Part 2
Is it, by Heaven? I have tried it, I. I tell you, friend, your justice is a lie; Your comfort is a lie, your peace a fraud; Your trust a folly and your cheer a gaud. I know what men are, having gone these roads. Poor bankrupt devils, sweating under loads While others suck their blood and smile and smile. You be an artist on the roads a while, You'll know what justice comes with suffering then.
_King Cole:_
Friend, I am one grown old with sorrowing men.
_The Showman:_
The old are tamed, they have not blood to feel.
_King Cole:_
They've blood to hurt, if not enough to heal. I have seen sorrow close and suffering close. I know their ways with men, if any knows. I know the harshness of the way they have To loose the base and prison up the brave. I know that some have found the depth they trod In deepest sorrow is the heart of God. Up on the bitter iron there is peace.
In the dark night of prison comes release, In the black midnight still the cock will crow. There is a help that the abandoned know Deep in the heart, that conquerors cannot feel. Abide in hope the turning of the wheel, The luck will alter and the star will rise.
His presence seemed to change before their eyes. The old, bent, ragged, glittering, wandering fellow, With thready blood-streaks in the rided yellow Of cheek and eye, seemed changed to one who held Earth and the spirit like a king of eld.
He spoke again: "You have been kind," said he. "In your own trouble you have thought of me. God will repay. To him who gives is given, Corn, water, wine, the world, the starry heaven."
Then, like a poor old man, he took his way Back to the city, while the showman gazed After his figure like a man amazed.
_The Wife:_
I think that traveller was an angel sent.
_The Showman:_
A most strange man. I wonder what he meant.
_The Wife:_
Comfort was what he meant, in our distress.
_The Showman:_
No words of his can make our trouble less.
_The Wife:_
O, Will, he made me feel the luck would change. Look at him, husband; there is something strange About him there; a robin redbreast comes Hopping about his feet as though for crumbs, And little long-tailed tits and wrens that sing Perching upon him.
_The Showman:_
What a wondrous thing! I've read of such, but never seen it.
_The Wife:_
Look, These were the dishes and the food he took.
_The Showman:_
Yes; those were they. What of it?
_The Wife:_
Did he eat?
_The Showman:_
Yes; bread and cheese; he would not touch the meat
_The Wife:_
But see, the cheese is whole, the loaf unbroken, And both are fresh. And see, another token: Those hard green apples that the farmer gave Have grown to these gold globes, like Blenheims brave; And look, how came these plums of Pershore here?
_The Showman:_
We have been sitting with a saint, my dear.
_The Wife._
Look at the butterflies!
Like floating flowers Came butterflies, the souls of summer hours, Fluttering about the van; Red Admirals rich, Scarlet and pale on breathing speeds of pitch, Brimstones, like yellow poppy petals blown, Brown ox-eyed Peacocks in their purpled roan, Blue, silvered things that haunt the grassy chalk, Green Hairstreaks bright as green shoots on a stalk, And that dark prince, the oakwood haunting thing Dyed with blue burnish like the mallard's wing. "He was a saint of God," the showman cried.
Meanwhile, within the town, from man to man The talk about the wondrous circus ran. All were agreed, that nothing ever known Had thrilled so tense the marrow in their bone. All were agreed, that sights so beautiful Made the Queen's court with all its soldiers dull, Made all the red-wrapped masts and papered strings Seem fruit of death, not lovely living things. And some said loudly that though time were short, Men still might hire the circus for the Court. And some, agreeing, sought the Mayor's hall, To press petition for the show's recall.
But as they neared the hall, behold, there came A stranger to them dressed as though in flame; An old, thin, grinning glitterer, decked with green, With thready blood-streaks in his visage lean, And at his wrinkled eyes a look of mirth Not common among men who walk the earth; Yet from his pocket poked a flute of wood, And little birds were following him for food.
