Garcilaso

Dedication

Love her riches all has hidden In a deep and secret cave.

Who can enter there unbidden? —

Can by force , though strong and brave , Enter , barriers overridden ?

Chapter I

Not long ago chance took me to a bookseller’s in Cordova, where I lighted upon a book pretending to give an account of the distinguished men of my nation. Expecting at least a column in regard to my career (if not a page), I turned to “Garcilaso de la Vega, Lord of Bartras. ” My surprise was great to find that the article was taken up wholly with my son, dealing not so much with his heroic exploits as with certain verses which he had composed (in defiance of my wishes). This surprise gave way to a lively indignation when I discovered that there was not another Garcilaso between the covers of that meager and partial work. Thanks be to my patron saint (St. James of Compostella) ! the perpetuity of my fame doth not rest upon the pen of Karl Reuchlin, such being the barbarous name of this ignorant German compiler. For I myself have written my autobiography in six voluminous tomes, carrying my life down to

IO its fiftieth year; I hope to add yet another volume to the six; and when these shall be printed (for which purpose I have made provision in my will), the world will find that there was another de Vega besides the youth who composed “Con un manso ruido de agua corriente y clara.’ ’ The present narrative is merely an episode in my life, and I shall go straight to the story, which is one of love and war, without so much as a word about my parents. Nothing could have compelled me to do this had I not treated of them extensively in my autobiography ; for mine is one of the highest families of Spain. Nor should I have so much as mentioned my son — since he doth not appear upon the scene, these stirring events having taken place before my marriage — were it not for fear the reader of a future day might mistake me for him. For if I have one quality of which I am more proud than another, it is my modesty ; and scorning to sprinkle my pages with the pronoun “I,” Garcilaso will often speak of himself as if he were another.

It was a clear, bright evening in June, and the year was 1491. Leaving Herbert Klein in

1 1 my tent, I sought the pavilions occupied by the ladies of Queen Isabella. What a sight was that ! — a city of silk, extending as far as the eye could see, occupied by the chivalry and the beauty of Spain. City after city, fortress after fortress, we had torn from the heretical arms of the Moors; and now Ferdinand the Catholic had sat down before Granada, never to depart (so he declared) till its surrender. It was an enchanting scene — the tents placed in regular rows, with broad clean streets, meeting at right angles; the flutter of banners, pendants, and ensigns; the gleam of renowned shields as they stood outside the tent-entrances; the colors of the tents, which vied with the rainbow in their diverse hues. Along the streets rode brave knights in gorgeous costumes, each seeking to outdo the other in luxurious extravagance. Garcilaso was attired as befitted the Lord of Bartras; he was inferior to none in his magnificence. And yet, methinks, he was the only cavalier in all that host whose heart was heavy. He looked beyond the tents, across the Vega, blackened by repeated devastations, and he saw the red towers of the Alhambra glowing like pillars of fire against the snows of the Sierra Nevada. Since the king had resolved to starve the city into surrender, since there were no more Moors to meet in gentle combat, what glory was there for the cavalier?

He reached the tent where the Lady Margaret with her maids awaited him. She saw at once that his heart was sad; and bidding her maids withdraw to the other side of the apartment, she pressed him to be seated. “Why, Garcias, is thy brow so sad?” she asked. “Thy face is the face of one who thinks upon long years ill spent.”

“Nay, Margaret; well were the years spent that bought me such a friend as thou art. See, I come to thee as in the old days — I am ever coming to get comfort, or to press my burdens upon thee.”

“Ever come,” she answered, right gently.

“I cannot remember that thou art no longer a child!” continued Garcilaso. “I seem to be a page in the castle of the duke, and thou a maid of honor; thou and I both orphans, and so thrown together by misfortune and by favor. And when I am with thee, I forget that we are grown, and troubles vanish ; thou art ever as a sister. ’ *

J 3

The Lady Margaret did not reply.

“And yet I am of the royal guard,” he continued, “and thou a lady of the queen. And still I come to thee as if I were that simple page of years ago. Oh, Margaret, my heart is heavy.”

