Complete Works of G K Chesterton, page 375
POET (looking at her steadily). To his honour.
PRINCESS (suddenly). Why am I telling you all this?
POET. Great lady — great angel — saint — I have not the wildest notion why you do not throw me out of the front door.
PRINCESS. Because I am not a stupid woman; and I can see you are a clever man. I am only a practical woman; I do not know much about poetry; but I know about men. I do not know whether you are a poet; but I know you are a diplomatist.
POET. One frequently in danger of being thrown out of the front-door does, perhaps, become a diplomatist.
PRINCESS. I do not mean that. I mean you can persuade. You persuaded me, with your very surprising theory of surprises. What would look more like lunacy, to many people, than all your talk about the pig in the ale-cask? And yet it was true; I know it and I shall remember it. It fits into my plan; and for that plan I want the help of your diplomacy and persuasion. For that plan it is necessary (I am bold enough to say so) that the King of Fontarabia should keep his pledge and the nuptials be celebrated here.
POET. You mean his marriage with Your Highness. There can be no man alive who needs to be persuaded to that.
PRINCESS. I am not so sure; but I want you to make it sure. Come, I appoint you my Ambassador.
POET (looking down at his garments). It would be as great an honour, and more in character, if you appointed me scarecrow in your kitchen-garden.
PRINCESS. YOU may scare the crows but not the eagle. Phoebus of Fontarabia at least will not mock my Ambassador’s poverty — or mine.
POET. It would be easier to be your scarecrow.
PRINCESS. AS if I did not know you were a man who trusts his own wits everywhere!
POET. Until about an hour ago, I did trust my own wits everywhere. Unfortunately, about an hour ago, I lost my wits.
PRINCESS. What do you mean?
POET. What I mean is something so mad and monstrous, that we should have to think seriously of throwing me out of the front-door after all. It is better to say simply that it is my privilege and duty as a diplomatist to complete the negotiations for this Royal marriage. It should be happy; it should even be easy for everyone else. It is only difficult for the diplomatist.
PRINCESS (with a new warmth and emphasis). I do want to make people happy. I have always tried to make them happy. And if I did not always succeed, you have shown me the reason why. There is really no happiness without Surprise.
A sevenfold peal of trumpets is heard without and rings through the whole castle. Almost at the same moment, Maria Margarita di Compostella enters, pale and dark, but with something of a flame of excitement showing through her transparency.
POET. Trumpets!
MARIA. Princess, it is the King! And he has sounded the Seven Trumpets, that he never sounded but once, before the Emperor. But, of course, you know the story.
PRINCESS. I am afraid, my dear, that you know more stories than I do.
MARIA. But everyone knows how the Emperor brought up seven great cannons to destroy his little company; and he only answered them scornfully with the noise of seven bugles; and then charged and cut them to pieces with the cold steel. But I must go and see that the household is ready for his train.
She goes out on the other side swiftly; and the Princess turns again to the Poet.
PRINCESS. I was telling you that I want people to be happy. But you were quite wrong when you called me a saint. Now she is a saint. And yet, in a strange way, I find it difficult to make her happy.
POET. Perhaps that is because she is happy.
PRINCESS (with some slight annoyance). She seems to be only happy when she is making herself unhappy. You know the sort of person who always chooses goat because she prefers venison. It generally ends with my forcibly giving her venison, even if she prefers goat. And serve her right, for being a saint.
POET. Yes, I know the type. If you want to give her anything she really wants herself, you will have to bind her hand and foot and thrust it down her throat by violence.
PRINCESS. You are an amazing man. Do you mean you have guessed anything of my Plan?
POET. I am a diplomatist, Madam, and know nothing beyond my instructions.
Re-enter Donna Maria in the same wind of speed and enthusiasm, with the Princess’s white robe and bridal veil over her arm.
MARIA. I have been to the chapel. The priest is ready.
PRINCESS (rather dryly). And this gentleman will enquire whether the bridegroom is ready.
[Exit Poet.
