University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A grove near the castle.
Enter Diego with a letter, muttering to himself before he speaks aloud.
Diego.
The honour of the house of Altavera,
Of all those chiefs, whose bread I and my sires
So many years have eaten without reproach,
Must it be sullied now?—Diego Furnez
Must take upon him, then, th' informer's office,
With all its paltry baseness and concealment.
To Altavera's lords, with manly freedom,
My fathers spoke, and so have I. But then
I did oppose this marriage which hath sunk
His noble pride so low. Such information
From me would be suspected; and his anger,
When so excited, might, perhaps,—a blow!
Diego Furnez could not live disgraced,
And, dying unrevenged, would die disgraced.
Ay, it must be; necessity compels me.
[Lays down the letter, then looking hastily about, snatches it up again.
Surely I hear a stranger's voice approaching.
I'll drop it farther on, and watch my time,
When Don Henriquez may be sure to find it.

[Exit.
Enter Antonio and Mencia, speaking as they enter.
Ant.
Forget thee, Mencia! Yes, I will forget thee
When means are found to make it possible.
Thine image, independent of my will,
Where'er I am, is with me; night and day
Before my fancy's eye it smiles or weeps;
Motions its arms, as thou wert wont to do,
When distance barr'd our intercourse of words;
Is present with me more than present things;
And makes my wretched life a maniac's dream,
Lost and unprofitable.
Is there some potent spell to lay this sprite
That haunts me to my ruin? Vain, vain words!
Thou canst not be forgotten.

Men.
Thou but deceiv'st thyself: there are two spells,
Absence and time, which have to many a lover
His peace restored. Fate has between us now
A barrier placed, which all my feeble strength
Could not o'erleap; therefore I have consented.

Ant.
Consented! O to what hast thou consented?
To more than the rejecting of my love,
Which thy ambitious sister, since the day
That raised her, as the wife of Don Henriquez,
To greatness, which she knows not how to bear,
Regards as too presumptuous. Thou art silent.
To more than this hast thou consented, Mencia?

Men.
Question me not; I cannot tell thee now;
Yet thou shouldst know. I have, alas! I have,
O'ercome by prayers, and wearied with contention,
Consented to bestow my luckless hand
On one who tried, but could not win my heart:
And I am bound—

Ant.
Thou art not! no, thou art not!

Men.
Alas, I am! and so will hold myself.

Ant.
Thou shalt not! Holdst thou sacred every tie,
But those that bind thee to thy earliest friend;
To him who was thy playmate and thy guard;
Who through thy native woods ran by thy side;
Play'd with thee, sang with thee, built thy first bower,
Where thou, his mimic mistress, kept thy state,
Screen'd from the mid-day sun, when he, the while,
Still pleased thee, as thou lentst thine eager ear,
With tales of wonderment and tales of love?
All claims but his! O say not so, sweet Mencia!
Let me implore thee on my bended knee!

Men.
Hush! rise! we are observed; this spot is now
Traversed by busy feet, in preparation
For a gay feast to-night, held at the castle,
In honour of Henriquez' safe return.
Leave me, I pray!

Ant.
By unfrequented paths,
Through rugged wilds I've travelled many a league:
Three irksome days and nights in that deep grove,
The ruin of an ancient sepulchre,
Like some unhallow'd spirit, I have haunted
To watch a lucky moment when thy steps
Should lead thee near the place; and having found thee,
Thinkst thou to cast me off with fev'rish haste,
As thou wouldst shake an adder from thy robe?

Men.
Nay, nay! for yonder Don Henriquez comes;
There's danger here.

Ant.
And come who will, and let what will betide,
Despair thinks not of danger.

Men.
Retire, retire, and we shall meet again.

Ant.
When? where? this night? to-morrow? name the time.

Men.
To-morrow by the early dawn I'll meet thee.
No; not to-morrow, but the following morn.

Ant.
And at that early hour?

Men.
Even so: retire.

Ant.
I have thy word for this?

