 | The Star of Seville |  |
ACT I.
SCENE I.
—A STREET IN SEVILLE—THE HOUSES WITH TAPESTRY AND GARLANDS HUNG UPON THEM.Geronio discovered in front of stage—People towards the back. Pedrillo, on the balcony, hanging tapestry over it.
GERONIO.
Now, my masters; stir, stir—be busy! let us be
ready at the first gun that fires: Pedrillo, hang me
those garlands round the balcony;—so—very good!
Now draw me the tapestry closer over the wall, and—
Enter Antonio.
ANTONIO.
And quarter thee. . . . .
How now, neighbour; where is Vasco?
ANTONIO.
He's away to the east gate of the city, to watch for
the first cloud of dust that shall rise on the road.
GERONIO.
He will not be alone there, I warrant me.
ANTONIO.
No, by St. Jerome! the road, the river, and the city
walls, are covered with such multitudes, that when the
King does come, he and his nobles must manage their
horses daintily; else, by my fay! some of his loving
lieges will pave his way to our good city.
GERONIO.
Those wreaths will scarce have time to wither, I
should think: now for a flag to wave from the balcony.
ANTONIO.
Where is your daughter?
GERONIO.
Not slumbering, neighbour, as you may believe; she
was up before day-dawn, decking herself, but whether
for your son or the King—
Pedrillo descends from balcony.
PEDRILLO.
There, Señor, I think your house will look as gallantly
as any in the street.
GERONIO.
Then away with thee, and thy fellows! Away with
you, all that have nimble legs and young breath, to
watch for the King.
[Exeunt Pedrillo and People.
GERONIO.
Why, here she is!
ANTONIO.
Good morrow, Mistress Florilla! How wags the
world with you so early in the day?
FLORILLA.
Kindly enough, I thank ye, sir; where is Vasco?
GERONIO.
Ah, Florilla! his loyalty hath ta'en the start of his
love, I think.
FLORILLA.
What! hath he not been here?
GERONIO.
No, daughter; he's gone to meet the king.
FLORILLA.
How! before coming to ask tidings of me!—to see
me! Hath he been waking but the tenth of a second,
and not been watching under my window?
ANTONIO.
Nay, pretty Mistress Florilla, your anger is less than
just; Vasco loves you passing well.
FLORILLA.
But his love for the King passes that passing well.
GERONIO.
Now, neighbour, hast ever a tongue in thy head?
ANTONIO.
Ay, marry, I had, once, as good as my son's; so I
may e'en try for once what he will soon have to abide
for ever. Young mistress, my son hath never, in one
single point, since now three years he hath been courting
duty, attendance, reverence, worship, love.
FLORILLA.
All this is true, and that is why I'm anger'd.
ANTONIO.
What, that he hitherto hath loved you so?
FLORILLA.
No, but that now he loves me so no more.
ANTONIO.
You are unjust.
FLORILLA.
He's taught me to be so.
ANTONIO.
Such accidents, at oftenest, rarely happen.
FLORILLA.
Oh, then, I thank you! Fine, indeed! I find your
son loves me when he hath nought else in hand.
ANTONIO.
But the King.
FLORILLA.
An' he like to marry the King, then, in place of me,
he may.
GERONIO.
Ha! ha! smartly hit, girl! Now, neighbour, are you
fairly breathed?
ANTONIO.
A nimble tongue, good faith! I'll say no more, for
here comes Vasco, and he'll reason with her in another
sort, I trow.
VASCO.
Good morrow, father! With your leave, Master
Geronio. Why, how's this, mistress? d'ye give me
your shoulders?
GERONIO.
You shall see, now, how he will argue with her:
marry! 'twill be a most controversial point.
ANTONIO.
Heaven help him!
GERONIO.
Let alone! he hath hands and lips of his own, and
heaven's a needless third in such a case.
VASCO.
Oh, faith! I will not be greeted thus. How now!
art sullen? what have I done? how angered thee?
Wilt answer me? What, dumb? Heaven bless thee!
we'll be married to-day; nay, I've no time to spare.
Father, bid guests, for we'll feast to-night at the Anchor.
Señor Geronio, if your daughter be willing,
mayhap you'll bring her with you; I'm hence again.
I have to go and hire me a horse to ride down to the
river; and, moreover, to leave this breast-knot at Mistress
Bella's.
FLORILLA.
What's that?
VASCO.
So ho! so ho! my dainty damsel, hast found thy
tongue? Now, then, thy hand; come, come, no bargaining;
—and now thy lips. Why, that's well! that's
well!
Oh! neighbour, neighbour! for the good old days!
ANTONIO.
The good young days, you mean: but, psha! they
live them o'er again for us.
VASCO.
And here is a breast-knot for thee, Florilla, shall
make the King and all his nobles blink: come, put it
on, and think no more of Mistress Bella than I do,
wench.
ANTONIO.
And now, where hast thou been, and what learnt? is
the King coming—how and when?
VASCO.
The King is coming; he'll be here at noon—messengers
have been riding on, to say as much; the whole
city has turned itself inside out, and gapes with its million
eyes and mouths, as tho' it would devour his Highness
when he comes. But, psha! I prate; the nobles
and alcades will, anon, down to the river-side, to assist
at the landing; and if I be not there, what think you
the majesty of Spain will say? Fare thee well, sweetheart!
when thou seest me again, 'twill be among
shouts, trumpet-blasts, and welcomes,—plumes, peers,
and princes,—uproar, din, and confusion!
(sings.)
