_Enter VIOLANTE and Elvira at a side door._
_Elv._ Consider, madam.
_Viol._ No!
_Elv._ But think—
_Viol._ I tell you it must be done.
_Elv._ They will accuse your father.
_Viol._ Let them; I tell you it must be done, and _now_; I ask’d you not
for advice, but to obey me. Unlock the door.
_Elv._ Oh how I tremble! Hark!
_Viol._ A moment! They must not find him passing out—the attempt and not
the deed confounding us.[8] Listen!
_Elv._ (_listening at a side door_). I can hear nothing distinct, only a
confused murmur of voices.
_Viol._ Let me—hush!—Hark! they are approaching!
_Enter MENDO._
_Men._ Anguish, oh! anguish!
_Viol._ My father!
_Men._ Ay, indeed,
And a most wretched one.
_Viol._ What is it, sir?
Tell me at once.
_Men._ I know not. Oh, ’tis false!
I know too well, and you must know it too.
My daughter, the poor prisoner who lies there
Is my own son, not Blanca’s, not Urrea’s,
But my own son, your brother, Violante!
_Viol._ My brother!
_Men._ Ay, your brother, my own son,
Whom we must save!
_Viol._ Alas, sir, I was here
On the same errand, ere I knew—but hark!
All’s quiet now. (_A groan within._)
_Men._ Listen! What groan was that?
_Viol._ My hand shakes so, I cannot—
_Lope_ (_within_). Mercy, O God!
_Men._ The key, the key!—but hark! they call again
At either door; we must unlock.
(_They unlock the side doors.—Enter through one BLANCA
and BEATRICE, through the other URREA and VICENTE._)
_Urr._ Don Mendo,
The King desires me from your mouth to learn
His sentence on my son.
_Blan._ Oh, Violante!
_Men._ From me! from me! to whom the King as yet
Has not deliver’d it.—
But what is this? Oh, God!
(_The centre door opens and DON LOPE is discovered,
garrotted, with a paper in his hand, and lights
at each side._)
_Urr._ A sight to turn
Rancour into remorse.
_Men._ In his cold hand
He holds a scroll, the sentence, it may be,
The King referr’d you to. Read it, Urrea;
I cannot. Oh, my son, the chastisement
That I alone have merited has come
Upon us both, and doubled the remorse
That I must feel—and stifle!
_Urr._ (_reading_). “He that reviles and strikes whom he believes
His father, let him die for ’t; and let those
Who have disgraced a noble name, or join’d
An ill imposture, see his doom; and show
Three judgments summ’d up in a single blow.”
THE MAYOR OF ZALAMEA
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
KING PHILIP II.
DON LOPE DE FIGUEROA.
DON ALVARO DE ATAIDE.
PEDRO CRESPO _a Farmer of Zalamea._
JUAN _his Son._
ISABEL _his Daughter._
INES _his Niece._
DON MENDO _a poor Hidalgo._
NUÑO _his Servant._
REBOLLEDO _a Soldier._
CHISPA _his Mistress._
A SERGEANT, A NOTARY, SOLDIERS, LABOURERS, CONSTABLES,
ROYAL SUITE, etc.
ACT I
SCENE I.—_Country near Zalamea._
_Enter REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, and Soldiers._
_Reb._ Confound, say I, these forced marches from place to place, without
halt or bait; what say you, friends?
_All._ Amen!
_Reb._ To be trailed over the country like a pack of gipsies, after a
little scrap of flag upon a pole, eh?
_1st Soldier._ Rebolledo’s off!
_Reb._ And that infernal drum which has at last been good enough to stop
a moment stunning us.
_2nd Sold._ Come, come, Rebolledo, don’t storm: we shall soon be at
Zalamea.
_Reb._ And where will be the good of that if I’m dead before I get
there? And if not, ’twill only be from bad to worse: for if we all
reach the place alive, as sure as death up comes Mr. Mayor to persuade
the Commissary we had better march on to the next town. At first Mr.
Commissary replies very virtuously, ‘Impossible! the men are fagged to
death.’ But after a little pocket persuasion, then it’s all ‘Gentlemen,
I’m very sorry: but orders have come for us to march forward, and
immediately’—and away we have to trot, foot weary, dust bedraggled, and
starved as we are. Well, I swear if I do get alive to Zalamea to-day,
I’ll not leave it on this side o’ sun-rise for love, lash, or money. It
won’t be the first time in my life I’ve given ’em the slip.
_1st Sold._ Nor the first time a poor fellow has had the slip given him
for doing so. And more likely than ever now that Don Lope de Figueroa has
taken the command, a fine brave fellow they say, but a devil of a Tartar,
who’ll have every inch of duty done, or take the change out of his own
son, without waiting for trial either.[9]
_Reb._ Listen to this now, gentlemen! By Heaven, I’ll be beforehand with
him.
_2nd Sold._ Come, come, a soldier shouldn’t talk so.
_Reb._ I tell you it isn’t for myself I care so much, as for this poor
little thing that follows me.
_Chis._ Signor Rebolledo, don’t you fret about me; you know I was born
with a beard on my heart if not on my chin, if ever girl was; and your
fearing for me is as bad as if I was afeard myself. Why, when I came
along with you I made up my mind to hardship and danger for honour’s
sake; else if I’d wanted to live in clover, I never should have left the
Alderman who kept such a table as all Aldermen don’t, I promise you.
Well, what’s the odds? I chose to leave him and follow the drum, and
here I am, and if I don’t flinch, why should you?
_Reb._ ’Fore Heaven, you’re the crown of womankind!
_Soldiers._ So she is, so she is, Viva la Chispa!
_Reb._ And so she is, and one cheer more for her, hurrah! especially if
she’ll give us a song to lighten the way.
_Chis._ The castanet shall answer for me.
_Reb._ I’ll join in—and do you, comrades, bear a hand in the chorus.
_Soldiers._ Fire away!
_Chispa sings._
I.
Titiri tiri, marching is weary,
Weary, weary, and long is the way:
Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
What meat have you got for the soldier to-day?
‘Meat have I none, my merry men,’
Titiri tiri, then kill the old hen.
‘Alas and a day! the old hen is dead!’
Then give us a cake from the oven instead,
Titiri titiri titiri tiri,
Give us a cake from the oven instead.
II.
Admiral, admiral, where have you been-a?
‘I’ve been fighting where the waves roar.’
Ensign, ensign, what have you seen-a?
‘Glory and honour and gunshot galore;
Fighting the Moors in column and line,
Poor fellows, they never hurt me or mine—
Titiri titiri titiri tina’—
_1st Sold._ Look, look, comrades—what between singing and grumbling we
never noticed yonder church among the trees.
_Reb._ Is that Zalamea?
_Chis._ Yes, that it is, I know the steeple. Hurrah! we’ll finish the
song when we get into quarters, or have another as good; for you know I
have ’em of all sorts and sizes.
_Reb._ Halt a moment, here’s the sergeant.
_2nd Sold._ And the captain too.
_Enter Captain and Sergeant._
_Capt._ Good news, gentlemen, no more marching for to-day at least; we
halt at Zalamea till Don Lope joins with the rest of the regiment from
Llerena. So who knows but you may have a several days’ rest here?
_Reb. and Solds._ Huzzah for our captain!
_Capt._ Your quarters are ready, and the Commissary will give every one
his billet on marching in.
_Chis._ (_singing_). Now then for
Titiri tiri, hither, my deary,
Heat the oven and kill the old hen.
[_Exit with Soldiers._
_Capt._ Well, Mr. Sergeant, have you my billet?
_Serg._ Yes, sir.
_Capt._ And where am I to put up?
_Serg._ With the richest man in Zalamea, a farmer, as proud as Lucifer’s
heir-apparent.
_Capt._ Ah, the old story of an upstart.
_Serg._ However, sir, you have the best quarters in the place, including
his daughter, who is, they say, the prettiest woman in Zalamea.
_Capt._ Pooh! a pretty peasant! splay hands and feet.
_Serg._ Shame! shame!
_Capt._ Isn’t it true, puppy?
_Serg._ What would a man on march have better than a pretty country lass
to toy with?
_Capt._ Well, I never saw one I cared for, even on march. I can’t call
a woman a woman unless she’s clean about the hands and fetlocks, and
otherwise well appointed—a lady in short.
_Serg._ Well, any one for me who’ll let me kiss her. Come, sir, let us be
going, for if you won’t be at her, I will.
_Capt._ Look, look, yonder!
_Serg._ Why, it must be Don Quixote himself with his very Rosinante too,
that Michel Cervantes writes of.
_Capt._ And his Sancho at his side. Well, carry you my kit on before to
quarters, and then come and tell me when all’s ready.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.—_Zalamea, before CRESPO’S House._
_Enter DON MENDO and NUÑO._
_Men._ How’s the gray horse?
_Nuñ._ You may as well call him the _Dun_; so screw’d he can’t move a leg.
_Men._ Did you have him walk’d gently about?
_Nuñ._ Walk’d about! when it’s corn he wants, poor devil!
_Men._ And the dogs?
_Nuñ._ Ah, now, they might do if you’d give them the horse to eat.
_Men._ Enough, enough—it has struck three. My gloves and tooth-pick!
_Nuñ._ That sinecure tooth-pick!
_Men._ I tell you I would brain anybody who insinuated to me I had not
dined—and on game too. But tell me, Nuño, haven’t the soldiers come into
Zalamea this afternoon?
_Nuñ._ Yes, sir.
_Men._ What a nuisance for the commonalty who have to quarter them!
_Nuñ._ But worse for those who haven’t.
_Men._ What do you mean, sir?
_Nuñ._ I mean the squires. Ah, sir; if the soldiers aren’t billeted on
them, do you know why?
_Men._ Well, why?
_Nuñ._ For fear of being starved—which would be a bad job for the king’s
service.
_Men._ God rest my father’s soul, says I, who left me a pedigree and
patent all blazon’d in gold and azure, that exempts me from such
impositions.
_Nuñ._ I wish he’d left you the gold in a more available shape, however.
_Men._ Though indeed when I come to think of it, I don’t know if I owe
him any thanks; considering that unless he had consented to beget me an
Hidalgo at once, I wouldn’t have been born at all, for him or any one.
_Nuñ._ Humph! Could you have help’d it?
_Men._ Easily.
_Nuñ._ How, sir?
_Men._ You must know that every one that is born is the essence of the
food his parents eat.
_Nuñ._ Oh! Your parents did eat then, sir? You have not inherited _that_
of them, at all events.
_Men._ Which forthwith converts itself into proper flesh and blood—ergo,
if my father had been an eater of onions, for instance, he would have
begotten me with a strong breath; on which I should have said to him,
‘Hold, I must come of no such nastiness as that, I promise you.’
_Nuñ._ Ah, now I see the old saying is true.
_Men._ What is that?
_Nuñ._ That hunger sharpens wit.
_Men._ Knave, do you insinuate—
_Nuñ._ I only know it is now three o’clock, and we have neither of us yet
had any thing but our own spittle to chew.
_Men._ Perhaps so, but there are distinctions of rank. An Hidalgo, sir,
has no belly.
_Nuñ._ Oh Lord! that I were an Hidalgo!
_Men._ Possibly; servants must learn moderation in all things. But let me
hear no more of the matter; we are under Isabel’s window.
_Nuñ._ There again—If you are so devoted an admirer, why on earth, sir,
don’t you ask her in marriage of her father? by doing which you would
kill two birds with one stone; get yourself something to eat, and his
grandchildren squires.
_Men._ Hold your tongue, sir, it is impious. Am I, an Hidalgo with such
a pedigree, to demean myself with a plebeian connexion just for money’s
sake?
_Nuñ._ Well, I’ve always heard say a mean father-in-law is best; better
stumble on a pebble than run your head against a post. But, however, if
you don’t mean marriage, sir, what do you mean?
_Men._ And pray, sir, can’t I dispose of her in a convent in case I get
tired of her? But go directly, and tell me if you can get a sight of her.
_Nuñ._ I’m afraid lest her father should get a sight of me.
_Men._ And what if he do, being my man? Go and do as I bid you.
_Nuñ._ (_after going to look_). Come, sir, you owe one meal at least
now—she’s at the window with her cousin.
_Men._ Go again, and tell her something about her window being another
East, and she a second Sun dawning from it in the afternoon.
(_ISABEL and INES come to the window._)
_Ines._ For heaven’s sake, cousin, let’s stand here and see the soldiers
march in.
_Isab._ Not I, while that man is in the way, Ines; you know how I hate
the sight of him.
_Ines._ With all his devotion to you!
_Isab._ I wish he would spare himself and me the trouble.
_Ines._ I think you are wrong to take it as an affront.
_Isab._ How would you have me take it?
_Ines._ Why, as a compliment.
_Isab._ What, when I hate the man?
_Men._ Ah! ’pon the honour of an Hidalgo, (which is a sacred oath,) I
could have sworn that till this moment the sun had not risen. But why
should I wonder? when indeed a second Aurora—
_Isab._ Signor Don Mendo, how often have I told you not to waste your
time playing these fool’s antics before my window day after day!
_Men._ If a pretty woman only knew, la! how anger improved its beauty!
her complexion needs no other paint than indignation. Go on, go on,
lovely one, grow angrier, and lovelier still.
_Isab._ You shan’t have even that consolation; come, Ines.
[_Exit._
_Ines._ Beware of the portcullis, sir knight.
(_Shuts down the blind in his face._)
_Men._ Ines, beauty must be ever victorious, whether advancing or in
retreat.
_Enter CRESPO._
_Cres._ That I can never go in or out of my house without that squireen
haunting it!
_Nuñ._ Pedro Crespo, sir!
_Men._ Oh—ah—let us turn another way; ’tis an ill-conditioned fellow.
_As he turns, enter JUAN._
_Juan._ That I never can come home but this ghost of an Hidalgo is there
to spoil my appetite.
