The Romance of a Princess: A Comedy; and Other Poems

Scene—The interior of a log hut. The walls are draped with rare skins and decorated with horns and heads. The furniture is covered with skins. There are interesting collections of curios, dried grasses and ferns; and everywhere freshly gathered asters in horn mugs. The whole presents a most artistic appearance. Emma sits on a couch beside a cradle, crooning a slumber song to the infant in her arms. Beside her sits Eginhardt, attaching feathers to his arrows. Through the door, centre back, fruit trees are seen. Six years have greatly changed Emma and Eginhardt. The latter has a long black beard; both are tanned and seem stouter.

Emma.

 

Little one, close fast thine eyes,

Thy guardian angel near thee flies;

Close thy rosebud-mouth, thine ears

To all want and needless fears.

Little one, lie still and rest,

Mother holds thee at her breast,

Like a flower by lover plucked,

Kissed and in maid's kerchief tucked.

Little one, thou'rt sweeter far

Than any petal-textured star,

Sweeter than a lover's gift;

Thou art joy that God hath whiffed.

Little one, keep pure and true,

Let no taint thy heart bedew.

Mother's prayer is spent for thee,

Now and through eternity.

Little one, if dreams should come,

Hurt, or aught that's troublesome,

Put thy trust in God above

As now thou lean'st on mother-love.

Little one, thy cradle's here,

Mother stays and watches near.

Swansdown-pillowed, slumber long,

Mother ends her drowsy song.

[Emma gently rocks the cradle in which she has laid the

sleeping child.]

Emma.

O Eginhardt, he's fast asleep, nought will
Disturb. I never knew so good a child.
He's like his father, his dumpy nose upturned;
A smile that lingers through his sleep as though
His spirit babbled angel-talk.

Eginhardt.

Thou may'st
Revile my nose, in troth it doth admit
Plebeian birth; but what of that? when thou,
Who own'st the straightest nose in Christendom,
Art well content with it. As for my smile,
I must demur, has it not character,
When thou art cause? and yet thou liken'st it
To that which flushes this wee bit of soft Inanity.

Emma.

Away with thee, rude scoffer.
Nay, look again. Admire as we have done
These hundred times, the long, black silky lashes,
That fringe so restfully; a modish damsel
Would give her soul for such possession. Ay
'Tis true the smile resembles thine, the same
Calm confidence, a hint of humour, yes,
A tryst with higher things that leaves me far
Behind. Now David's smile is like the King,
My Father's, a flash of wit or merriment
Or tender love, or pleased concern that fades
As graver thoughts come uppermost. 'Tis strange
Of late my Father's face has haunted me.
It bears a wistful look. Dost think he grieves
For us?

Eginhardt.

Six years should act as poppy balm,
Besides his Jove-like mind has such to grapple,
That private woes are soon reduced to pricks,
Scarce felt and then forgotten. If thou had'st kept
The magic ring—but that is long ago.
I see it now upon the frozen pond.
I could not sleep that night and so stole forth—
A walk might ease my pain. Unrealized
The hunting-lodge was reached and I had thrown
The ring. It glittered 'neath the moon, then I
Would have it back; but suddenly, a crack;
It disappeared, black water bubbled—my dream
Seemed over.

Emma.

To begin! dear Eginhardt!
If we, through magic, had secured the king's
Affection; courtly pomp, its undercurrents
Of jealousy and constant bickerings
Had swallowed us and what we hold most dear,
Our liberty and close companionship.
How free we are! how happy! this wondrous home
With nought superfluous to hamper; but just
Enough for daily needs—a little more
To please one's sense of beauty, and all has grown
With married life. There's not a skin that decks
Those walls; but 'tis the fruit of hardy chase,
No graceful antler, but thou hast bent the bow;
Each has its story. As for curios,
Have I not helped discover them? and David
Has rooted well. The mountain-dwarfs must scatter
Rarities to satisfy the lad,
To hear his piping notes of childish triumph,
His chubby hand tight-clutching some gay stone,
Or weathered fossil, spotted egg, or fern,
Or tufted grass for drying, or rusty lichen;
Each a worthwhile specimen. 'Tis strange
That blindfold avarice should grope in towns,
While forests are thus generous with gifts.

Eginhardt.

True, true, the forest is man's natural home,
And yet at times ambition stirs. Was I
Not once great Charles' youngest councillor?
Have I not planned his palaces? laid out
His gardens? supervised his public works?
The ever-famed basilica; have I
Not felt his love? He called me foster-son.

[He drops his head in his hands.]

Emma.

Weep not, dear Eginhardt, we are content.

Eginhardt.

