Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE SPANISH GYPSY: BOOK 4, by MARY ANN EVANS Poet's Biography First Line: Now twice the day had sunk from off the hills Last Line: Their ignorant misery and their trust in her Alternate Author Name(s): Eliot, George; Cross, Marian Lewes; Evans, Marian; Ann, Mary Subject(s): Christianity; Gypsies; Inquisition; Man-woman Relationships; Moors (land); Religion; Spain; War; Gipsies; Male-female Relations; Theology | ||||||||
NOW twice the day had sunk from off the hills While Silva kept his watch there, with the band Of strong Zincali. When the sun was high He slept, then, waking, strained impatient eyes To catch the promise of some moving form That might be Juan, Juan who went and came To soothe two hearts, and claimed naught for his own: Friend more divine than all divinities, Quenching his human thirst in others' joy. All through the lingering nights and pale chill dawns Juan had hovered near; with delicate sense, As of some breath from every changing mood, Had spoken or kept silence; touched his lute To hint of melody, or poured brief strains That seemed to make all sorrows natural, Hardly worth weeping for, since life was short, And shared by loving souls. Such pity welled Within the minstrel's heart of light-tongued Juan For this doomed man, who with dream-shrouded eyes Had stepped into a torrent as a brook, Thinking to ford it and return at will, And now waked helpless in the eddying flood, Hemmed by its raging hurry. Once that thought, How easy wandering is, how hard and strict The homeward way, had slipped from reverie Into low-murmured song; (brief Spanish song 'Scaped him as sighs escape from other men.) Push off the boat, Quit, quit the shore, The stars will guide us back: O gathering cloud, O wide, wide sea, O waves that keep no track! On through the pines! The pillared woods, Where silence breathes sweet breath: O labyrinth, O sunless gloom, The other side of death! Such plaintive song had seemed to please the Duke, Had seemed to melt all voices of reproach To sympathetic sadness; but his moods Had grown more fitful with the growing hours, And this soft murmur had the iterant voice Of heartless Echo, whom no pain can move To say aught else than we have said to her. He spoke, impatient: "Juan, cease thy song. Our whimpering poesy and small-paced tunes Have no more utterance than the cricket's chirp For souls that carry heaven and hell within." Then Juan, lightly: "True, my lord, I chirp For lack of soul; some hungry poets chirp For lack of bread. 'T were wiser to sit down And count the star-seed, till I fell asleep With the cheap wine of pure stupidity." And Silva, checked by courtesy: "Nay, Juan, Were speech once good, thy song were best of speech. I meant, all life is but poor mockery: Action, place, power, the visible wide world Are tattered masquerading of this self, This pulse of conscious mystery: all change, Whether to high or low, is change of rags. But for her love, I would not take a good Save to burn out in battle, in a flame Of madness that would feel no mangled limbs, And die not knowing death, but passing straight Well, well, to other flames in purgatory." Keen Juan's ear caught the self-discontent That vibrated beneath the changing tones Of life-contemning scorn. Gently he said: "But with her love, my lord, the world deserves A higher rate; were it but masquerade, The rags were surely worth the wearing?" "Yes. No misery shall force me to repent That I have loved her." So with wilful talk, Fencing the wounded soul from beating winds Of truth that came unasked, companionship Made the hours lighter. And the Gypsy guard, Trusting familiar Juan, were content, At friendly hint from him, to still their songs And busy jargon round the nightly fires. Such sounds the quick-conceiving poet knew Would strike on Silva's agitated soul Like mocking repetition of the oath That bound him in strange clanship with the tribe Of human panthers, flame-eyed, lithe-limbed, fierce, Unrecking of time-woven subtleties And high tribunals of a phantom-world. But the third day, though Silva southward gazed Till all the shadows slanted towards him, gazed Till all the shadows died, no Juan came. Now in his stead came loneliness, and thought Inexorable, fastening with firm chain What is to what hath been. Now awful Night, Ancestral mystery of mysteries, came down Past all the generations of the stars, And visited his soul with touch more close Than when he kept that younger, briefer watch Under the church's roof beside his arms, And won his knighthood. Well, this solitude, This company with the enduring universe, Whose mighty silence carrying all the past Absorbs our history as with a breath, Should give him more assurance, make him strong In all contempt of that poor circumstance Called human life, customs and bonds and laws Wherewith men make a better or a worse, Like children playing on a barren mound Feigning a thing to strive for or avoid. Thus Silva urged, answering his many-voiced self, Whose hungry needs, like petulant multitudes, Lured from the home that nurtured them to strength, Made loud insurgence. Thus he called on Thought, On dexterous Thought, with its swift alchemy To change all forms, dissolve all prejudice Of man's long heritage, and yield him up A crude fused world to fashion as he would. Thought played him double; seemed to wear the yoke Of sovereign passion in the noonday height Of passion's prevalence; but served anon As tribune to the larger soul which brought Loud-mingled cries from every human need That ages had instructed into life. He could not grasp Night's black blank mystery And wear it for a spiritual garb Creed-proof: he shuddered at its passionless touch On solitary souls, the universe Looks down