George Eliot; a Critical Study of Her Life, Writings and Philosophy Part 22

He thought all loveliness was lovelier, She crowning it; all goodness credible, Because of that great trust her goodness bred.

His love gave a delicious content and melody to his day dreams.

O, all comforters, All soothing things that bring mild ecstasy, Came with her coming, in her presence lived.

Spring afternoons, when delicate shadows fall Pencilled upon the gra.s.s; high summer morns When white light rains upon the quiet sea And cornfields flush with ripeness; odors soft-- Dumb vagrant bliss that seems to seek a home And find it deep within 'mid stirrings vague Of far-off moments when our life was fresh; All sweetly tempered music, gentle change Of sound, form, color, as on wide lagoons At sunset when from black far-floating prows Comes a clear wafted song; all exquisite joy Of a subdued desire, like some strong stream Made placid in the fulness of a lake-- All came with her sweet presence, for she brought The love supreme which gathers to its realm All powers of loving. Subtle nature's hand Waked with a touch the far-linked harmonies In her own manifold work. Fedalma there, Fastidiousness became the prelude fine For full contentment; and young melancholy, Lost for its origin, seemed but the pain Of waiting for that perfect happiness.

So strong was Don Silva's love, so ardent his pa.s.sion for Fedalma, that he forsook all duties and social obligations and became a Zincala for her sake. Yet once awakened to the real consequences of his act, he killed Zarca and sought to regain by hard penances his lost knighthood.

With Fedalma also love was an absorbing pa.s.sion. The pa.s.sionate devotion of a woman is in her words.

No ills on earth, though you should count them up With grains to make a mountain, can outweigh For me his ill who is my supreme love.

All sorrows else are but imagined flames, Making me shudder at an unfelt smart; But his imagined sorrow is a fire That scorches me.

With great earnestness she says she will--

Never forsake that chief half of her soul Where lies her love.

With what depth of love does she utter these words:

I belong to him who loves me--whom I love-- Who chose me--whom I chose--to whom I pledged A woman's truth. And that is nature too, Issuing a fresher law than laws of birth.

Though her love is deep and pa.s.sionate and full of a woman's devotedness, the mark of race is set deep within her soul. The moment the claim of race is brought clearly before her as the claim of duty, as the claim of father and of kindred, she accepts it. Her love is not thrown hastily aside, for she loves deeply and truly, and it tears her heart in sunder to renounce it; but she is faithful to duty. Her love grows not less, loses none of its hold upon her heart.

No other crown Is aught but thorns on my poor woman's brow.

Hers is not a divided self, however; to see the way of duty with her, was to follow in it. Her father's invincible will, courage and patient purpose are her own by inheritance. Once realizing the claim of birth and race, she does not falter, love is resolutely put aside, all delight in culture and refinement becomes dross in her eyes.

I will not count On aught but being faithful. I will take This yearning self of mine and strangle it.

I will not be half-hearted: never yet Fedalma did aught with a wavering soul.

Die, my young joy--die, all my hungry hopes!

The milk you cry for from the breast of life Is thick with curses. O, all fatness here s.n.a.t.c.hes its meat from leanness--feeds on graves.

I will seek nothing but to shun base joy.

The saints were cowards who stood by to see Christ crucified: they should have flung themselves Upon the Roman spears, and died in vain-- The grandest death, to die in vain--for love Greater than sways the forces of the world!

That death shall be my bridegroom. I will wed The curse that blights my people. Father, come!

The poem distinctly teaches that Fedalma was strong, because the ties of blood were strongly marked upon her mind and willingly accepted by her intellect and conscience; while Don Silva was weak, because he did not acknowledge those ties and accept their law. In the end, however, both declare that the inherited life is the only one which gives joy or duty, and that all individual aims and wishes are to be renounced. The closing scene of this great poem is full of sadness, and yet is strong with moral purpose. Don Silva and Fedalma meet for the last time, she on her way to Africa with her tribe to find a home for it there, he on his way to Rome, to seek the privilege of again using his knightly sword. Both are sad, both feel that life has lost all its joy, both believe it is a bitter destiny which divides them from the fulfilment of their love, and yet both are convinced that love must be forsworn for a higher duty. Their last conversation, opened by Don Silva, is full of power, and concentrates into its last words the total meaning of the poem.

I bring no puling prayer, Fedalma--ask No balm of pardon that may soothe my soul For others' bleeding wounds: I am not come To say, "Forgive me:" you must not forgive, For you must see me ever as I am-- Your father's...

FEDALMA.

Speak it not! Calamity Comes like a deluge and o'erfloods our crimes, Till sin is hidden in woe. You--I--we two, Grasping we knew not what, that seemed delight, Opened the sluices of that deep.

DON SILVA.

We two?-- Fedalma, you were blameless, helpless.

FEDALMA.

No!

It shall not be that you did aught alone.

For when we loved I willed to reign in you, And I was jealous even of the day If it could gladden you apart from me.

And so, it must be that I shared each deed Our love was root of.

DON SILVA.

Dear! you share the woe-- Nay, the worst part of vengeance fell on you.

FEDALMA.

Vengeance! She does but sweep us with her skirts.

She takes large s.p.a.ce, and lies a baleful light Revolving with long years--sees children's children, Blights them in their prime. Oh, if two lovers leane To breathe one air and spread a pestilence, They would but lie two livid victims dead Amid the city of the dying. We With our poor petty lives have strangled one That ages watch for vainly.

DON SILVA.

Deep despair Fills all your tones as with slow agony.

Speak words that narrow anguish to some shape: Tell me what dread is close before you?

FEDALMA.

None.

No dread, but clear a.s.surance of the end.

My father held within his mighty frame A people's life: great futures died with him Never to rise, until the time shall ripe Some other hero with the will to save The outcast Zincali.

DON SILVA.

And yet their shout-- I heard it--sounded as the plenteous rush Of full-fed sources, shaking their wild souls With power that promised sway.

FEDALMA.

Ah yes, that shout Came from full hearts: they meant obedience.

But they are orphaned: their poor childish feet Are vagabond in spite of love, and stray Forgetful after little lures. For me-- I am but as the funeral urn that bears The ashes of a leader.

DON SILVA.

O great G.o.d!

What am I but a miserable brand Lit by mysterious wrath? I lie cast down A blackened branch upon the desolate ground.

Where once I kindled ruin. I shall drink No cup of purest water but will taste Bitter with thy lone hopelessness, Fedalma.

FEDALMA.

Nay, Silva, think of me as one who sees A light serene and strong on one sole path Which she will tread till death...

He trusted me, and I will keep his trust: My life shall be its temple. I will plant His sacred hope within the sanctuary And die its priestess--though I die alone, A h.o.a.ry woman on the altar-step, Cold 'mid cold ashes. That is my chief good.

The deepest hunger of a faithful heart Is faithfulness. Wish me naught else. And you-- You too will live....

DON SILVA.