How Lisa Loved the King

George Eliot

How Lisa Loved the King

How Lisa loved the King

Six hundred years ago, in Dante’s time,Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme;When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story,Was like a garden tangled with the gloryOf flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown,Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown,Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars,And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars,Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth,Making invisible motion visible birth,—Six hundred years ago, Palermo townKept holiday.  A deed of great renown,A high revenge, had freed it from the yokeOf hated Frenchmen; and from Calpe’s rockTo where the Bosporus caught the earlier sun,’Twas told that Pedro, King of Aragon,Was welcomed master of all Sicily,—A royal knight, supreme as kings should beIn strength and gentleness that make high chivalry.Spain was the favorite home of knightly grace,Where generous men rode steeds of generous race;Both Spanish, yet half Arab; both inspiredBy mutual spirit, that each motion firedWith beauteous response, like minstrelsyAfresh fulfilling fresh expectancy.So, when Palermo made high festival,The joy of matrons and of maidens allWas the mock terror of the tournament,Where safety, with the glimpse of danger blent,Took exaltation as from epic song,Which greatly tells the pains that to great life belong.And in all eyes King Pedro was the kingOf cavaliers; as in a full-gemmed ringThe largest ruby, or as that bright starWhose shining shows us where the Hyads are.His the best genet, and he sat it best;His weapon, whether tilting or in rest,Was worthiest watching; and his face, once seen,Gave to the promise of his royal mienSuch rich fulfilment as the opened eyesOf a loved sleeper, or the long-watched riseOf vernal day, whose joy o’er stream and meadow flies.But of the maiden forms that thick enwreathedThe broad piazza, and sweet witchery breathed,With innocent faces budding all arow,From balconies and windows high and low,Who was it felt the deep mysterious glow,The impregnation with supernal fireOf young ideal love, transformed desire,Whose passion is but worship of that BestTaught by the many-mingled creed of each young breast?’Twas gentle Lisa, of no noble line,Child of Bernardo, a rich Florentine,Who from his merchant-city hither cameTo trade in drugs; yet kept an honest fame,And had the virtue not to try and sellDrugs that had none.  He loved his riches well,But loved them chiefly for his Lisa’s sake,Whom with a father’s care he sought to makeThe bride of some true honorable man,—Of Perdicone (so the rumor ran),Whose birth was higher than his fortunes were,For still your trader likes a mixture fairOf blood that hurries to some higher strainThan reckoning money’s loss and money’s gain.And of such mixture good may surely come:Lord’s scions so may learn to cast a sum,A trader’s grandson bear a well-set head,And have less conscious manners, better bred;Nor, when he tries to be polite, be rude instead.’Twas Perdicone’s friends made overturesTo good Bernardo; so one dame assuresHer neighbor dame, who notices the youthFixing his eyes on Lisa; and, in truth,Eyes that could see her on this summer dayMight find it hard to turn another way.She had a pensive beauty, yet not sad;Rather like minor cadences that gladThe hearts of little birds amid spring boughs:And oft the trumpet or the joust would rousePulses that gave her cheek a finer glow,Parting her lips that seemed a mimic bowBy chiselling Love for play in coral wrought,Then quickened by him with the passionate thought,The soul that trembled in the lustrous nightOf slow long eyes.  Her body was so slight,It seemed she could have floated in the sky,And with the angelic choir made symphony;But in her cheek’s rich tinge, and in the darkOf darkest hair and eyes, she bore a markOf kinship to her generous mother-earth,The fervid land that gives the plumy palm-trees birth.She saw not Perdicone; her young mindDreamed not that any man had ever pinedFor such a little simple maid as she:She had but dreamed how heavenly it would beTo love some hero noble, beauteous, great,Who would live stories worthy to narrate,Like Roland, or the warriors of Troy,The Cid, or Amadis, or that fair boyWho conquered every thing beneath the sun,And somehow, some time, died at BabylonFighting the Moors.  