We are roses,” the roses said.

And he was very sad. His flower told him that she was the only one in all the universe. And here were five thousand of them, all alike, in one single garden!

“She will be very much annoyed,” he said to himself, “if she sees that. She will cough dreadfully, and she will pretend that she is dying. And I shall nurse her back to life.”

Then he went on with his reflections: “I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose. A common rose, and three volcanoes that come up to my knees—and one of them perhaps extinct forever. I’m not the great prince after that.”

And he lay down in the grass and cried.

Suddenly a fox appeared.

“Good morning,” said the fox.

“Good morning,” the little prince responded politely, although he saw no one.

“I am right here,” said the fox, “under the apple tree.”

“Who are you?” asked the little prince, and added, “You are very pretty.”

“I am a fox,” the fox said.

“Come and play with me,” proposed the little prince. “I am so unhappy.”

“I cannot play with you,” the fox said. “I am not tamed.”

“Ah! Please excuse me,” said the little prince.

But, after some thought, he added:

“What does that mean—‘tame’?”

“You do not live here,” said the fox. “What are you looking for?”

“I am looking for men,” said the little prince. “What does that mean—‘tame’?”

“Men,” said the fox. “They have guns, and they hunt. It is very disturbing. They also raise chickens[33]. These are their only interests. Are you looking for chickens?”

“No,” said the little prince. “I am looking for friends. What does that mean—‘tame’?”

“It means ‘to establish ties[34]’,” said the fox.

“‘To establish ties’?”

“Just that[35],” said the fox. “To me, you are just a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am just a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.”

“I am beginning to understand,” said the little prince. “There is a flower. I think that she tamed me.”

“It is possible,”” said the fox. “It may happen on the Earth.”

“Oh, but this is not on the Earth!” said the little prince.

The fox seemed very curious.

“On another planet?”

“Yes.”

“Are there hunters on that planet?”

“No.”

“Ah, that is interesting! Are there chickens?”

“No.”

“Nothing is perfect,” sighed the fox.

But he came back to his idea.

“My life is very monotonous,” the fox said. “I hunt chickens; men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all the men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored. But if you tame me, the sun will shine on my life. I shall know the sound of a step that will be different from all the others. Other steps send me underneath the ground. Your steps will call me, like music. And then look: do you see those grain-fields? I do not eat bread. Wheat is of no use to me. The wheat fields say nothing to me. And that is sad. But you have hair that is the colour of gold. Think how wonderful that will be when you tame me! The grain, which is also golden, will bring me back the thought of you. And I shall love to listen to the wind in the wheat.”

The fox gazed at the little prince, for a long time.

“Please—tame me!” he said.

“I want to, very much,” the little prince replied. “But I don’t have time. I must find friends, and understand many things.”

“One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. “Men have no time to understand anything. They buy ready things at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me.”

“What must I do, to tame you?” asked the little prince.

“You must be very patient,” replied the fox. “First sit down at a little distance from me—like that—in the grass. I shall look at you out of the corner of my eye, and you will say nothing. Words are the source of misunderstandings. But you will sit a little closer to me, every day.”

The next day the little prince came back.

“It’s better to come back at the same hour,” said the fox. “If, for example, you come at four o’clock in the afternoon, then at three o’clock I shall be happy. I shall feel happier and happier. At four o’clock, I shall already worry and jump about. I shall show you how happy I am! But if you come at just any time, I shall never know at what hour to greet you. One must observe the proper rites.”

“What is a rite?” asked the little prince.

“The rites are actions that make one day different from other days, one hour from other hours,” said the fox. “There is a rite, for example, among my hunters. Every Thursday they dance with the village girls. So Thursday is a wonderful day for me! I walk freely. But if the hunters dance at any time, every day will be like every other day, and I shall never have any vacation at all.”

So the little prince tamed the fox. And when the hour of his departure came—

“Ah,” said the fox, “I shall cry.”

“It is your own fault,” said the little prince. “I never wished to hurt you; but you wanted to be tamed.”

“Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

“But now you are going to cry!” said the little prince.

