_Torr._ Nor I.

_Alon._ Your cousin is waiting your answer in his chamber. I will tell

him the good news, and bring him to you.

[_Exit._

_Eug._ Only let him come! Alas!

_Torr._ (_entering_). How lightly steps a favour’d lover forth! Give you

joy, cousin.

_Eug._ The wretch!

_Torr._ Being selected by the head of your house.

_Eug._ Sir, one word, I wouldn’t marry you if it should cost me my life.

_Torr._ Ah, you are witty, cousin, I know.

_Eug._ Not to you, sir. And now especially, I mean to tell you sober

truth, and abide by it, so you had better listen. I tell you once again,

and once for all, I wouldn’t marry you to save my life!

_Torr._ Cousin! After what I heard you tell your father?

_Eug._ What I said then was out of duty to him; and what I now say is out

of detestation of you.

_Torr._ I’ll go and tell him this, I declare I will.

_Eug._ Do, and I’ll deny it. But I mean it all the same, and swear it.

_Torr._ Woman, am I not your cousin?

_Eug._ Yes.

_Torr._ And head of the family?

_Eug._ I dare say.

_Torr._ An Hidalgo?

_Eug._ Yes.

_Torr._ Young?

_Eug._ Yes.

_Torr._ Gallant?

_Eug._ Very.

_Torr._ And disposed to you?

_Eug._ Very possibly.

_Torr._ What do you mean then?

_Eug._ Whatever you choose, so long as you believe I mean what I say.

I’ll never marry you. You might be all you say, and fifty other things

beside, but I’ll never marry any man without a capacity.

_Torr._ Capacity! without a Capacity! I who have the family estate, and

my ancestors painted in a row on the patent in my saddle-bags! I who—

_Enter ALONSO._

_Alon._ Well, nephew, here you are at last; I’ve been hunting every where

to tell you the good news.

_Torr._ And what may that be, pray?

_Alon._ That your cousin Eugenia cordially accepts your offer, and—

_Torr._ Oh, indeed, does she so? I tell you she’s a very odd way of doing

it then. Oh uncle, she has said that to me I wouldn’t say to my gelding.

_Alon._ To you?

_Torr._ Ay, to me—here—on this spot—just now.

_Alon._ But what?

_Torr._ What? why, that I had no Capacity! But I’ll soon settle that; I

either have a Capacity or not—If I have, she lies; if not, I desire you

to buy me one directly, whatever it may cost.

_Alon._ What infatuation!

_Torr._ What, it costs so much, does it? I don’t care, I’ll not have it

thrown in my teeth by her or any woman; and if you won’t, I’ll go and buy

a Capacity, and bring it back with me, let it cost—ay, and weigh—what it

will.

[_Exit._

_Alon._ Nephew, nephew! Stop him there!

_Enter CLARA and EUGENIA._

_Clara._ What is the matter, sir?

_Alon._ Oh, graceless girl, what have you been saying to your cousin?

_Eug._ I sir? Nothing.

_Alon._ Oh! if you deceive me! But I must first stop his running after a

Capacity!

[_Exit._

_Eug._ What can I have done?

_Clara._ Nay, attempt not dissimulation with me, who know how you would

risk even your advancement for a sarcasm.

_Eug._ It was all for your sake, if I did, Clara.

_Clara._ For my sake! oh, indeed, you think I can have no lovers but what

you reject? Poor little fool! I could have enough if I chose to lay out

for them as some do; but many will pluck at an apple who will retire from

a fortress.

_Eug._ Hark! they are coming back; I dare not face them both as yet.

[_Exit._

_Enter DON FELIX._

_Fel._ Permit me, madam—

_Clara._ Who is this?

_Fel._ One, madam,

Who dares to ask one word with you.

_Clara._ With me?

_Fel._ Indeed with you.

_Clara._ You cannot, sir, mean me.

_Fel._ Once more, and once for all, with you indeed;

Let me presume to say so, knowing well

I say so in respect, not in presumption.

_Eug._ (_peeping_). Why, whom has my staid sister got with her?

_Clara._ With me! My very silence and surprise

Bid you retire at once.

_Fel._ Which I will do

When you will let this silence speak to you

With less offence perhaps than could my tongue.

(_Offering her a letter._)

_Eug._ Oh, if he would but try if fort or apple!

_Clara._ A letter too!—for me!

_Fel._ And, madam, one

It most imports your honour you should read.

For, that being once in question, I make light

That my friends’ lives, Don Juan and Don Pedro,

Are in the balance too.

_Eug._ Don Juan! Don Pedro!

_Clara._ What, sir, is this to me, who neither know

Don Juan, nor Don Pedro, nor yourself?

_Fel._ Having then done my duty to my friends,

And (once again I say ’t) to yourself, madam,

Albeit in vain—I’ll not offend you more

By my vain presence. (_Going._)

_Clara._ Nay, a moment—wait.

I must clear up this mystery. Indeed,

I would not be discourteous or ungrateful:

But ere I thank you for your courtesy,

Know you to whom you do it?

_Fel._ To Donna Eugenia.

_Clara._ Well, sir?

_Eug._ Oh, the hypocrite!

_Fel._ You are the lady?

_Clara._ Enough—give me the letter, and adieu.

_Eug._ I can forbear no longer. (_Coming out._) Sister, stop!

Oh! what to do!—the letter—

_Clara._ Well?

_Eug._ I tell you

My father and my cousin are coming up,

And if they see—

_Clara._ Well, if they see? what then!

I wish them both to see and hear it all.

(_Calling._) Sir! Father! Cousin! Otañez!

_Alon._ (_within_). Clara’s voice?

_Fel._ What to do now?

_Eug._ Alas, to tell the truth,

When I but wish’d to lie!

_Clara_ (_calling_). This way, sir, here!

_Eug._ Will you expose us both? In here! in here!

[_She hides FELIX behind arras._

_Enter ALONSO, TORRIBIO, MARI NUÑO, OTAÑEZ, etc._

_Alon._ What is the matter?

_Clara._ There is some one in the house, sir. A man—I saw him stealing

along the corridor, towards the garret.

_Brigida._ It must be a robber.

_Alon._ A robber?

_Mari._ What more likely in a rich Indian’s house?

_Alon._ I’ll search the house.

_Torr._ I’ll lead the forlorn hope, though that garret were Maestricht

itself. Now, cousin, you shall see if I’ve a Capacity or not.

[_Exeunt ALONSO and the men._

_Clara._ Do you two watch in the passage. (_Exeunt MARI NUÑO and

BRIGIDA._) And now, sir, the door is open, give me the letter and begone.

_Fel._ Adieu, madam, neglect not its advice.

_Eug._ Alas, alas, she has it!

_Fel._ She’s all too fair! come, honour, come, and shame False love from

poaching upon friendship’s game!

[_Exit._

_Re-enter ALONSO, etc._

_Alon._ We can see nothing of him, daughter.

_Clara._ Nay, sir, he probably made off when the alarm was given. Take no

more trouble.

_Alon._ Nay, we’ll search the whole house.

_Torr._ What do you say to my Capacity now, cousin?

[_Exeunt ALONSO, TORRIBIO, etc._

_Clara._ You see, Eugenia, in what your enterprises end. At the first

crack, you faint and surrender. I have done all this to show you the

difference between talking and doing. And now go; I have got the letter,

and want to read it.

_Eug._ And so do I! but—

_Clara._ Go! I am mistress now. (_Exit EUGENIA._) May they not have

written to me under cover of her name? let me see. (_Reads._) ‘Let not

him offend honour by the very means he takes to secure it; at least let

his good intention excuse his ill seeming. Don Juan, more than ever

enamoured of you, hangs about your doors; Don Pedro follows every step

you take; they are both in my house; it is impossible but the secret must

soon escape both, who must then refer their rivalry to the sword, and all

to the scandal of your name. You can, by simply disowning both, secure

their lives, your own reputation, and my peace of mind as their friend

and host. Adieu!’

Oh what perplexing thoughts this little letter

Buzzes about my brain, both what it says,

And leaves unsaid!—oh, can it be for me?

And is the quiet nun really belov’d

Under the cover of an idle flirt?

Or is it but for her—the vain, pert thing,

Who thinks her eye slays all it looks upon?

If it be so, and she, not I, is lov’d,

I yet may be reveng’d—

_Eug._ (_entering_). On whom?

_Clara._ Eugenia!

This letter that has fallen to my hands,

But meant for you—

_Eug._ Oh, I know all about it.

_Clara._ Know all about it! know then that two men

Are even now following your steps like dogs

To tear your reputation between them,

And then each other for that worthless sake,

And yet—

_Eug._ A moment, you shall see at once

How easily I shall secure myself,

And them, and supersede your kind intentions.

Signor Don Pedro! (_Calls at the window._)

_Clara._ What are you about?

_Eug._ Listen and you will hear.

_Clara._ You dare not do it!

_Eug._ My father’s safely lockt up in his room,

(Thanks to the gout your false alarm has brought.)

My cousin gone to buy capacities,

And now’s my time. (_Calling at the window._)

Don Pedro! Signor Don Pedro!

_Ped._ (_coming below to the window_).

He well may wait to have his name thrice call’d

When such a goddess—

_Eug._ Listen, sir, to me.

It is because, I say, _because_ this room,

Away from father’s and duenna’s ears,

Allows some harmless speech, it also bars

All nearer access than the ears and eyes

Of father or duenna both could do.

But, seeing harm of harmless trifling come,

I now entreat, implore, command you, sir,

To leave this window and my threshold clear,

Now and for ever!

_Ped._ Hear me—

_Eug._ Pardon me,

I cannot.

_Ped._ But this once—

_Eug._ If you persist

I must be rude.

_Ped._ Oh, how do worse than—

_Eug._ (_shutting the blinds down_). Thus!

_Clara._ And to your other gallant?

_Eug._ Why not think

If he were here, I’d do the same to him?

Oh, Clara, be assured my levities

Are but the dust on youth’s butterfly wing,

Though prudes and sinners too take fright at them;

Like that benighted traveller, you know,

Who, frighted by a shallow brook that jump’d

And bubbled at his right, swerved to the left

And tumbled into one that lay quite still,

But deep enough to drown him for his pains.

[_Exit._

_Clara._ What, did she hear what to myself I said?

Or saw my colour change from white to red?

Or only guess’d me waiting for the prey

Her idle chatter ought to fright away?

If chance have done more than all prudence could,

Prudence at least may make occasion good.

And if these lovers by mistake should woo,

Why (by mistake) should I not listen too?

And teach the teacher, to her proper cost,

Those waters are least deep that prattle most.

ACT III

SCENE I.—_Room in ALONSO’S House._

_CLARA and MARI NUÑO._

_Clara._ It is so, indeed.

_Mari._ You know you can always rely on my old love to you. But indeed I

cannot but wonder at your sister’s forwardness.

_Clara._ Yes; to think of two cavaliers after her at once! I look upon

it as my duty to set all to right; to do this I must once more speak to

him who warned me of it; and I want you to give him this letter—in _her_

name, remember—this will bring him here to-night, and I shall undeceive

him for ever. But hark! some one—

_TORRIBIO is about to enter._

_Mari._ ’Tis that wretch. Stay, sir, no man comes in here.

_Torr._ Away, troublesome duenna.

_Mari._ It’s not decent, I tell you.

_Torr._ An’t my cousin decent; and an’t I?

_Clara._ What is the matter?

_Torr._ This old woman won’t let me come in.

_Clara._ She is right, unless my father be with you.

_Torr._ Oh, I understand—

Those that are out

Still will pout.

_Clara._ Well, since she who is in, and may grin, is not here, you have

no business neither. For me, what grudge I have against you, be assured I

can and will repay. Mari, remember.

[_Exit._

_Mari._ Hark! some one at the door.

[_Exit._

_Torr._ By heaven and earth, I do begin suspect!

I say again I do begin suspect!—

And valour rises with suspicion—

I shall ere long be very terrible.

Ancestors! Head of house! Capacity!

For passing through the house—let me not say it,

Till I have told my tongue it lies to say it—

In passing through the passage, what saw I

Within Eugenia’s room, behind her bed!

I saw——

(_Re-enter MARI NUÑO with a letter._)

_Mari._ A letter, madam,—Where is she?

_Torr._ Woman, she was, but is not. A letter too?

Give it me.

_Mari._ You too!

_Torr._ Give it me, or dread

My dreadful vengeance on your wither’d head.

_Mari._ Leave hold of it.—

_Torr._ I’ll not! The more you pull,

The more—

_Mari._ Then take that on your empty skull!

(_Deals him a blow, and calls._)

Help! Help!

_Torr._ You crying, when two teeth are out—

_Mari._ ‘As swelling prologues of’—Help! murder! murder!

_Enter EUGENIA, CLARA, ALONSO, BRIGIDA, etc._

_Alon._ What is the matter now?

