University of Virginia Library

I. The Cid's Marriage.

Within Valencia's streets were dole and woe;
Among the thoughtful, silence long and then
Sharp question and brief answer; sobs and tears
Where women gathered; something strange concealed
From children; rapid step of priest grey-grown
As though his mission were to beds of death.
The cause? Nine days before, the sea had swarmed
With ships continuous like the locust cloud
Full sail from far Morocco; six days later
Strange tents had crowded all the coasts as thick
As spots on corpse plague-stricken. The Cid lay dead,
Valencia's bulwark, but her sire much more.
Who else had made her Spain's;—Spain's Mother-City
Frowning defiance on the Prophet's coasts
Minarets enskied, gold domes, huge palaces
With ivory fretwork washed by azure waves,
Even to the fabulous East?
Day passed: night came:
Within Valencia's chiefest church the monks
Knelt round their Great One. He had sat since death
Throned near the Eastern altar. At the West
The many-columned aisles nigh lost in gloom
Changed to a fortress pile with massive walls
Lost in the mother rock, since Faith and War
That time were brethren vowed. Beneath its vault
Good knights kept watch, that stronghold's guard at need:
Glimmerings from distant altar lights, though faint,
Made way to them, oft crossed by shadowy forms
Gliding in silence o'er the pavements dim
With bosom-beating hand: the music strain
Reached them at times; less oft the voice of prayer.
Compline long past, the eldest of those knights,
By name Don Raymond, Lord of Barcelona,
Not rising, thus addressed low-toned his mates:
With great desire the nations will desire
To know our Cid in ages yet to come,
And yet will know him not. He was not one
Who builds a history up, complete and whole,
A century's blazon crying, ‘That was I!’
The day's work ever was the work he worked,
And laughingly he wrought it. Spake another:
Ay, 'twas no single act that made his greatness:
Yet greatness flashed from all his acts—the least;
A peasant cried one day, ‘God sent that man;’
A realm made answer, ‘God.’
Don Sambro next:
I witnessed—'twas in youth—his earliest deed;
Gladsome it was, and gladdening when remembered,
Yet nowise alien 'mid these vaults of death:
His sire, Don Diego, was an aged man;
Between him and Count Gomez, Gormaz' lord,
Debate arose. Gomez had flourished long
A warrior prime: whene'er the Cortes met
He spake its earliest word. Among the hills
A thousand watched his hand, and wrought its hest.
That day, inflamed by wine, he struck Diego:
Diego, warrior once, then weak from age,
Was all unmeet for combat in the lists:
Daily he sat, grief-worn, beside his hearth
And shrank from friend like one who fears to infect
Sound man by hand diseased. He spake but once,
‘Till that black hour dishonour none defiled
Layn Calvo's blood!’ His son, our Cid, Rodrigo,
Then twelve years old, leaped up! ‘Mudarra's sword!
That and your blessing!’ Strong through both he rode,
Nor stayed until his horse foam-flecked stood up
At Gormaz’ gate. Gomez refused his challenge:
Rodrigo smote him: soon the lists were formed:
Not long the strife: sole standing o'er the dead
Thus 'mid that knightly concourse spake the boy,
‘Had he but struck my cheek, and not my sire's,
Far liefer had I lopped mine own left hand
Than yon sage head!’ Count Gomez’ orphaned daughter,
Child of ten years, hearing that word, replied,
‘He also had a Father.’
August's sun
Westering had tinged the castle hall with red:
There sat Diego at the supper-board
But eating not. A horse's foot was heard:
In rushed, all glowing like that sun, the boy:
He knelt; then rising, laughed. Aloud he cried,
‘Father, your fare hath scanty been of late
As spider's when long frosts have frozen the flies:
Haply this herb may sharpen appetite!’
His mantle fell: he lifted by the locks
The unjust Aggressor's head. Diego rose:
First with raised eyes he tendered thanks to Heaven;
Then added: ‘Son, my sentence ever stood,
The hand that battles best is hand to rule:
Henceforth live thou sole master in this house;’
He pointed, and the seneschal kneeling laid
The castle's keys before the young man's feet.
Then clamour rose, ‘O'er yon portcullis fix
That traitor's head, that all may gaze upon it
And hate it as a true man knows to hate!’
Not thus Rodrigo willed He sent that head
To Gormaz with a stately retinue—
Ten knights, and priests entoning ‘Miserere.’
This solaced Gomez’ child. Then rose that saying,
‘He strikes from love, not hate.’
Don Martin next—
Don Martin of Castile: Witness was I
Not less of wonders by Rodrigo wrought.
Eight years went by: his father died. The Moors
Swarmed forth o'er many a region of Castile,
Domingo, La Calzada, Vilforado,
Capturing whole herds, white flocks, and brood-mares many:
Rodrigo of Bivar to battle rushed;
Smote them where Oca's mountains closed them round;
Retook their spoil. Five Moorish kings, their best,
He haled in triumph home to Bivar's gate
And bade them kneel chain-bound before his mother.
That homage tendered, thus he spake: ‘Depart!’
That holy Lady still had taught her son
Reverence for sufferers, and the Poor of Christ,
And courtesy 'mid wildest storms of war.
On her he looked, later on them; continued:
‘I scorn to hold you captive! from this hour
My vassals ye. I want nor slaves nor serfs.’
The Five made answer ‘Yea,’ and called him ‘Cid,’
Their term for ‘Lord’: he bore it from that hour.