“Yes, that is so,” said the fox.

“Then it is not good at all!”

“It is good,” said the fox, “because of the colour of the wheat fields.” And then he added:

“Go and look again at the roses. You will understand now that your rose is unique in all the world. Then come back to say goodbye to me, and I shall tell you a secret.”

The little prince went away, to look again at the roses.

“You are not at all like my rose,” he said. “You are nothing. No one tamed you, and you tamed no one. You are like my fox when I first knew him. He was only a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But now he is my friend, and now he is unique in all the world.”

And the roses were very much embarassed.

“You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One cannot die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby will think that my rose looks just like you. But she is more important than all the hundreds of other roses: because I watered her; because I put her under the glass globe; because I sheltered her behind the screen; because I killed the caterpillars for her (except the two or three that we saved, they will become butterflies); because I listened to her, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.”

And he went back to meet the fox.

“Goodbye,” he said.

“Goodbye,” said the fox. “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

“What is essential is invisible to the eye,” the little prince repeated.

“You wasted time for your rose and that makes your rose so important.”

“I wasted time for my rose,” said the little prince.

“Men forgot this truth,” said the fox. “But you must not forget it. You are responsible, forever, for what you tamed. You are responsible for your rose.”

“I am responsible for my rose,” the little prince repeated.

“Good morning,” said the little prince.

“Good morning”, said the railway switchman[36].

“What do you do here?” the little prince asked.

“I sort out travelers,” said the switchman. “I send off the trains that carry them: now to the right, now to the left.”

And an express train shook the switchman’s cabin 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[37] knows that,” said the switchman.

And a second 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 express.

“Are they pursuing the first travelers?” demanded the little prince.

“They are pursuing nothing at all,” said the switchman. “They are sleeping, or if they are not sleeping they are yawning. Only the children are looking through the windows.”

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

“They are lucky,” the switchman said.

“Good morning,” said the little prince.

“Good morning,” said the merchant.

This was a merchant who sold pills that were invented to quench thirst[38]. Just swallow one pill a week, and you will feel no need of anything to drink.

“Why are you selling them?” asked the little prince.

“Because they save time,” said the merchant. “Experts made computations. 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 have fifty-three minutes, I shall walk toward a spring of fresh water.”

It was now the eighth day and I was drinking the last drop of my water.

“Ah,” I said to the little prince, “these memories of yours are very charming; but I cannot repair my plane; I have nothing more to drink. I shall be very happy if I can walk toward a spring of fresh water!”

“My friend the fox—“ the little prince said to me.

“My dear, I have no time to listen about the fox!”

“Why not?”

“Because I am going to die of thirst[39].”

He did not understand, and he answered me:

“It is good to have a friend, even if one is going to die. I, for instance, am very glad to have a fox as a friend.”

“He does not understand the danger,” I said to myself. “He was never 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.”

It is absurd to look for a well in the immensity of the desert. But nevertheless we started.

We were walking for several hours, in silence. The darkness fell, and the stars appeared. I was like in a dream. I remember the little prince’s last words:

“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 ask him.

He was tired, so he sat down. I sat down beside him. And, after a little silence, he spoke again:

“The stars are beautiful, because there is a flower that one cannot see.”

I replied, “Yes, that is so.”

“The desert is beautiful,” the little prince added.

And that was true. I love 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. When I was a little boy I lived in an old house, and legend told us that a treasure was buried there. 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 began to sleep, I took him in my arms and walked once more. I was deeply moved. It seemed to me that I was carrying a very fragile treasure. 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, I said to myself, again: “The image of the rose shines through him like the flame of a lamp, even when he is asleep.” And I wanted to protect him.

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

“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[40].”

The well that we found was not like the wells of the Sahara[41]. The wells of the Sahara are mere holes in the sand. This one was like a well in a village. But there was no village here.

“It is strange,” I said to the little prince. “Everything is ready: the pulley, the bucket, the rope.”

He laughed, touched the rope. And the pulley moaned, like an old weathervane.

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

“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. The song of the pulley was still in my ears. The water was trembling.

