CHAPTER XI.— “GLORIA — IN EXCELSIS!”
The King and Queen, followed by their suite and their guests, walked leisurely off the pier, and down a well-made road, sparkling with crushed sea-shells and powdered coral, towards a group of tall trees and green grass which they perceived a little way ahead of them. There was a soothing quietness everywhere, — save for the singing of birds and the soft ripple of the waves on the sandy shore, it was a silent land:
“In which it seemed always afternoon —
All round the coast the languid air did swoon —
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.”
The Queen paused once or twice to look around her; she was vaguely touched and charmed by the still beauty of the scene.
“It is very lovely!” she said, more to herself than to any of her companions; “The world must have looked something like this in the first days of creation, — so unspoilt and fresh and simple!”
The Countess Amabil, walking with Sir Walter Langton, glanced coquettishly at her cavalier and smiled.
“It is idyllic!” she said;— “A sort of Arcadia without Corydon or Phyllis! Do all the inhabitants go to sleep or disappear in the daytime, I wonder?”
“Not all, I imagine,” replied Sir Walter; “For here comes one, though, judging from the slowness of his walk, he is in no haste to welcome his King!”
The personage he spoke of was indeed approaching, and all the members of the Royal party watched his advance with considerable curiosity. He was tall and upright in bearing, but as he came nearer he was seen to be a man of great age, with a countenance on which sorrow and suffering had left their indelible traces. There were furrows on that face which tears had hollowed out for their swifter flowing, and the high intellectual brow bore lines and wrinkles of anxiety and pain, which were the soul’s pen-marks of a tragic history. He was attired in simple fisherman’s garb of rough blue homespun, and when he was within a few paces of the King, he raised his cap from his curly silver hair with an old-world grace and deferential courtesy. Sir Roger de Launay went forward to meet him and to explain the situation.
“His Majesty the King,” he said, “has wished to make a surprise visit to his people of The Islands, — and he is here in person with the Queen. Can you oblige him with an escort to the principal places of interest?”
The old man looked at him with a touch of amusement and derision.
“There are no places here of interest to a King,” he said; “Unless a poor man’s house may serve for his curious comment! I am not his Majesty’s subject — but I live under his protection and his laws, — and I am willing to offer him a welcome, since there is no one else to do so!”
He spoke with a refined and cultured accent, and in his look and bearing evinced the breeding of a gentleman.
“And your name?” asked Sir Roger courteously.
“My name is Réné Ronsard,” he replied. “I was shipwrecked on this coast years ago. Finding myself cast here by the will of God, here I have remained!”
As he said this, Sir Roger remembered what he had casually heard at times about the ‘life-philosopher’ who had built for himself a dwelling on The Islands out of the timbers of wrecked vessels. This must surely be the man! Delighted at having thus come upon the very person most likely to provide some sort of diversion for their Majesties, and requesting Ronsard to wait at a distance for a moment, he hastened back to the King and explained the position. Whereupon the monarch at once advanced with alacrity, and as he approached the venerable personage who had offered him the only hospitality he was likely to receive in this part of his realm, he extended his hand with a frank and kindly cordiality. Réné Ronsard accepted it with a slight but not over-obsequious salutation.
“We owe you our thanks,” said the King, “for receiving us thus readily, and without notice; which is surely the truest form of hospitable kindness! That we are strangers here is entirely our own fault, due to our own neglect of our Island subjects; and it is for this that we have sought to know something of the place privately, before visiting it with such public ceremonial and state as it deserves. We shall be indebted to you greatly if you will lend us your aid in this intention.”
“Your Majesty is welcome to my service in whatever way it can be of use to you,” replied Ronsard slowly; “As you see, I am an old man and poor — I have lived here for well-nigh thirty years, making as little demand as possible upon the resources of either rough Nature or smooth civilization to provide me with sustenance. There is poor attraction for a king in such a simple home as mine!”
