Part 7

Thus as she spake she falter’d at the close, And in that dying fall her voice sent forth Somewhat of its original sweetness. Thou!... Thou self-abased! exclaim’d the astonish’d King; ... Thou self-condemn’d!... The cup of shame for thee! Thee ... thee, Florinda!... But the very excess Of passion check’d his speech, restraining thus From farther transport, which had haply else Master’d him; and he sate like one entranced, Gazing upon that countenance so fallen, So changed: her face, raised from its muffler now, Was turn’d toward him, and the fire-light shone Full on its mortal paleness; but the shade Conceal’d the King. She roused him from the spell Which held him like a statue motionless. Thou too, quoth she, dost join the general curse, Like one who when he sees a felon’s grave, Casting a stone there as he passes by, Adds to the heap of shame. Oh what are we, Frail creatures as we are, that we should sit In judgement man on man! and what were we, If the All-merciful should mete to us With the same rigorous measure wherewithal Sinner to sinner metes! But God beholds The secrets of the heart, ... therefore his name Is Merciful. Servant of God, see thou The hidden things of mine, and judge thou then In charity thy brother who hath fallen.... Nay, hear me to the end! I loved the King, ... Tenderly, passionately, madly loved him. Sinful it was to love a child of earth With such entire devotion as I loved Roderick, the heroic Prince, the glorious Goth! And yet methought this was its only crime, The imaginative passion seem’d so pure: Quiet and calm like duty, hope nor fear Disturb’d the deep contentment of that love; He was the sunshine of my soul, and like A flower, I lived and flourish’d in his light. Oh bear not with me thus impatiently! No tale of weakness this, that in the act Of penitence, indulgent to itself, With garrulous palliation half repeats The sin it ill repents. I will be brief, And shrink not from confessing how the love Which thus began in innocence, betray’d My unsuspecting heart; nor me alone, But him, before whom, shining as he shone With whatsoe’er is noble, whatsoe’er Is lovely, whatsoever good and great, I was as dust and ashes, ... him, alas! This glorious being, this exalted Prince, Even him, with all his royalty of soul, Did this ill-omen’d, this accursëd love, To his most lamentable fall betray And utter ruin. Thus it was: The King, By counsels of cold statesmen ill-advised, To an unworthy mate had bound himself In politic wedlock. Wherefore should I tell How Nature upon Egilona’s form, Profuse of beauty, lavishing her gifts, Left, like a statue from the graver’s hands, Deformity and hollowness beneath The rich external? For the love of pomp And emptiest vanity, hath she not incurr’d The grief and wonder of good men, the gibes Of vulgar ribaldry, the reproach of all; Profaning the most holy sacrament Of marriage, to become chief of the wives Of Abdalaziz, of the Infidel, The Moor, the tyrant-enemy of Spain! All know her now; but they alone who knew What Roderick was can judge his wretchedness, To that light spirit and unfeeling heart In hopeless bondage bound. No children rose From this unhappy union, towards whom The springs of love within his soul confined Might flow in joy and fulness; nor was he One, like Witiza, of the vulgar crew, Who in promiscuous appetite can find All their vile nature seeks. Alas for man! Exuberant health diseases him, frail worm! And the slight bias of untoward chance Makes his best virtue from the even line, With fatal declination, swerve aside. Aye, thou mayest groan for poor mortality, ... Well, Father, mayest thou groan! My evil fate Made me an inmate of the royal house, And Roderick found in me, if not a heart Like his, ... for who was like the heroic Goth?... One which at least felt his surpassing worth, And loved him for himself.... A little yet Bear with me, reverend Father, for I touch Upon the point, and this long prologue goes, As justice bids, to palliate his offence, Not mine. The passion, which I fondly thought Such as fond sisters for a brother feel, Grew day by day, and strengthen’d in its growth, Till the beloved presence had become Needful as food or necessary sleep, My hope, light, sunshine, life, and every thing. Thus lapt in dreams of bliss, I might have lived Contented with this pure idolatry, Had he been happy: but I saw and knew The inward discontent and household griefs Which he subdued in silence; and alas! Pity with admiration mingling then, Alloy’d and lower’d and humanized my love, Till to the level of my lowliness It brought him down; and in this treacherous heart Too often the repining thought arose, That if Florinda had been Roderick’s Queen, Then might domestic peace and happiness Have bless’d his home and crown’d our wedded loves. Too often did that sinful thought recur, Too feebly the temptation was repell’d.

