A Williams Anthology Part 24

HEARTS AND TARTS

AN OLD TALE RETOLD

DURR FRIEDLEY ex-'10

There was shouting and hand-clapping from all the gay company, and a shower of gay words for me when I had done with my singing; and my lord, greatly pleased, and prophesying that some day when I should be riper in years I might win the crown of peac.o.c.k's feathers from the hands of the Princess Eleanor herself, bade me come on the morrow dawn to sing an alba under the cas.e.m.e.nt of the bridal chamber. The bride, too, this new wife that had taken my own lady's place by my lord's side, she, come but yesterday from her thick-witted Bohemia, and whom, never loving, I might always truly pity, spoke me fair and besought me to make verses thenceforth in praise of none save her. I answered as best I might, but I fear me my speech came but falteringly, what with my heart beating against my ribs like the armor-smith's hammer, and the thought uppermost in my mind of the dark business yet to come that night, before the shame and wrong of it all might be righted--a black business that none but I in all that company wotted of.

So presently, when all the people made a noisy procession to see the bridegroom and the bride to their high chamber, I did not go among them, but stole apart in the shadow and tarried there until the serving-folk had ceased their scurrying about and the house had grown quiet in its besotted sleep. Then I crept back to a dark corner by the great hearth where the stone was warm to the touch and whence I might see if any pa.s.sed along the hall. I was all alone there with the drained goblets, the withering garlands, and the gutted torches, not a soul abroad, and not a sound save the breathing of the dormant stag-hounds by the hearth, or the faint disputes of the rats over the pasty fragments on the table.

Sitting thus, I would go hot of a flash and then cold just as sudden.

Fear? No, by Our Lady, but this was the first time I had ever had a finger in such a pie as this now baking, and the strangeness of it made me tremble. But fear, pah! Besides I was in the right, and does that not make the just hand steady and the pious eye true? I took up my lute and touching the strings so gently that I myself could scarce hear, I sang, soft as summer wind at even, so softly that none, not even the great hounds heard.

Sang I:

The vision tender Which thy love giveth me, Still bids me render My vows in song to thee; Gracious and slender, Thine image I can see, Wherever I wend, or What eyes do look on me.

Yea, in the frowning face Of uttermost disgrace Proud would I take my place Before thy feet, Lady whose aspect sweet Doth my poor soul efface Leaving but joy and grace In me to meet.

Who shall deny me The memory of thine eyes?

Evermore by me Thy lithe white form doth rise, If G.o.d were nigh me Still, in so sure a wise Quick might I hie me Into His paradise.

Thus I sang to the memory of my true lady, for it was the last song our brave Renaud had made for her before he rode away to Terre Sainte.

So when the song was finished I sat a long time still, taking counsel with my sad heart over the black past: how, four May-times ago, I had ridden blithely forth as singing page in my lady's train, when she left her own fair land of Aragon to be wedded to this grim Count Fael of the North; how from that time forth I had dwelt here in his castle, va.s.sal to him only because he was lord to my liege lady, but fearing alway his stern face, that froze the laugh on the lips and made joyousness die, stillborn; how my sole happiness had been to serve my lady and sing her such songs as I made, and my grief to see her fair face fade and her grey eyes grow less laughing day by day. Then one morning had come this brave Renaud, Chatelain of far-off Coucy, seeming to bring in his eyes, his voice, his lute, all the merry Spring times we had missed. So he came often and often, teaching me the great art of song he knew so well; and we were all very happy. But bye-and-bye he came only when my lord was out a-hawking or to tourney, and then very quietly, but always with his lute and with song to my lady. I guessed well which way the wind was blowing, but surely the pitiful Virgin granted my lady, and justly, this one little hour of happiness. So it went on and on for a long time and it seemed that my lord was always away to hunt or to battle, and that when he came back the songs of Renaud of Coucy never ceased, but only changed their place, coming now by night under my lady's cas.e.m.e.nt.

