 | Romiero |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
An open entrance hall in the castle. Jerome, vassals, and domestics, are discovered in waiting. Enter Pietro.Pie.
(to Jer.)
So, our good master is return'd in safety:
May I not see him?
Jer.
No, not now, good Pietro.
Pie.
Not now! how so? It is my privilege,
Which he has granted to this hoary head,
To see him, unreproved, whene'er I list.
I needs must greet him.
Jer.
Thou hadst better not!
Donna Zorada is not in the castle
To welcome his return: till he hath seen her,
I think thy courtesy would have small chance
Of courteous reception.
Pie.
Well, be it so: what changes wedlock makes,
That Don Romiero should be so possess'd!
He should have wedded earlier, as I think,
Or not so young a bride. For, as they say,
Let all things be in right and due proportion.
Let not the hart play gambols with the fawn.
Plant not a sapling olive by the side
Of the broad oak. Link not the bony staghound—
Jer.
Truce with thy wisdom, now! see, he is coming.
Enter Romiero, in a hurried, impatient manner, followed by Guzman.
Rom.
Not yet return'd! Go, Jerome, to the wood,
That is her favourite walk.
Jer.
Please you, my lord, I have sent Blas already
To search the wood, and now he is return'd.
Enter Blas.
Rom.
Hast found her, Blas?
Blas.
Yes, she will soon be here;
She's coming from the wood.
Rom.
With steps, I warrant,
Light as the bounding roe.
Blas.
Nay, good my lord,
Donna Zorada, somewhat lame, I guess,
Comes with slow steps, supported on the arm
Of young Don Maurice.
Rom.
I'll bear her in my arms: she is in pain.
The very pressure of the velvet turf
Will do her injury.
[Exit hastily.
Guz.
(to Pie.)
Thou wearst a surly smile upon thy face,
Good Pietro, mine old friend; what may it mean?
Thy lord, methinks, is a right tender husband.
Pie.
Ay, marry is he! I remember well
His lady mother urged him oft to wed.
“Become a woman's toy!” quoth he: “am I
Of such soft matter form'd, that you, forsooth
Would make a husband of me?” Then he'd speak
Of women, even the fairest and the best,
With such sharp taunts, that she, good lady, sigh'd,
And in despair forbore all further plea.
Guz.
But dost thou think he spake unfeignedly?
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Why should he feign with her who gave him birth?
She was a woman of good parts, well taught
Sober, and wise.
Guz.
And yet it might be so.
Pie.
I cannot tell; for now, as I remember,
His love for Donna Laura none suspected,
Till he was found at midnight in the vault
Lamenting o'er her grave.
'Twas said that many a night a sheeted spectre
Haunted the spot: that spectre was Romiero.
Guz.
It might be so: and yet he is not close,
Concealing what he feels, but with his friends
Free and confiding.
Pie.
Yes, St. Lawrence bless him.
His thoughts must have their vent; but yet I say,
And know it well, none did suspect his love
Till he was found lamenting o'er her grave.
Ah! many a cheerful face hides careful heart!
This is a saying well approved by all.
For sound experience teaches many things,
Which, as my mother, heaven rest her soul,
Was wont to say—
Guz.
Excuse me now, good Pietro;
I'll stay and hear it all another time;
I am in haste.
[Exit.
Pie.
(looking after him with displeasure).
He too in haste! That light and heedless youth,
Full of their youthful sports, should be impatient
When sober serious men begin to speak,
Is nothing marvellous; it was always so.
But now the evil still goes on increasing,
And men of middle age and understanding
Are e'en as light and foolish as the young.
An evil sign, I trow, of evil times.
Should it go on increasing, by my certes!
Ere I have spoken half a sentence, off
Each foolish varlet I address will run,
And leave me most discourteously to find,
As it may chance, another auditor
For the remaining half.—O foolish times!
Foolish and evil too!
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Zorada's apartment. Enter Romiero and Zorada.Rom.
Feelst thou no pain, my love? Thou art fatigued.
Ah! why didst thou refuse thine own support?
These arms that to the earth's far verge would bear,
Blessing their toil, so sweet, so dear a burthen.
Zor.
Indeed, my lord, I needed no support;
The pain had passed away: I walked with ease.
Rom.
The foolish envious pain which cast thee, sweet,
Upon another's care. Thus, thus, and thus
[Kissing her cheeks, and then both her hands, one after the other.