inhospitablé; the human heart Finds nowhere shelter but in human kind. He yearned towards images that had breath in them, That sprang warm palpitant with memories From streets and altars, from ancestral homes, Banners and trophies and the cherishing rays Of shame and honor in the eyes of man.These made the speech articulate of his soul, That could not move to utterance of scorn Save in words bred by fellowship; could not feel Resolve of hardest constancy to love, The firmer for the sorrows of the loved, Save by concurrent energies high-wrought To sensibilities transcending sense Through closest citizenship, and long-shared pains Of far-off laboring ancestors. In vain He sought the outlaw's strength, and made a right Contemning that hereditary right Which held dim habitations in his frame, Mysterious haunts of echoes old and far, The voice divine of human loyalty. At home, among his people, he had played In sceptic ease with saints and images And thunders of the Church that deadened fell Through screens of priests plethoric. Awe, unscathed By deeper trespass, slept without a dream. But for such trespass as made outcasts, still The ancient Furies lived with faces new And lurked with lighter slumber than of old O'er Catholic Spain, the land of sacred oaths That might be broken. Now the former life Of close-linked fellowship, the life that made His full-formed self, as the impregnant sap Of years successive frames the full-branched tree, Was present in one whole; and that great trust His deed had broken turned reproach on him From faces of all witnesses who heard His uttered pledges; saw him hold high place Centring reliance; use rich privilege That bound him like a victim-nourished god By tacit covenant to shield and bless; Assume the Cross and take his knightly oath Mature, deliberate: faces human all, And some divine as well as human: His Who hung supreme, the suffering Man divine Above the altar; Hers, the Mother pure Whose glance informed his masculine tenderness With deepest reverence; the Archangel armed, Trampling man's enemy: all heroic forms That fill the world of faith with voices, hearts, And high companionship, to Silva now Made but one inward and insistent world With faces of his peers, with court and hall And deference, and reverent vassalage And filial pieties, one current strong, The warmly mingled life-blood of his mind, Sustaining him even when he idly played With rules, beliefs, charges, and ceremonies As arbitrary fooling. Such revenge Is wrought by the long travail of mankind On him who scorns it, and would shape his life Without obedience. But his warrior's pride Would take no wounds save on the breast. He faced The fatal crowd: "I never shall repent! If I have sinned my sin was made for me By men's perverseness. There's no blameless life Save for the passionless, no sanctities But have the selfsame roof and props with crime, Or have their roots close interlaced with vileness. If I had loved her less, been more a craven, I had kept my place and won the easy praise Of a true Spanish noble. But I loved, And, loving, dared, not Death the warrior But Infamy that binds and strips and holds The brand and lash. I have dared all for her. She was my good, what other men call heaven And for the sake of it bear penances; Nay, some of old were baited, tortured, flayed To win their heaven. Heaven was their good, She, mine. and I have braved for her all fires Certain or threatened; for I go away Beyond the reach of expiation, far away From sacramental blessing. Does God bless No outlaw? Shut his absolution fast In human breath? Is there no God for me Save Him whose cross I have forsaken? Well, I am forever exiled, but with her. She is dragged out into the wilderness; I, with my love, will be her providence. I have a right to choose my good or ill, A right to damn myself! The ill is mine. I never will repent!" . . . . Thus Silva, inwardly debating, all his ear Turned into audience of a twofold mind; For even in tumult full-fraught consciousness Had plenteous being for a Self aloof That gazed and listened, like a soul in dreams Weaving the wondrous tale it marvels at. But oft the conflict slackened, oft strong Love With tidal energy returning laid All other restlessness: Fedalma came And with her visionary presence brought What seemed a waking in the warm spring morn. He still was pacing on the stony earth Under the deepening night; the fresh-lit fires Were flickering on dark forms and eyes that met His forward and his backward tread; but she, She was within him, making his whole self Mere correspondence with her image: sense, In all its deep recesses where it keeps The mystic stores of ecstasy, was transformed To memory that killed the hour, like wine. Then Silva said: "She, by herself, is life. What was my joy before I loved her, what Shall Heaven lure us with, love being lost?" For he was young. But now around the fires The Gypsy band felt freer; Juan's song Was no more there, nor Juan's friendly ways For links of amity 'twixt their wild mood And this strange brother, this pale Spanish duke, Who with their Gypsy badge upon his breast Took readier place within their alien hearts As a marked captive, who would fain escape. And Nadar, who commanded them, had known The prison in Bedmár. So now, in talk Foreign to Spanish ears, they said their minds, Discussed their chief's intent, the lot marked out For this new brother. Would he wed their queen? And some denied, saying their queen would wed A true Zincalo duke, one who would join Their bands in Telemsán. But others thought Young Hassan was to wed her; said their chief Would never trust this noble of Castile, Who in his very swearing was forsworn. And then one fell to chanting, in wild notes Recurrent like the moan of