Classic Poem

SCENE [I] — A Room in D IEGO'S House Enter D IEGO and A RIAS

Diego . I tell you, Sir, it is impossible.
Conceal it? What! Conceal? What with a face
That never yet could look the easiest lie,
Nor play the wax-lipped servant at the door,
Denying who's within! Conceal it? So!
And smite my conscience, as the dog smote me!
Arias . But, Sir, you live, upon the whole, retired:
Why not live quite so for a time; and so
Let the thing die away, even in your looks.
The Count is sad, believe me; and the King
Is most desirous of it.
Dieg. Sir, I'll tell you.
There is one person living in this city,
Who holds me busily in his respect,
And loves to hold; and were I, as I shall,
To sit alone all day, and wake alone
All night, and almost hold my very breath
As tainted with dishonour, till redress
Free my old halting blood from this new clog,
It could not be concealed from him : and that
Would pull the blood up in my cheeks as much
As if the whole world knew it.
Arias . Who is he?
Dieg. Diego. Who'll conceal it from Diego?
Who from that self-respecting (once) old man,
And from his haunted head? I cannot stir,
I cannot turn me, but each thing I see,
Even inanimate, a chair, or wall,
Changing its old indifferent or glad aspect
To something dreary, looks of what has been.
The saintly images, as I go past,
Appear to follow me with sliding eyes.
Contempt, with a fierce hand, has scored a line
'Twixt me and joy, and dares my weak old age
To pass; and so I stand, inwardly shrunk,
Doubting, confused, with shades that seem to press
Upon my dull-eyed brain, as if in me
The old house of Lain had fallen in
At top, and presently with a mad break up
Would dash its ribs together to the earth.
Arias . Believe me, reverend Sir, you think of this
Too much, although a Spaniard, since the king
Speaks as he does; and you remember how
The count himself asked pardon of the king.
Dieg. He should have asked it, Sir, of me; and shall
Yes; there's new life sometimes, although a short,
In this despair; I feel it; my dim eyes
Can flash yet ere they close; this reckless hand
Perhaps may turn its small remaining strength
To one good sum, and spend it like a man.
Sir, to say nothing of myself, I beg
For your own sake you'll leave me: I do indeed:
I shall perhaps say something which I would not
You are a distant kinsman of the house
Of which I once was head. Did I not feel
The opposite of what you seem to think,
And know that vengeance is the only thing
Can make me what I was, I should rebuke
You for not rousing up your distant blood
To sweep away the blot: but yes — I know
You feel that I am right, and justly leave me
To vindicate myself. Do leave me so
Arias . I'll hurt you, Sir, no longer. I obeyed
The king, I now obey a kinglier spirit.

Dieg . There was a bastard of Lain Calvo's house,
Mudarra, a half Moor, who when he heard
His father was ill-used among the Spaniards,
Left his own country, mother, friends and all,
To come and fight for him; and turning Christian,
He did such work, and dealt such gashy deaths
Upon the heads of his blest father's enemies,
That ever since his great old sword has been
Among us like a relic; and no eye
Turns to that closet where it lies alone,
Stretched in its giant sheath, but thinks it sees
Almost the sepulchre of a living thing.
It shall come forth.