I pay thee my devotion. Nay, look on me,
Smile on me thy sweet smiles, and raise thine eyes,
Sweet mate, sweet play-fellow, pretty Zorada!
Zor.
Nay, good my lord, these words are full of fondness,
And yet they please me not. What shall I say?
Speak to me as a wife, companion, friend,
Not as a petted darling. Art thou well?
How has it fared with thee since last we parted?
My father too—what dost thou know of him?
Rom.
Thou needst not fear for him; he has escaped;
He is in safety in a foreign land,
Where he, I hope, will end his days in peace.
Zor.
And shall I ne'er behold his face again?
[He shakes his head.
O but I will! I'll go to comfort him,
And so wilt thou. Why dost thou turn from me?
May it not be?
Rom.
Oh ask me not! I've sworn—
Zor.
What hast thou sworn?
Rom.
I cannot tell thee now.
Zor.
Then it is true!
[Turning from him with violent gestures of distress and displeasure to the end of the chamber; then returning and looking in his face upbraidingly.
How couldst thou; Oh! how couldst thou
Swear to deliver to the tyrant's vengeance,
Dead or alive, wherever thou shalt find him,
My father, thine old friend, the brave Sebastian?
Is it not so? If thou hast sworn an oath
Less terrible than this, tell it me quickly.
Rom.
Dear love, he is in safety far from hence,
This oath, as to his life, is nugatory;
And, but for it, thou ne'er hadst seen thy husband.
Thou knowst the cruel nature of Don Pedro.
Ah! why that face of sorrow and displeasure?
Alas! I see I am not welcome here.
Zor.
No; say not so.
Rom.
How can I then explain
Thy sad averted looks? Where art thou going?
Zor.
I'm faint; I am not well; I'm sick at heart;
I long to be alone.
Rom.
Life of my life! Indeed, thou art not well;
Then wherefore leave this chamber?
[Pointing to a couch.
Here lay thee down, and I will watch by thee.
Zor.
I'll rest me in my closet for a while!
I'm wayward grown, and love to be alone.
Rom.
No; say not so; I know thou art not wayward;
It is not in thy nature; but distress,
From filial duty, strain'd, perhaps, too far,
Hath made thee so. Remain, my love, with me;
Thou wilt forgive me when thou hast consider'd.
Zor.
I cannot now consider, with a heart
Gored to the quick. I pray you, then, my lord,
Permit me to retire.
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I'll lead thee to thy closet: lean on me.
[She waves him off with her hand.
Wilt thou not deign to do it?
[Exit Zorada, still motioning him not to follow her; (stopping, with clasped hands, in a thoughtful posture, after having paced several times rapidly across the room.)
An absent father and a present husband
I' th' scales are put, and, to all outward seeming,
The last doth kick the beam. Is it for this—
For this that I have given my freedom up,
Drawn every strong affection of my heart
To one dear point?—and this the poor return!
[After a second pause.
My life in such a perilous circumstance,
And now restored to her and to my home!
This is of small account. O woman, woman!
One corner of a gallant's passing fancy
Pleaseth thee well; the whole devoted heart
Of man matured is to thee as a yoke,
A cumb'rous weight from which thou wouldst escape;
And friendship, filial duty, every tie
Defrauds thy husband of his dear-earned rights.
[After pacing again through the room as before.
I am a fool! I knew the heart of woman—
Knew what she had to give, and, Oh! too well,
What might, at price of many an inward pang,
To her be given; yet, ne'ertheless, forsooth!
I murmur at my lot.
[These last words spoken while Don Guzman is entering behind him.
Guz.
What art thou mutt'ring? Murmurs at thy lot!
Were these the words I heard thee utter now
In such a smother'd voice? With fair Zorada
Within that lot comprised, wouldst thou exchange it
For any other man's?
Rom.
No; not for his who fills th' imperial throne.
Guz.
What ails thee, then, possessing such a treasure?
Rom.
Ay, if I did possess it.
Guz.
Dost thou not?
Rom.
The heart I do not. Call ye it possessing,
When any tie of friendship or of nature
Crosses the vows which she has given to love?
Guz.
I do not understand fantastic notions
And fine-spun niceties of sentiment.
I'll comprehend thee better presently.
Rom.
'Tis plain and simple matter. My return,
Though from a perilous state, gives to Zorada
Slight pleasure: her affections and concern
Are all engross'd by what is duty call'd
To her unhappy father. I am nothing.
Guz.
And is this all, indeed, that troubles thee?
