Jurgen - James Branch Cabell (reading a book TXT) 📗

“You are saying that,” observed the King, “in part because you drank too much last night, and in part because you think it is expected of you. For in point of fact, you are as happy as anyone is permitted to be in this world, through the simple reason that you are young. Misery, as you employ the word, I consider to be a poetical trophe: but I can assure you that the moment you are no longer young the years of vain regret will begin, either way.”

“That is true,” said Jurgen, heartily.

“How do you know? Now then, put it I were insane enough to marry my daughter to a mere duke, you would grow damnably tired of her: I can assure you of that also, for in disposition Guenevere is her sainted mother all over again. She is nice looking, of course, because in that she takes after my side of the family: but, between ourselves, she is not particularly intelligent, and she will always be making eyes at some man or another. Today it appears to be your turn to serve as her target, in a fine glittering shirt of which the like was never seen in Glathion. I deplore, but even so I cannot deny, your rights as the champion who rescued her: and I must bid you make the most of that turn.”

“Meanwhile, it occurs to me, sir, that it is unusual to betroth your daughter to one man, and permit her to go freely with another.”

“If you insist upon it,” said Gogyrvan Gawr, “I can of course lock up the pair of you, in separate dungeons, until the wedding day. Meanwhile, it occurs to me you should be the last commentator to grumble.”

“Why, I tell you plainly, sir, that critical persons would say you are taking very small care of your daughter’s honor.”

“To that there are several answers,” replied the King. “One is that I remember my late wife as tenderly as possible, and I reflect I have only her word for it as to Guenevere’s being my daughter. Another is that, though my daughter is a quiet and well-conducted young woman, I never heard King Thragnar was anything of this sort.”

“Oh, sir,” said Jurgen, horrified, “whatever are you hinting!”

“All sorts of things, however, happen in caves, things which it is wiser to ignore in sunlight. So I ignore: I ask no questions: my business is to marry my daughter acceptably, and that only. Such discoveries as may be made by her husband afterward are his affair, not mine. This much I might tell you, Messire de Logreus, by way of answer. But the real answer is to bid you consider this: that a woman’s honor is concerned with one thing only, and it is a thing with which the honor of a man is not concerned at all.”

“But now you talk in riddles, King, and I wonder what it is you would have me do.”

Gogyrvan grinned. “Obviously, I advise you to give thanks you were born a man, because that sturdier sex has so much less need to bother over breakage.”

“What sort of breakage, sir?” says Jurgen.

Gogyrvan told him.

Duke Jurgen for the second time looked properly horrified. “Your aphorisms, King, are abominable, and of a sort unlikely to quiet my misery. However, we were speaking of your daughter, and it is she who must be considered rather than I.”

“Now I perceive that you take my meaning perfectly. Yes, in all matters which concern my daughter I would have you lie like a gentleman.”

“Well, I am afraid, sir,” said Jurgen, after a pause, “that you are a person of somewhat degraded ideals.”

“Ah, but you are young. Youth can afford ideals, being vigorous enough to stand the hard knocks they earn their possessor. But I am an old fellow cursed with a tender heart and tolerably keen eyes. That combination, Messire de Logreus, is one which very often forces me to jeer out of season, simply because I know myself to be upon the verge of far more untimely tears.”

Thus Gogyrvan replied. He was silent for a while, and he contemplated the fire. Then he waved a shriveled hand toward the window, and Gogyrvan began to speak, meditatively:

“Messire de Logreus, it is night in my city of Cameliard. And somewhere one of those roofs harbors a girl whom we will call Lynette. She has a lover⁠—we will say he is called Sagramor. The names do not matter. Tonight, as I speak with you, Lynette lies motionless in the carved wide bed that formerly was her mother’s. She is thinking of Sagramor. The room is dark save where moonlight silvers the diamond-shaped panes of ancient windows. In every corner of the room mysterious quivering suggestions lurk.”

“Ah, sire,” says Jurgen, “you also are a poet!”

“Do not interrupt me, then! Lynette, I repeat, is thinking of Sagramor. Again they sit near the lake, under an apple-tree older than Rome. The knotted branches of the tree are upraised as in benediction: and petals⁠—petals, fluttering, drifting, turning⁠—interminable white petals fall silently in the stillness. Neither speaks: for there is no need. Silently he brushes a petal from the blackness of her hair, and silently he kisses her. The lake is dusky and hard-seeming as jade. Two lonely stars hang low in the green sky. It is droll that the chest of a man is hairy, oh, very droll! And a bird is singing, a silvery needle of sound moves fitfully in the stillness. Surely high Heaven is thus quietly colored and thus strangely lovely. So at least thinks little Lynette, lying motionless like a little mouse, in the carved wide bed wherein Lynette was born.”

“A very moving touch, that,” Jurgen interpolated.

“Now, there is another sort of singing: for now the pothouse closes, big shutters bang, feet shuffle, a drunken man hiccups in his singing. It is a love-song he is murdering. He sheds inexplicable tears as he lurches nearer and nearer to Lynette’s window, and his heart is all magnanimity, for