The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins a tale of the conquest of Mexico |
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| 11. | CHAPTER XI.
THE CHANT. |
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 | CHAPTER XI.
THE CHANT. The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE CHANT.
“IF you have there anything for laughter, Maxtla, I bid
you welcome,” said the king, his guests around him.
And the young chief knelt on the step before the throne,
and answered with mock solemnity, “Your servant, O king,
knows your great love of minstrelsy, and how it delights
you to make rich the keeper of a harp who sings a good
song well. I have taken one who bears him like a noble
singer, and has age to warrant his experience.”
“Call you that the man?” asked the king, pointing to
Guatamozin.
“He is the man.”
The monarch laughed, and all the guests listening laughed.
Now, minstrels were common on all festive occasions; indeed,
an Aztec banquet was no more perfect without them
than without guests: but it was seldom the royal halls were
graced by one so very aged; so that the bent form and gray
locks, that at other places and times would have insured
safety and respect, now excited derision. The men thought
his presence there presumptuous, the women laughed at him
as a dotard. In brief, the 'tzin's peril was very great.
He seemed, however, the picture of aged innocence, and
stood before the throne, his head bowed, his face shaded by
the hood, leaning humbly on his staff, and clasping the harp
close to his breast, the vines yet about it. So well did he
might dream that the hood and dark gown concealed the
boldest warrior in Tenochtitlan. The face of the priestess
was turned away; but the princess sat a calm witness of the
scene; either she had too much pride to betray her solicitude,
or a confidence in his address so absolute that she felt
none.
“He is none of ours,” said the king, when he had several
times scanned the minstrel. “If the palace ever knew
him, it was in the days of Axaya', from whose tomb he
seems to have come.”
“As I came in from the garden, I met him going out,”
said Maxtla, in explanation. “I could not bear that my
master should lose such a promise of song. Besides, I have
heard the veterans in service often say that the ancient
chants were the best, and I thought it a good time to test the
boast.”
The gray courtiers frowned, and the king laughed again.
“My minstrel here represented that old time so well,”
continued Maxtla, “that at first I was full of reverence;
therefore I besought him to come, and before you, O king,
sing the chants that used to charm your mighty father. I
thought it no dishonor for him to compete with the singers
now in favor, they giving us something of the present time.
He declined in courtliest style; saying that, though his voice
was good, he was too old, and might shame the ancient minstrelsy;
and that, from what he had heard, my master delighted
only in things of modern invention. A javelin in
the hand of a sentinel ended the argument, and he finally
consented. Wherefore, O king, I claim him captive, to
whom, if it be your royal pleasure, I offer liberty, if he will
sing in competition before this noble company.”
What sport could be more royal than such poetic contest,
— the old reign against the new? Montezuma welcomed
the idea.
“The condition is reasonable,” he said. “Is there a minstrel
in the valley to call it otherwise?”
In a tone scarcely audible, though all were silent that they
might hear, the 'tzin answered, —
“Obedience was the first lesson of every minstrel of the
old time; but as the master we served loved us as his children,
we never had occasion to sing for the purchase of our
liberty. And more, — the capture of a harmless singer, though
he were not aged as your poor slave, O king, was not
deemed so brave a deed as to be rewarded by our master's
smile.”
The speech, though feebly spoken, struck both the king
and his chief.
“Well done, uncle!” said the former, laughing. “And
since you have tongue so sharp, we remove the condition —”
“Thanks, many thanks, most mighty king! May the
gods mete you nothing but good! I will depart.” And the
'tzin stooped till his harp struck the floor.
The monarch waved his hand. “Stay. I merely spoke
of the condition that made your liberty depend upon your
song. Go, some of you, and call my singers.” A courtier
hurried away, then the king added, “It shall be well for
him who best strikes the strings. I promise a prize that
shall raise him above trouble, and make his life what a poet's
ought to be.”
Guatamozin advanced, and knelt on the step from which
Maxtla had risen, and said, his voice sounding tremulous
with age and infirmity, —
“If the great king will deign to heed his servant again, —
I am old and weak. There was a time when I would have
rejoiced to hear a prize so princely offered in such a trial. But
that was many, many summers ago. And this afternoon, in
my hut by the lake-shore, when I took my harp, all covered
with dust, from the shelf where it had so long lain untouched
a gay dress might give it the appearance of use, and myself
a deceitful likeness to the minstrel I once was, alas! I did
not think of my trembling hand and my shattered memory,
or of trial like this. I only knew that a singer, however
humble, was privileged at your banquet, and that the privilege
was a custom of the monarchs now in their halls in the
Sun, — true, kingly men, who, at time like this, would have
put gold in my hand, and bade me arise, and go in peace.
