University of Virginia Library

Jasper the second, commonly the prince,
By compliment again, came radiantly
Into a room where radiance, rightly brought,
Might have been welcomed and appreciated
With less of an inclement hesitancy
Than was to meet the prince and his companion,
For whom was no escape. A strong young hand
Held hers and brought her along confidently;
And strong young arms, had she been obstinate,
Would instantly have seized and carried her
Into that room where now the king and queen
Sat quietly and stared. The prince, with eyes
Alive with laughter and rebellious joy,
And with a pink face crowned and animated
With golden hair that was unruly always,
Came leading in with him a slight young woman,
Impredicably firm, fair to behold,
And more amused than scared.

“Father and mother,
I have brought Zoë home with me tonight,”
Said the prince, happily, “for you to see.
Zoë's a lazy name, but not so Zoë.
Zoë is intricate and industrious,
And sees all through you. So be kind to her,
And make her one of you, so far as wisdom—
Or prudence, if you say so—may permit.
When she was young, the wisest man alive,
Before he died, gave her a little knife
That's like a needle. But she doesn't use it,
And you need have no fear. Zoë's a prophet,
And wishes you no evil. Zoë's an angel,
Which means a messenger. All there is of her
That's not a wonderment to be observed
Is mind and spirit—which are invisible
Unless you are awake. Yes, we are married,
Mother—under the stars and under God,
As we see deity, and have bound ourselves
Therefore as loyally and sacredly
Together as if two bishops and their wives
Had tucked us in. Zoë, don't scowl at me.
It's well for mother to be agitated,
Occasionally, for she draws and follows
A line too fixed and rigid, and too thin
For her development. Mother, will you see Zoë,
And say if there came ever, except yourself,
Anything half so near to the divine,
Or anything half so satisfactory
Out of God's crucible.”

The queen said nothing.
The king said, “Will you children please sit down;
And while your mother and I prepare ourselves
For gravity, will you say a little more?
My words are now for you, my son. The lady,
Later, may tell her story. We shall hear it
With a becoming interest.”

“I shall not,”
The queen said, trembling. “If this means the end
Of my world, and if I have lost my way
In a new wilderness, with no road back
To where I was, I'd rather be there alone,
And die there, than go on. If you two strangers
Tell me this house is yours—and it seems now
No longer to be ours—your father, Jasper,
Will answer as he will. I have no voice,
And I have been content, as it appears,
To be without one. If I leave you now,
I shall say nothing that I might regret.”
She rose, and the prince laughed affectionately.
“Mother, your manners are immaculate,
Majestical, and somewhat serpentine.”

“Whatever they are to you, others have borne them
With no complaint,” she said. “If they have served
And are outworn, new manners will forget them.”
And quietly, with a pallor-covered rage
Half-blinding her, she walked out like a queen.

The prince looked at his father ruefully,
And laughed again: “I should have said, and sworn,
There was a curiosity in all mothers
That would have mastered her, even though she burned
Inside until she died spontaneously.
Don't worry, Zoë. She is not going to die—
If I know mother.”

“You don't know anything yet,
My son,” the king said; and he shut his jaws
Until his teeth ached, while he gazed at Zoë
With half-shut eyes that had a smile in them,
Which was acknowledged with no trepidation,
Or manifest surprise, by one in hers.

“I'm glad you like me—if you do,” she said;
“For I shall not remain where I'm unwelcome
To Jasper's father. I could never do that.”

“You might not,” said the king. “And Jasper's mother?
In chemistry there are several elements
That will not yet combine—though I suspect
They must; and when they do, they'll all be one.
But that's far off; and we are still the slaves,
I fear, of our ingrained affinities.
We may not say, ‘Now this one I will love,’
Nor may we say, ‘Now this one will love me.’
I doubt, my child, if you and Jasper's mother
Will ever combine. It's not your chemistry.”

“I know that,” she replied, “and I am sorry.
But there's a world far larger than your house
For us to live in. Jasper knows already
That I should not improve here, or be happy,
With your frown watching me. You are not frowning
Now, and you should not. I am not wicked.
I am only as I came, as Jasper says it,
Out of God's crucible—although I'm not so perfect
As he has painted me. If I'm not evil,
And I am not, it is your chemistry
That shows me clearer than it has shown those
Who wrought it, the long monstrousness of life
That most have suffered and a few been crowned for.
You have been crowned, and that is why you like me.”

King Jasper stared at her until she laughed,
And then away from her and at the fire
A while. At last he laughed at her, and then,
Not knowing what else to say, he said,
“I like you, but I'm still afraid of you;
And I'm not one much given to being afraid
Of man or woman. If that's a compliment,
Say it is yours. I shall not cancel it.”