_Mari._ Don Torribio, sir, because I wouldn’t let him have my young

lady’s letter, has laid violent hands on me.

_Torr._ I?

_All._ Don Torribio!

_Torr._ I tell you—

_Alon._ Indeed, nephew, your choleric jealousy carries you too far. A

respectable female in my house!

_Torr._ I tell you that it is _me_ who—

_Alon._ I know—enough—make not the matter worse by worse excuses. Give me

the letter has been the cause of such unseemly conduct.

_Eug._ (_aside_). If it should be from one of them!

_Clara_ (_aside to EUGENIA_). Nothing I hope from your gallants.

_Alon._ (_reads_). ‘My dear nieces, this being the day of the Queen’s

public entry, I have engaged a balcony, and will send my coach for you

directly to come and see it with me.’ This, you see, nephew, is all your

suspicions amount to! My cousin, Donna Violante, inviting my daughters

to witness this august ceremony! If you still suspect; here, take it, and

read it for yourself.

_Torr._ (_after looking at the letter_). I tell you what, uncle, if they

wait till I’ve read it, they’ll not see the sight at all.

_Alon._ Why so?

_Torr._ Because I can’t read.

_Alon._ That this should be!

_Torr._ But that’s no matter neither. They can teach me before they go.

_Alon._ What, when it’s to-day? almost directly?

_Torr._ Can’t it be put off?

_Alon._ ’Tis useless saying more. Daughters, such a ceremony happens,

perhaps, but once in a life; you must see it. On with your mantles,

whether Don Torribio approve or not. I am lame, you see, and must keep at

home; to hear about it all from you on your return.

_Clara._ At your pleasure, sir.

_Eug._ Shall I stay with you, sir, while Clara—

_Alon._ No, no. Both of you go.

_Clara._ (_aside to MARI, while putting on her mantle_). Remember the

letter!

_Mari._ Trust to me.

_Eug._ (_aside_). I wonder if they will be there!

[_Exeunt all but TORRIBIO._

_Torr._ Whether the Queen enter to-day,

To-morrow, or keep quite away,

Let those go see who have a mind;

I am resolved to stay behind:

And now all gone, and coast quite clear,

Clear up the secret I suspect and fear.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.—_A Room in FELIX’S House._

_FELIX and HERNANDO._

_Hern._ Not going to see the Entry, sir?

_Fel._ What use going to a festival if one has no spirits for it?

_Hern._ Humph, what makes you out of spirits?

_Fel._ Why should you ask?

_Hern._ Nay, then, you have already answer’d me. You are in love.

_Fel._ I scarce know whether you are right or wrong, Hernando. I have

indeed seen a lady whose very beauty forbids all hope of my attaining it.

_Hern._ How so, sir?

_Fel._ She who has enslaved Don Juan and Don Pedro has fetter’d me, at

last! I should care little for their rivalry, had not each made me keeper

of his love, so that—Hark!

_Mari Nuño_ (_within_). Don Felix!

_Fel._ Who is that?

_Hern._ Some one calling you.

_Mari._ (_within_). Señor Don Felix!

_Fel._ Well?

_Mari._ (_within_). From Donna Eugenia!

[_A letter is thrown in at the window._

_Fel._ From Eugenia! (_Reads._) ‘Grateful to you for your advice, I have

already begun to follow it; but, in order to that, I must see you once

again, this evening! Adieu!’ Here’s a dilemma! For if—

_Hern._ Don Juan!

_Enter JUAN._

_Juan_ (_aside_). What was that?

_Fel._ Don Juan back,

When such a festival—

_Juan._ And you? Oh, Felix,

I know not how to speak or hold my tongue!

_Fel._ A riddle! How is that?

_Juan._ Why, if I speak

I needs must anger you; if not, myself.

_Fel._ I do not understand it yet.

_Juan._ Nor I;

Yet if you give me leave (as leave they give

To children and to fools to say their mind)

I’ll say mine.

_Fel._ Surely say it.

_Juan._ Tell me then—

That letter I saw flying in at the window

As I came up, what was it?

_Fel._ That of all

That you could ask, Juan, I cannot answer—

Must not—relying on our old regard

For fair construction.

_Juan._ I believe it, Felix:

Yet seeing that you first excused yourself

From helping on my suit, upon the score

Of other obligation; and that now,

Ev’n now, but a few wretched minutes back,

Eugenia herself, in the public street,

Forbad me from her carriage angrily

From following her more—What can I think

But that she loves another? when besides,

Coming back suddenly, I hear her name

Whisper’d—oh what so loud as an ill whisper!—

By you, and see a letter too thrown in,

Which on my coming up confused you hide,

And will not say from whom—I say, Don Felix,

What can I think?

_Fel._ (_aside_). And I, what can I do?

Who, even if I may excuse myself,

Must needs embroil Don Pedro!

_Juan._ Answer me.

_Fel._ Have I not answer’d you sufficiently,

In saying that my old and well-tried love

Should well excuse my silence?

_Juan._ I confess

Your love, old and well-tried as you profess;

And on that very score ask of you, Felix,

What you would do if one as true and tried

In a like case seal’d up his lips to you.

_Fel._ Leave them unlockt in fullest confidence.

_Juan._ Alas! how much, much easier to give

Than follow ev’n the counsel one implores!

Felix, in pity I entreat of you,

Show me that letter!

_Fel._ Gladly should you see it

If no one but myself were implicate.

_Juan._ There _is_ then some one else?

_Fel._ There is.

_Juan._ Who else?

_Fel._ That’s what I cannot tell you.

_Juan._ Dare not trust

A friend as true to you as you to him?

_Fel._ In anything but this.

_Juan._ What can this do

But aggravate my worst suspicions?

_Fel._ I cannot help it.

_Juan._ I must tell you then

My friendship for you, Felix, may defer,

But not forgo, the reading of that letter.

_Fel._ I am sorry, sir, your friendship must abide

In ignorance till doomsday.

_Juan._ You’ll not show it?

_Fel._ No, never.

_Juan._ Follow me, sir.

_Fel._ Where you please.

_As they are going out, enter PEDRO._

_Ped._ How now? Don Juan and Felix quarrelling?

_Fel._ Nay, only walking out.

_Ped._ What, walking out,

With hands upon your swords and inflam’d faces?

You shall not go.

_Hern._ That’s right, sir, keep them back,

They were about—

_Fel._ Peace, rascal!

_Ped._ Friends may quarrel,

But surely not to such extremity

But that a third may piece the quarrel up

Without the sword. The cause of your dispute?

_Fel._ I must be silent.

_Juan._ And so must not I;

Who will not have it thought

That I forgot my manners as a guest

For any idle reason. You, Don Pedro,

Though lately known to me, are a gentleman,

And you shall hear my story.

_Fel._ Not a word,

Or else—

_Ped._ Nay, Felix—

_Juan._ I will speak it out!

Don Pedro, I confided to Don Felix,

My friend and host, the love I long have borne

For one with whom he could advance my suit,

And promised so to do it; but instead,

Yea, under the very mask of doing it,

Has urged his own; has even now received

A letter through that ready window thrown,

He dares not show me; and to make all sure,

I heard him whispering as I came upstairs,

The very name of my Eugenia—

_Ped._ Hold!

This is my quarrel.

He who pretends to love Eugenia

Must answer it to me.

_Juan._ Two rivals, then!

_Fel._ Two enemies grown out of two old friends

By the very means I used to keep them so!

_Juan._ Keep them, indeed!

_Ped._ When with base treachery—

_Juan._ Hypocrisy—

_Ped._ Under the name of friend—

_Juan._ A pretty friend—

_Ped._ You robb’d me—

_Juan_ (_turning to PEDRO_). You! Dare _you_

Pretend—

_Ped._ (_to JUAN_). Dare _I!_ Dare _you_, sir?

_Fel._ Peace, I say,

And hear me speak!

_Juan_ (_to FELIX_). The time is past for that.

Follow me, sir.

_Ped._ No, _me_.

_Fel._ One, or the other, or together both,

I’ll either lead or follow, nothing loath!

[_Exeunt wrangling._

SCENE III.—_ALONSO sitting._

_Enter TORRIBIO._

_Torr._ Oh, uncle!

_Alon._ Well, what now?

_Torr._ Oh, such a thing! I suspected it!

_Alon._ Well, tell me.

_Torr._ Such a thing!

_Alon._ Speak, man.

_Torr._ When we were searching the house for the man cousin Clara told us

of—

_Alon._ Well?

_Torr._ Passing by cousin Eugenia’s room, I saw— I have not breath to say

it!

_Alon._ Speak, sir.

_Torr._ Those men in the house—those dandies about the door—I know how

they get in now—when I found in my cousin’s room—behind her very bed—

_Alon._ Don Torribio!

_Torr._ The very ladder they climb up by!

_Alon._ A ladder?

_Torr._ Ah, and a very strong one too, all of iron and cord.

_Alon._ If this were true—

_Torr._ Wait till I show it you, then.

[_Exit._

_Alon._ Not in vain did Mari Nuño warn me of her dangerous disposition!

If he have such a proof of her incontinence how will he marry her?

_Re-enter TORRIBIO with a fardingale._

_Torr._ There, uncle, there it is, hoops, and steps, and all!

_Alon._ This a ladder?

_Torr._ Ah, that, if it were all let out, would scale the tower of Babel,

I believe.

_Alon._ I can scarce control my rage. Fool! this is a fardingale, not a

ladder.

_Torr._ A what-ingale?

_Alon._ A fardingale, fool![10]

_Torr._ Why, that’s worse than the ladder!

_Alon._ You will fairly drive me out of my senses! Go, sir, directly, and

put it back where you took it from, and for Heaven’s sake, no more of

such folly!

[_Exit._

_Torr._ Well—to think of this! and my cousin that looked so nice too!

_Voices_ (_within_). Coach there! coach!

_Enter MARI NUÑO._

_Mari._ They are come back. I must get lights. Who’s this?

_Torr._ Nobody.

_Mari._ What are you doing with that fardingale; and where did you get

it?

_Torr._ Nothing, and nowhere.

_Mari._ Come, give it me at once, lest I give you the fellow of the cuff

I gave you before.

_Torr._ For fear of which, take that upon your wrinkled chaps. (_Strikes

her, and calls out._) Help! help! Murder! murder! Help!

_Enter ALONSO, CLARA, EUGENIA, etc. in mantles._

_Alon._ What now?

_Torr._ Mari Nuño there, only because I wished her good night, laid

violent hands on me.

_Mari._ Oh the wretch! he wanted to make love to me—and worse—declaring

he would none of any who used such a thing as this. (_Showing

fardingale._)

_Alon._ Let us hear no more of such folly. There is something else to-day

to tell of. Well, (_to his daughters_,) you have seen this procession?

_Eug._ Ay, sir; the greatest sight, I believe, that Spain has seen since

she was greatest of nations.

_Alon._ I, who could not go myself, am to see it, you know, in your

recital.

_Eug._ As best we can, sir.

_Clara_ (_aside to MARI NUÑO_). Have you seen Don Felix?

_Mari_ (_aside_). Enough, he will be here. But when?

_Clara._ When the story is done, and all weary are gone to bed.

_Mari._ Good.

[_Exit; the rest sit down._

_Clara._ Begin you then, Eugenia, I will chime in.

_Eug._ This being the long-expected day

When our fair Spain and fairest Mariana

Should quicken longing hope to perfect joy,

Madrid awoke, and dress’d her squares and streets

In all their glory; through all which we pass’d

Up to the Prado, where the city’s self,

In white and pearl array’d, by ancient usage,

Waited in person to receive the bride

By a triumphal arch that rose heaven-high,

The first of four all named and hung about

With emblems of the four parts of the world,

(Each with a separate element distinct,)

Of which our sovereign lord was now to lay

The four crowns at his sovereign lady’s feet.

_Clara._ And this first arch was Europe; typified

By the wide Air, which temperatest she breathes,

And which again, for double cognizance,

Wore the imperial eagle for its crest;

With many another airy symbol more,

And living statues supplementary

Of Leon and Castile, each with its crown,

Austria, the cradle of the royal bride,

And Rome, the mistress of the faith of all.

_Eug._ Here then, when done the customary rite

Of kissing hands and due obeisance,

Drum, trumpet, and artillery thundering,

With that yet lordliest salute of all,

A people’s universal acclamation;

(And never in the world were subjects yet

So proud, and bow’d, and with so good a cause;)

Under a golden canopy she moved

Tow’rd San Geronimo, whose second arch,

Of no less altitude and magnificence,

Deckt with the sixty crowns of Asia,

Received her next, wearing for cognizance

Earth, of which Asia is the largest piece;

Which Earth again carried a lion’s mane,

As proclamation of her noblest growth.

