The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins

CHAPTER XI

THE CHANT

“If you have there anything for laughter, Maxtla, I bid you welcome,” said the king, his guests around him.

And the young chief knelt on the step before the throne, and answered with mock solemnity, “Your servant, O king, knows your great love of minstrelsy, and how it delights you to make rich the keeper of a harp who sings a good song well. I have taken one who bears him like a noble singer, and has age to warrant his experience.”

“Call you that the man?” asked the king, pointing to Guatamozin.

“He is the man.”

The monarch laughed, and all the guests listening laughed. Now, minstrels were common on all festive occasions; indeed, an Aztec banquet was no more perfect without them than without guests: but it was seldom the royal halls were graced by one so very aged; so that the bent form and gray locks, that at other places and times would have insured safety and respect, now excited derision. The men thought his presence there presumptuous, the women laughed at him as a dotard. In brief, the ’tzin’s peril was very great.

He seemed, however, the picture of aged innocence, and stood before the throne, his head bowed, his face shaded by the hood, leaning humbly on his staff, and clasping the harp close to his breast, the vines yet about it. So well did he observe his disguise, that none there, save Tula and Yeteve, might dream that the hood and dark gown concealed the boldest warrior in Tenochtitlan. The face of the priestess was turned away; but the princess sat a calm witness of the scene; either she had too much pride to betray her solicitude, or a confidence in his address so absolute that she felt none.

“He is none of ours,” said the king, when he had several times scanned the minstrel. “If the palace ever knew him, it was in the days of Axaya’, from whose tomb he seems to have come.”

“As I came in from the garden, I met him going out,” said Maxtla, in explanation. “I could not bear that my master should lose such a promise of song. Besides, I have heard the veterans in service often say that the ancient chants were the best, and I thought it a good time to test the boast.”

The gray courtiers frowned, and the king laughed again.

“My minstrel here represented that old time so well,” continued Maxtla, “that at first I was full of reverence; therefore I besought him to come, and before you, O king, sing the chants that used to charm your mighty father. I thought it no dishonor for him to compete with the singers now in favor, they giving us something of the present time. He declined in courtliest style; saying that, though his voice was good, he was too old, and might shame the ancient minstrelsy; and that, from what he had heard, my master delighted only in things of modern invention. A javelin in the hand of a sentinel ended the argument, and he finally consented. Wherefore, O king, I claim him captive, to whom, if it be your royal pleasure, I offer liberty, if he will sing in competition before this noble company.”

What sport could be more royal than such poetic contest,—the old reign against the new? Montezuma welcomed the idea.

“The condition is reasonable,” he said. “Is there a minstrel in the valley to call it otherwise?”

In a tone scarcely audible, though all were silent that they might hear, the ’tzin answered,—

“Obedience was the first lesson of every minstrel of the old time; but as the master we served loved us as his children, we never had occasion to sing for the purchase of our liberty. And more,—the capture of a harmless singer, though he were not aged as your poor slave, O king, was not deemed so brave a deed as to be rewarded by our master’s smile.”

The speech, though feebly spoken, struck both the king and his chief.

“Well done, uncle!” said the former, laughing. “And since you have tongue so sharp, we remove the condition—”

“Thanks, many thanks, most mighty king! May the gods mete you nothing but good! I will depart.” And the ’tzin stooped till his harp struck the floor.

The monarch waved his hand. “Stay. I merely spoke of the condition that made your liberty depend upon your song. Go, some of you, and call my singers.” A courtier hurried away, then the king added, “It shall be well for him who best strikes the strings. I promise a prize that shall raise him above trouble, and make his life what a poet’s ought to be.”

Guatamozin advanced, and knelt on the step from which Maxtla had risen, and said, his voice sounding tremulous with age and infirmity,—

“If the great king will deign to heed his servant again,—I am old and weak. There was a time when I would have rejoiced to hear a prize so princely offered in such a trial. But that was many, many summers ago. And this afternoon, in my hut by the lake-shore, when I took my harp, all covered with dust, from the shelf where it had so long lain untouched and neglected, and wreathed it with this fresh vine, thinking a gay dress might give it the appearance of use, and myself a deceitful likeness to the minstrel I once was, alas! I did not think of my trembling hand and my shattered memory, or of trial like this. I only knew that a singer, however humble, was privileged at your banquet, and that the privilege was a custom of the monarchs now in their halls in the Sun,—true, kingly men, who, at time like this, would have put gold in my hand, and bade me arise, and go in peace. Is Montezuma more careless of his glory? Will he compel my song, and dishonor my gray hair, that I may go abroad in Tenochtitlan and tell the story? In pity, O king, suffer me to depart.”

