University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A Street in Seville. Enter Don Miguel and Don Lopez, meeting.
Don Lopez.
Whither so fast, Miguel?

Don Miguel.
To join Don Luis
And all his roaring fellows at a feast.
Are you not going? For a modern feast,
The thing will be as well as they know how.
Would the old times might come to us again,
When men drank sherry from a two-quart cup!
Pshaw! if I had my way, I 'd turn time back.
Now, if I drank at this same scurvy feast,
As we of old could drink without a thought,
The weak-brained boys would point their silly thumbs
And ask their host if there the devil dined?
Plague on these times! Give me the jolly days
When men held mighty flagons in one hand,
And with the other grasped their mightier swords—
None of your toasting-forks; a true Toledo,
Edged at each side, and pointed like a spear:
Why, bah! these boys could scarcely lift such blades.
Those were the glorious days of wine and war!

Don Lop.
May all you giants live to drink a tun;
But pardon me about the rapier, sir.

Don M.
O yes, you'll talk of skill, and all that thing;
But 't was more skill to 'scape a swashing blow,
Than all your thrusts, and tierces, and such trash.

Don Lop.
What a cursed shame, to mince a man to death—
To chop him into slices, break his bones,
When a most gentle and well-mannered thrust
Would do as well—

Don M.
To skewer him, like a fowl,
To puncture him, to make him die of pin-stabs:
'T is like the death that poor Duns Scotus died,
Slaughtered with pen-knives.

Don Lop.
Did you hear the news?

Don M.
Whatever 's new is worse than last. What is it?

Don Lop.
The great Calaynos is again in town.
He came with such a pomp of retinue,
With such barbaric wealth, such trains of men—
All clothed like Paynims of the ancient day—
That wide-mouthed burghers thought Granada's peers
Had scaled their graves, to fight for Spain once more.

Don M.
Ay, ay; what would your modern heroes do,
If this were true, and all the Moors had risen;
Headed by that Calaynos, who one day
Rode post to France, to crop the Paladins,
Just for mere love? They 'd drive you in the sea—
'Sblood! but they 'd make you caper!

Don Lop.
This one, sir,
Is greater far than he of ballad note:
A braver man ne'er buckled on a blade;
And then so generous and polite withal.

Don M.
You should have known his grandsire, as I did.
His was a blade would tire your hip to bear,
E'en in its baldric: and he swung it so!
Just as a child would waft about a feather.—
Here was a drinker for you.—By the gods!
A man like him can never come again;
Earth is too base for such. Ah, he was slain,
Stabbed by an upstart coward, o'er his wine.

Don Lop.
Methinks his drinking came to sorry ends.

Don M.
'T was not his drink; 't was a cursed rapier, sir,
Pinned him across the table.—'Sblood, my life!
A manly blade had blushed at such an act.
Adieu, sir; I must leave you.—Pshaw! what times!

[Exit.]
Don Lop.
Adieu, you drunken dotard! Who comes here?
(Enter Calaynos.)
My lord Calaynos, if I know your face?

Calaynos.
Don Lopez—am I right?

Don Lop.
Your servant, sir.

Cal.
Are you sincere?

Don Lop.
My heart cries shame on words.

Cal.
Then you can do me service 'bove all thanks.
There is a man who wronged me in Seville,
And I would kill him. Do you understand?

Don Lop.
Write out the cartel—'t is a pleasure, sir.

Cal.
That have I done long since; an hour ago
I sent it by my secretary.

Don Lop.
Heavens!
My lord, that act is out of every form:
I wash my hands of this; 't is next to murder.

Cal.
Friend, fear not that; you can escape the law.
Last night I made my will, and there I left,
To whom might be my second, gold enough
To build yon palace. 'T is but just I shield
Him whom my deeds involve. What say you, sir?

Don Lop.
Nay, for the love I bear you, I will do it.
How ran the challenge?

Cal.
What can that import?
Defiance to the death ran through each word.

Don Lop.
Such savage terms are out of date and harsh.
Now, I 'd have written a most gentle billet—
As—Señor So-and-so requests the length
Of my lord So-and-so's best tempered blade;
Or any hint, polite and delicate,
Like that. Believe me, sir, a gentleman
May show much blood in wording of a challenge.

Cal.
So I must bow my opposite to death,
Must kill by line and plummet, to 'scape blame.—
Sir, I'm above polite hypocrisy.

Don Lop.
Well, as you please. What is your rapier's length?

Cal.
Here is my sword. [Gives his sword.]


Don Lop.
'T is a most worthy blade;
But near an inch too short: and next the hilt—
Just here, my lord—an eighth or so too broad,
And nigh a pound too heavy. Yet, for all,
A worthy blade, though somewhat out of fashion.
A true Toledo, if I'm not mistaken?

Cal.
Not so: no man can tell its origin;
But divers quaint and wondrous legends hang
Their superstitions on this mystic steel.
Some say that 'mid the globe's eternal fires,
The laboring gnomes, with many an impious spell,
That made earth shake and stagger from her orbit,
Tempered and forged the metal of this blade.

Don Lop.
A wondrous tale, more wonderful if true.

Cal.
I cannot vouch it.

Don Lop.
Ah, I nigh forgot—
Whom do we fight?

Cal.
Don Luis, sir.

Don Lop.
Don Death!
My lord, the man 's a practised duellist;
Has killed more scores than I have met in fight.
He'll name his thrusts, before he strikes a blow,
And put them home, despite your wariest skill.
Then there 's his trick, a sleight he caught in France—
Thus, thus— (Passes.)
—the shrewdest thrust beneath the guard;
'T is fatal as the plague.