_Clara._ Thence passing on, came to where Africa,

Her waste of arid desert embleming

By Fire, whose incarnation, the Sun,

Burn’d on this arch as in his house in heaven,

Bore record of the trophies two great Queens

Upon the torrid continent had won,

Who, one with holy policy at home,

The other in Granada by the sword,

Extirpated deadly Mahometism.

_Eug._ Last, to the Holy Virgin dedicate,

From whose cathedral by the holy choir

Chaunted Te Deum, rose in splendid arch

America, wearing for her device

The silver image of the Ocean,

That roll’d the holy cross to the New World.

And so all pass’d to the Escurial,

In front of which, in two triumphal cars,

Two living statues were—one Mercury,

Who, as divine ambassador, thus far

Had brought the royal bride propitiously;

The other, Hymen, who took up the charge

Mercury left, and with unquenching torch,

While cannon, trumpet, choir, and people’s voice

Thunder’d her praises, took the palfrey’s rein,

Who gloried in the beauty that he bore,

And brought and left her at her palace door.

_Alon._ Well done, well done, both of you, in whose lively antiphony I

have seen it all as well as if I had been there.

_Torr._ Well, for my part I neither wanted to see it nor hear of it.

_Alon._ No? why so, nephew?

_Torr._ Lord, I’ve seen twice as good as that down in my country many a

time, all the boys and girls dancing, and the mayor, and the priest, and—

_Alon._ Peace, peace. Come, Brigida, light me to my room, I am sleepy.

_Eug._ And I; with sight-seeing, and sight-telling, I suppose. (_Aside._)

And with a heavy heart, alas!

[_Exeunt ALONSO, EUGENIA, and BRIGIDA._

_Clara._ Will not you to bed too, sir?

_Torr._ Not till I’ve had my supper, I promise you. Oh, I don’t care for

all your sour looks, not I, nor your threats of revenge neither.

_Clara._ You don’t?

_Torr._ No, I defy you.

_Clara._ Not if I were to prove to you that she you slighted me for loves

another?

_Torr._ Oh, cousin Clara!

_Clara._ Shall I prove it to you?

_Torr._ Oh, if my ancestors could hear this, what would they say?

_Clara._ I don’t know. But you may hear if you like what she says to your

rival.

_Torr._ Ha!

_Clara._ Go into this balcony, and you will hear her talking to him in

the street.

_Torr._ I knew! I guessed! the ladder! (_He goes into the balcony and she

shuts him in._)

_Clara._ There cool yourself in the night till I let you out. And now to

have _you_ safe too. (_Locks EUGENIA’S door._) And now, all safe, for the

first time in my life Love and I meet in fair field. Mari Nuño! (_Enter

MARI._) Where is the Cavalier?

_Mari._ Waiting in my chamber.

_Clara._ Bring him. You understand it is all for Eugenia’s good?

_Mari._ I understand.

[_Exit, and returns with FELIX._

_Fel._ I fly, madam, to your feet. (_Kneels._)

_Clara._ Rise, sir, ’tis about your letter I sent to you.

_Fel._ Alas, madam, all is worse than ever!

_Clara._ What has happened?

_Fel._ Not only did my two friends fall out with each other, as I

expected, but with me for the very good services I was doing them;

insulted me till I could withhold my sword no longer; we went out to

fight; were seen, pursued, and disperst by the alguazils. I returned home

to await them, but as yet know nothing more of them.

_Clara._ Alas, sir, what do I not owe you for your care on my behalf?

_Fel._ More perhaps than you imagine.

_Clara._ Tell me all at least, that I may at least know my debt, if

unable to repay it.

_Fel._ Alas, I dare not say what is said in not saying.

_Clara._ Said, and not said? I do not understand.

_Fel._ I, alas, too well!

_Clara._ Explain to me then, sir.

_Fel._ No, madam. If what I feel is so much on my friends’ account, it is

still more for their sakes that I keep it unsaid.

_Clara._ Hark! what noise is that? Mari Nuño, what is the matter?

_Enter MARI NUÑO._

_Mari._ Oh, madam, some one is getting over the garden wall! Your father

has heard the noise; and is got up with his sword.

_Clara._ If he should find you!

_Fel._ He need not. This balcony—

_Clara._ No, no!

_Torribio_ (_within_). Thieves! Murder! Help! (_He opens the balcony;

TORRIBIO falls forward on him, pushed in by JUAN with his sword drawn._)

_Torr._ Murder! Murder! ⎫

⎪

_Juan_ (_to FELIX_). Thou too here, traitor! ⎬ All at once.

⎪

_Fel._ (_drawing his sword_). Who are these? ⎭

(_Confusion, in which enter ALONSO with drawn sword,

OTAÑEZ, BRIGIDA, etc._)

_Alon._ Two! Torribio, to my side!

_Fel._ Wait! wait! Let me explain.

_Alon._ Don Felix!

_Fel._ Listen to me, all of you, I say! I was sent for to prevent, not to

do, mischief, by Donna Eugenia herself—

_Enter EUGENIA._

_Eug._ By _me_, sir!

_Clara._ Hold, hold, Eugenia!

_Eug._ I will _not_ hold when my name is in question without my—Sent for

by me, sir!

_Fel._ Not by you, madam; by Donna Eugenia, (_pointing to CLARA_) to

prevent—

_Alon. and Eug._ Clara!

_Torr._ Ah, ’twas she put me to freeze in the balcony, too.

_Clara_ (_to FELIX_). Sir, you come here to save another from peril.

Leave me not in it.

_Fel._ _I_ leave you, madam, who would lay down my life for you! and all

the rather if you are _not_ Donna Eugenia.

_Alon._ None but her father or her husband must do that.

_Fel._ Then let me claim to do it as the latter. (_Kneels to CLARA._)

_Alon._ But Clara?

_Clara._ Sir, I am ready to obey my father—and my husband.

_Eug._ And I, sir. And to prove my duty, let me marry my cousin at once,

and retire with him to the mountains.

_Torr._ Marry me! No, indeed! No Capacities, and ladders,

and—what-d’ye-call-’ems—for me. I’ll e’en go back as I came, with my

ancestors safe in my saddle-bags, I will.

_Juan_ (_to ALONSO_). Permit me, sir. I am Don Juan de Mendoza; a name at

least not unknown to you. I have loved your daughter long; and might have

had perchance favourable acceptation from her mother long ago, had not

you yourself been abroad at the time.

_Alon._ I now remember to have heard something of the kind. What say you,

Eugenia?

_Eug._ I am ready to obey my father—and my husband.

With which at last our comedy shall close,

Asking indulgence both of friends and foes.

_Clara._ And ere we part our text for envoy give,—

Beware of all smooth waters while you live!

This Comedy seems an Occasional Piece, to celebrate the marriage of

Philip IV. with Anna Maria of Austria, and the pageants that Calderon

himself was summoned to devise and manage. This marriage was in 1649;

when Calderon, as old as the century, was in his prime; and I think the

airy lightness of the dialogue, the play of character, the easy intrigue,

and the happily introduced wedding rhapsodies, make it one of the most

agreeable of his comedies.

As I purposely reduced the swell of Isabel’s speech in the last play, I

must confess that the present version of these wedding pageants, though

not unauthorised by the original, had perhaps better have been taken in

a lighter tone to chime in with so much common dialogue. But they were

done first, to see what could be made of them: and, as little dramatic

interest is concerned, are left as they were; at least not the less like

so much in Calderon, where love and loyalty are concerned; and to be

excused by the reader as speeches _spouted_ by boys on holiday occasions.

THE MIGHTY MAGICIAN

TAKEN FROM CALDERON’S

EL MAGICO PRODIGIOSO

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

AURELIO _Viceroy of Antioch._

LELIO _his Son._

FABIO _a chief Officer in Antioch._

FLORO _his Son._

LISANDRO _an aged Christian._

JUSTINA _his Daughter._

LIVIA _their Servant._

CIPRIANO _a Professor of Learning._

EUSEBIO ⎫

⎬ _his Scholars._

JULIAN ⎭

LUCIFER _the Evil Spirit._

CITIZENS, SOLDIERS, etc.

ACT I

SCENE I.—_A retired Grove near Antioch._

_Enter CIPRIANO, EUSEBIO, and JULIAN, with books._

_Cipr._ This is the place, this the sequester’d spot

Where, in the flower about and leaf above,

I find the shade and quiet that I love,

And oft resort to rest a wearied wing;

And here, good lads, leave me alone, but not

Lonely, companion’d with the books you bring:

That while the city from all open doors

Abroad her gaping population pours,

To swell the triumph of the pomp divine

That with procession, sacrifice, and song

Convoys her tutelary Zeus along

For installation in his splendid shrine;

I, flying from the hubbub of the throng

That overflows her thoroughfares and streets,

And here but faintly touches and retreats,

In solitary meditation may

Discount at ease my summer holiday.

You to the city back, and take your fill

Of festival, and all that with the time’s,

And your own youth’s, triumphant temper chimes;

Leaving me here alone to mine; until

Yon golden idol reaching overhead,

Dragg’d from his height, and bleeding out his fires

Along the threshold of the west, expires,

And drops into the sea’s sepulchral lead.

_Eusebio._ Nay, sir, think once again, and go with us,

Or, if you will, without us; only, go;

Lest Antioch herself as well as we

Cry out upon a maim’d solemnity.

_Julian._ Oh, how I wish I had not brought the books,

Which you have ever at command—indeed,

Without them, all within them carry—here—

Garner’d—aloft—

_Euseb._ In truth, if stay you will,

I scarcely care to go myself.

_Cipr._ Nay, nay,

Good lads, good boys, all thanks, and all the more,

If you but leave it simply as I say.

You have been somewhat over-tax’d of late,

And want some holiday.

_Julian._ Well, sir, and you?

_Cipr._ Oh, I am of that tougher age and stuff

Whose relaxation is its work. Besides,

Think you the poor Professor needs no time

For solitary tillage of his brains,

Before such shrewd ingatherers as you

Come on him for their harvest unawares?

Away, away! and like good citizens

Help swell the general joy with two such faces

As such as mine would only help to cloud.

_Euseb._ Nay, sir—

_Cipr._ But I say, Yea, sir! and my scholars

By yea and nay as I would have them do.

_Euseb._ Well, then, farewell, sir.

_Cipr._ Farewell, both of you.

[_Exeunt EUSEBIO and JULIAN._

Away with them, light heart and wingèd heel,

Soon leaving drowsy Pallas and her dull

Professor out of sight, and out of mind.

And yet not so perhaps; and, were it so,

Why, better with the frolic herd forgetting

All in the youth and sunshine of the day

Than ruminating in the shade apart.

Well, each his way and humour; some to lie

Like Nature’s sickly children in her lap,

While all the stronger brethren are at play;

When ev’n the mighty Mother’s self would seem

Drest out in all her festival attire

In honour of the universal Sire

Whom Antioch as for her own to-day

Propitiates. Hark, the music!—Speed, good lads,

Or you will be too late. Ah, needless caution!

Ev’n now already half way down the hill,

Spurr’d by the very blood within their veins,

They catch up others, who catching from them

The fire they re-inflame, the flying troop

Consuming fast to distance in a cloud

Of dust themselves have kindled, whirls away

Where the shrill music blown above the walls

Tells of the solemn work begun within.

Why, ev’n the shrieking pipe that pierces here,

Shows me enough of all the long procession

Of white-robed priest and chanting chorister,

The milkwhite victim crown’d, and high aloft

The chariot of the nodding deity,

Whose brazen eyes that, as their sockets see,

Stare at his loyal votaries. Ah, me!—

Well, here too happier, if not wiser, those

Who, with the heart of unsuspicious youth,

Take up tradition from their fathers’ hands

To pass it on to others in their turn;

But leaving me behind them in the race

With less indeed than little appetite

For ceremonies, and to gods, like these,

That, let the rabble shout for as they please,

Another sort begin to shake their heads at,

And heaven to rumble with uneasily

As flinging out some antiquated gear.

So wide, since subtle Greece the pebble flung

Into the sleeping pool of superstition,

Its undulation spreads to other shores,

And saps at the foundation of our schools.

—Why, this last Roman, Caius Plinius—

Who drawing nature’s growth and history

Down to her root and first cause—What says he?—

Ev’n at the very threshold of his book

A definition laying, over which

The clumsy mimic idols of our shrines

Stumble and break to pieces—oh, here it is—

‘_Quapropter effigiem Dei formamque quærere_,

_Imbecillitatis humanæ reor_’—

‘All visible effigies of God

But types of human imbecility.’—

But what has Antioch to say to that,

Who at such cost of marble and of gold

Has built the very temple into which

She drags her tutelary Zeus to-day?—

Zeus veritable God, this effigy

Is none of him at all! But then, alas!

This same _Quapropter_ follows a premiss

That elbows out Zeus with his effigy.

