Part 17

She was a queen. 'Midst mutes and slaves, A mameluke, he loved her.--Waves Dashed not more hopelessly the paves Of her high marble palace-stair Than lashed his love his heart's despair.-- As souls in Hell dream Paradise, He suffered yet forgot it there Beneath Rommaneh's houri eyes.

II

With passion eating at his heart He served her beauty, but dared dart No look at her or word impart.-- Taïfi leather's perfumed tan Beneath her, on a low divan She lay 'mid cushions stuffed with down; A slave-girl with an ostrich fan Sat by her in a golden gown.

III

She bade him sing; fair lutanist She loved his voice: with one white wrist, Hooped with a blaze of amethyst, She raised her ruby-crusted lute: Gold-welted stuff, like some rich fruit, Her raiment, diamond-showered, rolled Folds pigeon-purple, whence one foot Drooped in an anklet-twist of gold.

IV

He stood and sang with all the fire That boiled within his blood's desire, That made him all her slave yet higher: And, at the end, his passion durst Quench with one burning kiss its thirst.-- O eunuchs! did her face show scorn When through his heart your daggers burst? And dare you say he died forlorn?

ROMAUNT OF THE ROSES

_A jongleur tells to the Viscountess of Ventadour,--wife of the Seigneur of the Château de Ventadour, in Limousin,--how the troubadour Bernard, her former lover, met his death. Time, the middle of the 12th century._

All the night was drowned in dreaming; And, above the terraced height, Hung the moon, a sinking crescent, In the ocean mirrored white; And a breath of distant music And of fragrance filled the night.

Dripped the musk of myriad roses From a million heavy sprays; And the nightingales were sobbing 'Mid the roses, where the haze And the purple mists of midnight Caught the moonlight's rippled rays.

And the towers of the palace, 'Mid its belt of ancient trees, On the mountain rose, romantic, White as foam of summer seas; And the murmur of the ocean Made a harp of every breeze.

Where the moon shone on the terrace And its fountains' falling foam; Where the marble urns of flowers Spilled their perfume in the gloam; By the alabaster Venus Stood her troubadour come home.

Bernard, he who was my master And your lover, Ventadour; There to meet her by commandment, She the lovely Eleanor; She of Normandy the Duchess, He a simple troubadour.

And she met him by the statue, By the marble Venus there,-- Like a moonbeam 'mid the roses, Who their crimson hearts laid bare, Breathing out their lives in fragrance, At her naked feet and fair.--

Then she told him she was Queen now, That her husband now was King, King of England; and to-morrow She would sail. And then a ring From her hand she took and gave him; For the last time bade him sing.

And he sang. Below, the dingles, Where the lazy vapors lolled, Where the torrent flashed its cascade, Touched with amethyst and gold, Echoed; where the wild deer glimmered By the ruin gray and old.

From the Venus then, or roses, Struck a dagger; snake that stung, Laid him dead who'd tuned her heart's strings Till for him alone they sung: Stilled the heart of him who only From her heart one note had wrung.

And the nightingales kept singing 'Mid the roses, while, like stone, Eleanor sank pale beside him, And unto the palace lone Stole a shadow with a dagger, Who shall sit upon a throne.

THE PORTRAIT

In some quaint Nürnberg _maler-atelier_ Uprummaged. When and where was never clear Nor yet how he obtained it. When, by whom 'Twas painted--who shall say? itself a gloom Resisting inquisition. I opine It is a Dürer. Mark that touch, this line, Are they deniable?--Distinguished grace And the pure oval of the noble face Tarnished in color badly. Half in light Extend it so. Incline. The exquisite Expression leaps abruptly: piercing scorn; Imperial beauty; each, an icy thorn Of light, disdainful eyes and ... well! no use! Effaced and but beheld! a sad abuse Of patience.--Often, vaguely visible, The portrait fills each feature, making swell The heart with hope: avoiding face and hair Start out in living hues; astonished, "There! The woman lives," your soul exults, when, lo! You hold a blur; an undetermined glow Dislimns a daub.--Restore?--Ah, I have tried Our best restorers, but it has defied.

Storied, mysterious, say, perhaps, a ghost Lives in the canvas; hers, some artist lost; A duchess', haply. Her he worshiped; dared Not tell he worshiped. From his window stared, Of Nuremberg, one sunny morn when she Passed paged to Court. Her cold nobility Loved, lived for like a purpose. Seized and plied A feverish brush--her face!--Despaired and died.

