Poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich / [by Thomas Bailey Aldrich] [electronic text]

ACT II.

Morning. —The interior of a stone hut in Arguano. —Through the door opening upon the calle are seen piles of Indian corn, sheaves of wheat, and loaves of bread partly consumed. — Empty wine-skins are scattered here and there among the cinders. —In one corner of the chamber, which is low-studded but spacious, an old woman, propped up with pillows, is sitting on a pallet and crooning to herself.— At the left, a settle stands against the wall.— In the centre of the room a child lies asleep in a cradle.—Mercedes. —Padre Joséf entering abruptly.

SCENE I.

MERCEDES, Padre JOSÉF, then URSULA.

Padre JOSÉF.

Mercedes! daughter! are you mad to linger so?

MERCEDES.

Nay, father, it is you who are mad to come back.

Padre JOSÉF.

We were nearly a mile from the village when I missed you and the child. I had stopped at your cottage, and found no one. I thought you were with those who had started at sunrise.

MERCEDES.

Nay, I brought Chiquita here last night when I heard the French were coming.

Padre JOSÉF.

Quick, Mercedes! there is not an instant to waste.

MERCEDES.

Then hasten, Padre Joséf, while there is yet time.

(Pushes him towards the door.)

Padre JOSÉF.

And you, child?

MERCEDES.

I shall stay.

Padre JOSÉF.

Listen to her, Sainted Virgin! she will stay, and the French bloodhounds at our very heels!

MERCEDES,

glancing at Ursula.

Could I leave old Ursula, and she not able to lift foot? Think you — my own flesh and blood!

Padre JOSÉF.

Ah, cielo! true. They have forgotten her, the cowards! and now it is too late. God willed it — santificado sea tu nombre!

(Hesitates.)

Mercedes, Ursula is old—very old;the better part of her is already dead. See how she laughs and mumbles to herself, and knows naught of what is passing.

MERCEDES.

The poor grandmother! she thinks it is a saint's day.

(seats herself on the settle.)

Padre JOSÉF.

What is life or death to her whose soul is otherwhere? What is a second more or less to the leaf that clings to a shrunken bough? But you, Mercedes, the long summer smiles for such as you. Think of yourself, think of Chiquita. Come with me, child, come!

URSULA.

Ay, ay, go with the good padre, dear. There is dancing on the plaza. The gitanos are there, mayhap. I hear the music. I had ever an ear for tamborines and castanets. When I was a slip of a girl I used to foot it with the best in the cachuca and the bolera. I was a merry jade, Mercedes—a merry jade. Wear your broidered garters, dear.

MERCEDES.

She hears music.

(Listens.)

No. Her mind wanders strangely to-day, now here, now there. The gray spirits are with her.

(To Ursula gently.)

No, grandmother, I came to stay with you, I and Chiquita.

Padre JOSÉF.

You are mad, Mercedes. They will murder you all.

MERCEDES.

They will not have the heart to harm Chiquita, nor me, perchance, for her sake.

Padre JOSÉF.

They have no hearts, these Frenchmen. Ah, Mercedes, do you not know better than most that a Frenchman has no heart?

MERCEDES,

hastily.

I know nothing. I shall stay. Is life so sweet to me? Go, Padre Joséf. What could save you if they found you here? Not your priest's gown.

Padre JOSÉF.

You will follow, my daughter?

MERCEDES.

No.

Padre JOSÉF.

I beseech you!

MERCEDES.

No.

Padre JOSÉF.

Then you are lost!

MERCEDES.

Nay, padrino, God is everywhere. Have you not yourself said it? Lay your hands for a moment on my head, as you used to do when I was a little child, and go —go!

Padre JOSÉF.

Thou wert ever a wilful girl, Mercedes.

MERCEDES.

O, say not so; but quick — your blessing, quick!

Padre JOSÉF.

Á Dios....

