Gods, Saints & Men By Eugene Lee-Hamilton ... With Ten Full-Page Illustartions Designed by Enrico Mazzanti |
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| THE FIDDLE AND THE SLIPPER. |
| I. |
| II. |
 | Gods, Saints & Men |  |
31
THE FIDDLE AND THE SLIPPER.
I.
In an old town, which in the Rhine
Reflects quaint mediæval towers,
There stands a rich and holy shrine,
Famed far and wide for wondrous powers:
An image of the Virgin Mother,
More potent far than any other;
Revered for strange and sudden healings
By serf and burgess, priest and lord,
Ne'er thankless for a pilgrim's kneelings,
And in the furthest lands adored.
The figure stands within the aisle
Of the immense Cathedral pile;
Where languid fumes of incense float,
And rolls the organ's solemn note;
Where gorgeous flecks of colour pass,
And kiss the stone through tinted glass:
A mild Madonna looking down
From underneath a starry crown,
And standing in an azure niche,
Behind a grating strange and rich.
So far, so good. But in this shrine
There hangs just in the very middle,
Beside the effigy divine,
A fiddle.
A Fiddle???
Each latest pilgrim shakes his head,
Whom pious steps have hither led,
And questions all, with anxious face.
For 'tis indeed a puzzling riddle
Why such an object as a fiddle
Should be suspended in the middle
Of such a very holy place.
But as I know, and as the story
Is greatly to the Virgin's glory,
I'll tell the legend unto you,
For whom 'tis peradventure new.
Reflects quaint mediæval towers,
There stands a rich and holy shrine,
Famed far and wide for wondrous powers:
An image of the Virgin Mother,
More potent far than any other;
Revered for strange and sudden healings
By serf and burgess, priest and lord,
Ne'er thankless for a pilgrim's kneelings,
And in the furthest lands adored.
The figure stands within the aisle
Of the immense Cathedral pile;
Where languid fumes of incense float,
And rolls the organ's solemn note;
Where gorgeous flecks of colour pass,
And kiss the stone through tinted glass:
A mild Madonna looking down
From underneath a starry crown,
32
Behind a grating strange and rich.
So far, so good. But in this shrine
There hangs just in the very middle,
Beside the effigy divine,
A fiddle.
A Fiddle???
Each latest pilgrim shakes his head,
Whom pious steps have hither led,
And questions all, with anxious face.
For 'tis indeed a puzzling riddle
Why such an object as a fiddle
Should be suspended in the middle
Of such a very holy place.
But as I know, and as the story
Is greatly to the Virgin's glory,
I'll tell the legend unto you,
For whom 'tis peradventure new.
Somewhere in the Middle Ages—:
That happy time of long-shanked pages,
Of troubadours and ladies fair,
With hawk on wrist and golden hair;
Of lovers' philtres, and of spells,
Of palmers with their cockle-shells,
Of tourneys, and of knightly prancings,
Of plagues and epileptic dancings,
Of monks and nuns with morbid cravings,
With visions and ecstatic ravings,
Of heretics' and witches' trials,
Of recantations and denials;
That kindly period which exhibits
So many forms of chains and gibbets,
Of thumbscrews, racks, and Spanish shoes
To alter men's religious views,
Or touch the heart of stingy Jews;
Those good old days so picturesque,
So hungry, pious, and grotesque—
In that same town beside the Rhine,
Where stands the venerable shrine,
A fiddler dwelt of humble fame,
And known as Nepomuk by name.
He earned but little at the best,
For though his skill was far from middling,
Few in that city's bounds possessed
A taste for piping or for fiddling.
But times were more than ever hard,
The very mice could find no lard;
A plague had lately swept the city,
And Famine showed but little pity.
The world had licked its platter clean,
And grew each day more pale and lean;
All had to borrow, steal, or beg.
The stork which stood upon one leg
Upon his dwelling's highest gable,
Had brought to the musician's wife
More brats than he and she were able
To furnish with the means of life.