_Nuñ._ His son, sir!
_Men._ He’s worse. (_Turning back._) Oh, Pedro Crespo, good day, Crespo,
good man, good day.
[_Exit with NUÑO._
_Cres._ Good day indeed; I’ll make it bad day one of these days with you,
if you don’t take care. But how now, Juanito, my boy?
_Juan._ I was looking for you, sir, but could not find you; where have
you been?
_Cres._
To the barn, where high and dry,
The jolly sheaves of corn do lie,
Which the sun, arch-chemist old,
Turn’d from black earth into gold,
And the swinging flail one day
On the barn-floor shall assay,
Separating the pure ore
From the drossy chaff away.
This I’ve been about—And now,
Juanito, what hast thou?
_Juan._ Alas, sir, I can’t answer in so good rhyme or reason. I have
been playing at fives, and lost every bout.
_Cres._ What signifies if you paid?
_Juan._ But I could not, and have come to you for the money.
_Cres._
Before I give it you, listen to me.
There are things two
Thou never must do;
Swear to more than thou knowest,
Play for more than thou owest;
And never mind cost,
So credit’s not lost.
_Juan._ Good advice, sir, no doubt, that I shall lay by for its own sake
as well as for yours. Meanwhile, I have also heard say,
Preach not to a beggar till
The beggar’s empty hide you fill.
_Cres._ ’Fore Heaven, thou pay’st me in my own coin. But—
_Enter Sergeant._
_Serg._ Pray, does one Pedro Crespo live hereabout?
_Cres._ Have you any commands for him, if he does?
_Serg._ Yes, to tell him of the arrival of Don Alvaro de Ataide, captain
of the troop that has just marcht into Zalamea, and quartered upon him.
_Cres._ Say no more; my house and all I have is ever at the service of
the king, and of all who have authority under him. If you will leave his
things here, I will see his room is got ready directly; and do you tell
his Honour that, come when he will, he shall find me and mine at his
service.
_Serg._ Good—he will be here directly.
[_Exit._
_Juan._ I wonder, father, that, rich as you are, you still submit
yourself to these nuisances.
_Cres._ Why, boy, how could I help them?
_Juan._ You know; by buying a patent of Gentility.
_Cres._ A patent of Gentility! upon thy life now dost think there’s a
soul who doesn’t know that I’m no gentleman at all, but just a plain
farmer? What’s the use of my buying a patent of Gentility, if I can’t buy
the gentle blood along with it! will any one think me a bit more of a
gentleman for buying fifty patents? Not a whit; I should only prove I was
worth so many thousand royals, not that I had gentle blood in my veins,
which can’t be bought at any price. If a fellow’s been bald ever so long,
and buys him a fine wig, and claps it on; will his neighbours think it
is his own hair a bit the more? No, they will say, ‘So and so has a fine
wig; and, what’s more, he must have paid handsomely for it too.’ But they
know his bald pate is safe under it all the while. That’s all he gets by
it.
_Juan._ Nay, sir, he gets to look younger and handsomer, and keeps off
sun and cold.
_Cres._ Tut! I’ll have none of your wig honour at any price. My
grandfather was a farmer, so was my father, so is yours, and so shall you
be after him. Go, call your sister.
_Enter ISABEL and INES._
Oh, here she is. Daughter, our gracious king (whose life God save these
thousand years!) is on his way to be crowned at Lisbon; thither the
troops are marching from all quarters, and among others that fine veteran
Flanders regiment, commanded by the famous Don Lope de Figueroa, will
march into Zalamea, and be quartered here to-day; some of the soldiers
in my house. Is it not as well you should be out of the way?
_Isab._ Sir, ’twas upon this very errand I came to you, knowing what
nonsense I shall have to hear if I stay below. My cousin and I can go up
to the garret, and there keep so close, the very sun shall not know of
our whereabout.
_Cres._ That’s my good girl. Juanito, you wait here to receive them in
case they come while I am out looking after their entertainment.
_Isab._ Come, Ines.
_Ines._ Very well—
Though I’ve heard in a song what folly ’twould be
To try keep in a loft what won’t keep on the tree.
[_Exeunt._
_Enter Captain and Sergeant._
_Serg._ This is the house, sir.
_Capt._ Is my kit come?
_Serg._ Yes, sir, and (_aside_) I’ll be the first to take an inventory of
the pretty daughter.
[_Exit._
_Juan._ Welcome, sir, to our house; we count it a great honour to have
such a cavalier as yourself for a guest, I assure you. (_Aside._) What a
fine fellow! what an air! I long to try the uniform, somehow.
_Capt._ Thank you, my lad.
_Juan._ You must forgive our poor house, which we devoutly wish was a
palace for your sake. My father is gone after your supper, sir; may I go
and see that your chamber is got ready for you?
_Capt._ Thank you, thank you.
_Juan._ Your servant, sir.
[_Exit._
_Enter Sergeant._
_Capt._ Well, sergeant, where’s the Dulcinea you told me of?
_Serg._ Deuce, take me, sir, if I haven’t been looking everywhere in
parlour, bed-room, kitchen, and scullery, up-stairs and down-stairs, and
can’t find her out.
_Capt._ Oh, no doubt the old fellow has hid her away for fear of us.
_Serg._ Yes, I ask’d a serving wench, and she confess’d her master had
lock’d the girl up in the attic, with strict orders not even to look out
so long as we were in the place.
_Capt._ Ah! these clodpoles are all so jealous of the service. And what
is the upshot? Why, I, who didn’t care a pin to see her before, shall
never rest till I get at her now.
_Serg._ But how, without a blow-up?
_Capt._ Let me see; how shall we manage it?
_Serg._ The more difficult the enterprise, the more glory in success, you
know, in love as in war.
_Capt._ I have it!
_Serg._ Well, sir?
_Capt._ You shall pretend—but no, here comes one will serve my turn
better.
_Enter REBOLLEDO and CHISPA._
_Reb._ (_to CHISPA_). There he is; now if I can get him into a good
humour—
_Chis._ Speak up then, like a man.
_Reb._ I wish I’d some of your courage; but don’t you leave me while I
tackle him. Please your Honour—
_Capt._ (_to Sergeant_). I tell you I’ve my eye on Rebolledo to do him a
good turn; I like his spirit.
_Serg._ Ah, he’s one of a thousand.
_Reb._ (_aside_). Here’s luck! Please your Honour—
_Capt._ Oh, Rebolledo—Well, Rebolledo, what is it?
_Reb._ You may know I am a gentleman who has, by ill luck, lost all his
estate; all that ever I had, have, shall have, may have, or can have,
through all the conjugation of the verb ‘_to have_.’ And I want your
Honour—
_Capt._ Well?
_Reb._ To desire the ensign to appoint me roulette-master to the
regiment, so I may pay my liabilities like a man of honour.
_Capt._ Quite right, quite right; I will see it done.
_Chis._ Oh, brave captain! Oh, if I only live to hear them all call me
Madam Roulette!
_Reb._ Shall I go at once and tell him?
_Capt._ Wait. I want you first to help me in a little plan I have.
_Reb._ Out with it, noble captain. Slow said slow sped, you know.
_Capt._ You are a good fellow; listen. I want to get into that attic
there, for a particular purpose.
_Reb._ And why doesn’t your Honour go up at once?
_Capt._ I don’t like to do it in a strange house without an excuse. Now
look here; you and I will pretend to quarrel; I get angry and draw my
sword, and you run away up-stairs, and I after you, to the attic, that’s
all; I’ll manage the rest.
_Chis._ Ah, we get on famously.
_Reb._ I understand. When are we to begin?
_Capt._ Now directly.
_Reb._ Very good. (_In a loud voice._) This is the reward of my
services—a rascal, a pitiful scoundrel, is preferred, when a man of
honour—a man who has seen service—
_Chis._ Halloa! Rebolledo up! All is not so well.
_Reb._ Who has led you to victory—
_Capt._ This language to me, sir!
_Reb._ Yes, to you, who have so grossly insulted and defrauded—
_Capt._ Silence! and think yourself lucky if I take no further notice of
your insolence.
_Reb._ If I restrain myself, it is only because you are my captain, and
as such—but ’fore God, if my cane were in my hand—
_Chis._ (_advancing_). Hold! Hold!
_Capt._ I’ll show you, sir, how to talk to me in this way. (_Draws his
sword._)
_Reb._ It is before your commission, not you, I retreat.
_Capt._ That shan’t save you, rascal! (_Pursues REBOLLEDO out._)
_Chis._ Oh, I shan’t be Madam Roulette after all. Murder! murder!
[_Exit, calling._
SCENE III.—_ISABEL’S Garret. ISABEL and INES._
_Isab._ What noise is that on the stairs?
_Enter REBOLLEDO._
_Reb._ Sanctuary! Sanctuary!
_Isab._ Who are you, sir?
_Enter Captain._
_Capt._ Where is the rascal?
_Isab._ A moment, sir! This poor man has flown to our feet for
protection; I appeal to you for it; and no man, and least of all an
officer, will refuse that to any woman.
_Capt._ I swear no other arm than that of beauty, and beauty such as
yours, could have withheld me. (_To REBOLLEDO._) You may thank the deity
that has saved you, rascal.
_Isab._ And I thank you, sir.
_Capt._ And yet ungratefully slay me with your eyes in return for sparing
him with my sword.
_Isab._ Oh, sir, do not mar the grace of a good deed by poor compliment,
and so make me less mindful of the real thanks I owe you.
_Capt._ Wit and modesty kiss each other, as well they may, in that lovely
face. (_Kneels._)
_Isab._ Heavens! my father!
_Enter CRESPO and JUAN with swords._
_Cres._ How is this, sir? I am alarmed by cries of murder in my house—am
told you have pursued a poor man up to my daughter’s room; and, when I
get here expecting to find you killing a man, I find you courting a woman.
_Capt._ We are all born subjects to some dominion—soldiers especially to
beauty. My sword, though justly raised against this man, as justly fell
at this lady’s bidding.
_Cres._ No lady, sir, if you please; but a plain peasant girl—my
daughter.
_Juan_ (_aside_). All a trick to get at her. My blood boils. (_Aloud to
Captain._) I think, sir, you might have seen enough of my father’s desire
to serve you to prevent your requiting him by such an affront as this.
_Cres._ And, pray, who bid thee meddle, boy? Affront! what affront? The
soldier affronted his captain; and if the captain has spared him for thy
sister’s sake, pray what hast thou to say against it?
_Capt._ I think, young man, you had best consider before you impute ill
intention to an officer.
_Juan._ I know what I know.
_Cres._ What! you will go on, will you?
_Capt._ It is out of regard for you I do not chastise him.
_Cres._ Wait a bit; if that were wanting, ’twould be from his father, not
from you.
_Juan._ And, what’s more, I wouldn’t endure it from any one but my father.
_Capt._ You would not?
_Juan._ No! death rather than such dishonour!
_Capt._ What, pray, is a clodpole’s idea of honour?
_Juan._ The same as a captain’s—no clodpole no captain, I can tell you.
_Capt._ ’Fore Heaven, I must punish this insolence. (_About to strike
him._)
_Cres._ You must do it through me, then.
_Reb._ Eyes right!—Don Lope!
_Capt._ Don Lope!
_Enter DON LOPE._
_Lope._ How now? A riot the very first thing I find on joining the
regiment? What is it all about?
_Capt._ (_aside_). Awkward enough!
_Cres._ (_aside_). By the lord, the boy would have held his own with the
best of ’em.
_Lope._ Well! No one answer me? ’Fore God, I’ll pitch the whole house,
men, women, and children, out of windows, if you don’t tell me at once.
Here have I had to trail up your accursed stairs, and then no one will
tell me what for.
_Cres._ Nothing, nothing at all, sir.
_Lope._ Nothing? that would be the worst excuse of all: but swords aren’t
drawn for nothing; come, the truth?
_Capt._ Well, the simple fact is this, Don Lope; I am quartered upon this
house; and one of my soldiers—
_Lope._ Well, sir, go on.
_Capt._ Insulted me so grossly I was obliged to draw my sword on him. He
ran up here where it seems these two girls live; and I, not knowing there
was any harm, after him; at which these men, their father or brother, or
some such thing, take affront. This is the whole business.
_Lope._ I am just come in time then to settle it. First, who is the
soldier that began it with an act of insubordination?
_Reb._ What, am I to pay the piper?
_Isab._ (_pointing to REB._). This, sir, was the man who ran up first.
_Lope._ This? handcuff him!
_Reb._ Me! my lord?
_Capt._ (_aside to REB._). Don’t blab, I’ll bear you harmless.
_Reb._ Oh, I dare say, after being marcht off with my hands behind me
like a coward. Noble commander, ’twas the captain’s own doing; he made
me pretend a quarrel, that he might get up here to see the women.
_Cres._ I _had_ some cause for quarrel, you see.
_Lope._ Not enough to peril the peace of the town for. Halloa there! beat
all to quarters on pain of death. And, to prevent further ill blood here,
do you (_to the Captain_) quarter yourself elsewhere till we march. I’ll
stop here.
_Capt._ I shall of course obey you, sir.
_Cres._ (_to ISABEL_). Get you in. (_Exeunt ISAB. and INES._) I really
ought to thank you heartily for coming just as you did, sir; else, I’d
done for myself.
_Lope._ How so?
_Cres._ I should have killed this popinjay.
_Lope._ What, sir, a captain in his Majesty’s service?
_Cres._ Ay, a general, if he insulted me.
_Lope._ I tell you, whoever lays his little finger on the humblest
private in the regiment, I’ll hang him.
_Cres._ And I tell you, whoever points his little finger at my honour,
I’ll cut him down before hanging.
_Lope._ Know you not, you are bound by your allegiance to submit?
_Cres._ To all cost of property, yes; but of honour, no, no, no! My goods
and chattels, ay, and my life—are the king’s; but my honour is my own
soul’s, and that is—God Almighty’s!