Rom.
Should there be more? Why dost thou smile so strangely?
Guz.
At thy most simple folly, noble friend.
Surely the men in these degenerate days,
When every high-plumed youth and idle stripling
Hath leave to play his gambols in the sight
Of maids and married dames without reproof,
And pour bewitching nonsense in their ears
At feast or tourney, is most fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lovely wife
With too much duteous love for her old father.
[Laughing heartily.
I needs must laugh: thou art fantastical.
Rom.
No; thou art light of heart and canst not judge:
Having no care thyself, thou art incredulous
Of any cause which others have for care.
To speak to thee of what I feel, is folly,
Though, from long habitude, I needs must do it.
Thou hast no sympathy, and yet my heart
Clings to thee as a friend.
Guz.
Nay; fie upon thee!
Thou knowst full well that unto the world's end
I'd run to serve thee, though my pliant lip
Cannot approve of all thy fleeting notions.
But we'll debate no more on things so irksome.
I came to say that Maurice hath invited me
To see some curious cave which yesterday
He first discover'd, as along the shore
In quest of sea-birds' eggs he idly wander'd.
Rom.
Has he been here so long?
Guz.
Doubtless he has. It is a curious sight
This fairy cave, as he described it to me:
I shall be absent for an hour or so;
Perhaps, a little longer.
[Exit.
Rom.
(alone).
He is fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lively wife
With too much duteous love for her old father!
The smile that follow'd too,—that had its meaning.
Lame and not lame, and leaning on his arm!
The stroke darts through me like an adder's sting,
Though but so slightly given.
Re-enter Guzman with Maurice.
Guz.
Maurice is come with me to tempt thee out,
If we may be so bold. The fairy cave
Is a short ride from hence, the day is cool,
And we will wait thy pleasure.
Maur.
I pray you be entreated, good my lord.
Rom.
I thank ye both; I mean to stay at home.
Maur.
What! here alone, the ladies being retired?
On such a day as this, when the blue waves
Heaving and sinking in the sunny gleam.
Show all the changes of their crisped sides
Like the seam'd foldings of a silken robe;
When every sea-bird is upon the wing
Skimming and diving for his finny prey;
When distant vessels, tacking to the breeze.
Seem dames whose snowy kirtles are stretch'd out
To the slow measure of some courtly dance;—
On such a day as this to stay at home
In gloomy chambers pent—
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Surprises thee.
Maur.
In truth it does. Methinks on such a day,
Did not we see above the glassy brine
The mast of that wreck'd vessel still appear
To tell the dismal tale of last night's storm,
One would with buoyant heart say to the ocean,
Let us career it o'er thy surgy fields
To every coast o' th' earth.
Rom.
I doubt not, sir, 'tis a fair sight to those
Who come so far afield to look upon it.
Is thine old tutor dead, or dame Magera,
That thou art rambling gallantly at large
In this our distant province?—Dost thou blush?
That is a folly, if thou hast no cause.
Maur.
I fear, my lord, I have offended you.
I am as free to ramble now at large
As any he who reckons twice my years;
Nor should my visit to this distant province
Be deem'd an idle ramble; Don Fernandez,
My aged kinsman, claims some duty of me:
I am an inmate of his lonely tower.
Guz.
Pooh! boy, thou'st said enough, and somewhat more:
Who cares about thy visit to thy kinsman?
Rom.
Who does not care? It is an age of duty;
Nought now is cherish'd in the tender breast
But ties of blood; and his good company,
With all his lore and saws and thrice-told tales,
Will well reward the virtue of this youth.
Go to your cave, and see it in its beauty:
The billows else may wash its shelly sides,
And make it bare and little worth to-morrow. (Aside to Guzman.)
Take him away: why do ye linger here?
Guz.
(aside to him).
Why speakst thou so unkindly to the youth?
Rom.
(aside).
Spoke I unkindly? Then 'twas unawares,
I meant it not.
Guz.
(aside).
Be civil to him then, and make amends;
He stares and wonders at such taunting words.
Rom.
(aloud).
A pleasant ride, my friends.
[They turn to go, and he calls after them.
And hark, Don Maurice!
If thou preferr'st a wayward captious host
(For such I do confess myself to be),
With two fair ladies (both methinks are fair),
To thine old kinsman's company, return,
And be one night at least our honour'd guest.
Maur.
I do, with thanks, accept your courtesy.
[Exeunt Maurice and Guzman.
