Бенджамин Дизраэли - Tancred

Tancred entered the temple, the last refuge of the Olympian mind. It was race that produced these inimitable forms, the idealised reflex of their own peculiar organisation. Their principles of art, practised by a different race, do not produce the same results. Yet we shut our eyes to the great truth into which all truths merge, and we call upon the Pict, or the Sarmatian, to produce the forms of Phidias and Praxiteles.

Not devoid of that awe which is caused by the presence of the solemn and the beautiful, Tancred slowly traced his steps through the cavern sanctuary. No human being was visible. Upon his right was the fane to which Astarte led him on his visit of initiation. He was about to enter it, when, kneeling before the form of the Apollo of Antioch, he beheld the fair Queen of the Ansarey, motionless and speechless, her arms crossed upon her breast, and her eyes fixed upon her divinity, in a dream of ecstatic devotion.

The splendour of the ascending sun fell full upon the statue, suffusing the ethereal form with radiancy, and spreading around it for some space a broad and golden halo. As Tancred, recognising the Queen, withdrew a few paces, his shadow, clearly defined, rested on the glowing wall of the rock temple. Astarte uttered an exclamation, rose quickly from her kneeling position, and, looking round, her eyes met those of Lord Montacute. Instantly she withdrew her gaze, blushing deeply.

'I was about to retire,' murmured Tancred.

'And why should you retire?' said Astarte, in a soft voice, looking up.

'There are moments when solitude is sacred.'

'I am too much alone: often, and of late especially, I feel a painful isolation.'

She moved forward, and they re–entered together the chief temple, and then emerged into the sunlight. They stood beneath the broad Ionic portico, beholding the strange scene around. Then it was that Tancred, observing that Astarte cared not to advance, and deeming the occasion very favourable to his wishes, proceeded to explain to her the cause of his venturing to intrude on her this morning. He spoke with that earnestness, and, if the phrase may be used, that passionate repose, which distinguished him. He enlarged on the character of Besso, his great virtues, his amiable qualities, his benevolence and unbounded generosity; he sought in every way to engage the kind feelings of Astarte in favour of his family, and to interest her in the character of Eva, on which he dilated with all the eloquence of his heart. Truly, he almost did justice to her admirable qualities, her vivid mind, and lofty spirit, and heroic courage; the occasion was too delicate to treat of the personal charms of another woman, but he did not conceal his own deep sense of obligation to Eva for her romantic expedition to the desert in his behalf.

'You can understand then,' concluded Tancred, 'what must have been my astonishment and grief when I found her yesterday a captive. It was some consolation to me to remember in whose power she had fallen, and I hasten to throw myself at your feet to supplicate for her safety and her freedom.'

'Yes, I can understand all this,' said Astarte, in a low tone.

Tancred looked at her. Her voice had struck him with pain; her countenance still more distressed him. Nothing could afford a more complete contrast to the soft and glowing visage that a few moments before he had beheld in the fane of Apollo. She was quite pale, almost livid; her features, of exquisite shape, had become hard and even distorted; all the bad passions of our nature seemed suddenly to have concentred in that face which usually combined perfect beauty of form with an expression the most gentle, and in truth most lovely.

'Yes, I can understand all this,' said Astarte, 'but I shall not exercise any power which I may possess to assist you in violating the laws of your country, and outraging the wishes of your sovereign.'

'Violating the laws of my country!' exclaimed Tancred, with a perplexed look.

'Yes, I know all. Your schemes truly are very heroic and very flattering to our self–love. We are to lend our lances to place on the throne of Syria one who would not be permitted to reside in your own country, much less to rule in it?'

'Of whom, of what, do you speak?'

'I speak of the Jewess whom you would marry,' said Astarte, in a hushed yet distinct voice, and with a fell glance, 'against all laws, divine and human.'

'Of your prisoner?'

'Well you may call her my prisoner; she is secure.'

'Is it possible you can believe that I even am a suitor of the daughter of Besso?' said Tancred, earnestly. 'I wear the Cross, which is graven on my heart, and have a heavenly mission to fulfil, from which no earthly thought shall ever distract me. But even were I more than sensible to her charms and virtues, she is affianced, or the same as affianced; nor have I the least reason to suppose that he who will possess her hand does not command her heart.'

'Affianced?'

'Not only affianced, but, until this sad adventure, on the very point of being wedded. She was on her way from Damascus to Aleppo, to be united to her cousin, when she was brought hither, where she will, I trust, not long remain your prisoner.'

The countenance of Astarte changed; but, though it lost its painful and vindictive expression, it did not assume one of less distress. After a moment's pause, she murmured, 'Can this be true?'

'Who could have told you otherwise?'

'An enemy of hers, of her family,' continued Astarte, in a low voice, and speaking as if absorbed in thought; 'one who admitted to me his long–hoarded vengeance against her house.'

Then turning abruptly, she looked Tancred full in the face, with a glance of almost fierce scrutiny. His clear brow and unfaltering eye, with an expression of sympathy and even kindness on his countenance, met her searching look.

'No,' she said; 'it is impossible that you can be false.'

'Why should I be false? or what is it that mixes up my name and life with these thoughts and circumstances?'

'Why should you be false? Ah! there it is,' said Astarte, in a sweet and mournful voice. 'What are any of us to you!' And she wept.

'It grieves me to see you in sorrow,' said Tancred, approaching her, and speaking in a tone of kindness.

'I am more than sorrowful: this unhappy lady―' and the voice of Astarte was overpowered by her emotion.

'You will send her back in safety and with honour to her family,' said Tancred, soothingly. 'I would fain believe her father has not fallen. My intendant assures me that there are Turkish soldiers here who saw him borne from the field. A little time, and their griefs will vanish. You will have the satisfaction of having acted with generosity, with that good heart which characterises you; and as for the daughter of Besso, all will be forgotten as she gives one hand to her father and the other to her husband.'

'It is too late,' said Astarte in an almost sepulchral voice.

'What is that?'

'It is too late! The daughter of Besso is no more.'

'Jesu preserve us!' exclaimed Tancred, starting. 'Speak it again: what is it that you say?'

Astarte shook her head.

'Woman!' said Tancred, and he seized her hand, but his thoughts were too wild for utterance, and he remained pallid and panting.

'The daughter of Besso is no more; and I do not lament it, for you loved her.'

'Oh, grief ineffable!' said Tancred, with a groan, looking up to heaven, and covering his face with his hands: 'I loved her, as I loved the stars and sunshine.' Then, after a pause, he turned to Astarte, and said, in a rapid voice, 'This dreadful deed; when, how, did it happen?'

'Is it so dreadful?'

'Almost as dreadful as such words from woman's lips. A curse be on the hour that I entered these walls!'

'No, no, no!' said Astarte, and she seized his arm distractedly. 'No, no! No curse!'