But a plague of her coal-black eyes for me!
Sing hey down, down, on a dreary day;
Ne'er a one do I love as well as thee!
Now a murrain on that shell'd pease-cod, my head!
Father, I have a letter for thee; one riding post-haste
to town gave it me, and a faithful keeper I had liked
to prove.
FLORILLA.
Vasco! Vasco! where's Isabel?
VASCO.
Gone to the Lady Estrella's to help old Ursula.
Oh! and I must tell ye, there will be great rejoicings
there to-morrow, for Don Carlos hath asked her of her
brother, and Isabel is gone to help to prepare all things
for the wedding;—she's a fair lady! there's not such
another in Seville!
FLORILLA.
And he's the very man deserves such an one: Heaven
send them all happiness!
VASCO.
Amen, little devotion: and the same to us, when the
physicians shall pronounce the case similar. Sing, hey
down, down!
[Exit, singing.
GERONIO.
There he goes, for a rare madcap; cheating a weary
way with a merry lay, as the old burthen hath it.
ANTONIO.
Oh, neighbour, we are like to have a new acquaintance
here; this letter's from my brother, a wealthy
merchant in Segovia; his son, I find, hath preferred a
courtier's plume and rapier to the counting-house, and
is coming here in the young King's train.
How! shall I have a courtier to my cousin, when I
am married to Vasco?
ANTONIO.
Marry, that shall you, and a ruffling gallant he'll
prove, if my brother speak true; but it is near upon
noon, and yonder come the worshipful alcades, and the
Count Lomaria.
Enter Alcades and Lomaria.
FIRST ALCADE.
Yes, sir, 'tis as I say; the late King was too old, too
infirm, indeed. How now, my worthy masters! good
morrow! I pray you rejoice to-day, and let your sons
and 'prentices keep the peace in their rejoicings, if it be
possible: Mistress Florilla!
LOMARIA.
Ha! pretty mistress! how fares it with you?
SECOND ALCADE.
Well, sir, the late King had grown somewhat close
and chary of his presence, but now that his son is come
among us, we shall—
[Exeunt, talking.
Enter two Lords.
FIRST LORD.
Indeed, those imposts were intolerable; but now—
SECOND LORD.
The young King will sweep away all such grievances;
he will restore the privileges of our order, and keep the
mud from soiling our ermine,—'twas time he came.
[Exeunt, talking.
CURIO.
Are you bidden?
VALENTINE.
Yea, faith! and as I take it, 'tis writ by the fair
hand of the fair Estrella.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
The bride; she will be the fairest that ever wore a
ring.
CURIO.
Some men do lie in the sun their whole life long, with
ripe grapes dropping into their mouths.
VALENTINE.
Art thou such an one?
CURIO.
Would to heaven! No, if I would be warm I must
light my own fire; and if filled, cook mine own meat;
but Carlos was swathed in luck, and rocked in the very
lap of good fortune.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
They say Don Pedro gives the best part of his estate
in dowry with her to his friend.
VALENTINE.
He loves her beyond the usual affection of a brother:
for her sake he has led as it were the life of an hermit,
devoting his whole mind unto the tending of hers; and
refraining from all the temptations of prosperous wedlock,
that she might meet no rival in his affections.
CURIO.
I am persuaded that in nothing has he shown so
much his care and love of her, as in the giving her to
bereaved.
VALENTINE.
He carries it bravely, however; there will not have
been so sumptuous a feast in Seville, since it called itself
by name.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
I'm glad of it! We shall have merriment in all abundance
now; for, by the mass! a young king makes a
young court: we shall laugh again ere we grow old.
Oons; this Seville might have been a city of monks, or
the thrice holy and gloomy Inquisition itself, for aught
that has been done in it for the last two years.
CURIO.
No women!
VALENTINE.
No carousing, but in a corner.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
No diceing, but in the dark.
CURIO.
But now we will lead other lives, I trow; we will
make day-light blink with our bravery, and the night
shall reel like a weak-brained toper after his sixth cup;
now come the days of moonlight serenades, rope ladders,
wine, wenches, drinking, dancing, diceing, and the
devil!
ANTONIO.
Oh! the saints! here be eyes for spying you out the
advantages of the time.
GERONIO.
Come, mistress, come, go in.
Ah! mistress Florilla!
VALENTINE.
A prize! and so fair a one, already.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
By St. Eustace! a most inviting eye!
ANTONIO.
Gentlemen, good now, I pray you—
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
Old gentleman, we were not speaking of your's.
GERONIO.
Go in, daughter, go in.
[Exeunt Antonio and Geronio, with Florilla, into house.
CURIO.
Miserly old churls! the wench wanted to stay.
VALENTINE.
Ay, faith! with thee, mayhap.
CURIO.
With me,—why not, sir, pray? I spoke first, whiles
you stood gaping three yards off.
VALENTINE.
You are a quick man with your tongue, we know.
CURIO.
A quicker with my hand, as you shall know.
(Strikes him.)
VALENTINE.
Death and damnation.
(They fight.)
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
Hold off, gentlemen! Curio! Valentine! they'll raise
a riot.
PEDRO.
How now! what's here to do? why, gentlemen,
Is't thus you usher in the happiest day
That ever shone on Seville?
CURIO.
Stand aside, sir.
I'll finish out this bout.
VALENTINE.
You are in peril, Don Pedro; stand from between our swords.
PEDRO.
Your pardon, Señor Valentine, I will not:
Now, gentlemen, come, thrust away! How's this?
