He
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature.
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v27 - Wat to Zor
This brought her to the outskirts of the forest,
where all traces were wiped out.
Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It
was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then,
remembering her time was running out, she got up again. How
long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes ? half an
hour? She lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had
gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where one afternoon
## p. 16320 (#674) ##########################################
16320
ÉMILE ZOLA
they had eaten filberts together. She went to the copse and
searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melan-
choly tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hol.
low in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for
game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the
use of looking for him ? she would not find him: and little by
little her desire to find him grew furious; she walked on faster.
The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly
struck her. From that moment she pushed on with up-turned
eyes; and that he might know she was near, she called out to
him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her;
.
;
a breath of air passing through the branches made her think
he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought
she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run
away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to
lead him away and have him shot ? Oh no, she would not
mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not
to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father
waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf,
weeping, repeating aloud: -
“My God, my God! why am I here ! »
She must have been crazy to come. And as if seized with
fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three
times she took the wrong path; and she thought she could not
find the mill again, when she came out into a field just oppo-
site Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she
stopped. Was she going to return alone ?
As she stood there, a voice called to her softly:-
« Françoise! Françoise ! »
And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of
a ditch. Just God, she had found him! So Heaven wished his
death ? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the
ditch.
“You were looking for me ? ” he asked.
Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she
said.
“Ah! what's going on? ”
She looked down; she stammered out:
“Why, nothing; I was anxious—I wanted to see you. "
Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go
far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just
(
»
## p. 16321 (#675) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16321
»
the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then
all was going well; and he added, laughing:-
"Our wedding will be for this day week, that's all. ”
Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.
« But what's the matter with you? You are keeping some-
thing from me. ”
“No, I swear to you. I ran to come
He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of
them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the for-
est. She held him back. She was trembling.
“Listen: perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here,
all the same. Nobody is looking for you; you're not afraid of
anything. ”
“Françoise, you are keeping something from me,” he repeated.
Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only
she had rather know he was near; and she stammered out other
reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now
he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides,
he believed the French would return. Troops had been sent
over Sauval
way.
"Ah! let them be in a hurry; let them be here as soon as
possible! ” he muttered fervently.
At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven.
The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright:
it was two hours since she had left the mill.
"Listen,” she said rapidly: “if we should need you, I will go
up to my room and wave my handkerchief. ”
And she left him, running; while Dominique, very anxious,
stretched himself out on the edge of the ditch, to keep his eye
on the mill. As she was just running into Rocreuse, Françoise
met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country.
He bowed to her: he had just seen the miller in the midst of
the Prussians; then crossing himself and mumbling some discon-
nected words, he went his way.
“The two hours are over,” said the officer, when Françoise
appeared.
Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He
was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept,
fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of
seeing the French return had grown in her; and while bewailing
her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army.
Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!
XXVII-TO2I
## p. 16322 (#676) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16322
"Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more! You can surely
grant me one hour! »
But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men
to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might pro-
ceed quietly with the old man's execution. Then a frightful con-
flict went on in Françoise's heart. She could not let her father
be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first;
and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself
walked into the court-yard.
The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as
if no one but Françoise had been there, stepped up to her qui-
etly, a little sternly.
“That was wrong,” said he. "Why didn't you bring me back
with you ? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. After all,
here I am. ”
V
IT WAS three o'clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled
the sky, the tail of some not distant thunder-storm.
This yellow
sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse,
so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious
shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Domi-
nique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had
in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey
to infernal anguish. She would not leave the court-yard, in
spite of her father's urging. She was waiting for the French.
But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered
the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to
change the frightful catastrophe.
Nevertheless at about three, the Prussians made preparations
to go. A minute before, the officer had closeted himself with
Dominique, as on the preceding day. Françoise saw that the
young man's life was being decided on. Then she clasped her
hands and prayed. Old Merlier, beside her, maintained his mute
and rigid attitude of an old peasant who does not struggle with
the fatality of facts.
“O my God! ( my God! ” said Françoise brokenly, they are
going to kill him! »
The miller drew her close to him and took her upon his knee,
like a child.
Just then the officer came out; while behind him, two men led
Dominique.
## p. 16323 (#677) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16323
»
Never, never! ” cried the latter, "I am ready to die. ”
« Think of it well,” replied the officer. « This service that
you refuse us will be done for us by another.
I offer you your
life; I am generous. It is only to be our guide to Montredom,
through the woods. There must be paths. ”
Dominique made no answer.
“Then you are still obstinate ? »
“Kill me, and let us have done with it,” he answered.
Françoise, with hands clasped, implored him from across the
yard. She had forgotten all; she would have urged him to some
piece of cowardice. But old Merlier grasped her hands, that the
Prussians might not see her delirious gesture.
