University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene.—A Terrace in the Garden of the Mansion of Don John de Padilla, in the neighbourhood of Toledo, overlooking the City—in an Alcove, on one side, a Table with covers set for four persons—beyond the City a range of Mountains, through a gorge of which the Tagus flows—approaching Sunset. As the curtain rises, Lopez, the old Servant, and Florio, a Page, are discovered arranging the Table in the Alcove; they come forward.
FLORIO.
Can this be all? Is this the feast to grace
The birthday of our master's only son—
And such a son? This simple fare prepared
Only for four? Well! in my rustic home
A birthday, even my own, though I am youngest
Of many peasant children, fill'd our valley
With mirth till nightfall. I believed the love
Which doats on young Alphonso would find scope
In such majestic feasting as would win
Toledo's wonder, and set loose with joy
The hearts of all our household.

LOPEZ.
Thoughtless child!
And yet I should not blame your careless age,
That cannot guess the weight of such regard
As fathers like our master bear their sons,
Least noted when most prideful; but no lack
Of feasting will be ours; though, thus apart,
The parents and their son, without a guest
Except our lady's brother, who partook
The first great venture through the western seas,
And since has lived as restless as the waves
With which he held long fellowship, will share
This frugal banquet;—we, in the hall, festoon'd
With myrtles and full orange boughs, shall drain
Cups without stint of generous wine, and keep
The dance alive till midnight.

FLORIO.
Shall all dance?

LOPEZ.
Unless you choose to play the looker-on;
Even I—laugh, if you will—but there are seasons
When all who truly tasted youth resume it,
And this is one of mine.

FLORIO.
May a young servant
Ask, without blame, if always, on this day,
Our gracious master, who so often holds
High festival with liberal pomp, contracts
His wonted state?

LOPEZ.
He has kept this birthday thus,
Since a fair girl—half of his household's youth—
Was taken hence. I have heard her parents tell
How she drew after her such earnest thoughts
As in this season, which renews their spring-time,
Make them almost partakers of the home
Where she awaits them. Lovely child! she bore
A regal but unhappy name, derived
From glorious Isabella's mournful heiress,
And wasted from the world as that great lady
Shrunk into solitude.

FLORIO.
The Queen Joanna;
She who they say is lunatic?

LOPEZ.
Beware!
Let not your master hear you drop a word
Which may touch lightly on that sacred grief,
Unless you'd rouse a hurricane of wrath
Past all you guess of anger.

FLORIO.
How of wrath—
Our master seems most gentle?

LOPEZ.
So he is,
And most of all indulgent in respects
That touch himself;—play truant when he needs
A page's tending most, neglect to bring
His horse when he is bent on speed, forget
Half of some urgent message,—if he chide you,
It will be in a tone so mild, with look
So like a father's smiling on the excess
Of a son's heedless mirth, that you shall wait,
When he has ceased, as wondering the rebuke
Is past, and almost wishing it prolong'd;
But let a word or smile betray the lack
Of duteous reverence for the things he deems
Holy in earth or heaven, and you shall stand
Shivering before him with lock'd hands, nor dare
To fly, to kneel, or to withdraw your eyes
From his, or shape a wish but that the earth
Would open and enfold you.
Run and help
To wreath the hall for dancing;—why you stand
Aghast, as if in doubt what dancing means:
What ails you?

FLORIO.
Nothing but the fear you raise
Of such an anger.

LOPEZ.
Then be light of heart;
Only continue guileless and obedient
As I believe you are, and you will live here
In toils as light, and gallant sports as free,
As you were born thrice noble. Trip away.
[Exit Florio.
The sun declines; what can detain my master?

Enter the Marquis de Mondeiar.
MONDEIAR.
What! Vegetating still with ruddy cheek
As twenty summers since—like yonder dial
O'er-grown by the huge sycamore, that, touch'd
No longer by the sunbeam, shows no trace
Of coursing time? My sister comes; go in,
And bid the house be merry.

LOPEZ.
Peace be with you.
[Exit Lopez.

