University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE THE FIRST.

Isa.
Love, apprehension, and flagitious hope,
My breast forsake. I, Philip's faithless wife,
Dare I behold with fondness Philip's son?
Yet who beholds that son, and loves him not?
A heart, though bold, humane; a lofty nature;
An intellect sublime; and, in a form
Most fair, a soul of correspondent worth.
Ah, why did Heaven and Nature make thee such?
Alas! why rave I thus? Do I intend,
By meditating thus on his perfections,
To tear his image from the deep recesses
Of my adoring heart? Oh, if a flame
So fatal in its consequences, were
By living man discover'd! Oh, if he
Suspected it! He sees me ever sad ...
'Tis true, most sad; yet evermore avoiding
The fascination of his thrilling presence.
And from Spain's austere palace well he knows
All joy is banish'd. Who can read my heart?
Oh that with other mortals I could vie
In ignorance! that, as I can deceive,
And shun the curious world, I could deceive,
And shun my own corroding consciousness.
Wretch that I am ... My only solace left
Are tears; and mine, alas, are tears of guilt.
But, that with less of risk I may indulge
My wretchedness, to some interior chamber
Let me retire in time ... Ah, who is this?
Carlos? ... Ah, let me fly! My every look,
My every word, might now betray me. Hence
With speed.

SCENE THE SECOND.

Carlos, Isabella.
Car.
Oh sight! what ails thee, queen, that thus
Thou shun'st my presence? Dost thou thus avoid
A wretch by wrongs oppress'd?

Isa.
Prince ...

Car.
Well I know
My father's court is leagued against my safety.
That I, displeasing to my sire and king,
Should read impress'd on every countenance,
Enmity, malice, envy ill-concealed,
Excites no wonder. But I scarce believe
That thou, not harden'd by fell cruelty,
Thou, who beneath a more auspicious sky
Than this, wert born; thou, not as yet corrupted
By this infected atmosphere, concealest,
Beneath that soothing, yet majestic mien,
A bosom inaccessible to pity.

Isa.
Within these thresholds what a life I lead
Too well thou know'st. The manners, new to me,
Of a pride-harden'd court, have not yet driven
The partial fondness for one's native soil,
That universal instinct, from my breast.
Thy pangs I know, the insults undeserved
That thou endurest; know and pity them.

Car.
Thou pityest them? Oh, sweetest consolation!
That kind assurance sheds on all my cares
Benign forgetfulness. And with thy griefs
I sympathize; and thoughts of thy distress
Oft banish my own torments from my heart.
Tears for thy cruel lot I often shed,
And fain ...

Isa.
A lot more easy to endure,
I hope in time to gain. My ills with thine
Are not to be compared; then yield them not
A pity so intense.

Car.
Does pity thus
From me offend, when thine to me is life?

Isa.
Thou prizest at a rate extravagant
That powerless pity.

Car.
Ah! Extravagant ...
What say'st thou? Tell me what emotion then
Excels or equals that soft beat of pity,
Thrilling the pulses of each noble heart;
Which, of itself, suffices to avenge
The wrongs of fortune; and no longer leaves
That heart unblest, whose comprehensive love
Embraces every where the cause of man.

Isa.
What say'st thou? Yes, I pity thee.—Oh, Heaven!
I feel not towards thee as a step-dame feels.
And if I dared for the unoffending son
Plead to the offended father, in thy cause
My prayers should soon be heard.

Car.
Who dare do this?
And further if thou durst 'twould misbecome thee.
Oh, hard necessity! Thou art the cause,
Innocent as thou art, of all my woes;
Yet I conjure thee in my favour ...

Isa.
I
The cause of all thy anguish? ...

Car.
Yes, my anguish
May to that fatal day be all referr'd,
That day accursed that gave, and took thee from me.

Isa.
Ah! what dost thou recall? Too transient was
That hope.

Car.
The best part of myself, in me
That hope grew with my life, nursed by my sire,
That sire who will'd so solemn an engagement
Unnaturally to dissolve.

Isa.
Alas! ...

