“For others a diviner creed
Is living in the life they lead.
The passing of their beautiful feet
Blesses the pavement of the street,
And all their looks and words repeat 60
Old Fuller’s saying, wise and sweet,
Not as a vulture, but a dove,
The Holy Ghost came from above.
“And this brings back to me a tale
So sad the hearer well may quail, 65
And question if such things can be;
Yet in the chronicles of Spain
Down the dark pages runs this stain,
And naught can wash them white again,
So fearful is the tragedy.” 70
The Theologian’s Tale
Torquemada
“December 5 [at midnight]. Finished Torquemada, — a dismal story of fanaticism; but in its main points historic. See De Castro, Protestantes Españolus, page 310.”
IN the heroic days when Ferdinand
And Isabella ruled the Spanish land,
And Torquemada, with his subtle brain,
Ruled them as Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
In a great castle near Valladolid, 5
Moated and high and by fair woodlands hid,
There dwelt, as from the chronicles we learn,
An old Hidalgo proud and taciturn,
Whose name has perished, with his towers of stone,
And all his actions save this one alone; 10
This one, so terrible, perhaps ‘t were best
If it, too, were forgotten with the rest;
Unless, perchance, our eyes can see therein
The martyrdom triumphant o’er the sin;
A double picture, with its gloom and glow, 15
The splendor overhead, the death below.
This sombre man counted each day as lost
On which his feet no sacred threshold crossed;
And when he chanced the passing Host to meet,
He knelt and prayed devoutly in the street; 20
Oft he confessed; and with each mutinous thought,
As with wild beasts at Ephesus, he fought.
In deep contrition scourged himself in Lent,
Walked in processions, with his head down bent,
At plays of Corpus Christi oft was seen, 25
And on Palm Sunday bore his bough of green.
His sole diversion was to hunt the boar
Through tangled thickets of the forest hoar,
Or with his jingling mules to hurry down
To some grand bull-fight in the neighboring town, 30
Or in the crowd with lighted taper stand,
When Jews were burned, or banished from the land.
Then stirred within him a tumultuous joy;
The demon whose delight is to destroy
Shook him, and shouted with a trumpet tone, 35
“Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!”
And now, in that old castle in the wood,
His daughters, in the dawn of womanhood,
Returning from their convent school, had made
Resplendent with their bloom the forest shade, 40
Reminding him of their dead mother’s face,
When first she came into that gloomy place, —
A memory in his heart as dim and sweet
As moonlight in a solitary street,
Where the same rays, that lift the sea, are thrown 45
Lovely but powerless upon walls of stone.
These two fair daughters of a mother dead
Were all the dream had left him as it fled.
A joy at first, and then a growing care,
As if a voice within him cried, “Beware!” 50
A vague presentiment of impending doom,
Like ghostly footsteps in a vacant room,
Haunted him day and night; a formless fear
That death to some one of his house was near,
With dark surmises of a hidden crime, 55
Made life itself a death before its time.
Jealous, suspicious, with no sense of shame,
A spy upon his daughters he became;
With velvet slippers, noiseless on the floors,
He glided softly through half-open doors; 60
Now in the room, and now upon the stair,
He stood beside them ere they were aware;
He listened in the passage when they talked,
He watched them from the casement when they walked,
He saw the gypsy haunt the river’s side, 65
He saw the monk among the cork-trees glide;
And, tortured by the mystery and the doubt
Of some dark secret, past his finding out,
Baffled he paused; then reassured again
Pursued the flying phantom of his brain. 70
He watched them even when they knelt in church;
And then, descending lower in his search,
Questioned the servants, and with eager eyes
Listened incredulous to their replies;
The gypsy? none had seen her in the wood! 75
The monk? a mendicant in search of food!
At length the awful revelation came,
Crushing at once his pride of birth and name;
The hopes his yearning bosom forward cast
And the ancestral glories of the past, 80
All fell together, crumbling in disgrace,
A turret rent from battlement to base.
His daughters talking in the dead of night
In their own chamber, and without a light,
Listening, as he was wont, he overheard, 85
And learned the dreadful secret, word by word;
And hurrying from his castle, with a cry
He raised his hands to the unpitying sky,
Repeating one dread word, till bush and tree
Caught it, and shuddering answered, “Heresy!” 90
Wrapped in his cloak, his hat drawn o’er his face,
Now hurrying forward, now with lingering pace,
He walked all night the alleys of his park,
With one unseen companion in the dark,
The demon who within him lay in wait 95
And by his presence turned his love to hate,
Forever muttering in an undertone,
“Kill! kill! and let the Lord find out his own!”