MONDEIAR.
I will not say Amen to prayers for peace—
Let all break now!

Enter Donna Maria de Pachecho.
MONDEIAR.
The blessings of the day
Surround you, sister! But I look in vain
For its young hero and his sire; 'tis graceless
To own impatience in a time so happy,
But eager thoughts forestall the approaching night,
Which must not veil us without one hour spent
With those I soon may part from.

MARIA.
Eager thoughts—
A threat of parting!—Are you tamed at last,
Subdued to beg from some fair conqueror
One little evening hour for older loves?
So speeds a new-born tyranny! Dear brother,
Whose absolute beauty rules your time?

MONDEIAR.
Forbear!
There is a sterner and a nobler mistress
Than one of mortal loveliness that rules
My anxious moments now: but what impedes
Padilla and Alphonso? I must quaff
One ancient round of healths, or my next year
Will roll unbless'd.

MARIA
(pointing).
Do you discern a thread
Of white against the sky, that glistens touch'd
By the last sunbeams, while the shelving crags,
That open to disclose it, lie in shade?
Our boy, who knows it as the loftiest peak
Our region boasts, won from his father promise
That, on this birthday, he should make the trial
To reach its summit; before dawn they started,
And have not yet return'd; the way is long—
Across the city—

MONDEIAR.
True; across the city—
They may have been detain'd—across the city?

MARIA.
What then? There's not a heart within its walls,
From that which is most quick with generous promptings,
To vilest outcast's that retains one pulse
Of good not wholly numb'd, that would not break
To serve Padilla; no—I cannot fear
Aught in Toledo.

MONDEIAR.
I spoke not of danger.
Hark! Is there not a rush—a shout—a murmur?

MARIA.
What is it that you fear?

MONDEIAR.
Fear? Lest the crowds
That throng the streets, with too impatient love,
May stay his passage, and before the time
Speak their desire. You smile, as if your heart,
Your high and towering heart, foreknew and hail'd
My news unspoken. 'Neath yon glistening roofs
Huge thoughts and towering passions wait the hour
When they shall rend and scatter to the winds
The feeble bonds that curb them. Blistering shame
For nation, mighty as Castile, transferr'd
By a slight youth to alien rule, and scorn
Of his ignoble instruments, have wing'd
A people's strong conviction, which a day,
An hour, may see triumphant. Hark! There's life
In yonder streets.

MARIA.
Go on—there is no sound—
Speak on.

MONDEIAR.
No sound? It may be so, for silence
In its depth speaks; of late the healthy breath
Of daily life has stopp'd; the workman casts
His tools in restless languor down, and joins
Some cluster'd troop of idlers in the sun,
Who seek no pastime, but seem met to gaze
With wonder on each other; each surveys
The face of each, as if he read strange thoughts,
And yet they only speak of common things,
And that in hurried whispers; children stand
Perplex'd amid their toys: while mothers cleave,
With arms grown rigid, to their husbands' breasts
And eyes upturn'd, as if they strove for words
To ask the meaning of the nameless fear
That creeps along their heartstrings; but that silence
Shall break; one war-cry from a leader's lips
Will change it into thunder; but, alas!
The people want a leader.

MARIA.
You shall lead them.

MONDEIAR.
Not I, Maria; I can strike and bleed,
But own no power of sympathy which moulds
The passions of a mighty nation roused
For noblest issues. 'Tis not grace to wear
A life as lightly as a festal plume
For fortune's breeze to trifle with, and turn
A panic-stricken legion by exploit
Of desperate valour, that endows a chief
For strife like ours: no; he who would direct
A people in its rising, must be calm
As death is, yet respond to every pulse
Of passion'd millions,—as yon slender moon
That scarce commends the modest light it sheds
Through sunset's glory to the gazer's sense,
In all its changes, in eclipse, in storm,
Enthroned in azure, or enriching clouds
That, in their wildest hurry, catch its softness,
Will sway the impulsive ocean, he must rule
By strength allied to weakness, yet supreme,
Man's heaving soul, and bid it ebb and flow
In sorrow, passion, glory, as he mourns,
Struggles, or triumphs.