"Sirs," said King Cole (for it was he), "I know You seek the Mayor, but you need not so; I have this moment spoken with his grace. He grants the circus warrant to take place Within the city, should the Prince see fit To watch such pastime; here is his permit. I go this instant to the Prince to learn His wish herein: wait here till I return."
They waited while the old man passed the sentry Beside the door, and vanished through the entry. They thought, "This old man shining like New Spain, Must be the Prince's lordly chamberlain. His cloth of gold so shone, it seemed to burn; Wait till he comes." They stayed for his return.
Meanwhile, above, the Prince stood still to bide The nightly mercy of the eventide, Brought nearer by each hour that chimed and ceased. His head was weary with the city feast But newly risen from. He stood alone As heavy as the day's foundation stone.
The room he stood in was an ancient hall. Portraits of long dead men were on the wall. From the dull crimson of their robes there stared Passionless eyes, long dead, that judged and glared. Above them were the oaken corbels set, Of angels reaching hands that never met, Where in the spring the swallows came to build.
It was the meeting chamber of the Guild.
From where he stood, the Prince could see a yard Paved with old slabs and cobbles cracked and scarred Where weeds had pushed, and tiles and broken glass Had fallen and been trodden in the grass. A gutter dripped upon it from the rain.
"It puts a crown of lead upon my brain To live this life of princes," thought the Prince. "To be a king is to be like a quince, Bitter himself, yet flavour to the rest. To be a cat among the hay were best; There in the upper darkness of the loft, With green eyes bright, soft-lying, purring soft, Hearing the rain without; not forced, as I, To lay foundation stones until I die, Or sign State-papers till my hand is sick. The man who plaits straw crowns upon a rick Is happier in his crown than I the King. And yet, this day, a very marvellous thing Came by me as I walked the chamber here. Once in my childhood, in my seventh year, I saw them come, and now they have returned, Those strangers, riding upon cars that burned, Or seemed to burn, with gold, while music thrilled, Then beauty following till my heart was filled, And life seemed peopled from eternity.
They brought down Beauty and Wisdom from the sky Into the streets, those strangers; I could see Beauty and wisdom looking up at me As then, in childhood, as they passed below.
Men would not let me know them long ago, Those strangers bringing joy. They will not now. I am a prince with gold about my brow; Duty, not joy, is all a prince's share.
And yet, those strangers from I know not where, From glittering lands, from unknown cities far Beyond the sea-plunge of the evening star, Would give me life, which princedom cannot give. They would be revelation: I should live. I may not deal with wisdom, being a king."
There came a noise of someone entering; He turned his weary head to see who came.
It was King Cole, arrayed as though in flame, Like a white opal, glowing from within, He entered there in snowy cramoisin. The Prince mistook him for a city lord, He turned to him and waited for his word.
"Sir," said King Cole, "I come to bring you news. Sir, in the weary life that princes use There is scant time for any prince or king To taste delights that artists have and bring. But here, to-night, no other duty calls, And circus artists are without the walls. Will you not see them, sir?"
_The Prince:_
Who are these artists; do they paint or write?
_King Cole:_
No, but they serve the arts and love delight.
_The Prince:_
What can they do?
_King Cole:_
They know full many a rite That holds the watcher spell-bound, and they know Gay plays of ghosts and jokes of long ago; And beauty of bright speed their horses bring, Ridden barebacked at gallop round the ring By girls who stand upon the racing team. Jugglers they have, of whom the children dream, Who pluck live rabbits from between their lips And balance marbles on their fingertips. Will you not see them, sir? And then, they dance.
"Ay," said the Prince, "and thankful for the chance. So thankful, that these bags of gold shall buy Leave for all comers to be glad as I.
And yet, I know not if the Court permits. King's pleasures must be sifted through the wits Or want of wit of many a courtly brain. I get the lees and chokings of the drain, Not the bright rippling that I perish for."
_King Cole:_
Sir, I will open the forbidden door, Which, opened, they will enter all in haste. The life of man is stronger than good taste.
_The Prince:_
Custom is stronger than the life of man.
