In another world, which is in some ways ahead of our own and in other ways behind it, a King lay dying of a mysterious condition from which he had been suffering for a year.

He was a humble man, according to the biography on which his scribe was working, but he was also a man of the people, and he knew that he must put his illness aside long enough to reward his loyal subjects with a memorial befitting the legend to which they had so readily subscribed. So he sent out his three best men to find the three best sculptors in the land and bring them to meet him. 

Once there, the sculptors were treated to an audience with the king in the great hall, where he promised riches, property, and one of his daughters to the Artist who created a memorial that, like the king himself, was possessed both of grandeur and humility.

The first artist to complete the task was an impressive looking man dressed in fine clothes and gold jewelry. His taste for the fine things in life extended to his work, and so it took six of the king’s men to carry the life-sized bronze statue into the great hall.

The king looked into the eyes of the statue, which were set with emeralds to match his real ones, and declared himself unimpressed.

‘It certainly is grand, I must grant you that, and it’s almost as handsome as I, but there is nothing humble about it. I half expect him to demand a mirror!’

The second artist to finish was a self-made man of poor origins who detested waste. He could not abide anything being thrown away, and so the two men who delivered his tribute to the great hall did so with pegs on their noses.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ gasped the king.

‘It represents your humility and your thrift, Your Highness,’ said the sculptor.

‘Makes me look like an ass is what it does,’ said the king, ‘throw it into the furnace!’

The piece that belonged to the artist who finished last was small enough to only require one of the king’s men to carry it. It was a shadow box, made up of nine hexagonal cells. Each cell housed a gold miniature. 

This piece enraged the king.

‘How dare you? I ask for a representation of my humility and grandeur, and you give me this…this tribute to a scullery maid?’

‘Begging your indulgence, Highness, but if I may, I’d like to explain the meaning of my work.’

The king, who by now was extremely irritable and looking for some sport to cheer him, decided to throw the man some rope with which to fashion a noose.

‘Very well.’

‘I thank you, Your Highness. Each of the miniatures represents one of your virtues.’

He pointed to the colander, which sat in the top cell.

‘This represents your knack for sifting away the weak to find the strong.’

The king sat back, relaxed a little.

‘Proceed.’

‘This,’ said the artist, pointing to the second cell down, which contained a lamp, ‘represents your ability to show us the light during our darkest times.’

He pointed to the third cell.

‘This soup kettle represents your charity towards your subjects.’

He pointed to the fourth cell.

‘This coffee urn represents your boundless energy, even when in ill health, and this laundry basket,’ he said, pointing to the fifth cell, ‘is symbolic of your clean living, which your subjects strive everyday of their lives to emulate.’

He pointed to the sixth, seventh, and eighth cells, respectively.

‘This sewing machine is a tribute to your fine wardrobe, which the ladies find so dashing and the men covet, this tea kettle represents the daily tonic you have been for the nerves of the citizenry, and this telephone machine portrays the honest and open communication for which you are famous.’

‘What about the iron?’ asked the king.

‘The iron is symbolic of your best feature by far, Highness.’

‘Which is?’

‘Why, the smoothness of your looks, carriage, demeanor, and rule. No king before has possessed such flawless skin, polished manners, even temperament, and wrinkle-free politics.’

‘Men! Bring the artist closer!’

The king’s men obeyed, bracing themselves for a third trip to the dungeon, but were astonished when the king rose to his feet, and shook the artist’s hand.

‘Good sir, you have captured me more accurately and more deeply than even a great man such as myself could have managed. For this, I gladly grant you your reward.’

And so the artist was rewarded, with riches, which he wisely invested, giving half the monthly interest to the poor; and a castle of his own, in which he and his bride – the king’s neglected middle daughter – housed child beggars and pick-pockets, whom the king had made orphans in the first place. 

The artist’s infamous sculpture was copied, and the reproductions were given to each and every householder in the land, to display in their homes as a tribute to their hard work and perseverance.

The original sculpture was not, as the king had expected, hung in the royal gallery for his mourning subjects to admire. The shadowbox was used for kindling, and all but one of the miniatures was melted down and fashioned into a drinking fountain that was placed in the centre of town, where citizens of both classes could sip from it together. This was particularly poignant when one considered that the artist who fashioned it had made all of the goblets and chalices from which the king himself drunk in the last year of his life.

The miniature that was saved from the pyre was the iron, and it was put to the most important use of all.

It was placed on top of the king’s grand glass coffin, which was put on display in the great hall so his subjects could marvel at his beautiful mummified corpse, and sleep soundly in the knowledge that the iron will of a dictator was worthless when compared to the combined weight of a united people.