_Lope._ ’Fore God, there’s some truth in what you say.
_Cres._ ’Fore God, there ought to be, for I’ve been some years saying it.
_Lope._ Well, well. I’ve come a long way, and this leg of mine (which I
wish the devil who gave it would carry away with him!) cries for rest.
_Cres._ And who prevents its taking some? the same devil I suppose, who
gave you your leg, gave me a bed (which I don’t want him to take away
again, however) on which your leg may lie if it like.
_Lope._ But did the devil, when he was about it, make your bed as well as
give it?
_Cres._ To be sure he did.
_Lope._ Then I’ll unmake it—Heaven knows I’m weary enough.
_Cres._ Heaven rest you then.
_Lope._ (_aside_). Devil or saint alike he echoes me.
_Cres._ (_aside_). I and Don Lope never shall agree.
ACT II
SCENE I.—_In Zalamea._
_Enter DON MENDO and NUÑO._
_Men._ Who told you all this?
_Nuñ._ Ginesa, her wench.
_Men._ That, whether that riot in the house were by accident or design,
the captain has ended by being really in love with Isabel.
_Nuñ._ So as he has as little of comfort in his quarters as we of eatable
in ours—ever under her window, sending her messages and tokens by a nasty
little soldier of his.
_Men._ Enough, enough of your poisoned news.
_Nuñ._ Especially on an empty stomach.
_Men._ Be serious, Nuño. And how does Isabel answer him?
_Nuñ._ As she does you. Bless you, she’s meat for your masters.
_Men._ Rascal! This to me! (_Strikes him._)
_Nuñ._ There! two of my teeth you’ve knockt out, I believe: to be sure
they weren’t of much use in your service.
_Men._ By Heaven, I’ll do so to that captain, if—
_Nuñ._ Take care, he’s coming, sir.
_Men._ (_aside to NUÑO_). This duel shall be _now_—though night be
advancing on—before discretion come to counsel milder means. Come, and
help me arm.
_Nuñ._ Lord bless me, sir, what arms have you got except the coat over
the door?
_Men._ In my armoury I doubt not are some pieces of my ancestors that
will fit their descendant.
[_Exeunt._
_Enter Captain, Sergeant, and REBOLLEDO._
_Capt._ I tell you my love is not a fancy; but a passion, a tempest, a
volcano.
_Serg._ What a pity it is you ever set eyes on the girl!
_Capt._ What answer did the servant give you?
_Serg._ Nay, sir, I have told you.
_Capt._ That a country wench should stand upon her virtue as if she were
a lady!
_Serg._ This sort of girls, captain, don’t understand gentlemen’s ways.
If a strapping lout in their own line of life courted them in their own
way, they’d hear and answer quick enough. Besides, you really expect too
much, that a decent woman should listen after one day’s courtship to a
lover who is perhaps to leave her to-morrow.
_Capt._ And to-day’s sun setting!
_Serg._ Your own love too, but from one glance—
_Capt._ Is not one spark enough for gunpowder?
_Serg._ You too, who would have it no country girl could be worth a day’s
courtship!
_Capt._ Alas, ’twas that was my ruin—running unawares upon a rock. I
thought only to see a splay-footed gawky, and found a goddess. Ah,
Rebolledo, could you but get me one more sight of her!
_Reb._ Well, captain, you have done me one good turn, and though you had
like to run me into danger, I don’t mind venturing again for you.
_Capt._ But how? how?
_Reb._ Well, now, look here. We’ve a man in the regiment with a fair
voice, and my little Chispa—no one like her for a flash song. Let’s
serenade at the girl’s window; she must, in courtesy or curiosity, look
out; and then—
_Capt._ But Don Lope is there, and we mustn’t wake him.
_Reb._ Don Lope? When does he ever get asleep with that leg of his, poor
fellow? Besides, you can mix along with us in disguise, so as at least
_you_ won’t come into question.
_Capt._ Well, there is but this chance, if it be but a faint one; for if
we should march to-morrow!—come, let us set about it; it being, as you
say, between ourselves that I have any thing to do with it.
[_Exeunt Captain and Sergeant._
_Enter CHISPA._
_Chis._ He’s got it, at any rate.
_Reb._ What’s the matter now, Chispa?
_Chis._ Oh, I mark’d his face for him.
_Reb._ What, a row?
_Chis._ A fellow there who began to ask questions as to my fair play
at roulette—when I was all as fair as day too—I answered him with this.
(_Showing a knife._) Well, he’s gone to the barber’s to get it dressed.
_Reb._ You still stand kicking when I want to get to the fair. I wanted
you with your castanets, not your knife.
_Chis._ Pooh! one’s as handy as the other. What’s up now?
_Reb._ Come with me to quarters; I’ll tell you as we go along.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.—_A trellis of Vines in CRESPO’S garden._
_Enter CRESPO and DON LOPE._
_Cres._ Lay the table here. (_To LOPE._) You’ll relish your supper here
in the cool, sir. These hot August days at least bring their cool nights
by way of excuse.
_Lope._ A mighty pleasant parlour this!
_Cres._ Oh, a little strip my daughter amuses herself with; sit down,
sir. In place of the fine voices and instruments you are used to, you
must put up with only the breeze playing on the vine leaves in concert
with the little fountain yonder. Even the birds (our only musicians) are
gone to bed, and wouldn’t sing any the more if I were to wake them. Come,
sit down, sir, and try to ease that poor leg of yours.
_Lope._ I wish to heaven I could.
_Cres._ Amen!
_Lope._ Well, I can at least bear it. Sit down, Crespo.
_Cres._ Thank you, sir. (_Hesitating._)
_Lope._ Sit down, sit down, pray.
_Cres._ Since you bid me then, you must excuse my ill manners. (_Sits._)
_Lope._ Humph! Do you know, I am thinking, Crespo, that yesterday’s riot
rather overset your good ones.
_Cres._ Ay?
_Lope._ Why how else is it that you, whom I can scarce get to sit down at
all to-day, yesterday plump’d yourself down at once, and in the big chair
too?
_Cres._ Simply because yesterday you _didn’t_ ask me. To-day you are
courteous, and I am shy.
_Lope._ Yesterday you were all thistle and hedgehog; to-day as soft as
silk.
_Cres._ It is only because you yourself were so. I always answer in the
key I’m spoken to; yesterday you were all out of tune, and so was I. It
is my principle to swear with the swearer, and pray with the saint; all
things to all men. So much so as I declare to you your bad leg kept me
awake all night. And, by the by, I wish, now we are about it, you would
tell me which of your legs it is that ails you: for, not knowing, I was
obliged to make sure by swearing at both of mine: and one at a time is
quite enough.
_Lope._ Well, Pedro, you will perhaps think I have some reason for my
tetchiness, when I tell you that for thirty years during which I have
served in the Flemish wars through summer’s sun, and winter’s frost, and
enemy’s bullets, I have never known what it is to be an hour without pain.
_Cres._ God give you patience to bear it!
_Lope._ Pish! can’t I give it myself?
_Cres._ Well, let him leave you alone then!
_Lope._ Devil take patience!
_Cres._ Ah, let him! he wants it; only it’s too good a job for him.
_Enter JUAN with Table, etc._
_Juan._ Supper, sir!
_Lope._ But what are my people about, not to see to all this?
_Cres._ Pardon my having been so bold to tell them I and my family would
wait upon you, so, as I hope, you shall want for nothing.
_Lope._ On one condition then, that as you have no fear of your company
now, your daughter may join us at supper.
_Cres._ Juan, bid your sister come directly.
[_Exit JUAN._
_Lope._ My poor health may quiet all suspicion on that score, I think.
_Cres._ Sir, if you were as lusty as I wish you, I should have no fear.
I bid my daughter keep above while the regiment was here because of the
nonsense soldiers usually talk to girls. If all were gentlemen like you,
I should be the first to make her wait on them.
_Lope_ (_aside_). The cautious old fellow!
_Enter JUAN, ISABEL, and INES._
_Isab._ (_to CRESPO_). Your pleasure, sir?
_Cres._ It is Don Lope’s, who honours you by bidding you to sup with him.
_Lope_ (_aside_). What a fair creature!—Nay, ’tis I that honour myself by
the invitation.
_Isab._ Let me wait upon you.
_Lope._ Indeed no, unless waiting upon me mean supping with me.
_Cres._ Sit down, sit down, girl, as Don Lope desires you.
[_They sit at table. Guitar heard within._
_Lope._ Music too!
_Cres._ None of ours. It must be some of your soldiers, Don Lope.
_Lope._ Ah, Crespo, the troubles and dangers of war must have a little to
sweeten them betimes. The uniform sits very tight, and must be let out
every now and then.
_Juan._ Yet ’tis a fine life, sir.
_Lope._ Do you think you would like to follow it?
_Juan._ If I might at your Excellency’s side.
SONG (_within_).
Ah for the red spring rose,
Down in the garden growing,
Fading as fast as it blows,
Who shall arrest its going?
Peep from thy window and tell,
Fairest of flowers, Isabel.
_Lope_ (_aside_). Pebbles thrown up at the window too! But I’ll say
nothing, for all sakes. (_Aloud._) What foolery!
_Cres._ Boys! Boys! (_Aside._) To call her very name too! If it weren’t
for Don Lope—
_Juan_ (_going_). I’ll teach them—
_Cres._ Holloa, lad, whither away?
_Juan._ To see for a dish—
_Cres._ They’ll see after that. Sit still where thou art.
SONG (_within_).
Wither it would, but the bee
Over the blossom hovers,
And the sweet life ere it flee
With as sweet art recovers,
Sweetest at night in his cell,
Fairest of flowers, Isabel.
_Isab._ (_aside_). How have I deserved this?
_Lope_ (_knocking over his chair_). This is not to be borne!
_Cres._ (_upsetting the table_). No more it is!
_Lope._ I meant my leg.
_Cres._ And I mine.
_Lope._ I can eat no more, and will to bed.
_Cres._ Very good: so will I.
_Lope._ Good-night, good-night, to you all.
_All._ Good-night, sir.
_Lope_ (_aside_). I’ll see to them.
[_Exit._
_Cres._ (_aside_). I’ll shut the girls up, and then look after ’em.
(_Aloud._) Come, to bed. (_To JUAN_) Holloa, lad, again! This is the way
to thy room, is it not?
[_Exeunt severally._
SCENE III.—_Outside CRESPO’S House._
_The Captain, Sergeant, REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, etc., with guitars. At one
corner, MENDO in old armour, with NUÑO, observing them. It is dark._
_Men._ (_aside to NUÑO_). You see this?
_Nuñ._ And hear it.
_Men._ I am bloodily minded to charge into them at once, and disperse
them into chaos; but I will see if she is guilty of answering them by a
sign.
_Capt._ No glance from the window yet!
_Reb._ Who’d stir for a sentimental love song? Come, Chispa, you can give
us one that would make her look out of the grave.
_Chis._ Here am I on my pedestal. Now for it. (_She sings._)
There once was a certain Sampayo
Of Andalusia the fair;
A Major he was in the service,
And a very fine coat did he wear.
And one night, as to-night it might happen,
That as he was going his round,
With the Garlo half drunk in a tavern—
_Reb._ _Asonante_ to ‘_happen_’ you know.
_Chis._ Don’t put me out, Rebolledo——(_Sings._)
With the Garlo half drunk in a tavern
His lovely Chillona he found.
CHORUS.
With the Garlo half drunk in a tavern
His lovely Chillona he found.
SECOND STANZA.
Now this Garlo, as chronicles tell us,
Although rather giv’n to strong drinks,
Was one of those terrible fellows
Is down on a man ere he winks.
And so while the Major all weeping
Upbraided his lady unkind,
The Garlo behind him came creeping
And laid on the Major behind.
CHORUS.
The Garlo, etc.
(_During Chorus, DON LOPE and CRESPO have entered at
different sides with swords, and begin to lay about them._)
_Cres._ What something in this way, perhaps! ⎫
⎬ Together.
_Lope._ After this fashion, may-be! ⎭
(_The soldiers are driven off._)
_Lope._ Well, we’re quit of them, except one. But I’ll soon settle him.
_Cres._ One still hanging about. Off with you!
_Lope._ Off with _you_, rascal! (_They fight._) By Heaven, he fights well!
_Cres._ By Heaven, a handy chap at his tool!
_Enter JUAN with sword and torch._
_Juan._ Where is Don Lope?
_Lope._ Crespo!
_Cres._ Don Lope!
_Lope._ To be sure, didn’t you say you were going to bed?
_Cres._ And didn’t you?
_Lope._ This was my quarrel, not yours.
_Cres._ Very well, and I come out to help you in it.
_Re-enter Captain and Soldiers with swords._
_1st Sold._ We’ll soon settle them.
_Capt._ Don Lope!
_Lope._ Yes, Don Lope. What is all this, sir?
_Capt._ The soldiers were singing and playing in the street, sir, doing
no offence to any one, but were set upon by some of the town’s people,
and I came to stop the riot.
_Lope._ You have done well, Don Alvaro, I know your prudence; however, as
there is a grudge on both sides, I shall not visit the town’s people this
time with further severity; but, for the sake of all parties, order the
regiment to march from Zalamea to-morrow—nay, to-day, for it is now dawn.
See to it, sir: and let me hear of no such disgraceful riots hereafter.
_Capt._ I shall obey your orders, sir.
[_Exit with soldiers, etc._
_Cres._ (_aside_). Don Lope is a fine fellow! we shall cog together after
all.
_Lope_ (_to CRESPO and JUAN_). You two keep with me, and don’t be found
alone.
[_Exeunt._
_Re-enter MENDO, and NUÑO wounded._
_Men._ ’Tis only a scratch.
_Nuñ._ A scratch? Well, I could well have spared that.
_Men._ Ah, what is it compared to the wound in my heart!
_Nuñ._ I would gladly exchange for all that.
