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Updated: August 11, 2024
But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king; he was schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts or to meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as the Quair.
"Certainly, including myself," retorted Quair, adding naively: "Besides, I knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted." "Yet you tried it," mused Guilder, entering his big touring car and depositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his own ponderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the chauffeur, then: "Tried nothing," he said. "A little chaff, that's all.
Therefore, let her alone, or I'll throw you out of doors." Quair said to Guilder after they had departed: "Fancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious basis! He's doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what's in it for her?" "Perhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency." "Everybody is decent enough to her as far as I know." "Including yourself?"
Although constantly complaining of his imprisonment, and of the treatment accorded to him in England, James brought home with him, when his release was negotiated in 1423-24, an English bride, Joan Beaufort, the heroine of the Quair. She was the daughter of Somerset, who had been captured at Baugé, and grand-daughter of John of Gaunt.
"Carpeaux and his eternal group it's the murderous but inevitable standard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance at the photograph on the wall. "Carpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair flippantly; and he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model.
In their places stalked the ghosts of kings and queens and knights and nobles; Columba, Abbot of Iona; Queen Margaret and Malcolm she the sweetest saint in all the throng; King David riding towards Drumsheugh forest on Holy Rood day, with his horns and hounds and huntsmen following close behind; Anne of Denmark and Jingling Geordie; Mary Stuart in all her girlish beauty, with the four Maries in her train; and lurking behind, Bothwell, 'that ower sune stepfaither, and the murdered Rizzio and Darnley; John Knox, in his black Geneva cloak; Bonnie Prince Charlie and Flora Macdonald; lovely Annabella Drummond; Robert the Bruce; George Heriot with a banner bearing on it the words 'I distribute chearfully'; James I. carrying The King's Quair; Oliver Cromwell; and a long line of heroes, martyrs, humble saints, and princely knaves.
It was the life and death of Mary Queen of Scots. Not only was the tense, fidgety, over-American Mary Fuller transformed into a being who was a poppy and a tiger-lily and a snow-queen and a rose, but she and her company, including Marc Macdermott, radiated the old Scotch patriotism. They made the picture a memorial. It reminded one of Maurice Hewlett's novel The Queen's Quair.
Labour in truth, while light is of the day. Trust maist in God, for he best gyd thee can, Trust most in God, for he best guide thee can, And for ilk inch he wil thee quyt a span." And for each inch he will thee requite a span. The best version of The King's Quair in the ancient text is by W. W. Skeat.
Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem; and we may consider The King's Quair,* composed by James during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house.
The sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door then celebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly. For a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons on neighboring roof.
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