University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A STREET IN SEVILLE.
Enter Curio and Valentine.
CURIO.
Sir, for a ducat, it was as I tell you.

VALENTINE.
I was not far behind you, and I saw
Nothing of this.

CURIO.
He pushed his horse athwart Don Arias,
And ploughed him out o' the path, or I'm a Moor.

VALENTINE.
What said the King?

CURIO.
You know the King, God save him!
Was Carlos' school-day brother, and he seemed
So glad to bid him hail, that, for the time,
The favourite's balance kicked the beam.

VALENTINE.
Here comes the man: who is he walking with?

CURIO.
The grave old counsellor i' the mourning robe,
Whose son was killed in a broil at Saragossa:
So life and death, wisdom and vanity,
Still in this world go ambling side by side.
Save your good lordships!

Enter Gomez and Arias.
ARIAS.
Gentlemen, God save ye.

GOMEZ.
But, my lord, if it was as you do think,—
Or if you think it was as you do say,
How comes it that you took th' affront so kindly,
Who are nothing slack to let your blood boil o'er
On some occasions?

ARIAS.
Let it pass, my Lord;
I had my reasons.—Gentlemen, the King
Has bid me welcome you to his new court,
And challenge all with courteous kind defiance
To do him reason in mirth's glittering lists;
You are all bid, and will be welcome all,—
And if you chance to have fair wives or sisters,
You will be all the welcomer: the King,
At the good Lord Archbishop's entertained,
And there does purpose entertaining you.

CURIO.
We have our congé.

VALENTINE.
Fare you well, my Lord.

ARIAS.
Your slave, kind gentlemen.
[Exeunt Curio and Valentine.
Sweet Seville manners!
Did ye mark that drawl o' the leg in's bow?
He bowed, for all the world, as though his body
Took me for a pawnbroker, and meant to leave
His leg in pledge behind.

GOMEZ.
I did not note.

ARIAS.
You're something blind, I think,
You're lucky.

GOMEZ.
'Tis the twilight time of life with me,
And then, you know, all objects lose their outlines.

ARIAS.
'Tis very fit you should be blind; the fashion
In such a matter's not to be neglected,
And to see with your eyes were such a strangeness
As would make a most notorious monster of you.

GOMEZ.
I am much bound to time; but for all that,
Would rather ape than own such nice infirmities.
But pray, my lord, now that we are alone,
May I be bold again to ask you why,
Since you conceive Don Carlos hath aggrieved you,
You backed so readily and bore so christian-like
The wrong?

ARIAS.
Let those who stand upon the verge of power,
Whose edges are but slippery and unsafe,
Fear lest the summer wind should blow them off:
I hold the centre point o' the King's affection,
And nothing own the jealousy of fear,
Though something still a sense of injury.
They were dear school-fellows, once on a day,
And my royal cousin loves a new face dearly,
And his was old enough to be a new:
They had not met for some six years, I think;
But I am not in case to hang myself,
Though Carlos were ten times a better courtier.

GOMEZ.
I'm glad your Lordship's laid such good foundation
In the unsound and shifting sands of favour:
But, sir—and let it nothing move your anger
That I am bold to speak my mind to you,
But rather let my dignity of age
Stand peer with your more honourable station,—
You do not 'scape the touch of some reproof
For the means whereby you've rivetted yourself
To the King's love.

ARIAS.
Ha! what!—there was no witchcraft
I' the matter.

GOMEZ.
No, I believe, sir, none;
But something haply of too broad compliance
With the King's humours, which, and 'tis no sin,
Smack of his years.

ARIAS.
Now, Heaven save the mark!
I am his younger, worthy lord, by twice
Red autumn's birth-days, and your lordship knows
I reverence my elders: I protest
I always look to him for grave examples,
And nothing doubting, follow those he gives me.
Oh! my good lord, my innocence is wounded.

GOMEZ.
It hath a gash bigger than its whole body,
For I think as sorely wounded as it is
An inch of lint would swathe it round and round.
But, sir, if you did fairly gain that height
You hold i' the King's affection, at the least
You have not used it to such fruitful end,
For the people's weal, as you had opportunity,
And 'tis the common voice that you are rather
The prompter of his highness's too large pleasures,
The quick deviser of these full excesses,
Than a mere actor in the revel rout.