For heroes all were goodAnd fair as that archangel who withstoodThe Evil One, the author of all wrong,—That Evil One who made the French so strong;And now the flower of heroes must he beWho drove those tyrants from dear Sicily,So that her maids might walk to vespers tranquilly.Young Lisa saw this hero in the king;And as wood-lilies that sweet odors bringMight dream the light that opes their modest eyneWas lily-odored; and as rites divine,Round turf-laid altars, or ’neath roofs of stone,Draw sanctity from out the heart aloneThat loves and worships: so the miniaturePerplexed of her soul’s world, all virgin pure,Filled with heroic virtues that bright form,Raona’s royalty, the finished normOf horsemanship, the half of chivalry;For how could generous men avengers be,Save as God’s messengers on coursers fleet?—These, scouring earth, made Spain with Syria meetIn one self-world where the same right had sway,And good must grow as grew the blessed day.No more: great Love his essence had enduedWith Pedro’s form, and, entering, subduedThe soul of Lisa, fervid and intense,Proud in its choice of proud obedienceTo hardship glorified by perfect reverence.Sweet Lisa homeward carried that dire guest,And in her chamber, through the hours of rest,The darkness was alight for her with sheenOf arms, and plumèd helm; and bright betweenTheir commoner gloss, like the pure living spring’Twixt porphyry lips, or living bird’s bright wing’Twixt golden wires, the glances of the kingFlashed on her soul, and waked vibrations thereOf known delights love-mixed to new and rare:The impalpable dream was turned to breathing flesh,Chill thought of summer to the warm close meshOf sunbeams held between the citron-leaves,Clothing her life of life.  Oh! she believesThat she could be content if he but knew(Her poor small self could claim no other due)How Lisa’s lowly love had highest reachOf wingèd passion, whereto wingèd speechWould be scorched remnants left by mounting flame.Though, had she such lame message, were it blameTo tell what greatness dwelt in her, what rankShe held in loving?  Modest maidens shrankFrom telling love that fed on selfish hope;But love, as hopeless as the shattering song,Wailed for loved beings who have joined the throngOf mighty dead ones. . . .  Nay, but she was weak,Knew only prayers and ballads, could not speakWith eloquence, save what dumb creatures have,That with small cries and touches small boons crave.She watched all day that she might see him passWith knights and ladies; but she said, “Alas!Though he should see me, it were all as oneHe saw a pigeon sitting on the stoneOf wall or balcony: some colored spotHis eye just sees, his mind regardeth not.I have no music-touch that could bring nighMy love to his soul’s hearing.  I shall die,And he will never know who Lisa was,—The trader’s child, whose soaring spirit roseAs hedge-born aloe-flowers that rarest years disclose.“For were I now a fair deep-breasted queenA-horseback, with blonde hair, and tunic green,Gold-bordered, like Costanza, I should needNo change within to make me queenly there:For they the royal-hearted women areWho nobly love the noblest, yet have grace;For needy suffering lives in lowliest place,Carrying a choicer sunlight in their smile,The heavenliest ray that pitieth the vile.My love is such, it cannot choose but soarUp to the highest; yet forevermore,Though I were happy, throned beside the king,I should be tender to each little thingWith hurt warm breast, that had no speech to tellIts inward pang; and I would soothe it wellWith tender touch, and with a low soft moanFor company: my dumb love-pang is lone,Prisoned as topaz-beam within a rough-garbed stone.”So, inward-wailing, Lisa passed her days.Each night the August moon with changing phaseLooked broader, harder, on her unchanged pain;Each noon the heat lay heavier againOn her despair, until her body frailShrank like the snow that watchers in the valeSee narrowed on the height each summer morn;While her dark glance burnt larger, more forlorn,As if the soul within her, all on fire,Made of her being one swift funeral-pyre.Father and mother saw with sad dismayThe meaning of their riches melt away;For without Lisa what would sequins buy?What wish were left if Lisa were to die?Through her they cared for summers still to come,Else they would be as ghosts without a homeIn any flesh that could feel glad desire.They pay the best physicians, never tireOf seeking what will soothe her, promisingThat aught she longed for, though it were a thingHard to be come at as the Indian snow,Or roses that on Alpine summits blow,It should be hers.  