He makes the sign of the cross on Mercedes' forehead, and slowly turns away, Mercedes rises, follows him to the door, and looks after him with tears in her eyes. Then she returns to the middle of the room, and sits on a low stool beside the cradle.

SCENE II.

MERCEDES, URSULA.

URSULA,

after a silence.

Has he gone, the good padre?

MERCEDES.

Yes, dear soul.

URSULA,

reflectively.

He was your uncle once.

MERCEDES.

Once? Yes, and always. How you speak!

URSULA.

He is not gay any more, the good padre. He is getting old... getting old.

MERCEDES.

To hear her! and she eighty years last San Miguel's day!

URSULA.

What day is it?

MERCEDES,

laying one finger on her lips.

Hist! Chiquita is waking.

URSULA,

querulously.

Hist? Nay, I will say my say in spite of all. Hist? God save us! who taught thee to say hist to thy elders? Ay, ay, who taught thee?... What day is it?

MERCEDES,

aside.

How sharp she is awhiles!

(Aloud.)

Pardon, pardon! Here is little Chiquita, with both eyes wide open, to

help me beg thy forgiveness.

(Takes up the child.)

See, she has a smile for grandmother... Ah, no, little one, I have no milk for thee; the trouble has taken it all. Nay, cry not, dainty, or that will break my heart.

URSULA.

Sing to her, nieta. What is it you sing that always hushes her? 'T is gone from me.

MERCEDES.

I know not.

URSULA.

Bethink thee.

MERCEDES.

I cannot. Ah—the rhyme of The Three Little White Teeth?

URSULA,

clapping her hands.

Ay, ay, that is it!

MERCEDES

rocks the child, and sings:

Who is it opens her bright blue eye, Bright as the sea and blue as the sky? — Chiquita! Who has the smile that comes and goes Like sunshine over her mouth's red rose?— Muchachita!

What is the softest laughter heard, Gurgle of brook or trill of bird, Chiquita? Nay, 't is thy laughter makes the rill Hush its voice and the bird be still, Muchachita!

Ah, little flower-hand on my breast, How it soothes me and gives me rest! Chiquita! What is the sweetest sight I know? Three little white teeth in a row, Three little white teeth in a row, Muchachita!

As Mercedes finishes the song a roll of drums is heard in the calle. At the first tap she starts and listens intently, then assumes a stolid air. The sound approaches the door and suddenly ceases.

SCENE III.

LABOISSIÈRE, MERCEDES, then SOLDIERS.

LABOISSIÈRE,

outside.

A sergeant and two men to follow me!

(Mutters.)

Curse me if there is so much as a mouse left in the whole village. Not a drop of wine, and the bread burnt to a crisp— the scélérats!

(Appears at the threshold.)

Hulloa! what is this? An old woman and a young one— an Andalusian by the arch of her instep and the length of her eyelashes!

(In Spanish.)

Girl, what are you doing here?

MERCEDES,

in French.

Where should I be, monsieur?

LABOISSIÈRE..

You speak French?

MERCEDES.

Caramba! since you speak Spanish.

LABOISSIÈRE.

It was out of politeness. But talk your own jargon—it is a language that turns to honey on the tongue of a pretty woman.

(Aside.)

It was my luck to unearth the only woman in the place! The captain's white blackbird has flown, bag and baggage, thank Heaven! Poor Louvois, what a grim face he made over the empty nest!

(Aloud.)

Your neighbors have gone. Why are you not with them?

MERCEDES,

pointing to Ursula.

It is my grandmother, señor; she is paralyzed.

LABOISSIÈRE.

So? You could not carry her off, and you remained?

MERCEDES.

Precisely.

LABOISSIÈRE.

That was like a brave girl.

(Touching his cap.)

I salute valor whenever I meet it. Why have all the villagers fled?

MERCEDES.

Did they wish to be massacred?

LABOISSIÈRE,

shrugging his shoulders.

And you?

MERCEDES.