“I would I had happiness to give thee,” she said.

He wondered at her tone, for it sounded as if she had no happiness to spare. But why should she not have been happy? She had beauty and wealth. She spoke, and he forgot his thought :

“What has happened?”

“The queen gives a tournament next month,” he answered. “Since all combats with the Moors are over, and our spears rust and our horses forget the battle-cry, discontent begins to find its way into the hearts of the knights. And so the tournament, where many a brave vaunt will be made, I doubt it not. And it grieves me because I cannot take part in the lists.”

“Not take a part ! ’ * echoed the lady. ‘ ‘ Why not?”

“I made a vow, alas, dear lady; I stand pledged to heaven!”

H

“Tell me this vow, Garcias, and wherefore it was made.”

“It was when we besieged Velez Melaga. Thou hast heard the story — how the king was dining in his tent when he saw a part of his army retreating before the Moors; how he sprang to horse, defended only by his cuirass ; how he rallied his men, and was himself surrounded by the enemy, who were about to cut him down.”

“Yea,” cried Margaret; “and how one Garcias Laso rushed to his rescue and saved his life.”

“The Marquis of Cadiz was with me,” Garcilaso interposed ; for though praise was dear to his heart, he did not begrudge it to others. “Well, when I saw that the king could not draw his sword — for it clove to the scabbard which dangled from his saddle-bow — I vowed to St. James, and swore that if I were permitted to reach the king in time to save his life that I would keep my vow. And so the vow must be kept.”

“And what, Garcias, is thy vow?”

“My vow is this, that never will I fight for the colors of a lady who hath not my love.”

1 5

“And is it so hard for thee to love, Garcias?”

“I have never loved, fair Margaret. Therefore is my heart heavy. Methinks there is not a hidalgo in Spain who hath not his lady-love, save Garcilaso. And yet I have one hope, that within this month I may meet a most beauteous maiden, who may teach me the way of love.”

“Think it not, my friend,” said the lady, with a strange smile of daring. “For having known such a maiden from childhood without feeling this love, how can a month teach thee what the years have despaired of teaching?”

“Dear Margaret, take not that tone,” cried Garcilaso, in despair, “for when thou speakest so, and with that laugh, I never understand thee. But how canst thou laugh? For I may not fight in the tournament, since I love no one.”

“Not even me!” cried Margaret.

“Nay, dear sister; thou knowest my meaning. Thou hast my warm love, but it is not that love for which a cavalier fights.”

“And thou wouldst not fight for my colors?” she persisted, with that teasing smile that seems to make sport of its object.

Garcilaso rose with haughty dignity and said,

1 6

“Since it is thy pleasure to make merry with my sad case — ”

But the Lady Margaret, rising also, interrupted with these words: “Garcias, there is a maiden in my company, the fairest, I think, that the sun ever spied in this kingdom. Next week attend the banquet of the Duke Medina Sidonia; I will be there, and with me this fair lady. I know thy tastes — thou hast often told me what kind of maid would suit thine eye — such a one that is in every point and circumstance different from me. I believe thou wilt be suited with Petonilla. Come and see.”

“Now heaven and St. James grant that it may be so!” cried the Lord of Bartras; and after thanking her for her sweet interest, he bade her adieu.

Chapter II

I returned to my tent somewhat lighter of heart than when I left it. Herbert Klein still sat upon the carpet (it was of rich design) reading a poem writ by an Italian who had died just one hundred and seventy years ago. It irked me to see him give all his energies to the perusal of what was never true, when life lay all about him full of truth and a much more solid interest.

“Ay, read, read, read,” said I, impatiently. “And are thine eyes better for nothing than to glue them upon paper? Pity,” said I, “that the sky is not writ all over with legends, that thou mightest look up and see that there is a sun shining upon a lovely world!”