Ay wife, we are content and happiness
Doth flood; still far beneath strange eddies surge,
Nay rather purl; but there they are—a vague
Uneasiness—

Emma.

Thou frighten'st me.

Eginhardt.

Then lay
Thy cheek 'gainst mine and smile, the mood has passed.
But let us talk of him whose towering genius
Projects such sparks that lesser minds are fired,
A galaxy illumes the sky, great deeds
Are done!—and we stay trifling here. The mood
I said had passed—and we are quite content.
But still we'll talk of him, our Charles, whose fame
Will ring throughout the centuries while we,
Dear Emma, are forgot or sunk to myth.
His age we've known, when fires are somewhat dimmed,
What must his ardent youth have been! surpassing
Hannibal, yea Caesar, in art of war;
Manoeuvering, until a tiny force,
Thrown here and there, has downed a mighty host.
Persistency through good, through evil fortune,
Till restive Europe feels the curb of peace,
Acknowledging its blessing. The Saxon idol
Has crumbled, the Arab-crescent stays its distance;
The Northman dares not venture. One man, one mind
Accomplishing so much! and now he seeks
To cleanse the Church, to make a roadway 'mid
The brambles of divergent laws, to wake
A nation's pride, reviving tales, rude songs
Of hero-ancestry. With pause, he would
Himself have ventured more than playful verse.
There is that vibrant hymn he wrote, asserting
The Holy Ghost comes from the Son as Father.
In truth he hath a poet's soul and that
Maybe explains! An autocrat and yet
The servant of his people; fathoming
Their needs, to satisfy or wisely guide.

Emma.

Some say he hath worked miracles, thou know'st
The story of the flowers.

Eginhardt.

Ay, but let
It fall again from thy sweet lips.

Emma.

The King,
My Father, had shamed the Saracen; but O
At what a cost! Archbishop Turpin, brave Roland,
And many another paladin returned
No more. O war, it is a ghastly thing!
The victor suffers as the vanquished, though pride
May not acknowledge it. Our hardy troops,
Who struggled past the Pyrenees, brought plague,
That Southern ill. It spread through Rhenish towns,
Death stalked from house to house, all nostrums failed.
The learned Doctors could but shake their heads,
Fear seized each heart—and then man turned to God.
He fasted, prayed and promised. The King, my Father,
Nor slept, nor eat, imploring constantly,
Until celestial voices spoke: "The Lord
Hath heard thy prayer. The meadow holds reply;
Ride forth, His name upon thy lips, then string
Thy bow and upward shoot." The King arose,
Nor felt the chilling dawn, a silent figure,
Upon his great black charger, he passed the gate;
His lips were mumbling prayer and so he went.
The open reached, they say, a wondrous light
Passed o'er his face as looking heavenward,
He sprung the bow. High winged the shaft as though
To pierce the firmament, then wavering fell,
And lo its blunted end had crushed the stem
Of that small golden flower, whose thistle-bloom
Has since been called "carlina," bearing thus
The King, my Father's name to blazon through
The centuries how God lent heed to prayer.
The arrow-head was damped with juice, so found
The remedy. Again was laughter heard,
As eager children gathered plants; a flush
Returned to pallid cheeks, the light of hope
To sunken eyes. And so the plague was stayed
And death slunk off disconsolate.—But where's
Our David? and this his special tale, why at
This point he likes to thrust his wooden sword
As though to stab a threatening foe. Ay youth
Can combat death; but what of age?

Eginhardt.

Talk'st thou
Of age? whose cheeks are soft and round. I will
Admit thou hast enough of woman's wisdom
To delve some crisscross lines or tiny crows-feet.
But none I see, not one wee crease and that
Reflects some credit on thy husband's care;
Six years! and lovers still! was ever known
Such foolish pair. [He kisses her.]

Emma.

Was ever? Eginhardt.
But not of self I thought, a father's face!
That may have deeper lines because of us.
Ah, 'tis ever so, that face obtrudes—
But where has David gone? I now remember,
He asked to gather acorns—and oaks are near
The zigzag path that leads—that leads beyond
The realms of happiness, O let us search
And quickly, if harm should come—

David.

[Without.]Ting, tang!

Emma.

His voice,
Thank God, his clear shrill treble.

[Enter David.]

 

O David, thou
Hast frightened me!

David.

[Twirling the sword.] That's nought but play-pretence;
But now thy hair shall stand on end, see what
I brandish here.

Emma.

My son, pray heed, take care!
A real sword! and one of consequence?
It is, it is—

David.

A giant's sword! O Mother!
Thy son's a dauntless hero, as those thou sing'st
About.

Eginhardt.

A naughty vagabond, more like,
Where hast thou been? Give me the sword.

