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