Is Montezuma more careless of his glory? Will he compel
my song, and dishonor my gray hair, that I may go abroad
in Tenochtitlan and tell the story? In pity, O king, suffer
me to depart.”
The courtiers murmured, and even Maxtla relented, but
the king said, “Good uncle, you excite my curiosity the
more. If your common speech have in it such a vein of
poetry, what must the poetry be? And then, does not your
obstinacy outmeasure my cruelty? Get ready, I hold the
fortune. Win it, and I am no king if it be not yours.”
The interest of the bystanders now exceeded their pity.
It was novel to find one refusing reward so rich, when the
followers of his art were accustomed to gratify an audience,
even one listener, upon request.
And, seeing that escape from the trial was impossible, the
'tzin arose, resolved to act boldly. Minstrelsy, as practised
by the Aztecs, it must be remembered, was not singing so
much as a form of chanting, accompanied by rythmical
touches of the lyre or harp, — of all kinds of choral music the
most primitive. This he had practised, but in the solitude
of his study. The people present knew the 'tzin Guatamo,
supposed to be in his palace across the lake, as soldier,
scholar, and prince, but not as poet or singer of heroic tales.
So that confident minstrelsy was now but another, if not a
surer, disguise. And the eyes of the princess Tula shining
trembling with suppressed wrath, —
“Be it so, O king! Let the singers come, — let them
come. Your slave will fancy himself before the great Axaya',
or your father, not less royal. He will forget his age, and
put his trust in the god whose story he will sing.”
Then other amusements were abandoned, and, intelligence
of the trial flying far and fast, lords and ladies, soldiers
and priests crowded about the throne and filled the hall.
That any power of song could belong to one so old and
unknown was incredible.
“He is a provincial, — the musician of one of the hamlets,”
said a courtier, derisively.
“Yes,” sneered another, “he will tell how the flood came,
and drowned the harvest in his neighborhood.”
“Or,” ventured a third, “how a ravenous vulture once
descended from the hills, and carried off his pet rabbit.”
By and by the royal minstrels came, — sleek, comely men,
wearing long stoles fringed with gold, and having harps inlaid
with pearl, and strung with silver wires. With scarce
a glance at their humble competitor, they ranged themselves
before the monarch.
The trial began. One after another, the favorites were
called upon. The first sang of love, the next of his mistress,
the third of Lake Tezcuco, the fourth of Montezuma,
his power, wisdom, and glory. Before all were through,
the patience of the king and crowd was exhausted. The
pabas wanted something touching religion, the soldiers something
heroic and resounding with war; and all waited for
the stranger, as men listening to a story wait for the laughter
it may chance to excite. How were they surprised! Before
the womanly tones of the last singer ceased, the old
man dropped his staff, and, lifting his harp against his breast,
struck its chords, and in a voice clear and vibratory as the
startled maid and king alike, began his chant.
Beloved of the Sun! Mother of the
Brave! Azatlan, the North born! Heard be thou
In my far launched voice! I sing to thy
Listening children of thee and Heaven.
Vale in the Sun, where dwell the Gods! Sum of
The beautiful art thou! Thy forests are
Flowering trees; of crystal and gold thy
Mountains; and liquid light are thy rivers
Flowing, all murmurous with songs, over
Beds of stars. O Vale of Gods, the summery
Sheen that flecks Earth's seas, and kisses its mountains,
And fairly floods its plains, we know is of thee, —
A sign sent us from afar, that we may
Feebly learn how beautiful is Heaven!
The singer rested a moment; then, looking in the eyes of
the king, with a rising voice, he continued, —
Richest hall in all the Vale is Quetzal's —
At that name Montezuma started. The minstrel noted
well the sign.
Play among its silver columns are Love's
Light laughter, while of Love is all the air
About. From its orient porch the young
Mornings glean the glory with which they rise
On earth.
First God and fairest was Quetzal'.