"He is right,” he murmured: “it's better to die. ”
The firing party was there. The officer was waiting for a
moment of weakness on Dominique's part. He still counted on
winning him over. There was a dead silence. From the dis-
tance were heard violent claps of thunder. A sultry heat weighed
upon the country; and in the midst of this silence a shriek burst
forth:
« The French! the French ! »
It was really they. On the Sauval road, on the outskirts of
the wood, you could make out the line of red trousers. Inside
the mill there was an extraordinary hubbub. The Prussian sol-
diers ran about with guttural exclamations. For the rest, not a
shot had been fired yet.
« The French! the French! ” screamed Françoise, clapping her
hands.
She was like mad. She had broken loose from her father's
embrace, and she laughed, her arms waving in the air. At last
they were coming, and they had come in time, since Dominique
was still there, erect!
A terrible firing that burst upon her ears like a thunder-
stroke made her turn round. The officer had just muttered:
« First of all, let us finish this job. ”
And pushing Dominique up against the wall of a shed with
his own hands, he had ordered, “Fire! » When Françoise turned
round, Dominique was lying on the ground, his breast pierced
with twelve bullets.
She did not weep; she stood there in a stupor. Her eyes
were fixed, and she went and sat down under the shed, a few
steps from the body. She looked at it; at moments she made a
>
## p. 16324 (#678) ##########################################
16324
ÉMILE ZOLA
vague and childlike movement with her hand. The Prussians
had laid hold of old Merlier as a hostage.
It was a fine fight. Rapidly the officer stationed his men,
recognizing that he could not beat a retreat without being over-
powered. It was as well
It was as well to sell his life dearly. Now it was the
Prussians who defended the mill, and the French that made the
attack. The firing began with unheard-of violence. For half an
hour it did not stop. Then a dull explosion was heard, and a
shot broke off one of the main branches of the hundred-year-old
elm. The French had cannon. A battery drawn up just above
the ditch in which Dominique had hidden, swept the main street
of Rocreuse. From this moment the struggle could not last long.
Ah! the poor mill! Shot pierced it through and through.
Half the roofing was carried away. Two walls crumbled. But
it was, above all, on the side toward the Morelle that the ruin
done was piteous. The ivy, torn from the shattered walls, hung
in rags; the river swept away débris of every sort; and through
a breach you could see Françoise's room, with her bed, the white
curtains of which were carefully drawn. Shot upon shot, the old
wheel received two cannon-balls, and gave one last groan: the
paddles were washed away by the current, the carcass collapsed.
The mill had breathed out its soul.
Then the French stormed the place. There was a furious
fight with side-arms. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the cut-throat
hollow of the valley was filled with slain. The broad meadows
looked grim, their rows of poplars streaking them with shadows.
To the right and left, the forests were like the walls of a circus,
shutting in the combatants; while the springs, the fountains, the
running waters, gave forth sounds of sobbing, amid the panic of
the country-side.
Under the shed, Françoise had not stirred, crouched down
opposite Dominique's body. Old Merlier was killed outright by
a spent bullet. Then when the Prussians had been annihilated,
and the mill was burning, the French captain was the first man
to enter the court-yard. From the beginning of the campaign it
was the only success he had won. And all aglow, drawing up
his tall figure to its full height, he laughed with his gracious air
of a fine cavalier. And seeing Françoise, imbecile, between the
dead bodies of her husband and father, amidst the smoking ruins
of the mill, he gallantly saluted her with his sword, crying out:-
“Victory! Victory! ”
## p. 16325 (#679) ##########################################
16325
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
(1817-1893)
-
LTHOUGH the golden period of Spanish literature lies in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it would be a mistake
to suppose that modern Spain is deficient in literature. On
the contrary, the recent and present activity is vigorous and product-
ive. Especially is this true since 1876, when the Carlist wars ended,
and society entered upon an era of progress and prosperity. The
.
dominant literary form that has developed under these improved con-
ditions is that of fiction, which is true of Spain in common with
all other modern nations in which letters are cultivated. The novel,
both in its popular appeal to the public and in the talent it com-
mands, is a form which throws history and the essay, poetry and the
drama, into comparative insignificance. Zola hardly exaggerated when
he said the novel was modern literature. In Spain, such novelists
as Alarcón, Valera, Valdés, Galdós, De Pereda, and Bazán, overmatch
in prominence and power any writers representing other divisions
of literature, and have an international importance.
Nevertheless, writers of great ability and wide reputation, particu-
larly in the fields of history and criticism, exist. The historical writ-
ings of the eminent politicians Castelar and Cánovas, the criticism of
Menéndez, the poetry of Ventura de la Vega, Nuñez de Arce, Selgas,
Campoamor, and Zorrilla, need no apology, and are familiar and hon-
ored in their own country. In the group of poets, Zorrilla occupies
a conspicuous place as a singer of Spain's departed grandeur.
