CHAPTER X.
The Three Maxims—The Monk’s Errors in History—The Trials of Eustace—Sources of its Incidents—Colonel Gardiner—St. Herbert—Early English Romance of Sir Isumbras.
“What marvellous tale of sorcery are we to be regaled with to-night?” asked Thompson, when the tenth evening with the old story-tellers came round.
“We must adjourn that subject for to-night; for I have chanced on a point, in illustration of one of the tales intended for this evening’s reading, that will require another day’s looking up.”
“Are we to go to bed supperless, then?”
“No, no; not quite; here are two specimens that will both amuse and, I hope, instruct us. To those who remember the Turkish tales, and have not forgotten the story of The King, The Sofi, and The Surgeon, the three maxims of Domitian will hardly appear a novelty. But without further preface, I will commence the monk’s account of the three maxims, for each of which Domitian thankfully gave a thousand florins.”
THE THREE MAXIMS.
There was an emperor of Rome named Domitian, a good and a wise prince, who suffered no offenders to escape. There was a high feast in his hall, the tables glittered with gold and silver, and groaned with plenteous provision; his nobles feasted with him—
“And ’twas merry with allIn the king’s great hall,When his nobles and kinsmen, great and small,Were keeping their Christmas holiday.”
“And ’twas merry with allIn the king’s great hall,When his nobles and kinsmen, great and small,Were keeping their Christmas holiday.”
“And ’twas merry with allIn the king’s great hall,When his nobles and kinsmen, great and small,Were keeping their Christmas holiday.”
“And ’twas merry with all
In the king’s great hall,
When his nobles and kinsmen, great and small,
Were keeping their Christmas holiday.”
The porter in his lodge made his fire blaze brightly, and solaced himself with Christmas cheer, every now and then grumbling at his office, that kept him from the gayeties of the retainers’ hall. The wind blew cold, the sleet fell quick, as the bell of the king’s gate sounded heavy and dull.
“Who comes now?” grumbled the porter; “a pretty night to turn out from fire and food. Why, the very bell itself finds it too cold to clank loudly. Well, well—duty is duty; some say it’s a pleasure—humph! Hilloa, friend, who are you? what do you want, man?”
The traveller whom the porter thus addressed was a tall, weather-beaten man, with long white hair that fluttered from beneath his cap of furs,and whose figure, naturally tall and robust, seemed taller and larger from the vast cloak of bearskins with which he was enveloped.
“I am a merchant from a far country,” said the man; “many wonderful things do I bring to your emperor, if he will purchase of my valuables.”
“Well, come in, come in, man,” said the porter; “the king keeps high Christmas feast, and on this night all men may seek his presence. Wilt take some refreshment, good sir?”
“I am never hungry, nor thirsty, nor cold.”
“I’m all,—there—straight before you, good sir—the hall porter will usher you in—straight before,” muttered the old porter, as he returned to his fire and his supper. “Never hungry, thirsty, nor cold—what a good poor man he would make; humph! he loses many a pleasure, though,” continued the porter, as he closed the door of the lodge.
The strange merchant presented himself to the hall porter, and was ushered by him into the presence of the emperor.
“Whom have we here?” said Domitian, as the strange visitor made his obeisance. “What seekest thou of me?”
“I bring many things from far countries. Wilt thou buy of my curiosities?”
“Let us see them,” rejoined Domitian.
“I have three maxims of especial wisdom and excellence, my lord.”
“Let us hear them.”
“Nay, my lord; if thou hearest them, and likest not, then I have lost both my maxims and my money.”
“And if I pay without hearing them, and they are useless, I lose my time and my money. What is the price?”
“A thousand florins, my lord.”
“A thousand florins for that of which I know not what it is,” replied the king.
“My lord,” rejoined the merchant, “if the maxims do not stand you in good stead, I will return the money.”
“Be it so then; let us hear your maxims.”
“The first, my lord, is on this wise:Never begin any thing until you have calculated what the end will be.”
“I like your maxim much,” said the king; “let it be recorded in the chronicles of the kingdom, inscribed on the walls and over the doors of my palaces and halls of justice, and interwoven on the borders of the linen of my table and my chamber.”
