Imaginary Conversations and Poems: A Selection
sound government. Every prince in Europe is interested in rooting them
out by fire and sword. There is no other way with false doctrines:
breath against breath does little.
_Alexis._ Sire, I never have attempted to disseminate my opinions.
_Peter._ How couldst thou? the seed would fall only on granite. Those,
however, who caught it brought it to me.
_Alexis._ Never have I undervalued civilization: on the contrary, I
regretted whatever impeded it. In my opinion, the evils that have been
attributed to it sprang from its imperfections and voids; and no
nation has yet acquired it more than very scantily.
_Peter._ How so? give me thy reasons--thy fancies, rather; for reason
thou hast none.
_Alexis._ When I find the first of men, in rank and genius, hating one
another, and becoming slanderers and liars in order to lower and
vilify an opponent; when I hear the God of mercy invoked to massacres,
and thanked for furthering what He reprobates and condemns--I look
back in vain on any barbarous people for worse barbarism. I have
expressed my admiration of our forefathers, who, not being Christians,
were yet more virtuous than those who are; more temperate, more just,
more sincere, more chaste, more peaceable.
_Peter._ Malignant atheist!
_Alexis._ Indeed, my father, were I malignant I must be an atheist;
for malignity is contrary to the command, and inconsistent with the
belief, of God.
_Peter._ Am I Czar of Muscovy, and hear discourses on reason and
religion? from my own son, too! No, by the Holy Trinity! thou art no
son of mine. If thou touchest my knee again, I crack thy knuckles with
this tobacco-stopper: I wish it were a sledge-hammer for thy sake.
Off, sycophant! Off, runaway slave!
_Alexis._ Father! father! my heart is broken! If I have offended,
forgive me!
_Peter._ The State requires thy signal punishment.
_Alexis._ If the State requires it, be it so; but let my father's
anger cease!
_Peter._ The world shall judge between us. I will brand thee with
infamy.
_Alexis._ Until now, O father! I never had a proper sense of glory.
Hear me, O Czar! let not a thing so vile as I am stand between you and
the world! Let none accuse you!
_Peter._ Accuse me, rebel! Accuse me, traitor!
_Alexis._ Let none speak ill of you, O my father! The public voice
shakes the palace; the public voice penetrates the grave; it precedes
the chariot of Almighty God, and is heard at the judgment-seat.
_Peter._ Let it go to the devil! I will have none of it here in
Petersburg. Our church says nothing about it; our laws forbid it. As
for thee, unnatural brute, I have no more to do with thee neither!
Ho, there! chancellor! What! come at last! Wert napping, or counting
thy ducats?
_Chancellor._ Your Majesty's will and pleasure!
_Peter._ Is the Senate assembled in that room?
_Chancellor._ Every member, sire.
_Peter._ Conduct this youth with thee, and let them judge him; thou
understandest me.
_Chancellor._ Your Majesty's commands are the breath of our nostrils.
_Peter._ If these rascals are amiss, I will try my new cargo of
Livonian hemp upon 'em.
_Chancellor._ [_Returning._] Sire, sire!
_Peter._ Speak, fellow! Surely they have not condemned him to death,
without giving themselves time to read the accusation, that thou
comest back so quickly.
_Chancellor._ No, sire! Nor has either been done.
_Peter._ Then thy head quits thy shoulders.
_Chancellor._ O sire!
_Peter._ Curse thy silly _sires_! what art thou about?
_Chancellor._ Alas! he fell.
_Peter._ Tie him up to thy chair, then. Cowardly beast! what made him
fall?
_Chancellor._ The hand of Death; the name of father.
_Peter._ Thou puzzlest me; prithee speak plainlier.
_Chancellor._ We told him that his crime was proven and manifest; that
his life was forfeited.
_Peter._ So far, well enough.
_Chancellor._ He smiled.
_Peter._ He did! did he? Impudence shall do him little good. Who could
have expected it from that smock-face! Go on--what then?
_Chancellor._ He said calmly, but not without sighing twice or thrice,
'Lead me to the scaffold: I am weary of life; nobody loves me.' I
condoled with him, and wept upon his hand, holding the paper against
my bosom. He took the corner of it between his fingers, and said,
'Read me this paper; read my death-warrant. Your silence and tears
have signified it; yet the law has its forms. Do not keep me in
suspense. My father says, too truly, I am not courageous; but the
death that leads me to my God shall never terrify me.'
_Peter._ I have seen these white-livered knaves die resolutely; I have
seen them quietly fierce like white ferrets with their watery eyes and
tiny teeth. You read it?
_Chancellor._ In part, sire! When he heard your Majesty's name
accusing him of treason and attempts at rebellion and parricide, he
fell speechless. We raised him up: he was motionless; he was dead!
_Peter._ Inconsiderate and barbarous varlet as thou art, dost thou
recite this ill accident to a father! and to one who has not dined!
Bring me a glass of brandy.
_Chancellor._ And it please your Majesty, might I call a--a----
_Peter._ Away and bring it: scamper! All equally and alike shall obey
and serve me.
Hark ye! bring the bottle with it: I must cool myself--and--hark ye! a
rasher of bacon on thy life! and some pickled sturgeon, and some krout
and caviare, and good strong cheese.
HENRY VIII AND ANNE BOLEYN
_Henry._ Dost thou know me, Nanny, in this yeoman's dress? 'Sblood!
does it require so long and vacant a stare to recollect a husband
after a week or two? No tragedy-tricks with me! a scream, a sob, or
thy kerchief a trifle the wetter, were enough. Why, verily the little
fool faints in earnest. These whey faces, like their kinsfolk the
ghosts, give us no warning. Hast had water enough upon thee? Take
that, then: art thyself again?