_Men._ Well, he did lay upon your head handsomely, didn’t he?
_Nuñ._ Ah, and on my tail too; while you, under that great shield of
yours,— (_Drum._)
_Men._ Hark! what’s that?
_Nuñ._ The soldiers’ reveille. I heard say they were to leave Zalamea
to-day.
_Men._ I am glad of it, since they’ll carry that detestable captain off
with them at all events.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE IV.—_Outside Zalamea._
_Enter Captain, Sergeant, REBOLLEDO, and CHISPA._
_Capt._ March you on, Sergeant, with the troop. I shall lie here till
sun-down, and then steal back to Zalamea for one last chance.
_Serg._ If you are resolved on this, sir, you had better do it well
attended, for these bumpkins are dangerous, once affronted.
_Reb._ Where, however, (and you ought to tip me for my news,) you have
one worst enemy the less.
_Capt._ Who’s that?
_Reb._ Isabel’s brother. Don Lope and the lad took a fancy to each other
and have persuaded the old father to let him go for a soldier; and I have
only just met him as proud as a peacock, with all the sinew of the swain
and the spirit of the soldier already about him.
_Capt._ All works well; there is now only the old father at home, who can
easily be disposed of. It only needs that he who brought me this good
news help me to use it.
_Reb._ Me do you mean, sir? So I will, to the best of my power.
_Capt._ Good; you shall go with me.
_Serg._ But if Don Lope should happen on you?
_Capt._ He is himself obliged to set off to Guadalupe this evening, as
the king is already on the road. This I heard from himself when I went
to take his orders. Come with me, Sergeant, and settle about the troops
marching, and then for my own campaign.
[_Exeunt Captain and Sergeant._
_Chis._ And what am I to do, Rebolledo, meanwhile? I shan’t be safe alone
with that fellow whose face I sent to be stitcht by the barber.
_Reb._ Ah, how to manage about that? You wouldn’t dare go with us?
_Chis._ Not in petticoats; but in the clothes of that run-away stable
boy? I can step into them free of expense.
_Reb._ That’s a brave girl.
_Chis._ (_singing_).
And now who shall say
The love of a soldier’s wife lasts but a day?
[_Exeunt._
SCENE V.—_CRESPO’S Garden Porch._
_DON LOPE, CRESPO, JUAN._
_Lope._ I have much to thank you for, Crespo, but for nothing so much as
for giving me your son for a soldier. I do thank you for that with all my
heart.
_Cres._ I am proud he should be your servant.
_Lope._ The king’s! the king’s—_my_ friend. I took a fancy to him from
the first for his spirit and affection to the service.
_Juan._ And I will follow you to the world’s end, ] sir.
_Cres._ Though you must make allowance for his awkwardness at first,
sir, remembering he has only had ploughmen for teachers, and plough and
pitchforks for books.
_Lope._ He needs no apology. And now the sun’s heat abates towards his
setting, I will be off.
_Juan._ I will see for the litter.
[_Exit._
_Enter ISABEL and INES._
_Isab._ You must not go, sir, without our adieu.
_Lope._ I would not have done so; nor without asking pardon for much
that is past, and even for what I am now about to do. But remember, fair
Isabel, ’tis not the price of the gift, but the good will of the giver
makes its value. This brooch, though of diamond, becomes poor in your
hands, and yet I would fain have you wear it in memory of Don Lope.
_Isab._ I take it ill you should wish to repay us for an entertainment—
_Lope._ No, no, no repayment; that were impossible if I wished it. A free
keepsake of regard.
_Isab._ As such I receive it then, sir. Ah, may I make bold to commit my
brother to your kindness?
_Lope._ Indeed, indeed, you may rely on me.
_Enter JUAN._
_Juan._ The litter is ready.
_Lope._ Adieu, then, all.
_All._ Adieu, adieu, sir.
_Lope._ Ha, Peter! who, judging from our first meeting, could have
prophesied we should part such good friends?
_Cres._ I could, sir, had I but known—
_Lope_ (_going_). Well?
_Cres._ That you were at once as good as crazy. (_Exit LOPE._) And now,
Juan, before going, let me give thee a word of advice in presence of thy
sister and cousin; thou and thy horse will easily overtake Don Lope,
advice and all. By God’s grace, boy, thou comest of honourable if of
humble stock; bear both in mind, so as neither to be daunted from trying
to rise, nor puffed up so as to be sure to fall. How many have done away
the memory of a defect by carrying themselves modestly; while others
again have gotten a blemish only by being too proud of being born without
one. There is a just humility that will maintain thine own dignity, and
yet make thee insensible to many a rub that galls the proud spirit. Be
courteous in thy manner, and liberal of thy purse; for ’tis the hand to
the bonnet and in the pocket that makes friends in this world; of which
to gain one good, all the gold the sun breeds in India, or the universal
sea sucks down, were a cheap purchase. Speak no evil of women; I tell
thee the meanest of them deserves our respect; for of women do we not all
come? Quarrel with no one but with good cause; by the Lord, over and over
again, when I see masters and schools of arms among us, I say to myself,
‘This is not the thing we want at all, _How to fight_, but _Why to
fight_? that is the lesson we want to learn.’ And I verily believe if but
one master of the _Why to fight_ advertised among us he would carry off
all the scholars. Well—enough—You have not (as you once said to me) my
advice this time on an empty stomach—a fair outfit of clothes and money—a
good horse—and a good sword—these, together with Don Lope’s countenance,
and my blessing—I trust in God to live to see thee home again with honour
and advancement on thy back. My son, God bless thee! There—And now go—for
I am beginning to play the woman.
_Juan._ Your words will live in my heart, sir, so long as it lives. (_He
kisses his father’s hand._) Sister! (_He embraces her._)
_Isab._ Would I could hold you back in my arms!
_Juan._ Adieu, cousin!
_Ines._ I can’t speak.
_Cres._ Be off, else I shall never let thee go—and my word is given!
_Juan._ God bless you all!
[_Exit._
_Isab._ Oh, you never should have let him go, sir.
_Cres._ (_aside_). I shall do better now. (_Aloud._) Pooh, why, what
the deuce could I have done with him at home here all his life—a lout—a
scape-grace perhaps. Let him go serve his king.
_Isab._ Leaving us by night too!
_Cres._ Better than by day, child, at this season—Pooh!——(_Aside._) I must
hold up before them.
_Isab._ Come, sir, let us in.
_Ines._ No, no, cousin, e’en let us have a little fresh air now the
soldiers are gone.
_Cres._ True—and here I may watch my Juan along the white, white road.
Let us sit. (_They sit._)
_Isab._ Is not this the day, sir, when the Town Council elects its
officers?
_Cres._ Ay, indeed, in August—so it is. And indeed this very day.
(_As they talk together, the Captain, Sergeant, REBOLLEDO,
and CHISPA steal in._)
_Capt._ (_whispering_). ’Tis she! you know our plan; I seize her, and you
look to the others.
_Isab._ What noise is that?
_Ines._ Who are these?
(_The Captain seizes and carries off ISABEL—the
Sergeant and REBOLLEDO seize CRESPO._)
_Isab._ (_within_). My father! My father!
_Cres._ Villains! A sword! A sword!
_Reb._ Kill him at once.
_Serg._ No, no.
_Reb._ We must carry him off with us then, or his cries will rouse the
town.
[_Exeunt, carrying CRESPO._
ACT III
SCENE I.—_A Wood near Zalamea. It is dark._
_Enter ISABEL._
_Isab._ Oh never, never might the light of day arise and show me to
myself in my shame! Oh, fleeting morning star, mightest thou never yield
to the dawn that even now presses on thy azure skirts! And thou, great
Orb of all, do thou stay down in the cold ocean foam; let night for once
advance her trembling empire into thine! For once assert thy voluntary
power to hear and pity human misery and prayer, nor hasten up to proclaim
the vilest deed that Heaven, in revenge on man, has written on his guilty
annals! Alas! even as I speak, thou liftest thy bright, inexorable
face above the hills! Oh! horror! What shall I do? whither turn my
tottering feet? Back to my own home? and to my aged father, whose only
joy it was to see his own spotless honour spotlessly reflected in mine,
which now—And yet if I return not, I leave calumny to make my innocence
accomplice in my own shame! Oh that I had stayed to be slain by Juan over
my slaughtered honour! But I dared not meet his eyes even to die by his
hand. Alas!—Hark! What is that noise?
_Crespo_ (_within_). Oh in pity slay me at once!
_Isab._ One calling for death like myself?
_Cres._ Whoever thou art—
_Isab._ That voice!
[_Exit._
SCENE II.—_Another place in the Wood. CRESPO tied to a tree._
_Enter to him ISABEL._
_Isab._ My father!
_Cres._ Isabel! Unbind these cords, my child.
_Isab._ I dare not—I dare not yet, lest you kill before you hear my
story—and you must hear that.
_Cres._ No more, no more! Misery needs no remembrancer.
_Isab._ It must be.
_Cres._ Alas! Alas!
_Isab._ Listen for the last time. You know how, sitting last night
under the shelter of those white hairs in which my maiden youth had
grown, those wretches, whose only law is force, stole upon us. He who
had feigned that quarrel in our house, seizing and tearing me from your
bosom as a lamb from the fold, carried me off; my own cries stifled,
yours dying away behind me, and yet ringing in my ears like the sound of
a trumpet that has ceased!—till here, where out of reach of pursuit,—all
dark—the very moon lost from heaven—the wretch began with passionate
lies to excuse his violence by his love—his love!—I implored, wept,
threatened, all in vain—the villain—But my tongue will not utter what
I must weep in silence and ashes for ever! Yet let these quivering
hands and heaving bosom, yea, the very tongue that cannot speak, speak
loudliest! Amid my shrieks, entreaties, imprecations, the night began to
wear away and dawn to creep into the forest. I heard a rustling in the
leaves; it was my brother—who in the twilight understood all without a
word—drew the sword you had but just given him—they fought—and I, blind
with terror, shame, and anguish, fled till—till at last I fell before
your feet, my father, to tell you my story before I die! And now I undo
the cords that keep your hands from my wretched life. So—it is done! and
I kneel before you—your daughter—your disgrace and my own. Avenge us
both; and revive your dead honour in the blood of her you gave life to!
_Cres._ Rise, Isabel; rise, my child. God has chosen thus to temper the
cup that prosperity might else have made too sweet. It is thus he writes
instruction in our hearts: let us bow down in all humility to receive it.
Come, we will home, my Isabel, lean on me. (_Aside._) ’Fore Heaven, an’ I
catch that captain! (_Aloud._) Come, my girl! Courage! so.
_Voice_ (_within_). Crespo! Peter Crespo!
_Cres._ Hark!
_Voice._ Peter! Peter Crespo!
_Cres._ Who calls?
_Enter Notary._
_Not._ Peter Crespo! Oh, here you are at last!
_Cres._ Well?
_Not._ Oh, I’ve had a rare chase. Come—a largess for my news! The
corporation have elected you Mayor.
_Cres._ Me!
_Not._ Indeed. And already you are wanted in your office. The king is
expected almost directly through the town; and, beside that, the captain
who disturbed us all so yesterday has been brought back wounded—mortally,
it is thought—but no one knows by whom.
_Cres._ (_to himself_). And so when I was meditating revenge, God himself
puts the rod of justice into my hands! How shall I dare myself outrage
the law when I am made its keeper? (_Aloud._) Well, sir, I am very
grateful to my fellow-townsmen for their confidence.
_Not._ They are even now assembled at the town-hall, to commit the wand
to your hands; and indeed, as I said, want you instantly.
_Cres._ Come then.
_Isab._ Oh, my father!
_Cres._ Ay, who can now see that justice is done you. Courage! Come.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.—_A room in Zalamea._
_Enter the Captain wounded, and Sergeant._
_Capt._ It was but a scratch after all. Why on earth bring me back to
this confounded place?
_Serg._ Who could have known it was but a scratch till ’twas cured? Would
you have liked to be left to bleed to death in the wood?
_Capt._ Well, it is cured however: and now to get clear away before the
affair gets wind. Are the others here?
_Serg._ Yes, sir.
_Capt._ Let us be off then before these fellows know; else we shall have
to fight for it.
_Enter REBOLLEDO._
_Reb._ Oh, sir, the magistrates are coming!
_Capt._ Well, what’s that to me?
_Reb._ I only say they are at the door.
_Capt._ All the better. It will be their duty to prevent any riot the
people might make if they knew of our being here.
_Reb._ They know, and are humming about it through the town.
_Capt._ I thought so. The magistrates must interfere, and then refer the
cause to a court martial, where, though the affair is awkward, I shall
manage to come off.
_Cres._ (_within_). Shut the doors; any soldier trying to pass, cut him
down!
_Enter CRESPO, with the wand of office in his hand,
Constables, Notary, etc._
_Capt._ Who is it dares give such an order?
_Cres._ And why not?
_Capt._ Crespo! Well, sir. The stick you are so proud of has no
jurisdiction over a soldier.
_Cres._ For the love of Heaven don’t discompose yourself, captain; I am
only come to have a few words with you, and, if you please, alone.
_Capt._ Well then, (_to soldiers, etc._) retire awhile.
_Cres._ (_to his people._) And you—but hark ye; remember my orders.
[_Exeunt Notary, Constables, etc._
_Cres._ And now, sir, that I have used my authority to make you listen,
I will lay it by, and talk to you as man to man. (_He lays down the
wand._) We are alone, Don Alvaro, and can each of us vent what is
swelling in his bosom; in mine at least, till it is like to burst!
_Capt._ Well, sir?