The narrow Judengasse: gables frown Around a humpbacked usurer's, where brown And dirty in a corner long it lay, Heaped in a pile of riff-raff, such as--say, Retables done in tempora and old Panels by Wohlgemuth; stiff paintings cold Of martyrs and apostles,--names forgot,-- Holbeins and Dürers, say; a haloed lot Of praying saints, madonnas: these, perchance, 'Mid wine-stained purples, mothed; an old romance; A crucifix and rosary; inlaid Arms, Saracen-elaborate; a strayed Nïello of Byzantium; rich work, In bronze, of Florence; here a delicate dirk, There holy patens.

So. My ancestor, The first De Herancour, esteemed by far This piece most precious, most desirable; Purchased and brought to Paris. It looked well In the dark paneling above the old Hearth of his room. The head's religious gold, The soft severity of the nun face, Made of the room an apostolic place Revered and feared.--

Like some lived scene I see That gothic room; its Flemish tapestry: Embossed within the marble hearth a shield, Wreathed round with thistles; in its argent field Three sable mallets--arms of Herancour-- Carved with the crest, a helm and hands that bore, Outstretched, two mallets. On a lectern laid,-- Between two casements, lozenge-paned, embayed,-- A vellum volume of black-lettered text. Near by a taper, blinking as if vexed With silken gusts a nervous curtain sends, Behind which, haply, daggered Murder bends.

And then I seem to see again the hall, The stairway leading to that room.--Then all The terror of that night of blood and crime Passes before me.--It is Catherine's time: The house, De Herancour's: on floors, splashed red, Torchlight of Medicean wrath is shed: Down carven corridors and rooms,--where couch And chairs lie shattered and the shadows crouch, Torch-pierced, with fear,--a sound of swords draws near, The stir of searching steel.

What find they here On St. Bartholomew's?--A Huguenot Dead in his chair! Eyes violently shot With horror, fastened on a portrait there; Coiling his neck one blood line, like a hair Of finest fire. The portrait, like a fiend,-- Looking exalted visitation,--leaned From its black panel; in its eyes a hate Demonic; hair--a glowing auburn, late A dull, enduring golden.

"Just one thread Of the fierce hair around his throat," they said, "Twisting a burning ray, he--staring dead."

BEHRAM AND EDDETMA

Against each prince now she had held her own, An easy victor for the seven years O'er kings and sons of kings--Eddetma, she, Who, when much sought in marriage, hating men, Espoused their ways to win beyond their strength Through martial exercise and hero deeds: She, who, accomplished in all warlike arts, Had heralds cry through every kingdom known-- _"Eddetma weds with none but him who proves Himself her master in the test of arms; Her suitors' foeman she. And he who fails, So overcome of woman, woman-scorned, Disarmed, dishonored, yet shall he depart, Brow-bearing, forehead-stigmatized with fire, The branded words, 'Eddetma's freedman this!'"_ And many princes came to woo with arms, Whom her high maiden prowess put to shame; Pretentious courtiers small in thew and thigh, Proud-palanquined from principalities Of Irak and of Hind and farther Sind. Though she was womanly as that Empress of The proud Amalekites, Tedmureh, and More beautiful, yet she had held her own.

To Behram of the Territories, one Son of a Persian monarch swaying kings, Came bruit of her and her great victories, Her maiden beauty and her warrior strength. Eastward he journeyed from his father's Court, With men and steeds and store of wealth and arms, To the rich city where her father reigned, Its seven citadels set above the sea, Like seven Afrits, threatening all the world; And messengered the monarch with a gift Of savage vessels wroughten out of gold, Of foreign fabrics stiff with gems and gold. Vizier-ambassadored the old king gave His answer to the suitor:--

"I, my son,-- What grace have I beyond the grace of God? What power is mine but a material? What rule have I but a mere temporal? Me, than the shadow of the Prophet's shade Less, God invests with power but of man; Yea! and man's right is but the right of God; _His_ the dominion of the secret soul-- And His her soul! Now hath my daughter sworn, By all her vestal soul, that none shall know Her but her better in the listed field, Determining spear and sword. Grant Fate thy trust. She hangs her hand upon to-morrow's joust.-- Allah is great!--My greeting and farewell."

