 | The Painter of His Own Dishonour |  |
Scene I.
A Room in Don Luis' country-house near Naples. Enter Don Luis reading a letter.Luis.
“You bid me tell you why it is Don Juan Roca has
not written to you so long: and though it be pain to do so,
I dare no longer defer answering you. At a carnival dance
here, the palace of Don Diego de Cordona, in which the festival
was held, took fire so suddenly, as people had much
ado to escape with their lives. Don Juan's wife fainting
from terror, he carried her out, and gave her in charge to a
sailor standing near, while he himself returned to help at
the fire. No doubt this sailor was a pirate: for he carried
her off to his ship and set sail immediately. Don Juan returning
and finding her gone rushes madly after; casts himself
into the sea in his rage and desperation; is rescued half
drowned, and taken to his house, from which he was missed
—he and his servant Leonelo—some days ago, taking scarce
any thing with him, and leaving no hint of whither he is
gone. And since that hour we have heard nothing of him,
or of Serafina.”
O heavens! to what chance and danger is
The fortune of the happiest, and still more,
The honour of the noblest, liable!
Ill fortune we may bear, and, if we choose,
Sit folded in despair with dignity;
But honour needs must wince before a straw,
And never rest until it be avenged.
To know where Juan is, and by his side
To put myself, and run all risk with him
Till he were righted, and the offender too,
I'd give my life and all I'm worth; no corner
In the wide earth but we would ferret it,
Until—Porcia!
Enter Porcia.
Por.
Pray, sir, pardon me,
But I would know what vexes you, you stand
Angrily talking to yourself alone:
This letter in your hand—What is it, sir?
Nothing, nothing, Porcia; (for Juan's sake
I must dissemble)—Nay, I have received
A letter upon business that annoys me.
Por.
I'm sorry, sir, for that, for I had come
To ask a favour of you.
Luis.
Well, why not?
Por.
They say that those who ask unseasonably
Must be content with a refusal.
Luis.
Nay,
Between us two no season's out of season.
Por.
So? then I'll ask. Alvaro—
Luis.
All but that!
Ask me not that way.
Por.
Then 'tis not the season.
Luis.
The season for all else but that which never
Can be in season. How often have I told you
Never to speak to me again of him!
Por.
What has my brother done, sir, after all,
To make you so inveterate?
Luis.
What done!
To leave my house, to which I only just
Had welcom'd him as only a father can,
Without adieu, or word of when or where,
And then as suddenly come back, forsooth,
Knock at my door, as if he had but made
A morning call, and think to find it open—
It and my heart—open to him as ever.
Por.
But may not, sir, the thoughtlessness of youth
Be some excuse? Pray you remember, sir,
How on a sudden you yourself determin'd
To leave the cheerful city and come here,
Among dull woods and fields, and savage people;
And surely 'twas no wonder that my brother
Should, ill advis'd, no doubt, but naturally,
Slip for a month back to the busy world
To which his very dangers had endear'd him.
And now to prove
How much he feels your anger and his fault,
Since his return he has lived quietly,
I might say almost eremitically,
Up in the mountain, yet more solitary
And still than this is, doing penance there.
Let me plead for him, sir; let him come down,
Luis.
He should be grateful to you, Porcia—
Well, let him come.
Por.
Bless you for saying so!
I'll go myself to him this evening,
And tell him this good news.
Luis.
Do so. Ah me!
That all were settled thus! Did I but know
Where Juan is, and where his enemy!
[Exit.
Julia
(entering).
Well, madam, you have gain'd your point.
Por.
Yes, Julia,
Two points; for, first, my brother will come back;
And, secondly, so doing, leave the old castle
At my disposal, where the Prince and I
May meet together in security.
I'll write to Alvaro now, and do you tell
The messenger who brought his letter hither,
I'll go this evening up the mountain. So
Belardo, the old porter,
Who knows and loves me well, will look for me,
And understand the purpose of my going.
Julia.
Ah, now I see, beside his bow and arrows,
Love arms himself with trick and stratagem.
Por.
And something else; give me my Arquebuss;
So, Love and I perchance, as says the song,
May hit a hart, as we shall go along.
| The Painter of His Own Dishonour | |