Then there was spread abroad through the land this great fire in all hearts to go to Terre Sainte and to deliver the holy Jerusalem of Our Lord from the curse of the Saracen hand, and our poor Renaud must feel himself among the first to go. So one sad morning at early dawn he had come under my lady's window and sung her that farewell which so filled my heart, and I had heard from my post in my lady's antechamber. But oh, Mother of G.o.d! so had my lord, who, being at home and sleepless, had risen betimes and was walking in the cool of the morning on a little pleasaunce next my lady's tower, and hearing the song, had looked unseen at the singer, had guessed the bitter truth, but had held his peace till a riper time.

From then we went on much as before Renaud had come to us, except that I sang his songs to my lady with all the art he had taught me, while she sat pale and fair, her hands idle on the tambour frame and her eyes looking on something far, far off. So for a long time there was no ill-hap, only my lady's eyes grew dreamier and dreamier and her thoughts dwelt less and less in this dark Castle of Fael, and she cared no longer to go a-maying in the pleasant meadows with her women.

Then, one twilight, when my lord had been back from the hunt three days, and when there had been deep wa.s.sailing in the hall, and my lady had kept to her chamber the whole time--one twilight I stumbled over a dead man at the foot of the little-used stair to my lady's tower and, dragging the body to the light, found it to be Jaufre that had been aforetime esquire to Renaud. But why he should be lying here scarce an hour dead, here in fair France in this Castle of Fael under my lady's tower, when he might have been serving his master in all the blithe fighting in Terre Sainte,--I could not guess. But I raised not hue nor cry for, certes, there was some black mystery here; only wept silently and prayed mercy on his soul that had been so brave and so merry a fellow. After a while, when my eyes were less red, I went and mingled among the folk in the hall, where there was talk of how my lord had pa.s.sed through to his chamber an hour ago, very pale and with the wine-fumes all cleared away, it would seem, and had let call the cook, who came back with something under his ap.r.o.n and looking as if he had seen a spirit, but dumb as a stone. Also, said they, my lord had commanded that he and my lady would sup alone in her great chamber, and that I only should serve them.

So presently I went up and served my lord and my lady where they sat at a little table alight with many tapers, like the shrine in the great church at Soissons, with the goblets and the silver dishes making a brave show among them. There was a strange air over it all, like the breathless moment in a tourney when the tucket has blown and the knights pause before giving spur. My lady, when she spoke at all, spoke in a voice as of some one stifling, but my lord said never a word and ate and drank but little, his eyes always on my lady's face.

Bye-and-bye up came two little meat pasties, borne by the fat cook himself, who charged me with a certain one for my lady and another for my lord. I thought nothing whatever on this, for often there was special pasty made for my lady without hare's meat, which she disliked. So I served the pasties, and I remember the faint sweetness of her garments, like wind from apple-blossoms, and how yellow was her hair and how clear her face in the light of the many tapers. That course, too, they ate in silence, but before I could take away the dishes, my lord broke the stillness.

"Lady," quoth he, "is the flavor of this pasty pleasing to thy palate?"

"Ay, sir," spake my lady, "it hath a piquant savor I have not met before."

"Lady," said he, "it is fas.h.i.+oned of pa.s.sing good meat and rare, so rare that I doubt thou wilt ever enjoy its like again. For far countries have contributed to its making, with spices from Araby and Cathay, and corn from Egypt, and citron from Spain, and from the Terre Sainte there is, minced into very little pieces, the heart of that n.o.ble sieur Renaud, the wors.h.i.+pful Chatelain of Coucy. His esquire I haply intercepted with a dagger on his way to thy chamber with his dead lord's heart in a silver casket as a gift for thee."

For a while my lady did not move, the gold chalice closed in her delicate fingers half-way to her lips; then with one little breathless sob such as the hare gives when the fangs of the hound are about to close upon her, she, very slowly, set down the goblet, and, just as slowly, rose to her feet, her face the grey-white of the pearls at her throat.

