Read Ebook: Maurine and Other Poems by Wilcox Ella Wheeler

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Informado por D. Diego el emperador de las intenciones de la corte romana, orden? ? Francisco de Vargas y ? Martin Soria Velasco, sus procuradores, protestasen tambien en Bolonia, como lo ejecutaron con todas las formalidades de derecho; pero no recibiendo sino respuestas generales, se ausentaron de Bolonia al siguiente dia.

Todas estas contestaciones fueron leves respecto de la protesta que volvi? ? hacer en Roma D. Diego, luego que tuvo noticia de la que acababan de hacer los procuradores. Pidi? audiencia p?blica al pont?fice, asistencia de los cardenales, el concurso de todos los embajadores, y se present? con toda ceremonia en aquel silencioso congreso, ? hincado de rodillas con la gravedad de su car?cter ley? en nombre del emperador una vehement?sima protesta, y acabada se volvi? ? los cardenales, y les intim? lo mismo, caso que el pont?fice no pusiese remedio: a?adi? las f?rmulas del derecho, puso por testigos ? todos los presentes, y pidi? ? todos los secretarios pusiesen en las actas su protesta. Oy?se con gran silencio el discurso, nadie le interrumpi?, y en todos hizo la impresion que se deja entender, de un emperador tan poderoso ? irritado.

El pont?fice dijo ? D. Diego se le daria respuesta en el inmediato consistorio, en el que se ley? una compuesta por el cardenal Polo, en que repetia las razones generales, celo del papa, trabajo, y peligro del concilio, y tomaba por medio en ella imputar ? excesos del embajador las proposiciones mas vehementes de la protesta; de suerte que decia ser ?rrita, porque el encargo que el emperador habia hecho ? D. Diego era, no de entablar contestacion alguna con el papa, sino de quejarse ante su beatitud como juez de los padres de Bolonia: refut? pues las razones del embajador, quien al acabar de oir la respuesta, volvi? ? protestar, neg? haberse excedido, y pidi? que de lo actuado no parase perjuicio ? su soberano. Sentido el papa, y confiado en la liga con Francia, y en otros tratados pol?ticos, respondi? en otra ocasion ? varias instancias de D. Diego, <> ? lo que respondi?: <>

Viendo el C?sar que se necesitaba de mas continuo cuidado, nombr? por gobernador de Sena y sus dependencias al cardenal D. Francisco de Mendoza, que como pariente de D. Diego habia contribuido mucho para enviar socorros, y para que el duque de Florencia se resolviese ? defender el partido del emperador. D. Diego parece habia vuelto ? Roma ? continuar su influjo sobre el concilio; y all? ocurri? que habiendo faltado al respeto debido al emperador el barrachelo ? alguacil cabeza de los esbirros, le hizo castigar; por lo que indignado el pont?fice, di? quejas al emperador, quien sabia muy bien no gustaba aquella corte de D. Diego, porque la tenia muy comprendida; y as? resolvi? apartarle de aquella embajada, y ? principios del a?o 1551 habia enviado por embajador extraordinario ? Roma ? D. Juan Manrique de Lara, hijo de los duques de N?jera, con ?rden de que si no se hallaba en aquella capital D. Diego, pasase por Sena donde estaria, y le comunicase las instrucciones, para que como informado en los negocios, le advirtiese y dirigiese en el manejo necesario y ejecucion de las ?rdenes que llevaba. En el mismo a?o volvi? otra vez Manrique ? Roma, y escribiendo al C?sar el pont?fice, le dice entre otras cosas, que no diese oidos ? malas lenguas que no comprendian las entradas de su corazon, ni ?l se las queria descubrir; que no decia esto por D. Diego de Mendoza, ? quien queria mucho por su valor ? ingenio, y depositaba en ?l la misma fe que S. M.; pero que donde se trataba el inter?s p?blico, el particular y privado podian poco con ?l. Esto fue en el tiempo en que se ocupaba D. Diego de Mendoza en levantar gente en la Roman?a, tanto para defender las costas de Italia de los turcos, como para enviar ? las de ?frica amenazadas por este enemigo comun, y as? remiti? mil italianos y muchos pertrechos con Antonio Doria y D. Berenguer de Requesens.

Parece se volvi? ? Espa?a por los a?os 1554, donde se mantuvo en el consejo de estado, y acompa?? ? Felipe II en la gran jornada de San Quintin el a?o 1557, como ?l mismo da ? entender ponderando el n?mero, provision y buen ?rden de aquel ej?rcito. Vuelto ? la corte de Espa?a se mantuvo en ella, no con la aceptacion de pol?tico tan sabio como era, y de quien habia hecho tanta estima C?rlos V, ya porque su conducta en la Italia no agrad? ? Felipe II, ? ya, porque como ?l mismo decia quien decae en el valimiento, decae muchos grados.