“More than all men living, a king has cause to love simplicity,” returned the monarch, as with his swift and keen glance he noted the old man’s proud figure, fine worn features, and clear, though deeply-sunken eyes;— “for the glittering shows of ceremony are chiefly irksome to those who have to suffer their daily monotony. Let me present you to the Queen — she will thank you as I do, for your kindly consent to play the part of host to us to-day.”
“Nay,” — murmured Ronsard— “No thanks — no thanks!” Then, as the King said a few words to his fair Consort, and she received the old man’s respectful salutation in the cold, grave way which was her custom, he raised his eyes to her face, and started back with an involuntary exclamation.
“By Heaven!” he said suddenly and bluntly, “I never thought to see any woman’s beauty that could compare with that of my Gloria!”
He spoke more to himself than to any listener, but the King hearing his words, was immediately on the alert, and when the whole Royal party moved on again, he, walking in a gracious and kindly way by the old man’s side, and skilfully keeping up the conversation at first on mere generalities, said presently: —
“And that name of Gloria; — may I ask you who it is that bears so strange an appellation?”
Ronsard looked at him somewhat doubtingly.
“Your Majesty considers it strange? Had you ever seen her, you would think it the only fitting name for her,” he answered,— “For she is surely the most glorious thing God ever made!”
“Your wife — or daughter?” gently hinted the King.
The old man smiled bitterly.
“Sir, I have never owned wife or child! For aught I know Gloria may have been born like the goddess Aphrodite, of the sunlight and the sea! No other parents have ever claimed her.”
He checked himself, and appeared disposed to change the subject. The King looked at him encouragingly.
“May I not hear more of her?” he asked.
Ronsard hesitated — then with a certain abruptness replied —
“Nay — I am sorry I spoke of her! There is nothing to tell. I have said she is beautiful — and beauty is always stimulating — even to Kings! But your Majesty will have no chance of seeing her, as she is absent from home to-day.”
The King smiled; — had the rumours of his many gallantries reached The Islands then? — and was this ‘life-philosopher’ afraid that ‘Gloria ‘ — whoever she was — might succumb to his royal fascinations? The thought was subtly flattering, but he disguised the touch of amusement he felt, and spoke his next words with a kindly and indulgent air.
“Then, as I shall not see her, you may surely tell me of her? I am no betrayer of confidence!”
A pale red tinged Ronsard’s worn features — anon he said: —
“It is no question of confidence, Sir, — and there is no secret or mystery associated with the matter. Gloria was, like myself, cast up from the sea. I found her half-drowned, a helpless infant tied to a floating spar. It was on the other side of these Islands — among the rocks where there is no landing-place. There is a little church on the heights up there, and every evening the men and boys practise their sacred singing. It was sunset, and I was wandering by myself upon the shore, and in the church above me I heard them chant ‘Gloria! Gloria! Gloria in excelsis Deo!’ And while they were yet practising this line I came upon the child, — lying like a strange lily, in a salt pool, — b
etween two shafts of rock like fangs on either side of her, bound fast with rope to a bit of ship’s timber. I untied her little limbs, and restored her to life; and all the time I was busy bringing her back to breath and motion, the singing in the church above me was ‘Gloria!’ and ever again ‘Gloria!’ So I gave her that name. That was nineteen years ago. She is married now.”
“Married!” exclaimed the King, with a curious sense of mingled relief and disappointment. “Then she has left you?”
“Oh, no, she has not left me!” replied Ronsard; “She stays with me till her husband is ready to give her a home. He is very poor, and lives in hope of better days. Meanwhile poverty so far smiles upon them that they are happy; — and happiness, youth and beauty rarely go together. For once they have all met in the joyous life of my Gloria!”
“I should like to see her!” said the King, musingly; “You have interested me greatly in her history!”
