The Forbidden Kingdom E-Book

Jan Jacob Slauerhoff

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 286

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A classic of early modernism The Forbidden Kingdom (Het Verboden Rijk) is the masterwork of Jan Jacob Slauerhoff - a romantic tale of adventure, seafaring and colonialism, told through an experimental narrative. An intoxicating mix of time travel and adventure, The Forbidden Kingdom revolves around the Portuguese imperial outpost of Macao in China. Two men journey to the colony: the exiled sixteenth-century poet Luis de Camoes, author of The Lusiads, and a twentieth-century ship's wireless operator. With their overlapping stories Slauerhoff draws his reader into a dazzling world of exoticism, betrayal and exile, where past and present merge and the possibility of death is never far away. Translated from the Dutch by the award-winning Paul Vincent, The Forbidden Kingdom by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff is published by Pushkin Press. Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (1898-1936) was born in the Netherlands. After a sickly childhood, he studied medicine in Amsterdam before enlisting as a ship s surgeon with the Dutch East India Company, working on the infamous China-Java-Japan route. His first poetry collection, Archipelago (Archipel), was published in 1921, and he came to be regarded as one of the most important writers in Dutch -a poète maudit to compare to Baudelaire or Verlaine. A troubled life, which involved numerous sea voyages to the Orient, South America and Africa, as well as a marriage to the dancer Darja Collin, Slauerhoff contracted malaria on a journey to South Africa, and died.

Leseprobe

JAN JACOB SLAUERHOFF

THE FORBIDDEN KINGDOM

Translated from the Dutch by Paul Vincent

PUSHKIN PRESSLONDON

For Albino Forjaz de Sampaio

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Afterword

Also Available from Pushkin Press

Pushkin Press

Copyright

THE FORBIDDEN KINGDOM

PROLOGUE

I

IN SEPTEMBER 1540, when the settlement of Lian Po had been in existence for almost eighteen years, an imperial delegation arrived at the North Gate, bearing the celestial name on its banner, but bringing no goodwill gifts and dressed in light-blue mourning robes. The head of the delegation requested an audience with the governor, Antonio Farria. As it was night-time, they were conducted through the city to an inn by the light of torches and lanterns and despite their impatient grumbling were not taken to see Farria until the following morning; instructed of their arrival and apparel, he awaited them seated on a throne, in armour.

The oldest member of the group stepped forward, without removing his skull cap, and said in measured tones: “Lian Po will be laid waste, the Portuguese and their slaves will be tortured till they curse the day they were born, if their brethren in the south continue their conquest of Malacca.”

Farria, without raising either his voice or his body, took a roll of parchment from the table next to him, unfolded a map of Malacca, indicated a red line that cut off the neck of the peninsula and pointed through the window to the river where the ships were raising ensigns and unfurling their standards. Then he gave a signal, a shot was fired and was answered by many blazing barrels, and rejoicing erupted across the city and the river. The envoys returned home through a celebrating city in closed litters.

At the end of the year an imperial fleet of well over a thousand sails appeared in the harbour mouth. That was one ship for every Portuguese in Lian Po. Spies reported the advance of a great army, three days’ march away. Farria left Lian Po under the command of Perez Alvadra and with the thirty ships at anchor in the harbour hurled himself at the junks. He had ordered a fortress cannon and a long-barrelled gun to be mounted on six of his vessels, and these now fired among the junks, as his fleet drifted slowly towards the enemy. Before contact was made, hundreds had sunk. Then an offshore wind suddenly got up, the heavy artillery was dumped overboard and with swift manoeuvres the Portuguese carvelas cut through the enemy, firing in all directions. But eventually scores of junks had attached themselves to each ship and hundreds of warriors with their blood-curdling cries had leapt on deck, cutlasses slashing. Grenades from the crow’s nests, musket fire from poop deck and stern, knives and lances on the decks exterminated the Manchus like swarms of locusts.

At night the battle continued by torchlight, armed sloops joined in the fray, and swarms of sharks, the hyenas of sea battles, fought over the bloody casualties as they drowned.

The torches were burning low when there was a great glow from the land. A broad red wall of slow-burning flames rose from horizon to horizon. Seeing this, Farria was beside himself with fury and signalled to his ships to assemble for a final assault. Nine clustered alongside his vessel; the others could not disengage themselves from the tangle or had been overrun.