I thought my taunt would stir his blood, but he only smiled, nor laid down his Dante. Truly he was of a marvelous phlegmatic disposition, that German. A Spaniard would have reached for his sword at my tone of voice. But Herbert Klein read on.

i7 i8

I sat down with as much clatter as my armor would make, and coughed, and drummed upon the seat with my fingers. He budged not. “Look thou, Herbert,” said I, at length; “I saved thy life; give me a few of its moments!”

He looked up slowly, his eyes still full of the printed letters, so that they saw me not.

“A murrain upon this new invention,” said I. “As if there were not enough of books in the monasteries, but they must needs be multiplied as the seed of Abraham, and scattered in castle and den! An evil day when that old fool Gutenberg (of thine own nation, Herbert) invented the way to spread words, so that when the first book is published, others spring from it, as one case of a contagious disease infects a camp. It is but scarce twenty years ago,” said I, “that mine eye beheld the first printed book in this country. Thinkest thou our parents were any the worse without this plague? They writ their books in blood; they read in maiden’s eyes, and in the signs of heaven.”

I know not how long I might have gone on in this strain had not the German been roused at last to speech. “Laso,” he said, “what l 9 thinkest thou of this ; Dante hath put one of the popes in his hell! Let me read it to thee.”

‘‘Read it not,” said I. ‘‘Did I save thy life to read me to death? Yet, but for me thou wouldst ere this have graced an auto da ft. Thou stupid German, to think thou couldst befriend a Jew, and a poor Jew, one notorious for lack of wealth! How well I remember that scene! We were strangers then. Thou didst defy the familiar of the Holy Office. ‘I know not where lieth the Jew,’ saidst thou; ‘an I did,’ saidst thou, ‘I would not give him up!’* I saw thou wast a stranger to this land, and did not know the law — how one who hides a Jew is held as a heretic. I pitied thee. I took thy part; ferreted out the Jew from under thy baggage, gave him up to the Inquisition, saved thy life, and have not yet received thy thanks!”

‘‘I cannot thank thee for saving my life,” said this thankless Herbert, ‘‘because thou broughtest an old Jew to the torture, and doubtless to death.”

‘‘He was a Jew,” said I.

‘‘He was a human being,” said the German.

“Yea, there is hope for him,” said I.

“Only last week a hundred of the rascals were tortured into becoming right good Catholics. The good queen wept for joy on receiving the tidings. Perhaps thine old renegade was amongst the converts. May St. James of Compostella,” said I, “and the Most Blessed Virgin grant that all Jews may either be converted or swept, every Jew of them, from the face of the earth! But, Herbert, what thinkest thou? I am like to meet a maiden with whom I can fall in love.”

“Ay,” said this knight of books; “it is the danger that is common to all men.”

“But, Herbert, this is no vague, unexpected danger; for the Lady Margaret hath filled my heart with blissful anticipations. I am to meet her next week. Hark to her name — Petonilla ! Doth it not sound like the soft dropping of rain on a summer’s afternoon? Petonilla! Hearest thou not the breath of a night-breeze laden with the perfume of rose-leaves?”

“Nay,” said Herbert; “I hear but an Italian sound. Wilt give thine heart to an Italian?”

“She is no Italian,” I cried. “In her veins floweth the proudest blood of Old Castile.”

“Said the Lady Margaret Guzman so?’’

“No one hath said so. But, by St. James, it shall be so! I grant thee Petonilla is an Italian name; but it was given in playful sport when she was a babe. Would Margaret speak me an Italian?’’

“This Petonilla is an Italian,’’ said Herbert, stolidly. “It is I who tell thee so.’’

“Signor Don Herbert Klein de Metz,’’ said I, rising to my full height and grasping my sword, “if thou sayest Petonilla is an Italian, thou liest in thy throat.’’ And saying so, I threw my gantlet at his feet.

Herbert looked up from where he sat, with the book turned down upon his knee, and he smiled his German smile, and said, lightly, “Signor Don Garcias Laso de la Vega, Lord of Bartras, and the rest of it, if there be more, as thou didst once save my life, I now save thine, by not accepting thy challenge.” He took up the gantlet, rose, and presented it to me with a low bow, and still with that good-natured smile which my generosity could not resist. He had not the spirit of a cavalier — he was no Spaniard; and yet he had many fair qualities.