ARIAS.
Enough! enough for once; long homilies
Are hemlock to me. Used my power for good!
Now, by St. Anthony! I am the man,
Do keep the King in humour with ye all,
And 'cause I rather single out o' the fold
One sheep to throw the wolf, than let him harry
The trembling flock, they now cry out upon me!
They'd better let their King sleep in love's arms,
Than wake in those of war—taxes, exactions,
With all the drains through which princes are wont
To suck the people's blood and substance are unknown—
And save a dark eyed Donna, here and there.
The King levies no tribute on the mass,
Nor asks for other hostage of their loves.
By my troth, a godly King! Then, sir, for me,
I am the fellow at the chimney-corner,
Who keeps the fire alive that warms you all.

GOMEZ.
A very worthy, charitable office.

ARIAS.
No sinecure, o' my conscience! for the most part
My best reward are blistered fingers' ends;
And the people's gratitude right soothing salve.
He's in some things a very heathenish man
For a christian King, and hath no more respect
For what I hold the finest thing in nature,
A fair bald head, than for a smooth round turnip;
A very graceless youth—tho' I'm his cousin.
Oh! my Lord Gomez! I have seen his highness
Come champing out o' the council, muttering—
“That bald old fool.”

GOMEZ.
Of me!

ARIAS.
Your reverend lordship,
That bald old fool! Then step I in, d'ye see,
And fling the golden locks of some bright girl
Over your lordship's baldness—and your lordship
Remains in office, and the people profit
By your lordship's zeal and wisdom in their service.

GOMEZ.
A very useful, honourable employ!

ARIAS.
The people, as the muddy spawn is called,
Are villain slaves, that do not know their friends:
By my soul! I'll leave them to the tender mercies
Of my King cousin; they had better keep
His mistresses, than let him be their master—
But for this same morality you talk of,
I'll make good use on't, worthy lord, be sure.

Enter Page.
PAGE.
May it please you, noble sir, attend the King.

ARIAS.
I' the instant.
[Exit Page.
Now your lordship sees that I
Seek not the mountain, but the mountain me;
But I'll not fail to give his Majesty
The very essence of your homily.
Farewell, old honest lord—good Mumblesaws.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A CHAMBER IN THE ARCHBISHOP OF SEVILLE'S PALACE.
The King discovered.
KING.
'Tis not in nature to outgo conceit;
Yet have mine eyes this very day beheld
That which no fancy ever yet did parallel,
Though 'twere the rarest weaving poet's brain
Was ever loom to. Excellent perfection!
That did outshine things brightest at their noon.
The pomp and glittering pride of glowing rubies
Look'd pale by the living colour of her blood,
And, with a glory that outfaced the sun,
Her eyes at mid-day shone like undimmed stars.
Enter Arias.
Ho! welcome, Cousin! welcome, my good Arias!
Answer me briefly, as I question thee.
Didst mark in the high street, as we rode along
This morning, at her balcony, a lady?

ARIAS.
I did.

KING.
Dost know her name?

ARIAS.
I do.

KING.
Estrella?

ARIAS.
The same.

KING.
Dost know her brother, Pedro de Roella?

ARIAS.
I do.

KING.
I love that lady well?

ARIAS.
May 't please you, sir,
Is that a question?

KING.
Psha! ay, a score in one.
How is she to be begged, bought, stolen, wooed, won—
How can I make her mine?

ARIAS.
Sir, you can marry her.

KING.
Marry her, good sooth! That's news. Can I do so?
It is not yet the time of life with me
When I can squeeze myself into the compass
Of that same narrow gold eternity
We wed withal. Come, come, to thy inventions.
I'd give thee a second cousin like thyself,
Born all as out of rule, and make him a duke
Or prince, or perhaps a bishop—

ARIAS.
Please your grace,
There is a sin of which I would forewarn you—
Incontinence, great sir, 's a deadly sin
For which, I take it, we shall make dear account
In flesh and spirit, or I'm ill informed;
And, sir, there is a virtue, christened continence,
Which, like a precious carbuncle, outshines
All other excellencies.