And so the lists of war and love arose, Wherein Eddetma with her suitor strove. Mailed in Chorasmian armor, helm and spur, On a great steed she came; Davidean crest And hauberk one fierce blaze of gems. The prince, Harnessed in scaly gold Arabian, rode To meet her; on his arm a mighty shield Of Syrian silver high embossed with gold. So clanged the prologue of the battle. As Closer it waxed, Prince Behram, who a while Withheld his valor,--in that she he loved Opposed him and beset him, woman whom He had not scathed for the Chosroës' wealth,-- Beheld his folly: how he were undone With shining shame unless he strove withal, Whirled fiery sword and smote the bassinet That helmed the haughty face that long had scorned The wide world's vanquished royalty, and so Rushed on his own defeat. For, like unto A cloud, that caverned the bright moon all eve, That thunder splits and, virgin triumph, there She sails a silver aspect, so the helm, Hurled from her head, unhusked her golden hair, And glorious, glowing face. By his own blow Was Behram vanquished. All his wavering strength Swerved from its purpose. With no final stroke Stunned stood he and surrendered: stared and stared, All his strong life absorbed into her face, All the wild warrior arrowed by her eyes, Tamed and obedient to her word and look. Then she on him, as eagle on a kite, Plunged pitiless and beautiful and fierce, One trophy more to added victories: Haled off his mail, amazement dazing him; Seized steed and arms, confusion filling him; And scoffed him forth brow-branded with his shame.

Dazzled, six days he sat, a staring trance; But on the seventh, casting stupor off, Rose, and the straitness of the case, that held Him as with manacles of knitted fire, Considered--and decided on a way....

Once when Eddetma with an houri band Of high-born damsels, under eunuch guard, In the walled palace pleasaunce took her ease, Under a myrrh-bush by a fountain side,-- Where marble Peris poured a diamond rain In scooped cornelian,--one, a dim, hoar head,-- A patriarch 'mid gardener underlings,-- Bent spreading gems and priceless ornaments Of jewelled amulets of hollow gold Sweet with imprisoned ambergris and musk; Symbolic stones in sorcerous carcanets; Gem talismans in cabalistic gold. Whereon the princess marvelled and bade ask-- What did the ancient with his riches there? Who, questioned, mumbled in his bushy beard, "To buy a wife withal;" whereat they laughed As oafs when wisdom stumbles. Quoth a maid, With orient midnight in her starry eyes, And tropic music on her languid tongue, "And what if _I_ should wed with thee, O beard Grayer than my great-grandfather, what then?"-- "One kiss, no more; and, child, thou were divorced," He; and the humor took them till, like birds That sing among the spice-trees and the palms, The garden pealed with maiden merriment.

Then quoth the princess, "Thou wilt wed with him, Ansada?" mirth in her gazelle-like eyes, And gravity sage-solemn in her speech; And took Ansada's hand and laid it in The old man's staggering hand, and he unbent His crookéd back and on his staff arose Wrinkled and weighed with many heavy years, And kissed her, leaning on his shaking staff, And heaped her bosom with an Amir's wealth, And left them laughing at his foolish beard. Now on the next day, as she took her ease With her glad troop of girlhood,--maidens who So many royal tulips seemed,--behold, Bowed with white years, upon a flowery sward The ancient with new jewelry and gems Wherefrom the sun coaxed wizard fires and lit Glimmers in glowing green and pendent pearl, Ultramarine and beaded, vivid rose. And so they stood and wondered; and one asked, As yesternoon, wherefore the father there Displayed his Sheikh locks and the genie gems.-- "Another marriage and another kiss?-- What! doth the tomb-ripe court his youth again? O aged one, libertine in hope not deed! O prodigal of wives as well as wealth! Here stands thy damsel," trilled the Peri-tall Diarra with the midnight in her hair, Two lemon-blossoms blowing in her cheeks; And took the dotard's jewels with the kiss In merry mockery.

Ere the morrow's dawn Bethought Eddetma: "Shall my handmaidens, Humoring a gray-beard's whim, for wrinkled smiles And withered kisses still divide his wealth? While I stand idle, lose the caravan Whose least is notable?--I too will wed, Betide me what betides."

And with the morn Before the man,--for privily she came,-- Stood habited, as were her tire-maids, In humbler raiment. Now the ancient saw And knew her for the princess that she was, And kindling gladness of the knowledge made Two sparkling forges of his deep-set eyes Beneath the ashes of his priestly brows. Not timidly she came; but coy approach Became a maiden of Eddetma's suite. She, gazing on the jewels he had spread Beneath the rose-bower by the fountain, said:-- "The princess gave me leave, O grandfather. Here is my hand in marriage, here my lips. Adorn thy bride; then grant me my divorce." And humbly answered he, "With all my heart!"-- Responsive to her quavering request,-- "The daughter of the king did give thee leave? And thou wouldst wed?--Then let us not delay.-- Thy hand! thy lips!" So he arose and heaped Her with barbaric jewelry and gems, And took her hand and from her lips the kiss. Then from his age, behold, the dotage fell, And from the man all palsied hoariness. Victorious-eyed and amorous, a youth, A god in ardent capabilities, Resistless held her; and she, swooning, saw, Transfigured and triumphant bending o'er, Gloating, the branded brow of Prince Behram.