Three times in quick succession, continuously firing and ramming whatever crossed their bows, they carved a path through the Chinese fleet. The dawn, breaking through on the horizon, lit up the fleeing junks and four tall ships turned away from them and headed back to the bay. But Lian Po had already disappeared, and a thick pall hung over silent piles of rubble from collapsed walls and charred beams.

Farria went to where his city had stood. The streets were almost buried under the fallen masonry, but he found a way through, spearing bodies and tossing them aside with his sword if they obstructed him, and finally stood in front of the ruins of his own house. He did not dare step over the threshold. Beyond, his wife and children lay burnt or… He rested on his sword and waited until a couple of soldiers approached. “Search,” he ordered hoarsely, “clear the beams away, open the cellar.”

He was now sitting on a stone bench that had once been set among flowers and shrubs facing a small pool. He scooped some water from the pool and cooled his head. His hair was covered in charcoal and soot, but he did not notice. A few blackened swords and an iron pitcher were laid at his feet: all that was still recognizable. Farria himself went into his gutted house, and took away a few handfuls of ash in his handkerchief.

That evening four ships, all that was left of the first settlement in Cathay, sailed south in close formation.

The little fleet was ringed by the stars, with the moon above them in the black sky. On the poop deck of the Mãe de Deus stood Farria and Mendez de Pinto. They gazed at the sails, at the wake, occasionally walked the deck from side to side, and stopped in silence again.

A lamp was burning over the hatchway, and the copper of the hatch and the bronze of the cannon gleamed, while everything else was shrouded in darkness; darkness surrounded both the two lonely men and the sails. But gradually the dark hull began to glow in a green twilight, which first revealed the topsails, then dredged the bow up from the night, where a faint mumbling rose, like that of men waking.

Finally Farria’s large figure and the small, frail Mendez were also lit up. “Green is the colour of hope,” said Farria without conviction, but Mendez disagreed. “It’s St Elmo’s Fire—it heralds doom and death. What else can it mean?” And suddenly a flood of words poured from the lips of the taciturn officer, who for days had not uttered a syllable and had done nothing except run from side to side, testing cannon, drinking—drinking heavily—and cursing silently at the railing.

At last he found a channel for his resentment.

“All for nothing. Twenty years of struggle, loneliness, negotiations with yellow villains, patience, pleas for ammunition, troops.

“The supercilious letters from the usurers in Malacca, the haughty administrators in Goa, who ask why we’re venturing so far when the spices that yield most profit await loading in Malacca. The aggrieved letters of the prelates asking when Cathay will finally be converted. Those of the King wanting to know why his embassy was not better received in Beijing, and why it did not bring back more gifts.

“All they want is to hold on to what they have, buy off their enemies and laze about on their country estates.

“On the brink of the most fabulous riches, constant skirmishes with the most cunning and cruellest devils in an indefensible post on which we have wasted our lives. We’re now reaping the reward of fools, our wives have been tortured to death, our children burnt alive or abducted.

“We’re as penniless as we were thirty years ago, when we sailed out of the Tagus as poor noblemen, happy with the blessing of a cardinal and a knighthood from the King.

“What awaits us when we return? Anathema for having become heretics, the displeasure of the King, prison perhaps. Think of Columbus, think of Da Gama, of so many.

“Where are we to turn? What we built up lasted for twenty years and burned down in a single night. Let’s go to some island no one wants, and wait for death. Or let’s lie in wait for everything flying the Portuguese flag and destroy it. No, we’d do better to undertake the journey back. Let’s bombard Malacca and Goa and Lisbon for all we’re worth. Why were we born and why did we set forth in the first place?”

His features were ashen in the green light, his hands broke off pieces of wood and his body leant twitching against the railing. Until Farria, in the slow, measured tones he always used, tried to persuade his second-in-command to adopt his point of view.

“It’s all true. In Malacca they’d jeer and lord it over us. In Goa we’d be interrogated about why the post was not held. Surely five hundred soldiers and thirteen ships, half of them warships, are an invincible force confronted with even the mightiest empire? In Lisbon we’d be thrown in jail. I’m not afraid; I think as you do. My vengeance extends further. I shall land again, fight, negotiate and build a second Lian Po, richer and stronger than the first. It will put Malacca in the shade and awaken the envy of Goa. Then, when I’m relieved of my post to make way for one of the King’s bastards, I shall hoist my own flag and with my fleet and my army I shall hold on to my creation, or if it proves indefensible destroy it with my own hands.”

Mendez shook his head sadly.

