University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

The Great Hall in Calaynos' Castle. Enter Calaynos.
Calaynos.
The strife is vain; I cannot think nor read;
My mind will wander, and my eyes grow dim:
She clings to me like sin! I catch myself,
Involuntary, dreaming o'er the page,
And all my dream of her. Day follows day,
Yet deeper sinks the barb. Each hour my heart,
Like a calmed vessel next a hideous rock,
Heaves near this one idea. I hear her name
Breathed by the air, in every gale that blows;
I feel her hand upon my shoulder laid,
And sigh that sense can cheat. O shame, shame, shame!
Thy slime clings round me, and doth drag me down.
O pride, O o'erblown pride, on which I swam
In life's calm seas, and gayly smiled at fate;—
Thou, in the tempest's hour, dost toss me up,
On the dread top of every howling wave,
To send me thundering in its black abyss!—
Better beneath the choking brine to sink,
And die untortured. Why did she deceive?
Why do this damning act? If thunder roar,
Men look above their heads, to find a cloud;
But I am withered by a scathing shock,
And yet the cause know not. What, Alda false?
I'll not believe it—I am not awake;
I'll wake, ere long, and find her by my side;
Or she'll return, and tell it all to me.
It is a trick to try me. She is hid,
In some odd nook, to watch her jealous lord;
Next thing she'll sally out, and mock my grief.—
She false! I 'd staked my soul upon her truth.
Ah, 't is a trick, a trick—a trick to damn!
What shall I do? Who shall direct me now?
(Turns to the portraits.)
I dare not question you, ye men of blood;
I know your answer—draw the sword and kill!
Fling out our banner, fire the culverins,
Call in the war-bred from their ancient hills,
And let the trembling valleys hear, aghast,
Calaynos wars with man! O, empty threat!
Blood cannot heal the scars which seam my heart.
(Opens the casement.)
The very sky is red,—is red as blood!
Down, tempting devil, down!—I will not murder:
'T is the last print of evening 's fiery foot
That burns in yonder clouds. Ere long, the night
Shall fall as black as memory on my soul—
O heaven! without a hope to light my path,
One starry hope, to lend its guiding beam.
Stumbling, and lost in darkness, on I grope
To death—O yes, to death—to peace and rest.
What dusky clouds o'erclimb yon eastern peaks?
A storm? Come on, I like thy looks, my mate!
Shake thy red lightnings o'er this wicked world—
Strike all the guilty with thy burning hand—
Pour thy cruel hail upon their naked heads—
O'erturn their habitations, root them out—
Drive them, like sheep, before thy angry face!
Nay, let them go: slay all the innocent—
Slay all the sufferers, all that ache 'neath wrongs;
For guilt can live in peace, and smile at them!
(Thunder.)
Alda, awake! the God of heaven is out,
The God of justice!—No, the storm will pass;
Or if it strike, perchance 't will kill a child.
O, what a weary life is mine—strike me,
In mercy strike!
(Enter Oliver.)
Ha! thou 'st returned, my son?
[Embraces him.]
Didst thou see—Speak, I cannot question thee.

Oliver.
Yes, yes, I saw too much.—Alas! my lord,
What dreadful thing has brought this change about?
A month ago I left thee in thy prime,
And, now, thou'rt old and wrinkled.

Cal.
Yes, my son,
My heart is old and wrinkled as my brow.
I have not long to live; I feel it here.
Yet, ere I go, I fain would tidings gain
Of Doña Alda.—Is she happy now?

Oli.
An hour ago, I passed a wretched town;
But, ere I left, a squalid thing of rags
Went by me, yet begged not; though I was clad,
Painted, and bearded like a cavalier.
I gave it, all unasked, it looked so sad—
That thing was Lady Alda.

Cal.
Base-born dog!
And did you dare to give her charity?

Oli.
'T was of your gold I gave.

Cal.
O, pardon me:
The devil in my blood will not be laid.
And did she take it with a courtly grace,
Learned at Seville from her bewitching Don;
Or did she clutch it like a common drab?
Say on; I'm sorrow-proof.