David.

[Handing the sword to Emma.]Nay, nay!
'Tis mother's; but I've outrun the prisoner,
An honest giant, although he killed our stag.
Hi there! Goliath!

[Enter Charles, who stoops to pass the

doorway. He does not recognize his hosts.]

 

See Mother the captive I
Have taken. Now proudly smile and call me hero.

Charles.

This door was never built for captive giants
But gladly I'll acknowledge, dame, thou hast
A stalwart hero! a splendid boy!

David.

[Clapping his hands and dancing round.] There! there!
I said as much, a hero! a hero! a hero!

Emma.

 

[Who, with Eginhardt, recognizes Charles, laying

her hand on her heart as though to still its throbbings.]

 

Quiet boy! let others sing thy praise.
I welcome you, my Lord, your face, this weapon
Proclaim nobility; we are unused
To strangers here. Forgive a trembling voice.

Charles.

[Looking round.] But not a peasant's voice, I swear, and this
No peasant's hovel: such skins, so well arranged,
Such forest wealth would grace our hunting lodge.
I've never seen a room so strangely decked,
Nor one that suits me better. If magic's here,
Then let it be, I'm well content.

[He sits by the central table.]

David.

Without
Thy sword, Goliath?

Charles.

[Receiving his sword.] Ay, without my sword,
And yet I'd handle it. Joyeuse! thy title
Becomes thee well to-day. Dear blade; a sweet
Adventure has wiped thee clean. Thy name is freed
From irony. Joyeuse! Joyeuse! Joyeuse—
A happy languor steals.

David.

O Mother, Goliath
Seems quite at home. His head is nodding sleep;
'Tis well I did not sever it. A tame,
Old giant for playmate, how the boys in tales
Would envy me! We'll feed and treat him well.
O Mother! Father! say that I may keep
My prisoner.

Emma.

Indeed my son thou mayst.
If there be strength in human love, 'twill hold
Him close. [David jumps delight.] But softly boy, thou must be more
Polite, more circumspect. O Eginhardt!
He looks so peaceful. Think you that mood will change,
That passion will distort his brow when he
Discovers?

Eginhardt.

He has not realized and yet
Has felt thy soothing presence. O 'twould be
Impossible to meet thy tender gaze
And then to break from it. Ay love will hold
Him here; but let the truth come leaking out,
Lest joy disturb his age.

Emma.

Thou hast more hope
Than I, who am his daughter.

David.

The giant's daughter?

Eginhardt.

Hush David, help bring the dishes, not one word
Until I give consent. [Addressing Emma.] Hast thou prepared
The venison?

Emma.

The way he likes it, ay,
Well seasoned, with relish and proper garnishings
That blend with forest wine. I've but to serve.

Eginhardt.

Then haste thee, Wife, while I make search within
This precious book, "God's City," to find the place
Left off six years ago, when last I read
At meal-time. Ah, 'tis here; a tiny mark
Bears witness, blurred with tears, with frequent handling.

[While Emma places the venison on the table, David,

who has his eyes on Charles, drops a dish, waking the

latter.]

Charles.

By all the Saints, a feast! the table set
As at the palace e'en though wood and horn
Replace our silver ware. And venison
That smells like roasted meat, not boiled to shreds
As my dull doctors have prescribed. I smell
An old time flavour. Surely, Dame, thou hast
Not been at court?

Emma.

My Lord, some years ago
I served as kitchen-wench. The Princess Emma—

Charles.

Talk not of her—unless thou knowest aught.

Emma.

My Lord, you come from court; why question then
My ignorance? But see the venison
Awaits, we wish a kind report; we trust
Our cheer will strengthen you.

Charles.

Then sit ye here
And eat. Consider me a humble guest.
My lad, canst thou say grace?

David.

Indeed, Sir Giant,
A Latin Ave too.

[He mumbles an Ave Maria while all cross

themselves and sit down. Emma carves the venison,

Eginhardt opens his book. Charles stares wonderingly

round.]

Charles.

Such culture so far removed from influence,
In this unknown retreat is surely most
Uncommon, an element of mystery
That suits me well. I feel a living part
Of it—untrammelled, so much at home. Good people!
Ye practise kindly spells, weave on! weave on!
Nor let me wake.

Eginhardt.

Then taste our venison,
My Lord. [Addressing Emma.] A goodly helping! whilst I do read
A passage as our custom—once—

[He reads from Chapter XII. of the Nineteenth Book of

"The City of God."]

