Читать книгу Deirdre - James Stephens - Страница 11

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Deirdre’s education in the art of the king continued, but it proceeded now somewhat obliquely to its former trend.

What woman in Lavarcham’s place could avoid treating her master’s later affairs without something of sentimentality creeping into the terms? And what young girl could regard Maeve otherwise than as a heroine for having dared so shocking a scandal, and such a round of perils? As Lavarcham detailed Maeve, Deirdre interpreted her, and at the close of the statement the judgement of each was so different, so opposed, that a third person might have marvelled at the tricks the understanding can play; for what was black to the one was not only white to the other, but it was crimson and purple and gold; and what was treachery to Lavarcham gleamed on Deirdre like a candid sunrise.

We assimilate knowledge less through our intellects than through our temperaments; and a young person can by no effort look through the eyes of an older. There are other ways by which a mutual perception can be so deflected that the same thing is not similarly viewed, and so Lavarcham’s appreciation of Maeve’s conduct would differ from Conachúr’s, as his would be unlike Cathfa’s or Bricriu’s or Fergus mac Roy’s, and as these would be obscure to one another. The element of self-interest in each would act as a prism, and each would understand as much of the tale as he desired to understand, but no more, and would forgive or condemn on these arrested findings.

To Lavarcham Maeve’s flight was treachery and deserved punishment; but it was not, in her thought, a misfortune for which even Conachúr need weep. She had thoroughly disliked Maeve, for though she could impose on every one she could not impress that imperious lady, and she had never dared tell one half of Maeve’s doings lest the violent queen should suspect, and loose a slash that would cut her in two halves in the very presence of the king.

The departure of Maeve meant also the departure of mac Roth, and to be free from that jovial, crafty eye was so great a relief that Lavarcham could have wept in thankfulness; for to be a spy is a simple thing, an occupation like any other, but to be spied upon when one is a spy is a monstrous inversion of what is proper, and might easily give one palpitations of the heart.

Mac Roth had her frightened, and could have cowed her any time he wished. In her own craft he was her master, for, after all, she was only a household spy, but he was a—spy. She could glean from the kitchen or the Sunny Chamber everything that was there; but she must have walls about her and work behind those; while mac Roth did not mind whether he was in a room or in a forest; he would spy in a beehive; he would spy on the horned end of the moon; he would spy in the middle of the sea, and would know which wave it was that drowned him, and which was the wave that urged it on.

Lavarcham was not only glad that Maeve was gone, she was jubilant; and, moreover, it gave her an opportunity that she could scarcely have hoped for to advance her babe in life without parting from her, and to strengthen all her own grips on fortune.

Hitherto, when she had spoken of Conachúr to Deirdre she spoke of the king’s majesty, but now, insensibly, she began to talk of a great man bowed under misfortune and a proper subject for female pity. But she could not wipe out the king’s majesty with that sponge nor alter one lineament of the portrait she had taken ten years to limn.

The king persisted for Deirdre, stern and aloof and almost incredibly ancient, looming out from and overshadowing her infancy like a fairy tale; and was he not contemporary with Lavarcham, herself old enough to be remembered but not thought of? Deirdre was interested in the king as she was interested in the people of the Shí, [6] without expectation, and with a little fear.

But to her reasonings and objections Lavarcham had one answer:

“My soul and dear treasure, you cannot speak about men, for you have not seen any.”

And at last one day Deirdre replied:

“Indeed, mother, I have seen them, these men you tell me of.”

Lavarcham stared at her.

“And,” the gleeful child continued, “I have spoken to them.”

Her foster-mother became smoother than silk, and soft as the lap of kindness.

“Tell me about that, my one love, and tell me how men seem to you now that you have seen them.”

“It is not hard to tell,” replied Deirdre; “men are as ugly as donkeys, and,” she continued, “they are just as nice.”

“As ugly and as nice as donkeys!” Lavarcham quoted in a daze.

“Yes, mother, and I love them because they are so nice and ugly and good.”

“But what men are you talking of, my star?”

“I am talking of the men outside the walls.”

“The guards?”

“Of course.”

“And when did you see them?”

Deirdre laughed.

“Why, I have seen them ever since I was that height,” and she poised her hand two feet above the ground.

Lavarcham laughed at her and waggled a reproving finger.

“You have not seen them very often, all the same.”

“I have indeed,” the girl replied triumphantly. “I have seen them every day of my life for the last ten years.”

“And you spoke to them?”

“Of course I did. I know every one of them as well as I know you.”

“You do not, Deirdre!”

“I do so: I know their names, and who they are married to, and how many children they have. O, I know everything about them.”

“Sly little fairy of the hills,” cried her perplexed guardian, “you are poking fun at Lavarcham.”

“I surely am not,” Deirdre replied positively.

“Well, tell me about these men that are ugly and nice like donkeys.”

“Very well,” cried Deirdre, “I shall prove to you that I know them.

“You must know,” she narrated, “that each of these men is always at the same place outside the wall, but some of them are on guard during the daytime and others are on guard during the night. Every second week they change this order and the ones that have been on duty in the night take up day duty, and the day men replace them; and so they change and change about, year in and year out, under the charge of two captains and eight ancients. There are an hundred of these men altogether; twenty-five of them march from point to point all around the walls during the day, but in the night seventy-five men march to and from smaller points. In the day also, one captain and two ancients march around and overlook the twenty-five guards, but a captain and six ancients march about the men who are on duty at night.”

“Ah-ha,” cried Lavarcham, “you have been told all this by the women servants.”

“They only tell me tales of the men of Dana and of the Shí, and of how their children were born, and of the proper way to cure pimples.”

“Well, tell me more,” sighed Lavarcham, “until I see what it is that you do know.”

“The captain of the troop is named Daol, but the men call him Fat-face. He has fourteen children and is unhappily married, for he has told me many times that if he had a better wife he would be a better man. One day when his wife was baking him a cake she baked a spell into it, so that, although he had never felt ache or pain before, he was racked all that day with torments; and ever since, when the moon changes and the wind goes round, he gets pains in his bones, and he beats his wife when he gets home on the head of it.”

“You are certainly acquainted with this Fat-face.”

“I love him. He wears a great leathern belt with a sword hung from it, and, when he orders the men, he thrusts his two hands down through the belt, stretches his legs very wide apart, and roars at them—but how he roars! ‘Troop!’ he roars: ‘turn by the right hand: trot’; and all the dear old men trot with their heads down very thoughtfully, until he roars at them to stop trotting, and then they all sneeze, and talk about their feet.

“Sometimes he lets me drill the men.”

“He should not,” said Lavarcham.

“He had to,” the girl replied, “for I threw stones at him from the top of the wall until he agreed to let me do it. But that was a long time ago.”

“He should have reported all this.”

“Do you mean he should have told on me,” cried Deirdre indignantly. “Indeed I should like to see Fat-face daring to tell anything about me. Why, the men would beat him if he told. I would get down off the wall and beat him myself.”

[6] The Shí = Fairyland.