 | The Star of Seville |  |
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.
| The Star of Seville | |