See, Father, I have probed my inmost soul; Have search’d to its remotest source the sin; And tracing it through all its specious forms Of fair disguisement, I present it now, Even as it lies before the eye of God, Bare and exposed, convicted and condemn’d. One eve, as in the bowers which overhang The glen where Tagus rolls between his rocks I roam’d alone, alone I met the King. His countenance was troubled, and his speech Like that of one whose tongue to light discourse At fits constrain’d, betrays a heart disturb’d: I too, albeit unconscious of his thoughts, With anxious looks reveal’d what wandering words In vain essay’d to hide. A little while Did this oppressive intercourse endure, Till our eyes met in silence, each to each Telling their mutual tale, then consciously Together fell abash’d. He took my hand And said, Florinda, would that thou and I Earlier had met! oh what a blissful lot Had then been mine, who might have found in thee The sweet companion and the friend endear’d, A fruitful wife and crown of earthly joys! Thou too shouldst then have been of womankind Happiest, as now the loveliest.... And with that, First giving way to passion first disclosed, He press’d upon my lips a guilty kiss, ... Alas! more guiltily received than given. Passive and yielding, and yet self-reproach’d, Trembling I stood, upheld in his embrace; When coming steps were heard, and Roderick said, Meet me to-morrow, I beseech thee, here, Queen of my heart! Oh meet me here again, My own Florinda, meet me here again!... Tongue, eye, and pressure of the impassion’d hand Solicited and urged the ardent suit, And from my hesitating hurried lips The word of promise fatally was drawn. O Roderick, Roderick! hadst thou told me all Thy purpose at that hour, from what a world Of woe had thou and I.... The bitterness Of that reflection overcame her then, And choak’d her speech. But Roderick sate the while Covering his face with both his hands close-prest, His head bow’d down, his spirit to such point Of sufferance knit, as one who patiently Awaits the uplifted sword. Till now, said she, Resuming her confession, I had lived, If not in innocence, yet self-deceived, And of my perilous and sinful state Unconscious. But this fatal hour reveal’d To my awakening soul her guilt and shame; And in those agonies with which remorse, Wrestling with weakness and with cherish’d sin, Doth triumph o’er the lacerated heart, That night ... that miserable night ... I vow’d, A virgin dedicate, to pass my life Immured; and, like redeemëd Magdalen, Or that Egyptian penitent, whose tears Fretted the rock, and moisten’d round her cave The thirsty desert, so to mourn my fall. The struggle ending thus, the victory Thus, as I thought, accomplish’d, I believed My soul was calm, and that the peace of Heaven Descended to accept and bless my vow And in this faith, prepared to consummate The sacrifice, I went to meet the King. See, Father, what a snare had Satan laid! For Roderick came to tell me that the Church From his unfruitful bed would set him free, And I should be his Queen. O let me close The dreadful tale! I told him of my vow; And from sincere and scrupulous piety, But more, I fear me, in that desperate mood Of obstinate will perverse, the which, with pride And shame and self-reproach, doth sometimes make A woman’s tongue, her own worst enemy, Run counter to her dearest heart’s desire, ... In that unhappy mood did I resist All his most earnest prayers to let the power Of holy Church, never more rightfully Invoked, he said, than now in our behalf, Release us from our fatal bonds. He urged With kindling warmth his suit, like one whose life Hung on the issue; I dissembled not My cruel self-reproaches, nor my grief, Yet desperately maintain’d the rash resolve; Till in the passionate argument he grew Incensed, inflamed, and madden’d or possess’d, ... For Hell too surely at that hour prevail’d, And with such subtile toils enveloped him, That even in the extremity of guilt No guilt he purported, but rather meant An amplest recompence of life-long love For transitory wrong, which fate perverse, Thus madly he deceived himself, compell’d, And therefore stern necessity excused. Here then, O Father, at thy feet I own Myself the guiltier; for full well I knew These were his thoughts, but vengeance master’d me, And in my agony I cursed the man Whom I loved best. Dost thou recall that curse? Cried Roderick, in a deep and inward voice, Still with his head depress’d, and covering still His countenance. Recall it? she exclaim’d; Father, I come to thee because I gave The reins to wrath too long, ... because I wrought His ruin, death, and infamy.... O God, Forgive the wicked vengeance thus indulged, As I forgive the King!... But teach me thou What reparation more than tears and prayers May now be made; ... how shall I vindicate His injured name, and take upon myself.... Daughter of Julian, firmly he replied, Speak not of that, I charge thee! On his fame The Ethiop dye, fixed ineffaceably, For ever will abide; so it must be, So should be: ’tis his rightful punishment; And if to the full measure of his sin The punishment hath fallen, the more our hope That through the blood of Jesus he may find That sin forgiven him. Pausing then, he raised His hand, and pointed where Siverian lay Stretch’d on the heath. To that old man, said he, And to the mother of the unhappy Goth, Tell, if it please thee, ... not what thou hast pour’d Into my secret ear, but that the child For whom they mourn with anguish unallay’d, Sinn’d not from vicious will, or heart corrupt, But fell by fatal circumstance betray’d. And if in charity to them thou sayest Something to palliate, something to excuse An act of sudden frenzy when the Fiend O’ercame him, thou wilt do for Roderick All he could ask thee, all that can be done On earth, and all his spirit could endure.

