Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (664 page)

That would be paid him for his daughter’s dower, —

Might soon give signs. O, all his purpose lay

Face upward. Silva here felt strong, and smiled.

What could a Spanish noble not command ?

He only helped the Queen, because he chose, —

Could war on Spaniards, and could spare the Moor, —

Buy justice, or defeat it, — if he would :

Was loyal, not from weakness but from strength

Of high resolve to use his birthright well.

For nobles too are gods, like Emperors,

Accept perforce their own divinity

And wonder at the virtue of their touch,

Till obstinate resistance shakes their creed,

Shattering that self whose wholeness is not rounded

Save in the plastic souls of other men.

Don Silva had been suckled in that creed

(A speculative noble else, knowing Italian),

Held it absurd as foolish argument

If any failed in deference, was too proud

Not to be courteous to so poor a knave

As one who knew not necessary truths

Of birth and precedence ; but cross his will,

The miracle-working will, his rage leaped out

As by a right divine to rage more fatal

Than a mere mortal man’s. And now that will

Had met a stronger adversary, — strong

As awful ghosts are whom we cannot touch,

While they clutch us, subtly as poisoned air,

In deep-laid fibres of inherited fear

That lie below all courage.

Silva said,

“ She is not lost to me, might still be mine

But for the Inquisition, — the dire hand

That waits to clutch her with a hideous grasp,

Not passionate, human, living, but a grasp

As in the death-throe when the human soul

Departs and leaves force unrelenting, locked,

Not to be loosened save by slow decay

That frets the universe. Father Isidor

Has willed it so : his phial dropped the oil

To catch the air-borne motes of idle slander ;

He fed the fascinated gaze that clung

Round all her movements, frank as growths of spring,

With the new hateful interest of suspicion.

What barrier is this Gypsy father ? a mere gate

I’ll find the key for. The one barrier,

The tightening cord that winds about my limbs,

Is this kind uncle, this imperious saint,

He who will save me, guard me from myself.

And he can work his will : I have no help

Save reptile secrecy, and no revenge

Save that I will do what he schemes to hinder.

Ay, secrecy, and disobedience, — these

No tyranny can master. Disobey !

You may divide the universe with God,

Keeping your will unbent, and hold a world

Where he is not supreme. The Prior shall know it !

His will shall breed resistance : he shall do

The thing he would not, further what he hates

By hardening my resolve.”

But ‘neath this inward speech, —

Predominant, hectoring, the more passionate voice

Of many-blended consciousness, — there breathed

Murmurs of doubt, the weakness of a self

That is not one ; denies and yet believes ;

Protests with passion, “ This is natural,” —

Yet owns the other still were truer, better,

Could nature follow it. A self disturbed

By budding growths of reason premature

That breed disease. Spite of defiant rage

Silva half shrank before the steadfast man

Whose life was one compacted whole, a state

Where the rule changed not, and the law was strong.

Then straightway he resented that forced tribute,

Rousing rebellion with intenser will.

But soon this inward strife the slow-paced hours

Slackened ; and the soul sank with hunger-pangs,

Hunger of love. Debate was swept right down

By certainty of loss intolerable.

A little loss ! only a dark-tressed maid

Who had no heritage save her beauteous being !

But in the candor of her virgin eyes

Saying, I. love ; and in the mystic charm

Of her dear presence, Silva found a heaven

Where faith and hope were drowned as stars in day.

Fedalma there, each momentary Now

Seemed a whole blest existence, a full cup

That, flowing over, asked no pouring hand

From past to future. All the world was hers.

Splendor was but the herald trumpet-note

Of her imperial coming : penury

Vanished before her as before a gem,

The pledge of treasuries. Fedalma there,

He thought all loveliness was lovelier,

She crowning it : all goodness credible,

Because of that great trust her goodness bred.

For the strong current of the passionate love

Which urged his life tow’rd hers, like urgent floods

That hurry through the various-mingled earth,

Carried within its stream all qualities

Of what it penetrated, and made love

Only another name, as Silva was,

For the whole man that breathed within his frame.

And she was gone. Well, goddesses will go ; .

But for a noble there were mortals left

Shaped just like goddesses, — O hateful sweet !

O impudent pleasure that should dare to front

With vulgar visage memories divine !

The noble’s birthright of miraculous will

Turning I would to must be, spurning all

Offered as substitute for what it chose,

Tightened and fixed in strain irrevocable

The passionate selection of that love

Which came not first but as all-conquering last.

Great Love has many attributes, and shrines

For varied worshippers, but his force divine

Shows most its many-named fulness in the man

Whose nature multitudinously mixed,

Each ardent impulse grappling with a thought

Resists all easy gladness, all content

Save mystic rapture, where the questioning soul

Flooded with consciousness of good that is

Finds life one bounteous answer. So it was

In Silva’s nature, Love had mastery there,

Not as a holiday ruler, but as one

Who quells a tumult in a day of dread,

A welcomed despot.

O all comforters,

All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy.

Came with her coming, in her presence lived.

Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall

Pencilled upon the grass ; high summer morns

When white light rains upon the quiet sea

And corn-fields flush with ripeness ; odors soft, —

Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home

And find it deep within ‘mid stirrings vague

Of far-off moments when our life was fresh ;

All sweetly-tempered music, gentle change

Of sound, form, colour, as on wide lagoons

At sunset when from black far-floating prows.

Comes a clear wafted song ; all exquisite joy

Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream

Made placid in the fulness of a lake, —

All came with her sweet presence, for she brought

The love supreme which gathers to its realm

All powers of loving. Subtle nature’s hand

Waked with a touch the intricate harmonies

In her own manifold work. Fedalma there,

Fastidiousness became the prelude fine

For full contentment, and young melancholy,

Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain

Of waiting for that perfect happiness,

The happiness was gone !

He sat alone,

Hating companionship that was not hers ;

Felt bruised with hopeless longing; drank, as wine,

Illusions of what had been, would have been ;

Weary with anger and a strained resolve,

Sought passive happiness in waking dream.

It has been so with rulers, emperors,

Nay, sages who held secrets of great Time,

Sharing his hoary and beneficent life, —

Men who sate throned among the multitudes, —