We shook hands, and I forgave him then and there.

“Laso, ” said the German, still smiling, “this is the second time I have refused to fight with thee. Something tells me that one day we will meet in combat.”

“If that day ever cometh,” said I, “may the Blessed Virgin have mercy upon thee!”

“Amen,” said he; “and God also!” That was a strange man, Herbert the German; I doubt if he knew half the time the meaning of his own words.

Now upon that night I could not sleep, but fared forth alone, upon my horse, to muse upon Petonilla, and to pray that she might be such a one as I could love. It was not my night to keep the watch, and riding through the deep trench that surrounded the oblong city of silk, I pressed on across the burnt space that lay between the camp and Granada. It was a scene such as spoke fondly to a heart full of romantic cravings. The lights in the tents made beautiful colored blurs upon the vast curtain of darkness. And it was there, thought I, it was there that Petonilla lay. May the saints send her sweet

2 3 dreams, thought I. And even as I thought, I heard a movement among the groves and gardens that nestled against the lofty walls of Granada. Presently I heard the tramp of horses coming with lightning speed. It was intensely dark ; nothing was to be seen but the lights in the towers of Granada, and the colored illuminations of King Ferdinand’s encampment. The Moors — they were coming, they were rushing down upon that sleeping city of tents. I wheeled about, and spurred back to give the warning. But my horse was frightened by the sudden tumult and veered aside. Almost instantly I was in their very midst. They took me for one of their own number, and rushed like a storm past me, their fleet Arab horses raising a cloud of dust about me. With screams of bravado they charged about the deep trenches, and the royal guard rushed forth. It was a ruse to attract attention to the farther end of the camp. For I saw a gigantic Moor plunge into the trench, and emerge at the very border of the royal pavilions. By his gigantic stature and unparalleled audacity I knew it was Yarfe the Moor. The camp was now in the wildest tur-

2 4 moil, and everywhere lights sprang into being. By this sudden illumination I saw Yarfe rise in his stirrups and cast his lance at the very edge of the queen’s pavilion. I urged my horse with spur and voice, but he refused to attempt the trench, for it was here almost impassable. I vowed to St. James that if he would enable me to cross that gulf and come at the heretic, I would make a pilgrimage to his shrine. But neither spur nor vow moved that obstinate and rearing horse one step nearer my desire. The figures of knights and ladies flitted from place to place, the former seeking their armor, the latter imploring protection. The sight of Yarfe, who with insolent daring had paused to see how far his lance would fare, aroused a terrible apprehension that all the Moors were at his back. Then at last he wheeled about, for the royal guard were charging down upon him. And even as his steed spurned the ground, he reached from his saddle and seized a maiden and lifted her before him as if she had been a feather. I saw it all. One cry he gave of “Allah Akbar!’’ then leaped into the ravine, and thundered up the bank near me.

2 5

Now had the opportunity for glory come to Garcilaso.

As the Arab steed emerged from the gloom of the fortifications, I gave my horse such a blow that he reared almost erect, and had nigh fallen over upon my body. But even as he stood so and seemed to tremble for his balance, I drew the bit with all my might (and in those days my strength was not a little) and brought him square across the path of the sacrilegious Moor. The Arab steed crouched back, the bloody foam flying from his nostrils. I seized his bridle rein.

“Now by St. James of Compostella,” cried I, “not thus shall Yarfe escape his enemy!”

“Infidel dog!” roared the giant. “We will see from whom cometh more power, from thy saint or from mine only true God.” He made a pass at me, quick as the flash of steel in the hand of a Christian. But my own St. James won, for I struck his sword high in the air, and broke my own upon his helmet.

“Allah Akbar!” he cried. “Sure, this is Garcilaso, who saved the king’s life.” (For it was known everywhere, and you cannot find a history of the Granadine Wars which doth not set forth the circumstance.) “None other could have done that deed!”

“I am Garcilaso, to thy cost!”