For—as I gather from his foreign word—

Wherever, or Whatever, Deity—

_Si modo est alius_—if distinct at all

From universal Nature—it must be

One all-informing, individual Whole,

All eye, all ear, all self, all sense, all soul—

Whereas this Zeus of ours, though Chief indeed—

Nay, _because_ chief of other gods than he,

Comes from this Roman’s hand no God at all!—

This is a knotty question.

_Lucifer_ (_without_). Nor while I

Tangle, for you, good doctor, to untie.

_Cipr._ What! The poor bird scarce settled on the bough,

Before the fowler after him! How now?

Who’s there?

_Lucifer_ (_entering habited as a Merchant_). A stranger; therefore

pardon him,

Who somehow parted from his company,

And lost in his own thoughts (a company

You know one cannot lose so easily)

Has lost his way to Antioch.

_Cipr._ Antioch!

Whose high white towers and temples ev’n from here

Challenge the sight, and scarce a random line

Traced by a wandering foot along the grass

But thither leads for centre.

_Luc._ The old story,

Of losing what one should have found on earth

By staring after something in the clouds—

Is it not so?

_Cipr._ To-day too, when so many

Are flocking thither to the festival,

Whose current might have told—and taken—you

The way you wish’d to go.

_Luc._ To say the truth,

My lagging here behind as much I think

From a distaste for that same festival

(Of which they told us as we came along)

As inadvertency—my way of life

Busied enough, if not too much, with men

To care for them in crowd on holidays,

When business stands, and neither they nor I

Gaping about can profit one another;

And therefore, by your leave—but only so—

I fain would linger in this quiet place

Till evening, under whose dusky cloak

I may creep unobserved to Antioch.

_Cipr._ (_aside_) Humane address, at least. And why should I

Grudge him the quiet I myself desire?—

(_Aloud_) Nay, this is public ground—for you, as me,

To use it at your pleasure.

_Luc._ Still with yours—

Whom by your sober suit and composed looks,

And by this still society of books,

I take to be a scholar—

_Cipr._ And if so?

_Luc._ Ill brooking idle company.

_Cipr._ Perhaps;

But that no wiser traveller need be—

And, if I judge of you as you of me,

Though with no book hung out for sign before,

Perchance a scholar too.

_Luc._ If so, more read

In men than books, as travellers are wont.

But, if myself but little of a bookman,

Addicted much to scholars’ company,

Of whom I meet with many on my travels,

And who, you know, themselves are living books.

_Cipr._ And you have travell’d much?

_Luc._ Ay, little else,

One may say, since I came into the world

Than going up and down it: visiting

As many men and cities as Ulysses,

From first his leaving Troy without her crown,

Along the charmèd coasts he pass’d, with all

The Polyphemes and Circes in the way,

Right to the Pillars where his ship went down.

Nay, and yet further, where the dark Phœnician

Digs the pale metal which the sun scarce deigns

With a slant glance to ripen in earth’s veins:

Or back again so close beneath his own

Proper dominion, that the very mould

Beneath he kindles into proper gold,

And strikes a living Iris into stone.

_Cipr._ One place, however, where Ulysses was,

I think you have not been to—where he saw

Those he left dead upon the field of Troy

Come one by one to lap the bowl of blood

Set for them in the fields of Asphodel.

_Luc._ Humph!—as to that, a voyage which if all

Must take, less need to brag of; or perchance

Ulysses, or his poet, apt to err

About the people and their doings there—

But let the wonders in the world below

Be what they may; enough in that above

For any sober curiosity,

Without one’s diving down before one’s time:

Not only countries now as long ago

Known, till’d, inhabited, and civilized;

As Egypt, Greece, and Rome, with all their arts,

Trades, customs, polities, and history:

But deep in yet scarce navigated seas,

Countries uncouth, with their peculiar growths

Of vegetation or of life; where men

Are savage as the soil they never till;

Or never were, or were so long ago,

Their very story blotted from the page

Of earth they wrote it on; unless perchance

From riot-running nature’s overgrowth

Of swarming vegetation, peeps some scarce

Decypherable monument, which yet,

To those who find the key, perchance has told

Stories of men, more mighty men, of old,

Or of the gods themselves who walk’d the world

When with the dews of first creation wet.

_Cipr._ Oh knowledge from the fountain freshly drawn

Without the tedious go-between of books!

But with fresh soul and senses unimpair’d

What from the pale reflexion of report

We catch at second hand, and much beside

That in our solitary cells we miss.

_Luc._ Ay, truly we that travel see strange things,

Though said to tell of stranger; some of us,

Deceived ourselves, or seeking to deceive,

With prodigies and monsters which the world,

As wide and full of wonders as it is,

Never yet saw, I think, nor ever will:

Which yet your scholars use for clay and straw

Of which to build your mighty folios—

For instance, this same bulky Roman here,

Whose leaf you turn’d, I doubt impatiently,

When my intrusion rustled in the leaves—

_Cipr._ Hah! But how knew you—

_Luc._ Nay, if some stray words

Of old familiar Latin met my ear

As I stood hesitating.

_Cipr._ (_holding up the book_). This at least

You read then?

_Luc._ One might say before ’twas written.

_Cipr._ But how so?

_Luc._ Oh, this same sufficient Roman,

What is he but another of the many

Who having seen a little and heard more

That others pick’d as loosely up before,

Constructs his little bird’s-nest universe

Of shreds and particles of false and true

Cemented with some thin philosophy,

All filch’d from others, as from him to be

By the next pilfering philosopher,

Till blown away before the rising wind

Of true discovery, or dropt to nothing

After succeeding seasons of neglect.

_Cipr._ (_aside_) A strange man this—sharp wit and biting word.

(_Aloud_) Yet surely Man, after so many ages

Of patient observation of the world

He lives in, is entitled by the wit

Vouchsafed him by the Maker of the world

To draw into some comprehensive whole

The stray particulars.

_Luc._ Ay, and forsooth,

Not only the material world he lives in;

But, having of this undigested heap

Composed a World, must make its Maker too,

Of abstract attributes, of each of which

Still more unsure than of the palpable,

Forthwith he draws to some consistent One

The accumulated ignorance of each

In so compact a plausibility

As light to carry as it was to build.

_Cipr._ But, since (I know not how) you hit upon

The question I was trying when you came;

And, spite of your disclaiming scholarship,

Seem versed in that which occupies the best—

If Pliny blunder with his single God,

As in our twilight reason well he may,

Confess however that a Deity

Plural and self-discordant, as he says,

Is yet more like frail man’s imagination,

Who, for his own necessities and lusts,

Splits up and mangles the Divine idea

To pieces, as he wants a piece of each;

Not only gods for all the elements

Divided into land, and sea, and sky;

But gods of health, wealth, love, and fortune; nay,

Of war and murder, rape and robbery;

Men of their own worse nature making gods

To serve the very vices that suggest them,

Which yet upon their fellow-men they visit

(Else were an end of human polity)

With chain and fine and banishment and death.

So that unless man made such gods as these,

Then are these gods worse than the man they made.

And for the attributes, which though indeed

You gibe at us for canvassing, yourself

Must grant—as whether one or manifold,

Deity in its simplest definition

Must be at least eternal—

_Luc._ Well?—

_Cipr._ Yet those

Who stuff Olympus are so little that,

That Zeus himself, the sovereign of all,

Barely escaped devouring at his birth

By his own father, who anticipated

And found some such hard measure for himself;

And as for Zeus’ own progeny—some born

Of so much baser matter than his brain,

As from his eggs, which the all-mighty swan

Impregnated, and mortal Leda laid;

And whose two chicken-deities once hatcht

Now live and die on each alternate day.

_Luc._ Ay, but if much of this be allegory

In which the wisdom of antiquity

Veils the pure Deity from eyes profane—

_Cipr._ —Deity taking arms against itself

Under Troy walls, wounding and wounded—ay,

And, trailing heavenly ichor from their wounds,

So help’d by others from the field to one

Who knew the leech’s art themselves did not.

_Luc._ Softly—if not to swear to allegory,

Still less to all the poets sing of heaven,

High up Parnassus as they think to sit.

_Cipr._ But these same poets, therefore sacred call’d,

They are who these same allegories spin

Which time and fond tradition consecrate;

What might have been of the divine within

So overgrown with folly and with sin

As but a spark of God would such impure

Assimilation with himself abjure,

Which yet with all the nostril that he may

Zeus snuffs from Antioch’s sacrifice to-day.

Besides, beyond the reach of allegory

The gods themselves in their own oracles

Doubly themselves convict—

As when they urge two nations on to war,

By promising the victory to each;

Whereby on one side their omniscience

Suffers, as their all-goodness on the other.

_Luc._ What if such seeming contradictions aim

Where human understanding cannot reach?

But granting for the sake of argument,

And for that only, what you now premise;

What follows?

_Cipr._ Why, that if, as Pliny writes,

Deity by its very definition

Be one, eternal, absolute, all wise,

All good, omnipotent, all ear, all eyes,

Incapable of disintegration—

If this be Deity indeed—

_Luc._ Then what?

_Cipr._ Simply—that we in Antioch know him not.

_Luc._ Rash leap to necessary non-conclusion

From a premiss that quarrels with itself

More than the deity it would impugn;

For if one God eternal and all wise,

Omnipotent to do as to devise,

Whence this disorder and discordance in—

Not only this material universe,

That seems created only to be rack’d

By the rebellion of its elements,

In earthquake and tempestuous anarchy—

But also in the human microcosm

You say created to reflect it all?

For Deity, all goodness as all wise,

Why create man the thing of lust and lies

You say reflects himself in his false god?—

By modern oracle no more convicted

Of falsehood, than by that first oracle

Which first creation settled in man’s heart.

No, if you must define, premise, conclude,

Away with all the coward squeamishness

That dares not face the universe it questions;

Blinking the evil and antagonism

Into its very constitution breathed

By him who, but himself to quarrel with,

Quarrels as might the many with each other.

Or would you be yourself one with yourself,

Catch hold of such as Epicurus’ skirt,

Who, desperately confounded this confusion

Of matter, spirit, good and evil, yea,

Godhead itself, into a universe

That is created, roll’d along, and ruled,

By no more wise direction than blind Chance.

Trouble yourself no more with disquisition

That by sad, slow, and unprogressive steps

Of wasted soul and body lead to nothing:

And only sure of life’s short breathing-while,

And knowing that the gods who threaten us

With after-vengeance of the very crimes

They revel in themselves, are nothing more

Than the mere coinage of our proper brain

To cheat us of our scanty pleasure here

With terror of a harsh account hereafter;—

Eat, drink, be merry; crown yourselves with flowers

About as lasting as the heads they garland;

And snatching what you can of life’s poor feast,

When summon’d to depart, with no ill grace,

Like a too greedy guest, cling to the table

Whither the generations that succeed

Press forward famish’d for their turn to feed.

Nay, or before your time self-surfeited,

Wait not for nature’s signal to be gone,

But with the potion of the spotted weed,

That peradventure wild beside your door

For some such friendly purpose cheaply grows,

Anticipate too tardy nature’s call:

Ev’n as one last great Roman of them all

Dismiss’d himself betimes into the sum

Of universe; not nothing to become;

For that can never cease that was before;

But not that sad Lucretius any more.

_Cipr._ Oh, were it not that sometimes through the dark,

That walls us all about, a random ray

Breaks in to tell one of a better day

Beyond—

_Enter LELIO and FLORO, as about to fight._

_Lelio._ Enough—these branches that exclude the sun

Defy all other inquisition.

No need of further way.

_Floro._ Nor further word;

Draw, sir, at once—

_Lelio._ Nay, parry that yourself

Which waited not your summons to be drawn.

_Cipr._ Lelio, and Floro?

_Floro._ What, will the leaves blab?

_Lelio._ And with their arms arrest a just revenge?

_Cipr._ And well indeed may trees begin to talk,

When men as you go babbling.

_Floro._ Whoso speaks

And loves his life, hold back.

_Lelio._ I know the voice,

But dazzled with the darkness—Cipriano?

_Cipr._ Ay; Cipriano, sure enough; as you

Lelio and Floro.

_Floro._ Well, let that suffice,

And leave us as you find us.

_Cipr._ No, not yet—

_Floro._ Not yet!

_Lelio._ Good Cipriano—

_Cipr._ Till I know

How it has come to pass that two such friends,

Each of the noblest blood in Antioch,

Are here to shed it by each other’s hands.

_Lelio._ Sudden surprise, and old respect for you,

Suspend my sword a moment, Cipriano,

That else—

_Floro._ Stand back, stand back! You are a scholar,

And better versed in logic than the laws

Of honour; and perhaps have yet to learn

That when two noblemen have drawn the sword,

One only must return it to the sheath.

_Lelio._ ’Tis so indeed—once more, stand off.

