 | King Poppy |  |
Long had the Dame ceased speaking to the King,
And still the old King spake not, lost in thought.
At last he lifted up his face, and said,
“All these strange things are neither here nor there.
The coffee-marks know, doubtless, what they mean,
But the witch catch me if I understand!”
“Son,” said Dame Rhoda, “it is clear as day.”
But “Clear as day!” the old King grumbled, “Dame
I in a dragon can see nothing clear
Unless I see him on a signboard. Then
'Tis clear as day that beer and bread and cheese,
With hay and straw to boot can be obtain'd
By paying for them.” “Hush!” Dame Rhoda cried.
“Be careful! Speak not disrespectfully
Of dragons. Theirs is a mysterious race,
And older is their pedigree than thine.
This dragon was a dragon of good birth,
And well he loved thy daughter.” “That is true,”
The King mused, “and his pardon I beseech.
'Twas a good dragon. Well my child he watch'd
For sixteen years, and made her a fair crown
That cost him many a toothache. Heaven forbid
That I should doubt all kinds of miracles
Come naturally to a dragon born,
For else, indeed, what good were to be got
By being born a dragon? But alas,
Why did the dragon burn himself to death?
Had he but lived, he might have saved the child
From parting with his gift before she knew
The incalculable value of it. Zounds!
Who was the whispering, wheedling, white-coat knave
That from our daughter coax'd her crown away?”
“Ah, son,” sigh'd Rhoda, “if I did but know!
'Tis this that troubles me. The face was hid,
The head white-hooded. I beheld no more.”
“Could'st thou not from the feathers tell the bird?
The King said. “Some outlandish popinjay,
Most likely! Did'st thou in his aspect note
No mark whereby to know the man again
If thou should'st meet him?” Rhoda shook her head.
“The stranger was no man,” she groan'd. “No man?”
The King gasp'd. “Ah, I never thought of that!
Let me reflect. No man, no son-in-law;
No son-in-law, no new alliance gain'd;
No heirs, no anything! What sort of age?”
“Even younger than our dear one to my sight,
But to my thought much older,” she replied.
“It was a Russian Princess!” said the King.
“No,” said the Dame, “'twas nothing of the kind.”
“White-hooded?” he went on. “It must have been
An Abbess, then. Provision shall be made,
In case of a minority, to guard
The Crown against encroachment by the Church.”
Dame Rhoda wrung her apron to a rope
Between her skinny hands, and clutch'd it tight.
“It was no Abess,” she exclaim'd. “Alas,
It was not even a woman!” “Then,” cried he,
“Why did'st thou say it was no man?” “Because
No man it was,” she sigh'd. “The nondescript
Was neither man nor woman.” From his pipe
The King shook out the ashes, slowly rose,
Paced the floor silent, hands behind him claspt,
Head bent, and brows in deep reflection knit,
Then, coming to a sudden halt, he said,
“Dame, if thou hadst but told me this before,
I could have guess'd it sooner—clear as day!
It was a Knight of Malta! I'll forbid
Knights of that Order access to our realm,
And nobody shall be allow'd to wear
A Maltese cross at our Court Balls. A law
Forthwith I'll make, and such a law! . . . . But 'faith,
The worst of legislation, as I've found,
Is that no sooner one good law is made
Than half-a-dozen others are required
To undo all the mischief it has done.
Until at last a law is like a door
Provided with so many bolts and bars
That the thief finds it far less difficult
To get in by the window. That you'll see,
If this intriguer be, as you suppose,
Neither a man nor woman. Such a case
No law has yet foreseen. A law express
To meet it must immediately be made,
Prohibiting attempts upon the Crown
To everybody and to nobody.
And that's a law that's something like a law,
Or else I know not what a law is like,
Who have been signing laws my whole life long!
Ah, Rhoda, Rhoda, not even conjuring
Is harder than the art of government!
And, dear, O dear, what cleverness it needs
To keep the country tolerably safe
From all the clever folks in it! Dame, Dame!
