Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (671 page)

I’m a thick man : you reach not my backbone

With any tooth-pick. But I tell you this :

He reached it with his eye, right to the marrow !

It gave me heart that I had plate to sell,

For, saint or no saint, a good silversmith

Is wanted for God’s service ; and my plate —

He judged it well — bought nobly.

LORENZO.

A great man,

And holy!

BLASCO.

Yes, I’m glad I leave to-day.

For there are stories give a sort of smell, —

One’s nose has fancies. A good trader, sir,

Likes not this plague of lapsing in the air,

Most caught by men with funds. And they do say

There’s a great terror here in Moors and Jews,

I would say., Christians of unhappy blood.

‘T is monstrous, sure, that men of substance lapse,

And risk their property. I know I’m sound.

No heresy was ever bait to me. Whate’er

Is the right faith, that I believe, — naught else.

LORENZO.

Ay, truly, for the flavor of true faith

Once known must sure be sweetest to the taste.

But an uneasy mood is now abroad

Within the town ; partly, for that the Duke

Being sorely sick, has yielded the command

To Don Diego, a most valiant man,

More Catholic than the Holy Father’s self,

Half chiding God that he will tolerate

A Jew or Arab ; though ‘t is plain they’re made

For profit of good Christians. And weak heads —

Panic will knit all disconnected facts —

Draw hence belief in evil auguries,

Rumors of accusation and arrest,

All air-begotten. Sir, you need not go.

But if it must be so, I’ll follow you

In fifteen minutes, — finish marketing,

Then be at home to speed you on your way.

BLASCO.

Do so. I’ll back to Saragossa straight.

The court and nobles are retiring now

And wending northward. There’ll be fresh demand

For bells and images against the Spring,

When doubtless our great Catholic sovereigns

Will move to conquest of these eastern part,

And cleanse Granada from the infidel.

Stay, sir, with God, until we meet again !

LORENZO.

Go, sir, with God, until I follow you !

(Exit BLASCO. LORENZO passes on towards the market-woman, who, as

he approaches, raises herself from her leaning attitude.)

LORENZO.

Good day, my mistress. How’s your merchandise ?

Fit for a host to buy ? Your apples now,

They have fair cheeks ; how are they at the core ?

MARKET-WOMAN.

Good, good, sir ! Taste and try. See, here is one

Weighs a man’s head. The best are bound with tow :

They’re worth the pains, to keep the peel from splits.

(She takes out an apple bound with tow, and, as she puts it into LORENZO’S

hand, speaks in a lower tone.)

‘T is called the Miracle. You open it.

And find it full of speech.

LORENZO.

Ay, give it me,

I’ll take it to the Doctor in the tower.

He feeds on fruit, and if he likes the sort

I’ll buy them for him. Meanwhile, drive your ass

Round to my hostelry. I’ll straight be there.

You’ll not refuse some barter ?

MARKET-WOMAN.

No, not I.

Feathers and skins.

LORENZO.

Good, till we meet again.

(LORENZO, after smelling at the apple, puts it into a pouch-like basket

which hangs before him, and walks away. The woman drives off the mule.)

A LETTER.

“Zarca, the chieftain of the Zincali, greets

The King El Zagal. Let the force be sent

With utmost swiftness to the Pass of Luz.

A good five hundred added to my bands

Will master all the garrison : the town

Is half with us, and will not lift an arm

Save on our side. My scouts have found a way

Where once we thought the fortress most secure :

Spying a man upon the height, they traced,

By keen conjecture piecing broken sight,

His downward path, and found its issue. There

A file of us can mount, surprise the fort

And give the signal to our friends within

To ope the gates for our confederate bands,

Who will lie eastward ambushed by the rocks,

Waiting the night. Enough ; give me command,

Bedmar is yours. Chief Zarca will redeem

His pledge of highest service to the Moor :

Let the Moor too be faithful and repay

The Gypsy with the furtherance he needs

To lead his people over Bahr el Scham

And plant them on the shore of Africa.

So may the King El Zagal live as one

Who, trusting Allah will be true to him,

Maketh himself as Allah true to friends.”

BOOK III

Quit now the town, and with a journeying dream

Swift as the wings of sound yet seeming slow

Through multitudinous compression of stored sense

And spiritual space, see walls and towers

Lie in the silent whiteness of a trance,

Giving no sign of that warm life within

That moves and murmurs through their hidden heart.

Pass o’er the mountain, wind in sombre shade,

Then wind into the light and see the town

Shrunk to white crust upon the darker rock.

Turn east and south, descend, then rise again

‘Mid smaller mountains ebbing towards the plain :

Scent the fresh breath of the height-loving herbs

That, trodden by the pretty parted hoofs

Of nimble goats, sigh at the innocent bruise,

And with a mingled difference exquisite

Pour a sweet burden on the buoyant air.

Pause now and be all ear. Far from the south,

Seeking the listening silence of the heights,

Comes a slow-dying sound, — the Moslems’ call

To prayer in afternoon. Bright in the sun

Like tall white sails on a green shadowy sea

Stand Moorish watch-towers : ‘neath that eastern sky

Couches unseen the strength of Moorish Baza ;

Where the meridian bends lies Guadix, hold

Of brave El Zagal. This is Moorish land,

Where Allah lives unconquered in dark breasts

And blesses still the many-nourishing earth

With dark-armed industry. See from the steep

The scattered olives hurry in grey throngs

Down towards the valley, where the little stream

Parts a green hollow ‘twixt the gentler slopes ;

And in that hollow, dwellings : not white homes

Of building Moors, but little swarthy tents

Such as of old perhaps on Asian plains,

Or wending westward past the Caucasus,

Our fathers raised to rest in. Close they swarm

About two taller tents, and viewed afar

Might seem a dark-robed crowd in penitence

That silent kneel ; but come now in their midst

And watch a busy, bright-eyed, sportive life !