The hearth was empty; all was bare,
Their only visitor was Care;
Save when, through panes of bottle green,
Grim Hunger's face would come and stare;
Or ever and anon was seen
Upon the threshold blank Despair.
That happy time of long-shanked pages,
Of troubadours and ladies fair,
With hawk on wrist and golden hair;
Of lovers' philtres, and of spells,
Of palmers with their cockle-shells,
Of tourneys, and of knightly prancings,
Of plagues and epileptic dancings,
33
With visions and ecstatic ravings,
Of heretics' and witches' trials,
Of recantations and denials;
That kindly period which exhibits
So many forms of chains and gibbets,
Of thumbscrews, racks, and Spanish shoes
To alter men's religious views,
Or touch the heart of stingy Jews;
Those good old days so picturesque,
So hungry, pious, and grotesque—
In that same town beside the Rhine,
Where stands the venerable shrine,
A fiddler dwelt of humble fame,
And known as Nepomuk by name.
He earned but little at the best,
For though his skill was far from middling,
Few in that city's bounds possessed
A taste for piping or for fiddling.
But times were more than ever hard,
The very mice could find no lard;
A plague had lately swept the city,
And Famine showed but little pity.
The world had licked its platter clean,
And grew each day more pale and lean;
All had to borrow, steal, or beg.
The stork which stood upon one leg
34
Had brought to the musician's wife
More brats than he and she were able
To furnish with the means of life.
The hearth was empty; all was bare,
Their only visitor was Care;
Save when, through panes of bottle green,
Grim Hunger's face would come and stare;
Or ever and anon was seen
Upon the threshold blank Despair.
But in the trouble of his life,
When even his devoted wife
Was all unable to console
The woe which weighed upon his soul,
The poor musician had a friend,
For ever ready to attend;
A friend to whom, when broken-hearted,
His every feeling he imparted,
Whose voice in vain was never heard,
A friend who with him hoped and feared;
By old companionship endeared;
Who, in his happier days of youth,
Before he felt Care's gnawing tooth,
Had at his joy exulted often,
And now could soothe, assuage, and soften;
A friend who stuck through thick and thin,
His comforter—his violin.
He was for ever fiddling found,
The less the food, the more the sound.
When, in that bitt'rest of all winters,
The floating ice in hoary splinters,
Would crash and crunch, and shake and shiver,
Against the pier-heads of the river;
And mighty blocks with creaks and cracks
Would leap upon each other's backs;
And when from gables, and from leads,
And rain-spouts shaped like dragons' heads,
Hung icicles a yard in length,
Resplendent in ephemeral strength:
Then ran the fingers, flew the bow,
Through mazes of unuttered woe;
Until the sweat, despite the cold,
Down from the player's forehead rolled.
When even his devoted wife
Was all unable to console
The woe which weighed upon his soul,
The poor musician had a friend,
For ever ready to attend;
A friend to whom, when broken-hearted,
His every feeling he imparted,
Whose voice in vain was never heard,
A friend who with him hoped and feared;
By old companionship endeared;
Who, in his happier days of youth,
Before he felt Care's gnawing tooth,
Had at his joy exulted often,
And now could soothe, assuage, and soften;
A friend who stuck through thick and thin,
35
He was for ever fiddling found,
The less the food, the more the sound.
When, in that bitt'rest of all winters,
The floating ice in hoary splinters,
Would crash and crunch, and shake and shiver,
Against the pier-heads of the river;
And mighty blocks with creaks and cracks
Would leap upon each other's backs;
And when from gables, and from leads,
And rain-spouts shaped like dragons' heads,
Hung icicles a yard in length,
Resplendent in ephemeral strength:
Then ran the fingers, flew the bow,
Through mazes of unuttered woe;
Until the sweat, despite the cold,
Down from the player's forehead rolled.