“The second, my lord, is:Never leave a highway for the bye-way.”
“I see not the value of this maxim; but to the third.”
“Never sleep in the house where the master is an old man and the wife a young woman.These three maxims, if attended to, my lord, will stand you in good stead.”
“We shall see,” said the king; “a year and a day for the trial of each, at the end of this time we will settle accounts.”
“Good master,” said the king’s jester, “wilt sell thy chance of the thousand florins for my fool’s cap?”
“Wait, and see what the end will be,” rejoined the merchant; “a year and a day hence I will return to see how my first maxim has fared. Farewell, my lord....”
The year and a day were nearly elapsed, and yet the first maxim had not been clearly proved. Domitian remained severely just, and the ill-intentioned of his nobles plotted his destruction in the hopes of indulging their vices more freely under the rule of his successor. Many were the plots they concocted to put him to death, but all were foiled by his foresight and prudence.
“Every failure,” said the conspirators at a midnight meeting, “brings danger nearer to ourselves.”
“Even so, brothers, but this time we will not fail,” said one of the number; “do ye not mindthat I am the king’s barber; every day he bares his throat to my razor, it is but one slash, and we are free; promise me the crown: in return for this, I will give you freedom by the king’s death, and free license during my reign.”
“It is well spoken,” cried all the conspirators; “the barber shall be our king.”
On the next morning, the barber entered the chamber of Domitian, and prepared to shave the king. The razor was stropped, the lather spread upon the royal chin, and the towel fastened round the royal breast. On the edge of the napkin were these words in letters of gold: “Never begin any thing until you have calculated what the end will be.”
The barber’s eye fell on these words, they arrested his attention, he paused in his labors.
“What am I about to do?” thought he to himself, “to kill the king, to gain his crown; am I sure of the crown? shall I not rather be slain miserably, and die amid unheard-of tortures and infamy? whilst those that plot with me will turn against me, and make me their scape-goat.”
“Art dreaming, sir barber?” exclaimed the king.
At the king’s voice, the barber trembled exceedingly, he dropt the razor from his hand, and fell at his sovereign’s feet.
“What means all this?”
“Oh, my good lord!” exclaimed the barber, as he knelt trembling at Domitian’s feet, “this day was I to have killed thee; but I saw the maxim written on the napkin; I thought of the consequences, and now repent me of my wickedness. Mercy, my good lord, mercy!”
“Be faithful, and fear not,” replied the king.
“The merchant, my lord the king,” said a servant of the chamber, who entered at that moment, followed by the old merchant.
“Thou art come at a good time, sir merchant; the first maxim has been proved; it has saved my life; it was worthy of its price.”
“Even as I expected, my lord; a year and a day hence expect me again.”
“We will trust no more to a single hand,” said one of the conspirators, when they met again after the barber’s repentance; “this time we will all share.”
“I propose,” said one of the rebel lords, “an ambush on the road to Naples. Every year, on the day after Christmas, the king journeys thither; the bye-path near to the city gates is the nearest road, peradventure he will go that way.”
When the Christmas night was over, the king prepared to journey to Naples; a great companyof nobles, knights, and men-at-arms, went with him. Not far from the city, he came to the place where the highway and bye-path diverged.
“My lord,” said an old noble, “the day is far spent, the sun sinks fast in the horizon; will not my lord turn by the bye-path, as it is far shorter than the high-road?”
“Nay,” said the king, “it’s a year and a day since the merchant’s first maxim saved my life; now will I test the second admonition, ‘never leave a highway for a bye-path,’ but go part of ye by that path, and prepare for me in the city; I and the rest will pursue the highway.”
Onward rode the knights and the soldiers by the bye-path, and hastened towards the city; as they neared the ambush, the traitors sprang upon them, for they thought the king was among them. Every man slew his opponent, and there remained not one of the king’s company, to bear the tidings to the king, but a youth, a little page whom the conspirators did not remark during the attack.
At the city gates, the king found the merchant who had sold him his maxims.
