University of Virginia Library

The king had no more dreams. He saw without them,
And with no useless need of asking longer
What they were doing, those unceasing hands
That long had haunted the foreboding queen,
Warning her of their work. He saw them now,
Pulling his world around him, and his house,
Dimly and irretrievably to pieces,
Leaving on everything an unclean dust
That he could feel and could not wash away.
Here where he sat he saw them; and far down
Below him, where the chimneys had so long
Been changeless, and as near to the eternal
As he had striven to see, there were those hands
At work that wrought by no command of his,
But for an older and a mightier master.
Once in a while, as he sat gazing down
Upon his power today, he felt a thrust
Sharper than Zoë's knife; and it would be
Just then that he believed a chimney trembled,
And may have shaken. If he gazed again,
And saw them firm, he would sigh thankfully
For peace that was like hunger for a food
That he had not yet found, and had a price
He could not pay, and was too far from him
For ships to bring it now. To know it was,
Was of itself a refuge. Though denied,
It served—until another chimney trembled,
If all but imperceptibly, while those hands
That had no age or number multiplied
And wrought on mercilessly because they knew
There were no kings of earth mighty enough
To make them rest. There would be kings always,
Crowned or uncrowned, or all would be alike—
A thought so monstrous that King Jasper shivered
As long as it was in him. But no kings,
Crowned or uncrowned, would have now, or in ages
Unpictured and unshadowed, power to stay
Those hands, if they were given their work to do.
Now he could see; and he could ask in vain
If earlier sight would have seen far enough
To read for what they were the fire and gold
Of shining lies that opportunity
Had held and waved until they were all true.
He did not know. Zoë had come too late
To make a new king of a stricken one
Whose retribution was a world's infection.
He gazed, and far away, and far below him,
The chimneys were unshaken and unchanged.
They were as firm as they had always been,
Since they were built. He knew they were alive;
He knew they were still breathing; and he knew
Their breath was fire and life. But all the while
He saw them, there were those hands, never ceasing,
Never to be appeased. Zoë had come
Too late; yet he was happier with her near him,
Although he knew that with her in his house,
Beauty and truth and death were there together,
Watching and pitying him, and laughing at him
Because he was a king. He wondered why
Her scorn that she had buried in gentleness
Till it was almost love might not be love;
And he believed it was. He must believe it;
Or, with his heart still bleeding where her knife
Had struck him, he must crumple, or go mad.
If he sat staring longer at the chimneys,
One of them soon would shake, and then another;
Or one of them might fall; or all of them
Might fall, and go down horribly with a crash
That might shake even his house down on his head.
Would anyone weep for that? King Jasper sighed
For gratitude to Zoë that she had come
So far to tell him the best way to learn
That his indomitable reign was ending.
Without her presence, and without the wound
Of his awakening that her knife had made,
Approaching hours would be enormities
Of a slow and unendurable dissolution
That would be fire to feel and death to know.
But Zoë had come, and that was best. He feared her
But not as men fear death, or women years.
In his mind there was a turmoil of endurance
That would save him till his kingdom was a grave;
In his heart there was a wound of revelation
That would ache until his triumph was a name.
In a future that he fancied there without her
There were silences that soon would be a rumbling
And a music and a marching of destruction
Destroying itself and him in storm and folly;
In his fear there was a numbness of defiance,
Like a spell to foil an onslaught of illusion;
In his pride there was a calm and overwhelming
Recognition of irrevocable changes.

“Well, father,” said the prince, a fortnight after
Young Hebron's apparition, “this world of yours
Is with us yet. We don't say for how long,
And that's why I am here with this to tell you:
I'm your begotten son, Jasper the second,
By compliment the prince; and it's like this:
I said to Zoë that it might be as well
For you and mother to remove yourselves,
With items appertaining to your comfort,
And a few bits of raiment and adornment,
All in a trunk or two, away from here
Till we know more. There are bad wings in the air
That might be wings of hell-birds watching us,
Themselves unseen; and there's a breath of sulphur
That Zoë and I don't like. I said to Zoë,
‘Father and mother must go away from here;’
And Zoë said, ‘Yes, they must.’ So there you are.
Your late ophidian visitor, I suppose—
Young Hebron—has not honored us again.”

“Not yet, my son,” the king said. Far below him
He saw the chimneys that were still alive,
And still were life. “Why should he come again?
I know he will, but why? Has not the world
Room for that man without his coming to me?
I do not want him, and I told him so
While I was asking him to come again.
I know men best when I can see around them,
As well as through them. ... Yes, I can hear the wings,
And I could wish your mother might not hear them.”