It would be too much glory for a hundred and eighty French soldiers to kill one poor peasant girl. And then to come so far!

LABOISSIÈRE,

aside.

She knows our very numbers, the fox! How she shows her teeth!

MERCEDES.

Besides, señor, one can die but once.

LABOISSIÈRE.

That is often enough. —Why did your people waste the bread and wine?

MERCEDES.

That yours might neither eat the one nor drink the other. We do not store food for our enemies.

LABOISSIÈRE.

They could not take away the provisions, so they destroyed them?

MERCEDES,

mockingly.

Nothing escapes you!

LABOISSIÈRE.

Is that your child?

MERCEDES.

Yes, the hija is mine.

LABOISSIÈRE.

Where is your husband —with the brigands yonder?

MERCEDES.

My husband?

LABOISSIÈRE.

Your lover, then.

MERCEDES.

I have no lover. My husband is dead.

LABOISSIÈRE.

I think you are lying now. He's a guerrilla.

MERCEDES.

If he were I should not deny it. What Spanish

woman would rest her cheek upon the bosom that has not a carabine pressed against it this day? It were better to be a soldier's widow than a coward's wife.

LABOISSIÈRE,

aside.

The little demon! But she is ravishing! She would have upset St. Anthony, this one—if he had belonged to the Second Chasseurs! What is to be done? Theoretically, I am to pass my sword through her body; practically, I shall make love to her in ten minutes more, though her readiness to become a widow is not altogether pleasing!

(Aloud.)

Here, sergeant, go report this matter to the captain. He is in the posada at the farther end of the square.

Exit sergeant. Shouts of exultation and laughter are heard in the calle, and presently three or four soldiers enter bearing several hams and a skin of wine.

1st SOLDIER.

Voilà, lieutenant!

LABOISSIÈRE.

Where did you get that?

2d SOLDIER.

In a cellar hard by, hidden under some rushes.

3d SOLDIER.

There are five more skins of wine like this jolly fellow in his leather jacket. Pray order a division of the booty, my lieutenant, for we are as dry as herrings in a box.

LABOISSIÈRE.

A moment, my braves.

(Looks at Mercedes significantly.)

Woman, is that wine good?

MERCEDES.

The vintage was poor this year, señor.

LABOISSIÈRE.

I mean—is that wine good for a Frenchman to drink?

MERCEDES.

Why not, señor?

LABOISSIÈRE,

sternly.

Yes or no?

MERCEDES.

Yes.

LABOISSIÈRE.

Why was it not served like the rest, then?

MERCEDES.

They hid a few skins, thinking to come back for it when you were gone. An ill thing does not last forever.

LABOISSIÈRE.

Open it, some one, and fetch me a glass.

(To Mercedes.)

You will drink this.

MERCEDES,

coldly.

When I am thirsty I drink.

LABOISSIÈRE.

Pardieu! this time you shall drink because I am thirsty.

MERCEDES.

As you will.

(Empties the glass.)

To the King!

LABOISSIÈRE.

That was an impudent toast. I would have preferred the Emperor or even Godoy; but no matter— each after his kind. To whom will the small-bones drink?

MERCEDES.

The child, señor?

LABOISSIÈRE.

Yes, the child; she is pale and sickly-looking; a draught will do her no harm. All the same she will grow up and make some man wretched.

MERCEDES.

But señor....

LABOISSIÈRE.

Do you hear?

MERCEDES.

But Chiquita, señor—she is so little, only thirteen months old, and the wine is strong!

LABOISSIÈRE.

She shall drink.

MERCEDES.

No, no!

LABOISSIÈRE.

I have said it, sacré nom—

MERCEDES.

Give it me, then.

(Takes the glass and holds it to the child's lips.)

LABOISSIÈRE,

watching her closely.

Woman! your hand trembles.

MERCEDES.

Nay, it is Chiquita swallows so fast. See! she has taken it all. Ah, señor, it is a sad thing to have no milk for the little one. Are you content?