KING.
What's in the moon! art mad!
Sure, thou'st been bit by some half-frozen novice!

ARIAS.
Oh sir! modesty—'tis a sweet-favour'd quality;
And soberness, and temperance, and chastity,
Three goodlier graces than the heathen Venus
Did e'er, in Cyprian groves, disport her with.

KING.
Hark thee, my cousin! thou art out of tune
With my humour, and I counsel thee
To wind thy jangling strings to a better pitch,
Lest we make discord presently, my cousin.
What holy devil art thou plagued withal?
We'll have thee exorcised.

ARIAS.
By black-eyed, laughing saints
Then let it be, my liege! and let them pour
Wine over me instead of the bless'd stream
In the abbey fount:—ha! ha! ha!—oh! my liege,
Did I not do it well? for all the world,
Like a withered abbess who has left all sin,
When sin, forsooth, will have no more of her.

KING.
Too well; for I would now lose not an instant
In the furthering of my wishes; tell me, Arias,
How can I compass my desire?

ARIAS.
Her brother—
Is there no jewelled collar-gilded office—
No bribe of state to muzzle him withal?

KING.
Trust me, I do not think he's such a one
As can be so tied up; there's a cold bearing,
And grave, severe aspect about the man,
That made my spirit pay him such respect
As though he dwelt 'neath age's silvery penthouse,
Despite his unripe years.

ARIAS.
Not to be bought!
That's strange, and much confounds me; 'tisn't in
The line of march I am accustom'd to.
Not to be bribed! Perhaps the lady, sir,
May be as incorruptible as he,
And then our labour's lost i' the hoped-for issue.

KING.
All women have their prices; be 't in gold,
In honours, titles, jewels, gay apparel,
Or in commodities than these less solid,
Flattery, and the light breath of words persuasive.
Do thou but find the means to approach the fortress,
My crown against a straw, it proves no Troy.
There may be one, among ten thousand men,
That would not sell his honour; but the world
Holds not, nor ever did, nor ever will,
A woman framed so hard, impenetrable.
How can we meet?

ARIAS.
Ay, how—when—where—but soft,
I've found it; 'tis an excellent device,
And needs but secresy, and a good wit;
The lady's brother comes to-night to the banquet
Whilst she holds lonely state at home.

KING.
What thence?

ARIAS.
Say that the dance should heat your grace too much;
Some sudden mist, or heady dizziness,
From the quick action of the blood sent up
To the clear brain, infecting it with heaviness,
Might furnish you with reasons to withdraw.
Leave me director of the royal revel,
And while I keep all hearts afloat with mirth,—
Soft music, banqueting, and all delights—
You know the lady's house?

KING.
Oh! on my soul
It shall be thus—but lest on my departure
The feast grow tame, and others should be gone,—
For where the leader moves, the blind herd follow—

ARIAS.
Leave that to me; your highness shall be troubled
With no companion through the streets to-night:
If but one sleepy guest do stir towards home
Till you are to your palace walls returned,
Ne'er trust me for a witless blunderer.

KING.
If this attempt do reach the wish'd-for end,
Be sure thou shalt know something of my joy.
In tokens that shall best become thy zeal,
And the surpassing prize I venture for.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—AN APARTMENT IN DON PEDRO'S HOUSE—A WINDOW ON ONE SIDE, ON THE OTHER AN ORATORY.
Estrella and Ursula discovered.
URSULA.

All these—and these! Marry, we must have galleys
by water, and wains by land, to bear thy apparel to thy
new home, maiden!

ESTRELLA.
Leave looking o'er them, nurse, and sit down here.
Thou shalt do that, when I am gone to bed.
Sit here, in thine old place, good Ursula;
Reach me the footstool: now begin and tell me
One of those stories old, of moorish maids
And christian knights, and wizard lore full strange,
As thou wert wont—now, whilst thou braid'st my hair.