MARIA.
You intend my husband?

MONDEIAR.
Yes. Will you urge him to his glorious work?
Let me unfold our cause.

MARIA.
Your cause! I seek
No knowledge of your cause, a thing of words;
It is the Man whose nature God arrays
In semblance of His greatness that inflames
And stamps the cause. Padilla was not born
That an adoring household should surmise
The might his goodness veils; let him command,
Conquer, and govern, and the cause of earth
And heaven shall triumph in his reign.

MONDEIAR.
It shall!
I hear his footstep; we must break all gently
If we would see him leader.

MARIA.
I shall see him;
The hour is come: lie still my bounding heart;
The hour is come.

[Enter Padilla and Alphonso, followed by Florio. Padilla unbuckles his sword-belt, and gives his sword to Florio, who goes out with it.
PADILLA.
Accuse us not as loiterers;
We made our horses fly, till this gay horseman,
Who loves them, I believe, almost as well
As he loves us, cried shame upon our speed:
Yet sunset chides us.

MONDEIAR.
Was your way delay'd
By concourse in Toledo?

PADILLA.
No; its streets
Were strangely void, as if its men had fled
From portents of a hurricane; the fault
Lay in my judgment that too lightly scann'd
The distance of the pinnacle we sought
And found entrench'd amidst the hills it crowns
By rock-cleft gorges; yet 'twas full reward
For painful struggles through the granite wilds
To watch my brave companion, as with step
Airy and true, he scaled the pillar'd top
With head erect, while crumbling fragments broke
To dust beneath each footstep, till he trod
The glassy summit, never touch'd till then
Save by the bolt that splinter'd it, serene
As if a wing, too fine for mortal sight,
Upbore him, while slant sunbeams graced his brow
With diadem of light.

MONDEIAR.
So may he stand
Irradiate, when the crown of old Castile
Shall wreathe that brow!

PADILLA.
The crown of old Castile!—
The glorious realm of which he is the child—
The realm for which, although no oath has yet
Laid weight upon his boyhood, all his veins
Would proudly pour their blood! Forbid such thought
Wing'd by the demon of a dream should break
Through his light slumber! What is it distracts you?

MARIA.
'Twas but a harmless birthday wish, which love
Shaped in delighted sportiveness, and love
Alone has listen'd to.

PADILLA.
A harmless wish!
And this from you, Maria! Were he born
To tread the lowliest course of peasant life
It were a false affection to desire
His fever'd struggle and his loftier fortune,
Instead of calm endeavour to adorn
The rank assign'd him by his God, with grace
That brave obedience nurtures; but for him—
Born a Castilian nobleman in faith
Unvex'd by doubt, to duties which are bright
With glorious requisitions and rewards,
What can be wish'd, but that he live and die
Worthy his lot, not raised in hope above
Nor sunk in deed beneath it? Yet you wish
For such a youth a crown he cannot wear
But by the base success of treason! Brother,
Rather than this fair nurseling of Castile
Should grasp her crown, I'd see him bend his head
In meek submission to her sword upraised
To slay him falsely doom'd. Great Heaven! he's pale:
A blackness trembles on his face—'tis gone—
What ails you, my Alphonso? Did my words
Sicken your heart with images of death?
Think them most idle.

ALPHONSO.
No; I felt not sickness;
Strange were it, if one school'd as I have been,
Should quail at thoughts of death, and stranger still
When you awake them.

PADILLA.
Pale again! some grief
Is struggling through the veil that wraps our Present,
In portents—Heaven avert it from the brow
Of youth, to strike the elder! But this birth-night
Was meant for joy; whate'er the future bears,
Let gratitude fill this.

[They turn to the Alcove, and begin to take their places at the table.
Enter Lopez.
LOPEZ.
A royal officer,
Who gives his name Gonsalvo, craves a word
With you alone.

PADILLA.
Gonsalvo—can it be
The same with whom I shared a page's schooling
When the great Marquis of Cadiz allow'd us
His household's discipline? Another time
Right gladly had I welcomed him—but now—
Comes he alone?