One day when things looked blacker still,
(A child had died, his wife was ill,)
The poor musician had stolen out,
Scarce knowing what he was about:
Whether to seek some chance carousal,
Some christening feast, or some espousal,
At which to fiddle for a penny
(Feasts in the town were far from many);
Whether to supplicate or steal
For those at home a scanty meal;
Or whether every hope resign,
And end his misery in the Rhine;
It happened that the narrow street,
Chosen at random by the feet
Of the depressed and starving mortal,
Led past the great cathedral portal,
Where monkish sculptors, shorn and shaven,
Had nightmare scenes of yore engraven;
Where squatted imps, and goblins leered,
And apish faces grinned and jeered,
And fiends and dwarfs and creatures weird,
From every nook and corner peered;
Where rows of rigid Kings were seen,
Each with his lean and rigid Queen,
And mitred saints, all skin and bone,
Were rudely hewn in blackened stone.
The fiddler stopped and looked awhile;
He felt an inner admonition,
Far stronger than his own volition,
To enter that great Gothic pile.
The nave and aisles in semi-light
Seemed empty and deserted quite.
The sheaf-like pillars rose sublime,
Sustaining lightly in the air
A stony lace-work, past compare,
At heights where Fancy feared to climb.
Upon the tombs loomed cold and pale,
Recumbent in their coats of mail,
The statues of once famous knights,
Who in the shade of arch and column,
And in the stillness deep and solemn,
Seemed resting from forgotten fights.
The whole in tintless twilight lay,
Save here and there, where, far away,
At some long pillared vista's close,
A window like a luminous rose,
With blood-red petals, let a stream
Of crimson light the grey redeem.
(A child had died, his wife was ill,)
The poor musician had stolen out,
Scarce knowing what he was about:
Whether to seek some chance carousal,
Some christening feast, or some espousal,
At which to fiddle for a penny
(Feasts in the town were far from many);
Whether to supplicate or steal
36
Or whether every hope resign,
And end his misery in the Rhine;
It happened that the narrow street,
Chosen at random by the feet
Of the depressed and starving mortal,
Led past the great cathedral portal,
Where monkish sculptors, shorn and shaven,
Had nightmare scenes of yore engraven;
Where squatted imps, and goblins leered,
And apish faces grinned and jeered,
And fiends and dwarfs and creatures weird,
From every nook and corner peered;
Where rows of rigid Kings were seen,
Each with his lean and rigid Queen,
And mitred saints, all skin and bone,
Were rudely hewn in blackened stone.
The fiddler stopped and looked awhile;
He felt an inner admonition,
Far stronger than his own volition,
To enter that great Gothic pile.
The nave and aisles in semi-light
Seemed empty and deserted quite.
The sheaf-like pillars rose sublime,
Sustaining lightly in the air
A stony lace-work, past compare,
At heights where Fancy feared to climb.
37
Recumbent in their coats of mail,
The statues of once famous knights,
Who in the shade of arch and column,
And in the stillness deep and solemn,
Seemed resting from forgotten fights.
The whole in tintless twilight lay,
Save here and there, where, far away,
At some long pillared vista's close,
A window like a luminous rose,
With blood-red petals, let a stream
Of crimson light the grey redeem.
The unknown impulse which had made
The fiddler enter, led him on,
Through nave and transept, till it bade
Him humbly kneel upon the stone
Before the rich and holy shrine,
Where stood the Virgin's form divine.
She stood behind the silver grating,
Clad in a splendid jewelled robe,
As if for adoration waiting,
Her feet upon an azure globe;
And from beneath her starry crown,
She looked so mildly, softly down;
She seemed to say, “I know thee well;
To me thy woes and troubles tell.”
Was it his fancy? But he thought
That on her face a smile he caught.
Again! He thought her mantle rich
Had rustled in the azure niche!
He mumbled all the prayers he knew;
Half understood, and very few,
They served but badly to express
His utter misery and distress.