Men.
Thou hast, thou hast.
[Exit Antonio.
(Alone.)
Ay, he has loved me as no other will,
And thus he is requited. Woe the day!
Why did my timid spirit yield so poorly
To an ambitious sister?—Must it be?
Henriquez is a man whose native feelings
Of honour and of justice rise indignant
Against the slightest breach of honest faith.
The interests of his house to him were nothing
Opposed to generous ties—to simple right.
I will to him—ah, no! I dare not do it. (Looking out.)

He is at hand. That paper keeps his eye
Intently occupied.—What can it be?
Perhaps some letter dropp'd by poor Antonio,
And then all is discover'd.
Enter Henriquez.
You twist that letter in your hand, my lord,
As a most worthless thing. May I presume?
I am not curious.

Hen.
Yet thou hast a mind,
Not being curious, just to peep into it.
Well; it might case thy silken threads, perhaps,
Or wrap thy scented comfits. Take it then.
[Offering her the letter, and then drawing it back.
No; spells lurk in such crooked lines as these
To work unhappy fancies out of nothing.
Perhaps same hateful witch has mutter'd o'er it
Her blasting benison; thou shalt not have it:
I'll put it up to light my ev'ning lamp.
Thou goest?

Men.
I have been too long truant here,
And my neglected task calls me within.

[Exit.
Hen.
(alone).
Why look I still upon this foolish scroll?
As foolish as 'tis spiteful. Leonora
Has for her wicked solace in my absence
My noble friend—my second self received!
Good likely tale!
[Reads again.
“An unknown friend cautions thee to beware of
Don Juan. He has played thee false in thine
absence, and destroyed thy wife's virtue and thine
own honour. Look to it, if thou wouldst not become
the most contemptible of all doating husbands: for
thy fond security will make them bold, and the
world will point at thee ere long.”
The common cant of all those friends unknown.
Juan and Leonora! blest, most blest,
In friendship and in love! This canker'd fiend
Is stung therewith. Envy most devilish,
Yet not uncommon in this wicked world.
Well; it shall serve to light my evening lamp;
God mend the wretch who wrote it.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A small ornamented apartment in the castle. Enter Blas and Inez, carrying different things in their hands, speaking as they enter.
Inez.
I leave thee too these cases of perfume,
And this small book of tales and warlike sports.
Place them as I have said, and be thou secret:
Be sure thou tell to no one for what guest
This chamber is prepared.

Blas.
But if I should, I should not break my word.
I guess'd it out myself; thou didst not trust me.

Inez.
Yes, but I did confirm thy guess, more surely
To rivet thee to secrecy. Thy lady
Will greatly be displeased, shouldst thou divulge it;
Therefore be prudent.—When thy task is done,
Thou'lt find me in the lower corridor.

[Exit.
Blas.
(murmuring to himself).
Be secret, tell to no one, and thy lady
Will greatly be displeased! What is't to me?
And yet I do not like this strange concealment.

[Employs himself in arranging different things, whilst he sings part of an old ballad.
SONG.

Enter Henriquez.
Hen.
And is it thou, good Blas, who singst so well?
I heard thee as I cross'd the gallery,
And was led hither by the well-known tune
That, when a boy, I have so often heard.
But cease not; sing the rest of that old story.

Blas.
In sooth, my lord, I have forgot the rhymes.

Hen.
But canst thou not, without the rhymes, remember
The third escape which for her lawless lover
The wily dame devised?

Blas.
Yes, in a groom's attire she sent him forth
To hold her husband's stirrup at the gate,
As he alighted from his warlike barb.

Hen.
Was not her simple lord at length revenged?
And how was that, I pray?

Blas.
She had a step-son, who from Palestine
Return'd, and hearing of his father's wrongs,
Swore to revenge them.

Hen.
E'en so; I now remember it distinctly,
And the concluding lines sound in my ears.
Ay, many a time I've listened to that ditty:
She was a wicked dame of whom it tells.
Thinkst thou the rhymester knew of such a one?
Or be there any such?

Blas.
I do not know: there may—and there may not.

Hen.
May, or may not! thou needst not blush so deeply.
What's thy employment here? Some new arrangement.
Thy lady's private closet so disturb'd!
Ay, and this curtain'd couch!—For whom, I pray,
Prepare ye this, good Blas?

