The following verse version of Marcus Schwob's story "the King with the Golden Mask" long considered an influence on Le Roi en Jaune, was discovered among the Castigne Papers.
This translation into English has been prepared by Simon Bucher-Jones (MA)(J)
"For Anatole France(1) and Marcus Schwob"
THE KING IN THE GOLD MASK
The King in the Gold Mask arose,
From his Throne of Black where his wisdom strove,
To puzzle the truth from the passing hours,
And demanded to know why the Guardian Powers,
At the Gates of his throne-room had crossed their spears,
Had the sound of iron ringing reached their ears?
All around in the court, where the bronze fires blazed,
Fifty priests genuflected, amazed,
And fifty fools, in their bells and tatters
Mocked at the majesty of these matters.
In a semi-circle around the King,
The Ladies curtseyed, like anything.
Rose-pink, and royal-purple, the brazier flames
Shadows cast on the Pale-masked Dames.
And imitation, the jesters made,
Of the wealth and power that were displayed,
In silver, and gold, and copper, and wood,
Around the court as statues stood.
The masks of the Jesters were fixed in laughter,
The Priests’ masks showed worry, about the hereafter.
Fifty to the left, were hilarity true,
On the right, fifty scowled, at secrets they knew.
And the light cloth masks of the women there,
In artifice, showed movement fair.
The masks showed, beauty, patience, youth,
Every facet, except the truth.
But the Golden Mask of the risen King,
Was carven with majesty’s noble mien.
He stood as quiet, as the silent tombs,
Of his grim forebears, as the empty rooms,
Of the fallen Kings, who silence amassed,
In their long dark graves, of whom he was last.
Once his ancestors had shown their passion,
On naked faces, but long the fashion,
Had been for the faces wrought by art,
That are said to show the inward heart.
But no one could say, not even the Priests,
If the face of the King was in the least,
Like the mask he wore both night and day,
And not even the Priests could say,
Why for generations it had been,
The rule the King’s face should not be seen.
But as the Kings ruled, it came to pass,
The subjects did the same, en mass
And no one now to the royal abode,
Would come by ship or come by road,
Unless their face was covered, for shame,
Afflicted all, without a name.
And the King and his family saw nothing amiss,
In the covering up of their faces, like this,
For custom, is habit, and habit, is rote,
And nothing done often, is something of note.
Now the clattering blows on the iron of the gates,
And the striving of the Guards as against unknown fates,
That roused up the King from his contemplation,
Will soon admit of an explanation,
For he shouts in a voice, inhuman and grave,
That would shiver the hearts of the fearless or brave:
“Who dares to lay siege, to my intimate feasts,
When I sit, in the midst, of my dames, fools, and priests!”
And the trembling Guards, told the King in His Grace,
“It is but a poor man of the mendicant race,
But though his old limbs are in hessian smothered,
We can not admit him, with his face uncovered.”
“Why let the man in,” said the King in His Pride,
“A poor beggar man has no secrets to hide.
He may not give up, by an eyebrow’s mere raising,
What nobles are scorned and what nobles he’s praising!”
But, the tallest of priests with the most solemn mask,
Bowed low to the King, and said “Sire, I must ask,
You not to admit, to your sight, this old man,
For we Priests recall, how the oracles ran:
‘Ill-luck it will be to the King’s Holy Race,
If ever they look on a man’s unmasked face.’ “
And the smallest of fools, in the funniest mask,
Bowed low to the King, and said “I too must ask.
If being concealed is the mark of the King,
Is not the old beggar, a wonderful thing,
For while you conceal part of you, a- “masque d’or”
He is hidden completely, by guards and the door!”
And the most lissom maid, with the most cunning face,
Of fine downy feathers all moulded, in place,
Bowed low to the King, supplicating or praying,
In the hope he would hear, in words she was not saying,
And see in her eyes, which were blue as the sky,
That she feared the old man, though she did not know why.
Then the King – in his pride – said again his first choice,
And the Guards in their armour obeying his voice,
Let in the old man with no mask of his own -
Save his beard - he advanced to the foot of the throne:
Through the forest of pikes, through the swords of steel-wrought
That in green gold, and red gold, reflected the Court.
“Speak thou,” said the King to the beggar who began,
To speak with the strong voice, of a young virile man:
“If the King so commands, I will speak, with good grace,
But is this the King? Or someone in his place?
(1) Marcus Schwob dedicates this story to Anatole France. Thomas de Castigne intended to send a copy of his verse form to Marcus, but seems to have neglected to do so, the original letter remaining among the family papers recently made available for study.
The rest of this translation will be printed in the Jaune Studies Yearbook Dec-15