LOPEZ.
A band of soldiers, rude
Of speech, attend him; they have piled their swords
And helmets in the court, as if they thought
To sojourn with us.

PADILLA.
Give them food and wine,
And lead Gonsalvo hither.
[Exit Lopez.
If he stands
As I have heard, high in the Regent's favour,
He is too prosperous to waste time on me,
And soon will leave us to piece out the joy
Of this chance-ravell'd hour.

MONDEIAR.
Meanwhile I'll find
Due welcome for your martial guests.
[Aside to Maria.
Thank Heaven
Toledo's ready for them.
[Aloud.
Sister, come,
We shall find work within.

PADILLA.
You'll find the feast
Spread for our household in the hall; be sure
The soldiers are made welcome.

[Exeunt Mondeiar, Maria, and Alphonso.
PADILLA
(alone).
Here's their officer—
How alter'd from the bright and wayward boy
With whom I often wrestled, sometimes fought,
And, though not earnest in affection, liked
The better for our conflicts. Shall I seem
As changed to him?

Enter Gonsalvo.
PADILLA.
Old playmate, you are welcome;
You come upon the birthday of my son,
Who on this day attains the happy age
At which we parted. You must drain one goblet
Before you say that anything more urgent
Than memory of old times has brought you to us.

GONSALVO.
No feasting—I am come on sterner business;
I bear commission to unveil and crush
Foul treasons in your city.

PADILLA.
In Toledo?
Be jocund, then; you'll find no painful duties;
There are not truer spirits in Castile
Than glow within yon walls.

GONSALVO.
You think them loyal!
I must admire your unsuspecting goodness
Rather than praise your wisdom. Is your ear
So charm'd, that not a murmur from the craftsmen
Has startled it? Nay, is your sainted sleep
So curtain'd by oblivion, that no echo
Has wafted through its labyrinth of dreams
A whisper of sedition?

PADILLA.
Not a breath
From a disloyal fantasy has stirr'd
Life's placid air around us.

GONSALVO.
Strange as true.
But, if you can,—suppose the crowd you praise
As loyal in Toledo, should presume
To mutter low complaints that Charles bestows
His presence on a foreign court, or doubt
His right to choose the Regent of his realms
Save from Castilian blood,—what would you tell them?

PADILLA.
Bid them resume the duties God has laid
On tranquil lowliness, and leave to Him
By whom kings reign the power to judge of kings
Who at His bar shall answer.

GONSALVO.
Bravely said.
But, further; what if they should heave with thoughts
That, born in rugged commonwealths of old,
Have started from the sceptred sleep of years
To shake our monarchies? Should dream of power
To raise a bar in every peasant's soul
At which the rulers of the earth shall stand
Arraign'd; nay, chafing at the sacred curb
Of priestly guidance, claim to choose a creed
And fashion faith at pleasure? Do you live
While Luther's words, with lightning flash, assail
The majesties of Rome, and hear no clang
Of intellect's rebellion, ghastlier far
Than that of armies?

PADILLA.
I have heard reports
Of heresies, but never wasted time
To question them; my days are short enough
By light of cloudless faith to do the work
Which simple duty points; I ask no space
For my soul's venture but the path that lies
Direct 'twixt me and Heaven; enough for me
To soar from earth along that narrow track
Which angel-gleamings border: to my God
Devotion—to my King obedience—these
Are simple words that breathe of mighty things
Sufficient to endow for life and death
A Christian soldier's being.

GONSALVO.
It were well
Your friends could hear you talk thus.

PADILLA.
Talk! what mean you?
You urge me to this service of the tongue
And then you scoff at what my nature loathes
As much as you despise it! Why are you here
To show me for a braggard of the faith
Which every noble of Castile enshrines
In heart as true as mine? You smile—great Heaven!
Is my truth doubted? Are you sent to call
My life a lie? Speak not, but take it!

