The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain (novel24 txt) 📕

multitude to scramble for.

The chronicler says, ‘At the upper end of Gracechurch Street, before the

sign of the Eagle, the city had erected a gorgeous arch, beneath which

was a stage, which stretched from one side of the street to the other.

This was an historical pageant, representing the King’s immediate

progenitors. There sat Elizabeth of York in the midst of an immense

white rose, whose petals formed elaborate furbelows around her; by her

side was Henry VII., issuing out of a vast red rose, disposed in the same

manner: the hands of the royal pair were locked together, and the

wedding-ring ostentatiously displayed. From the red and white roses

proceeded a stem, which reached up to a second stage, occupied by Henry

VIII., issuing from a red and white rose, with the effigy of the new

King’s mother, Jane Seymour, represented by his side. One branch sprang

from this pair, which mounted to a third stage, where sat the effigy of

Edward VI. himself, enthroned in royal majesty; and the whole pageant was

framed with wreaths of roses, red and white.’

This quaint and gaudy spectacle so wrought upon the rejoicing people,

that their acclamations utterly smothered the small voice of the child

whose business it was to explain the thing in eulogistic rhymes. But Tom

Canty was not sorry; for this loyal uproar was sweeter music to him than

any poetry, no matter what its quality might be. Whithersoever Tom

turned his happy young face, the people recognised the exactness of his

effigy’s likeness to himself, the flesh and blood counterpart; and new

whirlwinds of applause burst forth.

The great pageant moved on, and still on, under one triumphal arch after

another, and past a bewildering succession of spectacular and symbolical

tableaux, each of which typified and exalted some virtue, or talent, or

merit, of the little King’s. ‘Throughout the whole of Cheapside, from

every penthouse and window, hung banners and streamers; and the richest

carpets, stuffs, and cloth-of-gold tapestried the streets—specimens of

the great wealth of the stores within; and the splendour of this

thoroughfare was equalled in the other streets, and in some even

surpassed.’

“And all these wonders and these marvels are to welcome me—me!” murmured

Tom Canty.

The mock King’s cheeks were flushed with excitement, his eyes were

flashing, his senses swam in a delirium of pleasure. At this point, just

as he was raising his hand to fling another rich largess, he caught sight

of a pale, astounded face, which was strained forward out of the second

rank of the crowd, its intense eyes riveted upon him. A sickening

consternation struck through him; he recognised his mother! and up flew

his hand, palm outward, before his eyes—that old involuntary gesture,

born of a forgotten episode, and perpetuated by habit. In an instant

more she had torn her way out of the press, and past the guards, and was

at his side. She embraced his leg, she covered it with kisses, she

cried, “O my child, my darling!” lifting toward him a face that was

transfigured with joy and love. The same instant an officer of the

King’s Guard snatched her away with a curse, and sent her reeling back

whence she came with a vigorous impulse from his strong arm. The words

“I do not know you, woman!” were falling from Tom Canty’s lips when this

piteous thing occurred; but it smote him to the heart to see her treated

so; and as she turned for a last glimpse of him, whilst the crowd was

swallowing her from his sight, she seemed so wounded, so broken-hearted,

that a shame fell upon him which consumed his pride to ashes, and

withered his stolen royalty. His grandeurs were stricken valueless:

they seemed to fall away from him like rotten rags.

The procession moved on, and still on, through ever augmenting splendours

and ever augmenting tempests of welcome; but to Tom Canty they were as if

they had not been. He neither saw nor heard. Royalty had lost its grace

and sweetness; its pomps were become a reproach. Remorse was eating his

heart out. He said, “Would God I were free of my captivity!”

He had unconsciously dropped back into the phraseology of the first days

of his compulsory greatness.

The shining pageant still went winding like a radiant and interminable

serpent down the crooked lanes of the quaint old city, and through the

huzzaing hosts; but still the King rode with bowed head and vacant eyes,

seeing only his mother’s face and that wounded look in it.

“Largess, largess!” The cry fell upon an unheeding ear.

“Long live Edward of England!” It seemed as if the earth shook with the

explosion; but there was no response from the King. He heard it only as

one hears the thunder of the surf when it is blown to the ear out of a

great distance, for it was smothered under another sound which was still

nearer, in his own breast, in his accusing conscience—a voice which kept

repeating those shameful words, “I do not know you, woman!”

The words smote upon the King’s soul as the strokes of a funeral bell

smite upon the soul of a surviving friend when they remind him of secret

treacheries suffered at his hands by him that is gone.

New glories were unfolded at every turning; new wonders, new marvels,

sprang into view; the pent clamours of waiting batteries were released;

new raptures poured from the throats of the waiting multitudes: but the

King gave no sign, and the accusing voice that went moaning through his

comfortless breast was all the sound he heard.