_Cipr._ And once more

Back, both of you, say I; if of your lives

Regardless, not of mine, which thus, unarm’d,

I fling between your swords—

Lelio, I look to you—Floro, as ever

Somewhat hot-headed and thrasonical—

Or do you hold with him the scholar’s gown

Has smother’d all the native soldiery

That saucy so-call’d honour to itself

Alone mis-arrogates? You are deceived:

I am like you by birth a gentleman,

Under like obligation to the laws

Of that true honour, which my books indeed

May help distinguish from its counterfeit,

But, older as I am, have yet not chill’d

From catching fire at any just affront—

And let me tell you this too—those same books,

Ancient and modern, tell of many a hand

That, turning most assiduously the leaf,

When the time came, could wield as well the sword.

I am unarm’d: but you, with all your swords,

I say you shall not turn them on each other

Till you have told me what the quarrel is;

Which after hearing if I own for one

That honour may not settle with good word,

I pledge my own to leave it to the sword.

Now, Lelio!—

_Lelio._ One answer does for both:

He loves where I love.

_Floro._ No—I thus much more—

He dares to love where I had loved before;

Betrayed friendship adding to the score

Of upstart love.

_Lelio._ You hear him, Cipriano?

And after such a challenge—

_Cipr._ Yet a moment.

As there are kinds of honour, so of love—

And ladies—

_Lelio._ Cipriano, Cipriano!

One friend my foe for daring love where I,

Let not another, daring doubt that he

Honours himself in so dishonouring me—

_Floro._ Slanting your sharp divisions on a jewel

That if the sun turn’d all his beams upon

He could not find, or make, a flaw—

_Cipr._ Nor I then,

With far less searching scrutiny than Phœbus—

I am to understand then, such a fair

Jewel as either would in wedlock wear.

_Floro._ And rather die than let another dare.

_Cipr._ Enough, enough! of Lelio’s strange logic,

And Floro’s more intelligible rant,

And back to sober metaphor. Which of you

Has this fair jewel turn’d her light upon?

_Floro_ (_after a pause_). Why, who would boast—

_Lelio._ Indeed, how could she be

The very pearl of chastity she is,

Turn’d she her glances either left or right?

_Cipr._ Which therefore each, as he obliquely steals,

Counts on as given him only—

_Floro._ To have done

With metaphor and logic, what you will,

So as we fall to work;

Or if you must have reason, this, I say,

Resolves itself to a short syllogism—

Whether she give or we presume upon—

If one of us devote himself to win her,

How dares another cross him?

_Cipr._ But if she

Not only turn to neither, but still worse,

Or better, turn from both?

_Lelio._ But love by long devotion may be won,

That only one should offer—

_Floro._ And that one

Who first—

_Lelio._ Who first!—

_Cipr._ And all this while, forsooth,

The lady, of whose purity one test

Is her unblemisht unpublicity,

Is made a target for the common tongue

Of Antioch to shoot reproaches at

For stirring up two noblemen to blood.

From which she only can escape, forsooth,

By choosing one of two she cares not for

At once; or else, to mend the matter, when

He comes to claim her by the other’s blood.

_Lelio._ At least she will not hate him, live or dead,

Who staked his life upon her love.

_Cipr._ Small good

To him who lost the stake; and he that won—

Will she begin to love whom not before

For laying unloved blood upon her door;

Or, if she ever loved at all, love more?

Is this fair logic, or of one who knows

No more of woman’s honour than of man’s?

Come, come, no more of beating round the bush.

You know how I have known and loved you both,

As brothers—say as sons—upon the score

Of some few years and some few books read more—

Though two such fiery fine young gentlemen,

Put up your swords and be good boys again,

Deferring to your ancient pedagogue;

If cold by time and studies, as you say,

Then fitter for a go-between in love,

And warm at least in loyalty to you.

These jewels—to take up the metaphor

Until you choose to drop it of yourselves,—

These jewels have their caskets, I suppose—

Kindred and circumstance, I mean—

_Lelio._ Oh such

As by their honourable poverty

Do more than doubly set their jewel off!

_Cipr._ Ev’n so? And may not one, who, you agree,

Proof-cold, against suspicion of the kind,

Be so far trusted, as, if not to see,

To hear, at least, of where, and how, enshrined?

_Floro._ I know not what to answer. How say you?

_Lelio._ Relying on your honour and tried love—

Justina, daughter of the old Lisandro.

_Cipr._ I know them; her if scarcely, yet how far

Your praises short of her perfections are;

Him better, by some little service done

That rid him of a greater difficulty,

And would again unlock his door to me—

—And who knows also, if you both agree,

Her now closed lips; if but a sigh between

May tell which way the maiden heart may lean?

_Floro._ Again, what say you, Lelio?

_Lelio._ I, for one,

Content with that decision.

_Floro._ Be it so.

_Cipr._ Why, after all, behold how luckily

You stumbled on this rock in honour’s road,

That serves instead for Cupid’s stepping-stone.

And when the knightly courage of you both

Was all at fault to hammer out the way,

Who knows but some duenna-doctor may?

And will—if but like reasonable men,

Not angry boys, you promise to keep sheathed

Your swords, while from her father or herself

I gather, from a single sigh perhaps,

To which, if either, unaware she turns;

Provided, if to one, the other yield;

But if to neither, both shall quit the field.

What say you both to this?

_Lelio._ Ay—I for one.

_Floro._ And I; provided on the instant done.

_Cipr._ No better time than now, when, as I think,

The city, with her solemn uproar busy,

Shuts her we have to do with close within.

But you must come along with me, for fear

Your hands go feeling for your swords again

If left together: and besides to know

The verdict soon as spoken.

_Lelio._ Let us go.

[_Exeunt._

_Lucifer_ (_re-appearing_). Ay, Cipriano, faster than you think;

For I will lend you wings to burn yourself

In the same taper they are singed withal.—

By the quick feelers of iniquity

That from hell’s mouth reach through this lower world,

And tremble to the lightest touch of mischief,

Warn’d of an active spirit hereabout

Of the true God inquisitive, and restless

Under the false by which I rule the world,

Here am I come to test it for myself.

And lo! two fools have put into my hand

The snare that, wanting most, I might have miss’d;

That shall not him alone en-mesh, but _her_

Whom I have long and vainly from the ranks

Striv’n to seduce of Him, the woman-born,

Who is one day to bruise the serpent’s head—

So is it written; but meanwhile my hour

On earth is not accomplisht, and I fain

Of this detested race would hinder all

From joining in the triumph of my fall

Whom I may hinder; and of these, these twain;

Each other by each other snaring; yea,

Either at once the other’s snare and prey.

Oh, my good doctor, you must doubt, you must,

And take no more the good old gods on trust;

To Antioch then away; but not so fast

But I shall be before you, starting last.

[_Exit._

SCENE II.—_A room in LISANDRO’S house._

_Enter LISANDRO, JUSTINA, and LIVIA._

_Justina._ At length the day draws in.

_Lisandro._ And in with it

The impious acclamation that all day,

Block up our doors and windows as we may,

Insults our faith, and doubly threatens it.

Is all made fast, Justina?

_Just._ All shall be, sir,

When I have seen you safely to your rest.

_Lis._ You know how edict after edict aim’d

By Rome against the little band of Christ—

And at a time like this, the people drunk

With idol-ecstasy—

_Just._ Alas, alas!

_Lis._ Oh, gladly would I scatter these last drops

That now so scarcely creep along my veins,

And these thin locks that tremble o’er the grave,

In such a martyrdom as swept to heav’n

The holy Paul who planted, and all those

Who water’d here the true and only faith,

Were ’t not for thee, for fear of thee, Justina,

Drawing you down at once into my doom,

Or leaving you behind, alone, to hide

From insult and suspicion worse than death—

I dare not think of it. Make fast; keep close;

And then, God’s will be done! You know we lie

Under a double danger.

_Just._ How so, sir?

_Lis._ Aurelio and Fabio, both, you know,

So potent in the city, and but now

Arm’d with a freshly whetted sword of vengeance

Against the faith, but double-edged on us,

Should they but know, as know they must, their sons

Haunting the doors of this suspected house.

_Just._ Alas, alas!

That I should draw this danger on your head!

Which yet you know—

_Lis._ I know, I know—God knows,

My darling daughter; but that chaste reserve

Serves but to quicken beauty with a charm

They find not in the wanton Venus here:

Drawn as they are by those withdrawing eyes

Irradiate from a mother’s, into whose

The very eyes of the Redeemer look’d,

And whom I dare not haste to join in heav’n

At cost of leaving thee defenceless here.

_Just._ Sufficient for the day! And now the day

Is done. Come to your chamber—lean on me—

Livia and I will see that all is fast;

And, that all seen to, ere we sleep ourselves,

Come to your bedside for your blessing. Hark!

Knocking ev’n now! See to it, Livia.

(_She leads out LISANDRO, and returns._)

Oh, well I got my father to his chamber!

What is it?—

_Livia._ One would see your father, madam.

_Just._ At such an hour! He cannot, Livia;

You know, the poor old man is gone to rest—

Tell him—

_Livia._ If not your father, then yourself,

On matter that he says concerns you both.

_Just._ Me too!—Oh surely neither of the twain

We both so dread?

_Livia._ No, madam; rather, one

I think that neither need have cause to fear,—

Cipriano.

_Just._ Cipriano! The great scholar,

Who did my father service, as I think,

And now may mean another; and God knows

How much, or quickly, needed!

_Livia._ So he says.

_Just._ What shall I do! Will not to-morrow—

_Cipriano_ (_entering_). Oh, lady,

You scarce can wonder more than I myself

At such a visit, and at such an hour,

Only let what I come to say excuse

The coming, and so much unmannerly.

_Just._ My father is withdrawn, sir, for the night,

Never more wanting rest; I dare not rouse him,

And least of all with any troubled news.

Will not to-morrow—

_Cipr._ What I have to say

Best told to-night, at once; and not the less

Since you alone, whom chiefly it concerns,

Are here to listen.

_Just._ I!—Well, sir, relying

On your grave reputation as a scholar,

And on your foregone favour to my father,

If I should dare to listen—

_Cipr._ And alone?

_Just._ Livia, leave us.

[_Exit LIVIA._

_Cipr._ Oh, lady—oh, Justina—

(Thus stammers the ambassador of love

In presence of its sovereign)—

You must—cannot but—know how many eyes

Those eyes have wounded—

_Just._ Nay, sir,—

_Cipr._ Nay, but hear.

I do not come for idle compliment,

Nor on my own behalf; but in a cause

On which hang life and death as well as love.

Two of the noblest youths in Antioch,

Lelio and Floro—Nay, but hear me out:

Mine, and till now almost from birth each other’s

Inseparable friends, now deadly foes

For love of you—

_Just._ Oh, sir!

_Cipr._ I have but now

Parted their swords in mortal quarrel cross’d.

_Just._ Oh, that was well.

_Cipr._ I think, for several sakes—

Their own, their fathers’, even Antioch’s,

That would not lose one of so choice a pair;

And, I am sure you think so, lady, yours,

So less than covetous of public talk,

And least of all at such a fearful cost.

_Just._ Oh, for all sakes all thanks!

_Cipr._ Yet little due

For what so lightly done, and it may be

So insufficiently; this feud not stopt—

Suspended only, on a single word—

Which now at this unseasonable hour

I stand awaiting from the only lips

That can allay the quarrel they have raised.

_Just._ Alas, why force an answer from my lips

So long implied in silent disregard?

_Cipr._ Yet, without which, like two fierce dogs, but more

Exasperated by the holding back,

They will look for it in each other’s blood.

_Just._ And think, poor men, to find their answer there!

Oh, sir, you are the friend, the friend of both,

A famous scholar; with authority

And eloquence to press your friendship home.

Surely in words such as you have at will

You can persuade them, for all sakes—and yet

No matter mine perhaps—but, as you say,

Their fathers’, Antioch’s, their own—

_Cipr._ Alas!

I doubt you know not in your maiden calm

How fast all love and logic such as that

Burns stubble up before a flame like this.

_Just._ (_aside_). And none in heaven to help them!

_Cipr._ All I can

But one condition hardly wringing out

Of peace, till my impartial embassy

Have ask’d on their behalf, which of the twain—

How shall I least offend?—you least disdain.

_Just._ Disdain is not the word, sir; oh, no, no!

I know and honour both as noblemen

Of blood and station far above my own;

And of so suitable accomplishments.

Oh, there are many twice as fair as I,

And of their own conditions, who, with half

My wooing, long ere this had worn the wreath

Tied with a father’s blessing, and all Antioch

To follow them with Hymenæal home.

_Cipr._ But if these fiery men, do what one will,

Will look no way but this?—

_Just._ Oh, but they will;

Divert their eyes awhile, a little while,

Their hearts will follow; such a sudden passion

Can but have struck a shallow root—perhaps

Ere this had perish’d, had not rival pride

Between them blown it to this foolish height.

_Cipr._ Disdain is not the word then. Well, to seek,

What still as wide as ever from assent—

Could you but find it in your heart to feel

If but a hair’s-breadth less—say disesteem

For one than for another—

_Just._ No, no, no!