In his own words he tried to speak,
But his own words his wish belied;
His heart was full, his tongue was weak,
Upon his lips the accents died.
Then for his fiddle, as he knelt,
His hand mechanically felt.
At first the music sounded faint,
And like the moaning wind's complaint;
But as the player bolder grew,
From out his instrument he drew
A simple and pathetic air,
His truest, best, and highest prayer.
To her who, 'neath her starry crown,
Into all lowly hearts looked down,
He told his tale; and not in vain;
For lo, the image smiled again!
Again, against the azure globe,
He heard the rustling of her robe.
Before his hand had wholly stopped,
Before his prayer had wholly ended,
Slightly her foot the saint extended,
And through the bars, oh, joy unhoped,
The Virgin's jewelled slipper dropped.
The fiddler enter, led him on,
Through nave and transept, till it bade
Him humbly kneel upon the stone
Before the rich and holy shrine,
Where stood the Virgin's form divine.
She stood behind the silver grating,
Clad in a splendid jewelled robe,
As if for adoration waiting,
Her feet upon an azure globe;
And from beneath her starry crown,
She looked so mildly, softly down;
She seemed to say, “I know thee well;
To me thy woes and troubles tell.”
38
That on her face a smile he caught.
Again! He thought her mantle rich
Had rustled in the azure niche!
He mumbled all the prayers he knew;
Half understood, and very few,
They served but badly to express
His utter misery and distress.
In his own words he tried to speak,
But his own words his wish belied;
His heart was full, his tongue was weak,
Upon his lips the accents died.
Then for his fiddle, as he knelt,
His hand mechanically felt.
At first the music sounded faint,
And like the moaning wind's complaint;
But as the player bolder grew,
From out his instrument he drew
A simple and pathetic air,
His truest, best, and highest prayer.
To her who, 'neath her starry crown,
Into all lowly hearts looked down,
He told his tale; and not in vain;
For lo, the image smiled again!
Again, against the azure globe,
He heard the rustling of her robe.
Before his hand had wholly stopped,
39
Slightly her foot the saint extended,
And through the bars, oh, joy unhoped,
The Virgin's jewelled slipper dropped.
II.
He caught it up with wild delight,
And feasted on it soul and sight.
O beauteous gift! O wondrous token!
How clearly had not Heaven spoken!
No more dark days; no more despair;
The strength of evil fate was broken!
His life would now be bright and fair,
He stood beneath the Virgin's care!
With ecstasies of faith and joy,
He looked upon the glittering toy;
Kissed it, pressed it to his heart,
And—gave a cry and sudden start.
An iron gripe was round his wrist;
Upon his neck an iron fist;
There stood a grim, gigantic fellow,
A man at arms, in red and yellow,
Whose words fell harshly on his ear,
And filled him with a hideous fear.
“So, so,” he cried, “we've caught the thief!
At last the rat has come to grief!
Here, beadle! lend a hand. I feel
The fellow wringgling like an eel.”
Up came the beadle and the priest;
The fiddler prayed to be released,
And, trembling, laboured to explain.
They listened not, 'twas all in vain.
“To steal,” cried one, “the Virgin's slipper!
We'll hand him to the public whipper.”
“No!” cried the priest, “this dreadful act
“Is sacrilege! he must be racked,
Till every bone he has is cracked.”
They dragged him to the Marshal's dwelling,
Amid a mob with anger yelling;
And threats, and oaths, and kicks, and cuffs,
Were in the Virgin's honour showered,
By more than fifty pious roughs,
Upon the sacrilegious coward,
Who had just laid his impious hand
Upon the holiest in the land.
Before the Marshal and his crew,
The wretched Nepomuk again
All trembling laboured to explain
That all to miracle was due:
That he had fiddled at the shrine,
And that the effigy divine,
Had at his fiddling dropped her shoe;
But he was met with roars of laughter
That shook the very roof and rafter,
And after much enduring there
Was handed over to the Mayor;
Who called in haste his corporation,
And, after weighty consultation,
Declared that it was clearly shown
The case concerned the Church alone.
