Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 06, No. 33, July, 1860 - Various - Страница 2

TREASURE-TROVE

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Once, the Castle of Chalus, crowned

With sullen battlements, stood and frowned

On the sullen plain around it;

But Richard of England came one day,

And the Castle of Chalus passed away

In such a rapid and sure decay

No modern yet has found it.

Who has not heard of the Lion King

Who made the harps of the minstrels ring?

Oh, well they might imagine it

Hard for chivalry's ranks to show

A knight more gallant to face a foe,

With a firmer lance or a heavier blow,

Than Richard I. Plantagenet;

Or gayer withal: for he loved his joke,

As well as he loved, with slashing stroke,

The haughtiest helm to hack at:

Wine or blood he laughingly poured;

'Twas a lightsome word or a heavy sword,

As he found a foe or a festive board,

With a skull or a joke to crack at.

Yet some their candid belief avow,

That, if Richard lived in England now,

And his lot were only a common one,

He ne'er had meddled with kings or states,

But might have been a bruiser of pates

And champion now of the "heavy weights,"–

A first-rate "Fighting Phenomenon."

A vassal bound in peace and war

To Richard I. was Vidomar,–

A noble as proud and needy

As ever before that monarch bowed,

But not so needy and not so proud

As the monarch himself was greedy.

Vicomte was he of the Limousin,

Where stones were thick and crops were thin,

And profits small and slow to come in.

But slow and sure, the father's plan, did

Not suit the son. Sire lived close-handed;

Became, not rich, but very landed.

The only debt that ever he made

Was Nature's debt, and that he paid

About the time of the Third Crusade,–

A time when the fashion was fully set

By Richard of running in tilts and debt,

When plumes were high and prudence low,

And every knight felt bound to "go

The pace," and just like Richard do,

By running his purse and a Paynim through.

Yet do not suppose that Vidomar

Was ever a knight in the Holy War:

For Richard many a Saracen's head

Had lopped before the old Count was dead;

And Richard was home from Palestine,

Home from the dungeon of Tiernstein,

And many a Christian corpse had made,

Ere the time in which the story is laid.

But the fashion he set became so strong,

That Vidomar was hurried along,

And did as many a peer has done

On reaching a title and twenty-one,

And met the fate that will meet a peer

Who lives in state on nothing a year.

Deserted by all, except some Jews,

Holding old post-obits and IOUs,

Who hunted him up and hunted him down,

He left Limoges, the capital town,

For his country castle Chalus,

(As spendthrift lords to Boulogne repair,

To give their estates a chance to air,)

And went to turning fallows;

At least, he ordered it, (much the same,)

And went himself in pursuit of game

Or any rural pleasure,

Till one fine day, as he rode away,

A serf came running behind to say

They'd found a crock of treasure.

No more he thought of hawk or hound,

But spurred to the spot, and there he found,

Beyond his boldest thoughts,

A sum to set him afloat again,–

The leading figure, 'twas very plain,

Was followed by several 0s.

Oh, who can tell of the schemes that flew

Through his head, as the treasure met his view,

And he knew that again his note was good?

He may have felt as a debtor would

Who has dodged a dogging dun,

Or a bank-cashier in his hour of dread

With brokers behind and breakers ahead,

Or a blood with his last "upon the red,"–

And each expecting a run.

What should he do? 'Twas very true

That all of his debts were overdue;

But the "real- whole-souled" must use their gold

To run new scores,–not to pay off old.

That night he lay till the break of day,

The doubtful question solving:

Himself in his bed, and that in his head,

He kept by turns revolving.

That selfsame day, not very far

From the country castle of Vidomar,

The king had been progressing:

A courtly phrase, when the king was out

On a chivalrous bender; any route

As good as another: what about

Were little good in guessing.

That night, as he sat and drank, he frowned,

While courtiers moodily stood around,

All wondering what the journey meant,

Till a scout reported, "Treasure found!"–

With a rap that made the glasses bound,

He swore, "By Arthur's table round,

I'll have another tournament!"

No more, as he sat and drank, he frowned,

Or courtiers moodily stood around,

But all were singing, drinking;

And louder than all the songs he led,

And louder he said, "Ho! pass the red!"