“Hear, hear!” the prince exclaimed. “The old one sees.
Zoë, I said he would. If you ask father,
He'll say that I was always a bit crazy
For not having eyes like his to see as his do
More in his chimneys, where the dragon lives,
Than in the nearness of a younger dragon.
He'll say that I am headstrong and ungrateful,
And then be penitent; for he knows better.
He knows more than he tells. Now tell me, father,
If I did well or ill in fetching Zoë
For you to see. I'm sorry about mother.”

“My son, there's many a question safer left
With silence,” the king said, and gazed at Zoë,
Whose dark eyes challenged his with hidden triumph.
“An answer, if I made one, might resemble
One of those decimals that extend themselves
And end nowhere. A repetend, we called it,
When I was sent to school. Am I still there?”

“I can see pupils, father, older than you,
Going to Zoë to be educated,
And fast as rabbits go. If you learn only
A little from her of all she knows of you,
You'll say, ‘Who's this?’ to the first looking-glass
Wherein you see a stranger.”

The king fixed
A gaze of indecision on the prince;
Then one on Zoë, who commanded it,
Mostly with her warm eyes. “With you for teacher,
I might go back to school again,” he said,
“And might be punished.”

“You might,” said the prince,
“Be rulered on both hands until they bled,
And come again next day for more of it.
Zoë can be ferocious, if incited;
She can be merciless, and all for love;
And not for love of one, or two, or three.
Father, be careful. It is not too late
For you to drive us out and shut the door
Against us and the dark, and make believe
That you have seen and heard the last of us.
We shall be here, and you may feel our presence.
We may still touch you with invisible hands.
Whether or not you see us here again
Is not the immortal point, for we are here;
And if we stay, you will know more of Zoë,
And more of me. I'm sorry about mother.”
So the prince finished, laughing at his father
With an affection unmistakable,
For which the king was glad. But while he listened,
His eyes were tethered and held invincibly
By those eyes of a woman—laughing eyes,
Of which he was afraid. The fears he felt
Were not the tinglings of inveiglement;
They were unsought inept awakenings
Of truth he long had fancied was asleep,
Knowing truth never sleeps. And why, he wondered,
And why at this unreal disarming moment,
Must he be told once more of hands at work
That were invisible? And the more he wondered,
The more his house was a place filled with hands
That were invisible. Did the woman see them?
And was that why her eyes were laughing at him?

His eyes were asking, and she answered them:
“Invisible hands are not so comforting
As hands that we may recognize and hold.
I'd rather see them. I should be terror-sick
For days if I should feel them and not see them—
Especially all alone and in the dark.
The mightiest are the blindest; and I wonder
Why they forget themselves in histories
They cannot read because they have no sight.
What useless chronicles of bloody dust
Their deeds will be sometime! And all because
They cannot see behind them or before them,
And cannot see themselves. For them there must
Be multitudes of cold and unseen hands
That reach for them and touch them horribly
When they're alone. If I were Queen of the World,
And had no eyes, I should feel cold hands always,
And certainly die shrieking; for those hands
Would strangle me.”

“If you were Queen of the World,”
The king said, with a wry laugh that accused him,
“Beauty and love would reign—though probably
Not for so long as you conceive they might.
If years have taught me more than a child knows,
That world of yours would soon be a red desert
Of the same bloody dust that you have seen
So confidently coming. I see no man
Who looks to me as if the crown of the world
Would not come down so quickly over his eyes
That he would soon be blinder than he was
Before he wore it. And with a right respect
For you, my child, and for all restless women
Who'd see this world turned neatly upside down,
I fear that you might find the same absurd
And abused atom that was here before.
Sorrow and admiration, and esteem,
Forbid my seeing a woman wearing it
For more than a few days.”

“Zoë, hurrah
For father!” cried the prince, applauding him
With joyful palms. “He has said everything
That every other king with a top-hat,
And a wrong understanding of the part
That he was given to play, has said no better.
Father's an old dog, Zoë. If you stroke him,
He'll treasure the attention, for he likes you,
And value it the more because he fears you.
But you may teach him nothing. He knows more
Than pride and habit and uneasy caution
Will give him tongue to say; and he knows you—
More than he dares. So, Zoë, don't annoy him;
And for the sake of all who are too old
To see the coming of what they have called for,
Don't prick him, for the joy of seeing him wince,
With your old wise man's knife that's like a needle.
Now father's wondering what we mean by that.
So, don't excite him. I'll sound an older theme,
Father—a thing your memory may have lost
Among the noises of your coronation.
I'm trying, and vainly, to find anywhere,
On any wall in this commodious house,
A picture that so far as I have sought
Is nowhere here. After a sad sojourn—
Till I found Zoë—among the ruins of time
In ancient cities, and among more pictures
Than are alive, there's one I've not seen yet
That follows me. You said a thousand times,
When I was young—Zoë, don't laugh at me—
That you would have old Hebron hanging here,
Because he was your friend. I saw young Hebron
Down there among your chimneys yesterday,
Measuring them with a sardonic eye
As if they were not yours. I did not know him.
He has been long away; and I'd have prayed
He might have stayed there. But he did know me,
And was no happier for the sight of me.
His eyes, as I went by him, held for me
As much love in them as a bulldog's hold
For rats—yet he was patient, and restrained
His tongue from saying he wished that I was dead.
Father, why not hang Hebron—the old man—
In a good place, where you may look at him
And say he was your friend? You owe him that,
And there's a rumor that you may owe more.”