outshut winds, The adjuration they were wont to use To any Spaniard who would join their tribe: Words of plain Spanish, lately stirred anew And ready at new impulse. Soon the rest, Drawn to the stream of sound, made unison Higher and lower, till the tidal sweep Seemed to assail the Duke and close him round With force demonic. All debate till now Had wrestled with the urgence of that oath Already broken; now the newer oath Thrust its loud presence on him. He stood still, Close baited by loud-barking thoughts, fierce hounds Of that Supreme, the irreversible Past. The ZINCALI sing. Brother, hear and take the curse, Curse of soul's and body's throes, If you hate not all our foes, Cling not fast to all our woes, Turn a false Zincalo! May you be accurst By hunger and by thirst, By spikéd pangs, Starvation's fangs Clutching you alone When none but peering vultures hear your moan. Curst by burning hands, Curst by aching brow, When on sea-wide sands Fever lays you low; By the maddened brain When the running water glistens, And the deaf ear listens, listens, Prisoned fire within the vein, On the tongue and on the lip Not a sip From the earth or skies; Hot the desert lies Pressed into your anguish, Narrowing earth and narrowing sky Into lonely misery. Lonely may you languish Through the day and through the night, Hate the darkness, hate the light, Pray and find no ear, Feel no brother near, Till on death you cry, Death who passes by, And anew you groan, Scaring the vultures all to leave you living lone: Curst by soul's and body's throes If you love the dark men's foes, Cling not fast to all the dark men's woes, Turn a false Zincalo! Swear to hate the cruel cross, The silver cross! Glittering, laughing at the blood Shed below it in a flood When it glitters over Moorish porches; Laughing at the scent of flesh When it glitters where the fagot scorches, Burning life's mysterious mesh: Blood of wandering Israël, Blood of wandering Ismaël, Blood, the drink of Christian scorn, Blood of wanderers, sons of morn Where the life of men began: Swear to hate the cross! Sign of all the wanderers' foes, Sign of all the wanderers' woes, Else its curse light on you! Else the curse upon you light Of its sharp red-sworded might. May it lie a blood-red blight On all things within your sight: On the white haze of the morn, On the meadows and the corn, On the sun and on the moon, On the clearness of the noon, On the darkness of the night. May it fill your aching sight, Red-cross sword and sword blood-red, Till it press upon your head, Till it lie within your brain, Piercing sharp, a cross of pain, Till it lie upon your heart, Burning hot, a cross of fire, Till from sense in every part Pains have clustered like a stinging swarm In the cross's form, And you see naught but the cross of blood, And you feel naught but the cross of fire: Curst by all the cross's throes If you hate not all our foes, Cling not fast to all our woes, Turn a false Zincalo! A fierce delight was in the Gypsies' chant: They thought no more of Silva, only felt Like those broad-chested rovers of the night Who pour exuberant strength upon the air. To him it seemed as if the hellish rhythm, Revolving in long curves that slackened now, Now hurried, sweeping round again to slackness, Would cease no more. What use to raise his voice, Or grasp his weapon? He was powerless now, With these new comrades of his future, he Who had been wont to have his wishes feared And guessed at as a hidden law for men. Even the passive silence of the night That left these howlers mastery, even the moon, Rising and staring with a helpless face, Angered him. He was ready now to fly At some loud throat, and give the signal so For butchery of himself. But suddenly The sounds that travelled towards no foreseen close Were torn right off and fringed into the night; Sharp Gypsy ears had caught the onward strain Of kindred voices joining in the chant. All started to their feet and mustered close, Auguring long-waited summons. It was come: The summons to set forth and join their chief. Fedalma had been called, and she was gone Under safe escort, Juan following her: The camp the women, children, and old men Were moving slowly southward on the way To Almería. Silva learned no more. He marched perforce; what other goal was his Than where Fedalma was? And so he marched Through the dim passes and o'er rising hills, Not knowing whither, till the morning came. The Moorish hall in the castle at Bedmár. The morning twilight dimly shows stains of blood on the white marble floor; yet there has been a careful restoration of order among the sparse objects of furniture. Stretched on mats lie three corpses, the faces bare, the bodies covered with mantles. A little way off, with rolled matting for a pillow, lies ZARCA, sleeping. His chest and arms are bare; his weapons, turban, mail-shirt, and other upper garments lie on the floor beside him. In the outer gallery Zincali are pacing, at intervals, past the arched openings. ZARCA (half rising and resting his elbow on the pillow while he looks round). The morning! I have slept for full three hours; Slept without dreams, save of my daughter's face. Its sadness waked me. Soon she will be here, Soon must outlive the worst of all the pains Bred by false nurture in an alien home, As if a lion in fangless infancy Learned love of creatures that with fatal growth It scents as natural prey, and grasps and tears, Yet with heart-hunger yearns for, missing them. She is a lioness. And they the race That robbed me of her reared her to this pain. He will be crushed and torn. There was no help. But she, my child, will bear it. For strong souls Live like fire-hearted suns to spend their strength In furthest striving action; breathe more free In mighty anguish