The Mezentian Gate

He said, ‘You must not ask questions when you know the answer.’

Anthea sat back on her heels and laughed. Upon the motion, her hair, loosely bound up with a string of clouded zircon stones of that translucent blue which is in the lip of an ice-cave looked up to from within, fell, in tumbled cataracts as of very sunlight, down about her shoulders and, in one of its uncoiling fulvid streams, over her breast. ‘She Herself does not know the answer. I suppose, in this present dress of Hers, She is asleep?’

‘In this present dress,’ said the ancient doctor, ‘She is turned outward from Herself. You may, if you choose, conceive it as a kind of sleep: a kind of forgetting. As the sunshine were to forget itself in the thing it shines on.’

‘In that lion-cub of hers? I cannot understand such a forgetting in Her.’

‘No, my oread. Nor I would not wish you able to understand it, for that were to maculate the purity of your own proper nature.’

‘And you would wish me be as I am?’

‘Yes,’ answered he. ‘You, and all true beings else.’

The girl, silent, putting up her hair, met his look unsmilingly with her unquiet, feline, burning eyes.

‘We will go on,’ said the doctor, rising from his seat.

Anthea with a lithe and sinuous grace rose to follow him.

‘Whither?’ she asked as they came southward.

‘Up to Teremne. We will look upon these festivities.’

In the old Teremnene palace which, like an eagle’s nest, crowns the summit ridge of the south-eastern and loftier of the twin steep rock bastions called Teremne and Mehisbon, on and about which has grown up as by accretion of ages Rialmar town, is a little secret garden pleasaunce. It lies square between walls and the living rock, in good shelter from the unkinder winds but open to the sun, this side or that, from fore-noon till late evening. No prying windows overlook it: no intrusive noises visit it of the world’s stir without: a very formal garden artificially devised with paved walks of granite trod smooth by the use of centuries, and with flights of steps going down at either side and at either end to an oval pond in the midst, and upon a pedestal in the midst of that pond a chryselephantine statue of Aphrodite as rising from the sea. At set paces there were parterres of tiny mountain plants: stonecrop, houseleek, rock madwort, mountain dryas, trefoils, and the little yellow mountain poppy; and with these that creeping evening primrose, which lifts up wavy-edged four-lobed saucers of a spectral whiteness, new every night at night-fall, to bloom through the hours of dark and fill the garden with an overmastering sharp sweetness. And at full morning they droop and begin to furl their petals, suffused now with pink colour which were white as a snowdrop’s, and lose all their scent, and the thing waits lifeless and inert till night shall return again and wake it to virgin-new delicacy and deliciousness. This was Queen Stateira’s garden, furnished out anew for her sake seven years ago by Mardanus her lord, who in those days made little store of gardens, but much of his young new-wedded wife.

Shadows were lengthening now, as afternoon drew towards evening. In one of the deep embrasures of the east wall which look down the precipice sheer eight hundred feet, to the river mouth and the harbour and so through skyey distances to the great mountain chains, so blanketed at this hour with cloud that hard it was to discern snowfield from cloudbank, leaned King Mardanus in close talk with two or three about him. No wind stirred in the garden, and the spring sunshine rested warm on their shoulders.

Away from them at some twenty yards’ remove, by the waterside, upon a bench of lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl, sat the Queen. The brightness of the sun shining from behind her obscured her features under a veiling mystery, but not to conceal an ambiency of beauty that lived in her whole frame and posture, an easefulness and reposefulness of unselfregarding grace. The light kindled to flame the native fire-colours in her hair, and the thrown shadow of that statue touched the furred hem of her skirt and the gold-woven lace-work on her shoe.

Over against her on the same bench the Lady Marescia Parry, only child of Prince Garman of Fingiswold, and so cousin german to the King, faced the sun. She was at this time in the twenty-fourth year of her age: of a dazzling whiteness of skin: her eyes, busy, bold and eager, of a hot chestnut brown: her nose a falcon’s, her yellow hair, strained back from her high forehead by a thin silver circlet garnished with stone and pearls, fell loose and untressed about her back and powerful shoulders, in fashion of a bride’s.

The Queen spoke: ‘Well, cousin, you are wedded.’

‘Well wedded, but not yet bedded.’

‘’Las, when mean you to give over that ill custom of yours?’

‘Ill custom?’

‘Ever to speak broad.’

