Old Court Life in Spain, vol. 2/2

by Frances Minto Dickinson Elliot

All through his long reign she battled with his weakness, and was destined to suffer from a series of domestic mortifications caused by the helpless vacillation of his temper. In common with the kings his predecessors of the Trastamare line, he was too vacillating to be capable of much real feeling. But the young queen would tolerate no divided sway. Arrogant and ambitious by nature, she resolved to exercise an absolute control over his conduct. Now the Conde de Luna formed an insuperable barrier to her scheme. He must be removed, but his fall should be brought about by no violent action, lest Don Juan’s sensitive nature should take alarm. Her arms must be the wily weapons of her sex; she must work on the king’s admiration for her—as a poetic embodiment of his fancy—and his amiable desire to gratify her in all things.

So well did she act her part that he gradually grew cold towards his favourite. His advice, formerly so anxiously sought, was not asked; many acts were performed without his knowledge. Even his company, up to this time indispensable as the air he breathed, was dispensed with for days at a time. Such a change could not but be noted by the keen eyes of Luna, but his belief in his ascendancy and the necessity of his counsels was too absolute to give him as yet any serious uneasiness.

Don Juan, newly married to a princess selected by himself, whose person pleased his fickle taste, was preoccupied and in love. These changes were but as passing clouds—the horizon beyond was clear. He would soon tire, as he did of every one else, and return to him as before. Such was the belief on which he acted, leaving the queen to mature her plans unopposed.

The king is seated alone with the queen in the castle of Burgos at a table of inlaid marble, spread with wine. Books, too, are placed near at hand, for he is never without his favourite author, John de Menu. The room is small and lofty, a species of closet such as is found so often in royal palaces of that date, and was invariably chosen as a royal retiring-room. The walls are panelled in oak, pencilled with gold, on which is stretched rare tapestry, representing in all the flush of silken thread the encounters of the Christians against the Moors—Pelazzo in the cave of Cavadonga, and the triumph of the Cid. Steel mirrors, in richly carved frames of those massive patterns peculiar to Spain, fling back the brilliant sunshine. It is a blaze of light and colour. Velvet hangings heavy with gold shroud the low doors and shade the narrow windows, which are open. Bright in the pure air stream in the branches of fragrant limes, long walnut leaves and sycamores—within an enclosed garden, shrouded by a quaint old tower which forms part of the city walls.

Isabel, in the first flush of her radiant youth, looks a perfect picture for a poet, in a long white robe, brocaded with gold, her pointed shoes just appearing from under the folds, a row of large pearls binds her head, setting off the ebony blackness of her hair. Her sparkling eyes bent on the king entrance him more than his favourite ballads. She might be Egilona, or Doña Teresa, or Angelica moving before him. The day, the soft air, the silence, create a mesmerism about her which fires his sentimental nature and makes her for the moment paramount to all else.

Nor is she at all indifferent to the attentions of the young sovereign, her lord, who sits smoking opposite her, so daintily apparelled in a velvet surcoat sown with pearls and bound with dark fur, open sleeves hanging from the shoulder displaying his delicate hands, in the mode of the day; a white bonnet, set with a large jewel, resting on his flowing locks. No wonder that this graceful refinement of his nature has gained her heart, that delicate symmetry of face and form he inherits from his father and grandfather, El Rey Caballero.

Turning his large, inexpressive eyes towards her as she speaks, he bows, and, raising her hand to his lips, pledges her in a cup of Val de Peñas.

“How sweet is this solitude in your company,” he says, heaving a deep sigh of relief as he sinks back on the chair. “I would fain turn a few verses in honour of my beautiful consort, but the day is too hot.” Here he tries to conceal a yawn but does not quite succeed; then, looking round, “It is astonishing that for once we are left alone; but the constable has not interrupted us with affairs of state.”

“Why do you permit these unseemly liberties, my lord?” asks the queen sharply.

Don Juan does not reply, but kisses her jewelled hand, laying it caressingly on his own. What a solace to have to deal with this queenly creature instead of the imperious constable, always urging on him some imperative command, or to be plagued by those who call themselves “the friends of his dynasty,” constantly insisting with equal persistency on the necessity of his banishment! Between the two his life has become a burden, to say nothing of the freaks of his young son, the Prince of the Asturias (the first to bear that title), who passes his whole time in a succession of rebellions.