than in trivial ease. Her sad face waked me. I shall meet it soon Waking . . . . (He rises and stands looking at the corpses.) As now I look on these pale dead, These blossoming branches crushed beneath the fall Of that broad trunk to which I laid my axe With fullest foresight. So will I ever face In thought beforehand to its utmost reach The consequences of my conscious deeds; So face them after, bring them to my bed, And never drug my soul to sleep with lies. If they are cruel, they shall be arraigned By that true name; they shall be justified By my high purpose, by the clear-seen good That grew into my vision as I grew, And makes my nature's function, the full pulse Of my Zincalo soul. The Catholics, Arabs, and Hebrews have their god apiece To fight and conquer for them, or be bruised Like Allah, and yet keep avenging stores Of patient wrath. Zincali have no god Who speaks to them and calls them his, unless I Zarca carry living in my frame The power divine that chooses them and saves. Life and more life unto the chosen, death To all things living that would stifle them! So speaks each god that makes a nation strong; Burns trees and brutes and slays all hindering men. The Spaniards boast their god the strongest now; They win most towns by treachery, make most slaves, Burn the most vines and men, and rob the most. I fight against that strength, and in my turn Slay these brave young who duteously strove. Cruel? ay, it is cruel. But, how else? To save, we kill; each blow we strike at guilt Hurts innocence with its shock. Men might well seek For purifying rites; even pious deeds Need washing. But my cleansing waters flow Solely from my intent. (He turns away from the bodies to where his garments lie, but does not lift them.) And she must suffer! But she has looked on the unchangeable and bowed Her head beneath the yoke. And she will walk No more in chilling twilight, for to-day Rises our sun. The difficult night is past; We keep the bridge no more, but cross it; march Forth to a land where all our wars shall be With greedy obstinate plants that will not yield Fruit for their nurture. All our race shall come From north, west, east, a kindred multitude, And make large fellowship, and raise inspired The shout divine, the unison of resolve. So I, so she, will see our race redeemed. And their keen love of family and tribe Shall no more thrive on cunning, hide and lurk In petty arts of abject hunted life, But grow heroic in the sanctioning light, And feed with ardent blood a nation's heart. That is my work: and it is well begun. On to achievement! (He takes up the mail-shirt, and looks at it, there throws it down again.) No, I 'll none of you! To-day there'll be no fighting. A few hours, And I shall doff these garments of the Moor: Till then I will walk lightly and breathe high. SEPHARDO (appearing at the archway leading into the outer gallery). You bade me wake you . . . . ZARCA. Welcome, Doctor; see, With that small task I did but beckon you To graver work. You know these corpses? SEPHARDO. Yes. I would they were not corpses. Storms will lay The fairest trees and leave the withered stumps. This Alvar and the Duke were of one age, And very loving friends. I minded not The sight of Don Diego's corpse, for death Gave him some gentleness, and had he lived I had still hated him. But this young Alvar Was doubly noble, as a gem that holds Rare virtues in its lustre, and his death Will pierce Don Silva with a poisoned dart. This fair and curly youth was Arias,A son of the Pachecos; this dark face ZARCA. Enough! you know their names. I had divined That they were near the Duke, most like had served My daughter, were her friends. So rescued them From being flung upon the heap of slain. Beseech you, Doctor, if you owe me aught As having served your people, take the pains To see these bodies buried decently. And let their names be writ above their graves, As those of brave young Spaniards who died well. I needs must bear this womanhood in my heart, Bearing my daughter there. For once she prayed, 'T was at our parting, "When you see fair hair Be pitiful." And I am forced to look On fair heads living and be pitiless. Your service, Doctor, will be done to her. SEPHARDO. A service doubly dear. For these young dead, And one less happy Spaniard who still lives, Are offerings which I wrenched from out my heart, Constrained by cries of Israel: while my hands Rendered the victims at command, my eyes Closed themselves vainly, as if vision lay Through those poor loopholes only. I will go And see the graves dug by some cypresses. ZARCA. Meanwhile the bodies shall rest here. Farewell. (Exit SEPHARDO.) Nay, 't is no mockery. She keeps me so From hardening with the hardness of my acts. This Spaniard shrouded in her love, I would He lay here too that I might pity him. Morning. The Plaça Santiago in Bedmár. A crowd of townsmen forming an outer circle: within, Zincali and Moorish soldiers drawn up round the central space. On the higher ground in front of the church a stake with fagots heaped, and at a little distance a gibbet. Moorish music. ZARCA enters, wearing his gold necklace with the Gypsy badge of the flaming torch over the dress of a Moorish captain, accompanied by a small band of armed Zincali, who fall aside and range themselves with the other soldiers while he takes his stand in front of the stake and gibbet. The music ceases, and there is expectant silence. ZARCA. Men of Bedmár, well-wishers, and allies, Whether of Moorish or of Hebrew blood, Who, being galled by the hard Spaniard's yoke, Have welcomed our quick conquest as release, I, Zarca, the Zincalo chieftain, hold By delegation of the Moorish King Supreme command within this town and fort. Nor will I, with false show of modesty, Profess myself