‘O, between kinsfolk. Tell me unfeignedly, what thinks your highness of my Supervius? Is a not a proper man?’

‘He belieth not his picture. And since ’twas his picture you fell in love with, and he with yours, I dare say you have gotten the husband of your choice.’

The Princess smiled with her lips: cherry-red lips, lickerous, and masterful. ‘And by right of conquest,’ she said. ‘That sauceth my dish: most prickingly.’

‘Yet remember,’ said the Queen, ‘we wives are seldom conquerors beyond first se’nnight.’

‘I’ll talk to your highness of that hereafter. But I spake not of conquest upon him. My blood tells me there’s fire enough in the pair of us to outburn such cold-hearth rivalries as that. Dear Gods forfend I should e’er yield myself chattel to the man I wed: but neither could I be fool enough to wed with such a man as I could bring down to be chattel of mine. Nay, I spoke of my parents; ay, and (with respect) of yourself, and of the King.’

‘Your conquest there,’ replied the Queen, ‘is measure of our love of you.’

‘Doubtless. But measure, besides, of mine own self will. Without that,’ here she glanced over her shoulder and leaned a little nearer, ‘I am apt to think your love of me (the King’s, at least) had played second fiddle to more deeper policies.’

The Queen said, ‘Well, fret not for that. You have had your way.’

Marescia lifted her superb white chin and her mouth smiled. ‘Truly, cousin,’ she said, managing her voice almost to a whisper, ‘I think you are to thank me, all of you. Put case I had fallen in with your fine design to match me to yonder outed Prince of Akkama. The man is well enough: personable, I grant: qualified out of all ho, I’d swear, to please a woman: but of what avail? With’s father dead, and himself, driven away by the usurper, a landless exile still sitting on your door-step here. How shall such an one be ever a king, or lord of aught save’s own empty imaginings and discontents? I swear the King (Gods send he live for ever) may get better purchase by this that, following my own natural lust o’ the eye, I have brought him, than by Aktor, be he ten times prince indeed. And Rerek, far nearer us in blood and custom. Wed with yonder foreign lick-dish! God’s dignity, I’d sleep in the byre sooner and breed minotaurs.’

Queen Stateira laughed: honest lovely laughter, bred of sweet blood and the life-breath fancy free; ‘Come, you’re too bitter.’

‘Aktor is in your highness’s books, I think.’

‘Why think that?’

‘Strange else, professing so much cousinly love to me, you should a wished me give my hand there.’

The Queen looked away. ‘To tell you true, dear Marescia, ’twas the King’s wish, and but therefore mine, as being my duty.’

‘Duty?’ said the Princess: ‘to be led blindfold by your husband? Go, they’ll ne’er call me perfect wife a those terms.’

There was a pause. Then Marescia, sitting back again, her voice now at its ordinary strength and pitch: ‘What is this prognosticator by the stars, this soothsayer, your highness keeps i’ the palace?’

‘What do you mean? I keep none such.’

‘O yes: a greybeard signior: long gaberdine, and capped magister artium: some compliment-monger, I would wager. Comes to me as I passed among the throng of guests not half an hour since on my Lord Supervius’s arm, gives me a stare o’ the eye turned all my backside to gooseflesh, and crieth out that I shall bear Supervius a son shall be greater than his father.’

‘Heaven hold fast the omen,’

‘And then to my Lord Emmius, whom I must now call brother-in-law: crieth out and saith that of the seed of Emmius Parry shall come both a queen of earth and a queen of heaven.’

‘And what will he cry out at me, think you?’ said the Queen.

‘Please you enter the hall of the Sea Horses, I can show him to you, and you may examine him.’

‘Dear my Lord,’ said Stateira, as the King and those about him, their business being it seemed concluded, approached her, ‘here’s diversion for you,’ and told him what Marescia had said. The King bluffly humouring it as child’s talk, assented.

‘Yonder standeth the old man: there, that tall, lanky one,’ Marescia said in the Queen’s ear, from behind, as they descended the great staircase into that vast hall and paused upon the last steps between the two sea-horses of dark blue rock-crystal well the height of a man’s shoulder, there to take their stand and survey the company that, upon sounding of trumpets to a sennet to proclaim the King’s presence, abode all motionless now and with all faces turned that way: ‘and the girl with beastly eyes,’ she said, ‘who is, I suppose his granddaughter. Or, may hap, his bona roba, if such a jack pudding have use or custom of such commodities.’