Cal.
Enough of this.
We fight within an hour—you'll find me here.

Don Lop.
Your servant, sir.—Adieu!

[Exit.]
Cal.
They 're all the same,
These grinning courtiers, all smiles and bows,
All rules and etiquette. Such are the men
Who have our monarch's ear, and guide his councils.
(Enter Oliver.)
How sad you look!—Did you not find Don Luis?

Oliver.
Ah, yes, my lord, I found him at a feast,
Drinking and roaring, 'mid the wealth you gave.
He spied me out, and in politest terms
Inquired your lordship's health. Then turned again,
And of my lady asked with blandest voice:
No feature moved when I proclaimed her dead.
With that he rose, and, smiling towards his friends,
Proposed your lordship's health. 'T was not in fear,
But at the act I shook, and my chilled blood
Crawled coldly backward on its quivering source,
To see such baseness lodged in human form.
I flung your challenge in the monster's face,
And came to seek you here.

Cal.
The mocking villain!—Well, well, let that go.
I'm nigh to death, or I should hate mankind.

Oli.
O say not so; there may be days of peace—

Cal.
His sword will not rob life of many hours.
When I left home I felt I 'd ne'er return;
All things appeared so mournful to my view.
The old trees shook their dark green heads above,
And waved their branches as if taking leave;
The grass was bending with the morning dew,
And dropped its woful tribute as I passed;
Ay, and the very flowers, the little flowers,
Turned on me their soft eyes o'errun with tears.
When we had gained the pass between the hills,
Whose windings shut my castle from the sight,
I paused to take one last, long look at home.
Alas! the very castle seemed to move,
And beckon sadly in the flickering air;
The old gray turrets wavered to and fro,
Nodding their hoary heads as if in grief.
I could not choose but weep; the man broke down,
And my heart fluttered like a timid girl's.
Ah! since her death, a cloud has crossed the earth,
And everywhere I see it. But thou 'lt return:
Now swear to me, if thou dost love me yet,
To do what I command.

Oli.
I swear, my lord.

Cal.
Thou know'st my latter days have chiefly past
In patient labors of philosophy;
And from my toil a studious book was born,
Whose gathered wisdom was designed for man—
Swear to destroy it!

Oli.
Pray forgive me this;
I cannot, dare not. What, that mighty book
O'er which I 've bent until the stars grew dim,
And morning caught me o'er the magic page;
Forgetful of my task, my pen all dry,
Enrapt in reading what I should have copied?
O, pardon me, my lord; 't would be a crime
Worse than oath-breaking, worse than blasphemy!

Cal.
Didst thou love Doña Alda, Oliver?

Oli.
Past love, my lord; but now I love her more.

Cal.
And wouldst thou see some scribbler drag her name,
Coupled to infamy and red-cheeked shame,
Or slimed with pity of a vulgar mind,
Into the preface of a book you love?—
Wouldst see her live in misery immortal,
Preserved for time coldly to comment on?—
Wouldst have her memory, which you hold so dear,
Bandied about, the scoff and jest of fools?
No, no; before this bitter thing shall be,
Let my name perish from the thoughts of men.

Oli.
And wouldst thou die in very name, my lord?

Cal.
Only in name,—no further can I die.

Oli.
We know not that.

Cal.
Know not! then vain is knowledge.
All nature cries—Whatever is, must be!
Earth's forms may change, but time can ne'er destroy
The smallest atom in the universe;
Much less this life of intellect, the soul,
Whose very form is changeless.—Death is not!
Serene, and calm, and indestructible,
Above the touch of chance, or sin, or time,
On these heaven-scaling attributes shall soar,
In infinite progression towards their source:—
In death is knowledge!

Oli.
I will do it, sir.

Cal.
Enough, I shall die happy. Get thee hence,
And have my servants near the meeting place,
To bear me from the field. But, on their lives,
Let them not interfere till all is o'er;
And should Don Luis kill me, let him pass.

Oli.
They may, but I will not. (Aside.)
I'll see 't is done.

[Exit.]
(Enter Don Lopez.)
Don Lopez.
The terms are all agreed; though, I declare,
I had some trouble with that old Miguel—
He is Don Luis' second. By this light!
He 'd mounted you, with lances in your hands,
To run a tilt like Quixotes. Tell me, sir,
Does the first blood decide the combat o'er.

Calaynos.
The first death, sir, decides this combat o'er.

Don Lop.
Of course, of course; but death is out of date:
'T is not the way we fight in these fair days:
Now gentlemen may fight without a scratch.
I do assure you, sir, that in a duel
Life is as safe as if you sat in church;
You have the honor without fear of harm.—
Will not the first blood do?

Cal.
I'm of a race
Who seldom drew a sword except to kill;
They never bled, like leeches, nor will I:
Death, and not honor, is the thing I wish.
This duel, friend, did not originate
From treading on a toe without excuse.

Don Lop.
'T is out of date; but as you please, my lord.
Have you e'er fought before?

Cal.
No, not of late:
But, in my youth, through Salamanca's school
I fought my way, and lost no credit there.

Don Lop.
Ah, yes; I 've heard, they ever held your blade
The foremost steel in Salamanca's walls:
'T is a good school.—But watch his French device—
The thrust beneath the guard. 'T is nigh the time.

Cal.
Then, sir, lead on. 'T is ne'er too soon for me.

[Exeunt.]