unworthy of this post, For so I should but tax the giver's choice. And, as ye know, while I was prisoner here, Forging the bullets meant for Moorish hearts, But likely now to reach another mark, I learned the secrets of the town's defence, Caught the loud whispers of your discontent, And so could serve the purpose of the Moor As the edge's keenness serves the weapon's weight And my Zincali, lynx-eyed, lithe of limb, Tracked out the high Sierra's hidden path, Guided the hard ascent, and were the first To scale the walls and brave the showering stones. In brief, I reached this rank through service done By thought of mine and valor of my tribe, Yet hold it but in trust, with readiness To lay it down; for I and my Zincali Will never pitch our tents again on land The Spaniard grudges us: we seek a home Where we may spread and ripen like the corn By blessing of the sun and spacious earth. Ye wish us well, I think, and are our friends? CROWD. Long life to Zarca and his strong Zincali! ZARCA.Now, for the cause of our assembling here. 'T was my command that rescued from your hands That Spanish Prior and Inquisitor Whom in fierce retribution you had bound And meant to burn, tied to a planted cross. I rescued him with promise that his death Should be more signal in its justice, made Public in fullest sense, and orderly. Here, then, you see the stake, slow death by fire; And there a gibbet, swift death by the cord. Now hear me, Moors and Hebrews of Bedmár, Our kindred by the warmth of Eastern blood! Punishing cruel wrong by cruelty We copy Christian crime. Vengeance is just: Justly we rid the earth of human fiends Who carry hell for pattern in their souls. But in high vengeance there is noble scorn: It tortures not the torturer, nor gives Iniquitous payment for iniquity. The great avenging angel does not crawl To kill the serpent with a mimic fang; He stands erect, with sword of keenest edge That slays like lightning. So too we will slay The cruel man; slay him because he works Woe to mankind. And I have given command To pile these fagots, not to burn quick flesh, But for a sign of that dire wrong to men Which arms our wrath with justice. While, to show This Christian worshipper that we obey A better law than his, he shall be led Straight to the gibbet and to swiftest death. For I, the chief of the Zincali, will, My people shed no blood but what is shed In heat of battle or in judgment strict With calm deliberation on the right. Such is my will, and if it please you, well. CROWD. It pleases us. Long life to Zarca! ZARCA. Hark! The bell is striking, and they bring even now The prisoner from the fort. What, Nadar? NADAR (has appeared, cutting the crowd, and advano ing toward ZARCA till he is near enough to speak in an undertone). Chief, I have obeyed your word, have followed it As water does the furrow in the rock. ZARCA. Your band is here? NADAR. Yes, and the Spaniard too. ZARCA. 'T was so I ordered. NADAR. Ay, but this sleek hound, Who slipped his collar off to join the wolves, Has still a heart for none but kennelled brutes. He rages at the taking of the town. Says all his friends are butchered; and one corpse He stumbled on, well, I would sooner be A dead Zincalo's dog, and howl for him, Than be this Spaniard. Rage has made him whiter. One townsman taunted him with his escape, And thanked him for so favoring us. . . . . ZARCA. Enough! You gave him my command that he should wait Within the castle, till I saw him? NADAR. Yes. But he defied me, broke away, ran loose I know not whither; he may soon be here.I came to warn you, lest he work us harm. ZARCA. Fear not, I know the road I travel by: Its turns are no surprises. He who rules Must humor full as much as he commands; Must let men vow impossibilities; Grant folly's prayers that hinder folly's wish And serve the ends of wisdom. Ah, he comes! [Sweeping like some pale herald from the dead, Whose shadow-nurtured eyes, dazed by full light, See naught without, but give reverted sense To the soul's imagery, Silva came, The wondering people parting wide to get Continuous sight of him as he passed on, This high hidalgo, who through blooming years Had shone on men with planetary calm, Believed in with all sacred images And saints that must be taken as they were, Though rendering meagre service for men's praise, Bareheaded now, carrying an unsheathed sword, And on his breast, where late he bore the cross, Wearing the Gypsy badge, his form aslant, Driven, it seemed, by some invisible chase, Right to the front of Zarca. There he paused.] DON SILVA. Chief, you are treacherous, cruel, devilish, Relentless as a curse that once let loose From lips of wrath, lives bodiless to destroy, And darkly traps a man in nets of guilt Which could not weave themselves in open day Before his eyes. Oh, it was bitter wrong To hold this knowledge locked within your mind, To stand with waking eyes in broadest light, And see me, dreaming, shed my kindred's blood. 