Supervius eyed his princess with the deepening satisfaction of a skilled rider who begins to know the paces of a new high-blooded but untried mare. ‘Speak within door, Marescia,’ said her father. The King sent a little page of his of six year old that was named Jeronimy, to bring the doctor before him.

When that was done, and Vandermast made his obeisance, the King surveyed him a while in silence: then said, ‘Who are you, old sir? Of my folk or an outlander?’

‘I am,’ answered he, ‘your serene highness’s life-long loyal faithful subject: my habitation many journeys from this, south on the Wold: my practice, that of a doctor in philosophy.’

‘And what make you here i’ the court?’

‘To pay my humble duty where most I do owe it, and to behold with mine eyes at last this place and the glory thereof.’

‘And to seek a pension?’

‘No, Lord. Being entered now upon my ninth ten years I do find my lean patrimony sufficient to my livelihood, and in meditation of the metaphysicals food sufficient to sustain my mind. Over and above these things, I have no needs.’

‘A wise man,’ gently said the Queen, ‘by what he saith. For, to speak true, here is freedom indeed.’

‘I ne’er heard philosophy filled a man’s belly,’ said the King, with a piercing look still regarding him. ‘You are bruited to me, you, to have uttered here, this instant afternoon, prognosticks and probabilities (some would call ’em improbabilities, but let that pass) touching certain noble persons, guests at our wedding feast.’

Vandermast said, ‘I did so, my Lord and King, but in answer to interrogatives proposed to me by the persons in question.’

The King raised an eyebrow at Marescia. ‘O yes,’ said she: ‘we did ask him.’

‘I gave but voice to my thoughts that came me in mind,’ said Vandermast. ‘Neither spake I unconsiderately, but such things only as upon examination with mine inward judgement seemed likely and reasonable.’

The King was fallen silent a minute, glaring with his eyes into the eyes, steadfast and tranquil, of that learned doctor beneath their snow-thatched eaves, as though he would plumb some unsoundable darkness that underlay their shining and candid outward. Shifting his gaze at last, ‘You shall not be blamed for that,’ he said: then privately, to Prince Aktor, who was stood close on his right, ‘Here is a man I like: is able to look me in the eye without brave nor slavishness. Kings seldom have to deal but with the one or t’other.’

‘Your serene highness hath never, I think,’ replied Aktor, ‘had to deal with the first.’ He glanced across to Queen Stateira who, upon the King’s left hand, wide-eyed and with lovely lips half parted, was watching Doctor Vandermast with the intent and pleasure and wonder of a child. She caught the glance and looked away.

‘You have answered well,’ said the King to Vandermast. ‘These be days of mirth and rejoicing, and fitting it is folk show themselves open-handed on high holiday, to give somewhat of alms to poor needy persons, most of all when such do utter good words or in what other way soever do seem to merit it. Wear this from me,’ he said, taking a ring from his finger. ‘My grandfather’s it was, King Anthyllus’s upon whom be peace. ’Tis thought there be virtue in the stone, and I would not bestow it save on one in whom I seemed to smell some deserts answerable to its worth. But forget not, the law lieth very deadly against whoso shall make bold to prophesy concerning the King’s person. Aim not therefore at me in your conjectures, old man, bode they good or ill, lest a worse thing overtake you.’

‘My Lord the King,’ said Vandermast, ‘you have commanded, and your command shall with exactness be obeyed. I have told your serenity that few and little are my possessions, and yet that there is nought whereof I do stand in want, nor will I be a taker of rewards. For it is a property universal of rewards that they can corrupt action, propounding to the actor (if the action be bad) a reason beyond the action’s self, without which reason the action must have remained unacted. Because badness of itself is no reason. Contrariwise, be the action good, then the mere fact that it was acted for sake of reward can beget this bad habit in a man: to have respect to cheap, decaying, extern rewards; which enureth in the end so to debauch his inmost understanding that he becometh unable to taste or to desire the true only costly everlasting and ever satisfying reward, which hath its seat in the good action itself. But this,’ he said, drawing onto his finger the King’s ring, ‘cometh not as a reward but as a gift royal, even as great Kings have from the antique times been renowned and honoured as ring-scatterers: a noble example which I find your serene highness do make your own.’

