 | The Painter of His Own Dishonour |  |
Scene I.
A room in Don Juan's house at Barcelona: he is discovered painting Serafina. It gradually grows dusk.Juan.
Are you not wearied sitting?
Serafina.
Surely not
Till you be wearied painting.
Juan.
Oh, so much
As I have wish'd to have that divine face
Painted, and by myself, I now begin
To wish I had not wish'd it.
Ser.
But why so?
Juan.
Because I must be worsted in the trial
I have brought on myself.
Ser.
You to despair,
Who never are outdone but by yourself!
Juan.
Even so.
Ser.
But why so?
Shall I tell you why?
Painters, you know, (just turn your head a little,)
Are nature's apes, whose uglier semblances,
Made up of disproportion and excess,
Like apes, they easily can imitate:
But whose more gracious aspect, the result
Of subtlest symmetries, they only outrage,
Turning true beauty into caricature.
The perfecter her beauty, the more complex
And hard to follow; but her perfection
Impossible.
Ser.
That I dare say is true,
But surely not in point with me, whose face
Is surely far from perfect.
Juan.
Far indeed
From what is perfect call'd, but far beyond,
Not short of it; so that indeed my reason
Was none at all.
Ser.
Well now then the true reason
Of your disgust.
Juan.
Yet scarcely my disgust,
When you continue still the cause of it.
Well then, to take the matter up again—
The object of this act, (pray, look at me,
And do not laugh, Serafina,) is to seize
Those subtlest symmetries that, as I said,
Are subtlest in the loveliest; and though
It has been half the study of my life
To recognise and represent true beauty,
I had not dreamt of such excess of it
As yours; nor can I, when before my eyes,
Take the clear image in my trembling soul;
And therefore if that face of yours exceed
Imagination, and imagination
(As it must do) the pencil; then my picture
Can be but the poor shadow of a shade.
Besides,—
Ser.
Can there be any thing besides?
Juan.
'Tis said that fire and light, and air and snow,
Cannot be painted; how much less a face
Where they are so distinct, yet so compounded,
As needs must drive the artist to despair!
I'll give it up.— (Throws away his brushes, &c.)
The light begins to fail too.
If, tempted ever by your loveliness,
And fresh presumption that forgets defeat,
I'd have you sit again, allow me not,—
It does but vex me.
Ser.
Nay, if it do that
I will not, Juan, or let me die for it,—
Come, there's an oath upon't.
Juan.
A proper curse
On that rebellious face.
Enter Leonelo.
Leonelo.
And here comes in a story:—
A man got suddenly deaf, and seeing the people about
him moving their lips, quoth he, “What the devil makes
you all dumb?” never thinking for a moment the fault
might be in himself. So it is with you, who lay the blame
on a face that all the world is praising, and not on your
own want of skill to paint it.
Juan.
Not a very apt illustration, Leonelo, as you would
admit if you heard what I was saying before you came in.
But, whose soever the fault, I am the sufferer. I will no
more of it, however. Come, I will abroad.
Ser.
Whither, my lord?
Juan.
Down to the pier, with the sea and the fresh air,
to dispel my vexation.
Ser.
By quitting me?
Juan.
I might indeed say so, since the sight of you is
the perpetual trophy of my defeat. But what if I leave
you in order to return with a double zest?
Ser.
Nay, nay, with no such pretty speeches hope to delude
me; I know what it is. The carnival with its fair
masks.
Juan.
A mask abroad when I have that face at home!
Ser.
Nay, nay, I know you.
Juan.
Better than I do myself?
Ser.
What wife does not?
Leon.
Just so. A German and the priest of his village
coming to high words one day, because the man blew his
swine's horn under the priest's window, the priest calls
out in a rage, “I'll denounce your horns to the parish, I
will!” which the man's wife overhearing in the scullery,
she cries out, “Halloa, neighbour, here is the priest revealing
my confession!”
What impertinence, Leonelo.
Leon.
Very well then, listen to this; a certain man in
Barcelona had five or six children, and one day—
Juan.
Peace, foolish fellow.
Leon.
Those poor children will never get the meat well
into their mouths.
Juan.
Farewell, my love, awhile.
[Exeunt Juan and Leonelo.
Ser.
Farewell, my lord.
Thou little wicked Cupid,
I am amused to find how by degrees
The wound your arrows in my bosom made,
And made to run so fast with tears, is healing.