Venturing towards her an imploring look, Wilt thou join with me for his soul in prayer? He said, and trembled as he spake. That voice Of sympathy was like Heaven’s influence, Wounding at once and comforting the soul. O Father, Christ requite thee! she exclaim’d; Thou hast set free the springs which withering griefs Have closed too long. Forgive me, for I thought Thou wert a rigid and unpitying judge; One whose stern virtue, feeling in itself No flaw of frailty, heard impatiently Of weakness and of guilt. I wrong’d thee Father!... With that she took his hand, and kissing it, Bathed it with tears. Then in a firmer speech, For Roderick, for Count Julian and myself, Three wretchedest of all the human race, Who have destroyed each other and ourselves, Mutually wrong’d and wronging, let us pray!

XI.

COUNT PEDRO’S CASTLE.

Twelve weary days with unremitting speed, Shunning frequented tracks, the travellers Pursued their way; the mountain path they chose, The forest or the lonely heath wide-spread, Where cistus shrubs sole-seen exhaled at noon Their fine balsamic odour all around; Strew’d with their blossoms, frail as beautiful, The thirsty soil at eve; and when the sun Relumed the gladden’d earth, opening anew Their stores exuberant, prodigal as frail, Whiten’d again the wilderness. They left The dark Sierra’s skirts behind, and cross’d The wilds where Ana in her native hills Collects her sister springs, and hurries on Her course melodious amid loveliest glens, With forest and with fruitage overbower’d. These scenes profusely blest by Heaven they left, Where o’er the hazel and the quince the vine Wide-mantling spreads; and clinging round the cork And ilex, hangs amid their dusky leaves Garlands of brightest hue, with reddening fruit Pendant, or clusters cool of glassy green. So holding on o’er mountain and o’er vale, Tagus they cross’d where midland on his way The King of Rivers rolls his stately stream; And rude Alverches wide and stony bed, And Duero distant far, and many a stream And many a field obscure, in future war For bloody theatre of famous deeds Foredoom’d; and deserts where in years to come Shall populous towns arise, and crested towers And stately temples rear their heads on high.

