Though Gentile Kings upon their thrones
May weave a spell, or dance like Tich,
Yet ponder on the bleaching bones
Of Saul, who sought the Endor Witch.
Now Mrs. Freudenthal has heard her call
Without a qualm—yet how can she obey
The bidding of the prophetess (like Saul,
She has consulted Endor)? How can she
Aspire to feed the lions, yet unlike Daniel,
Once there insist on resting in their den,
To treat them as one would a King Charles Spaniel
With frowns—with bones and biscuits, now and then?
For Mrs. Freudenthal is weary of
Her auction-bridge and hissing hotel-friend,
Seeks spheres where Novelist and Romanoff
Eat with Artistic Ladies without end.
Money is power—a golden pedestal
Atones for beauty that is long, long dead—
As Orpheus, Mrs. Kinfoot has enchanted all,
The lions who have not thundered—and then fled.
Thus climbing sideways, you entice a throng
Of Artists with a biscuit and a bone—
Then use them as a bait, step up a rung—
But how begin? At night she plans alone
Within the saxe-blue hotel drawing-room,
The silence of South Kensington is deep,
No sound except the traffic's wave-like boom
—And Mrs. Kinfoot climbing in her sleep!
Thus Mrs. Freudenthal, alone, awake,
And sad, broods on. Oh how, oh how begin?
Till suddenly she melts—as small waves break,
So laughter ripples to her fortieth chin.
For now she has it—clasps the golden key
That shall unbar that stranger—Popularity.
How many noses are forgiven thee,
Forgotten, in the name of Charity?
First fill the coffers of the Sacred Cause,
And then the stomachs of the well-to-do,
Now Mrs. F. ... will be their Santa Klaus
—Until herself becomes a War-horse too.