Have ye forgot your quarte, your tierce, your parry!
Or is it that you think my flesh and blood
Better worth saving than your own? For shame!
To stand here snarling like two angry curs,
When everything looks peace and holiday.
Is't thus with fast clench'd hands, and rapiers drawn,
You mean to greet the King? By my good faith!
'Tis a fair sample of our Seville manners,
And on your part, indeed, 'tis most sincere;
You will not palm yourselves upon his highness
For peaceful, sober citizens; not you:
But fill the streets with swaggering brawls to-day,
That he may know at once your quality.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
Come, piece this quarrel up.
Shake hands, and sheathe your swords.
CURIO.
Well, there's my hand.
VALENTINE.
And mine, with all my heart!
PEDRO.
Amen, amen. And now in peace depart.
THIRD GENTLEMAN.
Yonder's the first gun, the king's boat's in sight.
CURIO.
Are you coming down to the river?
PEDRO.
Presently.
I have some matters to despatch at home,
But I shall join you, ere the landing.
[Exeunt Gentlemen.
A goodly crew! and yet these are the sons
Of our first houses here in Seville; all scions
From our stout forest trees. Heaven save the mark!
I think we'd better spirits in our day
Than these same noble street-fighters give promise of:
And 'tis another argument that tells me
I have done well in hedging my fair flower
Within the guarded fence of holy wedlock;
Yet hold I fearfully my die in hand,
Dreading to cast it, lest it fall amiss.
Carlos loves her, that's something; she loves him,
That's more, much more: I fain would think 'tis well:
And yet my fond affection, like a coward,
Pries into the far future for some danger,
Oh! I have ventured my dear treasure forth,
And tho' the sea and sky look smilingly,
I almost wish it back again in harbour,
Dreading a thousand shoals, and reefs, that are not,
Save in the treacherous soundings of my fear.
Now, good old friend, thine errand?
Enter Petruchio.
PETRUCHIO.
Heaven save your noble honour! thus to call me.
If years of service, that I wish were trebled,
And my heart's love, would for your use 'twere younger,
Deserve in anything so good a name,
I'm not in everything an undeserver.
My lady, sir, bids me inform your lordship,
She will be married by her confessor,
And not the lord archbishop, your good uncle:
Don Sanchez is sore sick, and cannot come, sir,
To the wedding; but he greets your honour by me;
And to my lady sends this diamond,
Wishing her every future happiness.
PEDRO.
Think'st thou she can be happier than she was,
Petruchio? Dost thou recollect one wish,
Or word, or look, or veriest thought of her's
I've not obey'd—obey'd, forerun—prevented?
Dost thou not think my sister lov'd her home?
PETRUCHIO.
My dear kind master, there's nought dwells about you,
But's blest; and if on those whose lowly station
Puts them at furthest from your influence
My lady, who is locked within your soul,
Fram'd in your heart, shrin'd in your treasured thoughts,
Must bear a thankless mind,—but ah! she does not,—
If she requite not thousandfold your love:
But you forget, sir, a young maiden's heart
Is a rich soil, wherein lie many germs
Hid by the cunning hand of nature there
To put forth blossoms in their fittest season;
And tho' the love of home first breaks the soil
With its embracing tendrils clasping it,
Other affections, strong and warm, will grow,
While that one fades, as summer's flush of bloom
Succeeds the gentle budding of the spring.
Maids must be wives, and mothers, to fulfil
Th' entire and holiest end of woman's being.
Your pardon, honour'd sir; but I remember
When my right noble mistress, your fair mother,
Was married to the Count your father, marry time
I was a youngster page, and held her train,
Something to this same tune, the priest who married them
Spake at the altar—but I prate too boldly.
PEDRO.
Thou'st spoken well, old faithful; I would see
My sister made a loved and honour'd wife;
A blest and happy mother, and to-morrow
Will crown these hopes. I am content to lose her;—
But now thy further errand?
PETRUCHIO.
Sir, Don Carlos
Would speak with you at home: I've been
To bid your guests, to order the musicians,
To—
PEDRO.
What, was there no younger foot to trudge
On all these weighty quests, but thine?
PETRUCHIO.
Marry,
They're all gone forth to choke up the King's path;
Besides, I love to do my lady's errands,
And grudge my waning strength and swiftness most
Because I may not now so often hear
Her gracious thanks, or gentle bidding, or,
Returning weary, be o'erpaid my toil
By her sweet voice and smile.
PEDRO.
Ay, there it is!
We all shall lose our very best of life,
Old servant, when that gentle soul departs.
Thou'lt lose a mistress, I, a sister, wife,
Child, mistress, all that in love's catalogue
Nearest and dearest is: but it is well;
And being well, 'tis scant philosophy
To wish it other. Get thee home, and rest;
I'm for the river side to meet the landing.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
—THE RIVER SIDE. VIEW OF SEVILLE.Enter the King, Don Arias, Don Gomez, Lords, Gentlemen, Courtiers, &c.
KING.
Hail to fair Seville! to our goodly town,
Which in the golden sunshine smiles so bright!
Of all the cities in our vast dominions,
Which we have progressed through,—albeit in arms,
In commerce, and in learning high renown'd,
Famed for the bounteous gifts of lavish Nature,
Or for the arts which had drawn interest from them,—
None ever, on our first beholding it,—
Appear'd so fair as yonder Seville seems,
Girt with her orange groves, whose balmy breath,
Stirr'd by the morning's wings, e'en here salutes us,
And wound around with the enamoured arms
Of the Guadalquivir!