When I reflect that yon poor cradled babe
Will some day have to govern, and I gone,
That hers 'twill be to suffer in my stead
The thousand headaches that crown'd heads endure,
Sit without snoring at the Council Board,
Sign laws that nobody can understand,
And listen without yawning in his face
To my long-winded Lord High Chancellor,
I almost wish that they may have their will
And do their worst those coffee-marks of thine,
Letting the child sleep crownless, careless, saved
From the sad toilful trouble of it all,
Somewhere among the flowers, far far away!”
And still the old King spake not, lost in thought.
At last he lifted up his face, and said,
“All these strange things are neither here nor there.
The coffee-marks know, doubtless, what they mean,
But the witch catch me if I understand!”
“Son,” said Dame Rhoda, “it is clear as day.”
But “Clear as day!” the old King grumbled, “Dame
I in a dragon can see nothing clear
91
'Tis clear as day that beer and bread and cheese,
With hay and straw to boot can be obtain'd
By paying for them.” “Hush!” Dame Rhoda cried.
“Be careful! Speak not disrespectfully
Of dragons. Theirs is a mysterious race,
And older is their pedigree than thine.
This dragon was a dragon of good birth,
And well he loved thy daughter.” “That is true,”
The King mused, “and his pardon I beseech.
'Twas a good dragon. Well my child he watch'd
For sixteen years, and made her a fair crown
That cost him many a toothache. Heaven forbid
That I should doubt all kinds of miracles
Come naturally to a dragon born,
For else, indeed, what good were to be got
By being born a dragon? But alas,
Why did the dragon burn himself to death?
Had he but lived, he might have saved the child
92
The incalculable value of it. Zounds!
Who was the whispering, wheedling, white-coat knave
That from our daughter coax'd her crown away?”
“Ah, son,” sigh'd Rhoda, “if I did but know!
'Tis this that troubles me. The face was hid,
The head white-hooded. I beheld no more.”
“Could'st thou not from the feathers tell the bird?
The King said. “Some outlandish popinjay,
Most likely! Did'st thou in his aspect note
No mark whereby to know the man again
If thou should'st meet him?” Rhoda shook her head.
“The stranger was no man,” she groan'd. “No man?”
The King gasp'd. “Ah, I never thought of that!
Let me reflect. No man, no son-in-law;
No son-in-law, no new alliance gain'd;
No heirs, no anything! What sort of age?”
“Even younger than our dear one to my sight,
But to my thought much older,” she replied.
93
“No,” said the Dame, “'twas nothing of the kind.”
“White-hooded?” he went on. “It must have been
An Abbess, then. Provision shall be made,
In case of a minority, to guard
The Crown against encroachment by the Church.”
Dame Rhoda wrung her apron to a rope
Between her skinny hands, and clutch'd it tight.
“It was no Abess,” she exclaim'd. “Alas,
It was not even a woman!” “Then,” cried he,
“Why did'st thou say it was no man?” “Because
No man it was,” she sigh'd. “The nondescript
Was neither man nor woman.” From his pipe
The King shook out the ashes, slowly rose,
Paced the floor silent, hands behind him claspt,
Head bent, and brows in deep reflection knit,
Then, coming to a sudden halt, he said,
“Dame, if thou hadst but told me this before,
I could have guess'd it sooner—clear as day!
94
Knights of that Order access to our realm,
And nobody shall be allow'd to wear
A Maltese cross at our Court Balls. A law
Forthwith I'll make, and such a law! . . . . But 'faith,
The worst of legislation, as I've found,
Is that no sooner one good law is made
Than half-a-dozen others are required
To undo all the mischief it has done.
Until at last a law is like a door
Provided with so many bolts and bars
That the thief finds it far less difficult
To get in by the window. That you'll see,
If this intriguer be, as you suppose,
Neither a man nor woman. Such a case
No law has yet foreseen. A law express
To meet it must immediately be made,
Prohibiting attempts upon the Crown
95
And that's a law that's something like a law,
Or else I know not what a law is like,
Who have been signing laws my whole life long!