“Sayest so? Nay, the play is but begun. Couch thy lance. Let us have a gentle joust.” So saying, he wheeled his horse in a semicircle and sped away like the wind, then turned again and paused facing me. I couched my lance as he did his spear, while still he held the insensible maiden across his breast as for a shield. Far away the Christians were driving the Moors before them, but as it chanced, we two were unperceived save by my brave old captain, Hernando Perez del Pulgar, he of the “Exploits.” That doughty warrior had crossed the trench, and seeing us drawn up for a joust, stayed his horse to witness a gentle encounter.

“Art ready?” cried Yarfe.

“Nay,” cried Garcilaso; “an thou be a true knight of chivalry, lay down the maiden and meet me breast to breast.”

“By Allah, I forgot I held the feather in mine arm,” cried Yarfe (so strong was he).

3 7

Then he placed her softly upon the ground, not leaving his saddle to do it, and we spurred our horses, and at each other with lightning speed. As we came close together, his great size made a shadow of doubt cross my mind. But the next moment I saw a light in the sky, and a horseman on a milk-white steed bearing a banner on which the Holy Cross glowed in silver light. I saw as plainly as now I see this page before me — I saw that apparition of St. James smile. I know not if Yarfe saw it; I know not if his horse saw. But if not, why did that Arab steed stumble just as I was about to make my thrust, and to receive that giant’s thrust as well? If thou art a right true Catholic, thou knowest I saw that aerial Saint Knight ; and heaven forbid that ever these pages should be conned by a heretic !

Down went that haughty Moor, down in the dust. And such was the weight of his armor (in which alone he trusted), and such the speed of his horse, that any but he must have been stunned by the fall. But up sprang Cavalier Yarfe the Moor, and bravely spoke he, though bereft of lance, spear, and sword. “Dismount,

Sir Knight, and take thy fill of vengeance. For though I have but my naked hands, I will do as I may against thy lance.”

“Nay,' up,” said Garcilaso; “up, upon thy good steed, and recover thy spear. For never hath the arm of Garcilaso de la Vega smitten an unhorsed foe.”

“My spear broke as it struck the ground,” he said. “I am unarmed, save by the courage of my soul.”

“Then that shall save thee,” said Garcilaso. “Mount thy steed and go thy way to Granada; only with me leave thy broken spear and the maiden.”

“Brave Garcilaso, generous cavalier,” said he as he mounted, “may we meet some day equally matched!” He bent low from his saddle in a profound obeisance, then raised his haughty head and thundered away to the gates of Granada.

“By the blood of St. Januarius,” said my old captain, Hernando Pulgar, cantering up, ‘‘I thought to see a play of arms, but thou hast wrought as a right gentle knight. Come, see we to the maiden!”

“Nay, Signor Captain,” said I; “have not I won the right to see to her alone? I pray thee, good sir, hamper me not.” With which Garcilaso rode straight toward the motionless form of the rescued maiden.

Chapter III

As I bent over the prostrate maiden whom I had rescued from captivity, she raised herself upoh her elbow, for she had recovered from her swoon. Great bonfires had been built upon the Vega; squires and pages rode here and there with flaming torches; so that, all in all, I had a tolerable light upon her face, which was fair to behold. “Korah, good Korah,” she murmured, straining her eyes upon my visor.

“Nay, maiden,” said Garcilaso; “my heart dies that I wear not that name, to hear thee call me ‘good’ and in such a tone. But mayhap,” said he, “the time will yet come when ‘Garcilaso’ will fall from thy lips with as sweet a voice.”

Then she sought to rise, and he aided her; it was a pleasure. “Thou art my deliverer,” said she. “Surely I may call thee ‘good.’ ”

“But how the tone hath altered!” complained the cavalier. “Alas! And I would wear the 30 name of Korah forever, didst thou but speak me softly all that eternity.”

“The night is wild,” said the lady. “We are alone in the midst of a great waste. Brave Signor Knight, take me back to my tent.”