So late at night, he was at last
Into the Bishop's prison cast.
And feasted on it soul and sight.
O beauteous gift! O wondrous token!
How clearly had not Heaven spoken!
No more dark days; no more despair;
The strength of evil fate was broken!
His life would now be bright and fair,
He stood beneath the Virgin's care!
With ecstasies of faith and joy,
He looked upon the glittering toy;
Kissed it, pressed it to his heart,
And—gave a cry and sudden start.
An iron gripe was round his wrist;
Upon his neck an iron fist;
There stood a grim, gigantic fellow,
A man at arms, in red and yellow,
Whose words fell harshly on his ear,
And filled him with a hideous fear.
“So, so,” he cried, “we've caught the thief!
At last the rat has come to grief!
Here, beadle! lend a hand. I feel
40
Up came the beadle and the priest;
The fiddler prayed to be released,
And, trembling, laboured to explain.
They listened not, 'twas all in vain.
“To steal,” cried one, “the Virgin's slipper!
We'll hand him to the public whipper.”
“No!” cried the priest, “this dreadful act
“Is sacrilege! he must be racked,
Till every bone he has is cracked.”
They dragged him to the Marshal's dwelling,
Amid a mob with anger yelling;
And threats, and oaths, and kicks, and cuffs,
Were in the Virgin's honour showered,
By more than fifty pious roughs,
Upon the sacrilegious coward,
Who had just laid his impious hand
Upon the holiest in the land.
Before the Marshal and his crew,
The wretched Nepomuk again
All trembling laboured to explain
That all to miracle was due:
That he had fiddled at the shrine,
And that the effigy divine,
Had at his fiddling dropped her shoe;
But he was met with roars of laughter
That shook the very roof and rafter,
41
Was handed over to the Mayor;
Who called in haste his corporation,
And, after weighty consultation,
Declared that it was clearly shown
The case concerned the Church alone.
So late at night, he was at last
Into the Bishop's prison cast.
Now it so chanced that on that day
Just seven years had passed away
Since any one for Jesus' sake
Had been committed to the stake,—
An unaccountable vacation
Which hurt the Bishop's reputation;
It was a great and growing scandal,
Which gave his enemies a handle:
What wonder, when he did so little
To honour Heaven and to please,
If Heaven sent the town no victual,
But sent it famine and disease?
Too well this fact the bishop knew,
But what, alas! was he to do?
The heretics were now so sly
That 'twas mere waste of time to try
To set them traps; and as for wizards,
Who used to be as many as lizards,
His predecessor must have cast
Into the flames the very last.
For though he searched each nook and cranny,
He wholly failed to ferret any;
Nay, things had come to such a pitch
You couldn't even find a witch.
But suddenly, O hour of joy!
O golden day without alloy!
Behold the Heavens kindly send us
A case of sacrilege tremendous.
To touch the Virgin's jewelled shoe!
What next, good Lord, will Satan do?
Quick, heap the logs, and poke the fire!
Until the flames go shooting higher
Than yonder tall cathedral's spire,
And to the stake that's in the middle
We'll tie this fiddler and his fiddle!
Just seven years had passed away
Since any one for Jesus' sake
Had been committed to the stake,—
An unaccountable vacation
Which hurt the Bishop's reputation;
It was a great and growing scandal,
Which gave his enemies a handle:
What wonder, when he did so little
To honour Heaven and to please,
If Heaven sent the town no victual,
But sent it famine and disease?
Too well this fact the bishop knew,
But what, alas! was he to do?
The heretics were now so sly
That 'twas mere waste of time to try
To set them traps; and as for wizards,
Who used to be as many as lizards,
42
Into the flames the very last.
For though he searched each nook and cranny,
He wholly failed to ferret any;
Nay, things had come to such a pitch
You couldn't even find a witch.