Yea, how those very arrows and the bow
That did such mischief, being snapt asunder—
Thyself art tamed to a good household child.
Enter Flora, out of breath.
Flora.
O madam!
Ser.
Well, Flora, what now?
Flora.
O madam, there is a man down-stairs!
Ser.
Well?
Flora.
Drest sailor-like.
Ser.
Well?
Flora.
He will not go away unless I give this letter into
your hands.
Ser.
Into my hands? from whom?
Flora.
From the lady Porcia he says, madam.
Ser.
From Porcia, well, and what frightens you?
Flora.
Nothing, madam, and yet—
Ser.
And yet there is something.
Flora.
O, my lady, if this should be Don Alvaro!
Ser.
Don Alvaro! what makes you think that?
Flora.
I am sure it is he.
Ser.
But did you tell him you knew him?
Flora.
I could not help, madam, in my surprise.
Ser.
And what said he then?
Flora.
That I must tell you he was here.
Ser.
Alvaro!—
Flora, go back, tell him you dared not tell me,
Fearful of my rebuke, and say beside,
As of your own advice, that it is fit,
Both for himself and me,
Flora.
Yes, madam,
As she is going, enter Alvaro, as a Sailor.
Alv.
No need. Seeing Don Juan leave his house,
I have made bold to enter, and have heard
What Flora need not to repeat.
Ser.
Nay, sir,
Rather it seems as if you had not heard;
Seeing the most emphatic errand was
To bid you hence.
Alv.
So might it seem perhaps,
Inexorable beauty: but you know
How one delinquency another breeds;
And having come so far, and thus disguised,
Only to worship at your shrine, Serafina,
(I dare not talk of love,) I do beseech you
Do not so frown at my temerity,
As to reject the homage that it brings.
Ser.
Don Alvaro,
If thus far I have listen'd, think it not
Warrant of further importunity.
I could not help it—'tis with dread and terror
That I have heard thus much; I now beseech you,
Since you profess you came to honour me,
Show that you did so truly by an act
That shall become your honour well as mine.
Alv.
Speak, Serafina.
Ser.
Leave me so at once,
And without further parley,
That I may be assured you are assured
That lapse of time, my duty as a wife,
My husband's love for me, and mine for him,
My station and my name, all have so changed me,
That winds and waves might sooner overturn
Not the oak only,
But the eternal rock on which it grows,
Than you my heart, though sea and sky themselves
Join'd in the tempest of your sighs and tears.
Alv.
But what if I remember other times
When Serafina was no stubborn oak,
Resisting wind and wave, but a fair flower
That open'd to the sun of early love,
No barren heartless rock,
But a fair temple in whose sanctuary
Love was the idol, daily and nightly fed
With sacrifice of one whole human heart.
Ser.
I do not say 'twas not so;
But, sir, to carry back the metaphor
Your ingenuity has turn'd against me,
That tender flower, transplanted it may be
To other skies and soil, might in good time
Strike down such roots and strengthen such a stem
As were not to be shook: the temple, too,
Though seeming slight to look on, being yet
Of nature's fundamental marble built,
When once that foolish idol was dethroned,
And the true God set up into his place,
Might stand unscathed in sanctity and worship,
For ages and for ages.
Alv.
Serafina,
Why talk to me of ages, when the account
Of my misfortune and your cruelty
Measures itself by hours, and not by years!
It was but yesterday you loved me, yes,
Loved me, and (let the metaphor run on)
I never will believe it ever was,
Or is, or ever can be possible
That the fair flower so soon forgot the sun
To which so long she owed and turn'd her beauty,
To love the baser mould in which she grew:
Or that the temple could so soon renounce
Her old god, true god too while he was there,
For any cold and sober deity
Which you may venerate, but cannot love,
Newly set up.
Ser.
I must leave metaphor,
And take to sober sense; nor is it right
Alvaro, that you strive
To choke the virtuous present with the past,
Which, when it was the past, was virtuous too,
But would be guilty if reiterate.
Nor is it right, nor courteous, certainly,
Doubting what I declare of my own heart;
Nay, you who do yourself affirm, Alvaro,
How well I loved you when such love was lawful,
That love is now another's.
Alv.
Serafina—
Juan
(speaking within).
Light, light, there!
Enter Flora hurriedly.
