Plays and Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Doña A.
Before or after?

Mar.
Just before, my lady.

Doña A.
We are too soon.—The clock is surely wrong.

Mar.
'T is natural haste. He knows a woman well.

Doña A.
Yes, yes; a woman never waits for ill;
We always meet it.—Did you hear a step?

Mar.
Not I.—Did you?

Doña A.
Perhaps it was my heart.
That beats so painfully against my side.
Would it were over! (Clock strikes.)
Hark! there strikes the clock;
It sounds as if 't would wake the castle up.—
Did you e'er note before how loud it strikes?
This is not right—I feel it is not right.
I'll leave the hall.—See, how those portraits frown!
As if I 'd done some crime, or were about it.

Mar.
You are too late—look, where Don Luis comes!
He means no wrong.—Nay, lady, I'll be near.

Doña A.
Sure never evil wore so smooth a face.

(Enter Don Luis. Martina retires within.)
Don Luis.
Your prompt attention chides my lingering steps.

Doña A.
Speak quickly, sir: I have short time to hear.

Don L.
What, without more delay?

Doña A.
Right to the purpose.

Don L.
O, then prepare your ears to hear a tale
Shall shake your soul, and task your tottering mind
To bear its feeble body firmly up.

Doña A.
With such dread prelude, what must I expect?

Don L.
First, lest it seem 'gainst nature, or to prove
That I am quite devoid of gratitude
Towards him whose kindness I have felt, and feel,
Know the full cause which prompts me to the deed.
Know 't is to see you righted, who are wronged—
Wronged in a way that most concerns your honor—
Wronged by a wretch in whom you have most trust;
But to be righted by a man who loves.
Yes, yes, I love you—love you with a heart
That ne'er before knew love for womankind.
But yet I love you purely as a saint:
I dare but worship, hope not to approach;
I have not thought to win a smile or sign:
I bow in homage; sacrifice a heart,
Though torn and bleeding, spotless as your own.
Nay, more, I pray to have my love forgiven,
Whose adoration may offend your eyes;
For oft devout and reverend worship seems,
In others' sight, no purer than foul sin.
Yet must I tell my love; my dammed up heart
At length has swept each choking fear away,
And caused a flood in which, perchance, I'll drown.
O, spare me, lady!—say you can forgive!

Doña A.
Audacious man, dare you overleap the brink,
Nor know the fearful depth that yawns below?
Have you e'er looked from yonder window's edge,
Down on the grisly rocks that jut beneath,
Ragged and cruel as the chafed boar's fell tusks?
Have you e'er turned your dizzy eyes aloft,

To view the tower which hangs above those crags?
On that same tower, years since, a malpert page
Sighed forth his love to our great-grandsire's daughter;
Next day they found him on the rocks below,
Mangled and dead.—Some said he slipped and fell;
But none knew how, or why.—Beware, fair sir,
If not sure-footed, how you walk that tower!

Don L.
Alas, alas! this is a woful tale,
That one should fall for love!—You pity him?

Doña A.
Not for his love he fell, but telling it:
There was the crime that caused his grievous slip.
Better his fire of love had burned to dust,
Than roused up sleeping justice with its blaze.

Don L.
Have you no feeling for a burning heart,
That cannot quench its fire, except in death?

Doña A.
“Suffer in silence” is the legend graven
Beneath the shield that crowns our castle gate:
When you came here you passed beneath that shield,
Yet have not read the wisdom it contains.

Don L.
Sweet lady, hear me.

Doña A.
Nay, no more of love.
Another word, I'll call Calaynos forth.—
Martina, are you there?

Martina.
(Reëntering.)
I am, my lady.

Don L.
Fool! get you gone.

[Exit Martina.]
Doña A.
Ha! dare you go?—Come back!
Good-night, good-night; I have o'erstaid my time.—
Sir, thank your gentle bearing for your safety.

[Going.]
Don L.
Lady, return; you have not heard me out:
This is but prologue to the tragedy;
Now comes the guilty tale of which I spoke

Doña A.
Nay, there was guilt enough in what you said:
Tax not my ears to bear a weightier load.—
Farewell. [Going.]