He
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature. He prefers to hark back to bygone glories and invoke the
spirit of his ancestors. In this sense he may be said to be reaction-
ary. But his influence is altogether noble and high. It is natural
that one who has studied and reproduced the old legends so faith-
fully should sing as a man
((
“Mourning the worship of more Christian years. ”
José Zorrilla y Moral first came into reputation in a dramatic
way. The brilliant Madrid journalist and poet Larra committed sui-
cide in 1837 under romantic circumstances; and at his funeral Zorrilla,
newly come to the city and quite unknown to fame, read some verses
which at once set him in the public eye. This dirge remains one
## p. 16326 (#680) ##########################################
16326
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
of his finest short lyrics. Its immediate effect was heightened by
the situation. The maker of it was so overcome by emotion that
he broke down, and the poem had to be finished by another. As an
eye-witness reported: «The same procession which had attended the
remains of the illustrious Larra to the resting-place of the dead, now
sallied forth in triumph to announce to the living the advent of a
new poet, and proclaimed with enthusiasm the name of Zorrilla. ” It
is seldom that the man and the occasion are thus found.
José Zorrilla y Moral was born at Valladolid, Spain, on February
21st, 1817; received his early education in the Madrid Seminary;
studied jurisprudence, spending a couple of years at the universities
of Toledo and Valladolid; and held a position in the magistracy of the
latter town before coming to Madrid to live. He took up his resi-
dence there at a time when the new ideas romanticism, democracy,
socialism were beginning to seethe, and the principles of the eigh-
teenth century were felt to be dead. The feeling that modern Spain
must develop an independent literature, uninfluenced by what was
being done on the other side of the Pyrenees, was spreading. Zor-
rilla believed in Spain and loved it, and his genius led him to recall
its past in his poetry. Hence his work was an appeal to nationality,
and in this sense a salutary force. His first book of verse, however,
- promptly published after the incident of his debut at Larra's grave,
and soon followed by another of like character,- was not of this
nature. Both volumes were imitative, showing the influence upon
the writer of French literature, and not yet indicating his real bent.
He found this in the collection of historic legends called Songs of
a Troubadour,' which appeared in 1840-1. These, like the Lost
Flowers' following in 1843, mingled romantic and Christian elements
in the epic style. The two-part Don Juan Tenorio' (1844), a reli-
gious drama which in some ways recalls “Faust,' is regarded as one
of his strongest works, and retains its place on the modern Spanish
stage. His great unfinished epic, Granada, an Oriental Poem,' was
published in 1853-4 at Paris, whither the poet had gone because his
verse sold better there than at home. This master-work was not a
financial success, — the usual fate of epics. In 1854 Zorrilla went to
Mexico and met with a warm reception, Maximilian putting him in
charge of the court theatre. But he was called back to Spain a year
before Maximilian's downfall,- an event which ended all thoughts
of a return, — and thereafter was obliged to depend upon government
aid and employment: he was given a literary mission to Italy, a pen-
sion, and the post of chronicler of his province. Of his later works,
the most important are the comedies in the manner of the classical
dramatic period of Spain; the two most popular being “The Shoe-
maker and the King,' and 'To Good Judge and Better Witness. ”
(
1
## p. 16327 (#681) ##########################################
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
16327
Zorrilla was crowned poet in 1889 in Granada, an honor testifying
to the national attitude towards him,- and died at Madrid, January
22d, 1893.
At the time of his death he was esteemed the leading poet of his
country. His treatment of the native legends, most of which are
religious, is full of fervent and lofty spiritual feeling; and it was his
purpose as a poet to summon his countrymen to a consideration of
ideal principles, and to stimulate them to an enlightened patriotism.
He lived to see the triumph of realism in fiction; and his latest work
in the drama might seem to imply that he felt the spirit of the age
and in some degree yielded to it. But in his song he remained the
reviver of old deeds and beliefs, essentially a poet of religion and
tradition.
TO MY LYRE
С
OME, harp! in love and pleasure strung,
Thy chords too long have borne my pains:
If thy soft voice be still unwrung,
Oh, breathe the rapture that remains !
They who are sad must laugh and sing,
The slave must still seem to be free;
Among the thick throngs gathering,
There is no place for misery.
Why should I weep? The skies are bright,
Waves, woods, and fields are fresh and fair;
Far from thy strings be sounds of night, -
Come, then, and fancies rapturous dare!
Joyful and mournful be thy tones:
From crowded and from lone abodes,
Temples and cottages and thrones
Shall give thee hymns and tears and odes.
I'll tune thee to the sighing breeze,
Or to the swift, sonorous storm;
Beneath the roofs of palaces
And hamlets, make thy shelter warm.
Come to my hands, then, harp resounding!
