University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Room in Calaynos' Castle. Doña Alda.
Doña Alda.
O, weary, weary days, how slow ye pass!
Flow on, flow on, and bring Calaynos home!
Yet why should I desire my lord's return?
His presence makes small difference to me:
Shut up in his dim study, pondering o'er
The yellow leaves of the most learnéd dead,
Short time he gives to me; and when he comes,
With stately step, and quiet, solemn eyes,
He chills the joy that from my heart would burst,
With a most dreary smile, or smiling sigh.
Yet I do love him, or I think I do.—
Pale, melancholy man, thy godlike mind
Was rather formed for multitudes to praise,
Than for a woman's individual love
To spend its wayward feelings on, unawed.
No change, no change! Can I be happy here—
I, running o'er with the hot blood of youth,
Eager for action, sick of dull repose,
That rusts my spirit with unburnished rest?—
I happy! plodding an unvarying round
Of sullen days, that slowly crawl to years?
My life is like a dammed and sluggish pool,
Topped with a scum of foul, green discontent,
Which loads my breast, and keeps the sunlight off.
(A horn sounds. Enter Martina.)
What means that sound?

Martina.
The warder blew the blast;
Your lord and train approach the castle gate.
What quick return from dear Seville he makes!
Had I been he, I 'd staid from home a year.

Doña A.
'T is a strange taste, his love for these old walls:
He oft has said, he passes not an hour,
Which he calls happy, when away from them.

Mar.
Lord! lady, what a speech! Were he well bred,
He 'd say from you no happy hour was passed.
You were included in the walls, I deem,
With sundry other scraps of furniture.
I hate a man who rolls in self-content,
And needs no one to help his happiness!

Doña A.
You hate my lord?

Mar.
O, no! my lady dear;
I spoke, as we unthinking women do,
In o'erstrained phrase, that means not what it says.

Doña A.
In the brief letter I last night received,
He writes, a much-loved friend returns with him,
To share what sports our castle can afford.

Mar.
What sports! what sports!—To see the half-bred Moors
Dance to their pagan drums, on Baptist's day;
And howl and rave, as if the maw of hell
Had cast its devils up to mar our earth!
These are the only sports. The holidays,
Except Saint John's, go off with moody shows,
Which well-nigh make a Christian woman weep.
Who is the friend?

Doña A.
I know not: a young man;
But yet not named.—How old do you suppose him?

Mar.
Thirty in years, and yet a century old!
A heart dried up, like one of Egypt's mummies,
All balmed and spiced in rare philosophy;
A spindle-shanked, lean-visaged, red-eyed youth,
With a most rickety and crooked back,
That got its set o'er Plato; one who fears
To look a pretty woman in the face,
Who would begin his prayers if one came near;
Who with his senses has not lived a day,
Yet ages with his brains.

Doña A.
And I suppose,
A man much like my lord, of earnest mien,
Of grave and reverend looks—incarnate wisdom
Made manifest and pure in earthly form—
A man without a sin, or fault, or stain:
Such must he be whom lord Calaynos loves.

Mar.
Would he had brought a gallant gentleman,
Such as adorns the splendid court of Spain!
A man all smiles and service to us women;
Faultless in dress, with a light, dashing air,
That wins his way to every lady's heart;
A man of wit, in conversation apt,
Ready in trifles, with a thorough knowledge
Of all the little things which women love;
One who can talk of China, or of cats—
Of furs, or frills—of lace, or Cashmere shawls—
And be as learned and absolute in these
As is your lord in metaphysics' lore:
That were a proper man—a man of fashion—
A man of feeling, delicate, refined;
Not a great clumsy, learnéd elephant!

Doña A.
Hark! they are coming.—Get you in, Martina.

Mar.
I'll pass this way; for I must see the guest.

[Exit.]
Calaynos.
(Without.)
Is Doña Alda here?

Mar.
(Without.)
She is, my lord!

(Enter Calaynos, Don Luis, Oliver, and Soto.)
Doña A.
(Embracing Calaynos.)
Welcome, my lord.

