Imaginary Conversations and Poems | Page 9

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