Don L.
And you are lost—forever lost!
O, I beseech you listen, on your life!

Doña A.
Proceed—I'll hear; but not a word of love.

Don L.
No, 't is of hate, of most malicious hate—
Hate self-engendered, without cause or motive—
Against you borne by one you dearly trust;
Shown in the heavy wrong 'neath which you live,
Though all unweeting that such crime exists.

Doña A.
Who does me wrong?—One whom I love and trust?
Martina?

Don L.
No; strike nearer to yourself.

Doña A.
Then Oliver; for he is next my lord.

Don L.
Your lord himself.

Doña A.
'T is false! 't is false as sin!
I will not waste a moment on a lie.—
Get hence, you scurvy thing, base hypocrite,
That thus would stab your benefactor's back!—
You dare not face him, coward, and say this,
Lest he should whip you with his undrawn sword!
Get hence! 't was fit you should crawl forth at night,
If you must spit your pent-up venom forth;
But keep your slimy poison from my ear,
Or I may crush you, toad!

Don L.
Be calm, and hear.

Doña A.
Be mad, and rave! I might forgive you then.

Don L.
I tell you, mortal ne'er such wrong endured—

Doña A.
As you dare fling upon me.

Don L.
Hear me out.—
Who do you think your lord, Calaynos, is?

Doña A.
The noblest, greatest, wisest man in Spain!

Don L.
I tell you, lady, he is one half Moor;
His other half holds every baseness in it,
That spots the nature of the lowest white.

Doña A.
A Moor, a Moor—a lie!

Don L.
His name, his name!
Is it not Moorish, from the first to last?—
'T is sung of in our ballads.

Doña A.
Gracious Heaven!
I never thought of that—I never thought—

Don L.
Look at these portraits, dark by blood, not age,
Clad in the Moorish steel from crest to heel.—
Thus scowled they on the ranks of Ferdinand,
When they mowed down the brightest flowers of Spain;
Thus proudly looked they, thus they him defied,
When round these walls his leaguering armies lay;
Thus grimly smiled they, when the baffled king
Was forced to grant them lands he could not hold.
Why, are you purblind, that you see them not,
These dusky founders of his powerful house?

Doña A.
It cannot be; my father then had known—

Don L.
Yes, he was poor, and sold you like a slave—
A precious, fair-skinned slave, to sate a Moor!

You, you, the brightest jewel in all Spain,
Became a thing to fill a miser's chests:—
Why, he 'd have bartered with the devil for you!
Would you have proof?—I'll bring a crowd of it.
This why Calaynos kept you from Seville—
This cause of the secluded life you lead;
Forbid to mingle in the joys of life,
To wrap his damned, black mystery closer up!

Doña A.
O, misery, despair! Where shall I turn?

Don L.
Turn to me, dearest, I will succor you.

Doña A.
Avaunt! you child of hell, you torturer!
Foul, tempting fiend, through you I thus have fallen.
Why came you here, to mar my paradise
With knowledge proffered by the hand of crime?

Don L.
O, then return; go to your darling's bed;
Crawl to his side, and kiss his thick-lipped mouth;
Play with his curly pate, and call him fair;
Pray heaven to bless you with a hybrid race!
O, hug him close, close as fools clasp a sin,
And dream you 're happy; that were wise and kind.
If you have woman's spirit, bear it not!

Doña A.
O, foul—O, foul! and they to do this thing—
Father and husband!—O, my heart will burst!

Don L.
I tell you, you were cheated by this Moor,
Lied to and cozened, made a merchandise,
Sold to the highest bidder—he bid high.
Now he might sell you to some other hand,
If he could get a profit on his ware.—
What worse than this? What worse can come than this?—
Ah, you have breathed deceit, and fed on guilt;
Thought him a saint, who was at heart a fiend.

Poor child, poor child! now could I weep for you;
But anger chokes the kindlier channels up,
With thinking on this base, heart-cheating Moor.—

Doña A.
Spare me!—Calaynos—

[She faints.]
Don L.
But one way remains.
Now nerve me, love, to bear my precious freight.