Cal.
Dear Alda, in thy joy,
Thou dost forget the guest I bring to thee;
A guest, and therefore to be welcomed first—
A friend, and therefore to be welcomed warmly.

Doña A.
(To Don Luis.)
Pardon me, señor, if I once offend
The courtesy a lady owes her guest.
'T is the first parting we have e'er endured;
Therefore our meeting is a strange delight,
New and most grateful. You are welcome, señor,
Both as a guest, and as my husband's friend.

Don Luis.
Ask me no pardon, where is no offence.—
Your double welcome I accept at heart,
And pray 't may have a long continuance.
How beautiful she is!—Heavens, what a gem
This barbarous castle has shut up in it!
[Aside.]
Why came you not, fair lady, to Seville?—
The court was there, and all was gayety,
Which lacked but you to make the joy complete.

Doña A.
The very man whom last Martina drew.
[Aside.]
'T was not his will. [Pointing to Calaynos.]


Don L.
Ah, then you wished to come?

Doña A.
My lord's will is my wish.

Don L.
Most dutiful!
Would that all ladies could be taught by you—
'T would save us aches!

Doña A.
(To Calaynos.)
My lord, we'll share thy thoughts.

Cal.
Nay, heed me not. I must retire a while.

[Exit.]
Doña A.
Perhaps 't would please you, sir, to view the castle?
No customary qualities it lacks,
Which dignify all huge and antique piles.
On every oaken door and painted window
There rests a legend, magnified by time;
Each tower is tenanted, at evil hours,
By other forms than walk its floors by day;
No stone but has its story. Some are gay,
Some grotesque; some are sad, some horrible.
I'll tell you but the cheerful—shall we walk?

Don L.
Ay, like the Sultan of the Eastern tale,
I'll list a thousand nights with eager ears.

[Exeunt.]
(Oliver and Soto advance.)
Soto.
This is a fine old castle—somewhat musty.

Oliver.
Ay, 't is the mustiest mansion in all Spain.
This castle my lord's race inhabited
Beyond all date.

Soto.
How did they in the flood?

Oli.
O, they were fishes then, and swam unchoked
They were advancing from their primal slime—
Hatched by the sun on some wide river's bank—
Through worms, fish, frogs, and beasts, upward to men.
They lived here monkeys, till their tails wore off,
Then became Moors, and last you find them thus.

Soto.
Why, here 's a pedigree for potentates!
That 's why they quarter beasts upon their shields;
Relations they to all these rampant brutes.
Friend, I shall dread to kill the next mad dog,
For fear I spill some near relation's blood.

Oli.
Fear you to kill a fox! You were a fox—
A cunning, sly, most guilty-minded fox;
Your master was a wolf, a dangerous wolf,
And you, sly fox, were his first counsellor.—
Fear to slay foxes, Soto!

Soto.
What mean you, sir?

Oli.
Merely that men were one time animals.
My master was a lion, king of beasts;
And you two, fox and wolf, once stole his crown,
And thought to wear it.

Soto.
Friend, you speak in riddles.

Oli.
O no, in fables I.

Soto.
Speak plainer, Æsop!

Oli.
I was a dog,—a faithful, patient cur,—
And watched my master while his eyes were closed;—
For you had given the king a sleeping draught,
Made of a flower called Friendship—falsely called!
I slew the fox and wolf, regained the crown,
And placed the golden circle on his brow:—
Now, in the fable, see what beast was I!

[Exit.]
Soto.
This fellow looks through both of us like glass:
He 's keener than my lord, and wiser far.
Some sunny day, we'll both pitch o'er these walls,
And he will be the man that breaks our necks.
Ah! 't is a sad thing, Soto, very sad,
To be knave's knave, e'en though he be a Don!
To take the peril, and do all the work,
Then, at the last, come in for all the kicks.
My lord must know the fable which I heard—
He'll sleep the lighter for it, on my life!

[Exit.]