Then I considered the moment opportune and went to the King to ask to be given a ship.
“Later, when you have more of the conqueror about you than now, I may be able to appoint you.”
He no longer feared my rivalry with his son. I turned away with a bow, hiding my rage at the royal provocation.
Very well. We shall not save that attitude for overseas, but shall adopt it here. It was Your Majesty’s will.
Now, in order to win her again, I was forced to fight with a weapon that I was proficient in but preferred not to use.
Diana was infected by the fashion that had reached us from Italy (the proverb says “the wind from Spain brings no good”, but I wanted us to add “and that from Italy nothing but ill”): she wrote poems and wanted others to write poems for her. What is poetry to a people that has better things to do than struggle with a recalcitrant metre, that for centuries has been crammed together on a narrow strip of land, has fought the violence of Moors, Spaniards and seas, whose language through a strange freak of nature happens to be melodious enough already, and is even called the language of flowers!
That women, who have nothing to do but weave, should alternate this with embroidering on the cloth of language, in imitation of others of their sex at the countless Italian courts, is all well and good. But that men should also participate in such vanity when there are still so many countries to conquer, to discover, and the Moors are still nestling just across the water, is worse.
Diana, then, presided over a literary court in her own summer mansion of Santa Clara. To be in favour there one had to read verses.
It is true that I had never opened my mouth (except to yawn or to answer the questions she put) and yet her big green eyes were often focused on me. I admired her from afar — she was beautiful, a true princess — and disdained the doggerel-writing suitors surrounding her. Now that I wished to approach her, I had to join in the fashion, mustered my knowledge of poetry, acquired in the years on my father’s deserted estate where reading, writing and hunting were the only recreations, and wrote a sonnet and a few redondilhas.*
These I took to Santa Clara on the Thursday afternoon following the King’s refusal.
My announcement that I would also read verses caused a stir. With sarcastic haste the sycophants surrounding her made ample room on both sides, but Diana remained serious and focused her gaze on me. I acted as if I were speaking to her alone, and in the silence I could not hear my own voice. I could tell from her eyes what was happening: she admired the sonnet, but was struck by the bold haste and shameless tumult of the redondilhas, so well was my feeling expressed in them for her alone, hidden from all others. The others muttered applause, despite themselves; only she did not speak, but an hour later walked with me in the courtyard of Santa Clara. There was a narrow, bright moon, but the daylight still persisted under the leaves of the avenues. Her eyes were light, soft as the moon, her nearness like the sun, her bosom the softest and most exalted thing on earth.
Never since the encounter with my love had I felt the presence of the feminine so powerfully. I no longer thought of mythology, although I spoke of Endymion and Diana, no longer thought of her high and my low rank. We were like the first beings in the rediscovered magic garden, though we walked on side by side calmly and with dignity, for from the window, we knew, the jealous world stared down at us; for an hour we were Luís and Diana.
And for that one hour…
No, my chain of disasters began after this hour but did not issue from it. It began with my birth. For over my first hour on earth hung the most malevolent signs in the heavenly constellations, and not a single good fairy was on hand to lighten my destiny. And this love was one more thing that imposed its arduous demands on me.
On the following occasions I came without verses — we did not go into the garden but stood together in the window alcove. The other men and women avoided us automatically while we were together.
A few weeks later the Infante went pale and Diana’s eyes shone when I moved towards her. Had she once despised me for my hesitation? Misunderstood? I forget what I said to her, and perhaps the words were of little importance, but the sound must have been right. I constantly fascinated her. The Infante, on the other hand, did nothing but stutter, blush and laugh, to the amusement of both of us.
Now my conquest in this forbidden field achieved what my goodwill had not been able to. If I had been a man versed in the ways of that world, instead of a country boy, I would have realized that sooner.
One afternoon I was standing in the window alcove with Diana; the Infante, in the centre of the room, was talking in a bitter, absent-minded tone with his chamberlain. An elderly lady-in-waiting, standing at the door, tried obstinately and in vain to catch his eye. She was disturbed in that endeavour when the door suddenly opened. A page came to fetch me. The King summoned me. I followed the page.
“We can now grant your wish. The Estrella is ready to sail. There are soldiers on board; you are too young for the command of a warship, but with a competent captain to advise you can certainly lead a troop. Are you ready?”
I pretended to reflect, with head and knees bent.
“Well?” snapped the monarch, betraying his tense mood.
I did not reply till I was fully prepared.
“I thank Your Majesty for your attention and favour. I still do not possess the virtues that some time ago you considered indispensable for a command. Moreover, an important matter detains me.”
I paused for a moment, peeped upwards from my bent position and saw the anger rising in the monarch’s face, impelled by my boldness.
“If you mean that you…” He could not continue.
“It is because of my father. He feels his time is near and summons me to settle the inheritance. I must therefore most humbly ask your permission to leave the court. My father may soon die, and I am his only heir.”
“Your father’s suffering may also continue for a long while yet.”
“In that case I am the only one whom he would want to be at his sickbed for any length of time.”
I lied quite consciously. My father did not have a moment’s peace when I was with him. The King knew that as well as I did, but officially fathers and sons love each other. I went on, since the King remained speechless:
“I therefore ask Your Majesty’s permission again to leave the court. On Monday a vessel is sailing up the Tagus, which will take me most of the way.”
“Of course you may go. Assure your father of my royal affection. And what afterwards?”
He made a gesture which meant more or less: “When your father is dead and life on an impoverished estate bores you?…”
The Infante must have been very afraid of my competition.
“…Then I request your permission to acquire the virtues of a courtier and commander in your proximity.”
“One of them you will never be. The other you are already by virtue of your birth. You may go. I give you leave to take part in tomorrow’s hunt. When you return another ship will be ready, though I don’t know if there will be a detachment of soldiers for you then. But you can be sure of a letter of recommendation for the viceroy of Goa.”
So I had been honourably banished from Portugal, with a reprieve because of my father’s illness. The audience was at an end. I made to kiss the King’s hand, but his face went purple, and all he managed to say was “Go… away!”, pointing convulsively at the door.