Algun tiempo antes escribi? dos c?lebres cartas cr?ticas, agudas, elocuentes, y llenas de los mas delicados primores del lenguaje castellano sobre la Historia de la guerra de C?rlos V contra los luteranos, que public? en folio en 1552 Pedro Salazar. Tom? el disfraz del bachiller Arcade: en la primera le critica abiertamente; y en la segunda aparenta que le excusa, pero le agrava con igual acrimonia sus yerros.

Acaeci?le tambien, que hall?ndose en palacio tuvo palabras muy pesadas con cierto caballero, de suerte que se vi? en la necesidad de quitarle un pu?al, y arrojarlo por un balcon. Desagrad? mucho al rey D. Felipe este hecho ruidoso; parece le mand? prender, como se infiere de algunos lugares de sus poes?as, y aun sali? desterrado de la corte en la edad de 64 a?os que habia gastado en importantes servicios de la corona. No quebrant? su constante ?nimo esta desgracia, y procur? justificarse en una carta escrita ? un ilustr?simo se?or que quiz? seria D. Diego de Espinosa, obispo de Sig?enza y presidente de Castilla, de que hay copia entre los manuscritos de Alvar Gomez de Castro en la Biblioteca Real. En ella se mencionan varios lances mucho mas pesados que el suyo, sin que se hubiese procedido contra los que los cometieron con tanto rigor, y acaba as?: <>

Mant?vose en Granada todos aquellos a?os entregado ? sus estudios, sin que dejase la diversion de la poes?a, como se ve en la cancion que dirigi? ? D. Diego de Espinosa, presidente de Castilla, celebrando el capelo que la Santidad de Pio V le confiri? en marzo de 1568: en ella le trata como amigo ? insinua en la ?ltima estrofa lo que padecia desterrado. All? era consultado de los sabios sobre las ciencias, principalmente sobre las antig?edades de Espa?a, como consta de Ambrosio Morales en la dedicatoria que dirigi? ? D. Diego, donde confiesa su extraordinaria erudicion en la geograf?a, y su gran juicio y exactitud en averiguar qu? sitios y pueblos modernos corresponden ? los nombres de los lugares y ciudades antiguas, para lo cual hacia muy ?til uso de las lenguas griega, hebrea y ?rabe, que nunca dej? de cultivar; y en este tiempo particularmente se dedic? ? investigar las antig?edades ar?bigas, convidado de los muchos monumentos que se encontraban en Granada. Junt? mas de cuatrocientos c?dices ?rabes de erudicion muy rec?ndita, como lo asegur? ? Ger?nimo de Zurita con quien tuvo particular amistad, y ? quien habia servido con fineza, procurando vencer los obst?culos que los ?mulos de aquel historiador opusieron ? los Anales de Aragon. Comunic?le tambien algunas noticias para ellos con deseo de que insertase su nombre en aquella historia cuando ya casi iba ? cumplir setenta a?os, como lo dice en carta de 9 de diciembre de 1573: de donde se infiere con certeza el tiempo de su nacimiento.

Por este tiempo en que la avanzada edad y enfermedades le iban postrando el ?nimo, busc? consuelo en la comunicacion con Santa Teresa de Jesus, que le escribi? una respuesta complaci?ndose la santa, y otras religiosas que nuestro autor comunicaba, por la resolucion que habia tomado de aspirar ? la virtud; nota en la misma carta que era muy conocido y estimado del padre fray Ger?nimo Gracian, que acompa?? ? la santa en el restablecimiento de su reforma, que segun se infiere del contexto de ella, habia pedido D. Diego en dia determinado particulares oraciones, y la santa le responde, tenian concertado comulgar todas aquel dia por D. Diego, y ocuparlo lo mejor que pudiesen. No vivi? mucho tiempo despues de esta comunicacion. Parece que Felipe II le permiti? venir ? la corte, ? para justificarse, ? para liquidar algunos asuntos pendientes. Encomend? ? Zurita le buscase vivienda proporcionada, ? inmediata ? la suya: junt? sus libros que ofreci? al rey: se puso en camino; ? pocos dias de haber llegado ? Madrid le acometi? la ?ltima enfermedad, procedida del pasmo de una pierna, y le acab? la vida en abril de 1575, aunque Chacon en su Biblioteca afirma muri? en 1577.