MARIA. It seems a rather hurried wedding; but there is nothing to do but to fit on the wedding-dress and veil. Did you expect a great crowd of wedding-guests? Surely you remember the old custom of the castle; that the priest is alone with the bride and bridegroom, and the bride does not lift her veil till after the thing is done. I think that is the happiest way of being married. I should like to be married that way.
PRINCESS. Oh... you would like to be married that way. Well, you could have been married hundreds of times, in any way you liked, and I often wanted you to; but you seemed to be quite happy without it.
MARIA. Who would not be happy in a house where such things happen? Who would not be happy in a world where such things happen? It is like having Charlemagne in the house! I always say his victories have been more wonderful than Charlemagne’s. Roland would not have died with the deserted rearguard, if he had served Fontarabia. At the first faint sound of the horn, he would have wheeled his whole force and surprised and routed the enemy by the very suddenness of his return, as he did in the gap at Alcalar.
PRINCESS. You puzzle me very much, my dear, sometimes. I always thought you were a sort of nun; and you talk like a musketeer.
MARIA. After all, my fathers rode behind your fathers in a hundred feudal wars; and were always faithful. But you had better try on your dress and veil, before you actually go to the chapel.
She drapes the Princess in the white veil and robe and fusses about in the proper feminine manner.
PRINCESS. It seems all right; but this veil is very long and heavy. I suppose it’s part of that notion of nobody knowing anybody till it’s all over, that you’re so fond of. All the same, I still don’t understand your oddly assorted enthusiasms. What is the common idea, that makes you like nuns and like soldiers?
MARIA. Obedience. The most thrilling word in the world; a very thunderclap of a word. Why do all these fools fancy that the soul is only free when it disagrees with the common command? Even the mobs who rise to burn and destroy owe all their grandeur and terror, and a sort of authority, not to their anger but to their agreement. Why should mere disagreement make us feel free? I know you are fond of dancing; do you want to dance to a different tune from your partner’s? You are a fine horsewoman; do you want to think of walking northward all by yourself, when you and your horse are going southward together? You have called me a nun; I am not a nun, I am not good enough to be a nun. I do not... I have not set... (she breaks off the sentence). But do you suppose that nuns are unhappy? I never see them pass, silent and hooded, through their quiet cloisters but I have a vision: a vast vision of Amazons, wilder than any heathen Valkyrs, riders rushing into battle; a charge of chivalry going all one way, and every rider as free as Joan of Arc; galloping, galloping to God. That is the real vision of Obedience.
PRINCESS. I don’t believe this veil hangs quite right. I wish you’d put the thing on for a minute and let me see. (The dress and veil are put on Maria; and the Princess surveys them critically.) I am interested to know you really believe in Obedience; even in all that funny old feudal obedience. You are always such a dreadful reactionary. Just turn round this way a minute. The train.... Yes, the train will have to do, I think.
MARIA. If it is all right, you had really better put it on; it is hardly a public occasion, but you never know if there will be silly gossip about any delay.
PRINCESS. Don’t take it off just yet. So you really do believe that on the whole obedience has done more good than harm; in spite of wars and terrible vows. And you would observe it yourself.
MARIA. Yes, yes — but do get these things on; the King may be waiting there already.
PRINCESS. Maria Margarita, I charge you on your allegiance not to lift that veil, or drop that robe. I command you to walk as you are into the chapel and to stand before the priest. As your father carried the shield before my father in twenty battles, I command you to go before me. You may yet behold a vision. And it will be the Vision of Obedience.
Maria stands quite stiffly for an instant and then walks equally stiffly up the stairs towards the chapel. The Princess turns rapidly and picks up the black and red dress and veil of Maria, wraps herself in them, and retires to the back of the scene.
Enter the Poet escorting the King of Fontarabia, as previously described.
KING. I mean no discourtesy, Sir; but this haste is dreadful. I had hoped to see Her Highness the Princess; and explain — well, anything that might need to be explained.
POET. AS we are dealing with Your Majesty, I doubt whether there is anything to be explained; and, most certainly, nothing to be explained away. You have only shown that loyalty and love of honour that shines upon your whole career in coming here, to this defenceless castle, to show that your word is greater than the world. Of course, it is an entirely defenceless castle. Her Highness the Princess is rich in nothing but the love of all who have known her; she has but a few guards and the sword of a poor balladmonger who is almost a beggar. You are a captain of great armies and can come and go as you will. It is for you to choose.