ARIAS.
It seems, in sooth,
A pleasant city, and your highness means
To rest here long?
KING.
As long, coz, as may serve
To make our onward path appear more sweet.
ARIAS.
The people seem most loyally inclined.
KING.
Ay, faith, their welcomes made the shores resound
If shouts, which rent the harmless, yielding air,
Shook either bank, and in his hollow bed
Awoke the river God, which must have damaged
Our lieges' throats, or we are much deceived,
And our own ears,—if this be loyalty,
You shall not find a truer set of subjects,
More noisy loving, in the universe.
GOMEZ.
'Tis said this mighty and unruly concourse,
Tumultuously thus poured abroad, has caused
Broils not a few, and bloodshed.
KING.
Odso! true,
We had forgot; but thou rememberest us,
Thyself reminded by too fresh a grief,
That we designed to have, on our arrival,
The use of swords and arms prohibited,
While we sojourn in Seville; gentlemen,
Ye must divest ye of these warlike gauds;
We have not yet forgotten Saragossa,
Whose streets, to welcome us, ran down with blood
Of jostling youngsters, fighting by the dozen,
Where this, our very friend and counsellor,
Was, by ill chance, made childless by the slaughter,
Of a fair only son, such strife prevailed;
To prevent which, let instant proclamation
Be made through Seville, that on pain of death,
No one presume armed to walk abroad
During the time of our abiding here.
We halt upon the threshold. Seville, ho!
[Exit, with train
Enter Hyacinth and Sancho.
HYACINTH.
Never credit me, Sancho, if I don't think thee more
stupid, yea, more obtusely, intensely, and impenetrably
thick-skulled than ever man or woman was before thee.
SANCHO.
You may think so, sir, and say so, too; 'tis ever the
way when you are perplexed at aught; when you have
on colours you love not; or a sword-knot that sits not
well, or an over-tightened shoe,—you call me hard
names, and so make matters better; but, Master Hyacinth.
HYACINTH.
Don Hyacinthus, blockhead!
SANCHO.
Don Hyacinthus, blockhead!
HYACINTH.
Thou apish varlet! have a care! I shall commit a
mischief.
SANCHO.
On your new hose, mayhap, if you lunge too wide;
but as I know that, for the soul of you, you cannot run,
I'll speak my mind at this good distance, thus—and then
take to my heels. When you left Segovia for Seville,
your father bestowed on you much good advice, your
mother, a purse of gold, and me for servidor; since
which time I have not ceased to toil in your behalf;
my service beyond all endurance. I will no more be
owed my fees by you; I will no more go strutting at
your heels in your cast-off apparel, which do make me
the scoff of all eyes, nor devise, at every new town
we come to, the monstrous lies you blazon yourself
forth in.
HYACINTH.
Thou speakest not the thing that is; id est, thou
sayest the thing that is not; 'tis I devise, and thou hast
not even the wit to utter them.
SANCHO.
'Tis conscience chokes them in the utterance.
HYACINTH.
Take this, and clear thy conscience's throat withal;
nay, honest Sancho, pray thee help my hand into my
pocket, Sancho, for my mother's sake, who bade thee
watch over me, Sancho.
SANCHO.
Nay, if you touch the virtue of compassion in me,
'tis only there I'm weak.
HYACINTH.
Oh! thou art all compassion! Here, here be thy
wages for the past, and this I give thee as an earnest;
—art thou touched?
SANCHO.
Marry, pierced to the heart; master, what shall I do?
HYACINTH.
Get thee on to Seville, to a house of resort, called
the Anchor, with those same things thou bearest upon
thy back; be heedful of the straw-coloured mantle,
pink hose, lest they be crushed. When thou shalt have
safely lodged my apparel, not without some observation
to attract notice and importance, made whilst thou art
unpacking of them, in hearing of the guests, the
hostess, or even the drawers; such as, “Ay, marry!
he's a gallant that owns this mantle; the ladies do
mightily affect him;” remember that.
SANCHO.
Infect him,—I shall.
HYACINTH.
Or this—“These hose he wore upon the very day the
Countess, what name thou wilt, so it be long enough,
and end in a—
SANCHO.
Antarididlearida?
HYACINTH.
Mark me, the Countess—
SANCHO.
Antari—plague on't, I have forgot; Antilly—I have
forgot the name I found—Antunedonypesthemopora.
HYACINTH.
Well, well; “did so beseech him to supper,”—dost
mark?
SANCHO.
Oh, sir, 'tis an oft taught lesson; the maids that have
run from their wits, the wives from their lords, and
the widows from their weeds, for the love of you, I
have noted in a book; and in another leaf, the brothers,
fathers, husbands, lovers, and guardians, that, by your
love.
HYACINTH.
Good, then; con but o'er thy task, and say it off
glibly. Well, having deposited my suits, inquire out
one Antonio, my uncle, an orange merchant of great
note in Seville; greet him from me, and tell him I shall
see him this very night; that he may look for me: and
then, good Sancho, get thee to thine inn again, and
wait there until I come to attire me.
SANCHO.
I will not fail.
[Exit.
HYACINTH.