Blas.
I do not know, my lord.

Hen.
Thou dost not know!
Why dost thou blush so strangely as thou speakst?
Compose thyself; I do not seek to know.
What scented thing is this? it smells most sweetly.

Blas.
It is a box of aromatic gums.

Hen.
It needs must be some dainty fair, for whom
Such delicacies are provided. Ay,
And learned too, I guess, for here are books.
A soldier's book! (Turning over its leaves.)

Ha! 'tis mine own old friend.

Blas.
His name is then upon it.

Hen.
Thou seemst alarm'd, methinks: how's this? whose name?

Blas.
I do not know, my lord. Your own old friend.

Hen.
It was the book I call'd so: in my youth
It was my favourite study.

Blas.
I had forgot; the book is yours, my lord,
And only borrow'd now for his amusement.

Hen.
For her's, thou meanst: is't not a female guest?
Blushing again! What mystery is here?
Tell me for whom this chamber is prepared.
[Pause.
Thou wilt not answer. Nay, I will not force thee;
But tell me only—is this guest a woman?
What! silent still! 'tis not a woman then?

Blas.
No, good my lord.

Hen.
Some fav'rite page, perhaps, who for the night
Must near his dame be lodged?—It is not this?
I do command thee tell me who it is;
[Taking hold of him roughly.
For by thy face I see too well thou knowest.
What guest sleeps here to-night?

Blas.
Don Juan is the guest; this is the room
Where he is wont to sleep.

Hen.
Is wont to sleep! Has he been here of late?

Blas.
'Tis said he has been here; for me, I know not.

[Henriquez, turning slowly from him, walks to the bottom of the stage.
Blas
(aside, looking after him).
Surely he heard my words; yet calm and silent!
No further question following my reply!
Fool that I was to be so much afraid,
Since he regards it lightly.

Hen.
(returning).
Where is thy lady?

Blas.
She gives directions in the pillar'd hall;
At least I left her there a short time since.

Hen.
Go, see, and bring me word.
[Exit Blas.
Question a youth—a menial—any one,
Of what regards the honour of my wife!
I married her in the full confidence
That she possess'd all good and noble virtues
Which should become a brave Castilian's wife,
And from herself alone will I be certified
Of what this hateful mystery imports.
[After a pause, and then muttering indistinct words.
Peace, bad suggestions, from mean baseness sprung!
No! till I hear from her own falt'ring tongue
The glossing poor pretences of the guilty,
And see upon her once ingenuous face
The varied hues of shame, I'll not believe it.
I am a fool to take it so intently.
This casket here, which was my earliest gift!
And does it still contain that golden heart,
The token of my love? I fain would know.
[Looking at it near, and taking it in his hands.
It is not lock'd; the lid is slightly latch'd:
In mine own house, methinks, without reproach,
I may undo the bauble. (Opens it.)
What is here?
Don Juan's picture, and a letter, too;
I know the writing well.
[Reads.

“Dear mistress of my soul! How shall I thank
thee for that favour which has raised me from
despair! Though thy heart has not always been
mine, and I have sighed long to subdue it, yet I
cherish my present felicity as if thou hadst loved me
always, and no other had ever touched thy heart.
I will come to the feast as a masquer, and for the
reason suggested to me, unknown to Henriquez.
The bearer of this will return with the key of the
private door to the grove, and I shall come through
the narrow path about nightfall.”

(After a pause.)
Things have been done, that, to the honest mind,
Did seem as adverse and impossible,
As if the very centre cope of heaven
Should kiss the nether deep.
And this man was my friend!
To whom my soul, shut from all men besides,
Was free and artless as an infant's love,
Telling its guileless faults in simple trust.
Oh the coil'd snake! It presses on me here (His hand on his heart)
as it would stop the centre throb of life.
[Returning to the casket, and taking out other papers.
And sonnets, too, made on her matchless beauty,
Named Celia, as his cruel shepherdess.
Ay; she was matchless, and it seems was cruel,
Till his infernal arts subdued her virtue.
I'll read no more. What said he in the letter?
[Reads again.

“The bearer will return with the key, and I'll
come by the path at nightfall.”

Night falls on some who never see the morn.

