The Queen of the Hid Isle :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Queen of the Hid Isle

an Allegory of Life and Art. Love's Perversity; or, Eros and Anteros. A drama. By Evelyn Douglas [i.e. J. E. Barlas]

Douglas, Evelyn

[dedication]

[section]

THE BLOODY HEART.

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NOTE. I have altered the incidents towards the end of the tragic story, but with full knowledge that anything changed in Boccaccio must be changed for the worse.

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THE BLOODY HEART.

(A Tale from Boccaccio.)

I

In fair Provençe two valiant friends abode,
Hight Rossiglione, a right noble lord,
And Guardastagno. These together rode,
Falcon on wrist, and drank wine at the board
From one same cup, such bosom-friends were they.
And forth with hound they fared on many a day
Through windy trees or over river-lawn,
Questing for quarry: and to each tourney
At neighbour castles pricked at dim of dawn,
And set on one same side their lance and sword,
And each for other's faith had pledged his life in pawn.

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II

Now Rossiglione had a most sweet wife,
Of whose much beauty all the land was loud.
Her cheek was carmined with the vivid life;
Her hair was like a tempest-coloured cloud,
Gold, amber, shot and streaked with bronze-red gleams,
Eruginous, coppery, pierced with brazen beams,
A miracle of colour; and its coils
Ran cataract to her knee in ruddy streams.
So, like a queen dressed out in golden spoils,
Naked she might have stood: that net could shroud
Her body from the soul caught in its silken toils.

III

Her white arms were so round and smoothly turned,
That polished ivory or enchiselled stone
Of so daint finish doubtless might have earned
A more eternal fame than Phidias' own;
The pearl-sown silken slippers on her feet
Hid what was whiter; poppies in the wheat

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Are not so scarlet-crimson as her lips,
And breath of roses by their breath not sweet.
Full-bosomed was she, broad athwart the hips;
Smooth ran the curving lines into her zone;
Her eyelids hid her eyes like the moon's mild eclipse.

IV

And lofty was her stature, that her lord
Rose o'er her rich hair barely by the brows,
And he was great of port; yet the green sward
Scarce ruffled with her step, as the blade bows
Under light dew when evening plants are fed
By heaven's moist manna, so light was her tread.
The reflex of her red cheek tinged her neck,
Her pale neck's pallor blanched the bright cheek's red,
As snow-peaks under flame of day's red wreck,
Or as ripe fruit tinges the leaves and boughs,—
The sunny side of the peach, where the nice starlings peck.

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V

And in soft tissues of loose-woven silk
Her proud lord used to deck her richly forth,
And get her pearls and opals white as milk,
And beads of amber out of the cold North.
The worm that Byzant men in hollow reeds
From China filched, as he that stole the seeds
Of fire, and gave to man both arts and laws,
Ne'er wove such webs as her green rustling weeds,
Her crimson cloaks, and camises of gauze,
Whose open woof hid not, but coloured swarth
The fair breast throbbing through with the blood's beat and pause.

VI

Never, I think, was fairer woman seen,
But her large courtesy and easeful grace,
The lofty calm, the quiet of a queen,
Matched with the even magic of her face,
Made her a marvel, such that all must choose
Either to hate or madden quite, and lose

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All senses in that one of still desire,
Calm, fathomless, no torrent that pursues,
But deep consuming well of moon-white fire,
Where not a dust of ashes for a trace
Abides of those poor moths that in such heat expire.

VII

Ah! Love and Friendship, sisters ye might seem,
Of one fair mother and high father born!
So like ye are of aspect, none would deem
How oft hath each the other made forlorn,
And ravelled out the close-knit warp and woof,
The other's toil, or blackened the fair roof
With smoke, and stained with blood the hearth or shame,
Where her resemblant sister dwelt aloof:
And Love hath made fell hate of Friendship's name,
And Friendship sapped Love's root with cankering scorn,
Since Argive Helen first o'er sea to Ilion came.

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VIII

No common glories of the female shape,
No melting curves, no melody of walk,
No ebbing sighs that struggle and escape,
No silver tinkling of sweet simple talk,
No beckoning glances and no luring smiles
Can soil the faith no proper lust defiles.
Nor such had thine, true Guardastagno, bowed;
But beauty deepening down unending aisles,
Down forest vistas, avenues of cloud,—
Beauty whose never-ending aspects balk
The strength of the strained thought, and leave the spirit cowed;

IX

Beauty, the end of sight or birth of wind;
The moon-track on the sea that melts in night;
Beauty with stars beyond, and space behind
The stars; the untold aim of our soul's flight;
Indefinite, unfathomable, deep,
As where beginneth death and endeth sleep;

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Unguessed at as the rapid sun's far goal;
The endless cirque where life and lifeless leap
To one, where fate and freedom, pole and pole;
The point where two infinitudes unite,
All things and nothing, most and least, God and the soul!