_Cres._ Till last night (let me say it without offence) I knew not,
except perhaps my humble birth, a single thing fortune had left me to
desire. Of such estate as no other farmer in the district; honoured and
esteemed (as now appears) by my fellow-townsmen, who neither envied
me my wealth, nor taunted me as an upstart; and this even in a little
community, whose usual, if not worst, fault it is to canvass each
other’s weaknesses. I had a daughter too—virtuously and modestly brought
up, thanks to her whom heaven now holds! Whether fair, let what has
passed—But I will leave what I may to silence—would to God I could leave
all, and I should not now be coming on this errand to you! But it may
not be:—you must help time to redress a wound so great, as, in spite of
myself, makes cry a heart not used to overflow. I must have redress.
And how? The injury is done—by you: I might easily revenge myself for
so public and shameful an outrage, but I would have retribution, not
revenge. And so, looking about, and considering the matter on all sides,
I see but one way which perhaps will not be amiss for either of us. It
is this. You shall forthwith take all my substance, without reserve of
a single farthing for myself or my son, only what you choose to allow
us; you shall even brand us on back or forehead, and sell us like slaves
or mules by way of adding to the fortune I offer you—all this, and what
you will beside, if only you will with it take my daughter to wife,
and restore the honour you have robbed. You will not surely eclipse
your own in so doing; your children will still be your children if my
grandchildren; and ’tis an old saying in Castile, you know, that, “’Tis
the horse redeems the saddle.” This is what I have to propose. Behold,
(_he kneels_,) upon my knees I ask it—upon my knees, and weeping such
tears as only a father’s anguish melts from his frozen locks! And what is
my demand? But that you should restore what you have robbed; so fatal for
us to lose, so easy for you to restore; which I could myself now wrest
from you by the hand of the law, but which I rather implore of you as a
mercy on my knees!
_Capt._ You have done at last? Tiresome old man! You may think yourself
lucky I do not add your death, and that of your son, to what you call
your dishonour. ’Tis your daughter saves you both; let that be enough for
all. As to the wrong you talk of, if you would avenge it by force, I have
little to fear. As to your magistrate’s stick there, it does not reach my
profession at all.
_Cres._ Once more I implore you—
_Capt._ Have done—have done!
_Cres._ Will not these tears—
_Capt._ Who cares for the tears of a woman, a child, or an old man?
_Cres._ No pity?
_Capt._ I tell you I spare your life, and your son’s: pity enough.
_Cres._ Upon my knees, asking back my own at your hands that robbed me?
_Capt._ Nonsense!
_Cres._ Who could extort it if I chose.
_Capt._ I tell you you could not.
_Cres._ There is no remedy then?
_Capt._ Except silence, which I recommend you as the best.
_Cres._ You are resolved?
_Capt._ I am.
_Cres._ (_rising and resuming his wand_). Then, by God, you shall pay for
it! Ho there!
_Enter Constables, etc._
_Capt._ What are these fellows about?
_Cres._ Take this captain to prison.
_Capt._ To prison! you can’t do it.
_Cres._ We’ll see.
_Capt._ Am I a bonâ fide officer or not?
_Cres._ And am I a straw magistrate or not? Away with him!
_Capt._ The king shall hear of this.
_Cres._ He shall—doubt it not—perhaps to-day; and shall judge between us.
By the by, you had best deliver up your sword before you go.
_Capt._ My sword!
_Cres._ Under arrest, you know.
_Capt._ Well—take it with due respect then.
_Cres._ Oh yes, and you too. Hark ye, (_to Constable, etc._) carry the
captain with due respect to Bridewell; and there with due respect clap
on him a chain and hand-cuffs; and not only him, but all that were with
him, (all with due respect,) respectfully taking care they communicate
not together. For I mean with all due respect to examine them on the
business, and if I get sufficient evidence, with the most infinite
respect of all, I’ll wring you by the neck till you’re dead, by God!
_Capt._ Set a beggar on horseback!
[_They carry him off._
_Enter Notary and others with REBOLLEDO, and CHISPA in boy’s
dress._
_Not._ This fellow and the page are all we could get hold of. The other
got off.
_Cres._ Ah, this is the rascal who sung. I’ll make him sing on t’other
side of his mouth.
_Reb._ Why, is singing a crime, sir?
_Cres._ So little that I’ve an instrument shall make you do it as you
never did before. Will you confess?
_Reb._ What am I to confess?
_Cres._ What passed last night.
_Reb._ Your daughter can tell you that better than I.
_Cres._ Villain, you shall die for it!
[_Exit._
_Chis._ Deny all, Rebolledo, and you shall be the hero of a ballad I’ll
sing.
_Not._ And you too were of the singing party?
_Chis._ Ah, ah, and if I was, you can’t put me to the question.
_Not._ And why not, pray?
_Chis._ The law forbids you.
_Not._ Oh, indeed, the law? How so pray?
_Chis._ Because I’m in the way ladies like to be who love Rebolledo.
[_Exeunt, carried off, etc._
SCENE IV.—_A Room in CRESPO’S House._
_Enter JUAN pursuing ISABEL with a dagger._
_Isab._ Help, help, help!
[_Exit._
_Juan._ You must not live!
_Enter CRESPO, who arrests him._
_Cres._ Hold! What is this?
_Juan._ My father! To avenge our shame—
_Cres._ Which is to be avenged by other means, and not by you. How come
you here?
_Juan._ Sent back by Don Lope last night, to see after some missing
soldiers, on approaching the town I heard some cries—
_Cres._ And drew your sword on your officer, whom you wounded, and are
now under arrest from me for doing it.
_Juan._ Father!
_Cres._ And Mayor of Zalamea. Within there!
_Enter Constables._
Take him to prison.
_Juan._ Your own son, sir?
_Cres._ Ay, sir, my own father, if he transgressed the law I am made
guardian of. Off with him! (_They carry off JUAN._) So I shall keep him
out of harm’s way at least. And now for a little rest. (_He lays by his
wand._)
_Lope._ (_calling within_). Stop! Stop!
_Cres._ Who’s that calling without? Don Lope!
_Enter LOPE._
_Lope._ Ay, Peter, and on a very confounded business too. But at least I
would not put up any where but at your friendly house.
_Cres._ You are too good. But, indeed, what makes you back, sir, so
suddenly?
_Lope._ A most disgraceful affair; the greatest insult to the service!
One of my soldiers overtook me on the road, flying at full speed, and
told me—Oh, the rascal!
_Cres._ Well, sir?
_Lope._ That some little pettifogging mayor of the place had got hold
of a captain in my regiment, and put him in prison! In prison! ’Fore
Heaven, I never really felt this confounded leg of mine till to-day, that
it prevented me jumping on horseback at once to punish this trumpery
Jack-in-office as he deserves. But here I am, and, by the Lord, I’ll
thrash him within an inch of his life!
_Cres._ You will?
_Lope._ Will I!
_Cres._ But will he stand your thrashing?
_Lope._ Stand it or not, he shall have it.
_Cres._ Besides, might your captain happen to deserve what he met with?
_Lope._ And, if he did, _I_ am his judge, not a trumpery mayor.
_Cres._ This mayor is an odd sort of customer to deal with, I assure you.
_Lope._ Some obstinate clodpole, I suppose.
_Cres._ So obstinate, that if he’s made up his mind to hang your captain,
he’ll do it.
_Lope._ Will he? I’ll see to that. And if you wish to see too, only tell
me where I can find him.
_Cres._ Oh, close here.
_Lope._ You know him?
_Cres._ Very well, I believe.
_Lope._ And who is it?
_Cres._ Peter Crespo. (_Takes his wand._)
_Lope._ By God, I suspected it.
_Cres._ By God, you were right.
_Lope._ Well, Crespo, what’s said is said.
_Cres._ And, Don Lope, what’s done is done.
_Lope._ I tell you, I want my captain.
_Cres._ And I tell you, I’ve got him.
_Lope._ Do you know he is the king’s officer?
_Cres._ Do you know he ravished my daughter?
_Lope._ That you are out-stripping your authority in meddling with him?
_Cres._ Not more than he his in meddling with me.
_Lope._ Do you know my authority supersedes yours?
_Cres._ Do you know I tried first to get him to do me justice with no
authority at all, but the offer of all my estate?
_Lope._ I tell you, _I’ll_ settle the business for you.
_Cres._ And I tell you I never leave to another what I can do for myself.
_Lope._ I tell you once more and for all, I must have my man.
_Cres._ And I tell you once more and for all, you shall—when you have
cleared him of the depositions.
_Lope._ The depositions! What are they?
_Cres._ Oh, only a few sheets of parchment tagged together with the
evidence of his own soldiers against him.
_Lope._ Pooh! I’ll go myself, and take him from the prison.
_Cres._ Do, if you like an arquebuss ball through your body.
_Lope._ I am accustomed to that. But I’ll make sure. Within there!
_Enter Orderly._
Have the regiment to the market-place directly under arms, I’ll see if
I’m to have my prisoner or not.
[_Exit._
_Cres._ And I—Hark ye!
[_Exit, whispering to a Constable._
SCENE V.—_Before the Prison in Zalamea. A Street in the centre._
_Enter on one side DON LOPE with Troops; at the other,
before the Prison, Labourers, Constables, etc. armed:
and afterward, CRESPO._
_Lope._ Soldiers, there is the prison where your captain lies. If he be
not given up instantly at my last asking, set fire to the prison; and, if
further resistance be made, to the whole town.
_Cres._ Friends and fellow-townsmen, there is the prison where lies a
rascal capitally convicted—
_Lope._ They grow stronger and stronger. Forward, men, forward! (_As
the Soldiers are about to advance, trumpets and shouts of ‘God save the
King,’ within._)
_Lope._ The king!
_All._ The king!
_Enter KING PHILIP II. through centre Street, with Train, etc.
Shouting, Trumpets, etc._
_King._ What is all this?
_Lope._ ’Tis well your Majesty came so suddenly, or you would have had
one of your whole towns by way of bonfire on your progress.
_King._ What has happened?
_Lope._ The mayor of this place has had the impudence to seize a captain
in your Majesty’s service, clap him in prison, and refuses to surrender
him to me, his commander.
_King._ Where is this mayor?
_Cres._ Here, so please your Majesty.
_King._ Well, Mr. Mayor, what have you to offer in defence?
_Cres._ These papers, my Liege: in which this same captain is clearly
proved guilty, on the evidence of his own soldiers, of carrying off and
violating a maiden in a desolate place, and refusing her the satisfaction
of marriage though peaceably entreated to it by her father with the
endowment of all his substance.
_Lope._ This same mayor, my Liege, is the girl’s father.
_Cres._ What has that to do with it? If another man had come to me
under like circumstances, should I not have done him like justice? To
be sure. And therefore, why not do for my own daughter what I should
do for another’s? Besides, I have just done justice against my own son
for striking his captain; why should I be suspected of straining it in
my daughter’s favour? But here is the process; let his Majesty see for
himself if the case be made out. The witnesses are at hand too; and
if they or any one can prove I have suborned any evidence, or any way
acted with partiality to myself, or malice to the captain, let them come
forward, and let my life pay for it instead of his.
_King_ (_after reading the papers_). I see not but the charge is
substantiated: and ’tis indeed a heavy one. Is there any one here to deny
these depositions? (_Silence._) But, be the crime proved, _you_ have no
authority to judge or punish it. You must let the prisoner go.
_Cres._ You must send for him then, please your Majesty. In little towns
like this, where public officers are few, the deliberative is forced
sometimes to be the executive also.
_King._ What do you mean?
_Cres._ Your Majesty will see. (_The prison gates open, and the Captain
is seen within, garrotted in a chair._)
_King._ And you have dared, sir!—
_Cres._ Your Majesty said the sentence was just; and what is well said
cannot be ill done.
_King._ Could you not have left it for my imperial Court to execute?
_Cres._ All your Majesty’s justice is only one great body with many
hands; if a thing be to be done, what matter by which? Or what matter
erring in the inch, if one be right in the ell?
_King._ At least you might have beheaded him, as an officer and a
gentleman.
_Cres._ Please your Majesty, we have so few Hidalgos hereabout, that our
executioner is out of practice at beheading. And this, after all, depends
on the dead gentleman’s taste; if he don’t complain, I don’t think any
one else need for him.
_King._ Don Lope, the thing is done; and, if unusually, not
unjustly—Come, order all your soldiers away with me toward Portugal;
where I must be with all despatch. For you——(_to CRESPO_) what is your
name?
_Cres._ Peter Crespo, please your Majesty.
_King._ Peter Crespo, then, I appoint you perpetual Mayor of Zalamea. And
so farewell.
[_Exit with Train._
_Cres._ (_kneeling_). God save your Highness!
_Lope._ Friend Peter, his Highness came just in time.
_Cres._ For your captain, do you mean?
_Lope._ Come now—confess, wouldn’t it have been better to have given up
the prisoner, who, at my instance, would have married your daughter,
saved her reputation, and made her wife of an Hidalgo?
_Cres._ Thank you, Don Lope, she has chosen to enter a convent and be the
bride of one who is no respecter of Hidalgos.
_Lope._ Well, well, you will at least give me up the other prisoners, I
suppose?
_Cres._ Bring them out. (_JUAN, REBOLLEDO, CHISPA, brought out._)
_Lope._ Your son too!
_Cres._ Yes, ’twas he wounded his captain, and I must punish him.
_Lope._ Come, come, you have done enough—at least give _him_ up to his
commander.
_Cres._ Eh? well, perhaps so; I’ll leave his punishment to you.
With which now this true story ends—
Pardon its many errors, friends.
Mr. Ticknor thinks Calderon took the hint of this play from Lope de
Vega’s ‘Wise Man at Home’; and he quotes (though without noticing this
coincidence) a reply of Lope’s hero to some one advising him to assume
upon his wealth, that is much of a piece with Crespo’s answer to Juan on
a like score in the first act of this piece. Only that in Lope the answer
_is_ an answer: which, as Juan says, in Calderon it is not; so likely to
happen with a borrowed answer.
This is Mr. Ticknor’s version from the older play:
He that was born to live in humble state
Makes but an awkward knight, do what you will.
My father means to die as he has lived,
The same plain collier that he always was;
And I too must an honest ploughman die.
