Of all the images thus erected in the Abbey, there remain
but a few. The images had to take their chance, in days that were
without benefit of police. Thieves, we may suppose, stripped the
finery from many of them. Rebels, we know, broke in, less ignobly, and
tore many of them limb from limb, as a protest against the governing
classes. So only a poor remnant, a `ragged regiment,' has been
rallied, at length, into the sanctuary of Islip's Chapel. Perhaps, if
they were not so few, these images would not be so fascinating.
Yes, I am fascinated by them now. Terror has been toned to wonder. I
am filled with a kind of wondering pity. My academic theory about wax-
works has broken down utterly. These figures--kings, princes,
duchesses, queens--all are real to me now, and all are infinitely
pathetic, in the dignity of their fallen and forgotten greatness. With
what inalienable majesty they wear their rusty velvets and faded
silks, flaunting sere ruffles of point-lace, which at a touch now
would be shivered like cobwebs! My heart goes out to them through the
glass that divides us. I wish I could stay with them, bear them
company, always. I think they like me. I am afraid they will miss me.
Perhaps it would be better for us never to have met. Even Queen
Elizabeth, beholding whom, as she stands here, gaunt and imperious and
appalling, I echo the words spoken by Philip's envoy, `This woman is
possessed of a hundred thousand devils'--even she herself, though she
gazes askance into the air, seems to be conscious of my presence, and
to be willing me to stay.
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