_King Cole:_
Custom is but a way that life began.
_The Prince:_
A withering way that makes the leafage fall, Custom, like Winter, is the King of all.
_King Cole:_
Winter makes water solid, yet the spring, That is but flowers, is a stronger thing. Custom, the ass man rides, will plod for years, But laughter kills him and he dies at tears. One word of love, one spark from beauty's fire, And custom is a memory; listen, sire.
Then at a window looking on the street He played his flute like leaves or snowflakes falling, Till men and women, passing, thought: "How sweet; These notes are in our hearts like flowers falling." And then, they thought, "An unknown voice is calling Like April calling to the seed in earth; Madness is quickening deadness into birth."
And then, as in the spring when first men hear, Beyond the black-twigged hedge, the lambling's cry Coming across the snow, a note of cheer Before the storm-cock tells that spring is nigh, Before the first green bramble pushes shy, And all the blood leaps at the lambling's notes, The piping brought men's hearts into their throats.
Till all were stirred, however old and grand; Generals bestarred, old statesmen, courtiers prim (Whose lips kissed nothing but the Monarch's hand), Stirred in their courtly minds recesses dim, The sap of life stirred in the dreary limb. The old eyes brightened o'er the pouncet-box, Remembering loves, and brawls, and mains of cocks.
And through the town the liquid piping's gladness Thrilled on its way, rejoicing all who heard, To thrust aside their dullness or their sadness And follow blithely as the fluting stirred They hurried to the guild like horses spurred. There in the road they mustered to await, They knew not what, a dream, a joy, a fate.
And man to man in exaltation cried: "Something has come to make us young again. Wisdom has come, and Beauty, Wisdom's bride, And youth like flowering April after rain." But still the fluting piped and men were fain To sing and ring the bells, they knew not why Save that their hearts were in an ecstasy.
Then to the balcony above them came King Cole the shining in his robe of flame; Behind him came the Prince, who smiled and bowed. King Cole made silence: then addressed the crowd.
"Friends, fellow mortals, bearers of the ghost That burns, and breaks its lamp, but is not lost. This day, for one brief hour, a key is given To all, however poor, to enter heaven. The Bringers Down of Beauty from the stars, Have reached this city in their golden cars. They ask, to bring you beauty, if you will. You do not answer: rightly, you are still. But you will come, to watch the image move Of all you dreamed or had the strength to love.
Come to the Ring, the image of the path That this our planet through the Heaven hath; Behold man's skill, man's wisdom, man's delight, And woman's beauty, imaged to the height.
Come, for our rulers come; and Death, whose feet Tread at the door, permits a minute's sweet; To each man's soul vouchsafes a glimpse, a gleam, A touch, a breath of his intensest dream. Now, to that glimpse, that moment, come with me; Our rulers come.
O brother let there be Such welcome to our Prince as never was. Let there be flowers under foot, not grass, Flowers and scented rushes and the sprays Of purple bramble reddening into blaze. Let there be bells rung backward till the tune Be as the joy of all the bees in June. Let float your flags, and let your lanterns rise Like fruit upon the trees in Paradise, In many-coloured lights as rich as Rome O'er road and tent; and let the children come, It is their world, these Beauty Dwellers bring."
Then, like the song of all the birds of spring He played his flute, and all who heard it cried, "Strew flowers before our rulers to the Ring." The courtiers hurried for their coats of pride The upturned faces in that market wide Glowed in the sunset to a beauty grave Such as the faces of immortals have.
And work was laid aside on desk and bench, The red-lined ledger summed no penny more, From lamp-blacked fingers the mechanic's wrench Dropped to the kinking wheel chains on the floor, The farmer shut the hen roost: at the store The boys put up the shutters and ran hooting Wild with delight in freedom to the fluting.
And now the fluting led that gathered tide Of men and women forward through the town, And flowers seemed to fall from every side, White starry blossoms such as brooks bow down, White petals clinging in the hair and gown; And those who marched there thought that starry flowers Grew at their sides, as though the streets were bowers.