“We’re too old. It will take too long. I want to devote the years that are left to me to my vengeance. Give me the copies of the letters, the pleas and orders we wrote for reinforcements, give me the arrogant, contemptuous answers. They will be my daily breviary. I will derive strength from them, lest I succumb to bleak loneliness.”

Farria saw he was determined.

“You can be sure you will always find my harbour open, even if the whole Portuguese fleet is arrayed outside.”

“Don’t use that kind of talk. Never do that, or you’ll never be able to execute your plan of revenge. I may be the one who helps you.”

The green light faded and the two slept fitfully on the bunks in the saloon.

In the morning Farria gave Mendez, who was resolved to go his own way, a bundle of papers, a box and his commander’s ceremonial sword. The ships were hauled up into the wind. Sloops sailed to and fro. All those wishing to throw in their lot with Mendez were to board the Pinta, the smallest ship, on which the black flag was now hoisted. When Farria rowed out in the afternoon, he found Mendez standing gloomily by the gangplank and the ship very sparsely manned.

The farewell gifts were put on board; they clasped hands for a long time. Then there was a shot and Mendez set sail on the Pinta.

He was never heard of again.

II

FARRIA SAILED SOUTHWARD with three ships. In the waters between the coast of Fujian and the island of Formosa, where the wind from across Asia and the ocean converge, a typhoon approached, the great wind born of the union of many, which whips up the sea, and casts it into the sky, compresses, wrings and then tears apart sea and sky, and between tissues of air and water destroys everything that comes too close to this supernatural alchemy. The Mãe de Deus was just able to signal to the others that Nanwei would be the assembly point. Then the ships were separated by banks of cloud and fog, assaulted by tornadoes and tidal waves, which battered them from all sides beneath howling rain. Lashed to a mast, Farria stood shouting orders, but no one could hear him. He saw no one, heard nothing but the occasional desperate cry, the snap of a ripped sail with the accompanying creaking sound and the splash of a loose cannon plunging into the sea. Beneath him in the pitch-black and stifling saloon lay Dona Miles, the only woman to survive Lian Po, kneeling before Nossa Senhora da Penha. Sometimes she was hurled against the statue. Did this not make her prayers even more fervent? She prayed for a night and a day. Life had receded, and prayer had taken its place. Until the gusts died down, a light shone in through a crack in the door and Farria lifted her up. They were united in a short prayer and a long embrace, as there could now be no end to the love of those who had been saved. Death had retreated before ecstasy, or before a gentle sun, shining over the foaming but bending waves into a round open porthole.

III

THE MÃE DE DEUS had lain at anchor off the bay of Nanwei for a week waiting in the lee of a narrow peninsula. Finally the Coimbra rounded the headland, with one mast still standing. The Rafael never appeared. Some believe that this ship joined Mendez.

The occupants of the wreck—the Coimbra was no more than that—requested transfer to the big Mãe de Deus, but Farria did not want to lose any more ships, and the Coimbra with its shallow draught was indispensable for coastal reconnaissance.

The bare beach was alive with brisk shipbuilding activity.

Farria himself, having climbed aloft to see if he could catch sight of the Rafael, spotted a bamboo grove on the far side. This provided yardarms and ropes.

Nanwei would have to furnish water and provisions. But it lay inaccessible in the interior, beyond a bend in the river, half town, half fleet, huts and houses on the bank, junks in the river so close together that only a thin strip of open water lay between them. Between the land and the waterborne district stood a grey palace with gold statues and curlicued spires glittering in the sun, and many-coloured banners curling down from the beams of the gate.

A delegation with some scanty gifts must go there and request help and supplies.

Farria, knowing what a prized hostage he would be, did not dare go. Alvarez went with three men from Lian Po, baptized Chinese, and a gift of cloth and wine. Farria had nothing else. In a letter he pointed to the friendship that existed between the two monarchs, far apart only because the power of each extended so far; he alluded to services rendered in the destruction of the pirates, passing in silence over the battle and fall of Lian Po. Then he asked for help.

Alvarez returned after four days, alone and without an answer. The mandarin had received the gifts coolly, had burst into a rage when he saw a stain on one of the carpets, read the letter and erupted in even greater fury, praising his Emperor as Son of Heaven, belittling Portugal’s monarch as an insignificant vassal, a tributary of the celestial one, who anyway controlled the whole world, however far westward Portugal might lie. He ordered them to leave the city and remove their ships from the coast.