[He carries her off.]
(After a pause, enter Calaynos.)
Calaynos.
Methought I heard a voice repeat my name;
And then a hurried rush of trampling feet.
No, 't was a fancy; all is still.—These lights—
Why burn they here, at this unwonted hour,
Watching, like grief, the dull, cold midnight through?
This is a strange neglect, unknown before,
And dangerous. I must draw a tighter rein.
These knavish servants—Ha! I heard a noise,
[Opens the casement.]
Like the dull sound a flying courser makes,
When urged to speed along the yielding sod.
Some of the deer have broken through the pale,
And gambol nimbly 'neath the winking stars.
Bright nightly watchers, tell your secrets now;
Unfold to me the mystery of your being;
Say why ye came, how long ye thus have kept
Your faithful vigils o'er this atom, earth!
Were you but formed for man to gaze upon,
To flatter him, and puff his spirit up;
Or in creation's scale do ye hold place
Of more import than sages ever dreamed?
Ye misty pleiads, where has gone the star
That, ages since, among ye disappeared?

How men with wild conjectures vex their minds,
To find what cause could blot that fiery orb!
Yet if a brother mortal leave his sphere,
From this vast human firmament struck out,
They pass the lifeless clay without a thought
Of why he left, or where his elements.
Pale, dusty path, that, in the depths of space,
Hangs like a smoky track behind the wheel
Of some vast burning orb; but, to the sage,
Resolves to starry pebbles paving heaven—
Nay, to great suns, to satellites, to systems,
In myriad numbers whirling on through space—
O, what is far beyond you? Can ye see
The limit that hems in the universe?
O, what remains hid from the prying glass,
Whose added strength looks still on other worlds?
Yet with this awful knowledge, impious man—
Ah, yes, the meanest of the clay-born herd—
Will strut and vapor, as if he alone
Filled the whole universe, and gave it laws.
Lo! meek-eyed morn, like a pale beggar, knocks
With trembling fingers at night's eastern gate.
Poor Oliver, this morn is black to thee!
I must retire. (Knocking.)
What can that knocking mean?—
Where are the sluggish knaves that tend the gate?
[Bell rings.]
Ho, Oliver, come forth! (Enter a Servant.)
Quick, ope the gate!
[Exit Servant.]
This early summons bodes some weighty matter.

(Enter Oliver.)
Oliver.
My lord, you called?

Cal.
Nay, get to sleep again.
I know not why I called—'t was habit—go.

Oli.
You know full well I did not sleep last night.—
'T is useless to attempt it.

(Enter a Forester wounded.)
Cal.
Who are you,
That startle morning ere the cock has crowed?
Wounded and bleeding! If I see aright,
You wear the livery of my foresters.

Forester.
My wound is nothing; but the way it came
May much concern your lordship, if you'll hear.

Cal.
Say on.

For.
Well, señor, as I went my rounds,
Just ere the break of day, to watch the herd,
I saw two horsemen spurring to the blood
Across the park, as if to gain the hills.
The foremost bore a lady in his arms,
Who seemed nigh dead with fear, or dead outright:
Well, this one passed ere I could cross his way.
Beside the second rode a girl I 'd seen—
My lady's maid, I think her name 's Martina;
But who the man was I can scarcely tell.
Well, sir, I threw my staff across his path,
And bade him stand: out came his heavy sword;
With a side blow he struck me down to earth,
And split my skull with this unmanly wound.
The coward! If I 'd had a sword, my lord,
I warrant you I 'd make the fellow leap.
But then you see I was unarmed, my lord,

And it was nearly dark. I stood just so,
With my staff raised—

Cal.
I thank you for your pains.
Here 's gold, to heal your wound.

[Offers money.]
For.
I 'd rather not:
The chance to serve you has been pay enough.

[Exit.]
Cal.
There goes a man, a man without a price,
Who takes no fee for virtue! Oliver.

Oli.
My lord.

Cal.
What think you of this fellow's tale?
Soto has done us service, were it not
That her elopement will sore vex my lady.

Oli.
But who the foremost horseman?—whom bore he?

