Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (672 page)

HINDA, HITA, TRALLA, AND THE REST (clapping their hands).

Yes, yes, a tune, a tune !

JUAN.

But that is what you cannot have, my sweet brothers and sisters. The tunes

are all dead , — dead as the tunes of the lark when you have plucked his

wings off; dead as the song of the grasshopper when the ass has swallowed

him. I can play and sing no more. Hinda has killed my tunes.

(All cry out in consternation. HINDA gives a wail and tries to examine the

lute.)

JUAN (waving her off).

Understand, Senora Hinda, that the tunes are in me ; they are not in the lute

till I put them there. And if you cross my humor, I shall be as tuneless as a

bag of wool. If the tunes are to be brought to life again, I must have my

feather back.

(HINDA kisses his hands and feet coaxingly.)

No, no ! not a note will come for coaxing. The feather, I say, the feather !

(HINDA sorrowfully takes off the feather, and gives it to JUAN.)

Ah, now let us see. Perhaps a tune will come. 7

(He plays a measure, and the three girls begin to dance ; then he suddenly

stops.)

JUAN.

No, the tune will not come : it wants the aigrette (pointing to it on HINDA’S

neck).

(HINDA, with rather less hesitation, but again sorrowfully, takes off the

aigrette, and gives it to him.)

JUAN.

Ha ! (he plays again, but, after rather a longer time, again stops.) No, no ; ‘t

is the buttons are wanting, Hinda, the buttons. This tune feeds chiefly on

buttons, — a hungry tune. It wants one, two, three, four, five, six. Good !

(After HINDA has given up the buttons, and JUAN has laid them down one

by one, he begins to play again, going on longer than before, so that the

dancers become excited by the movement. Then he stops.)

JUAN.

Ah, Hita, it is the belt, and, Tralla, the rosettes, — both are wanting. I see the

tune will not go on

without them.

(HITA and TRALLA take off the belt and rosettes, and lay them down

quickly, being fired by the dancing, and eager for the music. All the articles

lie by JUAN’S side on the ground.)

JUAN.

Good, good, my docile wild-oats ! Now I think the tunes are all alive again.

Now you may dance and sing too. Hinda, my little screamer, lead off with

the song I taught you, and let us see if the tune will go right on from

beginning to end.

(He plays. The dance begins again, HINDA singing. All the other boys and

girls join in the chorus, and all at last dance wildly.)

SONG.

All things journey : sun and moon,

Morning, noon, and afternoon,

Night and all her stars :

‘Twixt the east and western bars

Round they journey,

Come and go !

We go with them !

For to roam and ever roam

Is the Zincali’s home.

Earth is good, the hillside breaks

By the ashen roots and makes

Hungry nostrils glad :

Then we run till we are mad,

Like the horses,

And we cry,

None shall catch us !

Swift winds wing us, — we are free, —

Drink the air — we Zincali!

Falls the snow : the pine-branch split,

Call the fire out, see it flit,

Through the dry leaves run,

Spread and glow, and make a sun

In the dark tent :

O warm dark!

Warm as conies !

Strong fire loves us, we are warm!

Who shall work Zincali harm ?

Onward journey : fires are spent;

Sunward, sunward! lift the tent,

Run before the rain,

Through the pass, along the plain.

Hurry, hurry,

Lift us, wind!

Like the horses.

For to roam and ever roam

Is the Zincali’s home.

(When the dance is at its height, HINDA breaks away from the rest, and

dances round JUAN, who is now standing. As he turns a little to watch her

movement, some of the boys skip towards the feather, aigrette, etc., snatch

them up, and run away, swiftly followed by HITA, TRALLA, and the rest.

HINDA, as she turns again, sees them, screams, and falls in her whirling ;

but immediately gets

up, and rushes after them, still screaming with rage.)

JUAN.

Santiago ! these imps get bolder. Haha ! Senora Hinda, this finishes your

lesson in ethics. You have seen the advantage of giving up stolen goods.

Now you see the ugliness of thieving when practised by others. That fable of

mine about the tunes was excellently devised. I feel like an ancient sage

instructing our lisping ancestors. My memory will descend as the Orpheus of

Gypsies. But I must prepare a rod for those rascals. I’ll bastinado them with

prickly pears. It seems to me these needles will have a sound moral teaching

in them.

(While Juan takes a knife from his belt, and surveys the prickly pear, HINDA

returns.)

JUAN.

Pray, Senora, why do you fume ? Did you want to steal my ornaments again

yourself?

HINDA (SOBBING).

No; I thought you would give them me back again.

JUAN.

What, did you want the tunes to die again ? Do you like finery better than

dancing ?

HINDA.

O, that was a tale ; I shall tell tales too, when I want to get anything I can’t

steal. And I know what I will do. I shall tell the boys I’ve found some little

foxes, and I will never say where they are till they give me back the feather !

(She runs off again.)

JUAN.

Hem ! the disciple seems to seize the mode sooner than the matter. Teaching

virtue with this prickly pear may only teach the youngsters to use a new

weapon; as your teaching orthodoxy with fagots may only bring up a fashion

of roasting. Dios ! my remarks grow too pregnant, — my wits get a plethora

by solitary feeding on the produce of my own wisdom.

(As he puts up his knife again, HINDA comes running back, and crying,

“Our Queen ! our Queen !” JUAN adjusts his garments and his lute, while

HINDA turns to meet FEDALMA, who wears a Moorish dress, with gold

ornaments, her black hair hanging round her in plaits, a white turban on

her head, a dagger by her side. She carries a scarf on her left arm, which

she holds up as a shade.)

FEDALMA (pattingHINDA’Shead).

How now, wild one ? You are hot and panting.

Go to my tent, and help Nouna to plait reeds.

(HINDA kisses FEDALMA’S hand, and runs off. FEDALMA advances

towards JUAN, who kneels to take up the edge of her cymar, and kisses it.)

JUAN.

How is it with you, lady ? You look sad.

FEDALMA.

Oh, I am sick at heart. The eye of day,

The insistent summer sun, seems pitiless,

Shining in all the barren crevices

Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark,

Where I may dream that hidden waters lie ;

As pitiless as to some shipwrecked man,

Who gazing from his narrow shoal of sand

On the wide unspecked round of blue and blue

Sees that full light is errorless despair.

The insects’ hum that slurs the silent dark

Startles and seems to cheat me, as the tread

Of coming footsteps cheats the midnight watcher

Who holds her heart and waits to hear them pause,

And hears them never pause, but pass and die.

Music sweeps by me as a messenger

Carrying a message that is not for me.

The very sameness of the hills and sky

Is obduracy, and the lingering hours

Wait round me dumbly, like superfluous slaves,

Of whom I want naught but the secret news

They are forbid to tell. And, Juan, you —

You, too, are cruel — would be over-wise

In judging your friend’s needs, and choose to hide

Something I crave to know.

JUAN.

I, lady ?

FEDALMA.