THE ROYAL PORTRAITS.
(AT LUDWIGSHOF.)
I.
Confronting each other the pictures stare
Into each other’s sleepless eyes;
And the daylight into the darkness dies,
From year to year in the palace there:
But they watch and guard that no device
Take either one of them unaware.
Their majesties the king and the queen,
The parents of the reigning prince:
Both put off royalty many years since,
With life and the gifts that have always been
Given to kings from God, to evince
His sense of the mighty over the mean.
I cannot say that I like the face
Of the king; it is something fat and red;
And the neck that lifts the royal head
Is thick and coarse; and a scanty grace
Dwells in the dull blue eyes that are laid
Sullenly on the queen in her place.
He must have been a king in his day
‘Twere well to pleasure in work and sport:
One of the heaven-anointed sort
Who ruled his people with iron sway,
And knew that, through good and evil report,
God meant him to rule and them to obey.
There are many other likenesses
Of the king in his royal palace there;
You find him depicted everywhere, —
In his robes of state, in his hunting-dress,
In his flowing wig, in his powdered hair, —
A king in all of them, none the less;
But most himself in this on the wall
Over against his consort, whose
Laces, and hoops, and high-heeled shoes
Make her the finest lady of all
The queens or courtly dames you choose,
In the ancestral portrait hall.
A glorious blonde: a luxury
Of luring blue and wanton gold,
Of blanchéd rose and crimson bold,
Of lines that flow voluptuously
In tender, languorous curves to fold
Her form in perfect symmetry.
She might have been false. Of her withered dust
There scarcely would be enough to write
Her guilt in now; and the dead have a right
To our lenient doubt if not to our trust:
So if the truth cannot make her white,
Let us be as merciful as we — must.
II.
The queen died first, the queen died young,
But the king was very old when he died,
Rotten with license, and lust, and pride;
And the usual Virtues came and hung
Their cypress wreaths on his tomb, and wide
Throughout his kingdom his praise was sung.
How the queen died is not certainly known,
And faithful subjects are all forbid
To speak of the murder which some one did
One night while she slept in the dark alone:
History keeps the story hid,
And Fear only tells it in undertone.
Up from your startled feet aloof,
In the famous Echo-Room, with a bound
Leaps the echo, and round and round
Beating itself against the roof, —
A horrible, gasping, shuddering sound, —
Dies ere its terror can utter proof
Of that it knows. A door is fast,
And none is suffered to enter there.
His sacred majesty could not bear
To look at it toward the last,
As he grew very old. It opened where
The queen died young so many years past.
III.
How the queen died is not certainly known;
But in the palace’s solitude
A harking dread and horror brood,
And a silence, as if a mortal groan
Had been hushed the moment before, and would
Break forth again when you were gone.
The present king has never dwelt
In the desolate palace. From year to year
In the wide and stately garden drear
The snows and the snowy blossoms melt
Unheeded, and a ghastly fear
Through all the shivering leaves is felt.
By night the gathering shadows creep
Along the dusk and hollow halls,
And the slumber-broken palace calls
With stifled moans from its nightmare sleep;
And then the ghostly moonlight falls
Athwart the darkness brown and deep.
At early dawn the light wind sighs,
And through the desert garden blows
The wasted sweetness of the rose;
At noon the feverish sunshine lies
Sick in the walks. But at evening’s close,
When the last, long rays to the windows rise,
And with many a blood-red, wrathful streak
Pierce through the twilight glooms that blur
His cruel vigilance and her
Regard, they light fierce looks that wreak
A hopeless hate that cannot stir,
A voiceless hate that cannot speak
In the awful calm of the sleepless eyes;
And as if she saw her murderer glare
On her face, and he the white despair
Of his victim kindle in wild surmise,
Confronted the conscious pictures stare, —
And their secret back into darkness dies.
THE FAITHFUL OF THE GONZAGA.
I.
Federigo, the son of the Marquis,
Downcast, through the garden goes:
He is hurt with the grace of the lily,
And the beauty of the rose.
For what is the grace of the lily
But her own slender grace?
And what is the rose’s beauty
But the beauty of her face? —
Who sits beside her window
Waiting to welcome him,
That comes so lothly toward her
With his visage sick and dim.
“Ah! lily, I come to break thee!
Ah! rose, a bitter rain
Of tears shall beat thy light out
That thou never burn again!”