Till he went to bed with a ring in his head

That seemed like gold a- chinking.

'Twere wrong to infer from what you're read

That Richard awoke with an aching head;

For nerves like his resisted

With wonderful ease what we might deem

Enough to stagger a Polypheme,

And his spirits would never more than seem

A trifle too much "assisted."

And yet in the morn no fumes were there,

And his eyes were bright,–almost as a pair

Of eyes that you and I know;

For his head, the best authorities write,

(See the Story of Tuck,) was always right

And sound as ever after a night

Of "Pellite curas vino!"

As soon as the light broke into his tent,

Without delay for a herald he sent,

And bade him don his tabard,

And away to the Count to say, "By law

That gold was the king's: unless he saw

The same ere noon, his sword he would draw

And throw away the scabbard."

An hour, for his morning exercise,

He swayed that sword of wondrous size,–

'Twas called his great "persuader";

Then a mace of steel he smote in two,–

A feat which the king would often do,

Since Saladin wondered at that coup

When he met our stout crusader.

A trifle for him: he "trained to light,"–

Grown lazy now: but his appetite,

On the whole, was satisfactory,–

As the vanishing viands, warm and cold,

Most amply proved, ere, minus the gold,

The herald returned and trembling told

How the Count had proved refractory:

Had owned it true that his serfs had found

A treasure buried somewhere in the ground,–

Perhaps not strictly a nugget:

Though none but Norman lawyers chose

To count it tort, if the finders "froze"

To treasure-trove,–especially those

Who held the land where they dug it,–

For quits he'd give up half,–down,–cash;

And that, for one who had gone to smash,

Was a liberal restitution:

His neighbor Shent-per-Shent did sue

On a better claim, and put it through,–

Recovered his suit, but not a sou

At the tail of an execution.

Coeur gazed around with the ominous glare

Of the lion deprived of the lion's share,–

A look there was no mistaking,–

A look which the courtiers never saw

Without a sudden desire to draw

Away from the sweep of the lion's paw

Before their bones were aching.

He caught the herald,–'twas by the slack

Of garments below and behind his back,–

Then twirled him round for a minute;

And when at last he let him free,

He shied him at a neighboring tree,

A distance of thirty yards and three,

And lodged him handsomely in it:

Then seized his ponderous battle-axe,

And bade his followers mount their hacks,

With a look on his countenance so stern,

So little of fun, so full of fight,

That, when he came in the Count's full sight,

In something of haste and more of fright,

The Count rode out of the postern;

And crowding leagues from his angry liege,

He left his castle to storm or siege,–

His poor beef-eaters to hold out,

Or save themselves as well as they could,

Or be food for crows: what noble should

Waste thought on such? As a noble would,

He prudently smuggled the gold out.

In the feudal days, in the good old times

Of feudal virtues and feudal crimes,

A point of honor they'd make in it,

Though sure in the end their flag must fall,

To show stout fight and never to call

A truce till they saw a hole in the wall

Or a larder without any steak in it.

The fight began. Shouts filled the air,–

"St. George!" "St. Denis!"–as here and there

The shock of the battle shifted;

There were catapult-shots and shots by hand,

Ladders with desperate climbers manned,

Rams and rocks, hot lead, and sand

On the heads of the climbers sifted.

But the sturdy churls would not give way,

Though Richard in person rushed to the fray

With all of his rash proclivity

For knocks; till, despairing of knightly fame

In doughty deeds for a doubtful claim,

The hero of Jaffa changed his game

To a masterly inactivity.

He stretched his lines in a circle round,

And pitched his tent on a rising ground

For general supervision

Of both the hostile camps, while he

Could join with Blondel in minstrel glee,

Or drink, or dice with Marcadee,

And they-– consume provision.

To starve a garrison day by day

You may not think a chivalrous way

To take a fortification.

The story is dull: by way of relief,

I make a digression, very brief,

And leave the "ins" to swallow their beef,

The "outs" their mortification.

Many there were in Richard's train

More known to fame and of higher degree,

But none that suited his fickle vein

So well as Blondel and Marcadee.

Blondel had grown from a minstrel-boy

To a very romantic troubadour

Whose soul was music, whose song was joy,

Whose only motto was Vive l'amour!