But suddenly, O hour of joy!
O golden day without alloy!
Behold the Heavens kindly send us
A case of sacrilege tremendous.
To touch the Virgin's jewelled shoe!
What next, good Lord, will Satan do?
Quick, heap the logs, and poke the fire!
Until the flames go shooting higher
Than yonder tall cathedral's spire,
And to the stake that's in the middle
We'll tie this fiddler and his fiddle!
But matters went not quite so fast,
For many an endless month was passed
(Indeed I think the months were seven)
Far from the gentle light of Heaven,
By that same fiddler, in a cell
Beneath the level of a well:
The home of darkness and of damp
Of squalor and of fettered cramp,
Where slimy waters oozed and trickled,
Where unseen crawling creatures tickled,
Where every limb did waste and shrink;
Where almost mind unlearned to think,
Where tongue unlearned to speak, and ear
Almost at last unlearned to hear,
Where almost eye unlearned to see,
Where moments were eternity;
Where Nightmare with her crazy train
Oft flitted in and out again,
Oft placed her cold mouth on his cheek,
And woke him up with sudden shriek.
For seven endless months he wasted,
Nor knew how long the time had lasted,
Nor why so little Death had hasted.
At last he was brought out, and learnt
That in a week he would be burnt;
That though his body turned to coal
He might rest pleased, for on the whole
'Twas mighty wholesome for his soul.
And then they told him if he wanted
To ask a boon before he died,
It would not surely be denied.
For many an endless month was passed
(Indeed I think the months were seven)
Far from the gentle light of Heaven,
By that same fiddler, in a cell
Beneath the level of a well:
The home of darkness and of damp
Of squalor and of fettered cramp,
Where slimy waters oozed and trickled,
43
Where every limb did waste and shrink;
Where almost mind unlearned to think,
Where tongue unlearned to speak, and ear
Almost at last unlearned to hear,
Where almost eye unlearned to see,
Where moments were eternity;
Where Nightmare with her crazy train
Oft flitted in and out again,
Oft placed her cold mouth on his cheek,
And woke him up with sudden shriek.
For seven endless months he wasted,
Nor knew how long the time had lasted,
Nor why so little Death had hasted.
At last he was brought out, and learnt
That in a week he would be burnt;
That though his body turned to coal
He might rest pleased, for on the whole
'Twas mighty wholesome for his soul.
And then they told him if he wanted
To ask a boon before he died,
It would not surely be denied.
On Nepomuk's white altered face,
A gleam of hope was seen to flit.
There was, he said, indeed a grace
Which he would crave, and this was it—
Upon the dread and final day,
When he should be upon his way
To execution, might he play
Upon his fiddle at the shrine
Of Mary, Heaven's Queen Divine?
O Virgin, by whose image there,
He played too well his plaintive air,
Thou wilt not let thy fiddler die;
But from thy throne of stars on high,
Thou wilt forbid the act of shame!
Once more thou'lt listen to his fiddle,
And thou wilt snatch him from the middle
Of the devouring tongues of flame!
A gleam of hope was seen to flit.
There was, he said, indeed a grace
Which he would crave, and this was it—
44
When he should be upon his way
To execution, might he play
Upon his fiddle at the shrine
Of Mary, Heaven's Queen Divine?
O Virgin, by whose image there,
He played too well his plaintive air,
Thou wilt not let thy fiddler die;
But from thy throne of stars on high,
Thou wilt forbid the act of shame!
Once more thou'lt listen to his fiddle,
And thou wilt snatch him from the middle
Of the devouring tongues of flame!
Slowly tolled the dying knell,
With a dull ill-omened sound,
While the long procession wound
Bent upon its work of hell.
Slowly went the monks and chanting,
Cowled in brown, with sandalled feet,
In the shadow of the slanting
Gables of the narrow street,
“Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.”
Then masked penitents with torches
And two little holes for eyes,
Chanting how the hell-flame scorches,
When the dead for judgment rise.