GONSALVO.
No;
The Regent, in his clemency, forbears
To claim your life, although your vaunted friends,
Ripe in Toledo for revolt, avow
Full confidence that brave Padilla's name
Will varnish their rebellion. Adrian seeks
No more of treason's idol than your cession
Prisoner to me; and, for the present, doom'd
To no worse dungeon than this fair domain,
Where you may breathe your loyalty in prayers
For us, whose falchions shall destroy the webs
Of treachery you perceive not.

PADILLA.
Who has wrought this?
Where lurks the caitiff who has forged the lie
That, by the being of a moment, taints
My fame for ever? I have done no wrong
With consciousness to mortal—let me know
His name, Gonsalvo! I will work no harm
On the poor slave, but look into his eyes
And bid him gaze on mine, as now I stand
Confronting you: ha! I perceive your flesh
Where the soul's palsy creeps in every line
That trembles with its separate cowardice
Confessing that the falsehood you unfold
Is your own fabric,—for some paltry gaud,
An office, or a title, or a smile,
You have spread your poisons on an honest life
Whose youth your boyhood mated;—come! be bold!
Avow it! Speak! I wear no sword to guard
The bosom you have rack'd—I cannot stab
The slander at your heartstrings!

GONSALVO.
You remind me
That 'tis my duty to demand your sword,
In token that you hold yourself a prisoner
At the Imperial order.

PADILLA.
At the Emperor's?
Has Charles's warrant authorised this shame?

GONSALVO
(showing a parchment).
You know his hand?

PADILLA
(glancing at it and giving it back).
'Tis true—break heart—end all—
Within there!

[Calling.
Enter Alphonso.
PADILLA.
No—not you—bid Lopez come—
And bring my sword.

ALPHONSO.
To-night, sir?

PADILLA.
Yes—at once—
Why do you gaze upon me? Go, my boy.

[Exit Alphonso.
GONSALVO.
A gallant youth; is he your son?

PADILLA.
Bear with me;
I am stricken in a moment, and should learn
Acquaintance with the griefs debasement spreads
On all around it; and my son must share them;
But I am not arm'd, as yet, to bid him look
On the enforced surrender of that sword
Which I have hoped that he would bear undimm'd
Beside my bier, and after use it nobly
For Charles, who now by you demands it; soon—
Full soon—my boy must feel the home he honors,
A shameful prison.

GONSALVO.
No; a brighter lot
Shall wait him than to pace a captive's halls:
He shall depart with me.

PADILLA.
With you?

GONSALVO.
With me—
A priceless hostage for his father's faith,
Train'd in the camp by martial discipline
To loyalty as firm as yours will show for
While he is with me.

PADILLA.
In the camp? Your camp?
My child—whose opening spirit scarce retains
A stain upon the purity it drew
From heaven, when chrysome at the font—whence dust
Of earth's pollutions, by the faintest breath
Of love's rebuke unsettled, flit in air,
And leave it all the angel? Must he learn
The lessons of your guard-room? Never! Take
His innocent life, and with it the two lives
That are sustain'd by his—or, if that grace
Exceed your mission, find some loathsome cell—
A narrow cell—there are but three of us—
Where we may waste together;—speak, and bless me!

GONSALVO.
The youth shall go with me.

PADILLA.
Wake not the spirit
Your warrant crush'd, to frenzy. You and I,
Who meet thus strangely on life's downward verge,
With hair just whitening, parted in the prime
Of boyhood—joyous, yet not graced as that
You would make wretched—and though anxious years
Have since revolved, the memories of our pastimes
Have broken on me through their mists—do you
Forget them utterly?—or sterner hours
When I have borne the meed your frolics drew
Without a murmur? By those old records
Of sweet and sad companionship—spare this,
And take all else!

GONSALVO.
Show me a course as sure
To keep the loyalty you vaunt unbroken!
'Twas well imagined—bid your son prepare—
The light is waning.

PADILLA
(pacing the stage in great agitation).
Heaven in grace look down!
I cannot answer him—the air is heavy—
The ponderous storm-clouds fall and hem me in
With canopy of brass—break—break above me—
And let me breathe again! They part—God's sky
In deepest azure opens to my soul,
And bids it thus defy thee!

