Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (647 page)

Fit to subdue rebellious nations, nay,

That human flesh he breathes in, charged with passion

Which quivers in his nostril and his lip,

But disciplined by long in-dwelling will

To silent labor in the yoke of law.

A truce to thy comparisons, Lorenzo !

Thine is no subtle nose for difference;

‘T is dulled by feigning and civility.

HOST.

Pooh, thou’rt a poet, crazed with finding words

May stick to things and seem like qualities.

No pebble is a pebble in thy hands :

‘T is a moon out of work, a barren egg,

Or twenty things that no man sees but thee.

Our father Isidore’s — a living saint,

And that is heresy, some townsmen think :

Saints should be dead, according to the Church.

My mind is this : the Father is so holy

‘T were sin to wish his soul detained from bliss.

Easy translation to the realms above,

The shortest journey to the seventh heaven,

Is what I’d never grudge him.

BLASCO.

Piously said.

Look you, I’m dutiful, obey the Church

When there’s no help for it : I mean to say,

When Pope and Bishop and all customers

Order alike. But there be bishops now,

And were aforetime, who have held it wrong,

This hurry to convert the Jews. As, how ?

Your Jew pays tribute to the bishop, say.

That’s good, and must please God, to see the Church

Maintained in ways that ease the Christian’s purse.

Convert the Jew, and where’s the tribute, pray ?

He lapses, too : ‘t is slippery work, conversion :

And then the holy taxing carries off

His money at one sweep. No tribute more !

He’s penitent or burnt, and there’s an end.

Now guess which pleases God ....

JUAN.

Whether he likes

A well-burnt Jew or well-fed bishop best.

[While Juan put this problem theologic

Entered, with resonant step, another, guest, —

A soldier : all his keenness in his sword,

His eloquence in scars upon his cheek,

His virtue in much slaying of the Moor :

With brow well-creased in horizontal folds

To save the space, as having naught to do :

Lips prone to whistle whisperingly, — no tune,

But trotting rhythm : meditative eyes,

Most often fixed upon his legs and spurs :

Invited much and held good company:

Styled Captain Lopez.]

LOPEZ.

At your service, sirs.

JUAN.

Ha, Lopez? Why, thou hast a face full-charged

As any herald’s. What news of the wars ?

LOPEZ.

Such news as is most bitter on my tongue.

JUAN.

Then spit it forth.

HOST.

Sit Captain : here’s a cup,

Fresh-filled. What news?

LOPEZ .

‘T is bad. We make no sally:

We sit still here and wait whate’er the Moor

Shall please to do.

HOST.

Some townsmen will be glad.

LOPEZ.

Glad, will they be ? But I’m not glad, not I,

Nor any Spanish soldier of clean blood.

But the Duke’s wisdom is to wait a siege

Instead of laying one. Therefore — meantime —

He will be married straightway.

HOST.

Ha, ha, ha!

Thy speech is like an hourglass ; turn it down

The other way, ‘t will stand as well, and say

The Duke will wed, therefore he waits a siege.

But what say Don Diego and the Prior ?

The holy uncle and the fiery Don ?

LOPEZ.

O there be sayings running all abroad

As thick as nuts o’erturned. No man need lack.

Some say, ‘t was letters’ changed the Duke’s intent :

From Malaga, says Blas. From Rome, says Quintin.

From spies at Guadix, says Sebastian.

Some say, ‘t is all a pretext, — say, the Duke

Is but a lapdog hanging on a skirt,

Turning his eyeballs upward like a monk:

‘T was Don Diego said that, — so says Blas ;

Last week, he said ....

JUAN.

0
            
do without the “said” !

Open thy mouth and pause in lieu of it.

1
            
had as lief be pelted with a pea

Irregularly in the selfsame spot

As hear such iteration without rule,

Such torture of uncertain certainty.

LOPEZ .

Santiago! Juan, thou art hard to please.

I speak not for my own delighting, I.

I can be silent, I.

BLASCO.

Nay, sir, speak on !

I like your matter well; I deal in plate.

This wedding touches me. Who is the bride?

LOPEZ.

One that some say the Duke does ill to wed;

One that his mother reared — God rest her soul ! —

Duchess Diana, — she who died last year.

A bird picked up away from any nest.

Her name — the Duchess gave it — is Fedalma.

No harm in that. But the Duke stoops, they say,

In wedding her. And that’s the simple truth.

JUAN.

Thy simple truth is but a false opinion:

The simple truth of asses who believe

Their thistle is the very best of food.

Fie, Lopez, thou a Spaniard with a sword

Dreamest a Spanish noble ever stoops

By doing honour to the maid he loves !

He stoops alone when he dishonors her.

LOPEZ.

Nay, I said naught against her.

JUAN.

Better not.

Else I would challenge thee- to fight with wits,

And spear thee through and through ere thou couldst draw

The bluntest word. Yes, yes, consult thy spurs :

Spurs are a sign of knighthood, and should tell thee

That knightly love is blent with reverence

As heavenly air is blent with heavenly blue,

Don Silva’s heart beats to a loyal tune ;

He wills no highest-born Castilian dame,

Betrothed to highest noble, should be held

More sacred than Fedalma. He enshrines

Her virgin image for the general worship

And for his own, — will guard her from the world,

Nay, his profaner self, lest he should lose,

The place of his religion. He does well.

Naught can come closer to the poet’s strain.

HOST.

Or further from their practice, Juan, eh ?

If thou’rt a specimen ?

JUAN.

Wrong, my Lorenzo !

Touching Fedalma the poor poet plays

A finer part even than the noble Duke.

LOPEZ.

By making ditties, singing with round mouth

Likest a crowing cock ? Thou meanest that ?

JUAN.

Lopez, take physic, thou art getting ill,

Growing descriptive ; ‘t is unnatural.

I mean, Don Silva’s love expects reward,

Kneels with a heaven to come ; but the poor poet

Worships without reward, nor hopes to find

A heaven save in his worship. He adores

The sweetest woman for her sweetness’ sake,

Joys in the love that was not born for him,

Because ‘t is lovingness, as beggars joy,

Warming their naked limbs on wayside walls,

To hear a tale of princes and their glory.

There’s a poor poet (poor, I mean, in coin)

Worships Fedalma with so true a love

That if her silken robe were changed for rags,

And she were driven out to stony wilds

Barefoot, a scorned wanderer, he would kiss

Her ragged garment’s edge, and only ask

For leave to be her slave. Digest that, friend,