Tall maidens bend to feed the tethered goat,

The ragged kirtle fringing at the knee

Above the living curves, the shoulder’s smoothness

Parting the torrent strong of ebon hair.

Women with babes, the wild and neutral glance

Swayed now to sweet desire of mothers’ eyes,

Rock their strong cradling arms and chant low strains

Taught by monotonous and soothing winds

That fall at night-time on the dozing ear.

The crones plait reeds, or shred the vivid herbs

Into the caldron : tiny urchins crawl

Or sit and gurgle forth their infant joy.

Lads lying sphinx-like with uplifted breast

Propped on their elbows, their black manes tossed back,

Fling up the coin and watch its fatal fall,

Dispute and scramble, run and wrestle fierce,

Then fall to play and fellowship again ;

Or in a thieving swarm they run to plague

The grandsires, who return with rabbits slung,

And with the mules fruit-laden from the fields.

Some striplings choose the smooth stones from the brook

To serve the slingers, cut the twigs for snares.

Or trim the hazel-wands, or at the bark

Of some exploring dog they dart away

With swift precision towards a moving speck.

These are the brood of Zarca’s Gypsy tribe ;

Most like an earth-born race bred by the Sun

On some rich tropic soil, the father’s light

Flashing in coal-black eyes, the mother’s blood

With bounteous elements feeding their young limbs.

The stalwart men and youths are at the wars

Following their chief, all save a trusty band

Who keep strict watch along the northern heights.

But see, upon a pleasant spot removed

From the camp’s hubbub, where the thicket strong

Of huge-eared cactus makes a bordering curve

And casts a shadow, lies a sleeping man

With Spanish hat screening his upturned face,

His doublet loose, his right arm backward flung,

His left caressing close the long-necked lute

That seems to sleep too, leaning tow’rds its lord.

He draws deep breath secure but not unwatched.

Moving a-tiptoe, silent as the elves.

As mischievous too, trip three bare-footed girls

Not opened yet to womanhood, — dark flowers

In slim long buds : some paces farther off

Gathers a little white-teethed shaggy group,

A grinning chorus to the merry play.

The tripping girls have robbed the sleeping man

Of all his ornaments. Hita is decked

With an embroidered scarf across her rags ;

Tralla, with thorns for pins, sticks two rosettes

Upon her threadbare woollen ; Hinda now,

Prettiest and boldest, tucks her kirtle up

As wallet for the stolen buttons, — then

Bends with her knife to cut from off the hat

The aigrette and long feather ; deftly cuts,

Yet wakes the sleeper, who with sudden start

Shakes off the masking hat and shows the face

Of Juan : Hinda swift as thought leaps back,

But carries off the feather and aigrette,

And leads the chorus of a happy laugh,

Running with all the naked-footed imps,

Till with safe survey all can face about

And watch for signs of stimulating chase,

While Hinda ties long grass around her brow

To stick the feather in with majesty.

Juan still sits contemplative, with looks

Alternate at the spoilers and their work.

JUAN.

Ah, you marauding kite, — my feather gone !

My belt, my scarf, my buttons and rosettes !

This is to be a brother of the Zincali !

The fiery-blooded children of the Sun, —

So says chief Zarca, — children of the Sun !

Ay, ay, the black and stinging flies he breeds

To plague the decent body of mankind.

Orpheus, professor of the gai saber,

Made all the brutes polite by dint of song.

Pregnant, — but as a guide in daily life

Delusive. For if song and music cure

The barbarous trick of thieving, ‘t is a cure

That works as slowly as old Doctor Time

In curing folly. Why, the minxes there

Have rhythm in their toes, and music rings

As readily from them as from little bells

Swung by the breeze. Well, I will try the physic.

(He touches his lute.)

Hem ! taken rightly, any single thing.

The Rabbis say, implies all other things.

A knotty task, though, the unravelling

Meum and Tuum from a saraband :

It needs a subtle logic, nay, perhaps

A good large property, to see the thread.

(He touches the lute again,)

There’s more of odd than even in this world,

Else pretty sinners would not be let off

Sooner than ugly ; for if honeycombs

Are to be got by stealing, they should go

Where life is bitterest on the tongue. And yet, —

Because this minx has pretty ways I wink

At all her tricks, though if a flat-faced lass,

With eyes askew, were half as bold as she,

I should chastise her with a hazel switch.

I’m a plucked peacock, — even my voice and wit

Without a tail ! — why, any fool detects

The absence of your tail, but twenty fools

May not detect the presence of your wit

(He touches his lute again,)

Well, I must coax my tail back cunningly,

For to run after these brown lizards, — ah !

I think the lizards lift their ears at this.

(As he thrums his lute the lads and girls gradually approach : he touches it

more briskly, and HINDA, advancing j begins to move arms and legs with

an initiatory dancing movement, smiling coaxingly at JUAN. He suddenly

stops, lays down his lute and folds his arms.)

JUAN.

What, you expect a tune to dance to, eh ?