Upon the morrow, after early Mass,
While yet the dew was glistening on the grass, 100
And all the woods were musical with birds,
The old Hidalgo, uttering fearful words,
Walked homeward with the Priest, and in his room
Summoned his trembling daughters to their doom.
When questioned, with brief answers they replied, 105
Nor when accused evaded or denied;
Expostulations, passionate appeals,
All that the human heart most fears or feels,
In vain the Priest with earnest voice essayed;
In vain the father threatened, wept, and prayed; 110
Until at last he said, with haughty mien,
“The Holy Office, then, must intervene!”
And now the Grand Inquisitor of Spain,
With all the fifty horsemen of his train,
His awful name resounding, like the blast 115
Of funeral trumpets, as he onward passed,
Came to Valladolid, and there began
To harry the rich Jews with fire and ban.
To him the Hidalgo went, and at the gate
Demanded audience on affairs of state, 120
And in a secret chamber stood before
A venerable graybeard of fourscore,
Dressed in the hood and habit of a friar;
Out of his eyes flashed a consuming fire,
And in his hand the mystic horn he held, 125
Which poison and all noxious charms dispelled.
He heard in silence the Hidalgo�
��s tale,
Then answered in a voice that made him quail:
“Son of the Church! when Abraham of old
To sacrifice his only son was told, 130
He did not pause to parley nor protest,
But hastened to obey the Lord’s behest.
In him it was accounted righteousness;
The Holy Church expects of thee no less!”
A sacred frenzy seized the father’s brain, 135
And Mercy from that hour implored in vain.
Ah! who will e’er believe the words I say?
His daughters he accused, and the same day
They both were cast into the dungeon’s gloom,
That dismal antechamber of the tomb, 140
Arraigned, condemned, and sentenced to the flame,
The secret torture and the public shame.
Then to the Grand Inquisitor once more
The Hidalgo went more eager than before,
And said: “When Abraham offered up his son, 145
He clave the wood wherewith it might be done.
By his example taught, let me too bring
Wood from the forest for my offering!”
And the deep voice, without a pause, replied:
“Son of the Church! by faith now justified, 150
Complete thy sacrifice, even as thou wilt;
The Church absolves thy conscience from all guilt!”
Then this most wretched father went his way
Into the woods, that round his castle lay,
Where once his daughters in their childhood played 155
With their young mother in the sun and shade.
Now all the leaves had fallen; the branches bare
Made a perpetual moaning in the air,
And screaming from their eyries overhead
The ravens sailed athwart the sky of lead. 160
With his own hands he lopped the boughs and bound
Fagots, that crackled with foreboding sound,
And on his mules, caparisoned and gay
With bells and tassels, sent them on their way.
Then with his mind on one dark purpose bent, 165
Again to the Inquisitor he went,
And said: “Behold, the fagots I have brought,
And now, lest my atonement be as naught,
Grant me one more request, one last desire, —
With my own hand to light the funeral fire!” 170
And Torquemada answered from his seat,
“Son of the Church! Thine offering is complete;
Her servants through all ages shall not cease
To magnify thy deed. Depart in peace!”
Upon the market-place, builded of stone 175
The scaffold rose, whereon Death claimed his own.
At the four corners, in stern attitude,
Four statues of the Hebrew Prophets stood,
Gazing with calm indifference in their eyes
Upon this place of human sacrifice, 180
Round which was gathering fast the eager crowd,
With clamor of voices dissonant and loud,
And every roof and window was alive
With restless gazers, swarming like a hive.
The church-bells tolled, the chant of monks drew near, 185
Loud trumpets stammered forth their notes of fear,
A line of torches smoked along the street,
There was a stir, a rush, a tramp of feet,
And, with its banners floating in the air,
Slowly the long procession crossed the square, 190
And, to the statues of the Prophets bound,
The victims stood, with fagots piled around.
Then all the air a blast of trumpets shook,
And louder sang the monks with bell and book,
And the Hidalgo, lofty, stern, and proud, 195
Lifted his torch, and, bursting through the crowd,
Lighted in haste the fagots, and then fled,
Lest those imploring eyes should strike him dead!
O pitiless skies! why did your clouds retain
For peasants’ fields their floods of hoarded rain? 200
O pitiless earth! why opened no abyss
To bury in its chasm a crime like this?
That night, a mingled column of fire and smoke
From the dark thickets of the forest broke,
And, glaring o’er the landscape leagues away, 205
Made all the fields and hamlets bright as day.
