Complete Works of G K Chesterton, page 377
The curtain of the pavilion is drawn aside, letting in a flood of light, and the Princess appears. The Poet staggers to his feet and there is a long silence.
POET. Well, it is just like my luck.
PRINCESS. What do you mean?
POET. I mean that I am in heaven and I have a slight headache.
PRINCESS. Still I fear I do not understand.
POET. Your Highness, I was drunk in a ditch and deserved to be left in the ditch. And it is with all that mire upon me that I must stand and speak in the presence that I honour most; that I fear most; that shames me like an army of angels.
PRINCESS. But you have only just seen me this moment.
POET. Yes, just at this moment. That is what is blackest and bitterest. This moment. Lady, you will hardly believe me now; but I have had happier and more honourable moments, in which I could somehow have stood up before you and, however humbly, given my testimony.
PRINCESS. Your testimony?
POET. Oh, we always give our testimony. We always manage to give that somehow, even if it is discredited by the witness.
PRINCESS. And who are we?
POET. We are the miserable race of poets, of writers, of men who think they have something to say. Oh, they always say it. Never mind about my writings or sayings — but think of all the great singers and sayers who have sustained and refreshed the world. Think of all the great songs and epics you have known and the men who wrote them. And think how few of them, how very few, were ever worthy of what they sang or said. Far away upon the terraces of Antiquity, the voice of our father Ovid cries aloud for all the poets, his children: Video meliora proboque; détériora sequor— “The better things I see and I approve them; but it is the baser that I follow”. The sin I would not, that I do — and through the ages there have been prophets prophesying and poets testifying to eternal truths; but hardly ever a man behind them; hardly ever a strong, sane, balanced, complete man to follow them. The poets sit in the throne of Dante; whatsoever they command you to do, that do; but do not after their works. For they say and do not.
PRINCESS. I think I know what you mean; and yet perhaps you are a little too sweeping. Do you know, I still have a sort of fancy that you might do something some day, if you did not say so much.
POET. YOU are right, Your Highness; and yet that is the devil of it all. For there is always something that we have to say.
PRINCESS (smiling). I am sure there will always be something else you have to say.
POET. Oh, I know I talk the hind leg off a donkey — a very useless thing to do to a very useful thing like a donkey. But if you had tried as often as I have to talk the head off a human donkey —
PRINCESS. Am I the human donkey?... No, I will have pity on your face of horror. What is it you have to say?
POET. And now, after all, I cannot say it.
PRINCESS. That would certainly be very extraordinary.
POET. If I say it, you will think I am mad. Well, you can always say I am drunk. Have you ever heard that a drunken man sees double? Oddly enough, I am seeing double now. All this scene between us is doubled somewhere — Oh, I risk the joke — there are two of you and two of me; or we are shadows of ourselves, which stand somewhere in the light. This has happened before — you know that feeling. Or it will happen or it is happening now — and happening better. Somewhere you and I are talking and I am not so much ashamed, nor you so rightly scornful. Perhaps it was my dream; but I felt it again with that draught of water and that flood of light when you opened the door. This is good but something is better; this is glorious but somewhere I could feel more of the glory. And it seemed to me that somewhere, or at some other time, I had come to you like an ambassador, a tribune of the people, speaking for all the poor of your dominions; and telling you what can never be learned from lawyers and public officers. That what the people want is not food but feasts. Not security but surprises. And now I have lost my right to tell it; and I tell it still.
PRINCESS. YOU say that what men need is Surprise.
POET. Yes. If you raise your servants’ wages, do not tell them so. Throw people money through the window as you pass, or drop things down the chimney, like Santa Claus. Put wine in the water-pots, like a greater than Santa Claus when He gave the Great Surprise. I have said that before.
PRINCESS. If you will say it again, as I am sure you will, perhaps people might begin to understand it. You really mean that we could increase the good we do to others, by always adding some element of surprise.
POET. There are some people who would hardly accept any direct happiness, unless you sprang it on them as a surprise.
PRINCESS. Yes. Yes. You are right there. My friend Maria Margarita is like that; and it is strange that you should speak of it, for I have had something of the sort in my own mind before. I suppose you know the circumstances of my betrothal and marriage — they are all over the countryside and a troubadour must have heard them. Phoebus, King of Fontarabia, arrives today to redeem the promise he made when he hid in my father’s castle as a hunted man. Since then, as all the world knows, the hunted man has become a hero and a conqueror; and it is now he who can extend to us, in this impoverished state, his alliance and protection. You probably know that these alliances, even when they are alliances by marriage, are not — are not sentimental. If it were a sentimental matter, I suppose I might hesitate to tell you that I want this alliance secured. And I want your help.
POET. Your Highness, do you realise that I am not only a shabby tramp, but what my cheery companions would call a common drunk?