Oli.
Ah, no, my lord;
She hardly felt the gold touch her thin palm;
And then she smiled, so sorrowful, so sweet,
As one unused to kindness.

Cal.
Know'st thou more?
I 'd steeled my heart to hear the blackest tale,
But this doth blacken fancy.

Oli.
Few my words!
Of her dark story much I could not gather;
And what I gained I came at by report.
She fled with thy false friend too well thou know'st;
But why, is known to him and her alone.
From some vague hints, I think the guilt not hers;
But that Don Luis used the foulest means,
And so achieved his wish most treacherously.—
'T is said, and I believe it.

Cal.
Bless thee, Heaven!

Oli.
She lived with him a while, but then she fled;
This, too, a mystery;—though I heard his knave,
His vile familiar, Soto, said in scorn—
“She was too grand a lady for a mistress!”
Since then, she wanders on from town to town,
With death's fell signet stamped upon her brow,
Looking like grief in animated stone.

Cal.
Yet the sun shines, and yet this villain lives!
O, slow, slow justice, must I be thy tool?

(Storm increases.)
Oli.
Mercy, how 't rains!

Cal.
Ay, ay, alike on all.
Dost think poor Alda feels this bitter storm,
Homeless and friendless, without cloak or food?

Oli.
Perchance— (A groan without.)
Hark, hark!

Cal.
Methought I heard a sound,
Like the weak moan of a sick, restless child.

[Another groan.]
Oli.
And there again! It comes from 'neath yon window.

Cal.
Look out and see.

Oli.
(Looking out.)
I saw, by the last flash,
A huddled form that cowered against the wall.
Perchance some helpless child has lost its way,
And cannot find the gate.

Cal.
Go bring it in:
No beast should suffer on a night like this.
[Exit Oliver.]
(Goes to the casement.)
Ay, shake your fiery tresses, dusky clouds;
I have resolved—ye cannot move my mind!
Ye'll spare me for this act—ye love a crime;
Or long ago ye 'd scathed that viper's skin—
Three days from this he dies, and by my hand.
(Thunder.)
Roar on, roar on! I'll plunge my arm in blood
Up to the elbow—he shall bellow too!
Poor Alda, whither roamest thou, sad wretch,
Without a home or comfort!—Spare her, Heaven!
For thou canst soften tempests to a breath,
To succor the shorn lamb—O, she is shorn!

(Reënter Oliver, with servants bearing Doña Alda on a couch.)
Oli.
She has not long to live:—I brought her here.

Cal.
Brought whom?

Oli.
The lady Alda.

Cal.
Gracious heaven!
Why, I am passion's plaything.—Shall I rave?—
Shall I grow drunk on grief, and fire the house?—
Or what most desperate and headlong act
Hast Thou reserved for me? I'm ready—speak!
Say anything; but let me do, not think;
For I with thought grow mad!

Oli.
Look on her, sir.

Cal.
I cannot.

Oli.
Look; more harmless thing ne'er lived.
Ah, she is very still, and cold, and pale;
Scarce a pulse flutters; she is nigh run down;
The balance of her body hardly beats:
Another move, then follows endless rest.

Cal.
Endless! Stand here; I'll look at her once more.
(Approaches the couch.)
Poor wretch, poor wretch! why, grief hath rubbed thee sore!
I see its marks upon thy once smooth brow;
And it has crept among thy tangled hair,
To nestle in its silk. Sad mark of woe,
I'll not believe thy guilt; 't was not thy fault;
That villain Luis, by some hell-hatched lie,
Drove thee past reason. Thou hast a tale, shut up
Within the hollow chamber-of thy breast,
To make avenging falchions bristle earth;
Thou couldst urge stony death to mend his pace,
And strike the monster ere his day.—She moves.
Go to her, Oliver; I cannot stay.
Perchance, she 'd speak, yet has short time for words.

Doña Alda.
Calaynos.

Oli.
Hark! she calls thee, sir.

Cal.
Go, go!

Oli.
Lady, I'm here.