"Messire," said she, and her voice was clear and steadfast, but very faint, like a bell tolling afar off in the deep forest, "messire, thou hast done me great honor in this feast, and on none daintier, I wot well, sup the Blessed Saints in Paradise. But since such viand has consecrated these my lips, it is only seemly in me to take vow never to let other pa.s.s them, the which I swear by the blood of Holy Jesu."

Then, swift as thought, she fled from the great chamber into her closet, where she was wont to pray, swung the door to behind her, and slid the bolt. At that sound up sprang my lord and let cry a great shout, so that all the serving-folk rushed in with great hubbub and stood stricken and panting, while my lord called thrice at the door.

But no answer came therefrom, and the great room was very, very still; until at last the people were commanded to beat down the door. Then all the folk crowded close together to peer within, spoiling the table of its waxen tapers to cast light into the darkness, and there, O Kind Mother of G.o.d, lay my lady all in a little huddled heap before the shrine, an empty vial in her hand, and the breath departing from her body. Then came her women with low sobbing and laid her on her bridal bed and began to make ready the grave clothes.

From that time I had lived on here in the castle of the black shadow, the better that I might do honor to my lady's memory and bring surer retribution on him that had been my lord, for, certes, I, va.s.sal to my lady alone, no longer owed allegiance to her murderer. Now at last was come my chance on this night when he had brought him home a new wife to take the place of her that was but a little while in earth. Poor ladies, both! and if the thought that the blessed Jesu was merciful sometimes made me falter, the thought that Messire G.o.d was just, and that I might be the unworthy instrument of His justice, made my purpose burn within me like a new torch. Thus the long night drew near its ending, and the great logs in the fire had turned to coals when the appointed hour came. I stole in shadow from the hall, my heart pounding, but my purpose very steady, and pa.s.sed silently through pa.s.sages and corridors where here and there lay one in besotted sleep, until at last I came out in a little court by the postern. The warders were long since guzzled to a torpor in their quarters, so there was neither let nor hindrance when I slid the bolt and welcomed in Avenging Justice in the shape of him who stood without, my old lord of Aragon, uncle and protector to my lady. We met with silent greeting as his picked men of arms filed in after him till the little court was full; then some were despatched to possess the guard quarters and the drunken soldiery, others to stand watch over the serving-folk.

After I had pointed them out the way to the high chamber where Fael lodged that night, I stood watching as they went in silent file up the stone stair. Then I turned and pa.s.sed out by the postern and down the hill to the encampment of my countrymen. I knew that behind me Justice was taking her relentless course and that I had been her minister.

_Literary Monthly_, 1908.

TO KEATS

SONNET[1]

JULIAN PARK '10

Where, where is Ganymede? Where are the fair That graced the tales of Ilium years agone?

Where are the visions of earth's aureate dawn, When the wing'd bearer bore Jove's nectar rare, When Naiads laughed and wept and sunned their hair At sun-kissed pools, deep-recessed, where the fawn And satyr sought the sloping cool-cropped lawn, And glimpsed the G.o.ds and lurking maidens there?

Where now is Ganymede, and where is Pan?

Where is fair Psyche, where Apollo brave?

Are they all fled, affrighted at the span Of centuries? Or sunk beneath the wave Of solemn Lethe? No, rare poet; when I scan thy pages they all live again.

_Literary Monthly_, 1907.

[Footnote 1: Copyright, 1908, by Julian Park.]

MORTAL VERSE

WILLIAM HUTCHESON WINDOM '11

The muse of poetry is a lady of many whims. Fancy, not reason, seems to determine her actions. She loads the untutored ploughman with the most lavish gifts, while the scholar sits neglected in his study. She places a golden crown on the brow of the slave and flings a ta.s.selled cap at the master. And yet the fool's raiment is worn with as serious and dignified mien as is the kingly crown. She is a malicious person, and while she keeps a straight face before you, it is a hundred to one that she winks behind your back. To be most trusted when she is most deceitful, that is her role.