Even to save their lives I could not say

What is not—cannot—nay, and if it could

And I could say that was that is not—_can_ not—

How should that hair’s-breadth less of hope to one

Weigh with the other to desist his suit,

Both furious as you tell me?

_Cipr._ And both are:

But ev’n that single hair thrown in by you

Will turn the scale that else the sword must do.

_Just._ But surely must it not suffice for both

That they who drew the sword in groundless hope

Sheathe it in sure despair? Despair! Good God!

For a poor creature like myself, despair!

That men with souls to which a word like that

Lengthens to infinite significance,

Should pin it on a wretched woman’s sleeve!

But as men talk—I mean, so far as I

Can make them, as they say, despair of that

Of which, even for this world’s happiness,

Despair is better hope of better things—

Will not my saying—and as solemnly

As what one best may vouch for; that so far

As any hope of my poor liking goes,

Despair indeed they must—why should not this

Allay their wrath, and let relapsing love

In his old channel all the clearer run

For this slight interjection in the current?

Why should it not be so?

_Cipr._ Alas, I know not:

For though as much they promised, yet I doubt

When each, however you reject him now,

Believes you might be won hereafter still,

Were not another to divide the field;

Each upon each charging the exigence

He will not see lies in himself alone,

Might draw the scarcely sheathèd sword at once;

Or stifled hate under a hollow truce

Blaze out anew at some straw’s provocation,

And I perhaps not by to put it out.

_Just._ What can, what can be done then?

_Cipr._ Oh Justina,

Pardon this iteration. Think once more,

Before your answer with its consequence

Travels upon my lip to destiny.

I know you more than maiden-wise reserved

To other importunities of love

Than those which ev’n the pure for pure confess;

Yet no cold statue, which, however fair,

Could not inflame so fierce a passion; but

A breathing woman with a beating heart,

Already touch’d with pity, you confess,

For these devoted men you cannot love.

Well, then—I will not hint at such a bower

As honourable wedlock would entwine

About your father’s age and your own youth,

Which ev’n for him—and much less for yourself—

You would not purchase with an empty hand.

But yet, with no more of your heart within

Than what you now confess to—pity—pity,

For generous youth wearing itself away

In thankless adoration at your door,

Neglecting noble opportunities;

Turning all love but yours to deadly hate—

Sedate, and wise, and modestly resolved,

Can you be, lady, of yourself so sure—

(And surely they will argue your disdain

As apt to yield as their devotion)—

That, all beside so honourably faced,

You, who now look with pity, and perhaps

With gratitude, upon their blundering zeal,

May not be won to turn an eye less loath

On one of them, and blessing one, save both?

_Just._ Alas! I know it is impossible—

Not if they wasted all their youth in sighs,

And even slavish importunities,

I could but pity—pity all the more

That all the less what only they implore

To yield; so great a gulf between us lies.

_Cipr._ What—is the throne pre-occupied?

_Just._ If so,

By one that Antioch dreams little of.

But it grows late: and if we spoke till dawn,

I have no more to say.

_Cipr._ Nor more will hear?

_Just._ Alas, sir, to what purpose? When, all said,

Said too as you have said it—

And I have but the same hard answer still;

Unless to thank you once and once again,

And charge you with my thankless errand back,

But in such better terms,

As, if it cannot stop ill blood, at least

Shall stop blood-shedding ’tween these hapless men.

_Cipr._ And shall the poor ambassador who fail’d

In the behalf of those who sent him here,

Hereafter dare to tell you how he sped

In making peace between them?

_Just._ Oh, do but that,

And what poor human prayer can win from Heaven,

You shall not be the poorer. So, good-night!

[_Exit._

_Cipr._ Good-night, good-night! Oh Lelio and Floro!

If ever friends well turn’d to deadly foes,

Wiser to fight than I to interpose.

[_Exit._

_Lucifer_ (_passing from behind_). The shaft has hit the mark; and

by the care

Of hellish surgery shall fester there.

[_Exit._

ACT II

SCENE I.—_The sea-shore; a storm raging._

_Cipriano_ (_cavalierly drest_). Oh, mad, mad, mad ambition! to

the skies

Lifting to drop me deep as Hades down!—

What! Cipriano—what the once so wise

Cipriano—quit his wonted exercise

Among the sober walks of old renown,

To fly at love—to swell the wind with sighs

Vainer than learning—doff the scholar’s gown

For cap and feather, and such airy guise

In which triumphant love is wont to go,

But wins less acceptation in her eyes—

The only eyes in which I cared to show—

My heart beneath the borrow’d feather bleeding—

Than in the sable suit of long ago,

When heart-whole for another’s passion pleading.

She loves not Floro—loves not Lelio,

Whose quarrel sets the city’s throat agape,

And turns her reputation to reproof

With altercation of some dusky shape

Haunting the twilight underneath her roof—

Which each believes the other:—and, for me,

The guilty one of the distracted three,

She closest veils herself, or waves aloof

In scorn; or in such self-abasement sweet

As sinks me deep and deeper at her feet,

Bids me return—return for very shame

Back to my proper studies and good name,

Nor waste a life on one who, let me pine

To death, will never but in death be mine.

Oh, she says well—Oh, heart of stone and ice

Unworthy of the single sacrifice

Of one true heart’s devotion! Oh divine

Creature, whom all the glory and the worth

That ever ravaged or redeem’d the earth

Were scanty worship offer’d at your shrine!

Oh Cipriano, master-fool of all

The fools that unto thee for wisdom call;

Of supercilious Pallas first the mock,

And now blind Cupid’s scorn, and laughing-stock;

Who in fantastic arrogance at odds

With the Pantheon of your people’s gods

Ransack’d the heavens for one more pure and whole

To fill the empty temple of the soul,

Now caught by retribution in the mesh

Of one poor piece of perishable flesh—

What baser demon of the pit would buy

With all your ruin’d aspirations?

_Lucifer_ (_within_). I!—

_Cipr._ What! The very winds and waters

Hear, and answer to the cry

She is deaf to!—Better thrown

On distracted nature’s bosom

With some passion like my own

Torn and tortured: where the sun

In the elemental riot

Ere his daily reign half done,

Leaves half-quencht the tempest-drencht

Welkin scowling on the howling

Wilderness of waves that under

Slash of whirlwind, spur of lightning,

Roar of thunder, black’ning, whitening,

Fling them foaming on the shore—

Let confusion reign and roar!—

Lightnings, for your target take me!

Waves, upon the sharp rock break me,

Or into your monstrous hollow

Back regurgitating hurl;

Let the mad tornado whirl me

To the furthest airy circle

Dissipated of the sky,

Or the gaping earth down-swallow

To the centre!—

_Lucifer_ (_entering_). By-and-bye.

_Cipr._ Hark again! and in her monstrous

Labour, with a human cry

Nature yearning—what portentous

Glomeration of the storm

Darkly cast in human form,

Has she bolted!—

_Luc._ As among

Flashes of the lightning flung

Beside you, in its thunder now

Aptly listen’d—

_Cipr._ What art thou?

_Luc._ One of a realm, though dimly in your charts

Discern’d, so vast that as from out of it

As from a fountain all the nations flow,

Back they shall ebb again; and sway’d by One

Who, without Oriental over-boast,

Because from him all kings their crowns derive,

Is rightfully saluted King of kings,

Whose reign is as his kingdom infinite,

Whose throne is heaven, and earth his footstool, and

Sun, moon, and stars his diadem and crown.

Who at the first disposal of his kingdom

And distribution into sea and land—

Me, who for splendour of my birth and grand

Capacities above my fellows shone,

Star of the Morning, Lucifer, alone—

Me he made captain of the host who stand

Clad as the morning star about his throne.

Enough for all ambition but my own;

Who discontented with the all but all

Of chiefest subject of Omnipotence

Rebell’d against my Maker; insolence

Avenged as soon as done on me and all

Who bolster’d up rebellion, by a fall

Far as from heaven to Hades. Madness, I know;

But worse than madness whining to repent

Under a rod that never will relent.

Therefore about the land and sea I go

Arm’d with the very instrument of hate

That blasted me: lightnings anticipate

My coming, and the thunder rolls behind;

Thus charter’d to enlarge among mankind,

And to recruit from human discontent

My ranks in spirit, not in number, spent.

Of whom, in spite of this brave gaberdine,

I recognize thee one: thee, by the line

Scarr’d on thy brow, though not so deep as mine;

Thee by the hollow circles of those eyes

Where the volcano smoulders but not dies:

Whose fiery torrent running down has scarr’d

The cheek that time had not so deeply marr’d.

Do not I read thee rightly?

_Cipr._ But too well;

However come to read me—

_Luc._ By the light

Of my own darkness reading yours—how deep!

But not, as mine is, irretrievable:

Who from the fulness of my own perdition

Would, as I may, revenge myself on him

By turning to fruition your despair—

What if I make you master at a blow,

Not only of the easy woman’s heart

You now despair of as impregnable,

And waiting but my word to let you in,

But lord of nature’s secret, and the lore

That shall not only with the knowledge, but

Possess you with the very power of him

You sought so far and vainly for before:

So far All-eyes, All-wise, Omnipotent—

If not to fashion, able yet to shake

That which the other took such pains to make—

As in the hubbub round us; I who blurr’d

The spotless page of nature at a word

With darkness and confusion, will anon

Clear it, to write another marvel on.—

By the word of power that binds

And loosens; by the word that finds

Nature’s heart through all her rinds,

Hearken, waters, fires, and winds;

Having had your roar, once more

Down with you, or get you gone.

_Cipr._ With the clatter and confusion

Of the universe about me

Reeling—all within, without me,—

Dizzy, dazzled—if delusion,

Waking, dreaming, seeing, seeming—

Which I know not—only, lo!

Like some mighty madden’d beast

Bellowing in full career

Of fury, by a sudden blow

Stunn’d, and in a moment stopt

All the roar, or into slow

Death-ward-drawing murmur, leaving

Scarce the fallen carcase heaving,

With the fallen carcase dropt.—

Behold! the word scarce fallen from his lips,

Swift almost as a human smile may chase

A frown from some conciliated face,

The world to concord from confusion slips:

The winds that blew the battle up dead slain,

Or with their tatter’d standards swept amain

From heaven; the billows of the erected deep

Roll’d with their crests into the foaming plain;

While the scared earth begins abroad to peep

And smooth her ruffled locks, as from a rent

In the black centre of the firmament,

Revenging his unnatural eclipse,

The Lord of heaven from its ulterior blue

That widens round him as he pierces through

The folded darkness, from his sovereign height

Slays with a smile the dragon-gloom of night.

_Luc._ All you have heard and witness’d hitherto

But a foretaste to quicken appetite

For that substantial after-feast of power

That I shall set you down to take your fill of:

When not the fleeting elements alone

Of wind, and fire, and water, floating wrack,

But this same solid frame of earth and stone,

Yea, with the mountain loaded on her back,

Reluctantly, shall answer to your spell

From a more adamantine heart stone-cold

Than her’s you curse for inaccessible.

What, you would prove it? Let the mountain there

Step out for witness. Listen, and behold.

Monster upshot of upheaving[11]

Earth, by fire and flood conceiving;

Shapeless ark of refuge, whither,

When came deluge creeping round,

Man retreated—to be drown’d—

Now your granite anchor, fast

In creation’s centre, cast,

Come with all your tackle cleaving

Down before the magic blast—

_Cipr._ And the unwieldy vessel, lo!

Rib and deck of rock, and shroud

Of pine, top-gallanted with cloud,

All her forest-canvas squaring,

Down the undulating woodland

As she flounders to and fro

All before her tearing, bearing

Down upon us—

_Luc._ Anchor, ho!—

Behold the ship in port! And what if freighted

With but one jewel, worthy welcome more

Than ever full-fraught Argosy awaited,

At last descried by desperate eyes ashore;

From the first moment of her topsail showing

Like a thin cobweb spun ’twixt sea and sky;

Then momently before a full wind blowing

Into her full proportions, till athwart

The seas that bound beneath her, by and bye

She sweeps full sail into the cheering port—

Strangest bark that ever plied

In despite of wind and tide,

At the captain’s magic summons

Down your granite ribs divide,

And show the jewel hid inside.

_Cipr._ Justina!—

_Luc._ Soft! The leap that looks so easy

Yet needs a longer stride than you can master.

_Cipr._ Oh divine apparition, that I fain

Would all my life as in Elysium lose

Only by gazing after; and thus soon

As rolling cloud across the long’d-for moon,

The impitiable rocks enclose again!—

But was it she indeed?

_Luc._ She that shall be,

And yours, by means that, bringing her to you,

Possess you of all nature, which in vain

You sigh’d for ere for nature’s masterpiece.

And thus much, as I told you, only sent

As foretaste of that great accomplishment,

Which if you will but try for, you can reach

By means which, if I practise, I can teach.