The courtiers murmured, and even Maxtla relented, but the king said, “Good uncle, you excite my curiosity the more. If your common speech have in it such a vein of poetry, what must the poetry be? And then, does not your obstinacy outmeasure my cruelty? Get ready, I hold the fortune. Win it, and I am no king if it be not yours.”

The interest of the bystanders now exceeded their pity. It was novel to find one refusing reward so rich, when the followers of his art were accustomed to gratify an audience, even one listener, upon request.

And, seeing that escape from the trial was impossible, this ’tzin arose, resolved to act boldly. Minstrelsy, as practised by the Aztecs, it must be remembered, was not singing so much as a form of chanting, accompanied by rhythmical touches of the lyre or harp,—of all kinds of choral music the most primitive. This he had practised, but in the solitude of his study. The people present knew the ’tzin Guatamo, supposed to be in his palace across the lake, as soldier, scholar, and prince, but not as poet or singer of heroic tales. So that confident minstrelsy was now but another, if not a surer, disguise. And the eyes of the princess Tula shining upon him calmly and steadily, he said, his voice this time trembling with suppressed wrath,—

“Be it so, O king! Let the singers come,—let them come. Your slave will fancy himself before the great Axaya’, or your father, not less royal. He will forget his age, and put his trust in the god whose story he will sing.”

Then other amusements were abandoned, and, intelligence of the trial flying far and fast, lords and ladies, soldiers and priests crowded about the throne and filled the hall. That any power of song could belong to one so old and unknown was incredible.

“He is a provincial,—the musician of one of the hamlets,” said a courtier, derisively.

“Yes,” sneered another, “he will tell how the flood came, and drowned the harvest in his neighborhood.”

“Or,” ventured a third, “how a ravenous vulture once descended from the hills, and carried off his pet rabbit.”

By and by the royal minstrels came,—sleek, comely men, wearing long stoles fringed with gold, and having harps inlaid with pearl, and strung with silver wires. With scarce a glance at their humble competitor, they ranged themselves before the monarch.

The trial began. One after another, the favorites were called upon. The first sang of love, the next of his mistress, the third of Lake Tezcuco, the fourth of Montezuma, his power, wisdom, and glory. Before all were through, the patience of the king and crowd was exhausted. The pabas wanted something touching religion, the soldiers something heroic and resounding with war; and all waited for the stranger, as men listening to a story wait for the laughter it may chance to excite. How were they surprised! Before the womanly tones of the last singer ceased, the old man dropped his staff, and, lifting his harp against his breast, struck its chords, and in a voice clear and vibratory as the blast of a shell, a voice that filled the whole hall, and startled maid and king alike, began his chant.

QUETZAL’

Beloved of the Sun! Mother of the
Brave! Azatlan, the North-born! Heard be thou
In my far launched voice! I sing to thy
Listening children of thee and Heaven.
Vale in the Sun, where dwell the Gods! Sum of
The beautiful art thou! Thy forests are
Flowering trees; of crystal and gold thy
Mountains; and liquid light are thy rivers
Flowing, all murmurous with songs, over
Beds of stars. O Vale of Gods, the summery
Sheen that flecks Earth’s seas, and kisses its mountains,
And fairly floods its plains, we know is of thee,—
A sign sent us from afar, that we may
Feebly learn how beautiful is Heaven!

The singer rested a moment; then, looking in the eyes of the king, with a rising voice, he continued,—

Richest hall in all the Vale is Quetzal’s—

At that name Montezuma started. The minstrel noted well the sign.

O, none so fair as Quetzal’s! The winds that
Play among its silver columns are Love’s
Light laughter, while of Love is all the air
About. From its orient porch the young
Mornings glean the glory with which they rise
On earth.

First God and fairest was Quetzal’.
As him O none so full of holiness,
And by none were men so lov’d! Sat he always
In his hall, in deity rob’d, watching
Humanity, its genius, and its struggles