LABOISSIÈRE.

Yes; I now see that the men may quench their thirst without fear. One cannot be too cautious in this hospitable country! Fall to, my children; but first a glass for your lieutenant.

(Drinks.)

URSULA.

Ay, ay, the young forget the old... forget the old.

LABOISSIÈRE,

laughing.

Why, the depraved old sorceress! But she has reason. She should have her share. Place aux dames! A cup, somebody, for Madame la Diablesse!

MERCEDES,

aside.

José-Maria!

One of the men carries wine to Ursula. Mercedes lays the child in the cradle, and sits on the stool beside it, resting her forehead on her palms. Laboissière stretches himself on the settle. Several soldiers come in, and fill their canteens from the wine-skin. They stand in groups, talking in undertones among themselves.

LABOISSIÈRE

suddenly starts to his feet and dashes his glass on the floor.

The child! look at the child! What is the matter with it? It turns livid—it is dying! Comrades, we are poisoned!

MERCEDES

rises hastily and throws her mantilla over the cradle.

Yes, you are poisoned! Al fuego— al fuego— todos al fuego! 1 1.1 You to perdition, we to heaven!

LABOISSIÈRE.

Quick, some of you, go warn the others!

(Unsheathes his sword.)

I end where I ought to have begun.

MERCEDES,

tearing aside her neckerchief.

Strike here, señor....

LOUVOIS

enters, and halts between the two with a dazed expression; he glances from Laboissière to the woman, and catches his breath.

Mercedes!

LABOISSIÈRE.

Louvois, we are dead men! Beware of her, she is a fiend! Kill her without a word! The drink already throttles me—I—I cannot breathe here.

(Staggers out, followed wildly by the soldiers. )

SCENE IV.

LOUVOIS, MERCEDES.

LOUVOlS.

What does he say?

MERCEDES.

You heard him.

LOUVOIS.

His words have no sense.

(Advancing towards her.)

O, why are you in this place, Mercedes?

MERCEDES,

recoiling.

I am here, señor—

LOUVOIS.

You call me señor—you shrink from me—

MERCEDES.

Because we Spaniards do not desert those who depend upon us.

LOUVOIS.

Is that a reproach? Ah, cruel! Have you forgotten—

MERCEDES.

I have forgotten nothing. I have had cause to remember all. I remember, among the rest, that a certain wounded French officer was cared for in this village as if he had been one of our own people—and now he returns to massacre us.

LOUVOIS.

Mercedes!

MERCEDES.

I remember the morning, nearly two years ago, when Padre Joséf brought me your letter. You had stolen away in the night—like a deserter! Ah, that letter—how it pierced my heart, and yet bade me live! Because it was full of those smooth oaths which women love, I carried it in my bosom for a twelvemonth; then for another twelvemonth I carried it

because I hoped to give it back to you.

(Takes a paper from her bosom.)

See, señor, what slight things words are!

(Tears the paper into small pieces which she scatters at his feet.)

LOUVOIS.

Ah!

MERCEDES.

Sometimes it comforted me to think that you were dead. You were only false!

LOUVOIS.

It is you who have broken faith. I should be the last of men if I had deserted you. Why, even a dog has gratitude. How could I now look you in the face?

MERCEDES.

'T was an ill day you first did so!

LOUVOIS.

Listen to me!

MERCEDES.

Too many times I have listened. Nay, speak not; I might believe you!

LOUVOIS.

If I do not speak the truth, despise me! Since I left Arguano I have been at Lisbon, Irun, Aranjuez, among the mountains—I know not where, but ever

in some spot whence it was impossible to get you tidings. A wall of fire and steel shut me from you. Thrice I have had my letters brought back to me—with the bearers' blood upon them; thrice I have trusted to messengers whose treachery I now discover. For a chance bit of worthless gold they broke the seals, and wrecked our lives! Ah, Mercedes, when my silence troubled you, why did you not read the old letter again? If the words you had of mine lost their value, it was because they were like those jewels in the padre's story, which changed their color when the wearer proved unfaithful.