_Anne._ Father of mercies! do I meet again my husband, as was my last
prayer on earth? Do I behold my beloved lord--in peace--and pardoned,
my partner in eternal bliss? it was his voice. I cannot see him: why
cannot I? Oh, why do these pangs interrupt the transports of the
blessed?
_Henry._ Thou openest thy arms: faith! I came for that. Nanny, thou
art a sweet slut. Thou groanest, wench: art in labour? Faith! among
the mistakes of the night, I am ready to think almost that thou hast
been drinking, and that I have not.
_Anne._ God preserve your Highness: grant me your forgiveness for one
slight offence. My eyes were heavy; I fell asleep while I was reading.
I did not know of your presence at first; and, when I did, I could
not speak. I strove for utterance: I wanted no respect for my liege
and husband.
_Henry._ My pretty warm nestling, thou wilt then lie! Thou wert
reading, and aloud too, with thy saintly cup of water by thee,
and--what! thou art still girlishly fond of those dried cherries!
_Anne._ I had no other fruit to offer your Highness the first time I
saw you, and you were then pleased to invent for me some reason why
they should be acceptable. I did not dry these: may I present them,
such as they are? We shall have fresh next month.
_Henry._ Thou art always driving away from the discourse. One moment
it suits thee to know me, another not.
_Anne._ Remember, it is hardly three months since I miscarried. I am
weak, and liable to swoons.
_Henry._ Thou hast, however, thy bridal cheeks, with lustre upon them
when there is none elsewhere, and obstinate lips resisting all
impression; but, now thou talkest about miscarrying, who is the father
of that boy?
_Anne._ Yours and mine--He who hath taken him to his own home, before
(like me) he could struggle or cry for it.
_Henry._ Pagan, or worse, to talk so! He did not come into the world
alive: there was no baptism.
_Anne._ I thought only of our loss: my senses are confounded. I did
not give him my milk, and yet I loved him tenderly; for I often
fancied, had he lived, how contented and joyful he would have made you
and England.
_Henry._ No subterfuges and escapes. I warrant, thou canst not say
whether at my entrance thou wert waking or wandering.
_Anne._ Faintness and drowsiness came upon me suddenly.
_Henry._ Well, since thou really and truly sleepedst, what didst dream
of?
_Anne._ I begin to doubt whether I did indeed sleep.
_Henry._ Ha! false one--never two sentences of truth together! But
come, what didst think about, asleep or awake?
_Anne._ I thought that God had pardoned me my offences, and had
received me unto Him.
_Henry._ And nothing more?
_Anne._ That my prayers had been heard and my wishes were
accomplishing: the angels alone can enjoy more beatitude than this.
_Henry._ Vexatious little devil! She says nothing now about me, merely
from perverseness. Hast thou never thought about me, nor about thy
falsehood and adultery?
_Anne._ If I had committed any kind of falsehood, in regard to you or
not, I should never have rested until I had thrown myself at your feet
and obtained your pardon; but, if ever I had been guilty of that other
crime, I know not whether I should have dared to implore it, even of
God's mercy.
_Henry._ Thou hast heretofore cast some soft glances upon Smeaton;
hast thou not?
_Anne._ He taught me to play on the virginals, as you know, when I was
little, and thereby to please your Highness.
_Henry._ And Brereton and Norris--what have they taught thee?
_Anne._ They are your servants, and trusty ones.
_Henry._ Has not Weston told thee plainly that he loved thee?
_Anne._ Yes; and----
_Henry._ What didst thou?
_Anne._ I defied him.
_Henry._ Is that all?
_Anne._ I could have done no more if he had told me that he hated me.
Then, indeed, I should have incurred more justly the reproaches of
your Highness: I should have smiled.
_Henry._ We have proofs abundant: the fellows shall one and all
confront thee. Aye, clap thy hands and kiss thy sleeve, harlot!
_Anne._ Oh that so great a favour is vouchsafed me! My honour is
secure; my husband will be happy again; he will see my innocence.
_Henry._ Give me now an account of the moneys thou hast received from
me within these nine months. I want them not back: they are letters of
gold in record of thy guilt. Thou hast had no fewer than fifteen
thousand pounds in that period, without even thy asking; what hast
done with it, wanton?
_Anne._ I have regularly placed it out to interest.
_Henry._ Where? I demand of thee.
_Anne._ Among the needy and ailing. My Lord Archbishop has the account
of it, sealed by him weekly. I also had a copy myself; those who took
away my papers may easily find it; for there are few others, and they
lie open.
_Henry._ Think on my munificence to thee; recollect who made thee.
Dost sigh for what thou hast lost?
_Anne._ I do, indeed.
_Henry._ I never thought thee ambitious; but thy vices creep out one
by one.
_Anne._ I do not regret that I have been a queen and am no longer
one; nor that my innocence is called in question by those who never
knew me; but I lament that the good people who loved me so cordially,
hate and curse me; that those who pointed me out to their daughters
for imitation check them when they speak about me; and that he whom
next to God I have served with most devotion is my accuser.
_Henry._ Wast thou conning over something in that dingy book for thy
defence? Come, tell me, what wast thou reading?
_Anne._ This ancient chronicle. I was looking for someone in my own
condition, and must have missed the page. Surely in so many hundred
years there shall have been other young maidens, first too happy for
exaltation, and after too exalted for happiness--not, perchance,
doomed to die upon a scaffold, by those they ever honoured and served