My life is wasted, day by day:
Its hours, as they speed onward, bounding,
Shall to thy measure pass away.
## p. 16328 (#682) ##########################################
16328
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
IN THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO
THIS
his massive form, sculptured in mountain stones,
As it once issued from the earth profound,
Monstrous in stature, manifold in tones
Of incense, light, and music spread around, -
This an unquiet people still doth throng
With pious steps, and heads bent down in fear;
Yet not so noble as through ages long,
Is old Toledo's sanctuary austere.
Glorious in other days, it stands alone,
Mourning the worship of more Christian years,
Like to a fallen queen, her empire gone,
Wearing a crown of miseries and tears.
Or like a mother, hiding griefs unseen,
She calls her children to her festivals,
And triumphs still — despairing yet serene,
With swelling organs and with pealing bells.
TO SPAIN
M
ANY a tear, 0 country, hath been shed;
Many a stream of brother's blood been poured;
Many a hero brave hath found his bed
In thy deep sepulchres, how richly stored !
Long have our eyes with burning drops been filled, -
How often have they throbbed to overflow!
But always bent upon some crimsoned field,
They could not even weep for blood and woe.
Look! how beseech us to their own sweet rest
Yon smiling flowers, yon forests old and brave,
Yon growing harvests sleeping on earth's breast,
Yon banners green that o'er our valleys wave.
Come, brothers, we were born in love and peace,
In love and peace our battles let us end;
Nay, more, let us forget our victories, –
Be ours one land, one banner to defend!
## p. 16329 (#683) ##########################################
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
16329
1
THE DIRGE OF LARRA
O"
N THE breeze I hear the knell
Of the solemn funeral bell,
Marshaling another guest
To the grave's unbroken rest.
He has done his earthly toil,
And cast off his mortal coil,
As a maid, in beauty's bloom,
Seeks the cloister's living tomb.
When he saw the Future rise
To his disenchanted eyes,
Void of Love's celestial light,
It was worthless in his sight;
And he hurried, without warning,
To the night that knows no morning.
1
1
He has perished in his pride,
Like a fountain, summer-dried;
Like a flower of odorous breath,
Which the tempest scattereth:
But the rich aroma left us
Shows the sweets that have been reft us,
And the meadow, fresh and green,
What the fountain would have been.
1
1
Ah! the Poet's mystic measure
Is a rich but fatal treasure;
Bliss to others, to the master
Full of bitterest disaster.
.
Poet! sleep within the tomb,
Where no other voice shall come
O'er the silence to prevail,
Save a brother-poet's wail;
That, — if parted spirits know
Aught that passes here below,-
Falling on thy pensive ear,
Softly as an infant's tear,
Shall relate a sweeter story
Than the pealing trump of glory.
.
If beyond our mortal sight,
In some glorious realm of
ht
## p. 16330 (#684) ##########################################
16330
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
Poets pass their happy hours,
Far from this cold world of ours, –
Oh, how sweet to cast away
This frail tenement of clay,
And in spirit soar above
To the home of endless Love!
ASPIRATION
A
LL insufficient to my heart's true rest
Is the deep murmur of a fountain pure,
Or the thick shade of trees in green leaves drest,
Or a strong castle's solitude secure.
Not to my pleasure ministers the cup
Of Bacchic banquet, clamorous and free,
Nor cringing slaves, in miserable troop,
Whose keys unlock no splendid treasury.
By God created, in his might I live;
From Sovereign Spirit my soul's breath I borrow;
To grow a giant — now a dwarf - I strive:
I will not be to-day, to die to-morrow.
## p. (#685) ################################################
## p. (#686) ################################################
## p. (#687) ################################################
## p. (#688) ################################################
.
## p. (#689) ################################################
## p.
where all traces were wiped out.
Françoise plunged in under the trees, notwithstanding. It
was a relief to be alone. She sat down for a moment; then,
remembering her time was running out, she got up again. How
long was it since she had left the mill? Five minutes ? half an
hour? She lost all consciousness of time. Perhaps Dominique had
gone and hidden in a copse she knew of, where one afternoon
## p. 16320 (#674) ##########################################
16320
ÉMILE ZOLA
they had eaten filberts together. She went to the copse and
searched it. Only a blackbird flew out, whistling its soft, melan-
choly tune. Then she thought he had taken refuge in a hol.
low in the rocks, where he sometimes used to lie in ambush for
game; but the hollow in the rocks was empty. What was the
use of looking for him ? she would not find him: and little by
little her desire to find him grew furious; she walked on faster.
The notion that he might have climbed up a tree suddenly
struck her. From that moment she pushed on with up-turned
eyes; and that he might know she was near, she called out to
him every fifteen or twenty steps. The cuckoos answered her;
.