“My son, when you are older,” said the king,
Smiling a scowl away, “you will have learned
That all who have climbed higher than the rest
Owe the dead more than pictures. If the dead,
And the long-dead before them, should return
With ledgers telling us where our debts are cast,
We should know more than fate sees necessary.
If Hebron was my friend, I was his friend.
He died, I lived. And there was no crime there—
Unless you say there's crime in being alive;
And I'm not certain you might not say that,
If you might startle someone. When I die,
As I shall, soon or late, you will survive
Surprisingly. I want you to be sorry,
But not to wither away; for then my works
Would all be lost and scattered. So preserve
Yourself, my son. With Zoë, I think you will.”

The king felt Zoë's eyes, and felt once more
In them the far-off laughter of a language
That might have been Etruscan or Minoan,
For all he made of it until she spoke:
“I mean to make the best I can of him,
But when am I to know how much of him
Is his, or mine, or yours, or maybe Hebron's?
I cannot read your ledgers of the dead.”

The king compressed his mouth into a line
Of careful thought. “I'm not so sure of that,”
He said. “Who was your father—and your mother?”

“I don't know,” she said, smiling. “I was found,
Once on a time; and someone called me Zoë.”

The king appraised her as he might the grace
Of an escaped and unafraid wild thing
That sought his love, and yet might one day bite him.
After some time he said, “Well, well. So, so.
It may not be important. Your two eyes,
And what you see with them, and what's behind them,
Are more for you, and for your preservation
Than are the names of unremembered parents.
Parents are everywhere, and incidental.
If you had known yours, they would never have known
Their child. I wonder, when I look at him,
If I know mine.”

“Who knows a child, knows God,”
She said. “Yet even if you and he were strangers,
You must have been companions—which all fathers
And sons, alas, are not. For he has told me
Of times, which he believes were long ago,
When you would hold him on your knees and read
‘Sindbad the Sailor.’ He remembers best
The Old Man of the Sea.” She laughed at that,
As if the story, or the name, concealed
A source of untold mirth.

“Yes, I remember,”
The king said; and she fancied that he trembled.

“And you remember, father,” said the prince,
Like one excited unexplainably,
“How Sindbad finished him. He cracked his head
With a large rock, while the old fellow slept.
If ever you feel him on your shoulders, father,
Remember Sindbad's way. If that should miss,
One of your chimneys may fall down on him;
And that would crush him surely. Good night, father;
Zoë and I are going upstairs to sleep—
Unless you change your mind and banish us
Outside, into the dark. There is still time.
I'm sorry about mother.”

“Good night—father!”
Zoë said, smiling; and she kissed his lips
With a warmth too compelling and long-clinging
To be the seal of home.

“Father, beware
Of Zoë's ways and means. Unyoke yourself
Immediately—and, if you must, by force;
Or God knows what may happen in this house.”
The prince's eyes were flashing with delight
Unqualified, and his words had the tension
Of an unfilial glee.

“Good night—my children,”
The king said. When he found he was no longer
The prisoner of those arms and lips and eyes,
It seemed a privilege never felt before,
Nor estimated, merely to stand there,
Unshackled for a moment, and forget.
Because he was a king, he could afford
The dispensation of at least a smile:
“Good night,” he said. “Good night—and go away.
I cannot send you, Zoë, into the dark.
I don't know what you are, or what you mean—
But here you must remain till I know more.
And you, my son: I don't know what I'm doing,
Or if your mother was right.”

“She is no mother
For me, I fear,” said Zoë; “and I'm wretched
That I should be an outlaw, if no worse,
In her too swift and fierce interpretations.
But there are some of us who cannot change;
And as we were, we are. And the world turns
Like a mill grinding minutes into years,
In which we live until we are no longer,
And can do no more harm. Father, sleep well.”
She laughed; and when he looked up, they had vanished.

Like one who for the first time in his life
Knows that he is alone, the king sat watching,
And seeing not what they were, nor why they were,
The few last sparks of a forgotten fire.
They died; and there was nothing but white ashes,
And the king watching them. When he stood up,
And stretched himself erect and absolute,
A clock struck two. The lighted room was cold,
Too large, and empty; and the king was cold.
He shivered as he moved himself away
To the dim-lighted hall, and at the door
He stayed—as if that large and lighted room
That was there now might not be there tomorrow.
The Old Man of the Sea, King Jasper said,
Unheard; and like a man who was afraid
To be alone, he put out the last light.