Rom.
(looking after Maurice).
The very eye and visage, light and thoughtless;
A woman's varying blushes with the tint
Of sun-burnt hunter mix'd; the very form,
Slight as a stripling, statured as a man,
Which has—detested spell! so oft beguiled
The female fancy, prizing worthless show. (After a pause.)
Can it be so? O no! it cannot be;
I but distract myself. I'll crush within me
All thoughts which this way tend, as pois'nous asps
That sting the soul and turn its bliss to bane. (After another pause.)
To think of it no more, indeed, were good,
If it were possible. And yet to know
The truth, if fair or foul, were better still;
They are both placed beneath my observation;
'Tis well I did invite him for the night.
[Rings a bell violently.
Enter Jerome.
[A pause, Romiero seeming unwilling to speak.
Jer.
What do you want, my lord?
Rom.
Thyself, good Jerome.
Who follow'd thee? I heard a creaking step.
Jer.
It was mine own, my lord.
Rom.
'Tis well; come nearer, man. How many oaks
Have by my brawny foresters been fell'd,
Since I left home?
Jer.
I do not know, my lord.
Shall I inquire?
Rom.
Of what wouldst thou inquire?
Jer.
The oaks which you have just been speaking of.
Do you not wish to know—
Rom.
True; but I have another thing to say.
How many times hath this young don been here
To visit Donna Beatrice?
Jer.
To visit her?
Rom.
Yes, fool! to visit her.
Why dost thou look so strangely at the question?
Answer it in few words and faithfully.
Jer.
He hath, for some days past, come to the gate,
At noon-tide hour or so, but whom to visit
It suits not me to say.
Rom.
Then! 'tis not Beatrice he comes to visit?
Jer.
It does not so appear; it may,—it may not.
Rom.
Why dost thou hesitate and stammer thus?
Art thou afraid to speak? What is the matter?
Jer.
Nothing, my lord, but you did fix your eyes
With such a keen intenseness on my face,
I fear'd I might offend.
Rom.
How fear'd, unless the thing thou hast to say
Should be of bad import?
Jer.
As I breathe life,
Nothing of good or bad import have I
To tell your honour.
Rom.
Well, well! be it so.
Thy strange bewilder'd face made me suspect thee.
Why dost thou wait?
Jer.
Your further pleasure, sir.
Rom.
There's nothing else.—Yes, yes! go bid my huntsman
Prepare him for to-morrow's early chace.
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Why, good my lord! he died the very day
Before you left the castle.
Rom.
Ay, true, I had forgotten.—Get thee gone.
[Exit Jerome. (Alone.)
I like not his scar'd face and wary words:
Something is always wrong when such as he
Stammer, and stare, and weigh their phrases so.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
Night. A grove near the walls of the castle, which is seen in the background, the moon appearing behind it. Enter Maurice.Maur.
(after listening).
No footstep near, no stirring of the boughs,
Which cast their darken'd forms, distinct and motionless,
Athwart the paly lustre of the moon!
No gentle messenger to meet my hopes!—
Ah Hope! who makest the lover still thy fool!
Do I not know that she would give her presence
To no man living at an hour like this,
In such a spot as this, yet twice already
Some birch's shiny stem or blossom'd shrub
Have been to me her very form and semblance.
She may despise my billet—tear it—burn it,
Yet my heart beats as though—Ha! here comes Jerome.
Enter Jerome.
What news?
Jer.
Good news.
Maur.
I'd smother thee with kisses,
But that thou art such an unseemly hound.
How look'd she? Was she angry? Was she pleas'd?
Will she vouchsafe to hear me plead my suit?
Jer.
She will.
Maur.
And where?
Jer.
In the long gallery,
Now unfrequented. I will be on watch
That no intruder break upon your meeting.
Maur.
Prince of Castile, go doff thy hat and plume;
I am a prouder, happier man than thou!
Jer.
Hush, hush! begone,—I hear a noise without.
Maur.
Where?
Jer.
To the right. We'll take the other path;
Though I must needs return by this again.
[Exeunt. Enter Zorada and Nurse by the opposite side.
Zor.
Stand thou aside, good nurse; I'll on some paces,
And softly call; if he be near at hand,
He'll know my voice.
[Coming forward to a thicket near the front of the stage.
Ho! art thou there? come forth;—come forth and fear not.
Perhaps he has mistaken thy direction,
I think he is in covert farther on.
I hear a rustling, yonder, to the left.