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

I raised the bucket to his lips. He drank, his eyes were closed. This water was indeed different. Its sweetness was born of the stars, the song of the pulley, the effort of my arms. It was good for the heart, like a present.

“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 they can find it 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[42].”

I drank the water. I breathed easily. At sunrise the sand is the colour of honey. And that honey colour was making me happy, too.

“You must keep your promise[43],” said the little prince, softly, as he s at down beside me once more.

“What promise?”

“You know—a muzzle for my sheep. I am responsible for this flower.”

I took my 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 was 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 boas from the outside and boas from the inside.”

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

So then I made a picture of a muzzle. And I gave it to him.

“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 I felt sad. One question, however, occurred to me:

“Then on the morning when I first met you—a week ago—you were, all alone, a thousand miles from any town, you were going 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 wait for you here. Come back tomorrow evening.”

Beside the well there was the ruin of an old stone wall. When I came back the next evening, I saw my little prince. He was sitting on top of a wall, his feet were dangling. He was saying:

“Then you don’t remember. This is not the exact spot.”

Another voice answered him:

“Yes, yes! It is the right day, but this is not the place.”

I continued walking towards the wall. But I did not see or hear anyone. The little prince, however, replied once again:

“Exactly. You will see where my steps begins, in the sand. Just wait for me there. I shall be there tonight.”

I was only twenty meters from the wall, and I still saw nothing.

After a silence the little prince spoke again:

“You have good poison? You are sure that I shall not suffer too long?”

I did not understand.

“Now go away,” said the little prince. “I want to get down from the wall.”

I dropped my eyes, then, to the foot of the wall—and I leaped into the air. There before me was a yellow snake! Its poison kills in thirty seconds. I wanted to get out my revolver. But the snake heard the noise and flew easily across the sand and disappeared, with a light metallic sound, among the stones.

I reached the wall and caught my little man in my arms; his face was white as snow.

“What does this mean?” I demanded. “Why are you talking with snakes?”

I moistened his face, and gave him some water to drink. And I did not ask him any more questions. He looked at me very gravely, and put his arms around my neck.

“I am glad that you found what was wrong with your engine,” he said. “Now you can go back home.”

“How do you know about that?”

I was just coming to tell him that my work was successful.

He did not answer, but he added:

“I, too, am going back home today.”

Then, sadly—

“It is much farther. It is much more difficult.”

I realized clearly that something extraordinary was happening. His was very serious.

“I have your sheep. And I have the sheep’s box. And I have the muzzle.”

And he smiled sadly.

I waited a long time.

“Dear little man,” I said to him, “you are afraid.”

He was afraid, but he laughed lightly.

“I shall be much more afraid this evening.”

“Little man,” I said, “I want to hear how you laugh.”

But he said to me:

“Tonight, it will be a year. My star, then, will be right above the place where I came to the Earth, a year ago.”

“Little man,” I said, “tell me that it is only a bad dream—this snake, and the meeting-place, and the star.”

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

“The thing that is important is the thing that one cannot see.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is just as it is with the flower. If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars bloom with flowers.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is just as it is with the water. Because of the pulley, and the rope, what you gave me to drink was like music. You remember—how good it was.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And at night you will look up at the stars. My star is so small that I cannot show it. My star will just be one of the stars, for you. And so you will love to watch all the stars in the heavens. They will all be your friends. And, besides, I am going to make you a present.”

He laughed.

“Ah, little prince, dear little prince! I love to hear that laughter!”

“That is my present. Just that.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“All men have the stars,” he answered, “but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are just little lights in the sky. For scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent. You—you alone—will have special stars.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“In one of the stars I shall live. In one of them I shall laugh. And so it will be as if all the stars laugh, when you look at the sky at night. You—only you—will have stars that can laugh! Like bells!”

And he laughed again.

“And later you will be content that you knew me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window and your friends will be astonished to see that you laugh when you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, ‘Yes, I always laugh when I look up at the stars!’ And they will think you are crazy.”