X

Such beauty is no light thing to discard,—
A wrestling angel that holds fast his prey
Until it bless him: so the struggle marred
That poor man's peace; and ofttimes he would say,
“This land is not for me: I will depart:
I have a pilgrim passion in my heart
To kiss the Sepulchre: my lips feel cold
And chastened with that touch; my poor feet smart
Going long journeys in my dreams baresoled;
Mine eyes are dazzled with the Eastern day,
And awe-struck with the hills that drank Christ's blood of old!”

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XI

Then fair Ginotta and her lord, his friend,
Would make his eyes see all the doleful road
And vision'd perils ere the restful end,
And of captivity and death would bode
In pirate-isles or robber-holds on shore.
When hath dissuasion failed to rouse the more?
How oft have men thus pleaded their own doom?
And wrought on gods or men with cravings sore
To work them ill, or utterly consume?
So now these perils stung him like a goad:
And they wove all the more their curse upon Love's loom.

XII

For she, by her lord's wish, sat, half in trance,
Broidering her ruin with fair scarlet thread
Upon a silken pennon for his lance.
Green was the ground, and tricked in various red
With a rent heart, his crest; for, said her lord,
Great France to a high joust bids every sword
In our fair land, and this may be, perchance,
That if thou work some sumptuous award,
And bid him wear for favour on his lance,

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That of his courtesy our friend will stead
My lance with his that day (a better none in France).

XIII

So she toiled in a trance; her red-gold hairs
Fell o'er, and tangled with the scarlet skeins;
And she would sigh, scarce sure for what; her tears,
Falling, that bloody heart soothed of its pains
With fragrant balm, and mingled with its blood;
And so her heart's desire, a little bud,
A small unnoticed bud in the green leaves,
Oped petal after petal in that flood,
As 'neath her hands the work grew. So she weaves
Daily around her heart new pains, new stains
Of red on the green silk where the heart's life-blood cleaves.

XIV

So as she sat beneath a cherry-tree,
Her busy fingers twitching with the pang
That reached to them of her heart's ecstasy,
The music in her soul's lute sudden sang,

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And she thus waked, startled without surprise,
Saw looking into hers her lover's eyes.
Nought had he whispered of his love to her,
Nor she to him, but surer love's surmise
Than proof of speech to love's true worshipper.
What need had they to speak? They kist: soft sprang
To the wet meeting lips, Love's honeyed bee-like spur.

XV

So oft they meet and brave the staring noon
That o'er their shame appears to flaunt and gloat;
And oft at night beneath the conscious moon,
Pale as her sick ghost in the castle moat:
And oft they kiss in face of blushing eve,
And their dark fate with sweet embraces weave,
And clench with purple kisses, and close knit
With intertwining fingers. Her breasts heave
With billows of the coming storm. They sit
Under the cherry-tree. With warning note
The birds, now in the secret, o'er them pitying flit.

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XVI

Now Rossiglione, as ill chanced, one day,
Dispacing 'mong his apple-trees alone,
Full of the sunshine and no thought, at play
With a pet hawk, that made his wrist a throne,
Proud of its silken jesses, suddenly
Came in full sight of that cursed cherry-tree,
Himself hid by entrailing foliage,
Betwixt whose leafy meshes he could see
That false pair's dalliance and badinage.
He looked, he raged not: like one struck to stone,
Or 'tranced, or dazed with wine, he stared; he did not rage.

XVII

Then his frame shook with aguish aspen throes,
And pale as honey blanched his olive cheek:
He catches at a branch; his fingers close,
Erring, on the void air: his knees, grown weak,
Break under him like a bruised reed; and still
He stares, as he could never stare his fill,

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Nor trust the thing no vision. Sudden light!—
A fire bursts in his eye of wakened will:
His clenched nails eat his palm locked up so tight:
He buffets the hawk dead, his wrath to wreak
On nearest living thing, e'en though his heart's delight.

XVIII

Then to the sword-hilts flew the quaking hand:
The blue steel tightly slipped some inches out,
And caught the sun: his fingers tightlier spanned
The rubied haft-work: then, as with new doubt,
He paused, and stood a brief while musing deep.
The fated pair, as babes embayed in sleep
Feel not the snake's eye till they taste his fang,
Saw not. He stamped his foot: with radiant leap
The disappointed steel back homeward sprang,
Still thirsty, and, e'en as he turned about,
Against the scabbard's edge the gilded hand-guard rang.