Alas! alas! I try
In vain to wield it; even despair will tighten not
This wrist hinge-broken, and this hand, which shakes
Like to a guilty one that is enforced
To hold some awful image. O age, age,
Remembering all good things, yet having none,
Fondest of lasting things when at thy last,
With not even strength enough to dig the grave
Where thou art forced to hide thee; thy poor eyes
Forsaken even of tears; thy wandering hands
Turned to habitual tremblers; thy grey locks
Tost in thy teeth with contumelious winds;
And all thy crazy being ready to fall
To shatters with a blow — O too, too well
Is the imaginary charm of reverence
Hung round about thee, since the first vile hand
That dares to break it, does; and there thou art,
The ruin of a man, with piping scorn
Through both thine echoing ears aching the brain.
I do forget — no, not myself — but those
Who may demand a better right to draw
Upon their future strength. Rodrigo, — not first —
And yet — but stay, old man. ( He calls out .) Bermudo Lain!
Come here, Bermudo Are your brothers waiting,
As I desired them?
Ber . Yes, Sir, and most anxious
To know —
Dieg . Attend to me. What should be done,
Think you, were any one to insult your father?
Ber . You, Sir?
Dieg . Ay, me, Sir; I am but a man,
And an old man; or do you fancy, that
Your father cannot be so treated, boy?
Ber . I should think any man so old and reverend
Would be held sacred: but were he to be
Really insulted, being unable too
To reckon with the coward, he should ask
Right of the king.
Dieg . What! And be coward too?
Avoid me: — not a word: I shall not strike thee
Thou strik'st thyself, and dost not feel the blow.
Every way are we struck. Avoid me, boy;
Hunt butterflies again: go, strike a top,
That sleeps on a sound beating. Begone, Sir.
I must not sit and think. Now ( He calls again ), Hernan Diaz!
This is my youngest. He is like his mother,
More than even Rodrigo; and she, blest saint,
Would have blushed through and through her gentleness
To see me make this doubting muster. Hernan!