“If you can hear the wings that Zoë and I
Have heard, and still believe you cannot see
Around this man—father, I'll take your crown off
And wear the thing myself, while there is time.
Zoë, come in, and listen. Father can hear
The wings, yet cannot see around young Hebron.
Father and mother must be sent away.”

“Your mother must be taken away, my son,”
The king said, sadly. “As for you and Zoë,
If I had wishes that would say aloud
That they would let you follow her, and leave me
Alone to listen, and to hear the wings ...”

“And smell the sulphur, father. Don't forget
The sulphur, or the place from where it comes.
Down there they blend it so insidiously
With heavenly fumes and vapors of all sorts
That we inhale it in this air of ours
As if it were sweet breath from endless fields
Of roses; and we think those fields were planted,
By the Lord's orders, for what we have done,
And for ourselves alone. You have done well,
Father; and you have done a deal of evil
In doing it handsomely. But a king, father,
Whose roses have long roots that find their way
To regions where the gardeners are all devils,
May as well know there is a twilight coming,
When roses that were never so sweet before
Will smell for what they are. Nothing in this
Is more revealing or more terrifying
Than any man's life—could we but know the seeds
And roots and branches of it that have lived
And gone, and are forgotten. It's not you, father;
For you are passing, and you cannot change.
It's not you, father; and it's not your crown
That matters now. If Hebron comes again,
Hear him, and learn from his red rhetoric
How little he knows that millions who know less
Might yet be taught by kings—if kings were not
So royally occupied in their not seeing
Sometimes an inch or two ahead of them.
Oh yes, I mean you, father—but obliquely,
Or say inclusively, or indirectly,
Or some such word. Whichever commends itself,
Be certain, father, always, that I love you;
And all of you that is most honorable
I'll cherish for as long as I shall Zoë;
And that's as long as life. If Hebron comes,
Regard him as you would a coming curse
That you and your defections have invited.
I do not know the way now to avoid him.
Young Hebron is the Young Man of the Sea.”

King Jasper, nodding his appreciation
As with a doubt, made a forgiving face:
“Strange music for a father from a son,
Perhaps, and yet a music that has in it
A tune that even the worldly and unworthy
May recognize, and more or less remember.
I have heard one much like it in my life
Before, somewhere, my son; and I still hear it,
Humming above me like an earnest bee,
Who cannot find his way out through a window
That will not open for him. If your Zoë,
Who knows her task—and it's a lonely one—
Has fixed herself on you as the best thing
There is of extant youth for her to mould
And animate, I'll pray, and in her presence,
That she may quicken this awakening brain
Of yours with less intelligence or more tact.”

“Very well, father. That was on its way,
And it was easy said, and there's no scratch.
Now there's another tune that is worth hearing,
Father, and it's the one that I'll play next.
Listen: are you to go away with mother,
Or are you to stay here—with Zoë and me?
You know your mind. This flower of extant youth,
So far as you may credit him with owning
A sort of dormant or potential vision,
Sees here a question of how little or much
It's worth to live. The price and value vary,
I'm told; and there's not one may tell another
Whether it's always best or not to pay.”

King Jasper sat as if he had not heard,
And saw below him, far away, the chimneys
That had been there so long. For the first time,
And with a new fear that was like a beak
That burrowed in his heart, he thought of them
As a tall forest where wild fire had raged
And swept, and left them there to be no more
Than cold memorials with no life in them.
He saw them, and he saw they were not dead—
Not yet. They were alive, and were still breathing.
He knew that; for he saw their smoky breath
Over his kingdom like a peaceful cloud
Wherein there were no storms that he could see,
And surely was no lightning. All there was
To frighten him was an innumerable
And ceaseless multitude of shadowy hands,
Always at work, doing he knew not what,
Yet always and mysteriously at work.

“You do not answer, father,” said the prince;
“And if you tell me there's no more to show you,
I shall not be unfilial or obnoxious.
If Hebron comes, ask him how old he is,
And say that Zoë knows; and ask him next,
As once, in your first error, you asked Zoë,
If he believes the world would heal itself
Of all its inward sores if it were turned
Suddenly upside down; and ask him last
How many hours he thinks he'd be a-walking
From here to Sirius if his eyes were out
And facing the wrong way. Your asking him
Will make no difference, and will do no good.
I mention it as a way to pass the time.
There may be still some time.”

“You come to me
Too late with your inspired advice, my son,”
The king said wearily; “and as you yourself
Observe, there may be no deliverance in it.
Hebron was here again this afternoon;
And having wished me well so venomously,
And with such unction, that I might have shot him
Had I the means at hand, he soon produced
A friendly trap that he had made for me
Of hate's last word that he calls compromise.”