Don Garcia next: A fairer sight by far
And fitter to beguile our sorrowful watch,
I saw—his marriage. Our great King Ferrando,
Who made one realm of Leon and Castile,
Beside that new-built bridge Zimara called
Was standing 'mid his nobles on a day
What time that name, ‘The Cid,’ rang first o'er Spain:
Then drew to him a maiden clothed in black,
A sister at each side. She spake: ‘Sir King,
I come your suitor, child of Gomez, once
Your counsellor and your friend, but come not less
The claimant of my right. Betwixt my sire
And Diego, father of that Cid world-famed
This hour for valour and for justice both,
Unhappy feud arose: my father smote him:
Aggrieved by that mischance the Cid, then young,
Challenged my sire and in the tourney slew him,
To me great grief albeit, on wars intent,
My father seldom saw me. Since that day
Tumult perpetual shakes our vassal realm:
Who wills breaks down the bridge; who wills diverts
The river from our mill-wheel to his own:
Daily the insurgent commons toss their heads,
Clamouring “No tax.” I fear for these, my sisters,
Fear more the downfall of our House and Name,
And, motherless, have none with whom to counsel.
King! some strong hand and just should quell this wrong!
What hand but his who caused it? 'Twas his right
To smite his Father's smiter. 'Tis my right
To choose for champion him who wrought the woe.
Command him to espouse me! That implies
Privilege and Duty both to ward our House,
And these my sisters young.’ Level and clear
She fixed upon the King her eyes like one
Who knows her cause is just.
Ferrando mused,
Then answered, smiling, ‘Damsel, have your will!
You are happier than you know! Rodrigo's Wife!
Of him you wot as little as of marriage!
Yon Cid will prove the greatest man in Spain.’
Then with a royal frankness added thus:
‘Moreover, maid, your lands are broad: another
Conjoining them with his might plot and scheme:
The Throne itself might suffer some despite:
Not so the Cid: that man was loyal born;
My kinsman. He shall wed you!’
Straight he wrote:
‘Cid, at Palencia seek me at your earliest,
There to confer on things that touch the State,
Likewise God's glory, and your weal besides.’
Incontinent to Palencia rode my Cid
With kinsfold companied and many a knight;
The King received him in his palace chapel,
Vespers concluded but the aisles still thronged;
Embraced him; then stepped back, and, gazing on him,
Exclaimed, ‘Not knighted yet! My fault, my sin!
I must redeem the offence! Good kinsman, kneel!’
High up the bells renewed their silver clamour;
Ferrando knighted him: Ferrando's Queen
Led to the gate his charger: the Infanta
Girt him with spurs. Then gave the King command
Like bishop missioning priest but late ordained,
‘That gift now thine communicate to others!’
Straight to the chapel's altar moved the Cid
And lifted thence the sword of state. Before him
Three youthful nobles knelt. He with that sword
Their knighthood laid upon them.
Masque and dance
Lasted three days: then spake to him the King,
‘Cid—for that name by which all Spain reveres you,
Albeit a title not by me conferred,
I recognize well pleased—Donna Ximena,
Heiress of Gomez slain by you of old,
Warrior and counsellor dear to me and mine,
Stands sore imperilled through that righteous deed,
Her subjects in revolt and every knave
Flouting her princely right. Revolts spread fast;
Ere long my kingdom may lie meshed in such:
I see the hand that best can deal with treason!
My royal honour stands to her impledged
That you—first wedding her—her lands your own—
Should, in the embraces of your name and glory,
Foster the tender weakness of her greatness.
Wilt thou redeem that pledge?’
The youth, ‘This maid,
King, is she good and fair?’
Ferrando smiled;
‘Glad am I that, as in my youthful days,
Goodness and grace still reign; kings rule not all!
Good she must needs be since her sire was good;
Majestical she is: her suit she made
As one who gives command; but you shall see her.
Seek we the Presence Chamber!’
Thenceforward knights
Flocked daily to the Cid. Each month, each week
The Impostor's hosts, with all their banners green
Moon-blazoned, fled before him like the wind.
Now champaign broad, now fortress eyeing hard
From beetling cliff the horizon's utmost bound
Witnessed well pleased the overthrow of each:
Merida fell, Evora, Badajoz,
Bega in turn; more late Estramadura.
Fiercest of those great conflicts was the fifth:
From that red battle-field my Cid despatched
Unbounded spoil that raised a mighty tower
O'er Burgos' church wherein he was baptized.
Moreover, after every conquering march
Huge doles he sent to Christian and to Moor;
For thus he said: ‘Though war be sport to knights
The tears of poor men and their beardless babes
Bedew the trampled soil.’ His vow fulfilled,
Five victories won, five months gone by, with joy
Once more to Bivar's towers the Cid returned.
There, at its gate, they stood who loved him best:
On the third step—as when he saw them last—
His mother and Ximena. First he kissed
His mother, next Ximena.
Musing sat,
The legend of that Bridal at an end,
Long time those watchers. Lastly rose a knight,
The youngest of that company elect,
Silent till then, and slender as a maid;
With countenance innocent as childhood's self
Yet venerable as a priest's grey-haired.
He spake: ‘A bridal then, and now a death,
A short glad space between them! Such is life!
That means our earthly life is but betrothal;
The marriage is where marriage vows are none.
Lo there! once more the altar lights flash forth:
That Widow-Wife, five months a Maiden-Wife,
Kneels 'mid their splendour.’ Eastward moved the knights,
And, kneeling near the altar, with the monks
Entoned the Miserere.