She answers with low voice,She longs for death alone—death is her choice;Death is the king who never did think scorn,But rescues every meanest soul to sorrow born.Yet one day, as they bent above her bed,And watched her in brief sleep, her drooping headTurned gently, as the thirsty flowers that feelSome moist revival through their petals steal;And little flutterings of her lids and lipsTold of such dreamy joy as sometimes dipsA skyey shadow in the mind’s poor pool.She oped her eyes, and turned their dark gems fullUpon her father, as in utterance dumbOf some new prayer that in her sleep had come.“What is it, Lisa?”—“Father, I would seeMinuccio, the great singer; bring him me.”For always, night and day, her unstilled thought,Wandering all o’er its little world, had soughtHow she could reach, by some soft pleading touch,King Pedro’s soul, that she who loved so much,Dying, might have a place within his mind,—A little grave which he would sometimes findAnd plant some flower on it,—some thought, some memory kind.Till in her dream she saw MinuccioTouching his viola, and chanting lowA strain, that, falling on her brokenly,Seemed blossoms lightly blown from off a tree;Each burthened with a word that was a scent,—Raona, Lisa, love, death, tournament;Then in her dream she said, “He sings of me,Might be my messenger; ah! now I seeThe king is listening”—Then she awoke,And, missing her dear dream, that new-born longing spoke.She longed for music: that was natural;Physicians said it was medicinal;The humors might be schooled by true consentOf a fine tenor and fine instrument;In short, good music, mixed with doctor’s stuff,Apollo with Asklepios—enough!Minuccio, entreated, gladly came.(He was a singer of most gentle fame,A noble, kindly spirit, not elateThat he was famous, but that song was great;Would sing as finely to this suffering childAs at the court where princes on him smiled.)Gently he entered and sat down by her,Asking what sort of strain she would prefer,—The voice alone, or voice with viol wed;Then, when she chose the last, he preludedWith magic hand, that summoned from the stringsAerial spirits, rare yet palpable wingsThat fanned the pulses of his listener,And waked each sleeping sense with blissful stir.Her cheek already showed a slow, faint blush;But soon the voice, in pure, full, liquid rush,Made all the passion, that till now she felt,Seem but as cooler waters that in warmer melt.Finished the song, she prayed to be aloneWith kind Minuccio; for her faith had grownTo trust him as if missioned like a priestWith some high grace, that, when his singing ceased,Still made him wiser, more magnanimous,Than common men who had no genius.So, laying her small hand within his palm,She told him how that secret, glorious harmOf loftiest loving had befallen her;That death, her only hope, most bitter were,If, when she died, her love must perish tooAs songs unsung, and thoughts unspoken do,Which else might live within another breast.She said, “Minuccio, the grave were rest,If I were sure, that, lying cold and lone,My love, my best of life, had safely flownAnd nestled in the bosom of the king.See, ’tis a small weak bird, with unfledged wing;But you will carry it for me secretly,And bear it to the king; then come to meAnd tell me it is safe, and I shall goContent, knowing that he I love my love doth know.”Then she wept silently; but each large tearMade pleading music to the inward earOf good Minuccio.  “Lisa, trust in me,”He said, and kissed her fingers loyally:“It is sweet law to me to do your will,And, ere the sun his round shall thrice fulfil,I hope to bring you news of such rare skillAs amulets have, that aches in trusting bosoms still.”He needed not to pause and first deviseHow he should tell the king; for in nowiseWere such love-message worthily bestedSave in fine verse by music renderèd.He sought a poet-friend, a Siennese,And “Mico, mine,” he said, “full oft to pleaseThy whim of sadness I have sung thee strainsTo make thee weep in verse: now pay my pains,And write me a canzòn divinely sad,Sinlessly passionate, and meekly madWith young despair, speaking a maiden’s heartOf fifteen summers, who would fain departFrom ripening life’s new-urgent mystery,—Love-choice of one too high her love to be,—But cannot yield her breath till she has pouredHer strength away in this hot-bleeding word,Telling the secret of her soul to her soul’s lord.”Said Mico, “Nay, that thought is poesy,I need but listen as it sings to me.Come thou again to-morrow.”  