Cal.
That 's strange indeed. Go call Don Luis up.
[Exit Oliver, hastily.]
Here is brisk gossip for a week or two:
There'll be no grumblers here till this is o'er.
I, too, am rid of one whose wanton breath
Forced into birth my lady's discontent,
To choke her peace with its unhealthy sprouts.

(Reënter Oliver.)
Oli.
Don Luis, sir, ne'er saw his couch last night;
And all his lighter luggage is removed.

Cal.
Call Doña Alda.

Oli.
Sir, I passed her room;
The door was open, not a soul within.

Cal.
What can this mean?—Why bite your trembling lip,
And bend your eyes so sharply on my face?

Oli.
Ah, what sad prophets may our fears become!

Cal.
What do you mean?

Oli.
My lord, I dare not say.

Cal.
'T will not offend—speak out.

Oli.
You promise me?

Cal.
I vow, I will not say or do you ill.

Oli.
The foremost horseman—who was he?

Cal.
Go on.

Oli.
Don Luis.

Cal.
Ha! the lady whom he bore
Was—

Oli.
Pardon me, for she was Doña Alda.

Cal.
Monstrous! And wags the tongue that dare say this?

Oli.
'T is true, my lord, or rend me limb from limb.

Cal.
Rash boy, I will be calm—calm as the storm,
Ere on your head its gathering terrors burst!

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord, some laboring men beset the gate,
Who beg to see you; for they boldly say
That, as they went to work, they saw a man,
Mounted and armed like a stout cavalier,
Flying with Lady Alda in his arms.
On foot they could not reach him—

Cal.
Out! begone!
[Exit Servant.]
These torturing fiends are leagued to drive me mad!

Oli.
My lord, my lord!

Cal.
Why stand you there, dull sloth,
And stare upon me with your vacant eyes?

Slay wench and paramour.—Mount, mount, and follow!
(Oliver snatches a sword from the wall.)
Ha! the hot blood of all the Moors is up,
And must have blood to lay it.—Mount, I say!—
You'll not desert me now?

Oli.
Not while my soul
Clings to its wretched clay.—Shall I slay both?

Cal.
Slay both; without a thought of mercy slay!
The shallow fools have fallen in love with death.

Oli.
Murder will blot my soul when I return.

Cal.
The murder of two wolves that tore your lord!

Oli.
Mine to obey;—I question not your mandates.

Cal.
Stay, Oliver; their blood must be on me.

Oli.
No, no; I 'd rather do it.

Cal.
O God, forgive—
Forgive my impious rage! Withhold thy frown,
Till I have sifted, to the very dust,
This hideous matter! Follow, but slay not.
Disguise your form, and seem not what you are—
The more like them who hid their acts as thieves.
Learn all you can, and then return to me:
Slow justice is more certain of its end.
If she repent, and you are moved to pity,
And dare to bring her where I catch a glimpse
Of her repentant features, by the gods,
I'll hurl you from the walls!—Be still, my heart!

[Aside.]
Oli.
I will obey in all.

Cal.
Away, away!
[Exit Oliver.]

Where shall I turn? O, what thing shall I do?
How have I scorned the men of ancient Rome,
Who left their fortunes to a flying bird!
But, now, I 'd hang my doubts upon a die,
Or whirling coin, and follow it like fate.
O, vain philosophy! is this thy aid?
When troubles darken, and the passions rage,
Must the philosopher become a man—
A feeble man, a very fool of impulse?
'T is all in vain, I cannot drive my thoughts
Into their wonted channels; cannot weigh,
Nor calmly speculate upon my grief.
O, Alda, Alda, thoughts of thee come back,
And drive all speculation from my brain!—
Why here am I, who thought to will to do,
Who thought I 'd schooled my passion as a child,
Raving at heaven o'er one of life's poor wrongs!
How brave, how brave in me to teach long suffering,
And, when I suffer, shrink without a tug!
O, Alda, Alda, never love thee more,
Never behold thee, never call thee mine!—
I have a heart that mocks philosophy;
Burst forth, my heart—I'm but a man at last!

[Weeps.]