My purple suit, with orange slashings; ay, that shall
it be; I marvel what manner of man my uncle, the
orange merchant, is; he hath a fair daughter, they
say,—'tis not to be doubted she will love me! My
purple suit, a courtier withal; moreover, I will spread
the news abroad, that besides being a most resistless
wooer, I'm bound in promise to some high-born lady in
Segovia, who pines for my return. There's nothing so
becomes a man, or makes him to be so sought after by
women, as knowing that he hath triumphed over all but
one; and that from that one, he is in honour bound not
to stray; for 'tis to be thought that whatsoever fortunate
fair seduces him from his loving allegiance, hath
the double delight of winning his heart and breaking
his lady's. My purple suit—curse on these galling
shoes!—with orange slashings, and my fire of Egypt
mantle!
[Exit.
SCENE III.
—AN APARTMENT IN DON PEDRO'S HOUSE.Flourish of drums and trumpets without. Enter from Balcony, Estrella and Don Carlos.
ESTRELLA.
I shall be jealous of your loyalty,
If it come so near the boundary of love,
Carlos.
CARLOS.
Thou can'st not; for although the King
From me receives the utmost of affection
That man can give to man; the love I bear thee
And him, are in their natures so distinct,
So separate, and several in their essence,
That thou might'st all as soon say that a rose
And any other flower were of a kind,
Because they both spring from the earth, have roots,
Leaves, sap, and blossoms, bud and fade alike:
And bear, indeed, some common properties,
Though not the same.
ESTRELLA.
A pretty sweet defence!
As good as a nosegay; I shall wrangle with thee
By the hour, if thou'rt so apt at argument;
But for the King—
CARLOS.
Is he not a fair gentleman?
Oh, for his outward man, thou did'st in nought
O'er-praise him; certes, he's a goodly gentleman!
Of the height I love; the complexion that most pleases me;
The very air and carriage I am fond of;
His eyes, and hair too, the colour I most fancy.
CARLOS.
Here's a panegyric!
ESTRELLA.
You're merry, sir! I thought you'd have me praise him;
Is't not to the height, or shall I straightforth deify him
Into a very galloping Apollo?
CARLOS.
Nay, love, leave jesting, and speak earnestly.
ESTRELLA.
Earnestly, then; I ne'er saw goodlier gentleman,
Or one whose outward givings better spake
The worth you oft have told me lies within:
He's very young to be a King.
CARLOS.
Two years,
Aye, just two years, poorer in life than I;
We were as like two brothers, my Estrella,
More like than many that do call one woman mam.
My father was the old King's oldest friend;
Counsel in peace, and service hard in war,
Earned him the name, and from the earliest time
Alphonso spelt the rudiments of life,
We grew together; riding, hawking, tilting;
With friendly strife, and kindly emulation,
We studied side by side. The heathen twins,
Whose starry image nightly to our eyes
Is hung in Heaven, were not more true a pair
Of loving friends, than he and I were then.
ESTRELLA.
How fell this loving friendship to its end?
Wert thou the apter scholar of the twain?
Or—for that's worse, and less to be endured—
Could'st thou ride better in a crowded ring?
Sing better 'neath a silent balcony?
Did you both love one lady? Or, perhaps,—
CARLOS.
I'll spare thy fancy other random shots:
Thus fell the chance; the old King's bastard brother,
Don Alvar,—you have heard of him?
ESTRELLA.
O yes;
The man our nurses made us good withal—
The Iron Bastard he was called.
CARLOS.
He was.
Mispractices of his, affecting the state's health,
And very life, came to my father's knowledge,
Who straight before the whole assembled council
Charged him withal; he stood upon his trial,
But ere the proof was found, death pass'd his sentence
On judge and criminal alike; the King,
And this same villain Duke, died suddenly;
Alphonso vaulted in his father's seat,
Don Arias, Alvar's son, broke off the suit,—
Forbade all further search or speech upon it,
And had the matter quash'd; though on my father
Not only fell the blame of the defaulter,
But the ill-savour of false accusation,
Having sworn that whose proof did ne'er appear.
ESTRELLA.
That was but ill, and would go hard to prove
Your idol King nor just, nor very grateful.
CARLOS.
Ah, my Estrella! 'tis not fit we judge
Too hardly of our fellows, whose own souls
Bear witness hourly to ten thousand frailties
Which stand unanswered in the sight of Heaven;
And least of all, should we be prompt to doom
Those who upon the precipice of power,
Swath'd in state trappings, over which they trip,—
Run in a path all briery with temptations
Still plucking at their skirt as they pass by:
Something of coldness fell upon the spring
And sunshine of our love, from this event;
But as it sank into Time's shadowy lap,
The warm affection of our schoolboy days
Revived: and since, against that injury
I weigh my life, which, but for the King's arm,
At Talavera I had paid the Moor:
He came between me and mine enemy,
When not so much of daylight shone betwixt us
As would have served to read an ave by;
The steel that should have dived into my breast
Flow'd o'er me, and in that royal stream
I was baptized to as firm a faith,
As dear a love, and true allegiance to him,
As e'er the waters of the holy fount
Can buy from new-made Christian soul to Heaven.
ESTRELLA.
Oh! I will love him better yet than thou!
I do no longer blame thy loyalty,
But rather think it plays the failing debtor,
Paying but half its owings. But, I pray you,
How came it that you left the court?
CARLOS.
My father,
Who now had reached the furthest shore of life,
Was weary of it; and, for mine own part,
This same King's cousin, this gallant Don Arias,
Having become Alphonso's second soul,
Though I in nothing bated of my love
Or dear devotion to his majesty,
Was the less loath t' obey my father's wish,
And, casting off my courtier's plume and rapier,
Came to our ancient home, near Seville here,
Where I did lay my father with his fathers,—
Repaired my estate, which absence and neglect
Had something damaged,—looked to my possessions,
Became acquainted with thy brother here,
And since spent all my time in loving thee.
