Dodson promised bravely, recklessly, despairingly that the next time
he entered the little room he would bring the first printed sheets
of the book. For the poet’s insistence that each line must undergo a
rigorous scrutiny before it was given to the world was reiterated again
and again that evening with an imperiousness that, in one formerly so
gentle and timid, astonished its witness beyond measure.
“Luney, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson in a rather bewildered manner
after several of these austere reminders, “I am not accustomed to move
in royal circles, I have never been spoken to by a king, but if ever
I was, old boy, I should expect him to speak to me just like that.
You make me feel, old boy, that I have no right to call you Luney any
longer--it seems almost like an act of presumption--you make me feel,
old boy, that I ought to address you as ‘my lord,’ or as ‘sire’.”
The poet laughed a strange, rarefied note of laughter.
“Ah, dear Jimmy,” he said, “in the presence of the faithful we will not
insist on our royalty too much.”
Dodson could frame no reply. Such words appeared to transcend those
bounds indicated by human intelligence which the speaker had seemed to
overstep so many times already. But, to the amazement of the beholder,
the white-haired old man, who all this time had sat at the table with
his eyes pressed devoutly to the Book of the Ages, rose at these words
of the dying poet, and with a grave deliberation sank upon his knees
before him who was blind.
“My liege,” said the old man humbly, “I would not have you consider
your servants to be insensible of your quality if they do not address
you in the fashion which it would seem to demand. Sire, your servants
do not esteem your royalty to be the less because they do not wear its
livery upon their lips.”
Smiling his secret and beautiful smile, the dying poet extended his
right hand, so white, so fragile, and so transparent towards the aged
man, his father, with the sweet air of a great prince, and the old man,
still kneeling, bore it to his lips.
Ever smiling in the same manner, the dying poet then extended the
fragile hand again, this time towards the astonished Jimmy Dodson,
whose every faculty seemed to be atrophied by so strange a situation.
“We would have thee also make obeisance, faithful servant,” said the
poet gently. “It is not for this insignificant flesh that we seek thy
homage; it is not to appease an unworthy pride, which too often devours
princes, that we would crave thy vassalage. Rather it is that we would
have all who are gentle and simple offer their devotion to that which
alone makes the life of man comprehensible, of which this broken clay
is the too frail custodian.”
With a shamefaced trepidation, which only recently he had been taught
to feel, James Dodson sank to his knees before his dying friend, and,
in the fashion of the white-haired old man, he bore the fragile hand to
his lips. He then rose, and, without venturing to give a look to either
of the occupants of the little room, he made a headlong flight through
the shop into the all-enfolding, ever-welcome darkness of the streets.