’Tis but a single step or up or down;
For men there must be that will plough or dig,
And when the vase has once been filled, be sure
’Twill always savour of what first it held.
I must observe of the beginning of Act III., that in this translation
Isabel’s speech is intentionally reduced to prose, not only in measure
of words, but in some degree of idea also. It would have been far easier
to make at least verse of almost the most elevated and purely beautiful
piece of Calderon’s poetry I know; a speech (the beginning of it) worthy
of the Greek Antigone, which, after two Acts of homely talk, Calderon has
put into his _Labradora’s_ mouth. This, admitting for all culmination of
passion, and Spanish passion, must excuse my tempering it to the key in
which (measure only kept) Calderon himself sets out.
BEWARE OF SMOOTH WATER
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ
DON ALONSO
DONNA CLARA ⎫
⎬ _his Daughters._
DONNA EUGENIA ⎭
DON TORRIBIO _his Nephew._
MARI NUÑO ⎫
⎪
BRIGIDA ⎬ _his Servants._
⎪
OTAÑEZ ⎭
DON FELIX ⎫
⎪
DON JUAN ⎬ _Gallants._
⎪
DON PEDRO ⎭
HERNANDO _Don Felix’s Servant._
ACT I
SCENE I.—_A Room in DON ALONSO’S House at Madrid._
_Enter ALONSO and OTAÑEZ, meeting._
_Otañ._ My own dear master!
_Alon._ Welcome, good Otañez,
My old and trusty servant!
_Otañ._ Have I lived
To see what I so long have longed to see,
My dear old master home again!
_Alon._ You could not
Long for ’t, Otañez, more than I myself.
What wonder, when my daughters, who, you know,
Are the two halves that make up my whole heart,
Silently called me home, and silently
(For maiden duty still gagged filial love)
Out of the country shade where both have grown,
Urged me to draw the blossom of their youth
Where it might ripen in its proper day.
_Otañ._ Indeed, indeed, sir. Oh that my dear lady
Were but alive to see this happy hour!
_Alon._ Nay, good Otañez, mar it not recalling
What, ever sleeping in the memory,
Needs but a word to waken into tears.
God have her in his keeping! He best knows
How I have suffered since the king, my master,
Despatching me with charge to Mexico,
I parted from her ne’er to see her more;
And now come back to find her gone for ever!
You know ’twas not the long and roaring seas
Frighted her for herself, but these two girls—
For them she stayed—and full of years and honour
Died, when God willed! and I have hastened home
Well as I may, to take into my hands
The charge death slipped from hers.
_Otañ._ Your own good self!
Though were there ever father, who could well
Have left that charge to others, it was you,
Your daughters so religiously brought up
In convent with their aunt at Alcalá.
Well, you are come, and God be praised for it!
And, at your bidding, here are they, and I,
And good old Mari Nuño—all come up
To meet you at Madrid. I could not wait
The coach’s slower pace, but must spur on
To kiss my old master’s hand.
_Alon._ Myself had gone
To meet them; but despatches of the king’s
Prevented me. They’re well?
_Voices_ (_within_). Make way there—way!
_Otañ._ And lovely as the dawn. And hark! are here
To answer for themselves.
_Enter CLARA, EUGENIA, MARI NUÑO, as from travel._
_Clara_ (_kneeling_). Sir, and my father—by my daily prayers
Heaven, won at last in suffering me to kiss
These honoured hands, leaves me no more to ask,
Than at these honoured feet to die,
With its eternal blessing afterward.
_Eug._ And I, my father, grateful as I am
To Heaven, for coming to your feet once more,
Have yet this more to ask—to live with you
For many, many happy years to come!
_Alon._ Oh, not in vain did nature fix the heart
In the mid bosom, like a sun to move
Each circling arm with equal love around!
Come to them—one to each—and take from me
Your lives anew. God bless you!
Come, we are here together in Madrid,
And in the sphere where you were born to move.
This is the house that is to be your own
Until some happy lover calls you his;
Till which I must be father, lover, husband,
In one. Brigida!
_Enter BRIGIDA._
_Brig._ Sir?
_Alon._ My daughters’ rooms
Are ready?
_Brig._ Ay, sir, as the sky itself
For the sun’s coming.
_Alon._ Go and see them then,
And tell me how you like what I have bought,
And fitted up for your reception.
_Clara._ I thank you, sir, and bless this happy day,
Though leaving my loved convent far away.
_Eug._ (_aside_). And I twice bless it, that no longer hid
In a dull cell; I come to see Madrid.
[_Exeunt CLARA and EUGENIA._
_Mari Nuño._ Now the young ladies, sir, have had their turn,
Shall not I kiss your hand?
_Alon._ Oh, welcome too,
Good Mari Nuño; who have been so long
A mother to them both. And, by the by,
Good Mari Nuño, now we are alone,
I’d hear from you, who know them both so well,
Their several characters and dispositions,
And not as ’twere, come blindfold to the charge
That Heaven has laid upon me.
_Mari._ You say well, sir.
Well, I might say at once, and truly too,
That nothing need be said in further praise
But that they are your daughters. But to pass,
Lest you should think I flatter,
From general to individual,
And to begin with the eldest, Donna Clara;
Eldest in years and in discretion too,
Indeed the very pearl of prudence, sir,
And maidenly reserve; her eyes still fixt
On earth in modesty, or heaven in prayer;
As gentle as a lamb, almost as silent;
And never known to say an angry word:
And, such her love of holy quietude,
Unless at your desire, would never leave
Her cloister and her missal. She’s, in short,
An angel upon earth, whom to be near
And wait on, one would sell oneself a slave.
So much for her. Donna Eugenia,
Though unexceptionable in heart and head,
As, God forgive me, any child of yours
Must be, is different,—not for me to say
Better or worse,—but very different:
Of a quick spirit, loving no control;
Indeed, as forward as the other shy;
Quick to retort, and sharply; so to speak,
Might sometimes try the patience of a saint;
Longing to leave a convent for the world,
To see and to be seen; makes verses too;
Would not object, I think, to have them made
(Or love, may be) to her—you understand;
Not that I mean to say—
_Alon._ Enough, enough.
Thanks for your caution as your commendation:
How could I fortify against weak points
Unless I knew of them? And, to this end,
Although Eugenia be the younger sister,
I’ll see her married first; husband and children
The best specific for superfluous youth:
And to say truth, good Mari, the very day
Of my arrival hither, I despatch’d
A letter to my elder brother’s son,
Who still maintains our dwindled patrimony
Up in the mountains, which I would reclaim,
Or keep it rather in its lawful line,
By an alliance with a child of mine,
All falls out luckily. Eugenia
Wedded to him shall make herself secure,
And the two stems of Cuadradillos so
Unite and once more flourish, at a blow.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.—_A Room in DON FELIX’S House._
_DON FELIX, and HERNANDO dressing him._
_Hern._ Such fine ladies, sir, come to be our neighbours.
_Fel._ So they ought to be, such a noise as they made in coming.
_Hern._ One of them already betrothed, however.
_Fel._ So let her, and married too, if she would only let me sleep quiet.
But what kind of folks are they?
_Hern._ Oh, tip-top. Daughters of the rich old Indian has bought the
house and gardens opposite, and who will give them all his wealth when
they marry, which they say he has brought them to Madrid expressly to do.
_Fel._ But are they handsome?
_Hern._ I thought so, sir, as I saw them alighting.
_Fel._ Rich and handsome then?
_Hern._ Yes, sir.
_Fel._ Two good points in a woman, at all events, of which I might
profit, such opportunities as I have.
_Hern._ Have a care, sir, for the old servant who told me this, told me
also that the papa is a stout fiery old fellow, who’d stick the Great
Turk himself if he caught him trifling with his daughters.
_Fel._ That again is not so well; for though I’m not the Great Turk, I’ve
no mind to share that part of his fortune. But of the two girls, what
said your old servant? who, as such, I suppose told you all that was
amiss in them at least.
_Hern._ Well, you shall judge. One, the oldest, is very discreet.
_Fel._ Ah, I told you so.
_Hern._ The other lively.
_Fel._ Come, that sounds better. One can tackle her hand to hand, but the
grave one one can only take a long shot at with the eyes.
_Hern._ Whichever it be, I should like to see you yourself hit one of
these days, sir.
_Fel._ Me? The woman is not yet cast who will do that. If I meddle with
these it is only because they lie so handy.
_Hern._ And handsome as well as handy!
_Fel._ Pooh! I wouldn’t climb a wall to pluck the finest fruit in the
world. But hark! some one’s at the door. See who ’tis.
_Enter DON JUAN in travelling dress._
_Juan._ I, Felix, who seeing your door open, could not but walk in
without further ado.
_Fel._ You know that it and my heart are ever open to you. Welcome,
welcome, Don Juan! all the more welcome for being unexpected: for though
I had heard we might one day have you back, I did not think to see you
yet.
_Juan._ Why, the truth is I got my pardon sooner than I expected.
_Fel._ Though not than I prayed for. But tell me all about it.
_Juan._ You know I was obliged to fly to Italy after that unlucky duel.
Well, there the great duke of Terranova, who (as good luck would have it)
was then going ambassador to Hungary, took a fancy to me, and carried me
with him; and, pleased with what service I did him, interested himself in
my fortunes, and one good day, when I was least expecting it, with his
own hand put my pardon into mine.
_Fel._ A pardon that never should have needed asking, all of an unlucky
quarrel at cards.
_Juan._ So you and the world suppose, Felix: but in truth there was
something more behind.
_Fel._ Ah?
_Juan._ Why the truth is, I was courting a fair lady, and with fair hope
of success, though she would not confess it, urging that her father being
away at the time, her mother would not consent in his absence. Suddenly
I found I had a rival, and took occasion of a casual dispute at cards to
wipe out the score of jealousy; which I did with a vengeance to both of
us, he being killed on the spot, and I, forced to fly the country, must,
I doubt, ere this, have died out of my lady’s memory, where only I cared
to live.
_Fel._ Ay, you know well enough that in Madrid Oblivion lies in the very
lap of Remembrance, whether of love or loathing. I thank my stars I never
pinned my faith on woman yet.
_Juan._ Still the same sceptic?
_Fel._ Ay, they are fine things, but my own heart’s ease is finer still;
and if one party must be deceived, I hold it right in self-defence it
should not be I. But come; that you may not infect me with your faith,
nor I you with my heresy, tell me about your journey.
_Juan._ How could it be otherwise than a pleasant one, such pageants as I
had to entertain me by the way?
_Fel._ Oh, you mean our royal master’s nuptials?
_Juan._ Ay!
_Fel._ I must hear all about them, Juan; even now, upon the spot.
_Juan._ Well then, you know at least, without my telling you, how great a
debt Germany has owed us—
_Enter DON PEDRO hastily._
_Ped._ My dear Don Felix!
_Fel._ Don Pedro! By my faith, my door must be the door of heaven,
I think; for all the good keep coming in by ’t. But how comes your
University term so soon over?
_Ped._ Alas, it’s _not_ over, but—
_Fel._ Well?
_Ped._ I’ll tell you.
_Juan._ If I be in your way—
_Ped._ No, no, sir, if you are Felix’s friend you command my confidence.
My story is easily told. A lady I am courting in Alcalá is suddenly come
up to Madrid, and I am come after her. And to escape my father’s wrath at
playing truant, I must beg sanctuary in your house awhile.
_Fel._ And this once will owe me thanks for your entertainment, since I
have Don Juan’s company to offer you.
_Juan._ Nay, ’tis I have to thank you for Don Pedro’s.
_Fel._ Only remember, both of you, that however you may amuse one
another, you are not to entertain me with your several hearts and darts.
Hernando, get us something to eat; and till it comes you shall set off
rationally at least, Juan, with the account of the royal nuptials you
were beginning just as Don Pedro came in.
_Juan._ On condition you afterwards recount to me your rejoicings in
Madrid meanwhile.
_Fel._ Agreed.
_Ped._ I come in happy time to hear you both.
_Juan._ You know, as I was saying, what a debt
Germany has owed us since our fair Maria
Her title of the Royal Child of Spain
Set in the crown of Hungary—a debt
They only could repay us as they do,
Returning us one of the self-same stock,
So like herself in beauty and desert,
We seem but taking what we gave away.
If into Austria’s royal hand we gave
Our royal rose, she now returns us one
Sprung of the self-same stem, as fair, as sweet—
In maiden graces; and if double-dyed
In the imperial purple, yet so fresh,
She scarce has drunk the dawns of fourteen Aprils.
The marriage contract signed, the marriage self
Delayed, too long for loyal Spain’s desire,
That like the bridegroom for her coming burned,
(But happiness were hardly happiness
Limped it not late,) till her defective years
Reached their due blossom—Ah, happy defect,
That every unconditioned hour amends!
At last arose the day—the day of days—
When from her royal eyrie in the North
The imperial eaglet flew. Young Ferdinand,
King of Bohemia and Hungary
Elect, who not in vain Rome’s holy hand
Awaits to bind the laurel round his brow,
As proxy for our king espoused her first,
And then, all lover-like, as far as Trent
Escorted her, with such an equipage
As when the lords and princes of three realms
Out-do each other in magnificence
Of gold and jewel, ransackt from the depths
Of earth and sea, to glitter in the eye
Of Him who sees and lights up all from heaven.
So, like a splendid star that trails her light
Far after her, she crossed fair Italy,
When Doria, Genoa’s great Admiral,
Always so well-affected to our crown,
Took charge of her sea-conduct; which awhile,
Till winds and seas were fair, she waited for
In Milan; till, resolved on embarkation,
The sea, that could not daunt her with his rage,
Soon as her foot was on his yellow shore,
Call’d up his Tritons and his Nereids
Who love and make a calm, to smooth his face
And still his heaving breast; on whose blue flood
The golden galley in defiance burn’d,
Her crew in wedding pearl and silver drest;
Her silken sail and cordage, fluttering
With myriad flags and streamers of all dye,
Sway’d like a hanging garden over-head,
Amid whose blossoms stood the royal bride,
A fairer Venus than did ever float
Over the seas to her dominions
Arm’d with the arrows of diviner love.
