Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (677 page)

FEDALMA.

I thought I had so much to tell you, love, —

Long eloquent stories, — how it all befell, —

The solemn message, calling me away.

To awful spousals, where my own dead joy,

A conscious ghost, looked on and saw me wed. But now.

DON SILVA.

O that grave speech would cumber our quick souls

Like bells that waste the moments with their loudness.

FEDALMA.

And if it all were said, ‘t would end in this,

That I still loved you when I fled away.

‘T is no more wisdom than the little birds

Make known by their soft twitter when they feel

Each other’s heart beat.

DON SILVA.

All the deepest things

We now say with our eyes and meeting pulse :

Our voices need but prattle.

FEDALMA.

I forget

All the drear days of thirst in this one draught.

(Again they are silent for a few moments.)

But tell me how you came? Where are your guards?

Is there no risk ? And now I look at you,

This garb is strange
              

DON SILVA.

I came alone.

FEDALMA.

Alone ?

DON SILVA.

Yes, — fled in secret. There was no way else

To find you safely.

FEDALMA (letting one hand fall and moving a little from him with a look of

sudden terror, while he clasps her more firmly by the other arm).

Silva !

DON SILVA.

It is naught

Enough that I am here, Now we will cling.

What power shall hinder us ? You left me once

To set your father free. That task is done,

And you are mine again. I have braved all

That I might find you, see your father, win

His furtherance in bearing you away

To some safe refuge. Are we not betrothed?

You tremble....

FEDALMA.

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I am trembling ‘neath the rush of thoughts

That come like griefs at morning, — look at me

With awful faces, from the vanishing haze

That momently had hidden them.

DON SILVA.

What thoughts ?

FEDALMA.

Forgotten burials. There lies a grave.

Between this visionary present and the past.

Our joy is dead, and only smiles on us

A loving shade from out the place of tombs.

DON SILVA.

Your love is faint, else aught that parts us

Would seem but superstition. Love supreme

Defies all sophistry, — risks avenging fires.

1
            
have risked all things. But your love is faint.

FEDALMA (retreating a little, but keeping his hand).

Silva, if now between us came a sword,

Severed my arm, and left our two hands clasped.

This poor maimed arm would feel the clasp till death.

What parts us is a sword....

(ZARCA has been advancing in the background. He has drawn his sword

and now thrusts the naked blade between them. SILVA lets go FEDALMA’S

hand, and grasps his sword. FEDALMA, startled at first, stands firmly, as if

prepared to interpose between her Father and the Duke.)

ZARCA

Ay, ‘t is a sword

That parts the Spaniard and the Zincala :

A sword that was baptised in Christian blood,

When once a band, cloaking with Spanish law

Their brutal rapine, would have butchered us,

And then outraged our women.

(Resting the point of his sword on the ground.)

My lord Duke,

I was a guest within your fortress once

Against my will ; had entertainment too, —

Much like a galley-slave’s. Pray, have you sought

The poor Zincalo’s camp, to find a fit return

For that Castilian courtesy? or rather

To make amends for all our prisoned toil

By this great honor of your unasked presence ?

DON SILVA.

Chief I have brought no scorn to meet your scorn.

I came because love urged me, — that deep love

I bear to her whom you call daughter, — her

Whom I reclaim as my betrothed bride.

ZARCA.

Doubtless yon bring for final argument

Your men-at-arms who will escort your bride ?

DON SILVA.

I came alone. The only force I bring

Is tenderness. Nay, I will trust besides

In all the pleadings of a father’s care

To wed his daughter as her nurture bids.

And for your tribe, — whatever purposed good

Your thoughts may cherish, I will make secure

With the strong surety of a noble’s power :

My wealth shall be your treasury.

ZARCA (with irony).

My thanks !

To me you offer liberal price ; for her

Your love’s beseeching will be force supreme.

She will go with you as a willing slave,

Will give a word of parting to her father,

Wave farewells to her tribe, then turn and say :

“ Now, my lord, I am nothing but your bride ;

I am quite culled, have neither root nor trunk,

Now wear me with your plume ! “

DON SILVA.

Yours is the wrong

Feigning in me one thought of her below

The highest homage. I would make my rank

The pedestal of her worth ; a noble’s sword,

A noble’s honor, her defence ; his love

The life-long sanctuary of her womanhood.

ZARCA.

I tell you, were you King of Aragon,

And won my daughter’s hand, your higher rank

Would blacken her dishonor. ‘T were excuse

If you were beggared, homeless, spit upon,

And so made even with her people’s lot ;

For then she would be lured by want, not wealth,

To be a wife amongst an alien race

To whom her tribe owes curses.

DON SILVA.

Such blind hate

Is fit for beasts of prey, but not for men.

My hostile acts against you, should but count

As ignorant strokes against a friend unknown ;

And for the wrongs inflicted on your tribe

By Spanish edicts or the cruelty

Of Spanish vassals, am I criminal ?

Love comes to cancel all ancestral hate,

Subdues all heritage, proves that in mankind

There is a union deeper than division.

ZARCA.

Ay,

Such love is common : I have seen it oft, —

Seen many women rend the sacred ties

That bind them in high fellowship with men,

Making them mothers of a people’s virtue :

Seen them so levelled to a handsome steed

That yesterday was Moorish property,

To-day is Christian, — wears new-fashioned gear

Neighs to new feeders, and will prance alike

Under all banners, so the banner be

A master’s who caresses. Such light change

You call conversion ; but we Zincali call

Conversion infamy. Our people’s faith

Is faithfulness ; not the rote-learned belief

That we are heaven’s highest favorites,

But the resolve that, being most forsaken

Among the sons of men, we will be true

Each to the other, and our common lot.

You Christians burn men for their heresy :

Our vilest heretic is that Zincala

Who, choosing ease, forsakes her people’s woes.

The dowry of my daughter is to be

Chief woman of her tribe, and rescue it.

A bride with such a dowrv has no match

Among the subjects of that Catholic Queen

Who would have Gypsies swept into the sea

Or else would have them gibbeted.

DON SILVA.

And you,

Fedalma’s father , — you who claim the dues