II.
Federigo, the son of the Marquis,
Takes the lady by the hand:
“Thou must bid me God-speed on a journey,
For I leave my native land.
“From Mantua to-morrow
I go, a banished man;
Make me glad for truth and love’s sake
Of my father’s curse and ban.
“Our quarrel has left my mother
Like death upon the floor;
And I come from a furious presence
I never shall enter more.
“I would not wed the woman
He had chosen for my bride,
For my heart had been before him,
With his statecraft and his pride.
“I swore to him by my princehood
In my love I would be free;
And I swear to thee by my manhood,
I love no one but thee.
“Let the Duke of Bavaria marry
His daughter to whom he will:
There where my love was given
My word shall be faithful still.
“There are six true hearts will follow
My truth wherever I go,
And thou equal truth wilt keep me
In welfare and in woe.”
The maiden answered him nothing
Of herself, but his words again
Came back through her lips like an echo
From an abyss of pain;
And vacantly repeating
“In welfare and in woe,”
Like a dream from the heart of fever
From
her arms she felt him go.
III.
Out of Mantua’s gate at daybreak
Seven comrades wander forth
On a path that leads at their humor,
East, west, or south, or north.
The prince’s laugh rings lightly,
“What road shall we take from home?”
And they answer, “We never shall lose it
If we take the road to Rome.”
And with many a jest and banter
The comrades keep their way,
Journeying out of the twilight
Forward into the day,
When they are aware beside them
Goes a pretty minstrel lad,
With a shy and downward aspect,
That is neither sad nor glad.
Over his slender shoulder,
His mandolin was slung,
And around its chords the treasure
Of his golden tresses hung.
Spoke one of the seven companions,
“Little minstrel, whither away?” —
“With seven true-hearted comrades
On their journey, if I may.”
Spoke one of the seven companions,
“If our way be hard and long?” —
“I will lighten it with my music
And shorten it with my song.”
Spoke one of the seven companions,
“But what are the songs thou know’st?” —
“O, I know many a ditty,
But this I sing the most:
“How once was an humble maiden
Beloved of a great lord’s son,
That for her sake and his troth’s sake
Was banished and undone.
“And forth of his father’s city
He went at break of day,
And the maiden softly followed
Behind him on the way
“In the figure of a minstrel,
And prayed him of his love,
‘Let me go with thee and serve thee
Wherever thou may’st rove.
“‘For if thou goest in exile
I rest banished at home,
And where thou wanderest with thee
My fears in anguish roam,
“‘Besetting thy path with perils,
Making thee hungry and cold,
Filling thy heart with trouble
And heaviness untold.
“‘But let me go beside thee,
And banishment shall be
Honor, and riches, and country,
And home to thee and me!’”
Down falls the minstrel-maiden
Before the Marquis’ son,
And the six true-hearted comrades
Bow round them every one.
Federigo, the son of the Marquis,
From its scabbard draws his sword:
“Now swear by the honor and fealty
Ye bear your friend and lord,
“That whenever, and wherever,
As long as ye have life,
Ye will honor and serve this lady
As ye would your prince’s wife!”
IV.
Over the broad expanses
Of garlanded Lombardy,
Where the gentle vines are swinging
In the orchards from tree to tree;
Through Padua from Verona,
From the sculptured gothic town,
Carved from ruin upon ruin,
And ancienter than renown;
Through Padua from Verona
To fair Venice, where she stands
With her feet on subject waters,
Lady of many lands;
From Venice by sea to Ancona;
From Ancona to the west;
Climbing many a gardened hillside
And many a castled crest;
Through valleys dim with the twilight
Of their gray olive trees;
Over plains that swim with harvests
Like golden noonday seas;
Whence the lofty campanili
Like the masts of ships arise,
And like a fleet at anchor
Under them, the village lies;
To Florence beside her Arno,
In her many-marbled pride,
Crowned with infamy and glory
By the sons she has denied;
To pitiless Pisa, where never
Since the anguish of Ugolin
The moon in the Tower of Famine
Fate so dread as his hath seen;
Out through the gates of Pisa
To Livorno on her bay,
To Genoa and to Naples
The comrades hold their way,
Past the Guelph in his town beleaguered,
Past the fortressed Ghibelline,
Through lands that reek with slaughter,
Treason, and shame, and sin;
By desert, by sea, by city,
High hill-cope and temple-dome,
Through pestilence, hunger, and horror,
Upon the road to Rome;
While every land behind them
Forgets them as they go,
And in Mantua they are remembered
As is the last year’s snow;
But the Marchioness goes to her chamber
Day after day to weep, —
For the changeless heart of a mother
The love of a son must keep.