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XIX

So he forbore awhile: the lovers met:
The bannerol blushed, caressed by those white hands,
A deeper red: the pilgrim ceased to fret
For holy shrines remote in Paynim lands,
Finding one nearer home. The day drew nigh
For the high tournament and revelry:
The work complete, she says, “There lies my gage,”
In her lord's anguished seeing archly shy.
The other, laughing, sware his vassalage,
Since, quoth he, 'tis e'en thus our friend commands,
To serve her truly and her wars as his to wage.

XX

But to this pledge in secret she did add
A ribbon knot, that wont lie on her breast
(A sight in solitude to make men mad
Who ever knew true passion's fierce unrest),
And bade him wear at heart for her dear sake.
He vowed that with such charm his spear might break

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Through an enchanter's magic-linkèd mail,
Though each link wrought with spells to make night quake.
Alas! that amulet might nought avail
To thwart conjunctions of his stars unblessed!
Their faces as they kissed with coming death grew pale.

XXI

Now, on a day did Rossiglione send
To Guardastagno word of haste and speed
If he would seek the tourney with his friend,
For that the king had changed the time agreed
To earlier: wherefore he bade him bide
That day at noon-scape hour by the weald-side
His coming, tended by one only page,
For he would bring six trusty knights and tried—
All needsome retinue. Meanwhile his rage
Scarce suffered him to arm. He backs his steed,
Equipped to point in steel, frowning through brazen cage.

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XXII

Hotly he spurred until his horse's hoofs
Upon the turf with mellow thunder smote,
Down in the woodside dell: from hovel-roofs
He marked towards God's footstool curl and float
The smoking incense of domestic peace
From the warm joyous hearths, in rings of fleece,
And coveted their plain household delights,
And wished that fate had given him so to cease
In gradual age, as in clear heaven the flights
Of those faint mists, to bide by the sheep-cote
And live in life's low vales below its thunderous heights.

XXIII

But soon he frays that idle dream away,—
Strange dream to wake at such a time and place,
Born of inaction forced and sick delay,
Straining to catch some sound, to see some trace
Of his approaching crime, some hoofèd tramp
Or sound of jingling rein: the sweat stood damp

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Upon his brow; but still he ever heard
Only upon the bit his charger champ,
And 'mong his armèd men some whispered word,
And whining of a hound at distant space
'Neath Guardastagno's tower, to evil prescience stirred.

XXIV

Then o'er a grassy knoll, as though to taunt
His sleepful anger into quicker life,
He saw a small green pennant gaily flaunt,
The hatesome badge, the broidery of his wife.
The steed, as though he felt his rider's pang,
Stung by no spur, beneath him sudden sprang
In wild curvet, and neighed into the air.
An answering neigh from the green hillock rang.
Long howled the dog with a forlorn despair,
Then furious bayed, as with his chain at strife,
And louder grew his cries with that approaching pair.

XXV

Up Guardastagno at a canter came,
And now was scarce ten lances' length from him,

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When forward shot the mailèd knight like flame,
His steed flat to the plain, his lance in trim.
“Traitor! thou art a dead man, never fear!”
So saying, smote him, and the onward spear
Right through the corselet sped with eager speed,
And through his buckskin vest with hot career,
And, issuing, paid the shoulder-plate scant heed,
And from the saddle lifted trunk and limb
Over the flying tail a lance-length from his steed.

XXVI

Then Rossiglione from the saddle leapt,
And plucked his glaive out flashing from the sheath,
And with his heel upon the body stept,
And drave it gurgling through the throat beneath,
And full five inches in the loamy soil:
Then from the lance-end stripped the hatesome spoil,
The bloody heart, and laid it on the grass;
Unlaced the armour-straps with busy toil,
Dismailed the dead man of his steel cuirass;

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With digging dagger and hooked nails uneath
Wrenched forth the bloody heart: the sign had come to pass.

XXVII

Meanwhile by turns the young page wept and screamed,
Whom Guardastagno brought: the murderer's men
Stood mazed with horror, doubtsome if they dreamed,
And this was no real scene that met their ken,
But passing glamour. But their lord, apart,
Wrapt in the green lance-streamer the red heart
To kiss its semblance and prophetic show,
And gave it to his squire. Then forth they start
Upon their homeward journey, sad and slow,
And speak not till they reach the postern, when
He straitly charges all to husband that they know.

XXVIII

Then from his squire he reft that folded thing,
And stalked forthright through many a corridor,
And came whereas the household, clattering
With idle tongues, were set the fire before,

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Telling old tales: who leapt up from their seat,
Hearing the clank of their lord's mailèd feet,
And seeing flash his burnished burganet
And the red firelight o'er his cuishes fleet,—
In their base hall a show right seldom met,
And on that day of all least counted for,
When he had parted forth on such far journey set.