The third day,When linked notes had perfected the lay,Minuccio had his summons to the court,To make, as he was wont, the moments shortOf ceremonious dinner to the king.This was the time when he had meant to bringMelodious message of young Lisa’s love;He waited till the air had ceased to moveTo ringing silver, till Falernian wineMade quickened sense with quietude combine;And then with passionate descant made each ear incline.Love, thou didst see me, light as morning’s breath,Roaming a garden in a joyous error,Laughing at chases vain, a happy child,Till of thy countenance the alluring terrorIn majesty from out the blossoms smiled,From out their life seeming a beauteous DeathO Love, who so didst choose me for thine ownTaking this little isle to thy great sway,See now, it is the honor of thy throneThat what thou gavest perish not away,Nor leave some sweet remembrance to atoneBy life that will be for the brief life gone:Hear, ere the shroud o’er these frail limbs be thrown—Since every king is vassal unto thee,My heart’s lord needs must listen loyally—O tell him I am waiting for my Death!Tell him, for that he hath such royal power’Twere hard for him to think how small a thing,How slight a sign, would make a wealthy dowerFor one like me, the bride of that pale kingWhose bed is mine at some swift-nearing hour.Go to my lord, and to his memory bringThat happy birthday of my sorrowing,When his large glance made meaner gazers glad,Entering the bannered lists: ’twas then I hadThe wound that laid me in the arms of Death.Tell him, O Love, I am a lowly maid,No more than any little knot of thymeThat he with careless foot may often tread;Yet lowest fragrance oft will mount sublimeAnd cleave to things most high and hallowèd,As doth the fragrance of my life’s springtime,My lowly love, that, soaring, seeks to climbWithin his thought, and make a gentle bliss,More blissful than if mine, in being his:So shall I live in him, and rest in Death.The strain was new.  It seemed a pleading cry,And yet a rounded, perfect melody,Making grief beauteous as the tear-filled eyesOf little child at little miseries.Trembling at first, then swelling as it rose,Like rising light that broad and broader grows,It filled the hall, and so possessed the air,That not one living, breathing soul was there,Though dullest, slowest, but was quiveringIn Music’s grasp, and forced to hear her sing.But most such sweet compulsion took the moodOf Pedro (tired of doing what he would).Whether the words which that strange meaning boreWere but the poet’s feigning, or aught more,Was bounden question, since their aim must beAt some imagined or true royalty.He called Minuccio, and bade him tellWhat poet of the day had writ so well;For, though they came behind all former rhymes,The verses were not bad for these poor times.“Monsignor, they are only three days old,”Minuccio said; “but it must not be toldHow this song grew, save to your royal ear.”Eager, the king withdrew where none was near,And gave close audience to Minuccio,Who meetly told that love-tale meet to know.The king had features pliant to confessThe presence of a manly tenderness,—Son, father, brother, lover, blent in one,In fine harmonic exaltatiön;The spirit of religious chivalry.He listened, and Minuccio could seeThe tender, generous admiration spreadO’er all his face, and glorify his headWith royalty that would have kept its rank,Though his brocaded robes to tatters shrank.He answered without pause, “So sweet a maid,In Nature’s own insignia arrayed,Though she were come of unmixed trading bloodThat sold and bartered ever since the flood,Would have the self-contained and single worthOf radiant jewels born in darksome earth.Raona were a shame to Sicily,Letting such love and tears unhonored be:Hasten, Minuccio, tell her that the kingTo-day will surely visit her when vespers ring.”Joyful, Minuccio bore the joyous word,And told at full, while none but Lisa heard,How each thing had befallen, sang the song,And, like a patient nurse who would prolongAll means of soothing, dwelt upon each tone,Each look, with which the mighty AragonMarked the high worth his royal heart assignedTo that dear place he held in Lisa’s mind.She listened till the draughts of pure contentThrough all her limbs like some new being went—Life, not recovered, but untried before,From out the growing world’s unmeasured storeOf fuller, better, more divinely mixed.’Twas glad reverse: she had so firmly fixedTo die, already seemed to fall a veilShrouding the inner glow from light of senses pale.Her parents, wondering, see her half arise;Wondering, rejoicing, see her long dark eyesBrimful with clearness, not of ’scaping tears,But of some light ethereal that enspheresTheir orbs with calm, some vision newly learntWhere strangest fires erewhile had blindly burnt.She asked to have her