 

"For joy and peace are desired alike of all men. The warrior would but conquer: war's aim is nothing but a glorious peace; what is victory but a suppression of resistants, which being done, peace follows? So that peace is war's purpose, the scope of all military discipline, and the limit at which all just contentions level. All men seek peace by war, but none seek war by peace. For they that perturb the peace they live in, do it not for hate of it, but to show their power in alteration of it. They would not disannul it; but they would have it as they like;"—

Charles.

"As they like;"—and so they suffer! but that
Is past. O Eginhardt, 'tis thee! thy voice!
Thy gesture! and Emma, my daughter Emma, I know
Thee now. Come let me feel, make certain, my dear,
Dear child, ay, ay; 'tis not a dream. O God
Is good to my old age. My pet, lean here.
These arms have ached for thee. O dearest one,
Why hast thou been so cruel? nor understood
A father's love, when time elapsed, would conquer
A moment's ire.—To hide from me, it was
Not kind, not Emma-like. My child! my child—

Emma.

Then Father thou dost love me still? but what
Of him who kneels imploringly, yet not
Repenting, for am I not his wife?

Charles.

If I
Have missed him once, 'twas every day, for six
Long years and is there more to say? The earth
Was combed for him and thee, our agents sent
To foreign courts, to seats of learning; alway
A "no" came back that pierced my heart with stabs
Of pain! 'Tis easier to face the slaps
Of life when punishment is undeserved;
When one can say at least: "'twas not my fault;"
But O the lingering torture, when one's own act
Has brought fell consequence. If only one
Could backwards turn, how different! Emma!
Eginhardt! help kill the memory
Of those six years, make glad the few that stretch
Before me. Ah my children! dear children! dear children!

David.

Goliath! hast thou forgotten me?

Charles.

Nay, nay
Brave lad. [The baby cries.] but hark! a cry.

Emma.

[Takes the baby from the cradle.] Our youngest son
Awakes, bids welcome, completes our happy group.

Charles.

'Twould test an artist's brush to paint such bliss;
But let me look, a healthy child, well-formed,
Most promising; but not a David! I
Have never seen a finer lad, a braver!
Pray God, court life will keep him so, and that
Reminds there is a court and etiquette
And problems, eternal problems! well, so be!
If duty weighs, good Eginhardt, we'll lean
On younger arms; so take my horn and blow
A lusty blast, we have the heart to work;
And God will aid.

[Eginhardt blows the horn, while Charles turns to his

venison and Emma quiets the baby. An answering call

comes faint, then louder.]

Eginhardt.

Run David, run, and point
The way. [Exit David.] I'll go a step to greet old friends,
Prepare their minds.

[Exit.]

Emma.

[Laying the baby in his cradle.] Hush, hush—

[She pours some wine for Charles.]

Charles.

[Drinking.] Thy health, dear Emma.

Emma.

[Pointing to the holy silk that drapes an altar.]
Perhaps this holy silk has helped with thought
Beyond our daily round. See Father, I
Have guarded it—no harm has come to us
In this old pagan grove.

Charles.

Nor will it come,
While simple faith dwells here. I tell thee, Emma,
We'll build a castle round this shrine-like home,
Protecting it and all that love has reared
Within and here, at times, we'll seek respite.

Emma.

And laughter too! O Father, those first few nights.
How silently we stole without and emptied
The charcoal-burner's deserted hut; the jewel
We left reward enough for paltry stuff—
The wedding dower of Princess Emma—but hark!

[After a pause enter Hildebold, Eginhardt, David,

Albert, Ernst and Courtiers.]

Charles.

What Hildebold! our dear disheveled court,
And old man Ernst and none afraid to venture!
My Lord Archbishop, the Church has proved its strength
To lead through lanes of mystery and soon
My children here will ask its further blessing.
But later, when we are more composed and now
A hunting song to make all seem more real.

Courtiers.

 

Ya ho! ya ho! let Frankland ring

With daring deeds, with battles won;

Great Lords submit to Charles, our King,

As stars that fear the rising sun.

Ya ho! ya ho! for Victory!

Now Frankland's voice is heard afar,

It trumpets peace o'er land and sea,

The War God lists and stays his car.

Ya ho! ya ho! for huntsman's horn

Awakes once more the forest glade,

With mirth and joy that put to scorn

The battle scar, the murky blade.

Ya ho! ya ho! the quarry's traced,

Six years of search have ended now,

The fairest doe that ere was chased,

To her we make a lowly bow.

[The courtiers all make obeisance to Emma.]

Emma.

And I do thank you, friends; my husband,
The King permitting, will speak for me.

Charles.

Nay I
Myself will speak. Good people, listen all,
I oft have chided, seeking the City of God
On earth, an Empire as St. Augustine
Once visioned—I have failed—but in this home,
I clearly see the germ.