‘Be such as I think you to be,’ said the King, ‘and my friendship followeth the gift.’

The doctor, that audience being done, came and went for a while his leisurely to and fro, within door and without, and always upon the fringes of the company, not as member thereof so much as looker on rather and listener, remarking whatsoever in any person appeared of remarkable: carriages, aspects, moods, manners, silences, little subtleties of eye, nostril, lip. And about and above him, at every succeeding step of his progress through this palace upon the southern horn of Rialmar, the greatness and the ancientness of the place hung heavier. Even as, to a climber, the mere vastness of the mountain becomes, as he goes higher, a presence, unite and palpable, built up of successive vastness of slabbed rock-face, vertiginous ice-cliff, eye-dazzling expanse of snow-field, up-soaring ultimate cornice chiselled by the wind to a sculptured perfection of line, sun-bright and remote against an infinite remoteness of blue heaven above it, so here was all gathered to an immobility of time-worn and storied magnificence: cyclopaean walls and gateways; flights of stairs six riders abreast might ride down on horseback and not touch knees; galleries, alcoves and clerestories cut from the rock; perspectives flattening the eye down distances of corbel and frieze and deep-mullioned windows six times the height of a man; colonnades with doric capitals curiously carved, supporting huge-timbered vaulted roofs; and domed roofs that seemed wide as the arch of day. All of which, apprehended in its wholeness, might cast a wise mind into oblivion not of its own self only and of all mankind but even of the everlasting mountains themselves; in the sudden apprehension that this Rialmar might be the nursery or breeding-place of a majesty and a loneliness older-rooted than theirs.

Closed in these meditations, he came once more into that presence-chamber, with its sea-horse staircase, and here was one of the Queen’s chamberlains with her highness’s bidding that Doctor Vandermast should attend her in the privy garden. The doctor followed him; and, passing on their way through a vaulted corridor hewn in the rock and brightly lighted with hanging lamps, they were met with a nurse leading in her hand a child yet in his side-coats, of two or three years old. The doctor viewed the boy narrowly, and the boy him. ‘What child was that?’ he asked, when they were gone by. The chamberlain, with a skewing of his eye at him as of one smally trusting old vagrant men that were likely sprung of a stone and certainly best told nothing, as soonest mended, answered that it was one of the children of the palace, he knew not for sure which. Which answer the learned doctor let go without further remark.

‘It is her highness’s pleasure,’ said the chamberlain, at the garden gate, ‘to receive you in private. Be pleased to walk on’: so Vandermast entered in alone and stood before Queen Stateira.

She was sitting sideways now on the jewelled bench, her feet up, sewing a kirtle of white satin embroidered with flowers of silver. Upon the doctor’s coming she but glanced up and so back to her needlework. It was yet bright sunshine, but with the wearing of the afternoon the shadow of that gold and ivory statue of our Lady of Paphos no longer touched the Queen where she sat. The air was colder, and she had a high-collared cloak about her shoulders of rich brown velvet, coloured of the pine-marten’s skin in summer and lined with vair. He waited, watching her, while she with down-bended eyes plied her needle. Nought else stirred, except now and then a blazing of hot colour where her hair caught the sun, and except, where the pleated neck-ruff of her gown ran lowest, the gentle fall and swell of her breathing. After a little, she raised her eyes. ‘Can you guess, reverend sir, why I have sent for you?’ The sun was behind her, and her countenance not to be read.

He answered, ‘I will not guess, for I know.’

‘Then tell me. For, in good sadness, I know not why I did it. Answer freely: you see we are alone.’

‘Because,’ answered he, after a moment’s silence, ‘your highness is fugitive and homeless, therefore you did do it; vainly expecting that the will-o’-the-wisp of an old man’s fallible counsel should be a lamp to light you home.’

‘These are strange unlikely words,’ she said. ‘I know not how to take them.’

‘Truth,’ said Vandermast gently, ‘was ever a strange wild-fowl.’

‘Truth! I that was born and bred in Rialmar, where else then shall I be at home? I that am your Queen, how should I be a fugitive, and from what?’

‘To be here before your time is to be homeless. And the necessity you flee from is necessity by this cause only, that yourself (albeit I think you have forgotten) did choose it to make it so.’