Then to the sound of trump and clarion
The royal galley, and with her forty more
That follow’d in her wake as on their queen,
Weigh’d, shook out sail, and dipp’d all oars at once,
Making the flood clap hands in acclamation;
And so with all their streamers, as ’twere spring
Floating away to other hemispheres,
Put out to sea; and touching not the isles
That gem the midway deep—not from distrust
Of friendly France in whose crown they are set,
And who (as mighty states contend in peace
With courtesies as with hard blows in war)
Swell’d the triumphal tide with pageantries
I may not stop to tell—but borne upon,
And (as I think) bearing, fair wind and wave,
The moving city on its moving base
With sail and oar enter’d the Spanish Main,
Which, flashing emerald and diamond,
Leap’d round the golden prow that clove between,
And kiss’d the happy shore that first declined
To meet its mistress. Happy Denia,
That in her golden sand holds pearly-like
The first impression of that royal foot!
I will not tell—let Felix, who was here,
And has new breath—how, landed happily,
Our loyal Spain—yea, with what double welcome—
Received the niece and consort of our king,
Whom, one and both, and both in one, may Heaven
Bless with fair issue, and all happiness,
For years and years to come!
_Enter HERNANDO._
_Hern._ Sir, sir!
_Fel._ Well?
_Hern._ Your two new neighbours—just come to the window.
_Fel._ Gentlemen, we must waive my story then, for as the proverb goes,
‘_My Lady first._’ (_He looks out._) By Heaven, they are divine!
_Juan._ Let me see. (_Aside._) By Heaven, ’tis she!
_Ped._ Come, it is my turn now. (_Aside._) Eugenia! I must keep it to
myself.
_Fel._ I scarce know which is handsomest.
_Juan._ Humph! both pretty girls enough.
_Ped._ Yes, very well.
_Fel._ Listen, gentlemen; whether handsome, or pretty, or very well, or
all three, you must not stare at them from my window so vehemently; being
the daughters of a friend of mine, and only just come to Madrid.
_Juan_ (_aside_). That the first thing I should see on returning to
Madrid, is she for whose love I left it!
_Ped._ (_aside_). That the first thing I see here is what I came for the
very purpose of seeing!
_Hernando_ (_entering_). Table is served, sir.
_Fel._ To table, then. I know not how it is with you, gentlemen, but for
myself, my appetite is stronger than my love.
_Juan_ (_aside to FELIX_). You jest as usual; but I assure you it is one
of those very ladies on whom my fortune turns!
[_Exit._
_Fel._ Adieu to one then.
_Ped._ All this is fun to you, Felix; but believe me, one of those ladies
is she I have followed from Alcalá.
[_Exit._
_Fel._ Adieu to both then—unless indeed you are both of you in love with
the same. But, thank God,
I that am in love with neither,
Need not plague myself for either.
The least expense of rhyme or care
That man can upon woman spare.
But they are very handsome nevertheless.
[_Exit._
SCENE III.—_An Apartment in DON ALONSO’S House._
_Enter CLARA and EUGENIA._
_Clara._ Is ’t not a pretty house, Eugenia,
And all about it?
_Eug._ I dare say you think so.
_Clara._ But do not you then?
_Eug._ No—to me it seems
A sort of out-court and repository,
Fit but for old Hidalgos and Duennas,
Too stale and wither’d for the blooming world,
To wear away in.
_Clara._ I like its quietude;
This pretty garden too.
_Eug._ A pretty thing
To come for to Madrid—a pretty garden!
I tell you were it fuller of all flowers
Than is a Dutchman’s in his tulip-time,
I want the lively street whose flowers are shops,
Carriages, soldiers, ladies, cavaliers,
Plenty of dust in summer, dirt in winter,
And where a woman sitting at her blind
Sees all that passes. Then this furniture!
_Clara._ Well—surely velvet curtains, sofas, chairs,
Rich Indian carpets, beds of Damascene,
Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, pictures too—
What would you have, Eugenia?
_Eug._ All very well,
But, after all, no marvellous result
Of ten years spent in golden India.
Why, one has heard how fine a thing it is
To be my Lord Mayor’s daughter; what must be,
Methought, to own a dowry from Peru!
And when you talk about the furniture,
Pictures, chairs, carpets, mirrors, and all that—
The best of all is wanting.
_Clara._ What is that?
_Eug._ Why, a coach, woman! Heaven and earth, a coach!
What use is all the money-bonds and gold
He has been boasting of in all his letters,
Unless, now come at last, he plays the part
We’ve heard so long rehearsing?
_Clara._ Not to spare
Your father even, Eugenia! For shame!
’Tis time to tie your roving tongue indeed.
Consider, too, we are not in the country,
Where tongue and eyes, Eugenia, may run wild
Without offence to uncensorious woods;
But in a city, with its myriad eyes
Inquisitively turn’d to watch, and tongues
As free and more malicious than yours
To tell—where honour’s monument is wax,
And shame’s of brass. I know, Eugenia,
High spirits are not in themselves a crime;
But if to men they _seem_ so?—that’s the question.
For it is almost better to do ill
With a good outward grace than well without;
Especially a woman; most of all
One not yet married; whose reputation
One breath of scandal, like a flake of snow,
May melt away; one of those tenderest flowers
Whose leaves ev’n the warm breath of flattery
Withers as fast as envy’s bitterest wind,
That surely follows short-lived summer praise.
Ev’n those who praise your beauty, grace, or wit,
Will be the first, if you presume on them,
To pull the idol down themselves set up,
Beginning with malicious whispers first,
Until they join the storm themselves have raised.
And most if one be given oneself to laugh
And to make laugh: the world will doubly yearn
To turn one’s idle giggle into tears.
I say this all by way of warning, sister,
Now we are launcht upon this dangerous sea.
Consider of it.
_Eug._ ‘Which that all may do
May Heaven—’ Come, Clara, if the sermon’s done,
Pray finish it officially at once,
And let us out of church. These homilies
In favour of defunct proprieties,
Remind one of old ruff and armour worn
By Don Punctilio and Lady Etiquette
A hundred years ago, and past with them
And all their tedious ancestors for ever.
I am alive, young, handsome, witty, rich,
And come to town, and mean to have my fling,
Not caring what malicious people say,
If nothing true to say against my honour.
And so with all sail set, and streamers flying,
(A coach shall be my ship, and I will have it!)
I mean to glide along the glittering streets
And down the Prado, as I go along
Capturing what eyes and hearts I find by the way,
Heedless of every little breath of scandal
That such as you turn back affrighted by.
I’ll know the saints’ days better than the saints
Themselves; the holidays and festivals
Better than over-done apprentices.
If a true lover comes whom I can like
As he loves me, I shall not turn away:
As for the rest who flutter round in love,
Not with myself, but with my father’s wealth,
Or with themselves, or any thing but me,
You shall see, Clara, how I’ll play with them,
Till, having kept them on my string awhile
For my own sport, I’ll e’en turn them adrift
And let them go, the laugh all on my side.
And therefore when you see—
_Clara._ How shall I dare
To see what even now I quake to hear!
_Enter ALONSO._
_Alon._ Clara! Eugenia!
_Both._ Sir?
_Alon._ Good news, good news, my girls! What think you? My nephew, Don
Torribio Cuadradillos, my elder brother’s elder son, head of our family
and inheritor of the estate, is coming to visit me; will be here indeed
almost directly. What think you now?
_Eug._ (_aside_). One might have thought, from such a flourish of
trumpets, the king was coming at least.
_Alon._ Mari Nuño!
_Mari_ (_entering_). Sir?
_Alon._ Let a chamber be got ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly.
Brigida!
_Brig._ (_entering_). Sir?
_Alon._ See that linen be taken up into Don Torribio’s room. Otañez, have
dinner ready for my nephew, Don Torribio, directly he arrives. And you
two, (_to his daughters_,) I expect you will pay him all attention; as
head of the family, consider. Ay, and if he _should_ take a fancy to one
of you—I know not he will—but if he should, I say, whichever it be, she
will take precedence of her sister for ever. (_Aside._) This I throw out
as a bait for Eugenia.
_Eug._ It must be Clara, then, sir, for she is oldest you know.
_Clara._ Not in discretion and all wife-like qualities, Eugenia.
_Eug._ Clara!
_Alon._ Hark! in the court!
_Don Torribio_ (_speaking loud within_). Hoy! good man there! Can you
tell me if my uncle lives hereabout?
_Alon._ ’Tis my nephew, surely!
_Torr._ (_within_). Why, fellow, I mean of course Don Alonso—who has two
daughters, by the token I’m to marry one of ’em.
_Alon._ ’Tis he! I will go and receive him.
[_Exit._
_Torr._ (_within_). Very well then. Hold my stirrup, Lorenzo.
_Eug._ What a figure!
_Enter ALONSO and TORRIBIO._
_Alon._ My nephew, Don Torribio, giving thanks to Heaven for your safe
arrival at my house, I hasten to welcome you as its head.
_Torr._ Ay, uncle, and a head taller, I promise you, than almost any body
in the parish.
_Alon._ Let me introduce your cousins to you, who are so anxious for your
acquaintance.
_Torr._ Ah, that’s proper of ’em, isn’t it?
_Both._ Welcome, sir.
_Alon._ And how are you, nephew?
_Torr._ Very tired, I promise you: for the way is long and my horse a
rough goer, so as I’ve lost leather.
_Alon._ Sit down, and rest till they bring dinner.
_Torr._ Sitting an’t the way to mend it. But, however——(_Sits._) Nay,
though I be head of the house, I an’t proud—you can all of you sit down
too.
_Clara_ (_aside_). Amiable humility!
_Eug._ (_aside_). No wonder the house is crazy if this be its head!
_Torr._ Well, now I come to look at you, cousins, I may say you are both
of you handsome girls, indeed; which’ll put me to some trouble.
_Clara._ How so, cousin?
_Torr._ Why, didn’t you ever hear that if you put an ass between two
bundles of hay, he’ll die without knowing which to begin on, eh?
_Alon._ His father’s pleasant humour!
_Clara._ A courteous comparison!
_Eug._ (_aside_). Which holds as far as the ass at least.
_Torr._ Well, there’s a remedy. I say, uncle, mustn’t cousins get a
dispensation before they marry?
_Alon._ Yes, nephew.
_Torr._ Well then, when you’re about it, you can get two dispensations,
and I can marry both my cousins. Aha! Well, but, uncle, how are you? I
had forgot to ask you that.
_Alon._ Quite well, in seeing you in my house at last, and to reap, I
trust, the fruits of all my travel.
_Torr._ Ah, you may say that. Oh, cousins, if you could only see my
pedigree and patent, in a crimson velvet case; and all my forefathers
painted in a row—I have it in my saddle bags, and if you’ll wait a minute—
_Enter MARI NUÑO._
_Mari._ Dinner’s ready.
_Torr._ (_looking at MARI_). Lord a’mercy, uncle, what’s this? something
you brought from India, belike; does it speak?
_Alon._ Nay, nephew, ’tis our Duenna.
_Torr._ A what?
_Alon._ A Duenna.
_Torr._ A tame one?
_Alon._ Come, come, she tells us dinner’s ready.
_Torr._ Yes, if you believe her; but I’ve heard say, Duennas always lie.
However, I’ll go and see for myself.
[_Exit._
_Clara._ What a cousin!
_Eug._ What a lover!
_Mari._ Foh! I wonder how the watch came to let the plague into the city!
[_Exit._
_Alon._ You are silent, both of you?
_Both._ Not I, sir.
_Alon._ I understand you; Don Torribio
Pleases you not—Well, he’s a little rough;
But wait a little; see what a town life
Will do for him; all come up so at first,
The finest diamonds, you know, the roughest—
Oh, I rejoice my ancestor’s estate
Shall to my grandchildren revert again!
For this I tell you—one, I care not which,
But one of you, shall marry Don Torribio:
And let not her your cousin does not choose,
For one more courtly think herself reserved;
By Heaven she shall marry, if e’er marry,
One to the full as rough and country-like.
What, I to see my wealth, so hardly won,
Squander’d away by some fine town gallant,
In silks and satins! see my son-in-law
Spend an estate upon a hat and feather!
I tell you I’ll not have it. One of you
Must marry Don Torribio.
[_Exit._
_Clara._ I’ll die first.
_Eug._ And I’ll live an old maid—which much is worst.
ACT II
SCENE I.—_A Room in DON FELIX’S House._
_FELIX and HERNANDO; to whom enter JUAN._
_Fel._ Well, Juan, and how slept you?
_Juan._ As one must
In your house, Felix; had not such a thought
No house can quiet woke me long ere dawn.
_Fel._ Indeed! How so?
_Juan._ Felix, the strangest thing
But now we are alone I’ll tell you all.
Last night—the very moment that I saw
That angel at the window, as at Heaven’s gate—
The fire that I myself had thought half dead
Under the ashes of so long an absence,
Sprung up anew into full blaze. Alas!
But one brief moment did she dawn on us,
Then set, to rise no more all the evening,
Watch as I would. But day is come again,
And as I think, Felix, the holiday
When our new Queen shall make her solemn entry
Into Madrid; and she, my other Queen,
Will needs be up—be up and out betimes;
So I forestall the sun in looking for her,
And now will to the door beneath her window
Better to watch her rising.
But, as you love me, not a word of this
Breathe to Don Pedro.
[_Exit._
_Fel._ And does he think
Because his memory of her is quick,
Hers is of him? Aha!
_Hern._ Nay, if he like it,
‘Oh, let him be deceived!’
_Fel._ ’Twas wisely said
By him who self-deception used to call
The cheapest and the dearest thing of all.