“Halt, O king!” said he, “the second maxim has been proved.”
“How so?” replied the king.
“The company that rode by the bye-path are slain, every one of them save this little page, who is here to tell the sad tale.”
“Is this so, good youth?”
“Alas, my lord, it is too true; from behind the trees they rushed upon our company as we rode lightly and merrily, and no one, save your poor page, lives to tell the tale.”
“For a second time is my life saved by thy maxim; let it be inscribed in gold: ‘Never leave a highway for a bye-way.’”
“For a year and a day, O king, fare thee well.”
“A murrain on the old fool’s maxims,” grumbled the chief of the conspirators, when they discovered that the king had escaped their design; “we are beaten out of every plot, and had best submit to his dominion.”
“Nay,” exclaimed a young and licentious noble, “there is luck in odd numbers, let us have one more trial, a sink or a swim.”
“I care not if we try once more,” said the old rebel; “but come, who suggests a scheme?”
“I, and I, and I!” exclaimed several at once; but their schemes were pronounced futile.
“What say ye to this?” said the young man who had spoken before: “every year the kinggoes to the small village town where his old nurse lives; there is but one house in the village where he can be lodged, let us bribe the master of the house, that he slay our tyrant while he sleeps.”
The plan was approved by the rebel lords, the bribe offered and accepted by the old man, to whose house the king always came. The king came as usual to the village town, and to his old lodgings. As he entered, the old man received him with humility and feigned delight, and a young damsel, not eighteen years of age, attended at the door step. The king noticed the damsel, he arrested his steps, and called to the old man.
“Good father,” asked he, “is yonder damsel thy daughter or thy niece?”
“Neither, my lord,” replied the old man; “she is my newly married wife.”
“Away, away,” said the king to his chamberlain, “prepare me a bed in another house, for I will not sleep here to-night.”
“Even as my lord wishes,” rejoined the chamberlain; “but my lord knows there is no other house in this place fit for a king’s residence, save this one; here every thing is prepared, every thing commodious.”
“I have spoken,” replied the king; “remain thou here; I will sleep elsewhere.”
In the night, the old man and his wife arose, stole on tiptoe to the chamber which was prepared for the king, and where the chamberlain now slept in the royal bed; all was dark as they approached the bed, and plunged a dagger into the breast of the sleeping noble.
“It is done,” said they; “to bed, to bed.”
Early the next morning the king’s page knocked at the door of the humble abode where the king had passed the night.
“Why so early, good page?” asked the king.
“My lord, the old merchant waits thy rising; and even now strange news is come from the village.”
“Let the merchant and the messenger come in.”
The merchant seemed greatly elated, his eye glistened with joy, and his figure appeared dilated beyond its ordinary height. The messenger was pale and trembling, and staring aghast with fear.
“My lord, my good lord,” exclaimed the pallid messenger, “a horrible murder has been committed on your chamberlain; he lies dead in the royal bed.”
“The third maxim is tried and proved,” said the merchant.
“Give God the praise,” said the king; “thyreward is earned: a robe of honor, and thrice thy bargained price; to the old man and his wife, immediate death.”
“What theological application does the author append to this clever tale?” said Herbert, “for moral it wants not, as it tells its own.”
“The emperor is any good Christian; the porter, none other thanfree will;whilst the merchant represents our blessed Saviour. The florins are virtues, given in exchange for the maxims; the grace and favor of God. The conspirators are devils; the highway is the Ten Commandments; the bye-way, a bad life; the rebels in ambush, heretics.”
“So far as it goes, I do not object to the explanation; it requires great additions, however,” replied Herbert.
“Which the author considered to be compensated for by adding more characters than the tale contained, in several of his other explanations.”
“Domitian is obliged to the old monk,” said Thompson, “for such a pretty character of justice and mercy.”
“See again the system of compensation; in the next story Adrian is as much traduced, as Domitian flattered in this. But, remember, the old monk was writing neither histories nor biographies; any name that occurred to him served his purpose; he looks more to the effect of his incidents than to the names of his characters. With this prelude I will give you