“Father, I wonder whether it's best or not,
Sometimes, to tell a fellow that he's a liar,
And see what comes, or to be gracious with him,
And hope that nothing comes of being a liar
Myself for listening and for hearing more.
He means capitulation and surrender.”

“Yes, I know what he means,” the king said, smiling
Remotely, as if nothing mattered now;
“But these abrupt discoveries of hot youth
Must not be thrown at me too suddenly,
And not too frequently. When a man hears
The scythe of time as I do, only Zoë
Knows how it sounds to him. Safely aside,
She may not hear it; yet she feels and sees it,
With sorrow for me, and pity, and some love;
Not much, but still a little. Zoë, my son
And you, together, may be the king and queen
Of a new kingdom that will be far larger
Than mine, than many of mine, if both of you
Should live; and to my son I owe today
Homage and honor for your finding him,
And for his knowing you. There's more in this
Than kings who know their crowns are counterfeits,
And cannot die without them, will confess
To any but you. I was afraid of you
When first I saw you. Be so kind then, Zoë,
As to remember that I told you so.
You know the vengeance hidden in my words,
And you know they are true.”

“Father, I know
That if you were to strive with all your soul
And skill, you could not lie to me,” said Zoë.
“Now rest; and if you can, sleep for a while,
And have no dreams of me. Too many dreams
Are dangerous; they are not good for kings.”
She laughed and kissed him quickly on his forehead,
And singing softly led the prince away.

After an hour the king could not have told
The queen if he had slept or had been dead:
“Yes, I have rested—if you call it rest
To feel your kingdom crumbling down all round you,
And yourself buried in the dust of it.
There's always rest in burial, I suppose,
If we are dead, but there's a difference
If we are still alive. A sprightly note
Like this, now you are here, will serve as well
As a lugubrious or ambiguous one
To say how swiftly we may change our minds.
For a long time—it seems long, if it's not—
I have been dandling, like a worn-out plaything,
A shapeless hope that somehow you and Zoë
Might love each other a little; or, failing that,
That you might hate her less. But now I'm grateful,
Harsh as it sounds, that you are what you are,
And that you cannot change. For you knew best
What you were saying when you told me once
That this house was too small for both of you.
That's one sharp reason, and a fortunate
And ample one, why you must go from here.
You said you must, and now I say you must.
It may not be for always; but for now,
Here is no place for you. I cannot go;
I'm fixed here like a tree; and all my life
Is planted here as firm as are my chimneys.
They are there, and still alive; and I am here,
And I am still alive. Our son and Zoë
Are here; and if they stay, they choose their peril.
They are beyond the range of my protection,
And are as free to die, if they like dying,
As you are free to live. There is death here,
Honoria; and that's the other reason
Why you must listen, and must go away.
God knows it will be lonely and unreal
Without you here, but nothing has been real
Since Zoë came. There is no sorrow for me
In that; my sorrow is her coming so late—
So long too late. But there's time yet for you—
For you to go away; and you must go.
Honoria, you must go.”

“You say I must,”
Then queen replied, smiling invincibly,
“But saying is not compelling. I shall stay,
Jasper. Zoë has made me change myself.
A changing woman is not so fabulous
That a man has to gasp. If Zoë at first
Offended or misled me with a freedom
That may have seemed an insult or a challenge
To me and to tradition, yet was neither,
Offence is nothing now but a small cloud
That's hardly to be seen. There's a clear sky
Today—so clear a sky that a mist coming
To cover it would be welcome. But no mist
Or fog that I can find is on its way
To comfort or confuse me any longer;
There are those unseen hands, and more of them
Than ever, at work while I am saying this.
Now I can hear them; I can hear things breaking;
And I can almost see the dust they make
Where they are falling. You too are hearing them,
Jasper; and that's why you are telling me
That I must go away. I shall not go.
No matter by what secretive or avenging
Or vicious means it came, here is my house,
My home, my world; and anywhere else than here
There is no place for me. I have prepared
And sworn myself to stay. I shall not go.
And if you say I must—well, we shall see.”

King Jasper looked at her as only once
Or twice, or maybe three times, he had looked
In all his life before, and felt the same
Defeat that, when she willed it, would be there.
When it was there, he tried always to laugh,
And always failed. “I'm sorry, my dear,” he said,
In a slow frozen way that frightened her,
As if it came from him and was not his,
“But you must go. I'm sorry, but you must go.”