The old man did not reply, but quickening his pace, moved on a little in advance of the King and his suite, to open a gate in front of them, which guarded the approach to a long low house with carved gables and lattice windows, over which a wealth of roses and jasmine clambered in long tresses of pink and white bloom. Smooth grass surrounded the place, and tall pine trees towered in the background; and round the pillars of the broad verandah, which extended to the full length of the house front, clematis and honeysuckle twined in thick clusters, filling the air with delicate perfume. The Royal party murmured their admiration of this picturesque abode, while Ronsard, with a nimbleness remarkable for a man of his age, set chairs on the verandah and lawn for his distinguished guests. Sir Walter Langton and the Marquis Montala strolled about the garden with some of the ladies, commenting on the simple yet exquisite taste displayed in its planting and arrangement; while the King and Queen listened with considerable interest to the conversation of their venerable host. He was a man of evident culture, and his description of the coral-fishing community, their habits and traditions, was both graphic and picturesque.
“Are they all away to-day?” asked the King.
“All the men on this side of The Islands — yes, Sir,” replied Ronsard; “And the women have enough to do inside their houses till their husbands return. With the evening and the moonlight, they will all be out in their fields and gardens, making merry with innocent dance and song, for they are very happy folk — much happier than their neighbours on the mainland.”
“Are you acquainted with the people of the mainland, then?” enquired the King.
“Sufficiently to know that they are dissatisfied;” returned Ronsard quietly,— “And that, deep down among the tangled grass and flowers of that brilliant pleasure-ground called Society, there is a fierce and starving lion called the People, waiting for prey!”
His voice sank to a low and impressive tone, and for a moment his hearers looked astonished and disconcerted. He went on as though he had not seen the expression of their faces.
“Here in The Islands there was the same discontent when I first came. Every man was in heart a Socialist, — every young boy was a budding Anarchist. Wild ideas fired their brains. They sought Equality. No man should be richer than another, they said. Equal lots, — equal lives. They had their own secret Society, connected with another similar one across the sea yonder. They were brave, clever and desperate, — moved by a burning sense of wrong, — wrong which they had not the skill to explain, but which they felt. It was difficult to persuade or soothe such men, for they were men of Nature, — not of Shams. But fierce and obstinate as they were, they were good to me when I was cast up for dead on their seashore. And I, in turn, have tried to be good to them. That is, I have tried to make them happy. For happiness is what we all work for and seek for, — from the beginning to the end of life. We go far afield for it, when it oftener lies at our very doors. Well! — they are a peaceful community now, and have no evil intentions towards anyone. They grudge no one his wealth — I think if the truth were known, they rather pity the rich man than envy him. So, at any rate, I have taught them to do. But, formerly, they were, to say the least of it, dangerous!”
The King heard in silence, although the slightest quizzical lifting of his eyebrows appeared to imply that ‘dangerous’ was perhaps too strong a term by which to designate a handful of Socialistic coral-fishers.
“It is curious,” went on Ronsard slowly, “how soon the sense of wrong and injustice infects a whole community. One malcontent makes a host of malcontents. This is a fact which many governments lose sight of. If I were the ruler of a country—”
Here he suddenly paused — then added with a touch of brusqueness —
“Pardon me, Sir; I have never known the formalities which apply to conversation with a king, and I am too old to learn now. No doubt I speak too boldly! To me you are no more than man; you should be more by etiquette — but by simple humanity you are not!”
The King smiled, well pleased. This independent commoner, with his rough garb and rougher simplicity of speech, was a refreshing contrast to the obsequious personages by whom he was generally surrounded; and he felt an irresistible desire to know more of the life and surroundings of one who had gained a position of evident authority among the people of his own class.
“Go on, my friend!” he said. “Honest expression of thought can offend none but knaves and fools; and though there are some who say I have a smack of both, yet I flatter myself I am wholly neither of the twain! Continue what you were saying — if you were ruler of a country, what would you do?”
Réné Ronsard considered for a moment, and his furrowed brows set in a puzzled line.
“I think,” he said slowly, at last, “I should choose my friends and confidants among the leaders of the people.”