Ha! here’s the other swain! and now to see
How he has prosper’d. I begin to think
My house is turn’d into a Lazar-house
Of crazy lovers.
_Enter PEDRO._
Good day, Don Pedro.
_Ped._ As it needs must be
To one who hails it in your house, and opposite
My lady’s! Oh, you cannot think, my Felix,
With what a blessed conscience of all this
I woke this morning! I can scarce believe ’t.
Why, in your house, I shall have chance on chance,
Nay, certainty of seeing her—_to-day_
Most certainly. But I’ll go post myself
Before the door; she will be out betimes
To mass.
_Fel._ Well, you will find Don Juan there.
_Ped._ Eh? Well, so much the better, I can do ’t
With less suspicion, nay, with none at all
If you will go with us. Only, Don Felix,
Breathe not a word to him about my love.
_As he is going, re-enter JUAN._
_Fel._ Juan again?
_Juan._ I only came to ask
What church we go to? (_Aside to FELIX._) Let us keep at home.
_Fel._ Don Pedro, what say you?
_Ped._ Oh, where you please.
(_Aside._) Stir not!
_Fel._ (_aside_). How easy to oblige two friends
Who ask the same, albeit with divers ends!
(_Aloud._) What, are your worships both in love, perhaps,
As Spanish cavaliers are bound to be,
And think I’ve nothing else to do, forsooth,
Than follow each upon his wildgoose chase?
Forgetting I may take ’t into my head
To fall in love myself—perhaps with one,
Or both, of those fair ladies chance has brought
Before my windows. Now I think upon ’t,
I am, or mean to be, in love with one;
And, to decide with which, I’ll e’en wait here
Till they both sally forth to church themselves.
So, gentlemen, would you my company,
I must not go with you, you stay with me.
_Ped._ Willingly.
_Juan._ Oh, most willingly! (_Aside to FELIX._) How well
You managed it.
_Ped._ (_aside to FELIX_). ’Tis just as I could wish.
_Fel._ (_aside_). And just as I, if thereby I shall learn
Whether they love the same; and, if the same,
Whether the one—But come, come! ’tis too late
For wary me to wear love’s cap and bells.
_Juan._ Since we must do your bidding on this score,
We’ll e’en make you do ours upon another,
And make you tell us, as you promised both,
And _owe_ to me—what, when our Queen was landed,
You fine folks of Madrid did in her honour.
_Ped._ Ay, if you needs will fetter our free time,
Help us at least to pass it by the story
You had begun.
_Fel._ Well then, to pick it up
Where Juan left it for us, on the shore.
There, when our Queen was landed, as I hear,
The Countess Medellin, her Chamberlain,
Of the Cordona family, received her,
And the Lord Admiral on the king’s part,
With pomp that needed no excuse of haste
And such a retinue (for who claims not
To be the kinsman, friend, or follower,
Of such a name?) as I believe Castile
Was almost drain’d to follow in his wake.
Oh, noble house! in whom the chivalry
Of courage, blameless worth, and loyalty,
Is nature’s patent of inheritance
From generation to generation!
And so through ringing Spain, town after town,
And every town a triumph, on they pass’d.
Madrid meanwhile—
_Juan._ Stop, stop! They’re coming out!
_Ped._ Where! Let me see.
_Juan._ The servant only.
_Fel._ Nay,
They’ll follow soon.
_Juan._ Till when, on with your story.
_Fel._ Madrid then, sharing in the general joy
Of her king’s marriage, and with one whose mother
Herself had nurst—though, as you said, half sick
Of hope deferr’d, had, at the loyal call,
That never fails in Spain, drawn to her heart
The life-blood of the realm’s nobility
To do her honour; not only when she came,
But, in anticipation of her coming,
With such prelusive pomps, as if you turn
Far up time’s stream as history can go,
In hymeneals less august than these,
You shall find practised—torchèd troop and masque,
With solemn and preliminary dance,
Epithalamium and sacrifice,
Invoking Hymen’s blessing. So Madrid,
Breathing new Christian life in Pagan pomp,
With such epithalamium as all Spain
Raised up to Heaven, into sweet thunder tun’d
Beyond all science by a people’s love,
Began her pageant. First, the nightly masque,
So fair as I have never seen the like,
Nor shall again; nor which, unless you draw
On your imagination for the type
Of what I tell, can I depict to you;
When, to the sound of trumpet and recorder,
The chiming poles of Spain and Germany
Beginning, drew the purple mountain down,
Glittering with veins of ore and silver trees,
All flower’d with plumes, and taper-starr’d above,
With monster and volcano breathing fire,
While to and fro torch-bearing maskers ran
Like meteors; all so illuminating night,
That the succeeding sun hid pale in cloud,
And wept with envy, till he dawn’d at length
Upon the famous Amphitheatre,
Which, in its masonry out-doing all
That Rome of a like kind in ruin shows,
This day out-did itself,
In number, rank, and glory of spectators,
Magnificence of retinue, multitude,
Size, beauty, and courage, of the noble beasts
Who came to dye its yellow dust with blood;
As each horn’d hero of the cloven hoof,
Broad-chested, and thick-neckt, and wrinkle-brow’d,
Rush’d roaring in, and tore the ground with ’s foot,
As saying, ‘Lo! this grave is yours or mine!’
While that yet nobler beast, noblest of all,
Who knights the very knighthood that he carries,
Proud in submission to a nobler will,
Spurn’d all his threats, and, touch’d by the light spur,
His rider glittering like a god aloft,
Turn’d onset into death. Fight follow’d fight,
Till darkness came at last, sending Madrid
Already surfeited with joy, to dream
Of greater, not unanxious that the crown
And centre of the centre of the world
Should not fall short of less renowned cities
In splendour of so great a celebration;
While too the hundreds of a hundred nations,
In wonder or in envy cramm’d her streets;
Until her darling come at last, whose spouse
Shall lay his own two empires at her feet,
And crown her thrice; as Niece, and Spouse, and Queen.
_Juan._ A charming story, finisht just in time,
For look! (_They look out._)
_Fel._ That is the father, Don Alonso.
_Juan._ Indeed!
_Ped._ (_aside_). That’s he then! But that strange man with him,
Who’s he?
_Hern._ Oh, I can tell you that;
His nephew, an Asturian gentleman,
Betroth’d to one of the daughters.
_Juan_ (_aside_). Not to mine!
_Ped._ (_aside_). Not my Eugenia, or by Heaven—
But we shall scarcely see them, Felix, here,
Wrapt in their mantles too.
_Fel._ And I would pay
My compliment to Don Alonso.
_Juan._ Come,
Let us go down with you into the street.
(_Aside._) Oh love, that in her memory survive
One thought of me, not dead if scarce alive!
_Ped._ (_aside._) Oh, may her bosom whisper her ’tis still
Her eyes that draw me after where they will!
[_Exeunt._
SCENE II.—_Street between the Houses of ALONSO and FELIX._
_ALONSO and TORRIBIO waiting._
_Alon._ If you really affect Eugenia, nephew——(_aside_) as I wished,—I
will communicate with her after church, and if all be well (as I cannot
doubt) get a dispensation forthwith. But they are coming.
_Enter from ALONSO’S door CLARA, EUGENIA in mantles,
the latter with a handkerchief in her hand; MARI NUÑO,
BRIGIDA, and OTAÑEZ behind; and at the same time FELIX,
JUAN, and PEDRO opposite._
_Clara._ Cover your face, Eugenia. People in the street.
_Eug._ Well, I’m not ashamed of it. (_Aside._) Don Pedro! and Don Juan!
_Fel._ (_whispers_). Which is it, Don Juan?
_Juan._ She with the handkerchief in her hand. I’ll go wait for her at
the church.
[_Exit._
_Ped._ (_to FELIX_). That is she with the white kerchief in her hand.
I’ll follow them.
_Fel._ (_aside_). The same, then!
_Clara._ Eugenia, lend me your handkerchief, it is hot. (_Takes the
handkerchief and uncovers her face towards FELIX._) And let us go, and do
not you look behind you.
_Fel._ And she I most admired.
[_Exeunt CLARA, EUGENIA, etc., PEDRO after them._
_Torr._ Uncle, what are these fellows hanging about our doors for?
_Alon._ Nay, ’tis the public street, you know.
_Torr._ What, my cousins’ street?
_Alon._ To be sure.
_Torr._ I’ll not suffer any one I don’t like to hang about it, however,
and least of all these perfumery puppies.
_Alon._ But if they happen to live here, nephew?
_Torr._ Don’t let ’em live here, then.
_Alon._ But if they own houses?
_Torr._ They mustn’t own houses, then.
_Fel._ Don Alonso, permit me to kiss your hand on your arrival among us.
I ought indeed first to have waited upon you in your own house; but this
happy chance makes me anticipate etiquette.
_Torr._ Coxcomb!
_Alon._ Thank you, sir; had I known you intended me such a favour, I
should have anticipated your anticipation by waiting upon you. Give me
leave to present to you my nephew, Don Torribio de Cuadradillos, who will
also be proud of your acquaintance.
_Torr._ No such thing, I shan’t at all.
_Alon._ Nephew, nephew!
_Fel._ I trust you are well, sir?
_Torr._ Oh, so, so, thank ye, for the matter of that, neither well nor
ill, but mixt-like. (_ALONSO salutes FELIX and exit with TORRIBIO._)
_Fel._ Now then, I know both face, and dress, and name,
And that my rival friends both love the same;
The same too that myself of the fair pair
Thought yester-eve the fairest of the fair:
Was ’t not enough for my two friends that they
Turn enemies—must I too join the fray?
Oh, how at once to reconcile all three,
Those two with one another, and with me!
_Re-enter JUAN hastily._
_Juan._ On seeing me, my friend, her colour chang’d:
She loves me still, Don Felix! I am sure
She loves me! Is not the face—we know it is,
The tell-tale index of the heart within?
Oh happiness! at once within your house,
And next my lady’s! What is now to do
But catch the ball good fortune throws at us!
You know her father, you will visit him
Of course, and then—and then—what easier?
Draw me in with you, or after you—or perhaps
A letter first—ay, and then afterward—
But why so dumb?
_Fel._ I scarce know how to answer.
Juan, you know I am too much your friend
To do you any spite?
_Juan._ How could I dream it?
_Enter PEDRO hastily._
_Ped._ Oh, Felix, if my love—
_Fel._ (_aside_). The other now!
He must be stopt. A moment, gentlemen,
Before you speak, and let me tell you first
A case of conscience you must solve for me.
You both have mighty matters, I doubt not,
To tell me, such a warm young gentlemen
Are never at a loss for in Madrid;
But I may have my difficulties too.
(_Aside._) The same will serve for both.
_Ped._ Well, let us hear.
_Fel._ Suppose some friend of yours, dear as you will,
Loving your neighbour’s daughter——(such a case
Will do as well as any)—ask’d of you
To smuggle him, his letters, or himself,
Into that neighbour’s house, there secretly
To ply a stolen love; what would you do?
_Ped._ Do it of course!
_Juan._ Why not?
_Fel._ Well, I would not.
_Ped._ But why?
_Fel._ Because, however it turn’d out,
I must do ill; if one friend’s love succeeded
I had play’d traitor to the other still;
If unsuccessful, not that cost alone,
But also, without counter-profiting,
Him whom I sacrificed so much to serve.
_Ped._ If that be your determination,
I have no more to say.
[_Exit._
_Juan._ Nor I: farewell;
I must find other means.
[_Exit._
_Fel._ Of all the plagues,
For one with no love profit of his own
Thus to be pester’d with two lovers’ pains!
And yet, what, after all, between the two—
Between the _three_, perhaps, am I to do?
Fore Heaven, I think ’twill be the only way
To get her to untie who drew the knot;
No woman ever at a loss
To mend or mar a matter as she wills.
Yet ’tis an awkward thing to ask a lady,
‘Pray, madam, which of these two sighing swains
Do you like best? or both? or neither, madam?’
Were not a letter best? But then who take it?
Since to commit her letter, would so far
Commit her honour to another’s hands?
By Heaven, I think I’ve nothing left to do,
But ev’n to write it, and to take it too;
A ticklish business—but may fair intent
And prudent conduct lead to good event!
[_Exit._
SCENE III.—_An Apartment in DON ALONSO’S House._
_Enter CLARA, EUGENIA, MARI NUÑO, etc._
_Clara._ Here, take my mantle, Mari. Oh, I wish we had a chaplain of our
own in the house, not to go abroad through the crowded streets!
_Eug._ And I, that church were a league of crowded street off, and we
obliged to go to it daily.
_Mari._ I agree with Señora Clara.
_Brigida._ And I with Señora Eugenia.
_Mari._ And why, pray?
_Brig._ Oh, madam, I know who it is deals most in sheep’s eyes.
_Enter DON ALONSO._
_Alon._ (_talking to himself as he enters_). How lucky he should have
pitcht on the very one I wanted! (_Aloud._) Oh, Eugenia, I would speak
with you. Nay, retire not, Clara, for I want you to pardon me for the
very thing Eugenia is to thank me for.
_Clara._ A riddle, sir. I pardon you?
_Alon._ Listen, both of you. Your cousin Don Torribio has declared his
love for Eugenia: and though I could have wished to marry you, Clara,
first, and to the head of our house too, yet my regret at your missing
it is almost cancelled by the joy of your sister’s acceptance.
_Clara._ And so with me, believe me, sir. I am well content to be
slighted so long as she is happy: which may she be with my cousin these
thousand years to come. (_Aside._) Oh, providential rejection!
[_Exit._
_Torribio_ (_peeping in_). Ah! what a wry face she makes!
_Alon._ And you, Eugenia, what say you?
_Eug._ (_aside_). Alas! surprise on surprise! (_Aloud._) Nay, sir, you
know, I hope, that I am ever ready to obey you.
_Alon._ I looked for nothing else of you.