The violent blood suffused all her face and neck, and with the suddenness of her half-rising from her seat the rich and costly embroidery slid from her lap and lay crumpled on the ground. She sat back again: ‘I see you are but some phantastical sophister who with speaking paradoxically will gain the reputation of wisdom and reach. I’ll listen to no more.’

‘I am nought else,’ answered that aged man, painfully upon one knee retrieving the fallen satins, ‘than your highness’s creature and servant. You do misprize, moreover, the words I spake, referring unto one particular accident what was meant in a generality more loftily inclusive.’ Then, standing again in respectful reverence before her, ‘And yet, it fits,’ he said, under his breath as to himself only; but the Queen, with head bowed as before over her needlework, seemed to shrink, as though the words touched her on a wound.

‘I have lost my needle,’ she said. ‘No. Here it is.’ Then, after a long pause, still sewing, and as out of a deep unhappiness: ‘Will the gull choose to dash herself against the Pharos light? Will a seaman, where the tide runs in the wind’s teeth between skerry and skerry, choose to be there in a boat without a rudder? Why should I?’

‘How shall any earthly being but your highness’s self answer that? Perhaps ’twas in the idle desire to feel your power.’

With that, the Queen’s hand stopped dead. ‘And you are he they tell me can read a man’s destiny in his eyes? Can you not read in mine,’ and she raised her head to meet his gaze, ‘that I have no power? that I am utterly alone?’

‘The King’s power is your power.’

She said, resuming her sewing, ‘I begin to dread it is not even his.’

‘It is yours, will you but use it.’

She said, bending her white neck yet more to hide her face, ‘I begin to think I have lost the knack to use it.’ Then, scarce to be heard: ‘Perhaps even the wish.’

Doctor Vandermast held his peace. His eyes were busied between this woman and this statue: this, more like in its outward, may be, to the unfacing reality, but of itself unreal, a mere mathematic, a superficies: that other real, but yet, save for an inner and outer loveliness, unlike, because wanting self-knowledge; and yet putting on, by virtue of that very privation, a perfection unique and sufficient unto itself albeit not belonging to the divine prototype at the fulness of Her actual; even as the great lamp of day has at sunrise and at sunset perfections of uncompleteness of transience which are consumed or blotted out in the white flame of noon.

‘You are a strange secret man,’ she said presently, still without looking up, ‘that I should have spoke to you thus: things I’d a spoken to no creature else in the world. And, until today, ne’er so much as set eyes on you.’ Then, suddenly gathering up her needlework, ‘But you give me no help. No more than the other standers by or hinderers.’

He said, ‘There is none hath the ability to help your highness, except only your highness’s self alone.’

‘Here’s cold comfort, then. Yet against burning, I suppose, there may be some good in coldness.’

She rose now and walked a turn or two in silence, coming to a stand at last under the statue; looking up at which, and with a face averted from that aged doctor, she said to him, ‘True it is, I did send for you in a more weightier matter than this of me. I have a son.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you read stars and significations in the heaven?’

‘Be it indeed,’ he replied, ‘that in the university of Miphraz I did seven years apply my youth to study in the Ultramundanes and the Physicals, I have long since learnt that there is no answer in the mouth of these. My study is now of the darkness rather which is hid in the secret places of the heart of man: my office but only to understand, and to watch, and to wait.’

‘Well, have you seen the child? What find you in him? Give me in a word your very thought. I must have the truth.’ She turned and faced him. ‘Even and the truth be evil.’

‘If it be truth,’ said the doctor, ‘it can in no hand be evil; according to the principle of theoric, Quanta est, tanto bonum, which is as much as to say that completeness of reality and completeness of goodness are, sub specie aeternitatis, the same. I have beheld this child like as were I to behold some small scarce discernible first paling of the skies to tomorrow’s dawn, and I say to you: Here is day.’

‘To be King in his time?’

‘So please the Gods.’

‘In Fingiswold, after his father?’

‘So, and more. To be the stay of the whole world.’

‘This is heavenly music. Shall’t be by power, or but by fortune?’

‘By power,’ answered Vandermast. ‘And by worth.’

The Queen caught a deep breath. ‘O, you have shown me a sweet morn after terrible dreams. But also a strange noise in my head, makes stale the morning: by what warrant must I believe you?’

‘By none. You must believe not me, but the truth. I am but a finger pointing. And the nearest way for your highness (being a mortal) to believe that truth, and the sole only way for it to take body and effect in this world, is that you should act and make it so.’