_The Epilogue_
_A Son Livret_
Intrepidly depart, my little book, into the presence of that mostillustrious lady who bade me compile you. Bow down before herjudgment. And if her sentence be that of a fiery death, I counsel younot to grieve at what cannot be avoided.
But, if by any miracle that glorious, strong fortress of the weakconsider it advisable that you remain unburned, pass thence, my littlebook, to every man who may desire to purchase you, and live out yourlittle hour among these very credulous persons; and at your appointedseason perish and be forgotten. Thus may you share your betters' fate,and be at one with those famed comedies of Greek Menander and all thepoignant songs of Sappho. _Et quid Pandoniae_--thus, little book, Icharge you to poultice your more-merited oblivion--_quid Pandoniaerestat nisi nomen Athenae?_
Yet even in your brief existence you may chance to meet with those whowill affirm that the stories you narrate are not true and protestassertions which are only fables. To these you will reply that I, yourmaker, was in my youth the quite unworthy servant of the most high andnoble lady, Dame Jehane, and in this period, at and about her house ofHavering-Bower, conversed in my own person with Dame Katharine, thenhappily remarried to a private gentleman of Wales; and so obtained thematter of the ninth story and of the tenth authentically. You will sayalso that Messire de Montbrison afforded me the main matter of thesixth and seventh stories, and many of the songs which this bookcontains; and that, moreover, I once journeyed to Caer Idion andtalked for some two hours with Richard Holland (whom I found a veryold and garrulous and cheery person), and got of him the matter of theeighth tale in this dizain, together with much information as concernsthe sixth and the seventh. And you will add that the matter of thefourth and fifth tales was in every detail related to me by my mostillustrious mistress, Madame Isabella of Portugal, who had thisinformation from her mother, an equally veracious and immaculate lady,and one that was in youth Dame Philippa's most dear associate. For therest you must admit, unwillingly, the first three stories in this bookto be a thought less solidly confirmed; although (as you will say)even in these histories I have not ever deviated from what was at oddtimes narrated to me by the aforementioned persons, and have alwaysendeavored honestly to piece together that which they told me.
I have pieced together these tales about the women who intermarried,not very enviably, with the demon-tainted blood of Edward Longshanks,because it seems to me that these tales, when they are rightlyconsidered, compose the initial portion of a troubling history.Whether (as some declare) the taint came from Manuel of Poictesme, orwhether (as yet others say) this poison was inherited from the demonwife whom Foulques Plantagenet fetched out of hell, the blood in thesemen was not all human. These men might not tread equally with humanbeings: their wives suffered therefor, just as they that had inheritedthis blood suffered therefor, and all England suffered therefor. Andthe upshot of it I have narrated elsewhere, in the book called andentitled _The Red Cuckold_, which composes the final portion of thishistory, and tells of the last spilling and of the extinction of thisblood.
Also, my little book, you will encounter more malignant people whowill jeer at you, and will say that you and I have cheated them ofyour purchase-money. To these you will reply, with Plutarch, _Non miaurum posco, nec mi pretium_. Secondly you will say that, ofnecessity, the tailor cuts the coat according to his cloth; and thathe cannot undertake to robe an Ephialtes or a towering Orion suitablywhen the resources of his shop amount to only a few yards of cambric.Indeed had I the power to make you better, my little book, I wouldhave exercised that power to the utmost. A good conscience is acontinual feast, and I summon high Heaven to be my witness that had Ibeen Homer you had awed the world, another Iliad. I lament yourinability to do this, as heartily as any person living; yet Heavenwilled it; and it is in consequence to Heaven these aforementionedcavillers should rightfully complain.
So to such impious people do you make no answer at all, unless indeedyou should elect to answer them by repetition of this song which I nowmake for you, my little book, at your departure from me. And the songruns in this fashion:
Depart, depart, my book! and live and die Dependent on the idle fantasy Of men who cannot view you, quite, as I.
For I am fond, and willingly mistake My book to be the book I meant to make, And cannot judge you, for that phantom's sake.
Yet pardon me if I have wrought too ill In making you, that never spared the will To shape you perfectly, and lacked the skill.
Ah, had I but the power, my book, then I Had wrought in you some wizardry so high That no man but had listened ...
They pass by, And shrug--as we, who know that unto us It has been granted never to fare thus, And never to be strong and glorious.
Is it denied me to perpetuate What so much loving labor did create?-- I hear Oblivion tap upon the gate, And acquiesce, not all disconsolate.
For I have got such recompense Of that high-hearted excellence Which the contented craftsman knows, Alone, that to loved labor goes, And daily does the work he chose, And counts all else impertinence!
EXPLICIT DECAS REGINARUM
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