X. RODERICK AND FLORINDA.

With sword and breast-plate, under rustic weeds

Conceal’d, at dusk Pelayo pass’d the gate,

Florinda following near, disguised alike.

Two peasants on their mules they seem’d, at eve

Returning from the town. Not distant far,

Alphonso by the appointed orange-grove,

With anxious eye and agitated heart,

Watch’d for the Prince’s coming. Eagerly

At every foot-fall through the gloom he strain’d

His sight, nor did he recognize him when

The Chieftain thus accompanied drew nigh;

And when the expected signal called him on,

Doubting this female presence, half in fear

Obey’d the call. Pelayo too perceived

The boy was not alone; he not for that

Delay’d the summons, but lest need should be,

Laying hand upon his sword, toward him bent

In act soliciting speech, and low of voice

Enquired if friend or foe. Forgive me, cried

Alphonso, that I did not tell thee this,

Full as I was of happiness, before.

’Tis Hoya, servant of my father’s house,

Unto whose dutiful care and love, when sent

To this vile bondage, I was given in charge.

How could I look upon my father’s face

If I had in my joy deserted him,

Who was to me found faithful?... Right! replied

The Prince; and viewing him with silent joy,

Blessed the Mother, in his heart he said,

Who gave thee birth! but sure of womankind

Most blessed she whose hand her happy stars

Shall link with thine! and with that thought the form

Of Hermesind, his daughter, to his soul

Came in her beauty.

Soon by devious tracks

They turn’d aside. The favouring moon arose,

To guide them on their flight through upland paths

Remote from frequentage, and dales retired,

Forest and mountain glen. Before their feet

The fire-flies, swarming in the woodland shade,

Sprung up like sparks, and twinkled round their way;

The timorous blackbird, starting at their step,

Fled from the thicket with shrill note of fear;

And far below them in the peopled dell,

When all the soothing sounds of eve had ceased,

The distant watch-dog’s voice at times was heard,

Answering the nearer wolf. All through the night

Among the hills they travell’d silently;

Till when the stars were setting, at what hour

The breath of Heaven is coldest, they beheld

Within a lonely grove the expected fire,

Where Roderick and his comrade anxiously

Look’d for the appointed meeting. Halting there,

They from the burthen and the bit relieved

Their patient bearers, and around the fire

Partook of needful food and grateful rest.

Bright rose the flame replenish’d; it illumed

The cork-tree’s furrow’d rind, its rifts and swells

And redder scars, ... and where its aged boughs

O’erbower’d the travellers, cast upon the leaves

A floating, grey, unrealizing gleam.

Alphonso, light of heart, upon the heath

Lay carelessly dispread, in happy dreams

Of home; his faithful Hoya slept beside.

Years and fatigue to old Siverian brought

Easy oblivion; and the Prince himself,

Yielding to weary nature’s gentle will,

Forgot his cares awhile. Florinda sate

Beholding Roderick with fix’d eyes intent,

Yet unregardant of the countenance

Whereon they dwelt; in other thoughts absorb’d,

Collecting fortitude for what she yearn’d,

Yet trembled to perform. Her steady look

Disturb’d the Goth, albeit he little ween’d

What agony awaited him that hour.

Her face, well nigh as changed as his, was now

Half-hidden, and the lustre of her eye

Extinct; nor did her voice awaken in him

One startling recollection when she spake,

So altered were its tones.

Father, she said,

All thankful as I am to leave behind

The unhappy walls of Cordoba, not less

Of consolation doth my heart receive

At sight of one to whom I may disclose

The sins which trouble me, and at his feet

Lay down repentantly, in Jesu’s name,

The burthen of my spirit. In his name

Hear me, and pour into a wounded soul

The balm of pious counsel.... Saying thus,

She drew toward the minister ordain’d,

And kneeling by him, Father, dost thou know

The wretch who kneels beside thee? she enquired,

He answered, Surely we are each to each

Equally unknown.

Then said she, Here thou seest

One who is known too fatally for all, ...

The daughter of Count Julian.... Well it was

For Roderick that no eye beheld him now;

From head to foot a sharper pang than death

Thrill’d him; his heart, as at a mortal stroke,

Ceased from its functions: his breath fail’d, and when

The power of life recovering set its springs

Again in action, cold and clammy sweat

Starting at every pore suffused his frame.

Their presence help’d him to subdue himself;

For else, had none been nigh, he would have fallen

Before Florinda prostrate on the earth,

And in that mutual agony belike

Both souls had taken flight. She mark’d him not,

For having told her name, she bow’d her head,

Breathing a short and silent prayer to Heaven,

While, as a penitent, she wrought herself

To open to his eye her hidden wounds.

Father, at length she said, all tongues amid

This general ruin shed their bitterness

On Roderick, load his memory with reproach,

And with their curses persecute his soul....

Why shouldst thou tell me this? exclaim’d the Goth,

From his cold forehead wiping as he spake

The death-like moisture; ... Why of Roderick’s guilt

Tell me? Or thinkest thou I know it not?

Alas! who hath not heard the hideous tale

Of Roderick’s shame! Babes learn it from their nurses,

And children, by their mothers unreproved,

Link their first execrations to his name.

Oh, it hath caught a taint of infamy,

That, like Iscariot’s, through all time shall last,

Reeking and fresh for ever!

There! she cried,

Drawing her body backward where she knelt,

And stretching forth her arms with head upraised,

There! it pursues me still!... I came to thee,

Father, for comfort, and thou heapest fire

Upon my head. But hear me patiently,

And let me undeceive thee; self-abased,

Not to arraign another, do I come;

I come a self-accuser, self-condemn’d

To take upon myself the pain deserved;

For I have drank the cup of bitterness,

And having drank therein of heavenly grace,

I must not put away the cup of shame.

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!