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- The Cachucha
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The Cachucha
War horse, war horse, old steed now tethered
in the field, do you remember your youth?
Do you remember the day of the battle, when
you charged as if borne on wings, your mane
flaring above you like flickering flames, your black
chest glistening with frothy foam and splashes of
blood? In harness of gold you bounded forward,
the earth rumbling beneath you; and you trembled
with joy, brave old steed. Ah, but you were splendid!
It is the hour of twilight in the cavaliers’ wing.
In the big room the cavaliers’ chests stand against
the wall, and their holiday clothes hang on hooks in
a corner. The firelight from the hearth plays on the
whitewashed walls and the checkered yellow curtains
that hide the cubby-beds. The cavaliers’ wing
is no royal antechamber, no seraglio with cushioned
divans and soft pillows.
Up there Lilliecrona’s violin is heard. He,
Lilliecrona, is playing the cachucha in the dusk of the
evening; and he plays it over and over again.
Cut the strings! Break the bow! Why does he
play that accursed dance? Why does he play it when
Ensign Örneclou lies sick with the pains of gout,
so severe that he cannot move in his bed! Snatch
the fiddle from him and dash it against the wall, if
he will not stop.
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Project Runeberg, Sun Dec 10 03:53:53 2023
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