MERCEDES.

Aquilles!

LOUVOIS.

Though I could not come to you nor send to you, I never dreamed I was forgotten. I used to say to myself: "A week, a month, a year—what does it matter? That brown girl is as true as steel!" I think I bore a charmed life in those days; I grew to believe that neither sword nor bullet could touch me until I held you in my arms again.

(The girl stands with her hands crossed upon her bosom and looks at him with a growing light in her eyes.)

It was the day before yesterday that our brigade returned to Burgos—at last! at last! O, love, my eyes were hungry for you! Then that dreadful order came. Arguano had been to me what Mecca is to the Mohammedan—a shrine to be reached through toil

and thirst and death. O, what a grim freak it was of fate, that I should lead a column against Arguano—my shrine, my Holy Land!

Mercedes moves swiftly across the room, and kneeling on the flag-stones near Louvois's feet begins to pick up the fragments of the letter. He suddenly stoops and takes her by the wrists.

Mercedes!

MERCEDES.

Ah, but I was so unhappy! Was I unhappy? I forget.

(Looks up in his face and laughs.)

It is so very long ago! An instant of heaven would make one forget a century of hell! When I hear your voice, two years are as yesterday. It was not I, but some poor girl I used to know who was like to die for you. It was not I—I have never been anything but happy. Nay, I needs must weep a little for her, the days were so heavy to that poor girl. And when you go away again, as go you must—

LOUVOIS.

I shall take you with me, Mercedes. Do you understand? You are to go with me to Burgos.

(Aside.)

What a blank look she wears! She does not seem to understand.

MERCEDES,

abstractedly.

With you to Burgos? I was there once, in the great cathedral, and saw the bishops in their golden robes and all the jewelled windows ablaze in the sunset.

But with you? Am I dreaming this? The very room has grown unfamiliar to me. The crucifix yonder, at which I have knelt a hundred times, was it always there? My head is full of unwonted visions. I think I hear music and the sound of castanets, like poor old Ursula. Those cries in the calle—is it a merry-meeting? Ah! what a pain struck my heart then! O God! I had forgotten!

(Clutches his arm and pushes him from her.)

Have you drunk wine this day?

LOUVOIS.

Why, Mercedes, how strange you are!

MERCEDES.

No, no! have you drunk wine?

LOUVOIS.

Well, yes, a cup without. What then? How white you are!

MERCEDES.

Quick! let me look you in the face. I wish to tell you something. You loved me once... it was in May... your wound is quite well now? No, no, not that! All things slip from me. Chiquita— Nay, hold me closer, I do not see you. Into the sunlight—into the sunlight!

LOUVOIS.

She is fainting!

MERCEDES.

I am dying—I am poisoned. The wine was drugged for the French. I was desperate. Chiquita—there in the cradle—she is dead—and I—

(Sinks down at his feet.)

LOUVOIS,

stooping over her.

Mercedes! Mercedes!

After an interval a measured tramp is heard outside. A sergeant with a file of soldiers in disorder enters the hut.

SCENE V.

SERGEANT and SOLDIERS.

1st SOLDIER.

Behold! he has killed the murderess.

2d SOLDIER.

If she had but twenty lives now!

3d SOLDIER.

That would not bring back the brave Laboissière and the rest.

2d SOLDIER.

Sapristi, no! but it would give us life for life.

4th SOLDIER.

Miséricorde! are twenty—

SERGEANT.

Hold your peace, all of you!

(Advances and salutes Louvois, who is half kneeling beside the body of the woman.)

My captain!

(Aside.)

He does not answer me.

(Lays his hand hurriedly on Louvois's shoulder, and starts.)

Silence, there! and stand uncovered. He is dead!

Notes

• 1 1.1

  To the flames— to the flames—all of you to the flames!