Car.
At once
Subject, and son, of monarch absolute,
I groan'd in agony, but held my peace;
I wept, but wept in secret. To my will
His will was law supreme. He was thy husband,
And from my uncomplaining passiveness,
Who but myself can sum up what I suffer'd!
From such an effort of transcendent virtue,
(Virtue it was, and passing human strength)
My heart was steep'd in pride and bitterness.
On duty's stern, inexorable law,
Mine eyes were ever fix'd. If e'en in thought
Nature was frail, I call to witness Heaven,
Who knows our inmost impulses. In tears
The day, in tears the tedious night I spent,
And what avail'd it? In my father's bosom
Hatred increased, as in my bosom grief.

Isa.
Believe the assurance, that thy father's heart,
Though tainted with suspicion, hates thee not.
Perhaps in thy father's breast the train of courtiers
Have sown suspicion, who, from thy contempt,
The more they feel its justice more detest thee.

Car.
Ah! thou art ignorant of my father's nature,
And may kind heaven that ignorance prolong!
The treacherous intrigues of an impious court
To thee are all unknown. An upright heart
Could not believe, much less such guilt imagine.
More cruel than the sycophantic train
Surrounding him, 'tis Philip that abhors me.
He sets the example to the servile crowd;
His wrathful temper chafes at nature's ties;
Yet do not I forget that he's my father.
If, for one day I could forget that tie,
And rouse the slumbers of my smother'd wrongs,
Never, oh never, should he hear me mourn
My ravish'd honours, my offended fame,
His unexampled and unnatural hate;
No, of a wrong more deep I would upbraid him,
He took my all the day he tore thee from me.

Isa.
Prince, dost thou then so little call to mind
That he's thy father, and thy king?—

Car.
I pray thee
Pardon the involuntary turbulence
Of a nigh-bursting heart. I never found
Before this moment the convenient time
To tell thee all my sorrows.

Isa.
Nor should'st thou
Have told them now, nor should I listen to them.

Car.
Stay. Since in part thou hast heard my wretchedness,
Hear what remains. I am constrain'd to say ...

Isa.
Peace. Quit my presence.

Car.
Princess, I obey.
I will refrain from words, but oh, how much
Remains to utter! My last hope ...

Isa.
What hope,
That is not criminal, canst thou now cherish?

Car.
Hope that thou dost not hate me.

Isa.
'Tis my duty;
Thou must confess it, if thou dare to love me.

Car.
Then give me proof of hatred, and thyself
Be my accuser to thy spouse and king.

Isa.
Shall I, before that king, pronounce thy name?

Car.
Yes; if thou deem me guilty.

Isa.
Is thy guilt
Unshared?

Car.
In secret then perchance ...

Isa.
Alas!
What have I said? or thou hast understood,
Or I have utter'd, more than duty warrants.
Think, I conjure thee, on thyself and me,
Thou, in persisting, I, in hearing thee,
Merit the king's revenge.

Car.
Ah, if in heart
Thou wert inflamed, and pined'st as I pine,
And if thou saw'st a thousand times a day
The adored object in another's arms,—
To track the footsteps of thy ravish'd love;
To satisfy thine eyes; sometimes to seek,
As now I seek, an innocent relief
From a few accents, to thy breaking heart;
Thou would'st esteem a venial indulgence.

Isa.
Ah, shun my presence. While I pine in life,
'Twill be but for a little time, forsake
These fatal walls.

Car.
Oh, heavens! and could I thus
Absent myself? My frustrated attempt
Would swell my list of crimes; and, as it is,
With crimes enow my father charges me.
The only one of which I am culpable,
He knows it not.

Isa.
Ah, that I knew it not!

Car.
If that offend thee, thou wilt have thy vengeance,
And that too, quickly. Let me linger here ...
If to the grave my anguish bring me not,
The hatred of my sire will drag me there:
Who, in his heart of blood, has long resolved
My death. Within these horrible abodes,
Yet, since they shelter thee, dear to my soul,
Ah, suffer me, a victim in thy sight,
To breathe my latest sigh!

Isa.
Ah, sight of woe!
While thou stay'st here I fear too much thy fate.
A voice announces thy sad destiny
To my foreboding heart. At once receive
The first and latest pledge of luckless love.
Fly, I conjure thee, if thou love me truly,
From cruel Philip.—

Car.
'Tis impossible.