Then the priests with tapers marching,
With the crucifix ahead:
Mighty burning, mighty parching,
When the trump shall wake the dead.
“Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.”
Then the bones of great St. Gandolf
(For the truth a mighty fighter),
Then the chains of sweet St. Pandolf,
And the Bishop with his mitre;
Then the Virgin's stolen Slipper,
Carried in a case of satin;
Then the Hangman and the Whipper,
Chanting, too, in barbarous Latin.
“Mors stupebit et natura
Cum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.”
Then the Victim, walking slowly,
Clad in sackcloth, bare of foot,
Seeming to be careless wholly
Of the crowd's insulting hoot.
Fastened slackly round his middle
Was a thick and knotted rope,
In his hand he held his fiddle,
Which was now his only hope.
“Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus?”
Then came monk, and knave, and varlet,
Bearing fagots for the stake;
Men-at-arms, striped black and scarlet,
Followed close for order's sake;
Then the emblems of the Passion,
Hammer, Tweezers, Sponge, and Lance,
With the Coat of Seamless Fashion,
And the Dice of evil chance.
“Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis
Voca me cum benedictis.”
Then the Guilds with all their banners,
Weavers weak and Butchers strong,
Goldsmiths, Brewers, Coopers, Tanners,
With apprentices in throng.
Then the crowd from all the quarters
Poured into that single street,
Like to wild and turbid waters
Which converge and roaring meet.
With a dull ill-omened sound,
While the long procession wound
Bent upon its work of hell.
Slowly went the monks and chanting,
Cowled in brown, with sandalled feet,
In the shadow of the slanting
Gables of the narrow street,
“Dies irae, dies illa
Solvet saeclum in favilla,
Teste David cum Sibylla.”
Then masked penitents with torches
And two little holes for eyes,
45
When the dead for judgment rise.
Then the priests with tapers marching,
With the crucifix ahead:
Mighty burning, mighty parching,
When the trump shall wake the dead.
“Tuba mirum spargens sonum
Per sepulchra regionum
Coget omnes ante thronum.”
Then the bones of great St. Gandolf
(For the truth a mighty fighter),
Then the chains of sweet St. Pandolf,
And the Bishop with his mitre;
Then the Virgin's stolen Slipper,
Carried in a case of satin;
Then the Hangman and the Whipper,
Chanting, too, in barbarous Latin.
“Mors stupebit et natura
Cum resurget creatura
Judicanti responsura.”
Then the Victim, walking slowly,
Clad in sackcloth, bare of foot,
Seeming to be careless wholly
Of the crowd's insulting hoot.
Fastened slackly round his middle
Was a thick and knotted rope,
In his hand he held his fiddle,
46
“Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?
Quem patronum rogaturus?
Cum vix justus sit securus?”
Then came monk, and knave, and varlet,
Bearing fagots for the stake;
Men-at-arms, striped black and scarlet,
Followed close for order's sake;
Then the emblems of the Passion,
Hammer, Tweezers, Sponge, and Lance,
With the Coat of Seamless Fashion,
And the Dice of evil chance.
“Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis
Voca me cum benedictis.”
Then the Guilds with all their banners,
Weavers weak and Butchers strong,
Goldsmiths, Brewers, Coopers, Tanners,
With apprentices in throng.
Then the crowd from all the quarters
Poured into that single street,
Like to wild and turbid waters
Which converge and roaring meet.
The great procession had to pass
Through the cathedral to hear Mass;
Then, at the shrine within the aisle
The fiddler was to play awhile,
As had been promised and conceded,
Before the pious souls proceeded
Towards the city's largest square,
And burned him with his fiddle there.
So through the great cathedral porch
Passed priest with taper, monk with torch,
Into the shade of arch and column
Where echo made the chant more solemn,
And where the stain'd glass windows threw
Their wondrous gleams of many a hue.