GONSALVO.
Traitor!

Enter Maria, Mondeiar, and Alphonso, followed by Lopez with Padilla's sword. Padilla sinks on a bench at the back of the scene, and covers his face with his hands.
MARIA
(to Gonsalvo).
What is this?
What sad news have you brought us?

PADILLA.
You are come
To hear this minion of the Regent charge
Your husband with sedition—ask his sword—
And, for the hostage of his tainted honour,
Demand his precious child.

MARIA.
You do not grant them?
Speak, speak! You will not yield!

PADILLA.
Never our darling;
All else the Emperor shall command.

GONSALVO.
A force
Sufficient to compel you to obey
My great commission waits; if you withhold
The hostage, I shall call my ready soldiers,
Who will enforce your duty.

MONDEIAR.
Call them—call them!
They'll scarcely answer you: surprised, they strive
To burst the mansion's gates, which, while they feasted,
My friends, who guess'd a shameful purpose, barr'd.

PADILLA.
My Sovereign's troops imprison'd in my halls—
O lie too soon made true!
[To Gonsalvo.
Withdraw in time—
I'll bid your soldiers follow.

MONDEIAR.
Let them go;
They can work little harm without the weapons
I've taken charge of.

PADILLA.
Give them back.

MARIA.
Arm soldiers
To rend our darling from us?

ALPHONSO
(kneeling to Padilla, who remains seated).
Let me die
Rather than rive your loyal nature thus,
But not in life be parted from you.

PADILLA
(placing his hands on Alphonso's head, and bending over it).
Never;—
The tyrant shall not dash away the bloom
That innocence spreads here; nor fill these eyes
With bitter tears; nor bid them glare with fire
That desperate pleasure lights; nor teach these lips
To utter thoughts unholy.
[Rising and addressing Gonsalvo.
Villain, leave us,
Before the passion climbing in my soul
Endow these hands with fury to avenge
The home your presence violates!

GONSALVO.
Farewell—
Your loyalty's right well assured—to-morrow
Expect me with a band, too strong for rifling,
To vindicate your king.
[Exit Gonsalvo.

MARIA.
You ask'd your sword—
'Tis here; you'll find its use.

[Padilla takes the sword from Lopez, who goes out.
PADILLA.
I welcome thee!
And thus unsheath thee in the just defence
Of this dear household.

MONDEIAR.
And shall feebler households
Want its protection?

PADILLA.
They are not profaned
By wrongs like ours.

MONDEIAR.
With insults great as this
Castile's poor homes are visited; the iron
Delay'd till now acquaintance with your soul:
But it has enter'd thousands of brave natures
E'er it pierced yours.

PADILLA.
Do multitudes endure
Beneath the Regent's sway such wrongs as this?
Am I by some foul dream beset, or roused
From deep oblivion of my country's griefs
To meet them naked? Agonies and shames,
That crouch'd beneath mild semblances of law,
Start up, and chide me for the fond belief
I have cherish'd too supinely while I dream'd
That I perform'd man's duty. A new world
Of strange oppressions startles me, as shapes
Of dim humanity, that clustering hung
Along the dusky ridges of the West,
Struck Spain's great Admiral with awe of natures
From Time's beginning passion'd with desires
He had no line to fathom.

[Shouts and tumult without.
Enter Tendilla, Ovando, Gomez, and others.
TENDILLA.
Mondeiar, we wait you;
The people are in arms; a swift report
Of outrage to their noblest townsman wing'd
Their discontents with rage that would not brook
An hour's restraint: they come; they shout his name.

[Nearer shouts, in which the name of Padilla is mingled.
PADILLA.
Roused, said you, by my wrongs, while I stand thus
Unheeding theirs?

[Shouts still nearer.
MARIA
(to Padilla).
You hear that call?

PADILLA.
I hear,
And fly to answer it—for home! For justice!

[Padilla rushes out, followed by Tendilla, Ovando, and others.
MONDEIAR
(following them).
We triumph, sister! Let your prayers ascend
For blessings on our cause!

MARIA.
On him! on him!

[Exeunt severally.