_Cipr._ And at what cost?

_Luc._ You that have flung so many years away

In learning and in love that came to nothing,

Think not to win the harvest in a day!

The God you search for works, you know, by means

(That your philosophers call second cause),

And we by means must underwork him—

_Cipr._ Well!—

_Luc._ To comprehend, and, after, to constrain

Whose mysteries you will not count as vain

A year in this same mountain lock’d with me?—

_Cipr._ Where she is?—

_Luc._ As I told you, where shall be

At least this mountain after a short labour

Has brought forth something better than a mouse;

And what then after a whole year’s gestation

Accomplish under our joint midwifery,

Under a bond by which you bind you mine

In fewer and no redder drops than needs

The leech of land or water when he bleeds?

Let us about—but first upon his base

The mountain we must study in replace,

That else might puzzle your geography.

Come, take your stand upon the deck with me,

Till with her precious cargo safe inside,

And all her forest-colours flying wide,

The mighty vessel put again to sea—

What, are you ready?—Wondrous smack,

As without a turn or tack

Hither come, so thither back,

And let subside the ruffled deep

Of earth to her primæval sleep.—

How steadily her course the good ship trims,

While Antioch far into the distance swims,

With all her follies bubbling in the wake;

Her scholars that more hum than honey make:

Muses so chaste as never of their kind

Would breed, and Cupid deaf as well as blind:

For Cipriano, wearied with the toil

Of so long working on a thankless soil,

At last embarking upon magic seas

In a more wondrous Argo than of old,

Sets sails with me for such Hesperides

As glow with more than dragon-guarded gold.

[_Exeunt._

ACT III

SCENE I.—_Before the mountain. CIPRIANO._

_Cipriano._ Now that at last in his eternal round

Hyperion, after skirting either pole,

Of his own race has set the flaming goal

In heaven of my probation under-ground:

Up from the mighty Titan with his feet

Touching the centre, and his forest-hair

Entangling with the stars; whose middle womb

Of two self-buried lives has been the tomb;

At last, my year’s apprenticeship complete,

I rise to try my cunning, and as one

Arm’d in the dark who challenges the sun.

You heavens, for me your azure brows with cloud

Contract, or to your inmost depth unshroud:

Thou sapphire-floating counterpart below,

Obsequious of my moon-like magic flow:

For me you mountains fall, you valleys rise,

With all your brooks and fountains far withdrawn;

You forests shudder underneath my sighs;

And whatsoever breathes in earth and skies;

You birds that on the bough salute the dawn;

And you wild creatures that through wood and glen

Do fly the hunter, or the hunter flies;

Yea, man himself, most terrible to men;

Troop to my word, about my footstep fawn;

Yea, ev’n you spirits that by viewless springs

Move and perplex the tangled web of things,

Wherever in the darkest crypt you lurk

Of nature, nature to my purpose work;

That not the dead material element,

But complicated with the life beyond

Up to pure spirit, shall my charm resent,

And take the motion of my magic wand;

And, once more shaken on her ancient throne,

In me old nature a new master own.

_Lucifer._ But how is this, Cipriano, that misled

By hasty passion you affront the day

Ere master of the art of darkness?

_Cipr._ Nay,

By that same blazing witness overhead

Standing in heaven to mark the time foretold,

Since first imprison’d in this mountain-hold

My magic so preluded with the dread

Preliminary kingdom of the dead,

That not alone the womb of general earth

Which Death has crowded thick with second birth,

But monuments with marble lips composed

To dream till doomsday, suddenly disclosed,

And woke their sleepers centuries too soon

To stare upon the old remember’d moon.

Wearied of darkness, I will see the day:

Sick of the dead, the living will assay:

And if the ghastly year I have gone through

Bear half its promised harvest, will requite

With a too warm good-morrow the long night

That one cold living heart consign’d me to.

_Luc._ Justina!

_Cipr._ Ay, Justina: now no more

Obsequiously sighing at the door

That never open’d, nor the heart of stone

On which so long I vainly broke my own;

But of her soul and body, when and how

I will, I claim the forfeit here and now.

_Luc._ Enough: the hour is come; do thou design

The earth with circle, pentagram, and trine,

The wandering airs with incantation twine;

While through her sleep-enchanted sense I shake

The virgin constancy I cannot break.

(_Clouds roll before the mountain, hiding CIPRIANO._)

Thou nether realm of darkness and despair,

Whose fire-enthronèd emperor am I;

Where many-knotted till the word they lie,

Your subtlest spirits at the word untie,

And breathe them softly to this upper air;

With subtle soft insinuation fair

Of foul result encompass and attaint

The chastity of the rebellious saint

Who dares the Spirit of this world defy.

Spirits that do shapeless float

In darkness as in light the mote,

At my summons straightway take

Likeness of the fairest make,

And, her sleeping sense about

Seal’d from all the world without,

Through the bolted eyelids creep;

Entheatre the walls of sleep

With an Eden where the sheen

Of the leaf and flower between

All is freshest, yet with Eve’s

Apple peeping through the leaves;

Through whose magic mazes may

Melancholy fancy stray

Till she lose herself, or into

Softer passion melt away:

While the scent-seducing rose

Gazing at her as she goes

With her turning as she turns,

Into her his passion burns;

While the wind among the boughs

Whispers half-remember’d vows;

Nightingale interpreters

Into their passion translate hers;

And the murmurs of a stream

Down one current draw the dream.

While for hidden chorus, I

At her dreaming ear supply

Such a comment as her own

Heart to nature’s shall atone:

Till the secret influence

Of the genial season even

Holy blood that sets to heaven

Draws into the lower sense;

Till array’d in angel guise

Earthly memories surprise

Ev’n the virgin soul, and win

Holy pity’s self to sin.

(_The clouds roll away, and discover JUSTINA asleep

in her chamber._)

_Lucifer_ (_at her ear_). Come forth, come forth, Justina, come;

for scared

Winter is vanish’d, and victorious Spring

Has hung her garland on the boughs he bared:

Come forth; there is a time for everything.

_Justina_ (_in her sleep_). That was my father’s voice—come, Livia—

My mantle—oh, not want it?—well then, come.

_Luc._ Ay, come abroad, Justina; it is Spring;

The world is not with sunshine and with leaf

Renew’d to be the tomb of ceaseless grief;

Come forth: there is a time for everything.

_Just._ How strange it is—

I think the garden never look’d so gay

As since my father died.

_Luc._ Ev’n so: for now,

Returning with the summer wind, the hours

Dipp’d in the sun re-dress the grave with flowers,

And make new wreaths for the survivor’s brow;

Whose spirit not to share were to refuse

The power that all creating, all renews

With self-diffusive warmth, that, with the sun’s,

At this due season through creation runs,

Nor in the first creation more express’d

Than by the singing builder of the nest

That waves on this year’s leaf, or by the rose

That underneath them in his glory glows;

Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving

Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.

_Chorus of Voices._ Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without

whose giving

Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.

_Song._

Who that in his hour of glory

Walks the kingdom of the rose,

And misapprehends the story

Which through all the garden blows;

Which the southern air who brings

It touches, and the leafy strings

Lightly to the touch respond;

And nightingale to nightingale

Answering a bough beyond—

_Chorus._

Nightingale to nightingale

Answering a bough beyond.

_Just._ These serenaders—singing their old songs

Under one’s window—

_Luc._ Ay, and if nature must decay or cease

Without it; what of nature’s masterpiece?

Not in her outward lustre only, but

Ev’n in the soul within the jewel shut;

What but a fruitless blossom; or a lute

Without the hand to touch it music-mute:

Incense that will not rise to heaven unfired;

By that same vernal spirit uninspired

That sends the blood up from the heart, and speaks

In the rekindled lustre of the cheeks?

_Chorus._ Life’s fountain, flower, and crown; without whose giving

Life itself were not, nor, without, worth living.

_Song._

Lo the golden Girasolé,

That to him by whom she burns,

Over heaven slowly, slowly,

As he travels ever turns;

And beneath the wat’ry main

When he sinks, would follow fain,

Follow fain from west to east,

And then from east to west again.

_Chorus._

Follow would from west to east,

And then from east to west again.

_Just._ He beckon’d us, and then again was gone;

Oh look! under the tree there, Livia—

Where he sits—reading—scholar-like indeed!—

With the dark hair that was so white upon

His shoulder—but how deadly pale his face!—

And, statue-still-like, the quaint evergreen

Up and about him creeps, as one has seen

Round some old marble in a lonely place.

_Luc._ Ay, look on that—for, as the story runs,

Ages ago, when all the world was young,

That ivy was a nymph of Latium,

Whose name was Hedera: so passing fair

That all who saw fell doting on her; but

Herself so icy-cruel, that her heart

Froze dead all those her eyes had set on fire.

Whom the just God who walk’d that early world,

By right-revenging metamorphosis

Changed to a thing so abject-amorous,

She grovels on the ground to catch at any

Wither’d old trunk or sapling, in her way:

So little loved as loathed, for strangling those

Whom once her deadly-deathless arms enclose.

_Song._

So for her who having lighted

In another heart the fire,

Then shall leave it unrequited

In its ashes to expire:

After her that sacrifice

Through the garden burns and cries;

In the sultry breathing air:

In the flowers that turn and stare—

‘What has she to do among us,

Falsely wise and frozen fair?’

_Luc._ Listen, Justina, listen and beware.

_Just._ Again! That voice too?—But you know my father

Is ill—is in his chamber—

How sultry ’tis—the street is full and close—

Let us get home—why do they stare at us?

And murmur something—‘Cipriano?—Where

Is Cipriano?—lost to us—some say,

And to himself,—self-slain—mad——Where is he?’

Alas, alas, I know not—

_Luc._ Come and see—

_Justina_ (_waking_). Mercy upon me! Who is this?

_Luc._ Justina, your good angel,

Who, moved by your relenting to the sighs

Of one who lost himself for your disdain,

Will lead you to the cavern where he lies

Subsisting on the memory of your eyes—

_Just._ ’Twas all a dream!—

_Luc._ That dreaming you fulfil.

_Just._ Oh, no, with all my waking soul renounce.

_Luc._ But, dreaming or awake, the soul is one,

And the deed purposed in Heaven’s eyes is done.

_Just._ Oh Christ! I cannot argue—I can pray,

Christ Jesus, oh, my Saviour, Jesu Christ!

Let not hell snatch away from Thee the soul

Thou gavest Thy life to save!—Livia!—Livia!

_Enter LIVIA._

Where is my father? where am I? Oh, I know—

In my own chamber—and my father—oh!—

But, Livia, who was it that but now

Was here—here in my very chamber—

_Livia._ Madam?

_Just._ You let none in? oh, no! I know it—but

Some one there was—here—now—as I cried out—

A dark, strange figure—

_Livia._ My child, compose yourself;

No one has come, or gone, since you were laid

In your noon-slumber. This was but a dream.

The air is heavy; and the melancholy

You live alone with since your father’s death—

_Just._ A dream, a dream indeed—oh Livia,

That leaves his pressure yet upon my arm—

And that without the immediate help of God

I had not overcome—Oh, but the soul,

The soul must be unsteady in the faith,

So to be shaken even by a dream.

Oh, were my father here! But he’s at rest—

I know he is—upon his Saviour’s breast;

And—who knows!—may have carried up my cries

Ev’n to His ear upon whose breast he lies!

Give me my mantle, Livia; I’ll to the church;

Where if but two or three are met in prayer

Together, He has promised to be there—

And I shall find Him.

_Livia._ Oh, take care, take care!

You know the danger—in broad daylight too—

Or take me with you.

_Just._ And endanger two?

Best serve us both by keeping close at home,

Praying for me as I will pray for you.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II.—_Entrance to the mountain cavern._

_CIPRIANO, in a magician’s dress, with wand, etc._

What! do the powers of earth, and air, and hell,

Against their upstart emperor rebel?

Lo, in obedience to the rubric dark

The dusky cheek of earth with mystic mark

Of pentagram and circle I have lined,

And hung my fetters on the viewless wind,

And yet the star of stars, for whose ascent

I ransack all the lower firmament,

In unapparent darkness lags behind:

Whom once again with adjuration new

Of all the spirits whom these signs subdue,

Whether by land or water, night or day,

Whether awake or sleeping, yea or nay,

I summon now before me.—

_Enter slowly a veiled Figure of JUSTINA._

_The Figure._ What dark spell

From the sequester’d sadness of my cell,

Through the still garden, through the giddy street,

And up the solitary mountain-side,

Leads me with sleep-involuntary feet?—

_Cipr._ ’Tis she, as yet though clouded!—oh divine

Justina!—

_The Figure._ Cipriano!—

_Cipr._ At last here,

In such a chamber where ev’n Phœbus fails

To pierce, and baffled breezes tell no tales,

At last, to crown the labour of a year

Of solitary toil and darkness—here!—

And at a price beside—but none too dear—

Oh year-long night well borne for such a day!