And all, in marching, thought, "We go to see Life, not the daily coil, but as it is Lived in its beauty in eternity, Above base aim, beyond our miseries; Life that is speed and colour and bright bliss, And beauty seen and strained for, and possest Even as a star forever in the breast."
The fluting led them through the western gate, From many a tossing torch their faces glowed, Bright-eyed and ruddy-featured and elate; They sang and scattered flowers upon the road, Still in their hair the starry blossoms snowed; They saw ahead the green-striped tent, their mark, Lit now and busy in the gathering dark.
There at the vans and in the green-striped tent The circus artists growled their discontent. Close to the gate a lighted van there was; The showman's wife thrust back its window glass. And leaned her head without to see who came To buy a ticket for the evening's game.
A roll of tickets and a plate of pence (For change) lay by her as she leaned from thence. She heard the crowd afar, but in her thought She said: "That's in the city; it is nought. They glorify the Queen."
Though sick at heart She wore her spangles for her evening's part, To dance upon the barebacked horse and sing. Green velvet was her dress, with tinselling. Her sad, worn face had all the nobleness That lovely spirits gather from distress.
"No one to-night," she thought, "no one to-night."
Within the tent, a flare gave blowing light. There, in their scarlet cart, the bandsmen tuned Bugles that whinnied, flageolets that crooned And strings that whined and grunted.
Near the band Piebald and magpie horses stood at hand Nosing at grass beneath the green-striped dome While men caressed them with the curry-comb.
The clowns, with whited, raddled faces, heaped Old horse cloths round them to the chins; they peeped Above the rugs; their cigarette ends' light Showing black eyes, and scarlet smears and white.
They watched the empty benches, and the wry Green curtain door which no one entered by.
Two little children entered and sat still With bright wide-opened eyes that stared their fill, And red lips round in wonder smeared with tints From hands and handkerchiefs and peppermints.
A farm lad entered. That was all the house.
"Strike up the band to give the folk a rouse," The showman said, "They must be all outside." He said it boldly, though he knew he lied.
Sad as a funeral march for pleasure gone The band lamented out, "He's got them on." Then paused, as usual, for the crowd to come.
Nobody came, though from without a hum Of instruments and singing slowly rose. "Free feast, with fireworks and public shows," The bandsmen growled, "An empty house again. Two children and a ploughboy and the rain. And then a night march through the mud," they said.
Now to the gate, King Cole his piping played. The showman's wife from out her window peering Saw, in the road, a crowd with lanterns nearing, And, just below her perch, a man who shone As though white flame were his caparison; One upon whom the great-eyed hawk-moths tense Settled with feathery feet and quivering sense, Till the white, gleaming robe seemed stuck with eyes.
It was the grinning glitterer, white and wise, King Cole, who said, "Madam, the Court is here, The Court, the Prince, the Queen, all drawing near, We here, the vanguard, set them on their way. They come intent to see your circus play. They ask that all who wish may enter free, And in their princely hope that this may be They send you these plump bags of minted gold." He gave a sack that she could scarcely hold. She dropped it trembling, muttering thanks, and then She cried: "O master, I must tell the men."
She rushed out of her van: she reached the Ring; Called to her husband, "Will, the Queen and King, Here at the very gate to see the show!"
"Light some more flares," said Will, "to make a glow. 'God save the Queen,' there, bandsmen; lively, boys. Come on, 'God save our gracious'; make a noise. Here, John, bring on the piebalds to the centre, We'll have the horses kneeling as they enter." All sang, and rushed. Without, the trumpets blared.
Now children, carrying paper lanterns, made A glowing alley to the circus door; Then others scattered flowers to pave a floor, Along the highway leading from the town.
Rust-spotted bracken green they scattered down, Blue cornflowers and withering poppies red, Gold charlock, thrift, the purple hardihead, Harebells, the milfoil white, September clover, And boughs that berry red when summer's over, All autumn flowers, with yellow ears of wheat.