As him O none so full of holiness,
And by none were men so lov'd! Sat he always
In his hall, in deity rob'd, watching
Humanity, its genius, and its struggles
Upward. But most he watch'd its wars, — no hero
Fell but he call'd the wand'ring soul in love
To rest with him forever.
Sat he once
Thus watching, and where least expected, in
From the snows he saw a Nation rise. Shook
Their bolts, glistened their shields, flashed the
Light of their fierce eyes. A king, in wolf-skin
Girt, pointed Southward, and up the hills, through
The air, to the Sun, flew the name — Azatlan.
Then march'd they; by day and night they march'd, — march'd
Ever South, across the desert, up the
Mountains, down the mountains; leaping rivers,
Smiting foes, taking cities, — thus they march'd;
Thus, a cloud of eagles, roll'd they from the
North; thus on the South they fell, as autumn
Frosts upon the fruits of summer fall.
And now the priests were glad, — the singer sung of
Heaven; and the warriors were aroused, — his voice was
like a battle-cry, and the theme was the proud tradition of
the conquering march of their fathers from the distant
North. Sitting with clasped hands and drooped head, the
king followed the chant, like one listening to an oracle.
Yet stronger grew the minstrel's voice, —
Many years of toil, and still the Nation march'd;
Still Southward strode the king; still Sunward rose
The cry of Azatlan! Azatlan! And
Warmer, truer, brighter grew the human
Love of Quetzal'. He saw them reach a lake;
As dew its waves were clear; like lover's breath
The wind flew o'er it. 'T was in the clime of
Starry nights, — the clime of orange-groves and
Plumy palms.
Then Quetzal' from his watching
Rose. Aside he flung his sunly symbols.
Like a falling star, from the Vale of Gods
He dropp'd, like a falling star shot through the
Shoreless space; like a golden morning reach'd
The earth, — reach'd the lake. Then stay'd the Nation's
March. Still Sunward rose the cry, but Southward
Strode the king no more.
In his roomy heart, in
The chambers of its love, Quetzal' took the
They should conquer, by the Sun, he swore! In
The laughing Lake he bade them build; and up
Sprang Tenochtitlan, of the human love
Of Quetzal child; up rose its fire-lit towers,
Outspread its piles, outstretched its streets
Of stone and wave. And as the city grew,
Still stronger grew the love of Quetzal'.
Thine
Is the Empire. To the shields again, O
Azatlan! 'T was thus he spoke; and feather'd
Crest and oaken spear, the same that from the
North came conquering, through the valley,
On a wave of war went swiftly floating.
Down before the flaming shields fell all the
Neighb'ring tribes; open flew the cities' gates;
Fighting kings gave up their crowns; from the hills
The Chichimecan fled; on temple towers
The Toltec fires to scattering ashes
Died. Like a scourge upon the city, like
A fire across the plain, like storms adown
The mountain, — such was Azatlan that day
It went to battle! Like a monarch 'mid
His people, like a god amid the Heavens,
O such was Azatlan, victor from the
Battle, the Empire in its hand!
At this point the excitement of the audience rose into
interruption: they clapped their hands and stamped; some
shouted. As the strong voice rolled the grand story on,
even the king's dread of the god disappeared; and had the
'tzin concluded then, the prize had certainly been his. But
when the silence was restored, he resumed the attitude so
proper to his disguise, and, sinking his voice and changing
the measure of the chant, solemnly proceeded, —
Quetzal'. The clime grew softer, and the Vale fairer. To weave, and trade,
And sow, and build, he taught, with countless other ways of peace. He broke
The seals of knowledge, and unveiled the mystic paths of wisdom;
Peace, as terrible in war, became Azatlan. Only one more
Blessing, — a religion sounding of a quiet heaven and a
Godly love, — this only wanted Azatlan. And alas, for the
Sunly Quetzal'! He built a temple, with a single tower, a
Temple over many chambers.”
Slowly the 'tzin repeated the last sentence, and under his
gaze the monarch's face changed visibly.