In lady's bower, in lordly hall,

From the king himself to the poorest clown,

A joyous welcome he had from all,

And Care in his presence forgot to frown.

Sadly romantic, fantastic and vain,

His heart for his head still made amends;

For he never sang a malicious strain.

And never was known to fail his friends.

Who but he, when the captive king,

By a brother betrayed, was left to rot,

Would have gone disguised to seek and sing,

Till he heard his tale and the tidings brought?

Little the listening sentries dreamed,

As they watched the king and a minstrel play,

That what but an idle rhyming seemed

Would rouse all England another day!

'Twas the timely aid of a friend in need,

And, seldom as Richard felt the power

Of a service past, he remembered the deed

And cherished him ever from that hour:

He made him his bard, with nought to do

But court the ladies and court the Nine,

And every day bring something new

To sing for the revellers over their wine;

With once a year a pipe of Sherry,

A suit of clothes, and a haunch of venison,

To make himself and his fellows merry,–

The salary now of Alfred Tennyson.

Marcadee was a stout Brabançon,

With conscience weak and muscles strong,

Who roamed about from clime to clime,

The side of virtue or yet of crime

Ready to take in a regular way

For any leader and regular pay;

Who trusted steel, and thought it odd

To fear the Devil or honor God.

His forte was not in the field alone,

He was no common fighter,

For in all accomplishments he shone,–

At least, in all the lighter.

To lance or lute alike au fait,

With grasp now firm, now light,

He flourished this to knightly lay,

And that to lay a knight.

Ready in fashion to lead the ton,

In the battle-field his men,

He danced like a Zephyr, and, harness on,

Could walk his mile in ten.

And Nature gave him such a frame,

His tailor such a fit,

That, whether a head or a heart his aim,

He always made a hit.

Wherever he went, the ladies dear

Would very soon adore him,

And, quite of course, the lords would sneer,–

But never sneer before him!

Perhaps it fared with the ladies worse

Than it fared with their gallants;

For he broke a vow with as slight remorse

As he ever broke a lance.

Thus, tilting here and jilting there,

He fought a foe or he fooled a fair,

But little recking how;

So deadly smooth, so cruel and vain,

He might have made a capital Cain,

Or a splendid dandy now.

In short, if you looked o'er land and sea,

From London to the Niger,

You certainly must have said with me,–

If Richard was lion, Marcadee

Might well have been the tiger.

A month went by. They lay there still,

And chafed with nothing but time to kill,–

A tough old foe. Observe the way

They laid him out, as thus:–One day,–

'Twas after dinner and afternoon,

When the noise was over of knife and fork,

And only was heard an occasional cork

And Blondel idly thrumming a tune,–

King Richard pushed the wine along,

And rapped the table, and cried, "A song!

Dulness I hold a shame, a sin

Against good wine. Come, Blondel, begin!"

Blondel coughed,–was "half afraid,"–

Was "out last night on a serenade,

And caught a cold,"–his "voice was gone,–

And really, just now, his head"–"Go on!"

He bowed, and swept the chords– "Brrrrang"–

With a handful of notes, and thus he sang:–

BLONDEL.

Life is fleeting,–make it pleasant;

Care for nothing but the present;

For the past we leave behind us,

And the future may not find us.

Though we cannot shun its troubles,

Care and sorrow we may banish;

Though its pleasures are but bubbles,

Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.

There is joy we cannot measure,–

Joy we may not win with treasure.

When the glance of Beauty thrills us',

When her love with rapture fills us,

Let us seize it ere it passes;

Be our motto, "Love is mighty."

Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses!

Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!

Of course they drank with a right good will,

For they never missed a chance "to fill."

And yet a few, I'm sorry to own,

Made side-remarks in an undertone,

Like those we hear, when, nowadays,

Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,

Contrive to damn. In the midst of the hum

They heard a loud and slashing thrum:

'Twas the king: and each his breath drew in

Till you might have heard a falling pin.

Some little excuse, at first, he made,

While over the lute his fingers strayed:–

"You know my way,–as the fancies come,

I improvise."–There was ink on his thumb.