KING. Who the devil are you? You say you are a balladmonger. But by God, you know how to speak to a gentleman.
POET. I have only stated the obvious facts of the position.
KING. Because, curse your cunning, you know that the only way to bind a gentleman is to tell him he is free.
POET. Most respectfully, I repeat that I stated facts. You could claim great alliances; the daughter of the Emperor or anyone else you choose. The political power of this family is less than it was.
KING (bursting out with some violence). And now, by God, you are slandering me. I don’t care what a thousand idiots may think; but I can see you are a man with brains; and I will not have a man with brains who slanders me. In the devil’s name, kick into hell all that nonsense about being a King or knowing an Emperor. I am a coarse man and a common soldier. I have won most of my battles by understanding coarse men and common soldiers. But you will never understand them in a thousand years, if you suppose that coarse and common men love nothing except coarseness and commonness. Like all other men, I suppose, we love our opposites; especially in women. But we are quite sincere. I do love beauty and purity and the high heart in a woman.
POET (proudly). Then indeed the friends of the Princess of Garfagnana have nothing to fear.
KING. Oh God! I came here as a lover. Not a Princess but a woman called me out of the wastes and the wars. And when I passed, I heard her where she walked under the willows and the wind in her swinging robes.
POET [in a low voice). They swing when she throws back her head.
KING. I felt her in the very sun and wind upon the mountains.
POET. She fans the wind. She shines upon the sun.
KING. A woman in a castle, which is the casket of a jewel.
POET. The only jewel in the world.
KING. The only woman in the world. But not your Princess.
POET (very carefully). Sire, you honour me in a way that no man could forget, when you tell me so frankly of your feelings. But am I to understand that those feelings have nothing to do with your pledged word to my Princess?
KING. YOU are to understand that I shall love Maria Margarita till I die. And there it stands; and what would a hundred other kings or a thousand other soldiers have said of it? They would have said that I could marry the Princess and love Maria, and be happy with both, in a way that is common enough. Yet I have never thought of it.
POET. I trust because you could not utter such an insult to the Princess of Garfagnana.
KING. No. Because I could not think of such an insult to Maria Margarita. She is different from all other women. She loves my honour.
POET (sharply). Then go and deserve her love. (The King is arrested for an instant, and the Poet goes on, with loosened and impetuous speech.) She believes you will keep your word; do not break her by breaking your word. Never mind about what they call happiness; women as high as that are above happiness. Do not treat her as some vulgar thing and give her a lover. Leave her the man she loves.
KING. I know what you mean. And I... Oh, my God! (He realises that the Princess, completely shrouded in the black and red robes of Maria, is standing just behind him.) It is she; I could have won, if she were not here. Don’t I know that black dress with drops of blood — my heart’s blood? Shall a man not turn back, when it is his own burning soul that is standing behind him?
POET (in a ringing voice). How many more poor devils are rotting in ditches and on ramparts, because you told them it is dishonour to turn back?
KING (stiffens and is still for an instant, and then speaks quietly).
Break your guitar, master balladmonger. You have learned to blow the bugle and sound the charge.
POET (in a loud voice). I am assured that Your Majesty is passing to your happy and most noble wedding-feast, on which we all invoke so many blessings and joys.
KING. I shall go whistling, comrade. For I have often faced death before.
He mounts quickly the stairway leading to the chapel and disappears; and the Poet, who has held himself rigid and taut and vigilant through the whole dialogue, shows an abrupt relaxation rather like a collapse. Very slowly and wearily, he turns towards the figure in black and red, which is completely veiled, and which he also takes for Donna Maria. He says nothing for some time; and then speaks quite casually and rather brokenly, as to an equal from whom he need hardly conceal anything. The figure in the black and red robes has not moved at all, through all this part of the action.