And sacrifices, not of captives, heart-broken and complaining,
But of blooming flowers, and ripened fruits, emblems of love, and peace,
And beauty. Alas, for the gentle Quetzal'! Cold grew the people
Lov'd so well. A little while they worshipped; then, as bees go no
More to a withered flower, they forsook his shrine, and mock'd his
Image. His love, longest lingering, went down at last, but slowly
Went, as the brook, drop by drop, runs dry in the drought of a rainless
Summer. Wrath 'rose instead. Down in a chamber below the temple,
A chamber full of gold and unveiled splendor, beneath the Lake that
Long had ceased its laughing, thither went the god, and on the walls,
On the marble and the gold, he wrote —
The improvisation, if such it was, now wrought its full
effect upon Montezuma, who saw the recital coming nearer
and nearer to the dread mysteries of the golden chamber in
the old Cû. At the beginning of the last sentence, the
blood left his face, and he leaned forward as if to check the
speech, at the same time some master influence held him
wordless. His look was that of one seeing a vision. The
vagaries of a mind shaken by days and nights of trouble
are wonderful; sometimes they are fearful. How easy for
his distempered fancy to change the minstrel, with his white
locks and venerable countenance, into a servant of Quetzal',
sent by the god to confirm the interpretation and prophecies
of his other servant Mualox. At the last word, he arose,
and, with an imperial gesture, cried, —
“Peace — enough!”
Then his utterance failed him, — another vision seemed
see what he saw, and heard a commotion, which, from the
further end of the hall, drew slowly near the throne, and
ceased not until Mualox, in his sacrificial robes, knelt upon
the step in the minstrel's place. Montezuma dropped into
his throne, and, covering his eyes with his hands, said
faintly, —
“Evil betides me, father, evil betides me! But I am a
king. Speak what you can!”
Mualox prostrated himself until his white hair covered
his master's feet.
“Again, O king, your servant comes speaking for his
god.”
“For the god, Mualox?”
The hall became silent as a tomb.
“I come,” the holy man continued, “to tell the king that
Quetzal' has landed, this time on the sea-shore in Cempoalla.
At set of sun his power was collected on the beach. Summon
all your wisdom, — the end is at hand.”
All present and hearing listened awe-struck. Of the warriors,
not one, however battle-tried, but trembled with undefined
terror. And who may accuse them? The weakness
was from fear of a supposed god; their heathen souls, after
the manner of the Christian, asked, Who may war against
Heaven?
“Rise, Mualox! You love me; I have no better servant,”
said the king, with dignity, but so sadly that even the prophet's
heart was touched. “It is not for me to say if your
news be good or evil. All things, even my Empire, are in the
care of the gods. To-morrow I will hold a council to determine
how this visit may be best met.” With a mighty effort
he freed his spirit of the influence of the untimely visitation,
and said, with a show of unconcern, “Leave the
morrow to whom it belongs, my children. Let us now to
son of 'Hualpilli! Room for the lord Iztlil', my friends!”
Tula looked down, and the queen Tecalco bowed her face
upon the shoulder of the queen Acatlan; and immediately,
all differences lost in loving loyalty, the caciques and chiefs
gathered before him, — a nobility as true and chivalric as ever
fought beneath an infidel banner.
And they waited, but the Tezcucan came not.
“Go, Maxtla. Seek the lord Iztlil', and bring him to my
presence.”
Through the palace and through the gardens they sought
the recreant lover. And the silence of the waiting in the
great hall was painful. Guest looked in the face of guest,
mute, yet asking much. The prince Cacama whispered to
the prince Cuitlahua, “It is a happy interference of the
gods!”
Tecalco wept on, but not from sorrow, and the eyes of the
devoted princess were lustrous for the first time; hope had
come back to the darkened soul.
And the monarch said little, and erelong retired. A great
portion of the company, despite his injuction, speedily followed
his example, leaving the younger guests, with what humor
they could command, to continue the revel till morning.
Next day at noon couriers from Cempoalla confirmed the
announcement of Mualox. Cortes had indeed landed; and
that Good Friday was the last of the perfect glory of Anahuac.
Poor king! Not long now until I may sing for thee the
lamentation of the Gothic Roderick, whose story is but little
less melancholy than thine.
But all were fled, except the dead, — and who could count the slain?
Where'er his eye could wander all bloody was the plain;
And while thus he said the tears he shed ran down his cheeks like rain.
Last night fair castles held my train: to-night where shall I lie?
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,
To-night not one I call my own, — not one pertains to me.[8]
| CHAPTER XI.
THE CHANT. The fair god, or, The last of the 'Tzins | |