Cautious with course circuitous they shunn’d The embattled city, which in eldest time Thrice-greatest Hermes built, so fables say, Now subjugate, but fated to behold Ere long the heroic Prince (who passing now Unknown and silently the dangerous track, Turns thither his regardant eye) come down Victorious from the heights, and bear abroad Her banner’d Lion, symbol to the Moor Of rout and death through many an age of blood. Lo, there the Asturian hills! Far in the west, Huge Rabanal and Foncebadon huge, Pre-eminent, their giant bulk display, Darkening with earliest shade the distant vales Of Leon, and with evening premature. Far in Cantabria eastward, the long line Extends beyond the reach of eagle’s eye, When buoyant in mid-heaven the bird of Jove Soars at his loftiest pitch. In the north, before The travellers the Erbasian mountains rise, Bounding the land beloved, their native land.

How then, Alphonso, did thy eager soul Chide the slow hours and painful way, which seem’d Lengthening to grow before their lagging pace! Youth of heroic thought and high desire, ’Tis not the spur of lofty enterprize That with unequal throbbing hurries now The unquiet heart, now makes it sink dismay’d; ’Tis not impatient joy which thus disturbs In that young breast the healthful spring of life; Joy and ambition have forsaken him, His soul is sick with hope. So near his home, So near his mother’s arms; ... alas! perchance The long’d-for meeting may be yet far off As earth from heaven. Sorrow in these long months Of separation may have laid her low; Or what if at his flight the bloody Moor Hath sent his ministers of slaughter forth, And he himself should thus have brought the sword Upon his father’s head?... Sure Hoya too The same dark presage feels, the fearful boy Said in himself; or wherefore is his brow Thus overcast with heaviness, and why Looks he thus anxiously in silence round?

Just then that faithful servant raised his hand, And turning to Alphonso with a smile, He pointed where Count Pedro’s towers far off Peer’d in the dell below; faint was the smile, And while it sate upon his lips, his eye Retain’d its troubled speculation still. For long had he look’d wistfully in vain, Seeking where far or near he might espy From whom to learn if time or chance had wrought Change in his master’s house: but on the hills Nor goat-herd could he see, nor traveller, Nor huntsman early at his sports afield, Nor angler following up the mountain glen His lonely pastime; neither could he hear Carol, or pipe, or shout of shepherd’s boy, Nor woodman’s axe, for not a human sound Disturb’d the silence of the solitude.

Is it the spoiler’s work? At yonder door Behold the favourite kidling bleats unheard; The next stands open, and the sparrows there Boldly pass in and out. Thither he turn’d To seek what indications were within; The chesnut-bread was on the shelf, the churn, As if in haste forsaken, full and fresh; The recent fire had moulder’d on the hearth; And broken cobwebs mark’d the whiter space Where from the wall the buckler and the sword Had late been taken down. Wonder at first Had mitigated fear, but Hoya now Return’d to tell the symbols of good hope, And they prick’d forward joyfully. Ere long Perceptible above the ceaseless sound Of yonder stream, a voice of multitudes, As if in loud acclaim, was heard far off; And nearer as they drew, distincter shouts Came from the dell, and at Count Pedro’s gate The human swarm were seen, ... a motley group, Maids, mothers, helpless infancy, weak age, And wondering children and tumultuous boys, Hot youth and resolute manhood gather’d there, In uproar all. Anon the moving mass Falls in half circle back, a general cry Bursts forth, exultant arms are lifted up And caps are thrown aloft, as through the gate Count Pedro’s banner came. Alphonso shriek’d For joy, and smote his steed and gallop’d on.

Fronting the gate the standard-bearer holds His precious charge. Behind the men divide In order’d files; green boyhood presses there, And waning eld, pleading a youthful soul, Intreats admission. All is ardour here, Hope and brave purposes and minds resolved. Nor where the weaker sex is left apart Doth aught of fear find utterance, though perchance Some paler cheeks might there be seen, some eyes Big with sad bodings, and some natural tears. Count Pedro’s war-horse in the vacant space Strikes with impatient hoof the trodden turf, And gazing round upon the martial show, Proud of his stately trappings, flings his head, And snorts and champs the bit, and neighing shrill Wakes the near echo with his voice of joy. The page beside him holds his master’s spear And shield and helmet. In the castle-gate Count Pedro stands, his countenance resolved But mournful, for Favinia on his arm Hung, passionate with her fears, and held him back. Go not, she cried, with this deluded crew! She hath not, Pedro, with her frantic words Bereft thy faculty, ... she is crazed with grief, And her delirium hath infected these: But, Pedro, thou art calm; thou dost not share The madness of the crowd; thy sober mind Surveys the danger in its whole extent, And sees the certain ruin, ... for thou know’st I know thou hast no hope. Unhappy man, Why then for this most desperate enterprize Wilt thou devote thy son, thine only child? Not for myself I plead, nor even for thee; Thou art a soldier, and thou canst not fear The face of death; and I should welcome it As the best visitant whom Heaven could send. Not for our lives I speak then, ... were they worth The thought of preservation; ... Nature soon Must call for them; the sword that should cut short Sorrow’s slow work were merciful to us. But spare Alphonso! there is time and hope In store for him. O thou who gavest him life, Seal not his death, his death and mine at once!

