Gods, Saints & Men By Eugene Lee-Hamilton ... With Ten Full-Page Illustartions Designed by Enrico Mazzanti |
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 | Gods, Saints & Men |  |
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.
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