Doña A.
Nay, nay, deceive me not.
I saw a pitying face bent over me,
And it was his. Thou 'rt Oliver. O, sir,
If thou hast trace of feeling in thy nature,
Pray, bring him here. I'm weak, and ill, and fallen:
He would not come for me; for he is proud,
And I have wronged him to the depths of wrong—
Not all myself; but yet he thinks 't was I.—
Go, ere I die, in mercy go, kind sir.

Cal.
(Rushing to her.)
Alda!

Doña A.
Break, heart! I am content to die.

Cal.
O live! O live! I will forgive thee all.—
I will heap kindness on thee, till its top
Shall knock at heaven. We will be friends, true friends;
If not my wife, thou shalt be dearer far.—
If any here shall dare to mock at thee,
I'll hang them from the walls to scare the wind.—
I'll guard thee like a tiger! If the world
Should choose to sneer, why, love, we'll laugh at it;
Or, if thou lik'st, I'll ravage half of Spain.—
Yes, I'll do anything; but live, O live!
Far I can swear thou 'rt guiltless. Tell me all.

Doña A.
O god-like man! thy speech surpasses hope;
I did not look for this from even thee;
I only wished to crawl to thee and die:
For I have shamed thee in the face of man.
I 've made thy name a sneer and mockery;
And fools may spit their slander on thy fame,
To gall thy pride, and shake thy glorious mind.
O fie, O fie! that I should do this act—
This act beneath pollution! Why not curse?
Why not call vengeance on my head like rain?
Why dost not spurn me? Why not cast me forth,
To rot with kindred filth, in some foul place,
Where my rank guilt may not offend thy sense?

Cal.
Alda!

Doña A.
It would be just. And I supposed,
When I set forth to view thy face once more,
That grooms would drive me from thy gates with whips;
For well I knew my guilt deserved no less:—
I sat in judgment on it, all alone,
And that the fiat which my conscience gave.

Cal.
Speak not of this; thou dost o'erstrain thy guilt;
Let me not doubt thee, in this solemn hour.
Tell me thy story; for I think thee wronged.

Doña A.
Yes, foully wronged; but half the fault my own.
There is a packet hidden in my breast,
Which holds the truthful story of my crime;
For thee 't was writ, ere I resolved to come.
Thou 'lt spare the shame of telling thee this thing;
'T would bring a flush upon the face of death,
And drive thee from thy firmness. When I'm dead,
Tear forth the dreadful secret.—O, my lord!—

Cal.
What wouldst thou, Alda?—Cheer thee, love!—bear up!

Doña A.
Thy face is dim; I cannot see thy eyes:
Nay, hide them not; they are my guiding stars.
Have sorrow's drops thus blotted out their light?
Thou dost forgive me, love?—thou 'lt think of me?—
Thou 'lt not speak harshly, when I'm neath the earth?—
Thou 'lt love my memory, for what once I was?

Cal.
Yes, though I live till doom.

Doña A.
O, happiness!
Come closer—this thy hand? Have mercy, Heaven!
Yes, press me closer—close—I do not feel.—

Cal.
O, God of mercy, spare!

Doña A.
A sunny day—
O!— (She faints.)


Cal.
Bear her in—I am as calm as ice.
Come when she wakes: I cannot see her thus.
[Exeunt Oliver and servants, bearing Doña Alda.]
'T is better so; but then the thoughts come back
Of the young bride I welcomed at the gate.—
I kissed her, yes, I kissed her—was it there?
Yes, yes, I kissed her there, and in the chapel—
The dimly-lighted chapel.—I see it all!
Here was old Hubert, there stood Oliver—
The priest, the bridesmaids, groomsmen—every face;
All the retainers that around us thronged,
Smiling for joy, with ribands in their caps.—
And shall they all, all follow her black pall,
With weeping eyes, and doleful, sullen weeds?
For they all love her:—O, she was so kind,
So kind and gentle, when they stood in need;
And never checked them if they murmured at her,
But found excuses for their discontent.—
They'll miss her, for her path was like an angel's,
And every place seemed holier where she came.
Ah me! ah me! I would this life were past!
Stay, love, watch o'er me; I will join thee soon.
(A cry within.)
So quickly gone! and ere I said farewell!