The Marchioness weeps in her chamber
Over tidings that come to her
Of the exiles she seeks, by letter
And by lips of messenger,
Broken hints of their sojourn and absence,
Comfortless, vague, and slight, —
Like feathers wafted backwards
From passage birds in flight.
The tale of a drunken sailor,
In whose ship they went to sea;
A traveller’s evening story
At a village hostelry,
Of certain comrades sent him
By our Lady, of her grace,
To save his life from robbers
In a lonely desert place;
Word from the monks of a convent
Of gentle comrades that lay
One stormy night at their convent,
And passed with the storm at day;
The long parley of a peasant
That sold them wine and food,
The gossip of a shepherd
That guided them through a wood;
A boatman’s talk at the ferry
Of a river where they crossed,
And as if they had sunk in the current
All trace of them was lost;
And so is an end of tidings
But never an end of tears,
Of secret and friendless sorrow
Through blank and silent years.
V.
To the Marchioness in her chamber
Sends word a messenger,
Newly come from the land of Naples,
Praying for speech with her.
The messenger stands before her,
A minstrel slender and wan:
“In a village of my country
Lies a Mantuan gentleman,
“Sick of a smouldering fever,
Of sorrow and poverty;
And no one in all that country
Knows his title or degree.
“But six true Mantuan peasants,
Or nobles, as some men say,
Watch by the sick man’s bedside,
And toil for him, night and day,
“Hewing, digging, reaping, sowing,
Bearing burdens, and far and nigh
Begging for him on the highway
Of the strangers that pass by;
“And they look whenever you meet them
Like broken-hearted men,
And I heard that the sick man would not
If he could, be well again;
“For they say that he for love’s sake
Was gladly ba
nishèd,
But she for whom he was banished
Is worse to him, now, than dead, —
“A recreant to his sorrow,
A traitress to his woe.”
From her place the Marchioness rises,
The minstrel turns to go.
But fast by the hand she takes him, —
His hand in her clasp is cold, —
“If gold may be thy guerdon
Thou shalt not lack for gold;
“And if the love of a mother
Can bless thee for that thou hast done,
Thou shalt stay and be his brother,
Thou shalt stay and be my son.”
“Nay, my lady,” answered the minstrel,
And his face is deadly pale,
“Nay, this must not be, sweet lady,
But let my words prevail.
“Let me go now from your presence,
And I will come again,
When you stand with your son beside you,
And be your servant then.”
VI.
At the feet of the Marquis Gonzaga
Kneels his lady on the floor;
“Lord, grant me before I ask it
The thing that I implore.”
“So it be not of that ingrate.” —
“Nay, lord, it is of him.”
‘Neath the stormy brows of the Marquis
His eyes are tender and dim.
“He lies sick of a fever in Naples,
Near unto death, as they tell,
In his need and pain forsaken
By the wanton he loved so well.
“Now send for him and forgive him,
If ever thou loved’st me,
Now send for him and forgive him
As God shall be good to thee.”
“Well so, — if he turn in repentance
And bow himself to my will;
That the high-born lady I chose him
May be my daughter still.”
VII.
In Mantua there is feasting
For the Marquis’ grace to his son;
In Mantua there is rejoicing
For the prince come back to his own.
The pomp of a wedding procession
Pauses under the pillared porch,
With silken rustle and whisper,
Before the door of the church.
In the midst, Federigo the bridegroom
Stands with his high-born bride;
The six true-hearted comrades
Are three on either side.
The bridegroom is gray as his father,
Where they stand face to face,
And the six true-hearted comrades
Are like old men in their place.
The Marquis takes the comrades
And kisses them one by one:
“That ye were fast and faithful
And better than I to my son,
“Ye shall be called forever,
In the sign that ye were so true,
The Faithful of the Gonzaga,
And your sons after you.”
VIII.
To the Marchioness comes a courtier:
“I am prayed to bring you word
That the minstrel keeps his promise
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 1146