The Last Words of Don Carlos. (Spoken to His Confessor, Fray Juan de Avila, Feb. 23, 1568)

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The Last Words of Don Carlos.1

(Spoken to His Confessor, Fray Juan de Avila, Feb. 23, 1568.)

By Violet Fane.

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“ You say, Fray Juan, I must die to-night,
The King has signed the warrant. Be it so,
Strange though such tidings be !  . . I would not go
Through future days in this disastrous plight,
Nor these most miserable nights renew
For all the wealth the Indies or Peru
Could freight our galleons with. . Each night I said
‘ Would God that it were morn !  ’ and when the sun
Showed, by his first faint beam the day begun,
‘ Would God that it were eve !  ’ Alive yet dead,2
Betrayed, despoiled of all, discredited
And doomed to death !  . . Thus far am I undone !
Bear with me, holy father, for a space,
A few short moments, for I would retrace
My piteous story, since we are alone.

1 Prince of Spain, Archduke of Austria.

2 “ Il principe di Spagna. . . è talmente dimenticato da ognuno che pare veramente che non sia mai stato
al mondo,”—Despatch of Florentine Ambassador to Cosmo de’ Medeci, March 30, 1568.

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“ Alone at last !  and yet with all this load
Of sins and sorrows !  . . Kindly Heaven grants
One of my prayers at least !  . . those sycophants
Lerma, Ruy Gomez, Borja,—who abode
Here in my chamber, watching night and day
My ev’ry action,—have been called away
To do their final service two hours since ;—
To see that all is ordered, test the blade,
Make fast the doors and have the sawdust laid
Ready to drink the life-blood of their Prince ;—
For this they left me, . . Think not that I wince
To know their errand !  . Rather I rejoice
Exceedingly, impatient for relief ;
So, since my time for converse here is brief
Hear me, good father, whilst I have a voice.

“ I am the only son of one who held
The world in awe ;— yet am I not her
                              son,—
My sweet Señora. . Thus was it begun
This love,—this hatred,—never to be quelled ;—
The great King Philip who hath earned my hate,
Taking my gentle mother for a mate,
Begot me in the hey-day of his prime,
Before Ambition killed poor Love with cold,
So am I proud and headstrong, though I hold
Nothing so good as Love. My mother’s clime
(My mother who departed ere her time,)
Lent its volcanic fires to warm my blood
To deeds of chivalry and high emprise,
Yet so that in some lovely lady’s eyes
I failed to win approval, naught seemed good.

“ So did the days go by that led to these . . .
Though when King Philip, seeking wider sway,
Turned his keen glance to those chill Isles that lay
Wrapped in grey mists, amongst the Northern seas ;—
Where dwelt a lady, kindred of his line,
Mary the Queen,—(daughter of Katherine,
His father’s cousin :)  as God hears me now
In His high place,—I swear that no ill-will
Bore I the King for this !  Nay, more, until
His English wife had passed away, I vow
I mused much on the brother I might know
And greet and love one day, were he to reign
And turn those Islands of the stormy sea
Into a second home, if I should be
His brother-king upon the Throne of Spain.

“ Let me consider if that poor Queen’s death
Seemed fraught with ominous presage to my heart. .
Nay, what King Philip took in such good part
Was it for me to seem to groan beneath? . .
But for the mourning weeds wherewith I clothed
Myself from courtesy, mine own betrothed,
My pearl of France, possessing all my soul,
Turned my mind rather to my bridal cheer
Than to that loveless lady’s lonely bier, . . .
Nay, but Fray Juan, you shall hear the whole
As God shall hear me !  . . . When my father stole
And made the bride that was my bride, his own,—
How had you felt, if, haply, you had been
A man not vowed to God, or, unforeseen
Surprised a heart beneath your monkish gown ?  . .

“ I will not ask you. . I, that am no priest
But unregenerate man, have come to know
The rancorous emotions that can grow
Out of a heart thus trampled. . No wild beast
Defrauded of its prey, no mother torn
From her one babe, no wanderer forlorn
In arid deserts, in their bitterest hour
E’er felt more mad,—more hopeless. . Ev’ry day
To see her face,—to be condemned to stay
And watch King Philip wearing my white flower ;—
To call her  ‘ Queen,’ and  ‘ Mother,’ whom no power
Might turn to wife of mine !  . . What had I done,
Good father, to the great God over-head
That, not in nether hell,—but here, instead,
It thus should please Him to torment His son ?

“ Some say she shuddered seeing his grey hairs,—
And that he chid her, taking it amiss ;
Mark you, ’twas not the Queen who told me this,
I chanced upon the story unawares :
I have avowed to you mine own intent,
But swear again, the Queen is innocent ;—
Go, tell my father :— shield her blameless head,
Tell him his witnesses all swore to lies ;
That all the letters were base forgeries
Invented by the foes who wish me dead,—
So soon to be contented !  . . . I have said
Who heads the list,—what power clothed in might
And majesty,—would have me cease to live
For private ends :  the guilty ne’er forgive,—
And so it happens that I die to-night.