'T is horrible that men with hearts and hands Should smile in silence like the firmament And see a fellow-mortal draw a lot On which themselves have written agony! Such injury has no redress, no healing Save what may lie in stemming further ill. Poor balm for maiming! Yet I come to claim it. ZARCA. First prove your wrongs, and I will hear your claim. Mind, you are not commander of Bedmár, Nor duke, nor knight, nor anything for me, Save one Zincalo, one of my subject tribe, Over whose deeds my will is absolute. You chose that lot, and would have railed at me Had I refused it you: I warned you first What oaths you had to take . . . . DON SILVA. You never warned me That you had linked yourself with Moorish men To take this town and fortress of Bedmár, Slay my near kinsmen, him who held my place, Our house's heir and guardian, slay my friend, My chosen brother, desecrate the church Where once my mother held me in her arms, Making the holy chrism holier With tears of joy that fell upon my brow! You never warned . . . . ZARCA. I warned you of your oath. You shrank not, were resolved, were sure your place Would never miss you, and you had your will. I am no priest, and keep no consciences: I keep my own place and my own command. DON SILVA. I said my place would never miss me yes! A thousand Spaniards died on that same day And were not missed; their garments clothed the backs That else were bare . . . . ZARCA. But you were just the one Above the thousand, had you known the die That fate was throwing then. DON SILVA. You knew it, you! With fiendish knowledge, smiling at the end. You knew what snares had made my flying steps Murderous; you let me lock my soul with oaths Which your acts made a hellish sacrament. I say, you knew this as a fiend would know it, And let me damn myself. ZARCA. The deed was done Before you took your oath, or reached our camp, Done when you slipped in secret from the post 'T was yours to keep, and not to meditate If others might not fill it. For your oath, What man is he who brandishes a sword In darkness, kills his friends, and rages then Against the night that kept him ignorant? Should I, for one unstable Spaniard, quit My steadfast ends as father and as chief; Renounce my daughter and my people's hope, Lest a deserter should be made ashamed? DON SILVA. Your daughter, O great God! I vent but madness. The past will never change. I come to stem Harm that may yet be hindered. Chief this stake Tell me who is to die! Are you not bound Yourself to him you took in fellowship? The town is yours; let me but save the blood That still is warm in men who were my . . . . ZARCA. Peace! They bring the prisoner. [Zarca waved his arm With head averse, in peremptory sign That 'twixt them now there should be space and silence. Most eyes had turned to where the prisoner Advanced among his guards; and Silva too Turned eagerly, all other striving quelled By striving with the dread lest he should see His thought outside him. And he saw it there. The prisoner was Father Isidor: The man whom once he fiercely had accused As author of his misdeeds, whose designs Had forced him into fatal secrecy. The imperious and inexorable Will Was yoked, and he who had been pitiless To Silva's love, was led to pitiless death. O hateful victory of blind wishes, prayers Which hell had overheard and swift fulfilled! The triumph was a torture, turning all The strength of passion into strength of pain. Remorse was born within him, that dire birth Which robs all else of nurture, cancerous, Forcing each pulse to feed its anguish, changing All sweetest residues of a healthy life To fibrous clutches of slow misery. Silva had but rebelled, he was not free; And all the subtle cords that bound his soul Were tightened by the strain of one rash leap Made in defiance. He accused no more, But dumbly shrank before accusing throngs Of thoughts, the impetuous recurrent rush Of all his past-created, unchanged self. The Father came bareheaded, frocked, a rope Around his neck, but clad with majesty, The strength of resolute undivided souls Who, owning law, obey it. In his hand He bore a crucifix, and praying, gazed Solely on that white image. But his guards Parted in front, and paused as they approached The centre, where the stake was. Isidor Lifted his eyes to look around him, calm, Prepared to speak last words of willingness To meet his death, last words of faith unchanged, That, working for Christ's kingdom, he had wrought Righteously. But his glance met Silva's eyes And drew him. Even images of stone Look living with reproach on him who maims, Profanes, defiles them. Silva penitent Moved forward, would have knelt before the man Who still was one with all the sacred things That came back on him in their sacredness, Kindred, and oaths, and awe, and mystery. But, at the sight, the Father thrust the cross With deprecating act before him, and his face Pale-quivering, flashed out horror like white light Flashed from the angel's sword that dooming drave The sinner to the wilderness. He spoke.] FATHER ISIDOR. Back from me, traitorous and accursed man! Defile not me, who grasp the holiest, With touch or breath! Thou foulest murderer! Fouler than Cain who struck his brother down In jealous rage, thou for thy base delight Hast oped the gate for wolves to come and tear Uncounted brethren, weak and strong alike, The helpless priest, the warrior all unarmed Against a faithless leader: on thy head Will rest the sacrilege, on thy soul the blood. These blind Zincali, misbelievers, Moors, Are but as Pilate and his soldiery; Thou, Judas, weighted with that heaviest crime Which deepens hell! I warned your of this end. A traitorous leader, false to God and man, A knight apostate, you shall soon behold Above your people's blood the light of flames Kindled by you to burn me, burn the flesh Twin with your father's. O most wretched man! Whose memory shall be of broken oaths, Broken for lust, I turn away mine eyes Forever from you. See, the stake is ready: And I am ready too. DON SILVA. It shall not be! (Raising his sword he rushes in front of the guards who are advancing, and impedes them.) If you are human, Chief, hear my demand! Stretch not my soul upon the endless rack Of this man's torture! ZARCA. Stand aside, my lord! Put up your sword. You vowed obedience To me, your chief. It was your latest vow. DON SILVA. No! hew me from the spot, or fasten me Amid the fagots too, if he must burn. ZARCA. What should befall that persecuting monk Was fixed before you came: no cruelty, No nicely measured torture, weight for weight Of injury, no luscious-toothed revenge That justifies the injurer by its joy: I seek but rescue and security For harmless men, and such security Means death to vipers and inquisitors. These fagots shall but innocently blaze In sign of gladness, when this man is dead, That one more torturer has left the earth. 