“And where?” she said; and saying it, smiled at him
As only women who know before they ask
May dare to smile. She waited for no answer,
But threw herself against him, and her arms
Around him, and so held him while she kissed him;
And then she said, “Jasper, whatever you are,
Whatever you may have done that men will do
To crown themselves, you have been good to me;
And I believe that you have loved me, Jasper—
All a king can. Zoë knows more than you
Of where we are, and I am sorry for her;
For there is a great loneliness in knowing.
She and our son together may live to see
Firmer and higher forms rise out of ashes
Than all your chimneys, which to you are temples,
Built high for your false gods of a small heaven
That is not going to last for you much longer.
You knew from the beginning of your ascent
How false they were; and many a time at night
You may have heard them telling you in the dark
All that you never meant for me to know.
But there were those hands, always. Never mind them;
There's only a little more for them to do.
Jasper, I love you. I have always loved you.
You are not paying for that.”

Before he felt
That he was left alone, he saw his wife
Already on the stairs, and going slowly
Upward—until there was no more of her.
Racked with an indecision worse to know
Than anguish in the flesh, he was alone;
He was alone as he had been but once
In life before—when Zoë had laughed at him
And left him by the fire the night she came
To change and frighten him, as if one king's
Illusions going while his throne was trembling
Were no distress for her, and no more news
Than a tree falling. But his thoughts were far
From Zoë while he watched those quiet stairs
Where the queen was before she paused and vanished.
There was a voice that whispered, ‘Follow her’;
And then there was another that asked, ‘Why?’
And sounded to King Jasper like God's voice,
That was to be obeyed. So he went back;
And in a room where there was a new silence,
He sat alone, forbidding himself to think,
When Zoë and the prince came in together,
Intolerably at ease, and with no sorrow
Or fear on their young faces.

“Well then, father,”
Young Jasper said, giving himself a chair,
“What think you of the good God and his works?
Or do you believe the Devil is all there is,
And we are phases of him? Zoë and I
Believe in both. We say the Devil is here,
And shall be here so long as kings insist
That he is God, and bend their willing knees
In adoration of his omnipotence.
Father, you have been rather adept at that
For a long time. Zoë knew all about it—
So don't reproach her. Things that are gone from us
Are not worth mourning for unless we miss them
Because we owe them tears. Now there's a dragon
Down there among the chimneys. He lives there,
And has of late been restless and unwell;
And Zoë knows why. Father, if we should lose him,
How much would there be left?”

“Nothing, my son,”
His father said; “or enough not to starve on.
You know. Why do you ask?”

“Zoë, hear that.
Father has loved the dragon all his life,
And has admired and exhibited him
Since he began to grow. But now he knows
The dragon is sick, and has not long to live;
He knows the dragon is eating his own tail.
Is he undone for that? Has he forgotten
To smile? Not father.”

“Now will you, for God's sake,
Be quiet awhile!” the king cried; and he groaned
In helplessness. “If you know what you are doing,
You might remember that a few still live
Who are not dancing yet with you on ashes.
No, Zoë, I was not saying that to you,
And I should not have said it. Please forgive me.”

He rose and slowly walked away from them
Out of their sight; and then there was a silence.
“I don't like that,” the prince said, finally.
“Something is here that I have not found out.
There are more things and meanings in this house
Than I have yet a name for.”

“And there's one thing,”
Zoë said, with fear and sorrow in her voice,
“Of which I'm not so sure as you are, Jasper.
Are you so certain you could leave all this—
That you could leave your dragon, as you call it,—
That you could leave your father and your mother
When they might need you most? It's all too soon,
And all too far from those last words of one
That was my master, and my only father.
I'm like a child trying to be at home
In the wrong house. The wise one said to me
That I must always go my way alone;
And I have hoped, with you, that when he said it
He was too old to know. Was he too old?
I tire myself with asking, and still search
Myself for more than I dare find in me.
For you are one—you are the only one—
With heart and sight to feel and see with mine.
Your wisdom and your vision were asleep;
And then I found you—and was not alone.
Somehow you knew; and only God knows how
Or why it was, and is. We two together
Might be an instrument alive with music
The world has yet no ear for, but may learn.
Are you still sure that you will leave all this,
To go alone with me?”

“Zoë, this house
Was never my home, and it must not be yours.
My only home is where you say is best
For you and me. Is there no knowledge in that?
No heart, no sight? The wise one was adrift
With his last warning. Are we not here together?
You are distraught; and this is no right air
For you to breathe; and it's as wrong for me.
Home is not in this house for either of us.
Something has happened here since yesterday,
And father knows. I have it. I'll ask mother.”

“No, you will not, my son; you will not ask.”
King Jasper had come slowly down the stairs,
No sound announcing him. “You need not ask;
For I have brought for you your mother's answer.
Here is this letter that she left for you
And Zoë to read. Your mother, her life long,
Said sorrow had no other friend than silence.
It was her way—and may have been the best.
You will not ask. Your mother is dead, my son.”