ESTRELLA.
A worthy ending to so fair a story!
Heaven send thou change not occupation!
It is not like; for, in the whole wide world,
There's no created thing but still of thee
Discourses to my senses, and my soul;
The universe and all its holds of best,
Is but a comment to thy virtue's volume.
ESTRELLA.
'Tis in the approved fashion, then, my dear lord,
Three pages of a wondrous muddy argument,
To show one word clear that was clear before,
And little worth the pains to be made darker;
A note most disproportionate to the text.
CARLOS.
There's nothing half so fair, or half so holy;
There's nothing half so wise, or half so lovely;
Nothing so wholly good and excellent,
As thou, my dear one! Thou art the very breath
That in me breathes; the blood within my veins,—
Heart of my heart, and spirit of my spirit;
My nearest and dearest of life, my essential self!
ESTRELLA.
Pray leave protesting, sir, unless you wish
To burn my blushes out; I sha'n't have one
To help me look becomingly to-morrow,
An' you waste them all to-day.
CARLOS.
To-morrow! Estrella,
Tell me, tell me, dost thou love me
As I love thee?
ESTRELLA.
No, by this living light!
For that's a question I could ne'er have asked thee.
CARLOS.
Why not?
ESTRELLA.
Why not? Because—here comes my brother.
Enter Don Pedro.
PEDRO.
Good morrow, Carlos: Heaven bless thee, dearest!
ESTRELLA.
Oh, you're well come! his lordship's but dull company
Of a forenoon, when the weather's warm and drowsy.
PEDRO.
Was't thou i' the balcony when the King passed?
ESTRELLA.
Who, I?—I look from an open balcony
To see gay cavaliers go prancing by?
Fie! I was in my oratory at prayers.
PEDRO.
Ah! 'tis as easy keep a woman's eyes
From gazing—
ESTRELLA.
As a man's mouth from foul speaking.
Say I was in the balcony,—what then?
PEDRO.
Wert thou along with her?
CARLOS.
No, I had joined
The train at the city-gate, and rode along
Thus far, but left the royal pageant here.
Ah! that's well thought on; there's a say abroad,
That riding up to the landing-place, some words
Passed 'twixt you and the Bastard's boy, Don Arias.
CARLOS.
Oh these long ears o' the many! No such matter;
The path at the landing being narrow, the King,
Out of his grace, and loving welcome to me,
Drew my bridle towards him,—in the doing which,
Don Arias, who was riding at his side,
Was fain to back from the straightness of the road,
And that's the words we had.
PEDRO.
It may make some.
And when thou wert at prayers in th' oratory,
Wert thou attired thus?
ESTRELLA.
Beshrew my heart!
But thou'rt in the very mood of curious questions.
No, I had on a yellow farthingale,
And a green jacket, and a scarlet mantle,
Pick'd out with blue and pink;—what then?
PEDRO.
Why then—
Umph! then there were some danger in those eyes.
Carlos, there is a banquet held at the palace
At set of sun, in honour of the King;
Thou'rt bid.
CARLOS.
I cannot answer that same bidding;
For ere sunset I must be many miles
Nor in the fitting order I would have it,
To welcome well the lady of its lord.
I love that dear old home! My mother lived there
Her first sweet marriage years, and last sad widow'd ones;
Something of old ancestral pride it keeps,
Though fallen from its earlier power and vastness:
Marry! we're not so wealthy as we were,
Nor yet so warlike; still it holds enough
Of ancient strength and state to prompt the memory
To many a “wherefore,” and for every answer
You shall have stories long and wonderful,
Enough to make a balladmonger's fortune.
Old trees do grow around its old grey walls,
The fellows of my mouldering grandfathers:
Faith! they do mock us with their young old age,
These giant wearers of a thousand summers!
Strange, that the seed we sow should bloom and flourish
When we are faded, flower, fruit, and all;
Or, for all things do tend to reproduction,
Serving th' eternal purposes of life,
Drawing a vigorous sap into their veins
From the soil our very bodies fertilise.
ESTRELLA.
You have left your home that is, for that which will be;
Pray you, some more of that same ancient dwelling.
CARLOS.
Nay, I have said too much on't; but that there
The sunlight seems to my eyes brighter far
Than wheresoever else. I know the forms
The waters gurgle forth a tongue I know,—
It is my home, it will be thine, Estrella;
And every leafy glade, and shadowy path,
Sweet sunny slope, and echo-haunted hollow,
Hath heard thy name a thousand, thousand times.
ESTRELLA.
They're all the likelier to be weary of it,
Unless they hold a longer constancy,
As well as life, than men.
PEDRO.
Then thou will not
To-night to the palace.
CARLOS.
No; but thou wilt, Pedro.
PEDRO.
Indeed, his Highness pressed me so severely,
'Tis the best word for such strained courtesy,
He left me scarce the choice to stay away.
ESTRELLA.
And wherefore should'st thou? 'twill be such a sight
As Seville hath not seen this many a year:
I would the King had bid me to his banquet.
PEDRO.
So would not I:—indeed I cannot tell;
I am not apt to fall in sudden love,
Or sudden loathing, without further reason
Than fancy's humorous promptings, or exceptions,
But there is that about this beardless king;—
Faith, he'd have made a better page to a lady,
And, if all tales be true, have liked the service.