Very few of us have not at some time come under her spell. The most guiltless-looking has somewhere in the lower drawer of his desk or at the bottom of the tin box where he keeps his old papers, a ma.n.u.script, which he at times, half tenderly, half contemptuously, lifts out, after making sure that no prying eye is near. _He_ has caught the muse winking. Were he still illusioned, that poem would never have wasted its aesthetic fragrance within such close confines. It would have been most neatly printed in calendar form and sent to appreciative friends.

But though the majority of us have become chary of the muse, there are some who have never seen through her trickery. To this unfortunate cla.s.s belonged a certain Mrs. Simons--her real name is charitably withheld--who found that she could gratify a moody disposition, of which she was the unhappy possessor, by writing verses. No one appreciated them, but, far from dampening her enthusiasm, it afforded her a sort of bitter joy, that considerably increased her already large number of available themes. Her poems now proclaimed that she, Mrs. Simons, was singing to stocks and stones; no one would listen, and her tender nature would soon succ.u.mb to this unwarranted neglect.

But triumph would come, when, as a cold corpse, she would lie in an open grave, with all her formerly unsympathetic friends and relatives weeping and wringing their hands at the sad spectacle. Alas, their grief and contriteness of heart would be too late. The little word which might have saved her from this early death, now spoken, would fall on deaf ears. At last her verses would be read and their gloomy prophecy would fill the world, ever afterwards, with remorse. But Mrs.

Simons did not wilt away and die like a flower deprived of water and suns.h.i.+ne. She could not overcome her naturally sound const.i.tution, and, in spite of her wishes to the contrary, she lived to a ripe old age.

Verse demands, as a rule, serious, if not exalted, themes. It is strange how ambitious they sometimes are. I knew a young man who had never been especially fond of poetry and had never attempted to write it, until, one day, he had an imperative desire to test his powers in that line. And what was the modest subject that the tyro chose? A history of the earth from its birth "amidst the crash of worlds,"

through the countless centuries until, cold and dry, it affords no sustenance to life, and becomes a vast desert like the moon. The poem came to an abrupt end after "monsters huge" had appeared upon the scene, and, to my knowledge, was never resumed.

Among the many who have advertised their bigotry or their ignorance by publis.h.i.+ng original compositions, for which it would be hard to find any suitable descriptive term, are two women, one of whom is well known. They are Julia A. Moore, self-styled "The Sweet Singer of Michigan," whose works are included by Dr. Crothers in _The Hundred Worst Books_, and a Mrs. L., a native of Rhode Island, but "by adoption a westerner," as she explains in her introduction. If it were a question of which had the less poetic merit it would be hard indeed to decide between them, but as to the sincerity of the one and the pomposity of the other, there can be no doubt. The Sweet Singer plays upon the strings of her own heart in a way that makes your eyes grow dim. She has moments of modesty, too, about her work that are very gratifying. But Mrs. L. is cold and egotistical; lifted so high above the ordinary plane of life, in her estimation, that no arrows of criticism can possibly reach her. The introduction to her book _Mariamne, Queen of the Jews, and Other Poems_, is concise and statistical. One can see that she has perfect self-confidence in her abilities.

"The auth.o.r.ess is a native of Rhode Island, but by adoption a westerner.

"Graduated from the Female College, Oxford, Ohio, when under the control of the Rev. John Walter Scott, D.D.

"Married and lived thirteen wedded years in Covington, Kentucky. Then, urged by her only brother, Levi L., a lawyer residing at M., Illinois, she removed (1870) to that city. Here she engaged in arduous and unremitting study, laboring to deserve the esteem of the gifted and cultured people with whom she had cast her lot. With the same laudable ambition that moves the man of business to be identified as successful in his life career, the writer, whose only wealth is the acquisition of knowledge and the cultivation of an inherited gift, comes before the public in a pursuit that has ever proved the animating ally of education and good breeding and the strong cordon of social refinement."