Flora.
Madam, my lord, my lord.
Alv.
Confusion!
Ser.
O ye heavens!
Flora.
The old lover's story,
Brother or husband sure to interrupt.
Juan
(within).
A light there, Flora! Serafina! night
Set in, and not a lamp lit in the house?
Alv.
He comes.
Ser.
And I am lost!
Flora.
Quick, Don Alvaro,
Into this closet, till my lord be gone
Into his chamber; in, in, in!
Alv.
My fears
Are all for you, not for myself.
[Hides in the closet.
Flora.
In, in!
Juan.
(entering).
How is it there's no light?
Ser.
She had forgot—
But here it comes.
Enter Flora with lights.
'Twas kind of you, my lord,
So quickly back again—
Sooner than I expected.
Juan.
Yes, a friend
Caught hold of me just as I reach'd the pier,
And told me to get home again.
Ser.
(aside).
My heart!
Juan.
And wherefore do you think?
Ser.
Nay, I know not.
Juan.
To tell you of a festival, Serafina,
Preparing in your honour.
Ser.
(aside).
I breathe again.
Juan.
The story's this. It is the carnival,
You know, and, by a very ancient usage,
To-morrow all the folk of Barcelona,
Highest as well as lowest, men and women,
Go abroad mask'd to dance and see the shows.
And you being newly come, they have devised
In Don Diego's palace, looking forth
So pleasantly (do you remember it?)
Upon the sea. And therefore for their sakes,
And mine, my Serafina, you must for once
Eclipse that fair face with the ugly mask;
I'll find you fitting dress,—what say you?
Ser.
Nay,
What should I say but that your will is mine,
In this as evermore?
And now you speak of dress, there are ev'n now
Some patterns brought me in the nick of time
To choose from, in my chamber; prithee come,
And help me judge.
Juan.
I would that not your robe
Only, but all the ground on which you walk
Were laced with diamond.
Ser.
What not done yet
With compliment? Come—come.
(She takes a light.)
Juan.
But wherefore this?
Ser.
My duty is to wait upon you.
Juan.
No.
Take the lamp, Flora.
Ser.
Flora waits on me,
And I on you.
Juan.
What humour's this?
But be it as you will.
[Exeunt Juan and Serafina.
Flora
(letting out Alvaro).
Now is the time, Signor Alvaro! hist!
The coast is clear, but silently and swiftly—
Follow—but, hush! stop! wait!
Alv.
What now?
Flora.
A moment!
Back, back, 'tis Leonelo.
Alv.
Put out the light, I can slip past him.
Flora
(falls putting out light).
No sooner said than done. O Lord, Lord, Lord.
Enter Leonelo.
Leon.
What is the matter?
Flora.
The matter is, I have fallen.
Leon.
Into temptation?
Flora.
It is well, sir, if I have not broken my leg; here,
sir, cease your gibing, and get this lamp lighted directly.
(stumbling over Alvaro).
Halloa!
Flora.
What now?
Leon.
I've fallen now, and on your temptation I think,
for it has got a beard.
Alv.
(groping his way).
The fool! but I can find the
door.
[Exit.
Leon.
There goes some one!
Flora.
The man's mad!
Leon.
Am I! Halloa! halloa, there!
Enter Juan with light.
Juan.
What is the matter?
Flora.
Nothing, nothing, my lord.
Leon.
Nothing? I say it is something, a great—
Flora.
My lord, going to shut the door, I stumbled, fell,
and put out the light, that's all.
Leon.
And I stumbled too.
Juan.
Well?
Leon.
Over a man?
Juan.
In this chamber!
Leon.
Yes, and—
Flora.
Nonsense! my lord, he stumbled against me, as
we both floundered in the dark.
Leon.
You! What have you done with your beard then?
Juan.
Are you mad? or is this some foolery?
Leon.
My lord, I swear I stumbled over a fellow here.
Juan
(aside).
And she so anxious to light me to her
chamber! what is all this? Take the lamp, Leonelo.
Though partly I think you have been dreaming, I will yet
search the house; come with me. I will draw the sting of
suspicion at once, come what come may.
[Draws sword and exit.
Flora
(to Leon.).
All of your work. A murrain on your head,
Making this pother.
Leon.
Minx! what is said, is said.
[Exeunt severally.
| The Painter of His Own Dishonour | |