;
a breath of air passing through the branches made her think
he was there, and was coming down. Once she even thought
she saw him; she stopped, choking, having a good mind to run
away. What would she say to him? Had she come, then, to
lead him away and have him shot ? Oh no, she would not
mention these things. She would cry out to him to escape, not
to stay in the neighborhood. Then the thought of her father
waiting for her gave her a sharp pang. She fell upon the turf,
weeping, repeating aloud: -
“My God, my God! why am I here ! »
She must have been crazy to come. And as if seized with
fright, she ran, she tried to find a way out of the forest. Three
times she took the wrong path; and she thought she could not
find the mill again, when she came out into a field just oppo-
site Rocreuse. As soon as she caught sight of the village, she
stopped. Was she going to return alone ?
As she stood there, a voice called to her softly:-
« Françoise! Françoise ! »
And she saw Dominique raising his head above the edge of
a ditch. Just God, she had found him! So Heaven wished his
death ? She held back a cry, she let herself slide down into the
ditch.
“You were looking for me ? ” he asked.
Yes,” she answered, her head buzzing, not knowing what she
said.
“Ah! what's going on? ”
She looked down; she stammered out:
“Why, nothing; I was anxious—I wanted to see you. "
Then, reassured, he told her that he had not wished to go
far. He feared for them. Those rascals of Prussians were just
(
»
## p. 16321 (#675) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16321
»
the sort to wreak vengeance upon women and old men. Then
all was going well; and he added, laughing:-
"Our wedding will be for this day week, that's all. ”
Then, as she was still overcome, he grew serious again.
« But what's the matter with you? You are keeping some-
thing from me. ”
“No, I swear to you. I ran to come
He kissed her, saying that it was imprudent for either of
them to talk any longer; and he wished to get back to the for-
est. She held him back. She was trembling.
“Listen: perhaps it would be as well for you to stay here,
all the same. Nobody is looking for you; you're not afraid of
anything. ”
“Françoise, you are keeping something from me,” he repeated.
Again she swore she was keeping nothing from him. Only
she had rather know he was near; and she stammered out other
reasons besides. She struck him as acting so queerly, that now
he himself would not have been willing to leave her. Besides,
he believed the French would return. Troops had been sent
over Sauval
way.
"Ah! let them be in a hurry; let them be here as soon as
possible! ” he muttered fervently.
At this moment the Rocreuse church clock struck eleven.
The strokes came clear and distinct. She sprang up in fright:
it was two hours since she had left the mill.
"Listen,” she said rapidly: “if we should need you, I will go
up to my room and wave my handkerchief. ”
And she left him, running; while Dominique, very anxious,
stretched himself out on the edge of the ditch, to keep his eye
on the mill. As she was just running into Rocreuse, Françoise
met an old beggar, old Bontemps, who knew the whole country.
He bowed to her: he had just seen the miller in the midst of
the Prussians; then crossing himself and mumbling some discon-
nected words, he went his way.
“The two hours are over,” said the officer, when Françoise
appeared.
Old Merlier was there, sitting on the bench by the well. He
was still smoking. The young girl once more implored, wept,
fell upon her knees. She wished to gain time. The hope of
seeing the French return had grown in her; and while bewailing
her fate, she thought she heard the measured tread of an army.
Oh! if they had come, if they had delivered them all!
XXVII-TO2I
## p. 16322 (#676) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16322
"Listen, monsieur, one hour, one hour more! You can surely
grant me one hour! »
But the officer was still inflexible. He even ordered two men
to take her in charge and lead her away, that they might pro-
ceed quietly with the old man's execution. Then a frightful con-
flict went on in Françoise's heart. She could not let her father
be thus murdered. No, no, she would die with Dominique first;
and she was bounding toward her room, when Dominique himself
walked into the court-yard.
The officer and soldiers gave a shout of triumph. But he, as
if no one but Françoise had been there, stepped up to her qui-
etly, a little sternly.
“That was wrong,” said he. "Why didn't you bring me back
with you ? Old Bontemps had to tell me everything. After all,
here I am. ”
V
IT WAS three o'clock. Great black clouds had slowly filled
the sky, the tail of some not distant thunder-storm.
This yellow
sky, these copper-colored rags, changed the valley of Rocreuse,
so cheerful in the sunshine, to a cut-throat den, full of suspicious
shadows. The Prussian officer had been content to have Domi-
nique locked up, without saying anything about what fate he had
in store for him. Ever since noon, Françoise had been a prey
to infernal anguish. She would not leave the court-yard, in
spite of her father's urging. She was waiting for the French.
But the hours passed by, night was at hand, and she suffered
the more keenly that all this time gained did not seem likely to
change the frightful catastrophe.
