Kitabı oku: «Mosada: A dramatic poem»

MOSADA

"And my Lord Cardinal hath had strange days in his youth."

Extract from a Memoir of the Fifteenth Century

Scene I

A Little Moorish Room in the Village of Azubia

In the centre of the room a chafing dish

 
Mosada. [alone] Three times the roses have grown less and less,
As slowly Autumn climbed the golden throne
Where sat old Summer fading into song,
And thrice the peaches flushed upon the walls,
And thrice the corn around the sickles flamed,
Since 'mong my people, tented on the hills,
He stood a messenger. In April's prime
(Swallows were flashing their white breasts above
Or perching on the tents, a-weary still
From waste seas cross'd, yet ever garrulous)
Along the velvet vale I saw him come:
In Autumn, when far down the mountain slopes
The heavy clusters of the grapes were full,
I saw him sigh and turn and pass away;
For I and all my people were accurst
Of his sad God; and down among the grass
Hiding my face, I cried long, bitterly.
Twas evening, and the cricket nation sang
Around my head and danced among the grass;
And all was dimness till a dying leaf
Slid circling down and softly touched my lips
With dew as though 'twere sealing them for death.
Yet somewhere in the footsore world we meet
We two before we die, for Azolar
The star-taught Moor said thus it was decreed
By those wan stars that sit in company
Above the Alpujarras on their thrones,
That when the stars of our nativity
Draw star to star, as on that eve he passed
Down the long valleys from my people's tents,
We meet – we two.
 

[She opens the casement – the mingled sound of the voices andlaughter of the apple gatherers floats in.]

 
How merry all these are
Among the fruit. But yon, lame Cola crouches
Away from all the others. Now the sun —
A-shining on the little crucifix
Of silver hanging round lame Cola's neck —
Sinks down at last with yonder minaret
Of the Alhambra black athwart his disk;
And Cola seeing, knows the sign and comes.
Thus do I burn these precious herbs whose smoke
Pours up and floats in fragrance o'er my head
In coil on coil of azure.
 
 
[Enter Cola.] All is ready.
 
 
Cola. Mosada, it is then so much the worse.
I will not share your sin.
 
 
Mosada. It is no sin
That you shall see on yonder glowing cloud
Pictured, where wander the beloved feet
Whose footfall I have longed for, three sad summers —
Why these new fears?
 
 
Cola. The servant of the Lord,
The dark still man, has come, and says 'tis sin.
 
 
Mosada. They say the wish itself is half the sin.
Then has this one been sinned full many times,
Yet 'tis no sin – my father taught it me.
He was a man most learned and most mild,
Who, dreaming to a wondrous age, lived on
Tending the roses round his lattice door.
For years his days had dawned and faded thus
Among the plants; the flowery silence fell
Deep in his soul, like rain upon a soil
Worn by the solstice fierce, and made it pure.
Would he teach any sin?
 
 
Cola. Gaze in the cloud
Yourself.
 
 
Mosada. None but the innocent can see.
 
 
Cola. They say I am all ugliness; lame-footed
 

Scene II

A Room, the building of the Inquisition of Granada, lit by

stained window, picturing St. James of Spain

Monks and Inquisitors

 
First Monk. Will you not hear my last new song?
 
 
First Inquisitor. Hush, hush!
So she must burn you say.
 
 
Second Inquisitor. She must in truth.
 
 
First Inquisitor. Will he not spare her life? How would one matter
When there are many?
 
 
Second Monk. Ebremar will stamp
This heathen horde away. You need not hope;
And know you not she kissed that pious child
With poisonous lips, and he is pining since?
 
 
First Monk. You're full of wordiness. Come, hear my song.
 
 
Second Monk. In truth an evil race; why strive for her,
A little Moorish girl?
 
 
Second Inquisitor. Small worth.
 
 
First Monk. My song —
 
 
First Inquisitor. I had a sister like her once my friend.
 

[Touching the first Monk on the shoulder.]

 
Where is our brother Peter? When you're nigh,
He is not far. I'd have him speak for her.
I saw his jovial mood bring once a smile
To sainted Ebremar's sad eyes. I think
He loves our brother Peter in his heart.
If Peter would but ask her life – who knows?
 
 
First Monk. He digs his cabbages. He brings to mind
That song I've made – is of a Russian tale
Of Holy Peter of the Burning Gate:
A saint of Russia in a vision saw
 

[Sings]

 
A stranger new arisen wait
By the door of Peter's gate,
And he shouted Open wide
Thy sacred door, but Peter cried,
No, thy home is deepest hell,
Deeper than the deepest well.
Then the stranger softly crew
Cock-a-doodle-doodle-doo!
Answered Peter: Enter in
Friend; but 'twere a deadly sin
Ever more to speak a word
Of any unblessed earthly bird.
 