[Returns again to the bottom of the stage, and enter Sebastian. They embrace each other, while nurse stands apart.
Seb.
My child! my dear Zorada!
Zor.
Dear, dear father!
Seb.
And thou must meet me as a man proscribed:
Child of a parent, reft of name and honours,
Bann'd by the church, and by the laws condemn'd
E'en to the traitor's death of degradation:
One whom to name were pain and insult to thee;
One now despised of all, forgot, accurst.
Zor.
O not accurst! for I will bless thee, father,
Though every other tongue should blast thy fame.
O not forgotten! I'll remember thee;
Ay; nightly, daily, hourly, in my thoughts
Shalt thou have place; more cherish'd—more endear'd,
For that all hearts beside have shut thee out.
O not despised! for I will honour thee,
And in my pious thoughts, as now in act,
Kneel at thine honour'd feet in faithful duty.
Seb.
Rise, dearest, kindest, best, mine own Zorada!
Yes, child; thou shalt be all the world to me;
But it must be a faint, ideal world.
I may in dreams, in thought, in musing fancy
Behold thy face, thy form,—may hear thy voice—
But many a league of ocean and of land
Must lie between us. E'en my dying day
Will not be lighten'd with one look of thine.
Zor.
(after weeping on his neck).
We do not know what heaven appoints for us.
Seb.
Has Don Romiero spoken aught to thee
Respecting my sad fate?
Zor.
He has: 'tis true—the dreadful tale is true.
The king has bound him by the horrid oath
Which thou didst mention to me.—Base compliance!
Seb.
Nay, blame him not; he took it in the faith
That I was safe, beyond the reach of power.
But this being so, I needs must rest in hiding,
Secure and close, till thou canst find a vessel
To take me from the coast.
Zor.
There is within the precincts of this wood
An old abandon'd chapel, where the dead
Rest undisturbed. No living tenant there,
But owlet hooting on the ruin'd tower,
Or twitt'ring swallow in his eaves-screen'd nest,
Will share the dismal shelter: for a time
Thou mayst be there secure. My good old nurse
Has all things duly stored for food and rest,
And will conduct thee to it. Come, dear nurse!
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And take of him good care.
Nurse.
Yea, that I will; for unto me and mine
He hath been ever kind and bountiful.
O woe the day! that I should have occasion
To do him such a service!
Seb.
Ay, nurse; there be sad changes in men's fortunes.
The day when first I saw thee to thy breast
Lay this dear child, a little toothless infant,
Whilst o'er ye both bent with fond beaming eyes
The best and fairest lady of the land,
For so she was,—that was indeed a day—
A day of brightness. Ah! how different
From this most dismal hour!
Nurse.
She was a noble lady, fair and gentle!
This wicked world did not deserve to hold her,
And so her time was short. And for her babe—
My babe;—I call'd her mine, and still will call her,—
A very cherub, peeping from the clouds,
As our fair pictures show them, is less beautiful
Than she half-covered with her cradle-clothes,
When waking from her morning's sleep, appear'd.
Ah me! the pleasant days that I remember!
Zor.
(alarmed).
I hear a noise.
Seb.
Thou art, my dearest child, alarm'd for nothing.
Zor.
Yes; I fear every thing. But, right or wrong,
Go instantly, nor linger longer here.
Nay, go: we do not part: I'll see thee soon.
Seb.
Heaven bless thee, then! Come, nurse, I'm now thy child,
Cherish me kindly.
Nurse.
Ay, bless your honour! I will do my best.
I'd give the life-blood in this poor old heart
For you and yours.
[Exeunt Sebastian and nurse. Zorada goes by the opposite side, meeting Jerome, who enters at the same time, and hurries along, covering her face as she passes him.
Jer.
Who's that who starts aside with guilty haste?
[Following her.
Ho! damsel, mistress, whosoe'er thou be,
Let me have words of thee. I swear, good faith!
I'll take thee safely to thy rendezvous,
If thou wilt trust me.
[Following her off the stage, and then returning.
What have I done? What have I seen? No face,
For that was closely cover'd, but the figure,
The robe, the air,—if it be not Zorada,
I am a fool—a purblind, mazy fool,
And do not know my right hand from my left.
What brings her here? Were't any other woman,
It were an easy thing to guess her purpose.
Well, who lives long may see strange things, they say;
And if I needs must give my thoughts the rein,
I'll curb my tongue.
[Exit.
| Romiero | |