Nevertheless at about three, the Prussians made preparations
to go. A minute before, the officer had closeted himself with
Dominique, as on the preceding day. Françoise saw that the
young man's life was being decided on. Then she clasped her
hands and prayed. Old Merlier, beside her, maintained his mute
and rigid attitude of an old peasant who does not struggle with
the fatality of facts.
“O my God! ( my God! ” said Françoise brokenly, they are
going to kill him! »
The miller drew her close to him and took her upon his knee,
like a child.
Just then the officer came out; while behind him, two men led
Dominique.
## p. 16323 (#677) ##########################################
ÉMILE ZOLA
16323
»
Never, never! ” cried the latter, "I am ready to die. ”
« Think of it well,” replied the officer. « This service that
you refuse us will be done for us by another.
I offer you your
life; I am generous. It is only to be our guide to Montredom,
through the woods. There must be paths. ”
Dominique made no answer.
“Then you are still obstinate ? »
“Kill me, and let us have done with it,” he answered.
Françoise, with hands clasped, implored him from across the
yard. She had forgotten all; she would have urged him to some
piece of cowardice. But old Merlier grasped her hands, that the
Prussians might not see her delirious gesture.
"He is right,” he murmured: “it's better to die. ”
The firing party was there. The officer was waiting for a
moment of weakness on Dominique's part. He still counted on
winning him over. There was a dead silence. From the dis-
tance were heard violent claps of thunder. A sultry heat weighed
upon the country; and in the midst of this silence a shriek burst
forth:
« The French! the French ! »
It was really they. On the Sauval road, on the outskirts of
the wood, you could make out the line of red trousers. Inside
the mill there was an extraordinary hubbub. The Prussian sol-
diers ran about with guttural exclamations. For the rest, not a
shot had been fired yet.
« The French! the French! ” screamed Françoise, clapping her
hands.
She was like mad. She had broken loose from her father's
embrace, and she laughed, her arms waving in the air. At last
they were coming, and they had come in time, since Dominique
was still there, erect!
A terrible firing that burst upon her ears like a thunder-
stroke made her turn round. The officer had just muttered:
« First of all, let us finish this job. ”
And pushing Dominique up against the wall of a shed with
his own hands, he had ordered, “Fire! » When Françoise turned
round, Dominique was lying on the ground, his breast pierced
with twelve bullets.
She did not weep; she stood there in a stupor. Her eyes
were fixed, and she went and sat down under the shed, a few
steps from the body. She looked at it; at moments she made a
>
## p. 16324 (#678) ##########################################
16324
ÉMILE ZOLA
vague and childlike movement with her hand. The Prussians
had laid hold of old Merlier as a hostage.
It was a fine fight. Rapidly the officer stationed his men,
recognizing that he could not beat a retreat without being over-
powered. It was as well
It was as well to sell his life dearly. Now it was the
Prussians who defended the mill, and the French that made the
attack. The firing began with unheard-of violence. For half an
hour it did not stop. Then a dull explosion was heard, and a
shot broke off one of the main branches of the hundred-year-old
elm. The French had cannon. A battery drawn up just above
the ditch in which Dominique had hidden, swept the main street
of Rocreuse. From this moment the struggle could not last long.
Ah! the poor mill! Shot pierced it through and through.
Half the roofing was carried away. Two walls crumbled. But
it was, above all, on the side toward the Morelle that the ruin
done was piteous. The ivy, torn from the shattered walls, hung
in rags; the river swept away débris of every sort; and through
a breach you could see Françoise's room, with her bed, the white
curtains of which were carefully drawn. Shot upon shot, the old
wheel received two cannon-balls, and gave one last groan: the
paddles were washed away by the current, the carcass collapsed.
The mill had breathed out its soul.
Then the French stormed the place. There was a furious
fight with side-arms. Beneath the rust-colored sky, the cut-throat
hollow of the valley was filled with slain. The broad meadows
looked grim, their rows of poplars streaking them with shadows.
To the right and left, the forests were like the walls of a circus,
shutting in the combatants; while the springs, the fountains, the
running waters, gave forth sounds of sobbing, amid the panic of
the country-side.
Under the shed, Françoise had not stirred, crouched down
opposite Dominique's body. Old Merlier was killed outright by
a spent bullet. Then when the Prussians had been annihilated,
and the mill was burning, the French captain was the first man
to enter the court-yard. From the beginning of the campaign it
was the only success he had won. And all aglow, drawing up
his tall figure to its full height, he laughed with his gracious air
of a fine cavalier. And seeing Françoise, imbecile, between the
dead bodies of her husband and father, amidst the smoking ruins
of the mill, he gallantly saluted her with his sword, crying out:-
“Victory! Victory! ”
## p. 16325 (#679) ##########################################
16325
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
(1817-1893)
-
LTHOUGH the golden period of Spanish literature lies in the
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, it would be a mistake
to suppose that modern Spain is deficient in literature. On
the contrary, the recent and present activity is vigorous and product-
ive. Especially is this true since 1876, when the Carlist wars ended,
and society entered upon an era of progress and prosperity. The
.
dominant literary form that has developed under these improved con-
ditions is that of fiction, which is true of Spain in common with
all other modern nations in which letters are cultivated. The novel,
both in its popular appeal to the public and in the talent it com-
mands, is a form which throws history and the essay, poetry and the
drama, into comparative insignificance. Zola hardly exaggerated when
he said the novel was modern literature. In Spain, such novelists
as Alarcón, Valera, Valdés, Galdós, De Pereda, and Bazán, overmatch
in prominence and power any writers representing other divisions
of literature, and have an international importance.