(Rushes to the door.)
(Reënter Oliver.)
Oli.
My lord—

Cal.
Yes, yes, she 's dead—I will go in.

[Exit.]
Oli.
O, dreadful ending to a fearful night!
This shock has shattered to the very root
The strength of his great spirit. Mournful night!
And what will day bring forth?—but woe on woe.
Ah, death may rest a while, and hold his hand,
Having destroyed this wondrous paragon,
And sapped a mind whose lightest thought was worth
The concentrated being of a herd.
Yet shall the villain live who wrought this woe?
By heaven I swear, if my lord kill him not,
I, though a scholar and unused to arms,
Will hunt him down—ay, should he course the earth—
And slay him like a felon!
If this be sin, let fiends snap at my soul,
But I will do it! Lo, where comes my lord,
Bent down and withered, like a broken tree,
Prostrate with too much bearing.

(Reënter Calaynos.)
Cal.
Oliver,
I stole to see her; not a soul was there,
Save an old crone that hummed a doleful tune.
And winked her purblind eyes, o'errun with tears.
O, boy, I never knew I loved her so!
I held my breath, and gazed into her face—
Ah, she was wondrous fair. She seemed to me,
Just as I 've often seen her, fast asleep,
When from my studies cautiously I 've stolen,
And bent above her, and drunk up her breath,
Sweet as a sleeping infant's.—Then perchance,
Yet in her sleep, her starry eyes would ope,
To close again behind their fringy clouds,
Ere I caught half their glory. There 's no breath now,
There 's not a perfume on her withered lips,
Her eyes ope not, nor ever will again.—
But tell me how she died. She suffered not?

Oli.
She scarcely woke from her first fainting here;
Or if she did, she gave no sign nor word.
A while she muttered, as if lost in prayer;
Some who stood close thought once they caught thy name;
But grief had dulled my sense, I could not hear.
Then she slid gently to a lethargy;
And so she died—we knew not when she went.

Cal.
Here is the paper which contains her story:
I fain would clear her name, fain think her wronged.
[Reads.]
O, double-dealing villain!—Moor—bought her!
Impious monster—false beyond belief!
But she is guiltless—hear'st thou, Oliver?
Nay, read; I cannot move thee as she can.
[Oliver reads.]
He called me Moor. True, true, I did her wrong:
The sin is mine; I should have told her that.
I only kept it back to save her pain;
I feared to lose respect by telling her.
I see how he could heighten that grave wrong,
And spur her nigh to madness with his taunts.
She fell, was senseless, without life or reason—
Why, tigers spare inanimated forms—
So bore her off. Then lie on lie—O base!
The guilt all mine. Why did I hide my birth?
Ah, who can tell how soon one seed of sin,
Which we short-sighted mortals think destroyed,
May sprout and bear, and shake its noxious fruit
Upon our heads, when we ne'er dream of ill;
For naught that is can ever pass away!

Oli.
And shall this villain live?

Cal.
No, no, by Heaven!
Those fellows on the wall would haunt me then.
I hear your voices, men of crime and blood,
Ring in my ears, and I obey the call.
[Snatches a sword from the wall.]
How precious is the blade which justice wields,
To chasten wrong, or set a wrong to right!
[Draws.]
Come forth, thou minister of bloody deeds,
That blazed a comet in the van of war,
Presaging death to man, and tears to earth!
Pale, gleaming tempter, when I clutch thee thus,
Thou, of thyself, dost plead that murder 's right,
And mak'st me half believe it luxury!
Thy horrid edge is thirsting for man's gore,
And thou shalt drink it from the point to hilt!—
To horse! to horse! the warrior blood is up;
The tiger spirit of my warlike race
Burns in my heart, and floods my kindling veins.—
Mount, Oliver, ere pity's hand can hide
The bloody mist that floats before my eyes—
To horse! to horse! the Moor rides forth to slay!

[Exeunt.]