University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

A Room in Don Felix's House.—Felix and Hernando; to whom Enter Juan.
Fel.
Well, Juan, and how slept you?

Juan.
As one must
In your house, Felix; had not such a thought
No house can quiet woke me long ere dawn.

Fel.
Indeed! How so?

Juan.
Felix, the strangest thing—
But now we are alone I'll tell you all.
Last night—the very moment that I saw
That angel at the window, as at Heaven's gate—
The fire that I myself had thought half dead
Under the ashes of so long an absence,
Sprung up anew into full blaze. Alas!
But one brief moment did she dawn on us,
Then set, to rise no more all the evening,
Watch as I would. But day is come again,
And as I think, Felix, the holyday
When our new Queen shall make her solemn entry
Into Madrid; and she, my other Queen,
Will needs be up—be up and out betimes;
So I forestall the sun in looking for her,
And now will to the door beneath her window
Better to watch her rising.
But, as you love me, not a word of this
Breathe to Don Pedro.

[Exit.
Fel.
And does he think
Because his memory of her is quick,
Hers is of him? Aha!

Hern.
Nay, if he like it,
“Oh let him be deceiv'd!”

Fel.
'Twas wisely said
By him who self-deception us'd to call
The cheapest and the dearest thing of all.
Ha! here's the other swain! and now to see
How he has prosper'd. I begin to think
My house is turn'd into a Lazar-house
Of crazy lovers.
(Enter Pedro.)
Good day, Don Pedro.

Ped.
As it needs must be
To one who hails it in your house, and opposite
My lady's! Oh, you cannot think, my Felix,
With what a blessed conscience of all this
I woke this morning! I can scarcely believe 't.
Why, in your house, I shall have chance on chance,
Nay, certainty of seeing her—to-day
Most certainly. But I'll go post myself
Before the door; she will be out betimes
To mass.

Fel.
Well, you will find Don Juan there.

Ped.
Eh? Well, so much the better, I can do't
With less suspicion, nay, with none at all
If you will go with us. Only, Don Felix,
Breathe not a word to him about my love.

As he is going, re-enter Juan.
Fel.
Juan again?

Juan.
I only came to ask
What church we go to? (Aside to Fel.)
Let us keep at home.

Fel.
Don Pedro, what say you?

Ped.
Oh, where you please.
(Aside.)
Stir not!

Fel.
(aside).
How easy to oblige two friends
Who ask the same, albeit with diverse ends!
(Aloud.)
What, are your worships both in love, perhaps,
As Spanish cavaliers are bound to be,
And think I've nothing else to do, forsooth,
Than follow each upon his wildgoose chase?
Forgetting I may take 't into my head
To fall in love myself—perhaps with one,
Or both, of those fair ladies chance has brought
Before my windows. Now I think upon't,
I am, or mean to be, in love with one;
And, to decide with which, I'll e'en wait here
Till they both sally forth to church themselves.
So, gentlemen, would you my company,
I must not go with you, you stay with me.

Ped.
Willingly.

Juan.
Oh, most willingly! (Aside to Fel.)
How well
You manag'd it.

Ped.
(aside to Fel.)
'Tis just as I could wish.

Fel.
(aside).
And just as I, if thereby I shall learn
Whether they love the same; and, if the same,
Whether the one—But come, come! 'tis too late
For wary me to wear love's cap and bells.

Juan.
Since we must do your bidding on this score,
We'll e'en make you do ours upon another,
And make you tell us, as you promis'd both,
And owe to me—what, when our Queen was landed,
You fine folks of Madrid did in her honour.

Ped.
Ay, if you needs will fetter our free time,
Help us at least to pass it by the story
You had begun.