Nevertheless, writers of great ability and wide reputation, particu-
larly in the fields of history and criticism, exist. The historical writ-
ings of the eminent politicians Castelar and Cánovas, the criticism of
Menéndez, the poetry of Ventura de la Vega, Nuñez de Arce, Selgas,
Campoamor, and Zorrilla, need no apology, and are familiar and hon-
ored in their own country. In the group of poets, Zorrilla occupies
a conspicuous place as a singer of Spain's departed grandeur.
He
belongs with the conservatives rather than with the liberals of liter-
ature. He prefers to hark back to bygone glories and invoke the
spirit of his ancestors. In this sense he may be said to be reaction-
ary. But his influence is altogether noble and high. It is natural
that one who has studied and reproduced the old legends so faith-
fully should sing as a man
((
“Mourning the worship of more Christian years. ”
José Zorrilla y Moral first came into reputation in a dramatic
way. The brilliant Madrid journalist and poet Larra committed sui-
cide in 1837 under romantic circumstances; and at his funeral Zorrilla,
newly come to the city and quite unknown to fame, read some verses
which at once set him in the public eye. This dirge remains one
## p. 16326 (#680) ##########################################
16326
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
of his finest short lyrics. Its immediate effect was heightened by
the situation. The maker of it was so overcome by emotion that
he broke down, and the poem had to be finished by another. As an
eye-witness reported: «The same procession which had attended the
remains of the illustrious Larra to the resting-place of the dead, now
sallied forth in triumph to announce to the living the advent of a
new poet, and proclaimed with enthusiasm the name of Zorrilla. ” It
is seldom that the man and the occasion are thus found.
José Zorrilla y Moral was born at Valladolid, Spain, on February
21st, 1817; received his early education in the Madrid Seminary;
studied jurisprudence, spending a couple of years at the universities
of Toledo and Valladolid; and held a position in the magistracy of the
latter town before coming to Madrid to live. He took up his resi-
dence there at a time when the new ideas romanticism, democracy,
socialism were beginning to seethe, and the principles of the eigh-
teenth century were felt to be dead. The feeling that modern Spain
must develop an independent literature, uninfluenced by what was
being done on the other side of the Pyrenees, was spreading. Zor-
rilla believed in Spain and loved it, and his genius led him to recall
its past in his poetry. Hence his work was an appeal to nationality,
and in this sense a salutary force. His first book of verse, however,
- promptly published after the incident of his debut at Larra's grave,
and soon followed by another of like character,- was not of this
nature. Both volumes were imitative, showing the influence upon
the writer of French literature, and not yet indicating his real bent.
He found this in the collection of historic legends called Songs of
a Troubadour,' which appeared in 1840-1. These, like the Lost
Flowers' following in 1843, mingled romantic and Christian elements
in the epic style. The two-part Don Juan Tenorio' (1844), a reli-
gious drama which in some ways recalls “Faust,' is regarded as one
of his strongest works, and retains its place on the modern Spanish
stage. His great unfinished epic, Granada, an Oriental Poem,' was
published in 1853-4 at Paris, whither the poet had gone because his
verse sold better there than at home. This master-work was not a
financial success, — the usual fate of epics. In 1854 Zorrilla went to
Mexico and met with a warm reception, Maximilian putting him in
charge of the court theatre. But he was called back to Spain a year
before Maximilian's downfall,- an event which ended all thoughts
of a return, — and thereafter was obliged to depend upon government
aid and employment: he was given a literary mission to Italy, a pen-
sion, and the post of chronicler of his province. Of his later works,
the most important are the comedies in the manner of the classical
dramatic period of Spain; the two most popular being “The Shoe-
maker and the King,' and 'To Good Judge and Better Witness. ”
(
1
## p. 16327 (#681) ##########################################
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
16327
Zorrilla was crowned poet in 1889 in Granada, an honor testifying
to the national attitude towards him,- and died at Madrid, January
22d, 1893.
At the time of his death he was esteemed the leading poet of his
country. His treatment of the native legends, most of which are
religious, is full of fervent and lofty spiritual feeling; and it was his
purpose as a poet to summon his countrymen to a consideration of
ideal principles, and to stimulate them to an enlightened patriotism.