That morning, alone, good hours he spent

In writing despatches never sent.

RICHARD.

There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing

And Beauty is willing; but more

When the war-horse is gallantly prancing

And snuffing the battle afar,–

When the foe, with his banner advancing,

Is sounding the clarion of war.

Where the battle is deadly and gory,

Where foeman 'gainst foeman is pressed,

Where the path is before me to glory,

Is pleasure for me, and the best.

Let me live in proud chivalry's story,

Or die with my lance in its rest!

The plaudits followed him loud and free

As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,

Who caught it featly, bowing low,

And said, "My liege, I may not know

To improvise; but I'll give a song,

The song of our camp,–we've known it long.

It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,

But needs to be heard with a rattling drum.

Ho, there! Tambour!–He knows it well,–

'The Brabançon!'–Now make it tell;

Let your elbows now with a spirit wag

In the outside roll and the double drag."

MARCADEE.

I'm but a soldier of fortune, you see:

Huzza!

Glory and love,–they are nothing to me:

Ha, ha!

Glory's soon faded, and love is soon cold:

Give me the solid, reliable gold:

Hurrah for the gold!

Country or king I have none, I am free:

Huzza!

Patriot's quarrel,– 'tis harvest for me:

Ha, ha!

A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,–

I'd fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold:

Hurrah for the gold!

He turned to the king, as he finished the verse,

And threw on the table a heavy purse

With a pair of dice; another, I trow,

Still lurked incog. for a lucky throw:–

"'Tis mine; 'twas thine. If the king would play,

Perchance he'd find his revenge to-day.

Gambling, I own, is a fault, a sin;

I always repent–unless I win."

Le jeu est fait. –"Well thrown! eleven!

My purse is gone.–Double-six, by heaven!"

At this unlucky point in the game

A herald was ushered in. He came

With a flag of truce, commissioned to say

The garrison now were willing to lay

The keys of the castle at his feet,

If he'd let them go and let them eat:

They'd done their best; could do no more

Than humbly wait the fortune of war

And Richard's word. It came in tones

That grated harshly:–"D–n the bones

And double-six! Marcadee, you've won.–

Take back my word to each mother's son,

And tell them Richard swore it:

Be the smoke of their den their funeral pall!

By the Holy Tomb, I'll hang them all!

They've hung out so well behind their wall,

They'll hang out well before it."

Then Richard laughed in his hearty way,

Enjoying his joke, as a monarch may;

He laughed till he ached for want of breath:

If it lacked in life, it was full of death:

Like many, believing the next best thing

To a joke with a point is a joke with a sting.

Loud he laughed; but he laughed not long

Ere he leaped to the back of his charger strong,

And bounded forward, axe on high,

Circling the tents with his battle-cry,–

"Away! away! we shall win the day:

In the front of the fight you'll find me:

The first to get in my spurs shall win,–

My boots to the wight behind me!"

* * * They have reached the moat;

The draw is up, but a wooden float

Is thrust across, and onward they run;

The bank is gained and the barbican won;

The outer gate goes down with a crash;

Through the portcullis they madly dash,

And with shouts of triumph they now assail

The innermost gate. The crushing hail

Of rocks and beams goes through the mass,

Like the summer-hail on the summer-grass;–

They falter, they waver. A stalwart form

Breaks through the ranks, like a bolt in the storm:

'Tis the Lion King!–"How, now, ye knaves!

Do ye look for safety? Find your graves!"–

One blow to the left, one blow to the right,–

Two recreants fall;–no more of flight.

One stride to the front, and, stroke on stroke,

His curtle-axe rends the double oak.

Down shower the missiles;–they fall in vain;

They scatter like drops from the lion's mane.

He is down,–he is up;–that right arm! how

'Tis nerved with the strength of twenty, now!

The barrier yields,–it shivers,–it falls.

"Huzza! Saint George! to the walls! to the walls!

Throw the rate to the moat! cut down! spare not!

No quarter! remember–Je–su! I'm shot!"

On a silken pallet lying, under hangings stiff with gold,

Now is Coeur-de-Lion sighing, weakly sighing, he the bold!

For with riches, power, and glory now forever he must part.