There Nepomuk at last was brought
To that same shrine his feet had sought:
Where in her pointed azure niche,
Adorned with jewels rare and rich,
Stood Our Lady looking down
From underneath her starry crown.
They bade him fiddle, and if Heaven
Should give a sign, he'd be forgiven.
Now fiddle, fiddler, for thy life,
For worse than water, rope, or knife,
Is what awaits thee if thou fail
To move that Virgin's image pale!
Through the cathedral to hear Mass;
Then, at the shrine within the aisle
47
As had been promised and conceded,
Before the pious souls proceeded
Towards the city's largest square,
And burned him with his fiddle there.
So through the great cathedral porch
Passed priest with taper, monk with torch,
Into the shade of arch and column
Where echo made the chant more solemn,
And where the stain'd glass windows threw
Their wondrous gleams of many a hue.
There Nepomuk at last was brought
To that same shrine his feet had sought:
Where in her pointed azure niche,
Adorned with jewels rare and rich,
Stood Our Lady looking down
From underneath her starry crown.
They bade him fiddle, and if Heaven
Should give a sign, he'd be forgiven.
Now fiddle, fiddler, for thy life,
For worse than water, rope, or knife,
Is what awaits thee if thou fail
To move that Virgin's image pale!
He grasped his bow. Oh, piteous sight,
To see his lamentable plight!
His feet were bleeding from the stones;
The dungeon chains, worn day and night,
Had eaten to his very bones;
His lately shackled hands were numb,
No sound would from the fiddle come;
The faithless instrument was dumb!
He tried again, the cold sweat now
Stood in big drops upon his brow;
He tried again, a feeble whine
Was all 'twould utter at the shrine;
Then screams of laughter, spite the place,
Nor pity on a single face.
The Bishop swore with joy malicious,
The fiddler's tune was too delicious;
Was ever such a rare thing seen
As that most comic fiddler's mien?
But look! but look! why stops the mirth?
What to such silence can give birth?
“She moves! shemoves!” runs through the crowd;
“She moves!” the Bishop cries aloud.
She moved, indeed: her pearly robe
Is rustling on the azure globe;
The statue with those features mild
Has on the fiddler surely smiled.
A mighty cry of wonder rends
The startled air, and for awhile
Wakes all the echoes of the aisle;
For lo, the effigy extends
Slightly her foot, in sight of all,
And lets the other slipper fall.
To see his lamentable plight!
His feet were bleeding from the stones;
48
Had eaten to his very bones;
His lately shackled hands were numb,
No sound would from the fiddle come;
The faithless instrument was dumb!
He tried again, the cold sweat now
Stood in big drops upon his brow;
He tried again, a feeble whine
Was all 'twould utter at the shrine;
Then screams of laughter, spite the place,
Nor pity on a single face.
The Bishop swore with joy malicious,
The fiddler's tune was too delicious;
Was ever such a rare thing seen
As that most comic fiddler's mien?
But look! but look! why stops the mirth?
What to such silence can give birth?
“She moves! shemoves!” runs through the crowd;
“She moves!” the Bishop cries aloud.
She moved, indeed: her pearly robe
Is rustling on the azure globe;
The statue with those features mild
Has on the fiddler surely smiled.
A mighty cry of wonder rends
The startled air, and for awhile
Wakes all the echoes of the aisle;
For lo, the effigy extends
49
And lets the other slipper fall.
Thus he was saved, and lived to tell
His children's sons how all befell;
Nor did his pains go unrewarded,
For he was made—so 'tis recorded—
Cathedral organist-in-chief,
With free supplies of bread and beef;
And when at last his days were ended,
His fellow-citizens suspended
Within the shrine, just in the middle,
His fiddle.
His children's sons how all befell;
Nor did his pains go unrewarded,
For he was made—so 'tis recorded—
Cathedral organist-in-chief,
With free supplies of bread and beef;
And when at last his days were ended,
His fellow-citizens suspended
Within the shrine, just in the middle,
His fiddle.
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