Pero lo que mas cr?dito le ha dado entre los sabios es la Historia de la guerra de Granada, de la cual, si se hubiese de hacer una anal?sis exacta, era menester dilatarse mucho; con todo no podemos dejar de notar que nuestro autor refiere en ella, no solo las acciones, sino que copia con viveza los ?nimos, caract?res, ? intenciones de los personajes; descubre las causas de las resoluciones, ? diferentes, ? encontradas; nota las competencias f?tiles ? intempestivas y los intereses particulares; ? intern?ndose en los corazones, los delinea con tanta exactitud, que en vista de los sucesos convence no podian pensar de otra manera. Pinta los enemigos como fueron, pero confiesa nuestro descuido y p?rdidas, reconoce sus yerros, pero manifiesta los excesos de nuestras tropas: alaba ? los moros cuando lo merecen, y vitupera los defectos en que alguna vez incurri? su mismo hermano. En fin yo no encuentro quien haya imitado con mas acierto ? Salustio y ? T?cito, ? quienes imita en las sentencias y estilo: la proposicion es imitacion de la historia de T?cito, la oracion del Zaguer es elocuent?sima, concisa, muy nerviosa, cortada al aire de Dem?stenes. Las digresiones, aunque son en gran n?mero, ganan la atencion por su novedad, y porque toca en ellas muchos usos de nuestra antigua milicia. El lenguaje y estilo son ? juicio de D. Juan de Palafox lo mejor que tenemos en castellano, y D. Nicol?s Antonio coloca su elocuencia inmediata ? la verbosidad de fray Luis de Granada. Verdad es que algunos le notan de que se vale de t?rminos muy latinizados, ? muy oscuros; pero esto puede ser porque as? se usasen en su tiempo, ? porque los cre?a mas puros mientras menos apartados de su or?gen.

Por los hechos y escritos referidos, se puede hacer juicio de su ?nimo y car?cter; tuvo religion sin mezcla de supersticiones; fue tenaz y constante en los empe?os que emprendia; resuelto ? incapaz de miedo en la ejecucion de ellos, zeloso del bien p?blico que defendia, aun exponiendo su persona; diestro en el manejo de los negocios, perspicaz en el conocimiento de las personas, de las que se valia el tiempo que le aprovechaban. Esto como ministro p?blico. Como particular era afable, humano, amigo y protector de los sabios, inclinado ? honestas diversiones, ? la conversacion de hombres doctos, los que trat? como amigos. Declinaba tal vez en algunas chanzas y agudezas sat?ricas, como lo manifiestan muchas de sus poes?as in?ditas, y algunas impresas. Aun hablando del grav?simo empleo de embajador, se burla delicadamente, y escribe as? ? D. Luis de Z??iga:

La gloria inmortal con que este grande hombre corri? la carrera militar, pol?tica y literaria, merece sin duda un elogio hist?rico mas bien acabado que el que le hemos dado; mas por ahora solo puede satisfacerse ? los curiosos con este leve dise?o: tal vez otro pincel mas diestro nos dar? con el tiempo retrato mas vivo de las prendas que adornaron ? este excelente escritor y discret?simo pol?tico.

If I grew weary of this double part, And self-imposed deception caused my heart Sometimes to shrink, I needed but to gaze On Helen's face: that wore a look ethereal, As if she dwelt above the things material And held communion with the angels. So I fed my strength and courage through the days. What time the harvest moon rose full and clear And cast its ling'ring radiance on the earth, We made a feast; and called from far and near, Our friends, who came to share the scene of mirth. Fair forms and faces flitted to and fro; But none more sweet than Helen's. Robed in white, She floated like a vision through the dance. So frailly fragile and so phantom fair, She seemed like some stray spirit of the air, And was pursued by many an anxious glance That looked to see her fading from the sight Like figures that a dreamer sees at night.

And noble men and gallants graced the scene: Yet none more noble or more grand of mien Than Vivian--broad of chest and shoulder, tall And finely formed, as any Grecian god Whose high-arched foot on Mount Olympus trod. His clear-cut face was beardless; and, like those Same Grecian statues, when in calm repose, Was it in hue and feature. Framed in hair Dark and abundant; lighted by large eyes That could be cold as steel in winter air, Or warm and sunny as Italian skies.

