Delphi Complete Works of George Eliot (Illustrated) (686 page)

And meeting straight her large calm questioning gaze,

Warned her of some grave purport by a face

That told of trouble. Lower still he spoke.

JUAN.

Look from me, lady, towards a moving form

That quits the crowd and seeks the lonelier strand, —

A tall and gray-clad pilgrim....

[Solemnly

His low tones fell on her, as if she passed

Into religious dimness among tombs

And trod on names in everlasting rest.

Lingeringly she looked, and then with with voice

Deep and yet soft, like notes from some long chord

Responsive to thrilled air, said :]

FEDALMA.

It is he !

[Juan kept silence for a little space,

With reverent caution, lest his lighter grief

Might seem a wanton touch upon her pain.

But time was urging him with visible flight,

Changing the shadows : he must, utter all.]

JUAN.

That man was young when last I pressed his hand, —

In that dread moment when he left Bedmar.

He has aged since : the week has made him gray.

And yet I knew him, — knew the white-streaked hair

Before I saw his face, as I should know

The tear-dimmed writing of a friend. See now, —

Does he not linger, — pause ? — perhaps except....

[Juan plead timidly : Fedalma’s eyes

Flashed ; and through all her frame there ran the shock

Of some sharp-wounding joy, like his who hastes

And dreads to come too late, and comes in time

To press a loved hand dying. She was mute

And made no gesture : all her being paused

In resolution, as some leonine wave

That makes a moment’s silence ere it leaps.]

JUAN.

He came from Cathagena, in a boat

Too slight for safety ; yon small two-oared boat

Below the rock ; the fisher-boy within

Awaits his signal. But the pilgrim waits....

FEDALMA.

Yes, I will go ! — Father, I owe him this,

For loving he made all his misery.

And we will look once more, — will say farewell

As in a solemn rite to strengthen us

For our eternal parting. Juan, stay

Here in my place, to warn me were there need.

And, Hinda, follow me!

[All men who watched

Lost her regretfully, then drew content

From thought that she must quickly come again,

And filled the time with striving to be near.

She, down the steps, along the sandy brink

To where he stood, walked firm ; with quickened step

The moment when each other felt the other saw.

He moved at sight of her : their glances met ;

It seemed they could no more remain aloof

Than nearing waters hurrying into one.

Yet their steps slackened and they paused apart,

Pressed backward by the force of memories

Which reigned supreme as death above desire.

Two paces off they stood and silently

Looked at each other. Was it well to speak ?

Could speech be clearer, stronger, tell them more

Than that long gaze of their renouncing love ?

They passed from silence hardly knowing how ;

It seemed they heard each other’s thought before.]

DON SILVA.

I go to be absolved, to have my life

Washed into fitness for an offering

To injured Spain. But I have naught to give

For that last injury to her I loved

Better than I loved Spain. I am accurst

Above all sinners, being made the course

Of her I sinned for. Pardon ! Penitence !

When they have done their utmost, still beyond

Out of their reach stands Injury unchanged

And changeless. I should see it still in heaven, —

Out of my reach, forever in my sight :

Wearing your grief, ‘t would hide the smiling seraphs.

I bring no puling prayer; Fedalma, — ask

No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul

For others’ bleeding wounds : I am not come

To say, “ Forgive me “ : you must not forgive,

For you must see me ever as I am, —

Your father’s....

FEDALMA.

Speak it not ! Calamity

Comes like a deluge and o’erfloods our crimes,

Till sin is hidden in woe. You — I — we two,

Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight,

Opened the sluices of that deep.

DON SILVA.

We two ? —

Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless.

FEDALMA.

No!

It shall not be that you did aught alone.

For when we loved I willed to reign in you,

And I was jealous even of the day

If it could gladden you apart from me.

And so, it must be that I shared each deed

Our love was root of.

DON SILVA.

Dear ! You share the woe, —

Nay, the worst dart of vengeance fell on you.

FEDALMA.

Vengeance ! She does but sweep us with skirts, —

She takes large space, and lies a baleful light

Revolving with long years, — sees children’s children,

Blights in their prime. O, if two lovers leaned

To breathe one air and spread a pestilence,

They would but lie two livid victims dead

Amid the city of the dying. We

With our poor petty lives have strangled one

That ages watch for vainly.

DON SILVA.

Deep despair

Fills all your tones as with slow agony.

Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape :

Tell me what dread is close before you ?

FEDALMA.

None.

No dread, but clear assurance of the end.

My father held within his mighty frame

A people’s life : great futures died with him

Never to rise, until the time shall ripe

Some other hero with the will to save

The outcast Zincali.

DON SILVA.

Yet your people shout —

I heard it — sounded as the plenteous rush

Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls

With power that promised sway.

FEDALMA.

Ah yes, that shout

Came from full hearts : they meant obedience

But they are orphaned : their poor childish feet

Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray

Forgetful after little lures. For me, —

I am but as the funeral urn that bears

The ashes of a leader.

DON SILVA.

O great God !

What am I but a miserable brand

Lit by mysterious wrath ? I lie cast down

A blackened branch upon the desolate ground

Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink

No cup of purest water but will taste

Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma.

FEDALMA.

Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees

A light serene and strong on one sole path

Which she will tread till death.

He trusted me, and I will keep his trust :

My life shall be its temple. I will plant

His sacred hope within the sanctuary

And die its priestess, — though I die alone,

A hoary woman on the altar step,

Cold ‘mid cold ashes. That is my chief good.

The deepest hunger of a faithful heart

Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And you, —

You too will live....

DON SILVA.

I go to Rome, to seek

The right to use my knightly sword again ;

The right to fill my place and live or die

So that all Spaniard shall not curse my name.

I sat one hour, upon the barren rock

And longed to kill myself; but then I said,

I will not leave my name in infamy,

I will not be perpetual rottenness