He lived to see the triumph of realism in fiction; and his latest work
in the drama might seem to imply that he felt the spirit of the age
and in some degree yielded to it. But in his song he remained the
reviver of old deeds and beliefs, essentially a poet of religion and
tradition.
TO MY LYRE
С
OME, harp! in love and pleasure strung,
Thy chords too long have borne my pains:
If thy soft voice be still unwrung,
Oh, breathe the rapture that remains !
They who are sad must laugh and sing,
The slave must still seem to be free;
Among the thick throngs gathering,
There is no place for misery.
Why should I weep? The skies are bright,
Waves, woods, and fields are fresh and fair;
Far from thy strings be sounds of night, -
Come, then, and fancies rapturous dare!
Joyful and mournful be thy tones:
From crowded and from lone abodes,
Temples and cottages and thrones
Shall give thee hymns and tears and odes.
I'll tune thee to the sighing breeze,
Or to the swift, sonorous storm;
Beneath the roofs of palaces
And hamlets, make thy shelter warm.
Come to my hands, then, harp resounding!
My life is wasted, day by day:
Its hours, as they speed onward, bounding,
Shall to thy measure pass away.
## p. 16328 (#682) ##########################################
16328
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
IN THE CATHEDRAL OF TOLEDO
THIS
his massive form, sculptured in mountain stones,
As it once issued from the earth profound,
Monstrous in stature, manifold in tones
Of incense, light, and music spread around, -
This an unquiet people still doth throng
With pious steps, and heads bent down in fear;
Yet not so noble as through ages long,
Is old Toledo's sanctuary austere.
Glorious in other days, it stands alone,
Mourning the worship of more Christian years,
Like to a fallen queen, her empire gone,
Wearing a crown of miseries and tears.
Or like a mother, hiding griefs unseen,
She calls her children to her festivals,
And triumphs still — despairing yet serene,
With swelling organs and with pealing bells.
TO SPAIN
M
ANY a tear, 0 country, hath been shed;
Many a stream of brother's blood been poured;
Many a hero brave hath found his bed
In thy deep sepulchres, how richly stored !
Long have our eyes with burning drops been filled, -
How often have they throbbed to overflow!
But always bent upon some crimsoned field,
They could not even weep for blood and woe.
Look! how beseech us to their own sweet rest
Yon smiling flowers, yon forests old and brave,
Yon growing harvests sleeping on earth's breast,
Yon banners green that o'er our valleys wave.
Come, brothers, we were born in love and peace,
In love and peace our battles let us end;
Nay, more, let us forget our victories, –
Be ours one land, one banner to defend!
## p. 16329 (#683) ##########################################
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
16329
1
THE DIRGE OF LARRA
O"
N THE breeze I hear the knell
Of the solemn funeral bell,
Marshaling another guest
To the grave's unbroken rest.
He has done his earthly toil,
And cast off his mortal coil,
As a maid, in beauty's bloom,
Seeks the cloister's living tomb.
When he saw the Future rise
To his disenchanted eyes,
Void of Love's celestial light,
It was worthless in his sight;
And he hurried, without warning,
To the night that knows no morning.
1
1
He has perished in his pride,
Like a fountain, summer-dried;
Like a flower of odorous breath,
Which the tempest scattereth:
But the rich aroma left us
Shows the sweets that have been reft us,
And the meadow, fresh and green,
What the fountain would have been.
1
1
Ah! the Poet's mystic measure
Is a rich but fatal treasure;
Bliss to others, to the master
Full of bitterest disaster.
.
Poet! sleep within the tomb,
Where no other voice shall come
O'er the silence to prevail,
Save a brother-poet's wail;
That, — if parted spirits know
Aught that passes here below,-
Falling on thy pensive ear,
Softly as an infant's tear,
Shall relate a sweeter story
Than the pealing trump of glory.
.
If beyond our mortal sight,
In some glorious realm of
ht
## p. 16330 (#684) ##########################################
16330
JOSÉ ZORRILLA Y MORAL
Poets pass their happy hours,
Far from this cold world of ours, –
Oh, how sweet to cast away
This frail tenement of clay,
And in spirit soar above
To the home of endless Love!
ASPIRATION
A
LL insufficient to my heart's true rest
Is the deep murmur of a fountain pure,
Or the thick shade of trees in green leaves drest,
Or a strong castle's solitude secure.
Not to my pleasure ministers the cup
Of Bacchic banquet, clamorous and free,
Nor cringing slaves, in miserable troop,
Whose keys unlock no splendid treasury.
By God created, in his might I live;
From Sovereign Spirit my soul's breath I borrow;
To grow a giant — now a dwarf - I strive:
I will not be to-day, to die to-morrow.
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