soft white robe and bandAnd coral ornaments; and with her handShe gave her long dark locks a backward fall,Then looked intently in a mirror small,And feared her face might, perhaps, displease the king:“In truth,” she said, “I am a tiny thing:I was too bold to tell what could such visit bring.”Meanwhile the king, revolving in his thoughtThat innocent passion, was more deeply wroughtTo chivalrous pity; and at vesper-bell,With careless mien which hid his purpose well,Went forth on horseback, and, as if by chancePassing Bernardo’s house, he paused to glanceAt the fine garden of this wealthy man,This Tuscan trader turned Palermitan;But, presently dismounting, chose to walkAmid the trellises, in gracious talkWith this same trader, deigning even to askIf he had yet fulfilled the father’s taskOf marrying that daughter, whose young charmsHimself, betwixt the passages of arms,Noted admiringly.  “Monsignor, no,She is not married: that were little woe,Since she has counted barely fifteen years;But all such hopes of late have turned to fears;She droops and fades, though, for a space quite brief,—Scarce three hours past,—she finds some strange relief.”The king avised: “’Twere dole to all of us,The world should lose a maid so beauteous:Let me now see her; since I am her liege lord,Her spirits must wage war with death at my strong word.”In such half-serious playfulness, he wends,With Lisa’s father and two chosen friends,Up to the chamber where she pillowed sits,Watching the door that opening admitsA presence as much better than her dreams,As happiness than any longing seems.The king advanced, and, with a reverent kissUpon her hand, said, “Lady, what is this?You, whose sweet youth should others’ solace be,Pierce all our hearts, languishing piteously.We pray you, for the love of us, be cheered,Nor be too reckless of that life, endearedTo us who know your passing worthiness,And count your blooming life as part of our life’s bliss.”Those words, that touch upon her hand from himWhom her soul worshipped, as far seraphimWorship the distant glory, brought some shameQuivering upon her cheek, yet thrilled her frameWith such deep joy she seemed in paradise,In wondering gladness, and in dumb surprise,That bliss could be so blissful.  Then she spoke:“Signor, I was too weak to bear the yoke,The golden yoke, of thoughts too great for me;That was the ground of my infirmity.But now I pray your grace to have beliefThat I shall soon be well, nor any more cause grief.”The king alone perceived the covert senseOf all her words, which made one evidence,With her pure voice and candid loveliness,That he had lost much honor, honoring lessThat message of her passionate distress.He staid beside her for a little while,With gentle looks and speech, until a smileAs placid as a ray of early mornOn opening flower-cups o’er her lips was borneWhen he had left her, and the tidings spreadThrough all the town, how he had visitedThe Tuscan trader’s daughter, who was sick,Men said it was a royal deed, and catholic.And Lisa?  She no longer wished for death;But as a poet, who sweet verses saithWithin his soul, and joys in music there,Nor seeks another heaven, nor can bearDisturbing pleasures, so was she content,Breathing the life of grateful sentiment.She thought no maid betrothed could be more blest;For treasure must be valued by the testOf highest excellence and rarity,And her dear joy was best as best could be:There seemed no other crown to her delight,Now the high loved one saw her love aright.Thus her soul thriving on that exquisite mood,Spread like the May-time all its beauteous goodO’er the soft bloom of neck and arms and cheek,And strengthened the sweet body, once so weak,Until she rose and walked, and, like a birdWith sweetly rippling throat, she made her spring joys heard.The king, when he the happy change had seen,Trusted the ear of Constance, his fair queen,With Lisa’s innocent secret, and conferredHow they should jointly, by their deed and word,Honor this maiden’s love, which, like the prayerOf loyal hermits, never thought to shareIn what it gave.  The queen had that chief graceOf womanhood, a heart that can embraceAll goodness in another woman’s form;And that same day, ere the sun lay too warmOn southern terraces, a messengerInformed Bernardo that the royal pairWould straightway visit him, and celebrateTheir gladness at his daughter’s happier state,Which they were fain to see.  