Jurgen by James Branch Cabell (any book recommendations TXT) 📕

Sagramor is celebrating his latest conquest. Do you not think that this or something very like this is happening tonight in my city of Cameliard, Messire de Logreus?”

“It happens momently,” said Jurgen, “everywhere. For thus is every woman for a little while, and thus is every man for all time.”

“That being a dreadful truth,” continued Gogyrvan, “you may take it as one of the many reasons why I jeer out of season in order to stave off far more untimely tears. For this thing happens: in my city it happens, and in my castle it happens. King or no, I am powerless to prevent its happening. So I can but shrug and hearten my old blood with a fresh bottle. No less, I regard the young woman, who is quite possibly my daughter, with considerable affection: and it would be salutary for you to remember that circumstance, Messire de Logreus, if ever you are tempted to be candid.”

Jurgen was horrified. “But with the Princess, sir, it is unthinkable that I should not deal fairly.”

King Gogyrvan continued to look at Jurgen. Gogyrvan Gawr said nothing, and not a muscle of him moved.

“Although of course,” said Jurgen, “I would, in simple justice to her, not ever consider volunteering any information likely to cause pain.”

“Again I perceive,” said Gogyrvan, “that you understand me. Yet I did not speak of my daughter only, but of everybody.”

“How then, sir, would you have me deal with everybody?”

“Why, I can but repeat my words,” says Gogyrvan, very patiently: “I would have you lie like a gentleman. And now be off with you, for I am going to sleep. I shall not be wide awake again until my daughter is safely married. And that is absolutely all I can do for you.”

“Do you think this is reputable conduct, King?”

“Oh, no!” says Gogyrvan, surprised. “It is what we call philanthropy.”

XIV Preliminary Tactics of Duke Jurgen

So Jurgen abode at court, and was tolerably content for a little while. He loved a princess, the fairest and most perfect of mortal women; and loved her (a circumstance to which he frequently recurred) as never any other man had loved in the world’s history: and very shortly he was to stand by and see her married to another. Here was a situation to delight the chivalrous court of Glathion, for every requirement of romance was exactly fulfilled.

Now the appearance of Guenevere, whom Jurgen loved with an entire heart, was this:⁠—She was of middling height, with a figure not yet wholly the figure of a woman. She had fine and very thick hair, and the color of it was the yellow of corn floss. When Guenevere undid her hair it was a marvel to Jurgen to note how snugly this hair descended about the small head and slender throat, and then broadened boldly and clothed her with a loose soft foam of pallid gold. For Jurgen delighted in her hair; and with increasing intimacy, loved to draw great strands of it back of his head, crossing them there, and pressing soft handfuls of her perfumed hair against his cheeks as he kissed the Princess.

The head of Guenevere, be it repeated, was small: you wondered at the proud free tossing movements of that little head which had to sustain the weight of so much hair. The face of Guenevere was colored tenderly and softly: it made the faces of other women seem the work of a sign-painter, just splotched in anyhow. Gray eyes had Guenevere, veiled by incredibly long black lashes that curved incredibly. Her brows arched rather high above her eyes: that was almost a fault. Her nose was delicate and saucy: her chin was impudence made flesh: and her mouth was a tiny and irresistible temptation.

“And so on, and so on! But indeed there is no sense at all in describing this lovely girl as though I were taking an inventory of my shopwindow,” said Jurgen. “Analogues are all very well, and they have the unanswerable sanction of custom: none the less, when I proclaim that my adored mistress’s hair reminds me of gold I am quite consciously lying. It looks like yellow hair, and nothing else: nor would I willingly venture within ten feet of any woman whose head sprouted with wires, of whatever metal. And to protest that her eyes are as gray and fathomless as the sea is very well also, and the sort of thing which seems expected of me: but imagine how horrific would be puddles of water slopping about in a lady’s eye-sockets! If we poets could actually behold the monsters we rhyme of, we would scream and run. Still, I rather like this sirvente.”

For he was making a sirvente in praise of Guenevere. It was the pleasant custom of Gogyrvan’s court that every gentleman must compose verses in honor of the lady of whom he was hopelessly enamored; as well as that in these verses he should address the lady (as one whose name was too sacred to mention) otherwise than did her sponsors. So Duke Jurgen of Logreus duly rhapsodized of his Phyllida.

“I borrow for my dear love the appellation of that noted but by much inferior lady who was beloved by Ariphus of Belsize,” he explained. “You will remember Poliger suspects she was a princess of the house of Scleroveus: and you of course recall Pisander’s masterly summing-up of the probabilities, in his Heraclea.”

“Oh, yes,” they said. And the courtiers of Gogyrvan Gawr, like Mother Sereda, were greatly impressed by young Duke Jurgen’s erudition.

For Jurgen was Duke of Logreus nowadays, with his glittering shirt and the coronet upon his bridle to show for it. Awkwardly this proved to be an earl’s coronet, but incongruities are not always inexplicable.

“It was Earl Giarmuid’s horse. You have doubtless heard of Giarmuid: but to ask that is insulting.”

“Oh, not at all. It is humor. We perfectly understand your humor, Duke Jurgen.”

“And a very pretty fighter I found this famous Giarmuid as