Oh soul, for one such sense well sold away!

Oh Now that makes for all the past amends,

Oh moment that eternal life transcends

To such a point of ecstasy, that just

About to reap the wishes that requite

All woes—

_The Figure_ (_unveiling a skull and vanishing as it speaks_).

Behold, the World and its delight

Is dust and ashes, dust and ashes; dust—

_Cipr._ (_flinging down his wand_). Lucifer! Lucifer! Lucifer!—

_Luc._ My son!

_Cipr._ Quick! With a word—

_Luc._ How now?—

_Cipr._ With a word—at once—

With all your might—

_Luc._ Well, what with it?—

_Cipr._ The charm—

Shatter it! shatter it, I say!—Is ’t done?

Is ’t vanish’d—

_Luc._ What has thus unsensed you?

_Cipr._ Oh!—

You know it—saw it—did it—

_Luc._ Come—be a man:

What, scared with a mere death’s-head?

_Cipr._ Death’s, indeed!—

_Luc._ What was it more?—

_Cipr._ Justina’s seeming self—

After what solitary labour wrought,

And after what re-iterated charms,

Step by step here in all her beauty brought

Within the very circle of these arms,

Then to death’s grisly lineaments resign’d

Slipp’d through them, and went wailing down the wind

‘Ashes and dust and ashes’—

Nay, nay, pretend not that the fault was mine—

The written incantation line by line

I mutter’d, and the mystic figure drew;

You only are to blame—you only, you,

Cajoling me, or by your own cajoled,

Bringing me fleshless death for the warm life

For which my own eternal life is sold.

_Luc._ You were too rash,—I warn’d you, and if not,

Who thinks at a first trial to succeed?

Another time—

_Cipr._ No, no! No more of it!

What, have I so long dabbled with the dead,

That all I touch turns to corruption?

Was it indeed herself—her living self—

Till underneath my deadly contact slain;

Or having died during the terrible year

I have been living worse than dead with you,

What I beheld not she, but what she was,

Out of the tomb that only owns my spell

Drawn into momentary lifeliness

To mock me with the phantom of a beauty

Whose lineaments the mere impalpable air

Let in upon disfeatures—Was it she?

_Luc._ She lives, and shall be yours.

_Cipr._ Not if herself,

In more than all her living beauty breathing,

Come to efface that deadly counterfeit.—

Oh, what have I been doing all this while,

From which I wake as from a guilty dream,

But with my guilt’s accomplice at my side

To prove its terrible reality?

Where were my ears, my eyes, my senses? where

The mother-wit which serves the common boor,

Not to resent that black academy,

Mess-mating with dead men and living fiends,

And not to know no good could come of it?—

My better self—the good that in me grew

By nature, and by good instruction till’d,

Under your shadow turn’d to poisonous weed;

And ev’n the darker art you bribed me with,

To master, if by questionable ways,

The power I sigh’d for in my better days,

So little reaching to the promised height,

As sinking me beneath the lowest fiend,

Who, for the inestimable self I sold,

Pays the false self you made me with false gold!

_Luc._ When will blind fury, falling foul of all,

Light where it should? Suppose a fault so far,

As knowledge working through unpractised hands

Might fail at first encounter; all men know

How a mere sand will check a vast machine;

And in these complicated processes

An agency so insignificant

As to be wholly overlook’d it was

At the last moment foil’d us.

_Cipr._ But she lives!

Lives—from your clutches saved, and saved from mine—

Ev’n from that only shadow of my guilt

That could have touch’d her, saved—unguilty shame,

That now is left with all the guilt to me.

Oh that I knew a God in all the heavens

To thank, or ev’n of Tartarus—ev’n thee,

Thee would I bless, whatever power it be

That with that shadow saved her, and mock’d me

Back to my better senses. If not she,

What was it?

_Luc._ What you saw.

_Cipr._ A phantom?

_Luc._ Well,

A phantom.

_Cipr._ But how raised?

_Luc._ What if by her?

She is a sorcerer as her father was.

_Cipr._ A sorcerer! She a sorcerer! oh, black lie

To whiten your defeat! and, were it true,

Oh mighty doctor to be foil’d at last

By a mere woman!—If a sorcerer,

Then of a sort you deal not with, nor hell—

And ev’n Olympus likes the sport too well—

Raising a phantom not to draw me down

To deeper sin, but with its ghastly face

And hollow voice both telling of the tomb

They came from, warning me of what complexion

Were all the guilty wishes of this world.

But let the phantom go where gone it is—

Not of what mock’d me, but what saved herself,

By whatsoever means—ay, what was it,

That pitiful agency you told me of

So insignificant, as overlook’d

At the last moment thwarted us?

_Luc._ What matter?

When now provided for, and which when told

You know not—

_Cipr._ Which I will be told to know—

For as one ris’n from darkness tow’rd the light,

A veil seems clearing from before my sight—

She is a sorcerer, and of the kind

That old Lisandro died suspected of?—

Oh cunning doctor, to outwit yourself,

Outwitted as you have been, and shall be

By him who if your devilish magic fail’d

To teach its purposed mischief,

Thus on his teacher turns it back in full

To force him to confess the counter-power

That foil’d us both.

(_He catches up his wand._)

_Luc._ Poor creature that you are!

Did not the master from his scholars hold

One sleight of hand that masters all the rest,

What magic needed to compel the devil

To convict those who find him out too late?

Yet to increase your wrath by leaving it

Blind in the pit your guilt consigns you to,

I shall not answer—

_Cipr._ Then if your own hell

Cannot enforce you; by that Unknown Power

That saved Justina from your fangs, although

Yourself you cannot master, if you know,

I charge you name him to me!—

_Luc._ (_after a great flash of lightning, and thunder_).

Jesus Christ!

_Cipr._ (_after a pause_). Ev’n so!—Christ Jesus—Jesus Christ—the same

That poor Lisandro died suspected of,

And I had heard and read of with the rest

But to despise, in spite of all the blood

By which the chosen few their faith confess’d—

The prophet-carpenter of Nazareth,

Poor, persecuted, buffeted, reviled,

Spit upon, crown’d with thorns, and crucified

With thieves—the Son of God—the Son of man,

Whose shape He took to teach them how to live,

And doff’d upon the cross to do away

The sin and death you and your devil-deities

Had heap’d on him from the beginning?

_Luc._ Yea!—

_Cipr._ Of the one sun of Deity one ray

That was before the world was, and that made

The world and all that is within it?

_Luc._ Yea!

_Cipr._ Eternal and Almighty then: and yet

Infinite Centre as he is of all

The all but infinite universe he made,

With eyes to see me plotting, and with ear

To hear one solitary creature pray,

From one dark corner of his kingdom?

_Luc._ Yea!

_Cipr._ All one, all when, all where, all good, all mighty,

All eye, all ear, all self-integrity—

Methinks this must be He of whom I read

In Greek and Roman sages dimly guess’d,

But never until now fully confess’d

In this poor carpenter of Nazareth,

With poor Justina for his confessor—

And now by thee—by thee—once and again

Spite of thyself—for answer me you must,

Convicted at the bar of your own thunder—

Is this the God for whom I sought so long

In mine own soul and those of other men,

Who from the world’s beginning till to-day

Groped or were lost in utter darkness?

_Luc._ Yea!

_Cipr._ Enough; and your confession shall be mine—

_Luc._ And to like purpose; to believe, confess,

And tremble, in the everlasting fire

Prepared for all who Him against their will

Confess, and in their deeds deny Him—

_Cipr._ Oh,

Like a flogg’d felon after full confession

Released at last!

_Luc._ To bind you mine for ever.

_Cipr._ Thine! What art thou?

_Luc._ The god whom you must worship.

_Cipr._ There is no God but one, whom you and I

Alike acknowledge, as in Jesus Christ

Reveal’d to man. What other god art thou?

_Luc._ Antichrist! He that all confessing Christ

Confess; Satan, the Serpent, the first Tempter,

Who tempted the first Father of mankind

With the same offer to a like result

That I have tempted thee with; yea, had power

Even Him in His humanity to tempt,

Though Him in vain; the god of this world; if

False god, true devil; true angel as I was,

Son of the morning, Lucifer, who fell

(As first I told thee, had’st thou ears to hear)

For my rebellion down from heaven to hell

More terrible than any Tartarus,

Where over those who fell with me I reign.

Whom, though with them bound in the self-same chain

Of everlasting torment, God allows

To reach my hands out of my prison-house

On all who like me from their God rebel,

As thou hast done.

_Cipr._ Not when for God I knew Him.

_Luc._ Ay, but who but for pride and lust like mine

Had known Him sooner—

_Cipr._ And had sooner known

But for thy lying gods that shut Him out.

_Luc._ Which others much less wise saw through before.

_Cipr._ All happy they then! But all guilty I,

Yet thus far guiltless of denying Him

Whom even thou confessest.

_Luc._ But too late—

Already mine, if not so sworn before,

Yet by this bond—

_Cipr._ For service unperform’d!

But unperform’d, or done, and payment due,

I fling myself and all my debt on Him

Who died to undertake them—

_Luc._ He is the Saviour of the innocent,

Not of the guilty.

_Cipr._ Who alone need saving!

_Luc._ Damnation is the sinner’s just award,

And He is just.

_Cipr._ And being just, will not

For wilful blindness tax the want of light:

And All-good as Almighty, and therefore

As merciful as just, will not renounce

Ev’n the worst sinner who confesses Him,

And testifies confession with his blood.

Which, not to waste a moment’s argument,

Too like the old logic that I lost my life in,

And hangs for ever dead upon the cross;

I will forthwith shout my confession,

Into the general ear of Antioch,

And from the evidence of thine own mouth,

Not thee alone, but all thy lying gods,

Convict; and you convicting before God,

Myself by man’s tribunal judged and damn’d,

Trust by my own blood mixing with the tide

That flow’d for me from the Redeemer’s side,

From those few damning drops to wash me free

That bound me thine for ever—

_Lucifer_ (_seizing him_). Take my answer—

_Cipriano_ (_escaping_). Oh, Saviour of Justina, save Thou me!

[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.—_The Hall of Justice in Antioch._

_AURELIO, FABIO, SENATORS, etc., just risen from Council._

_Aurelio._ You have done well indeed; the very Church

These Christians flock’d to for safe blasphemy

Become the very net to catch them in.

How many, think you?

_Fabio._ Not so many, sir,

As some that are of the most dangerous.

_Aur._ Among the rest this girl, Lisandro’s daughter,

As you and I know, Fabio, to our cost:

But now convicted and condemn’d is safe

From troubling us or Antioch any more.

Come, such good service asks substantial thanks;

What shall it be?

_Fabio._ No other, if you please,

Than my son Floro’s liberation,

Whom not without good reason for so long

You keep under the city’s lock and key.

_Aur._ As my own Lelio, and for a like cause;

Who both distracted by her witchery

Turn’d from fast friends to deadly enemies,

And, in each other’s lives, so aim’d at ours.

But no more chance of further quarrel now

For one whom Death anticipates for bride

Ere they again gird weapon at their side,

Set them both free forthwith.—

[_Exit FABIO._

This cursèd woman whose fair face and foul

Behaviour was the city’s talk and trouble,

Now proved a sorceress, is well condemn’d;

Not only for my sake and Fabio’s,

But for all Antioch, whose better youth

She might, like ours, have carried after her

Through lust and duel into blasphemy.

_Re-enter FABIO with LELIO and FLORO._

_Lelio._ Once more, sir, at your feet—

_Aur._ Up, both of you.

Floro and Lelio, you understand

What I have done was of no testy humour,

But for three several sakes—

Your own, your fathers’, and the city’s peace.

Henceforward, by this seasonable use

Of public law for private purpose check’d,

Your fiery blood to better service turn.

Take hands, be friends; the cause of quarrel gone—

_Lelio._ The cause of quarrel gone!—

_Aur._ Be satisfied;

You will know better by and bye; meanwhile

Taking upon my word that so it is;

Which were it not indeed, you were not here

To doubt.

_Floro_ (_aside_). Oh flimsy respite of revenge!—

_Aur._ And now the business of the day well crown’d

With this so happy reconciliation,

You and I, Fabio, to our homes again,

Our homes once more, replenish’d with the peace

We both have miss’d so long.—What noise is that?

(_Cries without._) Stop him! A madman! Stop him!—

_Aur._ What is it, Fabio?

_Fabio._ One like mad indeed,

In a strange garb, with flaring eyes, and hair

That streams behind him as he flies along,

Dragging a cloud of rabble after him.

_Aur._ This is no place for either—shut the doors,

And post the soldiers to keep peace without—

(_Cries without._) Stop him!

_Floro and Lelio._ ’Tis Cipriano!—

_Aur._ Cipriano!—

_Enter CIPRIANO._