Soon came the kingOn horseback, with his barons, heraldingThe advent of the queen in courtly state;And all, descending at the garden gate,Streamed with their feathers, velvet, and brocade,Through the pleached alleys, till they, pausing, madeA lake of splendor ’mid the aloes gray;When, meekly facing all their proud array,The white-robed Lisa with her parents stood,As some white dove before the gorgeous broodOf dapple-breasted birds born by the Colchian flood.The king and queen, by gracious looks and speech,Encourage her, and thus their courtiers teachHow, this fair morning, they may courtliest be,By making Lisa pass it happily.And soon the ladies and the barons allDraw her by turns, as at a festivalMade for her sake, to easy, gay discourse,And compliment with looks and smiles enforce;A joyous hum is heard the gardens round;Soon there is Spanish dancing, and the soundOf minstrel’s song, and autumn fruits are pluckt;Till mindfully the king and queen conductLisa apart to where a trellised shadeMade pleasant resting.  Then King Pedro said,—“Excellent maiden, that rich gift of loveYour heart hath made us hath a worth aboveAll royal treasures, nor is fitly metSave when the grateful memory of deep debtLies still behind the outward honors done:And as a sign that no oblivionShall overflood that faithful memory,We while we live your cavalier will be;Nor will we ever arm ourselves for fight,Whether for struggle dire, or brief delightOf warlike feigning, but we first will takeThe colors you ordain, and for your sakeCharge the more bravely where your emblem is:Nor will we claim from you an added blissTo our sweet thoughts of you save one sole kiss.But there still rests the outward honor meetTo mark your worthiness; and we entreatThat you will turn your ear to proffered vowsOf one who loves you, and would be your spouseWe must not wrong yourself and SicilyBy letting all your blooming years pass byUnmated: you will give the world its dueFrom beauteous maiden, and become a matron true.”Then Lisa, wrapt in virgin wondermentAt her ambitious love’s complete content,Which left no further good for her to seekThan love’s obedience, said, with accent meek,—“Monsignor, I know well that were it knownTo all the world how high my love had flown,There would be few who would not deem me mad,Or say my mind the falsest image hadOf my condition and your loftiness.But Heaven has seen that for no moment’s spaceHave I forgotten you to be the king,Or me myself to be a lowly thing—A little lark, enamoured of the sky,That soared to sing, to break its breast, and die.But, as you better know than I, the heartIn choosing chooseth not its own desert,But that great merit which attracteth it:’Tis law, I struggled, but I must submit,And having seen a worth all worth above,I loved you, love you, and shall always love.But that doth mean, my will is ever yours,Not only when your will my good insures,But if it wrought me what the world calls harm:Fire, wounds, would wear from your dear will a charm.That you will be my knight is full content,And for that kiss,—I pray, first, for the queen’s consent.”Her answer, given with such firm gentleness,Pleased the queen well, and made her hold no lessOf Lisa’s merit than the king had held.And so, all cloudy threats of grief dispelled,There was betrothal made that very morn’Twixt Perdicone, youthful, brave, well-born,And Lisa whom he loved; she loving wellThe lot that from obedience befell.The queen a rare betrothal ring on eachBestowed, and other gems, with gracious speech.And, that no joy might lack, the king, who knewThe youth was poor, gave him rich CeffalùAnd Cataletta,—large and fruitful lands,—Adding much promise when he joined their hands.At last he said to Lisa, with an airGallant yet noble, “Now we claim our shareFrom your sweet love, a share which is not small;For in the sacrament one crumb is all.”Then, taking her small face his hands between,He kissed her on the brow with kiss serene,—Fit seal to that pure vision her young soul had seen.And many witnessed that King Pedro keptHis royal promise.  Perdicone steptTo many honors honorably won,Living with Lisa in true union.Throughout his life, the king still took delightTo call himself fair Lisa’s faithful knight;And never wore in field or tournamentA scarf or emblem, save by Lisa sent.Such deeds made subjects loyal in that land;They joyed that one so worthy to command,So chivalrous and gentle, had becomeThe king of Sicily, and filled the roomOf Frenchmen, who abused the Church’s trust,Till, in a righteous vengeance on their lust,Messina rose, with God, and with the dagger’s thrust.L’ENVOI.Reader, this story pleased me long agoIn the bright pages of Boccaccio;And where the author of a good we know,Let us not fail to pay the grateful thanks we owe.