URSULA.
What, art thou thinking of thy sleep already?

ESTRELLA.
I'm weary of to-day; I'll get to bed,
It will be morrow sooner when I sleep.
Come, gossip, dear; be sure a wondrous story;
All golden halls, and pearl-strewn tapestry,
And Indian spicy wainscoting, and curtains
O' the crimson damask, glittering o'er with gems,
To give me shining dreams—come, now begin.

URSULA.

I'll tell thee the tale of the christian knight who slew
the villain sorcerer of Ebolis.

ESTRELLA.
No, that's all fighting; I'll have none of it,—
Gashes, and corslets hack'd, and helmets dented.

URSULA.

I'll tell thee the story of Moraim, the Moorish maid,
whose love was a fair christian page, born in Castille.

ESTELLA.
No, no; not that one.

URSULA.
Why not that one, honey?

ESTRELLA.
I do remember it, 'tis full of love,
Voluptuous like the noon-day breath of roses,
It is too passionate—I will not hear it;
Some other.

URSULA.
By my troth! I had need coin them;
Lay thy head thus that I may reach thy hair,
Dear chick; I shall not braid it e'er again for thee.
Beshrew me! that I weep; God keep thee, dove!
And make thee one of his.

ESTRELLA.
Amen, sweet Nurse!

URSULA.

Now listen. There dwelt a knight once, near the
Moorish land, in a high castle, strong and stout for
the nonce, as he had need, and he was brave and young,
and moreover fair to look on; and this knight had a
beautiful sister whom he loved for all the world—

ESTRELLA.

As Pedro loves me.

URSULA.

Yea, even so, sweet; well, in all Spain was none so
fair as this maiden, whose name was called May Flower,
for she was as sweet as spring flowers when they blow.
What, art thou listening?

ESTRELLA.
Ay, go on, go on; sweet as a May-bud—
You see I heard.

URSULA.

Thy dark lash droops to thy velvet cheek; thou'rt
half asleep.

ESTRELLA.

Carlos! dear Carlos!

URSULA.

She sleeps, by my good faith! Hark! mistress! lady!
chick! lie not aslant thus, thou'lt get aches, ere
age; get up, and sleep in thy bed, 'twere best, sweet.

ESTRELLA.
The dreaming poppies drop upon my lids;
Oh me! I'm heavy—I'll to bed; Good nurse,
Help me to doff my vest; take thou good care
Of all these gay attires, they be rich gifts
From my good kinsfolk.

URSULA.

Marriage gifts, nay, troth, there was no need to blush:
shall I put these away, and these, and this? (taking

up a rosary.)
Thou wilt not need it, for to-night
thou art too full of love and sleep, to pray. My
life, but every bead thou whisperest his name, 'stead of
an ave.

ESTRELLA.
Believe it not; the love I bear my love
Takes nought from that devout and deep affection
I owe to Heaven; oh! I pray better and more earnestly
Than e'er before, for now I pray for him:
My lord, my husband!—Give me the rosary.

(She goes into the Oratory, and kneels, while the nurse busies herself about the room.)
ESTRELLA.
(Returning.)
Good night, sweet nurse!

URSULA.
What, shall I not sit by thee, till thou'rt asleep?

ESTRELLA
No, I would be alone; my thoughts are all
Like mingled colours, bright but indistinct.

URSULA.

Well, get thee to bed then; if I leave thee, be sure
thou open not the casement to smell the night-buds of
the jessamine and orange flower, nor watch the moon
until she meet the morning; be sure thou get to bed.

ESTRELLA.
I will, I will; good night!

URSULA.
Heaven keep thee, bird!

