  To the Chapter of the Archbishop of Toledo. What doth the Archbishop, his chapter of Toledo?—Yea! doze they above some Bull— Some dull dry Bull Pope Sextus sent to rot? Come, come! awake! O prelates militant! Hear me! this is a truth I whisper now: Spain's King is less than king as I am less Than Paul the Apostle.—Look you! look around; Observe and dare!—I write above my seal, A grave Dominican, to postulate Pacheco, Marquis de Villena, croaks No nonsense in your excellencies' ears: King Henry's heir is illegitimate! Blanche of Navarre cast off, his Impotence Gave us a wanton out of Portugal For Queen; Joanna, who bore him this heir The cuckold King parades, a bastard, now. Look! all the Court laughs—secretly: but masks Are but for slaves; the people's smile is free From all concealment; and the word still wags About this son,—who is his favorite's, Bertrand la Cueva's, handsome exquisite,— Whom, people say,—and what they say is true,— The King himself, needing a lusty heir, Made warm familiar with Joanna's bed. What shall we do? endorse the infamy? Absolve them?—Yea! absolve them—at the stake! Or, if not that, then with the axe that hews The neck of State asunder!—Is it well, Prelates and ministers? Be merciful?— Lest the disease of this delicious fruit, This Kingdom of Castile, corrode the core, Why not pare off all rottenness and leave The healthy pulp! The throne, the populace, The Church, and God demand the overthrow, Deponement or the abnegation of This Henry, named the Fourth, the impotent!— Alphonso lives.... (It is my guarded hope That brothers of such kings have no long life.)— Am I impatient? 'Tis the tonsure then; Ambition ever was and aye will be Cousined to fierce impatience. 'Tis the cowl, The tonsure and the cowl, they must advance! My native town, Valladolid, did sow The priestly germ, ambition, first in me; Rather 'twas planted there in me; and had, Despite the richness of the soil, poor growth And less encouragement; the nipping wind Of Court disfavor was too much for it; And so I bore it thence to Cordova, And sunned its torpor in a woman's smile, 'Neath which it sprouted but—who trusts the sex?— Grew to a tenderness too insecure For love's black frosts. Required hardiness, And found it there at Zaragossa; (where Fat father LopÉs, bluff Dominican, My youth confuted with wise nonsense, and Astonished Spain in disputation in The public controversies of the monks). Transplanted to the Court, oh, splendid speed! Sure hath its growth been. Now a Cardinal's red Is promised by the bud that tops its stem. How have I, through the saintly medium Of the confessional, impressed the ear Of Isabella, daughter and dear child! The incarnation of my dear ideal, Pure crucifix of my religious love, Sweet cross which my ambition guards and holds: Ploughed up the early meadows of her soul For fruitful increase! in her maiden heart Insinuated subtleties of seed Shall ripen to a queen crowned with a crown From welded gold of Arragon and Castile! How I this son of John, the Second named, Prince Ferdinand of swarthy Arragon,— (Grant absolution, holy mother mine! Thus thy advancement and thy mastery Would I obtain!)—have on her fancy limned In morning colors of proud chivalry! Till he a sceptered paladin of love And beaming manhood stands! She dreams, she dreams What—Heaven knows! 'Tis, haply, of a star She saw when but a babe and in the arms Of some old nurse. A star, that laughed above A space of Moorish balcony that hung Above a water full of upset stars; Reflected glimmers of old palace fÊtes: A star she reached for, cried for, claimed her own, But never got; that blew young promises, Court promises, centupled, from the tips Of golden fingers at her infant eyes.— Well! when this girl is grown to be a queen, What if one, Torquemada, clothe her star In palpable approach and give it her!— When she is Queen, three steadfast purposes Have grown their causes to divine results.— No young imagination did I train With such endeavor and for no reward.— How often have I told her of the things She could perform when Queen, while silently And pensively she sat and, leaning, heard, Absorbed upon my face! her missal,—crushed By one propped elbow, its bent, careless leaves Rich with illuminated capitals Of gold and purple,—open on her lap. Long, long we sat thus, brothers, speaking of Felicity; discoursing earnestly Of Earth and Heaven; and of who adhere To God's true Vicar and our Holy Church: Beatitude and all the ceaseless bliss, Celestial, of eternal Paradise, As everlasting as the souls that have Built a strong tower for the only Faith. And I recall now how, in exhortation, Filled with the fervor of my cause I cried:— "Walk not on ways that lead but to despair, The easy ways of Satan! Rather thorns For naked feet that will not falter if Retentive of the arm of our true Church, Who comforts weariness with promises Still urging onward; and refreshes hearts With whisperings in the tuneless ear of Care."— And oft, big-eyed with innocence, she asked, "Do some digress?"—And I, "Yea, many! yea! And there's necessity! we should annul, Pluck forth the canker that contaminates, Corrodes the milk-white beauty of our Rose.— God's persecution! they confront our Faith With brows of stigmatizing error writ In Hell's red handwriting. Shall such persist? No!—Heaven demands an end to all this shame!"— Her pledge she gave me then: "When Queen, for Spain The Inquisition! Let the Saints record! I promise thee, my father, thou shalt be A mattock of deracination to Extirpate heresy." Well, well; time goes: The world moves onward, and I still am—oh, Frere Torquemada, a Dominican!... Blind Spain hastes blindly forward, eager for Her Hellward plunge. Our need is absolute. Conclusion to these monster heresies Or their most imminent consequence!—The throne, Which is derived directly from high God, Meseems should champion God in any cause; And if it will not, we will make it to.— O Spain, Spain, Spain! awake! arise! and crush These multiplying madnesses that mouth Their paradoxes at the Cross and shriek Their blasphemies e'en in the face of Christ!— O miserable Religion, is thy pride So fallen here! thy tenement of strength So powerless! Then where's security, When steadfast principle is insecure, And God's own pillars rock and none resists?— But I have tempered, at a certain heat, A heart of womanhood; and so have wrought The metal of a mind within the forge Of holy discourse, that Toledo's steel Springs not more true than my reforming blade, Which shall carve worship to a perfect whole.— Imperial Isabella! patroness! Protectress of pure faith! sweet Catholic! Our Church's dear concern! its bell, its book, Tribunal, and its godly Act of Faith! Hear how my soul cries out and speaks for thee!— My lord and brothers, hear me and perpend: This need is first: to make her sceptered Queen Of wide Castile. To make (the second need), Him, whom Ximenes, my friend Cordelier Shall serve as minister, King Ferdinand, Her wedded consort. And the third great need, The last,—which yet is first,—to scour from Spain These Moors, who make a brimstone-odious lair Of that rich region of Granada, which, Like some vile sore of scaly leprosy, Scabs Spain's fair face. Delay not. Let the Church Divide attention then 'twixt heretics And unclean Jews. So; wash her garments clean!— King Henry falls. God and Saint Dominick Aid our endeavor! and the Holy See Build firm foundations!—Let the corner-stone Of our most Holy Inquisition here Be mortared with the blood of heretics That its strong structure may endure!—And he, This Torquemada, the Dominican, Made Grand Inquisitor and Cardinal, This monk who writes you now, whose spirit feels That God inspires him with His own desires, Shall blaze God's name in blood upon the world. |
|