Then with bruised, burning gums that made all sweet, Came censer-bearing pages, and then came Bearers in white with cressets full of flame, Whose red tongues made the shadows dance like devils. Then the blithe flutes that pipe men to the revels Thrilled to the marrow softly as men marched. Then, tossing leopard-skins from crests that arched, The horses of the kettle-drummers stept. Then with a glitter of bright steel there swept The guard of knights, each pennon-bearer bold Girt in a crimson cloak with spangs of gold. Then came the Sword and Mace, and then the four Long silver trumpets thrilling to the core Of people's hearts their sound. Then two by two, Proud in caparisons of kingly blue, Bitted with bars of gold, in silver shod, Treading like kings, cream-coloured stallions trod, Dragging the carriage with the Prince and Queen. The Corporation, walking, closed the scene. Then came the crowd in-surging like the wave That closes up the gash the clipper clave.
Swift in the path their majesties would tread The showman flung green baize and turkey red. Within the tent, with bunting, ropes and bags They made a Royal Box festooned with flags. Even as the Queen arrived, the work was done, The seven piebald horses kneeled like one, The bandsmen blew their best, while, red as beet, The showman bowed his rulers to their seat.
Then, through the door, came courtiers wigged and starred; The crimson glitterers of the bodyguard; The ladies of the Court, broad-browed and noble,
Lovely as evening stars o'er seas in trouble; The aldermen, in furs, with golden chains, Old cottagers in smocks from country lanes, Shepherds half dumb from silence on the down, And merchants with their households from the town, And, in the front, two rows of eager-hearted Children with shining eyes and red lips parted.
Even as the creeping waves that brim the pool One following other filled the circus full.
The showman stood beside his trembling wife. "Never," he said, "in all our travelling life Has this old tent looked thus, the front seats full With happy little children beautiful. Then all this glorious Court, tier after tier! O would our son, the wanderer, were here, Then we'd die happy!"
"Would he were!" said she. "It was my preaching forced him to be free," The showman said.
"Ah, no," his wife replied, "The great world's glory and the young blood's pride, Those forced him from us, never you, my dear."
"I would be different if we had him here Again," the showman said; "but we must start. But all this splendour takes away my heart, I am not used to playing to the King."
"Look," said his wife, "the stranger, in the Ring."
There in the Ring, indeed, the stranger stood, King Cole, the shining, with his flute of wood, Waiting until the chattering Court was stilled.
Then from his wooden flute his piping thrilled, Then all was tense, and then the leaping fluting Clamoured as flowering clamours for the fruiting.
And round the ring came Dodo, the brown mare, Pied like a tiger-moth; her bright shoes tare The scattered petals, while the clown came after Like life, a beauty chased by tragic laughter. The showman entered in and cracked his whip.
Then followed fun and skill and horsemanship, Marvellous all, for all were at their best. Never had playing gone with such a zest To those good jesters; never had the tent So swiftly answered to their merriment With cheers, the artist's help, the actor's life. Then, at the end, the showman and his wife Stood at the entrance listening to the cheers. They were both happy to the brink of tears.
King Cole came close and whispered in their ears: "There is a soldier here who says he knew You, long ago, and asks to speak to you. A sergeant in the guard, a handsome blade."
"Mother!" the sergeant said. "What, Jack!" she said, "Our son come back! look, father, here's our son!"
"Bad pennies do come home to everyone," The sergeant said. "And if you'll have me home, And both forgive me, I'll be glad to come."
"Why, son," the showman said, "the fault was ours."
Now a bright herald trod across the flowers To bid the artists to the Queen and King, Who thanked them for the joyful evening, And shook each artist's hand with words of praise. "Our happiest hour," they said, "for many days. You must perform at Court at Christmas tide."
They left their box: men flung the curtains wide, The horses kneeled like one as they withdrew.
They reached the curtained door and loitered through. The audience, standing, sang "God save the Queen." The hour of the showman's life had been.