'T is not for infidels to burn live men And ape the rules of Christian piety. This hard oppressor shall not die by fire: He mounts the gibbet, dies a speedy death, That, like a transfixed dragon, he may cease To vex mankind. Quick, guards, and clear the path! [As well-trained hounds that hold their fleetness tense In watchful, loving fixity of dark eyes, And move with movement of their master's will, The Gypsies with a wavelike swiftness met Around the Father, and in wheeling course Passed beyond Silva to the gibbet's foot, Behind their chieftain. Sudden left alone With weapon bare, the multitude aloof, Silva was mazed in doubtful consciousness, As one who slumbering in the day awakes From striving into freedom, and yet feels His sense half captive to intangible things; Then with a flush of new decision sheathed His futile naked weapon, and strode quick To Zarca, speaking with a voice new-toned, The struggling soul's hoarse, suffocated cry Beneath the grappling anguish of despair.] DON SILVA. Zincalo, devil, blackest infidel! You cannot hate that man as you hate me! Finish your torture, take me, lift me up And let the crowd spit at me, every Moor Shoot reeds at me, and kill me with slow death Beneath the midday fervor of the sun, Or crucify me with a thieving hound, Slake your hate so, and I will thank it: spare me Only this man! ZARCA. Madman, I hate you not. But if I did, my hate were poorly served By my device, if I should strive to mix A bitterer misery for you than to taste With leisure of a soul in unharmed limbs The flavor of your folly. For my course, It has a goal, and takes no truant path Because of you. I am your Chief: to me You are but a Zincalo in revolt. DON SILVA. No, I am no Zincalo! I disown The name I took in madness. Here I tear This badge away. I am a Catholic knight, A Spaniard who will die a Spaniard's death! [Hark! while he casts the badge upon the ground And tramples on it, Silva hears a shout: Was it a shout that threatened him? He looked From out the dizzying flames of his own rage In hope of adversaries, and he saw above The form of Father Isidor upswung Convulsed with martyr throes; and knew the shout For wonted exultation of the crowd When malefactors die, or saints, or heroes. And now to him that white-frocked murdered form Which hanging judged him as its murderer, Turned to a symbol of his guilt, and stirred Tremors till then unwaked. With sudden snatch At something hidden in his breast, he strode Right upon Zarca: at the instant, down Fell the great Chief, and Silva, staggering back, Heard not the shriek of the Zincali, felt Not their fierce grasp, heard, felt but Zarca's words Which seemed his soul outleaping in a cry And urging men to run like rival waves Whose rivalry is but obedience. ZARCA (as he falls). My daughter! call her! Call my daughter! NADAR (supporting ZARCA and crying to the Gypsies who have clutched SILVA). Stay! Tear not the Spaniard, tie him to the stake: Hear what the Chief shall bid us, there is time! [Swiftly they tied him, pleasing vengeance so With promise that would leave them free to watch Their stricken good, their Chief stretched helplessly Pillowed upon the strength of loving limbs. He heaved low groans, but would not spend his breath In useless words: he waited till she came, Keeping his life within the citadel Of one great hope. And now around him closed (But in wide circle, checked by loving fear) His people all, holding their wails suppressed Lest death believed-in should be over-bold: All life hung on their Chief, he would not die; His image gone, there were no wholeness left To make a world of for Zincali's thought. Eager they stood, but hushed; the outer crowd Spoke only in low murmurs, and some climbed And clung with legs and arms on perilous coigns, Striving to see where that colossal life Lay panting, lay a Titan struggling still To hold and give the precious hidden fire Before the stronger grappled him. Above The young bright morning cast athwart white walls Her shadows blue, and with their clear-cut line, Mildly inexorable as the dial-hand's Measured the shrinking future of an hour Which held a shrinking hope. And all the while The silent beat of time in each man's soul Made aching pulses. But the cry, "She comes!" Parted the crowd like waters: and she came. Swiftly as once before, inspired with joy, She flashed across the space and made new light, Glowing upon the glow of evening, So swiftly now she came, inspired with woe, Strong with the strength of all her father's pain, Thrilling her as with fire of rage divine And battling energy. She knew, saw all: The stake with Silva bound, her father pierced, To this she had been born: the second time Her father called her to the task of life. She knelt beside him. Then he raised himself, And on her face there flashed from his the light As of a star that waned and flames anew In mighty dissolution: 't was the flame Of a surviving trust, in agony. He spoke the parting prayer that was command, Must sway her will, and reign invisibly.] ZARCA. My daughter, you have promised, you will live To save our people. In my garments here I carry written pledges from the Moor: He will keep faith in Spain and Africa. Your weakness may be stronger than my strength, Winning more love. I cannot tell the end. I held my people's good within my breast. Behold, now I deliver it to you. See, it still breathes unstrangled, if it dies, Let not your failing will be murderer. Rise, And tell our