POET. Well, that’s over. Every dog has his day; and I am a stray dog that has had a most amazing day; and now must go out again into the night. But before I go, Donna Maria, I have a fancy to make a confession; and I think somehow I can make it to you. I was a dog and I had my day; but for all that I was a dog in the manger. I could never in a thousand years have even asked for what I wanted for myself; and yet I was most damnably annoyed at having to help another man to get it. Several times I nearly went mad and bit him. Yes... you are silent, and I don’t wonder. I came here crawling out of the gutter and I fell in love with the Princess of Garfagnana at first sight. A joke, isn’t it? — a joke no living creature shall ever have the chance to laugh at. Except you — and you will not laugh. What a consolation, in a world weary of laughter, are you people who do not laugh. What wells in a desert; what pools of shame in a dazzling and crackling land. I do not know whether she would laugh. I rather fancy she would not even hear. If I were standing beside the Princess as I am standing beside you, I doubt whether my words would reach her. It would be like going out into the garden and shouting at the stars. Never in the aeons needed to reach such stars shall I ever say to the woman I love, “I love you”. I say it to you, for you are merciful; and perhaps — I sometimes think — perhaps I have a feeling that you also can stand alone. You are still silent. Are you also horrified? Somehow, I do not think so. If you were, you would go away. Come, Donna Maria, I have thrown off the mask; can you not throw off the veil, and let me see one good woman and perhaps hear one good word, before I go back to the taverns of the trulls and thieves? I cannot see your face; but somehow I cannot imagine it as cruel.
The Princess unveils her own face and stands motionless. There is a long silence.
POET. Your Highness has certainly learnt the little trick of Surprise (rather bitterly). Well, am I to be hanged on a garden tree or will you want to pardon me because it is your wedding-day?
PRINCESS. I have to thank you if it is my wedding-day. But, indeed, in truth it is Donna Maria’s wedding-day.
POET. What do you mean?
PRINCESS. I sent her in my place. They have always loved each other and I told you that I like making people happy.
POET. You did this? And then — great God, great heart, you are surprised that men love you.
PRINCESS (rather hastily). Oh, it fits in well enough with my plans. The King will protect my house and my people, when he is married to my friend, as much as if he were married to me. And Maria will do what I should want done for the poor — including the poets.
(She smiles.) Perhaps I may be allowed to advise her a little; I shall be a good confidante — an excellent lady-in-waiting! And that is all I really cared about — the city and state of Garfagnana.
A distant cry is heard from the chapel. The Poet turns and looks towards the steps.
POET. What is that?
PRINCESS. That is the cry that has not been heard on earth since it was heard in Eden. It is the cry of Surprise. For once in all our fallen and mazy wanderings, a man has seen his most secret daydream come true. Many a man has been lucky in marrying the woman he loves. But he is luckier; in loving the woman he marries.
POET. YOU mean it is more of a Surprise. But could you not —
PRINCESS. NO, I could not. If I had gone to Maria and offered to give place to her, she would have been burnt at the stake before she accepted the sacrifice. She would never have allowed me to sacrifice anything. To the last, by every sort of stubborn dodging and delay and mulish silence, she would have insisted on sacrificing herself. That was the problem. And even if I had gone to the King, to do him justice, and myself offered to release him from his word, he might have refused to be released. There was nothing for it but the trick of the great Surprise — the trick you taught me, as you have taught me so many things.
POET. There is something I should never dare to teach you.
PRINCESS. My friend, you have many others to teach. Listen to me for a moment. I have told you that I know something of men; after all, perhaps I know something even of literary men. You have honoured me in speaking of an enthusiasm — a flame or what you will — of which I shall remain proud. But the flame is from you and not from me. We may dare hope to be some sort of inspiration; but poets live for the poem and not for the muse. You will grow older and perhaps leave off serenading people you have never seen; but you will not leave off thinking; and I am quite sure you will not leave off talking. In the long reaches of time it is another quest that will remain with you; and you will come to care more for the four lost notes of your song than you care for me. And somewhere else, perhaps, you will find them. Somewhere at the end of the world, somewhere perhaps beyond the world, you may see a tower of a strange shape and hear a wiser woman sound those chords upon a solitary harp; and she will open her door and say: “I have waited long for my serenade”. You have not found it yet. You have only found in passing a way in which you could save us all. You have been my best friend; and I do not even know your name.