PRINCESS. I realise that you are an uncommon and rather clever man — and I am not quite a fool myself. Do you think I am such a fool as not to know that clever men can sometimes get drunk? Believe me, I have seen something of the poor you talk about; and I am not squeamish. Now there is nobody else for miles round this castle who can possibly help me where brains are wanted. I want you to be my family diplomatist to the King, when he arrives, and make sure that this wedding-contract goes through.
POET (staring). You want me to see that your weddingcontract goes through?
PRINCESS. Yes. What is there odd about that?
POET. Oh, nothing odd, of course. Not odd. Only impossible — simply starkly impossible.
PRINCESS. Nonsense — I know you are just the sort of man who can manage a piece of business like that, in a tactful sort of way, if you like.
POET. If I like. If I like. Oh, of course, if I am doing what I like I shall like it, shan’t I? I shall wallow in it. It will be perfectly delicious to be a diplomatist and get Your Highness married to this infernal — this imperial gentleman who is arriving with so much pomp and triumph.
PRINCESS. What on earth are you talking about?
POET. AS I have had the honour to explain to Your Highness, I happen to have gone mad. Quite sober now — only mad. But not so mad as the King of Fontarabia, if he can’t find his own way to his own wedding under these particular circumstances. I beg your pardon. Of course, I am entirely at Your Highness’s command. I will do my best. I have often noticed that people do their best, when there is nothing else to be done. I may as well take to diplomacy as take to drink. Drink has not served me well in this affair. It has spoilt the best scene of my life.
PRINCESS. Don’t you see that I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself and more? I know it is the sort of thing you could do. I know you have a head on your shoulders.
POET. Yes; I have a head. I also have a headache. But Your Highness can trust me entirely. Only —
PRINCESS. Well, what is it now?
POET. Oh, I wish we were in that world that never was; in that story that never was told. When I did not have a headache; but only a heartache.
PRINCESS. I don’t know what you mean; but I should like my diplomatist to look a little more cheerful. Come, we must never be cast down; perhaps we shall all of us end with a great Surprise.
A sevenfold peal of trumpets is heard through the whole castle; and almost with the sound of it Donna Maria Margarita enters swiftly, carrying the Princess’s white bridal veil and robe.
MARIA. Princess, it is the King; and he has sounded the seven trumpets that he only sounds before the Emperor; since that day when they brought up seven cannon —
PRINCESS (rather impatiently, like one who has been under a strain). Oh, you know so many of those stories, my dear. I know it is the King, of course; I have asked this gentleman to receive him.
The Poet bows and goes out.
PRINCESS. I am sorry if I was impatient, Maria; but it has often puzzled me that you are so enthusiastic about soldiers and soldiering, when you live a life like a nun. Soldiers and nuns seem to make a curious combination.
MARIA. At least they can both combine. I think that is what I like about them. Nobody seems to understand that people can be free to combine — and not only free to resist and rebel and live for themselves. At least they both believe in Obedience.
PRINCESS. And you believe in Obedience?
MARIA. Yes, I do. My fathers obeyed your fathers and I will obey you in everything. But the most obedient servant has the advantage of being allowed to make suggestions. And I really think you had better try on this dress and veil, before you actually go into the chapel. The priest is there already.
She drapes the Princess in the white garments.
PRINCESS. The bridegroom is not there yet. He is talking to a friend of mine. This veil is very heavy; I suppose it is all part of that idea of not being seen till after the ceremony. Or perhaps I have got it on crooked. I wish you would put it on for a moment and let me see.
Maria puts on the robe and veil and the Princess considers it critically.
PRINCESS. Well, my dear, you have certainly obeyed me so far. But I was wondering.
MARIA. Wondering?
PRINCESS (more seriously). Would you really obey me in serious things if I were really serious?
MARIA. I should obey you in all things. It is for you to judge if they are serious. But I do think you should put on your veil again. It seems to me to hang all right.
PRINCESS. Maria Margarita, I charge you on your allegiance not to remove it; but to walk as you are into the chapel and stand before the priest.
Maria stands motionless for a moment and then walks without a word up the steps towards the chapel. The Princess picks up the black and red veil and robe of Maria and retires into the background.
Enter the King of Fontarabia followed by the Poet.
KING. I fear, Sir, that we are travelling over the same ground again. I came here — well, to be frank, I came here because I was afraid to come here. I think I may fairly say that I am not often afraid. But at least I can say, what is better, that when I am afraid to do a thing, I do it.
POET. Sire, it is your glory and all your history. I cannot doubt that the same great sense of honour will carry Your Majesty through all your problems to the fulfilment of all your promises.
KING. I have put my cards on the table. Unfortunately, the cards a man holds and hopes in are not always court cards.