Wrapped in a sheet of flame the castle blazed,
And as the villagers in terror gazed,
They saw the figure of that cruel knight
Lean from a window in the turret’s height, 210
His ghastly face illumined with the glare,
His hands upraised above his head in prayer,
Till the floor sank beneath him, and he fell
Down the black hollow of that burning well.
Three centuries and more above his bones 215
Have piled the oblivious years like funeral stones;
His name has perished with him, and no trace
Remains on earth of his afflicted race;
But Torquemada’s name, with clouds o’ercast,
Looms in the distant landscape of the Past, 220
Like a burnt tower upon a blackened heath,
Lit by the fires of burning woods beneath!
The Theologian’s Tale: Interlude
THUS closed the tale of guilt and gloom,
That cast upon each listener’s face
Its shadow, and for some brief space
Unbroken silence filled the room.
The Jew was thoughtful and distressed; 5
Upon his memory thronged and pressed
The persecution of his race,
Their wrongs and sufferings and disgrace;
His head was sunk upon his breast,
And from his eyes alternate came 10
Flashes of wrath and tears of shame.
The Student first the silence broke,
As one who long has lain in wait,
With purpose to retaliate,
And thus he dealt the avenging stroke. 15
“In such a company as this,
A tale so tragic seems amiss,
That by its terrible control
O’ermasters and drags down the soul
Into a fathomless abyss. 20
The Italian Tales that you disdain,
Some merry Night of Straparole,
Or Machiavelli’s Belphagor,
Would cheer us and delight us more,
Give greater pleasure and less pain 25
Than your grim tragedies of Spain!”
And here the Poet raised his hand,
With such entreaty and command,
It stopped discussion at its birth,
And said: “The story I shall tell 30
Has meaning in it, if not mirth;
Listen, and hear what once befell
The merry birds of Killingworth!”
The Poet’s Tale
The Birds of Killingworth
IT was the season, when through all the land
The merle and mavis build, and building sing
Those lovely lyrics, written by His hand,
Whom Saxon Cædmon calls the Blithe-heart King;
When on the boughs the purple buds expand, 5
The banners of the vanguard of the Spring,
And rivulets, rejoicing, rush and leap,
And wave their fluttering signals from the steep.
The robin and the bluebird, piping loud,
Filled all the blossoming orchards with their glee; 10
The sparrows chirped as if they still were proud
Their race in Holy Writ should mentioned be;
And hungry crows, assembled in a crowd,
Clamored their piteous prayer incessantly,
Knowing who hears the ravens cry, and said: 15
“Give us, O
Lord, this day, our daily bread!”
Across the Sound the birds of passage sailed,
Speaking some unknown language strange and sweet
Of tropic isle remote, and passing hailed
The village with the cheers of all their fleet; 20
Or quarrelling together, laughed and railed
Like foreign sailors, landed in the street
Of seaport town, and with outlandish noise
Of oaths and gibberish frightening girls and boys.
Thus came the jocund Spring in Killing-worth, 25
In fabulous days, some hundred years ago;
And thrifty farmers, as they tilled the earth,
Heard with alarm the cawing of the crow,
That mingled with the universal mirth,
Cassandra-like, prognosticating woe; 30
They shook their heads, and doomed with dreadful words
To swift destruction the whole race of birds.
And a town-meeting was convened straight-way
To set a price upon the guilty heads
Of these marauders, who, in lieu of pay, 35
Levied black-mail upon the garden beds
And cornfields, and beheld without dismay
The awful scarecrow, with his fluttering shreds;
The skeleton that waited at their feast,
Whereby their sinful pleasure was increased. 40
Then from his house, a temple painted white,
With fluted columns, and a roof of red,
The Squire came forth, august and splendid sight!
Slowly descending, with majestic tread,
Three flights of steps, nor looking left nor right, 45
Down the long street he walked, as one who said,
“A town that boasts inhabitants like me
Can have no lack of good society!”
The Parson, too, appeared, a man austere,
The instinct of whose nature was to kill; 50
The wrath of God he preached from year to year,
And read, with fervor, Edwards on the Will;
His favorite pastime was to slay the deer
In Summer on some Adirondac hill;
E’en now, while walking down the rural lane, 55
He lopped the wayside lilies with his cane.
From the Academy, whose belfry crowned
The hill of Science with its vane of brass,
Came the Preceptor, gazing idly round,
Now at the clouds, and now at the green grass, 60
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 60