“Ladies are wishes,” said Garcilaso; “knights are feet that obey. Here is my horse. Let me set thee thereon, and I will mount before.” So I took her in my two hands and swung her upon the horse, then leaped lightly in the saddle, for all the weight of mine armor. Then up rode my captain, Hernando Pulgar, saying, “Laso, I will give the lady my horse, and have my squire lead her back to her home. Where there is double, there is trouble,” said Pulgar in his gruff voice. He was a man of iron and bloodshed, and cared for no woman.

“I know not,” said Garcilaso, haughtily, “if there be trouble where there is double; but all trouble is welcome that I mav undertake in the name of this lady.”

“The name of this lady!” said Pulgar, coldly. “Dost thou pretend to know that name?”

For a moment I was silent. And even as my ignorance on this matter chilled my tongue, and

3 2 rage boiled in my heart, the lady bowed her head close to mine ear and deigned to whisper. It was like a breath of angels’ song, such as I have lost on waking from a dream. “ Petonilla, ” she breathed, softly; “Petonilla Fontane.”

“Yea, her name is known to me,” I said, boldly. “This is the fair lady Seftorita Petonilla Fontane, the dear friend of Lady Margaret Guzman. Suffer us to go in peace, my Lord Captain.”

“If ye desire peace” — thus said that rugged warrior — “set the Lady Fontane upon my beast; and thou, Laso, come with me, for I have a matter to drop into thine ear.”

“It shall be as the lady wisheth,” said Garcilaso. “Seftorita Fontane, wilt ride alone, or in my protection? Thy wish shall be done, if it taketh my last breath to blow thee happiness.”

Petonilla spoke in tones right clear and beautiful: “With thee, Don Garcilaso.” At that he made off at a smart pace, and he could feel her hand rest lightly upon his shoulder. And Hernando Perez del Pulgar sat gloomily upon his jennet, shaking his grizzled head. Garcilaso skirted the yawning chasm that bounded that side of the encampment, that he might conduct her by an easy path. They met few knights, and those they met thought not strange, since a knight before, a lady behind, was seen every day in those good old days.

As they drew near a rousing bonfire, he turned and studied her face, and said, “I only needed the light to know Petonilla.

“And why ?’ ’ she asked ; ‘ ‘ for we never met. ’ ’

“We never met,” answered Garcilaso, “but my dear friend the Lady Margaret (with whom I was reared from infancy) hath spoken of thee.”

“And what said my lady, Sir Knight?”

“That Petonilla is the fairest maiden the sun ever looked upon in Spain. I cannot swear as to the sun,” said Garcilaso, “but I can swear to mine own eyes. But lady, did Margaret ne’er mention Garcilaso de la Vega to thee?”

“She spoke me the name but this evening.”

“What said she of me, I pray thee tell?”

“Of thy bravery she told me, as how thou didst save the life of King Ferdinand.”

“And thou canst add to that,” said Garcilaso, “how I conquered Yarfe the Moor.” (And little thought he as he rode on, her hand ever upon his shoulder, that one Karl Reuchlin would compose a dictionary of biography and leave out Garcilaso de la Vega in favor of his son!) “But what else said Margaret?”

“That thou art haughty and proud, and despise those who are beneath thee in fortune and honor.”

“She said most true, Petonilla.”

“My lord, that ought not to be. Art thou better than the lowly, or than those who seek the paths of peace?”

“That is a strange question, lady! Thou knowest that it is a mean spirit that looketh not to arms for honor and pleasure. All men cannot be knights, because many have a love of gain or a fear of war. But he who dedicates his life to God and the ladies must hold in contempt a meaner life-purpose. But because I am proud, and because I am haughty, so much more is the worth of my devotion which I tender to thee.”

“Thou tenderest to me thy devotion, Garcilaso?”

“I do. I would wear thy colors.”

“Alas!” said the lady, with almost a groan.

“Why ‘alas,’ fair lady?”

“What wilt thou do for me, Garcilaso?”

“All that a true knight may. What is thy command?”

She did not answer readily. At last she spoke. “Thou heardst me name a name tonight that I would keep secret.”