Isa.
Then fly my presence more than ever now,
And keep at once thy fame untouched, and mine.
Oh, clear thyself of the invented fault
Of which thou art charged by jealous envy. Live—
'Tis I command thee, live! With thee my thoughts,
With thee my heart in spite of all my struggles,
With thee my soul will go. Lose e'en the trace
Of my sad steps, nor let me hear thee more,
No, never. Heaven only knows our fault.
Let us conceal it from the world, conceal it
E'en from ourselves: and from thy bosom rend
The rooted recollection ... if thou canst.

Car.
Wilt thou then no more hear me? never more?

SCENE THE THIRD.

Carlos.
Car.
Oh wretched me! oh, moment of distraction!
And dost thou leave me thus? Oh cruel lot!
Sorrow and joy assail me in extremes.

SCENE THE FOURTH.

Carlos, Perez.
Per.
At last I have found thee, Prince ... but heavens! whence springs
Such agitation? what disturbs thee thus?
Thy transport seems to baffle reason's power.
My ready sympathy awaits thy grief.
Ah, speak! thou answerest not! from earliest years
Have I not grown thy comrade at thy side?
Hast thou not call'd me friend?

Car.
Within these walls
Dar'st thou to such a word give utterance?
A word that's banish'd in its real meaning
From impious courts, though often there pronounced.
Useless to me, and fatal to thyself,
Henceforth will be thy truth. Oh imitate
The fickle crowd, and to the sovereign idol
Present, with it, a profitable incense.

Per.
Ah, do not thus degrade me: from that crowd
Sever me in thy judgment; yet what boots it
To swear affiance here? where all men swear it,
And all are perjured. To more certain proof
Bring both my hand and heart. Point out the danger
That I may brave for thee. Where is the foe
That most offends thee? Speak ...

Car.
No enemy
Have I except my father. I disdain
To grace his parasites with such a name.
With silence his, their hate with scorn, I meet.

Per.
The king knows not the truth: hence he is inflamed
Towards thee with wrath unjust; and artfully
Others that wrath foment. In manly tones
I will assert it for thee.

Car.
What sayest thou?
More than thou thinkest, Philip knows the truth;
He hates it rather than is ignorant of it.
But in my favour he hears no one speak.

Per.
He must perforce the voice of nature hear.

Car.
He has a heart less flexible than steel.
Leave to my innocence my best defence,
And to divine protection, which sometimes
Deigns to shed on me a benign regard.
If I were guilty, I would not disdain
As intercessor thee, and thee alone:
What greater proof of friendship can I give thee?

Per.
Permit me then to share, whate'er it be,
Thy destiny—this, and no more, I ask.
In this flagitious court what other track,
That honour's voice forbids not to pursue?

Car.
Perchance thou art ignorant that my destiny,
Whate'er it be, can ne'er be fortunate.

Per.
I am thy friend, and not the friend of fortune.
If it be true that grief, when shared, is lessened,
A persevering friend, thou shalt possess
Me, by thy side, in all adversity.

Car.
My heart conceals a grief that ends in death,
A lofty grief, that yet is precious to me.
Why cannot I to thee reveal my thoughts?
Ah, no! I do not seek, nor could I find,
A more disinterested friend than thou:
Yet by disburthening my oppressed heart,
I cannot give thee a sure pledge of friendship.
Depart: What can result to thee from faith
So generous, and so lucklessly affianced?
I am not worthy of so rich a tribute.
Once more I bid thee quit me. Knowest thou not
'Tis an atrocious fault to fix thy love
On one towards whom his king directs his hate?

Per
But knowest thou not, in spite of every king,
What glory 'tis that friendship to preserve?
Thou piercest, but thou changest not my heart,
With doubting thus my faith. A mortal grief,
A grief thou mayest not speak, weighs on thy breast.
I do not wish to know it. But if I
Wish, yea implore, that, with thy life, my life
May fall a victim to that grief, canst thou
Fiercely reject that brotherhood in woe?

Car.
Well, as thou wilt. Here is my plighted hand,
Disastrous pledge of a disastrous friendship.
Thee I compassionate: but shall not bewail
Henceforth my fate; nor providence upbraid,
So bounteous to me in so rare a friend.—
Philip, how much am I more blest than thou!
Thou, 'midst vain pomp and treacherous adulation,
Object of pity rather than of envy,
Hast never known the blessedness of friendship.