“And is not that precisely what we all do?” queried the King lightly; “Surely every monarch must count his friends among the members of the Government?”
“But the Government does not represent the actual people, Sir!” said Ronsard quietly.
“No? Then what does it represent?” enquired the King, becoming amused and interested in the discussion, and holding up his hand to warn back De Launay, and the other members of his suite who were just coming towards him from their tour of inspection through the garden— “Every member of the Government is elected by the people, and returned by the popular vote. What else would you have?”
“Ministers have not always the popular vote,” said Ronsard; “They are selected by the Premier. And if the Premier should happen to be shifty, treacherous or self-interested, he chooses such men as are most likely to serve his own ends. And it can hardly be said, Sir, that the People truly return the members of Government. For when the time comes for one such man to be elected, each candidate secures his own agent to bribe the people, and to work upon them as though they were so much soft dough, to be kneaded into a political loaf for his private and particular eating. Poor People! Poor hard-working millions! In the main they are all too busy earning the wherewithal to Live, to have any time left to Think — they are the easy prey of the party agent, except — except when they gather to the voice of a real leader, one who though not in Government, governs!”
“And is there such an one?” enquired the King, while as he spoke his glance fell suddenly, and with an unpleasant memory, on the flashing blue of the sapphire in the Premier’s signet he wore; “Here, or anywhere?”
“Over there!” said Ronsard impressively, pointing across the landscape seawards; “On the mainland there is not only one, but many! Women, — as well as men. Writers, — as well as speakers. These are they whom Courts neglect or ignore, — these are the consuming fire of thrones!” His old eyes flashed, and as he turned them on the statuesque beauty of the Queen, she started, for they seemed to pierce into the very recesses of her soul. “When Court and Fashion played their pranks once upon a time in France, there was a pen at work on the ‘Contrat Social’ — the pen of one Rousseau! Who among the idle pleasure-loving aristocrats ever thought
that a mere Book would have helped to send them to the scaffold!” He clenched his hand almost unconsciously — then he spoke more quietly. “That is what I mean, when I say that if I were ruler of a country, I should take special care to make friends with the people’s chosen thinkers. Someone in authority” — and here he smiled quizzically— “should have given Rousseau an estate, and made him a marquis — in time! The leaders of an advancing Thought, — and not the leaders of a fixed Government are the real representatives of the People!”
Something in this last sentence appeared to strike the King very forcibly.
“You are a philosopher, Réné Ronsard,” he said rising from his chair, and laying a hand kindly on his shoulder. “And so, in another way am I! If I understand you rightly, you would maintain that in many cases discontent and disorder are the fermentation in the mind of one man, who for some hidden personal motive works his thought through a whole kingdom; and you suggest that if that man once obtained what he wanted there would be an end of trouble — at any rate for a time till the next malcontent turned up! Is not that so?”
“It is so, Sir,” replied Ronsard; “and I think it has always been so. In every era of strife and revolution, we shall find one dissatisfied Soul — often a soul of genius and ambition — at the centre of the trouble.”
“Probably you are right,” said the monarch indulgently; “But evidently the dissatisfied soul is not in your body! You are no Don Quixote fighting a windmill of imaginary wrongs, are you?”
A dark red flush mounted to the old man’s brow, and as it passed away, left him pale as death.
“Sir, I have fought against wrongs in my time; but they were not imaginary. I might have still continued the combat but for Gloria!”
“Ah! She is your peace-offering to an unjust world?”
“No Sir; she is God’s gift to a broken heart,” replied Ronsard gently. “The sea cast her up like a pearl into my life; and so for her sake I resolved to live. For her only I made this little home — for her I managed to gain some control over the rough inhabitants of these Islands, and encouraged in them the spirit of peace, mirth and gladness. I soothed their discontent, and tried to instil into them something of the Greek love of beauty and pleasure. But after all, my work sprang from a personal, I may as well say a selfish motive — merely to make the child I loved, happy!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 539
