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Master, is it for us you play the cachucha? Shall
it be danced on the shaky floor of the cavaliers’ wing,
between narrow walls, blackened with smoke and
grimy with dirt, under this low ceiling?
The cachucha, is it for us—for us cavaliers?
Without howls the snowstorm. Would you teach the
snowflakes to dance to the measure? Are you
playing for the light-footed children of the storm?
Tremulous feminine forms, with hot blood throbbing
in their veins, small sooty hands that have
thrown aside the pot to take up the castanets, bare
feet under tucked-up skirts, crouching gypsies with
bagpipe and tambourine, Moorish arcades, marble-paved
courts, moonlight and dark eyes—have you
these, master? Else let the violin rest.
The cavaliers must dry their wet clothes by the
fire. Shall they whirl about in top-boots, with spiked
heels and soles an inch thick? All day they have
plowed through knee-deep snow to reach the bear’s
lair. Think you they will dance in wet, reeking
woollen clothes, with shaggy bruin for partner?
An evening sky glittering with stars, dark hair
adorned with red roses, an atmosphere vibrant with
blissful longing, untutored grace of movement, love
rising from the earth, raining from the heavens,
floating in the air—can you conjure these, master?
Else, why make us yearn for such things?
Most cruel of men, would you sound the battle
call to a tethered war horse! Rutger von Örneclou
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