Enter H ERNAN

Hernan, no words. I am not sick, nor dying,
Nor even in gentle mood. Yet hither: let me
Look in thy face. Thou art thy mother, Hernan,
Turned into man, — I hope. What shouldst thou do,
Thy father having been insulted, man?
Her . Insulted, dearest father?
Dieg . Ay, insulted.
What! are my children turned to hollow things
That thus they echo my mere words?
Her . Dear father,
I would have flown to comfort you at first
Had you but let me, and I'll stay with you
Now, if you please, and ever.
Dieg . Like a shadow.
Her . Ay, but not coloured so. Not even my mother —
Dieg . Name you not her. This day, for the first time,
I wished her spirit might not be looking at me;
Now I must wish she cannot see her children.
Her . O, Sir! What words are these?
Dieg . Words! All are words!
What is there else in old Diego's house?
Go get thee gone, child; for thou art a child.
The mention of thy mother lets me call thee
That, and no more. Send Rodrigo in, — I say,
Send Rodrigo. He at least can play the man.
Rod . ( Entering ). Pardon this haste, Sir, but I thought you called.
Dieg . I like the haste, Sir, and the voice. How now?
What is this girlish loitering? ( Exit H ERNAN .) Now the last,
Most hoped, and yet most feared, yet still most hoped.
Rod . O my dear father, what's this mystery,
That must be shewn thus nicely to your sons,
And you the sufferer?
Dieg . No embrace, boy. No:
'Tis a familiarity, of which
Both parties should be sure that each is worthy.
Rod . Father! Good God! And how am I unworthy?
How long — nay, tell me, Sir, and I will end
This hideous dream at once.
Dieg . That would not end it.
Rod . What, Sir? I never spoke you false, and would you
Be wilfully unjust? You cannot, Sir.
Nor ought not; — no — even a father ought not;
And most a father ought not.
Dieg . ( Aside ). Oh that this . . .
Yet, boy, see, see the while; you dare to rail
Against your father by anticipation.
Rod . No, Sir, I dare do nothing that's unjust:
Nor dare to think you could.
Dieg . Dare not even think?
Rod . No, Sir. How dare I think of anything,
That would, one instant, make me hesitate
To vindicate your name?
Dieg . To vindicate?
Rodrigo, I have heard you dare to speak
Against a noble vengeance.
Rod . Against vengeance.
Against the common fury, which starts up
From weak impatience and self-love, to shew
How great a thing has fretted it, and scourge
Into bad blood those who most likely want
Mere teaching, like itself.
Dieg . Have done — have done,
Over-proud boy; for now I see 'tis so
Is there no difference of injuries?
None punishable for good? No noble vengeance?
Rod . What could make vengeance noble, would convert it
To something not itself, — there is — —
Dieg . ( Hastily interrupting him ). Suppose me,
Here as I stand, an insolent traducer,
Worldly and envious, wreaking the uneasiness
(If you will have it so) of my own vile
Inferior nature on each thing about me,
Short of such worldly power as I could love;
Love! no not love, but worship as myself,
Because it raised me, met my understanding,
And did not of itself imply desert.
Rod . I should despise, and pity you.
Dieg . But suppose,
A woman or a boy came in my way,
Or, say, a man that had survived his strength,
An aged man, and that I raised my arm . . .
Rod . ( Hastily ) You'd be struck first
Dieg . ( With the same quickness ) 'Twould not be the first time.
Rod . What?
Dieg . Eldest born, I tell thee, this old body,
Whose armour used to laugh in rattling peals
Against a hundred scymitars, has been
Bowed with a blow! Ay, blow!
Rod . O ancient honour!
O father! O most reverend old man,
Whose vigour passed thee into these young bones,
Who was the monster?
Dieg . Will it be revenge
To punish him?
Rod . Oh no; most glorious justice,
Most right, most noble, he shall bow his head
To thee or to this arm.
Dieg . My son! my son!
O let me have thee.
'Twas a thirsty grasp,
And quenched my heart. O, my dear glorious boy,
Eldest and best, true fire of my fresh love,
Triumphant promiser, in whom the spirit
Of our great house goes forth with young magnificence,
Clear as he came to me, and as he went;
Thy brothers, boy, reflect thy gentler beams,
But not thy grand ones, that shall smite the wicked
Like the noon-arrow. Yet — thou art but young
Rod . Who was it, father,
That shewed such loathsome ignorance?
Dieg . One
I hate to name, but strong in every strength,
Limbs, manhood, skill, and courage.
Rod . No, not courage:
There he's as weak as punished infancy,
Dieg . His courage equals not his rage; but still
'Tis great and counted so. He's no light champion,
Like that Arabian youth; but thou shalt fight him
Nevertheless, Rodrigo, my own boy,
Thou shalt; for first it must be so; and next
There seems a greatness in thee, even beyond
What my old customary eyes can see
I called thee last, partly because I hoped
Most of thee, partly too because thou art
Mine heir, my eldest born, when thy young mother
Looked in my face and thought no envious eye
Could reach it.
Rod . Bless her memory; and may it
Bless me; for I am going to strike a blow,
Angels may look at. Who, my father, who?
Tell me where this strange beast, coward yet lion-like,
May be fetched forth.
Dieg . I will go say a prayer,
And send to him. Look upon that sword.
Rod . Mudarra's!
It is for me?
Dieg . It is, if thy young strength
Can wield it.
Rod . Come into my hand, thou sword
Of right and might, and up with my glad heart
Into the air!
Dieg . More than Mudarra's there;
A Michael! Glare, thou high, prophetic sword,
In my young angel's hand, and fall (oh name,
That shakes me still!) upon Lozano's head.
Rod . Lozano! My Ximena's! Oh, there's more
Sorrow to come in this. And she to bear
The shame of a bad father! This indeed
Is work for thee, Rodrigo, and probes deep
Thy courage to the heart. But I am right;
I must remain so, even to deserve her:
Some of us must be sufferers: it is fit
I, who am young and stout, should bear the burden
For my wronged father; she who is so virtuous
Can bear to suffer hers: and he, alas!
Who was compelled to lift it on her shoulders,
Shall win it off by inches to its own,
And worship her sweet pain, until it look
Forgiveness in his face. Away, away,
Fair image; and come thou, thought of my mother!
Leaning and whispering from the sky, to keep
My father in my mind. — [ He addresses his sword .] Thou noble sword,
Grander to me than any famous one
Baptized in chivalrous blood, than Durlindana,
Orlando's sword, or old Excalibar,
That gave a light like twenty torches o'er
The battle, or Joyeuse of Charlemagne,
'Twas kindness made thee terrible; the arm
Of strong indignant love swung thee around
To winnow villanous chaff, and dash the teeth
Of envy and oppression. Fling thou not
From my young wrist; but let thy spirit rather
Supply the strength, that, still, fights for a father.