Re-enter Blas.
Blas.
My lord, I've found her: Donna Leonora
Has bid me say she will be with you instantly.

Hen.
I cannot see her now: I am not well.
I shall be better shortly: tell her so.
I'll rest me in my chamber for an hour,
And would not be disturb'd. Prevent her coming;
And say I would repose. Go, tell her quickly.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

Enter Leonora and Mencia, followed by Diego, speaking as they enter.
Diego.
It shall be done; I understand you, madam;
Those lofty plumes must grace the seat of honour,
The chair of Don Henriquez.

Leo.
Yes; and the chair of Don Henriquez' wife:
See that they both be graced.

Diego.
Never but once,
(Lady, forgive the freedom of my words,)
Never but once before was chair of state
Beneath this roof so crested: years gone by,
When Don Henriquez' father, from the king,
Held in these parts, then threaten'd with commotions,
A regent's power. And then his noble lady,
Although the blood of kings ran in her veins,
Did at due distance humbly take her place
On a low stool, unmark'd by any honour.

Leo.
Ay, good Diego, such meek humble dames
Have lived, as we are told, in former days.
Do as I have desired thee.

Diego
(aside, murmuring as he goes out).
Lofty dame!
Making so proud a stir, like some pert hedgeling,
Chirping and flutt'ring in an eagle's nest.

[Exit.
Men.
Sister, you aggravate the mark'd dislike
That old domestic bears you: be more gentle.

Leo.
O he dislikes me not; it is his humour.
Dislike me! Have I not to him and his
Been even profuse in gifts? The foolish thought!

Men.
Ay; but the meekness of his former lady,
She, too, who had a king's blood in her veins,
Dwells in his heart, and beggars all thy gifts.

Leo.
Thou'rt fanciful.

Men.
Nay, nay! and why so fond
Of splendid pomp? Compared to what thou wast,
Thy marriage with Henriquez made thee great;
This doth not make thee greater; woe the day!
Nor happier neither.

Leo.
Woe the day! Poor dove!
That would beneath the cottage eaves for ever
Sit moping in the shade with household birds,
Nor spread thy silver plumage to the sun.

Men.
The sun hath scorch'd my wings, which were not made
For such high soaring.
He who would raise me to his nobler rank
Will soon perceive that I but grace it poorly.

Leo.
Away with such benumbing diffidence!
Let buoyant fancy first bear up thy merit,
And fortune and the world's applause will soon
Support the freight. When first I saw Henriquez,
Though but the daughter of a humble house,
I felt the simple band of meadow flowers
That bound my hair give to my glowing temples
The pressure of a princely coronet.
I felt me worthy of his love, nor doubted
That I should win his heart, and wear it too.

Men.
Thou dost, indeed, reign in his heart triumphant;
Long may thy influence last.

Leo.
And fear not but it will. These pageantries
Give to the even bliss of wedded love
A varied vivifying power, which else
Might die of very sloth. And for myself,
My love for him, returning from the wars,
Blazon'd with honours, as he now returns,
Is livelier, happier, and, methinks, more ardent,
Than when we first were married. Be assured
All things will favour thee, if thou hast spirit
To think it so shall be. Thou shak'st thy head.
It is not reason, but thy humble wish,
Thy low ignoble passion that deceives thee,
And conjures up those fears. Weak wav'ring girl!
Art thou not bound?

Men.
Weakness in yielding to your will, indeed,
Has fetter'd me with bands my heart disowns.

Leo.
Fy! say not so. Hush! let not that sad face
O'ercloud the joy my gen'rous lord will feel,
When he discovers what we have conceal'd,
With playful art, to make his joy the keener.
Hush! here comes Blas again.

Enter Blas.
Blas.
He will not yet.
I have been watching near his chamber door,
And when I gently knock'd, as you desired,
He answer'd me with an impatient voice,
Saying his head was drowsy, and lack'd rest.

Leo.
I'll go myself.

Blas.
Nay, madam, do not yet.
I guess that some cross humour has disturb'd him;
Sleep will compose it.

Leo.
Humour, dost thou say!
He ne'er was cross with me.

[Exeunt.