That he is young, argues him not unfit
For his high office; for the healthful vigour
Of a young spirit should give the life of action
To those good counsels of his wise advisers
Which are cold breath upon the lips of age.
PEDRO.
His counsellors, I take it—those he hearkens to—
Wear brains as sudden and as hot as his,
Green and sour wisdom, such as oftenest drops
From sapling bearers, most unlike the ripe
And mellow fruit of time. The King, besides,
Hath but an evil name among grave men,
For the unbounded licence of his pleasures;
And Fame doth paint her cheeks with modest blushes,
Telling how freely riot and excess
Hold fellowship with stately royalty,
And shake the prostituted hand of power.
CARLOS.
'Tis a sore trial to be young, well-favoured,
And therewithal a King: believe me, Pedro,
Men thus endowed with fortune's lavish favours
Need sue but little to win easy loves:
Nay, 'tis impossible they should escape
The wooing of the wanton willingness
That beckons wealth and power. Fie! 'tis a shame
To think how women, this good world calls honest,
Will play the wanton in spirit, if not in deed.
Flinging aside all modest nice respect
Of maiden pride, and matron state, to win
The sway and masterdom of such a one,
Nor is't in nature that a man, whose blood
Runs warmly through the lusty veins of youth,
And lifts his spirit, like a bounding vessel,
Upon the swelling flood of this spring-tide,
Should, spite of the quick promptings of life's May,
And all soliciting and yielding circumstance,
Hold continent sway o'er his unruly passions.
ESTRELLA.
Oh! I commend your charity, my lord!
And think it second only to your moral.
We'll have you fee'd the prodigal's prime advocate—
King's counsel in the high court of misrule:
'Tis a foul cause to be so fairly pleaded!
CARLOS.
Let not my words meet ill interpretation;
And least from thee, whose image still hath been
The very shrine enfolding purity
Whereto my thoughts bore chaste and constant worship.
It is because myself have still been kept
From stain or touch of such licentiousness
As youth still squanders his best havings in,
By the all-guarding talisman of love,
That I am slower to fall out with those
Who, having no such charm against the devil,
Are caught i' th' net. Had'st thou the same respect,
Pedro, thou'dst not have censured so severely
Alphonso's frailty.
PEDRO.
And how dost thou know
As thou, for all the justice of my censure?
ESTRELLA.
Art thou in love?—with whom art thou in love?
What is her name? Is she as tall as I am?
Hath she—
PEDRO.
What say you to my question, Carlos?
CARLOS.
Thou canst not, in the first place, love as I do;
For, by this living light, I do love more!
PEDRO.
Than ever lover loved his love before!
So runs the tale of every Celadon,
Who ever yet in court, or camp, or city,
In lighted hall, or sylvan solitude,
Pour'd forth his soul in the self-same comparison,
That served our grandsire in his garden bower
E're murder came in fashion.
CARLOS.
Oh! Pedro, pardon me; thou ne'er didst love!
'Tis writ in the smooth margin of thy brow,
And in the steady lustre of thine eye.
Thy blood did never riot through thy veins
With the distemper'd hurried course of love;
Thy heart did never shake thy shuddering frame
With the thick startled throbbing pulse of love:
Thou hast ne'er wept love's bitter burning tears;
Hoped with love's wild unutterable hope,
Nor drown'd in love's dark, fathomless despair.
Thine is a stedfast and a fixed nature,
Breaks harmless as the water o'er the rock,
And the rich light of beauty shines alone
On thy soul's surface, leaving all beneath it
Unmoved and cold as subterranean springs.
Love hath no power o'er spirits such as thine,
Nor comes not nigh to them.
ESTRELLA.
Oh! tell me, Pedro,
Whom hast thou loved?
PEDRO.
Thee, from thy cradle upwards!
ESTRELLA.
Nay; but whom dost thus love?
PEDRO.
Thee, more than life!
ESTRELLA.
Flouter, wilt thou not answer me in seriousness?
PEDRO.
Some other time, sweet; but for that, no matter
Whether my heart hath bled beneath the dart,
Or whether there hath stuck no arrow there:
I know the very difference that lies
'Twixt hallow'd love and base unholy lust;
I know the one is as a golden spur,
Urging the spirit to all noblest aims;
The other but a foul and miry pit
O'erthrowing it in midst of its career;
I know the one is as a living spring
Of virtuous thoughts, true dealings, and brave deeds—
Nobler than glory, and more sweet than pleasure,—
Than aught that from this earth corrupt takes birth,
Second alone in the fair fruit it bears
To the unmixed ore of true devotion:
I know that lust is all of this, spelt backwards;
Fouler than shame, and bitterer than sorrow,
More loathly than most abject penury—
Nor hath it fruit or bearing to requite it,
Save sick satiety and good men's scorn.
He that doth serve true love I love and honour;
And he that is lust's slave, I do despise,
Though he were twenty times the King of Spain;
Wherewith I do commend me to your favours,
And leave ye to your parting undisturbed.
Carlos, at what o'clock wilt thou return to-morrow?
CARLOS.
Two hours ere noon my horse shall get him wings.
PEDRO.
An hour ere noon we fix the wedding then;
'Twill give thee time to rest, and make thee brave.
Farewell, my brother!
ESTRELLA.
Oh! wilt thou not tell us
Something of thy fair lady love, dear Pedro?
PEDRO.
Some day when I shall sit between you two
At Valentar, with a young round-eyed nephew
Upon my knee, I'll tell ye all the story,
And how it fell that I at length resolved
To have no wife nor mistress, child nor heir,
Who hath cost me as much trouble as them all.