They have told him he is dying. Keen remorse is at his heart

Life is grateful, life is glorious, with the pulses bounding high

In a warrior frame victorious: it were easy so to die.

Yet to die is fearful ever; oh, how fearful, when the sum

Of the past is lengthened murder,–and a fearful world to come!

Where are now the wretched victims of his wrath? The deed is done.

He has conquered. They have suffered. Yonder, blackening in the sun,

From the battlements they're hanging. Little joy it gives to him

Now to see the work of vengeance, when his eye is growing dim!

One was saved,–the daring bowman who the fatal arrow sped;

He was saved, but not for mercy; better numbered with the dead!

Now, relenting, late repenting, Richard turns to Marcadee,

Saying, "Haste, before I waver, bring the captive youth to me."

He is brought, his feet in fetters, heavy shackles on his hands,

And, with eye unflinching, gazing on the king, erect he stands.

He is gazing not in anger, not for insult, not for show;

But his soul, before its leaving, Richard's very soul would know.

Death is certain,– death by torture: death for him can have no sting,

If that arrow did its duty,–if he share it with the king.

Were he trembling or defiant, were he less or more than bold,

Once again to vengeful fury would he rouse the fiend of old

That in Richard's breast is lurking, ready once again to spring.

Dreading now that vengeful spirit, with a wavering voice, the king

Questions impotently, wildly: "Prisoner, tell me, what of ill

Ever I have done to thee or thine, that me thou wouldest kill?"

Higher, prouder still he bears him; o'er his countenance appear,

Flitting quickly, looks of wonder and of scorn: what does he hear?

"And dost thou ask me, man of blood, what evil thou hast done?

Hast thou so soon forgot thy vow to hang each mother's son?

No! oft as thou hast broken vows, I know them to be strong,

Whene'er thy pride or lust or hate has sworn to do a wrong.

But churls should bow to right divine of kings, for good or ill,

And bare their necks to axe or rope, if 'twere thy royal will?

Ah, hadst thou, Richard, yet to learn the very meanest thing

That crawls the earth in self-defence would turn upon a king?

Yet deem not 'twas the hope of life which led me to the deed:

I'd freely lose a thousand lives to make thee, tyrant, bleed!–

Ay! mark me well, canst thou not see somewhat of old Bertrand?

My father good! my brothers dear!–all murdered by thy hand!

Yes, one escaped; he saw thee strike, he saw his kindred die,

And breathed a vow, a burning vow of vengeance;–it was I!

I've lived; but all my life has been a memory of the slain;

I've lived but to revenge them,–and I have not lived in vain!

I read it in thy haggard face, the hour is drawing nigh

When power and wealth can aid thee not,–when, Richard, thou must DIE!

What mean those pale, convulsive lips? What means that shrinking brow?

Ha! Richard of the lion- heart, thou art a coward now!

Now call thy hireling ruffians; bid them bring the cord and rack,

And bid them strain these limbs of mine until the sinews crack;

And bid them tear the quivering flesh, break one by one each bone;–

Thou canst not break my spirit, though thou mayst compel a groan.

I die, as I would live and die, the ever bold and free;

And I shall die with joy, to think I've rid the world of thee."

Swords are starting from their scabbards, grim and hardened warriors wait

Richard's slightest word or gesture that may seal the bowman's fate.

But his memory has been busy with the deeds of other times.

In the eyes of wakened conscience all his glories turn to crimes,

And his crimes to something monstrous; worlds were little now to give

In atonement for the least. He cries, in anguish, "Let him live.

He has reason; never treason more became a traitor bold.

Youth, forgive as I forgive thee! Give him freedom,–give him gold.

Marcadee, be sure, obey me; 'tis the last, the dying hest

Of a monarch who is sinking, sinking fast,–oh, not to rest!

Haply, He above, remembering, may relieve my dark despair

With a ray of hope to light the gloom when I am suffering– there!"

The captain neared the royal bed

And humbly bowed his helmèd head,

And laid his hand upon the plate

That sheathed his breast, and said, "Though late

Thy mercy comes, I hold it still

My duty to do thy royal will.

If I should fail to serve thee fair,

May I be doomed to suffer–there!"

I've often met with a fast young friend