XXIX

They gape on him amazed: one foolish crone,
Thinking this thing to be but his mere wraith
Slain by the way, no thing of flesh and bone,
And that her dear lord sure had ta'en some scath,
With ghastful eyes, from toothless lips a scream
So shrill sent forth, that they from their half dream
Waked to full fright. But he, seeing them start,
Thought of his own guilt, and went nigh to deem
His secret known or guessed, or by strange art
Writ on his brow: nathless he knew their faith,
And, calling forth the cook, said, “Dress me this boar's heart.

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XXX

“Take, dress it well, with savours of allspice,
To serve before my lady soon in hall.
Ill hath she fared of late. I would entice
Her sickening zest, for fear she, fasting, fall
Into a languor and a weakness. Haste!
Be busy with thy task.” With that he paced
Forth to the banquet-hall, and greeted fair
His lady, and why thus early he retraced,
Rehearsed for meet excuse how he would share
Spoil with her of his noblest hunt of all,
And well a single day his journey now might spare.

XXXI

For as they travelled the near forest through,
They chanced upon a wild boar by the road,
And paused to bait the thing, and fought and slew;
Which done, one met them armèd, who bestrode
A fair black steed in rich barb well-beseen,
Who greeted them, and marking by their mien
That they unto the tourney were on way,
Craved leave of courtesy to ride between,
But bade them tarry till the morrow-day,

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That he might rest ere further forth he rode.
And 'neath our friend's fair roof this night is he to stay.

XXXII

But she, poor lady, like a blinkèd hawk,
Saw not his guile, but easy credence gave
Unto the seeming fairness of his talk.
And now with drapets fair and flagons brave
The seneschal and all the menial crowd
Decked out the board; the salvers tinkle loud;
The lord is set, the lady by his side;
The seneschal, his white head meetly bowed,
Ushers the throng that bears in pomp and pride
The goodly banquet with demeanour grave;
Upon the dais step the jester sits astride.

XXXIII

Scarce tasted she the meats or sipped the cup,
Like widowed culver pining for her mate,
Until the seneschal bade now serve up
The rich force-meat upon a silver plate,

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Which her lord, praising, bade her taste and eat.
She, luckless, draws to her and tastes the meat,
And sudden with strange ravening hunger's smart
O'erwhelmed, devours the whole, that oft hath beat
Within her arms. She stays with sudden start.
“Being dead,” quoth he, “well may it thus aggrate,
Which pleased thee most alive. 'Tis Guardastagno's heart.”

XXXIV

A moment blanched she deathly white to see,
A moment mutely wrestled with her voice,
Then said, “A noble banquet this for me
Thou hast provided, and I much rejoice
The world's best heart hath found so worthy grave;
For never, never, after feast so brave,
Shall these lips pass ignobler food again,
Having once feasted royally, but save
Indesecrate his sepulchre, as men
After the holy unction starve by choice.
I swear it thee! by God! God leave me else. Amen.”

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XXXV

And day by day that lady pined away,
E'en as a hound forsaken of its lord
Lies with wet glistening eyes that wax each day
As the flesh sinks, and turns from sleep and board,
And sometime softly plains, but mostly dumb
Beseeches with meek eyes that he should come;
So wasted she from morn till eventide,
From eventide till morn, faint, anguished, numb,
And the great heart seemed burning in her side,
And swelling in her throat; and, like a sword
Each tear cut through her eyes for ever open wide.

XXXVI

Then he, her lord, took pity on her state,
And cursed his deed, and craved upon his knees
That she would his great grief compassionate,
And eat and live. But nothing now she sees,
Save the red heart there floating in mid-air,
Such as she breaded on the pennant fair,

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Nor aught she hears save dripping as of gore
Upon green grass in droplets, not his prayer
Nor any voice, but that great oath she swore,
And sometimes a faint sound as of far seas,—
Death's onward tide that breaks upon the silent shore.

XXXVII

So he fell mad, and going forth one night,
Sank on his sword beneath that cherry-bough;
And there they found him in the morning white,
Soaked with the night-dew beaded on his brow.
The women, hearing, prayed her now eat bread,
In that she was avenged, the murderer dead.
She heard them not, but ever, as in a dream,
Kept her eyes fixed in wakeful drowsihead,
Fixed on the floating heart their glazing beam,
And heard no voice but her own echoed vow,
And nearer, nearer sigh of the approaching stream.

Breaded = braided, embroidered. —Spenser.