Fel.
Well then, to pick it up
Where Juan left it for us, on the shore.
There, when our Queen was landed, as I hear,
The Countess Medellin, her Chamberlain,
Of the Cordona family, receiv'd her,
And the Lord Admiral on the King's part,
With pomp that needed no excuse of haste,
And such a retinue (for who claims not
To be the kinsman, friend, or follower,
Of such a name?) as I believe Castile
Was almost drain'd to follow in his wake.
Oh, noble house! in whom the chivalry
Of courage, blameless worth, and loyalty,
Is nature's patent of inheritance
From generation to generation!
And so through ringing Spain, town after town,
And every town a triumph, on they pass'd.
Madrid meanwhile—

Juan.
Stop, stop! They're coming out!

Ped.
Where! Let me see.

Juan.
The servant only.

Fel.
Nay,
They'll follow soon.

Juan.
Till when, on with your story.

Fel.
Madrid then, sharing in the general joy
Of her king's marriage, and with one whose mother
Herself had nurst—though, as you said, half sick
Of hope deferr'd, had, at the loyal call,
That never fails in Spain, drawn to her heart
The life-blood of the realm's nobility
To do her honour; not only when she came,
But, in anticipation of her coming,
With such prelusive pomps, as if you turn
Far up time's stream as history can go,
In hymeneals less august than these,
You shall find practis'd—torchéd troop and masque,
With solemn and preliminary dance,
Epithalamium and sacrifice,
Invoking Hymen's blessing. So Madrid,
Breathing new Christian life in Pagan pomp,
With such epithalamium as all Spain
Rais'd up to Heav'n, into sweet thunder tun'd
Beyond all science by a people's love,
Began her pageant. First, the nightly masque,
So fair as I have never seen the like,
Nor shall again; nor which, unless you draw
On your imagination for the type
Of what I tell, can I depict to you;
When, to the sound of trumpet and recorder,
The chiming poles of Spain and Germany
Beginning, drew the purple mountain down,
Glittering with veins of ore and silver trees,
All flower'd with plumes, and taper-starr'd above,
With monster and volcano breathing fire,
While to and fro torch-bearing maskers ran
Like meteors; all so illuminating night,
That the succeeding sun hid pale in cloud,
And wept with envy, till he dawn'd at length
Upon the famous Amphitheatre,
Which, in its masonry out-doing all
That Rome of a like kind in ruin shows,
This day out-did itself,
In number, rank, and glory of spectators,
Magnificence of retinue, multitude,
Size, beauty, and courage, of the noble beasts
Who came to dye its yellow dust with blood;
As each horn'd hero of the cloven hoof,
Broad-chested, and thick-neckt, and wrinkle-brow'd,
Rush'd roaring in, and tore the ground with's foot,
As saying, “Lo! this grave is yours or mine!”
While that yet nobler beast, noblest of all,
Who knights the very knighthood that he carries,
Proud in submission to a nobler will,
Spurn'd all his threats, and, touch'd by the light spur,
His rider glittering like a god aloft,
Turn'd onset into death. Fight follow'd fight,
Till darkness came at last, sending Madrid
Already surfeited with joy, to dream
Of greater, not unanxious that the crown
And centre of the centre of the world
Should not fall short of less renowned cities
In splendour of so great a celebration;
While too the hundreds of a hundred nations,
In wonder or in envy cramm'd her streets;
Until her darling come at last, whose spouse
Shall lay his own two empires at her feet,
And crown her thrice; as Niece, and Spouse, and Queen.

Juan.
A charming story, finish just in time,
For look! (They look out.)


Fel.
That is the father, Don Alonso.

Juan.
Indeed!

Ped.
(aside).
That's he then! But that strange man with him,
Who's he?

Hern.
Oh, I can tell you that;
His nephew, an Asturian gentleman,
Betroth'd to one of the daughters.

Juan
(aside).
Not to mine!

Ped.
(aside).
Not my Eugenia, or by Heav'n—
But we shall scarcely see them, Felix, here,
Wrapt in their mantles too.

Fel.
And I would pay
My compliment to Don Alonso.

Juan.
Come,
Let us go down with you into the street.
(Aside.)
Oh love, that in her memory survive
One thought of me, not dead if scarce alive!

Ped.
(aside).
Oh, may her bosom whisper her 'tis still
Her eyes that draw me after where they will!

[Exeunt.