Weary of mirth and music, and the sound Of tripping feet, I sought a moment's rest Within the lib'ry, where a group I found Of guests, discussing with apparent zest Some theme of interest--Vivian, near the while, Leaning and listening with his slow odd smile. "Now Miss La Pelle, we will appeal to you," Cried young Guy Semple, as I entered. "We Have been discussing right before his face, All unrebuked by him, as you may see, A poem lately published by our friend: And we are quite divided. I contend The poem is a libel and untrue I hold the fickle women are but few, Compared with those who are like yon fair moon That, ever faithful, rises in her place Whether she's greeted by the flowers of June, Or cold and dreary stretches of white space."

"Oh!" cried another, "Mr. Dangerfield, Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield The crown to Semple, who, 'tis very plain, Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane."

All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me I answered lightly, "My young friend, I fear You chose a most unlucky simile To prove the truth of woman. To her place The moon does rise--but with a different face Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear The poem read, before I can consent To pass my judgment on the sentiment."

All clamored that the author was the man To read the poem: and, with tones that said More than the cutting, scornful words he read, Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:

HER LOVE.

The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman's love I liken to.

The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every grass blade on the plain-- A woman's love is nothing more.

The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away-- A woman's love is like to this.

God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part. We must not blame, but pity her.

She leans to man--but just to hear The praise he whispers in her ear, Herself, not him, she holdeth dear-- O fool! to be deceived by her.

To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts Then throws them lightly by and laughs, Too weak to understand their pain.

As changeful as the winds that blow From every region, to and fro, Devoid of heart, she cannot know The suffering of a human heart.

I knew the cold, fixed gaze of Vivian's eyes Saw the slow color to my forehead rise; But lightly answered, toying with my fan, "That sentiment is very like a man! Men call us fickle, but they do us wrong; We're only frail and helpless, men are strong; And when love dies, they take the poor dead thing And make a shroud out of their suffering, And drag the corpse about with them for years. But we?--we mourn it for a day with tears! And then we robe it for its last long rest, And being women, feeble things at best, We cannot dig the grave ourselves. And so We call strong-limbed New Love to lay it low: Immortal sexton he! whom Venus sends To do this service for her earthly friends, The trusty fellow digs the grave so deep Nothing disturbs the dead laid there to sleep."

The laugh that followed had not died away Ere Roy Montaine came seeking me, to say The band was tuning for our waltz, and so Back to the ball-room bore me. In the glow And heat and whirl, my strength ere long was spent, And I grew faint and dizzy, and we went Out on the cool moonlighted portico, And, sitting there, Roy drew my languid head Upon the shelter of his breast, and bent His smiling eyes upon me, as he said, "I'll try the mesmerism of my touch To work a cure: be very quiet now, And let me make some passes o'er your brow. Why, how it throbs! you've exercised too much! I shall not let you dance again to-night."

Just then before us, in the broad moonlight, Two forms were mirrored: and I turned my face To catch the teasing and mischievous glance Of Helen's eyes, as, heated by the dance, Leaning on Vivian's arm, she sought this place.

"I beg your pardon," came in that round tone Of his low voice. "I think we do intrude." Bowing, they turned, and left us quite alone Ere I could speak, or change my attitude.

A visit to a cave some miles away Was next in order. So, one sunny day, Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load Of merry pleasure-seekers o'er the road. A basket picnic, music and croquet Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear, And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near. The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure: Some floated to the music's rhythmic measure, Some played, some promenaded on the green.

Ticked off by happy hearts, the moments passed. The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came. Helen and Roy were leaders of some game, And Vivian was not visible. "Maurine, I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me! And who shall tire, or reach the summit last Must pay a forfeit," cried a romping maid. "Come! start at once, or own you are afraid." So challenged I made ready for the race, Deciding first the forfeit was to be A handsome pair of bootees to replace The victor's loss who made the rough ascent. The cliff was steep and stony. On we went As eagerly as if the path was Fame, And what we climbed for, glory and a name. My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent, But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry, "Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent! You've won the boots! I'm going back--good bye!" And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer.

I reached the summit: and its solitude, Wherein no living creature did intrude, Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near, I found far sweeter than the scene below. Alone with One who knew my hidden woe, I did not feel so much alone as when I mixed with th' unthinking throngs of men.

Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile place I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed, That in our lives, albeit dark with shade And rough and hard with labor, yet may grow The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace.

As I walked on in meditative thought, A serpent writhed across my pathway; not A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight Filled me with ghastly terror and affright. I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes-- And I fell fainting 'neath the watchful skies.