POET. Nevertheless, your great honour has brought you to the castle of the Queen of Hearts.
KING. I have told you who is the queen of my heart.
POET. Your Majesty will forgive me if I say what can never be said of you. It is not such players at the great game as you are who would win even a Queen of Hearts by cheating at cards.
KING. When a man says a thing like that, there are only two things to do: to kill him or to thank him. I thank you.
POET (passing his hand across his brow). What can I say in thanks, except that you were born to be a king? For I may take it that your pledge stands firm.
KING. There has never yet been any question about any pledge of mine. And even here — (The Princess, shrouded in the dark robes of Maria, draws nearer). Oh, my God — 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. Oh, damn your burning soul! Let it burn in hell, as mine is burning.
KING (bewildered). What did you say?
POET (with an absolutely stiff face). I said nothing, Your Majesty. My lips were locked in an impenetrable diplomatic silence.
KING. Really, to look at your face, I could believe you had never said a word. But somebody certainly said something.
POET. I trust you do not suggest it was the lady.
KING. NO, by God! But I should like the lady to say something.
POET (impatiently). Sire, the lady I represent has already said something; and I must insist that her word comes first in this house.
KING. YOU take a high tone, Sir. But I have to consider —
POET. Your Majesty has the choice. For Her Highness’s sake, for all our sakes — choose and be done with it.
KING (incensed). Then by the crown of Charlemagne, I will choose — and you shall be the witness of my choice, since you are so much concerned about it. I have sought an opportunity to explain; and you have practically refused it. Very well. You see, my love, that fate is — (Laughs suddenly.) By all the gods, I was going to say that fate is against me. And, behold, fate is for me! Fate is for us both and my own will goes with it like the wind. When will and fate are one, then only is a man a god; and this is my hour of godhood. Is it my fault if fate set me on fire when I first saw your face? Must I walk the world in flames and agony like a martyr or a heretic, and never look to the heaven for which I suffer? You know me; all I have to give and all I have to lose — my heart, my hand, my sword, my crown, I offer everything to you.
PRINCESS (drawing back the dark veil and showing her own face). Sire, it is my privilege to accept.
POET. My god!
KING (still staring). What is this jugglery?
PRINCESS. I think it was you who juggled. (Turns to Poet in a magnificent manner.) Sir, you are the witness to these events and to this final declaration. His Majesty, the King of Fontarabia, has repeated in your presence the offer for the alliance of our houses. There was never any doubt about the pledge that His Majesty had placed in our keeping long before. But I am glad that my ambassador should receive the notification in regular form.
POET. Your Highness — but this is madness!
PRINCESS. That is not quite in regular form.
POET. My lady, I am past all such forms. I must speak or see you ruined. You do not even love this man.
PRINCESS. If I did not love him before, when he was a noble knight, on whose word I rested as on the foundations of this castle, how much do you think I love him now, when his spurs are broken off and his sword broken across his head?
POET. Then where is everything to end? You will be utterly unhappy.
PRINCESS. Can I be more unhappy than I am, when he has laid in ruins all my plans for the happiness of others?
POET. Then why —
PRINCESS (breaking out passionately). Why should he be happy? Why should he enjoy insolently and infamously, as a foe, what I was going to give him as a friend? (Her voice rises yet more furious and beyond control.) Why should this dog snatch out of my hand the bone I had myself saved for him — and then be rewarded for doing it? Oh, I am to stand aside and watch a beautiful idyll of beatitude; he is to have all it was mine to grant or to withhold by right — not because I was generous, but because he was base. I wanted these people to be happy in peace and honour; all my plans respected that in him that he insults —
KING. Yes, you care for your plans. If you really cared for your friends, you would let them be happy now. But it is always your plans.
POET. Both Your Highness and His Majesty continue to talk about your plans. I seem to be the only person who is thinking about your happiness.
PRINCESS (with a blazing stare). Or about your own?
POET (suddenly sobered). Are you indeed the Eye of God? Or are we all transparent in this light from hell?
PRINCESS. There is no happiness now for any of us. There is only justice.
KING. Or only vengeance?
PRINCESS. Yes, if you will, only vengeance. Is it my fault if you have left nothing alive but indignation? Maria could sacrifice herself for love. What is it to you, if I could sacrifice myself for hate?
POET. It is everything to me, at any rate. Is this man worth hating so much? Is any man worth hating so much? Oh, I know my style of argument may not be fit for a palace; but your argument is fit for a madhouse. You treat His Majesty as a criminal who deserves nothing but vengeance; and then because he is a criminal he must be your husband. He is mean and false and therefore worthy to be your husband. He has betrayed you and made everybody miserable; and these are your reasons for choosing him as a husband.