Peace! he replied: thou know’st there is no choice, I did not raise the storm; I cannot turn Its course aside! but where yon banner goes Thy Lord must not be absent! Spare me then, Favinia, lest I hear thy honour’d name Now first attainted with deserved reproach. The boy is in God’s hands. He who of yore Walk’d with the sons of Judah in the fire, And from the lion’s den drew Daniel forth Unhurt, can save him, ... if it be his will.

Even as he spake, the astonish’d troop set up A shout of joy which rung through all the hills. Alphonso heeds not how they break their ranks And gather round to greet him; from his horse Precipitate and panting off he springs. Pedro grew pale, and trembled at his sight; Favinia claspt her hands, and looking up To Heaven as she embraced the boy, exclaim’d, Lord God, forgive me for my sinful fears; Unworthy that I am, ... my son, my son!

XII.

THE VOW.

Always I knew thee for a generous foe, Pelayo! said the Count; and in our time Of enmity, thou too, I know, didst feel The feud between us was but of the house, Not of the heart. Brethren in arms henceforth We stand or fall together: nor will I Look to the event with one misgiving thought, ... That were to prove myself unworthy now Of Heaven’s benignant providence, this hour, Scarcely by less than miracle, vouchsafed. I will believe that we have days in store Of hope, now risen again as from the dead, ... Of vengeance, ... of portentous victory, ... Yea, maugre all unlikelihoods, ... of peace. Let us then here indissolubly knit Our ancient houses, that those happy days, When they arrive, may find us more than friends, And bound by closer than fraternal ties. Thou hast a daughter, Prince, to whom my heart Yearns now, as if in winning infancy Her smiles had been its daily food of love. I need not tell thee what Alphonso is, ... Thou know’st the boy! Already had that hope, Replied Pelayo, risen within my soul. O Thou, who in thy mercy from the house Of Moorish bondage hast deliver’d us, Fulfil the pious purposes for which Here, in thy presence, thus we pledge our hands!

Strange hour to plight espousals! yielding half To superstitious thoughts, Favinia cried, And these strange witnesses!... The times are strange, With thoughtful speech composed her Lord replies, And what thou seest accords with them. This day Is wonderful; nor could auspicious Heaven With fairer or with fitter omen gild Our enterprize, when strong in heart and hope We take the field, preparing thus for works Of piety and love. Unwillingly I yielded to my people’s general voice, Thinking that she who with her powerful words To this excess had roused and kindled them, Spake from the spirit of her griefs alone, Not with prophetic impulse. Be that sin Forgiven me! and the calm and quiet faith Which, in the place of incredulity, Hath fill’d me, now that seeing I believe, Doth give of happy end to righteous cause A presage, not presumptuous, but assured.

Then Pedro told Pelayo how from vale To vale the exalted Adosinda went, Exciting sire and son, in holy war Conquering or dying, to secure their place In Paradise: and how reluctantly, And mourning for his child by his own act Thus doom’d to death, he bade with heavy heart His banner be brought forth. Devoid alike Of purpose and of hope himself, he meant To march toward the western Mountaineers, Where Odoar by his counsel might direct Their force conjoin’d. Now, said he, we must haste To Cangas, there, Pelayo, to secure, With timely speed, I trust in God, thy house.