Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (666 page)

In carved dark-oaken chair, unpillowed, sleeps

Right in the rays of Jupiter a small man,

In skull-cap bordered close with crisp gray curls,

And loose black gown showing a neck and breast

Protected by a dim-green amulet ;

Pale-faced, with finest nostril wont to breathe

Ethereal passion in a world of thought ;

Eyebrows jet-black and firm, yet delicate ;

Beard scant and grizzled ; mouth shut firm, with curves

So subtly turned to meanings exquisite,

You seem to read them as you read a word

Full-vowelled, long-descended, pregnant, — rich

With legacies from long, laborious lives.

Close by him, like a genius of sleep,

Purrs the gray cat, bridling, with snowy breast.

A loud knock, “Forward !” in clear vocal ring.

Enter the Duke, Pablo, and Annibal.

Exit the cat, retreating toward the dark.

DON SILVA.

You slept, Sephardo. I am come too soon.

SEPHARDO.

Nay, my lord, it was I who slept too long.

I go to court among the stars to-night,

So bathed my soul beforehand in deep sleep.

But who are these ?

DON SILVA.

Small guests, for whom I ask

Your hospitality. Their owner comes

Some short time hence to claim them. I am pledged

To keep them safely ; so I bring them you,

Trusting your friendship for small animals.

SEPHARDO.

Yea, am not I too a small animal ?

DON SILVA.

I shall be much beholden to your love

If you will be their guardian. I can trust

No other man so well as you. The boy

Will please you with his singing, touches too

The viol wondrously.

SEPHARDO.

They are welcome both.

Their names are ?

DON SILVA.

Pablo, this — this Annibal,

And yet, I hope, no warrior.

SEPHARDO.

We’ll make peace.

Come, Pablo, let us loosen our friend’s chain.

Deign you, my lord, to sit. Pablo, here on the floor

Close to my chair. Now Annibal shall choose.

[The cautious monkey, in a Moorish dress,

A tunic white, turban and scymitar,

Wears these stage garments, nay, his very flesh

With silent protest ; keeps a neutral air

As aiming at a metaphysic state

Twixt “ is “ and “ is not” ; lets his chain be loosed

By sage Sephardo’s hands, sits still at first,

Then trembles out of his neutrality,

Looks up and leaps into Sephardo’s lap,

And chatters forth his agitated soul,

Turning to peep at Pablo on the floor.]

SEPHARDO.

See, he declares we are at amity !

DON SILVA.

No brother sage had read your nature faster.

SEPHARDO.

Why, so he is a brother, sage. Man thinks

Brutes have no wisdom, since they know not his :

Can we divine their world ? — the hidden life

That mirrors us as hideous shapeless power,

Cruel supremacy of sharp-edged death,

Or fate that leaves a bleeding mother robbed ?

O, they have long tradition, and swift speech,

Can tell with touches and sharp darting cries

Whole histories of timid races taught

To breathe in terror. by red-handed man.

DON SILVA.

Ah, you denounce my sport with hawk and hound..

I would not have the angel Gabriel

As hard as you in noting down my sins.

SEPHARDO.

Nay, they are virtues for you warriors, —

Hawking and hunting ! You are merciful

When you leave killing men to kill the brutes.

But, for the point of wisdom, I would choose

To know the mind that stirs between the wings

Of bees and building wasps, or fills the woods

With myriad murmurs of responsive sense

And true-aimed impulse, rather than to know

The thoughts of warriors.

DON SILVA.

Yet they are warriors too, —

Your animals. Your judgment limps, Sephardo ;

Death is the king of this world ; ‘t is his park

Where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain

Are music for his banquet ; and the masque, —

The last grand masque for his diversion, is

The Holy Inquisition.

SEPHARDO.

Ay, anon

I may chime in with you. But not the less

My judgment has firm feet. Though death were king,

And cruelty his right-hand minister,

Pity insurgent in some human breasts

Makes spiritual empire, reigns supreme

As persecuted faith in faithful hearts.

Your small physician, weighing ninety pounds,

A petty morsel for a healthy shark,

Will worship mercy throned within his soul

Though all the luminous angels of the stars

Burst into cruel chorus on his ear,

Singing, “ We know no mercy.” He would cry

“ I know it “ still, and soothe the frightened bird

And feed the child a-hungered, walk abreast

Of persecuted men, and keep most hate

For rational torturers. There I stand firm.

But you are bitter, and my speech rolls on

Out of your note.

DON SILVA.

No, no, I follow you.

I too have that within which I will worship

In spite of — yes, Sephardo, I am bitter.

I need your counsel, foresight, all your aid.

Lay these small guests to bed, then we will talk.

SEPHARDO.

See, they are sleeping now. The boy has made

My leg his pillow. For my brother sage,

He’ll never heed us ; he knit long ago

A sound ape-system, wherein men are brutes

Emitting doubtful noises. Pray, my lord,

Unlade what burdens you : my ear and hand

Are servants of a heart much bound to you.

DON SILVA.

Yes, yours is love that roots in gifts bestowed

By you on others, and will thrive the more

The more it gives. I hate a double want :

First a confessor, — not a Catholic ;

A heart without a livery, — naked manhood.

SEPHARDO.

My lord, I will be frank, there’s no such thing

As naked manhood. If the stars look down

On any mortal of our shape, whose strength

Is to judge all things without preference,

He is a monster, not a faithful man.

While my heart beats, it shall wear livery, —

My people’s livery, whose yellow badge

Marks them for Christian scorn. I will not say

Man is first man to me, then Jew or Gentile :

That suits the rich marranos2 ; but to me

My father is first father and then man.

So much for frankness’ sake. But let that pass.

‘T is true at least, I am no Catholic,

But Salomo Sephardo, a born Jew,

Willing to serve Don Silva.

DON SILVA.

Oft you sing

Another strain, and melt distinctions down

As no more real than the wall of dark

Seen by small fishes’ eyes, that pierce a span

In the wide ocean. Now you league yourself

To hem me, hold me prisoner in bonds

Made, say you, — how? — by God or Demiurge,

By spirit or flesh, — I care not ! Love was made

Stronger than bonds, and where they press must break them.

I came to you that I might. breathe at large,

And now you stifle me with talk of birth,

Of race and livery. Yet you knew Fedalma.

She was your friend, Sephardo. And you know

She is gone, from me, — know the hounds are loosed

To dog me if I seek her.

SEPHARDO.

Yes, I know.

Forgive me that I used untimely speech,