By-and-by the gladness in the faces of the populace changed a little, and

became touched with a something like solicitude or anxiety: an abatement

in the volume of the applause was observable too. The Lord Protector was

quick to notice these things: he was as quick to detect the cause. He

spurred to the King’s side, bent low in his saddle, uncovered, and said—

“My liege, it is an ill time for dreaming. The people observe thy

downcast head, thy clouded mien, and they take it for an omen. Be

advised: unveil the sun of royalty, and let it shine upon these boding

vapours, and disperse them. Lift up thy face, and smile upon the

people.”

So saying, the Duke scattered a handful of coins to right and left, then

retired to his place. The mock King did mechanically as he had been

bidden. His smile had no heart in it, but few eyes were near enough or

sharp enough to detect that. The noddings of his plumed head as he

saluted his subjects were full of grace and graciousness; the largess

which he delivered from his hand was royally liberal: so the people’s

anxiety vanished, and the acclamations burst forth again in as mighty a

volume as before.

Still once more, a little before the progress was ended, the Duke was

obliged to ride forward, and make remonstrance. He whispered—

“O dread sovereign! shake off these fatal humours; the eyes of the world

are upon thee.” Then he added with sharp annoyance, “Perdition catch

that crazy pauper! ‘twas she that hath disturbed your Highness.”

The gorgeous figure turned a lustreless eye upon the Duke, and said in a

dead voice—

“She was my mother!”

“My God!” groaned the Protector as he reined his horse backward to his

post, “the omen was pregnant with prophecy. He is gone mad again!”

Chapter XXXII. Coronation Day.

Let us go backward a few hours, and place ourselves in Westminster Abbey,

at four o’clock in the morning of this memorable Coronation Day. We are

not without company; for although it is still night, we find the torch-lighted galleries already filling up with people who are well content to

sit still and wait seven or eight hours till the time shall come for them

to see what they may not hope to see twice in their lives—the coronation

of a King. Yes, London and Westminster have been astir ever since the

warning guns boomed at three o’clock, and already crowds of untitled rich

folk who have bought the privilege of trying to find sitting-room in the

galleries are flocking in at the entrances reserved for their sort.

The hours drag along tediously enough. All stir has ceased for some

time, for every gallery has long ago been packed. We may sit, now, and

look and think at our leisure. We have glimpses, here and there and

yonder, through the dim cathedral twilight, of portions of many galleries

and balconies, wedged full with other people, the other portions of these

galleries and balconies being cut off from sight by intervening pillars

and architectural projections. We have in view the whole of the great

north transept—empty, and waiting for England’s privileged ones. We see

also the ample area or platform, carpeted with rich stuffs, whereon the

throne stands. The throne occupies the centre of the platform, and is

raised above it upon an elevation of four steps. Within the seat of the

throne is enclosed a rough flat rock—the stone of Scone—which many

generations of Scottish kings sat on to be crowned, and so it in time

became holy enough to answer a like purpose for English monarchs. Both

the throne and its footstool are covered with cloth of gold.

Stillness reigns, the torches blink dully, the time drags heavily. But at

last the lagging daylight asserts itself, the torches are extinguished,

and a mellow radiance suffuses the great spaces. All features of the

noble building are distinct now, but soft and dreamy, for the sun is

lightly veiled with clouds.

At seven o’clock the first break in the drowsy monotony occurs; for on

the stroke of this hour the first peeress enters the transept, clothed

like Solomon for splendour, and is conducted to her appointed place by an

official clad in satins and velvets, whilst a duplicate of him gathers up

the lady’s long train, follows after, and, when the lady is seated,

arranges the train across her lap for her. He then places her footstool

according to her desire, after which he puts her coronet where it will be

convenient to her hand when the time for the simultaneous coroneting of

the nobles shall arrive.

By this time the peeresses are flowing in in a glittering stream, and the

satin-clad officials are flitting and glinting everywhere, seating them

and making them comfortable. The scene is animated enough now. There is

stir and life, and shifting colour everywhere. After a time, quiet

reigns again; for the peeresses are all come and are all in their places,

a solid acre or such a matter, of human flowers, resplendent in

variegated colours, and frosted like a Milky Way with diamonds. There

are all ages here: brown, wrinkled, white-haired dowagers who are able to

go back, and still back, down the stream of time, and recall the crowning

of Richard III. and the troublous days of that old forgotten age; and

there are handsome middle-aged dames; and lovely and gracious young

matrons; and gentle and beautiful young girls, with beaming eyes and

fresh complexions, who may possibly put on their jewelled coronets

awkwardly when the great time comes; for the matter will be new to them,

and their excitement will be a sore hindrance. Still, this may not

happen, for the hair of all these ladies has been arranged with a special

view to the swift and successful lodging of the crown in its place when

the signal comes.

We have seen that this massed array of peeresses is sown thick with

diamonds, and we also see that it is a marvellous spectacle—but now we

are about to be astonished in earnest. About nine, the clouds