[Exit.
ESTRELLA.
And loved thee for them all, my kindest brother!
Oh! Carlos, thou must love me well, indeed,
For in myself I give to thy possession
The child of such a rare and deep affection—
Oh, thou must love me passing well, dear Carlos!
CARLOS.
Dost thou not think that I shall love thee well?
Dost thou not know that in this air-clipped earth
There's no created thing I love like thee?
Tell me—oh! tell me, sweetest, dearest, best!
Dost thou not feel how utterly I love thee?
Speak to me, dear Estrella; do not turn
Thy fair eyes from me—there are tears in them!
What have I done? Have I offended thee?
Upon my knees, here at thy feet I'll lie,
Doing too blest a penance for my sin,
Till thou forgive me: wherefore dost thou weep?
ESTRELLA.
Oh, nature knows no other coin for joy
Or grief, but melts them both alike in tears:
I have a thousand stifling feelings press
My heart to bursting; joy to the height of pain
Comes like a flood upon my every sense;
Thy voice runs through my frame like the soft touch
Of summer, winds o'er trembling harp-strings playing,
Thy gentle words and looks that, though I love,
I dare not meet, make my soul faint within me.
And e'en our joys taste of earth's bitter root;
Besides, there is a thought that, hand in hand
With the sweet promise of our marriage, comes
Like shadow upon sunlight—I must go
From my dear home—the home of all my life,
Where I have lived, oh! such a happy time!
Aurora's tears are not more like each other
Than the bright ever-blessed maiden hours
That the sun of time has, one by one, dried up.
CARLOS.
Sweet, let not that darken thy fancy's glass:
'Tis well when what's to come looks dark and dull;
To turn to the past, if haply joy dwelt there
But by so much as the sweet summer's noon,
When the earth wears its July pride of blossom,
O'ertops the fresh and pearl-bedimmed hour
Of earlier morning in th' unripe year's spring,
By so much shall thy blessedness to come
Out-noon thy gentle morn of virgin life.
ESTRELLA.
Shall it, indeed! but then, my brother, Carlos,
I fear he'll miss me sadly when I'm gone;
He says not much, but for the last three days
I've marked him wander up and down the house,
Noting my favourite chambers, sitting down
Where I love best to sit at work or play:
And then he sighs, good faith! for all the world,
As I were gone already. Yesterday,
As I was singing to my lute to him,
When I had done he took it from my hand,
Said, “Leave thy lute with me, sweet sister.” Trust me,
I think he'll be as lonely as a bird
Without its mate, sad as a silent feast,
Single as a stray glove, and all as purposeless;
And this it is that makes me sorrowful.
CARLOS.
Oh! gentle soul!—but, hear me, my Estrella:
When thou art gone from hence, these empty walls
Will hold but little of his heart; I'll tell thee—
We'll make him leave this lonely home of his,
And come and dwell with us at Valentar;
Shall we do this?
ESTRELLA.
Oh yes! oh yes, we will!
Oh! we shall be the happiest three alive!
He, thou, and I, in your old castle hall,
And such a merry life as we will lead,
Shall be a very fairy tale of happiness.
Oh! 'twill be Paradise!
CARLOS.
It will, indeed!
But now I must begone, with all best speed,
To ope its gates unto its ruling angel.
Farewell! mine own.
ESTRELLA.
Not so, until to-morrow.
I am yet mine to-day.
CARLOS.
True, my fair queen;
Then being thine, wilt thou not kindly grant,
One kiss.
ESTRELLA.
No, by my faith! 'twas urged amiss;
Since I may not to-morrow say thee nay,
At least I'll keep my privilege to-day.
CARLOS.
But why to grant thy privilege not use,
Since, come to-morrow, thou mayst not refuse?
ESTRELLA.
Because—no, I'll give no reason for the nonce,
I will not.
CARLOS.
Fare thee well.
ESTRELLA.
Farewell, my lord.
Is not your lordship gone?
CARLOS.
Not yet—farewell!
ESTRELLA.
Farewell! I wish you a fair ride, swift horse,
Smooth road, safe journey—and what more?
CARLOS.
That kiss—
ESTRELLA.
Beshrew thee for a spendthrift that dost make me
Lose my good time in silly bargaining.
CARLOS.
That kiss—
ESTRELLA.
If I should live an hundred years,
CARLOS.
Granted so—
Give thou but this, I will take all the rest.
Upon thy soft lips lay I this fond seal
Unto our plighted faith; and all blest saints,
That register the sacred vows of souls
Moved by chaste love, bear witness to the pledge!
ESTRELLA.
By this first kiss that e'er upon my lips
Was laid by man, I do as truly give
My duty, love, and life, to thee for ever;
And heaven forsake me when I break this troth!
CARLOS.
Oh! help me, with thy gentle prayers, to lead
The crippled hours away that halt between
Us and our happiness: all angels guard thee!
[Exit.
ESTRELLA.
Now Heaven bless me for a silly wench!
Why he is gone far out o' sight or hearing;
'Tis only air I gaze upon so wide:
By my good faith! 'tis true I cannot see him.
To-morrow! oh! to-morrow!—oh, that love
Held old Time's hour-glass; for he would shake
The pouring sand so swiftly through, that day
Should sink this moment in night's swarthy arms,
And straight come blushing back to light the world!
Come night, quench thou this bright mote-peopled ray;
Oh! that to-morrow were but called to-day!
[Exit.
| The Star of Seville | |