Ah, Rhoda, Rhoda, not even conjuring
Is harder than the art of government!
And, dear, O dear, what cleverness it needs
To keep the country tolerably safe
From all the clever folks in it! Dame, Dame!
When I reflect that yon poor cradled babe
Will some day have to govern, and I gone,
That hers 'twill be to suffer in my stead
The thousand headaches that crown'd heads endure,
Sit without snoring at the Council Board,
Sign laws that nobody can understand,
And listen without yawning in his face
To my long-winded Lord High Chancellor,
I almost wish that they may have their will
And do their worst those coffee-marks of thine,
96
From the sad toilful trouble of it all,
Somewhere among the flowers, far far away!”
While thus in wandering babble, vague, grotesque,
And inconsecutive as changeful dreams,
The old King half-soliloquized aloud,
Dame Rhoda's face beam'd fervid, beautiful
With a strange beauty not of flesh and blood.
It was the mystic beauty that is born
Of motherhood. Age leaves it undeform'd,
Allurement to uncomeliness it gives,
Bathes in enchanting light the homeliest head
When o'er her babe the happy mother bends,
Revives in fresh virginities of joy
After time's wearying years have done their worst,
Brightens the dim eye, sweetens the sour'd lip,
And blooms unwither'd in the care-worn cheek
When tremulous eld with blushing pride receives,
Childlike itself, the grown-up child's embrace.
At last she murmur'd, “What would Pilgram say?”
The King's face brighten'd. “Pilgram? Ah, well thought!”
He answer'd. “And methinks that here again,
Dear Rhoda, from his visit to the Court
Of that wild Cousin of ours, Cophetua,
The Master was this evening to return.
Ye two are my good angels. It is thou
That warnest, he that guideth.” From its peg
Forthwith his crown he hastily unhook'd
With eager hand, and, as he grasp'd it, groan'd,
“A Knight of Malta! after all the pains
That Her Late Majesty, our sainted spouse,
Took to prolong the dynasty! Farewell!”
And inconsecutive as changeful dreams,
The old King half-soliloquized aloud,
Dame Rhoda's face beam'd fervid, beautiful
With a strange beauty not of flesh and blood.
It was the mystic beauty that is born
Of motherhood. Age leaves it undeform'd,
Allurement to uncomeliness it gives,
Bathes in enchanting light the homeliest head
When o'er her babe the happy mother bends,
Revives in fresh virginities of joy
After time's wearying years have done their worst,
Brightens the dim eye, sweetens the sour'd lip,
And blooms unwither'd in the care-worn cheek
When tremulous eld with blushing pride receives,
97
At last she murmur'd, “What would Pilgram say?”
The King's face brighten'd. “Pilgram? Ah, well thought!”
He answer'd. “And methinks that here again,
Dear Rhoda, from his visit to the Court
Of that wild Cousin of ours, Cophetua,
The Master was this evening to return.
Ye two are my good angels. It is thou
That warnest, he that guideth.” From its peg
Forthwith his crown he hastily unhook'd
With eager hand, and, as he grasp'd it, groan'd,
“A Knight of Malta! after all the pains
That Her Late Majesty, our sainted spouse,
Took to prolong the dynasty! Farewell!”
Softly the door behind the old King closed,
Scarce heeded by Dame Rhoda, who had turn'd
To rearrange her conjuring cards; and soon
Along the silence of the floors beyond
The last sound of his slipper'd footstep ceased,
While, still perusing kings and queens and knaves,
The sorceress mutter'd, “Diamonds or Hearts?”
Scarce heeded by Dame Rhoda, who had turn'd
To rearrange her conjuring cards; and soon
98
The last sound of his slipper'd footstep ceased,
While, still perusing kings and queens and knaves,
The sorceress mutter'd, “Diamonds or Hearts?”
| King Poppy | |