people now I wait in pain, I cannot die until I hear them say They will obey you. [Meek, she pressed her lips With slow solemnity upon his brow, Sealing her pledges. Firmly then she rose, And met her people's eyes with kindred gaze, Dark-flashing, fired by effort strenuous Trampling on pain.] FEDALMA. Zincali all, who hear! Your Chief is dying: I his daughter live To do his dying will. He asks you now To promise me obedience as your Queen, That we may seek the land he won for us, And live the better life for which he toiled. Speak now, and fill my father's dying ear With promise that you will obey him dead, Obeying me his child. [Straightway arose A shout of promise, sharpening into cries That seemed to plead despairingly with death.] THE ZINCALI. We will obey! Our Chief shall never die! We will obey him, will obey our Queen! [The shout unanimous, the concurrent rush Of many voices, quiring shook the air With multitudinous wave: now rose, now fell, Then rose again, the echoes following slow, As if the scattered brethren of the tribe Had caught afar and joined the ready vow. Then some could hold no longer, but must rush To kiss his dying feet, and some to kiss The hem of their Queen's garment. But she raised Her hand to hush them. "Hark! your Chief may speak Another wish." Quickly she kneeled again, While they upon the ground kept motionless, With head outstretched. They heard his words; for now, Grasping at Nadar's arm, he spoke more loud, As one who, having fought and conquered, hurls His strength away with hurling off his shield.] ZARCA. Let loose the Spaniard! give him back his sword; He cannot move to any vengeance more, His soul is locked 'twixt two opposing crimes. I charge you let him go unharmed and free Now through your midst. . . . . [With that he sank again, His breast heaved strongly tow'rd sharp sudden falls, And all his life seemed needed for each breath: Yet once he spoke.] My daughter, lay your arm Beneath my head, so, bend and breathe on me. I cannot see you more, the Night is come. Be strong, remember, I can only die. [His voice went into silence, but his breast Heaved long and moaned: its broad strength kept a life That heard naught, saw naught, save what once had been, And what might be in days and realms afar, Which now in pale procession faded on Toward the thick darkness. And she bent above In sacramental watch to see great Death, Companion of her future, who would wear Forever in her eyes her father's form. And yet she knew that hurrying feet had gone To do the Chief's behest, and in her soul He who was once its lord was being jarred With loosening of cords, that would not loose The tightening torture of his anguish. This, Oh she knew it! knew it as martyrs knew The prongs that tore their flesh, while yet their tongues Refused the ease of lies. In moments high Space widens in the soul. And so she knelt, Clinging with piety and awed resolve Beside this altar of her father's life, Seeing long travel under solemn suns Stretching beyond it; never turned her eyes, Yet felt that Silva passed; beheld his face Pale, vivid, all alone, imploring her Across black waters fathomless. And he passed. The Gypsies made wide pathway, shrank aloof As those who fear to touch the thing they hate, Lest hate triumphant, mastering all the limbs, Should tear, bite, crush, in spite of hindering will Slowly he walked, reluctant to be safe And bear dishonored life which none assailed; Walked hesitatingly, all his frame instinct With high-born spirit, never used to dread Or crouch for smiles, yet stung, yet quivering With helpless strength, and in his soul convulsed By visions where pale horror held a lamp Over wide-reaching crime. Silence hung round: It seemed the Plaça hushed itself to hear His footsteps and the Chief's deep dying breath. Eyes quickened in the stillness, and the light Seemed one clear gaze upon his misery. And yet he could not pass her without pause: One instant he must pause and look at her; But with that glance at her averted head, New-urged by pain he turned away and went, Carrying forever with him what he fled, Her murdered love, her love, a dear wronged ghost, Facing him, beauteous, 'mid the throngs of hell. O fallen and forsaken! were no hearts Amid that crowd, mindful of what had been? Hearts such as wait on beggared royalty, Or silent watch by sinners who despair? Silva had vanished. That dismissed revenge Made larger room for sorrow in fierce hearts; And sorrow filled them. For the Chief was dead. The mighty breast subsided slow to calm, Slow from the face the ethereal spirit waned, As wanes the parting glory from the heights, And leaves them in their pallid majesty. Fedalma kissed the marble lips, and said, "He breathes no more." And then a long loud wail Poured out upon the morning, made her light Ghastly as smiles on some fair maniac's face Smiling unconscious o'er her bridegroom's corse. The wailing men in eager press closed round, And made a shadowing pall beneath the sun. They lifted reverent the prostrate strength, Sceptred anew by death. Fedalma walked Tearless, erect, following the dead, her cries Deep smothering in her breast, as one who guides Her children through the wilds, and sees and knows Of danger more than they, and feels more pangs, Yet shrinks not, groans not, bearing in her heart Their ignorant misery and their trust in her | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MYSTIC BOUNCE by TERRANCE HAYES MATHEMATICS CONSIDERED AS A VICE by ANTHONY HECHT UNHOLY SONNET 11 by MARK JARMAN SHINE, PERISHING REPUBLIC by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE COMING OF THE PLAGUE by WELDON KEES A LITHUANIAN ELEGY by ROBERT KELLY BROTHER AND SISTER by MARY ANN EVANS |
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