TORQUEMADA

_To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo._

What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of Toledo?--Yea! doze they above some Bull-- Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot? Come, come! awake! O prelates militant! Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now: Spain's King is less than king as I am less Than Paul the Apostle.--Look you! look around; Observe and dare!--I write above my seal, A grave Dominican, to postulate Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks No nonsense in your excellencies' ears: King Henry's heir _is_ illegitimate! Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence Gave us a wanton out of Portugal For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now. Look! all the Court laughs--secretly: but masks Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free From all concealment; and the word still wags About this son,--who is his favorite's, Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,-- Whom, people say,--and what they say is true,-- The King himself, needing a lusty heir, Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed. What shall we do? endorse the infamy? Absolve them?--Yea! absolve them--at the stake! Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews The neck of State asunder!--Is it well, Prelates and ministers?

Be merciful?-- Lest the disease of this delicious fruit, This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core, Why not pare off all rottenness and leave The healthy pulp! The throne, the populace, The Church, and God demand the overthrow, Deponement or the abnegation of This Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!-- Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hope That brothers of such kings have no long life.)-- Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then; Ambition ever was and aye will be Cousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl, The tonsure and the cowl, _they_ must advance! My native town, Valladolid, did sow The priestly germ, ambition, first in me; Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had, Despite the richness of the soil, poor growth And less encouragement; the nipping wind Of Court disfavor was too much for it; And so I bore it thence to Cordova, And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile, 'Neath which it sprouted but--who trusts the sex?-- Grew to a tenderness too insecure For love's black frosts. Required hardiness, And found it there at Zaragossa; (where Fat father Lopés, bluff Dominican, My youth confuted with wise nonsense, and Astonished Spain in disputation in The public controversies of the monks). Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed! Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's red Is promised by the bud that tops its stem. How have I, through the saintly medium Of the confessional, impressed the ear Of Isabella, daughter and dear child! The incarnation of my dear ideal, Pure crucifix of my religious love, Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds: Ploughed up the early meadows of her soul For fruitful increase! in her maiden heart Insinuated subtleties of seed Shall ripen to a queen crowned with a crown From welded gold of Arragon and Castile! How I this son of John, the Second named, Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,-- (Grant absolution, holy mother mine! Thus thy advancement and thy mastery Would I obtain!)--have on her fancy limned In morning colors of proud chivalry! Till he a sceptered paladin of love And beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreams What--Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a star She saw when but a babe and in the arms Of some old nurse. A star, that laughed above A space of Moorish balcony that hung Above a water full of upset stars; Reflected glimmers of old palace fêtes: A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own, But never got; that blew young promises, Court promises, centupled, from the tips Of golden fingers at her infant eyes.-- Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen, What if one, Torquemada, clothe her star In palpable approach and give it her!--

When she is Queen, three steadfast purposes Have grown their causes to divine results.-- No young imagination did I train With such endeavor and for no reward.-- How often have I told her of the things She could perform when Queen, while silently And pensively she sat and, leaning, heard, Absorbed upon my face! her missal,--crushed By one propped elbow, its bent, careless leaves Rich with illuminated capitals Of gold and purple,--open on her lap. Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking of Felicity; discoursing earnestly Of Earth and Heaven; and of who adhere To God's true Vicar and our Holy Church: Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss, Celestial, of eternal Paradise, As everlasting as the souls that have Built a strong tower for the only Faith. And I recall now how, in exhortation, Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:-- "Walk not on ways that lead but to despair, The easy ways of Satan! Rather thorns For naked feet that will not falter if Retentive of the arm of our true Church, Who comforts weariness with promises Still urging onward; and refreshes hearts With whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."-- And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked, "Do some digress?"--And I, "Yea, many! yea! And there's necessity! we should annul, Pluck forth the canker that contaminates, Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.-- God's persecution! they confront our Faith With brows of stigmatizing error writ In Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist? No!--Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"-- Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for Spain The Inquisition! Let the Saints record! I promise thee, my father, thou shalt be A mattock of deracination to Extirpate heresy."

Well, well; time goes: The world moves onward, and I still am--oh, Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!...

Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager for Her Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute. Conclusion to these monster heresies Or their most imminent consequence!--The throne, Which is derived directly from high God, Meseems should champion God in any cause; And if it will not, we will make it to.-- O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crush These multiplying madnesses that mouth Their paradoxes at the Cross and shriek Their blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!-- O miserable Religion, is thy pride So fallen here! thy tenement of strength So powerless! Then where's security, When steadfast principle is insecure, And God's own pillars rock and none resists?-- But I have tempered, at a certain heat, A heart of womanhood; and so have wrought The metal of a mind within the forge Of holy discourse, that Toledo's steel Springs not more true than my reforming blade, Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.-- Imperial Isabella! patroness! Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic! Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book, Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith! Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!--