The admiral listened in silence and gave orders to prepare to set sail. But not to leave the coast. That evening the Mãe de Deus and the Coimbra lay a mile downstream from Nanwei and bombarded the floating half of the city by moonlight. Soon large holes appeared and suddenly the dark mass moved upstream. The two carvelas calmly took the place of thousands of junks and set fire to the city with rockets. In various places the fire flared up and then spread at lightning speed with bangs and hisses, the blossoming of intensely joyous colours, interwoven with green, red, purple, shot through with fiery serpents, revolving suns, fading stars, fire-spewing dragons and quickly fading monstrous flowers.

The Portuguese, at first alarmed, ceased the bombardment, which had become unnecessary, and became spectators of the awesome firework display.

The officers remembered Farria’s encouragement in response to their objections:

“This is not a finely balanced battle. This is a festive firework display. The people of Nanwei will give us a glorious reception, because it’s the 1st of February.”

The fact was that Farria, thinking of everything, had used the eve of the Chinese New Year for the attack, which, once begun, continued of its own accord.

By morning Nanwei had disappeared.

The grey palace on the outer wall, scorched black, stood amid a wilderness of black ash. Lian Po had still been recognizable, Nanwei had been wiped clean like a black slate. The mandarin’s palace rose graceful and alone.

They landed: a hundred soldiers and two artillery pieces which kept the roofs and windows under rapid fire, while the crew of the Mãe de Deus opened fire on the gate. To one side Farria waited with a column ready to charge. But after one salvo the gates flew open.

A horde of armed men, howling, and limbs convulsed, charged out of the gateway at the troops who had landed. Few reached their goal; in a few minutes the river bank was strewn with bloody corpses and pig-tailed heads. Then there was silence. A mighty gong sounded within the palace. Farria knew what was coming and withdrew a little.

The gate now spewed out more and more warriors and finally, amid a host of cavalry, the mandarin appeared in a chariot, wearing many-coloured war robes and wielding a huge broadsword.

Farria gave orders for the mandarin to be spared in the charge. And in the space of a prayer it was over. Again bodies covered the ground, in the distance scattered horsemen fled and the mandarin sat in his chariot, the horses of which had been shot.

Farria approached and placed the point of his sword on his breast, but met the resistance of metal. A sombre suspicion arose in him. He ripped the robes away with his blade and encountered an obsolete breastplate.

Farria recognized it. He himself had not seen the departure of Perez, the first ambassador to Beijing. All that was known was that he had been murdered en route.

Farria ordered the Chinese to take off the sullied armour. The mandarin pointed to the circle that had formed around them and Farria, deliberately misunderstanding, motioned to four soldiers who to the sound of loud cheers made the other man crawl from his stolen carapace. Shivering, the high lieutenant stood with his naked flabby upper body exposed to the scorn of the foreign devils. Farria drove him to the river and ordered him to clean the armour from his touch, washing and scrubbing it. Then he summoned his executioner, a huge Manchu, who, his eyes bulging with delight, tortured and dispatched his distinguished victim in exemplary fashion. In addition, a new ceremony took place.

Farria raised the now gleaming breastplate aloft, and the rays of the sun gave it new lustre. He swore, “I shall build a cathedral in my new city. This armour shall be the only relic. It shall not be ousted by any saint’s bones. The cathedral will also defend the fort and city from attack and siege. The breastplate shall hang from the groined vault in the nave of the church.”

For the executioner had done his work and the body of Nanwei’s lord hung from the gate beam of his palace.

IV

FAR TO THE SOUTH, in a lonely region, although no more than two days’ journey from Canton with its millions, a small uninhabited peninsula juts into the sea. In a circle of rocks on the strip of land there stands amid the boulders a rough redwood shrine, sparingly gilded. No elegant statues or perfumed censers. In an alcove is a crude stone statue of a sea monster, whose gaping jaws snap at the peaceful face of the goddess. From the roof beams hang rough wooden junks and sampans. On the steps in front of the altar are dried fish.

It is the shrine of A Ma O, the goddess of typhoons. Only fishermen and pirates honour her.

On the furthermost tip of the peninsula there is another stone. That is all that has been built by human hands here. No one remembers which tribe gave the goddess her sanctuary and sacrificial altar. The stone actually bears the name and date of its foundation. It is a padrão, a memorial stone, like many that commemorate a first landing on the coasts of Africa and Malabar, but like no other in China. And this is not only a memorial to exploration, but a tombstone. It reads: Here landed Joaquim Ferreio with the Padre and the Tejo. AD1527.