 
First Inquisitor. Be still, I hear the step of Ebremar.
Yonder he comes; bright-eyed, and hollow-cheeked
From fasting – see, the red light slanting down
From the great painted window wraps his brow,
As with an aureole.
 

[Ebremar enters – they all bow to him.]

 
First Inquisitor. My suit to you —
 
 
Ebremar. I will not hear; the Moorish girl must die.
I will burn heresy from this mad earth,
And —
 
 
First Inquisitor. Mercy is the manna of the world.
 
 
Ebremar. The wages of sin is death.
 
 
Second Monk. No use.
 
 
First Inquisitor. My lord, if it must be, I pray descend
Yourself into the dungeon 'neath our feet
And importune with weighty words this Moor,
That she foreswear her heresies and save
Her soul from seas of endless flame in hell.
 
 
Ebremar. I speak alone with servants of the Cross
And dying men – and yet – but no, farewell.
 
 
Second Monk. No use.
 
 
Ebremar. Away! [They go.] Hear oh! thou enduring God,
Who giveth to the golden-crested wren
Her hanging mansion. Give to me, I pray,
The burthen of thy truth. Reach down thy hands
And fill me with thy rage, that I may bruise
The heathen. Yea, and shake the sullen kings
Upon their thrones. The lives of men shall flow
As quiet as the little rivulets
Beneath the sheltering shadow of thy Church,
And thou shalt bend, enduring God, the knees
Of the great warriors whose names have sung
The world to its fierce infancy again.
 

Scene III

The dungeon of the Inquisition. The morning of the Auto-da-Fe

dawns dimly through a barred window. A few faint stars

are shining. Swallows are circling in the dimness without

 
Mosada. Oh! swallows, swallows, swallows, will ye fly
This eve, to-morrow, or to-morrow night
Above the farm-house by the little lake
That's rustling in the reeds with patient pushes,
Soft as a long dead footstep whispering through
The brain. My brothers will be passing down
Quite soon the cornfield, where the poppies grow,
To their farm-work; how silent all will be.
But no, in this warm weather, 'mong the hills,
Will be the faint far thunder-sound as though
The world were dreaming in its summer sleep;
That will be later, day is scarcely dawning.
And Hassan will be with them – he was so small,
A weak, thin child, when last I saw him there.
He will be taller now – 'twas long ago.
 
 
The men are busy in the glimmering square.
I hear the murmur as they raise the beams
To build the circling seats, where high in air
Soon will the churchmen nod above the crowd.
I'm not of that pale company whose feet
Ere long shall falter through the noisy square,
And not come thence – for here in this small ring,
Hearken, ye swallows! I have hoarded up
A poison drop. The toy of fancy once,
A fashion with us Moorish maids, begot
Of dreaming and of watching by the door
The shadows pass; but now, I love my ring,
For it alone of all the world will do
My bidding.
 

[Sucks poison from the ring.]

 
Now 'tis done, and I am glad
And free – 'twill thieve away with sleepy mood
My thoughts, and yonder brightening patch of sky
With three bars crossed, and these four walls my world,
And yon few stars, grown dim like eyes of lovers
The noisy world divides. How soon a deed
So small makes one grow weak and tottering.
Where shall I lay me down? That question is
A weighty question, for it is the last.
Not there, for there a spider weaves her web.
Nay here, I'll lay me down where I can watch
The burghers of the night fade one by one,
… Yonder a leaf
Of apple blossom circles in the gloom,
Floating from yon barred window. New comer,
Thou'rt welcome. Lie there close against my fingers.
I wonder which is whitest, they or thou.
'Tis thou, for they've grown blue around the nails.
My blossom, I am dying, and the stars
Are dying too. They were full seven stars;
Two only now they are, two side by side.
Oh! Allah, it was thus they shone that night,
When my lost lover left these arms. My Vallence,
We meet at last, the ministering stars
Of our nativity hang side by side,
And throb within the circles of green dawn.
Too late, too late, for I am near to death.
I try to lift mine arms – they fall again.
This death is heavy in my veins like sleep.
I cannot even crawl along the flags
A little nearer those bright stars. Tell me,
Is it your message, stars, that when death comes
My soul shall touch with his, and the two flames
Be one? I think all's finished now and sealed.
 

[After a pause enter Ebremar.]

 
Ebremar. Young Moorish girl, thy final hour is here,