And he laughed again. Then he quickly became serious:

“Tonight—you know. Do not come.”

“I shall not leave you,” I said.

“I shall look as if I suffer. I shall look a little as if I die. It is like that. Do not come to see that. It is not worth the trouble.”

“I shall not leave you.”

But he was worried.

“I tell you—it is also because of the snake. He must not bite you. Snakes—they are malicious creatures. This snake can bite you just for fun.”

“I shall not leave you.”

But a thought came to him:

“It is true that they have no more poison for a second bite.”

That night he got away from me without a sound. When I saw him he was walking along with a quick and resolute step. He said to me merely:

“Ah! You are there.”

And he took me by the hand. But he was still worrying.

“You are wrong, it’s better not to go with me. You will suffer. I shall look as if I am dead; and that will not be true.”

I said nothing.

“You understand, it is too far. I cannot carry this body with me. It is too heavy.”

I said nothing.

“But it is like an old shell. No need to be sad about old shells.”

I said nothing.

He was a little discouraged. But he made one more effort:

“You know, it will be very nice. I, too, shall look at the stars. All the stars will be wells with a rusty pulley. All the stars will give me fresh water to drink.”

I said nothing.

“That will be so amusing! You will have five hundred million little bells, and I shall have five hundred million springs of fresh water.”

And he said nothing more, because he was crying.

“Here it is. Let me go on by myself.”

And he sat down, because he was afraid. Then he said, again:

“You know—my flower. I am responsible for her. And she is so weak! She is so naive! She has four thorns, of no use at all, to protect herself against all the world.”

I too sat down.

“There now—that is all.”

He still hesitated a little; then he got up. He took one step. I did not move.

There was a flash of yellow close to his ankle. He remained motionless for an instant. He did not cry out. He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand.

And six years passed. I never told this story. The companions who met me on my return were glad to see me alive. I was sad, but I told them: “I am tired.”

Now my sorrow is comforted a little[44]. But not entirely. I know that he came back to his planet, because I did not find his body at daybreak. It was not such a heavy body. And at night I love to listen to the stars. It is like five hundred million little bells.

But there is one thing. When I drew the muzzle for the little prince, I forgot to add the leather strap to it. He will never fasten it on his sheep. So now I wonder: what is happening on his planet? Perhaps the sheep ate the flower.

But I say to myself: “No! The little prince shuts his flower under her glass globe every night, and he watches over his sheep very carefully.” Then I am happy. And there is sweetness in the laughter of all the stars.

Here is a great mystery. For you who also love the little prince, and for me, nothing in the universe can be the same, if somewhere—we do not know where—a sheep that we never saw can eat a rose.

Look up at the sky. Ask yourselves: is it yes or no? Did the sheep eat the flower? And you will see how everything changes.

And no grown-up will ever understand that this is very important!

This is, to me, the loveliest and saddest place in the world. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth, and disappeared.

Look at it carefully. You can recognize it in case you travel some day to the African desert. And, if you come upon this spot, please do not hurry on. Wait a little, exactly under the star. Then, if a little man appears—who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. If this happens, please let me know that he came back.

1. Выберите правильный вариант.

1. The author was a painter.

2. The author was a pilot.

3. The author was a tippler.

4. The author was a businessman.

1. The author was a pilot.

2. a snake

3. a snake

4. 6

5. a drunkard

6. a Turkish astronomer

7. From the fox, the prince learns that his rose was unique.

8. Because he landed in a desert.

9. The snake says that he has the power to return the little prince to his home.

10. the color of the moonlight.

11. to weed; The prince was cleaning the volcanoes and weeding unwanted seeds and sprigs.

12. something; That is something that will not be my fault.

13. a king

14. an inchworm

15. мой малыш

16. to repair, recounts: While the narrator attempts to repair his plane, the little prince recounts the story of his life.

17. от жажды

18. 2,000,000,000

19. That is not important.

20. Earth

21. in a train

22. What makes the desert beautiful, is that somewhere it hides a well.

23. 1. to; 2. in; 3. under; 4. for

24. True Stories from Nature