He had a very modest aim in mind: to dry his cargo, which had become wet from the swamping seas, in the sun. Spices and textiles were spread out on the flat dry beach, next to a few tents occupied by himself and his men, while his ships were refitted.

One morning hordes of Chinese warriors surrounded the tents. And an envoy came to demand a thousand pieces of gold for the violation of their soil, which must not be trodden on by a foreigner with big eyes and long curls. Ferreio paid and left with his still half-damp cargo and hastily readied ships. He knew perfectly well that if he stayed the following day another mandarin would demand twice as much, hence wiping out the entire profit of his disastrous voyage.

He had a padrão hastily constructed, recording his stay on this bleak coast. The Chinese left it intact, fearing the spirit inhabiting the stone.

For twelve years the rough monument stood alone on the lonely spit of land.

Then again a ship was stranded there, whose only cargo was ten or so Jesuits on a mission to Beijing. They also had damage to repair, caused by their dysentery. Three of them died there and were buried around the padrão, covered by crude tombstones.

And the place was given a wide berth.

In this way there was from an early date a spot in the forbidden kingdom that belonged to Portugal, through its dead—before Farria sailed in and landed there to found the city he wished to hold and strengthen, against the Chinese and for the Portuguese.

It seemed as if he would achieve this secret aim, since the city had an impregnable location; at the narrowest point of the peninsula a small fort and three hundred men were sufficient to keep thousands in check. From the side it was protected by groups of islands and sandbanks.

He built a few forts and warehouses—churches came of their own accord.

The ships came and went in ever growing numbers: Macao lay halfway between Malacca and Japan on a protected anchorage, whereas Lian Po had been exposed to the stormy side of the Straits of Formosa. But Farria died as he was beginning to feel in a strong position, and Macao remained, even in the times of weakness and decline, almost alone: o mais leal, loyal to the King, even when there was no longer any king or any Portugal.

Neither Pinto nor Farria took revenge. And the way in which someone else later did so is nowadays seen not as revenge but as endorsement.

CHAPTER 1

I

Lisbon, August 15…

GOD KNOWS I avoided her as far as I could, but the King doesn’t know that. It might have been better if he had. Nor does he know that it was his own fault that the unforgivable happened. She is intended for the Infante, and though I loved her, my blood did not rebel at the prospect. The Infante is, like so many kings’ sons, someone whom one can meet, even be on intimate terms with, without being changed in the least by the experience. It’s as though they are state institutions, not people. She whom I call Diana could marry him, share his throne and bed, bear his children and yet remain Diana.

And what about me? We were to experience intense passions, she was to be swept from one emotion into another, and after a few years I would no longer love her, since she would no longer be the woman I now call Diana and always shall, not only not to betray her name but also because in that case I no longer need describe her to myself, or torture myself by freeing her from my heart where she lives, interwoven with the darkest secret core of my being in a helpless attempt to bring her to life in my words, which may be able to embrace worlds and seas, but not her essence.

Let me remind myself once more what her life would have been. A retreat to the desolate estate where she slowly changed into a sluggish woman, deprived of all attraction by motherhood and daily cohabitation; I on the other hand consumed by the longing for distant lands that I could not reach, and bearing my resentment against her in silence.

But who can overcome their desire with reason? Only those in whom it is like a fleeting spring wind. In me it was as scorching and constant as the trade wind. I did fight, though.

The struggle between renunciation and desire made my voice falter, my eyes wander and my attitude dither whenever I met her. She would turn away full of anger and boredom, and the eyes of the Infante and his royal father would shine with triumph.

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.

I could not sort things out in my mind. Was this a victory or a defeat? Had I achieved what I most wanted: the chance to travel to distant countries, or thrown away what I most loved? In any case I had the proof that I was feared. What joy it was to needle, provoke the hated, supercilious tyrant, till the blood in his brain burst out of its vessels here and there, destroying the tissue, damaging his mediocre intelligence even more!

I did not like Portugal, though it was the land of my birth. The country is monotonous and melancholy, and so is life there. There is no flourish or panache as in Italy and France, and my fatherland is inferior in everything save navigation. But it was still painful to see how this uncouth monarch with his coarse mind and misshapen body sucked it dry and drove it to its downfall, had everything in his power, used everything for his own profit: agriculture, industry, navigation. In gluttony and greed he was matched only by prelates and pirates.