I was no coward. Country-bred and born, I had no feeling but the keenest scorn For those fine lady "ah's" and "oh's" of fear So much assumed . But God implanted in each human heart A natural horror, and a sickly dread Of that accurs?d, slimy, creeping thing That squirms a limbless carcass o'er the ground. And where that inborn loathing is not found You'll find the serpent qualities instead. Who fears it not, himself is next of kin, And in his bosom holds some treacherous art Whereby to counteract its venomed sting. And all are sired by Satan--Chief of Sin.

Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust, However fair in seeming, I distrust.

"Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! How dare you drive me to an act like this, To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss You lured me on to think my rightful claim! O frail and puny woman! could you know The devil that you waken in the hearts You snare and bind in your enticing arts, The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow Would freeze in terror. Strange you have such power To please, or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things-- Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. There, now, I scorn you--scorn you from this hour, And hate myself for having talked of love!"

He pushed me from him. And I felt as those Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above Are closed against them. With a feigned surprise I started up and opened wide my eyes, And looked about. Then in confusion rose And stood before him.

"Pardon me, I pray!" He said quite coldly. "Half an hour ago I left you with the company below, And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm. I came in time to see you swoon away. You'll need assistance down the rugged side Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm."

So, formal and constrained, we passed along, Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng To have no further speech again that day.

Next morn there came a bulky document, The legal firm of Blank & Blank had sent, Containing news unlooked for. An estate Which proved a cosy fortune--no-wise great Or princely--had in France been left to me, My grandsire's last descendant. And it brought A sense of joy and freedom in the thought Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be A panacea for my troubled mind, That longed to leave the olden scenes behind With all their recollections, and to flee To some strange country. I was in such haste To put between me and my native land The briny ocean's desolating waste, I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned To sail that week, two months: though she was fain To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine Would be our guide and escort. No one dreamed The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. One bright October morning, when the woods Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods In honor of the Frost King, Vivian came, Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame,-- First trophies of the Autumn time. And Roy Made a proposal that we all should go And ramble in the forest for a while. But Helen said she was not well--and so Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile, Responded, "I will stay and talk to you, And they may go;" at which her two cheeks grew Like twin blush roses;--dyed with love's red wave, Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy.

And Vivian saw--and suddenly was grave.

Roy took my arm in that protecting way Peculiar to some men, which seems to say, "I shield my own," a manner pleasing, e'en When we are conscious that it does not mean More than a simple courtesy. A woman Whose heart is wholly feminine and human, And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be The object of that tender chivalry, That guardianship which man bestows on her, Yet mixed with deference; as if she were Half child, half angel. Though she may be strong, Noble and self-reliant, not afraid To raise her hand and voice against all wrong And all oppression, yet if she be made, With all the independence of her thought, A woman womanly, as God designed, Albeit she may have as great a mind As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm His muscle and his boldness she has not, And cannot have without she loses what Is far more precious, modesty and grace. So, walking on in her appointed place, She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend But that she needs him for a guide and friend, To shield her with his greater strength from harm.

The smooth and even darkness of his cheek Was stained one moment by a flush of red. He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood Still clinging to the branch above his head. His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, With sudden passion, "Do you bid me speak? I can not, then, keep silence if I would. That hateful fortune, coming as it did, Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew A harsh tongued world would quickly misconstrue My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet, So big my heart has grown with love for you I can not shelter it, or keep it hid. And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, For you to guard and cherish, or to break. Maurine, I love you better than my life. My friend--my cousin--be still more, my wife! Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?"

I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes That looked no feeling but complete surprise. He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. "Maurine, Maurine," he whispered, "will you speak?"

Then suddenly, as o'er some magic glass One picture in a score of shapes will pass, I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. First, as the playmate of my earlier days-- Next, as my kin--and then my valued friend, And last, my lover. As when colors blend In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, We hold the glass, and look them o'er and o'er So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise, In which he ne'er appeared to me before.

Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, With that impetuous, boyish eloquence. He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should Give some least hope; till, in my own defense, I turned upon him, and replied at length: "I thank you for the noble heart you offer: But it deserves a true one in exchange. I could love you if I loved not another Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer."

Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said, "Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; But I love one I cannot hope to wed. A river rolls between us, dark and deep. To cross it--were to stain with blood my hand. You force my speech on what I fain would keep In my own bosom, but you understand? My heart is given to love that's sanctified, And now can feel no other.

Be you kind Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, Lest pleading and denying should divide The hearts so long united. Let me find In you my cousin and my friend of yore And now come home. The morning, all too soon And unperceived, has melted into noon. Helen will miss us, and we must return."

He took my hand, and helped me to arise, Smiling upon me with his sad dark eyes. Where passion's fires had, sudden, ceased to burn.

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