“ This  ‘ mutiny’ in Flanders. . Is it rare,—
A thing unheard of,—that to test his skill,—
Redress abuses,—call it what you will,—
A stripling, well nigh driven to despair
By passion, insult, anger,—should desire
Some wider scope for the consuming fire
That burns within his bosom ?  . . . I confess
I thirsted for adventure ;— that through me
The disaffected Flemings might be free
To live like loyal subjects ;— none the less
Did I desire the growth and happiness
Of this wide Realm. Who taxes me with more ?
Alva,—ambitious of supreme command,—
Gil Anton,1 justly chastened by my hand,
And all the perjured crew that falsely swore !

“ Say to the Queen my lady,—if she heard
I was  ‘ tormented,’—like some common knave
(I that am Prince of Spain !)  that, not to save
My body’s bitter anguish,—by one word
1 One of his pages who swore facts to his disadvantage.
Shed I the faintest shadow on her fame ;—
Nay,—rather say that nothing I could name
Of words that she hath breathed or actions done,
Had prejudiced the King.—To me, so soon
Left desolate,—did she vouchsafe the boon
Of motherly regard.—I seemed her son
And so she let the tender phrases run
Knowing her pure affection undefiled
And fearing no man’s malice,—for my sin
(The sin she had no part or parcel in,)
Chiding me even as a wayward child.

“ See, on this book of Hours, (my lady’s gift,)
How the triumphant lion chased in gold,—
The rampant lion of Léon,—seems to hold
The helpless lily of France, as though to lift
And toss it like a plaything, ere his grip
Closes to crush it !  . . Pray God that it slip
Betwixt his claws, before those ravenous
And cruel jaws can rend it !  . . As I pray
My mind goes forward past the imminent day,
(Seeing her Royal blazon figured thus,)
When this wild heart that Love made mutinous
Shall cease to beat ;— then is my soul oppressed
With fears for her ;  not Christ or all His saints
Can drive them hence ;— my faith in Heaven faints
And demons come between me and my rest.

“ Yet must I turn to God, and seek relief
Where such fears have no place, since I that stand
Before you now, am by a father’s hand
Condemned to die ere morning !  . . Time is brief,
The King hath signed the warrant, and to-night,
Wrapped in a placid consciousness of right
He, even he, is praying for my soul !  . .
Something rings false in this ;— some error nurst
Of man’s fall’n nature ;— thus to smite me first
And then implore a Higher Power to enrol
My name amongst the saved !  . . Mind you, the whole
Of those ten thousand masses go to aid
The Royal prayers ;  one thousand ducats’ worth
This year ;— then yearly, till the end of earth,
One thousand, at one hundred ducats paid.

“ I marvel much how men will deem I died. .
By fever, plague, or witchcraft ?  . . At what tale
Of filial disobedience Kings will quail
Considering their heirs ?  . . . For he will hide
The ghastly truth and that which here to-night,
Is done in darkness, may not meet the light
To-morrow, nor for ever !  . . . It were well
To feign me mad maybe, and mine own hand
Mine own destroyer. Folks would understand,
Look solemn,—shake their heads, and haply tell
The tale so often told, of how I fell
At Alcala and on the narrow stair
Left half my wits, and how the surgeon’s knife
Scooped out the rest—whence my rebellious life
And shameful death—and bid their sons beware.

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“ You know I would be buried in the robe
Of the Franciscan order, with the hood
Of a Dominican,1—if the King thinks good
                               ;—
This garb might suit his purpose :  who would probe
Beneath such saintly covering, to seek
Upon the throat the little tell-tale streak
Concealed from all men’s prying ?  . . I would lie
In fair Toledo—at the convent there,—
San Juan de los Reyes,—neath a square
Of plain Tortosa jasper ;  tapers high
Should burn on festa days there, but the eye
Must light upon no pompous blazonings,
Carved catafalque, or broidered baldaquin,
Set up to glorify the clay within
In sinful arrogance of earthly things.

“ And now farewell good father ;  nay, one word—
A word of warning,—Keep you,—guard you well ;  . .
You wot of much it were unwise to tell
(For even priests have tongues,) and I have heard
That monarchs, when their servants come to learn
Their secret dealings, have been known to turn
Their favours from them, . . So you sleep secure,
I charge you,—for your profit,—get you hence
Out of Madrid,—inventing some pretence
Of pilgrimage to foreign shrine,—the cure
Of some old ill,—to serve for coverture.
They say a dying man has clearer sight
Than one whose eyes are dazzled with the glare
Of this world’s glory ;— wherefore, have a care
For these my words,—seeing I die to-night.

“ Pray for the guilty soul which I commend
To God’s great goodness !  . . All who love me best
Pray for me now !  . . Is this some sorry jest
To break my spirit, or indeed the end ?
Thus have I questioned,—doubting. Yet you say
The King hath signed my death-warrant to-day,
A King not giv’n to jesting. . . All is done
Over and ended with me ;— he hath poured
Out all the vials of his wrath, . . Oh, Lord,
Be Thou more merciful !  . . . His only son !  . .
Son of the first wife of his youth,—the one
They said he loved so well !  . . . Help me to live
Through these last bitter moments !  . . . Stay, I hear
Their footsteps on the stair. . The end is near ;—
Yes ;  you can tell the King that I forgive !  ”

1 “. . . un habillement de franciscain et un capuce de dominicain, dans lesquels il désirait être enseveli,
comme il le fut.” (See Don Carlos et Philippe II. par M. Gachard, p. 473, and Letters of the Archbishop of
Rossano, papal nuncio, of July 27 and 28, 1568, and Letter of Leonardo di Nobili of July 30, for Italian
account.)

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