[Exit.
ESTRELLA.
Tis a strange life; and in my hand I hold
Its strangest riddle: a throbbing, restless joy
Beats in my heart and flutters there like fear;
My little day of life comes back o'er me;
My past existence, Heaven has made it sweet,
Unmixed with any taint of bitterness,
And the bright future, like a sunny land
Descried afar, stretches like paradise
In rosy bowers and golden fields before me.
Farewell, my home! farewell, my pleasant chamber,
Where time and I have still been gay companions;
Farewell, my virgin couch, which I shall press
No more with slumbers light, and smiling dreams,
That were not brighter than reality.
Night spreads her raven wings, and nears the earth;
My blood's on fire! O for a breath of air
From the cool gardens underneath the balcony!
Once more I'll listen to the rustling boughs
Beneath whose leafy screens I've 'scaped the sun
Of eighteen summers; and, for the last time,
Mark how the moon-beams pierce the crystal folds
Of yonder fount.
(Opens window.)
Sleep hangs upon them all;
The trees do rock, the waters flow in sleep,
The sleepy stars wink in their sapphire beds,
The air breathes gently, heaving in its sleep,
And the round world spins sleepily on 's axis,
I'll to my couch; mine eyes reflect no more
This earth's fair picture: 'tis night, 'twill soon be morrow.
Now then to dream of him, till he returns.
Fare thee well, sweetheart! Good night, Carlos,—husband!

(She lies down and sleeps. Enter the King from balcony.)
KING.
Oh! prosperous fate! Lo! to the very harbour—
So true a pilot is true love, I've steered.
She sleeps! Oh, beauty! richer far than all
The hidden wealth of earth's wide treasuries!
How round her delicate limbs the pillows swell,
Upbearing her with amorous gentle pressure;
How soft and even comes her balmy breath,
And on the measured heaving of her breast,
Peace and all virtuous thoughts lie slumbering.
Why do I pause? yet I am loth to break
This holiest slumber? Love! oh, love, what lips!
No blossom of so rare a hue did e'er
Drink spring's fresh showers; no fruit so sweet and melting
Did ever ripen in the summer's sun.
Mine eyes grow dim!
Wake, thou fair creature!

(He lays his hand upon her arm, she starts and screams. Enter Pedro, by Balcony.)
PEDRO.
Hell!
And all its devils! loosen thy lewd grasp!
Robber and slave! stand from beside that couch,
Or, by my soul! I'll unrip thine from thy body!
(The King, who has put on a mask, draws his sword.)
I do not fear the cold shine of thy steel,
Thou coward thief!
(They struggle—Pedro secures the sword.)
Now, what shall hinder me
From making ribbons of those silken swathings,
And gashing that fair flesh with ugly wounds
Shall mar your courting, lord?

KING.
You dare not do 't.

PEDRO.
Hence by the way thou cam'st, and tempt me not
Another minute, lest I strike thee down,
And trample thee, defenceless as thou art:
Hence, hence, I say!
(He strikes him with the flat of his sword, and drives him towards the balcony, from which he leaps.)
King! King Alphonso, dog! I knew thee
And did not send Heaven's purifying breath
Thro' thy stale heart, nor let some of the lust,
That clogs thy blood, out of thy swollen veins!
Arm'd, too,—'twas fit, and in so good a cause!
It is but they who make the laws dare break them
So gallantly: laws cannot stretch so high.
She faints! Fear has usurped sleep's gentle empire,
And mimics death more closely. Oh! my lily!
Accursed chance, that ever to our walls
Did bring this tainted stream; this King, this court,
These villain lords! this base nobility,
Who hither come, like winter blasts in June,
To sack our homes, make booty of our honours,
And cry foul havoc on our happiness.
Within there! Ho! within there!
(Enter Ursula and Servants.)
Mistress watchful!
Where wert thou prating all this time, good gossip?

URSULA.
Kind saints! what hath befallen?

PEDRO.
Bear your lady in, gently, to mine own chamber,
And do thou watch by her till I return.
So, softly.
(Exeunt Ursula and servants, carrying off Estrella.)
Now, what were it best to do?
I'll see if Carlos have departed yet;
If he is not, he shall wed her to-night
Before 't be midnight, and so take her home,
Or ere the day break, unto Valentar.
I'll seek him straight. A King, a house-breaker!
He's left me a good weapon—and good need
I'm like to find for it, no doubt, hereafter.
Ho! Giacomo!
(Enter Servant.)
Bar up that window fast;
Make sure the doors after I am gone out,
And until I return, let no one enter.

[Exeunt.